The Complete Empire Trilogy (128 page)

Troubled by an undercurrent of bitterness in his tone, Mara studied the man she had come to love. The breeze ruffled his red hair, and the beard she could never quite become accustomed to. He leaned intently against the rail, the set of his shoulders stiff, the result of the scabs left by battle. The wrist beneath her hands was still bandaged, and the look in his eyes held a bleakness, as if he saw sorrow in the sunlight. She wanted to ask him his thoughts, but a shout from the shore distracted her.

The boatman cast off lines. Polemen began their chant, and the craft slipped away from Kentosani and turned downriver on the seaward pull of the Gagajin. Afternoon breezes snapped the pennons above the canopy, and Mara felt her heart lift. Tasaio had been defeated, and she was returning safely home. ‘Here,’ she said to Kevin. ‘Let us sit with a cool drink.’

The boats passed beyond the lower boundary of the Holy City, and the banks showed the green of land under
cultivation. The smell of river reeds mixed with the rich aroma of spring soil and the pungency of ngaggi trees. The towers of the temples receded, and Mara drowsed contentedly, her head against Kevin’s thigh.

A cry from the shore aroused her. ‘Acoma!’

Her Force Commander hailed back from the prow of the first boat, and presently the servants were all pointing to a cluster of tents at the river’s edge. A war camp of impressive size spread over the meadow, and from the highest pole a green banner with a shatra bird emblem blew in the wind. At Mara’s signal the steersman changed course for the bank, and by the time the boat reached the shallows a thousand Acoma soldiers waited to greet their mistress. Mara marvelled at their number, and her throat tightened with emotion. Scarcely ten years before, when she had assumed the mantle of Ruling Lady, there had been but thirty-seven left to wear the Acoma green….

Three Strike Leaders greeted her litter and bowed as Kevin assisted her out onto firm soil. ‘Welcome, Lady Mara!’

The warriors cheered as one to see their mistress again. The three officers formed ranks and escorted her through the troops to the shady awning of the command tent.

There Keyoke waited, standing tall upon his crutch. He managed a formal bow and said, ‘Mistress, our hearts are joyous at the sight of you.’

Fighting a sudden rush of tears, Mara answered, ‘And my heart sings for the sight of you, dear companion.’

Keyoke bowed at the kindness, and moved aside so she might enter and settle in comfort on the pillows piled upon the thick carpets. Kevin sank to his knees beside her. He kneaded her back with the hand that had sustained no injury, and under his touch he felt her tension dissolve into quiet contentment.

Still at his post by the entrance, Keyoke saw the calm that
settled over his mistress’s face. As he had in the past for Lord Sezu, he faced the outer world, where Lujan approached with Arakasi, Strike Leader Kenji, and the few hale survivors from the night of the bloody swords. A secret smile twitched the old retainer’s lips as he held up a hand in restraint.

‘Force Commander,’ said the former holder of that office, ‘if I may presume. There are times when it is best to let matters wait. Return to your mistress in the morning.’

Lujan bowed to Keyoke’s experience and called to the others to share a round of hwaet beer.

Inside the cool tent, Kevin glanced questioningly at the old man, who nodded his head in approval, then slipped the ties on the door curtains and let them slap gently closed. Outside the door now, Keyoke faced the sunlight. His craggy features remained impassive, but his eyes held a clear light of pride for the lover of the woman he counted the daughter of his heart.

Arakasi’s messenger had made very plain what the Acoma owed to Kevin’s courage with a sword. Keyoke’s grim face softened a fraction as he considered the stump that had been his right leg. Gods, but he was getting soft in his dotage. Never had he thought to see the day when he would be grateful for the impertinence of that redheaded barbarian slave.

Evening shadows dimmed the great hall of the Minwanabi in the hour Lord Tasaio returned. Still clad in the armour he had worn on his trip upriver, his only concession to formality the silk officer’s cloak he had tossed over his shoulders, he strode through the wide main doorway. The chamber was filled. Every member of the household stood arrayed to meet him, and behind them, every second cousin and vassal that had serviced the years of warfare and conflict. Tasaio strode between their still ranks as though he
were totally alone. Only when he reached the dais did he stop, turn, and acknowledge the presence of others.

