Daughter of the Empire (25 page)

Mara wished Lashima’s patience upon Keyoke. Wilted from heat and strain, she followed her husband from the hut into the blinding sun of afternoon. In her discomfort
she had forgotten the waiting honour guard, and so her bruised cheek was uncovered as she appeared before Papewaio and Keyoke. Years of the harshest training enabled them to see such a mark of shame without expression. But the stolid hand of Keyoke tightened upon his spear haft until the knuckles shone white, and Papewaio’s toes clenched on the soles of his sandals. Had any man save the Ruling Lord put such marks upon their Mara-anni he would have died before he completed another step. Mara stepped into a day as bright and clean as the gods could make it; but as she walked past her former retainers, she felt their anger like black shadows at her back.

The marriage hut was burning before she reached the estate house. By tradition, the building was set aflame to honour the sacred passage of woman to wife and man to husband. After tossing the ritual torch over the threshold, Keyoke turned silently towards the guards’ quarters, to await the orders of his Lord. Papewaio’s expression remained like chipped stone. With an intensity fierce for its stillness, he watched the paper and lath, with its array of soiled cushions and tangled sheets, explode into flames. Never had he been happier to see something burn; for in watching the violence of the fire he could almost forget the bruise on Mara’s face.

Nacoya was not in the study. With an unpleasant jolt, Mara remembered that here also marriage changed the order she had known. The master’s study was now the province of Buntokapi, as Lord of the Acoma. Hereafter no aspect of the household she had known would be the same. Jican would tally his accounts in the wing assigned to the scribes, as before, but she could no longer receive him. Feeling weary despite her seventeen years, Mara retired to the shade beneath the ulo in her private garden.
She did not sit but leaned against the smooth bark of the tree while the runner she had dispatched hastened to fetch Nacoya.

The wait seemed to last interminably, and the fall of water from the fountain did not soothe. When Nacoya appeared at last, breathless, her hair fallen crooked against its pins, Mara could only stare at her in a silence of pent-up misery.

‘Mistress?’ The nurse stepped hesitantly forward. Her breath caught as she saw the bruise on Mara’s cheek. Without words the old woman raised her arms. The next instant the Lady of the Acoma was only a frightened girl weeping in her embrace.

Nacoya stroked Mara’s shoulders as sob after sob convulsed her. ‘Mara-anni, daughter of my heart,’ she murmured. ‘I see he was not gentle, this Lord you have married.’

For an interval the fountain’s mournful fall filled the glade. Then, sooner than Nacoya expected, Mara straightened up. In a surprisingly steady voice she said, ‘He is Lord, this man I have married. But the Acoma name will outlive him.’ She sniffed, touched the bruise on her face, and directed a look of wounding appeal to her former nurse. ‘And, mother of my heart, until I conceive, I must find strength to live with things my father and brother would weep to know.’

Nacoya patted the cushions beneath the ulo, encouraging Mara to sit. Her old hands made the girl comfortable, while a servant brought a basin of chilled water and soft cloths. While Mara lay back on the cushions, Nacoya bathed her face. Then she combed the tangles from her glossy black hair, as she had when the Lady had been a child; and as she worked, she spoke, very softly, into her mistress’s ear.

‘Mara-anni, last night brought you no joy, this I know.
But understand in your heart that the man you have wed is young, as impetuous as a needra bull at the time of its third spring. Do not judge all men by the experience of only one.’ She paused. Unspoken between them was the fact that Mara had disregarded advice, and rather than educating herself to awareness of men through a gentle encounter with one hired from the Reed Life, she had been headstrong. Nacoya dabbed chill water over her mistress’s bruises. The price of that stubbornness had been cruelly extracted.

Mara sighed and opened swollen eyes. To her nurse she directed a look that held painful uncertainty but no regret. Nacoya laid cloth and basin aside and nodded with reflective approval. This girl might be young, and small, and battered, but she owned the toughness of her father, Lord Sezu, when it came to matters of family. She would endure, and the Acoma name would continue.

