Servant of the Empire (75 page)

Nacoya’s hand tightened inside her mistress’s. ‘Daughter, as much as he hates you for choosing his brother over him, he is not obsessed as Tasaio is. With the welfare of the Anasati placed upon his shoulders, responsibility might bend him to reason.’

From the doorway behind Keyoke, Kevin’s voice unexpectedly interrupted. ‘Never underestimate the human capacity for stupid, illogical, and petty behaviour.’

Nacoya gave the Midkemian an irritated glare from her pillows. Annoyed as she was that Keyoke should see her dishevelled and sick, the presence of a young man was that much worse. And yet she could not show anger. Despite the slave’s odd behaviour and disregard for Tsurani custom, despite his inconvenient but genuine love for Mara, Kevin had a nimble mind.

Reluctantly Nacoya admitted, ‘Your … slave gives good counsel, daughter. We must assume that Jiro will remain intractable until he proves otherwise. The Anasati have been our enemies too long, for all that they have been honourable. We must proceed cautiously.’

Mara said, ‘What shall I do?’

‘Send a letter of condolence,’ Kevin offered helpfully.

The suggestion brought blank looks from Mara and her two advisers.

‘A letter of condolence,’ Kevin repeated, then belatedly realized there was no Tsurani equivalent. ‘It’s the custom in my homeland to send a message telling someone you share their loss and wish them well.’

‘An odd custom,’ Keyoke allowed, ‘yet it has some sense of honour about it.’

Nacoya’s eyes brightened. She looked long and shrewdly at Kevin, then mustered a congested breath and spoke. ‘Such a letter would provide an opening for communications without conceding anything. Most clever.’

‘Well, one could look at things that way,’ said Kevin, bemused to find the concept of compassion mistaken by the Tsurani mind for another machination of the game.

The idea won Mara’s approval. ‘I shall draw up a letter without delay.’

Yet she made no move to rise. She held Nacoya’s hand, and her fingers tightened as if reluctant to let go. For an interval she stared at the weave in the counterpane, as if avoiding the old woman’s face.

Nacoya said, ‘There is something else?’

Mara glanced uneasily about the room.

The First Adviser’s instincts as a children’s nurse had never left her; faintly disparaging, she said, ‘It has been years since you played the part of bashful maiden, daughter. Speak your mind and be done.’

Mara fought the burn of sudden tears. The subject she most urgently needed to broach stole her poise. ‘We must seek a … bright … servant to … begin … to …’

The old nurse fixed her former charge with a withering look. ‘You mean I must begin training a replacement.’

Mara all but protested outright. Nacoya had stood in place of the mother she had never known; to imagine a time without her seemed impossibly bleak and unreal. Although the subject had been lightly discussed, she had put off decision and action. Yet the mantle of rulership forced the cold truth that now she must.

Only Nacoya could handle the subject with equanimity. ‘I am old, daughter of my heart. I feel chill in my bones on warm days, and my duties begin to weigh on weak flesh. Do not let my dying come on me without the surety that you have sound guidance by your side.’

‘The Red God won’t hurry to take you,’ said Kevin with a grin. ‘You’re too mean yet.’

‘Don’t blaspheme,’ Nacoya snapped, but her wrinkled lips twitched and she buried a smile behind a cough. Try as she might to dislike this barbarian, he was handsome enough to forgive much; and his loyalty to Mara was unquestioned.

Mara said, ‘Keyoke could –’

But the hard-bitten former warrior interrupted with a gentleness his soldiers never knew. ‘I am almost as old as Nacoya, Mara.’ Her name was spoken with an affection that showed no disrespect. ‘I served your father gladly and have given the Acoma both my sword and my leg. You have
given my life a purpose far beyond my hopes as a young man. But I will not see you foster a weakness.’ His voice turned stern. ‘I refuse the honour of Nacoya’s mantle. You must have a strong, clever mind, and young blood at your side to advise you in the years after we are gone.’

Mara’s grip on Nacoya’s hand did not loosen, and her shoulders stayed stiff. Kevin drew breath to intervene, but a quiet touch from Keyoke restrained him.