Incomo stepped forward to greet him. ‘The hearts of the Minwanabi are filled at our Lord’s return.’

Tasaio returned a curt nod. He handed his battle helm to a servant, who bowed and retreated hastily. Never a man to waste words on banalities, the Lord of the Minwanabi turned a flat gaze upon his adviser. ‘Are the priests ready?’

Incomo bowed. ‘As you requested, my Lord.’

New black-and-orange cushions adorned the high dais, along with a rug sewn of sarcat pelts and a table fashioned of intricately etched harulth bones. Tasaio gave the change in furnishings what seemed a passing glance; yet no detail escaped him. Satisfied that nothing left over from Desio’s rule remained, he sat and gave no other sign beyond laying the bared steel blade of the Minwanabi ancestral sword across his knees.

There followed a pause, in which Incomo belatedly realized that he was expected to act without further sign from the master. Where Desio had insisted on control over even the tiniest action, Tasaio expected to be served. The Minwanabi First Adviser waved for the ceremony to commence.

A pair of priests approached the dais, one wearing the red paint and death mask of Turakamu and the other clad in the full-sleeved white robe of Juran the Just. Each intoned a blessing from the god they served. There followed no offerings, and no grand ceremony in the manner that Desio had orchestrated. The priest of Juran lit a candle, for constancy, and left it burning in a stand woven of the reeds that symbolized the frailties of mortal man before his god. The priest of the Death God did not dance or blow whistles. Neither did he ask his deity to show favour. Instead, he trod up the stairs of the dais and reminded in cold words that a promise of sacrifice remained unfulfilled.

‘A vow sworn upon the blood of House Minwanabi,’ the priest reminded. ‘The family of the Acoma must die in the name of Turakamu, with Minwanabi lives as surety. Who would accept the lord’s mantle must also complete this charge.’

Tasaio said thinly, ‘I acknowledge our debt to the Red God. My hand on this sword confirms it.’

The red priest traced a sigil in the air. ‘Turakamu smile upon your endeavour … or seal your death and that of your heirs should you fail.’ Bones clacked and rattled as the priest spun around and left the dais; while the draught of his passage guttered the candle of the Just God.

The new Lord of the Minwanabi sat silently, without expression, as first one and then another family member or retainer came forward to bow and pledge loyalty. When the last vassal had affirmed fealty, he arose and called to the Strike Leader posted by the side door, ‘Send in my concubines.’

Two young women entered, both wearing rich clothes. One was tall, slender, and fair-haired, her wide-set eyes jade green, and delicately enhanced with paint. The other, robed in gauze lace dyed scarlet, had a dark complexion and a rounded figure. Of different types, both women owned a beauty that stopped men’s eyes, and they advanced in tiny steps, in the fashion of those trained since childhood to give pleasure. Both bowed gracefully before the dais, slender legs shown to advantage by short robes, and loose-wrapped gowns revealing an ample glimpse of breast. Although such women were chosen from among the loveliest in the Empire, neither held status above the meanest servant. All who were gathered in the hall stilled in curiosity to see what their Lord wished with his courtesans.

Before Tasaio’s dais, both women fell to their knees, touching foreheads to the floor.

‘Look at me,’ commanded Tasaio.

Frightened, but in all things obedient, the two young women did as instructed. ‘Your will, my Lord,’ they intoned in voices of practised softness.

The new Lord of the Minwanabi regarded them with dispassionate eyes. ‘Incarna,’ he addressed the dark one. ‘Are your children close?’

Incarna nodded, dread draining the colour from her cheeks. She had borne her Lord two illegitimate children, but their father’s rise in status might not be to their benefit. It was not uncommon for a man come to the mantle of Ruling Lord to kill such offspring, preventing any claim upon the family.

‘Bring them,’ Tasaio commanded.

A shimmer that might have been tears brightened Incarna’s almond eyes. Yet she jumped to her feet and hurried out of the Minwanabi great hall. Tasaio’s regard shifted to the fair woman who remained on her knees before the dais. ‘Sanjana, you’ve told my First Adviser you are with child?’

