Daughter of the Empire (30 page)

Ayaki gave a last, deafening squeal and grabbed her beads. Prying his grip from her throat, Mara pretended indifference to her husband’s indulgence. ‘Whatever my Lord requires.’

Bunto returned one of his rare smiles, and ducking a swipe of Ayaki’s tiny fist, Mara wondered briefly on the mistress, Teani. What sort of woman would infatuate a brute like her husband? But Buntokapi’s pleased expression vanished as, with faultless timing, Jican appeared with a dozen scrolls in hand. ‘My Lord, by the grace of the gods, you are back fortuitously. I have some papers dealing with matters of your distant holdings that need your immediate approval.’

With a beleaguered cry, Bunto said, ‘Fortuitous! I must return to the city tonight.’ He stalked from Mara’s presence without so much as a good-bye, but his wife seemed not to care. Her eyes were fixed on the rosy face of her son as, drooling, he tried with fierce concentration to stuff her amber beads in his mouth. ‘Your appetites might kill you one day,’ she warned mildly; but whether she referred to her husband or his offspring only the gods might guess. After rescuing her jewellery, Mara smiled. The mistress, Teani, had wrapped another twist into the fabric of ideas evolved since the day the grey warriors had sworn service. The hour had come to begin Buntokapi’s education on what it really took to conduct the business of the Acoma.

Alone in the cool shadow of the nursery, Mara consulted the wax tally started in secret during the last month. No one would interrupt her. Nacoya was out with Ayaki, and the slave who changed the covers in the crib could not read. Reflectively Mara chewed the end of her stylus. Each day Buntokapi visited his town house, she had sent at least one servant or Jican with some minor document to sign. From their dozens of reports, she had patiently pieced together the fact that her husband lived a very patterned existence. When in Sulan-Qu, Buntokapi arose at mid-morning, but never later than the third hour after sunrise. He would then walk to a public training arena where mercenary guards and warriors whose masters were staying in the city gathered to practise at arms. Buntokapi preferred wrestling and archery to sword work, but with a diligence that had surprised Gijan he now practised all three. His technique with the blade improved steadily, but he still chose the company of common soldiers over that of the other lords who occasionally availed themselves of the facilities. Midday saw him bathed and changed and on the way to his town house; for about two hours thereafter he remained receptive to any work sent from the estates by Mara. His mistress, Teani, was rarely out of bed before mid-afternoon, and his tolerance for business fled the instant she awoke. With a charm that even the oldest messenger had described with admiration, she would lure Buntokapi to her bed until barely enough time remained to rise and dress for dinner. Then the couple would attend the theatre to see comedies, the taverns to listen to minstrels, or the gambling houses, though Teani had no wealth except what came to her as gifts. She derived a perverse pleasure from encouraging her paramour to bet, and if he lost, rumour held that her eyes sparkled all the more brightly. Mara frowned. Many servants had been cursed and cuffed to glean this information
– the last runner to carry a document to Lord Buntokapi had been severely beaten – but in this matter a slave boy was of little consequence. Worse might come if the man she had married continued to wear the Lord’s mantle.

An enraged yell from Ayaki echoed down the corridor beyond the screen, followed by Nacoya’s chiding voice. If the child had soiled himself, the nursery would shortly become the site of a minor commotion. Ayaki battled like a young harulth whenever anyone tried to change him. Sighing with indulgence mixed with exasperation, Mara concealed the wax slate beneath an old parchment map and resumed her study of the Empire. The border lines and the estates on this rendition were slightly out of date, having been drawn up when she was a little girl. But the dyes were still bright and most of the holdings of the major Lords of the Empire were clearly marked. Since Buntokapi detested everything to do with words on paper, he would never miss this one document from his study. The only use he had for a map was to find which lands were open for hunting.

As Ayaki’s wails drew nearer, Mara noticed an interesting fact at the outset: the Lord of the Zalteca, a minor neighbour who had a very prosperous trade in pottery, used a strip of land between his own estates and the Imperial Highway that appeared to be the property of the Lord of the Kano, who lived far to the east near the city of Ontoset. Mara found this indefinably amusing. If other families exercised such usurpation of property rights, that knowledge might later prove useful. She would ask Arakasi about it when he returned, and that thought sparked realization: only a week remained before she and Buntokapi celebrated their first wedding anniversary. The Spy Master might return to the estate at any moment.

