‘I am so very pleased, my husband.’ That her reply was genuine startled him in return. Her pregnancy seemed to be taxing her, for she did not look well.
Strangely abashed, Buntokapi qualified. ‘Minwanabi and Kehotara dogs garbed as grey warriors sought to marshal along the trail above our lands. They intended to strike us at first light, as all lay asleep.’
Mara nodded. That was how she would have planned such a raid. ‘Were there many, my Lord?’
Buntokapi dragged his helm off by one strap and tossed it to a waiting servant. He scratched vigorously at his wet, matted hair with both hands, his lips parted in satisfaction. ‘Aie, it is good to get that off.’ Peering up at his wife in the doorway, he said, ‘What? Many?’ His expression turned thoughtful. ‘A great deal more than I would have expected …’ He shouted over his shoulder to Lujan, who was attending to the dispersal of his men with Keyoke. ‘Strike Leader, how many finally attacked?’
The reply floated cheerfully over the bedlam in the yard. ‘Three hundred, my Lord.’
Mara repressed a shudder. She laid a hand on her middle, where the baby moved.
‘Three hundred killed or captured,’ Buntokapi reiterated proudly. Then, struck as if by an afterthought, he shouted again across the yard. ‘Lujan, how many of our men?’
‘Three dead, three dying, and another five seriously wounded.’ The reply was only slightly less exuberant, by which Mara interpreted that Lujan’s recruits had fought well.
Buntokapi grinned at his Lady. ‘How do you like that, my wife? We waited in hiding above them, rained arrows and rocks upon their heads, then drove them against our shields and swords. Your father could not have done better, heh?’
‘No, my husband.’ The admission was grudging, but true. Buntokapi had not wasted the years he trained as a soldier. And for a fleeting instant her usual disdain and revulsion were replaced by pride for her husband’s actions on behalf of the Acoma.
Lujan crossed the yard, accompanied by a soldier named Sheng. The rigours of the day had left the Strike Leader’s jaunty gallantry undaunted, and he grinned a greeting to his Lady before bowing and interrupting the boasting of his master. ‘Lord, this man has something important to say.’
Granted leave to speak, the soldier saluted. ‘Master, one of the prisoners is a cousin of mine, well known to me. He is the son of my father’s brother’s wife’s sister. He is not a grey warrior. He took service with the Minwanabi.’
Mara stiffened slightly, her indrawn breath overshadowed by Buntokapi’s loud response. ‘Ha! I told you. Bring the dog forth.’
Movement swirled through the yard, and a burly guard stepped into view. He pushed a man with both hands tied behind his back, and threw him down before Buntokapi’s feet.
‘You are of the Minwanabi?’
The prisoner refused to answer. Forgetting the presence of his wife, Buntokapi kicked him in the head. Despite the hatred of the Minwanabi, Mara winced. Again Buntokapi’s studded sandal raked the man’s face, and he rolled, splitting blood. ‘You are of the Minwanabi?’ repeated Buntokapi.
But the man would admit nothing. Loyal, Mara thought through her sickness; she expected as much. Jingu would hardly send weak men on such a risky venture, for all his standing and his honour rested on not being held responsible. Yet the truth could not entirely be concealed. Another Acoma soldier approached with a story similar to the first: several other grey warriors were recognizably Minwanabi, or members of the house of Jingu’s vassals, the Kehotara. Buntokapi kicked the man on the ground several more times, but he gained no more than a glare of venomous hatred. Bored finally, Buntokapi said, ‘This fool offends Acoma soil. Hang him.’
He raised bright eyes to Keyoke. ‘Hang all of them. We have no need of slaves, and dogs make poor workers. String them up along the roadside and have a sign proclaim that this fate awaits any who trespass on Acoma lands. Then let the patrol leaders go to the city. Have them buy wine in the taverns and drink to the men of the Acoma who have bested the Minwanabi.’
Stiff-faced, Keyoke said nothing. Buntokapi visited a terrible insult upon the Minwanabi Lord by publicly hanging his soldiers. Prisoners of war were either killed honourably, with a sword, or kept as slaves. Only when the feuds grew old and bitter did a man affront a foe in this way. To boast of such a deed in public was to invite a more bitter retaliation, until the alliance with the Anasati would not be sufficient to shield them. Mara realized the stakes. If Jingu grew incensed enough, the next raid might be not three hundred men dressed as grey warriors, but three thousand armoured soldiers in Minwanabi orange and black descending like insects upon Acoma land. Mara saw Keyoke scrape his chin with his thumb and knew his concern matched her own. She must try to dissuade her husband.
