RAYMOND E. FEIST
and
JANNY WURTS
The Empire Trilogy

Daughter of the Empire

Servant of the Empire

Mistress of the Empire

Copyright

This novel is entirely a work of fiction. The names, characters and incidents portrayed in it are the work of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or localities is entirely coincidental.

HarperVoyager An imprint of HarperCollinsPublishers Ltd. 1 London Bridge Street London SE1 9GF

www.harpercollins.co.uk

First published in Great Britain by

Grafton Books 1987

Daughter of the Empire First published in Great Britain by Grafton Books 1987

Copyright © Raymond E. Feist and Janny Wurts 1987

Servant of the Empire First published in Great Britain by Grafton Books 1990

Copyright © Raymond E. Feist and Janny Wurts 1990

Mistress of the Empire First published in Great Britain by Grafton Books 1992

Copyright © Raymond E. Feist and Janny Wurts 1992

The Authors assert the moral right to be identified as the authors of this work

A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library

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Table of Contents

Cover

Title Page

Copyright

Daughter of the Empire

Servant of the Empire

Mistress of the Empire

About the Author

Also by the Author

About the Publisher

RAYMOND E. FEIST
and
JANNY WURTS
Daughter of the Empire

Book One of the Empire Trilogy

This book is dedicated to

Harold Matson

with deep appreciation, respect, and affection

Table of Contents

Cover

Title Page

Dedication

Map

Chapter One: Lady

Chapter Two: Evaluations

Chapter Three: Innovations

Chapter Four: Gambits

Chapter Five: Bargain

Chapter Six: Ceremony

Chapter Seven: Wedding

Chapter Eight: Heir

Chapter Nine: Snare

Chapter Ten: Warlord

Chapter Eleven: Renewal

Chapter Twelve: Risks

Chapter Thirteen: Seduction

Chapter Fourteen: Acceptance

Chapter Fifteen: Arrival

Chapter Sixteen: Funeral

Chapter Seventeen: Revenge

Acknowledgements

Map

• Chapter One • Lady

The priest struck the gong.

The sound reverberated off the temple’s vaulted domes, splendid with brightly coloured carvings. The solitary note echoed back and forth, diminishing to a remembered tone, a ghost of sound.

Mara knelt, the cold stones of the temple floor draining the warmth from her. She shivered, though not from chill, then glanced slightly to the left, where another initiate knelt in a pose identical to her own, duplicating Mara’s movements as she lifted the white head covering of a novice of the Order of Lashima, Goddess of the Inner Light. Awkwardly posed with the linen draped like a tent above her head, Mara impatiently awaited the moment when the headdress could be lowered and tied. She had barely lifted the cloth and already the thing dragged at her arms like stone weights! The gong sounded again. Reminded of the goddess’s eternal presence, Mara inwardly winced at her irreverent thoughts. Now, of all times, her attention must not stray. Silently she begged the goddess’s forgiveness, pleading nerves – fatigue and excitement combined with apprehension. Mara prayed to the Lady to guide her to the inner peace she so fervently desired.

The gong chimed again, the third ring of twenty-two, twenty for the gods, one for the Light of Heaven, and one for the imperfect children who now waited to join in the service of the Goddess of Wisdom of the Upper Heaven. At seventeen years of age, Mara prepared to renounce the temporal world, like the girl at her side who – in another nineteen chimings of the gong – would be counted her sister, though they had met only two weeks before.

Mara considered her sister-to-be: Ura was a foul-tempered girl from a clanless but wealthy family in Lash Province while Mara was from an ancient and powerful family, the Acoma. Ura’s admission to the temple was a public demonstration of family piety, ordered by her uncle, the self-styled family Lord, who sought admission into any clan that would take his family. Mara had come close to defying her father to join the order. When the girls had exchanged histories at their first meeting, Ura had been incredulous, then almost angry that the daughter of a powerful Lord should take eternal shelter behind the walls of the order. Mara’s heritage meant clan position, powerful allies, an array of well-positioned suitors, and an assured good marriage to a son of another powerful house. Her own sacrifice, as Ura called it, was made so that later generations of girls in her family would have those things Mara chose to renounce. Not for the first time Mara wondered if Ura would make a good sister of the order. Then, again not for the first time, Mara questioned her own worthiness for the Sisterhood.

The gong sounded, deep and rich. Mara closed her eyes a moment, begging for guidance and comfort. Why was she still plagued with doubts? After eighteen more chimes, family, friends, and the familiar would be forever lost. All her past life would be put behind, from earliest child’s play to a noble daughter’s concern over her family’s role within the Game of the Council, that never-ending struggle for dominance which ordered all Tsurani life. Ura would become her sister, no matter the differences in their heritage, for within the Order of Lashima none recognized personal honour or family name. There would remain only service to the goddess, through chastity and obedience.

The gong rang again, the fifth stroke. Mara peeked up at the altar atop the dais. Framed beneath carved arches, six priests and priestesses knelt before the statue of Lashima, her countenance unveiled for the initiation. Dawn shone through the lancet windows high in the domes, the palest glow reaching like fingers through the half-dark temple. The touch of sunrise seemed to caress the goddess, softening the jewel-like ceremonial candles that surrounded her. How friendly the lady looked in morning’s blush, Mara thought. The Lady of Wisdom gazed down with a half-smile on her chiselled lips, as if all under her care would be loved and protected, finding inner peace. Mara prayed this would be true. The only priest not upon his knees again rang the gong. Metal caught the sunlight, a splendid burst of gold against the dark curtain that shrouded the entrance to the inner temple. Then, as the dazzling brilliance faded, the gong rang again.

Fifteen more times it would be struck. Mara bit her lip, certain the kind goddess would forgive a momentary lapse. Her thoughts were like flashing lights from broken crystals, dancing about here and there, never staying long in one place. I’m not very good material for the Sisterhood, Mara confessed, staring up at the statue. Please have patience with me, Lady of the Inner Light. Again she glanced at her companion; Ura remained still and quiet, eyes closed. Mara determined to imitate her companion’s behaviour outwardly, even if she couldn’t find the appropriate calm within. The gong sounded once more.

Mara sought that hidden centre of her being, her wal, and strove to put her mind at rest. For a few minutes she found herself successful. Then the beat of the gong snatched her back to the present. Mara shifted her weight slightly, rejecting irritation as she tried to ease her aching arms. She fought an urge to sigh. The inner calm taught by the sisters who had schooled her through her novitiate again eluded her grasp, though she had laboured at the convent for six months before being judged worthy of testing here in the Holy City by the priests of the High Temple.

Again the gong was struck, as bold a call as the horn that had summoned the Acoma warriors into formation. How brave they all had looked in their green enamelled armour, especially the officers with their gallant plumes, on the day they left to fight with the Warlord’s forces. Mara worried over the progress of the war upon the barbarian world, where her father and brother fought. Too many of the family’s forces were committed there. The clan was split in its loyalty within the High Council, and since no single family clearly dominated, blood politics bore down heavily upon the Acoma. The families of the Hadama Clan were united in name only, and a betrayal of the Acoma by distant cousins who sought Minwanabi favour was not outside the realm of possibility. Had Mara a voice in her father’s counsel, she would have urged a separation from the War Party, even perhaps an alliance with the Blue Wheel Party, who feigned interest only in commerce while they quietly worked to balk the power of the Warlord …

Mara frowned. Again her mind had been beguiled by worldly concerns. She apologized to the goddess, then pushed away thoughts of the world she was leaving behind.

Mara peeked as the gong rang again. The stone features of the goddess now seemed set in gentle rebuke; virtue began with the individual, she reminded. Help would come only to those who truly searched for enlightenment. Mara lowered her eyes.

The gong reverberated and through the dying shiver of harmonics another sound intruded, a disturbance wholly out of place. Sandals scuffed upon stone in the antechamber, accompanied by the dull clank of weapons and armour. Outside the curtain an attending priest challenged in a harsh whisper, ‘Stop, warrior! You may not enter the inner temple now! It is forbidden!’

Mara stiffened. A chilling prescience passed through her. Beneath the shelter of the tented headcloth, she saw the priests upon the dais rise up in alarm. They turned to face the intruder, and the gong missed its beat and fell silent.

The High Father Superior moved purposefully towards the curtain, his brow knotted in alarm. Mara shut her eyes tightly. If only she could plunge the outside world into darkness as easily, then no one would be able to find her. But the sound of footfalls ceased, replaced by the High Father Superior’s voice. ‘What cause have you for this outrage, warrior! You violate a most holy rite.’

A voice rang out. ‘We seek the Lady of the Acoma!’

The Lady of the Acoma. Like a cold knife plunged into the pit of her stomach, the words cut through Mara’s soul. That one sentence forever changed her life. Her mind rebelled, screaming denial, but she willed herself to remain calm. Never would she shame her ancestors by a public display of grief. She controlled her voice as she slowly rose to her feet. ‘I am here, Keyoke.’

As one, the priests and priestesses watched the High Father Superior cross to stand before Mara. The embroidered symbols on his robes of office flashed fitfully as he beckoned to a priestess, who hastened to his side. Then he looked into Mara’s eyes and read the contained pain hidden there. ‘Daughter, it is clear Our Mistress of Wisdom has ordained another path for you. Go with her love and in her grace, Lady of the Acoma.’ He bowed slightly.

Mara returned his bow, then surrendered her head covering to the priestess. Oblivious to Ura’s sigh of envy, she turned at last to face the bearer of those tidings which had changed her life.

Just past the curtain, Keyoke, Force Commander of the Acoma, regarded his mistress with weary eyes. He was a battle-scarred old warrior, erect and proud despite forty years of loyal service. He stood poised to step to the girl’s side, provide a steadying arm, perhaps even shield her from public view should the strain prove too much.

Poor, ever-loyal Keyoke, Mara thought. This announcement had not come easily for him either. She would not disappoint him by shaming her family. Faced with tragedy, she maintained the manner and dignity required of the Lady of a great house.

Keyoke bowed as his mistress approached. Behind him stood the tall and taciturn Papewaio, his face as always an unreadable mask. The strongest warrior in the Acoma retinue, he served as both companion and body servant to Keyoke. He bowed and held aside the curtain for Mara as she swept past.

Mara heard both fall into step, one on each side, Papewaio one pace behind, correct in form to the last detail. Without words she led them from the inner temple, under the awning that covered the garden court separating the inner and outer temples. They entered the outer temple, passing between giant sandstone columns that rose to the ceiling. Down a long hall they marched, past magnificent frescos depicting tales of the goddess Lashima. Desperately attempting to divert the pain that threatened to overwhelm her, Mara remembered the story each picture represented: how the goddess outwitted Turakamu, the Red God, for the life of a child; how she stayed the wrath of Emperor Inchonlonganbula, saving the city of Migran from obliteration; how she taught the first scholar the secret of writing. Mara closed her eyes as they passed her favourite: how, disguised as a crone, Lashima decided the issue between the farmer and his wife. Mara turned her eyes from these images, for they belonged to a life now denied her.

All too soon she reached the outer doors. She paused a moment at the top of the worn marble stairs. The courtyard below held a half company of guards in the bright green armour of the Acoma. Several showed freshly bandaged wounds, but all came to attention and saluted, fist over heart, as their Lady came into view. Mara swallowed fear: if wounded soldiers stood escort duty, the fighting must have been brutal indeed. Many brave warriors had died. That the Acoma must show such a sign of weakness made Mara’s cheeks burn with anger. Grateful for the temple robe that hid the shaking in her knees, she descended the steps. A litter awaited her at the bottom. A dozen slaves stood silently by until the Lady of the Acoma settled inside. Then Papewaio and Keyoke assumed position, one on each side. On Keyoke’s command, the slaves grasped the poles and lifted the litter on to sweating shoulders. Veiled by the light, embroidered curtain on either side of the litter, Mara sat stiffly as the soldiers formed up before and after their mistress.

The litter swayed slightly as the slaves started towards the river, threading an efficient course through the throng who travelled the streets of the Holy City. They moved past carts pulled by sluggish, six-legged needra and were passed in turn by running messengers and trotting porters with bundles held aloft on shoulder or head, hurrying their loads for clients who paid a premium for swift delivery.

The noise and bustle of commerce beyond the gates jolted Mara afresh; within the shelter of the temple, the shock of Keyoke’s appearance had not fully registered. Now she battled to keep from spilling tears upon the cushions of the litter as understanding overwhelmed her. She wanted not to speak, as if silence could hide the truth. But she was Tsurani, and an Acoma. Cowardice would not change the past, nor forever stave off the future. She took a breath. Then, drawing aside the curtain so she could see Keyoke, she voiced what was never in doubt.

‘They are both dead.’

Keyoke nodded curtly, once. ‘Your father and brother were both ordered into a useless assault against a barbarian fortification. It was murder.’ His features remained impassive, but his voice betrayed bitterness as he walked at a brisk pace beside his mistress.

The litter jostled as the slaves avoided a wagon piled with jomach fruit. They turned down the street towards the landing by the river while Mara regarded her clenched hands. With focused concentration, she willed her fingers to open and relax. After a long silence she said, ‘Tell me what happened, Keyoke.’

‘When the snows on the barbarian world melted we were ordered out, to stand against a possible barbarian assault.’ Armour creaked as the elderly warrior squared his shoulders, fighting off remembered fatigue and loss, yet his voice stayed matter-of-fact. ‘Soldiers from the barbarian cities of Zun and LaMut were already in the field, earlier than expected. Our runners were dispatched to the Warlord, camped in the valley in the mountains the barbarians call the Grey Towers. In the Warlord’s absence, his Subcommander gave the order for your father to assault the barbarian position. We –’

Mara interrupted. ‘This Subcommander, he is of the Minwanabi, is he not?’

Keyoke’s weathered face showed a hint of approval as if silently saying, you’re keeping your wits despite grief. ‘Yes. The nephew of Lord Jingu of the Minwanabi, his dead brother’s only son, Tasaio.’ Mara’s eyes narrowed as he continued his narrative. ‘We were grossly outnumbered. Your father knew this – we all knew it – but your father kept honour. He followed orders without question. We attacked. The Subcommander promised to support the right flank, but his troops never materialized. Instead of a coordinated charge with ours, the Minwanabi warriors held their ground, as if preparing for counterattack. Tasaio ordered they should do so.

‘But just as we were overwhelmed by a counterattack, support arrived from the valley, elements of the forces under the banner of Omechkel and Chimiriko. They had no hint of the betrayal and fought bravely to get us out from under the hooves of the barbarians’ horses. The Minwanabi attacked at this time, as if to repulse the counterattack. They arrived just as the barbarians retreated. To any who had not been there from the start, it was simply a poor meeting with the barbarian enemy. But the Acoma know it was Minwanabi treachery.’

Mara’s eyes narrowed, and her lips tightened; for an instant Keyoke’s expression betrayed concern that the girl might shame her father’s memory by weeping before tradition permitted. But instead she spoke quietly, her voice controlled fury. ‘So my Lord of the Minwanabi seized the moment and arranged for my father’s death, despite our alliance within the War Party?’

Keyoke straightened his helm. ‘Indeed, my Lady. Jingu of the Minwanabi must have ordered Tasaio to change the Warlord’s instructions. Jingu moves boldly; he would have earned Tasaio the Warlord’s wrath and a dishonourable death had our army lost that position to the barbarians. But Almecho needs Minwanabi support in the conquest, and while he is angry with Jingu’s nephew, he keeps silent. Nothing was lost. To outward appearances, it was simply a standoff, no victor. But in the Game of the Council, the Minwanabi triumph over the Acoma.’ For the first time in her life, Mara heard a hint of emotion in Keyoke’s voice. Almost bitterly, he said, ‘Papewaio and I were spared by your father’s command. He ordered us to remain apart with this small company – and charged us to protect you should matters proceed as they have.’ Forcing his voice back to its usual brisk tone, he added, ‘My Lord Sezu knew he and your brother would likely not survive the day.’

Mara sank back against the cushions, her stomach in knots. Her head ached and she felt her chest tighten. She took a long, slow breath and glanced out the opposite side of the litter, to Papewaio, who marched with a studied lack of expression. ‘And what do you say, my brave Pape?’ she asked. ‘How shall we answer this murder visited upon our house?’

Papewaio absently scratched at the scar on his jaw with his left thumb, as he often did in times of stress. ‘Your will, my Lady.’

The manner of the First Strike Leader of the Acoma was outwardly easy, but Mara sensed he wished to be holding his spear and unsheathed sword. For a wild, angry instant Mara considered immediate vengeance. At her word, Papewaio would assault the Minwanabi lord in his own chamber, in the midst of his army. Although the warrior would count it as an honour to die in the effort, she shunted away the foolish impulse. Neither Papewaio nor any other wearing the Acoma green could get within half a day’s march of the Minwanabi lord. Besides, loyalty such as his was to be jealously guarded, never squandered.

Removed from the scrutiny of the priests, Keyoke studied Mara closely. She met his gaze and held it. She knew her expression was grim and her face drawn and chalky, but she also knew she had borne up well under the news. Keyoke’s gaze returned forward, as he awaited his mistress’s next question or command.

A man’s attention, even an old family retainer’s, caused Mara to take stock of herself, without illusions, being neither critical nor flattering. She was a fair-looking young woman, not pretty, especially when she wrinkled her brow in thought or frowned in worry. But her smile could make her striking – or so a boy had told her once – and she possessed a certain appealing quality, a spirited energy, that made her almost vivacious at times. She was slender and lithe in movement, and that trim body had caught the eye of more than one son of a neighbouring house. Now one of those sons would likely prove a necessary ally to stem the tide of political fortune that threatened to obliterate the Acoma. With her brown eyes half-closed, she considered the awesome responsibility thrust upon her. She realized, with a sinking feeling, that the commodities of womankind – beauty, wit, charm, allure – must all now be put to use in the cause of the Acoma, along with whatever native intelligence the gods had granted her. She fought down the fear that her gifts were insufficient for the task; then, before she knew it, she was recalling the faces of her father and brother. Grief rose up within her, but she forced it back deep. Sorrow must keep until later.

Softly Mara said, ‘We have much to talk of, Keyoke, but not here.’ In the press of city traffic, enemies might walk on every side, spies, assassins, or informants in disguise. Mara closed her eyes against the terrors of imagination and the real world both. ‘We shall speak when only ears loyal to the Acoma may overhear.’ Keyoke grunted acknowledgement. Mara silently thanked the gods that he had been spared. He was a rock, and she would need such as he at her side.

Exhausted, Mara settled back into the cushions. She must arise above grief to ponder. Her father’s most powerful enemy, Lord Jingu of the Minwanabi, had almost succeeded in gaining one of his life’s ambitions: the obliteration of the Acoma. The blood feud between the Acoma and Minwanabi had existed for generations, and while neither house had managed to gain the upper hand, from time to time one or the other had to struggle to protect itself. But now the Acoma had been gravely weakened, and the Minwanabi were at the height of their power, rivalling even the Warlord’s family in strength. Jingu was already served by vassals, first among them the Lord of the Kehotara, whose power equalled that of Mara’s father. And as the star of the Minwanabi rose higher, more would ally with him.

For a long while Mara lay behind the fluttering curtains, to all appearances asleep. Her situation was bitterly clear. All that remained between the Lord of the Minwanabi and his goal was herself, a young girl who had been but ten chimes from becoming a sister of Lashima. That realization left a taste in her mouth like ash. Now, if she were to survive long enough to regain family honour, she must consider her resources and plot and plan, and enter the Game of the Council; and somehow she must find a way to thwart the will of the Lord of one of the Five Great Families of the Empire of Tsuranuanni.

Mara blinked and forced herself awake. She had dozed fitfully while the litter travelled the busy streets of Kentosani, the Holy City, her mind seeking relief from the stress of the day. Now the litter rocked gently as it was lowered to the docks.

Mara peeked through the curtains, too numb to find pleasure in the bustle of the throngs upon the dockside. When she had first arrived in the Holy City, she had been enthralled by the multi-coloured diversity found in the crowd, with people from every corner of the Empire upon every hand. The simple sight of household barges from cities up and down the river Gagajin had delighted her. Bedecked with banners, they rocked at their moorings like proudly plumed birds amid the barnyard fowl as busy commercial barges and traders’ boats scurried about them. Everything, the sights, the sounds, the smells, had been so different from her father’s estates – her estates now, she corrected herself. Torn by that recognition, Mara hardly noticed the slaves who toiled in the glaring sun, their sweating, near-naked bodies dusted with grime as they loaded bundled goods aboard the river barges. This time she did not blush as she had when she had first passed this way in the company of the sisters of Lashima. Male nudity had been nothing new to her; as a child she had played near the soldiers’ commons while the men bathed and for years she had swum with her brother and friends in the lake above the needra meadow. But seeing naked men after she had renounced the world of flesh seemed somehow to have made a difference. Being commanded to look away by the attending sister of Lashima had made her want to peek all the more. That day she had to will herself not to stare at the lean, muscled bodies.

But today the bodies of the slaves failed to fascinate, as did the cries of the beggars who called down the blessings of the gods on any who chose to share a coin with the less fortunate. Mara ignored the rivermen, who sauntered by with the swaggering gait of those who spent their lives upon the water, secretly contemptuous of land dwellers, their voices loud and edged with rough humour. Everything seemed less colourful, less vivid, less captivating, as she looked through eyes suddenly older, less given to seeing with wonder and awe. Now every sunlit façade cast a dark shadow. And in those shadows enemies plotted.

Mara left her litter quickly. Despite the white robe of a novice of Lashima, she bore herself with the dignity expected of the Lady of the Acoma. She kept her eyes forward as she moved towards the barge that would take her downriver, to Sulan-Qu. Papewaio cleared a path for her, roughly shoving common workers aside. Other soldiers moved nearby, brightly coloured guardians who conducted their masters from the barges to the city. Keyoke kept a wary eye upon them as he hovered near Mara’s side while they crossed the dock.

As her officers ushered her up the gangplank, Mara wished for a dark, quiet place in which to confront her own sorrow. But the instant she set foot upon the deck, the barge master hustled to meet her. His short red and purple robe seemed jarringly bright after the sombre dress of the priests and sisters in the convent. Jade trinkets clinked on his wrists as he bowed obsequiously and offered his illustrious passenger the finest accommodation his humble barge permitted, a pile of cushions under a central canopy, hung round by gauzy curtains. Mara allowed the fawning to continue until she had been seated, courtesy requiring such lest the man unduly lose face. Once settled, she let silence inform the barge master his presence was no longer required. Finding an indifferent audience to his babble, the man let fall the thin curtain, leaving Mara a tiny bit of privacy at last. Keyoke and Papewaio sat opposite, while the household guards surrounded the canopy, their usual alertness underscored by a grim note of battle-ready tension.

Seeming to gaze at the swirling water, Mara said, ‘Keyoke, where is my father’s … my own barge? And my maids?’

The old warrior said, ‘The Acoma barge is at the dock in Sulan-Qu, my Lady. I judged a night encounter with soldiers of the Minwanabi or their allies less likely if we used a public barge. The chance of surviving witnesses might help discourage assault by enemies disguised as bandits. And should difficulty visit us, I feared your maids might prove a hindrance.’ Keyoke’s eyes scanned the docks while he spoke. ‘This craft will tie up at night with other barges, so we will never be upon the river alone.’

Mara nodded, letting her eyes close a long second. Softly she said, ‘Very well.’ She had wished for privacy, something impossible to find on this public barge, but Keyoke’s concerns were well founded.

Lord Jingu might sacrifice an entire company of soldiers to destroy the last of the Acoma, certain he could throw enough men at Mara’s guards to overwhelm them. But he would only do so if he could assure himself of success, then feign ignorance of the act before the other Lords of the High Council. Everyone who played the Game of the Council would deduce who had authored such slaughter, but the forms must always be observed. One escaped traveller, one Minwanabi guard recognized, one chance remark overheard by a poleman on a nearby barge, and Jingu would be undone. To have his part in such a venal ambush revealed publicly would lose him much prestige in the council, perhaps signalling to one of his ‘loyal’ allies that he was losing control. Then he could have as much to fear from his friends as from his enemies. Such was the nature of the Game of the Council. Keyoke’s choice of conveyance might prove as much a deterrent to treachery as a hundred more men-at-arms.

The barge master’s voice cut the air as he shouted for the slaves to cast off the dock lines. A thud and a bump, and suddenly the barge was moving, swinging away from the dock into the sluggish swirl of the current. Mara lay back, judging it acceptable now to outwardly relax. Slaves poled the barge along, their thin, sun-browned bodies moving in time, coordinated by a simple chant.

‘Keep her to the middle,’ sang out the tillerman.

‘Don’t hit the shore,’ answered the poleman.

The chant settled into a rhythm, and the tillerman began to add simple lyrics, all in tempo. ‘I know an ugly woman!’ he shouted.

‘Don’t hit the shore!’

‘Her tongue cuts like a knife!’

‘Don’t hit the shore!’

‘Got drunk one summer’s evening!’

‘Don’t hit the shore!’

‘And took her for my wife!’

The silly song soothed Mara and she let her thoughts drift. Her father had argued long and hotly against her taking vows. Now, when apologies were no longer possible, Mara bitterly regretted how close she had come to open defiance; her father had relented only because his love for his only daughter had been greater than his desire for a suitable political marriage. Their parting had been stormy. Lord Sezu of the Acoma could be like a harulth – the giant predator most feared by herdsmen and hunters – in full battle frenzy when facing his enemies, but he had never been able to deny his daughter, no matter how unreasonable her demands. While never as comfortable with her as he had been with her brother, still he had indulged her all her life, and only her nurse, Nacoya, had taken firm rein over her childhood.

Mara closed her eyes. The barge afforded a small measure of security, and she could now hide in the dark shelter of sleep; those outside the curtains of this tiny pavilion would only think her fleeing the boredom of a lengthy river journey. But rest proved elusive as memories returned of the brother she had loved like the breath in her lungs, Lanokota of the flashing dark eyes and ready smile for his adoring little sister. Lano who ran faster than the warriors in his father’s house, and who won in the summer games at Sulan-Qu three years in a row, a feat unmatched since. Lano always had time for Mara, even showing her how to wrestle – bringing down her nurse Nacoya’s wrath for involving a girl in such an unladylike pastime. And always Lano had a stupid joke – usually dirty – to tell his little sister to make her laugh and blush. Had she not chosen the contemplative life, Mara knew any suitor would have been measured against her brother … Lano, whose merry laughter would no more echo through the night as they sat in the hall sharing supper. Even their father, stern in all ways, would smile, unable to resist his son’s infectious humour. While Mara had respected and admired her father, she had loved her brother, and now grief came sweeping over her.

Mara forced her emotions back. This was not the place; she must not mourn until later. Turning to the practical, she said to Keyoke, ‘Were my father’s and brother’s bodies recovered?’

With a bitter note, Keyoke said, ‘No, my Lady, they were not.’

Mara bit her lip. There would be no ashes to inter in the sacred grove. Instead she must choose a relic of her father’s and brother’s, one favourite possession of each, to bury beside the sacred natami – the rock that contained the Acoma family’s soul – that their spirits could find their way back to Acoma ground, to find peace beside their ancestors until the Wheel of Life turned anew. Mara closed her eyes again, half from emotional fatigue, half to deny tears. Memories jarred her to consciousness as she unsuccessfully tried to rest. Then, after some hours, the rocking of the barge, the singing of the tillerman, and the answering chant of the slaves became familiar. Her mind and body fell into an answering rhythm and she relaxed. The warmth of the day and the quietness of the river at last conspired to lull Mara into a deep sleep.

The barge docked at Sulan-Qu under the topaz light of daybreak. Mist rose in coils off the river, while shops and stalls by the waterfront opened screened shutters in preparation for market. Keyoke acted swiftly to disembark Mara’s litter while the streets were still free of the choking press of commerce; soon carts and porters, shoppers and beggars would throng the commercial boulevards. In scant minutes the slaves were ready. Still clad in the white robes of Lashima’s sisterhood – crumpled from six days’ use – Mara climbed wearily into her litter. She settled back against cushions stylized with her family’s symbol, the shatra bird, embroidered into the material, and realized how much she dreaded her return home. She could not imagine the airy spaces of the great house empty of Lano’s boisterous voice, or the floor mats in the study uncluttered with the scrolls left by her father when he wearied of reading reports. Mara smiled faintly, recalling her father’s distaste for business, despite the fact he was skilled at it. He preferred matters of warfare, the games, and politics, but she remembered his saying that everything required money, and commerce must never be neglected.

Mara allowed herself an almost audible sigh as the litter was hoisted. She wished the curtains provided more privacy as she endured the gazes of peasants and workers upon the streets at first light. From atop vegetable carts and behind booths where goods were being arrayed, they watched the great lady and her retinue sweep by. Worn from constantly guarding her appearance, Mara endured the jostling trip through streets that quickly became crowded. She lapsed into brooding, outwardly alert, but inwardly oblivious to the usually diverting panorama of the city.

Screens on the galleries overhead were withdrawn as merchants displayed wares above the buyers. When haggling ended, the agreed price was pulled up in baskets, then the goods lowered. Licensed prostitutes were still asleep, so every fifth or sixth gallery remained shuttered.

Mara smiled slightly, remembering the first time she had seen the ladies of the Reed Life. The prostitutes showed themselves upon the galleries as they had for generations, robes left in provocative disarray as they fanned themselves in the ever-present city heat. All the women had been beautiful, their faces painted with lovely colours and their hair bound up in regal style. Even the skimpy robes were of the costliest weave, with fine embroidery. Mara had voiced a six-year-old girl’s delight at the image. She had then announced to all within earshot that when she grew up she would be just like the ladies in the galleries. This was the only time in her life she had seen her father rendered speechless. Lano had teased her about the incident until the morning she left for the temple. Now his playful jibes would embarrass her no further.

Saddened nearly to tears, Mara turned from memory. She sought diversion outside her litter, where clever hawkers sold wares from wheelbarrows at corners, beggars accosted passersby with tales of misery, jugglers offered antics, and merchants presented rare, beautiful silk as they passed. But all failed to shield her mind from pain.

The market fell behind and they left the city. Beyond the walls of Sulan-Qu, cultivated fields stretched towards a line of bluish mountains on the horizon; the Kyamaka range was not so rugged or so high as the great High Wall to the north, but the valleys remained wild enough to shelter bandits and outlaws.

The road to Mara’s estates led through a swamp that resisted all attempts to drain it. Here her bearers muttered complaints as they were plagued by insects. A word from Keyoke brought silence.

Then the road passed through a stand of ngaggi trees, their large lower branches a green-blue canopy of shade. The travellers moved on into hillier lands, crossing over brightly painted bridges, as the streams that fed the swamp continually interrupted every road built by man. They came to a prayer gate, a brightly painted arch erected by some man of wealth as thanks to the gods for a blessing granted. As they passed under the arch, each traveller generated a silent prayer of thanks and received a small blessing in return. And as the prayer arch fell behind, Mara considered she would need all the grace the gods were willing to grant in the days to come, if the Acoma were to survive.

The party left the highway, turning towards their final destination. Shatra birds foraged in the thyza paddies, eating insects and grubs, stooped over like old men. Because the flocks helped ensure a good harvest, the silly-looking creatures were considered a sign of good luck. So the Acoma had counted them, making the shatra symbol the centrepiece of their house crest. Mara found no humour in the familiar sight of the shatra birds, with their stilt legs and ever-moving pointed ears, finding instead deep apprehension, for the birds and workers signalled she had reached Acoma lands.

The bearers picked up stride. Oh, how Mara wished they would slacken pace, or turn around and carry her elsewhere. But her arrival had been noticed by the workers who gathered faggots in the woodlands between the fields and the meadow near the great house. Some shouted or waved as they walked stooped under bundles of wood loaded on their backs and secured with a strap across their foreheads. There was a warmth in their greeting, and despite the cause of her return they deserved more than aloofness from their new mistress.

Mara pulled herself erect, smiling slightly and nodding. Around her spread her estates, last seen with the expectation she would never return. The hedges, the trimmed fields, and the neat outbuildings that housed the workers were unchanged. But then, she thought, her absence had been less than a year.

The litter passed the needra meadows. The midday air was rent by the herds’ plaintive lowing and the ‘hut-huthut’ cry of the herdsmen as they waved goading sticks and moved the animals towards the pens where they would be examined for parasites. Mara regarded the cows as they grazed, the sun making their grey hides look tawny. A few lifted blunt snouts as stocky bull calves feinted charges, then scampered away on six stumpy legs to shelter behind their mothers. To Mara it seemed some asked when Lano would return to play his wild tricks on the ill-tempered breeding bulls. The pain of her losses increased the closer she came to home. Mara put on a brave face as the litter bearers turned along the wide, tree-lined lane that led to the heart of the estate.

Ahead lay the large central house, constructed of beams and paper-thin screens, slid back to open the interior to any breezes in the midday heat. Mara felt her breath catch. No dogs sprawled among the akasi flowers, tongues lolling and tails wagging as they waited for the Lord of the Acoma to return. In his absence they were always kennelled; now that absence was permanent. Yet home, desolate and empty though it seemed without the presence of loved ones, meant privacy. Soon Mara could retire to the sacred grove and loose the sorrow she had pent up through seven weary days.

As the litter and retinue passed a barracks house, the soldiers of her home garrison fell into formation along her line of travel. Their armour was polished, their weapons and trappings faultlessly neat, yet beside Keyoke’s and Papewaio’s, only one other officer’s plume was in evidence. Mara felt a chill stab at her heart and glanced at Keyoke. ‘Why so few warriors, Force Commander? Where are the others?’

Keyoke kept his eyes forward, ignoring the dust that clung to his lacquered armour and the sweat that dripped beneath his helm. Stiffly he said, ‘Those who were capable returned, Lady.’

Mara closed her eyes, unable to disguise her shock. Keyoke’s simple statement indicated that almost two thousand soldiers had died beside her father and brother. Many of them had been retainers with years of faithful service, some having stood guard at Mara’s crib side. Most had followed fathers and grandfathers into Acoma service.

Numbed and speechless, Mara counted those soldiers standing in formation and added their numbers to those who had travelled as bodyguards. Thirty-seven warriors remained in her service, a pitiful fraction of the garrison her father had once commanded. Of the twenty-five hundred warriors to wear Acoma green, five hundred were dedicated to guarding outlying Acoma holdings in distant cities and provinces. Three hundred had already been lost beyond the rift in the war against the barbarians before this last campaign. Now, where two thousand soldiers had served at the height of Acoma power, the heart of the estate was protected by fewer than fifty men. Mara shook her head in sorrow. Many women besides herself mourned losses beyond the rift. Despair filled her heart as she realized the Acoma forces were too few to withstand any assault, even an attack by bandits, should a bold band raid from the mountains. But Mara also knew why Keyoke had placed the estate at risk to bring such a large portion – twenty-four out of thirty-seven – of the surviving warriors to guard her. Any spies of the Minwanabi must not be allowed to discover just how weak the Acoma were. Hopelessness settled over her like a smothering blanket.

‘Why didn’t you tell me sooner, Keyoke?’ But only silence answered. By that Mara knew. Her faithful Force Commander had feared that such news might break her if delivered all at once. And that could not be permitted. Too many Acoma soldiers had died for her to simply give up to despair. If hopelessness overwhelmed her, their sacrifice in the name of Acoma honour became a mockery, their death a waste. Thrust headlong into the Game of the Council, Mara needed every shred of wit and cunning she possessed to avoid the snares of intrigue that lay in wait for her inexperienced feet. The treachery visited upon her house would not end until, unschooled and alone, she had defeated the Lord of the Minwanabi and his minions.

The slaves halted in the dooryard. Mara drew a shaking breath. Head high, she forced herself to step from the litter and enter the scrolled arches of the portico that lined the perimeter of the house. Mara waited while Keyoke dismissed the litter and gave the orders to her escort. Then, as the last soldier saluted, she turned and met the bow of the hadonra, her estate manager. The man was new to his post, his squint-eyed countenance unfamiliar to Mara. But beside him stood the tiny, wizened presence of Nacoya, the nurse who had raised Mara from childhood. Other servants waited beyond.

The impact of the change struck Mara once again. For the first time in her life, she could not fly into the comfort of the ancient woman’s arms. As Lady of the Acoma, she must nod formally and walk past, leaving Nacoya and the hadonra to follow her up the wooden steps into the shady dimness of the great house. Today she must bear up and pretend not to notice the painful reflection of her own sorrow in Nacoya’s eyes. Mara bit her lip slightly, then stopped herself. That nervous habit had brought Nacoya’s scolding on many occasions. Instead the girl took a breath, and entered the house of her father. The missing echoes of his footfalls upon the polished wooden floor filled her with loneliness.

‘Lady?’

Mara halted, clenched hands hidden in the crumpled white of her robe. ‘What is it?’

The hadonra spoke again. ‘Welcome home, my Lady,’ he added in formal greeting. ‘I am Jican, Lady.’

Softly Mara said, ‘What has become of Sotamu?’

Jican glanced down. ‘He wasted in grief, my Lady, following his Lord into death.’

Mara could only nod once and resume her progress to her quarters. She was not surprised to learn that the old hadonra had refused to eat or drink after Lord Sezu’s death. Since he was an elderly man, it must have taken only a few days for him to die. Absently she wondered who had presumed to appoint Jican hadonra in his stead. As she turned to follow one of the large halls that flanked a central garden, Nacoya said, ‘My Lady, your quarters are across the garden.’

