The Complete Empire Trilogy: Daughter of the Empire, Mistress of the Empire, Servant of the Empire. Janny Wurts
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to dispense refreshments, along with tokens of gratitude for those guests whose tribute had been heard, some of the stiffness melted from the gathering. As the wine took effect, the bolder tongues whispered that the Lady was very fine and deserving of the honour of her ancestors.
Mara overheard such remarks and smiled gently. As the third intermission began, she bade her maids unbind the constricting coils of her headdress and comb her long hair freely down her back. While the marriage wreath wilted by her knee, she sat back to hear the next round of performances, and the next, to the joy of all who acted for her pleasure. As afternoon wore on, the hall grew hotter; and other guests drifted in to see what held the Lady of the Acoma enthralled.
At sunset the groom put in an appearance, his step slightly unsteady and his voice too loud. Buntokapi mounted the dais, waving a flagon of sa wine, and demanded to know why his wife dallied so long in the hall; the Warlord and others of the Acoma guests were feasting, and wasn’t she avoiding him by sitting gaping at common minstrels and officials of low rank?
Mara bowed her head in submissive silence, then looked up into her husband’s eyes. He smelled of drink and sweat. She managed a smile anyway. ‘My Lord, Camichiro, the poet, will read next, and while his work is too new for fame, his patron the Lord of the Teshiro has a reputation for recognizing genius. Why not stay, and celebrate the introduction of a coming talent?’
Bunto straightened, arms crossed, unmindful of the dribble from the flagon that marred his left cuff. Faced by the serene innocence of a wife whose clothing prevented any view of what lay underneath, and outflanked by the beaming pride of Camichiro and Lord Teshiro, he grunted. To contradict his wife’s praise would be extremely bad form. Sober enough to disengage before compromising his obligations as host, Buntokapi bowed in return and snapped, ‘I shall have time for poetry later. Others of your guests have begun a game of chiro, and I have placed bets on the winners.’
The Lord of the Acoma retired from the hall. His Lady called servants to bring another round of wine to the performers; and by remaining against the preference of the bridegroom, she earned the admiration of her least important guests. Loudest in her praise were the merchant and his awkward flautist son, followed closely by the gushy, painted wife of the poet Camichiro. Among the commons of Sulan-Qu, it was no secret that she was the lover of Lord Teshiro, and that her saucy charms alone had earned the family’s patronage.
Sunset came, and the shatra birds flew. The gathering of the marriage tribute adjourned until the next day, while the cooks produced exotic dishes decorated with paper symbols for luck. Lanterns were lit, and musicians played, and at nightfall acrobats juggled sticks of fire. Mara sat at her husband’s side until he clapped for slave girls to begin a veil dance. At that time, exhausted, the Lady of the Acoma retired to a special ceremonial hut of painted paper, where she undressed and bathed, and lay a long time without sleeping.
The morning dawned dusty and dry, with no hint of a breeze. Servants had laboured through the night to prepare for a fresh day’s festivities, and the akasi flowers sparkled, freshly watered by gardeners who now wore smocks and cut vegetables for the cooks. Mara rose and, hearing her husband’s groans through the thin screen that divided the wedding hut, presumed correctly that he had a hangover. She dispatched the prettiest of her slave girls to attend him; then she called for chocha for herself. While the cool of the morning still lingered, she took a walk about the grounds. Soon the cho-ja Queen and her hive mates would be arriving on Acoma lands. Defences would no longer be critical. The thought eased her somewhat; with Jican competent to manage the family assets, and the estate itself secure, she could pitch all her resources into dealing with the Lord she had married. Memory visited, of a woman’s high-pitched laughter, and Bunto’s voice, querulously demanding, before he drifted into snores near to dawn. Frowning, a firmer set to her mouth, Mara prayed to Lashima for strength.
