Serpent and Storm (13 page)

“So, how did you convince your wife to marry you?” asked Sky Knife.

“Well, women in her line of work can't afford to become pregnant,” said Cacao in between bites. “They take a regular dose of certain herbs—the exact recipe is a guild secret—that keeps them from getting a child.”

Sky Knife stopped chewing, shocked all over again. What didn't these Teotihuacanos do? What
couldn't
they do? The news that their women could prevent the gods from blessing them with a child stunned him. He wanted to doubt Cacao, but there was no reason for his host to lie. It had to be true.

Another wave of homesickness struck Sky Knife and he winced. He glanced down at his meal. This time, it didn't look so appetizing.

“But I paid off her supplier, eh?” said Cacao. “She got something else in place of her usual dose, and then I made sure to, ah, visit her, several times in the days following. And she got a child—my daughter—and had to retire from the guild. So she married me.”

“Did she know what you'd done?” Sky Knife put down the remainder of his tamale, no longer hungry.

“Of course, but it made her realize how serious I was about forming an alliance. It was the best move I ever made—she had a head for business, that one. When she died, her wealth came to me and helped make me the richest man in the city. Maybe the world.”

“More wealthy than the king?”

Cacao laughed, but the sound was more derision than humor. “Lord Priest, it may be that the king of your little city is a rich man compared to the rest of you. But except for the obsidian monopoly, the king has no business interests here. Granted, the obsidian profits are considerable, but they are
all
the king has. Do you understand?”

“No,” said Sky Knife. “He's the
king.
” Sky Knife was confused. If the king didn't have much power, why had Storm Cloud sent him to seek the King of Teotihuacan? Perhaps the Teotihuacano king wouldn't have the authority to get the merchants guild to reopen their trade route with Tikal.

“Kings are important symbols of centralized authority,” said Cacao, “but the money is in the market. In trade. The merchants know that. Even the king knows that in some corner of his soul, I'm sure.”

“Then why kill a king?” asked Sky Knife.

“Kill?” Cacao frowned and sat up straight. “Who said anything about killing a king? Who'd want to? Let the king and his family go about their business in their palace and leave their hands out of my business, I say.”

“And do they?”

“Do they what?”

“Leave their hands out of your business?”

Cacao relaxed and smiled. He nodded to Sky Knife. “Ah, a clever question. Well, maybe the king does muck about in my business now and again. But usually he can be dissuaded fairly easily.”

“How?”

Cacao took another tamale, filled it with meat, and rolled it up. “Trade secret,” he said.

Sky Knife finished his own tamale in silence. If the king didn't have great powers here, why kill one? Jaguar's Daughter's suspicions seemed unfounded if this were true.

If. Perhaps Cacao's trade secret meant he could make more profit out of a new and untried king, or dissuade him more easily to leave the market, and all its wealth, to Cacao.

Sky Knife glanced toward the jeweled figure of his host. Even the wealthiest man in the world might want more than he had. A lot more.

12

Sky Knife stood in the street outside Cacao's house and rubbed his full stomach.

“I have been honored by your visit,” said Cacao. He bowed and retreated back to his lovely courtyard, leaving Sky Knife and Whiskers-of-Rat alone in the street.

Sky Knife took a deep breath, completely stuffed with food. After the tamales, Cacao's daughter had brought out trays of fruit. After the fruit, she had brought out a shallow bowl piled high with crumbly honey cakes and a jar of fresh water. Everything had been excellent. Sky Knife didn't think he'd feel like eating until well into the next week.

After the meal, Cacao had instructed his daughter to take some meat and tamales to Whiskers-of-Rat. Sky Knife was glad to see his guide get some food at last.

Now the crowded streets of the central avenue greeted them once again. Sky Knife yawned and stretched.

“I thank you for your patience,” he said to Whiskers-of-Rat. “It seems everywhere I go today, someone is determined to be impolite to you.”

Whiskers-of-Rat shrugged. “It is nothing,” he said. “Guides are considered almost the same as thieves by the citizens here.”

“Why is that?”

