Mistress of the Empire (52 page)

Four days later, the guide deemed it safe to travel more openly. He accepted coin from Mara, and dared descend into a narrow, smoke-filled vale to buy supplies from a village market. The imperial centis were suspect, but they had value, and the country folk in their simple needs did not care to question the origin of the currency or those who spent it. Mara suspected she was not the first Tsurani the guide had brought this way. Smuggling between the Empire and Thuril was risky, but highly profitable. It seemed a reasonable vocation for a man of mixed heritage who could pass in both cultures.

The herdsman returned with two hide bags of provisions, jerked meat, and a cloak of hill weave to replace the one Lujan had damaged in the campfire. The burdens came back into camp lashed to the back of a small grey beast, horselike in shape, but with long ears, and a tail like a paintbrush.

‘Donkey,’ the herdsman guide replied, in answer to Mara’s curious question. His burred accent accepted the word awkwardly, but Mara recognised its origin as Midkemian. The presence of an animal that could only have come from the other side of the rift, through the Empire, made it clear smuggling was a major trade of this region. ‘Less ornery than querdidra, Lady, and sturdy enough for you to ride.’

At this Mara raised her eyebrows. ‘Me? Ride that? But it’s barely as big as a newborn needra calf!’

‘Walk, then,’ the herdsman said, in less than respectful tones. ‘But the shale in the heights could twist your ankles, and your warriors would quickly tire if they had to carry you.’ For Kamlio he had bought boots with stout soles, laced up the front, and topped with fur. Mara eyed the ugly footwear with distaste, and the donkey with trepidation. Then, with a sigh, she surrendered. ‘I’ll ride,’ she said. ‘Show Lujan how to help me mount.’

The herdsman bobbed another of his fast bows that Mara swore were his way of hiding amusement.

‘Don’t feel apprehensive.’ Lujan teased as he arrived at her elbow to help her astride. ‘Think how I felt on that day in the desert when I had to mount a cho-ja. They’re slipperier, for one thing, and I was panicked I would fall off and land on my own sword.’

‘That was Kevin’s idea, not mine,’ Mara said in her own defense, then steeled herself as her Force Commander lifted her strongly and set her down like a feather in the dyed leather hill saddle strapped to the beast’s back.

The animal was small, Mara tried to reassure herself, and the ground no more than a cloth yard away. If she fell, the worst she could get would be bruises, small price to pay if she could find protection from the Black Robes in these strange, barren hills. And in fact, the gait of the donkey was not so hard, it being short of stride and its feet marvelously sure as it plodded along.

Mara found her perch upon the creature’s back less than comfortable, but she hid her soreness with Tsurani implacability as her party wound ever higher into the forbidding hills. In the afternoon, when she dismounted and the beast was led off to water, she confided to Lujan that had she known what sort of creatures donkeys were, she would never have permitted their importation. ‘Small horse indeed,’ she had snorted as she settled stiffly on the ground to share a meal of hard bread and sour cheese.

Lujan only grinned. ‘They are most reliable, I am told. Already the man who sells them across the borders in Honshoni is seeking another herd, for they far outshine the querdidra as beasts of burden.’

With this Mara was forced to agree, despite her aching posterior. She had endured the company of the foul-smelling, evil-tempered querdidra as she had traversed the mountains of Tsubar on campaign against the raiders
of the desert. But as the donkey raised its stringy tail to dump manure, she kept her opinion silent. If it was a superior creature to the temperamental, six-legged native pack beast, it certainly was no cleaner in its habits.

Suddenly the herdsman who was their guide spun around, his crust of bread forgotten in his hand. Facing the wind, his eyes narrowed, he scanned the bleak, scrub-covered hills as if he could read their rock and vegetation like a scroll page. ‘We are being watched,’ he said in a low voice to Lujan. ‘I suspected as much since we left that village.’

The Force Commander pointedly kept chewing his food. As if there were no immediate peril, he asked, ‘Should we arm ourselves?’

