'Go on,' she said, hiding the tears in her voice from Lujan.
Almost, she could imagine her Force Commander's shrug. 'Lady, there is nothing more to tell. Your warriors agreed not to take umbrage at empty words from the Thuril. And the highlanders seemed surprised by this. They called down and asked why we did not bother to defend our honor. And Vanamani called right back that we were your honor, Lady. We would hear no word that was not spoken from your lips, or the lips of an enemy. At that point Saric broke in and added that the Thuril were not enemies, but foreigners, and that the words of such were empty as the howl of wind over stones.' Lujan delivered his last sentence in wry amusement. 'You know, the highlanders stopped slanging us then. Our loyalty impressed them, I think, that we would not be baited, even when under command of a woman who was out of sight and a captive as we were. Iayapa said that many Tsurani in the times of the wars were taunted to take foolish charges, and so were killed off by highlanders hidden in the rocks.'
'Lujan,' Mara said, her voice tremulous with gratitude despite her wish to seem impassive, 'all of your men are to be commended for their valor. Tell them I said so, as you can.' For each and every one of them had stood firm beyond the call of duty, beyond the tenets of Tsurani culture that held honor above even life. Each of these men had given over their personal honor into her hands. Mara studied her palms, red-marked from her grip on the withe. She prayed to her gods that she would prove worthy of such trust, and not get them all sold into slavery that would be the nadir of dishonor.
20 — Council
The hours dragged.
Confined to the wicker wagon, exposed to buffeting winds and the sun that appeared and disappeared between the clouds that brooded over the highlands, Mara strove to keep her patience. But the uncertainty, and the boisterous shouts of the Thuril escort warriors, wore at her nerves. To pass the time, she asked Iayapa to describe the lands they were crossing. He had little to tell. There were no villages, only a few isolated hamlets clinging to rocky hillsides, surrounded by scrub grazed thin by the herds. Over the purple hills at the horizon larger mountains loomed, rock-crowned where they were not covered by cloud. Darabaldi, the city of the high council of chieftains, was said to lie in the foothills of the great range. When Mara asked Iayapa to inquire on the length of their journey, she received in return only laughter and ribald comments. Driven at last to useless exasperation, she turned to teaching Kamlio the calming techniques of meditation she had learned as a temple novice.
Gods knew, the poor girl might need all the solace she could learn to give herself, before their fates were determined at the hands of these people, Mara thought.
The highlanders paused only to eat sausage, sour querdidra cheese, and bread, washed down with a light, sour beer that was surprisingly refreshing with the meal. These breaks were enlivened by loud boasts and sometimes wagers, when warriors would contest at arm wrestling.
Darkness fell, and fog settled in cold layers over the land. The donkey grew too tired to kick at the querdidra that shared its traces, even if the six-legged beasts still curled their lips at it and spat. Mara curled close to Kamlio for warmth. Perhaps for a while she slept.
The stars formed a brilliance of pinpoint patterns overhead when she roused to the barking of many dogs. Herd dogs, Iayapa identified, not the larger, heavier breed of hound used for hunting. By the smoke on the air, and the pungent smell of confined livestock, rotting garbage, and curing hides, Mara presumed their party approached a village or larger habitation.
'Darabaldi,' she received in gruff-voiced reply when she inquired. But when she pressed for information concerning when she might speak with the council of chieftains, her escort returned only coarse comment. 'What does it matter, woman, or are you eager to learn what man will buy you? Maybe you worry that he will be old and have no manhood left in him to rise?'
To this outrageous statement, Saric ventured a rough term in the Thuril's own language, perhaps learned by the bathing pool that morning. The highlanders were not offended in the least, but laughed back and, grudgingly, appeared to allow her First Adviser some respect.
Torchlight spilled across the wagon. Mara looked up at a tall gatehouse topped by fat-soaked cressets that gave off greasy smoke. From battlements of stone and log, Thuril warriors in drab plaids called down challenge to the approaching party.
Antaha shouted back, then launched into rapid-fire speech accompanied by gesticulations, some of which were crude. From the evident amusement of the sentries, and their glances in her direction, Mara presumed their captor gave account of her capture. The bathing scene by the river was apparently not omitted, for the sentries elbowed one another in the ribs and hooted at Lujan and Saric.