Another shrug. “I think because we take money for services that many do not see as important. I take you around the city, and point out a few places or people, and you pay me. If I produced goods like a laborer, or sold them like a merchant, or carried a spear like a warrior, then I would have more honor. But not more fun.” He smiled.

Sky Knife smiled back and let it go at that. Whatever the native Teotihuacanos thought of the guide, Sky Knife knew the guide's help had been invaluable.

“Well, thank you anyway,” he said.

Whiskers-of-Rat bowed slightly. “And where shall I guide you next?”

Sky Knife considered that a moment. “The ballcourt is near here, isn't it?”

“Yes.”

“Could we go there?”

“Of course,” said Whiskers-of-Rat. “This way.”

Whiskers-of-Rat took off toward the market and turned south. Sky Knife saw the steps leading up to the outer ring of seats around the ballcourt ahead, but Whiskers-of-Rat passed them by.

“Where are we going?” asked Sky Knife. A cloud darkened the sun and he shivered in the sudden chill. Although in the sunlight it was warm, it seemed to him that this city was unnaturally cold. “And is this as warm as it's going to get?”

Whiskers-of-Rat chuckled. “It's not the jungle,” he said, “but it will get warmer toward planting season. And when the corn gets waist-high, it will be
hot.
Perhaps we should find you a shirt or two, eh? But as to where we're going—here we are.”

Whiskers-of-Rat led Sky Knife around the south end of the ballcourt. Two warriors stood there in front of a courtyard entrance.

“Lord Priest Sky Knife of Tikal would like to inspect the ballcourt,” said Whiskers-of-Rat.

The warriors looked Sky Knife up and down. “The ballplayers are busy now,” said the one on the right.

“Just because he did your job for you doesn't mean you can be rude,” said Whiskers-of-Rat patiently. “He's the High Priest of his entire city and a relative of the king's—rank enough to enter the ballcourt on any day.”

“We remember him,” said the warrior on the left. Neither he nor his companion moved aside.

Suddenly, Sky Knife understood. The warriors must be charged with maintaining order at the ballgames, but it had been Sky Knife, with Itzamna's help, who had controlled the crowd yesterday after the king's death. He had shamed them. In light of that shame, Sky Knife couldn't think of anything to say to alleviate the warriors' hostility.

“There's no need to be difficult,” said Whiskers-of-Rat.

The warrior on the left thrust his spear toward the guide. The flint tip pressed up underneath Whiskers-of-Rat's throat. The guide froze. A single drop of blood trickled down the flint spear point. “Leave while you can,” said the warrior.

Sky Knife hand went for his own knife, even though it wasn't meant for this sort of work. But he refused to be bullied by these two. His heart pounded in his ears. His knees trembled, and he prayed the warriors wouldn't notice.

“Leave him alone,” said Sky Knife.

“What's going on?” asked someone in the courtyard. Dark Lightning popped his head out. “What?” he asked as soon as he saw the situation. “Put that spear away—what do you think you're doing?”

The warrior didn't move. “These two want to come inside,” he said. The words seemed to be dragged out of him.

“Then let them in,” said Dark Lightning. “You're to keep out the general populace, not important visitors.”

“But…”

“Did I ask you for your opinion? No? Then shut up and stand aside,” said Dark Lightning.

The warrior withdrew his spear and walked a few feet away, back turned to Sky Knife and Whiskers-of-Rat. The other guard shifted his weight, but didn't seem eager to make a move in front of the king's widow's brother.

“Come on in,” said Dark Lightning. His hair was tied up on top of his head as it had been the day before, and he wore the short red skirt of a Teotihuacano ballplayer. Dark Lightning bowed to Sky Knife.

Sky Knife entered the courtyard, Whiskers-of-Rat close behind him. In fact, the guide stayed nearer to Sky Knife than he had done before. Perhaps a spear at his throat could dampen even the guide's spirits.

The courtyard's walls were painted with scenes from the ballgame—both the stick game Sky Knife had seen yesterday and the more familiar hip-ball game played at home. One particular scene depicted the beheading of a player by another player while an owl and a strange masked figure looked on.

Another mural seemed to depict nothing more than a pile of human hearts and heads.

“Too bad we didn't get to finish the game yesterday,” said Dark Lightning.

