Читать книгу The Complete Empire Trilogy - Raymond E. Feist, Janny Wurts - Страница 24

The Warlord appeared.

He entered to a fanfare of flutes, his robe of gold-trimmed white dazzling in the sunlight. Stark in contrast, two black-clad figures walked at his side. Seeing them, the guests fell instantly silent. Even the Lord of the Minwanabi hesitated before greeting the man who was second in power to the Emperor. When Jingu did step forward to bow, his manner was subdued and deferential rather than boisterous. The presence of the black-robed Great Ones often had that effect on people. The minds of magicians were unknowable, and their ways beyond question. They existed outside the law, their only task to serve the Empire. That Almecho had brought two of them to his birthday celebration affected every guest present; no plot could be certain, and no alliance completely dependable, with the presence of magic like a wild thing in their midst. Some whispered that Almecho had won several of the Black Robes to his cause; others said much of his Warlord’s policy was being decided in the City of Magicians.

Mara watched the proceedings of formal greeting from an unobtrusive place in one corner. She was somewhat relieved to see the Great Ones at Almecho’s side, for the attention of the guests would now be diverted by something besides her plight … at least for a while. She was tired of dealing with the biting observations of the other guests, and sick of having the Lord of Ekamchi repeatedly point out Tecuma’s absence. The Great Ones would cast long shadows across the interplay of intrigue; they could bring magic arts to play, render judgment swiftly and without appeal – their words were as law. They could obliterate Jingu in his own house if they felt he threatened the Empire, and Desio would only bow and intone the ritual phrase ‘Your will, Great One.’

Yet traditionally the Great Ones remained aloof from the Game of the Council; some other gambit brought the two magicians. Mara smiled to herself. Whatever the reason for their arrival, the result was two-edged: her enemies had other concerns, but then Minwanabi gained a freer hand to work her demise as the guests’ concerns focused elsewhere.

Yet even as Mara weighed the implications, the guests began to assemble, each family according to rank, to pay their respects to the Warlord. Mara and Nacoya would soon be required to leave the obscurity of their corner, for the Acoma were one of the most ancient names of the Empire, first among those that followed the original Five Great Families. Still the Lady delayed, while the Keda and Tonmargu gathered ahead of her. Then, as the Lord of the Xacatecas strode forward in turn, she threaded her way through the crowd.

‘Go slowly,’ she instructed Nacoya. Where other families moved in groups of sons, daughters, in-laws, and cousins, each relative of the blood being permitted an honour guard, her own contingent consisted only of a First Adviser and Papewaio. Other Lords and their advisers often did not notice her presence until she had passed them by, since greatness and power seldom moved without fanfare. Quite often Mara could overhear enough of their conversations to catch the drift of their concerns before the speakers were aware of her proximity. More than one group of whisperers identified the Great Ones as the same two who had engineered support in the Assembly of Magicians for Almecho’s campaign on the barbarian world. Several other magicians had come to be seen regularly with the Warlord, earning them the sobriquet ‘Warlord’s pets’. The hoods shaded the faces, making it difficult to recognize which two wizards attended. But if these were Ergoran and his brother Elgahar, more than one Lord’s plot might suffer a setback.

As the Xacatecas began their opening bows, Mara responded to Nacoya’s motherly prompting and made her way towards the dais. Kamatsu of the Shinzawai and his son fell in behind her as she ascended the stairs; and then the Xacatecas took their leave and she found herself confronting Almecho and her host, Jingu of the Minwanabi.

The Great Ones remained to one side, their unique social rank setting them apart from any formal role in the greeting ceremony. But as she took her bow, Mara caught a clear look at one of them and recognized the hooked nose and thin lips of Ergoran beneath the black hood. The Warlord took her hand as she rose, a slight twist of sarcasm marring his smile as he returned the ritual greeting. He had evidently not forgotten their last meeting, when she had dutifully repeated the words of Buntokapi concerning needra pens. Etiquette prevented his raising the topic, since ritual suicide had absolved the stain on Acoma honour. But nothing prevented the Warlord from initiating an exchange that caused Mara some social discomfort.

‘Lady Mara, what an unexpected delight. I’m pleased to see you bear as much personal courage as your father – to walk into this nest of relli.’ Still holding her hand, and stroking it in a patronizing display of attention, he turned to Jingu of the Minwanabi. His host stood biting back his anger, as distressed by the last remark as was Mara. ‘Jingu, you’re not planning to spoil my birthday celebration with bloodshed, are you?’

