The Complete Empire Trilogy (102 page)

‘And do what?’ Exasperated, Kevin shook his head. Though Patrick had been born a commoner, they had been friends, hunting companions, and later soldiers together; while a loyal man and a staunch fighter, Patrick had little imagination. On campaign in Dustari, Kevin had been quartered among Mara’s soldiers often enough to learn that some had once been grey warriors. Their existence, as they told it, had been a misery of poverty and starvation.

‘Kevin, damn it, we’d be free!’ Patrick insisted, as if that settled things.

‘Free to do what?’ Kevin pried loose another bit of dirt. He tossed it hard into the water, and the splash startled nearby insects to silence. ‘Ambush patrols of Acoma soldiers? Cho-ja? To fight our way back to wherever the hell we came through that magical hole from our own world? Or, far more likely, we can die of fever or starvation.’

Patrick answered in anger. ‘We’re nothing here, Kevin! If we kill ourselves working, do we get thanks? A better meal? A day of rest? No, we get the same treatment as the animals. Damn it, man, today was the first we’ve not had to labour from dawn to sunset since you left. At least in the mountains we can lead our own lives.’

Kevin shrugged in resignation. ‘I don’t know. You’re a gifted enough hunter in the Grey Towers,’ he said in reference to the mountains near Zun. ‘But up there?’ He
sliced a hand at the dark. ‘So you snare some six-legged creature, do you even know if you can eat it? Half the damned things are poisonous. Not like the game at he me.’

‘We can learn!’ snapped Patrick. ’Would you rather work until you die of old age?’ A thought struck him. ‘Or is there another reason, old son? Maybe you’ve come to appreciate the runt way of looking at things?’

Surprisingly stung, Kevin stood up and spun away. ‘No, I …’ He sighed, shed his hurt, and tried again. ‘It’s different for me, Patrick. Very different.’

‘You won’t work as hard as us, for one thing.’ The inserts scraped loudly and long through a silence. Then Patrick rose also. ‘I see that much.’

Kevin whipped irritably around. ‘No, I don’t think you do.’ Aware he had reached a sort of watershed, he struggled for words to tell his friend what he had come to know and feel for Mara. His hands twisted in frustration. No matter what he said, Patrick would only see the Lady as his captor. A man of plain tastes and simple intellect could not appreciate her ingenious way of seeing things, or Kevin’s own delight when she laughed at his jokes when they were alone. Neither could he explain the magic, the fulfilment of his life as he lost himself in her.

Too tired to communicate the impossible, Kevin threw up his hands. ‘Look, we’ll talk about this again. I … can’t promise anything in a hurry. But we can always leave, and since Dustari, things are not quite so hidebound as before.’

‘In what way?’ Patrick snorted, unconvinced. ‘Are the overseers going to treat us like drinking pals now that you’ve come back with her ladyship?’

Kevin shook his head, the gesture mostly lost in the dimness under the trees. ‘No. But I think I’m making progress. Someday …’

‘Someday, we’ll be dead,’ Patrick said brutally. He gripped Kevin’s shoulders and all but shook him. ‘Don’t go
daft, man, over a little soft thigh. I know you’ve always been one to moon after this pretty face or that, thinking a ready sword meant you were in love. But Kevin, there are no lovely ladies for us to cuddle.’ In the murk Kevin could see Patrick nod toward the distant estate house. ‘While you enjoy your silks, we sleep in mud. When you dine with the mistress in the morning, we’re three hours in the field already, and when you take supper with her, we’re just coming back. You’re only spared our lot as long as you can keep your sword sharp, and the woman doesn’t get tired of you. She’ll choose herself another lover one day, and then you’ll come to know how we live.’

Kevin wanted to argue, but in gritty honesty, he knew Patrick spoke the truth. Mara might love her tall barbarian, but he must never fool himself: she would order his death without an instant’s hesitation if the honour of her house became compromised. Generous, innovative, even softhearted as Mara could be, she was equally capable of ruthlessness.

Kevin laid his hands over his friend’s taut wrists. ‘I’m not saying I’m against the idea of escape. Just I’m not convinced that living as outlaws, eating whatever we can steal, and sleeping on the run in the forest is one whit better than slavery. Give me time. Let me see what I can do about arranging better food and less work.’ He pulled away, torn by a conflict he had rashly never foreseen. ‘Don’t let the lads do anything stupid. I’ll use my influence with the mistress and find another way to recover our freedom.’

