Daughter of the Empire (34 page)

Mara waited in Buntokapi’s quarters, passing a restless night in the chamber which once had been Lord Sezu’s, but which now reflected the tastes and preferences of one who, by marriage to his daughter, had succeeded him. Now the continuance of the Acoma relied upon this man’s honour; for if Buntokapi remained true to the oath he had sworn upon the Acoma natami, he would choose
death by the sword and spare his house from retribution. Yet if the loyalty of his heart remained with the Anasati, or if cowardice drove him from honour to mean-spirited vengeance, he might choose war and carry Mara and his infant son to ruin along with him. Then would the natami fall into the hands of Almecho, and the Acoma name be obliterated in shame.

Mara rolled restlessly on her side and tossed tangled sheets aside. Grey light glimmered through the screen, and although the needra herders had not yet stirred to drive the herds to meadow, daybreak was not far off. Without waiting for the assistance of her maids, Mara rose and slipped on a day robe. She lifted Ayaki from his basket and, shushing his sleepy wail, hastened alone into the corridor.

A large shadow moved, almost under her feet. Mara started back, her arms tight around her infant; then she recognized the worn, wrapped leather that covered the hilt of Papewaio’s sword. He must have spent the night seated outside her chambers.

‘Why are you not in the barracks, with Keyoke?’ Mara demanded, relief sharpening her tone.

Papewaio bowed without offence. ‘Keyoke suggested I stay by your door, Lady. Rumours had reached the barracks, through servants who overheard the Warlord’s honour guard speaking among themselves. The anger of the mighty is never to be taken lightly, and I accept the wisdom of such advice.’

Mara began a heated reply, but recalled the assassin and stopped herself. Upon second consideration, she realized that Keyoke and Papewaio were trying to warn her, without breaking loyalty. Early on, they had recognized the possibility that Buntokapi might return home in a rage during the night. Had he done so, anger might have driven him to violence against her, a shameful act
but not out of the question for a man who was quicktempered, and young, and accustomed to wrestling and working out daily with arms. If such happened, and a warrior dared intercede between his mistress and his sworn Lord, Papewaio’s life would instantly have been forfeit, all of his honour surrendered at a stroke. Yet Pape wielded a fast sword, and his memory of events in the marriage hut had not faded; at the least move against Mara, the Lord Buntokapi would have died between breaths. And no dishonour to the servant who had done the deed could reverse the grip of the Red God.

Mara smiled through her strain. ‘You’ve earned the black rag once already, Pape. But if you choose to tempt the wrath of the gods a second time, I will be in the contemplation glade throughout the day. Send my Lord there if he arrives home and does not arm the Acoma garrison for war.’

Papewaio bowed, inwardly pleased by his mistress’s tacit acceptance of his guard. He shifted his post to the arched entry of the contemplation glade and remained there as dawn gave way to sunrise and morning brightened over the rich holdings of the Acoma.

The noon heat came and went in sultry stillness, much as it always had. The sacred pool reflected a stone-bordered square of cloudless sky and the trailing foliage of nearby shrubbery. Ayaki slept in his basket beneath the tree by the Acoma natami, unaware of the dangers that hedged his young life. Unable to match his ignorant peace, Mara meditated and paced by turns. Even her temple discipline could not dispel recurrent thoughts of Buntokapi, in whose hands lay the fate of all things Acoma. Since he was born Anasati but sworn to uphold the honour of ancestors who had been enemies of his father, there was no knowing where his true loyalty lay. Through Mara’s
own machinations, his affections had been given over to his concubine, Teani; and Keyoke, Nacoya, and Jican all detested him for his excesses. The estate house had been his demesne and his dwelling, but his town house in Sulan-Qu was his home. Biting her lip, Mara stopped by the natami, where not even two years past she had sworn over stewardship of her father’s name. She had then laid ah intricate snare, whose bindings were that oath and the Tsurani concept of honour. These were fragile foundations upon which to base hope; for all his shortcomings, Buntokapi was no fool.

