Still feeling oddly out of sorts, Mara made an effort to concentrate. Kevin’s dry observations on Tsurani politics were right on one point: these men were more in love with their own prerogatives than haters of cruelty, murder, and waste. Freshly aware that her own thinking had changed to a degree incomprehensible to all but a handful of her ruling peers, Mara regarded her clansmen and allies, and strove for tact. ‘Those who cling to tradition blindly, or out of fear of change, are fools. To embrace Tasaio is to hold a relli to your bosom. He will take warmth and nourishment, but in the end he will kill. Allow him to blunt the Emperor’s power, and you choose a worse course than absolute imperial rule. The Minwanabi Lord is a young man. He could hold the white and gold for decades. He is clever, ruthless, and, if I may speak bluntly, captivated by the pain of others. He is a clever enough player of the game that he might make question of the succession a moot issue. Almecho and Axantucar came close to creating a family office. Is the ambition of Tasaio of the Minwanabi any less?’
Several of the Lords glanced at one another, for they had been among those inclined to back Tasaio’s predicted bid for the white and gold. With the Omechan Clan crushed by Axantucar’s shame, the Minwanabi were left unrivalled as first claimants to the office. Lord Xacatecas was too young, and Lord Keda too closely allied with the Blue Wheel Party to gainsay the Emperor. The only possible rival bid would be Lord Tonmargu, if the Anasati lent full support; yet Jiro was not deemed reliable — his own agenda was not yet clear, and he had plainly indicated he would not be following in his father’s footsteps. More than street gossips and rumour-mongers were convinced that Tasaio would be the next Warlord. The more pertinent question seemed to be whether he would gain the white and gold peacefully, or by means of bloody war.
Of all present, Lord Chekowara was the only one relaxed enough to avail himself of the cakes upon the refreshment trays. Dusting crumbs from his chin, he offered his own opinion. ‘Mara, in all you have done since becoming Ruling Lady, you have consistently shown a brilliant ability to extemporize. May we assume that you have some unexpected twist of the rope in store for Tasaio?’
Unsure how much this question might be rooted in bitterness over her assumption of his former office, and how much an honest plea for reassurance, Mara sought some hint of expression to give her clue. But Lord Benshai’s corpulent face remained impassive. Mara dared not answer carelessly. By forcing her clan to unquestioned obedience to her will, she had also taken on responsibility for ensuring their survival. Although she still had no idea what she would do, rather than let her doubts shake the foundation of her newly forged alliance, she chose to be evasive. ‘Tasaio shall not command more than worms in the soil before long, my Lord.’
The other Lords present exchanged glances. Since to challenge this outright statement would involve a point of honour, no one rushed to speak in contradiction. After an awkward minute, the Lords of Clan Hadama began to rise and bid their Warchief good day. All knew that before the close of the week, Tasaio would march into the city to confront the Emperor and demand a restoration of the High Council’s power. Just how Mara intended to prevent him was beyond anyone’s guess; certainly she lacked the military might to challenge the Minwanabi Lord’s in the field. Yet she had wits, and enough presence that even Benshai of the Chekowara dared not speak against her under her own roof.
The last Lord departed, and, returned from seeing the clan rulers to the door, Saric entered the courtyard garden and was surprised to find his mistress still seated by the fountain. Unofficially filling Nacoya’s role as First Adviser, he inquired gently if there was anything his Lady might require.
Mara took a long moment to answer. Turning a face that seemed shockingly pale, she murmured, ‘Have my maid attend me, please.’
The phrasing was most unlike her. Aware that in some things he could never fill Nacoya’s sandals, and also by canny intuition sensing that somehow his mistress needed more understanding than he had the background to offer, Saric floundered at a loss. ‘Are you ill, Lady?’
Mara seemed to struggle for speech. ‘Simply a disagreeable stomach. It will pass.’
But Saric knew naked fear. She looked suddenly very frail. Afraid she might be taken with the summer fever, or, worse, that an enemy might have found means to poison her food, the Acoma adviser took another quick step forward.
His worry was sharp enough for Mara to take notice. ‘I will be recovered within the hour,’ she reassured him and followed with a weak wave of her hand. ‘My maid will know how to make me comfortable.’