Mara gestured helplessly, and directed a desperate glance at Nacoya. ‘My Lords, I … I dare not speak. I beg that you wait for my husband, and let him answer for himself.’ Straight, small, and pathetically fragile in her formal robes, the girl seemed lost in the cushions she sat upon. Hers was an image to evoke pity; except that the Game of the Council allowed none. As a maid with a basin hurried to her side to dab her forehead with a damp towel, the Warlord glared at Tecuma of the Anasati.
‘Ask her the whereabouts of your son, Lord, for I require a messenger sent at once to summon him into our presence. If he intends insult, let him speak in my presence.’
Mara dismissed her maid. She rallied with the formality of a Tsurani warrior facing a death sentence, though such control taxed her visibly. ‘My Lord, Buntokapi is in his town house in Sulan-Qu, but no messenger may go there, by his explicit command. He vowed to kill the next servant sent to trouble him.’
The Warlord heaved to his feet. ‘The Lord of the Acoma is in Sulan-Qu? While we wait upon his pleasure? And what, will you tell us, does he expect us to do in the meantime? Speak, Lady, and leave nothing out!’
Tecuma rose also, a serpent ready to strike. ‘What nonsense is this? Surely my son … not even Bunto could be so rude.’
The Warlord silenced him with a gesture. ‘Let the Lady of the Acoma speak for her husband.’
Mara bowed. Her eyes seemed too bright, the delicate shades of her makeup harsh against her pallor. With stiff ceremony, she formed a triangle with her thumbs and fingers, the ancient gesture which signified that honour must be compromised by the command of a superior. All present in the room knew that her news would bring shame. The priests who had blessed the repast silently arose and departed. The musicians and servants filed out after them, and soon the chamber held only the guests, their advisers, and the Warlord’s honour guard. Papewaio stood immobile as a temple icon behind the Lady of the Acoma’s shoulder, and Nacoya, equally still, waited by her side. Quietly Mara said, ‘My tongue will not compromise the honour of this house. My First Adviser was present when Buntokapi delivered his orders. She will answer for him, and for me.’ She waved weakly towards Nacoya.
The old woman arose, then bowed with extreme respect. Servants had helped her dress for this occasion, and for the first time Mara could recall, the pins that held her white hair were set straight. But the incongruous humour of that observation fled as the old nurse spoke. ‘My Lords, by my oath and honour, what the Lady says is true. The Lord of the Acoma did say those words as she repeated them.’
Out of patience with delays, even ones of courtesy, the Warlord of Tsuranuanni focused his irritation upon Nacoya. ‘I demand once more: what else did the Lord of the Acoma say?’
Nacoya stared blankly ahead and answered in a voice that stayed low and flat. ‘My Lord Buntokapi said, “If he,” meaning yourself, Lord Almecho, “does not wish to wait here, he can sit in the needra pens, if he prefers. And if I don’t get back the day he arrives, he can sleep in needra shit, for all I care.”’
The Warlord paused as if carved from stone, the sheer force of his fury rendering him without volition. A long, torturous minute passed before he spoke to Tecuma. ‘Your son chooses a swift destruction.’ Light trembled in the jewels on Almecho’s collar and his voice rumbled with menace. His tone rose to a shout as the enormity of his rage took flight. Like a scarlet-banded killwing climbing high before swooping to impale its prey, he whirled to face the father of the man who had insulted him. ‘Your young upstart begs to beget a legacy of ashes. I will call upon clan honour. The Oaxatucan will march and grind Acoma bones into the very ground they walk upon. Then we shall salt the earth of their ancestors so that nothing shall grow upon Acoma soil for the length of the memory of man!’
Tecuma stared woodenly at the spread of congealing delicacies. The shatra crest painted upon the dishes seemed to mock him by repetition, for Buntokapi’s rash words, which he himself had forced the wife to repeat, had swept politics aside in an instant; now matters of honour lay at stake. Of all things, this unwritten code of Tsurani civilization could prove the most dangerous.
