Servant of the Empire (43 page)

One of the fallen was his personal battle servant. Aware the man no longer ran behind his shoulder, Tasaio cursed yet again. He would have to train another, and that was wasteful, since many candidates usually died before he found one with reflexes quick enough to suit him. Here was another personal score to be settled, another reason Mara must be made to bleed and suffer. Absorbed in his hatred, Tasaio raced across the hardpan without once looking back. And so he did not know, until he reached the safety of the half company he had rashly and prematurely dismissed, that he and his strike force had been routed by a handful of cho-ja and soldiers, who had duped him into the belief he was surrounded. In fact they had carried nothing better than some spare helms mounted on poles, and loose bits of armour dragged on cords through the sand to create plentiful noise and much dust.

The Strike Leader laboriously pointed this out, and though his face was woebegone, and not in the least bit mocking, Tasaio whirled on him in a fury.

‘Silence that man,’ he called to his Patrol Leader. ‘Cut his throat, and take his plumes. You are this moment promoted to his position.’

The Patrol Leader bowed to his superior. No hint of distress showed on his face as he drew his sword to carry out his superior’s orders.

Tasaio glared at the ridge where Mara and her honour guard must lie hidden, mightily enjoying his defeat. The fact that he had Xacatecas surrounded and all but at his mercy did not ease his disgrace. Tasaio did not turn a hair as his Strike Leader was cut down behind him. As if the man did not gurgle out his last breaths on the sand, the cousin of Desio turned his resources to salvaging what he could of the afternoon, by ordering renewed assault upon Lord Chipino and the isolated half company of the Acoma the Lady had sent out as sacrifice. If he could not get at Mara, at least he could ensure that her honour perished with her ally.

And yet, as the sun passed its zenith and descended through the layered dust toward the horizon, Lord Chipino’s warriors held without breaking. Many of them lay dead, but the survivors did not lose heart. Tasaio’s mood worsened when an exhausted runner brought word that the warriors behind the west ridge had been attacked and decimated by Acoma. The east ridge perhaps held its own; no messenger arrived to say for sure. Tasaio sent scouts to check, but none returned.

‘Damn the Lady’s cho-ja,’ the messenger ended. ‘Without them, her victory would not have been possible.’

‘Explain what you mean,’ Tasaio demanded irritably. But a short time later he saw with his own eyes, as a company of Acoma warriors rushed from the valley, between knolls, to come to Xacatecas’ defence. They arrived with impossible speed, mounted on the backs of their cho-ja allies. When they reached the fringes of battle, they dismounted, assembled ranks, and charged with a vengeance upon his troops.

Tasaio’s warriors had been fighting all day in the relentless sun of the hardpan. They had sweated out their freshness and had no edge to bring to bear against this new and unexpected threat. In contrast, the soldiers of Lord Xacatecas took new heart from their rescuers and pressed
back with freshened hope. The Minwanabi could not hold them, and once again Tasaio found himself calling the order for retreat.

He spoke between clenched teeth, pale to the point of nausea with mortification. His plot in Dustari was in ruins, an unmitigated failure; and all because he had been outmanoeuvred on the field, a thing that had never happened on Kelewan, nor in the Warlord’s campaign against the Midkemians.

The taste of defeat was new and all too potently bitter. Tasaio oversaw the withdrawal of his army, what remained of it; his stomach churned with the realization that he had destroyed his chances to retaliate. He could not remain in the desert to mount a second assault. The desert men he had sent forth as bait would not forgive his betrayal. The tribes would now be set against him, their chiefs perhaps angry enough to swear blood debt. Though Tasaio looked with scorn upon tribal custom and was not in the least afraid of any retaliation the desert men could call down upon his house, he could not discount their retaliations. All the way to Banganok and the ships that would return him to the mainland, he must endure petty raids as the desert men sought to settle blood score against his company.

That night, sitting tentless and tired in camp between a fold of dunes to the east, Tasaio brooded in solitude. He would take no sa wine to blunt the aches left from battle. He shut out the voices of his soldiers, raised in bitter complaint, as they wrapped their wounds and sharpened the chips from their swords. Above all, he would not look to the west, where the afterglow of sunset was displaced by the glimmer of Acoma and Xacatecas victory fires. Soon enough, he promised, those fires would be as ashes. Soon enough would Mara come to regret this brief victory, for next time he matched wits against her, Acoma defeat would be utter and final.

