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

Horns sounded.

A thunder of drums joined in as the assembled crowd knelt, bowed, then sat back upon their heels in the ancient Tsurani position of attention. Arranged according to rank, but clothed in no other finery than white robes tied with an orange-and-black sash, they awaited the arrival of the new Lord of the Minwanabi.

The Minwanabi great hall was unique in all the Empire; some ancient Lord had employed a genius for an architect, an artist of unsurpassed brilliance. No visitor to the house of Desio’s ancestors could fail to be awed by the engineering, which couched a supreme comfort within what amounted to a fortress.

The hillside chosen for the estate house had been hollowed out, the upper third pierced with arches that were left open to the sky, admitting light and air. Screens designed to protect against inclement weather were presently drawn back, and the entire hall lay awash in noonday sunlight. The lower portion of the hall was cut into the mountain. Its central chamber measured a full three hundred paces from the single entrance across a richly patterned floor to the dais. There, upon a throne of carved agate, Desio would receive fealty offered by the retainers and vassals summoned to do him homage.

Minwanabi guards in ceremonial armour stood at attention, their black lacquered helms and officers’ orange plumes a smart double line in the gallery overlooking the main floor. The musicians by the entry completed their fanfare, then lowered their horns and drums. Silence fell.

A piercing note cut the air. A door slid open to one side, and a priest of Turakamu, the Red God of Death, spun on light feet into the hall. The bone whistle between his lips was a relic preserved from the ancient days. A feathered cape fell to elbow length, and his nude body was painted red upon black, so he looked like a blood-drenched skeleton as he danced in praise of his divine master. He wore his hair slicked to his scalp with heavy grease, the ends plaited in two braids tied with cords from which dangled bleached infant skulls.

The priest circled three times around the dais, joined by four acolytes, each in red robe and skull mask. Their appearance caused a stir through the assembly. Many in the hall made surreptitious gestures to ward off ill luck, for to encounter the Death God’s minions was unpleasant at the best of times. The whistles shrilled, and the skulls clacked in time to the head priest’s step. His dance grew faster, and the acolytes initiated a series of gyrations and leaps that described the throes of human suffering, the Death God’s ultimate power, and the punishment meted out to mortals who displeased him.

Now a muttering disturbed the hall as Desio’s guests asked in whispers why Red Priests should be chosen to invoke a blood ritual at this gathering. Normally the priests of Chochocan, the Good God, or in rare cases the priests of Juran the Just would be asked to bless a new Lord’s reign, but a Death Priest was a rare and unsettling presence.

The dancers spun to a standstill and the whistles ceased. The chief priest advanced on soundless feet and mounted the dais. He removed a scarlet dagger from a pocket inside his cape and, with a high, keening yell, severed his left braid. This he hung upon the corresponding arm of the new Lord’s throne. Then he touched his forehead to the chairback, and cut his right braid. The tiny skull at the end clicked ominously against agate carvings. When this talisman had been affixed to the right arm of the great chair, none present were left in doubt. The Red God’s priests did not cut their hair except in expectation of great sacrifice to their divine master. Desio of the Minwanabi was pledging his house to violent undertakings.

Uneasy quiet reigned as Desio’s honour guard made their entrance. The customary twelve warriors were led by Force Commander Irrilandi and First Adviser Incomo. Last came the new Lord, resplendent in a plumed overrobe of orange trimmed in black, his dark hair tied back.

Incomo reached the dais, turned, and sank to his knees at his master’s right hand. He watched critically as his Lord completed the steps to his seat of power. Desio was holding up well, despite the heat and the unaccustomed weight of the armour beneath his finery. As a boy, Jingu’s heir had lacked any skill at warcraft. His efforts in the practice yard had earned only silent scorn from his instructors. When old enough for active service, he had marched with a few patrols in safe areas, but when the officers in command had politely complained about his ineptness, the boy had gratefully become a permanent fixture in his father’s court. Desio inherited the worst attributes of his sire and grandsire, Incomo judged. It would be a miracle for the Minwanabi to prosper under his rule, even should the Acoma pose no threat.

Studying the assembled crowd, Incomo’s attention was caught by a striking figure in the first row of guests. Tasaio wore Minwanabi armour like a warrior born. He was perhaps the most able family member in three generations. Bored with the ceremony, Incomo considered what it would be like to serve under a clever-minded ruler such as Tasaio. Then the First Adviser banished such fanciful thoughts. In a moment he would swear to obey Desio in all things.

