The Complete Empire Trilogy (101 page)

A scout reported to the head of the column.

Mara pushed impatiently at the gauze hanging that separated her from the officers who marched beside her. ‘What news, Lujan?’

Her Force Commander flashed a smile, his teeth vividly white in his desert-tanned face. ‘Mistress, a reception!’

Mara smiled. Only now could she admit to anyone, most of all herself, just how desperately she had longed for home. The fanfares that had greeted her and Lord Xacatecas in Ilama and Jamar had been flattering, but even celebrations that heaped her with honours had proven taxing. Close to
three years had passed since the orders to send her garrison in defence of the borders; too long a time in the life of a young son for a mother to be absent. Nights in Kevin’s arms and the rigours of battle by day were only a distraction from her ache to see Ayaki.

The returning army crested the hill, the tramp of three thousand feet in the damp soil of the road a dull thunder in the morning quiet. Mara breathed in the scents of rich foliage and akasi, then went wide-eyed with wonder.

At the junction of the Imperial way and the road to the Acoma estate rose the ornate, towering arch of a magnificent prayer gate. New paint and enamelled roof tiles sparkled in sunlight and in the gate’s deep shadow, a hundred Acoma soldiers stood in ceremonial armour. Before their rows of shining shields were other well-loved figures – Keyoke, correct as his warriors but wearing the embroidered badge of an Adviser; Jican dwarfed by the hadonra’s staff of office; Nacoya, her bothered expression buried in smiles – and a pace ahead of her, a boy.

Mara’s breath caught. She fought a rush of tears, determined not to succumb to unseemly display. But the moment she had longed for, that at times had seemed elusive as a dream, overwhelmed her resolve. Kevin acted the role of body servant to perfection, lifting aside the hanging and offering his free hand to Mara. His steadiness allowed her to recover decorum as she stepped onto her native soil at last.

She had to wait, as befitted her rank, for the party by the gate to approach her. The delay was torture, and her eyes drank in details. Keyoke had mastered his crutch. He moved with barely a hitch in stride despite his missing leg, and Mara exulted in her pride for him. Nacoya had not aged so smoothly, but had acquired a slight limp. Mara smothered an impulse to rush and offer an arm; the First Adviser would never forgive such a breech of manners over something as trivial as an aching hip. Lastly, in tingling apprehension,
Mara dared a look at the boy who strode resolutely toward her, head held high, back straight, and chin outward. He was so tall and rangy!

Mara’s throat tightened as she took in his child’s armour, the miniature sword at his side, the helm he lifted from ink black hair with the bearing of a perfect little Acoma warrior. Her child had grown nearly twice the size she remembered on her departure.

With rehearsed dignity, Ayaki completed the bow of son to mother. He spoke out, his child’s treble carrying solemnly over the ranks of still warriors. ‘I bid welcome to the Lady of the Acoma. We are a hundred rimes blessed by the good gods for her safe return to our home.’

Mara’s resistance crumbled. She knelt before her son and suddenly the boy’s arms were around her neck, hugging fiercely enough to crumple her fine silks. ‘I missed you, mummy,’ the boy quavered into her hair.

Moisture trembled in Mara’s eyes as she answered, though somehow she kept her voice firm. ‘I have missed you, my little soldier. More than you can ever know.’

Standing with pursed lips to one side, Nacoya allowed mother and son a moment of public indiscretion before pointedly clearing her throat. ‘The entire House of Acoma waits to welcome our mistress. So gladdened were our hearts at news of your triumph, that this prayer gate was erected to honour your victory. We trust it pleases you, Lady.’

Mara raised her face from Ayaki and examined the brilliant panels of the prayer gate, each one carved and painted with the icons of the felicitous gods. Chochocan, the Good God, seemed to smile directly upon her, while Hantukama, the Bringer of Blessed Health, spread his hands in benediction toward her army. Juran the Just beamed down from the crest of the crossbar, as if in blessing of those about to pass through. Lashima the Wise seemed to gaze
with affection at one who almost had been committed to her service. The artisans had done superlative work, and the figures seemed charged with divine wisdom; but the allure of the images quickly palled. Mara took in the familiar faces of servants and soldiers, advisers and friends, then glanced back to Kevin, who returned his barbaric wide smile. Lost in a daze of happiness, she answered her waiting First Adviser. ‘Yes, Nacoya, I am pleased.’ She gave the son at her side another squeeze and added, ‘Let us return to the house of my ancestors.’

