Читать книгу Servant of the Empire - Raymond E. Feist, Janny Wurts - Страница 11

The wet season ended.

Lengthening days brought back the dry dust, and strong sunlight faded the plains grass surrounding the Minwanabi estate house; within weeks the hills would begin to lose their lushness, until by midsummer all would be golden and brown. During the hotter weather, Lord Desio preferred to remain within the shaded comfort of his estate house, but admiration for his cousin often lured him outdoors.

Tasaio might be serving his family as a senior adviser, but the day never dawned that he failed to maintain his battle skills. Today, while the morning mists burned off the lake, he stationed himself on a hillside with his bow and sheaves of arrows, and straw figures set at varying distances for targets. Within a half hour they bristled with shafts fletched in Tasaio’s personal tricolours: Minwanabi black and orange, cut with a band of red for Turakamu.

Desio joined him as his battle servant retrieved arrows between rounds. Aware of the young Lord’s approach for some time, Tasaio turned at precisely the correct moment and bowed. ‘Good morning, my Lord cousin.’

Desio halted, panting from his climb up the hill. He inclined his head, wiped sweat from his pink brow, and regarded his taller cousin, who wore light hide armour studded with precious iron garnered as a war prize from the barbarian world. Tasaio wore no helm, and the breeze stirred his straight auburn hair, clipped short in a warrior’s style. The bow in his hand was a recurve, lacquered shiny black and tasselled at each horn with orange silk. Politely Tasaio offered the weapon. ‘Would you care to try a round?’

As yet too breathless for speech, Desio waved to decline. Tasaio nodded and turned as the servant approached, a bin of recovered arrows in each hand. He bowed before his master. While he remained on his knees, Tasaio removed the shafts by their nocks and pressed them one by one, point first, into the sandy soil. ‘What brings you out this fine morning, cousin?’

Desio watched the arrows pierce the earth, in perfect lines like warriors arrayed for a charge. ‘I could not sleep.’

‘No?’ Tasaio emptied the first bin and started on the second. A jade-fly landed on the battle servant’s nose. He twitched no muscle and did not blink as the insect crawled across his cheek and began to suck at the fluids of his eye. To reward his perfect composure, Tasaio at length gave the man leave to brush the insect away. The man gratefully did so, having learned under the lash to ease himself only when given permission.

Tasaio smoothed a parted cock feather and waited for his cousin to continue.

‘I could not sleep because months have passed, and still we have not uncovered the Acoma spies.’

Tasaio set arrow to bowstring and released in one fluid motion. The shaft arced out through the bright morning and thumped into the painted heart of a distant straw figure. ‘We know there are three of them,’ the warrior said evenly. ‘And the field has narrowed. We have disclosed information leaks from our barracks, from our grain factor, and also from someone who has duties in the kitchens or among the house staff.’

‘When will we know the names of these traitors?’

Drawing his bow, Tasaio seemed totally focused, but an instant after the arrow left his string he said, ‘We shall learn more this morning, when we hear the fate of our raiding party. The survivors should have returned by now.’ Nocking another arrow to his bow, he continued, ‘Besides, discovering the spy is but the first step in preparation for our much larger plan.’

‘So when does your grand campaign take effect?’ Desio burst out in frustration. ‘I want the Acoma ruined!’

Two more arrows flew and sliced into targets. ‘Patience, cousin.’ Tasaio notched a third shaft and sent it through the neck of the straw figure farthest from his position. ‘You wish the Acoma ruined beyond recovery, and the wise man plans carefully. The best traps are subtly woven, and unsuspected until they close.’

Desio sighed heavily. His body servant rushed to set a cushion under him as he settled his bulk upon the grass. ‘I wish I had your patience, Tasaio.’ Envy showed through his petulance.

‘But I am not a patient man, cousin.’ The arrows flew at regular intervals, and a straw figure toppled, riddled like a seamstress’s pincushion with feathered shafts. ‘I chafe at delay as much as, perhaps more than, you, my Lord – I hate waiting.’ He studied his distant targets as if evaluating his performance. ‘But I hate the flaw of impatience within myself even more. A warrior must strive toward perfection, knowing full well that it will forever be unobtainable.’

Desio pulled his robe away from sticky flesh and fanned himself. ‘I have no patience, I admit, and I was not gifted with coordination enough for the field, as you were.’

Tasaio waved his servant off to fetch arrows, though the line by his feet was not depleted. Then he set his bow across his shoulder and looked at his more corpulent cousin. ‘You could learn to be, Desio.’ There was no mockery in his tone.

The Lord of the Minwanabi smiled back. ‘You have finalized your plan to destroy Mara.’

Tasaio remained still a moment. Then he threw back his head and sounded a Minwanabi battle cry. When he finished his ululation, he looked back to his cousin, a sparkle of excitement in his eyes. ‘Yes, Lord, I have a plan. But first we must speak with Incomo and discover if the runners he dispatched have returned with word of the ambush.’

‘I will go back and call him,’ Desio grunted as he pushed to his feet. ‘Join us in my chambers in an hour’s time.’

Tasaio acknowledged that his Lord paid him deference by complying with his request for a meeting. Then his eyes narrowed. He spun, slipped his bow, and set another war arrow to his string.

The servant on the field retrieving arrows saw the move and dropped to earth just a heartbeat before the shot hissed past the place his body had just vacated. He remained prone as more shafts whined by, peppering the dummy by his elbow. Wisps of straw drifted down and made his face itch, yet he did not move to brush them away until he saw that his master had depleted his arrows.

