Servant of the Empire (85 page)

‘Always.’ Mara knotted her sash, ending any hopes of an interlude on her sleeping mat. Unaware that her lover entertained the idea of intimacy, she added, ‘The Emperor may have suspended the council, but the game always goes on.’

Except that it was no game at all, Kevin concluded inwardly. Not when armies entered the picture. Despite his recent decision not to become entangled in politics, he could not help but wonder what course his Lady considered this time.

Shadows painted the Imperial Palace in shades of rose, orange, and deep charcoal blue as the first sun of morning breasted the horizon. The city along the riverfront and in the poorer sections was already awake and busy, but the halls of the powerful rang only with the footfalls of servants and one patrol of warriors armoured in Acoma green.

On this, the day Mara had appointed for the meeting of Clan Hadama, she wished to be first into the Council Hall. The proceedings she had in mind must not go amiss, or her demands upon the clan would do nothing but gain her more enemies.

Lujan and a hand-picked escort of twenty men escorted Mara to the inner circle of the council, but at the point where they would normally be asked to stand and wait, the Lady of the Acoma continued to walk. After a brief hesitation, Lujan signalled to his warriors to maintain ranks. They followed their mistress down to the lower level of the chamber, and if they were startled that the Lady passed by her usual chair, they showed no sign.

In his pose as her body slave, Kevin raised one eyebrow, then chuckled to himself as he guessed his Lady’s intention. Mara crossed the open floor on the lowest level, then mounted the raised dais reserved for the Warlord during council sessions, or for the Clan Warchief during gatherings.

By now the upper dome was golden with new sunlight. Mara sat upon the elaborate ivory-inlaid throne and composed herself. Kevin stood close behind, ready to answer her needs, and as if her action had required neither
courage nor audacity, her warriors arrayed themselves in a semicircle behind her position.

Kevin regarded the ranks of vacant seats from his place on the central dais. As the hall was empty but for Acoma soldiers, he spoke freely. ‘Some folks are going to have their bowels in an uproar before this day is done, Lady.’

But Mara had already assumed the air of superiority that accompanied the throne where she sat; she said nothing. She waited in her formal pose for close to three hours, until the arrival of the least-ranked members of Clan Hadama.

The Lord of the Jinguai was first to step into the Council Hall, his guard in yellow and red armour trimmed black at his back. By then the sun had risen high enough that slanting shafts lapped over the central dais. Anyone who entered could not miss the Lady on the throne, in her sparkling jewels and flowing ceremonial robes. The old man gave one surprised glance and precipitately halted. He hesitated, then smiled in genuine amusement and proceeded to his place near the back of the hall.

Kevin whispered, ‘Well, there’s one who’s ready to watch the show.’

Mara moved her decorative fan in a manner that meant he should keep his thoughts to himself. Her face remained impassive as alabaster beneath layers of thyza-powder makeup; all her nerves and excitement were invisibly pent inside.

Within the hour, another five Lords arrived. Most simply moved to their allotted place after one look in Mara’s direction. Two others conferred briefly, exchanged subdued gestures, then went on to their chairs. Noon brought in a delegation of a half-dozen Lords, with them one who numbered among the most powerful of families in Clan Hadama. Upon crossing the upper threshold, this Lord signalled to the rest, and as one body, the group came to the centre of the hall. By now the sun shone down upon the gold
and ivory throne, lighting Mara like the statue of a goddess in a temple niche. Before the Warchief’s chair, the Lords paused. Rather than take seats, they clustered together, muttering among themselves.

At length one who wore deep blue moved to address the motionless woman on the throne. ‘My Lady of the Acoma –’

Mara interrupted him. ‘You have something to say to me, my Lord of the Poltapara?’

The man seemed about to bridle; like a bird in full plumage in his finery, he puffed out his chest, then measured the Lady on the dais. Her gaze did not waver, and the soldiers at her back stayed statue-still. Yet in the culture of Tsuranuanni, such brazen lack of reaction became an emphatic statement. The Lord cleared his throat. ‘Are you well, Lady?’

Mara smiled at his polite capitulation. ‘I am, indeed, my Lord. Are you well?’

