Chipino stroked his chin. ‘A joke,’ he concluded, though underneath he was obviously mystified afresh. ‘You Midkemians are wondrously strange in your thinking.’ He shifted his glance to Mara and smoothly ascertained that his servants had anticipated her needs and brought chocha as she liked it. A man who lived by subtleties, he had trained his staff to observe his guests, learn their needs, and respond in their duties of hospitality without spoken orders from him. The practice had rewards. It was amazing how soft an opponent could become when he was personally catered to with as little fuss as though he sat in his own hall. Mara was not here as an enemy, but Lord Chipino recognized his debt to her and was anxious to negotiate a favourable settlement. He chose his moment, broaching the subject after Mara was settled with refreshment, but quickly enough that she had little space for deep thinking.
‘Lady Mara, your soldiers and the brilliance of your war tactics today spared House Xacatecas from yet more tragic losses. We are in your debt for the occasion, and are prepared to offer fair and honourable reward.’
The Lady was young; she was gifted, but she still had much hardening to undergo before she became practised in the Great Game. She proved so now, for she blushed. ‘My Lord, the Acoma soldiers achieved only what was proper between allies. Little reward is required, beyond a formal swearing of alliance with witnesses upon our return to the mainland.’
She paused, dropped her eyes, and seemed more than ever the young girl. A slight frown creased her forehead, as she thought upon the matter and realized that she must ask something more of House Xacatecas, lest she leave a social superior with an implied debt of obligation. To leave such business unfinished was an unwise move that could strain further amicable relations. ‘Lord Chipino,’ she added formally, as if the matter were an embarrassment to her, ‘for the actions of the Acoma on behalf of your house, I ask one boon: that, at a time of my choosing, you grant me your vote in the Imperial Council to be cast as I wish. Will this be acceptable?’
Lord Chipino inclined his head, well pleased. The request was a pittance, and the girl was cautious beyond her years, to keep her asking modest. He murmured a command, and his runner hurried to fetch his scribe, to set the matter officially under seal. To Mara’s most appropriate response he added one thing more. ‘Let a suit of fine armour be made for the barbarian slave, in Acoma colours, that he may serve his Lady in comfort the next time she requires to bait her traps with an honour guardsman.’ Kevin smiled in appreciation of the dry Tsurani humour: he would never be permitted to wear this armour, but he would have it as a trophy of sorts. Then, the matter disposed of in lasting satisfaction of the debt, Chipino clapped for servants to bring food. ‘You shall dine here,’ he said, and he waved to indicate the barbarian slave was to be included. ‘Together we shall drink fine spirits, to celebrate the defeat of our enemies.’
Mara woke to the touch of a hand shaking her shoulder briskly. She rolled over. Dark hair caught in her lashes, and she sighed, still deep in sleep.
‘Lady, you must wake up,’ Kevin said in her ear.
The bedding seemed much too warm and comfortable. Reluctantly Mara stirred. Though weary still from the battle the previous day, and no little bit discomforted by the sa wine consumed with Lord Chipino to celebrate the victory, she forced her heavy eyes to open. ‘What is it.?’
Dawn greyed the sky beyond the tent flap, left open to catch the night breezes. In the sandy dunes of the low country, the temperature did not fall after sundown, as happened in the mountains. Mara blinked and rolled closer to Kevin’s warmth. ‘It’s too early,’ she protested, and began provocatively to tickle him.
‘Lady,’ the tall barbarian scolded gently. ‘Lujan is waiting with a message.’
‘What?’ Now fully wakened, Mara sat up. Loose hair spilled like ribbons over her shoulders as she clapped sharply for a servant to bring a robe. Across the command tent, seen as a shadow against the lamplit antechamber, Lujan stalked the breadth of the carpet in long strides, his officer’s helm crooked in his elbow. Quickly the Lady of the Acoma shoved her hands into waiting sleeves. She rose, leaving Kevin fumbling for his trousers, and hurried through the fringed partition between the rooms.
‘What’s amiss?’ she said in response to Lujan’s agitation.
The Acoma Strike Leader completed a swift bow. ‘Lady. Come quickly. I think the best thing would be for you to see for yourself.’