Should Almecho call the Oaxatucan, his family, to battle on a matter of honour, all other families of the Omechan Clan would be bound to support that assault, just as all members of the Hadama Clan were honour-bound to answer any call the Acoma made. This sworn duty to give aid was the primary reason open declarations of war were avoided; most conflicts were conducted and resolved within the framework of the Game of the Council. For, as no other disruption could, open warfare between clans brought chaos to the Empire – and stability within the Empire was the first duty of the Great Ones. To begin a clan war was to invite the wrath of the Assembly of Magicians. Tecuma shut his eyes. The smell of meats and sauces made him feel ill; in vain he reviewed the list of permissible responses, while Chumaka fumed helplessly by his side. Both of them knew Tecuma’s options were non-existent. Almecho was one of the few Lords in the Empire with both the power and the intemperate nature to touch off an open clan war. And by the mores of tradition, Tecuma and the other families of the Hospodar Clan would be forced to stand aside and impartially observe the bloody warfare; his own son and grandson would be obliterated and he would be helpless to intercede.
The wine sauces in the dishes suddenly seemed symbolic of the bloodshed that might soon be visited upon the house of the Acoma. For the sake of a son and his infant son, war must not be permitted to happen. Mastering his urge to shout, Tecuma spoke calmly. ‘My Lord Almecho, remember the Alliance. Open clan warfare means an end to your conquest on the barbarian world.’ He paused to give that concept time to register, then seized upon the next available expedient to divert the Warlord’s wrath: the senior Subcommander of the Warlord’s invasion force upon the barbarian world was nephew to the Lord of the Minwanabi, and should there be need to elect a new Warlord in the High Council, Jingu of the Minwanabi’s claim upon the succession would be strengthened, since the invasion army was already under his family’s command. ‘The Minwanabi especially would be pleased to see another upon the white and gold throne,’ he reminded.
Almecho’s colour remained high, but his eyes lost their madness. ‘Minwanabi!’ he nearly spat. ‘To keep that dung-eater in his place, I would endure much. But I will have your son grovel for my forgiveness, Tecuma. I shall have him belly down and crawling through needra soil to beg at my feet for mercy.’
Tecuma closed his eyes as if his head ached. Whatever had caused Bunto to utter such a destructive instruction was thoughtlessness and not any overt attempt to bring ruination upon himself and his family. Aching with shame and tension, he turned to Mara, who had not moved since the moment Lord Almecho had uttered his threats against her house. ‘Mara, I do not care what orders Buntokapi left concerning the sending of messengers. Send for your litter and bearers, and tell your husband that his father demands his attendance here.’
Night was falling behind the screens, but no servants dared enter to light lamps. In the half-dark of twilight, Mara stirred and directed a look of open appeal at her father-in-law. Then, as if the gesture exhausted her, she nodded to Nacoya. The old woman said, ‘My Lord Tecuma, my master Buntokapi expressed himself upon that possibility as well.’
Tecuma felt his heart sink. ‘What did he say?’
Nacoya complied without drama. ‘My Lord of the Acoma said that should you come and wish to see him, we were to tell you to go piss in the river, but away from Acoma lands so that you don’t soil his fish.’
There was a moment of utter silence; astonishment, anger, and naked shock moulded Tecuma’s thin features. Then the stillness was rent by the Warlord’s explosive laughter. ‘Don’t soil the fish! Ha! I like that.’ Looking hard at the Anasati lord, Almecho said, ‘Tecuma, your son has insulted his own father. I think my need for satisfaction will be answered. There is only one possible atonement for Buntokapi.’
Tecuma nodded stiffly, grateful that the deepening shadows hid his grief. By insulting his
own father in public, Buntokapi had forever denied himself honour. Either he must expiate his shame by taking his own life, or Tecuma must renounce all blood ties and prove his loyalty was ended by destroying the disinherited son and all his family and retainers. What had begun as a political struggle between Tecuma of the Anasati and Sezu of the Acoma, resolved by Sezu’s death, might now become a generational blood feud, one to match that which already existed between the Minwanabi and the Acoma. To separate the honour of the father from the transgressions of the son, the Lord of the Anasati would be obliged to kill not only Buntokapi, but the newborn Acoma heir, the grandson he had never seen, as well. The thought set him utterly at a loss for speech.
