Mistress of the Empire. Janny Wurts

nearly insurmountable. Arakasi had a touch for difficult puzzles, true enough. But this one was potentially deadly, like a sword edge buried in sand that any man’s foot might dislodge. He brooded until the wagons pulled up at the docks. Along with the other workers, he jumped down onto the wharf and set hands to a hoist. One after another, the cloth bales were dragged from the wagon beds and loaded into waiting nets. Arakasi shoved on the pole with the rest when the hoist was full, lifting the cargo high and swinging it onto the deck of the barge warped alongside. The sun rose higher, and the day warmed. At the first opportunity, he slipped away on the excuse that he needed a drink of water, and vanished into the poor quarter.

      He must make his way out of Ontoset without help. To approach any other link in his net was to risk being rediscovered; worse, he might lead his pursuit to a fresh area of endeavor, and expose still more of his undercover workings. There were men in this city who would harbor fugitives for pay, but Arakasi dared not approach them. They could be infiltrated by the enemy, and his need to escape might connect him irrefutably to the incident at the warehouse. He wished for a bath and a chance to soak out the splinters still lodged under his skin, but he would get neither. A slave’s grey clothing or a beggar’s rags must see him past the city gates. Once outside the walls, he must hole up in the countryside until he could be certain he had made a clean break. Then he might try the guise of a courier and hasten to make up for his delay.

      He sighed, discomforted by the extended time he would be traveling, left alone with conjecture. He held troubled thoughts, of an unknown antagonist who had nearly taken him out of play with one move, and that enemy’s master, an unseen, unassailable threat. With Clan War between Mara and Lord Jiro decreed forbidden by the magicians, his beloved Lady of the Acoma was endangered. As opportunists and enemies banded into alliances against her, she was going to need the best intelligence to ward from her yet more underhanded moves in the murderous intrigues of the Great Game.

      

      The tailor allowed the robe’s silken hem to fall to the floor. Pins of finely carved bone were clenched between his teeth; he stepped back to admire the fit of the formal garment commissioned by the Lord of the Anasati.

      Lord Jiro endured the craftsman’s scrutiny with contained disdain. His features expressionless, he stood with his arms held out from his body to avoid a chance prick from the pins that fastened the cuffs. His posture was so still that the sequins sewn in the shape of killwings that adorned the front of the robe did not even shimmer in the light that fell through the open screen.

      ‘My Lord,’ lisped the tailor around the pins pinched between his teeth, ‘you look splendid. Surely every unmarried noble daughter who beholds your magnificence will swoon at your feet.’

      Jiro’s lips twitched. He was not a man who enjoyed flattery. Careful with appearances to the point where the unperceptive might mistakenly think him vain, he well knew the value of clothing when it came to leaving an impression. The wrong raiment could make a man seem stupid, overweight, or frivolous. Since swordplay and the rigors of battle were not to Jiro’s taste, he used every other means to enhance his aspect of virility. An edge could be gained, or a contest of wits turned into victory more subtle than any coarse triumph achieved on the fields of war.

      Proud of his ability to master his foes without bloodshed, Jiro had to restrain himself not to bridle at the tailor’s thoughtless compliment. The man was a craftsman, a hireling barely worth of notice, much less his anger. His words were of less consequence than the wind, and only chance had caused him to jar against a memory Jiro yet held with resentment. Despite his closest attention to manners and dress, Lady Mara had spurned him. The awkward, coarse-mannered Buntokapi had been chosen over him. Even passing recollection caused Jiro to sweat with repressed fury. His years of studied effort had availed him not at all, when all of his wits and schooled charm had been summarily dismissed by the Acoma. His ridiculous – no, laughable – lout of a brother had triumphed over him.

      Bunto’s smirk was unforgiven; Jiro still stung from remembered humiliation. His hands closed into fists, and he suddenly had no stomach for standing still. ‘I don’t like this robe,’ he snapped peevishly. ‘It displeases me. Make another, and have this one torn up for rags.’

      The tailor turned pale. He whipped the pins from his teeth and dropped to the parquet floor, his forehead pressed to the wood. ‘My Lord! As you wish, of course. I beg humble forgiveness for my lack of taste and judgment.’

      Jiro said nothing. He jerked his barbered head for a servant to remove the robe and drop it in a heap underfoot. ‘I will wear the blue-and-red silk. Fetch it now.’

      His command was obeyed in a flurry of nervousness. The Lord of the Anasati seldom punished his slaves and attendants, but from the day he assumed his inheritance he had made it clear that anything short of instant obedience would never be tolerated.

      Arriving to make his report, First Adviser Chumaka noted the near-frenzied obsequious behavior on the part of the servants. He gave not a twitch in reaction; wisest of the Anasati retainers, he knew his Lord best of all. The master did not appreciate overdone obeisance; quite the contrary. Jiro had matured as a second son, and he liked things quiet and without fanfare. Yet since he had inherited a ruler’s mantle without having been groomed to expect the post, he was ever sensitive to the behavior of his underlings toward him. Should they fail to give him his due respect as Lord, he would notice, and take instantaneous issue.

      The servant who was late to speak his title, the slave who failed to bow without delay upon presentation, were never forgiven their lapse. Like fine clothing and smooth manners, traditional Tsurani adherence to caste was part and parcel of how Ruling Lords were measured by their peers. Eschewing the barbaric aspects of the battlefield, Jiro had made himself a master of civilised behavior.

      As if a robe of finest silk did not lie discarded like garbage under his sandaled feet, he inclined his head while Chumaka straightened up from his bow. ‘What brings you to consult at this hour, First Adviser? Did you forget I had planned an afternoon of discourse with the visiting scholars from Migran?’

      Chumaka tipped his head to one side, as a hungry rodent might fix on moving prey. ‘I suggest, my Lord, that the scholars be made to wait while we take a short walk.’

      Lord Jiro was vexed, though nothing showed. He allowed his servants to tie his robe sash before he replied. ‘What you have to say is that important?’ As all who were present well knew, Jiro held afternoon court to attend to business with his factors. If his meeting with the scholars was delayed, it would have to wait until morning, which spoiled his hour set aside for reading.

      The Anasati First Adviser presented his driest smile and deftly handled the impasse. ‘It pertains to Lady Mara of the Acoma, and that connection I mentioned earlier concerning the vanquished Tuscai.’

      Jiro’s interest brightened. ‘The two are connected?’

      Chumaka’s stillness before the servants provided its own answer. Excited now, Lord Jiro clapped for his runner. ‘Find my hadonra and instruct him to provide entertainment for our guests. They shall be told that I am detained and will meet with them tomorrow morning. Lest they become displeased by these arrangements, it shall be explained that I am considering awarding a patronage, if I am impressed by their worthiness in the art of verbal debate.’

      The runner bowed to the floor and hurried off about his errand. Chumaka licked his teeth in anticipation as his master fell into step with him toward the outer screen that led into the garden.

      Jiro seated himself on a stone bench in the shade by a fish pool. He trailed languid fingers in the water while his attention to Chumaka sharpened. ‘Is it good news or bad?’

      As always, the First Adviser’s reply was ambiguous. ‘I’m not certain.’ Before his master could express displeasure, Chumaka adjusted his robe and fished a sheaf of documents out of a deep pocket. ‘Perhaps both, my Lord. A small, precautionary surveillance I set in place identified someone highly placed in the Acoma spy network.’ He paused, his thoughts branching off into inaccessibly vague speculation.

      ‘What results?’ Jiro prompted, in no mood for cleverness that he lacked the finesse to follow.

      Chumaka