The herdsman faced around in shock. ‘Not if you wish to live. No. Keep on. Act as if nothing were wrong. And if anyone approaches, make no threatening move, no matter what is said or done to provoke you. Ensure no hothead among your men speaks or draws his sword.’

Lujan gave back an even smile that only Mara could read as a false show of humor. ‘Have some cheese,’ he invited the herdsman.

But no one had any stomach for eating, and within a short time the company regrouped and started to move on. They had gone barely a dozen paces when a shout rent the air. A man with black braids and a great, billowing cloak of the same dull green-grey as the soil leaped directly above the lead guard onto a large rock that overlooked the narrow trail.

Lujan held up his hand as Mara’s guards tensed. But none of his warriors forgot their orders not to draw weapons, despite their surprise. The Thuril highlander had appeared as if from nowhere. Dressed in his native kilt and double cross-belts hung with two swords and several knives, he called out, ‘Why do you invade the land of Thuril, Tsurani?’ His thick accent made his demand
nearly unintelligible, and his tone was unmistakably belligerent.

Mara kicked the little donkey, to overcome its reluctance to move forward again. Before it could stride out, the little herdsman sprang to its bridle to restrain it. He replied to the challenge, prompted by the custom of the land. ‘I am Iayapa, warrior,’ he said in the Thuril tongue. ‘I speak for the Lady of the Acoma, who has come on a mission of peace.’

The man leaped down from the rock, his cloak billowing and his kilt flipping up to bare an expanse of muscled thigh. The cross-garters of his sandals were tasseled below the knee, and his weapon harness chinked with stone talismans. Up close, it could be seen that his head was shaved, save for a round patch at the crown, where his braids had been allowed to grow since childhood. They tumbled as long as his waist as he landed, their ends also tied with talismans.

Into his mistress’s ear, Lujan said softly, ‘He is not dressed for war, Lady.’

Mara nodded. She had read that the Thuril shed their clothing when fighting, going nude but for their battle harness, feathered helms, shields, and weapons, for they took pride that their manhood was not shriveled by fear and ensured their enemies knew this.

The man swaggered toward Mara, who was now slightly ahead of the others, as the donkey sidled nervously. Mara sawed at the reins, frantically and silently reminding herself to act as if nothing were wrong.

The highlander said something in his coarse dialect and grabbed the donkey’s bridle. He breathed into its nose, and for some strange reason the creature quieted. The man then rattled his knuckles through his talismans, and stepped around the donkey’s head. Coming face to face with Mara, he leaned forward until his nose missed touching hers by a hair’s width.

Iayapa called, ‘Good Servant, make no move. He tests your mettle.’

Mara held her breath and forced herself not to close her eyes. Peripherally, she was aware of her uneasy men, their hands itching to draw weapons; and of Kamlio, who had forgotten her distaste for men and had crowded close to the nearest warrior in fear. But the Acoma discipline held. Her warriors kept still, and when Mara refused to lower her gaze or pull away, the highlander released a great, garlic-scented breath and withdrew. He grunted, allowing that her courage was sufficient. ‘Who speaks for you, woman?’

Before Iayapa could stop her, Mara spoke. ‘I lead here.’

The man bared white, even teeth in an expression that was no smile. Browned by strong sun, his face wrinkled in contempt. ‘You have sand, woman! I’ll allow you that, but lead these men? You are female.’ To Lujan, who was nearest, the highlander rephrased his question. ‘You! I do not answer a woman’s tongue, and I would know: what brings you to come with warriors into our lands? Do you seek war?’ This last seemed to be a joke, for he burst out in raucous laughter.

Mara waved Lujan to silence, and as though the brawny man did not stand at her donkey’s shoulder, addressed her herdsman guide. ‘This highlander seems amused. Does he think our presence funny, or does he intend slight to our honor?’

But whether he followed his own advice, or was simply cowed to silence, Iayapa said nothing.

