Arakasi regarded her shrewdly, his fingers creasing the priest’s mantle over and over in his lap.
‘You may dine with me here,’ Mara added, and she smiled in the sweet way he remembered.
Marriage, then, had changed nothing of her spirit. Arakasi rose and bowed in a manner utterly at odds with his dress. ‘Your will, Lady.’ And on silent feet he departed for the baths and the barracks.
Events developed swiftly after that. Seated on cushions in the breeze from the screen, Arakasi sipped the hot tea, made from fragrant herbs and fruit tree blooms. Enjoying the quickness of Mara’s wit, he talked of the state of the Empire. The Thuril war that had ended years before had caused a loss of prestige for the Warlord and his War Party. The Blue Wheel Party and the Party for Progress had combined to almost force a change in imperial policy, until discovery of the alien world of Midkemia, populated by barbarians and rich with metals beyond the dreams of the maddest poet. Scouts had found metal lying about, obviously fashioned by intelligent beings, then discarded, wealth enough to keep an estate running for a year. Few reports followed, for the Warlord’s campaign against these barbarians had strangled all outgoing information. Since the death of her father and brother, Mara had lost all track of the wars beyond the rift. Of late, only those who served the new Alliance for War knew what was taking place in the barbarian world – or shared in the spoils.
Arakasi’s well-placed agents had access to such secrets. The war progressed well for the Warlord, and even the most reluctant members of the Blue Wheel Party had now joined in the invasion of Midkemia. Animated as he rarely was in his disguises, Arakasi gave a general outline to Mara, but he seemed reluctant to discuss details with anyone but the Lord of the Acoma.
Mara for her part showed him nothing but the dutiful wife, until the tea was drunk to the dregs and even Arakasi’s large appetite seemed satisfied. Her glance at the wall clock seemed casual enough as she said, ‘The day passes. Shall we swear you to our service, that you may go to my husband in Sulan-Qu?’
Arakasi bowed and rose, his sharp eyes not missing the slight tremble in Mara’s voice. He studied her eyes, reassured by the look of resolve in their dark depths. The incident with the cho-ja queens had instilled in him a deep respect for this woman. She had won his trust, and for that he stepped forward to swear his loyalty and his honour to an unknown Lord.
The ceremony was simple, and brief, the only oddity being that Arakasi swore on behalf of his agents also. Mara found it strange to consider the Acoma had loyal retainers whose names were unknown to her, yet who might willingly give their lives for the honour of a master and mistress they had never met. The greatness of Arakasi’s gift, and the fear that his sacrifice and his labours might be wasted, threatened to bring tears to her eyes. Briskly Mara turned to the practical.
‘Arakasi, when you visit my husband … go in the guise of a servant. Tell him you are there to discuss the shipment of the needra hides to be sold to the tentmakers in Jamar. He will then know if it is safe to talk. There are servants in the town house new to our service, so my Lord may be cautious. He will instruct you about what you shall do.’
Arakasi bowed and left her side. As the light slanted golden across the lane leading to the Imperial Highway, Mara bit her lip in earnest hope. If she had timed things right, Arakasi’s arrival should coincide with the height of Buntokapi’s passion in the arms of Teani. Very likely the Spy Master would find a reception far different from anything he expected – unless her husband was in an utterly uncharacteristic mood of tolerance. Worried, excited, and frightened at the frail odds that supported her hopes, Mara put off the poet she had called in to read. Instead she spent the afternoon in the ironclad disciplines of meditation, for the beauty of his words would be wasted in her present frame of mind.
Hours passed. The needra were driven in from their day pastures, and the shatra flew, heralding the approach of night. As the chief assistant gardener lit the lamps in the dooryard, Arakasi returned, dustier than he had been that morning, and visibly footsore. He entered Mara’s presence as the maids laid out cushions for her comfort. Even in the unlit gloom of the chamber, the large red welt upon his cheek showed plainly. Silent, Mara dismissed her maids. She sent her runner after cold food, and a basin and cloth for light washing. Then she bade the Spy Master sit.
The tap of the runner’s sandals diminished down the hall. Alone with his mistress, Arakasi bowed formally. ‘My Lady, your Lord listened to my coded greeting, then erupted into a fury. He struck me and bellowed that any business I had was to be directed to Jican and you.’ Mara endured his penetrating gaze without expression. She seemed coiled, waiting, and after an interval Arakasi continued. ‘There was a woman there, and he seemed … preoccupied. In any event, your husband is a superb – actor. Or he wasn’t acting at all.’