Aware of Tecuma’s dilemma, Almecho spoke softly in the rapidly falling darkness. ‘Either way, you lose your son. Better he takes the honourable path and chooses to die at his own hand. I will forgive his insults if he does, and will seek no further vengeance upon your Acoma grandson. I would not see our alliance further strained, Tecuma.’ No words remained to be said. Turning his back on Mara, Nacoya, and the Lord of the Anasati, the Warlord signalled to his honour guard. The six white-clad soldiers snapped to attention, then wheeled and escorted their Lord out of the great dining chamber.
Stunned to immobility, Tecuma did not immediately react. He stared unseeing at his half-eaten meal. It was Chumaka who briskly took charge, sending a summons to the barracks to ready his warriors to march. Slaves fetched the Anasati litter, and lanterns within the courtyard splashed the screens with brightness. Tecuma stirred at last. His jaw was hard and his eyes bleak as he looked to the Lady of the Acoma. ‘I go to Sulan-Qu, wife of my son. And for the sake of the grandson I have not seen, may the gods favour Buntokapi with courage in proportion to his foolishness.’
He departed with a pride that hurt to watch. As he vanished into the shadows of the hall, Mara’s exhilaration evaporated before a deep chill of fear. She had set a clever trap; now the jaws would close in whatever manner the gods decreed. Thinking of Bunto, by now half-drunk and laughing on his way to his evening’s amusements in the gambling halls with Teani, Mara shivered and called for servants and light.
Nacoya’s face seemed ancient in the new light of the lamps. ‘You play the Game of the Council for high stakes, my Lady.’ This once, she did not chide her charge for taking foolish risks, for Buntokapi have been no favourite among the Acoma retainers. The nurse was Tsurani enough to relish the discomfort of an enemy, though her own plight might be dire as a result.
Mara herself felt no triumph. Shaken, worn thin with the stress of month after month of manipulation, she relied on Papewaio’s stolid presence to steady her inner turmoil. ‘Have the servants clear away this mess,’ she said, as if the ceremonial plates and dishes had been brought out for an ordinary meal. Then, as if impelled by primal instinct, she half ran to Ayaki’s chambers to see that the boy slept safely on his mat. Sitting in the gloom by her baby, she saw in the shadowed features of her son the echo of the father, and for all the causes Buntokapi had given her to hate, still she could not escape a deep, brooding melancholy.
Mara waited in Buntokapi’s quarters, passing a restless night in the chamber which once had been Lord Sezu’s, but which now reflected the tastes and preferences of one who, by marriage to his daughter, had succeeded him. Now the continuance of the Acoma relied upon this man’s honour; for if Buntokapi remained true to the oath he had sworn upon the Acoma natami, he would choose death by the sword and spare his house from retribution. Yet if the loyalty of his heart remained with the Anasati, or if cowardice drove him from honour to mean-spirited vengeance, he might choose war and carry Mara and his infant son to ruin along with him. Then would the natami fall into the hands of Almecho, and the Acoma name be obliterated in shame.
Mara rolled restlessly on her side and tossed tangled sheets aside. Grey light glimmered through the screen, and although the needra herders had not yet stirred to drive the herds to meadow, daybreak was not far off. Without waiting for the assistance of her maids, Mara rose and slipped on a day robe. She lifted Ayaki from his basket and, shushing his sleepy wail, hastened alone into the corridor.
A large shadow moved, almost under her feet. Mara started back, her arms tight around her infant; then she recognized the worn, wrapped leather that covered the hilt of Papewaio’s sword. He must have spent the night seated outside her chambers.
‘Why are you not in the barracks, with Keyoke?’ Mara demanded, relief sharpening her tone.
Papewaio bowed without offence. ‘Keyoke suggested I stay by your door, Lady. Rumours had reached the barracks, through servants who overheard the Warlord’s honour guard speaking among themselves. The anger of the mighty is never to be taken lightly, and I accept the wisdom of such advice.’
Mara began a heated reply, but recalled the assassin and stopped herself. Upon second consideration, she realized that Keyoke and Papewaio were trying to warn her, without breaking loyalty. Early on, they had recognized the possibility that Buntokapi might return home in a rage during the night. Had he done so, anger might have driven him to violence against her, a shameful act but not out of the question for a man who was quicktempered, and young, and accustomed to wrestling and working out daily with arms. If such happened, and a warrior dared intercede between his mistress and his sworn Lord, Papewaio’s life would instantly have been forfeit, all of his honour surrendered at a stroke. Yet Pape wielded a fast sword, and his memory of events in the marriage hut had not faded; at the least move against Mara, the Lord Buntokapi would have died between breaths. And no dishonour to the servant who had done the deed could reverse the grip of the Red God.
