Читать книгу The Complete Empire Trilogy - Raymond E. Feist, Janny Wurts - Страница 22

The boy’s eyes opened wide.

Seated on his mat before the outer screen, the runner turned towards his mistress with a wondering look upon his face. The boy was new to his post, and Mara guessed his expression portended an impressive arrival in the dooryard. She dismissed the new warriors, both recruited only that morning. They took their bows, and as a servant arrived to show them to their barracks, Mara inquired of her runner, ‘Is it Bruli of the Kehotara?’

Young and still easily impressed, the slave boy nodded quickly. Mara stretched briefly and arose from amid stacks of parchments and tallies. Then she, too, stared in amazement. Bruli approached the great house in an ornate litter, obviously new, with ribbons of pearl and shell inlay gleaming in the morning sunlight. He had dressed in silk robes, bordered in elaborate embroidery, and his head covering was set with tiny sapphires, to enhance the colour of his eyes. Kehotara vanity did not end there. As if watching a pageant from a child’s tale, Mara noticed that his litter bearers were uniformly matched in height and physical perfection; with none of the ragged, beaten look of toil, these slaves were like young gods, tall and muscular, with bodies oiled like athletes. A full dozen musicians accompanied the Kehotara honour guard. They played well and loudly upon horns and vielles as Bruli made his entrance.

Bemused, Mara waved for a servant to tidy the scrolls, while Misa helped her refresh her appearance. Nacoya had been up to her own machinations. On his last three visits the Acoma First Adviser had fended the boy off, warning of her mistress’s impatience with a suitor who did not display his wealth as a sign of ardour. Twice Bruli had dined in the garden, Mara again feeling like a piece of meat on display at a butcher’s stall. But each time she laughed at some stupid joke or feigned surprise at some revelation about one or another Lord in the High Council, Bruli was genuinely pleased. He seemed totally infatuated with her. At their last meeting, Mara had briefly allowed him to express his passion with a parting kiss, deftly disentangling herself from his embrace as his hands closed around her shoulders. He had called out an entreaty, but she ducked through the doorway, leaving him aroused and confused in the dappled moonlight of the garden. Nacoya had seen him to his litter, then returned with the certainty that the young man’s frustration served to fan his desire.

Scented and wearing tiny bells on her wrists, Mara slipped into a shamelessly scanty robe – where was Nacoya finding them, she wondered. Misa patted her mistress’s hair into place and fastened it with pins of emerald and jade. Then, her appearance complete, Mara left with mincing steps to greet her suitor.

When at last she appeared, Bruli’s eyes widened with glowing admiration. He stepped somewhat awkwardly from his litter, his back stiff and his weight centred carefully over his sandals. Mara had to suppress a laugh; his costly robes and headdress were obviously heavy and uncomfortable. The ties on the sleeves looked as if they pinched mightily, and the wide belt with its coloured stitching surely was constricting and hot. Yet Bruli bore up with every appearance of enjoying himself. He smiled brilliantly at Mara and allowed her to lead him into the cool shadow of the estate house.

Seated in a room overlooking the garden with its fountain, Mara called for wine with fruit and pastries. As always, Bruli’s conversation bored her; but at his usual post by the wine tray Arakasi gleaned some useful bits of information. The Spy Master had connected several of Bruli’s remarks to things already learned by his agents. Mara never ceased to be astonished at the information her Spy Master was able to divine from seemingly trivial gossip. In private talks that followed Bruli’s visits, Arakasi had fashioned some interesting theories about activities in the High Council. If his speculation was correct, very soon the Blue Wheel Party would unilaterally withdraw from the war upon the barbarian world. The Warlord’s grandiose campaign would be seriously hampered. Should this occur, the Anasati, the Minwanabi, and Almecho’s other allies would certainly be pressured by demands for more support. Mara wondered if Jingu would step up his attempts to eliminate her before the Minwanabi were forced to turn their energies elsewhere.

Bruli’s chatter faltered, and belatedly Mara realized she had lost the thread of his conversation. She filled in with an endearing smile, unaware that the expression made her strikingly pretty. Bruli’s eyes warmed in response. His emotion was entirely genuine, and for a moment Mara wondered how she would feel in his arms, compared to the unpleasantness she had endured with Buntokapi. Then Arakasi leaned to slap an insect, and his clothing jostled the wine tray. The unexpected movement caused Bruli to start, one hand flying to the dagger hidden in his sash. In an instant the solicitous suitor was transformed into a Tsurani warrior, all taut muscle and cold eyes. Mara’s moment of sentiment died. This man might be more civilized in his manner, more charming in his speech, more beautiful in body and face than the brute she had once married, but his heart was stern and commanding. Like Buntokapi, he would kill or cause pain on the impulse of the instant, without even pausing for thought.

That recognition angered Mara, as if for an instant she had longed for something from this man; any man. That this longing was a vain hope roused an irrational instinct to fight back. Feigning discomfort from the heat, Mara fanned herself, then pulled her bodice open and exposed most of her breasts to Bruli’s view. The effect was immediate. The young man’s battle instincts relaxed, like the claws of a sarcat sheathed in softness. Another kind of tension claimed him, and he shifted closer to her.

Mara smiled, a ruthless gleam in her eyes. The small bells on her wrist sang in perfect sevenths as she brushed the young man’s arm with a seemingly casual touch. ‘I don’t know what is wrong with me, Bruli, but I find the warmth oppressive. Would you care to bathe?’

