The hall had grown warm. Great ladies fluttered fans of painted feathers, and the musicians who had entertained them wiped sweaty fingerprints from their instruments, as attendants helped bride and groom into their litters, then raised them to the level where the High Priest and his acolytes presided. Garbed now in an overrobe sewn with precious sequins of silver, gold and copper, the High Priest invoked the ever-present eye of Chochocan, the Good God. The gong chimed as he crossed his arms over his chest, and a boy and girl mounted the dais, each carrying a cage woven of reeds. Within perched a male and a female kiri bird, their white-and-black-barred wingtips dyed the green of the Acoma.
The priest blessed the birds, and acolytes accepted the cages. Then, lifting the ivory ceremonial wand from the pocket in his sleeve, the priest invoked his god for a blessing upon the marriage of Buntokapi and Mara. The hall grew hushed and fans stilled in the hands of the ladies. From the lowliest of landed nobles, to the gem-crusted presence of the Warlord, all craned their necks to see as the priest tapped the cages with his wand.
Reeds parted under his ministrations, leaving the birds free to fly, together in joy as in well-omened unions, or separately, to the woe of the couple on the litters, for much stock was placed in Chochocan’s favour.
Nacoya closed her eyes, her old hands clenched around an amulet she held under her chin. Bunto looked on with his expression hidden behind the luridly painted marriage mask; but his bride stared off, unseeing, into the distance, as if the ritual in the grove had drained her of interest.
The gong chimed, and servants slid wide the paper screens enclosing the hall. ‘Let this marriage be blessed in the sight of heaven,’ intoned the priest.
The acolytes tipped the cages, jostling the birds from their perches. The female chirped angrily and flapped her wings, while the male leaped to the air and circled above the assembly, then swooped down towards his mate. He attempted to land on the perch next to the female, but she puffed up and flapped her wings in fury, pecking him unmercifully. The male retreated, then approached, but the female shot into flight, her dyed wingtips a green blur across shadow. With a loud cry she sped for freedom, and vanished, a flash of pale feathers in sunlight. The male bird gripped tightly to the vacated perch. His feathers fluffed and he shook his head in annoyance. As the chamber stilled with waiting silence, he preened his tail and hopped to the top of the cage, where he relieved himself. After a strained minute passed, the High Priest motioned with his finger, a small but noticeably irritated gesture. An embarrassed acolyte shooed the male bird off. All eyes watched as he circled lazily, then landed in the flower bed just beyond the open screen door and began to peck for grubs.
Brocades and feathers shifted like a wave across the assembly. The High Priest cleared his throat, his wand dropping in one wrinkled hand. At length, with a glance at the stiff-backed Bunto, he said, ‘Praise the goodness of Chochocan, and heed his lesson. Under his guidance, may this couple find mercy, understanding, and forgiveness.’ Again he cleared his throat. ‘The omen shows us that marriage requires diplomacy, for as man and wife this Lord and Lady must ever strive for unity. Such is the Will of the gods.’
A stiff interval followed as acolytes and guests waited for the priest to continue. Eventually it became evident that he would not say more, and the gong chimed. An attendant removed Buntokapi’s marriage mask. He faced Mara, who seemed dazed, except that her eyes were narrowed slightly and the faintest of frowns marred the line of her brows.
‘Exchange the wreaths,’ prompted the priest, as if he seemed worried the couple might forget.
Bunto bent his head, and Mara pressed the somewhat wilted ceremonial circlet over his dark hair. It slipped somewhat as he straightened, and she smelled wine on his breath as he leaned close to crown her in turn.
Mara’s frown deepened; during her hour of contemplation, custom demanded that the groom share a ritual sip of wine with his bachelor friends, to bring them fortune, and wives of their own. Yet it seemed that Bunto and his companions had emptied the ceremonial flagon, and possibly one or two more. Annoyed at his indiscretion, Mara barely heard the priest pronounce them man and wife for the duration of their mortal lives. She did not even realize the formal portion of the ceremony had ended until the guests began loudly to cheer and throw luck charms of elaborately folded paper into a colourful blizzard over bride and groom.
Mara managed a mechanical smile. Now came the time when each guest presented the wedding tribute, in the form of a work of art, recitation, or musical composition. Some of these would be elaborate and expensive affairs patronized by the great Lords and politically powerful of the Empire. Rumour held that the Warlord had imported an entire theatrical company, complete with costumes and stage. But his presentation would not occur for days to come, since the lowest in rank would perform first.
Picking a paper charm out of his shirt-front, Buntokapi spared himself the tedium of the first acts, pleading the need to relieve himself and don more comfortable clothing. By tradition he could not bed his bride until the last of the guests had offered tribute; and the heavy marriage robes hid enough of her that staring at slave girls offered better pastime.
Mara nodded courteously at her Lord. ‘I shall stay here, my husband, that the least of our guests may know of Acoma gratitude for their presentations.’
Buntokapi sniffed, believing she avoided him deliberately. He would see to her later; meantime a feast waited, with fine music and drink, and the chance to see his brothers bow to him for the first time, as he was now Lord of the Acoma. Smiling under his crooked marriage wreath, Buntokapi clapped his hands for his slaves to carry him from the hall.
Mara remained, despite the fact that most of her wedding guests followed her Lord’s example. The sun climbed towards noon, and already heat haze shimmered over the distant acres of the needra fields. The highest-ranking guests retired to their quarters and sent servants for cool drinks and a change of clothes. Then, like brightly coloured birds, they emerged to feast on flavoured ices, chilled jomach fruit, and sa wine, until the cooler comfort of evening.
But in the airless confines of the hall the lowest-ranking stayed stiffly in their seats, while hired performers or a talented family member acted, sang or recited a tribute to the married Acoma couple. At smaller weddings the bride and groom might watch the first few performances out of courtesy; but at the greatest houses truly spectacular events occurred later in the roster, and couples most often left the first day’s efforts for the amusement of their off-duty servants.
Yet Mara lingered through the first round of performers, a juggler more successful as a comedian, two singers, a stage conjurer – whose magic was all of the sleight-of-hand variety – and a poet whose own patron snored loudly throughout his recitation. She applauded each act politely, and if she did not offer the accolade of tossing one of the flowers from her litter, she remained politely attentive until the intermission. The performers to follow waited stiffly, certain she would leave for the feasting. Yet, instead of litter bearers, she called for maids to bring her a tray of light food and drink. The guests murmured in surprise.
The fat Sulan-Qu merchant in the first row blushed and hid behind the fan of his wife. Even in dreams he had never dared to think the Lady of the Acoma would be present to watch his flute-playing son perform. The boy had a terrible ear, but his mother beamed with pride. Mara remained, sipping chilled jomach juice, upon the dais. She nodded graciously when the young flautist bowed and fled, nearly tripping in his haste to clear the way for the next act. Mara smiled at the embarrassed father and his wife, and realized that despite the tedium of enduring such music, should she ever need a favour from that merchant, it was hers for the asking.
Through mimes, a man with trained dogs, a singing liendi bird, and two more poets, the great lady showed no restlessness. She awarded the second of the poets a flower, deftly thrown into his hat. And the painter who followed made her laugh at his comical drawings of needra bulls charging a warrior. When in the second intermission she called maidservants to remove her outer robe, that she might be more comfortable in the noon heat, the lowliest guests murmured that this Lady was generously disposed beyond any they had known in the Empire. The performers sensed