Читать книгу Mistress of the Empire - Raymond E. Feist, Janny Wurts - Страница 9

Someone moved.

Atop a stack of baled cloth, partially hidden by the cant of a crooked bale, Arakasi heard what might be the grate of a footstep on the gritty boards of the floor. He froze, uneasy at the discovery he was not alone in the murk of the warehouse. Silently he controlled his breathing; he forced his body to relax, to stave off any chance of a muscle cramp brought on by his awkward position. From a distance, his clothing would blend with the wares, making him seem like a rucked bit of fabric fallen loose from its ties. Up close, the deception would not bear inspection. His coarse-woven robe could never be mistaken for fine linens. Mindful that he might have trapped himself by taking refuge in this building to shake a suspected tail, he shut his eyes to enhance his other senses. The air was musty from spilled grain and leakage from barrels of exotic spices. The scented resins that waterproofed the roof shingles mingled with those of moldered leather from the door hinges. This particular warehouse lay near enough to the dockside that its floors submerged when the river crested in spring and overran the levee.

Minutes passed. Noise from the dock quarter came muffled through the walls: a sailor’s raucous argument with a woman of the Reed Life, a barking cur, and the incessant rumble of wheels as needra drew the heavy drays of wares away from the riverside landings. The Acoma Spy Master strained to sort the distant hubbub; one by one, he tagged the sounds, while the day outside waned. A shouting band of street urchins raced down the street, and the bustle of commerce quieted. Nothing untoward met his ears beyond the calls of the lamplighters who tended the street at the end of the alley. Long past the point where another man might conclude he had imagined the earlier disturbance – that what seemed a footstep was surely the result of stress and imagination – Arakasi held rigidly still.

The flesh still prickled warning at the base of his neck. He was not one to take chances. Patience was all, when it came to any contest of subterfuge.

Restraint rewarded him, finally, when a faint scrape suggested the brush of a robe against wood, or the catch of a sleeve against a support beam. Doubt fled before ugly certainty: someone else was inside the warehouse.

Arakasi prayed silently to Chochocan, the Good God, to let him live through this encounter. Whoever had entered this dark building had not done so for innocent reasons. This intruder was unlikely to be a servant who had stolen off for an illicit nap in the afternoon heat, then overslept through supper into night. Arakasi mistrusted coincidence, always; to presume wrongly could bring his death. Given the hour, and the extreme stealth exhibited by his stalker, he had to conclude he was hunted.

Sweating in the still air, he reviewed each step that had brought him to this position. He had paid an afternoon call upon a fabric broker in the city of Ontoset, his purpose to contact a factor of a minor house who was one of his many active agents. Arakasi made a habit of irregular personal visits to ensure that such men remained loyal to their Acoma mistress, and to guard against enemy infiltrations. The intelligence network he had built upon since his days as a servant of the Tuscai had grown vast under Acoma patronage. Complacence on his part invited any of a thousand possible mishaps, the slightest of which could spell disaster for his Lady’s welfare.

His visit today had not been carelessly made; his guise as an independent trader from Yankora had been backed up by paper work and references. The public announcement of the Assembly’s intervention between the Acoma and the Anasati had reached this southern city days later; news tended to travel slowly across provinces as the rivers fell and deepwater trade barges were replaced by landborne caravans. Aware that Lady Mara would require his updated reports by the fastest possible means to guard against possible countermoves by the Anasati or other foes made bold by the Assembly’s constraints, Arakasi had shortened his stay to a hurried exchange of messages. On leaving the premises, he had suspected he was being followed.

Whoever had tailed him had been good. Three times he had tried to shed his pursuit in the teeming crush of the poor quarter; only a caution that approached the obsessive had shown him a half-glimpsed face, a tar-stained hand, and twice, a colored edge of sash that should not have been repeated in the random shuffle of late-day traffic.

As well as the Spy Master could determine, there were four of them, a superbly trained team who were sure to be agents from another network. No mere sailors or servants in commoners’ clothing could work with such close coordination. Arakasi inwardly cursed. He had blundered into just the sort of trap he had set for informants himself.

His backup plan could not be faulted. He had quickly crossed the busy central market, where purchase of a new robe and sudden movement through an inn packed with roisterers had seen the trader from Yankora vanish and a house messenger emerge. His skill in altering his carriage, his movements, the very set of his bones as he walked had confused many an opponent over the years.

His back trail had seemed unencumbered as he jogged back to the factor’s quarters and let himself in through a hidden door. There he had changed into the brown of a common laborer, and taken refuge in the warehouse behind the trade shop. Crawling atop the cloth bales, his intent had been to sleep until morning.

Now he cursed himself for a fool. When those following had lost sight of him, they must have dispatched one of their number to backtrack to this warehouse, on the off-chance he might return. It was a move that a less cocky man might have anticipated, and only the gods’ luck had seen the Acoma Spy Master inside and hidden before the enemy agent slipped in to wait and observe. Sweat trickled down Arakasi’s collar. The opponent he faced was dangerous; his entrance had almost gone undetected. Instinct more than sure knowledge had roused Arakasi to caution.

The gloom was too deep to reveal his adversary’s location. Imperceptibly slowly, the Acoma Spy Master inched his hand down to grasp the small dagger in his belt. Ever clumsy with handling a sword, he had a rare touch for knives. If he had clear view of a target, this nerve-rasping wait might be ended. Yet if a wish was his for the granting, he would not ask the Gods of Tricks and Fortune for weapons, but to be far from here, on his way back to Mara. Arakasi had no delusions of being a warrior. He had killed before, but his preferred defense relied more on wits, surprise tactics giving him the first strike. This was the first time he had been truly cornered.

A scuffle sounded at the far end of the warehouse. Arakasi stopped breathing as a loose board creaked, pulled aside to allow a second man to slip inside.

The Spy Master expelled his pent air carefully. The hope of a stealthy kill was lost to him. Now he had two enemies to consider. Light flared as a hand-carried lantern was unshuttered. Arakasi squinted to preserve his night vision, his situation turned from tense to critical. While he was probably concealed from the first agent, the new arrival at the back of the warehouse could not help but discover him as he walked past holding a light.

Out of alternatives, Arakasi probed for the gap that should exist between the stack of bales where he rested and the wall. Cloth needed space for air circulation, lest mildew cause spoilage in the dark. This merchant was not overly generous in his habits; the crack that met the Spy Master’s touch was very narrow. Prickling in awareness of his peril, he slid in one arm to the shoulder and wiggled until the bale shifted. The risk could not be avoided, that the stack might topple; if he did not act, he was going to be discovered anyway. Forcing himself flat against the wall, and nudging on the bale, Arakasi wedged himself into the widening gap. Splinters from the unvarnished boards gouged into his bare knees. He dared not pause, even to mouth a silent curse, for the light at ground level was moving.

Footfalls advanced on his position, and shadows swung in arcs across the rafters. He was only halfway hidden, but his position was high enough that the angle of illumination swept above him; had he waited another heartbeat, his movement would have been seen. His margin for error was nonexistent. Only the steps of his adversary covered the slither of his last furtive shove as he nestled downward into the cranny.

A mutter arose from beyond the bale. ‘Look at that!’ As if summarising an inspection, the man rambled on, ‘Tossing good cloth as if it were straw bales, and unworthy of careful packing … Someone should be beaten for this –’

The musing was interrupted by the original stalker’s whisper. ‘Over here.’

Arakasi dared not raise himself to risk a glance.

The lantern crept on in the hand of its unseen bearer. ‘Any sign of him?’

