Servant of the Empire (63 page)

Mara nodded, and inwardly concluded the things that remained unsaid. The defiance of Ichindar’s play for power was being politely acknowledged. But in the Great Game, courtesy often masked murder. The High Council of Tsuranuanni intended to make itself heard. There would be no formal meeting this day; too many Lords were absent. No Lord would make a move until it was known which enemies and which allies remained alive to be reckoned with. Today was for taking stock, and tomorrow was for playing, seizing advantage over rivals for the openings that chance had offered. And while this council was unauthorized, this meeting was no less a round of the Great Game, for while a grey warrior could kill as easily as one sworn to house colours, so was this grey council just as deadly as one with imperial sanction.

Mara stole a quiet moment for review. Acoma prospects were not reassuring. The Minwanabi had lost a few opponents and gained a new Lord who could use all their resources, especially military might, to full potential. The odds did not favour Lord Xacatecas. As Warchief of Clan Xacala, Lord Chipino would have stood in the Emperor’s front rank; his eldest son, Dezilo, would have represented Xacatecas as third of the Five Great Families. Both were lost, which left Lady Isashani and a brood of offspring, the oldest of which were young and untrained for the Lord’s mantle – Mara’s strongest ally was now dangerously weakened. All too reliant upon Ayaki’s tenuous blood tie with the Anasati for some protection, Mara felt as though a cold breeze blew against her naked back.

Around her, like jagunas sniffing over corpses before deciding which choice bits to fight over, the ruling Lords of Tsuranuanni gathered with members of their clans, then splintered off to speak with allies and factions, usually along party lines.

The Acoma were technically members of a minor political party, the Jade Eye, but the connection had lapsed since Lord Sezu’s rule. Mara had little to do with party politics, being far too consumed by the need to preserve her house from obliteration. But with all the Empire now cast into upheaval, no tie was too tenuous to ignore.

Mara threaded her way past Lord Inrodaka, and the Lord of the Ekamchi’s fat second son, and a cousin of the Lord of the Kehotara, who conferred together in whispers and cast her cold glances. Finding two other members of the Jade Eye Party beyond them, Mara approached and began a conversation that devolved from lists of sad condolences. The dead and those abandoned beyond the rift seemed to haunt by their absence. Yet life in Tsuranuanni did not retreat from losses. Around the hall, members of the High Council explored byplays behind façades of polite conversation, and all the while they played, once more, the Great Game.

Lightning rent the sky, flashing silver-white on the great house of the Minwanabi. Seated at his lap desk, pen in hand, with fresh ink by his elbow, Incomo reviewed the documents arrayed before him, ignoring the sound of driving rain from outside. He was never a fast thinker, and now his shock and disbelief would not leave him. The events surrounding the Emperor’s betrayal still seemed the uneasy aftermath of a nightmare. That Desio was dead was undoubted. Three witnesses reported seeing him go down with arrows in his throat and chest – his cousin Jeshurado already dead at his feet. No friend or retainer had been near enough to rescue the Lord’s body from the chaos before the
magical rift closed, forever sealing Kelewan from Midkemia.

Incomo pressed dry palms to his temples and inhaled a breath of damp air. Desio of the Minwanabi rested with his ancestors, if indeed a man’s spirit could cross the unknowable gulf between worlds. The rites had been said in the Minwanabi sacred glade by a hastily summoned priest, and runners departed with the news. All that remained to be done was await the new Lord’s return from the outpost in the western isles.

At that moment the screen at the First Adviser’s back slipped open. Warm, damp air swept through the room, ruffling the parchment and spattering a fall of wind-borne drops across the floor. ‘I left orders not to be disturbed,’ Incomo snapped.

A dry, incisive voice said, ‘Then pardon the interruption, First Adviser. But time passes, and there is much to be done.’

Incomo started and spun around. He saw a warrior, backlit by a white flash of lightning, step through the doorway. Water streamed off his battle armour and slicked his officer’s plume into spikes. Light-footed, lithe, and almost without sound, the man reached the circle of radiance cast by the room’s single lamp. He swept off his helm. Shadows circled his honey-coloured eyes, and wet hair clung to his neck.

Incomo dropped his quill and bowed from the waist in obeisance. ‘Tasaio!’

