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