The Complete Empire Trilogy (117 page)

Mara threw off her travelling robe, a look of inquiry on her face. ‘You look like a merchant’s runner.’

Arakasi replied, eyes alight with sly humour, ‘Runners wearing house colours are being waylaid by everybody.’

This drew a slight laugh from Mara, who softened at Kevin’s blank look and explained. ‘Merchants’ runners often don house colours, because that discourages street urchins from throwing stones at them. But now a messenger in house colours is apt to be seized for information. Since stone bruises are less to be feared than torture, roles have been reversed.’ She asked Arakasi, ‘What news?’

‘Strange bands of men move through the shadows. They hide their armour under cloaks and carry no badge of house service. Imperial servants give them a wide berth.’

‘Assassins?’ Mara asked, and her eyes held her Spy Master’s without shifting as a servant retrieved the robe that trailed from her fingers.

Arakasi shrugged. ‘They could be that, or some Lord’s army being smuggled into the city. They might also be agents of the Emperor sent under cover to see who seeks to break the peace. Someone highly placed let slip some information that has caused a stir of talk.’

Mara sank down onto a nearby cushion and motioned permission for the others to retire.

But Arakasi declined. ‘I won’t be staying, except to add that it appears that some of the demands made by the King upon the Emperor are … very odd.’

This piqued Kevin’s interest. ‘How do you mean?’

‘Reparations.’ In spare tones, the Spy Master qualified. ‘Lyam demands something on the order of a hundred million centis to compensate his nation for damages.’

Mara shot straight on her cushions. ‘Impossible!’

Kevin calculated and realized that the Midkemian
sovereign was being generous. In Kingdom terms, Lyam was asking for something close to three hundred thousand golden sovereigns, which would barely replace the cost of keeping the Armies of the West in the field for nine years. ‘That’s half of what he should ask for.’

‘The amount is not the issue, but the concept of paying damages,’ Mara said in acute frustration. ‘Ichindar cannot do so and keep his honour. It would shame Tsuranuanni before the gods!’

‘Which is why the Light of Heaven refused,’ Arakasi cut in. ‘Instead, he takes a “gift” of rare gems to the young King, the value of which should approximate a hundred million centis.’

Appreciative of the Emperor’s ingenuity, Mara smiled. ‘Not even the High Council can deny his right to give another monarch a gift.’

‘There’s this other thing.’ Arakasi’s dark eyes flicked meaningfully to Kevin. ‘Lyam wishes a prisoner exchange.’

This drew a strange, emotionally weighted look between the barbarian slave and his mistress. With a strange reluctance to her tone, Mara turned back to Arakasi. ‘I understand what he asks for, but will Ichindar?’

Arakasi returned the openhanded shrug of the Tsurani. ‘Who can say? Giving slaves to the King of the Isles is not an issue. Lyam could do as he pleased with them. More to the point, what would the Emperor do with our returning war captives?’ A silence developed, for it was true that in Tsuranuanni the honour and freedom of such men could never be restored.

Suddenly tired, Mara studied her feet. The bruises left since her flight from the arena had nearly faded, but emotional wounds between Kevin and herself over issues of slavery and freedom ached still. ‘You have word on the Minwanabi?’

As if he had prompted the change of subject, Arakasi’s
mouth thinned. ‘They ready more than three thousand soldiers for war.’

Alarmed, Mara looked up. ‘They are coming to the Holy City?’

‘No.’ But the Spy Master had only thin reassurance to offer. ‘They merely ready themselves upon the Minwanabi estates.’

Mara’s eyes narrowed. ‘Why?’

But it was Lujan who answered, and bitterly, from the doorway, where he paused after appointing his warriors to guard posts by every window and door. ‘Desio fears the imperial peace with reason, my Lady. If you abandon conflict with the Minwanabi, you renounce only a commitment to blood feud. Some might judge Acoma honour compromised, but who would fault you for obeying the Light of Heaven? But if the Emperor forces peace among warring houses, Desio forfeits his blood oath to Turakamu. He must destroy us before the Emperor’s power becomes too strong to challenge, or offend the Death God.’

Kevin took the liberty of asking a servant to bring his Lady a cool drink. He could sense her effort at self-control as she asked, ‘Would Desio risk attacking the Emperor?’