‘My Lord,’ Mara touched Buntokapi’s damp sleeve. ‘These were only soldiers doing the duty of their master.’
A feral look entered Buntokapi’s eyes, startling for its cleverness. ‘These?’ The calmness of his voice was new, the more chilling in that it was genuine. ‘Why, these are but grey warriors, bandits and outlaws, my wife. You heard me ask this one if he was of the Minwanabi, didn’t you? Had he answered, I would have killed him honourably with my own sword. But he is only a criminal, fit for hanging, heh!’ He smiled then, widely, and shouted to the men in the yard, ‘Let my orders stand.’
The Acoma soldiers hastened to bring rope, and the prisoners were herded down the gravel path that led to the trees at the side of the Imperial Highway. A craftsman would fashion the sign to make their shame public, and by sundown the last of them would hang.
Those soldiers not involved dispersed to the barracks. Buntokapi stepped into the estate house without removing his sandals, and his studded soles raised splinters from the fine wood as he spun and shouted for servants. Making a mental note to ask for a slave to resand and polish the floors, Mara returned to her cushions. Her husband did not dismiss her when his attendants arrived, so she was compelled to remain while servants removed his outer armour.
Stretching heavy shoulders as his breastplate was lifted from him, the Lord of the Acoma said, ‘This Minwanabi lord is a fool. He thinks to outrage my father by killing me, then turning his attentions upon you, my wife, a simple woman. He did not know what a soldier he faced, heh! How fortunate that you chose me instead of Jiro. My brother is clever, but he is not a warrior.’ Again that feral light entered Buntokapi’s eyes, and Mara saw something beyond mere cunning. She was forced to agree with Buntokapi’s remark on their wedding night. This man she had married was not stupid.
Quietly Mara tried to temper his bullish mood. ‘The Acoma were indeed fortunate to be led by a soldier today, my Lord.’
Buntokapi puffed up at the praise. He turned away, handing the last piece of armour to his attendant. He regarded his stained knuckles and suddenly acknowledged the fatigue of the last two days. ‘I will take a long bath, my wife, then I will join you for our evening meal. I will not go to the city. The gods do not love too much pride, and perhaps it is best not to mock Jingu more than I already have.’
He stepped to the screen, letting the soft breeze of evening dry his sweat. Mara regarded him, silent. His stocky body and bandy legs made a comic silhouette against the yellow sky of evening, but the sight only made her feel chilled. When Buntokapi departed, she stared at the filthy pile of clothing and sandals he had left in a heap on the floor. Her thoughts turned very dark, and she did not hear Nacoya enter and bow by her elbow. The old woman whispered, her voice a near-silent hiss. ‘If you are going to kill him, do it soon, Lady. He is far more clever than you thought.’
Mara only nodded. Inwardly she counted the hours. Not until her baby was born. Not until then.
‘Mara!’
The shout reverberated through the house. The Lady of the Acoma rose with the aid of her maids. She was halfway to the door of her quarters when the door slid open and Buntokapi entered, his face red with temper.
Her bow was immediate. ‘Yes, Bunto.’
He
lifted a meaty hand and shook a sheaf of papers, each sheet covered with tiny rows of numbers. ‘What are these? I found them piled on my desk when I awoke.’ Stamping past, he looked the image of an enraged needra bull, a likeness heightened by his bloodshot eyes, the legacy of entertaining some friends the night before.
Several young soldiers, second and third sons of families loyal to the Anasati, had stopped to visit on their way to the City of the Plains. They had talked for long hours, for their houses mustered garrisons for a spring campaign against the barbarians on the world of Midkemia, on the other side of the magical rift. The war was entering its third year, and tales of riches lured a number of politically neutral houses to join the Alliance for War. Such shifts caused the War Party and the conservative Imperial Party to be in contention for dominance of the High Council. The Lord of the Minwanabi was a stalwart in the War Party, headed by the Warlord, and the Lord of the Anasati was the central figure in the Imperial Party, a position of high prestige because it was limited to blood relations of the Emperor.
