Daughter of the Empire (32 page)

Mara bowed formally. ‘My Lord Chipaka, what an honour.’

The wizened old man blinked weak eyes and attempted to identify who spoke. Since he was also hard of hearing, Mara’s words had escaped him as well. Edging closer to the young girl standing nearest, he squinted and bellowed, ‘I am Lord Chipaka of the Jandawaio. My wife and my mother and my daughters have come to visit your master and mistress, girl.’

He had mistaken Mara for a servant. Barely able to contain her amusement, the Lady of the Acoma ignored the slight. Speaking directly into the elder’s ear, she said, ‘I am Mara, wife of Lord Buntokapi, my Lord. To what do we owe this honour?’

But the old man had shifted his attention to the frail and ancient woman, looking to be near a hundred, who was being assisted as delicately as a jewelled egg from the most ostentatious of the litters. Mara dispatched her maids to help, as a gesture of respect, for the bearers were filthy with dust from the road. The old woman returned no thanks. Wizened and beaked like a featherless bird, she simply squatted between the two servants who supported her. Three other women emerged from
other litters behind, each a younger replica of her grandmother, but equally waspish in the calm of mid-morning; they indulged in the most faddish of fashions. Gathering around the ancient woman, they at once began a nattering chatter. Mara reined in her distaste, for already this invasion of her home had become an exercise in tolerance.

The old man shuffled closer, smiling and patting her rump. Mara hopped forward, blinking in shock and disgust. But the old man seemed oblivious to her discomfort. ‘I was unable to attend your mistress’s wedding, girl. My estates near Yankora are far indeed, and Mother was ill.’ He waved at the frail woman, who now stared blankly into space, while her granddaughters steadily cursed the inept handling of the servants who supported the ancient crone. Into this clutch of hen jigahens hobbled the woman from the last litter. She was gowned in embroidered sharsao cloth, and behind the affected fluttering of her fan she sported a face of the same vintage as Lord Chipaka’s. Mara decided she must be the Lady of the Jandawaio.

The old man plucked insistently at the sleeve of the Lady of the Acoma. ‘Since we happened to be passing north on our way to the Holy City, we had our barge put in at Sulan-Qu, and came to call upon your Lord … ah yes, that’s his name. I’m an old friend of his father’s, you know.’ The old man winked knowingly at Mara. ‘My wife’s a sound sleeper, don’t you know. Come by later tonight, girl.’ He attempted to pat Mara’s arm in what was intended to be a seductive manner, but his hand was so palsied, he missed her wrist.

A wicked gleam lit Mara’s eyes. Though the Lord was tastelessly lascivious, and his breath stank of rotting teeth, she barely smothered her delight. ‘You wish to see the Lord of the Acoma? Then, my Lord, I am afraid you
must return to the city, for my Lord Buntokapi is now in residence at his town house.’

The old man blinked, blank-faced. Obligingly Mara repeated her message at a shout.

‘Oh. Why certainly. His town house.’ The old man leered again at Mara. Then he bobbed his head briskly and waved to his retinue.

The women, still chattering, remained oblivious as their slaves gathered by the litters. The bearers who had been carrying the tiny old woman did an abrupt about-turn and headed their confused-looking charge back towards her cushions. Over her mumble of complaint the old man cried, ‘Go on. Go on now, Mother, we must go back to the city.’

The girls and their mother, uniformly plain and loud, protested bitterly at the idea of returning to their litters. They simpered and delayed, hoping to cadge an invitation for refreshments from the Lady of the Acoma, but the deaf Lord Chipaka paid no heed to their noise. As he seemed in haste to descend upon Lord Buntokapi, Mara decided not to impede his departure. When the matriarch and her brood were safely buttoned into their litters, she graciously offered a messenger slave to guide the way to the town house, that the courtesy visit to her Lord suffer no more unnecessary delays.

The Lord of the Jandawaio waved absently and shuffled to the litter he shared with his mother. One hand upon the curtains, he paused and said, ‘And tell your mistress I am sorry to have missed her, girl.’

