Grudging (4 page)

 

CHAPTER 5

F
irst Wife Beatriz thrust a slim volume under Ramiro's nose. He leaned back wearily. “What about these?” she asked.

“Mother, those are children's tales meant to frighten the gullible. You can't take those seriously.” Plump and set in her ways, his mother devoted her life to sewing, pampering small dogs, and worrying. Working herself to an anxious frenzy was her favorite hobby, especially where her children were concerned. Ramiro had grown used to redirecting her rants though not always successfully.

She turned to seize another old tome from an elbow table. “And these? This is a book of serious history.” She flipped pages to stop at a painting of a thin woman with wolflike fangs and a matted torrent of hair colored like sunflowers. “Your father has lost his mind.”

Ramiro started to believe he'd lost his own mind for visiting her. Salvador had made it sound so sensible that one of them had to take leave of their mother. Certainly, Salvador wanted to spend his free time with his sweetheart, Fronilde, instead. Ramiro couldn't blame his brother; he had better plans also. Yet he knew it was honorable to devote an hour to their mother before going on a dangerous mission.

If only he hadn't drawn the low card, and if only Mother hadn't been in her sitting room.

Fabric swathed almost every inch of the claustrophobic, windowless room, even the tables and walls. And what wasn't drowned in lace was satiny and bright yellow, blue, or red. The high ceiling and thick walls might make it pleasantly cool, but the room suffocated Ramiro anyway.

“I won't argue that history records the witches, but they might be only history. I've never seen hair that color, Mother, not even on the Northerners. Too, all we have to go by are old books, rumors, and ghoulish embellishment.” He pushed aside two embroidered pillows that filled the overstuffed armchair and put a third on the carpet at his feet, disturbing his mother's latest lapdog, who promptly yipped at him. Better to play down the danger and pacify her before she worked herself up. He couldn't let her sense his own nervousness.

It was perhaps too much to hope for.

Because, undeterred, she lifted an arm with a sleeve covered in dangling white lace and turned more pages. The next painting showed a woman with the same bizarre hair, only clutching a bloody dagger. The woman's eyes stared, round and dilated.

Beatriz sniffed. “And when rumors all agree, we call that fact.” She slammed the book shut. “They use magic. Not that there's anything wrong with magic—­my own grandmother had the Sight—­but the witches are murdering lunatics.” She glanced at the icon of San Gerald, patron of motherhood. “How can a mother protect her children if they persist in going among murderous cannibals?”

“Cannibals?” Ramiro asked, blinking in astonishment. “Now that's one I haven't heard before. You cannot believe what is in such stories.” His mother grabbed at the book in her lap as if to show him more evidence, but he stayed her hands. “I don't deny that all the stories say witches use magic. But then again, they wouldn't be useful to us without it.”

“They murder good, honest ­people.”

“They murder ­people who enter their
territory
,” Ramiro said.

“Or outside it,” she insisted, picking up her small dog to place it atop the book in her lap.

“Possibly. Murderers or not, we could use their skills to beat the Northerners. But it's all beside the point, Mother. Think of it in a different way,” he said, squinting, trying to come up with something convincing. Finally, he settled on, “Salvador has a duty to go where Father sends him. You must allow that. He has no choice in the matter. His
pelotón
belongs to the
Alcalde
.” No sense in sharing Salvador's own doubts with his mother or anyone else. She raised some of his own misgivings, but the choice had been made for him. He followed his superiors' orders, and in turn, Ramiro would follow his.

Beatriz's mouth pressed into a thin line, and her eyes narrowed. “So you're saying this is your father's fault.”

“No,” he said with a sigh. “I'm saying that Salvador is going, and you need me to keep an eye on him. Protect him. You know how my brother gets tunnel vision.” In this stuffy, overdecorated drawing room, he might as well have been in a tunnel himself—­he felt just as trapped. But he could see some light that just might get him out of here. “It will be much safer with both of us together. It will only take a few days, then we'll be back. You can't grudge us a sevenday. I've been gone for much longer during training, and I will be away from the Northerners. Orders are orders. It's only for a short time.” He threw ideas at her rapid-­fire, hoping that something might stick. The sooner he got out of here, the sooner they could begin the mission.

