The sounds of their passage echoed off stone foundations. Then sunlight sliced down, blinding and intense after darkness. Mara looked out of the gauze-curtained canopy to a sight entirely unexpected.
The vista beyond was breathtaking in its beauty. Located in the neck of a broad valley, at the head of a wide lake, the estate house across the water looked a magic place from a child’s tale, each building perfect in design and colour. The centremost structure was stone, an impossibly ancient palace built high up on a hill overlooking the lake. Low walls wound down the hillside amid terraced gardens and lesser buildings, many two and three storeys tall. The estate of the Minwanabi was in truth a village in its own right, a community of servants and soldiers, all loyal to Jingu. But what a magnificent town, Mara thought. And she knew a brief stab of envy that so bitter an enemy should live in such splendour. Breezes off the lake would cool the house through even the hottest months, and a fleet of small orange and black punts trawled for fish, so that the Lord of the Minwanabi might dine upon fresh-caught koafish. As the slaves exchanged poles for oars to convey the barge across the lake, a more sober thought occurred to Mara: the valley was a bottleneck, easily defended, and easier to seal. Like the poisoned flask plant that devoured insects by luring them with sweet scents, the layout of this valley foreclosed any chance of swift unnoticed escape.
Papewaio perceived this also, for he called his warriors to present arms as another craft approached. Quickly heaving into view, the large barge contained a dozen Minwanabi archers, a Patrol Leader at their head. He saluted and motioned for them to dress oars. ‘Who comes to Minwanabi lands?’ he called out as the barges closed.
Papewaio called an answer. ‘The Lady of the Acoma.’
The officer of the Minwanabi saluted. ‘Pass, Lady of the Acoma.’ He signalled his own contingent of rowers, and the Minwanabi barge resumed its patrol.
Nacoya pointed to three other such barges. ‘They have companies of archers all over the lake.’
Clearly no escape was possible from the Minwanabi Lord’s home. There remained only victory or death.
Feeling her palms grow damp, Mara resisted the impulse to blot them on her robe. ‘Let us make best speed to the house, Pape.’
Papewaio signalled the barge captain, and the slaves resumed their stroke.
The barge headed dockside, and the Minwanabi estate proved as beautiful upon close inspection as it had looked across the water. Each building was delicately painted, pastel colours dominating over the usual white. Gaily coloured streamers and brightly shaded lanterns hung from roof beams, twisting in the breeze. The soft sound of wind chimes filled the air. Even the gravel paths between buildings had been lined with tended shrubs and flowering plants. Mara expected that the courtyard gardens within the estate might prove more sumptuous that any she had seen.
The Acoma rowers shipped oars, and one threw a line to a worker upon the docks, where a welcoming party of notables waited. Foremost of these was Desio, the elder Minwanabi son, crowned with the orange and black headdress denoting his rank as heir of the house.
Liveried attendants caught other lines as the barge bumped gently against the pilings. Minwanabi house guards stood at attention, and Desio strode forward to meet Mara’s litter as slaves conveyed her ashore.
The Minwanabi heir nodded stiffly, a pretence of a bow that bordered on insult. ‘In the name of my father, I welcome you to our celebration in honour of the Warlord, Lady of the Acoma.’
Mara did not trouble to raise the gauze curtains of her litter. Studying the fat, pouched features of Desio, and finding little intelligence in his slate-coloured eyes, she returned a nod of precisely the same proportion. For the longest moment nothing was said, then Desio was forced to acknowledge Mara’s superior social rank. ‘Are you well, Lady Mara?’
Mara nodded slightly. ‘I am well, Desio. The Acoma are pleased to honour Lord Almecho. Tell your father that I acknowledge this welcome.’
Desio raised his chin, nettled to admit his inferior rank. Too proud to accept rejoinder from a girl who seemed, through the gauze, to be barely more than a child, he said, ‘The reception for the banquet of greeting will begin in the hour past noon. Servants will show you to your quarters.’
‘Servants keep the honour of the Minwanabr?’ Mara smiled sweetly. ‘That’s a fact I shall remember, when I greet the Lord your father.’
Desio reddened. To arrest the awkwardness that developed, a Minwanabi Patrol Leader stepped forward. ‘My Lady, if you will permit, I will convey your soldiers to the place set aside for them.’