‘None.’ The first stalker sounded irritable. ‘Thought I heard something a bit ago, but it was probably vermin. We’re surrounded by grain warehouses here.’

Reassured enough to be bored, the newcomer lifted his lantern. ‘Well, he’s around somewhere. The factor’s slave insisted he’d come back and gone into hiding. The others are watching the residence. They’d better find him before morning. I don’t want to be the one to tell our master he’s escaped.’

‘You get wind of the gossip? That this fellow’s been seen before, in different guise? He’s got to be a courier, at least, or even a supervisor.’ Cheerfully the stalker added, ‘He’s not from this province, either.’

‘You talk too much,’ snapped the lantern bearer. ‘And you remember things you should forget. If you want to keep breathing, you’d best keep that sort of news to yourself. You know what they say: “Men have throats and daggers have sharp edges.”’

The advice was received with a sigh. ‘How long must we keep watch?’

‘Unless we’re told to leave, we’ll stay until just before daybreak. Won’t do to be caught here, and maybe killed by guards as common thieves.’

An unintelligible grumble ended the conversation.

Arakasi resigned himself to a long, uncomfortable wait. His body would be cramped by morning, and the splinters an additional aggravation, but the consequences if he should be captured did not bear examination. The loose tongues of his trackers had confirmed his worst surmise: he had been traced by another spy net. Whoever commanded the pair who hunted him, whoever they reported to, the master at the top of their network worked for someone canny, someone who had constructed a spy system that had escaped notice until now. Arakasi weighed this fact and knew fear. Chance and intuition had spared him when intricate advance precautions had failed; in discomfort, in warm darkness, he agonised over his assessment.

The team who sought to capture him were skilled, but not so polished that they refrained from indulging in idle talk. It followed that they had been set to catch what their master presumed must be a low-ranking link in the operation he sought to crack. Arakasi suppressed a chill. It was a mark of the deep distrust that drove him, that he preferred when he could to accomplish occasional small errands in person. His unseen enemy must have the chance to know who he was, how highly he was placed, or the name of the mistress he reported to. Possibly he faced the most dangerous opponent he had ever encountered. Somewhere Lady Mara had an enemy, whose subtleties posed a threat greater than anything she had confronted in her life. If Arakasi did not escape alive from Ontoset, if he could not get a message home, his mistress might be taken unwarned by the next strike. Reminded by the ache in his chest that his breathing had turned swift and shallow, the Spy Master forced control.

His security had been compromised, when he had no inkling of impending trouble. The breach spoke of intricate planning. The factor’s second role must have been discovered; precisely how could not be surmised, but a watch had been set over the traffic at Ontoset’s docks closely enough to differentiate between regular traders and those who were strangers. That the team that lay in had been clever enough to see through two of Arakasi’s disguises, having marked him as a courier or supervisor, boded ill.

Arakasi counted the cost. He would have to replace the factor. A certain slave was going to die of what must seem natural causes, and the trade shop must be shut down, a regrettable necessity, for while it doubled as part of his network, it was one of the few profitable Acoma undertakings used by the spy ring. It paid for itself and provided extra funds for other agents.

Grey light filtered through a crack in the wall. Dawn was nigh, but the men showed no sign of stirring. They had not fallen asleep, but were waiting against the chance the man they sought might show himself at the last hour.

The minutes dragged. Daybreak brightened outside. Carts and wagons rumbled by, the costermongers bringing produce to be loaded at the riverside before the worst of the heat. The chant of a team of barge oarsmen lifted in tuneless unison, cut by the scolding of a wife berating a drunken husband. Then a shout raised over the waking noise of the city, close at hand, and urgent. The words were indistinct to Arakasi, wedged behind muffling bales of linen, but the other two men in the warehouse scrambled immediately into motion. Their footfalls pattered the length of the building, and the board creaked aside.

Most likely they made good their escape; were they clever, they might have used the sound of their leaving as opening gambit for a ruse. A partner could yet be lingering to see if their quarry flushed in response.

Arakasi held still, though his legs were kinked into knots of spasming muscle. He delayed a minute, two, his ears straining for signs of danger.

Voices sounded outside the doubled door, and the rattle of the puzzle lock that held the warehouse secure warned of an imminent entry. Arakasi twisted to free himself, and found his shoulders wedged fast. His arms were pressed flat to his sides; his legs had slipped too low to gain purchase. He was trapped.

He knew galvanic desperation. Were he caught here, and arrested as a thief, the spy who had traced him would hear. A corrupt city official would then receive a gift, and he would find himself delivered to his enemy. His chance to make his way back to Mara would be lost.

Arakasi jammed his elbows against the bale, to no avail. The gap that pinned him widened, only causing him to fall deeper into the cleft. The board walls added the sting of new splinters to his wrists and forearms. Silently swearing, he pushed and slipped inexorably beyond hope of unobtrusive extrication.

The warehouse doors crashed open. The Spy Master could do nothing now but pray for a chance to innovate as an overseer bellowed, ‘Take all those, against that wall.’

Sunlight and air heavy with the scent of river mud spilled into the warehouse; a needra lowed, and harness creaked. Arakasi deduced that wagons waited outside to be loaded. He weighed his choices. To call attention to himself now was to chance that no one from the enemy net waited outside, a risk he dared not take. He could be followed again, and luck would not spare him a second time. Then all debate became moot as a work team hurried into the warehouse, and the bale that jammed his body suddenly moved.

‘Hey,’ someone called. ‘Careful of that loose bit up there.’

‘Loose bit!’ snapped the overseer. ‘Which of you dogs broke a tie when the bales were stacked and didn’t report the lapse?’

A muddle of disclaiming replies masked Arakasi’s movement as he flexed aching muscles in preparation for his inevitable discovery.

Nothing happened. The workers became involved with making excuses to their overseer. Arakasi seized the moment to lever himself upward. His thrust jostled the cloth that had been shifted, and it overbalanced and tumbled downward to land with a resounding thump against the floor.

The overseer yelled his displeasure. ‘Oaf! They’re heavier than they look! Get help before you go trying to push them about from above.’

So, Arakasi concluded: the factor must have realised his dilemma and arranged a possible cover. No space remained for mistakes if the impromptu salvage was to work. Hastily he threw himself prostrate. With his face pressed to the pile of cloth where he perched, he mumbled abject apologies.

‘Well, hurry along!’ the overseer cried. ‘Your clumsiness is no excuse to lie about in idleness. Get the wagons loaded!’

Arakasi nodded, pushed himself off the stack, and fought against the unsteadiness of stiff muscles to keep his feet. The shock was too much, after hours of forced inactivity. He bent before he collapsed, leaning against the fallen bale and stretching as if examining himself for injuries. A worker eyed him sourly as he straightened. ‘You all right?’

Arakasi nodded vigorously enough to shake loose hair over his features.

‘Then lend a hand,’ the worker said. ‘We’re almost done at this end.’

Arakasi did as he was bidden and caught the end of the fallen bale. In tandem with the worker, he joined the team doing the loading. Head down, hands busy, he used every trick he knew to alter his appearance. Sweat dripped down his jaw. He smeared the trickle with his hands, rubbing in dust and dirt to darken the thrust of his cheekbones. He ran his fingers through the one lock of hair kept dyed since a scar had turned it white, then smudged artfully to extend shadow and lend the illusion of shortening his chin. He lowered his brows in a scowl, and thrust his bottom teeth against his upper lip. To an onlooker he should seem nothing more than a worker of little intelligence; as he hefted his end of the cloth he stared directly ahead, doing nothing that might identify him as a fugitive.