Sanjana held her hands clasped, but the beadwork on her robe shimmered in the light as she trembled. ‘Yes, Lord,’ she replied, the huskiness in her voice no ploy to seem seductive.

Tasaio said nothing. His face and manner did not change even when Incarna reappeared, half dragging a small boy behind her. He had Tasaio’s auburn hair and his mother’s rosy complexion, and though he did not cry, his mother’s nervousness frightened him. Carried in the concubine’s arms was a second child, a girl not yet old enough to walk such a distance on her own. Too young to understand, she rode with her fingers in her mouth, her pale amber eyes on the gathering of people in the hall.

From his place on the dais, Tasaio looked the children over as a man might inspect merchandise for flaws. Then, almost absently, he motioned to Force Commander
Irrilandi. Pointing at Sanjana, he said, ‘Take this woman outside. I will see her die.’

Sanjana’s fist came to her mouth. Her magnificent jade-coloured eyes filled with tears of terror, and her poise failed her. Unable to rise, she remained trembling on her knees until two warriors stepped in and gripped her by the arms. Her efforts to choke back painful sobs echoed over the stillness of the gathering as the men half led, half carried her from the hall.

Alone before the dais, Incarna stood shivering, her hands clenched to her children, and her face sweating with fear. Tasaio regarded her without pity or tenderness and said, ‘I take this woman for my wife, and name these children – what are their names?’

Incarna blinked, then hastily managed to whisper, ‘Dasari and Ilani, my Lord.’

‘Dasari is my heir.’ Tasaio’s voice rang out over the gathering and echoed off the vaulted ceiling. ‘Ilani is my first daughter.’

Then the stillness broke before a rustle of movement as all in the room bowed to the new Lady of the Minwanabi. Tasaio instructed Incomo, ‘Have servants prepare suitable quarters for the Lady of the Minwanabi and her children.’ To Incarna he said, ‘Wife, retire to your quarters and await my call. Teachers will be sent for the children tomorrow. I would have them begin instruction in their duties to their family. Dasari will someday rule this house.’

The former concubine bowed, her movements still tense with terror. She took no joy from her sudden rise in station, but hurried her son and carried her daughter from the dais, past hundreds of staring strangers.

To his guests, relations, and vassals, Tasaio said, ‘We shall have the wedding ceremony tomorrow. You are all welcome to share the feast.’

At this, Incomo’s long face froze against showing alarm.
A wedding required careful planning, to ensure the most favourable auspices. The timing, the food, the ritual marriage hut – all required the blessings of priests and meticulous attention to tradition. Unions of great Lords were seldom undertaken at short notice, lest details be overlooked and ill luck visit the new couple and carry through the next generation.

Yet Tasaio gave the matter short shrift. With the silvery steel of his ancestral sword set at rest on his shoulder, he said, ‘See to the arrangements, First Adviser.’

Then, the bared blade flashing under the skylight as he turned, he motioned for Incomo to follow and strode from the hall without further speech. Tasaio moved toward the outer door, certain that the two soldiers who were stationed on either side would have it open in time for him to pass through.

As their Lord emerged from the house and stepped into the courtyard, two warriors snapped to attention, the terrified Sanjana between them. She had shaken her hair from its pins, and the length of it fell in waves down her back, rare gold enhanced by the sun. She held her eyes downcast, but at Tasaio’s appearance she looked up entreatingly. The soft white skin over her breasts showed her quick breathing, but her courtesan’s skills did not fail her. Even frightened, even driven by desperation, she still managed to husband the only advantage she possessed. Sanjana parted red lips and arranged her slim body so that no man who beheld her could mistake her for what she was: a magnificent ornament whose sole purpose was pleasure.

The effect was not lost upon Tasaio. His eyes brightened as he followed all of her curves and hollows and drank in the promise of lust that her provocative pose implied. He licked his lips, bent down, and kissed her fully and long. With one hand he caressed her breasts. Then he stepped back and said, ‘I have found you a satisfactory bedmate.’ As hope
filled her magnificent eyes, he smiled at her. He savoured the moment, and the sparkle of relief in her expression, as he added, ‘Kill her. Now.’