‘Never doubt I shall survive to exact my price. Think on that as you take back the gifts you sent. Only leave me the songbird, for it will remind me of a young man who loved me too well to be wise.’
Her sincerity roused memories now soured and painful. Cheeks burning from the intensity of his warring emotions, Bruli said, ‘I take my leave of you. The next time we meet, the Red God grant that I view your dead body.’
He spun on his heel, aware that every Acoma soldier within earshot stood ready to answer this insult. But Mara placed a restraining hand on Keyoke’s arm, silent while the young man departed. In time the tramp of the Kehotara retinue faded from the dooryard. Nacoya came in looking rumpled, her mouth a flat line of annoyance. ‘What an importunate young man,’ she muttered and, seeing Mara’s stillness, changed tack in the same breath. ‘Another lesson, child: men are easily injured over matters of the heart. More often than not, those wounds are long in healing. You may have won this round of the game, but you have also gained a deadly enemy. None are more dangerous than those in whom love has changed to hate.’
Mara gestured pointedly at the head of the dead porter. ‘Someone must pay the price of Minwanabi’s plotting. Whether or not Bruli finds other passions to occupy his mind, we have gained. Bruli has squandered enough of his father’s wealth to place Kehotara in a vulnerable position. Jingu will be prevailed upon to offer financial assistance, and anything which discomforts that jaguna is a benefit.’
‘Daughter of my heart, fate seldom works with such simplicity.’ Nacoya stepped closer, and for the first time Mara looked up and saw the scroll clutched between her old hands. The ribbons and seal were orange and black, colours she never thought to see under her roof in her lifetime. ‘This just arrived,’ said her First Adviser. With an air of stiff-backed reluctance, she passed the parchment into the hands of her mistress.
Mara snapped the ribbons and seal with hands that trembled beyond control. The scroll unrolled with a crackle against the silence that gripped the chamber. Mara read, her face expressionless as an image in wax.
Nacoya held her breath; Keyoke found what comfort he could in his statue-still military bearing; and at last Mara raised her eyes.
She rose, suddenly seeming fragile in the glare of the sun. ‘As you guessed,’ she said to the two oldest retainers in her service, ‘the Lord of the Minwanabi requests my attendance at a formal celebration of the birthday of our august Warlord.’
The colour drained slowly from Nacoya’s withered skin. ‘You must refuse,’ she said at once. No Acoma in uncounted generations had set foot onto the territory of the Minwanabi, unless accompanied by soldiers armed for war. For Mara to enter Jingu’s very house and mingle socially with his allies was a sure invitation to die. Nacoya finished lamely, ‘Your ancestors would forgive the shame.’
‘No!’ The Lady of the Acoma bit her lip, hard enough that the flesh turned white. ‘I risk grave insult to Almecho if I refuse, and after this betrayal by the Blue Wheel Party, his acclaimed temper will be short.’ Her voice trailed off, but whether from regret that she must confront Jingu before she was ready or out of fear for her own safety was unclear. Stress made her face an unreadable mask. ‘The Acoma must not bow to threats. I shall go into the stronghold of the enemy who most wishes me dead.’
Nacoya made a small sound of protest, then desperately turned her back. Torn by the sight of her adviser’s bowed shoulders, Mara tried against hope to offer comfort. ‘Mother of my heart, take courage. Remember that if Turakamu reaches out for my spirit, the Lord of the Minwanabi cannot triumph unless he also murders Ayaki. Do you think he would challenge the combined might of the Acoma and the Anasati to take the life of my son?’
For this Nacoya had no answer; at least she shook her head. But her heart told her that Jingu would dare even this to see his ancient enemies destroyed. Worse had been done, and for far less reason than blood feud, in the history of the Game of the Council.
• Chapter Fourteen • Acceptance
The runner left.
Mara pressed clenched hands on the edge of her writing desk and desperately wished him back. Too easily, the dispatch he carried to the Guild of Porters might bring her death, and the final ruin of the Acoma. But the alternative was to live without honour, shame her ancestors, and defile the ancient code of her house. Mara allowed herself a momentary stretch to ease her tense back, then summoned Nacoya, to tell the old woman that she had sent formal acceptance to Minwanabi’s invitation.
Nacoya entered with grim deliberation, sure sign she had seen the runner leave the estates. Age had not blunted her shrewdness; she already guessed that the sealed wooden cylinder he carried did not hold instructions for the factors signed by Jican.
‘You have many preparations to make, Ruling Lady.’ The erstwhile nurse’s demeanour was all that a First Adviser’s should be; but long years of intimacy could not be shed with a change of office. Mara read acerbity in the ancient woman’s tone and knew that fear lay behind it: fear for her mistress, and for all on the Acoma estates whose lives were sworn to her natami. To enter the household of the Minwanabi Lord was to challenge the monster while stepping between the teeth of its jaws. Only the most powerful might survive, and Acoma stock in the council had recovered very little since the deaths of Lord Sezu and his heir.
Yet Mara gave no opportunity for her chief adviser to embark on such recriminations. No longer the untried girl who had left Lashima’s temple, she was determined not to seem overwhelmed by Minwanabi threats. Panic would only hand Jingu a victory; and his impulsive nature might make it possible to wrest some unseen advantage for her house. ‘See to the necessities of travel, Nacoya, and have maids assemble my wardrobe. Papewaio must be told to choose warriors for my honour guard, ones who are trustworthy and proven in service, but whom Keyoke will not need in key positions to safeguard the estates in my absence.’ Pacing the polished floor before a shelf of scrolls, Mara paused a moment to tally days. ‘Has Arakasi returned?’
A week had passed since Bruli and Arakasi had both departed the Acoma estates, one to deal with a father’s anger, the other to keep his mistress’s network of agents running smoothly. Nacoya pushed a drooping hairpin straight. ‘He returned less than an hour ago, mistress.’
Mara turned with a frown of intense concentration. ‘I will speak with him after he has bathed and refreshed himself. In the meantime, send for Jican. Much business remains to be discussed before we leave for the Warlord’s birthday celebration.’
Nacoya bowed with evident reluctance. ‘Your will, Lady.’ She rose silently and left; and in a room emptied of all but the waiting presence of a few servants, Mara stared at the afternoon sunlight that embellished the screens of the study. The artist had painted his hunting scenes with masterful vigour, the trained grace of a killwing impaling swift game birds. Mara shivered. Feeling little stronger than a bird herself, she wondered whether she would ever have the chance to commission such art again.
Then Jican arrived, his arms burdened with parchments and tally slates, and a long list of decisions to be made before her departure. Mara put aside her disquiet and made herself concentrate on matters of commerce. Particularly troublesome was a note in Jican’s neat script objecting to her wish to purchase Midkemian slaves to clear new meadows for the needra displaced by the cho-ja hive. Mara sighed and rubbed the frown creases from her forehead.
Under too much stress to insist on her decision, she put off the purchase until after the Warlord’s birthday. If she survived the gathering at the Minwanabi estates, she would have ample time to deal with Jican’s reluctance.
