Читать книгу The Complete Empire Trilogy - Raymond E. Feist, Janny Wurts - Страница 18

A shout rang out.

‘Mara!’

Buntokapi’s anger rent the morning quiet like the challenge of a needra bull. Mara winced. She glanced instinctively at the crib near her side. Little Ayaki still slept, undisturbed by his father’s bellow. His eyes were tightly closed and his stocky limbs half tangled in his covers. After two months of Buntokapi’s roars, the infant could sleep through a thunderstorm. Mara sighed. The boy was his father’s son, thick of body and with a big head that had made his mother wish for death when he had been born. The difficult labour had drained Mara in a way she would not have thought possible before. While but eighteen years of age, she felt like an old woman, tired all the time. And the first sight of her son had saddened her. She had secretly hoped for a lithe, handsome child, such as her brother Lano must have been as a baby. Instead Buntokapi had given her a red-faced, round-headed little brute, with a visage wrinkled like a tiny old man’s. From the first moment he filled his lungs with air, he had a shout to rival his father’s; already he affected the same scowl. Still, as Ayaki lay asleep, Mara could not feel other than love for him. He is my son as well, she thought, and the blood of his grandfather is in him. The traits he has inherited from his Anasati heritage will be trained out of him and those from the Acoma will be nurtured. He will not be like his father.

‘Mara!’ Buntokapi’s irritable shout sounded very near at hand, and the next instant the screen to the boy’s nursery slammed back. ‘Here you are, woman. I’ve been all over the house looking for you.’ Buntokapi entered with a frown like a storm cloud.

Mara bowed with serenity, only too glad to lay her embroidery aside. ‘I have been with our son, husband.’

Buntokapi’s expression eased. He went to the crib where the boy lay, restless now from his father’s loud entrance. Buntokapi reached down, and for a moment Mara feared he would ruffle the boy’s black hair, as he did his hounds’. But instead his meaty hand gently straightened the cover that lay twisted between the tiny legs. The gesture caused Mara an instant’s affection towards Buntokapi, but she banished such sentiment at once. Though he wore the Acoma mantle, Buntokapi was a son of the Anasati, a house second only to the Minwanabi in despite for things Acoma. This Mara knew in her heart. And soon the time would come for change.

Exaggerating her whisper – Ayaki was a sound sleeper – she said, ‘What do you desire, husband?’

‘I must go to Sulan-Qu … ah, on business.’ Buntokapi straightened from the crib with studied lack of enthusiasm. ‘I will not be returning this night, and perhaps tomorrow as well.’

Mara bowed in acquiescence, not missing the haste in her husband’s tread as he departed through the screen. She needed no incongruities to guess that there was no business for her husband to conduct in Sulan-Qu. During the past two months his interest in business had waned, until it bordered on open neglect.

As Jican resumed control of the Acoma management, he kept his Lady well informed. Buntokapi still played hob with Keyoke’s administration of the warriors: which men were assigned and to what post. Having barely reached the point where she could influence a few small household matters, Mara could do nothing about that, at least not yet.

She stared at her embroidery in distaste, glad that in Buntokapi’s absence she need not keep that up for the sake of appearances. More and more she needed time to think and plan for the future. Her husband’s suspicious nature had partially played into her hands. Aware in his plodding way that Mara’s talent for commerce overshadowed his, Buntokapi had confined himself to seeing that his wife did not gain control of his household. Never did he realize that she had managed the garrison as adroitly before their marriage. As a result, he never thought to question other strange practices around the estate, such as Papewaio’s wearing a black headcloth. And despite his interests in warcraft, Buntokapi never became familiar with the men. Their heritage held no interest for him; otherwise he would have discovered that grey warriors had come to wear Acoma green. Certainly he lacked the imagination to embrace such changes in tradition, Mara thought, then caught herself, sharply. Even in thoughts she must not be careless. Too often he had shown he was more than a simple warrior.

Still, the man had no subtlety. Hearing his booming laugh in the mustering yard as he gathered the warriors for his escort, Mara wondered what prompted his clumsy effort at subversion. Boredom might be taking him to Sulan-Qu in the heat of high noon, to bathe with other soldiers and exchange stories, and perhaps to wrestle or gamble … or to sport with a woman of the Reed Life.

Buntokapi had returned to Mara’s bed soon after childbirth, but now that the Acoma had a living heir, she had no reason to play the dutiful wife. Buntokapi’s clutching, slobbering embrace revolted her, and she had lain still, sharing none of his passion. The first night he seemed not to notice, but on the second he became angry. The third night he complained bitterly of her lack of enthusiasm and the fourth night he beat her, then slept with one of her maids. Since then she had met his advances with no response at all, and at the last he had fallen to ignoring her.

But now Buntokapi set off for the city for the third time in ten days, and Mara was intrigued about the reason. She called Misa to open the screen, and the moment her husband’s litter and his small escort of warriors jogged smartly down the lane to the Imperial Highway, she sent her runner for Nacoya.

The old woman answered her summons tardily, but there seemed no lack of respect in her bow. ‘My mistress requires?’

‘What takes our Lord Bunto into the city so much of late?’ asked Mara. ‘What gossip do the servants tell?’

Nacoya glanced significantly at Misa, who awaited her mistress’s wishes by the screen. Warned that the nurse’s answer might be best not shared with servants, Mara sent her maid to fetch the noon meal. As Misa hurried off, Nacoya sighed. ‘As you would expect. Your husband has taken an apartment in the city so he may visit a woman.’

Mara sat back. ‘Good. We must encourage him to stay in the city as much as possible.’

Nacoya brightened with curiosity. ‘Daughter of my heart, I know some things have passed, never to be regained, but I am still the only mother you have known. Will you not tell me what you are planning?’

Mara was tempted. But her scheme to regain control of her house bordered on treason to her Lord. Although Nacoya had already deduced Mara’s intent to dispose of Buntokapi, the plan was too risky to confide. ‘That is all, old mother,’ Mara said firmly.

