Teani focused on him, as if enjoying his discomfort. ‘Give me the slop jar,’ she murmured. ‘The bearers must believe I had a reason to speak with you.’
The man unhooked the item. Enamel flashed gaudily in the sunlight as he handed it to the woman, his attitude one of undisguised irony. ‘One less to carry.’
‘Why did you come yourself?’
The merchant grimaced, for the pole bore down unmercifully and he could not reach around it to scratch an itch. ‘I dared trust no one else with the task. When my Lord’s barge left the city last night, we simply poled upriver a few miles and tied up. He supposed you would still be at the town house; hence my disguise. None of us guessed the Lady Mara would be so quick to rid herself of Bunto’s city property. She only quit the contemplation glade yesterday.’
Teani glanced towards the well where the bearers sat gossiping. She inclined her head in their direction. ‘I think you had better order them all killed. One might mention this encounter.’
The merchant considered the eight men by the well. ‘It will be messy, but worse if we risk discovery. Besides, if you are attacked by robbers along the highway, how can the Commercial Guild of Bearers fault you? I will make arrangements just before you reach the Minwanabi estates, so you can rush to the safety of Jingu’s arms. Now, our master’s instructions: despite all that has transpired, the Lady Mara is to be left untroubled.’
Teani stiffened in surprise. ‘After Buntokapi’s murder?’
‘Our master commands this. We must not speak longer.’ With an unfeigned grimace of distaste, the merchant shifted his clanking wares to his other shoulder.
Teani sat silently as he left, her professional detachment lost. Mara of the Acoma inspired a personal rage and hatred deeper than any she had previously known. The concubine did not trouble to analyse the cause. Born to a woman of the Reed Life, and cast into the streets at the age of six, she had survived by wits alone. Her unusual beauty had brought her quickly to the attention of men and she had barely escaped slavers on several occasions, despite having committed no crime to warrant such a conviction; in the dirtier alleys of the Empire, the niceties of the law might occasionally be put aside for enough money. Teani discovered early that to some men honour was negotiable. She learned abuse before love, and at twelve sold herself for the first time, to a man who kept her in his home for two years. He had been a twisted soul who took pleasure inflicting pain upon beauty. Teani had struggled at first, until suffering taught her to ignore her discomfort. In time she had killed her tormentor, but the memory of pain stayed with her, a familiar thing she understood. After that she had used beauty and natural wit to rise up society’s ladder, choosing one benefactor after another, each more rich and powerful than the last. For seven years she had served her present employer, though never in bed as with previous masters. Beneath her soft beauty and cruel passions this Lord saw the stony hatred that motivated Teani; he had set those qualities to use against his enemy, the Lord of the Minwanabi, never once tempted to make the relationship other than professional for his own use. For this the concubine conceded her loyalty, for this master was unique among those she had met along the road of her life.
But only Buntokapi had touched her as a person. Before him Teani had taken little personal interest in the men she slept with or murdered. Though the Lord of the Acoma had been like a porina boar in a wallow, even to the point where he stank like one, rushing to take her with the sweat from his wrestling still rank on his body, he had understood her. Buntokapi had given her the pain she needed to survive, and the love she had never known in all twenty-eight years of her life. Teani shivered slightly at the memory of his hands, tearing at her soft flesh at the height of his passion; she had dug her nails into his back, even taught him to enjoy the pain himself. But Mara of the Acoma had ended that.
Teani’s fingers tightened on the bright enamel of the slop jar, while anger built in her heart. Buntokapi had been tricked to his death, ruined by his natural tendency to count honour over life. Teani understood nothing of honour … but rivalry, that was a thing she knew well. That she-dog of a wife – innocent as a babe, Teani thought in disgust. How easily abuse would crack the cool façade of the Lady! What pleasure the concubine would find in humiliating Mara for hours, days perhaps, before giving her to Turakamu. Teani licked her lips, sweating lightly in the heat. The pleasure of dominating the Lady of the Acoma promised more than she could imagine from sex with any men she had known. But the ignoble way that Mara had evicted her from the town house cut off any immediate avenues of vengeance. Now Teani had no recourse but to resume her post as spy in Jingu’s household. The obese Lord of the Minwanabi revolted her, and his fawning would be difficult to endure; but he and the Acoma were sworn enemies. Through him Teani thought to arrange her satisfaction. Mara would die, slowly and in torment, or shamefully if no other option availed. That the concubine’s true master now wished otherwise affected nothing. Teani had changed employers many times in the past.