“The king
died,
” said Sky Knife, appalled at the other's view of yesterday's events.

Dark Lightning shrugged. “The ballgame is greater than any king or any person. We should have been allowed to finish. Is the moon allowed to stop its cycles? Can the sun refuse to rise? No. The ballgame should be the same.”

“Time will work itself out in its own cycles with or without your ballgame,” said Sky Knife. “At least, with or without one particular game. But,” he said quickly to forestall Dark Lightning, “tell me, how often do you play this game and when? Just when the king makes a bet with one of the city's administrators?”

“No,” said Dark Lightning. “We play when the Masked One says to play. This is her city and it's her game. That's why we don't allow outsiders to play it. It's for the Center of the World.”

“Hey, Dark Lightning!” A burly man in a ballplayer's uniform came out of the building. He stopped when he saw the visitors.

“Leather Apron, meet Sky Knife, a priest from Tikal,” said Dark Lightning. “I was just explaining a bit about our ballgame to him.”

“Good afternoon, Sky Knife,” said Leather Apron. “Look, Dark Lightning, you can explain whatever you have to inside. We can't have practice without you.”

Dark Lightning nodded. “Come on, I'll show you around,” he said to Sky Knife as Leather Apron turned and went back into the building.

Sky Knife followed the other man into the building. Inside, all the walls were painted with ballgame scenes. Piles of rubber balls were stacked in the corners. Sandals lay scattered around benches piled high with towels and clothes. Ballgame sticks casually leaned against walls.

Dark Lightning continued through the building and out another doorway opposite. Sky Knife blinked as he found himself on the ballcourt itself. He stepped back into the building, bumping into Whiskers-of-Rat.

“What's wrong?” asked the guide.

“I, well, it's a
ballcourt,
” said Sky Knife. “I don't want to step on it. I'm not a ballplayer.”

“Today you can step on it,” said Whiskers-of-Rat. “The Masked One isn't looking today—there's no game.”

Sky Knife wasn't reassured, but he stepped gingerly out onto the paved surface of the ballcourt. He looked around slowly. Even though the playing area was only a few feet below the seats, the effect of looking up at the seats rather than down on the court was dramatically different. Sky Knife felt as if the whole world could see him, as if the gods stared down from the clouds. He didn't like the sensation of being watched.

At home, when he did his work on top of the Great Pyramid, people watched, but the feeling was completely different. There, people watched from below, their view difficult because of the distance and angle. No more than a thousand ever showed up even for the largest ceremonies. The seats around Sky Knife now would hold ten or twenty thousand, maybe more.

Also, they did not slope as sharply as the seats at home. Here, as with the strange vertical walls of the temples punctuated by steeply sloping sections, horizontality seemed to be the emphasis. At home, all construction emphasized the vertical line. Sky Knife shook his head at the alienness of it.

A ball whizzed past him.

“Hey, priest, toss it back, eh?” called Leather Apron.

Sky Knife reached for the ball but stopped. The head-sized hard rubber ball was black and scuffed from wear. Dust from the court clung to it in places. It looked used, ordinary. But it was the ball of the sacred ballgame—even if the ballgame played here wasn't the same as at home.

“Is something wrong?” asked Whiskers-of-Rat.

“It's … it's…” Sky Knife stopped. He had been going to say it was forbidden, but he was
Ah kin
and so touching the ball was not forbidden for him. Still, every aspect of the ballgame required ritual, prayer. To just reach out and pick up a ball without spiritual preparation was unthinkable.

“I'll get it,” said Dark Lightning. “Probably a Mayan taboo of some kind.” Dark Lightning jogged over and retrieved the ball.

Dark Lightning threw the ball into play. Leather Apron hit it with his stick.

Sky Knife watched, uncomfortable with the casualness of the practice, the chuckling and joking between the players. The ballgame was sacred, consecrated to the death gods and the
Bolon ti ku,
the nine Lords of Night.

For Sky Knife's people, the ball had to stay in motion during the game because it represented vitality, life, especially the life after death. The ball represented a skull, freed from its body, capable of flying, jumping, bouncing. For the ball to stop moving was the same as death.