Mistress of the Empire (8 page)

To this, Saric added speculative observation. ‘If the former First Adviser of the Minwanabi cannot know for certain that Tasaio left orders for vengeance should he fall, I offer that we waste ourselves in guesswork. More to the point, Tasaio was not a man who ever for a moment considered defeat – as tactician he was unmatched. Given that he believed until the end that he was free to crush our Lady in open war, why should we assume that he took the coward’s path and paid death price for Mara when he gave no credence to the chance she might survive him? We should
more nearly be examining the ranks of Jiro’s enemies. Mara is one of the few Rulers in the Nations with strength enough to engage him without stalemate; with Imperial support behind her, discord between Acoma and Anasati is the more likely to lead to setbacks for Lord Jiro.’

‘And yet the Anasati Lord seems eager enough to take what provocation fate and our misfortune have offered,’ Hokanu broke in. ‘He does not shrink from conflict. That does little to excuse him from culpability in the matter of Ayaki’s murder. Until my wife is able, I will presume to make this decision. Order the garrison to make ready to march. There must be war, and we dare not be caught unprepared.’

Keyoke silently inclined his head. He would not accord the situation the formality of spoken word, since this he could only do before his Lady. Yet his acquiescence in the matter showed unswerving support. Saric, who was younger and less bound to the old traditions, inclined his head in a gesture very close to the bow an adviser would offer his sworn Lord. ‘I shall make formal declaration of war upon the Anasati. When Jiro responds in kind, we shall march.’

Keyoke glanced at Irrilandi, who nodded to indicate his own endorsement of what would soon occur. Most Tsurani bloodshed was committed surreptitiously, with ambush and raid, and without public acknowledgment of responsibility. But formal battle between houses was a time honored, ceremonial event. Two armies would meet upon a field at an agreed-upon time, and one would leave victorious. No quarter was asked or given, save in rare circumstances, and again by formal rules of conduct. History held record of battles that had raged for days; it was not uncommon for both houses to be destroyed in the process.

Then Hokanu sought one further step. ‘I ask that we notify Clan Hadama.’

Saric raised his eyebrows, concerned deeply, but also intrigued by the subtleties of the suggestion. ‘You provoke an Anasati Call to Clan?’

Hokanu sighed, ‘I have an intuitive feeling –’

But Keyoke broke in with a rare interruption that supported Hokanu’s hunch. ‘Jiro is no warrior. He has Omelo for Force Commander, and though a good enough field general in his own right, he does not excel at large scale engagements. A Call to Clan is the best hope Jiro has to keep his House and army intact. We do not provoke what is likely a foregone conclusion.’

‘More,’ Incomo added. ‘Lord Jiro is a scholar at heart. He sneers at the coarseness of armed conflict. He wishes reason to declare against Mara, and has nurtured a hatred of her that extends back into his youth. But he prefers hidden attacks, and cleverness. He is a master of shah. Remember that. He will seek to ruin by subterfuge, not raw force. If we do call a Clan War first, then the possibility exists that Clan Ionani will not permit an Anasati interest to drag them to destruction. We are more than Jiro’s match in open combat. If his Clan members are behind his obsessive desires enough to escalate by accepting his slight of honor for their own, Clan Hadama will answer.’

Hokanu weighed this without much hope or enthusiasm. Whether Clan Ionani moved against them or not Lord Jiro had managed to set himself at the spearhead of other factions that had cause to undermine Mara’s strength. That his was not the only mind to perceive past this personal spat to deeper, more lasting discord had been evident by the number of Ruling Lords who turned out for Ayaki’s funeral. The High Council might be abolished, but its tradition of contention continued in secret, ferocious intensity, whenever excuse existed for the Empire’s nobles to gather. That the Black Robes had sent a contingent of five to the rites showed that their trend of intervention into
the arena of intrigue was far from ended since Ichindar’s ascension to centralised power.

At last, Hokanu concluded, ‘We may have strength and allies enough to crush the Anasati, but at what cost? In the end, it may not change things. We can only hope that a swift, bloody clash on the battlefield will contain the damage, and split up the traditionalists before they can ally and organise into a united political party.’

