Servant of the Empire

Arakasi’s eyes slitted speculatively as Nacoya said, ‘He was probably one of Lord Jidu’s spies, sent to check the guard on the bridge across the gorge.’ The First Adviser pursed her lips, as if thought of the Acoma’s southern neighbour brought a bad taste to her mouth. ‘The Tuscalora chocha-la harvest is nearly ready for market, and by now even Jidu’s thick-witted hadonra must guess that his wagons will not be using Mara’s bridge to reach the road without paying toll for their passage.’

The Spy Master leaned sharply forward. ‘I would not count on the possibility that herder was Jidu’s.’

Mara nodded. ‘Neither do I take your hunches lightly, Arakasi.’ To Keyoke she added, ‘We must send a patrol to guard Lord Jidu’s borders – unobtrusively, of course. His warriors are good, but they may not realize how much my enemies might gain if their master’s crops burned.’

Keyoke nodded, the hands at rest upon his sword unmoving as he contemplated this touchy assignment. Lord Jidu of the Tuscalora might be lax in his spending habits, but his soldiers were fine warriors.

Jican diffidently offered advice on this point. ‘Lord Jidu hires migrant workers from Neskesha to help with the harvest, when his crop is abundant. This has been a bountiful year. Perhaps some of the warriors could disguise themselves as chocha-la pickers and infiltrate the workers in the fields. The overseers would not know every strange face, and since our men would be drawing no pay, their presence might pass unnoticed for many days.’

Keyoke expanded this proposition. ‘Better, and for our warriors’ honour, we could stage battle manoeuvres in the meadows beside Lord Jidu’s estates. Our own workers can infiltrate the groups of Tuscalora pickers, and if trouble arises, they could slip away and alert our troops.’

Mara nodded decisively. ‘Let this be done.’ She dismissed her advisers, assuring Jican she would study the finance papers brought for her review after the midday meal.

Then, atypically vague and aimless, Mara retired to the garden, seeking solace. But the paths between the flowering kekali bushes seemed lonely and empty in the morning light. The growing heat of day oppressed her. As the Lady wandered among the fragrant akasi blooms, her thoughts returned to her nights in Kevin’s arms. Her feelings at the time had seemed so profoundly right, and now his absence made her ache, as if a piece of her being were missing. She contrived a thousand excuses to send for him – only for a moment, to answer a question, to play with Ayaki, to clarify some obscure rule in the game his people called knucklebones …

Mara’s eyes sheened over with tears, and she misstepped, stumbling over a raised stone in the path. Her musing dissolved into anger; she needed no reason, she was Mara, Ruling Lady of the Acoma! She could order her slaves where she would without explanation to anyone. Then, wakened to her own folly before she gave in to impulse, she firmed her inward resolve. Her house had stood at the brink of ruin since the death of her father and brother. She must do nothing to risk the gods’ displeasure. If she failed, if she lost sight of the ways of her ancestors over an affair of the heart, every Acoma retainer from the least servant in her scullery to her beloved senior advisers would suffer. Their years of loyal service and the honour of her family name must never be sacrificed for the sake of dalliance with a slave. Nacoya had been right. Kevin was a danger to her, best put aside without regret.

Damn the barbarian, she reflected with irritation. Couldn’t he learn his place quickly, and become a Tsurani slave? Couldn’t he cease his poisonous, perilous thinking? Sadness pushed through her confusion and mixed with annoyance at herself. I am Ruling Lady, she scolded inwardly. I should know what to do. Miserably, Mara admitted, ‘But I don’t.’

The servant by the garden gate who awaited his mistress’s command called out, ‘My Lady?’

Mara bit back a needlessly harsh reply. ‘Send for my son and his nurse. I would play with him for a while.’

The man returned a proper bow and hurried to do her bidding. Immediately Mara’s mood brightened. Nothing brought a smile to her lips more reliably than the boisterous laughter of her son as he chased after insects, or raced till he was breathless through the garden.

Desio hammered his pudgy fist into the tabletop, causing a candle to topple, and a dozen jade ornaments to scatter and roll upon the carpet. A nervous servant hurried to gather the fallen items, and First Adviser Incomo stepped aside to avoid being struck by the rolling pedestal that had supported a goddess figurine.

‘My Lord,’ he implored cautiously, ‘you must have patience.’

‘But Mara is about to gain a vassal!’ Desio howled. ‘That lazy idiot Jidu of the Tuscalora doesn’t even see what’s coming!’

