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 she must complete was suddenly beyond her resources.
Her distress was in no way evident as the warriors knelt formally before her table. The green plumes of Keyoke’s helm trembled in the air, close enough for Mara to touch. She repressed a shiver and gestured for the men to sit. Her maidservant offered hot chocha from the pot, but only Keyoke accepted. Papewaio shook his head once, as though he trusted his bearing better than his voice.
Mara said, ‘I have erred. I will seek to avoid such error again – ‘ She paused sharply, frowned, and made a nervous gesture that the sisters of Lashima had striven to eliminate. ‘No,’ said Mara, ‘I must do better than that, for at the temple I learned that my impatience sometimes undoes my judgement. Keyoke, between us there must be a hand signal, to be used in times when my life, or the Acoma existence, may be threatened in ways I may not understand. Then perhaps the folly of this day’s events may never be repeated.’
Keyoke nodded, his scarred face impassive, but his manner suggesting approval. After a moment of thought, he ran the knuckle of his index finger along an old scar that creased his jaw. ‘Lady, would you recognize this gesture as such a warning, even in a crowded or public place?’