The Complete Empire Trilogy (107 page)

This missed message might be connected to both events. The politics of Kelewan were endless, and deadly dangerous. Unwilling to dwell too long on Tsurani intrigue, Kevin pressed Mara forward and began sluicing her back. ‘My Lady, mixed messages and clan rivalries will still be there after your bath. Unless you want to confront your kinfolk covered in road dirt?’

He startled an outraged laugh from her. ‘Beast. I’m certainly no dirtier than you, who walked the entire way in the open.’

Playfully Kevin ran a finger over his face and held it out as if inspecting it. ‘Hmmm. Yes, I do seem to be darker than when we began the journey.’

The soft cake of soap he held was unguarded, and Mara gouged out a dollop and seized the moment to deposit it on her lover’s nose. ‘Then you had best wash your own body as well.’

Kevin looked around in feigned regret. ‘I don’t see servants at hand to scrub my back, my Lady.’

Mara grabbed a sponge and drenched his face with water. ‘Get in here, you foolish man.’

Grinning widely, Kevin dropped the soap, stripped off his robes, and climbed into the tub. He settled in behind Mara and cradled her close, his fingers roaming over her body. Her skin quivered under his attentions. She whispered, ‘I thought you were going to wash off road dirt.’

His hands slipped under the water, still touching. ‘No one said washing had to be unpleasant.’

She turned in the circle of his arms, then stretched up and
kissed her barbarian slave. Soon the worries of clan rivalries were forgotten as she lost herself in the pleasures of his love.

Robed in formal colours, Mara waved for her bearers to pause before the Council Hall entrance. Surrounded by her tightly clustered bodyguard, and attended by a withered old serving maid, she endured several last-minute adjustments to her costume while Lujan and an honour company of five warriors waited to precede her into the chamber. Kevin stood behind her open litter. Unable to see past her towering jewelled headpiece to gain a view of the chamber, he settled with staring at the antechamber, its splendour unmatched by anything he had seen in his life. The building that housed the High Council was among the more imposing in Kentosani. The council occupied a complex larger than the entire Acoma estate house, with corridors lofty as caverns, each arch and doorway carved with fantastic creatures that earlier generations intended to repel evil influence. The gargoyles remained long after the names of the spirits had been forgotten, their fearsome countenances ignored by those who enjoyed their protection. The floors and ceilings were elaborately patterned, every inch of wall space painted with historical murals. Many of them showed warriors wearing Xacatecas and Minwanabi colours; sometimes he recognized a contingent in Acoma green. Newly appreciative of the Empire’s grand traditions, Kevin felt a stranger to his own culture.

This small city unto itself, with its own entrances and conference chambers independent of the palace proper, was guarded by companies of soldiers levied from all of the houses of the council members. The corridors were lined with armoured warriors in a hundred different colour combinations. Each company was pledged to preserve the peace, taking no sides should disputes lead to violence; however, every Lord ensured this vow was never put to the
test, for Tsurani honour held house loyalty above any abstract concept of fair play.

Kevin lost count of badges and colours long before reaching the anteroom. When he had faced Tsurani in the Riftwar, the armies were homogeneous, with perhaps two or three different houses marching under a combined command. But in this antechamber alone, at least a dozen armour patterns he did not recognize identified the houses that provided security for the meeting of Clan Hadama.

A voice called out beyond the entry, ‘The Lady of the Acoma!’ Then a huge pair of drums boomed. Lujan signalled his men to march in lockstep, and as Mara’s bearers moved forward in procession, Kevin caught sight of the drummers.

They stood to either side of the grand entry, clad in what looked like a costume of ancient pelts. The mallets in their hands were carved bone, and their instruments were of painted hide stretched over what close scrutiny revealed to be the inverted shells from gigantic turtles. Kevin made out the tripods underneath, fashioned from a lizardlike creature quilled with spines.

