The Complete Empire Trilogy (104 page)

Only Desio and Jiro seemed unfazed by the beasts’ ferocity as they reached the wide practice field where Irrilandi customarily drilled his soldiers. Two slaves were sent across a small gully to dismantle an archery target, and stuff the old robe of a slave with hwaet straw to make a dummy. Desio watched, eyes glittering, as his guest explained how such dangerous beasts should be handled.

‘Do you see the gloves and the whistle?’ Jiro pointed to the servant who managed the hounds, tugging now at their restraint, the muscles under their brindled hides quivering in high-strung eagerness.

At Desio’s nod, Jiro continued. ‘The leather has been soaked in bitch urine. These particular hounds have been trained to recognize that odour as belonging to their master. These dogs were trained as a gift, so they answer only to the whistle. Once in the hands of their owner, they will come to know his personal scent as the smell on the gloves wears away, and eventually mind only his voice. The gloves and whistle allow them to be controlled in the meantime.’

‘An admirable system,’ Desio observed enviously.

Jiro did not miss the note of longing. He motioned magnanimously to the servant. ‘Would my host care to course the dogs himself?’

Desio’s face lit. ‘I would be honoured, Jiro. And grateful.’

One at a time, the Anasati servant relinquished the gloves. Desio shoved large hands inside, and grasped the leashes. The magnificent dogs now eyed him with expectancy, and tugged against his hold. He laughed in a rush of elation. Recklessly he stroked one brindled head.

The dog he fondled flashed him an impatient look, then resumed watching the men, servants, and soldiers who stood well clear on the practice field. ‘Very soon, my beauties,’ Desio soothed. He glanced across the gully, where the servants seemed slow in tying the robe to the dummy. He quivered, just like the hounds.

Incomo noted, and felt consternation. Thus had the past Lord, Jingu, appeared, when he pursued unwholesome pleasures. Jiro also saw, and the barest hint of distaste marred his veneer of courtesy.

Desio fingered the bone whistle. ‘You,’ he called to the slaves. ‘Don’t bother with those stupid targets. Run that way!’ He gestured across the practice field.

The slaves hesitated, horror on their sun-browned faces. Then, more afraid of the hanging they would receive if they dared to disobey their master’s order, they let fall the robe half stuffed with straw and sprinted into the open.

They ran as if all the demons of hell were behind them.

A hungry smile curled Desio’s lips.

With flawless politeness, Jiro finished his instructions. ‘My Lord, one long blast on the whistle will order the dogs to hunt. Two short whistles will recall them.’

Desio savoured a moment of soul-deep anticipation. He felt the surge of the dogs against his hand, as they strained and whined to be cut loose. A moment longer he teased
them, withholding them from their desire. Then he raised the whistle and slipped the leashes from their collars.

The dogs bounded forward, dark shadows against sunlit grass. ‘Hunt!’ murmured Desio. ‘Hunt until your hearts burst.’

The hounds surged across the ground, reaching full stride within seconds. Their tails streamed on the wind, and their savage baying echoed off the hills. They ate up the distance that separated their fleeing prey in long, elastic strides. The slaves flashed terrified glances over their shoulders, and suddenly the dogs were upon them.

Wind brought back a human scream as the lead hound sprang stifflegged upon the trailing man’s back. He pitched forward, flailing desperately, but jaws closed on the nape of his neck. The cries ceased but only for an instant. The other hound overtook the leader, ripped out a hamstring, and the slave went down with a shriek. A chorus of harrowing wails and snarls rang across the practice field. Desio licked his lips. He watched the thrashing victim with wide, fascinated eyes, and laughed at his feeble attempt to save himself. The dogs were clever and swift. They darted and circled, tearing exposed flesh, then dodging as swiftly away.

‘A man armed with a knife would not easily escape them,’ Jiro observed. ‘They were trained to kill carefully.’

Desio sighed. ‘Magnificent, truly magnificent.’ He savoured every moment of the carnage, until the struggles of the slaves subsided, and the hounds closed in for a firm grip. One tore its victim’s throat out, and the last cry died away. Into uncomfortable stillness, Desio said, ‘Like the legendary battle hounds in the sagas.’