Mara’s expression remained innocent. ‘Many of the duties of this household my husband has given over to me. After all, I was Ruling Lady before he came here.’
Arakasi was not fooled. ‘“When the Game of the Council enters the home, the wise servant does not play,”’ he quoted. ‘In honour, I must do exactly as my Lord bids, and I will assume things are as they seem until proven otherwise.’ His stare turned cold then, even in the veiling of shadow of dusk. ‘But I am loyal to the Acoma. My heart is with you, Mara of the Acoma, because you gave me colours to wear, but I am duty-bound to obey my lawful Lord. I will not betray him.’
‘You say only what a loyal servant would be honour-bound to say, Arakasi. I expect no less.’ Mara smiled, unexpectedly pleased by her Spy Master’s warning. ‘Do you have any doubts about my husband’s wishes?’
The slave arrived with the food tray. Gratefully choosing a jigabird pastry, Arakasi answered. ‘In truth, I would have, if I hadn’t seen the woman he was … speaking with when I appeared.’
‘What do you mean?’ Mara waited, impatient, while he chewed and swallowed.
‘Teani. I know her.’ Arakasi qualified with no change in tone, ‘She is an agent of the Lord of the Minwanabi.’
Mara felt a stab of cold pass through her. Still enough that Arakasi noticed her distress, she spoke after a long moment. ‘Say nothing of this to anyone.’
‘I hear, mistress.’ Arakasi snatched the interval to eat in earnest. His travels had left him gaunt, and he had crossed many leagues since dawn. Guilty because he also bore the painful marks of Buntokapi’s wrath, Mara allowed him to finish his meal before asking for his full report.
After that, excitement made her forget his tiredness. As Arakasi unfolded the intrigue and the complexities of Empire politics in spare words, and a sprinkling of amusing anecdotes, she listened with shining eye. For this she had been born! As the evening grew old and the moon rose beyond the screen, pictures and patterns began to form in her mind. She interrupted with questions of her own, and the quickness of her deductions made Arakasi visibly shed his weariness. At last he had a mistress who appreciated the nuances of his work; henceforward her enthusiasm would sharpen his skills. As the men in his network saw the Acoma rise in power, their part would engender a pride they had never known under the Lord of the Tuscai.
Slaves came to tend the lamps. As new light spilled across the planes of the Spy Master’s face, Mara noticed the changes in Arakasi’s manner. What a treasure this man was, his talents an honour to House Acoma. Mara listened to his information long into the night, torn inside by frustration even his sharp perception did not discern. Now, at long last, she had the tools she needed to enter the game and find a way to earn her father and brother vengeance against the Minwanabi. But no move could be made, and no bit of information acted upon, with Buntokapi in place as Lord of the Acoma. When at last Arakasi departed, Mara sat with eyes fixed sightlessly on the stripped bones of jigabirds scattered upon the food tray. She brooded, and did not sleep until dawn.
The guests arrived late the next morning. Red-eyed from lack of sleep, Mara regarded the seven litters that wended their way towards the estate house.
The colours of the escort’s armour were known to her, and not a cause for joy. With a sigh of resignation, Mara bade her maid bring her a proper robe for the greeting of guests. That these were an intrusion to ruin a fine morning mattered not at all. The honour and hospitality of the Acoma must be maintained. When the first litter reached the dooryard, Mara was waiting to meet its occupant, three maids accompanying her. Nacoya came from another door and joined her lady as the first guest rose from his cushions.
Mara bowed formally. ‘My Lord Chipaka, what an honour.’
The wizened old man blinked weak eyes and attempted to identify who spoke. Since he was also hard of hearing, Mara’s words had escaped him as well. Edging closer to the young girl standing nearest, he squinted and bellowed, ‘I am Lord Chipaka of the Jandawaio. My wife and my mother and my daughters have come to visit your master and mistress, girl.’
He had mistaken Mara for a servant. Barely able to contain her amusement, the Lady of the Acoma ignored the slight. Speaking directly into the elder’s ear, she said, ‘I am Mara, wife of Lord Buntokapi, my Lord. To what do we owe this honour?’