Mara tugged at her day robe and winced slightly as the cloth abraded sore nipples. ‘Mother of my heart, the ways of men are strange to me. I am much in need of advice.’

Nacoya returned a smile that held more craft than pleasure. Her head cocked to one side, and after a moment of thought she pulled the pins from her hair and carefully began binding it afresh. Watching the ordinary, even familiar movements of the nurse’s wrinkled hands, Mara relaxed slightly. Day always came after night, no matter how dark the clouds that covered the moon. She listened as Nacoya began to speak, quite softly, that only she could hear.

‘Child, the Empire is vast, and many are the lords and masters whose ambitions turn their hearts hard with cruelty. Hapless servants often suffer beneath the rule of such men. But from such adversity wisdom springs. The servants have learned, as you shall, that the codes of honour can be two-edged as a weapon. Every word has
two meanings, and every action, multiple consequences. Without compromising loyalty or honour, a servant can make the life of a cruel overlord a living hell.’

Mara regarded the leaves of the ulo, dark, serrated patterns notching small windows of sky. ‘Like you and Keyoke and Jican, the day Papewaio rescued me from the Hamoi tong,’ she murmured dreamily.

To answer would border upon treason. Stony-faced and silent, Nacoya only bowed. Then she said, ‘I will summon the midwife for you, Lady. She owns the wisdom of the earth and will tell you how to conceive with all possible speed. Then your Lord need not trouble your sleep with his lust, and the Acoma name will be secured by an heir.’

Mara straightened upon her cushions. ‘Thank you, Nacoya.’ She patted the old woman’s hand and rose. But before she turned to go, the nurse looked deep into the girl’s eyes. She saw there the same pain, and a measure of fear; but also she saw the bright spark of calculation she had come to know since Lord Sezu’s death. She bowed then, swiftly, to hide an upwelling surge of emotion; and as she watched Mara walk with a straight back to her quarters, Nacoya blinked and wept.

The ashes of the marriage hut cooled and dispersed in the wind, and dust rose, for the weather turned hot and dry. The days lengthened, until the summer had passed its peak.

Needra were slaughtered for the feast of Chochocan, and the freemen dressed in their best for the ritual blessing of the fields, while priests burned paper effigies to symbolize sacrifice for bountiful harvests. Buntokapi remained sober for the ceremony, largely because Mara had the servants add water to his wine. If the company of her loud-voiced husband wore upon her, no strain showed in her bearing. Only her personal maids knew that the
hollowness around her eyes was hidden by makeup, and that the clothing on her slender body sometimes concealed bruises.

The teachings of the sisters of Lashima sustained her spirit. She took comfort from the counsel of her midwife and learned to spare herself some of the discomfort when her husband called her to his bed. Sometime between the midsummer feast and the next full moon, Kelesha, goddess of brides, blessed her, for she conceived. Buntokapi’s ignorance of women served well, as he accepted the news they could no longer join as man and wife until after the baby’s birth. With a minimum of grumbling he let her move into the quarters that had once been her mother’s. The rooms were quiet, and surrounded by gardens; Buntokapi’s loud voice did not carry there, which was well, because she fell ill several hours each morning and slept odd times of the day.

The midwife smiled widely and rubbed sweet oil over Mara’s belly and breasts to soften the skin as she swelled with child. ‘You carry a son, my Lady, I swear by the bones of my mother.’

Mara did not smile back. Denied a part in Buntokapi’s decisions, and shamed by the way he treated some of the servants, the Lady of the house seemed to retreat within herself. But her resignation was only on the surface. Daily she spoke with Nacoya, who gathered the gossip of the servants. While out in her litter to enjoy the fresh early autumn air, Mara questioned Papewaio until he mockingly complained he had no air left to answer. But as she adjusted to the submissive role of wife, no detail of Acoma affairs missed her grasp.

