‘It is summer,’ Lujan said in answer to Kevin’s inquiry. ‘The winds are steady, and the rainfall slight.’ He raised a sunburned arm and indicated the shoreline of Dustari, rising purple off Coalteca’s painted prow. ‘Look, you can see our destination, the city of llama.’
The port in Dustari differed greatly from what Kevin had observed of Jamar, built on granite hills, and backed by jagged mountains. The wood-and-paper-screen construction favoured throughout the mainland Empire was here augmented by stone. Immense, multitiered towers arose, their pyramid structures serving as watch stations for a massive crenellated wall. Other towers with light beacons marked the string of scattered islets that extended seaward arms to the west. The headlands bulked darkly rocky, between expanses of reddish black sand of volcanic origin. The contours of the hills were steep-sided, and lush with trees that had unfamiliar shapes. The smells on the breeze were also strange, and peppered with a pungence of spice.
‘The grinders of condiments have sheds at the harbour-side,’ Lujan said, When Kevin commented. ‘llama does great trade in spices that grow only in the mountains to the south.’
The folk were also famous for their weaving, and prayer mats woven ir Dustari were reputed to carry good fortune in their threads. Fey blood ran strong in the folk from that shore; many children born here grew up to take service with the Assembly of Magicians.
Kevin longed for the chance to explore the town, and watched the street traffic avidly as Coalteca dropped anchor in the bay. Two-wheeled carts moved along the docks, hauled by a six-legged creature much slighter than a needra. Weaving flocks of scarlet-and-white shore birds screamed and dived above the masts, chasing one another for the chance to snatch scraps tossed overboard by the cooks.
Dirty urchins shouted, their voices echoing across the harbour, as they likewise sought handouts. Suddenly their cries stilled, and they wheeled and fled into waterfront alleys. Kevin’s interest sharpened.
Onto the wharf marched soldiers armoured in yellow and purple. Bearers carried a lacquered litter hung with banners bearing the symbol of a catlike animal entwined with a snake. Servants hurried aside to clear the way for the company, and the dock crews bowed low in deference.
‘The Lord of the Xacatecas comes personally to meet us,’ Mara commented in some surprise. Poised by Kevin’s shoulder, and dressed in rich robes of green, she wore makeup that artfully managed to play down her youth.
‘You didn’t expect him?’ Kevin asked, turning to assess the reason for her nerves.
‘I did not.’ Mara considered, frowning. ‘That he has left his war camp to attend the arrival of the Acoma honours us.’ She waved to one of her maids and said quickly, ‘Unseal my black-lacquered carry chest. I’m going to need a finer overrobe.’
Kevin’s eyes widened in surprise. ‘The jewels you wear now are already blinding.’
Mara fingered the seed pearls and emeralds stitched in rows and whorls at lapel and cuffs. ‘For a Lord who rules one of the Five Families, and the Warchief of Clan Xacala, I shall wear metal. To appear in less than my finest apparel might be taken as insult, and this man is one my people must never risk offending.’
Sailors began to lower Coalteca’s tender, and under Lujan’s direction Mara’s honour guard assembled on the deck, their armour polished, and their spearheads adorned with streamers. The Lady hastened off to change her robe. Kevin, dressed in Midkemian-style trousers and shirt, took his place among her cortege like a grey-and-white dove in the midst of a festival.
Shortly after, Mara reappeared, clothed in an emerald silk overrobe tastefully sewn with copper sequins. Kevin preferred it to the pearls, and said so; the reddish glint of the copper set off the deep brown of her eyes. But the compliment brought no smile from her.
Lujan saw his Lady settled on board the canopied tender that would bear her party ashore. The new Force Commander’s light brand of humour also seemed absent, which Kevin interpreted as a cue to be restrained. Changed from the brash captive freshly taken from the battlefield, the Midkemian had finally learned the wisdom of keeping quiet when the time warranted. That Lord Xacatecas was immensely powerful was apparent by the depth of Mara’s bow, made the moment she stepped onto the stone wharf, to the personage in yellow armour and dazzling gold wristbands who sat like a king enthroned upon his litter.
The Lord of the Xacatecas inclined his head, arose, and returned a polite bow. He was an older man, who did not appear dissipated. His flesh was sunburned and hard, and his hazel eyes shrewd amid their wrinkles. His dress was fine, yet not frivolous, and his mouth was bracketed by deep folds that hinted at irony as he smiled.