Читать книгу Servant of the Empire - Raymond E. Feist, Janny Wurts - Страница 6

The breeze died.

Dust swirled in little eddies, settling grit over the palisade that surrounded the slave market. Despite the wayward currents, the air was hot and thick, reeking of confined and unwashed humanity mingled with the smell of river sewage and rotting garbage from the dump behind the market.

Sheltered behind the curtains of her brightly lacquered litter, Lady Mara wafted air across her face with a scented fan. If the stench troubled her, she showed no sign. The Ruling Lady of the Acoma motioned for her escort to stop. Soldiers in green enamelled armour came to a halt, and the sweating bearers set the litter down.

An officer in a Strike Leader’s plumed helm gave his hand to Mara and she emerged from her litter. The colour in her cheeks was high; Lujan could not tell if she was flushed from the heat or still angered from the argument prior to leaving her estate. Jican, the estate hadonra, had spent most of the morning vigorously objecting to her plan to purchase what he insisted would be worthless slaves. The debate had ended only when she ordered him to silence.

Mara addressed her First Strike Leader. ‘Lujan, attend me, and have the others wait here.’ Her acerbity caused Lujan to forgo the banter that, on occasion, strained the limits of acceptable protocol; besides, his first task was to protect her – and the slave markets were far too public for his liking – so his attention turned quickly from wit to security. As he watched for any sign of trouble, he reasoned that when Mara busied herself in her newest plan she would forget Jican’s dissension. Until then she would not appreciate hearing objections she had already dismissed in her own mind.

Lujan understood that everything his mistress undertook was to further her position in the Game of the Council, the political striving that was the heart of Tsurani politics. Her invariable goal was the survival and strengthening of House Acoma. Rivals and friends alike had learned that a once untried young girl had matured into a gifted player of the deadly game. Mara had eluded the trap set by her father’s old enemy, Jingu of the Minwanabi, and had succeeded with her own plot – forcing Jingu to take his own life in disgrace.

Yet if Mara’s triumphs were the current topic of discussion among the Empire’s many nobles, she herself had barely paused to enjoy the satisfaction of her ascendancy. Her father’s and brother’s deaths had taken her family to the brink of extinction. Mara concentrated on anticipating future trouble as she manoeuvred to ensure her survival. What was done was behind, and to dwell on it was to risk being taken unawares.

While the man who had ordered the death of her father and brother was finally himself dead, her attention remained focused on the blood feud between House Acoma and House Minwanabi. Mara remembered the unvarnished look of hatred on the face of Desio of the Minwanabi as she and the other guests passed his father’s death ceremony. While not as clever as his sire, Desio would be no less a danger; grief and hatred now turned his motives personal: Mara had destroyed his father at the height of his power, while he hosted the Warlord’s birthday celebration, in his own home. Then she had savoured that victory in the presence of the most influential and powerful nobles in the Empire as she hosted the Warlord’s relocated celebration upon her own estates.

No sooner had the Warlord and his guests departed Acoma lands than Mara had embarked on a new plan to strengthen her house. She had closeted herself with Jican, to discuss the need for new slaves to clear additional meadow-lands from the scrub forests north of the estate house. Pastures, pens, and sheds must be completed well before calving season in spring, so the grass would be well grown for the young needra and their mothers to graze.

As Acoma second-in-command, Lujan had learned that Acoma power did not rest upon her soldiers’ loyalty and bravery, nor upon the far-held trading concessions and investments, but upon the prosaic and dull six-legged needra. They formed the foundation upon which all her wealth rested. For Acoma power to grow, Mara’s first task was to increase her breeding herd.

Lujan’s attention returned to his mistress as Mara lifted her robe clear of the dust. Pale green in colour, the otherwise plain cloth was meticulously embroidered at the hem and sleeves with the outline of the shatra bird, the crest of House Acoma. The Lady wore sandals with raised pegged soles, to keep her slippers clear of the filth that littered the common roadways. Her footfalls raised a booming, hollow sound as she mounted the wooden stair to the galleries that ran the length of the palisade. A faded canvas awning roofed the structure, shading Tsurani lords and their factors from the merciless sunlight. They could rest well removed from the dust and dirt, and refreshed by whatever breeze blew in off the river as they viewed the slaves available for sale.

To Lujan, the gallery with its deep shade and rows of wooden benches was less a refuge than a place of concealing darkness. He lightly touched his mistress on the shoulder as she reached the first landing. She turned, and flashed a bothered look of inquiry.

‘Lady,’ said Lujan tactfully, ‘if an enemy is waiting, best we show them my sword before your beautiful face.’

Mara’s mouth turned upward at the corners, almost but not quite managing a smile. ‘Flatterer,’ she accused. ‘Of course you are right.’ Her formality with Lujan became gentled by humour. ‘Though among Jican’s protests was the belief I would come to harm from the barbarian slaves, not another Ruling Lord.’

She referred to the inexpensive Midkemian prisoners of war. Mara lacked the funds to buy enough common slaves to clear her pastures. So, seeing no other alternative, she chose to buy barbarians. They were reputed to be intractable, rebellious, and utterly lacking in humility toward their masters. Lujan regarded his Lady, who was barely as high as his shoulder, but who possessed a nature that could burn the man – Lord or slave or servant – who challenged her indomitable will. He recognized the purposeful set of her dark eyes. ‘Still, in you the barbarians will have met their match, I wager.’

