The Complete Empire Trilogy (8 page)

‘My point, Keyoke.’ Once started, Mara could not stifle the hopeless, trapped feelings that welled up within her. ‘They will all die. As will you and Pape, and even old Nacoya. Then the enemies who murdered my father and brother will take my head and the Acoma natami to the Lord of the Minwanabi and … the Acoma will be no more.’

The old soldier lowered his hands in silence. He could not refute his mistress’s word or offer her any sort of comfort. Gently he ordered the bearers forward, towards the estate house, and lights, and the solace of beauty and art that was the heart of Acoma heritage.

The litter rocked as the slaves stepped from the rough meadow onto the raked gravel path. Shamed by her outburst, Mara loosed the ties, and the gauze curtains fluttered down, enclosing her from view. Sensitive to the possibility she might be weeping, Keyoke walked with his head turned correctly forward. Survival with honour seemed an unattainable hope since the death of Lord Sezu and his son. Yet for the sake of the mistress whose life he guarded, he resisted the belief held by the warriors who still lived: that the gods’ displeasure rested upon this house, and the Acoma fortune was irretrievably on the wane.

Mara spoke, jarring the Force Commander from thought with an unexpected tone of resolve. ‘Keyoke, were I to die, and you survive me, what then?’

Keyoke gestured backwards, towards the hills where the raiders had retired with their booty. ‘Without your leave to take my own life, I would be as those, mistress. A wanderer, masterless and alone, without purpose and identity, a grey warrior with no house colour to wear.’

Mara pushed a hand through the curtain, forming a small crack to peer through. ‘The bandits are all like this?’

‘Some. Others are petty criminals, some thieves and robbers, a few murderers, but many are soldiers who have lived longer than their masters.’

The litter drew near the dooryard of the estate house, where Nacoya awaited with a small flock of servants. Mara pressed on quickly. ‘Honourable men, Keyoke?’

The Force Commander regarded his mistress with no hint of reproof. ‘A soldier without a house can have no honour, mistress. Before their masters fell? I assume grey warriors were good men once, but to outlive one’s master is a mark of the gods’ displeasure.’

The litter swept into the dooryard, and the bearers settled it to the ground with a barely perceptible bump. Mara pushed aside the curtains and accepted Keyoke’s assistance. ‘Force Commander, come to my quarters tonight, after your scouts return from the hills. I have a plan to discuss while the rest of the household sleeps.’

‘As you will, mistress.’ Keyoke bowed, fist pressed to his heart in formal salute. But as servants rushed forward with lanterns, Mara thought she caught a hint of approval on the warrior’s scarred face.

Mara’s meeting with Keyoke extended deep into the night. The stars glinted like ice. Kelewan’s moon showed a notched, copper-gold profile at the zenith by the time the old warrior gathered up the helmet that rested by his knee. ‘My Lady, your plan is dangerously bold. But, as a man does not expect aggression from the gazen, it may work.’

‘It must work!’ Mara straightened in the darkness. ‘Else our pride will be much diminished. Asking security in exchange for marriage gains no honour, but only rewards those who plotted treachery against us. Our house would no longer be a major player in the Game of the Council, and the spirits of my ancestors would be unsettled. No,
on this I think my father would say, “Safe is not always best.”’

Keyoke buckled his helm with the care he might have used preparing for battle. ‘As my Lady wills. But I don’t envy the task of explaining what you propose to Nacoya.’ He bowed, rose, and strode to the outer screen.

He slipped the catch and stepped out. Moonlight drenched the flower beds in gilt. Silhouetted against their brightness, the Force Commander’s shoulders seemed straighter, his carriage the slightest bit less strained. With relief, Mara perceived that Keyoke welcomed a warrior’s solution to Acoma troubles. He had agreed to risk her plan rather than see her bind the family through marriage to the mercy of a stronger house. She unlinked sweating fingers, afraid and exhilarated at the same time.

‘I’ll marry on my terms, or not at all,’ she murmured to the night. Then she lay back on her cushions. Sleep came reluctantly. Memories of Lano tangled with thoughts of young, boastful sons of great houses, one of whom she must eventually choose as suitor.

Morning dawned hot. With a dry wind blowing from the south, moisture from the rainy season remained only in sheltered hollows, and the herders drove needra to pasture amid ochre clouds of dust. Mara broke her fast in the inner courtyard garden, beneath the generous shade of the trees. The trickle of water from an ornamental fountain soothed her where she sat, dressed in a high-collared robe of saffron. She seemed even younger than her seventeen years, her eyes too bright and her face shadowed with sleeplessness. Yet her voice, when she summoned Nacoya, was crisp with authority.

