The Complete Empire Trilogy: Daughter of the Empire, Mistress of the Empire, Servant of the Empire. Janny Wurts
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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?’
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