Servant of the Empire (80 page)

They passed through cool tree-lined avenues lined by the garden courtyards of wealthy guild officials and merchants. Few folk noted their passage, and their only impediment was the occasional hand-pushed cart filled with vegetables
that the servants of the very rich wheeled home. The soldiers stayed alert, though Arakasi held belief that no great house in the Empire would feel confident enough to attempt an assassination in public.

Mara had always loved the side streets of the Holy City, with their long glades of flowering trees, and their neatly swept stone cobbles. She enjoyed the wooden gates, with their patterned lattices, and their posts netted over with akasi and hibis vines. Although Kentosani was a river city, like Sulan-Qu, by imperial edict no dyers, tanneries, or other crafts requiring unpleasant procedures had been permitted within the city walls. Unless one was downwind of the holding pens for the arena or the crowded markets in the central waterfront area, this was a city that smelled of flowers, spiced with the scents of temple incense as day closed and priests and priestesses of all the Tsurani deities began their night’s devotions.

The Acoma bearers conveyed their burden from the side lanes and entered one of the many wide squares. Half-lost in reflection brought on by the quiet of the hour, Mara almost missed Arakasi’s hesitation.

She looked over to see what had captured his attention. Across the square rose two gilded columns framed by an arch and a span of smoothed slate. This was one of many message boards reserved for the word of the Light of Heaven. Although the messages were usually scribed in chalk, and of a religious context, today a crew of Imperial Whites stood guard over the site. The event was unusual enough to draw notice. Closer inspection showed two plain-garbed craftsmen repairing the gilding on the frame, which had been damaged in last year’s riots. Even the minute amounts of gold they used were too costly to risk thieves; this seemed to explain the presence of the Emperor’s guards. But what drew Arakasi’s closer inspection were three dark-robed figures who stood at the board in process
of affixing a scroll heavy with imperial ribbons and seals. Mara frowned, puzzled. Great Ones from the Assembly of Magicians did not usually perform the errands of clerks.

‘It’s a proclamation,’ Arakasi mused, sharing his thoughts with his mistress. ‘With permission, Lady, I should like to see what it contains.’

Mara nodded her permission, diverted from her enjoyment of Kentosani’s loveliness to considering the Light of Heaven; imperial proclamations were a rarity, and the fact that one was being posted by Great Ones augured a momentous matter. It was no longer a topic of idle speculation that the current Emperor was not acting the exaltedly remote figure his forebears had been. This Light of Heaven, Ichindar, had not only put his hand into the game, he had overturned it.

Arakasi returned, slipping neatly between two bread sellers with shoulder yokes and laden baskets. As he arrived beside his mistress’s litter, he said softly, ‘My Lady, the Great Ones announce to the Empire that the magician Milamber has been cast out of the Assembly. The document goes on to say that those slaves in the arena who were freed by his action are lawfully released from their masters, but no precedent may be seen in this. By imperial decree, and by the will of heaven, Ichindar pronounces that no other who wears the slave’s grey may change his status. For the good of the Empire, for the sake of the order of society, and by divine will, all who are slaves must remain so until death.’

Mara showed no change in expression, but the delight went out of the day. Suddenly heavy hearted, she motioned her bearers forward, then closed her curtains, as she did when she wanted privacy. Her hands laced tightly over a cushion. She did not know how she was going to tell Kevin, whose hopes had risen so dizzyingly after her careless reference that morning.

Until recently, she had not considered his slavery to be an
issue of importance. As Acoma property, he was guaranteed food, and housing, and a measure of public standing by right of the honour of her house. As a freeman, he would have no position, even in the eyes of a beggar. Any Tsurani in the street might spit on him without fear of retribution. Much as Mara might love him, she had not always understood his pride, so different from Tsurani pride, for he was safer as a slave in her house than as a clanless barbarian freeman. Anyone who spent time at the docks in Jamar would see the occasional renegade Thuril or dwarf from Dustari and their misery and know this was true.

