Mara had always loved the side streets of the Holy City, with their long glades of flowering trees, and their neatly swept stone cobbles. She enjoyed the wooden gates, with their patterned lattices, and their posts netted over with akasi and hibis vines. Although Kentosani was a river city, like Sulan-Qu, by imperial edict no dyers, tanneries, or other crafts requiring unpleasant procedures had been permitted within the city walls. Unless one was downwind of the holding pens for the arena or the crowded markets in the central waterfront area, this was a city that smelled of flowers, spiced with the scents of temple incense as day closed and priests and priestesses of all the Tsurani deities began their night’s devotions.
The Acoma bearers conveyed their burden from the side lanes and entered one of the many wide squares. Half-lost in reflection brought on by the quiet of the hour, Mara almost missed Arakasi’s hesitation.
She looked over to see what had captured his attention. Across the square rose two gilded columns framed by an arch and a span of smoothed slate. This was one of many message boards reserved for the word of the Light of Heaven. Although the messages were usually scribed in chalk, and of a religious context, today a crew of Imperial Whites stood guard over the site. The event was unusual enough to draw notice. Closer inspection showed two plain-garbed craftsmen repairing the gilding on the frame, which had been damaged in last year’s riots. Even the minute amounts of gold they used were too costly to risk thieves; this seemed to explain the presence of the Emperor’s guards. But what drew Arakasi’s closer inspection were three dark-robed figures who stood at the board in process of affixing a scroll heavy with imperial ribbons and seals. Mara frowned, puzzled. Great Ones from the Assembly of Magicians did not usually perform the errands of clerks.
‘It’s a proclamation,’ Arakasi mused, sharing his thoughts with his mistress. ‘With permission, Lady, I should like to see what it contains.’
Mara nodded her permission, diverted from her enjoyment of Kentosani’s loveliness to considering the Light of Heaven; imperial proclamations were a rarity, and the fact that one was being posted by Great Ones augured a momentous matter. It was no longer a topic of idle speculation that the current Emperor was not acting the exaltedly remote figure his forebears had been. This Light of Heaven, Ichindar, had not only put his hand into the game, he had overturned it.
Arakasi returned, slipping neatly between two bread sellers with shoulder yokes and laden baskets. As he arrived beside his mistress’s litter, he said softly, ‘My Lady, the Great Ones announce to the Empire that the magician Milamber has been cast out of the Assembly. The document goes on to say that those slaves in the arena who were freed by his action are lawfully released from their masters, but no precedent may be seen in this. By imperial decree, and by the will of heaven, Ichindar pronounces that no other who wears the slave’s grey may change his status. For the good of the Empire, for the sake of the order of society, and by divine will, all who are slaves must remain so until death.’
Mara showed no change in expression, but the delight went out of the day. Suddenly heavy hearted, she motioned her bearers forward, then closed her curtains, as she did when she wanted privacy. Her hands laced tightly over a cushion. She did not know how she was going to tell Kevin, whose hopes had risen so dizzyingly after her careless reference that morning.
Until recently, she had not considered his slavery to be an issue of importance. As Acoma property, he was guaranteed food, and housing, and a measure of public standing by right of the honour of her house. As a freeman, he would have no position, even in the eyes of a beggar. Any Tsurani in the street might spit on him without fear of retribution. Much as Mara might love him, she had not always understood his pride, so different from Tsurani pride, for he was safer as a slave in her house than as a clanless barbarian freeman. Anyone who spent time at the docks in Jamar would see the occasional renegade Thuril or dwarf from Dustari and their misery and know this was true.
But this much she had come to grudgingly understand: if he remained a slave, in some manner, at some time, she must lose him. The Night of the Bloody Swords had shown her beyond doubt that he was a warrior; he deserved freedom to further his honour. Since then she had felt uncomfortable with the concept that he should finish his days as her property. Her views had changed: she understood that his Midkemian code of conduct, alien as it was, had its own intrinsic honour.
No longer could she regard him as disgraced for failing to take his life rather than be captured by an enemy, as a Tsurani warrior would have done, or for hiding his rank to avoid summary execution.