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Shimizu did not speak but gathered Teani close. His fingers moved impatiently, working the robe free of her body. She wore no clothing beneath, and by the feverish way he pulled off his own robe and tunic, the concubine knew she had him. His preoccupation was answer enough. He would do her will on the morrow, to ensure she was his, and his alone, for the duration of the night. Shimizu mistook her shiver of delight for passion. As he claimed her, his thoughts were solely of love; but the beautiful courtesan he coupled with responded with cold-blooded skill, her purpose to ensure that Mara, Lady of the Acoma, would lie dead with a blade in her heart.
Mara wakened unfreshed after a long and restless night. Her maids sensed her tense mood. They fetched her robes and braided silk ribbons into her hair without speaking, while Nacoya grumbled as she always did in the early hours of the morning. Too restless to wait for the meal offered by the Minwanabi house staff, Mara hurried Papewaio through his daily ritual of sword sharpening, then suggested a stroll by the lakeside. This provoked her First Adviser to sour silence.
But until Mara knew the extent of her peril, she preferred to avoid any set pattern. Before she had a chance to mingle with the guests, and observe which alliances were strong and which had grown weak, she could not hope to assess how powerful the Lord of the Minwanabi had become.
Mara breathed deeply, trying to enjoy the fresh air and flash of the sun on the water. The breeze chased ripples over the shallows, and the fishing boats bobbed on moorings, awaiting hands to man their oars. Still, the calm of the lake lent no comfort. Aware that Nacoya’s steps were not so spry as they might be, Mara at last suggested they return to the estate house.
‘That is wise, mistress,’ Nacoya said in a tone that suggested the Lady should not have gone walking where sand and dew might spoil the silk ties of her sandals. But the old woman’s rebuke lacked spirit. Her eyes were sad, and her heart felt empty so far from the Acoma estates. As she turned back to the palatial home of the Lord of the Minwanabi, with its gardens, and its banners, and its deadly gathering of guests, Papewaio took her arm and steadied her without asking leave.
The reception to welcome the Warlord, Almecho, began at mid-morning, though the dignitary it was intended to honour would probably not arrive until afternoon. When Mara arrived at the festivities, most of the nobles of the Empire had gathered, plumed and jewelled and hungry with ambitions. The Game of the Council permeated all aspects of Tsurani life, yet none more so than extravagant affairs of state. The guests might stroll beneath fringed canopies, eating exquisitely prepared foods, and exchanging gossip and tales of ancestral valour, or occasionally making wagers or trade bargains. But every Lord present watched his peers with sharp eyes, seeing who curried favour with whom and, notably, who was retiring, silent, or, more telling, absent altogether. Mara studied the faces and the house colours along with the rest, aware that she was observed in turn. The Lord of the Techtalt and his son gave her barely a nod in greeting, which indicated that already many would delay being seen with her until the standing of the Acoma had stabilized.
Mara adroitly made the issue seem trivial by leading Nacoya to a table and sending a servant for refreshments. She took care to ask only for dishes she had seen on the plates of other guests, and when the food arrived, she and her First Adviser were observed to eat well, as if nerves did not trouble their appetites. Papewaio saw, and would have smiled if the protocol expected of an honour guard did not constrain him. Mara handled even the subtleties with fineness, for only by missing her breakfast could the fussy Nacoya be induced to take refreshment under this much stress. The effect was not lost on those guests who watched. A few nodded in covert admiration, and others whispered in corners. Still others were oblivious to the affairs of the Acoma, being embroiled in plots of their own.
Mara heard the Lord of the Xacatecas laugh low in his throat; he said something that caused the third son of the Ling Family to wince and turn pale. The offspring and cousins of the Xosai seemed everywhere one turned, and the northern-born wife of the Kaschatecas flirted shamelessly with the First Adviser of the Chilapaningo. That dignitary looked as stiff as cured needra hide; quite probably he was mortified by her attentions, but she spoke too fast and gripped his sleeve too tightly for him to excuse himself.
