face seemed ancient in the new light of the lamps. ‘You play the Game of the Council for high stakes, my Lady.’ This once, she did not chide her charge for taking foolish risks, for Buntokapi have been no favourite among the Acoma retainers. The nurse was Tsurani enough to relish the discomfort of an enemy, though her own plight might be dire as a result.
Mara herself felt no triumph. Shaken, worn thin with the stress of month after month of manipulation, she relied on Papewaio’s stolid presence to steady her inner turmoil. ‘Have the servants clear away this mess,’ she said, as if the ceremonial plates and dishes had been brought out for an ordinary meal. Then, as if impelled by primal instinct, she half ran to Ayaki’s chambers to see that the boy slept safely on his mat. Sitting in the gloom by her baby, she saw in the shadowed features of her son the echo of the father, and for all the causes Buntokapi had given her to hate, still she could not escape a deep, brooding melancholy.
Mara waited in Buntokapi’s quarters, passing a restless night in the chamber which once had been Lord Sezu’s, but which now reflected the tastes and preferences of one who, by marriage to his daughter, had succeeded him. Now the continuance of the Acoma relied upon this man’s honour; for if Buntokapi remained true to the oath he had sworn upon the Acoma natami, he would choose death by the sword and spare his house from retribution. Yet if the loyalty of his heart remained with the Anasati, or if cowardice drove him from honour to mean-spirited vengeance, he might choose war and carry Mara and his infant son to ruin along with him. Then would the natami fall into the hands of Almecho, and the Acoma name be obliterated in shame.
Mara rolled restlessly on her side and tossed tangled sheets aside. Grey light glimmered through the screen, and although the needra herders had not yet stirred to drive the herds to meadow, daybreak was not far off. Without waiting for the assistance of her maids, Mara rose and slipped on a day robe. She lifted Ayaki from his basket and, shushing his sleepy wail, hastened alone into the corridor.
A large shadow moved, almost under her feet. Mara started back, her arms tight around her infant; then she recognized the worn, wrapped leather that covered the hilt of Papewaio’s sword. He must have spent the night seated outside her chambers.
‘Why are you not in the barracks, with Keyoke?’ Mara demanded, relief sharpening her tone.
Papewaio bowed without offence. ‘Keyoke suggested I stay by your door, Lady. Rumours had reached the barracks, through servants who overheard the Warlord’s honour guard speaking among themselves. The anger of the mighty is never to be taken lightly, and I accept the wisdom of such advice.’
Mara began a heated reply, but recalled the assassin and stopped herself. Upon second consideration, she realized that Keyoke and Papewaio were trying to warn her, without breaking loyalty. Early on, they had recognized the possibility that Buntokapi might return home in a rage during the night. Had he done so, anger might have driven him to violence against her, a shameful act but not out of the question for a man who was quicktempered, and young, and accustomed to wrestling and working out daily with arms. If such happened, and a warrior dared intercede between his mistress and his sworn Lord, Papewaio’s life would instantly have been forfeit, all of his honour surrendered at a stroke. Yet Pape wielded a fast sword, and his memory of events in the marriage hut had not faded; at the least move against Mara, the Lord Buntokapi would have died between breaths. And no dishonour to the servant who had done the deed could reverse the grip of the Red God.
Mara smiled through her strain. ‘You’ve earned the black rag once already, Pape. But if you choose to tempt the wrath of the gods a second time, I will be in the contemplation glade throughout the day. Send my Lord there if he arrives home and does not arm the Acoma garrison for war.’
Papewaio bowed, inwardly pleased by his mistress’s tacit acceptance of his guard. He shifted his post to the arched entry of the contemplation glade and remained there as dawn gave way to sunrise and morning brightened over the rich holdings of the Acoma.
The noon heat came and went in sultry stillness, much as it always had. The sacred pool reflected a stone-bordered square of cloudless sky and the trailing foliage of nearby shrubbery. Ayaki slept in his basket beneath the tree by the Acoma natami, unaware of the dangers that hedged his young life. Unable to match his ignorant peace, Mara meditated and paced by turns. Even her temple discipline could not dispel recurrent thoughts of Buntokapi, in whose hands lay the fate of all things Acoma. Since he was born Anasati but sworn to uphold the honour of ancestors who had been enemies of his father, there was no knowing where his true loyalty lay. Through Mara’s own machinations, his affections had been given over to his concubine, Teani; and Keyoke, Nacoya, and Jican all detested him for his excesses. The estate house had been his demesne and his dwelling, but his town house in Sulan-Qu was his home. Biting her lip, Mara stopped by the natami, where not even two years past she had sworn over stewardship of her father’s name. She had then laid an intricate snare, whose bindings were that oath and the Tsurani concept of honour. These were fragile foundations upon which to base hope; for all his shortcomings, Buntokapi was no fool.
The shadows swelled and slanted, and the li birds began to sing in the slightly cooler air of afternoon. Mara sat by the sacred pool and fingered a flower plucked from a nearby shrub. The petals were pale, delicate in the extreme; like her, they could be bruised and crushed with a clench of the hand. The servants might believe she had retired to the sacred glade to pray for deliverance from the shame brought upon her house by her husband. In fact, she had gone there to escape the fear in their eyes, for if the Lord of the Acoma chose war, their fates also hung in the balance. Some might die fighting, and they would be the fortunate ones. Others might lose all honour by hanging, and many would become slaves; a few might turn to the hills as outlaws and grey warriors. If the natami were stolen, all would know the gods’ disfavour.
The shadows lengthened, and the flower wilted in Mara’s hand, poisoned by the salt of her own nervous sweat. Ayaki wakened in his basket. At first content to bat his fat hands at the insects that flitted to feed on the blossoms above his head, he later grew fussy. The time for his midday meal had long passed. Mara tossed the dead flower away and arose. She plucked a ripened fruit from one of the ornamental jomach trees and peeled it for her infant. The boy quieted as he chewed the sweet fibre. Only then did Mara hear the footsteps approaching from behind.
She did not turn around. With Papewaio on guard at the gate to the glade, this would be no assassin. Priests of Chochocan did not enter unasked; gardeners did no work while master or mistress used the glade; and no other could enter without earning a sentence of death. The only person living who could walk these paths at this hour with impunity was the Lord of the Acoma. The fact that he had arrived home from his town house in Sulan-Qu without fanfare told Mara only one thing: he had seen his father, and his disgrace in the eyes of the Warlord and his insult to the house of his birth had caught up with him.
Mara eased the last bit of jomach into Ayaki’s eager mouth. Aware that her hands were shaking, she made a show of blotting her sticky fingers just as Buntokapi reached the far side of the sacred pool.
He stopped on the walk, his sandals showering a fine spray of gravel into the water. Reflections shattered into a thousand fleeing ripples, and the li birds fell silent in the branches overhead. ‘Wife, you are like the pusk adder of the jungles, whose markings are pretty enough to be mistaken for a flower when it lies at rest. But its strike is swift and its bite is fatal.’
Slowly Mara rose. She turned reluctantly, her fingers stained red with jomach juice; and she looked upon the face of her husband.
He had come from town at speed, without his litter of state, for his broad features were whitened with a thin layer of dust from the road. He wore a simple day robe, probably the same he had donned when his father’s knock had roused him from bed; this, too, was filmed with dust, which hid the wine stains that spoiled the embroidery on one cuff. Mara’s gaze followed the knotted cords
