puffed up at the praise. He turned away, handing the last piece of armour to his attendant. He regarded his stained knuckles and suddenly acknowledged the fatigue of the last two days. ‘I will take a long bath, my wife, then I will join you for our evening meal. I will not go to the city. The gods do not love too much pride, and perhaps it is best not to mock Jingu more than I already have.’
He stepped to the screen, letting the soft breeze of evening dry his sweat. Mara regarded him, silent. His stocky body and bandy legs made a comic silhouette against the yellow sky of evening, but the sight only made her feel chilled. When Buntokapi departed, she stared at the filthy pile of clothing and sandals he had left in a heap on the floor. Her thoughts turned very dark, and she did not hear Nacoya enter and bow by her elbow. The old woman whispered, her voice a near-silent hiss. ‘If you are going to kill him, do it soon, Lady. He is far more clever than you thought.’
Mara only nodded. Inwardly she counted the hours. Not until her baby was born. Not until then.
‘Mara!’
The shout reverberated through the house. The Lady of the Acoma rose with the aid of her maids. She was halfway to the door of her quarters when the door slid open and Buntokapi entered, his face red with temper.
Her bow was immediate. ‘Yes, Bunto.’
He lifted a meaty hand and shook a sheaf of papers, each sheet covered with tiny rows of numbers. ‘What are these? I found them piled on my desk when I awoke.’ Stamping past, he looked the image of an enraged needra bull, a likeness heightened by his bloodshot eyes, the legacy of entertaining some friends the night before.
Several young soldiers, second and third sons of families loyal to the Anasati, had stopped to visit on their way to the City of the Plains. They had talked for long hours, for their houses mustered garrisons for a spring campaign against the barbarians on the world of Midkemia, on the other side of the magical rift. The war was entering its third year, and tales of riches lured a number of politically neutral houses to join the Alliance for War. Such shifts caused the War Party and the conservative Imperial Party to be in contention for dominance of the High Council. The Lord of the Minwanabi was a stalwart in the War Party, headed by the Warlord, and the Lord of the Anasati was the central figure in the Imperial Party, a position of high prestige because it was limited to blood relations of the Emperor.
With none of the propriety of his imperial cousins, Buntokapi tossed the papers in a shower over his wife. ‘What am I supposed to do with all these things?’
‘Husband, they are the monthly tallies of the house, the quarterly budget and reports from your factors and inventories of far holdings’ – she lowered her eyes to see what else lay scattered about her ankles – ‘and a projection of needra hide demand for the next year.’
‘But what am I supposed to do with them?’ Buntokapi threw up his hands in exasperation. As third son he had been expected to become a career warrior, much like Keyoke and Papewaio, or marry the daughter of some rich merchant seeking alliance with a powerful house. Now that he had exceeded his father’s most extreme ambitions, his preparation for ruling a great house was non-existent.
Mara squatted, since pregnancy made bending impossible, and with perfect patience began to gather the scattered parchments. ‘You are to read these reports. Approve, disapprove, or amend them, then send them back to the appropriate member of your household staff, Bunto.’
‘What about Jican?’
‘He’ll advise you, husband.’ Again she waited for the opportunity to take some responsibility off his shoulders, but he only said, ‘Very well. After I’ve eaten, have the hadonra come to my study.’ Without another word he snatched the papers from the hand of his wife and left.
Mara beckoned to her runner. ‘Find Jican.’
The hadonra appeared breathless from his summons. He had ink-stains on his hands, and from that Mara knew her runner had found him in the scribes’ wing, on the far side of the house. When he had completed his bow, Mara said, ‘My Lord asks your counsel, Jican, on the many business issues facing the Acoma. Please attend him after he has bathed and eaten.’
The hadonra dabbed at a blackened knuckle, barely able to contain his distaste for dealing with the plodding Buntokapi. ‘I see, Lady.’
Mara watched him with bland humour. ‘My Lord is new to matters of commerce, Jican. Perhaps it would be best if you dealt with each issue slowly and in detail.’
Jican’s expression did not change, but his eyes seemed to light. ‘Yes, mistress.’
Now Mara returned a veiled smile. ‘Take as much time as you need. I think you’ll find sufficient topics to discuss for the entire evening, and perhaps into the night.’
‘Of course, mistress.’ Jican’s enthusiasm brightened. ‘I will give orders not to be disturbed while Lord Buntokapi needs my aid.’
The hadonra had always been quick-witted. Mara rejoiced in his attributes, yet she showed no trace of her feelings. ‘That is good, Jican. Since my Lord is showing an interest in household matters, take along any documents you think he might need to study.’
In a voice of smothered delight, Jican said, ‘Yes, mistress.’
‘That is all.’ Mara waved in dismissal, then stood thoughtfully, racking her mind for other matters that needed to be called to her husband’s attention. Yet as she plotted, she feared. The path she had chosen was perilous; no law and no person could protect her if she stepped wrongly. The sunlight upon the painted screen suddenly seemed very dear. Mara closed her eyes and recited the teachings of the sisters of Lashima to herself for what seemed a very long time.
Mara winced at the sound of Buntokapi’s huge hand striking flesh. Another slave would sport a bruised cheek or black eye in the morning. Braced for the inevitable onslaught, she was unsurprised when the screen to her quarters slid open with no knock in warning. Even when he was not angry, Buntokapi seldom employed the courtesy her rank normally entitled.
‘Mara,’ he began, his fury near the point of explosion; and Mara cursed inwardly as he strode in, his battle sandals carving up the floors for the second time that week. Fortunately, the slaves who repaired the damage lacked the right to complain.
Buntokapi stopped, sweating under his heavy armour. ‘I have spent days with these important business matters Jican claims I must personally attend to! I go out to drill my soldiers for the first time in a week, and when I am tired from the sun, the first thing I find is more … of these!’ He threw down a heavy sheaf of documents. ‘I grow bored! Who oversaw all this before I came here?’
Modestly Mara lowered her eyes. ‘I did, husband.’
Buntokapi’s anger dissolved into astonishment. ‘You did?’
‘Before I asked for you in marriage, I was Ruling Lady.’ Mara spoke lightly, as if the matter were of small importance. ‘The running of the estate was my duty, as it is now yours.’
‘Aie!’ Buntokapi’s frustration was palpable. ‘Must I oversee every tiny detail?’ He yanked off his helm and shouted for assistance. A servant appeared at the door. ‘Bring a robe,’ Buntokapi commanded. ‘I’ll not stand in this armour another moment. Mara, help me.’
Mara rose awkwardly and came to her husband, who stood with arms held out straight. Touching him as little as possible, for he was dirty, she unfastened the
