The Minwanabi Lord’s armoury was a small, windowless chamber with sanded wood walls, laid out with pegs for swords and stands for storing body armour. Tasaio’s single personal indulgence since becoming Ruling Lord had been to purchase extravagant sets of arms for himself, some plain and deadly, designed for the rigours of war, others resplendent with lacquer and chasing, for dress occasions; yet a third variety was thin and strong and without fluting, designed to be secretly worn under clothing. Tasaio roved from stand to stand, stroking helms and breastplates and sword hilts, then examining his fingertips for dust. The slaves and servants who attended this chamber knew well to keep it immaculate; predecessors who had failed the Lord’s inspections had not survived his displeasure.
Uncomfortable in the small, airless room, Incomo compromised his uneasiness by standing farthest from the lamp, which was hot, and drew unwanted attention to his actions, should the master’s narrow scrutiny fall upon him. Still as every Minwanabi servant had lately learned to become, he waited while the Lord roved from sword to sword, and helm to helm, stopping occasionally to arrange a buckle or a boss, or to finger the edge of a blade.
Tasaio was testing a dagger when the courier bowed at the door. The Lord flicked the barest glance over the man’s guild badges, just enough to note the colours of the Sulan-Qu denomination. He spoke in his deceptively gentle manner. ‘What message do you carry?’
The man straightened. ‘An overture from Mara of the Acoma,’ he began, and silenced instantly as Tasaio whipped around in a breathtaking blur of speed.
The messenger swallowed awkwardly against the pressure of a sword tip against his throat. He looked into the eyes of the man who held the weapon, and saw there a flat lack of expression that terrified him to his soul. ‘My Lord,’ he quavered, ‘I am but a guild messenger hired to bear letters.’
Tasaio moved no muscle. ‘And do you bring me a letter?’ His voice had not altered a hair’s-breadth.
Incomo cautiously cleared his throat. ‘My Lord, the guild’s runner is blameless, and his life protected by oath.’
‘Is he?’ Tasaio fired back. ‘Let him speak for himself.’
The messenger sucked in a difficult breath. ‘Mara requests a meeting,’ he began, and stopped at a twitch from the blade.
‘You will not mention that name under this roof, within these walls.’ Tasaio gave another light dig with the weapon, and teased a trickle of scarlet from the skin beneath the point. ‘What does this thrice-accursed Lady ask a meeting for? I wish no parley. I want only her death.’
The messenger blinked uncomfortably. Suspecting that he reported to a madman, and convinced he would end with a cut throat, he gathered his dignity and bravely concluded the words he had been employed by his guild to deliver.
‘This Lady asks that the Lord of the Minwanabi visit her estate for the purpose of a mutual discussion.’
Tasaio smiled slowly. Impressed by the little man’s courage, he lowered the sword, wiped the point clean on a polishing cloth, then replaced the weapon on its pegs. As an afterthought, he tossed the rag to the messenger, along with gestured permission to tend the scratch on his throat.
The guildsman lacked the effrontery to refuse; he lifted the lightly oiled cloth to his neck and began tentatively to dab. And as though no stranger were present, Tasaio resumed his inspection. Roving between items in his collection, he spoke to his adviser as if they were the only occupants of the room. .
‘Ah, Incomo, I believe I have frightened her badly,’ he said. ‘My ambush and my assassin might not have accomplished my ends, but Sezu’s little bitch is running scared. Luck has helped her cause, but fortune never endures. She knows she cannot last another year.’ The Minwanabi Lord abandoned one armour stand for the next. He fingered a plated garget as if probing for a weakness. ‘Perhaps the Lady offers compromise, say, a sacrifice of the Acoma name and line, in exchange for survival for her son?’
Incomo bowed with due respect. ‘My Lord, that is a dangerous assumption. As well as you, the Lady knows the time for compromise is past. She initiated blood feud with your uncle Jingu; and Desio made pledge to Turakamu. For the sake of her ancestors’ honour, and against the Red God’s displeasure, she must know she has no position from which to bargain.’
Tasaio let the plates of the gorget fall with a click like the rolling of game dice. ‘She is desperate,’ he insisted. ‘Let her come to me here, if she has a desire to speak.’
The armour room seemed stiflingly claustrophobic. Incomo risked a small movement to mop his brow, and dared another interruption. ‘My Lord, I hesitate to remind: the Lord Jingu underestimated the girl, and in this very home she forced a situation that required him to take his own life.’
Sandals scraped lightly on waxed wood as Tasaio leaned an elbow on a fine suit of armour. The tawny eyes he fixed on his First Adviser were wide and bright in the lamplight. ‘I am not a coward,’ he said softly. ‘And my uncle was a fool.’
Incomo nodded hasty agreement. ‘But even the bravest man should do better to act with caution.’