The new Lord managed to seat himself upon his great chair without mishap, for which Incomo was thankful. Clumsiness at this time would be inauspicious, an omen that the gods’ disfavour had fallen upon the Minwanabi. Anxious sweat dampened the First Adviser’s brow as he endured the time-honoured formalities before Desio arose to speak. The young Lord of the Minwanabi began in a voice surprisingly strong in the silent hall.

‘I welcome you,’ Desio intoned, ‘my family, my allies, and friends. Those who served my father are doubly welcome, for your loyalty to him in the past and to myself in the future.’

Incomo drew a relieved breath, his immediate worries assuaged. His young charge went pompously on to thank the attending priests; then he waved his florid hands as his words became more passionate. Convinced of his own importance, Desio called attention to his more prominent guests. Incomo was trying to look attentive, but his mind became increasingly preoccupied: What move would the Lady of the Acoma make next?

How had a girl turned Jingu’s plans for her murder to her own ends? As many times as Incomo reviewed the events of that cursed day, he could not determine what had reversed things to bring about such a tragic pass.

One thing he knew: the Minwanabi had relied too heavily upon a hired courtesan as agent. She had a reputation as thoroughly professional, yet at the last she had failed to carry out her duty. The result had cost the beautiful woman her life. Incomo vowed never again to depend upon one not sworn to Minwanabi service. And what of the part played by the Strike Leader Shimizu, one who was oath-bound to service? His assault upon Mara’s bodyguard had gone as planned, but the following night a simple ‘accident’ that should have ended the Acoma line turned into a debacle.

Desio announced another honoured guest come to see him take his office. Incomo glanced in that Lord’s direction, attempting not to look bored. His thoughts returned again to that terrible day.

Incomo repressed a shiver as he remembered the horror upon Lord Jingu’s face as the Warlord’s magician companion had employed magic to prove the misfortunate treachery of courtesan and Strike Leader against Mara. Shamed before the eyes of guests, Jingu had been forced to make amends on behalf of his house in the only appropriate way. In all history, no Minwanabi Lord had ever been required to preserve family honour by suicide. Incomo still awoke in a cold sweat each night as he dreamed of the moment Jingu had seized bravery and thrown himself upon his family sword.

Incomo remembered little after that; the march back to the estate house, his Lord upon the funeral bier, with his armour polished and shining, and his hands crossed upon his sword, were vague images. Instead the First Adviser was tormented by the moment of death: his Lord sprawled upon the ground, life’s blood and entrails spilling out of his stomach, his vacant eyes filming over like those of a fish dying upon the docks. The priest of Turakamu had quickly bound Jingu’s hands with the ritual red cord and hidden his face with a scarlet cloth. But the memory remained, indelibly. The reign of a great and powerful master had ended with terrifying swiftness.

A movement reawakened Incomo to the present. He nodded in greeting to another ruler come to pay homage to Desio. Then the Minwanabi First Adviser took a deep breath and collected himself. He had managed the household through Desio’s days of dissipation with what seemed unassailable calm. But behind his emotionless, correct bearing, Incomo battled with terror. For the first time in a long life of playing the Game of the Council, he knew paralysing fear of another ruler.

His only defence against this dread was an anger fuelled by the image of Mara and her retinue crossing the lake. Dozens of other lords had departed with her, their coloured craft flocked together like waterfowl in mating plumage. Among that flotilla had been the massive white-and-gold barge of the Warlord. Almecho had moved his celebration from Jingu’s estate to the lands of the Acoma, as telling a sign of the Minwanabi fall from grace as any single thing could be.

That moment a shadow crossed Incomo’s face, ending his interval of reflection. A lean, graceful warrior mounted the dais to kneel at the feet of the new Lord. Tasaio, son of Jingu’s late brother, bowed low and presented himself to his rightful master. Tasaio’s auburn hair was tucked back into an elegant jade pin. His profile was slightly aquiline, and his bearing was impeccably correct; hands, scarred lightly from past battles, possessed the beauty of strength honed to an edge of perfection. He was the image of a humble warrior, sworn to serve his master, but nothing could hide the burning intensity in his eyes. He smiled up at his cousin and gave his pledge. ‘My Lord, this I swear, upon the spirits of our common ancestors, even to the beginning of time, and upon the natami wherein resides the Minwanabi spirit: to you I pledge honour in all things. My life and death are yours.’

Desio brightened as the most able rival to his place as ruler bowed to tradition. Incomo put away his futile wish that the Cousins’ roles had been reversed; had it been Desio bending knee before Tasaio, then would the Acoma have trembled. Instead, irrevocably, the cleverer, stronger man bound his fate to the weaker. Incomo found his hands clenched to fists, his nails gouging into his palms.