The young man all but tore his finery in his haste to rise to his feet. He extended a hand to Mara, and she allowed him to raise her from the cushions without rearranging her clothing. Her robe gaped further, and Bruli caught a teasing glimpse of small but nicely formed breasts and the hint of a taut stomach. Mara smiled as she noted the focus of his attention. With slow, provocative movements, she rebound her sash, while small beads of perspiration sparkled into being beneath Bruli’s headdress. ‘You look very hot,’ she observed.

The young man regarded her with unfeigned adoration. ‘I am always aflame with passion for you, my Lady.’

This time Mara encouraged his boldness. ‘Wait here one moment,’ she said and, smiling in open invitation, stepped out to find Nacoya.

The old woman sat just out of sight behind the screen, a piece of embroidery in her lap. Mara noticed incongruously that the stitches were remarkably incoherent. Grateful to see that her First Adviser required no explanation of what had passed in the chamber by the garden, she relayed swift instructions.

‘I think we have our young jigabird cock ready to crow. Order the bath drawn. When I dismiss the attendants, allow us fifteen minutes alone. Then send in my runner with a message coded urgent, and have Misa ready.’ Mara paused, a flash of uncertainty showing through. ‘You did say she admired the man?’

Nacoya returned a regretful shake of her head. ‘Ah, daughter, do not worry for Misa. She likes men.’

Mara nodded and started to return to her suitor. But Nacoya touched her wrist, the chime of tiny bells muffled in her wrinkled palm. ‘Lady, be cautious. Your house guards will see to your safety, but you play a dangerous game. You must judge carefully how far to push Bruli. He may become too impassioned to stop, and having Pape kill him for attempted rape would do the Acoma great harm at this point.’

Mara considered her meagre experience with men and chose prudence. ‘Send the runner ten minutes after we enter.’

‘Go now.’ Nacoya released her mistress with a pat of her hand. The old nurse smiled in the shadow. Thank the gods she had not needed to lie; Misa was Mara’s prettiest maid, and her appetite for handsome men was a subject of shameless gossip among the servants. She would play her part with unfeigned joy.

Attendants emptied the last pitchers of cool water into the tub, bowed, and retired, closing the screen. Mara released Bruli’s hand. The bells on her wrists tinkled sweetly as, with dance-like movements, she unfastened her sash and allowed her robe to slide off her shoulders. Beaded ornaments concealed the scar of her wound, and the silk sighed over her ivory skin, slipping past her waist and over the curve of her hips. As it drifted around her ankles to the floor, Mara lifted one bare foot, then the other, at last stepping free of the folds. She mounted the steps to the top of the wooden tub, remembering to hold her stomach flat and her chin up. At the corner of her vision she saw Bruli frantically shedding costly clothing; her game with the robe had brought the young man close to the point of losing decorum. When he tore off his loincloth, she witnessed the proof of her effect upon him. Mara refrained from laughing by only a signal act of will. How silly men could look when excited.

Bruli stretched. Confident that his body was worthy of admiration, he bounded to the tub, submerging his slender hips with a satisfied sound, as if he simply wished to soak. Mara knew better. Bruli had hoped for this moment, fretting with keenest anticipation for the better part of the week. He opened his arms, inviting Mara to join him. She smiled instead and took up a vial and a cake of scented soap. The priceless metal bells on her wrists chimed with her movements as she poured fragrant oils upon the surface of the water. Rainbows shimmered into being around Bruli’s athletic form. He closed his eyes in contentment, while the bells moved behind him and small hands began to soap his back.

‘You feel very nice,’ murmured Bruli.

Her hands melted away like ghosts. The bells sang a last shower of sound and fell silent, and the water rippled, gently. Bruli opened his eyes to find Mara in the tub before him, soaping her slender body with sensuous abandon. He licked his lips, unaware of the calculation in her pretty eyes. By the sloppy smile on his face, Mara guessed she was acting the part of the seductress convincingly.

The man’s breathing became nearly as heavy as Buntokapi’s. Unsurprised when Bruli seized another cake of soap and reached out to help, Mara twisted gracefully away and sank to her neck in the water. Suds and rainbows of oil veiled her form, and as Bruli stretched powerful hands towards her, the Lady forestalled him with a smile. ‘No, let me.’ Bath oils lapped the brim of the tub as she came to his side and playfully pushed his head under. The young man came up sputtering and laughing, and grabbed. But Mara had slid behind him. Tantalizingly, she began slowly to wash his hair. Bruli shivered with pleasure as he imagined the feel of her hands on other parts of his body. The hair washing worked downwards, became a gentle massage of his neck and back. Bruli pressed backwards, feeling the twin points of Mara’s breasts against his shoulders. He reached over his head for her, but her elusive hands slithered forwards, caressing his collarbones and chest. Aware of the quiver in his flesh, Mara hoped her runner would appear promptly. She was running out of ploys to delay, and in an odd way she had not anticipated, her own loins had begun to tighten. The sensation frightened her, for Buntokapi’s attentions had never made her feel this way. The scented soap filled the air with blossom fragrance, and the light of afternoon through the coloured screens made the bathing room a soft, gentle place for lovers. But Mara knew that it could just as easily be a place for killing, with Pape waiting with his hand on his sword, just out of sight behind the screen. This man was a vassal of the Minwanabi, an enemy, and she must not lose control.