Shaking her head slightly, Mara said, ‘I will, my Lord.’

The slaves bent, muscles shining with sweat as they hefted the litter poles. As the procession traipsed back down the lane, Nacoya said, ‘My Lady, Lord Bunto will be furious.’

Mara watched the departing retinue with sharp calculation.
If the ancient matriarch of the Jandawaio resented the jostling of anything but a slow walk, Buntokapi’s visitors would arrive within an hour after he had returned to Teani’s bed. Fervently Mara murmured, ‘I certainly hope so, Nacoya.’

She returned to her quarters, where her maps and documents awaited further study. Nacoya stared after her in astonishment, wondering what possible motive would justify the young mistress’s inviting the wrath of that brute she had married.

Three days later, ignoring the presence of Nacoya and the other servants, Buntokapi stamped into Mara’s quarters unannounced. At the sight of his dusty sandals, Mara winced reflexively. But this pair was for walking only, lacking the studs used in battle or on the practice ground. ‘You should never have allowed that old fool and his clutch of jigahens to come to my town house,’ the Lord of the Acoma opened. The timbre of his voice caused the maids to shrink in the corners.

Mara lowered her eyes, as much to hide her amusement at Buntokapi’s calling the Lord of the Jandawaio’s women barnyard fowl as from any contrition. ‘Is my husband displeased?’

Buntokapi lowered himself to the mat before her with a sigh of aggravation. ‘Woman, that old fool was a friend of my grandfather’s. He’s damn near senile! Half the time he thinks my father is his old boyhood pal, and that I am Tecuma of the Anasati. And his mother is worse, a near corpse he drags along wherever he goes. Gods, wife, she must be close to a century of years. And all she does is stare, drool, and mess the mats upon which she’s sitting. And Lord Chipaka talks to her all the time; all of them talk to her, the wife, the daughters, even the servants! She never answers, but they think she does!’ His voice
rose as his recounting of the visit inflamed his temper. ‘Now, I want to know which brainless serving girl sent them along to my town house! All Chipaka could remember was she had large breasts!’

Mara stifled a smile, barely. The nearsighted Lord Chipaka might perhaps have thought Mara’s breasts large, since his nose had hovered within inches of her chest as he spoke to her. Puzzled by his wife’s blush, and the suspicion that she laughed at him, Buntokapi shouted until he shook the timbers of the doorframes. ‘And he groped my … servant girl. Right before my eyes he reached out and he … pinched her!’

Too angry to contain himself, Buntokapi leaped to his feet. He shook his fists in the air, ranting himself into a sweat. ‘And they stayed for two days! For two days I had to give my quarters to that old fool and his wife. My … servant girl, Teani, had to take quarters in a hostelry nearby. The old lecher wouldn’t keep his hands off her.’

Mara sat up then and deliberately provoked him. ‘Oh, Bunto, you should have let him bed the girl. She’s only a servant, and if the old Lord was still capable after all these years, at least the diversion would have kept him occupied.’

Buntokapi’s colour deepened. ‘Not in my town house! If I can find that stupid cow who sent Jandawaio to me in Sulan-Qu, I’ll personally strip the skin from her back.’

Mara’s reply sounded meek in contrast to her husband’s bellow. ‘Bunto, you said, should anyone come to call, send them along to you at your town house, not keep them waiting here. I’m sure Jican informed all the servants and that any of them would have done the same.’

Buntokapi paused in his pacing, one foot half-raised like a shatra bird’s. The pose would have been funny were he not so coiled for violence. ‘Well, I made a mistake.
From now onward, send no one to my town house without my prior consent!’

His thunderous shout roused Ayaki, who stirred in his pillows. Apparently preoccupied, Mara turned towards her baby. ‘No one?’

The interruption of his son inflamed Buntokapi still further. He stormed about the room, his fist waving in the air. ‘No one! If a member of the High Council calls, they can wait!’