Then the guards and their Tsurani captives were waved on through, and the wagon jerked forward with a bray from the donkey and shrill squeals from the querdidra. 'Well,' I Mara commented to Kamlio, 'everyone in town will know we are here, by the fanfare of our draft beasts.'
More than ever she wished that the withes were low enough to allow her a view, but changed her mind a moment later at a pattering sound that might have been thrown stones, or dried dung, striking the sides of the cart. Shouts in Thuril blended with the screech of children caught at mischief, and the barrage stopped. Looming over the top of the withes, Mara saw two-storied stone buildings, and signboards painted in dull colors swinging in the wind. The galleries and sills of the windows all had carved totem posts, and peaked gable roofs that looked strange to Tsurani eyes. The eaves were also carved in what looked like runes or writing, beneath roofs of weathered thatch. Windows seemed to be shuttered and barred, except for ones stuffed with plump-cheeked women who called out and made obscene gestures of welcome.
'Whores,' Kamlio judged in edged bitterness. Mara could see her unspoken fear that such a garret might become her future home.
Mara bit her lip. She knew that Kamlio was far more likely to become the woman of a chieftain's son, but she could not stop herself from wondering: if her Spy Master were to find himself masterless again, would he swear service to the Shinzawai, as Hokanu must surely request, or would he remain a free agent, and come to these hostile hills, searching a succession of Thuril towns for the girl who had stolen his heart? Given a wager, Mara would have guessed he would come searching for Kamlio.
The wagon jounced over what might have been a stretch of cobbles or stone paving, then lurched to a halt. The withe tailgate was opened by a blond highlander who grinned to show missing teeth, and Mara and Kamlio were beckoned to step down. Beyond the Thuril guard and onlookers who clustered around, a long house backed up to the village wall; to Mara's quick glance, it seemed a small fortress. The bossed wood doors of the structure stood open, but the entrance was hung with cloths woven of animal wool into patterns of squares and lines. Before Mara could observe more, a Thuril warrior shoved her toward the blanket flap. Kamlio, Saric, Lujan, and Iayapa were singled out to follow.
As she reached the threshold, Mara marveled at the softness of the fabric she brushed past. Then, the others clustered at her heels, she was inside, blinking at the sting of smoky air in a windowless room.
The gloom was pierced by the reddish gleam of banked embers, kept more for cooking than for warmth in close air that was pungent with wool, boiled stew, and pent humanity. Upon an upraised settle before that immense stone hearth, an old woman sat cleaning querdidra wool on a card of bone nails. Little more than a silhouette on the floor below, an older man crouched cross-legged on a woven withe stool. As Mara's eyes adjusted, she saw he had grey hair. His mouth was deep-cut and sullen, framed by a long mustache that hung down his pouched jaw. The ends flashed with colored beads that rattled as he lifted his chin.
Iayapa spoke quickly in a hushed voice to Saric, who in turn murmured, 'This one wears the face hair of a chieftain. By the talismans of rank dangling from it, he could be the high chief himself.'
Mara smothered her surprise. She had expected a great personage, not an ordinary-seeming fellow
in an unadorned green kilt. The bowl he ate from was crude wood, his spoon a battered implement of corcara shell. Taken aback by his lack of ceremonial trappings, the Lady of the Acoma almost missed noticing the other men, seated as they were in shadow, in a semicircle, their conversation fallen to a hush at the entrance of her party.
For an interval, the incoming Thuril and their captives regarded those seated, who stared back silently, unmindful of the meal they had been eating scarcely a moment before.
Astonishingly, it was the old woman who stopped her carding and broke the silence first. 'You might ask them what they want.'
The man with the chief's mustache spun in his seat, jabbing in her direction with his spoon. Gravy flew in spatters from the bowl and struck with a hiss into the coals. 'Shut up, old hag! I don't need you telling me what to do!'
As Mara again raised her brows, startled by both the lack of propriety or any sort of formal ceremony, the chief of the Thuril spun back. His beads and his mustache whipped outward with a clatter as he jerked his chin at Saric, who was closest. 'What do you want, Tsurani?'
