Janny Wurts - Daughter of the Empire

‘The Red Hands of the Flower Brotherhood, my Lady. Hired murderers of no clan, fanatics who believe to kill or be killed is to be sanctified by Turakamu, that death is the only prayer the god will hear. When they accept a commission they vow to kill their victims or die in the attempt.’ He paused, while the gardener made an instinctive sign of protection: the Red God was feared. With a cynical note, Keyoke observed, ‘Yet many in power understand that the Brotherhood will offer their unique prayer only when the tong has been paid a rich fee.’ His voice fell to almost a mutter as he added, ‘And the Hamoi are very accommodating as to whose soul shall offer that prayer to Turakamu.’

‘Why had I not been told of these before?’

‘They are not part of the normal worship of Turakamu, mistress. It is not the sort of thing fathers speak of to daughters who are not heirs.’ Nacoya’s voice implied reprimand.

Though it was now too late for recriminations, Mara said, ‘I begin to see what you meant about needing to discuss many things right away.’ Expecting to be led away, Mara began to turn toward her quarters. But the old woman held her; too shaken to question, Mara obeyed the cue to remain.

Papewaio stepped away from the others, then dropped to one knee in the grass. The shadow of the ceremonial gate darkened his face, utterly hiding his expression as he drew his sword and reversed it, offering the weapon hilt first to Mara. ‘Mistress, I beg leave to take my life with the blade.’

For a long moment Mara stared uncomprehendingly. ‘What are you asking?’

‘I have trespassed into the Acoma contemplation glade, my Lady.’

Overshadowed by the assassination attempt, the enormity of Papewaio’s act had not registered upon Mara until this instant. He had entered the glade to save her, despite the knowledge that such a transgression would earn him a death sentence without appeal.

As Mara seemed unable to respond, Keyoke tried delicately to elaborate on Pape’s appeal. ‘You ordered Jican, Nacoya, and myself not to accompany you to the glade, Lady. Papewaio was not mentioned. He hid himself near the ceremonial gate; at the sound of a struggle he sent the gardener to fetch us, then entered.’

The Acoma Force Commander granted his companion a rare display of affection; for an instant the corners of his mouth turned up, as if he acknowledged victory after a difficult battle. Then his hint of a smile vanished. ‘Each one of us knew such an attempt upon you was only a matter of time. It is unfortunate that the assassin chose this place; Pape knew the price of entering the glade.’

Keyoke’s message to Mara was clear: Papewaio had affronted Mara’s ancestors by entering the glade, earning himself a death sentence. But not to enter would have entailed a fate far worse. Had the last Acoma died, every man and woman Papewaio counted a friend would have become houseless persons, little better than slaves or outlaws. No warrior could do other than Papewaio had done; his life was pledged to Acoma honour. Keyoke was telling Mara that Pape had earned a warrior’s death, upon the blade, for choosing life for his mistress and all those he loved at the cost of his own life. But the thought of the staunch warrior dying as a result of her own naïveté was too much for Mara. Reflexively she said, ‘No.’

Assuming this to mean he was denied the right to die without shame, Papewaio bent his head. Black hair veiled his eyes as he flipped his sword, neatly, with no tremor in his hands, and drove the blade into the earth at his Lady’s feet. Openly regretful, the gardener signalled his two assistants. Carrying rope, they hurried forward to Papewaio’s side. One began to bind Papewaio’s hands behind him while the other tossed a long coil of rope over a stout tree branch.

For a moment Mara was without comprehension, then understanding struck her: Papewaio was being readied for the meanest death, hanging, a form of execution reserved for criminals and slaves. Mara shook her head and raised her voice. ‘Stop!’

Everyone ceased moving. The assistant gardeners paused with their hands half-raised, looking first to the head gardener, then to Nacoya and Keyoke, then to their mistress. They were clearly reluctant to carry out this duty, and confusion over their Lady’s wishes greatly increased their discomfort.

Nacoya said, ‘Child, it is the law.’

Gripped by an urge to scream at them all, Mara shut her eyes. The stress, her mourning, the assault, and now this rush to execute Papewaio for an act caused by her irresponsible behaviour came close to overwhelming her. Careful not to burst into tears, Mara answered firmly. ‘No … I haven’t decided.’ She looked from face to impassive face and added, ‘You will all wait until I do. Pape, take up your sword.’

Her command was a blatant flouting of tradition; Papewaio obeyed in silence. To the gardener, who stood fidgeting uneasily, she said, ‘Remove the assassin’s body from the glade.’ With a sudden vicious urge to strike at something, she added, ‘Strip it and hang it from a tree beside the road as a warning to any spies who may be near. Then cleanse the natami and drain the pool; both have been defiled. When all is returned to order, send word to the priests of Chochocan to come and reconsecrate the grove.’

Though all watched with unsettled eyes, Mara turned her back. Nacoya roused first. With a sharp click of her tongue, she escorted her young mistress into the cool quiet of the house. Papewaio and Keyoke looked on with troubled thoughts, while the gardener hurried off to obey his mistress’s commands.

The two assistant gardeners coiled the ropes, exchanging glances. The ill luck of the Acoma had not ended with the father and the son, so it seemed. Mara’s reign as Lady of the Acoma might indeed prove brief, for her enemies would not rest while she learned the complex subtleties of the Game of the Council. Still, the assistant gardeners seemed to silently agree, such matters were in the hands of the gods, and the humble in life were always carried along in the currents of the mighty as they rose and fell. None could say such a fate was cruel or unjust. It simply was.

The moment the Lady of the Acoma reached the solitude of her quarters, Nacoya took charge. She directed servants who bustled with subdued efficiency to make their mistress comfortable. They prepared a scented bath while Mara rested on cushions, absently fingering the finely embroidered shatra birds that symbolized her house. One who did not know her would have thought her stillness the result of trauma and grief; but Nacoya observed the focused intensity of the girl’s dark eyes and was not fooled. Tense, angry, and determined, Mara already strove to assess the far-reaching political implications of the attack upon her person. She endured the ministrations of her maids without her usual restlessness, silent while the servants bathed her and dressed her wounds. A compress of herbs was bound around her bruised and lacerated right hand. Nacoya hovered anxiously by while Mara received a vigorous rub by two elderly women who had ministered to Lord Sezu in the same manner. Their old fingers were surprisingly strong; knots of muscular tension were sought out and gradually kneaded away. Afterwards, clothed in clean robes, Mara still felt tired, but the attentions of the old women had eased away nervous exhaustion.

Nacoya brought chocha, steaming in a fine porcelain cup. Mara sat before a low stone table and sipped the bitter drink, wincing slightly as the liquid aggravated her bruised throat. In the grove she had been too shocked by the attack to feel much beyond a short burst of panic and fear. Now she was surprised to discover herself too wrung out to register any sort of reaction. The slanting light of afternoon brightened the paper screens over the windows, as it had throughout her girlhood. Far off, she could hear the whistles of the herdsmen in the needra meadows, and near at hand, Jican’s voice reprimanding a house slave for clumsiness. Mara closed her eyes, almost able to imagine the soft scratch of the quill pen her father had used to draft instructions to distant subordinates; but Minwanabi treachery had ended such memories forever. Reluctantly Mara acknowledged the staid presence of Nacoya.