Each pass from warehouse to wagon scraped his nerves raw. By the time the wagons were loaded, he had singled out a loiterer in the shadows of the shop front across the street. The man seemed vacant-eyed, a beggar left witless by addiction to tateesha; except that his eyes were too focused. Arakasi repressed a shiver. The enemy was after him, still.

The wagons were prepared to roll, the workers climbing on board. Mara’s Spy Master hoisted himself up onto the load as if expected to, and elbowed the man next to him in the ribs.

‘Did the little cousin get that robe she wanted?’ he asked loudly. ‘The one with the flower patterns on the hem?’

Whips cracked, and a drover shouted. The needra leaned into their traces, and the laden wagons groaned into movement. The worker Arakasi had addressed stared back in frank surprise. ‘What?’

As if the big man had said something funny, Arakasi laughed loudly. ‘You know. Lubal’s little girl. The one who brings lunches down to Simeto’s gang at the docks.’

The worker grunted. ‘Simeto I’ve heard of, but not Lubal.’

Arakasi slapped his forehead in embarrassment. ‘You’re not his friend Jido?’

The other man hawked dust from his throat and spat. ‘Never heard of him.’

The wagons had reached the corner of the alley and swung to negotiate the turn. Urchins blocking the way raised curses from the lead drover, and the overseer waved a threatening fist. The children returned obscene gestures, then scattered like a startled flock of birds. Two mangy hounds galloped after them. Arakasi dared a glance back at the factor’s residence. The tateesha halfwit still drooled and watched the warehouse doors, which were being closed and locked by a servant.

The ruse, perhaps had worked.

Arakasi mumbled words of apology to the man he had bothered, and rested his head on crossed elbows. While the wagon rolled, jostling over the uneven paving and splashing through the refuse that overflowed the gutters by the dockside, he smothered a sigh of relief. He was not clear of danger, nor would he be safe until he was miles removed from Ontoset. His thoughts turned to the future: whoever had arranged the trap at the factor’s would presume that his net was discovered. He would further surmise that his escaped quarry must guess that another organisation was at work. Logic insisted that this unseen enemy would react with countermeasures to foil just the sort of search that Arakasi must now launch. Ring upon ring of confusion would befuddle the trail, while the Ontoset branch of the Acoma network was left a total loss. Its lines of communication must be dissolved without trace. Two more levels of operation would have to be engaged, and swiftly: one to check for leaks in the branches in other provinces, and another to sift through a cold trail to try and ferret out this new enemy.

The difficulties were nearly insurmountable. Arakasi had a touch for difficult puzzles, true enough. But this one was potentially deadly, like a sword edge buried in sand that any man’s foot might dislodge. He brooded until the wagons pulled up at the docks. Along with the other workers, he jumped down onto the wharf and set hands to a hoist. One after another, the cloth bales were dragged from the wagon beds and loaded into waiting nets. Arakasi shoved on the pole with the rest when the hoist was full, lifting the cargo high and swinging it onto the deck of the barge warped alongside. The sun rose higher, and the day warmed. At the first opportunity, he slipped away on the excuse that he needed a drink of water, and vanished into the poor quarter.

He must make his way out of Ontoset without help. To approach any other link in his net was to risk being rediscovered; worse, he might lead his pursuit to a fresh area of endeavor, and expose still more of his undercover workings. There were men in this city who would harbor fugitives for pay, but Arakasi dared not approach them. They could be infiltrated by the enemy, and his need to escape might connect him irrefutably to the incident at the warehouse. He wished for a bath and a chance to soak out the splinters still lodged under his skin, but he would get neither. A slave’s grey clothing or a beggar’s rags must see him past the city gates. Once outside the walls, he must hole up in the countryside until he could be certain he had made a clean break. Then he might try the guise of a courier and hasten to make up for his delay.

He sighed, discomforted by the extended time he would be traveling, left alone with conjecture. He held troubled thoughts, of an unknown antagonist who had nearly taken him out of play with one move, and that enemy’s master, an unseen, unassailable threat. With Clan War between Mara and Lord Jiro decreed forbidden by the magicians, his beloved Lady of the Acoma was endangered. As opportunists and enemies banded into alliances against her, she was going to need the best intelligence to ward from her yet more underhanded moves in the murderous intrigues of the Great Game.

The tailor allowed the robe’s silken hem to fall to the floor. Pins of finely carved bone were clenched between his teeth; he stepped back to admire the fit of the formal garment commissioned by the Lord of the Anasati.

Lord Jiro endured the craftsman’s scrutiny with contained disdain. His features expressionless, he stood with his arms held out from his body to avoid a chance prick from the pins that fastened the cuffs. His posture was so still that the sequins sewn in the shape of killwings that adorned the front of the robe did not even shimmer in the light that fell through the open screen.

‘My Lord,’ lisped the tailor around the pins pinched between his teeth, ‘you look splendid. Surely every unmarried noble daughter who beholds your magnificence will swoon at your feet.’

Jiro’s lips twitched. He was not a man who enjoyed flattery. Careful with appearances to the point where the unperceptive might mistakenly think him vain, he well knew the value of clothing when it came to leaving an impression. The wrong raiment could make a man seem stupid, overweight, or frivolous. Since swordplay and the rigors of battle were not to Jiro’s taste, he used every other means to enhance his aspect of virility. An edge could be gained, or a contest of wits turned into victory more subtle than any coarse triumph achieved on the fields of war.

Proud of his ability to master his foes without bloodshed, Jiro had to restrain himself not to bridle at the tailor’s thoughtless compliment. The man was a craftsman, a hireling barely worth of notice, much less his anger. His words were of less consequence than the wind, and only chance had caused him to jar against a memory Jiro yet held with resentment. Despite his closest attention to manners and dress, Lady Mara had spurned him. The awkward, coarse-mannered Buntokapi had been chosen over him. Even passing recollection caused Jiro to sweat with repressed fury. His years of studied effort had availed him not at all, when all of his wits and schooled charm had been summarily dismissed by the Acoma. His ridiculous – no, laughable – lout of a brother had triumphed over him.

Bunto’s smirk was unforgiven; Jiro still stung from remembered humiliation. His hands closed into fists, and he suddenly had no stomach for standing still. ‘I don’t like this robe,’ he snapped peevishly. ‘It displeases me. Make another, and have this one torn up for rags.’

The tailor turned pale. He whipped the pins from his teeth and dropped to the parquet floor, his forehead pressed to the wood. ‘My Lord! As you wish, of course. I beg humble forgiveness for my lack of taste and judgment.’

Jiro said nothing. He jerked his barbered head for a servant to remove the robe and drop it in a heap underfoot. ‘I will wear the blue-and-red silk. Fetch it now.’

His command was obeyed in a flurry of nervousness. The Lord of the Anasati seldom punished his slaves and attendants, but from the day he assumed his inheritance he had made it clear that anything short of instant obedience would never be tolerated.

Arriving to make his report, First Adviser Chumaka noted the near-frenzied obsequious behavior on the part of the servants. He gave not a twitch in reaction; wisest of the Anasati retainers, he knew his Lord best of all. The master did not appreciate overdone obeisance; quite the contrary. Jiro had matured as a second son, and he liked things quiet and without fanfare. Yet since he had inherited a ruler’s mantle without having been groomed to expect the post, he was ever sensitive to the behavior of his underlings toward him. Should they fail to give him his due respect as Lord, he would notice, and take instantaneous issue.

