Should she gain much more honour and wealth, she'll certainly come to dominate Clan Hadama. No other house is more powerful now, if the truth were known; only divided loyalties prevent Mara from dictating clan policy. That, however, could change. These worthy lords who have presumed to contact Bruli of the Kehotara are careful to let us know they do not see their own fortunes necessarily tied to those of House Acoma.'
Desio sat forward, elbows rested on his knees. He pondered, realized he was thirsty, and waved for his slave to carry his armour off and fetch refreshments. 'We can thank the gods for small favours. Still, better Clan Hadama's families remain neutral than join their ranks against us.'
Incomo said, 'I think my Lord has missed the other implication.'
Matured by his power, and less intolerant of correction, Desio returned. a penetrating gaze. Plainly his First Adviser had best be concise if he wished to escape his Lord's ire.
'What implication?'
'Our agents have progressed in their work to infiltrate Mara's spy network.' Fired by acerbic enthusiasm, Incomo spread his bony palms. 'We have isolated still another Acoma agent; nearly all their contacts have been traced, their couriers identified. Occasional plants of useful information have kept those lines open. At need, we can manipulate these Acoma dogs to our advantage.'
A strange look passed over Desio's face, and a head shake prevented his Adviser. from disturbing thoughts not yet formed as he stretched to grip a notion that tantalized his mind. When the servant returned with the refreshment tray, the Lord had lost his appetite. 'I must think on something.
Have my bath prepared. I stink like a needra pen.'
Incomo bowed. 'Which girls does my master wish to attend his comforts?'
Desio silenced his Adviser with a raised palm. 'No. I need to think. Just the bath attendant. No women. No musicians.
A large mug of spiced juice will do nicely. I must have quiet for contemplation.'
Intrigued by this sudden turn toward asceticism, Incomo stepped from the dais to carry out instructions. At the door, he stopped on an afterthought. 'Any new orders for Tasaio, my Lord?'
Fury smouldered under Desio's hooded eyes. 'Yes, my brilliant strategist. After four years of squandering our resources on his masterful plan in Tsubar, he must be tired.
Let us see that he's given a post that will not tax his depleted energies. We still command that fortress at Outpost Isles; send him there. Let him protect our westernmost holdings from the sea birds and fish.'
Incomo lowered his rounded shoulders into a bow, then left his master brooding and continued down a stone corridor that cut into the hill upon which the estate house rested. The cool passage was lit at long intervals with torches. Sheltered from view by thick shadow, the Minwanabi First Adviser let his frustration show. His pace turned brisk, and his robe of office flapped around thin ankles. A pity that Desio's wits had not developed to match his resolve. For if Tasaio's failure was dramatic, no plot in the Game could ever be guaranteed. If there ha] been fault with the plan, it was simply that no provision had been made to allow for failure.
Down a shallow flight of steps, and through a worn postern, Incomo arrived at the wing that jutted out of the hill toward the lake shore. While not as closely situated to the great hall as lesser quarters, the Lord of the Minwanabi's chambers had an unobstructed view of the lake at sunset that made the walk worthwhile. Incomo clapped for servants and ordered his Lord's private bath chamber made ready.
As the servants hurried off to assign slaves to heat the water, Incomo crossed back through the maze-like house to his own less sumptuous quarters. There, surrounded by screens painted with patterns of killwings and clouds, he cursed at his master's orders to Tasaio. His bitterness must never be shown in public, that fate would send away the truly gifted son of the House and leave Minwanabi fortunes in the hands of . . . Incomo slammed his fists on a chest in a display more like his master than himself - the thoughts he entertained were unthinkable for a loyal servant, even in strictest privacy. Desio must somehow contrive to lead the Minwanabi out of this dilemma.
Incomo sank onto a cushion and clapped for his personal servant. 'Fetch my writing desk and move it over to my contemplation mat,' he commanded, rubbing his temples. 'Then open