Читать книгу Servant of the Empire - Raymond E. Feist, Janny Wurts - Страница 8

The child turned over.

Ayaki sprawled upon the cushions, asleep. Boisterous for a short time, he had finally succumbed to exhaustion. Mara stroked his black hair away from his forehead, filled with love for her son.

Although the boy had his father’s stocky build, he had inherited quickness from her family. In his second year, he showed remarkable coordination, a fast tongue that drove the servants to distraction, and continually bruised knees. His smile had won the hearts of even the most hardened warriors who served on the Acoma estates.

‘You will be a fine fighter, and a greater player of the game,’ Mara mused softly. But now the boy’s toughness and quick wit had one opponent he could not overcome, his need for an afternoon nap. Though he was the light of Mara’s life, these brief interludes were welcome, for when awake Ayaki required three nurses to keep him occupied.

Mara tucked her son’s robe about him and straightened his outflung limbs. She settled back upon her cushions in thought. Many recently planted seeds must bear fruit before Ayaki came of age. When that day dawned, her father’s old enemies the Anasati would end the alliance begun for the sake of the boy. What goodwill Mara had secured through giving birth to the first grandson of Lord Tecuma of the Anasati would end, and the debt incurred by Buntokapi’s premature death would be exacted. Then must the Acoma be unassailably strong, to weather the change in rule as Mara turned over control of her house to an inexperienced son. The Minwanabi menace must be fully eliminated before another powerful enemy challenged a young Lord.

Mara considered the years ahead, while afternoon sunlight striped the drapes and slaves returned to trim the akasi. The gardening around the walkways occurred often enough that she had become indifferent to the clack of shears. Except for today, when that normal household sound was repeatedly interrupted by sharp commands from the overseer and the frequent slap of the short leather quirt he carried. Normally the lash was ceremonial, a symbolic badge of rank carried on the belt – Tsurani slaves seldom required beating. But the slaves from Midkemia were indifferent to their overseer’s displeasure. Their respect for their betters was nonexistent, and whippings shamed them not at all.

Tsurani slaves found the Midkemians as enigmatic as Mara did. Raised in the knowledge that their humble devotion to work was their only hope of earning a higher place upon the Wheel that bound the departed to rebirth and life, they worked tirelessly. To be beaten for laziness, or to disobey their lawful masters in any way, was to earn the permanent disfavour of the gods, for below slave was only animal. And once returned from the Wheel of Life in a lower form, they would find salvation from the countless rebirths in pain and deprivation impossible.

Disturbed from contemplation by a heated argument, Mara realized with annoyance that the barbarians still had not learned proper manners. The only change in them since the slave auction seemed to be the increased number of lash welts on their backs and a marked improvement in the command of their masters’ language.

‘The gods’ will? That’s hogwash!’ boomed one in heavily accented Tsurani. For a brief moment, Mara wondered what ‘hogwash’ meant. Then the barbarian voice resumed. ‘I call it plain stupidity. You want work from these men, you’ll take my suggestion, and thank me for it.’

The overseer had no ready reply for slaves who talked back at him. Such things did not arise in Tsurani culture, and he had no means of coping except to slap the offender with his quirt and swear in an embarrassing display of temper.

This had no effect. Disrupted utterly from her thoughts, Mara heard sounds of a scuffle, and then words of unmistakable rage.

‘Strike me again with that, little man, and I’ll drop you head first into that pile of six-legger’s dung on the other side of that fence.’

‘Put me down, slave!’ screeched the overseer. He sounded genuinely frightened, and since the situation had plainly got out of hand, Mara arose to intervene. Whatever ‘hogwash’ might be, it wasn’t something that indicated proper deference to authority.

She crossed the study, whipped the drapes back, and found herself looking up across an impressively muscled expanse of shoulder and arm. The redheaded Midkemian who had been at the root of the commotion at the auction had a fist twined in the overseer’s robe, lifting him into the air, his feet kicking above the ground. When he saw his mistress, the overseer’s eyes rolled back in his head, and his lips moved in prayer to Kelesha, goddess of mercy.

The barbarian simply looked down at the diminutive lady in the doorway, his expression bland but his eyes as blue and hard as the sword metal that abounded on the Midkemian side of the rift.

Mara felt her own anger rise at that openly rebellious stare. She curbed her temper and spoke evenly. ‘If you value life, slave, let him go now!’