Arakasi shook his head. ‘Not openly, but should the High Council find cause to unite against Ichindar’s will, Desio would have the largest army within striking distance of the Holy City. That offers a dangerous combination.’

Mara chewed her lip. With the Omechan Clan divided between Decanto and Axantucar, the danger was apparent: Desio could become the new Warlord if a large enough faction of the High Council decided to use force to defy imperial edict.

Kevin added an unwelcome observation to this reflection. ‘Three thousand Minwanabi swords outside the Council Hall could make a persuasive argument even if Desio doesn’t have a clear majority.’

Wrung by more than fatigue, Mara regarded the drink brought in by the servant as if it contained deadly poison. Then she put off dark thoughts. ‘The truce meeting beyond the rift won’t happen for another three days. Until Ichindar and Lyam fail in negotiations, all is speculation. Now that we are safely within the palace, let us enjoy this quiet time.’

Arakasi bowed more deeply than usual and, like a wraith, departed. Mara watched the doorway for long minutes after he left, and returned to life only when Kevin settled beside her and gathered her into his arms. Trembling, afraid to voice the uneasiness she felt inside, Mara finished her thought. ‘I fear much is carried upon the shoulders of a very young man, and while the gods may favour our Light of Heaven, they also may turn away from him.’

Kevin pressed a kiss onto the crown of her head. He held no illusions. Like her, he understood that the best they could hope for was that Arakasi could garner a last-minute warning in the hour before an enemy attack.

For three days the Empire seemed to hold its breath. Outside the palace, the Holy City struggled back to normality, as workers finished repairs to the last damaged dock and masons borrowed fallen stonework from the arena to fix the gateways to the Imperial Palace. Fishermen left before dawn to draw their nets through the currents of the river Gagajin, and farmers drove the late season’s crops in on heavily burdened wagons, or floated them in on barges. Temple incense and flowers prevailed over the smell of the cremated dead, and vendors set up open air stalls within the roofless walls of their shops. Once more their singsong voices called their wares to the attention of passersby.

And yet all these sounds and signs of industry held dreamlike transience, even for the poor and the beggars who stood furthest from the centre of power. Rumours respected no class boundaries. And like the wrecked timbers still
heaped like bones between the fabric of makeshift walls, disquieting undercurrents dogged the City’s normality. Tsuranuanni’s Emperor was upon another world, and Iskisu, the God of Trickery and Chance, held the balance-not only the peace of two peoples, but the stability of an ancient nation: all hinged upon the meeting of minds between two young rulers from vastly different cultures.

Deprived of the solace of her courtyard and fountains, Mara spent her hours within the small room in the centre of the apartment. With soldiers camped in the chambers on either side, and guards at each door and window, she studied notes and messages and maintained cautious contact with other Lords. Arakasi showed up almost hourly, in the guises of bird seller, messenger, and even mendicant priest. He had not slept, but laboured tirelessly between brief naps, employing every tool at his disposal to discover even the faintest shred of information that might be of use.

In an adjoining room, Lujan held sword drill with his soldiers, one man at a time. The waiting frayed everyone’s nerves, the warriors’ most of all, since they could do nothing but stand through endless idle hours on watch. Several more Acoma companies had slipped into the city, and by dint of clever planning and the use of a carpet dealer’s cart, more warriors had been smuggled into the imperial precinct. Mara’s apartment garrison now numbered fifty-two, and Jican complained. His scullions could not scrub pots without banging into scabbards, and Lujan would have warriors sleeping four deep on the carpets if he continued to muster more troops. But the numbers of warriors were unlikely to swell beyond the current count, for the Acoma as well as other houses. Imperial Guards had noticed the influx of soldiers into the palace and were now inspecting all inbound wagons and servants to limit potential combatants.

Racing footsteps echoed through the outer corridor. The
tap of the runner’s sandals passed through the walls, a ghostly, whispered counterpoint to the clack and snap of swordplay between Lujan’s sparring warriors. Mara heard, from her desk in the middle of the chamber. She stiffened and looked wildly at Kevin. ‘Something has happened.’

