"Are you sure?"
"Absolutely I am."
I nodded thoughtfully. "Well, I definitely didn't have anything like this." I grinned. "My mistake. I'm Easie Damasco, by the way."
He looked at me blankly.
"I'm with Mayor Estrada."
That sparked a little interest in his beady eyes. "Oh really? But… well, I'd expected you to be… I mean, you're very small for a…"
"For a…?"
"Well, I'd have expected a giant to be a little more
giant."
"Oh. No, I'm the other one."
"Ah, the… other one."
I'd watched his mouth form around the word "thief". Panchetto hadn't been shy about announcing the presence of his unusual guests.
"Well, I'm sorry for bothering you. Perhaps we'll meet again at the banquet tonight?"
"Oh yes, I always come to the Prince's parties. First at the table, last to leave, that's me."
"An excellent attitude. Sorry once more."
I backed out through the curtain. The fat man waved and lost his grip on the towel. The last I saw, he was scrabbling to conceal his very limited assets.
I hurried back down the passage, up the stairs, rushed into the familiar corridor, and barely avoided colliding with Estrada and Saltlick. They were being led by two of the palace guards, the four of them heading away from our rooms.
"Damasco," Estrada said. "Where have you been? We've been waiting for you. The banquet's already started."
CHAPTER 17
Say what you like about Panchetto, the man knew how to throw a party.
We'd been led once more through the labyrinthine passages, to be deposited this time in a hall somewhere deep within the southern wing. It was grand even compared to the rest of the palace: a long space measured by high arches that supported open crescent windows, in turn giving way to an oval cupola set with blood red glass. The tables, following the northern fashion, were set at knee height and bordered not with benches but with heaps of embroidered cushions. Braziers burned at intervals along the arcades, and the ceiling threw back the firelight in shimmering slants.
The entertainers were already in full swing, undeterred by the lack of an audience. A large band played on a stage set in the shadows of the far end; the music was sinuous and complex, so subtle that it hardly registered on the ear. Tumblers and jugglers threaded around each other, performing outrageous stunts with blank-faced composure. There was even the promised dancing bear, though its performance bore little relation to the murmur of pipes and guitars, and was marred by its expression of stolid misery. I decided I'd rather watch the serving girls, who were manoeuvring through the chaos wearing little besides handkerchiefs and smiles.
Panchetto had spared no trouble or expense. Here was a space devoted utterly to the repose of body and mind, and I couldn't help but be impressed by the single-minded lavishness of it all.
It was only a shame that so much effort had been wasted. He could have relaxed us just as well by hurling us into a pit of rabid dogs.
For there, waiting with perfect stillness in an aperture half way along one wall, stood Moaradrid. He was flanked by two bodyguards, neither of them taking any pains to disguise their function. It was clear too that the warlord had picked his position for the vantage point it offered over the chamber. His only concession had been to relinquish his armour for a simple cream robe, belted with a wide bruise-purple sash. I thought for a moment he'd even come unarmed, until I noticed the dagger worn where his scimitar would have been.
Moaradrid's disdain stood out all the more in the absence of other guests. The scattered bunches soon swelled into a crowd, however, as new arrivals appeared by ones and twos. In a few minutes, Moaradrid had been mercifully hidden from view, and I could think about something other than his eyes boring into me. Saltlick, Estrada and I had kept together until then, a gloomy island amidst the throng. I was considering an attempt at conversation when Estrada broke away, and flitted through the shifting mass of bodies towards the entrance. Guard-Captain Alvantes, newly arrived, saw her coming and greeted her with a nod. He was out of uniform, looking uncomfortable in a plain shirt and open waistcoat. A pathetic part of me hoped she'd drag him back to join our group. No such luck. They stayed near the archway and didn't as much as glance in our direction.
I glanced around, hoping to spy someone I could at least say "hello" to. It was galling to realise that, apart from Saltlick and possibly Estrada, everyone I knew there would have cheerfully seen me dead. I had as much in common with the rest as rat droppings to diamonds. My new clothes, which had seemed so elegant in the privacy of my room, were now just barely tailored enough to distinguish me from the servants.
My desperation reached a peak. I began seriously to consider attempting a discussion with Saltlick. I was spared by a gong sounding from the stage, a deep, throbbing note that set the whole room aquiver. The entertainers dissolved away, a pair of handlers manoeuvred the bear out, and the serving girls began to guide us to our allocated places. The pulse of a dozen different conversations fell quiet. All eyes turned expectantly to the head of the table, where Panchetto was the only one left standing.
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.
I couldn't wait any longer.
"They're taking our dinner away," I moaned, as though the serving girl who'd just appeared to remove the bowl in front of me were tearing the food from my very mouth. "Hey, what's that? I didn't get to try any." I grabbed for some strips of meat on the edge of Estrada's plate and my wrist struck her glass, splashing its contents over the table.
"Damn it! Don't worry, I'll get you another."
I snatched up the goblet and chased after the nearest serving girl. Half a dozen semi-clothed beauties were tasked solely with keeping everyone's glasses filled from the amphorae they cradled. I pushed the refilled glass before Estrada, who thanked me with a glare.
The servants worked with brutal efficiency. Hardly a minute had passed before the barely-touched first course had vanished. Close on its heels came the centrepiece of the banquet: a colossal boar, reeking of hot fat, paprika and sweet wine. There followed bowls of rice, some spiced, some mixed with pickled fruit or titbits of seafood; platters laden with every conceivable vegetable prepared in every imaginable manner; and countless pastries, breads and sweetmeats. I wanted to condemn the waste and gluttony—but, sitting in the midst of it, I simply couldn't. I could only be awed, and wonder how I'd ever return to a life of poverty.