The shadows swelled and slanted, and the li birds began to sing in the slightly cooler air of afternoon. Mara sat by the sacred pool and fingered a flower plucked from a nearby shrub. The petals were pale, delicate in the extreme; like her, they could be bruised and crushed with a clench of the hand. The servants might believe she had retired to the sacred glade to pray for deliverance from the shame brought upon her house by her husband. In fact, she had gone there to escape the fear in their eyes, for if the Lord of the Acoma chose war, their fates also hung in the balance. Some might die fighting, and they would be the fortunate ones. Others might lose all honour by hanging, and many would become slaves; a few might turn to the hills as outlaws and grey warriors. If the natami were stolen, all would know the gods’ disfavour.

The shadows lengthened, and the flower wilted in Mara’s hand, poisoned by the salt of her own nervous sweat. Ayaki wakened in his basket. At first content to bat his fat hands at the insects that flitted to feed on the blossoms above his head, he later grew fussy. The time for his midday meal had long passed. Mara tossed the dead flower away and arose. She plucked a ripened fruit from one of the ornamental jomach trees and peeled it for her infant. The boy quieted as he chewed the sweet
fibre. Only then did Mara hear the footsteps approaching from behind.

She did not turn around. With Papewaio on guard at the gate to the glade, this would be no assassin. Priests of Chochocan did not enter unasked; gardeners did no work while master or mistress used the glade; and no other could enter without earning a sentence of death. The only person living who could walk these paths at this hour with impunity was the Lord of the Acoma. The fact that he had arrived home from his town house in Sulan-Qu without fanfare told Mara only one thing: he had seen his father, and his disgrace in the eyes of the Warlord and his insult to the house of his birth had caught up with him.

Mara eased the last bit of jomach into Ayaki’s eager mouth. Aware that her hands were shaking, she made a show of blotting her sticky fingers just as Buntokapi reached the far side of the sacred pool.

He stopped on the walk, his sandals showering a fine spray of gravel into the water. Reflections shattered into a thousand fleeing ripples, and the li birds fell silent in the branches overhead. ‘Wife, you are like the pusk adder of the jungles, whose markings are pretty enough to be mistaken for a flower when it lies at rest. But its strike is swift and its bite is fatal.’

Slowly Mara rose. She turned reluctantly, her fingers stained red with jomach juice; and she looked upon the face of her husband.

He had come from town at speed, without his litter of state, for his broad features were whitened with a thin layer of dust from the road. He wore a simple day robe, probably the same he had donned when his father’s knock had roused him from bed; this, too, was filmed with dust, which hid the wine stains that spoiled the embroidery on one cuff. Mara’s gaze followed the knotted cords of his belt, the well-worn leather of his sword, and the slice of
muscled chest revealed through the opened collar of his robe. She saw the marks of Teani’s passion still visible on the skin over his collarbone, and the hard set of his lips. Lastly she looked into his eyes, which showed a mixture of thwarted anger, childlike confusion, and longing.

Unaware that in the eyes of her husband she was beautiful and, in a strange way, untouchable, Mara bowed. The only words she could think to utter felt wrong.

Buntokapi stared at her with an intensity that hurt to witness. ‘And like the pusk adder, my wife, your venom stops the heart. You play the Game of the Council with masterful precision. How could you know which face I would wear, the Anasati, whose blood and birth were mine, or the Acoma, whose honour I pledged to preserve with a vow?’

Mara willed her rigid posture to relax. But her voice shook ever so slightly as she said, ‘The Acoma family is ancient in honour. No Lord of that name has ever lived in shame.’

Buntokapi stepped sharply forward, his legs easily spanning the breadth of the ceremonial pool. Towering over the slight form of his wife, he bent and caught her wrists. ‘I could change that, proud woman. At a stroke, I could make the honour of your forebears as dust in the wind.’

Forced to look into his angry eyes, to feel the strength of a man she had not cherished, Mara needed all her will to hold steady. A minute passed heavy with threat. Then the darting play of the insects that fed among the flowers inspired Ayaki to spontaneous laughter. Buntokapi looked down and noticed the weals his handling had left on Mara’s flesh. He blinked in embarrassment and let her go, and it seemed to her as she watched that something
vital drained from him. Then he straightened, and a look that she had never known crossed his face.

‘Perhaps I was wrong, the day we married,’ said Buntokapi. ‘Perhaps I am indeed as stupid as you and my father and my brothers believed. But for the sake of my son, I will die bravely as an Acoma.’