Tentatively she rubbed her hand down Bruli’s stomach. He shivered and smiled at her, just as the screen swished back to admit the breathless form of her runner.

‘Mistress, I beg forgiveness, but your hadonra reports a message of the highest importance.’

Mara feigned a look of disappointment and raised herself from the tub. Servants rushed in with towels, and Bruli, tormented by lust, stared dumbly at the last glistening patches of nude flesh to disappear into the linens. Mara listened to the imaginary message and turned with open regret. ‘Bruli, I am most apologetic, but I must leave and tend to an unexpected matter.’

She bit her lip, ready with an excuse should he ask what had arisen, but his mind was so preoccupied with disappointment, he only said, ‘Can’t it wait?’

‘No.’ Mara gestured helplessly. ‘I’m afraid not.’

Water sloshed as Bruli raised himself to object. Mara hastened solicitously to his side and pressed him back into the bath. ‘Your pleasure need not be spoiled.’ She smiled, every inch the caring hostess, and called to one of her attendants. ‘Misa, Bruli has not finished his bathing. I think you should stay and tend him.’

The prettiest of the towel bearers stepped forward and without hesitation stripped off her robe and undergarments. Her figure was soft, even stunning, but Bruli ignored her, watching only Mara as she donned her clean robes and left the room. The door closed gently behind her. The son of Lord of the Kehotara drove a fist, splashing, into the bath water. Then, reluctantly, he noticed the maid. His frustration faded away, replaced by a hungry smile.

He dived through suds and broken patches of sweet oils and grabbed her by the shoulders. Hidden beyond the door, Mara did not wait to see the finale but eased the slight crack in the screen soundlessly closed. Nacoya and Papewaio followed her a short way down the corridor. ‘You were right, Nacoya. I acted the empress, and he hardly noticed Misa until after I left.’

A faint splash echoed from the bathing room, punctuated by a girlish squeal.

‘He seems to have noticed her now,’ Papewaio ventured.

Nacoya brushed this away as unimportant. ‘Misa will only whet his appetite all the more. He will now burn to have you, daughter. I think you have learned more of men than I had judged. Still, it is good Bruli remained calm in your presence. Had Pape had to kill him …’ She let the thought go unfinished.

‘Well, he didn’t.’ Irritable and strangely sickened, Mara dismissed the subject. ‘Now I will go and shut myself away in the study. Tell me when Bruli has finished with Misa and departed.’ She dismissed her First Strike Leader and First Adviser with a wave. Only the runner remained, his boy’s legs stretching in imitation of a warrior’s long stride. For once his antics did not amuse. ‘Send Jican to the study,’ Mara instructed him curtly. ‘I have plans concerning that land we acquired from the Lord of the Tuscalora.’

Mara hurried purposefully forward, but a screech of infant laughter melted her annoyance. Ayaki has awakened from his midday nap. Indulgently smiling, Mara changed course for the nursery. Intrigue and the great Game of the Council could wait until after she had visited her son.

When next he arrived to court Mara, Bruli of the Kehotara was accompanied by a dozen dancers, all expert in their art, who spun and jumped with astonishing athletic grace as a full score of musicians played. The litter that followed this procession was yet another new one, bedecked with metal and fringed with beaded gems. Mara squinted against the dazzle of reflected sunlight and judged her suitor’s style was approaching the pomp favoured by the Lord of the Anasati.

She whispered to Nacoya, ‘Why does each entrance become more of a circus?’

The old woman rubbed her hands together. ‘I’ve told your young suitor that you appreciate a man who can proudly display his wealth to the world, though I wasn’t quite that obvious.’

Mara returned a sceptical glance. ‘How did you know he would listen?’

Nacoya waved airily at the young man who leaned hopefully out of his litter, that he might catch a glimpse of the Lady he came to court. ‘Daughter, have you not learned, even now? Love can make fools of even the best men.’

Mara nodded, at last understanding why her former nurse had insisted she play the wanton. Bruli could never have been coerced into spending such a fortune simply to carry out his father’s wishes. That morning Arakasi had received a report that the boy had come near to bankrupting the already shaky financial standing of the Kehotara. His father, Mekasi, would fare awkwardly if he had to appeal to Jingu’s good graces to save his honour.

‘To get between your legs, that boy would spend his father centiless.’ With a shake of her head Nacoya said, ‘He is to be pitied, a little. Serving up Misa in your stead has done what you wished: only heightened his appetite for you. The fool has fallen passionately in love.’

The First Adviser’s comment was nearly lost in a fanfare of horns. Vielle players ripped into a finale of arpeggios as Bruli’s party mounted the steps to the estate house and entered the garden. The dancers simultaneously twirled, dropping in a semicircle of bows before Mara as Bruli made his appearance. Now his black hair was crimped into ringlets, and his arms bore heavy bracelets of chased enamel work. As he came over to Mara, his strut faltered. Instead of the skimpy robe he had come to expect, she was wearing a formal white robe, with long sleeves and a hemline well below her knees.

Though he sensed some difficulty, he managed his bow with grace. ‘My Lady?’ he said as he waved his retinue aside.

