Читать книгу The Complete Empire Trilogy - Raymond E. Feist, Janny Wurts - Страница 26

Elgahar demanded silence.

Conversations fell to a murmur, then subsided to total stillness as the guests of the Lord of the Minwanabi crowded themselves into the room where Teani had fallen to her death. Shimizu had regained consciousness. Seated now at the feet of his Lord, he regarded the Great One with impassive eyes.

Mara sat opposite, Nacoya and Arakasi at her side. Her honour guard had cleaned the blood from his face, but he had made no other effort to refresh himself. A few of the guests had sent slaves to bring robes to cover their sleeping attire, but most had not troubled with appearances. Piqued by curiosity, all waited with keen anticipation for the demonstration of the Great One’s magic.

The moon shone brightly over the broken rail of the gallery. Bathed in its coppery light, the Great One lowered his arms. ‘I will require clear space around all areas where the action occurred, and no people standing in the doorway.’

Sandals shuffled on waxed wood as the guests did Elgahar’s bidding. The Warlord placed himself behind the Lord of the Minwanabi, and Mara saw him lean down and whisper. Jingu returned what was meant as an offhand smile, but the result was forced and stiff. No Lord in the Empire truly understood the powers of those in the Assembly of Magicians; the ability of this Great One to cast a spell for truth seemed to bring little comfort to the Lord of the Minwanabi. The magic might easily catch Mara in a lie, and then the Acoma would be ruined, but other possibilities occurred to Jingu. Teani’s unpredictable nature had been part of her appeal to him; and her hatred of Mara was no secret.

The Great One positioned himself by the door. His robes blended like ink into shadow, leaving his face and hands visible as a pale blur. When he spoke, his words rang like a voice beyond the bounds of human understanding. The innocent, the guilty, and onlookers alike shrank from the sound. ‘We stand upon the site of violent acts,’ Elgahar said to those gathered to witness his magic. ‘Resonance of intense passion creates echoes in the other-world, that state of energy which parallels reality. My spell shall call forth these echoes in visible form, and all eyes will see what occurred between the servants of the Minwanabi and his guest, Mara of the Acoma.’

He fell silent. The hood eclipsed his features as he stood for a moment in total stillness, then tipped his head towards the ceiling. He gestured in the air with one hand and began an incantation so low that even those standing closest could not decipher the words. Mara sat like a temple statue, barely aware of the vague rise and fall of the magician’s voice. The spell he shaped affected her strangely, as if a force touched her inner self and separated a piece of her spirit. At her side, Arakasi stirred sharply, as if he, too, felt the pull of the magic.

A soft glow arose in the centre of the room, over the torn expanse of the cushions. Mara watched with wondering eyes as a vague, transparent image of herself appeared, seated as she had been in the hour of Teani’s arrival. An ice-pale spectre attended her, and all recognized the wizened form of Nacoya.

The guests murmured in amazement. Nacoya, seeing herself, turned her face away and gestured a sign against evil. The Great One gave no notice. His incantation ended abruptly, and he lifted his hands; framed in the spill of the moonlight, the glowing figures began to move.

The scene unfolded in ghostly clarity, soundless, and fragile as light reflected in water. Mara saw herself speak, and a flicker of movement appeared within the doorway. The Great One stood motionless, even as the outline of Teani entered, passing clean through his body as if he had been made of air.

The nearest guests gave way in alarm, and more than one exclaimed aloud. But the spectre of the concubine remained oblivious. Ghostly in her beauty, she retraced her steps of the hour before and advanced to the cushions before Mara. The images of both women sat and spoke; Mara regarded her own form, amazed to realize how calm she had seemed before Teani. Even now, the recreation of the scene caused her heart to beat quickly, and her palms to sweat. The recollection of her terrible doubt nearly overwhelmed her still. But none of this had showed to Teani’s eyes; and the guests who observed the fruits of the Great One’s magic themselves gained the impression of a supremely confident young woman confronting one of inferior rank. To Mara it was now easy to understand why the concubine had fallen for the bluff and believed evidence existed that proved she was a spy of the Anasati.

Next all in the room saw Teani call out to Shimizu beyond the door. Though her image made no sound, the lips could easily be read, and a moment later the Strike Leader appeared. The words of the exchange could not be guessed, but Teani’s expression shifted, becoming so animal and basic that several guests gasped in surprise. Shimizu abruptly left the frame of the spell, and all in the room saw Teani draw a knife from her sleeve. With no visible provocation, she launched herself from the cushions, striking out at the figure of Mara. Whatever claim Jingu might offer in defence, now no doubt remained that a servant of the Minwanabi had attacked the Lady of the Acoma. The Lord of the Minwanabi’s surety of safety was broken.

