The Complete Empire Trilogy (151 page)

Incomo mopped his brow again, but the sweat continued to trickle down his collar. Learned in the ways of three generations of Minwanabi Lords, he offered argument by his silence.

Tasaio had examined all the armour. He could not leave the chamber without confronting his First Adviser in the doorway; and Incomo stood like a rock jammed immovably in a river current when he had a point to make.

‘Very well,’ the Lord of the Minwanabi concluded. ‘I will not meet the bitch on her accursed Acoma soil.’ To the messenger he snapped shortly, ‘Here is my reply. Tell the Lady I will consider a meeting, but in the open, on my lands. Let us see whether she has the courage, or the stupidity, to accept.’

The messenger bowed in relief, and bolted promptly through the opening that Incomo edged aside to create. Straight as the doorjamb against his back, and canny in years, the adviser regarded Tasaio.

‘My Lord, if it is trickery you have on your mind, still, I would counsel you to take care. Mara is not just a girl, but an enemy to be feared. She has united the Hadama clan, no child’s task, and even were you to have her brought naked and bound before you, surrounded by your bodyguards, still, I would have you be wary.’

Tasaio stared into his adviser’s spaniel eyes. ‘I am wary,’ he said quietly. ‘Most wary of letting this matter become the obsession that it was for cousin Desio. Mara I intend to kill. But I need no grand promises to the Red God to carry the matter out, and neither will I give her ancestors the satisfaction of losing even one night’s sleep over the matter. Now move aside. I would have the armoury locked, now, and a light meal brought to the terrace garden down by the shore of the lake.’

The Lord of the Minwanabi lingered in the terrace garden long past the hour of sunset. Great torches burned on poles in ceramic containers; a carpet had been laid over the stones, and a wooden dais brought, and upon this, Tasaio sat twirling a wine goblet between his fingers, exactly as he had
while on campaign. The lake shore looked much like a war camp, with warriors in full armour performing a mock attack on a knoll overlooking the water. The soft splashes of feeding fish were interspersed with shouted commands. At Tasaio’s feet sat a boy lately apprenticed to the house scribes, a sharpened chalk clutched in fingers that were tense to hide their shaking. As the Lord commented on his soldiers’ performance in low, half-whispered phrases, the boy scribbled down his words with a frown of desperate concentration. He was but duplicating the efforts of the scribe set to teach him the craft, but should the Lord of the Minwanabi decide to appraise his work, he could be beaten for failing to achieve some arbitrary standard.

The warriors on the rise advanced in timed unison, and, absorbed in every nuance of the drill, Tasaio did not at first notice the house runner who lay prostrate in obeisance at the top of the terrace stair. The unfortunate man had to raise his voice to catch attention.

‘What is it!’ Tasaio snapped, so suddenly that the scribe dropped his slate. The chalk fell bouncing across the carpet and rolled to a stop against the runner’s forehead, which was pressed into the stone of the last stair.

‘My great Lord, the Hamoi Tong Master has arrived in answer to your summons.’

Tasaio briefly weighed the displeasures of meeting the tong and interrupting his evening battle drill. Interrogating the tong won out. ‘Bring him here.’ Then, obviously preoccupied with a subject that vexed him, he glanced at the apprentice’s slates and compared the clumsy lettering to the finely practised script of his teacher. ‘Take that away, and be glad I didn’t order you beaten with it.’ Motioning to the older scribe to remain, he glanced at the soldiers on the hill.

Bowing profusely, and trying not to cry despite the disgrace of a reprimand, the apprentice collected his materials. He hurried off, almost crashing into the house
servant who escorted the summoned visitor to the Lord’s dais.

The Tong Master, the Obajan in the ancient tongue, was a man of immense breadth and girth, but not one ounce of fat. Save for a long scalp lock tied high and cascading down his back, he had a shaved head tattooed in patterns of red and white. His nose was flat, his skin deep tan, and his ears multiply pierced. His jewellery consisted of bone pins and rings that jingled lightly as he walked, and his belt held loops sewn into the leather, each of which held a variegated array of instruments of death: a half-dozen daggers, a weighted strangling cord, throwing stars, knuckle guards, picks, vials of poison, and a long metal sword. While considered an outlaw by Tsurani standards, he demanded the respect due a Ruling Lord from any he encountered in person. He was accompanied by two assassins, clad in black, as much of an honour guard as Tasaio would permit. The Tong Master came to Tasaio and bowed his head slightly, asking, ‘Are you well, my Lord?’ His voice was an ominous rumble.