Despite the fatigue from a long journey home, Mara’s spirits soared as the night fell. The grounds of her family estate were decked out in grand celebration, coloured lanterns hanging from the trees in all the gardens, and bright bunting festooning the rails of the central entrance. Candles flickered in courtyards, porticoes, and halls. Strings of tiny bells, strung from every doorway and screen, chimed sweet melodies in thanks for the gods’ blessings with each person’s passage. Hired musicians from Sulan-Qu added their melodies to those played by performers under Acoma patronage, and song rang gaily across the grounds. Everyone, free workers, guests, and advisers, danced to celebrate Acoma triumph. Maids and serving girls laughed as they waited upon victorious soldiers, who regaled them with tales of the campaign against the desert men. In time-honoured Tsurani fashion, the warriors were modest about their own achievements, but lavished accolades upon one another; to a man they praised the daring tactics that had reversed a bitter defeat into a brilliant victory. What their Lady had done in the Game of the Council she had accomplished on the battlefield: make innovation her ally.

From his place at the mistress’s shoulder, Kevin smiled indulgently at her beaming expression. Ayaki perched like a miniature soldier at his mother’s right hand, determined to
stay the course until the festivities ended, but battling drooping eyelids. He had been appointed ‘defender of the House’ in the army’s absence, and though the real military orders came from Keyoke, the boy revealed a singleminded devotion that astonished his elders. Unfailingly he had turned out to oversee every change of patrol. Ayaki was much like his father in that regard; no matter what else might be recalled of Lord Buntokapi, none spoke ill of his sense of duty or bravery. But the excitement bested the boy, finally. His chin slowly lowered until he dozed against his mother’s side.

Presuming to speak without being addressed, Kevin whispered, ‘Should I carry the boy to bed?’

Mara stroked her son’s soft cheek and shook her head. ‘Let him stay.’ Then, as if her own happiness made her sensitive to the needs of others, she said discreetly, ‘Go say your greetings to your countrymen. You need not return until later.’

Kevin smothered a smile as he stepped through sumptuous piles of cushions and made his bow. The long journey from Dustari had permitted little privacy for Mara to consort with her body slave. Unlike the huge command tent on the field, with its many rooms, and the comings and goings of servants a matter beneath notice, the trader’s galley which had borne them back across the Sea of Blood and up the River Gagajin had been too cramped to allow intimacy. As much as Kevin longed to visit his fellows, he ached for the moment he could return to Mara’s side.

He might have won his mistress’s lasting love, but Tsurani culture would never change; Kevin slipped from his Lady’s hall with the briskness of a man dispatched on an errand. Once outside the main house, he crossed the lighted grounds at a jog. His favour as Mara’s lover would avail him nothing should Jican find him ‘lazing about’, with work to be done.

Kevin kept to the shadows, an easier task as he drew away
from the kitchens and barracks; fewer lights burned in the servants’ compound, and the slaves’ quarters beyond were almost dark.

The music of the victory festivities seemed distant, too faint to make out a melody. Kevin stumbled over ruts in the packed earth until his eyes adjusted to the night. Left only a coppery half moon for guidance, he passed the outermost buildings and entered the cluster of board-walled shacks beyond. There were no trappings of gaiety here. Kevin felt his chest tighten as he noticed: the slave quarters might wear fresh whitewash for the celebration, but they were still only bare little huts. Seated on the ground before the doorways, clusters of ragged, dirty men shared the contents of several ceramic kettles. They ate their portion of the banquet given in Mara’s honour with their hands, wolfing down each bit as if it might be their last meal.

One man noticed Kevin’s approach and whispered, and instantly conversation broke off. All eyes turned from the food pots. Then someone commented in Midkemian that a body as tall as Kevin’s could never be a Tsurani overseer; yet another voice shouted through a hut’s open doorway.

‘I’ll be damned! They haven’t hanged you yet?’ A laugh followed, and a bulky figure in a patched grey robe rushed outside to meet him.

Kevin returned the laugh and hugged the broad-shouldered man, playfully rubbing his bald head. ‘Patrick! They haven’t hanged you, either, I see.’

