RAYMOND E. FEIST
and
JANNY WURTS
Servant of the Empire

Book Two of the Empire Trilogy

Copyright

HarperVoyager An imprint of HarperCollinsPublishers Ltd. 1 London Bridge Street London SE1 9GF

www.harpercollins.co.uk

Previously published in paperback by HarperCollins Science Fiction & Fantasy 1993

First published in Great Britain by Grafton Books 1990

Copyright © Raymond E. Feist and Janny Wurts 1990

The Authors assert the moral right to be identified as the authors of this work

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Source ISBN: 9780586203811

Ebook Edition © AUGUST 2012 ISBN: 9780007385362

Version: 2017-08-15

Dedicated to the memory of

Ron Faust,

always a friend

Table of Contents

Title Page

Copyright

Dedication

Chapter One: Slave

Chapter Two: Planning

Chapter Three: Changes

Chapter Four: Vows

Chapter Five: Entanglement

Chapter Six: Diversions

Chapter Seven: Target

Chapter Eight: Reconciliation

Chapter Nine: Ambush

Chapter Ten: Masterplot

Chapter Eleven: The Desert

Chapter Twelve: Snares

Chapter Thirteen: Realignment

Chapter Fourteen: Celebration

Chapter Fifteen: Chaos

Chapter Sixteen: Regrouping

Chapter Seventeen: Grey Council

Chapter Eighteen: Bloody Swords

Chapter Nineteen: Warlord

Chapter Twenty: Disquiet

Chapter Twenty-One: Keeper of the Seal

Chapter Twenty-Two: Tumult

Chapter Twenty-Three: Sortie

Chapter Twenty-Four: Breakthrough

Chapter Twenty-Five: Confrontation

Chapter Twenty-Six: Resolution

Chapter Twenty-Seven: Beginnings

Keep Reading

About the Authors

Also by the Author

About the Publisher

• Chapter One • Slave

The breeze died.

Dust swirled in little eddies, settling grit over the palisade that surrounded the slave market. Despite the wayward currents, the air was hot and thick, reeking of confined and unwashed humanity mingled with the smell of river sewage and rotting garbage from the dump behind the market.

Sheltered behind the curtains of her brightly lacquered litter, Lady Mara wafted air across her face with a scented fan. If the stench troubled her, she showed no sign. The Ruling Lady of the Acoma motioned for her escort to stop. Soldiers in green enamelled armour came to a halt, and the sweating bearers set the litter down.

An officer in a Strike Leader’s plumed helm gave his hand to Mara and she emerged from her litter. The colour in her cheeks was high; Lujan could not tell if she was flushed from the heat or still angered from the argument prior to leaving her estate. Jican, the estate hadonra, had spent most of the morning vigorously objecting to her plan to purchase what he insisted would be worthless slaves. The debate had ended only when she ordered him to silence.

Mara addressed her First Strike Leader. ‘Lujan, attend me, and have the others wait here.’ Her acerbity caused Lujan to forgo the banter that, on occasion, strained the limits of acceptable protocol; besides, his first task was to protect her – and the slave markets were far too public for his liking – so his attention turned quickly from wit to security. As he watched for any sign of trouble, he reasoned that when Mara busied herself in her newest plan she would forget Jican’s dissension. Until then she would not appreciate hearing objections she had already dismissed in her own mind.

Lujan understood that everything his mistress undertook was to further her position in the Game of the Council, the political striving that was the heart of Tsurani politics. Her invariable goal was the survival and strengthening of House Acoma. Rivals and friends alike had learned that a once untried young girl had matured into a gifted player of the deadly game. Mara had eluded the trap set by her father’s old enemy, Jingu of the Minwanabi, and had succeeded with her own plot – forcing Jingu to take his own life in disgrace.

Yet if Mara’s triumphs were the current topic of discussion among the Empire’s many nobles, she herself had barely paused to enjoy the satisfaction of her ascendancy. Her father’s and brother’s deaths had taken her family to the brink of extinction. Mara concentrated on anticipating future trouble as she manoeuvred to ensure her survival. What was done was behind, and to dwell on it was to risk being taken unawares.

While the man who had ordered the death of her father and brother was finally himself dead, her attention remained focused on the blood feud between House Acoma and House Minwanabi. Mara remembered the unvarnished look of hatred on the face of Desio of the Minwanabi as she and the other guests passed his father’s death ceremony. While not as clever as his sire, Desio would be no less a danger; grief and hatred now turned his motives personal: Mara had destroyed his father at the height of his power, while he hosted the Warlord’s birthday celebration, in his own home. Then she had savoured that victory in the presence of the most influential and powerful nobles in the Empire as she hosted the Warlord’s relocated celebration upon her own estates.

No sooner had the Warlord and his guests departed Acoma lands than Mara had embarked on a new plan to strengthen her house. She had closeted herself with Jican, to discuss the need for new slaves to clear additional meadow-lands from the scrub forests north of the estate house. Pastures, pens, and sheds must be completed well before calving season in spring, so the grass would be well grown for the young needra and their mothers to graze.

As Acoma second-in-command, Lujan had learned that Acoma power did not rest upon her soldiers’ loyalty and bravery, nor upon the far-held trading concessions and investments, but upon the prosaic and dull six-legged needra. They formed the foundation upon which all her wealth rested. For Acoma power to grow, Mara’s first task was to increase her breeding herd.

Lujan’s attention returned to his mistress as Mara lifted her robe clear of the dust. Pale green in colour, the otherwise plain cloth was meticulously embroidered at the hem and sleeves with the outline of the shatra bird, the crest of House Acoma. The Lady wore sandals with raised pegged soles, to keep her slippers clear of the filth that littered the common roadways. Her footfalls raised a booming, hollow sound as she mounted the wooden stair to the galleries that ran the length of the palisade. A faded canvas awning roofed the structure, shading Tsurani lords and their factors from the merciless sunlight. They could rest well removed from the dust and dirt, and refreshed by whatever breeze blew in off the river as they viewed the slaves available for sale.

To Lujan, the gallery with its deep shade and rows of wooden benches was less a refuge than a place of concealing darkness. He lightly touched his mistress on the shoulder as she reached the first landing. She turned, and flashed a bothered look of inquiry.

‘Lady,’ said Lujan tactfully, ‘if an enemy is waiting, best we show them my sword before your beautiful face.’

Mara’s mouth turned upward at the corners, almost but not quite managing a smile. ‘Flatterer,’ she accused. ‘Of course you are right.’ Her formality with Lujan became gentled by humour. ‘Though among Jican’s protests was the belief I would come to harm from the barbarian slaves, not another Ruling Lord.’

She referred to the inexpensive Midkemian prisoners of war. Mara lacked the funds to buy enough common slaves to clear her pastures. So, seeing no other alternative, she chose to buy barbarians. They were reputed to be intractable, rebellious, and utterly lacking in humility toward their masters. Lujan regarded his Lady, who was barely as high as his shoulder, but who possessed a nature that could burn the man – Lord or slave or servant – who challenged her indomitable will. He recognized the purposeful set of her dark eyes. ‘Still, in you the barbarians will have met their match, I wager.’

‘If not, they will all suffer under the whip,’ Mara said with resolve. ‘Not only would we forfeit the use of the lands we need cleared before spring, we would lose the price of the slaves. I will have done Desio’s work for him.’ Her rare admission of doubt was allowed to pass without comment.

Lujan preceded his mistress into the gallery, silently checking his weapons. The Minwanabi might be licking their wounds, but Mara had additional enemies now, lords jealous of her sudden rise, men who knew that the Acoma name rested upon the shoulders of this slender woman and her infant heir. She was not yet twenty-one, their advisers would whisper. Against Jingu of the Minwanabi she had been cunning, but mostly lucky; in the fullness of time her youth and inexperience would cause her to misstep. Then would rival houses arise like a pack of jaguna, ready to tear at the wealth and the power of her house and bury the Acoma natami – the stone inscribed with the family crest that embodied its soul and its honour – face down in the dirt, forever away from sunlight.

Her robe neatly held above her ankles, Mara followed Lujan around the first landing. They passed the entrance to the lower tier of galleries, which by unwritten but rigid custom was reserved for merchants or house factors, and climbed to the next level, used only by the nobility.

But with Midkemians up for auction, the crowds were absent. Mara saw only a few bored-looking merchants who seemed more interested in the common gossip of the city than in buying. The upper tier of galleries would probably stand empty. Most Tsurani nobles were far more concerned by the war on the world beyond the rift, or in curbing the Warlord Almecho’s ever growing power in the council, than with purchasing intractable slaves. The earliest lots of Midkemian captives had sold for premium prices, as curiosities. But the novelty lost attraction with numbers. Now grown Midkemian males brought the lowest prices of all; only women with rare red-gold hair or unusual beauty still commanded a thousand centuries. But since the Tsurani most often captured warriors, females from the barbarian world were seldom available.

A breeze off the river tugged at the plumes on Lujan’s helm. It fluttered the feathered ends of Mara’s perfumed fan and set her beaded earrings swinging. Over the palisade drifted the voices of the barge teams as they poled their craft up and down the river Gagajin. Nearer at hand, from the dusty pens inside the high plank walls came the shouts of the slave merchants, and the occasional snap of a needra hide switch as they hustled their charges through their paces for interested customers in the galleries. The pen holding the Midkemians held about two dozen men. No buyers offered inquiry, for only one overseer stood indifferent watch. With him was a factor apparently in charge of issuing clothing, and a tally keeper with a much chipped slate. Mara glanced curiously at the slaves. All were very tall, larger by a head than the tallest Tsurani. One in particular towered over the chubby factor, and his red-gold hair blazed in the noonday sun of Kelewan as he attempted to communicate in an unfamiliar language. Mara had no chance to study the barbarian further, as Lujan stopped sharply in her path. His hand touched her wrist in warning.

‘Someone’s here,’ he whispered, and covered his check in stride by bending as if a stone had lodged in his sandal. His hand settled unobtrusively on his sword, and over his muscled shoulder Mara glimpsed a figure seated in the shadow to the rear of the gallery. He might be a spy, or worse: an assassin. With Midkemians scheduled for sale, a bold Lord might chance on the fact that the upper level would be deserted. But for a rival house to know that Mara had chosen to go personally to the slave market bespoke the presence of an informant very highly placed in Acoma ranks. The Lady paused, her stomach turned cold by the thought that if she was struck down here, her year-old son, Ayaki, would be the last obstacle to the obliteration of the Acoma name.

Then the figure in the shadows moved, and sunlight through a tear in the awning revealed a face that was handsome and young, and showing a smile of surprised pleasure.

Mara lightly patted Lujan’s wrist, gentling his grip on the sword. ‘It’s all right,’ she said softly. ‘I know this noble.’

Lujan straightened, expressionless, as the young man arose from his bench. The man moved with a swordsman’s balance. His clothing was well made, from sandals of blue-dyed leather to a tunic of embroidered silk. He wore his hair in a warrior’s cut, and his only ornament was a pendant of polished obsidian hanging around his neck.

‘Hokanu,’ Mara said, and at the name her bodyguard relaxed. Lujan had not been present during the political bloodbath at the Minwanabi estate, but from talk in the barracks he knew that Hokanu and his father, Lord Kamatsu of the Shinzawai, had been almost alone in supporting the Acoma. This, at a time when most Lords accepted that Mara’s death was a foregone conclusion.

Lujan stood deferentially aside and, from beneath the brim of his helm, regarded the noble who approached. Mara had received many petitions for marriage since the death of her husband, but none of the suitors was as handsome or as well disposed as the second son of Kamatsu of the Shinzawai. Lujan maintained correct bearing. to the finest detail, but like any in the Acoma household, he had a personal interest in Hokanu. And so had Mara, if the flush in her cheeks gave any indication.

After the subtle flattery of recent suitors, Hokanu’s honest yearning for Mara’s approval was refreshing. ‘Lady, what a perfect surprise! I had no expectation of finding so lovely a flower in this most unpleasant of surroundings.’ He paused, bowed neatly, and smiled. ‘Although of late we have all seen this delicate blossom show thorns. Your victory over Jingu of the Minwanabi is still the talk of Silmani,’ he said, naming the city closest to his father’s estates.

Mara returned his bow with sincerity. ‘I did not see any Shinzawai colours among the retainers waiting on the street. Otherwise I should have brought a servant with jomach ice and cold herb tea. Or perhaps you do not wish your interest in these slaves to be noticed?’ She let that question hang a moment, then brightly asked, ‘Is your father well?’