The servant who was late to speak his title, the slave who failed to bow without delay upon presentation, were never forgiven their lapse. Like fine clothing and smooth manners, traditional Tsurani adherence to caste was part and parcel of how Ruling Lords were measured by their peers. Eschewing the barbaric aspects of the battlefield, Jiro had made himself a master of civilised behavior.

As if a robe of finest silk did not lie discarded like garbage under his sandaled feet, he inclined his head while Chumaka straightened up from his bow. ‘What brings you to consult at this hour, First Adviser? Did you forget I had planned an afternoon of discourse with the visiting scholars from Migran?’

Chumaka tipped his head to one side, as a hungry rodent might fix on moving prey. ‘I suggest, my Lord, that the scholars be made to wait while we take a short walk.’

Lord Jiro was vexed, though nothing showed. He allowed his servants to tie his robe sash before he replied. ‘What you have to say is that important?’ As all who were present well knew, Jiro held afternoon court to attend to business with his factors. If his meeting with the scholars was delayed, it would have to wait until morning, which spoiled his hour set aside for reading.

The Anasati First Adviser presented his driest smile and deftly handled the impasse. ‘It pertains to Lady Mara of the Acoma, and that connection I mentioned earlier concerning the vanquished Tuscai.’

Jiro’s interest brightened. ‘The two are connected?’

Chumaka’s stillness before the servants provided its own answer. Excited now, Lord Jiro clapped for his runner. ‘Find my hadonra and instruct him to provide entertainment for our guests. They shall be told that I am detained and will meet with them tomorrow morning. Lest they become displeased by these arrangements, it shall be explained that I am considering awarding a patronage, if I am impressed by their worthiness in the art of verbal debate.’

The runner bowed to the floor and hurried off about his errand. Chumaka licked his teeth in anticipation as his master fell into step with him toward the outer screen that led into the garden.

Jiro seated himself on a stone bench in the shade by a fish pool. He trailed languid fingers in the water while his attention to Chumaka sharpened. ‘Is it good news or bad?’

As always, the First Adviser’s reply was ambiguous. ‘I’m not certain.’ Before his master could express displeasure, Chumaka adjusted his robe and fished a sheaf of documents out of a deep pocket. ‘Perhaps both, my Lord. A small, precautionary surveillance I set in place identified someone highly placed in the Acoma spy network.’ He paused, his thoughts branching off into inaccessibly vague speculation.

‘What results?’ Jiro prompted, in no mood for cleverness that he lacked the finesse to follow.

Chumaka cleared his throat. ‘He eluded us.’

Jiro looked nettled. ‘How could this be good news?’

Chumaka shrugged. ‘We know he was someone of importance; the entire operation in Ontoset was closed down as a result. The factor of the House of Habatuca suddenly became what he appeared to be: a factor.’ As an afterthought, he said, ‘Business is terrible, so we may assume that the goods being brokered by this man were Acoma, not Habatuca.’ He glanced at one of his documents and folded it. ‘We know the Habatuca are not Acoma minions; they are firmly in the Omechan Clan, and traditionalists whom we might find useful someday. They don’t even suspect this man is not their loyal servant, but then they are a very disorganized house.’

Jiro tapped his chin with an elegantly manicured finger as he said, ‘This factor’s removal is significant?’

Chumaka said, ‘Yes, my Lord. The loss of that agent will hamper Acoma operation in the East. I can assume that almost all information coming from that region was funneled through Ontoset.’

Jiro smiled, no warmth in his expression. ‘Well then, we’ve stung them. But now they also know we are watching them with our own agents.’

Chumaka said, ‘That was inevitable, my Lord. I am surprised they hadn’t been aware of us sooner. Their network is well established and practiced. That we observed them undetected as long as we did was something close to miraculous.’

Seeing a gleam in his First Adviser’s eyes, Jiro said, ‘What else?’

‘I said this was related to the long-dead Lord of the Tuscai, from years before you were born. Just before Jingu of the Minwanabi destroyed House Tuscai, I had unearthed the identity of one of the dead Lord’s key agents, a grain merchant in Jamar. When the Tuscai natami was buried, I assumed the man continued his role as an independent merchant in earnest. He had no public ties to House Tuscai, therefore no obligation to assume the status of outcast.’

Jiro went still at this implied, venal dishonesty. A master’s servants were considered cursed by the gods if he should die; his warriors became slaves or grey warriors – or had, until Lady Mara had despicably broken the custom.

Chumaka ignored his master’s discomfort, caught up as he was in reminiscence. ‘My assumption was incorrect, as I now have cause to suspect. In any event, that wasn’t of significance until recently.

‘Among those who came and went in Ontoset were a pair of men I know to have served at the grain merchant’s in Jamar. They showed me the connection. Since no one beside Lady Mara has taken grey warriors to house service, we can extrapolate that the Spy Master and his former Tuscai agents are now sworn to the Acoma.’

‘So we have this link,’ Jiro said. ‘Can we infiltrate?’

‘It would be easy enough, my Lord, to fool the grain merchant, and get our own agent inside.’ Chumaka frowned. ‘But the Acoma Spy Master would anticipate that. He is very good. Very.’

Jiro cut off this musing with a chopping motion.

Brought back to the immediate issue, Chumaka came to his point. ‘At the very least, we’ve stung the Acoma by making them shut down a major branch of their organisation in the East. And far better, we now know the agent in Jamar is again operative; that man must sooner or later report to his master, and then we are back on the hunt. This time I will not let fools handle the arrangements and blunder as they did in Ontoset. If we are patient, in time we will have a clear lead back to the Acoma Spy Master.’

Jiro was less than enthusiastic. ‘We may waste all our efforts, now that our enemy knows his inside agent was compromised.’

‘True, my master.’ Incomo licked his teeth. ‘But we are ahead, in the long view. We know the former Tuscai Spy Master works now for Lady Mara. I had made inroads into that net, before the Tuscai were destroyed. I can resume observation of the agents I suspected as being Tuscai years ago. If those men are still in the same positions, that simple fact will confirm them as Acoma operatives. I will set more traps, manned by personnel whom I will personally instruct. Against this Spy Master we will need our best. Yes.’ The First Adviser’s air became self-congratulatory. ‘It is chance that led us to the first agent, and almost netted us someone highly placed.’

Chumaka wafted the document to fan his flushed cheeks. ‘We now watch the house, and I am certain our watchers are being watched, so I have others watching to see who is watching us …’ He shook his head. ‘My opponent is wily beyond comprehension. He –’

‘Your opponent?’ Jiro interrupted.

Chumaka stifled a start and inclined his head in respect. ‘My Lord’s enemy’s servant. My opposite, if you will. Permit an old man this small vanity, my Lord. This servant of the Acoma who opposes my work is a most suspicious and clever man.’ He referred again to his paper. ‘We will isolate this other link in Jamar. Then we can pursue the next –’

‘Spare me the boring particulars,’ Jiro broke in. ‘I had thought I commanded you to pursue whoever is trying to defame the Anasati by planting false evidence on the assassin who killed my nephew?’

‘Ah,’ Chumaka said brightly, ‘But the two events are connected! Did I not say so earlier?’

Unaccustomed to sitting without the comfort of cushions, Jiro shifted his weight. ‘If you did, only another mind as twisted as yours would have understood the reference.’

This the Anasati First Adviser interpreted as a compliment. ‘Master, your forbearance is touching.’ He stroked the paper as if it were precious. ‘I have proof, at last. Those eleven Acoma agents in the line that passed information across Szetac Province that were mysteriously murdered in the same month – they were indeed connected with five others who also died in the household of Tasaio of the Minwanabi.’

