‘I had planned to take Lujan … but he could be needed here.’ Keyoke had come to admit grudgingly that, beneath his roguish manner, Lujan was a gifted officer. And if Keyoke was forced to defend Ayaki … Mara turned her thoughts away from that course and said, ‘Go to Pape. If he trusts you with the loan of an officer’s plume, you can help him select my retinue.’ Mara managed a brief smile before fear returned to chill her. Arakasi bowed. The instant he left, Mara clapped sharply for servants, that the tray with the mangled berry be removed at once from her presence.
In failing light, Mara regarded the screen one final time. The waiting was at last over, and the killwing stooped to its prey. Though Minwanabi was proud, and confident, and strong, she must now seek a way to defeat him on his own territory.
The late summer roads were dry, choked with dust thrown up by the caravans, and unpleasant for travel. After the short march overland to Sulan-Qu, Mara and her retinue of fifty honour guards continued their journey to the Minwanabi estates by barge. The bustle of the town and the dockside did not overwhelm Mara; the nakedness of the slaves barely turned her head, caught up as she was in the meshes of enemy intrigue. As she settled with Nacoya on the cushions beneath the canopy, she reflected that she no longer felt strange to be ruling the house of her father. The years since Lashima’s temple had brought many changes and much growth; and with them came determination enough to hide her dread. Keyoke arrayed his soldiers on board with a reflection of that same pride. Then the barge master began his chant, and the slaves cast off and leaned into their poles. The Acoma craft threw ripples from its painted bows and drew away from familiar shores.
The journey upriver took six days. Mara spent most of these in contemplation, as slaves poled the barge past acres of mud flats and the sour-smelling expanses of drained thyza paddies. Nacoya slept in the afternoons; evenings she left the shelter of the gauze curtains and dispersed motherly advice among the soldiers, while they slapped at the stinging insects that arose in clouds from the shores. Mara listened, nibbling at the fruit bought from a barge vendor; she knew the old woman did not expect to return home alive. And indeed each sunset seemed precious, as clouds streamed reflections like gilt over the calm surface of the river and the sky darkened swiftly into night.
The Minwanabi estates lay off a small tributary of the main river. Beaded with sweat in the early morning heat, the slaves poled through the muddle of slower-moving merchant craft. Under the barge master’s skilful guidance, they manoeuvred between a squalid village of stilt houses, inhabited by families of shellfish rakers; the river narrowed beyond, shallows and shoals giving way to deeper waters. Mara looked out over low hills, and banks lined with formally manicured trees. Then the barge of her family entered waters none but the most ancient Acoma ancestors might have travelled, for the origins of the blood feud with Jingu’s line lay so far in the past that none remembered its beginning. Here the current picked up speed as the passage narrowed. The slaves had to work furiously to maintain headway, and the barge slowed almost to a standstill. Mara strove to maintain a façade of calm as her craft continued towards an imposingly painted prayer gate that spanned the breadth of the river. This marked the boundary of Minwanabi lands.
A soldier bowed beside Mara’s cushions and pointed a sun-browned hand at the tiered structure that crowned the prayer gate. ‘Did you notice? Beneath the paint decorations, this monument is a bridge.’
Mara started slightly, for the voice was familiar. She regarded the man closely and half smiled at the cleverness of her own Spy Master. Arakasi had blended so perfectly among the ranks of her honour guard, she had all but forgotten he was aboard.
Restoring her attention to the prayer gate, Arakasi continued, ‘In times of strife, they say that Minwanabi stations archers with rags and oil to fire any craft making its way upriver. A fine defence.’
‘As slowly as we are moving, I would think no one could enter Minwanabi’s lake this way and live.’ Mara glanced astern at the foaming current. ‘But we certainly could flee quickly enough.’
Arakasi shook his head. ‘Look downward, mistress.’
Mara leaned over the edge of the barge and saw a giant braided cable strung between the pillars of the gate, inches below the shallow keel of the barge. Should trouble arise, a mechanism within the gate towers could raise the cable, forming a barrier against any barge seeking exit. Arakasi said, ‘This defence is as lethal to fleeing craft as to any attacking fleet.’
‘And I would be wise to bear that in mind?’ Mara untwisted damp fingers from the fringe of her robe. Trying to keep her uneasiness within balance, she made a polite gesture of dismissal. ‘Your warning is well taken, Arakasi. But do not say anything to Nacoya, or she’ll squawk so loudly she’ll disrupt the peace of the gods!’
The Spy Master rose with a grunt that concealed laughter. ‘I need say nothing at all. The old mother sees knives under her sleeping mat at night.’ He lowered his voice. ‘I’ve watched her flip her pillows and blankets six times, even after Papewaio inspects her bedding.’
Mara waved him off, unable to share his humour. Nacoya was not the only one who had nightmares. As the barge pressed on, and the shadow of the ‘prayer gate’ fell across her, a chill roughened her flesh like the breath of Turakamu.
The sounds of their passage echoed off stone foundations. Then sunlight sliced down, blinding and intense after darkness. Mara looked out of the gauze-curtained canopy to a sight entirely unexpected.
The vista beyond was breathtaking in its beauty. Located in the neck of a broad valley, at the head of a wide lake, the estate house across the water looked a magic place from a child’s tale, each building perfect in design and colour. The centremost structure was stone, an impossibly ancient palace built high up on a hill overlooking the lake. Low walls wound down the hillside amid terraced gardens and lesser buildings, many two and three storeys tall. The estate of the Minwanabi was in truth a village in its own right, a community of servants and soldiers, all loyal to Jingu. But what a magnificent town, Mara thought. And she knew a brief stab of envy that so bitter an enemy should live in such splendour. Breezes off the lake would cool the house through even the hottest months, and a fleet of small orange and black punts trawled for fish, so that the Lord of the Minwanabi might dine upon fresh-caught koifish. As the slaves exchanged poles for oars to convey the barge across the lake, a more sober thought occurred to Mara: the valley was a bottleneck, easily defended, and easier to seal. Like the poisoned flask plant that devoured insects by luring them with sweet scents, the layout of this valley foreclosed any chance of swift unnoticed escape.
Papewaio perceived this also, for he called his warriors to present arms as another craft approached. Quickly heaving into view, the large barge contained a dozen Minwanabi archers, a Patrol Leader at their head. He saluted and motioned for them to dress oars. ‘Who comes to Minwanabi lands?’ he called out as the barges closed.
Papewaio called an answer. ‘The Lady of the Acoma.’
The officer of the Minwanabi saluted. ‘Pass, Lady of the Acoma.’ He signalled his own contingent of rowers, and the Minwanabi barge resumed its patrol.
Nacoya pointed to three other such barges. ‘They have companies of archers all over the lake.’
Clearly no escape was possible from the Minwanabi Lord’s home. There remained only victory or death. Feeling her palms grow damp, Mara resisted the impulse to blot them on her robe. ‘Let us make best speed to the house, Pape.’
Papewaio signalled the barge captain, and the slaves resumed their stroke.
The barge headed dockside, and the Minwanabi estate proved as beautiful upon close inspection as it had looked across