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Incomo nodded to himself. He knew that the root of Desio’s behaviour was fear. Jingu’s son lived each day in terror that Mara would continue the Acoma blood feud with the Minwanabi. Now Ruling Lord, Desio would be the next target of Mara’s plotting, his own life and honour the next to fall.
Although the stifling heat shortened his patience, Incomo attempted to console his master, for this admission, no matter how private between a Lord and his adviser, was the first step in overcoming that fear, and perhaps in conquering Lady Mara, as well. ‘Lord, the girl will make a mistake. You must bide your time; wait for that moment….’
The jade-fly returned to pester Desio; the slave moved his fan to intercept its flight, but Desio waved the feathers away. He glared through the gloom at Incomo. ‘No, I cannot wait. The Acoma cow already has the upper hand and she continues to grow stronger. My father’s position was more advantageous than my own; he stood but one step away from the Gold Throne of the Warlord! Now he is ashes, and I can count loyal allies on one hand. All our pain and humiliation can be placed at the feet of … that woman.’
This was sorrowfully true. Incomo understood his master’s reluctance to speak his enemy’s name. Barely more than a child when her father and brother died – with few soldiers and no allies – within three years Mara had secured more prestige for the Acoma than they had known in their long, honourable history. Incomo tried in vain to think of something soothing to say, but his young Lord’s complaints were all justified. Mara was to be feared, and now her position of power had increased to the point where she not only could protect herself, but could directly challenge the Minwanabi.
Softly the First Adviser said, ‘Recall Tasaio to your side.’
Desio blinked, momentarily looking stupid as his father never had. Then comprehension dawned. He glanced about the room and noticed the fan slave still at his post, despite the blood trickling from his broken nose and torn lip. In a moment of unexpected consideration, Desio dismissed the unfortunate wretch. Now alone with his adviser, he said, ‘Why should I call my cousin back from the war upon the barbarian world? You know he covets my position. Until I marry and sire children, he is next in succession. And he is too close to the Warlord for my taste. My father was wise to keep him busy with affairs upon a distant world.’
‘Your father was also wise enough to have your cousin arrange the Lord Sezu’s and Lanokota’s deaths in the first place.’ Hands tucked in his sleeves, Incomo stalked forward a step. ‘Why not let Tasaio deal with the girl? The father, the son, now the daughter.’
Desio considered. Tasaio had waited until the Warlord had been absent from the campaign upon the barbarian world to order Lord Sezu and his son into an impossible military situation. He had ensured their deaths without exposing the Minwanabi to any public culpability. It had been a brilliant stroke, and Desio’s father had ceded some desirable lands in Honshoni Province to Tasaio as reward. Tapping his cheek with a pudgy finger, Desio said, ‘I am uncertain. Tasaio might prove dangerous to me, perhaps as dangerous as … that girl.’
Incomo shook his head in disagreement. ‘Your cousin will defend Minwanabi honour. As Ruling Lord, you are not a target for Tasaio’s ambition, as you were when Lord Jingu was alive. It is one thing to seek a rival’s demise, quite another to attempt to overthrow one’s own lawful Lord.’ Incomo pondered a moment, then added, ‘Despite his ambitions, it is unthinkable Tasaio would break his oath to you. He would no more move against you than he would have against your father, Lord Desio.’ He stressed the last to drive home the point he wished to make.
Desio stood, ignoring the fly, which at last perched upon his collar. His eyes fixed on a point in space, and he sighed aloud. ‘Yes, of course. You are correct. I must recall Tasaio and have him swear fealty. Then he must defend me with his life, or forfeit Minwanabi honour forever.’
Incomo waited, aware his master had not finished. Sometimes clumsy with words, Desio still possessed a cunning mind, though he lacked his father’s instincts or his cousin’s brilliance. He crossed to the windows. ‘I shall include all other loyal retainers and allies in my summons,’ he declared at last. ‘Yes, we must have a formal gathering.’ He faced his adviser with finality. ‘No one shall think I have hesitated in calling my cousin to serve at home. No, we shall have all our vassals and allies here.’
