скачать книгу бесплатно
The hadonra reached the garden at that moment. He bowed, breathless and sweating, as he had come in haste. His clothing was dusty, and he still carried the needra tally he had been marking as the herds were driven to pasture. ‘My apologies, mistress, for my soiled appearance. By your own command, the herders and slaves –’
‘I know, Jican,’ Mara cut in. ‘Your honour is no less, and your devotion to duty is admirable. Now, have we crops and goods in the store sheds to mount a trading caravan?’
Startled by the praise and a wholly unexpected shift of topic, the hadonra squared his shoulders. ‘We have six wagonloads of thyza of poor quality that were held back to fatten the needra, though the ones not bearing can do well enough without. The last calves were weaned two days ago. We have some hides suitable to be sold to the harness makers.’ Jican shifted his weight, careful to hide his puzzlement. ‘The caravan would be very small. Neither the grain nor the goods would realize significant profit.’ He bowed deferentially. ‘My mistress would do better to wait until the marketable produce comes in season.’
Mara ignored the suggestion. ‘I want a small caravan prepared.’
‘Yes, mistress.’ The hadonra’s fingers whitened on the edge of the tally slate. ‘I shall send word to our agent in Sulan-Qu –’
‘No, Jican.’ Turning brusquely, Mara rose and crossed to the rim of the fountain. She extended her hand, letting water spill like jewels through her fingers. ‘I wish this caravan to travel to Holan-Qu.’
Jican directed a startled glance at Keyoke, but saw no hint of disapproval on the Force Commander’s lined face. Nervous, nearly pleading, he urged, ‘Mistress, I obey your desire, but your goods should still be sent to Sulan-Qu, then downriver and on from Jamar by ship.’
‘No.’ Droplets dashed across marble tile as Mara closed her fist. ‘I wish the wagons to travel overland.’
Again Jican glanced at Keyoke; but the Force Commander and his bodyguard stood like sun-cured ulo wood, facing correctly forward. Struggling to master his agitation, the hadonra of the Acoma appealed to his mistress. ‘Lady, the mountain road is dangerous. Bandits lurk in the woods in good number, and we lack enough warriors to drive them out. To guard such a caravan would leave this estate unprotected. I must advise against it.’
With a girlish smile, Mara swung away from the fountain. ‘But the caravan shall not strip our defences. Papewaio will head a company of hand-picked men. A dozen of our better soldiers should be sufficient to keep the bandits away. They’ve raided our herds and will not need food, and wagons without large numbers of guards obviously carry goods of little value.’
Jican bowed, his narrow face immobile. ‘Then we would be wise to send no guards at all.’ His manner concealed sharp disbelief; he dared the dishonour of his mistress’s displeasure to dissuade her from folly.
‘No.’ Mara wrapped dripping fingers in the rich folds of her robe. ‘I require an honour guard.’
Jican’s face twisted with shock that vanished almost instantly. That his mistress intended to go along on this venture indicated that sorrow had stripped her of wits.
‘Go now, Jican,’ said Mara. ‘Attend to my commands.’
The hadonra peered sideways at Keyoke, as if certain the Lady’s demand would provoke protest. But the old Force Commander only shrugged slightly, as if to say, what is to be done?
Jican lingered, though honour forbade him to object. A stern look from Mara restored his humility. He bowed swiftly and departed, his shoulders drooping. Yesterday the Lady of the Acoma had deemed his judgement worthy of praise; now she seemed bereft of the instincts Lashima gave to a needra.
The servants in attendance kept proper silence, and Keyoke moved no muscle beneath the nodding plumes of his helm. Only Papewaio met his mistress’s eye. The creases at the corners of his mouth deepened slightly. For a moment he seemed about to smile, though all else about his manner remained formal and unchanged.
• Chapter Three • Innovations (#ulink_841e09c9-478a-550e-af91-eb87e86eb79c)
Dust swirled.
