Papewaio answered grimly. ‘We can do nothing without risking discovery, Lady. Trust Arakasi. His agents can reach him without danger, and he will find you himself if there is need.’
Unable to be heard over the scrape of the tables as servants cleared the hall for an exhibition of tumblers, Mara only nodded. She patted Nacoya’s arm, then arose to make her excuses to the Lord of the Minwanabi. The headache that plagued her was real enough, and since the Warlord would not make his appearance until the morrow, her departure would cause no offence. If anything, she wished to leave the impression that she was young, inexperienced, and lacking in subtlety. An early retirement would reinforce that impression with the guests, perhaps granting her a breather to formulate a defence. Minwanabi would have a difficult time completing his plots with the eyes of every rival seeking an opening to exploit ahead of him.
Mara sent the servant who cleared away the plates to inform the Lord of her departure. By the time the news reached the dais, and the huge, self-satisfied smile creased the jowls of the great Lord’s face, the chairs where the Acoma had dined stood empty. Infatuated with that small triumph, Jingu did not notice that Teani had also vanished. Weary of badgering her master for the chance to torment the Lady of the Acoma before the end, she had left to pursue her own means of realizing her goal, knowing that drink and the indulgences of entertaining would satiate the appetites of her Lord.
The blue silk scarf that covered Teani’s hair fluttered behind her as she hastened down a back corridor of the Minwanabi estate house. She did not trouble to replace it, nor did she pause to retie the fall of tawny hair that tumbled over her shoulders. Strike Leader Shimizu’s quarters lay across the next courtyard, and the need for stealth was past; the only person likely to be about at this hour was the slave who lit the oil lamps. Teani slipped through the last screen with a secretive smile. Tonight the slave would be late, preoccupied as he was with the needs of Jingu’s guests. The old jaguna could be niggardly when it came to looking after his staff. Politics always came first in the great Lord’s mind, a trait his ranking officers sometimes came to resent.
Golden in the moonlight that flooded the courtyard, Teani paused to unhook the collar of her robe. She loosened the fabric enough to reveal a provocative expanse of breast, and her teeth flashed white in a smile. Tonight, if she was skilful, the skinny little Acoma bitch would die. How sweet it would be to hear her screams.
Across the courtyard the screen to Shimizu’s quarters rested ajar. Lamplight burned beyond, throwing the distorted silhouette of a man hunched on his cushions with a flask. He’s drinking again, Teani thought in disgust, and all because she had delayed in the great hall, striving with no success to get Jingu to reassign the plotting of Mara’s execution. The concubine wished that pleasure for herself. The fact that her Lord did not care to delegate that task to Teani left her no choice but to outwit him.
Tossing her hair over now almost bare shoulders, the concubine resumed her walk towards the open screen. She entered so silently that for an instant the dark-haired man within did not notice. Teani stole that moment to study him.
Shimizu, First Strike Leader of the Minwanabi, was known to his fellow soldiers as a man of fierce loyalties, passionate beliefs, and forthright personality. His quick reflexes and near-infallible judgement on the battlefield had earned him early promotion; his face was young for his post, unlined except for the scars acquired through his profession. His only flaw was a thin skin, giving him a temper that could erupt without warning. His eyes were hooded, his moods difficult to read except when he drank. In the petulant thrust of his lower lip, Teani saw frustration – the sulky, explosive sort given to men who are balked by a lover. Teani congratulated herself on a task well performed. She knew this man for a fool, sick inside with longing for her body, and the sort of emotional juvenile who mistook longing for love. And by the sweat that shone on his muscled chest, Teani knew that Shimizu was hers to use at will, a tool perfectly tempered to do her bidding; as so many others had been, male and female.
Except Mara. The Lady of the Acoma had escaped her. For that, Teani assembled her most inviting smile and, from behind, raised a hand to touch the sweating flesh of Shimizu’s shoulder.
He started violently, and his hands grasped and drew the sword he kept always by his knee. The blade sang from beneath the sheath, turning to kill even as he recognized his lover. The edge caught in soft silk and stopped, barely short of bloodshed.