Jiro wore a stiff expression that masked rising irritation. Before he could speak, Chumaka rushed on, ‘They were once Tuscai agents, all of them. Now it appears they were killed to eradicate a breach in the Acoma chain of security. We had a man in place in Tasaio’s household. Though he was dismissed when Mara took over the Minwanabi lands, he is still loyal to us. I have his testimony, here. The murders inside Tasaio’s estate house were done by the Hamoi Tong.’

Jiro was intrigued. ‘You think Mara’s man duped the tong into cleaning up an Acoma mishap?’

Chumaka looked smug. ‘Yes. I think her far too clever Spy Master made the error of forging Tasaio’s chop. We know the Obajan spoke with the Minwanabi Lord. Both were reportedly angry – had it been with each other, Tasaio would have died long before Mara brought him down. If the Acoma were behind the destruction of their own compromised agents, and they used the tong as an unwitting tool to rid themselves of that liability, then grave insult was done to the tong. If this happened, the Red Flower Brotherhood would seek vengeance on its own.’

Jiro digested this with slitted eyes. ‘Why involve the tong in what seems a routine cleanup? If Mara’s man is as good as your ranting, he would hardly be such a fool.’

‘It had to be a move of desperation,’ Chumaka allowed. ‘Tasaio’s regime was difficult to infiltrate. For our part, we placed our agent there before the man became Lord, when he was Subcommander in the Warlord’s army invading Midkemia.’ As Jiro again showed impatience, Chumaka sighed. How he wished his master could be schooled to think and act with more foresight; but Jiro had always fidgeted, even as a boy. The First Adviser summed up. ‘Mara had no agents in House Minwanabi that were not compromised. The deaths therefore had to be an outside job, and the tong’s dealings with Tasaio offered a convenient remedy.’

‘You guess all this,’ Jiro said.

Chumaka shrugged. ‘It is what I would have done in his position. The Acoma Spy Master excels at innovation. We could have made contact with the net in Ontoset, and traced its operation for ten years, and never once made the connection between the agents in the North, the others in Jamar, and the communication line that crossed Szetac. To come as far as fast as we have is more due to luck than to my talents, master.’

Jiro seemed unimpressed by the topic that enthralled his First Adviser. He seized instead on the matter closest to Anasati honor. ‘You have proof that the tong acts on its own volition,’ he snapped. ‘Then in planting evidence of our collusion in Ayaki of the Acoma’s assassination, the Hamoi has sullied the honor of my ancestors. It must be stopped from this outrage! And at once.’

Chumaka blinked, stopped cold in his thinking. He quickly licked his lips. ‘But no, my worthy master. Forgive my presumption if I offer you humble advice to the contrary.’

‘Why should we let the Hamoi Tong dogs shame House Anasati?’ Jiro straightened on the bench and glared. ‘Your reason had better be good!’

‘Well,’ Chumaka allowed, ‘to kill Lady Mara, of course. Master, it is too brilliant. What more dangerous enemy could the Acoma have, other than a tong of assassins? They will spoil her peace past redemption, at each attempt to take her life. In the end, they will succeed. She must die; the honor of their brotherhood demands it. The Hamoi Tong do our work for us, and we, meantime, can divert our interests into consolidation of the traditionalist faction.’ Chumaka wagged a lecturing finger. ‘Now that war has been forbidden to both sides by the magicians, Mara will seek your ruin by other means. Her resources and allies are vast. As Servant of the Empire, she has popularity and power, as well as the ear of the Emperor. She must not be underestimated. Added to the advantages I have listed, she is an unusually gifted ruler.’

Jiro spoke in swift rebuke. ‘You sing her praises in my presence?’ His tone remained temperate, but Chumaka held no illusions: his master was offended.

He answered in a whisper that no gardener or patrolling warrior might overhear. ‘I was never overly fond of your brother, Bunto. So his death was of little consequence to me personally.’ While Jiro’s face darkened with rage, Chumaka’s reprimand cut like a knife: ‘And you were never that fond of him, either, my Lord Jiro.’ As the elegant, stiff-faced ruler acknowledged this truth, Chumaka continued. ‘You overlook the obvious: Mara’s marriage to Bunto instead of you saved your life … my master.’ Short of wheedling calculation, the First Adviser finished, ‘So if you must entertain this hatred of the Servant of the Empire, I will seek her destruction with all my heart. But I will proceed calmly, for to let anger cloud judgment is not merely foolish – with Mara it is suicide. Ask a shade gleaner at the Temple of Turakamu to seek communion with Jingu, Desio, and Tasaio of the Minwanabi. Their spirits will confirm that.’

Jiro stared down at the ripples of water turned by the orange fish in the pool. After a prolonged moment, he sighed. ‘You are right. I never did care for Bunto; he bullied me when we were children.’ His hand closed into a fist, which he splashed down, scattering the fish. ‘My anger may be unwarranted, but it burns me nonetheless!’ He looked up again at Chumaka, his eyes narrowed. ‘But I am Lord of the Anasati. I am not required to make sense. Wrong was done to my House and it will be redressed!’

Chumaka bowed, clearly respectful. ‘I will see Mara of the Acoma dead, master, not because I hate her, but because that is your will. I am ever your faithful servant. Now we know who Mara’s Spy Master is –’

‘You know this man?’ Jiro exclaimed in astonishment. ‘You’ve never once said you knew the identity of the Tuscai Spy Master!’

Chumaka made a deprecatory gesture. ‘Not by name, nor by looks, curse him for the brilliant fiend he is. I have never knowingly met him, but I recognise the manner of his craft. It has a signature like that of a scribe.’

‘Which is far from solid evidence,’ Jiro was fast to point out.

‘Final proof will be difficult to get if I have recognised the same man’s touch. Should this former Tuscai Spy Master have taken Mara’s service, the gods may smile upon us yet. He may be a master of guile, yet I know his measure. My past knowledge of the Tuscai operation in Jamar should enable us to infiltrate his operation. After a few years we may have access to the man himself, and then we can manipulate the intelligence in Mara’s net as we desire. Our intent must be made behind diversionary maneuvers to disrupt Acoma trade and alliances. Meanwhile the tong will be seeking Mara’s downfall as well.’

‘Perhaps we could encourage the brotherhood’s efforts a bit,’ Lord Jiro offered hopefully.

Chumaka sucked in a quick breath at the mere suggestion. He bowed before starting to speak, which he only did when alarmed. ‘My master, that we dare not try. Tong are tight-knit, and too deadly at their craft to meddle with. Best we keep Anasati affairs as far removed from their doings as possible.’

Jiro conceded this point with regret, while his First Adviser proceeded with optimism. ‘The Hamoi Brotherhood is not one to act in hot blood; no. Its works on its own behalf have ever been slow-moving, and cold. Traffic has passed between the Hamoi and Midkemia that I did not understand as it occurred; but now I suspect it has roots in a long-range attempt to hurt the Acoma. The Lady has a well-known weakness for barbarian ideas.’

‘That is so,’ Jiro conceded. His temper fled before thoughtfulness; he regarded the play of the fish. No adviser of any house was more adept than Chumaka at stringing together seemingly unrelated bits of information. And all the Empire had heard rumors of the Lady’s dalliance with a Midkemian slave. That was a vulnerability well worth exploiting.