For the first time any Lord of the Empire could recall, Jingu showed pallor in public. Perspiration appeared upon his upper lip, while before him the drama of the hour before continued to unfold. The Strike Leader Shimizu re-entered the room, and after a brief and bitter struggle received a wound from her knife. All stared in fascination as he hurled the concubine through the doorway. Wooden railings shattered in soundless impact; and Teani fell to her death, leaving only a spectral impression of a face contorted with hatred, horror, and desperate fear imprinted in the memories of the guests. For an instant the crowded room seemed suspended and motionless. Then, assuming the drama was concluded, a few guests murmured appalled remarks. Mara stole the moment to glance at the Lord of the Minwanabi.

His expression showed calculation, and his small eyes, faint hope. If Teani had acted the renegade, then Shimizu had preserved his honour in killing her; should the image stop here, he was safe. But the face of the Great One showed neither sternness nor sympathy beneath the dark shadow of his hood. His spell continued to unreel, and in the midst of the chamber the Minwanabi Strike Leader spun into a battle crouch and advanced upon the Lady of the Acoma.

Jingu stiffened as if touched by an executioner’s sword point. Shimizu’s broad back prevented any in the room from seeing what Lady Mara might have said, but after a short exchange of words, the warrior’s blade rose and swiftly fell. Mara could be seen rolling in the corner. And cautiously, surreptitiously, those guests beside their host began to edge away, as if his shame were a contaminant that might spread on contact. Arakasi’s courageous intervention became aftermath, as around the room guest after guest turned eyes of judgment and contempt upon the Lord of the Minwanabi.

Clearly the image had said enough. Into a strangling stillness Elgahar mumbled a few phrases, and the alien blue-white light was extinguished. Mara let air back into cramped lungs, shaking still with suspense. Her danger was not over yet.

Beside the Lord of the Minwanabi stood Almecho, an evil delight in his expression. Costly embroidery flashed as he raised his shoulders in an elaborate shrug. ‘Well, Jingu. That seems a clear enough assault upon your guests. First the girl, then the warrior. You have enthusiastic servants, don’t you?’

Jingu showed no sign of turmoil. Racked by emotions only he could know, he glared first at Mara, then at the muscled and bleeding form of his Strike Leader. Those closest heard him whisper, ‘Why? Shimizu, you were my most trusted warrior. What drove you to this act?’

Shimizu’s lips curled in agony. Whatever excuse he gave regarding the machinations of Teani, his actions had already condemned his master to die to expiate the shame to his honour. ‘The witch betrayed us,’ he said simply, and whether he referred to Mara or Teani was unclear.

‘You madman!’ screamed Jingu, and his vehemence rocked all in the room. ‘Stupid get of a diseased bitch, you’ve killed me!’ Without thought, he drew a dagger from beneath his robe and lunged forward. Before any could react to his rage, he slashed backhanded across Shimizu’s exposed neck. Severed arteries shot a fountain of blood, spattering fine robes and bringing a scream from a weak-nerved Lady. Shimizu tottered in uncomprehending confusion. His hands fumbled futilely as the life spurted between his fingers, and his great shoulders sagged as he realized his own death was upon him. Matters of betrayal and lies, twisted desires and misplaced love, all now became meaningless. He sank back. Almost peaceful as he welcomed the hand of Turakamu, he whispered last words to his master. ‘I thank my Lord for granting me death by the blade.’

Shimizu nodded finally to Mara, a silent salute for her victory. Then his eyes went vacant, and the hands that had sought her life fell slack. Sprawled in death at the feet of the elaborately clothed guests, he seemed a fitting symbol of Jingu’s defeat. In the Game of the Council, the Lord of the Minwanabi was ruined.

Almecho broke the silence. ‘That was impulsive, Jingu. The warrior might have had something more to say. A pity.’

The Lord of the Minwanabi whirled. For an instant he seemed capable of striking out at the Warlord, but his fury left him and he let the dagger fall. Almecho sighed. The cowled figures of the Great Ones returned to stand at his side as he focused his regard on Desio, son and heir of the Minwanabi. ‘As sunrise is considered the best time for such matters, I expect you’ll busy yourself for the next few hours with preparation for your father’s ritual expiation of his guilt. I’m returning to my bed. When I arise, I trust you’ll somehow restore the gaiety to this shambles of a celebration … Lord Desio.’

