Servant of the Empire (66 page)

Times were uncertain for all. Tecuma gave no nod of farewell as he and his warriors branched off to his red-painted entry. He gave no sign that Mara had been with him at all, lest the wrong eyes see and presume a warmer relation between his house and the Acoma.

Bone-tired, Mara marched on to her apartment. After Xacatecas’ airy sitting room, and the enormous, vaulted Council Hall, the inside of her own quarters seemed stuffy and cramped. Mara settled wearily in the central chamber and was immediately approached by Jican, who offered a note left by Arakasi.

Mara broke the seal and read. An immediate frown creased her face. ‘Tell Lujan to keep his armour on,’ she called, then sent a servant for her pens and writing desk.

Kevin settled resignedly into his accustomed corner. He watched his mistress write two hasty messages. She handed them to her Force Commander for delivery with quick last-minute instructions. ‘Tell the Lords in question that we have no further details. If they feel unable to protect themselves, have them join us straight away.’

‘What was that?’ Kevin asked over the rattle of men donning armour as Lujan selected an escort from the ranks of off-duty warriors.

Mara passed her soiled nib to a servant and sighed. ‘One of Arakasi’s agents overheard a band of men who were hiding in the imperial gardens. One of them carelessly mentioned names and revealed that they were sent to attack the suites of two Lords who happen to be Inrodaka’s enemies. Since any who hinder that faction are potential allies to our cause, I deemed it wise to send warning.’ She tapped her chin with the note. ‘I suspect this means that Inrodaka and his gang will support Tasaio.’

The single maid in residence entered. At a nod from her mistress, she began to unpin Mara’s elaborately high-piled hair and remove her necklaces of carved jade and amber. The Lady endured with closed eyes. ‘I just wish we had some clear indication of our own danger.’

Kevin loosened his Tsurani-style slave robe and, from a pocket that by rights should not have been there, removed what looked like a meat knife. He turned the blade toward the lamp, inspecting the edge for flaws, saying, ‘We’re ready. Should it matter when they come?’

Mara opened her eyes. ‘Did you steal that from the pantry? It is death for you to have a weapon.’

‘It is death for a slave to have opinions, and you haven’t hanged me yet.’ Kevin looked at her. ‘If we’re attacked tonight, I’m not going to stand by and watch you killed because you think meek behaviour is going to gain me a
better station in my next life. I’m going to slice some throats.’ He said the last without humour.

Mara felt too spent to argue. Jican would know the knife was missing; if her hadonra had not seen fit to report the theft, inquiry would be met with shrugs and blank looks unless she were to pose a direct question. The hadonra and her Midkemian slave had evolved a complex relationship over the years. Between them, most issues were cause for unending bickering, but in the select few areas they agreed upon, it was as if a blood oath held them together.

Near midnight, a knock sounded on the outer door of the Acoma apartment. ‘Who passes?’ called the guard on duty.

‘Zanwai!’

Roused from a half-doze where she lay in Kevin’s arms, Mara ordered urgently, ‘Open the door!’

She clapped for her maid to bring an overrobe, then motioned for Kevin to assume a position of more propriety, while her warriors lifted down the heavy bar and slid back the tabletop pressed into service as siege shutter. The portal opened into a dark, lampless corridor and admitted an old man, bleeding from a blow to the head. He was supported by an equally wounded guard, who looked over his shoulder as if expecting pursuit. Lujan hurried the pair into the apartment, then spun to help the guards bolt and bar the door behind them. Mara had a sleeping mat pulled out of the room that served as an officers’ barracks. Her own servants relieved the injured warrior of his master’s weight and made the old Lord comfortable with pillows.

Strike Leader Kenji arrived with a satchel of remedies, and it was he who washed and dressed the old man’s head wound, while another of Mara’s warriors helped the soldier out of his armour. His cuts also were tended, the deepest ones spread with salve and tightly bound. None were life-threatening.
Mara sent her servant to bring wine, then inquired what had befallen.

Still pale from shock and pain, the old man fixed eyes of startling blue upon his hostess. ‘An inopportune fate, my Lady. I dined late this night with my cousin, Decanto of the Omechan, in celebration of my support for his claim to the white and gold. As I was making ready to depart, his apartment was overwhelmed by soldiers wearing unmarked, black armour. Lord Decanto was the target of their attack. I just happened to be in the way. Decanto was still fighting when we escaped.’