The man in blue acquiesced, then nonchalantly returned to conversation with his fellows. Kevin spoke sotto voce, ‘One down.’

‘No,’ Mara corrected, hiding relief behind a flutter of her fan. ‘Six down. The Lord who greeted me ranks above the others, two of whom are his vassals. The other three are sworn allies, and since they are still speaking to one another, all will defer to his choice.’

The victory was telling, for as more Lords entered, they saw that one of the more powerful families had accepted Mara’s position ahead of them. Plainly unwilling to challenge her popularity, they gave her greeting and assumed their places with varying degrees of enthusiasm.

Then the formerly acknowledged Warchief, Lord Benshai of the Chekowara, swept into the hall, his colourful robes billowing like sails around his voluminous body. Deep in conversation with one of his advisers, and entrenched in his
own self-importance, he was halfway down the stair to the lower floor before he noticed the figure who occupied his accustomed throne.

He stopped dead for the briefest moment, his eyes widening in his dark face. Then he gestured to his garrulous adviser to be silent and moved his bulk the remaining ten steps at surprising speed to confront the Lady of the Acoma.

Kevin restrained his comment, for Mara’s tactic was now plain. Despite the fact that early arrivals were for lesser-ranked rulers, anyone on the floor below who stood looking up at the person in the seat of primacy was set at a disadvantage.

‘Lady Mara –’ began the Lord of the Chekowara.

Mara cut him off. ‘I am well, my Lord. Are you well?’

Several lesser nobles in the clan smothered smiles. Mara’s answer to a question not asked lent the impression the Warchief of the clan had conceded her position as superior to his own.

The Lord Benshai spluttered and strove to recover. ‘That’s not what –’

Mara interrupted again. ‘That’s not what, my Lord? Forgive me, I assumed you were being mannerly.’

But a man accustomed to power could not long be put off by adept verbiage. In a tone of ringing authority, Lord Benshai called, ‘Lady, you sit upon my dais.’

The Lady of the Acoma returned her most penetrating gaze. In a voice of equal command, that none in the chamber could miss hearing, she pronounced, ‘I think not, my Lord!’

Lord Benshai of the Chekowara drew himself up to his full height. Ivory ornaments rattled at his wrists and neck as he bristled. ‘How dare you!’

‘Silence!’ Mara demanded, and the rest in the room obeyed.

Their compliance was not lost on Lord Benshai. He twisted his short neck and glared at the Lords who had
failed in their support of him. Pride alone kept his posture from wilting. Not just to the Lord of the Chekowara, but to all in the gathering, Mara announced, ‘The time has come for plain speaking, kinsmen.’

Now profound stillness fell over the vast hall. Terms relating to blood ties were rarely used in public, for Tsurani set great store upon relationships. Any claim of kinship, however vague, was considered both important and personal. Although all in the clan shared blood ties in the far distant past, the relationships had grown tenuous with time and were never stressed lest implications of debt or honour be implied.

As if the Lord of the Chekowara did not stand nonplussed at the foot of the dais, Mara continued to address the Lords in the galleries. ‘By fate’s ruling, you are members of a clan long considered steeped in honour’ – as many in the hall murmured agreement, Mara’s tone punched through – ‘but lacking power.’ Voices fell silent. ‘My father was considered among those most noble Lords in the Empire.’ Again several rulers in the hall concurred. ‘Yet when his daughter faced powerful enemies alone, not one kinsman sought to lend even token support.’

No one spoke as Mara surveyed the galleries.

‘I understand as well as any of you why this is so,’ she said. ‘Yet I also feel that political reasons are insufficient justification. After all,’ she qualified in bitter inflections, ‘conscience does not trouble us. Such is the Tsurani way, we tell ourselves. If a young girl is killed and an honourable family’s natami is turned downward in the dirt, who can argue it is not the will of the gods?’

Mara searched each face in the room, looking for adverse reaction. In the instant before the boldest rulers could raise their voice in protest, she cried, ‘I say it is not the gods’ will!’ Her words rang across the galleries, and the near to unseemly emotion that coloured them held every Lord in his chair.