Tired of the massage, Mara rose from the mat. A servant handed her a light robe, which Mara donned, fastening it about a belly beginning to round. She sighed as she considered the baby’s father and the changes his
rule had wrought in the estate. Buntokapi commanded the respect of the warriors through brutish displays of strength, and an occasional turn of cleverness that kept them wary to a man. By suddenly deciding to have battle practice or grabbing whichever soldiers were in sight to accompany him to the city without regard to what duty they had previously been assigned, he reduced the garrison to shambles on a regular basis. His habit of rearranging standing orders had Keyoke running ragged to compensate. Jican spent increasingly long hours in the outermost needra fields with his tally slate. Mara knew the hadonra well enough to interpret his growing dislike of the new Lord. Clearly, Buntokapi had little head for matters of commerce. Like many sons of powerful Lords, he thought wealth was inexhaustible, readily available for his every need.

At mid-autumn the needra herds took to the roads, and curtains of dust hung on the air as the previous year’s calves were driven to feedlots, and thence to slaughter. The spring calves were gelded or set aside for brood or driven to the high meadows to grow. Mara felt the passing of time like a child awaiting her adulthood celebration, each day dragging interminably.

The inactivity lifted when the cho-ja arrived. The hive came without warning; one day the east meadow left open for them lay empty, and the next, workers bustled about in energetic enterprise. Dirt piles arose along the fence line. That the message from the Queen came addressed to Mara nettled Buntokapi. In the midst of his tirade he realized these cho-ja had come from the hive on the Lord of the Inrodaka’s estate. He guessed Mara’s bargain for their loyalty must have taken place between the petition for marriage and the wedding, for his eyes narrowed in a manner his Lady had learned to dread.

‘You are more clever than even my father guessed, wife.’ Then, with a glance at Mara’s middle, he smiled without humour. ‘But your days of travelling in haste and secrecy are over. Now I am ruling Lord, the cho-ja are mine to command.’

But as Mara had been primary negotiator for the Acoma, the Queen addressed only her until the new Lord would take time to renegotiate in his own behalf. But activities with the warriors seemed always to take precedence. If the young wife spent increasing time in the freshly dug chambers of the Queen drinking chocha and gossiping, Buntokapi barely noticed, engrossed as he was in betting on bouts of wrestling in Sulan-Qu. For this Mara was grateful, for her discussions with the young Queen offered relief from the boredom of home life. Gradually she was learning the ways of an alien race. In counterbalance to Buntokapi’s blunders, the relationship she cemented now might add wealth to the Acoma for years to come.

Returning above ground, to holdings that now were Buntokapi’s, Mara realized she had come to enjoy ruling. Reduced to the secondary role of woman and wife, she chafed, and counted the days until winter. After the spring rains fell, her child would be born, and the Acoma would have an heir. Until then she must wait; and the waiting came hard.

Mara touched her belly, feeling for the life within. If the child was male, and healthy, then would her husband have cause to beware, for in the Game of the Council even the most mighty could be vulnerable. Mara had made vows to the spirits of her father and brother, and she would not rest until vengeance was complete.

The baby kicked.

For a moment Mara’s eyes opened wide. Then she relaxed, laid aside the parchments she had been reviewing, and patted her rounded middle, smiling slightly. Her child was nearly due. She felt as cumbersome as a needra cow, though Nacoya still insisted she had not gained the weight she should. Mara shifted upon her mat in a vain effort to find a more comfortable position. She prayed to the goddess of fertility that the old midwife’s efforts before conception had ensured a son. Let it be a boy child, so that she would not have to encourage attention from her husband to gain an heir for the Acoma.

The baby kicked again, vigorously, and Mara gasped. She waved away the solicitous maid who hovered nearby, and reached for the parchments. Already this child within her seemed restless, as if he could force his way into life with his tiny feet and fists.
He
, Mara thought, and a smile touched her lips. He would indeed be a son, to kick so hard in the womb; and he would lead her house to greatness. He would be Lord of the Acoma.