‘Don’t linger too long, old son. If you’ve come to like the runts, that’s your affair – I’ll never stop loving you like a brother.’ Patrick spun away from the stream bank, his voice suddenly cold. ‘But know this. I’d kill you if you try to keep us here. The lads have decided; we’d rather die free than live as slaves. We’ve figured the Tsurani out enough to know that if your Lady had failed down South, it would have been
every man for himself, demons take the hindmost. So, we waited for news. If the Lady was dead, we’d be off with no one to tell us stay. When we heard she had won … we agreed to wait for you to come back, you being our officer and most likely to get us out safe.’ He fixed his countryman with a hard gaze. When Kevin didn’t answer, Patrick added, ‘We won’t stay much longer. With you or without you, old son, we’ll go.’

Kevin sighed. ‘I understand. I won’t try to keep you. Just … give me a few days.’

‘A few days it is.’

Wrapped in uncomfortable quiet, the two men picked their way back to the slave huts. Kevin lingered to chat with the men he had known as soldiers in the field, and a few others he had met in the slave pens and coffles en route to Sulan-Qu. The captive Midkemians had formed a tight-knit friendship since coming to Mara’s estate; except he was a man marked apart. That had not been so apparent during the year he had worked on the needra fields; but now, the distance between Mara’s bed and a miserable life in the slave huts left an unbridgeable alienation.

Kevin listened to gossip, and commiseration over insect bites, hunger, and sores. He had little to contribute to such talk. The exhilaration of a triumphant homecoming faded, and he did not mention the marvels he had encountered in Dustari. Well before midnight, the slaves began to rise and seek their huts. They would be roused before dawn, celebration notwithstanding, and Tsurani overseers used the whip on any laggards. Kevin made excuses and departed. As he walked alone through the night, past sentries who nodded him greeting, and servants who made way to let him pass, each small privilege galled him. As he passed on into the lantern light, and laughter, and pretty serving maids who teased and called for him to dance, his discomfort sharpened to bitterness. For the first time since
his headlong plunge into love, he wondered how soon he would come to curse himself for a fool.

Incomo hurried into his Lord’s chamber. Desio sprawled before an open screen, his robe flapped open to allow the lakeshore breeze to cool him. Stacks of reports from his various holdings lay scattered at his feet, but he had taken a break from reading to hear a trio of poets recite ballads from the Empire’s history. Incomo heard enough to identify a stanza from the Deeds of the Twenty, a tale of ancient heroes revered for extraordinary service. Titled Servants of the Empire by some long past Light of Heaven, they were fondly recalled, although the scholars of present generations insisted they were legends.

Since Tasaio’s influence had bent Desio toward the martial tradition, the Lord’s tastes had shifted from pursuit of lascivious adventure to the glorified exploits of champions; his choice of activity may have changed, but his resentment of interruptions remained in force. The Minwanabi Lord glanced aside at his First Adviser’s abrupt entry and as if his scowl were a signal, the chorus trailed raggedly into silence. ‘What is it?’

Incomo bowed. ‘We have an unexpected visitor.’ Since the poets were travelling players, and not given patronage by the household, the First Adviser leaned close and whispered. ‘Jiro of the Anasati awaits at the far dock, asking permission to cross the lake.’

Desio blinked in surprise. ‘Jiro of the Anasati?’ At Incomo’s near reprimand, he prudently lowered his voice. ‘What possible reason could bring Tecuma’s brat here unannounced?’ Then, aware he inconvenienced himself by whispering for the sake of the hired entertainers, Desio waved the poets away. A servant would pay them; they had not been gifted enough to retain.

The First Adviser watched the doorway until the chamber
was private. ‘I have little to add. Jiro sends you greeting. He regrets the informality of his call and begs a few moments of your time. The messenger in from the river gate adds that the boy travels with a minimal honour guard, only twelve men.’

‘Twelve men!’ Desio’s annoyance evaporated. ‘I could take him at the docks. With Jiro to ransom, Lord Tecuma would …’ He broke off at his First Adviser’s stillness, then sighed. ‘No, the old man would not trade a younger son for his only grandson. Jiro isn’t quite stupid.’

