Читать книгу The Complete Empire Trilogy - Raymond E. Feist, Janny Wurts - Страница 25

The drums boomed.

The guests of Jingu of the Minwanabi gathered in the main foyer of the estate house for Papewaio’s funeral. Foremost among them, and veiled in red in deference to the God of Death, Mara of the Acoma led her temporary honour guard, one of the Warlord’s Imperial Whites. The drumbeat deepened, the sign for the procession to begin. Mara held a frond of ke reed in her hands, the raising of which would signal the marchers forward. Now was the time. Yet she closed her eyes, hesitant.

Weariness and grief left an ache inside that no ceremony would assuage. The Acoma were warriors, and Papewaio had given his life to serve his mistress, earning him an honourable death, but Mara still ached for him.

The drums boomed again, insistent. Mara lifted the scarlet reed. Feeling more alone than ever before in her life, she led the procession through the wide doorway to honour the shade of Papewaio, First Strike Leader of the Acoma. Jingu of the Minwanabi and the Warlord came after her, followed by the most powerful families of the Empire. They moved without speaking into a daylight turned gloomy with clouds. Mara’s steps were heavy, her feet reluctant to continue, yet each time the drum beat, she managed another stride. She had slept safely the night before in the Warlord’s suite; but her rest had been the drugged sleep of total fatigue, and she had not awakened refreshed.

A rare storm had blown in from the north, bringing misting rain. Low-hanging tendrils of fog curled across the surface of the lake, stone-grey in the subdued light. The damp made the air chill after weeks of arid heat, and Mara shivered. The earth under her sandals seemed dank as death itself. She thanked the Goddess of Wisdom that Nacoya had not insisted upon attending the funeral ceremony. By agreement with her mistress, the old woman had pleaded illness from the smoke and the sorrow of the last night’s events; for the moment she lay safe on her mat in the suite of the Warlord, Almecho.

Mara led the procession down the gentle slope to the lakeside, grateful that only her own safety should concern her; for the guests who walked in pairs behind her were edgy, unpredictable as caged beasts. Not one of them believed the fiction that a servant had stolen the jewels of the Lady of the Minwanabi. No one had been impolite enough to point out that Shimizu had the alleged booty in his possession while the thief’s body was consumed by fire before anyone could reach him. The possibility that Jingu had violated his pledged oath of guest safety could not be questioned without proof. Hereafter Mara and her retinue might not be the only targets for such plotting; no Lord present dared relax for the remainder of the gathering, for a few among them might react to the uncertainty in the atmosphere and strike at enemies of their own.

Only the Warlord seemed amused. Since he was the Emperor’s voice within the Empire, the conspiracies and the setbacks of the rival factions beneath him offered as much enjoyment as the festivities honouring his birthday – which Papewaio’s funeral had deferred until tomorrow. While his host, the Lord of the Minwanabi, fixed his attentions on Mara of the Acoma, Almecho knew Jingu was not plotting to wear the white and gold – at least not this week.

Though most guests marched in proper silence, Almecho whispered pleasantries in the ear of Jingu. This landed the Lord of the Minwanabi in a prickly mesh of protocol: whether he should remain serious, as was proper for a Lord who attended the funeral of one who had died defending his property; or whether he should defer to the mood of his guest of honour, and smile at the jokes, which in all likelihood were presented to provoke precisely this same dilemma.

But Mara drew no satisfaction from Jingu’s discomfort. Ahead, on a finger of land past the piers, rose the ceremonial pyre of the Acoma First Strike Leader. He lay in his plumes and ceremonial armour, his sword upon his breast; and across the blade his crossed wrists were bound with scarlet cord, signifying death’s dominance over the flesh. Beyond him, at attention, stood the fifty warriors of the Acoma retinue. They were permitted at the gathering to honour their departed officer; and from their number Mara must choose Papewaio’s successor, one soldier to stand as her honour guard throughout the remainder of the celebration for the Warlord. Almost, her step faltered on the path. To think of another in Pape’s place brought pain past bearing; yet the more practical side of her mind kept functioning. Her next stride was firm, and her choice already made. Arakasi must wear the honour guard’s mantle, for she would need any information he might have gathered to counter the Minwanabi threat.

Mara stepped up to the bier. She lowered the scarlet reed, and the guests fanned out, forming a circle around Papewaio’s body, leaving small openings at the east and west. The neat lines of Acoma warriors waited behind Papewaio’s head, each holding his sword point down in the earth to symbolize a warrior fallen.

The drums boomed and fell silent. Mara raised her voice to open the ceremonies. ‘We are gathered to commemorate the life deeds of Papewaio, son of Papendaio, grandson of Kelsai. Let all present know that he achieved the rank of First Strike Leader of the Acoma, and that the honours that earned him this postion were many.’

Mara paused and faced east; and the small gap left in the circle was now filled by a white-robed priest of Chochocan, who wore armlets woven of thyza reed, and whose presence symbolized life. The Lady of the Acoma bowed in deference to the god, then began to recite the memorable deeds of Papewaio’s service, from the first day of his oath to the Acoma natami. As she spoke, the priest shed his mantle. Naked but for his symbols of office, he danced in celebration of the strong, brave warrior who lay in state upon the bier.

