Servant of the Empire (54 page)

He need not name the empty chairs. Most of the Blue
Wheel Party sent no representatives, many in the Party for Peace had not brought wives or children, and most of the Kanazawai Lords wore armour rather than robes. If such anomalies were taken as pieces of one related issue, a widespread threat might be real. Squads of white-armoured warriors were stationed at strategic points and entrances, many more than needed for crowd control should an unfortunate event on the arena floor turn the mob’s mood from celebration to riot; more boxes than the imperial one were being watched.

Mara touched Arakasi’s wrist in agreement; she would take his caution to heart. The Minwanabi could easily have agents planted nearby, awaiting any excuse to strike. Lujan’s eyes began to inventory the location and number of soldiers in the immediate area. Whether events occurred by design or accident made no difference to him; the intrigues of politics could surface just as well in chance opportunity. Should an enemy die of injuries in a brawl, who could cast blame? Such was fate. Such might be the thinking of many of the nobles within striking range should the opportunity only present itself in the heat of a riot.

Arakasi’s speculation was suspended as a rush of nobles into boxes signalled the imminent arrival of the imperial party. Nearest to the white-draped dais, a man in ceremonial robes of black and orange entered, a flock of warriors and servants clustered at his heels. His stout bearing carried a sureness of step that hinted at muscle beneath his fat.

‘Minwanabi,’ Arakasi identified with a startling note of venom.

Eager to put a form to the man who was the archfiend in the drama that involved his beloved Mara, Kevin saw only a stout young man flushed by the heat, who looked rather petulant.

Further study was cut short by trumpets and drums that
signalled the approach of the imperial party. Conversation hushed throughout the stadium. Handlers raced onto the arena sand and chased off the dwarves and insectoids. Across the cleared field, groundkeepers wearing loincloths hurried out with rakes and drags to smooth the ground in preparation for the coming games.

Trumpets blasted again, much closer, and the first ranks of Imperial Guardsmen marched in. They wore armour of pure white and carried the instruments that sounded the fanfare. These were fashioned from the horns of some immense beast, curling around their shoulders to end in bell-like flares above their heads. Drummers in the next rank came on beating a steady tattoo. The band assumed position in front of the imperial box, and the Warlord’s honour guard of two dozen entered after them. Each warrior’s accoutrements and helm were lacquered in shiny white, marking them for an élite cadre known as the Imperial Whites.

Sunlight splintered in reflections off gold blazons and trim, which drew a murmur of amazement from the commoners seated highest in the amphitheatre. By Tsurani standards, the metal worn by each warrior was costly enough to finance Acoma expenses for an entire year.

The guards took position and the crowds stilled. Into an avid silence a senior herald shouted in a voice that carried to the most distant tier of seats, ‘Almecho, Warlord!’

The crowd surged to its feet, crying out welcome for the mightiest warrior in the Empire.

Quiet in her place, and sipping at her fruit drink, Mara watched but did not cheer as the Warlord made his entry. Wide bands of gold adorned the neck and armholes of his breastplate; additional goldwork patterned his helm, which was surmounted by a crimson plume. Behind Almecho trailed two black-robed magicians, named the ‘Warlord’s pets’ by the masses. Kevin had heard how, in the years
before his capture, one of those distant Great Ones had cast the spell that proved Mara’s claim of treachery by the Minwanabi, an action that compelled Desio’s predecessor to ritual suicide to expiate the shame to his family.

Then, unexpectedly, the herald announced a second presence. ‘Ichindar! Ninety-one times Emperor!’

The ovation became a deafening roar. The young Light of Heaven made his entrance. Even Lady Mara threw restraint to the winds. She cheered as loudly as any commoner, her face alight with admiration and awe: this was a man held in near-religious devotion by his nation.

The Light of Heaven made his unprecedented appearance in armour covered entirely in gold. He seemed no more than three years over twenty. His expression could not be interpreted over distance, but his bearing was erect and confident, and red-brown hair flowed from under his high gilt helm, to lie in trimmed curls on his shoulders.

Behind the Emperor filed twenty priests, from each of the twenty major temples. As the Light of Heaven made his way to stand beside the Warlord, the crowd thundered. The cheering seemed inexhaustible.

Through the unnerving din, Kevin shouted to Lujan, ‘Why is everyone so carried away?’