‘If not, they will all suffer under the whip,’ Mara said with resolve. ‘Not only would we forfeit the use of the lands we need cleared before spring, we would lose the price of the slaves. I will have done Desio’s work for him.’ Her rare admission of doubt was allowed to pass without comment.

Lujan preceded his mistress into the gallery, silently checking his weapons. The Minwanabi might be licking their wounds, but Mara had additional enemies now, lords jealous of her sudden rise, men who knew that the Acoma name rested upon the shoulders of this slender woman and her infant heir. She was not yet twenty-one, their advisers would whisper. Against Jingu of the Minwanabi she had been cunning, but mostly lucky; in the fullness of time her youth and inexperience would cause her to misstep. Then would rival houses arise like a pack of jaguna, ready to tear at the wealth and the power of her house and bury the Acoma natami – the stone inscribed with the family crest that embodied its soul and its honour – face down in the dirt, forever away from sunlight.

Her robe neatly held above her ankles, Mara followed Lujan around the first landing. They passed the entrance to the lower tier of galleries, which by unwritten but rigid custom was reserved for merchants or house factors, and climbed to the next level, used only by the nobility.

But with Midkemians up for auction, the crowds were absent. Mara saw only a few bored-looking merchants who seemed more interested in the common gossip of the city than in buying. The upper tier of galleries would probably stand empty. Most Tsurani nobles were far more concerned by the war on the world beyond the rift, or in curbing the Warlord Almecho’s ever growing power in the council, than with purchasing intractable slaves. The earliest lots of Midkemian captives had sold for premium prices, as curiosities. But the novelty lost attraction with numbers. Now grown Midkemian males brought the lowest prices of all; only women with rare red-gold hair or unusual beauty still commanded a thousand centuries. But since the Tsurani most often captured warriors, females from the barbarian world were seldom available.

A breeze off the river tugged at the plumes on Lujan’s helm. It fluttered the feathered ends of Mara’s perfumed fan and set her beaded earrings swinging. Over the palisade drifted the voices of the barge teams as they poled their craft up and down the river Gagajin. Nearer at hand, from the dusty pens inside the high plank walls came the shouts of the slave merchants, and the occasional snap of a needra hide switch as they hustled their charges through their paces for interested customers in the galleries. The pen holding the Midkemians held about two dozen men. No buyers offered inquiry, for only one overseer stood indifferent watch. With him was a factor apparently in charge of issuing clothing, and a tally keeper with a much chipped slate. Mara glanced curiously at the slaves. All were very tall, larger by a head than the tallest Tsurani. One in particular towered over the chubby factor, and his red-gold hair blazed in the noonday sun of Kelewan as he attempted to communicate in an unfamiliar language. Mara had no chance to study the barbarian further, as Lujan stopped sharply in her path. His hand touched her wrist in warning.

‘Someone’s here,’ he whispered, and covered his check in stride by bending as if a stone had lodged in his sandal. His hand settled unobtrusively on his sword, and over his muscled shoulder Mara glimpsed a figure seated in the shadow to the rear of the gallery. He might be a spy, or worse: an assassin. With Midkemians scheduled for sale, a bold Lord might chance on the fact that the upper level would be deserted. But for a rival house to know that Mara had chosen to go personally to the slave market bespoke the presence of an informant very highly placed in Acoma ranks. The Lady paused, her stomach turned cold by the thought that if she was struck down here, her year-old son, Ayaki, would be the last obstacle to the obliteration of the Acoma name.

Then the figure in the shadows moved, and sunlight through a tear in the awning revealed a face that was handsome and young, and showing a smile of surprised pleasure.

Mara lightly patted Lujan’s wrist, gentling his grip on the sword. ‘It’s all right,’ she said softly. ‘I know this noble.’

Lujan straightened, expressionless, as the young man arose from his bench. The man moved with a swordsman’s balance. His clothing was well made, from sandals of blue-dyed leather to a tunic of embroidered silk. He wore his hair in a warrior’s cut, and his only ornament was a pendant of polished obsidian hanging around his neck.

‘Hokanu,’ Mara said, and at the name her bodyguard relaxed. Lujan had not been present during the political bloodbath at the Minwanabi estate, but from talk in the barracks he knew that Hokanu and his father, Lord Kamatsu of the Shinzawai, had been almost alone in supporting the Acoma. This, at a time when most Lords accepted that Mara’s death was a foregone conclusion.

Lujan stood deferentially aside and, from beneath the brim of his helm, regarded the noble who approached. Mara had received many petitions for marriage since the death of her husband, but none of the suitors was as handsome or as well disposed as the second son of Kamatsu of the Shinzawai. Lujan maintained correct bearing. to the finest detail, but like any in the Acoma household, he had a personal interest in Hokanu. And so had Mara, if the flush in her cheeks gave any indication.

After the subtle flattery of recent suitors, Hokanu’s honest yearning for Mara’s approval was refreshing. ‘Lady, what a perfect surprise! I had no expectation of finding so lovely a flower in this most unpleasant of surroundings.’ He paused, bowed neatly, and smiled. ‘Although of late we have all seen this delicate blossom show thorns. Your victory over Jingu of the Minwanabi is still the talk of Silmani,’ he said, naming the city closest to his father’s estates.

Mara returned his bow with sincerity. ‘I did not see any Shinzawai colours among the retainers waiting on the street. Otherwise I should have brought a servant with jomach ice and cold herb tea. Or perhaps you do not wish your interest in these slaves to be noticed?’ She let that question hang a moment, then brightly asked, ‘Is your father well?’

