Sweetly, knowing he had the grandsire of all hangovers, she said, ‘My husband, are you indisposed?’
Bunto moaned and sent her for chocha. Sweating herself from memory of his abuses, Mara rose and fetched a steaming pot. She pressed a hot cup into her Lord’s shaking hand. As it had been brewing all morning, it was probably too strong to be considered drinkable, but Buntokapi sucked the cup dry. ‘You’re a small thing,’ he observed, comparing his large-knuckled hand to her slight one. Then, sulky from his headache, he reached out and pinched her still-swollen nipple.
Mara managed not to flinch, barely. Shaking the hair over her shoulders so its loose warmth covered her breasts, she said, ‘My Lord wishes?’
‘More chocha, woman.’ As if embarrassed by his clumsiness, he watched her fill his cup. ‘Ah, I feel like a needra herd has stopped to deposit their night soil in my mouth.’ He made a face and spat. ‘You will attend me while I dress and then you will call servants to bring thyza bread and jomach.’
‘Yes, husband,’ said Mara. ‘And after?’ Longingly she thought of the cool shadows of her father’s study, and Nacoya.
‘Don’t bother me, wife.’ Bunto rose, tenderly nursing his head. He stretched naked before her, the knobs of his knees only inches from her nose. ‘You will oversee the affairs of the house, but only when I have done with your services.’
The shadows of the drapes hid Mara’s shudder. Heartsick at the role she must live, she braced herself to endure; but drink and excessive feasting had blunted her husband’s desire. He abandoned his empty cup on the bedclothes and called for his robe.
Mara brought the garment and helped to slip the silk sleeves over arms that were stocky and thick with hair. Then she sat at tedious length while servants brought water for her Lord’s bath. After she had sponged his great back until the water cooled in the tub, he permitted his Lady to dress. Servants brought bread and fruit, but only she might serve him. Watching him shovel jomach into his mouth, juice dripping down his chin, she wondered how the shrewd Lord of the Anasati had come by such a son. Then, looking beyond his coarse manners into his secretive eyes, she realized with a chill of purest panic that he watched her as carefully in return; like a predator. Mara realized his insistence that he wasn’t stupid might be no boast. A sinking feeling hit her. If Buntokapi was simply cunning, like the Lord of the Minwanabi, there would be ways to manage him. But if he was also intelligent . . . The thought left her cold.
‘You are very clever,’ Buntokapi said at last. He caressed her wrist with a sticky finger, almost dotingly possessive.
‘My qualities pale beside my Lord’s,’ whispered Mara. She kissed his knuckles, to distract his thinking.
‘You don’t eat,’ he observed. ‘You only ponder. I dislike that in a woman.’
Mara cut a slice of thyza bread and cradled it in her palms. ‘With my Lord’s permission?’
Buntokapi grinned as she nibbled a bite; the bread seemed tasteless on her tongue, but she chewed and swallowed to spite him. Quickly bored with watching her discomfort, the son of the Lord of the Anasati called for musicians.
Mara closed her eyes. She needed Nacoya, so badly she ached inside. Yet as mistress of the Ruling Lord she could do nothing but await his pleasure as he called for ballads and argued with the singer over nuances in the fourth stanza. The day warmed, and with closed drapes the marriage hut became stifling. Mara endured, and fetched wine when her husband tired of the music. She combed his hair and laced his sandals. Then, at his bidding, she danced until the hair dampened at her temples and her bruised face stung with exertion. Just when it seemed her Lord would while away the entire day within the marriage hut, he rose and bellowed for the servants to prepare his litter. He would pass the time until evening in the barracks reviewing the numbers and training of the Acoma warriors, he announced.