On that thought she tossed the slop jar violently among the cushions and signalled her bearers to return. As they crossed the road, the powerful, coarse body of the one in the lead caught her eye. He had fine muscles and a bullying manner to his walk. Excited by prospects of violence and vengeance, Teani decided to stop in a secluded glade down the road. She would have some sport; the man and his companions were going to die anyway, and not to use them for pleasure would be a waste of fine meat. Besides, a few extra marks on her face and body would convince Jingu that bandits had indeed molested her, and keep him from becoming suspicious. So thinking, Teani shivered in anticipation as the bearers lifted her litter and resumed their journey towards the Holy City.
Down the road to Sulan-Qu, the pot seller halted, as if to count whatever payment the fine lady had given him. From under a broad-brimmed hat he watched the litter depart, while silently pondering what made the woman dally before calling her bearers. The likely daydreams of a creature like Teani were not pleasant to contemplate. With a grunt of disgust he shifted the weight of his pots. He had been the one to convince their Lord her talents went beyond the bedchamber, and a dozen times in the past her work had borne out his judgement. But lately she had been showing signs of independence, a tendency to interpret directions to her own liking. Alone in the dusty road, amid the noise of passing traffic, the sham merchant debated whether that trait signalled a growing instability. He soothed his uncertainty in his usual economical manner: either way, Teani could only bring trouble to the Minwanabi. If she exchanged loyalties, at best Jingu would gain a servant of questionable reliability. Besides, she could be removed if she became a problem.
Irritated by the weight of the pole as it bit into his shoulder, Chumaka, First Adviser to the Lord of the Anasati, turned towards Sulan-Qu. Benefits would come of sending Teani back to the Minwanabi household; though she had surprised them all by turning up in Buntokapi’s town house, Chumaka considered that things had turned towards a better course. His master would disagree, but then his master had just lost a son. Chumaka counted that for little. He had never cared for Bunto, and while the Acoma girl was more talented than anticipated, Minwanabi was the real menace. Things were stirring in the High Council, and the game gained intensity as the Warlord’s campaign on Midkemia continued. The ins and outs of intrigue always quickened Chumaka’s blood. Gods, but I love politics, he thought as he walked down the road. Feeling almost cheery, he began to whistle over the rattle of his crockery.
Following her return from Sulan-Qu, Mara called a meeting. Her closest advisers gathered in her chamber while cool twilight veiled the fields and thyza paddies of the estate. Nacoya sat to her right, a red scarf tied over her hair in deference to Turakamu, into whose domain the late master had passed. Baskets of red reeds had been placed by every door in the estate house, in recognition of mourning, that the Red God might avert his eyes from those who grieved.
Mara wore traditional robes of the same colour, but her manner showed nothing of sorrow. She sat straight and proud as Jican, Keyoke, Papewaio, Lujan, and Arakasi made their bows and chose seats upon cushions arranged in a circle upon the floor.
When the last of them had settled, the Lady of the Acoma met the eyes of each in turn. ‘We know what has occurred. None need ever again speak of it. But before we lay the memory of Buntokapi to rest for all time, I wish to say this. What has passed, what is to come as a result of what has passed, all responsibility rests upon my head. None who serve the Acoma need fear for one moment that they have acted without honour. If others in the Empire whisper of dishonour in corners, the shame is mine alone to bear.’ With that, Mara closed the tally sheet on her dead husband. None would ever again wonder if they had betrayed their lawful Lord.
Almost briskly Mara turned to other matters. Though red as a colour flattered her, a frown marred her forehead as she addressed Keyoke. ‘We must speed up recruitment of soldiers. The Minwanabi are temporarily thwarted, and we must use what time we have available to us to consolidate our position.’
The Force Commander nodded in his usual spare manner. “That is possible, if we call every available young son, and if all of them respond. Some will answer the summons of other houses. My Lords of the Minwanabi and Kehotara are still trying to replace the three hundred soldiers they sent against us several months ago. I think we can add another two hundred safely, within the next two months – though they will all be unseasoned boys. The other three you ask for might take as long as another year to recruit.’
