Mistress of the Empire (26 page)

Hokanu turned his sword and flung it like a javelin. The weapon caught the bulkier man through the throat, piercing him down behind the breastbone, through the heart. Silenced before he could scream, he fell with a dull thud that made the gelding start and look up. Hokanu was peripherally aware of the horse moving nervously around the pillar beyond the gateway; more immediately, he flung himself down and back into cover as three arrows whizzed toward his hiding place.

One smacked wood with a thunk, while two others chiseled splinters out of the fortune mask’s ear, and deflected on, to imbed themselves in the timbers behind. Hokanu grasped the knife he had kept hidden in his loincloth. He shoved back, as far into the cranny as his size would allow, and reached up left-handed to wrench one of the arrows from the wood.

A black-clad figure emerged, an outline against the dark bulk of the beams that braced the interior of the prayer gate. Hokanu’s thrown knife caught him in the neck, and he toppled back with a gurgling sound. His companion was
not fool enough to follow, but ducked, unslinging his bow. Hokanu saw the weapon tip gleam in the gloom. His skin prickled with his awareness that an arrow would soon fly to impale him. He flipped the shaft in his hand around in position to stab, and prepared to rush the archer.

A gruff voice called from below. ‘Don’t hurry. Keep him pinned. Oridzu will climb up the other statue and fire on him from above.’

With a wretched, sinking feeling, Hokanu realised his cover would only protect from a sally from below; on either side, the towering likenesses of the god offered the perfect tactical advantage upon his position. Should he attempt to hide from whoever climbed, he would clearly be vulnerable to bow fire from below. Uglier, and most cruelly final: knowledge of the antidote that might save Mara would die with him. Arakasi would have no cause to doubt that he had made it through. Hokanu cursed the haste that had caused him to leave Kentosani without taking the extra minutes to assemble an escort. Even had he lacked the time to requisition soldiers from his father’s or Mara’s town house, he might at least have hired mercenaries. Any sort of armed backup might have foiled the assassins’ ambush.

But he had forgone the escort of warriors in favor of the speed he could make alone, mounted on the exotic Kingdom horses. The creatures could outrace the swiftest runners, and Hokanu had placed his wife’s peril ahead of his own.

Now Mara would pay for his folly. She would die, the last of the Acoma, never knowing how near the man who loved her had come to getting the antidote to her.

As the furtive sounds of men moving reached Hokanu’s ears, he cursed. Not one but both of the surviving assassins were climbing the statues. He would be fired on from either side, and given the bent of past Minwanabi minds, he did not put it past the dead Lords to have placed concealed
embrasures behind the other carvings in the prayer gate. He might be picked off without ever seeing his attackers.

Desperate, cornered, and trembling with exhaustion and rage, Hokanu grasped the arrow that was his sole weapon. He prepared to rush the one man who held him pinned. He would die, but perhaps he could take another of his enemies to the halls of Turakamu with him.

But as he tensed to shove off from the wall, an arrow hissed out. He ducked flat, too late. The shaft smacked into his hip and imbedded with a thump and dull agony into the bone.

Hokanu’s lips peeled back in a silent snarl of agony. Animal hurt and white-hot anger burned him to preternatural clarity of mind. He caught the shaft and snapped it off. The resulting agony caused him to recoil involuntarily. A second shaft cracked wood where his torso had been. Braced on one knee, and weeping tears of pain, he scrabbled with bloodied fingers for some purchase point to hold himself upright. Shock made his leg useless, and the one not wounded seemed cramped.

By some miracle, his hand closed over a smoothed end of wood that had been rounded to the form of a handle. Hokanu grimaced at the jolt. He used his last strength to haul his crippled body upright, and cried out as the handle turned with a creak and gave way downward.

It was not fixed, he realised in panic. He barely heard the thunk as another arrow bit wood beside his ear. Overwhelmed beyond recovery, he felt himself sliding downward, as a section of wall gave way –

Of course! he thought, and in the rush of adrenaline that followed, he laughed aloud. The nameless old Minwanabi Lord had built his spies an escape hatch, and he had accidentally discovered the release. The trapdoor opened outward, dragging him from darkness, and a crossfire of enemy shafts, into a dawn like a new pearl.