The baby began to wail. Mara’s brow knitted slightly as she said, ‘But of course you don’t mean your father?’

‘Send that child off with a servant!’ Buntokapi raged. He gestured furiously at Misa, who ran to take the infant from Mara’s arms. Buntokapi kicked a pillow hard, sending it sailing into the fish pool in the garden beyond the screen. Then he resumed as if no interruption had occurred. ‘My father thinks I am stupid, and that I’ll do whatever he asks. He can go piss in the river! The Acoma are not his to command!’ Buntokapi paused, his face dark purple. ‘No, I don’t want him soiling my fish. Tell him to go downstream off my lands, then he can piss in the river!’

Mara hid her hands in the fabric of her robe. ‘But surely if the Warlord –’

Buntokapi cut her off. ‘If the Warlord himself arrives here, do not send even him along to my town house! Is that understood?’ Mara regarded her husband in shocked amazement. Bunto’s rage redoubled. After being repressed for two days with the Lord of the Jandawaio, his tantrum was impressive. ‘Even Almecho can damn well wait upon my pleasure. If he does not wish to wait here, he can sit in the needra pens, if he prefers. And if I don’t get back the day he arrives, he can sleep in the needra shit, for all I care, and you can tell him I said so.’

Mara pressed her forehead to the floor, almost in the bow of a slave. ‘Yes, my Lord.’

The obeisance forestalled her husband, who longed to strike out with his fists now that his anger had found a focus. ‘And another thing. All these messengers you keep sending. I want them stopped. I come home enough to oversee the running of my holdings. I do not need servants disturbing me throughout the day. Is that understood?’

He bent swiftly, snatching his wife upright by the collar. She replied stiffly, her breathing hampered by his knuckles. ‘You do not wish to be disturbed, and all messages are to stop.’

‘Yes!’ Bunto shouted into her face. ‘When I am resting in town, I do not wish to be disturbed for any reason. If you send a servant to me, I will kill him before he can tell me what you say. Is that understood?’ He shook her slightly.

‘Yes, my Lord.’ Mara struggled feebly, her slippers all but lifted clear of the floor. ‘But there is one matter here –’

Buntokapi pushed her roughly backward, and she tumbled into the cushions. ‘Enough! I will hear nothing more.’

Mara raised herself valiantly. ‘But, husband –’

Bunto lashed out with one foot, catching the hem of Mara’s gown. Cloth ripped, and she cowered, her hands protecting her face. He shouted, ‘I said enough! I will not listen to another word! Have Jican take care of any business. I am returning to town immediately. Do not disturb me for anything!’ With a last kick in Mara’s direction, he spun and stalked from her quarters. As his footsteps faded, distantly Ayaki could be heard crying.

After the barest of prudent intervals, Nacoya rushed to her mistress’s side. Helping her upright, and shaking with
fright, she said, ‘Mistress, you said nothing to your husband about the message from his father.’

Mara rubbed the reddening bruise on her thigh. ‘You saw, Nacoya. My Lord husband granted me no chance to relay his father’s message.’

Nacoya sat back on her heels. Grimly she nodded. ‘Yes, that is true, my Lady. My Lord Buntokapi did indeed not give you the opportunity to speak.’

Mara straightened her torn robe, her eyes fixed significantly on the ornamented scroll that had arrived that morning, announcing the impending arrival of her father-in-law and his most august travelling companion, Almecho, the Warlord of Tsuranuanni. Then, her bruises forgotten beside the enormity of her husband’s commands, she smiled.

The servants hurried.

As anxious as the rest of the household staff in the face of the coming visit, Nacoya sought her mistress through hallways crowded with last-minute activity. Artists blotted brushes after refurbishing the screens, and slaves trooped to and from the kitchens with foods and drink especially imported to please the tastes of guests. Nacoya wove through the confusion, muttering. Her bones were too old to take kindly to haste. She dodged a bearer carrying an immense load of cushions and finally found her mistress in her private gardens. Mara sat beneath a jo fruit tree, her son asleep in a basket by her side, and her hands at rest in the fabric of a blanket she had been sewing with embroidered animals for Ayaki. By the work still left to be done, Nacoya judged the Lady had not minded her needlework for most of the afternoon. Not for the first time, the old nurse wondered what the girl might be planning; and as had become her habit since Buntokapi’s assumption of the lordship, she bowed without asking.