With none of the propriety of his imperial cousins, Buntokapi tossed the papers in a shower over his wife. ‘What am I supposed to do with all these things?’
‘Husband, they are the monthly tallies of the house, the quarterly budget and reports from your factors and inventories of far holdings’ – she lowered her eyes to see what else lay scattered about her ankles – ‘and a projection of needra hide demand for the next year.’
‘But what am I supposed to do with them?’ Buntokapi threw up his hands in exasperation. As third son he had been expected to become a career warrior, much like Keyoke and Papewaio, or marry the daughter of some rich merchant seeking alliance with a powerful house. Now that he had exceeded his father’s most extreme ambitions, his preparation for ruling a great house was non-existent.
Mara squatted, since pregnancy made bending impossible, and with perfect patience began to gather the scattered parchments. ‘You are to read these reports. Approve, disapprove, or amend them, then send them back to the appropriate member of your household staff, Bunto.’
‘What about Jican?’
‘He’ll advise you, husband.’ Again she waited for the opportunity to take some responsibility off his shoulders, but he only said, ‘Very well. After I’ve eaten, have the hadonra come to my study.’ Without another word he snatched the papers from the hand of his wife and left.
Mara beckoned to her runner. ‘Find Jican.’
The hadonra appeared breathless from his summons. He had ink-stains on his hands, and from that Mara knew her runner had found him in the scribes’ wing, on the far side of the house. When he had completed his bow, Mara said, ‘My Lord asks your counsel, Jican, on the many business issues facing the Acoma. Please attend him after he has bathed and eaten.’
The hadonra dabbed at a blackened knuckle, barely able to contain his distaste for dealing with the plodding Buntokapi. ‘I see, Lady.’
Mara watched him with bland humour. ‘My Lord is new to matters of commerce, Jican. Perhaps it would be best if you dealt with each issue slowly and in detail.’
Jican’s expression did not change, but his eyes seemed to light. ‘Yes, mistress.’
Now Mara returned a veiled smile. ‘Take as much time as you need. I think you’ll find sufficient topics to discuss for the entire evening, and perhaps into the night.’
‘Of course, mistress.’ Jican’s enthusiasm brightened. ‘I will give orders not to be disturbed while Lord Buntokapi needs my aid.’
The hadonra had always been quick-witted. Mara rejoiced in his attributes, yet she showed no trace of her feelings. ‘That is good, Jican. Since my Lord is showing an interest in household matters, take along any documents you think he might need to study.’
In a voice of smothered delight, Jican said, ‘Yes, mistress.’
‘That is all.’ Mara waved in dismissal, then stood thoughtfully, racking her mind for other matters that needed to be called to her husband’s attention. Yet as she plotted, she feared. The path she had chosen was perilous; no law and no person could protect her if she stepped wrongly. The sunlight upon the painted screen suddenly seemed very dear. Mara closed her eyes and recited the teachings of the sisters of Lashima to herself for what seemed a very long time.
Mara winced at the sound of Buntokapi’s huge hand striking flesh. Another slave would sport a bruised cheek or black eye in the morning. Braced for the inevitable onslaught, she was unsurprised when the screen to her quarters slid open with no knock in warning. Even when he was not angry, Buntokapi seldom employed the courtesy her rank normally entitled.
‘Mara,’ he began, his fury near the point of explosion; and Mara cursed inwardly as he strode in, his battle sandals carving up the floors for the second time that week. Fortunately, the slaves who repaired the damage lacked the right to complain.
Buntokapi stopped, sweating under his heavy armour. ‘I have spent days with these important business matters Jican claims I must personally attend to! I go out to drill my soldiers for the first time in a week, and when I am tired from the sun, the first thing I find is more … of these!’ He threw down a heavy sheaf of documents. ‘I grow bored! Who oversaw all this before I came here?’
Modestly Mara lowered her eyes. ‘I did, husband.’
Buntokapi’s anger dissolved into astonishment. ‘You did?’
‘Before I asked for you in marriage, I was Ruling Lady.’ Mara spoke lightly, as if the matter were of small importance. ‘The running of the estate was my duty, as it is now yours.’