The nurse hesitated, then nodded, bowed, and departed, leaving Mara staring at the baby, who had begun to stir in his crib. But Ayaki’s well-being was far from her thoughts. That her Lord had a woman in the city might provide exactly the opportunity Mara required. Hoping the gods were looking after her at long last, she had begun to ponder the options of this new development when Ayaki’s healthy wail spoiled thought. Mara lifted the fussy baby to her breast and winced as the little boy bit hard upon her nipple. ‘Ow!’ she said in surprise. ‘You are your father’s son, no doubt.’ The baby quieted as he began to suck, and Misa returned with a tray. Mara ate the food without interest, her mind busy with a plan more risky than anything her old nurse might have guessed. The stakes were high. One misjudgement, and she would lose all chance of regaining the title of Ruling Lady; indeed, if she failed, the sacred honour of her ancestors might be shamed past hope of expiation.

Mara poured a cup of chocha and sat back upon her heels as Gijan, son of Lord Detsu of the Kamaiota, nodded politely. His gesture concealed biting impatience, but even his critical nature could not fault the young wife’s hospitality. She had seen him comfortable in the finest cushions, brought him refreshment, and sent immediate word to her husband that an old friend had arrived unexpectedly and was waiting to greet him.

Gijan lounged back, admiring the rings on his hands. His nails were clean to the point of fussiness and his jewellery ostentatious, but the rest of his dress showed restraint. ‘And where might Lord Buntokapi be?’

‘On some matter of busines in the city, I expect.’ Mara displayed none of the pique a young, pretty wife might feel at a husband’s absence. Aware that Buntokapi’s guest held her under closest scrutiny, she fluttered one hand offhandedly. ‘You know these things are beyond me, Gijan, though I must say he spends a great deal of time away from home.’

Gijan’s eyes narrowed, his self-absorbed admiration of his jade now an obvious act. Mara sipped her chocha, certain now that this guest had come to spy for the Anasati. No doubt Lord Tecuma wished information on how his third son fared as Lord of the Acoma. He had sent a handsome messenger, perhaps hoping the contrast to Buntokapi would entice a young wife to speak freely. After the barest interval the young noble said, ‘Is that rascal neglecting his affairs then?’

‘Oh no, Gijan.’ To avoid giving her father-in-law an excuse to pry further into Acoma affairs, Mara qualified expansively. ‘If anything, Lord Buntokapi is too rigorous in his attention to details. He spends long hours at his desk.’

Lord Gijan’s polished façade broke before incredulity. ‘Bunto?’ Aware he might have betrayed his appraisal of the new Lord of the Acoma, he closed his gaping mouth and added, ‘Of course. Bunto was always a diligent fellow.’

Mara smothered a smile. Both of them lied outrageously, and each knew it; but a guest might not question the word of a host without raising the thorniest implications of honour.

With the topic of Buntokapi’s management effectively closed, the morning wore on in polite conversation. Mara sent for thyza bread and fish, which slowed Gijan’s effort at interrogating until at last her runner returned from town. Stripped to his loincloth, and breathless from the road, he dropped to his knees before Mara. ‘Mistress, I bring word from the Lord of the Acoma.’

Pleasantly Mara said, ‘What does my husband wish?’

The slave had barely washed his feet clean of dust before presenting himself; gasping still from his journey, he said, ‘My Lord Buntokapi says he is most apologetic for being absent when his dear friend Gijan of the Kamaiota calls. He is presently unable to return to the estate and wishes for Gijan to join him in Sulan-Qu.’

Gijan nodded to the exhausted slave boy. ‘Tell my servant to have my litter prepared.’ Then he smiled at Mara. ‘If my Lady has no objection?’ Mara returned the smile, as if his presumption in ordering her runner was only another right of a man in the presence of a mere wife. How different it had been when she had been Ruling Lady. And things would be different again, soon; this she vowed as she ordered her maid to remove the food tray. Then, all lightness and grace, she saw Gijan to the door of the estate house.

While waiting in the hallway for the visitor’s escort to assemble, she dismissed her runner and inwardly acknowledged relief. She had feared that Buntokapi might be returning. Though the journey to the city from the estates took two hours on foot, a message runner could make it there and back in half that time. By litter, Gijan would not reach Sulan-Qu until nearly sundown. No doubt Gijan also loved gambling, so Buntokapi would hardly subject his boyhood friend to a return trip after dark. Dice and cards and betting would keep them both in the city for the night, which was a small blessing from the gods. Already Mara had begun to treasure his absence, but this was a freedom she dared not love too much lest impatience prove her downfall.

Gijan bowed formally in farewell. ‘I shall give your husband compliments on your hospitality when I greet him, Lady Mara.’ He smiled at her, suddenly charming, and Mara realized this young man was wondering if she was another neglected woman ready for a romance.

Formal and distant, she showed him briskly to the screen. She did not need to waste time fending off the advances of amorous younger sons. What Bunto had shown her of lovemaking had convinced her she needed little from men. If ever she came to desire the company of a lover, he would be nothing like this silly, vain nobleman who took his leave to join Bunto in a night of gambling, wine, and prostitutes. As the litter departed, Mara heard a loud wail from the nursery.

‘Men,’ she muttered under her breath, and hurried to attend her son. The boy needed changing. Preoccupied, Mara gave him over to Nacoya, who had not lost her knack for dealing with infants. As the old woman began a game with the child involving his fingers and toes, Mara considered what Buntokapi’s reaction to Gijan’s visit would likely be.

The following afternoon, it seemed she had read his mind. Wearing his wrestling cloth, and gleaming still with the oil and sweat of his exercise, Buntokapi scratched the mat of hair on his chest. ‘When someone calls and I am in the city, do not waste so much time sending messages, wife. Simply send them along to my town house.’

Mara bounced Ayaki one more time on her knee, her eyebrows raised in inquiry. ‘Town house?’

As if the matter were of small account, Buntokapi answered over his son’s shriek of pleasure, ‘I have moved to larger quarters in Sulan-Qu.’ He gave no reason, but Mara knew he had established the apartment to meet with his mistress, a woman named Teani. As far back as Mara could remember, Lord Sezu had never felt the need to take a town house. Though the practice was common enough among other lords whose estates were remotely located, no matter how late business kept Sezu in the city he always returned home to sleep under the same roof as his family. If Mara was generous in her assessment, Buntokapi was barely more than a boy, only two years older than she, and with none of her level-headed nature. While she had sat next to her brother, hearing the lessons on governance her father gave, Bunto had been a neglected, lonely boy who had spent time off by himself brooding, or in the rough company of soldiers. Her own coldness did not upset him but encouraged a return to his former habits of finding the pleasures he understood. Still, Mara had not selected this husband because she wanted someone strong-minded and resolute, like her father. Now her plans demanded that she encourage his self-indulgent, bad-tempered nature, though the course would be dangerous in the extreme.

