Servant of the Empire (100 page)

Most men would have been stunned by the fall. The Midkemian seemed unfazed. Driven by a rage that dulled physical pain, and goaded by emotions that no line of reason might stay, he tore into Lujan with a ferocity well capable of killing. Narrowly avoiding a knee in the groin, the Acoma Force Commander grappled a whirlwind of moving flesh. Somehow he managed to rap out orders to his men. ‘Close in! Use your shields and bodies to hide this fracas from public view.’

A fist grazed his cheek. Feeling the burn of torn skin,
Lujan indulged in a rare curse. ‘Damn it, man, will you stop, or must I be forced to hurt you?’

Kevin snarled an obscenity. ‘… if you had a mother!’ he finished.

Aware that the slave he sought to subdue had not hesitated to pitch himself weaponless against armed ranks of enemy warriors, Lujan reacted by reflex. Desperate, and moved by care and admiration for Kevin, he employed the honourless, brutal tactics learned in the mountains as a grey warrior. Another criminal might have recognized the moves; any proper Tsurani warrior would have been shamed to employ a fist to an opponent’s groin. Felled by a blow that held nothing of fairness, and blanched dead white with the pain, Kevin rolled into a moaning knot of limbs on the filthy paving of the street.

‘Sorry, old son,’ Lujan murmured, his inflection and choice of phrase borrowed intact from Kevin. ‘You will finish your life in freedom and honour, whether you wish to or not.’

Then, feeling battered inside as well as out, Force Commander Lujan raised himself to his feet. ‘Bind and gag him,’ he said with whiplash curtness to his men. ‘We dare risk no further incident.’

Then, aching for the mistress who watched all from the shadow of her litter, he forced his face back into a semblance of Tsurani impassivity and ordered the party forward on its errand.

At the gate of the compound, the master of Kentosani’s slave guild stepped out of his hut to inquire after the needs of the Lady of the Acoma.

Mara choked words past numbed lips. ‘This slave … is to be returned to his homeland, by order of the Light of Heaven.’

A limp weight in the grip of her guardsmen, Kevin turned blue eyes toward her. The light in their depths beseeched,
but the child in her womb kept her strong. ‘I am sorry,’ she murmured, heedless that the master of the slave guild stared at her in dumbfounded curiosity. Unable to voice the words, she moved her lips to mouth the phrase ‘my love’. The rest of what she wished to say stuck impossibly in her throat.

The slave broker nodded. ‘He’s very strong, though a bit past prime. I would think a fair price –’

Mara held up her hand, silencing the man. ‘No. Send him home.’

If the slave master found this behaviour odd, he said nothing. He was having enough difficulty understanding why the Emperor would choose to buy slaves simply to send them away to some alien palace. The edict had created enough confusion, and if this Lady chose to be generous, he would not object. ‘My Lady,’ he said, bowing deeply.

At last, unable to bear the wild, haunted pain she saw in her loved one’s face, Mara whispered, ‘Live a long and noble life, son of Zun.’

She managed to achieve the impossible and summon the courage to order her warriors onward to take Kevin away to the compound set aside for the Emperor’s purchases. The slave master directed the way, and dimly Mara heard one of her warriors speak words to the effect that Kevin was to be treated with respect and care, once his bonds were removed …

The stockade doors swung closed, forever cutting off her view. Lujan remained by her side, his face a stone mask beneath the shadow of his helm. Most atypically, he did not realize that his officer’s plumes had been bent and knocked awry during the foray in the street.

Mara sank back on her cushions, wrung dry of tears, and too debilitated to lift even a finger to close her curtains. The shadow thrown over her by the great wooden gates seemed utterly frigid. She could not banish the memory of Kevin’s eyes in the moment she had ordered their parting. Always,
to her grave, it would haunt her, that she had sent him away bound and helpless. Dully she wondered how long Tasaio would spare her, after the coming truce came to its inevitable end. How many nights would she lie awake aching with the now unanswerable question: Would Kevin have left her reasonably, or willingly, if she had owned the nerve to consult him beforehand?

‘Lady?’ Lujan’s soft voice intruded into a wilderness of pain. ‘The time has come to go home.’

The warriors had returned, unnoticed.