Mara frowned, forced to rely upon her own judgment. By Tsurani accounts, the Thuril were bloodthirsty warriors, quick to attack, savage in fighting. But the opinions of an invading army were suspect, Mara felt. The only other Thuril she had observed had been captives sent into the arena. These men had proven themselves to be assertive, independent and courageous. They had suffered beating
by Tsurani overseers rather than fight as a spectacle for their captors’ amusement.

Mara addressed the man again. ‘I seek your chieftain.’

Much as if an insect had spoken aloud, the highlander looked surprised, ‘You seek our chieftain?’ He stroked his chin as if thinking. ‘What cause have you to disturb him? He already has a woman to warm his nights!’

Mara bridled, but held back her temper in time. She gestured to stay Lujan, who was poised to rush forward to answer the insult. Mara forced herself to calm study of this brash highlander. In truth, he appeared young, barely more than twenty-five years of age. By Tsurani custom, he was just old enough to inherit. And like those of a boy given first responsibility, perhaps his manners were all swagger, to make himself seem important in a larger world. ‘I do not speak to boys. Take me to your chieftain now, or I will ask that you be punished for your rudeness when I seek him out myself.’

The man stepped away, in a mock show of intimidation. ‘My Lady! But of course.’

He spun on his heel in a swirl of cloak and kilt, and set two fingers to his lips. His whistle pierced the air, causing Mara’s warriors to start.

‘Draw no swords,’ she commanded in a low voice to Lujan.

Her Force Commander gave a hard look to his men, willing them to hold fast, even as, in a scrabble of rocks and gravel, more than a score of men sprang into view around their position. All were heavily armed, from bows, spears, and swords to bristling rows of throwing knives; not a few of the fiercest and largest carried double-headed axes. Mara’s small guard was outnumbered three to one, and if it came to a fight, the trail where they stood would become a slaughter ground.

Prepared for death, Lujan murmured, ‘They may not
have been looking for trouble, but they are ready should it find them.’

The highlander on the trail glanced to his circle of supporters. He grinned wickedly. ‘You heard the female! She thinks to command our chieftain to have me beaten for rudeness!’ Rough laughter greeted this statement, punctuated by the hiss of swords being drawn.

Mara swallowed hard. Aware that she must either fight or stand down, before her men were killed out of hand and she and Kamlio were taken for gods only knew what fate, she forced her dry tongue to shape speech. ‘I said we came on a mission of peace! To prove this, my men will disarm.’

At Lujan’s incredulous glance, she added, ‘Do so!’

Obedient to a man, her Tsurani guard loosened their sword belts. The clatter of weapon sheaths striking hard stone seemed pathetically swallowed by the wide expanse of sky.

The young warrior’s grin became predatory. He reached up, jerked off the hide tie that secured his braid, and snapped it taut between his hands. ‘Bind them,’ he rapped out. He looked at Lujan as he added, ‘You are Tsurani! Enemies of my people. We shall see whom my chief shall order beaten!’

Mara closed her eyes as the ring of the Thuril rushed in upon her defenseless party, but she did not react soon enough to miss the lecherous looks the nearer men shot toward Kamlio. Her ears still heard their comments, in a strange language, but derisive in tone. Gods protect us, she thought, what fate have I commanded for my people? For by every tenet of honor, and every belief of the religion she was born to, she should have seen all her warriors dead to a man, and herself killed, before she consented to surrender.

‘You did right, great Lady,’ Iayapa said urgently. But as rough hands dragged Mara from her perch on the donkey, and greasy leather thongs creased her wrists, she was not
reassured. More than Acoma shame was at stake here, she reminded herself as her warriors endured in silence as they, too, were trussed hand and foot. Honor, pride, even peace, would mean nothing if the Assembly was not challenged in its omnipotence.

But as she and her people were pushed and prodded and jeered at like slaves, she was not sure she would not rather be dead.

Mara fell.

The highlander who had shoved her into the line of march laughed as she landed on her knees on rough stones. He caught her arm, jerked her painfully back to her feet, and pushed her ahead again. She stumbled into Saric, who stood firm to support her, his horrified outrage barely kept under control.