Hokanu nodded politely and seated Mara on a bench. His grip was strong but pleasant; nothing like the rough grasp she had known from her husband of two years. Mara met the Shinzawai son’s eyes and saw there a quiet intelligence, overlaid by amusement at the apparent innocence of her question.

‘You are very perceptive.’ He laughed in sudden delight. ‘Yes, I am interested in Midkemians, and at my most healthy father’s request, I am trying not to advertise the fact.’ His expression turned more serious. ‘I would like to be frank with you, Mara, even as my father was with Lord Sezu – our fathers served together in their youth, and trusted one another.’

Though intrigued by the young man’s charm, Mara repressed her desire to be open lest she reveal too much. Hokanu she trusted; but her family name was too recently snatched from oblivion for her to reveal her intentions. Shinzawai servants might have loose tongues, and young men away from home sometimes celebrated their first freedom and responsibility with drink. Hokanu seemed as canny as his father, but she did not know him well enough to be certain.

‘I fear the Acoma interest in the barbarians is purely a financial one.’ Mara waved her fan in resignation. ‘The cho-ja hive we gained three years ago left our needra short of pasture. Slaves who clear forest in the wet season fall ill, my hadonra says. If we are to have enough grazing to support our herds at calving, we must allow for losses.’ She gave Hokanu a rueful look. ‘Though I expected no competition at this auction. I am glad to see you, but nettled by the thought of bidding against so dear a friend.’

Hokanu regarded his hands for a moment, his brow untroubled, and a smile bending the corners of his mouth. ‘If I relieve my Lady of her dilemma, she will owe the Shinzawai her favour. Say, entertaining a poor second son at dinner soon?’

Mara unexpectedly laughed. ‘You’re a devil for flattery, Hokanu. Very well; you know that I need no bribes to allow you to visit my estates. Your company is … always welcome.’

Hokanu stared in mock suffering at Lujan. ‘She says that very prettily for one who refused me the last time I was in Sulan-Qu.’

‘That’s not fair,’ Mara protested, then blushed as she realized how quickly she had spoken in her own defence. With better decorum she added, ‘Your request came at an awkward moment, Master Hokanu.’ And her face darkened as she recalled a Minwanabi spy, and a pretty, importunate boy who had suffered as a result of the intrigue and ambition that underlay every aspect of life in the Empire of Tsuranuanni.

Hokanu noted the strain that shadowed her face. His heart went out to this young woman, who had been so serious as a child, and who had against the greatest odds found the courage and intelligence to secure her house from ruin. ‘I will cede to you the Midkemians,’ he said firmly, ‘for whatever price you can bargain with the factor.’

‘But I wish not to inconvenience you,’ Mara protested. Her fan trembled between clenched fingers. She was tense; Hokanu must not be permitted to notice, and to distract him she whiffed air through the feathers as if she were bothered by the heat. ‘The Shinzawai have shown the Acoma much kindness and, in honour, it is time that we proved ourselves worthy. Let me be the one to cede the bidding.’

Hokanu regarded the Lady, who was daintily small, and far more attractive than she herself understood. She had a smile that made her radiant, except that at present the face beneath its thyza-powder makeup was almost wary with tension. Her concern went much deeper than simple forms of honour, the young man sensed at once.

The insight gave him pause: she had been snatched away from taking vows of service to the goddess Lashima to assume her role as Ruling Lady. In all likelihood she had known little or nothing of men before her wedding night. And Buntokapi of the Anasati, an ill-mannered, coarse braggart at the best of times, had been the son of an Acoma enemy before he had become her husband and Ruling Lord. He had been rough with her, Hokanu understood with sudden certainty, which was why this Ruling Lady and mother could also act as unsure as a girl years younger. Admiration followed; this seemingly delicate girl had owned valour out of all proportion to her size and experience. No one outside her inner household could ever guess what she might have endured in Buntokapi’s rude grasp. One close to Mara might say much if Hokanu could get him to share drink in a wine shop. But a glance at Lujan’s alert pose convinced Lord Kamatsu’s son that the Strike Leader was a poor choice. The warrior measured Hokanu, having perceived his interest; and where his mistress was concerned, his loyalty would be absolute. Hokanu knew Mara was a shrewd judge of character – she had proven as much by staying alive as long as she had.

Attempting to lighten her mood and not give offence, Hokanu said, ‘Lady, I spoke out of sincere disappointment at not being able to see you on my last visit.’ He concealed any diffidence behind a disarming smile. ‘No favours do the Acoma owe the Shinzawai. We deal here in simple practicality. Most Midkemian slaves go to the block at the City of the Plains and Jamar, and I am bound for Jamar. Should I make you wait for the next shipment of prisoners to journey upriver, while I drive two score men in a coffle through the heat, house them while I conduct business, then herd them back upriver again? I think not. Your needra pastures are a more immediate need, I judge. Please accept my not bidding against you as nothing more than a tiny courtesy from me.’

Mara stopped her fan in midair with barely hidden relief. ‘Tiny courtesy? Your kindness is unmatched, Hokanu. When your business in Jamar is concluded, I would be most pleased if you would accept my invitation to rest as a guest of the Acoma on your way back to your father’s estates.’