The list of Papewaio’s honours was a lengthy one. Well before the recitation ended, Mara had to struggle to keep her composure. Yet as her account faltered, the guests did not fidget or show boredom. Life and death, and the winning of glory according to the code of honour, were a subject central to the Tsurani civilization; the deeds of this particular servant of the Acoma were impressive. Rivalry, hatred, even blood feud did not extend past the borders of death, and so long as the priest danced in remembrance of Papewaio, the Lord of the Minwanabi and every distinguished guest acknowledged the renown of the deceased.

But no warrior’s prowess could accomplish immortality. Eventually Mara reached the night when the blade of a thief had ended a brilliant career. The dancer bowed to the earth before the bier, and the Lady of the Acoma turned west, where a red-robed priest stood in the small gap in the circle. She bowed in respect to the representative of the Red God; and the priest in service to the Death God threw off his mantle.

He was masked with a red skull, for no mortal might know the face of death until his turn came to greet the Red God, Turakamu. The priest’s skin was dyed scarlet, and his armlets were woven of serpent skins. Again Mara raised her voice. She managed the last with flawless poise, for her life now balanced upon her ability to play the Great Game. In ringing tones she described the death of a warrior. And with true Tsurani appreciation of theatre and ceremony, she made her account an accolade to the honour of Papewaio.

The priest of Turakamu danced a warrior’s death, with bravery, glory, and honour that live on in memory. When he finished, he drew a black knife and slashed the scarlet cords that bound Papewaio’s wrists. The time for flesh was ended, and the spirit must be freed from its bondage to death.

Mara swallowed, her eyes dry and hard. From the priest of Turakamu she accepted the flaming torch that burned at the foot of the bier. This she raised skyward, with a silent prayer to Lashima. Now she must name Papewaio’s successor, the man who would assume his former duties so that his spirit would be free of mortal obligation. Saddened, Mara strode to the head of the bier. With trembling fingers she fixed the red reed to the warrior’s helm. Then she plucked away the officer’s plume, and turned to face the still ranks of the Acoma soldiers who closed the north end of the circle.

‘Arakasi,’ she said; and though her summons was barely above a whisper, the Spy Master heard.

He stepped forward and bowed.

‘I pray to the gods I have chosen wisely,’ Mara murmured as she gave the torch and the plume into his hands.

Arakasi straightened and regarded her with dark, enigmatic eyes. Then, without comment, he turned and cried out for his companion at arms, Papewaio. The priest of Chochocan re-entered the circle with a reed cage that contained a white-plumed tirik bird, symbol of the spirit of rebirth. As the flames touched the kindling stack beneath Papewaio’s muscled corpse, the priest slashed the reed constraints with a knife. And Mara watched, her eyes misted, as the white bird shot skyward and vanished into the rain.

Fire hissed and cracked, smoky in the dampness. The guests waited a respectful interval before they filed slowly back to the estate house. Mara remained, along with her fifty warriors and her newly chosen honour guard, waiting for the fire to burn out and the priests of Chochocan and Turakamu to gather Papewaio’s ashes. These would be enclosed within an urn and buried beneath the wall of the Acoma contemplation glade, to honour the fact that Papewaio had died in loyal service to the family. For a time, Mara was alone with Arakasi, away from the scrutiny of the guests.

‘You did not bring Nacoya with you,’ Arakasi murmured, his words barely audible over the snap of the pyre. ‘Mistress, that was clever.’

His choice of words pierced the lethargy left by grief. Mara turned her head slightly, studying the Spy Master to analyse the reason for the edge of sarcasm she had detected in his tone. ‘Nacoya is in the estate house, ill.’ Mara paused, waiting for a reply. When none came, she added, ‘We shall be joining her within the hour. Do you think you can keep us alive until evening?’ The remainder of the day had been set aside for contemplation and remembrance of Papewaio. But she referred to the fact that, once away from the bier, the guests would reassume the ongoing machinations of the game; and Arakasi, though competent, was not her most proficient swordsman.

The Spy Master accepted the implication with the barest indication of a smile. ‘Very wise, indeed, my Lady.’

And by his tone of relief, Mara understood. He had thought she intended to flee the Minwanabi, now, while she was reunited with her warriors. Nacoya would have agreed to remain behind towards this end, an intentional sacrifice to blind Minwanabi to her mistress’s intention to break and run for home. Mara swallowed, pained again by grief. How readily the old woman might have embraced such a ruse, her abandonment in an enemy house a gambit to ensure Acoma continuance.

‘Papewaio was sacrifice enough,’ Mara said, sharply enough for Arakasi to know that flight was the last of her intentions.

The Spy Master nodded fractionally. ‘Good. You would not have survived, in any event. Minwanabi has ringed his estates with his armies, with the appearance of safe-guarding the presence of his guests. But over their drink and their dice, his soldiers admit that many others without colours wait outside the estate borders, posing as pirates or roving bands of outlaws, to trap the Lady of the Acoma.’

Mara’s eyes widened. ‘And how did you know this? By borrowing an orange tunic and mingling with the enemy?’

Arakasi chuckled, very low in his throat. ‘Hardly that, my Lady. I have informants.’ He regarded his mistress, studying a face that was pale but for the faint flush lent by the heat of the fire. Her slight frame was straight, and her eyes afraid but determined. ‘Since we stay and confront the Lord of the Minwanabi, there are things you should know.’

Now Mara showed the slightest indication of triumph. ‘Loyal Arakasi. I chose you because I trusted you to hate the Lord of the Minwanabi as I do. We understand each other very well. Now tell me all you know that will help me to humble this man who murdered my family and a warrior who was most dear to my heart.’

