Mistress of the Empire (10 page)

Voices rang out as another dozen magicians rose, seeking recognition. Shimone sighed audibly. ‘You’re not going to get your way on this one, Hocho.’

The stout magician set his chin in his palms, dimpling both cheeks. ‘Of course not,’ he whispered. ‘But I wasn’t about to let that hotheaded boy run off unconstrained.’ Outside the law, each Great One was free to act as he saw fit. Anyone could by his own judgment intervene against Mara should he deem his action in the best interest of the Empire. By taking the issue of noninterference to the floor of the Assembly, Hodiku had made it a matter for quorum consensus. Once an accord was made formal, no member would willingly defy the final decision. Since quick resolution was beyond hope, Hochopepa changed his goal toward forcing due process to instill tempered judgment. The stout magician adjusted his robes around his girth in resignation. ‘Now, let’s get to the meat of the matter by letting these hotheads rant themselves hoarse. When they run out of steam, we’ll show them the only reasonable choice, and call a vote, letting them think the idea was theirs in the first place. It’s safer to let Tapek and Motecha think they are leading the Assembly to consensus than to leave them free to initiate regrettable action on their own.’

Shimone turned a sour eye upon his portly companion. ‘Why is it that you always seek the solution to everything through inexhaustible sessions of talk?’

‘Have you a better idea?’ Hochopepa shot back in sharp reproof.

‘No,’ Shimone snapped. Unwilling to bother himself with further speech, he turned his attention back to the floor, where the first of many speakers vied to continue the debate.

The early sun heated the great command tent. The half-gloom inside smelled of the heavy oils used to keep the hide waterproof and of grease used to supple the straps of armor and scabbards. The scent of lamp oil was absent, as the Lady had declined the need for light. Dressed in ornamental armor and helm crowned with the plumes of the Hadama Clan Warchief, Mara sat on fine silk cushions. The flaps of the tent’s entrance were lashed back, and the morning outside edged her stiff profile in light. Behind her, his gauntleted hand upon her shoulder, Hokanu surveyed the army arrayed in ranks across the broad vale below.

The mass of waiting warriors darkened the meadow across the entire vista, from the vantage point on the hill behind: spears and helms in their neat rows too numerous for counting. The only visible movement was caused by the wind through the officers’ plumes, which were many colors besides Acoma green. Yet the stillness was deceptive. At any second, every man at arms of Clan Hadama stood ready for attack, to answer their Warchief’s call to honor.

Mara seemed an ornament carved of jade in her formal armor. Her face was the expressionless façade expected of a Tsurani Warchief. Yet those advisers who attended her observed in her bearing a brittleness born of rigidness, as if her stiff manner were all that contained the seething emotions inside. They moved and spoke quietly in her presence, as if the chance-made gesture, or the wrongly inflected word might jar her control and the irrational rage she had unleashed upon Lord Jiro might hammer past her barriers and manifest itself again.

In this setting, with the vast armies at her command spread in offensive readiness, she was unpredictable as the thunderhead whose lightnings have yet to be loosed. A formal declaration of war meant putting aside cunning and strategies, forgoing guile and reason, and simply charging
across an open field at the foe named in ceremony in the Temple of Jastur.

Across from the Hadama war force were raised the banners of Clan Ionani; like Lady Mara, Lord Jiro sat with the Ionani Warchief upon the crest of the opposite hill, proud as befitted their lineage, and of no mind to forgive a slight of honor from the Lady of the Acoma. Beyond the tight-ranked warriors of the Ionani, the command tent flew the ancient scarlet and yellow Anasati war banner on a standard set next to the black and green tent of Lord Tonmargu, Warchief of the clan. The placement of colors symbolised an age-old affirmation that the slight to the Anasati had been accepted by all the houses, to be resolved by bloodshed that would count no cost in lives.

To die was Tsurani; to live in dishonor, cowardice deemed worse than death.

Mara’s eyes registered the details, yet her hands did not shake. Her thoughts were walled off, isolated in a cold place that even Hokanu could not penetrate. She who had deplored war and killing now seemed eager to embrace raw violence. Bloodshed might not bring her son back, but the heat and horror of battle could maybe stop her thinking. She would know a surcease from pain and grief until Jiro of the Anasati was ground to a pulp in the dust.

