‘My Lady?’ The young man looked up, his blue eyes shadowed with distress. ‘I hesitate to … trouble you with my own difficulties, but …’ He coloured and looked down in embarrassment. ‘Quite frankly, in my passion to win you, I have placed too large a debt upon my house.’ A painful pause followed. ‘You will doubtless think less of me and I risk losing stature in your eyes, but duty to my father requires that I beg a favour of you.’
Suddenly finding little to relish in Bruli’s discomfort, Mara responded more curtly than she intended. ‘What favour?’ She softened the effect by setting down her fork and trying to seem concerned. ‘Of course I will help if I can.’
Bruli sighed, his unhappiness far from alleviated. ‘If you could find it within your heart to be so gracious, I need some of those gifts … the ones I sent … could you possibly return them?’ His voice dropped, and he swallowed. ‘Not all, but perhaps the more expensive ones.’
Mara’s eyes were pools of sympathy as she said, ‘I think I might find it in my heart to help a friend, Bruli. But the night is young, and the cooks worked hard to please us. Why don’t we forget these bothersome troubles and enjoy our banquet? At the first meal tomorrow we can resolve your difficulties.’
Though he had hoped for another answer, Bruli gathered his tattered pride and weathered the rest of the dinner. His conversation was unenthusiastic, and his humour conspicuously absent, but Mara pretended not to notice. She called in a poet to read while servants brought sweet dishes and brandies; and in the end the drink helped, for the unfortunate son of the Kehotara eventually took his leave for bed. Plainly he left without romantic advances so he could pass the night painlessly in sleep.
Mist rolled over the needra meadows, clinging in the hollows like silken scarves in the moonlight. Night birds called, counterpointed by the tread of an occasional sentry; but in the Lady’s chamber in the estate house another sound intruded. Papewaio pushed one foot against Lujan’s ribs.
‘What?’ came the sleepy reply.
‘Our Lady doesn’t snore,’ Papewaio whispered.
Yawning, and scowling with offended dignity, Lujan said, ‘I don’t snore.’
‘Then you do a wonderful imitation.’ The First Strike Leader leaned on his spear, a silhouette against the moonlit screen. He hid his amusement, for he had come to like the former grey warrior. He appreciated Lujan for being a fine officer, far better than could have been hoped for, and because Lujan’s nature was so different from Papewaio’s own taciturnity.
Suddenly Papewaio stiffened, alerted by a soft scuff in the corridor. Lujan heard it also, for he left the rest of his protest unspoken. The two Acoma officers exchanged silent hand signals and immediately came to an agreement. Someone who did not wish his movements to be overheard was approaching from the hallway outside. The stranger walked now not six paces from the screen; earlier Papewaio had placed a new mat at each intersection of the corridor beyond Mara’s chamber; anyone who approached her door would cause a rustle as he trod across the weave.
That sound became their cue. Without speaking, Lujan drew his sword and took up position by the door. Papewaio leaned his spear against the garden lintel and unsheathed both a sword and dagger. Moonlight flashed upon lacquer as he lay down upon Mara’s mat, his weapons held close beneath the sheets.
Long minutes went by. Then the screen to the hall by the garden slid soundlessly open. The intruder showed no hesitation but leaped through the gap with his dagger drawn to stab. He bent swiftly over what he thought was the sleeping form of the Lady of the Acoma.
Papewaio rolled to his right, coming up in a fighter’s crouch, his sword and dagger lifted to parry. Blade sang on blade, while Lujan closed in behind the assassin, his intent to prevent him from bolting.
Faint moonlight gave him away, as his shadow darted ahead of him across the floor. The assassin’s blade cut into pillows, and jigabird feathers sailed upon the air like seed down. He rolled away and spun to his feet to discover himself trapped. Though he wore the garb of a porter, he responded with professional quickness and threw his dagger at Papewaio. The Strike Leader dodged aside. Without sound, the intruder launched himself past, twisting to avoid the sword that sliced at his back. He crashed through the paper screen and hit the pathway beyond at a full run.
Hard on his heels, Lujan shouted, ‘He’s in the garden!’
Instantly Acoma guards hurried through the corridors. Screens screeched open on all sides, and Keyoke strode into the turmoil, calling orders that were instantly obeyed. The warriors fanned out, beating the shrubs with their spears.
Papewaio regained his feet and moved to join the search, but Keyoke lightly touched his shoulder. ‘He got away?’
The First Strike Leader muttered a curse and answered what he knew from long experience would be the Force Leader’s next question. ‘He’s hiding somewhere on the grounds, but you must ask Lujan to describe him. The moonlight was in his favour, where I saw nothing but a shadow.’ He paused while Keyoke sent for the former bandit; and after a moment Papewaio added thoughtfully, ‘He’s of average size, and left-handed. And his breath smelled strongly of jomach pickles.’
Lujan concluded the description. ‘He wears the tunic and rope belt of a porter, but his sandals are soled with soft leather, not hardened needra hide.’
Keyoke motioned to the two nearest soldiers and gave curt orders. ‘Search the quarters given to the Kehotara porters. Find out which one is missing. He’s our man.’
A minute later, two other warriors arrived with a body slung limply between them. Both Papewaio and Lujan identified the assassin, and both regretted that he had found time to sink his second, smaller dagger into his vitals.
Keyoke spat on the corpse. ‘A pity he died in honour by the blade. No doubt he received permission from his master before undertaking this mission.’ The Force Commander sent a man to call in the searchers, then added, ‘At least the Minwanabi dog admitted the possibility of failure.’
Mara must receive word of this event without more delay. Brusquely Keyoke waved at the corpse. ‘Dispose of this carrion, but save a piece by which he may be identified.’ He ended with a nod to his Strike Leaders. ‘Well done. Take the rest of the night for sleep.’
Both men exchanged glances as the supreme commander of the Acoma forces stepped away into the night. Keyoke was seldom free with his praise. Then Lujan grinned, and Papewaio nodded. In complete and silent understanding the two men turned in the direction of the soldiers’ commons to share a drink before well-earned rest.
Bruli of the Kehotara arrived at breakfast looking wretchedly out of sorts. His handsome face was puffy, and his eyes red, as if his sleep had been ridden with nightmares. Yet almost certainly he had been agonizing over his predicament with the gifts rather than knowledge of the assassin his retinue had admitted to the Acoma household; after his loss of self-control at dinner, Mara doubted he had skill enough to pretend that no attempt had been made upon her life.
She smiled, half in pity. ‘My friend, you seem ill disposed. Didn’t you care for your accommodations last night?’
Bruli dredged up his most engaging smile. ‘No, my Lady. The quarters you gave me were most satisfactory, but …’ He sighed, and his smiled wilted. ‘I am simply under stress. Regarding that matter I mentioned last night, could I ask your indulgence and forebearance … if you could see your way clear …’
Mara’s air of cordiality vanished. ‘I don’t think that would be prudent, Bruli.’
The air smelled, incongruously, of fresh thyza bread. Numbly conscious that breakfast foods cooled on the table, Bruli locked eyes with his hostess. His cheeks coloured in a most un-Tsurani fashion. ‘My Lady,’ he began, ‘you seem unaware of the distress you cause me by denying this petition.’
Mara said nothing but signalled to someone waiting behind the screen to her left. Armour creaked in response, and Keyoke stepped into view bearing the