Mara barely managed another nod. Her personal belongings would have been moved to her father’s suite, the largest in the building.

She moved woodenly, passing the length of the square garden that stood at the heart of every Tsurani great house. The carved wooden grille work that enclosed the balcony walkways above, the flower beds, and the fountain under the trees in the courtyard seemed both familiar and inescapably strange after the stone architecture of the temples. Mara continued until she stood before the door to her father’s quarters. Painted upon the screen was a battle scene, a legendary struggle won by the Acoma over another, long-forgotten, enemy. The hadonra, Jican, slid aside the door.

Mara faltered a moment. The jolt of seeing her own belongings in her father’s room nearly overcame her control, as if this room itself had somehow betrayed her. And with that odd distress came the memory: the last time she had stepped over this threshold had been on the night she argued with her father. Though she was usually an even-tempered and obedient child, that one time her temper had matched his.

Mara moved woodenly forward. She stepped onto the slightly raised dais, sank down onto the cushions, and waved away the maids who waited upon her needs. Keyoke, Nacoya, and Jican then entered and bowed formally before her. Papewaio remained at the door, guarding the entrance from the garden.

In hoarse tones Mara said, ‘I wish to rest. The journey was tiring. Leave now.’ The maids left the room at once, but the three retainers all hesitated. Mara said, ‘What is it?’

Nacoya answered, ‘There is much to be done – much that may not wait, Mara-anni.’

The use of the diminutive of her name was intended in kindness, but to Mara it became a symbol of all she had lost. She bit her lip as the hadonra said, ‘My Lady, many things have gone neglected since … your father’s death. Many decisions must be made soon.’

Keyoke nodded. ‘Lady, your upbringing is lacking for one who must rule a great house. You must learn those things we taught Lanokota.’

Miserable with memories of the rage she had exchanged with her father the night before she had left, Mara was stung by the reminder that her brother was no longer heir. Almost pleading, she said, ‘Not now. Not yet.’

Nacoya said, ‘Child, you must not fail your name. You –’

Mara’s voice rose, thick with emotions held too long in check. ‘I said not yet! I have not observed a time of mourning! I will hear you after I have been to the sacred grove.’ The last was said with a draining away of anger, as if the little flash was all the energy she could muster. ‘Please,’ she added softly.

Ready to retire, Jican stepped back, absently plucking at his livery. He glanced at Keyoke and Nacoya, yet both of them held their ground. The Force Commander said, ‘Lady, you must listen. Soon our enemies will move to destroy us. The Lord of the Minwanabi and the Lord of the Anasati both think House Acoma defeated. Neither should know you did not take final vows for a few days more, but we cannot be sure of that. Spies may already have carried word that you have returned; if so, your enemies are even now plotting to finish this house once and finally. Responsibilities cannot be put off. You must master a great deal in a short time if there is to be any hope of survival for the Acoma. The name and honour of your family are now in your hands.’

Mara tilted her chin in a manner unchanged from her childhood. She whispered, ‘Leave me alone.’

Nacoya stepped to the dais. ‘Child, listen to Keyoke. Our enemies are made bold by our loss, and you’ve no time for self-indulgence. The education you once received to become the wife of some other household’s son is inadequate for a Ruling Lady.’

Mara’s voice rose, tension making the blood sing in her ears. ‘I did not ask to be Ruling Lady!’ Dangerously close to tears, she used anger to keep from breaking. ‘Until a week ago, I was to be a sister of Lashima, all I wished for in this life! If the Acoma honour must rely upon me for revenge against the Minwanabi, if I need counsel and training, all will wait until I have visited the sacred grove and done reverence to the memories of the slain!’

Keyoke glanced at Nacoya, who nodded. The young Lady of the Acoma was near breaking, and must be deferred to, but the old nurse was ready to deal with even that. She said, ‘All is prepared for you in the grove. I have presumed to choose your father’s ceremonial sword to recall his spirit, and Lanokota’s manhood robe to recall his.’ Keyoke motioned to where the two objects lay atop a richly embroidered cushion.

Seeing the sword her father wore at festivals and the robe presented to her brother during his ceremony of manhood was more than the exhausted, grief-stricken girl could bear. With tears rising, she said, ‘Leave me!’

The three hesitated, though to disobey the Lady of the Acoma was to risk punishment even unto death. The hadonra was first to turn and quit his mistress’s quarters. Keyoke followed, but as Nacoya turned to go, she repeated, ‘Child, all is ready in the grove.’ Then slowly she slid the great door closed.

Alone at last, Mara allowed the tears to stream down her cheeks. Yet she held her sobbing in check as she rose and picked up the cushion with the sword and robe upon it.

The ceremony of mourning was a private thing; only family might enter the contemplation glade. But under more normal circumstances, a stately procession of servants and retainers would have marched with surviving family members as far as the blocking hedge before the entrance. Instead a single figure emerged from the rear door of her quarters. Mara carried the cushion gently, her white robe wrinkled and dirty where the hem dragged in the dust.

Even deaf and blind she would have remembered the way. Her feet knew the path, down to the last stone fisted into the gnarled ulo tree root beside the ceremonial gate. The thick hedge that surrounded the grove shielded it from observation. Only the Acoma might walk here, save a priest of Chochocan when consecrating the grove or the gardener who tended the shrubs and flowers. A blocking hedge faced the gate, preventing anyone outside from peering within.

Mara entered and hurried to the centre of the grove. There, amid a sculptured collection of sweet-blossomed fruit trees, a tiny stream flowed through the sacred pool. The rippled surface reflected the blue-green of the sky through curtains of overhanging branches. At water’s edge a large rock sat embedded in the soil, worn smooth by ages of exposure to the elements; the shatra bird of the Acoma was once carved deeply on its surface, but now the crest was barely visible. This was the family’s natami, the sacred rock that embodied the spirit of the Acoma. Should the day come when the Acoma were forced to flee these lands, this one most revered possession would be carried away and all who bore the name would die protecting it. For should the natami fall into the hands of any other, the family would be no more. Mara glanced at the far hedge. The three natami taken by Acoma ancestors were interred under a slab, inverted so their carved crests would never see sunlight again. Mara’s forebears had obliterated three families in the Game of the Council. Now her own stood in peril of joining them.

Next to the stone a hole had been dug, the damp soil piled to one side. Mara placed the cushion with her father’s sword and her brother’s robe within. With bare hands she pushed the earth back into the hole, patting it down, unmindful as she soiled her white robe.

Then she sat back on her heels, caught by the sudden compulsion to laugh. A strange, detached giddiness washed over her and she felt alarm. Despite this being the appointed place, tears and pain so long held in check seemed unwilling to come.

She took a breath and stifled the laughter. Her mind flashed images and she felt hot flushes rush up her breasts, throat, and cheeks. The ceremony must continue, despite her strange feelings.

Beside the pool rested a small vial, a faintly smoking brazier, a tiny dagger, and a clean white gown. Mara lifted the vial and removed the stopper. She poured fragrant oils upon the pool, sending momentary shimmers of fractured light across its surface. Softly she said, ‘Rest, my father. Rest, my brother. Come to your home soil and sleep with our ancestors.’

She laid the vial aside and with a jerk ripped open the bodice of her robe. Despite the heat, chill bumps roughened her small breasts as the breeze struck suddenly exposed, damp skin. She reached up and again ripped her gown, as ancient traditions were followed. With the second tear she cried out, a halfhearted sound, little better than a whimper. Tradition demanded the show of loss before her ancestors.

Again she tore her robe, ripping it from her left shoulder so it hung half to her waist. But the shout that followed held more anger at her loss than sorrow. With her left hand she reached up and tore her gown from her right shoulder. This time her sob was full-throated as pain erupted from the pit of her stomach.

Traditions whose origins were lost in time at last triggered a release. All the torment she had held in check came forth, rushing up from her groin through her stomach and chest to issue from her mouth as a scream. The sound of a wounded animal rang in the glade as Mara gave full vent to her anger, revulsion, torment and loss.

Shrieking with sorrow, nearly blinded with tears, she plunged her hand into the almost extinguished brazier. Ignoring the pain of the few hot cinders there, she smeared the ashes across her breasts and down her exposed stomach. This symbolized that her heart was ashes, and again sobs racked her body as her mind sought final release from the horror left by the murder of her father, brother, and hundreds of loyal warriors. Her left hand shot out and grabbed dirt from beside the natami. She smeared the damp soil in her hair and struck her head with her fist. She was one with Acoma soil, and to that soil she would return, as would the spirits of the slain.

Now she struck her thigh with her fist, chanting the words of mourning, almost unintelligible through her crying. Rocking back and forth upon her knees, she wailed in sorrow.

Then she seized the tiny metal dagger, a family heirloom of immense value, used only for this ceremony over the ages. She drew the blade from its sheath and cut herself across the left arm, the hot pain a counterpoint to the sick ache in her chest.

She held the small wound over the pool, letting drops of blood fall to mix with the water, as tradition dictated. Again she tore at her robe, ripping all but a few tatters from her body. Naked but for a loincloth, she cast the rags away with a strangled cry. Pulling her hair, forcing pain to cleanse her grief, she chanted ancient words, calling her ancestors to witness her bereavement. Then she threw herself across the fresh soil over the place of interment and rested her head upon the family natami.

With the ceremony now complete, Mara’s grief flowed like the water streaming from the pool, carrying her tears and blood to the river, thence to the distant sea. As mourning eased away pain, the ceremony would eventually cleanse her, but now was the moment of private grief when tears and weeping brought no shame. And Mara descended into grief as wave after wave of sorrow issued from the deepest reservoir within her soul.

A sound intruded, a rustling of leaves as if someone moved through the tree branches above her. Caught up in grief, Mara barely noticed, even when a dark figure dropped to land next to her. Before she could open her eyes, powerful fingers yanked on her hair. Mara’s head snapped back. Jolted by a terrible current of fear, she struggled, half glimpsing a man in black robes behind her. Then a blow to the face stunned her. Her hair was released and a cord was passed over her head. Instinctively she grabbed at it. Her fingers tangled in the loop that should have killed her in seconds, but as the man tightened the garrotte, her palm prevented the knot in the centre from crushing her windpipe. Still she couldn’t breathe. Her attempt to shout for aid was stifled. She tried to roll away, but her assailant jerked upon the cord and held her firmly in check. A wrestler’s kick learned from her brother earned her a mocking half-laugh, half-grunt. Despite her skill, Mara was no match for the assassin.

The cord tightened, cutting painfully into her hand and neck. Mara gasped for breath, but none came and her lungs burned. Struggling like a fish on a gill line, she felt the man haul her upright. Only her awkward grip on the cord kept her neck from breaking. Mara’s ears sang from the pounding of her own blood within. She clawed helplessly with her free hand. Her fingers tangled in cloth. She yanked, but was too weak to overbalance the man. Through a roar like surf, she heard the man’s laboured breathing as he lifted her off the ground. Then, defeated by lack of air, her spirit fell downwards into darkness.

• Chapter Two • Evaluations

Mara felt wetness upon her face.

Through the confusion of returning senses, she realized Papewaio was gently cradling her head in the crook of his arm as he moistened her face with a damp rag. Mara opened her mouth to speak, but her throat constricted. She coughed, then swallowed hard against the ache of injured neck muscles. She blinked, and struggled to organize her thoughts; but she knew only that her neck and throat hurt terribly and the sky above looked splendid beyond belief, its blue-green depths appearing to fade into the infinite. Then she moved her right hand; pain shot across her palm, jolting her to full memory.

Almost inaudibly she said, ‘The assassin?’

Papewaio inclined his head toward something sprawled by the reflecting pool. ‘Dead.’

Mara turned to look, ignoring the discomfort of her injuries. The corpse of the killer lay on one side, the fingers of one hand trailing in water discoloured with blood. He was short, reed-thin, of almost delicate build, and clad simply in a black robe and calf-length trousers. His hood and veil had been pulled aside, revealing a smooth, boyish face marked by a blue tattoo upon his left cheek – a hamoi flower stylized to six concentric circles of wavy lines. Both hands were dyed red to the wrists. Mara shuddered, still stinging from the violence of those hands upon her flesh.

Papewaio helped her to her feet. He tossed away the rag, torn from her rent garment, and handed her the white robe intended for the end of the ceremony. Mara clothed herself, ignoring the stains her injured hands made upon the delicately embroidered material. At her nod, Papewaio escorted her from the glade.

Mara followed the path, its familiarity no longer a comfort. The cruel bite of the stranger’s cord had forced her to recognize that her enemies could reach even to the heart of the Acoma estates. The security of her childhood was forever gone. The dark hedges surrounding the glade now seemed a haven for assassins, and the shade beneath the wide limbs of the ulo tree carried a chill. Rubbing the bruised and bloody flesh of her right hand, Mara restrained an impulse to bolt in panic. Though terrified like a thyza bird at the shadow of a golden killwing as it circles above, she stepped through the ceremonial gate with some vestige of the decorum expected of the Ruling Lady of a great house.

Nacoya and Keyoke waited just outside, with the estate gardener and two of his assistants. None spoke but Keyoke, who said only, ‘What?’

Papewaio replied with grim brevity. ‘As you thought. An assassin waited. Hamoi tong.’

Nacoya extended her arms, gathering Mara into hands that had soothed her hurts since childhood, yet for the first time Mara found little reassurance. With a voice still croaking from her near strangulation, she said, ‘Hamoi tong, Keyoke?’

‘The Red Hands of the Flower Brotherhood, my Lady. Hired murderers of no clan, fanatics who believe to kill or be killed is to be sanctified by Turakamu, that death is the only prayer the god will hear. When they accept a commission they vow to kill their victims or die in the attempt.’ He paused, while the gardener made an instinctive sign of protection: the Red God was feared. With a cynical note, Keyoke observed, ‘Yet many in power understand that the Brotherhood will offer their unique prayer only when the tong has been paid a rich fee.’ His voice fell to almost a mutter as he added, ‘And the Hamoi are very accommodating as to whose soul shall offer that prayer to Turakamu.’

‘Why had I not been told of these before?’

‘They are not part of the normal worship of Turakamu, mistress. It is not the sort of thing fathers speak of to daughters who are not heirs.’ Nacoya’s voice implied reprimand.

Though it was now too late for recriminations, Mara said, ‘I begin to see what you meant about needing to discuss many things right away.’ Expecting to be led away, Mara began to turn toward her quarters. But the old woman held her; too shaken to question, Mara obeyed the cue to remain.

Papewaio stepped away from the others, then dropped to one knee in the grass. The shadow of the ceremonial gate darkened his face, utterly hiding his expression as he drew his sword and reversed it, offering the weapon hilt first to Mara. ‘Mistress, I beg leave to take my life with the blade.’

For a long moment Mara stared uncomprehendingly. ‘What are you asking?’

‘I have trespassed into the Acoma contemplation glade, my Lady.’

Overshadowed by the assassination attempt, the enormity of Papewaio’s act had not registered upon Mara until this instant. He had entered the glade to save her, despite the knowledge that such a transgression would earn him a death sentence without appeal.

As Mara seemed unable to respond, Keyoke tried delicately to elaborate on Pape’s appeal. ‘You ordered Jican, Nacoya, and myself not to accompany you to the glade, Lady. Papewaio was not mentioned. He hid himself near the ceremonial gate; at the sound of a struggle he sent the gardener to fetch us, then entered.’

The Acoma Force Commander granted his companion a rare display of affection; for an instant the corners of his mouth turned up, as if he acknowledged victory after a difficult battle. Then his hint of a smile vanished. ‘Each one of us knew such an attempt upon you was only a matter of time. It is unfortunate that the assassin chose this place; Pape knew the price of entering the glade.’

Keyoke’s message to Mara was clear: Papewaio had affronted Mara’s ancestors by entering the glade, earning himself a death sentence. But not to enter would have entailed a fate far worse. Had the last Acoma died, every man and woman Papewaio counted a friend would have become houseless persons, little better than slaves or outlaws. No warrior could do other than Papewaio had done; his life was pledged to Acoma honour. Keyoke was telling Mara that Pape had earned a warrior’s death, upon the blade, for choosing life for his mistress and all those he loved at the cost of his own life. But the thought of the staunch warrior dying as a result of her own naïveté was too much for Mara. Reflexively she said, ‘No.’

Assuming this to mean he was denied the right to die without shame, Papewaio bent his head. Black hair veiled his eyes as he flipped his sword, neatly, with no tremor in his hands, and drove the blade into the earth at his Lady’s feet. Openly regretful, the gardener signalled his two assistants. Carrying rope, they hurried forward to Papewaio’s side. One began to bind Papewaio’s hands behind him while the other tossed a long coil of rope over a stout tree branch.

For a moment Mara was without comprehension, then understanding struck her: Papewaio was being readied for the meanest death, hanging, a form of execution reserved for criminals and slaves. Mara shook her head and raised her voice. ‘Stop!’

Everyone ceased moving. The assistant gardeners paused with their hands half-raised, looking first to the head gardener, then to Nacoya and Keyoke, then to their mistress. They were clearly reluctant to carry out this duty, and confusion over their Lady’s wishes greatly increased their discomfort.

Nacoya said, ‘Child, it is the law.’

Gripped by an urge to scream at them all, Mara shut her eyes. The stress, her mourning, the assault, and now this rush to execute Papewaio for an act caused by her irresponsible behaviour came close to overwhelming her. Careful not to burst into tears, Mara answered firmly. ‘No … I haven’t decided.’ She looked from face to impassive face and added, ‘You will all wait until I do. Pape, take up your sword.’

Her command was a blatant flouting of tradition; Papewaio obeyed in silence. To the gardener, who stood fidgeting uneasily, she said, ‘Remove the assassin’s body from the glade.’ With a sudden vicious urge to strike at something, she added, ‘Strip it and hang it from a tree beside the road as a warning to any spies who may be near. Then cleanse the natami and drain the pool; both have been defiled. When all is returned to order, send word to the priests of Chochocan to come and reconsecrate the grove.’

Though all watched with unsettled eyes, Mara turned her back. Nacoya roused first. With a sharp click of her tongue, she escorted her young mistress into the cool quiet of the house. Papewaio and Keyoke looked on with troubled thoughts, while the gardener hurried off to obey his mistress’s commands.

The two assistant gardeners coiled the ropes, exchanging glances. The ill luck of the Acoma had not ended with the father and the son, so it seemed. Mara’s reign as Lady of the Acoma might indeed prove brief, for her enemies would not rest while she learned the complex subtleties of the Game of the Council. Still, the assistant gardeners seemed to silently agree, such matters were in the hands of the gods, and the humble in life were always carried along in the currents of the mighty as they rose and fell. None could say such a fate was cruel or unjust. It simply was.

The moment the Lady of the Acoma reached the solitude of her quarters, Nacoya took charge. She directed servants who bustled with subdued efficiency to make their mistress comfortable. They prepared a scented bath while Mara rested on cushions, absently fingering the finely embroidered shatra birds that symbolized her house. One who did not know her would have thought her stillness the result of trauma and grief; but Nacoya observed the focused intensity of the girl’s dark eyes and was not fooled. Tense, angry, and determined, Mara already strove to assess the far-reaching political implications of the attack upon her person. She endured the ministrations of her maids without her usual restlessness, silent while the servants bathed her and dressed her wounds. A compress of herbs was bound around her bruised and lacerated right hand. Nacoya hovered anxiously by while Mara received a vigorous rub by two elderly women who had ministered to Lord Sezu in the same manner. Their old fingers were surprisingly strong; knots of muscular tension were sought out and gradually kneaded away. Afterwards, clothed in clean robes, Mara still felt tired, but the attentions of the old women had eased away nervous exhaustion.

Nacoya brought chocha, steaming in a fine porcelain cup. Mara sat before a low stone table and sipped the bitter drink, wincing slightly as the liquid aggravated her bruised throat. In the grove she had been too shocked by the attack to feel much beyond a short burst of panic and fear. Now she was surprised to discover herself too wrung out to register any sort of reaction. The slanting light of afternoon brightened the paper screens over the windows, as it had throughout her girlhood. Far off, she could hear the whistles of the herdsmen in the needra meadows, and near at hand, Jican’s voice reprimanding a house slave for clumsiness. Mara closed her eyes, almost able to imagine the soft scratch of the quill pen her father had used to draft instructions to distant subordinates; but Minwanabi treachery had ended such memories forever. Reluctantly Mara acknowledged the staid presence of Nacoya.

The old nurse seated herself on the other side of the table. Her movements were slow, her features careworn. The delicate seashell ornaments that pinned her braided hair were fastened slightly crooked, as reaching upwards to fix the pin correctly became more difficult with age. Although only a servant, Nacoya was well versed in the arts and subtlety of the Game of the Council. She had served at the right hand of Lord Sezu’s lady for years, then raised his daughter after the wife’s death in childbirth. The old nurse had been like a mother to Mara. Sharply aware that the old nurse was waiting for some comment, the girl said, ‘I have made some grave errors, Nacoya.’

The nurse returned a curt nod. ‘Yes, child. Had you granted time for preparation, the gardener would have inspected the grove immediately before you entered. He might have discovered the assassin, or been killed, but his disappearance would have alerted Keyoke, who could have had warriors surround the glade. The assassin would have been forced to come out or starve to death. Had the Hamoi murderer fled the gardener’s approach and been lurking outside, your soldiers would have found his hiding place.’ The nurse’s hands tightened in her lap, and her tone turned harsh. ‘Indeed, your enemy expected you to make mistakes … as you did.’

Mara accepted the reproof, her eyes following the lazy curls of steam that rose from her cup of chocha. ‘But the one who sent the killer erred as much as I.’

‘True.’ Nacoya squinted, forcing farsighted vision to focus more clearly upon her mistress. ‘He chose to deal the Acoma a triple dishonour by killing you in your family’s sacred grove, and not honourably with the blade, but by strangulation, as if you were a criminal or slave to die in shame!’

Mara said, ‘But as a woman –’

‘You are Ruling Lady,’ snapped Nacoya. Lacquered bracelets clashed as she thumped fists on her knee in a timeworn gesture of disapproval. ‘From the moment you assumed supremacy in this house, child, you became as a man, with every right and privilege of rulership. You wield the powers your father did as Lord of the Acoma. And for this reason, your death by the strangler’s cord would have visited as much shame on your family as if your father or brother had died in such fashion.’

Mara bit her lip, nodded, and dared another sip of her chocha. ‘The third shame?’

‘The Hamoi dog certainly intended to steal the Acoma natami, forever ending your family’s name. Without clan or honour, your soldiers would have become grey warriors, outcasts living in the wilds. All of your servants would have finished their lives as slaves.’ Nacoya ended in bitterness. ‘Our Lord of the Minwanabi is arrogant.’

Mara placed her chocha cup neatly in the centre of the table. ‘So you think Jingu responsible?’

‘The man is drunk with his own power. He stands second only to the Warlord in the High Council now. Should fate remove Almecho from his throne of white and gold, a Minwanabi successor would assuredly follow. The only other enemy of your father’s who would wish your ruin is the Lord of the Anasati. But he is far too clever to attempt such a shameful assault – so badly done. Had he sent the Hamoi murderer, his instructions would have been simple: your death by any means. A poison dart would have struck from hiding, or a quick blade between the ribs, then quickly away to carry word of your certain death.’

Nacoya nodded with finality, as if discussion had confirmed her convictions. ‘No, our Lord of the Minwanabi may be the most powerful man in the High Council, but he is like an enraged harulth, smashing down trees to trample a gazen.’ She raised spread fingers, framing the size of the timid little animal she had named. ‘He inherited his position from a powerful father, and he has strong allies. The Lord of the Minwanabi is cunning, not intelligent.

‘The Lord of the Anasati is both cunning and intelligent, one to be feared.’ Nacoya made a weaving motion with her hand. ‘He slithers like the relli in the swamp, silent, stealthy, and he strikes without warning. This murder was marked as if the Minwanabi lord had handed the assassin a warrant for your death with his own family chop affixed to the bottom.’ Nacoya’s eyes narrowed in thought. ‘That he knows you’re back this quickly speaks well of his spies. We assumed he would not find out you were Ruling Lady for a few more days. For the Hamoi to have been sent so soon shows he knew you had not taken your vows from the instant Keyoke led you from the temple.’ She shook her head in self-reproach. ‘We should have assumed as much.’

Mara considered Nacoya’s counsel, while her cup of chocha cooled slowly on the table. Aware of her new responsibilities as never before, she accepted that unpleasant subjects could no longer be put off. Though dark hair curled girlishly around her cheeks, and the robe with its ornate collar seemed too big for her, she straightened with the resolve of a ruler. ‘I may seem like a gazen to the Lord of the Minwanabi, but now he has taught this eater of flowers to grow teeth for meat. Send for Keyoke and Papewaio.’

Her command roused the runner, a small, sandal-clad slave boy chosen for his fleetness; he sprang from his post by her doorway to carry word. The warriors arrived with little delay; both had anticipated her summons. Keyoke wore his ceremonial helm, the feather plumes denoting his office brushing the lintel of the doorway as he entered. Bare-headed, but nearly as tall, Papewaio followed his commander inside. He moved with the same grace and strength that had enabled him to strike down a killer only hours before; his manner betrayed not a single hint of concern over his unresolved fate. Struck by his proud carriage, and his more than usually impassive face, Mara felt the judgment she must complete was suddenly beyond her resources.

Her distress was in no way evident as the warriors knelt formally before her table. The green plumes of Keyoke’s helm trembled in the air, close enough for Mara to touch. She repressed a shiver and gestured for the men to sit. Her maidservant offered hot chocha from the pot, but only Keyoke accepted. Papewaio shook his head once, as though he trusted his bearing better than his voice.

Mara said, ‘I have erred. I will seek to avoid such error again –’ She paused sharply, frowned, and made a nervous gesture that the sisters of Lashima had striven to eliminate. ‘No,’ said Mara, ‘I must do better than that, for at the temple I learned that my impatience sometimes undoes my judgement. Keyoke, between us there must be a hand signal, to be used in times when my life, or the Acoma existence, may be threatened in ways I may not understand. Then perhaps the folly of this day’s events may never be repeated.’

Keyoke nodded, his scarred face impassive, but his manner suggesting approval. After a moment of thought, he ran the knuckle of his index finger along an old scar that creased his jaw. ‘Lady, would you recognize this gesture as such a warning, even in a crowded or public place?’

Mara nearly smiled. Keyoke had chosen a nervous habit of Papewaio’s, his only outward sign of tension. Keyoke never fidgeted; through danger or stress, and even in battle, she supposed, her Force Commander never lost control. If he scratched a scar in her presence, she would notice, and hopefully take heed. ‘Very good. So be it, Keyoke.’

A strained silence developed as Mara shifted her regard to the other warrior before her. ‘My brave Pape, had I not erred in one instance, I would now be dead and all our holdings and retainers left without a mistress.’ Wishing the moment of judgment could be delayed, the girl added, ‘Had I but said let none follow me to the grove …’ Her sentence trailed off, unfinished. All knew that her command would have been obeyed to the letter; duty would have compelled Papewaio to remain in the manor, leaving his mistress to fate’s choices.

Mara said, ‘Now one of my most valued retainers must forfeit his life for loyal and honourable service to his house.’

‘Such is the law,’ Keyoke observed, revealing no hint of sorrow or anger. Relieved that Mara had the strength to do her duty, his plumes of office stilled above his immobile features.

Mara sighed. ‘I expect there is no other way.’

‘None, child,’ said Nacoya. ‘You must specify the manner and time of Pape’s death. You may allow him to fall upon his own sword, though, granting him a warrior’s honour, to die by the blade. He deserves that, at least, mistress.’

Mara’s dark eyes flashed; angry at having to waste such a stalwart servant, she knitted her brows in thought. Nothing was said for a time, then, abruptly, she announced, ‘I think not.’

Keyoke seemed on the verge of speaking, then simply nodded, while Papewaio rubbed his jaw with one thumb, his familiar sign of distress. Shaken by the gesture, Mara continued quickly. ‘My sentence is this: loyal Pape, that you will die is certain. But I shall decide the place and the circumstance of that death in my own time. Until then you shall serve as you always have. Around your head wear the black rag of the condemned, that all may know I have pronounced death upon you.’

Papewaio nodded once. ‘Your will, mistress.’

Mara added, ‘And should fate cause my death before yours, you may fall upon your own blade … or seek to visit revenge upon my murderer, as you see fit.’ She was certain which course Pape would choose. Now, until she selected the time and manner of execution, Papewaio would remain in her service.

Mara regarded her three most loyal followers, half-fearful her unorthodox judgment might be challenged. But duty and custom demanded unquestioned obedience, and no one met her glance. Hoping she had acted with honour, Mara said, ‘Go now, and freely attend your duties.’

Keyoke and Papewaio rose at once. They bowed with stiff-backed formality, turned, and departed. Old and slow of movement, Nacoya performed her obeisance with less grace. She straightened, a hint of approval on her wizened face. ‘That was well done, daughter of Sezu,’ she whispered. ‘You save Pape’s honour and preserve a most loyal servant. He will wear the black rag of shame as if it were a badge of honour.’ Then, as if embarrassed by her boldness, the old nurse left hastily.

The house servant who hovered by the door had to speak twice before Mara noticed her. ‘As my mistress needs?’

Wrung out by the emotions and tensions of the afternoon, the Lady of the Acoma looked up. By the expectant look on the servant’s face, she realized the afternoon had passed. Blue shadows dappled the door screens, lending a moody, sombre air to the decorative paintings of huntsmen. Longing for the simplicity of her girlhood, Mara decided to forego the formality of the evening meal. Tomorrow was soon enough to face the fact that she must sit in her father’s place at the head of the table. She said to the maidservant, ‘Let the evening breezes in, then withdraw.’

The servant hastened to obey her wishes and slid open the large outer screens that faced the west. The orange sun hung low, kissing the purple edge of the horizon. Red-gold light burnished the marshes where the shatra birds flocked at eventide. Even as Mara watched, the ungainly creatures exploded into flight. Within minutes the sky was covered with silhouettes of grace and elegance, whirling across clouds fired with scarlet and pink, and indigo before the approach of night. No man understood the reason for this splendid group dance upon the wing, but the sight was majestic. Though Mara had watched the display a thousand times through girlhood, the birds still took her breath away. She did not notice the tiptoe departure of the maidservant but for the better part of an hour sat absorbed as flocks numbering in the thousands gathered to wheel and turn, bank and glide, while the light slowly faded. The birds landed as the sun vanished. In the silvery twilight they gathered in the marshes, clustered tightly to baffle predators while they slept.

House servants returned in the warm, sweet hour of nightfall, bringing oil for the lamps and hot herb tea. But exhaustion had overtaken Mara at last. They found her asleep amid her cushions, lulled by the familiar sounds of herders driving the needra into shelter. In the distance the sad song of a kitchen slave kneading thyza bread for the morning meal was a soft counterpoint to the faint calls of Keyoke’s sentries as they patrolled the grounds to ensure the safety of Acoma’s newest Lady.

Accustomed to temple discipline, Mara awoke early. She blinked, at first confused by her surroundings; then the rich coverlet thrown over her sleeping mat reminded her: she lay in her father’s chamber as Ruling Lady of the Acoma. Rested, but still aching from the bruises left by the Minwanabi assassin, she rolled on her side. Luxuriant strands of hair caught in her lashes; impatiently she pushed them away.

Dawn brightened the screens that faced east. The whistle of a herder driving needra to pasture cut through daybreak’s chorus of bird calls. Made restless by memories, Mara arose.

Her maids did not hear her stir. Barefoot, and appreciative of the solitude, the girl crossed the chamber and slipped the catch on the screen. She slid it aside with the barest of squeaks. Cool air caressed her skin between the loose folds of her robe. Mara drew in the scent of dew, and moist earth, and the delicate perfume of akasi flowers. Mist rose off the marshlands, rendering the trees and hedges in tones of charcoal, and there the lone silhouette of a herdsman driving the slow-moving needra.

The soldier at his post in the dooryard turned about on his beat, and realized the girl who stood in the white shift and sleep-tangled hair was his ruling mistress. He bowed gravely. Mara nodded absently as he returned to his duty. The girl regarded the wide expanse of her family estates, in a morning as yet unmarred by the noise and bustle of the day. Shortly all who worked upon the estate would be busy about their tasks, and for only a few minutes longer would Mara have this serene glimpse of what was now hers to protect. Her brows knitted in concern as she realized how much she had to learn to manage these holdings. At present she didn’t even know the extent of her inheritance. She knew vaguely that she had properties in other provinces, but she had no knowledge of their disposition and worth. Her father had disliked the details of farming and stock breeding, and while he had overseen his assets and his people’s well-being with wisdom, his conversations with Mara had always been turned to matters of his liking, and of a lighter nature.

When the maid called softly from the doorway of the chamber, Mara shut the screen. ‘I shall dress and breakfast at once,’ she instructed. ‘Then I will see this new hadonra, Jican, in the study.’

The maid bowed and hastened to the wardrobe, while Mara shook the tangles from her hair. Denied the comfort of servants in the temple, Mara reached automatically for her brush.

‘My Lady, don’t I please you?’ The young maid’s bearing revealed distress.

Mara frowned, annoyed by her thoughtless lapse. ‘You please me well enough.’ She surrendered the hairbrush and sat still as the serving girl began to tend her hair. As the maid worked, Mara conceded to herself that her decision to see Jican was as much to avoid Nacoya as to learn more of her estates. The old nurse had a natural tendency to be grumpy in the early morning. And beyond her normal ill temper, Nacoya would have volumes to say to the young girl on her responsibilites as Ruling Lady.

Mara sighed, and the maid paused, waiting for some indication from her Lady if there was a problem. When Mara said nothing, the girl continued, tentatively, as if fearing her Lady’s disapproval. Mara mulled over the questions for Jican, knowing that eventually she would have to contend with Nacoya’s scolding manner. Again she sighed, much as she had when facing one of Nacoya’s punishments for some girlish prank, and again, the maid halted to see if her mistress was displeased. After a momentary pause, the girl resumed arranging her mistress’s hair, and Mara became caught up in the questions of estate management.

Later, dressed and groomed, Mara sat with her elbow propped in a mound of cushions. Her lip was pinched between her teeth in concentration as she reviewed the latest of a sizeable heap of scrolls. Small, sun-bronzed, and nervous as a thyza bird, the hadonra, Jican, looked over her shoulder. Presently he extended a tentative finger.

‘The profits are listed there, my Lady. As you note, they are respectable.’

‘I see that, Jican.’ Mara laid the scroll on her knees as Nacoya ducked her head around the door. ‘I am busy, Nacoya. I will see you shortly, perhaps at noon.’

The old nurse shook her head, her hairpins as crooked as ever. ‘By my lady’s leave, it is now an hour past noon.’

Mara raised her brows in surprise. She sympathized with her father’s impatience with the management of his far-flung holdings. The task was more involved than she had suspected. Yet, unlike her father, she found the intricacies of finance fascinating. With a rueful smile at Nacoya’s impatience, the Lady of the Acoma said, ‘I lost track of time. But Jican is nearly finished. You may wait if you wish.’

Nacoya jerked her head in the negative. ‘Too much to do, Lady. Send your runner for me when you are ready. But do not delay much longer. Decisions must be made, and tomorrow is too late to consider them.’

The nurse departed. Mara heard her pause to mutter to Keyoke, standing guard in the hallway beyond. Then, drawn back to Jican and her lesson in commerce, Mara reached for another scroll. This time she commented on the balance, without the hadonra’s needing to prompt. ‘We may lack warriors, Jican, but we are strong in property, perhaps even prosperous.’

‘It is not difficult, mistress. Sotamu left clear records of the years he served your father. I but follow his example. Thyza crops have been bountiful for three years, while the hwaet blight in the plains provinces has driven high the prices of all grain – thyza, ryge, maza, even milat. With hwaet scarce, only a lazy manager carts his thyza to Sulan-Qu and sells it there. It takes only a little more effort to deal with a factor from a consortium of grain shippers in the City of the Plains.’ The small man sighed in discomfort. ‘My Lady, I mean no disrespect to any of your lofty class, but I have known many powerful lords to dislike the details of business. Yet at the same time they refuse their hadonras and factors the authority to act independently. Therefore we have traded with large houses and avoided the merchants of the city whenever we might. This has left us large profits more often than not.’

The hadonra paused, hands spread diffidently before him. Then, encouraged by the fact that Mara did not interrupt, he went on. ‘And the breeders … they are a mystery. Again I mean no disrespect, but the lords of the north seem especially shortsighted concerning choice of breeding bulls.’ More at ease, the little man shrugged in perplexity. ‘A bull that is ill-tempered and difficult to manage, but that is heavily muscled and paws the ground in fierce display, or with a large’ – he lowered his eyes in embarrassment – ‘ah, male member sells better than a fat one that will breed good meat animals, or a docile one that begets solid draught stock. So animals a cannier man might have castrated or slaughtered bring prime prices, while the best remain here, and people wonder at the quality of our herds. They say “How can the Acoma meat taste so good, when they keep such weak bulls?” I do not understand such thinking.’