‘Woman!’ Shimizu’s face paled, then flushed with anger, both at the lateness of Team’s arrival and the stealth of her entry. As he recovered his poise, he noticed a queer brilliance in her eyes. Her lips were slightly parted, as if the sword had been a lover to embrace. Her nipples hardened as she breathed deeply, excited by the brush of the razor-sharp edge against her flesh. Recognition of her twisted passions soured his welcome slightly; he sheathed his weapon with a show of disgust. ‘You’re mad, woman, sick in the mind. I might have run you through.’
But the anger, the disgust, never lasted. When Teani tipped her face upward, her breasts pressing firmly through his tunic, Shimizu lowered his head like one starving and savoured the kiss made hot for him by a slight brush with death. She had solved him like a puzzle. Every touch seemed to melt him to the marrow of his bones. Unable to suppress his surge of joyous welcome, Shimizu caught his fingers in the ties that closed her gown. ‘You can stay, my love? Tell me that Jingu is preoccupied with his guests, and that you will not have to return to his bed this night.’
Teani brushed his ear with her tongue and answered, her breath hot against his neck. ‘Jingu does not expect me back to his chambers,’ she lied. Then, waiting for his fingers to grip more insistently at her clothing, she fended him off. ‘But tonight I may not stay.’
Shimizu frowned, his eyes suddenly hard in the light of the single oil lamp. ‘Why not? Do you share your affections elsewhere?’
Teani laughed, letting him dangle a moment before she slipped her robe from her shoulders and bared her lovely breasts. Shimizu tried to remain stern, but his attention was clearly engaged. ‘I love no other, my fine warrior.’ She shaded her tone with just enough hint of sarcasm to leave him a bit in doubt. ‘It is state business that takes me from your side this night. Now, will you waste what time we have, or will you …’ And she moaned, biting softly as he stopped her words with his lips.
Yet this time, deliberately, she held back enough that he did not lose his train of thought.
His hands roughened on the bare silk of her skin, and his tone grew demanding. ‘Why, then, did you delay so long in coming to me?’
Teani whipped back her honey-streaked hair in a show of pique. ‘How distrustful you are. Do you fear that your sword is not enough to please a woman?’ She moved away, both to tease and to allow him a better view of her half-nude body.
Shimizu frowned, and his hands caught her shoulders. But now Teani softened like butter against him. Her fingers slid skilfully through the slit in his robe. He tensed in delicious apprehension as she scratched her nails along the inside of his thigh.
‘And such a mighty sword,’ she murmured, eyelids drooping as her mouth formed a pouting smile. ‘My Lord of the Minwanabi detained me with tiresome instructions. It seems he wants the Acoma bitch dead, and I’m the one chosen for the filthy chore.’
But even as her hands found their mark and stroked in the manner he most preferred, Shimizu pulled back. Instantly Teani knew she had pushed too fast; or perhaps erred in her manner of presentation. She bent instantly, her hair trailing across his thighs, and teased his flesh with her tongue.
Shimizu took a moment to respond; then his hands tightened against her back, and his voice, dreamily, resumed above her. ‘That’s most strange, my love, that my Lord gave such instructions.’
Teani’s interest sharpened. She straightened and set her hands to untie the laces of his sandals. ‘Gods, do you always have to wear your studded soles in the house?’
Shimizu shifted impati
ently, but the concubine continued with his laces. The hardened tip of her breast brushed the inside of his knee as she worked, driving him wild to the point where he answered her next lazy query without thinking.
‘Why? Oh, my Lord told me yesterday that the Acoma girl was to die, but he intends to break her spirit first. Terrify her, he said, by killing off her servants and retainers so that when he strikes, she will be utterly alone.’ Here Shimizu stopped and flushed, aware that his tongue had become loose. He tangled one fist in red-gold hair, drawing Teani away from the sandal as yet left fastened. ‘I think you lie, woman. You do not go to kill Mara, but to couple with another this night.’
Teani’s eyes flashed, partly in excitement, for violence aroused her; and also because men were so laughably predictable. She did not deny the accusation, but provoked further by saying, ‘What makes you think that I lie?’
Shimizu caught her wrists, jerking her body against him. ‘I say you lie because my orders for tomorrow night are to stage a false raid by a thief and see that Papewaio, Strike Leader of the Acoma, lies dead on Mara’s doorstep. Why then, without cancelling such orders, should my Lord of the Minwanabi tell you to give the girl to Turakamu tonight?’