Since decorum had been totally forsaken, Lujan freely called back, ‘The Light of Heaven is our spiritual guardian, who through prayer and exemplary living intercedes on our behalf to the gods. He
is
Tsuranuanni!’

Never in living memory had an Emperor blessed his nation by coming among the people. That Ichindar chose to do so now was inspirational, a cause for unrestrained joy. Yet, alone in a crowd of thousands, Arakasi was not cheering. He went through all the motions, but Kevin saw that he scanned the surrounding throng for any hint of danger to his mistress. With Tsurani impassivity abandoned to wild pandemonium, this moment offered the perfect
opportunity for an enemy to slip close without notice. Kevin edged closer to Mara’s back, prepared to leap to her defence if need be.

The tumultuous ovation rolled on with no sign of waning. At length the Emperor took his seat, and the Warlord raised outstretched arms. His demand took several minutes to be noticed. When the crowd reluctantly quietened, Almecho shouted, ‘The gods smile upon Tsuranuanni! I bring news of a great victory over the otherworld barbarians! We have crushed their greatest army, and our warriors celebrate! Soon all the lands called the Kingdom will be laid at the Light of Heaven’s feet.’ The Warlord ended with a deferential bow to the Light of Heaven, and the masses roared out in approval.

Kevin stood as if stunned. The pit of his stomach felt like ice. Then, aware through his shock and the howl of the crowd that Arakasi studied him intently, the Midkemian glared back. ‘Your Warlord means Brucal and Borric’s forces were routed, the Armies of the West.’ Desperate to bridle an anger that could only endanger his life, Kevin qualified. ‘My own home lies in peril, for now the way lies open for Tsuranuanni to march on Zun!’

Arakasi looked away first; and Kevin remembered: the Spy Master had lost a master and home to the Minwanabi before he swore service to the Acoma. Then Mara’s fingers stole into Kevin’s hand and returned a squeeze of understanding. The Midkemian battled a rush of emotion as his conflicts of loyalty, love, and upbringing tore him a thousand different ways. Fate had taken him from his family and forced him away to a distant world. He had chosen life and love as a man may, rather than miserable captivity; but the cost was only now becoming apparent: who was he – Kevin of Zun or Kevin of the Acoma?

Before the imperial box, the Warlord held up his hands. As the noise subsided, he shouted, ‘To the glory of
Tsuranuanni and as a sign of our devotion to the Light of Heaven, we dedicate these games to his honour!’

The cheering swelled afresh, grating on ears and nerves. Somehow Kevin endured it. Though Lujan and Arakasi might tolerate a breach of manners, any Tsurani warriors who guarded neighbouring boxes would cut him down and ask questions later should they suspect him of impudence toward a Lady of Mara’s rank.

Numbly Kevin watched the doors open at the arena’s far end. Roughly a hundred men shambled onto the sunlit sand. Naked but for loincloths, they were of all ages and states of health; some stood with weapons and shields that were familiar to them, but they were few. Most seemed confused by their circumstances, their grip on their swords uncertain.

‘These are not fighters,’ Kevin observed, a sting to his tone despite his best efforts.

Arakasi quieted him with explanation. ‘This is a clemency spectacle. All are condemned men. They will fight, and the one who lives at the end will go free.’

Trumpets sounded and the slaughter commenced. Before his capture, while soldiering for his father, he had seen many men killed. This was not warfare, not even a savagely matched contest. What took place upon the sands of Kentosani’s arena was butchery. The handful of trained men moved like cats through mice trapped in a granary, killing at will. Finally fewer than a dozen men remained standing, and these more fairly matched. Kevin had lost his stomach for watching; he stared blankly at the spectators, but found no relief from his disgust. The Tsurani seemed to enjoy the blood, not the sport. They cheered each painful death and compared the agonies of one disembowelled man with those of another. Wagers were made on how long the wretch who tried to stuff his spilled entrails back into his abdomen would last, and how many screams he would utter
before he died. No one seemed interested in the skill of the handful of fighters still living.

Kevin felt his gorge rise and swallowed hard. He controlled his loathing by force until the debacle ended, a man with a sword and knife taking the last of the condemned with a thrust under the shield. From the imperial box the vaunted Tsurani Emperor observed the proceedings impassively, while the Warlord at his side murmured to an adviser as if carnage were a daily event.

