The Complete Empire Trilogy (100 page)

Lujan stood bemused, scratching his chin, and Chipino, with characteristic dry irony, summed up. ‘Our houses will receive recognition and honour from the Emperor himself for this. And Lord Desio will chew rocks when he finds out.’ Then, as if his own thoughts turned toward home, he muttered, ‘Isashani will be furious to know how much weight I have lost. Shall we retire to my command tent and share breakfast?’

The guard signalled.

Desio of the Minwanabi strode into the vast conference chamber, his nailed sandals striking the flagstone with a surprisingly loud snap. Incomo watched his master approach the dais, his broad hands stripping off his battle gloves, which he flung to the body servant who scurried to keep up. While still not the crafty schemer his father had been, nor as brilliant a strategist as his cousin, Desio now threw himself into the tasks he had avoided at the start of his rule.

Before his First Adviser could speak, the Lord shouted, ‘Is it true?’

Incomo clutched the latest report tighter to his chest and nodded.

‘Damn!’ Still heated from his hour of exercise with his honour guard, the Lord of the Minwanabi vented his rage, hurling his helm with total disregard for rich furnishings and glass ornaments. The servant dived, but missed the catch; the helmet bounced across polished flooring, fortunately missing anything of value, skipping twice before it hammered against the far wall with enough force to mar its shiny finish.

The servant distastefully picked a path through a scattering of lacquer chips to effect a retrieval. Miserable as a whipped dog, he crept back to his lord’s side, holding the battered helm.

But Desio was too intent on upbraiding his First Adviser to curse the servant for damage to his armour. ‘You hold a report less than an hour from the boat and every servant and
soldier knows the news before I do.’ Desio stuck out a sweaty hand, impatiently raking damp hair from his eyes with the other.

Incomo surrendered the parchment, struck that the pudgy fingers he recalled in the boy were hardened to heavy calluses. The fat, self-indulgent youth who had sought to lose himself in drink and women had changed to a self-assured ruler. Desio was far from the ideal Tsurani warrior; but he now looked the part of a soldier, rather than a caricature of one.

Desio scanned the opening lines with narrowed eyes, flipped through pages still gritty with desert dust then, disgusted with the contents, tossed aside the stack. ‘Tasaio is nothing if not thorough in admitting his failure.’ His lips white with anger, the Lord sank heavily into the cushions he preferred for conducting court. A sigh escaped him. ‘And our defeat.’

Incomo surveyed his master’s flushed features and warily hoped that he would not be asked for advice. After two years of stalemate, Mara’s triumph in relieving Lord Xacatecas in Dustari came as a bitter surprise. Until today’s report, every communiqué from Tasaio had indicated the plan was proceeding as designed. For close to a month, Minwanabi Lord and First Adviser had waited in keen anticipation of a final victory over the Acoma. But when the jaws of Tasaio’s trap snapped shut, Mara had eluded capture once again. Worse, her brilliant counter-offensive, using tactics never seen within Tsuranuanni, had established the first treaty with the Tsubar desert men who had preyed upon the borders for generations.

Desio pounded a fist into his pillows. ‘Breath of Turakamu, how could Tasaio have bungled his job?’ Waving at the report on the floor, he said, ‘Our own factor in Jumar reports that the combined armies of Xacatecas and Acoma were greeted there with fanfares! He even suggests
Mara may receive a citation from the Emperor! She has gained her alliance. Instead of two solitary, weakened enemies, we now face powerful families on the verge of joining to oppose us!’

Wincing at Desio’s ranting, Incomo tried gently to ease matters. ‘While the treaty is a noteworthy accomplishment, master, Chipino of the Xacatecas is not a man to enter into binding commitments – at least not without strong motives and sureties. Mara accomplished no more than her duty to the Empire when she rescued his army in the desert. Her victory may have impressed the Lord enough to rethink his position once more, but …’

‘If it didn’t impress him, he’s a fool!’ Desio raked angry fingers across some nameless itch on his neck, then dropped his hand in befuddlement. ‘How does the woman do it? Luck must sleep in her bed.’