Hokanu nodded politely and seated Mara on a bench. His grip was strong but pleasant; nothing like the rough grasp she had known from her husband of two years. Mara met the Shinzawai son’s eyes and saw there a quiet intelligence, overlaid by amusement at the apparent innocence of her question.

‘You are very perceptive.’ He laughed in sudden delight. ‘Yes, I am interested in Midkemians, and at my most healthy father’s request, I am trying not to advertise the fact.’ His expression turned more serious. ‘I would like to be frank with you, Mara, even as my father was with Lord Sezu – our fathers served together in their youth, and trusted one another.’

Though intrigued by the young man’s charm, Mara repressed her desire to be open lest she reveal too much. Hokanu she trusted; but her family name was too recently snatched from oblivion for her to reveal her intentions. Shinzawai servants might have loose tongues, and young men away from home sometimes celebrated their first freedom and responsibility with drink. Hokanu seemed as canny as his father, but she did not know him well enough to be certain.

‘I fear the Acoma interest in the barbarians is purely a financial one.’ Mara waved her fan in resignation. ‘The cho-ja hive we gained three years ago left our needra short of pasture. Slaves who clear forest in the wet season fall ill, my hadonra says. If we are to have enough grazing to support our herds at calving, we must allow for losses.’ She gave Hokanu a rueful look. ‘Though I expected no competition at this auction. I am glad to see you, but nettled by the thought of bidding against so dear a friend.’

Hokanu regarded his hands for a moment, his brow untroubled, and a smile bending the corners of his mouth. ‘If I relieve my Lady of her dilemma, she will owe the Shinzawai her favour. Say, entertaining a poor second son at dinner soon?’

Mara unexpectedly laughed. ‘You’re a devil for flattery, Hokanu. Very well; you know that I need no bribes to allow you to visit my estates. Your company is … always welcome.’

Hokanu stared in mock suffering at Lujan. ‘She says that very prettily for one who refused me the last time I was in Sulan-Qu.’

‘That’s not fair,’ Mara protested, then blushed as she realized how quickly she had spoken in her own defence. With better decorum she added, ‘Your request came at an awkward moment, Master Hokanu.’ And her face darkened as she recalled a Minwanabi spy, and a pretty, importunate boy who had suffered as a result of the intrigue and ambition that underlay every aspect of life in the Empire of Tsuranuanni.

Hokanu noted the strain that shadowed her face. His heart went out to this young woman, who had been so serious as a child, and who had against the greatest odds found the courage and intelligence to secure her house from ruin. ‘I will cede to you the Midkemians,’ he said firmly, ‘for whatever price you can bargain with the factor.’

‘But I wish not to inconvenience you,’ Mara protested. Her fan trembled between clenched fingers. She was tense; Hokanu must not be permitted to notice, and to distract him she whiffed air through the feathers as if she were bothered by the heat. ‘The Shinzawai have shown the Acoma much kindness and, in honour, it is time that we proved ourselves worthy. Let me be the one to cede the bidding.’

Hokanu regarded the Lady, who was daintily small, and far more attractive than she herself understood. She had a smile that made her radiant, except that at present the face beneath its thyza-powder makeup was almost wary with tension. Her concern went much deeper than simple forms of honour, the young man sensed at once.

The insight gave him pause: she had been snatched away from taking vows of service to the goddess Lashima to assume her role as Ruling Lady. In all likelihood she had known little or nothing of men before her wedding night. And Buntokapi of the Anasati, an ill-mannered, coarse braggart at the best of times, had been the son of an Acoma enemy before he had become her husband and Ruling Lord. He had been rough with her, Hokanu understood with sudden certainty, which was why this Ruling Lady and mother could also act as unsure as a girl years younger. Admiration followed; this seemingly delicate girl had owned valour out of all proportion to her size and experience. No one outside her inner household could ever guess what she might have endured in Buntokapi’s rude grasp. One close to Mara might say much if Hokanu could get him to share drink in a wine shop. But a glance at Lujan’s alert pose convinced Lord Kamatsu’s son that the Strike Leader was a poor choice. The warrior measured Hokanu, having perceived his interest; and where his mistress was concerned, his loyalty would be absolute. Hokanu knew Mara was a shrewd judge of character – she had proven as much by staying alive as long as she had.

Attempting to lighten her mood and not give offence, Hokanu said, ‘Lady, I spoke out of sincere disappointment at not being able to see you on my last visit.’ He concealed any diffidence behind a disarming smile. ‘No favours do the Acoma owe the Shinzawai. We deal here in simple practicality. Most Midkemian slaves go to the block at the City of the Plains and Jamar, and I am bound for Jamar. Should I make you wait for the next shipment of prisoners to journey upriver, while I drive two score men in a coffle through the heat, house them while I conduct business, then herd them back upriver again? I think not. Your needra pastures are a more immediate need, I judge. Please accept my not bidding against you as nothing more than a tiny courtesy from me.’

Mara stopped her fan in midair with barely hidden relief. ‘Tiny courtesy? Your kindness is unmatched, Hokanu. When your business in Jamar is concluded, I would be most pleased if you would accept my invitation to rest as a guest of the Acoma on your way back to your father’s estates.’

‘Then the matter of the slaves is settled.’ Hokanu took her hand. ‘I will accept your hospitality with pleasure.’ He bowed, sealing their agreement. As he straightened he saw two brown eyes regarding him intently. The Lady of the Acoma had always attracted him, from the moment he had first seen her. When he returned from Jamar, he might have the opportunity to know her better, to explore possibilities, to see if his interest was reciprocated. But now, intuitively, he sensed that his nearness confused her. The public slave market was no place to unravel the reason why, and rather than discomfort her to the point where her pleasure at seeing him changed to regret, he rose from his seat. ‘Well, then. The sooner I’m off to Jamar, the sooner I’ll return this way. I look forward to seeing you again, Lady.’

Mara fluttered her fan before her face. Unexpectedly self-conscious, she felt both regret and relief that Hokanu was departing. She nodded with the appearance of poise. ‘I, too, look forward to that time. Fare well upon your road.’

‘Fare you well, too, Lady Mara.’

The younger of the two Shinzawai sons threaded his way through the benches and left the upper gallery. As he stepped into the sunlight on the stair, his profile showed the straight nose, high forehead, and firm chin that had captured the attention of many a noble’s daughter in his home province of Szetac. Even to Lujan’s overcritical eye, the man was as well favoured as he was socially well placed.

The sound of raised voices drifted up from the slave compound. Mara’s attentions turned from the retreating figure of Hokanu. She pressed close to the gallery rail to view the cause of the commotion. Since archers could not be concealed among bands of naked slaves, Lujan did not urge her to stay back within the shadows, but he did continue to observe nearby rooftops.

Mara was surprised to discover that the unseemly shouting came from the factor overseeing the barbarians. Short, plump, and swathed in costly yellow silk, he stood shaking his fist under the chin of an outworlder. Facing him stood the red-haired Midkemian Mara had glimpsed before, his naked body gleaming in the afternoon light. He seemed to be desperately smothering laughter as he endured the factor’s tirade. Mara was forced to admit the tableau was comic; the factor was short, even for a Tsurani, and the barbarians towered over him. In a vain attempt to look threatening, their overlord was forced to stand upon tiptoes.

Mara studied the outworlder. Although at any moment he might be savaged by a whip, he stood with arms crossed, a study in self-confidence. He was a full head taller than any of his betters, the overseer and the two assistants who rushed to the factor’s aid. The outworlder looked down on their agitation like a boy noble bored by his jesters. Mara felt a sudden twist within her as she studied the man’s body, made whipcord-lean by meagre rations and hard work. As she forced herself to calmness, she wondered if Hokanu’s presence had affected her more deeply than she had imagined. The men she needed to be most concerned with at this moment were down in the pen, and her interest in them was solely financial.

Mara ended her frank appraisal of the man’s appearance and focused on his interaction with the Tsurani overseer and his assistants. The factor’s rant reached a crescendo. Then he ran out of breath. He waved his fist one last time at the height of the barbarian’s collarbone. And much to Mara’s amazement, the slave showed no sign of submissiveness. Rather than prostrating himself with his face pressed into the earth at the factor’s feet, silently awaiting his punishment, he stroked his bearded chin and, in a resonant voice, began speaking in broken Tsurani, his gestures those of a confidant instead of obedient property.

‘By the gods, will you look at him!’ exclaimed Lujan in astonishment. ‘He acts as if slaves were born with the right to argue. If they’re all as brazen as this fellow, it’s no wonder a slave master must beat their skins off to get a half day’s work from them.’

‘Hush,’ Mara waved her hand toward Lujan. ‘I wish to hear this.’ She strained to understand the barbarian’s mangled Tsurani.

Suddenly the outworlder stopped speaking, his head cocked to one side, as if he had made his point. The factor looked overheated. He motioned to the assistant with the tally slate and said in an exasperated tone, ‘Line up! All of you! Now!’

The slaves unhurriedly strung themselves out in a row. From her overhead view from the gallery, Mara noticed that the barbarians shuffled to their places in such a way as to conceal the activities of two fellows, who were crouched before the log palisade on the side that fronted onto the river.

‘What do you suppose they are doing?’ she asked Lujan.

The warrior shrugged Tsurani style, the barest movement of the shoulders. ‘Mischief of some sort. I’ve seen needra show more brains than that factor.’

Below, the overseer and the assistant with the slate began laboriously to count the slaves. The two by the palisade joined the line late, and by dint of a staged trip and some, scuffling as the off-balance man crashed into the row, the tally keeper lost track of his count. He started over, looking down to chalk a mark for each slave as he passed, while the factor cursed and sweated at the delay.

Each time the tally keeper consulted his slate, the unruly barbarians shifted position. The man with the whip lashed a few backs in an attempt to establish order. One slave shouted something in his native tongue that sounded suspiciously like an obscenity as he jumped away from the punishment, and others laughed. The lash fell to silence the ones nearest the overseer, which caused the line of standing slaves to break and shuffle and re-form behind the man’s back. The tally keeper looked up in despair. Once again, the numbers were hopelessly confused.

The factor shouted in a shameful show of impatience, ‘We’ll all be dead and ashes by the time you finish with that!’ He clapped his hands at someone on the sidelines, and a moment later, a servant scuttled into the compound with a basket of rough-woven trousers and shirts. These he began to dispense among the slaves.

At this point the red-haired barbarian began to scream insults at the overseer. His Tsurani might be broken and heavily mispronounced, but at some point along his line of march since his capture some nameless beggar child had taught him thoroughly and well. The overseer’s mouth opened in incredulity as he considered the biological implications of what the outworlder had just said about his mother. Then he reddened and swung his lash, which the barbarian adroitly avoided. A chase developed between the large Midkemian and the smaller, fatter Tsurani.

Lujan laughed. ‘It’s a shame the barbarian needs to be broken; this is a comedy worthy of any travelling troupe of performers I’ve ever seen. He certainly seems to be enjoying himself.’ Movement caught Lujan’s eye in the far corner of the pen. ‘Ah!’ he exclaimed. ‘And to clear purpose, it would seem.’

Mara, too, had noticed that one of the slaves had resumed his crouch by the palisade. A moment later he appeared to be stuffing something through. ‘Lashima’s wisdom,’ she said, startled into a smile of amazement. ‘They are pilfering the shirts!’

The gallery afforded a view of the operation. The redheaded giant raced around the compound. Despite his height, he moved with the grace of a sarcat – the quick and silent six-legged hunter of the grasslands – at first avoiding every attempt of the overseer to catch him. Then, strangely, he began to plod like a pregnant needra cow. The overseer came close, and as the barbarian dodged the near miss of the lash, he shuffled, slid, dragged his heels and toes, and kicked up an excessive amount of dust. He also crashed often into those of his comrades who had received their allotment of trousers and shirt. These suddenly clumsy men fell and rolled, and under cover of dust and movement, cloth miraculously disappeared. Some was bundled and passed to other slaves; occasionally a shirt would unfurl and land, to be picked up by another man. In this manner the clothing passed at last to the man by the palisade. At opportune moments he stuffed the fabric through a gap and caught the shell counters that served as coin within the Empire that someone slipped through from without. These the Midkemian wiped on his hairy chest. Then he placed them in his mouth and swallowed them.

‘There must be beggar boys on the other side.’ Lujan shook his head. ‘Or perhaps some bargeman’s child. Though why a slave should think he has use for coin is a mystery.’

