Mistress of the Empire (11 page)

Mara regarded the Black Robes that had balked her vengeance with hostile eyes. The straps on her armor
creaked as she arose to her feet. Her hands clamped into fists, and muscles jumped in her jaw. Softly, she said, ‘No.’

A strand of loose hair slipped from beneath her helm, and her Warchief’s plumes trembled like reeds before a breeze. A heartbeat later, another Great One materialised beside the open flap of her tent. His robe seemed cut from night itself, and though he was slender with youth, there was nothing young about his eyes. They held a light that seemed to blaze in contrast to his dark skin and hair. His voice proved surprisingly deep, ‘Lady Mara, hear our will. The Assembly forbids this war!’

Mara turned pale. Rage shook her, to be constrained from fulfilling her call to Clan War. Never had she imagined that the Assembly might intervene against her given will. She was as helpless to protest this development as her former enemy, Tasaio of the Minwanabi, had been, for to be forbidden the traditional means of vengeance for Ayaki’s murder was to forfeit Acoma honor. To withdraw without bloodshed from this confrontation would disgrace her far more than any shame the Anasati might fall heir to. Her son was the one left unavenged; Lord Jiro would be given the victory. He would gain esteem for his courage, having come to the field prepared to engage in battle to defend his honor, but it was not his son or his family ancestors whose shades would be diminished for being deprived of blood price for a murder. As the accuser who had not prosecuted her claims by strength of arms, the Lady of the Acoma would forfeit much of the veneration due her rank.

Mara found her voice. ‘You force me to dishonor, Great One.’

The magician dismissed her remark with haughty calm. ‘Your honor, or lack of it, is not my affair, Good Servant. The Assembly acts as it will, in all cases, for the Good of the Empire. The carnage of clan conflict between Hadama
and Ionani would weaken the Nations and leave this land vulnerable to attack from outside our borders. Therefore, you are told: no force of the Acoma or of the Anasati or their clan, or allies may take the field to oppose the other for this or any other matter. You are forbidden to make war against Lord Jiro.’

Mara held herself silent by force of will. Once, she had stood witness when the barbarian Black Robe, Milamber, had torn open the skies above the Imperial Arena. The powers unleashed on that day had killed, and shaken the earth, and caused fire to rain down from the clouds. She was not so far gone in grief to lose reason and forget: the magicians were the supreme force within the Empire.

The young, nameless magician looked on in arrogant silence as Mara swallowed hard. Her cheeks flushed red, and Hokanu, at her shoulder, could feel her trembling suppressed rage. Yet she was Tsurani. The Great Ones were to be obeyed. She gave a stiff nod. ‘Your will, Great One.’

Her bow was deep, if resentful. She half turned toward her advisers. ‘Orders: withdraw.’ In the face of this command she had no choice. Though Ruling Lady of the greatest house in the Empire, though Servant of the Empire, even she could but bow to the inevitable and ensure that no lapse of dignity could compound this enforced dishonor.

Hokanu relayed his Lady’s orders. Saric shook off a stunned stillness and hastened to rouse the signal runners outside the tent from their abject prostration. Keyoke readied the signal flags, and, as if grateful to be excused from the presence of the one dark-robed form in the command tent, messengers snatched up green and white flags and hurried off to the knoll to wave the command for withdrawal.

On the field, amid the kneeling mass of his warriors, Lujan saw the signal. He cupped his hands to his mouth and shouted, and around him the other Force Commanders of Clan Hadama called orders to retreat. Like a wave held in check, the men gathered up their swords and spears, slowly stood, and pulled back into family groups. Movement surged through their ranks as they formed up, and began the march back up the hillsides toward their respective masters’ encampments.

The armies poised to clash rolled back from each other, leaving the meadow trampled in the sunlight. The magicians between the hosts oversaw the retreat, then, their office completed, disappeared one by one, relocating upon the hill near the Ionani command tent.

Intent on her bitterness, Mara barely noticed the magician still before her, nor Hokanu at her side, dispensing instructions to dismiss Clan Hadama’s forces homeward to their respective estate garrisons. Her eyes might view an ending of war, but their hardness did not relent. Honor must be satisfied. To fall upon her family sword was no just reparation for Ayaki’s life. The public disgrace remained, not to be forgotten. Jiro would use such shame to ally enemies against her house. Shaken to reassume her responsibilities, she could only atone for her error. No choice remained now, but to use intrigue to resolve the death and the insult between herself and the Anasati. The Game of the Council must now serve, with plots and murder done in secret, behind a public front of Tsurani propriety.