Decisively the fat man clapped his hands. Two servants in orange livery slid aside painted doors and entered to do his bidding. ‘Open these damned screens,’ commanded Desio. ‘Do it quickly. I am hot.’ As if a great burden had been lifted from his soul, he added, ‘Let in fresh air, for the gods’ mercy.’
The servants busied themselves with latches and bars, and presently light flooded the study and cool air flowed inside. The fly on the young Lord’s collar took wing toward freedom, and the lake beyond. The waters sparkled silver in sunlight, dotted with fishing boats that plied nets from dawn to dusk. Desio seemed to shed his self-indulgence as he strode across the room to stand before his First Adviser. His eyes came alight with newfound confidence as the paralysing fear brought on by his father’s death fled before his excited planning. ‘I will make my vows upon my family’s natami in the Holy Glade of Minwanabi Ancestors, with all my kin in attendance.
‘We shall show that the Minwanabi have not fallen.’ Then, with unexpected dry humour, he added, ‘Or at least not very far.’ He shouted for his hadonra and began relaying orders. ‘I want the very finest entertainment available. This celebration will outshine that disaster my father arranged to honour the Warlord. Have every family member attend, including those who fight upon the barbarian world …’
‘This shall be done, my Lord.’ Incomo sent a runner scurrying with instructions for officers, senior advisers, servants, and slaves. Within moments two scribes were furiously copying Desio’s commands, while, close by, the family chop bearer hovered with hot wax.
Desio regarded this bustle with a cold smile on his lips. He droned on a few minutes more, his orders and grandiose plans making him feel better than wine. Then suddenly he stopped. To all in the room he announced, ‘And send word to the Grand Temple of Turakamu. I will build a prayer gate, so that each traveller who passes through will invoke the Red God’s indulgence, that he will look favourably upon Minwanabi vengeance. To the god I vow: blood will flow freely until I have the Acoma bitch’s head!’
Incomo bowed to conceal his sudden concern. To pledge so to Turakamu might bring fortune during a conflict, but one did not vow lightly to the Death God; disaster could befall if vows went unfulfilled. The patience of the gods in such a matter was a fickle proposition. Incomo gathered his robe about him, finding the air off the lake suddenly chilling. At least, he hoped it was the breeze and not a premonition of doom.
Sunlight streamed through the tree branches within the largest of the Acoma gardens, painting patches of light upon the ground. Overhead, leaves rustled, while the fountain in the centre of the courtyard sang its never-ending melody of falling water. Despite the pleasant surroundings, all those called to council shared their mistress’s concerns.
Mara sat within her circle of senior advisers, her thoughts troubled. Clad in her thinnest lounging robe, adorned by a single green jewel on a cho-ja-carved jade chain, she seemed almost abstracted, the picture of the Lady in repose. And yet her brown eyes held a glint that these, her closest advisers, all recognized as puzzlement.
One by one the Lady studied the officers and advisers that were House Acoma’s core. The hadonra, Jican, a short, nervous man with a shrewd mind for commerce, sat diffidently as always. Under his detailed management, Acoma wealth had multiplied, but he preferred progress in small, secure steps, avoiding the dramatic gambles that appealed to Mara. Today Jican fidgeted less than usual, which the Lady of the Acoma attributed to the news that the cho-ja silk makers had begun their spinning. By the winter season their first bolts of finished cloth would be ready. Acoma riches, then, were on the increase. To Jican, this was of vital concern. But Mara knew wealth alone did not secure a great house.
Her First Adviser, Nacoya, had repeated this to no end. If anything, Mara’s recent victory over the Minwanabi made the wizened old woman more nervous than ever. ‘I agree with Jican, Lady. This expansion could prove dangerous.’ She fixed Mara with a steady gaze. ‘A house can rise too fast in the Game of the Council. The lasting victories are ever the subtle ones, for they do not call for preemptive action by rivals unnerved by sudden successes. The Minwanabi will be moving, we know, so let us not bring uninvited appraisal from other houses, too.’