‘My mistress should at least be permitted to ride on the donkey,’ he protested, knowing by his Lady’s grim expression that she would not speak out of pride. He bit off each word as if it were a curse.

‘Be silent, Tsurani dog! The beast will be put to better use!’ The highlander who appeared to be in charge beckoned and gave instructions to an underling.

Mara held her chin high, trying not to look at Lujan’s bleeding face. He had refused to raise his wrists to be bound, and although he had not fought, it had taken coarse handling to force his hands behind his back to lash them. His eyes were dark with rage as he saw to what ‘better use’ their small beast of burden would be put: Kamlio had caught the fancy of these barbarous Thuril. Her beauty was considered a prize, and it was she, not Mara, who was to ride.

When Saric again dared to protest, he was struck in the face and shouted at in broken Tsurani. ‘The dark-haired woman is nearer the end of her childbearing years. She is of little value.’

Mara endured this additional shame, her cheeks burning. But as her kilted captors organised her party for the march,
she ached inside with uncertainty. She had no clue what these Thuril might do with her and her men. But after what she knew of Tsurani treatment of highlander captives, she expected her fate would hardly be pleasant.

The Thuril hurried their prisoners upward into the highlands. Mara slipped and stumbled on the slick shale and splashed through knee-deep becks that tumbled out of the heights. Her wet sandal straps stretched, and her soles wore to blisters. She bit her lip, holding back tears of discomfort. If she flagged, one of the highlanders would shove her on with an elbow, or the flat of his sword or ax. Her back bore unaccustomed bruises. Was this misery what Kevin and others of his countrymen might have felt while being driven in coffles to the Tsurani slave market? Mara had thought she understood when she had decided that slavery was a wrong against humanity. Now she gained firsthand insight into the suffering and the fear such unfortunate folk must feel, subject to the whim of others. And while her plight was perilous, she was still a free woman and would be again, if she survived, but what must it be to know that there is never a hope of escape? Kevin’s deeply personal anger on the subject no longer mystified her.

Kamlio sat on the donkey. The former courtesan’s face was pale but her expression was impassive, a proper Tsurani’s. But as the girl glanced her way more than once, Mara saw terror and concern behind her mask. Something in Kamlio had begun to awaken if she felt concern for the mistress who tripped and pressed forward on foot by the donkey’s tail.

The lowland hills became craggy as the day wore on, and the Thuril pressed their captives ever higher into the plateau country. Through the discomforts of sweat and exhaustion, Mara reminded herself of the higher purposes that had caused her unconditional surrender. But moral abstractions seemed to take on less importance as thirst dried her throat
and her legs began to tremble with the exertion of a forced march. Again she tried to stiffen flagging resolve: she must discover the secret behind what the cho-ja and the lesser magician had named ‘the forbidden.’ A puzzle lay before her in this hostile land, all the more maddening in that the solution lay outside Tsurani experience. Mara had no hint of what to expect when and if she should gain the ear of someone in authority. She did not even know the Thuril language, far less what questions to ask. How arrogant she had been when she had boarded the
Coalteca
in the belief that she might journey to these alien shores and, through talk and force of personality, make a sufficient impression to be heard in courtesy by her people’s enemies! Born to power, never in her life deprived of the privileges of her rank, Mara perceived how foolish her presumptions had been. As exalted Servant of the Empire, revered by her people, she had never once considered that foreigners might act differently. The lessons she had learned from Kevin of Zun should have warned of the differences between peoples. Would the gods ever forgive her stupidity?

Fear preyed increasingly on her mind as her captors drove her without rest through a high pass in the hills. The donkey plodded ahead, oblivious to human concerns and content to be what the gods had made it, a beast of burden. No less a burden do I carry, thought Mara, tripping again and feeling the wrench in her tied wrists as she fought to keep her balance. Lost in miserable thought, she did not note Saric’s and Lujan’s tortured looks of worry. The fate of more than her family rested upon her strength. Captivity taught her a painful lesson: no man or woman should live at the whim of another. But that was the only way to describe the wretched lives of Tsurani common folk. Their fate, and that of the lowest slaves, depended upon her as much as the fate of nobles. But reform in Tsuranuanni could not be begun, until the Assembly’s omnipotence was broken.