‘Master Hokanu,’ Saric interjected at the naked look of sorrow that appeared on the Acoma consort’s face, ‘the course you have chosen is the best we have available. Rest assured that your Lady could do no better, were she capable of hearing our counsel. Now go, attend to her, for she needs you at her side. I will instruct the scribes to prepare documents and arrange for messengers to convey them to Lord Jiro’s estates.’

Looking haunted despite the relief at this unstinting statement of support, Hokanu left the hall. His stride was a warrior’s, purposeful and quick; his hands were a worried husband’s, balled into helpless fists.

Saric remained, as the other Acoma officers broke the circle and departed from the hall. Left alone in the breezeless shadows, he slapped his fist into a hand grown uncalloused since his promotion from a warrior’s ranks. He ached for those friends he had left in the barracks, and for the woman he had been called to serve, who had wholly won his support. If the Acoma acted quickly enough to end this dispute, the gods would be granting a miracle. Too many disgruntled Lords remained with too few responsibilities since the disbanding of the High Council. Peace left them too much space for mischief. The old political parties had broken up, their reason for existence canceled by Ichindar’s new rule.

The Empire was quiet, but far from settled; the climate of unrest that had three years been held in abeyance was ripe for renewed civil war.

Saric loved his Ruling Lady and appreciated her brilliance in changing the only society he had ever known, but he regretted the disbanding of the Warlord’s office and the power of the High Council, for at least then events could be interpreted according to centuries of precedents set by the forms of the Great Game. Now, while the old ways were still followed by the houses of the Empire, the rules were forced into change.

Speculation was becoming too uncertain, Saric decided with a grimace of disgust. He left the deserted hall, heading for those quarters he had chosen when Mara had come to occupy the former Minwanabi estate. En route to his suite of rooms, he sent Mara’s runner to fetch a scribe to attend him. When the man arrived with his satchel of ink and pens, the Acoma First Adviser’s instructions were clipped and short: ‘Prepare notice for our factors and agents. If Arakasi makes his presence known anywhere in the Nations, inform him he is to return home at once.’ The scribe sat upon the floor without comment, but he looked troubled as he placed a wooden lapboard upon his knee. Quickly putting pen to parchment, he started to compose the first document.

‘Add this, and use the number seven cipher,’ Saric concluded, pacing the floor in an agitation that had no other outlet. ‘Our Lady is in deadly danger.’

The chime sounded, and a puff of disturbed air winnowed the silken hangings that walled the great gathering hall in the City of the Magicians. Shadows cast by the flickering flames of the oil lamps wavered as a magician appeared upon the pattern in the center of the floor. He stepped off briskly. Hard on his heels, two colleagues appeared in rapid succession. These were followed by others, until a crowd of black-robed figures congregated on the benches surrounding the walls. The huge, leather-hinged doors creaked wide to admit others that
chose not to convey their bodies to the meeting by arcane means.

The Hall of the Assembly filled swiftly and quietly.

The delegates converged from all walks of the City of the Magicians, a complex of buildings and covered terraces, towers, and galleries that made a maze-like warren of an entire island. Located in the midst of a great lake in the foothills of the High Wall, the northern mountains of the Empire, the City of the Magicians was unapproachable by any means but magic. Black Robes in distant provinces teleported to the site, responding to the call to Assembly sent out that morning. Gathered together in sufficient number to form a quorum, the magicians constituted the most powerful body in Tsuranuanni, for they existed outside the law. No one, not even the Emperor, dared gainsay their command, which had carried absolute privilege for thousands of years of history.

Within minutes the benches were packed to capacity. Hodiku, a thin, hook-nosed man of middle years who by preference spent most of his time in study within the Holy City, walked to the First Speaker’s position, at the center of the patterned tile floor. His voice extended across the cavernous hall seemingly without effort. ‘We are called together today so that I may speak for the Good of the Empire.’ The routine greeting was met with silence, for all matters requiring convocation of the Assembly of Great Ones related to the state of the Empire. ‘Today, the Red Seal upon the inner sanctum of the Temple of Jastur was broken!’