But this much she had come to grudgingly understand: if he remained a slave, in some manner, at some time, she
must
lose him. The Night of the Bloody Swords had shown her beyond doubt that he was a warrior; he deserved freedom to further his honour. Since then she had felt uncomfortable with the concept that he should finish his days as her property. Her views had changed: she understood that his Midkemian code of conduct, alien as it was, had its own intrinsic honour.

No longer could she regard him as disgraced for failing to take his life rather than be captured by an enemy, as a Tsurani warrior would have done, or for hiding his rank to avoid summary execution.

Troubled to discover that her plans to give him happiness were permanently dashed, Mara stayed withdrawn throughout her visit to the Ginecho. She performed the proper social display expected of her, but afterwards she would have been hard put to recall a word of the conversation, or recite a detail of young Lord Kuganchalt’s appearance. If Arakasi noted that she seemed distracted as the litter wended its way homeward through Kentosani’s torch-lit streets, he said nothing. He provided his hand with the skill of a man assigned such duties lifelong as she got out of the litter in her courtyard, and disappeared unobtrusively at her dismissal.

Mara called for a light supper, and for once did not ask for Kevin’s company. She sat in solitude in the study overlooking the courtyard, picking at her meal and staring at the shadow patterns the flowering shrubs threw onto the screen. From the kitchen she could hear laughter, and Kevin’s boisterous voice describing some escapade concerning a jigabird seller in the markets. He was in high humour, and the other servants were enjoying his performance with the enthusiasm of bystanders at a street entertainment.

But for Mara, tonight, Kevin’s laughter only cut. She pushed aside her barely tasted plate with a sigh, and asked a servant to bring wine. She sipped, and let the night deepen without calling for lamps. Her mind and her memory circled endlessly, reviewing the leading questions she had asked of the Great One, Fumita. His reticence stung her even yet. Over and over, she pondered his chilly reception, and she wondered, now that it was absolutely beyond hope to change, whether the edict against freeing slaves had been prompted by her inquiries.

She could never know for certain. That was the painful part. If she had more wisely kept her own counsel, Kevin’s chance of freedom might not have been destroyed.

Mara sighed and waved for removal of her supper tray. She retired early, though her mind churned, and when Kevin came she feigned sleep. His touches and his tenderness could not break through her dark thoughts, and she feared to risk bringing him into her confidence. When at last he fell into contented slumber by her side, she felt no better. All night she tossed and sorted words. Hours passed, and she still did not know what to say.

She gazed at his profile, lit softly golden by the screen-filtered light of the courtyard lanterns. The scar he had gained from the overseer at the slave market had nearly faded away over the years. All that remained was a fine
crease over his cheekbone, such as a warrior might gain from a sword cut. The blue eyes with their laughing depths were closed, and in sleep his face showed abiding peace. Mara ached to touch him, and instead wound up blinking back tears. Angered by her shameful softness, she rolled over and stared at the wall, only to find herself turning back, studying his profile and biting her lip not to weep.

Dawn came, and she was exhausted. She arose before Kevin, tense and miserable in a cold sweat. She called for maids to bathe and dress her, and when her beloved roused with his sleepy questions, she covered her reticence by seeming brusque.

‘I have a most important errand to do this morning.’ She tilted her head away, ostensibly to help the maid who was arranging her hair, but in fact to hide her puffy eyes before cosmetics could disguise the evidence of her unhappiness. ‘You may come or not, as you wish.’

Stung by her coldness, Kevin paused in the act of stretching. He looked at her; she could feel his gaze on her back and did not have to see to be sure of his reproach. ‘I’ll come, of course,’ he said slowly. Then, chagrined that his tone held an edge that reflected her own, he added, ‘At least, the antics of jigabird sellers will need to improve a great deal before I’ll be drawn from your charms.’ The conciliatory tone of the comment was not lost on her; she cursed the fact he held such power over her and that even such a small remark could feel like a rebuke.

He stood up. Never quite as silent as a Tsurani warrior, but as strongly confident, he stepped over to her and slipped his arms around her shoulders. ‘You are my favourite little bird in the Empire,’ he murmured. ‘Beautifully soft, and your singing is the joy of my heart.’