‘You play with your men as a sarcat plays with his prey before the kill,’ Desio observed, having lingered to watch the display.

Tasaio raised one cool eyebrow. ‘I train them to treasure their lives,’ he amended. ‘On the battlefield, they must fend for themselves against our enemies. If a servant cannot keep himself alive, and be where I need him, he is of no use, yes?’

Desio conceded the point with an admiring chuckle.

Tasaio said, ‘I am done, I think. No need to wait an hour, my Lord. I will accompany you back now.’ Desio clapped his cousin on the shoulder, and together they started down the hill.

The Minwanabi First Adviser met them in the private study, his grey hair damp from his bath, and his back erect as a sword blade. He was an early riser, inspecting the estates with the hadonra in the morning hours. Afternoons he spent over paper work, but years of watching sunrises had given him the weatherbeaten appearance of an old field general. He watched with a commander’s perception as he made his bow before the cousins.

Lord Desio was sweating, though he had already consumed three mugs of rare, iced drinks. Runners continually drove themselves to exhaustion to provide him with the luxury; as the summer progressed, and the snowline receded up the northern peaks, the young Lord’s craving for cold dishes could no longer be satisfied. Then he would turn to drink to dull the heat, but unlike his father Jingu, he did not slacken his intake after sundown. With an inward frustrated sigh, Incomo regarded Tasaio, who still wore his armour and archer’s glove, but who showed no fatigue from his hours of practice in the hills. His only concession to comfort was the slightly loosened lacing at his throat; at all times, even just after rising, Tasaio seemed but a half second away from being ready to answer the call of battle.

‘Tasaio has finally devised his plan to defeat the Acoma,’ Desio opened as his First Adviser took his place on the cushions beneath the ceremonial dais.

‘That is well, my Lord,’ answered Incomo. ‘We have just received word of our ambush on the Acoma thyza wagons.’

‘How did it go?’ Desio rocked forward in his eagerness.

‘Badly, my Lord.’ Incomo’s expression remained wooden. ‘We were defeated, as we expected, but the cost was much higher than anticipated.’

‘How costly?’ Tasaio’s voice seemed detached.

Incomo shifted dark eyes to the cousin. Slowly he said, ‘Every man we sent was killed. Fifty raiders in all.’

Desio sat back, disgust upon his face. ‘Fifty! Damn that woman. Is every move she chooses ordained to win her victory?’

Tasaio tapped his chin with a finger. ‘It may seem so now, cousin. But victory belongs to the last battle. In the end, we shall see where Mara is vulnerable.’ He inclined his head to Incomo and asked, ‘How did our enemy achieve so total a success?’

‘Simple,’ answered the First Adviser. ‘They had three times the guards on the wagons that we would expect.’

Tasaio considered this, his fingers motionless on his knees. ‘We expected them to know we were coming. That they responded with so much force tells us two things: first, they did not want us to capture that wagon, at any price, and second …’ His eyes widened in sudden speculation. ‘That damned cho-ja hive must be breeding warriors like jade-flies!’

Desio seemed confused. ‘What does this have to do with uncovering Acoma spies?’

Incomo smoothed his robes with the fussiness of a bird ruffling feathers. Unbreakably patient, he qualified. ‘Our offensive was aimed at tracing information leaks. Mara’s too competent Spy Master has just confirmed the guilt of one, or all three, of our household suspects. Timing is all, my Lord Desio. Had we planned our attack on commerce more consequential than the grain trade, we would certainly have drawn notice to our purpose.’

Tasaio broke his silence. ‘There could well be something else at play here: a garrison as undermanned as Mara’s should not have responded so forcefully to so minor a threat. This overreaction is meaningful.’ Tasaio paused, his brow furrowed. ‘Suppose our action has in some way disrupted a plan the Acoma have under way? Suppose we just blundered into their next move against our interest? They were desperate for us not to capture that wagon, willing to pay a price far above the worth of the grain or the minor loss in honour of abandoning a small caravan.’

‘Now, there is a point to pursue,’ Incomo broke in. ‘Our factor in Sulan-Qu reports that since our raid the Acoma have doubled the guards on all their trade caravans. Rumours circulate that secret goods lie hidden under every bushel of grain. By the flurry of covert activity, we could conclude that one real treasure exists, a treasure our enemies have determined at all costs to keep secret.’ Incomo’s excitement dissolved in a frustrated sigh. ‘How I wish we had an informant in Mara’s inner household! Something important is under way, something we nearly discovered accidentally in our raid near Sulan-Qu. Why else should a minor sortie provoke such elaborate countermeasures?’

Desio reached for his ice glass and swirled the last, fast-melting chips in the dregs. ‘She’s sent messengers to Dustari, too. No doubt to invite Chipino of the Xacatecas to parley on his return from the borders. If he accepts, the Acoma will almost certainly gain an alliance.’

Only Tasaio remained unmoved before the evidence of setbacks. Gently he said, ‘Let that bide, cousin. I have a long-range plan for Mara that might take two years to bring to fruition.’

‘Two years!’ Desio slammed his mug on a side table. ‘If that cho-ja hive is breeding warriors, each spring Mara’s estates become that much more unassailable.’

