Daughter of the Empire (33 page)

The musicians set down their instruments, and the dancers filed from the room. When it became painfully evident that the Lady of the Acoma intended no explanation, the Anasati Lord was forced once more to intervene.

As if he had to bite down to control his urge to shout, Tecuma demanded, ‘What do you mean, that is true?’

Mara’s discomfort intensified. Without meeting the eyes of her father-in-law, she said, ‘My husband wished for you to wait for him.’

The Warlord set down the after-dinner sweet he had been nibbling and looked confused, the result of the odd dialogue and the wine. ‘Buntokapi wished us to wait for him? Then he knew he would be late in greeting us?’ Almecho sighed, as if a great weight had been lifted from him. ‘Then he sent word he would be late and you were to entertain us until he arrived, is that it?’

‘Not exactly, my Lord,’ said Mara, her colour rising.

Tecuma leaned forward. ‘What exactly, then, did he say, Mara?’

Like a gazen held pinned by a serpent, Mara began to tremble. ‘His exact words, father of my husband?’

Tecuma thumped his hands upon the table, and the plates all jumped with a clink. ‘Exactly!’

Belatedly alerted to his master’s tension, Chumaka sat blinking like a night bird caught in bright light. Even inebriated, he sensed something amiss. His instincts came to the fore. Levering himself forward, he attempted to reach for his master’s sleeve. The manoeuvre overbalanced him; he caught himself short of a fall with an undignified whoosh of breath. ‘My Lord –’

Tecuma’s eyes remained locked upon his daughter-in-law.

The image of nervous innocence, Mara said, ‘My Lord husband said, “If the Warlord arrives, he can damn well wait upon my pleasure.”’

Chumaka sank his fist to the wrist in embroidered pillows, frozen in the act of reaching for Tecuma’s dangling sleeve. Helpless now to intervene, he watched Tecuma’s face drain slowly of colour. Chumaka looked
across a room that held no movement, and through the delicate steam rising from a dozen rare dishes he regarded the reaction of Almecho.

The Warlord of all Tsuranuanni sat motionless, his still features deepening to red. All his inclination towards tolerance vanished as his eyes became burning coals of barely managed rage, and his reply cut like sharpened flint. ‘What else did my Lord of the Acoma say of me?’

Mara gestured helplessly, and directed a desperate glance at Nacoya. ‘My Lords, I … I dare not speak. I beg that you wait for my husband, and let him answer for himself.’ Straight, small, and pathetically fragile in her formal robes, the girl seemed lost in the cushions she sat upon. Hers was an image to evoke pity; except that the Game of the Council allowed none. As a maid with a basin hurried to her side to dab her forehead with a damp towel, the Warlord glared at Tecuma of the Anasati.

‘Ask her the whereabouts of your son, Lord, for I require a messenger sent at once to summon him into our presence. If he intends insult, let him speak in my presence.’

Mara dismissed her maid. She rallied with the formality of a Tsurani warrior facing a death sentence, though such control taxed her visibly. ‘My Lord, Buntokapi is in his town house in Sulan-Qu, but no messenger may go there, by his explicit command. He vowed to kill the next servant sent to trouble him.’

The Warlord heaved to his feet. ‘The Lord of the Acoma is in
Sulan-Qu
? While we wait upon his pleasure? And what, will you tell us, does he expect us to do in the meantime? Speak, Lady, and leave nothing out!’

Tecuma rose also, a serpent ready to strike. ‘What nonsense is this? Surely my son … not even Bunto could be so rude.’

The Warlord silenced him with a gesture. ‘Let the Lady of the Acoma speak for her husband.’

Mara bowed. Her eyes seemed too bright, the delicate shades of her makeup harsh against her pallor. With stiff ceremony, she formed a triangle with her thumbs and fingers, the ancient gesture which signified that honour must be compromised by the command of a superior. All present in the room knew that her news would bring shame. The priests who had blessed the repast silently arose and departed. The musicians and servants filed out after them, and soon the chamber held only the guests, their advisers, and the Warlord’s honour guard. Papewaio stood immobile as a temple icon behind the Lady of the Acoma’s shoulder, and Nacoya, equally still, waited by her side. Quietly Mara said, ‘My tongue will not compromise the honour of this house. My First Adviser was present when Buntokapi delivered his orders. She will answer for him, and for me.’ She waved weakly towards Nacoya.

