Recognizing that the continuance of her house would be better served by cultivating Hokanu’s interest, Mara was equally curious to ply him for information on the chance that Fumita’s commitment to the Assembly might have a weak point: that he might not have entirely put aside family concerns, and had been influential in bringing the Shinzawai and the Kanazawai Clan aid from the magicians.
But any thought of Hokanu led endlessly back to the thorny hedge of pain concerning Kevin. Mara sighed. In a rare moment of abstraction, she watched the water drops fall and fall, then firmly forced herself to concentrate on more immediate concerns. If she indulged herself in preoccupation with personal troubles, the Acoma would be overwhelmed at the next move of the Great Game.
The Light of Heaven would depart downriver in four days. If he succeeded in his peace with the Kingdom of the Isles, all houses would be equally disadvantaged. But if the Emperor failed, there must be a call for a new Warlord. Otherwise Ichindar, ninety-one times Emperor of Tsuranuanni, would face open revolt in the council. It had been centuries, but regicide had occurred before in the Empire.
A short while later, Mara clapped her hands for her runner. ‘Tell Jican we shall move our quarters to the apartment in the Imperial Palace this afternoon.’
‘Your will, Lady.’ The slave boy bowed and raced off to complete the errand as if happy for the chance to run.
Jican received the order like an antidote to frustration after days of simply assessing damage. Kevin was set to work lifting carry boxes outside to the waiting needra carts. On the stairs and landing, crates of jigabirds rubbed edges with parchment satchels, and the Lady’s coffers of shell centis and centuries. At least the number of warriors had thinned down. One half of the company had relocated to a public barracks in the city. Of the others, fifty would serve as escort to see their mistress across town, of which twenty would return to guard the town house grounds.
Removed from the bustle, Mara sat in the courtyard with pen in hand, scribbling notes to Keyoke and Nacoya. To ensure other houses could not pry into her affairs, the Lady entrusted Lujan to carry her missive to the fastest bonded guild messenger. ‘Add this verbal message to my report,’ she instructed. ‘I want the bulk of our army ready to march at a moment’s notice, and as near to Kentosani as Keyoke thinks prudent. We must stand prepared for any turn of events.’
Dressed in the plain armour he preferred for the field, Lujan accepted the sealed parchments. ‘We prepare for war, my Lady?’
Mara said, ‘Always.’
Lujan bowed and left without banter. Mara set down her pen and rubbed cramped fingers. She took a deep breath and held it a moment, then let it slowly out, as she had been taught at the temple. Kevin had forced her to see the ways of her people with new eyes; she understood that greed and ambition were masked by tradition, and honour became the justification for endless hatred and blood. The young Emperor might strive to change his people, but the Great Game would not be abolished at a stroke by imperial edict. No matter what she felt, no matter how tired she became, no matter what regret came her way, Mara knew there would always be the struggle. To be Tsurani was to struggle.
Kevin had thought the great hall was impressive, but the Imperial Palace complex beyond the High Council’s meeting place was even more grandiose. Mara’s retinue entered portals wide enough to admit three wagons drawn abreast. Behind, doors whose weight required a dozen slaves to shift boomed closed. Sunlight vanished, leaving a dry, wax-scented dimness lit purple-blue by cho-ja globes suspended on ropes from a ceiling over two storeys high. The corridor was immense, with worn flagstone floors, and two levels of galleries rising up on either side. Off these were doorways painted in riotous colours; each led to an apartment assigned to a council member’s family, with those closest to the outer walls belonging to the lowest in rank.
‘Forward,’ commanded Strike Leader Kenji to the honour guard, his voice a flurry of echoes off a ceiling dim under layers of varnish and dust.
Kevin marched at mid-column, beside his Lady’s litter. Except for the Acoma retinue, the hallway was largely empty. Servants in imperial livery moved briskly from this task to that, but otherwise the enormous complex appeared deserted.
‘Which is the Acoma apartment?’ Kevin inquired of the nearest bearer slave.
The Tsurani returned a look of disgust at Kevin’s irrepressible tongue, but out of pride he could not resist giving answer. ‘We are not on the first hall, but the seventh.’
A moment later, Kevin understood the odd reply, when the honour guard turned a corner and he saw a vast intersection ahead, where several other corridors joined in a concourse. ‘Gods, this place is huge.’ Then he looked up and saw that this section had four tiers of galleries, accessed by wide stone staircases that zigzagged between landings. Yet for all the grandeur, the building seemed empty.