The Complete Empire Trilogy (145 page)

Nacoya knew better than to persist. She bowed in deep disapproval, then turned and limped out of the garden.

‘She’s right, you know, the old nag,’ Kevin murmured fondly.

Mara spun and snapped at him. ‘You too! Does every evening have to be filled with warnings and fear?’ She tossed
her dark hair, aching inside more than she would ever put into words; though Kevin perhaps thought better of it, he indulged her whim, and gathered her close. He kissed the hardness out of her, and on the cushions, in the flicker of a breeze-tossed lantern, he made her forget the enemies who sought her life and the utter ending of her family.

Within three weeks, high summer set in; the grasses lost the last green that lingered from the rainy season. Mara stepped out of the estate house into the misty predawn gloom. Her litter awaited, surrounded by a picked guard of thirty warriors led this day by Kenji, who needed the field experience. For her journey to meet with the Lord of the Hanqu she planned to be in the mountains before the heat of midday, and, at Arakasi’s suggestion, she kept her escort light for speed and secrecy. Her Adviser for War had insisted on seeing her off; since Nacoya was no longer up to rising in early morning.

Yet no adviser waited in the dooryard as Mara made her appearance, Kevin following at the proper pace behind her shoulder, but ever unmindful of propriety. ‘The old codger must have slept late,’ the barbarian said lightly. ‘I should take the chance to get back at him for the time he kicked me awake with his war sandals on.’

‘I heard that,’ called a voice well trained from the drill field. Keyoke emerged from the ranks of Mara’s bodyguard, a craggy silhouette incongruously propped on a crutch. He paused to speak emphatic instructions to Kenji, to snap at a man for sloppy posture; then, plainly reluctant to leave the warriors, he shot a disparaging glance at Kevin and assumed his post before Mara’s litter,

‘My Lady.’ He bowed with well-practised balance and replaced his crutch beneath his shoulder. Then he looked intently at his mistress, as if he marshalled words instead of troops. His voice dropped, so that the soldiers would not
overhear. ‘Daughter of my heart, I feel uneasy about this trip. The fact that Lord Xaltepo sent speech in the mouth of a messenger rather than written above his family chop has suspicious overtones.’

Mara frowned. ‘They are a small family with few ties. If I were to decline alliance, and that parchment with their personal chop should fall into Tasaio’s hands, what do you think would become of them? The Minwanabi have obliterated other families for far less cause.’ She bit her lip. ‘No. I think Arakasi is right, and that Tasaio finally sees that much of what we’ve done has been built upon financial gain and now he must counter further Acoma expansion.’

Keyoke raised his hand, as if he had begun to scratch his chin and then thought better of it. Instead he took Mara’s wrist and gently settled her into the litter. ‘Go with the good gods’ grace, my Lady.’

He stepped back as Mara waved for the bearers to lift her litter. Then Kenji gave the command to march, and the small cortege started forward. As Kevin moved to fall into step beside his mistress, Keyoke caught his elbow in a grip still callused and strong.

‘Protect her,’ he said, an urgency in his tone that Kevin had never heard before. ‘Let no harm come to her, or I’ll kick you with more than my battle sandals.’

Kevin grinned insouciantly. ‘Keyoke, old friend, if harm comes to Mara, you’ll have to settle for kicking my corpse, because by then I’ll already be dead.’

The Adviser for War nodded, allowing that this was true. He released the slave and turned quickly away while Mara’s escort and bearers marched into the mist. Kevin hastened to catch up, looking often over his shoulder. Far less the foreigner than he once was, the Midkemian would have sworn that the crafty old warrior had something pressing on his mind.

By the time the rising sun burned the mist off the valleys, Mara and her honour guard were deep in the forest that covered the foothills of the Kyamaka Mountains. Before the day’s traffic of caravans began, and out of sight of early couriers, they turned off the main road, striking down a narrow trail that threaded ever deeper into the wilds. Daylight was not strong here, and the mist lingered, lending a gloom to the wood and the drip of wet trees. Already the damp heat was oppressive. Strike Leader Kenji motioned his small column of warriors to halt for a short break, and to allow a change of bearers for Mara’s litter. The escort was too small to include a water boy; the slaves carried crocks from the spring by the roadside, helped by Kevin, who felt sorry for their plight. Mara was not a heavy load to carry, but this day her haste was great, and the bearers just relieved from duty were sweat-drenched and panting.