The old woman arose, then bowed with extreme respect. Servants had helped her dress for this occasion, and for the first time Mara could recall, the pins that held her white hair were set straight. But the incongruous humour of that observation fled as the old nurse spoke. ‘My Lords, by my oath and honour, what the Lady says is true. The Lord of the Acoma did say those words as she repeated them.’

Out of patience with delays, even ones of courtesy, the Warlord of Tsuranuanni focused his irritation upon Nacoya. ‘I demand once more: what else did the Lord of the Acoma say?’

Nacoya stared blankly ahead and answered in a voice that stayed low and flat. ‘My Lord Buntokapi said, “If he,” meaning yourself, Lord Almecho, “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 needra shit, for all I care.”’

The Warlord paused as if carved from stone, the sheer force of his fury rendering him without volition. A long, torturous minute passed before he spoke to Tecuma. ‘Your son chooses a swift destruction.’ Light trembled in the jewels on Almecho’s collar and his voice rumbled with menace. His tone rose to a shout as the enormity of his rage took flight. Like a scarlet-banded killwing climbing high before swooping to impale its prey, he whirled to face the father of the man who had insulted him. ‘Your young upstart begs to beget a legacy of ashes. I will call upon clan honour. The Oaxatucan will march and grind Acoma bones into the very ground they walk upon. Then we shall salt the earth of their ancestors so that nothing shall grow upon Acoma soil for the length of the memory of man!’

Tecuma stared woodenly at the spread of congealing delicacies. The shatra crest painted upon the dishes seemed to mock him by repetition, for Buntokapi’s rash words, which he himself had forced the wife to repeat, had swept politics aside in an instant; now matters of honour lay at stake. Of all things, this unwritten code of Tsurani civilization could prove the most dangerous.

Should Almecho call the Oaxatucan, his family, to battle on a matter of honour, all other families of the Omechan Clan would be bound to support that assault, just as all members of the Hadama Clan were honour-bound to answer any call the Acoma made. This sworn duty to give aid was the primary reason open declarations of war were avoided; most conflicts were conducted and resolved within the framework of the Game of the Council. For, as no other disruption could, open warfare between clans brought chaos to the Empire – and stability within the Empire was the first duty of the Great Ones.
To begin a clan war was to invite the wrath of the Assembly of Magicians. Tecuma shut his eyes. The smell of meats and sauces made him feel ill; in vain he reviewed the list of permissible responses, while Chumaka fumed helplessly by his side. Both of them knew Tecuma’s options were non-existent. Almecho was one of the few Lords in the Empire with both the power and the intemperate nature to touch off an open clan war. And by the mores of tradition, Tecuma and the other families of the Hospodar Clan would be forced to stand aside and impartially observe the bloody warfare; his own son and grandson would be obliterated and he would be helpless to intercede.

The wine sauces in the dishes suddenly seemed symbolic of the bloodshed that might soon be visited upon the house of the Acoma. For the sake of a son and his infant son, war must not be permitted to happen. Mastering his urge to shout, Tecuma spoke calmly. ‘My Lord Almecho, remember the Alliance. Open clan warfare means an end to your conquest on the barbarian world.’ He paused to give that concept time to register, then seized upon the next available expedient to divert the Warlord’s wrath: the senior Subcommander of the Warlord’s invasion force upon the barbarian world was nephew to the Lord of the Minwanabi, and should there be need to elect a new Warlord in the High Council, Jingu of the Minwanabi’s claim upon the succession would be strengthened, since the invasion army was already under his family’s command. ‘The Minwanabi especially would be pleased to see another upon the white and gold throne,’ he reminded.

Almecho’s colour remained high, but his eyes lost their madness. ‘Minwanabi!’ he nearly spat. ‘To keep that dung-eater in his place, I would endure much. But I will have your son grovel for my forgiveness, Tecuma. I shall
have him belly down and crawling through needra soil to beg at my feet for mercy.’

Tecuma closed his eyes as if his head ached. Whatever had caused Bunto to utter such a destructive instruction was thoughtlessness and not any overt attempt to bring ruination upon himself and his family. Aching with shame and tension, he turned to Mara, who had not moved since the moment Lord Almecho had uttered his threats against her house. ‘Mara, I do not care what orders Buntokapi left concerning the sending of messengers. Send for your litter and bearers, and tell your husband that his father demands his attendance here.’

