Kevin arose and joined Lujan by the screen track between the rooms. Softly he asked, ‘What are “tongs”?’
Lujan ran his thumb over his blade. No unseen flaws met his touch, but a frown marred his complacency nonetheless. ‘Tongs,’ he said in a dead, flat tone, ‘are brotherhoods, families without clan or honour. Each tong holds allegiance to no one and nothing save their “Obajan”, the Grand Master, and their outlaw code of blood. Politely put, they are criminals who have no respect for tradition.’ The sword flashed in the lamplight as the Force Commander turned it.
‘Some of them, like the Hamoi, make of their unclean craft a renegade religion. They believe the souls of their victims are true prayers in praise of Turakamu. To them, murder is holy.’ Lujan sheathed his sword, and his tone assumed a grudging admiration. ‘They make terrible enemies. Many of them train from childhood, and they kill most efficiently.’
‘I know who wants me dead,’ Mara said, the wineglass forgotten in her hand. ‘Tasaio has enough strength to threaten me directly. So then, who dares hire tongs into the palace?’
Lord Zanwai tiredly shrugged his shoulders. ‘These are reckless times. Rivalries run hot enough that a slain man could have had his death bought by any of a dozen factions, and the work of a tong is not traceable.’
‘Brother could kill brother, and never be accused of disloyalty.’ Mara set down her goblet and clenched her hands to still their shaking. ‘Almost, I wish this matter could be settled in open war. The killing at least might be cleaner.’
A bitter laugh met her words. ‘Dead is dead,’ said Lord Zanwai. ‘And any contest on a battlefield would see Minwanabi take the prize.’ He put down his wineglass. ‘I judge the tong more likely in Tasaio’s employ, simply because overt display of Minwanabi arms might frighten potential allies into supporting another claimant to the white and gold – and it is rumoured the Minwanabi have had dealings with the tongs in the past.’ Mara chose not to mention that she had certain knowledge this was correct. ‘The real question is who sends soldiers without house colours through the palace?’
Sadly, silently, Mara conceded the truth. One could only guess; certain knowledge might never be hers. She called for servants to clear one of the guest rooms of warriors for Lord Zanwai’s use. ‘Rest well,’ he said as one of her men helped him stiffly to his feet. ‘May all here live to see the morning.’
* * *
Throughout the night, the palace echoed with shouts, running feet, and sometimes the crack of swords in distant combat. No one slept, except in snatches. Mara lay long hours in Kevin’s arms, but the best she managed was a fitful doze that led to bloody nightmares. Acoma soldiers stood watch in shifts, ready for any attack upon their Lady’s quarters.
An hour before sunrise, a bump outside the apartment door caused the warriors on guard to draw weapons. ‘Who passes?’ called Lujan.
The low voice that answered was Arakasi’s.
Mara had given up trying to sleep. She waved away the maid who arrived to help her dress, while the door was unbarred and opened and the Spy Master let inside. His hair was matted with dried blood and he cradled one forearm in the crook of his elbow; the flesh above the wrist bore an ugly lump and a purple mass of swelling.
One look, and Lujan said tersely, ‘We’re going to need a bonesetter.’ He caught the Spy Master strongly beneath the shoulder on his uninjured side, and helped his unsteady feet across the floor and onto the sleeping mat that had served Lord Zanwai the night before.
‘No bonesetter,’ Arakasi grunted as his knees folded and he settled back on the cushions. ‘It’s chaos out there. Unless you sent half a company, a messenger would have a knife in him before he crossed the first concourse.’ The Spy Master looked meaningfully at Lujan. ‘Your field medicine will do well enough.’
‘Find Jican,’ Mara snapped to her maid. ‘Tell him to bring spirits.’
But Arakasi held up his sound hand, forestalling her. ‘No spirits. I have much to tell, and a bang on the head has me dizzy enough without making my wits stupid with drink.’
Mara said, ‘What has happened?’
‘A battle between unknown warriors in black armour and a dozen assassins of the Hamoi tong.’ Arakasi fell silent as Lujan examined the cut in his scalp, then unstrapped his bracers and set to cleaning away scabbed blood with rags and water brought in a basin by the maid.
As the injury was bared to light, the Force Commander said softly, ‘Fetch the lamp.’
The maid did so, and Mara waited through a worried interval while Lujan held the flame before Arakasi’s eyes and watched for response from the pupils. ‘You’ll do,’ he said presently. ‘But the scar might grow back in white hair.’