The Complete Empire Trilogy (169 page)

For long minutes the crackle of flames vied with the
voices of the priests who chanted their various prayers. Mara fought to control her breathing, to stave off the monstrous reality of her dead child vanishing into a roil of smoke.

For the death rite of one of lesser station, this would be time for the guests to file away, leaving those closest to the departed to a time of private mourning. But with the passing of the great, such courtesies were forborne. Mara was allowed no reprieve. At the forefront of the public eye she remained, while the acolytes of Turakamu threw consecrated oil upon the flames. Waves of heat rolled off the pyre, reddening Mara’s skin. If she shed any tears, they dried upon her cheeks in the face of that cruel furnace. Above writhing curtains of flame, the thick black smoke coiled skyward to draw notice from heaven that a spirit of high honor had departed.

The sun added to the blaze, and Mara felt sick and dizzy. Hokanu turned his body to shade her as he could. He dared not glance at her too often in concern, for fear of betraying her weakness, while the time dragged by as torture. Nearly an hour passed before the flame subsided; then more prayers and chanting followed as the wood-ashes were spread to cool. Mara all but swayed on her feet when the priest of Turakamu intoned, ‘The body is no more. The spirit has flown. He who was Ayaki of the Acoma is now here,’ he said, touching his heart, ‘here’ – he touched his head – ‘and in Turakamu’s halls.’

The acolytes braved the smoking embers as they picked their way to the heart of the mound of decimated fuel. One used a square of thick leather to drag out the warped blade of Ayaki’s sword, quickly passing the bundle to another who waited to quench the hot metal in wet rags. Steam rose to mingle with the smoke. Mara endured with deadened eyes as the priest of Turakamu employed an ornate scoop to fill the waiting urn with ashes. More wood than boy, the
remains would become the symbol of the body’s interment in the glade of his ancestors. For the Tsurani believed that while the true soul traveled to the halls of the Red God, a small part of the spirit, the shade, would rest alongside its ancestors within the stone that was the natami of the house. That way the essence of the child would thus return in another life, while that which made him Acoma would remain to watch over his family.

Hokanu steadied his wife as two acolytes arrived before her. One offered the sword blade, which Mara touched. Then Hokanu took the twisted length of metal while the other acolyte surrendered the urn. Mara accepted the ashes of her son in trembling hands. Her eyes did not acknowledge what she held but remained fixed upon the scattered, charred wood that remained in the circle.

Hokanu touched her arm lightly and they turned as one. The drums boomed out as the procession veered around and resumed its march toward the Acoma contemplation glade. No impression of the walk registered upon Mara beyond the stony cold of the urn in her hands, warmed at the base by the still warm ashes inside. She set one foot before the other, barely aware of her arrival at the scrolled gateposts that marked the glade entrance.

The servants and Hokanu paused in deference to her; for the only one not of Acoma blood who was permitted to step through the arch and make his way along the stone path that led within was the gardener whose life had been dedicated to tend the glade. Here even her husband, who was still a Shinzawai, could not enter, upon pain of death. To allow any stranger admittance was to offer insult to the shades of Acoma ancestors, and to bring lasting disharmony to the peace that abided in the natami.

Mara stepped away from Hokanu’s embrace. She did not hear the murmur of the nobles who watched, pitying or predatory, until she had moved beyond sight behind the
hedges. Once before, upon her family’s old estate, she had undertaken the terrible task of consecrating the shades of close family to the natami.

The size of this garden disoriented her. She paused, the urn clutched to her breast in stunned incomprehension. This was not the familiar glade of her childhood, where she had gone as a tiny girl to address the shade of her mother; this was not the known path where she had narrowly escaped death at the hands of a tong assassin while mourning her father and brother. This place was alien, vast, a wide park, in which several streams meandered. For a second a shadow crossed her heart as she wondered whether this garden that had been home to Minwanabi shades for so many centuries might reject the aspect of her son.

Again in her memory she saw the horse fall, a blackness like evil stamping out innocent life. Feeling lost, she gulped a breath. She chose a path at random, only vaguely recalling that all of them led to the same site where the ancient rock, the natami of her family, rested at the edge of a large pool.

