An ancient ulo tree clutched the soil with gnarled roots, and its branches threw the site of the Acoma natami into deep, cool shade. Mara bowed before the stone that was sacred to her ancestors and the embodiment of Acoma honour. She spoke a few ritual phrases and placed a tied cluster of flowers before the monument, blossoms in seven colours that represented each of the good gods. On this, the first day of summer, she gave thanks for the well-being of all under her protection. For a moment after the brief ceremony she lingered. The sacred contemplation glade held unique peace, for here none but the head gardener, an invited priest, or those born of Acoma blood might tread. Here she could truly be alone with her thoughts and emotions.
Mara regarded the beautiful reflecting pool, the small stream, and the graceful shapes of the shrubs. A sudden disquiet came over her. At times she recalled, too clearly, the assassin who had once nearly brought her death on the soil before her own natami. The memory often visited her unawares, like a chill on a hot day. Restless now, and anxious to leave the confinement of the garden’s high containment hedge, Mara arose. She left the lovely garden and stepped under the arched outer gate and, as always, found a servant waiting.
He bowed the instant she made her appearance. ‘Mistress,’ said a voice she immediately recognized. ‘Your Spy Master has returned with news.’
Four weeks had passed since Mara’s return from the council that elected the new Warlord. The Spy Master had been absent gathering information for most of that time, and her delight at discovering him back was most welcome to him.
‘Rise up, Arakasi,’ Mara said. ‘I will hear your report in my study.’
Inside, settled on cushions with the customary light meal on a tray by his elbow, Arakasi sat quietly, his arm resting in a sling of elaborately knotted string, of a fashion tied by sail hands.
‘You’ve been on a boat,’ Mara observed. ‘Or else in the company of sailors.’
‘Neither,’ Arakasi said in his distinctively modulated voice. ‘But that was the impression I wished to lend the last person I paid for information. Sailors’ gossip is seldom reliable,’ he added conclusively.
Curious who such a person might have been, Mara knew better than to inquire. She had no idea how Arakasi’s network operated, nor who his agents were — that was part of her original agreement when the Spy Master swore service to her house. Mara always saw that Arakasi received whatever he needed to maintain his agents, but she was oath-bound not to ask for names. A spy in house service risked slave’s death by hanging, were he to be discovered, betrayed, or sold out; should Mara’s house fall to an enemy, neither she nor any retainer could break trust. The network would survive to s,erve Ayaki, or in worst case, were the Acoma natami to be buried upside down, forever denied the sunlight, loyal subjects who served as spies could die on the blade without shame in the eyes of the gods.
Arakasi said, ‘Something fortunate has occurred, perhaps. One of our agents in the Minwanabi house has been promoted to the personal service of Tasaio.’
Mara’s eyes widened with pleasure. ‘That is wonderful news.’ Yet as Arakasi’s face betrayed his lack of agreement, she said, ‘You are suspicious?’
‘This is too timely.’ Blandest when he was troubled, Arakasi qualified. ‘We know one agent was discovered and escaped only by means that border upon the miraculous. The other two have been left untroubled — and their intelligence has been accurate for the most part – but something in this rings false.’
Mara considered for a moment, then suggested, ‘Begin to insinuate another agent into the Minwanabi house.’
Arakasi worried at a loose end of string and watched one of the knots come unravelled. ‘Lady, it is too soon after the discovery of our agent, and too near the accession of a new Lord. The Minwanabi will closely examine new candidates for service in any capacity, particularly since Axantucar’s rise to power. At this time it is too risky to send a stranger into the Minwanabi estate.’
Only a fool would not bow to the Spy Master’s judgment. Mara made a tight gesture of frustration, that she had no clear line of intelligence into the one house she feared above all others. Tasaio was too dangerous to remain unwatched. ‘Let me think on this,’ she said to her Spy Master.
Arakasi bowed his head. ‘Your will, my Lady.’ His next item of news was still less welcome. ‘Tecuma of the Anasati is ill.’
‘Gravely?’ Mara sat straight in concern. Despite an antagonism begun in her father’s time, and continued through her late husband’s death, she respected the old Lord. And Ayaki’s safety depended heavily upon the unofficial alliance between the Acoma and Anasati. With a pang of self-recrimination, Mara saw that she had tempted trouble by not taking a suitable husband. One heir was too slender a thread on which to hang Acoma continuance.