Tasaio waved this aside. ‘Let Mara grow strong at home. For we will not deal with her on her own ground. Gone are the days we could dream of overwhelming her estate by main force.’ His voice turned reflective. ‘We would win, of course, but be so depleted we would not survive the certain onslaught from other enemies. Were I Chipino of the Xacatecas or Andero of the Keda, I would welcome an open confrontation between the Acoma and the Minwanabi.’

Desio became sulky when anyone else tried to tell him what to do. Incomo watched as his master sucked his last ice cube between his teeth. Finally the Lord of the Minwanabi said, ‘I may come to regret my rashness in vowing Minwanabi blood should we fail to crush the Acoma. I had hoped to spur our people to end the matter quickly. But the Red God gave us no time limit –’ he glanced heavenward and made a luck sign, just in case he was wrong – ‘so we might do well to proceed cautiously. We cannot spare fifty seasoned warriors for each grain wagon Mara sends out.’ With a nod, Desio said, ‘Cousin, let’s hear your plan.’

Tasaio responded obliquely. ‘Do smugglers still operate between the Empire and the desert lands in Tsubar?’ he asked the First Adviser.

Incomo shrugged. ‘Almost certainly. The nomads still covet luxuries, especially jades and silk. And they have to import swords from somewhere, since resin-producing trees do not flourish in the desert.’

Tasaio nodded almost imperceptibly. ‘Then I suggest we send an envoy to the ruins at Banganok, to offer the nomads weapons and jades and rich bribes to step up their raids on the borders.’

‘Xacatecas’ forces would stay preoccupied.’ Desio jumped ahead. ‘His return to the mainland would be delayed, along with any possible alliance with Mara.’

‘That is the least advantage, my Lord.’ Tasaio slipped his fingers out of his archer’s glove. He flexed his hands as though warming up his grip for the sword, and outlined the steps of a bold plot.

The Minwanabi would cultivate relations with the desert raiders, beginning with bribes to keep the Xacatecas forces pinned down in defence. Over a period of two years, the bribes would be escalated, forming the pretence of alliance. Minwanabi soldiers would add to the raiders’ ranks, disguised as tribesmen allies. At a moment judged most propitious, a grand offensive would be mounted on the Empire’s borders. In emergency meeting, the High Council would order the Lady of the Acoma to go to the aid of the Lord of the Xacatecas.

At mention of this, Incomo brightened. ‘Mara must lead her relief troops in person or spoil her overtures toward alliance. And if she sends less than her full support in the field, she proves lack of sincerity in her promises.’

‘She would be drawn far from her estates, along with most of her cho-ja,’ Desio cut in. ‘We could mount raids.’

Tasaio silenced him with a slightly raised eyebrow. ‘Better than that, cousin. Much better.’ He went on, ticking off points on his fingers in the manner of a tactician. Mara had no military training, and her only officer with command experience in the field was Keyoke. If her call to arms in Dustari could be timed as a surprise, she would be handed a crisis. She must strip her outer holdings, hire mercenary guards to flesh out those garrisons of least strategic importance, and then leave the heart of her estates under the care of an officer only recently promoted. Or she must assign Keyoke to protect her family natami, and expose herself to risk. Tasaio elaborated. ‘Isolated in Dustari, far from help from her clan or allies, there would be no miracles for Mara. She would be alone on a field of our choosing, and forced to rely on the guidance of an inexperienced officer.’ Tasaio paused, licked his lips, and smiled. ‘At best, Mara’s lack of preparaton will do our work for us. She may be killed, or captured by desert raiders, or, at the least, blunder in the assignment and earn the Xacatecas’ wrath, while losing the heart of her army.’

‘Interesting,’ said Incomo. ‘But the weak link is evident. The assignment left to Keyoke will almost certainly not be bungled.’

Tasaio slapped his empty glove against his palm, and his smile widened. ‘That is why Keyoke must be removed. A raid that will deliver him to Turakamu must be carefully planned. Let us say the Lady will receive summons from the High Council on the day of her Force Commander’s death.’ Tasaio folded his hands, the model of a Tsurani warrior in repose. ‘With Keyoke dead, Mara must leave Acoma welfare in the hands of lesser servants, a Strike Leader named Lujan, most likely, a flutterbug of a hadonra, and an old nurse who calls herself First Adviser. Among these may be one we can subvert.’

‘Brilliant!’ muttered Desio.

Tasaio summed up. ‘As I read the situation, without experienced officers, Mara could never gain from assignment to Dustari. Whichever Strike Leader she promotes to oversee the attempt at relieving Xacatecas will quickly learn the difference between commanding a strike force and planning a battle.’

‘Brilliant,’ Desio said, loudly and with shining enthusiasm.

Incomo considered more practical ramifications. ‘Lord Desio would need to call favours from a great number of allies in the council – even become indebted – to contrive for Mara to be assigned to a post in Dustari. Getting Xacatecas there was quite costly, and keeping him on the frontier another two years will be difficult. The nobles who supported us will demand even more concessions to be bought a second time, particularly since the setback of Jingu’s death. We are not as strong or as influential as we once were, I regret to remind you, and the debt incurred will be great.’

‘What price the death of Mara of the Acoma?’ Tasaio said softly. ‘Desio swore blood oath to the Red God. The alternative is for us to slaughter every woman and child wearing Minwanabi black and orange, then march to Turakamu’s temple and fall upon our swords.’

Incomo nodded and turned shrewd eyes on his Lord.

Hot as Desio was to see Mara compromised, he still recognized the gravity of his decision. He did not commit himself or the resources of his house thoughtlessly, but pondered with knitted brows. ‘I think my cousin advises me well,’ he said at last. ‘But can we be sure of the desert men?’