Ayaki gave a last, deafening squeal and grabbed her beads. Prying his grip from her throat, Mara pretended indifference to her husband’s indulgence. ‘Whatever my Lord requires.’

Bunto returned one of his rare smiles, and ducking a swipe of Ayaki’s tiny fist, Mara wondered briefly on the mistress, Teani. What sort of woman would infatuate a brute like her husband? But Buntokapi’s pleased expression vanished as, with faultless timing, Jican appeared with a dozen scrolls in hand. ‘My Lord, by the grace of the gods, you are back fortuitously. I have some papers dealing with matters of your distant holdings that need your immediate approval.’

With a beleaguered cry, Bunto said, ‘Fortuitous! I must return to the city tonight.’ He stalked from Mara’s presence without so much as a good-bye, but his wife seemed not to care. Her eyes were fixed on the rosy face of her son as, drooling, he tried with fierce concentration to stuff her amber beads in his mouth. ‘Your appetites might kill you one day,’ she warned mildly; but whether she referred to her husband or his offspring only the gods might guess. After rescuing her jewellery, Mara smiled. The mistress, Teani, had wrapped another twist into the fabric of ideas evolved since the day the grey warriors had sworn service. The hour had come to begin Buntokapi’s education on what it really took to conduct the business of the Acoma.

Alone in the cool shadow of the nursery, Mara consulted the wax tally started in secret during the last month. No one would interrupt her. Nacoya was out with Ayaki, and the slave who changed the covers in the crib could not read. Reflectively Mara chewed the end of her stylus. Each day Buntokapi visited his town house, she had sent at least one servant or Jican with some minor document to sign. From their dozens of reports, she had patiently pieced together the fact that her husband lived a very patterned existence. When in Sulan-Qu, Buntokapi arose at mid-morning, but never later than the third hour after sunrise. He would then walk to a public training arena where mercenary guards and warriors whose masters were staying in the city gathered to practise at arms. Buntokapi preferred wrestling and archery to sword work, but with a diligence that had surprised Gijan he now practised all three. His technique with the blade improved steadily, but he still chose the company of common soldiers over that of the other lords who occasionally availed themselves of the facilities. Midday saw him bathed and changed and on the way to his town house; for about two hours thereafter he remained receptive to any work sent from the estates by Mara. His mistress, Teani, was rarely out of bed before mid-afternoon, and his tolerance for business fled the instant she awoke. With a charm that even the oldest messenger had described with admiration, she would lure Buntokapi to her bed until barely enough time remained to rise and dress for dinner. Then the couple would attend the theatre to see comedies, the taverns to listen to minstrels, or the gambling houses, though Teani had no wealth except what came to her as gifts. She derived a perverse pleasure from encouraging her paramour to bet, and if he lost, rumour held that her eyes sparkled all the more brightly. Mara frowned. Many servants had been cursed and cuffed to glean this information – the last runner to carry a document to Lord Buntokapi had been severely beaten – but in this matter a slave boy was of little consequence. Worse might come if the man she had married continued to wear the Lord’s mantle.

An enraged yell from Ayaki echoed down the corridor beyond the screen, followed by Nacoya’s chiding voice. If the child had soiled himself, the nursery would shortly become the site of a minor commotion. Ayaki battled like a young harulth whenever anyone tried to change him. Sighing with indulgence mixed with exasperation, Mara concealed the wax slate beneath an old parchment map and resumed her study of the Empire. The border lines and the estates on this rendition were slightly out of date, having been drawn up when she was a little girl. But the dyes were still bright and most of the holdings of the major Lords of the Empire were clearly marked. Since Buntokapi detested everything to do with words on paper, he would never miss this one document from his study. The only use he had for a map was to find which lands were open for hunting.

As Ayaki’s wails drew nearer, Mara noticed an interesting fact at the outset: the Lord of the Zalteca, a minor neighbour who had a very prosperous trade in pottery, used a strip of land between his own estates and the Imperial Highway that appeared to be the property of the Lord of the Kano, who lived far to the east near the city of Ontoset. Mara found this indefinably amusing. If other families exercised such usurpation of property rights, that knowledge might later prove useful. She would ask Arakasi about it when he returned, and that thought sparked realization: only a week remained before she and Buntokapi celebrated their first wedding anniversary. The Spy Master might return to the estate at any moment.

Apprehension gripped Mara, even as Nacoya entered with Ayaki screaming in her arms. ‘Your son would make a fine substitute for a guli,’ said the old woman, referring to the hairy troll-like creatures of children’s tales; they scared their victims to death with hideous screams.

Mara only nodded. Wondering whether her mistress had gone deaf, Nacoya called the slave away from freshening the crib to help manage the Acoma heir, who yelled until his face was red, and made everyone’s ears sore. Eventually Mara arose. She bent over her baby and jingled her beads to amuse him. As Ayaki’s wails changed to laughter in another of his mercurial shifts of mood, her thoughts continued.

Somehow she must prevent Arakasi from coming under Buntokapi’s control. Her bull of a husband would only waste that information network, or worse, make it available for his father’s use, which would place far too dangerous a power in the hands of the Lord of the Anasati. Necessity made Mara bold. She must prepare for Arakasi’s arrival with no further delay, so that his loyalty should remain hers alone. Inwardly reviewing her husband’s schedule of activities, Mara spoke briskly to the slave who laboured over the kicking, naked legs of her son. ‘Call for Jican.’

Nacoya raised her eyebrows. ‘To the nursery?’ she said, startled, but her mistress ignored the liberty.

‘The matter will not wait.’ Without further fuss, Mara relieved the slave of the damp cloths and began to cleanse her infant’s soiled bottom.

Jican arrived, any puzzlement he felt well concealed. He bowed deeply as his mistress tied a clean loincloth around her son. ‘Have we some documents that would be appropriate for my Lord husband’s review?’