‘Certainly so, my master.’ Incomo backed clear as Desio shoved to his feet, flung open the screen to the side hallway and shouted, ‘Send guards to escort our guest to the main house docks.’ The Lord clapped briskly for servants, and demanded dressers and formal robes, then a large tray of refreshments to be brought to the great hall.

Incomo heard the list of preparations through without comment. Early on, Desio had decided that even trivial entertaining must take place in the grand hall. The vast stone amphitheatre with its high, vaulted roof was resplendent enough to unsettle most guests. No other estate house in the Empire could match its construction; imitators had tried, but their efforts had lacked the natural site, ringed by stone crested hills, and situated on a lake shore that even in spring was not marshy. Easily the most splendid court this side of the Emperor’s palace, Desio believed that confronting anyone there lent the Minwanabi the advantage. Puffed by his own self-importance he said, ‘What would lure Jiro here?’

‘Honestly, my Lord, I suspect nothing and everything.’ Incomo ticked points on dry fingers. ‘Perhaps the Lord of the Anasati grows feeble. As heir, Halesko might send his younger brother as emissary to propose something.’

Servants knocked and entered, bearing folded silk and ropes of tasselled sashes, slippers, jewels, and pins. They bowed, shed their burdens, and helped their master strip off
his crumpled day robe. As the fabric was whisked aside, Incomo was struck that Desio’s sleekness now overlay heavy slabs of muscle. The boyhood fat of five years before had nearly vanished, along with the vacuous attitude. Slipping his arms into his knot-worked orange and black robe, Desio said. ‘I don’t know. Old Tecuma keeps his household on a short leash, especially his two sons. The last time I met Halesko at the games, he seemed just like his father. But Jiro is an unknown.’

The conversation lapsed as body servants applied combs to the master’s hair, and hung his pink ears with ornaments. As attention shifted to slippers, and the servants washed and towelled Desio’s feet, Incomo stole the moment to draw upon the detailed information that any good adviser kept current, concerning every important figure in the Empire.

‘Jiro is something of an enigma. Very bright, so don’t let anything he says mislead you into thinking him witless.’

Raising his other foot to be washed, Desio frowned; he would never be taken in by so transparent a ploy. Though he hated to be made to feel stupid, the Lord listened carefully as Incomo went on and described Mara’s past proposal to take an Anasati son in marriage. All present presumed she sued for Jiro, but the younger brother, Buntokapi, had become her husband instead.

Desio grinned. ‘Ah, she slighted Jiro and gained an enemy.’

Incomo sniffed. ‘One could safely assume that much.’

A slave proffered a jewelled slipper. Desio shoved in his foot, then peered at his reflection in a precious metal mirror. ‘Now, what sort of man is he?’

‘He’s quiet,’ Incomo recited. ‘Jiro keeps to himself and has few friends. His vices are moderate, a little gambling, but never to excess like his deceased brother, nor does he drink like Halesko. An occasional woman, but never a favourite. He’s inclined to say little, but implies a lot.’

‘Cryptic but each word has meaning,’ Desio defined.

Impressed that he need not spell out subtleties, the First Adviser listed the rest. Jiro lacked his elder brother’s military experience, but was an avid student of history. He preferred scroll books to poets and ballads, and spent hours with scribes in the libraries.

‘Well.’ Desio pouted at his reflection. ‘I hate to read, so he would hardly be coming here for scholarly conversation. I shall meet our uninvited guest at the dockside, and if I don’t care to hear out the younger son of the Anasati, I can send him packing without wasting any more bother.’

‘Does my Lord wish an honour guard?’

Desio straightened one of his jewels and laid the mirror in the hands of a servant, who reverently returned it to a velvet slip case. ‘How many men did you say Jiro brought?’

‘Twelve.’

‘Then order twenty soldiers to the docks. It’s too hot for a crowd, and I feel no need to put on a display.’

Noon sunlight beat down on the grey boards of the dock, and flashed reflections off the trappings of the honour guard. Sensitive to the light, Desio squinted across the water toward the approaching Anasati barge. The craft was not imposing enough to indicate a state visit; it was smaller, adorned only with paint, and its primary service was running messages along the river Gagajin; except this journey was not made for dispatches. Between the ranks of Jiro’s honour guard, Desio made out the bulk of a heavy slatted cargo crate.