Mara motioned for her servants to stand apart. Frowning a little, as if she struggled with disappointment too great to hide, she said, ‘Bruli, I have come to understand something.’ She lowered her eyes. ‘I have been alone … and you are a very handsome man. I … I have acted poorly.’ She finished the rest in a rush. ‘I have let desire rule my judgement, and now I discover that you think me another silly woman to add to your list of conquests.’

‘But no!’ interrupted Bruli, instantly concerned. ‘I think you a paragon among women, Mara.’ His voice softened almost to reverence. ‘More than that, I love you, Mara. I would never consider conquest concerning a woman I wish to wed.’

His sincerity swayed Mara for only a second. Despite his beauty, Bruli was but another vain young warrior, with little gift for thought or wisdom.

Mara stepped back as he reached for her. ‘I wish to believe you, Bruli, but your own actions deny your pretty words. Just two nights ago you found my maid an easy substitute for …’ How easily the lie came, she thought. ‘I was ready to give myself to you, sweet Bruli. But I find you are simply another adventurer of the heart, and I a poor, plain widow.’

Bruli dropped immediately to one knee, a servant’s gesture, and shocking for its sincerity. He began earnestly to profess his love, but Mara turned sharply away. ‘I cannot hear this. It breaks my heart.’ Feigning injury too great to support, she fled the garden.

As the tap of her sandals faded into the house, Bruli slowly rose from his knees. Finding Nacoya by his elbow, he gestured in embarrassed confusion. ‘Ancient mother, if she will not listen to me, how may I prove my love?’

Nacoya clucked understandingly and patted the young man’s arm, steering him deftly through musicians and dancers to his dazzlingly appointed litter. ‘Girls have little strength, Bruli. You must be gentle and patient. I think some small gift or another, sent with a letter, or, better, a poem, might sway her heart. Perhaps one a day until she calls you back.’ Touching the fringes with admiring hands, Nacoya said, ‘You had her won, you know. Had you shown restraint enough to leave that maid alone, she surely would have become your wife.’

Frustration became too much for Bruli. ‘But I thought she wished me to take the girl!’ His rings rattled as he folded his arms in pique. ‘The maid was certainly bold enough in the tub and … it is not the first time I have been given a servant for sport by my host.’

Nacoya played the role of grandmother to the limit of her ability. ‘Ah, you poor boy. You know so little about the heart of a female. I wager no woman you paid court to ever sent her maids to warm your bed.’ She wagged her finger under his nose. ‘It was another man who did so, eh?’

Bruli stared at the fine gravel of the path, forced to admit she was correct. Nacoya nodded briskly. ‘See, it was, in a manner of speaking, a test.’ As his eyes began to narrow, she said, ‘Not by design, I assure you; simply put, had you dressed and left at once, my mistress would have been yours for the asking. Now …’

Bruli flung back crimped locks and groaned. ‘What am I to do?’

‘As I said, gifts.’ Nacoya’s tone turned chiding. ‘And I think you should prove your passion may be answered only by true love. Send away those girls you keep at your hostelry in the city.’

Bruli stiffened in immediate suspicion. ‘You have spies! How else could you know I have two women of the Reed Life at my quarters in the city?’

Though Arakasi’s operatives had indeed proved that fact, Nacoya only nodded in ancient wisdom. ‘See, I guessed right! And if an old, simple woman such as myself can guess, then so must my Lady.’ Short and wizened beside the proud warrior, she ushered him to the dooryard where his litter waited. ‘You must go, young master Bruli. If your heart is to win its reward, you must not be seen talking overlong with me! My Lady might suspect me of advising you, and that would never please her. Go quickly, and be unstinting in the proof of your devotion.’

The son of Mekasi reluctantly settled onto his cushions. His slaves shouldered the poles of his gaudy litter, and like clockwork toys, the musicians began to play the appointed recessional. Dancers whirled in joyful gyrations, until a carping shout from their master ended their display. The vielles scraped and fell silent, and a last, tardy horn player set the needra bulls bellowing in the pastures. How fitting that his send-off came from the beasts, Nacoya thought as, in a sombre band, his cortege departed for Sulan-Qu. The hot sun of midday wilted the flower garlands on the heads of the dancers and slaves, and almost the Acoma First Adviser felt sorry for the young man. Almost.

The gifts began to arrive the next day. A rare bird that sang a haunting song came first, with a note in fairly bad poetry. Nacoya read it after Mara had laid it aside, and commented, ‘The calligraphy is well practised. He must have spent a few dimis hiring a poet to write this.’

‘Then he wasted his wealth. It’s awful.’ Mara waved for a servant to clear away the colourful paper wrappings that had covered the bird’s cage. The bird itself hopped from perch to reed perch, singing its tiny heart out.

Just then Arakasi bowed at the entrance of the study. ‘My Lady, I have discovered the identity of the Kehotara agent.’

As an afterthought, Mara directed the slaves to carry the bird to another chamber. As its warble diminished down the corridor, she said, ‘Who?’

Arakasi accepted her invitation to enter. ‘One of Bruli’s servants hurried to send a message, warning his father of his excesses, I think. But the odd thing is another slave, a porter, also left his master’s own house to meet with a vegetable seller. Their discussion did not concern produce, and it seems likely he was a Minwanabi agent.’

Mara twined a bit of ribbon between her fingers. ‘Has anything been done?’

