LITMIR.BIZ

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meeting with Keyoke extended deep into the night. The stars glinted like ice. Kelewan’s moon showed a notched, copper-gold profile at the zenith by the time the old warrior gathered up the helmet that rested by his knee. ‘My Lady, your plan is dangerously bold. But, as a man does not expect aggression from the gazen, it may work.’

      ‘It must work!’ Mara straightened in the darkness. ‘Else our pride will be much diminished. Asking security in exchange for marriage gains no honour, but only rewards those who plotted treachery against us. Our house would no longer be a major player in the Game of the Council, and the spirits of my ancestors would be unsettled. No, on this I think my father would say, “Safe is not always best.”’

      Keyoke buckled his helm with the care he might have used preparing for battle. ‘As my Lady wills. But I don’t envy the task of explaining what you propose to Nacoya.’ He bowed, rose, and strode to the outer screen.

      He slipped the catch and stepped out. Moonlight drenched the flower beds in gilt. Silhouetted against their brightness, the Force Commander’s shoulders seemed straighter, his carriage the slightest bit less strained. With relief, Mara perceived that Keyoke welcomed a warrior’s solution to Acoma troubles. He had agreed to risk her plan rather than see her bind the family through marriage to the mercy of a stronger house. She unlinked sweating fingers, afraid and exhilarated at the same time.

      ‘I’ll marry on my terms, or not at all,’ she murmured to the night. Then she lay back on her cushions. Sleep came reluctantly. Memories of Lano tangled with thoughts of young, boastful sons of great houses, one of whom she must eventually choose as suitor.

      Morning dawned hot. With a dry wind blowing from the south, moisture from the rainy season remained only in sheltered hollows, and the herders drove needra to pasture amid ochre clouds of dust. Mara broke her fast in the inner courtyard garden, beneath the generous shade of the trees. The trickle of water from an ornamental fountain soothed her where she sat, dressed in a high-collared robe of saffron. She seemed even younger than her seventeen years, her eyes too bright and her face shadowed with sleeplessness. Yet her voice, when she summoned Nacoya, was crisp with authority.

      The old nurse arrived grouchy, as was usual for her in the morning. Mara’s summons had reached her while dressing, for her hair was hastily bound back, and her lips pressed thin with annoyance. She bowed briskly and said, ‘As my mistress wishes?’

      The Lady of the Acoma gestured permission to sit. Nacoya declined; her knees pained her, and the hour was too early to argue with a headstrong girl whose stubbornness might lead the honour of her ancestors to ruin.

      Mara smiled sweetly at her former nurse. ‘Nacoya, I have reconsidered your advice and seen wisdom in marriage to thwart our enemies’ plots. I ask that you prepare me a list of suitors whom you consider eligible, for I shall need guidance to choose a proper mate. Go now. I shall speak with you on the matter in due time.’

      Nacoya blinked, obviously startled by this change of heart. Then her eyes narrowed. Surely such compliance masked some other intent, yet Tsurani ethics forbade a servant the right to question. Suspicious in the extreme, but unable to evade her dismissal, the old nurse bowed. ‘Your will, mistress, and may Lashima’s wisdom guide you.’

      She shuffled out, muttering under her breath. Mara sipped chocha, the image of the titled Lady. Then, after an appropriate interval, she called softly to her runner. ‘Send for Keyoke, Papewaio, and Jican.’

      The two warriors arrived before her cup was empty, Keyoke in his battle armour, resplendently polished; Papewaio also was armed for action, the black headband of the condemned tied as neatly as the sash from which hung his sword. As Nacoya had guessed, he carried himself like a man awarded an honour token for bravery. His expression was otherwise unchanged. In her entire life there were few things as constant as Papewaio, thought Mara.

      She nodded to the servant with the chocha pot, and this time Pape accepted a mug of the steaming drink.

      Keyoke sipped his chocha without removing his helm, sure sign he was pondering strategy. ‘All is ready, mistress. Pape oversaw dispensation of weapons and armour, and Strike Leader Tasido oversees the drill. So long as no fighting occurs, your warriors should give a convincing appearance.’

      ‘Well enough.’ Too nervous to finish her chocha, Mara laid sweating hands in her lap. ‘All we need now is Jican, that the bait may be prepared.’

      The hadonra reached the garden at that moment. He bowed, breathless and sweating, as he had come in haste. His clothing was dusty, and he still carried the needra tally he had been marking as the herds were driven to pasture. ‘My apologies, mistress, for my soiled appearance. By your own command, the herders and slaves –’

      ‘I know, Jican,’ Mara cut in. ‘Your honour is no less, and your devotion to duty is admirable. Now, have we crops and goods in the store sheds to mount a trading caravan?’

      Startled by the praise and a wholly unexpected shift of topic, the hadonra squared his shoulders. ‘We have six wagonloads of thyza of poor quality that were held back to fatten the needra, though the ones not bearing can do well enough without. The last calves were weaned two days ago. We have some hides suitable to be sold to the harness makers.’ Jican shifted his weight, careful to hide his puzzlement. ‘The caravan would be very small. Neither the grain nor the goods would realize significant profit.’ He bowed deferentially. ‘My mistress would do better to wait until the marketable produce comes in season.’

      Mara ignored the suggestion. ‘I want a small caravan prepared.’

      ‘Yes, mistress.’ The hadonra’s fingers whitened on the edge of the tally slate. ‘I shall send word to our agent in Sulan-Qu –’

      ‘No, Jican.’ Turning brusquely, Mara rose and crossed to the rim of the fountain. She extended her hand, letting water spill like jewels through her fingers. ‘I wish this caravan to travel to Holan-Qu.’

      Jican directed a startled glance at Keyoke, but saw no hint of disapproval on the Force Commander’s lined face. Nervous, nearly pleading, he urged, ‘Mistress, I obey your desire, but your goods should still be sent to Sulan-Qu, then downriver and on from Jamar by ship.’

      ‘No.’ Droplets dashed across marble tile as Mara closed her fist. ‘I wish the wagons to travel overland.’

      Again Jican glanced at Keyoke; but the Force Commander and his bodyguard stood like sun-cured ulo wood, facing correctly forward. Struggling to master his agitation, the hadonra of the Acoma appealed to his mistress. ‘Lady, the mountain road is dangerous. Bandits lurk in the woods in good number, and we lack enough warriors to drive them out. To guard such a caravan would leave this estate unprotected. I must advise against it.’

      With a girlish smile, Mara swung away from the fountain. ‘But the caravan shall not strip our defences. Papewaio will head a company of hand-picked men. A dozen of our better soldiers should be sufficient to keep the bandits away. They’ve raided our herds and will not need food, and wagons without large numbers of guards obviously carry goods of little value.’

      Jican bowed, his narrow face immobile. ‘Then we would be wise to send no guards at all.’ His manner concealed sharp disbelief; he dared the dishonour of his mistress’s displeasure to dissuade her from folly.

      ‘No.’ Mara wrapped dripping fingers in the rich folds of her robe. ‘I require an honour guard.’

      Jican’s face twisted with shock that vanished almost instantly. That his mistress intended to go along on this venture indicated that sorrow had stripped her of wits.

      ‘Go now, Jican,’ said Mara. ‘Attend to my commands.’

      The hadonra peered sideways at Keyoke, as if certain the Lady’s demand would provoke protest. But the old Force Commander only shrugged slightly, as if to say, what is to be done?

      Jican lingered, though honour forbade him to object. A stern look from Mara restored his humility. He bowed swiftly and departed, his shoulders drooping. Yesterday the Lady of the Acoma had deemed his judgement worthy of praise;

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