The Complete Empire Trilogy (109 page)

Kevin quickly determined that the matches were to first blood only; the bested man would raise his helm as a sign of submission. The winner would then take on another victorious partner and initiate sparring again.

Lujan answered Kevin’s query. ‘These are young officers of various houses. Most are cousins and younger sons of nobility, eager to show their prowess and gain a sliver of honour.’ He glanced around the stadium. ‘This is of little consequence, save for those down there and their families. Still, a man may advance himself in the eyes of his master by winning a contest such as this.’

There were no colours on the floor from Minwanabi, Xacatecas, or the other three Great Houses, nor from the Acoma, as houses recently covered in glory needed not bother with trivial displays. Kevin followed the combat with the trained eye of a soldier, but quickly lost interest. He had seen Tsurani warriors much closer and with much more serious intentions than those boys who sparred upon the sand.

Beyond the sunlit sands, lesser relations and servants were
drifting into the boxes that would shortly hold the dominant Lords of the Empire. From the small size of their honour guards, none closer than a distant cousin had yet put in an appearance.

The contest among the young nobles ended, and the last-remaining pair departed, the loser with his sword lowered in defeat, and the winner nodding to the scattered cheers of those few interested spectators.

The air off the sand was hot, and the amphitheatre’s high walls cut off any breeze. Bored with the proceedings, and still finding the social reasons for Mara’s attendance incomprehensible, Kevin bent to ask her if she wished for a cool drink. She had ignored him since they had entered public scrutiny, for reasons of appearance, but as she shook her head in curt refusal of his solicitude, Kevin noticed that his lover seemed uneasy. Protocol forbade him to make inquiry after her well-being. When Mara chose to assume Tsurani impassivity, a part of her became unreachable, though in most things he had come to know her moods as well as his own.

As if his unspoken thoughts brought her worry to a head, the Lady of the Acoma beckoned to Arakasi. ‘I would enjoy a chilled fruit drink.’

The Spy Master bowed and departed; Kevin suppressed a reflexive flash of hurt, and only belatedly realized that his mistress would hardly send Arakasi off just to fetch refreshments. On his way to seek a vendor, the Spy Master would doubtless be contacting informants and gauging the activities of enemies. As Mara turned back to face the events below, she paused the briefest moment to catch Kevin’s eye. That one glance let him know she was glad of his presence.

Mara inclined her head casually to Lujan. ‘Have you noticed? Most of the nobles are hanging back this afternoon.’

Caught off guard by this unexpected public conversation,
the Acoma Force Commander replied without banter. ‘Yes, my Lady. There seems an unusual quality to this festival.’

Kevin peered at their surroundings and determined there was something odd in the crowd rhythm. But he, with his alien viewpoint, had been slow to sense such strangeness.

Distracting peals of laughter drifted up from lower courses of seats as other doors opened and short figures scurried out into the arena. Kevin’s eyebrows arose in surprise as a cluster of diminutive insectoids raced back and forth across the sand, waving their forearms in agitation and clicking small mandibles this way and that. From the opposite end of the sand, a group of warriors hurried to meet them, dwarves by all appearances.

Most wore mock body armour and makeup that ranged from the comic to the grotesque. They waved brightly painted wooden swords, formed up for a loose-ranked charge, and sounded war calls in surprisingly deep voices.

The timbre of those cries was all too fresh in Kevin’s memory. ‘They’re desert men!’

At Mara’s permissive nod, Lujan said, ‘Many were our captives, I expect.’

Wondering that such a fiercely proud race should submit to a demeaning act of comedy, Kevin marvelled further that cho-ja, who were allies, should be included in such honourless display.

‘Not cho-ja,’ Lujan corrected. ‘Those are chu-ji-la – from the forests north of Silmani – smaller, and without intelligence. They are essentially harmless.’

The dwarves and the insectoids met in a clash of shields and chitin. Kevin soon reassured himself that the combat was impotent, with blunt wooden swords unable to pierce the armoured insectoids, while tiny mandibles and blunt forearms closed and tussled without any injury to the dwarves.

