Servant of the Empire (5 page)

Hoping to avoid the incapacitation of another house slave, the First Adviser said, ‘My Lord, perhaps a cool drink would restore your patience. These matters of trade are urgent.’

Desio continued pacing as if he did not hear. His appearance revealed his recent personal neglect and indulgence, florid cheeks and nose, puffy dark circles beneath his red-rimmed eyes, grimy hair hanging lankly around his shoulders, and greasy dirt under his fingernails. Incomo reflected that, since his father’s ritual suicide, the young Lord had generally acted like an itchy needra bull in a mud wallow with a dozen cows, an odd way to show his grief, but not unheard of: those confronted by death for the first time often embrace life-affirming behaviour. So, for days, Desio had remained drunk in his private quarters with his girls and ignored the affairs of House Minwanabi.

On the second morning some of the girls reappeared,
bruised and battered from Desio’s passionate rages. Other girls replaced them in a seemingly inexhaustible succession, until the Lord of the Minwanabi had finally thrown off his fit of grief. He had emerged looking ten years older than at the moment he had silently watched his father fall upon the family sword.

Now Desio made a pretence of running the far-flung holdings he had inherited, but his drinking began at midday and continued into the night. Although Lord of one of the Five Great Families of the Empire, Desio seemed unable to acknowledge the enormous responsibility that went with his power. Tormented by personal demons, he tried to hide from them in soft arms or wash them away with a sea of wine. Had Incomo dared, he would have sent his master a healer, a priest, and a child’s teacher who would issue a stiff lecture on the responsibilities that accompanied the ruler’s mantle. But one look in Desio’s eyes – and the madness hinted there – warned the First Adviser any such efforts would be futile. Desio’s spirit boiled with a rage only the Red God might answer.

Incomo tried one last time to turn Desio’s attention back to business. ‘My Lord, if I may point out, we are losing days while our ships lie empty in their berths in Jamar. If they are to sail to –’

‘Enough!’ Desio’s fist crashed against a partition, tearing the delicate painted silk and splintering the frame. He kicked the wreckage to the floor, then whirled and collided with his fan slave. Enraged beyond reason, the Lord of the Minwanabi struck the man as if he were furniture. The slave crashed to his knees, a broken nose and lacerated lip spraying blood across his face, his chest, and the smashed partition. In fear for his very life, the slave managed to keep the large fan from striking his master, despite being half-blind from pain and tears. Desio remained oblivious to the slave’s heroic deference. He rounded to confront his adviser.
‘I cannot concentrate on anything, so long as
she
is out there!’

Incomo required no explanation to know to whom his master referred. Experience taught him there was nothing to do but sit back and endure another outburst. ‘My Lord,’ he said anxiously, ‘no good will be gained in yearning for vengeance should all your wealth dwindle through neglect. If you will not attend to these decisions, at least permit your hadrona to take matters in hand.’

The plea made no impression on Desio. Staring into the distance, his voice a harsh whisper, as if to speak the hated name were to give it substance, he whispered, ‘Mara of the Acoma must die!’

Glad now for the dark room, which hid his own fears, Incomo agreed. ‘Of course, my Lord. But this is not the time.’

‘When!’ he shouted, his bellow hurting Incomo’s ears. Desio kicked at a pillow, then lowered his voice to a more reasonable tone. ‘When? She contrived to escape my father’s trap; and more: she forced him to dishonour his own pledge for the safety of a guest, compelling him to kill himself in shame.’ Desio’s agitation simmered higher as he recounted Mara’s offences against his house. ‘This … girl has not merely defeated us, she has humbled – no,
humiliated
us!’ He stamped hard on the pillow and regarded his adviser with narrowed eyes.

The fan slave shrank from the expression, so like that of Jingu of the Minwanabi when roused to rage. Bleeding from nose and mouth, but still trying valiantly to cool his sweating master, he raised and lowered his fan in barely unbroken rhythm while Desio’s voice turned conspiratorial, a harsh whisper. ‘The Warlord looks upon her with amusement and affection, even favour – perhaps he beds the bitch – while our faces are pushed into needra slime. We eat needra droppings each day she draws breath!’ Desio’s scowl
deepened. He stared at the tightly closed screens, and as if seeing them stirred a memory, a glint of sanity returned to his eyes for the first time since Jingu’s death. Incomo restrained a sigh of open relief.

