Mara hid a smile behind her sleeve. Pape and the obviously clever Toram had seized upon a simple fact of Tsurani culture. Second and third sons of soldiers by tradition were free to take service with houses other than those in which they were born. By treating this grey warrior as if he were a youth, Papewaio had circumvented Lujan’s question of honour entirely. When Mara had recovered her decorum, she said simply, ‘Pape, call your cousin into our service, if he is willing.’
Papewaio caught Toram’s shoulder in brotherly fashion. ‘Cousin, you are called to serve the Acoma.’
The man raised his chin with newfound pride and crisply announced his acceptance. ‘I will come!’
His words touched off a rush among the outlaws, as men crowded around the dozen Acoma soldiers and begun exchanging the names of relations. Again Mara fought down a smile. Any Tsurani of noble birth, or any soldier, knew his bloodlines back several generations, as well as cousins, aunts, and uncles, most of whom he knew by name only. When two Tsurani met for the first time, an elaborate inquiry after the health of relatives began, until histories were exchanged and the two strangers knew who stood higher upon the social ladder. It was almost impossible that, after sufficient conversation, some tenuous relationship would not be discovered, allowing the grey warriors to be called to service.
Mara allowed Papewaio to offer his hand so she might step down from the wagon. Bandits gathered in knots around different soldiers, happy voices shouting out questions and answers as relationships were determined. Lujan shook his head in wonder and faced Mara, his eyes alight with poorly masked emotions. ‘My Lady, your ruse to capture us was masterful and … alone would have made me proud to serve you. This …’ His hand waved at the milling, excited men. ‘This is beyond understanding.’ Nearly overcome by his feelings, he turned away a moment, swallowed hard, then looked back at Mara, his face again a proper Tsurani mask, though his eyes were shining. ‘I do not know if … it is right, but I will take service gladly, and I will make Acoma honour mine. My life will be yours as you will, my Lady. And should my life be short, it will be a good life, to again wear house colour.’ He straightened, all trace of his rakishness put aside. He studied Mara for a long moment, his eyes locked with hers. The words he spoke then impressed her ever afterward with their sincerity. ‘I hope fate spares me death for many years, mistress, that I may stay near your side. For I think you play the Game of the Council.’ Then with a near loss of self-control, moisture gleamed in his eyes and his face split in a grin. ‘And I think the Empire will never be the same for it.’
Mara stood silent, while Lujan bowed and moved away to compare relations with the Acoma soldiers and find common kin, no matter how distant the tie. Then, with Keyoke’s permission, he sent runners to camp to call the rest of his following to the spring. The latecomers arrived in varying states of disbelief. But when they saw the Lady seated upon the thyza wagon as though she held court in the pillared shade of her estate hall, their scepticism lost impetus. Convinced in the end by the exuberance of comrades already sworn to Acoma service, they recited lists of cousins and in-laws until they, too, had regained the honour of house service.
Afternoon passed, the trees above the rim of the ravine striping the clearing with lengthened shadows. The heat lessened and the late breezes bore a woodsy scent, as the branches above the caravan rustled restlessly. Satisfied with the events of the day, Mara watched a flock of gaguin birds swoop down to feed upon insects blown along by the breeze. As they finished their meal and sped raucously off to the south, she realized how tired and hungry she was.
As though thinking in concert with her, Keyoke paused by Mara’s side. ‘Lady, we must leave directly if we are to reach your estate by nightfall.’
Mara nodded, longing now for soft cushions in place of rough bags of thyza. Weary as she was of the stares of hungry men, the privacy of her litter seemed suddenly inviting. Loudly enough for the men to hear, she called, ‘Let us be away, then, Force Commander. There are Acoma soldiers here who would like a bath, a hot meal, and rest in a barracks where the fog won’t dampen their blankets.’
Even Mara could not keep her eyes free of moisture at the shout of unalloyed joy that sprang from the lips of the bandits. Men who so recently had stood ready to fight against her now were eager to defend her. Silently the girl gave thanks to Lashima. This first victory had come easily; but against the strength of the Minwanabi, and the scheming cleverness of the Anasati, in the future her success would come with difficulty, if at all.
Jostled back against the cushions as her slaves raised her litter, Mara felt limp. She allowed herself a deep sigh of relief. All the doubt and fear suppressed through armed confrontation and negotiation with the bandits surfaced behind the privacy of her curtains. Until now she had not dared admit how frightened she had been. Her body quivered with unexpected chills. Aware that dampness would mar the fine silk of her gown, she sniffed and suppressed a maddening urge to weep. Lano had ridiculed her emotional outbursts as a child, teasing her about not being Tsurani – though women were not expected to hold themselves in check the way men did.
Remembering his laughing banter and the fact that she had never seen her father betray any uncertainty, any doubts or fears, she closed her eyes, immersing herself in an exercise to calm herself. The voice of the teaching sister who had schooled her at the temple of Lashima seemed to answer within her mind: learn the nature of self, accept all aspects of self, then the mastery can begin. Denial of self is denial of all.
Mara sniffed again. Now her nose dripped also. Pushing her sleeves out of harm’s way, she silently admitted the truth. She had been terrified, most so at the moment she had thought the bandits might be attacking her estates while she futilely searched the hills for them.
Again Mara scolded herself: this is not how a Ruling Lady acts! Then she understood the root of her feelings: she didn’t know how a Ruling Lady was expected to act. Lacking any schooling in governance, she was a temple girl thrust into the deadliest contest in the Empire.
Mara reviewed an early lesson from her father: doubts could only cripple one’s ability to act decisively; and in the Game of the Council, to hesitate was to die.
To avoid dwelling on weakness, Mara peered through a crack in the curtains at the newly recruited Acoma retainers. Despite soiled clothing, haggard faces, arms like sticks, and eyes of frightened animals, these men were soldiers, yet now Mara recognized a quality in them she had failed to see before: these outlaws, even the roguish Lujan, had been just as frightened as she. Mara found that perplexing, until she reconsidered the ambush from their perspective. Despite being outnumbered, the Acoma warriors were all battle-tested soldiers, properly armed and fit. Some of these grey warriors hadn’t seen a decent meal in a year. And their weapons were an odd assortment of discarded, stolen, or crudely fashioned swords and knives. Only a few had anything like a shield and none wore body armour. No, thought Mara, many of those sad, desperate men must have expected some of their unfortunate brotherhood to die this day. And each would have wondered if he’d be among that number.
The men marched unaware of their mistress’s observation. Their faces revealed a play of other emotions, among them hope and the fear of false hope. Mara sank back upon the cushions, absently focusing on the colourful design of the litter’s tapestry covering. How had she suddenly come to see all these things in these men’s faces? Could her fear have triggered some perceptiveness she had not understood within herself? Then, as if her brother, Lanokota, sat beside her, memory of his presence filled her mind. If she closed her eyes she could hear him whisper, ‘You are growing up, little sister.’
Suddenly Mara could no longer contain her tears. Now her weeping did not arise from sorrow but from a jubilant upwelling similar to the joy she had known when Lano had last won the summer games in Sulan-Qu. On that day Mara and her father had cheered like peasants from the stands, for a time unconcerned with the mores of social status and decorum; only now her emotions swept her tenfold more powerfully.
She had won. She had tasted her first victory in the Game of the Council, and the experience whetted her wits, left her yearning for something more and greater. For the first time in life she understood why the great Lords strove, and even died, for the chance to gain in honour.
Smiling through the