His feet were snapped helplessly off the beam as the doorway gaped wide, leaving him hanging by the release lever, in the air. The drop was nothing for a healthy man, a mere dozen feet. But with an arrowhead in his hip, Hokanu feared the shock of the fall might kill, or cause him to faint. He flung away the useless arrow he was holding, kicked, wrenched, and scrabbled, but failed to gain a second handhold. His wound hurt mightily, and his eyes still watered maddeningly.

A black-clothed warrior arrived behind the niche he had just vacated. He moved gloved hands, notched another arrow, and began a steady draw.

Gasping, Hokanu looked down, to see a ring of other enemies converging from the roadside. All that held them back from an open rush was the gelding, innocuously cropping grass with its reins trailing. The horse was harmless, but the assassins remained wary from the display of equine irritation they had just witnessed. The animal saw the approaching assassins and ambled away from them, until he stood directly below Hokanu.

‘Chochocan bless you,’ Hokanu half sobbed. He let go.

His stomach turned with the plunge, and the slam as his body struck the saddle all but undid him. The torment in his hip became eclipsed by the insult to his manhood. The gelding grunted, ripped up its head in astonishment, and stumbled to its knees under the impact.

‘Run, you meat for dogs!’ Hokanu screamed, as much to relieve his own agony as to motivate the horse. He flung forward, gripping the mane in both fists. Though his seat was halfway out of the cantle, and one leg trailed down the gelding’s flank, he pounded with the heel that still functioned and drove the horse to its feet.

That moment the archers began to fire. Struck in neck, shoulder, and croup, the gelding bucked, but fortune still smiled on Hokanu: the movement threw him upward and
allowed him to hook the saddle flap with his good leg, keeping his seat. The gelding exploded into a gallop toward home.

The pounding threatened to shake Hokanu loose. He clung, dizzied and deafened by pain. His hands stayed locked white-knuckled in the horse’s mane, and his blood dripped and flung away on the wind, mingled with that of his mount. He tried, but could not balance his seat. His lame hip prevented him from centering himself in the saddle. He had not come this far, he thought with clenched teeth, only to spoil things by falling off.

But inexorably, he slipped to the side, until his ankle dragged in the dust. He clung now by only his knee, and the gelding had begun to crow-hop. One, two, three gyrations, he hung on. And then his hands wrenched free. His body arced out into air –

And was caught, roughly, and unceremoniously ripped from the follow through of inertia by a pair of gauntleted hands.

‘Damn!’ Hokanu yelled, and struck earth. Agony tore from him a shattering cry. The air went black, then blindingly white, and he heard voices shouting.

One of them was Lujan’s.

‘Assassins,’ he gasped out. ‘On my tail.’

‘Already dead, my Lord,’ said Mara’s Force Commander crisply. ‘Hold still, you’re bleeding.’

Hokanu forced his eyes open. The sky seemed to swim above him, incongruously green and clear of mist. Sunrise threw golden light on the faces of his own patrol.

‘We saw the mare come tearing in, riderless,’ someone was saying. ‘We assumed trouble on the road. Was Arakasi with you?’

‘No,’ Hokanu gasped. ‘Kentosani. Just listen.’ And he managed through his pain to recite the recipe for the antidote that was the only hope to save Mara.

With the practiced efficiency of a field commander, Lujan ordered his swiftest warrior to strip off his armor and run to the healer with the instructions Hokanu had just given. As the man hurried away, and through the exploding bustle of activity as escort was arranged, Hokanu clung grimly to consciousness.

More men were sent for a litter to carry the Lady’s wounded consort back to the estate house, while Hokanu’s vision swam from patchy black to painful sharpness. He heard cloth tear, felt air against his inflamed skin as Lujan bared his wound.

‘My Lord,’ said the Acoma Force Commander, ‘you are going to need this arrowhead cut out very quickly if the flesh is not to suppurate.’

Hokanu mustered a dogged breath. ‘You will have nothing done with that arrow,’ he grated. ‘Not until I am back at my Lady’s side, and I have seen her restored by the antidote with my own eyes.’

‘Your will, my Lord.’ The Acoma Force Commander arose, all brusqueness and hurry. ‘Strike Leader,’ he shouted to his sub-officer, ‘pick four men, and make up a stretcher! My Lord Hokanu would be at his Lady’s side as swiftly as possible!’

