The drums stilled.
Silence fell over the grounds of the Acoma estate for the first time since the funeral rites three days past. The priests of Turakamu summoned for the occasion packed their clay masks and departed in single-file procession. Only the red bunting on the front door posts remained as a visible reminder of the recently departed; but to Mara the estate house would never again seem the secure haven she recalled from her childhood.
She was not alone in her disquiet. Ayaki cried himself to sleep at nights; Kevin rested beside him, a strange ghostly figure in white bandages, who cheered him when he could with stories, called servants to light lanterns when the boy lay trembling in the dark, and calmed him when he woke up distraught from nightmares. Mara sat often at the boy’s bedside, quiet, or speaking desultorily with Kevin. She tried to ignore the twelve warriors who stood guard at each window and door. Now she could not pass even the shadows beneath the shrubs in her gardens without looking sideways for assassins.
After an exhaustive search, Lujan’s trackers had discovered the dead assassin’s trail onto her estate; the killer had taken time to complete his infiltration, here spending a night in a tree, and there leaving a depression under a hedge where he had lain for hours, waiting motionless for a break between patrols or a servant to pass. Plainly Tasaio of the Minwanabi had reversed his tactics since the Night of the Bloody Swords. Where numbers and sheer force had failed before, his most recent attempt had been furtive, involving just a single man. Lujan did not have soldiers enough to beat every bush and vine and fence row daily to search for lurking intruders. The Acoma sentries had not been the least bit lax; simply, the estate lands were too wide and too open to be maintained in flawless security.
Nacoya and a patrol of brave warriors were ashes, but aching failure lingered in Mara’s mind. A week passed before she steadied enough to ask for Arakasi.
The hour was late evening, and Mara sat in her study beside a nearly untouched supper tray. Her request for the Spy Master’s presence had been carried by her little runner slave, who now bowed until his forehead touched the waxed floor.
‘Lady,’ he said, still prone. ‘Your Spy Master is not here. Jican regrets to inform you that he left your lands within the hour after the attack upon your person and son. He told no one of his destination, nor did he give a date for his return.’
Seated on her cushions under the hot lamplight, Mara stayed motionless for so long that the slave boy began to tremble.
She stared at the painted murals commissioned by her last husband, Buntokapi, the ones that depicted bloody battle scenes in rioting brilliance. From the rapt look on Mara’s face, she appeared to be seeing them for the first time. It was most unlike the mistress not to notice her slave boy’s discomfort, for she was fond of him, and patted him often on the head when he rendered quick service.
‘Lady?’ he offered timorously, when minutes passed and his knees began to ache.
Mara stirred and came back to herself. She realized the moon stood well up in the sky beyond the screen, and the wicks burned low in her oil lamps, ‘You may retire,’ she bade with a sigh.
The boy scurried from the room in grateful haste. Mara continued as she was, while servants entered and removed the untouched dishes. But she waved away the maids who expected her to retire, and stayed toying with a dry quill pen, a blank parchment sheet spread before her. Hours passed, and she did not write. Night insects sang in the garden beyond the screens, and the relief watch changed guard at midnight.
It simply was not conceivable that Arakasi was a traitor; and yet, in low words, members of her household suggested so. Mara twisted the pen, anguished. She had delayed any formal summons, hoping the man would present himself and prove beyond any question he had no part in Tasaio’s attempt on her house. Keyoke had stayed closemouthed on the subject, and the usually outspoken Saric was reluctant to speak. Even Jican took care not to linger for a chat after his reports on estate finance. Mara tossed the quill pen aside and massaged her temples with her fingers.
It was most painfully plain that Arakasi could be suspect.
Were he to turn coat, her danger was multiplied. Over the years, he had been entrusted with her household’s deepest secrets. There was no aspect of her affairs that he did not know intimately. And he detested the Minwanabi as she did.
Or did he?
Mara sweated in torment. If his desire for revenge had been an act, what better ploy to gain her confidence than to revile the same enemy that had ruined her father and brother?