‘I, Mara of the Acoma. I who forced the Lord of the Anasati to give quarter, and I who destroyed Jingu of the Minwanabi under his ancestral roof! I who have moulded the Acoma into the mightiest house in Clan Hadama! I say that we make our own destiny and seek out our own place upon the Wheel! Who here says not?’

A stir greeted this concept, and several Lords moved, as if made uncomfortable by what sounded like blasphemy. One ruler toward the rear called out, ‘Lady, you voice dangerous thoughts.’

‘We live in dangerous times,’ Mara shot back. ‘It is time for radical thinking.’

A general if reluctant agreement followed. Low-pitched grumbles deepened to a buzz of animated discussion, cut short by the Lord of the Chekowara, who barely contained his rage at being forgotten where he stood. He shouted across the general noise, ‘What do you propose, beyond usurping my office, Lady Mara?’

Jewels blazing in the sunlight that fell from the dome, Mara removed a document scroll from the depths of her sleeve. Now Kevin had to fight against his desire to express admiration at her timing. ‘Show them the carrot,’ he whispered to himself.

In the brightness of the light, the yellow-and-white ribbons that denoted a writ from the Keeper of the Imperial Seal could not be mistaken. Aware she had drawn every eye in the chamber, Mara regarded the gathering with imperious composure. ‘I have here, under official seal, an exclusive trading option granted to the Acoma.’

‘Trading option?’ ‘With whom?’ and ‘For what?’ came various queries from the galleries.

Only Lord Benshai seemed unimpressed. He stood like a mountain and glowered. ‘Did you hold a writ from the hand of the Light of Heaven himself, I would not bow to you, Lady.’

Lujan slapped a hand loudly on the grip of his sword, clear warning that no insult to his Lady would be tolerated. The Chekowara warriors bristled likewise, and aware of how real was the threat of bloodshed, Kevin sweated beneath his robes and longed for a knife to his hand.

Yet as though the tautness of her warriors were nothing more than posturing, Mara read the document aloud to the gathering. The chamber grew still as a tomb. ‘I hold the key to wealth, my Lords,’ she concluded. ‘I have exclusive rights to these goods, both import to and export from the world of Midkemia.’

A hush descended. Into a profound stillness Mara said, ‘You realize how the wholesale importation of any of these listed items, in particular those of metal, would affect your wealth?’

The silence in the Council Hall took on a strained quality. A few Lords conferred in whispers with advisers, while the ones in the highest-ranking seats slowly turned pale. The Lord of the Chekowara sent swift signal to his warriors to relax their battle-ready posture; better than any, he realized that Mara had him beaten. Had she tried force, or called upon political allies, her position might yet be in question. But as she had strength enough to equal if not best him, and, now, the certain power to undermine the finances of every family in the clan, not a Lord present would dare to support their former Warchief. A look of baffled fury on his dark face, Lord Benshai sought furiously for means to back down without disgrace.

Around him, his fellow rulers of the Hadama Clan seemed too self-absorbed by their own predicament to relish his defeat. One in the front balcony called out, ‘Lady, are you offering participation?’

Mara answered guardedly. ‘Perhaps. I may be willing to establish trading consortiums and allow others to participate – those of you who prove yourselves my kinsmen in deed as well as word.’

Many looked askance at this suggestion, and by the flurry of movement as the advisers present leaned over to whisper to their lords, the idea was not taken with enthusiasm. The Lord of the Chekowara saw his opening. In a voice well practised at persuasion, he said, ‘Mara, your proposition is well and good, but we have seen nothing to suggest trading with the barbarians is feasible, even should you hold exclusive rights from the Emperor. Besides,’ he added with a wave a father might use to reprimand a wayward girl, ‘these things change, don’t they?’

Mara heard Kevin murmur, ‘Now show them the stick.’

She had to struggle not to laugh. The Lord of the Chekowara exhibited a confidence that in another moment was going to make him seem regrettably pompous. Choosing her tone carefully, Mara said, ‘My Lord, understand this: when I leave this hall, I shall know those who number among my friends, and those who stand apart.’ She directed a meaningful glance around the hall and tempered her lines with restrained patience. ‘I have proven myself a dozen times over since becoming Ruling Lady.’