Incomo stepped to the table and dressed the scattered pages into a meticulous pile. ‘We shall know soon how she …’ He was about to say ‘defeated us,’ but thought better of that, and said, ‘… again managed to avoid ruin.’ Frustrated by a report that still seemed offensively untidy, with bent corners and musty ribbons, as if the writing had been done under adverse circumstances, the First Adviser indulged in a sigh of irritation. ‘We will need time to dig out the truth of the matter.’

Desio snapped out of his black musing. ‘Mara is coming.’

‘But of course.’ Incomo laced dry hands at his belt. ‘She would hasten to her estate after so long an absence from her son –’

Desio interrupted. ‘No. She’ll be coming here.’

Eyebrows raised, Incomo said, ‘What makes you say this, Lord?’

‘Because it’s what I would do!’ Desio heaved his bulk off his cushions, and the servant with his load of sweaty armour ducked clear as his master stamped across the dais. ‘Strike
while strongest. Allied to Xacatecas, and safe from attack from the Anasati, Mara is free to savage us. Even if Chipino is tentative in his support, the bitch has won public favour. She need do nothing more than invoke a Call to Clan!’

Desio glared at Incomo as if expecting agreement, but the First Adviser held up a placating hand. ‘In all this, there is some good emerging, my Lord.’ With a faint smile, he offered another parchment.

The Lord’s expression grew thunderous as he saw the proffered scroll bore the personal crest of Bruli of the Kehotara. Desio refused to look at the document. ‘Bruli has been whining for our patronage for years now, but he lost my father’s good will, and mine, when he refused to swear as vassal upon his father’s death – he wants the benefits of Minwanabi protection without being under our rule.’ Frustrated further by suspicions that Mara might somehow be behind House Kehotara’s truculence, Desio flopped back on his cushions. ‘Another request for alliance should be refused.’ Then Desio sighed. ‘But right now we can use all the friends we can manage. What does the weakfish say?’

Dryly Incomo said, ‘I suggest my Lord read the message.’

The parchment changed hands. Stillness fell, marred by the creak of armour as the slave who bore the Lord’s gloves and helm shifted his burden from one tired arm to the other. Desio laboriously scanned the closing lines, and his eyes widened with pleasure. ‘Is Bruli’s observation reliable?’

Incomo tapped his cheek with a finger. ‘Who can ever be certain? I read into this situation as you might, my Lord, that sundry factions in Mara’s clan fear her sudden rise. Should she gain much more honour and wealth, she’ll certainly come to dominate Clan Hadama. No other house is more powerful now, if the truth were known; only divided loyalties prevent Mara from dictating clan policy. That, however, could change. These worthy lords who have presumed to contact Bruli of the Kehotara are careful to let
us know they do not see their own fortunes necessarily tied to those of House Acoma.’

Desio sat forward, elbows rested on his knees. He pondered, realized he was thirsty, and waved for his slave to carry his armour off and fetch refreshments. ‘We can thank the gods for small favours. Still, better Clan Hadama’s families remain neutral than join their ranks against us.’

Incomo said, ‘I think my Lord has missed the other implication.’

Matured by his power, and less intolerant of correction, Desio returned a penetrating gaze. Plainly his First Adviser had best be concise if he wished to escape his Lord’s ire. ‘What implication?’

‘Our agents have progressed in their work to infiltrate Mara’s spy network.’ Fired by acerbic enthusiasm, Incomo spread his bony palms. ‘We have isolated still another Acoma agent; nearly all their contacts have been traced, their couriers identified. Occasional plants of useful information have kept those lines open. At need, we can manipulate these Acoma dogs to our advantage.’

A strange look passed over Desio’s face, and a head shake prevented his Adviser from disturbing thoughts not yet formed as he stretched to grip a notion that tantalized his mind. When the servant returned with the refreshment tray, the Lord had lost his appetite. ‘I must think on something. Have my bath prepared. I stink like a needra pen.’

Incomo bowed. ‘Which girls does my master wish to attend his comforts?’

Desio silenced his Adviser with a raised palm. ‘No. I need to think. Just the bath attendant. No women. No musicians. A large mug of spiced juice will do nicely. I must have quiet for contemplation.’

Intrigued by this sudden turn toward asceticism, Incomo stepped from the dais to carry out instructions. At the door,
he stopped on an afterthought. ‘Any new orders for Tasaio, my Lord?’

