Mistress of the Empire. Janny Wurts
to bring the distraught man cold refreshment.
Disdaining to appear to show favoritism, Lord Jiro spoke quickly, aware he must bridle the other petitioners’ resentment, and to quickly assess whether he could gain impromptu advantage from the interruption. Dawan of the Tuscobar was an occasional business associate and an unsure ally. Jiro’s inability to win him clearly to his cause had been an irritation, but the inconvenience was minor. The far-reaching ramifications of this byplay were anything but small. House Tuscobar held influence with the Lord of the Keda, whose support in any confrontation with Mara would net the Anasati a solid advantage. Jiro judged the alliance would be critical in the future, when the traditionalist plot to reinstate the High Council finally met with success.
Above the disgruntled murmurs of his petitioners, Lord Jiro called, ‘Let all who seek aid of the Anasati take heed. My house listens with sympathy to the difficulties of established friends. My Lord of the Tuscobar, what has happened?’
The heavyset Lord took a swallow from the glass of cold juice he had been handed by Jiro’s staff. He gulped in an effort to compose himself. ‘My entire fleet, carrying every last grain of my year’s harvest, was sunk!’
Jiro’s eyes widened in astonishment. ‘Sunk? But how?’
‘Some malignant spell spun by that witch,’ Dawan answered.
‘Witch?’ Jiro raised his eyebrows.
Dawan set his juice aside in favor of the wine offered by a hovering servant. He drank deeply and wiped his mouth before he felt fortified enough to qualify. ‘Mara of the Acoma. Who else? Everyone knows that as Servant of the Empire she has unlimited luck, and the gods’ favor. She has ruined me by sending false directions to my fleet master, ordering him to ship this year’s harvest to Dustari instead of the grain market at Lepala!’ Lord Dawan nearly wept in frustration as he said, ‘That would have been bad enough. I would merely have been reduced to penury. But an unseasonal storm hit a week out of Jamar, and every last ship was sunk! I am ruined.’ He eased his sorrows by taking another heroic drink of wine. ‘I swear by my ancestors, Jiro: I will never again shirk my support of your efforts to end this woman’s evil influence.’
Jiro rested his chin on his fist. After deep thought, he said, ‘I thank you for acknowledging the risks inherent in Lady Mara’s departures from tradition but had you said nothing, I would still help an old family friend.’ He turned at once to Chumaka. ‘Have our hadonra write a letter of credits for Lord Tuscobar.’ To Dawan he added, ‘Freely borrow as much as you need. Take as long as you wish to repay us, on whatever terms you think fair.’
Dawan stiffened, the wine forgotten as he regarded Jiro with suspicion. ‘Interest?’
As if granting largesse to the needy were a daily occurrence, Jiro waved his hand. ‘None! I will make no profit from a friend’s misfortune.’ Quietly he added, ‘Especially if that distress is caused by my enemy.’
Dawan rose. He made an extravagant bow. ‘Jiro, let everyone present stand as witness! You are a man of unceasing nobility and generosity. Your ancestors look down and are proud.’ He bowed again, belatedly deferential to the patience of the others awaiting the Anasati Lord’s attention. ‘And I beg forgiveness for interrupting this worthy gathering.’
Jiro rose. Indicating Chumaka should join him, he personally escorted the Lord of the Tuscobar to a side door, where he murmured in comradely farewell, ‘Nonsense. There is nothing to forgive. Now, retire to one of my baths and refresh yourself. Remain for the evening meal, even spend the night if you’d like and return home tomorrow.’ He appointed a slave to lead the flattered and slightly intoxicated Lord of the Tuscobar away.
As he moved to return to his dais, playing the role of magnanimous Lord to perfection, Chumaka murmured, ‘It’s strange, don’t you think? Why would Mara wish to harm a fence-sitter like Dawan? This makes no sense by any measure.’
Jiro glanced at his First Adviser in immense amusement. ‘But she didn’t. I arranged the forger myself. It was I who sent those false orders to Dawan’s shipmaster.’
Chumaka bowed low, chuckling silently. Quietly, so not one of the petitioners could hear, he said, ‘You surprise me, my Lord. You are growing into a seasoned player, both in shah and in the Game of the Council. How did you contrive to cast blame on Mara?’
Jiro seemed smug. ‘Our hadonra spread rumors, at my order. Dawan and others were made aware of the insults and misdeeds done us by the Lady over the past several years. I merely copied her methods and let Dawan draw his own conclusions.’ Stepping decisively back toward the dais, he added, ‘Oh, and by making sure Dawan heard that Acoma grain is being shipped this season to the markets at Lepala.’
Chumaka flushed with obvious pleasure. ‘Admirable, my master. Clever enough to have been an idea I wish I had thought of first.’
As the Lord and his First Adviser mounted his dais, they shared the identical thought: each considered himself fortunate to have the other, for they worked remarkably well together. When the old High Council was restored and the secret of Mara’s spy net was cracked, then would the Lady have cause to worry, for not even the formidable luck of a Servant of the Empire was going to spare her house from destruction.
Mara paced in frustration. For weeks the coolness between herself and her husband separated them like a wall. Hokanu’s resistance to her desire to see Justin renounce his ties to Shinzawai to become the Acoma heir was understandable. Hokanu’s affections were as deep as if the boy had been his own. Ayaki’s death had turned him more protective as a parent, and, reminded of that loss, Mara felt bitterness that never seemed to lessen.
She paused between restless steps, one hand on the screen that overlooked her private garden. Oh, for one hour with old Nacoya and her wisdom, she wished in vain. Her onetime nurse, foster mother, and First Adviser had always offered insight straight to the heart of any difficulty. Even when Mara had refused advice or persisted in taking risks unacceptable to the old woman, Nacoya had always seen clear and true. In matters of the heart, her perception had been unmatched. Mara sighed. It had been Nacoya who had noticed her mistress’s growing affection for the barbarian slave Kevin, long before Mara admitted the possibility of love to herself. The old woman’s counsel was sorely needed now. Mara attempted to conjure Nacoya’s voice, but the beloved woman’s shade rested far away this day.
A kick inside her belly ended her reverie. She gasped, pressed a hand to her swollen middle, and met the discomfort with a smile. Her unborn child had the strength of a barbarian tiger cub. Surely Hokanu would feel differently when he beheld his newborn first child. The pride of fatherhood would soften him, and he would cease his stubbornness and give in to her demand that Justin be named Acoma heir. The flesh that was of his own blood would make him understand that this was the gods’ will, that this babe whose begetting they had shared was the proper heir to the title Lord of the Shinzawai.
Mara leaned against the lintel of the screen, anticipating the happiness of the occasion. She had borne two children, one by a man she loathed and another by a man she adored. Both little ones had given her something completely unexpected; what had begun as a duty of honor in the begetting of Ayaki, the necessity of ensuring Acoma continuance, had been transformed to a joyous reality as she came to love the heir for whom she labored. It was her offspring that would inherit the greatness of the Acoma. Once a child was held, his baby laughter giving her delight, never again could family honor seem a distant, abstract thing.
Mara keenly awaited the moment when Hokanu would feel this magic for himself. The birth of their son would bring them closer, and end this cold contention of wills. Peace would return between them, and both Acoma and Shinzawai children would grow into the greatness of their future.
While Mara had never been consumed by passion for the man she cherished as husband, she had come to rely on his closeness. His understanding was a comfort, his wisdom a shelter, his wit a relief from danger and worry, and his quiet, intuitive understanding a tenderness she could not live without. She missed him. His love had become the linchpin of her happiness, all unnoticed until she had been forced to go without. For while he was ever