Mistress of the Empire (75 page)

He said, ‘No more guile. Your mistress has, if not allies, then sympathetic ears in the Assembly, but even they will stand aside before open defiance. What cause has Mara to count upon cho-ja aid?’

Lujan shed any attempt at subterfuge. With this Black Robe, further ploys would earn short shrift. Still, afraid to reveal too much, he selected his words with extreme care. ‘She has long been friends with the cho-ja Queen upon her natal estates. She has over the years bought favors from the hive, many of them in the cause of Acoma defense.’

Akani frowned, his expression the more terrifying for the fact it was understated. ‘The cho-ja beyond the borders of her estates willingly take up her cause?’

Lujan raised spread palms to the sky in the traditional Tsurani shrug. ‘That I cannot say, Great One. Only the
Lady herself knows what bargains may or may not have been struck.’

Akani’s gaze turned piercing, seeming to turn the Force Commander’s thoughts inside out and expose them to blinding light. Chills chased across Lujan’s flesh, and he trembled. And then the sensation passed.

‘You speak the truth,’ Akani allowed. ‘But be warned, the Assembly will get to the bottom of this issue. It sadly may prove that we might have to part company in our cause, Acoma Force Commander.’ With a nod that could have conferred respect, Akani activated his transportation device and departed in a blast of disturbed air.

Lujan reached out and caught the edge of the sand table to keep from folding at the knees. Mara, he thought in despair; what would become of her? For while Jiro’s army would by the grace of the Assembly be forbidden to advance to Kentosani, the true foe was awakened. While Lujan had seen his Lady achieve the impossible before, and while he had boundless faith in her genius for improvising the unpredictable, even a Servant of the Empire could not long defy the Assembly and survive.

The litter was heavy.

Eight bearers were needed to carry its weight of fine hardwoods, inlaid with corcara shell and bossed with rare studs of iron. If the costly silk hangings, heavily embroidered and fitted with fringes and tassels, were designed to dazzle any onlooker, the admission of light and air was forfeit to splendor. Since dawn had brightened enough to allow reading, Lord Jiro of the Anasati had commanded his servants to pull back the curtains and bundle them under leather ties.

The effect might not have been as elegant as when the drapes were lowered, but Jiro was unconcerned. There was no one of importance to notice.

The forest road that led southeast toward Kentosani held no caravans or other nobles. Save for an occasional bonded messenger, it was empty of all but refugees, common folk fleeing the cities; food was scarce, and families in the poorest quarters were first to starve. These were ragged people, covered with sores, clothed in tatters. They cradled wailing infants or towed older children who stumbled and tripped, weak from malnutrition. Beloved grandparents were borne upon the backs of younger men. The countryside offered a slim chance of game to be caught or nuts and berries to be foraged.

Jiro paid such wretched folk no heed: their poverty was as the gods willed. The soldiers in his vanguard cleared the way for his retinue to pass, and except for the crying of the children, through the dust, they seemed little more than groveling shadows.

While his bearers sweated under the strain of forced march, the Anasati Lord sat at ease on piled cushions, with layer upon layer of scrolls lying opened across his knees. The heap was caught back from spilling over his ankles by the braced pommel of his sword, pinched between his armor-clad knees.

Long and lean as a hunting hound, First Adviser Chumaka kept pace at the litter’s side. As toughened as any warrior, he seemed unfazed by exertion as he answered his master’s questions, which were few and infrequent, and widely divergent in subject from the lengthy, tedious treatises on imperial law expounded in the scrolls.

‘I don’t trust the Shinzawai,’ Jiro snapped, seemingly without provocation. ‘His brother Kasumi spent years fighting on the barbarian world, as part of the Blue Wheel plot to undermine the Warlord, and the honorless, crafty ways of the Midkemians have also influenced Hokanu.’

Chumaka bent an intent gaze upon his master and said nothing for a comfortless interval. And as if the man held power to read thoughts, Jiro knew: his First Adviser understood he was remembering Tasaio of the Minwanabi, a brilliant field general whose army had been humbled by Mara’s through an unanticipated tactic brought about by advice from a Midkemian slave. That House Minwanabi no longer existed did not bear mention. Nervous fears needed no fanning for their spark to blossom into flame. Just short of reprimand, Chumaka said, ‘My Lord, all that the hands and the minds of men may achieve has been done to ensure your success. Now fate, luck, and the will of the gods must have their way. You will sit on the golden throne, or not, as they allow.’

Jiro leaned against his cushions, shifting in discomfort at the bite of his armor. Not a vain man, he well understood the power of appearance. As specific in his dress as any artist, he would have preferred a light silk robe in Anasati
red with gaganjan flowers embroidered at the cuffs. But since Ichindar’s assassination, no noble dared to travel the public roads unarmed. It further irked Jiro that Chumaka was right; just how right, the Lord was unwilling to repeat. He had heard every report; he had presided over council meetings. He knew what they told of the enemy’s movements.

