been defiled. When all is returned to order, send word to the priests of Chochocan to come and reconsecrate the grove.’
Though all watched with unsettled eyes, Mara turned her back. Nacoya roused first. With a sharp click of her tongue, she escorted her young mistress into the cool quiet of the house. Papewaio and Keyoke looked on with troubled thoughts, while the gardener hurried off to obey his mistress’s commands.
The two assistant gardeners coiled the ropes, exchanging glances. The ill luck of the Acoma had not ended with the father and the son, so it seemed. Mara’s reign as Lady of the Acoma might indeed prove brief, for her enemies would not rest while she learned the complex subtleties of the Game of the Council. Still, the assistant gardeners seemed to silently agree, such matters were in the hands of the gods, and the humble in life were always carried along in the currents of the mighty as they rose and fell. None could say such a fate was cruel or unjust. It simply was.
The moment the Lady of the Acoma reached the solitude of her quarters, Nacoya took charge. She directed servants who bustled with subdued efficiency to make their mistress comfortable. They prepared a scented bath while Mara rested on cushions, absently fingering the finely embroidered shatra birds that symbolized her house. One who did not know her would have thought her stillness the result of trauma and grief; but Nacoya observed the focused intensity of the girl’s dark eyes and was not fooled. Tense, angry, and determined, Mara already strove to assess the far-reaching political implications of the attack upon her person. She endured the ministrations of her maids without her usual restlessness, silent while the servants bathed her and dressed her wounds. A compress of herbs was bound around her bruised and lacerated right hand. Nacoya hovered anxiously by while Mara received a vigorous rub by two elderly women who had ministered to Lord Sezu in the same manner. Their old fingers were surprisingly strong; knots of muscular tension were sought out and gradually kneaded away. Afterwards, clothed in clean robes, Mara still felt tired, but the attentions of the old women had eased away nervous exhaustion.
Nacoya brought chocha, steaming in a fine porcelain cup. Mara sat before a low stone table and sipped the bitter drink, wincing slightly as the liquid aggravated her bruised throat. In the grove she had been too shocked by the attack to feel much beyond a short burst of panic and fear. Now she was surprised to discover herself too wrung out to register any sort of reaction. The slanting light of afternoon brightened the paper screens over the windows, as it had throughout her girlhood. Far off, she could hear the whistles of the herdsmen in the needra meadows, and near at hand, Jican’s voice reprimanding a house slave for clumsiness. Mara closed her eyes, almost able to imagine the soft scratch of the quill pen her father had used to draft instructions to distant subordinates; but Minwanabi treachery had ended such memories forever. Reluctantly Mara acknowledged the staid presence of Nacoya.
The old nurse seated herself on the other side of the table. Her movements were slow, her features careworn. The delicate seashell ornaments that pinned her braided hair were fastened slightly crooked, as reaching upwards to fix the pin correctly became more difficult with age. Although only a servant, Nacoya was well versed in the arts and subtlety of the Game of the Council. She had served at the right hand of Lord Sezu’s lady for years, then raised his daughter after the wife’s death in childbirth. The old nurse had been like a mother to Mara. Sharply aware that the old nurse was waiting for some comment, the girl said, ‘I have made some grave errors, Nacoya.’
The nurse returned a curt nod. ‘Yes, child. Had you granted time for preparation, the gardener would have inspected the grove immediately before you entered. He might have discovered the assassin, or been killed, but his disappearance would have alerted Keyoke, who could have had warriors surround the glade. The assassin would have been forced to come out or starve to death. Had the Hamoi murderer fled the gardener’s approach and been lurking outside, your soldiers would have found his hiding place.’ The nurse’s hands tightened in her lap, and her tone turned harsh. ‘Indeed, your enemy expected you to make mistakes … as you did.’
Mara accepted the reproof, her eyes following the lazy curls of steam that rose from her cup of chocha. ‘But the one who sent the killer erred as much as I.’