The redhead recognized authority in her dark eyes. Still, he was insolent. He considered her command an instant; then a wicked grin spread across his face and he opened his fist. The overseer dropped without warning, buckled at the knees, and landed on his seat in the middle of Mara’s favourite flower bed.

The grin sparked Mara’s anger. ‘You lack any hint of humility, slave, and that is a dangerous thing!’

The redhead stopped smiling, but his eyes remained upon his mistress with an interest that now had more to do with her thin robe than any respect for her words.

Mara was not too angry to notice. Suddenly made to feel undressed by the barbarian’s frank appraisal, she felt her anger mount. She might have ordered the redhead’s immediate death as an example to the others, except that Arakasi’s earlier expression of interest in the barbarians made her pause. None of the Midkemians behaved in an appropriate way, and unless she could learn the reason why, the only expedient that could end the problem was to slaughter her purchases out of hand. Still, an object lesson was required. Turning to a nearby pair of guards, she said, ‘Take this slave out of sight and beat him. Do not let him die, but make him wish to. If he resists, then kill him.’

Instantly two swords appeared, and, with clear intent to brook no resistance, the guards led the outworlder away. As he moved down the path, the imminent prospect of a beating seemed to have no effect on his self-important posture. The barbarian’s lack of fear at his coming ordeal served only to irritate Mara more, for it was the one thing about the man that was Tsurani-like and admirable. Then Mara caught herself: about the man? What could she be thinking of? He was only a slave.

Jican chose that moment to make an appearance. His polite knock on the doorframe broke through Mara’s angry contemplation.

She whirled and snapped across the room, ‘What!’

The sight of her hadonra jumping back in fright made her feel foolish. She motioned for her overseer to remove himself from the flower bed, then retired to her cushions, where Ayaki still lay asleep.

Jican stepped into the room from the hallway. ‘Mistress?’ he inquired meekly.

With a wave at her hadonra, Mara said, ‘I am about to learn why Elzeki here must argue with slaves.’

The overseer stepped through the outer door, flushing visibly at his mistress’s disapproval. Elzeki was little better than a slave himself, an untrained servant given the office of managing workers about the estate. And authority given to him could be taken away. He prostrated himself upon the waxed wood floor and protested hotly in his own defence. ‘Mistress, these barbarians have no sense of order. They are without wal.’ He used the ancient Tsurani word meaning ‘centre of being’ – the soul that defined one’s place in the universe. ‘They complain, they malinger, they argue, they make jokes …’ Frustrated to the point of tears, he finished in an angry rush. ‘The redheaded one is the worst. He acts as if he were a noble.’

Mara’s eyes widened. ‘A noble?’

Elzeki straightened from his obeisance and glanced in appeal at the hadonra. Jican still winced at the poor choice of words. With no support forthcoming from the hadonra, Elzeki prostrated himself again, his forehead pressed to the floor. ‘Please, mistress! I meant no disrespect!’

Mara waved away the apology. ‘No. That is understood. What did you mean?’

Peeking up, he saw that his mistress’s anger had changed to interest. ‘The other barbarians defer to him, my Lady. Maybe this redhead was an officer too cowardly to die. He might have lied. These barbarians mix truth and untruth without distinction, I sometimes think. Their ways are strange. They confuse me.’

Mara frowned, thinking that if the redhead were cowardly, or frightened of pain, he would not have shown such nerveless composure at the prospect of a beating by her guards.

‘What were you and he arguing about?’ Jican demanded.

Elzeki, the overseer, seemed to shrivel, as if to review the events leading up to his shameful embarrassment were to relive them. ‘Many things, honourable hadonra. The barbarian speaks with such a savage accent, he is difficult to understand.’ Through the screen beyond the drapes came the sound of a distant thud, followed by a pained grunt. Mara’s orders for punishment were plainly being carried out by the guards. Since his own hide might be whipped over the barbarians’ disobedience, the overseer began visibly to sweat.

Mara motioned for the screen door to be closed, lest she be further disturbed. As a house servant rushed to do her bidding, she saw that the remaining barbarians were gathered on the walkway, their shears idle in their hands, regarding their mistress with open hostility and resentment. Stifling outrage at such blatant disrespect, Mara snapped at the overseer. ‘Then tell us just one thing that red-haired barbarian dared to feel important enough to argue about.’

Elzeki shifted his weight. ‘The redhead asked to move one of the men inside.’