Crock in hand, Kevin knelt at the verge of a still, mossy pool fed by a spring from a fissure in the rocks. Intrigued by the alien orange moss that clothed the banks, and by the iridescent flash of fish that darted through aqua strands of weed, he only half heard Strike Leader Kenji say to Mara that the scout who held back to watch the trail for followers was slow to report.

‘We shall delay to see if he arrives,’ the officer decided. ‘If he does not come within a minute, I suggest we slip into the cover of the trees, until a man can be sent to investigate.’

Kevin grinned to himself and bent to fill his basin. The scout in question was Juratu, a quick-witted, lively man who liked his pleasures; he had kept late hours gambling with friends the night before. If he had drunk half as much wine as barracks rumour claimed, he’d likely be found moving at less than anticipated speed, slowed by a grandfather of hangovers.

One of the soldiers said as much to Kenji, then added that this was the haunt of grey warriors, and perhaps Juratu had
paused to observe their movements. Another dryly suggested he might be bartering with them for a wineskin. Kevin indulged in a chuckle; had the Lady herself not been present, such an antic would certainly be within Juratu’s reputation. Thinking of grey warriors, and his few Midkemian companions who had escaped and taken refuge in these forests, Kevin peered through the trees as he rose.

The mist was lifting. Pale spears of sunlight fell through the canopy of branches. Had Kevin not been half-expectantly looking for the chance-met shape of a man, he would have missed the movement: the brief, flickering sight of a face through the leaves, there, and then hastily gone.

The nose had been narrow and hooked, and the helm was not Juratu’s.

Kevin’s hands tautened over the crock, and water spilled, wetting his knuckles in a flood. He dared not cry out, or even run, lest he reveal that the hidden watcher had been seen. Sweating, more than a little shaky in the knees, Kevin turned his back on the spring. In imitation of a slave’s listless shuffle, he made his way step by nerve-racked step back to Mara’s caravan.

The skin between his shoulderblades itched, as if at any moment he expected the terrible stab of an arrow.

The dozen steps that separated him from Kenji and Mara’s litter seemed to take an eternity. Kevin forced his feet to walk sedately while his thoughts raced. The litter curtains were cracked open, with Mara on the verge of leaning out to address Kenji.

Fear shot like a bolt through Kevin’s nerves. He pinched the water crock in a death grip and inwardly willed the woman to lean back out of sight in the shadow of her litter.

Being Mara, she did not. She shoved the curtains wider, looked up at her Strike Leader, and opened her mouth to speak.

Feeling danger like a breaking wave at his back, Kevin
acted. He tripped, hard, on a rock and flung the contents of his water crock over the Lady and her officer. He followed up this clumsiness by crashing full length into the litter.

His mistress’s cry of surprise and outrage became smothered under his chest as he forced her down and back, deep into the cushions, safe behind the protection of his body as he flipped the litter on its side, turning it into a breastwork.

His action came none too soon. Even as Kevin disentangled himself from the silk curtains, enemy arrows began to fall.

They sang out of air, smacking through dirt and armour with an evil flat sound like the blows of punitive hands. Kenji was first to fall. He went down screaming orders, while arrows hammered and hammered the underside slats of the spilled litter, raised now before Mara like a barricade.

‘It’s an ambush,’ Kevin snarled in her ear, while she beat with her fists to try to tear from his embrace. ‘Keep still.’

An arrow whapped through a cushion and rammed a groove through the dirt. Mara saw and instantly went still. She listened, stricken, to the shouting as those warriors left alive to heed their dying officer’s call to rally threw themselves in a heap on top of the litter, their bodies her living shield.

The situation was desperate. The arrows crashed down in a rain, and the flimsy underpinnings of the litter bounced and splintered with the impact. Kevin tried to see out and caught a raking slash across his shoulder. He cursed, ducked back, and in a rush peeled off his slave’s robe.

