all passage between Kelewan and Midkemia seated like the shadows of midnight in their midst, even the boldest Lords dared not seek support for their plots. Mara overheard many expressions of annoyance that Almecho should flaunt his ties with the Great Ones at what should have been a celebration in his honour.
As the curtains fell following the actors’ final bows, Desio of the Minwanabi stepped onto the wooden platform erected for the performance. His tread echoed hollowly on the boards as he strode to centre stage, his arms raised for silence.
Heads turned, and whispered conversations stilled. Desio lowered his hands with a ruffle of feathered cuffs and made his announcement. ‘Minwanabi scouts have brought word of an outbreak of trouble on the river. A band of water pirates has swept down from the north, and two barges have been robbed and burned near the borders of this estate.’ A murmur swept the hall, then stilled as the heir of the Minwanabi added more. ‘Lord Jingu has heard the Warlord’s request that his birthday celebrations not be spoiled by bloodshed. To this end, he has ordered the chain beneath the prayer gate raised, cutting off the inlet from the lake. Any barge attempting passage from the river will be burned on sight, and any guests wishing to leave this celebration early should inform us of their intention, that the warriors on duty can let them out.’ Desio finished with a deferential bow, and a pointed smile at the Lady of the Acoma. Then tumblers replaced him on the stage, and the party for the Warlord resumed.
Mara managed not to show resentment at this latest plot of Minwanabi’s. Not only had he managed to make any attempt at departure a public admission of cowardice, but he had neatly given himself an excuse if a guest chanced to be slaughtered on the river beyond his gates. Not even a messenger could be sent to the Acoma estates without Jingu’s knowledge. Mara glanced at Papewaio and knew by his tired eyes that he understood; even Keyoke could not be warned. The stakes were now higher than any of her advisers had anticipated. If she died, very likely an attack on Avaki would occur before word of her demise reached the Acoma estates.
An old friend of her father’s, Pataki of the Sida, passed near her table, and bowed politely. In a voice that only Mara and Nacoya could hear, he said, ‘You would be wise to send your bodyguard away to rest.’
‘Your advise is sound, my Lord.’ She smiled and tried to look less tired. ‘But I suggested the same thing earlier, and Papewaio said he did not care to sleep.’
The aged Lord nodded, aware as they all were that the warrior’s dedication was not misplaced. ‘Be wary, daughter of Sezu,’ Pataki said. ‘Almecho has little love for Jingu. He would enjoy seeing Minwanabi ambition blunted, but he needs their support in his little war on the barbarian world. So should Jingu manage to kill you without shame, Almecho would do nothing against him.’ For a moment the Lord of the Sida regarded the dais where the guests of honour sat dining. Almost reflectively he added, ‘Still, should Jingu be caught breaking his oath of surety for guests, Almecho would happily observe the ritual suicide.’ As if they had been speaking pleasantries, Pataki smiled. ‘Many here have a stake in what befalls the Acoma, my Lady. But none will act against you save the Minwanabi. At least you know your enemy.’
With sudden warmth, Mara returned a nod of respect. ‘I think I also know my friend as well, Lord Pataki.’
The old man laughed, feigning reaction to a witty remark. ‘The Sida and the Acoma have dealt honourably with each other for many generations.’ He glanced to his own table where two grandsons sat waiting. ‘Your father and I had even spoken of a possible alliance from time to time.’ His old eyes turned shrewd. ‘I would like to think you and I may someday speak of such things. Now I must return to my family. May the gods protect you, my Lady.’
‘And may the gods protect the Sida,’ Mara returned.
Nacoya leaned closer to Mara and whispered, ‘At least one here is a man like your father.’
Mara nodded. ‘Yet even he will not lend a hand when Jingu acts.’ The weak had been known to die in public with no outcry from observers, so long as the forms were observed. Minwanabi would strike. The only question was when.
Beyond the opened screens, dusk shadowed the shoreline, and the lake gleamed like a sheet of hammered silver in the afterglow. Stars pricked the zenith one by one, while slaves with wicks and oil jars made their rounds to light the lamps. Soon full darkness would fall, and then the danger would increase. Mara followed the other guests to the banquet hall, doing her best to match their mood of gaiety and enjoyment. But with all her heart she wished for a warrior’s role, to fight with armour and sword until death found herself or her enemies; to walk in fear through a crowd who smiled and laughed was to be undone one strand at a time, until dignity became a mask to conceal madness.
The repast served by Jingu of the Minwanabi to honour the Warlord was prepared by some of the finest cooks in the Empire; yet Mara ate without tasting what she took from dishes ornamented with rare metal rims. She strove throughout the meal to ease Nacoya’s strained nerves, all the while aware that Papewaio struggled not to fall asleep in his tracks. Without asking, she knew that he had stood guard the past night without rest, and though he was a strong man, keen of mind and determined of will, he could not be expected to maintain his façade of vigilance much longer. Mara excused her party from the festivities at the earliest opportunity.
Black shadows thrown by deep hoods made the expressions of the Great Ones unreadable, but their eyes followed Mara as she rose. To their right, Almecho smiled broadly, his elbow digging the Lord of the Minwanabi in the ribs. And from every part of the hall eyes watched with contempt as the Lady of the Acoma helped her aged First Adviser to her feet.
‘I wish you pleasant dreams,’ murmured Desio of the Minwanabi as the small party moved off towards the hallway.
Mara was too weary to respond. A moment later, when the Lord of the Ekamchi detained her in the doorway for one last jab at her expense, Papewaio saw her shoulders stiffen. The idea that his mistress should suffer even one more slight from this fat little man ignited the tall warrior’s temper. Before Mara could speak, and before the other guests could become aware of the situation, Papewaio grasped the Lord of the Ekamchi by the shoulders and moved him forcibly through the doorway, out of view of the diners.
The Lord of the Ekamchi gasped in astonishment. Then his plump cheeks quivered from outrage. ‘Wrath of the gods!’ he swore as the tall warrior towered over him. ‘You ignorant oaf, do you think you can handle me without penalty?’
Behind him, his own bodyguard rattled weapons, but they could not strike past their master’s fat bulk to reach Papewaio.
To all this bluster the Strike Leader of the Acoma returned a bland indifference. ‘If you trouble my Lady any more, I will do more than handle you,’ he warned. ‘I will handle you with violence!’
Ekamchi spluttered. His guards half drew their swords, restrained only by the fact that Papewaio could harm their master long before they could move.
‘Step aside,’ said Mara clearly to the Lord who blocked the passage. ‘Even you would not dare to mar the Warlord’s birthday celebration with bloodshed, Techachi of the Ekamchi.’
The fat Lord reddened further. ‘For a servant to lay hands on a man of my rank carries a death sentence,’ he carped.
‘I see,’ said Mara, nodding sagely.
Papewaio raised his helmet, revealing the black rag of shame already tied to his brow. He smiled.
The Lord of the Ekamchi paled and stepped aside, mumbling a hasty excuse. He could not demand the execution of a man already condemned; and if he ordered his guards to attack, he only granted the wretch an honourable death