Jican glanced at his mistress, who nodded permission for him to cross-question. ‘What reason did he give?’

‘Some nonsense about our sun being hotter than the sun on their own world, and this other man being stricken by the heat.’

Mara said, ‘What else?’

Elzeki glanced at his feet, like a boy caught sneaking sweets from the kitchen. ‘He also complained that some of the slaves needed more water than we were giving them, because of the heat.’

Mara said, ‘And?’

‘He gave excuses for laziness. Rather than work hard, he objected that a few of the men who were set to tend the flowers knew nothing of plants upon their own world, let alone ours, and that to punish them for working slowly was foolish.’

Jican sat back, astonished. ‘These sound like excellent suggestions to me, my Lady.’

Mara expelled a long-suffering sigh. ‘It seems that I acted too hastily,’ she said ruefully. ‘Elzeki, go and put a stop to the beating. Tell my guards to have the redheaded slave cleaned up and brought to me here in my study.’

As the overseer hurried obsequiously away, Mara regarded her hadonra. ‘Jican, it would seem that I ordered punishment for the wrong man.’

‘Elzeki has never had much perception,’ Jican agreed. Silently he wondered why that admission seemed to cause his Lady distress.

‘We’ll have to remove him from office,’ Mara summed up. ‘Slaves are much too valuable to be mismanaged by fools.’ She appealed at last to her hadonra. ‘I’ll have you break the news to Elzeki, and then trust you to appoint his replacement.’

‘Your will, my Lady.’ Jican bowed low and departed. As he passed through the screen to the corridor, Mara stroked Ayaki’s cheek. She then called for her maid to remove him to his sleeping mat in the nursery. If she was to deal with this redheaded barbarian personally, she wanted no other distractions. That thought made her smile, as the maid lifted her stocky son and he murmured angry protest in his sleep. Ayaki awake was as much of a disaster as the redhead, and with a shake of her head, Mara sat back to await the arrival of the guards with the barbarian offender who had single-handedly managed to ruin her contemplation.

The guards stepped in soon after, the Midkemian between them, his hair and loincloth drenched. Mara’s request that he be cleaned up had been interpreted in the most uncomplicated way possible: the guards had simply dropped him into a convenient needra trough. The beating and subsequent soaking had dampened his spirit only slightly. The amusement in his eyes had changed to anger barely held in check. His defiance disturbed Mara. Lujan had often crossed the line of good manners with his playful banter, but never had a socially inferior man dared to look at her in such an openly condemnatory fashion. Suddenly sorry she had not called for a more modest house robe, Mara nevertheless refused to summon her maid, lest she grant significance to the stare of a barbarian slave. Rather than feel embarrassment before the outworlder, she matched his gaze with her own.

The guards were uncertain what to do with the wretch they had half dragged into their Lady’s presence. Still gripping the huge man tightly, they offered ineffectual bows. The more senior of the warriors broke the silence with ill-concealed diffidence. ‘Lady, what is your wish? A barbarian in your presence would perhaps be more seemly on his knees.’

Mara noticed the guards as if for the first time, and the water pooling on her waxed floor. There was blood mixed in the puddles.

‘Let him stand, if he wishes.’ She clapped for her servants, and sent the first one to answer off at a run to fetch towels.

The house slave reappeared with a pile of scented bath towels. He entered the study, bowed, and only belatedly realized that his Lady’s request had been made on behalf of the scruffy barbarian who stood pinioned in the hands of the guards.

‘Well,’ snapped Mara, at her servant’s hesitation, ‘dry the brute off before he ruins the floor.’

‘Your will, Mistress,’ the slave murmured from a position of prostration. He arose and began to daub the reddened skin between the barbarian’s shoulder blades, this being the highest place he could reach.

Mara assessed the huge slave in a relatively calm moment, then came to a decision. ‘Leave us,’ she commanded her guards. They released the barbarian, bowed, and let themselves out through the screen to the corridor.

The barbarian rubbed his wrists where the guards’ grip had restricted circulation. The slave attempting to dry him seemed an irritation, and after a glance at Mara, the outworlder reached out, took a clean towel from the pile, and finished the task himself. His hair stood up in spikes when he finished, and the slave looked in dismay at the pile of blood-soiled, damp towels heaped about the barbarian’s feet.

‘Give those to my washing maids,’ Mara said. She motioned for the redhead to select a cushion and be seated.