‘Aie!’ Buntokapi’s frustration was palpable. ‘Must I oversee every tiny detail?’ He yanked off his helm and shouted for assistance. A servant appeared at the door. ‘Bring a robe,’ Buntokapi commanded. ‘I’ll not stand in this armour another moment. Mara, help me.’
Mara rose awkardly and came to her husband, who stood with arms held out straight. Touching him as little as possible, for he was dirty, she unfastened the buckles that held the breast and back plates together. ‘You may, if you choose, delegate some of these tasks. Jican is capable of taking care of the daily operations of the estates. I can give him the benefits of my opinion if you’re too busy.’
Buntokapi shrugged the lacquered plates off over his head and sighed in relief. Unaccustomed to lifting, Mara struggled with the weight, until her husband reached one-handed and tossed the heavy armour to the floor. He tugged the light gambeson over his shoulders, and spoke through a muffling layer of cloth. ‘No. I want you looking after our son.’
‘Or daughter,’ Mara shot back, nettled that a wife might do a body servant’s chores but not tally accounts. She knelt and unbuckled the green leather greaves from her husband’s hairy calves.
‘Bah, it will be a boy. If not, we shall have to try again, heh?’ He leered down at her.
Mara showed none of her revulsion, but untied the cross-gartered sandals, which were as crusted with filth as the broad feet they protected. ‘As my Lord wills.’
Buntokapi peeled away his short robe. Nude except for a loincloth, he unselfconsciously reached under to scratch his groin. ‘Still, I will allow Jican to make decisions about the business matters he has been in charge of since your father’s death.’ The servant arrived with the clean robe, and the Lord of the Acoma quickly donned it without calling for a bath. ‘The hadonra is competent. And he can still come to me for important decisions. Now I plan to spend some time in Sulan-Qu. Several of my friends are –’
He paused, puzzled, as Mara suddenly clutched at the cloth of her dayrobe. She had been having mild contractions all morning, but this was strong, and her face drained of colour. At last her time had come. ‘Bunto!’
The usually violent-tempered man was suddenly both delighted and alarmed. ‘Is it time?’
‘I think so.’ She smiled calmly. ‘Send for the midwife.’
Solicitous for the first time in his life, Buntokapi was furiously patting Mara’s hand to the point of inflicting bruises when the midwife came, follo
wed in an instant by Nacoya. The two of them chased him away with a briskness no husband in the Empire could withstand. Buntokapi left like a whipped dog, looking over his shoulder as he disappeared through the screen.
The next hour he spent pacing in his study as he waited for his son to be born. As the second hour dragged on, he sent for wine and something to eat. Evening faded into night, still without word from the birth chamber. An impatient man who had no outlet for his concern, he drank and ate, then drank again. After the supper hour he sent for musicians, and when their playing failed to soothe his nerves, he called for the hot bath he had neglected that afternoon.
In a rare mood of respect, he decided to forgo the company of a girl. Bed play seemed inappropriate while his wife was giving birth to his heir, but a man could not be expected to sit waiting with no comforts. Buntokapi bellowed for the runner to fetch a large jug of acamel brandy. This he would not surrender, even when servants pulled the screens away and filled his tub with steaming water. They waited with soap and towels. Buntokapi stripped off his robes and patted his expanding girth. He grunted to himself about needing to practise with the sword and bow more, to keep fit, as he slid his bulk into the water. A weaker man would have winced, but Buntokapi simply sat down. He took a brandy cup from a servant’s hand and drained it in one long pull.
The servants worked with diffident care. None of them wanted a beating for letting suds inadvertently spill into the open cup and sour the brandy.
Bunto sloshed back in his bath. He absently hummed a tune while the servants soaped his body. As their hands kneaded his taut muscles and the heat drew him into a sleepy, amorous mood, he luxuriated in the bath, and soon he drifted into a doze.
Then the air was cut by a scream. Bunto bolted upright in the tub, overturning his brandy and splashing the servants with soapy water. Heart pounding, he groped about for a weapon, half expecting to see the servants running for safety while armoured men answered the alarm. Instead all was quiet. He looked to the musicians, who awaited his order to play, but as his mouth opened to speak, another scream rent the stillness.
The Complete Empire Trilogy Page 25