Apprehension gripped Mara, even as Nacoya entered
with Ayaki screaming in her arms. ‘Your son would make a fine substitute for a guli,’ said the old woman, referring to the hairy troll-like creatures of children’s tales; they scared their victims to death with hideous screams.

Mara only nodded. Wondering whether her mistress had gone deaf, Nacoya called the slave away from freshening the crib to help manage the Acoma heir, who yelled until his face was red, and made everyone’s ears sore. Eventually Mara arose. She bent over her baby and jingled her beads to amuse him. As Ayaki’s wails changed to laughter in another of his mercurial shifts of mood, her thoughts continued.

Somehow she must prevent Arakasi from coming under Buntokapi’s control. Her bull of a husband would only waste that information network, or worse, make it available for his father’s use, which would place far too dangerous a power in the hands of the Lord of the Anasati. Necessity made Mara bold. She must prepare for Arakasi’s arrival with no further delay, so that his loyalty should remain hers alone. Inwardly reviewing her husband’s schedule of activities, Mara spoke briskly to the slave who laboured over the kicking, naked legs of her son. ‘Call for Jican.’

Nacoya raised her eyebrows. ‘To the nursery?’ she said, startled, but her mistress ignored the liberty.

‘The matter will not wait.’ Without further fuss, Mara relieved the slave of the damp cloths and began to cleanse her infant’s soiled bottom.

Jican arrived, any puzzlement he felt well concealed. He bowed deeply as his mistress tied a clean loincloth around her son. ‘Have we some documents that would be appropriate for my Lord husband’s review?’

Barely able to contain his distaste at the mention of the Lord of the Acoma, Jican said, ‘My Lady, there are always documents that are appropriate for the Lord of the
house to review.’ He bowed, shamed at how close to insult his words came in their implication that Buntokapi neglected his responsibilities. Mara sensed her hadonra’s discomfort as she lifted Ayaki onto her shoulder.

In a tone sweet as red-bee honey, she said, ‘Then I think it would be fitting to send a scribe to my husband’s town house at three hours after noon.’

Jican stifled open curiosity. ‘If you think that is wise, mistress, then it shall be done.’

Mara dismissed him and saw that Nacoya, too, regarded her with a shrewd glint in her eyes. ‘You are deaf, mother of my heart,’ the Lady of the Acoma said softly. ‘And business matters are never conducted in the nursery.’

The nurse bowed promptly, guessing something of her mistress’s intentions; but the full extent of those plans would have terrified the old woman beyond measure. As I am terrified, Mara thought, and silently wondered whether the Goddess of Wisdom would hear the prayers of a wife who knowingly provoked a husband already renowned for his bad temper.

Buntokapi raised his head from rumpled, sweat-damp pillows. The screens were drawn closed, but even the decorations painted in scarlet, maroon, and ochre could not entirely block out the afternoon sun in the garden beyond. A golden glow suffused the chamber, lending warm highlights to tangled sheets and to the sleeping form of his mistress, Teani. The Lord of the Acoma regarded the rounded length of her thigh, his thick lips bent into a smile. This was a woman, he thought. Naked, she took his breath away, as Mara’s slenderness never had. He had felt passion for his wife when he had first wed; but having tasted the delights of Teani’s talents, he now realized that his feelings for Mara arose from desire to dominate the daughter of a great family – and to rectify his own limited
experience with women prior to becoming a Lord. Once he had a son, he had tried to do a husband’s duty, but Mara lay like a corpse, and what man could stay interested in a woman who offered no sport?

Mara’s strange intellectual passions, her love of poetry, and her fascination with the cho-ja Queen’s hive gave Buntokapi a general headache. His mistress was another matter. In silent appreciation, he studied Teani’s long legs. A fold in the sheets hid her hips and back, but masses of red-gold hair, rare in the Empire, tumbled down shoulders like fine procelain. Teani’s face was turned away, but Buntokapi imagined her perfection: the full, sensuous mouth that could tease him until he was crazy, and the straight nose, high cheekbones, and eyes almost amber in colour that brought admiring stares from every man when she clung to his arm. Her powers of attraction lent force to the manhood of Buntokapi, and just watching her slow breathing aroused him. With a leer he pressed a hand beneath the sheets to seek her firm, round breast. Someone chose that instant to knock at the door.