‘He has a weak link in his household,’ Arakasi said without preamble. ‘A relli in his nest that he does not know about. I have discovered that Teani is an Anasati spy.’

Mara drew a startled breath. ‘Teani?’ She assessed this and suddenly felt more than the chill of the rain. All along, Nacoya had insisted that the concubine had been more dangerous than Mara credited; and Mara had not listened, a mistake that might have cost her everything she had struggled to gain, for here was a Minwanabi servant who had no concern should Mara’s death cost Jingu his life and honour. In fact, to arrange such a pass would no doubt please Tecuma, as it would avenge Buntokapi’s death and remove the man most likely to cause little Ayaki harm. Mara wasted no time on recriminations but at once began to calculate how this information might be used to her advantage. ‘What else do you know of Teani?’

‘The news is very recent. Word just reached me last night.’ Arakasi lifted the plume and, by tilting his head to affix it to his helm, managed to speak directly into Mara’s ear. ‘I know the concubine shares her favours with one of the higher-ranking officers, which the Lord suspects but has not proven. Jingu has many women he calls upon, but she is his favourite. He does not care to do without her … talents long.’

Mara considered this, gazing into the flames of Papewaio’s pyre; and a memory returned, of fire and dark, when Pape had lain still warm in the courtyard at her feet. Teani had accompanied the Lord of the Minwanabi. While Jingu had made a show of surprise, Teani seemed genuinely startled by Mara’s presence. Jingu had spoken briefly to Shimizu, who had surely been Pape’s executioner, while Teani’s eyes had followed the Minwanabi’s Strike Leader with contempt of a startling intensity. Mara had been preoccupied with Papewaio at the time, and the concubine’s twisted hatred had not seemed significant. Now, though, the memory gained importance, particularly since Teani’s reaction had caused Shimizu discomfort. ‘What is the name of Teani’s lover?’ Mara inquired.

Arakasi shook his head. ‘I don’t know, mistress. But when we reach the estate house, I can send my agent there to find out.’

Mara turned her head away as the flames consumed Papewaio’s body. Watching was too painful, and the gesture gave her a better chance to speak to Arakasi over the loud crackle of the flames. ‘I will wager a full year’s harvest it’s Shimizu.’

Arakasi nodded, his expression set with sympathy as if his Lady expressed some thought on the valour of the departed. ‘No bet, mistress; he’s the most likely candidate.’

The oil-soaked wood beneath Papewaio finally caught, and flame erupted skyward, hot enough to consume even bone and hardened hide armour. Only ashes would remain when the pyre cooled.

‘Pape,’ murmured Mara. ‘You will be avenged along with my father and brother.’ And now, while the sky wept cold drizzle, the fires consumed all that was mortal of the staunchest warrior Mara had known. She waited, no longer cold, her mind preoccupied with the beginning of a plan.

Mara returned to the Warlord’s suite following Papewaio’s funeral. Soaked to the skin, and accompanied by an honour guard who also dripped wet on the waxed wooden floor, she found Nacoya up from her sleeping mat. In a waspish frame of mind, the old woman ordered Mara’s two maids to stop fussing over the carry boxes for the move to new quarters and attend their mistress at once.

The Lady of the Acoma fended off the attentions of the maids, sending them back to their packing. Though aware that Nacoya was overwrought, she saw little sense in rushing the process of changing and refreshing herself after the funeral. For now she needed the security of the Warlord’s suite.

Mara paused long enough to shake her dripping hair loose from its coil. Then she nodded to Arakasi, who placed the urn containing Papewaio’s remains by the carry boxes and stepped forward.

‘Go and seek Desio,’ Mara instructed the man who now played the role of warrior. ‘Tell him we will need servants to conduct us and our belongings to the new suite the Lord of the Minwanabi has seen fit to assign the Acoma.’

Arakasi bowed, showing no sign that his orders would be taken any way but literally. He left in silence, knowing Mara would understand that he would find Desio, but not by the most direct route. The Spy Master would seek his contacts and, with luck, return with the information Mara needed on Teani.

The weather cleared by sunset, and with the passing of the rain the guests of the Lord of the Minwanabi grew restless with the inactivity of contemplation. A few of them gathered in the larger courtyards, to play mo-jo-go, a gambling card game, while others staged bouts of mock combat between the more skilled warriors of their honour guards, with heavy betting. With Papewaio’s recent death, Mara understandably did not participate; but the casual mingling of Minwanabi’s household staff and the informality of the Lords present offered an ideal chance for Arakasi to gather intelligence. Watching him through the slightly parted screen door of her chambers, Mara could not guess whether the Spy Master had contacts in every major Lord’s retinue, or whether the man’s acting ability enabled him to lure even loyal men into casual conversation. However he garnered his news, by sundown when Arakasi returned with the second of his reports, his information about Teani was astonishingly detailed.

‘You were right, Lady. Shimizu is certainly Teani’s lover.’ Arakasi accepted thyza bread and delicately smoked meats from a tray offered by Nacoya. Mara had chosen to eat supper in her rooms and had invited the Spy Master to share her meal.

The Lady of the Acoma watched with unreadable eyes while Arakasi arranged strips of needra on thyza pastry. His clever fingers rolled the result into a twist, which he ate with the manners of a born noble. ‘More than that,’ he resumed, knowing Mara would take his meaning, ‘Teani has the Minwanabi Strike Leader netted like a fish. He follows along as she pulls, though his better instincts might be inclined otherwise.’

