Daughter of the Empire (50 page)

The chance to kill Mara was lost. Shimizu might love Teani, but a warrior’s code would never value a courtesan
above honour. He bowed and sheathed his fouled blade. ‘Lady, I just aided your honour guard in dispatching a thief. That he died at his duty is the will of the gods. Now you must flee the fire!’

‘Thief?’ Mara all but choked on the word; at her feet, Papewaio lay sprawled with a black-handled dagger in his shoulder. That thrust could never have killed him, but the gaping wound through his heart surely had.

The first, shouting guests reached the scene of the fire, and taking no further notice of Mara, the Minwanabi Strike Leader called orders to clear the halls. Already the flames reached the corner supports, and fumes boiled white from the varnish, filling the air with an acrid odour.

Through the guests pushed Nacoya, clutching a few belongings as the two whimpering maids hauled the biggest box out of harm’s way. ‘Come, child.’ Nacoya caught her mistress’s sleeve, trying to pull her down the hall to safety.

Tears and smoke stung Mara’s eyes. She resisted Nacoya’s efforts, motioning for the Minwanabi servants who arrived to assist. Nacoya indulged in a rare blasphemy, but her mistress refused to move. Two servants took the carry box from the struggling maids. Others raced to gather the rest of Mara’s property from the rapidly spreading flames. Two burly workers took Nacoya by the arm and led her out of danger.

Shimizu caught at Mara’s robe. ‘You must come, Lady. The walls will soon fall.’ Already the heat of the blaze was becoming unbearable.

The bucket bearers began their job. Water hissed onto flaming timbers, but on the opposite side of the room from the place where the dead thief lay. His clothing had begun to blaze, eradicating any evidence of treachery he might have provided. Dully Mara responded to necessity.
‘I will not leave until the body of my Strike Leader has been carried from the field.’

Shimizu nodded. Without emotion he bent and shouldered the corpse of the warrior he had just run through with a sword.

Mara followed through halls choking with smoke as a murderer bore brave Papewaio’s body to the coolness of the night. She stumbled past servants who struggled with slopping buckets to battle the blaze, lest their master’s estate house become totally engulfed. Mara implored the gods to let it burn, let it all burn, so that Jingu might know a tenth part of the loss she felt at Pape’s death.

She might have wept then for the loss of a loyal friend; but amid a cluster of sleep-rumpled guests Jingu of the Minwanabi awaited, his eyes bright with the joy of victory.

Shimizu deposited Papewaio’s body on the cool grass and said, ‘Master, a thief – one of your servants – sought to use the confusion of new guests in the house to cover his escape. I found him dead at the hands of the Lady of the Acoma’s honour guard, but that brave warrior was also slain in turn. I found this on the dead man.’ Shimizu gave over a necklace of no particular beauty but fashioned from costly metal.

Jingu nodded. ‘This belongs to my wife. The culprit must be a house servant who pilfered our quarters while we dined.’ With an evil grin, he turned to face Mara. ‘It is a pity that such a worthy warrior had to give his life to protect a trinket.’

No evidence or witness existed to refute such obvious lies. Mara’s wits returned like a cold rush of wind. Before Jingu of the Minwanabi she bowed with icy poise. ‘My Lord, it is true that my Strike Leader Papewaio died bravely, defending the wealth of your wife from a thief.’

Taking her agreement for capitulation, and a salute to
his superiority in the game, the Lord of the Minwanabi expansively offered commiseration. ‘Lady, your Strike Leader’s valour in behalf of my house shall not be unremarked. Let all present know that he conducted himself with highest honour.’

Mara returned a level stare. ‘Then honour Papewaio’s spirit as he deserves. Grant his memory due ceremony and provide him a funeral in proportion to his sacrifice.’

The shouts of the bucket brigade filled an interval as Jingu considered refusing Mara’s request. But then he noticed the Warlord grinning at him through an opened screen across the courtyard.

Almecho was aware that Papewaio’s death had been murder; but the contrived excuses did not upset protocol, such nuances amused him hugely, and since Mara had not cried for mercy, or otherwise flinched from the brutalities inherent in the Great Game, she was due this recompense from her enemy. Almecho called out to Jingu in a show of camaraderie, ‘My Lord host, your wife’s metal jewellery is worth many times the cost of such a rite. Give the Acoma man his funeral, for the gods’ sake, Jingu. His death leaves you a debt of honour. And since he lost his life at my birthday celebration, twenty of my own Imperial Whites shall stand in salute around the pyre.’

