into Dustari to have a fair chance against the army Xacatecas and Acoma will send against the nomads. All through the summer, Mara must wonder what our crucial move will be. She will lie awake at night and sweat in the darkness, and send out informants, and learn nothing. Are we trying to strangle her grain markets? she will ask. Will we insinuate ourselves between her and potential allies in the council? Might we raid outlying warehouses when her finances are vulnerable? Let her conceive of a thousand possibilities and agonize over each and every one.’
Tasaio sat forward, his amber eyes afire. ‘Then, after harvest, when she has exhausted herself with worry and taxed her useless spies to their limits, we strike.’ Fast as a sword stroke, the Minwanabi cousin clapped his hands. ‘Keyoke dies, along with a company of Mara’s best soldiers – perhaps her First Strike Leader, Lujan, falls as well. The Acoma household is left without military cohesion, and whatever surviving officer the Lady promotes to wear plumes must assume a post for which he is unpractised. Troops that have served under the same commander for thirty years cannot help but become disrupted.’ As he looked directly at Desio, Tasaio’s manner embodied confidence. ‘Now, cousin, suppose we further the Acoma’s disarray? Suppose that the summons to Dustari arrives from the High Council before Keyoke’s ashes have a chance to grow cold?’
Desio’s eyes lit. Though the plan was as familiar to him as a prayer, the repetition swept away his doubts; his anger dissolved, and as Incomo observed his master, he saw the wisdom of Tasaio’s manipulation. When Desio doubted, he became unstable, a danger to his house, as he acted on impulse. The oath sworn to the Red God at the young Lord’s investiture might have brought such a disaster. But like a master tactician, Tasaio would turn the blunder into victory. Not for the first time, Incomo wondered why the gods had not switched fathers of the two cousins, that the truly brilliant man might wear the Lord’s mantle instead of the one who at best was merely competent.
Desio heaved his bulk straight on his cushions and released a deep-chested chuckle. The sound gained force, until the young Lord rocked with laughter. ‘My cousin, you are brilliant,’ he gasped between paroxysms, ‘brilliant.’
Tasaio inclined his head. ‘All for your honour, my Lord, and for the triumph of the Minwanabi.’
Summer came, and the Acoma silk samples disrupted all of the southern trading districts’ markets. The factors for the northern guilds were taken entirely by surprise. No longer could they market their lesser-quality goods for premium prices in the south. The auctions were an Acoma triumph, and the talk of every clan gathering the breadth of the Tsurani Empire. Supplied with enough orders to busy the cho-ja for five years, Jican had to restrain himself to keep from dancing in his mistress’s presence. At one stroke, the Acoma’s monetary position had gone from critically overdrawn to abundant. From a well-to-do house without much liquidity, the Acoma had become among the wealthiest in the central Empire, with enough cash reserves to narrow any threat posed by enemies.
Mara smiled at her hadonra’s elation. This victory upon the silk market had been a long time in the planning, but she was given no time to appreciate her hard-won fortune. Just one hour after word arrived from the auctions, another messenger delivered fresh news. Her southern neighbour, Jidu of the Tuscalora, presented himself, asking audience, presumably to beg for Acoma vassalage to save his house from irremediable debt.
This touched off a flurry of activity. The Acoma senior advisers all gathered with Mara to meet Lord Jidu in the great hall. An honour guard in ceremonial armour stood arrayed behind her dais. With Nacoya on her right hand, and Keyoke and Lujan on her left, the Lady observed the proper forms as the fat Lord – splendid in pale blue robes and clouds of expensive perfumes – presented his appeal. Once Mara’s Tsurani soul would have revelled in the sight of an antagonist brought to his knees before her, particularly since Jidu had tried to bully her as if she were an importunate girl after her husband’s death. Though she and her honour guard had suffered an attack at this neighbour’s command, and she had come close to being killed, the humbling of a man twice her age had lost all sense of triumph. Perhaps Mara had matured in the past year; certainly the exposure to Kevin’s alien concepts had changed her.