The brisk breeze did nothing to cut the heat, and stinging grit made the needra snort. Wooden wheels squealed as the three wagons comprising Mara’s caravan grated over the gravel road. Slowly they climbed into the foothills, leaving behind the flatlands … and the borders of the Acoma estates. Brightly lacquered green spokes caught the sunlight, seeming to wink as they turned, then slowed as rocks impeded their progress. The drovers yipped encouragement to the needra, who rolled shaggy lashed eyes and tried to balk as pasture and shed fell behind. The slaves carrying Mara’s litter moved steadily, until rough terrain forced them to slow to avoid jostling their mistress. For reasons the slaves could not imagine, their usually considerate Lady was ordering a man-killing pace, determined to see the caravan through the high passes before nightfall.
Mara sat stiffly. The trees that shaded the edge of the trail offered ready concealment, thick boles and tangled brush casting shadows, deep enough to hide soldiers. And the wagons were a severe disadvantage. The keenest ear could hear no rustle of foliage over the needra’s bawl and the grinding creak of wheels, and the sharpest eye became hampered by the ever-present dust. Even the battle-hardened soldiers appeared on edge.
The sun climbed slowly towards noon. Heat shimmer danced over the valley left behind, and scaly, long-tailed ketso scurried into hiding as the caravan rumbled past the rocks where they basked. The lead wagons, then the litter, breasted the crest of a rise. Keyoke signalled a halt. The bearers lowered the litter in the shade of an outcrop, giving silent prayers of thanks, but the drovers and the warriors maintained position under Papewaio’s vigilant eyes.
Ahead, a steep-sided ravine cut the east-facing slopes of the Kyamaka Mountains. The road plunged steeply downward, folded into switchback curves, then straightened to slice across a hollow with a spring.
Keyoke bowed before Mara’s litter and indicated a dell to one side of the hollow, where no trees grew and the earth was beaten and hard. ‘Mistress, the scouts sent out after the raid found warm ashes and the remains of a butchered needra in that place. They report tracks, and evidence of habitation, but the thieves themselves have moved on. No doubt they keep moving their base.’
Mara regarded the ravine, shading her eyes against the afternoon glare with her hand. She wore robes of exceptional richness, with embroidered birds on the cuffs, and a waistband woven of iridescent plumes. A scarf of spun silk covered the welts on her neck, and her wrists clinked with bracelets of jade, polished by the non-human cho-ja to transparent thinness. While her dress was frivolous and girlish, her manner was intently serious. ‘Do you expect an attack?’
‘I don’t know.’ Keyoke’s gaze swept the ravine again, as if by force of concentration he could discern any bandits lying hidden. ‘But we must prepare ourselves for any turn of fate. And we must act as if enemies observe every movement.’
‘Continue on, then,’ said Mara. ‘Have the foot slave broach a water flask. The soldiers and litter bearers may refresh themselves as we march. Then, when we reach the spring, we can make a show of stopping for a drink and so seem more vulnerable than we are.’
Keyoke saluted. ‘Your will, mistress. I will wait here for those who follow. Papewaio will assume command of the caravan.’ Then with a surprising show of concern in his eyes, he added softly, ‘Be wary, my Lady. The risks to your person are great.’
Mara held steady under his gaze. ‘No more than my father would take. I am his daughter.’
The Force Commander returned one of his rare and brief smiles and turned from the litter. With a minimum of disruption, he saw Mara’s orders carried out. The water-bearer hustled through the ranks with his flasks clanking from the harness he wore, dispensing drinks to the soldiers with a speed gained only by years of campaigning. Then Keyoke signalled, and Papewaio gave the command to move out. Needra drivers shouted, wheels creaked, and dust rose in clouds. The wagons rolled forward to the crest, and then over to begin their ponderous descent to the ravine. Only a trained scout would have noted that one less soldier left the camp than had entered.
Mara appeared dignified and serene, but her small painted fan trembled between nervous fingers. She started almost imperceptibly each time the litter moved as one of her bearers shifted grip to sip from the flask carried by the water-bearer. Mara closed her eyes, inwardly pleading Lashima’s favour.
