Daughter of the Empire (46 page)

Clearly no escape was possible from the Minwanabi Lord’s home. There remained only victory or death.
Feeling her palms grow damp, Mara resisted the impulse to blot them on her robe. ‘Let us make best speed to the house, Pape.’

Papewaio signalled the barge captain, and the slaves resumed their stroke.

The barge headed dockside, and the Minwanabi estate proved as beautiful upon close inspection as it had looked across the water. Each building was delicately painted, pastel colours dominating over the usual white. Gaily coloured streamers and brightly shaded lanterns hung from roof beams, twisting in the breeze. The soft sound of wind chimes filled the air. Even the gravel paths between buildings had been lined with tended shrubs and flowering plants. Mara expected that the courtyard gardens within the estate might prove more sumptuous that any she had seen.

The Acoma rowers shipped oars, and one threw a line to a worker upon the docks, where a welcoming party of notables waited. Foremost of these was Desio, the elder Minwanabi son, crowned with the orange and black headdress denoting his rank as heir of the house.

Liveried attendants caught other lines as the barge bumped gently against the pilings. Minwanabi house guards stood at attention, and Desio strode forward to meet Mara’s litter as slaves conveyed her ashore.

The Minwanabi heir nodded stiffly, a pretence of a bow that bordered on insult. ‘In the name of my father, I welcome you to our celebration in honour of the Warlord, Lady of the Acoma.’

Mara did not trouble to raise the gauze curtains of her litter. Studying the fat, pouched features of Desio, and finding little intelligence in his slate-coloured eyes, she returned a nod of precisely the same proportion. For the longest moment nothing was said, then Desio was forced
to acknowledge Mara’s superior social rank. ‘Are you well, Lady Mara?’

Mara nodded slightly. ‘I am well, Desio. The Acoma are pleased to honour Lord Almecho. Tell your father that I acknowledge this welcome.’

Desio raised his chin, nettled to admit his inferior rank. Too proud to accept rejoinder from a girl who seemed, through the gauze, to be barely more than a child, he said, ‘The reception for the banquet of greeting will begin in the hour past noon. Servants will show you to your quarters.’

‘Servants keep the honour of the Minwanabi?’ Mara smiled sweetly. ‘That’s a fact I shall remember, when I greet the Lord your father.’

Desio reddened. To arrest the awkwardness that developed, a Minwanabi Patrol Leader stepped forward. ‘My Lady, if you will permit, I will convey your soldiers to the place set aside for them.’

‘I will not permit!’ Mara said to Desio. ‘By tradition I am allowed fifty soldiers to provide protection for my person. If your father wishes otherwise, I shall depart at once, and he can explain my absence to the Warlord. Under such circumstances, I expect the Acoma will not be the only great house to return home.’

‘Too many families come to honour Almecho.’ Desio paused to quell a smile of malice. ‘If we quartered every Lord and Lady’s honour guard in the house barracks, the estate would be jammed like a war camp, you must understand. Almecho likes tranquillity. To do him homage, all soldiers will stay at the head of the valley, where our main garrison is quartered.’ Here Desio gave an effete shrug. ‘No one is exempted. All will be treated alike.’

Without hesitation, Nacoya said, ‘Then your father offers his honour as surety?’

Desio inclined his head. ‘Obviously.’ To gain such a concession from guests in this situation, the host was expected to offer his personal honour to guarantee the safety of his guests. Should violence come to any visitor under such an arrangement, Lord Jingu of the Minwanabi could not expiate his shame with anything less than his own life. The heir to the Minwanabi mantle said to a servant, ‘Show the Lady, her First Adviser, a pair of maids, and her bodyguard to the suite of rooms prepared for the Acoma.’

He snapped his fingers to the orange-plumed presence of an officer. ‘Strike Leader Shimizu and a welcoming party of warriors will see that your soldiers are comfortably housed at the main garrison barracks.’

Shocked, angered, but not entirely surprised that the Minwanabi had seen fit to separate her from her honour guard, Mara shot a glance of reassurance at Arakasi. She would not break the peace of hospitality by causing a fuss, particularly since many of the house servants present showed the scars of old campaigns beneath the flowing sleeves of their livery. No, the Acoma could not triumph here by force, but only by guile, if survival was even possible at all. With a look of acceptance, Mara chose Papewaio for her personal guard. Then she, Nacoya, and the most skilful of her warriors obediently followed the servant to the suite assigned to the Acoma.