In the command tent of the Lord of the Xacatecas, surrounded by the soft light of lamps and by hushed conversation between a healer and a favoured wounded soldier, Mara made the bow that was proper from a Ruling Lady to a social superior. Although hers had been the triumph in the day’s rout, she had chosen not to press the acknowledgment of her laurels. She did not wait haughtily in her own tent and insist that the Lord of the indebted house come to her; wisely, subtly, she did not force her new-won position upon a Lord who could potentially cause the Acoma more harm than help were his pride unduly ruffled. Neither did she attempt to ingratiate herself, but passed off her presence as a social visit of little consequence.

‘My Lord Chipino,’ she opened, smiling slightly as she arose, ‘you expressed an interest in my honour guard, and specifically the soldier who betrayed such remarkable cowardice, that Desio’s much praised cousin, Tasaio, was set off his guard.’

Lord Chipino waved away the servant who applied a hot compress to the sore muscles of his back and neck. Glistening with massage oils, and smelling of sweet ointments, he gestured to a waiting slave boy, who slipped a light robe over his body. ‘Yes.’ Chipino fixed bland eyes on a tall figure in the shadows behind Mara, and said, ‘Come forward.’

Kevin stepped forth, dressed in his Midkemian trousers and a loose-sleeved shirt, gathered at the waist with a Tsurani belt of overlapping shell disks. His blue eyes were laughing as he stopped, hands on hips, to suffer Lord Chipino’s scrutiny.

The Lord of the Xacatecas’ eyes widened at the sight of the barbarian slave, whom he had observed often enough in Mara’s tent. And yet, having been told by the Acoma Force Commander that the day’s tactics had been Kevin’s, and that all of them lived and breathed as a result of barbarian
logic, he looked more carefully at the man from beyond the rift. Politely he cleared his throat. Since his culture had no protocol for addressing a slave who had been heroic, he settled with inclining his head. ‘Fetch the lad a cushion,’ he told his slave boy.

One was plucked from the master’s own sleeping alcove. Nonplussed, the Lord bade the barbarian sit. Then, satisfied in his paternal way that the fellow was comfortable, Lord Chipino opened what he held to be a most sensitive topic. ‘You are a slave, and so you were able to run from the enemy in cowardice, since your Lady ordered you to do so, yes?’

To Chipino’s startlement, Kevin laughed. ‘Being a slave has nothing to do with it,’ he said, in his booming Kingdom voice. ‘Just to see the look of surprise on Commander Tasaio’s face was satisfaction enough.’

Lord Chipino frowned, then covered his puzzlement by sipping at the tesh that waited on the tray by his elbow. ‘Yet you were an officer in the army in your own land, or so your mistress tells me. Did you not feel shamed to show cowardice?’

Kevin’s eyebrows slanted up. ‘Shamed? Either we tricked the enemy, or we died. I hold shame to be a pittance beside the permanent state of being dead.’

‘His people esteem life far more than we do,’ Mara interjected. ‘They do not acknowledge the Wheel of Life, nor do they comprehend divine truth. They do not understand that they will return in their next incarnation based upon the honour they acquire in this present state.’

Here Kevin snorted. ‘You people have tradition, but no sense of evolving style. You don’t appreciate jokes as do the folk in the Kingdom of the Isles.’

‘Ah,’ Lord Chipino broke in, the puzzlement on his leathery features relenting as if all was explained. ‘You fled from Tasaio and experienced no shame because you perceive the action as a jest.’

Kevin buried an amused irritation behind tolerance. ‘You could simplify the issue that way, perhaps, yes.’ He tilted his head to one side, raked back red bangs, and added, ‘The worst thing about the assignment was that I could barely keep from laughing outright. Good thing the straps of Lujan’s spare armour were too tight, or I would have exploded in spite of my best efforts.’