‘Then the matter of the slaves is settled.’ Hokanu took her hand. ‘I will accept your hospitality with pleasure.’ He bowed, sealing their agreement. As he straightened he saw two brown eyes regarding him intently. The Lady of the Acoma had always attracted him, from the moment he had first seen her. When he returned from Jamar, he might have the opportunity to know her better, to explore possibilities, to see if his interest was reciprocated. But now, intuitively, he sensed that his nearness confused her. The public slave market was no place to unravel the reason why, and rather than discomfort her to the point where her pleasure at seeing him changed to regret, he rose from his seat. ‘Well, then. The sooner I’m off to Jamar, the sooner I’ll return this way. I look forward to seeing you again, Lady.’

Mara fluttered her fan before her face. Unexpectedly self-conscious, she felt both regret and relief that Hokanu was departing. She nodded with the appearance of poise. ‘I, too, look forward to that time. Fare well upon your road.’

‘Fare you well, too, Lady Mara.’

The younger of the two Shinzawai sons threaded his way through the benches and left the upper gallery. As he stepped into the sunlight on the stair, his profile showed the straight nose, high forehead, and firm chin that had captured the attention of many a noble’s daughter in his home province of Szetac. Even to Lujan’s overcritical eye, the man was as well favoured as he was socially well placed.

The sound of raised voices drifted up from the slave compound. Mara’s attentions turned from the retreating figure of Hokanu. She pressed close to the gallery rail to view the cause of the commotion. Since archers could not be concealed among bands of naked slaves, Lujan did not urge her to stay back within the shadows, but he did continue to observe nearby rooftops.

Mara was surprised to discover that the unseemly shouting came from the factor overseeing the barbarians. Short, plump, and swathed in costly yellow silk, he stood shaking his fist under the chin of an outworlder. Facing him stood the red-haired Midkemian Mara had glimpsed before, his naked body gleaming in the afternoon light. He seemed to be desperately smothering laughter as he endured the factor’s tirade. Mara was forced to admit the tableau was comic; the factor was short, even for a Tsurani, and the barbarians towered over him. In a vain attempt to look threatening, their overlord was forced to stand upon tiptoes.

Mara studied the outworlder. Although at any moment he might be savaged by a whip, he stood with arms crossed, a study in self-confidence. He was a full head taller than any of his betters, the overseer and the two assistants who rushed to the factor’s aid. The outworlder looked down on their agitation like a boy noble bored by his jesters. Mara felt a sudden twist within her as she studied the man’s body, made whipcord-lean by meagre rations and hard work. As she forced herself to calmness, she wondered if Hokanu’s presence had affected her more deeply than she had imagined. The men she needed to be most concerned with at this moment were down in the pen, and her interest in them was solely financial.

Mara ended her frank appraisal of the man’s appearance and focused on his interaction with the Tsurani overseer and his assistants. The factor’s rant reached a crescendo. Then he ran out of breath. He waved his fist one last time at the height of the barbarian’s collarbone. And much to Mara’s amazement, the slave showed no sign of submissiveness. Rather than prostrating himself with his face pressed into the earth at the factor’s feet, silently awaiting his punishment, he stroked his bearded chin and, in a resonant voice, began speaking in broken Tsurani, his gestures those of a confidant instead of obedient property.

‘By the gods, will you look at him!’ exclaimed Lujan in astonishment. ‘He acts as if slaves were born with the right to argue. If they’re all as brazen as this fellow, it’s no wonder a slave master must beat their skins off to get a half day’s work from them.’

‘Hush,’ Mara waved her hand toward Lujan. ‘I wish to hear this.’ She strained to understand the barbarian’s mangled Tsurani.

Suddenly the outworlder stopped speaking, his head cocked to one side, as if he had made his point. The factor looked overheated. He motioned to the assistant with the tally slate and said in an exasperated tone, ‘Line up! All of you! Now!’

The slaves unhurriedly strung themselves out in a row. From her overhead view from the gallery, Mara noticed that the barbarians shuffled to their places in such a way as to conceal the activities of two fellows, who were crouched before the log palisade on the side that fronted onto the river.

‘What do you suppose they are doing?’ she asked Lujan.

The warrior shrugged Tsurani style, the barest movement of the shoulders. ‘Mischief of some sort. I’ve seen needra show more brains than that factor.’

Below, the overseer and the assistant with the slate began laboriously to count the slaves. The two by the palisade joined the line late, and by dint of a staged trip and some, scuffling as the off-balance man crashed into the row, the tally keeper lost track of his count. He started over, looking down to chalk a mark for each slave as he passed, while the factor cursed and sweated at the delay.

Each time the tally keeper consulted his slate, the unruly barbarians shifted position. The man with the whip lashed a few backs in an attempt to establish order. One slave shouted something in his native tongue that sounded suspiciously like an obscenity as he jumped away from the punishment, and others laughed. The lash fell to silence the ones nearest the overseer, which caused the line of standing slaves to break and shuffle and re-form behind the man’s back. The tally keeper looked up in despair. Once again, the numbers were hopelessly confused.

The factor shouted in a shameful show of impatience, ‘We’ll all be dead and ashes by the time you finish with that!’ He clapped his hands at someone on the sidelines, and a moment later, a servant scuttled into the compound with a basket of rough-woven trousers and shirts. These he began to dispense among the slaves.

At this point the red-haired barbarian began to scream insults at the overseer. His Tsurani might be broken and heavily mispronounced, but at some point along his line of march since his capture some nameless beggar child had taught him thoroughly and well. The overseer’s mouth opened in incredulity as he considered the biological implications of what the outworlder had just said about his mother. Then he reddened and swung his lash, which the barbarian adroitly avoided. A chase developed between the large Midkemian and the smaller, fatter Tsurani.