The old warrior said, ‘When a Force Commander trains his young officers, he is a fool if he coddles them or shows softness. Lady,’ Keyoke appealed plainly, ‘the exigencies of an advisership require more than blind obedience: understanding of what is necessary for the good of the house, as well as the will to play the Great Game. I have had no time for children. Would you deprive me, or Nacoya, of the chance to train our successor? Such a one would become the joy to enrich my late years, even as the son I never had.’

‘Or the daughter?’ Mara said playfully, though her voice shook.

Keyoke managed a slight upward turn to the corner of his mouth, as close as he ever came to smiling. ‘You are that already, Lady.’

Mara regarded him and then Nacoya in turn. The old woman’s eyes were bright from more than fever. She watched Keyoke as if the two of them had a conspiracy. Mara’s confusion crystallized into suspicion that the matter had been extensively discussed without her. ‘Already you have someone in mind, you old war dog.’

‘There is a man,’ Keyoke allowed. ‘A warrior who has a fast sword, but whose performance in the ranks is unsatisfactory because he thinks too much.’

‘He’s an embarrassment to his officers, and he won’t hold his tongue,’ Kevin concluded out loud. ‘Do I know him?’

Keyoke ignored this, steadily regarding Mara. ‘He has
served you well, though most of his duties have been among your outer holdings. His cousin –’

‘Saric,’ Mara interrupted, intrigued despite her unhappiness. ‘Lujan’s cousin? The one with the quick tongue that you sent away because the two of them together –’ She broke off, and smiled. ‘Is it Saric?’

Keyoke cleared his throat. ‘He has a very creative mind.’

‘More than that, my Lady,’ Nacoya added, struggling against a thick voice. ‘The man’s a devil for cleverness. He never forgets a face, or a word spoken in his presence. In ways he puts me in mind of both Lujan and Arakasi.’

Though she had met Saric only briefly, Mara remembered the young man. He had a charm about him, manners that could not be shaken, and a gift for asking embarrassing questions; both were traits to be valued in a future adviser. Thinking fondly of Lujan, and his flexibility in embracing innovation, Mara said, ‘It sounds as though you two have done the interviewing for me. I yield to your better wisdom.’

She held up her hand, ending discussion on the matter. ‘Send for Saric, and begin his training as you see fit.’ She moved to rise, and belatedly recalled the parchment in her hands. ‘I must draft a letter to Jiro.’ She turned in appeal to Kevin. ‘Will you help?’

The Midkemian rolled his eyes. ‘I’d sooner toy with a relli,’ he admitted, but fell into step as his mistress left the room. Keyoke lingered a moment to wish Nacoya a speedy recovery; his courtesy was returned with imprecations. As Mara, Kevin, and the Acoma Adviser for War beat their retreat down the hallway, the sound of the old woman’s coughing followed them.

Chumaka, First Adviser to Lord Jiro of the Anasati, finished the message. Rings of polished shell flashed on short fingers as he rolled up the scroll and regarded his young master with dispassionate eyes.

Seated in comfort in the great hall of the Anasati, Jiro stared into space. Fine hands drummed on the floor beside his cushion, and the sound echoed faintly through the traditional room of parchment-covered doors and beamed ceilings, age-dark and waxed to a patina reflected in the parquet floors. On the walls hung a collection of sun-faded war banners, many of them prizes of vanquished enemies, and at length the new Lord’s gaze seemed to focus on these. He raised what seemed a disinterested question. ‘What is your opinion?’

‘As strange as it is, my Lord, I judge the message sincere.’ Chumaka made an effort to stay concise. ‘Your father and Lady Mara, while not friendly, had arrived at mutual respect.’

Jiro’s fingers stilled. ‘Father had the happy capacity for seeing things in ways that suited him. He found Mara clever, and that won his admiration – above anyone, you should know that, Chumaka. Those same qualities gave you your position.’

Chumaka bowed, though the master’s tone implied no compliment.

Jiro fingered his embroidered sash, blandly thoughtful. ‘Mara seeks to disarm us. I wonder why?’

Chumaka weighed his master’s intonation carefully. ‘If one were to view the matter in an objective fashion, Lord, one might consider this: Mara feels that there is no real cause for conflict between your house and hers. She implies there may be cause for mutually beneficial negotiations.’

Despite all care, Jiro bridled. ‘No real cause?’ His handsome features went blank to hide an unreasoning flash of anger. ‘The death of my brother is not cause?’