Jiro shrugged. ‘Perhaps. The wardogs of legend might have been akin to these.’ As if he were bored by the topic, he bowed to Desio. ‘Since they please you, keep them as my gift to you, Lord of the Minwanabi. Hunt them, and as they kill
at your command, think kindly on our afternoon’s discussion.’

Flushed with delight, Desio returned the bow. ‘Your generosity enriches me, Jiro.’ Softly he added, ‘More than you will know.’

Jiro could not match his host’s enjoyment; but the Lord of the Minwanabi barely noticed, absorbed as he was by the hounds’ bloodthirsty feasting. ‘Allow me to provide you and your men with quarters,’ he murmured. ‘We will dine and I shall see your every need is met.’

‘I regret to decline your kindness,’ Jiro returned, almost quickly. ‘But I am expected downriver to sup with a trade factor of my father’s.’

‘Another time, then.’ Desio whistled twice, and the dogs ceased worrying the mangled corpses. The beasts stood alert, scarlet, dripping muzzles trained toward their new master. Desio blew another shrill pair of blasts. As the beasts raced obediently toward him, he thought of Mara, and long white fangs rending her hated flesh. Then he laughed aloud. Unmindful of soiling his robes, he patted each square head before slipping the leashes on the collars. ‘Wonderful,’ he observed to the silent ranks of his honour guard, and the stiff-faced presence of his First Adviser. ‘A worthy gift for one of my lineage.’ Gripping the slightly larger dog’s muzzle, he said, ‘You I shall call Slayer.’ Stroking the other dog on its smeared nose, he added, ‘And you shall henceforward be Slaughter.’

The hounds whined and meekly settled at his feet. Desio raised blue eyes to the guest he had all but forgotten. ‘Your generosity is unparalleled, Jiro. I must see that your visit with us results in a fruitful reward.’

The shadows of the hills had lengthened. Regretfully, Desio whistled his new pets to heel. His gaze never left them, the entire distance back to the docks, and he sighed with regret when the crate was unloaded, and the dogs securely
locked inside for transfer to the Minwanabi kennels. Jiro took his leave and boarded his barge, and his polemen sculled him out across waters deepening with the approach of sunset.

Desio stripped off the stinking gloves, and gestured for Incomo to accompany him to his quarters. ‘I wish a hot bath.’

The First Adviser restrained a curl of his lip. His master reeked of the urine that soaked the gloves, and his sandals had been spattered by the dogs. Drenched in perspiration, and talking excitedly, Desio glowed as if with a lust for sex. Incomo realized he hadn’t seen the master so aroused since Jingu had ordered slave girls whipped for his amusement.

‘Those dogs are … unusual,’ the First Adviser ventured.

Desio said, ‘More than that. They are a reflection of myself. Unrelenting, unmerciful, bringing pain and destruction to enemies. They are Minwanabi dogs.’

Incomo hid consternation as he followed on his master’s heels into the estate house. Desio clapped for his bath attendants, then added, ‘I know Jiro has his own reasons for tempting me to betray my oath to Turakamu, but whatever they may be, he has gained my favour with Slayer and Slaughter.’

Incomo managed a magnanimous tilt of his head. ‘I am sure my master will be cautious of unreasonable … ah, requests.’

Sensing buried disapproval, Desio scowled. ‘Leave me. Return to the great hall when dinner is served.’

Thin fingers clasped at his belt, Incomo bowed low and departed from a bath chamber that suddenly seemed crowded with steam and scented slave girls. As his slippered feet whispered down the corridors, he ruminated sadly on Tasaio’s loss of favour. No stranger to Minwanabi excesses, Incomo knew by his sour stomach that the day’s bloodletting had struck a responsive chord in Desio. The master was
acting more the bold Lord with each passing day; but if his future choices followed his taste for the hounds, Incomo felt Minwanabi fortunes would not be better for it. Undeniably Jingu’s excesses had brought the House to the brink of disaster. Sighing at the trials forced upon mortals by the whims of gods and capricious masters, Lord Desio’s First Adviser retired to his quarters. He stretched on his cushions to nap, but the bloodthirsty baying of hounds marred his rest and his dreams.

The boy screamed.

