her silken hem, and her hands tightened into fists. ‘I know some ladies keep handsome men as litter bearers, so that more … personal needs can be satisfied at whim, but I am … uninterested in such diversion.’ Even to herself, Mara sounded unconvincing.
Irritated by the urge to discuss what should have needed no denial, Mara closed the topic with an imperious gesture. ‘Now, send for servants to remove these plates and cups. I will see my advisers, and Arakasi will relate his report on Lord Desio of the Minwanabi.’
Nacoya bowed, but as a house servant arrived and began clearing the table for the meeting, the old First Adviser watched closely. A wistful smile came and went on Mara’s lips. Shrewdly intuitive, Nacoya knew Mara did not contemplate the coming meeting, but, rather, the bronzed and redhaired barbarian who had whiled away an entire afternoon with talk. The sparkle in Mara’s eyes, and the half-excited, half-frightened clenching of hands betrayed the Lady. Fears of pain and humiliation – memories of a brutal and insensitive husband – warred with new desire. Nacoya might be old, but she remembered younger passions; twenty years ago she might have given serious thought to having the slave brought to her own sleeping room. Aware of Kevin’s attractions, and foreseeing trouble, the former nurse sighed silently. Mara had proved herself a clever player of the Game of the Council; but she had yet to understand the most basic things about relations between a man and a woman. Already under siege, she lacked instinct to know an attack from that quarter was even possible.
Fighting tears of concern, the former nurse composed herself for the forthcoming meeting. If Mara was to have her world turned over by an unexpected passion, she had chosen the worst possible time to have it happen.
Horns sounded.
A thunder of drums joined in as the assembled crowd knelt, bowed, then sat back upon their heels in the ancient Tsurani position of attention. Arranged according to rank, but clothed in no other finery than white robes tied with an orange-and-black sash, they awaited the arrival of the new Lord of the Minwanabi.
The Minwanabi great hall was unique in all the Empire; some ancient Lord had employed a genius for an architect, an artist of unsurpassed brilliance. No visitor to the house of Desio’s ancestors could fail to be awed by the engineering, which couched a supreme comfort within what amounted to a fortress.
The hillside chosen for the estate house had been hollowed out, the upper third pierced with arches that were left open to the sky, admitting light and air. Screens designed to protect against inclement weather were presently drawn back, and the entire hall lay awash in noonday sunlight. The lower portion of the hall was cut into the mountain. Its central chamber measured a full three hundred paces from the single entrance across a richly patterned floor to the dais. There, upon a throne of carved agate, Desio would receive fealty offered by the retainers and vassals summoned to do him homage.
Minwanabi guards in ceremonial armour stood at attention, their black lacquered helms and officers’ orange plumes a smart double line in the gallery overlooking the main floor. The musicians by the entry completed their fanfare, then lowered their horns and drums. Silence fell.
A piercing note cut the air. A door slid open to one side, and a priest of Turakamu, the Red God of Death, spun on light feet into the hall. The bone whistle between his lips was a relic preserved from the ancient days. A feathered cape fell to elbow length, and his nude body was painted red upon black, so he looked like a blood-drenched skeleton as he danced in praise of his divine master. He wore his hair slicked to his scalp with heavy grease, the ends plaited in two braids tied with cords from which dangled bleached infant skulls.
The priest circled three times around the dais, joined by four acolytes, each in red robe and skull mask. Their appearance caused a stir through the assembly. Many in the hall made surreptitious gestures to ward off ill luck, for to encounter the Death God’s minions was unpleasant at the best of times. The whistles shrilled, and the skulls clacked in time to the head priest’s step. His dance grew faster, and the acolytes initiated a series of gyrations and leaps that described the throes of human suffering, the Death God’s ultimate power, and the punishment meted out to mortals who displeased him.
Now a muttering disturbed the hall as Desio’s guests asked in whispers why Red Priests should be chosen to invoke a blood ritual at this gathering. Normally the priests of Chochocan, the Good God, or in rare cases the priests of Juran the Just would be asked to bless a new Lord’s reign, but a Death Priest was a rare and unsettling presence.
The dancers spun to a standstill and the whistles ceased. The chief priest advanced on soundless feet and mounted the dais. He removed a scarlet dagger from a pocket inside his cape and, with a high, keening yell, severed his left braid. This he hung upon the corresponding arm of the new Lord’s throne. Then he touched his forehead to the chairback, and cut his right braid. The tiny skull at the end clicked ominously against agate carvings. When this talisman had been affixed to the right arm of the great chair, none present were left in doubt. The Red God’s priests did not cut their hair except in expectation of great sacrifice to their divine master. Desio of the Minwanabi was pledging his house to violent undertakings.
Uneasy quiet reigned as Desio’s honour guard made their entrance. The customary twelve warriors were led by Force Commander Irrilandi and First Adviser Incomo. Last came the new Lord, resplendent in a plumed overrobe of orange trimmed in black, his dark hair tied back.
Incomo reached the dais, turned, and sank to his knees at his master’s right hand. He watched critically as his Lord completed the steps to his seat of power. Desio was holding up well, despite the heat and the unaccustomed weight of the armour beneath his finery. As a boy, Jingu’s heir had lacked any skill at warcraft. His efforts in the practice yard had earned only silent scorn from his instructors. When old enough for active service, he had marched with a few patrols in safe areas, but when the officers in command had politely complained about his ineptness, the boy had gratefully become a permanent fixture in his father’s court. Desio inherited the worst attributes of his sire and grandsire, Incomo judged. It would be a miracle for the Minwanabi to prosper under his rule, even should the Acoma pose no threat.
Studying the assembled crowd, Incomo’s attention was caught by a striking figure in the first row of guests. Tasaio wore Minwanabi armour like a warrior born. He was perhaps the most able family member in three generations. Bored with the ceremony, Incomo considered what it would be like to serve under a clever-minded ruler such as Tasaio. Then the First Adviser banished such fanciful thoughts. In a moment he would swear to obey Desio in all things.
The new Lord managed to seat himself upon his great chair without mishap, for which Incomo was thankful. Clumsiness at this time would be inauspicious, an omen that the gods’ disfavour had fallen upon the Minwanabi. Anxious sweat dampened the First Adviser’s brow as he endured the time-honoured formalities before Desio arose to speak. The young Lord of the Minwanabi began in a voice surprisingly strong in the silent hall.
‘I welcome you,’ Desio intoned, ‘my family, my allies, and friends. Those who served my father are doubly welcome, for your loyalty to him in the past and to myself in the future.’
Incomo drew a relieved breath, his immediate worries assuaged. His young charge went pompously on to thank the attending priests; then he waved his florid hands as his words became more passionate. Convinced of his own importance, Desio called attention to his more prominent guests. Incomo was trying to look attentive, but his mind became increasingly preoccupied: What move would the Lady of the Acoma make next?
How had a girl turned Jingu’s plans for her murder to her own ends? As many times as Incomo reviewed the events of that cursed day, he could not determine what had reversed things to bring about such a tragic pass.
One thing he knew: the Minwanabi had relied too heavily upon a hired courtesan as agent. She had a reputation as thoroughly professional, yet at the last she had failed to carry out her duty. The result had cost the beautiful woman her life. Incomo vowed never again to depend upon one not sworn to Minwanabi service.