Barely able to contain his distaste at the mention of the Lord of the Acoma, Jican said, ‘My Lady, there are always documents that are appropriate for the Lord of the house to review.’ He bowed, shamed at how close to insult his words came in their implication that Buntokapi neglected his responsibilities. Mara sensed her hadonra’s discomfort as she lifted Ayaki onto her shoulder.

In a tone sweet as red-bee honey, she said, ‘Then I think it would be fitting to send a scribe to my husband’s town house at three hours after noon.’

Jican stifled open curiosity. ‘If you think that is wise, mistress, then it shall be done.’

Mara dismissed him and saw that Nacoya, too, regarded her with a shrewd glint in her eyes. ‘You are deaf, mother of my heart,’ the Lady of the Acoma said softly. ‘And business matters are never conducted in the nursery.’

The nurse bowed promptly, guessing something of her mistress’s intentions; but the full extent of those plans would have terrified the old woman beyond measure. As I am terrified, Mara thought, and silently wondered whether the Goddess of Wisdom would hear the prayers of a wife who knowingly provoked a husband already renowned for his bad temper.

Buntokapi raised his head from rumpled, sweat-damp pillows. The screens were drawn closed, but even the decorations painted in scarlet, maroon, and ochre could not entirely block out the afternoon sun in the garden beyond. A golden glow suffused the chamber, lending warm highlights to tangled sheets and to the sleeping form of his mistress, Teani. The Lord of the Acoma regarded the rounded length of her thigh, his thick lips bent into a smile. This was a woman, he thought. Naked, she took his breath away, as Mara’s slenderness never had. He had felt passion for his wife when he had first wed; but having tasted the delights of Teani’s talents, he now realized that his feelings for Mara arose from desire to dominate the daughter of a great family – and to rectify his own limited experience with women prior to becoming a Lord. Once he had a son, he had tried to do a husband’s duty, but Mara lay like a corpse, and what man could stay interested in a woman who offered no sport?

Mara’s strange intellectual passions, her love of poetry, and her fascination with the cho-ja Queen’s hive gave Buntokapi a general headache. His mistress was another matter. In silent appreciation, he studied Teani’s long legs. A fold in the sheets hid her hips and back, but masses of red-gold hair, rare in the Empire, tumbled down shoulders like fine procelain. Teani’s face was turned away, but Buntokapi imagined her perfection: the full, sensuous mouth that could tease him until he was crazy, and the straight nose, high cheekbones, and eyes almost amber in colour that brought admiring stares from every man when she clung to his arm. Her powers of attraction lent force to the manhood of Buntokapi, and just watching her slow breathing aroused him. With a leer he pressed a hand beneath the sheets to seek her firm, round breast. Someone chose that instant to knock at the door.

Buntokapi’s questing fingers balled into a fist. ‘Who is it?’ His irritable bellow caused Teani to half spin, half sit up, in sleepy disarray.

‘Huh?’ She said, blinking. A toss of her head dislodged a river of loosened hair and the light shone warm on her breasts. Buntokapi licked his lips.

A servant’s muffled voice called from beyond the screen. ‘Master, a messenger from your hadonra brings documents for you to see.’

Buntokapi considered rising for a moment, but Teani levered herself upon her elbows, and her nipples jutted across his line of sight. The ache in his groin intensified. His movement changed to a half-roll that placed his head between those inviting pillows of flesh. The sheets fell away. He ran tickling fingers down Teani’s exposed stomach and she giggled. That decided Buntokapi. Surrendering to lust, he shouted, ‘Tell him to come back tomorrow!’

The servant hesitated from the other side of the screen door. Timidly he said, ‘Master, you’ve told him to come back three days in a row now.’

Shifting expertly under his hands, Teani whispered in Buntokapi’s ear and then nipped at the lobe. ‘Tell him to come back in the morning!’ shouted Buntokapi. Then he remembered he had to wrestle a Strike Leader of the Tuscalora in the morning. ‘No, tell him to come at noon and bring his documents then. Now leave me!’

Buntokapi waited, stiff with annoyance, until he heard the servant hurry away. Sighing at the tremendous responsibilities of his office, he decided he was entitled to his pleasures; otherwise the work load would grind him to a nub. As the ultimate favourite of his pleasures had begun to bite his shoulder, he thought it time to be diverted. With a half laugh, half grunt, the Lord of the Acoma pulled his concubine to him.

Late the following morning, Buntokapi marched through the streets of Sulan-Qu, feeling full of himself. He had easily defeated the Tuscalora Strike Leader and had won a fair amount of money as well, thirty centuries, which, while trivial to him now that he was Ruling Lord, still was a nice amount to have clinking in one’s purse. Accompanied by his escort, two young Acoma guards who shared his passion for wrestling, he left the congestion of the main streets and rounded the corner to his town house. His mood darkened at once, for his hadonra sat on the stoop, the two servants with him burdened with leather carriers stuffed to capacity with parchments.

Dust arose in small puffs as Buntokapi stamped to a stop. ‘What now, Jican?’

The little hadonra scrambled to his feet and bowed with a deference that somehow always annoyed. ‘You instructed my messenger to see you at noon, Lord. As I had other business in town, I thought I would personally bring these papers here.’

Buntokapi sucked air through his teeth and recalled somewhat belatedly the words he had uttered through the screen in the course of his afternoon frolic with Teani. He scowled at his patient hadonra, then waved to the slaves who carried the sheaves of documents. ‘Very well, bring them inside.’

Soon the writing tables, two food trays, and nearly every available area of flooring were tiered with stacks of parchments. Buntokapi laboured through page after page until his eyes stung from squinting at tiny columns of figures, or lists and lists of inventory. The cushions compressed and grew damp with his own sweat, and finally his foot went to sleep. Exasperated, Buntokapi heaved himself to his feet and noticed the sunlight had traversed the length of the garden. The afternoon had almost fled.

Indefatigable, Jican handed him another document. Buntokapi forced watering eyes to focus. ‘What is this?’

‘As it says, Lord.’ Jican tapped gently on the title script with one finger.

‘Estimates on needra droppings?’ Buntokapi jabbed the paper angrily in the air. ‘By all the gods of heaven, what foolishness is this!’