Heated by his handling, and loosened by the ridiculous ease with which she had goaded his ego and caused him to spill his confidence to her, Teani raised her chin in challenge. ‘How should I know the ways of great men?’ She met his eyes to assure herself that his hunger was still kindled. ‘My love, you are jealous beyond rational thought. Shall we strike a bargain to salve your feelings? I will lie here with you tonight, and tell Minwanabi that I tried and failed to reach Mara of the Acoma with my knife. But in exchange, you must restore my honour by killing the girl along with Papewaio tomorrow.’
Shimizu did not speak but gathered Teani close. His fingers moved impatiently, working the robe free of her body. She wore no clothing beneath, and by the feverish way he pulled off his own robe and tunic, the concubine knew she had him. His preoccupation was answer enough. He would do her will on the morrow, to ensure she was his, and his alone, for the duration of the night. Shimizu mistook her shiver of delight for passion. As he claimed her, his thoughts were solely of love; but the beautiful courtesan he coupled with responded with cold-blooded skill, her purpose to ensure that Mara, Lady of the Acoma, would lie dead with a blade in her heart.
Mara wakened unfreshed after a long and restless night. Her maids sensed her tense mood. They fetched her robes and braided silk ribbons into her hair without speaking, while Nacoya grumbled as she always did in the early hours of the morning. Too restless to wait for the meal offered by the Minwanabi house staff, Mara hurried Papewaio through his daily ritual of sword sharpening, then suggested a stroll by the lakeside. This provoked her First Adviser to sour silence.
But until Mara knew the extent of her peril, she preferred to avoid any set pattern. Before she had a chance to mingle with the guests, and observe which alliances were strong and which had grown weak, she could not hope to assess how powerful the Lord of the Minwanabi had become.
Mara breathed deeply, trying to enjoy the fresh air and flash of the sun on the water. The breeze chased ripples over the shallows, and the fishing boats bobbed on moorings, awaiting hands to man their oars. Still, the calm of the lake lent no comfort. Aware that Nacoya’s steps were not so spry as they might be, Mara at last suggested they return to the estate house.
‘That is wise, mistress,’ Nacoya said in a tone that suggested the Lady should not have gone walking where sand and dew might spoil the silk ties of her sandals. But the old woman’s rebuke lacked spirit. Her eyes were sad, and her heart felt empty so far from the Acoma estates. As she turned back to the palatial home of the Lord of the Minwanabi, with its gardens, and its banners, and its deadly gathering of guests, Papewaio took her arm and steadied her without asking leave.
The reception to welcome the Warlord, Almecho, began at mid-morning, though the dignitary it was intended to honour would probably not arrive until afternoon. When Mara arrived at the festivities, most of the nobles of the Empire had gathered, plumed and jewelled and hungry with ambitions. The Game of the Council permeated all aspects of Tsurani life, yet none more so than extravagant affairs of state. The guests might stroll beneath fringed canopies, eating exquisitely prepared foods, and exchanging gossip and tales of ancestral valour, or occasionally making wagers or trade bargains. But every Lord present watched his peers with sharp eyes, seeing who curried favour with whom and, notably, who was retiring, silent, or, more telling, absent altogether. Mara studied the faces and the house colours along with the rest, aware that she was observed in turn. The Lord of the Techtalt and his son gave her barely a nod in greeting, which indicated that already many would delay being seen with her until the standing of the Acoma had stabilized.
Mara adroitly made the issue seem trivial by leading Nacoya to a table and sending a servant for refreshments. She took care to ask only for dishes she had seen on the plates of other guests, and when the food arrived, she and her First Adviser were observed to eat well, as if nerves did not trouble their appetites. Papewaio saw, and would have smiled if the protocol expected of an honour guard did not constrain him. Mara handled even the subtleties with fineness, for only by missing her breakfast could the fussy Nacoya be induced to take refreshment under this much stress. The effect was not lost on those guests who watched. A few nodded in covert admiration, and others whispered in corners. Still others were oblivious to the affairs of the Acoma, being embroiled in plots of their own.
Mara heard the Lord of the Xacatecas laugh low in his throat; he said something that caused the third son of the Ling Family to wince and turn pale. The offspring and cousins of the Xosai seemed everywhere one turned, and the northern-born wife of the Kaschatecas flirted shamelessly with the First Adviser of the Chilapaningo. That dignitary looked as stiff as cured needra hide; quite probably he was mortified by her attentions, but she spoke too fast and gripped his sleeve too tightly for him to excuse himself.