Made tolerant by curiosity, Mara followed her officer, pausing only to slip on the sandals brought to her by a servant as she stepped into the thin light of dawn.
Her eyes adjusted to the gloom, and she halted very quickly, colliding with Kevin, who hurried less gracefully after her. Involved with fastening his buttons, and still barefoot, he had not seen her stop.
Yet his clumsiness raised no imprecations. Mara was utterly absorbed by the sight of seven motley figures who descended the dunes just beyond the perimeter of her camp. They were short, almost dwarf-like in stature. Their robes were fringed with beads of glass, horn, and jade, and their hair was braided. The ends were tasselled in colours, though the rest of their clothing was drab. And around the wrist of each, in varied and elaborate patterns, were blue tattoos like bracelets.
‘They look like tribal chiefs,’ Mara said in wonderment.
‘So I thought,’ Lujan replied. ‘And yet they come alone, and unarmed.’
‘Fetch Lord Chipino,’ Mara ordered.
Her Force Commander inclined his head in his usual wry fashion. ‘I have already taken that liberty.’
Then, acting purely on instinct, Mara added, ‘Ask our sentries to disarm. Now. At once.’
Lujan directed a suspicious glance at the approaching figures, then shrugged. ‘Let us pray the gods are with us. After Tasaio’s performance yesterday, the clan chiefs will have small cause to love us.’
‘That’s just what I am hoping,’ Mara said quickly.
She stood, a frown on her face, while Lujan carried out her wishes. All around the camp, Acoma soldiers removed their sword belts and laid their weapons flat upon the sand.
‘You think these chiefs come as peace emissaries?’ said a voice, Chipino’s, still gruff from sleep. The Lord of the Xacatecas stepped up to Mara’s side, his robe sash half-tied in his haste.
‘That’s what I am counting on,’ Mara murmured.
‘And if they are not?’ Chipino prompted. He sounded dryly interested rather than worried.
And Mara smiled back. ‘You guess right, my Lord, I am not without reservations. Lujan was told only to ask the sentries to disarm. The reserve troops, no doubt, are even at this moment being mustered into armour behind the cover of the command tent.’
Lujan stepped back into view from that very quarter, looking faintly sheepish. ‘Someone has to keep a weather eye open for trouble,’ he said cheerfully.
Then his levity faded, and he, too, looked southward, to where the seven small visitors paused by the still rows of sentries. The one in the lead, who wore the most beads, performed a flourishing salute.
‘Let them pass,’ called Lord Chipino. ‘We are willing to parley.’
The sentries obediently parted, and without speech the desert men came through. They walked on short, bandy legs across the camp, looking neither to the right nor to the left. Unerringly they proceeded until they reached the Lord and the Lady before the tent. They stopped, arrayed in a semicircle, and stared without speaking like sand-carved wooden icons, their beads swinging gently in the breeze.
‘Send for an interpreter,’ Lord Chipino said softly to one of Mara’s servants. Then, taking the Lady’s hand, he led her forward two measured paces. Together Lord and Lady inclined their heads. In the sign language of the desert tribes, they held forth opened hands, signifying suspension of hostilities.
At once the lead chieftain repeated his salute, which involved a series of gestures that framed his nose, mouth, and ears. He bowed, Empire style, his beads jouncing briskly on their fringes. Then, quite at odds with his precise mo
vements, he broke into excited speech.
The interpreter, a rotund little fellow hired out of Ilama, had to hustle to arrive in time to catch the gist, for the desert man’s onrushing babble abruptly ceased.
‘What did he say?’ Mara demanded, losing her poise to impatience.
The interpreter raised sandy eyebrows in a look of unfeigned surprise. He seemed to try the words out on his tongue once, to ascertain their validity before he answered. ‘These are the Chiefs of the Seven Tribes of Dustari’s northern desert, called the Winds of Sand, in their dialect. They are here to swear enmity and blood debt against the man whom you know as Tasaio of the Minwanabi. Further, since the lands of Minwanabi are across the great sea, and warriors from the Winds of Sand may not travel within the Empire, these, the Chiefs of the Seven Tribes of the Winds of Sand, are here to ask an alliance between your tribes and theirs.’