A shout from outside broke Mara’s reverie. She nodded, and the serving maid quickly opened the screen, letting in a hot breeze, strong with the dry smell of dust from the fields. Mara snatched, but too late, and the parchments listing Jican’s success in marketing the first cho-ja goods scudded across the floor. She murmured a mild imprecation, but not for the reports, which her runner bent to gather. Across the clipped lawn beyond the screen marched a party of warriors, with Buntokapi
boisterously leading. His hair was spiked with sweat and his tunic frayed, a casualty she could have expected from the rigours of a week-long hunt. And as usual he would visit her chambers after cleaning his weapons but before taking time to bathe. Mara sighed. The days had been quiet with her Lord gone. Now she prepared herself for confusion.

As the hunters drew nearer, Mara gestured. Two maidservants bent and helped her awkwardly to her feet. Misa, the prettier one, had damp palms already; Mara sympathized. Her husband’s presence often made the girls jumpy, since he might drag any one of them off to his bedchamber. At least her pregnancy had freed her of that odious responsibility. With a flash of malice, Mara made a mental note to ask Jican to buy ugly slaves the next time Bunto sent him to the auctions for girls.

The hunters reached the gravel path. The jingle of their gear seemed louder as their manner and voices became more subdued in the presence of their mistress. Yet their excitement remained high, with Buntokapi not in the least restrained. He smelled of the woods. Mara saw dried bloodstains on his sleeves. He waved in her direction, then pointed over his shoulder, like an artist unveiling a masterpiece. The slaves who trailed him carried a long pole, from which hung a matted bundle of brindled orange-and-grey fur. Mara stepped away from the support of her maids as she recognized the white-masked eyes and fanged muzzle of a sarcat. The deadly nocturnal predator ranged in the rain forests southwest of the estate. Fearfully swift, the creature was a powerful killer, a terror to herders because domestic needra made easy prey and sarcats had no fear of humans. Then Mara noticed an arrow marked with the Lord’s green stripes pierced through the creature’s shoulder, just behind the massive jaws. By the shaft’s position she guessed Buntokapi had
stood in the path of the beast’s charge, then dropped it with a single bowshot. The feat was impressive. Despite his other qualities, Buntokapi had displayed great courage and formidable skill with a bow.

Looking from his kill to his broadly smiling face, for a moment Mara could almost forget that the man was utterly lacking in sensitivity. He disliked poetry, unless it was ribald. His taste in music ran to the common – low minstrels and folk tunes – with no patience for the elegance of Grand Do theatre or opera. His appreciation of art was nonexistent unless the subject was erotic. Yet in the hunt he excelled, and not for the first time Mara regretted that Tecuma had been too busy with Halesko and Jiro to train this, his third son. As much as she despised Buntokapi upon occasion, he had much raw potential. Had he been instructed in the manners and propriety befitting one born to the Anasati name, he might have become a man of substance. But her regret lasted only until Buntokapi reached the estate house.

He swaggered mightily, a little drunk from tanlo berry wine imbibed along the route home. Stinking of campfires, sweat, and whatever he had eaten for breakfast, he leaned upon the doorpost to his quarters and waved to his slaves, who deposited the sarcat’s corpse at Mara’s feet. ‘Leave us,’ he commanded his guard.

As his warriors departed, he stood erect with his fists on his hips and shouted, ‘There, what do you think, my wife, heh? That is some beast, is it not?’

Mara inclined her head, politely concealing revulsion. The kill stank as badly as the hunter, with buzzing insects clustered on the eyes and limp tongue, while carcass and pole dirtied the newly waxed floor. Anxious to be rid of it, and the man as well, she attempted flattery. ‘My Lord shows great courage and skill in defeating such a beast. Herdsmen to the south will sing your praises, Bunto.’

Her husband grinned drunkenly. ‘What do I care for the praise of stinking herdsmen, heh? I say to you the head will look splendid mounted over the writing desk where that faded banner hangs now.’