Arakasi understood her perfectly. ‘The first man had an unfortunate accident. His message fell into the hands of another vegetable seller who, it so chances, hates Jingu.’ The Spy Master withdrew a document from his robe, which he gravely offered to Mara.

‘You still smell like seshi tubers,’ the Lady of the Acoma accused gently, then went on to read the note. ‘Yes, this proves your suppositions. It also suggests that Bruli had no idea he had a second agent in his party.’

Arakasi frowned, as he always did when he read things upside down. ‘If that figure is accurate, Bruli is close to placing his father in financial peril.’ The Spy Master paused to stroke his chin. ‘With Jican’s guidance, I convinced many of the craftsmen and merchants to delay their bills until we wish them sent. Here the Acoma benefit from your practice of prompt payment.’

Mara nodded in acknowledgement. ‘How much grace does that leave the Kehotara?’

‘Little. How long could any merchant afford to finance Bruli’s courtship? Soon they will send to the Lord of the Kehotara’s hadonra for payment. I would love to be an insect upon the wall watching when he receives that packet of bills.’

Mara regarded her Spy Master keenly. ‘You have more to say.’

Arakasi raised his brows in surprise. ‘You have come to know me very well.’ But his tone implied a question.

Silently Mara pointed to the foot he tapped gently on the carpet. ‘When you’re finished, you always stop.’

The Spy Master came close to a grin. ‘Sorceress,’ he said admiringly; then his voice sobered. ‘The Blue Wheel Party has just ordered all their Force Commanders back from Midkemia, as we had suspected they might.’

Mara’s eyes narrowed. ‘Then we have little time left to deal with this vain and foolish boy. Within a few days his father will send for him, even if he hasn’t discovered the perilous state of his finances.’ She tapped absently with the scroll while she considered her next move. ‘Arakasi, watch for any attempts to send a messenger to Bruli before Nacoya convinces him to make me a gift of that litter. And, old mother, the moment he does, call him to visit.’ Mara’s gaze lingered long upon her two advisers. ‘And hope we can deal with him before his father orders him to kill me.’

Bruli sent a new gift each of the next four days. The servants piled them in one corner of Mara’s study, until Nacoya commented sourly that the room resembled a market stall. The accumulation was impressive – costly robes of the finest silk; exotic wines and fruits, imported to the central Empire at great cost; gems and even metal jewellery. At the last, on the fifth day following the afternoon she had sent the young man away, the fabulous litter had arrived. Then Mara ordered Arakasi to send Bruli the second message, one intercepted scarcely the day before. The Lord of the Kehotara had at last received word of his son’s excesses and sternly ordered the boy home at once. In his instructions the angry old patriarch had detailed exactly what he thought of his son’s irresponsible behaviour.

Mara would have been amused, if not for Arakasi’s agitation over how word of the incident had got through to the Kehotara lord without his agent’s knowledge. The Spy Master had touchy pride, and he regarded any failure, however slight, as a personal betrayal of his duty. Also, his discovery of the Minwanabi agent in Bruli’s train had him concerned. If two agents, why not three?

But events progressed too swiftly to investigate the matter. Bruli of the Kehotara returned to the Acoma estate house, and Mara again attired herself in lounging robes and makeup to further confuse her importunate suitor as he bowed and entered her presence. The musicians were conspicuously absent, as were the fine clothes, the jewellery, and the crimped hair. Red-faced and ill at ease, the young man rushed through the formalities of greeting. With no apology for his rudeness, Bruli blurted, ‘Lady Mara, I thank the gods you granted me an audience.’

Mara forestalled him, seemingly unaware that his ardour was no longer entirely motivated by passion. ‘I think I may have misjudged you, dear one.’ She stared shyly at the floor. ‘Perhaps you were sincere …’ Then, glowing with appeal, she added, ‘If you would stay to supper we might speak again.’

Bruli responded wth an expression of transparent relief. A difficult conversation lay ahead of him, and the affair would be easier if Mara’s sympathies were restored to him. Also, if he could come away with a promise of engagement, his father’s rage would be less. The Acoma wealth was well established, and a few debts surely could be paid off with a minimum of fuss. Confident all would end well, Bruli waited while Mara instructed Jican to assign quarters for Bruli’s retinue. When the son of the Lord of the Kehotara had been led away, Mara returned to her study, where Arakasi waited, once more in the guise of a vegetable seller.

When she was certain of privacy, Mara said, ‘When were you planning to leave?’

Arakasi halted his pacing, a shadow against shadow in the corner made dim by the piles of Bruli’s gifts. The songbird sang incongruously pretty notes through his words. ‘Tonight, mistress.’

Mara threw a cloth over the cage, reducing the melody to a series of sleepy chirps. ‘Can you wait another day or two?’

He shook his head. ‘No longer than first light tomorrow. If I do not appear at a certain inn in Sulan-Qu by noon, and several other places over the next week, my replacement will become active. It would prove awkward if you ended up with two Spy Masters.’ He smiled. ‘And I would lose the services of a man very difficult to replace. If the matter is that vital, I can find other tasks for him and remain.’

Mara sighed. ‘No. We should see an end to this nonsense with the Kehotara boy by then. I want you to identify the Minwanabi agent in his retinue to Keyoke. And tell him I will sleep in Nacoya’s quarters tonight.’ The songbird stopped its peeping as she finished. ‘What would you think if I have Pape and Lujan keep watch in my quarters tonight?’