Desio nodded. Unable to speak, he began to lead his father away. Jingu seemed in a trance. Deflated, his bold, brash voice utterly stilled, he turned his mind inward to the task before him. Never a brave man, he must still act the part of a Tsurani Lord. Fate had decreed his death, and somehow he must find the strength to accomplish what was expected. But as his father crossed the threshold, Desio cast a last glance backward at the Lady Mara. His look offered clear warning. Others might applaud her playing of the Game of the Council, but she had not won; she had simply passed the blood feud along to another generation. Mara read his hatred and hid a shudder of dread. She needed no reminder of the fact that she was still deep within the heart of Minwanabi strength.

She thought swiftly, and before the Minwanabi heir could escape public regard, called after him. ‘My Lord Desio. Violence has been visited upon me by Minwanabi servants. I require an escort of your soldiers when I depart for home tomorrow. It would be a shame to blot the cleansing of your family if the wronged guest was attacked by those in your service … or by nameless bandits or water pirates upon the river.’

Thrust painfully into the responsibilities of rulership, Desio lacked the wits to excuse the request with grace. Aware only of the anguish of his father, and hatred of the Lady who had caused it, he still observed the forms he had been raised to follow. Feud would continue between the Minwanabi and the Acoma, but in public the insult to Mara and the blight on his family name required at least a gesture of reparation. Desio nodded curt agreement and departed, to attend upon the sorrows of Jingu’s ritual suicide.

Movement returned slowly to those who remained in the chamber. Guests stirred and exchanged comments, while a battered Arakasi helped the Lady Mara to her feet. Almecho and others looked upon the Lady of the Acoma with respect. No guest present believed the Lord of the Minwanabi would have sent servants to murder the Lady of the Acoma out of hand. None doubted that the Great One’s magic had revealed the last act of some complex plot of Mara’s, the Great Game of the Council at its subtle and deadly finest. The Lady of the Acoma had surmounted all but impossible odds to avenge a blow that had come close to ruining her house. Now all silently congratulated her for her skill in defeating her enemy in his own home.

Yet Mara had learned nothing if not to guard herself doubly against treachery where the Minwanabi were concerned. After a murmured conference with Arakasi, she stepped forward. Offering a deferential bow to the Warlord, she smiled in a manner that truly made her beautiful. ‘My Lord, I am sorry that my inadvertent part in these bloody acts has cast a shadow over your birthday celebration.’

More amused than irritated, Almecho regarded her keenly. ‘I place no responsibility on your shoulders, Lady Mara. Jingu is about to erase any debt that remains. Still, I suspect the affair is not ended. Even though our young Lord will provide escort for your return home – I salute that touch, by the way – you yet may face difficulties.’

Mara made light of her own danger. With all the charm at her disposal, she instead offered sympathy to the one who was the Emperor’s voice within Tsuranuanni. ‘My Lord, too much sorrow has passed here for your celebration to continue with grace. As much as Desio might wish otherwise, grief will leave him little heart to resume the festivities in your honour. While there are other estates closer, mine lie in the fastest direct route by river. In reparation, let me offer my home as a humble substitute for the final celebration of your birthday. Should you accept my hospitality, my staff and my artisans shall do their utmost to entertain you.’ Filled with secretive plans, Mara thought of the gifted but unrecognized performers she had observed at her wedding. In return for her past courtesy they would be willing to perform on short notice, and as one who had discovered new talents for the Warlord’s pleasure, her social stock would grow. And many a worthy musician and artist might gain needed patronage, putting them even deeper in her debt.

Almecho laughed. ‘You’re a sharp-witted one, aren’t you, little bird?’ His eyes narrowed. ‘I had best keep an eye on you myself. No woman has ever worn the white and gold, but you …’ He lost his serious expression. ‘No, I like your bold offer.’ He raised his voice to the guests who had lingered to watch the final turn of events. ‘We depart at sunrise, to journey to the lands of the Acoma.’

He bowed slightly and, flanked by the dark forms of his magicians, stepped briskly through the doorway. The moment he had disappeared, Mara found herself the centre of a storm of attention. In the very chamber in which she had escaped murder by narrow margins, she suddenly had ceased to be a social outcast, a girl marked for death at a moment’s notice. From the greatest families in the Empire she received congratulations, honour, and the accolades of a victor who could play the Game of the Council.

Mara’s retinue of warriors was recalled from the Minwanabi barracks well ahead of daybreak; they rejoined their mistress on board the Acoma barge. While land and water still lay in darkness, the craft poled away from the docks. Too excited by the events of the night to attempt to rest, Mara stood by the rail with her First Adviser and her Spy Master. Feeling the absence of Papewaio with keen sorrow, they watched the lighted windows in the Minwanabi estate house fall astern. The aftermath of terror and unexpected triumph had left Mara both shaky and exhilarated. Yet her thoughts, as always, ranged ahead. The usual preparations would be lacking, since the Warlord and all the guests would arrive at the Acoma estates unannounced. In spite of herself, Mara smiled. Jican was surely going to tear his hair when he discovered his staff had the responsibility of conducting Almecho’s birthday celebration.