And the sooner they returned, the sooner he could prove to everyone he was a man.

His mother switched to a new worry as if she were resistant to his arguments. “But what does one pack to venture into a
swamp
and meet with a
witch
?” The dog yipped each time she raised her voice as if it agreed. “You must promise to change your socks after every meal. It's very wet in a swamp.”

“I promise,” Ramiro said, too knocked off-­kilter by her capriciousness to think of a better response. Only with effort did he hold his face in an appropriately solemn pose. It wasn't like his mother to surrender so quickly. Something didn't add up.

“And be back by San Cristin Day. I won't have either of you missing my dinner party.”

“That's two months away. How can you be con—­?”

She held up a hand to stop him. “Someone must be concerned about morale. Keeping up spirits is every bit as important as soldiering. Your father agrees with me.”

“Yes, Mother. You're right, of course.”

She nodded in satisfaction. “And you'll come to Santiago's shrine and light candles right now.”

“I have to go add more socks to my bags.”

She reached across to grip his chin between two fingers. “Don't sass your mother. You haven't got a beard yet. You're still my
niño
.” Ramiro cringed, but she laughed and handed him the lapdog. “Come along. It won't interrupt your little trip to make friends with a witch.”

He stood and put the dog under his arm. “The witches don't make friends. We're bringing them back so—­”

“Blah, blah, blah, magic. I've already heard it from your father. All very secret. Not to be talked about around untrustworthy ears. Come along.” She headed for a door concealed by more fabric, this one with peacocks sewn into it. Her skirts rustled, so stiff and full they were capable of standing up by themselves when she wasn't wearing them, like miniature versions of First Wife Beatriz. Her clothing was another tool in his mother's arsenal of intimidation.

The little lapdog got Ramiro's best shirt in its mouth and began worrying at it, leaving a wet patch until Ramiro shifted it under his other arm as he followed his mother out the door. Servants bowed and stood back as she led the way, a tall, old-­fashioned mantilla of lace dangling from the top of her piled hair adding almost a foot to her height.

“Since when do soldiers dawdle? Hurry up there. And don't drop Pietro.”

Several corridors, six staircases, and many minutes later, Ramiro decided his mother was luring him to a dungeon to lock him inside with the lapdog until after the
pelotón
had left. “Where exactly is this shrine?” He tugged at his tight collar. Somehow she'd done more exploring of the citadel than the gang of ruffian boys he spent his childhood with.

“Here,” she called over her shoulder. She rounded a curved wall that concealed one of the spiral staircases and stopped in front of a dead end. Up ahead was a little grotto, complete with kneeler, metal shelving, and enough unlit candle stubs to illuminate a cathedral. From the amount of soot staining the walls, this place had been active for centuries. “This is one of the holiest of places,” she whispered, pointing to a glass jar in the exact center of the grotto, placed upon a velvet cushion. “That is the sacred finger bone of Santiago himself.”

“If you say so, Mother.” The amber-­colored liquid in the jar was too thick to show if there was a bone inside or not. He'd be more likely to believe it if he hadn't seen enough of these for sale in the market to make ten of Santiago since the Northerners had arrived. Yet some of his apprehension did lift, whether it was the finger bone or his mother's belief.

“Shhh,” she hissed. She lit a stub of a candle from a tall pillar set there by the priests for that purpose and put it next to the glass jar. “Your turn.”

Ramiro lit candle after candle until Beatriz showed signs of being pacified, then he knelt between her and her lapdog while the ache in his knees slowly grew. She kept her head bent in prayer, and the dog fell asleep, snoring loudly. He wondered about witches and what exactly their so-­called magic could accomplish for them. Or even if the witches could be brought to cooperate. Historically, the women of the swamp liked their privacy and reacted with hostility to anyone entering their territory. It had been so for centuries. Every once in a while, an
alcalde
decided to try to exterminate them, but such efforts always failed. Badly. So badly that none were recorded as ever returning. But that had all happened long ago. What Ramiro needed to know was what changes had taken place since?