‘They certainly show great ingenuity … and nerve,’ Mara observed, and Lujan regarded her keenly. That she had mistakenly conceded honourable attributes to men who by the inflexible laws of society were accorded less stature than the lowest scabby beggars in the gutters made the Strike Leader pause. Desperation had taught Mara to reappraise the traditions of her people with sometimes ingenious results. Yet although Lujan himself had sworn to her service through just such an unorthodox twist, even he could not guess what she might see in a lot of barbarian slaves. Trying to fathom her fascination, the warrior regarded the ongoing conflict down below.

The overseer had called in reinforcements. Several brawny guards equipped with curved hooks of roughened needra hide raced into the compound and ran at the unruly redhead; slaves who tried to hamper them were elbowed aside or kicked with sharp-toed sandals. One barbarian fell with a bloodied shin. Seeing that, the others quickly cleared the soldiers’ path. The redheaded ringleader also slowed his pace. He allowed himself to be cornered rather than suffer injury from brutal handling. The warriors took him in hand with their hooks and dragged him before the red-faced and dusty factor, whose robe was now sadly in need of a wash. They pitched their huge captive on his knees and held him, while the overseer yelled for cuffs and straps of hardened needra leather to restrain his unmanageable wildness.

Still the barbarian was not cowed. As if unaware that his life could be taken at a gesture of his overseer’s hand, he flung back his tangled hair and regarded his captors with wide blue eyes. At some point in the scuffle he had acquired a slash across one cheekbone. Blood ran down his face and soaked into the fiery brush of his beard. He could not be past his twenties, at a guess, and even harsh handling had not tamed his flamboyance. He said something. Mara and Lujan saw the factor’s face go stiff, and one of the guards repressed an un-Tsurani-like burst of laughter behind one lacquered gauntlet. The overseer with the whip proved more in control. He answered with the lash, then kicked the barbarian forward onto his face.

Mara did not flinch at the violence. Disobedient slaves were beaten on her estate for far less cause than this barbarian’s outrageous behaviour. Still, the fact that the redhead’s actions were inconceivable to the mores of society did not shock her beyond thought. She had acquainted herself with the customs of the cho-ja, and come to respect their ways and wisdom, alien though it might be. As she watched the slaves in the compound, it occurred to her that these men were as human as she, but their world was far different from Kelewan. Being strangers, perhaps they did not comprehend the scope of their lot: for on Kelewan a man left slavery only through the portals of death. He was honourless, soulless, insignificant as an insect, to be raised to comfort or ground down in misery with as little thought as a man might regard a red-bee who gathered his honey.

A Tsurani warrior would die by his own hand rather than allow himself to be taken alive by an enemy – captives were usually wounded, unconscious, or cowards. These Midkemians presumably had the same options, and in living on past honour, they had chosen their lot.

The redhead seemed anything but resigned. He rolled to escape the whip and crashed into the factor’s ankles. The fat man yelped and staggered, saved from a fall by the tally keeper, who hurriedly dropped his slate and grabbed a double handhold of creased yellow silk. The chalkboard fell flat in the dust, and the barbarian, with enviable subterfuge, rolled over it. The tally marks were obliterated by a smear of sweat and dirt; and Mara, in the gallery, saw with a queer thrill that the hamper was empty. Only a third of the men in the yard were clothed; some lacked breeches and others had no shirts. Although the redhead had gained himself a beating, perhaps even death by hanging, he had won a small victory over his captors.

The men with the hooks closed in. The heat and the exertion had stripped them of patience, and this time their blows were aimed to cripple.

On an impulse, Mara of the Acoma leaped to her feet. ‘Cease!’ she called over the railing. The command in her voice compelled the warriors’ obedience. She was a Ruling Lady, and they no more than servants. Conditioned to follow orders, they lowered their hooks and halted their rush on the Midkemian. The factor straightened his robes in surprise, while, on the dusty, torn earth, the barbarian slave rolled uncomfortably onto one elbow and looked up.

That his rescuer was a small, black-haired woman seemed to take him aback. Still he brazenly continued to stare, until the tally keeper slapped his face to make him avert his gaze.

Mara’s brows knitted in anger. ‘I said cease! Any more of this, and I will demand that you be obliged to pay for damaging goods while a bidder stands waiting to make an offer.’

The factor snapped straight in stupefaction, his spoiled yellow silk forgotten. He brushed sweaty hair from his temples, as if by mending his appearance his lapse in decorum might be forgotten. Seeing the Lady of the Acoma in the buyers’ gallery, he bowed very low, almost to his knees. After the redhead’s bad-tempered display, he knew he would be lucky to sell this lot of Midkemians for the price commanded by a pet fish. That this Lady had witnessed, and yet still wished to purchase, was a marvel no sane man would question.

Aware he was in no position to bargain, Mara swished her fan with a studied show of indifference. ‘I might give thirty centuries for these barbarians,’ she said slowly. ‘If the big one bleeds too much, I might not.’

At this, even Lujan raised his brows. He, too, questioned his Lady’s wisdom in purchasing unruly slaves, but it was not the place of a warrior to advise. He held his silence while, in the compound, the factor turned on the tally keeper and sent the man scurrying off for cloths and water. The man returned and was immediately assigned the humiliating task of bathing the redhead’s cuts.

But the barbarian ringleader would endure no solicitude. He reached with one huge fist and, despite the restraint of cuffs and strap, moved fast enough to catch the tally keeper’s wrist. What he said could not be overheard from the gallery, but the servant abandoned both rag and basin, as if his fingers were burned.

The factor glossed over this disobedience with a smile of nervous improvisation. He had no wish to try Mara’s patience by ordering reprisal against the slave. He tried to behave as if everything had gone according to plan as one of the barbarian’s fellows stepped forward and briskly began cleansing the whip wounds of his companion.

‘Lady, the purchase papers can be drawn up at once, in the private comfort of my office. I’ll send for iced fruit for your thirst while you wait to sign. If you would be so kind as to join me in my office …’

‘That won’t be necessary,’ Mara said crisply. ‘Send your scribe to me outside, for I wish that these slaves be removed to my estates at once. The instant I have a bill of sale, my warriors will take them into custody.’ She made a last study of the compound and added, ‘That is, I will sign for my purchase after these slaves have been provided with proper clothing.’

‘But –’ spluttered the factor in dismay. The tally keeper looked sour. Although the hamper brought out from the storerooms had originally held enough trousers and shirts to clothe three incoming coffles from Jamar, many of these men still stood naked or half-clothed. There should be a proper inquiry over that, and no doubt a round of beatings, but the Lady’s impatience ended the matter. She wanted to sign and buy at once. With a furious gesture, the factor urged the tally keeper to overlook the lapse and be done. At thirty centuries, these slaves would bring little profit, but worse was the risk that they would linger unsold, swelling the holding pens and eating thyza that might be better used to fatten more amenable slaves – each worth five to ten centuries alone.

Aware of which shortfall he would rather report to his investors, the factor regained his poise. ‘Send my runner for a scribe to draw up the Lady’s document.’ He snapped something under his breath as his underling began to protest, surely an urge to make haste lest the Lady come to her senses and change her mind.

The assistant rushed off. The Lady in the gallery paid his departure no heed; her own gaze turned toward the redheaded barbarian acquired on impulse and intuition. He in his turn stared back, and something about the intentness of his blue eyes caused her to blush as Hokanu of the Shinzawai had not.

Mara suddenly turned away and without a word to her Strike Leader hurried down the steps from the gallery to the street level. The Strike Leader needed but a step to overtake her and resume his position. He wondered if the speed of her departure resulted from her impatience to return to her home or from another discomfort.

Putting aside speculation, Lujan bent to assist Mara into her litter. ‘Jican’s going to be thrown into a dither.’ Mara studied her officer’s face and found none of his usual amusement. In place of mocking humour she saw only concern – and perhaps something more.

Then the factor’s scribe appeared with documents to finalize the sale. Mara signed, impatient to be away.

A noise of alien chatter and grumbling, and the slaves were herded out of the gate from the holding area. Lujan gave the barest motion of his head, and Mara’s company of guards busied themselves with readying two dozen Midkemians for the journey back to the Acoma estates. The task was made difficult by the slaves’ poor comprehension of the language and an unbelievable tendency to argue. No slave of Tsurani birth would ever think of demanding sandals before being required to march. Stymied by seemingly irrational defiance, the soldiers first threatened and finally resorted to force. Their tempers grew shorter by the minute. Soldiers were not overseers, and beating slaves was beneath their station. To be seen manhandling chattel in a public street shamed them and reflected no honour upon the mistress now ready to depart.

Mara’s too-straight back as she sat motionless on her cushions showed her discomfort at this coarse display. She gestured for her bearers to shoulder the litter poles. The pace she commanded from them at least assured that passage through the streets of Sulan-Qu would be brief.

Mara motioned to Lujan and, after the briefest conference, determined that she and her party should drive the Midkemian slaves by the least conspicuous route. This involved crossing the poorer quarters by the river, over streets rutted with refuse and puddles of sewage and wash water. Now the warriors drew swords and shoved laggard slaves on their way with the flats of their blades. Footpads and street thieves were little threat to a company of their vigilance and experience, but Mara wished for haste for other reasons.

Her enemies always took interest in her movements, no matter how insignificant, and gossip would arise about her visit to the slave pen. Even now the factor and his handlers were probably heading for the local wine shop, and if just one trader or merchant overheard their speculation upon Mara’s motives in buying outworld slaves, rumours would instantly begin to spread. And once her presence in the city was widely known, enemy agents would be racing to overtake her and track her movements. Since the Midkemians were intended for the clearing of new needra meadows, Mara wished that fact kept secret as long as possible. No matter how trivial, any information gained by her foes weakened the Acoma. And Mara’s supreme concern, since the day she became Ruling Lady, was to preserve the house of her ancestors.

The litter bearers turned into the street that flanked the riverfront. Here the byway narrowed to an alley between ramshackle buildings, providing scant room for the litter on either side. Atop the walls, galleries with rough hide curtains loomed above the streets, their roof beams crowding together, swallowing sunlight. Successive generations of landlords had added additional floors, each new storey overhanging the previous one, so that to look upward was to view a narrow slice of the green Kelewanese sky, brilliant against the oppressive dimness. Mara’s soldiers strained to see in the sudden gloom, always watchful for threats to their mistress; this warren provided ample opportunity for ambush.

The river breeze could not penetrate this tight-woven maze of tenements. The air hung motionless and humid, fetid with garbage, waste, and the pungency of decaying timbers. Many foundations were eaten away with dry rot, causing walls to crack and roof beams to sag. Despite the repellent surroundings, the streets teemed with humanity. The inhabitants hurried clear of Mara’s retinue, commoners ducking into doorless hovels at the sight of an officer’s plume. Warriors of great Lords would instantly beat any wretch slow to clear their path. Only throngs of shouting and filthy urchins tempted such misfortune, pointing at the Lady’s rich litter and darting clear of the soldiers who jabbed spear butts to clear them away.

The Midkemians had ceased their chattering, much to Lujan’s relief. At present his warriors had enough to occupy them without that added irritation. No matter how often the barbarians were ordered to silence, as befitted slaves, they tended to disobey. Now, as the Acoma retinue passed between the overcrowded tenements, the spicy, smoke-scented air that issued from the dens of the drug-flower sellers became prevalent. The eaters of the kamota blossom resin lived in dreams and hallucinations, and madness came upon them in fits. The warriors carried their spears in readiness, prepared for unexpected attack, and Mara sat behind closed curtains, her scented fan pressed close to her nostrils.

The litter slowed before a corner, its occupant jostled as the bearers shifted grip and jockeyed their load past the posts of a sagging doorway. One of the poles caught upon the dirty curtain that hung across the entrance, pulling it askew. Within huddled several families, crowded one upon another. Their clothes were filthy and their skins wretched with sores. A pot of noisome thyza was being shared out among them, while another, similar pot collected the day’s soil in one corner. The stench was choking, and on a tattered blanket a mother suckled a limp infant, three more toddlers lying across her knees and ankles. They all showed signs of vermin, ill health, and starvation. Inculcated since birth to know that poverty or wealth was bestowed as the gods willed – in reward for deeds in past lives – Mara gave their wretchedness no consideration.

The bearers cleared the litter from the doorway. As they regrouped, Mara caught a glimpse of the new slaves who followed behind. The tall redhead muttered something to another slave, a balding, powerfully built man who listened with the respect of one deferring to a leader. Outrage, or maybe shock, showed in both men’s expressions, though what might inspire such depths of emotion within a public place, before individuals almost as honourless as the slaves themselves, seemed a mystery to the Lady.