The Lord of the Minwanabi’s flush deepened as he spluttered a denial, but Almecho cut him off. To Mara he added, ‘Just have your bodyguard sleep lightly at your door, Lady. Jingu knows if he doesn’t observe the proper form in killing you, he’ll make me very angry.’ He glanced at his host. ‘Not to mention that he’s given sureties to his guests and it wouldn’t be profitable to eliminate you if he had to take his own life as well, would it?’

The Warlord laughed. In that instant Mara knew that the Great Game was, truly, only a game to this man. If Jingu could murder the Lady of the Acoma in such a way that he could disavow responsibility publicly, the Warlord would not only take no umbrage, but would silently applaud Jingu for his cleverness. Even if Jingu failed, to Almecho the whole situation would become a diverting amusement. Sweat dampened Mara’s back. She trembled despite her effort at self-control, and almost at her elbow the second son of the Shinzawai whispered something to his father. Almecho’s eyes narrowed; Mara’s colour must have gone ashen, for the Warlord squeezed her hand.

‘Don’t be upset, little bird; Jingu might surprise us all and behave himself.’ With a wide grin, Almecho added, ‘The betting odds right now are that you might have a slight chance of leaving alive at the end of the celebration.’

He still showed no sign of releasing her, but before he could derive further pleasure at her expense, a polite voice intruded.

‘My Lord Almecho …’ Kamatsu of the Shinzawai inserted himself into the conversation. Experienced through a lifetime spent in court intrigue, the former Warchief of the Kanazawai Clan changed the subject with a charm few present could have equalled. ‘Only a few minutes ago the Lady Mara pointed out that I had no opportunity to introduce my younger son to you at her wedding.’

Almecho’s attention was diverted enough for Mara to disengage his fingers. She half stepped to the left, and without breaking rhythm, Kamatsu moved likewise. Almecho had no graceful alternative but to acknowledge the Shinzawai Lord standing directly before him. A handsome young man accompanied his father. Kamatsu smiled and said, ‘May I present to you my second son, Hokanu?’

The Warlord frowned, momentarily off balance. He inclined his head towards Hokanu, but before his famous temper could invent a disparaging remark, Kamatsu continued. ‘His elder brother, Kasumi, you’ve met. I’m sure you remember, Almecho – he is the Force Leader of the second army of the Kanazawai Clan in your campaign.’

Again the smooth remarks denied the Warlord more than a polite mumble. Both Shinzawai moved onto the dais, causing others behind them to move towards the Warlord. As Almecho cast one last glance at Mara, Kamatsu said, ‘We will take up no more of your time, Lord, for you have many others waiting to greet you. May the gods smile down upon this celebration of your birthday.’

The Warlord had no choice but to face the next of his guests. By then Mara had regained some of her composure. She silently thanked the gods for the return of her wits and inclined her head in grateful appreciation to the Lord of the Shinzawai. Kamatsu was moving away from the receiving line, but he returned a slight nod. His manner reflected something she had not seen since she had entered the boundaries of the Minwanabi estates: sympathy. The Shinzawai Lord might not be an ally, but he had showed himself no enemy either. He had risked much by interrupting Almecho’s sport, yet the act had been boldly accomplished. While the father departed, Mara saw that the son lingered, his dark eyes following her. She gave the young man a subtle smile but dared not voice her thanks, lest the Lord of the Minwanabi come to believe the Acoma and the Shinzawai held pact against him. Nacoya urgently tugged her sleeve, hastening her steps towards the relative obscurity of a corner.

‘You must leave this place, Mara-anni,’ the First Adviser urged as soon as they had a moment to themselves. While Papewaio positioned himself between his mistress and the assembly of guests, she qualified. ‘You have no allies here, with the Warlord making sport of the Acoma. If you stay, you will lose your life, and Keyoke will face a war to protect Ayaki. Better the shame of flight than to risk the loss of the natami.’

Mara sat on an embroidered cushion and fought the weariness that dragged at her shoulders and back. ‘We cannot leave now.’

‘Girl, we must!’ Closer than she had ever come to a public expression of fear, the old woman sank down by her mistress’s knee. ‘The continuance of the Acoma is at stake.’