Here the Spy Master paused in his repast. ‘Last night the two lovers quarrelled.’ He grinned. ‘The servant lighting lamps overheard and stayed around cleaning wicks – he found the conversation fascinating. The man was reluctant to speak to my agent, as the name of their Lord had been mentioned, but whatever the final disposition, Teani has been snappish as a bitch ever since. Shimizu can be expected to do anything to regain her favour.’

‘Anything?’ Bored with eating, Mara waved to Nacoya, who brought damp cloths to wipe her face and hands. ‘That does offer possibilities, does it not?’ While Arakasi ate freely, Mara considered: Shimizu had slain Papewaio by treachery; Teani might be forced into manipulating him to admit his Lord had ordered the death of the Acoma officer. As an Anasati spy, Teani had no true loyalty to Jingu. She would be the only servant in his house unwilling to die for Minwanabi honour. Mara made up her mind. ‘I wish you to have a message delivered to Teani,’ she said to Arakasi. ‘Can this be done in secrecy?’

Now it was the Spy Master’s turn to lose his appetite. ‘If I could presume to guess what plan you have in mind, it is risky, no, dangerous in the extreme. By my assessment, the concubine cannot be depended upon to protect her true master, the Lord of the Anasati. She has betrayed a master before, perhaps more than one, and I suspect she may have murdered another.’

Mara, too, had studied Teani’s background, that of an abused street prostitute who had grown to love her profession, and one thing more: twisted ambition. In the past the woman had sold out lovers and friends and even done murder upon men who had visited her bed. At first these acts had been ones of survival; but later she had continued out of greed, and a hunger for power. That Mara shared Arakasi’s opinion of the concubine’s reliability mattered little at this point. ‘Arakasi, if you have a better plan, I will embrace it.’

The Spy Master gestured in the negative; and deep in his eyes Mara read approval as she said, ‘Very well. Fetch me parchment and pen, and have my message sent to this woman by nightfall.’

Arakasi bowed and did as he was bid. Inwardly he admired the boldness of Mara’s intentions; yet his sharp eyes did not miss the slight tremble of her hand as she penned the note that would begin her attempt to redress the power-hungry rapacity of the Minwanabi Lord.

The lamp flame flickered in the draught as Teani paced to the screen and spun around, the mantle fanning an agitated breeze across the cheek of Strike Leader Shimizu. ‘You should not have summoned me at this hour,’ he said, disappointed with himself because already his annoyance was fading. ‘You know that I cannot shirk my duty to attend you, and I am due on watch in an hour.’

Poised in lamplight with her gold-streaked hair laced with ribbon, Teani took his breath away. The curve of her breasts beneath her thin robe made duty seem unreal. ‘Go on to your watch, then, soldier,’ the concubine said.

Shimizu lowered his eyes, perspiration glistening on his forehead. If he left now, his mind would not be on his post, and the Lord of the Minwanabi might as well have no guard on his door at all. Trapped between honour and the burning need of his love, the Strike Leader said, ‘You may as well tell me why you asked that I come.’

Teani sat as if strength and confidence had suddenly deserted her. She turned the frightened eyes of a girl to her lover; but the robes shifted as she leaned forward, showing a calculated amount of flesh. ‘Shimizu, I did not know who else to ask. Mara of the Acoma wishes to have me assassinated.’

She seemed vulnerable enough to wrench the heart. Shimizu’s hand gripped his sword by instinct. As always, her beauty overwhelmed the honest instinct that warned her words might deceive. ‘How do you know this, my love?’

Teani lowered her lashes as if fighting despair.

Shimizu removed his helm, abandoned it hastily on a side table, then bent at her side. Enclosing her shoulders in his embrace, he spoke into her scented hair. ‘Tell me.’

Teani shivered. She buried her face in his strength and allowed his hands to stroke her, coaxing away the fear that prevented speech. ‘Mara sent me a note,’ the concubine managed at last. ‘She claims that her late husband left me some jewels as an inheritance. To avoid calling my indiscretion to the attention of my Lord, she demands that I go to her chambers tonight when all are asleep to claim them. Only I know that Buntokapi left me no gifts. That night he left me in Sulan-Qu he knew he was going back to the estate to die, and he arranged for my comforts before he departed.’

Shimizu shook her gently, as if to disrupt a childish fit of sulks. ‘You’re in no danger, precious. No demand of the Lady of the Acoma can force you to complete such an errand.’

Teani raised her head, her breasts pressed against the Strike Leader’s side. ‘You don’t know her,’ she whispered, afraid still, and appealing to the edge of pain. ‘Mara is clever, and cold-hearted enough to arrange the death of her own son’s father. If I refuse this invitation, how long do I have before an assassin visits my sleeping mat and plunges a knife through my heart? Shimizu, I shall live each day in terror. Only in your arms do I feel safe from this woman’s wicked plots.’

Shimizu felt that the smallest breath of cold touched his flesh. He drew taut, as if the woman in his arms had touched a nerve. ‘What do you wish of me?’ Her insecurity prompted a warrior’s desire to protect; yet he could not strike Mara without breaking the Minwanabi surety that the safety of all guests was secure under his roof. In warning Shimizu added, ‘Even for your sake, I cannot betray my Lord.’

