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at the height of Acoma power, the heart of the estate was protected by fewer than fifty men. Mara shook her head in sorrow. Many women besides herself mourned losses beyond the rift. Despair filled her heart as she realized the Acoma forces were too few to withstand any assault, even an attack by bandits, should a bold band raid from the mountains. But Mara also knew why Keyoke had placed the estate at risk to bring such alarge portion – twenty-four out of thirty-seven – of the surviving warriors to guard her. Any spies of the Minwanabi must not be allowed to discover just how weak the Acoma were. Hopelessness settled over her like a smothering blanket.
    ‘Why didn’t you tell me sooner, Keyoke?’ But only silence answered. By that Mara knew. Her faithful Force Commander had feared that such news might break her if delivered all at once. And that could not be permitted. Too many Acoma soldiers had died for her to simply give up to despair. If hopelessness overwhelmed her, their sacrifice in the name of Acoma honour became a mockery, their death a waste. Thrust headlong into the Game of the Council, Mara needed every shred of wit and cunning she possessed to avoid the snares of intrigue that lay in wait for her inexperienced feet. The treachery visited upon her house would not end until, unschooled and alone, she had defeated the Lord of the Minwanabi and his minions.
    The slaves halted in the dooryard. Mara drew a shaking breath. Head high, she forced herself to step from the litter and enter the scrolled arches of the portico that lined the perimeter of the house. Mara waited while Keyoke dismissed the litter and gave the orders to her escort. Then, as the last soldier saluted, she turned and met the bow of the hadonra, her estate manager. The man was new to his post, his squint-eyed countenance unfamiliar to Mara. But beside him stood the tiny, wizened presence of Nacoya, the nurse who had raised Mara from childhood. Other servants waited beyond.
    The impact of the change struck Mara once again. For the first time in her life, she could not fly into the comfort of the ancient woman’s arms. As Lady of the Acoma, she must nod formally and walk past, leaving Nacoya and the hadonra to follow her up the wooden steps into the shadydimness of the great house. Today she must bear up and pretend not to notice the painful reflection of her own sorrow in Nacoya’s eyes. Mara bit her lip slightly, then stopped herself. That nervous habit had brought Nacoya’s scolding on many occasions. Instead the girl took a breath, and entered the house of her father. The missing echoes of his footfalls upon the polished wooden floor filled her with loneliness.
    ‘Lady?’
    Mara halted, clenched hands hidden in the crumpled white of her robe. ‘What is it?’
    The hadonra spoke again. ‘Welcome home, my Lady,’ he added in formal greeting. ‘I am Jican, Lady.’
    Softly Mara said, ‘What has become of Sotamu?’
    Jican glanced down. ‘He wasted in grief, my Lady, following his Lord into death.’
    Mara could only nod once and resume her progress to her quarters. She was not surprised to learn that the old hadonra had refused to eat or drink after Lord Sezu’s death. Since he was an elderly man, it must have taken only a few days for him to die. Absently she wondered who had presumed to appoint Jican hadonra in his stead. As she turned to follow one of the large halls that flanked a central garden, Nacoya said, ‘My Lady, your quarters are across the garden.’
    Mara barely managed another nod. Her personal belongings would have been moved to her father’s suite, the largest in the building.
    She moved woodenly, passing the length of the square garden that stood at the heart of every Tsurani great house. The carved wooden grille work that enclosed the balcony walkways above, the flower beds, and the fountain under the trees in the courtyard seemed both familiar and inescapably strange after the stone architecture of the temples.