Lujan laughed. ‘It’s a shame the barbarian needs to be broken; this is a comedy worthy of any travelling troupe of performers I’ve ever seen. He certainly seems to be enjoying himself.’ Movement caught Lujan’s eye in the far corner of the pen. ‘Ah!’ he exclaimed. ‘And to clear purpose, it would seem.’

Mara, too, had noticed that one of the slaves had resumed his crouch by the palisade. A moment later he appeared to be stuffing something through. ‘Lashima’s wisdom,’ she said, startled into a smile of amazement. ‘They are pilfering the shirts!’

The gallery afforded a view of the operation. The redheaded giant raced around the compound. Despite his height, he moved with the grace of a sarcat – the quick and silent six-legged hunter of the grasslands – at first avoiding every attempt of the overseer to catch him. Then, strangely, he began to plod like a pregnant needra cow. The overseer came close, and as the barbarian dodged the near miss of the lash, he shuffled, slid, dragged his heels and toes, and kicked up an excessive amount of dust. He also crashed often into those of his comrades who had received their allotment of trousers and shirt. These suddenly clumsy men fell and rolled, and under cover of dust and movement, cloth miraculously disappeared. Some was bundled and passed to other slaves; occasionally a shirt would unfurl and land, to be picked up by another man. In this manner the clothing passed at last to the man by the palisade. At opportune moments he stuffed the fabric through a gap and caught the shell counters that served as coin within the Empire that someone slipped through from without. These the Midkemian wiped on his hairy chest. Then he placed them in his mouth and swallowed them.

‘There must be beggar boys on the other side.’ Lujan shook his head. ‘Or perhaps some bargeman’s child. Though why a slave should think he has use for coin is a mystery.’

‘They certainly show great ingenuity … and nerve,’ Mara observed, and Lujan regarded her keenly. That she had mistakenly conceded honourable attributes to men who by the inflexible laws of society were accorded less stature than the lowest scabby beggars in the gutters made the Strike Leader pause. Desperation had taught Mara to reappraise the traditions of her people with sometimes ingenious results. Yet although Lujan himself had sworn to her service through just such an unorthodox twist, even he could not guess what she might see in a lot of barbarian slaves. Trying to fathom her fascination, the warrior regarded the ongoing conflict down below.

The overseer had called in reinforcements. Several brawny guards equipped with curved hooks of roughened needra hide raced into the compound and ran at the unruly redhead; slaves who tried to hamper them were elbowed aside or kicked with sharp-toed sandals. One barbarian fell with a bloodied shin. Seeing that, the others quickly cleared the soldiers’ path. The redheaded ringleader also slowed his pace. He allowed himself to be cornered rather than suffer injury from brutal handling. The warriors took him in hand with their hooks and dragged him before the red-faced and dusty factor, whose robe was now sadly in need of a wash. They pitched their huge captive on his knees and held him, while the overseer yelled for cuffs and straps of hardened needra leather to restrain his unmanageable wildness.

Still the barbarian was not cowed. As if unaware that his life could be taken at a gesture of his overseer’s hand, he flung back his tangled hair and regarded his captors with wide blue eyes. At some point in the scuffle he had acquired a slash across one cheekbone. Blood ran down his face and soaked into the fiery brush of his beard. He could not be past his twenties, at a guess, and even harsh handling had not tamed his flamboyance. He said something. Mara and Lujan saw the factor’s face go stiff, and one of the guards repressed an un-Tsurani-like burst of laughter behind one lacquered gauntlet. The overseer with the whip proved more in control. He answered with the lash, then kicked the barbarian forward onto his face.

Mara did not flinch at the violence. Disobedient slaves were beaten on her estate for far less cause than this barbarian’s outrageous behaviour. Still, the fact that the redhead’s actions were inconceivable to the mores of society did not shock her beyond thought. She had acquainted herself with the customs of the cho-ja, and come to respect their ways and wisdom, alien though it might be. As she watched the slaves in the compound, it occurred to her that these men were as human as she, but their world was far different from Kelewan. Being strangers, perhaps they did not comprehend the scope of their lot: for on Kelewan a man left slavery only through the portals of death. He was honourless, soulless, insignificant as an insect, to be raised to comfort or ground down in misery with as little thought as a man might regard a red-bee who gathered his honey.

A Tsurani warrior would die by his own hand rather than allow himself to be taken alive by an enemy – captives were usually wounded, unconscious, or cowards. These Midkemians presumably had the same options, and in living on past honour, they had chosen their lot.

The redhead seemed anything but resigned. He rolled to escape the whip and crashed into the factor’s ankles. The fat man yelped and staggered, saved from a fall by the tally keeper, who hurriedly dropped his slate and grabbed a double handhold of creased yellow silk. The chalkboard fell flat in the dust, and the barbarian, with enviable subterfuge, rolled over it. The tally marks were obliterated by a smear of sweat and dirt; and Mara, in the gallery, saw with a queer thrill that the hamper was empty. Only a third of the men in the yard were clothed; some lacked breeches and others had no shirts. Although the redhead had gained himself a beating, perhaps even death by hanging, he had won a small victory over his captors.

The men with the hooks closed in. The heat and the exertion had stripped them of patience, and this time their blows were aimed to cripple.

On an impulse, Mara of the Acoma leaped to her feet. ‘Cease!’ she called over the railing. The command in her voice compelled the warriors’ obedience. She was a Ruling Lady, and they no more than servants. Conditioned to follow orders, they lowered their hooks and halted their rush on the Midkemian. The factor straightened his robes in surprise, while, on the dusty, torn earth, the barbarian slave rolled uncomfortably onto one elbow and looked up.

