The morning dawned dusty and dry, with no hint of a breeze. Servants had laboured through the night to prepare for a fresh day’s festivities, and the akasi flowers sparkled, freshly watered by gardeners who now wore smocks and cut vegetables for the cooks. Mara rose and, hearing her husband’s groans through the thin screen that divided the wedding hut, presumed correctly that he had a hangover. She dispatched the prettiest of her slave girls to attend him; then she called for chocha for herself. While the cool of the morning still lingered, she took a walk about the grounds. Soon the cho-ja Queen and her hive mates would be arriving on Acoma lands. Defences would no longer be critical. The thought eased her somewhat; with Jican competent to manage the family assets, and the estate itself secure, she could pitch all her resources into dealing with the Lord she had married. Memory visited, of a woman’s high-pitched laughter, and Bunto’s voice, querulously demanding, before he drifted into snores near to dawn. Frowning, a firmer set to her mouth, Mara prayed to Lashima for strength.
She looked up from meditation in time to see a retainer with a banner leading a small procession into the great hall. The second day of the marriage tribute was about to begin, and against all precedent Mara dispatched servants to attend to her litter. She would watch the performers to the very last; and though no guest of equal or superior rank was scheduled to present tribute until late afternoon, she would see that no earlier performance went unrewarded. With Buntokapi a Ruling Lord, the Acoma would need all the goodwill she could inspire.
Wind came the afternoon of the following day; cloud shadows raced over the needra meadows, and the sky to the east threatened rain. Yet despite the risk of dampened finery, the Acoma guests sat in the open, watching the closing act.
To the astonishment of all in attendance, the Warlord had paid from his personal treasury for a performance by the Imperial Jojan Theatre. Jojan was the formal theatre enjoyed by the nobility, as the commoners preferred to watch the more raucous and ribald Segumi theatre groups that toured the countryside. But the Imperial Jojan were the finest actors in the realm, being the training ground for the Imperial Shalo-tobaku troupe, who performed only for the Emperor and his immediate family. The performance was Lord Tedero and the Sagunjan, one of the ten classic sobatu, literally ‘grand high style’, the ancient opera form.
Luxuriating in the coolness of the breeze, and enjoying every moment she could delay joining her husband in the marriage bed, Mara tried to concentrate on the coming finale. The actors were superlative, handling their lines with aplomb despite the breeze that twisted the plumes of their costumes awry. A shame that the script they performed was so overwritten, thought the Lady of the Acoma, whose taste did not run to sobatu, preferring as she did Grand Do; and the trappings of the travelling stage were gaudy, even to Tsurani eyes.
Then, at the height of the opera, when Lord Tedero entered the cave to free ancient Neshka from the clutches of the dreaded sagunjan, two black-robed figures entered the hall. The presence of the Great Ones alone would have marked this a special occasion, but the two magicians cast illusions. Rather than the traditional paper sagunjan, inside of which a singer and several stagehands walked the stage, an illusion of startling appearance was cast. A sagunjan, twelve feet at the shoulder, all golden scales and breathing red flames, emerged from the doorway painted to resemble the cave. A wonderful baritone voice erupted from the terrible fangs, and though all in the hall knew the singer walked alone, none could see him. Even Mara was transported by the sight, all her worries banished. Then Tedero’s sword fell, and the illusion of the sagunjan faded to a mist, then to nothing. Traditionally, the sobatu ended with a formal bow by the cast to polite applause; yet the climax of the opera raised a loud cheer and furious beating of hands more common to street theatre. As all watched, the Warlord’s expression melted into a rare smile as he basked in the reflected glory brought by his theatre troupe and his magician friends. Mara sighed faintly, sorry when the performers finished their final bow. As the sequined curtains swished closed, or tried to, for the breeze by then had stiffened into gusts, she resigned herself to the inevitable. ‘Now, wife,’ said Buntokapi in her ear. ‘The time has come for us to retire.’
Mara stiffened reflexively, the appropriate smile frozen like paint on her face. ‘Your will, my husband.’
But a blind man would have sensed her reluctance. Buntokapi laughed. With a shout of drunken triumph, he raised her into his arms.
