‘Now, you must take care not to become overtired, wife. Go to bed. If I must study scrolls, I shall keep these musicians playing for my amusement until late.’
‘Husband, I –’ Mara stopped, abruptly aware she had made a misjudgement as Buntokapi surged to his feet. He caught her shoulders and dragged her roughly upright. Her hands dropped instinctively to cradle her middle, to protect the unborn life growing there. The gesture forestalled her husband’s violence but did not stay his fury.
The musicians looked on in frozen discomfort as Buntokapi’s fingers tightened, painfully twisting the flesh of her shoulders. ‘Wife, I warned you. I am not stupid! These accounts shall be seen to, but at my pleasure.’ His rage seemed to swell, to feed upon itself, until it became a tangible thing shadowing the atmosphere of the room. The moonlight seemed to darken beyond the screens, and the musicians set aside their instruments, cowering. Mara bit her lip, frozen in the grasp of her husband like the gazen before the relli. He shook her, that she should know the power of his strength. ‘Hear me, wife. You shall go to bed. And if you ever think to cross my will, even once, I shall send you away!’
His fingers released, and Mara all but fell to her knees as a stab of fear shot through her. She hid the emotion behind a bow low enough to have been slave girl’s, and pressed her forehead to a floor still sticky with wine. ‘I pray my husband’s forgiveness.’ The words were fervently sincere; if Buntokapi saw fit to exercise his right as the Ruling Lord of a troublesome wife, and she were sent from the estates to an apartment with a pension and two maidservants, the affairs of the Acoma would pass forever from her influence. Her father’s proud family would become what this coarse man chose, with no hope of escaping Anasati vassalage. Afraid to tremble, afraid to even breathe, Mara waited motionless, her face a mask to hide the terror in her heart. She had hoped to bore Buntokapi with expenditures he did not understand, encourage him to grant her control and freedom to put some plans in motion. Instead, she had nearly precipitated disaster.
Buntokapi regarded her bent back with distaste until the promise of what lay beneath the robes of the vielle player distracted him. Bored now in truth, and annoyed by the pile of scrolls awaiting his attenion, he shoved his wife with his toe. ‘To bed now, wife.’
Mara rose awkwardly, relief eclipsed by an anger at herself. Her pushing her husband had been partly due to pique, that she and the affairs of the Acoma could be of less consequence than the jiggling bust of a minstrel girl. But the results of her loss of control had almost set the future of the Acoma in the hands of a brute and an enemy. Hereafter caution would be necessary, extreme cleverness, and no small amount of luck. With a panicky feeling, she wished for the counsel of Nacoya; but the old woman was long asleep, and now as never before, Mara dared not disobey the direct orders of her Lord by sending a servant to waken her. Frustrated, and more uncertain than ever before in her life, Mara smoothed her wrinkled robe straight over her shoulders. She left the room with the beaten carriage of the chastised and subservient wife. But as the music began raucously behind her, and Buntokapi’s eyes fastened once more on the cleft bosom of the vielle player, her mind turned and turned again. She would endure; somehow she would find a way to exploit her husband’s weaknesses, even his overpowering lust. If she did not, all was lost.
‘Wife?’ Buntokapi scratched himself, frowning over a piece of parchment upon his writing desk.
‘Yes, Bunto?’ Mara concentrated on her needlework, partly because needle and thread took on a life of their own in her grasp – forever tangling into knots – but mostly because she must seem the image of meekness and obedience. Since the incident with the musicians and the household accounts, Buntokapi had watched her critically for the smallest sign of disobedience; and, as the slave girls whispered in corners, often he saw things as his mood of the moment demanded. Mara stabbed her needle through a robe for her unborn child, though the quality of the work at best could be called poor. No heir of the Acoma would wear such a rag. But if Buntokapi thought sewing an appropriate pastime for his pregnant wife, she must play along with at least a semblance of enthusiasm.
The Lord of the Acoma shifted knobbly knees beneath the desk. ‘I am answering my father’s letter. Listen to this: “Dear Father: Are you well? I have won all my wrestling matches at the soldiers’ bath at Sulan-Qu. I am well. Mara is well.”’ He looked at her with a rare expression of concentration on his face. ‘You are well, aren’t you? What should I say next?’
Barely masking irritation, Mara said, ‘Why don’t you ask if your brothers are well?’
Oblivious to sarcasm, Buntokapi nodded, his expression showing approval.
‘Master!’
The shout from outside almost caused Mara to prick her finger. She set the precious metal needle out of harm’s way, while Buntokapi moved with startling speed to the door. The caller cried out again, urgently, and without waiting for servants Buntokapi pushed open the screen to reveal a sweating dust-covered soldier.
‘What is it?’ demanded Buntokapi, instantly less irritated, for concerns of arms and war were easier for him than those matters of the pen.
The warrior bowed with extreme haste, and Mara noticed that his sandals were laced tight; he had run for some distance to deliver this message. Her posed role of submission forgotten, she listened as the soldier caught his wind and spoke. ‘Strike Leader Lujan sends word of a large force of bandits moving over the road from Holan-Qu. He is holding at the small spring below the pass, to harass them if they attempt to push through, for he thinks they are staging to raid us.’
Buntokapi took brisk charge. ‘How many are there?’ And with a presence of mind and consideration he had never shown to his household staff, he gestured, allowing the tired runner to sit.
Mara murmured for a servant to bring the man water, while he sank to a crouch and qualified. ‘A very large force, master. Perhaps as many as six companies. Almost certainly they are grey warriors.’
Bunto shook his head. ‘So many? They could prove dangerous.’ He turned to Mara. ‘I must leave you now, my wife. Be fearless. I will return.’
‘Chochocan guard your spirit,’ Mara said in ritual, and bowed her head as a wife should before her Lord. But not even appearances could make her shrink from the dangers of the affair at hand. As Buntokapi strode briskly through the screen, she peeked through her lashes at the dust-covered messenger, who bowed in turn to his master. He was young, but scarred and experienced in battle. Mara remembered his name, Jigai, once a well-regarded member of Lujan’s band. His eyes were hard, unreadable, as he raised his head to accept the water brought by the maidservant. Mara hid a stab of uncertainty. How would this man and his fellows feel about facing men who but for chance might have been comrades rather than foe? None of the newcomers had yet faced an Acoma enemy in battle; that their first encounter should pitch them against grey warriors raised anxieties dangerous to contemplate.
She watched in frustration as Acoma soldiers hurried past the great house to fall into formation, each commanded by a Patrol Leader, who in turn took orders from their Strike Leaders, all under the certain direction of Keyoke. To the right of his plumes stood Papewaio, who as First Strike Leader would take charge should the Force Commander fall in battle. Mara could not but admire, for the Acoma soldiers acted in every way like Tsurani warriors. Those who had been outlaws blended indistinguishably into those who had been born in service. Her doubts lessened slightly. Thanks to the security afforded by the cho-ja Queen’s warriors, only Tasido’s company need remain to guard the estate. Absently Mara considered the benefits of recruiting more cousins to the Acoma colours soon. With more warriors, the command could be split, with Papewaio and another elevated to the rank of Force Leader, giving the Acoma two garrisons … A loud shout killed her thoughts. Buntokapi strode into view, his trailing servants busily buckling his armour about his stolid body. As her Lord took his place
