Kitabı oku: «The Complete Empire Trilogy: Daughter of the Empire, Mistress of the Empire, Servant of the Empire», sayfa 13

• Chapter Seven • Wedding

Nacoya bowed deeply.

‘My Lady, it is time.’

Mara opened her eyes, feeling too warm for the hour. The cool of early morning had barely begun to fade, and already her robes constricted her body. She looked to where Nacoya stood, just before the flower-bedecked litter. Only a moment longer, Mara thought. Yet she dared not delay. This marriage would be difficult enough without risking the bad omen of having the wedding incomplete by noon. Mara rose without aid and re-entered the litter. She gestured readiness, and Nacoya voiced a command. The slaves removed their blindfolds, for now the bridal procession would begin. The guards surrounding the garden turned as one and saluted their mistress as the bearers lifted her litter and began their journey to the ceremonial dais.

The slaves’ bare feet made no sound as they carried Mara into the tiled hall of the estate house. Keyoke and Papewaio waited at the entrance and let the litter pass before they fell in behind, following at a watchful distance. Servants lined the doorways along the hall, strewing flowers to bring their mistress joy and health in childbearing. Between the doorways stood her warriors, an added fervour in each man as they saluted her passage. Several could not keep moisture from their eyes. This woman was more to them than their Lady; to those who had been grey warriors, she was the giver of a new life, against any expectation. Mara might give over their loyalty to Buntokapi, but she would always have their love.

The bearers halted outside the closed doors of the ceremonial hall while two maidens dedicated to the service of Chochocan pinned coloured veils to Mara’s headdress. Into her hands they pressed a wreath wound of ribbons; shatra feathers, and thyza reed, to signify the interdependence of spirit and flesh, of earth and sky, and the sacred union of husband and wife. Mara held the circlet lightly, afraid her damp palms might mar the silk ribbons. The brown-and-white-barred plumes of the shatra betrayed her trembling as four elegantly garbed maidens closed around her litter. They were all daughters of Acoma allies, friends Mara had known in girlhood. While their fathers might keep their distance politically, for this one day they were again her dear friends. Their warm smiles as the nuptial procession formed could not ease Mara’s apprehension. She might enter the great hall as the Ruling Lady of the Acoma, but she would leave as the wife of Buntokapi, a woman like all other women who were not heirs, an adornment to further the honour and comfort of her Lord. After a short ceremony before the natami in the sacred glade, she would own no rank, except through the grace of her husband.

Keyoke and Papewaio grasped the wooden door rings and pulled, and silently the painted panels slid wide. A gong sounded. Musicians played reed pipes and flutes, and her bearers started forward. Mara blinked, fighting tears. She held her head high beneath her veils as she was carried before the eyes of the greatest dignitaries and families in the Empire. The ceremony which would join her fate to that of Buntokapi of the Anasati was now beyond the power of any man to prevent.

Through the coloured veils the assembled guests appeared as shadows to Mara. The wood walls and floors smelled of fresh wax and resins, blending with the fragrance of flowers as the slaves bore her up the stairs of a fringed dais built in two layers. They set her litter down upon the lower level and withdrew, leaving her at the feet of the High Priest of Chochocan and three acolytes, while her maiden attendants seated themselves on cushions beside the stair. Dizzied by the heat and the nearly overpowering smoke from the priest’s censer, Mara fought to catch her breath. Though she could not see beyond the priests’ dais, she knew that by tradition Buntokapi had entered the hall simultaneously from the opposite side, on a litter adorned with paper decorations that symbolized arms and armour. By now he sat level with her on the priests’ right hand. His robes would be as rich and elaborate as her own and his face hidden by the massive plumed mask fashioned expressly for weddings by some long-distant Anasati forebear.

The High Priest raised his arms, palms turned towards the sky, and intoned the opening lines. ‘In the beginning, there was nothing but power in the minds of the gods. In the beginning, they formed with their powers darkness and light, fire and air, land and sea, and lastly man and woman. In the beginning, the separate bodies of man and woman re-created the unity of the gods’ thought from which they were created, and so were children begotten between them, to glorify the power of the gods. This day, as in the beginning, we are gathered to affirm the unity of the gods’ will, through the earthly bodies of this young man and woman.’