Where once she would have seen only glory gained for the Acoma, now she could not escape noticing the hatred in Lord Jidu’s pouched eyes as he paid her obeisance. She could not block her ears to his overtones of anger, nor entirely absolve herself from his self-made burden of shame. With stiff shoulders, and eyes that sparkled with frustration too private for expression, Lord Jidu admitted his dependence upon Acoma good grace.
Almost, Mara found herself wishing she could turn this event to another ending: allow Jidu to redeem his honour through Acoma generosity, and gain his gratitude and willing alliance. As Jidu ground out his last sentence, she was haunted by Kevin’s accusation on the last morning she had seen him: ‘Are all Tsurani nobles born cruel?’
And yet leniency where Lord Jidu was concerned was a dangerous indulgence. In the machinations of the Great Game, mercy could be dispensed only by the unassailably strong; in the small or the weak, it was considered weakness. The ruler of the Tuscalora might be lax in matters of finance, but he had strong warriors and a gift for strategy on the field. Given his penchant for gross overspending, his loyalty could all too easily be bought by an enemy, and Mara dared not leave such a threat unattended on her southern border. As her vassal, Jidu could make no alliances without Acoma sanction. The honour of his house would be entrusted to Mara’s hands, and those of Mara’s heirs, for the span of Lord Jidu’s living days. Her sovereignty would become such that he could not fall upon his sword without her leave to die.
‘You drive hard and dangerous bargains, Lady Mara,’ the Lord of the Tuscalora warned. Should the Tuscalora effectively be reduced to a pawn for Acoma ambitions, his clan and fellow members of the Yellow Serpent Party would be less willing to treat with her because of Acoma domination over one of their own.
‘The Great Game is a dangerous undertaking,’ Mara replied. Her words were not empty platitude; Arakasi kept her informed of politics afield. If clan or party action brewed up against her family, she would hear well in advance of the fact. Her heart might be divided, concerning Jidu, but her options stayed unequivocally clear. ‘I choose to take your oath, Lord Jidu.’
The ruler of the Tuscalora bowed his head. Pearl ornaments chinked on his clothing as he knelt in submission, to recite the formal words. Mara signalled, and Lujan stepped from the ranks, the rare metal sword of her ancestors in his hands. As the Acoma Strike Leader poised the shining blade over Jidu’s bent neck, the Lord swore his oath of vassalage, his voice hard and deep with pent-up hatred, and his fists clenched helplessly in rage. He ended the last phrase and arose. ‘Mistress.’ He pronounced the word as if he tasted poison. ‘I ask your leave to withdraw.’
On impulse, Mara withheld her consent. While Lord Jidu flushed red, and her honour guard went from ready to tensely nervous, she weighed her need for control against her wish to ease this man’s humiliation. ‘A moment, Jidu,’ she said finally. As he looked up, suspicious, Mara strove to impart understanding. ‘The Acoma need allies, not slaves. Give up your resentment over my victory, and willingly join with me, and both of our families will benefit.’ She sat back upon her seat, speaking as if to a trusted friend. ‘Lord Jidu, my enemies would not treat you so gently. The Lord of the Minwanabi demands Tan-jin-qu of his vassals.’ The word she used was ancient, describing an absolute vassalage that granted the overlord powers of life and death over the members of a subservient household. Under Tan-jin-qu, not only would Jidu become Mara’s vassal, he would be her virtual slave. ‘Bruli of the Kehotara refused to continue that abject service to the Minwanabi when he inherited his office, and as a result, Desio withholds many of the protections the Kehotara have known for years. Bruli suffers because he wishes the appearance of independence. I do not shame you by demanding the lives of all your subjects, Jidu.’
The stout Lord conceded this point with a curt nod, but his anger and humiliation did not lessen. His was not an enviable position, to be at the mercy of a woman he had once tried to kill. Yet something in Mara’s sincerity caused him to listen.
‘I will establish policies that benefit both our houses,’ Mara decreed, ‘but the daily affairs of your estates remain yours to oversee. Profits from your chocha-la