‘Estimates on needra droppings?’ Buntokapi jabbed the paper angrily in the air. ‘By all the gods of heaven, what foolishness is this!’
Jican remained unfazed by his Lord’s wrath. ‘No foolishness, master. Each season we must estimate the weight of the dung, to judge whether we have a shortage of fertilizer for the thyza paddies and need to import, or excess to sell to the farm broker.’
Buntokapi scratched his head. Just then the screen leading to the bedchamber slid open. Teani stood in the doorway, inadequately wrapped in a robe sewn with scarlet birds of passion. The tips of her breasts pressed clearly through the cloth, and her hair tumbled sensuously over a shoulder artfully left bare. ‘Bunto, how much longer are you going to be? Should I dress for the theatre?’
The open seduction in her smile left a staring Jican scarlet to the roots of his hair. Teani blew him a teasing kiss, more in sarcasm than fun; and frustration pricked Buntokapi to jealous rage. ‘No longer!’ he roared to his hadonra. ‘Take this list of needra dung, and your tallies of hides ruined by mould and mildew, and the estimates on repairing the aqueduct to the upper meadows, and reports listing damaged from the warehouse fire in Yankora, and give every one of them to my wife. Henceforth you will not come here unless I call you. Is that clear?’
Jican’s flush drained to a yellowed, trembling pallor. ‘Yes, master, but – ‘
‘There are no buts!’ Buntokapi chopped the air with his hand. ‘These matters can be discussed with my wife. When I ask you, give me a summation of what you have been doing. From now on, if any Acoma servant appears here with a document without my having asked to read it, I’ll have his head over the door! Is that understood?’
The list of needra dung estimates pressed protectively to his chest, Jican bowed very low. ‘Yes, master. All matters of the Acoma are to be given over to the Lady Mara and reports prepared at your request. No servant is to bring a document to your attention unless you ask for it.’
Buntokapi blinked, as if unsure that this was exactly what he intended. Exploiting his confusion, Teani picked that moment to open the front of her robe and fan cool air across her body. She wore nothing underneath. In the sweet rush of blood to his groin, Buntokapi lost all interest in clarifying the point. With an impatient wave of his hand he dismissed Jican, then trod across crackling piles of parchments to sweep his mistress into his arms.
Jican gathered the creased tallies with near-frantic haste. Still, as the couple in the doorway retired into the shadows of the bedchamber, he saw his parchments stacked straight and the carrying cases neatly tied before he turned their heavy burden over to his servants. As he walked out through the main door of the town house, where an escort of Acoma soldiers waited to accompany him home, he heard Buntokapi laugh. To the long-suffering servants it was unclear who, at that moment, was the happier man.
The estate settled sleepily into the routines of midsummer. The maids no longer sported bruises in the mornings; Keyoke’s subordinates lost their harried look,; and Jican’s whistling as he returned from the needra meadows to take up his pens and parchment once again became a reliable way to tell time. Aware that this calm was an illusion, the temporary result of her husband’s long absences, Mara fought the tendency to grow complacent. Though the arrangement was fortunate, the courtesan Teani could not be depended upon to divert Buntokapi indefinitely. Other steps must be taken, each more dangerous than the last. On her way to her chambers, Mara heard a squeal of baby laughter.
She smiled indulgently to herself. Ayaki was growing like a weed, strong and quick to smile now that he had begun to sit up. He kicked his stumpy legs as if impatient to be walking, and Mara wondered whether, when that time came, old Nacoya would be up to handling him. Mentally she made a note to find the nurse a younger assistant, so that the boisterous child would not try her ancient bones too much. That thought in mind, Mara entered the doors to her chamber, then froze, her foot raised between one step and the next. Motionless in the shadow sat a man, his dusty, ragged tunic dyed with the symbols of a mendicant priest of the order of Sularmina, Shield of the Weak. But how he had eluded Keyoke’s defences, and the comings and goings of the servants, to gain the privacy of her quarters, was utterly confounding. Mara drew breath to shout an alarm.
The priest forestalled her as, in a voice undeniably familiar, he said, ‘Greetings, mistress. I have no wish to disturb your peace. Should I leave?’
‘Arakasi!’ The rapid beat of Mara’s heart slowed, and she smiled. ‘Stay, please, and welcome back. Your appearance, as always, surprised me. Have the gods favoured your endeavours?’