The priest lowered his hands. A gong chimed, and boy chanters sang a phrase describing the dark and the light of creation. Then, with the squeak of sandals and the rustle of silk, brocades, beads, and jewelled feathers, the assembled guests rose to their feet.

The priest resumed his incantation, and Mara fought the urge to reach beneath her veils and scratch her nose. The pomp and the formality of the ceremony made her recall an incident from her early girlhood, when she and Lano had come home from a state wedding similar to the one she sat through now. As children, they had played bride and groom, Mara seated on the sun-baked boards of a thyza wagon, her hair decked out in akasi flowers. Lano had worn a marriage mask of mud-baked clay and feathers, and the ‘priest’ had been an aged slave the children had badgered into wearing a blanket for the occasion. Sadly Mara tightened her fingers; the ceremonial wreath in her hands was real this time, not a child’s imitation braided of grasses and vines. Were Lanokota alive to be here, he would have teased and toasted her happiness. But Mara knew that inwardly he would have been weeping.

The priest intoned another passage, and the gong rang. The guests reseated themselves upon cushions, while the acolyte on the dais lit incense candles. Heavy scent filled the hall as the High Priest recited the virtues of the First Wife. As he finished each – chastity, obedience, mannerliness, cleanliness, and fecundity – Mara bowed and touched her forehead to the floor. And as she straightened, a purple-robed acolyte with dyed feet and hands removed one of her veils, white for chastity, blue for obedience, rose for mannerliness, until only a thin green veil for Acoma honour remained.

The gauzy fabric still itched, but at least Mara could see her surroundings. The Anasati sat to the groom’s side of the dais, just as the Acoma retinue sat behind Mara’s. Before the dais the guests were arrayed by rank. Brightest shone the white and gold raiment of the Warlord, who sat closest to the ceremony, his wife beside him in scarlet brocade sewn with turquoise plumes. In the midst of the riot of colours worn by the guests, two figures in stark black robes stood forth like nightwings resting in a flower garden. Two Great Ones from the Assembly of Magicians had accompanied Almecho to the wedding of his old friend’s son.

Next in rank should have been the Minwanabi, but Jingu’s presence was excused without insult to the Anasati because of the blood feud between Minwanabi and Acoma. Only at a state function, such as the Emperor’s coronation or the Warlord’s birthday, might both families be present without conflict.

Behind the Warlord’s retinue, Mara recognized the Lords of the Keda, the Tonmargu, and the Xacatecas; along with Almecho’s Oaxatucan and the Minwanabi, they constituted the Five Great Families, the most powerful in the Empire. In the next row sat the Shinzawai lord, Kamatsu, with the face of Hokanu, his second son, turned handsomely in profile. Like the Acoma and the Anasati, the Shinzawai were counted second in rank only to the Five Great Families.

Mara bit her lip, the leaves and feathers of her marriage wreath trembling. Above her the High Priest droned on, now describing the virtues of the First Husband while the acolytes draped necklaces of beads over the paper swords of Bunto’s litter. Mara saw the red and white plumes of his marriage mask dip as he acknowledged each quality as it was named, being honour, strength, wisdom, virility, and kindness.

The gong chimed again. The priest led his acolytes in a prayer of blessing. More quickly than Mara had believed possible, her maiden attendants arose and helped her from her litter. Bunto arose also, and with the priest and acolytes between them stepped down from the dais and bowed to the gathered guests. Then, in a small procession that included Buntokapi’s father, the Lord of the Anasati, and Nacoya, as the Acoma First Adviser, the priest and his acolytes escorted bride and groom from the hall and across the courtyard to the entrance of the sacred grove.