The Minwanabi great house was ancient, saved from the burning and the ravages of the forgotten raids and half-remembered wars by its superior location in the valley. The square with interior courtyard of most Tsurani houses had been altered, built upon, expanded, and subdivided many times over the years. Descending the hillside as new additions were constructed, the heart of the Minwanabi estate had grown over the centuries until it was a warren of corridors, enclosed courtyards, and linked
buildings that bore little resemblance to order. As Papewaio helped her from her litter, Mara realized with dismay that she would need servants to conduct her to and from her chambers, as a structure so complex could not possibly be learned at one pass.

The corridors crooked and twisted, and each courtyard seemed the same as the last. Mara heard the murmur of voices through half-opened screens, some belonging to familiar notables of the Empire, but more of them strange to her. Then the voices seemed to fall behind, and silence like that before the strike of a jungle predator fell over the elegant hallway. By the time the servant slid wide the screen that led to her suite, Mara knew that Jingu intended murder. Why else would he place her in an obscure corner of his house, where isolation was almost total?

The servant bowed, smiled, and mentioned that additional maids awaited her pleasure if the Lady of the Acoma or her First Adviser required assistance with their bath or dress.

‘My own servants will suffice,’ Mara said tartly. Here of all places, she wished no strangers near her person. The instant the bearers had deposited the last of her baggage, she clicked the screen closed. Papewaio needed no prompting to begin a swift and thorough inspection of her chambers. Nacoya, however, seemed all but in shock. Then Mara remembered. Except for one brief trip when she had presented Mara’s petition for betrothal with the Anasati son, the old nurse had probably never left Acoma estates in all her long life.

Memories of Lano lent Mara the insight to manage. The instant Papewaio had determined the rooms were safe, she stationed him to guard the door. Nacoya looked at her mistress, a hint of relief in her eyes. ‘With Jingu
making surety for the safety of his guests, I think we may expect the peace of a state function to apply.’

Mara shook her head. ‘I think wishing has fogged your sharp eyes, old mother. Jingu offers his life as guarantee against violence by his people, and by other guests, that is all. He makes no guarantees against “accidents”.’ Then, before fear could get the best of her, she commanded Nacoya to draw a bath and make her ready for the banquet and her first personal confrontation with the Lord of the Minwanabi.

Unlike the great hall of the Anasati, which was dark and airless and musty with old wax, the gathering chamber of the Minwanabi was all space and light. Mara paused in the gallery-style entrance to admire the view before joining the guests who gathered like so many plumed birds below. Built in a natural hollow at the very crest of the hill, with entrance and dais at opposite ends, the room itself was immense. A high, beamed ceiling was spaced with screens that opened to the sky, overhanging a deep-sunken main floor. Several small observation galleries dotted the rim of the hall, allowing a view of floor below and, through the doors to balconies outside, the surrounding countryside. Stone pillars supported the centre tree, while a pebbled brook trickled through squares of flowering trees, tile mosaics and a small reflecting pool beneath the dais. Somewhere, sometime, the Minwanabi had patronized an architect and an artist who had possessed uncommon genius. The gifted artisans must have served an earlier generation of Minwanabi Lords, for the most garish clothing in the crowd was that worn by the Lord and the Lady on the dais. Mara winced, less impressed than most Tsurani by the gown of green and orange worn by the wife. Mara almost wept at the thought of ail this surrounding beauty wasted upon an enemy like Jingu.

‘The gods may have blessed this house with extreme wealth,’ muttered Nacoya. ‘But the divine ones left little room for common sense, I say. Think how many insects those sky ports let in, not to mention dust and dirt and rain.’

Mara smiled indulgently on her old nurse. ‘Would you try to mother even a nest of serpents? Besides, I’m sure the Minwanabi cover their roof well when the weather is bad. Jingu’s wife wears too much makeup to get wet unexpectedly.’