This farcical spectacle drew laughter and jeers from the
crowd until a sudden, electrical sense of presence turned all heads away from the field. Kevin’s gaze followed everyone else’s, like metal after a lodestone, to the entrance nearest the imperial box. There a short man in a black robe made his way to the area set aside for Great Ones.

Lujan said, ‘Milamber.’

Kevin’s eyes narrowed to bring his distant countryman into better focus. ‘He’s a Kingdom man?’

Lujan shrugged. ‘So the rumours say. He wears a slave’s beard, which is enough to mark him as barbarian.’

Short by Kingdom standards, and quietly unremarkable, the man took his place next to a very stout magician and another, slender Great One. Struck by a sense of déjà vu, Kevin said, ‘There’s something familiar about him.’

Mara turned. ‘Was he a companion from your homeland?’

‘I would have to get closer to see … my Lady.’

But Mara forbade him the liberty, since he would attract too much attention were he to venture off by himself.

Like all in Mara’s immediate service, Strike Leader Kenji knew of the relationship between the barbarian and his Lady, but their unaccustomed familiarity left him feeling uncomfortable. ‘My Lady, your slave should be reminded that no matter what the Great One was before, he is now in service to the Empire.’

Kevin found his tone abrasive, just as Mara’s had been, and though he knew her pose was necessary in public, it still rankled. ‘Well, I wouldn’t have much to say to a traitor to his own people, anyway.’

A swift glance from Mara stilled his tongue before his brashness could demand the punishment that would become necessary should any passing stranger chance to overhear.

Ghost-quiet, and suddenly there, Arakasi bowed and presented a large cool drink to his mistress. Under his breath
he said, ‘The Shinzawai are conspicuous by their absence.’ He glanced around. Satisfied to find the crowd still absorbed by the mysterious outworld Great One, the Spy Master added, ‘There’s something highly abnormal afoot, my Lady. I urge vigilance.’

Outwardly calm, and hiding the movement of her lips behind the rim of her cup, Mara whispered tensely, ‘Minwanabi?’

Arakasi fractionally shook his head. ‘I think not. Desio is outside, still in his litter, and half-drunk with sa wine. I would expect him to be sober if he had a plot under way.’ Looking uncharacteristically harried, the Spy Master made another reflexive check for listeners; the battle between dwarves and insectoids raged on to a crescendo of noise. Using the din as cover, and hiding the nature of his talk behind gestures of submission, Arakasi went on. ‘But something momentous is stirring, I suspect to do with the Blue Wheel’s return to the Alliance for War. Too many things I hear ring false. Too many contradictions go unquestioned. And more members of the Assembly of Magicians are in attendance than a man will be likely to see in a lifetime. If someone seeks to undermine the Warlord …’

‘Here!’ Mara sat up straight. ‘Impossible.’

But the Spy Master confronted her scepticism. ‘At the height of his triumph, he could be the most vulnerable.’ After a significant pause, he added, ‘Nine times since birth, mistress, I have moved upon no more than a feeling, and each time my life was saved. Be ready to depart at a moment’s notice, I beg you. Many innocents could become entangled in a trap big enough to overwhelm Almecho. Others may die because enemies reacted swiftly to take advantage of the moment. I point out, the Shinzawai are not the only ones absent.’

He need not name the empty chairs. Most of the Blue
Wheel Party sent no representatives, many in the Party for Peace had not brought wives or children, and most of the Kanazawai Lords wore armour rather than robes. If such anomalies were taken as pieces of one related issue, a widespread threat might be real. Squads of white-armoured warriors were stationed at strategic points and entrances, many more than needed for crowd control should an unfortunate event on the arena floor turn the mob’s mood from celebration to riot; more boxes than the imperial one were being watched.

Mara touched Arakasi’s wrist in agreement; she would take his caution to heart. The Minwanabi could easily have agents planted nearby, awaiting any excuse to strike. Lujan’s eyes began to inventory the location and number of soldiers in the immediate area. Whether events occurred by design or accident made no difference to him; the intrigues of politics could surface just as well in chance opportunity. Should an enemy die of injuries in a brawl, who could cast blame? Such was fate. Such might be the thinking of many of the nobles within striking range should the opportunity only present itself in the heat of a riot.