Jingu returned a deferential nod to Almecho, but his eyes showed cold annoyance in the light of the flames that still burned through one of his finer suites. ‘Hail to Papewaio,’ he conceded to Mara. ‘Tomorrow I shall honour his shade with a funeral.’

Mara bowed and retired to Nacoya’s side. Supported by her maids, she watched Shimizu retrieve the limp form of Papewaio and toss him indifferently to the strangers who would prepare him for his funeral. Tears threatened her composure. Survival did not seem possible without Pape. The hands dragging lifelessly across the damp grass
had guarded her cradle when she was first born; they had steadied some of her first steps and defended her from murder in the sacred grove. The fact that the Lord of the Minwanabi was now obliged to pay for an extravagant ceremony to honour the warrior of an enemy house seemed a hollow victory, and meaningless. No more would the flamboyant red shirt with its tassels and embroidery bother anyone’s eyes on festival days; and right now that loss seemed more important than any power gained in the Game of the Council.

The drums boomed.

The guests of Jingu of the Minwanabi gathered in the main foyer of the estate house for Papewaio’s funeral. Foremost among them, and veiled in red in deference to the God of Death, Mara of the Acoma led her temporary honour guard, one of the Warlord’s Imperial Whites. The drumbeat deepened, the sign for the procession to begin. Mara held a frond of ke reed in her hands, the raising of which would signal the marchers forward. Now was the time. Yet she closed her eyes, hesitant.

Weariness and grief left an ache inside that no ceremony would assuage. The Acoma were warriors, and Papewaio had given his life to serve his mistress, earning him an honourable death, but Mara still ached for him.

The drums boomed again, insistent. Mara lifted the scarlet reed. Feeling more alone than ever before in her life, she led the procession through the wide doorway to honour the shade of Papewaio, First Strike Leader of the Acoma. Jingu of the Minwanabi and the Warlord came after her, followed by the most powerful families of the Empire. They moved without speaking into a daylight turned gloomy with clouds. Mara’s steps were heavy, her feet reluctant to continue, yet each time the drum beat, she managed another stride. She had slept safely the night before in the Warlord’s suite; but her rest had been the drugged sleep of total fatigue, and she had not awakened refreshed.

A rare storm had blown in from the north, bringing misting rain. Low-hanging tendrils of fog curled across
the surface of the lake, stone-grey in the subdued light. The damp made the air chill after weeks of arid heat, and Mara shivered. The earth under her sandals seemed dank as death itself. She thanked the Goddess of Wisdom that Nacoya had not insisted upon attending the funeral ceremony. By agreement with her mistress, the old woman had pleaded illness from the smoke and the sorrow of the last night’s events; for the moment she lay safe on her mat in the suite of the Warlord, Almecho.

Mara led the procession down the gentle slope to the lakeside, grateful that only her own safety should concern her; for the guests who walked in pairs behind her were edgy, unpredictable as caged beasts. Not one of them believed the fiction that a servant had stolen the jewels of the Lady of the Minwanabi. No one had been impolite enough to point out that Shimizu had the alleged booty in his possession while the thief’s body was consumed by fire before anyone could reach him. The possibility that Jingu had violated his pledged oath of guest safety could not be questioned without proof. Hereafter Mara and her retinue might not be the only targets for such plotting; no Lord present dared relax for the remainder of the gathering, for a few among them might react to the uncertainty in the atmosphere and strike at enemies of their own.

Only the Warlord seemed amused. Since he was the Emperor’s voice within the Empire, the conspiracies and the setbacks of the rival factions beneath him offered as much enjoyment as the festivities honouring his birthday – which Papewaio’s funeral had deferred until tomorrow. While his host, the Lord of the Minwanabi, fixed his attentions on Mara of the Acoma, Almecho knew Jingu was not plotting to wear the white and gold – at least not this week.

Though most guests marched in proper silence, Almecho whispered pleasantries in the ear of Jingu. This
landed the Lord of the Minwanabi in a prickly mesh of protocol: whether he should remain serious, as was proper for a Lord who attended the funeral of one who had died defending his property; or whether he should defer to the mood of his guest of honour, and smile at the jokes, which in all likelihood were presented to provoke precisely this same dilemma.