Jican remained unfazed by his Lord’s wrath. ‘No foolishness, master. Each season we must estimate the weight of the dung, to judge whether we have a shortage of fertilizer for the thyza paddies and need to import, or excess to sell to the farm broker.’

Buntokapi scratched his head. Just then the screen leading to the bedchamber slid open. Teani stood in the doorway, inadequately wrapped in a robe sewn with scarlet birds of passion. The tips of her breasts pressed clearly through the cloth, and her hair tumbled sensuously over a shoulder artfully left bare. ‘Bunto, how much longer are you going to be? Should I dress for the theatre?’

The open seduction in her smile left a staring Jican scarlet to the roots of his hair. Teani blew him a teasing kiss, more in sarcasm than fun; and frustration pricked Buntokapi to jealous rage. ‘No longer!’ he roared to his hadonra. ‘Take this list of needra dung, and your tallies of hides ruined by mould and mildew, and the estimates on repairing the aqueduct to the upper meadows, and reports listing damaged from the warehouse fire in Yankora, and give every one of them to my wife. Henceforth you will not come here unless I call you. Is that clear?’

Jican’s flush drained to a yellowed, trembling pallor. ‘Yes, master, but –’

‘There are no buts!’ Buntokapi chopped the air with his hand. ‘These matters can be discussed with my wife. When I ask you, give me a summation of what you have been doing. From now on, if any Acoma servant appears here with a document without my having asked to read it, I’ll have his head over the door! Is that understood?’

The list of needra dung estimates pressed protectively to his chest, Jican bowed very low. ‘Yes, master. All matters of the Acoma are to be given over to the Lady Mara and reports prepared at your request. No servant is to bring a document to your attention unless you ask for it.’

Buntokapi blinked, as if unsure that this was exactly what he intended. Exploiting his confusion, Teani picked that moment to open the front of her robe and fan cool air across her body. She wore nothing underneath. In the sweet rush of blood to his groin, Buntokapi lost all interest in clarifying the point. With an impatient wave of his hand he dismissed Jican, then trod across crackling piles of parchments to sweep his mistress into his arms.

Jican gathered the creased tallies with near-frantic haste. Still, as the couple in the doorway retired into the shadows of the bedchamber, he saw his parchments stacked straight and the carrying cases neatly tied before he turned their heavy burden over to his servants. As he walked out through the main door of the town house, where an escort of Acoma soldiers waited to accompany him home, he heard Buntokapi laugh. To the long-suffering servants it was unclear who, at that moment, was the happier man.

The estate settled sleepily into the routines of midsummer. The maids no longer sported bruises in the mornings; Keyoke’s subordinates lost their harried look; and Jican’s whistling as he returned from the needra meadows to take up his pens and parchment once again became a reliable way to tell time. Aware that this calm was an illusion, the temporary result of her husband’s long absences, Mara fought the tendency to grow complacent. Though the arrangement was fortunate, the courtesan Teani could not be depended upon to divert Buntokapi indefinitely. Other steps must be taken, each more dangerous than the last. On her way to her chambers, Mara heard a squeal of baby laughter.

She smiled indulgently to herself. Ayaki was growing like a weed, strong and quick to smile now that he had begun to sit up. He kicked his stumpy legs as if impatient to be walking, and Mara wondered whether, when that time came, old Nacoya would be up to handling him. Mentally she made a note to find the nurse a younger assistant, so that the boisterous child would not try her ancient bones too much. That thought in mind, Mara entered the doors to her chamber, then froze, her foot raised between one step and the next. Motionless in the shadow sat a man, his dusty, ragged tunic dyed with the symbols of a mendicant priest of the order of Sularmina, Shield of the Weak. But how he had eluded Keyoke’s defences, and the comings and goings of the servants, to gain the privacy of her quarters, was utterly confounding. Mara drew breath to shout an alarm.

The priest forestalled her as, in a voice undeniably familiar, he said, ‘Greetings, mistress. I have no wish to disturb your peace. Should I leave?’

‘Arakasi!’ The rapid beat of Mara’s heart slowed, and she smiled. ‘Stay, please, and welcome back. Your appearance, as always, surprised me. Have the gods favoured your endeavours?’

The Spy Master stretched, taking the liberty to unwind the cords that secured his head covering. As the cloth slid into his lap, he smiled back. ‘I was successful, Lady. The entire network has been revived, and I have much information to convey to your husband.’

Mara blinked. Her joy deflated, and her hands tightened at her sides. ‘My husband?’

Reading the small signs of tension in her stance, Arakasi spoke carefully. ‘Yes. News of your wedding and the birth of your son reached me in my travels. I will swear fealty to the Acoma natami, if your agreement with me is honourable. Then I must reveal all to my Lord of the Acoma.’

Mara had anticipated this. Despite her planning on the matter, the reality of Arakasi’s loyalties caused a prickle of deepest apprehension. All her hopes might come to nothing. If her husband did not blunder like a needra bull through the subtleties of the Game of the Council, and see the Acoma set upon by intrigue and power-hungry Lords whose secrets had been indiscreetly used, he might turn the Spy Master’s talents over to his father. Then her enemies the Anasati would become strong enough that no family could stand safely against them. Mara tried desperately to act as if the matter were casual. Now that the time was upon her, the stakes seemed frighteningly high.

She glanced quickly at the cho-ja clock on the writing desk and saw the time was still early, only three hours since dawn. Her mind spun in calculation. ‘I think you should rest,’ she said to Arakasi. ‘Take the time until noon to relax and bathe, and after the noon meal I will attend the ceremony to swear your fealty to the Acoma natami. Then you must go to Sulan-Qu and introduce yourself to my Lord Buntokapi.’

Arakasi regarded her shrewdly, his fingers creasing the priest’s mantle over and over in his lap.

‘You may dine with me here,’ Mara added, and she smiled in the sweet way he remembered.

Marriage, then, had changed nothing of her spirit. Arakasi rose and bowed in a manner utterly at odds with his dress. ‘Your will, Lady.’ And on silent feet he departed for the baths and the barracks.