Mara scanned the crowd, noting the wide variety of fashions and house colours. She counted the guests in two categories: those who were allies or not strong enough to challenge her, and those who were threats or who wished some vengeance upon her. Since the Minwanabi were numbered among the Five Great Families of Tsuranuanni, every powerful house in the Empire had sent some representative. Mara noted the Keda, the Tonmargu, and the Oaxatucan, each with their circle of flatterers. Lesser Lords kept their distance, or sought to wheedle favour. The Ekamchi Lord’s purple headdress bent close to his First Adviser, while the red robes of the Inrodaka clashed with the garb of two servants whose livery Mara did not recognize. Having studied those guests who were present, she felt a sudden chill. Nowhere did she see a tunic of scarlet and yellow.
As if sensing her uneasiness, Nacoya pushed aside the jigabird bones that remained of her repast. ‘I do not see the Lord of the Anasati,’ she said pointedly. ‘Unless the gods have delayed him, my daughter, you and your young son are in the gravest danger.’
Nacoya did not elaborate upon the obvious: that the absence of a prominent family was of political significance, the least aspect of which was that Tecuma’s vow to protect the Acoma for the sake of Ayaki would give no shelter unless he or his eldest son was in attendance. Without Anasati protection, Mara had only fifty warriors, who were quartered in barracks beyond her reach. Now the coldness of the Techtalt’s greeting gained a new significance; for it seemed possible that Buntokapi’s slight against the Warlord had damaged the Anasati name more than Mara had anticipated. Her danger grew in proportion. The Lord of the Minwanabi might think himself strong enough to obliterate the Acoma, then win the war that would result when Tecuma sent armies to defend Ayaki’s title,
‘You should not have accepted this invitation,’ Nacoya whispered.
Mara gestured sharp denial. Not even the fact that two houses now stood in peril could change her resolve. She would survive, turn defeat into triumph if chance lent her the appropriate weapons. But the absence of an ally she had depended upon worried her enough that she failed to notice that Teani came late to the reception, a secretive, self-satisfied look on her face whenever she glanced at Mara. Neither did the Lady of the Acoma rise from the table fast enough to avoid the Lord of the Ekamchi, who appeared, leering, at her elbow.
‘Good day, Lady of the Acoma. What a surprise to see you did not bring any of your new cho-ja warriors to watch out for your health.’
Mara bowed stiffly, reading an uncharacteristic boldness in the pudgy man’s manner. ‘My health is in sunlight, Lord of the Ekamchi. And I do not lack protection with Papewaio at my side.’
The Lord of the Ekamchi grimaced, having good cause to remember the courage and prowess of the Acoma First Strike Leader. Still, some purpose kept him persistent, revealing to Mara that he knew of some shifting alliances before she did. Unwittingly emulating her father, she chose the bold course and provoked the issue before it could be broached under less favourable circumstances. ‘You have perhaps spoken with Tecuma of the Anasati lately?’
‘Ah!’ The Lord of the Ekamchi was taken aback. Still, his eyes flashed briefly in triumph as he recovered his poise. ‘I regret to tell you that our host, the Lord of the Minwanabi, did not invite Tecuma of the Anasati to his festival. He wished not to remind the Warlord of the late unpleasantness, indeed, the slight visited upon that worthy man by the son who married the Acoma.’
‘Buntokapi died with honour,’ Mara said acidly. ‘You demean yourself by speaking ill of the dead.’ Her words were a warning, and a challenge to Ekamchi honour if the subject was not dropped.
The Lord who had insulted her withdrew with a barb of his own. ‘Still, I know that Tecuma could not have come, if circumstances permitted. He is otherwise occupied, I have heard, since an attack on his richest trade caravan left its defenders dead to a man. He lost his goods, and two hundred warriors as well, to a most vicious band of thieves.’ The Ekamchi Lord smiled, for he knew, as would Mara, that such a slaughter had not been achieved by lawless men. Some great house moved boldly against the Anasati; and of them all, only one had sworn blood feud against the Acoma, who had contrived Tecuma’s unwilling alliance.
‘Pray to the gods for the health of your son,’ sneered the Lord of the Ekamchi.
He walked off, and Mara missed the chance for a rejoinder. The fact that so small a Lord would dare to insult her came as a shock, and also served to remind her that in the eyes of the pettiest enemies her death was considered certain.
• Chapter Fifteen • Arrival
The Warlord appeared.