The sky dimmed.

Servants entered on quiet feet to close the screens and light the lamps in Mara’s chamber. They finished their task and silently bowed to their mistress, who lay unmoving and wax-pale upon her cushions. Then they departed, leaving Hokanu alone with his vigil, in a quiet that ate at his nerves.

Seven hours had passed since the antidote had been administered, and his Lady showed no improvement. Her eyelids did not flicker in dreaming, and her breathing neither quickened nor changed. As twilight deepened beyond the screens and the gloom encroached, isolating husband and wife in a wan circle of lamplight, Hokanu knew doubt. What if Korbargh had lied, had misled them by giving a false antidote? What if the ambush at the prayer gate had delayed his arrival those critical few minutes, and the medicine had reached Mara too late? What if the gods had turned against them, and all that they did in life was made futile by a foregone conclusion of fate?

The ache of his arrow wound and the unrelenting worry over Mara’s condition wore Hokanu to distraction. Agonising over the need to act, to do something where nothing more could be done, he reached out and gathered up Mara’s hand. Was it his imagination, or was her flesh a shade less clammy? Or was his own stressed body growing feverish and dry, as the untended arrowhead in his hip began to fester? Doubts chased the tails of uncertainties, and to break the cycle of useless worry, Hokanu tried speech.

‘Mara,’ he began. The emptiness of the room only
underscored his loneliness. ‘Mara.’ In vain he searched for something to say; but the words had all been said, the endless apologies, the affirmations of love. That petty politics should place at risk a woman who, by herself, held so much life within her served only to emphasise the fundamental wrongness of Tsurani society: a wrongness Mara had dedicated herself and her Acoma line to change. Hokanu closed his eyes against tears, unsure whether his weakness stemmed from deep and heartfelt regret or from weakness inspired by his wound.

How long he sat unmoving, fighting emotions unworthy of the woman who battled against death on the mat, Hokanu could not have said. Except when he raised his head at the sound of the knock upon the door, the dark beyond the screens had deepened with the fullness of night.

‘Enter,’ he called, dizzied from the sudden move he had made at the interruption. He realised he had not eaten since the day before; surely that was the cause.

Lujan entered and bowed briskly. Although he would normally be off duty at this hour, taking his ease at the evening meal, tonight he still wore his armor and the plain sword he preferred for field service. Dusty, smelling of sweat, he straightened up, regarded the master with a penetrating stare, and compressed his lips into a line while he awaited permission to speak.

Hokanu gave a listless wave.

‘Lord?’ The tone of question was most unlike the Acoma Force Commander.

Sure a tactful inquiry concerning his own health would follow, Hokanu stiffened. His hand tightened over Mara’s, and he said crisply, ‘You have a report to make?’

Lujan’s chin jerked up at the reprimand. ‘I took the liberty of sending out a scouting detail, under Force Leader Irrilandi.’ The former Minwanabi Force Commander had
been detailing patrols over the hills beyond these estates for more years than Lujan had been alive.

Hokanu nodded for the Acoma officer to continue.

Lujan said, ‘The patrol turned up a small force armed for a foray. There was a confrontation. Most of the enemy lie dead, but two were taken alive. One had a loose tongue. It would appear that the five archers who ambushed you were only advance scouts. They were sent to reconnoiter the roadway and select the site for a more decisive ambush. But they had not expected you to be mounted and traveling at such speed. They were caught off guard, and had to improvise. The other men, disguised as bandits, were not in place, and plainly only the gods’ favor spared your life.’

Half muddled by discomfort from his wound, Hokanu nodded. ‘Did you find out who sent the murdering dogs?’

Lujan hesitated before he replied. His eyes remained on the master, naked with worry, as he hooked his thumbs in his baldric. ‘Jiro,’ he snapped at last. ‘The proof is incontrovertible. The Anasati Lord was behind this.’

Hokanu blinked to clear his head. ‘Then he will have to die.’

‘No. Husband, you must not even voice such a notion. How can we go against the edict of the Assembly of Magicians?’ murmured a weak voice from the cushions.

Both Lujan and Hokanu whirled around.

