the remaining soldiers of the estate. Had Buntokapi been killed or the Acoma driven back from the attack, the warriors would have returned in silence. Instead, the lusty ring of voices through the late afternoon heat heralded a victory for the Acoma.
Mara rose and motioned for servants to open the door to the marshalling yard. Tired, but no longer tense, she waited with one hand on the doorframe while the Acoma companies marched into view, their bright green armour muted by a layer of dust. The officers’ plumes drooped from fatigue, but the men marched in even step and their song filled the air. The words might be ragged, for to many the verses were new; still, this was an Acoma victory. Old soldiers and former bandits alike sang with joy, for battle had knit them solidly together. The accomplishment was sweet after the grief that had visited this house scarcely one year before.
Buntokapi came straight to his wife and bowed slightly, a formality Mara found surprising. ‘My wife, we have been victorious.’
‘I am so very pleased, my husband.’ That her reply was genuine startled him in return. Her pregnancy seemed to be taxing her, for she did not look well.
Strangely abashed, Buntokapi qualified. ‘Minwanabi and Kehotara dogs garbed as grey warriors sought to marshal along the trail above our lands. They intended to strike us at first light, as all lay asleep.’
Mara nodded. That was how she would have planned such a raid. ‘Were there many, my Lord?’
Buntokapi dragged his helm off by one strap and tossed it to a waiting servant. He scratched vigorously at his wet, matted hair with both hands, his lips parted in satisfaction. ‘Aie, it is good to get that off.’ Peering up at his wife in the doorway, he said, ‘What? Many?’ His expression turned thoughtful. ‘A great deal more than I would have expected …’ He shouted over his shoulder to Lujan, who was attending to the dispersal of his men with Keyoke. ‘Strike Leader, how many finally attacked?’
The reply floated cheerfully over the bedlam in the yard. ‘Three hundred, my Lord.’
Mara repressed a shudder. She laid a hand on her middle, where the baby moved.
‘Three hundred killed or captured,’ Buntokapi reiterated proudly. Then, struck as if by an afterthought, he shouted again across the yard. ‘Lujan, how many of our men?’
‘Three dead, three dying, and another five seriously wounded.’ The reply was only slightly less exuberant, by which Mara interpreted that Lujan’s recruits had fought well.
Buntokapi grinned at his Lady. ‘How do you like that, my wife? We waited in hiding above them, rained arrows and rocks upon their heads, then drove them against our shields and swords. Your father could not have done better, heh?’
‘No, my husband.’ The admission was grudging, but true. Buntokapi had not wasted the years he trained as a soldier. And for a fleeting instant her usual disdain and revulsion were replaced by pride for her husband’s actions on behalf of the Acoma.
Lujan crossed the yard, accompanied by a soldier named Sheng. The rigours of the day had left the Strike Leader’s jaunty gallantry undaunted, and he grinned a greeting to his Lady before bowing and interrupting the boasting of his master. ‘Lord, this man has something important to say.’
Granted leave to speak, the soldier saluted. ‘Master, one of the prisoners is a cousin of mine, well known to me. He is the son of my father’s brother’s wife’s sister. He is not a grey warrior. He took service with the Minwanabi.’
Mara stiffened slightly, her indrawn breath overshadowed by Buntokapi’s loud response. ‘Ha! I told you. Bring the dog forth.’
Movement swirled through the yard, and a burly guard stepped into view. He pushed a man with both hands tied behind his back, and threw him down before Buntokapi’s feet.
‘You are of the Minwanabi?’
The prisoner refused to answer. Forgetting the presence of his wife, Buntokapi kicked him in the head. Despite the hatred of the Minwanabi, Mara winced. Again Buntokapi’s studded sandal raked the man’s face, and he rolled, splitting blood. ‘You are of the Minwanabi?’ repeated Buntokapi.
But the man would admit nothing. Loyal, Mara thought through her sickness; she expected as much. Jingu would hardly send weak men on such a risky venture, for all his standing and his honour rested on not being held responsible. Yet the truth could not entirely be concealed. Another Acoma soldier approached with a story similar to the first: several other grey warriors were recognizably Minwanabi, or members of the house of Jingu’s vassals, the Kehotara. Buntokapi kicked the man on the ground several more times, but he gained no more than a glare of venomous hatred. Bored finally, Buntokapi said, ‘This fool offends Acoma soil. Hang him.’
He raised bright eyes to Keyoke. ‘Hang all of them. We have no need of slaves, and dogs make poor workers. String them up along the roadside and have a sign proclaim that this fate awaits any who trespass on Acoma lands. Then let the patrol leaders go to the city. Have them buy wine in the taverns and drink to the men of the Acoma who have bested the Minwanabi.’
Stiff-faced, Keyoke said nothing. Buntokapi visited a terrible insult upon the Minwanabi Lord by publicly hanging his soldiers. Prisoners of war were either killed honourably, with a sword, or kept as slaves. Only when the feuds grew old and bitter did a man affront a foe in this way. To boast of such a deed in public was to invite a more bitter retaliation, until the alliance with the Anasati would not be sufficient to shield them. Mara realized the stakes. If Jingu grew incensed enough, the next raid might be not three hundred men dressed as grey warriors, but three thousand armoured soldiers in Minwanabi orange and black descending like insects upon Acoma land. Mara saw Keyoke scrape his chin with his thumb and knew his concern matched her own. She must try to dissuade her husband.
‘My Lord,’ Mara touched Buntokapi’s damp sleeve. ‘These were only soldiers doing the duty of their master.’
A feral look entered Buntokapi’s eyes, startling for its cleverness. ‘These?’ The calmness of his voice was new, the more chilling in that it was genuine. ‘Why, these are but grey warriors, bandits and outlaws, my wife. You heard me ask this one if he was of the Minwanabi, didn’t you? Had he answered, I would have killed him honourably with my own sword. But he is only a criminal, fit for hanging, heh!’ He smiled then, widely, and shouted to the men in the yard, ‘Let my orders stand.’
The Acoma soldiers hastened to bring rope, and the prisoners were herded down the gravel path that led to the trees at the side of the Imperial Highway. A craftsman would fashion the sign to make their shame public, and by sundown the last of them would hang.
Those soldiers not involved dispersed to the barracks. Buntokapi stepped into the estate house without removing his sandals, and his studded soles raised splinters from the fine wood as he spun and shouted for servants. Making a mental note to ask for a slave to resand and polish the floors, Mara returned to her cushions. Her husband did not dismiss her when his attendants arrived, so she was compelled to remain while servants removed his outer armour.
Stretching heavy shoulders as his breastplate was lifted from him, the Lord of the Acoma said, ‘This Minwanabi lord is a fool. He thinks to outrage my father by killing me, then turning his attentions upon you, my wife, a simple woman. He did not know what a soldier he faced, heh! How fortunate that you chose me instead of Jiro. My brother is clever, but he is not a warrior.’ Again that feral light entered Buntokapi’s eyes, and Mara saw something beyond mere cunning. She was forced to agree with Buntokapi’s remark on their wedding night. This man she had married was not stupid.
Quietly