Mara gently patted her First Adviser’s hand. ‘Mother of my heart, we cannot run from this confrontation. Not only would our stock in the game fall far enough that we would deserve to become the butt of Almecho’s humour, but I doubt we would escape alive. If we somehow could flee over the borders of the Minwanabi estates, we would find ourselves vulnerable to open attack by “bandits” with no risk to Jingu. Here, with his surety, we have a chance of preserving our lives.’

‘Don’t count on this, mistress,’ Nacoya said sourly. ‘Jingu of the Minwanabi would never have brought the daughter of Sezu here if he thought to let her escape. For you this place is like a nest of poisoned thorns, filled with a hundred deadly traps. With even the gods’ favour, you could not avoid them all.’

Mara straightened, stung by a spark of anger. ‘You think me a girl still, old mother. That is a mistake. Jingu’s threats and even the Warlord’s ridicule will not make me shame my ancestors. Somehow, by cunning or by politics, we will escape this trap and triumph.’

Though as frightened inside as Nacoya, Mara managed the words with conviction. The elderly woman heard, and was comforted, while across the room Hokanu of the Shinzawai observed the proud bearing of Mara of the Acoma. She had admirable courage for one so young. If Minwanabi wished her dead, his plot would need to be deviously woven, for this girl was a true daughter of her father.

The afternoon progressed tediously after that. Jingu of the Minwanabi had arranged for musicians, tumblers, and a one-act farce in the Segumi style. Yet even with the Warlord’s Great Ones in attendance, the Tsurani love of the arts could not completely eclipse the lure of politics. Several Lords had hoped to exploit the fact that Almecho had overextended his position in the wars on the barbarian world. Now, with the two magicians who controlled all passage between Kelewan and Midkemia seated like the shadows of midnight in their midst, even the boldest Lords dared not seek support for their plots. Mara overheard many expressions of annoyance that Almecho should flaunt his ties with the Great Ones at what should have been a celebration in his honour.

As the curtains fell following the actors’ final bows, Desio of the Minwanabi stepped onto the wooden platform erected for the performance. His tread echoed hollowly on the boards as he strode to centre stage, his arms raised for silence.

Heads turned, and whispered conversations stilled. Desio lowered his hands with a ruffle of feathered cuffs and made his announcement. ‘Minwanabi scouts have brought word of an outbreak of trouble on the river. A band of water pirates has swept down from the north, and two barges have been robbed and burned near the borders of this estate.’ A murmur swept the hall, then stilled as the heir of the Minwanabi added more. ‘Lord Jingu has heard the Warlord’s request that his birthday celebrations not be spoiled by bloodshed. To this end, he has ordered the chain beneath the prayer gate raised, cutting off the inlet from the lake. Any barge attempting passage from the river will be burned on sight, and any guests wishing to leave this celebration early should inform us of their intention, that the warriors on duty can let them out.’ Desio finished with a deferential bow, and a pointed smile at the Lady of the Acoma. Then tumblers replaced him on the stage, and the party for the Warlord resumed.

Mara managed not to show resentment at this latest plot of Minwanabi’s. Not only had he managed to make any attempt at departure a public admission of cowardice, but he had neatly given himself an excuse if a guest chanced to be slaughtered on the river beyond his gates. Not even a messenger could be sent to the Acoma estates without Jingu’s knowledge. Mara glanced at Papewaio and knew by his tired eyes that he understood; even Keyoke could not be warned. The stakes were now higher than any of her advisers had anticipated. If she died, very likely an attack on Avaki would occur before word of her demise reached the Acoma estates.

An old friend of her father’s, Pataki of the Sida, passed near her table, and bowed politely. In a voice that only Mara and Nacoya could hear, he said, ‘You would be wise to send your bodyguard away to rest.’

‘Your advise is sound, my Lord.’ She smiled and tried to look less tired. ‘But I suggested the same thing earlier, and Papewaio said he did not care to sleep.’

The aged Lord nodded, aware as they all were that the warrior’s dedication was not misplaced. ‘Be wary, daughter of Sezu,’ Pataki said. ‘Almecho has little love for Jingu. He would enjoy seeing Minwanabi ambition blunted, but he needs their support in his little war on the barbarian world. So should Jingu manage to kill you without shame, Almecho would do nothing against him.’ For a moment the Lord of the Sida regarded the dais where the guests of honour sat dining. Almost reflectively he added, ‘Still, should Jingu be caught breaking his oath of surety for guests, Almecho would happily observe the ritual suicide.’ As if they had been speaking pleasantries, Pataki smiled. ‘Many here have a stake in what befalls the Acoma, my Lady. But none will act against you save the Minwanabi. At least you know your enemy.’