Mara’s eyes were open and lucid in her drawn face. Her fingers tightened shakily inside her husband’s grip. ‘How can we kill Jiro when the Great Ones have forbidden our blood feud?’

‘Thank the Good God!’ Hokanu exclaimed. He bent over his wife and kissed her cheek, though the motion left him dizzy. ‘Beloved, how do you feel?’

‘Annoyed,’ Mara confessed. ‘I should have known better than to taste that chocolate. My greed to gain a trade monopoly nearly became my undoing.’

Hokanu stroked her hand. ‘Rest now. We are lucky to have you with us.’

Mara’s brow puckered into a frown. ‘The baby? What has become of our son?’ But the anguish on Hokanu’s face told her all she needed to know. She braced herself and closed her eyes. ‘Two sons,’ she whispered. ‘Two sons dead, and we can spill no blood in retribution.’ The phrase seemed to exhaust the last of her resources, for she drifted away into sleep, a flush of anger still staining the pallor of her cheeks.

Servants descended in force upon the sick chamber the instant the Lady stilled into slumber. A healer with a satchel of remedies directed them to air Mara’s bedding, and to turn down the wicks in the lamps. Lujan did not wait for orders, but stepped forward, caught Hokanu in his strong arms, and lifted the master bodily from Mara’s side.

‘Force Commander!’ snapped the Shinzawai irritably. ‘I can walk on my own, and as of this moment you are dismissed.’

For answer, he received Lujan’s most disarming grin. ‘I am my Lady’s man, Master Hokanu. Tonight I will take no orders from a Shinzawai. If you were one of my warriors, I would forbid you outright to move with such a wound. And truth to tell, I fear my Lady’s wrath the more. I will have you off to visit the surgeon to have that arrowhead removed. If you were to die of Jiro’s plots while Mara slept, that would be doing her no service.’ His tone was almost insolent, but his eyes spoke heartfelt thanks to the man who had saved the woman who was paramount in both their lives.

The surgeon set aside bloodstained instruments, looked up from his work, and met Lujan’s eyes. Lamplight burnished the sweat-streaked planes of his face, to reveal a strained expression. ‘No, the light is quite sufficient,’ he said hoarsely. ‘I can see well enough to work.’

‘Then the prognosis is not good,’ Lujan whispered back. His hands stayed steady and firm on Hokanu’s leg, an assurance to the injured man as much as a restraint to keep an inopportune flinch from disrupting the healer’s touch. Dosed with sa wine laced with a narcotic herb to dull pain, Hokanu might not realise where he was or what was happening well enough to hold his honor and keep motionless. Still, no matter how muddled the consciousness of a man became, his spirit would remain aware. If the news was going to be bad, Hokanu’s wal, his inner self, did not need to hear before he was sufficiently recovered to maintain self-control.

Yet either Lujan’s words were not quiet enough, or the wounded man was unwilling to relinquish consciousness enough to be spared. Hokanu weakly raised his head. ‘If there is something wrong, I’ll hear of it now.’

The healer wiped his hands on a cloth. He mopped his brow also, though his infirmary was not hot. He turned worried eyes to Lujan, who nodded, then looked back at Mara’s consort. ‘The arrowhead is removed, master. But it was deep into the bone, and your attempts to move and run caused much damage. Tendons and ligaments are severed, some frayed beyond my skills to sew back.’ He did not add that the wound was deep, and the lacerations invited infection. He would pack the tears with poultice, but that was all he could do.

‘Are you telling me I won’t walk again?’ Hokanu’s voice did not quaver, but held only the sharpness of command.

The healer sighed. ‘You will walk, master. But you will never lead a charge onto a battlefield again. You will limp, and your balance will be compromised. In combat, any competent enemy would see your lameness and kill you easily. My Lord, you must never don armor again.’ He shook his grey head in sympathy. ‘I am sorry. That is the best I can promise.’

Hokanu turned his face toward the wall, utterly still. Not even his hands tensed into fists; his rage, or his pain, stayed hidden. But Lujan, who was a warrior also, knew his mind: that he was yet his father’s heir, and had stood as Shinzawai Force Commander. It was an ill thing for a man in line for the mantle of a great house to become a cripple. Lujan noticed the barest tremor in the sinews under his hands. He felt his heart wrench, but dared not offer sympathy, for fear that Hokanu’s desperately held dignity would break down.

