‘Upon the blood of your house!’ commanded the priest.
Onlookers could not help but gasp, for the priest made clear the Red God’s price for failure. Desio embraced the same destruction for his entire house, from himself down to his most distant relative – the same ruin he promised the Acoma – should he fail. Even should both sides come to desire truce in the future, no quarter was now possible. Within the near future one of two ancient and honourable houses would cease to exist.
Turakamu hears your offering,’ the priest cried. As Desio released the relic, -the priest spun and gestured to the incomplete gate, which arose like blackened pillars against the sky of sunset. ‘Let this gate stand incomplete, from this day forth. Its posts shall be carved into columns with the promise of the Minwanabi inscribed on each side. Neither shall this monument be changed or taken down until the Acoma are ashes pledged to the glory of Turakamu!’ Then he looked at Desio. ‘Or the Minwanabi are dust!’
Desio dragged himself to his feet. He seemed shaken, overwhelmed by a poor beginning to the grandiose oath he had sworn. Incomo’s lips thinned with anger. If there was an Acoma spy in the Minwanabi household, he had more to worry about than rumours as aftermath from this day’s affairs. The First Adviser studied the expressions of the family members as they departed; most showed strain, a few looked frightened, and here and there a noble swaggered with his chin jutted aggressively. Many would seek to advance themselves in the family hierarchy if Desio proved a weak ruler, but no one seemed particularly satisfied by the terrible turn of the day’s events. Abandoning the attempt to divine the spy by naked will, Income sought his master.
Tasaio stood at the side of his Lord, supporting Desio’s elbow. Although the Lord was the one wearing armour, there was no mistaking which was the warrior. Tasaio’s carriage held the unthinking and deadly grace of the sarcat. Incomo hurried closer. Words reached his ears, blown on the rising winds of an incoming storm.
‘My Lord, you must not look back upon the mishaps of today as ill-omened. You have sworn our family to a powerful oath. Now let us see what we can do about fulfilling it.’
‘Yes,’ Desio agreed woodenly. ‘But where to begin? Mara has cho-ja warriors guarding her estate house; outright assault is folly without the Warlord’s favour. Besides, even should we be victorious, we would be weakened, and a dozen other houses would rush to seek advantage over us.’
‘Ah, but, cousin, I have ideas.’ Tasaio sensed an approaching step, looked around, and identified Incomo. His quick, flashing smile seemed calculated to the First Adviser, despite its spontaneity. ‘Honoured First Adviser, I urge that we convene a meeting. If our Lord can fulfil his oath to the Red God, much glory may be gained for our house.’
Incomo searched the words for irony—to fail a promise to the Death God would bring the Minwanabi to final ruin — and saw that Tasaio was sincere. Then he examined the usually stern face for any hint of deceit, but found none. ‘You have a plan?’
Tasaio’s smile widened. ‘Many plans. But first I understand we have to flush out an Acoma spy.’
While Desio’s soiled face showed muddled astonishment, Incomo struggled to conceal suspicion. ‘How could you know about that, honoured cousin?’
‘But we have no Acoma spies in our midst!’ Desio broke in, suddenly and righteously outraged.
Tasaio laid a calming hand on the young Lord’s arm, his words directed mostly toward Incomo. ‘But we must. How else could that stripling bitch know our last Lord intended to kill her?’
Incomo inclined his head as-if acknowledging a victory. That Tasaio had also surmised the cause of Mara’s survival at the Warlord’s celebration showed the depth of his thinking. ‘Honoured cousin, for the good of us all, I think we should listen to your plans.’ With a withered scowl, he reached out and helped the tall warrior shepherd his Lord back to the shelter of the estate house.
Ancient parquet floors creaked as servants hustled about, adjusting screens and drapes against rising breezes from the south. An approaching storm scudded clouds over the lake’s silvered face, offering early but unmistakable presage of the wet season. The smell of rain mingled with the indoor scents of furniture oils and dust that ingrained the small study, a private chamber used by Jingu and his predecessors to formulate their deepest plots. The painted window screens were small, to discourage observers from the outside, yet the air was never stifling.