Bitter possibilities surfaced to harry Mara’s brave resolve: that Kasuma might be her last child, that separation from Hokanu might last for the rest of her life, that she must leave unsettled his reluctance to name a daughter as his heir. Kevin’s contrary nature had well taught her that loving a man did not guarantee peace with him; no time in her life had been more sorrowful for her, and few more regretted, than the moment the imperial decree had forced her to send the barbarian away. She feared that Hokanu might lose her in as abrupt a manner, leaving unsaid all that meant the most between them. Mara swallowed, fighting despair. If she could not reason with these Thuril, if they traded or sold her into bondage, then if Hokanu was to have a son, another woman must bear his child for him. That thought caused worse pain than any physical discomfort. Mara fought tears.

Only belatedly did Mara realise that their march had slowed. Her captors paused in a vale between hills purpled with the shadows of late afternoon. Down the slopes ran a company of younger Thuril warriors. In a swirl of cloaks they brandished weapons and laughed boisterously. A jubilant rendezvous engulfed the party who shepherded the smaller band of prisoners. The newcomers viewed Kamlio with raised brows and hoots of appreciation. They fingered Mara’s plain robe, loudly talking, until the Lady grew annoyed at being stared at.

‘What do they say?’ she demanded sharply of Iayapa, who stood with his head hanging. He shrank still further at Mara’s imperious address.

‘Lady,’ admitted the herdsman, ‘these are rough men.’ Derisive shouts arose at his deferential manner, and someone said in gruff and broken Tsurani, ‘We should call that one Answers-to-Women, eh?’

Whoops and laughter arose, nearly drowning Mara’s furious inquiries and Iayapa’s desperate appeal: ‘Lady, do
not ask me to translate.’ Behind her, one of the young men was gripping his crotch and rolling his eyes as if in pleasure. His companions found the remarks he uttered hilarious, for they clapped each other’s shoulders and chuckled.

Iayapa said over their din, ‘You would be offended, great Lady.’

‘Tell me!’ Mara demanded as Saric and Lujan shuffled closer and took their accustomed positions at her sides to shield her from the taunts of the foreigners.

‘Lady, I mean no disrespect.’ Had his hands been free, Iayapa would have prostrated himself. Bound helpless, he could only look strained. ‘You order me. The first one, the fellow with the green cloak, he asked our guide if he had taken you yet.’

Mara said nothing, but nodded.

Iayapa sweated, despite the cool highland air. ‘The one who guides us says he is waiting for us to reach the village, for you are bony and he needs many cushions and furs.’ Almost blushing, he blurted the rest. ‘The third one who grabbed himself says that a man has answered to you. That might mean you are a witch. Does the one who guides us not take a risk, should he attempt to touch you, that you might rip off his … manhood and feed it to him. The others think this is very funny indeed.’

Mara wrenched in annoyance at the thongs that tied her wrists. How could she answer such lewdness with dignity, bound as she was like livestock? She considered for a moment, glancing at Lujan and Saric. Both men looked fit to murder, but they were as helpless as she. Yet nothing under heaven would cause her to endure such abuse from strangers without even token resistance! Left only her tongue, Mara raised the most scathing shout she could muster. These crude barbarians might not understand Tsurani, but by Turakamu, they could comprehend her intent by her tone.

‘You!’ she snapped out, jerking her head in the direction of the highlander leader who had taken them. ‘What is your name!’

The crag-nosed man at the head of the troop stiffened, and, almost before thought, turned toward her. The younger man beside him left off clutching his crotch and stared at his elder in astonishment. He said something, to which his leader made a gesture of incomprehension. Instead, he addressed Iayapa in his own language, and the others laughed.

Mara did not wait for translation. ‘This swaggering fool with no more brains than the beast who carries my serving girl now claims he cannot understand me.’ Her consonants sharpened with malice. ‘Even after he exchanged words in Tsurani down the trail from here?’