The road beyond the crest was rutted and treacherous with loose stone. Men and animals were forced to step with care, eyes upon the path. Time and again the gravel would turn underfoot and pebbles would bounce and rattle downslope, to slash with a clatter through the treetops. Jostled as her slaves fought the uncertain terrain, Mara caught herself holding her breath. She bit her lip and forced herself not to look back or show any sign that her caravan was not upon an ordinary journey. Keyoke had not mentioned that the Acoma soldiers who followed could not cross this ridge without being observed; they would have to circle round by way of the wood. Until they regained their position a short distance behind, Mara’s caravan was as vulnerable as a jigahen in the courtyard as the cook approaches with his chopping knife.
At the floor of the ravine the wood seemed denser: damp soil covered with blackferns spread between huge boles of pynon trees, their shaggy aromatic bark interlaced with vines. The slaves who carried the litter breathed deeply, grateful for the cooler forest. Yet to Mara the air seemed dead after the capricious breezes of the heights. Or perhaps it was simply tension that made the stillness oppressive? The click as she flicked open her fan caused several warriors to turn sharply.
Here even bare rock was mantled with leaf mould, and footfalls became deadened to silence. Creaking wagon sounds were smothered by walls of vines and tree trunks; this forest gave back nothing.
Papewaio faced forward, his eyes continually scanning the darkness on either side. His hand never strayed from the intricate hide lacings that bound the hilt of his sword. Watching him, Mara thought upon her father, who had died knowing allies had betrayed him. She wondered what had become of his sword, a work of art with its carved hilts and jewelled sheath. The shatra bird of the Acoma had been worked in enamel on the pommel, and the blade fashioned in the jessami method, three hundred needra hide strips, each scraped to paper thinness, then cleverly and painstakingly laminated – for even a needle-point bubble of air would render it useless – to a metal hardness with an edge unmatched save for the legendary steel swords of the ancients. Perhaps some barbarian warlord wore the sword as a trophy now … perhaps he would be an honourable man, if a barbarian was capable of being such. Mara forced away such morbid thoughts. Feeling smothered by the oppressive stillness and the dark foliage overhead, she clenched her hands until her delicate wood fan threatened to snap.
‘Lady, I ask leave to permit the men a chance to rest and replenish the flasks,’ said Papewaio.
Mara started, nodded, and raked back the damp hair that clung to her temples. The caravan had reached the spring without incident. Ponderous wheels ground to a halt; warriors arrayed themselves in defensive positions, while the foot slave and several of the drovers hastened to them with moist cloths and a meal of thyza biscuit and dried fruit. Other men attended to the needra, while the bearers lowered Mara’s litter with stifled grunts of relief. They then stood patiently awaiting their turn to rinse their faces at the spring.
Papewaio returned from the lines of warriors and knelt before his mistress. ‘Would my Lady care to leave the litter and walk about?’
Mara extended her hand, her full sleeve trailing nearly to the ground. The dagger concealed by the garment dragged at her wrist, an unfamiliar lump she carried awkwardly. She had wrestled with Lanokota as a child, to Nacoya’s continual dismay, but weapons had never attracted her. Keyoke has insisted she bring the knife, though the hastily shortened straps had been fashioned for a larger arm and the hilt felt clumsy in her hand. Overheated, and suddenly uncertain, she permitted Papewaio to help her to her feet.
The ground before the spring was pocked by the prints of men and animals that had baked hard in the sun after the rainy season. While Papewaio drew a dipper of water, his mistress jabbed the earth with her sandal and wondered how many of the marks had been made by stock stolen from Acoma pastures. Once she had overheard a trader describe how certain clans in the north notched the hooves of their livestock, to assist trackers in recovering stolen beasts. But until now the Acoma had commanded the loyalty of enough warriors to make such precautions unnecessary.
Papewaio raised a dripping container of water. ‘My Lady?’
Roused from reflection, Mara sipped, then wet her fingers and sprinkled water upon her cheeks and neck. Noon was well past, and slanting sunlight carved the soldiers into forms of glare and shadow. The wood beyond lay still, as if every living thing slept through the afternoon heat. Mara shivered, suddenly chilled as the water cooled her skin. If bandits had lain waiting in ambush, surely they should have attacked by now; an unpleasant alternative caused her to look at her Strike Leader in alarm.