The announcement caused a shocked stir, for only when formal warfare was announced between houses or clans, were the arched doors to the central chamber of the Temple of the War God thrown open to allow public entry. Hodiku raised his arms to encourage a return to order. ‘Mara of the Acoma, as Lady of her House and
Warchief of Clan Hadama does pronounce war upon Lord Jiro of the Anasati!’

Astonished exclamations swept the chamber. While a cadre of the younger magicians stayed abreast of current events, they were not among the majority. These newly sworn had joined the Assembly during the upheavals caused by the force known as the Enemy that had endangered both their own world of Kelewan and that of Midkemia, beyond the rift. The massive threat to two civilizations had necessitated a move by the Magicians to aid the Emperor Ichindar to seize absolute rule of the Nations, that internal bickering not weaken the land in time of larger crisis. The newest of the mages might be enamored of using their powers to influence the sway of events. But to the elders of the Assembly, who were set in their individual ways and courses of scholarly study, intervention in Tsurani politics was looked on as bad form; a bothersome chore only performed at dire need.

To a still-smaller faction, headed up by Hochopepa and Shimone, once close acquaintances of the barbarian magician Milamber, the recent departures from traditional rule were of interest for deeper reasons. Exposure to Midkemian thought had prompted them to view the affairs of Tsuranuanni in a changed light, and since the Lady Mara was currently the linchpin of Ichindar’s support, these war tidings were of particular concern.

An old practitioner of Tsurani politics of all stripe, Hochopepa raised a chubby hand to his face and closed his dark eyes in forbearance. ‘As you predicted,’ he murmured to the reed-thin, ascetic Shimone. ‘Trouble, when the Nations can least afford the price.’

Taciturn as ever, Shimone made no reply, but watched with hawk-keen scrutiny as several of the more impulsive magicians surged to their feet, indicating their desire to speak. Hodiku singled out a young Black Robe named
Sevean and pointed. The one selected stepped forward onto the central floor while the others sat.

Barely a year past his initiation to mastery of magic, Sevean was fast on his feet, quick-spoken, and inclined to be impulsive. He would leap to outspoken conclusions where other, more seasoned colleagues would wait to hear the thoughts of less experienced members before revealing their opinions. He raised a voice too loud by half for the sensitive acoustics of the hall. ‘It is widely believed that Jiro had his hand in the death of the Good Servant’s son.’

Which was no news at all; Shimone turned his mouth down in a faint curl of disgust, while Hochopepa muttered just loud enough for half the room to hear, ‘What, has he been listening in on Isashani’s sitting room again, taking in the social gossip?’

Shimone gave no answer to this; like many of the elder magicians, he considered using powers to look in on the affairs of individual nobles as the lowest level of crass behavior. Sevean was embarrassed by Hochopepa’s remark and by the harsh looks from several of the elder members. Left at a loss for words, he curtailed his speech, repeating, ‘It is widely believed.’

More magicians vied for the First Speaker’s attention. Hodiku made a choice among them, and as a slow-spoken, ponderously built initiate droned out his irrelevant viewpoint, more experienced magicians spoke quietly among themselves, ignoring all but the gist of his speech.

A mage two seats to the rear of Hochopepa and Shimone, whose name was Teloro, inclined his head toward the others. ‘What is the real issue, Hocho?’

The plump magician sighed and left off twiddling his thumbs. ‘The fate of the Empire, Teloro. The fate of the Empire.’

Teloro bridled at this vagueness. Then he revised his first
impression: the stout magician’s bearing might betray no concern, but his tone rang with deep conviction.

Both Shimone and his stout companion seemed fixed on a discussion the other side of the hall, where several magicians held private counsel. As the current speaker sat, and a round-shouldered man from this whispering cadre stood up, Teloro heard Hochopepa mutter, ‘Now we’ll begin to see how this round of the game is to be played.’

Hodiku motioned to the man, who was slender with brown hair trimmed above his ears in the Tsurani fashion called a warrior’s cut. The style was an odd affectation for a Black Robe, but by any measures Motecha was a strange magician. He had been friends with the two brothers who had actively supported the old Warlord, but when Elgoran had died and Elgohar had left to serve upon the Midkemian world, Motecha had conspired to maintain an appearance of distance between himself and the two brothers.