Beatriz suddenly rose, dragging Ramiro upright with her. She placed a hand on his stomach. “Santiago, keep worry and darkness from building in my son's spleen.” She shifted her hand to suit her words. “Keep anger from controlling his destiny and filling his liver. Make his heart valiant. Let his mind take the lead in all he does.” She seized him in a rough hug and squeezed tight. “Bring him home.”

He patted her back and tried not to wiggle like a five-­year-­old. “I'll be back, Mother. It won't take long.”

“You'll take this.” She released him and picked up two candles from next to the finger-­bone jar and blew them out. “These candles are blessed by Santiago now. Use the wax to block your ears when you meet the witches. It will protect you. It's their voices that hold the magic.” She pressed the candles into his hands. “How many are going? Will two candles be enough to protect all of you?”

“Only five of us, Mother. Two will be plenty.” This time, when she hugged him tight, he squeezed back.

 

CHAPTER 6

J
ulian Alvarado stood at the map covering much of the front wall of his study. Dark, masculine wood paneled the walls, except for where overfilled bookcases took up space. The massive desk, used by hundreds of
alcaldes
who preceded him, was planted at the center of the room before the empty fireplace. It was practically the only furniture in the room besides two plain chairs for visitors, and the one he had sat behind for over ten years. A painting of a saguaro cactus, tall with many long arms, reminded all who entered of the reward of stubbornness and persistence. Each arm represented seventy years of the plant's continued life in one of the most inhospitable climates in the world. His own determination could be no less.

He studied the gold stars painted on the large map to signify each
ciudad-­estado,
the size of the star indicating the extent of the city. Names had been embossed by each
ciudad-­estado
, also in gold. No star was bigger than the one marking Colina Hermosa though you had to squint to detect a difference from Aveston's. Much of that accomplishment was his doing, a thought that filled him with pride.

With a finger, Julian traced a nearly straight line west across the map from Zapata and its smaller, satellite towns along the seacoast to Colina Hermosa, then on slightly north to Aveston. All three
ciudades-­estado
were the most northern, the first the enemy found. Its first victims. Seven other cities and a few smaller towns were located south from them, waiting to be next.

Worry boiled in Julian's gut. No amount of tea or plain broth was enough to soothe it. Did he make the right choice? Did he go too far, accept too much risk? But what other move could he make? Never had his leadership been such a heavy burden.

He had sought help from all the
ciudades-­estado
, both those now under siege like themselves and those still free. A few of the cities had rejected him outright—­Zapata, Aveston–the rest never responded, playing for time. Like the hare with a hawk overhead, they hunkered into the grass and hoped to go undetected, not realizing the hawk circled back for them. Their
alcaldes
were unwilling to take the risk of banding together to escape the talons. Even now, they feared treachery and deceit from their neighbors more than the swords of the Northerners. Julian could not blame them. Hiding, fear, repeating tactics of the past, avoiding liability—­such was human nature.

Their spies had reported that Zapata had been as accommodating to the Northerners as humanly possible without actually opening their gates or accepting their terms. Zapata had taken the line of appeasement, hoping to buy survival. The smoking ruins of their
ciudad-­estado
proved passive resistance hadn't worked. Julian suspected Aveston would try battle, would wait until the last moment, then throw everything it had at the hordes of Northerners. So vastly outnumbered, this approach was certain doom as well. Every military captain agreed to that fact. Aveston would fall unless something changed.

Just as Colina Hermosa would fall if it relied on a military solution.

The
ciudades-­estado
acted as they always had, following time-­honored trials of history. Doing as their forefathers had always done in times of desperation. Adhering to the past would get no one out of this new threat.

Man must follow his nature. But Julian couldn't hide like some old hare behind walls, waiting for the talons to fall. The talons already clutched Colina Hermosa's throat. He could not force himself to wait for them to slash.

Julian turned from the map to pace; the route was ten steps from map to fireplace when he felt relaxed and at peace. Today, his longer stride cut the path to six steps as if events drove him to hurry.

Acting was all well and good, but did he do the right thing? Was it best to run from the hawk? Sending his sons to the swamp in search of the witches. His other plans for the children of the city. Would he lead his ­people to life or devastation? Salvador and Ramiro might be safer here. Would his risk be to their harm? Could he live with the results?