Mara smiled slightly, the first relaxed expression she had shown since leaving the temple. ‘Those noble lords seek animals that reflect upon their own virility. I have no such need. And as I have no desire to be mistaken for any of my breeding stock, you may continue to select which cows and bulls to sell without regard for how their traits match up to mine.’ Jican’s eyes opened wide for an instant before he realized the girl was making a joke. He laughed slightly with her. Mara added, ‘You have done well.’

The man smiled his thanks, as if a great weight had been lifted from him. Plainly he enjoyed the responsibilities of his new office and had feared his new mistress might remove him. He was doubly pleased to discover not only that he would continue as hadonra, but that Lady Mara recognized his worth.

But Mara had inherited her father’s instinct for governance, even if it was only just beginning to emerge, and knew she had a competent, perhaps even gifted, estate manager beside her. ‘Your diligence in business brings honour to the Acoma as much as our soldiers’ bravery,’ she finished. ‘You may leave now, and attend your duties.’

The hadonra bowed from a kneeling position until his forehead touched the foor, an obeisance more abject than required from a man in his position. ‘I bask in the sunlight of my mistress’s praise.’

Jican rose and departed as a house servant came forward to gather the scrolls from the floor. Nacoya hurried through the doorway as the hadonra passed by. More servants followed at her heels with trays of refreshments, and with a sigh, Mara wished her overly abundant domestic staff could be transformed into soldiers.

Nacoya bowed, then sat before Mara had a chance to grant her leave. Over the soft clink of the serving ware and the bustle of servants setting down trays, she said, ‘Does my Lady think she should work all morning and take no meals?’ Her old, dark eyes turned critical. ‘You’ve lost weight since you left for the temple. Some men might think you scrawny.’

Still preoccupied with her discussion with Jican, Mara spoke as though she had not heard. ‘I have undertaken to learn of my estates and properties. You chose with care in selecting this Jican, Nacoya. Though I remember Sotamu with affection, this man seems a master of commerce.’

Nacoya’s manner softened. ‘I presumed much, mistress, but decisiveness was necessary at the time.’

‘You did well.’ Mara regarded the array of food, the odour of fresh thyza bread wakening her awareness of hunger. She reached for a slice, frowned, then added, ‘And I’m not scrawny. Our meals at the temple were not so plain as you think.’ She took a bite, chewing thoughtfully. She regarded her indomitable nurse. ‘Now, what must we do?’

Nacoya pursed her lips, a sure sign that she broached what she guessed to be a difficult subject. ‘We must move quickly to strengthen your house, Lady. Without blood family, you make a tempting target for many. Even those with no prior cause for strife with the Acoma might look upon your holdings with an envious and ambitious eye. Land and herds might not tempt a minor lord to move against your father, but against a young girl with no training? “There is a hand behind every curtain,”’ she quoted.

‘“And a knife in every hand,”’ finished Mara. She set her bread aside. ‘I understand, Nacoya. I have thought that we must send for recruits.’

Nacoya shook her head with such sharpness that her precariously pinned hair threatened to come loose. ‘That is a difficult and dangerous proposition to attempt at this time.’

‘Why?’ Mara had forgotten the food in her annoyance. ‘I just reviewed assets with Jican. The Acoma have more than enough wealth to suport twenty-five hundred soldiers. We even have enough to pay for recruiting fees.’

But Nacoya had not been referring to the fact a new master must indemnify the former master for each recruit’s training. Gently she reminded, ‘Too many have died, Mara-anni. The family ties that remain are too few to matter.’ Tsurani tradition required that only a relative of a soldier already serving could join a household’s garrison. As eldest sons tended to assume the same loyalties as their fathers, such recruits were further limited to second or later sons. Bearing these facts in mind, Nacoya added, ‘With the heavy recruiting your father undertook prior to the invasion of the barbarian world, most of the able men have already been called. Any you found now would be young and unseasoned. The Lord of the Minwanabi will act before such as those would prove any benefit.’

‘I have given that some thought.’ Mara reached under the writing table before her and removed a case, delicately carved of costly hardwoods. ‘I sent to the Guild of Porters this morning. The representative who arrives will be told to give this into the hand of the Lord of the Minwanabi, under bond and without message.’ Grim now, Mara handed the box to Nacoya.

Nacoya opened the finely crafted catch and raised an eyebrow at what rested within. A single red cord, darkened with blood from Mara’s hand, lay coiled next to a shatra feather. Closing the box as though it contained a scarlet dhast, the most venomous of serpents, Nacoya said, ‘You openly announce blood feud with House Minwanabi.’

‘I only acknowledge a feud begun ages ago!’ Mara shot back, the murder of her father and brother too near yet for temperance. ‘I am only telling Jingu that another generation of Acoma stands ready to oppose him.’ Embarrassed suddenly by her emotions, the girl stared at the food tray. ‘Mother of my heart, I am inexperienced in the Game of the Council, but I remember many nights when father discussed with Lano those things he plotted, teaching a son each move, and the reason for it. His daughter listened as well.’

Nacoya set the box aside and nodded. Mara looked up, sweating lightly in the heat, but composed. ‘Our enemy the Minwanabi will think this represents something more subtle than it does. He will seek to parry whatever move he thinks we plot, giving us the chance to plan. All I can do now is hope to gain us time.’

Nacoya was silent, then said, ‘Daughter of my heart, your boldness is admirable, yet while this gesture may gain you a day, a week, even more, in the end the Lord of the Minwanabi will move to obliterate all things Acoma.’ The old nurse leaned forward, insistent. ‘You must find allies, and for that, only one course remains open to you. You must marry. Quickly.’

Mara shot erect so abruptly that her knee banged the leg of the writing table. ‘No!’ A strained silence developed, while a dislodged parchment floated in her soup dish.

Nacoya brusquely disregarded her mistress’s temper. ‘You have no other choice, child. As Ruling Lady you must seek out a consort from among the younger sons of certain houses in the Empire. A marriage with a son of the Shinzawai, the Tukareg, or the Chochapan would gain an alliance with a house able to protect us.’ She fell silent a moment, then said, ‘For as long as any could. Still, time might tip the balance.’

Mara’s cheeks flushed, and her eyes widened. ‘I’ve never seen any of the boys you have named. I will not wed a stranger!’

Nacoya stood. ‘You speak now from anger, and your heart rules your mind. Had you never entered the temple, your husband would have been selected from those found acceptable by your father or your brother after him. As Lady of the Acoma, you must do as much for the sake of your house. I leave you to think upon this.’

The nurse wrapped old fingers around the box to be delivered by the Porters’ Guild to the Lord of the Minwanabi. She bowed stiffly and left.

Mara sat in silent rage, eyes fixed unseeing upon the soaked parchment, which slowly sank in the depths of the soup bowl. The thought of marriage evoked nameless fears, rooted somehow in her grief. She shivered, though the day was hot, and snapped her fingers for servants to remove the food trays. She would rest, and contemplate alone upon what her aged nurse had instructed.

Upon Keyoke’s recommendation, Mara remained within the estate house throughout the afternoon. Although she would have preferred to continue her review of the Acoma holdings by litter, her warriors were too depleted; a retinue would be needed to ensure her safety in the open, leaving fewer guards available for routine patrols. Too conscientious to remain idle, the girl studied documents, to acquire further familiarity with the more distant assets of her family. She called for a light meal. The shadows lengthened, and the heat of the afternoon settled into stillness.

In the course of her reading, the Lady of the Acoma had come to understand a subtle but important fact of Tsurani life, one emphasized often by her father but only now appreciated: honour and tradition were but two walls of a great house; power and wealth comprised the other two. And of the four, it was the latter pair that kept the roof from collapsing. Mara clenched her fist against the handle of the scroll. If somehow she could keep those enemies who sought her death at bay, until she could muster the strength to enter the Game of the Council, then … She abandoned the thought unfinished. Keeping the Lords of the Minwanabi and Anasati at bay was the problem at hand. Vengeance was a useless dream unless she could secure her family’s survival.

Deep in thought, Mara did not hear Nacoya call softly from the doorway. ‘Mistress?’ the nurse repeated.

Mara glanced up, startled, and motioned the old nurse inside. She waited, preoccupied and aloof, while the old woman bowed, then knelt before her.

‘Lady, I have thought upon our talk this afternoon, and I beg your tolerance as I advise.’

Mara’s eyes narrowed. She had no desire to resume their earlier discussion of marriage, but the lingering ache of the assassin’s bruises reminded her of the need for prudence. She laid her scrolls aside and gestured for Nacoya to continue. ‘As Ruling Lady of the Acoma, your status would not change with marriage. A husband might sit at your right hand, but he would have no voice in house matters, save that which you permit. He –’

Mara waved her hand. ‘These things I know.’

The old nurse settled more comfortably upon the mat before her mistress. ‘Your forgiveness, Lady. When I spoke earlier, I had forgotten that to a maiden of Lashima the concerns of the world beyond the temple walls would fade from mind. Matters between boys and girls, the meetings with the sons of noble houses, the kissing and the touching games – these things were denied you the past year and more. The thought of men …’ Unnerved by the growing intensity of Mara’s stillness, Nacoya faltered, but forcibly finished. ‘Forgive an old woman’s rambling. You were a maiden – and still are.’

The statement caused Mara to blush. During her time at the temple, she had been instructed to put things of the flesh aside. Nacoya’s concern that the girl might be unable to deal with this question was unfounded, for within Mara the struggle to forget had been difficult. She had often caught herself daydreaming of boys she had known during childhood.

Mara rubbed nervously at the bandage that covered her injured palm. ‘Mother of my heart, I am still a maiden. But I understand what is between a man and a woman.’ Abruptly, as if piqued, she formed a circle with thumb and forefinger of her left hand and inserted her right forefinger with a thrusting motion. Herdsmen, farmers, and soldiers used such a mime to indicate fornication. While not obscene – sex was an unselfconscious fact of Tsurani life – her gesture was common and ill became the Lady of a great house.

Too wise to rise to such provocation, Nacoya said, ‘Mistress, I know you played with your brother among soldiers and herdsmen. I know you have seen the bulls mount the cows. And more.’ Given the close proximity of Tsurani living, many times over the years Mara and her brother had been within earshot of passion, or occasionally had blundered upon an encounter between slaves or servants.

She shrugged, as if the matter were of little account.

‘Child, you understand what passes between men and women, here.’ The nurse raised a forefinger to her own head. Then she pointed to her heart. ‘But you do not understand here,’ and she pointed toward her groin, ‘or here. I may be old, but I remember.

‘Mara-anni, a Ruling Lady is also a warrior. You must master your body. Pain must be conquered.’ The nurse grew reflective with remembrance. ‘And at times passion is more pain than any sword wound.’ Low sunlight through the screen underscored the firmness of her features as she focused once more upon Mara. ‘Until you learn your own body, and master its every need, you are vulnerable. Your strengths, or your weaknesses, are those of House Acoma. A handsome man who whispers sweetly in your ears, whose touch rouses fire in your loins, might destroy you as easily as the Hamoi tong.’

Mara flushed deeply, her eyes ablaze. ‘What are you suggesting?’

‘A Ruling Lady must be free of doubt,’ Nacoya said. ‘After your mother’s death, Lord Sezu took steps to ensure that the desires of the flesh would not tempt him to act foolishly. Lust for the daughter of the wrong house could have destroyed the Acoma as surely as if he had lost a battle.

‘While you were at the temple, he had women of the Reed Life brought to this house –’

‘Nacoya, he had such women stay here when I was younger. I remember.’ Mara drew breath impatiently and, by the heavy scent of akasi, realized that slaves were trimming the gardens beyond the screens.

But the cloying air seemingly had no effect upon Nacoya. ‘Lord Sezu did not always act for himself, Mara-anni. Sometimes the women came for Lanokota, that he might learn the ways of man and woman, and not fall prey to the ambitions of wily daughters and their fathers’ plots.’

The idea of her brother with such women unexpectedly offended Mara; yet the proximity of slaves forced her to maintain propriety. ‘So, again I say what do you suggest?’

‘I will send for a man of the Reed Life, one skilled in –’

‘No!’ Mara cut her off. ‘I will not hear of this!’

Nacoya ignored her mistress. ‘– ways of pleasure. He can teach –’

‘I said no, Nacoya!’

‘– all you need to know, that soft touches and sweet words whispered in the dark will not beguile you.’

Mara verged upon outright rage. ‘I command you: say no more!’

Nacoya bit back her next words. The two women locked eyes and for a long, silent minute neither moved. At last the old nurse bowed her head until her forehead touched the mats upon which she knelt, a slave’s sign of supplication. ‘I am ashamed. I have given offence to my mistress.’

‘Go! Leave me!’

The old woman rose, the rustle of her clothing and her stiff old back reflecting disapproval as she departed. Mara waved away the servant who appeared to inquire after her needs. Alone, surrounded by the mannered and beautifully calligraphed scrolls that honourably masked what actually constituted a cruel and deadly mesh of intrigue, Mara attempted to sort out the confusion created by Nacoya’s suggestion. She could put no name to the fear that rose up to engulf her.

Holding herself, Mara sobbed silently. Bereft of her brother’s comfort, surrounded by conspiracy, threat, and the unseen presence of enemies, the Lady of the Acoma bent her head, while tears soaked the bandage on her hand, stinging the scabs underneath.

A bell chimed faintly. Mara recognized the signal for the slaves to gather at their quarters for the evening meal. The workers who attended the akasi gardens rose and set aside their tools, while behind thin paper screens their mistress pushed aside her scrolls. She daubed at tearswollen eyes, and softly called for servants to open the study and let in the outdoor air.

She rose then, feeling empty and wrung out; but the firm set had returned to her mouth. Thoughtfully biting her lip, the girl rested against the polished frame of the screen. Another solution besides marriage must exist. She pondered, but saw no answer, while the sun lowered, heavy and gold, in the western sky. Heat haze hung over the distant fields, and overhead the green-blue bowl of the sky was empty of birds. Akasi leaves pruned by the workers wilted upon the white stone walk, adding fragrance to the sleepy silence around the estate house. Mara yawned, worn out from grief and worry.

Suddenly she heard shouts. Shocked alert, she straightened. Running figures sped along the road towards the guards’ barracks. Aware such disturbance must bode bad tidings, the girl turned from the screen, just as a serving girl rushed into the study.

A warrior strode at her heels, dusty, sweating, and breathing hard from what amounted to a long run in battle armour. He bowed his head in respect. ‘Mistress, by your leave.’

Mara felt a knot of cold tighten her stomach. Already it begins, she thought to herself. Yet her tearstained face showed poise as she said, ‘Speak.’

The soldier slapped his fist over his heart in salute. ‘Mistress, the Force Commander sends word: outlaws have raided the herd.’

‘Send for my litter. Quickly!’

‘Your will, mistress.’ The maidservant who had preceded the soldier ducked through the doorway at a run.

To the warrior, Mara said, ‘Assemble an escort.’

The man bowed and departed. Mara unwrapped the light, short robe Tsurani noblewomen preferred to wear in the privacy of their homes. She tossed the garment into the waiting hands of one attendant, while another rushed forward with a travelling robe, longer and more modest in cut. Adding a light scarf to hide the unhealed marks on her neck, Mara stepped outside.

Her litter bearers waited silently, stripped to loincloths and sweating in the heat. Four warriors waited with them, hastily fastening helmets and adjusting weapons at their belts. The soldier sent to inform Mara deferentially offered his hand and aided his mistress into the cushioned seat. Then he signalled bearers and escort. The litter swayed and jolted forward as the bearers complied with the need for haste and hurried towards the outer pastures.

The journey ended far sooner than Mara expected, miles inside the borders of the estate. This was a discouraging sign, since bandits would never dare to raid the inner fields if the patrols had been up to strength. With a motion made brisk by outrage, the girl whisked aside gauze curtains. ‘What has passed here?’

Keyoke turned away from two soldiers who were studying the ground for tracks that might indicate the numbers and strength of the renegades. If he noticed her tearstained face, his own leathery features showed no reaction. Imposing in his lacquer armour, his plumed helm dangling by its strap from his belt, he gestured towards a line of broken fencing, which slaves in loincloths laboured to repair. ‘Outlaws, my Lady. Ten, or perhaps a dozen. They killed a herd boy, smashed through the fence, and drove off some needra.’

‘How many?’ Mara gestured, and the Force Commander helped her from the litter. Grass felt strange under her sandals after temple confinement and months of echoing stone floors; also unexpected were the smells of rich earth and khala vines, which twined the fence rows. Mara pushed aside her momentary distraction and greeted Jican’s presence with a frown the image of her father’s when domestic affairs went amiss.

Though the hadonra had had little contact with the former Lord of the Acoma, that look was legend. Sweating, fingers clenched nervously to his tally slate, he bowed. ‘Lady, at most you have lost three or four cows. I can report for certain when the strays are rounded up.’

Mara raised her voice over the bawl of agitated animals as herders whistled, their long steering sticks and hide whips singing through the air as they drove their charges to a secure corral. ‘Strays?’

Cross with Jican’s diffidence, Keyoke answered, his tone better suited to the battlefield on the barbarian world than the trampled earth of a needra meadow. ‘The beasts in this pasture were due for breeding. The smell of blood startled them into stampede, which alerted the herders.’ He paused, eyes raking the distant line of the woods.

The tautness in his manner sharpened Mara’s concern. ‘What troubles you, Keyoke? Sure not the loss of a few cows, or one murdered slave?’

‘No, Lady.’ Eyes still on the woods, the old soldier shook his head. ‘I regret the ruin of good property, but no, the cows and the boy are the lesser problem.’ He paused while an overseer shouted; the team of slaves bent to raise a new post, while the Force Commander related the worst. ‘We have been vigilant since the Hamoi dog sought your life, mistress. These were no petty thieves. They struck, and departed, during daylight, which speaks of advance planning and a thorough knowledge of patrols.’

Mara felt fear like a sliver of ice. Carefully steady, she said, ‘Spies?’ The Lord of the Anasati would not be above staging a false raid by ‘bandits’, if he wished to gauge the strength of the Acoma forces.

Keyoke fingered his sword. ‘I think not, mistress.’ He qualified this with his usual almost uncanny perception. ‘Minwanabi is never so subtle, and the Anasati have no outposts far enough south to have organized an attack so swiftly. No, this seems the work of soldiers, masterless ones surely.’

‘Grey warriors?’ Mara’s frown deepened as she considered the rough, clanless men who often banded together in the mountains. With the Acoma so severely undermanned, such as these under the guidance of a shrewd commander might prove as menacing as any plot by enemies.

Keyoke slapped dust from his cuffs and again regarded the hills, deepening now under shadow of dusk. ‘With my Lady’s permission, I would send out scouts. If grey warriors were responsible for this raid, they sought only to fill their bellies. There will be smoke, and cook fires; or if there are not, we know that word of our weakness travels swiftly to enemy ears.’

He did not mention counterattack. As guardedly subtle as Nacoya was not, his silence on the subject informed Mara that an open show of force might precipitate disaster. Acoma warriors were too few, even to drive out an enclave of needra thieves. How far the Acoma have fallen, Mara thought; but she gave the formal gesture of acquiescence. Keyoke hastened to command his soldiers. The litter bearers straightened in readiness, anxious for a swift return to the dinners they had left cooling on the tables at quarters; but the Lady was not ready to depart. While she knew Nacoya would have scolded her for lingering where her presence was not required, the urgent need for new fighting men seemed the root of immediate threat. Still resisting the idea of marriage as the only solution, she waved Keyoke back to her side.

He bowed, his face shadowed in twilight. ‘Night comes, mistress. If you wish counsel, let me walk as your escort, for your safety might be in jeopardy after dark.’

Warmed by the same qualities Lord Sezu had prized in his Force Commander, Mara smiled. She permitted the old warrior to settle her into the litter, then addressed the problem at hand. ‘Have you begun recruiting more warriors?’

Keyoke ordered the litter bearers forward, then matched his pace with theirs. ‘My Lady, two of the men have contacted cousins in distant cities, asking for younger sons to be sent to your service. In a week or two, I will permit one or two more to do the same. Much more than that and every barracks from Ambolina to Dustari will know the Acoma lack strength.’

Lights bloomed in the shadows as the workers at the fence lit lanterns to continue their labour. As the Lady’s litter turned towards the estate house, one man, then another, then more began tentatively to sing. Mindful that their security relied upon her judgement, Mara said, ‘Should we buy contracts?’

Keyoke halted. ‘Mercenaries? Common caravan guards?’ In a stride he closed the distance the bearers had opened. ‘Impossible. They wouldn’t be dependable. Men who have no blood vows to the Acoma natami would be worse than useless. They owe you no honour. Against the enemies of your father, you need warriors who will obey without hesitation, even die at your order. Show me a man who will die for pay, and I’ll swear to service. No, Lady, a house hires mercenaries only for simple tasks, like guarding warehouses, or patrolling against common thieves. And that is done only to free warriors for more honourable duty.’

‘Then we need mercenaries,’ Mara said. ‘If only to keep grey warriors from growing fat on our needra.’

Keyoke unhooked his helm, fingering the plumes in the growing dark. ‘My Lady, in better times, yes. But not now. Half the men you hired would likely be spies. Though I am loath to yield honour to masterless men, we must wait, and replenish our ranks slowly.’

‘And die.’ Unreconciled to the fact that Nacoya’s suggestion of marriage seemed more and more inevitable, Mara set her teeth in bitterness.

Startled by her mood, one he had never known in the girl before, Keyoke stopped the litter bearers. ‘My Lady?’

‘How long before my Lord of the Minwanabi learns of the extent of the damage done us by his treachery?’ Mara lifted her head, her face a pale oval between the white fall of the curtains. ‘Sooner or later one of his spies will discover the heart of our house is weak, my own estates stripped of all but a handful of healthy warriors as we maintain the illusion of sufficiency. Our distant holdings are stripped bare, held by a ruse – old men and untrained boys parading in armour. We live like gazen, holding our breath and hoping the harulth will not trample us! But that hope is false. Any day now our act will be discovered. Then the Lords who seek our ruin will strike with brute force.’

Keyoke set his helm on his head, fingers slowly and deliberately fastening the strap beneath his chin. ‘Your soldiers will die defending you, my Lady.’

‘My point, Keyoke.’ Once started, Mara could not stifle the hopeless, trapped feelings that welled up within her. ‘They will all die. As will you and Pape, and even old Nacoya. Then the enemies who murdered my father and brother will take my head and the Acoma natami to the Lord of the Minwanabi and … the Acoma will be no more.’

The old soldier lowered his hands in silence. He could not refute his mistress’s word or offer her any sort of comfort. Gently he ordered the bearers forward, towards the estate house, and lights, and the solace of beauty and art that was the heart of Acoma heritage.

The litter rocked as the slaves stepped from the rough meadow onto the raked gravel path. Shamed by her outburst, Mara loosed the ties, and the gauze curtains fluttered down, enclosing her from view. Sensitive to the possibility she might be weeping, Keyoke walked with his head turned correctly forward. Survival with honour seemed an unattainable hope since the death of Lord Sezu and his son. Yet for the sake of the mistress whose life he guarded, he resisted the belief held by the warriors who still lived: that the gods’ displeasure rested upon this house, and the Acoma fortune was irretrievably on the wane.

Mara spoke, jarring the Force Commander from thought with an unexpected tone of resolve. ‘Keyoke, were I to die, and you survive me, what then?’

Keyoke gestured backwards, towards the hills where the raiders had retired with their booty. ‘Without your leave to take my own life, I would be as those, mistress. A wanderer, masterless and alone, without purpose and identity, a grey warrior with no house colour to wear.’

Mara pushed a hand through the curtain, forming a small crack to peer through. ‘The bandits are all like this?’

‘Some. Others are petty criminals, some thieves and robbers, a few murderers, but many are soldiers who have lived longer than their masters.’

The litter drew near the dooryard of the estate house, where Nacoya awaited with a small flock of servants. Mara pressed on quickly. ‘Honourable men, Keyoke?’

The Force Commander regarded his mistress with no hint of reproof. ‘A soldier without a house can have no honour, mistress. Before their masters fell? I assume grey warriors were good men once, but to outlive one’s master is a mark of the gods’ displeasure.’

The litter swept into the dooryard, and the bearers settled it to the ground with a barely perceptible bump. Mara pushed aside the curtains and accepted Keyoke’s assistance. ‘Force Commander, come to my quarters tonight, after your scouts return from the hills. I have a plan to discuss while the rest of the household sleeps.’

‘As you will, mistress.’ Keyoke bowed, fist pressed to his heart in formal salute. But as servants rushed forward with lanterns, Mara thought she caught a hint of approval on the warrior’s scarred face.

Mara’s meeting with Keyoke extended deep into the night. The stars glinted like ice. Kelewan’s moon showed a notched, copper-gold profile at the zenith by the time the old warrior gathered up the helmet that rested by his knee. ‘My Lady, your plan is dangerously bold. But, as a man does not expect aggression from the gazen, it may work.’

‘It must work!’ Mara straightened in the darkness. ‘Else our pride will be much diminished. Asking security in exchange for marriage gains no honour, but only rewards those who plotted treachery against us. Our house would no longer be a major player in the Game of the Council, and the spirits of my ancestors would be unsettled. No, on this I think my father would say, “Safe is not always best.”’

Keyoke buckled his helm with the care he might have used preparing for battle. ‘As my Lady wills. But I don’t envy the task of explaining what you propose to Nacoya.’ He bowed, rose, and strode to the outer screen.

He slipped the catch and stepped out. Moonlight drenched the flower beds in gilt. Silhouetted against their brightness, the Force Commander’s shoulders seemed straighter, his carriage the slightest bit less strained. With relief, Mara perceived that Keyoke welcomed a warrior’s solution to Acoma troubles. He had agreed to risk her plan rather than see her bind the family through marriage to the mercy of a stronger house. She unlinked sweating fingers, afraid and exhilarated at the same time.

‘I’ll marry on my terms, or not at all,’ she murmured to the night. Then she lay back on her cushions. Sleep came reluctantly. Memories of Lano tangled with thoughts of young, boastful sons of great houses, one of whom she must eventually choose as suitor.

Morning dawned hot. With a dry wind blowing from the south, moisture from the rainy season remained only in sheltered hollows, and the herders drove needra to pasture amid ochre clouds of dust. Mara broke her fast in the inner courtyard garden, beneath the generous shade of the trees. The trickle of water from an ornamental fountain soothed her where she sat, dressed in a high-collared robe of saffron. She seemed even younger than her seventeen years, her eyes too bright and her face shadowed with sleeplessness. Yet her voice, when she summoned Nacoya, was crisp with authority.

The old nurse arrived grouchy, as was usual for her in the morning. Mara’s summons had reached her while dressing, for her hair was hastily bound back, and her lips pressed thin with annoyance. She bowed briskly and said, ‘As my mistress wishes?’

The Lady of the Acoma gestured permission to sit. Nacoya declined; her knees pained her, and the hour was too early to argue with a headstrong girl whose stubbornness might lead the honour of her ancestors to ruin.

Mara smiled sweetly at her former nurse. ‘Nacoya, I have reconsidered your advice and seen wisdom in marriage to thwart our enemies’ plots. I ask that you prepare me a list of suitors whom you consider eligible, for I shall need guidance to choose a proper mate. Go now. I shall speak with you on the matter in due time.’

Nacoya blinked, obviously startled by this change of heart. Then her eyes narrowed. Surely such compliance masked some other intent, yet Tsurani ethics forbade a servant the right to question. Suspicious in the extreme, but unable to evade her dimissal, the old nurse bowed. ‘Your will, mistress, and may Lashima’s wisdom guide you.’

She shuffled out, muttering under her breath. Mara sipped chocha, the image of the titled Lady. Then, after an appropriate interval, she called softly to her runner. ‘Send for Keyoke, Papewaio, and Jican.’

The two warriors arrived before her cup was empty, Keyoke in his battle armour, resplendently polished; Papewaio also was armed for action, the black headband of the condemned tied as neatly as the sash from which hung his sword. As Nacoya had guessed, he carried himself like a man awarded an honour token for bravery. His expression was otherwise unchanged. In her entire life there were few things as constant as Papewaio, thought Mara.

She nodded to the servant with the chocha pot, and this time Pape accepted a mug of the steaming drink.

Keyoke sipped his chocha without removing his helm, sure sign he was pondering strategy. ‘All is ready, mistress. Pape oversaw dispensation of weapons and armour, and Strike Leader Tasido oversees the drill. So long as no fighting occurs, your warriors should give a convincing appearance.’

‘Well enough.’ Too nervous to finish her chocha, Mara laid sweating hands in her lap. ‘All we need now is Jican, that the bait may be prepared.’

The hadonra reached the garden at that moment. He bowed, breathless and sweating, as he had come in haste. His clothing was dusty, and he still carried the needra tally he had been marking as the herds were driven to pasture. ‘My apologies, mistress, for my soiled appearance. By your own command, the herders and slaves –’

‘I know, Jican,’ Mara cut in. ‘Your honour is no less, and your devotion to duty is admirable. Now, have we crops and goods in the store sheds to mount a trading caravan?’

Startled by the praise and a wholly unexpected shift of topic, the hadonra squared his shoulders. ‘We have six wagonloads of thyza of poor quality that were held back to fatten the needra, though the ones not bearing can do well enough without. The last calves were weaned two days ago. We have some hides suitable to be sold to the harness makers.’ Jican shifted his weight, careful to hide his puzzlement. ‘The caravan would be very small. Neither the grain nor the goods would realize significant profit.’ He bowed deferentially. ‘My mistress would do better to wait until the marketable produce comes in season.’

Mara ignored the suggestion. ‘I want a small caravan prepared.’

‘Yes, mistress.’ The hadonra’s fingers whitened on the edge of the tally slate. ‘I shall send word to our agent in Sulan-Qu –’

‘No, Jican.’ Turning brusquely, Mara rose and crossed to the rim of the fountain. She extended her hand, letting water spill like jewels through her fingers. ‘I wish this caravan to travel to Holan-Qu.’

Jican directed a startled glance at Keyoke, but saw no hint of disapproval on the Force Commander’s lined face. Nervous, nearly pleading, he urged, ‘Mistress, I obey your desire, but your goods should still be sent to Sulan-Qu, then downriver and on from Jamar by ship.’

‘No.’ Droplets dashed across marble tile as Mara closed her fist. ‘I wish the wagons to travel overland.’

Again Jican glanced at Keyoke; but the Force Commander and his bodyguard stood like sun-cured ulo wood, facing correctly forward. Struggling to master his agitation, the hadonra of the Acoma appealed to his mistress. ‘Lady, the mountain road is dangerous. Bandits lurk in the woods in good number, and we lack enough warriors to drive them out. To guard such a caravan would leave this estate unprotected. I must advise against it.’

With a girlish smile, Mara swung away from the fountain. ‘But the caravan shall not strip our defences. Papewaio will head a company of hand-picked men. A dozen of our better soldiers should be sufficient to keep the bandits away. They’ve raided our herds and will not need food, and wagons without large numbers of guards obviously carry goods of little value.’

Jican bowed, his narrow face immobile. ‘Then we would be wise to send no guards at all.’ His manner concealed sharp disbelief; he dared the dishonour of his mistress’s displeasure to dissuade her from folly.

‘No.’ Mara wrapped dripping fingers in the rich folds of her robe. ‘I require an honour guard.’

Jican’s face twisted with shock that vanished almost instantly. That his mistress intended to go along on this venture indicated that sorrow had stripped her of wits.

‘Go now, Jican,’ said Mara. ‘Attend to my commands.’

The hadonra peered sideways at Keyoke, as if certain the Lady’s demand would provoke protest. But the old Force Commander only shrugged slightly, as if to say, what is to be done?

Jican lingered, though honour forbade him to object. A stern look from Mara restored his humility. He bowed swiftly and departed, his shoulders drooping. Yesterday the Lady of the Acoma had deemed his judgement worthy of praise; now she seemed bereft of the instincts Lashima gave to a needra.

The servants in attendance kept proper silence, and Keyoke moved no muscle beneath the nodding plumes of his helm. Only Papewaio met his mistress’s eye. The creases at the corners of his mouth deepened slightly. For a moment he seemed about to smile, though all else about his manner remained formal and unchanged.

• Chapter Three • Innovations

Dust swirled.

The brisk breeze did nothing to cut the heat, and stinging grit made the needra snort. Wooden wheels squealed as the three wagons comprising Mara’s caravan grated over the gravel road. Slowly they climbed into the foothills, leaving behind the flatlands … and the borders of the Acoma estates. Brightly lacquered green spokes caught the sunlight, seeming to wink as they turned, then slowed as rocks impeded their progress. The drovers yipped encouragement to the needra, who rolled shaggy lashed eyes and tried to balk as pasture and shed fell behind. The slaves carrying Mara’s litter moved steadily, until rough terrain forced them to slow to avoid jostling their mistress. For reasons the slaves could not imagine, their usually considerate Lady was ordering a man-killing pace, determined to see the caravan through the high passes before nightfall.

Mara sat stiffly. The trees that shaded the edge of the trail offered ready concealment, thick boles and tangled brush casting shadows, deep enough to hide soldiers. And the wagons were a severe disadvantage. The keenest ear could hear no rustle of foliage over the needra’s bawl and the grinding creak of wheels, and the sharpest eye became hampered by the ever-present dust. Even the battle-hardened soldiers appeared on edge.

The sun climbed slowly towards noon. Heat shimmer danced over the valley left behind, and scaly, long-tailed ketso scurried into hiding as the caravan rumbled past the rocks where they basked. The lead wagons, then the litter, breasted the crest of a rise. Keyoke signalled a halt. The bearers lowered the litter in the shade of an outcrop, giving silent prayers of thanks, but the drovers and the warriors maintained position under Papewaio’s vigilant eyes.

Ahead, a steep-sided ravine cut the east-facing slopes of the Kyamaka Mountains. The road plunged steeply downward, folded into switchback curves, then straightened to slice across a hollow with a spring.

Keyoke bowed before Mara’s litter and indicated a dell to one side of the hollow, where no trees grew and the earth was beaten and hard. ‘Mistress, the scouts sent out after the raid found warm ashes and the remains of a butchered needra in that place. They report tracks, and evidence of habitation, but the thieves themselves have moved on. No doubt they keep moving their base.’

Mara regarded the ravine, shading her eyes against the afternoon glare with her hand. She wore robes of exceptional richness, with embroidered birds on the cuffs, and a waistband woven of iridescent plumes. A scarf of spun silk covered the welts on her neck, and her wrists clinked with bracelets of jade, polished by the non-human cho-ja to transparent thinness. While her dress was frivolous and girlish, her manner was intently serious. ‘Do you expect an attack?’

‘I don’t know.’ Keyoke’s gaze swept the ravine again, as if by force of concentration he could discern any bandits lying hidden. ‘But we must prepare ourselves for any turn of fate. And we must act as if enemies observe every movement.’

‘Continue on, then,’ said Mara. ‘Have the foot slave broach a water flask. The soldiers and litter bearers may refresh themselves as we march. Then, when we reach the spring, we can make a show of stopping for a drink and so seem more vulnerable than we are.’

Keyoke saluted. ‘Your will, mistress. I will wait here for those who follow. Papewaio will assume command of the caravan.’ Then with a surprising show of concern in his eyes, he added softly, ‘Be wary, my Lady. The risks to your person are great.’

Mara held steady under his gaze. ‘No more than my father would take. I am his daughter.’

The Force Commander returned one of his rare and brief smiles and turned from the litter. With a minimum of disruption, he saw Mara’s orders carried out. The water-bearer hustled through the ranks with his flasks clanking from the harness he wore, dispensing drinks to the soldiers with a speed gained only by years of campaigning. Then Keyoke signalled, and Papewaio gave the command to move out. Needra drivers shouted, wheels creaked, and dust rose in clouds. The wagons rolled forward to the crest, and then over to begin their ponderous descent to the ravine. Only a trained scout would have noted that one less soldier left the camp than had entered.

Mara appeared dignified and serene, but her small painted fan trembled between nervous fingers. She started almost imperceptibly each time the litter moved as one of her bearers shifted grip to sip from the flask carried by the water-bearer. Mara closed her eyes, inwardly pleading Lashima’s favour.

The road beyond the crest was rutted and treacherous with loose stone. Men and animals were forced to step with care, eyes upon the path. Time and again the gravel would turn underfoot and pebbles would bounce and rattle downslope, to slash with a clatter through the treetops. Jostled as her slaves fought the uncertain terrain, Mara caught herself holding her breath. She bit her lip and forced herself not to look back or show any sign that her caravan was not upon an ordinary journey. Keyoke had not mentioned that the Acoma soldiers who followed could not cross this ridge without being observed; they would have to circle round by way of the wood. Until they regained their position a short distance behind, Mara’s caravan was as vulnerable as a jigahen in the courtyard as the cook approaches with his chopping knife.

At the floor of the ravine the wood seemed denser: damp soil covered with blackferns spread between huge boles of pynon trees, their shaggy aromatic bark interlaced with vines. The slaves who carried the litter breathed deeply, grateful for the cooler forest. Yet to Mara the air seemed dead after the capricious breezes of the heights. Or perhaps it was simply tension that made the stillness oppressive? The click as she flicked open her fan caused several warriors to turn sharply.

Here even bare rock was mantled with leaf mould, and footfalls became deadened to silence. Creaking wagon sounds were smothered by walls of vines and tree trunks; this forest gave back nothing.