And the news held good.

Hokanu of the Shinzawai was still at least two days’ march north of Kentosani, while the Lord of the Anasati’s cortege would be through the grand gates by late afternoon, most certainly by sundown. Over and over, Jiro listed the reassurances to himself: he would reach the Holy City uncontested by Mara’s allies; when the Shinzawai arrived, they would be exhausted; the magicians had been given insult by the Acoma when Mara’s forces engaged the Anasati army to the south. The magicians had their full attention turned toward Mara, and were ignoring the Lord of the Anasati, who gave every semblance of perfect obedience to their commands.

Jiro’s hands tightened over the book scrolls in his lap. Startled by a crackle of dry leaves, he cursed, annoyed that any distraction should cause him to mishandle old records. With frowning concentration, he straightened the crumple from aged, ink-faded hide; while yet again Chumaka seemed to interpret his private thoughts.

‘You interpreted the message brought in by pigeon last evening,’ the First Adviser assured in what seemed casual comment. Jiro saw better. The man’s shrewd eyes were locked on the road ahead, as if he could read past the dust kicked up by the feet of the advance company of the Anasati honor guard. The First Adviser might seem absorbed by the march, but in shrewd choice of words, he added, ‘Mara’s Force Commander initiated an unprovoked attack. By now the Assembly will have acted. Think on that.’

Jiro’s lips twitched, just missing a smile. His imagination supplied detailed images of Mara roasted by magic. But every contemplated torment that might befall his enemy brought him no comfort. He wished to see the corpse of the woman who had spurned him spitted on steel; he longed to have the skulls of her children, ones she had deigned to have other men sire, broken like eggshells at his feet. He could tread on their brains, and be sure of his triumph. And yet: the luck of a Servant of the Empire was legendary, more than superstition. Mara’s title bestowed a divine blessing no man might easily dismiss. More than once Jiro had presumed her days over, only to see her somehow triumph.

The worm of uneasiness continued to gnaw at him. All unnoticed, his hands clenched again over parchment. Brittle skin cracked, and bits of rare gilt flaked away and stuck to his sweating palms.

‘You will not feel secure until you sit on the golden throne,’ Chumaka summed up crisply. ‘When the priests of the Twenty Greater Gods all bow at your feet and endorse your right of succession, when the masses hail you in prostration as their Light of Heaven, then your nerves will cease clamoring.’

Jiro heard, but could not help but scan the road ahead to the Holy City. Inwardly he repeated the logic that insisted he had an open path between himself and final victory. The Assembly would not hinder him, once Mara was dead. Indeed, they must endorse his cause, if only to avert the chaos and anarchy that had ravaged the peace of the Nations since Lojawa assassinated Ichindar. That Jiro had been behind that act no one suspected; the plot had been engineered covertly, over years of careful planning. Culpability could not be traced beyond the Omechan, and not even torture might wring out the truth. With the Warlordship promised to their line, they would be ill served to reveal the conspiracy. Jiro shifted thought. It did
not unduly grieve him that the army bequeathed to him with the Anasati mantle must of necessity destroy itself to hold Mara’s warriors in place and turn the Assembly’s wrath against her. Their death would be honor, as it would serve to raise their Lord above all others in the Empire. Their spirits would be welcomed to the Red God’s halls in triumph as Jiro’s enemies were forced to acknowledge him supreme.

The Lord of the Anasati closed his eyes, suffused with anticipation. First to prostrate himself before the imperial seat would be Hoppara of the Xacatecas. That upstart puppy had tagged after Mara’s skirts since the first, and his meddling mother had done nothing! For all her much vaunted appreciation of male ways, Isashani had never encouraged her firstborn to strike off on his own, as a man should. Because of the dowager Lady and her lap-hugging son, more than one plot to shame the Acoma had gone astray! Jiro sweated, remembering how many times Hoppara had stiffened the spine of old Frasai of the Tonmargu to the point where he had supported the interests of the late Emperor over those of his own Ionani Clan brothers!

Jiro’s temper heated as he reviewed the list of slights. To him, forgiveness was weakness. He was not a man to forget where his plans had been crossed.

A frown marred his forehead as he considered which enemy he would humble next. If the magicians were magnanimous in their punishment of Mara’s disobedience, Hokanu might also survive to kiss the floor before the dais of the golden throne.