Her mouth hardened at the bent of her thoughts. Hokanu sensed her tautness. He did not try to dissuade her, knowing by instinct that no consolation existed that could move her. He stayed by her, quiet, tempering her decisions where he could.

One day, she might waken and accept her tears for what they were. Until time might begin to heal her, he could only give unstinting support, knowing that until then, anything less might drive her to more desperate measures.

With true Tsurani impassivity, Hokanu followed the distant panoply as several figures left the Hadama lines
and approached the ranks of the Ionani. Lujan led the party, sunshine glancing off his armor, and lighting the tips of his officer’s plumes to emerald brilliance. At his shoulder walked his two Force Leaders, Irrilandi and Kenji, and behind, according to rank, the Force Commanders of the other houses of Clan Hadama. A scribe came last, to record the exchange as this delegation met its opposite in the center of the chosen site of battle, following tradition. A discussion would set the conditions of the coming war, the limits of the field, the hour of commencement, and the possibility, if any, that quarter could be offered or accepted. But Mara had ended hope of the last.

That the houses of Clan Ionani had seen fit to become involved had moved her not a hairsbreadth. They could stand or fall with Jiro, and she would not be alone in enduring the atrocities inherent in the Game of the Council.

When Keyoke, her Adviser for War, had broached the subject of quarter, her eyes had flashed hot anger as she pronounced, ‘No quarter.’

The lines were now drawn, the stakes set. None could dispute the word of Mara, as Warchief. Hokanu glanced around the command tent, as much to steady himself as to assess the mood of those present. Keyoke wore armor rather than the adviser’s garb his position entitled him to; Saric, who had fought in the Acoma ranks before rising to high office, had also donned armor. With battle about to rage, he felt naked wearing only thin silk on his back.

Old Incomo yet wore his robes. More at home with his pen than his eating knife, he stood with his hands locked at his sash, his leathery features drawn. Though as seasoned in his way as a field general, he was unschooled in the arts of violence. Mara’s Call to Clan was no sane act, and since she had heretofore been the soul of gentleness and reason, her venomous embracing of Tsurani ritualised vengeance
left him inwardly terrified. But his years of experience as adviser to the Minwanabi enabled him to stand firm in obedience.

Every man and woman of the Acoma, and of all the houses of Clan Hadama, waited upon the gods’ will today.

Trumpets sounded and the high, curving war horns blew. Drummers beat a tattoo as the delegations of Ionani and Hadama parted company, turned about, and marched back to their ranks. The drumbeat quickened, and the fanfare assumed a faster tempo. Lujan took his place in the center ranks; Irrilandi and Kenji marched to the right and left flanks; and the other officers assumed position at the heads of their house armies. Early sun glanced off the lacquered edges of shields and spears and lit the rippling movement of thousands of warriors drawing sword from sheath.

The banners snapped in a gust, and streamers unfurled from the crossposts, red for the Death God Turakamu, whose blessing was asked for the slaughter about to begin. A priest of the Red God’s order stepped onto the narrow strip of earth between the armies and chanted a prayer. The swell of sound as voices of the warriors joined in seemed like the tremor that preceded cataclysm. Beside the priest stood another, a black-shrouded sister of Sibi, She Who Is Death. The presence of a priestess who worshipped Turakamu’s elder sister affirmed that many men were fated to die on this day. The priest completed his invocation and cast a handful of red feathers into the air. He bowed to the earth, then saluted the priestess of the Death Goddess. As the religious representatives withdrew, the warriors raised their voices to shouts. Cries and insults shattered the morning as men reviled their enemies across the field. Unforgivable words were exchanged, to seal their dedication to annihilating combat: to win or to die, as honor dictated; to stiffen the will lest any soldier be tempted to turn craven. The
Tsurani code of honor was inflexible: a man would earn his life through victory, or his disgrace would extend past the Wheel of this Life, to cause misery in the next.

Mara regarded the scene without passion. Her heart was hard. This day, other mothers would know what it was to weep over the bodies of slain sons. She barely noticed when Hokanu’s fingers settled on the shoulder plates of her armor, as his own heart began to pound in anticipation.