The barge rocked gently as the slaves switched their poles for oars and began a steady stroke. Here and there soldiers spoke in whispers to each other; then all conversations stilled as the sky brightened over the lake. Astern, a colourful flotilla of guests’ barges departed the hospitality of the Minwanabi. With the watercourses jammed with noble witnesses, Mara need not fear attack by enemy warriors disguised as bandits; and Desio in any event could hardly mastermind an attempt around the grief and the ceremony attendant upon his father’s ritual suicide.

When the golden disc of the sun lifted above the valley, Mara and every other noble passenger abroad in their barges noted the small knot of soldiers upon the hillock near the Minwanabi contemplation glade. These men stood honour to Lord Jingu as he mustered the courage to fall upon his own sword. When at length men in orange armour formed up into ranks and marched in formal step to the mansion, Mara breathed a prayer of thanks to the gods. The enemy who had arranged her father and brother’s murder, and nearly her own, at last was dead.

With Jingu’s passing, the Minwanabi ceased their role as supreme power after the Warlord, for Desio was a young man of poor social gifts. Few considered him a worthy successor to his father; those travelling south to the Acoma lands commonly judged that the old Lord’s successor would be hard pressed to preserve the alliances his father had forged, let alone increase Minwanabi power. Now Desio could expect to be closely watched. As he shepherded his family’s decline, all who were once fearful of Minwanabi power would now add strength to his enemies. Unless one of Desio’s more gifted cousins came to power, the Minwanabi fate was sealed. The stock of a great house had fallen far in the Game of the Council.

Mara considered this throughout the voyage by river, and beyond, as her litter wove through the crowded streets of Sulan-Qu and into the quieter countryside surrounding Acoma lands. With the Minwanabi dominance ended in the High Council, Almecho stood unchallenged, save for the alliance of those in the Blue Wheel Party and the Alliance for Progress. Mara regarded the decorated litters of the nobles who trailed after her retinue, her mind absorbed by the likely readjustments of politics. With the beginnings of a smile, she realized the wisdom of having Nacoya place Hokanu of the Shinzawai near her at least once during the feasting. Then she inwardly laughed. Just as she must once again consider marriage, the Empire would begin another round of multi-player bickering as the game entered a new phase; but it would always be the Game of the Council.

Mara turned to mention her thought to Nacoya and found the old woman napping. At last, with their return to familiar roads, the First Adviser had begun to relax the tension that had driven her throughout their stay in the Minwanabi house.

Just then Arakasi said, ‘Mistress, something odd ahead.’

Nacoya roused, but her complaints died unuttered as she saw her mistress staring raptly forward. At the crest of the next hill, at the boundary of the Acoma lands, stood two warriors, one on each side of the road. To the left, upon Acoma soil, waited a soldier in the familiar green of her own garrison. On the right, on lands belonging to the Empire, the second soldier wore the red and yellow armour of the Anasati. As Mara’s retinue and litter came fully into view, both men spun around and shouted almost in unison, ‘Acoma! Acoma!’

Startled as her litter swerved to the left, Mara glanced back and saw her bearers pull aside to make room for the Warlord’s litter to draw even with hers. Almecho shouted over the noise of tramping feet. ‘Lady, you’ve arranged an exceedingly odd welcome.’

Caught at a loss, Mara said, ‘My Lord, I do not know what this means.’

The Warlord gestured to his Imperial Whites, and side by side the two retinues crested the hill. Another pair of warriors waited beyond, some distance along, and an even more distant pair farther yet. On the crest of the last hill before the prayer gate a fourth pair could be seen. And from the waving back and forth, the cry ‘Acoma’ had been clearly carried ahead of the returning litters.

Mara bowed her head to Almecho. ‘With my Lord’s permission …?’

At Almecho’s brusque nod, the Lady of the Acoma instructed her bearers to quicken pace. She grabbed at the beaded handrail as, running, her slaves forged ahead. Her guard of warriors jogged with her, past the familiar, outlying fields, the needra pastures with their tawny cows and calves. Mara felt tension tighten her chest. As far as the eyes could see, the fields were empty of field hands or herders, porters or cart drivers. Even the slaves were absent. Where Acoma workers should have been hard at their labours, crops and livestock stood abandoned in the sun.