She looked up from meditation in time to see a retainer with a banner leading a small procession into the great hall. The second day of the marriage tribute was about to begin, and against all precedent Mara dispatched servants to attend to her litter. She would watch the performers to the very last; and though no guest of equal or superior rank was scheduled to present tribute until late afternoon, she would see that no earlier performance went unrewarded. With Buntokapi a Ruling Lord, the Acoma would need all the goodwill she could inspire.
Wind came the afternoon of the following day; cloud shadows raced over the needra meadows, and the sky to the east threatened rain. Yet despite the risk of dampened finery, the Acoma guests sat in the open, watching the closing act.
To the astonishment of all in attendance, the Warlord had paid from his personal treasury for a performance by the Imperial Jojan Theatre. Jojan was the formal theatre enjoyed by the nobility, as the commoners preferred to watch the more raucous and ribald Segumi theatre groups that toured the countryside. But the Imperial Jojan were the finest actors in the realm, being the training ground for the Imperial Shalo-tobaku troupe, who performed only for the Emperor and his immediate family. The performance was Lord Tedero and the Sagunjan, one of the ten classic sobatu, literally ‘grand high style’, the ancient opera form.
Luxuriating in the coolness of the breeze, and enjoying every moment she could delay joining her husband in the marriage bed, Mara tried to concentrate on the coming finale. The actors were superlative, handling their lines with aplomb despite the breeze that twisted the plumes of their costumes awry. A shame that the script they performed was so overwritten, thought the Lady of the Acoma, whose taste did not run to sobatu, preferring as she did Grand Do; and the trappings of the travelling stage were gaudy, even to Tsurani eyes.
Then, at the height of the opera, when Lord Tedero entered the cave to free ancient Neshka from the clutches of the dreaded sagunjan, two black-robed figures entered the hall. The presence of the Great Ones alone would have marked this a special occasion, but the two magicians cast illusions. Rather than the traditional paper sagunjan, inside of which a singer and several stagehands walked the stage, an illusion of startling appearance was cast. A sagunjan, twelve feet at the shoulder, all golden scales and breathing red flames, emerged from the doorway painted to resemble the cave. A wonderful baritone voice erupted from the terrible fangs, and though all in the hall knew the singer walked alone, none could see him. Even Mara was transported by the sight, all her worries banished. Then Tedero’s sword fell, and the illusion of the sagunjan faded to a mist, then to nothing. Traditionally, the sobatu ended with a formal bow by the cast to polite applause; yet the climax of the opera raised a loud cheer and furious beating of hands more common to street theatre. As all watched, the Warlord’s expression melted into a rare smile as he basked in the reflected glory brought by his theatre troupe and his magician friends. Mara sighed faintly, sorry when the performers finished their final bow. As the sequined curtains swished closed, or tried to, for the breeze by then had stiffened into gusts, she resigned herself to the inevitable. ‘Now, wife,’ said Buntokapi in her ear. ‘The time has come for us to retire.’
Mara stiffened reflexively, the appropriate smile frozen like paint on her face. ‘Your will, my husband.’
But a blind man would have sensed her reluctance. Buntokapi laughed. With a shout of drunken triumph, he raised her into his arms.
The guests cheered. Mindful of the thoughtless strength in the arms that held her, Mara tried to calm her racing heart. She would endure, had to endure, for the continuance of the Acoma name. She nestled her face into the sweat-damp fabric of her husband’s collar and permitted him to bear her from the dais. Paper fertility charms thrown by the crowd showered them both as he carried her from the crowd of well-wishers and down the path to the brightly painted structure of the marriage hut.
Keyoke and Papewaio stood as honour guards at the end of the path. Buntokapi passed them by like common servants and stepped across the threshold into the silvery half-light of sky shining through walls constructed of reed paper and lath. The servant and the maid in attendance within bowed low as their master and mistress appeared. Buntokapi set Mara upon her feet. At his half-grunted syllable, the maid rose and slid the screen entrance closed. The manservant settled motionless into a corner, awaiting his Lordship’s pleasure.
The hut had been rearranged during the day; the screen dividing the quarters of husband and wife had been removed, replaced