Something still nagged at him from the night when Minwanabi fortunes had soured. As Tasaio arose and marched from the dais, the First Adviser considered a new thought. Mara had managed to discover the plot to end her life – but no, Incomo corrected himself, of course she expected the attack – yet somehow she had sensed the moment and the manner of the strike. Luck could not explain such fortune. Coincidence on that scale was unlikely to the point of impossibility. The Mad God of Chance would have had to have been whispering in the Lady’s ear for her to have simply guessed what Jingu and his courtesan agent had planned.

The last Minwanabi allies were filing by, completing their assurances of friendship to Desio. The First Adviser regarded each expressionless face and concluded that their protestations were about as useful as weapons made from spun sugar. At the first sign the Minwanabi were vulnerable, each Lord here would be seeking new alliances. Even Bruli of the Kehotara had refused to renew the vow of complete vassalage his father had embraced with Jingu, leaving doubts as to his reliability. Desio had barely hidden his distaste as Bruli mouthed a promise of friendship, then departed.

Incomo smiled mechanically at each passing noble as he reviewed his own concerns. He replayed the events of the past again and again, until logic at the last yielded the answer. His conclusion was shocking, unthinkable: the Acoma must have a spy within the Minwanabi household! Jingu’s plot had been carefully laid, inescapable without privy information. Incomo found his pulse racing as he considered the ramifications.

The Game of the Council knew no respite. Always there were attempts to infiltrate the rival houses. Incomo himself had several well-placed agents and had personally thwarted attempts to penetrate the Minwanabi household. But somewhere, all too obviously, he had missed one. The Acoma spy might be a servant, a family factor, a warrior wearing an officer’s plume, even a slave. Now enmeshed in thought to trace the culprit, Incomo viewed the ceremony with impatience. Protocol demanded he remain at his post until the formalities closed.

The last Lord made his appearance. Desio dragged through an interminable speech of thanks. Incomo almost fidgeted with restlessness. Then the priests of Turakamu resumed their cursed whistle blowing and another ritual dance. At last the recessional began, Desio’s honour guard marching in measured steps out the portals from the great hall. Posted at Desio’s shoulder, but a half pace behind, Incomo reviewed each senior member of the household.

His quick mind narrowed down the possibilities, eliminating blood relations and those in service since early childhood. But even after these were put aside, the possibilities for enemy agents were still vast. So many servants had been acquired over the last three years that Incomo faced a daunting search. To dismiss these new staff members in large numbers would be a clear admission of weakness. To use torture to discover which one might be the turncoat would only alert the spy. He, or she, might then slip between their fingers. No, far better to move with caution.

The procession continued through the tunnelled hallway. Outside, the late afternoon sun dipped behind the trees. Long shadows fell over the column as honour guard and guests marched in measured step to the place appointed for the next part of the ceremony. Benches had been laid in a circle in a natural amphitheatre formed by a fold in the hills. The guests found seats in silence, and looked down upon the expanse of cleared ground in the centre. Four large holes had been dug there, a pair flanking the main road. A company of soldiers and workers awaited in neat array beside a huge, newly erected wooden frame bedecked with pulleys and ropes.

Incomo took his place on one of the central benches and strove to focus on the proceedings. Unlike Desio’s assumption of office, this was no mere formality. To build a prayer gate was to invoke the presence of a god and beg favour; to erect a monument to Turakamu, the Red God, was to risk destruction should the act be looked upon with disfavour.

The priest of Turakamu and his acolytes began dancing around the four painted beams that awaited placement in the waiting holes. They spun with mad energy, accompanied by eerie yells and blasts on the sacred bone whistle. The head priest’s naked flanks heaved with exertion, and sweat traced clean patches in his red and black ceremonial paint. The bouncing of his flaccid genitals amused Incomo. The First Adviser scolded himself for his impiety. Rather than laugh and earn the Red God’s displeasure, he averted his eyes slightly, out of respect for the holy performance.

Two groups of workers waited nearby in silence. Among them, out of place and oddly ill at ease, stood servants and their families. A girl of about seven cried and clung to her mother’s hand. Incomo wondered if the spectacle of the priest frightened her. The next moment, the head priest ended one of his spins in a motionless crouch before the little girl’s father. The acolytes screeched in unison. They sprang forward, caught the man by the shoulders in a ritual grip, and led him to the nearest of the holes. The bone whistle shrilled in the afternoon heat. The chosen man closed his eyes and silently jumped down into the hole, which was deep, and wide.

