Again the smooth remarks denied the Warlord more than a polite mumble. Both Shinzawai moved onto the dais, causing others behind them to move towards the Warlord. As Almecho cast one last glance at Mara, Kamatsu said, ‘We will take up no more of your time, Lord, for you have many others waiting to greet you. May the gods smile down upon this celebration of your birthday.’
The Warlord had no choice but to face the next of his guests. By then Mara had regained some of her composure. She silently thanked the gods for the return of her wits and inclined her head in grateful appreciation to the Lord of the Shinzawai. Kamatsu was moving away from the receiving line, but he returned a slight nod. His manner reflected something she had not seen since she had entered the boundaries of the Minwanabi estates: sympathy. The Shinzawai Lord might not be an ally, but he had showed himself no enemy either. He had risked much by interrupting Almecho’s sport, yet the act had been boldly accomplished. While the father departed, Mara saw that the son lingered, his dark eyes following her. She gave the young man a subtle smile but dared not voice her thanks, lest the Lord of the Minwanabi come to believe the Acoma and the Shinzawai held pact against him. Nacoya urgently tugged her sleeve, hastening her steps towards the relative obscurity of a corner.
‘You must leave this place, Mara-anni,’ the First Adviser urged as soon as they had a moment to themselves. While Papewaio positioned himself between his mistress and the assembly of guests, she qualified. ‘You have no allies here, with the Warlord making sport of the Acoma. If you stay, you will lose your life, and Keyoke will face a war to protect Ayaki. Better the shame of flight than to risk the loss of the natami.’
Mara sat on an embroidered cushion and fought the weariness that dragged at her shoulders and back. ‘We cannot leave now.’
‘Girl, we must!’ Closer than she had ever come to a public expression of fear, the old woman sank down by her mistress’s knee. ‘The continuance of the Acoma is at stake.’
Mara gently patted her First Adviser’s hand. ‘Mother of my heart, we cannot run from this confrontation. Not only would our stock in the game fall far enough that we would deserve to become the butt of Almecho’s humour, but I doubt we would escape alive. If we somehow could flee over the borders of the Minwanabi estates, we would find ourselves vulnerable to open attack by “bandits” with no risk to Jingu. Here, with his surety, we have a chance of preserving our lives.’
‘Don’t count on this, mistress,’ Nacoya said sourly. ‘Jingu of the Minwanabi would never have brought the daughter of Sezu here if he thought to let her escape. For you this place is like a nest of poisoned thorns, filled with a hundred deadly traps. With even the gods’ favour, you could not avoid them all.’
Mara straightened, stung by a spark of anger. ‘You think me a girl still, old mother. That is a mistake. Jingu’s threats and even the Warlord’s ridicule will not make me shame my ancestors. Somehow, by cunning or by politics, we will escape this trap and triumph.’
Though as frightened inside as Nacoya, Mara managed the words with conviction. The elderly woman heard, and was comforted, while across the room Hokanu of the Shinzawai observed the proud bearing of Mara of the Acoma. She had admirable courage for one so young. If Minwanabi wished her dead, his plot would need to be deviously woven, for this girl was a true daughter of her father.
The afternoon progressed tediously after that. Jingu of the Minwanabi had arranged for musicians, tumblers, and a one-act farce in the Segumi style. Yet even with the Warlord’s Great Ones in attendance, the Tsurani love of the arts could not completely eclipse the lure of politics. Several Lords had hoped to exploit the fact that Almecho had overextended his position in the wars on the barbarian world. Now, with the two magicians who controlled all passage between Kelewan and Midkemia seated like the shadows of midnight in their midst, even the boldest Lords dared not seek support for their plots. Mara overheard many expressions of annoyance that Almecho should flaunt his ties with the Great Ones at what should have been a celebration in his honour.
As the curtains fell following the actors’ final bows, Desio of the Minwanabi stepped onto the wooden platform erected for the performance. His tread echoed hollowly on the boards as he strode to centre stage, his arms raised for silence.