‘Pape, what if the grey warriors have circled behind us and attacked the Acoma estates while we travelled upon the road?’
The warrior set the crockery dipper on a nearby stone. The fastenings of his armour squeaked as he shrugged, palms turned skywards to indicate that plans succeeded only at the whim of fate. ‘If bandits attack your estates, all honour is lost, Lady, for the best of your warriors have been committed here.’ He glanced at the woods, while his hand fell casually to the hilt of his sword. ‘But I think it unlikely. I have told the men to be ready. The day’s heat lessens, but no leafhoppers sing within the wood.’ Suddenly a bird hootedly loudly overhead. ‘And when the karkak cries, danger is near.’
A shout erupted from the trees at the clearing’s edge. Mara felt strong hands thrust her backwards into the litter. Her bracelets snagged the silken hangings as she flung out a hand to break her fall. Awkwardly tumbled against the cushions, she jerked the material aside and saw Papewaio whirl to defend her, his sword gliding from its scabbard. Overturned by his foot, the dipper spun and shattered against a stone. Fragments pelted Mara’s ankles as the swords of her warriors hissed from their sheathes to meet the attack of the outlaws who charged from cover.
Through the closing ranks of her defenders, Mara glimpsed a band of men with drawn weapons running towards the wagons. Despite being dirty, thin, and raggedly clad, the raiders advanced in well-organized ranks. The ravine echoed with shouts as they strove to break the line of defenders. Fine cloth crumpled between Mara’s hands. Her warriors were many times outnumbered. Aware that her father and brother had faced worse battles than this on the barbarian world, she strove not to flinch at the crack of sword upon sword. Papewaio’s voice prevailed over the confusion, his officer’s plume readily visible through the press; at his signal, the battle-hardened warriors of the Acoma gave way with almost mechanical discipline.
The attack faltered. With no honour to be gained from retreat, the usual Tsurani tactic was to charge, not assume a defensive posture; the sight of wagons being abandoned warned the ruffians to caution. Enclosed by the green-armoured backs of her escort, Mara heard a high-pitched shout. Feet slapped earth as the attackers checked. Except for the unarmed drivers, and the cringing presence of the water-bearer, the wagons had been abandoned without dispute; seemingly the warriors had withdrawn to defend the more valuable treasure.
Slowly, warily, the bandits approached. Between the bodies of her defenders, Mara saw lacquered wagons gleam as an enemy force numbering five times greater than her escort closed in a half circle around the spring.
The trickle of water was overlaid by the creak of armour and the fast, nervous breathing of tense men. Papewaio held position by Mara’s litter, a chiselled statue with drawn sword. For a long, tense minute, movement seemed suspended. Then a man behind enemy lines barked an order; two bandits advanced and slices the ties binding the cloth that covered the wagons. Mara felt sweat spring along her spine as eager hands bared Acoma goods to the sunlight. Now came the most difficult moment, since for a time her warriors must hold their line regardless of insult or provocation. Only if the outlaws threatened Mara would the Acoma soldiers answer.
The bandits quickly realized then that no counterattack would be forthcoming. With shouts of exultation, they hefted bags of thyza from the wagon; others edged closer to the Acoma guard, curious to see what treasure would merit such protection. As they neared, Mara caught glimpses of grimy knuckles, tattered cloth, and a crude and mismatched accumulation of weapons. Yet the manner in which the blades were held indicated training and skill, and ruthless need. These were men desperate enough to kill and die for a wagon-weight of poor-quality thyza.
A shout of unmistakable authority cut through the jubilation of the men beside the wagon. ‘Wait! Let that be!’ Falling silent, the bandits turned from their booty, some with sacks of grain still clutched to their breast.
‘Let us see what else fortune had brought us this day.’ A slender, bearded man who was obviously the commander of the band broke through the ranks of his underlings and strode boldly towards the warriors guarding Mara. He paused midway between the lines, sword at the ready and a cocky sureness to his manner that caused Papewaio to draw himself up.
‘Steady, Pape,’ Mara whispered, more to reassure herself than to restrain her Strike Leader. Stifled in the confines of her litter, she watched the bandit make a disparaging gesture with his sword.