Wishing she had Keyoke’s staunch presence at her side, Mara shouted to the first Acoma soldier they passed, ‘What’s going on? Have we been raided?’

The warrior fell in beside the trotting slaves and reported on the run. ‘Anasati soldiers came yesterday, mistress. They made camp beyond the prayer gate. Force Commander Keyoke has ordered every soldier to stand ready. The lookouts he posted on the road were to call out when you returned, or report the appearance of Minwanabi soldiers.’

‘You must be cautious, daughter.’ Jounced breathless by the movement of the litter, Nacoya made as if to elaborate; but Mara needed no warning to spark her concern. She waved Keyoke’s sentinel back to join her honour company, and called out to the Anasati warrior who had stood opposite her own man, and who now kept pace with her litter on the opposite side of the road.

Any reply would be a courtesy, since no Anasati warrior was answerable to the Lady of the Acoma. This one must have been instructed to keep his own counsel, for he ran on in silence, his face turned resolutely forward. When the litter crested the last hill, the valley beyond lay carpeted in coloured armour. Mara’s breath caught in her throat.

Over a thousand Anasati warriors stood before her gate, in battle-ready formation. Confronting them, from the other side of the low boundary wall, Keyoke commanded a like number of Acoma soldiers. Here and there the green ranks were divided by wedges of gleaming black, cho-ja warriors ready to honour the treaty with their Queen, that called-for alliance should any threaten the peace of Acoma lands.

Shouts echoed down the valley the instant the litter came into view. The sight caused the Acoma forces to erupt with an uninhibited cheer; to Mara’s astonishment, the Anasati war host answered them. Then a thing happened that even old Nacoya had never heard of, not in tales, or ballads, or any of the remembered historical events in the great Game of the Council: the two armies broke ranks. Throwing down weapons and unbuckling their helms, they approached her litter in a single joyous crowd.

Mara stared in wonderment. Dust blew in the grip of a freshening breeze, hazing the plain like smoke as two thousand shouting soldiers surrounded her litter and honour guard. With difficulty, Keyoke pushed a path through his Acoma soldiers. A clear space widened in the Anasati side, and a confounded Mara found herself eye to eye with Tecuma. The Lord of the Anasati wore the armour of his ancestors, bright red with yellow trim, and at his side marched the plumed presence of his Force Commander.

The multitude of warriors stilled, even as the litter bearers jolted to a stop. The hoarse gasps of their breathing sounded loud in the silence as Keyoke bowed to his mistress. ‘My Lady.’

Tecuma stepped forward with the first polite bow observed by a Ruling Acoma in many generations.

‘My Lord,’ acknowledged Mara, a bit stiffly from her seat in the litter. With a frown of genuine confusion, she commanded her Force Commander to report.

Keyoke drew himself up and spoke loudly that all might hear. ‘Sentries warned of the approach of an army at dawn yesterday, my Lady. I mustered the garrison and went myself to challenge the trespassers –’

Tecuma interrupted. ‘We have not yet entered Acoma lands, Force Commander.’

Keyoke conceded this point with a stony glance. ‘True, my Lord.’ He again faced Mara and resumed. ‘I was approached by my Lord of the Anasati, who demanded to see his grandson. In your absence, I declined to allow him his “honour guard”.’

Mara regarded Ayaki’s grandfather with no expression visible on her face. ‘Lord Tecuma, you brought half your garrison as an “honour guard”?’

‘A third, Lady Mara.’ Tecuma returned a humourless sigh. ‘Halesko and Jiro are in command of the other two thirds.’ Here the old man seemed to falter, though he filled the moment with his usual finesse by unstrapping and removing his helm. ‘Sources of mine indicated you would not survive the Warlord’s celebration and’ – he sighed as if he hated to make this admission – ‘I feared it would be so. To prevent harm to my grandson, I decided to come visit, in case Jingu sought to end the Acoma-Minwanabi blood feud for good and all.’

Mara raised her brows in comprehension. ‘Then when my Force Commander declined your attentions to my grandson, you decided to stay and see who arrived first, myself or Jingu’s army.’

‘True.’ Tecuma’s hands tightened on his helm. ‘Had Minwanabi soldiers come over the hill, I would have marched in to protect my grandson.’

In even tones, Keyoke said, ‘And I would have stopped him.’

Mara shared a pointed stare between her Force Commander and her father-in-law. ‘Then you’d have done Jingu’s work for him.’ She shook her head in irritation. ‘This is my fault. I should have considered an Anasati grandfather’s concern might turn to war. Well then, there’s nothing to worry about, Tecuma. Your grandson is safe.’