There servants bent and removed the sandals of Mara and Buntokapi, that their feet might be in contact with the earth and the ancestors of the Acoma as the Lady ceded her inherited rights of rulership to her husband-to-be. By now the sun had risen high enough to warm the last dew from the ground. The baked warmth of the stone path felt unreal beneath Mara’s soles, and the bright birdsong from the ulo tree seemed the detail of a childhood dream. Yet Nacoya’s grip upon her arm was quite firm, no daydream. The priest chanted another prayer, and suddenly she was walking forward with Buntokapi, a jewelled doll beside the towering plumage of his marriage mask. The priest bowed to his god, and leaving his acolytes, and the Lord, and the Acoma Chief Adviser, he followed the couple into the glade.

Rigidly adhering to her role, Mara dared not look back; if the ritual had permitted, she would have seen Nacoya’s tears.

The procession passed the old ulo’s comfortable shade and in sunlight wended through the flowering shrubs, low gates, and curved bridges that led to the Acoma natami. Woodenly Mara retraced the steps she had taken not so many weeks earlier, when she had carried the relics to mourn her father and brother. She did not think of them now, lest their shades disapprove of her wedding to an enemy to secure their heritage. Neither did she look at the man at her side, whose shuffling step betrayed his unfamiliarity with the path, and whose breath wheezed faintly behind the bright red-and-gold-painted features of the marriage mask. The eyes of the caricature stared ahead in frozen solemnity, while the eyes of the man darted back and forth, taking in the details of what soon would be rightfully his as Lord of the Acoma.

A chime rang faintly, signalling the couple to meditate in silence. Mara and her bridegroom bowed to the godhead painted on the ceremonial gate, and stopped beneath at the edge of the pool. No trace of the assassin’s presence remained to defile the grassy verge, but a canopy erected by the priests of Chochocan shaded the ancient face of the natami. After a session of prayer and meditation, the chime rang again. The priest stepped forward and placed his hands on the shoulders of the bride and groom. He blessed the couple, sprinkled them lightly with water drawn from the pool, then paused, silent, while the vows were spoken.

Mara forced herself to calm, though never had the exercise learned from the sisters of Lashima come with such difficulty. In a voice of hammered firmness, she spoke the words that renounced her inherited birthright of Ruling Lady of the Acoma. Sweating but steady, she held fast while the priest tore away the green veil and burned it in the brazier by the pool. He wet his finger, touched the warm ash, and traced symbols upon Bunto’s palms and feet. Then Mara knelt and kissed the natami. She remained with her head pressed to the earth that held the bones of her ancestors, while Buntokapi of the Anasati swore to dedicate his life, his honour, and his eternal spirit to the Name Acoma. Then he knelt beside Mara, who finalized the ritual in a voice that seemed to belong to a stranger.

‘Here rest the spirits of Lanokota, my brother; Lord Sezu, my natural father; Lady Oskiro, my natural mother: may they stand as witness to my words. Here lies the dust of my grandfathers, Kasru and Bektomachan, and my grandmothers, Damaki and Chenio: may they stand as witness to my deed.’ She drew breath and managed not to falter as she recited the long list of ancestors back to the Patriarch of the Acoma, Anchindiro, a common soldier who battled Lord Tiro of the Keda for five days in a duel before winning the hand of his daughter and the title of Lord for himself, thus placing his family second only to the Five Great Families of the Empire. Even Buntokapi nodded with respect, for despite his father’s formidable power, the Anasati line did not go as far back in history as the Acoma. Sweat slid down Mara’s collar. With fingers that miraculously did not shake, she plucked a flower from her wreath and laid it before the natami, symbolizing the return of her flesh to clay.

The chime sounded, a mournful note. The priest intoned another prayer, and Bunto spoke the ritual phrases that bound him irrevocably to the Name and the honour of the Acoma. Then Mara handed him the ceremonial knife, and he nicked his flesh so the blood flowed, beading in dusty drops upon the soil. In ties of honour more binding than flesh, of previous kinship, more binding than the memory of the gods themselves, Buntokapi assumed Lordship of the Acoma. The priest removed the red and gold marriage mask of the Anasati; and the third son of an Acoma enemy bowed and kissed the natami. Mara glanced sideways and saw her bridgeroom’s lips curl into an arrogant smile. Then his features were eclipsed as the High Priest of Chochocan slipped the green marriage mask of the Acoma onto the new Lord’s shoulders.