‘What’s this? Why should men with swords and armour and the honour of a great house not fight?’ The bandit commander shifted his weight, betraying underlying uneasiness. No Tsurani warrior he had known had ever hesitated to attack, even die, since the highest accolade a fighter could earn was to perish in battle. Another step brought him near enough to catch sight of Mara’s litter. No longer puzzled, he craned his neck, then cried, ‘A woman!’
Mara’s hands tightened in her lap. Head high, her pale face expressionless, she watched the bandit leader break into a wide grin. As if a dozen warriors standing ready to dispute his conquest were no deterrent, he spun to face his companions. ‘A fine day, men. A caravan, and a captive, and not a man’s blood spilled to the Red God!’
Interested, the nearer outlaws dropped sacks of thyza and crowded together, weapons aggressively angled towards the Acoma lines. Their commander turned in Mara’s direction and shouted, ‘Lady, I trust your father or husband is loving and rich, or if not loving, then at least rich. For you are now our hostage.’
Mara jerked aside the curtain of the litter. She accepted Papewaio’s hand and rose, saying, ‘Your conclusion may be premature, bandit.’
Her poise caused the outlaw leader a stab of uncertainty; he stepped back, daunted by her confidence. But the armed company at his back lost none of their eagerness, and more men drifted from the woods to observe the exchange.
Looking past the shoulders of her guards at the slender man, Mara demanded, ‘What is your name?’
Regaining his bantering manner, the bandit leader leaned on his sword. ‘Lujan, Lady.’ He still showed deference to one obviously noble. ‘Since I am destined to be your host for a time, may I enquire whom I have the honour of addressing?’
Several outlaws laughed at their leader’s mock display of manners. Mara’s escort stiffened with affront, but the girl herself remained calm. ‘I am Mara, Lady of the Acoma.’
Conflicting expressions played across Lujan’s face: surprise, amusement, concern, then at last consideration; he lifted his sword and gestured delicately with the point. ‘Then you are without husband or father, Lady of the Acoma. You must negotiate your own ransom.’ Even as he spoke, his eyes played across the woodlands behind Papewaio and Mara, for her confident stance and the smallness of her retinue suggested something out of place. Ruling Ladies of great houses did not place themselves at risk without reason. Something in his posture caused alarm in his men, nearly a hundred and fifty of them, as well as Mara could estimate. Their nervousness grew as she watched; some cast about for signs of trouble, while others seemed on the point of charging Papewaio’s position without order.
As if the situation were not about to turn from dangerous to deadly, Mara smiled and fingered her bracelets. ‘My Force Commander said I might be annoyed by an unkempt lot like you.’ Her voice became peevish. ‘I despise him when he’s right. Now I’ll never hear the end of his nattering!’ At this some of the outlaws burst into laughter.
Papewaio showed no reaction to this unlikely description of Keyoke. He relaxed slightly, aware that his mistress sought to lessen tension and avoid an imminent conflict.
Mara looked at the bandit chieftain, outwardly defiant but secretly attempting to gauge his mood. He insolently levelled his weapon in her direction. ‘How convenient for us you failed to take your adviser’s suggestion seriously. In future you would be well advised to heed such counsel … if you have the opportunity.’
Several of the Acoma soldiers tensed at the implied threat. Surreptitiously Mara touched Papewaio’s back to reassure him, then said girlishly, ‘Why would I not have have the opportunity?’
With a display of mock regret, Lujan lowered his sword. ‘Because, Lady, if our negotiations prove unsatisfactory, you will be in no position to hear your Force Commander again.’ His eyes darted, seeking possible trouble; everything about this raid was askew.
‘What do you mean!’ Mara stamped her foot as she spoke, ignoring the dangerous attitude the bandit’s threat roused in her escort.
‘I mean that while I’m not certain how much value you place on your own freedom, I do know what price you’ll fetch on the slave blocks at Migran.’ Lujan jumped back half a step, sword poised, as Acoma guards barely restrained themselves from answering such insult with attack. Sure of retaliation, the bandits raised weapons and crouched.