Here the Lady of the Acoma paused, as she relived the miracle of relief all over again. ‘Jingu is dead, by his own hand.’

Taken aback, Tecuma jammed his helm over iron-grey hair. ‘But –’

Mara interrupted. ‘I know, you received no word. Regretfully for the Anasati, your “source” is dead also.’ At this news Tecuma’s eyes narrowed. Plainly he ached to know how Mara had found out about Teani, but he said nothing. Very still, he waited as Mara told him her last item of news. ‘We’ve moved the Warlord’s birthday celebration here, Tecuma. Since you were the only Lord who was absent, perhaps you’d care to amend that slight and join us for the next two days? But please understand: I must insist that you restrict your honour guard to fifty men, as everyone else has.’

The old Lord nodded, at last giving way to relief and amusement. As Mara briskly ordered her own honour guard to resume their march to the estate, he stared at her slight form with something akin to admiration. ‘It is well we did not see Minwanabi soldiers breasting the hill, Mara.’ He considered the resolute warrior at Mara’s side and added, ‘Your Force Commander would have been forced to yield quickly, while most of my forces held Jingu’s army at bay. I would not have wished that.’

Keyoke said nothing, only turning and signalling to where Lujan stood, at the rear of the first line of Acoma soldiers. He in turn waved to another soldier further away. When Mara looked at Keyoke with a curious expression, he said, ‘I indicated that the one hundred cho-ja warriors waiting in ambush should feel free to return to their hive, mistress. Now, if you feel it appropriate, I’ll order the men to stand down.’

Mara smiled, though she would not laugh at Tecuma’s obvious shock at hearing of a hundred cho-ja warriors that would have met his advance guard should they have won their way past Acoma lines. ‘Maintain an honour guard to meet our guests, Keyoke.’ The Force Commander saluted and turned to do as he was bid. To Tecuma, Mara said, ‘Grandfather of my son, when you have dealt with the disposition of your forces, please come and be my guest.’ So saying, she ordered her bearers to carry her to her house.

Tecuma watched her depart. Even his smouldering hatred over Bunto’s death was replaced by wonder for the moment. He looked down the road at the advancing column of guests, and was glad that the problem of food, housing, and entertainment were not his own to bear. The little hadonra – was it Jican? – was surely going to fall apart.

But Jican did not fall apart. He had heard about Mara’s return before the soldiers on lookout, since the gossip had been brought by a guild runner with rush dispatches from a merchant. The man passed on rumours of vast quantities of noble barges all tied up in Sulan-Qu, the Warlord’s white and gold prominent among them. In his subsequent panic, the hadonra forgot to pass the information along to Keyoke and the warriors. Instead he had requisitioned every freeman, slave, and all the craftsmen who were already gathered at the estate house to defend Ayaki if the Anasati war host broke through; these had been reassigned to work freshening linens and peeling fruits in the kitchens, and into this furious hive of activity came Mara and her honour retinue.

‘So that’s where all my fields hands are,’ exclaimed the Lady of the Acoma, even as her bearers set her litter down in the dooryard. By now she could not contain her amusement, for her little hadonra had delivered his breathless report while still wearing cast-off bits of armour from the store sheds, his helm a pot borrowed from the cooks. The servants who bustled from the slaughtering pens to the kitchens were similarly equipped, and everywhere the hoes, rakes, and scythes they would have employed as weapons were leaning against the furniture. Mara’s laughter was cut short by a carping complaint from Nacoya, who was weary of litters and barges and wished for a real hot bath.

‘You may have whatever you wish, mother of my heart. We’re home.’

And like a weight of stone lifted from her shoulders, the Lady of the Acoma knew this was so, for the first time since she had left for the Holy City of Kentosani.

Still tying strings from changing back to his house livery, Jican ran furiously from the estate house to the lawns, where huge pavilions were erected to house several hundred Lords, Ladies, noble children, First Advisers, honour guards, and their innumerable servants. There would hardly be room to move in the main house, jammed as the guest rooms would be with Almecho’s immediate relations and Imperial Whites. Selected servants would be housed in the barracks with the soldiers, with the overflow assigned to the slave buildings. The slaves, and the unlucky freemen to draw the short lots, would sleep under the stars for three days. Mara felt her heart warm at the loyalty of her servants and soldiers; for through the chaos and upheaval of her return, no one complained. Even the house servants had stood ready to defend Ayaki, though their farm implements and kitchen knives would have proved no match for the weapons of trained soldiers. Yet their bravery was none the less for that fact; and their loyalty was beyond the bounds of duty.