He moved away, with a sly quip that caused one of her maids an unseemly fit of giggles. If he had noticed the Lady
was stiff in his arms, he attributed it to the pins that the maid was using to fasten the long, looping twists of her hair.

The elaborate coiffure should have warned him. Built to a height that indicated a Tsurani intention to impress, and fastened with dozens of fine jade and diamond pins, Mara’s headdress was crowned and glorified by a feathered tiara set with abalone.

‘We’re going to the Imperial Palace?’ Kevin demanded when he tore his eyes away long enough to notice that Arakasi was among the honour guard, dressed as a clerk. The Senior Strike Leader was wearing his ceremonial armour and his most imposing plumes. His spear and helm were streamered, and since the ribbons would not hold up to prolonged street wear, not to mention a fight, somebody important had to be the reason behind all the pomp.

‘We’re going to pay a visit to an official of the Emperor,’ Mara explained, her tone brittle. She let Arakasi hand her into the litter. He was better at the task than the Strike Leader, who was fine enough with a sword but clumsy when it came to managing a Lady in high-soled sandals, eight layers of overrobes, and a headdress that would have outmatched any King of the Isles’ coronation crown by a factor of ten.

‘You look like the confection on a wedding cake,’ Kevin observed. ‘This personage is important?’

At last he won a smile from her, though with her face painted and thyza-powdered, the expression was predictably stiff. ‘He thinks he is important. When one goes asking for favours, the difference becomes moot.’ Mindful of her finery, Mara settled back on her cushions. ‘Close the curtains, please,’ she instructed Arakasi.

As the bearers raised the litter poles and started off, a nonplussed Kevin fell into stride. He presumed that Mara wanted privacy to discourage gawkers and to preserve her
elaborate costume from dust. His cheerful mood held through a long, traffic-harried trek to the Imperial Palace, and not even the elaborate protocols of the various gate-and doorkeepers put him off. Once he had become accustomed to the grand weight of ceremony that attended all matters within the Empire, he had discovered the purpose behind such manners. No official, however minor, was ever rudely interrupted by someone from the lower ranks. Ruling Lords or Ladies were not caught unprepared by a visitor; the Tsurani attention to ceremony ensured, according to rank, that all things happened in due course, and that the proper papers, or clothing, or refreshments would all be in place the moment the caller at last crossed the threshold.

The Keeper of the Imperial Seal was well prepared when his secretary finally let Mara and her retinue into the audience chamber. The cushions had been plumped since the last petitioner had departed. A fresh tray of fruit and juices sat upon the low side table, and the official himself had his robe on, his weighty collar and signet of office adjusted and straight, and his fleshy anatomy arranged with dignity.

A middle-aged man, the Keeper of the Imperial Seal had a florid face, a mouth all but lost amid multiple chins, and hooded, darting eyes that could probably name the coin worth of every jewel in Mara’s costume at a glance. He also liked sweets, as evidenced by the keljir leaves piled in his refuse basket. The gummy confection made from an extract of tree sap had rimmed his teeth and his tongue a faint red-orange, and his bow was perfunctory, owing to his bulk and his equal-sized sense of self-importance.

The chamber smelled of fat man’s sweat and old wax, by which Kevin deduced that the screens were probably stuck shut. Holding a satchel of inks, pens, and parchments for Arakasi’s needs, he braced himself for a boring wait as Mara began the phrases of greeting. The official used this interval
to open a drawer in his lap table and unwrap a keljir as if the task were a sacred ritual. He popped the sweet in his mouth, sucked noisily, and then condescended to reply.

‘I am well.’ His voice was deep, and too loud. He cleared his throat carefully, twice. ‘Lady Mara of the Acoma.’ He sucked, considered, then added, ‘I trust you are well?’

Mara inclined her head.

The official shifted his weight on his cushions, and the floor creaked ponderously. He shifted his candy with a click of teeth to the other bulging cheek. ‘What brings you to my office this fine morning, Lady Mara?’

Kevin heard her reply as a murmur, but could not make out single words.