Kevin yelled back as he dodged away between flower beds. Ayaki gave chase, shouting Acoma battle cries in a boyish imitation of bloodlust. At times he became too intense, and Kevin would reverse course, capture the boy in his arms, and tickle him. Then Ayaki would shriek in delight and fill the garden with his laughter.

Mara allowed herself pleasure at the sight of their play. Kevin was often a mystery to her, despite their years of intimacy, but one thing she knew: without doubt the man was devoted to her son. His companionship was good for Ayaki; approaching seven years of age, the boy had a tendency toward brooding, intensified during his mother’s lengthy absence. But Ayaki could not lapse into dark moods with the Midkemian near. For as if he sensed the onset of the boy’s troubled thoughts, Kevin was instantly diverting him with a fanciful story or riddle, a game or physical contest. Through the months since her return from Tsubar, Ayaki became more the boy Mara remembered. She reflected with wistfulness that Kevin could not have shown more affection had he been the child’s father. Putting aside daydreams, she returned her attention to the document with its weighty seals and ribbons.

Motionless in the shade before her, Arakasi awaited his mistress’s response. Finally Mara said, ‘Must we go?’

Arakasi stayed quiet as the leaves in the still air as he answered. ‘Imperial peace will be enforced, so no overt threat can be mounted.’

‘Overt,’ she said. ‘That is scant reassurance against
Minwanabi plotting. Need I remind you the first attempt upon my life was by an assassin of the Red Hands of the Flower Brotherhood in my own contemplation glade?’

The event had occurred before Arakasi’s service, yet he knew the story well. He inclined his head. ‘Mistress, there is a good chance Desio will behave. Your standing in the council is the highest in memory, higher than your father’s, if truth be told. And our remaining agents in the Minwanabi house have sent us word that Jiro of the Anasati visited with Desio not two weeks ago.’

Mara raised her eyebrows. ‘Go on.’

Dapples of sunlight slid across Arakasi’s face as he sipped at a cup of fruit juice. ‘Our agents were unable to overhear them directly, but after Jiro departed, Desio raged for an entire day, complaining bitterly that he would not be dictated to in his own house by a rival family. From this we might surmise that Tecuma of the Anasati has sent his son to warn against precipitate actions against his grandson.’

Mara glanced at Ayaki, shrieking his enthusiasm as he leaped upon the now prone Kevin. ‘Perhaps. Though I find it difficult to believe Tecuma would send his second son. Jiro’s hatred of me is no secret.’

Arakasi shrugged. ‘Possibly Tecuma sent his son to emphasize his serious intentions.’

The flowers’ perfume suddenly seemed oppressive. ‘Emphasize to whom?’ Mara said. ‘Desio or Jiro?’

Arakasi showed a faint smile. ‘Perhaps both.’

Mara shifted on her cushions. ‘I would like to know for certain before I risk a trip to the Holy City.’

Her restlessness signalled decision, intuitively grasped by Arakasi. ‘Mistress, I think I had best be present when you attend this celebration to honour the Light of Heaven. For reasons that elude my network, the Blue Wheel Party’s sudden reversal of loyalty has vaulted the Warlord into an almost unassailable position. Almecho can dictate to the
Council now, and should Ichindar break tradition – as gossip says he might – and attend the games in person …’

Excited that his assessment matched hers, Mara nodded. ‘The Emperor’s appearance would endorse Almecho’s acts, effectively undermining the High Council for the span of this Warlord’s rule.’

In a rapport that only deepened with time’s passage, mistress and Spy Master contemplated possible ramifications. Much would occur in Kentosani besides games and celebrations. Those families who seized the initiative would not hang back at home. The Warlord might become dictator for life, but he could not live forever. Sooner or later the Great Game would resume.

Arakasi tensed as the patches of sunlight on his knees fell into sudden shadow. Kevin’s approach had gone unnoticed until he stood, holding Ayaki on his shoulders, looming over the mat where Mara held her conference.

‘My Lady,’ the Midkemian said formally, ‘the heir to your title is hungry.’

Gladdened by the distraction, Mara smiled. To Arakasi she said, ‘Speak with Nacoya and Keyoke and make ready to leave tomorrow. You shall travel to Kentosani with the servants and slaves sent ahead to prepare our city house and our apartment in the Imperial Palace. Confirm all the resident staff’s loyalty. We dare not assume all plotting will be directed at the Warlord.’