He entered to a fanfare of flutes, his robe of gold-trimmed white dazzling in the sunlight. Stark in contrast, two black-clad figures walked at his side. Seeing them, the guests fell instantly silent. Even the Lord of the Minwanabi hesitated before greeting the man who was second in power to the Emperor. When Jingu did step forward to bow, his manner was subdued and deferential rather than boisterous. The presence of the black-robed Great Ones often had that effect on people. The minds of magicians were unknowable, and their ways beyond question. They existed outside the law, their only task to serve the Empire. That Almecho had brought two of them to his birthday celebration affected every guest present; no plot could be certain, and no alliance completely dependable, with the presence of magic like a wild thing in their midst. Some whispered that Almecho had won several of the Black Robes to his cause; others said much of his Warlord’s policy was being decided in the City of Magicians.
Mara watched the proceedings of formal greeting from an unobtrusive place in one corner. She was somewhat relieved to see the Great Ones at Almecho’s side, for the attention of the guests would now be diverted by something besides her plight … at least for a while. She was tired of dealing with the biting observations of the other guests, and sick of having the Lord of Ekamchi repeatedly point out Tecuma’s absence. The Great Ones would cast long shadows across the interplay of intrigue; they could bring magic arts to play, render judgment swiftly and without appeal – their words were as law. They could obliterate Jingu in his own house if they felt he threatened the Empire, and Desio would only bow and intone the ritual phrase ‘Your will, Great One.’
Yet traditionally the Great Ones remained aloof from the Game of the Council; some other gambit brought the two magicians. Mara smiled to herself. Whatever the reason for their arrival, the result was two-edged: her enemies had other concerns, but then Minwanabi gained a freer hand to work her demise as the guests’ concerns focused elsewhere.
Yet even as Mara weighed the implications, the guests began to assemble, each family according to rank, to pay their respects to the Warlord. Mara and Nacoya would soon be required to leave the obscurity of their corner, for the Acoma were one of the most ancient names of the Empire, first among those that followed the original Five Great Families. Still the Lady delayed, while the Keda and Tonmargu gathered ahead of her. Then, as the Lord of the Xacatecas strode forward in turn, she threaded her way through the crowd.
‘Go slowly,’ she instructed Nacoya. Where other families moved in groups of sons, daughters, in-laws, and cousins, each relative of the blood being permitted an honour guard, her own contingent consisted only of a First Adviser and Papewaio. Other Lords and their advisers often did not notice her presence until she had passed them by, since greatness and power seldom moved without fanfare. Quite often Mara could overhear enough of their conversations to catch the drift of their concerns before the speakers were aware of her proximity. More than one group of whisperers identified the Great Ones as the same two who had engineered support in the Assembly of Magicians for Almecho’s campaign on the barbarian world. Several other magicians had come to be seen regularly with the Warlord, earning them the sobriquet ‘Warlord’s pets’. The hoods shaded the faces, making it difficult to recognize which two wizards attended. But if these were Ergoran and his brother Elgahar, more than one Lord’s plot might suffer a setback.
As the Xacatecas began their opening bows, Mara responded to Nacoya’s motherly prompting and made her way towards the dais. Kamatsu of the Shinzawai and his son fell in behind her as she ascended the stairs; and then the Xacatecas took their leave and she found herself confronting Almecho and her host, Jingu of the Minwanabi.
The Great Ones remained to one side, their unique social rank setting them apart from any formal role in the greeting ceremony. But as she took her bow, Mara caught a clear look at one of them and recognized the hooked nose and thin lips of Ergoran beneath the black hood. The Warlord took her hand as she rose, a slight twist of sarcasm marring his smile as he returned the ritual greeting. He had evidently not forgotten their last meeting, when she had dutifully repeated the words of Buntokapi concerning needra pens. Etiquette prevented his raising the topic, since ritual suicide had absolved the stain on Acoma honour. But nothing prevented the Warlord from initiating an exchange that caused Mara some social discomfort.
‘Lady Mara, what an unexpected delight. I’m pleased to see you bear as much personal courage as your father – to walk into this nest of relli.’ Still holding her hand, and stroking it in a patronizing display of attention, he turned to Jingu of the Minwanabi. His host stood biting back his anger, as distressed by the last remark as was Mara. ‘Jingu, you’re not planning to spoil my birthday celebration with bloodshed, are you?’
The Lord of the Minwanabi’s flush deepened as he spluttered a denial, but Almecho cut him off. To Mara he added, ‘Just have your bodyguard sleep lightly at your door, Lady. Jingu knows if he doesn’t observe the proper form in killing you, he’ll make me very angry.’ He glanced at his host. ‘Not to mention that he’s given sureties to his guests and it wouldn’t be profitable to eliminate you if he had to take his own life as well, would it?’
