Mara restrained the urge to be angry. ‘But to kill them would be so easy to arrange. A false claim that a plague of summer fever had broken out in the barracks – on even a suspicion of disease, the bodies would be burned. No man could prove how our soldiers had died . . .”
Nacoya touched Mara’s wrists. ‘You fret for the wrong causes, Mara-anni. Minwanabi will not trouble himself with the lives of your warriors. Mistress, all he has to do is strike you and Ayaki down, and every man who wears Acoma green will become a grey warrior, masterless and cursed by the gods. That fate would suit Jingu’s tastes better, I am thinking.’
Here the First Adviser paused. She sought her mistress’s eyes but found them closed. ‘Mara, listen to me. Other dangers await, like relli coiled in the darkness. You must be aware of Teani.’ Nacoya sat straighter, as yet showing no inclination to retire. ‘I observed her all day, and she watched you tirelessly while your back was turned.’
But Mara was too. weary to remain alert. Propped on one elbow in the cushions, she let her mind drift without discipline. Nacoya regarded her with ancient eyes and knew the girl had reached the limits of her endurance. She must not be permitted to sleep, for if an assassin struck she must be ready to snuff out the lamp and retire quickly to the corner Papewaio had designated for emergencies, so that he would not inadvertently strike the wrong mark with his sword.
‘Did you heed?’ Nacoya asked sharply.
‘Yes, mother of my heart.’ But with the Warlord himself finding amusement in the Acoma predicament, Teani was the least of Mara’s worries. Or so she thought, as the light threw shadows like death over the carry boxes that held her gowns and jewellery. How would Lano or her father, Lord Sezu, have handled the Acoma honour in this situation? Mara frowned, trying to guess how those who had died at the hand of Minwanabi treachery might have advised her to act. But no voices answered. In the end she had only her wits.
That conclusion haunted her into a fitful sleep. Though instinct warned against rest, she looked too much like a thin, tired child. Nacoya, who had raised her from infancy, could no longer bear to badger her. Instead, she arose from the cushions and delved into the clothing in the carry boxes.
Mara was deeply asleep by the time the old woman returned, her hands draped with a gauzy collection of silk scarves. These she arranged near the lamp by the sleeping mats, one last-ditch preparation before she herself succumbed to exhaustion. What would be would be. Two women, two maids, and one overburdened warrior were no match for the entire household of the Minwanabi. Nacoya hoped only the attack would come soon, that Papewaio might retain awareness enough to fight back.
But the night wore on without incident. The old nurse nodded and slept while the warrior on guard beyond the screen struggled against a numbing haze of exhaustion. Overtired nerves caused him to see movement in the garden, odd shapes suggesting lurking dangers. He blinked, and over and over again the shapes resolved into a bush or tree, or simply a shadow moving as the copper face of the moon dimmed and brightened behind a cloud. Sometimes Papewaio dozed, only to snap erect at the slightest suggestion of a sound. Yet the attack, when it came, caught him napping.
Mara jerked awake, sweating, confused, and uncertain of her surroundings. ‘Cala?’ she murmured, naming the maid who normally attended her at home.
Then a terrible tearing of paper and the sound of snapping wood jabbed her fully alert. Bodies struck the tiles not far from her cushions, followed by a man’s grunt of pain.
Mara rolled out of her cushions, banging against Nacoya in the process. The old woman woke with a shrill scream of terror, and while Mara fumbled in the darkness to seek the safe corner Papewaio had prepared, Nacoya delayed. Her hands raked up the scarves and tossed them in panic over the lamp. Fire bloomed like a flower, blazing and banishing the dark. Mara blundered to a halt, her shins bruised against an unfamiliar side table. Horrible, coarse gasps sounded in the darkness beyond the torn screen.
Crying now, and praying for Lashima’s guidance, Mara squinted through the conflagration around the lamp. She saw Nacoya lift a cushion and sweep the whole into the damaged screen, igniting the torn paper.