The servant arose, a half-dozen precious carvings clutched to his chest. Desio chose that moment to bang the table again. The servant cringed, and with shaking hands began to restore the ornaments to their former resting place. Incomo regarded his Lord’s flushed face and sighed with restrained impatience. He was weary from days spent indoors, each one filled with long and profitless hours in attendance upon a Lord whose mind held no subtlety. Yet until cousin Tasaio returned, Incomo could do little except endure Desio’s ranting.

‘If only we could arrange a raid to burn those chocha-la bushes,’ the Lord of the Minwanabi complained. ‘Then Jidu would see his ruin staring him in the face, and we would rescue him with a loan that would compel his loyalty to us. Where did that fatheaded needra bull find the foresight to disguise informants among his workers? Now we dare not intervene without damaging our credibility in the council.’

Incomo did not trouble to voice the obvious: that with their current outlays in bribes to get Mara assigned to duty in Dustari, the Minwanabi finances could hardly be extended any thinner; and Lord Jidu was a poor prospect for a loan at any time, with his reputation for drinking, gambling, prostitutes, and bad debts. Not to mention that Mara would most certainly counter a Minwanabi loan by ruining Jidu, ensuring no funds could be recovered. Even if she remained ignorant of an enemy’s transaction, the problem would simply recur next year. Incomo knew better than to waste his breath with explanations. He prepared to endure another hour of complaints, when a voice interceded from the doorway.

‘The informants among the workers were not Lord Jidu’s, but spies set in place by Keyoke,’ Tasaio said as he entered. ‘They are the reason two hundred Acoma warriors stage manoeuvres on the borders of Jidu’s estates.’

‘Keyoke!’ Desio echoed. His face turned deeper purple. ‘The Acoma Force Commander?’

Tasaio’s smile thinned at this statement of the obvious. ‘Seeing the Tuscalora chocha-la safely through the harvest is in the Acoma’s best interest,’ he reminded.

‘Mara’s security is too tight,’ Desio grumbled, but with a shade less heat. While the relieved servant finished with the ornaments and scuttled into the background, the portly young Lord sought his cushions. ‘We could not send an assassin to poison this Force Commander with any assurance of success – we’ve already lost a man trying to infiltrate the Acoma herders. And from what we’ve discovered about that gods-lucky Strike Leader, Lujan, we might not benefit so greatly from Keyoke’s death. The upstart might be recently promoted, but he could prove just as able a defender of Acoma honour. I say he needs to be killed, as well, but he guards the Lady’s own chambers!’ Desio’s anger reasserted itself. ‘And if I could get an assassin that damn close, I would order him to murder Mara instead!’

‘True,’ Tasaio agreed. Before Desio’s disgruntlement could mushroom further, the warrior threw off the mantle that draped his armoured shoulders. He tossed the garment to a hovering servant and bowed before his cousin with flawless deference. Then he sat. ‘My Lord, there has been a new development.’

Incomo lost his sour expression, admiring the tact that transformed the Lord’s ill-tempered restlessness into attentive eagerness.

Tasaio smiled, revealing straight white teeth. ‘I have ascertained the identity of Mara’s three spies.’

Desio was silent a moment. The anger fled his visage, quickly replaced by astonishment. ‘Wonderful,’ he said softly. Then, with more pleasure than Incomo had heard since the death of Desio’s father, the young Lord repeated himself. ‘Wonderful!’ He clapped his hands together. ‘This calls for a celebration, cousin.’ While a servant hastened off to fetch refreshments, and a carafe of a rare vintage sa wine, the Lord sank back on his cushions, eyes narrowed with rapturous speculation. ‘How do you plan to punish these traitors, cousin?’

Tasaio’s expression never changed. ‘We shall use them as our pawns, send falsified reports to the Acoma, and arrange Keyoke’s demise.’

‘Ah!’ Desio echoed his cousin’s smile as his thoughts leaped ahead. The plan conceived in words the season before at last seemed a reality to him: to kill the Acoma Force Commander, and force Mara to personally command troops in the field, where Tasaio could seek her out and kill her. He clenched a fist, his pleasure almost sexual in intensity. ‘I look forward to seeing the Acoma bitch’s head on the floor before me. We shall feed the spies our false information this afternoon.’

Incomo muffled a grunt of annoyance behind his hand, but if Tasaio shared his impatience with Desio’s shortsightedness, he showed no sign. ‘My cousin,’ the warrior said evenly, ‘to send the reports today would be gratifying, I admit. But we must bide our time until precisely the right moment to utilize our knowledge. To use Mara’s agents now would certainly reveal our infiltration and waste our advantage. These men are not simple servants but men who, in their own way, are fierce in their loyalty to the Acoma. Like warriors, they have made peace with the gods and are ready to die at any moment. Should Mara learn that we have uncovered them, she will simply cut them loose. They would welcome death at her order, rather than betray her trust. They might try to flee to the safety of her estates, or they might fall upon their swords. If their courage fails, we might have the small satisfaction of executing them, but for Minwanabi advantage, we gain nothing.’

