The Complete Empire Trilogy. Janny Wurts
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his mistress into his arms.
Jican gathered the creased tallies with near-frantic haste. Still, as the couple in the doorway retired into the shadows of the bedchamber, he saw his parchments stacked straight and the carrying cases neatly tied before he turned their heavy burden over to his servants. As he walked out through the main door of the town house, where an escort of Acoma soldiers waited to accompany him home, he heard Buntokapi laugh. To the long-suffering servants it was unclear who, at that moment, was the happier man.
The estate settled sleepily into the routines of midsummer. The maids no longer sported bruises in the mornings; Keyoke’s subordinates lost their harried look; and Jican’s whistling as he returned from the needra meadows to take up his pens and parchment once again became a reliable way to tell time. Aware that this calm was an illusion, the temporary result of her husband’s long absences, Mara fought the tendency to grow complacent. Though the arrangement was fortunate, the courtesan Teani could not be depended upon to divert Buntokapi indefinitely. Other steps must be taken, each more dangerous than the last. On her way to her chambers, Mara heard a squeal of baby laughter.
She smiled indulgently to herself. Ayaki was growing like a weed, strong and quick to smile now that he had begun to sit up. He kicked his stumpy legs as if impatient to be walking, and Mara wondered whether, when that time came, old Nacoya would be up to handling him. Mentally she made a note to find the nurse a younger assistant, so that the boisterous child would not try her ancient bones too much. That thought in mind, Mara entered the doors to her chamber, then froze, her foot raised between one step and the next. Motionless in the shadow sat a man, his dusty, ragged tunic dyed with the symbols of a mendicant priest of the order of Sularmina, Shield of the Weak. But how he had eluded Keyoke’s defences, and the comings and goings of the servants, to gain the privacy of her quarters, was utterly confounding. Mara drew breath to shout an alarm.
The priest forestalled her as, in a voice undeniably familiar, he said, ‘Greetings, mistress. I have no wish to disturb your peace. Should I leave?’
‘Arakasi!’ The rapid beat of Mara’s heart slowed, and she smiled. ‘Stay, please, and welcome back. Your appearance, as always, surprised me. Have the gods favoured your endeavours?’
The Spy Master stretched, taking the liberty to unwind the cords that secured his head covering. As the cloth slid into his lap, he smiled back. ‘I was successful, Lady. The entire network has been revived, and I have much information to convey to your husband.’
Mara blinked. Her joy deflated, and her hands tightened at her sides. ‘My husband?’
Reading the small signs of tension in her stance, Arakasi spoke carefully. ‘Yes. News of your wedding and the birth of your son reached me in my travels. I will swear fealty to the Acoma natami, if your agreement with me is honourable. Then I must reveal all to my Lord of the Acoma.’
Mara had anticipated this. Despite her planning on the matter, the reality of Arakasi’s loyalties caused a prickle of deepest apprehension. All her hopes might come to nothing. If her husband did not blunder like a needra bull through the subtleties of the Game of the Council, and see the Acoma set upon by intrigue and power-hungry Lords whose secrets had been indiscreetly used, he might turn the Spy Master’s talents over to his father. Then her enemies the Anasati would become strong enough that no family could stand safely against them. Mara tried desperately to act as if the matter were casual. Now that the time was upon her, the stakes seemed frighteningly high.
She glanced quickly at the cho-ja clock on the writing desk and saw the time was still early, only three hours since dawn. Her mind spun in calculation. ‘I think you should rest,’ she said to Arakasi. ‘Take the time until noon to relax and bathe, and after the noon meal I will attend the ceremony to swear your fealty to the Acoma natami. Then you must go to Sulan-Qu and introduce yourself to my Lord Buntokapi.’
Arakasi regarded her shrewdly, his fingers creasing the priest’s mantle over and over in his lap.
‘You may dine with me here,’ Mara added, and she smiled in the sweet way he remembered.