That his rescuer was a small, black-haired woman seemed to take him aback. Still he brazenly continued to stare, until the tally keeper slapped his face to make him avert his gaze.

Mara’s brows knitted in anger. ‘I said cease! Any more of this, and I will demand that you be obliged to pay for damaging goods while a bidder stands waiting to make an offer.’

The factor snapped straight in stupefaction, his spoiled yellow silk forgotten. He brushed sweaty hair from his temples, as if by mending his appearance his lapse in decorum might be forgotten. Seeing the Lady of the Acoma in the buyers’ gallery, he bowed very low, almost to his knees. After the redhead’s bad-tempered display, he knew he would be lucky to sell this lot of Midkemians for the price commanded by a pet fish. That this Lady had witnessed, and yet still wished to purchase, was a marvel no sane man would question.

Aware he was in no position to bargain, Mara swished her fan with a studied show of indifference. ‘I might give thirty centuries for these barbarians,’ she said slowly. ‘If the big one bleeds too much, I might not.’

At this, even Lujan raised his brows. He, too, questioned his Lady’s wisdom in purchasing unruly slaves, but it was not the place of a warrior to advise. He held his silence while, in the compound, the factor turned on the tally keeper and sent the man scurrying off for cloths and water. The man returned and was immediately assigned the humiliating task of bathing the redhead’s cuts.

But the barbarian ringleader would endure no solicitude. He reached with one huge fist and, despite the restraint of cuffs and strap, moved fast enough to catch the tally keeper’s wrist. What he said could not be overheard from the gallery, but the servant abandoned both rag and basin, as if his fingers were burned.

The factor glossed over this disobedience with a smile of nervous improvisation. He had no wish to try Mara’s patience by ordering reprisal against the slave. He tried to behave as if everything had gone according to plan as one of the barbarian’s fellows stepped forward and briskly began cleansing the whip wounds of his companion.

‘Lady, the purchase papers can be drawn up at once, in the private comfort of my office. I’ll send for iced fruit for your thirst while you wait to sign. If you would be so kind as to join me in my office …’

‘That won’t be necessary,’ Mara said crisply. ‘Send your scribe to me outside, for I wish that these slaves be removed to my estates at once. The instant I have a bill of sale, my warriors will take them into custody.’ She made a last study of the compound and added, ‘That is, I will sign for my purchase after these slaves have been provided with proper clothing.’

‘But –’ spluttered the factor in dismay. The tally keeper looked sour. Although the hamper brought out from the storerooms had originally held enough trousers and shirts to clothe three incoming coffles from Jamar, many of these men still stood naked or half-clothed. There should be a proper inquiry over that, and no doubt a round of beatings, but the Lady’s impatience ended the matter. She wanted to sign and buy at once. With a furious gesture, the factor urged the tally keeper to overlook the lapse and be done. At thirty centuries, these slaves would bring little profit, but worse was the risk that they would linger unsold, swelling the holding pens and eating thyza that might be better used to fatten more amenable slaves – each worth five to ten centuries alone.

Aware of which shortfall he would rather report to his investors, the factor regained his poise. ‘Send my runner for a scribe to draw up the Lady’s document.’ He snapped something under his breath as his underling began to protest, surely an urge to make haste lest the Lady come to her senses and change her mind.

The assistant rushed off. The Lady in the gallery paid his departure no heed; her own gaze turned toward the redheaded barbarian acquired on impulse and intuition. He in his turn stared back, and something about the intentness of his blue eyes caused her to blush as Hokanu of the Shinzawai had not.

Mara suddenly turned away and without a word to her Strike Leader hurried down the steps from the gallery to the street level. The Strike Leader needed but a step to overtake her and resume his position. He wondered if the speed of her departure resulted from her impatience to return to her home or from another discomfort.

Putting aside speculation, Lujan bent to assist Mara into her litter. ‘Jican’s going to be thrown into a dither.’ Mara studied her officer’s face and found none of his usual amusement. In place of mocking humour she saw only concern – and perhaps something more.

Then the factor’s scribe appeared with documents to finalize the sale. Mara signed, impatient to be away.

A noise of alien chatter and grumbling, and the slaves were herded out of the gate from the holding area. Lujan gave the barest motion of his head, and Mara’s company of guards busied themselves with readying two dozen Midkemians for the journey back to the Acoma estates. The task was made difficult by the slaves’ poor comprehension of the language and an unbelievable tendency to argue. No slave of Tsurani birth would ever think of demanding sandals before being required to march. Stymied by seemingly irrational defiance, the soldiers first threatened and finally resorted to force. Their tempers grew shorter by the minute. Soldiers were not overseers, and beating slaves was beneath their station. To be seen manhandling chattel in a public street shamed them and reflected no honour upon the mistress now ready to depart.

Mara’s too-straight back as she sat motionless on her cushions showed her discomfort at this coarse display. She gestured for her bearers to shoulder the litter poles. The pace she commanded from them at least assured that passage through the streets of Sulan-Qu would be brief.

Mara motioned to Lujan and, after the briefest conference, determined that she and her party should drive the Midkemian slaves by the least conspicuous route. This involved crossing the poorer quarters by the river, over streets rutted with refuse and puddles of sewage and wash water. Now the warriors drew swords and shoved laggard slaves on their way with the flats of their blades. Footpads and street thieves were little threat to a company of their vigilance and experience, but Mara wished for haste for other reasons.