Tasaio looked Incomo in the eyes for a silent moment and then said slowly, ‘I’ll forgive the familiarity this time, First Adviser. Never again.’

Incomo shoved his lap desk aside, spilling quill and parchment, and nearly upsetting the inkwell. He unfolded gaunt legs and stiffly touched his forehead to the floor. ‘My Lord.’

The boom of the storm filled silence while Tasaio looked
keenly around the room. He did not grant Incomo permission to rise, but studied the painted images of birds, the worn sleeping mat, and lastly, most leisurely of all, the prostrate elder on the carpet. ‘Yes. Tasaio. Lord of the Minwanabi.’

At last given leave to sit upright, Incomo said, ‘How did you –’

The new master interrupted in a tone that was faintly derisive. ‘Incomo! Did you think yourself the only one with agents in this house? My cousin commanded my loyalty, but never my respect. Never would I dishonour the Minwanabi name, but in my position only a fool would have left cousin Desio unobserved.’

Tasaio smoothed back drenched bangs, then adjusted the set of his sword belt. ‘Since the moment I set foot on that cursed island, I kept one boat in readiness, manned and provisioned to leave. Day or night, if the call came, the lines need only be cast off. On the instant of my cousin’s death, those loyal to me sent word to the Outpost Isles.’ Tasaio shrugged, scattering droplets in the lamplight. ‘I took a boat to Nar and commandeered the first ship. When is the High Council to elect a new Warlord?’

Eyes fixed on the runnels of rainwater that threatened his sleeping mat, Incomo reordered his thoughts. ‘Word came only this morning. The Light of Heaven has called the High Council into session, to meet three days from now.’

In almost silken calm, Tasaio said, ‘You would have let me miss that meeting, Incomo?’

Wet pillows quite abruptly ceased to matter. ‘My Lord!’ Again Incomo pressed his forehead to the floor. ‘Desio’s end was most sudden. Our swiftest messenger departed within the hour, with orders to choose the fastest boat. I humbly submit that I did my best. Do not fault a servant’s limits, when my Lord has been clever beyond the expected call of duty.’

Tasaio laughed without humour. ‘I dislike pointless flattery, First Adviser, as well as unconvincing humility. Rise, and remember that.’

A loud peal of thunder rattled the house, and echoes boomed across the night-dark lake. With a field commander’s ability to adjust his voice to noise, Tasaio said, ‘Here are your orders, First Adviser. Dismiss Desio’s body servants and concubines. I have staff of my own, and they will attend me as I don my robes of mourning. I shall sleep this night in the officers’ barracks. Tell my hadonra to clear everything that belonged to Desio from the Lord’s quarters. I want the chambers stripped. My carry boxes and personal items will be fully installed by dawn, and the old Lord’s robes, bedding, and other personal items will be burned.’ Tasaio’s eyes narrowed. ‘Tell the kennel master to cut the throats of the man-killer hounds – they will answer to no other master. After first light, assemble every member of this household on the drill field. A new Lord of the Minwanabi rules, and all must understand that inefficiency will not be tolerated.’

‘As my Lord wishes.’ Incomo prepared for a sleepless night. He unfolded sore knees and made ready to stand, but his master had not finished.

The Lord of the Minwanabi regarded his First Adviser with flat, unwavering eyes. ‘You do not need to indulge me as you did my cousin. I will hear your thoughts on all matters, even if my opinion lies contrary. You may suggest as you see fit until the moment I give orders. Then you will silently obey. Tomorrow we shall review the accounts and call together an honour guard. By midday I wish to be in my barge of state, on my way downriver to Kentosani. See that every detail is in order for my journey. For when I reach the Holy City I intend to present my case.’

‘What case, my Lord?’ Incomo inquired in tacit respect.

At last Tasaio smiled, a sword-sharp brightness to his
expression. ‘Why, to assume the seat of Warlord, obviously. Who has a better claim than I?’

Incomo felt the hair stir at his neck. At last, after years of wishful yearning, he would serve a Lord who was clever, competent, and ambitious.

Thunder shook the floor again, and rain slashed against the screens. Straight in the wavering flare of lamplight, Tasaio finished his thought. ‘Once I wear the white and gold, we shall obliterate the Acoma.’