Fury smouldered under Desio’s hooded eyes. ‘Yes, my
brilliant
strategist. After four years of squandering our resources on his masterful plan in Tsubar, he must be tired. Let us see that he’s given a post that will not tax his depleted energies. We still command that fortress at Outpost Isles; send him there. Let him protect our westernmost holdings from the sea birds and fish.’

Incomo lowered his rounded shoulders into a bow, then left his master brooding and continued down a stone corridor that cut into the hill upon which the estate house rested. The cool passage was lit at long intervals with torches. Sheltered from view by thick shadow, the Minwanabi First Adviser let his frustration show. His pace turned brisk, and his robe of office flapped around thin ankles. A pity that Desio’s wits had not developed to match his resolve. For if Tasaio’s failure was dramatic, no plot in the Game could ever be guaranteed. If there had been fault with the plan, it was simply that no provision had been made to allow for failure.

Down a shallow flight of steps, and through a worn postern, Incomo arrived at the wing that jutted out of the hill toward the lake shore. While not as closely situated to the great hall as lesser quarters, the Lord of the Minwanabi’s chambers had an unobstructed view of the lake at sunset that made the walk worthwhile. Incomo clapped for servants and ordered his Lord’s private bath chamber made ready.

As the servants hurried off to assign slaves to heat the water, Incomo crossed back through the maze-like house to his own less sumptuous quarters. There, surrounded by screens painted with patterns of killwings and clouds, he cursed at his master’s orders to Tasaio. His bitterness must never be shown in public, that fate would send away the
truly gifted son of the House and leave Minwanabi fortunes in the hands of … Incomo slammed his fists on a chest in a display more like his master than himself – the thoughts he entertained were unthinkable for a loyal servant, even in strictest privacy. Desio must somehow contrive to lead the Minwanabi out of this dilemma.

Incomo sank onto a cushion and clapped for his personal servant. ‘Fetch my writing desk and move it over to my contemplation mat,’ he commanded, rubbing his temples. ‘Then open the screen to admit the evening breeze, and depart.’

Alone once more, and confronted by his pens and his desk, the First Adviser thumbed a blank sheet of parchment and pondered how to compose his missive to Tasaio. While the man was ostensibly transferred to command of another Minwanabi garrison, Desio had effectively ordered banishment. The fortress in the Outpost Isles had only been established to protect Minwanabi shipping from piracy; and those waters had been cleared of such brigands for over a century and a half. The fort still stood due to the hidebound Tsurani reluctance to surrender any ground once taken. The Minwanabi manned that desolate, fogbound chunk of rock simply to prevent anyone else from supplanting them. Now one of the most gifted military minds in the Empire was being sent to the hinterlands to grow moss.

Disgusted by what he perceived as a waste, Incomo reminded himself that as the price of a grand failure went, life on that rock was light punishment. Had Lord Jingu remained alive to wear the Lord’s mantle, Tasaio would have answered for such disgrace with his head preserved in a jar of vinegar and red-bee honey. Setting brush and ink to parchment, the First Adviser sighed that so painful an order should be relegated to written correspondence. Tasaio surely deserved better. A slight word of personal regret would be appropriate; seasoned with the reverses of
politics, Incomo knew better than to burn any bridge at his back. Fortune in the Great Game could turn all too quickly, and a man never knew where he might owe his loyalty in the future.

As the litter rounded the last bend in the road, Mara leaned out of the curtains with childish eagerness. The Tsurani bearers shouldered their off-balanced burden in stoic silence; they could sense their mistress’s excitement.

‘Nothing has changed,’ Mara said breathlessly. ‘The trees and the grass look so green.’ The wet season lushness of the landscape was a balm to the eye after years of barren desert. Over the final knoll, past the fences of the outermost needra fields, the well-kept estate spread across the land. Dead branches and brush shoots had been pruned back, and the grass under the hedges stood neatly clipped. Mara could see the advance scout waving from the top of the next rise. For an instant she worried: could some clever enemy have set an ambush to turn her homecoming to disaster? Had she, in her excitement, pushed her warriors and her scouts ahead too rapidly to ascertain the safety of the road? Then logic absolved her fear; she rode at the van of a triumphant army – more than one foe must join ranks in force to threaten her at her own borders.