Unlike the great hall of the Anasati, which was dark and airless and musty with old wax, the gathering chamber of the Minwanabi was all space and light. Mara paused in the gallery-style entrance to admire the view before joining the guests who gathered like so many plumed birds below. Built in a natural hollow at the very crest of the hill, with entrance and dais at opposite ends, the room itself was immense. A high, beamed ceiling was spaced with screens that opened to the sky, overhanging a deep-sunken main floor. Several small observation galleries dotted the rim of the hall, allowing a view of floor below and, through the doors to balconies outside, the surrounding countryside. Stone pillars supported the centre tree, while a pebbled brook trickled through squares of flowering trees, tile mosaics and a small reflecting pool beneath the dais. Somewhere, sometime, the Minwanabi had patronized an architect and an artist who had possessed uncommon genius. The gifted artisans must have served an earlier generation of Minwanabi Lords, for the most garish clothing in the crowd was that worn by the Lord and the Lady on the dais. Mara winced, less impressed than most Tsurani by the gown of green and orange worn by the wife. Mara almost wept at the thought of all this surrounding beauty wasted upon an enemy like Jingu.
‘The gods may have blessed this house with extreme wealth,’ muttered Nacoya. ‘But the divine ones left little room for common sense, I say. Think how many insects those sky ports let in, not to mentiotfdust and dirt and rain.’
Mara smiled indulgently on her old nurse. ‘Would you try to mother even a nest of serpents? Besides, I’m sure the Minwanabi cover their roof well when the weather is bad. Jingu’s wife wears too much makeup to get wet unexpectedly.’
Nacoya subsided, with a comment that her eyes were not that good, nor had they been since she was youthful. Mara patted her adviser’s hand in reassurance. Then, resplendent in a gown embroidered with seed pearls, her coiled hair laced with green ribbons, she began her descent to the main floor. Papewaio followed her in dress armour; although he escorted his mistress and her First Adviser to a social occasibn, he moved with vigilance more common to the battlefield. In most ways, state gatherings of Tsurani were more dangerous. Beneath the manners and the finery, ambitions changed; as alliances shifted within the Game of the Council, any Lord present could become the enemy. Few would hesitate to damage the Acoma, if his own stock might rise as a result. And on Minwanabi territory, others not normally at odds with Mara’s house might bend with the prevailing political wind.
Simple in her tastes, Mara was neither overwhelmed nor impressed by displays of great wealth. Her restrained clothing reinforced the impression already formed by the Lords and Ladies in the hall around her. Most believed her a young, inexperienced girl who sheltered her house under the marriage to the more powerful Anasati. Now, with Buntokapi dead, she was fair game once again. Mara was content to allow this misapprehension to continue as she passed by; it increased her chances to pick up a scrap of information, a comment, or a remark that could prove useful. As she reached the foot of the stairs and made her way towards the dais to greet the Minwanabi Lord, she watched the expressions of her peers and took stock of who stood gossiping with whom. Her temple-taught poise served her well. She responded politely to those who greeted her, but was not lulled by sweet smiles and warm words.
Jingu of the Minwanabi noted her approach with the ravenous interest of a jaguna. Mara saw him cease conversation with his advisers as she mounted the steps to accept his welcome. The moment gave her pause also, as for the first time she looked upon the face of her family’s oldest enemy. The Lord of the Minwanabi was a corpulent man. He had clearly not worn armour since his youth, but cunning and malice still glinted in his eyes. Pearl bands encircled his wrists, and shell ornaments dangled at his collar, shiny with the sweat that beaded his neck. His bow of greeting was slightly less than that due a Lady of ruling rank. ‘My Lady of the Acoma,’ he said, his voice as thick and unctuous as his appearance, ‘we are so pleased you chose to join us in honour of the Warlord.’
Aware the eyes of every noble in the room were turned to see how she handled this slight, Mara responded in kind, her own bow shallow and of short duration. ‘We thank the Lord of the Minwanabi for his kind invitation.’