At mid-autumn the needra herds took to the roads, and curtains of dust hung on the air as the previous year’s calves were driven to feedlots, and thence to slaughter. The spring calves were gelded or set aside for brood or driven to the high meadows to grow. Mara felt the passing of time like a child awaiting her adulthood celebration, each day dragging interminably.
The inactivity lifted when the cho-ja arrived. The hive came without warning; one day the east meadow left open for them lay empty, and the next, workers bustled about in energetic enterprise. Dirt piles arose along the fence line. That the message from the Queen came addressed to Mara nettled Buntokapi. In the midst of his tirade he realized these cho-ja had come from the hive on the Lord of the Inrodaka’s estate. He guessed Mara’s bargain for their loyalty must have taken place between the petition for marriage and the wedding, for his eyes narrowed in a manner his Lady had learned to dread.
‘You are more clever than even my father guessed, wife.’ Then, with a glance at Mara’s middle, he smiled without humour. ‘But your days of travelling in haste and secrecy are over. Now I am ruling Lord, the cho-ja are mine to command.’
But as Mara had been primary negotiator for the Acoma, the Queen addressed only her until the new Lord would take time to renegotiate in his own behalf. But activities with the warriors seemed always to take precedence. If the young wife spent increasing time in the freshly dug chambers of the Queen drinking chocha and gossiping, Buntokapi barely noticed, engrossed as he was in betting on bouts of wrestling in Sulan-Qu. For this Mara was grateful, for her discussions with the young Queen offered relief from the boredom of home life. Gradually she was learning the ways of an alien race. In counterbalance to Buntokapi’s blunders, the relationship she cemented now might add wealth to the Acoma for years to come.
Returning above ground, to holdings that now were Buntokapi’s, Mara realized she had come to enjoy ruling. Reduced to the secondary role of woman and wife, she chafed, and counted the days until winter. After the spring rains fell, her child would be born, and the Acoma would have an heir. Until then she must wait; and the waiting came hard.
Mara touched her belly, feeling for the life within. If the child was male, and healthy, then would her husband have cause to beware, for in the Game of the Council even the most mighty could be vulnerable. Mara had made vows to the spirits of her father and brother, and she would not rest until vengeance was complete.
8 – Heir
The baby kicked.
For a moment Mara’s eyes opened wide. Then she relaxed, laid aside the parchments she had been reviewing, and patted her rounded middle, smiling slightly. Her child was nearly due. She felt as cumbersome as a needra cow, though Nacoya still insisted she had not gained the weight she should’. Mara shifted upon her mat in a vain effort to find a more comfortable position. She prayed to the goddess of fertility that the old midwife’s efforts before conception had ensured a son. Let it be a boy child, so that she would not have to encourage attention from her husband to gain an heir for the Acoma.
The baby kicked again, vigorously, and Mara gasped. She waved away the solicitous maid who hovered nearby, and reached for the parchments. Already this child within her seemed restless, as if he could force his way into life with his tiny feet and fists. He, Mara thought, and a smile touched her lips. He would indeed be a son, to kick so hard in the womb; and he would lead her house to greatness. He would be Lord of the Acoma.
A shout from outside broke Mara’s reverie. She nodded, and the serving maid quickly opened the screen, letting in a hot breeze, strong with the dry smell of dust from the fields. Mara snatched, but too late, and the parchments listing Jican’s success in marketing the first cho-ja goods scudded across the floor. She murmured a mild imprecation, but not for the reports, which her runner bent to gather. Across the clipped lawn beyond the screen marched a party of warriors, with Buntokapi boisterously leading. His hair was spiked with sweat and his tunic frayed, a casualty she could have expected from the rigours of a week-long hunt. And as usual he would visit her chambers after cleaning his weapons but before taking time to bathe. Mara sighed. The days had been quiet with her Lord gone. Now she prepared herself for confusion.