‘True.’ Nacoya squinted, forcing farsighted vision to focus more clearly upon her mistress. ‘He chose to deal the Acoma a triple dishonour by killing you in your family’s sacred grove, and not honourably with the blade, but by strangulation, as if you were a criminal or slave to die in shame!’
Mara said, ‘But as a woman –’
‘You are Ruling Lady,’ snapped Nacoya. Lacquered bracelets clashed as she thumped fists on her knee in a timeworn gesture of disapproval. ‘From the moment you assumed supremacy in this house, child, you became as a man, with every right and privilege of rulership. You wield the powers your father did as Lord of the Acoma. And for this reason, your death by the strangler’s cord would have visited as much shame on your family as if your father or brother had died in such fashion.’
Mara bit her lip, nodded, and dared another sip of her chocha. ‘The third shame?’
‘The Hamoi dog certainly intended to steal the Acoma natami, forever ending your family’s name. Without clan or honour, your soldiers would have become grey warriors, outcasts living in the wilds. All of your servants would have finished their lives as slaves.’ Nacoya ended in bitterness. ‘Our Lord of the Minwanabi is arrogant.’
Mara placed her chocha cup neatly in the centre of the table. ‘So you think Jingu responsible?’
‘The man is drunk with his own power. He stands second only to the Warlord in the High Council now. Should fate remove Almecho from his throne of white and gold, a Minwanabi successor would assuredly follow. The only other enemy of your father’s who would wish your ruin is the Lord of the Anasati. But he is far too clever to attempt such a shameful assault – so badly done. Had he sent the Hamoi murderer, his instructions would have been simple: your death by any means. A poison dart would have struck from hiding, or a quick blade between the ribs, then quickly away to carry word of your certain death.’
Nacoya nodded with finality, as if discussion had confirmed her convictions. ‘No, our Lord of the Minwanabi may be the most powerful man in the High Council, but he is like an enraged harulth, smashing down trees to trample a gazen.’ She raised spread fingers, framing the size of the timid little animal she had named. ‘He inherited his position from a powerful father, and he has strong allies. The Lord of the Minwanabi is cunning, not intelligent.
‘The Lord of the Anasati is both cunning and intelligent, one to be feared.’ Nacoya made a weaving motion with her hand. ‘He slithers like the relli in the swamp, silent, stealthy, and he strikes without warning. This murder was marked as if the Minwanabi lord had handed the assassin a warrant for your death with his own family chop affixed to the bottom.’ Nacoya’s eyes narrowed in thought. ‘That he knows you’re back this quickly speaks well of his spies. We assumed he would not find out you were Ruling Lady for a few more days. For the Hamoi to have been sent so soon shows he knew you had not taken your vows from the instant Keyoke led you from the temple.’ She shook her head in self-reproach. ‘We should have assumed as much.’
Mara considered Nacoya’s counsel, while her cup of chocha cooled slowly on the table. Aware of her new responsibilities as never before, she accepted that unpleasant subjects could no longer be put off. Though dark hair curled girlishly around her cheeks, and the robe with its ornate collar seemed too big for her, she straightened with the resolve of a ruler. ‘I may seem like a gazen to the Lord of the Minwanabi, but now he has taught this eater of flowers to grow teeth for meat. Send for Keyoke and Papewaio.’
Her command roused the runner, a small, sandal-clad slave boy chosen for his fleetness; he sprang from his post by her doorway to carry word. The warriors arrived with little delay; both had anticipated her summons. Keyoke wore his ceremonial helm, the feather plumes denoting his office brushing the lintel of the doorway as he entered. Bare-headed, but nearly as tall, Papewaio followed his commander inside. He moved with the same grace and strength that had enabled him to strike down a killer only hours before; his manner betrayed not a single hint of concern over his unresolved fate. Struck by his proud carriage, and his more than usually impassive face, Mara felt the judgment