Mara nodded, letting her eyes close a long second. Softly she said, ‘Very well.’ She had wished for privacy, something impossible to find on this public barge, but Keyoke’s concerns were well founded.
Lord Jingu might sacrifice an entire company of soldiers to destroy the last of the Acoma, certain he could throw enough men at Mara’s guards to overwhelm them. But he would only do so if he could assure himself of success, then feign ignorance of the act before the other Lords of the High Council. Everyone who played the Game of the Council would deduce who had authored such slaughter, but the forms must always be observed. One escaped traveller, one Minwanabi guard recognized, one chance remark overheard by a poleman on a nearby barge, and Jingu would be undone. To have his part in such a venal ambush revealed publicly would lose him much prestige in the council, perhaps signalling to one of his ‘loyal’ allies that he was losing control. Then he could have as much to fear from his friends as from his enemies. Such was the nature of the Game of the Council. Keyoke’s choice of conveyance might prove as much a deterrent to treachery as a hundred more men-at-arms.
The barge master’s voice cut the air as he shouted for the slaves to cast off the dock lines. A thud and a bump, and suddenly the barge was moving, swinging away from the dock into the sluggish swirl of the current. Mara lay back, judging it acceptable now to outwardly relax. Slaves poled the barge along, their thin, sun-browned bodies moving in time, coordinated by a simple chant.
‘Keep her to the middle,’ sang out the Merman.
‘Don’t hit the shore,’ answered the poleman.
The chant settled into a rhythm, and the tillerman began to add simple lyrics, all in tempo. ‘I know an ugly woman!’ he shouted.
‘Don’t hit the shore!’
‘Her tongue cuts like a knife!’
‘Don’t hit the shore!’
‘Got drunk one summer’s evening!’
‘Don’t hit the shore!’
‘And took her for my wife!’
The silly song soothed Mara and she let her thoughts drift. Her father had argued long and hotly against her taking vows. Now, when apologies were no longer possible, Mara bitterly regretted how close she had come to open defiance; her father had relented only because his love for his only daughter had been greater than his desire for a suitable political marriage. Their parting had been stormy. Lord Sezu of the Acoma could be like a harulth -the giant predator most feared by herdsmen and hunters -in full battle frenzy when facing his enemies, but he had never been able to deny his daughter, no matter how unreasonable her demands. While never as comfortable with her as he had been with her brother, still he had indulged her all her life, and only her nurse, Nacoya, had taken firm rein over her childhood.
Mara closed her eyes. The barge afforded a small measure of security, and she could now hide in the dark shelter of sleep; those outside the curtains of this tiny pavilion would only think her fleeing the boredom of a lengthy river journey. But rest proved elusive as memories returned of the brother she had loved like the breath in her lungs, Lanokota of the flashing dark eyes and ready smile for his adoring little sister. Lano who ran faster than the warriors in his father’s house, and who won in the summer games at Sulan-Qu three years in a row, a feat unmatched since. Lano always had time for Mara, even showing her how to wrestle – bringing down her nurse Nacoya’s wrath for involving a girl in such an unladylike pastime. And always Lano had a stupid joke – usually dirty – to tell his little sister to make her laugh and blush. Had she not chosen the contemplative life, Mara knew any suitor would have been measured against her brother . . . Lano, whose merry laughter would no more echo through the night as they sat in the hall sharing supper. Even their father, stern in all ways, would smile, unable to resist his son’s infectious humour. While Mara had respected and admired her father, she had loved her brother, and now grief came sweeping over her.
Mara forced her emotions back. This was not the place; she must not mourn until later. Turning to the practical, she said to Keyoke, ‘Were my father’s and brother’s bodies recovered?’
With a bitter note, Keyoke said, ‘No, my Lady, they were not.’