She grinned. 'True enough.' Her smile flattened. 'But if enough of their senior reeves were murdered…'
'There wasn't much left to choose from,' he admitted. 'I've gained experience as marshal at Argent Hall. Together with the militia there, and an outlander captain and his soldiers, we defeated an army that attacked Olossi. So I suppose that makes some folks think I might be able to protect the rest of the Hundred. I accepted the post and the responsibility because someone has to fight.'
'Why are you here?' Orhon asked him. 'Bronze Hall has recalled its legate and attendant reeves from Clan Hall. We don't intend to send them back, especially now that Toskala has fallen into the hands of a creature called Lord Radas.'
The words were not spoken in anger, simply as a statement of fact, the more chilling for its even temper.
'Surely you see we must stand together or fall separately. We've got to institute new practices. Reorganize. Work in concert with the forces assembling to fight Lord Radas's army.'
'You want us to change. To give up our gods-given charge of enforcing the law and become soldiers instead?'
'I don't want it. But we have come to that crossroads where we must choose the path of change.'
'So you say. But Clan Hall has failed the reeve halls. They've let the old formalities lapse. The old disciplines are not followed. Where the old order decays, then what is new has crept in with its rot.'
It was hard to hear because his voice was so soft, but Joss at last got a handle on the odd cadences in the man's speech. 'You're not from Mar.'
'I fled Herelia fifteen years ago after my village was burned because we refused to submit to the rule of Lord Radas's archons.'
His good eye flickered as at a memory. 'After years as a beggar and itinerant laborer on the roads, I washed up half-starved in Salya, here in Mar, where I found work in the marsh cutting reeds. Then an eagle chose me.'
'How did you come by these injuries? In the line of duty?'
'Neh. These I got the day my village in Herelia burned, when I tried to rescue my mother and aunts and the other children from the flames.'
'And an eagle chose you despite-!' Sidya cast an accusatory glance, and Joss broke off, flushing. 'I beg your pardon, Marshal. But eagles choose-'
'Eagles choose men and women who are whole and healthy and strong, not those who are crippled. Why did Stessa choose me? Because the gods made it known to me through the eagle's calling that I must restore the proper forms, the proper discipline, the old ways. Adherence to tradition is the only way to defeat the pollution that breeds these troubles. It is the only way to defeat an army whose adherents wear the gods-corrupted Star of Life. Until Clan Hall recognizes this truth, we cannot support her. Or you.'
In the Qin style, the baby's cot was placed beside the table as Mai spooned soup into bowls. In Kartu Town, children did not dine in company with the master, but the Qin did not consider a meal to be a meal if there were not children and kinfolk present. Food taken on campaign, among soldiers, took a different word, akin to horses and sheep grazing.
Horses and sheep would have been better company.
Mai had overheard Tuvi telling Anji that it would look bad to the men if he did not eat the homecoming meal with his wife and child. So there Anji sat, formally dressed, not a hair out of place. None of the senior officers were present today, although the doors were slid open so that anyone passing by could look in. The cooks had outdone themselves with dishes spiced both hot and subtle. Anji did not eat. He did not speak. He simply sat there, not looking at her. His silence made of the meal a mockery.
She would not succumb. It might seem that a hundred knives pricked her, so nervous was she, but she kept her hands steady as she ate. Even her dark mood could not kill her appetite. Also, handling spoon and eating knife gave her something to do as Anji did not talk and did not eat and did not look.
At length she finished, and called for Sheyshi to take away the
dishes. As soon as Sheyshi had placed the dishes on a tray and carried them out, Anji rose. He caught up Atani and carried the baby to the door.
'Really,' said Mai in a voice that made him pause, back to her, at the threshold, 'it shows no respect to those who have cooked, taking particular care to make special dishes, to refuse to eat this food simply because you are angry not at them but at another person.'
He said, in a lower voice, addressing the door, 'The Ri Amarah showed us hospitality in every way openhearted and generous. That we have succeeded here is in great part due to their aid. Now you repay that hospitality by betraying them. Leaving me to make apologies and restitution, if any can be made given the enormity of the dishonor.'
He banged the door shut behind.
Mai rested her forearms on the table and her head on clasped hands. So had Father Mei sounded as he scolded one or another of his wives or brothers: never able to be satisfied.
Well. Anji could kill her. That would be painful, certainly, but then it would be over. Surely if he had meant to beat her he'd have done it already. Anji's was a contained rage, and she supposed he might continue on in this horrible way for days or months or years.
What if he did? Her heart would weep, but hearts endure years of unhappiness all the time. She had probably breathed more happiness in this last year than Grandmother Mei had inhaled in her entire life. After all, she had always told herself that the only place to find happiness is inside. That was the lesson she had learned growing up in the Mei clan.
Yes, it would be difficult. Yes, she would cry. But she had a healthy son. She had a fine compound. She had plenty of coin, a house to run, a settlement to administer where folk praised her and asked for her to listen to their disputes and sit in judgment over them even though she was young. She could conduct trade in her own person and with her own collateral. She was learning to figure a proper accounts book and actually to write and read.
'Mistress?' Priya slid the door open just enough to slip through. 'The captain has gone out, with the baby.' Her frown creased her forehead.
Mai opened her mouth to speak but no word came out. A hammer had smashed her heart, leaving her breathless. Priya sat down beside her and took her hand.
At length, Mai whispered, 'I need something to do, Priya.'
'Yes, Mistress. We'll sweep. Best to change out of that good silk, though.'
They swept the porches and the flagstone pavements, then raked the garden walkways in neat patterns until dusk make it impossible to continue and she had the beginnings of a blister on her right forefinger. She washed face and hands and feet, put aside her clothing, took down her hair, and lay down on the pallet unrolled by Sheyshi. But although she was exhausted she could not sleep. At length, she heard voices and the hiccoughing wails of the baby.
Priya crept in, holding the boy. Mai put him to her breast and his nursing calmed her and made all ill things seem, for the moment, too distant to matter. Male voices conversed nearby, tense but muted, and even their rumble faded as her eyes closed and she dropped away…
To wake.
She was still alone in the bed, of course, a single coverlet nesting her and Atani. A light shone through the rice-paper squares set into the door. She settled the baby in his cot. Her sleeping robe, pale as silver, seemed poured over the chest set on one side of the room. She slipped her arms through the sleeves, bound it around her waist, fumbling the knot. She tried to open the door quietly, but he — still dressed, his hair still caught up in its topknot, and seated cross-legged on a pillow as though he meant to bide there all night — looked up at once as she paused in the opening, darkness behind her, the lamp's flame dividing her from him.
His expression was as unforgiving as stone. 'If you betray me, I will kill you.'
After everything, this was too much.
'When did I ever betray you? When have I ever given you reason to question my honor? You bought me from my father, did you not? Surely that gave me reason enough to feel I was nothing more than your slave. I could have resented you. I could have nursed sorrow. But I held my tongue in the early days. I hoped for something — I don't know — perhaps just those tales and songs I grew up with that you think are so silly, the bandit and the merchant's daughter, like the tale of the Silk Slippers that they tell here in the Hundred where the girl escapes all those who are hunting her and marries the carter's son. Maybe it was foolish of me to dream of those tales as if they could ever
