he murmured by way of apology. ‘Your house has all our gratitude.’ Then he turned the charge of his Lady over to the feminine wisdom of the Xacatecas dowager.
‘She has not gone mad,’ Lady Isashani answered, her fine hand closing over Mara’s in comfort. ‘Sleep and quiet will restore her, and time will heal her grief. You must be patient.’ Then, back to the hardcore immediacy of politics, she added, ‘I have set my two advisers to waylay the Omechan and the Inrodaka. My honor guard, under Hoppara, will find ways to interpose themselves where they will most hamper other troublemongers.’
Two fewer enemies to concern them; Hokanu tossed back a harried nod. Mara had staunch friends against the vicious factions who sought to pull her down. She was beloved by many in these nations. It tore his heart not to be able to stay at her side when she was in such a terrible state. He forced his gaze away from the small cortege that formed to convey his distraught Lady to the comfort of the estate house. To let his heart rule him at this time was fool’s play. He must harden himself, as if he stood on the brink of deadly combat. There were enemies in plenty who had attended Ayaki’s last rites precisely to grab advantage from an opportunity like this. Mara’s insult to Jiro was by now past forgiveness. Bloodshed would result – that was a foregone conclusion – but only a fool would initiate an assault in the heart of Mara’s estate, with her army gathered to pay honor to Ayaki. Once beyond the borders of the Acoma lands, Mara’s enemies would start their mischief.
Hokanu moved now in an attempt to stave off immediate war. The Acoma stood to be ruined if he misstepped; not only that, but the warriors and resources of the Shinzawai might be sucked into gainless strife also. All that had been won in the past three years to secure centralised rule for the Emperor might be thrown away at a stroke.
Council must be called, to see what could be done to stave off more widespread disaster. Those Lords who held allegiance to neither Mara nor Jiro would have to be wooed, cajoled, or threatened, so that those openly opposed to her would think twice before challenging the Good Servant.
‘Lujan,’ Hokanu called over the rising tumult to the Acoma Force Commander, ‘arm the garrison, and call up the most level-headed of your officers. No matter what the provocation, at all costs set your patrols to keep the peace.’
The high green plumes of the officer’s helm bobbed acknowledgment over the chaos. Hokanu spared a moment for thanks to the gods that Mara had chosen her staff for intelligence and sense. Cool heads were their only hope of extricating House Acoma from devastation.
Saddened by this turn of affairs, Hokanu directed the honor guard to march back to the estate house. Had Mara been less herself, and more the pliant wife that so many Empire women became as a result of their traditional upbringing, she would never have been strong enough to have attended a full state funeral for a son cut down by assassins. As Ruling Lady, and Servant of the Empire, she was too much in the public eye, denied even the human frailties that any lesser mother might be forgiven.
Caught up in the heated core of intrigues, Lady Mara was forced into a role that made her a target.
A frantic hour later, Mara lay on her sleeping mat, stupefied by potions administered by the priest of Hantukama, who had appeared as if by magic to offer his skills. Isashani had the household well in hand, and the short hadonra, Jican, was as busy as three men, quelling wild rumors among the servants.
Hokanu found himself alone to deal with the decisions that must be made in behalf of House Acoma. He listened to the reports of the Acoma retainers. He took notes for Mara to review, when she was restored and capable. He marked which guests stood by her, and which were outspoken against her. Most had the dignity to stay silent, or else they were too shocked to frame any hostile response. All had expected to spend the day in quiet contemplation, then to be hosted by the Servant of the Empire at a formal evening meal. Instead, they were already returning home, appalled by an unforgivable act authored by a woman who held the highest office in the land, short of the Emperor’s throne. More than one delegate of great houses had stopped by, ostensibly to pay their respects, but except for the Lord of the Keda, Hokanu had murmured empty thanks to men eager to catch any hint that House Acoma stood weakened. Lord Hoppara and the Lords of Clan Hadama were doing a fine job of moving through the crowds of departing guests, toning down the damage of Mara’s act against the Anasati by whatever expedient they could find. Many who were all too ready to be outraged by the breach of protocol became more inclined to overlook a grieving mother’s outburst after one of the Hadama Lords or Lord Hoppara had finished speaking to them.
Another noble frustrated in his attempts to reach the inner apartments had been the Lord of the Anasati. Jiro had stiffly insisted that the insult to his person was irreparable. A pack of supporters had clustered at his heels as he was turned away from Mara’s door. They had found a common rallying point, and even those who had counted Mara a friend would be hard pressed to ignore a personal attack; for an enemy, it was impossible. In Tsurani culture, forgiveness was simply a less shameful form of weakness than capitulation. All in the course of seconds, the Lady had changed political opponents into allies of deadly enemies.
Jiro had not sued for public apology; indeed, he had surrounded himself with Lords whose disgruntlement with Ichindar’s reformed powers of rule was most vociferous. Saric and Incomo shared the conclusion that the Anasati Lord was deliberately discouraging conciliatory overtures, choosing to place blame for the scandal squarely upon the Acoma. Jiro’s loud complaints reached any who hovered within earshot: that he had come to his nephew’s funeral under what was understood as a traditional truce by all who attended, and had endured physical attack, humiliation at the hands of his host, and public accusation. As much as any ruler understood or sympathised with the source of Mara’s irrational act, none could deny that deadly insult had been given, with no atonement offered. Any attempt to deflect the accusation by pointing out Mara’s present inability to offer a rational apology was ignored by the Anasati.
The hall of the Acoma had grown stifling, its screens drawn closed against the prying eyes of the curious, its doors guarded by the scarred veterans of past wars. These men did not wear the brightly lacquered ceremonial armor but field trappings well tested by previous engagements. Sitting upon a lower, less formal dais that was deserted in Mara’s absence, Hokanu quietly requested opinions on the day’s events.
That the closest, most loyal Acoma officers chose to respond to a consort who was not their sworn house Lord showed their immeasurable regard for Hokanu’s judgment. If the honor of these men’s vows was not his to command, they awarded him their absolute trust to act as needed in their mistress’s behalf. Touched as he was by their devotion, he was also disturbed, for it signified how deeply they understood Mara’s peril. Hokanu prayed that he was up to the task.
He listened in grave stillness as Force Leader Irrilandi and Keyoke, Adviser for War, reviewed the strength of the garrison, even as Force Commander Lujan readied the Acoma forces for battle. As if in emphasis, old Keyoke thumped his crutch against the stump of his lost leg. ‘Even if Jiro knows he will be defeated, he has no choice: honor requires he answer public insult with bloodshed. I doubt he will settle for a contest of champions. Worse, if Mara’s cries of accusation were heard by any beyond those close by, her implication that Jiro hired the Hamoi Tong to kill Ayaki could be taken as an insult to the Ionani that can only end in a Call to Clan.’
Absolute stillness followed this statement, making the footfalls of rushing servants echo through the hall. Several of those at the table turned to listen to the calls of house officers, gathering their masters’ families into personal litters for a quick departure, and a few looked at one another and shared a common understanding: a Clan War would rip the Empire asunder.
Into the face of such grim musing, Saric ventured, ‘But who could take such a concept seriously? No tong dares reveal their employers, and what evidence we found to link the Anasati to the attack is hardly compelling, given the Hamoi Brotherhood’s clandestine practices. I’m more inclined to suspect it’s an intentional false trail.’
Incomo nodded, wagging a crooked finger. ‘The evidence of Jiro’s hand in Ayaki’s death is too neat. No tong survives to win itself wealthy clients by being this imprudent. And the Hamoi