Servant of the Empire

Mara waved away the apology. ‘No. That is understood. What did you mean?’

Peeking up, he saw that his mistress’s anger had changed to interest. ‘The other barbarians defer to him, my Lady. Maybe this redhead was an officer too cowardly to die. He might have lied. These barbarians mix truth and untruth without distinction, I sometimes think. Their ways are strange. They confuse me.’

Mara frowned, thinking that if the redhead were cowardly, or frightened of pain, he would not have shown such nerveless composure at the prospect of a beating by her guards.

‘What were you and he arguing about?’ Jican demanded.

Elzeki, the overseer, seemed to shrivel, as if to review the events leading up to his shameful embarrassment were to relive them. ‘Many things, honourable hadonra. The barbarian speaks with such a savage accent, he is difficult to understand.’ Through the screen beyond the drapes came the sound of a distant thud, followed by a pained grunt. Mara’s orders for punishment were plainly being carried out by the guards. Since his own hide might be whipped over the barbarians’ disobedience, the overseer began visibly to sweat.

Mara motioned for the screen door to be closed, lest she be further disturbed. As a house servant rushed to do her bidding, she saw that the remaining barbarians were gathered on the walkway, their shears idle in their hands, regarding their mistress with open hostility and resentment. Stifling outrage at such blatant disrespect, Mara snapped at the overseer. ‘Then tell us just one thing that red-haired barbarian dared to feel important enough to argue about.’

Elzeki shifted his weight. ‘The redhead asked to move one of the men inside.’

Jican glanced at his mistress, who nodded permission for him to cross-question. ‘What reason did he give?’

‘Some nonsense about our sun being hotter than the sun on their own world, and this other man being stricken by the heat.’

Mara said, ‘What else?’

Elzeki glanced at his feet, like a boy caught sneaking sweets from the kitchen. ‘He also complained that some of the slaves needed more water than we were giving them, because of the heat.’

Mara said, ‘And?’

‘He gave excuses for laziness. Rather than work hard, he objected that a few of the men who were set to tend the flowers knew nothing of plants upon their own world, let alone ours, and that to punish them for working slowly was foolish.’

Jican sat back, astonished. ‘These sound like excellent suggestions to me, my Lady.’

Mara expelled a long-suffering sigh. ‘It seems that I acted too hastily,’ she said ruefully. ‘Elzeki, go and put a stop to the beating. Tell my guards to have the redheaded slave cleaned up and brought to me here in my study.’

As the overseer hurried obsequiously away, Mara regarded her hadonra. ‘Jican, it would seem that I ordered punishment for the wrong man.’

‘Elzeki has never had much perception,’ Jican agreed. Silently he wondered why that admission seemed to cause his Lady distress.

‘We’ll have to remove him from office,’ Mara summed up. ‘Slaves are much too valuable to be mismanaged by fools.’ She appealed at last to her hadonra. ‘I’ll have you break the news to Elzeki, and then trust you to appoint his replacement.’

‘Your will, my Lady.’ Jican bowed low and departed. As he passed through the screen to the corridor, Mara stroked Ayaki’s cheek. She then called for her maid to remove him to his sleeping mat in the nursery. If she was to deal with this redheaded barbarian personally, she wanted no other distractions. That thought made her smile, as the maid lifted her stocky son and he murmured angry protest in his sleep. Ayaki awake was as much of a disaster as the redhead, and with a shake of her head, Mara sat back to await the arrival of the guards with the barbarian offender who had single-handedly managed to ruin her contemplation.

The guards stepped in soon after, the Midkemian between them, his hair and loincloth drenched. Mara’s request that he be cleaned up had been interpreted in the most uncomplicated way possible: the guards had simply dropped him into a convenient needra trough. The beating and subsequent soaking had dampened his spirit only slightly. The amusement in his eyes had changed to anger barely held in check. His defiance disturbed Mara. Lujan had often crossed the line of good manners with his playful banter, but never had a socially inferior man dared to look at her in such an openly condemnatory fashion. Suddenly sorry she had not called for a more modest house robe, Mara nevertheless refused to summon her maid, lest she grant significance to the stare of a barbarian slave. Rather than feel embarrassment before the outworlder, she matched his gaze with her own.

The guards were uncertain what to do with the wretch they had half dragged into their Lady’s presence. Still gripping the huge man tightly, they offered ineffectual bows. The more senior of the warriors broke the silence with ill-concealed diffidence. ‘Lady, what is your wish? A barbarian in your presence would perhaps be more seemly on his knees.’

Mara noticed the guards as if for the first time, and the water pooling on her waxed floor. There was blood mixed in the puddles.

‘Let him stand, if he wishes.’ She clapped for her servants, and sent the first one to answer off at a run to fetch towels.

The house slave reappeared with a pile of scented bath towels. He entered the study, bowed, and only belatedly realized that his Lady’s request had been made on behalf of the scruffy barbarian who stood pinioned in the hands of the guards.

‘Well,’ snapped Mara, at her servant’s hesitation, ‘dry the brute off before he ruins the floor.’

‘Your will, Mistress,’ the slave murmured from a position of prostration. He arose and began to daub the reddened skin between the barbarian’s shoulder blades, this being the highest place he could reach.