Incomo bowed again. When he rose, the room was empty, a draught through the darkened doorway the only trace of his master’s visit. Silently the First Adviser considered the desire he had never dared utter, but that fate and the gods had freely granted: Tasaio now wore the Minwanabi mantle. Touched by a mood of dry irony, Incomo wondered why the gift left him feeling worn and old.

The storm left runoff that trickled in streams around the luck symbols anchored to the roof peaks of the Imperial Palace, and downspouts dripped into puddles in the courtyards. Inside the building, the sound of falling water became muffled; draughts played like sighs up and down the cavernous corridors, setting streaming the flames of those lamps that servants had bothered to light. Lujan and five armoured warriors marched briskly through concourses gloomy with shadows to report back to the Acoma apartment.

Mara met her Force Commander in the middle room, where she conferred with Arakasi. Kevin stood by the wall at her shoulder, his mood of biting sarcasm brought on by inactivity. He had a headache. His teeth were on edge from listening to warriors sharpen weapons, and the reek of the lacquer used to preserve laminated-hide armour made his stomach queasy.

Before the Lady’s cushions, Lujan arose from his bow.
‘Mistress,’ he said briskly, ‘we bring word of new movement by Sajaio, Tondora, and Gineisa soldiers into apartments previously unoccupied.’

Mara frowned. ‘Minwanabi dogs. Any word of the kennel master himself?’

‘No. Not yet.’ Lujan unstrapped his helm and scuffed his fingers through damp hair.

Arakasi looked up from the untidy pile of notes passed on to him that morning by his contacts throughout the palace. He regarded the Acoma Force Commander with hooded eyes. ‘In three more days, the Emperor will return to the palace.’

Propped by one shoulder against the wall, his arms folded across his chest, Kevin said, ‘Taking his own sweet time about it, isn’t he?’

‘There are a great number of rituals and ceremonies along the way,’ Mara broke in, her irritation barely masked. ‘One does not travel with twenty priests, a thousand bodyguards, and five thousand soldiers and make speed.’

Kevin shrugged. Confinement and stress affected them all. For two days the business in council had been building momentum. Mara spent up to fifteen hours at a stretch closeted in the great hall. At night she returned so exhausted that she barely had inclination to eat. She looked peaked and thin, and despite lavish solicitude from her lover, what little sleep she garnered was troubled. If the nights were unsatisfactory, the days were worse. Inactivity of any sort burned Kevin’s nerves, but even boredom had limits. Duty in the scullery drove him to vocal rebellion, and though seldom given to self-indulgence, he lacked the fatalism that enabled the Tsurani warriors to endure in seemingly endless patience.

Mara sighed and took stock of her gains. ‘So far I have held council with seventeen Lords, and have bound only four to agreements.’ She shook her head. ‘A poor record. No
one wishes to commit, though many pretend to be willing. Too many factions contend for the Warlord’s seat, and to support one candidate openly brings the enmity of all of his rivals.’

Arakasi uncrumpled a note that carried a pungent smell of fish. ‘My agent at the dockside reports the arrival of Dajalo of the Keda.’

Mara perked up at this. ‘Is he in residence at his town house, or the Imperial Palace?’

‘Patience, Lady.’ Arakasi shuffled through his notes, discarded three, then scanned the coded script of another that smelled intriguingly of perfume. ‘Town house,’ the Spy Master concluded. ‘At least for tonight.’

Mara clapped her hands for the scribe brought in to help with correspondence. ‘Address this to Lord Dajalo of the Keda. First offer our condolences for the death of his father, along with our certainty that his end was both brave and honourable. Then let Dajalo understand that the Acoma hold a document over Lord Andero’s personal chop that binds House Keda to one vote of our choosing. Dajalo, as new ruling Lord, is bound to honour this.’

‘Mistress,’ Arakasi broke in. ‘Isn’t this a little … abrupt?’

Mara ran her fingers through the masses of her hair, the ends of which were still crimped into curls from being pinned. ‘Perhaps I have acquired habits from this barbarian I keep around.’ She paused, as thunder rolled in the distance. ‘Have no doubt … Tasaio of the Minwanabi will be among us quite soon, and then I may need this vote instantly.’

A tap at the entry interrupted. A guard appeared in the doorway and bowed. ‘Mistress, our scouts report armed men moving through the outer hallways of the palace.’