The Warlord laughed. In that instant Mara knew that the Great Game was, truly, only a game to this man. If Jingu could murder the Lady of the Acoma in such a way that he could disavow responsibility publicly, the Warlord would not only take no umbrage, but would silently applaud Jingu for his cleverness. Even if Jingu failed, to Almecho the whole situation would become a diverting amusement. Sweat dampened Mara’s back. She trembled despite her effort at self-control, and almost at her elbow the second son of the Shinzawai whispered something to his father. Almecho’s eyes narrowed; Mara’s colour must have gone ashen, for the Warlord squeezed her hand.
‘Don’t be upset, little bird; Jingu might surprise us all and behave himself.’ With a wide grin, Almecho added, ‘The betting odds right now are that you might have a slight chance of leaving alive at the end of the celebration.’
He still showed no sign of releasing her, but before he could derive further pleasure at her expense, a polite voice intruded.
‘My Lord Almecho …’ Kamatsu of the Shinzawai inserted himself into the conversation. Experienced through a lifetime spent in court intrigue, the former Warchief of the Kanazawai Clan changed the subject with a charm few present could have equalled. ‘Only a few minutes ago the Lady Mara pointed out that I had no opportunity to introduce my younger son to you at her wedding.’
Almecho’s attention was diverted enough for Mara to disengage his fingers. She half stepped to the left, and without breaking rhythm, Kamatsu moved likewise. Almecho had no graceful alternative but to acknowledge the Shinzawai Lord standing directly before him. A handsome young man accompanied his father. Kamatsu smiled and said, ‘May I present to you my second son, Hokanu?’
The Warlord frowned, momentarily off balance. He inclined his head towards Hokanu, but before his famous temper could invent a disparaging remark, Kamatsu continued. ‘His elder brother, Kasumi, you’ve met. I’m sure you remember, Almecho – he is the Force Leader of the second army of the Kanazawai Clan in your campaign.’
Again the smooth remarks denied the Warlord more than a polite mumble. Both Shinzawai moved onto the dais, causing others behind them to move towards the Warlord. As Almecho cast one last glance at Mara, Kamatsu said, ‘We will take up no more of your time, Lord, for you have many others waiting to greet you. May the gods smile down upon this celebration of your birthday.’
The Warlord had no choice but to face the next of his guests. By then Mara had regained some of her composure. She silently thanked the gods for the return of her wits and inclined her head in grateful appreciation to the Lord of the Shinzawai. Kamatsu was moving away from the receiving line, but he returned a slight nod. His manner reflected something she had not seen since she had entered the boundaries of the Minwanabi estates: sympathy. The Shinzawai Lord might not be an ally, but he had showed himself no enemy either. He had risked much by interrupting Almecho’s sport, yet the act had been boldly accomplished. While the father departed, Mara saw that the son lingered, his dark eyes following her. She gave the young man a subtle smile but dared not voice her thanks, lest the Lord of the Minwanabi come to believe the Acoma and the Shinzawai held pact against him. Nacoya urgently tugged her sleeve, hastening her steps towards the relative obscurity of a corner.
‘You must leave this place, Mara-anni,’ the First Adviser urged as soon as they had a moment to themselves. While Papewaio positioned himself between his mistress and the assembly of guests, she qualified. ‘You have no allies here, with the Warlord making sport of the Acoma. If you stay, you will lose your life, and Keyoke will face a war to protect Ayaki. Better the shame of flight than to risk the loss of the natami.’
Mara sat on an embroidered cushion and fought the weariness that dragged at her shoulders and back. ‘We cannot leave now.’
‘Girl, we must!’ Closer than she had ever come to a public expression of fear, the old woman sank down by her mistress’s knee. ‘The continuance of the Acoma is at stake.’
Mara gently patted her First Adviser’s hand. ‘Mother of my heart, we cannot run from this confrontation. Not only would our stock in the game fall far enough that we would deserve to become the butt of Almecho’s humour, but I doubt we would escape alive. If we somehow could flee over the borders of the Minwanabi estates, we would find ourselves vulnerable to open attack by “bandits” with no risk to Jingu. Here, with his surety, we have a chance of preserving our lives.’