Not in the least distressed, Teani reached under Shimizu’s tunic and traced the muscles of his thigh with her fingers. ‘I would never ask you to dirty yourself with an assassin’s work, love. But as my man, would you permit your woman to enter the lair of a dangerous beast without protection? If I answer the appointment after your guard duty ends, would you go as my escort? If Mara intends me harm, and you defend me, then our Lord will have nothing but praise. You’ll have slain the enemy of his heart and done so without risk of shame. If you are right’ – she shrugged, as if the possibility was faint – ‘and there is some truth to the woman’s message, what harm is done by my bringing an escort?’

Shimizu relaxed utterly, and her caress flushed his skin like fine wine. That a member of the Minwanabi household should bring an honour guard to her appointment with a guest was entirely proper, even expected; and, as such, he could lawfully defend the safety of his charge if her life were threatened. Loosened by relief, he kissed her. And in the fervency of his response Teani sensed that the warrior she manipulated wavered in his resolves like a reed in a gale. If she had asked for Mara’s death, Shimizu would have been deeply unsure which would claim his first loyalty: his obligations to his Lord or his devotion to the woman in his arms.

Teani pushed Shimizu away with all the caution she would have used while sheathing a deadly weapon. No trace of satisfaction showed in her eyes, but only resignation and bravery as she lifted the plumed helmet from the side table and set it in Shimizu’s hands. ‘Honour our Lord, my love. Then meet me here when your guard duty is over, and we shall go to meet Mara of the Acoma.’

Shimizu placed the helmet on his head. With the strap still swinging loose, he bent and kissed her fiercely. ‘If Mara dares try to harm you, she shall die,’ he whispered. Then he broke away and strode swiftly through the screen.

As Shimizu vanished into the twilight, Teani rubbed the red marks his armour had pressed into her flesh. A wild joy shone in her eyes; and she blew out the lamp, that no observer should share this moment of triumph. All she had to do was provoke an attack from Mara, or fake one if the bitch did not rise to insults. Then, by the warrior’s code, Shimizu must strike a blow in Teani’s defence; and if in the greater game Mara’s death came to be judged a shameful act, what did damage to the Minwanabi matter to a concubine whose loyalty belonged to Tecuma of the Anasati? Buntokapi’s murderess would be meat for jagunas, and to Teani that triumph was beyond any other consideration.

Beyond the balcony rail, moonlight spilled gold across the wind-ruffled waters of the lake. But Mara did not step up to the screens to admire the view. Arakasi had cautioned against this when she first entered the new suite. The guardrails of the balcony, as well as the supports and some of the planks near the edge, were old, almost ancient wood, but the pegs used to fasten them were new, lacking the dullness chican wood gained when weathered. Someone had prepared the way for an ‘accident’. A walkway of glazed stone tiles lined the garden three floors below this window. No one falling from the balcony could possibly survive. Few questions would be asked if her body were found lying broken there in the morning, with the old railing above having obviously collapsed as she leaned upon it.

Night darkened the corridors and suites of the Minwanabi estate house; few guests remained awake. Missing Papewaio, and aching for sleep and the security of her own estate, Mara settled restlessly on the cushions beside Nacoya.

Dressed in simple robes, and enamelled shell bracelets crafted by the cho-ja, the Lady of the Acoma rested her head on her palms. ‘The concubine cannot be much longer in coming.’

Nacoya said nothing; but, from his post beyond the entry screen, Arakasi returned a dubious shrug. His gesture indicated that he thought Teani unpredictable in the extreme; yet her note had stated she would come after the midnight change of the guard. Mara felt cold, though the night was warm. She wished for Papewaio, whose skill in battle was legendary. Arakasi might wear the armour of an honour guard, but his talent with weapons was nothing to boast about. Still, without the Spy Master’s network she would have no plan at all. Steadying her nerves with temple discipline, Mara waited and at last heard footsteps in the corridor.

She turned a self-satisfied smile to Arakasi; then abruptly banished the expression from her face. The footsteps drew nearer, and above the expected jingle of expensive jewellery, Mara heard the squeak of armour and weaponry; Teani had brought a warrior for company.

Nacoya blinked sleepily, hard of hearing enough that she did not detect the party approaching down the corridor. But she straightened as Mara glanced through the doorway, warned by Arakasi’s bow. He could always be counted upon to affect the manners appropriate to his station; analysing the extent of his deference, Nacoya muttered, ‘The concubine has brought an honour guard, as is her right.’ She fell silent. The hour was too late to caution Mara that any act which might be interpreted as aggressive behaviour towards Teani might be constituted an attack upon a member of the Minwanabi household. The honour guard would then be justified in defending Jingu’s concubine, even duty-bound to do so.

Though Mara assumed her most regal posture and her sternest self-control, she could not repress a small start of fear as the warrior attending Teani stepped around the screen into view. He wore the orange plumes of a Minwanabi Strike Leader, and his features were those of the officer Mara had seen sheathe his bloody blade over the body of Papewaio.

The concubine walked behind, draped in dark silk. Costly metal ornaments pinned her tawny hair, and bracelets sparkled on her wrists. As she stepped up to the screen, Arakasi positioned himself smoothly before her escort. ‘We both wait here … against any need.’

That no armed warrior might approach his Lady save by her leave was protocol. He waved Teani over the threshold, and the lamps flickered, winnowed by a draught off the lake.

