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would issue a stiff lecture on the responsibilities that accompanied the ruler’s mantle. But one look in Desio’s eyes – and the madness hinted there – warned the First Adviser any such efforts would be futile. Desio’s spirit boiled with a rage only the Red God might answer.
    Incomo tried one last time to turn Desio’s attention back to business. ‘My Lord, if I may point out, we are losing days while our ships lie empty in their berths in Jamar. If they are to sail to –’
    ‘Enough!’ Desio’s fist crashed against a partition, tearing the delicate painted silk and splintering the frame. He kicked the wreckage to the floor, then whirled and collided with his fan slave. Enraged beyond reason, the Lord of the Minwanabi struck the man as if he were furniture. The slave crashed to his knees, a broken nose and lacerated lip spraying blood across his face, his chest, and the smashed partition. In fear for his very life, the slave managed to keep the large fan from striking his master, despite being half-blind from pain and tears. Desio remained oblivious to the slave’s heroic deference. He rounded to confront his adviser.‘I cannot concentrate on anything, so long as
she
is out there!’
    Incomo required no explanation to know to whom his master referred. Experience taught him there was nothing to do but sit back and endure another outburst. ‘My Lord,’ he said anxiously, ‘no good will be gained in yearning for vengeance should all your wealth dwindle through neglect. If you will not attend to these decisions, at least permit your hadrona to take matters in hand.’
    The plea made no impression on Desio. Staring into the distance, his voice a harsh whisper, as if to speak the hated name were to give it substance, he whispered, ‘Mara of the Acoma must die!’
    Glad now for the dark room, which hid his own fears, Incomo agreed. ‘Of course, my Lord. But this is not the time.’
    ‘When!’ he shouted, his bellow hurting Incomo’s ears. Desio kicked at a pillow, then lowered his voice to a more reasonable tone. ‘When? She contrived to escape my father’s trap; and more: she forced him to dishonour his own pledge for the safety of a guest, compelling him to kill himself in shame.’ Desio’s agitation simmered higher as he recounted Mara’s offences against his house. ‘This … girl has not merely defeated us, she has humbled – no,
humiliated
us!’ He stamped hard on the pillow and regarded his adviser with narrowed eyes.
    The fan slave shrank from the expression, so like that of Jingu of the Minwanabi when roused to rage. Bleeding from nose and mouth, but still trying valiantly to cool his sweating master, he raised and lowered his fan in barely unbroken rhythm while Desio’s voice turned conspiratorial, a harsh whisper. ‘The Warlord looks upon her with amusement and affection, even favour – perhaps he beds the bitch – while our faces are pushed into needra slime. We eat needra droppings each day she draws breath!’ Desio’s scowldeepened. He stared at the tightly closed screens, and as if seeing them stirred a memory, a glint of sanity returned to his eyes for the first time since Jingu’s death. Incomo restrained a sigh of open relief.
    ‘And more again,’ Desio finished with the slow care a man might use in the presence of a coiled pusk adder. ‘She is now a real threat to
my
safety.’
    Incomo nodded to himself. He knew that the root of Desio’s behaviour was fear. Jingu’s son lived each day in terror that Mara would continue the Acoma blood feud with the Minwanabi. Now Ruling Lord, Desio would be the next target of Mara’s plotting, his own life and honour the next to fall.
    Although the stifling heat shortened his patience, Incomo attempted to console his master, for this admission, no matter how private between a Lord and his adviser, was the first step in overcoming that fear, and perhaps in conquering Lady Mara, as well. ‘Lord, the girl will make a mistake. You must