Incomo added his agreement. ‘Given the fact Mara has three agents here, her Spy Master will certainly work to install replacements. We could then be reduced to another lengthy search to smoke out the new culprits.’

Tasaio urged his cousin, ‘Make no overt move until the fall. By then I can smuggle enough of our warriors into Dustari to have a fair chance against the army Xacatecas and Acoma will send against the nomads. All through the summer, Mara must wonder what our crucial move will be. She will lie awake at night and sweat in the darkness, and send out informants, and learn nothing. Are we trying to strangle her grain markets? she will ask. Will we insinuate ourselves between her and potential allies in the council? Might we raid outlying warehouses when her finances are vulnerable? Let her conceive of a thousand possibilities and agonize over each and every one.’

Tasaio sat forward, his amber eyes afire. ‘Then, after harvest, when she has exhausted herself with worry and taxed her useless spies to their limits, we strike.’ Fast as a sword stroke, the Minwanabi cousin clapped his hands. ‘Keyoke dies, along with a company of Mara’s best soldiers – perhaps her First Strike Leader, Lujan, falls as well. The Acoma household is left without military cohesion, and whatever surviving officer the Lady promotes to wear plumes must assume a post for which he is unpractised. Troops that have served under the same commander for thirty years cannot help but become disrupted.’ As he looked directly at Desio, Tasaio’s manner embodied confidence. ‘Now, cousin, suppose we further the Acoma’s disarray? Suppose that the summons to Dustari arrives from the High Council before Keyoke’s ashes have a chance to grow cold?’

Desio’s eyes lit. Though the plan was as familiar to him as a prayer, the repetition swept away his doubts; his anger dissolved, and as Incomo observed his master, he saw the wisdom of Tasaio’s manipulation. When Desio doubted, he became unstable, a danger to his house, as he acted on impulse. The oath sworn to the Red God at the young Lord’s investiture might have brought such a disaster. But like a master tactician, Tasaio would turn the blunder into victory. Not for the first time, Incomo wondered why the gods had not switched fathers of the two cousins, that the truly brilliant man might wear the Lord’s mantle instead of the one who at best was merely competent.

Desio heaved his bulk straight on his cushions and released a deep-chested chuckle. The sound gained force, until the young Lord rocked with laughter. ‘My cousin, you are brilliant,’ he gasped between paroxysms, ‘brilliant.’

Tasaio inclined his head. ‘All for your honour, my Lord, and for the triumph of the Minwanabi.’

Summer came, and the Acoma silk samples disrupted all of the southern trading districts’ markets. The factors for the northern guilds were taken entirely by surprise. No longer could they market their lesser-quality goods for premium prices in the south. The auctions were an Acoma triumph, and the talk of every clan gathering the breadth of the Tsurani Empire. Supplied with enough orders to busy the cho-ja for five years, Jican had to restrain himself to keep from dancing in his mistress’s presence. At one stroke, the Acoma’s monetary position had gone from critically overdrawn to abundant. From a well-to-do house without much liquidity, the Acoma had become among the wealthiest in the central Empire, with enough cash reserves to narrow any threat posed by enemies.

Mara smiled at her hadonra’s elation. This victory upon the silk market had been a long time in the planning, but she was given no time to appreciate her hard-won fortune. Just one hour after word arrived from the auctions, another messenger delivered fresh news. Her southern neighbour, Jidu of the Tuscalora, presented himself, asking audience, presumably to beg for Acoma vassalage to save his house from irremediable debt.

This touched off a flurry of activity. The Acoma senior advisers all gathered with Mara to meet Lord Jidu in the great hall. An honour guard in ceremonial armour stood arrayed behind her dais. With Nacoya on her right hand, and Keyoke and Lujan on her left, the Lady observed the proper forms as the fat Lord – splendid in pale blue robes and clouds of expensive perfumes – presented his appeal. Once Mara’s Tsurani soul would have revelled in the sight of an antagonist brought to his knees before her, particularly since Jidu had tried to bully her as if she were an importunate girl after her husband’s death. Though she and her honour guard had suffered an attack at this neighbour’s command, and she had come close to being killed, the humbling of a man twice her age had lost all sense of triumph. Perhaps Mara had matured in the past year; certainly the exposure to Kevin’s alien concepts had changed her.

Where once she would have seen only glory gained for the Acoma, now she could not escape noticing the hatred in Lord Jidu’s pouched eyes as he paid her obeisance. She could not block her ears to his overtones of anger, nor entirely absolve herself from his self-made burden of shame. With stiff shoulders, and eyes that sparkled with frustration too private for expression, Lord Jidu admitted his dependence upon Acoma good grace.