Being a barbarian slave had advantages at times – no one showed surprise that he gawked. If the hallways and corridors had impressed Kevin earlier, the hall of the council itself was overwhelming. Constructed under a circular dome, the hall was surrounded by upper galleries, with polished wooden benches, then descending levels of pillared galleries lined with chairs tantamount to thrones. Each gallery reminded Kevin of the Baron of Yabon’s private box on the festival grounds at the city’s annual fairs, where the start and finish line for horse races were located. The meanest noble family in the Empire was entitled to a seat the equal of the Baron’s in opulence. The most expansive galleries were on the lower levels, nearest the central dais, and many were set back under low canopies painted or
embroidered with house symbols – ensuring that those behind and to the sides could not spy upon conferences. Aisles that were really promenades separated them one from the next, so that messengers and retainers might hurry effortlessly about their masters’ bidding. The vast size of the room was necessary; Kevin was astonished by the crowd. The lower levels were packed with Lords in full Tsurani panoply. Colours and plumes and jewelled headdresses made a riotous feast for the eyes.

Kevin closed his gaping mouth with an effort. This was only a clan meeting!

Mara had attempted to explain clan relationships to him, and after a long and frustrating discourse Kevin grasped only a fuzzy concept of how all these notables were affiliated. By his understanding, somewhere back in the dim mists of history, these people had ancestors that were cousins. Bound to customs that seemed a knotwork of contradiction, they clung to what was, in Midkemian logic, an outdated concept of relationship, one that might have held significance in an earlier age, but that now seemed mostly ceremonial. Yet when Kevin had voiced this conclusion, Mara had insisted that clan loyalty was no phantom. Given the right motivation, these separate family factions would unite and die in bloody battle defending their elusive code of identity. It was the very urgency of such relationships that had created the Great Game, for once clan honour was invoked, no house could honourably ignore those ties of blood.

Once past the entry platform and the drummers, Kevin could view the entire chamber. The sheer size made him feel dwarfed. On a dais slightly higher than the ring of seats on the central level of the hall, a man in flowing robes and a massive headdress of green and yellow plumes nodded to Mara’s bearers to set down her litter. Her honour guard retired, to take up position above and behind the concentric
circle of seats cut into the lowest tier of galleries, and a snap of her fingers summoned Kevin to assist her to her feet. With the Lady poised on his arm, the Midkemian guided where she pointed: down a shallow stair, to a green-painted awning and a chair carved with shatra bird symbols, in a gallery large enough for all of Mara’s advisers and officers to surround her, should she need them close by. Followed by the ghostly echo of whispered conversation, Kevin kept his eyes down in proper Tsurani submission. He must observe the forms here, distasteful as they were to his beliefs. Fully five thousand people could fill the overhanging galleries, with room for ten thousand more at floor level, if occasion warranted.

As Kevin installed the Lady of the Acoma in her green lacquered chair, he marked that her place was relatively close to the dais. Aware that the time of entry, as well as seating, were cultural indicators of rank, Kevin had already marked the range of fashion and quality of clothing. The Lord farthest from the dais was a poor country relative, by all appearance, for his finery was worn and faded with wear.

But the man upon the dais was a peacock in full plumage! As Kevin performed a slave’s bow beside his Lady’s chair, he risked a peek beneath his lashes.

‘My Lord Chekowara,’ Mara greeted cordially. ‘Are you well?’

The Lord, whose name Kevin recognized as belonging to the Clan Warchief, nodded back, though how he could do so and not topple under the weight of his jewels and plumes was mystifying; the man seemed something of a fop, yet his face was broad and masculine, and almost as black-skinned as that of a native of Great Kesh, the southern empire in Midkemia. Muttering as he rose from obeisance, Kevin commented, ‘If you two are related, it’s many generations back.’

Mara shot him a glance that was half-irritated, half-amused.
From the dais, the Lord of the Chekowara smiled, showing an array of ivory teeth. ‘I am most well, Lady Mara. We welcome our most august Ruling Lady to our meeting, and presume that you are well also.’

