life-affirming behaviour. So, for days, Desio had remained drunk in his private quarters with his girls and ignored the affairs of House Minwanabi.
On the second morning some of the girls reappeared, bruised and battered from Desio’s passionate rages. Other girls replaced them in a seemingly inexhaustible succession, until the Lord of the Minwanabi had finally thrown off his fit of grief. He had emerged looking ten years older than at the moment he had silently watched his father fall upon the family sword.
Now Desio made a pretence of running the far-flung holdings he had inherited, but his drinking began at midday and continued into the night. Although Lord of one of the Five Great Families of the Empire, Desio seemed unable to acknowledge the enormous responsibility that went with his power. Tormented by personal demons, he tried to hide from them in soft arms or wash them away with a sea of wine. Had Incomo dared, he would have sent his master a healer, a priest, and a child’s teacher who would issue a stiff lecture on the responsibilities that accompanied the ruler’s mantle. But one look in Desio’s eyes – and the madness hinted there – warned the First Adviser any such efforts would be futile. Desio’s spirit boiled with a rage only the Red God might answer.
Incomo tried one last time to turn Desio’s attention back to business. ‘My Lord, if I may point out, we are losing days while our ships lie empty in their berths in Jamar. If they are to sail to –’
‘Enough!’ Desio’s fist crashed against a partition, tearing the delicate painted silk and splintering the frame. He kicked the wreckage to the floor, then whirled and collided with his fan slave. Enraged beyond reason, the Lord of the Minwanabi struck the man as if he were furniture. The slave crashed to his knees, a broken nose and lacerated lip spraying blood across his face, his chest, and the smashed partition. In fear for his very life, the slave managed to keep the large fan from striking his master, despite being half-blind from pain and tears. Desio remained oblivious to the slave’s heroic deference. He rounded to confront his adviser. ‘I cannot concentrate on anything, so long as she is out there!’
Incomo required no explanation to know to whom his master referred. Experience taught him there was nothing to do but sit back and endure another outburst. ‘My Lord,’ he said anxiously, ‘no good will be gained in yearning for vengeance should all your wealth dwindle through neglect. If you will not attend to these decisions, at least permit your hadonra to take matters in hand.’
The plea made no impression on Desio. Staring into the distance, his voice a harsh whisper, as if to speak the hated name were to give it substance, he whispered, ‘Mara of the Acoma must die!’
Glad now for the dark room, which hid his own fears, Incomo agreed. ‘Of course, my Lord. But this is not the time.’
‘When!’ he shouted, his bellow hurting Incomo’s ears. Desio kicked at a pillow, then lowered his voice to a more reasonable tone. ‘When? She contrived to escape my father’s trap; and more: she forced him to dishonour his own pledge for the safety of a guest, compelling him to kill himself in shame.’ Desio’s agitation simmered higher as he recounted Mara’s offences against his house. ‘This … girl has not merely defeated us, she has humbled – no, humiliated us!’ He stamped hard on the pillow and regarded his adviser with narrowed eyes.
The fan slave shrank from the expression, so like that of Jingu of the Minwanabi when roused to rage. Bleeding from nose and mouth, but still trying valiantly to cool his sweating master, he raised and lowered his fan in barely unbroken rhythm while Desio’s voice turned conspiratorial, a harsh whisper. ‘The Warlord looks upon her with amusement and affection, even favour – perhaps he beds the bitch – while our faces are pushed into needra slime. We eat needra droppings each day she draws breath!’ Desio’s scowl deepened. He stared at the tightly closed screens, and as if seeing them stirred a memory, a glint of sanity returned to his eyes for the first time since Jingu’s death. Incomo restrained a sigh of open relief.
‘And more again,’ Desio finished with the slow care a man might use in the presence of a coiled pusk adder. ‘She is now a real threat to my safety.’
Incomo nodded to himself. He knew that the root of Desio’s behaviour was fear. Jingu’s son lived each day in terror that Mara would continue the Acoma blood feud with the Minwanabi. Now Ruling Lord, Desio would be the next target of Mara’s plotting, his own life and honour the next to fall.
Although the stifling heat shortened his patience, Incomo attempted to console his master, for this admission, no matter how private between a Lord and his adviser, was the first step in overcoming that fear, and perhaps in conquering Lady Mara, as well. ‘Lord, the girl will make a mistake. You must bide your time; wait for that moment….’
The jade-fly returned to pester Desio; the slave moved his fan to intercept its flight, but Desio waved the feathers away. He glared through the gloom at Incomo. ‘No, I cannot wait. The Acoma cow already has the upper hand and she continues to grow stronger. My father’s position was more advantageous than my own; he stood but one step away from the Gold Throne of the Warlord! Now he is ashes, and I can count loyal allies on one hand. All our pain and humiliation can be placed at the feet of … that woman.’
This was sorrowfully true. Incomo understood his master’s reluctance to speak his enemy’s name. Barely more than a child when her father and brother died – with few soldiers and no allies – within three years Mara had secured more prestige for the Acoma than they had known in their long, honourable history. Incomo tried in vain to think of something soothing to say, but his young Lord’s complaints were all justified. Mara was to be feared, and now her position of power had increased to the point where she not only could protect herself, but could directly challenge the Minwanabi.
Softly the First Adviser said, ‘Recall Tasaio to your side.’
Desio blinked, momentarily looking stupid as his father never had. Then comprehension dawned. He glanced about the room and noticed the fan slave still at his post, despite the blood trickling from his broken nose and torn lip. In a moment of unexpected consideration, Desio dismissed the unfortunate wretch. Now alone with his adviser, he said, ‘Why should I call my cousin back from the war upon the barbarian world? You know he covets my position. Until I marry and sire children, he is next in succession. And he is too close to the Warlord for my taste. My father was wise to keep him busy with affairs upon a distant world.’
‘Your father was also wise enough to have your cousin arrange the Lord Sezu’s and Lanokota’s deaths in the first place.’ Hands tucked in his sleeves, Incomo stalked forward a step. ‘Why not let Tasaio deal with the girl? The father, the son, now the daughter.’
Desio considered. Tasaio had waited until the Warlord had been absent from the campaign upon the barbarian world to order Lord Sezu and his son into an impossible military situation. He had ensured their deaths without exposing the Minwanabi to any public culpability. It had been a brilliant stroke, and Desio’s father had ceded some desirable lands in Honshoni Province to Tasaio as reward. Tapping his cheek with a pudgy finger, Desio said, ‘I am uncertain. Tasaio might prove dangerous to me, perhaps as dangerous as … that girl.’
Incomo shook his head in disagreement. ‘Your cousin will defend Minwanabi honour. As Ruling Lord, you are not a target for Tasaio’s ambition, as you were when Lord Jingu was alive. It is one thing to seek a rival’s demise, quite another to attempt to overthrow one’s own lawful Lord.’ Incomo pondered a moment, then added, ‘Despite his ambitions, it is unthinkable Tasaio would break his oath to you. He would no more move against you than he would have against your father, Lord Desio.’ He stressed the last to drive home the point he wished to make.
Desio stood, ignoring the fly, which at last perched upon his collar. His eyes fixed on a point in space, and he sighed aloud. ‘Yes, of course. You are correct. I must recall Tasaio and have him swear fealty. Then he must defend me with his life, or forfeit Minwanabi honour forever.’
Incomo waited, aware his master had not finished. Sometimes clumsy with words, Desio still possessed a cunning mind, though he lacked his father’s instincts or his cousin’s brilliance. He crossed to the windows. ‘I shall include all other loyal