‘You bring word of our guests?’ Mara stated softly.

‘Yes, mistress.’ Nacoya looked closely, but found no sign of nervousness in the young girl who reclined on the cushions. Her hair was brushed to a polished black sheen, tied neatly back, and pinned with jewels. Her dress was rich but not ostentatious, and the eyes she raised to Nacoya were shadowed obsidian, impossible to read.

The old nurse resumed with asperity. ‘The Anasati retinue had reached the borders of Acoma lands. Your runner reports four litters, two dozen body servants, and
two full companies of warriors, one under the Anasati banner, the other Imperial Whites. Six are officers worthy of private accommodations.’

Mara folded the half-completed blanket with fussy care and laid it aside. ‘I trust that Jican has arranged everything?’

Nacoya gestured acquiescence. ‘He is a fine hadonra, Lady. He loves his work and requires little supervision, a thing my Lord would do well to appreciate, since he is so often absorbed with his affairs in town.’

But Mara did not respond to the prompt. Instead of sharing, the Lady of the Acoma excused her closest confidante. Then she clapped briskly for her maidservant and asked that Ayaki be returned to the care of his day nurse. Another servant fetched the jewelled overrobe that was proper attire for greeting guests of High Council rank. Mara stood through the arranging and fastening, her face a secretive mask. By the time she was readied to meet the Warlord, Lord Almecho, and Tecuma, Lord of the Anasati, she seemed a girl in the trappings of a great Lady; except that her eyes stayed hard as flint.

Keyoke, Jican, and Nacoya were on hand to greet the entourage upon arrival. Keyoke wore ceremonial armour, decorated with fluted scrollwork entirely unsuitable for battle, but handsome in the extreme. His formal trappings were completed by a plumed helm and tasselled sword, and Papewaio, his adjutant, stood in armour as splendid. Every man in the garrison not on sentry duty was properly turned out to greet the guests, and the green lacquer of their armour shone in the late sunlight. To a man they held themselves proudly as the first of the Imperial Guard marched between fence rows newly painted and gardens planted afresh for the occasion. The litters in the centre of the cortege approached the house, and Mara joined the heads of her household. She had watched state visitors
arrive at her father’s household since she was a small child, and the routine was familiar; but never before had her palms sweated through the formalities.

The dooryard echoed with the tramp of feet as the first company of warriors marched in; the Warlord’s Imperial Whites led, since his was the senior rank. Keyoke stepped forward and bowed to the plumed officer in command. Then, with Mara’s leave, he directed the guest officers to quarters. An elite cadre of bodyguards remained behind to attend upon their master. With a dry feeling in her mouth, Mara noticed that Lord Almecho retained six soldiers, the full complement to which his rank entitled him. Clearer than words, the Warlord showed that his arrival was no honour to the Acoma but a favour to his ally the Anasati Lord, Tecuma. With a slight motion of her hand, Mara signalled Papewaio to remain; his presence in ceremonial armour would return the impression that she acknowledged no weakness before those of superior rank; the Acoma would bear no slight.

‘Mistress,’ murmured Nacoya so that no other could hear, ‘please, in the name of the gods, go cautiously; boldness is a dangerous choice for a lady in the absence of her Ruling Lord.’

‘I’ll remember,’ whispered Mara, though her face showed no sign she had heard the warning at all.

Then the other litters arrived, sparkling with precious metal. The Warlord’s bearers bore tasselled sashes, darkened with sweat and dust from the road. His servants wore beaded livery, and all were matched in height and colouring. Next came the scarlet and yellow of the Anasati standard, behind which marched Tecuma’s honour guard; his servants also were decked out in costly array, for the Lord of the Anasati, like many Tsurani, sought to outshine his betters with ostentatious displays of wealth.