The old nurse arrived grouchy, as was usual for her in the morning. Mara’s summons had reached her while dressing, for her hair was hastily bound back, and her lips
pressed thin with annoyance. She bowed briskly and said, ‘As my mistress wishes?’

The Lady of the Acoma gestured permission to sit. Nacoya declined; her knees pained her, and the hour was too early to argue with a headstrong girl whose stubbornness might lead the honour of her ancestors to ruin.

Mara smiled sweetly at her former nurse. ‘Nacoya, I have reconsidered your advice and seen wisdom in marriage to thwart our enemies’ plots. I ask that you prepare me a list of suitors whom you consider eligible, for I shall need guidance to choose a proper mate. Go now. I shall speak with you on the matter in due time.’

Nacoya blinked, obviously startled by this change of heart. Then her eyes narrowed. Surely such compliance masked some other intent, yet Tsurani ethics forbade a servant the right to question. Suspicious in the extreme, but unable to evade her dimissal, the old nurse bowed. ‘Your will, mistress, and may Lashima’s wisdom guide you.’

She shuffled out, muttering under her breath. Mara sipped chocha, the image of the titled Lady. Then, after an appropriate interval, she called softly to her runner. ‘Send for Keyoke, Papewaio, and Jican.’

The two warriors arrived before her cup was empty, Keyoke in his battle armour, resplendently polished; Papewaio also was armed for action, the black headband of the condemned tied as neatly as the sash from which hung his sword. As Nacoya had guessed, he carried himself like a man awarded an honour token for bravery. His expression was otherwise unchanged. In her entire life there were few things as constant as Papewaio, thought Mara.

She nodded to the servant with the chocha pot, and this time Pape accepted a mug of the steaming drink.

Keyoke sipped his chocha without removing his helm,
sure sign he was pondering strategy. ‘All is ready, mistress. Pape oversaw dispensation of weapons and armour, and Strike Leader Tasido oversees the drill. So long as no fighting occurs, your warriors should give a convincing appearance.’

‘Well enough.’ Too nervous to finish her chocha, Mara laid sweating hands in her lap. ‘All we need now is Jican, that the bait may be prepared.’

The hadonra reached the garden at that moment. He bowed, breathless and sweating, as he had come in haste. His clothing was dusty, and he still carried the needra tally he had been marking as the herds were driven to pasture. ‘My apologies, mistress, for my soiled appearance. By your own command, the herders and slaves –’

‘I know, Jican,’ Mara cut in. ‘Your honour is no less, and your devotion to duty is admirable. Now, have we crops and goods in the store sheds to mount a trading caravan?’

Startled by the praise and a wholly unexpected shift of topic, the hadonra squared his shoulders. ‘We have six wagonloads of thyza of poor quality that were held back to fatten the needra, though the ones not bearing can do well enough without. The last calves were weaned two days ago. We have some hides suitable to be sold to the harness makers.’ Jican shifted his weight, careful to hide his puzzlement. ‘The caravan would be very small. Neither the grain nor the goods would realize significant profit.’ He bowed deferentially. ‘My mistress would do better to wait until the marketable produce comes in season.’

Mara ignored the suggestion. ‘I want a small caravan prepared.’

‘Yes, mistress.’ The hadonra’s fingers whitened on the edge of the tally slate. ‘I shall send word to our agent in Sulan-Qu –’

‘No, Jican.’ Turning brusquely, Mara rose and crossed to the rim of the fountain. She extended her hand, letting water spill like jewels through her fingers. ‘I wish this caravan to travel to Holan-Qu.’

Jican directed a startled glance at Keyoke, but saw no hint of disapproval on the Force Commander’s lined face. Nervous, nearly pleading, he urged, ‘Mistress, I obey your desire, but your goods should still be sent to Sulan-Qu, then downriver and on from Jamar by ship.’

‘No.’ Droplets dashed across marble tile as Mara closed her fist. ‘I wish the wagons to travel overland.’

Again Jican glanced at Keyoke; but the Force Commander and his bodyguard stood like sun-cured ulo wood, facing correctly forward. Struggling to master his agitation, the hadonra of the Acoma appealed to his mistress. ‘Lady, the mountain road is dangerous. Bandits lurk in the woods in good number, and we lack enough warriors to drive them out. To guard such a caravan would leave this estate unprotected. I must advise against it.’

With a girlish smile, Mara swung away from the fountain. ‘But the caravan shall not strip our defences. Papewaio will head a company of hand-picked men. A dozen of our better soldiers should be sufficient to keep the bandits away. They’ve raided our herds and will not need food, and wagons without large numbers of guards obviously carry goods of little value.’

