Buntokapi shook his blade in Lujan’s face, any humour clearly beyond him. ‘This was no outlaw raid! That dog lover Jingu thinks the Acoma soft, and ruled by a woman. Well, he now knows he faced a man.’ He spun around, brandishing his weapon in the air. ‘I will send a runner to Sulan-Qu to buy a few rounds in the taverns by the docks. Jingu will know within a day I have tweaked his nose.’
Buntokapi brought his sword whistling downward. He stared at the drying blood, and after a moment of deliberation thrust the weapon into its tasselled sheath. A slave could polish it later. With an enthusiasm not shared by his officers, he said, ‘We shall sort this out at home. I am dirty and hungry. We leave now!’ And he began abruptly to march, leaving Keyoke and Papewaio and Lujan to organize the men, fix litters for the wounded, and hustle the companies on the road to the estate. The Lord of the Acoma wished to be home before dinner, and his company of battle-fatigued soldiers concerned him little. They could rest once they were back in their barracks.
As men rushed to form ranks, Papewaio looked at his Force Commander. Eyes met for a moment and both men shared a thought. This bullish man, barely more than a boy, was dangerous. As they parted to attend their duties, both prayed silently for Lady Mara.
Hours passed, and the shadows shortened. The sun climbed to the zenith while the needra herders returned from the meadows for the noon meal, and servants and slaves went about their chores as if no disaster were possible. Mara rested, attempting to read, but her mind refused to concentrate on the convoluted organization of lands and business owned by the dozens of major Lords and hundreds of minor ones in the Empire. One night, a month before, she had thought she recognized a pattern in the way one estate’s distant holdings were placed, then after hours of further study decided the perception had been an illusion. But such pursuits had given rise to another thought: where a family’s holdings lay, even those that appeared insignificant, could prove as important as any other fact in the nuances of the Game of the Council.
Mara pondered this new angle through the heat of the afternoon. Sundown came and went, and in the cooler air of evening she sat to a long and silent meal. The servants were subdued, which was unusual in the absence of their Lord. Feeling her pregnancy like a weight, Mara retired early to sleep. Her dreams were troubled. Several times in the night she started awake, her heart pounding and her ears straining for sounds of returning men; but instead of marching feet and the creak of armour, the night stillness held only the soft lowing of needra cows and the chirp of night insects. She had no clue how her husband and Keyoke fared against the raiders in the mountains, except that the peace of the estate remained unbroken. Just before the dawn she fell into a deep and oppressive sleep.
She woke with the sun on her face, having opened the screen in her restlessness during the night. Her morning maid had forgotten to close it, and the heat already made her sweat. Mara raised herself upon her pillows and suddenly felt ill. Without waiting to call for a servant, she hurried to the chamber for night soil and was sick to her stomach. The morning maid heard her distress and ran to attend her with cool cloths. Then she saw her mistress back to her mats and hastened to fetch Nacoya.
Mara stopped her at the door. ‘Nacoya has worries enough without adding more,’ she snapped and gestured grumpily at the open screen. The maid closed it hastily, but the shade did not help. Mara lay back, pale and sweating. Throughout the day she fretted, unable to concentrate upon the matters of commerce that had never before failed to hold her interest. Noon came, and the men did not return. Mara began to worry. Had Buntokapi fallen to a raider’s sword? Had the battle been won? The wait exhausted her, cloaking her mind in the shadows of doubt. Beyond the screen the sun crawled across the zenith, and Nacoya arrived with the midday meal. Grateful her illness had passed, Mara managed to eat a little fruit and some sweet cakes.
After her meal the Lady of the Acoma lay down to rest through the afternoon heat. Sleep eluded her. As the shadows of the leaves elongated slowly across the screens, she listened to the sounds outside diminish as the free workers retired to their huts. The slaves were not permitted this midday break, but whenever possible the work performed from midday to the fourth hour of the afternoon was the least strenuous of the day.