Then the act was repeated with another man, whose wife hid her face in a most unseemly way. When the second hole was occupied, the priest gave a tortured shriek. Then he intoned, ‘Oh Turakamu, who judge all men at the last, welcome to your service these two worthy spirits. They shall stand eternally vigilant over this, your monument. Look upon their families with charity, and when their children pass at length through your hall, judge them kindly and return them to life with your blessing.’

Incomo heard the opening ritual with a rising unease. Human sacrifice was rare in the Empire, and while no longer common, it was still a practice in the Red God’s temple. Obviously, these two workers had volunteered to become sacrifices for the gate, in exchange for the hope their children might return to their next life born to higher station: warriors, or perhaps even lords. Incomo considered that a thin bargain at best. If a man was pious enough, should the gods not grant him favour, as temple aphorism stated?

Yet only a fool would speak against an offering to the Red God. Incomo watched in stony stillness as the volunteers were tucked into their holes, knees under chin and hands crossed in semblance of eternal prayer. The priests screeched a paean to their divine master, then signalled work crews to hoist the massive timbers that would support the arch of the gate. Ropes creaked under the strain as the workers hoisted the first upright high; they chanted and swung the beam, and a scythe of shadow crossed the pit as the end was jockeyed into position. Now the crowd of Minwanabi supporters was frozen, awaiting the moment of sacrifice. A foreman with a squint judged the position correct; he signalled to the head priest, who touched his bone whistle to his lips and blasted the quavering note that would summon the god.

As the call faded, and a hush claimed the gathering, two lesser priests raised a sacred axe of shining obsidian and slashed the ropes. The carved pole was released, thudded downward into the waiting hole, and crushed the first servant like a bug. A spatter of blood sprayed up from the earth, and the sobbing child tore from her mother’s hold and threw herself against the post that had slain her father. ‘Bring him back! Bring him back!’ she cried repeatedly as Minwanabi soldiers dragged her away.

Incomo knew the Red Priest counted this an inauspicious start. In an attempt to appease his god, the priest revised the ritual from first-level sacrifice to second. He clicked his bone rattle with his fingernails, and his acolytes donned ceremonial masks. The second victim was dragged from his hole, confusion plain in his eyes. He had expected his end to be the same as his predecessor’s, but apparently this was not to be.

The first masked acolyte stepped forward with a bowl and an obsidian knife. He said no word, but at a gesture from the head priest, the men gripped the farmer spread-eagled over the bowl. The acolyte raised his knife, chanting, and called for the god’s favour. He laid the blade first on one side of the pinioned man’s temple, and then the other, consecrating the sacrifice. The unfortunate farmer trembled under the touch of the stone knife; he flinched as its keen edge cut a symbol into his forehead, and strove to endure without outcry as a slash from the priest opened his right wrist.

Blood pattered into the dust like obscene rain. Acolytes became spattered as they rushed to catch the drops in the bowl; and like a litany of the damned, the whistle of the priest shrilled again. The second upright was hoisted. The obsidian knife darted again and drank from another vein. Now the farmer whimpered. He felt his life draining away, but the end could not come quickly enough to deaden his fear. He stumbled against the priests as they lifted him and lowered him head downward into the pit. The beam swung overhead. The whistle wailed, entreating the god to grant his favour. The head priest signalled, hastening the ceremony, since, for the gift to be acceptable, the waiting sacrifice must not lose consciousness and die before time. Yet haste cancelled precision. As the ropes were slashed, one acolyte hesitated, and the massive timber turned slightly as it fell. Its bole crashed against one lip of the hole; dirt and rock cascaded downward, bringing an involuntary yelp of terror from the victim. Then the full weight of the trunk sheered down the sidewall. The timber crushed the legs and hips of the farmer but did not kill him outright. He screamed uncontrollably in pain, and the ceremony became shambles.

In vain Desio shouted for workers to right the tilted trunk. Pale in his rings and finery, he threw himself face down on the bloodied earth and begged the Red God’s forbearance. The head priest advanced, his whistle silenced. Before all the waiting company, he rattled his beads and bones and solemnly announced his divine master’s displeasure. Over the wail of the maimed sacrifice he demanded to hear what the Lord of the Minwanabi would pledge to regain the Red God’s favour.

Behind the tableau of Lord and priest, slaves strained at ropes, and the gate timber was slowly dragged upright. The farmer’s screams changed pitch but did not stop. Workers rushed forward with baskets of earth and upended them into the pit, and gradually the cries became muffled; no one dared end the farmer’s agony. His life had been consecrated to the god, and to interfere would bring curse.