Papewaio faced forward, his eyes continually scanning the darkness on either side. His hand never strayed from the intricate hide lacings that bound the hilt of his sword. Watching him, Mara thought upon her father, who had died knowing allies had betrayed him. She wondered what had become of his sword, a work of art with its carved hilts and jewelled sheath. The shatra bird of the Acoma had been worked in enamel on the pommel, and the blade fashioned in the jessami method, three hundred needra hide strips, each scraped to paper thinness, then cleverly and painstakingly laminated – for even a needle-point bubble of air would render it useless – to a metal hardness with an edge unmatched save for the legendary steel swords of the ancients. Perhaps some barbarian warlord wore the sword as a trophy now … perhaps he would be an honourable man, if a barbarian was capable of being such. Mara forced away such morbid thoughts. Feeling smothered by the oppressive stillness and the dark foliage overhead, she clenched her hands until her delicate wood fan threatened to snap.

‘Lady, I ask leave to permit the men a chance to rest and replenish the flasks,’ said Papewaio.

Mara started, nodded, and raked back the damp hair that clung to her temples. The caravan had reached the spring without incident. Ponderous wheels ground to a halt; warriors arrayed themselves in defensive positions, while the foot slave and several of the drovers hastened to them with moist cloths and a meal of thyza biscuit and dried fruit. Other men attended to the needra, while the bearers lowered Mara’s litter with stifled grunts of relief. They then stood patiently awaiting their turn to rinse their faces at the spring.

Papewaio returned from the lines of warriors and knelt before his mistress. ‘Would my Lady care to leave the litter and walk about?’

Mara extended her hand, her full sleeve trailing nearly to the ground. The dagger concealed by the garment dragged at her wrist, an unfamiliar lump she carried awkwardly. She had wrestled with Lanokota as a child, to Nacoya’s continual dismay, but weapons had never attracted her. Keyoke has insisted she bring the knife, though the hastily shortened straps had been fashioned for a larger arm and the hilt felt clumsy in her hand. Overheated, and suddenly uncertain, she permitted Papewaio to help her to her feet.

The ground before the spring was pocked by the prints of men and animals that had baked hard in the sun after the rainy season. While Papewaio drew a dipper of water, his mistress jabbed the earth with her sandal and wondered how many of the marks had been made by stock stolen from Acoma pastures. Once she had overheard a trader describe how certain clans in the north notched the hooves of their livestock, to assist trackers in recovering stolen beasts. But until now the Acoma had commanded the loyalty of enough warriors to make such precautions unnecessary.

Papewaio raised a dripping container of water. ‘My Lady?’

Roused from reflection, Mara sipped, then wet her fingers and sprinkled water upon her cheeks and neck. Noon was well past, and slanting sunlight carved the soldiers into forms of glare and shadow. The wood beyond lay still, as if every living thing slept through the afternoon heat. Mara shivered, suddenly chilled as the water cooled her skin. If bandits had lain waiting in ambush, surely they should have attacked by now; an unpleasant alternative caused her to look at her Strike Leader in alarm.

‘Pape, what if the grey warriors have circled behind us and attacked the Acoma estates while we travelled upon the road?’

The warrior set the crockery dipper on a nearby stone. The fastenings of his armour squeaked as he shrugged, palms turned skywards to indicate that plans succeeded only at the whim of fate. ‘If bandits attack your estates, all honour is lost, Lady, for the best of your warriors have been committed here.’ He glanced at the woods, while his hand fell casually to the hilt of his sword. ‘But I think it unlikely. I have told the men to be ready. The day’s heat lessens, but no leafhoppers sing within the wood.’ Suddenly a bird hootedly loudly overhead. ‘And when the karkak cries, danger is near.’

A shout erupted from the trees at the clearing’s edge. Mara felt strong hands thrust her backwards into the litter. Her bracelets snagged the silken hangings as she flung out a hand to break her fall. Awkwardly tumbled against the cushions, she jerked the material aside and saw Papewaio whirl to defend her, his sword gliding from its scabbard. Overturned by his foot, the dipper spun and shattered against a stone. Fragments pelted Mara’s ankles as the swords of her warriors hissed from their sheathes to meet the attack of the outlaws who charged from cover.

Through the closing ranks of her defenders, Mara glimpsed a band of men with drawn weapons running towards the wagons. Despite being dirty, thin, and raggedly clad, the raiders advanced in well-organized ranks. The ravine echoed with shouts as they strove to break the line of defenders. Fine cloth crumpled between Mara’s hands. Her warriors were many times outnumbered. Aware that her father and brother had faced worse battles than this on the barbarian world, she strove not to flinch at the crack of sword upon sword. Papewaio’s voice prevailed over the confusion, his officer’s plume readily visible through the press; at his signal, the battle-hardened warriors of the Acoma gave way with almost mechanical discipline.

The attack faltered. With no honour to be gained from retreat, the usual Tsurani tactic was to charge, not assume a defensive posture; the sight of wagons being abandoned warned the ruffians to caution. Enclosed by the green-armoured backs of her escort, Mara heard a high-pitched shout. Feet slapped earth as the attackers checked. Except for the unarmed drivers, and the cringing presence of the water-bearer, the wagons had been abandoned without dispute; seemingly the warriors had withdrawn to defend the more valuable treasure.

Slowly, warily, the bandits approached. Between the bodies of her defenders, Mara saw lacquered wagons gleam as an enemy force numbering five times greater than her escort closed in a half circle around the spring.

The trickle of water was overlaid by the creak of armour and the fast, nervous breathing of tense men. Papewaio held position by Mara’s litter, a chiselled statue with drawn sword. For a long, tense minute, movement seemed suspended. Then a man behind enemy lines barked an order; two bandits advanced and slices the ties binding the cloth that covered the wagons. Mara felt sweat spring along her spine as eager hands bared Acoma goods to the sunlight. Now came the most difficult moment, since for a time her warriors must hold their line regardless of insult or provocation. Only if the outlaws threatened Mara would the Acoma soldiers answer.

The bandits quickly realized then that no counterattack would be forthcoming. With shouts of exultation, they hefted bags of thyza from the wagon; others edged closer to the Acoma guard, curious to see what treasure would merit such protection. As they neared, Mara caught glimpses of grimy knuckles, tattered cloth, and a crude and mismatched accumulation of weapons. Yet the manner in which the blades were held indicated training and skill, and ruthless need. These were men desperate enough to kill and die for a wagon-weight of poor-quality thyza.

A shout of unmistakable authority cut through the jubilation of the men beside the wagon. ‘Wait! Let that be!’ Falling silent, the bandits turned from their booty, some with sacks of grain still clutched to their breast.

‘Let us see what else fortune had brought us this day.’ A slender, bearded man who was obviously the commander of the band broke through the ranks of his underlings and strode boldly towards the warriors guarding Mara. He paused midway between the lines, sword at the ready and a cocky sureness to his manner that caused Papewaio to draw himself up.

‘Steady, Pape,’ Mara whispered, more to reassure herself than to restrain her Strike Leader. Stifled in the confines of her litter, she watched the bandit make a disparaging gesture with his sword.

‘What’s this? Why should men with swords and armour and the honour of a great house not fight?’ The bandit commander shifted his weight, betraying underlying uneasiness. No Tsurani warrior he had known had ever hesitated to attack, even die, since the highest accolade a fighter could earn was to perish in battle. Another step brought him near enough to catch sight of Mara’s litter. No longer puzzled, he craned his neck, then cried, ‘A woman!’

Mara’s hands tightened in her lap. Head high, her pale face expressionless, she watched the bandit leader break into a wide grin. As if a dozen warriors standing ready to dispute his conquest were no deterrent, he spun to face his companions. ‘A fine day, men. A caravan, and a captive, and not a man’s blood spilled to the Red God!’

Interested, the nearer outlaws dropped sacks of thyza and crowded together, weapons aggressively angled towards the Acoma lines. Their commander turned in Mara’s direction and shouted, ‘Lady, I trust your father or husband is loving and rich, or if not loving, then at least rich. For you are now our hostage.’

Mara jerked aside the curtain of the litter. She accepted Papewaio’s hand and rose, saying, ‘Your conclusion may be premature, bandit.’

Her poise caused the outlaw leader a stab of uncertainty; he stepped back, daunted by her confidence. But the armed company at his back lost none of their eagerness, and more men drifted from the woods to observe the exchange.

Looking past the shoulders of her guards at the slender man, Mara demanded, ‘What is your name?’

Regaining his bantering manner, the bandit leader leaned on his sword. ‘Lujan, Lady.’ He still showed deference to one obviously noble. ‘Since I am destined to be your host for a time, may I enquire whom I have the honour of addressing?’

Several outlaws laughed at their leader’s mock display of manners. Mara’s escort stiffened with affront, but the girl herself remained calm. ‘I am Mara, Lady of the Acoma.’

Conflicting expressions played across Lujan’s face: surprise, amusement, concern, then at last consideration; he lifted his sword and gestured delicately with the point. ‘Then you are without husband or father, Lady of the Acoma. You must negotiate your own ransom.’ Even as he spoke, his eyes played across the woodlands behind Papewaio and Mara, for her confident stance and the smallness of her retinue suggested something out of place. Ruling Ladies of great houses did not place themselves at risk without reason. Something in his posture caused alarm in his men, nearly a hundred and fifty of them, as well as Mara could estimate. Their nervousness grew as she watched; some cast about for signs of trouble, while others seemed on the point of charging Papewaio’s position without order.

As if the situation were not about to turn from dangerous to deadly, Mara smiled and fingered her bracelets. ‘My Force Commander said I might be annoyed by an unkempt lot like you.’ Her voice became peevish. ‘I despise him when he’s right. Now I’ll never hear the end of his nattering!’ At this some of the outlaws burst into laughter.

Papewaio showed no reaction to this unlikely description of Keyoke. He relaxed slightly, aware that his mistress sought to lessen tension and avoid an imminent conflict.

Mara looked at the bandit chieftain, outwardly defiant but secretly attempting to gauge his mood. He insolently levelled his weapon in her direction. ‘How convenient for us you failed to take your adviser’s suggestion seriously. In future you would be well advised to heed such counsel … if you have the opportunity.’

Several of the Acoma soldiers tensed at the implied threat. Surreptitiously Mara touched Papewaio’s back to reassure him, then said girlishly, ‘Why would I not have have the opportunity?’

With a display of mock regret, Lujan lowered his sword. ‘Because, Lady, if our negotiations prove unsatisfactory, you will be in no position to hear your Force Commander again.’ His eyes darted, seeking possible trouble; everything about this raid was askew.

‘What do you mean!’ Mara stamped her foot as she spoke, ignoring the dangerous attitude the bandit’s threat roused in her escort.

‘I mean that while I’m not certain how much value you place on your own freedom, I do know what price you’ll fetch on the slave blocks at Migran.’ Lujan jumped back half a step, sword poised, as Acoma guards barely restrained themselves from answering such insult with attack. Sure of retaliation, the bandits raised weapons and crouched.

Lujan scanned the clearing furiously as both sides stood on the brink of combat. Yet no charge came. A gleam of understanding entered the outlaw’s eyes. ‘You plot something, pretty mistress?’ The words were half question, half statement.

Unexpectedly amused by the man’s impudence, Mara saw that the outlaw’s brash and provocative comments were intended to test her mettle in turn. She realized how closely she had come to underestimating this Lujan. That such a clever man could go to waste! she thought. Striving to buy time, she shrugged like a spoiled child.

Lujan stepped boldly forward and, reaching through the line of her guards, fingered the scarf at her neck with a rough and dirty hand.

Reaction followed instantaneously. Lujan felt sudden pressure against his wrist. Looking down, he saw Papewaio’s sword a hairsbreadth away from severing his hand. The outlaw’s head jerked up so his eyes were level with the Strike Leader’s. In flat tones Papewaio said, ‘There is a limit.’

Lujan’s fingers unclenched slowly, freeing Mara’s scarf. He smiled nervously, adroitly withdrawing his hand, then stepped away from Mara’s guard. His manner now turned suspicious and hostile, for under normal circumstances to touch a Lady in such a way would have cost his life. ‘There is some deception here, Lady. What game is this?’ He gripped his sword tightly, and his men shuffled forward, awaiting only his order to attack.

Suddenly aware that Mara and her officer were closely observing the rocks above the clearing, the bandit chieftain swore. ‘No Ruling Lady would travel with so few warriors! Aie, I am a fool!’

He started forward, and his men tensed to charge, when Mara shouted, ‘Keyoke!’

An arrow sped through the air to strike the ground between the outlaw leader’s legs. He pulled up short, as if reaching the end of a tether. Teetering for an instant on his toes, he awkwardly stumbled back a pace. A voice rang out from above. ‘One step closer to my mistress, and you’re a dead man!’ Lujan spun towards the voice, and high above Keyoke pointed a drawn sword at the bandit chieftain. The Force Commander nodded grimly, and an archer fired a signal arrow over the ridge of the ravine. It rose with a whistling scream, cutting through his shout as he called to his subcommanders. ‘Ansami! Mesai!’

Other shouts answered from the woods. Flanked from the rear, outlaws whirled to catch glimpses of polished armour between the trees, the tall plumes of an officer’s helm at the fore. Uncertain how large a force had been pitched against him, the bandit chieftain reacted instantaneously. In desperation, he whirled and yelled his command to charge the guard around Mara’s litter.

A second shout from Keyoke jerked his offensive short. ‘Dacoya! Hunzai! Advance! Prepare to fire!’

The skyline above the ridge suddenly became notched with the silhouettes of a hundred helms, punctuated by the curved horns of bows. A racket erupted, as if several hundred men advanced through the woods that surrounded the clearing.

The bandit chieftain gestured, and his men stumbled to a halt. Caught at an uncomfortable disadvantage, he scanned the sides of the ravine in a belated attempt to assess his odds of recovery. Only one senior officer stood in clear sight; he had called the names of four Strike Leaders. Eyes narrowed against sun glare, Lujan reviewed the deployment of his own men. The situation was next to impossible.

Mara had abandoned her girlish airs. Without even a glance at her bodyguard for direction, she said, ‘Lujan, order your men to put their weapons down.’

‘Has reason fled?’ Soundly outflanked, and caught in a bottlenecked position, the outlaw leader straightened with a defiant smile. ‘Lady, I salute your plan to rid your estates of pesky neighbours, but even now, I must point out, your person is still at risk. We are trapped, but you could still die with us.’ Even in the face of overwhelming odds, this man sought to wrest circumstance to his advantage. ‘Perhaps we could come to some sort of accommodation,’ he quickly observed. His voice reflected a roguish banter and desperate bluff, but never a trace of fear. ‘Perhaps if you let us depart in peace …’

Mara inclined her head. ‘You misjudge us.’ Her jade bracelets clinked in the stillness as she placed a hand on Papewaio’s arm, moving him slightly aside. Then she stepped past him and her guards, confronting the bandit chief face to face. ‘As Ruling Lady of the Acoma, I have placed myself at risk so that we might speak.’

Lujan glanced at the ridgetop. Perspiration glistened on his forehead, which he blotted on his tattered and dirty sleeve. ‘I am listening, Lady.’

Her guards like statues at her back, Mara caught the ruffian’s gaze and held it. ‘First you must put down your weapons.’

The man returned a bitter laugh. ‘I may not be a gifted commander, my Lady, but I am not an idiot. If I am to greet the Red God this day, still I will not surrender myself and my companions to be hung for stealing some cows and grain.’

‘Though you have stolen from the Acoma, and killed a slave boy, I have not gone to this trouble simply to see you hang, Lujan.’

Though Mara’s words rang sincere, the outlaws were reluctant to believe; weapons shifted among their ranks, and eyes darted from the threatening force on the ridge to the smaller band of soldiers who guarded the girl. As tension intensified, Lujan said, ‘Lady, if you have a point to make, I suggest you speak quickly, else we may find a number of us dying, you and I first among them.’

Without orders, and with no deference for rank, Papewaio closed the distance between himself and his mistress. Gently but firmly he moved Mara back and interposed himself between the Ruling Lady and the bandit leader.

Mara allowed the familiarity without comment. ‘I will guarantee you this: surrender to me and listen to my proposal. If you wish to leave when I have done speaking with you and your men, then you will be free to depart. So long as you never again raid Acoma lands, I will not trouble you. On this you have my word.’

Uncomfortably aware that archers even now trained their weapons upon his person, Lujan regarded his men. To the last, miserable rank, they were undernourished, some scrawny to the verge of ill health. Most carried only a single weapon, a badly made sword or knife; few wore adequate clothing, much less armour. It would be a poor contest if it came to a fight against Mara’s impeccably turned-out guard. The bandit leader glanced from face to scruffy face, meeting the eyes of men who had been his companions through difficult times. Most indicated with a nod they would follow his lead.

Lujan turned back to Mara with a slight sigh and reversed his sword. ‘Lady, I have no house to call upon, but what shred of personal honour I call my own is now in your hands.’ He surrendered his blade to Papewaio. Weaponless and entirely dependent upon her goodwill, he bowed with stiff irony and commended his following to accept his example.

The sun beat down on the green lacquered armour of the Acoma and the ragged shoulders of the bandit company. Only birds broke the silence, and the trickle of the spring, as men studied the girl in her fine robes and jewellery. At last one bandit stepped forth and surrendered his knife; he was followed by another with a scarred leg, and another, until in a wave the company gave over their weapons. Blades tumbled from loosened fingers, to fall with a clatter at the feet of the Acoma warriors. Shortly not an outlaw remainder who carried arms.

When the men of her retinue had collected the swords, Mara stepped forward. The bandits parted to let her past, wary of her, and of the bared blade Papewaio still carried at her shoulder. While on duty, the First Strike Leader of the Acoma had a manner even the bravest man would not lightly challenge. The most reckless of the outlaws maintained their distance, even when the warrior turned his back to lift Mara to the tailboard of the nearest wagon.

Looking down on the ragged company, the Lady of the Acoma said, ‘Is this all of your men, Lujan?’

The fact that she had issued no order to relax the stance of her archers caused the bandit leader to reply with honesty. ‘Most are here. Fifty more maintain our camp in the forest or forage nearby. Another dozen keep watch on the various roads.’

Perched atop the thyza sacks, Mara hastily calculated. ‘You command perhaps twelve dozen here. How many of these were soldiers? Let them answer for themselves.’

Of the band clustered around the rear of the wagon, close to sixty raised their hands. Mara smiled encouragement and said, ‘From what houses?’

Proud to be asked of their former heritage, they shouted, ‘Saydano!’ ‘Almach!’ ‘Raimara!’ and other houses known to Mara, most of which had been destroyed in Almecho’s rise to the office of Warlord, just before Ichindar’s succession to the throne of the Empire. As the clamour died down, Lujan added, ‘I was once Strike Leader of the Kotai, Lady.’

Mara arranged her sleeves and sat; her frown grew pensive. ‘What of the rest of you?’

A man stepped forward. Burly despite the evident ravages of hunger, he bowed. ‘Mistress, I was a farmer from the Kotai estates to the west of Migran. When my master died, I fled, and followed this man.’ He pointed respectfully to Lujan. ‘He has cared well for his own over the years, though ours has been a life of wandering and hardship.’

Mara gestured to the fringes of the company. ‘Criminals?’

Lujan answered for the rest. ‘Men without masters, Lady. Some were free farmers who lost their land for taxes. Others were guilty of misdemeanour. Many are grey warriors. But murderers, thieves, and men without principle are given no welcome in my camp.’ He indicated the surrounding woods. ‘Oh, there are murderers around, have no doubt. Your patrols have grown lax over the last few months, and the wilds provide safe haven. But in my band we have only honest outlaws.’ He laughed weakly at his own jest, adding, ‘If there be such.’ He sobered and regarded Mara keenly. ‘Now, will the Lady tell us why she concerns herself with the fate of such unfortunates as we?’

Mara gave him a smile that hinted at irony, and signalled to Keyoke. The Force Commander called for his troops to relax their battle-ready stance. As the archers on the ridge arose from cover, not even the sun’s glare could hide the fact that they were not warriors at all, but boys and old farmhands and slaves, deceptively clad in bits of armour and green-dyed cloth. What had seemed an army was now revealed for what it was: a single company of soldiers who numbered less than half as many as the outlaws, accompanied by workers and children from the Acoma estates.

A mutter of chagrin arose from the outlaws, and Lujan shook his head with a look of surprise and awe. ‘Mistress, what have you wrought?’

‘A possibility, Lujan … for all of us.’

Afternoon cast long shadows across the grass by the spring where the needra grazed, their tails switching insects. Perched atop the wagon, Mara regarded the ragged band of outlaws who sat on the ground at the fringes of the forest eagerly finishing the meat, fruit, and thyza bread her cooks had distributed among them. Although the meal was better than many had seen in months, the Lady of the Acoma observed a pervasive discomfort among the men. To be taken in battle was to become a slave, that was an incontrovertible way of life. The fact that Acoma honour guaranteed their status as free men, and the generous hospitality that had fed them, earned a guarded if tenuous trust. Yet this strange young Ruling Lady had not spoken of why she had contrived this odd meeting, and the outlaws remained suspicious.

Mara studied the men and found them much like the soldiers, workers, and slaves of her estate. Yet one quality seemed absent; had these men stood dressed in nobles’ robes, still she would have known them for outcasts. As the last crumbs of the meal were consumed, she knew the time had come to speak her offer.

With Papewaio and Keyoke stationed by the wagon at her side, the girl drew a resolute breath and raised her voice. ‘You outlaws, I am Mara, Lady of the Acoma. You have stolen from me, and for that are in my debt. To discharge that obligation honourably, I ask that you listen to my words.’

Seated in the front ranks, Lujan set aside his wine cup and answered. ‘The Lady of the Acoma is gracious to concern herself with the honour of outlaws. All in my company are pleased to agree to this.’

Mara searched the face of the bandit chief, seeking any sign of mockery; instead she found interest, curiosity, and sly humour. She found herself liking this man. ‘You here are counted outcasts for many reasons, so I have been told. All are considered marked unkindly by fate.’ The man with the scarred leg called out in agreement, and others shifted position, leaning raptly forward. Satisfied she had their attention, Mara added, ‘For some of you, misfortune came because you outlived the masters you served.’

A man with bark wristbands shouted, ‘And so we are dishonoured!’

Another echoed him. ‘And so we have no honour!’

Mara raised her hand for silence. ‘Honour is in doing one’s duty. If a man is sent to guard a distant holding and his master dies beyond his capacity to defend him, is he without honour? If a warrior is wounded in battle and lies unconscious while his master dies, is it his fault that he lives and his master does not?’ Mara lowered her arm with a brisk clash of bracelets, her tone changed to command. ‘All who were servants, farmers and workers, raise your hand.’

A dozen or so men complied without hesitation. The others shifted uncertainly, eyes flicking from the Lady to their comrades as they waited to see what she proposed.

‘I have need of workers.’ Mara made an encompassing gesture and smiled, ‘I will allow you to take service with my hadonra.’

Order vanished. All the bandits began speaking at once, from mutters to shouts, for the Lady’s offer was one unprecedented within the Empire. Keyoke waved his sword for silence, even as an emboldened farmer leaped to his feet. ‘When the Lord of the Minwanabi slew my master, I ran away. But the law says I am slave to the conquering Lord.’

Mara’s voice cut clearly over the confusion. ‘The law says no such thing!’ Stillness fell, and all eyes turned towards her. Poised, angry, yet seeming beautiful in her rich robes to men who had known months or even years of deprivation in the wilderness, she resumed with firm encouragement. ‘Tradition says a worker is a spoil of war. The conqueror decides who is more valued as a free man, and who is to be a slave. The Minwanabi are my enemies, so if you are a spoil of war, then I will decide your status. You are free.’

The silence at this point became oppressive, charged like the shimmer of heat waves above sun-baked rock. Men shifted restlessly, troubled by the upset of order as they knew it, for social subtleties dictated every walk of Tsurani life. To change the fundamental was to sanction dishonour and risk the unbinding of a civilization that had continued unbroken for centuries.

Mara sensed the confusion among the men; glancing first to the farmers, whose faces wore transparent expressions of hope, then to the most sceptical and hardened of the grey warriors, she borrowed from the philosophies learned at Lashima’s temple. ‘The tradition we live by is like the river that springs from the mountain lands and flows always to the sea. No man may turn that current uphill. To try would defy natural law. Like the Acoma, many of you have known misfortune. Like the Acoma, I ask you to join in turning the course of tradition, even as storms sometimes cause a river to carve a new bed.’

The girl paused, eyes veiled by her lashes as she stared down at her hands. This moment was critical, for if even one outlaw cried out in opposition to what she had said, she would lose control. The silence weighed upon her unbearably. Then, without a word, Papewaio calmly removed his helm; the black scarf of the condemned upon his brow lay bare for all to see.

Lujan exclaimed in astonishment, startled as the rest to find a man condemned to death standing in a position of honour in the retinue of a great Lady. Proud of Pape’s loyalty, and the gesture he had made to show that shame could be other than tradition dictated, Mara smiled and laid light fingers on the shoulder of her Strike Leader. ‘This man serves me with pride. Will others among you not do the same?’ To the farmer displaced by the Minwanabi she said, ‘If the Lord who vanquished your master wishes another farmer, then let him come for you.’ With a nod towards Keyoke and her warriors, she added, ‘The Minwanabi will have to fight to take you. And upon my estate you shall be a free man.’

The farmer sprang forward with a wild cry of joy. ‘You offer your honour?’

‘You have my honour,’ answered Mara, and Keyoke bowed to affirm his loyalty to her command.

The farmer knelt where he stood, and offered crossed wrists to Mara in the time-honoured gesture of fealty. ‘Lady, I am your man. You honour is my honour.’ With those words the farmer announced to all that he would die as readily as any of her warriors to defend the Acoma name.

Mara nodded formally, and Papewaio left her side. He wended his way through the bandit company until he stood before the farmer. By ancient ritual, he placed a cord about the man’s wrists, then removed the mock bonds, showing that the man who might have been kept as slave was instead accepted as a free man. Excited talk broke out as a dozen other men crowded around. They knelt in a circle around Papewaio, eager to accept Mara’s offer and the hope of a new life.

Keyoke detailed a warrior to gather the newly sworn workers together; Acoma guards would accompany them back to the estate, where they would be assigned housing and field work by Jican.

The remaining company of bandits watched with the hope of the desperate as Mara spoke again. ‘You who were outlawed, what were your crimes?’

A short man, pale with sickness, called hoarsely. ‘I spoke ill of a priest, Lady.’

‘I kept grain back from the tax collector for my hungry children,’ cried another.

The list of petty misdemeanours continued until Mara had ascertained the truth of Lujan’s claim that thieves and murderers found no sanctuary within his company. To the condemned she said, ‘Leave as you will, or take service as free men. As Ruling Lady of the Acoma, I offer you pardon within the borders of my lands.’ Although imperial amnesty was beyond the authority of any Ruling Lord or Lady, Mara knew no minister of the imperial government would likely raise objections over the fate of a lowly, next-to-nameless field hand – especially if he had never heard of such an amnesty.

The pardoned men grinned at the cleverness of the Lady and hurried to Papewaio to swear service. They knelt gladly. As Acoma workers they might face threat from Mara’s enemies, but danger in service to a great house was preferable to their bitter existence as outlaws.

The shadows of the afternoon lengthened beneath the trees; golden light scattered through where the branches were thinnest. Mara looked at the depleted ranks of the outlaw band, and her gaze settled at last upon Lujan. ‘You soldiers without masters, listen carefully.’ She paused, waiting while the jubilant talk of the newly sworn workers dwindled down the road. Delicate next to Papewaio’s muscled fitness, Mara challenged the gaze of the roughest and most unkempt among Lujan’s followers. ‘I offer a thing no warrior in the history of the Empire has known: a second beginning. Who among you will return to my estate, to shape anew his honour … by kneeling outside the sacred grove and offering oath to the natami of the Acoma?’

Silence descended upon the glade, and for a moment it seemed that no man dared to breathe. Then pandemonium erupted. Men shouted questions and were shouted down in turn by others who claimed to know answers. Dirty hands jabbed the air to emphasize points of law, and feet stamped earth as excited men jumped to their feet and surged towards Mara’s wagon.

Papewaio stopped the rush with drawn sword, and, hurrying from the wagons, Keyoke shouted a command.

Silence fell; slowly the bandits settled. Quiet once more, they waited for their leader to speak.

Respectful of Papewaio’s vigilance, Lujan bowed carefully before the girl who threatened to upset the life he had known past recovery. ‘Lady, your words are … astonishing … generous beyond imagining. But we have no masters to free us of our former service.’ Something akin to defiance flickered in his eyes.

Mara noticed and strove to understand. Though roguish, even handsome beneath his grime, the outlaw bore himself in the manner of a man threatened; and suddenly the girl knew why. These men simply owned no sense of purpose, living from day to day, without hope. If she could make them take fate back into their own hands and swear loyalty to the Acoma, she would gain warriors of inestimable value. But she had to make them believe once more.

‘You have no service,’ she said gently to Lujan.

‘But we gave oath …’ His voice fell to barely above a whisper. ‘No offer like this has been made before. We … Who among us can know what is honourable?’ Lujan seemed half pleading, as if he wished Mara to dictate what was right; and the rest of the company looked to their chieftain for guidance.

Suddenly feeling every inch the unseasoned seventeen-year-old novice of Lashima, Mara turned to Keyoke for support. The old warrior did not fail her. Though he was as discomforted as Lujan by this abuse of tradition, his voice remained calm. ‘A soldier must die in the service of his master, or be dishonoured, so it is held. Yet, as my Lady points out, if fate decrees otherwise, no man is fit to argue with the gods. If the gods do not wish you to serve the Acoma, their displeasure will certainly be visited upon that house. My Lady assumes that risk, in her own behalf, and yours. With or without the favour of heaven, all of us will die. But the bold among you will chance misfortune,’ and he paused for a long moment before adding, ‘and die as soldiers.’

Lujan rubbed his wrists, unconvinced. To anger the gods was to invite utter ruination. At least as an outlaw the miserable existence he would endure for life might expiate his failure to die with his master, perhaps earning his soul a higher station when it was next bound to the Wheel of Life.

As the bandits reflected the nervousness of their leader, each plainly divided within himself, Papewaio scratched his scar and said thoughtfully, ‘I am Papewaio, First Strike Leader of the Acoma. I was born to service with this house, but my father and grandfather counted kin with cousins serving the Shinzawai, the Wedewayo, the Anasati …’ He paused and, when no man spoke, added the names of several more houses.

Lujan stood frozen, his eyes half-closed, as behind him a man called out. ‘My father served the house of Wedewayo, where I lived before I took service with the Lord of the Serak. His name was Almaki.’

Papewaio nodded, thinking quickly. ‘Was this the Almaki who was cousin to Papendaio, who was my father?’

The man shook his head in disappointment. ‘No, but I knew him. He was called Little Almaki, as my father was Big Almaki. I had other cousins of my father serving there, though.’

Papewaio beckoned the man from the ranks, and out of Mara’s hearing they spoke quietly for several minutes. After an animated interval the bandit broke into a broad grin, and the Strike Leader turned to his mistress with a deferential bow. ‘My Lady, this is Toram. His uncle was cousin to a man who married a woman who was sister to the woman who married my father’s nephew. He is my cousin, and worthy of service to the Acoma.’

Mara hid a smile behind her sleeve. Pape and the obviously clever Toram had seized upon a simple fact of Tsurani culture. Second and third sons of soldiers by tradition were free to take service with houses other than those in which they were born. By treating this grey warrior as if he were a youth, Papewaio had circumvented Lujan’s question of honour entirely. When Mara had recovered her decorum, she said simply, ‘Pape, call your cousin into our service, if he is willing.’

Papewaio caught Toram’s shoulder in brotherly fashion. ‘Cousin, you are called to serve the Acoma.’

The man raised his chin with newfound pride and crisply announced his acceptance. ‘I will come!’

His words touched off a rush among the outlaws, as men crowded around the dozen Acoma soldiers and begun exchanging the names of relations. Again Mara fought down a smile. Any Tsurani of noble birth, or any soldier, knew his bloodlines back several generations, as well as cousins, aunts, and uncles, most of whom he knew by name only. When two Tsurani met for the first time, an elaborate inquiry after the health of relatives began, until histories were exchanged and the two strangers knew who stood higher upon the social ladder. It was almost impossible that, after sufficient conversation, some tenuous relationship would not be discovered, allowing the grey warriors to be called to service.

Mara allowed Papewaio to offer his hand so she might step down from the wagon. Bandits gathered in knots around different soldiers, happy voices shouting out questions and answers as relationships were determined. Lujan shook his head in wonder and faced Mara, his eyes alight with poorly masked emotions. ‘My Lady, your ruse to capture us was masterful and … alone would have made me proud to serve you. This …’ His hand waved at the milling, excited men. ‘This is beyond understanding.’ Nearly overcome by his feelings, he turned away a moment, swallowed hard, then looked back at Mara, his face again a proper Tsurani mask, though his eyes were shining. ‘I do not know if … it is right, but I will take service gladly, and I will make Acoma honour mine. My life will be yours as you will, my Lady. And should my life be short, it will be a good life, to again wear house colour.’ He straightened, all trace of his rakishness put aside. He studied Mara for a long moment, his eyes locked with hers. The words he spoke then impressed her ever afterward with their sincerity. ‘I hope fate spares me death for many years, mistress, that I may stay near your side. For I think you play the Game of the Council.’ Then with a near loss of self-control, moisture gleamed in his eyes and his face split in a grin. ‘And I think the Empire will never be the same for it.’

Mara stood silent, while Lujan bowed and moved away to compare relations with the Acoma soldiers and find common kin, no matter how distant the tie. Then, with Keyoke’s permission, he sent runners to camp to call the rest of his following to the spring. The latecomers arrived in varying states of disbelief. But when they saw the Lady seated upon the thyza wagon as though she held court in the pillared shade of her estate hall, their scepticism lost impetus. Convinced in the end by the exuberance of comrades already sworn to Acoma service, they recited lists of cousins and in-laws until they, too, had regained the honour of house service.

Afternoon passed, the trees above the rim of the ravine striping the clearing with lengthened shadows. The heat lessened and the late breezes bore a woodsy scent, as the branches above the caravan rustled restlessly. Satisfied with the events of the day, Mara watched a flock of gauguin birds swoop down to feed upon insects blown along by the breeze. As they finished their meal and sped raucously off to the south, she realized how tired and hungry she was.

As though thinking in concert with her, Keyoke paused by Mara’s side. ‘Lady, we must leave directly if we are to reach your estate by nightfall.’

Mara nodded, longing now for soft cushions in place of rough bags of thyza. Weary as she was of the stares of hungry men, the privacy of her litter seemed suddenly inviting. Loudly enough for the men to hear, she called, ‘Let us be away, then, Force Commander. There are Acoma soldiers here who would like a bath, a hot meal, and rest in a barracks where the fog won’t dampen their blankets.’

Even Mara could not keep her eyes free of moisture at the shout of unalloyed joy that sprang from the lips of the bandits. Men who so recently had stood ready to fight against her now were eager to defend her. Silently the girl gave thanks to Lashima. This first victory had come easily; but against the strength of the Minwanabi, and the scheming cleverness of the Anasati, in the future her success would come with difficulty, if at all.

Jostled back against the cushions as her slaves raised her litter, Mara felt limp. She allowed herself a deep sigh of relief. All the doubt and fear suppressed through armed confrontation and negotiation with the bandits surfaced behind the privacy of her curtains. Until now she had not dared admit how frightened she had been. Her body quivered with unexpected chills. Aware that dampness would mar the fine silk of her gown, she sniffed and suppressed a maddening urge to weep. Lano had ridiculed her emotional outbursts as a child, teasing her about not being Tsurani – though women were not expected to hold themselves in check the way men did.

Remembering his laughing banter and the fact that she had never seen her father betray any uncertainty, any doubts or fears, she closed her eyes, immersing herself in an exercise to calm herself. The voice of the teaching sister who had schooled her at the temple of Lashima seemed to answer within her mind: learn the nature of self, accept all aspects of self, then the mastery can begin. Denial of self is denial of all.

Mara sniffed again. Now her nose dripped also. Pushing her sleeves out of harm’s way, she silently admitted the truth. She had been terrified, most so at the moment she had thought the bandits might be attacking her estates while she futilely searched the hills for them.

Again Mara scolded herself: this is not how a Ruling Lady acts! Then she understood the root of her feelings: she didn’t know how a Ruling Lady was expected to act. Lacking any schooling in governance, she was a temple girl thrust into the deadliest contest in the Empire.

Mara reviewed an early lesson from her father: doubts could only cripple one’s ability to act decisively; and in the Game of the Council, to hesitate was to die.

To avoid dwelling on weakness, Mara peered through a crack in the curtains at the newly recruited Acoma retainers. Despite soiled clothing, haggard faces, arms like sticks, and eyes of frightened animals, these men were soldiers, yet now Mara recognized a quality in them she had failed to see before: these outlaws, even the roguish Lujan, had been just as frightened as she. Mara found that perplexing, until she reconsidered the ambush from their perspective. Despite being outnumbered, the Acoma warriors were all battle-tested soldiers, properly armed and fit. Some of these grey warriors hadn’t seen a decent meal in a year. And their weapons were an odd assortment of discarded, stolen, or crudely fashioned swords and knives. Only a few had anything like a shield and none wore body armour. No, thought Mara, many of those sad, desperate men must have expected some of their unfortunate brotherhood to die this day. And each would have wondered if he’d be among that number.