The guests cheered. Mindful of the thoughtless strength in the arms that held her, Mara tried to calm her racing heart. She would endure, had to endure, for the continuance of the Acoma name. She nestled her face into the sweat-damp fabric of her husband’s collar and permitted him to bear her from the dais. Paper fertility charms thrown by the crowd showered them both as he carried her from the crowd of well-wishers and down the path to the brightly painted structure of the marriage hut.
Keyoke and Papewaio stood as honour guards at the end of the path. Buntokapi passed them by like common servants and stepped across the threshold into the silvery half-light of sky shining through walls constructed of reed paper and lath. The servant and the maid in attendance within bowed low as their master and mistress appeared. Buntokapi set Mara upon her feet. At his half-grunted syllable, the maid rose and slid the screen entrance closed. The manservant settled motionless into a corner, awaiting his Lordship’s pleasure.
The hut had been rearranged during the day; the screen dividing the quarters of husband and wife had been removed, replaced by a wide sleeping mat covered with sheets of fine silk against the east wall, for dawn symbolized beginnings. In the centre of the floor lay an array of sitting cushions, and a low, bare table. Mara took a shaky step forward and settled upon the cushions before the table. She kept her eyes downcast as Bunto sat across from her.
‘Send for the priest of Chochocan,’ demanded the Lord of the Acoma. His gaze fixed upon Mara, fevered and intense, as the servant leaped from the corner to obey.
The priest entered alone, carrying a tray upon which sat a decanter of golden tura wine, two goblets of crystal, and a candle in a jewelled ceramic stand. He raised the tray skyward, intoning a blessing, and set it on the table between husband and wife. With eyes that seemed to hold misgiving, he glanced at both, the Lady with hands that trembled beyond control, and the young Lord whose impatience was tangible. Then, with resignation, he lit the candle. ‘Let Chochocan’s wisdom enlighten you.’ He traced a symbol in chalk around the candle stand and lifted the wine in blessing. He filled the two goblets and set them opposite bride and groom. ‘May the blessing of Chochocan fill your hearts.’ He scribed more symbols in chalk around each goblet and the half-empty decanter.
‘Drink, children of the gods, and know each other as your masters in heaven have ordained.’ The priest bowed in benediction and, with near to visible relief, left the marriage hut.
Buntokapi waved his hand, and the servants retired. The paper screen clicked shut, leaving him alone with his bride in a shelter that quivered in the gusts of rising wind.
He turned dark eyes to Mara. ‘At last, my wife, you are mine.’ He lifted his goblet too quickly, and wine splashed, obliterating one of the symbols. ‘Look at me, my Lady. The priest would prefer if we drank together.’
A gust slammed the screens, rattling the paper against the frames. Mara started, then seemed to take hold of herself. She reached out and lifted her own goblet. ‘To our marriage, Buntokapi.’
She took a small sip while her Lord drained his wine to the dregs. He then emptied the remains of the decanter into his glass and finished that also. The first drops of rain spattered heavily against the oil-cloth ceiling of the marriage hut as he set glass and decanter down.
‘Wife, fetch me more wine.’
Mara set her goblet on the table, within the chalk markings scribed by the priest. Thunder growled in the distance, and the wind ended, replaced by a tumultuous downpour. ‘Your will, my husband,’ she said softly, then lifted her head to call for a serva
nt.
Bunto surged forward. The table rocked, spilling the wine with a splash of liquid and glass. Her call became a cry as the heavy fist of her husband slammed her face.
She fell back, dazed, among the cushions, and the falling rain drummed like the blood in her ears. Her head swam, and pain clouded her senses. Shocked unthinkingly to rage, still Mara retained her Acoma pride. She lay breathing heavily as her husband’s shadow fell across her.
Leaning forward so his form obliterated the light behind him, he pointed at Mara. ‘I said you do it.’ His voice was low and filled with menace. ‘Understand me, woman. If I ask you for wine, you will fetch it. You will never again give that task, or any other, into the hands of a servant without my permission. If I ask anything of you, Lady, you will do it.’