Tasaio looked out of the window, as if something in the distance shaped his answer. ‘It’s immaterial. For among those “allies” attacking will be a field commander ready to take the necessary steps to ensure Mara’s failure. I will supervise the battle personally.’

The suggestion filled Desio with delight. ‘Wonderful, cousin. Your reputation credits you too little. You are more crafty than I had been told.’ He nodded enthusiastically. ‘Let preparation for these plans begin. We shall put aside haste in favour of completeness.’

Tasaio nodded. ‘I have much to arrange, my Lord. Our plan must proceed with perfection, or we risk enmity from two great houses rising in power. The army we gather two years hence must be smuggled in small numbers by boat to Ilama, then westward along the coast trail to Banganok. No one must suspect the movement of troops. And when Xacatecas is hard-pressed, we must be ready to kill Keyoke the first moment he’s vulnerable.’ He blinked, as if recalling his focus to Desio. ‘Yes, I have much to see to. I ask my Lord’s permission to depart.’

Desio waved him on his way. Though matters of protocol were furthest from his mind, Tasaio arose and made his bow, correct to the last. Incomo watched and wondered again if undue ambition lay behind such perfect poise. As the Minwanabi cousin departed from the study, he leaned close to his Lord and murmured a soft-spoken question.

Desio stiffened in surprise. ‘Tasaio? Turn traitor to his Lord?’ he exclaimed, entirely too loudly. ‘Never.’ His conviction rang with blind faith. ‘All my life, cousin Tasaio has been an example to us all. Until the moment of my ascension to the rank of Lord, he would have happily slit my throat to gain the mantle of the Minwanabi, but the moment I took my father’s place, Tasaio became mine to command. He is the soul of honour, and a devil for cleverness. Of all the men in my service, that one will bring me the Acoma natami.’

Satisfied with his own judgment on the matter, Desio ended his clandestine council. He clapped for servants, and asked for pretty serving girls to bathe with him in the cool waters of the lake.

Incomo bowed, content that while Desio fathered bastard children, Tasaio would need his help to begin plotting the vast design to destroy Mara. If the Minwanabi First Adviser felt any resentment at Tasaio’s usurpation of his role, he hid it even from himself; he was loyal to his master. As long as Tasaio served Minwanabi interests, Incomo had no jealousy within his breast. Besides, the wry thought intruded, Lords of great houses quite commonly came to youthful deaths; until Desio married and fathered an heir, Tasaio remained next in line for the ruler’s mantle. Should Desio perish untimely, it would never do to have one unexpectedly inheriting the title be displeased with the resident First Adviser.

Incomo motioned for a servant to attend his desires. ‘Send word to Tasaio that I am at his disposal in any fashion for which he deems me worthy and that I will happily lend my feeble efforts to his great work.’

As the servant hurried off, Incomo considered ordering a cool tub and a pretty woman to wash his sweaty, tired body. Shrugging off the wistful image, he arose from his cushions. Too much work remained undone. Besides, if he read young Tasaio correctly, he would be sent for within the hour.

Mara moved between nodding rows of kekali blossoms, a basket on her arm. She pointed to a bloom and said, ‘That one,’ and the servant who trailed her obligingly cut the stem with a sharp knife. Another held up a lantern so the first might clearly see in the shadows of early evening. The servant lifted the indigo flower, inspected it briefly to see that the petals were unharmed, then bowed and handed the blossom to the Lady. She pressed it to her nose to enjoy the fragrance before she added it to others already piled in her basket.

The hadonra, Jican, trailed her as she turned down a bend in the path. ‘The ravine between your southernmost needra meadows has been flooded, my Lady.’

Mara pointed out another flower she wished cut, and a smile curved her lips. ‘Good. The bridge across our new river will be completed before market season, I trust?’

Now Jican chuckled. ‘Planking is being added to the framework even as we speak. Jidu of the Tuscalora sweats as he writes daily, begging permission to transport his chocha-la crops down the ravine by boat. However, as I politely pointed out on your behalf, my Lady, the right-of-way you granted when you purchased the land permitted only wagons.’

‘Very good.’ Mara accepted the indicated blossom from her servant, and carelessly stabbed her finger on a thorn. The pain she accepted with Tsurani impassivity, but the blood was another matter. Kelewanese superstition held that chance-spilled blood might whet the Red God’s appetite, making the deity greedy for additional death. Jican hastily offered his handkerchief, and Mara bound up her stinging finger before any droplets could fall to the soil.

Her plan to beggar Lord Jidu of the Tuscalora and force him to become her vassal had been delayed by a season because of the attentions received by her house following the death of Jingu of the Minwanabi. Now, as events resumed their proper course, she found her planned victory over her neighbour to the south had partially lost its savour. Hokanu’s visit had offered a welcome interlude, but his stay had been brief, owing to his need to return home.

Nacoya blamed her restlessness on the lack of male company. Mara smiled at the thought and shifted her basket of flowers. The First Adviser insisted that no young woman’s life could be complete without a healthy male diversion now and again. But Mara viewed romance with scepticism. As greatly as she enjoyed Hokanu’s company, the thought of taking another husband to her bed made her hands turn clammy with apprehension. To her, marriage and sex were simply a woman’s bargaining chips in the Game of the Council. Love and pleasure had no place in such decisions.