The men marched unaware of their mistress’s observation. Their faces revealed a play of other emotions, among them hope and the fear of false hope. Mara sank back upon the cushions, absently focusing on the colourful design of the litter’s tapestry covering. How had she suddenly come to see all these things in these men’s faces? Could her fear have triggered some perceptiveness she had not understood within herself? Then, as if her brother, Lanokota, sat beside her, memory of his presence filled her mind. If she closed her eyes she could hear him whisper, ‘You are growing up, little sister.’

Suddenly Mara could no longer contain her tears. Now her weeping did not arise from sorrow but from a jubilant upwelling similar to the joy she had known when Lano had last won the summer games in Sulan-Qu. On that day Mara and her father had cheered like peasants from the stands, for a time unconcerned with the mores of social status and decorum; only now her emotions swept her tenfold more powerfully.

She had won. She had tasted her first victory in the Game of the Council, and the experience whetted her wits, left her yearning for something more and greater. For the first time in life she understood why the great Lords strove, and even died, for the chance to gain in honour.

Smiling through the tracks of tears, she allowed the motion of the litter to relax her body. No one she faced across the invisible gaming table of Tsurani politics would know of this move, at least not directly and not for some time. But where Minwanabi treachery had reduced the Acoma home garrison to fifty soldiers, she now commanded the loyalty of better than two hundred. Since grey warriors were scattered in hideouts the breadth of the Empire, she could employ these men to recruit more. Should she gain but another week from her sending the box with the feather and cord to the Lord of the Minwanabi, then she might have five hundred or more soldiers to offset his next threat. Mara felt joyous. She knew victory! And two voices arose from memory. On one hand the teaching sister said, ‘Child, be wary of the lure of power and triumph, for all such things are transitory.’ But Lano’s impetuous voice urged her to appreciate her accomplishments. ‘Enjoy victory while you can, Mara-anni. Enjoy it while you can.’

Mara lay back, tired enough to set her mind at rest. As her slaves bore her homeward through the deepening shadows of sundown, she smiled slightly in the privacy of her litter. While she knew that her situation was still almost hopeless, she was going to take Lano’s advice. Life must be savoured while it lasted.

The wagon wheels creaked and turned and the needra snorted, while the dust of tramping men turned the air ochre and gold. Sunset faded slowly to twilight as Mara’s unlikely caravan with its ill-assorted company of men-at-arms made its way down the road to the Acoma estate.

The torches by the main door of the estate house lit a courtyard thrown into confusion. The earlier arrival of the formerly masterless workers and farmers has busied Jican and his staff to the exclusion of all else, as meals and quarters and jobs were meted out to all. When Mara’s caravan returned on the edge of nightfall with Lujan’s ragged, underfed warriors, the hadonra threw his hands in the air and begged the gods for an end to an impossible day’s work. Hungry himself, and by now resigned to a tongue-lashing from his wife for missing his children’s bedtime, Jican dispatched word to the cooks to prepare yet another cauldron of thyza, and to cut cold meat and fruit. Then, shorter than most of his charges and having to make up the difference by being tirelessly energetic, the hadonra began the task of taking names and tallying which men needed clothing, and which sandals. While Keyoke began the task of sorting the newcomers into companies, Jican and his assistants assembled a team of slaves to sweep out an empty barracks and fetch blankets for sleeping mats. Without formal instructions from anyone, Lujan took on the role of officer, reassuring or bullying where necessary to help get his company settled.

Into this chaos of milling men and needra wagons sailed Nacoya, her hairpins askew in her agitation. She gave Lujan’s raffish company a brisk glance and homed in at once on Mara’s litter. Weaving a determined path through the press, she arrived just as Papewaio assisted his Lady from the cushions to her feet. Stiff from sitting and dazzled by the torchlight, Mara observed that silent moment when her Strike Leader surrendered her care to Nacoya. The invisible line between the domains of bodyguard and nurse lay approximately where the stone walk from the main doors of the house touched the roadway.

Nacoya accompanied her mistress back to her quarters, one step behind her shoulder as was proper. Once through the door, the old nurse gestured for the maids to withdraw. Then, her expression obscured by the wavering shadows cast by the oil lamps, she slid the screen firmly closed.

As Mara paused to remove the layers of bracelets and jewellery she had worn to seem frivolous throughout her ruse, the nurse addressed her with flint in her voice. ‘What is this sudden return? And who are all those ragged men?’

Mara tossed a brooch and jade necklace into a coffer with a rattle. After tension, and danger, and the intoxicating euphoria of success, the nurse’s peremptory manner set her teeth on edge; keeping firm rein on herself, she twisted off her rings one by one and related in detail the plan she had executed to replenish the Acoma garrison.

As the last ornament fell with a click into the pile, Nacoya’s voice rose. ‘You dared stake the future of the Acoma on so ill-conceived a plan? Girl, do you know what you risked?’ Mara turned to face Nacoya and found the nurse’s face reddened and her hands clenched. ‘Had one of those bandits struck a blow, your men would have died defending you! And for what? So that a scant dozen warriors would remain to defend the empty shell of this house when the Minwanabi came? Who would have defended the natami? Not Keyoke or Papewaio. They would have died!’ Near-hysterical with anger, the old woman shook. ‘You could have been used by every one of them! You could have been killed!’

Nacoya’s voice rose in pitch as if she was unable to contain her anger. ‘Instead of this … reckless adventure … you … you should have been deciding upon an appropriate marriage.’ Reaching out, Nacoya grabbed Mara’s arms and began to shake her, as if she were still a child. ‘If you continue in your headstrong foolishness, you’ll find your prospects limited to the son of some wealthy fertilizer merchant looking to buy a name for his family, while cut-throats and needra thieves guard your estate!’

‘Enough!’ Startled by the hardness of her own voice, Mara pushed the old woman away; and the sharpness of her manner cut through Nacoya’s tirade as a scythe cuts through grass. The old woman bit off her protests. Then, as she seemed on the verge of speaking again, Mara said, ‘Enough, Nacoya.’ Her tone was low and deadly, barely masking her anger.

Mara faced her old nurse. She stepped forward until scant inches separated them and said, ‘I am the Lady of the Acoma.’ The statement reflected little of the ire of the moment before; softening faintly, Mara studied the face of the woman who had raised her from childhood. Earnestly she said, ‘Mother of my heart, of all who serve me, you are most loved.’ Then her eyes narrowed and fire returned to her words. ‘But never forget for an instant you serve me. Touch me like that, address me in such a manner again, Nacoya – ever – and I will have you beaten like a kitchen slave. Do you understand?’

Nacoya wavered an instant and slowly bowed her ancient head. Wisps of loosened hair fluttered at the nape of her neck as she stiffly knelt before Mara until both old knees rested upon the floor. ‘I beg my mistress’s forgiveness.’

After an instant, Mara bent forward and put her arms around Nacoya’s shoulders. ‘Oldest and dearest companion, fate has changed our roles. Only days ago I was novitiate in the temple and you were my teacher and mother. Now I must rule over you, even as my father did. You serve me best by sharing your great wisdom. But in the end I alone must choose which path to follow.’

Hugging the trembling old woman close, Mara added, ‘And should you doubt, remember that I was not captured by bandits. Pape and Keyoke didn’t die. I chose well. My plans succeeded, and now we gain back some of what was lost.’

Nacoya was silent, then whispered, ‘You were right.’

Mara released the old woman and clapped her hands twice. Maids hurried in to tend their mistress while the old nurse rose from the floor. Shaking still from her reprimand, Nacoya said, ‘Lady, have I permission to withdraw?’

Mara lifted her chin as a maidservant began unfastening the collar of her robe. ‘Yes, old one, but attend me after I bathe. We have much to discuss. I have given much thought to what you’ve advised. The time has come for me to make arrangements for marriage.’

Nacoya’s dark eyes opened wide. On the heels of Mara’s sudden wilfulness, this concession came as a total surprise. ‘Your will, my Lady,’ she said. She bowed and departed, leaving the maids to their work. In the dimness of the corridor the old woman straightened her spine with relief. At last Mara had come to accept her role as Ruling Lady. And while the vehemence of Mara’s rebuke had stung sharply, the release of responsibility for a child who must manage the honour of her ancestors brought a sense of profound satisfaction. The old nurse nodded to herself. If prudence was not among Mara’s virtues, the girl at least had inherited her father’s astonishing boldness and courage.

An hour later the Lady of the Acoma rose from her bathing tub. Two maids wrapped her glistening body in towels while another restored the screens that partitioned the wooden tub from the rest of the sleeping quarters. Like all Tsurani great houses, the number and size of rooms were strictly a function of where and how screens and doors were placed. By sliding another screen door, Mara’s sleeping chamber could be reached from the study without leaving the central apartments.

The air was still hot. Mara chose the lightest of her silk robes, barely covering mid-thigh and almost transparent, with no heavy embroidery. The day had tired her greatly, and she wished for simplicity and relaxation. Later, in the cooler hours of late evening, she would don a longer, heavier outer robe. But in the presence of her maids, and Nacoya, Mara could enjoy the immodest but comfortable lounging robe.

At her Lady’s command a maid pulled aside a screen that opened onto a small section of the inner court garden, always available to Mara for reflection and contemplation. While a dozen servants could hurry on errands through the central courtyard of the house, the clever placement of screening shrubs and dwarf trees provided a cranny of green where their passing would not intrude.

Nacoya appeared as Mara seated herself before the opening. Silent, and showing signs of nervous exhaustion, the girl motioned for the nurse to sit opposite her. Then she waited.

‘Mistress, I have brought a list of suitable alliances,’ Nacoya opened.

Mara continued to stare out the door, her only movement a slight turning of her head as the maidservant in attendance combed out her long, damp hair. Presuming permission to continue, Nacoya unrolled the parchment between her wrinkled hands. ‘Mistress, if we are to survive the plots of the Minwanabi and the Anasati, we must choose our alliance with care. We have three choices, I think. We can ally ourselves with an old and honoured name whose influence has gone into decline. Or we can choose a husband from a family newly powerful and wealthy, but seeking honour, tradition, and political alliance. Or we might seek a family that would ally because your family’s name would add to some ambition of their own in the Great Game.’

Nacoya paused to allow Mara the chance to reply. But the young woman continued to stare into the gloom of the garden, the faintest of frowns creasing her brow. The maid finished with the combing; she bundled Mara’s hair into a neat knot, bowed, and withdrew.

Nacoya waited. When Mara still made no move, she cleared her throat, then opened the scroll with well-concealed exasperation and said, ‘I have ruled out those families who are powerful but lack tradition. You would be better served by a marriage to a son of a house that in turn has powerful allies. As this means possible entanglements with the allies of the Minwanabi and, especially, the Anasati, there are few truly acceptable houses.’ She looked again at Mara, but the Lady of the Acoma seemed to be listening solely to the calls of the insects that wakened into song after sundown.

As servants made rounds to trim the lamps, Nacoya saw that the frown had deepened upon Mara’s face. The old nurse straightened the parchment with a purposeful motion. ‘Of all those likely to be interested, the best choices would be …’

Mara suddenly spoke. ‘Nacoya. If the Minwanabi are the single most powerful house in the Empire, which house is the most powerfully politically connected?’

Nacoya pushed her list into her lap. ‘The Anasati, without question. If the Lord of the Anasati did not exist, this list would be five times as long. That man has forged alliances with more than half the powerful Lords in the Empire.’

Mara nodded, her eyes fixed upon the air as if it held something only she could see. ‘I have decided.’

Nacoya leaned expectantly forward, suddenly afraid. Mara had not even taken the list, let alone looked at the names Nacoya had dictated to the scribe. Mara turned and focused her gaze keenly upon Nacoya’s face. ‘I shall marry a son of the Lord of the Anasati.’

• Chapter Four • Gambits

The gong was struck.

The harmonics of its sound reverberated through the breadth of the great hall of the Anasati. Hung with ancient war banners, the room was thick with the smell of old waxed wood and generations of intrigue. The vaulted tiled roof hid shadows so deep the place was sombre even with candles lit. The hall itself swallowed echoes, to the point where the assembled courtiers and retainers, seated and waiting, seemed barely moving statues who made no sound.

At the head of a long, carpeted centre aisle, upon an imposing dais, sat the Lord of the Anasati in his formal robes of office. Beneath the tiered weight of his ceremonial headdress, perspiration glossed his forehead; his bone-thin features showed no trace of discomfort, though his attire was stifling in the heat of midday. A dozen sashes of scarlet and yellow restricted his breathing, while the bows that flared out like starched wings behind him bound his shoulders; each time he moved, servants were obliged to rush to his side and adjust them. In one hand he held a large carved wand, its origins lost in time, sign of his supremacy as Ruling Lord. Across his knees rested the ancient steel sword of the Anasati – a relic second in importance only to the family natami – handed down from father to son since the days of golden bridge and the Escape, when the nations first come to Kelewan. Now its weight bore down cruelly on old knees, an inconvenience he must endure along with all the other trappings of office while waiting for the upstart Acoma girl to arrive. The room was a veritable oven, for tradition dictated that all the screens must remain closed until the formal entry of the suitor.

Tecuma, Lord of the Anasati, inclined his head slightly, and his First Adviser, Chumaka, hurried to his side. ‘How long?’ the Lord whispered impatiently.

‘Quite soon, master.’ The loyal counsellor bobbed like a nervous rodent and elaborated. ‘The gong has rung thrice, as Mara’s litter reached the outer gate, while it entered the main house, and now as it passes through the gate to the courtyard. The fourth chime will sound when she is admitted to your august presence, Lord.’

Irked by stillness when he longed for music, the Lord of the Anasati said, ‘Have you given thought to what I asked?’

‘Of course, my Lord. Your wish is my desire. I have conceived of several appropriate insults to answer the Acoma bitch’s presumption.’ The adviser licked his lips and added, ‘To ask for your son Jiro as consort … well, that would be brilliant’ – the Lord of the Anasati shot his adviser a curious look, which caused his ritual gown to list left. Servants flocked to him and fussed until it was properly adjusted once again. Chumaka continued his comment – ‘Brilliant, if it had even the remotest hope of success. A marriage with any of your sons would bind you to the Acoma in an alliance. Not only would that deplete your resources to protect them, but then the witch could turn her full attentions to the Lord of the Minwanabi.’

The Lord of the Anasati curled his lips with thinly disguised distaste for the man just named. ‘I’d marry her myself if I thought she had even the remotest possibility of defeating that jaguna in the Game of the Council.’ He frowned at mention of the foul-smelling carrion eater; then his knuckles tightened on his wand as he thought aloud, ‘But what does she hope to gain? She must know I would never allow her to take Jiro as consort. The Acoma is the only family older than mine, after the Five Great Families. If it falls, and by some chance one of the Five Greats falls …’

Chumaka finished the often repeated wish of his Lord ‘… then the Anasati becomes one of the Five Greats.’

Tecuma nodded. ‘And someday one of my descendants might rise to be Warlord.’ He cast a glance to the left, where his three sons waited upon a slightly lower dais.

Closest to his father sat Halesko, heir to the Anasati mantle. Beside him was Jiro, the most clever and able of the three, already likely to marry any one of a dozen great Lords’ daughters, perhaps even a child of the Emperor’s, bringing the Anasati another powerful political tie. Next to him slouched Buntokapi, intently picking dirt from under his thumbnail.

Studying the lumpish visage of his youngest, the Lord of the Anasati whispered to Chumaka, ‘You don’t suppose by some act of providence she’d take Bunto, do you?’

The counsellor’s thin eyebrows rose. ‘Our intelligence indicates she may be a bright girl, if unseasoned, but for her to ask for Bunto as consort would … show a little more cleverness than I’d expect, Lord.’

‘Cleverness? In asking for Bunto as consort?’ Tecuma twisted around in disbelief, causing his bows to droop and a second flurry of fussing from his servants. ‘Are you bereft of your senses?’

Regarding the stolid third son, the counsellor said, ‘You might be tempted to say yes.’

With a look close to open regret, the Lord of the Anasati sighed. ‘I would have to say no, I suppose, wouldn’t I?’

The First Adviser clicked his tongue through his teeth. ‘Even Bunto would bring her too much political power. Consider, if the Minwanabi dog accidentally killed Bunto while obliterating the Acoma … don’t forget the mess he made by sending that Hamoi assassin.’

The Lord of the Anasati nodded. ‘Yes, I’d be forced to see his family suffer vengeance. It’s a shame Minwanabi bungled Mara’s assassination, but I guess that was to be expected: the man’s worse than a jaguna; he has the subtlety of a needra bull in a breeding pen.’ Tecuma shifted in an attempt to find a more comfortable position, and his bows teetered. As servants began their approach, he froze, keeping his costume in place. ‘I didn’t mind humbling her father – Sezu was certainly eager to get the best of me whenever he could. But that was certainly within the rules of the game. This business of blood feuds …’ He shook his head, and the heavy headdress slipped almost beyond his ability to prevent its fall. Chumaka reached out and gently steadied it while Tecuma continued. ‘And going to all this trouble to humiliate his brat seems a waste of time.’ Looking around the hot chamber, he said, ‘Gods, all these musicians, and not one note of entertainment.’

Fussy with detail to the point of being pedantic, Chumaka said, ‘They must remain ready to play the formal entrance music, Lord.’

The Lord of the Anasati sighed in exasperation, his frustration only partly due to the droning of his counsellor. ‘I was enjoying that series of new compositions the musicians had prepared this month. Now the entire day is wasted. Perhaps they could play something until Mara arrives?’

Chumaka shook his head slightly as perspiration rolled over the bulb of his nose. ‘Lord, any breach of etiquette and the Lady of the Acoma gains from the insult.’ Though by nature more patient than his master, even he wondered why the girl’s retinue was taking so long to cross the central court. To the nearest servant he whispered, ‘Find out what’s causing the delay.’

The man bowed and slipped unobtrusively through a side door. He returned to the First Adviser within moments with his report. ‘The Lady of the Acoma sits before the doors, master.’

Short-tempered at last, Chumaka whispered, ‘Then why doesn’t someone ring the gong and admit her?’

The servant glanced uncomfortably at the main entrance, guarded still by the costumed forms of the ceremonial door openers. With a helpless gesture he whispered, ‘She complained of the heat and ordered scented damp towels and cool drinks brought for herself and her retinue so they could all refresh themselves before their appearance, master.’

Chumaka considered the Anasati court, all of whom had been sitting for over an hour in the sweltering heat of midday in a closed room. Inwardly he reconsidered his estimation of Mara. Her tardiness could be a clever manipulation, calculated to goad an opponent to petty anger, gaining her an advantage.

Tecuma said, ‘Well, how long can it take to drink a cup of water?’

The servant said, ‘My Lord, the Lady’s request caught us by surprise. It’s taken time to fetch drink for so large a retinue.’

The Lord of the Anasati exchanged glances with his First Adviser. ‘Just how large is her retinue?’ asked Chumaka.

The servant reddened; uneducated, he could not count reliably past twenty. Still, he did his best to answer. ‘She brought five personal maids, and an old woman of some rank. I saw two officers with plumed helms.’

‘Which means no fewer than fifty warriors.’ Tecuma leaned towards his First Adviser and spoke so low and quickly he almost hissed. ‘I thought you had informed me that her entire home garrison had been reduced to fewer than fifty warriors.’

Chumaka blinked. ‘My Lord, our spy in the Minwanabi household indicated that the battle which killed Sezu and his son also obliterated the main strength of the Acoma.’

The servant looked uncomfortable at being within earshot of this conversation, but Chumaka ignored that fact. Louder he said, ‘Then would the Lady of the Acoma dare bring her entire remaining force with her?’

Obviously wishing to be elsewhere, the servant answered, ‘Sir the hadonra said she brought more. To our shame’ – seeing the Lord of the Anasati tense at the suggestion that this lack of preparation threw dishonour on his house, the servant quickly amended his report – ‘the shame of your poor servants, of course, my Lord – she was obliged to leave another one hundred warriors in camp outside the gates of my Lord’s estates, as we had no ready accommodations for them.’

To the servant’s profound relief, Chumaka waved him away, while the Lord of the Anasati’s mood shifted from umbrage at a servant’s possible slight of honour to alarm at the implication of what he had just been told. ‘The Acoma Force Commander’ – his hand moved in a slight circle as he searched his memory for the name – ‘Keyoke, is a seasoned campaigner, and no fool. If Mara brings a hundred and fifty warriors with her, we must assume that twice that number remain to guard her main estates. Sezu’s reserve garrison must have been far larger than we judged.’ His eyes reflected growing irritation, then narrowed with a hint of suspicion. ‘Our spy is either in the employ of the Minwanabi or incompetent. Since you were the one who convinced me to accept one not born of this house into so sensitive a position of trust, I charge you with responsibility for making enquiries. If we are betrayed, we must know at once.’ The heat and the discomfort were bad enough, but Tecuma recalled the expense and difficulty he had endured to place that spy in the Minwanabi lord’s house. His eyes fixed on his First Adviser. ‘Clearly I see you may have steered us to a bad course.’

Chumaka cleared his throat. He made a show of cooling himself with a decorative fan, to hide his lips from any who might read them. ‘My Lord, please don’t judge hastily. That agent has served us dependably in the past and is remarkably well placed.’ He paused obsequiously and licked his teeth. ‘Far more likely our Lady Mara has found a way to mislead the Minwanabi lord, which would explain why our agent provided bad intelligence. I will dispatch another agent. He will return with verification of what I have surmised, or news that a traitor is dead.’

Tecuma subsided, like an irritable killwing slowly allowing ruffled feathers to return to quiescence. At that moment the fourth gong rang at last. Servants stationed inside the hall slowly opened the doors to the court, while Chumaka intoned the ancient ritual of greeting a suitor. ‘We welcome one to our house, like light and wind, warmth and rain, a bringer of life into our hall.’ The words were an ancient formality, reflecting nothing of the true Anasati feeling toward the Acoma. In the Game of the Council the forms must always be observed. A light breeze stirred the hangings. The Lord of the Anasati almost audibly sighed in relief. Chumaka spoke louder, so his master’s slight lapse of manners would be masked. ‘Enter, suitor, and tell us your desire. We offer drink and food, warmth and comfort.’ Chumaka smiled inwardly at the last. No one needed or desired additional warmth this day, and Mara would certainly find little comfort before the Anasati Lord. He turned his attention to those entering the hall.

Timed to the beat of a single drum, grey-robed bearers entered through the door furthest from the Lord’s dais. The flat, open litter they carried was piled high with cushions; upon these Mara sat motionless. The musicians struck up the entrance song of the suitor. While the irritatingly simple melody repeated itself, the Anasati court studied this slight girl carried at the head of an impressively garbed retinue, a girl who wore the mantle of one of the proudest names in the Empire. Like the Lord who was her host, she was dressed in a fashion dictated by tradition, dark hair bound up high and held with shell- and gem-decorated pins, her face seemingly perched on a stiff, beaded collar. Her formal gown beneath was starched into pleats, with large bows of Acoma green, and floor-length sleeves. Yet for all her makeup and heavy, embroidered clothing, the girl looked unruffled by the pomp or the heat.

On Mara’s left, but one pace behind, walked Nacoya, now wearing the mantle of Acoma First Adviser. On Mara’s right marched three officers, armour gleaming brightly from new lacquer and fresh polish. Their helms were bedecked with magnificent new plumes. With them came a command of fifty warriors. Equally splendid in newly polished armour, they marched on either side of Mara’s litter.

The soldiers paused in a neat array at the foot of the dais, a splash of green amid the scarlet and yellow of the Anasati. One officer remained with the soldiers while the other two accompanied Mara’s litter up three steps to the dais. There the slaves set their burden down, and two rulers confronted each other, one a cord-thin, irritated man and the other a slight girl who bargained for her very survival.

Chumaka continued his formal greetings. ‘The Anasati bid welcome to our most exalted guest, the Lady of the Acoma.’

Nacoya replied as tradition dictated. ‘The Acoma give thanks to our most excellent host, the Lord of the Anasati.’ Despite her age, the old woman bore up well under the weight of the formal costume and the heat. Her voice was clear, as if she had been born to the role of First Adviser rather than nurse.

Now the formal greetings were exchanged, Tecuma pressed on to the point of the meeting. ‘We have your petition before us, Lady of the Acoma.’ A hush fell over the waiting courtiers, for Tecuma’s words offered a slight insult; to name the marriage proposal a petition implied that Mara’s social rank was inferior, and she within his power to reward or punish.

But the girl upon the ceremonial litter answered without a moment’s hesitation. She chose a tone and phrase commonly employed when filling an order with a merchant. ‘I am pleased you have no difficulty in meeting our requirements, Lord Tecuma.’

The Lord of the Anasati straightened slightly. This girl had wits and was unfazed by her welcome. Still, the day was long and hot, and the sooner this ridiculous matter was put behind, the sooner he could take to a cool pool, perhaps with some music while he bathed. Yet even with an avowed enemy the amenities must be observed. He motioned impatiently with his wand of office.

Chumaka responded with an unctuous smile and a barely perceptible bow. ‘What, then, does the Lady of the Acoma propose?’ Had Mara’s father lived, Sezu would have conducted negotiations for his son’s or daughter’s hand. But as Ruling Lady, she must contract all marriages within her house, even her own, from employing the marriage brokers who initiated the contact, to the formal meeting with the Lord of the Anasati.

Nacoya bowed, so shallow a movement that the returned insult was apparent. ‘The Lady of the Acoma seeks –’

‘A husband,’ interrupted Mara.

A stir rippled across the room, quickly stilled to a state of keen attention. All had expected to hear this presumptuous Acoma ruler request a consort, one who by law would not share in her rule.

‘A husband?’ Chumaka raised his brows, openly curious at this turn of events. Evidently this proposal surprised the Acoma First Adviser as well, for the old woman shot a glance of astonishment at the girl for an instant before regaining her formal composure. Chumaka could almost see where this unexpected turn might lead, but not quite, causing him the discomfort of an unreachable itch.

Mara responded in her own behalf, her voice sounding small in the spacious hall of the Anasati. ‘I am too young for this weighty responsibility, my Lord. I was to have been a sister of Lashima scant moments before this terrible honour was thrust upon me. My ignorance must not become a danger to the Acoma. With full knowledge of what I do, I seek a son of the Anasati to return with me. When we are wed, he shall be Ruling Lord of the Acoma.’

The Lord of the Anasati was caught speechless. Of all possible requests, this one had not been anticipated. For in one breath this girl not only had removed herself from power, but had also effectively given over control of her family to the Anasati, who numbered among her father’s oldest political enemies. So unexpected was this request, a chorus of whispers broke out among those assembled in the hall. Quickly recovering his poise, the Lord of the Anasati silenced his courtiers with a sharp glance and the barest wave of his ceremonial wand.

He stared hard at the face of this girl who had come to seek the hand of one of his sons, then said bluntly, ‘You seek to cast your honour to my house, Lady. May I know why?’

The Anasati courtiers waited motionless for the reply. The only movement in the room was a sudden, sparkling reflection as sunlight through the doorway caught on gem-decorated costumes. Ignoring the dazzle, Mara lowered her eyes as if ashamed. ‘My position is weak, Lord Tecuma. The Acoma lands are still strong and rich, but I am only a girl, with few resources. If my house is to become a lesser power, then at least I may choose allies. My father’s greatest enemy was the Lord of the Minwanabi. This is no secret. That he and you are presently at peace is only a matter of the moment. Sooner or later you must clash.’ Her small hands clenched in her lap, and her voice rose with resolve. ‘I would ally with anyone who might one day crush the man responsible for my father’s death!’

The First Adviser to the Lord of the Anasati turned so none in the hall could see his face – it was a given that at least one of the Acoma guards would prove to be a spy who could read lips. He whispered into the ear of the Lord Tecuma, ‘I don’t believe a word of this, my Lord.’

Lord Tecuma inclined his head and answered through clenched teeth. ‘I don’t either. Yet if this girl takes Jiro as Lord of the Acoma, I gain a great house as a lifetime ally, my son rises to a rank above any I could hope for, and she’s right: sooner or later we shall have to have a final accounting with Jingu of the Minwanabi. And if we destroy the Minwanabi, a son of mine will be Lord of one of the Five Great Families.’

Chumaka shook his head in the barest motion of resignation. His Lord would be thinking that someday descendants of his in two houses might contend for the office of the Warlord. Tecuma continued his reasoning. ‘Besides, she will be but the wife of the Ruling Lord. Her husband will dictate Acoma policy. No, Chumaka, whatever Mara may plot, this is too good an opportunity to pass by. I do not think this girl clever enough to outwit us once Jiro rules the Acoma.’

Tecuma glanced at his three sons and found Jiro studying Mara with interest. By the intensity of his expression, the second son found both the rank and the girl intriguing; a sensible youngster, he should welcome the marriage. Presently the boy sought his father’s gaze and nodded yes. Jiro’s expression was a little too avid and his nod too emphatic for Tecuma’s liking. The boy knew power was a hairsbreadth from his grasp and was openly coveting it. Tecuma almost sighed; Jiro was young and would learn. Still, there was a discordant note in all this the old man didn’t like. For an instant he considered sending the girl away, leaving her to the not too tender mercies of the Minwanabi. Ambition prevented him. For his son to reach a heretofore unreachable rank, combined with the pleasure of seeing the daughter of an old enemy brought firmly, and finally, to heel, overturned his last vestige of doubt. Motioning his hovering counsellor aside, the Lord of the Anasati turned to face Mara and said, ‘You have chosen wisely, daughter.’ By naming her ‘daughter’, he irrevocably sealed his acceptance of her offer of marriage before witnesses. ‘Whom to you seek to wed?’

Nacoya barely concealed her outrage, the vigorous twitch of her fan being less to cool her face than to hide the angry shaking of her hand at this betrayal. Mara smiled. Looking nothing so much as a child whose parents had banished dreams of demons in the night, she allowed two officers to aid her in rising. According to tradition, she must now pick the bridegroom. Tecuma of the Anasati had no misgivings as his future daughter-in-law stepped from her litter. He disregarded the sudden agitation of his First Adviser as the girl moved towards Jiro, mincing steps being all her voluminous ceremonial costume would allow. Light caught in her jewelled headdress as she passed before cushions upon which the three sons sat in full court raiment. Halesko and Buntokapi watched their brother Jiro with different expressions, Halesko’s being something close to pride, while the youngest showed open indifference.

Mara completed the formal bow of a girl to her betrothed and stepped forward. Without hesitation her hand fell upon the shoulder of the Anasati’s third son and she said, ‘Buntokapi of the Anasati, will you come and be Lord of the Acoma?’

Chumaka muttered, ‘I knew it! Just as she stepped from the litter, I knew it would be Bunto.’ He turned his attention to Nacoya, who still hid behind her fan, but whose eyes had changed from showing rage to showing nothing. Chumaka felt a sudden stab of uncertainty. Could they all have so grossly underestimated this girl? Recovering his poise, he returned his attention to his Lord.

In the Lord’s place of honour, perched above the silent, stunned ranks of the Anasati court, Tecuma sat at a loss. His bullnecked third son rose and stepped awkwardly to Mara’s side, a smile of smug self-congratulation on his face. The Lord of the Anasati urgently motioned for Chumaka to attend him and, as the First Adviser did so, whispered into his ear. ‘What is this? Why Bunto, of all my sons?’

Chumaka kept his voice low. ‘She seeks a husband she can control.’

Tecuma frowned with stormy displeasure. ‘I must stop her.’

‘Lord, you cannot. The ritual has gone too far. If you recant your formal acceptance, you must kill the Lady and all her warriors here and now. I must remind you,’ he added, looking as though his collar had suddenly grown too tight as he surveyed the fifty Acoma guards only a half-dozen steps away, ‘your own soldiers stand outside this building. Even if you survived such a bloodletting – which seems unlikely – you will forfeit all honour.’

The last remark stung, for Tecuma recognized the truth. Even if he ended Mara’s existence now, he would have no moral position left; his word within the council would be meaningless, and his considerable power wasted to nothing. Flushed with ire, he whispered waspishly, ‘If only that idiot Minwanabi had killed the bitch last month!’ Then, as Mara glanced with apparent innocence in his direction, he forced himself to regroup. ‘We must turn her cleverness against her and seize the advantage, Chumaka. Jiro is still free to make a strong alliance, and Bunto …’ his voice fell silently. ‘I have never thought he would amount to much. Now he will be Lord of a great house. A malleable husband this girl may have gained, but she is an inexperienced virgin from Lashima’s order. Buntokapi shall become her overlord, the Ruler of the Acoma, and he is my son. For the honour of the Anasati, he will do as I require.’

Chumaka watched the unlikely couple return across the dais. He did his utmost to mask his own displeasure as Buntokapi bent his bandy legs and settled awkwardly beside Mara on the Acoma litter. Already his blunt and bored expression had changed to one none present in the hall had ever seen; the boy’s lips curled with pride that bordered upon arrogance. Something long dormant in Buntokapi was now awake, that same desire for power which Jiro had shown but a moment before. Only for Buntokapi this was no dream but a thing now in his grasp. From the set of his eyes and the sudden self-assurance in his smile, he would clearly die before he let that power escape him. To Tecuma the First Adviser whispered, ‘I hope you are right, my Lord.’

Looking rumpled under the elaborate layers of his costume, the Ruling Lord of the Anasati did not acknowledge the comment. Yet all through the formalities, as Mara’s retainers completed the betrothal ritual and left the hall, Chumaka watched the bows on the back of his master’s elaborate robes quiver with outrage. The Anasati First Adviser knew that even if the killwing was wrapped in stifling cloth, it was no less deadly.

Nacoya fought against fatigue. Age and tension had made the day impossibly long. The lengthy, strenuous journey, added to the heat of the great hall and the shock of Mara’s unexpected behaviour, had brought the old nurse to the limit of her strength. Yet she was Tsurani, and Acoma, as well as acting First Adviser; she would be carried from the hall unconscious before she would shame her house by asking permission to retire.

The traditional betrothal feast was sumptuous, as befitted a celebration for an Anasati son. Yet this occasion was oddly restrained, with no one quite sure what was really being celebrated. Mara had been quiet through the early part of the feast, saying nothing of consequence to anyone. Her officers, Keyoke, Papewaio, and Tasido, sat stiffly formal, imbibing little or no sa wine. At least, thought Nacoya, the evening breeze had come up. Now the great hall was only warm, not roasting as it had been throughout the day.

Attention centred upon the table where the Acoma sat. Every guest in the house was an Anasati retainer or ally, and all attempted to discern the implications of Mara’s choice of husband. To all outward appearances the Acoma girl had traded control of her house for guarantees of security, a move none would applaud, but one not entirely lacking in honour. While the Acoma would be Anasati clients for many years to come, in the future a young Acoma lord might arise and seize his own part in the Game of the Council, forging new alliances; meanwhile, the Acoma name gained the protection it needed to continue. But for this generation of Acoma retainers, Mara’s betrothal was a bitter admission of weakness. Chilly despite the summer heat, Nacoya pulled a fringed shawl over her shoulders.

She glanced to the head table and studied Tecuma. The Lord of the Anasati also showed reserve throughout the feast, his conversation sombre for a man who had just achieved an undreamed of coup over an old rival. Though gaining the Acoma lordship for Buntokapi represented great advancement in the Game of the Council, he seemed as concerned as Nacoya about this marriage, but for different reasons. His son was an unknown.

Nacoya shifted her attention. Buntokapi seemed the only celebrant who truly enjoyed himself; after a drunken hour of repeatedly telling his brothers that they were no better than he, he had shouted across the table to Jiro that now a second son would have to bow to a third son whenever they met. From the pained and frozen smile on his older sibling’s face, those occasions would clearly be few. As evening wore on, Buntokapi had subsided to loud muttering into his plate, nearly immobile from drinking sa wine during dinner and acamel brandy after.

Nacoya shook her head slightly. Jiro had looked long and hard at Mara after his brother’s first pronouncement of superiority; as dinner progressed, it was clear the girl had acquired another enemy. That afternoon, Jiro might have thought he was to be Lord of the Acoma for only a moment, but that brief presumption had been enough for him to feel betrayed, to feel that Buntokapi wore a mantle rightfully his. That Jiro was frustrated by nothing more than unrealized expectations of his own making meant nothing. He blamed Mara. When Tecuma had sent servants to bring the ceremonial sa wine to the guests, Jiro had barely touched his cup to his lips. He had left the first moment he could without insult. Nacoya wearily forced her attentions back to the head table.

Tecuma looked at Buntokapi a long, hard moment, then spoke quietly to Mara, who glanced at her future husband and nodded her agreement. Buntokapi blinked, trying hard to follow the exchange, but obviously too drunk to comprehend. Tecuma spoke to Chumaka, who motioned towards a pair of servants. As the cooling evening air allowed Nacoya to catch her breath, two stout servants carried the future Lord of the Acoma off to bed. Mara waited an appropriate moment, then begged her leave. Tecuma nodded brusquely and the entire company rose in salute to the bride-to-be.

The musicians who had played throughout the evening struck up the appropriate tune while Mara bade the guests good night. As she stood with the rest of the Acoma retainers, Nacoya found Chumaka approaching.

‘You’re leaving soon?’ he inquired.