He sat back again, his brutish features emphasized in the half-light. ‘You think I’m stupid.’ His tone reflected long-hidden resentment. ‘You all think I’m stupid, my brothers, my father, and now you. Well, I’m not. With Halesko and, especially, Jiro around, it was easy to look stupid.’ With a dark and bitter laugh he added, ‘But I don’t have to look stupid anymore, heh! You have married into a new order. I am Lord of the Acoma. Never forget that, woman. Now fetch me more wine!’
Mara closed her eyes. In a voice forced to steadiness she said, ‘Yes, my husband.’
‘Get up!’ Bunto nudged her with his toe.
Resisting the urge to touch her swollen, reddened cheek, Mara obeyed. Her head was bowed in the perfect image of wifely submission, but her dark eyes flashed with something very different as she bowed at Buntokapi’s feet. Then, even more controlled than she had been when she renounced her rights as Ruler of the Acoma, she arose and fetched wine from a chest near the door.
Buntokapi watched her right the table, then retrieve and refill his glass. Young, and lost in his anticipation as he watched the rise and fall of Mara’s breasts beneath the flimsy fabric of her day robe, he did not see the hate in her eyes as he drank. And by the time the wine was finished and his goblet thrown aside, he closed his sweaty hands upon that maddening obstruction of silk. He pushed his new wife down into the cushions, too far gone in drink and lust to care.
Mara endured his hands upon her naked flesh. She did not fight him, and she did not cry out. With a courage equal to any her father and brother had shown on the barbarian battlefield on Midkemia, she accomplished what came after without tears, though Bunto’s eagerness caused her pain. For long hours she lay upon crumpled, sweaty sheets, listening to the drumming rain and the rasp of her husband’s snores. Young and aching and bruised, she thought upon her mother and nurse, Nacoya; and she wondered if their first night with a man had been different. Then, turning on her side away from the enemy she had married, she closed her eyes. Sleep did not come. But if her pride had suffered sorely, her Acoma honour was intact. She had not cried out, even once.
Morning dawned strangely silent. The wedding guests had departed, the Lord of the Anasati and Nacoya bidding farewell on behalf of the newlyweds. Servants cracked the screens of the wedding hut, and fresh, rain-washed air wafted inside, carrying the calls of the herders driving the stock to the far meadows to graze. Mara inhaled the scent of wet earth and flowers and imagined the brightness of the gardens with the layer of summer dust washed off. By nature she was an early riser, but tradition dictated she must not be up before her husband on the morning after the marriage was consummated. Now, more than ever, the inactivity chafed, left her too much time to think, with no diversion from the various aches in her body. She fretted and fidgeted, while Bunto drowsed on, oblivious.
The sun rose, and the marriage hut grew stuffy. Mara called a servant to slide the screens all the way open, and as noon sunlight sliced across the coarse features of her husband, he groaned. Straight-faced, Mara watched him turn into the pillows, muttering a sharp command to draw screens and curtains. Before the shadows of the drapes fell, she saw his complexion turn greenish and sweat bead the skin of his neck and wrists.
Sweetly, knowing he had the grandsire of all hangovers, she said, ‘My husband, are you indisposed?’
Bunto moaned and sent her for chocha. Sweating herself from memory of his abuses, Mara rose and fetched a steaming pot. She pressed a hot cup into her Lord’s shaking hand. As it had been brewing all morning, it was probably too strong to be considered drinkable, but Buntokapi sucked the cup dry. ‘You’re a small thing,’ he observed, comparing his large-knuckled hand to her slight one. Then, sulky from his headache, he reached out and pinched her still-swollen nipple.
Mara managed not to flinch, barely. Shaking the hair over her shoulders so its loose warmth covered her breasts, she said, ‘My Lord wishes?’
‘More chocha, woman.’ As if embarrassed by his clumsiness, he watched her fill his cup. ‘Ah, I feel like a needra herd has stopped to deposit their night soil in my mouth.’ He made a face and spat. ‘You will attend me while I dress and then you will call servants to bring thyza bread and jomach.’
‘Yes, husband,’ said Mara. ‘And after?’ Longingly she thought of the cool shadows of her father’s study, and Nacoya.
‘Don’t bother me, wife.’ Bunto rose, tenderly nursing his head. He stretched naked before her, the knobs of his knees only inches from her nose. ‘You will oversee the affairs of the house, but only when I have done with your services.’