The heir to the Shinzawai had the right to stand apart, for he had no blood ties to either Hadama or Ionani, but as husband to the Good Servant, he felt obliged to supervise this slaughter. Now, with the excitement of the warriors reaching a pitch to quicken the blood, a darker part of his nature looked forward to the call to charge. Ayaki had been loved as his own, and the boy’s loss quickened him to share his Lady’s rage. Logic might absolve House Anasati of the tong’s hiring, but the thirst of his aroused emotion remained unslaked. Whether or not Jiro was guilty, blood must atone for blood.

A runner sent by Lujan arrived at the command tent. He bowed to earth, silent until the Lady waved. ‘Mistress, Warchief of Clan Hadama, Ionani Force Commanders have given agreement. Battle shall commence when the sun rises to a height of six diameters over the eastern horizon.’

Mara scanned the heavens, assessing. ‘That means the signal to charge will be sounded in less than a half-hour.’ She snapped a nod of approval. Yet the delay was longer than she desired: Ayaki had received no such reprieve.

Minutes passed slowly. The soldiers continued to cry insults until their voices grew hoarse. The sun inched higher, and the air heated with the day. All in the command tent leashed in fraying nerves, until the touch of an alighting fly was enough to snap the gathering atmosphere of pent force.

Hokanu’s impatience mounted. He was ready to draw
blade and see the edge drink blood. At last the sun reached its designated position. No signal passed between the high officers in the command tent. Keyoke sucked in a quick breath in concert with Mara’s lifted hand. Lujan, on the field, raised his bared sword, and the trumpets pealed out their call to war.

Hokanu had drawn his own sword without thought. The battle might finish without his ever facing an enemy, for his place was beside his Lady. No Ionani warriors would breach the honor guard who surrounded the command tent lest Clan Hadama be routed, yet he, and beside him Saric, were both ready.

The notes of the fanfare seemed drawn out to eternity. In the distance, at the head of the army, Lujan waited with his blade poised high, glittering like a needle in sunlight. Across the field the Ionani commanding officer held a like pose. When the weapons of both men fell, a flood of screaming soldiers would charge across the narrow strip of meadow, and the hills would echo with the clash of swords and the cries of war.

Hokanu snatched breath to mutter a hurried prayer for Lujan, for the brave Acoma Force Commander was almost certain to die. The press of soldiers on both sides made it unlikely any in the first five ranks would survive the initial strike. The two great armies would grind themselves against each other like the teeth on opposing jaws, and only the warriors in the rearmost ranks might see who emerged victorious.

The moment of suspension ended. Men finished their last silent appeals to the gods for honor, victory, and life. Then Lujan’s sword quivered in the stroke of descent.

As warriors shifted forward onto the balls of their feet and banners stirred in the hands of bearers who lifted the poles from the earth, thunder slammed out of the clear green sky.

The concussion of air struck Mara and Hokanu full in the face. Cushions flew, and Hokanu staggered. He dropped to his knees, the arm not holding his weapon catching Mara into protective embrace. Incomo was flung back, his robes cupped like sails, as the command tent cracked and billowed in the gust. Keyoke stumbled backward into Saric, who caught him, and nearly went down as the crutch fetched him a blow across the legs. Both Acoma advisers clung to each other to keep their footing, while, inside the tent, tables overturned and charts depicting battle tactics flapped and tumbled into the tangle of privacy curtains that crashed across Mara’s sleeping mat.

Through a maelstrom of dust devils, chaos extended across the field. Banners cracked and whipped, torn out of the bearers’ hands. A cry went up from the front ranks of both armies as warriors were cast to the ground. Their swords stabbed earth, not flesh. Thrown into disarray by the whirlwind, the warriors behind tripped over one another until not one was left able to press forward to engage the fight.

In the breach between the lines appeared several figures in black. Their robes did not stir, but hung down in an uncanny calm. Then the unnatural winds abated, as if on command. As fury dwindled into awe, men on both sides blinked dust-caked lashes. They saw Great Ones come to intervene, and while their weapons remained in their hands, and the bloodlust to attack still drove them, none arose, nor did any make a move to overrun the magicians who stood equidistant between the armies. The downed warriors stayed prone, their faces pressed to the grass. No command from master or mistress could drive a man of them forward, for to touch a Great One was to invite utter ruin, if not commit offense against the gods.