Mara could not remember getting up. The procession back to the entrance of the glade passed in a blur, a dream set in time to birdsong. Servants awaited to wash her soiled feet and replace her jewelled sandals. She endured while the Anasati lord bowed formally to his host, the new Lord of the Acoma, and she did not cry as Nacoya took her place one pace behind Buntokapi’s shoulder. Dazzled by the flash of sunlight on the priest’s robe, she followed into the main hall, to complete the formal portion of the marriage ceremony.

The hall had grown warm. Great ladies fluttered fans of painted feathers, and the musicians who had entertained them wiped sweaty fingerprints from their instruments, as attendants helped bride and groom into their litters, then raised them to the level where the High Priest and his acolytes presided. Garbed now in an overrobe sewn with precious sequins of silver, gold and copper, the High Priest invoked the ever-present eye of Chochocan, the Good God. The gong chimed as he crossed his arms over his chest, and a boy and girl mounted the dais, each carrying a cage woven of reeds. Within perched a male and a female kiri bird, their white-and-black-barred wingtips dyed the green of the Acoma.

The priest blessed the birds, and acolytes accepted the cages. Then, lifting the ivory ceremonial wand from the pocket in his sleeve, the priest invoked his god for a blessing upon the marriage of Buntokapi and Mara. The hall grew hushed and fans stilled in the hands of the ladies. From the lowliest of landed nobles, to the gem-crusted presence of the Warlord, all craned their necks to see as the priest tapped the cages with his wand.

Reeds parted under his ministrations, leaving the birds free to fly, together in joy as in well-omened unions, or separately, to the woe of the couple on the litters, for much stock was placed in Chochocan’s favour.

Nacoya closed her eyes, her old hands clenched around an amulet she held under her chin. Bunto looked on with his expression hidden behind the luridly painted marriage mask; but his bride stared off, unseeing, into the distance, as if the ritual in the grove had drained her of interest.

The gong chimed, and servants slid wide the paper screens enclosing the hall. ‘Let this marriage be blessed in the sight of heaven,’ intoned the priest.

The acolytes tipped the cages, jostling the birds from their perches. The female chirped angrily and flapped her wings, while the male leaped to the air and circled above the assembly, then swooped down towards his mate. He attempted to land on the perch next to the female, but she puffed up and flapped her wings in fury, pecking him unmercifully. The male retreated, then approached, but the female shot into flight, her dyed wingtips a green blur across shadow. With a loud cry she sped for freedom, and vanished, a flash of pale feathers in sunlight. The male bird gripped tightly to the vacated perch. His feathers fluffed and he shook his head in annoyance. As the chamber stilled with waiting silence, he preened his tail and hopped to the top of the cage, where he relieved himself. After a strained minute passed, the High Priest motioned with his finger, a small but noticeably irritated gesture. An embarrassed acolyte shooed the male bird off. All eyes watched as he circled lazily, then landed in the flower bed just beyond the open screen door and began to peck for grubs.

Brocades and feathers shifted like a wave across the assembly. The High Priest cleared his throat, his wand dropping in one wrinkled hand. At length, with a glance at the stiff-backed Bunto, he said, ‘Praise the goodness of Chochocan, and heed his lesson. Under his guidance, may this couple find mercy, understanding, and forgiveness.’ Again he cleared his throat. ‘The omen shows us that marriage requires diplomacy, for as man and wife this Lord and Lady must ever strive for unity. Such is the Will of the gods.’

A stiff interval followed as acolytes and guests waited for the priest to continue. Eventually it became evident that he would not say more, and the gong chimed. An attendant removed Buntokapi’s marriage mask. He faced Mara, who seemed dazed, except that her eyes were narrowed slightly and the faintest of frowns marred the line of her brows.

‘Exchange the wreaths,’ prompted the priest, as if he seemed worried the couple might forget.

Bunto bent his head, and Mara pressed the somewhat wilted ceremonial circlet over his dark hair. It slipped somewhat as he straightened, and she smelled wine on his breath as he leaned close to crown her in turn.