Arakasi paused. ‘You think young Bruli plans to pay a late visit to your bed?’

‘More likely an assassin from his retinue might try.’ Mara shrugged. ‘I have Bruli where I want him, but a little more discomfort on his part would serve us well. If someone roams the corridors tonight, I think we shall make it easy for him to reach my quarters.’

‘As always, you amaze me, mistress.’ Arakasi bowed with irony and admiration. ‘I will see your instructions reach Keyoke.’

In one smooth movement the Spy Master melted into the shadows. His departure made no sound; he passed from the corridor unseen even by the maid who came to tell Mara that her robes and her bath awaited, should she care to refresh herself before dinner. But one more item remained. Mara sent her runner for Nacoya and informed the old woman that Bruli should now receive his father’s overdue messages. In the gathering gloom of twilight she added, ‘Be sure to tell him they have just arrived.’

An evil gleam lit Nacoya’s eyes. ‘May I carry them myself, mistress? I want to see his face when he reads them.’

Mara laughed. ‘You old terror! Give him the messages, with all my blessing. And don’t lie too extravagantly. The letters were delayed from town, which is more or less the truth.’ She paused, hiding a moment of fear behind humour. ‘Do you think this will spare me his simpering during dinner?’

But Nacoya had already departed on her errand, and the only answer Mara received was a sleepy twitter from the songbird. She shivered, suddenly, needing a hot tub between herself and thoughts of the play she was about to complete against the Lord of the Kehotara.

The oil lamps burned softly, shedding golden light over the table settings. Carefully prepared dishes steamed around a centrepiece of flowers, and chilled fish glistened against beds of fresh fruit and greenery. Clearly, the Acoma kitchen staff had laboured to prepare a romantic dinner for lovers, yet Bruli sat ill at ease on his cushions. He pushed the exquisite food here and there on his plate, his thoughts obviously elsewhere. Even the deep neckline of Mara’s robe failed to brighten his spirits.

At last, pretending confusion, the Lady of the Acoma laid aside her napkin. ‘Why, Bruli, you seem all astir. Is something amiss?’

‘My Lady?’ The young man looked up, his blue eyes shadowed with distress. ‘I hesitate to … trouble you with my own difficulties, but …’ He coloured and looked down in embarrassment. ‘Quite frankly, in my passion to win you, I have placed too large a debt upon my house.’ A painful pause followed. ‘You will doubtless think less of me and I risk losing stature in your eyes, but duty to my father requires that I beg a favour of you.’

Suddenly finding little to relish in Bruli’s discomfort, Mara responded more curtly than she intended. ‘What favour?’ She softened the effect by setting down her fork and trying to seem concerned. ‘Of course I will help if I can.’

Bruli sighed, his unhappiness far from alleviated. ‘If you could find it within your heart to be so gracious, I need some of those gifts … the ones I sent … could you possibly return them?’ His voice dropped, and he swallowed. ‘Not all, but perhaps the more expensive ones.’

Mara’s eyes were pools of sympathy as she said, ‘I think I might find it in my heart to help a friend, Bruli. But the night is young, and the cooks worked hard to please us. Why don’t we forget these bothersome troubles and enjoy our banquet? At the first meal tomorrow we can resolve your difficulties.’

Though he had hoped for another answer, Bruli gathered his tattered pride and weathered the rest of the dinner. His conversation was unenthusiastic, and his humour conspicuously absent, but Mara pretended not to notice. She called in a poet to read while servants brought sweet dishes and brandies; and in the end the drink helped, for the unfortunate son of the Kehotara eventually took his leave for bed. Plainly he left without romantic advances so he could pass the night painlessly in sleep.

Mist rolled over the needra meadows, clinging in the hollows like silken scarves in the moonlight. Night birds called, counterpointed by the tread of an occasional sentry; but in the Lady’s chamber in the estate house another sound intruded. Papewaio pushed one foot against Lujan’s ribs.

‘What?’ came the sleepy reply.

‘Our Lady doesn’t snore,’ Papewaio whispered.

Yawning, and scowling with offended dignity, Lujan said, ‘I don’t snore.’

‘Then you do a wonderful imitation.’ The First Strike Leader leaned on his spear, a silhouette against the moonlit screen. He hid his amusement, for he had come to like the former grey warrior. He appreciated Lujan for being a fine officer, far better than could have been hoped for, and because Lujan’s nature was so different from Papewaio’s own taciturnity.

Suddenly Papewaio stiffened, alerted by a soft scuff in the corridor. Lujan heard it also, for he left the rest of his protest unspoken. The two Acoma officers exchanged silent hand signals and immediately came to an agreement. Someone who did not wish his movements to be overheard was approaching from the hallway outside. The stranger walked now not six paces from the screen; earlier Papewaio had placed a new mat at each intersection of the corridor beyond Mara’s chamber; anyone who approached her door would cause a rustle as he trod across the weave.

That sound became their cue. Without speaking, Lujan drew his sword and took up position by the door. Papewaio leaned his spear against the garden lintel and unsheathed both a sword and dagger. Moonlight flashed upon lacquer as he lay down upon Mara’s mat, his weapons held close beneath the sheets.