Jiro stifled a chuckle. The unquestioned sovereignty Mara’s supporters had labored to give Ichindar would fall to him, an Anasati, as legacy! He would wield such omnipotence well, oh yes; he would reinstate the High Council, and the Warlordship, and then preside over all,
including the temples, in unprecedented primacy. His powers would be godlike, and there would be no woman born within the Empire who would not prostrate herself before his glory. He could fill his bed with whatever maiden he wished, and none would refuse his favors! That Mara of the Acoma once had spurned him would forever more cease to matter, for her line would be as dust. He, Jiro, ninety-two times Emperor, would be remembered as the man who had seen a Servant of the Empire shamed and brought down. His deed would stand as a memorial in the eyes of the gods: unprecedented, the perfect coup in the Game of the Council, for no Lord could dare a greater enemy than one beloved by the masses.

Someone shouted from the woods. Snapped out of reverie, Jiro straightened. Parchments and scroll cases cascaded around his feet. He forgot to pay heed, fixed as he was on the movement that erupted among his soldiers. ‘What passes?’ he demanded in clipped tones, only to discover that Chumaka was no longer at the litter’s side.

The man had an inconvenient independence about him. Jiro fumed as he spotted his First Adviser’s greying head bent close to the plumed helm of Force Commander Omelo.

Jiro’s annoyance lapsed as he read concern in the officer’s expression. ‘What passes?’ he demanded more loudly.

Omelo straightened into the bearing expected of a commander of armies. He strode to the litter, with Chumaka tagging bright-eyed at his heels. ‘One of our scouts found his partner, who had been detailed to investigate our flank.’

Jiro’s frown redoubled. ‘The man was shirking duty?’

Omelo’s face shifted not a hairsbreadth. ‘No, Lord. The contrary. He was dead. Killed.’ Concise with bad news, he finished, ‘An arrow, in the back.’

All but in breach of protocol, Chumaka broke in. ‘Had he been standing, or running?’

Omelo half spun, eyes narrowed. Always a stickler for protocol, he turned back to his master, and replied as if it had been Jiro who had addressed him. ‘My Lord, our man was shot down while running. The scout read the tracks.’ He gave a brisk salute, fist over heart, and a bow. ‘With my Lord’s leave? We would be advised to array our warriors into a tighter formation. Whatever news our slain scout wished to convey back to you, someone did murder to silence him. And the arrow had an unmarked shaft.’

‘Bandits? Or some ally of the Acoma? You think there’s danger?’ Jiro fired back, then remembered himself. Delay of any sort might prove fatal; regaining his dignity, he waved his Force Commander to resume his duty and rounded on his First Adviser. Chumaka’s face was never what one expected. Now he showed reflective interest, as if he were confronted by some delightful twist in a puzzle.

‘You don’t seem worried,’ Jiro observed, sarcastically dry.

‘Fools worry.’ Chumaka gave a shrug. ‘The wise man strives for awareness. What will happen will happen, and worry will not serve, but anticipation might provide survival.’

Through the bustle as his warriors closed ranks, Jiro studied the road. No refugees littered the verges. That in itself cried warning, since, like birds, they were timid creatures who were apt to fly from trouble. The way ahead stretched empty, sunlit under drifting scarves of dust. By contrast, impenetrable shadow beneath the trees seemed like night. Forward, past a gentle curve, the road dipped, then crossed a glen where light and shade spread in dappled patches. Insects zipped through, flecked by light, but nothing warm-blooded made a sound. Jiro hushed his tone in nervousness. ‘I see nothing to beware of.’

But still, some nameless uneasiness drove him to finger
his sword hilt. Despite his smooth words, Chumaka also seemed tense.

Only a fool would not worry, Jiro avowed silently. He wrestled to hold back impatience. The stakes he bid to win were enormous, the highest in history. He could not expect to take the imperial seat unopposed. He loosened a damp hand from his weapon and tugged to loosen the thong around his neck that fastened a document bag beneath his armor. On the parchment, in concise words of state, were all the official points of law that must be included in his contract of marriage to Jehilia.

He stroked the leather like a talisman. There would be no mistakes made, no details omitted, once the gates of Kentosani were passed. No page had been left unread in the libraries; Chumaka and Jiro between them had perused every legal record on every dynasty that existed, and only the imperial chop, affixed by Ichindar’s First Wife, Tamara, remained to be secured to seal into record Jiro’s fitness as royal suitor. Ascension to the throne would perforce follow. No court litigator or house First Adviser, no legal mind in the Empire, could dispute the Anasati claim in the face of those documents. There might be other nobles with claims as good as Jiro’s, but none better – once Justin of the Acoma lay dead – and none of those would dare challenge the Anasati right.

A shout caused Jiro to look toward the woodline. His hand whitened on his sword. Did something move, just beyond his vision? Jiro kicked his feet free of the book scrolls, striving to peer into the gloom of the deep forest. A faint thunder carried on the still air. The warriors shifted, crouched in their already strained state of readiness.