Marriage, then, had changed nothing of her spirit. Arakasi rose and bowed in a manner utterly at odds with his dress. ‘Your will, Lady.’ And on silent feet he departed for the baths and the barracks.
Events developed swiftly after that. Seated on cushions in the breeze from the screen, Arakasi sipped the hot tea, made from fragrant herbs and fruit tree blooms. Enjoying the quickness of Mara’s wit, he talked of the state of the Empire. The Thuril war that had ended years before had caused a loss of prestige for the Warlord and his War Party. The Blue Wheel Party and the Party for Progress had combined to almost force a change in imperial policy, until discovery of the alien world of Midkemia, populated by barbarians and rich with metals beyond the dreams of the maddest poet. Scouts had found metal lying about, obviously fashioned by intelligent beings, then discarded, wealth enough to keep an estate running for a year. Few reports followed, for the Warlord’s campaign against these barbarians had strangled all outgoing information. Since the death of her father and brother, Mara had lost all track of the wars beyond the rift. Of late, only those who served the new Alliance for War knew what was taking place in the barbarian world – or shared in the spoils.
Arakasi’s well-placed agents had access to such secrets. The war progressed well for the Warlord, and even the most reluctant members of the Blue Wheel Party had now joined in the invasion of Midkemia. Animated as he rarely was in his disguises, Arakasi gave a general outline to Mara, but he seemed reluctant to discuss details with anyone but the Lord of the Acoma.
Mara for her part showed him nothing but the dutiful wife, until the tea was drunk to the dregs and even Arakasi’s large appetite seemed satisfied. Her glance at the wall clock seemed casual enough as she said, ‘The day passes. Shall we swear you to our service, that you may go to my husband in Sulan-Qu?’
Arakasi bowed and rose, his sharp eyes not missing the slight tremble in Mara’s voice. He studied her eyes, reassured by the look of resolve in their dark depths. The incident with the cho-ja queens had instilled in him a deep respect for this woman. She had won his trust, and for that he stepped forward to swear his loyalty and his honour to an unknown Lord.
The ceremony was simple, and brief, the only oddity being that Arakasi swore on behalf of his agents also. Mara found it strange to consider the Acoma had loyal retainers whose names were unknown to her, yet who might willingly give their lives for the honour of a master and mistress they had never met. The greatness of Arakasi’s gift, and the fear that his sacrifice and his labours might be wasted, threatened to bring tears to her eyes. Briskly Mara turned to the practical.
‘Arakasi, when you visit my husband … go in the guise of a servant. Tell him you are there to discuss the shipment of the needra hides to be sold to the tentmakers in Jamar. He will then know if it is safe to talk. There are servants in the town house new to our service, so my Lord may be cautious. He will instruct you about what you shall do.’
Arakasi bowed and left her side. As the light slanted golden across the lane leading to the Imperial Highway, Mara bit her lip in earnest hope. If she had timed things right, Arakasi’s arrival should coincide with the height of Buntokapi’s passion in the arms of Teani. Very likely the Spy Master would find a reception far different from anything he expected – unless her husband was in an utterly uncharacteristic mood of tolerance. Worried, excited, and frightened at the frail odds that supported her hopes, Mara put off the poet she had called in to read. Instead she spent the afternoon in the ironclad disciplines of meditation, for the beauty of his words would be wasted in her present frame of mind.
Hours passed. The needra were driven in from their day pastures, and the shatra flew, heralding the approach of night. As the chief assistant gardener lit the lamps in the dooryard, Arakasi returned, dustier than he had been that morning, and visibly footsore. He entered Mara’s presence as the maids laid out cushions for her comfort. Even in the unlit gloom of the chamber, the large red welt upon his cheek showed plainly. Silent, Mara dismissed her maids. She sent her runner after cold food, and a basin and cloth for light washing. Then she bade the Spy Master sit.
The tap of the runner’s sandals diminished