Events developed swiftly after that. Seated on cushions in the breeze from the screen, Arakasi sipped the hot tea, made from fragrant herbs and fruit tree blooms. Enjoying the quickness of Mara’s wit, he talked of the state of the Empire. The Thuril war that had ended years before had caused a loss of prestige for the Warlord and his War Party. The Blue Wheel Party and the Party for Progress had combined to almost force a change in imperial policy, until discovery of the alien world of Midkemia, populated by barbarians and rich with metals beyond the dreams of the maddest poet. Scouts had found metal lying about, obviously fashioned by intelligent beings, then discarded, wealth enough to keep an estate running for a year. Few reports followed, for the Warlord’s campaign against these barbarians had strangled all outgoing information. Since the death of her father and brother, Mara had lost all track of the wars beyond the rift. Of late, only those who served the new Alliance for War knew what was taking place in the barbarian world – or shared in the spoils.

Arakasi’s well-placed agents had access to such secrets. The war progressed well for the Warlord, and even the most reluctant members of the Blue Wheel Party had now joined in the invasion of Midkemia. Animated as he rarely was in his disguises, Arakasi gave a general outline to Mara, but he seemed reluctant to discuss details with anyone but the Lord of the Acoma.

Mara for her part showed him nothing but the dutiful wife, until the tea was drunk to the dregs and even Arakasi’s large appetite seemed satisfied. Her glance at the wall clock seemed casual enough as she said, ‘The day passes. Shall we swear you to our service, that you may go to my husband in Sulan-Qu?’

Arakasi bowed and rose, his sharp eyes not missing the slight tremble in Mara’s voice. He studied her eyes, reassured by the look of resolve in their dark depths. The incident with the cho-ja queens had instilled in him a deep respect for this woman. She had won his trust, and for that he stepped forward to swear his loyalty and his honour to an unknown Lord.

The ceremony was simple, and brief, the only oddity being that Arakasi swore on behalf of his agents also. Mara found it strange to consider the Acoma had loyal retainers whose names were unknown to her, yet who might willingly give their lives for the honour of a master and mistress they had never met. The greatness of Arakasi’s gift, and the fear that his sacrifice and his labours might be wasted, threatened to bring tears to her eyes. Briskly Mara turned to the practical.

‘Arakasi, when you visit my husband … go in the guise of a servant. Tell him you are there to discuss the shipment of the needra hides to be sold to the tentmakers in Jamar. He will then know if it is safe to talk. There are servants in the town house new to our service, so my Lord may be cautious. He will instruct you about what you shall do.’

Arakasi bowed and left her side. As the light slanted golden across the lane leading to the Imperial Highway, Mara bit her lip in earnest hope. If she had timed things right, Arakasi’s arrival should coincide with the height of Buntokapi’s passion in the arms of Teani. Very likely the Spy Master would find a reception far different from anything he expected – unless her husband was in an utterly uncharacteristic mood of tolerance. Worried, excited, and frightened at the frail odds that supported her hopes, Mara put off the poet she had called in to read. Instead she spent the afternoon in the ironclad disciplines of meditation, for the beauty of his words would be wasted in her present frame of mind.

Hours passed. The needra were driven in from their day pastures, and the shatra flew, heralding the approach of night. As the chief assistant gardener lit the lamps in the dooryard, Arakasi returned, dustier than he had been that morning, and visibly footsore. He entered Mara’s presence as the maids laid out cushions for her comfort. Even in the unlit gloom of the chamber, the large red welt upon his cheek showed plainly. Silent, Mara dismissed her maids. She sent her runner after cold food, and a basin and cloth for light washing. Then she bade the Spy Master sit.

The tap of the runner’s sandals diminished down the hall. Alone with his mistress, Arakasi bowed formally. ‘My Lady, your Lord listened to my coded greeting, then erupted into a fury. He struck me and bellowed that any business I had was to be directed to Jican and you.’ Mara endured his penetrating gaze without expression. She seemed coiled, waiting, and after an interval Arakasi continued. ‘There was a woman there, and he seemed … preoccupied. In any event, your husband is a superb – actor. Or he wasn’t acting at all.’

Mara’s expression remained innocent. ‘Many of the duties of this household my husband has given over to me. After all, I was Ruling Lady before he came here.’

Arakasi was not fooled. ‘“When the Game of the Council enters the home, the wise servant does not play,”’ he quoted. ‘In honour, I must do exactly as my Lord bids, and I will assume things are as they seem until proven otherwise.’ His stare turned cold then, even in the veiling of shadow of dusk. ‘But I am loyal to the Acoma. My heart is with you, Mara of the Acoma, because you gave me colours to wear, but I am duty-bound to obey my lawful Lord. I will not betray him.’

‘You say only what a loyal servant would be honour-bound to say, Arakasi. I expect no less.’ Mara smiled, unexpectedly pleased by her Spy Master’s warning. ‘Do you have any doubts about my husband’s wishes?’

The slave arrived with the food tray. Gratefully choosing a jigabird pastry, Arakasi answered. ‘In truth, I would have, if I hadn’t seen the woman he was … speaking with when I appeared.’

‘What do you mean?’ Mara waited, impatient, while he chewed and swallowed.

‘Teani. I know her.’ Arakasi qualified with no change in tone, ‘She is an agent of the Lord of the Minwanabi.’

Mara felt a stab of cold pass through her. Still enough that Arakasi noticed her distress, she spoke after a long moment. ‘Say nothing of this to anyone.’

‘I hear, mistress.’ Arakasi snatched the interval to eat in earnest. His travels had left him gaunt, and he had crossed many leagues since dawn. Guilty because he also bore the painful marks of Buntokapi’s wrath, Mara allowed him to finish his meal before asking for his full report.

After that, excitement made her forget his tiredness. As Arakasi unfolded the intrigue and the complexities of Empire politics in spare words, and a sprinkling of amusing anecdotes, she listened with shining eye. For this she had been born! As the evening grew old and the moon rose beyond the screen, pictures and patterns began to form in her mind. She interrupted with questions of her own, and the quickness of her deductions made Arakasi visibly shed his weariness. At last he had a mistress who appreciated the nuances of his work; henceforward her enthusiasm would sharpen his skills. As the men in his network saw the Acoma rise in power, their part would engender a pride they had never known under the Lord of the Tuscai.

