Servant of the Empire. Janny Wurts
her line of thought, to explore her improbable supposition one step further.
‘And once across the borders, such a runaway might accumulate wealth and live in honour among other men?’
‘Yes.’ Kevin thumped his palms on his knees and leaned back at his ease on one elbow, ready to add more, but Mara cut him off.
‘Then you believe that if you were to find a way back across the rift to your own world, you would be able to regain your position, your honour, and your title?’
‘Lady,’ said Kevin with a patronizing smile, ‘not only would I reclaim my former position, I would have won distinction, for contriving escape from my enemies, to once again take the field to oppose them, and to give hope to future captives that they might also find freedom. It is the duty of a captured … soldier to escape, in my nation.’
Mara’s brows rose. Again she was forced to re-examine her concepts of honour, loyalty, and where one’s best interests lay. The barbarian’s words made sense, in an oddly disquieting way. These people were not intractable, or stupid, but acting within a strange culture’s tenets; she grappled with the concept stubbornly. If, within Kevin’s society, his defiance was seen as heroic, his behaviour made a perverted sort of sense. Leading by example was a familiar Tsurani ideal. But to endure humiliation … degradation … so that one could someday return and again contest with the enemy … Her head swam from ideas that, until now, she had held to be profoundly conflicting.
She took a moment to sip at cool fruit juices. Dangerously fascinated, like a child shown forbidden rites in a back temple chamber, Mara considered facts sharp-edged as swords: in Midkemia, honourable men did not harm women, and honour did not die with captivity. Slaves could become other than slaves. What, then, did the gods decree for men who lost their souls while still alive? What station could negate honour in a worse way than slavery? Within the framework of this man’s culture, honour was gained by upholding their odd codes, and rank was seen as a situation rather than a life. Kevin behaved like a free man because he didn’t think of himself as a slave but, rather, as a captive. Mara rearranged her robes, hiding turmoil brought on by ‘logic’ that bordered heresy on Kelewan.
These barbarians were more dangerous than even Arakasi had imagined, for they assumed things as foregone conclusions that could turn Tsurani society on its head. Mara earnestly believed it would be safer for her people if she had her barbarians all executed. But sooner or later someone would exploit these perilous ideas, and it would be foolish to let the opportunity fall to an enemy. Mara tossed off her disquiet in a raw attempt at humour. ‘From what you have said about women being sacrosanct, then your Lords’ wives must make the decisions. True?’
Kevin had followed her every move as she smoothed her silks. Drawn to the visible cleft between Mara’s breasts, he tore his eyes away regretfully and laughed. ‘In part, they do, my Lady. But never openly, and not according to law. Most of their influence is practised in the bedchamber.’ He sighed, as if remembering something dear to him, and his sight lingered over the exposed bosom above her robe and the long length of leg that extended below the hem.
Mara’s eyebrows rose. Aware enough of nuance to blush, she reflexively drew her legs under her and closed the top of her scanty robe. For an awkward moment she found herself looking at anything else in the room but the nearly nude slave. Enough! she scolded herself. In a culture where nakedness was commonplace, why was she suddenly discomforted?
Irked at her mistake, she stared directly into Kevin’s eyes. Whatever this man might think, he was still her property; she could order him to his death or her bed with equal disregard for consequences, for he was but a thing. Then she caught herself and questioned why her mind turned to the bedchamber. Struck by her unexpected angry reaction at such foolishness, she took a deep breath and turned the discussion away from things remotely personal. Soon she was lost in an in-depth exploration of Lords and Ladies and their responsibilities in the lands beyond the rift. As on the night before, one subject led to another series of questions and answers, with Mara providing Kevin with the words he needed to flesh out his description of his nation, the Kingdom of the Isles.
A quick man, he needed scant tutelage. Mara was impressed by his ability to discourse on many topics. The room dimmed as the lamp burned low; Mara was too distracted to call in a servant to trim the wick. The moon rose beyond the open screen, casting a copper-gold glow across the floor and throwing all else into shadow. The flame burned lower still. Mara lay back on her cushions, tense and not ready for sleep. Beneath her fascination with Kevin’s world, anger still smouldered. The memory of his physical touch – the first man’s upon her skin since her husband’s death – occasionally threatened to disrupt her concentration. It took all her will at such instants to stay focused upon whatever topic the barbarian was addressing.
Kevin finished describing the powers of a noble called a baron, and paused to take a drink. Lamplight gleamed upon his skin. Above the rim of his cup his eyes followed her body’s contours through the thin silk robe.
Unreasoning distaste stirred through Mara, and her cheeks flushed. Picking up her fan, she kept her face expressionless as she cooled herself. Bitterly she understood that new information could only temporarily divert her from her inner turmoil.
The intelligence brought in by Arakasi had unsettled rather than reassured, and the fact her enemies offered no immediate threat to counter left her uncertain which flank to guard. Her resources were thin, too few men guarding too broad a front, while she tried to arrive at a useful strategy. She found herself fretting endlessly over what she could most afford to lose, this warehouse or that remote farm. The daring victory she had won over Jingu had not blinded her to reality. The Acoma were still vulnerable. She might have gained prestige, but the number of soldiers in her garrisons had not changed. When enemies chose to move against her in force, a wrong guess would be dangerous, even fatal.
Kevin’s culture offered strange concepts, like a salve against fear’s constant ache. It occurred to Mara that she must keep the barbarian close at hand, both to dominate him and to pick at that confused treasure-house of ideas he carried with him.
Now better acquainted with the slaves’ attitudes, she deemed it safest if their ringleader was kept away from them. Without Kevin, the slave master reported, the barbarians were less prone to grumbling and indolence. And if Kevin was at her side through most of her daily activities, his close-hand observation of high Tsurani culture might better enable him to apply his wits to her problems – a potentially priceless perspective. To that end, Mara decided she must allow him to know something of the stakes at risk. She must acquaint him with her enemy, and let him discover what he stood to lose if Desio of the Minwanabi should triumph over the Acoma.
The next time that Kevin interjected a personal question, Mara lowered her lashes to give the impression of a girl about to exchange a confidence. Then, hoping she acted rightly within the framework of his alien culture, she looked up brightly. ‘You shouldn’t expect me to answer that.’
Some of the vulnerability that leaked through was genuine, and the result struck Kevin like a blow. She was not remote, or icy, but a young woman who struggled to manage a sprawling financial empire and command of a thousand warriors. Mara responded to his bewildered silence with an air of mischievous devilry. ‘You shall act as my body slave,’ she announced. ‘Then you must go everywhere that I do, and you might observe the answer to your question yourself.’
Kevin stilled into watchfulness. He had caught the calculation behind her ruse, she saw, and was not amused by it. That he would be separated from his men bothered him, and also the fact that he could not read her motive. Absently his fingers worried the fringes again. This time the strands parted to threads under his hands. Mara watched through lowered eyelids: he was growing rebellious again. Rather than risk having him move on her person a second time, she clapped for a manservant. The pattern she used also alerted the guards beyond her door, and they opened the screen, then faced into her chamber.
‘Take the slave to quarters,’ she instructed her bowing servant. ‘In the morning I want him measured for house robes. After the fitting, he will be assigned duties as body servant.’
Kevin bristled as the servant took his elbow. The