Chipino stroked his chin. ‘A joke,’ he concluded, though underneath he was obviously mystified afresh. ‘You Midkemians are wondrously strange in your thinking.’ He shifted his glance to Mara and smoothly ascertained that his servants had anticipated her needs and brought chocha as she liked it. A man who lived by subtleties, he had trained his staff to observe his guests, learn their needs, and respond in their duties of hospitality without spoken orders from him. The practice had rewards. It was amazing how soft an opponent could become when he was personally catered to with as little fuss as though he sat in his own hall. Mara was not here as an enemy, but Lord Chipino recognized his debt to her and was anxious to negotiate a favourable settlement. He chose his moment, broaching the subject after Mara was settled with refreshment, but quickly enough that she had little space for deep thinking.

‘Lady Mara, your soldiers and the brilliance of your war tactics today spared House Xacatecas from yet more tragic losses. We are in your debt for the occasion, and are prepared to offer fair and honourable reward.’

The Lady was young; she was gifted, but she still had much hardening to undergo before she became practised in the Great Game. She proved so now, for she blushed. ‘My Lord, the Acoma soldiers achieved only what was proper between allies. Little reward is required, beyond a formal swearing of alliance with witnesses upon our return to the mainland.’

She paused, dropped her eyes, and seemed more than ever
the young girl. A slight frown creased her forehead, as she thought upon the matter and realized that she must ask something more of House Xacatecas, lest she leave a social superior with an implied debt of obligation. To leave such business unfinished was an unwise move that could strain further amicable relations. ‘Lord Chipino,’ she added formally, as if the matter were an embarrassment to her, ‘for the actions of the Acoma on behalf of your house, I ask one boon: that, at a time of my choosing, you grant me your vote in the Imperial Council to be cast as I wish. Will this be acceptable?’

Lord Chipino inclined his head, well pleased. The request was a pittance, and the girl was cautious beyond her years, to keep her asking modest. He murmured a command, and his runner hurried to fetch his scribe, to set the matter officially under seal. To Mara’s most appropriate response he added one thing more. ‘Let a suit of fine armour be made for the barbarian slave, in Acoma colours, that he may serve his Lady in comfort the next time she requires to bait her traps with an honour guardsman.’ Kevin smiled in appreciation of the dry Tsurani humour: he would never be permitted to wear this armour, but he would have it as a trophy of sorts. Then, the matter disposed of in lasting satisfaction of the debt, Chipino clapped for servants to bring food. ‘You shall dine here,’ he said, and he waved to indicate the barbarian slave was to be included. ‘Together we shall drink fine spirits, to celebrate the defeat of our enemies.’

Mara woke to the touch of a hand shaking her shoulder briskly. She rolled over. Dark hair caught in her lashes, and she sighed, still deep in sleep.

‘Lady, you must wake up,’ Kevin said in her ear.

The bedding seemed much too warm and comfortable. Reluctantly Mara stirred. Though weary still from the battle
the previous day, and no little bit discomforted by the sa wine consumed with Lord Chipino to celebrate the victory, she forced her heavy eyes to open. ‘What is it.?’

Dawn greyed the sky beyond the tent flap, left open to catch the night breezes. In the sandy dunes of the low country, the temperature did not fall after sundown, as happened in the mountains. Mara blinked and rolled closer to Kevin’s warmth. ‘It’s too early,’ she protested, and began provocatively to tickle him.

‘Lady,’ the tall barbarian scolded gently. ‘Lujan is waiting with a message.’

‘What?’ Now fully wakened, Mara sat up. Loose hair spilled like ribbons over her shoulders as she clapped sharply for a servant to bring a robe. Across the command tent, seen as a shadow against the lamplit antechamber, Lujan stalked the breadth of the carpet in long strides, his officer’s helm crooked in his elbow. Quickly the Lady of the Acoma shoved her hands into waiting sleeves. She rose, leaving Kevin fumbling for his trousers, and hurried through the fringed partition between the rooms.

‘What’s amiss?’ she said in response to Lujan’s agitation.

The Acoma Strike Leader completed a swift bow. ‘Lady. Come quickly. I think the best thing would be for you to see for yourself.’

Made tolerant by curiosity, Mara followed her officer, pausing only to slip on the sandals brought to her by a servant as she stepped into the thin light of dawn.

Her eyes adjusted to the gloom, and she halted very quickly, colliding with Kevin, who hurried less gracefully after her. Involved with fastening his buttons, and still barefoot, he had not seen her stop.