‘My Lord,’ said Tasaio, rising in full and flawless courtesy before his cousin, ‘it has begun.’
Desio tensed with anticipation. Inspired by his cousin’s example, he had undertaken to practise the martial traditions. As he sat in his finery on a brocaded mat, his waistline sagged less, and his florid face had lost its puppyish appearance. Diligent work on his swordsmanship had improved his skills to the point where his sparring partners need not offer a blatant opening to allow their Lord the victory. Desio no longer cut a comic figure when he wore armour for ceremonies; the older servants whispered among themselves that the boy carried himself at least as well as his father, Jingu, had in his youth and perhaps was even more manly.
Physical prowess was not the least of Desio’s gains. In Tasaio’s absence, he had successfully pressed his claim as Warchief of Clan Shonshoni, the first public step toward recovering the prestige surrendered upon his father’s death. More assured than ever before, Desio drew himself up to full height. Afternoon sun from the skylight slashed down upon his shoulders, raising sparkles from his precious ornaments. ‘Tell me the details!’
Tasaio handed his helm to a waiting servant. He ruffled sweat-slicked hair from his temples, then began unbuckling his gauntlets while he spoke. ‘We have again received word from Mara’s clansmen.’ Two servants rushed forward; one poured water from a ewer into the bowl held by the other. Without break, Tasaio rinsed hands and face, then allowed himself to be dried by a third servant. ‘They would consider the utter obliteration of Mara’s house a difficult proposition, but they are also disinclined to incur our wrath should they discover it an accomplished fact.’
The servant folded the soiled linen and departed, while from the shadowed alcove beside Desio’s cushions Incomo thrust forth a withered hand. ‘My Lord, it is as Bruli of the Kehotara claimed.’
With novel lack of petulance, Desio allowed his First Adviser to continue. ‘Clan Hadama is politically factioned. They squabble among themselves enough that they never keep common war council. They will seek no quarrel with Clan Shonshoni, yet we must be cautious. We must not grant them incentive to unite. In the heat of crisis, I suggest they would put aside differences and come to Mara’s aid should she call upon clan honour with any justification. We must ensure we give them no such cause lest we face an entire clan. We would be forced to marshal Clan Shonshoni in turn.’
‘Any conflict of that magnitude would bring intervention from the Assembly of Magicians,’ Tasaio pointed out. ‘Which would be disastrous.’ He flicked a fingernail that harboured an invisible fleck of dirt. ‘So we act with circumspection, and after Mara and her son are dead, Clan Hadama will cluck their collective tongues, mouth regrets, and go about their usual business, yes?’
Desio held up his hand for silence and considered.
Incomo withheld his urge to press counsel, pleased by his Lord’s newfound maturity. Tasaio’s influence had proved a gift of the gods, for the young Lord seemed on his way to becoming the confident, decisive leader not seen in the Minwanabi great hall since his grandfather’s reign.
Now sensitive to nuance, the Lord surmised, ‘So you have determined the moment to spring the first part of our trap?’
Tasaio smiled again, broadly and slowly as a sarcat’s yawn. ‘Less time than I had anticipated. But not as swiftly as we would like. Word must be passed through the Acoma spies that we are moving to attack their cursed silk shipments.’
Desio nodded. ‘Logical choice. We were punished enough by the chaos caused by their surprise entry into the silk auction. Mara’s advisers will readily believe that we raid to regain some lost wealth and damage her ill-gotten profits.’
Tasaio fingered the marks left by his gauntlet straps, yet if this was a sign of eagerness, the rest of his demeanour stayed cool. ‘On your word, should we let it be known that “bandits” will raid the caravan heading down the river road to Jamar?’
Once Desio would have nodded in transparent eagerness. Now he frowned in concentration. ‘Foot troops will not be enough. Be sure to send the impression that we hold boats in readiness as well. Should Mara’s hadonra reroute the caravan by barge, have her understand that river “pirates” will fall upon them.’
‘But of course, my Lord!’ Tasaio no longer needed to act as if the suggestion were novel. ‘Such tactics will force Keyoke to send a strongly guarded decoy caravan by the main highway, while he personally escorts a small, fast-moving band of wagons across Tuscalora lands.’
‘Where will you take him?’ Desio asked, intense concentration on his face.
Tasaio signalled the runner slave, who in turn summoned the aide who waited outside the main hall. The warrior entered, bearing a heavy roll of parchment. He made proper obeisance before his Lord, then threw his burden to the floor, where two servants rushed to unroll it.
Tasaio drew his sword. In a short, neat movement, he indicated the meandering blue line that represented the river Gagajin. ‘Once through Sulan-Qu, Mara will send her wagons southward on the Great River Road, or else she will put them aboard barges and take the water route. She will draw much attention upon this false caravan, so she will not risk her real wares to follow through the woodlands to the east of her holdings. It is too close to the false cargo.’ His sword scratched across the river that offered the main avenue of trade through the heart of the Empire; east and west, major roads were inked in red lines. ‘Here,’ said Tasaio, stabbing his sword at a minor line twining south from the Acoma border. ‘Keyoke is certain to cross south through Tuscalora lands and pass through the foothills of the Kyamaka Mountains. He will make for the delta north of the Great Swamp, and continue directly for Jamar, gateway to the southern markets.’
Leaning forward over the chart, Desio anticipated him. ‘You’ll attack in the foothills?’
Tasaio tapped his weapon at a serpentine bend in the road. ‘At this narrow pass. Once into it, Keyoke’s forces can be bottled up at both ends, and with the Red God’s blessing, no Acoma warrior will survive.’
Desio tapped his full lips with a finger, silent. ‘But Mara might keep her Force Commander with her. Suppose her Strike Leader, Lujan, is sent in Keyoke’s place?’
Tasaio shrugged. ‘Mara has shown cleverness in trade, but in battle she must delegate command. Her options besides Keyoke and Lujan are a half-blind old strike leader soon to retire and two others newly promoted. She’ll do the only intelligent thing: send her proven officers with her two caravans and trust her cho-ja allies’ raw power to protect her home estates.’
Yet Desio was not satisfied. ‘Can we arrange an accident for Lujan, also?’
Tasaio considered this with abstracted interest. ‘Difficult. Mara’s soldiers will be expecting trouble, and even a gifted assassin would be unlikely to get near their commander.’
‘Unless …’ Desio arose from his mat and squatted on the stair above the map. After a studied moment, he said, ‘What if we arrange to have our young Strike Leader come rushing down to aid his commander?’
Tasaio’s eyes widened. ‘You’ll need to be clearer, my Lord.’
Pleased to have surprised his cousin even slightly, Desio set his chin on clenched knuckles. ‘We “expose” one Acoma spy, torture him enough to convince him we’re serious, and while doing so, brag about our trap – we’ll even tell him where it will occur. Then, at the moment Keyoke cannot be recalled, we’ll let him escape.’
Tasaio’s face was expressionless. ‘And he’ll run home to the Acoma.’ Deliberate in his movements as always, he returned his sword to his scabbard. The click as the laminated blade slid home resounded through the near-empty hall.