The servant arrived with a tray of filled goblets. Mara waited until her guests had been served, the warrior accepting his drink with his one unbandaged hand. Delicately she asked, ‘Who sent such soldiers?’

The old man tasted his wine, half smiled his appreciation of the vintage, then grimaced as the expression pulled at his cuts. ‘Any one of six other cousins, I fear. The Omechan are a large clan, and Almecho appointed no clear heir from his Oaxatucan nephews. Decanto was the obvious successor …’

‘But someone else disagrees,’ Mara prompted.

Lord Zanwai pressed the cloth against his scalp and scraped back a damp strand of hair. ‘Decanto is the first son of Almecho’s eldest sister. Axantucar is the older because he was born first, but his mother was a younger sister, so that leaves a mess. Almecho, curse his black soul, thought he was immortal. A wife and six concubines, and not one son or daughter.’

Mara considered, sipped her own wine, then said, ‘You’re welcome to stay, my Lord. Or if you prefer your own quarters, I’ll offer a guard of my warriors to escort you back.’

The old man inclined his head. ‘My Lady, I am in your debt. If I may, I will stay. It is a killing ground out there. I
had an honour guard of five. We eluded no less than six companies of men…. I fear four of my warriors lie dead or dying. There were other armoured bands afoot, but the gods be thanked, they ignored my last man and me.’

Quietly Lujan doubled the guards at the door. Then he leaned on the lintel between the chambers, and out of habit squinted along the edge of his blade. ‘Did all wear black armour like the ones who attacked you?’

‘I did not see,’ the old man said.

The wounded warrior did better. Revived a bit by the wine, he grated, ‘No. Some were like that. Others wore Minwanabi orange and black – Lord Tasaio must have arrived in Kentosani tonight. And still others were … tong.’

Mara almost spat. ‘Assassins! Here in the Imperial Palace?’

Over the shiningly perfect edge of Lujan’s weapon, the eyes of Lady and Force Commander met. The one recalled and the other knew that Mara had once almost died at the hands of a hired tong killer, dispatched to her home by Jingu of the Minwanabi.

The warrior continued bleakly with his tale. ‘They were tong, my Lady. Black robes and headcloths, hands dyed in colours, swords across their backs. They swept through on silent feet, glanced at our colours to determine our family, then passed on. We were not their chosen prey this night.’

Kevin arose and joined Lujan by the screen track between the rooms. Softly he asked, ‘What are “tongs”?’

Lujan ran his thumb over his blade. No unseen flaws met his touch, but a frown marred his complacency nonetheless. ‘Tongs,’ he said in a dead, flat tone, ‘are brotherhoods, families without clan or honour. Each tong holds allegiance to no one and nothing save their “Obajan”, the Grand Master, and their outlaw code of blood. Politely put, they are criminals who have no respect for tradition.’ The sword flashed in the lamplight as the Force Commander turned it.
‘Some of them, like the Hamoi, make of their unclean craft a renegade religion. They believe the souls of their victims are true prayers in praise of Turakamu. To them, murder is holy.’ Lujan sheathed his sword, and his tone assumed a grudging admiration. ‘They make terrible enemies. Many of them train from childhood, and they kill most efficiently.’

‘I know who wants me dead,’ Mara said, the wineglass forgotten in her hand. ‘Tasaio has enough strength to threaten me directly. So then, who dares hire tongs into the palace?’

Lord Zanwai tiredly shrugged his shoulders. ‘These are reckless times. Rivalries run hot enough that a slain man could have had his death bought by any of a dozen factions, and the work of a tong is not traceable.’

‘Brother could kill brother, and never be accused of disloyalty.’ Mara set down her goblet and clenched her hands to still their shaking. ‘Almost, I wish this matter could be settled in open war. The killing at least might be cleaner.’

A bitter laugh met her words. ‘Dead is dead,’ said Lord Zanwai. ‘And any contest on a battlefield would see Minwanabi take the prize.’ He put down his wineglass. ‘I judge the tong more likely in Tasaio’s employ, simply because overt display of Minwanabi arms might frighten potential allies into supporting another claimant to the white and gold – and it is rumoured the Minwanabi have had dealings with the tongs in the past.’ Mara chose not to mention that she had certain knowledge this was correct. ‘The real question is who sends soldiers without house colours through the palace?’