Mara dismissed the remark. ‘I have only the Minwanabi to fear. We are at odds with no one else at present, and I wish things to remain that way. We must all prepare for the strike we know will come. It’s just a question of when and in what form.’ Mara’s voice held an uncertain note as she added, ‘I expected a swift reprisal after Jingu’s death, even if only a token raid.’ And yet, for a month, no changes had been observed in the Minwanabi household.
Desio’s appetite for drink and slave girls had increased, Mara’s spies reported; and Jican’s quick eyes had noticed the drop in Minwanabi trade goods sold within the Empire’s marketplaces. This decrease in wares had driven prices up, and other houses had prospered as a result: hardly the desire of the power-hungry Minwanabi, particularly after that family had suffered such a loss in prestige.
Neither were there any overt preparations for war. The Minwanabi barracks maintained practice as usual, and no recall orders had gone out to the troops at war on the barbarian world.
Force Commander Keyoke had not taken the spies’ reports to heart. Never complacent where Mara’s safety was concerned, he laboured among his troops morning until nightfall, reviewing the condition of armour and weapons, and overseeing battle drills. Lujan, his First Strike Leader, spent hours at his side. He – like all Acoma soldiers – was lean and battle-ready, his eyes quick to fix upon movement, and his hand always near his sword.
‘I don’t like the way things look,’ Keyoke said, his words sharp over the fall of water in the fountain. ‘The Minwanabi estate might appear to be in chaos, but this could be a ruse to cover preparations for a strike against us. Desio may be grieving for his father, but I grew up with Irrilandi, his Force Commander, and I will tell you there is no laxity in any Minwanabi barracks. Warriors can march in a moment.’ His capable hands tightened on the helmet in his lap, until the officer’s plumes at the crest quivered with his tension. Ever expressionless, Keyoke shrugged. ‘I know our forces should be preparing to counter this threat you speak of, but the spies give us no clue where we should look for the next thrust. We cannot keep ourselves at battle readiness indefinitely, mistress.’
Lujan nodded. ‘There has been no movement in the wilds among the grey warriors and condemned men. No large force of bandits is reported, which should mean it’s safe to assume that the Minwanabi are not staging for a covert attack, as they did against Lord Buntokapi.’
‘Seem not to be,’ Keyoke amended. ‘Lord Buntokapi,’ he said, naming Mara’s late husband, ‘was given ample warning.’ His eyes showed a fleeting bitterness. ‘For Lord Sezu, warning came too late. This was Tasaio’s plotting, and a more clever relli has never been birthed by the Minwanabi,’ he observed, referring to the deadly Kelewan water serpent. ‘The moment I hear Tasaio has been recalled, I will begin sleeping in my armour.’
Mara nodded to Nacoya, who seemed to have something to add. The old woman’s pins were askew, as always, but her gruff manner seemed more thoughtful than sharp. ‘Your Spy Master’s agents will pay very careful attention to important matters within the Minwanabi household.’ A shrewd expression crossed the adviser’s face. ‘But he is a man, Lady, and will concentrate on numbers of soldiers, stockpiling of stores for battle, the comings and goings of leaders, messages to allies. I would suggest that you put your agent under orders to watch for the moment when Desio tires of his slave girls. A man with a purpose does not dally in his bed. This I remember well. The moment Desio ceases drinking wine and fondling women, then we know he plots murder against your house.’
Mara made a faintly exasperated gesture. The slightest hint of a smile curved her lips, making her radiantly pretty. Though she was unaware of the fact, Lujan was not; he watched his mistress with devoted admiration and added a playful comment. ‘My Lady, First Adviser’ – here he nodded to the wizened Nacoya – ‘I will bid the warriors who sweat through their drills at noon to await the exhaustion of Desio’s member. When the Minwanabi flag droops, we will all line up for the charge.’
