Despite all care, Jiro bridled. ‘No real cause?’ His handsome features went blank to hide an unreasoning flash of anger. ‘The death of my brother is not cause?’
Chumaka laid the scroll on a nearby table as though he stood balanced on a silken cord. The room was airless and hot, and he could not keep from sweating. Buntokapi’s death was an excuse, he knew too well; as boys, the siblings had been constantly in contention, Bunto frequently bullying and tormenting the less athletic Jiro. That Mara had overlooked Jiro and chosen Bunto for her husband had never for a day been forgiven, despite the Lady’s selection having been determined by flaws, not virtues. She had taken the fool she could exploit above the better man; yet that distinction held no meaning in terms of childhood rivalry. Bunto had been a Ruling Lord first, never mind that the prize had been poisoned, and that ultimately Jiro lived to inherit the mantle of the Anasati. The wound festered because the young man nursed boyhood grudges. Though he sat in his father’s seat, Jiro could not shed the resentment of an upbringing where he continually ranked second: behind the heir, Halesko, and even behind plodding Bunto.
Chumaka knew better than to argue. Unlike his father, the young master was more concerned with being right than with the subtleties of winning the Great Game. The First Adviser tempered his phrases accordingly, as finicky as a cook choosing seasonings. ‘Of course, my Lord, the injury still causes pain. Forgive my insensitivity, but I referred more to legal distinctions than to ties of birth. Your brother renounced his allegiance to House Anasati when he assumed the Acoma mantle. In strict interpretation, no harm was done to House Anasati – an Acoma Lord died of Mara’s machinations. I was remiss not to allow for your personal grief at the loss of a brother.’
Jiro swallowed frustration that his sly-witted First Adviser had outmanoeuvred him. At times the man was too crafty; that his worth was incalculable for that reason did not make him any more likeable. With a flash of annoyance, Jiro said, ‘You’re cunning enough, in your own fashion, Chumaka. But I warrant you play the game as much for your own amusement as for the glory of House Anasati.’
This bit a little too near the bone for Chumaka’s liking, even had the remark not come close to an outright accusation of disloyalty. ‘In all ways I strive for Anasati triumph, master.’ Quickly changing the topic, he asked, ‘Shall we send a reply to Mara, Lord?’
Jiro waved casual assent. ‘Yes, write something . . . suitable. But make it clear I’d as soon rape her while my soldiers burned her house as send her — no, don’t put that in.’ Jiro slapped his thigh, disgusted with the innuendoes of politics when he much preferred to articulate his true feelings on the matter.
A smile touched him as he thought of something. ‘No. Thank Mara for her condolences. Then make clear to her that, out of respect for my father, I’ll continue to honour his commitment. I will seek no conflict with the Acoma while my nephew lives.’ After a poisonous pause, Jiro added, ‘But also make it plain that, unlike my father, I will only feel regret if Ayaki dies. If my nephew is threatened, Anasati warriors will not rush to his rescue.’
Chumaka bowed. ‘I shall word the message in the appropriate manner, Lord.’
Jiro dismissed his adviser, brusque with impatience to be back to his library. Except when it came to gratification of his passions, the new Lord preferred his collection of book scrolls to politics.
Yet the Anasati First Adviser showed no trace of disappointment as he hastened back to the cubby that served as his personal quarters. There, seated behind a cramped desk, a clerk scratched figures on a slate, an opened ledger by his elbow. On a second desk that overshadowed Chumaka’s sleeping mat, documents had already been separated into three piles: messages that were of no immediate concern, those that needed relatively quick attention, and those that required urgency.
One note rested alone in the last pile. Chumaka picked it up and perused the contents before he thought to sit down. He scanned the lines twice and then laughed. ‘Aha! At last, after all these years!’ Turning to the clerk, a young man talented enough to warrant appointment as the First Adviser’s personal clerk, Chumaka said, ‘Mara of the Acoma has been too lucky, by anyone’s measure, since she came to power. Here we see one reason why.’
The clerk looked myopically at his superior. ‘Sir?’
Chumaka settled into his favourite seat, a cushion so threadbare and faded that the cleaning slaves spoke of it as an heirloom. ‘Kavai, my agent in Sulan-Qu, saw a clerk of a factor for the Lord of the Minwanabi passing a message to an Acoma servant. What does that tell you?’