Several of the highlanders turned at this, some revealing surprise. So! Mara thought. There are others who can speak our tongue, albeit badly. She must make the most of this.

Mara played along with the embarrassed highlander’s charade and addressed Iayapa alone. ‘Tell this buffoon, who forgets words as well as his mother forgot the name of his father, exactly what I say.’ Mara paused, then added into shocked silence, ‘Tell him he is a rude little boy. When we reach his village I shall ask that his chieftain beat him for inexcusable manners toward a guest. Inform him further that should I seek company for my bed, it would be with a man, not a child still longing for his mother’s shriveled breast, and more, that should he touch me, I will laugh when his manhood fails to rise. He is as ignorant as a needra, and smells worse. He is uglier than my most disreputable dog and worth less – for my dog can hunt and has less vermin. Tell him his very existence brings shame upon his already honorless ancestors.’

Suddenly inexplicably gleeful, Iayapa translated. Before he had finished the first sentence, the eyes of every Thuril
warrior fixed upon the Lady of the Acoma. By the time the translation of her tirade was completed, their stony stillness frightened her. Her heart banged in her chest. They might easily kill her. Any Tsurani Lord so addressed by a captive would have had her strung up by her neck and kicking. But fate could hardly hold worse than to be dragged into slavery, Mara felt. Whether or not these men would hang her in total dishonor, she showed them nothing but the face of haughty contempt.

Then the mood broke. All but the target of Mara’s insults exploded into knee-slapping peals of mirth. ‘The shrew has a tongue for words, did you hear?’ someone cried to the insulted man in accented Tsurani. This confirmed that he spoke the language well enough to realise what had been said of him before Iayapa’s translation. Several of his companions were laughing so hard they had to sit down, lest their knees buckle. The warrior Mara had berated studied her, then, as color rose into his cheeks, he nodded once.

Lujan pressed closer to Mara’s side as another of the Thuril warriors shouted, waving his bow at Mara in salutation. Made aware by the man’s grin that she was not going to be summarily executed, Mara said, ‘What did he say?’

Iayapa shrugged. ‘That you know how to insult like a man. It is something of an art among the Thuril, mistress. As I learned well at my mother’s knee, they can be a most irritating people.’

In time the pandemonium subsided. The younger troop banded together and took their leave to resume duty, some still chuckling as they took the outbound trail. Mara’s captors, including their red-faced leader, hustled their Tsurani charges around the next bend toward home. Late sunlight slashed across a meadow. Beyond the open ground lay a wooden walled town of steeply peaked roofs.
Curls of smoke rose from stone chimneys, and the spears of sentries could be seen on the wall walks. The town’s position guarded another trail that wound into the hills.

The highlander warriors quickened the pace, in a hurry to bring in their captive prizes.

‘Strange,’ murmured Saric, his indefatigable curiosity still evident despite the rigor of their march and the uncertain fate awaiting him. Unlike any Tsurani, these Thuril seemed indifferent to chatter between their prisoners. ‘While this grass offers good grazing for livestock, it is not eaten short, but only cut across by the paths of the flocks and herders.’

At this comment, the Thuril leader glanced over his shoulder, his lip half curled in contempt. In blatant contradiction of his earlier claim of ignorance of the Tsurani tongue, he said in a mangled accent, ‘You should be glad to have an escort through this meadow, Tsurani dog. Without us to show you which path to tread, you would be lost. For this ground is still trapped from the last visit your kind made to our hills!’

Lujan answered thoughtfully, ‘You mean your folk still maintain fortifications from the last war?’

‘But the fighting ceased more than a decade ago,’ Saric objected. Lujan confided softly to his cousin, ‘Long memories.’ Behind his insouciant tones lay foreboding. That the Thuril kept their village guarded with lethal deadfalls after so much time revealed a resentment that would complicate any overtures toward negotiation; as soldier, Lujan had heard the tales told by veterans of the ill-conceived invasion into Thuril. A man was better dead than taken prisoner, to be turned over alive to the vengeful treatment of highlander women.