Mara blushed and threw the First Strike Leader a dark look. ‘Lujan, your insight is apt, even if your example is not.’ Since her wedding night, Mara had little comfort with such talk.
Lujan bowed. ‘My Lady, if I have given offence …’
She waved away the apology – she could never stay angry with Lujan – then turned her head as her runner rushed up and bowed at her elbow.
‘Speak, Tamu,’ she said gently, for the young boy was new to his post and still uncertain of himself.
Tamu pressed his forehead to the floor, still intimidated by being in a noble’s presence. ‘Lady, your Spy Master awaits in your study. He says he has brought reports from Hokani Province, particularly from estates to the north.’
‘At last,’ said Mara in relief. She recognized in the runner’s choice of language what her Spy Master, Arakasi, had striven to impart. Only one estate in Hokani mattered. He would have word of the countermove her people had been awaiting through four strained weeks. To her advisers she said, ‘I will speak with Arakasi at once, and meet with you all later in the afternoon.’
Breezes played through the ulo leaves, and the fountain still sang its splashing song, as the Acoma officers bowed to acknowledge their dismissal. Keyoke and Lujan were first to rise. Jican gathered his tally slates and asked his Lady’s permission to look in on the cho-ja silk makers. Mara granted his request, but waved him off before he could reiterate any of his constant concerns.
Nacoya was last to rise. Arthritis had slowed her movements of late, and Mara was jolted by the unpleasant recognition that age was taking its toll on the indomitable old woman. Nacoya’s promotion to First Adviser had been well earned, and despite her belief that she had risen higher than she deserved, Mara’s former nurse had worn her mantle of office with grace and shrewd intelligence. Thirty years serving the wives and daughters of Ruling Lords had gained her a unique insight into the Game of the Council.
Mara watched Nacoya’s stiff bow with trepidation. She could not imagine Acoma prosperity without the old woman’s acerbic guidance or her strong, affectionate nature, which had supported Mara through worse troubles than she had ever imagined she might survive. Only the gods knew how long Nacoya might live, but, with a chill, Mara sensed that her First Adviser’s days were limited. The Lady of the Acoma was in no way prepared for the loss. Save for her son, the old woman was all Mara counted family in the world. If she lost Nacoya unexpectedly, there was no clear choice among her servants for the role of First Adviser.
Mara pushed such gloomy thoughts away. Best not to think of future sorrows when the Minwanabi were busy plotting vengeance, she justified to herself.
Mara bade her runner slave rise and inform Arakasi that she would be joining him in the study. Then she clapped for a servant and sent to the kitchen for food. For unless Arakasi changed his manner, he had come straight to his mistress from the road and had not eaten since the night before.
Mara’s study was dim and cool, even during early afternoon. Furnished with a low black table and fine green silk cushions, it had hand-painted screens opening onto a walkway lined with flowering akasi plants. When open, the outer doors provided a view of the Acoma estates, needra meadows rolling away to the wetlands where the shatra birds flew each sunset. But today the screens were only partially open, and the view was blocked by filmy silk drapes that admitted air while keeping out prying eyes. Mara entered a room that appeared at first glance to be empty. Experience had taught her not to be deceived; still, she could not entirely control her slight start.
A voice spoke without warning from the dimmest corner. ‘I closed the drapes, Lady, since the work crew is trimming the akasi.’ A shadowy figure stepped forward, graceful as a predator stalking prey. ‘Although your overseer is honest, and Midkemians are unlikely to be spies, still, I take precautions out of habit.’
The man knelt before his mistress. ‘More than once such practices have saved my life. I bring you greetings, Lady.’
Mara gave him her hand as a sign he should make himself comfortable. ‘You are doubly welcomed home, Arakasi.’ She studied this fascinating man. His dark hair was wet, but not from a bath. Arakasi had paused only to rinse off travel dust and slip on a fresh tunic. His hatred of the Minwanabi equalled any harboured by those born on Acoma lands, and his desire to see the most powerful of the Five Families ground down into oblivion was dearer to him than life.