But the old man had shifted his attention to the frail and ancient woman, looking to be near a hundred, who was being assisted as delicately as a jewelled egg from the most ostentatious of the litters. Mara dispatched her maids to help, as a gesture of respect, for the bearers were filthy with dust from the road. The old woman returned no thanks. Wizened and beaked like a featherless bird, she simply squatted between the two servants who supported her. Three other women emerged from other litters behind, each a younger replica of her grandmother, but equally waspish in the calm of mid-morning; they indulged in the most faddish of fashions. Gathering around the ancient woman, they at once began a nattering chatter. Mara reined in her distaste, for already this invasion of her home had become an exercise in tolerance.
The old man shuffled closer, smiling and patting her rump. Mara hopped forward, blinking in shock and disgust. But the old man seemed oblivious to her discomfort. ‘I was unable to attend your mistress’s wedding, girl. My estates near Yankora are far indeed, and Mother was ill.’ He waved at the frail woman, who now stared blankly into space, while her granddaughters steadily cursed the inept handling of the servants who supported the ancient crone. Into this clutch of hen jigahens hobbled the woman from the last litter. She was gowned in embroidered sharsao cloth, and behind the affected fluttering of her fan she sported a face of the same vintage as Lord Chipaka’s. Mara decided she must be the Lady of the Jandawaio.
The old man plucked insistently at the sleeve of the Lady of the Acoma. ‘Since we happened to be passing north on our way to the Holy City, we had our barge put in at Sulan-Qu, and came to call upon your Lord … ah yes, that’s his name. I’m an old friend of his father’s, you know.’ The old man winked knowingly at Mara. ‘My wife’s a sound sleeper, don’t you know. Come by later tonight, girl.’ He attempted to pat Mara’s arm in what was intended to be a seductive manner, but his hand was so palsied, he missed her wrist.
A wicked gleam lit Mara’s eyes. Though the Lord was tastelessly lascivious, and his breath stank of rotting teeth, she barely smothered her delight. ‘You wish to see the Lord of the Acoma? Then, my Lord, I am afraid you must return to the city, for my Lord Buntokapi is now in residence at his town house.’
The old man blinked, blank-faced. Obligingly Mara repeated her message at a shout.
‘Oh. Why certainly. His town house.’ The old man leered again at Mara. Then he bobbed his head briskly and waved to his retinue.
The women, still chattering, remained oblivious as their slaves gathered by the litters. The bearers who had been carrying the tiny old woman did an abrupt about-turn and headed their confused-looking charge back towards her cushions. Over her mumble of complaint the old man cried, ‘Go on. Go on now, Mother, we must go back to the city.’
The girls and their mother, uniformly plain and loud, protested bitterly at the idea of returning to their litters. They simpered and delayed, hoping to cadge an invitation for refreshments from the Lady of the Acoma, but the deaf Lord Chipaka paid no heed to their noise. As he seemed in haste to descend upon Lord Buntokapi, Mara decided not to impede his departure. When the matriarch and her brood were safely buttoned into their litters, she graciously offered a messenger slave to guide the way to the town house, that the courtesy visit to her Lord suffer no more unnecessary delays.
The Lord of the Jandawaio waved absently and shuffled to the litter he shared with his mother. One hand upon the curtains, he paused and said, ‘And tell your mistress I am sorry to have missed her, girl.’
Shaking her head slightly, Mara said, ‘I will, my Lord.’
The slaves bent, muscles shining with sweat as they hefted the litter poles. As the procession traipsed back down the lane, Nacoya said, ‘My Lady, Lord Bunto will be furious.’
Mara watched the departing retinue with sharp calculation. If the ancient matriarch of the Jandawaio resented the jostling of anything but a slow walk, Buntokapi’s visitors would arrive within an hour after he had returned to Teani’s bed. Fervently Mara murmured, ‘I certainly hope so, Nacoya.’
She returned to her quarters, where her maps and documents awaited further study. Nacoya stared after her in astonishment, wondering what possible motive would justify the young mistress’s inviting the wrath of that brute she had married.