When Saric wished, he could be masterful at misleading expressions. The half-light thrown off by the coals showed him stone-still, as if the Tsurani high chief had addressed the empty air.
Mara took her adviser's cue and stepped forward. Into silence, she said crisply, 'I have come to your land seeking information.'
The Thuril chief stiffened as if slapped. His eyes jerked to the Lady who stood before him, then flinched away. He seemed to stare over her head, and so could not miss the wide grins of Antaha and the other warrior escorts.
'You stand there and allow a woman captive to speak out of turn,' he roared in a battlefield bellow.
Not the least nonplussed, although his ears stung from the shout, Saric pushed forward. Despite his bound hands, he executed a creditable bow. 'Antaha does so, worthy chief, because the Lady is Mara of the Acoma, Servant of the Empire, and family to the Emperor of all Tsuranuanni.'
The chief stroked his mustache, twirling the beads at the ends. 'Is she so?' His pause extended through a clatter of wooden plates and spoons as his cronies all set down their meals. 'If this woman is indeed the Good Servant, where are her banners? Her army? Her great and illustrious command tent?' A sneer developed in the chief's deep baritone. 'I have seen how Tsurani nobles travel in foreign territory! They carry half their possessions along with them, like merchants! I say you lie, outlander. Or why is she' — he made a derogatory gesture toward Mara — 'attended by so few guards? We are enemy countries, after all.'
At this, the old woman by the settle tossed down her carding, her face crinkled in disgust. 'Why don't you ask her yourself? She said she came seeking information. It must be very important to her.'
'Shut your great cave of a mouth, old woman!' Explosive in his indignation, the chief jabbed a hand that still clutched a crust of bread at Mara's party, not at all willing to address the Lady directly. 'We are not the barbarians you Tsurani suppose, you know.'
Mara's composure snapped. 'Are you not?' How she wished she could speak the Thuril language. As it was, her own must suffice. 'And do you call bedding my honor guard down in a livestock pen civilised? In my land, not even slaves live so meanly!'
Taken aback, and embarrassed by stifled chuckles from Antaha and his warriors, the chief cleared his throat. 'You were asking me about information . . .' His eyes narrowed. 'Enemy, by what right do you come here making demands?'
But before Mara could answer this, Iayapa thrust between her and Saric, bristling with purpose. 'But Lady Mara did not come here as our enemy. Her warriors disarmed at her command, and not once did they call back in insult, though the villagers and the guards at the Loso did their best to revile them.'
'He speaks truth,' Mara cut in, unwilling to accede to the silly Thuril custom that a man should not acknowledge public speech from a female. As if in admiration of her spunk, the old woman by the settle smiled. Mara continued, 'Now as to the information I seek . . .?' She left her question hanging.
While the chieftain looked uncertain, the old woman thumped him from behind with her toe. 'She is waiting for you to tell her who you are, you wool-brained fool.'
Turning to glare at the woman, who could only be his wife to escape punishment for such liberties, the chieftain shouted, 'I know that, woman!' He twisted back to Mara, sucking himself up straight in self-importance. 'Yes, it must be important information —'
'Your name,' the old woman prodded calmly.
Still unmindful of his morsel of bread, the chieftain shook his fists. 'Shut up, woman! How many times must I tell you to keep silent in the lodge hall? Plague me again, and I'll beat your fat backside with a thorn switch!' The woman ignored the threat and took up her neglected carding.
The chieftain puffed up his chest, which only displayed to plain view the gravy stains of varied ages on his vest. 'My name is Hotaba. I am chieftain of the Five Tribes of the Malapia, and, for this season, high chief of the council here in Darabaldi.' Pointing at the man sitting farthest from him, also wearing a warrior's scalp lock and mustache, he said, 'This is Brazado, chieftain of the Four Tribes of the Suwaka.' Then pointing at the last man, who wore no mustache, he said, 'This is Hidoka, his son.' His eyes shifted past Mara's shoulder to fix upon Saric, as he finished, 'My own son, Antaha — '
Acerbically Mara cut in, 'We've met.'
