When the men of her retinue had collected the swords, Mara stepped forward. The bandits parted to let her past, wary of her, and of the bared blade Papewaio still carried at her shoulder. While on duty, the First Strike Leader of the Acoma had a manner even the bravest man would not lightly challenge. The most reckless of the outlaws maintained their distance, even when the warrior turned his back to lift Mara to the tailboard of the nearest wagon.
Looking down on the ragged company, the Lady of the Acoma said, ‘Is this all of your men, Lujan?’
The fact that she had issued no order to relax the stance of her archers caused the bandit leader to reply with honesty. ‘Most are here. Fifty more maintain our camp in the forest or forage nearby. Another dozen keep watch on the various roads.’
Perched atop the thyza sacks, Mara hastily calculated. ‘You command perhaps twelve dozen here. How many of these were soldiers? Let them answer for themselves.’
Of the band clustered around the rear of the wagon, close to sixty raised their hands. Mara smiled encouragement and said, ‘From what houses?’
Proud to be asked of their former heritage, they shouted, ‘Saydano!’ ‘Almach!’ ‘Raimara!’ and other houses known to Mara, most of which had been destroyed in Almecho’s rise to the office of Warlord, just before Ichindar’s succession to the throne of the Empire. As the clamour died down, Lujan added, ‘I was once Strike Leader of the Kotai, Lady.’
Mara arranged her sleeves and sat; her frown grew pensive. ‘What of the rest of you?’
A man stepped forward. Burly despite the evident ravages of hunger, he bowed. ‘Mistress, I was a farmer from the Kotai estates to the west of Migran. When my master died, I fled, and followed this man.’ He pointed respectfully to Lujan. ‘He has cared well for his own over the years, though ours has been a life of wandering and hardship.’
Mara gestured to the fringes of the company. ‘Criminals?’
Lujan answered for the rest. ‘Men without masters, Lady. Some were free farmers who lost their land for taxes. Others were guilty of misdemeanour. Many are grey warriors. But murderers, thieves, and men without principle are given no welcome in my camp.’ He indicated the surrounding woods. ‘Oh, there are murderers around, have no doubt. Your patrols have grown lax over the last few months, and the wilds provide safe haven. But in my band we have only honest outlaws.’ He laughed weakly at his own jest, adding, ‘If there be such.’ He sobered and regarded Mara keenly. ‘Now, will the Lady tell us why she concerns herself with the fate of such unfortunates as we?’
Mara gave him a smile that hinted at irony, and signalled to Keyoke. The Force Commander called for his troops to relax their battle-ready stance. As the archers on the ridge arose from cover, not even the sun’s glare could hide the fact that they were not warriors at all, but boys and old farmhands and slaves, deceptively clad in bits of armour and green-dyed cloth. What had seemed an army was now revealed for what it was: a single company of soldiers who numbered less than half as many as the outlaws, accompanied by workers and children from the Acoma estates.
A mutter of chagrin arose from the outlaws, and Lujan shook his head with a look of surprise and awe. ‘Mistress, what have you wrought?’
‘A possibility, Lujan … for all of us.’
Afternoon cast long shadows across the grass by the spring where the needra grazed, their tails switching insects. Perched atop the wagon, Mara regarded the ragged band of outlaws who sat on the ground at the fringes of the forest eagerly finishing the meat, fruit, and thyza bread her cooks had distributed among them. Although the meal was better than many had seen in months, the Lady of the Acoma observed a pervasive discomfort among the men. To be taken in battle was to become a slave, that was an incontrovertible way of life. The fact that Acoma honour guaranteed their status as free men, and the generous hospitality that had fed them, earned a guarded if tenuous trust. Yet this strange young Ruling Lady had not spoken of why she had contrived this odd meeting, and the outlaws remained suspicious.
Mara studied the men and found them much like the soldiers, workers, and slaves of her estate. Yet one quality seemed absent; had these men stood dressed in nobles’ robes, still she would have known them for outcasts. As the last crumbs of the meal were consumed, she knew the time had come to speak her offer.
With Papewaio and Keyoke stationed by the wagon at her side, the girl drew a resolute breath and raised her voice. ‘You outlaws, I am Mara, Lady of the Acoma. You have stolen from me, and for that are in my debt. To discharge that obligation honourably, I ask that you listen to my words.’
Seated in the front ranks, Lujan set aside his wine cup and answered. ‘The Lady of the Acoma is gracious to concern herself with the honour of outlaws. All in my company are pleased to agree to this.’
Mara searched the face of the bandit chief, seeking any sign of mockery; instead she found interest, curiosity, and sly humour. She found herself liking this man. ‘You here are counted outcasts for many reasons, so I have been told. All are considered marked unkindly by fate.’ The man with the scarred leg called out in agreement, and others shifted position, leaning raptly forward. Satisfied she had their attention, Mara added, ‘For some of you, misfortune came because you outlived the masters you served.’
A man with bark wristbands shouted, ‘And so we are dishonoured!’
Another echoed him. ‘And so we have no honour!’
Mara raised her hand for silence. ‘Honour is in doing one’s duty. If a man is sent to guard a distant holding and his master dies beyond his capacity to defend him, is he without honour? If a warrior is wounded in battle and lies unconscious while his master dies, is it his fault that he lives and his master does not?’ Mara lowered her arm with a brisk clash of bracelets, her tone changed to command. ‘All who were servants, farmers and workers, raise your hand.’
A dozen or so men complied without hesitation. The others shifted uncertainly, eyes flicking from the Lady to their comrades as they waited to see what she proposed.
‘I have need of workers.’ Mara made an encompassing gesture and smiled, ‘I will allow you to take service with my hadonra.’
Order vanished. All the bandits began speaking at once, from mutters to shouts, for the Lady’s offer was one unprecedented within the Empire. Keyoke waved his sword for silence, even as an emboldened farmer leaped to his feet. ‘When the Lord of the Minwanabi slew my master, I ran away. But the law says I am slave to the conquering Lord.’
Mara’s voice cut clearly over the confusion. ‘The law says no such thing!’ Stillness fell, and all eyes turned towards her. Poised, angry, yet seeming beautiful in her rich robes to men who had known months or even years of deprivation in the wilderness, she resumed with firm encouragement. ‘Tradition says a worker is a spoil of war. The conqueror decides who is more valued as a free man, and who is to be a slave. The Minwanabi are my enemies, so if you are a spoil of war, then I will decide your status. You are free.’
The silence at this point became oppressive, charged like the shimmer of heat waves above sun-baked rock. Men shifted restlessly, troubled by the upset of order as they knew it, for social subtleties dictated every walk of Tsurani life. To change the fundamental was to sanction dishonour and risk the unbinding of a civilization that had continued unbroken for centuries.
Mara sensed the confusion among the men; glancing first to the farmers, whose faces wore transparent expressions of hope, then to the most sceptical and hardened of the grey warriors, she borrowed from the philosophies learned at Lashima’s temple. ‘The tradition we live by is like the river that springs from the mountain lands and flows always to