With sudden warmth, Mara returned a nod of respect. ‘I think I also know my friend as well, Lord Pataki.’

The old man laughed, feigning reaction to a witty remark. ‘The Sida and the Acoma have dealt honourably with each other for many generations.’ He glanced to his own table where two grandsons sat waiting. ‘Your father and I had even spoken of a possible alliance from time to time.’ His old eyes turned shrewd. ‘I would like to think you and I may someday speak of such things. Now I must return to my family. May the gods protect you, my Lady.’

‘And may the gods protect the Sida,’ Mara returned.

Nacoya leaned closer to Mara and whispered, ‘At least one here is a man like your father.’

Mara nodded. ‘Yet even he will not lend a hand when Jingu acts.’ The weak had been known to die in public with no outcry from observers, so long as the forms were observed. Minwanabi would strike. The only question was when.

Beyond the opened screens, dusk shadowed the shoreline, and the lake gleamed like a sheet of hammered silver in the afterglow. Stars pricked the zenith one by one, while slaves with wicks and oil jars made their rounds to light the lamps. Soon full darkness would fall, and then the danger would increase. Mara followed the other guests to the banquet hall, doing her best to match their mood of gaiety and enjoyment. But with all her heart she wished for a warrior’s role, to fight with armour and sword until death found herself or her enemies; to walk in fear through a crowd who smiled and laughed was to be undone one strand at a time, until dignity became a mask to conceal madness.

The repast served by Jingu of the Minwanabi to honour the Warlord was prepared by some of the finest cooks in the Empire; yet Mara ate without tasting what she took from dishes ornamented with rare metal rims. She strove throughout the meal to ease Nacoya’s strained nerves, all the while aware that Papewaio struggled not to fall asleep in his tracks. Without asking, she knew that he had stood guard the past night without rest, and though he was a strong man, keen of mind and determined of will, he could not be expected to maintain his façade of vigilance much longer. Mara excused her party from the festivities at the earliest opportunity.

Black shadows thrown by deep hoods made the expressions of the Great Ones unreadable, but their eyes followed Mara as she rose. To their right, Almecho smiled broadly, his elbow digging the Lord of the Minwanabi in the ribs. And from every part of the hall eyes watched with contempt as the Lady of the Acoma helped her aged First Adviser to her feet.

‘I wish you pleasant dreams,’ murmured Desio of the Minwanabi as the small party moved off towards the hallway.

Mara was too weary to respond. A moment later, when the Lord of the Ekamchi detained her in the doorway for one last jab at her expense, Papewaio saw her shoulders stiffen. The idea that his mistress should suffer even one more slight from this fat little man ignited the tall warrior’s temper. Before Mara could speak, and before the other guests could become aware of the situation, Papewaio grasped the Lord of the Ekamchi by the shoulders and moved him forcibly through the doorway, out of view of the diners.

The Lord of the Ekamchi gasped in astonishment. Then his plump cheeks quivered from outrage. ‘Wrath of the gods!’ he swore as the tall warrior towered over him. ‘You ignorant oaf, do you think you can handle me without penalty?’

Behind him, his own bodyguard rattled weapons, but they could not strike past their master’s fat bulk to reach Papewaio.

To all this bluster the Strike Leader of the Acoma returned a bland indifference. ‘If you trouble my Lady any more, I will do more than handle you,’ he warned. ‘I will handle you with violence!’

Ekamchi spluttered. His guards half drew their swords, restrained only by the fact that Papewaio could harm their master long before they could move.

‘Step aside,’ said Mara clearly to the Lord who blocked the passage. ‘Even you would not dare to mar the Warlord’s birthday celebration with bloodshed, Techachi of the Ekamchi.’

The fat Lord reddened further. ‘For a servant to lay hands on a man of my rank carries a death sentence,’ he carped.

‘I see,’ said Mara, nodding sagely.

Papewaio raised his helmet, revealing the black rag of shame already tied to his brow. He smiled.

The Lord of the Ekamchi paled and stepped aside, mumbling a hasty excuse. He could not demand the execution of a man already condemned; and if he ordered his guards to attack, he only granted the wretch an honourable death by the blade. Caught in his quandary, and hating Mara the more for it, he stalked back into the banquet.