‘I did not bury your natami deep below the Acoma’s,’ she said aloud to the listening air; a smaller voice inside her warned that she talked out of madness. Life was mad, she decided, or she would not be here making empty motions over the remains of her young heir. Her extraordinary display of graciousness in insisting that the Minwanabi natami be taken to a distant place and cared for, so that the shades of the Minwanabi might know peace, at this moment seemed empty folly.

She did not have the strength in her to laugh.

Mara curled her lip at the sour taste in her mouth. Her hair smelled of sweet oil and greasy smoke. The stench turned her stomach as she knelt on the sun-warmed ground. Next to the natami a hole had been dug, the damp soil piled to one side. Mara placed the fire-warped sword that had
been her son’s most prized possession in the cavity, then tipped the urn to let his ashes pour over it. With bare hands she sifted the earth back into the hole and patted it down.

A white robe had been left for her beside the pool. On its silk folds lay a vial, and nearby, the traditional brazier and dagger. Mara lifted the vial and removed the stopper. She poured fragrant oils upon the pool. In the shimmers of fractured light that played upon its surface, she saw no beauty, but only the face of her son, his mouth wide with suffering as he struggled to draw his last breath. The rituals gave no release but seemed a wasting wind of meaningless sound. ‘Rest, my son. Come to your home soil and sleep with our ancestors.’

‘Ayaki,’ she whispered. ‘My child.’

She gripped the breast of her robe and pulled, tearing the cloth from her body, but unlike years before, when she had performed the ritual for her father and brother, no tears followed the violence. Her eyes remained painfully dry.

She plunged her hand into the almost extinguished brazier. The sting of the few hot cinders remaining was not enough to focus her thoughts. Grief remained a dull ache inside her as she smeared the ashes across her breasts and down her exposed stomach, to symbolise that her heart was ashes. In truth, her flesh felt as lifeless as the spent wood of the pyre. She slowly lifted the heirloom metal dagger, kept sharp for this ceremony over the ages. For the third time in her life, she drew the blade from its sheath and cut herself across the left arm, the hot pain barely felt in the fog of her despair.

She held the small wound over the pool, letting drops of blood fall to mix with the water, as tradition required. For more than a minute she sat motionless, until nature’s healing staunched the flow. A scab had half dried before she absently tugged at her robe, but she lacked the fierceness
of will to fully sunder the garment. In the end, she simply dragged it over her head. It fell to earth, one sleeve soaking up oil and water from the pool.

By rote, Mara unfastened her hairpins, loosening her dark locks over her shoulders. Anger and rage, grief and sorrow should have driven her to pull upon her tresses, yanking handfuls lose. Her emotions only smoldered sullenly, like a spark smothered by lack of air. Boys should not die; to grieve for them in a fullness of passion was to abet the acceptance of their passing. Mara twisted at a few tangles, outwardly listless.

Then she settled back upon her heels and regarded the glade. Such immaculate beauty, and only she among the living could appreciate it. Ayaki would never perform the death rite for his mother. Hot tears erupted unbidden and she felt something of the hardness wedged within break loose. Mara sobbed, abandoning herself to an outpouring of grief.

But unlike before, when such release brought clarity, this time she found herself driven deeper into chaotic thought. When she closed her eyes, her mind whirled with images: first Ayaki running, then Kevin, the barbarian slave who had taught her of love, and who had time and again risked his life for her alien honor. She saw Buntokapi, sprawled on the red length of his sword, his great ham fists quivering closed as the life left his body. Again she acknowledged that her first husband’s death would forever be marked against her. She saw faces: her father and brother, then Nacoya, her nurse and foster mother.

All of them offered her pain. Kevin’s return to his own world was as painful a loss as death, and not one other had died as nature intended; all had been casualties of twisted politics, and of the cruel machinations of the Great Game.

The horrid certainty would not leave her, that Ayaki
would not be the last boy to die for the empty ambitions of the nation’s Ruling Lords.