Slaves came to tend the lamps. As new light spilled across the planes of the Spy Master’s face, Mara noticed the changes in Arakasi’s manner. What a treasure this man was, his talents an honour to House Acoma. Mara listened to his information long into the night, torn inside by frustration even his sharp perception did not discern. Now, at long last, she had the tools she needed to enter the game and find a way to earn her father and brother vengeance against the Minwanabi. But no move could be made, and no bit of information acted upon, with Buntokapi in place as Lord of the Acoma. When at last Arakasi departed, Mara sat with eyes fixed sightlessly on the stripped bones of jigabirds scattered upon the food tray. She brooded, and did not sleep until dawn.

The guests arrived late the next morning. Red-eyed from lack of sleep, Mara regarded the seven litters that wended their way towards the estate house. The colours of the escort’s armour were known to her, and not a cause for joy. With a sigh of resignation, Mara bade her maid bring her a proper robe for the greeting of guests. That these were an intrusion to ruin a fine morning mattered not at all. The honour and hospitality of the Acoma must be maintained. When the first litter reached the dooryard, Mara was waiting to meet its occupant, three maids accompanying her. Nacoya came from another door and joined her lady as the first guest rose from his cushions.

Mara bowed formally. ‘My Lord Chipaka, what an honour.’

The wizened old man blinked weak eyes and attempted to identify who spoke. Since he was also hard of hearing, Mara’s words had escaped him as well. Edging closer to the young girl standing nearest, he squinted and bellowed, ‘I am Lord Chipaka of the Jandawaio. My wife and my mother and my daughters have come to visit your master and mistress, girl.’

He had mistaken Mara for a servant. Barely able to contain her amusement, the Lady of the Acoma ignored the slight. Speaking directly into the elder’s ear, she said, ‘I am Mara, wife of Lord Buntokapi, my Lord. To what do we owe this honour?’

But the old man had shifted his attention to the frail and ancient woman, looking to be near a hundred, who was being assisted as delicately as a jewelled egg from the most ostentatious of the litters. Mara dispatched her maids to help, as a gesture of respect, for the bearers were filthy with dust from the road. The old woman returned no thanks. Wizened and beaked like a featherless bird, she simply squatted between the two servants who supported her. Three other women emerged from other litters behind, each a younger replica of her grandmother, but equally waspish in the calm of mid-morning; they indulged in the most faddish of fashions. Gathering around the ancient woman, they at once began a nattering chatter. Mara reined in her distaste, for already this invasion of her home had become an exercise in tolerance.

The old man shuffled closer, smiling and patting her rump. Mara hopped forward, blinking in shock and disgust. But the old man seemed oblivious to her discomfort. ‘I was unable to attend your mistress’s wedding, girl. My estates near Yankora are far indeed, and Mother was ill.’ He waved at the frail woman, who now stared blankly into space, while her granddaughters steadily cursed the inept handling of the servants who supported the ancient crone. Into this clutch of hen jigahens hobbled the woman from the last litter. She was gowned in embroidered sharsao cloth, and behind the affected fluttering of her fan she sported a face of the same vintage as Lord Chipaka’s. Mara decided she must be the Lady of the Jandawaio.

The old man plucked insistently at the sleeve of the Lady of the Acoma. ‘Since we happened to be passing north on our way to the Holy City, we had our barge put in at Sulan-Qu, and came to call upon your Lord … ah yes, that’s his name. I’m an old friend of his father’s, you know.’ The old man winked knowingly at Mara. ‘My wife’s a sound sleeper, don’t you know. Come by later tonight, girl.’ He attempted to pat Mara’s arm in what was intended to be a seductive manner, but his hand was so palsied, he missed her wrist.

A wicked gleam lit Mara’s eyes. Though the Lord was tastelessly lascivious, and his breath stank of rotting teeth, she barely smothered her delight. ‘You wish to see the Lord of the Acoma? Then, my Lord, I am afraid you must return to the city, for my Lord Buntokapi is now in residence at his town house.’

The old man blinked, blank-faced. Obligingly Mara repeated her message at a shout.

‘Oh. Why certainly. His town house.’ The old man leered again at Mara. Then he bobbed his head briskly and waved to his retinue.

The women, still chattering, remained oblivious as their slaves gathered by the litters. The bearers who had been carrying the tiny old woman did an abrupt about-turn and headed their confused-looking charge back towards her cushions. Over her mumble of complaint the old man cried, ‘Go on. Go on now, Mother, we must go back to the city.’

The girls and their mother, uniformly plain and loud, protested bitterly at the idea of returning to their litters. They simpered and delayed, hoping to cadge an invitation for refreshments from the Lady of the Acoma, but the deaf Lord Chipaka paid no heed to their noise. As he seemed in haste to descend upon Lord Buntokapi, Mara decided not to impede his departure. When the matriarch and her brood were safely buttoned into their litters, she graciously offered a messenger slave to guide the way to the town house, that the courtesy visit to her Lord suffer no more unnecessary delays.

The Lord of the Jandawaio waved absently and shuffled to the litter he shared with his mother. One hand upon the curtains, he paused and said, ‘And tell your mistress I am sorry to have missed her, girl.’

Shaking her head slightly, Mara said, ‘I will, my Lord.’

The slaves bent, muscles shining with sweat as they hefted the litter poles. As the procession traipsed back down the lane, Nacoya said, ‘My Lady, Lord Bunto will be furious.’

Mara watched the departing retinue with sharp calculation. If the ancient matriarch of the Jandawaio resented the jostling of anything but a slow walk, Buntokapi’s visitors would arrive within an hour after he had returned to Teani’s bed. Fervently Mara murmured, ‘I certainly hope so, Nacoya.’

She returned to her quarters, where her maps and documents awaited further study. Nacoya stared after her in astonishment, wondering what possible motive would justify the young mistress’s inviting the wrath of that brute she had married.

Three days later, ignoring the presence of Nacoya and the other servants, Buntokapi stamped into Mara’s quarters unannounced. At the sight of his dusty sandals, Mara winced reflexively. But this pair was for walking only, lacking the studs used in battle or on the practice ground. ‘You should never have allowed that old fool and his clutch of jigahens to come to my town house,’ the Lord of the Acoma opened. The timbre of his voice caused the maids to shrink in the corners.