Sweating, his face smeared with dust and gore, Desio sat up. ‘All-powerful Turakamu,’ he intoned, ‘I pledge you the lives of my enemies, from the highest of noble blood to the life of the lowliest relations. This I promise if you will stay your wrath and allow Minwanabi victory!’ To the priest he said, ‘If the all-powerful sees fit to grant my humble appeal, I promise a second grand prayer gate. Its posts shall be consecrated with the lives of the Acoma Lady and her firstborn son and heir. The path beneath shall be paved with the crushed stone of the Acoma natami, and polished by the feet of your devoted worshippers. This I will give to the glory of the Red God if mercy is shown for the transgressions that have happened this day.’

Desio fell silent. The priest stood over him for a moment, unmoving. Then he assented with a sharp jerk of his head. ‘Swear your promise,’ he boomed out, and extended his bone whistle for Desio to seal his pledge to the god.

Desio reached out, convinced that once his hand clasped the bone, he was committed irrevocably. He hesitated, and a hiss from the priest warned he was close to bringing the Red God’s wrath. Feverishly he grasped the relic. ‘I, Desio, Lord of the Minwanabi, swear.’

‘Upon the blood of your house!’ commanded the priest.

Onlookers could not help but gasp, for the priest made clear the Red God’s price for failure. Desio embraced the same destruction for his entire house, from himself down to his most distant relative – the same ruin he promised the Acoma – should he fail. Even should both sides come to desire truce in the future, no quarter was now possible. Within the near future one of two ancient and honourable houses would cease to exist.

‘Turakamu hears your offering,’ the priest cried. As Desio released the relic, the priest spun and gestured to the incomplete gate, which arose like blackened pillars against the sky of sunset. ‘Let this gate stand incomplete, from this day forth. Its posts shall be carved into columns with the promise of the Minwanabi inscribed on each side. Neither shall this monument be changed or taken down until the Acoma are ashes pledged to the glory of Turakamu!’ Then he looked at Desio. ‘Or the Minwanabi are dust!’

Desio dragged himself to his feet. He seemed shaken, overwhelmed by a poor beginning to the grandiose oath he had sworn. Incomo’s lips thinned with anger. If there was an Acoma spy in the Minwanabi household, he had more to worry about than rumours as aftermath from this day’s affairs. The First Adviser studied the expressions of the family members as they departed; most showed strain, a few looked frightened, and here and there a noble swaggered with his chin jutted aggressively. Many would seek to advance themselves in the family hierarchy if Desio proved a weak ruler, but no one seemed particularly satisfied by the terrible turn of the day’s events. Abandoning the attempt to divine the spy by naked will, Incomo sought his master.

Tasaio stood at the side of his Lord, supporting Desio’s elbow. Although the Lord was the one wearing armour, there was no mistaking which was the warrior. Tasaio’s carriage held the unthinking and deadly grace of the sarcat. Incomo hurried closer. Words reached his ears, blown on the rising winds of an incoming storm.

‘My Lord, you must not look back upon the mishaps of today as ill-omened. You have sworn our family to a powerful oath. Now let us see what we can do about fulfilling it.’

‘Yes,’ Desio agreed woodenly. ‘But where to begin? Mara has cho-ja warriors guarding her estate house; outright assault is folly without the Warlord’s favour. Besides, even should we be victorious, we would be weakened, and a dozen other houses would rush to seek advantage over us.’

‘Ah, but, cousin, I have ideas.’ Tasaio sensed an approaching step, looked around, and identified Incomo. His quick, flashing smile seemed calculated to the First Adviser, despite its spontaneity. ‘Honoured First Adviser, I urge that we convene a meeting. If our Lord can fulfil his oath to the Red God, much glory may be gained for our house.’

Incomo searched the words for irony – to fail a promise to the Death God would bring the Minwanabi to final ruin – and saw that Tasaio was sincere. Then he examined the usually stern face for any hint of deceit, but found none. ‘You have a plan?’

Tasaio’s smile widened. ‘Many plans. But first I understand we have to flush out an Acoma spy.’

While Desio’s soiled face showed muddled astonishment, Incomo struggled to conceal suspicion. ‘How could you know about that, honoured cousin?’

‘But we have no Acoma spies in our midst!’ Desio broke in, suddenly and righteously outraged.

Tasaio laid a calming hand on the young Lord’s arm, his words directed mostly toward Incomo. ‘But we must. How else could that stripling bitch know our last Lord intended to kill her?’