Mara had to be satisfied with this; Buntokapi had left some sizeable debts, and Jican had mentioned that time would be needed to rebuild the estate’s capital. By the time the recruiting was completed, finances should have recovered enough to underwrite the expense of the new warriors’ training. And with the reluctant alliance with the Anasati, few would dare attack, and none openly.
As always, Nacoya broke in with a warning. ‘Mistress, as the Acoma gain allies and garrison strength, you must be especially cautious of indirect attacks.’
Arakasi agreed. ‘Mistress, on the day your official mourning ends, you will surely receive invitations carried by marriage brokers on behalf of one suitor or another. When some of those worthy sons of noble houses come to call, agents of the Minwanabi are most certain to be among their retainers.’
Mara considered this with a hard expression. ‘Then we shall have to ensure that such agents find nothing noteworthy to report back to their masters.’
The meeting went on, with Mara confidently assimilating her former role as ruler of the Acoma. As darkness deepened and lamps were tended by silent slaves, decisions were made and fresh information discussed; through the interval between nightfall and midnight, more business was conducted than during the entire tenure of Buntokapi as Lord of the Acoma. At the end Jican arose with a sigh of evident satisfaction. And whatever private guilt or relief the others might have felt at Buntokapi’s passing was hidden as they arose to depart. There were too many new problems to confront.
As Nacoya, who was slowest, began stiffy to rise from her cushions, Mara gestured impulsively for her to remain. The others had nearly reached the door, but they stopped deferentially as she requested one more thing.
A mischievous glint lit the Lady’s eyes as she studied the expectant faces of her senior staff. ‘What would you think if I officially appointed Nacoya as permanent First Adviser to the Acoma?’
The old nurse gasped aloud, and Keyoke broke into a rare grin.
‘The post has stood empty since Jajoran’s death,’ Mara said. Her amusement deepened as Nacoya, who never lacked for chatter, opened and closed her mouth soundlessly, like a fish.
Arakasi was first to respond, offering the aged woman a gallant bow. ‘The promotion and the honour go well with your years, old mother.’
Lujan offered a rakish comment, but Papewaio had known Nacoya since he was a small boy, and his memories of her kindness ran deep. In total abandon of decorum, he lifted the old woman off her feet and spun her full circle through the air.
‘Go and celebrate,’ Mara called over her former nurse’s startled yelp of delight. ‘For never has a servant of the Acoma better deserved a promotion.’
‘I’ll have to survive the experience first,’ said a breathless Nacoya. Papewaio set her down, delicately, as if she were made of cho-ja crafted glass; and as Keyoke, Arakasi, Jican, and a laughing Lujan crowded around to embrace the new First Adviser, Mara reflected that she had not seen such joy in the house since before her father’s death. Lashima grant me wisdom to make it last, she prayed; for the Minwanabi threat was not ended, but was only forced back by an unstable alliance.
The traditional period of mourning came to an end, and the priests of Turakamu came to burn the red reeds that had sat in the baskets by the doors for three continuous weeks. Smoke still lingered over the Acoma fields when the first of the marriage brokers arrived, and within a day three ornately calligraphed petitions with wax seals lay piled in the study. Glad to be wearing a colour other than red, Mara called Nacoya and Arakasi into attendance and reviewed the top parchment. A thoughtful expression crossed her face. ‘It seems our friend Minwanabi’s favourite lapdog has an unmarried son. What do you know of him?’
Seated by her knee, Arakasi took the document she offered. The parchment had been perfumed, and the scent warred with that of the akasi blossoms beyond the screen. ‘Bruli of the Kehotara. His father, Mekasi, has tried to marry him off twice, and both courtings have failed. Now the boy serves as a Patrol Leader in his father’s army, though he’s not a brilliant tactician, apparently. His company has drawn only garrison duty since he took command.’ The Spy Master tapped the parchment, a faint smile on his face. ‘I would not, however, count him a fool. We can expect he is a mask for another Minwanabi agent in his retinue, or an assassin in his own right.’
Mara recovered the parchment from Arakasi, her lip pinched tightly between her teeth. To refuse to consider the petition of Bruli of the Kehotara would be a public admission of weakness. ‘They intend to shame me, or kill me,’ she said, but the sick feeling of fear in her heart could not be heard in her voice. ‘I say we take the bait and turn it sour.’