Lujan scanned the clearing furiously as both sides stood on the brink of combat. Yet no charge came. A gleam of understanding entered the outlaw’s eyes. ‘You plot something, pretty mistress?’ The words were half question, half statement.
Unexpectedly amused by the man’s impudence, Mara saw that the outlaw’s brash and provocative comments were intended to test her mettle in turn. She realized how closely she had come to underestimating this Lujan. That such a clever man could go to waste! she thought. Striving to buy time, she shrugged like a spoiled child.
Lujan stepped boldly forward and, reaching through the line of her guards, fingered the scarf at her neck with a rough and dirty hand.
Reaction followed instantaneously. Lujan felt sudden pressure against his wrist. Looking down, he saw Papewaio’s sword a hairsbreadth away from severing his hand. The outlaw’s head jerked up so his eyes were level with the Strike Leader’s. In flat tones Papewaio said, ‘There is a limit.’
Lujan’s fingers unclenched slowly, freeing Mara’s scarf. He smiled nervously, adroitly withdrawing his hand, then stepped away from Mara’s guard. His manner now turned suspicious and hostile, for under normal circumstances to touch a Lady in such a way would have cost his life. ‘There is some deception here, Lady. What game is this?’ He gripped his sword tightly, and his men shuffled forward, awaiting only his order to attack.
Suddenly aware that Mara and her officer were closely observing the rocks above the clearing, the bandit chieftain swore. ‘No Ruling Lady would travel with so few warriors! Aie, I am a fool!’
He started forward, and his men tensed to charge, when Mara shouted, ‘Keyoke!’
An arrow sped through the air to strike the ground between the outlaw leader’s legs. He pulled up short, as if reaching the end of a tether. Teetering for an instant on his toes, he awkwardly stumbled back a pace. A voice rang out from above. ‘One step closer to my mistress, and you’re a dead man!’ Lujan spun towards the voice, and high above Keyoke pointed a drawn sword at the bandit chieftain. The Force Commander nodded grimly, and an archer fired a signal arrow over the ridge of the ravine. It rose with a whistling scream, cutting through his shout as he called to his subcommanders. ‘Ansami! Mesai!’
Other shouts answered from the woods. Flanked from the rear, outlaws whirled to catch glimpses of polished armour between the trees, the tall plumes of an officer’s helm at the fore. Uncertain how large a force had been pitched against him, the bandit chieftain reacted instantaneously. In desperation, he whirled and yelled his command to charge the guard around Mara’s litter.
A second shout from Keyoke jerked his offensive short. ‘Dacoya! Hunzai! Advance! Prepare to fire!’
The skyline above the ridge suddenly became notched with the silhouettes of a hundred helms, punctuated by the curved horns of bows. A racket erupted, as if several hundred men advanced through the woods that surrounded the clearing.
The bandit chieftain gestured, and his men stumbled to a halt. Caught at an uncomfortable disadvantage, he scanned the sides of the ravine in a belated attempt to assess his odds of recovery. Only one senior officer stood in clear sight; he had called the names of four Strike Leaders. Eyes narrowed against sun glare, Lujan reviewed the deployment of his own men. The situation was next to impossible.
Mara had abandoned her girlish airs. Without even a glance at her bodyguard for direction, she said, ‘Lujan, order your men to put their weapons down.’
‘Has reason fled?’ Soundly outflanked, and caught in a bottlenecked position, the outlaw leader straightened with a defiant smile. ‘Lady, I salute your plan to rid your estates of pesky neighbours, but even now, I must point out, your person is still at risk. We are trapped, but you could still die with us.’ Even in the face of overwhelming odds, this man sought to wrest circumstance to his advantage. ‘Perhaps we could come to some sort of accommodation,’ he quickly observed. His voice reflected a roguish banter and desperate bluff, but never a trace of fear. ‘Perhaps if you let us depart in peace …’
Mara inclined her head. ‘You misjudge us.’ Her jade bracelets clinked in the stillness as she placed a hand on Papewaio’s arm, moving him slightly aside. Then she stepped past him and her guards, confronting the bandit chief face to face. ‘As Ruling Lady of the Acoma, I have placed myself at risk so that we might speak.’