Incomo inclined his head as if acknowledging a victory. That Tasaio had also surmised the cause of Mara’s survival at the Warlord’s celebration showed the depth of his thinking. ‘Honoured cousin, for the good of us all, I think we should listen to your plans.’ With a withered scowl, he reached out and helped the tall warrior shepherd his Lord back to the shelter of the estate house.

Ancient parquet floors creaked as servants hustled about, adjusting screens and drapes against rising breezes from the south. An approaching storm scudded clouds over the lake’s silvered face, offering early but unmistakable presage of the wet season. The smell of rain mingled with the indoor scents of furniture oils and dust that ingrained the small study, a private chamber used by Jingu and his predecessors to formulate their deepest plots. The painted window screens were small, to discourage observers from the outside, yet the air was never stifling.

Damp made Incomo’s bones ache. Concealing an urge to frown, he folded himself neatly onto the cushions opposite the Lord’s seat, an elaborate nest of pillows atop a two-inch-high dais. Some long-past Minwanabi ancestor had decided that a Lord should at all times be raised above his retainers, and most rooms in the older portions of the estate house bore the token of his belief.

Incomo had been reared to the inconvenience of multilevel floors and of flagstones on certain walkways that were a half-step higher than those adjacent; but a new servant was always conspicuous by the number of times that he tripped. Sourly, his thoughts preoccupied by spies, Incomo considered which factors and servants had been clumsiest while serving his late-departed Lord; none came immediately to mind, which added to the First Adviser’s discomforts. In frustration, he awaited his master.

The servants had departed by the time Desio could be unlaced and divested of his ceremonial armour and be wrapped in an orange silk robe sewn with black symbols connoting prosperity. He did not dally longer with bathing, as his father had been wont to do; smelling faintly of nervous sweat, he entered with his cousin in attendance and levered his bulk onto the precious gilt-edged cushions that his predecessor had worn thin before him. Desio was agitated. Incomo decided he looked as if he was coming down with a cold, pale as reed paper about the face, except for his nose, which was pink. Beside him, his cousin looked tanned and lean and dangerous.

While Desio squirmed his way into a comfortable position, Tasaio settled and rested his elbows on his knees. Beside Desio’s fidgeting, Tasaio owned the taut stillness of a predator while it tests the air.

Tasaio had lost nothing by serving in the barbarian wars for the past four years, Incomo concluded. Although the war had not advanced as well as the Warlord had promised, the time away from the Game of the Council had only sharpened the young man’s wits. He had risen to the position of First Subcommander to the Warlord, Almecho, and had gained great advantages for the Minwanabi – until Jingu’s death had humbled them.

‘My esteemed cousin and my First Adviser,’ Desio opened, struggling to mask his inexperience and at least act the part of Ruling Lord, ‘we are gathered here to discuss the possibility of an Acoma spy in our midst.’

‘No possibility, but a certainty,’ Incomo snapped. What the household needed was action, swiftly and decisively carried out. ‘And we must not assume there is only one.’

Desio opened his mouth in outrage, both against his First Adviser’s impertinence and also to rebut the idea that the Acoma could have infiltrated Minwanabi ranks more than once.

Tasaio’s lips tightened in barely withheld contempt; but no disparagement showed through his tone as he smoothly and gently interjected. ‘Your father was a great player of the game, Desio. If not through underhanded treachery, how else could a girl child have come to best him?’

‘How could a girl child, as you call her, have managed to place such a masterful network of spies?’ Desio spluttered. ‘Damn her to Turakamu’s pleasures – and may he take her to his bed of pain for ten thousand years – she was in Lashima’s convent until the day she came into her inheritance! And her father had no such penchant for implanting agents. He was too straightforward in his thinking to have much use for spies.’

‘Well then, cousin, those are things we must find out.’ Tasaio made a gesture, symbolic of the sword’s thrust. ‘You speak as if the girl leads a charmed life. She does not. I arranged to have the outworld barbarians kill her father and brother on our behalf – rather neatly if I may say so. Sezu and Lanokota bled and died as other men do, clutching their opened guts and squirming in the mud.’ Passion lent fire to Tasaio’s words. ‘If the Acoma claim the Mad God’s luck, it certainly didn’t serve Mara’s father and brother very well!’

Desio almost smiled, before he recalled that his father had ended the same way, in agony on his own sword. Petulantly he poked at the pillows that crumpled under his weight. ‘If there are spies, then, how shall we flush them out?’

Incomo drew breath to answer, then deferred to a glance from Tasaio. ‘If my Lord permits, I would offer a suggestion.’

Desio waved his assent. Interested enough to forget his various aches, Incomo leaned forward to hear the young warrior’s advice.