Touched by their devotion, and having hastily changed into fresh robes, Mara returned to the dooryard as the Warlord’s cortege heaved into sight in full splendour. The Imperial Whites were a machine of precision as they escorted their master from his litter. Trumpets blew and drums beat and Almecho, second only to the Emperor Ichindar in power, made his formal arrival before the Lady of the Acoma.

Mara bowed gracefully. ‘My Lord, I welcome you to our house. May your visit here bring rest, and peace, and refreshment.’

The Warlord of all Tsuranuanni bowed slightly. ‘Thank you. Now, would you keep things somewhat less formal than … our previous host did? Day-long celebration can be tiresome, and I would like an opportunity to speak with you in private.’

Mara nodded politely and looked to her First Adviser to welcome the two black-robed magicians and show them to their quarters. Pride had straightened the old woman’s shoulders, and in her indomitable mothering manner she took the two envoys of the Assembly of Magicians under her wing as if she had dealt with their kind all her life. Mara shook her head, marvelling at Nacoya’s resilience. Then she let the Warlord take her arm, and the two of them walked alone into the peaceful stillness of the garden she preferred for meditation.

Four warriors stood guard at the entrance, two wearing green and two the white of the Imperial Guard. Pausing by the rim of the fountain, the Warlord removed his helm. He sprinkled water over damp greying hair, then faced the Lady of the Acoma. Beyond the hearing of guests and servants he said, ‘I must salute you, girl. You have proven your mettle in the game over the last two years.’

Mara blinked, not at all certain she grasped his intent. ‘Lord, I did only what was necessary to avenge my father and brother and preserve the existence of my house.’

Almecho laughed, and his bitter humour sent small birds winging from the treetops. ‘Lady, what do you think the game is, if not to remain while you dispose of enemies? While others have been flitting around the High Council nattering at one another over this alliance and that, you have neutralized your second most powerful rival – turning him into a reluctant ally, almost – and destroyed your most powerful enemy. If that isn’t a masterful victory in the game, I’ve never seen anyone play.’ He hesitated a moment. ‘That dog Jingu was growing a little too ambitious. I believe he plotted to dispose of three opponents: you, the Lord of the Anasati, and then me. Tecuma and I are somewhat in your debt, I think, though you certainly didn’t act on our behalf.’ He trailed his fingers thoughtfully through the water; small currents rose up and roiled the surface, just as the currents of intrigue ran always beneath the affairs of the Empire. The Warlord regarded her keenly. ‘Before I leave you, I want you to know this: I would have let Jingu kill you, if that was your fate. But now I am pleased you lived and not he. Still, my favour is scant. Just because no woman has ever worn the white and gold before, don’t think I count your ambition any less dangerous, Mara of the Acoma.’

Somewhat overwhelmed by this endorsement of her prowess, Mara said, ‘You flatter me too much, Lord. I have no ambition beyond the desire to see my son grow in peace.’

Almecho placed his helm upon his head and motioned for his guards to return. ‘I don’t know, then,’ he reflected, half to himself. ‘Who is to be more feared, one who acts from ambition or one who acts for the needs of survival? I like to think we can be friendly, Lady of the Acoma, but my instincts warn me you are dangerous. So let us just say that for now we have no reason to be at odds.’

Mara bowed. ‘For that I am very grateful, my Lord.’

Almecho returned the bow, then departed to call servants to attend his bath. As Mara followed him from the garden, Keyoke saw his Lady and came at once to her side. Tape …’ he said.

Mara nodded in shared sympathy. ‘He died a warrior, Keyoke.’

The Force Commander’s face showed nothing. ‘No man can ask for more.’

Certain that Nacoya was acting in all her glory with the guests, Mara said, ‘Walk with me to the glade of my ancestors, Keyoke.’

The Force Leader of the Acoma shortened stride to match that of his slight mistress and silently opened a side door. As they left the main house, and birdsong replaced the talk of guests and servants, Mara sighed. ‘We shall need a new First Strike Leader.’

Keyoke said, ‘Your will, mistress.’

But Mara kept her opinion to herself. ‘Who is the best for the position?’

Keyoke seemed unusually expressive as he said, ‘It galls me to say it, but despite his less than seemly attitude at times, no man is better able than Lujan. Tasido has been with us longer and is a better swordsman … but Lujan is among the best I’ve seen in tactics, strategy, and leading men since’ – he hesitated – ‘well, since your father.’

Mara raised her eyebrows. ‘That good?’