And yet the man that Mara had married showed once again the sternness of his fiber. ‘Get on with your work, healer,’ he said. ‘Sew up what you can, and for the love of the gods, give me no more medicinal wine. I would be aware when my Lady wakes, and not half out of my head with self-pity brought on by drink.’

‘Shift the lamp, then,’ muttered the surgeon. ‘I’ll have this over with as quickly as may be.’

‘Good servant, in that I may be of assistance,’ said a quiet voice from the doorway.

The surgeon started in surprise, his hand half extended toward his tray of instruments; Lujan all but released hold of Hokanu’s leg in his initial annoyance. ‘I told the guard on this corridor that the master was not to be disturbed. For any reason.’ He half turned, drawing breath to dress down the lax soldier, and checked, appalled.

The wizened man in coarse brown robes who stood at the edge of the lamplight was no servant but a priest of Hantukama, the God of Healing. Lujan had seen his like once before, on the day Keyoke’s life had been saved from multiple battle wounds and a leg amputation gone septic. He recognised the stranger’s order by the shaved semicircle at the back of his head, and by the intricate braid that trailed from his nape. Mindful of how difficult it was to gain the services of such a priest, Lujan bowed as
deeply as the lowliest scullion to atone for his thoughtless address.

‘Forgive me, good priest, for my ill manners. In my mistress’s name, you are welcome here, my brutish behavior a pitiful reflection on the honor of this house.’

The priest stepped forward, silent on bare feet. His sun-browned face showed no affront but only deepest sympathy as he touched the warrior’s shoulder. ‘With master and Lady both hurt, you would be a poor guardian if you did not seek to spare them from intrusions.’

Lujan spoke with his face still pressed to the floor. ‘Good priest, if you have come to help, my feelings are of no consequence before the needs of my master and Lady.’

Now the priest frowned, a fearful expression on a face that habitually was serene. His hand tightened, in surprising strength, and he raised Lujan from his posture of submission. ‘On the contrary,’ he snapped. ‘The spirit and the feelings of any man are equal in the sight of my god. You are forgiven your lapse of manners, worthy warrior. Go now. Leave me to my business with your master, and mind your post by the door with all vigilance.’

Lujan snapped the priest a salute, hand over heart, and stepped out as ordered. The surgeon gave a hasty half bow, and made as if to follow. But the priest waved for him to stay as he stepped to Hokanu’s bedside. ‘My novice is but a boy, and too tired from travel to assist. He sleeps, and if I am to be of service to my god, I will need help.’

The priest set down his satchel. He took the sick man’s sweating fingers into his own and looked into Hokanu’s eyes. ‘Son of my god, how are you?’

Hokanu inclined his head, the best he could manage for courtesy. ‘I do well enough. Blessings of your god, and Chochocan’s favor for guiding you to this house.’ He drew a difficult breath and forced his voice steady over his pain. ‘If I may presume, I would ask
that you look after my Lady. Her need is greater than mine.’

The priest pursed his lips. ‘No. I say not’ – he held up a hand, forestalling Hokanu’s protest – ‘and it is my judgment to make. I have seen the Good Servant already. I traveled here in answer to her need, for her sacrifice and her love for her people are recognised by the followers of my god. But she is mending well enough without Hantukama’s blessing. You brought the antidote in good time.’

Hokanu closed his eyes, his relief palpable. ‘I am grateful to hear she will be well again.’

‘She will be well.’ The priest paused, his face suddenly careworn. As if he chose his words carefully, he added, ‘But you should know, as her consort, that she will bear only one more child. The poison caused damage, and that was the best the healing powers of my god would allow.’

Hokanu’s eyes flicked open, black in the flicker of lamplight. His warrior’s composure held, and nothing of his anguish leaked through, that his Lady could not have the many children she craved, to secure both her line and his also. ‘That is enough, then, good priest.’

A silence fell over the chamber, with the surgeon standing motionless in respect for his master’s feelings. The hiss of the oil lamp blended with the whisper of the breeze beyond the screen and, farther off, the tramp of a warrior answering the change of the watch. With summer past, the amphibious creatures were silent on the lakeshore; only insects sang in the soft warmth of the night.