Chumaka laid the scroll on a nearby table as though he stood balanced on a silken cord. The room was airless and hot, and he could not keep from sweating. Buntokapi’s death was an excuse, he knew too well; as boys, the siblings
had been constantly in contention, Bunto frequently bullying and tormenting the less athletic Jiro. That Mara had overlooked Jiro and chosen Bunto for her husband had never for a day been forgiven, despite the Lady’s selection having been determined by flaws, not virtues. She had taken the fool she could exploit above the better man; yet that distinction held no meaning in terms of childhood rivalry. Bunto had been a Ruling Lord first, never mind that the prize had been poisoned, and that ultimately Jiro lived to inherit the mantle of the Anasati. The wound festered because the young man nursed boyhood grudges. Though he sat in his father’s seat, Jiro could not shed the resentment of an upbringing where he continually ranked second: behind the heir, Halesko, and even behind plodding Bunto.

Chumaka knew better than to argue. Unlike his father, the young master was more concerned with being right than with the subtleties of winning the Great Game. The First Adviser tempered his phrases accordingly, as finicky as a cook choosing seasonings. ‘Of course, my Lord, the injury still causes pain. Forgive my insensitivity, but I referred more to legal distinctions than to ties of birth. Your brother renounced his allegiance to House Anasati when he assumed the Acoma mantle. In strict interpretation, no harm was done to House Anasati – an Acoma Lord died of Mara’s machinations. I was remiss not to allow for your personal grief at the loss of a brother.’

Jiro swallowed frustration that his sly-witted First Adviser had outmanoeuvred him. At times the man was too crafty; that his worth was incalculable for that reason did not make him any more likeable. With a flash of annoyance, Jiro said, ‘You’re cunning enough, in your own fashion, Chumaka. But I warrant you play the game as much for your own amusement as for the glory of House Anasati.’

This bit a little too near the bone for Chumaka’s liking, even had the remark not come close to an outright
accusation of disloyalty. ‘In all ways I strive for Anasati triumph, master.’ Quickly changing the topic, he asked, ‘Shall we send a reply to Mara, Lord?’

Jiro waved casual assent. ‘Yes, write something … suitable. But make it clear I’d as soon rape her while my soldiers burned her house as send her – no, don’t put that in.’ Jiro slapped his thigh, disgusted with the innuendoes of politics when he much preferred to articulate his true feelings on the matter.

A smile touched him as he thought of something. ‘No. Thank Mara for her condolences. Then make clear to her that, out of respect for my father, I’ll continue to honour his commitment. I will seek no conflict with the Acoma while my nephew lives.’ After a poisonous pause, Jiro added, ‘But also make it plain that, unlike my father, I will only feel regret if Ayaki dies. If my nephew is threatened, Anasati warriors will not rush to his rescue.’

Chumaka bowed. ‘I shall word the message in the appropriate manner, Lord.’

Jiro dismissed his adviser, brusque with impatience to be back to his library. Except when it came to gratification of his passions, the new Lord preferred his collection of book scrolls to politics.

Yet the Anasati First Adviser showed no trace of disappointment as he hastened back to the cubby that served as his personal quarters. There, seated behind a cramped desk, a clerk scratched figures on a slate, an opened ledger by his elbow. On a second desk that overshadowed Chumaka’s sleeping mat, documents had already been separated into three piles: messages that were of no immediate concern, those that needed relatively quick attention, and those that required urgency.

One note rested alone in the last pile. Chumaka picked it up and perused the contents before he thought to sit down. He scanned the lines twice and then laughed. ‘Aha! At last,
after all these years!’ Turning to the clerk, a young man talented enough to warrant appointment as the First Adviser’s personal clerk, Chumaka said, ‘Mara of the Acoma has been too lucky, by anyone’s measure, since she came to power. Here we see one reason why.’

The clerk looked myopically at his superior. ‘Sir?’

Chumaka settled into his favourite seat, a cushion so threadbare and faded that the cleaning slaves spoke of it as an heirloom. ‘Kavai, my agent in Sulan-Qu, saw a clerk of a factor for the Lord of the Minwanabi passing a message to an Acoma servant. What does that tell you?’