That reality struck her like torture: that Ayaki would not be the last. Howling in hysteria born of agony, Mara threw herself headlong into the pool.

The wetness swallowed her tears. Her sobs were wrenched short by a gasp as cold water sucked into her nostrils, and life recalled her to its own. She crawled back on dry earth, choking. Water streamed from her mouth and hair. She dragged in a hacking breath, then reached mechanically for the robe, its whiteness marred by dirt and sweet oil.

As if she were a spirit wearing the body of a stranger, she saw herself drag the fabric over her wet flesh. The hair she left bunched under the collar. Then the body that felt like a living prison gathered itself up and trudged back toward the entrance to the glade, where thousands waited with eyes hostile or friendly.

Their presence took her aback. In this Lord’s fatuous smile and that Lord’s leering interest, she saw the truth confirmed: that Ayaki’s death would happen again and again, and other mothers after her would howl useless outrage at the injustices of the Great Game. Mara glanced down to shut away the acknowledgment of futility. One of her sandals was missing. Mud and dust caked her bared foot, and she hesitated, debating whether to look for the lost footwear, or to fling the remaining sandal into the hedge.

What did it matter, a far-off voice reasoned inside her. Mara watched her misshod feet with fey detachment as the person that was herself left the glade. Passing between the shielding hedges, she did not look up as her husband hurried forward to take up his station at her elbow. His words did not soothe. She did not want to return from her inward retreat to work at sorting their meaning.

Hokanu shook her gently, forcing her to look up.

A man in red armor stood before her; thin, elegant,
poised, he carried his chin at an arrogant angle. Mara stared at him, distracted. His eyes narrowed. He said something. The hand that held some object in it gestured, and something of the biting scorn that underlay his manner came through.

Mara’s gaze sharpened. Her eyes focused on the device upon the young man’s helm, and a deep quiver shook her.

‘Anasati!’ she said, a bite like a whip’s crack to her voice.

Lord Jiro gave back a chilly smile. ‘The Lady deigns to acknowledge me, I see.’

Wakened to a slow, spiraling rage, Mara stiffened.

She said nothing. Hokanu’s fingers wrenched unobtrusively at her wrist, a warning she did not acknowledge.

Her ears rang to a sound like a thousand enraged sarcats spitting in defiance, or torrents of storm-swollen rivers crashing down jagged rock.

Jiro of the Anasati raised the object he held, a small puzzle cleverly cut to a pattern of interlacing wooden hoops. He inclined his head in a formal bow, saying, ‘My nephew’s shade deserves remembrance from the Anasati.’

‘Remembrance!’ Mara said, in a high, tortured whisper. Inside her mind, her spirit howled: Anasati remembrance had sent her firstborn to a bed of ashes.

She did not remember moving; she did not feel the wrench of tendons as she yanked free of Hokanu’s restraint. Her scream of rage cut across the gathering like the sound of a drawn metal sword, and her hands rose like claws.

Jiro leaped back, dropping the puzzle in horrified astonishment. And then Mara was on him, clawing to reach his throat through the fastenings of his armor.

Those Lords standing nearest exclaimed in shock as this small woman, unarmed, dirty, and wet, threw herself at her former brother-in-law in a fit of pure fury.

Hokanu sprang with all his warrior’s quickness, fast
enough to catch Mara back before she drew blood. He smothered her struggling body in his embrace.

But the damage by then was irrevocable.

Jiro glared around at the circle of stunned onlookers. ‘You all bear witness!’ he cried in an indignation that held an undertone of wild joy. Now he had the justification he had long wished for, to see the Lady Mara ground under his heel in utter defeat. ‘The Acoma have offered the Anasati insult! Let all present be informed that alliance is dead between our two houses. I claim my right to expunge this shame to my honor, and blood will be called for in payment.’

Hokanu acted.

While Mara beat her fists in mindless fury against his breastplate, the warriors of her honor guard closed in a tight ring to shield their Lady’s hysteria from public view. Hokanu called urgently for Saric and Incomo.