Mara and Lord Chipino locked eyes in satisfaction. Then Mara inclined her head, granting the Lord of the Xacatecas his right to speak for them both. Lord Chipino gave answer, looking directly into the hot, dark eyes of the desert chief, and not waiting for the interpreter to keep up. ‘Tell the Chiefs of the Winds of Sand,’ he intoned, ‘that our tribes would welcome such alliance. Further, our tribes of Acoma and Xacatecas will promise to send to the Chiefs of the Winds of Sand Tasaio’s sword, as evidence that blood debt has been met and paid in full.’ It was assumed the desert men would know enough of imperial custom to know the only way a warrior’s sword could be acquired would be to take it from dead fingers. ‘But if the Acoma and Xacatecas so swear to this alliance, they must have assurance upon clan honour that the tribes of the Winds of Sand will sign treaty with the Empire in Dustari. Raids upon the borderlands must stop, so that the Acoma and Xacatecas may be free to pursue the tribe of Minwanabi and claim blood price. So that the tribes of the Winds of Sand need no reason to raid, we shall establish an outpost that will be a free trading town for the tribes.’ He smiled at Mara. ‘It will be jointly administered by the Acoma.’ Turning back to the chieftains, he said, ‘Any traders seeking to cheat or rob our new allies will have to deal with the Xacatecas and the Acoma.’
The interpreter hastily caught up, and silence fell. The faces of the desert men stayed inscrutable for an interval. Then the leader stamped his foot and spat upon the sand. He ejected one curt syllable, spun on his heel, and departed, the others falling in after him.
The interpreter, looking astounded, turned to Mara and Chipino. ‘He said yes.’
Lord Xacatecas laughed in disbelief. ‘Just like that?’
The interpreter returned a gesture betraying that he had desert blood somewhere in his ancestry. ‘The Lord of the Seven Chiefs of the Winds of Sand spat water.’
When nobody’s puzzlement cleared, he made a small sign of impatience. ‘That is life oath, for a chief and all of his tribe. He, and his heirs, and all of his clansmen and relations would die by ritual starvation were any of the Winds of Sand to break trust. My Lord, my Lady, you have just concluded a treaty with the desert men more binding than any ever sealed in all the long history of the Empire.’
This took a second or two to sink in. When it did, Lord Chipino grinned delightedly. ‘A worthy exchange for Tasaio’s sword, I should think. Certainly that part of the bargain will not be a bother to carry out.’
Then Kevin whooped and caught Mara into a hug, and spun her around. ‘You can go home,’ he said delightedly. ‘Home to your estate and Ayaki.’
Lujan stood bemused, scratching his chin, and Chipino, with characteristic dry irony, summed up. ‘Our houses will receive recognition and honour from the Emperor himself for this. And Lord Desio will chew rocks when he finds out.’ Then, as if his own thoughts turned toward home, he muttered, ‘Isashani will be furious to know how much weight I have lost. Shall we retire to my command tent and share breakfast?’
• Chapter Thirteen •
Realignment
The guard signalled.
Desio of the Minwanabi strode into the vast conference chamber, his nailed sandals striking the flagstone with a surprisingly loud snap. Incomo watched his master approach the dais, his broad hands stripping off his battle gloves, which he flung to the body servant who scurried to keep up. While still not the crafty schemer his father had been, nor as brilliant a strategist as his cousin, Desio now threw himself into the tasks he had avoided at the start of his rule.
Before his First Adviser could speak, the Lord shouted, ‘Is it true?’
Incomo clutched the latest report tighter to his chest and nodded.
‘Damn!’ Still heated from his hour of exercise with his honour guard, the Lord of the Minwanabi vented his rage, hurling his helm with total disregard for rich furnishings and glass ornaments. The servant dived, but missed the catch; the helmet bounced across polished flooring, fortunately missing anything of value, skipping twice before it hammered against the far wall with enough force to mar its shiny finish.
The servant distastefully picked a path through a scattering of lacquer chips to effect a retrieval. Miserable as a whipped dog, he crept back to his lord’s side, holding the battered helm.
But Desio was too intent on upbraiding his First Adviser to curse the servant for damage to his armour. ‘You hold a report less than an hour from the boat and every servant and soldier knows the news before I do.’ Desio stuck out a sweaty hand, impatiently raking damp hair from his eyes with the other.