The poor quarter of Sulan-Qu was not large; still, passage through the jammed streets was painfully tedious. Finally the tenements fell behind as the road crooked with the bend in the river Gagajin. Here the gloom lessened, but only slightly. In place of the mildewed tenements were warehouses, craft sheds, and factories. Dye shops and tanneries, butchers’ stalls and slaughterhouses crowded the way, and the blended stinks of offal, dye vats, and steam from the tallow Tenderer’s left a reeking miasma in the air. Smoke from the resin makers’ fires coiled in clouds from the chimneys, and at the riverside, docked to weathered pilings, lay commerce barges and other floating house-shacks. Vendors vied for any cranny that remained, each crowded, tiny stall serving its wares to clusters of wives and off-duty workers.

Now Lujan’s warriors were forced to shove the crowds aside, shouting, ‘Acoma! Acoma!’ to let the commoners know a great Lady was passing. Other warriors closed tightly against the sides of Mara’s litter, placing their armoured bodies between their mistress and possible danger. The slaves they kept herded together, and the press became so tight that no man could look down to check his footing. The soldiers wore hardened leather sandals, but the slaves, including the bearers, had no choice but to tread on bits of broken crockery and rivulets of sewage and other refuse.

Mara lay back against her finely embroidered cushions, her fan pressed hard to her face. She closed her eyes in longing for the open meadows of her estate, perfumed with summer grass and sweet flowers. In time the factory quarter changed, became less odorous and crowded, more inclined toward industries of the luxury trade. Here weavers, tailors, basket makers, cordwainers, silk spinners, and potters toiled. An occasional jeweller’s stall – guarded by armed mercenaries – or a perfumer’s, frequented in this less fashionable quarter by painted women of the Reed Life, was nestled between shops offering less luxurious merchandise.

The sun had climbed to midday. Drowsy behind her curtains, Mara fanned herself slowly, thankful that, at last, the bustle of Sulan-Qu fell behind. As her retinue continued down roads shaded by evergreens, she was lying back, attempting to sleep, when one of the bearers developed a limp. At each step she was jostled uncomfortably on her cushions, and rather than cause a man needless pain, she ordered a halt to look into the matter.

Lujan detailed a soldier to inspect the bearers. One had cut his foot in the poor quarters. Tsurani, and aware of his place, he had striven to continue his duty to the verge of fainting with pain.

Mara was still nearly an hour from her estate house, and, maddeningly, the Midkemians were once again speaking among themselves in the nasal braying that passed for their native language. Irked by their jabbering as much as by the delay, she motioned to Lujan. ‘Send that redheaded barbarian over to replace my lame bearer.’ Slave he might be, but he acted like a ringleader, and since the stinks of the poor quarter had left Mara with a headache, she was willing to consider almost any expedient to make the barbarians less quarrelsome.

The warriors immediately brought the chosen slave. The bald one called out in protest and had to be cuffed aside. Knocked to his knees, he continued to shout, until the redhead bade him be silent. Then, blue eyes fixed in curiosity on the elegant Lady in the litter, he came forward to shoulder the vacant left front pole.

‘No,’ snapped Lujan at once. He waved for the slave to the rear to come forward and assigned the redhead to stand behind. This way a warrior with an unsheathed sword could march at the barbarian’s back, insurance against trouble or threat to their mistress.

‘Home,’ she ordered her retinue, and her bearers crouched to shoulder their burden, the redheaded barbarian among them.

The first steps forward were unmitigated chaos. The Midkemian was over a head taller than the other bearers, and as he straightened with his load, and strode ahead, the litter canted forward. Mara found herself starting to slide. The silk trappings and cushions offered no resistance to her motion. Lujan’s fast reflexes spared her an unceremonious spill onto the ground, and a slap of his hand warned the barbarian to hold his pole level. This the huge man could do only by hunching his back and shoulders, which placed his curly head just inches from his mistress’s curtains.

‘This won’t do at all,’ Mara snapped.

‘A fine triumph for Desio of the Minwanabi, if you came to hurt through a slave’s clumsiness,’ Lujan said, then he added a hopeful smile. ‘Maybe we could dress these Midkemians as house slaves and give them to the Minwanabi as a gift? At least they might break much of value before Desio’s First Adviser orders them hanged.’

But Mara was in no mood for jokes. She straightened her robe and removed mussed pins from her hair. All the while the barbarian’s eyes watched her with a directness the Lady found disturbing. At length he cocked his head to one side and, with a disarming grin, addressed her in broken Tsurani as he stumbled along.

Lujan drowned him out with a shout of outrage. ‘Dog! Slave! On your miserable knees!’ He snapped his head at his warriors. Instantly one rushed to take the litter pole, while others seized the redhead and threw him forcefully down. Strong arms pummelled his shoulders, and still he tried to speak, until a warrior’s studded sandal pressed his insolent face into the dust.

‘How dare you address the Lady of the Acoma, slave!’ shouted Lujan.

‘What is he trying to say?’ asked Mara, suddenly more curious than affronted.

Lujan looked around in surprise. ‘Can it matter? He’s a barbarian, and that brings you no honour, mistress. Still, his suggestion was not without merit.’

Mara paused, her hand full of tortoiseshell pins. Sunlight glinted on their jewelled heads, and on the shell ornaments sewn to her collar. ‘Tell me.’

Lujan raked his wrist across his sweat-streaked brow. ‘The wretch suggested that if you would call over three of his fellows, and dismiss your other slaves, they might carry your litter more easily, since they are closer to the same height.’

Mara lay back, her pins and fallen hair momentarily forgotten. She frowned in thought. ‘He said that,’ she mused, then looked at the man, who lay face down in the dust with a soldier’s foot holding him immobile. ‘Let him up.’

‘Lady?’ lujan said softly. Only his questioning tone hinted how close he dared go in direct protest of her given order.

‘Let the barbarian up,’ said Mara shortly. ‘I believe his suggestion is sensible. Or do you wish to march through the afternoon, delayed by a lame bearer?’

Lujan returned a Tsurani shrug, as if to say that his mistress was right. In truth, she could be as stubborn as the barbarian slaves, and rather than try her further, the Acoma Strike Leader called off the warrior who held the redhead down. He gave rapid orders. The remaining bearers and the one warrior lowered Mara’s litter to the ground, and three of the taller Midkemians were selected to take their places. The redheaded one joined them, his handsome face left bloody where a stone in the roadway had opened the gash on his cheek. He took his place no more humbly than before, though he must have been bruised by rough handling. The retinue started forward once again, with Mara little more comfortable. The Midkemians might have meant well, but they were inexperienced at carrying a litter. They did not time their strides, which made for a jolting ride. Mara lay back, fighting queasiness. She closed her eyes in resignation. The slaves purchased in Sulan-Qu were proving far too much of a distraction. She made note to herself to make mention to Jican; the Midkemians should perhaps be assigned to duties close to the estate house, where warriors were always within call. The more experienced overseers could keep watch until the slaves had been taught proper behaviour and could be trusted to act as fate had intended.

Irritated that something as trivial as buying new slaves had evoked so much discomfort and confusion, Mara pondered the problems sent against her by her enemies. Eyes closed against the onslaught of a burgeoning headache, she thought to herself, What would I be plotting if I were Desio of the Minwanabi?

• Chapter Two • Planning

The air was still.

Desio of the Minwanabi sat at the desk in his late father’s study contemplating the tallies before him. Although it was midday, a lamp burned near his elbow. The study was a shadowy furnace, all screens and battle shutters tightly closed, denying those inside the afternoon breezes off the lake. Desio seemed immune to the discomfort. A single jade-fly buzzed around his head, apparently determined to land upon the young Lord’s brow. Desio’s hand moved absently, as if to brush away the troublesome insect, and for an instant the sweating slave who fanned him broke rhythm, uncertain whether the Lord of the Minwanabi gestured for him to withdraw.

An elderly figure in shadow motioned for the slave to remain. Incomo, First Adviser of House Minwanabi, waited patiently for his master to finish the reports.

Desio’s brow knitted. He dragged the oil lamp closer and sought to concentrate upon the information listed on the papers before him, but the characters seemed to swim through the humid afternoon air. At last he rocked back on his cushions with an angry sigh of frustration. ‘Enough!’

Incomo regarded his young master with a blandness that hid concern. ‘My Lord?’

Desio, never athletic, pushed the lamp aside and rose ponderously to his feet. His massive stomach strained at the sash of the lounging robe he wore in his own quarters. Perspiration streamed off his face, and with a pudgy hand he swept damp locks out of his eyes.

Incomo knew that the cause of Desio’s agitation was more than the usual humidity, the legacy of an unseasonable tropical storm to the south. The Lord of the Minwanabi had ordered the screens latched closed ostensibly for privacy. The old man knew the reason behind the seemingly irrational order: fear. Even in his own home, Desio was afraid. No lord of any house, let alone one of the Five Great Houses, could admit to such weakness, so the First Adviser dared say nothing on the matter.

Desio stalked heavily around the room, his rage slowly building, his torturous breath and bunched fists sure sign that within minutes he would strike out at whichever member of his household happened to be nearest. The young Lord had evidenced a nature of petty cruelty while his father ruled, but that vicious streak had bloomed in full since the death of Jingu. With his mother having retired to a convent of Lashima, Desio showed no restraints on his impulses. The fan slave paced after his master, attempting to discharge his tasks without getting in the way.

Hoping to avoid the incapacitation of another house slave, the First Adviser said, ‘My Lord, perhaps a cool drink would restore your patience. These matters of trade are urgent.’

Desio continued pacing as if he did not hear. His appearance revealed his recent personal neglect and indulgence, florid cheeks and nose, puffy dark circles beneath his red-rimmed eyes, grimy hair hanging lankly around his shoulders, and greasy dirt under his fingernails. Incomo reflected that, since his father’s ritual suicide, the young Lord had generally acted like an itchy needra bull in a mud wallow with a dozen cows, an odd way to show his grief, but not unheard of: those confronted by death for the first time often embrace life-affirming behaviour. So, for days, Desio had remained drunk in his private quarters with his girls and ignored the affairs of House Minwanabi.

On the second morning some of the girls reappeared, bruised and battered from Desio’s passionate rages. Other girls replaced them in a seemingly inexhaustible succession, until the Lord of the Minwanabi had finally thrown off his fit of grief. He had emerged looking ten years older than at the moment he had silently watched his father fall upon the family sword.

Now Desio made a pretence of running the far-flung holdings he had inherited, but his drinking began at midday and continued into the night. Although Lord of one of the Five Great Families of the Empire, Desio seemed unable to acknowledge the enormous responsibility that went with his power. Tormented by personal demons, he tried to hide from them in soft arms or wash them away with a sea of wine. Had Incomo dared, he would have sent his master a healer, a priest, and a child’s teacher who would issue a stiff lecture on the responsibilities that accompanied the ruler’s mantle. But one look in Desio’s eyes – and the madness hinted there – warned the First Adviser any such efforts would be futile. Desio’s spirit boiled with a rage only the Red God might answer.

Incomo tried one last time to turn Desio’s attention back to business. ‘My Lord, if I may point out, we are losing days while our ships lie empty in their berths in Jamar. If they are to sail to –’

‘Enough!’ Desio’s fist crashed against a partition, tearing the delicate painted silk and splintering the frame. He kicked the wreckage to the floor, then whirled and collided with his fan slave. Enraged beyond reason, the Lord of the Minwanabi struck the man as if he were furniture. The slave crashed to his knees, a broken nose and lacerated lip spraying blood across his face, his chest, and the smashed partition. In fear for his very life, the slave managed to keep the large fan from striking his master, despite being half-blind from pain and tears. Desio remained oblivious to the slave’s heroic deference. He rounded to confront his adviser. ‘I cannot concentrate on anything, so long as she is out there!’

Incomo required no explanation to know to whom his master referred. Experience taught him there was nothing to do but sit back and endure another outburst. ‘My Lord,’ he said anxiously, ‘no good will be gained in yearning for vengeance should all your wealth dwindle through neglect. If you will not attend to these decisions, at least permit your hadonra to take matters in hand.’

The plea made no impression on Desio. Staring into the distance, his voice a harsh whisper, as if to speak the hated name were to give it substance, he whispered, ‘Mara of the Acoma must die!’

Glad now for the dark room, which hid his own fears, Incomo agreed. ‘Of course, my Lord. But this is not the time.’

‘When!’ he shouted, his bellow hurting Incomo’s ears. Desio kicked at a pillow, then lowered his voice to a more reasonable tone. ‘When? She contrived to escape my father’s trap; and more: she forced him to dishonour his own pledge for the safety of a guest, compelling him to kill himself in shame.’ Desio’s agitation simmered higher as he recounted Mara’s offences against his house. ‘This … girl has not merely defeated us, she has humbled – no, humiliated us!’ He stamped hard on the pillow and regarded his adviser with narrowed eyes.