Mara bit back instinctive protest lest she invite Buntokapi’s rage upon herself. Though that banner was one of the oldest Acoma victory relics and had graced the study of the Lord of the Acoma for centuries, Buntokapi had no care for tradition. He changed things as he liked, most often in perverse malice to establish beyond doubt that he was Ruling Lord. Mara felt an unexpected stab of sadness, that desperation should have driven her to such a marriage.

‘Wife!’ Buntokapi snapped, breaking Mara from reflection. She bowed submissively, though pregnancy made her awkward.

‘I wish this sarcat’s head stuffed and mounted over my desk in my study. See to it! I must go bathe.’ Then, straightening as an afterthought struck him, he peered into the gloom of the room behind and stabbed a pointing finger at Misa. ‘You, girl, come along. I need someone to wash my back, and my attendant is ill.’

The pretty maid left her mistress’s side. All knew her duties would be more personal than merely soaping down her master’s back. She departed in resignation as Buntokapi spun around and strode off, leaving his kill oozing upon the threshold, over a day dead and already turning putrid. Mara fought a moment of nausea. Then, with a poise as fragile as fine china, she called the small boy who served as runner away from the corner where he cowered. Buntokapi had a tendency to cuff him for simply being in the way. ‘Kedo, fetch two slaves from the kitchens to carry this off to the butcher’s shed. Tell the assistant who prepares trophies he must ready the head. When it is completed, have him deliver it to my Lord’s study to hang
where he indicated.’ Here Mara quelled another of the little sorrows that seemed a daily part of her life since her marriage. To her remaining maid she said, ‘Juna, go and carefully fold the banner over the desk and bring it to me. I will ensure it is safely kept.’

The runner departed with a patter of sandals, and the maid followed. Mara pushed a trailing strand of hair behind one ear and returned to her documents. Let Buntokapi sport with the maids and hunt and play at being a warrior; his obsessions kept him occupied, and that was to the good. That, and the confinement of pregnancy, furthered her opportunity to study the documents of commerce that came each day. Within the limits Buntokapi allowed, Mara continued to manage the affairs of the Acoma. And she learned. Every day she understood more about what truly brought a house to greatness. Thinking aloud, she said, ‘I wonder if we have recent maps?’

‘Mistress?’ said her remaining attendant.

Mara only stared fiercely at the indeterminate point between her parchments and the matted muzzle of the sarcat. The next time her Lord went hunting, or into Sulan-Qu to visit the gambling houses or the women of the Reed Life, she would search her father’s cabinets for maps. Then, catching herself short, she reminded herself that the cabinets were not her father’s anymore but the province of a husband who was her enemy.

Wine splashed, sticky red on the linens, as the horn flask thrown by Buntokapi bounced and clattered through the cutlery. He blinked once, as if amazed at his own strength, but his anger did not fade. ‘Woman, cease plaguing me!’

The power of his voice made the flames in the lamps tremble. Mara sat quietly before her husband, who had only moments before been singing clumsily along with a
pair of minstrels. ‘Can’t you see I am enjoying this performance? Aren’t you always after me to read poetry and listen to music? How can I listen if you constantly nag at me?’

Mara concealed a grimace. Buntokapi’s uncritical appraisal stemmed from the fact that one of the musicians was the buxom daughter of the other; the tight-stretched fabric of her robe, and the expanse of flesh left bare by the short hem and open collar, undoubtedly seemed to add allure to their poor singing. But management of the estate must continue, and with acerbity Mara lifted the scroll she had brought out of the path of spilled wine.

‘My Lord, these decisions cannot wait –’

‘They will wait if I say they will wait!’ Buntokapi’s shout caused the servant who appeared with rags and basin to scurry about his clean-up. ‘Now be silent, wife.’

Mara sat obediently at his side while the servant finished wiping up the spill and hurried away. Red-faced, Buntokapi waved at the musicians to resume and tried furiously to concentrate on the song the girl had been singing. But the soft, unmoving grace of Mara’s presence unnerved him, as few things could. After a moment, nettled, he said, ‘Oh, what is it?’