Cued by the softening of his master’s manner, and judging his moment with precision, Chumaka said, ‘The Anasati can bear the tiny slight in the manner of the bungled evidence. Fools and children might believe inept information. But the wiser Ruling Lords all know that the tong keeps close guard on its secrets. The powerful in the Nations will never seriously believe such transparent ploys to link your name with a hired killer. The Anasati name is old. Its honor is unimpeachable. Show only boldness before petty slurs, my master. They are unworthy of a great Lord’s attention. Let any ruler who dares come forward to suggest the contrary, and you will correct the matter forcefully.’ Chumaka ended with a quotation from a play that Jiro favored. ‘“Small acts partner small houses and small minds.”’

The Lord of the Anasati nodded. ‘You are right. My anger tends sometimes to blind me.’

Chumaka bowed at the compliment. ‘My master, I ask permission to be excused. I have already begun to consider snares that may be set for Mara’s Spy Master. For while we appear to blunder about with the one hand revealed in Ontoset, that will draw the watchful eye away from the other, silently at work in Jamar to bring the dagger to the throat of the Lady of the Acoma.’

Jiro smiled. ‘Excellent, Chumaka.’ He clapped in dismissal. While his First Adviser bowed again and hurried away, muttering possible plots under his breath, the Lord remained by the fish pool. He considered Chumaka’s advice, and felt a glow of satisfaction. When the Assembly of Magicians had forbidden war between his house and Mara’s, he had been covertly ecstatic. With the Lady deprived of her army, and the clear supremacy she held by force of numbers on the battlefield, the stakes between them had been set even.

‘Wits,’ the Lord of the Anasati murmured, stirring the water and causing the fish to flash away in confused circles. ‘Guile, not the sword, will bring the Good Servant her downfall. She will die knowing her mistake when she chose my brother over me. I am the better man, and when I meet Buntokapi after death in the Red God’s halls, he will know that I gave him vengeance, and also ground his precious House Acoma under my heel into dust!’

Arakasi was late. His failure to return had the Acoma senior advisers on edge to the point where Force Commander Lujan dreaded to attend the evening’s council. He hurried to his quarters to retrieve the plumed helm he had shed during off-duty hours. His stride was purposeful, precise in balance as only a skilled swordsman’s would be; yet his mind was preoccupied. His nod to the patrolling sentries who saluted his passage was mechanical.

The Acoma estate house had as many armed men in its halls now as servants; privacy since Ayaki’s murder was next to nonexistent, particularly at night, when extra warriors slept in the scriptorium and the assorted wings of the guest suites. Justin’s nursery was an armed camp; Lujan reflected that the boy could hardly play at toy soldiers for the constant tramp of battle sandals across the floors of his room.

Yet as the only carrier of the Acoma bloodline, after Mara, his safety was of paramount concern. Lacking Arakasi’s reliable reports, the patrols walked their beats in uncertainty. They were starting at shadows, half drawing swords at the footfalls of drudges secreted in corners to meet their sweethearts. Lujan sighed, and froze, shaken alert by the sound of a sword sliding from a scabbard.

‘You there!’ shouted a sentry, ‘Halt!’

Now running, Lujan flung himself around a corner in the corridor. Ahead, the warrior with drawn sword crouched down, battle-ready. He confronted a nook deep in shadow where nothing appeared to be amiss. From behind, the tap and shuffle peculiar to a man moving in haste on a crutch warned that Keyoke, Mara’s Adviser for War, had also heard the disturbance. Too long a field commander to ignore a warrior’s challenge, he also rushed to find out who trespassed in the innermost corridors of the estate house.

Let it not be another assassin, Lujan prayed as he ran. He strained to see through the gloom, noting that a lamp that should have been left burning was dark. Not a good sign, he thought grimly; the council suddenly deferred by this intrusion now seemed the kinder choice of frustrations. Snarls in trade and the uneasy shifting of alliances within Ichindar’s court might be maddeningly puzzling without Arakasi’s inside knowledge. But an attack by another tong dart man this far inside the patrols was too harrowing a development to contemplate. Though months had passed, Justin still had nightmares from seeing the black gelding’s fall …

Lujan skidded to a stop by the sword-bearing warrior, his sandal studs scraping the stone floor. ‘Who’s there?’ he demanded.

Old Keyoke thumped to a halt on the warrior’s other side, his dry shout demanding the same.

The warrior never shifted his glance, but made a fractional gesture with his sword toward the cranny between two beams that supported a join in the rooftree. A long-past repair had replaced a rotted section of wood. The estate house Mara and Hokanu inhabited was ancient, and this was one of the original sections. The slate scored white by Lujan’s battle sandals was close to three thousand years old, and rubbed into ruts from uncounted generations of footsteps. There were too many corners to shelter intruders, Lujan felt as he looked where his sentry pointed. A man lurked in the shadow. He stood with hands outstretched in submission, but his face was suspiciously smudged, as if he had used lamp soot to blacken the telltale pallor of his flesh.

Lujan freed his sword. With inscrutable features, Keyoke raised his crutch, thumbed a hidden catch, and drew a thin blade from the base. For all that he had lost one leg, he balanced himself without discernible effort.

To the intruder now faced with three bared blades, Lujan said curtly, ‘Come out. Keep your hands up if you don’t want to die spitted.’

‘I would rather not be welcomed back like a cut of meat at the butcher’s,’ replied a voice rust-grained as neglected iron.

‘Arakasi,’ Keyoke said, raising his weapon in salute. His ax-blade profile broke into a rare smile.

‘Gods!’ Lujan swore. He reached out barehanded and touched the sentry, who lowered his blade. The Acoma Force Commander shivered to realise how near Mara’s Spy Master had come to dying at the hands of a house guard. Then relief and a countersurge of high spirits made him laugh. ‘Finally! How many years have Keyoke and I attempted to set unpredictable patrols? Can it be that for once, my good man, you failed to walk right through them?’

‘It was a rough trip home,’ Arakasi conceded. ‘Not only that, this estate has more warriors on duty than house staff. A man can’t move three steps without tripping over someone in armor.’

Keyoke sheathed his concealed blade and replaced his crutch beneath his shoulder. Then he raked his fingers through his white hair, as he had never been able to do when he was a field commander, perpetually wearing a battle helm. ‘Lady Mara’s council is due to begin shortly. She has need of your news.’

Arakasi did not reply, but pushed out from behind the posts that had hidden him from sight. He was robed as a street beggar. His untrimmed hair was lank with dirt, his skin was ingrained with what looked like soot. He smelled pervasively of woodsmoke.

‘You look like something dragged out by a chimney sweeper,’ Lujan observed, gesturing for the sentry to resume his interrupted patrol. ‘Or as if you had been sleeping in trees for the better part of a sevenday.’

‘Not far from the truth,’ Arakasi muttered, turning an irritated glance aside. Keyoke disliked waiting for anyone; now free to indulge the impatience he had repressed for years while commanding troops, he had stumped on ahead toward the council hall. As if relieved by the old man’s departure, Arakasi bent, raised the hem of his robe, and scratched at a festering sore.

Lujan stroked his chin. Tactfully he said, ‘You could come to my quarters first. My body servant is practiced at drawing a bath on short notice.’

A brief silence ensued.

At last Arakasi sighed. ‘Splinters,’ he admitted.

Since one terse word was all he was likely to receive in explanation, Lujan surmised the rest. ‘They’re infected. That means not recent. You’ve been too much on the run to draw them out.’

Another silence followed, affirming Lujan’s surmise. He and Arakasi had known each other since before House Tuscai had fallen, and had shared many years as grey warriors. ‘Come along,’ the Force Commander urged. ‘If you sit in Lady Mara’s presence in this state, the servants will need to burn the cushions afterward. You stink like a Khardengo who lost his wagon.’