The fan slave shrank from the expression, so like that of Jingu of the Minwanabi when roused to rage. Bleeding from nose and mouth, but still trying valiantly to cool his sweating master, he raised and lowered his fan in barely unbroken rhythm while Desio’s voice turned conspiratorial, a harsh whisper. ‘The Warlord looks upon her with amusement and affection, even favour – perhaps he beds the bitch – while our faces are pushed into needra slime. We eat needra droppings each day she draws breath!’ Desio’s scowl deepened. He stared at the tightly closed screens, and as if seeing them stirred a memory, a glint of sanity returned to his eyes for the first time since Jingu’s death. Incomo restrained a sigh of open relief.

‘And more again,’ Desio finished with the slow care a man might use in the presence of a coiled pusk adder. ‘She is now a real threat to my safety.’

Incomo nodded to himself. He knew that the root of Desio’s behaviour was fear. Jingu’s son lived each day in terror that Mara would continue the Acoma blood feud with the Minwanabi. Now Ruling Lord, Desio would be the next target of Mara’s plotting, his own life and honour the next to fall.

Although the stifling heat shortened his patience, Incomo attempted to console his master, for this admission, no matter how private between a Lord and his adviser, was the first step in overcoming that fear, and perhaps in conquering Lady Mara, as well. ‘Lord, the girl will make a mistake. You must bide your time; wait for that moment….’

The jade-fly returned to pester Desio; the slave moved his fan to intercept its flight, but Desio waved the feathers away. He glared through the gloom at Incomo. ‘No, I cannot wait. The Acoma cow already has the upper hand and she continues to grow stronger. My father’s position was more advantageous than my own; he stood but one step away from the Gold Throne of the Warlord! Now he is ashes, and I can count loyal allies on one hand. All our pain and humiliation can be placed at the feet of … that woman.’

This was sorrowfully true. Incomo understood his master’s reluctance to speak his enemy’s name. Barely more than a child when her father and brother died – with few soldiers and no allies – within three years Mara had secured more prestige for the Acoma than they had known in their long, honourable history. Incomo tried in vain to think of something soothing to say, but his young Lord’s complaints were all justified. Mara was to be feared, and now her position of power had increased to the point where she not only could protect herself, but could directly challenge the Minwanabi.

Softly the First Adviser said, ‘Recall Tasaio to your side.’

Desio blinked, momentarily looking stupid as his father never had. Then comprehension dawned. He glanced about the room and noticed the fan slave still at his post, despite the blood trickling from his broken nose and torn lip. In a moment of unexpected consideration, Desio dismissed the unfortunate wretch. Now alone with his adviser, he said, ‘Why should I call my cousin back from the war upon the barbarian world? You know he covets my position. Until I marry and sire children, he is next in succession. And he is too close to the Warlord for my taste. My father was wise to keep him busy with affairs upon a distant world.’

‘Your father was also wise enough to have your cousin arrange the Lord Sezu’s and Lanokota’s deaths in the first place.’ Hands tucked in his sleeves, Incomo stalked forward a step. ‘Why not let Tasaio deal with the girl? The father, the son, now the daughter.’

Desio considered. Tasaio had waited until the Warlord had been absent from the campaign upon the barbarian world to order Lord Sezu and his son into an impossible military situation. He had ensured their deaths without exposing the Minwanabi to any public culpability. It had been a brilliant stroke, and Desio’s father had ceded some desirable lands in Honshoni Province to Tasaio as reward. Tapping his cheek with a pudgy finger, Desio said, ‘I am uncertain. Tasaio might prove dangerous to me, perhaps as dangerous as … that girl.’

Incomo shook his head in disagreement. ‘Your cousin will defend Minwanabi honour. As Ruling Lord, you are not a target for Tasaio’s ambition, as you were when Lord Jingu was alive. It is one thing to seek a rival’s demise, quite another to attempt to overthrow one’s own lawful Lord.’ Incomo pondered a moment, then added, ‘Despite his ambitions, it is unthinkable Tasaio would break his oath to you. He would no more move against you than he would have against your father, Lord Desio.’ He stressed the last to drive home the point he wished to make.

Desio stood, ignoring the fly, which at last perched upon his collar. His eyes fixed on a point in space, and he sighed aloud. ‘Yes, of course. You are correct. I must recall Tasaio and have him swear fealty. Then he must defend me with his life, or forfeit Minwanabi honour forever.’

Incomo waited, aware his master had not finished. Sometimes clumsy with words, Desio still possessed a cunning mind, though he lacked his father’s instincts or his cousin’s brilliance. He crossed to the windows. ‘I shall include all other loyal retainers and allies in my summons,’ he declared at last. ‘Yes, we must have a formal gathering.’ He faced his adviser with finality. ‘No one shall think I have hesitated in calling my cousin to serve at home. No, we shall have all our vassals and allies here.’

Decisively the fat man clapped his hands. Two servants in orange livery slid aside painted doors and entered to do his bidding. ‘Open these damned screens,’ commanded Desio. ‘Do it quickly. I am hot.’ As if a great burden had been lifted from his soul, he added, ‘Let in fresh air, for the gods’ mercy.’

The servants busied themselves with latches and bars, and presently light flooded the study and cool air flowed inside. The fly on the young Lord’s collar took wing toward freedom, and the lake beyond. The waters sparkled silver in sunlight, dotted with fishing boats that plied nets from dawn to dusk. Desio seemed to shed his self-indulgence as he strode across the room to stand before his First Adviser. His eyes came alight with newfound confidence as the paralysing fear brought on by his father’s death fled before his excited planning. ‘I will make my vows upon my family’s natami in the Holy Glade of Minwanabi Ancestors, with all my kin in attendance.

‘We shall show that the Minwanabi have not fallen.’ Then, with unexpected dry humour, he added, ‘Or at least not very far.’ He shouted for his hadonra and began relaying orders. ‘I want the very finest entertainment available. This celebration will outshine that disaster my father arranged to honour the Warlord. Have every family member attend, including those who fight upon the barbarian world …’

‘This shall be done, my Lord.’ Incomo sent a runner scurrying with instructions for officers, senior advisers, servants, and slaves. Within moments two scribes were furiously copying Desio’s commands, while, close by, the family chop bearer hovered with hot wax.

Desio regarded this bustle with a cold smile on his lips. He droned on a few minutes more, his orders and grandiose plans making him feel better than wine. Then suddenly he stopped. To all in the room he announced, ‘And send word to the Grand Temple of Turakamu. I will build a prayer gate, so that each traveller who passes through will invoke the Red God’s indulgence, that he will look favourably upon Minwanabi vengeance. To the god I vow: blood will flow freely until I have the Acoma bitch’s head!’

Incomo bowed to conceal his sudden concern. To pledge so to Turakamu might bring fortune during a conflict, but one did not vow lightly to the Death God; disaster could befall if vows went unfulfilled. The patience of the gods in such a matter was a fickle proposition. Incomo gathered his robe about him, finding the air off the lake suddenly chilling. At least, he hoped it was the breeze and not a premonition of doom.

Sunlight streamed through the tree branches within the largest of the Acoma gardens, painting patches of light upon the ground. Overhead, leaves rustled, while the fountain in the centre of the courtyard sang its never-ending melody of falling water. Despite the pleasant surroundings, all those called to council shared their mistress’s concerns.

Mara sat within her circle of senior advisers, her thoughts troubled. Clad in her thinnest lounging robe, adorned by a single green jewel on a cho-ja-carved jade chain, she seemed almost abstracted, the picture of the Lady in repose. And yet her brown eyes held a glint that these, her closest advisers, all recognized as puzzlement.

One by one the Lady studied the officers and advisers that were House Acoma’s core. The hadonra, Jican, a short, nervous man with a shrewd mind for commerce, sat diffidently as always. Under his detailed management, Acoma wealth had multiplied, but he preferred progress in small, secure steps, avoiding the dramatic gambles that appealed to Mara. Today Jican fidgeted less than usual, which the Lady of the Acoma attributed to the news that the cho-ja silk makers had begun their spinning. By the winter season their first bolts of finished cloth would be ready. Acoma riches, then, were on the increase. To Jican, this was of vital concern. But Mara knew wealth alone did not secure a great house.

Her First Adviser, Nacoya, had repeated this to no end. If anything, Mara’s recent victory over the Minwanabi made the wizened old woman more nervous than ever. ‘I agree with Jican, Lady. This expansion could prove dangerous.’ She fixed Mara with a steady gaze. ‘A house can rise too fast in the Game of the Council. The lasting victories are ever the subtle ones, for they do not call for preemptive action by rivals unnerved by sudden successes. The Minwanabi will be moving, we know, so let us not bring uninvited appraisal from other houses, too.’

Mara dismissed the remark. ‘I have only the Minwanabi to fear. We are at odds with no one else at present, and I wish things to remain that way. We must all prepare for the strike we know will come. It’s just a question of when and in what form.’ Mara’s voice held an uncertain note as she added, ‘I expected a swift reprisal after Jingu’s death, even if only a token raid.’ And yet, for a month, no changes had been observed in the Minwanabi household.

Desio’s appetite for drink and slave girls had increased, Mara’s spies reported; and Jican’s quick eyes had noticed the drop in Minwanabi trade goods sold within the Empire’s marketplaces. This decrease in wares had driven prices up, and other houses had prospered as a result: hardly the desire of the power-hungry Minwanabi, particularly after that family had suffered such a loss in prestige.

Neither were there any overt preparations for war. The Minwanabi barracks maintained practice as usual, and no recall orders had gone out to the troops at war on the barbarian world.

Force Commander Keyoke had not taken the spies’ reports to heart. Never complacent where Mara’s safety was concerned, he laboured among his troops morning until nightfall, reviewing the condition of armour and weapons, and overseeing battle drills. Lujan, his First Strike Leader, spent hours at his side. He – like all Acoma soldiers – was lean and battle-ready, his eyes quick to fix upon movement, and his hand always near his sword.

‘I don’t like the way things look,’ Keyoke said, his words sharp over the fall of water in the fountain. ‘The Minwanabi estate might appear to be in chaos, but this could be a ruse to cover preparations for a strike against us. Desio may be grieving for his father, but I grew up with Irrilandi, his Force Commander, and I will tell you there is no laxity in any Minwanabi barracks. Warriors can march in a moment.’ His capable hands tightened on the helmet in his lap, until the officer’s plumes at the crest quivered with his tension. Ever expressionless, Keyoke shrugged. ‘I know our forces should be preparing to counter this threat you speak of, but the spies give us no clue where we should look for the next thrust. We cannot keep ourselves at battle readiness indefinitely, mistress.’

Lujan nodded. ‘There has been no movement in the wilds among the grey warriors and condemned men. No large force of bandits is reported, which should mean it’s safe to assume that the Minwanabi are not staging for a covert attack, as they did against Lord Buntokapi.’

‘Seem not to be,’ Keyoke amended. ‘Lord Buntokapi,’ he said, naming Mara’s late husband, ‘was given ample warning.’ His eyes showed a fleeting bitterness. ‘For Lord Sezu, warning came too late. This was Tasaio’s plotting, and a more clever relli has never been birthed by the Minwanabi,’ he observed, referring to the deadly Kelewan water serpent. ‘The moment I hear Tasaio has been recalled, I will begin sleeping in my armour.’

Mara nodded to Nacoya, who seemed to have something to add. The old woman’s pins were askew, as always, but her gruff manner seemed more thoughtful than sharp. ‘Your Spy Master’s agents will pay very careful attention to important matters within the Minwanabi household.’ A shrewd expression crossed the adviser’s face. ‘But he is a man, Lady, and will concentrate on numbers of soldiers, stockpiling of stores for battle, the comings and goings of leaders, messages to allies. I would suggest that you put your agent under orders to watch for the moment when Desio tires of his slave girls. A man with a purpose does not dally in his bed. This I remember well. The moment Desio ceases drinking wine and fondling women, then we know he plots murder against your house.’

Mara made a faintly exasperated gesture. The slightest hint of a smile curved her lips, making her radiantly pretty. Though she was unaware of the fact, Lujan was not; he watched his mistress with devoted admiration and added a playful comment. ‘My Lady, First Adviser’ – here he nodded to the wizened Nacoya – ‘I will bid the warriors who sweat through their drills at noon to await the exhaustion of Desio’s member. When the Minwanabi flag droops, we will all line up for the charge.’

Mara blushed and threw the First Strike Leader a dark look. ‘Lujan, your insight is apt, even if your example is not.’ Since her wedding night, Mara had little comfort with such talk.

