Mistress of the Empire (46 page)

Arakasi clenched his hands in his plain worker’s smock, fearful that the drum roll of his heartbeat could be heard over the stillness of the garden.

A lady’s litter passed, hurried along by bearer slaves adorned with silk headcloths. Delayed by the traffic, the scribe paused on the other side of the street. Traces of a woman’s perfume twined over the scents of blooming flowers, and the earthier odor of needra soil left by animal-drawn conveyances. The Black Robes whispered, craning their necks to regain sight of Arakasi’s messenger, who, all unsuspecting, now crossed the teeming main thoroughfare with the jaunty stride of a boy who anticipates a reward in centis to spend at the taverns.

‘Certainly he should be questioned,’ said the magician with the cold voice. ‘It’s unlikely the boy is conducting such research on his own. We must detain him and find out whether anyone might have hired or forced him to ferret out such facts.’

The other Great One murmured agreement.

Arakasi felt a jolt of near panic. If the scribe were forced
to talk, his cover would instantly become forfeit. And, even before Kamlio, even without his awakened sense of vulnerability, the Spy Master understood he would have no chance of keeping secrets through an interrogation by those able to read thoughts. Mara’s hand would be revealed, instantly and inescapably, and the continuance of the Acoma be put in jeopardy.

He must act.

Cold under his worker’s smock, Arakasi felt the metal of his throwing knives. Propped up on one forearm, he groped to loosen his sash. His hands felt sweat-slick and numb as he reached under his robe and grasped the ebony handles of two blades: one for the hapless scribe, the second for himself. He must kill an innocent man in cold blood, and immediately cut his own throat. After that he must hope the Red God would take him before the magicians could bind his wal to his body and force him to speak in betrayal.

The Black Robes had stepped together, obscuring Arakasi’s view of the street. Fear bound his chest like a rope. The blade in his trembling hand, poised to throw, felt like a dead thing, a splinter. His belly was on fire with nausea. Almost, he hoped the worst might happen: that the magicians would not move, and that the scribe would step in through the arches to his garden rendezvous, unknowing.

‘He comes,’ murmured the first magician. The pair moved apart, deeper into the shadows. Like still, hooded statues, on either side of the gateway arch, they waited for the man who wove across the busy thoroughfare.

The press momentarily thinned. A cake seller walked by, trailing the scent of cinnamon. Two boys ran, chasing each other and shouting, while a puppy gamboled in and out between their legs. The scribe dodged around a portly water seller, his expression preoccupied, and his ink-stained fingers taut on the flap of his satchel.

He stepped into the shaded walkway before the garden gate.

Arakasi fought back revulsion. He had killed, many times. Never had he reacted like this. Mortality had held no meaning to his stone-hard heart, and he had felt no weakening rush of empathy for his victim. His will faltered, even as he cocked his arm to throw.

Sunlight flashed silver on the knife blade, drawing the scribe’s notice. His eyes widened, even as the Great Ones stepped into view, clearly intending to intercept him.

Arakasi bit his lip. He must act! He measured distance, aimed, and battled to banish his inner sickness.

‘Halt,’ the leftmost magician commanded in his ringing, metallic voice.

The scribe did as bidden, paralysed with terror.

‘We would question you,’ said the second magician, his voice a gritty bass.

In a state of trembling pallor, the scribe said, ‘Your will, Great Ones.’

Gripping the wheelbarrow as though his fingers might punch through weathered wood, Arakasi forced his clamor of feelings to stillness. Murder must have shown in his eyes as he rose to one knee to throw, for the scribe staggered back, panic written plain on his face. He saw certain death in Arakasi’s hand, and in a knife blade flashing downward into the beginning of a throw.

He broke and spun. His satchel banged against his hip as he dodged in desperation back into the crowded street, running as though his heart might burst.

The deep-voiced magician stiffened in surprise. The other shouted, outraged, ‘He defies us!’

The Black Robe nearest the gate raised his hands. A crash like thunder shocked the air, rattling the tools in the wheelbarrow, and flattening the flowers in a suddenly scything breeze. Arakasi was thrown flat against the earth.
He shoved his blades under his prostrate body and hid his face behind his hands, while blast after blast shook the garden, accompanied by flashes like lightning. Screams erupted in the street, and sounds of fleeing footsteps and the bawl of terrified needra. A carter snapped his goad to whip up a laden wagon, and the puppy that had been frolicking with the beggar boys began yelping. Shivering uncontrollably, Arakasi peered between his fingers.

