to travel to Holan-Qu.’
Jican directed a startled glance at Keyoke, but saw no hint of disapproval on the Force Commander’s lined face. Nervous, nearly pleading, he urged, ‘Mistress, I obey your desire, but your goods should still be sent to Sulan-Qu, then downriver and on from Jamar by ship.’
‘No.’ Droplets dashed across marble tile as Mara closed her fist. ‘I wish the wagons to travel overland.’
Again Jican glanced at Keyoke; but the Force Commander and his bodyguard stood like sun-cured ulo wood, facing correctly forward. Struggling to master his agitation, the hadonra of the Acoma appealed to his mistress. ‘Lady, the mountain road is dangerous. Bandits lurk in the woods in good number, and we lack enough warriors to drive them out. To guard such a caravan would leave this estate unprotected. I must advise against it.’
With a girlish smile, Mara swung away from the fountain. ‘But the caravan shall not strip our defences. Papewaio will head a company of hand-picked men. A dozen of our better soldiers should be sufficient to keep the bandits away. They’ve raided our herds and will not need food, and wagons without large numbers of guards obviously carry goods of little value.’
Jican bowed, his narrow face immobile. ‘Then we would be wise to send no guards at all.’ His manner concealed sharp disbelief; he dared the dishonour of his mistress’s displeasure to dissuade her from folly.
‘No.’ Mara wrapped dripping fingers in the rich folds of her robe. ‘I require an honour guard.’
Jican’s face twisted with shock that vanished almost instantly. That his mistress intended to go along on this venture indicated that sorrow had stripped her of wits.
‘Go now, Jican,’ said Mara. ‘Attend to my commands.’
The hadonra peered sideways at Keyoke, as if certain the Lady’s demand would provoke protest. But the old Force Commander only shrugged slightly, as if to say, what is to be done?
Jican lingered, though honour forbade him to object. A stern look from Mara restored his humility. He bowed swiftly and departed, his shoulders drooping. Yesterday the Lady of the Acoma had deemed his judgement worthy of praise; now she seemed bereft of the instincts Lashima gave to a needra.
The servants in attendance kept proper silence, and Keyoke moved no muscle beneath the nodding plumes of his helm. Only Papewaio met his mistress’s eye. The creases at the corners of his mouth deepened slightly. For a moment he seemed about to smile, though all else about his manner remained formal and unchanged.
Dust swirled.
The brisk breeze did nothing to cut the heat, and stinging grit made the needra snort. Wooden wheels squealed as the three wagons comprising Mara’s caravan grated over the gravel road. Slowly they climbed into the foothills, leaving behind the flatlands … and the borders of the Acoma estates. Brightly lacquered green spokes caught the sunlight, seeming to wink as they turned, then slowed as rocks impeded their progress. The drovers yipped encouragement to the needra, who rolled shaggy lashed eyes and tried to balk as pasture and shed fell behind. The slaves carrying Mara’s litter moved steadily, until rough terrain forced them to slow to avoid jostling their mistress. For reasons the slaves could not imagine, their usually considerate Lady was ordering a man-killing pace, determined to see the caravan through the high passes before nightfall.
Mara sat stiffly. The trees that shaded the edge of the trail offered ready concealment, thick boles and tangled brush casting shadows, deep enough to hide soldiers. And the wagons were a severe disadvantage. The keenest ear could hear no rustle of foliage over the needra’s bawl and the grinding creak of wheels, and the sharpest eye became hampered by the ever-present dust. Even the battle-hardened soldiers appeared on edge.
The sun climbed slowly towards noon. Heat shimmer danced over the valley left behind, and scaly, long-tailed ketso scurried into hiding as the caravan rumbled past the rocks where they basked. The lead wagons, then the litter, breasted the crest of a rise. Keyoke signalled a halt. The bearers lowered the litter in the shade of an outcrop, giving silent prayers of thanks, but the drovers and the warriors maintained position under Papewaio’s vigilant eyes.
Ahead, a steep-sided ravine cut the east-facing slopes of the Kyamaka Mountains. The road plunged steeply downward, folded into switchback curves, then straightened to slice across a hollow with a spring.
Keyoke bowed before Mara’s litter and indicated a dell to one side of the hollow, where no trees grew and the earth was beaten and hard. ‘Mistress, the scouts sent out after the raid found warm ashes and the remains of a butchered needra in that place. They report tracks, and evidence of habitation, but the thieves themselves have moved on. No doubt they keep moving their base.’
Mara regarded the ravine, shading her eyes against the afternoon glare with her hand. She wore robes of exceptional richness, with embroidered birds on the cuffs, and a waistband woven of iridescent plumes. A scarf of spun silk covered the welts on her neck, and her wrists clinked with bracelets of jade, polished by the non-human cho-ja to transparent thinness. While her dress was frivolous and girlish, her manner was intently serious. ‘Do you expect an attack?’
‘I don’t know.’ Keyoke’s gaze swept the ravine again, as if by force of concentration he could discern any bandits lying hidden. ‘But we must prepare ourselves for any turn of fate. And we must act as if enemies observe every movement.’
‘Continue on, then,’ said Mara. ‘Have the foot slave broach a water flask. The soldiers and litter bearers may refresh themselves as we march. Then, when we reach the spring, we can make a show of stopping for a drink and so seem more vulnerable than we are.’
Keyoke saluted. ‘Your will, mistress. I will wait here for those who follow. Papewaio will assume command of the caravan.’ Then with a surprising show of concern in his eyes, he added softly, ‘Be wary, my Lady. The risks to your person are great.’
Mara held steady under his gaze. ‘No more than my father would take. I am his daughter.’
The Force Commander returned one of his rare and brief smiles and turned from the litter. With a minimum of disruption, he saw Mara’s orders carried out. The water-bearer hustled through the ranks with his flasks clanking from the harness he wore, dispensing drinks to the soldiers with a speed gained only by years of campaigning. Then Keyoke signalled, and Papewaio gave the command to move out. Needra drivers shouted, wheels creaked, and dust rose in clouds. The wagons rolled forward to the crest, and then over to begin their ponderous descent to the ravine. Only a trained scout would have noted that one less soldier left the camp than had entered.
Mara appeared dignified and serene, but her small painted fan trembled between nervous fingers. She started almost imperceptibly each time the litter moved as one of her bearers shifted grip to sip from the flask carried by the water-bearer. Mara closed her eyes, inwardly pleading Lashima’s favour.
The road beyond the crest was rutted and treacherous with loose stone. Men and animals were forced to step with care, eyes upon the path. Time and again the gravel would turn underfoot and pebbles would bounce and rattle downslope, to slash with a clatter through the treetops. Jostled as her slaves fought the uncertain terrain, Mara caught herself holding her breath. She bit her lip and forced herself not to look back or show any sign that her caravan was not upon an ordinary journey. Keyoke had not mentioned that the Acoma soldiers who followed could not cross this ridge without being observed; they would have to circle round by way of the wood. Until they regained their position a short distance behind, Mara’s caravan was as vulnerable as a jigahen in the courtyard as the cook approaches with his chopping knife.
At the floor of the ravine the wood seemed denser: damp soil covered with blackferns spread between huge boles of pynon trees, their shaggy aromatic bark interlaced with vines. The slaves who carried the litter breathed deeply, grateful for the cooler forest. Yet to Mara the air seemed dead after the capricious breezes