‘I hear no sounds of shears,’ Mara pointed out. She permitted her Spy Master to rise. ‘Your return is a relief, Arakasi.’
The Spy Master straightened and settled back onto his heels. Mara had a quick mind, and, with her, discussions tended to thread through several topics simultaneously. He smiled with genuine pleasure, for in her service his reports bore rich fruit. Without waiting for her to be seated, he answered her earlier query. ‘You hear no sounds of shears, Lady, because the overseer sent away the workers. The slaves on the first shift complained of sunburn, and rather than sweat over the whip, the overseer chose to shuffle the work roster.’
‘Midkemians,’ Mara said shortly, as she settled onto her cushions. With Arakasi she felt familiar, and since the day waxed hot, she loosened her sash and allowed the breeze through the drapes to cool her through her opened robe. ‘They are recalcitrant as breeding needra. Jican advised against my buying them, and I fear he may have been right.’
Arakasi considered this with a birdlike cock of his head. ‘Jican thinks like a hadonra, not a ruler.’
‘Meaning he does not see the whole picture,’ Mara said, and the light in her eyes intensified with the challenge of matching wits with her Spy Master. ‘You find the Midkemians interesting,’ she surmised.
‘Passingly so.’ Arakasi turned at a slight step in the corridor, and seeing that the disturbance was nothing more than a servant approaching from the kitchen, he again faced his mistress. ‘Their customs are not like ours, Lady. If there are slaves in their culture, my guess is they are very different creatures from ours. But I digress from my purpose.’ His eyes grew suddenly sharp. ‘Desio of the Minwanabi at last begins to show his hand as Ruling Lord.’
The servant arrived at the doorway with platters of fruit and cold jigabird. Arakasi fell silent as Mara motioned for the tray to be placed on the table. ‘You must be hungry.’ She invited her Spy Master to take his ease upon the cushions. The servant departed silently, and for the moment all was quiet outside. Neither Mara nor her Spy Master reached for the dishes. The Lady of the Acoma spoke first. ‘Tell me of Desio.’
Arakasi became very still. His dark eyes showed no emotion at all, but his hands, so seldom betraying his mood, went tense. ‘The young Lord is not the player of the Great Game that his father was,’ he opened. ‘This if anything makes him more dangerous. With Jingu, my agents always knew where and when to listen. This is not so with the son. An experienced opponent is somewhat predictable. A novice may prove … innovative.’ He smiled slightly and nodded in Mara’s direction, acknowledging that her own successes bore out his observations. ‘He’s no creative thinker, but what Desio can’t gain by wit, he may yet bungle into having.’ The Spy Master poured himself a cup of jomach juice and took a tentative sip. He would find no poisons in this house, but the subject of the Minwanabi, as always, made him prickle with uneasiness and caution. Seeking a lighter tone, lest he needlessly alarm his young mistress, Arakasi added, ‘Desio has a lot of soldiers to bungle with.’
Mara considered her Spy Master’s mood, perhaps brought on by his own need for self-control, for to give his hatred free rein he would seek the destruction of his enemies without regard for the safety of any and all things near to him.
‘But Desio himself is weak, no matter how strong those who serve him.’ Arakasi abandoned his juice cup on the table. ‘He has inherited all his father’s passions, but not Jingu’s restraints. If not for Force Commander Irrilandi’s vigilance, his enemies might have torn through his defences and fed off his wealth like a pack of jagunas over a dead harulth,’ he said, referring to Kelewan’s doglike carrion eater and most feared predator: a giant, six-legged terror, all speed and teeth. Arakasi steepled his hands and looked keenly at Mara. ‘But Force Commander Irrilandi kept his patrols in first-class order. Many exploratory raids were mounted within days of Jingu’s death, and Minwanabi left only a few survivors licking their wounds.’
‘The Xacatecas were among those enemies,’ Mara prompted.