And keeping his plans secret from the councilmen and his closest advisors . . . he still wasn't sure if he should regret that or not. And yet, he'd told no one but those necessary to carry out his orders—­and his wife, Beatriz. He had done so because then only he would be to blame if they failed. To be fair, he also didn't believe the
concejales
would approve his choices. Despite many years of friendship, they would censor him, perhaps strike him from his seat as
alcalde
.

It was not too late to change his mind. To keep his sons here with him. To put none of his other plans in motion. To go the safe route and leave the life of his city in the hands of the saints. He could spend his days and nights on his knees to Santiago, praying for deliverance.

He rubbed a hand across his beard as doubts tore at him. Would he be the savior or the villain? Did he have the right to risk, not only his own family, but the entire city with his secret plans? He had never been a religious man, but if only the saints would help him decide.

“Give me a sign,” he demanded, looking up at the ceiling. “If you're real, let me know what to do!” He listened with all his might.

Common sense said that they wouldn't answer and, indeed, nothing changed, except for a wave of sheepish embarrassment flooding Julian. The burden belonged to him alone.

The
alcaldes
of the other
ciudades-­estado
came from political families, from long lines of those used to making decisions for their cities. Like all politicians, they had learned to avoid risk as unprofitable, dangerous even. They would not stick out their necks and deviate from historical choices.

Only he had another background. His father had been a merchant with two stores. When Julian inherited, he had built that small beginning from two to twelve, had branched out into trade between other
ciudades-­estado
. When he could go no further there, he had made the move to politics, dreaming of expanding his city just as far.

His empire had not been carved by sitting still and waiting. Taking risks was in his nature. He could not hide in the grass no matter how much he might prefer such safe measures. Not if he wanted to save Colina Hermosa.

He straightened and went to sit at his desk, fingering a report before him. The spies who got inside Zapata said the Northerners had offered terms of surrender and given a sevenday to decide on them. They had not been able to learn the details of the terms, only that they were harsh. If precedent held, the Northerners would do the same with Colina Hermosa.

The Northerners' pattern seemed to be holding from the envoy who had approached them this morning—­the one Julian had delayed and turned away. Tomorrow, he would see their representative, hear their demands. Would it be for riches? For land and domination? For something else? He believed the Northerners would not destroy the city until Julian gave them an answer to their terms. The Northerners wanted something, and he might learn what tomorrow.

The
alcalde
from Zapata had taken this momentary calm in the storm of a sevenday for a chance to placate its way out of the Northern talons. Aveston, no doubt, built up its armaments.

He planned to do both and go further. He would use this momentary calm and take advantage of it. Seek out new allies. Find ways to fool and delay the Northerners. Unlike the other
ciudades-­estado
, they had the blessing of their secret tunnels, giving them access to the outside world.

This moment would make or break, not just himself but all of Colina Hermosa. They trusted him to get it right.

Julian closed his eyes and drew a deep breath. He held it, seeking calm, seeking answers. He had felt foolish asking the saints because that wasn't his way. Always when troubled, he sought deep within himself for the solution. He did so again, and his gut told him to stay true to his nature. That hazarding it all was the only way to win this time.

So be it. He would take the consequences as his alone. He opened his eyes, his hands stilled against the papers. His stomach settled. His eye lit on the saguaro painting, the cactus tall and majestic. If he and Colina Hermosa were to go down, let it be with flare and dignity. Let it be with a fight that might succeed or at least save some of their ­people.

He stood. It was time to see his sons off.

A
young groom tugged at a blindfolded packhorse, who danced in panic. Most horses didn't care to be underground; it took them awhile to settle once in the tunnels, but
caballos de guerra
weren't ordinary horses. Moving past the panicked gelding, Sancha butted the back of Ramiro's uniform as if to say move faster as he guided her down the temporary ramp that led into the citadel's cellar. He reached down to steady his sword, which had been set swaying by his horse's antics. His armor was all stacked and tied among his belongings on Sancha's back.