The slightest bit shy in her new role as First Adviser, Nacoya offered no comment; but Arakasi sat utterly still. ‘That could be perilous, mistress. Bruli’s father, Mekasi, is a gambler and not a good one. He lost enough that his estates are heavily mortgaged. His son is a vain boy who insists that everything he wears or uses be only of the costliest work, and his two older sisters and older brother were similarly indulged. Their spending on top of existing debts has nearly ruined their father. The Minwanabi cleared the accounts, but not out of charity. What makes Mekasi of the Kehotara truly dangerous is that his family tradition is sworn to the ancient code of Tan-jin-qu.’
Mara’s hand tightened on the parchment, for she had not been aware of this detail. The code of Tan-jin-qu – the name was ancient Tsurani for ‘lifelong’ or ‘until death’ – meant that Mekasi had bound the Kehotara to the Minwanabi in an ancient form of vassalage, almost forgotten except as an historical oddity. By its terms, any pledge made was impossible to revoke, amend, or modify. If Mekasi of the Kehotara vowed obedience to the Lord of the Minwanabi, he would murder his children without hesitation upon Jingu’s order. As betrayed alliances were common fare in the Game of the Council, Tan-jin-qu made the Kehotara as dependable as if they were part of the Minwanabi household, even more dependable than families in the same clan. Only when Mekasi died and his eldest son assumed the mantle of Lord could the family negotiate a new beginning. Until then the Kehotara could not be threatened, bullied, bought, or bribed to betray the Minwanabi.
‘Well then,’ said Mara, a determined set to her shoulders, ‘we must make sure this Bruli is entertained in a manner befitting his station.’ Arakasi looked keenly at his mistress.
Trying to seem bland, for Mara’s suggestion was no trifle, Nacoya said, ‘I assume you intend to grant this petition a hearing?’
‘Of course,’ Mara seemed distant. ‘We must not be hasty in rebuffing this overture. Do we wish to offer insult to so august a personage as the Lord of the Kehotara?’
‘Then you have a plan.’ Arakasi smiled slowly.
Mara responded without humour. ‘No. But I will have, by the time this minion of Jingu’s presents himself – that is, if your agents can gather me all the information they have on Bruli and his family, before his retinue arrives.’
Forced to admire her boldness, Arakasi leaned forward. ‘It will be costly. You shall have to cover the expenses of the fastest runners in the Guild of Porters, and these must be sworn and bonded, so that their messages cannot be intercepted or tortured from them.’
‘Of course,’ answered Mara, though Jican would howl. Men willing to die for the integrity of the messages they carried could not be hired for other than cold metal. ‘See to this at once, Arakasi.’
The Spy Master rose swiftly, his steps buoyed by exultation. This was what his network was intended for! A bold player of the game who was unafraid to carve out the advantage; and the bonus was that Mara’s target was an ally of the Minwanabi. Suddenly the day seemed perfect.
Darkness sprang into light as the screens were thrown open, admitting the petitioner for marriage into the great hall of the Acoma. Bruli of the Kehotara was almost beautiful in his black-trimmed red armour; and from the dais at the head of the hall, under the weight of her massive ceremonial costume, Mara saw at once that Arakasi’s agents had reported accurately. The man was vain as a calley bird. He had good reason to be; slender yet muscular, whereas the majority of men in the three central nations of the Empire tended towards the stocky, he moved with the grace of a dancer. His blue eyes were a rare and startling counterpoint to his almost black hair, and he had a warm smile. That he would happily murder as soon as marry the woman he approached on the dais was not far from Mara’s mind as she wistfully considered, for just a moment, how different Bruli was from Bunto.
As if reading her mind, Nacoya leaned close and whispered. ‘He’d spend more time looking at himself in the mirror than looking at you, daughter.’
Mara resisted a smile. Her pose remained outwardly formal as she welcomed the second son of the Kehotara to her house.
Two unprepossessing Kehotara warriors accompanied Bruli’s litter, while another six were housed with Acoma soldiers. Mara was certain the honour guard had been picked for their homely appearance, to heighten the contrast to their master’s handsome features as they marched into the Lady of the Acoma’s presence.
One of the soldiers stepped forward, acting as Bruli’s First Adviser. ‘Lady Mara, I have the honour to introduce Bruli of the Kehotara to you.’