Arakasi returned a nod. ‘They bear the Minwanabi no affection, and my agent in Lord Chipino’s household indicates that the Xacatecas’ First Adviser raised the possibility of alliance with the Acoma. Others in his council are still opposed; they say you have shown the best you have, and wait for you to fall. But Chipino of the Xacatecas listens without making final judgment.’
Mara raised her eyebrows, surprised. The Xacatecas were one of the Five Families. Her victory over Jingu had indeed raised regard for her name, if Chipino’s advisers would debate a possible alliance that would be a virtual declaration of war on the Minwanabi. Even the Shinzawai had skirted the question of open ties, content for the moment to keep a friendly but neutral position.
‘But the Xacatecas can wait,’ said Arakasi. ‘Desio will not formulate policy on his own, but come to depend on advisers and relations. Power and leadership will be spread over several men, making a clear-cut picture very difficult for my agents to gather. This will make our predictions unreliable where broad policy is concerned, and certainty impossible when it comes to assessing the Minwanabi’s immediate plans.’
Mara watched an insect advance across the fruit dish, sampling each variety. So would Desio surround himself with ambitious and power-hungry individuals, and though their desires might differ, all could be depended upon to wish the Acoma downfall. Perhaps ominously, the insect settled on one slice of jomach, where several of its fellows joined it. ‘We are fortunate that Tasaio is away in the wars upon Midkemia,’ the Lady mused.
Arakasi leaned forward. ‘Fortunate no longer, mistress. The man who arranged the murder of your father and brother is returning through the rift at this very day. Desio has called a great gathering of relations and supporters for the week following next. He will take oaths of fealty, and more. He has paid in metal for the erection of a prayer gate to the Red God.’
Now Mara went very still. ‘Tasaio is dangerous.’
‘Ambitious as well,’ added Arakasi. ‘Desio might be ruled by his passions, but his cousin’s only interests are war and power. With Desio firmly upon the Minwanabi throne, Tasaio will advance his own cause for command over Imperial troops and will serve Desio faithfully – albeit with an occasional silent wish for Desio to choke on a jigabird bone, I wager. Tasaio may try a military solution to his uncle’s fall from power. A smashing victory over House Acoma, with some damage to other great houses as well, and Desio will stand next to the Warlord in power in the council.’
Mara considered this. Jingu’s death had caused the Minwanabi to lose honour, allies, and political strength, but their garrisons and capability for warcraft were still undiminished. Acoma forces were well on their way to recovery since the destruction that had accompanied the fall of her father and brother. But too much relied on the cho-ja guards. At present, the insectoids would act only on Acoma lands, a deadly and reliable defensive army, but useless for offensive strategy. In war or conflict beyond the estate borders, the Acoma could not match the military might presently commanded by Desio.
‘We must know what they plan,’ she said tensely. ‘Can your agents penetrate this Minwanabi gathering and report what Desio’s advisers whisper in his ear?’
Arakasi returned a bitter smile. ‘Lady, do not overestimate any spy’s abilities. Remember that the man who reports was very close to Jingu. That servant still commands the same post, but as the son begins to exercise his powers, we have no guarantee he will remain there. Of course, I have begun to groom a replacement should things go amiss, but remember that the agent we place must be tailored to Desio’s tastes. He will not be able to rise in the young Lord’s confidence for a few years at best.’
Mara anticipated Arakasi’s next thought. ‘And Tasaio is the greater danger.’
The Spy Master returned a slight bow. ‘Lady, be sure that I will do all that is possible to compile an accurate report of what transpires at Desio’s gathering. Should the young Lord remain as stupid as I think he is, Tasaio will be but one voice among many. If he shows an unexpected flash of intelligence and assigns the campaign against us to Tasaio, we are doubly endangered.’ He set aside a barely nibbled piece of bread. ‘Worrying about what may occur has limited benefit. Have your factors and servants listen in the markets for gossip and news. Knowledge is power, remember that always. On this will the Acoma come to triumph.’