‘Where’s Kevin?’ said Jican unexpectedly, making his Lady start.

Mara settled on a stone bench and motioned for her hadonra to join her. ‘He’s being fitted for new clothes.’

Jican’s eyes brightened. He loved to gossip, but was seldom so bold as to trouble his Lady outright on matters outside of estate finance.

Mara indulged him. ‘Kevin went out with the hunters yesterday, and when he complained that his legs and backside had suffered from thorns, I allowed him to be measured for Midkemian dress. He’s off to show the leather workers and tailors what to do, as they know little about his nation’s odd fashions. I told him the colours must not be other than a slave’s grey and white, but maybe he’ll behave with more dignity once his knees are covered with – what did he call it? – ah yes, hose.’

‘More like he’ll complain he’s too hot,’ the little hadonra returned. Then, as Mara dismissed the other servants, he added, ‘I have news of your silk samples, Lady.’

Instantly he had Mara’s entire attention. ‘They were safely stowed aboard your message barge yesterday. The factors in Jamar will have them before the close of the week, in time for inspection before the price auctions.’

Mara sighed with relief. She had worried endlessly that the Minwanabi might discover her move into the silk market beforetime and give warning to their silk-producing allies in the north. Most Acoma revenues came from needra raising and weapon craft; but now she needed to strengthen her army and outfit the ever rising numbers of cho-ja warriors bred by the new Queen. Hides and armour would be needed at home, cutting back on her marketable goods. The silk trade Mara hoped to create must balance out the loss. If the timing were spoiled, the northern silk merchants would undercut her prices and offer early deliveries to starve out her fledgling enterprise. Years of established trade had given them influence over the dyers’ and weavers’ guilds. Paying costly bribes to ensure guild secrecy and goodwill was an unavoidable necessity until Acoma craftsmen could be schooled to mastery of these specialized new skills. But if Acoma silks arrived on the market at just the right moment, not only would Mara gain income, she would upset the revenues of the Minwanabi allies.

‘You have done well in this, Jican.’

The hadonra blushed. ‘Success would not have been possible without Arakasi’s planning.’

Mara stared out over the gardens, into the gathering gloom of twilight. ‘Let us not speak of success until the price auctions are dominated by demand for Acoma goods!’

Jican returned a deep bow. ‘Let us hope the day comes without mishap.’ He made a sign for the Good God’s favour and quietly retired from her presence.

Mara lingered, alone except for a few servants. She set down her basket and surveyed the gardens that surrounded the estate house’s east wing. This had been her mother’s favourite place, or so Lord Sezu had told the daughter whose birth had caused that Lady’s premature death. From this seat the Lady Oskiro had watched her Lord select his hunting dogs as the young ones were brought out for his inspection. But the kennels’ runs were empty now, by Mara’s command; the baying of the hounds had reminded the new Ruling Lady too painfully of the past. And her husband had cared more for battle practice and wrestling with the soldiers than coursing after game with fleet dogs. Or perhaps he had not lived long enough to appreciate the sport.

Mara sighed and shook off her regrets. She excused her servants and stared over the distant meadows as the shatra birds flew at sundown. Normally their flight calmed and reassured her, but today she felt only melancholy. That no attack upon the Acoma seemed imminent did not reduce the threat. The most brilliant moves within the Game of the Council were those that came without warning. The tranquil passage of days only made her skin creep, as if assassins lurked in hiding at her back. Knowing that Tasaio stayed on as Desio’s adviser promised subtle and devious trouble. Arakasi was worried also. Mara knew by his stillness as he stood to deliver his reports. He had survived the fall of one Lord and lived to serve another; a matter that could trouble him would not be anything slight.

Mara lifted a kekali blossom from the basket at her feet. The petals were soft and fragile, susceptible to the slightest chill, and fast to wilt in extreme heat. The bushes themselves were hardy, and armed with thorns for defence; but the flowers were short-lived and vulnerable. This evening, surrounded by the perishable beauty of the kekali, Mara missed the baying of the hounds at their dinner. More, she missed the strong presence of her father as he sat in the garden, enjoying the cool of the oncoming night, sipping on a bitter ale while his son and daughter prattled on about childish things. Gold light faded from the western sky, and the shatra flocks settled to rest after their sky dance. A barefooted slave lit the last lanterns along the path; the instant he finished his task he hurried away for his meal of thyza mush. In the kitchens and common dining hall, estate workers gathered for the evening meal. Still Mara lingered.

Dusk deepened. Stars appeared, and the western hills became a silhouette against the last trace of afterglow. The silence peculiar to the hour descended, the birdsong of daytime now stilled, while night-singing insects in their myriad thousands had yet to waken and trill. Since this garden was farthest removed from the soldiers’ barracks and servants’ quarters, it was silent; Mara enjoyed a rare moment of peace.

She found herself thinking of Hokanu. His visit a few months earlier had been disappointingly brief – a lingering dinner; then at first light, after breakfast and what seemed a short chat, he took his leave and departed. Some development in the game had compelled his return to the Shinzawai estates sooner than Mara would have liked. Left with a sense that Hokanu felt he should have bypassed the house and returned straight upriver to his father’s estates, Mara felt flattered he had compromised his sense of duty a little and stolen a visit with her.

But she had said nothing to him, sheltering her feelings behind tradition’s accepted behaviour. His wit might make her smile, and his intelligence inspire her own wit, yet she shied from contemplating any final outcome of this handsome noble’s attentions.