Long minutes went by. Then the screen to the hall by the garden slid soundlessly open. The intruder showed no hesitation but leaped through the gap with his dagger drawn to stab. He bent swiftly over what he thought was the sleeping form of the Lady of the Acoma.

Papewaio rolled to his right, coming up in a fighter’s crouch, his sword and dagger lifted to parry. Blade sang on blade, while Lujan closed in behind the assassin, his intent to prevent him from bolting.

Faint moonlight gave him away, as his shadow darted ahead of him across the floor. The assassin’s blade cut into pillows, and jigabird feathers sailed upon the air like seed down. He rolled away and spun to his feet to discover himself trapped. Though he wore the garb of a porter, he responded with professional quickness and threw his dagger at Papewaio. The Strike Leader dodged aside. Without sound, the intruder launched himself past, twisting to avoid the sword that sliced at his back. He crashed through the paper screen and hit the pathway beyond at a full run.

Hard on his heels, Lujan shouted, ‘He’s in the garden!’

Instantly Acoma guards hurried through the corridors. Screens screeched open on all sides, and Keyoke strode into the turmoil, calling orders that were instantly obeyed. The warriors fanned out, beating the shrubs with their spears.

Papewaio regained his feet and moved to join the search, but Keyoke lightly touched his shoulder. ‘He got away?’

The First Strike Leader muttered a curse and answered what he knew from long experience would be the Force Leader’s next question. ‘He’s hiding somewhere on the grounds, but you must ask Lujan to describe him. The moonlight was in his favour, where I saw nothing but a shadow.’ He paused while Keyoke sent for the former bandit; and after a moment Papewaio added thoughtfully, ‘He’s of average size, and left-handed. And his breath smelled strongly of jomach pickles.’

Lujan concluded the description. ‘He wears the tunic and rope belt of a porter, but his sandals are soled with soft leather, not hardened needra hide.’

Keyoke motioned to the two nearest soldiers and gave curt orders. ‘Search the quarters given to the Kehotara porters. Find out which one is missing. He’s our man.’

A minute later, two other warriors arrived with a body slung limply between them. Both Papewaio and Lujan identified the assassin, and both regretted that he had found time to sink his second, smaller dagger into his vitals.

Keyoke spat on the corpse. ‘A pity he died in honour by the blade. No doubt he received permission from his master before undertaking this mission.’ The Force Commander sent a man to call in the searchers, then added, ‘At least the Minwanabi dog admitted the possibility of failure.’

Mara must receive word of this event without more delay. Brusquely Keyoke waved at the corpse. ‘Dispose of this carrion, but save a piece by which he may be identified.’ He ended with a nod to his Strike Leaders. ‘Well done. Take the rest of the night for sleep.’

Both men exchanged glances as the supreme commander of the Acoma forces stepped away into the night. Keyoke was seldom free with his praise. Then Lujan grinned, and Papewaio nodded. In complete and silent understanding the two men turned in the direction of the soldiers’ commons to share a drink before well-earned rest.

Bruli of the Kehotara arrived at breakfast looking wretchedly out of sorts. His handsome face was puffy, and his eyes red, as if his sleep had been ridden with nightmares. Yet almost certainly he had been agonizing over his predicament with the gifts rather than knowledge of the assassin his retinue had admitted to the Acoma household; after his loss of self-control at dinner, Mara doubted he had skill enough to pretend that no attempt had been made upon her life.

She smiled, half in pity. ‘My friend, you seem ill disposed. Didn’t you care for your accommodations last night?’

Bruli dredged up his most engaging smile. ‘No, my Lady. The quarters you gave me were most satisfactory, but …’ He sighed, and his smiled wilted. ‘I am simply under stress. Regarding that matter I mentioned last night, could I ask your indulgence and forebearance … if you could see your way clear …’

Mara’s air of cordiality vanished. ‘I don’t think that would be prudent, Bruli.’

The air smelled, incongruously, of fresh thyza bread. Numbly conscious that breakfast foods cooled on the table, Bruli locked eyes with his hostess. His cheeks coloured in a most un-Tsurani fashion. ‘My Lady,’ he began, ‘you seem unaware of the distress you cause me by denying this petition.’

Mara said nothing but signalled to someone waiting behind the screen to her left. Armour creaked in response, and Keyoke stepped into view bearing the bloody head of the assassin. He laid the trophy without ceremony on the platter before the young suitor.

‘You know this man, Bruli.’ The words were no question.

Shocked by a tone of voice he had never heard from the Lady of the Acoma, but not by the barbarity upon his plate, Bruli paled. ‘He was one of my porters, Lady. What has occurred?’

The shadow of the officer fell across him, and the sunny chamber suddenly seemed cold. Mara’s words were metal-hard. ‘Assassin, not porter, Bruli.’

The young man blinked, for an instant blank-faced. Then he slumped, a lock of black hair veiling his eyes. The admission came grudgingly. ‘My father’s master,’ he said, naming Jingu of the Minwanabi.

Mara granted him a moment of respite, while she bade her Force Commander to sit at her side. When Bruli summoned presence enough to meet her gaze, she nodded. ‘The man was without a doubt a Minwanabi agent. As you were for your father.’

Bruli managed not to protest what he knew to be futile. His eyes lost their desperate look and he said, ‘I ask a warrior’s death, Mara.’

