Papewaio rolled to his right, coming up in a fighter’s crouch, his sword and dagger lifted to parry. Blade sang on blade, while ‘Lujan closed in behind the assassin, his intent to prevent him from bolting.
Faint moonlight gave him away, as his shadow darted ahead of him across the floor. The assassin’s blade cut into pillows, and jigabird feathers sailed upon the air like seed down. He rolled away and spun to his feet to discover himself trapped. Though he wore the garb of a porter, he responded with professional quickness and threw his dagger at Papewaio. The Strike Leader dodged aside. Without sound, the intruder launched himself past, twisting to avoid the sword that sliced at his back. He crashed through the paper screen and hit the pathway beyond at a full run.
Hard on his heels, Lujan shouted, ‘He’s in the garden!’
Instantly Acoma guards hurried through the corridors. Screens screeched open on all sides, and Keyoke strode into the turmoil, calling orders that were instantly obeyed. The warriors fanned out, beating the shrubs with their spears.
Papewaio regained his feet and moved to join the search, but Keyoke lightly touched his shoulder. ‘He got away?’
The First Strike Leader muttered a curse and answered what he knew from long experience would be the Force Leader’s next question. ‘He’s hiding somewhere on the grounds, but you must ask Lujan to describe him. The moonlight was in his favour, where I saw nothing but a shadow.’ He paused while Keyoke sent for the former bandit; and after a moment Papewaio added thoughtfully, ‘He’s of average size, and left-handed. And his breath smelled strongly of jomach pickles.’
Lujan concluded the description. ‘He wears the tunic and rope belt of a porter, but his sandals are soled with soft leather, not hardened needra hide.’
Keyoke motioned to the two nearest soldiers and gave curt orders. ‘Search the quarters given to the Kehotara porters. Find out which one is missing. He’s our man.’
A minute later, two other warriors arrived with a body slung limply between them. Both Papewaio and Lujan identified the assassin, and both regretted that he had found time to sink his second, smaller dagger into his vitals.
Keyoke spat on the corpse. ‘A pity he died in honour by the blade. No doubt he received permission from his master before undertaking this mission.’ The Force Commander sent a man to call in the searchers, then added, ‘At least the Minwanabi dog admitted the possibility of failure.’
Mara must receive word of this event without more delay. Brusquely Keyoke waved at the corpse. ‘Dispose of this carrion, but save a piece by which he may be identified.’ He ended with a nod to his Strike Leaders. ‘Well done. Take the rest of the night for sleep.’
Both men exchanged glances as the supreme commander of the Acoma forces stepped away into the night. Keyoke was seldom free with his praise. Then Lujan grinned, and Papewaio nodded. In complete and silent understanding the two men turned in the direction of the soldiers’ commons to share a drink before well-earned rest.
Bruli of the Kehotara arrived at breakfast looking wretchedly out of sorts. His handsome face was puffy, and his eyes red, as if his sleep had been ridden with nightmares. Yet almost certainly he had been agonizing over his predicament with the gifts rather than knowledge of the assassin his retinue had admitted to the Acoma household; after his loss of self-control at dinner, Mara doubted he had skill enough to pretend that no attempt had been made upon her life.
She smiled, half in pity. ‘My friend, you seem ill disposed. Didn’t you care for your accommodations last night?’
Bruli dredged up his most engaging smile. ‘No, my Lady. The quarters you gave me were most satisfactory, but . . .’ He sighed, and his smiled wilted. ‘I am simply under stress. Regarding that matter I mentioned last night, could I ask your indulgence and forebearance . . . if you could see your way clear . . .’
Mara’s air of cordiality vanished. ‘I don’t think that would be prudent, Bruli.’
The air smelled, incongruously, of fresh thyza bread. Numbly conscious that breakfast foods cooled on the table, Bruli locked eyes with his hostess. His cheeks coloured in a most un-Tsurani fashion. ‘My Lady,’ he began, ‘you seem unaware of the distress you cause me by denying this petition.’
Mara said nothing but signalled to someone waiting behind the screen to her left. Armour creaked in response, and Keyoke stepped into view bearing the bloody head of the assassin. He laid the trophy without ceremony on the platter before the young suitor.
‘You know this man, Bruli.’ The words were no question.
Shocked by a tone of voice he had never heard from the Lady of the Acoma, but not by the barbarity upon his plate, Bruli paled. ‘He was one of my porters, Lady. What has occurred?’