A disturbance arose outside the command tent, a flurry of raised voices, and Keyoke’s rising clearest in astonishment. ‘Two companies from the extreme left flank are moving!’

Mara hurried into the open, fear dislodging her thoughts of hatred. She stared out over the valley in horrified
disbelief to see the leftmost element of the Hadama forces countermand orders and surge forward.

The magician who had followed at her elbow hissed affront, and more of his fellows appeared out of empty air. Mara fought panic at the new arrivals. If she did not act, the Great Ones would take issue at her side’s disregard of orders. In another moment her house, her Clan, and every loyal servant of the Acoma might lie dead of the magicians’ wrath.

‘Who commands the left?’ she cried in shrill desperation.

Irrilandi, now arrived on the hilltop, called answer. ‘That’s a reserve company, mistress. It is under charge of the Lord of the Petcha.’

Mara bit her lip in furious thought: Petcha was a lord but lately come to his inheritance. Barely more than a boy, he commanded out of deference to his rank, not through skills or experience. Tsurani tradition gave him the right to a place at the forefront of the ranks. Lujan had compensated as best he might, and set the boy over an auxiliary unit, which would be called upon only when the battle’s outcome was decided. But now either his youth or his hot blood invited total disaster.

Keyoke considered the situation in the valley with the eyes of a master tactician. ‘The impetuous fool! He seeks to strike while confusion occupies the Anasati side of the line! Didn’t he see the Great Ones? How could he ignore their arrival?’

‘He’s bereft of his senses.’ Hokanu gestured to the runners, who had reached even the farthest sections of the lines. ‘Or else he can’t read the command flags.’

Saric raced off to dispatch more runners, while on the field, several older commanding officers broke away from the press of retreating warriors and hurried to converge on Lord Petcha’s moving banners.

On the hill, Lady Mara looked on in horror as two full companies of men in Lord Petcha’s orange-and-blue-plumed armor moved forward to attack the Anasati right flank. The soldiers in red and yellow on the far hillside swirled in an about-face, preparing to meet the charge. Their commander’s shouts floated on the wind as he exhorted each warrior to keep his head. They were seasoned troops, or else their fear lent them prudence. They held in compliance with the Great Ones’ edict, and did not rush forward to answer Lord Petcha’s provocation.

Keyoke’s sinewy hands whitened on his crutch. ‘He’s wise, that Anasati Strike Leader. He will not violate the order to withdraw, and should our men under Petcha keep coming, they will be attacking uphill. He has time to wait, and perhaps maintain the truce.’

The words were spoken for the benefit of the Black Robes, who had banded together in a disturbed knot. Frowning under ink-dark hoods, they watched the Petcha forces race headlong up the rise on the Ionani side of the vale.

One spoke, and two vanished with a whipping snap of air.

Mara’s servants threw themselves prone in abject fear, and more than one veteran turned white. Lujan looked sick and Keyoke like chiseled rock.

On the field, the two Black Robes reappeared before the charging forces. Tiny as toys, yet menacing for that smallness, they threw up their hands. Green light sparked from their fingertips, and a searing flash erupted in the path of the running warriors.

The eyesight of every watcher was dazzled.

Left blind by the afterimage, Mara was forced to blink tears from her stinging eyes. Moments passed before she recovered clear vision. She forced herself to face front, and gasped.

At first glance nothing appeared wrong. Lord Petcha’s soldiers no longer ran; they still stood upright, their orange armor bright in the sunlight and their plumes twisting in the breeze. More careful study showed that their quietness masked a tableau of horror. The hands that still clutched weapons writhed and twitched, the flesh slowly blistering. Faces contorted in nightmarish, silent agony. Their skin raised up in pustules, then darkened, blackened, and crisped. Smoke curled on the wind, stinking of scorched carrion. Flesh cracked and oozed blood that boiled away into steam.

Mara’s belly clenched with nausea. She sagged back, caught by Hokanu, who shared her tortured horror. Even the battle-hardened Keyoke looked ill to his very core.

There came no screams from the field. The victims stood arrested as puppets as their eyes burst and empty sockets seeped. Their tongues became thick purple obscenities protruding from mouths that could not emit even a single strangled cry. Hair smoked and fingernails melted, yet the soldiers lived, their jerks and quivers clearly visible to the stunned observers upon the distant hilltops.