But Mara drew no satisfaction from Jingu’s discomfort. Ahead, on a finger of land past the piers, rose the ceremonial pyre of the Acoma First Strike Leader. He lay in his plumes and ceremonial armour, his sword upon his breast; and across the blade his crossed wrists were bound with scarlet cord, signifying death’s dominance over the flesh. Beyond him, at attention, stood the fifty warriors of the Acoma retinue. They were permitted at the gathering to honour their departed officer; and from their number Mara must choose Papewaio’s successor, one soldier to stand as her honour guard throughout the remainder of the celebration for the Warlord. Almost, her step faltered on the path. To think of another in Pape’s place brought pain past bearing; yet the more practical side of her mind kept functioning. Her next stride was firm, and her choice already made. Arakasi must wear the honour guard’s mantle, for she would need any information he might have gathered to counter the Minwanabi threat.

Mara stepped up to the bier. She lowered the scarlet reed, and the guests fanned out, forming a circle around Papewaio’s body, leaving small openings at the east and west. The neat lines of Acoma warriors waited behind Papewaio’s head, each holding his sword point down in the earth to symbolize a warrior fallen.

The drums boomed and fell silent. Mara raised her voice to open the ceremonies. ‘We are gathered to commemorate the life deeds of Papewaio, son of Papendaio,
grandson of Kelsai. Let all present know that he achieved the rank of First Strike Leader of the Acoma, and that the honours that earned him this postion were many.’

Mara paused and faced east; and the small gap left in the circle was now filled by a white-robed priest of Chochocan, who wore armlets woven of thyza reed, and whose presence symbolized life. The Lady of the Acoma bowed in deference to the god, then began to recite the memorable deeds of Papewaio’s service, from the first day of his oath to the Acoma natami. As she spoke, the priest shed his mantle. Naked but for his symbols of office, he danced in celebration of the strong, brave warrior who lay in state upon the bier.

The list of Papewaio’s honours was a lengthy one. Well before the recitation ended, Mara had to struggle to keep her composure. Yet as her account faltered, the guests did not fidget or show boredom. Life and death, and the winning of glory according to the code of honour, were a subject central to the Tsurani civilization; the deeds of this particular servant of the Acoma were impressive. Rivalry, hatred, even blood feud did not extend past the borders of death, and so long as the priest danced in remembrance of Papewaio, the Lord of the Minwanabi and every distinguished guest acknowledged the renown of the deceased.

But no warrior’s prowess could accomplish immortality. Eventually Mara reached the night when the blade of a thief had ended a brilliant career. The dancer bowed to the earth before the bier, and the Lady of the Acoma turned west, where a red-robed priest stood in the small gap in the circle. She bowed in respect to the representative of the Red God; and the priest in service to the Death God threw off his mantle.

He was masked with a red skull, for no mortal might
know the face of death until his turn came to greet the Red God, Turakamu. The priest’s skin was dyed scarlet, and his armlets were woven of serpent skins. Again Mara raised her voice. She managed the last with flawless poise, for her life now balanced upon her ability to play the Great Game. In ringing tones she described the death of a warrior. And with true Tsurani appreciation of theatre and ceremony, she made her account an accolade to the honour of Papewaio.

The priest of Turakamu danced a warrior’s death, with bravery, glory, and honour that live on in memory. When he finished, he drew a black knife and slashed the scarlet cords that bound Papewaio’s wrists. The time for flesh was ended, and the spirit must be freed from its bondage to death.

Mara swallowed, her eyes dry and hard. From the priest of Turakamu she accepted the flaming torch that burned at the foot of the bier. This she raised skyward, with a silent prayer to Lashima. Now she must name Papewaio’s successor, the man who would assume his former duties so that his spirit would be free of mortal obligation. Saddened, Mara strode to the head of the bier. With trembling fingers she fixed the red reed to the warrior’s helm. Then she plucked away the officer’s plume, and turned to face the still ranks of the Acoma soldiers who closed the north end of the circle.

‘Arakasi,’ she said; and though her summons was barely above a whisper, the Spy Master heard.

He stepped forward and bowed.

‘I pray to the gods I have chosen wisely,’ Mara murmured as she gave the torch and the plume into his hands.

Arakasi straightened and regarded her with dark, enigmatic eyes. Then, without comment, he turned and cried out for his companion at arms, Papewaio. The priest of Chochocan re-entered the circle with a reed cage that
contained a white-plumed tirik bird, symbol of the spirit of rebirth. As the flames touched the kindling stack beneath Papewaio’s muscled corpse, the priest slashed the reed constraints with a knife. And Mara watched, her eyes misted, as the white bird shot skyward and vanished into the rain.