Lujan bowed. ‘My Lady, if I have given offence …’

She waved away the apology – she could never stay angry with Lujan – then turned her head as her runner rushed up and bowed at her elbow.

‘Speak, Tamu,’ she said gently, for the young boy was new to his post and still uncertain of himself.

Tamu pressed his forehead to the floor, still intimidated by being in a noble’s presence. ‘Lady, your Spy Master awaits in your study. He says he has brought reports from Hokani Province, particularly from estates to the north.’

‘At last,’ said Mara in relief. She recognized in the runner’s choice of language what her Spy Master, Arakasi, had striven to impart. Only one estate in Hokani mattered. He would have word of the countermove her people had been awaiting through four strained weeks. To her advisers she said, ‘I will speak with Arakasi at once, and meet with you all later in the afternoon.’

Breezes played through the ulo leaves, and the fountain still sang its splashing song, as the Acoma officers bowed to acknowledge their dismissal. Keyoke and Lujan were first to rise. Jican gathered his tally slates and asked his Lady’s permission to look in on the cho-ja silk makers. Mara granted his request, but waved him off before he could reiterate any of his constant concerns.

Nacoya was last to rise. Arthritis had slowed her movements of late, and Mara was jolted by the unpleasant recognition that age was taking its toll on the indomitable old woman. Nacoya’s promotion to First Adviser had been well earned, and despite her belief that she had risen higher than she deserved, Mara’s former nurse had worn her mantle of office with grace and shrewd intelligence. Thirty years serving the wives and daughters of Ruling Lords had gained her a unique insight into the Game of the Council.

Mara watched Nacoya’s stiff bow with trepidation. She could not imagine Acoma prosperity without the old woman’s acerbic guidance or her strong, affectionate nature, which had supported Mara through worse troubles than she had ever imagined she might survive. Only the gods knew how long Nacoya might live, but, with a chill, Mara sensed that her First Adviser’s days were limited. The Lady of the Acoma was in no way prepared for the loss. Save for her son, the old woman was all Mara counted family in the world. If she lost Nacoya unexpectedly, there was no clear choice among her servants for the role of First Adviser.

Mara pushed such gloomy thoughts away. Best not to think of future sorrows when the Minwanabi were busy plotting vengeance, she justified to herself.

Mara bade her runner slave rise and inform Arakasi that she would be joining him in the study. Then she clapped for a servant and sent to the kitchen for food. For unless Arakasi changed his manner, he had come straight to his mistress from the road and had not eaten since the night before.

Mara’s study was dim and cool, even during early afternoon. Furnished with a low black table and fine green silk cushions, it had hand-painted screens opening onto a walkway lined with flowering akasi plants. When open, the outer doors provided a view of the Acoma estates, needra meadows rolling away to the wetlands where the shatra birds flew each sunset. But today the screens were only partially open, and the view was blocked by filmy silk drapes that admitted air while keeping out prying eyes. Mara entered a room that appeared at first glance to be empty. Experience had taught her not to be deceived; still, she could not entirely control her slight start.

A voice spoke without warning from the dimmest corner. ‘I closed the drapes, Lady, since the work crew is trimming the akasi.’ A shadowy figure stepped forward, graceful as a predator stalking prey. ‘Although your overseer is honest, and Midkemians are unlikely to be spies, still, I take precautions out of habit.’

The man knelt before his mistress. ‘More than once such practices have saved my life. I bring you greetings, Lady.’

Mara gave him her hand as a sign he should make himself comfortable. ‘You are doubly welcomed home, Arakasi.’ She studied this fascinating man. His dark hair was wet, but not from a bath. Arakasi had paused only to rinse off travel dust and slip on a fresh tunic. His hatred of the Minwanabi equalled any harboured by those born on Acoma lands, and his desire to see the most powerful of the Five Families ground down into oblivion was dearer to him than life.

‘I hear no sounds of shears,’ Mara pointed out. She permitted her Spy Master to rise. ‘Your return is a relief, Arakasi.’

The Spy Master straightened and settled back onto his heels. Mara had a quick mind, and, with her, discussions tended to thread through several topics simultaneously. He smiled with genuine pleasure, for in her service his reports bore rich fruit. Without waiting for her to be seated, he answered her earlier query. ‘You hear no sounds of shears, Lady, because the overseer sent away the workers. The slaves on the first shift complained of sunburn, and rather than sweat over the whip, the overseer chose to shuffle the work roster.’

‘Midkemians,’ Mara said shortly, as she settled onto her cushions. With Arakasi she felt familiar, and since the day waxed hot, she loosened her sash and allowed the breeze through the drapes to cool her through her opened robe. ‘They are recalcitrant as breeding needra. Jican advised against my buying them, and I fear he may have been right.’

Arakasi considered this with a birdlike cock of his head. ‘Jican thinks like a hadonra, not a ruler.’

‘Meaning he does not see the whole picture,’ Mara said, and the light in her eyes intensified with the challenge of matching wits with her Spy Master. ‘You find the Midkemians interesting,’ she surmised.

‘Passingly so.’ Arakasi turned at a slight step in the corridor, and seeing that the disturbance was nothing more than a servant approaching from the kitchen, he again faced his mistress. ‘Their customs are not like ours, Lady. If there are slaves in their culture, my guess is they are very different creatures from ours. But I digress from my purpose.’ His eyes grew suddenly sharp. ‘Desio of the Minwanabi at last begins to show his hand as Ruling Lord.’

The servant arrived at the doorway with platters of fruit and cold jigabird. Arakasi fell silent as Mara motioned for the tray to be placed on the table. ‘You must be hungry.’ She invited her Spy Master to take his ease upon the cushions. The servant departed silently, and for the moment all was quiet outside. Neither Mara nor her Spy Master reached for the dishes. The Lady of the Acoma spoke first. ‘Tell me of Desio.’

Arakasi became very still. His dark eyes showed no emotion at all, but his hands, so seldom betraying his mood, went tense. ‘The young Lord is not the player of the Great Game that his father was,’ he opened. ‘This if anything makes him more dangerous. With Jingu, my agents always knew where and when to listen. This is not so with the son. An experienced opponent is somewhat predictable. A novice may prove … innovative.’ He smiled slightly and nodded in Mara’s direction, acknowledging that her own successes bore out his observations. ‘He’s no creative thinker, but what Desio can’t gain by wit, he may yet bungle into having.’ The Spy Master poured himself a cup of jomach juice and took a tentative sip. He would find no poisons in this house, but the subject of the Minwanabi, as always, made him prickle with uneasiness and caution. Seeking a lighter tone, lest he needlessly alarm his young mistress, Arakasi added, ‘Desio has a lot of soldiers to bungle with.’

Mara considered her Spy Master’s mood, perhaps brought on by his own need for self-control, for to give his hatred free rein he would seek the destruction of his enemies without regard for the safety of any and all things near to him.

‘But Desio himself is weak, no matter how strong those who serve him.’ Arakasi abandoned his juice cup on the table. ‘He has inherited all his father’s passions, but not Jingu’s restraints. If not for Force Commander Irrilandi’s vigilance, his enemies might have torn through his defences and fed off his wealth like a pack of jagunas over a dead harulth,’ he said, referring to Kelewan’s doglike carrion eater and most feared predator: a giant, six-legged terror, all speed and teeth. Arakasi steepled his hands and looked keenly at Mara. ‘But Force Commander Irrilandi kept his patrols in first-class order. Many exploratory raids were mounted within days of Jingu’s death, and Minwanabi left only a few survivors licking their wounds.’

‘The Xacatecas were among those enemies,’ Mara prompted.

Arakasi returned a nod. ‘They bear the Minwanabi no affection, and my agent in Lord Chipino’s household indicates that the Xacatecas’ First Adviser raised the possibility of alliance with the Acoma. Others in his council are still opposed; they say you have shown the best you have, and wait for you to fall. But Chipino of the Xacatecas listens without making final judgment.’

Mara raised her eyebrows, surprised. The Xacatecas were one of the Five Families. Her victory over Jingu had indeed raised regard for her name, if Chipino’s advisers would debate a possible alliance that would be a virtual declaration of war on the Minwanabi. Even the Shinzawai had skirted the question of open ties, content for the moment to keep a friendly but neutral position.

‘But the Xacatecas can wait,’ said Arakasi. ‘Desio will not formulate policy on his own, but come to depend on advisers and relations. Power and leadership will be spread over several men, making a clear-cut picture very difficult for my agents to gather. This will make our predictions unreliable where broad policy is concerned, and certainty impossible when it comes to assessing the Minwanabi’s immediate plans.’

Mara watched an insect advance across the fruit dish, sampling each variety. So would Desio surround himself with ambitious and power-hungry individuals, and though their desires might differ, all could be depended upon to wish the Acoma downfall. Perhaps ominously, the insect settled on one slice of jomach, where several of its fellows joined it. ‘We are fortunate that Tasaio is away in the wars upon Midkemia,’ the Lady mused.

Arakasi leaned forward. ‘Fortunate no longer, mistress. The man who arranged the murder of your father and brother is returning through the rift at this very day. Desio has called a great gathering of relations and supporters for the week following next. He will take oaths of fealty, and more. He has paid in metal for the erection of a prayer gate to the Red God.’

Now Mara went very still. ‘Tasaio is dangerous.’

‘Ambitious as well,’ added Arakasi. ‘Desio might be ruled by his passions, but his cousin’s only interests are war and power. With Desio firmly upon the Minwanabi throne, Tasaio will advance his own cause for command over Imperial troops and will serve Desio faithfully – albeit with an occasional silent wish for Desio to choke on a jigabird bone, I wager. Tasaio may try a military solution to his uncle’s fall from power. A smashing victory over House Acoma, with some damage to other great houses as well, and Desio will stand next to the Warlord in power in the council.’

Mara considered this. Jingu’s death had caused the Minwanabi to lose honour, allies, and political strength, but their garrisons and capability for warcraft were still undiminished. Acoma forces were well on their way to recovery since the destruction that had accompanied the fall of her father and brother. But too much relied on the cho-ja guards. At present, the insectoids would act only on Acoma lands, a deadly and reliable defensive army, but useless for offensive strategy. In war or conflict beyond the estate borders, the Acoma could not match the military might presently commanded by Desio.

‘We must know what they plan,’ she said tensely. ‘Can your agents penetrate this Minwanabi gathering and report what Desio’s advisers whisper in his ear?’

Arakasi returned a bitter smile. ‘Lady, do not overestimate any spy’s abilities. Remember that the man who reports was very close to Jingu. That servant still commands the same post, but as the son begins to exercise his powers, we have no guarantee he will remain there. Of course, I have begun to groom a replacement should things go amiss, but remember that the agent we place must be tailored to Desio’s tastes. He will not be able to rise in the young Lord’s confidence for a few years at best.’

Mara anticipated Arakasi’s next thought. ‘And Tasaio is the greater danger.’

The Spy Master returned a slight bow. ‘Lady, be sure that I will do all that is possible to compile an accurate report of what transpires at Desio’s gathering. Should the young Lord remain as stupid as I think he is, Tasaio will be but one voice among many. If he shows an unexpected flash of intelligence and assigns the campaign against us to Tasaio, we are doubly endangered.’ He set aside a barely nibbled piece of bread. ‘Worrying about what may occur has limited benefit. Have your factors and servants listen in the markets for gossip and news. Knowledge is power, remember that always. On this will the Acoma come to triumph.’

Smoothly Arakasi arose, and Mara waved him permission to withdraw. As he slipped unobtrusively from her presence, she noticed with a chill that this was the first time she had ever known him to leave food when he was hungry. The room seemed suddenly too silent, oppressive with her own doubt. The image of Tasaio returning reawakened the desperate sense of helplessness she had known when she had learned of the deaths of her family. Unwilling to dwell upon the blackness of the past, Mara clapped for her servants.

‘Bring me my son,’ she commanded. Though she knew Ayaki would be soundly asleep, she had a sudden yearning for his noise, his mischief, and the warm weight of his small, muscular body in her arms.

• Chapter Three • Changes

The child turned over.

Ayaki sprawled upon the cushions, asleep. Boisterous for a short time, he had finally succumbed to exhaustion. Mara stroked his black hair away from his forehead, filled with love for her son.

Although the boy had his father’s stocky build, he had inherited quickness from her family. In his second year, he showed remarkable coordination, a fast tongue that drove the servants to distraction, and continually bruised knees. His smile had won the hearts of even the most hardened warriors who served on the Acoma estates.