Saric choked back a gasp. ‘Gods, gods, they are surely punished enough.’

The magician first appointed to Mara’s tent turned toward the adviser. ‘They are only punished enough when
we
decide to allow them their crossing to Turakamu.’

‘As you will, Great One!’ Saric immediately prostrated himself, his face pressed to the dirt like a slave’s. ‘Your forgiveness, Great One. I regret my outburst, and apologise for speaking out of turn.’

The magician deigned no reply, but stood in cold silence as the Petcha warriors continued to suffer on the field. Burned flesh peeled from their bodies, to fall smoking to the ground. The men at last began to topple, first one, then another, until all two hundred warriors lay
tumbled, blackened skeletons, on untouched grass, still clad in gleaming armor. The orange-and-blue Petcha banner lay before them, the tassels fluttering in wind that carried barely a signature of smoke.

The young magician at length stood apart from his fellows and addressed the Lady Mara. ‘Our rule is absolute, Good Servant. Let your people remember. Any who defy us invite instant oblivion. Is that understood?’

Mara fought back her sickness, croaked a whisper. ‘Your will, Great One.’

Another magician separated himself from the group. ‘I am not yet satisfied.’ He regarded Mara’s officers, all on their feet except for Saric. They might appear uncowed, as Tsurani propriety demanded, yet not one did not tremble with terror. This brave front seemed to increase the Black Robe’s displeasure. ‘Who defied us?’ he inquired of his colleagues, ignoring Mara.

‘Young Lord Petcha,’ came the reply, cold, and to the point. A third voice arose from the Black Robes, this one more temperate. ‘He acted upon his own, without his Warchief’s permission or approval.’

The second magician, a sharp-eyed man with a shock of red hair that escaped the edges of his hood, shifted his regard to Mara. ‘His dishonor does not end here.’

The magician who seemed to mediate called out again. ‘Tapek, I said Lady Mara had nothing to do with the defiance.’

Tapek returned a shrug, as if irritated by a fly. ‘As Lord Petcha’s Warchief, she is responsible for the conduct of all forces under her command.’

Mara lifted her chin. Her mind stilled with a horror of recognition: these Black Robes might order her dead, with no more concern than they had showed for Tasaio of the Minwanabi, whose suicide had resulted from their bidding. Her officers looked arrested with terror. Keyoke showed
nothing beyond a hardness around his eyes that no one living had ever seen.

Hokanu made an involuntary jerk forward, but was stopped by Lujan’s rock-hard grip upon his arm.

The onlookers, to a man, held their breath. Should the Black Robes order her destruction, no sword, no plea, no power of love might prevent them. The loyalty of thousands of servants and soldiers who would gladly give their lives in her place would avail her nothing.

While the red-haired Tapek studied the Lady with a snake’s heartless regard, the young magician said, ‘Is Lord Petcha still alive?’

Lujan reacted instantly, dispatching a runner to the field. Minutes passed. Tapek shifted in impatience, while out at the scene of the carnage the messenger conferred. A flag was brought to signal. It dipped and waved, in code, while Lujan interpreted. ‘All who attacked are dead.’ He dared raise his eyes to the Great Ones as he concluded, ‘Lord Petcha was leading his men. His body is ashes and bones, with the rest.’

The first magician nodded curtly. ‘The obliteration of the offender is ample punishment.’

The third magician from the group affirmed, ‘So be it.’

Mara felt faint with relief, until Tapek stepped sharply toward her. Deep in the shadow under his hood, his heavy eyebrows drew up in displeasure. His eyes were pale, cold as the depths of the sea, and menace edged his tone as he said, ‘Mara of the Acoma, the House of Petcha is no more. You shall see that all of that line are dead before nightfall. The estate house and barracks will be burned, and the fields fired. When the crops are destroyed, Acoma servants shall salt the earth, that nothing shall grow on the land. All soldiers sworn to the Petcha natami are to be hung. You will leave
their remains to rot in the wind, and never offer them haven as you have other warriors of conquered houses. All Petcha free servants are now slaves, given over to the service of the Emperor. All Petcha holdings now belong to the temples. The Petcha natami is to be broken by hammers and the fragments buried, never to know the sun’s warmth, never more to secure Petcha spirits to the Wheel of Life. From this night unto eternity, that house no longer exists. Let the ending signify this: no one may defy the will of the Assembly. No one.’