One glance at their distraught mistress was sufficient to convince the two advisers: grief and nerves had overwhelmed her. She was past recognition of individual faces, and obviously beyond any capacity to issue a public apology to Lord Jiro. It had been the sight of him that had set off this breakdown. Even should reason return to her before the guests departed, it would not be wise to encourage a meeting between injured parties so she might ask forgiveness. Worse damage might result. The two advisers, one old and practiced, the other young and talented, could see that already the scope of the trouble her lapse had created was widening. It was too late, now, to mend the past.

Hokanu realised that he should have heeded Isashani’s warning more closely, but he must not allow regret for his miscalculation to hamper the need for fast decisions. ‘Saric,’ he rapped out, ‘issue a statement. Tell no falsehoods, but select your words to insinuate that our Lady has fallen ill. We need immediate tactics to soften Jiro’s accusations of insult, which will certainly come within hours, and to find a sane reason to dismiss the state guests.’

The dark-haired First Adviser bowed and ducked away, already composing his words of formal announcement.

Unasked, Force Commander Lujan stepped to the fore.
Despite the Ruling Lords who crowded against his warriors, to gape at the prostrate Mara, he did not turn his face from her shame, but stripped off bracers, sword, and belt knife, then bent to lend his aid to subdue Mara’s struggles without causing her bruises. With a glance of profound relief, Hokanu continued with instructions to Incomo. ‘Hurry back to the estate house. Assemble Mara’s maids, and find her a healer who can mix a soporific. Then see to the guests. We need help from what allies we have left to avert an outbreak’ of armed hostilities.’

‘Lord Hoppara and the Xacatecas forces stand with you,’ announced a husky female voice. The tight ranks of honor guard swirled aside to admit the elegant, yellow-and-purple-robed form of Lady Isashani, who had used the almost mystical effect of her beauty and poise to gain passage between the warriors. ‘And I can help with Mara.’

Hokanu assessed the sincerity of the concern in her exotic dark eyes, then nodded. ‘Gods pity us for my lack of understanding,’ he murmured by way of apology. ‘Your house has all our gratitude.’ Then he turned the charge of his Lady over to the feminine wisdom of the Xacatecas dowager.

‘She has not gone mad,’ Lady Isashani answered, her fine hand closing over Mara’s in comfort. ‘Sleep and quiet will restore her, and time will heal her grief. You must be patient.’ Then, back to the hardcore immediacy of politics, she added, ‘I have set my two advisers to waylay the Omechan and the Inrodaka. My honor guard, under Hoppara, will find ways to interpose themselves where they will most hamper other troublemongers.’

Two fewer enemies to concern them; Hokanu tossed back a harried nod. Mara had staunch friends against the vicious factions who sought to pull her down. She was beloved by many in these nations. It tore his heart not to be able to stay at her side when she was in such
a terrible state. He forced his gaze away from the small cortege that formed to convey his distraught Lady to the comfort of the estate house. To let his heart rule him at this time was fool’s play. He must harden himself, as if he stood on the brink of deadly combat. There were enemies in plenty who had attended Ayaki’s last rites precisely to grab advantage from an opportunity like this. Mara’s insult to Jiro was by now past forgiveness. Bloodshed would result – that was a foregone conclusion – but only a fool would initiate an assault in the heart of Mara’s estate, with her army gathered to pay honor to Ayaki. Once beyond the borders of the Acoma lands, Mara’s enemies would start their mischief.

Hokanu moved now in an attempt to stave off immediate war. The Acoma stood to be ruined if he misstepped; not only that, but the warriors and resources of the Shinzawai might be sucked into gainless strife also. All that had been won in the past three years to secure centralised rule for the Emperor might be thrown away at a stroke.

Council must be called, to see what could be done to stave off more widespread disaster. Those Lords who held allegiance to neither Mara nor Jiro would have to be wooed, cajoled, or threatened, so that those openly opposed to her would think twice before challenging the Good Servant.

‘Lujan,’ Hokanu called over the rising tumult to the Acoma Force Commander, ‘arm the garrison, and call up the most level-headed of your officers. No matter what the provocation, at all costs set your patrols to keep the peace.’