Instinctively, Tasaio made use of the wind that rattled the screens. Timing the gusts to mask his voice against the chance he might be overheard, he said, ‘A spy is of little use if his information is not employed. So we turn that fact to our advantage.

‘I recommend that you formulate some activities that would be detrimental to Acoma interests. Order your Force Commander to mount a raid against a caravan or outlying holding. Next day you let slip to your grain factor that you intend to undercut the Acoma thyza prices in the markets in the City of the Plains.’ Tasaio paused, lending the appearance that he sat at ease, sharing confidences. And yet Incomo noted with approval that he did not entirely relax; the glitter in his eyes betrayed that he watched, always, for trouble. ‘If Mara defends her caravans, we know we have a spy in the barracks. If she withholds her thyza crop from market, we establish that we have an Acoma disguised as a clerk. After that, it becomes a matter of digging out the informer.’

‘Very clever, Tasaio,’ Incomo said. ‘I had thought of a similar tactic, but there remains one telling flaw. We cannot afford to sell our thyza at a loss; and won’t we reveal our machinations to the Acoma when no attack befalls the caravan?’

‘We would if we failed to attack.’ Tasaio’s eyelids hooded slightly. ‘But we will attack, and be defeated.’

Angered, Desio punched his pillows. ‘Defeated? And lose more position in the council?’

Tasaio raised his hand, thumb and forefinger poised a scant inch apart. ‘Only a little defeat, cousin. Enough to provide proof that we are compromised. I have plans for that spy, when we find him … with your permission, of course, my Lord.’

The moment was smoothly handled, Incomo observed with hidden admiration. Without coming to grips with Desio directly, Tasaio had let slip the assumption that the young Lord would receive his due credit; the other side of the issue being that permission, of course, would be granted.

Desio swallowed the bait, but missed the larger implications. ‘When we catch this traitor, I will see him tortured in the name of the Red God until his flesh is twitching pulp!’ His plump fist pummelled cushions for emphasis, and his nose deepened from pink to purple.

But as if he handled irate nobility on a daily basis, Tasaio showed no alarm. ‘That would be gratifying, cousin,’ he agreed. ‘Yet, to kill that spy, however horribly, would offer the Acoma a victory.’

‘What!’ Desio stopped thumping and shot erect. ‘Cousin, you make my head ache. What could the Minwanabi gain but insult by keeping a miserable spy alive?’

Tasaio settled back on one elbow and casually plucked a fruit from a bowl on a side table. As though its ripe skin were flesh, he stroked his nail down the curve in what seemed almost a caress. ‘We need this spy’s contacts, honoured Lord. It serves our cause to ensure that our Acoma enemies learn only what we wish them to know.’ The warrior’s hands gripped the fruit and gave a vicious twist. The jomach split in half, with barely a splash of red juice. ‘Let the spy set up our next trap.’

Incomo considered, then smiled. Desio looked from his cousin to his First Adviser, and managed not to fumble the catch as his cousin tossed him one piece of the fruit. He bit into the morsel, and then began to laugh, for the first time restored to the arrogant certainty of his family’s greatness. ‘Good,’ he said, chewing with relish. ‘I like your plan, cousin. We shall dispatch a company of men on some useless raid and let the Acoma bitch think she has routed us.’

Tasaio tapped the remaining bit of fruit with his forefinger. ‘But where? Where shall we attack?’

Incomo pondered, then offered, ‘My Lord, I suggest that the raid should be close to her home.’

‘Why?’ Desio wiped juice off his chin with his embroidered cuff. ‘She will be guarding her estate rigorously, as usual.’

‘Not the estate, itself, Lord, for the Lady needs no spy’s report to maintain vigilance against attack from your army. But she will not expect a raid against a caravan bound for the river port at Sulan-Qu. If we attack between the Acoma lands and the city, and she is prepared for our raid, we can pinpoint the flow of information and find the agent among your household.’

Tasaio inclined his head in an unconscious gesture of command. ‘First Adviser, your counsel is excellent. My Lord, if you will permit, I will oversee preparations for such a raid. A routine trade shipment would warrant little protection, unless the Acoma bitch knows she deals with blood enemies.’ He smiled, and white teeth gleamed against skin tanned dark on the Warlord’s campaign. ‘We should know when such a caravan is due, simply by contacting shipping brokers in Sulan-Qu. A few discreet questions, and maybe a bribe or two to hide our inquiries, and we should know within the hour when Mara’s next caravan is expected.’