Except for the passersby who ran helter-skelter away from the garden entry, the street looked little different; the setting sun still cast red light across the library stair, and temple incense wafted upon the air. Except that its sweet odor now mingled with a scent of charred meat, and a pitiful smoking lump lay on the cobbles, unrecognisable as anything human. Nearby, untouched by the blast, rested a spilled satchel of scrolls that turned and rolled, their ends flapping in the dying eddies of wind.

‘Why would the fool have run?’ ruminated the magician with the low voice. To his companion, he added, ‘You should have not been so quick to burn him to a cinder, Tapek. Now we have no idea who employed him. This time you’ve indulged your temper at the cost of information.’

The other Great One defended his act in disgust. ‘There are only two possible suspects, the Acoma or the Anasati. No one else has a motive to send for inquiry into the archives. And it is unthinkable that any lesser man should defy us, and be allowed to disobey.’ He turned from the gate, his downturned mouth clearly visible beneath his hood. His gaze flicked over the wheelbarrow, and the gardener’s tools, and settled, ice-hard, upon the prostrate figure of Arakasi.

Mara’s Spy Master felt the touch of that stare like a spear thrust in the back. He could not stop trembling, nor did he dare to move. With the breath stopped in his throat, he held his pose of submission.

The magician stepped closer. Velvet-shod feet stopped bare inches from his face. Mingled with the dust and the wet green scent of broken flowers, Arakasi could smell the pungency of ozone.

‘Did you know that man?’ demanded the Great One.

Incapable of speech, Arakasi shook his head.

The second Black Robe moved up to join his companion. ‘He could be lying. We must be sure,’ he said, his voice a thunder of doom in Arakasi’s ears. He stepped nearer.

Arakasi sensed motion, as if the magician made a pass with his hands.

‘Who was that man?’ came the deep voice of the mage. ‘Answer!’

The honed edge of spellcraft cut through the Spy Master’s mind. Trapped by undeniable power, he felt his lungs expel air, and his lips and tongue forced to speech. ‘He was but a scribe,’ he heard himself say. ‘His name was unknown to me.’

Arakasi closed his eyes in fear. Sadness at never seeing Kamlio again clashed against his most vivid memory of that afternoon they had shared in physical love, her languid smile and hard eyes trapping his heart forever. Across his jumble of recollection, the voice of a Great One said, ‘His mind is chaos. He thinks we shall kill him and … he longs to see a woman.’ Harsh laughter escaped the magician. ‘The fool dreams of a beautiful young courtesan he once knew. His only thought is to see her once more before he dies.’

Arakasi felt the compulsion born of magic dispel from his mind and body, even as the other Black Robe said, ‘A guilty man would be thinking of his master or escape.’ That Arakasi remained too stunned to move lent credibility to Tapek’s conclusion. ‘No, he is not our man. The scribe’s contact fled, no doubt. This witless old gardener knows nothing.’ His manner shifted toward irritation. ‘You were correct to chide me. Still, we now know
someone seeks forbidden knowledge. We must return to the Assembly.’

The pair stepped away.

His sweat-drenched body coated with clinging dust, Arakasi lay still. His ears recorded the sharp buzzing sound, and the inrush of air as the Great Ones departed. But it was dusk before his strength returned. He rose shakily to his feet and stood for a long time with his weight braced against his wheelbarrow.

Outside the gates, in the street, Imperial Whites were directing slaves to clear away the remains of the scribe. A drudge hovered to one side with a bucket and brush, to scrub the charred mark from the cobblestones. Around this tableau the fine, sequined litters of the nobles carved a wide berth. The ragged street boys that gathered to stare at anything unusual were tonight nowhere in evidence.

Arakasi sat on the edge of his wheelbarrow and listened to the rasp of night insects, while the afterglow faded from the sky. The moon spread copper light over the wilting heads of shorn blossoms. He did not need to see the scrolls that the scribe had died to bring him. The presence of the Great Ones confirmed the truth behind his hunches concerning the histories. Soon he would have to slip away and make a report to Lady Mara.

Worse was the inward uncertainty born during the heat of his peril. Even now he could not determine whether he actually could have fulfilled his duty. Even now he did not know if he would have followed through and thrown the knife.

Mara
, Arakasi thought to himself,
Lady. I have become a liability to your cause.