Mara considered the metal ornaments that tinkled and
flashed on the Anasati palanquin; if his slaves slipped and dropped the lot in the river, her father-in-law’s showy accoutrements would sink him like a stone, she thought with grim amusement. But her face remained impassive as her guests entered the dooryard, and the shade muted the splendour of jewelled trappings and red-and-yellow-lacquered trim.

The bearers set the litters down and stepped smartly aside, while body servants rushed to draw the curtains and help their masters to rise. Poised between her retainers, Mara observed the proper interval, allowing time for her guests to gain their feet, adjusting their clothing and dignity, before greeting her. Since the Warlord was a stocky man, and his attire included robes set about with sashes with elaborate battle decorations, his servants were kept occupied for a long minute. Mara glimpsed the Lord of the Anasati craning his neck to see around the confusion; and the absence of Buntokapi was met with an irritable frown before protocol smoothed over his expression. Behind the fan Tecuma fluttered before his chin, Mara guessed that he whispered furiously to his first Adviser, Chumaka. The hollow feeling in the pit of her stomach intensified.

‘Mistress, pay attention!’ snapped Nacoya under her breath.

Mara looked away from her late father’s enemy and saw that Kaleska, the Warlord’s First Adviser, had stepped forward to bow before her.

She bowed in return. ‘Welcome to the house of the Acoma.’ The Warlord stepped up behind him, surrounded by his soldiers and servants. Mechanically Mara recited the traditional greeting: ‘Are you well?’ She went on, wishing joy and comfort to her guests; but as she exchanged courtesies, she sensed the puzzlement of Lord Almecho, who also had noticed the absence of the Lord
of the Acoma. Mara gestured for servants to open the doors to the estate house. The Warlord exchanged glances with the Anasati Lord; then, as if echoing his master’s disquiet, the Anasati First Adviser, Chumaka, plucked nervously at his clothing.

Mara bowed again and stepped back, permitting her guests to file into the comfort of her house. She stood meekly as they passed, except when Lord Tecuma whispered a furious query concerning Buntokapi’s whereabouts. With calculated timing, she raised her wrist to adjust the brooch that pinned her robe; the jingle of her jade bracelets effectively foiled his question. And as the Warlord’s booming voice demanded cold drinks from a waiting servant, no time could be snatched to ask again without causing notice. Looking hot, Tecuma followed his travelling companion into the wide hall. There Mara arranged for musicians to play while trays of sliced fruit were provided for the refreshment of her guests.

Once inside, Nacoya snagged Kaleska and Chumaka in an involved conversation concerning the state of disrepair in certain of the roads throughout the Empire, most notably those that caused difficulty for Acoma trading. Mara made a show of making certain her servants fussed over the Warlord’s comfort, and then managed artfully to appeal to the man’s vanity so that he would explain the origin of each decoration upon his sash. Since many had been won in battle by his ancestors, and the newest had been wrested away from a barbarian lord during a raid beyond the rift, the recounting took no small amount of time.

Reddened light fell through the screens. Finished with his first goblet of wine, Tecuma fumed in silence. The absence of his son clearly embarrassed him, for the purpose of his visit was to have his grandson presented, a ritual tradition appointed to the Lord of the house.
Tecuma knew as well as Mara that the Warlord’s conversation was merely a gracious way to buy time, postponing comment on Buntokapi’s absence, perhaps to spare an important ally the shame of making excuses. Almecho needed the support of the Imperial Party in his Alliance for War, and anything that could cause difficulty between his interests and the Anasati’s was to be politically avoided. Each minute that passed placed the Anasati more in the Warlord’s debt for such kindness, as Chumaka was also aware. He masked irritation by eating, unmindful that the fruit had been soaked in fine spirits and the servants had replenished the tray of fruit by his elbow three times in an hour.

