‘There are a great number of rituals and ceremonies along the way,’ Mara broke in, her irritation barely masked. ‘One does not travel with twenty priests, a thousand bodyguards, and five thousand soldiers and make speed.’
Kevin shrugged. Confinement and stress affected them all. For two days the business in council had been building momentum. Mara spent up to fifteen hours at a stretch closeted in the great hall. At night she returned so exhausted that she barely had inclination to eat. She looked peaked and thin, and despite lavish solicitude from her lover, what little sleep she garnered was troubled. If the nights were unsatisfactory, the days were worse. Inactivity of any sort burned Kevin’s nerves, but even boredom had limits. Duty in the scullery drove him to vocal rebellion, and though seldom given to self-indulgence, he lacked the fatalism that enabled the Tsurani warriors to endure in seemingly endless patience.
Mara sighed and took stock of her gains. ‘So far I have held council with seventeen Lords, and have bound only four to agreements.’ She shook her head. ‘A poor record. No one wishes to commit, though many pretend to be willing. Too many factions contend for the Warlord’s seat, and to support one candidate openly brings the enmity of all of his rivals.’
Arakasi uncrumpled a note that carried a pungent smell of fish. ‘My agent at the dockside reports the arrival of Dajalo of the Keda.’
Mara perked up at this. ‘Is he in residence at his town house, or the Imperial Palace?’
‘Patience, Lady.’ Arakasi shuffled through his notes, discarded three, then scanned the coded script of another that smelled intriguingly of perfume. ‘Town house,’ the Spy Master concluded. ‘At least for tonight.’
Mara clapped her hands for the scribe brought in to help with correspondence. ‘Address this to Lord Dajalo of the Keda. First offer our condolences for the death of his father, along with our certainty that his end was both brave and honourable. Then let Dajalo understand that the Acoma hold a document over Lord ?Andero’s personal chop that binds House Keda to one vote of our choosing. Dajalo, as new ruling Lord, is bound to honour this.’
‘Mistress,’ Arakasi broke in. isn’t this a little. . . abrupt?’
Mara ran her fingers through the masses of her hair, the ends of which were still crimped into curls from being pinned. ‘Perhaps I have acquired habits from this barbarian I keep around.’ She paused, as thunder rolled in the distance. ‘Have no doubt. . . Tasaio of the Minwanabi will be among us quite soon, and then I may need this vote instantly.’
A tap at the entry interrupted. A guard appeared in the doorway and bowed. ‘Mistress, our scouts report armed men moving through the outer hallways of the palace.’
Mara glanced at Lujan, who jammed his helm over tangled hair and left still fastening the strap. Lightning flickered silver beyond the outer screens, reduced to slits between barricades now reinforced with raw boards. Kevin resisted a caged animal’s need to pace, while Mara and Arakasi made a pretence of reading reports. The scratch of the scribe’s quill filled the interval until the Force Commander returned.
His bow was almost cursory as he said, ‘Our lookouts have spied two bands of soldiers, numbering twenty to thirty each. They pass in the shadows and would seem to be moving toward another section of the palace.’
‘What house?’ Mara asked, half-fearful to hear the reply.
‘None, pretty Lady,’ Lujan’s reassurance was dubious. ‘These wear black armour, without markings or badge.’
Mara raised eyes gone wide in the lamplight. ‘Then it is beginning.’
Lujan passed quiet orders to the warriors in the front chamber. The last screen cracked to let in air was drawn shut and wedged in its frame with wooden pegs. A table was turned on end and levered against the outer door, then braced in place with a massive bar. Now the humidity brought in by the storm became like a stifling blanket. Arakasi seemed unaffected, where he sat in poised stillness poring over his notes.
But Kevin sweated and chafed, his empty hands itching for a blade. The hours wore on toward midnight. Sounds came muffled through the walls. Footfalls splashed through puddles, or pounded down hallways and stairs, sometimes broken by a shout. The rain ceased, and insects in Mara’s garden rasped their nightly song.
Since nobody seemed inclined to attend to the commonplace necessities, Kevin finally knelt at Mara’s shoulder and pulled away the parchment she had held without reading for an hour. ‘You must be hungry,’ he coaxed.