‘Hurry along, old mother,’ Mara whispered to Nacoya. ‘The corridors are not safe for us.’

‘Do you think our suite is any less of a trap?’ the old woman returned, but she hastened her steps according to her mistress’s wishes.

Yet as Mara had guessed, privacy and quiet did much to restore Nacoya’s wits. Changed into more comfortable lounging robes, and seated upon cushions, the old woman began dryly to instruct her mistress in the ways of survival in a hostile court.

‘You must set lamps outside, opposite each of the screens,’ she insisted. ‘This way, an assassin trying to enter will throw a shadow against the paper, and you will see him coming. Also, lights inside should be placed between you and the windows, so that your own form will not show up as a silhouette to anyone lurking outside.’

Mara nodded, wisely allowing Nacoya to ramble on. The tricks with the lamps she had learned from Lano, and upon entering her suite she had detailed one of her maids to arrange things accordingly. Soon she and the old woman sat bathed in light, the stolid bulk of Papewaio on guard at the entrance.

With nothing else to distract her, Mara felt the pressure of her own concerns. She confided those worries to her First Adviser. ‘Nacoya, what of the fifty warriors stationed at the barracks? The Minwanabi oath of surety does not include our retinue and I fear their lives may be threatened.’

‘I think not.’ The old woman’s confidence was unexpected after her day-long siege of insecurity.

Mara restrained the urge to be angry. ‘But to kill them would be so easy to arrange. A false claim that a plague of summer fever had broken out in the barracks – on even a suspicion of disease, the bodies would be burned. No man could prove how our soldiers had died …’

Nacoya touched Mara’s wrists. ‘You fret for the wrong causes, Mara-anni. Minwanabi will not trouble himself with the lives of your warriors. Mistress, all he has to do is strike you and Ayaki down, and every man who wears Acoma green will become a grey warrior, masterless and cursed by the gods. That fate would suit Jingu’s tastes better, I am thinking.’

Here the First Adviser paused. She sought her mistress’s eyes but found them closed. ‘Mara, listen to me. Other dangers await, like relli coiled in the darkness. You must be aware of Teani.’ Nacoya sat straighter, as yet showing no inclination to retire. ‘I observed her all day, and she watched you tirelessly while your back was turned.’

But Mara was too weary to remain alert. Propped on one elbow in the cushions, she let her mind drift without discipline. Nacoya regarded her with ancient eyes and knew the girl had reached the limits of her endurance. She must not be permitted to sleep, for if an assassin struck she must be ready to snuff out the lamp and retire quickly to the corner Papewaio had designated for emergencies, so that he would not inadvertently strike the wrong mark with his sword.

‘Did you heed?’ Nacoya asked sharply.

‘Yes, mother of my heart.’ But with the Warlord himself finding amusement in the Acoma predicament, Teani was the least of Mara’s worries. Or so she thought, as the light threw shadows like death over the carry boxes that held her gowns and jewellery. How would Lano or her father, Lord Sezu, have handled the Acoma honour in this situation? Mara frowned, trying to guess how those who had died at the hand of Minwanabi treachery might have advised her to act. But no voices answered. In the end she had only her wits.

That conclusion haunted her into a fitful sleep. Though instinct warned against rest, she looked too much like a thin, tired child. Nacoya, who had raised her from infancy, could no longer bear to badger her. Instead, she arose from the cushions and delved into the clothing in the carry boxes.

Mara was deeply asleep by the time the old woman returned, her hands draped with a gauzy collection of silk scarves. These she arranged near the lamp by the sleeping mats, one last-ditch preparation before she herself succumbed to exhaustion. What would be would be. Two women, two maids, and one overburdened warrior were no match for the entire household of the Minwanabi. Nacoya hoped only the attack would come soon, that Papewaio might retain awareness enough to fight back.

But the night wore on without incident. The old nurse nodded and slept while the warrior on guard beyond the screen struggled against a numbing haze of exhaustion. Overtired nerves caused him to see movement in the garden, odd shapes suggesting lurking dangers. He blinked, and over and over again the shapes resolved into a bush or tree, or simply a shadow moving as the copper face of the moon dimmed and brightened behind a cloud. Sometimes Papewaio dozed, only to snap erect at the slightest suggestion of a sound. Yet the attack, when it came, caught him napping.

