Mara forced herself to exhibit a calmness she did not feel; Kevin’s logic seemed reassuring. It might even be true. But the support of the common folk would have no bearing on the outcome of the pending struggle. Aware that the next few days would find her either triumphant or dead, Mara tried not to dwell upon consequences. There could be no other choices. The attack upon her and her son had forced the issue. She must move, or maintain a defensive strategy until the day that her warriors, her guard, or her spy network failed her again, and Tasaio’s blade found her heart.
On the day her father, Sezu, had fallen victim to a Minwanabi trap, he had chosen to fight to the death rather than shame his ancestry by choosing flight, and a coward’s life. Mara could do no less; she had tried to precipitate events by her demand to meet with Tasaio. If he refused her, she must confront him. And yet, with no plan in mind to spare either her house or her honour, her posture was no more than bravado. As she rode in triumph on the platform at the head of Clan Hadama’s war strength, her mind held a morass of fears.
‘Look at that!’ exclaimed Kevin.
Jerked out of morbid introspection, Mara glanced where he pointed and felt her throat tighten. An army camped to the west of the Holy City. The hills were a patchwork of coloured tents and banners, which Kevin swiftly counted. After rough calculation, he said, ‘I guess that encampment holds fifteen thousand warriors.’
Mara’s initial jolt of nerves eased as she identified the banners. ‘That is a part of Clan Xacala. Lord Hoppara has brought the Xacatecas in strength. Others follow him.’ But not only her allies were present in force. Mara nodded across the river. ‘Look over there.’
The road followed the Gagaj in, and on the far bank Kevin saw another army, its tents so thickly clustered, the land bristled with banner poles. ‘Gods! There must be fifty, sixty thousand warriors in those hills. It looks like half the Lords of the Empire brought every man capable of wearing armour and carrying a sword.’
Mara nodded, her mouth drawn grimly taut. ‘The issue will be decided here. Those across the river answer to Tasaio. That is the might of Clan Shonshoni, other families in vassalage, and the Minwanabi allies. I can see the banners of the Tondora and Gineisa near the river’s edge. And, of course, the Ekamchi and Inrodaka have at last sided with Tasaio.’ She made a sweeping gesture with her hand. ‘I will wager Lords Keda and Tonmargu are encamped to the north of the city, with their allies, close to forty thousand swords. And I am certain that beyond sight of the city another hundred thousand warriors are within a day’s march. Scores of lesser families stay out of harm’s way, but close enough to pick over the corpses if we come to conflict.’ She lowered her voice as if fearful the wrong ears might overhear her. ‘With so many soldiers ready to do battle, can we avoid a civil war even if we wish?’
The crowd’s cheers and its festive mood of gaiety suddenly rang hollow. Aware that his Lady was trembling beneath her armour, Kevin returned a reassuring shrug. ‘Few soldiers are keen to kill. Give them an excuse, and they’d just as soon get drunk with one another – or indulge in a little friendly brawling. At least, that’s how it is on my world.’
Yet the contrast between the animated expressions he remembered from Midkemia and the masklike bearing of even the meanest beggar on Kelewan could not be ignored. Kevin kept the thought to himself, that he had never known a bunch so willing to die as these Tsurani. As long as people kept calm and didn’t start insulting one another’s mothers, all these factions might be able to avoid bloodshed. But if only one loud-mouthed sod got rude . . .
The thought did not bear finishing. Even with the point left unsaid, Mara would not be blind to risk. One sword drawn for honour’s sake and all the Empire would shake. Could it be avoided? After witnessing the massacres that occurred on the Night of the Bloody Swords, Kevin did not care to examine the odds.
As her vanguard neared the arching city gate, the crowds of admiring gawkers fell away. Into stillness and a suddenly emptied road, a patrol of imperial warriors stepped forth to meet the Hadama entourage. Mara ordered a halt before the gate as the Strike Leader approached, his white armour with gold accents brilliant in the morning sun. ‘Mara of the Acoma!’ he called.
Unaccustomed to the weight of the plumed helm that shaded her brow, Mara nodded careful acknowledgment.
‘For what cause do you marshal Clan Hadama and bring them to the Holy City?’ demanded the Emperor’s officer.
From the height of her platform, Mara stared down at the arrogant young man, supremely confident of his imperial rank. At last she said, ‘You shame the Light of Heaven with your lack of manners.’