Attractive as she found Hokanu, the thought of returning to any man’s bed made her shudder. Even now she had nightmares of her late husband’s rages and the bruises he had inflicted in his passions. No, she decided, she had no desire to encourage the company of a man.

And yet, when Hokanu’s small caravan had drawn out of sight, Mara had been astonished at how swiftly the time had fled. The young man’s company had pleased her. She had not had a comfortable moment while he had been there, but she missed his lively company.

Footsteps approached on the gravel path. Mara turned in time to see a tall, long-strided figure invade her temporary sanctuary.

‘There you are,’ called a voice. Even without the heavy accent, the disrespectful address and the boisterous tone identified her visitor as Midkemian. And as often as Mara was astonished by such directness, she was also attracted to it.

‘I’ve been looking for you since sundown,’ Kevin added, treading a winding path between kekali bushes to reach the bench where she sat. ‘I asked Nacoya, and the old witch just grunted and shrugged. The servants looked nervous when I spoke to them, and finally I had to track down Lujan at the change of the guard.’

‘He must have known you were following him,’ said Mara, unwilling to believe her best soldier would be so lax in his duties.

‘Of course.’ Kevin rounded a last island of flower bed and paused before her. ‘We were discussing the fine points of swordplay. Your methods differ from ours. Ours are better, naturally,’ he added. Irritated that his intentional baiting always worked, Mara raised her head. She found him grinning in anticipation of her rejoinder, and realized he played with her. She refused to be teased and studied his new attire.

The lantern light caught Kevin in profile, burnished his wavy hair copper, and caught the long, flowing sleeves of the white shirt just collected from the seamstresses. Over this he wore a jerkin belted tightly around his waist, and hose that clung tightly to a muscled length of leg. The neutral grey colour flattered him, for it set off his hair and beard and the deep tan of his face, and somehow made his blue eyes more intense. Mara glanced down, to find the effect spoiled at the ankle by the same worn sandals he had been given on the day of his arrival. Aware of the Lady’s gaze on his feet, Kevin laughed. ‘The boots aren’t finished yet.’

He looked very exotic, handsome in a barbaric way. Fascinated by the sight of him, Mara forgot to reprimand his lack of form. However, this time, Kevin kept courtesy. He made his bow Midkemian style, from the waist.

‘Is that how you show respect for your Kingdom ladies?’ Mara asked somewhat acidly, mostly because she could not take her eyes off his wide, strangely clothed shoulders.

Kevin gave back a wicked smile. ‘Not quite. Have I your permission?’

Mara inclined her head, then started as he reached and took her hand. ‘We greet our ladies like this.’ He confidently touched her fingers to his lips. The caress was very soft, barely a brush of flesh against flesh. Mara shivered slightly and stiffened to pull away.

But Kevin was not finished taking liberty. The feel of proper clothing and the mildness of the night lent him a spirit of recklessness. He firmed his grip, not so much that his mistress could not break away, but enough that she must struggle or follow his lead. ‘Sometimes we take the ladies dancing,’ he invited, and he drew her to her feet, grasped her lightly around the waist, and spun her in a circle through the lantern light.

Mara laughed in surprise, not feeling in the least threatened. Glad to be distracted from the morass of difficult memories, the Lady of the Acoma abandoned herself to this single moment of fun. And between Kevin’s breathless laughter and the heady perfume of the flowers, she discovered that the touch of him was pleasing. His strength did not intimidate but warmed her. Small as a doll in his arms, she tried to keep pace with him; yet she did not know the steps of his wild dance. Her feet got in his way, and he stumbled. She felt his muscles tense in response. He had reflexes swift as a cat’s. But the backstep he initiated to save his balance tangled disastrously with the basket she had abandoned on the path.

The wicker container overturned, showering the gravel with kekali. Kevin tripped sideways, dragging Mara with him. The plunge happened too suddenly to allow the Lady to cry out. Caught in Kevin’s embrace, she felt him turn his shoulder to cushion her fall. She landed sprawled across his chest, slightly breathless, and still entangled in his arms. His hands moved, slid down her back, and paused at her waist.

‘Are you all right?’ he said in a voice that was unfamiliarly deep.

Overwhelmed by a rush of strange sensations, Mara did not answer at once.

Kevin shifted under her. He freed one hand and picked up a kekali blossom from the ground. He pinched the stem in his teeth and, by touch, stripped off the thorns. Lantern light softened the planes of his face as he finished and carefully wound the flower in a strand of Mara’s hair. ‘At home we call flowers that look much like these by another name.’

Mara shut her eyes against a strange rush, something like dizziness, yet not. His fingers brushed her neck as he finished with the flower, then withdrew, leaving her aching. Huskily she asked, ‘What name?’

‘Roses.’ Kevin felt the slight quiver that coursed through her flesh. The hand on her back moved, drew her closer. Softly he added, ‘Though we’ve none this wonderful shade of blue.’ His touch was tentative, and gentle in a manner that did not frighten. Aware through her confusion that he offered comfort, Mara did not tear herself away. For a moment he went still, as if he awaited some form of reaction.

Mara returned none. Her body felt strangely languid. When she made no move, Kevin held her more firmly. He shifted again, until her hip lay cradled in the hollow of his flank, and her hair loosened from its pins and cascaded in a rush across the opened laces of his shirt. The hand on her back slid down and under her arm, and traced the neckline of her robe. The touch raised fire in her, a warmth that seemed to melt her from within.

