The Complete Empire Trilogy. Janny Wurts

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      A rare storm had blown in from the north, bringing misting rain. Low-hanging tendrils of fog curled across the surface of the lake, stone-grey in the subdued light. The damp made the air chill after weeks of arid heat, and Mara shivered. The earth under her sandals seemed dank as death itself. She thanked the Goddess of Wisdom that Nacoya had not insisted upon attending the funeral ceremony. By agreement with her mistress, the old woman had pleaded illness from the smoke and the sorrow of the last night’s events; for the moment she lay safe on her mat in the suite of the Warlord, Almecho.

      Mara led the procession down the gentle slope to the lakeside, grateful that only her own safety should concern her; for the guests who walked in pairs behind her were edgy, unpredictable as caged beasts. Not one of them believed the fiction that a servant had stolen the jewels of the Lady of the Minwanabi. No one had been impolite enough to point out that Shimizu had the alleged booty in his possession while the thief’s body was consumed by fire before anyone could reach him. The possibility that Jingu had violated his pledged oath of guest safety could not be questioned without proof. Hereafter Mara and her retinue might not be the only targets for such plotting; no Lord present dared relax for the remainder of the gathering, for a few among them might react to the uncertainty in the atmosphere and strike at enemies of their own.

      Only the Warlord seemed amused. Since he was the Emperor’s voice within the Empire, the conspiracies and the setbacks of the rival factions beneath him offered as much enjoyment as the festivities honouring his birthday – which Papewaio’s funeral had deferred until tomorrow. While his host, the Lord of the Minwanabi, fixed his attentions on Mara of the Acoma, Almecho knew Jingu was not plotting to wear the white and gold – at least not this week.

      Though most guests marched in proper silence, Almecho whispered pleasantries in the ear of Jingu. This landed the Lord of the Minwanabi in a prickly mesh of protocol: whether he should remain serious, as was proper for a Lord who attended the funeral of one who had died defending his property; or whether he should defer to the mood of his guest of honour, and smile at the jokes, which in all likelihood were presented to provoke precisely this same dilemma.

      But Mara drew no satisfaction from Jingu’s discomfort. Ahead, on a finger of land past the piers, rose the ceremonial pyre of the Acoma First Strike Leader. He lay in his plumes and ceremonial armour, his sword upon his breast; and across the blade his crossed wrists were bound with scarlet cord, signifying death’s dominance over the flesh. Beyond him, at attention, stood the fifty warriors of the Acoma retinue. They were permitted at the gathering to honour their departed officer; and from their number Mara must choose Papewaio’s successor, one soldier to stand as her honour guard throughout the remainder of the celebration for the Warlord. Almost, her step faltered on the path. To think of another in Pape’s place brought pain past bearing; yet the more practical side of her mind kept functioning. Her next stride was firm, and her choice already made. Arakasi must wear the honour guard’s mantle, for she would need any information he might have gathered to counter the Minwanabi threat.

      Mara stepped up to the bier. She lowered the scarlet reed, and the guests fanned out, forming a circle around Papewaio’s body, leaving small openings at the east and west. The neat lines of Acoma warriors waited behind Papewaio’s head, each holding his sword point down in the earth to symbolize a warrior fallen.

      The drums boomed and fell silent. Mara raised her voice to open the ceremonies. ‘We are gathered to commemorate the life deeds of Papewaio, son of Papendaio, grandson of Kelsai. Let all present know that he achieved the rank of First Strike Leader of the Acoma, and that the honours that earned him this postion were many.’

      Mara paused and faced east; and the small gap left in the circle was now filled by a white-robed priest of Chochocan, who wore armlets woven of thyza reed, and whose presence symbolized life. The Lady of the Acoma bowed in deference to the god, then began to recite the memorable deeds of Papewaio’s service, from the first day of his oath to the Acoma natami. As she spoke, the priest shed his mantle. Naked but for his symbols of office, he danced in celebration of the strong, brave warrior who lay in state upon the bier.

      The list of Papewaio’s honours was a lengthy one. Well before the recitation ended, Mara had to struggle to keep her composure. Yet as her account faltered, the guests did not fidget or show boredom. Life and death, and the winning of glory according to the code of honour, were a subject central to the Tsurani civilization; the deeds of this particular servant of the Acoma were impressive. Rivalry, hatred, even blood feud did not extend past the borders of death, and so long as the priest danced in remembrance of Papewaio, the Lord of the Minwanabi and every distinguished guest acknowledged the renown of the deceased.

      But no warrior’s prowess could accomplish immortality. Eventually Mara reached the night when the blade of a thief had ended a brilliant career. The dancer bowed to the earth before the bier, and the Lady of the Acoma turned west, where a red-robed priest stood in the small gap in the circle. She bowed in respect to the representative of the Red God; and the priest in service to the Death God threw off his mantle.

      He was masked with a red skull, for no mortal might know the face of death until his turn came to greet the Red God, Turakamu. The priest’s skin was dyed scarlet, and his armlets were woven of serpent skins. Again Mara raised her voice. She managed the last with flawless poise, for her life now balanced upon her ability to play the Great Game. In ringing tones she described the death of a warrior. And with true Tsurani appreciation of theatre and ceremony, she made her account an accolade to the honour of Papewaio.

      The priest of Turakamu danced a warrior’s death, with bravery, glory, and honour that live on in memory. When he finished, he drew a black knife and slashed the scarlet cords that bound Papewaio’s wrists. The time for flesh was ended, and the spirit must be freed from its bondage to death.

      Mara swallowed, her eyes dry and hard. From the priest of Turakamu she accepted the flaming torch that burned at the foot of the bier. This she raised skyward, with a silent prayer to Lashima. Now she must name Papewaio’s successor, the man who would assume his former duties so that his spirit would be free of mortal obligation. Saddened, Mara strode to the head of the bier. With trembling fingers she fixed the red reed to the warrior’s helm. Then she plucked away the officer’s plume, and turned to face the still ranks of the Acoma soldiers who closed the north end of the circle.

      ‘Arakasi,’ she said; and though her summons was barely above a whisper, the Spy Master heard.

      He stepped forward and bowed.

      ‘I pray to the gods I have chosen wisely,’ Mara murmured as she gave the torch and the plume into his hands.

      Arakasi straightened and regarded her with dark, enigmatic eyes. Then, without comment, he turned and cried out for his companion at arms, Papewaio. The priest of Chochocan re-entered the circle with a reed cage that contained a white-plumed tirik bird, symbol of the spirit of rebirth. As the flames touched the kindling stack beneath Papewaio’s muscled corpse, the priest slashed the reed constraints with a knife. And Mara watched, her eyes misted, as the white bird shot skyward and vanished into the rain.

      Fire hissed and cracked, smoky in the dampness. The guests waited a respectful interval before they filed slowly back to the estate house. Mara remained, along with her fifty warriors and her newly chosen honour guard, waiting for the fire to burn out and the priests of Chochocan and Turakamu to gather Papewaio’s ashes. These would be enclosed within an urn and buried beneath the wall of the Acoma contemplation glade, to honour the fact that Papewaio had died in loyal service to the family. For a time, Mara was alone with Arakasi, away from the scrutiny of the guests.

      ‘You did not bring Nacoya with you,’ Arakasi murmured, his words barely audible over the snap of the pyre. ‘Mistress, that was clever.’

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