Nacoya subsided, with a comment that her eyes were not that good, nor had they been since she was youthful. Mara patted her adviser’s hand in reassurance. Then, resplendent in a gown embroidered with seed pearls, her coiled hair laced with green ribbons, she began her descent to the main floor. Papewaio followed her in dress armour; although he escorted his mistress and her First Adviser to a social occasion, he moved with vigilance more common to the battlefield. In most ways, state gatherings of Tsurani were more dangerous. Beneath the manners and the finery, ambitions changed; as alliances shifted within the Game of the Council, any Lord present could become the enemy. Few would hesitate to damage the Acoma, if his own stock might rise as a result. And on Minwanabi territory, others not normally at odds with Mara’s house might bend with the prevailing political wind.

Simple in her tastes, Mara was neither overwhelmed nor impressed by displays of great wealth. Her restrained clothing reinforced the impression already formed by the Lords and Ladies in the hall around her. Most believed her a young, inexperienced girl who sheltered her house under the marriage to the more powerful Anasati. Now, with Buntokapi dead, she was fair game once again. Mara was content to allow this misapprehension to continue as
she passed by; it increased her chances to pick up a scrap of information, a comment, or a remark that could prove useful. As she reached the foot of the stairs and made her way towards the dais to greet the Minwanabi Lord, she watched the expressions of her peers and took stock of who stood gossiping with whom. Her temple-taught poise served her well. She responded politely to those who greeted her, but was not lulled by sweet smiles and warm words.

Jingu of the Minwanabi noted her approach with the ravenous interest of a jaguna. Mara saw him cease conversation with his advisers as she mounted the steps to accept his welcome. The moment gave her pause also, as for the first time she looked upon the face of her family’s oldest enemy. The Lord of the Minwanabi was a corpulent man. He had clearly not worn armour since his youth, but cunning and malice still glinted in his eyes. Pearl bands encircled his wrists, and shell ornaments dangled at his collar, shiny with the sweat that beaded his neck. His bow of greeting was slightly less than that due a Lady of ruling rank. ‘My Lady of the Acoma,’ he said, his voice as thick and unctuous as his appearance, ‘we are so pleased you chose to join us in honour of the Warlord.’

Aware the eyes of every noble in the room were turned to see how she handled this slight, Mara responded in kind, her own bow shallow and of short duration. ‘We thank the Lord of the Minwanabi for his kind invitation.’

Irritated by Mara’s poise, Jingu beckoned someone to the fore of the dais. ‘There is one here I believe you know.’ Then his lips curled into a hungry smile of anticipation.

The Lady of the Acoma showed no reaction to the woman who came at his call. The presence of Teani somewhere in the Minwanabi household was something Arakasi had forewarned her of: he had long since
informed Mara that the concubine was a Minwanabi agent. But the fact that Buntokapi’s former lover had insinuated herself in Jingu’s innermost circle gave Mara pause. The woman was perhaps more clever than anyone had guessed. She was obviously a favourite, swathed as she was in rare silks and jewels, a chain of rarest metal encircling her slim neck. But ornaments and beauty could not entirely hide the ugliness of her character. Hatred for Mara burned in her pretty eyes, chilling in its intensity.

To acknowledge the look of a woman of her station would be an unnecessary courtesy, and too easily interpreted as an admission of weakness. Mara addressed her words and attentions solely to the Minwanabi Lord who sat at Teani’s left hand. ‘My adviser and I have just arrived after a long and tiresome journey. Would my Lord show us our places, that we might take some refreshment before the banquet and the festivities begin?’

Jingu rearranged the fringe on his costume with the flick of a pudgy finger. Then he called for a cool drink; while he waited for servants to fill his need, his hand absently stroked Teani’s arm, a gesture his wife ignored. When none might mistake the fact that he deferred the wishes of his Acoma guests until his own pleasures were satisfied, he nodded sweetly to a servant. ‘Escort the Lady Mara and her servants to the table third from the end, nearest the entrance to the kitchens, so that her party may more quickly be served.’ His fat girth jiggled as he openly laughed at the ingenuity of his insult.

A Lady of rank might find such placement degrading; but to Teani this gesture was not enough. Viciously piqued that Mara had ignored her, she interrupted. ‘You ought to seat this woman with the slaves, my Lord. All know the greatness of the Acoma rests upon the goodwill of the Anasati, and that even Lord Tecuma’s protection wore thin after the death of his son.’