Mara returned a limp wave. How, she wondered, with a pain sharp as a knife thrust, was any place in the Empire ever again going to feel like home?

The day and the night that followed seemed desolate and without ending. Alternately ravaged by grief and cruel nightmares, Mara tossed on her sleeping mat. Waking, sleeping, and in dreams, she seemed to see Kevin standing at her bedside, a look of naked accusation in his eyes. By now the barge that carried him would be well on the way downriver. By the time she and Tasaio and the Lords of the High Council resolved their differences with the Emperor, the man she loved above all others would be far beyond reach, on the soil of a distant, other world.

Stung awake time and again as she reached out and encountered the empty place where he had lain, or jolted bolt upright in terror by the vision of Tasaio of the Minwanabi holding a sacrificial sword over the gutted body of her son, Mara prayed. She begged Lashima for insight that would grant her the miracle she needed to thwart the enemy who cared for power more than peace, and who would see the natami of her ancestors buried face down, forever beyond reach of the sunlight. Hag-ridden, and feeling ill, she at last abandoned her pretence of rest. She
paced the floor of her chambers until dawn, and then called a meeting of her advisers.

The butana continued to blow. Its whipping, tireless gusts pried at the shutters and screens as Mara, her Force Commander, and her acting First Adviser sat down in conference in her sitting room.

Huskily, as though her throat had been scraped with sand, the Lady of the Acoma opened. ‘I have one day to prepare for the confrontation between the Emperor and Minwanabi.’

Painfully bright in his confidence, Saric said, ‘What have you planned, mistress?’

Mara closed swollen eyes, worn through to her soul. ‘I have no plan. Unless you and your cousin have considered something I have not, we march into this moment of destiny with nothing more than our naked wits. I have promised Minwanabi that no one shall ascend to the Warlord’s throne before him.’

‘Then,’ said Saric, in a tone of patent reason, ‘the only choice must be that no one sits upon the Warlord’s throne.’

For a prolonged moment, only the wail of the butana held sway. A maid entered with a tray of chocha and sweet rolls and quietly left. No one seemed interested in refreshment.

Mara regarded the faces that all turned toward her with maddening expectancy. ‘Well, how shall we contrive to make a miracle?’ she said in thinnest exasperation.

Showing a bruise and a scabbed cheek from his fisticuffs with Kevin, her Force Commander said without humour, ‘Mistress, it is for such things that all look to you.’

Mara stared bleakly back. ‘This time I have run out of inspiration, Lujan.’

Her Force Commander shrugged with total impassivity. ‘Then we shall die honourably killing Minwanabi dogs.’

A surge of protest moved within Mara. ‘Kevin is –’ Her voice caught and a rush of emotion caused a sting of tears
beneath her eyelids. Forcing her grief and pain behind rigid control, she ran a damp hand over her face. ‘Kevin was right. We are a murderous race, and we waste ourselves in killing one another.’

The butana howled, shaking the screen, and sending chill draughts across the room. Mara repressed a shiver and did not at first notice Saric’s request to speak. When she saw, and signalled her acquiescence, he questioned her condemnation with a buried hint of impatience. ‘Mistress, the answer is plain? It does not matter if Minwanabi is not defeated, so long as the Emperor wins, yes?’

Mara’s eyes opened wide. ‘Explain this.’

Saric searched for words to express the concept which hovered upon the edge of his mind. ‘If the Light of Heaven can bolster his position, can find enough support in the High Council for his absolute rule –’

Mara shot upright, causing her loosely pinned hair to tumble in waves down her back. Ignoring the maid who rushed to remedy the untidiness, the Lady of the Acoma knotted her brows in a frown. ‘Then he could order Minwanabi …’ She fought against the reflexive instinct to oppose any break in tradition and embrace the alien concept of absolute rule. ‘Leave me,’ she said with sudden sharpness to her circle of advisers. ‘I have much to think about.’

As Saric arose with the others, Mara retained him with a command. ‘Send word to the Light of Heaven, Saric. Beg him for an audience. Swear upon whatever honour our name holds that the safety of the Empire depends upon this meeting.’

The young adviser repressed curiosity. ‘When, mistress?’