Lujan glanced at the ridgetop. Perspiration glistened on his forehead, which he blotted on his tattered and dirty sleeve. ‘I am listening, Lady.’
Her guards like statues at her back, Mara caught the ruffian’s gaze and held it. ‘First you must put down your weapons.’
The man returned a bitter laugh. ‘I may not be a gifted commander, my Lady, but I am not an idiot. If I am to greet the Red God this day, still I will not surrender myself and my companions to be hung for stealing some cows and grain.’
‘Though you have stolen from the Acoma, and killed a slave boy, I have not gone to this trouble simply to see you hang, Lujan.’
Though Mara’s words rang sincere, the outlaws were reluctant to believe; weapons shifted among their ranks, and eyes darted from the threatening force on the ridge to the smaller band of soldiers who guarded the girl. As tension intensified, Lujan said, ‘Lady, if you have a point to make, I suggest you speak quickly, else we may find a number of us dying, you and I first among them.’
Without orders, and with no deference for rank, Papewaio closed the distance between himself and his mistress. Gently but firmly he moved Mara back and interposed himself between the Ruling Lady and the bandit leader.
Mara allowed the familiarity without comment. ‘I will guarantee you this: surrender to me and listen to my proposal. If you wish to leave when I have done speaking with you and your men, then you will be free to depart. So long as you never again raid Acoma lands, I will not trouble you. On this you have my word.’
Uncomfortably aware that archers even now trained their weapons upon his person, Lujan regarded his men. To the last, miserable rank, they were undernourished, some scrawny to the verge of ill health. Most carried only a single weapon, a badly made sword or knife; few wore adequate clothing, much less armour. It would be a poor contest if it came to a fight against Mara’s impeccably turned-out guard. The bandit leader glanced from face to scruffy face, meeting the eyes of men who had been his companions through difficult times. Most indicated with a nod they would follow his lead.
Lujan turned back to Mara with a slight sigh and reversed his sword. ‘Lady, I have no house to call upon, but what shred of personal honour I call my own is now in your hands.’ He surrendered his blade to Papewaio. Weaponless and entirely dependent upon her goodwill, he bowed with stiff irony and commended his following to accept his example.
The sun beat down on the green lacquered armour of the Acoma and the ragged shoulders of the bandit company. Only birds broke the silence, and the trickle of the spring, as men studied the girl in her fine robes and jewellery. At last one bandit stepped forth and surrendered his knife; he was followed by another with a scarred leg, and another, until in a wave the company gave over their weapons. Blades tumbled from loosened fingers, to fall with a clatter at the feet of the Acoma warriors. Shortly not an outlaw remainder who carried arms.
When the men of her retinue had collected the swords, Mara stepped forward. The bandits parted to let her past, wary of her, and of the bared blade Papewaio still carried at her shoulder. While on duty, the First Strike Leader of the Acoma had a manner even the bravest man would not lightly challenge. The most reckless of the outlaws maintained their distance, even when the warrior turned his back to lift Mara to the tailboard of the nearest wagon.
Looking down on the ragged company, the Lady of the Acoma said, ‘Is this all of your men, Lujan?’
The fact that she had issued no order to relax the stance of her archers caused the bandit leader to reply with honesty. ‘Most are here. Fifty more maintain our camp in the forest or forage nearby. Another dozen keep watch on the various roads.’
Perched atop the thyza sacks, Mara hastily calculated. ‘You command perhaps twelve dozen here. How many of these were soldiers? Let them answer for themselves.’
Of the band clustered around the rear of the wagon, close to sixty raised their hands. Mara smiled encouragement and said, ‘From what houses?’
Proud to be asked of their former heritage, they shouted, ‘Saydano!’ ‘Almach!’ ‘Raimara!’ and other houses known to Mara, most of which had been destroyed in Almecho’s rise to the office of Warlord, just before Ichindar’s succession to the throne of the Empire. As the clamour died down, Lujan added, ‘I was once Strike Leader of the Kotai, Lady.’