Mara jerked awake, sweating, confused, and uncertain of her surroundings. ‘Cala?’ she murmured, naming the maid who normally attended her at home.

Then a terrible tearing of paper and the sound of snapping wood jabbed her fully alert. Bodies struck the tiles not far from her cushions, followed by a man’s grunt of pain.

Mara rolled out of her cushions, banging against Nacoya in the process. The old woman woke with a shrill scream of terror, and while Mara fumbled in the darkness to seek the safe corner Papewaio had prepared, Nacoya delayed. Her hands raked up the scarves and tossed them in panic over the lamp. Fire bloomed like a flower, blazing and banishing the dark. Mara blundered to a halt, her shins bruised against an unfamiliar side table. Horrible, coarse gasps sounded in the darkness beyond the torn screen.

Crying now, and praying for Lashima’s guidance, Mara squinted through the conflagration around the lamp. She saw Nacoya lift a cushion and sweep the whole into the damaged screen, igniting the torn paper.

Flames leaped up, shedding golden light over the twisted features of a stranger, flung full length across the threshold with his arms locked in struggle with Papewaio. The Acoma First Strike Leader sat astride the man, hands clutching his throat. The combatants seemed a match in size and strength, but few could equal Papewaio’s fury in battle. Each man sought to choke the other. Papewaio’s face was a red mask of agony, matching his opponent’s. Then Mara gasped. Horrified, she noticed the dagger stuck through the armhole of Papewaio’s armour.

But even though he was wounded. Papewaio’s strength was great. The fingers gripping his throat weakened and slipped. With a final jerk he brought the assassin’s head up, then pulled with both hands, snapping bones with an audible crack. Limp arms fell from Papewaio’s throat and the body convulsed. Papewaio released his grip, and the corpse fell to the floor, the neck twisted at a terrible angle. Dim shadows moved in the courtyard beyond. Nacoya did not wait to identify them but raised her voice in the loudest scream she could muster.

‘Fire! Awake! Awake! There is fire in the house!’

Mara caught her idea and repeated the cry. In the droughts of summer, a Tsurani estate house might burn to the ground as a result of a mishandled lamp. And the flames Nacoya had started already chewed hungrily at the framing that supported the roof tiles. Minwanabi, his servants, and his guests must all respect the threat of fire. They would come, but all too likely too late to matter.

As the light brightened, Mara saw Papewaio cast around for his sword. He glanced over his shoulder and moved out of sight, reaching for something. Sounds followed that froze Mara to the heart: the smack of a blade cutting flesh and a grunt of pain. She rushed forward, calling for Papewaio. Guided by a glint of green armour, she saw her honour guard twist and fall heavily. Beyond him the plumes of a Minwanabi officer flared orange in the glow. Strike Leader Shimizu straightened with a bloodied sword, and in his eyes Mara read murder.

Yet she did not flee. Beyond, lights bloomed in the windows. Screens slid back, and robed figures ran forth, wakened by Nacoya’s cry of fire.

Saved by the presence of witnesses, Mara confronted Papewaio’s killer. ‘Would you murder me before the eyes of all the guests and condemn your lawful Lord to death?’

Shimizu glanced quickly to either side and saw the running figures who converged across the courtyard. Flames ripped rapidly up the roof line, and Nacoya’s cries were joined by a chorus of others. The alarm was spreading rapidly through the estate house, and soon every able man would appear upon the scene with buckets.

The chance to kill Mara was lost. Shimizu might love Teani, but a warrior’s code would never value a courtesan above honour. He bowed and sheathed his fouled blade. ‘Lady, I just aided your honour guard in dispatching a thief. That he died at his duty is the will of the gods. Now you must flee the fire!’

‘Thief?’ Mara all but choked on the word; at her feet, Papewaio lay sprawled with a black-handled dagger in his shoulder. That thrust could never have killed him, but the gaping wound through his heart surely had.

The first, shouting guests reached the scene of the fire, and taking no further notice of Mara, the Minwanabi Strike Leader called orders to clear the halls. Already the flames reached the corner supports, and fumes boiled white from the varnish, filling the air with an acrid odour.

Through the guests pushed Nacoya, clutching a few belongings as the two whimpering maids hauled the biggest box out of harm’s way. ‘Come, child.’ Nacoya caught her mistress’s sleeve, trying to pull her down the hall to safety.