Two of the warriors nearest Mara were dying, wounded as they dived to her defence. Now the cold hiss of shafts was replaced by the rattle of swordplay as ambushers charged from the forest in a wave and engaged the tatters of her guard still left standing.

‘Quick,’ Kevin snapped. He held out his robe. ‘Bundle my
Lady in this. Her fancy clothes make too clear a target.’ One of the bearers threw back a look of uncertainty.

‘Just do it!’ Kevin shouted. ‘Her honour is dust if she’s dead.’

More warriors charged from the cover of the wood. Mara’s few survivors closed in a ragged ring around the litter; they were too few, a pitiful dyke against an avalanche of foes. Kevin abandoned further argument, for a swordsman charged out of the mêlée with lowered blade to take him in the back. Kevin snatched up a fallen weapon, and snapped off a length of curtain that he wrapped around his arm to serve as shield; then he spun at bay and prepared to kill until he died.

At home on the Acoma estate, Ayaki scowled blackly at Nacoya. His face turned red and his fists clenched, and she and two slaves and a nurse all prepared for a warrior-sized tantrum.

‘I won’t wear that!’ Ayaki shouted. ‘It has orange, and that is the colour worn by Minwanabi.’

Nacoya regarded the garment at hand, a silk robe fastened with shell buttons that might, with imagination, be called orange. The real reason behind the argument was that Ayaki preferred to wear no robe at all in the heat and humidity of high summer. That he was too well born to charge about naked as a slave child through the hallways made no impression on nine-year-old priorities.

But Nacoya had years of experience at managing high-spirited Acoma children. She caught Ayaki’s stiff shoulders and gave him a shake. ‘Young warrior, you will wear the robes you are given, and deport yourself like the Lord you will be when you are grown. If you do less, you will spend the morning scrubbing dirty plates with the scullions.’

Ayaki’s eyes widened. ‘You’d never dare! I’m not a servant or a slave!’

‘Then stop acting like one and dress like a noble.’ Nacoya closed a puffed, arthritic hand over Ayaki’s wrist and hauled him firmly across the chamber to the servant who waited with the robe. Even stiff and sore, she still had a grip like iron. Ayaki stopped struggling, shoved his bunched fist into a waiting sleeve, then stood scowling and rubbing at the red mark where the skin on his wrist had pulled.

‘Now the other hand,’ Nacoya snapped. ‘No more nonsense.’

Ayaki’s dark look lifted and he grinned. ‘No more nonsense,’ he agreed in one of his instant shifts of mood. He submitted his other hand to the servant, and presently the offending robe was settled over his shoulders. His smile widened until he showed his missing front teeth, and he deliberately reached up and jerked off the first shell button. ‘The robe is all right,’ he announced defiantly. ‘But I will wear no orange!’

‘Demon!’ Nacoya swore under her breath. She was definitely too tired to manhandle wilful little boys. She settled for smacking his cheek, which shocked him into a loud shriek of rage.

The yell was loud enough to defeat thought, and the servants winced. The guards in the corridor were distracted and did not hear the soft footfall as a black-clothed figure leaped on silent feet through the screen.

Suddenly the servant standing nearest reeled aside with a knife in his back.

He fell without a cry. Even as the assassin’s shadow sliced across the sunlight, the second servant toppled with a cut throat.

Nacoya felt the thud as the corpse struck the wooden floor. Instinctively attuned to danger, she reached down and caught the Acoma heir, who still howled, and flung him headlong into the corner. He landed rolling amid bed mat and cushions still in morning disarray.

The First Adviser called for the guards, but her voice was aged and weak. Her warning went unheard. Ayaki screamed now in blind rage, intent on disentangling himself from his bedclothes. Only Nacoya saw his peril, and the servants bleeding out their lives on the nursery floor.

‘Demon!’ she said again, but this time to the black-clothed figure of the tong assassin. He had pulled another knife from his belt, and a cord looped the fingers of his left hand. His face was hidden behind a black gauze caul; his fists were gloved. Nothing showed but his eyes as he stalked to take his victim, the boy who was Mara’s heir. Only Nacoya stood in his way. Already the knife rose for a throw to cut her down.