Servant of the Empire. Janny Wurts
warriors immediately brought the chosen slave. The bald one called out in protest and had to be cuffed aside. Knocked to his knees, he continued to shout, until the redhead bade him be silent. Then, blue eyes fixed in curiosity on the elegant Lady in the litter, he came forward to shoulder the vacant left front pole.
‘No,’ snapped Lujan at once. He waved for the slave to the rear to come forward and assigned the redhead to stand behind. This way a warrior with an unsheathed sword could march at the barbarian’s back, insurance against trouble or threat to their mistress.
‘Home,’ she ordered her retinue, and her bearers crouched to shoulder their burden, the redheaded barbarian among them.
The first steps forward were unmitigated chaos. The Midkemian was over a head taller than the other bearers, and as he straightened with his load, and strode ahead, the litter canted forward. Mara found herself starting to slide. The silk trappings and cushions offered no resistance to her motion. Lujan’s fast reflexes spared her an unceremonious spill onto the ground, and a slap of his hand warned the barbarian to hold his pole level. This the huge man could do only by hunching his back and shoulders, which placed his curly head just inches from his mistress’s curtains.
‘This won’t do at all,’ Mara snapped.
‘A fine triumph for Desio of the Minwanabi, if you came to hurt through a slave’s clumsiness,’ Lujan said, then he added a hopeful smile. ‘Maybe we could dress these Midkemians as house slaves and give them to the Minwanabi as a gift? At least they might break much of value before Desio’s First Adviser orders them hanged.’
But Mara was in no mood for jokes. She straightened her robe and removed mussed pins from her hair. All the while the barbarian’s eyes watched her with a directness the Lady found disturbing. At length he cocked his head to one side and, with a disarming grin, addressed her in broken Tsurani as he stumbled along.
Lujan drowned him out with a shout of outrage. ‘Dog! Slave! On your miserable knees!’ He snapped his head at his warriors. Instantly one rushed to take the litter pole, while others seized the redhead and threw him forcefully down. Strong arms pummelled his shoulders, and still he tried to speak, until a warrior’s studded sandal pressed his insolent face into the dust.
‘How dare you address the Lady of the Acoma, slave!’ shouted Lujan.
‘What is he trying to say?’ asked Mara, suddenly more curious than affronted.
Lujan looked around in surprise. ‘Can it matter? He’s a barbarian, and that brings you no honour, mistress. Still, his suggestion was not without merit.’
Mara paused, her hand full of tortoiseshell pins. Sunlight glinted on their jewelled heads, and on the shell ornaments sewn to her collar. ‘Tell me.’
Lujan raked his wrist across his sweat-streaked brow. ‘The wretch suggested that if you would call over three of his fellows, and dismiss your other slaves, they might carry your litter more easily, since they are closer to the same height.’
Mara lay back, her pins and fallen hair momentarily forgotten. She frowned in thought. ‘He said that,’ she mused, then looked at the man, who lay face down in the dust with a soldier’s foot holding him immobile. ‘Let him up.’
‘Lady?’ lujan said softly. Only his questioning tone hinted how close he dared go in direct protest of her given order.
‘Let the barbarian up,’ said Mara shortly. ‘I believe his suggestion is sensible. Or do you wish to march through the afternoon, delayed by a lame bearer?’
Lujan returned a Tsurani shrug, as if to say that his mistress was right. In truth, she could be as stubborn as the barbarian slaves, and rather than try her further, the Acoma Strike Leader called off the warrior who held the redhead down. He gave rapid orders. The remaining bearers and the one warrior lowered Mara’s litter to the ground, and three of the taller Midkemians were selected to take their places. The redheaded one joined them, his handsome face left bloody where a stone in the roadway had opened the gash on his cheek. He took his place no more humbly than before, though he must have been bruised by rough handling. The retinue started forward once again, with Mara little more comfortable. The Midkemians might have meant well, but they were inexperienced at carrying a litter. They did not time their strides, which made for a jolting ride. Mara lay back, fighting queasiness. She closed her eyes in resignation. The slaves purchased in Sulan-Qu were proving far too much of a distraction. She made note to herself to make mention to Jican; the Midkemians should perhaps be assigned to duties close to the estate house, where warriors were always within call. The more experienced overseers could keep watch until the slaves had been taught proper behaviour and could be trusted to act as fate had intended.
Irritated that something as trivial as buying new slaves had evoked so much discomfort and confusion, Mara pondered the problems sent against her by her enemies. Eyes closed against the onslaught of a burgeoning headache, she thought to herself, What would I be plotting if I were Desio of the Minwanabi?
The air was still.
Desio of the Minwanabi sat at the desk in his late father’s study contemplating the tallies before him. Although it was midday, a lamp burned near his elbow. The study was a shadowy furnace, all screens and battle shutters tightly closed, denying those inside the afternoon breezes off the lake. Desio seemed immune to the discomfort. A single jade-fly buzzed around his head, apparently determined to land upon the young Lord’s brow. Desio’s hand moved absently, as if to brush away the troublesome insect, and for an instant the sweating slave who fanned him broke rhythm, uncertain whether the Lord of the Minwanabi gestured for him to withdraw.
An elderly figure in shadow motioned for the slave to remain. Incomo, First Adviser of House Minwanabi, waited patiently for his master to finish the reports.
Desio’s brow knitted. He dragged the oil lamp closer and sought to concentrate upon the information listed on the papers before him, but the characters seemed to swim through the humid afternoon air. At last he rocked back on his cushions with an angry sigh of frustration. ‘Enough!’
Incomo regarded his young master with a blandness that hid concern. ‘My Lord?’
Desio, never athletic, pushed the lamp aside and rose ponderously to his feet. His massive stomach strained at the sash of the lounging robe he wore in his own quarters. Perspiration streamed off his face, and with a pudgy hand he swept damp locks out of his eyes.
Incomo knew that the cause of Desio’s agitation was more than the usual humidity, the legacy of an unseasonable tropical storm to the south. The Lord of the Minwanabi had ordered the screens latched closed ostensibly for privacy. The old man knew the reason behind the seemingly irrational order: fear. Even in his own home, Desio was afraid. No lord of any house, let alone one of the Five Great Houses, could admit to such weakness, so the First Adviser dared say nothing on the matter.
Desio stalked heavily around the room, his rage slowly building, his torturous breath and bunched fists sure sign that within minutes he would strike out at whichever member of his household happened to be nearest. The young Lord had evidenced a nature of petty cruelty while his father ruled, but that vicious streak had bloomed in full since the death of Jingu. With his mother having retired to a convent of Lashima, Desio showed no restraints on his impulses. The fan slave paced after his master, attempting to discharge his tasks without getting in the way.
Hoping to avoid the incapacitation of another house slave, the First Adviser said, ‘My Lord, perhaps a cool drink would restore your patience. These matters of trade are urgent.’
Desio continued pacing as if he did not hear. His appearance revealed his recent personal neglect and indulgence, florid cheeks and nose, puffy dark circles beneath his red-rimmed eyes, grimy hair hanging lankly around his shoulders, and greasy dirt under his fingernails. Incomo reflected that, since his father’s ritual suicide, the young Lord had generally