Night was falling behind the screens, but no servants dared enter to light lamps. In the half-dark of twilight, Mara stirred and directed a look of open appeal at her father-in-law. Then, as if the gesture exhausted her, she nodded to Nacoya. The old woman said, ‘My Lord Tecuma, my master Buntokapi expressed himself upon that possibility as well.’

Tecuma felt his heart sink. ‘What did he say?’

Nacoya complied without drama. ‘My Lord of the Acoma said that should you come and wish to see him, we were to tell you to go piss in the river, but away from Acoma lands so that you don’t soil his fish.’

There was a moment of utter silence; astonishment, anger, and naked shock moulded Tecuma’s thin features. Then the stillness was rent by the Warlord’s explosive laughter. ‘Don’t soil the fish! Ha! I like that.’ Looking hard at the Anasati lord, Almecho said, ‘Tecuma, your son has insulted his own father. I think my need for satisfaction will be answered. There is only one possible atonement for Buntokapi.’

Tecuma nodded stiffly, grateful that the deepening shadows hid his grief. By insulting his own father in public, Buntokapi had forever denied himself honour.
Either he must expiate his shame by taking his own life, or Tecuma must renounce all blood ties and prove his loyalty was ended by destroying the disinherited son and all his family and retainers. What had begun as a political struggle between Tecuma of the Anasati and Sezu of the Acoma, resolved by Sezu’s death, might now become a generational blood feud, one to match that which already existed between the Minwanabi and the Acoma. To separate the honour of the father from the transgressions of the son, the Lord of the Anasati would be obliged to kill not only Buntokapi, but the newborn Acoma heir, the grandson he had never seen, as well. The thought set him utterly at a loss for speech.

Aware of Tecuma’s dilemma, Almecho spoke softly in the rapidly falling darkness. ‘Either way, you lose your son. Better he takes the honourable path and chooses to die at his own hand. I will forgive his insults if he does, and will seek no further vengeance upon your Acoma grandson. I would not see our alliance further strained, Tecuma.’ No words remained to be said. Turning his back on Mara, Nacoya, and the Lord of the Anasati, the Warlord signalled to his honour guard. The six white-clad soldiers snapped to attention, then wheeled and escorted their Lord out of the great dining chamber.

Stunned to immobility, Tecuma did not immediately react. He stared unseeing at his half-eaten meal. It was Chumaka who briskly took charge, sending a summons to the barracks to ready his warriors to march. Slaves fetched the Anasati litter, and lanterns within the courtyard splashed the screens with brightness. Tecuma stirred at last. His jaw was hard and his eyes bleak as he looked to the Lady of the Acoma. ‘I go to Sulan-Qu, wife of my son. And for the sake of the grandson I have not seen, may the gods favour Buntokapi with courage in proportion to his foolishness.’

He departed with a pride that hurt to watch. As he vanished into the shadows of the hall, Mara’s exhilaration evaporated before a deep chill of fear. She had set a clever trap; now the jaws would close in whatever manner the gods decreed. Thinking of Bunto, by now half-drunk and laughing on his way to his evening’s amusements in the gambling halls with Teani, Mara shivered and called for servants and light.

Nacoya’s face seemed ancient in the new light of the lamps. ‘You play the Game of the Council for high stakes, my Lady.’ This once, she did not chide her charge for taking foolish risks, for Buntokapi have been no favourite among the Acoma retainers. The nurse was Tsurani enough to relish the discomfort of an enemy, though her own plight might be dire as a result.

Mara herself felt no triumph. Shaken, worn thin with the stress of month after month of manipulation, she relied on Papewaio’s stolid presence to steady her inner turmoil. ‘Have the servants clear away this mess,’ she said, as if the ceremonial plates and dishes had been brought out for an ordinary meal. Then, as if impelled by primal instinct, she half ran to Ayaki’s chambers to see that the boy slept safely on his mat. Sitting in the gloom by her baby, she saw in the shadowed features of her son the echo of the father, and for all the causes Buntokapi had given her to hate, still she could not escape a deep, brooding melancholy.