‘And more again,’ Desio finished with the slow care a man might use in the presence of a coiled pusk adder. ‘She is now a real threat to
my
safety.’

Incomo nodded to himself. He knew that the root of Desio’s behaviour was fear. Jingu’s son lived each day in terror that Mara would continue the Acoma blood feud with the Minwanabi. Now Ruling Lord, Desio would be the next target of Mara’s plotting, his own life and honour the next to fall.

Although the stifling heat shortened his patience, Incomo attempted to console his master, for this admission, no matter how private between a Lord and his adviser, was the first step in overcoming that fear, and perhaps in conquering Lady Mara, as well. ‘Lord, the girl will make a mistake. You must bide your time; wait for that moment….’

The jade-fly returned to pester Desio; the slave moved his fan to intercept its flight, but Desio waved the feathers away. He glared through the gloom at Incomo. ‘No, I cannot wait. The Acoma cow already has the upper hand and she continues to grow stronger. My father’s position was more advantageous than my own; he stood but one step away from the Gold Throne of the Warlord! Now he is ashes, and I can count loyal allies on one hand. All our pain and humiliation can be placed at the feet of …
that woman.
’

This was sorrowfully true. Incomo understood his master’s reluctance to speak his enemy’s name. Barely more than a child when her father and brother died – with few soldiers and no allies – within three years Mara had secured more prestige for the Acoma than they had known in their long, honourable history. Incomo tried in vain to think of something soothing to say, but his young Lord’s complaints
were all justified. Mara
was
to be feared, and now her position of power had increased to the point where she not only could protect herself, but could directly challenge the Minwanabi.

Softly the First Adviser said, ‘Recall Tasaio to your side.’

Desio blinked, momentarily looking stupid as his father never had. Then comprehension dawned. He glanced about the room and noticed the fan slave still at his post, despite the blood trickling from his broken nose and torn lip. In a moment of unexpected consideration, Desio dismissed the unfortunate wretch. Now alone with his adviser, he said, ‘Why should I call my cousin back from the war upon the barbarian world? You know he covets my position. Until I marry and sire children, he is next in succession. And he is
too
close to the Warlord for my taste. My father was wise to keep him busy with affairs upon a distant world.’

‘Your father was also wise enough to have your cousin arrange the Lord Sezu’s and Lanokota’s deaths in the first place.’ Hands tucked in his sleeves, Incomo stalked forward a step. ‘Why not let Tasaio deal with the girl? The father, the son, now the daughter.’

Desio considered. Tasaio had waited until the Warlord had been absent from the campaign upon the barbarian world to order Lord Sezu and his son into an impossible military situation. He had ensured their deaths without exposing the Minwanabi to any public culpability. It had been a brilliant stroke, and Desio’s father had ceded some desirable lands in Honshoni Province to Tasaio as reward. Tapping his cheek with a pudgy finger, Desio said, ‘I am uncertain. Tasaio might prove dangerous to me, perhaps as dangerous as … that girl.’

Incomo shook his head in disagreement. ‘Your cousin will defend Minwanabi honour. As Ruling Lord, you are not a target for Tasaio’s ambition, as you were when Lord Jingu was alive. It is one thing to seek a rival’s demise, quite
another to attempt to overthrow one’s own lawful Lord.’ Incomo pondered a moment, then added, ‘Despite his ambitions, it is unthinkable Tasaio would break his oath to you. He would no more move against you than he would have against your father,
Lord Desio.
’ He stressed the last to drive home the point he wished to make.

Desio stood, ignoring the fly, which at last perched upon his collar. His eyes fixed on a point in space, and he sighed aloud. ‘Yes, of course. You are correct. I must recall Tasaio and have him swear fealty. Then he must defend me with his life, or forfeit Minwanabi honour forever.’

Incomo waited, aware his master had not finished. Sometimes clumsy with words, Desio still possessed a cunning mind, though he lacked his father’s instincts or his cousin’s brilliance. He crossed to the windows. ‘I shall include all other loyal retainers and allies in my summons,’ he declared at last. ‘Yes, we must have a formal gathering.’ He faced his adviser with finality. ‘No one shall think I have hesitated in calling my cousin to serve at home. No, we shall have all our vassals and allies here.’