Mara studied the barbarian’s face; the gaze he returned was as penetrating as her own. Suddenly she felt out of her depth. Something about this man disturbed her. The reason struck her: she still considered him a man! Slaves were livestock, not people. Why did this one cause her to feel … uncertain? Her practice in the role of Ruling Lady allowed her to assume the mask of command. She felt challenged to discover why this barbarian made her forget his station. She forced her voice to calm. ‘I was hasty, perhaps.’ As the house slave scooped up the towels and hastened away, she added, ‘It would appear, upon examination of the matter, that I ordered you beaten unfairly.’

Taken aback, but covering it well, the redhead selected a cushion and gingerly sat down. The scar left on his cheek by the overseer at the slave market did not detract from his appearance; rather, the flaw gave heightened contrast to his handsome features, and his heavy beard was a novelty not seen in Tsurani freemen, who shaved as a matter of tradition.

‘Slave,’ commanded Mara, ‘I wish to know more of the land you come from.’

‘I have a name,’ said the redhead in his deep-throated voice, which now was bristling with antagonism. ‘I am Kevin, from the City of Zun.’

Mara replied with irritation, ‘You might have been counted human once, upon your world, but now you are a slave. A slave has no honour, nor does he have a spirit in the eyes of the gods. This you must have known, Kevin of Zun.’ She spoke the name with sarcasm. ‘You chose your lot, chose to forfeit honour. If not, you should have died before an enemy took you captive.’ She paused as another thought occurred to her. ‘Or were you vassal to another more powerful house, whose Lord refused you permission to take your own life?’

Kevin raised his brows, momentarily baffled by confusion. ‘What? I’m not sure what you mean.’

Mara repeated herself in terms a child would understand. ‘Did your house swear vassalage to another?’

Kevin straightened his back, winced, and raked a hand through his damp beard. ‘Zun swore allegiance to the High King in Rillanon, of course.’

The Lady nodded as if all were explained. ‘Then you were forbidden permission by this King to fall upon your sword. Yes?’

Thoroughly mystified, Kevin shook his head. ‘Fall on my sword? Why? I might be a third son of a minor nob – er, family, but I don’t need my King’s permission to sanction what seems an act of total idiocy.’

Now Mara blinked in surprise. ‘Have your people no honour? If the choice was yours, why allow yourself to be taken captive into slavery?’

Careful of his welts, which were swelling uncomfortably, Kevin regarded this diminutive woman who through misfortune had come to be his mistress. Forcing a smile, he said, ‘Trust me, lady, I had no option, otherwise I wouldn’t be enjoying your … hospitality now. Had I a choice, I’d be at home with my family.’

Mara shook her head slightly. This was not the answer she sought. ‘We may be having difficulty because of your barbaric use of the Tsurani tongue. Let me ask a different way: when you were taken captive, were you not spared a moment by fate in which you could have taken your own life rather than face capture?’

Kevin paused, as if weighing the question. ‘I suppose so, but why would I think about killing myself?’

Without thought, Mara blurted, ‘For honour!’

Kevin laughed bitterly. ‘What good is honour to a dead man?’

Mara blinked, as if struck by harsh lights in a dark room. ‘Honour is … everything,’ Mara said, not believing anyone could ask that question. ‘It is what makes living endurable. It gives purpose to … everything. What else is there to live for?’

Kevin threw up his hands in exasperation. ‘Why, to enjoy life! To know the company of friends, to serve men you admire. In this case, to escape and go home again, what else?’

‘Escape!’ Thoroughly shocked, and unable to conceal the fact, Mara forced her mind to regroup. These people were not Tsurani, she reminded herself; the codes of behaviour that bound slaves to service on her world were not shared by the folk beyond the rift. The Lady of the Acoma went on to wonder whether others of her culture might have discovered how different the Midkemians were from themselves. Hokanu of the Shinzawai sprang to mind. Mara made a mental note to pry loose information on Lord Kamatsu’s interest in the barbarians during the son’s forthcoming visit. Next she considered whether this Kevin of Zun might hold strange knowledge or ideas that might prove helpful against her enemies.

‘You must tell me more of the lands beyond the rift,’ she demanded abruptly.

Pained by more than cuts and bruises, Kevin sighed. ‘You are a woman of many contradictions,’ he said with some care. ‘You order me beaten, dipped in a livestock trough, and then dried with what must be your finest towels. Now you want speeches without so much as a drink to wet my throat first.’