Mara’s frown deepened; during her hour of contemplation, custom demanded that the groom share a ritual sip of wine with his bachelor friends, to bring them fortune, and wives of their own. Yet it seemed that Bunto and his companions had emptied the ceremonial flagon, and possibly one or two more. Annoyed at his indiscretion, Mara barely heard the priest pronounce them man and wife for the duration of their mortal lives. She did not even realize the formal portion of the ceremony had ended until the guests began loudly to cheer and throw luck charms of elaborately folded paper into a colourful blizzard over bride and groom.

Mara managed a mechanical smile. Now came the time when each guest presented the wedding tribute, in the form of a work of art, recitation, or musical composition. Some of these would be elaborate and expensive affairs patronized by the great Lords and politically powerful of the Empire. Rumour held that the Warlord had imported an entire theatrical company, complete with costumes and stage. But his presentation would not occur for days to come, since the lowest in rank would perform first.

Picking a paper charm out of his shirt-front, Buntokapi spared himself the tedium of the first acts, pleading the need to relieve himself and don more comfortable clothing. By tradition he could not bed his bride until the last of the guests had offered tribute; and the heavy marriage robes hid enough of her that staring at slave girls offered better pastime.

Mara nodded courteously at her Lord. ‘I shall stay here, my husband, that the least of our guests may know of Acoma gratitude for their presentations.’

Buntokapi sniffed, believing she avoided him deliberately. He would see to her later; meantime a feast waited, with fine music and drink, and the chance to see his brothers bow to him for the first time, as he was now Lord of the Acoma. Smiling under his crooked marriage wreath, Buntokapi clapped his hands for his slaves to carry him from the hall.

Mara remained, despite the fact that most of her wedding guests followed her Lord’s example. The sun climbed towards noon, and already heat haze shimmered over the distant acres of the needra fields. The highest-ranking guests retired to their quarters and sent servants for cool drinks and a change of clothes. Then, like brightly coloured birds, they emerged to feast on flavoured ices, chilled jomach fruit, and sa wine, until the cooler comfort of evening.

But in the airless confines of the hall the lowest-ranking stayed stiffly in their seats, while hired performers or a talented family member acted, sang or recited a tribute to the married Acoma couple. At smaller weddings the bride and groom might watch the first few performances out of courtesy; but at the greatest houses truly spectacular events occurred later in the roster, and couples most often left the first day’s efforts for the amusement of their off-duty servants.

Yet Mara lingered through the first round of performers, a juggler more successful as a comedian, two singers, a stage conjurer – whose magic was all of the sleight-of-hand variety – and a poet whose own patron snored loudly throughout his recitation. She applauded each act politely, and if she did not offer the accolade of tossing one of the flowers from her litter, she remained politely attentive until the intermission. The performers to follow waited stiffly, certain she would leave for the feasting. Yet, instead of litter bearers, she called for maids to bring her a tray of light food and drink. The guests murmured in surprise.

The fat Sulan-Qu merchant in the first row blushed and hid behind the fan of his wife. Even in dreams he had never dared to think the Lady of the Acoma would be present to watch his flute-playing son perform. The boy had a terrible ear, but his mother beamed with pride. Mara remained, sipping chilled jomach juice, upon the dais. She nodded graciously when the young flautist bowed and fled, nearly tripping in his haste to clear the way for the next act. Mara smiled at the embarrassed father and his wife, and realized that despite the tedium of enduring such music, should she ever need a favour from that merchant, it was hers for the asking.

Through mimes, a man with trained dogs, a singing liendi bird, and two more poets, the great lady showed no restlessness. She awarded the second of the poets a flower, deftly thrown into his hat. And the painter who followed made her laugh at his comical drawings of needra bulls charging a warrior. When in the second intermission she called maidservants to remove her outer robe, that she might be more comfortable in the noon heat, the lowliest guests murmured that this Lady was generously disposed beyond any they had known in the Empire. The performers sensed her interest and breathed new life into their offerings. And as servants dispatched by the Lady began 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.’