Over the incessant noise of the butana, Mara called, ‘As soon as he is able, but no later than one hour before noon today.’ Her voice ceased sounding whipped, as her mind weighed options, discarding those that were based on unfounded hope, rather than sound possibility; for
inspiration had arrived at a moment nearly too late. ‘If Tasaio’s ambition is to be thwarted, I will need every minute of time.’

The Emperor listened.

In his grand audience hall, a chamber large enough to house twenty companies of warriors, Ichindar, ninety-first in an unbroken line, sat atop his ceremonial throne. The imposing chair was ancient wood, overlaid with gold and topaz, with massive rubies, emeralds, and onyx stones faced into the sides and back. It rested on a raised pyramidal dais, with a course of steps upon each side. The floor at the base was inset with a vast sunwheel pattern in warm tones of agate, white opal, and more topaz. Upon each side of the huge pyramid, twenty Imperial Whites stood guard upon the stairs. The floor directly before Mara held chairs for high priests and advisers, but only three were present: a scribe who took notes for distribution to those temple representatives who were absent, the Chief Priest of Juran, and the High Father Superior of Lashima. Mara had been grateful for the prelate of Lashima’s presence, hoping it was a favourable omen, for that man had officiated at her interrupted ordination, on the day Keyoke had arrived to take a seventeen-year-old child home as Ruling Lady of the Acoma.

Stripped of even her honour guard, for warriors were forbidden in formal audience with the Emperor, she voiced the last part of her proposed plan. An imperial scribe sitting to Mara’s right hurriedly transcribed her words for the archives, as her phrases echoed into the cavernous chamber. With the hall’s vast domed skylights, gold-and-crystal-framed windows, and polished marble floors, the sound of her voice made her feel physically diminished.

At the close of her last phrase, she bowed deeply and stood as protocol dictated, her hands crossed in salute at her breast, behind the low railing beyond which no petitioner might approach. Trembling despite her best efforts, she awaited the Light of Heaven’s reaction. As the minutes passed, and the silence became prolonged, she dared not even raise her eyes for fear she might find disapproval on the youthful countenance atop the dais.

‘Much of what you propose rests upon speculation, Lady,’ the Emperor said on a note of unquestioned authority.

Her eyes still locked upon the elaborately patterned floor, Mara said, ‘Majesty, it is our only hope.’

‘What you suggest … is unprecedented.’

That Ichindar considered tradition ahead of his own personal safety suggested much. This slender, solemn-faced young ruler was not greedy for absolute power; neither was he too timid to embrace bold concepts in the light of pending crisis. Admiring the maturity and courage apparent in one so physically slight, Mara said, ‘Much of what you have done, Majesty, is also unprecedented.’

Ichindar inclined his head, the long, golden plumes of his headdress swaying as he nodded a stately acquiescence. Enveloped in elaborate layers of robes, he sat with painful formality, his face already marked by the ruler’s burdens. Green eyes in dark hollows and cheeks gaunt from sleepless nights marred what should have been a carefree visage. Beneath the jewels, and pomp, Mara perceived a spirit beaten down with worry. Young he might be, but the Light of Heaven was aware that he stood upon ground more perilous than quicksand. He held no delusions. His strength stemmed from the incalculable reverence the Tsurani people held for his office, but although deep-seated, such sentiment was far from limitless. Although uncommon among Ichindar’s ninety predecessors, regicide was not unheard of.
The Emperor’s death was considered proof unto itself that the gods had already withdrawn their blessing from the Empire. Circumstances must already be disastrous for any but the most ambitious of Lords to attempt such a deed. Yet Mara knew Tasaio harboured just such ambition. And there were those, this day, who considered abolishment of the Warlord’s office a dire enough offence against tradition to justify such an act.

Aware of the perils she invited by encouraging a course that departed further from the familiar, Mara raised her eyes to the enthroned figure on the dais. ‘Majesty, I offer only hope. I can stem Minwanabi’s ambition alone, but only at great cost. Tasaio would have to be granted the Warlord’s title. A peaceful succession to the white and gold might send these armies outside Kentosani home in peace. I submit to you this is an easy choice. Take it, and you may retire from the Great Game, return to the High Council its licence to act, and retire to your divine contemplations. But all personal feuds and differences aside, I submit that this course would only buy time. A Minwanabi on the Warlord’s throne would lead to a future of strife.