Arakasi’s speculation was suspended as a rush of nobles into boxes signalled the imminent arrival of the imperial party. Nearest to the white-draped dais, a man in ceremonial robes of black and orange entered, a flock of warriors and servants clustered at his heels. His stout bearing carried a sureness of step that hinted at muscle beneath his fat.

‘Minwanabi,’ Arakasi identified with a startling note of venom.

Eager to put a form to the man who was the archfiend in the drama that involved his beloved Mara, Kevin saw only a stout young man flushed by the heat, who looked rather petulant.

Further study was cut short by trumpets and drums that
signalled the approach of the imperial party. Conversation hushed throughout the stadium. Handlers raced onto the arena sand and chased off the dwarves and insectoids. Across the cleared field, groundkeepers wearing loincloths hurried out with rakes and drags to smooth the ground in preparation for the coming games.

Trumpets blasted again, much closer, and the first ranks of Imperial Guardsmen marched in. They wore armour of pure white and carried the instruments that sounded the fanfare. These were fashioned from the horns of some immense beast, curling around their shoulders to end in bell-like flares above their heads. Drummers in the next rank came on beating a steady tattoo. The band assumed position in front of the imperial box, and the Warlord’s honour guard of two dozen entered after them. Each warrior’s accoutrements and helm were lacquered in shiny white, marking them for an élite cadre known as the Imperial Whites.

Sunlight splintered in reflections off gold blazons and trim, which drew a murmur of amazement from the commoners seated highest in the amphitheatre. By Tsurani standards, the metal worn by each warrior was costly enough to finance Acoma expenses for an entire year.

The guards took position and the crowds stilled. Into an avid silence a senior herald shouted in a voice that carried to the most distant tier of seats, ‘Almecho, Warlord!’

The crowd surged to its feet, crying out welcome for the mightiest warrior in the Empire.

Quiet in her place, and sipping at her fruit drink, Mara watched but did not cheer as the Warlord made his entry. Wide bands of gold adorned the neck and armholes of his breastplate; additional goldwork patterned his helm, which was surmounted by a crimson plume. Behind Almecho trailed two black-robed magicians, named the ‘Warlord’s pets’ by the masses. Kevin had heard how, in the years
before his capture, one of those distant Great Ones had cast the spell that proved Mara’s claim of treachery by the Minwanabi, an action that compelled Desio’s predecessor to ritual suicide to expiate the shame to his family.

Then, unexpectedly, the herald announced a second presence. ‘Ichindar! Ninety-one times Emperor!’

The ovation became a deafening roar. The young Light of Heaven made his entrance. Even Lady Mara threw restraint to the winds. She cheered as loudly as any commoner, her face alight with admiration and awe: this was a man held in near-religious devotion by his nation.

The Light of Heaven made his unprecedented appearance in armour covered entirely in gold. He seemed no more than three years over twenty. His expression could not be interpreted over distance, but his bearing was erect and confident, and red-brown hair flowed from under his high gilt helm, to lie in trimmed curls on his shoulders.

Behind the Emperor filed twenty priests, from each of the twenty major temples. As the Light of Heaven made his way to stand beside the Warlord, the crowd thundered. The cheering seemed inexhaustible.

Through the unnerving din, Kevin shouted to Lujan, ‘Why is everyone so carried away?’

Since decorum had been totally forsaken, Lujan freely called back, ‘The Light of Heaven is our spiritual guardian, who through prayer and exemplary living intercedes on our behalf to the gods. He
is
Tsuranuanni!’

Never in living memory had an Emperor blessed his nation by coming among the people. That Ichindar chose to do so now was inspirational, a cause for unrestrained joy. Yet, alone in a crowd of thousands, Arakasi was not cheering. He went through all the motions, but Kevin saw that he scanned the surrounding throng for any hint of danger to his mistress. With Tsurani impassivity abandoned to wild pandemonium, this moment offered the perfect
opportunity for an enemy to slip close without notice. Kevin edged closer to Mara’s back, prepared to leap to her defence if need be.