‘Your comforts, or lack of them, are beyond your right to question,’ said Mara acidly. ‘You happen to be bleeding on a cushion that cost much more than your worth on the open market, so be careful how you speak of my consideration.’

Kevin raised his brows in reproof. He intended to say more, but at that moment someone outside chose to scratch on the screen to the Lady’s private study.

Since no Tsurani would signal his mistress for attention with anything but a polite knock, Mara did not immediately respond. Whoever waited without seemed entirely unfazed by this fact. The wooden frame slid on its oiled track, and the bald-headed slave who had abetted the clothing scam at the slave auction poked his face inside. ‘Kevin?’ he said quietly, oblivious to the fact that he trespassed upon nobility without spoken leave or invitation. ‘You all right, old son?’

Mara gaped, as the redhead returned a reassuring grin. The bald-headed man smiled at Mara, then withdrew without further ado. Mara sat speechless for a long moment. In all the memory of her ancestors, she had never known a slave with the effrontery to admit himself to his ruling master’s chambers without any summons, to hold a personal conversation with another slave, then withdraw without leave, making only the most perfunctory attempt at acknowledging his rightful mistress. Mara curbed her first impulse to call for punishment, now being totally convinced of the need to understand more of these barbarians.

She sent her runner to find another overseer to manage the barbarians and set them to cutting akasi, as they should have been doing all along. Then Mara returned her attention to Kevin.

‘Tell me how servants treat their mistresses in the lands where you were born,’ she demanded.

The barbarian returned a provocative smile. His eyes wandered boldly over Mara’s body, which was covered only by an almost transparent silk robe. ‘To begin with,’ he said brightly, ‘any lady who wore what you do in front of her servants would be begging to get herself …’ He struggled for a word, then said, ‘In my language it’s not a polite term. I don’t know how you folks feel about it, but given you’re showing me all you’ve got without a thought, you obviously don’t consider such things.’

‘What are you talking about?’ Mara snapped, at the edge of her patience.

‘Why …’ He touched himself upon his dirty loincloth, then made an upward gesture with his extended forefinger. ‘What men and woman do, to make babies.’ He pointed in the general direction of her groin.

Mara’s eyes widened. She might be having difficulty thinking of this barbarian as a slave, but obviously he had no difficulty thinking of her as a woman. Softly, in tones that could only be called dangerous, she said, ‘To suggest such a thing, even indirectly, could mean a slow and painful death, slave! The most shameful execution is hanging, but if we wish the condemned to suffer, we hang them by the feet. Some men have been known to last two days that way. With a pile of hot coals just below your head, it can be a most unpleasant way to die.’

Aware of Mara’s anger, Kevin hastily amended, ‘Of course, Zun has a much cooler climate than you are accustomed to.’ His phrases became broken as he searched for unfamiliar words, or substituted ones in his own tongue when his knowledge was incomplete. ‘We have winters, and snow, and cold rains during other seasons. The ladies from my lands must wear heavy skirts and animal skins for warmth. Tends to make the uncovered female body something … something we don’t see a lot.’

Mara’s eyes flashed as she listened to the slave. ‘Snow?’ She sounded the barbarian’s word awkwardly. ‘Cold rains?’ Then what he meant registered and she said, ‘Animal skins? Do you mean furs? Leather with the hair not scraped off?’ as her anger lessened.

‘Something like that,’ Kevin said.

‘How strange.’ Mara considered this like a child presented with wonders. ‘Such clothing must be uncomfortably heavy, not to mention being difficult for slaves to wash.’

Kevin laughed. ‘You don’t wash furs if you don’t want them ruined. You beat the dust from them and set them in the sun to air.’ Since her features again clouded over at his amusement over her ignorance, he quickly added, ‘We have no slaves at Zun.’ As he said this, his mood turned darker and more subdued. His shoulders stung yet from his beating, and despite the padding of the cushion, he ached even from sitting. ‘The Keshians keep slaves, but Kingdom law severely limits such practices.’

Which explained much of the unmanageability of the Midkemians, Mara concluded. ‘Who does your menial work, then?’

‘Freemen, Lady. We have servants, serfs, and franklins who owe allegiance to their Lords. Townsmen, merchants, guildsmen as well.’