Her enemies always took interest in her movements, no matter how insignificant, and gossip would arise about her visit to the slave pen. Even now the factor and his handlers were probably heading for the local wine shop, and if just one trader or merchant overheard their speculation upon Mara’s motives in buying outworld slaves, rumours would instantly begin to spread. And once her presence in the city was widely known, enemy agents would be racing to overtake her and track her movements. Since the Midkemians were intended for the clearing of new needra meadows, Mara wished that fact kept secret as long as possible. No matter how trivial, any information gained by her foes weakened the Acoma. And Mara’s supreme concern, since the day she became Ruling Lady, was to preserve the house of her ancestors.

The litter bearers turned into the street that flanked the riverfront. Here the byway narrowed to an alley between ramshackle buildings, providing scant room for the litter on either side. Atop the walls, galleries with rough hide curtains loomed above the streets, their roof beams crowding together, swallowing sunlight. Successive generations of landlords had added additional floors, each new storey overhanging the previous one, so that to look upward was to view a narrow slice of the green Kelewanese sky, brilliant against the oppressive dimness. Mara’s soldiers strained to see in the sudden gloom, always watchful for threats to their mistress; this warren provided ample opportunity for ambush.

The river breeze could not penetrate this tight-woven maze of tenements. The air hung motionless and humid, fetid with garbage, waste, and the pungency of decaying timbers. Many foundations were eaten away with dry rot, causing walls to crack and roof beams to sag. Despite the repellent surroundings, the streets teemed with humanity. The inhabitants hurried clear of Mara’s retinue, commoners ducking into doorless hovels at the sight of an officer’s plume. Warriors of great Lords would instantly beat any wretch slow to clear their path. Only throngs of shouting and filthy urchins tempted such misfortune, pointing at the Lady’s rich litter and darting clear of the soldiers who jabbed spear butts to clear them away.

The Midkemians had ceased their chattering, much to Lujan’s relief. At present his warriors had enough to occupy them without that added irritation. No matter how often the barbarians were ordered to silence, as befitted slaves, they tended to disobey. Now, as the Acoma retinue passed between the overcrowded tenements, the spicy, smoke-scented air that issued from the dens of the drug-flower sellers became prevalent. The eaters of the kamota blossom resin lived in dreams and hallucinations, and madness came upon them in fits. The warriors carried their spears in readiness, prepared for unexpected attack, and Mara sat behind closed curtains, her scented fan pressed close to her nostrils.

The litter slowed before a corner, its occupant jostled as the bearers shifted grip and jockeyed their load past the posts of a sagging doorway. One of the poles caught upon the dirty curtain that hung across the entrance, pulling it askew. Within huddled several families, crowded one upon another. Their clothes were filthy and their skins wretched with sores. A pot of noisome thyza was being shared out among them, while another, similar pot collected the day’s soil in one corner. The stench was choking, and on a tattered blanket a mother suckled a limp infant, three more toddlers lying across her knees and ankles. They all showed signs of vermin, ill health, and starvation. Inculcated since birth to know that poverty or wealth was bestowed as the gods willed – in reward for deeds in past lives – Mara gave their wretchedness no consideration.

The bearers cleared the litter from the doorway. As they regrouped, Mara caught a glimpse of the new slaves who followed behind. The tall redhead muttered something to another slave, a balding, powerfully built man who listened with the respect of one deferring to a leader. Outrage, or maybe shock, showed in both men’s expressions, though what might inspire such depths of emotion within a public place, before individuals almost as honourless as the slaves themselves, seemed a mystery to the Lady.

The poor quarter of Sulan-Qu was not large; still, passage through the jammed streets was painfully tedious. Finally the tenements fell behind as the road crooked with the bend in the river Gagajin. Here the gloom lessened, but only slightly. In place of the mildewed tenements were warehouses, craft sheds, and factories. Dye shops and tanneries, butchers’ stalls and slaughterhouses crowded the way, and the blended stinks of offal, dye vats, and steam from the tallow Tenderer’s left a reeking miasma in the air. Smoke from the resin makers’ fires coiled in clouds from the chimneys, and at the riverside, docked to weathered pilings, lay commerce barges and other floating house-shacks. Vendors vied for any cranny that remained, each crowded, tiny stall serving its wares to clusters of wives and off-duty workers.

Now Lujan’s warriors were forced to shove the crowds aside, shouting, ‘Acoma! Acoma!’ to let the commoners know a great Lady was passing. Other warriors closed tightly against the sides of Mara’s litter, placing their armoured bodies between their mistress and possible danger. The slaves they kept herded together, and the press became so tight that no man could look down to check his footing. The soldiers wore hardened leather sandals, but the slaves, including the bearers, had no choice but to tread on bits of broken crockery and rivulets of sewage and other refuse.

Mara lay back against her finely embroidered cushions, her fan pressed hard to her face. She closed her eyes in longing for the open meadows of her estate, perfumed with summer grass and sweet flowers. In time the factory quarter changed, became less odorous and crowded, more inclined toward industries of the luxury trade. Here weavers, tailors, basket makers, cordwainers, silk spinners, and potters toiled. An occasional jeweller’s stall – guarded by armed mercenaries – or a perfumer’s, frequented in this less fashionable quarter by painted women of the Reed Life, was nestled between shops offering less luxurious merchandise.

