‘I heard that,’ called a voice well trained from the drill field. Keyoke emerged from the ranks of Mara’s bodyguard, a craggy silhouette incongruously propped on a crutch. He paused to speak emphatic instructions to Kenji, to snap at a man for sloppy posture; then, plainly reluctant to leave the warriors, he shot a disparaging glance at Kevin and assumed his post before Mara’s litter,
‘My Lady.’ He bowed with well-practised balance and replaced his crutch beneath his shoulder. Then he looked intently at his mistress, as if he marshalled words instead of troops. His voice dropped, so that the soldiers would not overhear. ‘Daughter of my heart, I feel uneasy about this trip. The fact that Lord Xaltepo sent speech in the mouth of a messenger rather than written above his family chop has suspicious overtones.’
Mara frowned. ‘They are a small family with few ties. If I were to decline alliance, and that parchment with their personal chop should fall into Tasaio’s hands, what do you think would become of them? The Minwanabi have obliterated other families for far less cause.’ She bit her lip. ‘No. I think Arakasi is right, and that Tasaio finally sees that much of what we’ve done has been built upon financial gain and now he must counter further Acoma expansion.’
Keyoke raised his hand, as if he had begun to scratch his chin and then thought better of it. Instead he took Mara’s wrist and gently settled her into the litter. ‘Go with the good gods’ grace, my Lady.’
He stepped back as Mara waved for the bearers to lift her litter. Then Kenji gave the command to march, and the small cortege started forward. As Kevin moved to fall into step beside his mistress, Keyoke caught his elbow in a grip still callused and strong.
‘Protect her,’ he said, an urgency in his tone that Kevin had never heard before. ‘Let no harm come to her, or I’ll kick you with more than my battle sandals.’
Kevin grinned insouciantly. ‘Keyoke, old friend, if harm comes to Mara, you’ll have to settle for kicking my corpse, because by then I’ll already be dead.’
The Adviser for War nodded, allowing that this was true. He released the slave and turned quickly away while Mara’s escort and bearers marched into the mist. Kevin hastened to catch up, looking often over his shoulder. Far less the foreigner than he once was, the Midkemian would have sworn that the crafty old warrior had something pressing on his mind.
* * *
By the time the rising sun burned the mist off the valleys, Mara and her honour guard were deep in the forest that covered the foothills of the Kyamaka Mountains. Before the day’s traffic of caravans began, and out of sight of early couriers, they turned off the main road, striking down a narrow trail that threaded ever deeper into the wilds. Daylight was not strong here, and the mist lingered, lending a gloom to the wood and the drip of wet trees. Already the damp heat was oppressive. Strike Leader Kenji motioned his small column of warriors to halt for a short break, and to allow a change of bearers for Mara’s litter. The escort was too small to include a water boy; the slaves carried crocks from the spring by the roadside, helped by Kevin, who felt sorry for their plight. Mara was not a heavy load to carry, but this day her haste was great, and the bearers just relieved from duty were sweat-drenched and panting.
Crock in hand, Kevin knelt at the verge of a still, mossy” pool fed by a spring from a fissure in the rocks. Intrigued by the alien orange moss that clothed the banks, and by the iridescent flash of fish that darted through aqua strands of weed, he only half heard Strike Leader Kenji say to Mara that the scout who held back to watch the trail for followers was slow to report.
‘We shall delay to see if he arrives,’ the officer decided, if he does not come within a minute, I suggest we slip into the cover of the trees, until a man can be sent to investigate.’
Kevin grinned to himself and bent to fill his basin. The scout in question was Juratu, a quick-witted, lively man who liked his pleasures; he had kept late hours gambling with friends the night before. If he had drunk half as much wine as barracks rumour claimed, he’d likely be found moving at less than anticipated speed, slowed by a grandfather of hangovers.
One of the soldiers said as much to Kenji, then added that this was the haunt of grey warriors, and perhaps Juratu had paused to observe their movements. Another dryly suggested he might be bartering with them for a wineskin. Kevin indulged in a chuckle; had the Lady herself not been present, such an antic would certainly be within Juratu’s reputation. Thinking of grey warriors, and his few Midkemian companions who had escaped and taken refuge in these forests, Kevin peered through the trees as he rose.
The mist was lifting. Pale spears of sunlight fell through the canopy of branches. Had Kevin not been half-expectantly looking for the chance-met shape of a man, he would have missed the movement: the brief, flickering sight of a face through the leaves, there, and then hastily gone.