The Midkemian did not ask how she knew, or why this set of hurried steps should be different from those of any of the dozen or so runners that had passed by the apartment within the hour. Bored with being cooped up, and with the endless, dragging hours that passed between Arakasi’s reports, Kevin bowed to the warrior he had challenged at dice, and crossed the chamber to sit with his Lady. ‘What’s to do?’ he murmured.

Mara regarded the inkwell and parchment on her lap desk. The pen in her hands was dry, and the letter unmarked, except for the name of Hokanu of the Shinzawai in careful characters at the top. ‘Nothing,’ she replied. ‘There is nothing to do, except wait.’

She set down her quill and, to keep her hands busy, picked up the Acoma chop. She did not say, and Kevin did not remind her, that Arakasi was late. He had promised to stop by in the morning, and by the white slash of sunlight that glared through the barricaded screens, noon had come and gone.

Long minutes passed, filled by the patter of more runners, and the muffled, excited tones of someone speaking urgently from an apartment several doors down. The thin plaster and lath partitions between domiciles were not impervious to sound. While Mara made a pretence of trying to concentrate on the wording of her message, Kevin touched her shoulder, then slipped away into the kitchen to make hot chocha.

When he returned, the Lady had done little but dip her quill. The ink had set in the nib. Arakasi had not returned. When Kevin set the tray on top of the parchment, Mara did not protest. She accepted the filled cup he handed her, but
the drink cooled untasted. By then her nerves were showing, and she started up at the slightest sound. More steps passed by, all running.

‘You don’t suppose somebody’s holding footraces, and making odds to pass the time?’ Kevin suggested in an attempt at humour.

Lujan appeared in the doorway, soaked with sweat from his exercises, and still gripping his unsheathed sword. ‘Footracers don’t wear battle sandals with studs,’ he commented dryly. Then he looked at Mara, who sat as still as a figure in a china shop, with too little colour in her face. ‘My Lady, at your word, I could go out and find a rumourmonger.’

Mara turned paler. ‘No,’ she said sharply. ‘You are too valuable to risk.’ Then she frowned, as she weighed whether she should deplete her garrison by two and send a pair of warriors on the errand instead. Arakasi was three hours late, and to hold uselessly to false hope was to invite yet greater risk.

A scratch came at the outer screen. Lujan spun, his sword pointed at the barricade, and every other Acoma guard in the room whipped around ready for attack.

But the scrape was followed by a whisper that caused Mara to cry, ‘Thank the gods!’

Quickly, cautiously, the warriors let down the wooden tabletop, wedged up by three heavy coffers, and cracked the screen. Arakasi entered, a black silhouette against daylight. For an instant fresh air filled with the sweet scent of flowers swirled through the close apartment. Then Kenji fastened the screen and slotted the wooden pegs that secured it, and coffers and tabletop were replaced with swift dispatch.

In the falling gloom, Arakasi found his way to Mara’s cushions in five unerring strides. He threw himself prostrate before her. ‘Mistress, forgive my delay.’

At his tone, a mixture of disbelief and masked anger, Mara’s brief joy at his return vanished. ‘What’s amiss?’

‘All,’ said the Spy Master without preamble. ‘Wild rumours sweep the palace. There has been trouble upon the barbarian world.’

Mara relinquished her quill pen before tension caused her to snap it. Somehow her voice remained firm. ‘The Emperor?’

‘He is safe, but little more is known.’ Arakasi’s voice became gritty with rage. ‘The barbarians acted with dishonour. They sang a song of peace while they plotted murder. At the conference, despite their bond of truth, they attacked suddenly and almost killed the Emperor.’

Mara sat speechless in shock, and Kevin cursed in astonishment. ‘What?’

Arakasi sat back on his heels, his manner bleak. ‘At the conference, a large company of those you call dwarves and elves massed nearby, and when the Light of Heaven was most vulnerable, they attacked.’

Kevin shook his head in denial. ‘I can’t believe this.’

Arakasi’s eyes narrowed. ‘It is true. Only through the bravery of his officers and the Warchiefs of the Five Families did the Light of Heaven survive this treachery on your world. Two soldiers carried him back through the rift, unconscious, and there followed a terrible thing. The rift closed and could not be reopened, trapping four thousand Tsurani soldiers upon the Midkemian world.’