Tasaio ignored him for a long, pointed moment. Then he nodded once, acknowledging he was well. But the Lord of the Minwanabi did not inquire after the Tong Master’s health, a pointed insult.

Silence wore on the Tong Master. As if the metal wealth he had received from the personage on the cushions suddenly left a taste like curdled milk, the chief of the tong spoke in sour tones. ‘What does my Lord require?’

‘This: the name of the one who hired your tong to assassinate five servants in my house.’

The Tong Master unwisely raised his hand. The warriors arrayed behind Minwanabi’s dais instantly shifted their positions, as if to attack, causing the huge man to freeze. But he was not a slave, nor a man of weak nature. Fixing his host with a level gaze, the Master of the Hamoi Tong slowly
raised his hand to scratch his chin. His tone bit as he replied. ‘Lord Tasaio, the order was your own.’

Tasaio jumped from his cushions with a speed that had the two assassins slap hands to their own swords. The Tong Master motioned for them to resume their former positions. ‘I?’ demanded Tasaio. ‘I ordered this? How dare you utter such a lie!’

The Tong Master locked stares with Tasaio, eyes narrowed in the flickering light of the torches. ‘Harsh words, my Lord.’ He hesitated an instant, as if weighing the need to take offence at the insult to his honour. ‘I will show you the document, with your signature and your personal chop.’

Dumbfounded, and clumsy for the first time in his life, Tasaio sat back down. ‘My personal chop?’ His manner turned icy. ‘Let me see.’

The huge man reached into his tunic and removed a parchment.

Tasaio all but snatched the item out of red-stained hands. He sliced the ribbons with his dagger, cracked the rolled document straight, and studied the contents with a frown. He twisted the paper this way and that, and barked for a slave to hold one of the torches closer, turning his back upon the Obajan. He scratched a fingernail over the ink-marked chop. ‘Turakamu’s breath,’ he murmured. Then he looked up, a light of murder in his eyes. ‘What servant delivered this message?’

The chief of the tong picked at an earring. ‘No servant, my Lord. The order was left in the usual place for such communication,’ he said calmly.

‘It is a forgery!’ Tasaio hissed, his hereditary Minwanabi temper breaking free of restraint. ‘I did not write a word of this! Nor did one of my scribes.’

The Master of the Tong’s face remained impassive. ‘You did not?’

‘I just said that!’ the Minwanabi Lord spun suddenly, his hand clenched fast to his sword hilt. Only a gesture from their leader prevented the assassins from again making ready to strike.

Tasaio stalked from one end of the dais to the other and rounded like a hungry predator upon the bulky figure of the Obajan. ‘I paid you a fortune in metal to serve me, not to wreak havoc in my own house, or to jump at the orders of any rival with the wits to forge documents! Some fool has dared to copy the Minwanabi family chop. You will find him for me. I want his head.’

‘Yes, Lord Tasaio.’ The Master of the Tong touched his forehead with his left hand, signifying agreement. ‘I will have the message traced, and the culprit sent to you in pieces.’

‘See that you do.’ Tasaio drew his sword and slashed air with a sharp whine of sound. ‘See that you do. Now get out of my sight, before I give your flesh to my torturers for live experimentation.’

The Tong Master said, ‘Seek not to anger me, Lord Tasaio.’ He motioned for his assassins to step back as he moved forward to confront the Minwanabi ruler. In a low voice, he said, ‘The Hamoi are not vassals, a fact you would do well to remember. I am the Obajan of the Hamoi. I will do this thing because
my
family has been dishonoured, even as yours, not because you order it. Fate has given us a common enemy, my Lord, but
never again threaten me.
’ He glanced down and Tasaio followed his gaze. Between forefinger and thumb the man held a small dagger, masked from any other’s sight.