Nacoya nodded. ‘Tomorrow. My Lady wishes to return at once to our estates so that she may begin preparations for the wedding and the arrival of the new Lord.’

Chumaka spread his hands as if to indicate this was no problem. ‘I shall have a scribe work throughout the night. The betrothal documents will be ready to sign before you depart.’ He made as if to turn away, then said something unusually frank. ‘I hope for the sake of all of us this young Lady of yours hasn’t made a mistake.’

Taken off guard by this, Nacoya chose not to comment directly. Instead she said, ‘I can only hope the gods see fit to bless this union.’

Chumaka smiled. ‘Of course, as do we all. Until the morning, then?’

Nacoya nodded and departed, signalling for the two remaining Acoma retainers to accompany her. As an Anasati servant guided her to her quarters, she thought upon Chumaka’s unexpected words and wondered if he wasn’t right.

Dust rolled under the feet of marching warriors as the Acoma retinue moved slowly to rejoin the balance of their soldiers, who waited in the camp by the bridge that marked the border of the Anasati estates. Nacoya had been quiet since she joined Mara on the cushions of the large palanquin. Whatever the Ruling Lady planned, she kept her own counsel, and Nacoya chose not to ask any questions. Even though she was acting as First Adviser, she could not guide unless asked; but an old nurse could let her doubts be heard. Conjuring up images of Buntokapi’s crudities at the feast the night before, Nacoya spoke sourly to her charge. ‘I hope you can control him, mistress.’

Roused from deep thought, Mara’s eyes focused. ‘What? Oh, Bunto. He’s like a needra bull smelling the cows in season, Nacoya. All his brains are between his legs. I think he is exactly the man to gain us what we need.’

Nacoya muttered under her breath. Once the shock of Mara’s choice of Buntokapi had worn off, the old nurse had come to sense a larger plan. Mara was not simply giving up her family’s control to the Anasati in exchange for preserving the Acoma name. Since the ruse with the bandits in the hills, the girl confided only those things she felt Nacoya needed to know. Almost overnight, it seemed, the sheltered temple innocent had shown she was no longer a child. While Nacoya had doubts, even fears, concerning the girl’s stubborn naïveté about men, Mara had forcefully demonstrated she was an aggressive player of the Game of the Council.

Nacoya reviewed the strengths and weaknesses, patterns and powers of the players in the light of her mistress’s new commitment. And what she had observed in Buntokapi made her convinced that her beloved Mara might have underestimated him. There was something about the Anasati’s third son, something dangerous that Nacoya could put no name to. Dreading how her well-ordered house would fare under such a Ruling Lord, she was drawn from her musing by Mara’s voice. ‘I wonder what’s amiss?’

Nacoya parted the curtains. Squinting against the brilliance of the afternoon sunlight, she saw Acoma soldiers arrayed along the road where they had camped. But none stood ready to march; instead they faced each other in two groups, with some distance between. Softly Nacoya said, ‘Trouble, I’m afraid.’

Mara ordered her own escort to halt. Pulling aside the gauzy hanging cloth, she approved Keyoke’s request to investigate.

With a speed that belied his age, the Force Commander left the head of the procession and hurried into the midst of milling Acoma soldiers. Both groups descended upon him, several men trying to speak simultaneously. Keyoke ordered silence, and instantly all voices ceased. After two orderly questions he called back to Mara, ‘Some difficulty arose while we were gone, mistress. I’ll have the story for you in a moment.’

Heat shimmers danced in the air above the roadway. Keyoke asked questions, received quick replies, and soon had three men stand out. He briskly marched these before their mistress’s palanquin. Even beneath dirt, and shining runnels of sweat, Mara could see the marks of a fight upon their faces.

‘This is Selmon, my Lady.’ Keyoke pointed to a man with a torn tunic and knuckles that still bled.

‘I know.’ Mara’s expression was obscured by the deep shade of the curtains. ‘One of the newcomers.’ She used the term ‘newcomers’ for all who had recently been grey warriors. ‘With only three officers, you left him in command as acting Patrol Leader.’

Keyoke appeared pleased that Mara was conversant with his management of the soldiers, but his attention never strayed from the three soldiers. ‘Selmon seemed able enough, but perhaps I was wrong.’

Mara studied the other two men. One, Zataki, she had known for years; as a boy, he had played with Lanokota and herself. Mara remembered he had a temper, and ventured a guess as to what the problem was. ‘Zataki, Selmon gave you an order and you refused.’

Zataki lifted his chin. ‘My Lady, this Selmon ordered us to stand the first watch while he and his companions rested and ate after the long day’s march.’

Mara regarded the third combatant. ‘You are … Kartachaltaka, another newcomer. You took exception to Zataki’s refusal to obey.’

Now Kartachaltaka stiffened his spine. ‘My Lady, he and the others act superior to us and put the least desirable duties upon us whenever they may.’

Mara returned her attention to Selmon. ‘You took this one’s side?’

Keyoke hastened to answer. ‘No, my Lady. He simply sought to intervene and stop the scuffle. He acted appropriately.’

Mara rose from her cushions. Without awaiting Keyoke’s help, she stepped from her palanquin and faced the two men who had fought. ‘On your knees!’ she commanded. Though a full head shorter than either man, the slight girl in pale yellow robes and sandals left no doubt she was the ultimate authority of the Acoma.

Armour rattled as both men instantly fell into postures of submission. ‘Attend me!’ Mara cried to the other soldiers. ‘All of you.’

Keyoke shouted, ‘Form ranks!’ The entire retinue lined up facing Mara within seconds, the two soldiers on their knees with their backs towards the comrades.

To Keyoke, Mara said, ‘What is fit punishment for such as these?’

Keyoke spoke without regret. ‘Mistress, these men must be hanged, now.’ Mara’s head jerked as she met Keyoke’s eyes. She had not expected the judgment to be so harsh. The Force Commander deliberately scratched his jaw with his thumb.

Warned by Keyoke’s gesture that serious consequences could come of her decision, Mara regarded Papewaio, who looked on, his face an unreadable mask. Then, almost imperceptibly, he nodded once, indicating his full agreement with Keyoke’s verdict.

Mara felt something go cold inside. She knew that if she did not act at once and without equivocation a breach might be fashioned between those who had served for years and those newly come to Acoma service. Steeling herself, Mara addressed the soldiers. Her voice held barely controlled anger. ‘There are no favoured men in this garrison! There are no longer any “newcomers”. There are no longer any “old guard”. There is no one wearing Acoma green but Acoma soldiers. Each of you swore an oath to obey and to give your lives in service to House Acoma.’

She walked purposefully along the ranks, looked into one rough face after another, until she had locked eyes with each man. ‘Some of you I have known since childhood. Others have been with us only a matter of weeks, but each of you bears equal responsibility to wear Acoma green with honour. I have just promised to give that name to another, to ensure that the Acoma will continue to live, and more than live … someday flourish!’ Now her voice rose to a shout, her fury clearly revealed to each soldier present. ‘Whoever dishonours himself while wearing Acoma green dishonours the Acoma’ – her voice dropped to a soft, deadly sound – ‘dishonours me.’ While the men held their formations, their eyes shifted uneasily as they saw Mara turn suddenly to confront the two combatants. Looking down, she spoke to Zataki. ‘You were given a lawful order by an officer placed over you by your Force Commander. You had no other choice but to obey!’

The man fell forward, pushing his forehead into the acrid dust of the road. He uttered no words in his own defence as his mistress turned to Kartachaltaka and said, ‘And you struck a brother soldier while on duty!’ He duplicated Zataki’s gesture of abject obedience to his mistress. Bracelets chimed on her wrists; wrought of costly metal, these were the betrothal gift of the Lord of the Anasati, and that such wealth should be worn as personal adornment reminded the kneeling men of their station. They grovelled in the sun, sweating, as their mistress addressed their Force Commander. ‘These two men are guilty of betraying Acoma honour. Hang them.’

Keyoke instantly detailed soldiers to carry out the execution. For just an instant, Mara could read something in the two condemned men’s eyes: a flicker of fear. Not a fear of death, for either warrior would have gladly embraced death without hesitation; it was fear of being condemned to the shameful death of a slave: hanging. With the loss of a warrior’s honour, each knew his next turn of the Wheel of Life would be at a lower station, a servant, perhaps even a slave. Then the proper Tsurani mask was returned. Only by bearing up properly in the face of this meanest of all deaths could either man hope for any mercy when next his spirit was tied to the Wheel.

Mara stood motionless before her litter, a statue of iron self-control, as soldiers marched the condemned to a large tree with massive branches. The two men were quickly stripped of their armour and their hands were tied behind their backs. Without ceremony or final prayer, ropes were fashioned into nooses and thrown over the tree limbs. The nooses were placed around the two men’s necks and the signal given. A half-dozen soldiers pulled hard upon each rope, seeking to snap the men’s necks and give them a mercifully quick death. Zataki’s neck broke with an audible crack and he kicked once, quivered a moment, then hung motionless. Kartachaltaka’s death was more painful, as he strangled slowly, kicking and swinging, but in the end he, too, hung motionless like bitter fruit from the tree.

Mara’s voice was flat as she said, ‘Keyoke, home.’

Abruptly, the sun seemed too bright. Overcome by the killing she had commanded to be done, Mara caught the edge of the palanquin canopy, steadying herself without betraying weakness to her soldiers. She motioned one of her slave boys, who brought her a fruit-sweetened drink of water. She sipped it slowly, striving to regain her composure, while Keyoke ordered the men formed into ranks for the march home.

Nacoya had kept her own counsel in the shelter of the litter, but as Mara stood motionless, she said, ‘Mistress?’

Mara handed her empty cup to the slave. ‘I’m coming, Nacoya. We must be off. There is a great deal to be done in the month before the wedding.’ Without further words she climbed back into the litter. As her bearers reached down to resume their burden, she settled into the cushions beside Nacoya and her pensive silence returned. Keyoke gave the order to march, and her soldiers fell into ranks before, after, and on both sides of the palanquin, to outward appearances a single group once again.

Mara began to tremble, her eyes wide and distant. Without words Nacoya slipped her arm around the girl’s shoulders. The tremors continued as the Acoma retinue began its march, until Mara quivered so violently Nacoya had to gather the shaking girl in her arms. Silently the very young Lady of the Acoma turned her face into her nurse’s shoulder and smothered her sobs.

As they approached the borders of her estate, Mara considered the difficulties she faced. She had only spoken in passing to Keyoke and Nacoya since ordering the execution of the two soldiers. Mara knew that the conflict between the former grey warriors and the survivors of her father’s garrison should have been anticipated.

Blaming herself for failing to do so, Mara pulled aside her litter curtain and called for her Force Commander. As he arrived at her side she said, ‘Keyoke, why did Selmon order the older soldiers to stand first watch, rather than a mix of old and new?’

If he was surprised by his mistress’s question, he showed no sign. ‘Lady, Selmon erred by trying not to antagonize the older soldiers. He thought that by serving first duty they’d have an uninterrupted rest from meal to morning watch, and they’d appreciate it. Zataki was a young hothead, and had any of us been here’ – he motioned to himself, Papewaio, and Tasido, the three officers who had accompanied Mara into the Anasati estate house – ‘none of that would have occurred.’ He paused as he considered his next statement. ‘But Selmon did not do poorly. The conflict bordered upon open fighting between factions, yet he managed to restrain all but the two who were punished.’

Mara nodded. ‘When we are home, promote Selmon to Patrol Leader. Our forces have grown to the point where we need more officers.’

Then Mara made one of the swift, unhesitating decisions that were earning her the respect of those who served her. ‘Promote two of our best men in our old guard as well. Choose the very best of our family’s oldest soldiers, perhaps Miaka, and make him a Strike Leader. Bring one of the new men up as well. That rascal Lujan was a Strike Leader with the Kotai. If you can’t think of anyone more able, give the rank to him.’

Keyoke shrugged, offering no better candidate among the newcomers. Mara conceded her satisfaction at this, then added, ‘I’ll have these cadres and alliances quickly broken; there will be no favourites.’ Keyoke nodded slightly, his leathery face showing the barest suggestion of a smile, as close as he ever came to openly expressing approval. Almost to herself, Mara added, ‘Soon I’ll need men at my side who will obey without hesitation. I cannot afford anything that interferes with my plans.’

Clearly she was occupied with the responsibilities of rulership. Keyoke hurried his pace back to the head of the column, considering how much like her father the girl was becoming.

As Mara’s litter moved through the Acoma needra meadows, she felt optimistic for the first time since leaving Lashima’s temple. Her thoughts churned. She would discuss her ideas with no one, not even Nacoya or Keyoke. For those notions were turning into plots, the beginnings of a master plan that led beyond simple survival into an ambition that turned her mind giddy.

Over time, Mara expected that her planning would have to be amended to deal with change: unanticipated shifts of power and alliances within the Game of the Council. In many ways, resolve came before means and method; she had years of learning before what she inwardly called her grand scheme could reach fruition. But marriage to Buntokapi was the first small step. Since leaving the Anasati lands, she had discovered hope, and the powerful allure of new dreams.

By the time the palanquin swayed up the walk towards the great house, practical matters eclipsed her dreaming. Lights blazed in the gloom of twilight, more than ordinary events might warrant. In their glow, Mara saw perhaps eighty men gathered outside the kitchen, many eating from bowls. Lujan walked among them, speaking and making expansive gestures with his hands. As her duty retinue approached, a few of the strangers set their meal aside and stood. The rest continued eating, though all looked nervous.

Mara glanced to see Nacoya, but the old woman was asleep, lulled by the heat and the rocking of the litter through the afternoon. As the palanquin settled to the ground, Lujan hurried over, bowing politely as Keyoke assisted Mara out. Before she could ask, the former bandit chieftain said, ‘Mistress, these are all worthy men, at least worthy as I am likely to measure such things. All would gladly enter your service.’

‘Soldiers?’ Instantly interested, Keyoke released his hold upon Mara’s hand.

Lujan doffed his helmet, the reflection of the lanterns like sparks in his deepset eyes. ‘Only a few, unfortunately, Force Commander. But the others are armourers, fowlers, cordwainers, wheelwrights, and other skilled craftsmen, as well as two farmers.’

Mara said, ‘Good, I’m running low on land to assign to new farmers. Now, how many soldiers?’

‘Thirty-three.’ Lujan stepped aside with a grace more suited to a dancer than a warrior. He assisted the newly awakened Nacoya from the palanquin. But his attention remained focused on his mistress.

Mara calculated. ‘That will swell our main garrison to over three hundred. Our position is no longer helpless, only desperate.’

‘We need more soldiers,’ Nacoya concluded tartly. She shuffled past to enter the great house, sleepiness making her more cross than usual.

Lujan tossed his helm lightly from his right hand to his left. ‘Mistress, getting more men will prove difficult. We have called in every grey warrior within reasonable distance of your borders. For more, we shall have to leave these lands and travel.’

‘But you know where to look for such,’ stated Mara, her eyes locked upon the hands that toyed still with the helmet.

Lujan returned a rakish smile. ‘Mistress, I suffer from a shortage of humility, I know, but I have lived in every bandits’ stand from here to Ambolina since the fall of the House of Kotai. I know where to look.’

‘How much time do you need?’

A wicked gleam lit his eye. ‘How many men do you wish to recruit, Lady?’

‘One thousand; two would be better.’

‘Aie, mistress, a thousand would take three, four months.’ The helmet stilled as Lujan grew thoughtful. ‘If I could take some trusted men with me, perhaps I could shorten that to six weeks. Two thousand …?’

Mara’s bracelets chimed as she gestured impatiently. ‘You will have three weeks. The recruits must be returned here, sworn to oath, and integrated into our force inside a month.’

Lujan’s smile turned to a grimace. ‘My Lady, for you I would face a horse of Thun raiders without weapons, but what you demand is a miracle.’

Evening shadow hid Mara’s flush, but she showed uncharacteristic animation as she signalled for Papewaio. The moment her Strike Leader completed his bow, she said, ‘Find some good men for Lujan.’ Then she regarded the former outlaw appraisingly. ‘Choose from both old and new soldiers. Perhaps some time on the trail together will convince them they have more in common than not.’ Then she added, ‘Any you think might become troublemakers.’

Lujan seemed unruffled by the proposition. ‘Troublemakers are nothing new to me, my Lady.’ His grin broadened. ‘Before I rose to become an officer, I dare say I was something of a troublemaker myself.’

‘I daresay you were,’ commented Keyoke. Motionless in the darkness, he had all but been forgotten. The former bandit leader started slightly and immediately became more restrained.

‘You must travel as fast and as far as possible for twelve days, Lujan,’ instructed Mara. ‘Gather as many reliable men as you can. Then return here. If you can’t find me two thousand, find me two hundred, and if you can’t find two hundred find me twenty, but make them good warriors.’ Lujan nodded, they bowed with a faultless propriety that earned a return smile from Mara. ‘Now show me the ones you’ve found for me tonight.’

Lujan escorted Mara and Keyoke to where the poorly dressed men were sitting. All stood as soon as the Lady of the Acoma approached, and several knelt. To those who had known the hardships of outlawry, she seemed an imperial princess in her jewels and fine clothes. The roughest among them listened respectfully as Mara repeated the offer she had made to Lujan and his followers upon the trail in the mountains; and like three other bands since then, almost sixty skilled workmen rose to accept quarters and assignments from Jican. Mara smiled to see the light in her hadonra’s eyes as he contemplated how he could turn their handiwork to a rich profit; and armourers would be needed if Lujan successfully recruited her hoped-for new warriors. The crowd thinned, and some of the confusion abated as the workers followed Jican.

Of the others who remained, Lujan said, ‘My Lady, these are thirty-three well-seasoned warriors who would swear before the Acoma natami.’

‘You’ve explained everything to them?’

‘I daresay as well as anyone could, except yourself, of course.’ As Keyoke snorted disapproval, Mara looked to see if the former outlaw chieftain was mocking; he wasn’t, at least not openly. Aware, suddenly, of the strange pull this man seemed to exert on her, she recognized in him the same sly wit she had loved in her brother, Lanokota. His teasing caused her to flush slightly. Quickly she wiped her forehead as if the heat were making her perspire. This man was not her kin, or even a Lord equal in rank to her; unsure how to respond after months of isolation in the temple, she turned firmly to the task at hand. All the men were fit if undernourished, and they seemed eager, except for two who sat slightly apart. One of those exchanged glances with Lujan.

‘You know this man?’ asked Mara.

Lujan laughed. ‘Indeed, mistress. This is Saric, my cousin, who served with the Lord of the Tuscai. Before he left the Kotai estates, he was my closest companion.’

Looking to nettle Lujan in return for her earlier embarrassment, Mara said, ‘Is he an able soldier?’

Lujan grinned and his cousin returned a nearly identical broad smile. ‘My Lady, he is as able a soldier as I.’

‘Well then, that solves a problem.’ Mara tapped the helm that still dangled from Lujan’s wrist, called a soldier’s pot, for its utter lack of adornment. ‘I was going to ask you to give that to him and assume one with an officer’s plume. Keyoke had orders to promote you to Strike Leader, but as you are going to be away for three weeks, he might as well promote your cousin in your stead.’

His grin still in place, Lujan said, ‘Well, almost as able as I, Lady.’ Slightly more serious, he added, ‘With your consent, I’ll take him with me. I mean no disrespect for any other soldier here, but there is no man I would rather have at my side with a sword.’ Then his tone turned light again. ‘Besides, we might as well keep the party composed exclusively of troublemakers.’

Mara couldn’t resist. For the first time since Lano’s death the frown eased entirely from her face, lantern light revealing a surprisingly lovely smile. ‘Then you had best collect your plume from Keyoke, Strike Leader.’ To the newcomer she said, ‘Welcome, Saric.’

The man bowed his head. ‘Mistress, your honour is my honour. With the god’s favour I shall die a warrior – not too soon, I hope – and in the service of beauty such as yours, a happy one.’

With a lift of her brows, Mara glanced at both men. ‘It seems flattery runs in your family, as well as a certain casual attitude towards rank.’ Then she indicated the other man who had been sitting with Saric. He wore plain clothes and simple hide sandals. His hair was trimmed in nondescript fashion, not the close cut of a warrior, the fashionable ringlets of a merchant, or the ragged shag of a worker. ‘Who is this?’

The man arose while Saric said, ‘This is Arakasi, Lady. He also was in my Lord’s employ, though he was not a soldier.’

The man was of medium build and regular features. But his manner had neither the proud bearing of a warrior nor the deference of a worker. Suddenly uncertain, Mara said, ‘Then why did you not stand forward with the craftsmen and workers?’

Arakasi’s dark eyes flickered slightly, perhaps in amusement, but his face remained expressionless. Then he changed. Though he hardly moved, his demeanour changed; suddenly he seemed the aloof, self-possessed scholar. With that, Mara noticed what she should have seen at once: his skin was in no way weathered as a field worker’s would have been. His hands had some toughness, but no thick pads of callus left by toil with tools or weapons. ‘Lady, I am not a farmer.’

Something put Keyoke on his guard, for he moved without thought to interpose himself between his mistress and the stranger. ‘If you are not a farmer or soldier, what are you, a merchant, sailor, a tradesman, a priest?’

Barely acknowledging Keyoke’s intervention, Arakasi said, ‘Lady, in my time I have been all of those. Once I guested with your father in the guise of a priest of Hantukama. I have taken the identities of a soldier, a merchant, a slave master, a whoremonger, a riverman, even a sailor and a beggar.’

Which explained some things, thought Mara, but not all. ‘To whom were you loyal?’

Arakasi bowed startlingly, with the grace and practised ease of a noble born. ‘I was servant to the Lord of the Tuscai, before the Minwanabi dogs killed him in battle. I was his Spy Master.’

Mara’s eyes widened despite her attempt at self-control. ‘His Spy Master?’

The man straightened, his smile devoid of humour. ‘Yes, mistress. For one reason above all should you wish me in your service: my late Lord of the Tuscai spent the best part of his fortune building a network of informants, a network I oversaw, with agents in every city in the Empire and spies within many great houses.’ His voice dropped, a strange mix of reluctance and pride. ‘That network is still in place.’

Suddenly, sharply, Keyoke scratched his chin with his thumb.

Mara cleared her throat, with a keen look at Arakasi, whose aspect seemed to shift from moment to moment. ‘Such things are best not discussed in the open.’ She glanced about. ‘I still have the dust of travel upon me, and have had no pause for refreshment since midday. Attend me in my chambers in an hour’s time. Until then Papewaio will see to your needs.’

Arakasi bowed and joined Papewaio, who gestured for the Spy Master to follow him to the bathhouse near the barracks.

Left with Keyoke and the presence of thirty-three masterless warriors, Mara remained caught up in thought. After a silent interval she mused softly, ‘The Spy Master of the Tuscai.’ To Keyoke she said, ‘Father always said the Lord of the Tuscai knew more than was righteous in the eyes of the gods. Men joked that he had a magician with a crystal locked away in a vault under his study. Do you suppose this Arakasi was the reason?’

Keyoke offered no direct opinion but said, ‘Be cautious of him, mistress. A man who spies uses honesty least of all. You were right to send him away with Pape.’

‘Loyal Keyoke,’ said Mara with affection in her voice. She tilted her head in the torchlight, indicated the ragged group of men who awaited her command. ‘Do you suppose you can swear this lot to service by the natami, and still have time for a bath and dinner?’

‘I must.’ The Force Commander returned a rare, wry shrug. ‘Though how I’ve lived to be this old while burdened with so much work, only the gods know.’ Before Mara could respond, he shouted a command, and like the trained soldiers they were, the scruffy men crowding the courtyard mustered at the voice of authority.

• Chapter Five • Bargain

Evening gave way to night.

Soft lights burned in Mara’s chamber. The outer screens had been opened to admit the breeze and the lamplight flickered and danced. The Lady of the Acoma sent away her servants, ordering one to have chocha brought. Alone with Nacoya a moment before the others appeared, Mara stripped off the ostentatious bracelets given her by the Anasati lord. She peeled off her dirty travelling robe and dabbed a damp cloth over her body; a full bath would have to wait until after her meeting with Arakasi.

Nacoya remained silent while Mara refreshed herself, but her eyes never left her young mistress. Neither of them spoke. The reproach Mara saw in those old eyes told all: the girl was inexperienced and foolish, perhaps even dangerously so, in matching herself with Buntokapi. He might appear slow-witted, but he was a powerful warrior, and though barely two years older than she, he had been reared in the Game of the Council while Mara had sheltered in the temple of Lashima.

As Mara wrapped a delicate saffron-coloured robe about herself, the servant returned with the chocha. She motioned permission, and the slave placed his large tray in the centre of the low table, then departed. Mara nodded to Nacoya, indicating that the old woman should prepare cups and napkins.

Her two officers and the stranger arrived punctually upon the hour. Mara studied the newcomer keenly as he bowed and seated himself between Keyoke and Papewaio. Arakasi’s style was impeccably correct, his manner a match for the clothing he now wore in place of his beggar’s rags. Mara suddenly realized she had seen his tasselled scarlet shirt before; the garment was Papewaio’s, his favourite, worn on feast days only. Mara considered the significance of his loan to Arakasi. In the hour that had passed since their meeting in the courtyard, the former Spy Master of the Tuscai must have impressed the Acoma First Strike Leader very favourably. That was a strong recommendation, for, like her father before her, Mara placed strong trust in Papewaio’s instincts about people.

Bolstered by that confidence, she asked, ‘Has Lujan spoken of what we do here?’

Arakasi nodded. ‘He’s off to find more grey warriors to take service.’ He paused, then added, ‘But each time you recruit, you greatly increase the chance spies might infiltrate. Soon you cannot trust any who come here.’

‘You might be such an agent,’ interrupted Nacoya.

‘Old mother, I have nothing to gain by lying.’ Arakasi took charge of the chocha pot, usurping Nacoya’s role as server with flawless ease. Deferentially he filled Mara’s cup, then Nacoya’s, Keyoke’s, and Papewaio’s before his own. ‘Were I a spy for another house, I would simply have enlisted and sent word of your desperate situation back to my master. Then the assassins would come, probably in the next band of recruits. Your suspicions then would become entirely academic, as you would be murdered along with your mistress.’ He put down the pot. ‘And if I didn’t see an opportunity here for myself and my agents, I would have played a farmer, slipped away in the dark, and never troubled any of you again.’

Mara nodded. ‘Your logic is difficult to fault. Now tell us what we need to know of you.’

The stranger answered frankly. ‘I have been employed for over twenty years, to establish and oversee a network of spies spanning the Empire. It now rivals any in the land, including the Warlord’s. I even have agents working for other Spy Masters, one who is dormant, never having been employed, harboured against a day of great need –’

At this, Keyoke leaned forward. ‘The obliteration of your house was not a great enough need?’

Arakasi took Keyoke’s rudeness in stride. ‘No agent of mine could have aided my master, or prevented his final fate. Especially not the one I mentioned. He works with the Imperial Chancellery, on the staff of the Warlord.’

Even Keyoke couldn’t hide his astonishment. The Spy Master continued. ‘My master was a man of vision but limited wealth. So extensive was his commitment to gathering intelligence, he was unable to use it to good effect. Perhaps if I had not been ambitious in my requirements …’ Arakasi set down his chocha cup with barely a click. ‘Had the Minwanabi not grown fearful of my Lord’s ability to anticipate their every move, today the Tuscai might have been among the most powerful families in the Empire.’ He sighed in regret. ‘But “might have been is but ashes upon the wind”, as they say. The attack was simple and straightforward. My lord’s warriors were overwhelmed by brute strength. I have since learned that my agents do little good if their information cannot be acted upon.’

Keyoke had barely touched his cup of chocha. His eyes glinted through rising steam as he said, ‘So where are your agents today?’

Without hesitation, Arakasi faced Mara. ‘Lady, I will not reveal who they are. If I offend, I ask pardon. I still owe much to those who once served my master, and will not expose them to additional danger. If you take us into service, we shall require the same concessions that were made by my Lord of the Tuscai.’

Mara acknowledged Keyoke’s warning glance with a half nod. ‘Those being?’ she prompted, and waited keenly for Arakasi’s reply.

‘I will oversee my couriers and contacts, and I alone will know the names of the agents, and how to reach them; you will be told only where they serve.’

Keyoke set his chocha cup down forcefully, as near as he had ever come to displaying anger. ‘These are unreasonable requirements!’

‘Force Commander,’ said Arakasi, ‘I do not wish to be difficult. I may not have served my master as well as I wished, but I protect those who worked so diligently on his behalf – in ways as dangerous to them as battle to a soldier. A spy dies in shame by the rope. My people risk both life and honour for a master they will not betray. I ensure that no matter what may happen, their master cannot betray them.’

Confronted by uncertain expressions, he nodded and qualified his statement. ‘When the Minwanabi crushed the Tuscai, they interrogated my master …’ Shifting dark eyes to Mara, he softened his voice. ‘There is no reason to relate details. I know of these things only because one of my people was left for dead and managed to observe for a while before escaping. Jingu’s torturer was efficient. My master could not have withheld any information, despite being a courageous man. Lady, judge fairly: if you wish my services, and the services of those who worked for me, then you will have to take us on faith.’

‘And if I don’t?’

Arakasi stilled, his hands in plain view to banish any impression of threat. Slowly he turned his palms upward, a sign of resignation. ‘Then I shall return to the hills.’

Mara cocked her head slightly. Here, at last, the man showed a moment of genuine feeling. To wear house colours again was more important to him than he cared to admit. Concerned lest she cause him embarrassment, Mara asked simply, ‘Then what?’

Arakasi shrugged. ‘My lady, I have worked in many guises to protect my identity. I can fix a wagon, play the flute, scribe, and do sums. I am also a talented beggar, if the truth be known. I will manage, have no doubt.’

Keyoke fixed him with a penetrating look. ‘I think you could gain a position and live comfortably at will. So then what were you doing in the woods with outlaws?’

Arakasi shrugged, as if distrust of his motives was of no consequence. ‘I keep in touch with Saric and others of the Tuscai. I often traded in the cities on their behalf, using my wits and talents. And through them I met Lujan and his band. I had just reached Saric’s camp when Lujan’s call came. I thought I’d come along and see what this odd business was.’ With his head inclined towards Mara, he added, ‘I must say I admire the way you bend tradition to suit your needs, Lady.’

Mara answered, ‘Only as needed, Arakasi, and never broken.’ She looked at the man for a moment. ‘Still, you’ve not said why you haven’t abandoned your network. I would think it safer if you all simply faded into the roles you portrayed when your master died and lived out your lives.’

Arakasi smiled. ‘Safer, undoubtedly; even the infrequent contacts I’ve maintained over the last four years put some of my people at risk. But for our honour, we keep the network alive.’ He paused, then said, ‘Our reasons are part of my requirements to take service with you. And you shall hear them only if you choose to reach an agreement.’

About to speak, Keyoke then gave a simple shake of his head; no one should presume to bargain with the Ruler of the Acoma in this fashion. Mara glanced at Nacoya, who was thoughtfuly following the conversation, then at Papewaio, who nodded once, lending Arakasi his silent endorsement.

Mara took a breath. ‘I think I see the wisdom in your requirements, Spy Master. But what would become of your network should mishap befall you?’

‘My agents have means of routinely checking upon one another. Should a needra pause to sit upon the spot where I nap, thus ending my career, another agent would make himself known to you within one month’s time.’ Arakasi sobered. ‘He would give you proof that could not be counterfeited, and you could trust him as you would me.’

Mara nodded. ‘Trust, though, that is the difficulty. Either of us would be a fool to relinquish caution too quickly.’

‘Of course.’

A slight breeze caused the flames to gutter in the lamps, and for an instant the chamber swam with shadows. Nacoya made an unthinking gesture against disaster and the gods’ displeasure. But Mara was too absorbed to worry over superstition. ‘If I agree to your terms, will you take service?’

Arakasi bowed slightly from the waist, a gesture he accomplished with grace. ‘I wish to serve a house as much as any soldier, mistress, but there is one thing more. We keep the network intact for reasons of honour. After the House of Tuscai fell, I and those who worked with me made a vow. We will not take service if we must break that vow.’

‘What is the vow?’

Arakasi looked directly at Mara, and his eyes reflected fanatic passion, unmasked by any attempt at guile. In even tones he said, ‘Vengeance upon the Lord of the Minwanabi.’

‘I see.’ Mara settled back against her cushions, hoping the passion in her own heart was not so easily read. ‘We share an enemy, it seems.’

Arakasi nodded. ‘For now. I know the Acoma and the Minwanabi are in contention, but the tides of politics often change –’

Mara held up her hand, silencing him. ‘The Acoma have a blood feud with the Minwanabi.’

Arakasi stilled and regarded the worn heel of the sandal tucked under his knee. So profound was his silence that all in the chamber felt chilled. Here was a man of seemingly limitless patience, like the tree-lord serpent, who would blend with a branch, unseen, tirelessly waiting for prey to pass by, then strike with unexpected fury. When at last Arakasi stirred, Mara observed the strain of this interview had begun to wear at his control. Despite his talents and training, the Spy Master had the same conflicting emotions as those ragged soldiers and servants who had come to her: he might gain a second beginning, only to become masterless once again. Yet his voice reflected no turmoil as he said, ‘If you will have us, I and mine will swear loyalty to the Acoma.’

Mara nodded.

Arakasi’s face suddenly became animated. ‘Then, my mistress, let us begin, for an advantage may be gained if you act quickly. Before coming to the hills, I spent time in the north, with a friend in the House of Inrodaka. It is common gossip among the workers there that to the west, near the woodland borders of their Lord’s estates, a cho-ja hive has spawned a new queen.’

‘No word has been sent?’ asked Mara, instantly interested.

Arakasi gestured in the negative. ‘The Lord of the Inrodaka is a quiet man with few guests and even fewer sojourns abroad. But time is short. The fruit harvesters soon will carry word to the river. The news will then race the breadth of the Empire, but for now you are the only Ruling Lady or Lord to know that a new queen of the cho-ja will soon be seeking a home. She will have at least three hundred warriors to serve her,’ and with a glint of humour he added, ‘and if you win her loyalty, you can be certain none of them will be spies.’

Mara stood. ‘If this is true, we must leave before morning.’ Gaining a cho-ja hive for her estates would be a gift from the gods. Alien the cho-ja might be, but they made fierce and loyal allies. The new queen might begin her nest with three hundred soldiers, each easily the match for two Tsurani, but over the years the number might grow to several thousand; and as Arakasi pointed out, none of them could be agents for enemy houses. To Keyoke, Mara said, ‘Have trailbreakers ready within the hour. We will start the journey to this hive at dawn.’ As the Force Commander departed, she returned her attention to Arakasi. ‘You will accompany us. Papewaio will arrange for servants and see that your needs are met.’

Mara signalled an end to the meeting. As her advisers rose to depart, Nacoya touched Arakasi’s sleeve. ‘The girl knows nothing of the cho-ja. How will she negotiate?’

Effortlessly courteous, Arakasi took the old woman’s hand and ushered her to the doorway as if she were some treasured great-aunt. ‘The sending of a new queen occurs so rarely, no one can be prepared to negotiate. The Lady of the Acoma must simply accommodate to whatever the new queen requests.’

As the pair disappeared into the corridor, Mara could barely contain her excitement. All thoughts of her forthcoming wedding were eclipsed by this news; to have a hive upon one’s estate was more than an honour and a source of military power. For beyond being superior warriors, cho-ja were miners, able to find precious metals and gems buried deep within the earth, from which their artisans wrought jewellery of surpassing delicacy. The insectoid aliens also held the secret of making silk, the cool, soft fabric most prized by those who lived in the ever-present heat of the Empire. Wars had been fought to control the silk trade, until imperial edict allowed for neither guild nor noble to monopolize it. Now any lord who could gain silk could trade it.

Cho-ja products were valuable, and their requirements simple: grain and items fashioned of hide; for these reasons families would kill to gain a hive upon their estates. And among all the hives known in the Empire, the cho-ja sent forth a new queen less often than once in a human lifetime.

But Mara would need to convince the new queen to migrate to Acoma lands. If she failed, representatives of other houses would follow, until the queen received an offer that pleased her. And as Arakasi had observed, what would strike the fancy of a creature as alien as a cho-ja remained a mystery.

Lujan and his company left for the hills to search for recruits, all but unnoticed amid the bustle of servants gathering supplies for the escort who would depart to bargain for the new cho-ja queen.

Mara left her quarters well before dawn. The herders had not yet stirred to drive the needra to the meadows, and the mists hung still over grasses shiny with dew. Cloaked in dark cloth against the damp, she waited before an unadorned litter with Jican at her side. His tally slate was written over with notes, and he held his stylus poised while Mara dictated last-minute instructions.

Suddenly she bit her lip in agitation. ‘Gods, the excitement almost made me forget!’

Jican raised his brows. ‘Mistress?’

‘Wedding invitations.’ Mara shook her head in frustration. ‘Nacoya will direct you to the proper ritual verses. She will know even better than I who must be invited and who may be ignored. Be sure to ask her on my behalf to oversee all requirements I have forgotten.’

Jican questioned as he jotted hurried notes. ‘What about the summer stock sale, mistress? Animals to be auctioned must be registered with the Breeders’ Guild in advance.’