But in the cool night, no answer came. He could do no more than his best, for his Lady had no one else who could approach the measure of his skills. And as well as he knew her, Arakasi believed that if his mistress
were to face him now, there would be no reproach in her eyes.

She understood his conflicts. The gift of that, in a ruling mistress, almost moved him to tears. As he shifted to his feet and raised the dew-wet handles of the wheelbarrow, Arakasi wondered whether his Lady’s compassion would be great enough to break through Kamlio’s bitterness. Almost he laughed at his thought, in terrible, edged self-reproach. How very near the Assembly had come to learning everything about his Lady’s plot to thwart their decree. Long before Kamlio might find herself, all of them might be dead, charred and smoking like the corpse in the street, and with as little warning.

Mara sat quietly, her daughter a warm weight clasped against her shoulder. Fat, baby hands tangled in her hair, reaching for the carved bead earrings she wore. Kasuma was enchanted by anything red, and if she could close her hand around whatever object held her fancy, she would determinedly try to stuff it into her mouth. The Lady of the Acoma rescued her jewelry from the tiny Shinzawai heir by sliding her downward and bouncing her on her knee. The child’s coo of delight mingled with Justin’s shouts that drifted in through the screen. The boy continued to study a warrior’s skills, and under Lujan’s unforgiving tutelage was swinging a practice sword at a pell. Impatient as his barbarian father, the boy insistently cried to his teacher that wooden posts were stupid, that he should be permitted to strike at something that could move. Like the jigabirds he had been punished for harassing yesterday, Mara thought with a half-smile. The cooks would as soon be quit of Justin’s pranks.

The Lady savored the moment. Since her parting from Hokanu, rare intervals like these brought the only happiness she knew.

Kasuma gave her a wet smile. Mara touched the baby’s nose, intentionally slowing her movement to allow the little hands that thrashed to catch her bracelets and make them chime. Today, along with her everyday jade, she wore the priceless copper wristband once given her by Chipino of the Xacatecas, expressly to please her child. Kasuma’s glee warmed her. Is this how my mother would have felt, wondered the Lady of the Acoma, looking down
into my face? How different the course of her life might have been had her mother lived. Would she have stayed on and vowed service in Lashima’s temple, while Lady Oskiro became Ruling Lady of the Acoma? Would her mother have ruled as Isashani had, through gentle female wiles? Or would desperation have driven her to try dangerous innovations?

Mara sighed. This endless circling of supposition served nothing. All that she knew of her mother was a painted portrait Lord Sezu had commissioned before the Lady’s untimely death in childbirth.

From the yard outside, Lujan’s voice called in reprimand, and the whack of Justin’s practice strokes resumed at a steadier rhythm. Mara could not hear the clack of a wooden sword without being reminded of Ayaki. While Justin looked nothing like her departed firstborn, there came the odd moment when a glance, a turn of the head, or boyish laughter would call his older brother to mind. Ayaki would have passed his manhood ceremony, Mara realised. That many years had gone by. He would have been fitted for battle armor, not the pretty ceremonial regalia given to young boys – she twisted her thoughts away from useless dreaming. Aware of Kasuma’s fingers picking at her bracelets, Mara had to force herself not to brood upon the other child by Hokanu, the one taken before birth by the Hamoi Tong.

In another hour, her two remaining children would be gone, sent on the road with a trusted retinue to the Imperial Household in Kentosani. They would be safer there until Hokanu won free of his Shinzawai obligations and was able to return home to the lakeside estate.

Mara shut her eyes. Tomorrow would see her off on her own journey, one that would begin in known territory, but that could lead her far beyond the familiar. She took this last interval to savor her little daughter. The gods only
knew how long she might be away. The years of Ayaki’s growing that she had missed while away on war campaign in Dustari hurt her the worst, in retrospect. Now that the boy was gone, she resented the years that politics had forced her from his side.

Worst, most poignantly, she did not want Kasuma growing up with no memory of her mother beyond a painted image.

A soft baby foot thumped her in the chin. Mara smiled, opened her eyes, and sighed to see the wet nurse return to collect her daughter. The day was passing too quickly. The large woman bowed, brisk in the face of her duty. Plainly she did not enjoy being witness to a mother’s parting from her child.

‘It’s all right,’ Mara reassured her. ‘I know there are things to pack, and Kasuma should have a chance to nap before she is bundled off in a litter with her brother. Justin won’t let her sleep, he’ll be so busy brandishing his stick sword at make-believe robbers through the litter curtains.’