Incomo surrendered the parchment, struck that the pudgy fingers he recalled in the boy were hardened to heavy calluses. The fat, self-indulgent youth who had sought to lose himself in drink and women had changed to a self-assured ruler. Desio was far from the ideal Tsurani warrior; but he now looked the part of a soldier, rather than a caricature of one.
Desio scanned the opening lines with narrowed eyes, flipped through pages still gritty with desert dust then, disgusted with the contents, tossed aside the stack. ‘Tasaio is nothing if not thorough in admitting his failure.’ His lips white with anger, the Lord sank heavily into the cushions he preferred for conducting court. A sigh escaped him. ‘And our defeat.’
Incomo surveyed his master’s flushed features and warily hoped that he would not be asked for advice. After two years of stalemate, Mara’s triumph in relieving Lord Xacatecas in Dustari came as a bitter surprise. Until today’s report, every communiqué from Tasaio had indicated the plan was proceeding as designed. For close to a month, Minwanabi Lord and First Adviser had waited in keen anticipation of a final victory over the Acoma. But when the jaws of Tasaio’s trap snapped shut, Mara had eluded capture once again. Worse, her brilliant counter-offensive, using tactics never seen within Tsuranuanni, had established the first treaty with the Tsubar desert men who had preyed upon the borders for generations.
Desio pounded a fist into his pillows. ‘Breath of Turakamu, how could Tasaio have bungled his job?’ Waving at the report on the floor, he said, ‘Our own factor in Jumar reports that the combined armies of Xacatecas and Acoma were greeted there with fanfares! He even suggests Mara may receive a citation from the Emperor! She has gained her alliance. Instead of two solitary, weakened enemies, we now face powerful families on the verge of joining to oppose us!’
Wincing at Desio’s ranting, Incomo tried gently to ease matters. ‘While the treaty is a noteworthy accomplishment, master, Chipino of the Xacatecas is not a man to enter into binding commitments – at least not without strong motives and sureties. Mara accomplished no more than her duty to the Empire when she rescued his army in the desert. Her victory may have impressed the Lord enough to rethink his position once more, but …’
‘If it didn’t impress him, he’s a fool!’ Desio raked angry fingers across some nameless itch on his neck, then dropped his hand in befuddlement. ‘How does the woman do it? Luck must sleep in her bed.’
Incomo stepped to the table and dressed the scattered pages into a meticulous pile. ‘We shall know soon how she …’ He was about to say ‘defeated us,’ but thought bet
ter of that, and said, ‘… again managed to avoid ruin.’ Frustrated by a report that still seemed offensively untidy, with bent corners and musty ribbons, as if the writing had been done under adverse circumstances, the First Adviser indulged in a sigh of irritation. ‘We will need time to dig out the truth of the matter.’
Desio snapped out of his black musing. ‘Mara is coming.’
‘But of course.’ Incomo laced dry hands at his belt. ‘She would hasten to her estate after so long an absence from her son –’
Desio interrupted. ‘No. She’ll be coming here.’
Eyebrows raised, Incomo said, ‘What makes you say this, Lord?’
‘Because it’s what I would do!’ Desio heaved his bulk off his cushions, and the servant with his load of sweaty armour ducked clear as his master stamped across the dais. ‘Strike while strongest. Allied to Xacatecas, and safe from attack from the Anasati, Mara is free to savage us. Even if Chipino is tentative in his support, the bitch has won public favour. She need do nothing more than invoke a Call to Clan!’
Desio glared at Incomo as if expecting agreement, but the First Adviser held up a placating hand. ‘In all this, there is some good emerging, my Lord.’ With a faint smile, he offered another parchment.
The Lord’s expression grew thunderous as he saw the proffered scroll bore the personal crest of Bruli of the Kehotara. Desio refused to look at the document. ‘Bruli has been whining for our patronage for years now, but he lost my father’s good will, and mine, when he refused to swear as vassal upon his father’s death – he wants the benefits of Minwanabi protection without being under our rule.’ Frustrated further by suspicions that Mara might somehow be behind House Kehotara’s truculence, Desio flopped back on his cushions. ‘Another request for alliance should be refused.’ Then Desio sighed. ‘But right now we can use all the friends we can manage. What does the weakfish say?’
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