of his day nurse. Another servant fetched the jewelled overrobe that was proper attire for greeting guests of High Council rank. Mara stood through the arranging and fastening, her face a secretive mask. By the time she was readied to meet the Warlord, Lord Almecho, and Tecuma, Lord of the Anasati, she seemed a girl in the trappings of a great Lady; except that her eyes stayed hard as flint.
Keyoke, Jican, and Nacoya were on hand to greet the entourage upon arrival. Keyoke wore ceremonial armour, decorated with fluted scrollwork entirely unsuitable for battle, but handsome in the extreme. His formal trappings were completed by a plumed helm and tasselled sword, and Papewaio, his adjutant, stood in armour as splendid. Every man in the garrison not on sentry duty was properly turned out to greet the guests, and the green lacquer of their armour shone in the late sunlight. To a man they held themselves proudly as the first of the Imperial Guard marched between fence rows newly painted and gardens planted afresh for the occasion. The litters in the centre of the cortege approached the house, and Mara joined the heads of her household. She had watched state visitors arrive at her father’s household since she was a small child, and the routine was familiar; but never before had her palms sweated through the formalities.
The dooryard echoed with the tramp of feet as the first company of warriors marched in; the Warlord’s Imperial Whites led, since his was the senior rank. Keyoke stepped forward and bowed to the plumed officer in command. Then, with Mara’s leave, he directed the guest officers to quarters. An elite cadre of bodyguards remained behind to attend upon their master. With a dry feeling in her mouth, Mara noticed that Lord Almecho retained six soldiers, the full complement to which his rank entitled him. Clearer than words, the Warlord showed that his arrival was no honour to the Acoma but a favour to his ally the Anasati Lord, Tecuma. With a slight motion of her hand, Mara signalled Papewaio to remain; his presence in ceremonial armour would return the impression that she acknowledged no weakness before those of superior rank; the Acoma would bear no slight.
‘Mistress,’ murmured Nacoya so that no other could hear, ‘please, in the name of the gods, go cautiously; boldness is a dangerous choice for a lady in the absence of her Ruling Lord.’
‘I’ll remember,’ whispered Mara, though her face showed no sign she had heard the warning at all.
Then the other litters arrived, sparkling with precious metal. The Warlord’s bearers bore tasselled sashes, darkened with sweat and dust from the road. His servants wore beaded livery, and all were matched in height and colouring. Next came the scarlet and yellow of the Anasati standard, behind which marched Tecuma’s honour guard; his servants also were decked out in costly array, for the Lord of the Anasati, like many Tsurani, sought to outshine his betters with ostentatious displays of wealth.
Mara considered the metal ornaments that tinkled and flashed on the Anasati palanquin; if his slaves slipped and dropped the lot in the river, her father-in-law’s showy accoutrements would sink him like a stone, she thought with grim amusement. But her face remained impassive as her guests entered the dooryard, and the shade muted the splendour of jewelled trappings and red-and-yellow-lacquered trim.
The bearers set the litters down and stepped smartly aside, while body servants rushed to draw the curtains and help their masters to rise. Poised between her retainers, Mara observed the proper interval, allowing time for her guests to gain their feet, adjusting their clothing and dignity, before greeting her. Since the Warlord was a stocky man, and his attire included robes set about with sashes with elaborate battle decorations, his servants were kept occupied for a long minute. Mara glimpsed the Lord of the Anasati craning his neck to see around the confusion; and the absence of Buntokapi was met with an irritable frown before protocol smoothed over his expression. Behind the fan Tecuma fluttered before his chin, Mara guessed that he whispered furiously to his first Adviser, Chumaka. The hollow feeling in the pit of her stomach intensified.
‘Mistress, pay attention!’ snapped Nacoya under her breath.
Mara looked away from her late father’s enemy and saw that Kaleska, the Warlord’s First Adviser, had stepped forward to bow before her.
She bowed in return. ‘Welcome to the house of the Acoma.’ The Warlord stepped up behind him, surrounded by his soldiers and servants. Mechanically Mara recited the traditional greeting: ‘Are you well?’ She went on, wishing joy and comfort to her guests; but as she exchanged courtesies, she sensed the puzzlement of Lord Almecho, who also had noticed the absence of the Lord of the Acoma. Mara gestured for servants to open the doors to the estate house. The Warlord exchanged glances with the Anasati Lord; then, as if echoing his master’s disquiet, the Anasati First Adviser, Chumaka, plucked nervously at his clothing.
Mara bowed again and stepped back, permitting her guests to file into the comfort of her house. She stood meekly as they passed, except when Lord Tecuma whispered a furious query concerning Buntokapi’s whereabouts. With calculated timing, she raised her wrist to adjust the brooch that pinned her robe; the jingle of her jade bracelets effectively foiled his question. And as the Warlord’s booming voice demanded cold drinks from a waiting servant, no time could be snatched to ask again without causing notice. Looking hot, Tecuma followed his travelling companion into the wide hall. There Mara arranged for musicians to play while trays of sliced fruit were provided for the refreshment of her guests.
Once inside, Nacoya snagged Kaleska and Chumaka in an involved conversation concerning the state of disrepair in certain of the roads throughout the Empire, most notably those that caused difficulty for Acoma trading. Mara made a show of making certain her servants fussed over the Warlord’s comfort, and then managed artfully to appeal to the man’s vanity so that he would explain the origin of each decoration upon his sash. Since many had been won in battle by his ancestors, and the newest had been wrested away from a barbarian lord during a raid beyond the rift, the recounting took no small amount of time.
Reddened light fell through the screens. Finished with his first goblet of wine, Tecuma fumed in silence. The absence of his son clearly embarrassed him, for the purpose of his visit was to have his grandson presented, a ritual tradition appointed to the Lord of the house. Tecuma knew as well as Mara that the Warlord’s conversation was merely a gracious way to buy time, postponing comment on Buntokapi’s absence, perhaps to spare an important ally the shame of making excuses. Almecho needed the support of the Imperial Party in his Alliance for War, and anything that could cause difficulty between his interests and the Anasati’s was to be politically avoided. Each minute that passed placed the Anasati more in the Warlord’s debt for such kindness, as Chumaka was also aware. He masked irritation by eating, unmindful that the fruit had been soaked in fine spirits and the servants had replenished the tray of fruit by his elbow three times in an hour.
The Warlord’s recitation lagged by sunset. Smiling, delivering compliments glib enough to make a fish blush, Mara clapped her hands. Servants rushed in and opened the screens, in time to display the splendour of the shatra birds’ flight at the end of the day. Their clear, fluting calls temporarily defeated conversation, and when at last the phenomenon came to an end, more servants arrived to escort the guests to an elaborate ceremonial dinner. By now Mara’s hospitality was plainly a desperate, stopgap diversion.
‘Where is my son?’ Tecuma demanded through clenched teeth. His lips assumed a frozen smile as the Warlord glanced his way.
Mara winked, as if to a conspirator. ‘The main dish is Buntokapi’s personal favourite, but it sours if it stands too long. The cooks have been at work all day for your pleasure, and the jigabirds and the needra are spiced with rare sauces. My most graceful maid, Merali, will show you your seat. She will bring a basin if you need to wash.’
Sweating, and infuriated by what he saw as girlish prattle, the Lord of the Anasati permitted himself to be ushered in to dinner. He noticed, with narrowed eyes, that the Warlord showed signs of restlessness; at that point he was glad Mara had gone to the trouble of bringing in priests to bless the repast, and that