Mara assessed the huge slave in a relatively calm moment, then came to a decision. ‘Leave us,’ she commanded her guards. They released the barbarian, bowed, and let themselves out through the screen to the corridor.

The barbarian rubbed his wrists where the guards’ grip had restricted circulation. The slave attempting to dry him seemed an irritation, and after a glance at Mara, the outworlder reached out, took a clean towel from the pile, and finished the task himself. His hair stood up in spikes when he finished, and the slave looked in dismay at the pile of blood-soiled, damp towels heaped about the barbarian’s feet.

‘Give those to my washing maids,’ Mara said. She motioned for the redhead to select a cushion and be seated.

Mara studied the barbarian’s face; the gaze he returned was as penetrating as her own. Suddenly she felt out of her depth. Something about this man disturbed her. The reason struck her: she still considered him a man! Slaves were livestock, not people. Why did this one cause her to feel … uncertain? Her practice in the role of Ruling Lady allowed her to assume the mask of command. She felt challenged to discover why this barbarian made her forget his station. She forced her voice to calm. ‘I was hasty, perhaps.’ As the house slave scooped up the towels and hastened away, she added, ‘It would appear, upon examination of the matter, that I ordered you beaten unfairly.’

Taken aback, but covering it well, the redhead selected a cushion and gingerly sat down. The scar left on his cheek by the overseer at the slave market did not detract from his appearance; rather, the flaw gave heightened contrast to his handsome features, and his heavy beard was a novelty not seen in Tsurani freemen, who shaved as a matter of tradition.

‘Slave,’ commanded Mara, ‘I wish to know more of the land you come from.’

‘I have a name,’ said the redhead in his deep-throated voice, which now was bristling with antagonism. ‘I am Kevin, from the City of Zun.’

Mara replied with irritation, ‘You might have been counted human once, upon your world, but now you are a slave. A slave has no honour, nor does he have a spirit in the eyes of the gods. This you must have known, Kevin of Zun.’ She spoke the name with sarcasm. ‘You chose your lot, chose to forfeit honour. If not, you should have died before an enemy took you captive.’ She paused as another thought occurred to her. ‘Or were you vassal to another more powerful house, whose Lord refused you permission to take your own life?’

Kevin raised his brows, momentarily baffled by confusion. ‘What? I’m not sure what you mean.’

Mara repeated herself in terms a child would understand. ‘Did your house swear vassalage to another?’

Kevin straightened his back, winced, and raked a hand through his damp beard. ‘Zun swore allegiance to the High King in Rillanon, of course.’

The Lady nodded as if all were explained. ‘Then you were forbidden permission by this King to fall upon your sword. Yes?’

Thoroughly mystified, Kevin shook his head. ‘Fall on my sword? Why? I might be a third son of a minor nob – er, family, but I don’t need my King’s permission to sanction what seems an act of total idiocy.’

Now Mara blinked in surprise. ‘Have your people no honour? If the choice was yours, why allow yourself to be taken captive into slavery?’

Careful of his welts, which were swelling uncomfortably, Kevin regarded this diminutive woman who through misfortune had come to be his mistress. Forcing a smile, he said, ‘Trust me, lady, I had no option, otherwise I wouldn’t be enjoying your … hospitality now. Had I a choice, I’d be at home with my family.’

Mara shook her head slightly. This was not the answer she sought. ‘We may be having difficulty because of your barbaric use of the Tsurani tongue. Let me ask a different way: when you were taken captive, were you not spared a moment by fate in which you could have taken your own life rather than face capture?’

Kevin paused, as if weighing the question. ‘I suppose so, but why would I think about killing myself?’

Without thought, Mara blurted, ‘For honour!’

Kevin laughed bitterly. ‘What good is honour to a dead man?’

Mara blinked, as if struck by harsh lights in a dark room. ‘Honour is … everything,’ Mara said, not believing anyone could ask that question. ‘It is what makes living endurable. It gives purpose to … everything. What else is there to live for?’

Kevin threw up his hands in exasperation. ‘Why, to enjoy life! To know the company of friends, to serve men you admire. In this case, to escape and go home again, what else?’

‘Escape!’ Thoroughly shocked, and unable to conceal the fact, Mara forced her mind to regroup. These people were not Tsurani, she reminded herself; the codes of behaviour that bound slaves to service on her world were not shared by the folk beyond the rift. The Lady of the Acoma went on to wonder whether others of her culture might have discovered how different the Midkemians were from themselves. Hokanu of the Shinzawai sprang to mind. Mara made a mental note to pry loose information on Lord Kamatsu’s interest in the barbarians during the son’s forthcoming visit. Next she considered whether this Kevin of Zun might hold strange knowledge or ideas that might prove helpful against her enemies.

‘You must tell me more of the lands beyond the rift,’ she demanded abruptly.

Pained by more than cuts and bruises, Kevin sighed. ‘You are a woman of many contradictions,’ he said with some care. ‘You order me beaten, dipped in a livestock trough, and then dried with what must be your finest towels. Now you want speeches without so much as a drink to wet my throat first.’