Jican bowed, his narrow face immobile. ‘Then we would be wise to send no guards at all.’ His manner concealed sharp disbelief; he dared the dishonour of his mistress’s displeasure to dissuade her from folly.

‘No.’ Mara wrapped dripping fingers in the rich folds of her robe. ‘I require an honour guard.’

Jican’s face twisted with shock that vanished almost instantly. That his mistress intended to go along on this venture indicated that sorrow had stripped her of wits.

‘Go now, Jican,’ said Mara. ‘Attend to my commands.’

The hadonra peered sideways at Keyoke, as if certain the Lady’s demand would provoke protest. But the old Force Commander only shrugged slightly, as if to say, what is to be done?

Jican lingered, though honour forbade him to object. A stern look from Mara restored his humility. He bowed swiftly and departed, his shoulders drooping. Yesterday the Lady of the Acoma had deemed his judgement worthy of praise; now she seemed bereft of the instincts Lashima gave to a needra.

The servants in attendance kept proper silence, and Keyoke moved no muscle beneath the nodding plumes of his helm. Only Papewaio met his mistress’s eye. The creases at the corners of his mouth deepened slightly. For a moment he seemed about to smile, though all else about his manner remained formal and unchanged.

Dust swirled.

The brisk breeze did nothing to cut the heat, and stinging grit made the needra snort. Wooden wheels squealed as the three wagons comprising Mara’s caravan grated over the gravel road. Slowly they climbed into the foothills, leaving behind the flatlands … and the borders of the Acoma estates. Brightly lacquered green spokes caught the sunlight, seeming to wink as they turned, then slowed as rocks impeded their progress. The drovers yipped encouragement to the needra, who rolled shaggylashed eyes and tried to balk as pasture and shed fell behind. The slaves carrying Mara’s litter moved steadily, until rough terrain forced them to slow to avoid jostling their mistress. For reasons the slaves could not imagine, their usually considerate Lady was ordering a man-killing pace, determined to see the caravan through the high passes before nightfall.

Mara sat stiffly. The trees that shaded the edge of the trail offered ready concealment, thick boles and tangled brush casting shadows, deep enough to hide soldiers. And the wagons were a severe disadvantage. The keenest ear could hear no rustle of foliage over the needra’s bawl and the grinding creak of wheels, and the sharpest eye became hampered by the ever-present dust. Even the battle-hardened soldiers appeared on edge.

The sun climbed slowly towards noon. Heat shimmer danced over the valley left behind, and scaly, long-tailed ketso scurried into hiding as the caravan rumbled past the rocks where they basked. The lead wagons, then the
litter, breasted the crest of a rise. Keyoke signalled a halt. The bearers lowered the litter in the shade of an outcrop, giving silent prayers of thanks, but the drovers and the warriors maintained position under Papewaio’s vigilant eyes.

Ahead, a steep-sided ravine cut the east-facing slopes of the Kyamaka Mountains. The road plunged steeply downward, folded into switchback curves, then straightened to slice across a hollow with a spring.

Keyoke bowed before Mara’s litter and indicated a dell to one side of the hollow, where no trees grew and the earth was beaten and hard. ‘Mistress, the scouts sent out after the raid found warm ashes and the remains of a butchered needra in that place. They report tracks, and evidence of habitation, but the thieves themselves have moved on. No doubt they keep moving their base.’

Mara regarded the ravine, shading her eyes against the afternoon glare with her hand. She wore robes of exceptional richness, with embroidered birds on the cuffs, and a waistband woven of iridescent plumes. A scarf of spun silk covered the welts on her neck, and her wrists clinked with bracelets of jade, polished by the non-human cho-ja to transparent thinness. While her dress was frivolous and girlish, her manner was intently serious. ‘Do you expect an attack?’

‘I don’t know.’ Keyoke’s gaze swept the ravine again, as if by force of concentration he could discern any bandits lying hidden. ‘But we must prepare ourselves for any turn of fate. And we must act as if enemies observe every movement.’

‘Continue on, then,’ said Mara. ‘Have the foot slave broach a water flask. The soldiers and litter bearers may refresh themselves as we march. Then, when we reach the spring, we can make a show of stopping for a drink and so seem more vulnerable than we are.’

Keyoke saluted. ‘Your will, mistress. I will wait here for those who follow. Papewaio will assume command of the caravan.’ Then with a surprising show of concern in his eyes, he added softly, ‘Be wary, my Lady. The risks to your person are great.’