Sadly, silently, Mara conceded the truth. One could only guess; certain knowledge might never be hers. She called for servants to clear one of the guest rooms of warriors for Lord Zanwai’s use. ‘Rest well,’ he said as one of her men helped him stiffly to his feet. ‘May all here live to see the morning.’

Throughout the night, the palace echoed with shouts, running feet, and sometimes the crack of swords in distant combat. No one slept, except in snatches. Mara lay long hours in Kevin’s arms, but the best she managed was a fitful doze that led to bloody nightmares. Acoma soldiers stood watch in shifts, ready for any attack upon their Lady’s quarters.

An hour before sunrise, a bump outside the apartment door caused the warriors on guard to draw weapons. ‘Who passes?’ called Lujan.

The low voice that answered was Arakasi’s.

Mara had given up trying to sleep. She waved away the maid who arrived to help her dress, while the door was unbarred and opened and the Spy Master let inside. His hair was matted with dried blood and he cradled one forearm in the crook of his elbow; the flesh above the wrist bore an ugly lump and a purple mass of swelling.

One look, and Lujan said tersely, ‘We’re going to need a bonesetter.’ He caught the Spy Master strongly beneath the shoulder on his uninjured side, and helped his unsteady feet across the floor and onto the sleeping mat that had served Lord Zanwai the night before.

‘No bonesetter,’ Arakasi grunted as his knees folded and he settled back on the cushions. ‘It’s chaos out there. Unless you sent half a company, a messenger would have a knife in him before he crossed the first concourse.’ The Spy Master looked meaningfully at Lujan. ‘Your field medicine will do well enough.’

‘Find Jican,’ Mara snapped to her maid. ‘Tell him to bring spirits.’

But Arakasi held up his sound hand, forestalling her. ‘No spirits. I have much to tell, and a bang on the head has me dizzy enough without making my wits stupid with drink.’

Mara said, ‘What has happened?’

‘A battle between unknown warriors in black armour and
a dozen assassins of the Hamoi tong.’ Arakasi fell silent as Lujan examined the cut in his scalp, then unstrapped his bracers and set to cleaning away scabbed blood with rags and water brought in a basin by the maid.

As the injury was bared to light, the Force Commander said softly, ‘Fetch the lamp.’

The maid did so, and Mara waited through a worried interval while Lujan held the flame before Arakasi’s eyes and watched for response from the pupils. ‘You’ll do,’ he said presently. ‘But the scar might grow back in white hair.’

That brought a curse from the Spy Master. The last thing a man in his profession might desire was a distinguishing feature to mark him.

Lujan turned next to the arm. ‘My Lady,’ he said gently, ‘you might do better in the next room, but leave me Kevin and one of the warriors who wins at arm wrestling.’

Arakasi murmured a protest, then said clearly, ‘Just Kevin.’

The Spy Master looked paler when Mara was allowed to return. Beneath clipped hair and a fresh dressing, his face was running sweat. Yet he had made no outcry when Lujan had set his arm. Kevin’s comment as he returned to his accustomed corner was ‘Your Spy Master’s tough as old sandal leather.’

Mara waited patiently while her Force Commander finished with splint and bandages. Once Arakasi was arranged with his arm settled on pillows, she sent a servant to bring wine. ‘Don’t speak until you are ready.’

Arakasi looked back in impatience. ‘I’m ready not to be fussed over.’ He nodded his thanks as Lujan stood to depart, then turned dark eyes to his Lady, all business. ‘At least three more Lords were murdered or injured. Several others withdrew from the palace and fled to their town houses or
back to their estates. I have a list.’ He shifted awkwardly and produced a paper from his robe.

The servant arrived with the wine. Despite his insistence on abstinence, Arakasi accepted a glass. He drank while his mistress scanned his hasty notes, and a little colour returned to his face.

‘The dead are all supporters of Tasaio and Lord Keda,’ Mara summed up. ‘You think the killers are being underwritten by either the Ionani or the Omechan faction?’