‘You will be a fine fighter, and a greater player of the game,’ Mara mused softly. But now the boy’s toughness and quick wit had one opponent he could not overcome, his need for an afternoon nap. Though he was the light of Mara’s life, these brief interludes were welcome, for when awake Ayaki required three nurses to keep him occupied.

Mara tucked her son’s robe about him and straightened his outflung limbs. She settled back upon her cushions in thought. Many recently planted seeds must bear fruit before Ayaki came of age. When that day dawned, her father’s old enemies the Anasati would end the alliance begun for the sake of the boy. What goodwill Mara had secured through giving birth to the first grandson of Lord Tecuma of the Anasati would end, and the debt incurred by Buntokapi’s premature death would be exacted. Then must the Acoma be unassailably strong, to weather the change in rule as Mara turned over control of her house to an inexperienced son. The Minwanabi menace must be fully eliminated before another powerful enemy challenged a young Lord.

Mara considered the years ahead, while afternoon sunlight striped the drapes and slaves returned to trim the akasi. The gardening around the walkways occurred often enough that she had become indifferent to the clack of shears. Except for today, when that normal household sound was repeatedly interrupted by sharp commands from the overseer and the frequent slap of the short leather quirt he carried. Normally the lash was ceremonial, a symbolic badge of rank carried on the belt – Tsurani slaves seldom required beating. But the slaves from Midkemia were indifferent to their overseer’s displeasure. Their respect for their betters was nonexistent, and whippings shamed them not at all.

Tsurani slaves found the Midkemians as enigmatic as Mara did. Raised in the knowledge that their humble devotion to work was their only hope of earning a higher place upon the Wheel that bound the departed to rebirth and life, they worked tirelessly. To be beaten for laziness, or to disobey their lawful masters in any way, was to earn the permanent disfavour of the gods, for below slave was only animal. And once returned from the Wheel of Life in a lower form, they would find salvation from the countless rebirths in pain and deprivation impossible.

Disturbed from contemplation by a heated argument, Mara realized with annoyance that the barbarians still had not learned proper manners. The only change in them since the slave auction seemed to be the increased number of lash welts on their backs and a marked improvement in the command of their masters’ language.

‘The gods’ will? That’s hogwash!’ boomed one in heavily accented Tsurani. For a brief moment, Mara wondered what ‘hogwash’ meant. Then the barbarian voice resumed. ‘I call it plain stupidity. You want work from these men, you’ll take my suggestion, and thank me for it.’

The overseer had no ready reply for slaves who talked back at him. Such things did not arise in Tsurani culture, and he had no means of coping except to slap the offender with his quirt and swear in an embarrassing display of temper.

This had no effect. Disrupted utterly from her thoughts, Mara heard sounds of a scuffle, and then words of unmistakable rage.

‘Strike me again with that, little man, and I’ll drop you head first into that pile of six-legger’s dung on the other side of that fence.’

‘Put me down, slave!’ screeched the overseer. He sounded genuinely frightened, and since the situation had plainly got out of hand, Mara arose to intervene. Whatever ‘hogwash’ might be, it wasn’t something that indicated proper deference to authority.

She crossed the study, whipped the drapes back, and found herself looking up across an impressively muscled expanse of shoulder and arm. The redheaded Midkemian who had been at the root of the commotion at the auction had a fist twined in the overseer’s robe, lifting him into the air, his feet kicking above the ground. When he saw his mistress, the overseer’s eyes rolled back in his head, and his lips moved in prayer to Kelesha, goddess of mercy.

The barbarian simply looked down at the diminutive lady in the doorway, his expression bland but his eyes as blue and hard as the sword metal that abounded on the Midkemian side of the rift.

Mara felt her own anger rise at that openly rebellious stare. She curbed her temper and spoke evenly. ‘If you value life, slave, let him go now!’

The redhead recognized authority in her dark eyes. Still, he was insolent. He considered her command an instant; then a wicked grin spread across his face and he opened his fist. The overseer dropped without warning, buckled at the knees, and landed on his seat in the middle of Mara’s favourite flower bed.

The grin sparked Mara’s anger. ‘You lack any hint of humility, slave, and that is a dangerous thing!’

The redhead stopped smiling, but his eyes remained upon his mistress with an interest that now had more to do with her thin robe than any respect for her words.

Mara was not too angry to notice. Suddenly made to feel undressed by the barbarian’s frank appraisal, she felt her anger mount. She might have ordered the redhead’s immediate death as an example to the others, except that Arakasi’s earlier expression of interest in the barbarians made her pause. None of the Midkemians behaved in an appropriate way, and unless she could learn the reason why, the only expedient that could end the problem was to slaughter her purchases out of hand. Still, an object lesson was required. Turning to a nearby pair of guards, she said, ‘Take this slave out of sight and beat him. Do not let him die, but make him wish to. If he resists, then kill him.’

Instantly two swords appeared, and, with clear intent to brook no resistance, the guards led the outworlder away. As he moved down the path, the imminent prospect of a beating seemed to have no effect on his self-important posture. The barbarian’s lack of fear at his coming ordeal served only to irritate Mara more, for it was the one thing about the man that was Tsurani-like and admirable. Then Mara caught herself: about the man? What could she be thinking of? He was only a slave.

Jican chose that moment to make an appearance. His polite knock on the doorframe broke through Mara’s angry contemplation.

She whirled and snapped across the room, ‘What!’

The sight of her hadonra jumping back in fright made her feel foolish. She motioned for her overseer to remove himself from the flower bed, then retired to her cushions, where Ayaki still lay asleep.

Jican stepped into the room from the hallway. ‘Mistress?’ he inquired meekly.

With a wave at her hadonra, Mara said, ‘I am about to learn why Elzeki here must argue with slaves.’

The overseer stepped through the outer door, flushing visibly at his mistress’s disapproval. Elzeki was little better than a slave himself, an untrained servant given the office of managing workers about the estate. And authority given to him could be taken away. He prostrated himself upon the waxed wood floor and protested hotly in his own defence. ‘Mistress, these barbarians have no sense of order. They are without wal.’ He used the ancient Tsurani word meaning ‘centre of being’ – the soul that defined one’s place in the universe. ‘They complain, they malinger, they argue, they make jokes …’ Frustrated to the point of tears, he finished in an angry rush. ‘The redheaded one is the worst. He acts as if he were a noble.’

Mara’s eyes widened. ‘A noble?’

Elzeki straightened from his obeisance and glanced in appeal at the hadonra. Jican still winced at the poor choice of words. With no support forthcoming from the hadonra, Elzeki prostrated himself again, his forehead pressed to the floor. ‘Please, mistress! I meant no disrespect!’

Mara waved away the apology. ‘No. That is understood. What did you mean?’

Peeking up, he saw that his mistress’s anger had changed to interest. ‘The other barbarians defer to him, my Lady. Maybe this redhead was an officer too cowardly to die. He might have lied. These barbarians mix truth and untruth without distinction, I sometimes think. Their ways are strange. They confuse me.’

Mara frowned, thinking that if the redhead were cowardly, or frightened of pain, he would not have shown such nerveless composure at the prospect of a beating by her guards.

‘What were you and he arguing about?’ Jican demanded.

Elzeki, the overseer, seemed to shrivel, as if to review the events leading up to his shameful embarrassment were to relive them. ‘Many things, honourable hadonra. The barbarian speaks with such a savage accent, he is difficult to understand.’ Through the screen beyond the drapes came the sound of a distant thud, followed by a pained grunt. Mara’s orders for punishment were plainly being carried out by the guards. Since his own hide might be whipped over the barbarians’ disobedience, the overseer began visibly to sweat.

Mara motioned for the screen door to be closed, lest she be further disturbed. As a house servant rushed to do her bidding, she saw that the remaining barbarians were gathered on the walkway, their shears idle in their hands, regarding their mistress with open hostility and resentment. Stifling outrage at such blatant disrespect, Mara snapped at the overseer. ‘Then tell us just one thing that red-haired barbarian dared to feel important enough to argue about.’

Elzeki shifted his weight. ‘The redhead asked to move one of the men inside.’

Jican glanced at his mistress, who nodded permission for him to cross-question. ‘What reason did he give?’

‘Some nonsense about our sun being hotter than the sun on their own world, and this other man being stricken by the heat.’

Mara said, ‘What else?’

Elzeki glanced at his feet, like a boy caught sneaking sweets from the kitchen. ‘He also complained that some of the slaves needed more water than we were giving them, because of the heat.’

Mara said, ‘And?’

‘He gave excuses for laziness. Rather than work hard, he objected that a few of the men who were set to tend the flowers knew nothing of plants upon their own world, let alone ours, and that to punish them for working slowly was foolish.’

Jican sat back, astonished. ‘These sound like excellent suggestions to me, my Lady.’

Mara expelled a long-suffering sigh. ‘It seems that I acted too hastily,’ she said ruefully. ‘Elzeki, go and put a stop to the beating. Tell my guards to have the redheaded slave cleaned up and brought to me here in my study.’

As the overseer hurried obsequiously away, Mara regarded her hadonra. ‘Jican, it would seem that I ordered punishment for the wrong man.’

‘Elzeki has never had much perception,’ Jican agreed. Silently he wondered why that admission seemed to cause his Lady distress.

‘We’ll have to remove him from office,’ Mara summed up. ‘Slaves are much too valuable to be mismanaged by fools.’ She appealed at last to her hadonra. ‘I’ll have you break the news to Elzeki, and then trust you to appoint his replacement.’

‘Your will, my Lady.’ Jican bowed low and departed. As he passed through the screen to the corridor, Mara stroked Ayaki’s cheek. She then called for her maid to remove him to his sleeping mat in the nursery. If she was to deal with this redheaded barbarian personally, she wanted no other distractions. That thought made her smile, as the maid lifted her stocky son and he murmured angry protest in his sleep. Ayaki awake was as much of a disaster as the redhead, and with a shake of her head, Mara sat back to await the arrival of the guards with the barbarian offender who had single-handedly managed to ruin her contemplation.

The guards stepped in soon after, the Midkemian between them, his hair and loincloth drenched. Mara’s request that he be cleaned up had been interpreted in the most uncomplicated way possible: the guards had simply dropped him into a convenient needra trough. The beating and subsequent soaking had dampened his spirit only slightly. The amusement in his eyes had changed to anger barely held in check. His defiance disturbed Mara. Lujan had often crossed the line of good manners with his playful banter, but never had a socially inferior man dared to look at her in such an openly condemnatory fashion. Suddenly sorry she had not called for a more modest house robe, Mara nevertheless refused to summon her maid, lest she grant significance to the stare of a barbarian slave. Rather than feel embarrassment before the outworlder, she matched his gaze with her own.

The guards were uncertain what to do with the wretch they had half dragged into their Lady’s presence. Still gripping the huge man tightly, they offered ineffectual bows. The more senior of the warriors broke the silence with ill-concealed diffidence. ‘Lady, what is your wish? A barbarian in your presence would perhaps be more seemly on his knees.’

Mara noticed the guards as if for the first time, and the water pooling on her waxed floor. There was blood mixed in the puddles.

‘Let him stand, if he wishes.’ She clapped for her servants, and sent the first one to answer off at a run to fetch towels.

The house slave reappeared with a pile of scented bath towels. He entered the study, bowed, and only belatedly realized that his Lady’s request had been made on behalf of the scruffy barbarian who stood pinioned in the hands of the guards.

‘Well,’ snapped Mara, at her servant’s hesitation, ‘dry the brute off before he ruins the floor.’

‘Your will, Mistress,’ the slave murmured from a position of prostration. He arose and began to daub the reddened skin between the barbarian’s shoulder blades, this being the highest place he could reach.

Mara assessed the huge slave in a relatively calm moment, then came to a decision. ‘Leave us,’ she commanded her guards. They released the barbarian, bowed, and let themselves out through the screen to the corridor.

The barbarian rubbed his wrists where the guards’ grip had restricted circulation. The slave attempting to dry him seemed an irritation, and after a glance at Mara, the outworlder reached out, took a clean towel from the pile, and finished the task himself. His hair stood up in spikes when he finished, and the slave looked in dismay at the pile of blood-soiled, damp towels heaped about the barbarian’s feet.

‘Give those to my washing maids,’ Mara said. She motioned for the redhead to select a cushion and be seated.

Mara studied the barbarian’s face; the gaze he returned was as penetrating as her own. Suddenly she felt out of her depth. Something about this man disturbed her. The reason struck her: she still considered him a man! Slaves were livestock, not people. Why did this one cause her to feel … uncertain? Her practice in the role of Ruling Lady allowed her to assume the mask of command. She felt challenged to discover why this barbarian made her forget his station. She forced her voice to calm. ‘I was hasty, perhaps.’ As the house slave scooped up the towels and hastened away, she added, ‘It would appear, upon examination of the matter, that I ordered you beaten unfairly.’

