Since the shaming of poor Bruli of the Kehotara a year before, most young noblemen shied clear of the Ruling Lady of the Acoma; Tsurani street gossip consistently took the breath away with its detailed accounts of what occurred in supposedly private bedchambers. While only a handful of servants had witnessed Bruli’s embarrassment, within days every street vendor in the Central Provinces had repeated the tale.
Perhaps some potential suitors had learned of that incident and decided the strong-willed Lady was more trouble than her wealth and title were worth, or perhaps lingering suspicions regarding Lord Buntokapi’s dishonour and death kept others away. Certainly a majority of potential suitors were simply waiting to see if Mara survived much longer.
Even someone as overt in his interest as Hokanu of the Shinzawai could not be expected to wait while Mara indulged in her follies. Each night that Mara dallied with Kevin was an hour she was unavailable to entertain noble sons. Nacoya threw up crabbed hands and made a disgusted sound through her nose. ‘My Lady, if you must call him back, at least ask the herb woman to mix you a potion of barrenness. Bed sport is all to the good, but not if you have the misfortune to conceive accidentally.’
‘Out!’ Mara flushed red, then paled, then blushed again. ‘I am calling my slave back for reprimand, not to indulge his rampant lust!’
Nacoya bowed and beat a retreat as quickly as her ancient bones allowed. In the hall she sighed. Reprimand for what? For being efficient and showing respect to his betters? For extracting more work from his barbarian countrymen than anyone else had been able to do? With a look of unbreakable patience, Nacoya walked to the servants’ building and called upon the herb woman herself, to ensure that an elixir of teriko weed would be left in the Lady’s room by nightfall. With the Minwanabi hot for Acoma blood, all the family needed for folly was a Ruling Lady burdened with a pregnancy.
The afternoon was well spent by the time the exhausted scribe returned from the farthest meadows accompanied by Kevin the barbarian. Having forgotten she had sent other than a runner slave on the errand, Mara’s temper had not improved with the delay, nor at the realization her judgment had been clouded by emotion. Hungry, but too nettled to eat, she waited in her study, while a poet whose verse she had not listened to for the better part of two hours read from a seat on the bare wooden floor. Mara waved him silent each time she heard footsteps in the corridor. The poet resumed with feigned patience each time the tread turned out to be that of a passing servant. If not for the great Lady’s patronage, he would be on the streets in Sulan-Qu, trying to eke out a living composing verse for passersby. When the expected party arrived at last, he graciously bowed at his dismissal; Mara was generous in her ways, and if he felt slighted by her inattention through the afternoon, she would make up the discourtesy to him later.
Cued by striding footfalls, accompanied by the quick patter of feet as a much shorter servant attempted to keep up with the long-legged barbarian, Mara bade the pair enter before either had a chance to knock. The nearly incapacitated scribe pushed the screen open, his face bright red as he gasped, ‘Lady . . . Kevin.’
Too preoccupied to be contrite, Mara dismissed him to rest and leave her alone with her slave. When the screen clicked shut, she regarded Kevin, framed in the space before the doorway. For a long moment neither spoke, then Mara made a curt gesture for the barbarian to step closer.
Kevin complied, deeply suntanned and freckled over the nose, his blue eyes in startling contrast to his darkened skin. His hair had bleached red-gold, and the untrimmed ends fell curling to his shoulders. He wore no shirt. Hours spent digging with his work crews had left him callused and heavily muscled across the back and arms. The intensity of the summer’s heat had taken its due: his precious Midkemian-style trousers had been hacked short at the thigh, and his knees showed old scars and new scratches from the briers. Absorbed with taking in details, and unprepared for the leap of her heart as she saw him again after so long, Mara did not anticipate his anger.
Kevin bowed with insulting brevity. He locked gaze with her and gestured in his un-Tsurani fashion. ‘What do you want of me, Lady?’ He fairly spat out the title.
Mara stiffened on her cushions and the colour left her face. ‘How dare you speak so to me?’ she whispered, barely able to speak.
‘And why should I not?’ Kevin shot back. ‘You push me about like a chess . . . shah pawn! Here! There! Now here again, because it suits you, but never one word of why, and never one second of warning! I’ve done as you’ve bid – not for love of you, but to save the lives of my countrymen.’