Burning now, with a fury fuelled by outrage, Kevin looked to see how the Great One who had once been a Kingdom man was handling this atrocity. Even at this distance, Milamber’s countenance appeared stony; but to Kevin’s dismay, the fat magician by his side had broken off his discussion and appeared to be studying the Acoma box.

Kevin averted his gaze in sudden fear. Could a Great One hear thoughts? He bent without considering to ask Mara, but stopped, recalled to his place by the sight of her. The Lady of the Acoma endured the bloodletting with proper Tsurani restraint, her only sign of discomfort a slight stiffness in her shoulders. The former son of Zun felt his stomach burn. He knew Mara. Intimate with her throughout five years, he knew she could perceive the difference between the slaughter below and the battle campaign experienced in the desert. Yet she never so much as flinched when the victor swaggered among the fallen bodies, his gory weapon brandished aloft.

Kevin checked surreptitiously to see whether the Great One was still watching; this time, he could see plainly that the bearded one, Milamber, bore an expression of distaste; even his eyes seemed ablaze. Kevin was not the only one to notice Milamber’s disgust. Nobles in nearby boxes whispered and glanced toward the magician, and a few looked openly apprehensive.

Arakasi saw the exchange. To Kevin he whispered, ‘This
doesn’t bode well. Great Ones may act on a whim, and not even the Light of Heaven dares gainsay their will. If this former countryman of yours shares your distaste for killing, there could be a scene.’

In sunlight, on hot sand, the victor finished his strutting. Slaves came and cleared away the corpses, while rakers smoothed over the rumpled, blood-soaked ground. Trumpets sounded the next round of the Imperial Games, while Kevin wished silently for a drink to wet his dry mouth.

A band of men wearing loincloths entered the stadium, taller and fairer than most Tsurani. Kevin instantly recognized countrymen from his homeworld. Their shoulders gleamed with oil and they carried an assortment of ropes, hooks, weighted nets, spears, and long knives. The festival atmosphere did not disorient them, nor did they give the crowds of showy nobles more than a desultory glance. Instead they crouched in awareness that trouble approached, from any of a dozen directions. Kevin had shared such uncertainty, upon patrol and standing the night watch on the edge of the no-man’s-land where the enemy might strike at any moment.

But these men had not long to wait for action. A pair of large doors rumbled open at the far end of the arena, and a creature out of nightmare shambled out.

All fangs and lethal claws, it stood the size of an elephant, but moved cat-fast on its six legs. At the sight of it, even Mara lost her composure and exclaimed, ‘A harulth!’

The Kelewanese predator blinked and snarled at the sudden blaze of sunlight. Scales armoured its hide, scattering chilly highlights across its neck as it quested to and fro, sniffing the air. The crowd sat charged with expectation. Then the beast spotted its foe: the tiny men who stood exposed on that cruel vista of sand. The harulth did not paw warning, as a bull or a needra might, but lowered its head in belligerence and instantly sprang to the charge.

It moved with terrible swiftness.

The warriors scattered, not in panic, but in a desperate attempt to confuse. The beast made no sound, but its fury was apparent as it focused upon one unfortunate fellow and gave chase. The end came in a flash of claws and a spinning stop that ground the human underfoot. Unmindful of sand or weapons, the harulth devoured the remains in two bites.

Saddened, revolted, and frozen in sympathy for his countrymen, Kevin could not look away. While the harulth dispatched its meal, the survivors regrouped behind the animal and quickly deployed their nets. Faster than Kevin could imagine possible, the creature spun and charged. The men stood their ground until the last instant, then threw the nets as they scattered. The hooks grappled and caught in thick hide and the creature was entangled.

Kevin watched in admiration and fear as spearmen rushed in to strike. The weapons they had been issued were heavy, but the creature’s scales were very tough. It took all of a man’s strength just to penetrate, and the wounds were like stings to the monster. Its vitals stayed totally unharmed. The men saw the futility of further attack. Two of them conferred briefly, then ran to the rear, where the creature’s huge tail thrashed and flailed up sand. Kevin’s breath stopped as, against all rational thought, his countrymen leaped upon the harulth and climbed in an attempt to drive their long knives into the monster’s spine. The sheer bravery of the act brought tears to his Midkemian eyes.