Mistress of the Empire. Janny Wurts

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СКАЧАТЬ magician who seemed to mediate called out again. ‘Tapek, I said Lady Mara had nothing to do with the defiance.’

      Tapek returned a shrug, as if irritated by a fly. ‘As Lord Petcha’s Warchief, she is responsible for the conduct of all forces under her command.’

      Mara lifted her chin. Her mind stilled with a horror of recognition: these Black Robes might order her dead, with no more concern than they had showed for Tasaio of the Minwanabi, whose suicide had resulted from their bidding. Her officers looked arrested with terror. Keyoke showed nothing beyond a hardness around his eyes that no one living had ever seen.

      Hokanu made an involuntary jerk forward, but was stopped by Lujan’s rock-hard grip upon his arm.

      The onlookers, to a man, held their breath. Should the Black Robes order her destruction, no sword, no plea, no power of love might prevent them. The loyalty of thousands of servants and soldiers who would gladly give their lives in her place would avail her nothing.

      While the red-haired Tapek studied the Lady with a snake’s heartless regard, the young magician said, ‘Is Lord Petcha still alive?’

      Lujan reacted instantly, dispatching a runner to the field. Minutes passed. Tapek shifted in impatience, while out at the scene of the carnage the messenger conferred. A flag was brought to signal. It dipped and waved, in code, while Lujan interpreted. ‘All who attacked are dead.’ He dared raise his eyes to the Great Ones as he concluded, ‘Lord Petcha was leading his men. His body is ashes and bones, with the rest.’

      The first magician nodded curtly. ‘The obliteration of the offender is ample punishment.’

      The third magician from the group affirmed, ‘So be it.’

      Mara felt faint with relief, until Tapek stepped sharply toward her. Deep in the shadow under his hood, his heavy eyebrows drew up in displeasure. His eyes were pale, cold as the depths of the sea, and menace edged his tone as he said, ‘Mara of the Acoma, the House of Petcha is no more. You shall see that all of that line are dead before nightfall. The estate house and barracks will be burned, and the fields fired. When the crops are destroyed, Acoma servants shall salt the earth, that nothing shall grow on the land. All soldiers sworn to the Petcha natami are to be hung. You will leave their remains to rot in the wind, and never offer them haven as you have other warriors of conquered houses. All Petcha free servants are now slaves, given over to the service of the Emperor. All Petcha holdings now belong to the temples. The Petcha natami is to be broken by hammers and the fragments buried, never to know the sun’s warmth, never more to secure Petcha spirits to the Wheel of Life. From this night unto eternity, that house no longer exists. Let the ending signify this: no one may defy the will of the Assembly. No one.’

      Mara forced her knees not to give way. She used every shred of her strength to draw breath and find her voice. ‘Your will, Great One.’

      She bowed. Her armor dragged at her shoulders, and the plumes of her helm seemed to weigh down her neck, yet she lowered herself until her knees and forehead touched soil, and the feathers of a Hadama Warchief became sullied with dust.

      The young magician inclined his head in perfunctory acknowledgment of her obeisance, then withdrew a round metal device from his robe. He depressed a switch with his thumb. A whining sound cut the stillness. With an audible pop and an inrushing of air, the Black Robe vanished.

      The magician named Tapek lingered, studying the woman who was folded on the ground at his feet. His lips twitched as if he enjoyed her groveling. ‘See that the object of this lesson is well learned by all others in your Clan, Good Servant. Any who defy the Assembly will face the same fate as the Petcha.’ He withdrew another of the round devices and a moment later, disappeared. The other Black Robes vanished after him, leaving the hilltop bare but for the circle of Mara’s shocked officers.

      Below, shouts rang across the vale as officers called orders to confused soldiers. Warriors crowded back up the hillsides, some in a hurry to put space between themselves and the carnage wrought by magic, others reluctant to turn their backs upon the enemy, who marched to the same edict given to Lady Mara. Saric gathered himself to his feet, while her Force Commander helped his Lady, in the encumbrance of her armor, to do the same. Hoarsely, she said to Lujan, ‘Hurry and dispatch more messengers. We must make haste to disperse the clan, lest further mishap provoke an incident.’

      Swallowing hard, and still feeling sickened, Mara gestured to Saric. ‘And, Gods grant us mercy, order this terrible thing done: obliterate the Petcha.’

      Saric nodded, unable to speak. He had a gift for reading character, and the memory of Tapek’s intensity gave him chills. Mara had been dealt the worst punishment imaginable, the utter destruction of a loyal clan family for no worse offense than youthful impetuosity. All for his mistress’s Call to Clan, the young Lord had died in lingering agony; before nightfall his young wife and baby sons would be dead, as would cousins and relations who bore his name. That Mara must herself be the instrument of that unjust decree cut through her grief for Ayaki. For the first time since the great black gelding had toppled upon the body of her son, her eyes showed the spark of awakened feeling for others beyond herself.

      Saric saw this as he trudged off to complete the horrifying task set upon the Acoma by the Great Ones. Hokanu observed as he steadied his Lady’s steps on her return to the command tent. The fires of the Assembly’s magic had cauterised the wounds to her spirit. In place of the obsession for revenge against Jiro, a fierce anger now commanded her mind.

      Mara had recovered herself. Hokanu knew bittersweet relief at the change. He regretted the Petcha’s loss; but the woman he loved was once again the most dangerous player of the Game of the Council the Empire had ever known. With a gesture, she dismissed the servants who rushed to neaten the disorder left in the tent. When the last of them had retreated a discreet distance away, she called Irrilandi to unlace the door flaps and restore her a measure of privacy.

      Keyoke entered as the last flap slapped down. He performed servant’s task lighting the lanterns, while Mara paced. Vibrant, even jagged with nerves, she regarded those of her house who were present, arrayed in semicircle before her. Her voice seemed flat as she said, ‘They dare …’

      Keyoke stiffened. He glanced askance at Hokanu, who stood as mute as the others. Mara reached the fallen tangle of her privacy curtains, then spun around. ‘Well, they will learn.’

      Irrilandi, who knew her moods less well than the others, gave her a fist-over-heart salute. ‘Lady, surely you do not speak in reference to the magicians?’

      Mara seemed tiny, in the lantern light that held the shadows in the cavernous tent at bay. A moment passed, filled by the muffled shouts of the officers still mustering troops outside. Bowstring-taut, Mara qualified. ‘We must do what has never been done since the Empire came into existence, my loyal friends. We must discover a way to evade the will of the Great Ones.’

      Irrilandi gasped. Even Keyoke, who had faced death through a lifetime of campaigns, seemed shaken to the core. But Mara continued grimly: ‘We have no choice. I have shamed the Acoma name before Jiro of the Anasati. We are forbidden expiation by means of war; I will not fall upon my sword. This is an impasse for which tradition has no answer. The Lord of the Anasati must die by my design, and I will not stoop to hiring assassins. Jiro has already used my disgrace to whip up enemies. He has turned the dissatisfied Lords in the Nations into a cohesive party of traditionalists, and Ichindar’s reign is imperiled along with the continuance of the Acoma name. My only heir is dead, so my ritual suicide offers us no alternative. If all that I have lived to achieve is to be salvaged, we must spend years in the planning. Jiro must die by my hand, if not in war, then in peace, despite the will of the Assembly of Magicians.’

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