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 servant.
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