The Warlord’s recitation lagged by sunset. Smiling, delivering compliments glib enough to make a fish blush, Mara clapped her hands. Servants rushed in and opened the screens, in time to display the splendour of the shatra birds’ flight at the end of the day. Their clear, fluting calls temporarily defeated conversation, and when at last the phenomenon came to an end, more servants arrived to escort the guests to an elaborate ceremonial dinner. By now Mara’s hospitality was plainly a desperate, stopgap diversion.

‘Where is my son?’ Tecuma demanded through clenched teeth. His lips assumed a frozen smile as the Warlord glanced his way.

Mara winked, as if to a conspirator. ‘The main dish is Buntokapi’s personal favourite, but it sours if it stands too long. The cooks have been at work all day for your pleasure, and the jigabirds and the needra are spiced with rare sauces. My most graceful maid, Merali, will show you your seat. She will bring a basin if you need to wash.’

Sweating, and infuriated by what he saw as girlish prattle, the Lord of the Anasati permitted himself to be ushered in to dinner. He noticed, with narrowed eyes,
that the Warlord showed signs of restlessness; at that point he was glad Mara had gone to the trouble of bringing in priests to bless the repast, and that her musicians played very well, if too loudly for protocol.

He barely tasted what had been touted as Buntokapi’s favourite dish. When Chumaka snatched time to query how long he intended to be led on by such nonsense, he nearly choked on his meat. Mara set down her knife and signalled Nacoya, who in turn nodded to a servant in the doorway. The musicians struck up a wildly arhythmic melody, and female dancers dressed in little but beads and gauze whirled into the space between the tables.

That their performance was brilliantly provocative could do nothing to hide the fact that Buntokapi of the Acoma was nowhere in evidence, though his father and the most august personage in the High Council presently bided their time at his dinner table.

Lord Tecuma seized the moment when the dancers spun about and finished their finale. He heaved himself to his feet, almost stepping on his hems in haste, and bellowed over the last notes of music, ‘My Lady Mara, where is your husband, Buntokapi?’

The musicians stopped their strings, but for one laggard vielle, which scraped an abandoned solo before its owner stilled his bow. Silence fell, and all eyes turned to Mara, who stared in turn at the dainties which her cooks had laboured to prepare, but which she obviously had barely tasted. She said nothing; and the Warlord set down his spoon with a clink.

A hairsbreadth shy of discourtesy, she met her father-in-law’s eyes. ‘My Lord, forgive us both. I will explain everything, but such words will go more graciously after the servants have brought wine.’

‘No!’ Almecho spread heavy hands before him upon the table. ‘Lady, this has gone on long enough! Your
dinner is exquisitely prepared and your dancers are talented, but we who visit your house will not be treated as buffoons. You must send for your Lord and let him explain himself.’

Mara’s expression revealed nothing, but she turned dramatically pale. Nacoya seemed openly shaken, and the Lord of the Anasati felt sweat spring beneath his collar. ‘Well, girl? Send for my son, that my grandson may be presented!’

Mara’s reply was phrased with perfect deference. ‘Father of my husband, forgive me, but I cannot do as you ask. Let my servants bring wine, and in time my husband will explain himself.’

The Warlord turned a dark expression on Mara. At first he had treated the delay in Buntokapi’s appearance as something of a joke, indulging an old ally. But as the day had passed, the waiting and the heat had plainly worn away what patience he possessed. Now Tecuma of the Anasati dared not take the girl’s suggestion without severe loss of face, for clearly her efforts suggested something was amiss. To swallow her excuses would indicate weakness, a serious setback before the pre-eminent member of the Imperial Council. If Buntokapi was drunk, even to incapacity, that shame would be less than the one incurred should he slight his father and his guests by hiding the fact behind his wife.

Tecuma said, in deadly even tones, ‘We are waiting.’

Overtly nervous, but still ingenuous, Mara answered, ‘Yes, father of my husband, that is true.’

The silence that followed was ponderous.