The nurse’s sternness softened. ‘My Lady, your little ones will both be well and happy. You must not worry.’

‘Don’t let the Emperor spoil them.’ Mara warned, hugging Kasuma so tightly the baby wailed in protest. ‘He’s terrible with children, always giving them sweets, or jewels that the babies only end up putting in their mouths. He’ll cause one of the poor things to choke one day, unless one of his silly wives finds nerve enough to teach him what’s safe for an infant.’

‘Don’t worry,’ the nurse admonished once again. Personally, she thought it was greed that kept the imperial mothers from restraining their consort’s generosity. She held out huge, warm hands and accepted Kasuma from her mother. The child cried harder, reaching chubby fingers toward the retreating clink of the bracelets.

‘Shhh. There, little blossom,’ crooned the nurse. ‘Give your mother a smile to take with her on the road.’

That moment, while Mara fought a sadness that pressed her near to tears, a single chime cut the air. In the courtyard, the clack of Justin’s practice stopped abruptly. By his howl of annoyance, Mara presumed Lujan had reached out and caught the stick in mid-swing. Her eyes locked with those of the nurse, sick with hidden fear. ‘Go,’ she said. ‘Quickly. Buy what you need on the road, if you must, but head straight for the litter. Lujan will bring Justin, and assemble an escort and bearers, if it is not already too late.’

The nurse gave a quick, scared bow, Kasuma’s cries muffled against her shoulder. Then she bolted for the door. As well as her mistress, she knew: the chime that had sounded heralded the coming of a Great One.

Mara shook off paralysis. Heart pounding in apprehension, she shoved away the wrenching grief that she had not been able to say farewell to her son. Although logic insisted that if the Great Ones chose to act against her, the boy would be no better off on the road, a mother’s instinct would not be denied: to send the children away from pending trouble as fast and as far as possible. She wrenched her eyes from the empty doorway where the nurse had disappeared with her daughter, and clapped for her runner slave. ‘Summon my adviser. Quickly.’ She started to ask also for her maid, to bring a fresh robe and a comb to repair the tangles left by Kasuma, but stopped herself.

The rare metal she wore on her wrist was sufficient to impress, and she doubted her nerves could withstand even the minute of stillness required to have a maid tidy her hair.

Barely able to master her dread, Mara left the comfort of the garden outside her quarters. She hastened down dim hallways, the waxed wooden floors sounding strangely hollow under her tread, after the stone
she had grown accustomed to in the lakeside manor to the north.

Every estate house had a room with a pattern inset into the floor, which provided a place for the magicians of the Assembly to arrive by arcane means. While the decor of such chambers varied from plain to ostentatious, the summoning symbol was unique to each. Mara stepped through the low doorway into the five-sided room. She took her place just outside the mosaic in green-and-white tile that depicted the shatra bird that was her family symbol. A stiff nod was the best she could manage to acknowledge the presence of Saric and Chubariz, the hadonra appointed by Jican to manage her ancestral estates. At the sound of the chime, both had presented themselves, as was appropriate to a Great One’s appearance. A moment later, Lujan arrived, breathing hard, his gaze fixed, and his grip taut on his sword.

A second chime sounded, signaling the moment of arrival. A crack of displaced air ruffled Mara’s loose hair and twisted the plumes of Lujan’s formal helm. Mara clenched her jaw and forced her eyes straight ahead.

In the center of the pattern stood a bearded man in brown robes. He wore no ornaments. His garments were not of silk but of woven wool, clasped at the waist with a leather belt and a brass buckle of barbarian design. He wore boots, not sandals, and in the close heat of the windowless chamber, a flush touched his pale skin.

Saric and Lujan both hesitated, halfway into their bows. They had expected a man in black, a Great One of the Assembly. No magician they had heard of wore other than the traditional jet robe, and certainly none sported a beard.

Mara bent in obeisance, prolonging the motion to allow for furious thought. The City of the Magicians might lie to the north of Ontoset, but the climate was not cold enough to freeze. Only one reason could account for the dress of
her caller: he was not Tsurani-born. Her impulsive note sent across the rift the month before must have attracted an answer. Before her stood the barbarian magician Milamber, whose powers unleashed in wrath had once freed slaves and devastated the Imperial Games.