Patrick gave a wide grin. ‘Not hardly, old son. I’m the only one who can keep this murderous crew in line.’ Voice lowered to a whisper, he added, ‘Or at least that’s what we convinced the runts.’

Stiffly, Kevin broke off the embrace. For three years he had lived with only ‘runts’ and the derogatory term shocked the recognition that his view of the Tsurani had changed. Now, confronted by the gaunt faces of his countrymen, he
could not escape the fact that his perspective was unique. Familiar features had changed, become suntanned and hard despite the smiles that welcomed the discovery that their liege lord’s son still survived. Kevin surveyed the ragged gathering, his joy dampened further as he took stock of who was absent. ‘Brandon and William of LaMut, where are they?’ As if more men might be hidden within the dim doorways, Kevin cast about. ‘Marcus, Stephen, and Henry. The two Tims? Brian, Donell, and Jon: where are they, Patrick?’

‘Things changed since you left, old son.’ Patrick expostulated with a tired sigh. ‘This Jican’s a fiend for cutting expenses, so the favours you arranged from her Ladyship vanished. We’re treated the same as any other slaves now.’

‘But where are the rest of us?’ Kevin demanded in concern.

A mutter ran through the men, while thin-lipped, Patrick answered. ‘Brian’s stomach turned sour and he died in a week. The runts let him lay there and wouldn’t call any doctors for a slave. Donell was killed by a needra bull, during breeding last spring. Marcus died from the fever the wet season after you left. Some sort of snake – called “relli” by the runts – bit Tim Masonsson and the guards killed him without batting an eye. They claimed they spared him a slow death.’

‘That at least was a kindness,’ Kevin cut in. ‘Relli poison kills very slowly and painfully, and nobody knows of a remedy.’

Unconvinced, Patrick laid his arm around his countryman’s shoulder; he smelled of dirt, and needra, and unwashed sweat, but Kevin noticed little beyond his whispered words. ‘Some of these runts understand bits of the King’s tongue, we suspect. Jon was sent elsewhere to work with wood; somehow they discovered he was a carpenter. We’ve not seen him for a year. Samuel of Toren
lost his temper and struck a runt, and him they hanged within minutes.’ Glancing nervously across the compound, Patrick dared one last line. ‘But Tim Bloget and the others have escaped.’

Kevin forgot himself. He jerked back, eyes wide, and said, ‘Escaped!’

Patrick caught Kevin by the wrist and pulled him strongly away from the huts, past the perimeter hedge and over to the bank of a small brook. Jumpy, tense, and looking often over his shoulder, he continued in a low murmur. ‘There are camps of bandits in the foothills to the west. The runts name them “grey warriors”. We overheard some soldiers speaking of them after the army left. William of LaMut escaped and then snuck back telling us it was true. Brandon, Tim Bloget, and Stephen went with him and we’ve got a few messages back and forth.’

The streamlet chuckled quietly over its bed of stones; the music could not be heard at all here, only the scraping of night insects. Kevin sat down, his hands gripped tightly to his forearms. ‘Escape,’ he muttered.

Patrick chose a worn rock, sat also, and absently pulled a grass stalk. ‘Security’s tighter now. That Keyoke’s no fool. Once the overseers figured out the boys had cut and run, he changed the patrols and doubled the guards who escort us to work.’ Patrick sucked his grass stem, found it bitter, and spat. ‘Leaving would be tougher, now the runts have puzzled out what took place. Before, they never imagined a slave might want to escape.’ He chuckled in bitter irony. ‘Odd lot. Lived here five years and I’ve still got no clue how they think.’

Kevin shrugged. ‘I understand them better now.’

A snap to his words, Patrick said, ‘Well you should. You’re the educated one, Kevin, being a noble and all. I’d have taken the other boys into the hills by now, but I thought it wiser to leave that to you. We need your
leadership. Because one chance is very likely all we’re going to get, and –’

‘Wait!’ Kevin kicked a clod with a splash into the stream. ‘Escape to where?’

‘Why, to the mountains.’ Patrick peered closely at his companion, but the gloom hid details of expression. ‘These grey warriors want nothing to do with us, but they will trade a bit. They’re not about to hunt us down. So, I figured we’d wait for our moment, then bolt and make our own camp in the high country.’