‘They are barbarians!’ Mara cut in. ‘They raid across our borders because the land is rich and green. Why should tribes of desert men suddenly organize against a nation armed and prepared against them? What could they hope to gain, except obliteration?’
Kevin heard her anger, and took no offence, aware as he was that the time away from home had stretched out into almost a year, and the separation from her son was wearing at her. Each month the traders’ ships made port at llama, and Jican’s messenger reached her, but no word arrived of an attack by the Minwanabi. She had left her best troops to guard the estate; here, with the ones that remained, she had expected to lend support to Xacatecas, and then be free to depart. But the attack at home had not happened, or at least, if it had, word had not reached them; and on this side of the Sea of Blood, the campaign was unexplainably drawn out and showed no signs of resolution.
‘We must find the nomads’ supply caches and burn them out,’ she insisted emphatically. ‘Or else grow old in this wretched waste, and never see satisfaction against Minwanabi.’ Her pronouncement ended discussion.
The scouts went out. They made a five-day sweep of the lowlands that extended into a month of seeking. The nomads could not be tracked across sands continuously shifted by the winds, nor over swept slabs of rock. The Tsurani were forced to search for the smoke of cooking fires in a land that had no trees but imported oil or charcoal for heat and light. The warriors had to lie for days in hiding, scanning the barren horizons for signs of enemy encampments. They marched across smouldering hardpan, and found nothing; just old fire rings filled with ash and burned bones, and sometimes the imprint where a hide tent had stood, or broken bits of discarded crockery. The nomads’ caches of supplies remained elusively hidden.
After three unfruitful months, Xacatecas and Acoma soldiers began taking captives. These unfortunates were dragged back to Chipino’s tents for questioning. The desert raiders were small, of wiry stature, and often bearded. They smelled of querdidra and sour wine, and they wore leather studded with bosses of the pack beasts’ horn and bone. Over this primitive light armour they threw loose-fitting robes in beige colours, tied with beaded sashes that held talismans denoting their prowess and tribe. Very tough, with skins weathered by the climate, few could be induced to talk. The ones that had looser tongues were not highly placed in their clan hierarchies; the caches they disclosed in the following four months were of little consequence; just a few skins of wine and some grains stored in earthen jars. Not enough to be worth losing warriors over, Lord Chipino said to Mara in a frustrated talk after a day spent in blazing sunlight, digging one such cache from the sandy floor of an arroyo.
The Acoma command tent was still under the gloom of twilight. The calls of the sentries as the watch changed mingled with smells of roasting meat that drifted in through the flaps, opened to the cooling evening breeze; charcoal smoke arose in blue puffs against darkening hills, and inside, the smouldering of oiled rags threw cherry-coloured light through the decorative pierced patterns in the light sconces.
Mara clapped hands for a servant to bring the Lord of the Xacatecas some tesh, sweetened as he preferred it. She said, ‘Then you think we waste our time by searching the foothills?”
‘I do.’ Lord Chipino emphasized his frustration with a jerk of his chin. ‘The supplies of the nomads must be held in the deep desert, beyond our scouts’ line of sight, and where no trails exist to leave tracks. I believe we must attempt an incursion with perhaps two companies of warriors.’
The servant arrived with the tesh, lending Mara a moment for thought. She had also come to feel that some similar tactic was necessary, and Lujan supported her. The only dissenter was Kevin, who tirelessly insisted that the nomads might be planning for just such a contingency. She gave a small shake of her head. Why should barbarians taunt her people to invade? What possible need might motivate them?
‘None of this makes sense,’ Chipino said, tugging the straps at his neck to loosen his dust-caked armour. He scratched the leathery skin of his throat, almost frowning, then wet his gullet with the tesh. Its sweetness rinsed the taste of the desert grit from his mouth and also eased his temper. ‘Isashani wrote to me to say that Hokanu of the Shinzawai came visiting in Ontoset.’
Mara raised her eyebrows. ‘Is your wife by chance trying to matchmake?’
Xacatecas laughed. ‘Perpetually. But in this case with Hokanu’s enthusiastic interest, so it would seem. The younger Shinzawai misses you. He asked after you, more than once.’
‘And Isashani kept score?’ Mara prompted. At Chipino’s resigned nod, she added, ‘What brought Hokanu to Ontoset? That’s a bit far afield for him, I should think.’