‘Lady?’ he said softly. His other hand brushed the hair back from her face. She saw that his eyes were very wide, the pupils dark in the lantern light, and the irises narrow bands of silver. ‘Do you want this? A man on my world gives roses to a Lady when he loves her.’

‘I care very little for love,’ Mara answered, her voice oddly rough to her own ear. Now her body tensed against his. ‘My husband taught me more than I ever wished to know.’ Kevin sighed, changed his position, and lifted her.

Overwhelmed by his strength, she felt a giddy sense of familiarity, reminiscent of a time when a tiny girl was held gently by her warrior father’s powerful hands. Yet Mara sensed no danger, for despite the power of those hands, their touch was only loving. Mara felt a chilly rush of air as she and Kevin separated, when he gently sat her upon the bench. Her robe had pulled askew. He did not stare at her exposed breasts but sought something within her own gaze. Her eyes followed his as he carefully stepped back, awaiting her command.

Mara settled against the stone seat and recovered the semblance of poise. Yet the control she had schooled to be second nature came with difficulty. Inside, she remained in turmoil; despite the memory of her former husband’s brutality, despite the ingrained fears, her body ached to be touched again by such tender strength. Kevin made no move toward her, and this only made her flesh cry out all the more. Battling to impose logic over confusion, Mara said nothing, which left Kevin the task of smoothing over the awkwardness of the moment.

‘My Lady,’ he said, and bowed again from the waist. For some reason the movement gave her the shivers. He turned his back, bent, and methodically began to gather the blossoms strewn across the path. ‘A man might also give a woman a rose if he admired and respected her. Keep the flower in your hair; it truly does become you.’

Mara reached up and touched the blossom which rested, still, twined in the lock above her ear. She became absorbed by the play of muscles under his loose-fitting white shirt. The sensation in her middle mounted to an ache. She shivered again as Kevin stretched and recovered the tipped basket. Lantern light caught his hair and his sinewy wrists as he laid the recovered flowers inside. A few remained, crushed by his body during the fall, and as he arose to return the basket to her, he grimaced and said, ‘Curse the thorns.’

Instantly Mara felt contrition. Moved by an unfamiliar instinct, she reached out and touched the back of his hand. ‘Did you receive a wound?’

Kevin looked at her wryly. ‘No, Lady. I’d hardly call a few pricks in the back on your behalf a wound.’

‘Let me see,’ demanded Mara, pressed by a recklessness that made her giddy.

The barbarian regarded her, his moment of surprise well hidden. Then his wryness expanded into a smile. ‘As my Lady wishes.’ He loosened the laces of his cuffs, shed the shirt in an enviably smooth movement, and straddled the bench by her side.

Presented with a view of his back, Mara hesitated. Plain in the light she could see scratch marks, studded with embedded kekali thorns. Shaky now, and frightened, still she fumbled until she found the handkerchief lent by Jican. Tentatively she dabbed at a cut. Kevin held motionless. The feel of his skin was silken smooth, not at all what she expected. The handkerchief fabric caught on a brier. Gently Mara drew it out. She ran her fingers down and down, found more thorns, and drew them, until finally none were left. Her hands did not want to leave him. She traced the side of his flank, felt the hard muscle there, and then flinched back with a gasp as memory of Buntokapi made her start.

Kevin swung his knee over the bench and spun to face her. ‘Lady? Is something wrong?’

The concern in his voice suddenly broke her heart. She fought against tears, and lost.

‘Lady,’ whispered Kevin. ‘What makes you cry?’ He gathered her to him, held her shaking against the hollow of his shoulder. Mara tensed, at any moment expecting his hands to turn brutal, to twist at her clothes and seek out her most tender parts. But nothing happened. Kevin simply held her, unmoving, and in time her fear unlocked. Mara realized that he was not going to be rough, but would only offer her comfort. ‘What troubles you?’ he asked again.

Mara stirred, then surrendered to his warmth and leaned against him. ‘Memories,’ she said softly.

Now Kevin’s hands did harden. He caught her firmly, lifted her, and resettled her in his lap.

Mara caught herself just short of a scream. Shame burned her cheeks, that she had so nearly disgraced her heritage. She choked a breath to call Lujan, but Kevin’s hold loosened. He stroked her hair, gentle once more, and relief made her cry all over again.

‘Your memories must be painful,’ Kevin murmured in her ear. ‘I’ve never seen a beautiful woman so frightened at a man’s attentions. It’s as if someone beat you when another man would have kissed you with tenderness.’

‘Bunto,’ said Mara, her voice lowered to a near whisper. Her coldness was unexpected, and prompted by a resentment she had never before given rein, except in confidence with Nacoya. ‘He liked his women bruised. His concubine, Teani, loved such abuses.’ She paused, then added, ‘I don’t think I ever could. Perhaps that makes me a coward. I don’t care. I’m just glad I no longer have a husband to share my bed.’

Now Kevin was silent, shocked to an outrage that made him cup her chin until she faced him. ‘In my land, a husband who strikes his wife is nothing but a common criminal.’

Mara managed a weak smile. ‘How different our cultures can be. Here a woman has no power over her fate, unless she is Ruling Lady. A man may dominate his wife as he would a slave, and in the eyes of other men, his manhood is increased by her submissiveness.’

Now Kevin’s anger could be heard in his voice. ‘Then your lords are no better than barbarians. Men should treat women with respect and kindness.’