Mara lowered her eyes, as much to hide her amusement at Buntokapi’s calling the Lord of the Jandawaio’s women barnyard fowl as from any contrition. ‘Is my husband displeased?’

Buntokapi lowered himself to the mat before her with a sigh of aggravation. ‘Woman, that old fool was a friend of my grandfather’s. He’s damn near senile! Half the time he thinks my father is his old boyhood pal, and that I am Tecuma of the Anasati. And his mother is worse, a near corpse he drags along wherever he goes. Gods, wife, she must be close to a century of years. And all she does is stare, drool, and mess the mats upon which she’s sitting. And Lord Chipaka talks to her all the time; all of them talk to her, the wife, the daughters, even the servants! She never answers, but they think she does!’ His voice rose as his recounting of the visit inflamed his temper. ‘Now, I want to know which brainless serving girl sent them along to my town house! All Chipaka could remember was she had large breasts!’

Mara stifled a smile, barely. The nearsighted Lord Chipaka might perhaps have thought Mara’s breasts large, since his nose had hovered within inches of her chest as he spoke to her. Puzzled by his wife’s blush, and the suspicion that she laughed at him, Buntokapi shouted until he shook the timbers of the doorframes. ‘And he groped my … servant girl. Right before my eyes he reached out and he … pinched her!’

Too angry to contain himself, Buntokapi leaped to his feet. He shook his fists in the air, ranting himself into a sweat. ‘And they stayed for two days! For two days I had to give my quarters to that old fool and his wife. My … servant girl, Teani, had to take quarters in a hostelry nearby. The old lecher wouldn’t keep his hands off her.’

Mara sat up then and deliberately provoked him. ‘Oh, Bunto, you should have let him bed the girl. She’s only a servant, and if the old Lord was still capable after all these years, at least the diversion would have kept him occupied.’

Buntokapi’s colour deepened. ‘Not in my town house! If I can find that stupid cow who sent Jandawaio to me in Sulan-Qu, I’ll personally strip the skin from her back.’

Mara’s reply sounded meek in contrast to her husband’s bellow. ‘Bunto, you said, should anyone come to call, send them along to you at your town house, not keep them waiting here. I’m sure Jican informed all the servants and that any of them would have done the same.’

Buntokapi paused in his pacing, one foot half-raised like a shatra bird’s. The pose would have been funny were he not so coiled for violence. ‘Well, I made a mistake. From now onward, send no one to my town house without my prior consent!’

His thunderous shout roused Ayaki, who stirred in his pillows. Apparently preoccupied, Mara turned towards her baby. ‘No one?’

The interruption of his son inflamed Buntokapi still further. He stormed about the room, his fist waving in the air. ‘No one! If a member of the High Council calls, they can wait!’

The baby began to wail. Mara’s brow knitted slightly as she said, ‘But of course you don’t mean your father?’

‘Send that child off with a servant!’ Buntokapi raged. He gestured furiously at Misa, who ran to take the infant from Mara’s arms. Buntokapi kicked a pillow hard, sending it sailing into the fish pool in the garden beyond the screen. Then he resumed as if no interruption had occurred. ‘My father thinks I am stupid, and that I’ll do whatever he asks. He can go piss in the river! The Acoma are not his to command!’ Buntokapi paused, his face dark purple. ‘No, I don’t want him soiling my fish. Tell him to go downstream off my lands, then he can piss in the river!’

Mara hid her hands in the fabric of her robe. ‘But surely if the Warlord –’

Buntokapi cut her off. ‘If the Warlord himself arrives here, do not send even him along to my town house! Is that understood?’ Mara regarded her husband in shocked amazement. Bunto’s rage redoubled. After being repressed for two days with the Lord of the Jandawaio, his tantrum was impressive. ‘Even Almecho can damn well wait upon my pleasure. If he does not wish to wait here, he can sit in the needra pens, if he prefers. And if I don’t get back the day he arrives, he can sleep in the needra shit, for all I care, and you can tell him I said so.’

Mara pressed her forehead to the floor, almost in the bow of a slave. ‘Yes, my Lord.’

The obeisance forestalled her husband, who longed to strike out with his fists now that his anger had found a focus. ‘And another thing. All these messengers you keep sending. I want them stopped. I come home enough to oversee the running of my holdings. I do not need servants disturbing me throughout the day. Is that understood?’

He bent swiftly, snatching his wife upright by the collar. She replied stiffly, her breathing hampered by his knuckles. ‘You do not wish to be disturbed, and all messages are to stop.’

‘Yes!’ Bunto shouted into her face. ‘When I am resting in town, I do not wish to be disturbed for any reason. If you send a servant to me, I will kill him before he can tell me what you say. Is that understood?’ He shook her slightly.

‘Yes, my Lord.’ Mara struggled feebly, her slippers all but lifted clear of the floor. ‘But there is one matter here –’

Buntokapi pushed her roughly backward, and she tumbled into the cushions. ‘Enough! I will hear nothing more.’

Mara raised herself valiantly. ‘But, husband –’

Bunto lashed out with one foot, catching the hem of Mara’s gown. Cloth ripped, and she cowered, her hands protecting her face. He shouted, ‘I said enough! I will not listen to another word! Have Jican take care of any business. I am returning to town immediately. Do not disturb me for anything!’ With a last kick in Mara’s direction, he spun and stalked from her quarters. As his footsteps faded, distantly Ayaki could be heard crying.

After the barest of prudent intervals, Nacoya rushed to her mistress’s side. Helping her upright, and shaking with fright, she said, ‘Mistress, you said nothing to your husband about the message from his father.’

Mara rubbed the reddening bruise on her thigh. ‘You saw, Nacoya. My Lord husband granted me no chance to relay his father’s message.’

Nacoya sat back on her heels. Grimly she nodded. ‘Yes, that is true, my Lady. My Lord Buntokapi did indeed not give you the opportunity to speak.’

Mara straightened her torn robe, her eyes fixed significantly on the ornamented scroll that had arrived that morning, announcing the impending arrival of her father-in-law and his most august travelling companion, Almecho, the Warlord of Tsuranuanni. Then, her bruises forgotten beside the enormity of her husband’s commands, she smiled.