The shadows of the drapes hid Mara’s shudder. Heartsick at the role she must live, she braced herself to endure; but drink and excessive feasting had blunted her husband’s desire. He abandoned his empty cup on the bedclothes and called for his robe.
Mara brought the garment and helped to slip the silk sleeves over arms that were stocky and thick with hair. Then she sat at tedious length while servants brought water for her Lord’s bath. After she had sponged his great back until the water cooled in the tub, he permitted his Lady to dress. Servants brought bread and fruit, but only she might serve him. Watching him shovel jomach into his mouth, juice dripping down his chin, she wondered how the shrewd Lord of the Anasati had come by such a son. Then, looking beyond his coarse manners into his secretive eyes, she realized with a chill of purest panic that he watched her as carefully in return; like a predator. Mara realized his insistence that he wasn’t stupid might be no boast. A sinking feeling hit her. If Buntokapi was simply cunning, like the Lord of the Minwanabi, there would be ways to manage him. But if he was also intelligent … The thought left her cold.
‘You are very clever,’ Buntokapi said at last. He caressed her wrist with a sticky finger, almost dotingly possessive.
‘My qualities pale beside my Lord’s,’ whispered Mara. She kissed his knuckles, to distract his thinking.
‘You don’t eat,’ he observed. ‘You only ponder. I dislike that in a woman.’
Mara cut a slice of thyza bread and cradled it in her palms. ‘With my Lord’s permission?’
Buntokapi grinned as she nibbled a bite; the bread seemed tasteless on her tongue, but she chewed and swallowed to spite him. Quickly bored with watching her discomfort, the son of the Lord of the Anasati called for musicians.
Mara closed her eyes. She needed Nacoya, so badly she ached inside. Yet as mistress of the Ruling Lord she could do nothing but await his pleasure as he called for ballads and argued with the singer over nuances in the fourth stanza. The day warmed, and with closed drapes the marriage hut became stifling. Mara endured, and fetched wine when her husband tired of the music. She combed his hair and laced his sandals. Then, at his bidding, she danced until the hair dampened at her temples and her bruised face stung with exertion. Just when it seemed her Lord would while away the entire day within the marriage hut, he rose and bellowed for the servants to prepare his litter. He would pass the time until evening in the barracks reviewing the numbers and training of the Acoma warriors, he announced.
Mara wished Lashima’s patience upon Keyoke. Wilted from heat and strain, she followed her husband from the hut into the blinding sun of afternoon. In her discomfort she ha
d forgotten the waiting honour guard, and so her bruised cheek was uncovered as she appeared before Papewaio and Keyoke. Years of the harshest training enabled them to see such a mark of shame without expression. But the stolid hand of Keyoke tightened upon his spear haft until the knuckles shone white, and Papewaio’s toes clenched on the soles of his sandals. Had any man save the Ruling Lord put such marks upon their Mara-anni he would have died before he completed another step. Mara stepped into a day as bright and clean as the gods could make it; but as she walked past her former retainers, she felt their anger like black shadows at her back.
The marriage hut was burning before she reached the estate house. By tradition, the building was set aflame to honour the sacred passage of woman to wife and man to husband. After tossing the ritual torch over the threshold, Keyoke turned silently towards the guards’ quarters, to await the orders of his Lord. Papewaio’s expression remained like chipped stone. With an intensity fierce for its stillness, he watched the paper and lath, with its array of soiled cushions and tangled sheets, explode into flames. Never had he been happier to see something burn; for in watching the violence of the fire he could almost forget the bruise on Mara’s face.
Nacoya was not in the study. With an unpleasant jolt, Mara remembered that here also marriage changed the order she had known. The master’s study was now the province of Buntokapi, as Lord of the Acoma. Hereafter no aspect of the household she had known would be the same. Jican would tally his accounts in the wing assigned to the scribes, as before, but she could no longer receive him. Feeling weary despite her seventeen years, Mara retired to the shade beneath the ulo in her private garden. She did not sit but leaned against the smooth bark of the tree while the runner she had dispatched hastened to fetch Nacoya.
The Complete Empire Trilogy Page 21