Ramiro smiled at the sight of the troubled horses and nodded at the boy. He'd handled many a frightened horse. Being the son of the
Alcalde
had earned him no favors. He'd started out as a groom when he was ten years old, following in his brother's footsteps instead of preparing for the university as his mother wished. Tradition dictated every candidate for the
pelotón
start in the same way. Days spent with horses and evenings spent training with any soldier who would put up with him long enough to teach him how to use any weapon he could get his hands on. At fourteen, he'd become a squire to his brother's newly won squadron, and three years later he was one of them, with his own mount.

Besides their unusual gray coat,
caballos de guerra
all had the same qualities—­loyalty and intelligence. A single farm outside Colina Hermosa had produced the stock over many generations. Stock that was now safely cramped into lodgings within the walls of the city.

Ramiro stroked Sancha's long nose to comfort her though he needed the calming just as much. The same excitement and anticipation, mixed with nervousness, radiated from her as coursed through his veins. He'd picked Sancha out as a colt when he'd first begun his apprenticeship with the
pelotón
. Or perhaps Sancha had picked him. Whichever the case, only death would part them now. They had come of age together.

It was hard to resist crouching under the low ceiling of the cellar although the rafters were a hand's length above Sancha's ears. Unlike most cellars, this one had been cleared of all the food and drink stores and the accumulating junk that usually collected below stairs to make way for another use. The smell of dry earth and cobwebs didn't help the feeling of being buried alive. The cellar might have been heavily guarded since the Northerners arrived, but no one had felt a need to clean it.

He struggled against a lump caught in his throat. He could almost hear the big clock outside his father's study beating down the days and hours left of Colina Hermosa's life.
Hurry, hurry,
it seemed to say with each tick in his head.

Guards stood straight, made extravigilant by the presence of the
Alcalde
. The packhorse finally surrendered, allowing its attendant to take it into the west tunnel. Packhorses would be ready for them on the other side.

Over a hundred years ago, mad
Alcalde
Domingo had ordered the tunnels dug. Some paranoid whim drove him to put hundreds, perhaps thousands, of laborers to the task. It must have seemed insane then, with no invaders terrorizing the land. Seven tunnels had been completed, leading into the distant hills, before the ­people deposed him and elected a new
alcalde
. The tunnels were an amazing feat. What would those ­people think now that their bane might be their descendants' salvation? Ramiro sent them a swift prayer of gratitude.

Salvador, Alvito, and a ball-­shaped groom waited with
Alcalde
Julian at the center of the space, their horses around them. Salvador wore a surcoat over full armor. Like Ramiro, Alvito settled for his uniform only though a plumed hat like a chevalier of old was pulled rakishly over one eye. Farther off, his brother's second-­in-­command, Muño, waited against one wall. The competent lieutenant would take over with Salvador gone.

A horse shifted, and Ramiro fumbled Sancha's reins. Coming closer, he realized that the fat figure he took to be a groom was a woman. Her hair had been shorn off short, perhaps due to some illness, and she wore—­he stared again to make certain—­trousers of a dull shade of brown held up by a rope like the triple belt of a priest. Over that undignified attire was a homespun poncho covering a plain peasant smock. A large straw hat hung by its thong from her hand. Her complexion was rough from wind and sun. Only polished boots of rich leather peeking under the trousers gave her away as something other than a farmer. Her eyes sparkled with laughter as he approached and joined them.

His father bowed to the strange woman. “Ramiro, this is—­”

“Teresa,” she interrupted. The word tickled her, for again her brown eyes danced, causing them to nearly disappear in her plump cheeks. “Well met, cousin. I thank you for the escort home to Aveston. I'm sure we shall slip right through the Northerners.”

Ramiro frowned. His large family was a web of interconnected chaos, but he didn't remember this woman. He opened his mouth to profess his ignorance of their family relationship when Salvador prodded, “Lucky for our cousin to have such good connections. It's not every scholar that claims a military escort.”

A quick glance at the listening ears of all the men and boys standing provided the answer for the sudden relationship though there was the possibility they could actually be connected by
sangre
kin lines. Fiction or no, escorting kin was a perfect excuse to leave the city and keep their true mission secret. But why was she
really
here? Salvador and his father had agreed on a party of five to hunt for the witch. Didn't the nature of their task require all their members to have fighting ability? How would this unnatural woman help them?