Mistress of the Empire. Janny Wurts

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СКАЧАТЬ with the plumes of the Hadama Clan Warchief, Mara sat on fine silk cushions. The flaps of the tent’s entrance were lashed back, and the morning outside edged her stiff profile in light. Behind her, his gauntleted hand upon her shoulder, Hokanu surveyed the army arrayed in ranks across the broad vale below.

      The mass of waiting warriors darkened the meadow across the entire vista, from the vantage point on the hill behind: spears and helms in their neat rows too numerous for counting. The only visible movement was caused by the wind through the officers’ plumes, which were many colors besides Acoma green. Yet the stillness was deceptive. At any second, every man at arms of Clan Hadama stood ready for attack, to answer their Warchief’s call to honor.

      Mara seemed an ornament carved of jade in her formal armor. Her face was the expressionless façade expected of a Tsurani Warchief. Yet those advisers who attended her observed in her bearing a brittleness born of rigidness, as if her stiff manner were all that contained the seething emotions inside. They moved and spoke quietly in her presence, as if the chance-made gesture, or the wrongly inflected word might jar her control and the irrational rage she had unleashed upon Lord Jiro might hammer past her barriers and manifest itself again.

      In this setting, with the vast armies at her command spread in offensive readiness, she was unpredictable as the thunderhead whose lightnings have yet to be loosed. A formal declaration of war meant putting aside cunning and strategies, forgoing guile and reason, and simply charging across an open field at the foe named in ceremony in the Temple of Jastur.

      Across from the Hadama war force were raised the banners of Clan Ionani; like Lady Mara, Lord Jiro sat with the Ionani Warchief upon the crest of the opposite hill, proud as befitted their lineage, and of no mind to forgive a slight of honor from the Lady of the Acoma. Beyond the tight-ranked warriors of the Ionani, the command tent flew the ancient scarlet and yellow Anasati war banner on a standard set next to the black and green tent of Lord Tonmargu, Warchief of the clan. The placement of colors symbolised an age-old affirmation that the slight to the Anasati had been accepted by all the houses, to be resolved by bloodshed that would count no cost in lives.

      To die was Tsurani; to live in dishonor, cowardice deemed worse than death.

      Mara’s eyes registered the details, yet her hands did not shake. Her thoughts were walled off, isolated in a cold place that even Hokanu could not penetrate. She who had deplored war and killing now seemed eager to embrace raw violence. Bloodshed might not bring her son back, but the heat and horror of battle could maybe stop her thinking. She would know a surcease from pain and grief until Jiro of the Anasati was ground to a pulp in the dust.

      Her mouth hardened at the bent of her thoughts. Hokanu sensed her tautness. He did not try to dissuade her, knowing by instinct that no consolation existed that could move her. He stayed by her, quiet, tempering her decisions where he could.

      One day, she might waken and accept her tears for what they were. Until time might begin to heal her, he could only give unstinting support, knowing that until then, anything less might drive her to more desperate measures.

      With true Tsurani impassivity, Hokanu followed the distant panoply as several figures left the Hadama lines and approached the ranks of the Ionani. Lujan led the party, sunshine glancing off his armor, and lighting the tips of his officer’s plumes to emerald brilliance. At his shoulder walked his two Force Leaders, Irrilandi and Kenji, and behind, according to rank, the Force Commanders of the other houses of Clan Hadama. A scribe came last, to record the exchange as this delegation met its opposite in the center of the chosen site of battle, following tradition. A discussion would set the conditions of the coming war, the limits of the field, the hour of commencement, and the possibility, if any, that quarter could be offered or accepted. But Mara had ended hope of the last.

      That the houses of Clan Ionani had seen fit to become involved had moved her not a hairsbreadth. They could stand or fall with Jiro, and she would not be alone in enduring the atrocities inherent in the Game of the Council.

      When Keyoke, her Adviser for War, had broached the subject of quarter, her eyes had flashed hot anger as she pronounced, ‘No quarter.’

      The lines were now drawn, the stakes set. None could dispute the word of Mara, as Warchief. Hokanu glanced around the command tent, as much to steady himself as to assess the mood of those present. Keyoke wore armor rather than the adviser’s garb his position entitled him to; Saric, who had fought in the Acoma ranks before rising to high office, had also donned armor. With battle about to rage, he felt naked wearing only thin silk on his back.

      Old Incomo yet wore his robes. More at home with his pen than his eating knife, he stood with his hands locked at his sash, his leathery features drawn. Though as seasoned in his way as a field general, he was unschooled in the arts of violence. Mara’s Call to Clan was no sane act, and since she had heretofore been the soul of gentleness and reason, her venomous embracing of Tsurani ritualised vengeance left him inwardly terrified. But his years of experience as adviser to the Minwanabi enabled him to stand firm in obedience.

      Every man and woman of the Acoma, and of all the houses of Clan Hadama, waited upon the gods’ will today.

      Trumpets sounded and the high, curving war horns blew. Drummers beat a tattoo as the delegations of Ionani and Hadama parted company, turned about, and marched back to their ranks. The drumbeat quickened, and the fanfare assumed a faster tempo. Lujan took his place in the center ranks; Irrilandi and Kenji marched to the right and left flanks; and the other officers assumed position at the heads of their house armies. Early sun glanced off the lacquered edges of shields and spears and lit the rippling movement of thousands of warriors drawing sword from sheath.

      The banners snapped in a gust, and streamers unfurled from the crossposts, red for the Death God Turakamu, whose blessing was asked for the slaughter about to begin. A priest of the Red God’s order stepped onto the narrow strip of earth between the armies and chanted a prayer. The swell of sound as voices of the warriors joined in seemed like the tremor that preceded cataclysm. Beside the priest stood another, a black-shrouded sister of Sibi, She Who Is Death. The presence of a priestess who worshipped Turakamu’s elder sister affirmed that many men were fated to die on this day. The priest completed his invocation and cast a handful of red feathers into the air. He bowed to the earth, then saluted the priestess of the Death Goddess. As the religious representatives withdrew, the warriors raised their voices to shouts. Cries and insults shattered the morning as men reviled their enemies across the field. Unforgivable words were exchanged, to seal their dedication to annihilating combat: to win or to die, as honor dictated; to stiffen the will lest any soldier be tempted to turn craven. The Tsurani code of honor was inflexible: a man would earn his life through victory, or his disgrace would extend past the Wheel of this Life, to cause misery in the next.

      Mara regarded the scene without passion. Her heart was hard. This day, other mothers would know what it was to weep over the bodies of slain sons. She barely noticed when Hokanu’s fingers settled on the shoulder plates of her armor, as his own heart began to pound in anticipation.

      The heir to the Shinzawai had the right to stand apart, for he had no blood ties to either Hadama or Ionani, but as husband to the Good Servant, he felt obliged to supervise this slaughter. Now, with the excitement of the warriors reaching a pitch to quicken the blood, a darker part of his nature looked forward to the call to charge. Ayaki had been loved as his own, and the boy’s loss quickened him to share his Lady’s rage. Logic might absolve House Anasati of the tong’s hiring, but the thirst of his aroused emotion remained unslaked. Whether or not Jiro was guilty, blood must atone for blood.

      A runner sent by Lujan arrived at the command tent. He bowed to earth, silent until the Lady waved. ‘Mistress, Warchief of Clan Hadama, Ionani Force Commanders have given agreement. Battle shall commence when the sun rises to a height of six diameters over the eastern horizon.’

      Mara СКАЧАТЬ