Mara scanned the crowd, noting the wide variety of fashions and house colours. She counted the guests in two categories: those who were allies or not strong enough to challenge her, and those who were threats or who wished some vengeance upon her. Since the Minwanabi were numbered among the Five Great Families of Tsuranuanni, every powerful house in the Empire had sent some representative. Mara noted the Keda, the Tonmargu, and the Oaxatucan, each with their circle of flatterers. Lesser Lords kept their distance, or sought to wheedle favour. The Ekamchi Lord’s purple headdress bent close to his First Adviser, while the red robes of the Inrodaka clashed with the garb of two servants whose livery Mara did not recognize. Having studied those guests who were present, she felt a sudden chill. Nowhere did she see a tunic of scarlet and yellow.
As if sensing her uneasiness, Nacoya pushed aside the jigabird bones that remained of her repast. ‘I do not see the Lord of the Anasati,’ she said pointedly. ‘Unless the gods have delayed him, my daughter, you and your young son are in the gravest danger.’
Nacoya did not elaborate upon the obvious: that the absence of a prominent family was of political significance, the least aspect of which was that Tecuma’s vow to protect the Acoma for the sake of Ayaki would give no shelter unless he or his eldest son was in attendance. Without Anasati protection, Mara had only fifty warriors, who were quartered in barracks beyond her reach. Now the coldness of the Techtalt’s greeting gained a new significance; for it seemed possible that Buntokapi’s slight against the Warlord had damaged the Anasati name more than Mara had anticipated. Her danger grew in proportion. The Lord of the Minwanabi might think himself strong enough to obliterate the Acoma, then win the war that would result when Tecuma sent armies to defend Ayaki’s title,
‘You should not have accepted this invitation,’ Nacoya whispered.
Mara gestured sharp denial. Not even the fact that two houses now stood in peril could change her resolve. She would survive, turn defeat into triumph if ch
ance lent her the appropriate weapons. But the absence of an ally she had depended upon worried her enough that she failed to notice that Teani came late to the reception, a secretive, self-satisfied look on her face whenever she glanced at Mara. Neither did the Lady of the Acoma rise from the table fast enough to avoid the Lord of the Ekamchi, who appeared, leering, at her elbow.
‘Good day, Lady of the Acoma. What a surprise to see you did not bring any of your new cho-ja warriors to watch out for your health.’
Mara bowed stiffly, reading an uncharacteristic boldness in the pudgy man’s manner. ‘My health is in sunlight, Lord of the Ekamchi. And I do not lack protection with Papewaio at my side.’
The Lord of the Ekamchi grimaced, having good cause to remember the courage and prowess of the Acoma First Strike Leader. Still, some purpose kept him persistent, revealing to Mara that he knew of some shifting alliances before she did. Unwittingly emulating her father, she chose the bold course and provoked the issue before it could be broached under less favourable circumstances. ‘You have perhaps spoken with Tecuma of the Anasati lately?’
‘Ah!’ The Lord of the Ekamchi was taken aback. Still, his eyes flashed briefly in triumph as he recovered his poise. ‘I regret to tell you that our host, the Lord of the Minwanabi, did not invite Tecuma of the Anasati to his festival. He wished not to remind the Warlord of the late unpleasantness, indeed, the slight visited upon that worthy man by the son who married the Acoma.’
‘Buntokapi died with honour,’ Mara said acidly. ‘You demean yourself by speaking ill of the dead.’ Her words were a warning, and a challenge to Ekamchi honour if the subject was not dropped.
The Lord who had insulted her withdrew with a barb of his own. ‘Still, I know that Tecuma could not have come, if circumstances permitted. He is otherwise occupied, I have heard, since an attack on his richest trade caravan left its defenders dead to a man. He lost his goods, and two hundred warriors as well, to a most vicious band of thieves.’ The Ekamchi Lord smiled, for he knew, as would Mara, that such a slaughter had not been achieved by lawless men. Some great house moved boldly against the Anasati; and of them all, only one had sworn blood feud against the Acoma, who had contrived Tecuma’s unwilling alliance.
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