The high green plumes of the officer’s helm bobbed acknowledgment over the chaos. Hokanu spared a moment for thanks to the gods that Mara had chosen her staff for intelligence and sense. Cool heads were their only hope of extricating House Acoma from devastation.

Saddened by this turn of affairs, Hokanu directed the
honor guard to march back to the estate house. Had Mara been less herself, and more the pliant wife that so many Empire women became as a result of their traditional upbringing, she would never have been strong enough to have attended a full state funeral for a son cut down by assassins. As Ruling Lady, and Servant of the Empire, she was too much in the public eye, denied even the human frailties that any lesser mother might be forgiven.

Caught up in the heated core of intrigues, Lady Mara was forced into a role that made her a target.

A frantic hour later, Mara lay on her sleeping mat, stupefied by potions administered by the priest of Hantukama, who had appeared as if by magic to offer his skills. Isashani had the household well in hand, and the short hadonra, Jican, was as busy as three men, quelling wild rumors among the servants.

Hokanu found himself alone to deal with the decisions that must be made in behalf of House Acoma. He listened to the reports of the Acoma retainers. He took notes for Mara to review, when she was restored and capable. He marked which guests stood by her, and which were outspoken against her. Most had the dignity to stay silent, or else they were too shocked to frame any hostile response. All had expected to spend the day in quiet contemplation, then to be hosted by the Servant of the Empire at a formal evening meal. Instead, they were already returning home, appalled by an unforgivable act authored by a woman who held the highest office in the land, short of the Emperor’s throne. More than one delegate of great houses had stopped by, ostensibly to pay their respects, but except for the Lord of the Keda, Hokanu had murmured empty thanks to men eager to catch any hint that House Acoma stood weakened. Lord Hoppara and the Lords of Clan Hadama were doing a fine job of moving through the crowds of departing guests,
toning down the damage of Mara’s act against the Anasati by whatever expedient they could find. Many who were all too ready to be outraged by the breach of protocol became more inclined to overlook a grieving mother’s outburst after one of the Hadama Lords or Lord Hoppara had finished speaking to them.

Another noble frustrated in his attempts to reach the inner apartments had been the Lord of the Anasati. Jiro had stiffly insisted that the insult to his person was irreparable. A pack of supporters had clustered at his heels as he was turned away from Mara’s door. They had found a common rallying point, and even those who had counted Mara a friend would be hard pressed to ignore a personal attack; for an enemy, it was impossible. In Tsurani culture, forgiveness was simply a less shameful form of weakness than capitulation. All in the course of seconds, the Lady had changed political opponents into allies of deadly enemies.

Jiro had not sued for public apology; indeed, he had surrounded himself with Lords whose disgruntlement with Ichindar’s reformed powers of rule was most vociferous. Saric and Incomo shared the conclusion that the Anasati Lord was deliberately discouraging conciliatory overtures, choosing to place blame for the scandal squarely upon the Acoma. Jiro’s loud complaints reached any who hovered within earshot: that he had come to his nephew’s funeral under what was understood as a traditional truce by all who attended, and had endured physical attack, humiliation at the hands of his host, and public accusation. As much as any ruler understood or sympathised with the source of Mara’s irrational act, none could deny that deadly insult had been given, with no atonement offered. Any attempt to deflect the accusation by pointing out Mara’s present inability to offer a rational apology was ignored by the Anasati.

The hall of the Acoma had grown stifling, its screens drawn closed against the prying eyes of the curious, its
doors guarded by the scarred veterans of past wars. These men did not wear the brightly lacquered ceremonial armor but field trappings well tested by previous engagements. Sitting upon a lower, less formal dais that was deserted in Mara’s absence, Hokanu quietly requested opinions on the day’s events.

That the closest, most loyal Acoma officers chose to respond to a consort who was not their sworn house Lord showed their immeasurable regard for Hokanu’s judgment. If the honor of these men’s vows was not his to command, they awarded him their absolute trust to act as needed in their mistress’s behalf. Touched as he was by their devotion, he was also disturbed, for it signified how deeply they understood Mara’s peril. Hokanu prayed that he was up to the task.