Not pleased by the comparison to an itinerant family member that traveled from city to city selling cheap entertainment and disreputable odd jobs, Arakasi curled his lip. ‘You can get me a metal needle?’ he bargained warily.

Lujan laughed. ‘As it happens, I might. There’s a girl among the seamstresses that fancies me. But you’ll owe me. If I ask her for the loan of such a treasure, she is bound to make demands.’

Aware that few young maids in the household would not willingly jeopardise their next station on the Wheel of Life for the promise of Lujan’s kisses, Arakasi was unimpressed. ‘I can as easily use one of my daggers.’

His apparent indifference set Lujan on edge. ‘The news you bring is not good.’

Now Arakasi faced the Acoma Force Commander fully. Light from the lamp down the corridor caught on his gaunt cheekbones and deepened the hollows under his eyes. ‘I think I will accept your offer of a bath,’ he responded obtusely.

Lujan knew better than to tease that his friend the Spy Master also looked as if he had not eaten or slept for a week. The observation this time would have held more truth than jest. ‘I’ll get you that needle,’ he allowed, then hastened on in an attempt to ease Arakasi’s ruffled pride through humor. ‘Though you certainly don’t need it, if you’re carrying your knives. I doubt my sentry understood when he held you at swordpoint that you could have killed and carved him before he had a chance to make a thrust.’

‘I’m good,’ Arakasi allowed. ‘But today, I think, not that good.’ He stepped forward. Only now it became apparent that he was far from steady on his feet. He awarded Lujan’s startled gasp of concern his blandest expression of displeasure and added, ‘You are on your honor not to allow me to fall asleep in your tub.’

‘Fall asleep or drown?’ Lujan quipped back, extending a fast hand to assist the Spy Master’s balance. ‘Man, what have you been up to?’

But badger though he might, the Force Commander received no explanation from the Spy Master until the bath was done, and the helm retrieved, and the council was well on into session.

Keyoke was already seated in the yellow light cast by the circle of lamps, his leathery hands crossed on the crutch across his knees. Word of Arakasi’s homecoming had been sent to the kitchens, and servants hurried in with trays laden with snacks. Hokanu attended at Mara’s right hand, in the place normally occupied by the First Adviser, while Saric and Incomo sat in low-voiced conference opposite. Jican huddled with his arms around his knees behind a mountainous pile of slates. Bins stuffed with scrolls rested like bastions at either elbow, while his expression looked faintly beleaguered.

Arakasi ran his eyes quickly over the gathering and surmised in his dry way, ‘Trade has not been going well in my absence, I can see.’

Jican bristled at this, which effectively canceled anyone’s immediate notice of the Spy Master’s ragged condition. ‘We are not compromised,’ the little hadonra swiftly defended. ‘But there have been several ventures in the markets that have gone awry. Mara has lost allies among the merchants who also have Anasati interests.’ In visible relief, he finished, ‘The silk auctions did not suffer.’

‘Yet,’ Incomo supplied, unasked. ‘The traditionalists continue to gain influence. Ichindar’s Imperial Whites more than once had to shed blood to stop riots in Kentosani.’

‘The food markets by the wharf,’ Arakasi affirmed in spare summary. ‘I heard. Our Emperor would do more to stop dissension if he could manage to sire himself an heir that was not a daughter.’

Eyes turned toward the Lady of the Acoma as her staff all waited upon whatever she might ask of them.

Thinner than she had been on the occasion of Ayaki’s funeral, she was nonetheless immaculately composed. Her face was washed clean of makeup. Her eyes were focused and keen, and her hands settled in her lap as she spoke. ‘Arakasi has revealed that we are confronted by a new threat.’ Only her voice showed the ongoing strain she yet hid behind the Tsurani façade of control; never before Ayaki’s loss had she spoken with such a hard-edged clarity of hatred. ‘I ask you all to grant him whatever aid he may ask without question.’

Lujan flashed Arakasi a sour glance. ‘You had already dirtied her cushions, I now see,’ he murmured with injured irritation. Keyoke looked a touch disgruntled. The discovery was belated that the patrol which had finally caught the Spy Master lurking in the corridors had done so only after he had held a conference with the mistress, undetected by any. Aware of the byplay, but obliged by code of conduct to ignore it, the other two advisers inclined their heads in acceptance of the mistress’s wishes. Only Jican fidgeted, aware as he was that Mara’s decree would create additional havoc in the Acoma treasury. Arakasi’s services came at high costs of operation, which caused the hadonra unceasing, hand-wringing worry.

A breeze wafted through the open windows above the great hall of the Acoma, carved into the side of the hill against which the estate house rested. Despite the brilliance of the lamps, the room was thrown into gloom in the farthest corners. The cho-ja globes on their stands stayed unlit, and the low dais used for informal conference remained the only island of illumination. Those servants in attendance waited a discreet distance away, within call should they be needed but out of earshot of any discussion. Mara resumed, ‘What we speak of here must be kept in our circle alone.’ She asked Arakasi, ‘How much time do you need to spend upon this new threat?’

Arakasi gave a palms-upward shrug that revealed a yellow bruise on one wristbone. ‘I can only surmise, mistress. My instincts tell me the organisation I encountered is based to the east of us, probably in Ontoset. We have light ties between there and Jamar and the City of the Plains, since the cover was a factor’s business. An enemy who discovered our workings to the west would see nothing beyond coincidence in the eastern connection. Yet I do not know where the damage originated. The trace could have started somewhere else.’

Mara chewed her lip. ‘Explain.’

‘I did some cursory checking before I returned to Sulan-Qu.’ More nervelessly cold than Keyoke could be before battle, the Spy Master qualified. ‘On the surface, our trading interests seem secure to the west and north. The recent expansion I have regrettably been forced to curtail was located south and east. Our unknown opponent may have stumbled onto some operation we just set in place; or not. I cannot say. His effect has been felt very clearly. He has detected some aspect of our courier system, and deduced of our methods to establish a network to observe us. This enemy has placed watchers where they are likely to trap someone they hope they can trace back to a position of authority. From this I extrapolate that our enemy has his own system to glean advantage from such an opportunity.’

Hokanu settled an arm around Mara’s lower back, though her manner did not indicate she needed comfort. ‘How can you be certain of this?’

Baldly Arakasi said, ‘Because it is what I would have done.’ He smoothed his robe to conceal the welts the splinters had marked on his shins. ‘I was almost taken, and that is no easy feat.’ His flat phrases implied a total lack of conceit as he raised one finger. ‘I am worried because we have been compromised.’ He lifted a second finger and added, ‘I am relieved to have made a clean escape. If the team that gave me chase ever guessed whom they had cornered, they would have taken extreme measures to be thorough. Subterfuge would have been abandoned in favor of my successful capture. Therefore, they must have expected to net a courier or supervisor. My identity as Acoma Spy Master most likely remains uncompromised.’

Mara straightened in sudden decision. ‘Then it seems a wise course to absent yourself from this problem.’ Arakasi all but recoiled in surprise. ‘My Lady?’

Misinterpreting his reaction for hurt feelings that his competence lay questioned, Mara attempted to soften her pronouncement. ‘You are too critical to another problem that needs attention.’ She waved her dismissal to Jican, saying, ‘I think the trade problems can wait.’ While the little man bowed his acquiescence and snapped fingers to call his secretaries to help gather his tallies and scrolls, Mara commanded all the other servants to leave the great hall. When the great doubled doors swept closed, leaving her alone with the inner circle of her advisers, she said to her Spy Master, ‘I have something else for you to do.’

