Mara bounced Ayaki one more time on her knee, her eyebrows raised in inquiry. ‘Town house?’
As if the matter were of small account, Buntokapi answered over his son’s shriek of pleasure, ‘I have moved to larger quarters in Sulan-Qu.’ He gave no reason, but Mara knew he had established the apartment to meet with his mistress, a woman named Teani. As far back as Mara could remember, Lord Sezu had never felt the need to take a town house. Though the practice was common enough among other lords whose estates were remotely located, no matter how late business kept Sezu in the city he always returned home to sleep under the same roof as his family. If Mara was generous in her assessment, Buntokapi was barely more than a boy, only two years older than she, and with none of her level-headed nature. While she had sat next to her brother, hearing the lessons on governance her father gave, Bunto had been a neglected, lonely boy who had spent time off by himself brooding, or in the rough company of soldiers. Her own coldness did not upset him but encouraged a return to his former habits of finding the pleasures he understood. Still, Mara had not selected this husband because she wanted someone strong-minded and resolute, like her father. Now her plans demanded that she encourage his self-indulgent, bad-tempered nature, though the course would be dangerous in the extreme.
Ayaki gave a last, deafening squeal and grabbed her beads. Prying his grip from her throat, Mara pretended indifference to her husband’s indulgence. ‘Whatever my Lord requires.’
Bunto returned one of his rare smiles, and ducking a swipe of Ayaki’s tiny fist, Mara wondered briefly on the mistress, Teani. What sort of woman would infatuate a brute like her husband? But Buntokapi’s pleased expression vanished as, with faultless timing, Jican appeared with a dozen scrolls in hand. ‘My Lord, by the grace of the gods, you are back fortuitously. I have some papers dealing with matters of your distant holdings that need your immediate approval.’
With a beleaguered cry, Bunto said, ‘Fortuitous! I must return to the city tonight.’ He stalked from Mara’s presence without so much as a good-bye, but his wife seemed not to care. Her eyes were fixed on the rosy face of her son as, drooling, he tried with fierce concentration to stuff her amber beads in his mouth. ‘Your appetites might kill you one day,’ she warned mildly; but whether she referred to her husband or his offspring only the gods might guess. After rescuing her jewellery, Mara smiled. The mistress, Teani, had wrapped another twist into the fabric of ideas evolved since the day the grey warriors had sworn service. The hour had come to begin Buntokapi’s education on what it really took to conduct the business of the Acoma.
Alone in the cool shadow of the nursery, Mara consulted the wax tally started in secret during the last month. No one would interrupt her. Nacoya was out with Ayaki, and the slave who changed the covers in the crib could not read. Reflectively Mara chewed the end of her stylus. Each day Buntokapi visited his town house, she had sent at least one servant or Jican with some minor document to sign. From their dozens of reports, she had patiently pieced together the fact that her husband lived a very patterned existence. When in Sulan-Qu, Buntokapi arose at mid-morning, but never later than the third hour after sunrise. He would then walk to a public training arena where mercenary guards and warriors whose masters were staying in the city gathered to practise at arms. Buntokapi preferred wrestling and archery to sword work, but with a diligence that had surprised Gijan he now practised all three. His technique with the blade improved steadily, but he still chose the company of common soldiers over that of the other lords who occasionally availed themselves of the facilities. Midday saw him bathed and changed and on the way to his town house; for about two hours thereafter he remained receptive to any work sent from the estates by Mara. His mistress, Teani, was rarely out of bed before mid-afternoon, and his tolerance for business fled the instant she awoke. With a charm that even the oldest messenger had described with admiration, she would lure Buntokapi to her bed until barely enough time remained to rise and dress for dinner. Then the couple would attend the theatre to see comedies, the taverns to listen to minstrels, or the gambling houses, though Teani had no wealth except what came to her as gifts. She derived a perverse pleasure from encouraging her paramour to bet, and if he lost, rumour held that her eyes sparkled all the more brightly. Mara frowned. Many servants had been cursed and cuffed to glean this information – the last runner to carry a document to Lord Buntokapi had been severely beaten – but in this matter a slave boy was of little consequence. Worse might come if the man she had married continued to wear the Lord’s mantle.
An enraged yell from Ayaki echoed down the corridor beyond the screen, followed by Nacoya’s chiding voice. If the child had soiled himself, the nursery would shortly become the site of a minor commotion. Ayaki battled like a young harulth whenever anyone tried to change him. Sighing with indulgence mixed with exasperation, Mara concealed the wax slate beneath an old parchment map and resumed her study of the Empire. The border lines and the estates on this rendition were slightly out of date, having been drawn up when she was a little girl. But the dyes were still bright and most of the holdings of the major Lords of the Empire were clearly marked. Since Buntokapi detested everything to do with words on paper, he would never miss this one document from his study. The only use he had for a map was to find which lands were open for hunting.
As Ayaki’s wails drew nearer, Mara noticed an interesting fact at the outset: the Lord of the Zalteca, a minor neighbour who had a very prosperous trade in pottery, used a strip of land between his own estates and the Imperial Highway that appeared to be the property of the Lord of the Kano, who lived far to the east near the city of Ontoset. Mara found this indefinably amusing. If other families exercised such usurpation of property rights, that knowledge might later prove useful. She would ask Arakasi about it when he returned, and that thought sparked realization: only a week remained before she and Buntokapi celebrated their first wedding anniversary. The Spy Master might return to the estate at any moment.
Apprehension gripped Mara, even as Nacoya entered with Ayaki screaming in her arms. ‘Your son would make a fine substitute for a guli,’ said the old woman, referring to the hairy troll-like creatures of children’s tales; they scared their victims to death with hideous screams.
Mara only nodded. Wondering whether her mistress had gone deaf, Nacoya called the slave away from freshening the crib to help manage the Acoma heir, who yelled until his face was red, and made everyone’s ears sore. Eventually Mara arose. She bent over her baby and jingled her beads to amuse him. As Ayaki’s wails changed to laughter in another of his mercurial shifts of mood, her thoughts continued.
Somehow she must prevent Arakasi from coming under Buntokapi’s control. Her bull of a husband would only waste that information network, or worse, make it available for his father’s use, which would place far too dangerous a power in the hands of the Lord of the Anasati. Necessity made Mara bold. She must prepare for Arakasi’s arrival with no further delay, so that his loyalty should remain hers alone. Inwardly reviewing her husband’s schedule of activities, Mara spoke briskly to the slave who laboured over the kicking, naked legs of her son. ‘Call for Jican.’
Nacoya raised her eyebrows. ‘To the nursery?’ she said, startled, but her mistress ignored the liberty.
‘The matter will not wait.’ Without further fuss, Mara relieved the slave of the damp cloths and began to cleanse her infant’s soiled bottom.
Jican arrived, any puzzlement he felt well concealed. He bowed deeply as his mistress tied a clean loincloth around her son. ‘Have we some documents that would be appropriate for my Lord husband’s review?’
Barely able to contain his distaste at the mention of the Lord of the Acoma, Jican said, ‘My Lady, there are always documents that are appropriate for the Lord of the house to review.’ He bowed, shamed at how close to insult his words came in their implication that Buntokapi neglected his responsibilities. Mara sensed her hadonra’s discomfort as she lifted Ayaki onto her shoulder.
In a tone sweet as red-bee honey, she said, ‘Then I think it would be fitting to send a scribe to my husband’s town house at three hours after noon.’
Jican