Mara bent her head. Suddenly she had to fight to suppress tears. For one brief instant she had perceived the man her husband might have been had he been raised with the love and the care that had all fallen to his elder brothers. The Lord of the Anasati might have done little to foster the potential of this, his third, son; but she had played upon Buntokapi’s inadequacies until she achieved the end she had desired. Mara felt pain within; when she should feel triumph, she instead knew grief. For in this one moment she saw that Buntokapi’s potential for greatness, now glimpsed like the hint of sunlight through clouds, should be wasted so soon in death.

But the poignancy of the moment lasted only a second. Buntokapi caught her arm in the bruising grip of a warrior and pulled her roughly to his side. ‘Come, wife. Fetch our son from his basket. Before the sun sets this day, you shall both see what it takes to die like a Lord of the Acoma.’

Unthinkingly Mara offered protest. ‘Not the child! My Lord, he’s too young to understand.’

‘Silence!’ Buntokapi pushed her roughly, and distressed by his shout, Ayaki began to cry. Over the child’s wails, the Lord of the Acoma said, ‘I die for the honour of my son. It is right that he should remember. And you.’ He paused, his lips curled in malice. ‘You shall witness what you have wrought. If you would engage in the Game of the Council, woman, you must know that the pieces you manipulate are flesh and blood. For the future, if you continue, it is right that you should remember.’

Mara picked up Ayaki, hiding her distress in concern for her child. As Buntokapi’s steps retreated from the grove, she paused, battling a strong urge to weep. She had thought she understood the stakes of her position when she grieved after the murder of her father and brother. But now Buntokapi had shown her the scope of her ignorance. Feeling humbled, and inexplicably dirtied, she held Ayaki closely. Her husband’s command must be obeyed. Somehow she must find the resilience to weather the final, bitter fruits of her victory. If she did not, the Minwanabi waited with plans to ruin her, even as ruthlessly as she had plotted the downfall of Buntokapi to secure herself immunity from Anasati treachery.

The soldiers of the Acoma stood rigidly in a square, the plumes of the officers’ ceremonial helms tugged by the gentle breeze that sometimes blew before sundown. Within the formation waited Keyoke, Papewaio, and another warrior sent by the Anasati to act as witness; and between them, clad in the red robes of ritual, bound with a sash of Acoma green, Buntokapi lifted a sword that was also red, and sharpened to the keenest edge Tsurani armourers could fashion.

Outside the square, but afforded a clear view by the slight rise of ground, Mara shifted Ayaki’s warm weight to her other shoulder. She wished the proceedings were done with. Ayaki was wide awake and playful, tangling small fists in her hair and gown, and exclaiming brightly over the warriors in their colourful lacquered armour. Like all things Tsurani, even death had an element of ceremony. Buntokapi stood statue-still in the centre of the square, the blade that awaited his end in his hands, while Keyoke recited the list of the honours he had earned as Lord of the Acoma. The account was very short: one battle and a dozen wrestling matches. Mara swallowed stiffly, aware as never before how young her husband
really was. Tsurani faces aged slowly, which made it easy to forget that Buntokapi was barely twenty, a scant two years older than herself.

Straight, still, every inch the warrior despite his bandy legs, he showed no weakness in his bearing, but something about his eyes reflected the desperate determination needed to see this moment through. Mara swallowed again and gently pried Ayaki’s fingers off the lobe of her ear. He shrieked with laughter, ready for more of such play.

‘Hush,’ scolded Mara.

In the square, Keyoke finished his speech. He bowed deeply and said, ‘Go in honour, Lord of the Acoma. Let all men remember your name without shame.’

As he straightened, each warrior simultaneously removed his helm. The breeze pushed damp locks back from sweating faces; emotionless eyes watched the sword Buntokapi lifted above his head.

Mara swallowed again, her eyes stinging with salty tears. She tried to think of Lano, sprawled and bloodied under the hooves of barbarian horses; but the sight of Buntokapi, standing in failing sunlight with his sword raised in final tribute to the gods of life, was far too real to put aside. Except for his crudeness in bed, and his explosive temper, he had not been an oppressive husband – had Mara used the same manipulations to mould him instead of destroy him … No, she commanded herself, there can be no regret. She called upon the discipline she had learned in Lashima’s temple and banished such thoughts from her mind. Without expression she watched Buntokapi turn the sword and set the blade point against his stomach.