Tasaio drummed his fingers upon the cushion at his knee. ‘Send this message to the bitch. I will honour the truce and speak with her.’ Seeing Incomo’s features cloud over, he narrowed yellow eyes. ‘I see no point in all this needless worry. Mara and her brat might have escaped death by a narrow margin, but when I win the white and gold, she shall be the first of my enemies to be removed.’ Graceful, fast, and intent upon his beliefs, he stood. ‘I may be magnanimous. Those silly fools in Clan Hadama will perhaps be allowed to live, but only if they become my vassals after they see me end the Acoma name forever.’ With a rare smile, he added, ‘You worry too much, Incomo. I can always say no to whatever offer Mara makes.’
Incomo remained silent. He had the terrible feeling that if Tasaio rejected Mara’s offer, that would be exactly what she wished. The First Adviser bowed, turned, and went to send the message.
The wind was called butana in the ancient language of the Szetaci people of the Empire. The translation meant ‘wind from demons’, and it blew for days, even weeks at a time. The gusts were dry, whipping out of the distant mountains in fitful, howling bursts. In the hot season, such winds could desiccate a piece of uncovered meat or fruit in hours. In the cool season, the air carried a chill, and at night the temperature dropped, sending people indoors to huddle around fires and under layers of robes. When the butana blew, the common folk said dogs went mad and demons walked the land in the guise of men. Husbands were known to run screaming into the night, never to be seen again, and wives became melancholy to the point of suicide. Legends abounded of supernatural beings who appeared when the butana whined across the land. The Grey Man, an ancient myth, was said to walk the Empire on nights like this. Should a lone traveller meet him, he must answer a riddle, and be rewarded if his solution was found pleasing, or suffer loss of his head if the Grey Man proved dissatisfied. Such were the stories of the butana, the bitter dry wind that blew this night.
Under brilliant stars, atop a hill outside the city walls, two small armies waited, facing one another. Torches guttered and banners flapped in the gusts, casting a flickering transience of light and shadow over faces taut with apprehension. Plumed officers waited before the ranks in motionless formation. And at the head of each army stood a ruler, on one side a woman clothed in shimmering green silk and emeralds and upon the other a lean, predatory figure in jet armour with black and orange bosses.
Positioned equidistant between them, an imperial herald waited, his robe of office gleaming like bone under a wan quarter moon. In a voice loud enough to carry over the wind, he addressed the two forces in attendance. ‘Let it be known that the Imperial Peace is upon this city and the surrounding countryside! Let no man draw his sword in anger or retribution. So commands the Light of Heaven.’ Turning toward the band who surrounded Tasaio, the herald intoned, ‘This Lady, of noble rank and line, claims that she comes to treat with you for the Good of the Empire. My Lord, do you acknowledge?’
Tasaio inclined his head, and the messenger deemed that sufficient. Turning to where Mara waited across a narrow expanse of grass, the herald raised his voice above the wind’s rising whine. ‘My Lady, this Lord answers your call to parley and acknowledges your intent to speak for the Good of the Empire.’
Mara returned a bow, making a point of correct courtesy to contrast with her enemy’s lapse.
The herald received his due without reassurance. His stance between two enemies sworn to blood feud was precarious, and he knew it; family honour might be trustworthy when two such ancient lines were involved, but a single hothead among the ranks of common warriors could precipitate a massacre. He needed all of his training to speak steadily to those within earshot. ‘What is the highest duty?’
Every man, woman, and warrior present answered with the phrase: ‘To serve the Empire.’
By crossing his arms, the imperial herald signalled for the principal parties to approach. That moment the butana drove down in a whipping gust, its sound like the moan of a dirge. Trying not to take the incident as omen, the herald completed his office. ‘My Lady, my Lord, I shall await at a distance, so that you may discourse untroubled.’
He withdrew at a rate that was barely within the limits of propriety, leaving Mara and Tasaio faced off with but two paces between them.
Unwilling to succumb to the indignity of shouting over the wind, Mara left the opening words to Tasaio. Predictably, he did not begin with politeness or salutations. His thin lips curled slightly at the corners, and in the unpredictable flicker of the torches, his eyes seemed to shine like a sarcat’s. ‘Mara, this is a situation I had not anticipated.’ He waved his hand, indicating the odd surroundings, the poised warriors, and the snapping banners that were all in the tableau that seemed alive. ‘I could draw my sword and end this now.’
Defiantly matching his malice, she answered, ‘And disgrace your house’s name? I think not, Tasaio.’ Her tone turned dry. ‘That would be too much’ – she fixed him with dark eyes – ‘even for a Minwanabi.’