‘Don’t count on this, mistress,’ Nacoya said sourly. ‘Jingu of the Minwanabi would never have brought the daughter of Sezu here if he thought to let her escape. For you this place is like a nest of poisoned thorns, filled with a hundred deadly traps. With even the gods’ favour, you could not avoid them all.’
Mara straightened, stung by a spark of anger. ‘You think me a girl still, old mother. That is a mistake. Jingu’s threats and even the Warlord’s ridicule will not make me shame my ancestors. Somehow, by cunning or by politics, we will escape this trap and triumph.’
Though as frightened inside as Nacoya, Mara managed the words with conviction. The elderly woman heard, and was comforted, while across the room Hokanu of the Shinzawai observed the proud bearing of Mara of the Acoma. She had admirable courage for one so young. If Minwanabi wished her dead, his plot would need to be deviously woven, for this girl was a true daughter of her father.
The afternoon progressed tediously after that. Jingu of the Minwanabi had arranged for musicians, tumblers, and a one-act farce in the Segumi style. Yet even with the Warlord’s Great Ones in attendance, the Tsurani love of the arts could not completely eclipse the lure of politics. Several Lords had hoped to exploit the fact that Almecho had overextended his position in the wars on the barbarian world. Now, with the two magicians who controlled all passage between Kelewan and Midkemia seated like the shadows of midnight in their midst, even the boldest Lords dared not seek support for their plots. Mara overheard many expressions of annoyance that Almecho should flaunt his ties with the Great Ones at what should have been a celebration in his honour.
As the curtains fell following the actors’ final bows, Desio of the Minwanabi stepped onto the wooden platform erected for the performance. His tread echoed hollowly on the boards as he strode to centre stage, his arms raised for silence.
Heads turned, and whispered conversations stilled. Desio lowered his hands with a ruffle of feathered cuffs and made his announcement. ‘Minwanabi scouts have brought word of an outbreak of trouble on the river. A band of water pirates has swept down from the north, and two barges have been robbed and burned near the borders of this estate.’ A murmur swept the hall, then stilled as the heir of the Minwanabi added more. ‘Lord Jingu has heard the Warlord’s request that his birthday celebrations not be spoiled by bloodshed. To this end, he has ordered the chain beneath the prayer gate raised, cutting off the inlet from the lake. Any barge attempting passage from the river will be burned on sight, and any guests wishing to leave this celebration early should inform us of their intention, that the warriors on duty can let them out.’ Desio finished with a deferential bow, and a pointed smile at the Lady of the Acoma. Then tumblers replaced him on the stage, and the party for the Warlord resumed.
Mara managed not to show resentment at this latest plot of Minwanabi’s. Not only had he managed to make any attempt at departure a public admission of cowardice, but he had neatly given himself an excuse if a guest chanced to be slaughtered on the river beyond his gates. Not even a messenger could be sent to the Acoma estates without Jingu’s knowledge. Mara glanced at Papewaio and knew by his tired eyes that he understood; even Keyoke could not be warned. The stakes were now higher than any of her advisers had anticipated. If she died, very likely an attack on Avaki would occur before word of her demise reached the Acoma estates.
An old friend of her father’s, Pataki of the Sida, passed near her table, and bowed politely. In a voice that only Mara and Nacoya could hear, he said, ‘You would be wise to send your bodyguard away to rest.’
‘Your advise is sound, my Lord.’ She smiled and tried to look less tired. ‘But I suggested the same thing earlier, and Papewaio said he did not care to sleep.’
The aged Lord nodded, aware as they all were that the warrior’s dedication was not misplaced. ‘Be wary, daughter of Sezu,’ Pataki said. ‘Almecho has little love for Jingu. He would enjoy seeing Minwanabi ambition blunted, but he needs their support in his little war on the barbarian world. So should Jingu manage to kill you without shame, Almecho would do nothing against him.’ For a moment the Lord of the Sida regarded the dais where the guests of honour sat dining. Almost reflectively he added, ‘Still, should Jingu be caught breaking his oath of surety for guests, Almecho would happily observe the ritual suicide.’ As if they had been speaking pleasantries, Pataki smiled. ‘Many here have a stake in what befalls the Acoma, my Lady. But none will act against you save the Minwanabi. At least you know your enemy.’