Daughter of the Empire. Janny Wurts

hardened of the grey warriors, she borrowed from the philosophies learned at Lashima’s temple. ‘The tradition we live by is like the river that springs from the mountain lands and flows always to the sea. No man may turn that current uphill. To try would defy natural law. Like the Acoma, many of you have known misfortune. Like the Acoma, I ask you to join in turning the course of tradition, even as storms sometimes cause a river to carve a new bed.’

      The girl paused, eyes veiled by her lashes as she stared down at her hands. This moment was critical, for if even one outlaw cried out in opposition to what she had said, she would lose control. The silence weighed upon her unbearably. Then, without a word, Papewaio calmly removed his helm; the black scarf of the condemned upon his brow lay bare for all to see.

      Lujan exclaimed in astonishment, startled as the rest to find a man condemned to death standing in a position of honour in the retinue of a great Lady. Proud of Pape’s loyalty, and the gesture he had made to show that shame could be other than tradition dictated, Mara smiled and laid light fingers on the shoulder of her Strike Leader. ‘This man serves me with pride. Will others among you not do the same?’ To the farmer displaced by the Minwanabi she said, ‘If the Lord who vanquished your master wishes another farmer, then let him come for you.’ With a nod towards Keyoke and her warriors, she added, ‘The Minwanabi will have to fight to take you. And upon my estate you shall be a free man.’

      The farmer sprang forward with a wild cry of joy. ‘You offer your honour?’

      ‘You have my honour,’ answered Mara, and Keyoke bowed to affirm his loyalty to her command.

      The farmer knelt where he stood, and offered crossed wrists to Mara in the time-honoured gesture of fealty. ‘Lady, I am your man. You honour is my honour.’ With those words the farmer announced to all that he would die as readily as any of her warriors to defend the Acoma name.

      Mara nodded formally, and Papewaio left her side. He wended his way through the bandit company until he stood before the farmer. By ancient ritual, he placed a cord about the man’s wrists, then removed the mock bonds, showing that the man who might have been kept as slave was instead accepted as a free man. Excited talk broke out as a dozen other men crowded around. They knelt in a circle around Papewaio, eager to accept Mara’s offer and the hope of a new life.

      Keyoke detailed a warrior to gather the newly sworn workers together; Acoma guards would accompany them back to the estate, where they would be assigned housing and field work by Jican.

      The remaining company of bandits watched with the hope of the desperate as Mara spoke again. ‘You who were outlawed, what were your crimes?’

      A short man, pale with sickness, called hoarsely. ‘I spoke ill of a priest, Lady.’

      ‘I kept grain back from the tax collector for my hungry children,’ cried another.

      The list of petty misdemeanours continued until Mara had ascertained the truth of Lujan’s claim that thieves and murderers found no sanctuary within his company. To the condemned she said, ‘Leave as you will, or take service as free men. As Ruling Lady of the Acoma, I offer you pardon within the borders of my lands.’ Although imperial amnesty was beyond the authority of any Ruling Lord or Lady, Mara knew no minister of the imperial government would likely raise objections over the fate of a lowly, next-to-nameless field hand – especially if he had never heard of such an amnesty.

      The pardoned men grinned at the cleverness of the Lady and hurried to Papewaio to swear service. They knelt gladly. As Acoma workers they might face threat from Mara’s enemies, but danger in service to a great house was preferable to their bitter existence as outlaws.

      The shadows of the afternoon lengthened beneath the trees; golden light scattered through where the branches were thinnest. Mara looked at the depleted ranks of the outlaw band, and her gaze settled at last upon Lujan. ‘You soldiers without masters, listen carefully.’ She paused, waiting while the jubilant talk of the newly sworn workers dwindled down the road. Delicate next to Papewaio’s muscled fitness, Mara challenged the gaze of the roughest and most unkempt among Lujan’s followers. ‘I offer a thing no warrior in the history of the Empire has known: a second beginning. Who among you will return to my estate, to shape anew his honour … by kneeling outside the sacred grove and offering oath to the natami of the Acoma?’

      Silence descended upon the glade, and for a moment it seemed that no man dared to breathe. Then pandemonium erupted. Men shouted questions and were shouted down in turn by others who claimed to know answers. Dirty hands jabbed the air to emphasize points of law, and feet stamped earth as excited men jumped to their feet and surged towards Mara’s wagon.

      Papewaio stopped the rush with drawn sword, and, hurrying from the wagons, Keyoke shouted a command.

      Silence fell; slowly the bandits settled. Quiet once more, they waited for their leader to speak.

      Respectful of Papewaio’s vigilance, Lujan bowed carefully before the girl who threatened to upset the life he had known past recovery. ‘Lady, your words are … astonishing … generous beyond imagining. But we have no masters to free us of our former service.’ Something akin to defiance flickered in his eyes.

      Mara noticed and strove to understand. Though roguish, even handsome beneath his grime, the outlaw bore himself in the manner of a man threatened; and suddenly the girl knew why. These men simply owned no sense of purpose, living from day to day, without hope. If she could make them take fate back into their own hands and swear loyalty to the Acoma, she would gain warriors of inestimable value. But she had to make them believe once more.

      ‘You have no service,’ she said gently to Lujan.

      ‘But we gave oath …’ His voice fell to barely above a whisper. ‘No offer like this has been made before. We … Who among us can know what is honourable?’ Lujan seemed half pleading, as if he wished Mara to dictate what was right; and the rest of the company looked to their chieftain for guidance.

      Suddenly feeling every inch the unseasoned seventeen-year-old novice of Lashima, Mara turned to Keyoke for support. The old warrior did not fail her. Though he was as discomforted as Lujan by this abuse of tradition, his voice remained calm. ‘A soldier must die in the service of his master, or be dishonoured, so it is held. Yet, as my Lady points out, if fate decrees otherwise, no man is fit to argue with the gods. If the gods do not wish you to serve the Acoma, their displeasure will certainly be visited upon that house. My Lady assumes that risk, in her own behalf, and yours. With or without the favour of heaven, all of us will die. But the bold among you will chance misfortune,’ and he paused for a long moment before adding, ‘and die as soldiers.’

      Lujan rubbed his wrists, unconvinced. To anger the gods was to invite utter ruination. At least as an outlaw the miserable existence he would endure for life might expiate his failure to die with his master, perhaps earning his soul a higher station when it was next bound to the Wheel of Life.

      As the bandits reflected the nervousness of their leader, each plainly divided within himself, Papewaio scratched his scar and said thoughtfully, ‘I am Papewaio, First Strike Leader of the Acoma. I was born to service with this house, but my father and grandfather counted kin with cousins serving the Shinzawai, the Wedewayo, the Anasati …’ He paused and, when no man spoke, added the names of several more houses.

      Lujan stood frozen, his eyes half-closed, as behind him a man called out. ‘My father served the house of Wedewayo, where I lived before I took service with the Lord of the Serak. His name was Almaki.’

      Papewaio nodded, thinking quickly. ‘Was this the Almaki who was cousin to Papendaio, who was my father?’

      The man shook his head in disappointment. ‘No, but I knew him. He was called Little Almaki, as my father was Big Almaki. I had other cousins of my father serving there, though.’

      Papewaio beckoned the man from the ranks, and out of Mara’s hearing they spoke quietly for several minutes. After an animated interval the bandit broke into a broad grin, and the Strike Leader turned to his mistress with a deferential bow. ‘My Lady, this is Toram. His uncle was cousin to a man who married a woman who was sister to the woman who married