Three days later, ignoring the presence of Nacoya and the other servants, Buntokapi stamped into Mara’s quarters unannounced. At the sight of his dusty sandals, Mara winced reflexively. But this pair was for walking only, lacking the studs used in battle or on the practice ground. ‘You should never have allowed that old fool and his clutch of jigahens to come to my town house,’ the Lord of the Acoma opened. The timbre of his voice caused the maids to shrink in the corners.
Mara lowered her eyes, as much to hide her amusement at Buntokapi’s calling the Lord of the Jandawaio’s women barnyard fowl as from any contrition. ‘Is my husband displeased?’
Buntokapi lowered himself to the mat before her with a sigh of aggravation. ‘Woman, that old fool was a friend of my grandfather’s. He’s damn near senile! Half the time he thinks my father is his old boyhood pal, and that I am Tecuma of the Anasati. And his mother is worse, a near corpse he drags along wherever he goes. Gods, wife, she must be close to a century of years. And all she does is stare, drool, and mess the mats upon which she’s sitting. And Lord Chipaka talks to her all the time; all of them talk to her, the wife, the daughters, even the servants! She never answers, but they think she does!’ His voice rose as his recounting of the visit inflamed his temper. ‘Now, I want to know which brainless serving girl sent them along to my town house! All Chipaka could remember was she had large breasts!’
Mara stifled a smile, barely. The nearsighted Lord Chipaka might perhaps have thought Mara’s breasts large, since his nose had hovered within inches of her chest as he spoke to her. Puzzled by his wife’s blush, and the suspicion that she laughed at him, Buntokapi shouted until he shook the timbers of the doorframes. ‘And he groped my … servant girl. Right before my eyes he reached out and he … pinched her!’
Too angry to contain himself, Buntokapi leaped to his feet. He shook his fists in the air, ranting himself into a sweat. ‘And they stayed for two days! For two days I had to give my quarters to that old fool and his wife. My … servant girl, Teani, had to take quarters in a hostelry nearby. The old lecher wouldn’t keep his hands off her.’
Mara sat up then and deliberately provoked him. ‘Oh, Bunto, you should have let him bed the girl. She’s only a servant, and if the old Lord was still capable after all these years, at least the diversion would have kept him occupied.’
Buntokapi’s colour deepened. ‘Not in my town house! If I can find that stupid cow who sent Jandawaio to me in Sulan-Qu, I’ll personally strip the skin from her back.’
Mara’s reply sounded meek in contrast to her husband’s bellow. ‘Bunto, you said, should anyone come t
o call, send them along to you at your town house, not keep them waiting here. I’m sure Jican informed all the servants and that any of them would have done the same.’
Buntokapi paused in his pacing, one foot half-raised like a shatra bird’s. The pose would have been funny were he not so coiled for violence. ‘Well, I made a mistake. From now onward, send no one to my town house without my prior consent!’
His thunderous shout roused Ayaki, who stirred in his pillows. Apparently preoccupied, Mara turned towards her baby. ‘No one?’
The interruption of his son inflamed Buntokapi still further. He stormed about the room, his fist waving in the air. ‘No one! If a member of the High Council calls, they can wait!’
The baby began to wail. Mara’s brow knitted slightly as she said, ‘But of course you don’t mean your father?’
‘Send that child off with a servant!’ Buntokapi raged. He gestured furiously at Misa, who ran to take the infant from Mara’s arms. Buntokapi kicked a pillow hard, sending it sailing into the fish pool in the garden beyond the screen. Then he resumed as if no interruption had occurred. ‘My father thinks I am stupid, and that I’ll do whatever he asks. He can go piss in the river! The Acoma are not his to command!’ Buntokapi paused, his face dark purple. ‘No, I don’t want him soiling my fish. Tell him to go downstream off my lands, then he can piss in the river!’
Mara hid her hands in the fabric of her robe. ‘But surely if the Warlord –’
Buntokapi cut her off. ‘If the Warlord himself arrives here, do not send even him along to my town house! Is that understood?’ Mara regarded her husband in shocked amazement. Bunto’s rage redoubled. After being repressed for two days with the Lord of the Jandawaio, his tantrum was impressive. ‘Even Almecho can damn well wait upon my pleasure. If he does not wish to wait here, he can sit in the needra pens, if he prefers. And if I don’t get back the day he arrives, he can sleep in the needra shit, for all I care, and you can tell him I said so.’
The Complete Empire Trilogy Page 28