Taken aback, but covering it well, the redhead selected a cushion and gingerly sat down. The scar left on his cheek by the overseer at the slave market did not detract from his appearance; rather, the flaw gave heightened contrast to his handsome features, and his heavy beard was a novelty not seen in Tsurani freemen, who shaved as a matter of tradition.

‘Slave,’ commanded Mara, ‘I wish to know more of the land you come from.’

‘I have a name,’ said the redhead in his deep-throated voice, which now was bristling with antagonism. ‘I am Kevin, from the City of Zun.’

Mara replied with irritation, ‘You might have been counted human once, upon your world, but now you are a slave. A slave has no honour, nor does he have a spirit in the eyes of the gods. This you must have known, Kevin of Zun.’ She spoke the name with sarcasm. ‘You chose your lot, chose to forfeit honour. If not, you should have died before an enemy took you captive.’ She paused as another thought occurred to her. ‘Or were you vassal to another more powerful house, whose Lord refused you permission to take your own life?’

Kevin raised his brows, momentarily baffled by confusion. ‘What? I’m not sure what you mean.’

Mara repeated herself in terms a child would understand. ‘Did your house swear vassalage to another?’

Kevin straightened his back, winced, and raked a hand through his damp beard. ‘Zun swore allegiance to the High King in Rillanon, of course.’

The Lady nodded as if all were explained. ‘Then you were forbidden permission by this King to fall upon your sword. Yes?’

Thoroughly mystified, Kevin shook his head. ‘Fall on my sword? Why? I might be a third son of a minor nob – er, family, but I don’t need my King’s permission to sanction what seems an act of total idiocy.’

Now Mara blinked in surprise. ‘Have your people no honour? If the choice was yours, why allow yourself to be taken captive into slavery?’

Careful of his welts, which were swelling uncomfortably, Kevin regarded this diminutive woman who through misfortune had come to be his mistress. Forcing a smile, he said, ‘Trust me, lady, I had no option, otherwise I wouldn’t be enjoying your … hospitality now. Had I a choice, I’d be at home with my family.’

Mara shook her head slightly. This was not the answer she sought. ‘We may be having difficulty because of your barbaric use of the Tsurani tongue. Let me ask a different way: when you were taken captive, were you not spared a moment by fate in which you could have taken your own life rather than face capture?’

Kevin paused, as if weighing the question. ‘I suppose so, but why would I think about killing myself?’

Without thought, Mara blurted, ‘For honour!’

Kevin laughed bitterly. ‘What good is honour to a dead man?’

Mara blinked, as if struck by harsh lights in a dark room. ‘Honour is … everything,’ Mara said, not believing anyone could ask that question. ‘It is what makes living endurable. It gives purpose to … everything. What else is there to live for?’

Kevin threw up his hands in exasperation. ‘Why, to enjoy life! To know the company of friends, to serve men you admire. In this case, to escape and go home again, what else?’

‘Escape!’ Thoroughly shocked, and unable to conceal the fact, Mara forced her mind to regroup. These people were not Tsurani, she reminded herself; the codes of behaviour that bound slaves to service on her world were not shared by the folk beyond the rift. The Lady of the Acoma went on to wonder whether others of her culture might have discovered how different the Midkemians were from themselves. Hokanu of the Shinzawai sprang to mind. Mara made a mental note to pry loose information on Lord Kamatsu’s interest in the barbarians during the son’s forthcoming visit. Next she considered whether this Kevin of Zun might hold strange knowledge or ideas that might prove helpful against her enemies.

‘You must tell me more of the lands beyond the rift,’ she demanded abruptly.

Pained by more than cuts and bruises, Kevin sighed. ‘You are a woman of many contradictions,’ he said with some care. ‘You order me beaten, dipped in a livestock trough, and then dried with what must be your finest towels. Now you want speeches without so much as a drink to wet my throat first.’

‘Your comforts, or lack of them, are beyond your right to question,’ said Mara acidly. ‘You happen to be bleeding on a cushion that cost much more than your worth on the open market, so be careful how you speak of my consideration.’

Kevin raised his brows in reproof. He intended to say more, but at that moment someone outside chose to scratch on the screen to the Lady’s private study.

Since no Tsurani would signal his mistress for attention with anything but a polite knock, Mara did not immediately respond. Whoever waited without seemed entirely unfazed by this fact. The wooden frame slid on its oiled track, and the bald-headed slave who had abetted the clothing scam at the slave auction poked his face inside. ‘Kevin?’ he said quietly, oblivious to the fact that he trespassed upon nobility without spoken leave or invitation. ‘You all right, old son?’

Mara gaped, as the redhead returned a reassuring grin. The bald-headed man smiled at Mara, then withdrew without further ado. Mara sat speechless for a long moment. In all the memory of her ancestors, she had never known a slave with the effrontery to admit himself to his ruling master’s chambers without any summons, to hold a personal conversation with another slave, then withdraw without leave, making only the most perfunctory attempt at acknowledging his rightful mistress. Mara curbed her first impulse to call for punishment, now being totally convinced of the need to understand more of these barbarians.

She sent her runner to find another overseer to manage the barbarians and set them to cutting akasi, as they should have been doing all along. Then Mara returned her attention to Kevin.

‘Tell me how servants treat their mistresses in the lands where you were born,’ she demanded.

The barbarian returned a provocative smile. His eyes wandered boldly over Mara’s body, which was covered only by an almost transparent silk robe. ‘To begin with,’ he said brightly, ‘any lady who wore what you do in front of her servants would be begging to get herself …’ He struggled for a word, then said, ‘In my language it’s not a polite term. I don’t know how you folks feel about it, but given you’re showing me all you’ve got without a thought, you obviously don’t consider such things.’

‘What are you talking about?’ Mara snapped, at the edge of her patience.

‘Why …’ He touched himself upon his dirty loincloth, then made an upward gesture with his extended forefinger. ‘What men and woman do, to make babies.’ He pointed in the general direction of her groin.

Mara’s eyes widened. She might be having difficulty thinking of this barbarian as a slave, but obviously he had no difficulty thinking of her as a woman. Softly, in tones that could only be called dangerous, she said, ‘To suggest such a thing, even indirectly, could mean a slow and painful death, slave! The most shameful execution is hanging, but if we wish the condemned to suffer, we hang them by the feet. Some men have been known to last two days that way. With a pile of hot coals just below your head, it can be a most unpleasant way to die.’

Aware of Mara’s anger, Kevin hastily amended, ‘Of course, Zun has a much cooler climate than you are accustomed to.’ His phrases became broken as he searched for unfamiliar words, or substituted ones in his own tongue when his knowledge was incomplete. ‘We have winters, and snow, and cold rains during other seasons. The ladies from my lands must wear heavy skirts and animal skins for warmth. Tends to make the uncovered female body something … something we don’t see a lot.’

Mara’s eyes flashed as she listened to the slave. ‘Snow?’ She sounded the barbarian’s word awkwardly. ‘Cold rains?’ Then what he meant registered and she said, ‘Animal skins? Do you mean furs? Leather with the hair not scraped off?’ as her anger lessened.

‘Something like that,’ Kevin said.

‘How strange.’ Mara considered this like a child presented with wonders. ‘Such clothing must be uncomfortably heavy, not to mention being difficult for slaves to wash.’

Kevin laughed. ‘You don’t wash furs if you don’t want them ruined. You beat the dust from them and set them in the sun to air.’ Since her features again clouded over at his amusement over her ignorance, he quickly added, ‘We have no slaves at Zun.’ As he said this, his mood turned darker and more subdued. His shoulders stung yet from his beating, and despite the padding of the cushion, he ached even from sitting. ‘The Keshians keep slaves, but Kingdom law severely limits such practices.’

Which explained much of the unmanageability of the Midkemians, Mara concluded. ‘Who does your menial work, then?’

‘Freemen, Lady. We have servants, serfs, and franklins who owe allegiance to their Lords. Townsmen, merchants, guildsmen as well.’

Unsatisfied with such a brief explanation, Mara plied Kevin for details. She sat motionless as he described the structure of Kingdom governance in depth. Long shadows striped the screens by the time her interest flagged. Kevin’s voice by then sounded worn and hoarse. Thirsty herself, Mara sent for cool fruit drinks. When she had been served, she motioned for Kevin’s comforts to be looked after.

Mara asked then about metalworking, an art her people knew little of, since such substances were rare in Kelewan. That Midkemian peasants owned iron, brass, and copper seemed inconceivable to her. Kevin’s assertion that occasionally they possessed silver and gold was beyond credibility. Her astonishment at such wonders made her forget the differences between them. Kevin responded by smiling more. His easy manner awakened a hunger she had never allowed herself to explore. Mara found her eyes wandering over the lines of his body, or following the gestures of his strong, fine hands as he sought to explain things for which he lacked words. He spoke of smiths who fashioned iron and shaped the hard, crescent shoes that were nailed to the hooves of the beasts their warriors rode. Quite naturally the discussion turned into a lively talk over tactics, and the mutual discovery that the Midkemians found the cho-ja as terrifying an adversary as the Tsurani found mounted horsemen.

‘You have much to teach,’ Mara said at last, a flush of pleasure showing through her fine complexion. That moment Nacoya knocked upon the door, to remind her of her afternoon meeting with her councillors.

Mara straightened, startled to realize that most of the day had fled. She regarded the deepening shadows, the plates of fruit rinds and the emptied pitchers and glasses strewn on the table between herself and the slave. Sorry that the discussion between them must end, she waved for her personal servant. ‘You will take this barbarian and see to his comforts. Let him bathe and apply unguents to his wounds. Then find him a robe, and have him await me in my personal quarters, for I wish to speak further with him when my business is concluded.’

The slave bowed, then motioned for Kevin to follow. The barbarian unfolded his long legs and arose stiffly to his feet. He winced, then saw that the Lady still watched him. He returned a wry smile and, with no humbleness whatsoever, blew a kiss in her direction before he started after the servant.

Nacoya watched his parting gesture with narrowed eyes, a frown on her leathery face. Her mistress exhibited more amazement than outrage at such familiarity. Suddenly Mara hid a smile behind her hand, seemingly unable to contain herself. Nacoya’s displeasure deepened into suspicion. ‘My Lady, have a care. A wise ruler does not reveal her heart to a slave.’

‘That man?’ Mara stiffened, surprised into a blush. ‘He is a barbarian. I am fascinated by his alien people, nothing more.’ Then she sighed. ‘His blown kiss was a gesture Lano used to make when we were little,’ she explained, referring to the dead brother she used to idolize as a child. ‘Remember?’

Nacoya had raised Mara from infancy and the memory of Lanokota’s gesture did not worry the old nurse. What troubled Nacoya was the reaction she saw in her mistress.

Mara straightened her robe carefully over her thighs. ‘Nacoya, you know I have no wish for a man.’ She stopped smoothing her silken hem, and her hands tightened into fists. ‘I know some ladies keep handsome men as litter bearers, so that more … personal needs can be satisfied at whim, but I am … uninterested in such diversion.’ Even to herself, Mara sounded unconvincing.

Irritated by the urge to discuss what should have needed no denial, Mara closed the topic with an imperious gesture. ‘Now, send for servants to remove these plates and cups. I will see my advisers, and Arakasi will relate his report on Lord Desio of the Minwanabi.’

Nacoya bowed, but as a house servant arrived and began clearing the table for the meeting, the old First Adviser watched closely. A wistful smile came and went on Mara’s lips. Shrewdly intuitive, Nacoya knew Mara did not contemplate the coming meeting, but, rather, the bronzed and redhaired barbarian who had whiled away an entire afternoon with talk. The sparkle in Mara’s eyes, and the half-excited, half-frightened clenching of hands betrayed the Lady. Fears of pain and humiliation – memories of a brutal and insensitive husband – warred with new desire. Nacoya might be old, but she remembered younger passions; twenty years ago she might have given serious thought to having the slave brought to her own sleeping room. Aware of Kevin’s attractions, and foreseeing trouble, the former nurse sighed silently. Mara had proved herself a clever player of the Game of the Council; but she had yet to understand the most basic things about relations between a man and a woman. Already under siege, she lacked instinct to know an attack from that quarter was even possible.

Fighting tears of concern, the former nurse composed herself for the forthcoming meeting. If Mara was to have her world turned over by an unexpected passion, she had chosen the worst possible time to have it happen.

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