Unsatisfied with such a brief explanation, Mara plied Kevin for details. She sat motionless as he described the structure of Kingdom governance in depth. Long shadows striped the screens by the time her interest flagged. Kevin’s voice by then sounded worn and hoarse. Thirsty herself, Mara sent for cool fruit drinks. When she had been served, she motioned for Kevin’s comforts to be looked after.

Mara asked then about metalworking, an art her people knew little of, since such substances were rare in Kelewan. That Midkemian peasants owned iron, brass, and copper seemed inconceivable to her. Kevin’s assertion that occasionally they possessed silver and gold was beyond credibility. Her astonishment at such wonders made her forget the differences between them. Kevin responded by smiling more. His easy manner awakened a hunger she had never allowed herself to explore. Mara found her eyes wandering over the lines of his body, or following the gestures of his strong, fine hands as he sought to explain things for which he lacked words. He spoke of smiths who fashioned iron and shaped the hard, crescent shoes that were nailed to the hooves of the beasts their warriors rode. Quite naturally the discussion turned into a lively talk over tactics, and the mutual discovery that the Midkemians found the cho-ja as terrifying an adversary as the Tsurani found mounted horsemen.

‘You have much to teach,’ Mara said at last, a flush of pleasure showing through her fine complexion. That moment Nacoya knocked upon the door, to remind her of her afternoon meeting with her councillors.

Mara straightened, startled to realize that most of the day had fled. She regarded the deepening shadows, the plates of fruit rinds and the emptied pitchers and glasses strewn on the table between herself and the slave. Sorry that the discussion between them must end, she waved for her personal servant. ‘You will take this barbarian and see to his comforts. Let him bathe and apply unguents to his wounds. Then find him a robe, and have him await me in my personal quarters, for I wish to speak further with him when my business is concluded.’

The slave bowed, then motioned for Kevin to follow. The barbarian unfolded his long legs and arose stiffly to his feet. He winced, then saw that the Lady still watched him. He returned a wry smile and, with no humbleness whatsoever, blew a kiss in her direction before he started after the servant.

Nacoya watched his parting gesture with narrowed eyes, a frown on her leathery face. Her mistress exhibited more amazement than outrage at such familiarity. Suddenly Mara hid a smile behind her hand, seemingly unable to contain herself. Nacoya’s displeasure deepened into suspicion. ‘My Lady, have a care. A wise ruler does not reveal her heart to a slave.’

‘That man?’ Mara stiffened, surprised into a blush. ‘He is a barbarian. I am fascinated by his alien people, nothing more.’ Then she sighed. ‘His blown kiss was a gesture Lano used to make when we were little,’ she explained, referring to the dead brother she used to idolize as a child. ‘Remember?’

Nacoya had raised Mara from infancy and the memory of Lanokota’s gesture did not worry the old nurse. What troubled Nacoya was the reaction she saw in her mistress.

Mara straightened her robe carefully over her thighs. ‘Nacoya, you know I have no wish for a man.’ She stopped smoothing her silken hem, and her hands tightened into fists. ‘I know some ladies keep handsome men as litter bearers, so that more … personal needs can be satisfied at whim, but I am … uninterested in such diversion.’ Even to herself, Mara sounded unconvincing.

Irritated by the urge to discuss what should have needed no denial, Mara closed the topic with an imperious gesture. ‘Now, send for servants to remove these plates and cups. I will see my advisers, and Arakasi will relate his report on Lord Desio of the Minwanabi.’

Nacoya bowed, but as a house servant arrived and began clearing the table for the meeting, the old First Adviser watched closely. A wistful smile came and went on Mara’s lips. Shrewdly intuitive, Nacoya knew Mara did not contemplate the coming meeting, but, rather, the bronzed and redhaired barbarian who had whiled away an entire afternoon with talk. The sparkle in Mara’s eyes, and the half-excited, half-frightened clenching of hands betrayed the Lady. Fears of pain and humiliation – memories of a brutal and insensitive husband – warred with new desire. Nacoya might be old, but she remembered younger passions; twenty years ago she might have given serious thought to having the slave brought to her own sleeping room. Aware of Kevin’s attractions, and foreseeing trouble, the former nurse sighed silently. Mara had proved herself a clever player of the Game of the Council; but she had yet to understand the most basic things about relations between a man and a woman. Already under siege, she lacked instinct to know an attack from that quarter was even possible.

Fighting tears of concern, the former nurse composed herself for the forthcoming meeting. If Mara was to have her world turned over by an unexpected passion, she had chosen the worst possible time to have it happen.