Mara watched with stony eyes as Teani made her bow. Though endowed with a well-curved figure, close up Teani was not soft. She moved with a predator’s grace, and her eyes reflected cunning and confidence. Mara searched the woman’s form with practised eyes, but cleverly placed folds of silk revealed nothing but seductive triangles of bare skin. Any weapons Teani might carry were well hidden.

Aware, suddenly, that the concubine was assessing her in return, Mara nodded a stiff greeting. ‘There are matters between us to discuss.’ She waved at the cushions opposite.

Teani accepted the invitation and sat. ‘We do have much to discuss.’ She scraped a fleck of dust from her cuff with a sharp-edged fingernail, then added, ‘But nothing to do with gifts from your late husband, Lady. I know the real reason you asked me to come here.’

‘Do you?’ A short silence developed, which Mara extended by sending Nacoya to heat a pot of aub petal tea. Controlled enough not to break first, Teani added nothing more. Mara met the hatred in her eyes with calm. ‘I doubt you know all I have to say.’

While Nacoya bustled back with the pot, the officer who had accompanied Teani watched their every move; since Arakasi had confirmed Mara’s suspicion that Shimizu was the concubine’s lover, she was able to interpret his fanatical expression. He waited like a relli coiled to strike.

Nacoya set cups and strips of spice bark before the cushions. As she began to pour the tea, Teani spoke again. ‘You surely do not expect me to drink in your chambers, Lady of the Acoma.’

Mara smiled, as if the accusation that she might poison a guest were no insult at all. ‘You accepted Acoma hospitality readily enough before.’ And as Teani bridled, she sipped neatly from her own cup and began her opening move. ‘I observe that you have brought Strike Leader Shimizu as your honour guard. That is good, for what I have to say concerns him.’

Teani said nothing, but in the doorway Shimizu shifted his weight onto his toes. Arakasi rested his hand lightly on his sword, though he was no match for a true warrior.

Mara concentrated solely upon the beautiful courtesan before her. In a voice low enough that the soldiers by the door could not hear, she said, ‘My honour guard Papewaio was murdered last night, but not by a thief. I say to you that your honour guard, Shimizu, ran a sword through his heart, thereby forfeiting the surety of the Minwanabi.’

A breeze off the lake dimmed the lamp. Teani smiled in the shadow and abruptly waved Nacoya over to pour her tea. ‘You are no threat to the Minwanabi, Lady Mara.’ Contemptuously, as if her presence were warmly welcome, she crumbled spice bark into the cup, raised it to her lips, and drank. ‘Papewaio cannot return to life to testify.’ Teani had not troubled to lower her voice, and now Shimizu’s eyes were fixed upon the Lady of the Acoma.

Sweat sprang along Mara’s spine. For her father, for her brother, and for Pape, she made herself continue. ‘That is true. But I say that your master is guilty, and your warrior companion was his instrument. You both will swear to the fact … or else Jingu will watch his pretty lover die by the rope.’

Teani stiffened. Without spilling her tea, she set down her cup. ‘That’s a threat to frighten children. Why should my master order me a shameful death, when I do nothing but please him?’

Now Mara let her reply ring across the breadth of the room. ‘Because I know that you are a spy for Tecuma of the Anasati.’

For a moment surprise, shock, and naked calculation warred on the concubine’s face. Before Teani could recover her poise, Mara completed her gambit and hoped the gods of chance would support her lie. ‘I have documents that prove you are Tecuma’s sworn servant, and unless you do as I wish, I will have them sent to the Lord of the Minwanabi.’

Arakasi watched Shimizu with the single-minded intensity of a killwing. At first the tall officer seemed stunned by betrayal. Then, as Teani visibly struggled for words to deny the accusation, Shimizu stirred in the doorway and slowly drew his sword.

The concubine strove to patch the tear in their relations. ‘Shimizu! Mara lies. She speaks falsely of me to make you betray our master.’

Shimizu hesitated. Reflections from the lamp trembled along the razor edge of his lacquered blade as, tortured with self-doubt, he debated.

‘Attack her,’ Teani goaded. ‘Kill Mara for me. Kill her now!’

But her voice rang too shrill. Shimizu straightened his shoulders. Fear, and regret, and painful resolve all mingled on his features as he slowly shook his head. ‘I must inform my Lord Jingu. He shall judge.’

‘No!’ Teani sprang to her feet. ‘He’ll hang us both, you fool!’

But the protest served only to seal her guilt in the eyes of the warrior who had loved her. He spun away from the doorframe. Arakasi moved to overtake him, and sounds of a struggle arose from the corridor. Plainly the Acoma Spy Master attempted to block Shimizu’s way, to grant Mara time to obtain proof of Minwanabi treachery against Papewaio.

Teani whirled, her eyes narrowed with fury. ‘You’ll never get what you want from me, you sexless bitch.’ She drew a knife from the waistband of her robe and sprang from the cushions to murder.

Mara had seen the shift of the concubine’s weight. Already rolling as Teani piled into her, she dropped her shoulder under the thrust. The knife struck harmlessly into cushions.

As the concubine twisted the weapon free, Mara recovered her breath. ‘Shimizu! Help! For your master’s honour!’ She rolled again, the flash of the blade a hairsbreadth from her groin.

Teani uttered a furious curse and slashed at her enemy’s throat.

Mara blocked with a wrestler’s move, but only for a moment. The concubine was larger than she, and anger lent her strength. Sliding, twisting, struggling for her life upon the floor, Mara managed a desperate cry to Nacoya. ‘Get help. If I die in front of witnesses, Jingu is ruined and Ayaki will survive!’

