‘I wish this sarcat’s head stuffed and mounted over my desk in my study. See to it! I must go bathe.’ Then, straightening as an afterthought struck him, he peered into the gloom of the room behind and stabbed a pointing finger at Misa. ‘You, girl, come along. I need someone to wash my back, and my attendant is ill.’
The pretty maid left her mistress’s side. All knew her duties would be more personal than merely soaping down her master’s back. She departed in resignation as Buntokapi spun around and strode off, leaving his kill oozing upon the threshold, over a day dead and already turning putrid. Mara fought a moment of nausea. Then, with a poise as fragile as fine china, she called the small boy who served as runner away from the corner where he cowered. Buntokapi had a tendency to cuff him for simply being in the way. ‘Kedo, fetch two slaves from the kitchens to carry this off to the butcher’s shed. Tell the assistant who prepares trophies he must ready the head. When it is completed, have him deliver it to my Lord’s study to hang where he indicated.’ Here Mara quelled another of the little sorrows that seemed a daily part of her life since her marriage. To her remaining maid she said, ‘Juna, go and carefully fold the banner over the desk and bring it to me. I will ensure it is safely kept.’
The runner departed with a patter of sandals, and the maid followed. Mara pushed a trailing strand of hair behind one ear and returned to her documents. Let Buntokapi sport with the maids and hunt and play at being a warrior; his obsessions kept him occupied, and that was to the good. That, and the confinement of pregnancy, furthered her opportunity to study the documents of commerce that came each day. Within the limits Buntokapi allowed, Mara continued to manage the affairs of the Acoma. And she learned. Every day she understood more about what truly brought a house to greatness. Thinking aloud, she said, ‘I wonder if we have recent maps?’
‘Mistress?’ said her remaining attendant.
Mara only stared fiercely at the indeterminate point between her parchments and the matted muzzle of the sarcat. The next time her Lord went hunting, or into Sulan-Qu to visit the gambling houses or the women of the Reed Life, she would search her father’s cabinets for maps. Then, catching herself short, she reminded herself that the cabinets were not her father’s anymore but the province of a husband who was her enemy.
Wine splashed, sticky red on the linens, as the horn flask thrown by Buntokapi bounced and clattered through the cutlery. He blinked once, as if amazed at his own strength, but his anger did not fade. ‘Woman, cease plaguing me!’
The power of his voice made the flames in the lamps tremble. Mara sat quietly before her husband, who had only moments before been singing clumsily along with a pair of minstrels. ‘Can’t you see I am enjoying this performance? Aren’t you always after me to read poetry and listen to music? How can I listen if you constantly nag at me?’
Mara concealed a grimace. Buntokapi’s uncritical appraisal stemmed from the fact that one of the musicians was the buxom daughter of the other; the tight-stretched fabric of her robe, and the expanse of flesh left bare by the short hem and open collar, undoubtedly seemed to add allure to their poor singing. But management of the estate must continue, and with acerbity Mara lifted the scroll she had brought out of the path of spilled wine.
‘My Lord, these decisions cannot wait – ‘
‘They will wait if I say they will wait!’ Buntokapi’s shout caused the servant who appeared with rags and basin to scurry about his clean-up. ‘Now be silent, wife.’
Mara sat obediently at his side while the servant finished wiping up the spill and hurried away. Red-faced, Buntokapi waved at the musicians to resume and tried furiously to concentrate on the song the girl had been singing. But the soft, unmoving grace of Mara’s presence unnerved him, as few things could. After a moment, nettled, he said, ‘Oh, what is it?’
The musicians faltered and started uncertainly into the last stanza; Mara silently handed Buntokapi a scroll, and as her gown shifted he saw that she carried six more. He quickly glanced at the first and said, ‘These are household budgets and accounts. Why bother me with them?’ He glared at his wife, unmindful that his musicians desperately wished his leave to fall silent. Lacking that, they straggled raggedly into a chorus.
‘This is your estate, my husband,’ said Mara flatly. ‘None may spend a cinti of your wealth without your permission. Some of the merchants in Sulan-Qu sent polite, but emphatic, requests for payment.’
Buntokapi scratched his groin while scowling over the tallies. ‘Wife!’ The musicians ended their lay, and he suddenly found himself shouting into stillness. ‘We have funds to pay these?’ He glanced about, as if startled by his own shouting.
‘Of course, husband.’
Lowering his voice, he said, ‘Then pay them.’ His expression darkened. ‘And why must you bring these to me? Where is Jican?’