Mara winked, as if to a conspirator. “The main dish is Buntokapi’s personal favourite, but it sours if it stands too long. The cooks have been at work all day for your pleasure, and the jigabirds and the needra are spiced with rare sauces. My most graceful maid, Merali, will show you your seat. She will bring a basin if you need to wash.’
Sweating, and infuriated by what he saw as girlish prattle, the Lord of the Anasati permitted himself to be ushered in to dinner. He noticed, with narrowed eyes, that the Warlord showed signs of restlessness; at that point he was glad Mara had gone to the trouble of bringing in priests to bless the repast, and that her musicians played very well, if too loudly for protocol.
He barely tasted what had been touted as Buntokapi’s favourite dish. When Chumaka snatched time to query how long he intended to be led on by such nonsense, he nearly choked on his meat. Mara set down her knife and signalled Nacoya, who in turn nodded to a servant in the doorway. The musicians struck up a wildly arhythmic melody, and female dancers dressed in little but beads and gauze whirled into the space between the tables.
That their performance was brilliantly provocative could do nothing to hide the fact that Buntokapi of the Acoma was nowhere in evidence, though his father and the most august personage in the High Council presently bided their time at his dinner table.
Lord Tecuma seized the moment when the dancers spun about and finished their finale. He heaved himself to his feet, almost stepping on his hems in haste, and bellowed over the last notes of music, ‘My Lady Mara, where is your husband, Buntokapi?’
The musicians stopped their strings, but for one laggard vielle, which scraped an abandoned solo before its owner stilled his bow. Silence fell, and all eyes turned to Mara, who stared in turn at the dainties which her cooks had laboured to prepare, but which she obviously had barely tasted. She said nothing; and the Warlord set down his spoon with a clink.
A hairsbreadth shy of discourtesy, she met her father-in-law’s eyes. ‘My Lord, forgive us both. I will explain everything, but such words will go more graciously after the servants have brought wine.’
‘No!’ Almecho spread heavy hands before him upon the table. ‘Lady, this has gone on long enough! Your dinner is exquisitely prepared and your dancers are talented, but we who visit your house will not be treated as buffoons. You must send for your Lord and let him explain himself.’
Mara’s expression revealed nothing, but she turned dramatically pale. Nacoya seemed openly shaken, and the Lord of the Anasati felt sweat spring beneath his collar. ‘Well, girl? Send for my son, that my grandson may be presented!’
Mara’s reply was phrased with perfect deference. ‘Father of my husband, forgive me, but I cannot do as you ask. Let my servants bring wine, and in time my husband will explain himself.’
The Warlord turned a dark expression on Mara. At first he had treated the delay in Buntokapi’s appearance as something of a joke, indulging an old ally. But as the day had passed, the waiting and the heat had plainly worn away what patience he possessed. Now Tecuma of the Anasati dared not take the girl’s suggestion without severe loss of face, for clearly her efforts suggested something was amiss. To swallow her excuses would indicate weakness, a serious setback before the pre-eminent member of the Imperial Council. If Buntokapi was drunk, even to incapacity, that shame would be less than the one incurred should he slight his father and his guests by hiding the fact behind his wife.
Tecuma said, in deadly even tones, ‘We are waiting.’
Overtly nervous, but still ingenuous, Mara answered, ‘Yes, father of my husband, that is true.’
The silence that followed was ponderous.
The musicians set down their instruments, and the dancers filed from the room. When it became painfully evident that the Lady of the Acoma intended no explanation, the Anasati Lord was forced once more to intervene.
As if he had to bite down to control his urge to shout, Tecuma demanded, ‘What do you mean, that is true?’
Mara’s discomfort intensified. Without meeting the eyes of her father-in-law, she said, ‘My husband wished for you to wait for him.’
The Warlord set down the after-dinner sweet he had been nibbling and looked confused, the result of the odd dialogue and the wine. ‘Buntokapi wished us to wait for him? Then he knew he would be late in greeting us?’ Almecho sighed, as if a great weight had been lifted from him. ‘Then he sent word he would be late and you were to entertain us until he arrived, is that it?’
‘Not exactly, my .Lord,’ said Mara, her colour rising.
Tecuma leaned forward. ‘What exactly, then, did he say, Mara?’
Like a gazen held pinned by a serpent, Mara began to tremble. ‘His exact words, father of my husband?’