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