Mara’s fear did not lessen at her deduction. This Midkemian’s beliefs were unknown to her. She had witnessed the violence of his acts, which had culminated in exile from the Assembly that had given him his early training. His loyalties and his volatile temperament might still be theirs; his swift and direct arrival after her vague overture was disconcerting, when Mara had anticipated no reply more elaborate than a letter.

Although Milamber would not be here on direct business of the Assembly, there was no guarantee he would not react in the interest of his Tsurani counterparts. Events between the worlds since his disgrace had caused him to work in league with them. Mara arose from her bow. ‘Great One,’ she opened in the steadiest voice she could manage, ‘you honor my house.’

The dark eyes that met Mara’s seemed to hold veiled amusement. ‘I am no Great One, Lady Mara. Just call me Pug.’

Mara’s brow creased. ‘Did I mistake? Is your name not Milamber?’

Busily studying the unfurnished, wood-paneled room, Pug answered with an informality that typified most Midkemians. ‘It was. But I prefer to be known by the name given me in my homeland.’

‘Very well, Pug.’ Mara introduced her First Adviser and her Force Commander. Then, left at a loss as to how she should behave, and unwilling to be first to broach deeper matters, she said, ‘May I offer you refreshments?’

Pug’s attention swung back, disconcertingly intense. But the hands that had raised such fearful powers of destruction
in Kentosani remained still at his sides. He did nothing more than nod his head.

Mara led the way down the wooden stair, through the dim inner corridors, to the great hall. Saric, Lujan, and her hadonra followed at a respectful distance, their eyes alive with curiosity and awe. The Acoma First Adviser had heard his cousin’s account of the destruction at the Imperial Games many times over hwaet beer. Lujan moved on his toes with alertness, aware that he dared not so much as think of handling his weapons before a man of such power; Saric sized up the barbarian magician, wrinkling his nose at the strange musty odors of birch smoke and tallow that clung to the man’s clothing. Pug was a man of normal height for a Tsurani, which made him short by the standards of his homeland. He looked unassuming, except for his eyes, which were deep in mystery and terrifying for their pent power.

As the party entered through the wide doors leading to the great hall, Pug said, ‘A pity you are not at your usual abode, my Lady Mara. I had heard of the Great Hall of the Minwanabi when I lived within the Empire. The descriptions of the architecture fascinated me.’ In an almost amiable tone, he elaborated, ‘You know I also built my estate upon the property of a fallen family. Near Ontoset, the former home of the Tuscai.’ Mara glanced at her guest. There was nothing friendly about his eyes, which looked deeply into hers. If he was indicating he knew something of her household, her Force Commander, First Adviser, and Spy Master all having served the Tuscai, he showed only a pleasant façade. Always moving, Pug’s glance roved over the room where Mara’s Acoma ancestors had held court. Typical of most Tsurani halls, it was open on two sides, screens leading to a shaded portico. The ceiling was vaulted beam, roofed over with wood and tile, and the floors, waxed parquet that showed the wear of generations.

‘Impressive,’ he added, in reference to the war standards strung in rows from the rafters. ‘Your family is among the oldest in the Empire, I understand.’ He smiled, and years dropped away from his face. ‘I assume you’ve changed the decor since taking possession of your other abode? The late Lord Tasaio’s tastes were said to be execrable.’

His bantering tone set Mara at ease. Though she suspected that was his purpose, and was loath to put down her guard, she was grateful to let taut nerves loosen. ‘Indeed. My late enemy liked his cushions in leather and fur, and his tables inlaid with bone. There were more swords and shields decorating the walls than Jican inventoried in the Minwanabi armory, and the only silk we found was in the battle streamers and war trappings. The guest rooms looked like an officers’ barracks. But how do you know so much of my dead enemies?’

Pug laughed with such openness that it was impossible not to share in his mirth. ‘Hochopepa. The old gossip officiated at Tasaio’s ritual suicide, and if you recall, he is quite portly. His letters to me held complaint that there was no seat in Tasaio’s household that was not hard, upholstered with wooden tacks, and narrow across the cushions as if made for a man in battle trim.’

Mara smiled. ‘Kevin of Zun often told me that the most subdued art here would be counted “garish” in your land. One might argue that tastes are a function of perspective.’ The Lady of the Acoma waved her guest toward the circle of cushions that lined the dais where the ruler in residence held court. ‘So I have learned over the years, yet so often it is easy to forget.’