The old nurse fled. Teani shrieked wordlessly in frustration. Possessed utterly by hatred, she rammed Mara backwards against the tiles. The knife dipped. Mara’s grip began to give, and the blade trembled lower, nearer and nearer to her exposed throat.

Suddenly a shadow loomed overhead. Armour flashed in the moonlight, and hands seized Teani from behind. Mara’s hold broke with a jerk as the concubine was yanked backwards, the knife still in her hand.

Shimizu hauled his lover up by the hair, like a hunter’s kill. ‘You must be an Anasati spy,’ he said bitterly. ‘Why else would you harm this woman, and see my master shamed beyond redemption?’

Teani met her lover’s accusation with a glare of sultry defiance. Then she twisted like a serpent and rammed the knife towards his heart.

Shimizu spun and took the blade against the wristband on his arm. The edge glanced off, opening a slight wound. Wild with rage, he flung away the concubine who had betrayed him. She staggered gracelessly backwards and caught a heel on the track that secured the screens. The balcony lay beyond, the railing a silhouette against the moonlit surface of the lake. Teani flailed, off balance, and stumbled against supports already weakened for murder. The railing cracked and gave way with the softest whisper of sound. The concubine twisted, horror robbing her of grace, as she clawed to regain the balcony. Mara’s breath caught in her throat, even as the weakened boards splintered from under Teani’s feet. The sound was a death knell. Teani knew, as she tottered, that the glazed tiles of the courtyard awaited below; the body found broken in the morning would be hers, and not that of her enemy.

‘No!’ Her shout echoed over the lake as the last board collapsed beneath her. She did not scream. As she plunged through the darkness, she cried, ‘I curse you –’ and then her body struck the tiles. Mara closed her eyes. Still clenching a drawn sword, Shimizu stood stunned and tormented. The woman he had cherished lay dead below.

The moonlight shone uninterrupted across a vacant expanse of balcony, framed by broken supports. Mara shivered and stirred, then raised stunned eyes to the warrior, who seemed locked like a statue in grief. ‘What happened to my honour guard?’ she asked.

Shimizu seemed not to hear. He turned half-dazed from the balcony and bent unfriendly eyes upon Mara. ‘You will provide evidence that Teani was an Anasati spy, my Lady.’

Mara pushed damp hair from her face, too shaken and too preoccupied to react to the threat in his tone. Her goal, vengeance for her father, her brother, and even Papewaio, lay very close at hand. If only she could wring an admission from Shimizu – the Strike Leader could not hope to hide the fact that he had been forced to kill Teani to defend the oath of guest safety. Since the concubine had initiated the attack, Jingu could be accused of betrayal; for upon Mara’s arrival half the guests present had overheard his announcement that Teani was a privileged member of his household.

Shimizu took a threatening step forward. ‘Where is your proof?’

Mara looked up, relief at her own survival making her careless in her reply. ‘But I have no proof. Teani was an Anasati spy, but my claim of written evidence was only a gambler’s bluff.’

Shimizu glanced quickly to either side, and with a jolt of renewed dread, Mara remembered. Nacoya had left to find help. No observers remained to witness whatever happened in the room.

‘Where is Arakasi?’ she repeated, unable to hide the fear in her voice.

Shimizu stepped forward. His manner changed from stunned horror to resolve, and his fingers tightened on his weapon. ‘You have no further need of an honour guard, Lady of the Acoma.’

Mara retreated, her feet tangling in cushions. ‘Warrior, after all that has passed this night, would you dare compromise the honour of your master beyond doubt?’

Shimizu’s expression remained stony as he lifted his sword. ‘Who is to know? If I say that you killed Teani, and I was honour-bound to defend her, there are no other witnesses to challenge me.’

Mara kicked clear of the cushions. Shimizu advanced another step, backing her helplessly against the carry boxes. Terrified by his passionate logic, and chilled by realization that his mad, clever plan might create enough confusion to spare Jingu’s honour, she tried to stall him with words. ‘Then you killed Arakasi?’

Shimizu leaped across the massed expanse of cushions. ‘Lady, he sought to keep me from my duty.’

His blade rose, glittering in the moonlight. Out of resources, and cornered without hope, Mara drew the small knife she kept hidden in her sleeve.

She raised her hand to throw, and Shimizu sprang. He struck with the flat of his sword; smashed from her grasp, the knife rattled across the floor and lay beyond reach by the balcony doors.

The sword rose again. Mara threw herself to the floor. Darkened by the shadow of her attacker, she screamed, ‘Nacoya!’ while silently beseeching Lashima’s protection for Ayaki, and the continuance of the Acoma line.

But the old nurse did not answer. Shimizu’s sword whistled downward. Mara twisted, bruising herself against the carry boxes as the blade sliced into the sleeping mat. Mara struggled, pinned helplessly against unyielding boxes of goods. The next cut from Shimizu’s sword would end her life.

But suddenly another sword rose over Shimizu’s head. This weapon was familiar, and ineptly handled as it carved a shining arc in the moonlight and crashed upon the neck of her attacker. Shimizu’s hands loosened. His sword wavered, then fell from his fingers, to splash point first through the leather side of a carry box.

Mara screamed as the huge warrior toppled, his plumes raking her side as he crashed upon the floor. One pace behind, and staggering to a stop, Arakasi employed the sword he had lately used as a club for a prop to steady himself. He managed a drunk-looking bow. ‘My Lady.’