Mara set her two hardened fists upon the tablecloth. ‘A warrior’s death, Bruli?’ She laughed with bitter anger. ‘My father and brother were warriors, Bruli. Keyoke is a warrior. I have faced death and am more of a warrior than you.’

Sensing something he had never known in a woman, the young man pushed gracelessly to his feet. Cups rocked on the table. With Minwanabi involvement, the grisly remnant of the porter became doubly significant. Bruli pulled a dagger from his tunic. ‘You’ll not take me to hang like a criminal, Lady.’ Keyoke’s hand shot to his sword to defend his Lady, but as Bruli reversed the dagger, pointing it at his own breast, the Force Commander understood that the Kehotara son intended no attack.

Mara shot upright, her voice a whip of command. ‘Put away that dagger, Bruli.’ He hesitated, but she said, ‘No one is going to hang you. You’re a fool, not a murderer. You will be sent home to explain to your father how his alliance with Jingu led his house into jeopardy.’

Shamed, silent, the handsome suitor stepped back before the impact of her statement. Slowly he worked through its implications, until he reached the inevitable conclusion: he had been used, ruthlessly, even to his innermost feelings. Deadly serious, with no hint of his former affection, he bowed. ‘I salute you, Lady. You have caused me to betray my father.’

If his impulsive nature were permitted to run its course, he would probably restore his damaged honour by falling on his sword the moment he crossed the border of Acoma land. Mara thought quickly; she must forestall him, for his suicide would only inflame the Kehotara to more strident support of the Minwanabi Lord’s wish to obliterate all things Acoma. She had plotted, but not for this boy’s death. ‘Bruli?’

‘My Lady?’ He delayed his departure more from resignation than from hope.

Mara motioned for him to sit and he did so, albeit stiffly. The smell of food faintly sickened him, and shame lay like a weight upon his shoulders.

Mara could not sweeten the bitter taste of defeat; Buntokapi had taught her not to gloat when the game brought her victory. Gently she said, ‘Bruli, I have no regret for doing what is needed to protect what is mine to guard. But I have no wish to cause you undue difficulty. That your father serves my most hated enemy is but an accident of birth for both of us. Let us not be contentious. I will return most of your exotic gifts in exchange for two promises.’

In his difficulty, Bruli seemed to find himself. ‘I will not betray Kehotara honour.’

‘I will not ask that of you.’ Mara leaned earnestly forward. ‘Should you succeed your father and brother as Lord of the Kehotara, I ask that you not embrace the tradition of Tan-jin-qu. Will you agree to keep your house free of Minwanabi vassalage?’

Bruli gestured deprecatingly. ‘The chances of that happening are slim, Lady Mara.’ His elder brother was heir, and his father enjoyed robust health.

Mara indicated herself, as if that answered his observation; who, among mortals, could know what fate would bring?

Ashamed of the hope that quickened his breath, Bruli asked, ‘And the second condition?’

‘That if you do come to rule, you will owe me a favour.’ Mara elaborated with the care of a diplomat. ‘Should I die, or should I no longer wear the mantle as Ruling Lady, your promise shall not pass to my successor. Yet if I live and you sit as Lord of the Kehotara, then once, and only once, you must do as I bid. I may ask you to support some action of mine, in commerce or in matters of arms, or in the Game of the Council. Grant this, and you shall be free of future obligations.’

Bruli stared blankly at the tablecloth, but the tension in his pose betrayed the fact that he was weighing his options. Mara waited, motionless in the glow of sunlight through the screen. She had added the second condition on impulse, to distract the young man’s thoughts from suicide; but as he sat thinking the matter through, her own mind raced ahead; and she saw that she had opened yet another avenue of possibilities for gain in the Game of the Council.

Given the choice of death and financial shame for his family, or respite from his folly and the possibility of a promise he might never be required to keep, Bruli chose swiftly. ‘Lady, I spoke impulsively. Your bargain is a hard one, yet I will choose life. If the gods bring me the mantle of Kehotara lordship, I shall do as you require.’ He stood slowly, his manner changed to scorn. ‘But as the possibility of my inheriting in place of my brother is remote, you have acted the fool.’

Hating the moment for its cruelty, Mara silently motioned to the servant who waited by the screen. He bowed and set a paper with a torn seal in her hand. ‘This has come to us, Bruli. It was meant for you, but since your father saw fit to send assassins in your retinue, out of need for my personal safety my hadonra chose to read it.’

The paper was bound with ribbons of red, the colour of Turakamu. Cold, suddenly, as he had never thought to be in life, Bruli raised an unwilling hand. The paper seemed too light to carry the news he read penned in the script of his father’s chief scribe. Cut to the heart by new grief, Bruli crumpled the parchment between shaking fists. Somehow he retained his self-control. ‘Woman, you are poison, as deadly and small as that of the keti scorpion that hides under the petals of flowers.’ She had known when she bargained that Mekasi’s eldest son had been killed upon the barbarian world, victim of the Warlord’s campaign. She had shaped her snare for Bruli, aware he had already inherited the title of heir. Now honour forbade him to take back his sworn word.

Shivering now from anger, Bruli regarded the woman he had once been fool enough to love. ‘My father is a robust man with many years before him, Acoma bitch! I gave you my promise, but you shall never live long enough to see the keeping of it.’

Keyoke stiffened, prepared to reach for his sword, but Mara responded only with soul-weary regret. ‘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.