Mara held steady under his gaze. ‘No more than my father would take. I am his daughter.’

The Force Commander returned one of his rare and brief smiles and turned from the litter. With a minimum of disruption, he saw Mara’s orders carried out. The water-bearer hustled through the ranks with his flasks clanking from the harness he wore, dispensing drinks to the soldiers with a speed gained only by years of campaigning. Then Keyoke signalled, and Papewaio gave the command to move out. Needra drivers shouted, wheels creaked, and dust rose in clouds. The wagons rolled forward to the crest, and then over to begin their ponderous descent to the ravine. Only a trained scout would have noted that one less soldier left the camp than had entered.

Mara appeared dignified and serene, but her small painted fan trembled between nervous fingers. She started almost imperceptibly each time the litter moved as one of her bearers shifted grip to sip from the flask carried by the water-bearer. Mara closed her eyes, inwardly pleading Lashima’s favour.

The road beyond the crest was rutted and treacherous with loose stone. Men and animals were forced to step with care, eyes upon the path. Time and again the gravel would turn underfoot and pebbles would bounce and rattle downslope, to slash with a clatter through the treetops. Jostled as her slaves fought the uncertain terrain, Mara caught herself holding her breath. She bit her lip and forced herself not to look back or show any sign that her caravan was not upon an ordinary journey.
Keyoke had not mentioned that the Acoma soldiers who followed could not cross this ridge without being observed; they would have to circle round by way of the wood. Until they regained their position a short distance behind, Mara’s caravan was as vulnerable as a jigahen in the courtyard as the cook approaches with his chopping knife.

At the floor of the ravine the wood seemed denser: damp soil covered with blackferns spread between huge boles of pynon trees, their shaggy aromatic bark interlaced with vines. The slaves who carried the litter breathed deeply, grateful for the cooler forest. Yet to Mara the air seemed dead after the capricious breezes of the heights. Or perhaps it was simply tension that made the stillness oppressive? The click as she flicked open her fan caused several warriors to turn sharply.

Here even bare rock was mantled with leaf mould, and footfalls became deadened to silence. Creaking wagon sounds were smothered by walls of vines and tree trunks; this forest gave back nothing.

Papewaio faced forward, his eyes continually scanning the darkness on either side. His hand never strayed from the intricate hide lacings that bound the hilt of his sword. Watching him, Mara thought upon her father, who had died knowing allies had betrayed him. She wondered what had become of his sword, a work of art with its carved hilts and jewelled sheath. The shatra bird of the Acoma had been worked in enamel on the pommel, and the blade fashioned in the jessami method, three hundred needra hide strips, each scraped to paper thinness, then cleverly and painstakingly laminated – for even a needle-point bubble of air would render it useless – to a metal hardness with an edge unmatched save for the legendary steel swords of the ancients. Perhaps some barbarian warlord wore the sword as a trophy now … perhaps he would be
an honourable man, if a barbarian was capable of being such. Mara forced away such morbid thoughts. Feeling smothered by the oppressive stillness and the dark foliage overhead, she clenched her hands until her delicate wood fan threatened to snap.

‘Lady, I ask leave to permit the men a chance to rest and replenish the flasks,’ said Papewaio.

Mara started, nodded, and raked back the damp hair that clung to her temples. The caravan had reached the spring without incident. Ponderous wheels ground to a halt; warriors arrayed themselves in defensive positions, while the foot slave and several of the drovers hastened to them with moist cloths and a meal of thyza biscuit and dried fruit. Other men attended to the needra, while the bearers lowered Mara’s litter with stifled grunts of relief. They then stood patiently awaiting their turn to rinse their faces at the spring.

Papewaio returned from the lines of warriors and knelt before his mistress. ‘Would my Lady care to leave the litter and walk about?’

Mara extended her hand, her full sleeve trailing nearly to the ground. The dagger concealed by the garment dragged at her wrist, an unfamiliar lump she carried awkwardly. She had wrestled with Lanokota as a child, to Nacoya’s continual dismay, but weapons had never attracted her. Keyoke has insisted she bring the knife, though the hastily shortened straps had been fashioned for a larger arm and the hilt felt clumsy in her hand. Overheated, and suddenly uncertain, she permitted Papewaio to help her to her feet.

The ground before the spring was pocked by the prints of men and animals that had baked hard in the sun after the rainy season. While Papewaio drew a dipper of water, his mistress jabbed the earth with her sandal and wondered how many of the marks had been made by stock
stolen from Acoma pastures. Once she had overheard a trader describe how certain clans in the north notched the hooves of their livestock, to assist trackers in recovering stolen beasts. But until now the Acoma had commanded the loyalty of enough warriors to make such precautions unnecessary.

