Arms held high, hands fluttering in the air as though showering invisible delicacies, the Prince cried, "A thousand welcomes to my beloved guests! You honour me with your presences. Most of you have attended my little gatherings before, however some are joining us for the first time, and their company is especially delightful. I refer of course to our visiting dignitaries, Moaradrid of Shoan and Mayor Marina Estrada, and to their entourages." Panchetto motioned almost imperceptibly towards Saltlick, and the faintest tremor of laughter ran around the room. "I hope you'll all show them the esteem they deserve."
I hadn't imagined it. Panchetto had just mocked us to his friends. Until then, I'd naively accepted his claim that the get-together was for our benefit. It struck me belatedly that it was a hundred times more likely we'd been shoehorned in as an easy solution to an awkward dilemma — or worse, as titillation for his bored friends. I'd underestimated him. I might almost have been impressed, but for one thing: he in turn was underestimating Moaradrid, and I'd learned myself how catastrophic that could be. For Moaradrid's expression was like a storm shadow; if I was being overly sensitive, I wasn't the only one.
Of course, it might have had as much to do with being seated within spitting distance of myself. We were at the farthest end of the table: me, Saltlick and Estrada on one side, Moaradrid and his grim bodyguards on the other. Captain Alvantes had been placed next to Moaradrid, which could easily be read as a further snub. Was this Panchetto's way of showing the barbarian his true standing in the grander scheme of things?
If so, I could think of easier ways to commit suicide.
It was as though someone had carved a line through the table, dividing the two extremes by a fathomless gulf. Around the Prince, the hall was a whirlpool of conversation. I noticed the fat man whose room I'd invaded earlier sat close by him, head thrown back in paroxysms of laughter. All of the men were equally overweight and jolly, while their women were dusky and soft-spoken. Their garments were lavish, not quite to the point of extravagance. They wore jewellery, but slyly, so that the nod of a head or wave of a hand revealed some gem that spat back the red-tinged light.
On the other side of the chasm there was us. We looked comically plain in our simple clothes. Estrada had opted for a light linen dress that would have been elegant in other circumstances, but seemed merely rustic in the vicinity of so much wealth. The silence was molten and close, like a burning hot summer's day. I felt sure that at any moment Moaradrid would kick over the table and plunge his knife into someone's chest. The more I imagined it, the more I thought it might be a relief.
When the first serving girl began to bring out food, I nearly leaped to my feet and hugged her. Her appearance didn't so much break the tension as divert it, but at least we could pretend we'd been waiting to start eating rather than for violence to erupt. The procession of bowls and platters reminded me of a bucket chain at a fire, and soon the tables were groaning beneath their weight.
Grateful for a subject that might not provoke bloodshed, I asked Estrada, "Is this really all for tonight?"
She looked surprised. "Damasco, this is only the entree."
Alvantes, seeing my astonishment, said, "What's wrong, Damasco? Confused by the thought of food you don't have to steal?"
"At least I wasn't invited to keep the rabble in order," I muttered, and then — realising I'd just insulted Moaradrid, not to say myself — I bowed my head over my plate and pretended it was absorbing all my attention. It wasn't such a pretence; nor was Alvantes's comment so wide of the mark. After my miserable existence of the last few weeks, it was hard to believe the variety and quantity of food within my reach. Partly to divert attention from my misjudged comment and partly from genuine curiosity, I pointed to one plate and asked Estrada, "What's that?"
"It's spiced fish eggs, Damasco."
"Ugh. How about those?"
"I think they're stuffed dormice."
"Really? And this?"
"Damasco," she said, "if I spend the night giving you a tour of our meal, when do you expect me to actually eat any of it?"
Quieted again, I glanced once more around the table. I wasn't the only one wary of our host's beneficence. Moaradrid was eating sparely, touching no dish that one or other of his bodyguards hadn't tasted first. His paranoia was probably healthy for a man in his circumstances, but I was under no such compunction. Anyone who wanted me dead would hardly go to the trouble of poisoning me. I settled for sampling a little of everything within reach, until my plate threatened to overflow. I plunged my spoon into the teetering mass, just as a reedy voice from the far end of the table called, "Now that our new guests are settled, perhaps it's time we discussed this nonsense of a war?"
It was fortunate I wasn't eating; I'd certainly have choked. I could hear Estrada spluttering beside me.
"They tell me it's all to do with some stone. Surely that can't be true? Moaradrid, Lady Estrada, my dear friends, please don't tell me you're harbouring animosities over something as silly as a missing pebble?"
I wanted to crawl out of my skin. Since that didn't seem realistic, I settled on scrunching as low into my cushions as I could. I dared a glance at Saltlick to see how he'd reacted to this mention of the giant-stone. The answer was not at all. He either hadn't understood or wasn't listening, because his attention was focused entirely on the heaped bowl of vegetables before him.
Neither Moaradrid nor Estrada had shown any inclination to address the Prince's question. He went on, with mock exasperation, "Can't one of you at least tell me how this foolishness started?"
"The details are irrelevant," said Moaradrid. His voice was perfectly toneless. "That thief stole what was mine."
"But really, can it be worth getting so upset about?"
If I hadn't already felt sure that my worst fears were valid, the titters rising from Panchetto's end of the table confirmed it. The Prince's regular guests were lapping up this goading of the visiting savage.
I was more surprised that Moaradrid seemed to be just about keeping his cool. "Perhaps not, Highness. Yet there's such a thing as honour. It would be better for everyone if what was stolen is returned."
"You stole it in the first place." I couldn't help myself. As soon as the words were out of my mouth, I wanted nothing but to take them back. Since I couldn't, I kept going. "I'm not saying I have it, but if I did, maybe I'd just be returning it to where it belonged."
"There, the thief is an altruist," cried Panchetto. "What do you think of that, friend Moaradrid?"
"I think that this childishness bores me."
A deep hush fell over the table. Whether the comment was aimed at me or the Prince, it was blatant enough to silence even Panchetto.
The servants, misinterpreting the unnatural quiet or the fact no one except Saltlick was eating, began clearing away the tableware. As before, their intervention defused a little of the tension — and as before, I knew it could only be a brief reprieve.
The Prince took up another subject, pointedly aiming his remarks at those closest to him. Moaradrid sat very still, with his eyes almost closed and his hands laid flat before him, as if meditating. I could hear his breathing, each exhale sharp as a knife thrust. Glancing aside, I noticed Estrada look anxiously to Alvantes, as if to ask, " How far will this go?"
Well, that was easy. Panchetto wouldn't stop baiting Moaradrid, and Moaradrid wouldn't sit quietly and take it forever.