He listened in grave stillness as Force Leader Irrilandi and Keyoke, Adviser for War, reviewed the strength of the garrison, even as Force Commander Lujan readied the Acoma forces for battle. As if in emphasis, old Keyoke thumped his crutch against the stump of his lost leg. ‘Even if Jiro knows he will be defeated, he has no choice: honor requires he answer public insult with bloodshed. I doubt he will settle for a contest of champions. Worse, if Mara’s cries of accusation were heard by any beyond those close by, her implication that Jiro hired the Hamoi Tong to kill Ayaki could be taken as an insult to the Ionani that can only end in a Call to Clan.’

Absolute stillness followed this statement, making the footfalls of rushing servants echo through the hall. Several of those at the table turned to listen to the calls of house officers, gathering their masters’ families into personal litters for a quick departure, and a few looked at one another and shared a common understanding: a Clan War would rip the Empire asunder.

Into the face of such grim musing, Saric ventured, ‘But
who could take such a concept seriously? No tong dares reveal their employers, and what evidence we found to link the Anasati to the attack is hardly compelling, given the Hamoi Brotherhood’s clandestine practices. I’m more inclined to suspect it’s an intentional false trail.’

Incomo nodded, wagging a crooked finger. ‘The evidence of Jiro’s hand in Ayaki’s death is
too
neat. No tong survives to win itself wealthy clients by being this imprudent. And the Hamoi is the most powerful tong because its secrets have never been compromised.’ He scanned the faces around the table. ‘After – what? five attempts upon Mara – they suddenly allow one of their own to be caught with proof of Anasati participation? Unlikely. Certainly questionable. Hardly convincing.’

Hokanu regarded the advisers with a flash in his eyes as dire as light on barbarian steel. ‘We need Arakasi back.’ The gifts of the Acoma Spy Master were many, and his ability to read through the snarl of politics and individual greed of the Nations’ myriad Ruling Lords at times approached the uncanny. ‘We need him to pursue this evidence that supports Jiro’s guilt, for the boy’s true murderer lies behind it.’ Hokanu sighed. ‘Meantime, speculation is leading us nowhere. With Tasaio of the Minwanabi gone, who dares seek the death of the Servant of the Empire?’

Saric scratched his chin in the gloom. Not without sympathy, he said, ‘Master, you are blinded by love for your wife. The common folk of the Nations may regard her as a talisman, but her exalted station invites jealousy from other hearts. Many would see the Good Servant on her way to Turakamu’s halls, simply because of her breaks with tradition, and her climb to a rank unmatched by any previous Warlord. Also there are many who see their House status lessened, and their ambitions curtailed, because she is favored by Ichindar. They would seek Mara’s dishonor … if they dared.’

Hokanu looked impatient. ‘Then who would dare?’

‘Of us all, Arakasi might know.’ Glancing at Incomo, Saric tactfully phrased the question that played upon his restless mind. ‘Is there any reason to think that your former master might be reaching from the land of the dead to strike a blow in vengeance?’

As Keyoke’s eyes hardened at this possibility, the former First Adviser to the Lord of the Minwanabi, now Second Adviser to the Lady of the Acoma, cleared his throat. He unflinchingly met the distrust that focused on him. ‘If so, I was no part of such a plot. But Tasaio was a secretive man, and dangerous. Many times he was wont to make arrangements outside my knowledge. I was often dismissed when most Lords would have commanded my attendance. The Obajan of the Hamoi Tong was seen to pay a personal visit to Tasaio. My impression at the time was that the event involved unanswered questions over the murder of Acoma spies then in Minwanabi service.’ Incomo’s long face showed unguarded distaste as he concluded, ‘Threats were exchanged, and a bargain struck. But no man alive overheard the words that passed between the Obajan and Tasaio. I can only relate that never in life did I observe the Lord of the Minwanabi so balked in his plans that he lost himself to a display of wild anger. Tasaio was many things, but he was seldom without control.’