Smoothly Arakasi arose, and Mara waved him permission to withdraw. As he slipped unobtrusively from her presence, she noticed with a chill that this was the first time she had ever known him to leave food when he was hungry. The room seemed suddenly too silent, oppressive with her own doubt. The image of Tasaio returning reawakened the desperate sense of helplessness she had known when she had learned of the deaths of her family. Unwilling to dwell upon the blackness of the past, Mara clapped for her servants.
‘Bring me my son,’ she commanded. Though she knew Ayaki would be soundly asleep, she had a sudden yearning for his noise, his mischief, and the warm weight of his small, muscular body in her arms.
• Chapter Three • Changes (#ulink_e4b4fb72-6b1a-5b34-af4e-70246f650503)
The child turned over.
Ayaki sprawled upon the cushions, asleep. Boisterous for a short time, he had finally succumbed to exhaustion. Mara stroked his black hair away from his forehead, filled with love for her son.
Although the boy had his father’s stocky build, he had inherited quickness from her family. In his second year, he showed remarkable coordination, a fast tongue that drove the servants to distraction, and continually bruised knees. His smile had won the hearts of even the most hardened warriors who served on the Acoma estates.
‘You will be a fine fighter, and a greater player of the game,’ Mara mused softly. But now the boy’s toughness and quick wit had one opponent he could not overcome, his need for an afternoon nap. Though he was the light of Mara’s life, these brief interludes were welcome, for when awake Ayaki required three nurses to keep him occupied.
Mara tucked her son’s robe about him and straightened his outflung limbs. She settled back upon her cushions in thought. Many recently planted seeds must bear fruit before Ayaki came of age. When that day dawned, her father’s old enemies the Anasati would end the alliance begun for the sake of the boy. What goodwill Mara had secured through giving birth to the first grandson of Lord Tecuma of the Anasati would end, and the debt incurred by Buntokapi’s premature death would be exacted. Then must the Acoma be unassailably strong, to weather the change in rule as Mara turned over control of her house to an inexperienced son. The Minwanabi menace must be fully eliminated before another powerful enemy challenged a young Lord.
Mara considered the years ahead, while afternoon sunlight striped the drapes and slaves returned to trim the akasi. The gardening around the walkways occurred often enough that she had become indifferent to the clack of shears. Except for today, when that normal household sound was repeatedly interrupted by sharp commands from the overseer and the frequent slap of the short leather quirt he carried. Normally the lash was ceremonial, a symbolic badge of rank carried on the belt – Tsurani slaves seldom required beating. But the slaves from Midkemia were indifferent to their overseer’s displeasure. Their respect for their betters was nonexistent, and whippings shamed them not at all.
Tsurani slaves found the Midkemians as enigmatic as Mara did. Raised in the knowledge that their humble devotion to work was their only hope of earning a higher place upon the Wheel that bound the departed to rebirth and life, they worked tirelessly. To be beaten for laziness, or to disobey their lawful masters in any way, was to earn the permanent disfavour of the gods, for below slave was only animal. And once returned from the Wheel of Life in a lower form, they would find salvation from the countless rebirths in pain and deprivation impossible.
Disturbed from contemplation by a heated argument, Mara realized with annoyance that the barbarians still had not learned proper manners. The only change in them since the slave auction seemed to be the increased number of lash welts on their backs and a marked improvement in the command of their masters’ language.
‘The gods’ will? That’s hogwash!’ boomed one in heavily accented Tsurani. For a brief moment, Mara wondered what ‘hogwash’ meant. Then the barbarian voice resumed. ‘I call it plain stupidity. You want work from these men, you’ll take my suggestion, and thank me for it.’
The overseer had no ready reply for slaves who talked back at him. Such things did not arise in Tsurani culture, and he had no means of coping except to slap the offender with his quirt and swear in an embarrassing display of temper.
This had no effect. Disrupted utterly from her thoughts, Mara heard sounds of a scuffle, and then words of unmistakable rage.