Arakasi spoke his mind plainly. ‘Mistress, there exists a great danger. Indeed, I fear the master in command of this enemy’s spy works may be the most dangerous man alive.’

Mara betrayed nothing of her thoughts as she nodded for him to continue.

‘Until this encounter I had the vanity to consider myself a master of my craft.’ For the first time since discussion had opened, the Spy Master had to pause to choose words. ‘This breach in our security was in no way due to carelessness. My men in Ontoset acted with unimpeachable discretion. For that reason, I fear this enemy we face could possibly be my better.’

‘Then I am decided on the matter,’ Mara announced. ‘You shall turn this difficulty over to another that you trust. That way, if this unspecified enemy proves worthy of your praise, we suffer the loss of a man less critical to our needs.’

Arakasi bowed, his movement stiff with distress. ‘Mistress –’ Sharply Mara repeated, ‘I have another task for you.’

Arakasi fell instantly silent: Tsurani custom forbade a servant questioning his sworn ruler; and moreover the Lady’s mind was set. The hardness in her since the loss of her firstborn was not to be reasoned with; this much he recognised. That Hokanu sensed it also was plain, for even he refrained from speaking out against his Lady’s chosen course of action. The uncomfortable truth remained unsaid: that no one else in Arakasi’s vast network was either careful or experienced enough to counter a threat of this magnitude. The Spy Master would not disobey his mistress, though he were in mortal fear for her safety. All he could do was work in convoluted patterns, obeying her command in the literal sense, but evading what he could through general action. For the first, he must ensure that the man placed in nominal charge of digging out this new organisation could report to him on a regular basis. Disturbed as he was that Lady Mara should dismiss this dire threat with such ease, he respected her well enough to at least hear her reasons before he came to judgment against her. ‘What is this other matter, my Lady?’

His attentive manner smoothed Mara’s sharpness. ‘I would have you discover as much as may be learned about the Assembly of Magicians.’

For the first time since taking service with Mara, Arakasi seemed startled by her audacity. His eyes widened and his voice dropped to a whisper. ‘The Great Ones?’

Mara nodded toward Saric, since the slant the explanation must take had been his particular study.

He spoke up from the far side of the circle. ‘Several events over the last few years have caused me to question the Black Robes’ motives. By tradition we take for granted that they act for the good of our Empire. But would it not shed a different light on things if, in fact, that were not so?’ Saric’s wry humor dissolved before a burning intensity of unease as he added, ‘Most critically, what if the Assembly’s wisdom is pointed toward their own self-interest? The pretext is stability of the nations; then why should they fear the Acoma crushing the Anasati in the cause of just revenge?’ The Acoma First Adviser leaned forward with his elbows braced on crossed knees. ‘These magicians are hardly fools. I can’t believe they don’t realise that by allowing the Lord who murders by treachery to live unpunished, they plunge the Empire into strife most extreme. An unavenged death is an express contradiction of honor. Without the political byplay of the High Council, deprived of the constant give-and-take between factions as a leavening agent, we are left with every house cast adrift, dependent upon the goodwill and promises of others to survive.’

To her Spy Master, Mara qualified, ‘Within a year’s time, a dozen houses or more will cease to exist, because I am forbidden to take the field against those who would return us to the Warlord’s rule. I am rendered powerless in the political arena. My clan cannot raise sword against the traditionalists, who now use Jiro as their front man. If I cannot make war upon him, I can no longer keep my pledge to protect those houses who are dependent upon Acoma alliance.’ Shutting her eyes for a moment, she seemed to gather herself.

Arakasi’s regard of his Lady sharpened as he understood something: she had recovered from her mourning enough to have regained reason. She knew in her heart that the evidence against Jiro was too obvious to take seriously. But the cost of her loss of control at the funeral must be met without flinching: she had shamed her family name, and Jiro’s guilt or lack of it was moot point. To admit his innocence now was to make public admission of her error. This she could not honorably do without a worse question arising. Did she believe her enemy was clean of Ayaki’s blood, or was she simply backing down from exacting retribution for Ayaki? Not to avenge a murder was an irrevocable forfeit of honor.

Regret as she might the heat of her rage and her wrong thinking, Mara could do nothing but manage the situation as if all along she believed in the Anasati’s treachery. To do other was not Tsurani, and a weakness that enemies would immediately exploit to bring her downfall.

As if to escape distasteful memories, Mara resumed, ‘Within two years, many we would count allies will be dead or dishonored, and many more who are neutral might be persuaded or driven by political pressure into the traditionalist camp. The depleted Imperial Party will face off, but, without us, with the disastrous probability that a new Warlord will reinstate the Council. Should that sad day dawn, the man to wear the white-and-gold mantle would be Jiro of the Anasati.’

Arakasi rubbed his cheek with a knuckle, furiously thinking. ‘So you think the Assembly may be tinkering in politics for the reason of its own agenda. It is true that the Black Robes have always been jealous of their privacy. I know of no man who has entered their city and spoken of the experience. Lady Mara, to pry into that stronghold will be dangerous, and very difficult, if not outright impossible. They have truth spells that make it impossible to insinuate someone into their ranks. I have heard stories … though I might not be the first Spy Master to attempt an infiltration, no one who crosses a Great One with deceit in his heart lives to a natural end.’

Mara’s hands twisted into fists. ‘We must find a way to know their motives. More, we must discover a way to stop their interference, or at least to gain a clear delineation of what parameters they have set us. We must know how much we may accomplish without raising their wrath. Over time, perhaps a means can be found to negotiate with them.’

Arakasi bowed his head, resigned, but already at work on the grand scale the problem required. He had never expected to live to old age; puzzles, even dangerous ones, were all the delight he understood, though the one his Lady had proposed was all too likely to invite a swift destruction. ‘Your will, mistress. I shall begin at once to realign the interests of our agents to the northwest.’ Negotiation was a futile hope, one Arakasi rejected at the outset. To bargain at all, one must have either force to command or a persuasive reward as enticement. Power and popularity Mara had, but he, too, had witnessed the display of a single magician’s might when the Imperial Games had been disrupted by Milamber. Lady Mara’s thousands of warriors, and those of all her friends and allies, were as nothing compared to the arcane forces the Assembly commanded. And what in the world under heaven could anyone have that a Great One could desire and not simply take for the asking?

Chilled, Arakasi considered the last alternative to effect coercion: extortion. If the Assembly held a secret that it would sell favors to keep any others from knowing, something it would be willing to grant concessions for, to ensure Mara kept her silence … The very idea was sheer folly. The Great Ones were above any law. Arakasi judged it more likely that even should he be lucky enough to find such a secret, the Black Robes would simply seal Mara’s permanent silence by putting her horribly to death.

Saric, Lujan, and Keyoke understood this, he sensed, for their eyes were upon him most closely as he rose and made his final bow. This time, Mara dared too much, and they all feared for the outcome. Cold to the core of his spirit, Arakasi turned away. Nothing about his manner indicated that he cursed a savage fate. Not only must he sidetrack what instinct warned might be the most perilous threat to target Lady Mara so far, but he would even have to abandon any effort at effecting a countermeasure. Whole sections of his vast operation must be rendered dormant until after he had cracked an enigma no man had ever dared attempt. The riddle waited to be unraveled, beyond the shores of a nameless body of water, known only as the lake that surrounds the isle of the City of the Magicians.