Mara smiled through her strain. ‘You’ve earned the black rag once already, Pape. But if you choose to tempt the wrath of the gods a second time, I will be in the contemplation glade throughout the day. Send my Lord there if he arrives home and does not arm the Acoma garrison for war.’
Papewaio bowed, inwardly pleased by his mistress’s tacit acceptance of his guard. He shifted his post to the arched entry of the contemplation glade and remained there as dawn gave way to sunrise and morning brightened over the rich holdings of the Acoma.
The noon heat came and went in sultry stillness, much as it always had. The sacred pool reflected a stone-bordered square of cloudless sky and the trailing foliage of nearby shrubbery. Ayaki slept in his basket beneath the tree by the Acoma natami, unaware of the dangers that hedged his young life. Unable to match his ignorant peace, Mara meditated and paced by turns. Even her temple discipline could not dispel recurrent thoughts of Buntokapi, in whose hands lay the fate of all things Acoma. Since he was born Anasati but sworn to uphold the honour of ancestors who had been enemies of his father, there was no knowing where his true loyalty lay. Through Mara’s own machinations, his affections had been given over to his concubine, Teani; and Keyoke, Nacoya, and Jican all detested him for his excesses. The estate house had been his demesne and his dwelling, but his town house in Sulan-Qu was his home. Biting her lip, Mara stopped by the natami, where not even two years past she had sworn over stewardship of her father’s name. She had then laid ah intricate snare, whose bindings were that oath and the Tsurani concept of honour. These were fragile foundations upon which to base hope; for all his shortcomings, Buntokapi was no fool.
The shadows swelled and slanted, and the li birds began to sing in the slightly cooler air of afternoon. Mara sat by the sacred pool and fingered a flower plucked from a nearby shrub. The petals were pale, delicate in the extreme; like her, they could be bruised and crushed with a clench of the hand. The servants might believe she had retired to the sacred glade to pray for deliverance from the shame brought upon her house by her husband. In fact, she had gone there to escape the fear in their eyes, for if the Lord of the Acoma chose war, their fates also hung in the balance. Some might die fighting, and they would be the fortunate ones. Others might lose all honour by hanging, and many would become slaves; a few might turn to the hills as outlaws and grey warriors. If
the natami were stolen, all would know the gods’ disfavour.
The shadows lengthened, and the flower wilted in Mara’s hand, poisoned by the salt of her own nervous sweat. Ayaki wakened in his basket. At first content to bat his fat hands at the insects that flitted to feed on the blossoms above his head, he later grew fussy. The time for his midday meal had long passed. Mara tossed the dead flower away and arose. She plucked a ripened fruit from one of the ornamental jomach trees and peeled it for her infant. The boy quieted as he chewed the sweet fibre. Only then did Mara hear the footsteps approaching from behind.
She did not turn around. With Papewaio on guard at the gate to the glade, this would be no assassin. Priests of Chochocan did not enter unasked; gardeners did no work while master or mistress used the glade; and no other could enter without earning a sentence of death. The only person living who could walk these paths at this hour with impunity was the Lord of the Acoma. The fact that he had arrived home from his town house in Sulan-Qu without fanfare told Mara only one thing: he had seen his father, and his disgrace in the eyes of the Warlord and his insult to the house of his birth had caught up with him.
Mara eased the last bit of jomach into Ayaki’s eager mouth. Aware that her hands were shaking, she made a show of blotting her sticky fingers just as Buntokapi reached the far side of the sacred pool.
He stopped on the walk, his sandals showering a fine spray of gravel into the water. Reflections shattered into a thousand fleeing ripples, and the li birds fell silent in the branches overhead. ‘Wife, you are like the pusk adder of the jungles, whose markings are pretty enough to be mistaken for a flower when it lies at rest. But its strike is swift and its bite is fatal.’
Slowly Mara rose. She turned reluctantly, her fingers stained red with jomach juice; and she looked upon the face of her husband.
The Complete Empire Trilogy Page 30