‘Strike me again with that, little man, and I’ll drop you head first into that pile of six-legger’s dung on the other side of that fence.’
‘Put me down, slave!’ screeched the overseer. He sounded genuinely frightened, and since the situation had plainly got out of hand, Mara arose to intervene. Whatever ‘hogwash’ might be, it wasn’t something that indicated proper deference to authority.
She crossed the study, whipped the drapes back, and found herself looking up across an impressively muscled expanse of shoulder and arm. The redheaded Midkemian who had been at the root of the commotion at the auction had a fist twined in the overseer’s robe, lifting him into the air, his feet kicking above the ground. When he saw his mistress, the overseer’s eyes rolled back in his head, and his lips moved in prayer to Kelesha, goddess of mercy.
The barbarian simply looked down at the diminutive lady in the doorway, his expression bland but his eyes as blue and hard as the sword metal that abounded on the Midkemian side of the rift.
Mara felt her own anger rise at that openly rebellious stare. She curbed her temper and spoke evenly. ‘If you value life, slave, let him go now!’
The redhead recognized authority in her dark eyes. Still, he was insolent. He considered her command an instant; then a wicked grin spread across his face and he opened his fist. The overseer dropped without warning, buckled at the knees, and landed on his seat in the middle of Mara’s favourite flower bed.
The grin sparked Mara’s anger. ‘You lack any hint of humility, slave, and that is a dangerous thing!’
The redhead stopped smiling, but his eyes remained upon his mistress with an interest that now had more to do with her thin robe than any respect for her words.
Mara was not too angry to notice. Suddenly made to feel undressed by the barbarian’s frank appraisal, she felt her anger mount. She might have ordered the redhead’s immediate death as an example to the others, except that Arakasi’s earlier expression of interest in the barbarians made her pause. None of the Midkemians behaved in an appropriate way, and unless she could learn the reason why, the only expedient that could end the problem was to slaughter her purchases out of hand. Still, an object lesson was required. Turning to a nearby pair of guards, she said, ‘Take this slave out of sight and beat him. Do not let him die, but make him wish to. If he resists, then kill him.’
Instantly two swords appeared, and, with clear intent to brook no resistance, the guards led the outworlder away. As he moved down the path, the imminent prospect of a beating seemed to have no effect on his self-important posture. The barbarian’s lack of fear at his coming ordeal served only to irritate Mara more, for it was the one thing about the man that was Tsurani-like and admirable. Then Mara caught herself: about the man? What could she be thinking of? He was only a slave.
Jican chose that moment to make an appearance. His polite knock on the doorframe broke through Mara’s angry contemplation.
She whirled and snapped across the room, ‘What!’
The sight of her hadonra jumping back in fright made her feel foolish. She motioned for her overseer to remove himself from the flower bed, then retired to her cushions, where Ayaki still lay asleep.
Jican stepped into the room from the hallway. ‘Mistress?’ he inquired meekly.
With a wave at her hadonra, Mara said, ‘I am about to learn why Elzeki here must argue with slaves.’
The overseer stepped through the outer door, flushing visibly at his mistress’s disapproval. Elzeki was little better than a slave himself, an untrained servant given the office of managing workers about the estate. And authority given to him could be taken away. He prostrated himself upon the waxed wood floor and protested hotly in his own defence. ‘Mistress, these barbarians have no sense of order. They are without wal.’ He used the ancient Tsurani word meaning ‘centre of being’ – the soul that defined one’s place in the universe. ‘They complain, they malinger, they argue, they make jokes …’ Frustrated to the point of tears, he finished in an angry rush. ‘The redheaded one is the worst. He acts as if he were a noble.’
Mara’s eyes widened. ‘A noble?’
Elzeki straightened from his obeisance and glanced in appeal at the hadonra. Jican still winced at the poor choice of words. With no support forthcoming from the hadonra, Elzeki prostrated himself again, his forehead pressed to the floor. ‘Please, mistress! I meant no disrespect!’