‘You’ve chosen well so far,’ Mara said, aware she had run out of time. ‘I trust your judgement.’ Keyoke arrived with a chosen troop of warriors, and Papewaio and Arakasi already waited, talking, a short distance away.

The men assembled with the silent efficiency of veterans and soon the last one took his place. Keyoke approached, wearing the dark, serviceable armour suitable for unobtrusive travel in the wilds. His officer’s helm carried only a single short plume, and his ornate ceremonial sword had been replaced with the one he preferred to use in battle.

Stopping before Mara, Keyoke bowed. ‘Mistress, the men are ready. Your bearers stand with the supplies, and the trailbreakers are already on their way. We may depart at your word.’

Mara dismissed Jican with a wish for prosperity and fair trading. Then she entered her litter and reclined upon the cushions. ‘Tell the men to march,’ she ordered.

As the half-naked bearers bent to shoulder her weight, she knew the swift thrill of fear. This was no formal state visit to another Lord but a bold move to steal an advantage on every other player in the Game of the Council; that boldness carried risks. As the party swung around a small hillock, Mara watched her estate house fall behind. She wondered if she would return to see it again.

Guided by Arakasi, the Acoma retinue hurried secretly along back-country trails. Each day Mara observed growing signs of strain in the soldiers’ behaviour. Tsurani soldiers would never lose discipline in the presence of their Ruling Lord or Lady, but on previous marches she had listened to quiet conversation, banter and jokes about campfires. Now the men kept silence, broken only at need and then in whispers. Their usually animated faces were now set in the expressionless masks of Tsurani warriors.

On the third day they waited in hiding until nightfall, then moved out in darkness, munching thyza bread and needra jerky as they hurried to avoid detection. The next daybreak they marched deep into the territory of a neighbouring lord, several times coming close to patrols of soldiers from the estate. Keyoke kept his men close by and avoided all contact. Even a minor lord might seize the chance to strike at trespassers if he thought his men could obliterate Mara and her fifty guards. If any other Lord knew of the queen-spawning, there was not just a chance of attack along the way, but certainty.

Mara rode in a state of fatigue, unable to rest, not only because of the constant travelling and fear, but from the thrill of anticipation as well. Gaining this new hive would do more to preserve Acoma survival than any dozen clever plots in the High Council.

Four more days passed, in exhausting succession. The company snatched sleep at odd hours, for nights were spent avoiding patrols, or wading through exposed expanses of meadow or thyza paddies along the banks of the many tributaries to the river Gagajin. At such times slaves brought up the rear, setting the disturbed seedlings straight to hide all traces of their passage. At dawn on the ninth day, Mara sat upon bare earth like a soldier and ate cheese and journey biscuit. She called Keyoke and Arakasi to come sit with her.

Both declined to share her food, as they had eaten the same cold rations earlier. She studied their faces, one lined, leathery, familiar, and as constant as the sunrise, and the other seeming little more than an illusion, a mask to fit whatever persona the moment required. ‘We have crossed three estates, each one of them well guarded. Yet no patrol has sounded the alarm. Am I to believe in the extraordinary skills of my guide and my Force Commander, or is it always this easy for armed soldiers to invade the estates of the Empire?’

‘A pertinent question, mistress.’ Arakasi regarded her with what seemed the beginning of respect. ‘One does not need a network of spies to know Keyoke is accounted a superior officer. His experience is respected throughout the Empire.’

Keyoke inclined his head towards the Spy Master at the compliment. ‘We could not have managed so well without the guidance Arakasi has given us. His knowledge of the back country is impressive, a thing the Acoma will value in times to come.’

Mara acknowledged this tacit acceptance of Arakasi. The Spy Master sat with the keen expression of a soldier, an attitude that now seemed his natural manner. The man’s ability to appear what he wished slightly unnerved Mara. ‘Tell me honestly,’ she said, ‘would you find it this easy to lead an armed company across the lands of the Acoma?’

Arakasi laughed, an unexpected sound in a humourless camp. ‘Mistress, assuredly not. Keyoke is widely admired for his knowledge of warcraft. He knows the dangers of regularly scheduled, unvarying patrols. He is prudent, and cunning, even when his command is small.’ With a look of respect at the Force Commander, he added, ‘Especially when his command is small. It is difficult for one man to trespass upon Acoma lands, let alone a force in strength.’

Keyoke seized upon a discrepancy. ‘You said “difficult”, not “impossible”.’

Araksi inclined his head in agreement. ‘True.’

Mara said, ‘Lujan’s grey warriors seemed to take our needra with small difficulty.’

Arakasi couldn’t avoid a grin. ‘Again true, but he had an advantage: I told him when and where to strike.’

Keyoke became dangerously still. ‘It seems we have something to discuss.’ He gestured, indicating his desire to withdraw. ‘My Lady?’

Mara withheld her consent. ‘Is there any estate in the Empire so well guarded that no stranger or outlaw could slip through?’

‘Only one,’ said Arakasi, apparently unconcerned with Keyoke’s ire. ‘The estate of the Lord of the Dachindo, far to the east.’

Mara smiled, as if she had won a small victory. ‘Now indeed, Keyoke, you and Arakasi have something to discuss.’ She watched as the two men rose and moved apart, conferring quietly, heads close together in the misty grey dawn. As much as Keyoke might take umbrage at the implied shortcomings in his defence of the estate, Mara knew wisdom would prevail. He would relish any information the Spy Master could offer to better his protection of his mistress. Confident that by the time of her wedding the Dachindo would no longer be the only estate impenetrable to trespassers, she sent a slave for her comb. In the last minutes before the company started off down the trail, she applied herself to the ongoing frustration of trying to work the knots from her long hair without benefit of a maid.

The day grew hot. The soldiers marched uncomplaining, through a gradually changing landscape. The lowland plains with their patchwork of paddies and meadows gave way to forested hills crowned with rocks. The trees became old and wild, veiled in flowering vines and thorn. Yet the more difficult the terrain, the more the spirits of the men rose. They had made good time, and as sunlight fell slanting across the trail, the travellers reached the far border of the Inrodaka estates. Arakasi asked for a halt. While the soldiers changed from field armour to lacquered and polished dress armour, he said, ‘We must leave this trail and cut across this ridge to another over there.’ He waved at a notch in the woodlands, barely more than a path, that led upward into denser forest.

Keyoke paused in his changing, his plumed helm half unpacked. ‘I thought cho-ja built hives in meadows or valleys.’

Arakasi wiped sweat from his forehead. The light was fading quickly and he seemed concerned that they reach their destination before nightfall. ‘Mostly that’s true; at least, I’ve never heard of a hive that’s not situated in the open.’ He pointed up the trail. ‘Further on, the woods thin. There’s a meadowed valley about a thousand feet higher up. That’s the place we seek.’

Mara overheard. ‘So this old hive is not on Inrodaka lands?’

‘No, but there is some sort of treaty nevertheless.’ Arakasi gestured to the north, where the forest grew wild and thick. ‘These lands were once part of a larger estate, who knows how many years ago. When that Lord, whoever he was, fell, his holdings were divided among the conquerors, the Inrodaka among them. This area was left unclaimed. It’s not very good land. The timber’s rich, but too difficult to log out, and there are only two or three meadows for herds, all without trails to lowland pastures. Still, the cho-ja accept the Inrodaka as their landlords without making an issue of it. Who knows how they think.’ Directing the lead soldiers up the trail, he said, ‘From here we must be cautious but restrained. We may be challenged by cho-ja soldiers. We must not fight. With a new queen in the hive, even the seasoned warriors will be very tense and aggressive. They may feint attack, so let no man draw sword, else we’ll all be slaughtered.’

Mara consulted Keyoke, then approved the Spy Master’s order. Arrayed in brilliant Acoma green, they began their climb. The trail cut sharply upward, angling between jagged outcrops of rock. Travel by litter became impossible, and even on foot Keyoke had to help Mara with the more difficult ascents. These were no switchback trails cut for humans, but paths fit only for kumi, the six-legged mountain goat of Kelewan; and for the agile cho-ja. The bearers fared worst of all, sweating and grunting under their loads, while others hauled the empty litter along by main force.

The sun shone hot on the backs of the soldiers. Strange mountain birds took flight from the trees at their approach, and thickets teemed with game. Fascinated by sights utterly new and strange, Mara never thought to complain of sore feet.

Just after midday, a shout arose from the lead patrol. Keyoke caught Mara’s arm and hurried her to the head of the trail, where a dozen cho-ja soldiers stood with spears across their upper torsos, at the ready but not menacing. Shiny black, with six jointed limbs and bodies segmented like those of insects, they all looked identical to Mara, as if struck from the mould of a guild craftsman. She regarded the aliens and felt utterly at a loss.

‘These are old hive warriors,’ Keyoke observed. ‘They will not attack us unless we give them cause.’

Keyoke’s words helped steady her. She waited, tense as her escort, while her Force Commander advanced and saluted, his upraised arm bent at the elbow, palm forward. ‘Honour to your hive.’

The nearest cho-ja spoke in a surprisingly intelligible voice. ‘Honour to your house, men of the Acoma. Who speaks? The hive must be informed of your presence.’

‘I am Keyoke, Force Commander of the Acoma.’

The lead cho-ja returned the salute. As he moved, Mara saw how his body was segmented, a larger rear thorax with four three-jointed legs and a smaller upper thorax, roughly comparable to a man’s torso, with two almost human arms. His flesh was encased in chitin, and each forearm possessed a natural ridge that appeared as sharp as a sword edge. Upon his head he wore a helm of obvious Tsurani manufacture. The face within was oval, with large multifaceted eyes above two slits where a nose should be. The cho-ja’s jaw and mouth were surprisingly human in appearance, though his voice was singsong and high-pitched. ‘I am Ixal’t, Force Leader of the Second Command of hive Kait’lk.’

‘Now I remember.’ Keyoke relaxed fractionally, as if in the presence of an old acquaintance. ‘You served during the invasion of the Thuril Highlands.’ That explained how this cho-ja recognized Acoma colours. He motioned Mara to his side. ‘This is our Lady of the Acoma. She has come to negotiate with your new queen.’

Eyes like faceted metal flickered briefly over the girl at Keyoke’s side. Then the cho-ja executed a fair imitation of a human bow. ‘Welcome, Lady. Your arrival is timely. The new warriors are restless. This hatching is abundant and we are crowded. You may pass, and may your gods bless this bargaining.’

The cho-ja moved nimbly aside and allowed the Tsurani party to continue up the trail. Mara was curious about the unexpected expertise of her Force Commander. ‘Keyoke, I didn’t know you understood the cho-ja.’

‘I know their soldiers, as much as any man can. I served with some, many years ago – when your grandfather led many houses in battle against the Easter Confederation.’ If the old campaigner felt his years, he did not show them, ascending the difficult trail with hardly a sign of exertion.

‘The cho-ja seemed to welcome us with good grace.’

‘Mistress, those were old, disciplined soldiers upon the ridge,’ Arakasi cautioned. ‘Keyoke was correct in addressing their officer. But from now until we reach the hive we must be wary. Many young warriors have been hatched to protect the new queen as she travels. These will be undisciplined and aggressive – quick to provoke to violence until the young queen is safely within the earth of her new hive.’

Keyoke cleared a thorn branch from the path. ‘You speak as one who knows the cho-ja, Arakasi,’ he said.

The Spy Master avoided the branch as it swung. ‘No man knows the cho-ja. But I once hid from Minwanabi assassins for a week in a cho-ja hive. I learned something of them. It is my nature to ask many questions about things I do not understand when the opportunity presents itself.’

Mara was intrigued. Even when the ground became suitable for travel by litter once again, she remained afoot. ‘Tell me of the cho-ja, then, Arakasi. What are they like?’

‘The older ones are as ordered as the seasons, Lady. The young are unpredictable. They are hatched in a crèche. A dozen lesser females, called rirari, do nothing but lay eggs.’ The term was archaic Tsurani, meaning a second-level queen, or duchess. ‘But the eggs are infertile. The queen swallows them whole and passes them through a chamber in her body which fertilizes them, and more.’

‘More?’ asked Mara.

‘By some cho-ja means, as the queen is being serviced by a breeding male, she determines the sex and function of each egg, or leaves it sterile. At least, this is what I have been told.’

‘They can choose these things?’ wondered Mara. ‘Tell me more.’

‘Male cho-ja are roughly divided into three groups: the breeders, the workers and the soldiers. The workers are either clever or strong, artisans or beasts of burden, depending on what the hive needs. The soldiers are both strong and clever. The breeders are stupid, but they have only one task, to mate with the queen.’

Arakasi glanced aside and saw that Mara still listened raptly. A few of the nearest soldiers paid heed to the Spy Master as well. ‘Once the queen takes residence in the royal chamber, she never moves. Workers constantly feed her, while she is passed eggs by the rirari and serviced by the breeding males. Each one mates with her for hours at a time, until near exhaustion, when he is replaced by another. You will see when we are presented to the old queen.’

‘Fascinating.’ Mara paused, a little breathless, for the trail had grown steep once again. ‘What of the young?’

‘There is much I do not know of the females,’ Arakasi admitted. ‘But as immature cho-ja, all males are free to play and grow, much like human children – except that one day these young cho-ja are sporting about like needra calves and the next they awake, knowing their time to serve has begun. Only when a new queen is born are the soldiers hatched and hastened to maturity. This makes for an aggressive, unpredictable warrior, I’m afraid. They are quick to anger, and only the new queen can command them to instant obedience.’

Arakasi fell silent, for the trail crested a small rise, to cut sharply downwards into a valley tucked like a fold between hills. Through the arched boughs of a matched pair of ulo trees, they saw a sun-warmed meadow. The grass grew emerald, too meticulously clipped to be natural.

Arakasi pointed. ‘The hive lies ahead, beyond those trees.’

Keyoke commanded the soldiers to smarten up their columns. The company started forward in battle-ready array, with their Lady protected in their midst.

As her escort reached the edge of the ulo trees, Mara’s heart quickened with excitement. Through the raised shafts of the warriors’ spears she glimpsed the far end of the meadow, where a vast mound rose, ancient in that small trees had taken root and flourished upon it. An entrance was visible on one side, arches shored up with delicately carved stonework. On the beaten path that led inward, hundreds of cho-ja hurried to and from the hive, upon what errands only they knew.

Mara paused and commanded slaves to bring her litter. She might have been too excited to ride upon the ridge, but she would meet the cho-ja queens as Lady of a great house. As the bearers shouldered the litter poles once more, Keyoke and Arakasi marched at her side. Then all stood at readiness. One of the soldiers raised a battle horn to his lips and blew an announcement call. Then the Force Commander of the Acoma ordered Mara’s escort to step briskly from the shadow of the woods into sunlight.

Nothing changed at first. The cho-ja workers hustled about their tasks much as before, until the humans reached the valley floor. Then suddenly a dozen figures emerged from behind the right side of the hive. They raced forward like a herd of needra panicked by lightning, feet pounding upon the sod. ‘Warriors,’ Arakasi said. ‘Hold the men steady: this rush is probably a feint.’ Sweating slightly under his armour, Keyoke signalled the men. None readied weapons, though many might have questioned the prudence of the order, for the cho-ja bore down at a furious gallop. Closer they came, until the Acoma soldiers could see the sunlight gleam on the razor-sharp edges of their forearms. Then, when they were close enough to strike, the cho-ja veered off at the last second. With a sound like human laughter they ran off towards the hive.

Mara watched them go with a shuddering sigh of relief. ‘They are so swift. How did we ever manage to subdue them?’

Arakasi wiped his brow and returned an indulgent smile. ‘We never did, Lady. Humans settled land the cho-ja never wanted, until the queens found their hives surrounded. By then it was easier for both sides to make treaties than to fight. It takes skilled soldiers to face a force of cho-ja and survive. When aroused, they are efficient killers.’

As the retinue continued steadily towards the mound, more and more cho-ja appeared. Soon hundreds passed on every side, some with baskets strapped to their thoraxes, others wearing belts slung with tools. Aroused to curiosity by such industry, Mara peered through the curtain of her litter. ‘Arakasi, is this hive of normal size?’

‘A little larger than most, mistress, but not remarkably so.’

‘How many cho-ja live within?’

Without hesitation, Arakasi replied, ‘Twenty, twenty-five thousand.’

Mara was stunned. Before her lay a city in the wilderness. ‘How many will travel with the new queen?’

‘I don’t know. In the past, I think the hives would split when population pressure became too much.’ Arakasi shrugged. ‘Now there is little apparent logic in the decision to birth a new queen. For, despite their breeding continuously, the cho-ja control the hive’s numbers. Perhaps the old queen must reproduce herself each generation. Perhaps it is chance that brings a new queen. I do not know.’

Close at hand the mound seemed a symmetrical, steep-sided hill. The soldiers tightened formation, for the roadway became crowded. Here the grass had worn away to fine dust continually stirred by busy feet. Several times Mara’s party was approached by bands of young cho-ja. They pointed and stared with metallic eyes and chirped lively phrases in their own tongue, but the adults paid the visitors little heed. A band of workers scuttled past, carrying bundles of wood large enough to require five humans to lift, yet one cho-ja worker was sufficient for the task.

Then a band of young warriors came racing towards Mara’s party. Workers scattered from their path, bundles swaying, and jaws clacking a strange signal of dismay. Within a matter of moments the Tsurani found themselves surrounded. Keyoke called a halt. Dust swirled, and spear butts struck the earth in the formal stance of soldiers at rest, though the cho-ja appeared ready to fight. None was armed or helmeted in the manner of the guards upon the ridge. But with their powerful, naturally armoured bodies and razor-sharp forearm ridges, they would still make fearsome opponents.

Arakasi remained in position by the litter as Keyoke hastened forward. The Force Commander had barely reached the head of the column when a cho-ja charged. With the uncanny ability of his race to go from frenetic movement to absolute stillness, he halted scant inches before Keyoke, then stood there trembling, as if eager to fight. Yet when the cho-ja made no further provocative moves, Keyoke bowed with cautious courtesy. ‘We are of the Acoma,’ he announced. ‘My Lady of the Acoma wishes to speak with your queen.’

The cho-ja warrior remained motionless while the constant traffic of workers flowed by on either side. Tense and silent, the Acoma soldiers awaited any hint of threat to their mistress, while Arakasi advised Keyoke. ‘I don’t think these warriors understand Tsurani. This one here is barely mature. We may be forced to defend ourselves.’ Controlled but urgent, the Spy Master lowered his voice. ‘If the one in front attacks, the others may come to aid him. If we provoke him, they certainly will. Strike only at those who attack first, for some who come may be seeking to aid us.’

Keyoke returned a fractional nod. His hand lightly gripped his sword hilt, Mara saw. Yet he made no move to draw, even when the creature twitched his head to get a better view of the brightly armoured fighter. Long, tense moments dragged by; then another, larger, cho-ja arrived. Mara waited, edgy as her escort, as the newcomer pushed through the press of young warriors. It paused at the side of the one who confronted Keyoke, and shouted what might have been a command in a high-pitched clicking language. Several of the surrounding youngsters dipped their forelimbs and hurried away, but more stayed, including the one who blocked the trail. Without warning, the larger cho-ja reached out and seized the youngster around the middle of the upper body. He locked his limbs in an immovable grip, and for a moment the two cho-ja strained against each other, grunting with effort as their chitin grated together. The first cho-ja tottered; pulled off balance, he fell to the ground, where he thrashed for an instant in panic. The elder placed a leg atop the younger cho-ja, holding him down for a moment, then stepped back, allowing the younger to scramble to his knees. The instant he regained his footing, he spun and ran away, and the last of the young warriors fled with him.

The remaining cho-ja clicked apologetically and saluted. ‘Honours to your house, humans.’ Keyoke returned the salute as the cho-ja said, ‘That young one was unused to the sight of humans. He was ready to attack, and the others would have followed him had I not thrown him down.’

Softly, but so that all could hear, Arakasi said, ‘Cho-ja are most vulnerable when on the ground. They are extraordinarily agile, and terrified of losing their footing.’

‘That is true,’ agreed the cho-ja. ‘When I pulled the youngster over and held him down, he knew I was his better and he would not stand against me. I am Ratark’l, a soldier of the Kait’lk.’ He bowed in a very human fashion, then motioned for them to follow. ‘I do not know your colours, humans, but I can see you are not of the Inrodaka. His men wear the colour that can’t be seen, which you humans call red.’

‘We are of the Acoma.’ Keyoke indicated Mara’s litter and added, ‘This is my mistress, the Lady of the Acoma. She has travelled far to meet with your queen.’

The cho-ja spun around and seemed agitated. ‘My knowledge of your language seems now to be inadequate. I know of your Lords. What is a Lady?’

Keyoke responded with an imitation of a cho-ja gesture of respect. ‘She is our ruler.’

The cho-ja almost reared. His eyes glittered as, with a deference not shown before, he bent his head towards the litter where Mara rode hidden from sight. ‘Ruler! Never have we seen one of your queens, human. I shall hurry to my Queen and tell of your arrival.’

The cho-ja spun abruptly and darted between the press of commerce towards the hive entrance. Somewhat disoriented by the brevity of its manners, Keyoke turned to Arakasi. ‘What do you make of that?’

Arakasi shrugged and indicated that the party should resume the approach to the hive. ‘I suppose the home garrison has never seen a Tsurani woman before. Only traders and envoys of the Lord of the Inrodaka come here. It’s quite possible that this may be the first time in memory that a Ruling Lady has come to deal with a hive queen. The novelty may prove interesting.’

Keyoke halted the march. ‘Dangerous?’

Arakasi considered. ‘Probably not, though with the young warriors as nervous to be moving to a new hive as they are, I can’t say for certain. Still, I’ve never heard of the cho-ja harming a guest. For the moment I expect we are safe.’

Mara spoke from inside the litter. ‘I don’t care about the risk, Keyoke. If we don’t gain an alliance with the new queen …’

Keyoke glanced at his mistress. Like Nacoya, he knew Mara plotted and planned and took counsel from no one. But unlike the nurse, he simply accepted the fact. The Force Commander nodded his plumed head and resumed the approach to the hive. When the soldiers reached the entrance, an honour guard stepped from the arched entrance to meet them, a pair of cho-ja warriors wearing plumed and crested helms styled after those of Tsurani officers. Although no order was spoken, instantly the stream of cho-ja bearing burdens and messages rerouted their comings and goings through smaller openings on either side of the main entrance. The Acoma retinue halted before the honour guard. As the dust swirled and settled, the cho-ja in the lead bowed from the joint of his two thoraxes. ‘I am Lax’l, Force Commander of hive Kait’lk.’

Keyoke bowed also. ‘I am Keyoke, Force Commander of the Acoma. Honours to your hive.’

‘Honours to your house, Keyoke of the Acoma.’

Keyoke motioned towards the litter. ‘Within rests Mara, Ruling Lady of the Acoma.’

At once attentive, Lax’l said, ‘One of our warriors announced a human queen has come to call. Is she the one?’

Before Keyoke could answer, Arakasi said, ‘She is young but will be mother to Acoma Lords.’

All the cho-ja in the honour guard made a sudden keening cry. All activity around the entrance halted. For a moment no one moved, human or cho-ja. Then the cho-ja Force Commander bowed low, like a needra kneeling; moments later, all the other cho-ja in sight, even the ones bearing burdens, did likewise. Over the shuffling sound as they rose and continued with their errands, Lax’l said, ‘We welcome the human queen to hive Kait’lk. Our Queen shall be informed of your arrival without delay. We would also tell her the reason for your coming, if you will permit.’

‘I permit,’ said Mara promptly. Since delay seemed inevitable she allowed the bearers to lower her litter to the ground, though she remained hidden behind the gauze curtains. ‘Inform your queen that we come requesting the honour of bargaining for the new queen’s hive to be built upon Acoma land.’

At this the cho-ja cocked his head; one forelimb lifted in astonishment. ‘News travels swiftly through the Empire. The young Queen is barely more than a hatchling, not ready as yet to venture above ground.’

Mara bit her lip; time now was critical, with the wedding date set and her estate left vulnerable by her absence. Nacoya and Jican were competent, but they could not prevent the inevitable reports by enemy spies that she was off on a secret errand. Each day she was absent increased the risk of attack against a garrison still dangerously undermanned. Prompted by impulse and a driving, intuitive ambition, Mara whipped aside the curtains. ‘Force Commander of the cho-ja,’ she said, before Arakasi or Keyoke could counsel otherwise. ‘If the new queen cannot meet with me outside, I will come to her, should your ruler permit.’

Arakasi stiffened, startled, and Keyoke froze with his hand half-raised to rub his chin. The request was presumptuous; neither man guessed how the cho-ja might react. For a moment each warrior held his breath, while the cho-ja stood trembling in the same manner as the young warrior who had been poised to attack them only a short while before.

But Lax’l proved uncertain rather than angry. ‘Lady Queen, no human has asked such a thing in our memory. Wait here, and I shall enquire.’ He whirled and scuttled into the hive.

Slowly Keyoke lowered his arm. ‘That was a dangerous move, mistress. If the queen should receive your request with displeasure, your warriors are outnumbered two hundred to one.’

‘And yet the cho-ja officer did not act affronted,’ Arakasi pointed out, ‘merely astonished.’ He shook his head with what might have been admiration.

Nevertheless, Keyoke kept his soldiers on guard. With weapons near to hand, all waited for the cho-ja commander’s return.

Lax’l scuttled abruptly from the dark beyond the entrance. He bowed low, the polished dome of his head segment almost brushing the dust. ‘Our queen is honoured that you are willing to visit the heart of the hive to see her daughter. She will allow you to enter with one officer, five soldiers, and as many workers as you need. Lady of the Acoma, come at once, for my Queen waits to greet you within the great chamber.’

Mara signalled through the hangings and a somewhat bemused Keyoke chose Arakasi and four others to follow Lax’l. Then the Force Commander ordered the remaining guards to take their ease while their mistress was absent. In short order, Mara, her picked attendants, and her guards entered the hillside, immediately engulfed by the gloom of the tunnel.

Mara’s first impression was of moist, earth odours, and of another scent intermingled, a nutty, spicy smell that could only be the cho-ja. The large arch they passed under was faced with carvings of surpassing delicacy, decorated with precious inlays of metal and gems. Mara imagined Jican’s exclamations of delight should the Acoma estate gain craftsmen capable of such work. Then the shadows deepened as the tunnel sloped downwards, out of the direct light of the entrance. Behind gauzy curtains, Mara was virtually blind until her eyes adjusted to the darkness. The cho-ja Force Commander scuttled ahead with the quickness characteristic of his race. The humans walked briskly to keep up, the panting of the slaves strangely amplified as they bore the litter down a maze-like array of ramps. The tunnels had been hewed out of the ground, then braced with some strange compound that set into the hardness of stone. Sounds echoed easily off this substance, lending an eerie quality to the creak of armour and weaponry. Deeper the party marched, through curves that undulated apparently without pattern. Odd globes of light had been placed at junctions, causing intersections to be islands of illumination between long stretches of gloom. Mara studied the globes, amazed to find they contained neither oil nor flame. She wondered how such a glow might be fashioned, even as her litter was jostled by a constant press of cho-ja intent upon hive business. Most turned to regard the humans a moment before continuing on.

As the third intersection disappeared behind, Mara pondered the different cho-ja in her view. Warriors seemed uniformly powerful, with huge lower thorax, broad shoulders on the upper body, and a height half again as tall as the tallest Tsurani. The workers were noticeably shorter and stockier, more placid in their demeanour. But she had seen others, more agile than the workers, yet less formidable than the warriors. When she asked Arakasi about these, he answered, ‘Artisans, mistress.’

The way steepened as they descended into the hive. Intersections became more frequent and the cho-ja scent thickened in the air. In time the passage widened, opening out into a large cavern hung with many light globes. Mara pushed the curtains of her litter wide and stared in surprise and wonder. Clinging to the ceiling of each tunnel into the chamber were small cho-ja, about the size of a human child of five. Transparent wings upon their backs beat furiously, the movement a blur in the dim light. Each creature seemed to rest for a minute or two, then resume the beating for an equal amount of time. The constant changing caused the air to hum with almost musical shifts in rhythm. Arakasi noticed Mara’s amazement and explained. ‘These must be worker females.’

‘I thought you said you knew only of the males,’ commented Mara.

‘I’ve never seen these before,’ he acknowledged. ‘But only the females have wings.’

Lax’l revealed unexpectedly keen hearing as he glanced back at Mara and her escort. ‘Your adviser is correct, Lady Queen. These you see above are sterile females; they are nearly mindless and live only to move through the air through the deep tunnels and chambers. It would grow difficult to breathe down here if not for their labour.’ He guided the Acoma party swiftly across the cavern, turned a bend, and entered a low passage, which quickly became a ramp heading downward. The slaves carrying Mara’s litter struggled for breath. Mara considered calling an early shift change; but the tunnel suddenly opened out into what could only be the Queen’s chamber.

The cho-ja Queen was immense, at least thirty feet long from her head to the end of her second thorax. Dark, almost polished black, she lay upon a raised mound of earth, and from the withered appearance of her legs Mara realized she never moved from that location. Fine hangings draped portions of her anatomy, and between them her workers darted, preening her enormous body, attending diligently to her every comfort and need. High above her, and mounted back upon her thorax, a stocky male perched, his soldier-like body surmounted by the small head of a worker. He rocked over the Queen with a rhythmic motion. Arakasi inclined his head and said, ‘A breeding male, my Lady. One is always with the Queen.’ A dozen cho-ja males were arrayed before her, some with crested helms and others without visible ornament; all awaited the arrival of the Acoma party in polite silence. On either side of the chamber, smaller versions of the Queen lay upon their stomachs, and attendants bustled about each of them. Arakasi pointed these out to Mara and murmured, ‘Rirari, I expect, the lesser queens who lay the eggs.’

Lax’l indicated that they should wait, then scuttled forward with a loud series of clicks. A hush fell over the chamber, though the workers still attended to their tasks. The bearers placed Mara’s litter upon the earth, and with Keyoke’s assistance she stepped forth. No longer hidden by gauze hangings, she felt small, almost lost, in a chamber at least four times the size of the grand hall of the Anasati; up close, the size of the Queen was overpowering. Maintaining her poise with an effort of will, Mara stood while a slave from her retinue slipped a jewelled overrobe over her shoulders. She strove not to quail as the alien Queen stared intently at her. The dark, faceted eyes reflected no expression. Mara endured with an outward show of calm, though her knees began to tremble as her attendant stepped back. Then the cho-ja Queen spoke in a voice surprisingly slight and delicate to be issuing from so enormous a form. ‘You are the human Queen?’

Mara bowed slightly, the jewels on her sleeves flashing in the dim light. ‘I am Mara, Ruling Lady of the Acoma. We have no queens as you do, but I rule my house in the same manner as you would your hive.’

The Queen made a sound. Her chitin features remained immobile, but her manner suggested amusement, and her outburst seemed akin to human laughter.

‘I didn’t expect your kind to breed like us, Mara of the Acoma. I have been told of your odd matings. I am very old. But among humans I have heard only of Ruling Lords. How is it that you hold command, and the men who accompany you do not?’

Mara explained that only when no male heirs remained within a noble family did a female come to power. The Queen listened, and when Mara finished, said, ‘You humans are so alien. We often wonder what makes you strive so. But I distract myself. The new Queen, my daughter, is anxious to meet a human queen, particularly one who ventures below ground in deference to the customs of our kind.’

Now the old Queen sang out in a loud, piping whistle, and a pair of cho-ja workers came forward. Between them they ushered a cho-ja smaller than any the human party had encountered so far. Mara looked a long moment before she understood. ‘This is the new Queen?’

‘Such was I once, long ago. She will grow and within a matter of weeks she will be big enough to rule; a few months after, she will start reproduction.’

The young Queen regarded Mara, circling her to get a better look. She seemed to move with a grace not seen in any cho-ja before, her steps fluid, even lithe; she showed none of the rapid movement Mara had observed in the workers and soldiers. But even as she spoke in the clicking tongue of her kind, her bright, faceted eyes never left Mara. The cho-ja matriarch said, ‘Our young are born knowing our language, as they are taught while they grow within the egg sac. Your tongue they must learn after they hatch. My daughter will be unable to speak with you for some time yet to come.’

The young Queen’s scrutiny made Mara’s skin prickle self-consciously; yet she held still and waited. Presently the young Queen finished her inspection and fell silent. The old Queen answered rapidly and then translated in Tsurani. ‘She said you are all alien-looking – frightening.’ To Mara she added, ‘Though you are less frightening that the males.’

Mara bowed slightly to the new Queen. ‘Please tell her I think she is lovely.’ The remark was not empty flattery; although the young Queen would someday grow to be the monstrous equal of her mother, at present she was delicately formed and pleasing to observe. Unlike the blue-tinged males, she was a deep maroon in colour and possessed a quality that Mara could only call feminine.

The old Queen interpreted and the new Queen trilled, seemingly in pleasure. Mara went on, ‘We come seeking a treaty. We would welcome this new Queen and her followers to build a hive on our land. We would like to begin negotiations as soon as possible.’

The old Queen answered, ‘I do not understand. The negotiations have begun.’

Mara felt a stab of concern. The finality of the event came too suddenly for her to cope, for she had banked upon the counsel of Arakasi. She strove politely to buy time. ‘I am weary from days of travel. Might I have leave to rest a day before we speak of these matters?’

The old Queen repeated the request and followed with the young Queen’s answer. ‘My daughter Queen says she will hear what you bid, now.’

Mara looked at Arakasi, who whispered, ‘If you leave, you may offend her and lose any chance to speak to her again.’

Suddenly Mara felt worn. The excitement of reaching the hive had buoyed her for the last hour, but now she felt ready to collapse. The stress of dealing with the young Queen combined with the killing pace of the last week made her mind seem fog-clouded. Still, there seemed no choice but to go on. Mara signalled for a cushion from her litter to be placed upon the floor. She seated herself as formally as she could manage and opened negotiations. ‘What would your daughter wish to come live upon Acoma lands?’

The young Queen crouched cho-ja fashion, by lowering her four legs in a squat while maintaining an erect upper torso, arms crossed in very human fashion. She fixed large eyes upon Mara and spoke. The old Queen translated. ‘My daughter wishes to know if the earth of your estates is wet or dry.’

Mara answered without hesitation. ‘Both. The Acoma lands are wide and rich, from water-flooded thyza paddies to high forests. We have meadowlands which rise up into hills not unlike those that surround this hive.’

The young Queen listened to her mother’s interpretation, then responded. ‘My daughter Queen would settle her following near clean water, but not where the ground is too wet. She asks also that the place be away from the forest, as the old root systems make digging the upper tunnels difficult. The first chamber must be dug quickly, for she would not risk staying above ground any longer than necessary.’

Mara conferred with Keyoke. ‘We could give her the lower needra meadow to the west of the river. Slaves can then clear new land for the herd to the east.’ When the Force Commander nodded agreement, Mara said, ‘Tell your daughter that we offer a low hill of land, surrounded by open meadow, within a short march to fresh, clear water. But the land is located above the higher of the two banks of the river and stays dry, even during the heavy rains.’

The old Queen and the young engaged in discussion. The cho-ja language of clicks and whistles seemed more efficient than human words; or else the aliens exchanged information in ways that supplemented language. Mara waited, inwardly nervous.

Suddenly a strident whistle echoed through the hive’s great chamber. Mara’s retinue stiffened in alarm, and the old Queen’s conversation with her daughter ceased abruptly. Fearful the disturbance might herald alarm, Keyoke gripped his sword hilt.

But Arakasi seized the Force Commander’s upper arm and whispered urgently, ‘Pull steel this close to two queens and we all die instantly.’ The older Queen showed no sign of alarm, but the males near her had all risen to a half crouch, a battle posture that readied them to explode into a charge. Half-raised forearms quivered slightly as razor-sharp chitin ridges were angled towards Keyoke. The old Force Commander had seen cho-ja at war; these were a hairsbreadth away from attack. He released his sword and at once the warriors before the old Queen subsided into their squatting position. The old Queen made no comment. Arakasi released a pent-up breath and offered slight reassurance. ‘Should danger arise, those warriors will protect us as well as their Queen.’ Keyoke nodded at the logic of this, but he still stepped closer to his Lady.

On the dais, the old Queen clicked and twitched a forelimb; and in response to her command, Lax’l rose from his place at her feet and scuttled off.

Watching him, Mara wondered whether she could ever adjust to the speed at which the cho-ja moved at need. As messengers, they would be unparalleled, and that prompted remembrance of a childhood rhyme recited by Nacoya that ended ‘… the cho-ja are the first with news and early-season fruit.’ Phrased as nonsense, and treated by humans as entertainment for youngsters, Mara pondered now whether the jingle held some element of truth.

Lax’l returned before she could pursue the idea with inquiry. He exchanged rapid whistles and clicks with his matriarch; and the old Queen’s next words banished all musings upon nursery tales from Mara’s thoughts.

‘Lady Queen of the Acoma,’ the ruling cho-ja said, ‘word arrives that a Lord of your kind has travelled to the hive to bargain against you for the new Queen’s favour.’

• Chapter Six • Ceremony

Mara stiffened.

Dismay, disappointment, and anger welled up within her all at once; then fear prevailed over all else. Somehow, someone had relayed word of the cho-ja Queen’s hatching.