Desio met Tasaio’s offer with a lordly air of industry. ‘Cousin, your advice is brilliant.’ He clapped his hands, bringing the errand runner in from his position outside the door. ‘Fetch my scribe,’ he commanded.

As the slave departed, Tasaio’s composure became that of a man sorely tried. ‘Cousin,’ he assayed, ‘you must not write down the orders that we have discussed this hour!’

‘Hah!’ Desio released a second snicker, then a full-throated laugh. He leaned from his dais and fetched his cousin a resounding blow on the shoulder. ‘Hah!’ he snorted again. ‘You must not mock my intelligence, Tasaio. Of course I know better than to include even servants and slaves in our plot! No, I simply thought to pen a notice to the Warlord, begging his forbearance for your absence from his campaign upon the barbarian world. He will acquiesce, as the Minwanabi are still his most valued ally. And, cousin, you have just shown me how much more you are needed here.’

Incomo watched Tasaio’s reaction to his Lord’s praise. He had not missed the battle-trained reflex that had seen the friendly blow coming, nor had he failed to note the calculated and split-second decision that allowed the stroke to connect. Tasaio had grown skilled at politics as well as at killing.

With cold curiosity, the Minwanabi First Adviser wondered how long his master would be amenable to the counsel of one so obviously gifted with the qualities Desio lacked, but who could not be spared in restoring the Minwanabi to their former greatness. Desio would know that his cousin’s cleverness showed him up for a fool; eventually he would become jealous, would wish more than the puppet title of Lord. Incomo noticed that his headache was back in force. He could only hope that Desio would wait to turn upon his cousin until after the Acoma bitch and her heir were pulp under the post of the Red God’s grand prayer gate. Best not to underestimate how long that feat might take. Such vanity on a lesser scale had cost Jingu of the Minwanabi his life; and through that misfortune, Mara had received enough recognition to gain powerful allies.

Apparently Tasaio’s mind turned to similar concerns, for after the message to the Warlord was penned, and while Desio occupied himself with ordering servants to bring him refreshments, the warrior cousin turned to Incomo with a seemingly casual question. ‘Does anyone know whether Mara has had a chance to make overtures to the Xacatecas? When I received my recall orders from the barbarian world, a friend among his officers mentioned that their Lord considered approaching her.’

Here Tasaio revealed his cunning. No friendship might exist between officers who were enemies; by this, Incomo understood that the information had been gained by intrigue. With a grunt that passed for laughter, Incomo shared out his own latest gleanings.

‘The Lord of the Xacatecas is a man worthy of … if not fear, then deep respect. His position in the High Council, though, is not advantageous at the moment.’ With a flash of perfect teeth, he added, ‘Our most noble Warlord was somewhat put out with the Xacatecas’ reluctance to expand his interests in the conquest of the barbarian world. Some political byplay resulted, and when the dust settled, Lord Xacatecas wound up with military responsibility for our tiny province across the sea. Chipino of the Xacatecas languishes in Dustari at the moment, commanding the garrison that holds the only noteworthy pass through the mountains to Tsubar. The desert raiders are active, at last report, so I expect he has his hands full – let us hope too full to concern himself with advances toward the Acoma.’

Finished with his servants, and left with nothing to do but anticipate his elaborate midafternoon feast, Desio picked up on the conversation. He waved one pudgy hand to restore proper attention to himself and said, ‘I advised my father on that plan, Tasaio.’

The First Adviser refrained from pointing out that all Desio had done was sit in the room while Incomo and Jingu had discussed means to get Xacatecas occupied.

‘Well then,’ said Tasaio, ‘if Xacatecas is busy guarding our frontiers across the sea, we can focus our attention upon Lady Mara.’

Desio nodded and leaned back upon his imposing pile of cushions. With his eyes half-closed, and an obvious enjoyment of his newfound authority, he said, ‘I think your plan a wise one, cousin. See to it.’

Tasaio bowed to his Lord as if his dismissal had not been that of a thankless underling; all pride and spare movement, he left the private study. Incomo buried his regret at the young warrior’s departure. Resigned to the life the gods gave, he forced himself to attend the less glorious realities of Tsurani life; no matter what plots of blood and murder might drive the Game of the Council, other mundane matters remained to be considered. ‘My Lord, if you’re agreeable, there are some grain transactions your hadonra needs to discuss with you.’

More interested in thoughts of his lunch, Desio seemed less than anxious to deal with the prosaic side of family business. But as if his cousin’s icy competence had awakened him to responsibility, he realized that he must. He nodded and waited without complaint as Incomo sent for Murgali, the hadonra.