Tears and smoke stung Mara’s eyes. She resisted Nacoya’s efforts, motioning for the Minwanabi servants who arrived to assist. Nacoya indulged in a rare blasphemy, but her mistress refused to move. Two servants took the carry box from the struggling maids. Others raced to gather the rest of Mara’s property from the rapidly spreading flames. Two burly workers took Nacoya by the arm and led her out of danger.

Shimizu caught at Mara’s robe. ‘You must come, Lady. The walls will soon fall.’ Already the heat of the blaze was becoming unbearable.

The bucket bearers began their job. Water hissed onto flaming timbers, but on the opposite side of the room from the place where the dead thief lay. His clothing had begun to blaze, eradicating any evidence of treachery he might have provided. Dully Mara responded to necessity. ‘I will not leave until the body of my Strike Leader has been carried from the field.’

Shimizu nodded. Without emotion he bent and shouldered the corpse of the warrior he had just run through with a sword.

Mara followed through halls choking with smoke as a murderer bore brave Papewaio’s body to the coolness of the night. She stumbled past servants who struggled with slopping buckets to battle the blaze, lest their master’s estate house become totally engulfed. Mara implored the gods to let it burn, let it all burn, so that Jingu might know a tenth part of the loss she felt at Pape’s death.

She might have wept then for the loss of a loyal friend; but amid a cluster of sleep-rumpled guests Jingu of the Minwanabi awaited, his eyes bright with the joy of victory.

Shimizu deposited Papewaio’s body on the cool grass and said, ‘Master, a thief – one of your servants – sought to use the confusion of new guests in the house to cover his escape. I found him dead at the hands of the Lady of the Acoma’s honour guard, but that brave warrior was also slain in turn. I found this on the dead man.’ Shimizu gave over a necklace of no particular beauty but fashioned from costly metal.

Jingu nodded. ‘This belongs to my wife. The culprit must be a house servant who pilfered our quarters while we dined.’ With an evil grin, he turned to face Mara. ‘It is a pity that such a worthy warrior had to give his life to protect a trinket.’

No evidence or witness existed to refute such obvious lies. Mara’s wits returned like a cold rush of wind. Before Jingu of the Minwanabi she bowed with icy poise. ‘My Lord, it is true that my Strike Leader Papewaio died bravely, defending the wealth of your wife from a thief.’

Taking her agreement for capitulation, and a salute to his superiority in the game, the Lord of the Minwanabi expansively offered commiseration. ‘Lady, your Strike Leader’s valour in behalf of my house shall not be unremarked. Let all present know that he conducted himself with highest honour.’

Mara returned a level stare. ‘Then honour Papewaio’s spirit as he deserves. Grant his memory due ceremony and provide him a funeral in proportion to his sacrifice.’

The shouts of the bucket brigade filled an interval as Jingu considered refusing Mara’s request. But then he noticed the Warlord grinning at him through an opened screen across the courtyard.

Almecho was aware that Papewaio’s death had been murder; but the contrived excuses did not upset protocol, such nuances amused him hugely, and since Mara had not cried for mercy, or otherwise flinched from the brutalities inherent in the Great Game, she was due this recompense from her enemy. Almecho called out to Jingu in a show of camaraderie, ‘My Lord host, your wife’s metal jewellery is worth many times the cost of such a rite. Give the Acoma man his funeral, for the gods’ sake, Jingu. His death leaves you a debt of honour. And since he lost his life at my birthday celebration, twenty of my own Imperial Whites shall stand in salute around the pyre.’

Jingu returned a deferential nod to Almecho, but his eyes showed cold annoyance in the light of the flames that still burned through one of his finer suites. ‘Hail to Papewaio,’ he conceded to Mara. ‘Tomorrow I shall honour his shade with a funeral.’

Mara bowed and retired to Nacoya’s side. Supported by her maids, she watched Shimizu retrieve the limp form of Papewaio and toss him indifferently to the strangers who would prepare him for his funeral. Tears threatened her composure. Survival did not seem possible without Pape. The hands dragging lifelessly across the damp grass had guarded her cradle when she was first born; they had steadied some of her first steps and defended her from murder in the sacred grove. The fact that the Lord of the Minwanabi was now obliged to pay for an extravagant ceremony to honour the warrior of an enemy house seemed a hollow victory, and meaningless. No more would the flamboyant red shirt with its tassels and embroidery bother anyone’s eyes on festival days; and right now that loss seemed more important than any power gained in the Game of the Council.