If the news had spread indiscriminately across the countryside, more than one family might be travelling to the hive in the hill. The one waiting above would be only the first of many. Yet this boded ill even if the news had not been widely dispersed, for then the Lord of the Inrodaka might have invited some special friend to be first to seek the new Queen’s hive. He would most certainly not be pleased to discover trespassers upon his land to steal a march upon his ally. With or without the young Queen’s approval, Mara now faced returning across the lands of a hostile Lord aware of her presence. Even more frightening, some agent of the Minwanabi might have learned of Mara’s errand and sent an informant back to his master. Perhaps Jingu himself waited above to communicate with the young Queen.

Careful to hide her distress from the Queens, Mara took a deep breath. Her throat felt as dry as sand, even as she reminded herself of a teaching mother’s lesson: ‘Fear is the little death, daughter. It kills in tiny pieces.’

With the appearance of calm, Mara looked to the old Queen. ‘Honoured ruler,’ she said, ‘be advised that I am most determined to win the loyalty of this new hive. Acoma lands are rich and wide, and another Lord of the Empire is unlikely to better the terms I can offer.’

On the dais, the old Queen huffed through her nose slits, the cho-ja equivalent of laughter. ‘Loyalty? Lady Ruler of the Acoma, that is a concept not shared by my kind. Workers, warriors, rirari, all do as is their nature, for without the hive there is nothing. A queen is the sole arbiter of a hive, and we make our trade contracts for the best terms we may. Always we serve the highest bidder.’

Mara sat speechless at this revelation. By chance the Queen had disclosed a thing no Tsurani in the Empire had guessed. Tsurani society had always believed the cho-ja were above certain human failings. Now what was believed to be an unassailable sense of honour was revealed as the crassest sort of service-mongering. These cho-ja were nothing more than a race of merchants. Their legendary loyalty was open to sale to the highest bidder, and perhaps subject to renegotiation should the cho-ja receive a better offer from a rival Lord. One of the underpinnings of the Empire’s power structure was far more vulnerable than anyone knew, for never before had anyone thought to test cho-ja loyalty by contacting the hive upon another Lord’s lands. Through her dismay, Mara saw advantage: so long as no other ruler in the Empire guessed the truth, she might use such knowledge for her own gain – provided she survived the next hour.

‘Keyoke.’ Mara leaned across her cushions and motioned the Force Commander closer. ‘These warriors who came with us must be sworn to absolute silence.’ With her face kept carefully blank, she added, ‘The slaves must not be permitted to reveal what we have just heard.’ Nothing more would be said, but the old warrior knew she had just pronounced death sentence upon eight men. He in turn whispered something to Arakasi and, his expression unreadable, the Spy Master nodded once, indicating he affirmed the decision.

Mara straightened. To the old Queen she said, ‘Then we shall bargain.’

Excited by the prospect, the old Queen trilled her pleasure. ‘I shall inform the other human Lord that he has a competing offer.’

The Queen then issued commands to waiting cho-ja workers. These were of the smaller, more intelligent artisan class. Mara waited with the appearance of patience as they scuttled away. Other workers entered the chamber, clearly establishing a relay of messengers, since the newly arrived Lord preferred to negotiate from the surface, in the traditional Tsurani manner. Mara resolved to extract what advantage she could from that circumstance.

The first message arrived from above, and after clicking communication with the courier and the young Queen, the hive matriarch inclined her head towards Mara. ‘Your rival Lord also possesses fine meadowlands that are dry year round, near to good water, and free of tree roots. He says as well that his soil is sandy and easy to tunnel.’ She paused and conferred with her daughter Queen, then added, ‘Lady of the Acoma, my hatchling wishes to know if you care to improve your offer.’

Mara resisted an impulse to twist her fingers in the fringes of her cushion. ‘Kindly relate to your daughter that sandy soil may be easy to dig, but it also leaches water and tends to collapse easily.’

Enjoying herself, the old Queen responded with her odd laugh. ‘We know, Lady of the Acoma. We find it entertaining that a human would presume to know more of tunnelling than a cho-ja. Still, sandy soil presents no difficult problem for us.’

Mara thought quickly. ‘You are the finest miners in the world, yet I will provide slaves to help with the digging so that your daughter’s wait upon the surface is short. One hundred of my warriors will safeguard the site, and my own pavilion will shade her from the sun until her chambers are ready underground.’ Mara swallowed hard. ‘In addition, each day she remains above ground she shall have twenty baskets of fruits and thyza harvested from my fields, that her workers may remain full of industry with no need to forage.’

The old Queen clicked her translation and the young Queen replied. A moment later a messenger scuttled up the passage towards the surface. Perspiring lightly in the spicy warmth, Mara managed not to fidget. Negotiations might proceed very slowly, she thought, but the messenger returned unexpectedly fast.

When the new terms had been related to her daughter, the old Queen translated for Mara. ‘Should any tunnels collapse, your rival says he offers a suite of rooms in his estate house to the Queen and her chosen attendants, until her own quarters may be rebuilt.’

Something in the Queen’s voice lent Mara an insight. Despite her fluent Tsurani, the Queen was an alien being with alien needs. Few common values overlapped; by repeating the rival offer, the cho-ja ruler might not be indicating her preference but instead inciting the human rulers to bid each other up as high as possible. Mara strove to be as shrewd as possible. ‘That is silly. What reason would your daughter have to wish to reside in a Tsurani house? My pavilion would be more comfortable.’

The old Queen answered without hesitation. ‘This is true. But he also offers a hundredweight in jade and an equal weight in fine metal to endow my daughter’s craft workers.’

Mara shivered slightly under her thin robes. The items just named amounted to a fortune. Her rival above was most determined, to raise his stakes so high this soon. Cleverness alone would not suffice, and Mara imagined Jican wringing his hands as she debated the wealth the Acoma would pledge as a counter-offer.

Mara’s voice was unsteady as she spoke. ‘Honourable Queen, tell your daughter that Tsurani estate houses are suitable to workers and soldiers only, not queens. Far better, tunnels that never collapse. Say also that metals and jade are useless without tools to work them; so then, what would the cho-ja wish: gems and metals which they can find more easily than any human miner, or tools which can work such into things of beauty and value, to be traded to humans for whatever the cho-ja truly wish to possess? I will match the other Lord’s offer in value, but with things cho-ja do not fashion for themselves: tools, and needra hide of equal worth, and resin-worked woods.’ She paused, then added, ‘Also weapons and armour for her warriors.’

‘A generous offer,’ observed the old Queen. Her eyes glittered brightly while she translated as if she enjoyed the striving between human rulers. The exchange was punctuated by excited trills.

Strained and tired, Mara closed her eyes. The Acoma resources stood in danger of depletion, and the pledge she had just made relied heavily on the craftsmen brought in by Lujan, armourers and weapons makers whose work had yet to be evaluated. And the cho-ja would be insulted by inferior work, perhaps even moved to wrath.

The messenger returned quickly. He exchanged rapid clicks with the Queen matriarch, and the daughter Queen broke into a series of loud trills.

Mara dreaded the translation; surely the outburst from the daughter Queen signified a magnanimous concession from the rival Lord.

The old Queen finished with the messenger. Still as a statue of obsidian, she said, ‘Lady Ruler, the Lord above ground has informed us that he recognizes Acoma colours upon the warriors who wait by the hive entrance. He says he knows of your resources and claims further that you cannot possibly meet the terms you have just named.’

Mara’s eyes narrowed before the glittering gaze of the Queen. ‘His words are untrue.’ She paused, contained a sharp, dangerous anger, and arose from her cushion. ‘This Lord speaks from ignorance.’

Indifferent to Mara’s ire, the Queen said, ‘I do not understand.’

Mara strove to control her fury. ‘Do the cho-ja know the details of every hive, the workings, the goings-on?’

The Queen flicked her forearms in perplexity. ‘Whatever transpires in a hive is known to all queens.’ She paused a long minute, then chittered softly to the young Queen. To Mara she added, ‘Clearly your human ways differ from ours.’

Mara licked her lips and tasted sweat. Strain must not drive her to act rashly. Deep below ground, with only six warriors standing between herself and the most rigorous of hive defences, a single mistimed gesture might prove fatal. ‘I am Ruling Lady of the Acoma,’ Mara said carefully. ‘I say that no house in the Empire dares to presume to know the extent of my resources! This rival Lord bargains without honour and his charge is an insult to my house.’ She stepped forward, fear masked by the proud bearing of her ancestors, and faced the young Queen directly. ‘Lady of the cho-ja, I negotiate in good faith. Know that, as an Acoma, I hold my word more important than my life.’

The wait as her words were translated threatened to break her, yet Mara endured, hands clenched hard together. The young Queen studied the human visitor with keen curiosity, while the old Queen gave instructions to her messengers. Mara’s challenge to her unseen rival above ground broached matters of honour, and a bloodletting might result that could carry even into the hive. Fighting an onset of panic, Mara cursed inwardly. Not knowing the identity of her rival placed her at a severe disadvantage.

A faint scrape sounded in the passage as the next messenger whisked into view. The old Queen heard him, then spoke. ‘Lady Ruler, the Lord above concedes his words were spoken in anger. Perhaps you might have armourers who can fulfil the obligation you have promised, but he says all the Empire knows that his wealth is greater than that of the Acoma. For the young Queen he will better any and all offers the Lady Mara cares to make, if my daughter will choose his land for her new hive.’

Jade bracelets clashed against silence as Mara stiffened. ‘Who boasts his wealth is superior to mine?’

‘The Lord of the Ekamchi,’ answered the Queen.

Mara looked askance at Arakasi, for the name was only vaguely familiar. The Spy Master left his place among her retinue and whispered swiftly, ‘Inrodaka’s closest friend. He has some wealth, a little more than your own, I think. His army is small, though he probably has an escort with him that outnumbers us. I remember him as a fat man, with no personal history of warcraft and most likely little courage.’

Mara nodded. The speed with which the Lord of the Ekamchi had retracted his claim to know Acoma resources seemed to indicate the hesitancy of a man unsure of himself. Relying on Arakasi’s implicit advice, Mara said, ‘Advantage shifts away from us the longer we wait. I think I need to be bold.’

The Spy Master flashed a quick smile as he bowed and returned to his place. Making her voice ring with a confidence she did not feel, Mara addressed the young Queen. ‘Daughter Queen of the cho-ja, I say now the Acoma will match any bid set forth by this arrogant braggart who stands above us. All material goods he offers I will equal in kind for your hive. I also promise that sweet-smelling blossoms will be delivered each day of the spring, that those pleasures of life above ground will not be forgotten by you as you care for your subjects. I will have hangings of pretty colours made by our finest weavers, so your quarters will always be pleasant, and these hangings shall be replaced each season, that you not tire of your surroundings. And I will come, and sit, and discuss with you the affairs of the Empire, so you may grow in understanding of human affairs. I beg that you now choose which estate you will have as home for your new hive.’

Silence fell. The attendant workers seemed to tense slightly as the Queen matriarch began her translation, each click and whistle starkly emphasized. Mara listened with the breath stopped in her throat, while at her sides Keyoke and Arakasi exchanged grim signals of readiness. Their mistress had made a bold request, and no man knew how the alien cho-ja might respond.

The two queens conferred. Tense, aching with pressure, Mara felt the minutes stretched like the strings of a gikoto tightened past pitch by an overanxious musician. Every shred of self-control she had learned at the temple came into play as she endured cruel suspense. The faces of her retainers surrounded her, from the familiar, lined visage of Keyoke, to each of her soldiers, to the enigmatic countenance of Arakasi. Chills pricked her skin as she wondered what fate would befall should the cho-ja Queen decide against the Acoma; if the bargain went to the Lord of the Ekamchi, she would have enemies waiting above. Any advantage she had gained by entering the hive would be lost; her boldness ultimately might bring her death, since no man knew what guest customs the alien race observed.

Then, without warning, the old Queen’s faceted eyes swivelled towards the humans. Mara stood motionless as judgement was pronounced. ‘The Queen daughter has chosen. She says she will bring her hive to the estate of Mara of the Acoma.’

Lax’l gestured. The messenger sped off up the passage for the last time, with word of defeat for the Lord of the Ekamchi. Keyoke and Arakasi exchanged small smiles of relief, while Mara briefly covered her face with both hands to smother a laugh of triumph. Her instinct had proven correct. Now the Acoma would gain a rare and precious advantage for years to come.

With her fatigue swept away by excitement and curiosity, Mara said, ‘If I may ask, why did your daughter finally choose Acoma lands, when the offers were so close?’

The queens exchanged remarks, then the elder said, ‘My daughter likes you. You called her pretty.’

‘That’s something most men would never have thought,’ Arakasi mused, ‘that even queens of the cho-ja are not immune to flattery.’

‘Indeed,’ observed Keyoke.

The old Queen inclined the polished dome of her head towards Mara. ‘And we both count it a great courtesy that you would come below ground to negotiate rather than use messengers, for you are the first of your race to do so.’

Arakasi almost chuckled aloud. He said to Keyoke, ‘Simply because most lords would not set foot within another’s house without first being invited to enter. It seems Tsurani civility is cho-ja rudeness.’

The Force Commander seemed less amused. ‘Swords may yet determine the outcome of this encounter,’ he reminded the Spy Master, with a jerk of his thumb indicating the less than friendly forces waiting above.

Mara did not comment on her retainer’s remarks, but instead looked up at the old Queen. ‘I have been led to understand that the young Queen’s retinue will be scant.’

The old Queen motioned with a forelimb. ‘This is true, patron of my daughter’s hive. I have birthed three hundred warriors, two hundred of which have been matured at fast rate to accompany her, the other hundred to follow when they have grown. I will allow her two rirari, two breeding males, and seven hundred workers.’

Mara pondered this. The presence of the cho-ja on the Acoma estate would prove a hindrance to any but the boldest enemy, for no one else was likely to know the cho-ja warriors were young and difficult to control. ‘In the normal course of things, how long do you judge before a new hive is able to begin commerce?’

The old Queen twitched her jaws, as if divining Mara’s intent. ‘In the normal course of things, two to three years.’

Fatigue returning in numbing waves. Mara’s mind drifted, and she forced herself to apply something said earlier by the old Queen. ‘I would like to bid for additional workers and warriors to be sent with your daughter.’ Careful to conceal her exhaustion, Mara stepped steadily back to her litter. She entered, and motioned to a slave to hold the curtains back to keep an unobstructed view of the two queens. Settled upon her cushions – and hoping she didn’t appear too wilted – Mara said, ‘I would talk terms.’

‘That is wise,’ answered the Queen. ‘The young warriors are fractious; older, more experienced soldiers will be needed to bring them quickly to order at the new hive.’

Mara’s heart leaped in pleasure; she had understood the old Queen’s comments on the nature of the cho-ja. Behind her, Keyoke murmured his astonishment. ‘They barter their own!’

The old Queen showed keener hearing than expected by saying, ‘Only the hive matters, Force Commander. And I am the hive. Those I sell will serve your Lady as they would serve me. She will be their new Queen.’

Mara said, ‘I wish only that your daughter have a stronger hive, as soon as possible. I buy workers and warriors as a gift for her.’

The old Queen nodded. ‘That is generous. I will keep that in mind as I set my price.’

Mara took a moment to consult her advisers. Then, making sure her shoulders didn’t droop, she spoke to the Queen. ‘I have need for twenty of your warriors, Majesty. I would also ask for artisans.’

Keyoke straightened in surprise. ‘I thought we came for warriors, my Lady?’

Mara assumed a faraway look, as she often had lately; as the Acoma position stabilized, she strove to plan for the future; more and more, she kept her own counsel. But an old and valued adviser deserved an explanation. ‘Since my betrothal to the Anasati son, our position is safe for the present. This young Queen can breed more warriors, in time. But their most valued skill is not inborn, I think. What I want is silk-makers.’

The Queen matriarch reared up as high as her immobile rear segment allowed. ‘For the makers of silk to be given over to you would cost greatly.’

Mara returned a half bow, that her boldness might not offend. ‘What price?’

The Queen waved her forelegs for a long moment. ‘A hundred bags of thyza for each worker.’

‘Agreed,’ said Mara without hesitation. ‘I require five such workers.’

But the old Queen clicked scoldingly at Mara’s haste. ‘You must also give one thousand swords, one thousand helmets, and one thousand shields, to be shipped upon your arrival home.’

Mara frowned. Since Jican was a competent manager, she had finances to buy what was not on hand in the warehouse. ‘Agreed.’ The bargain was hard, but fair; in time a flourishing silk trade would repay the expenditure many times over. Anxious now to deliver her news to Jican and Nacoya, Mara said, ‘When will the Queen depart?’

The matriarch conferred with her daughter, then answered, ‘Not until the autumn.’

Mara inclined her head in a gesture of respect. ‘Then I will leave at dawn and set about fulfilling our obligation to you. My workers will see that the needra are moved and the meadow is clipped and made ready, that the Queen your daughter will be welcome upon her arrival.’

The Queen matriarch signalled dismissal. ‘Go, then, Mara of the Acoma. May your gods grant you prosperity and honour, for you have dealt graciously with our kind.’

Mara spoke through a profound feeling of relief. ‘And may your hive continue to grow in prosperity and honour.’

Lax’l stepped forward to guide the humans to the surface, and the Queen’s bright eyes turned away, absorbed once more with hive matters and the complex decisions of breeding. Able to give in to exhaustion, and shaking slightly from hours of sustained stress, Mara sank back into the cushions of her litter. She gestured, and her company moved to depart. During her ride towards the surface, she felt like laughing aloud, then like crying. Seeds now sown might someday bring forth rich fruit, for she had won the means to expand upon Jican’s already impressive financial base. The silk trade in the south was not yet an established industry. Northern silk varied in quality and availability. Mara did not know how to convince this young Queen to turn silk production into the major speciality of her hive, but she would endeavour to find a means. Produced near the major southern markets, Acoma silk might someday come to dominate the trade.

Then, as her bearers bore her along the dark, richly scented tunnels of the cho-ja hive, her euphoria dimmed. Barely two weeks remained for the elaborate preparations that a wedding of two great houses entailed. Although the past night’s efforts might add to the Acoma wealth, soon that wealth must be turned over to another, the son of one of her most bitter enemies. Mara brooded in the privacy of her litter; of her acts since the death of her father and brother, her marriage to Buntokapi posed the greatest risk of them all.

The last intersection fell behind, yet the tunnel did not darken. Through the thin curtains of her litter, Mara saw the arches of the entrance of the hive, with daylight shining brightly between. Negotiations with the cho-ja queens had lasted throughout the night. The girl’s eyes ached as they adjusted to the increased light, and her head swam with weariness. Content to lie back and doze while Keyoke marshalled his escort and readied the slaves and warriors for the long march home, she did not recognize trouble until her litter shuddered to a halt, followed by the hiss of weapons being drawn.

Alarmed, Mara sat up. She reached to draw open the curtains, just as a stranger’s voice rang out in anger.

‘You! Thief! Prepare to answer for your crimes!’

Chilled awake by fear and anger, Mara whipped the gauze aside. Keyoke and the Acoma warriors waited with drawn swords, ready to defend. Beyond them stood the white-haired Lord of the Inrodaka, red-faced, tousled, and furious from a night spent in the open. Swiftly Mara took stock of his retinue. She counted a full company of soldiers, two hundred at the least, and not all of them wore Inrodaka red. Fully half were armoured in the purple and yellow of the Ekamchi.

The old Lord thrust his jaw forward and pointed his decorative family sword. ‘Lady of the Acoma! How dare you trespass upon Inrodaka lands! Your audacity oversteps your strength, to the grief and shame of your name. For stealing the daughter Queen’s hive you shall be made to pay dearly.’

Mara met the accusation with a cool look of contempt. ‘Your words are without much thought, and of less honour.’ She glanced at the fat man at Inrodaka’s side, assuming him to be the Lord of the Ekamchi. ‘The lands surrounding this hive are unclaimed – have your hadonra check the archives in Kentosani, if you doubt me. And the cho-ja are no man’s slaves. They choose with whom they bargain. And to call one who bargains in good faith a thief is an insult demanding apology!’

Both Lords regarded the Acoma ruler. She might seem a young girl taken by a fit of pique, but in the face of the armed and able company waiting on her word to extract such apology, both men lost some of their fury. Still, they remained uncowed by Mara’s unexpected boldness. The Lord of the Inrodaka spluttered in indignation and his companion shook a pudgy fist. The unmannerly displays might have been comic except for the glowering rows of warriors and weapons behind them.

‘You have slighted me, caused me to break faith with a trusted ally,’ Inrodaka raged. Yet he seemed more inclined to speak than fight. ‘I had promised the Ekamchi exclusive rights to bargain with the daughter Queen, and by treachery you Acoma became privy to my secrets!’

Now Mara understood. The man suspected the Acoma of having an agent in his household. Arakasi had spent several weeks as a guest of the Inrodaka; if anyone recognized him, a fight might result. Mara chanced a surreptitious glance that ended in a blink of confusion. The Spy Master had disappeared. Another searching glance, a little more careful, revealed his presence among the soldiers, but even there she had trouble picking him out. At one with the others in Acoma ranks, he stood poised for trouble, but his helm hung slightly lower over the bridge of his nose, and his chin was thrust forward, making his jaw seem squarer than usual. Very likely he would remain unnoticed. Relieved by this, Mara sought to avoid conflict. ‘My Lord, I take no responsibility for causing a break in a pledge beyond your right to promise. The cho-ja keep their own counsel. As for being privy to your secrets, “the cho-ja are the first with news and early-season fruit.” If you but ask, they’ll tell you that one hive knows the affairs of all others. Whether or not your workers, servants, or slaves set foot off your land, the news was accessible in all parts of the Empire. I was simply first to act. You could not prevent me, my Lord. And in the last, since when must the Acoma nursemaid the honour of the Inrodaka?’

The Lord of the Inrodaka bristled. His ally, the Lord of the Ekamchi, looked as if he would just as soon be done with the whole affair and go elsewhere. Yet honour prevented his withdrawal as Inrodaka said, ‘For that, you presumptuous girl, you will not leave my lands alive.’

Mara met this threat in proud and stony silence. She must not capitulate, for such cowardice would shame the bones of her ancestors. Though her heart leaped in fear, she saw her men were ready, showing no sign of concern for the odds against them. She nodded once to Keyoke.

The Force Commander signalled the warriors of the Acoma to raise weapons while, like imperfect reflections in a mirror, Inrodaka and Ekamchi commanders ordered their own men to the ready.

Through the rattle of blades and the creak of armour, Mara felt her pulsebeat quicken. She tried one last time to negotiate. ‘We have no desire for strife, especially as we have done nothing for which we need to defend ourselves.’

Inrodaka’s reply rang crisp on the morning air. ‘You will not leave without a fight.’

A heartbeat away from precipitating bloodshed, Mara held the irate old man’s gaze, while whispering furiously to Keyoke. ‘Dare we count on our alliance with the young Queen?’

Keyoke kept his eyes upon the opposing forces. ‘Lady, the old Queen rules this hive, and her alliance is with the Inrodaka. Who knows how her warriors will react if the young Queen’s ally is threatened?’ Gripping his sword tightly, he said, ‘I doubt there has ever been such a confrontation in the long history of the Empire.’

As he spoke, a full hundred old, experienced cho-ja warriors marched from the hive entrance. Black carapaces and razor forelimbs gleamed in the sunlight as they interposed themselves between the opposing lines of humans. Dozens more scurried from the earth, even as Lax’l moved a half-dozen paces closer to the two fuming Lords and said, ‘The Acoma and their ruler are our Queen’s guests and the Inrodaka Lord her ally. None shall bring strife to her hive. If both armies quit the field, no blood need be shed.’

Incensed, the Lord of the Inrodaka jerked his chin upward. ‘But your hive has been in service to my house for three generations!’

‘Allied,’ repeated Lax’l. His eyes glinted with something Mara thought might be anger, though his voice was calm. ‘As the Lady of the Acoma said, the cho-ja are no man’s slaves. Leave at once.’ As if to drive home the point, another command of cho-ja scurried around from behind the hive to take position behind the forces of the Inrodaka and the Ekamchi. A similar force was appearing behind Mara’s soldiers.

Inrodaka glanced to either side, where another two hundred cho-ja warriors approached with their limbs angled forward to charge. His rage faltered, even before he turned to discover Lord Ekamchi already signalling his forces to retire. Mara observed that Inrodaka was as relieved as not to be forced to depart. His reputation had long been that of a man who avoided conflict, and his display had probably been for the benefit of his ally rather than from any true sense of outrage.

Weakness overwhelmed the Lady of the Acoma as sleepless nights and tension overcame her staunch will. She allowed herself to fall back into her pillows as Lax’l span to face Keyoke. ‘Force Commander, my company will escort you to the limit of the Inrodaka boundaries with a full hundred warriors.’

Keyoke signalled and, over the sound of men returning swords to sheaths, said, ‘Are you among the twenty who will join the new hive?’

‘I am.’ Lax’l made an odd facial expression, perhaps the cho-ja equivalent of a smile. ‘Since you undertook great expense to ensure the safety of her daughter, the old Queen has given you the best of her soldiers. Another will assume my post here, and I will be the new hive’s Force Commander.’

Then as if in afterthought, he said, ‘I believe the Lady of the Acoma has won what you Tsurani would call the old Queen’s affection.’

Tired to the core of her bones, Mara still managed a half bow of appreciation. ‘You are not needed by the young Queen?’

The cho-ja Force Commander gestured in the negative with his forelimbs. ‘The young Queen is most vulnerable when growing, so even our presence would not mitigate the young warriors’ aggression – as it should not. Once within our new hive, we shall teach them what they must know to become good warriors.’

As the Inrodaka and Ekamchi forces retreated over a rise and vanished from sight, Keyoke mustered the men for the long march home. When the last soldier was in place, he looked at his mistress. ‘My Lady?’

Mara indicated they should depart, but requested Arakasi walk beside her litter. He arrived looking drawn and dusty, like the rest of the men, except for the glint of victory in his eyes. Warmed by his pride of accomplishment, Mara spoke softly as the column moved out. ‘You have been better than your word, Arakasi. Not only have you shown the value of your advice, but your wisdom has benefited the Acoma well. How long will you need to reactivate your network?’

The Spy Master’s satisfaction spread across his face until he showed a genuine smile. He bowed slightly to his new mistress. ‘A year, Lady, if I encounter no difficulties.’

‘If there are difficulties?’

‘A year, a year and a half.’ The Spy Master paused significantly, then added, ‘More, if you require.’

Mara glanced to either side, assuring herself that no men marched close enough to overhear. ‘When we make camp tonight, I want you to leave and begin seeking out your agents. Return to our estates in a year. Should you have need to reach me, our signal will be the phrase “the young Queen’s silk-makers”. Do you understand?’

Arakasi returned the hint of a nod, the gesture concealed behind an adjustment to the strap of his helm. ‘If I do not return and swear upon the Acoma natami, I am not bound to the bidding of the Lady of the Acoma until I am ready to do so.’ Then he added pointedly, ‘Or the bidding of the Lord of the Acoma.’

‘You understand.’ Mara closed her eyes and reined back strong emotion. The gods were kind that this man should be perceptive enough to divine her intentions regarding her husband-to-be.

Arakasi qualified softly. ‘Buntokapi might not share our enthusiasm for our vow, Lady.’

Mara nodded, chilled by relief that this man was an ally and not an enemy. If Jingu of the Minwanabi should ever secure the talents of a man like Arakasi … but fatigue could not be permitted to fan the embers of unfounded fears. With an effort, the Lady focused on the present. ‘When you have returned, we shall see how things are. If all has progressed as I hope, we may then moves forward with our plans for Jingu of the Minwanabi.’

Arakasi inclined his head slightly towards Mara’s litter. ‘In my heart I have sworn loyalty to you, my Lady. I pray the gods grant me the opportunity to make a more formal oath before the Acoma contemplation glade someday.’ He glanced around at the heavy matted greenery of the forest. ‘This seemes as good a place as any to leave. May the gods protect you, Lady of the Acoma.’

Mara thanked him and fell silent as Arakasi turned and faded away into the woods. Keyoke glanced back and saw him go. If the Force Commander wondered at this sudden departure, he said nothing, but simply returned his attention to his warriors and the dangers of the march home. Mara lay back, Arakasi’s last words turning over and over in her mind. She added a prayer that his wish would come to pass; for if he lived and did not swear before the natami, either she would be dead, or Buntokapi would be firmly in place as Lord of the Acoma, and beyond her power to control.

The maids waited upon their mistress. Seated upon cushions in the chamber she still considered her father’s, Mara opened her eyes and said, ‘I am ready.’

But in her heart she knew she was not prepared for her marriage to the third son of the Anasati, and never would be. With her hands clenched nervously together, she endured as her maids began the tortuous process of combing out her hair and binding it with threads and ribbons into the traditional bride’s headdress. The hands of the women worked gently, but Mara could not settle. The twist and the tug as each lock was secured made her want to squirm like a child.

As always, Nacoya seemed to read her mind. ‘Mistress, the eye of every guest will be upon you this day, and your person must embody the pride of Acoma heritage.’

Mara closed her eyes as if to hide. Confusion arose like an ache in the pit of her stomach. The pride of Acoma heritage had enmeshed her in circumstances that carried her deeper and deeper into nightmare; each time she countered a threat, another took its place. She wondered again whether she had acted wisely in selecting Buntokapi as husband. He might be influenced more easily than his well-regarded brother Jiro, but he also might prove more stubborn. If he could not be controlled, her plans for the resurgence of Acoma pre-eminence could never be achieved. Not for the first time, Mara stilled such idle speculations: the choice was made. Buntokapi would be Lord of the Acoma. Then she silently amended that: for a time.

‘Will the Lady turn her head?’ Mara obeyed, startled by the warmth of the maid’s hand upon her cheek. Her own fingers were icy as she considered Buntokapi and how she would deal with him. The man who would take her father’s place as Lord of the Acoma had none of Lord Sezu’s wisdom or intelligence, nor had he any of Lano’s grace, or charm, or irresistible humour. In the few formal occasions Mara had observed Buntokapi since his arrival for the wedding, he had seemed a brute of a man, slow to understand subtlety and obvious in his passions. Her breath caught, and she forestalled a shudder. He was only a man, she reminded herself; and though her preparation for temple service has caused her to know less of men than most girls her age, she must use her wits and body to control him. For the great Game of the Council, she would manage the part of wife without love, even as had countless women of great houses before her.

Tense with her own resolve, Mara endured the ministrations of the hairdressers while the bustle and shouts through the thin paper of the screens indicated that servants prepared the great hall for the ceremony. Outside, needra bawled, and wagons rolled, laden with bunting and streamers. The garrison troops stood arrayed in brightly polished full armour, their weapons wrapped with strips of white cloth to signify the joy of their mistress’s coming union. Guests and their retinues crowded the roadway, their litters and liveried servants a sea of colour against the baked grass of the fields. Slaves and workers had been granted the day off for the festivities, and their laughter and singing reached Mara where she sat, chilled and alone with her dread.

The maids smoothed the last ribbon and patted the last gleaming tresses into place. Beneath coiled loops of black hair, Mara seemed a figure of porcelain, her lashes and brows as fine as a temple painter’s masterpiece. ‘Daughter of my heart, you have never looked so lovely,’ observed Nacoya.

Mara smiled mechanically and rose, while dressers slipped the simple white robe from her body and dusted her lightly with a powder to keep her dry during the long ceremony. Others readied the heavy embroidered silk gown reserved for Acoma brides. As the wrinkled old hands of the women smoothed the undergarment over her hips and flat stomach, Mara bit her lip; come nightfall, the hands of Buntokapi would touch her body anywhere he pleased. Without volition she broke into a light sweat.

‘The day grows warm,’ muttered Nacoya. A knowing gleam lit her eyes as she added a little extra powder where Mara would need it. ‘Kasra, fetch your mistress a cool drink of sa wine. She looks pale, and the excitement of the wedding is not yet begun.’

Mara drew an angry breath. ‘Nacoya, I am able to manage well enough without wine.’ She paused, frustrated, as her women hooked the laces at her waist and lower chest, temporarily constricting her breath. ‘Besides, I’m sure Bunto will drink enough for both of us.’

Nacoya bowed with irritating formality. ‘A slight flush to your face becomes you, Lady. But husbands don’t care for perspiration.’ Mara chose to ignore Nacoya’s cross words. She knew the old nurse was worried for the child she loved above all others.

Outside, the busy sounds told Mara that her household scrambled to finish the last-minute tasks. The august of the Empire and nearly overwhelming list of invited guests would gather in the great hall, seated according to rank. Since those of highest rank would be shown to their cushions last, the arrangement of the guests became a complex and lengthy affair that began well before dawn. Tsurani weddings occurred during the morning, for to complete so important a union in the waning part of the day was believed to bring ill luck to the couple. This required guests of modest rank to present themselves at the Acoma estate before dawn, some as early as four hours before sunrise. Musicians and servants with refreshments would entertain those seated first, while the priest of Chochocan sanctified the Acoma house. By now they would be donning their high robes of office, while out of sight a red priest of Turakamu would slaughter the needra calf.

The maids lifted the overrobe, with its sleeves sewn with shatra birds worked in rare gold. Mara gratefully turned her back. As attendants arranged her bows, she was spared the sight of Nacoya checking each last detail of the costume. The old nurse had been on edge since Mara chose to grant Buntokapi power over the Acoma. That Mara had done so with long-range hopes in mind did nothing to comfort Nacoya, what with Anasati warriors encamped in the barracks, and one of the Acoma’s most vigorous enemies living in style in the best guest chambers in the house. And with his brassy voice and artless manners, Buntokapi offered no reassurance to a servant who would shortly be subject to his every whim. And she herself would also, Mara remembered with discomfort. She tried to imagine being in bed with the bullnecked boy without shuddering, but could not.

Cued by a servant’s touch, Mara sat while the jewelled ceremonial sandals were laced onto her feet. Other maids pressed shell combs set with emeralds into her headdress. Restive as the needra calf being perfumed for sacrifice – so that Turakamu would turn his attentions away from those at the wedding – the girl called for a minstrel to play in her chambers. If she must endure through the tedium of dressing, at least music might keep her from exhausting herself with thought. If fate brought her trouble through this marriage to Buntokapi, she would find out soon enough. The musician was led in blindfolded; no man might look upon the bride until she began her procession to the wedding. He sat and picked out a soothing melody on his gikoto, the five-string instrument that was the mainstay of Tsurani composition.

When the last laces and buttons had been fastened, and the final string of pearls looped to her cuffs, Mara arose from her cushions. Blindfolded slaves bearing her ceremonial litter were led into the chamber, and Mara climbed into the open palanquin crafted solely for Acoma weddings. The frame was wound with flowers and koi vines for luck, and the bearers wore garlands in their hair. As they lifted the litter to their shoulders, Nacoya stepped between them and lightly kissed Mara on the forehead. ‘You look lovely, my Lady – as pretty as your own mother on the morning she wed Lord Sezu. I know she would have been proud to see you, were she alive this day. May you find the same joy in marriage as she, and be blessed with children to carry on the Acoma name.’

Mara nodded absently. As serving women stepped forward to lead her bearers through the screen, the minstrel she had summoned faltered in his singing and awkwardly fell silent. With a frown, the girl berated herself for carelessness. She had done the musician a discourtesy by leaving him without praise. As the litter moved from the chamber into the first empty connecting hall, Mara quickly dispatched Nacoya to give the man a token, some small gift to restore his pride. Then, wrapping her fingers tightly together to hide their shaking, she resolved to be more alert. A great house did not thrive if its mistress concerned herself with large matters only. Most often the ability to handle the petty details of life comprised an attitude that allowed one to discover the path to greatness; or so Lord Sezu had admonished when Lano had neglected his artisans for extra drill with the warriors.

Mara felt a strange detachment. The distant bustle of preparations and the arrival of guests lent a ghostly aspect to the corridors emptied for the passage of her litter. Wherever she looked she saw no one, yet the presence of people filled the air. In isolation she reached the main corridor and moved out of the estate house, into the small garden set aside for meditation. There Mara would pass an hour alone in contemplation, as she prepared to leave her girlhood and accept the role of woman and wife. Acoma guards in elaborate ceremonial armour stood watch around the garden, to protect, and to ensure the Lady would suffer no interruption. Unlike the bearers, they wore no blindfolds, but rather stood facing the walls, straining their hearing to the limit, alert, but not tempting ill luck by gazing upon the bride.

Mara turned her mind away from the coming ceremony, seeking instead to find a moment of calm, some hint of the serenity she had known in the temple. She settled gracefully to the ground, adjusting her gown as she settled on the cushions left for her. Bathed in the pale gold of early morning, she watched the play of water over the rim of the fountain. Droplets formed and fell, each separate in its beauty until it shattered with a splash into the pool beneath. I am like those droplets, thought the girl. Her efforts throughout life would, in the end, blend with the lasting honour of the Acoma; and whether she knew happiness or misery as the wife of Buntokapi would not matter at all when her days ended, so long as the sacred natami remained in the glade. And so long as the Acoma were accorded their rightful place in the sun, unshadowed by any other house.

Bending her head in the dew-bright stillness, Mara prayed earnestly to Lashima, not for the lost days of her girlhood, or for the peace she had desired in temple service. She asked instead for the strength to accept the enemy of her father as husband, that the name Acoma might rise once again in the Game of the Council.

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