Servant of the Empire. Janny Wurts
honour to serve ours.’ Then, given insight on how she might mollify this enemy, Mara added, ‘My belief in Tuscalora honour is such that I shall entrust the protection of our southern borders to your troops. All Acoma guards and patrols will be withdrawn from the boundary of our two lands.’
Keyoke’s expression did not change at this development, but he scratched his chin with his thumb, in a long-standing secret code of warning.
Mara reassured her Force Commander with a suggestion of a smile. Then her attention returned to Lord Jidu. ‘I see you do not trust that friendship might exist between us. I will show my good intentions. To celebrate our alliance, we shall mount a new prayer gate at the entrance to your estate, in glory to Chochocan. This will be followed by a gift of one hundred thousand centuries to clear your past debts, that the profits from this year’s harvest may be used for the good of your estate.’
Nacoya’s eyes widened at the amount, fully a fifth of the funds being forwarded from the silk auction. While Mara could afford to be generous, this honour gift cut considerably into Acoma reserves. Jican was certain to become apoplectic when his mistress ordered the sum transferred to the wastrel Lord of the Tuscalora.
Jidu searched Mara’s face. But study as he might, he saw nothing to indicate that she toyed with him. Her words were spoken sincerely. Considerably subdued, he said, ‘My Lady of the Acoma is generous.’
‘The Lady of the Acoma strives to be fair,’ Mara corrected. ‘A weak ally is a drain, not a benefit. Go, and know that should you have need, the Acoma will answer your call, as we expect you to honour ours,’ and she gracefully allowed him leave to withdraw.
No longer angered, but profoundly puzzled by his sudden shift in fortune, Jidu of the Tuscalora left the hall.
As the last of his blue-armoured guardsmen marched out, Mara abandoned her formal posture. She rubbed weary eyes and inwardly cursed her weariness. Months had passed since she sent Kevin off to oversee the crew clearing forests. She still slept poorly at nights.
‘My beautiful Lady, let me compliment you on your deft handling of a particularly vicious dog,’ said Lujan with a respectful bow. ‘Lord Jidu is now well collared, and he may only whine and snap at your command, but he dare not bite.’
Mara focused her attention with an effort. ‘At least we won’t need soldiers guarding that cursed needra bridge day and night after this.’
Keyoke burst into sudden laughter, to the astonishment of both Lujan and Mara, for the old soldier rarely showed pleasure.
‘What?’ said Mara.
‘Your stated intention to strip our southern border had me concerned, my Lady.’ The Force Commander shrugged. ‘Until I understood that, without needing to patrol the Tuscalora side of our boundary, we have freed several companies to reinforce more critical defences. And with no further worries from the north, Lord Jidu can mount more vigilant defences on other fronts. We have effectively gained another thousand warriors to guard one larger estate.’
Nacoya joined in. ‘And with your generous gift, daughter, Jidu can afford to ensure his men are properly armed and armoured, and that cousins can be called to serve to expand his army.’
Mara smiled at the approval. ‘Which will be my first … ah, “request” of my new vassal. His warriors are good, but they lack the numbers for our needs. When Jidu recovers from wounded pride, I shall “ask” that his Force Commander consult with Keyoke on the best ways to protect our common interests.’
Keyoke returned a guarded nod. ‘Your father would look upon your farsightedness proudly, Lady Mara.’ He bowed in respect. ‘I must return to duty.’
Mara granted him permission to leave. Beside her, Lujan inclined his plumed head. ‘Your warriors will all drink to your health, pretty Lady.’ A playful frown creased his forehead. ‘Though we might do well to assign a patrol to ensure that Lord Jidu does not tumble headfirst from his litter and bash in his skull on the way home.’
‘Why would he do that?’ Mara demanded.
Lujan shrugged. ‘Drink can spoil the best man’s balance, Lady. Jidu smelled like he had been guzzling since dawn.’
Mara’s brows rose in surprise. ‘You could smell through all that perfume?’
The Strike Leader returned an irreverent gesture around the scabbard of the ancestral sword. ‘You didn’t have to lean over the Lord’s bared neck with a blade.’
Mara rewarded him with a laugh, but her moment of levity did not last. She waved dismissal to her honour guard, then retired to her study with Nacoya. Since her wedding to Buntokapi, she was disinclined to linger in the great hall, and with the redheaded Midkemian slave sent away, she found no relief in solitude. Day after day, she immersed herself in accounts with Jican, or reviewed clan politics with Nacoya, or played with Ayaki, whose current passion was the wooden soldiers carved for him by her officers. Yet even when Mara sat on the nursery’s waxed wooden floor and arranged troops for her son – who played at being Lord of the Acoma, and who regularly routed whole armies of Minwanabi enemies – she could not escape the realities. Desio and Tasaio might die a hundred deaths on the nursery floor, to Ayaki’s bloodthirsty and childish delight, but all too likely, the boy who played at vanquishing his enemies would himself become sacrificed to the Red God, victim of the intrigue that shadowed his house.
When Mara was not fretting about enemies, she sought diversion from heartache. Nacoya had assured her that time would ease her desires. But as the days passed, and the dust of the dry season rose in clouds as this year’s needra culls were driven to market, Mara still woke in the night, miserable with longing for the man who had taught her that love could be gentle. She missed his presence, his blundering ways, his odd thoughts, and most of all his intuitive grasp of those moments when she most wanted sympathy, but was too much the proud Ruling Lady to show her need.
His willingness to give strength and his kindness were as rain to a heart parched by troubles. Damn that man, she thought to herself. He had her trapped more helplessly than any enemy ever would. And perhaps, for that reason, Nacoya was right. He was more dangerous to her house than the most vicious of her foes, for somehow he had insinuated himself within her most personal defences.
A week passed, then another. Mara called on the cho-ja Queen and was invited to tour the caverns where the silk makers industriously worked to meet the auction contracts. A worker escorted Mara through the hive to the level where dyers and weavers laboured to transform the gossamer fibres into finished cloth. The tunnels were dim and cool after the sunlight outside. Always when Mara visited the hives, she felt as though she entered another world. Cho-ja workers rushed past her, speedily completing errands. They moved too swiftly for the eye to follow through tunnels lit by globes that shed pale light. Despite the gloom, the insectoid creatures never blundered into one another. Mara never felt more than a soft brush as the rapidly moving creatures negotiated the narrowest passages. The chamber where the silk was spun was wide and low. Here Mara raised a hand to make sure the jade pins that held her hair would not scrape the ceiling.
The escort cho-ja paused and waved a forelimb. ‘The workers hatched for spinning are specialized,’ it pointed out.
When Mara’s eyes adjusted to the near darkness, she saw a crowd of shiny, chitinous bodies hunched over drifts of raw silk fibres. They had comblike appendages just behind their foreclaws, and what looked like an extra fixture behind the one that approximated the function of the human thumb. While they crouched on their hind limbs, the forelimbs carded fibres that seemed almost too delicate to handle without breaking. Then the midlimbs took over and, in a whirl of motion, spun the fibres into thread. The strand created by each cho-ja spinner led out of the chamber through a slot in the far wall. Beyond this partition, dyers laboured over steaming cauldrons, setting colour into the threads in one continuous process. The fibres left the dye pots and passed through yet another partition, where small, winged drone females fanned the air vigorously to dry them. Then the passage opened out into a wide, bright chamber, with a domed roof and skylights that reminded Mara of Lashima’s temple in Kentosani. Here the weavers caught up the coloured strands and performed