Now the high chief crashed his fists to his knees in anger. Crumbs flew as his crust broke to bits under the blow, and his brows lowered into a fearsome frown. Mara resisted a shaky urge to step backward; she had gone too far, in her boldness, and this time these Thuril would retaliate for her interruption.
But the old woman on the hearth cleared her throat loudly.
Hotaba's glare shifted in her direction, then vanished as he shrugged in resignation. 'That loud-mouthed interfering female is Mirana, my wife.' As if in afterthought, he added, 'If she were not so good at cooking and sweeping, I'd have had her cut up for dog meat years ago.'
Antaha said, 'The chief at Loso thought it best to send these captives directly to you rather than await the next trading caravan, Father.'
The chieftain tapped his mustache, to a clink of beads. 'Little need for guards these days, eh? What with the Tsurani being meek like little gachagas.' Mara recognised the term and knew it was unflattering even before the worried glance Iayapa shot toward Lujan and Saric. But after what they had endured at the river pool that morning, both showed indifference to being compared to grain-stealing rodents.
While the high chief was still waiting for reaction to his derogatory comment, Mirana interjected, 'You still haven't asked Lady Mara what she wishes to know.'
Hotaba sprang to his feet, looking for all the world as if he were about to commit murder. 'Will you shut up, woman! You continue to speak in council! I should have you stewed and thrown to the carrion birds, and raid for myself a young, obedient, silent wife!'
The other Thuril men in the long hut seemed as unconcerned by the threat as Mirana did. Her hands never broke rhythm in their work, and only her foot tapped as if in pent-back impatience. As if Hotaba saw her quiet as a warning, he took a breath, and through clenched teeth said to Mara, 'What do you wish to know, Tsurani?'
Mara glanced at Lujan and Saric, both of whom impassively observed the exchanges. Her adviser gave back a slight shrug. He could hardly guide her through this negotiation. By Tsurani standards, the Thuril were rude and unruly, given to theatrical displays of emotion, and utterly uncouth. The past day and a half in their presence had only further mystified them about what constituted an unforgivable outrage. No slight of language seemed to faze these folk; the worst insults seemed but jokes to them. Honest courtesy was the safest approach, Mara determined. 'Hotaba, I need to speak with one of your magicians.'
Hotaba's puffed cheeks went flat. His ruddy color subsided, and he seemed to notice the mashed mess of crumbs in his fist for the first time. 'A magician?'
As plainly as Mara cou
ld read a foreigner's expression, he seemed flabbergasted. She pressed ahead. 'There are things I need to know that only a magician who is not part of the Assembly within our Empire cart tell me. I have come to the Thuril Confederation because I was given to understand that answers may be found in your nation.'
Hotaba's expression of surprise dissolved and turned shrewd. He was not anxious to attend to the subject she had broached, Mara saw, as his bright eyes darted back and forth, studying her companions. She edged sideways, trying to shield the girl who cowered behind her, but Kamlio's windblown drift of pale hair was conspicuous even in shadow. Worse, Antaha saw the direction of his father's gaze, and snatched the opening to gain favor. He pushed forward, dragging Kamlio ahead by her arm until she stood at the fore.
'Father, behold. We have a prize of these Tsurani.'
Mara stifled white-hot outrage, both for Kamlio's shrinking discomfort, and for the brusque sweeping aside of the subject she had risked all to broach. Yet from the lust that flashed in the old chieftain's eyes, she saw that she dared not take umbrage lest she force a display of male pride.
Low-pitched whistles of admiration erupted from the other council members. All stared at the courtesan with hungry, appreciative eyes, and not even Mirana's sour glare could dim the interest of her husband. Hotaba let his gaze wander over Kamlio's ripe curves like a man about to be served a delicacy. He licked his lips. 'Nice,' he murmured to Antaha. 'Exceptionally so.' He inclined his head to his son. 'Remove her robe. Let us see what delectable fruit it hides.'
Mara stiffened. 'Hotaba, you may tell your son that neither I nor my serving woman Kamlio are to be considered his prizes. We are not your property, Thuril chief! Kamlio's flesh is her own, as her service is mine, to do with as I bid. And I do not bed her with strangers.'
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