The drums boomed again, insistent. Mara lifted the scarlet reed. Feeling more alone than ever before in her life, she led the procession through the wide doorway to honour the shade of Papewaio, First Strike Leader of the Acoma. Jingu of the Minwanabi and the Warlord came after her, followed by the most powerful families of the Empire. They moved without speaking into a daylight turned gloomy with clouds. Mara’s steps were heavy, her feet reluctant to continue, yet each time the drum beat, she managed another stride. She had slept safely the night before in the Warlord’s suite; but her rest had been the drugged sleep of total fatigue, and she had not awakened refreshed.
A rare storm had blown in from the north, bringing misting rain. Low-hanging tendrils of fog curled across the surface of the lake, stone-grey in the subdued light. The damp made the air chill after weeks of arid heat, and Mara shivered. The earth under her sandals seemed dank as death itself. She thanked the Goddess of Wisdom that Nacoya had not insisted upon attending the funeral ceremony. By agreement with her mistress, the old woman had pleaded illness from the smoke and the sorrow of the last night’s events; for the moment she lay safe on her mat in the suite of the Warlord, Almecho.
Mara led the procession down the gentle slope to the lakeside, grateful that only her own safety should concern her; for the guests who walked in pairs behind her were edgy, unpredictable as caged beasts. Not one of them believed the fiction that a servant had stolen the jewels of the Lady of the Minwanabi. No one had been impolite enough to point out that Shimizu had the alleged booty in his possession while the thief’s body was consumed by fire before anyone could reach him. The possibility that Jingu had violated his pledged oath of guest safety could not be questioned without proof. Hereafter Mara and her retinue might not be the only targets for such plotting; no Lord present dared relax for the remainder of the gathering, for a few among them might react to the uncertainty in the atmosphere and strike at enemies of their own.
Only the Warlord seemed amused. Since he was the Emperor’s voice within the Empire, the conspiracies and the setbacks of the rival factions beneath him offered as much enjoyment as the festivities honouring his birthday -which Papewaio’s funeral had deferred until tomorrow. While his host, the Lord of the Minwanabi, fixed his attentions on Mara of the Acoma, Almecho knew Jingu was not plotting to wear the white and gold - at least not this week.
Though most guests marched in proper silence, Almecho whispered pleasantries in the ear of Jingu. This landed the Lord of the Minwanabi in a prickly mesh of protocol: whether he should remain serious, as was proper for a Lord who attended the funeral of one who had died defending his property; or whether he should defer to the mood of his guest of honour, and smile at the jokes, which in all likelihood were presented to provoke precisely this same dilemma.
But Mara drew no satisfaction from Jingu’s discomfort. Ahead, on a finger of land past the piers, rose the ceremonial pyre of the Acoma First Strike Leader. He lay in his plumes and ceremonial armour, his sword upon his breast; and across the blade his crossed wrists were bound with scarlet cord, signifying death’s dominance over the flesh. Beyond him, at attention, stood the fifty warriors of the Acoma retinue. They were permitted at the gathering to honour their departed officer; and from their number Mara must choose Papewaio’s successor, one soldier to stand as her honour guard throughout the remainder of the celebration for the Warlord. Almost, her step faltered on the path. To think of another in Pape’s place brought pain past bearing; yet the more practical side of her mind kept functioning. Her next stride was firm, and her choice already made. Arakasi must wear the honour guard’s mantle, for she would need any information he might have gathered to counter the Minwanabi threat.
Mara stepped up to the bier. She lowered the scarlet reed, and the guests fanned out, forming a circle around Papewaio’s body, leaving small openings at the east and west. The neat lines of Acoma warriors waited behind Papewaio’s head, each holding his sword point down in the earth to symbolize a warrior fallen.
The drums boomed and fell silent. Mara raised her voice to open the ceremonies. ‘We are gathered to commemorate the life deeds of Papewaio, son of Papendaio, grandson of Kelsai. Let all present know that he achieved the rank of First Strike Leader of the Acoma, and that the honours that earned him this postion were many.’