As the hunters drew nearer, Mara gestured. Two maidservants bent and helped her awkwardly to her feet. Misa, the prettier one, had damp palms already; Mara sympathized. Her husband’s presence often made the girls jumpy, since he might drag any one of them off to his bedchamber. At least her pregnancy had freed her of that odious responsibility. With a flash of malice, Mara made a mental note to ask Jican to buy ugly slaves the next time Bunto sent him to the auctions for girls.
The hunters reached the gravel path. The jingle of their gear seemed louder as their manner and voices became more subdued in the presence of their mistress. Yet their excitement remained high, with Buntokapi not in the least restrained. He smelled of the woods. Mara saw dried bloodstains on his sleeves. He waved in her direction, then pointed over his shoulder, like an artist unveiling a masterpiece. The slaves who trailed him carried a long pole, from which hung a matted bundle of brindled orange-and-grey fur. Mara stepped away from the support of her maids as she recognized the white-masked eyes and fanged muzzle of a sarcat. The deadly nocturnal predator ranged in the rain forests southwest of the estate. Fearfully swift, the creature was a powerful killer, a terror to herders because domestic needra made easy prey and sarcats had no fear of humans. Then Mara noticed an arrow marked with the Lord’s green stripes pierced through the creature’s shoulder, just behind the massive jaws. By the shaft’s position she guessed Buntokapi had stood in the path of the beast’s charge, then dropped it with a single bowshot. The feat was impressive. Despite his other qualities, Buntokapi had displayed great courage and formidable skill with a bow.
Looking from his kill to his broadly smiling face, for a moment Mara could almost forget that the man was utterly lacking in sensitivity. He disliked poetry, unless it was ribald. His taste in music ran to the common – low minstrels and folk tunes – with no patience for the elegance of Grand Do theatre or opera. His appreciation of art was nonexistent unless the subject was erotic. Yet in the hunt he excelled, and not for the first time Mara regretted that Tecuma had been too busy with Halesko and Jiro to train this, his third son. As much as she despised Buntokapi upon occasion, he had much raw potential. Had he been instructed in the manners and propriety befitting one born to the Anasati name, he might have become a man of substance. But her regret lasted only until Buntokapi reached the estate house.
He swaggered mightily, a little drunk from tanlo berry wine imbibed along the route home. Stinking of camp-fires, sweat, and whatever he had eaten for breakfast, he leaned upon the doorpost to his quarters and waved to his slaves, who deposited the sarcat’s corpse at Mara’s feet. ‘Leave us,’ he commanded his guard.
As his warriors departed, he stood erect with his fists on his hips and shouted, ‘There, what do you think, my wife, heh? That is some beast, is it not?’
Mara inclined her head, politely concealing revulsion. The kill stank as badly as the hunter, with buzzing insects clustered on the eyes and limp tongue, while carcass and pole dirtied the newly waxed floor. Anxious to be rid of it, and the man as well, she attempted flattery. ‘My Lord shows great courage and skill in defeating such a beast. Herdsmen to the south will sing your praises, Bunto.’
Her husband grinned drunkenly. ‘What do I care for the praise of stinking herdsmen, heh? I say to you the head will look splendid mounted over the writing desk where that faded banner hangs now.’
Mara bit back instinctive protest lest she invite Buntokapi’s rage upon herself. Though that banner was one of the oldest Acoma victory relics and had graced the study of the Lord of the Acoma for centuries, Buntokapi had no care for tradition. He changed things as he liked, most often in perverse malice to establish beyond doubt that he was Ruling Lord. Mara felt an unexpected stab of sadness, that desperation should have driven her to such a marriage.
‘Wife!’ Buntokapi snapped, breaking Mara from reflection. She bowed submissively, though pregnancy made her awkward.