The sun had climbed to midday. Drowsy behind her curtains, Mara fanned herself slowly, thankful that, at last, the bustle of Sulan-Qu fell behind. As her retinue continued down roads shaded by evergreens, she was lying back, attempting to sleep, when one of the bearers developed a limp. At each step she was jostled uncomfortably on her cushions, and rather than cause a man needless pain, she ordered a halt to look into the matter.

Lujan detailed a soldier to inspect the bearers. One had cut his foot in the poor quarters. Tsurani, and aware of his place, he had striven to continue his duty to the verge of fainting with pain.

Mara was still nearly an hour from her estate house, and, maddeningly, the Midkemians were once again speaking among themselves in the nasal braying that passed for their native language. Irked by their jabbering as much as by the delay, she motioned to Lujan. ‘Send that redheaded barbarian over to replace my lame bearer.’ Slave he might be, but he acted like a ringleader, and since the stinks of the poor quarter had left Mara with a headache, she was willing to consider almost any expedient to make the barbarians less quarrelsome.

The warriors immediately brought the chosen slave. The bald one called out in protest and had to be cuffed aside. Knocked to his knees, he continued to shout, until the redhead bade him be silent. Then, blue eyes fixed in curiosity on the elegant Lady in the litter, he came forward to shoulder the vacant left front pole.

‘No,’ snapped Lujan at once. He waved for the slave to the rear to come forward and assigned the redhead to stand behind. This way a warrior with an unsheathed sword could march at the barbarian’s back, insurance against trouble or threat to their mistress.

‘Home,’ she ordered her retinue, and her bearers crouched to shoulder their burden, the redheaded barbarian among them.

The first steps forward were unmitigated chaos. The Midkemian was over a head taller than the other bearers, and as he straightened with his load, and strode ahead, the litter canted forward. Mara found herself starting to slide. The silk trappings and cushions offered no resistance to her motion. Lujan’s fast reflexes spared her an unceremonious spill onto the ground, and a slap of his hand warned the barbarian to hold his pole level. This the huge man could do only by hunching his back and shoulders, which placed his curly head just inches from his mistress’s curtains.

‘This won’t do at all,’ Mara snapped.

‘A fine triumph for Desio of the Minwanabi, if you came to hurt through a slave’s clumsiness,’ Lujan said, then he added a hopeful smile. ‘Maybe we could dress these Midkemians as house slaves and give them to the Minwanabi as a gift? At least they might break much of value before Desio’s First Adviser orders them hanged.’

But Mara was in no mood for jokes. She straightened her robe and removed mussed pins from her hair. All the while the barbarian’s eyes watched her with a directness the Lady found disturbing. At length he cocked his head to one side and, with a disarming grin, addressed her in broken Tsurani as he stumbled along.

Lujan drowned him out with a shout of outrage. ‘Dog! Slave! On your miserable knees!’ He snapped his head at his warriors. Instantly one rushed to take the litter pole, while others seized the redhead and threw him forcefully down. Strong arms pummelled his shoulders, and still he tried to speak, until a warrior’s studded sandal pressed his insolent face into the dust.

‘How dare you address the Lady of the Acoma, slave!’ shouted Lujan.

‘What is he trying to say?’ asked Mara, suddenly more curious than affronted.

Lujan looked around in surprise. ‘Can it matter? He’s a barbarian, and that brings you no honour, mistress. Still, his suggestion was not without merit.’

Mara paused, her hand full of tortoiseshell pins. Sunlight glinted on their jewelled heads, and on the shell ornaments sewn to her collar. ‘Tell me.’

Lujan raked his wrist across his sweat-streaked brow. ‘The wretch suggested that if you would call over three of his fellows, and dismiss your other slaves, they might carry your litter more easily, since they are closer to the same height.’

Mara lay back, her pins and fallen hair momentarily forgotten. She frowned in thought. ‘He said that,’ she mused, then looked at the man, who lay face down in the dust with a soldier’s foot holding him immobile. ‘Let him up.’

‘Lady?’ lujan said softly. Only his questioning tone hinted how close he dared go in direct protest of her given order.

‘Let the barbarian up,’ said Mara shortly. ‘I believe his suggestion is sensible. Or do you wish to march through the afternoon, delayed by a lame bearer?’

Lujan returned a Tsurani shrug, as if to say that his mistress was right. In truth, she could be as stubborn as the barbarian slaves, and rather than try her further, the Acoma Strike Leader called off the warrior who held the redhead down. He gave rapid orders. The remaining bearers and the one warrior lowered Mara’s litter to the ground, and three of the taller Midkemians were selected to take their places. The redheaded one joined them, his handsome face left bloody where a stone in the roadway had opened the gash on his cheek. He took his place no more humbly than before, though he must have been bruised by rough handling. The retinue started forward once again, with Mara little more comfortable. The Midkemians might have meant well, but they were inexperienced at carrying a litter. They did not time their strides, which made for a jolting ride. Mara lay back, fighting queasiness. She closed her eyes in resignation. The slaves purchased in Sulan-Qu were proving far too much of a distraction. She made note to herself to make mention to Jican; the Midkemians should perhaps be assigned to duties close to the estate house, where warriors were always within call. The more experienced overseers could keep watch until the slaves had been taught proper behaviour and could be trusted to act as fate had intended.

Irritated that something as trivial as buying new slaves had evoked so much discomfort and confusion, Mara pondered the problems sent against her by her enemies. Eyes closed against the onslaught of a burgeoning headache, she thought to herself, What would I be plotting if I were Desio of the Minwanabi?