Almost, Mara found herself wishing she could turn this event to another ending: allow Jidu to redeem his honour through Acoma generosity, and gain his gratitude and willing alliance. As Jidu ground out his last sentence, she was haunted by Kevin’s accusation on the last morning she had seen him: ‘Are all Tsurani nobles born cruel?’

And yet leniency where Lord Jidu was concerned was a dangerous indulgence. In the machinations of the Great Game, mercy could be dispensed only by the unassailably strong; in the small or the weak, it was considered weakness. The ruler of the Tuscalora might be lax in matters of finance, but he had strong warriors and a gift for strategy on the field. Given his penchant for gross overspending, his loyalty could all too easily be bought by an enemy, and Mara dared not leave such a threat unattended on her southern border. As her vassal, Jidu could make no alliances without Acoma sanction. The honour of his house would be entrusted to Mara’s hands, and those of Mara’s heirs, for the span of Lord Jidu’s living days. Her sovereignty would become such that he could not fall upon his sword without her leave to die.

‘You drive hard and dangerous bargains, Lady Mara,’ the Lord of the Tuscalora warned. Should the Tuscalora effectively be reduced to a pawn for Acoma ambitions, his clan and fellow members of the Yellow Serpent Party would be less willing to treat with her because of Acoma domination over one of their own.

‘The Great Game is a dangerous undertaking,’ Mara replied. Her words were not empty platitude; Arakasi kept her informed of politics afield. If clan or party action brewed up against her family, she would hear well in advance of the fact. Her heart might be divided, concerning Jidu, but her options stayed unequivocally clear. ‘I choose to take your oath, Lord Jidu.’

The ruler of the Tuscalora bowed his head. Pearl ornaments chinked on his clothing as he knelt in submission, to recite the formal words. Mara signalled, and Lujan stepped from the ranks, the rare metal sword of her ancestors in his hands. As the Acoma Strike Leader poised the shining blade over Jidu’s bent neck, the Lord swore his oath of vassalage, his voice hard and deep with pent-up hatred, and his fists clenched helplessly in rage. He ended the last phrase and arose. ‘Mistress.’ He pronounced the word as if he tasted poison. ‘I ask your leave to withdraw.’

On impulse, Mara withheld her consent. While Lord Jidu flushed red, and her honour guard went from ready to tensely nervous, she weighed her need for control against her wish to ease this man’s humiliation. ‘A moment, Jidu,’ she said finally. As he looked up, suspicious, Mara strove to impart understanding. ‘The Acoma need allies, not slaves. Give up your resentment over my victory, and willingly join with me, and both of our families will benefit.’ She sat back upon her seat, speaking as if to a trusted friend. ‘Lord Jidu, my enemies would not treat you so gently. The Lord of the Minwanabi demands Tan-jin-qu of his vassals.’ The word she used was ancient, describing an absolute vassalage that granted the overlord powers of life and death over the members of a subservient household. Under Tan-jin-qu, not only would Jidu become Mara’s vassal, he would be her virtual slave. ‘Bruli of the Kehotara refused to continue that abject service to the Minwanabi when he inherited his office, and as a result, Desio withholds many of the protections the Kehotara have known for years. Bruli suffers because he wishes the appearance of independence. I do not shame you by demanding the lives of all your subjects, Jidu.’

The stout Lord conceded this point with a curt nod, but his anger and humiliation did not lessen. His was not an enviable position, to be at the mercy of a woman he had once tried to kill. Yet something in Mara’s sincerity caused him to listen.

‘I will establish policies that benefit both our houses,’ Mara decreed, ‘but the daily affairs of your estates remain yours to oversee. Profits from your chocha-la harvest shall stay in the Tuscalora coffers. Your house will pay no tribute to the Acoma. I shall ask nothing from you save your honour to serve ours.’ Then, given insight on how she might mollify this enemy, Mara added, ‘My belief in Tuscalora honour is such that I shall entrust the protection of our southern borders to your troops. All Acoma guards and patrols will be withdrawn from the boundary of our two lands.’

Keyoke’s expression did not change at this development, but he scratched his chin with his thumb, in a long-standing secret code of warning.

Mara reassured her Force Commander with a suggestion of a smile. Then her attention returned to Lord Jidu. ‘I see you do not trust that friendship might exist between us. I will show my good intentions. To celebrate our alliance, we shall mount a new prayer gate at the entrance to your estate, in glory to Chochocan. This will be followed by a gift of one hundred thousand centuries to clear your past debts, that the profits from this year’s harvest may be used for the good of your estate.’