Fire hissed and cracked, smoky in the dampness. The guests waited a respectful interval before they filed slowly back to the estate house. Mara remained, along with her fifty warriors and her newly chosen honour guard, waiting for the fire to burn out and the priests of Chochocan and Turakamu to gather Papewaio’s ashes. These would be enclosed within an urn and buried beneath the wall of the Acoma contemplation glade, to honour the fact that Papewaio had died in loyal service to the family. For a time, Mara was alone with Arakasi, away from the scrutiny of the guests.

‘You did not bring Nacoya with you,’ Arakasi murmured, his words barely audible over the snap of the pyre. ‘Mistress, that was clever.’

His choice of words pierced the lethargy left by grief. Mara turned her head slightly, studying the Spy Master to analyse the reason for the edge of sarcasm she had detected in his tone. ‘Nacoya is in the estate house, ill.’ Mara paused, waiting for a reply. When none came, she added, ‘We shall be joining her within the hour. Do you think you can keep us alive until evening?’ The remainder of the day had been set aside for contemplation and remembrance of Papewaio. But she referred to the fact that, once away from the bier, the guests would reassume the ongoing machinations of the game; and Arakasi, though competent, was not her most proficient swordsman.

The Spy Master accepted the implication with the barest indication of a smile. ‘Very wise, indeed, my Lady.’

And by his tone of relief, Mara understood. He had thought she intended to flee the Minwanabi, now, while she was reunited with her warriors. Nacoya would have agreed to remain behind towards this end, an intentional sacrifice to blind Minwanabi to her mistress’s intention to break and run for home. Mara swallowed, pained again by grief. How readily the old woman might have embraced such a ruse, her abandonment in an enemy house a gambit to ensure Acoma continuance.

‘Papewaio was sacrifice enough,’ Mara said, sharply enough for Arakasi to know that flight was the last of her intentions.

The Spy Master nodded fractionally. ‘Good. You would not have survived, in any event. Minwanabi has ringed his estates with his armies, with the appearance of safe-guarding the presence of his guests. But over their drink and their dice, his soldiers admit that many others without colours wait outside the estate borders, posing as pirates or roving bands of outlaws, to trap the Lady of the Acoma.’

Mara’s eyes widened. ‘And how did you know this? By borrowing an orange tunic and mingling with the enemy?’

Arakasi chuckled, very low in his throat. ‘Hardly that, my Lady. I have informants.’ He regarded his mistress, studying a face that was pale but for the faint flush lent by the heat of the fire. Her slight frame was straight, and her eyes afraid but determined. ‘Since we stay and confront the Lord of the Minwanabi, there are things you should know.’

Now Mara showed the slightest indication of triumph. ‘Loyal Arakasi. I chose you because I trusted you to hate the Lord of the Minwanabi as I do. We understand each other very well. Now tell me all you know that will help me to humble this man who murdered my family and a warrior who was most dear to my heart.’

‘He has a weak link in his household,’ Arakasi said without preamble. ‘A relli in his nest that he does not know about. I have discovered that Teani is an Anasati spy.’

Mara drew a startled breath. ‘Teani?’ She assessed this and suddenly felt more than the chill of the rain. All along, Nacoya had insisted that the concubine had been more dangerous than Mara credited; and Mara had not listened, a mistake that might have cost her everything she had struggled to gain, for here was a Minwanabi servant who had no concern should Mara’s death cost Jingu his life and honour. In fact, to arrange such a pass would no doubt please Tecuma, as it would avenge Buntokapi’s death and remove the man most likely to cause little Ayaki harm. Mara wasted no time on recriminations but at once began to calculate how this information might be used to her advantage. ‘What else do you know of Teani?’

‘The news is very recent. Word just reached me last night.’ Arakasi lifted the plume and, by tilting his head to affix it to his helm, managed to speak directly into Mara’s ear. ‘I know the concubine shares her favours with one of the higher-ranking officers, which the Lord suspects but has not proven. Jingu has many women he calls upon, but she is his favourite. He does not care to do without her … talents long.’

Mara considered this, gazing into the flames of Papewaio’s pyre; and a memory returned, of fire and dark, when Pape had lain still warm in the courtyard at her feet. Teani had accompanied the Lord of the Minwanabi. While Jingu had made a show of surprise, Teani seemed genuinely startled by Mara’s presence. Jingu had spoken briefly to Shimizu, who had surely been Pape’s executioner, while Teani’s eyes had followed the Minwanabi’s Strike Leader with contempt of a startling intensity.
Mara had been preoccupied with Papewaio at the time, and the concubine’s twisted hatred had not seemed significant. Now, though, the memory gained importance, particularly since Teani’s reaction had caused Shimizu discomfort. ‘What is the name of Teani’s lover?’ Mara inquired.