For three days the Empire seemed to hold its breath. Outside the palace, the Holy City struggled back to normality, as workers finished repairs to the last damaged dock and masons borrowed fallen stonework from the arena to fix the gateways to the Imperial Palace. Fishermen left before dawn to draw their nets through the currents of the river Gagajin, and farmers drove the late season’s crops in on heavily burdened wagons, or floated them in on barges. Temple incense and flowers prevailed over the smell of the cremated dead, and vendors set up open air stalls within the roofless walls of their shops. Once more their singsong voices called their wares to the attention of passersby.
And yet all these sounds and signs of industry held dreamlike transience, even for the poor and the beggars who stood furthest from the centre of power. Rumours respected no class boundaries. And like the wrecked timbers still heaped like bones between the fabric of makeshift walls, disquieting undercurrents dogged the City’s normality. Tsuranuanni’s Emperor was upon another world, and Iskisu, the God of Trickery and Chance, held the balance -not only the peace of two peoples, but the stability of an ancient nation: all hinged upon the meeting of minds between two young rulers from vastly different cultures.
Deprived of the solace of her courtyard and fountains, Mara spent her hours within the small room in the centre of the apartment. With soldiers camped in the chambers on either side, and guards at each door and window, she studied notes and messages and maintained cautious contact with other Lords. Arakasi showed up almost hourly, in the guises of bird seller, messenger, and even mendicant priest. He had not slept, but laboured tirelessly between brief naps, employing every tool at his disposal to discover even the faintest shred of information that might be of use.
In an adjoining room, Lujan held sword drill with his soldiers, one man at a time. The waiting frayed everyone’s nerves, the warriors’ most of all, since they could do nothing but stand through endless idle hours on watch. Several more Acoma companies had slipped into the city, and by dint of clever planning and the use of a carpet dealer’s cart, more warriors had been smuggled into the imperial precinct. Mara’s apartment garrison now numbered fifty-two, and Jican complained. His scullions could not scrub pots without banging into scabbards, and Lujan would have warriors sleeping four deep on the carpets if he continued to muster more troops. But the numbers of warriors were unlikely to swell beyond the current count, for the Acoma as well as other houses. Imperial Guards had noticed the influx of soldiers into the palace and were now inspecting all inbound wagons and servants to limit potential combatants.
Racing footsteps echoed through the outer corridor. The tap of the runner’s sandals passed through the walls, a ghostly, whispered counterpoint to the clack and snap of swordplay between Lujan’s sparring warriors. Mara heard, from her desk in the middle of the chamber. She stiffened and looked wildly at Kevin. ‘Something has happened.’
The Midkemian did not ask how she knew, or why this set of hurried steps should be different from those of any of the dozen or so runners that had passed by the apartment within the hour. Bored with being cooped up, and with the endless, dragging hours that passed between Arakasi’s reports, Kevin bowed to the warrior he had challenged at dice, and crossed the chamber to sit with his Lady. ‘What’s to do?’ he murmured.
Mara regarded the inkwell and parchment on her lap desk. The pen in her hands was dry, and the letter unmarked, except for the name of Hokanu of the Shinzawai in careful characters at the top. ‘Nothing,’ she replied. ‘There is nothing to do, except wait.’
She set down her quill and, to keep her hands busy, picked up the Acoma chop. She did not say, and Kevin did not remind her, that Arakasi was late. He had promised to stop by in the morning, and by the white slash of sunlight that glared through the barricaded screens, noon had come and gone.
Long minutes passed, rilled by the patter of more runners, and the muffled, excited tones of someone speaking urgently from an apartment several doors down. The thin plaster and lath partitions between domiciles were not impervious to sound. While Mara made a pretence of trying to concentrate on the wording of her message, Kevin touched her shoulder, then slipped away into the kitchen to make hot chocha.
When he returned, the Lady had done little but dip her quill. The ink had set in the nib. Arakasi had not returned. When Kevin set the tray on top of the parchment, Mara did not protest. She accepted the filled cup he handed her, but the drink cooled untasted. By then her nerves were showing, and she started up at the slightest sound. More steps passed by, all running.