Papewaio raised a dripping container of water. ‘My Lady?’

Roused from reflection, Mara sipped, then wet her fingers and sprinkled water upon her cheeks and neck. Noon was well past, and slanting sunlight carved the soldiers into forms of glare and shadow. The wood beyond lay still, as if every living thing slept through the afternoon heat. Mara shivered, suddenly chilled as the water cooled her skin. If bandits had lain waiting in ambush, surely they should have attacked by now; an unpleasant alternative caused her to look at her Strike Leader in alarm.

‘Pape, what if the grey warriors have circled behind us and attacked the Acoma estates while we travelled upon the road?’

The warrior set the crockery dipper on a nearby stone. The fastenings of his armour squeaked as he shrugged, palms turned skywards to indicate that plans succeeded only at the whim of fate. ‘If bandits attack your estates, all honour is lost, Lady, for the best of your warriors have been committed here.’ He glanced at the woods, while his hand fell casually to the hilt of his sword. ‘But I think it unlikely. I have told the men to be ready. The day’s heat lessens, but no leafhoppers sing within the wood.’ Suddenly a bird hootedly loudly overhead. ‘And when the karkak cries, danger is near.’

A shout erupted from the trees at the clearing’s edge. Mara felt strong hands thrust her backwards into the litter. Her bracelets snagged the silken hangings as she
flung out a hand to break her fall. Awkwardly tumbled against the cushions, she jerked the material aside and saw Papewaio whirl to defend her, his sword gliding from its scabbard. Overturned by his foot, the dipper spun and shattered against a stone. Fragments pelted Mara’s ankles as the swords of her warriors hissed from their sheathes to meet the attack of the outlaws who charged from cover.

Through the closing ranks of her defenders, Mara glimpsed a band of men with drawn weapons running towards the wagons. Despite being dirty, thin, and raggedly clad, the raiders advanced in well-organized ranks. The ravine echoed with shouts as they strove to break the line of defenders. Fine cloth crumpled between Mara’s hands. Her warriors were many times outnumbered. Aware that her father and brother had faced worse battles than this on the barbarian world, she strove not to flinch at the crack of sword upon sword. Papewaio’s voice prevailed over the confusion, his officer’s plume readily visible through the press; at his signal, the battle-hardened warriors of the Acoma gave way with almost mechanical discipline.

The attack faltered. With no honour to be gained from retreat, the usual Tsurani tactic was to charge, not assume a defensive posture; the sight of wagons being abandoned warned the ruffians to caution. Enclosed by the green-armoured backs of her escort, Mara heard a high-pitched shout. Feet slapped earth as the attackers checked. Except for the unarmed drivers, and the cringing presence of the water-bearer, the wagons had been abandoned without dispute; seemingly the warriors had withdrawn to defend the more valuable treasure.

Slowly, warily, the bandits approached. Between the bodies of her defenders, Mara saw lacquered wagons gleam as an enemy force numbering five times greater than her escort closed in a half circle around the spring.

The trickle of water was overlaid by the creak of armour and the fast, nervous breathing of tense men. Papewaio held position by Mara’s litter, a chiselled statue with drawn sword. For a long, tense minute, movement seemed suspended. Then a man behind enemy lines barked an order; two bandits advanced and slices the ties binding the cloth that covered the wagons. Mara felt sweat spring along her spine as eager hands bared Acoma goods to the sunlight. Now came the most difficult moment, since for a time her warriors must hold their line regardless of insult or provocation. Only if the outlaws threatened Mara would the Acoma soldiers answer.

The bandits quickly realized then that no counterattack would be forthcoming. With shouts of exultation, they hefted bags of thyza from the wagon; others edged closer to the Acoma guard, curious to see what treasure would merit such protection. As they neared, Mara caught glimpses of grimy knuckles, tattered cloth, and a crude and mismatched accumulation of weapons. Yet the manner in which the blades were held indicated training and skill, and ruthless need. These were men desperate enough to kill and die for a wagon-weight of poor-quality thyza.

A shout of unmistakable authority cut through the jubilation of the men beside the wagon. ‘Wait! Let that be!’ Falling silent, the bandits turned from their booty, some with sacks of grain still clutched to their breast.

‘Let us see what else fortune had brought us this day.’ A slender, bearded man who was obviously the commander of the band broke through the ranks of his underlings and strode boldly towards the warriors guarding Mara. He paused midway between the lines, sword at the ready and a cocky sureness to his manner that caused Papewaio to draw himself up.