Blood flowed from a scalp wound, down the side of his face and along his jaw, the result of a blow that must have knocked him unconscious in the corridor. Mara caught her breath with a soft cry, half-relief, half-terror. ‘You look a fright.’

The Spy Master wiped at his face and his hand came away red. He managed the ghost of a grin. ‘I dare say I do.’

Mara struggled with partial success to regain her poise. Reaction left her giddy. ‘You have to be the first man to wear the plumes of an Acoma officer who does not know the edge from the flat of the blade. I am afraid Shimizu will sport a bruise as handsome as any he gave you, come morning.’

Arakasi shrugged, his expression caught between triumph and deep personal grief. ‘Had he lived, Papewaio intended to improve my technique. His shade will have to be satisfied with the ruin of the Minwanabi instead.’ Then, as if he had admitted a grief he might rather have kept to himself, the Spy Master silently helped his mistress to her feet.

Voices sounded in the corridor. Indignant and shrill, the words of Jingu and his son Desio carried clearly over the confused tones of the guests. Mara straightened her disarranged robes. She bent, dislodged Shimizu’s sword from the carry box, and met the crowd of nobles and servants as a true daughter of the Acoma.

Jingu stamped explosively through the opened screen. ‘What has happened here?’ He stopped, open-mouthed at the sight of his prone Strike Leader, then glared wrathfully at the Lady of the Acoma. ‘You have brought treachery to my house.’

Onlookers crowded around, their clothing disarrayed from their hasty rush from their sleeping mats. Mara ignored them. She bowed with formal grace and placed Shimizu’s sword at the feet of the Lord of the Minwanabi. ‘I swear by my life and the name of my ancestors that the treachery done is not mine. Your concubine Teani tried to kill me, and for love of her your Strike Leader Shimizu lost his wits. My honour guard, Arakasi, was forced to intervene. He barely saved my life. Is this the way the Minwanabi answer for the safety of their guests?’

A murmur arose from the onlookers, the voice of the Lord of the Ekamchi loudest among them. ‘The warrior is not dead! When he rouses, he might say the Acoma tell lies under oath.’

Jingu gestured irritably for silence. He glared at Mara with pale, cold eyes. ‘As my servant Teani lies dead on the tiles below, I would hear what my officer Shimizu has to say upon this matter.’

Mara gave no sign that, by implying that she had lied under oath, Jingu had offered gravest insult. No honour could be gained by reacting to the words of a condemned man; and all present understood that if Mara’s charge were proved, the Lord of the Minwanabi would have no standing among them. His honour would be as dust, and his influence in the Game of the Council come to nothing.

‘My First Adviser, Nacoya, witnessed the attack by the concubine.’ Mara summoned every scrap of poise she had learned from the sisters at the temple. ‘Your own Strike Leader had to defend me to protect your honour. Had Teani not fallen to her death below, I would have had to kill her with my own hands to save myself.’

Someone by the door murmured a comment in her favour. Outraged, Desio pushed forward, only to be shoved aside by the hand of his father. Jingu dared a smile, like a dog who has stolen meat and escaped receiving the blame. ‘Lady Mara, if you have no other witness, you have no accusation to make. For if Shimizu says that you attacked Teani, and he came to her defence, and you say that Teani attacked you, and Arakasi came to yours, the case rests upon the word of your First Adviser against that of my Strike Leader. They are of equal rank, and by law their word carries equal weight. Who among us can determine which of them is lying?’

Mara had no answer. Frustrated, aching, and furious to discover herself unable to prove the truth, she regarded the enemy who had ruined her father and brother, and whose ancestors had caused her ancestors generation after generation of grief. Her face showed no expression as she said, ‘You balance the honour of the Minwanabi upon a slender thread, Lord Jingu. One day soon it will snap.’

Jingu laughed, a full-throated sound that eclipsed a smaller disturbance by the entrance. Mara saw beyond him and felt a moment of triumph so fierce it felt like the pain of a sword withdrawn. Through the screen, parting a way through the packed bodies of the onlookers, came Nacoya. Behind her walked Almecho with two black-robed figures at his side.

The Warlord glanced about the room, observing the mayhem that had visited the guest suite given to Mara. ‘By the gods,’ he exclaimed with a laugh, ‘what has occurred? A storm in the house, from the look of things.’

Jingu returned a bitter smile. ‘An attack, my Lord, but there seems little agreement on just who assaulted whom first.’ He added a theatrical shrug. ‘I’m afraid we’ll never get to the heart of this, as Lady Mara’s First Adviser – out of admirable if misplaced loyalty – will lie to support her Lady’s tale. It will be her word against Shimizu’s. I expect we’ll have to let the entire matter pass.’

Almecho’s eyebrows rose in malicious reproof. ‘Oh, really? I don’t think we need let any slight of honour pass, Jingu. Just so there is no cloud on your good name – not to mention any shame to spoil my birthday celebration – I’ll ask my companions to lend a hand.’ He turned to the two black-robed figures at his side and spoke to the first. ‘Elgahar, can you sort this matter out?’

A dispassionate voice answered. ‘Of course, my Lord.’ As Jingu’s face drained of colour, the magician continued, ‘We can prove without doubt who is lying and who is speaking truth.’

Almecho’s eyes travelled from Lady Mara’s face to Jingu’s with poisonous amusement. ‘Good,’ he said softly. ‘Let us separate the guilty from the innocent.’