Aware of Nacoya’s taut stillness at her elbow, Mara turned to the next issue at hand. ‘What of Minwanabi?’
Arakasi’s hands stilled on the sickle. ‘I worry, mistress, precisely because I have nothing to report. Tasaio conducts the business of his household much as you do your own, but with nothing that I would account extraordinarily significant.’ The Spy Master exchanged glances with Mara’s First Adviser. ‘This goes against expectations. Upon hearing of your rise to the primacy of the clan, Tasaio should have been moved to act at once. But instead . . .’ Arakasi glanced about, then said, ‘One other thing: the Minwanabi have begun a primitive spy network and are attempting to insinuate agents into several locations throughout the Empire. They are not hard to spot, since Incomo, the Minwanabi First Adviser, proceeds in a heavy-handed manner. I have men watching his men and am reasonably certain we can infiltrate his ring soon. That will give us a secondary access to his household and affairs, and when this is accomplished I shall feel reassured. Yet I dare not proceed too quickly. The whole operation may be an elaborate ploy to draw us out.’
And yet, Mara sensed, that would not be Tasaio’s style. The subtleties in his nature tended toward cruelty, and his tactics to military violence. Involved in deep thoughts once again, she absently waved dismissal to her Spy Master. She did not notice him leaving, and had forgotten Nacoya was in the room until the old woman spoke.
‘I feel a chill in my bones, daughter.’
Mara started slightly. ‘What worries you, Nacoya?’
‘Minwanabi plots. You rely too much on Arakasi’s informants. They may be well placed, but they are not everywhere. They are not at Tasaio’s side when he squats or when he lies atop his wife, and you must believe that this is a man who plots murder even while relieving himself or taking a woman to his bed.’
Mara found nothing humorous in the images, for Nacoya spoke truth. Arakasi’s agents might have ferreted out nothing overtly threatening toward her house, but the reports were disturbing nonetheless. Tasaio ruled his household with a wayward, cunning viciousness. His abuses were those that tormented the mind and heart, and yet, where a sworn enemy was concerned, Mara knew there was no blood in the Empire he would rather spill than her own, and her young son Ayaki’s.
23 – Sortie
The year passed.
Distracted with worry over continuing trade difficulties and Tasaio’s apparent lack of activity, Mara waited as the rainy season came and went. Needra calves were weaned from their mothers, and the little bulls charged around the meadow; when they were sufficiently grown, the herdsmen picked out those that were gelded and those that were to be used for breeding. Crops were planted and harvested and an uncertain peace held sway. Days slipped by without any resolution to Mara’s uncertainty. A thousand responses to a thousand possible assaults were discussed and discarded, and no Minwanabi threat materialized. A thousand moves in the Game of the Council were planned, but the Emperor did not relent in his edict against the High Council.
Seated in her study in the cooler hours of early morning, and clad in a loose, short robe, Mara studied the slates and parchments Jican had left for her. Since her frustrating setback in Kentosani, Acoma fortunes were improving. Her assumption of the position of Clan Warchief had precipitated no disasters. Gradually, the herds were recovering from the outlays made necessary from the Dustari campaign; the silk trade at last was flourishing. Although Nacoya seized every opportunity to nag that her mistress was neglecting the matter of marriage, Mara refused to be moved. With Tasaio consolidating his power as Lord of the Minwanabi, even someone from a family as favourably placed these days as was Hokanu’s would be foolish to agree to a union until the issue between Minwanabi and Acoma had been decided. Except for Xacatecas and, less dependably, Anasati, alliances with the Acoma had become tentative. Mara sighed and pushed back a fallen lock of hair. Not yet strong enough to initiate the first overture, she had grown practised at waiting.
A soft tap at the screen disturbed her.
Mara gestured for the servant hovering beyond the door to enter.
He bowed. ‘My Lady, there is a bonded messenger awaiting you in the antechamber.’
‘Send him in.’ Mara had enjoyed two hours of quiet contemplation since dawn and, now that the inevitable interruption had occurred, she was anxious to know the news.
The courier brought before her was dusty from the road and clad in a tunic of bleached cloth, tagged on the sleeves with the badge of a guild from Pesh. Since Mara had no dealings with any family from that city, this piqued her interest.