Decisively the fat man clapped his hands. Two servants in orange livery slid aside painted doors and entered to do his bidding. ‘Open these damned screens,’ commanded Desio. ‘Do it quickly. I am hot.’ As if a great burden had been lifted from his soul, he added, ‘Let in fresh air, for the gods’ mercy.’

The servants busied themselves with latches and bars, and presently light flooded the study and cool air flowed inside. The fly on the young Lord’s collar took wing toward freedom, and the lake beyond. The waters sparkled silver in sunlight, dotted with fishing boats that plied nets from dawn to dusk. Desio seemed to shed his self-indulgence as he strode across the room to stand before his First Adviser. His eyes came alight with newfound confidence as the paralysing fear brought on by his father’s death fled before his
excited planning. ‘I will make my vows upon my family’s natami in the Holy Glade of Minwanabi Ancestors, with all my kin in attendance.

‘We shall show that the Minwanabi have not fallen.’ Then, with unexpected dry humour, he added, ‘Or at least not very far.’ He shouted for his hadrona and began relaying orders. ‘I want the very finest entertainment available. This celebration will outshine that disaster my father arranged to honour the Warlord. Have every family member attend, including those who fight upon the barbarian world …’

‘This shall be done, my Lord.’ Incomo sent a runner scurrying with instructions for officers, senior advisers, servants, and slaves. Within moments two scribes were furiously copying Desio’s commands, while, close by, the family chop bearer hovered with hot wax.

Desio regarded this bustle with a cold smile on his lips. He droned on a few minutes more, his orders and grandiose plans making him feel better than wine. Then suddenly he stopped. To all in the room he announced, ‘And send word to the Grand Temple of Turakamu. I will build a prayer gate, so that each traveller who passes through will invoke the Red God’s indulgence, that he will look favourably upon Minwanabi vengeance. To the god I vow: blood will flow freely until I have the Acoma bitch’s head!’

Incomo bowed to conceal his sudden concern. To pledge so to Turakamu might bring fortune during a conflict, but one did not vow lightly to the Death God; disaster could befall if vows went unfulfilled. The patience of the gods in such a matter was a fickle proposition. Incomo gathered his robe about him, finding the air off the lake suddenly chilling. At least, he hoped it was the breeze and not a premonition of doom.

Sunlight streamed through the tree branches within the largest of the Acoma gardens, painting patches of light upon
the ground. Overhead, leaves rustled, while the fountain in the centre of the courtyard sang its never-ending melody of falling water. Despite the pleasant surroundings, all those called to council shared their mistress’s concerns.

Mara sat within her circle of senior advisers, her thoughts troubled. Clad in her thinnest lounging robe, adorned by a single green jewel on a cho-ja-carved jade chain, she seemed almost abstracted, the picture of the Lady in repose. And yet her brown eyes held a glint that these, her closest advisers, all recognized as puzzlement.

One by one the Lady studied the officers and advisers that were House Acoma’s core. The hadonra, Jican, a short, nervous man with a shrewd mind for commerce, sat diffidently as always. Under his detailed management, Acoma wealth had multiplied, but he preferred progress in small, secure steps, avoiding the dramatic gambles that appealed to Mara. Today Jican fidgeted less than usual, which the Lady of the Acoma attributed to the news that the cho-ja silk makers had begun their spinning. By the winter season their first bolts of finished cloth would be ready. Acoma riches, then, were on the increase. To Jican, this was of vital concern. But Mara knew wealth alone did not secure a great house.

Her First Adviser, Nacoya, had repeated this to no end. If anything, Mara’s recent victory over the Minwanabi made the wizened old woman more nervous than ever. ‘I agree with Jican, Lady. This expansion could prove dangerous.’ She fixed Mara with a steady gaze. ‘A house can rise too fast in the Game of the Council. The lasting victories are ever the subtle ones, for they do not call for preemptive action by rivals unnerved by sudden successes. The Minwanabi will be moving, we know, so let us not bring uninvited appraisal from other houses, too.’