Mara returned the ritual assurance, then coolly inclined her head to other surrounding lords. As he assumed a slave’s place behind his Lady’s chair, Kevin searched faces for signs of displeasure; yet if any notable present was disappointed by Mara’s timely arrival, nothing showed but Tsurani impassivity. Nearly seventy families had sent representatives to the gathering, and one or several could have been responsible for Mara’s misdirected invitation. Stunned yet again by the scope of Tsuranuanni, Kevin reminded himself that the Hadama were held to be a minor clan in the Empire, no matter how much honour the Acoma had gained. How many powerful houses must a great clan number? By Kevin’s rough estimation, this tiny clan meeting, with advisers, servants, and slaves, put the number of people in this building close to five hundred, with an equal number of soldiers waiting in outer halls. When the mighty of the Empire met in council, Kevin could only imagine the place filled to capacity.

Clearly not intimidated, Mara said, ‘I am most pleased to seek council with our cousins and attend this, the first clan meeting since I assumed the Acoma mantle.’

The Lord of the Chekowara’s smile broadened. ‘Much honour and prestige have you brought House Acoma since your father’s untimely death, Lady Mara. You bring pride to our hearts.’

At this many Lords stamped upon the floor in a show of agreement like applause. Others offered congratulations, shouting, ‘Yes, it is so! Much honour!’ and ‘Great success!’

Kevin leaned over to remove Mara’s outer wrap, a light silk embroidered with her house symbol. ‘This fellow’s a snake oil salesman,’ he whispered.

Mara’s brow furrowed under her formal makeup. She risked a hiss of disapproval. ‘I don’t know what snake oil is, but it has the ring of an insult. Now go and stand with Lujan’s guard until I need you.’

Kevin folded the wrap over his arm and retreated up the stair. Once in place among the Acoma honour guard, he made a surreptitious study of the proceedings. The Lord of the Chekowara opened by announcing what seemed like social chat, a list of pending marriages, handfastings, and births, and a longer list of eulogies. Few of the deceased had died of age or infirmity; the phrase ‘fallen honourably in battle’ occurred frequently. Kevin was astonished at the clarity of the acoustics in the hall – when the speakers chose not to mask their voices, they carried to the highest galleries. Kevin listened, mystified, as the Lord of the Chekowara’s rich voice rose and fell as he mourned the passing of notables in the clan. To Lujan he murmured, ‘That calley bird on the dais has all the sincerity of a relli.’

Silently at ease, the Acoma Force Commander did not twitch a muscle; but deepening laugh lines around his eyes betrayed that he stifled a chuckle.

Resigned that he would get nothing from an Acoma soldier on duty, Kevin moved among the litter bearers. Tsurani slaves were not much of an improvement, but at least they noticed when he spoke, even if they only looked confused. Still, Kevin thought, any reaction was better than the stony manner of the warriors. Kevin idled away the passing minutes, observing the comings and goings of the many servants and retainers of the attending Hadama Lords, when an odd behaviour caught his eye. Those who hurried through the vast hall seemed oblivious to the many paintings that adorned the walls save one, a depiction of a fairly nondescript man. Like those around it, it was ancient, but this one had been recently repainted, and for the obvious
reason that any who passed by reached out and touched it, often without thought. Kevin nudged the slave next to him. ‘Why do they do that?’

The slave looked discomforted. ‘Do what?’ he whispered, as if speaking were sure to bring instant destruction.

‘Touch that picture of a man.’ Kevin pointed.

‘That’s an ancient Lord. He was Servant of the Empire. It’s good luck to touch him.’ The slave withdrew into himself as if that cryptic reference explained everything. Kevin was about to ask for explanation when a warning glance from Lujan silenced him, and turned him back to watching the proceedings.

No serious political discussion ever took place that he could see. Once the family announcements were finished, slaves thronged in with refreshments, and this Lord or that would arise from his chair and speak with Chekowara or other clansmen. Many flocked around Mara’s chair, and all of them seemed civil, if not friendly. Kevin waited for a second call to order, or some sort of announcement of business, but no such thing ever happened. When the afternoon light faded above the domed chamber, Lord Chekowara lifted his staff of office and thumped a ringing blow on the dais. ‘The meeting of Clan Hadama is concluded,’ he called out, and one by one, according to rank, the lesser Lords bowed to him in parting.

‘Seems like nothing but an absurd party to me,’ Kevin commented.