The Lord of the Minwanabi did not flinch or move away. He simply returned his gaze to the eyes of the Obajan. He knew the man had but to twitch and the blade would kill before the Minwanabi Lord could possibly raise his sword. Something like savage humour flickered in Tasaio’s eyes as
the Tong Master said, ‘I enjoy blood. It is mother’s milk to me. Remember that and we may remain allies.’

Tasaio turned his back, ignoring the risk, and said, ‘Depart in peace, Obajan of the Hamoi.’ His knuckles whitened upon the hilt of his sword.

The Tong Master turned away, nimbly for a man of his size, the dagger vanishing into his tunic before any other could see it. He left at good pace, his honour guards falling in on either side as he strode from the terrace, leaving a frustrated and enraged man slashing at phantoms in the air.

Trumpets sounded.

A dozen liveried bearers carried a platform, upon which Mara firmly held the wooden railing before her. She strove to appear assured, despite the inward conviction that she looked silly wearing the newly fashioned armour of a Hadama Warchief. Unaccustomed to the stiffness of laminated-hide greaves and bracers, and decidedly ill at ease with fittings and buckles and breastplate, she reminded herself to stand erect. Keyoke and Saric had insisted that while she could continue wearing formal robes during meetings, for her first public appearance as Clan Warchief she must dress the part.

How a man could fight and swing a sword under such a weight of constricting gear, Mara could not guess. Newly appreciative of the warriors who marched in ranks behind, she led the army of Clan Hadama, nearly ten thousand strong, toward the gates of the Holy City.

Seated at her feet as befitted her rank, Kevin tried to look like a meek body slave. But with the grassy verge on either side of the road jammed with cheering, waving commoners, he could hardly repress his excitement. Speaking with his face turned up toward his mistress, so that few could hear him over the crowd’s noise, he laughed. ‘They seem quite taken with you, my Lady.’

Mara unbent enough to return a surreptitious reply. ‘I certainly hope so. Women warriors are rare in the Empire’s history, but the few who are remembered were legendary, almost as unique as the Servants of the Empire.’ She attempted to shrug off her newfound notoriety. ‘Any mob
loves a spectacle. They’d cheer no matter who stood upon this platform.’

‘Maybe,’ Kevin allowed. ‘But I think they sense the Empire is in danger and see you as someone they can look to with hope.’

Mara regarded the people who crowded the way to the outer gate of the Holy City. All castes and trades were represented, from sunburned field workers to cart drivers, merchants, and guild masters. All seemed earnest in their approval of the Lady of the Acoma. Many shouted her name, while others waved or tossed tokens made of folded paper for luck.

Mara still looked sceptical in the face of such admiration. Kevin added, ‘They know who your enemy is and they are as surely aware of Tasaio’s dark nature as you are. You nobles may not speak ill of one another out of courtesy, but I assure you that commoners don’t share that constraint. Given the choice, they endorse the one whose policy is likely to be the more merciful. Is it yours or the Minwanabi Lord’s?’

Mara forced herself to exhibit a calmness she did not feel; Kevin’s logic seemed reassuring. It might even be true. But the support of the common folk would have no bearing on the outcome of the pending struggle. Aware that the next few days would find her either triumphant or dead, Mara tried not to dwell upon consequences. There could be no other choices. The attack upon her and her son had forced the issue. She must move, or maintain a defensive strategy until the day that her warriors, her guard, or her spy network failed her again, and Tasaio’s blade found her heart.

On the day her father, Sezu, had fallen victim to a Minwanabi trap, he had chosen to fight to the death rather than shame his ancestry by choosing flight, and a coward’s life. Mara could do no less; she had tried to precipitate events by her demand to meet with Tasaio. If he refused her,
she must confront him. And yet, with no plan in mind to spare either her house or her honour, her posture was no more than bravado. As she rode in triumph on the platform at the head of Clan Hadama’s war strength, her mind held a morass of fears.

‘Look at that!’ exclaimed Kevin.

Jerked out of morbid introspection, Mara glanced where he pointed and felt her throat tighten. An army camped to the west of the Holy City. The hills were a patchwork of coloured tents and banners, which Kevin swiftly counted. After rough calculation, he said, ‘I guess that encampment holds fifteen thousand warriors.’