Keyoke smiled, and his humour was so unexpected that Mara stopped in her tracks. She listened as her Force Commander qualified. ‘Yes, that good. He’s a natural leader. That’s the reason Papewaio came to like the rascal so quickly. And if your First Strike Leader had survived he’d be telling you the same. Had the Lord of the Kotai lived, Lujan would probably already be a Force Commander now.’ By the hint of pain beneath Keyoke’s tone, Mara understood how much like a son Papewaio had been to this old campaigner. Then his Tsurani self-discipline fell back into place and the old warrior was as she had always known him.

Glad of his choice, Mara said, ‘Then name Lujan First Strike Leader, and promote a Patrol Leader to take his place.’ They passed beneath the trees, where once Papewaio had knelt and begged to take his life with his sword. With a pang of sorrow for his passing, Mara considered what might have happened had she not reinterpreted tradition concerning the black scarf of the condemned. A shiver touched her spine. How delicate was the thread of progression that had preserved her life.

Strangely abrupt, Keyoke stopped. Ahead lay the guarding hedges at the entrance to the glade, and the Force Commander traditionally might accompany her that far. Then Mara saw that a lone figure awaited her, before the contemplation glade of her ancestors. The red and yellow helm in his hands was familiar, gleaming in the copper light of latest afternoon; and the scabbard at his side held no weapon.

Mara gently dismissed her Force Commander and stepped forward to meet the Lord of the Anasati.

Tecuma had brought no honour guard. The scarlet and yellow armour of his family creaked in the stillness as he offered greeting. ‘My Lady.’

‘My Lord.’ Mara returned his slight bow, aware that the birds in the trees had fallen silent at the coming of sundown.

‘I hoped to find you here. Since the last time we exchanged words in this place, I thought it appropriate to make a new beginning on the same soil.’ He glanced to the chattering throng of guests crowding the dooryard, and the bustle of the servants who attended them. ‘I expected the next time I trod this grass, I’d see orange-clad warriors swarming over it, not revellers come to honour you.’

‘They come to honour the Warlord,’ corrected Mara.

Tecuma studied the face of his daughter-in-law, as if truly seeing her for the first time. ‘No, Lady. They celebrate Almecho’s birthday, but they truly honour you. There will never be love between us, Mara, but we have Ayaki in common. And I dare to think we share a respect for one another.’

Mara bowed, lower than ever before. In all sincerity she said, ‘We have that, Tecuma. I have no regrets, save that good men have been made to suffer …’ Her mind turned to her father, brother, Papewaio, and even Buntokapi, and she added, ‘And to die. What I have done was for the Acoma, and all that shall be Ayaki’s someday. I hope you understand.’

‘I do.’ Tecuma gathered himself to leave, then shook his grey head, unwilling humour showing through his poise. ‘I truly do. Perhaps when Ayaki comes to his majority and rules, I may find it in my heart to forgive what you have done.’

Mara wondered at the strange way that events could turn in the Game of the Council. ‘I am glad at least that for now we have no reason to be at odds,’ she said.

‘For now.’ Tecuma sighed with something very close to regret. ‘Had you been my daughter, and Bunto Lord Sezu’s son … who knows what could have been possible?’ Then, as if the matter were forever put aside, he placed his helm on his head. The hair stuck out at odd angles over his ears, and the ornamented strap swung against his neck, but he did not look the least bit foolish. Rather he looked a ruler, with years of life behind and more yet to come, with age and wisdom, experience and knowledge, a master of his office. ‘You are a true daughter of the Empire, Mara of the Acoma.’

Left no precedent upon which to model a response, Mara could only bow deeply and accept the accolade. Overwhelmed by emotion, she watched Tecuma walk back to rejoin his retinue. All alone, she entered the contemplation glade of her ancestors.

The path to the natami seemed changeless as time. Sinking down on the cool earth where many an ancestor had knelt ahead of her, Mara ran her fingers over the shatra bird carved into the stone. Quietly, but in a voice that trembled with joy, she said, ‘Rest you well, my father, and you, my brother. He who took your lives is now but ashes, and your blood is avenged. The honour of the Acoma is intact, and your line preserved.’

Then tears came unbidden. Years of fear and pain lifted from Mara’s spirit.

Overhead, the fluting call of a shatra bird called the flock to take wing in celebration of sundown. Mara wept without restraint, until lantern light glowed through the hedges and the distant sounds of festivities filled the glade. All her struggles had borne fruit. She knew peace for the first time since Keyoke had fetched her from the temple; and somewhere upon the Great Wheel the shades of her father and brother rested peacefully, their pride and honour restored.

Filled with the deep satisfaction of victory, Mara arose. She had a household full of guests to attend to … and the Game of the Council would continue.