Excitement coursed through Mara. Time and again Nacoya had told her that all men did not behave like Buntokapi; yet the fact that they owned the god-given right to be brutal had caused her to distrust even Hokanu, whose outward manner seemed mild. Where she had not dared to give herself to a suitor of her own culture, with Kevin she felt oddly safe.

‘Then your people treat their wives and lovers like flowers, cherishing them without causing pain?’

Kevin nodded, his fingers stroking her shoulders as lightly as the wings of small birds.

‘Show me,’ Mara whispered. The touch of him made her tingle, and she felt, through his breeches, the pressure of his own aroused manhood.

The barbarian’s brows rose mischievously. ‘Here?’

The ache inside Mara mounted, became unbearable. ‘Here,’ she repeated softly. ‘Here, now, I command you.’ When he looked as though he might protest, she added, ‘No one will disturb us. I am Ruling Lady of the Acoma.’

Even now she tautened, as if at any moment she expected to be manhandled. Kevin sensed her tension. ‘Lady,’ he said softly, ‘right now you rule more than the Acoma,’ and he bent his head and kissed her lips.

His touch was soft as a whisper. Reassured, she yielded almost immediately. Then, as his lightness teased her to desire, she leaned into him, demanding more. But his hands stayed soft. He stroked her breast through the fabric of her robe, maddening her with his gentleness. Her nipple turned hard and hot. She wanted his fingers on her bare skin, more desperately than she had ever wished for anything.

He did not comply. Not all at once. Barbarian that he was, he acted as if her very robe were precious. He slipped the silk slowly from her shoulders. Mara moaned and shivered. She tugged at his shirt, wanting the feel of him, but her hands tangled in his unfamiliar dress, and as her fingers encountered his skin, she hesitated, wanting to return the feeling he gave her, but uncertain what she should do.

Kevin caught her wrists, still handling her as if her flesh were fragile. His care made her desire mount further, tormented her to an ecstasy she had never dreamed existed. She could not have named the moment he slid her robe off and touched his lips to her breast. By then her world had dissolved into dizziness and she moaned for his touch against her loins.

Midkemian clothing was more complicated than Tsurani dress. He had to shift her to remove his breeches. Somehow they ended up in the grass, lit by the golden sliver of Kelewan’s moon, and also by a soft wash of lantern light. Abandoned to pleasure amid the scent of blooming kekali, swept away by the passion of a redheaded barbarian, Mara discovered what it was to be a woman.

Later, flushed with the elation of newfound release, Mara returned to her chamber. Nacoya awaited her there with news of a business transaction in Sulan-Qu, and a tray of light supper. One look at her mistress’s face, and she forgot the contents of the scroll. ‘Thank Lashima,’ she said, correctly interpreting the cause of Mara’s euphoria. ‘You’ve discovered the joy of your womanhood at last.’

Mara laughed, a little breathless. She pirouetted like a girl and sat on the cushions. Kevin followed her, his hair still tousled and his face more guardedly sober. Nacoya regarded him closely for a moment. Then, her lips pursed in mild disapproval, she turned upon her mistress.

‘My Lady, you must excuse your slave.’

Mara looked up, her first flush of surprise changing to annoyance. ‘First Adviser, I shall do as I please with my slave.’

Nacoya bowed deeply in respect for her mistress’s prerogative. Then she went on as though Kevin were not present. ‘Daughter of my heart, you now have learned the wonder of sex. This is good. And you are not the first great Lady who has used a slave. It is not only useful, it is even wise, for no slave can use you. However, Desio of the Minwanabi will be waiting to take advantage of every weakness, however small. You must not make mistakes and let the pleasures of the flesh grow into infatuation. This Midkemian should be sent away to keep your thinking clear, and you should take one or two different men to your bed soon, to learn they are merely … useful.’

Mara stood motionless, with her back turned. ‘I find this discussion inopportune. Leave me at once, Nacoya.’

The First Adviser of the Acoma returned a deeper bow. ‘Your will, Lady.’ Stiffly she arose, and with a last lingering glare at Kevin she left the room. As the indignant tap of her sandals faded down the hall, Mara motioned to her slave.

‘Join me,’ she invited. Then she shed her loosened robe and dropped naked upon the cushions of the mat that served as her bed. ‘Show me again how the men in your land love their women.’

Kevin returned his familiar wry grin. Then he raised his eyes toward heaven in a show of mock appeal. ‘Pray to your gods to give me the strength,’ he murmured. Then he slipped off his shirt and his drawers, and joined her.

Later, when the lamps burned low, Mara lay awake in the clasp of Kevin’s arms and reflected upon the joy she had found in the midst of so many worries. She reached out and smoothed back her lover’s tousled hair. She regarded the punctures traced across his shoulder by the sharpened thorns of the kekali; the wounds were slight, already scabbed over. Only then did Mara appreciate the bittersweet nature of the love that had overtaken her at last.

Kevin was, and always would be, a slave. There were certain unarguable absolutes in her culture, and that fact was one.

Caught up in a moment of melancholy, and frowning at the waning moon through the screen, Mara wondered whether the bad luck that had brought down her brother and father might not stalk her yet. Desperately she prayed to Lashima that the blood from Kevin’s scratches had not seeped through his shirt and touched the ground. Lord Desio of the Minwanabi had sworn the vengeance of his house into the hands of Turakamu. And with or without invitation, the Death God walked where he would. If he chose to favour the Minwanabi, the Acoma would be swept away without trace from the land and the memory of man.