Servant of the Empire. Janny Wurts

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СКАЧАТЬ silks. Maddeningly, endlessly, between planning what her life might depend on, she thought of a barbarian slave, who at this moment stood in hot sunlight directing men cutting timber into fencing, six rails to a span, and shoulder-high to a tall warrior. The needra fields were nearly finished, too late for this season’s calves, but well in time to fatten the weanlings for the late-fall markets. Mara blotted her brow in fussy annoyance. She had enough on her mind without adding the question of what she was going to do with Kevin when the new pastures were finished. Perhaps she would sell the man … But her mind dwelt on this idea only a moment before she resolved that some other task must be found to keep him away.

      Mara took her place beside the entrance to the estate house, while Jiro’s litter and escort approached the Acoma borders. Her First Adviser stood at her side, looking uncomfortable beneath sumptuous fine robes and jewels. Although Nacoya enjoyed the authority inherited with her promotion, in some things she outspokenly preferred the duties of a nurse. State dress was one of them. Had Mara been less nervous, she might have smiled at the thought of the elderly servant resenting the fussing and attentions of maids that Mara had been forced to endure life long, at Nacoya’s tireless instigation. The only surcease the Acoma daughter had known had been during her novitiate in the temple of Lashima. Those days, with their tranquil simplicity and hours of scholarly study, seemed far behind her now.

      Mara glanced about her to be sure all was in readiness. Amid the clutter of footmen, soldiers, and servants, she noted one person missing. ‘Where’s Jican?’ she whispered to Nacoya.

      The First Adviser inclined her head, forced to raise a hand to rescue a loosened hairpin. She reset the errant finery with an impatience that had much to do with being awakened from a nap for the purpose of greeting a personage still regarded with venom. Nacoya’s dislike of Buntokapi extended to all his relations, and though Mara knew she could rely on the ancient woman to maintain perfect protocol, the household was likely to suffer several days of grouchy aftermath.

      ‘Your hadonra is in the kitchens, making sure the cooks slice only first-quality fruit for the refreshment trays,’ the former nurse answered tersely.

      Mara raised an eyebrow. ‘He’s more of an old lady than you are. As if the cook needs to be told how to prepare a meal. He would do no less than his best for the sake of Acoma honour.’

      Nacoya whispered, ‘I told Jican to supervise. The cooks might wish to slip an Anasati guest something less than appetizing – their view of honour is different from yours, daughter.’ Buntokapi had not made himself popular in the kitchen, either. Still, Mara kept to herself the thought that even the Acoma chief cook would not shame her house for something as petty as slipping sour fruit to Jiro – no matter how much he would have enjoyed doing so.

      Mara glanced at Nacoya. Silently she considered how easily she had come to regard her house servants as part of the furnishings. That they had actively resented Bunto’s brutality as much as she had never occurred to her; she remembered how rough he had been on them. Her servants and scullions had perhaps suffered worse than she during Buntokapi’s tenure as Lord, and belatedly, Mara remembered to sympathize. Had she been one of those kitchen girls – or her brother, father, or lover – who had been dragged into service in Bunto’s bed, she, too, might have been tempted to feed his brother leavings from the garbage set aside for the jigabirds. Mara repressed a smile at the thought. ‘I must pay more attention to the feelings of my staff, Nacoya, lest I perpetuate Bunto’s thoughtlessness.’

      Nacoya only nodded. Time for talk was past, as the painted red-and-yellow litter and rows of marching warriors filed into the dooryard. Mara fingered the emerald and jade bracelet on her wrist and strove to maintain decorum as the Anasati honour guard snapped to a halt and Jiro’s bearers set down his litter before her doorway.

      At the last possible moment, Jican hurried through the door to take his place beside Nacoya and Tasido, who as senior Acoma Strike Leader commanded the Lady’s honour guard. Wishing Keyoke or Lujan were present in his stead, Mara observed the Anasati soldiers through narrowed eyes. They were not relaxed but spaced in a formation that allowed free access to draw weapons. She had expected no less, yet to be confronted by such readiness for hostility with an elderly officer in charge was not a comfortable circumstance. Old Tasido had arthritis and cataracts; in better times, he would have seen honourable retirement by now. But the Acoma forces had taken too many casualties on the barbarian world when Lord Sezu was betrayed to his death for even one officer to be spared. In another year, or perhaps two, the old man would be given a hut near the river where he could live his remaining days in peace. But today not one sword could be dispensed with.

      Mara had not seen Jiro since her wedding day nearly four years past. Curious as well as cautious, she watched the young man step from his litter. He was well dressed, but not in the gaudy style preferred by his father. His robe was black silk, sparingly trimmed with red tassels. His belt was tastefully adorned with shell and lacquer bosses, and his hair was cut plainly as a warrior’s. He stood taller than his brother Buntokapi had; his build was leaner and he held himself with considerably more grace. The face resembled his mother’s, with high cheekbones and a haughty mouth. His square jaw kept him from looking overbred, but his hands were as fine as a woman’s. He was a handsome man, save for a certain cruelty betrayed around his lips and eyes.

      Jiro bowed with sarcastic perfection.

      ‘Welcome to the house of the Acoma,’ Mara greeted without inflection. She returned his bow, but kept the courtesy brief, in pointed reference to the fact that the Anasati son had brought an armed retinue into her courtyard out of all proportion for a social visit. As was her right as senior in rank, she waited for her guest to begin the formal inquiries. After a pause through which Jiro kept still in the expectation that Mara might blunder and ask after his health, he finally said, ‘Are you well, Lady?’

      Mara gave a curt nod. ‘I am well, thank you. Are you well, Jiro?’

      The young man smiled, but his eyes stayed serpent-cold. ‘I am well, as is the father who sent me.’ He rested a languid hand on the dagger sheathed at his belt. ‘I can see that you are well also, Mara, and if anything, grown more beautiful in motherhood. It is a pity for one so lovely to be widowed so young. Such a waste.’

      If his tone was impeccably polite, his words bordered upon insult. This was no visit of reconciliation. Aware that his attitude approached that of an overlord visiting a vassal, Mara swept up her robes and led the way through the entry, leaving him to follow like a servant. Let him play his parlour games too long and she might be manoeuvred into putting up with him for more than the afternoon. Since Tecuma would be expecting the boy to bring back whatever information on the Acoma he might be able to pry loose, Mara had no intention of letting Jiro gain excuse to stay the night.

      Servants had laid trays of light refreshments in the great hall. Mara seated herself on the dais. She appointed Nacoya the place on her right, and granted Jican the permission to retire that he longed for. Then she waved for Jiro to make himself comfortable on the cushions across from her; the place she accorded him was that of an equal. Given this voluntary courtesy, he could not protest the fact that Tasido and his subofficers would be standing at his back. To place her honour guard on the dais was done only when hostile parties met for parley. This not overtly being the case, Jiro’s bodyguard must remain by the door. Mara’s most trusted house servant plied her noble guest with a bowl to wash his hands, and a towel. He politely inquired what Jiro would prefer to drink, his timing perfectly arranged to keep the guest occupied with trivia. The Lady of the Acoma spoke before Jiro could seize the chance to regroup. ‘Since a man would not require so many soldiers on a visit to console his brother’s widow, I presume your father has some message for me?’

      Jiro stiffened. He recovered his bearing with admirable control and looked up; Mara had struck hard and to the heart. She had turned the memory of the brother who had died to further Acoma standing in the game back upon him, and СКАЧАТЬ