‘It is death for a slave to have opinions, and you haven’t hanged me yet.’ Kevin looked at her. ‘If we’re attacked tonight, I’m not going to stand by and watch you killed because you think meek behaviour is going to gain me a better station in my next life. I’m going to slice some throats.’ He said the last without humour.
Mara felt too spent to argue. Jican would know the knife was missing; if her hadonra had not seen fit to report the theft, inquiry would be met with shrugs and blank looks unless she were to pose a direct question. The hadonra and her Midkemian slave had evolved a complex relationship over the years. Between them, most issues were cause for unending bickering, but in the select few areas they agreed upon, it was as if a blood oath held them together.
Near midnight, a knock sounded on the outer door of the Acoma apartment. ‘Who passes?’ called the guard on duty.
‘Zanwai!’
Roused from a half-doze where she lay in Kevin’s arms, Mara ordered urgently, ‘Open the door!’
She clapped for her maid to bring an overrobe, then motioned for Kevin to assume a position of more propriety, while her warriors lifted down the heavy bar and slid back the tabletop pressed into service as siege shutter. The portal opened into a dark, lampless corridor and admitted an old man, bleeding from a blow to the head. He was supported by an equally wounded guard, who looked over his shoulder as if expecting pursuit. Lujan hurried the pair into the apartment, then spun to help the guards bolt and bar the door behind them. Mara had a sleeping mat pulled out of the room that served as an officers’ barracks. Her own servants relieved the injured warrior of his master’s weight and made the old Lord comfortable with pillows.
Strike Leader Kenji arrived with a satchel of remedies, and it was he who washed and dressed the old man’s head wound, while another of Mara’s warriors helped the soldier out of his armour. His cuts also were tended, the deepest ones spread with salve and tightly bound. None were life-threatening. Mara sent her servant to bring wine, then inquired what had befallen.
Still pale from shock and pain, the old man fixed eyes of startling blue upon his hostess. ‘An inopportune fate, my Lady. I dined late this night with my cousin, Decanto of the Omechan, in celebration of my support for his claim to the white and gold. As I was making ready to depart, his apartment was overwhelmed by soldiers wearing unmarked, black armour. Lord Decanto was the target of their attack. I just happened to be in the way. Decanto was still fighting when we escaped.’
The servant arrived with a tray of filled goblets. Mara waited until her guests had been served, the warrior accepting his drink with his one unbandaged hand. Delicately she asked, ‘Who sent such soldiers?’
The old man tasted his wine, half smiled his appreciation of the vintage, then grimaced as the expression pulled at his cuts. ‘Any one of six other cousins, I fear. The Omechan are a large clan, and Almecho appointed no clear heir from his Oaxatucan nephews. Decanto was the obvious successor . . .’
‘But someone else disagrees,’ Mara prompted.
Lord Zanwai pressed the cloth against his scalp and scraped back a damp strand of hair. ‘Decanto is the first son of Almecho’s eldest sister. Axantucar is the older because he was born first, but his mother was a younger sister, so that leaves a mess. Almecho, curse his black soul, thought he was immortal. A wife and six concubines, and not one son or daughter.’
Mara considered, sipped her own wine, then said, ‘You’re welcome to stay, my Lord. Or if you prefer your own quarters, I’ll offer a guard of my warriors to escort you back.’
The old man inclined his head. ‘My Lady, I am in your debt. If I may, I will stay. It is a killing ground out there. I had an honour guard of five. We eluded no less than six companies of men . . . . I fear four of my warriors lie dead or dying. There were other armoured bands afoot, but the gods be thanked, they ignored my last man and me.’
Quietly Lujan doubled the guards at the door. Then he leaned on the lintel between the chambers, and out of habit squinted along the edge of his blade. ‘Did all wear black armour like the ones who attacked you?’
‘I did not see,’ the old man said.
The wounded warrior did better. Revived a bit by the wine, he grated, ‘No. Some were like that. Others wore Minwanabi orange and black — Lord Tasaio must have arrived in Kentosani tonight. And still others were . . . tong.’
Mara almost spat. ‘Assassins! Here in the Imperial Palace?’
Over the shiningly perfect edge of Lujan’s weapon, the eyes of Lady and Force Commander met. The one recalled and the other knew that Mara had once almost died at the hands of a hired tong killer, dispatched to her home by Jingu of the Minwanabi.
The warrior continued bleakly with his tale. ‘They were tong, my Lady. Black robes and headcloths, hands dyed in colours, swords across their backs. They swept through on silent feet, glanced at our colours to determine our family, then passed on. We were not their chosen prey this night.’