The musicians faltered and started uncertainly into the last stanza; Mara silently handed Buntokapi a scroll, and as her gown shifted he saw that she carried six more. He quickly glanced at the first and said, ‘These are household budgets and accounts. Why bother me with them?’ He glared at his wife, unmindful that his musicians desperately wished his leave to fall silent. Lacking that, they straggled raggedly into a chorus.

‘This is your estate, my husband,’ said Mara flatly. ‘None may spend a cinti of your wealth without your permission. Some of the merchants in Sulan-Qu sent polite, but emphatic, requests for payment.’

Buntokapi scratched his groin while scowling over the tallies. ‘Wife!’ The musicians ended their lay, and he suddenly found himself shouting into stillness. ‘We have funds to pay these?’ He glanced about, as if startled by his own shouting.

‘Of course, husband.’

Lowering his voice, he said, ‘Then pay them.’ His expression darkened. ‘And why must you bring these to me? Where is Jican?’

Mara gestured to the scrolls. ‘You ordered him not to address these things to you, husband. He obeys, but avoiding him cannot resolve these matters.’

Buntokapi’s irritation turned to anger. ‘So then my wife must pester me like a clerk! And I suppose I’ll have to give my approval each time something needs to be done, heh?’

‘It is your estate,’ Mara repeated. She watched, coiled with tension, as she waited for an opening to suggest that he turn the management of the house over to her.

But instead he sighed with a mildness she had never seen. ‘That is true. I must put up with these inconveniences, I expect.’ His eyes strayed to the buxom vielle player, then swung back to focus upon Mara’s thickened middle. The contrast inspired. ‘Now, you must take care not to become overtired, wife. Go to bed. If I must study scrolls, I shall keep these musicians playing for my amusement until late.’

‘Husband, I –’ Mara stopped, abruptly aware she had made a misjudgement as Buntokapi surged to his feet. He caught her shoulders and dragged her roughly upright. Her hands dropped instinctively to cradle her middle, to protect the unborn life growing there. The gesture forestalled her husband’s violence but did not stay his fury.

The musicians looked on in frozen discomfort as Buntokapi’s fingers tightened, painfully twisting the flesh of
her shoulders. ‘Wife, I warned you. I am not stupid! These accounts shall be seen to, but at
my
pleasure.’ His rage seemed to swell, to feed upon itself, until it became a tangible thing shadowing the atmosphere of the room. The moonlight seemed to darken beyond the screens, and the musicians set aside their instruments, cowering. Mara bit her lip, frozen in the grasp of her husband like the gazen before the relli. He shook her, that she should know the power of his strength. ‘Hear me, wife. You shall go to bed. And if you ever think to cross my will, even once, I shall send you away!’

His fingers released, and Mara all but fell to her knees as a stab of fear shot through her. She hid the emotion behind a bow low enough to have been slave girl’s, and pressed her forehead to a floor still sticky with wine. ‘I pray my husband’s forgiveness.’ The words were fervently sincere; if Buntokapi saw fit to exercise his right as the Ruling Lord of a troublesome wife, and she were sent from the estates to an apartment with a pension and two maidservants, the affairs of the Acoma would pass forever from her influence. Her father’s proud family would become what this coarse man chose, with no hope of escaping Anasati vassalage. Afraid to tremble, afraid to even breathe, Mara waited motionless, her face a mask to hide the terror in her heart. She had hoped to bore Buntokapi with expenditures he did not understand, encourage him to grant her control and freedom to put some plans in motion. Instead, she had nearly precipitated disaster.

Buntokapi regarded her bent back with distaste until the promise of what lay beneath the robes of the vielle player distracted him. Bored now in truth, and annoyed by the pile of scrolls awaiting his attenion, he shoved his wife with his toe. ‘To bed now, wife.’