Buntokapi’s questing fingers balled into a fist. ‘Who is it?’ His irritable bellow caused Teani to half spin, half sit up, in sleepy disarray.

‘Huh?’ She said, blinking. A toss of her head dislodged a river of loosened hair and the light shone warm on her breasts. Buntokapi licked his lips.

A servant’s muffled voice called from beyond the screen. ‘Master, a messenger from your hadonra brings documents for you to see.’

Buntokapi considered rising for a moment, but Teani levered herself upon her elbows, and her nipples jutted across his line of sight. The ache in his groin intensified. His movement changed to a half-roll that placed his head between those inviting pillows of flesh. The sheets fell
away. He ran tickling fingers down Teani’s exposed stomach and she giggled. That decided Buntokapi. Surrendering to lust, he shouted, ‘Tell him to come back tomorrow!’

The servant hesitated from the other side of the screen door. Timidly he said, ‘Master, you’ve told him to come back three days in a row now.’

Shifting expertly under his hands, Teani whispered in Buntokapi’s ear and then nipped at the lobe. ‘Tell him to come back in the morning!’ shouted Buntokapi. Then he remembered he had to wrestle a Strike Leader of the Tuscalora in the morning. ‘No, tell him to come at noon and bring his documents then. Now leave me!’

Buntokapi waited, stiff with annoyance, until he heard the servant hurry away. Sighing at the tremendous responsibilities of his office, he decided he was entitled to his pleasures; otherwise the work load would grind him to a nub. As the ultimate favourite of his pleasures had begun to bite his shoulder, he thought it time to be diverted. With a half laugh, half grunt, the Lord of the Acoma pulled his concubine to him.

Late the following morning, Buntokapi marched through the streets of Sulan-Qu, feeling full of himself. He had easily defeated the Tuscalora Strike Leader and had won a fair amount of money as well, thirty centuries, which, while trivial to him now that he was Ruling Lord, still was a nice amount to have clinking in one’s purse. Accompanied by his escort, two young Acoma guards who shared his passion for wrestling, he left the congestion of the main streets and rounded the corner to his town house. His mood darkened at once, for his hadonra sat on the stoop, the two servants with him burdened with leather carriers stuffed to capacity with parchments.

Dust arose in small puffs as Buntokapi stamped to a stop. ‘What now, Jican?’

The little hadonra scrambled to his feet and bowed with a deference that somehow always annoyed. ‘You instructed my messenger to see you at noon, Lord. As I had other business in town, I thought I would personally bring these papers here.’

Buntokapi sucked air through his teeth and recalled somewhat belatedly the words he had uttered through the screen in the course of his afternoon frolic with Teani. He scowled at his patient hadonra, then waved to the slaves who carried the sheaves of documents. ‘Very well, bring them inside.’

Soon the writing tables, two food trays, and nearly every available area of flooring were tiered with stacks of parchments. Buntokapi laboured through page after page until his eyes stung from squinting at tiny columns of figures, or lists and lists of inventory. The cushions compressed and grew damp with his own sweat, and finally his foot went to sleep. Exasperated, Buntokapi heaved himself to his feet and noticed the sunlight had traversed the length of the garden. The afternoon had almost fled.

Indefatigable, Jican handed him another document. Buntokapi forced watering eyes to focus. ‘What is this?’

‘As it says, Lord.’ Jican tapped gently on the title script with one finger.

‘Estimates on needra droppings?’ Buntokapi jabbed the paper angrily in the air. ‘By all the gods of heaven, what foolishness is this!’

Jican remained unfazed by his Lord’s wrath. ‘No foolishness, master. Each season we must estimate the weight of the dung, to judge whether we have a shortage of fertilizer for the thyza paddies and need to import, or excess to sell to the farm broker.’

Buntokapi scratched his head. Just then the screen leading to the bedchamber slid open. Teani stood in the doorway, inadequately wrapped in a robe sewn with scarlet birds of passion. The tips of her breasts pressed clearly through the cloth, and her hair tumbled sensuously over a shoulder artfully left bare. ‘Bunto, how much longer are you going to be? Should I dress for the theatre?’