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?’
Tecuma thumped his hands upon the table, and the plates all jumped with a clink. ‘Exactly!’
Belatedly alerted to his master’s tension, Chumaka sat blinking like a night bird caught in bright light. Even inebriated, he sensed something amiss. His instincts came to the fore. Levering himself forward, he attempted to reach for his master’s sleeve. The manoeuvre overbalanced him; he caught himself short of a fall with an undignified whoosh of breath. ‘My Lord –’
Tecuma’s eyes remained locked upon his daughter-in-law.
The image of nervous innocence, Mara said, ‘My Lord husband said, “If the Warlord arrives, he can damn well wait upon my pleasure.”’
Chumaka sank his fist to the wrist in embroidered pillows, frozen in the act of reaching for Tecuma’s dangling sleeve. Helpless now to intervene, he watched Tecuma’s face drain slowly of colour. Chumaka looked across a room that held no movement, and through the delicate steam rising from a dozen rare dishes he regarded the reaction of Almecho.
The Warlord of all Tsuranuanni sat motionless, his still features deepening to red. All his inclination towards tolerance vanished as his eyes became burning coals of barely managed rage, and his reply cut like sharpened flint. ‘What else did my Lord of the Acoma say of me?’
Mara gestured helplessly, and directed a desperate glance at Nacoya. ‘My Lords, I … I dare not speak. I beg that you wait for my husband, and let him answer for himself.’ Straight, small, and pathetically fragile in her formal robes, the girl seemed lost in the cushions she sat upon. Hers was an image to evoke pity; except that the Game of the Council allowed none. As a maid with a basin hurried to her side to dab her forehead with a damp towel, the Warlord glared at Tecuma of the Anasati.
‘Ask her the whereabouts of your son, Lord, for I require a messenger sent at once to summon him into our presence. If he intends insult, let him speak in my presence.’
Mara dismissed her maid. She rallied with the formality of a Tsurani warrior facing a death sentence, though such control taxed her visibly. ‘My Lord, Buntokapi is in his town house in Sulan-Qu, but no messenger may go there, by his explicit command. He vowed to kill the next servant sent to trouble him.’
The Warlord heaved to his feet. ‘The Lord of the Acoma is in Sulan-Qu? While we wait upon his pleasure? And what, will you tell us, does he expect us to do in the meantime? Speak, Lady, and leave nothing out!’
Tecuma rose also, a serpent ready to strike. ‘What nonsense is this? Surely my son … not even Bunto could be so rude.’
The Warlord silenced him with a gesture. ‘Let the Lady of the Acoma speak for her husband.’
Mara bowed. Her eyes seemed too bright, the delicate shades of her makeup harsh against her pallor. With stiff ceremony, she formed a triangle with her thumbs and fingers, the ancient gesture which signified that honour must be compromised by the command of a superior. All present in the room knew that her news would bring shame. The priests who had blessed the repast silently arose and departed. The musicians and servants filed out after them, and soon the chamber held only the guests, their advisers, and the Warlord’s honour guard. Papewaio stood immobile as a temple icon behind the Lady of the Acoma’s shoulder, and Nacoya, equally still, waited by her side. Quietly Mara said, ‘My tongue will not compromise the honour of this house. My First Adviser was present when Buntokapi
