Young Jaguar, The (15 page)

Then, suddenly, her lips were reacting, letting his
tongue in, welcoming it with a surprising ardor. Her body relaxed against his,
melted in his clutched arms. The storm, the terrace, the Palace, the groaning
trees down below had disappeared. There was nothing except the amazing
sensation of their bodies against each other, fitting perfectly, merging with
the raging storm.

When their mouths finally parted they stared at each
other, breathing heavily. Her eyes were enormous in the paleness of her face,
unreserved in a way he had never seem them before. They stared at him,
astounded and wild.

Then the panic flooded in. She pushed him away
violently and ran into the dimly lit entrance.

***

The roaring of the thunder began to recede when
Tecpatl stopped briefly, forced to pause for breath. Huddled under the dark
mass of a low wall, he leaned against the wet stones, gasping, his legs
trembling. Water ran down his disheveled hair, trickling under his cloak,
soaking his heavy girdle and his loincloth.

Impatiently, he wiped his face. The slight odor of
blood startled him. He brought his palms closer, blinking away the remaining
drops of rain. In the darkness he could see the dark pattern of cuts on his
right palm, some still bleeding.

He cursed softly. The filthy flask, he thought. How
stupid it was of him to break the damn thing. But
she
did love it,
didn’t she?

He shuddered at the thought of her. How could she?
After all these summers, and at such difficult, insane times! Was she having an
affair? Well, what else could it be? What else would make a woman leave her
house for an unknown destination after dark?

Yet, when she came back, she didn’t look guilty, not
in the least. The way she behaved he could have thought he had imagined his
coming home and not finding her there.

Had he imagined it?

No! He punched the damp stones behind him, wincing
at the pain. The rain almost stopped, and he could hear no more growling of the
distant thunder.

He looked up, trying to make out the dark temporary
constructions all around him. Had he made it as far as the marketplace? How
insane he must have been, running along the soaked alleys as though all the
creatures of the Underworld were after him.

Clutching his chest to stop the pain, he peered at
the semidarkness, trying to banish the thoughts of her, the memory of her face
at that last flash of lightning, when she had rushed toward him, unconcerned
with the possibility of him hurting her, as devoted, as loving as always.
As
if nothing had happened
.

He groaned aloud, then heard the gravel crackling
under someone’s feet

“Look, there is some manure eating drunkard over
there!”

A figure materialized out of the darkness, the spare
frame of some market frequenter. The heavy speech of the commoner was
accompanied by a hiccup.

Tecpatl could hear more careful footsteps as his hand
reached for his dagger, slowly and carefully, not pulling it out, not yet.

Another man neared. “Do you think he’s too drunk to
see?” He peered at Tecpatl, obviously recognizing neither the warrior’s lock,
nor the muddied cloak. “Look, frog-eater. Are you too stunned? Let us see what
you got.”

As the man reached for Tecpatl’s cloak, the obsidian
dagger shot out, cutting neatly into the softness of his upper belly. The
commoner cried out and grabbed his stomach, not yet understanding what had
happened.

The second man was quicker to recover. Leaping away
from Tecpatl’s knife’s reach, slipping on the muddy ground, he rushed back into
the darkness, indifferent to the cries of his companion.

Tecpatl glanced over at the screaming figure
wriggling in the mud. He contemplated finishing the man, but then shrugged and
ran after the first one, feeling better by the moment. It was good to vent his
mounting frustration, at long last.

Racing up the twisting paths, he followed the sounds
of the crashing gravel. He just
had
to kill this man. Grabbing the man’s
foot as the slim figure attempted to scale the low wall, he pulled him down
with a powerful tug, not letting his victim fall, pinning him against the wall,
holding a knife to the skinny throat.

“You stinky dung-eating peasant,” he hissed. “Do you
still want to get something from me?”

The man mumbled something inaudible.

“I’ll cut your throat and feed your flesh to the
market’s rats. They are feasting on your friend right now, but they’ll get here
fast enough.”

More terrified mumbling. He was about to press the
sharp obsidian, when the man’s body went limp.

Taking a step back, he let the man fall. Damn commoner,
he thought, tying his dagger back into his girdle. There was no pleasure in
killing such a cowardly market rat.

Feeling somewhat better, he went back. His head
throbbed, but the effect of the drink was wearing off, he was sure of that. He
could finally think clearly.

The ache began to return, but he shook it off. He
wouldn’t think about Sakuna. His domestic problems would have to wait. The
Palace’s troubles were graver and more dangerous.

He would have to organize his warriors, preferably
tonight. He would notify the Emperor, and they would be ready. The opposition
would have to make its move now. They were committed and could not wait much
longer, not after his uncle’s attempt to confront him. His speech to his
warriors had made them come out openly. One good turn. Their enemy wouldn’t be
fully prepared.

The darkness was softening, as some of the moonlight
managed to break through the thick, stormy clouds. Briskly, he went up the wide
avenue, now able to see the messed stands of the marketplace around him. He
couldn’t go to the Palace, looking like that. Where could he bathe and change?
Not at home surely. He was not ready to face her, not yet.

Amatl, he thought. His most trusted assistant. He
would need to wake him up anyway, so his place would do.

He hastened his steps, wishing to reach his aide’s
dwelling. His wet clothes clung to his body, making him shiver in the night’s
breeze. The silhouette of the Great Pyramid loomed, showing him the way. The
elite warriors’ neighborhoods lay in a comfortable proximity to the Palace.

The silence, typical to the after-storm, enveloped
him, heavy and unsettling. It seemed as if all living creatures had abandoned
the great city this night.

But what about the dead ones?

The wind mourned hollowly between the stone walls.
He could hear an occasional groaning of a tree, a rustling of a rolling pebble.
The mist was spreading as if some of the clouds, torn by the wind, sank heavily
onto the wet earth.

He looked around, scanning the fog. The sensation of
being watched welled. His eyes could not penetrate the darkness, his ears
unable to pick a particular sound, the thundering of his heart making it
difficult to hear.

He noticed he was almost running and forced himself
to a stop. The damp air clung to his lungs, but still he tried to breathe
deeply, to calm his frayed nerves.

Damn it!
he thought.
Calm down, you stupid
half-wit. Calm down
.

His head still throbbed – a usual thing after
consuming so much
octli
. But not a usual thing for him. He was not fond
of this beverage and its much admired qualities. People tended to behave
foolishly after even a small amount of this drink, and he despised those who
still went on consuming it.

Had he done something stupid this evening?
He
winced at the pain in his damaged palm as he clenched his fists tight, his
nails sinking into the rough flesh. Well, it was not the time to think about it.
She
would have to wait.

He resumed his walk, stepping with exaggerated
caution. The faint crack of a branch reached his ears, although no new gust of
wind followed.

He tensed and kept his step, all ears now. The wet
leaves rustled, but sometimes their rustling sounded harsh, as if someone was
treading upon them carefully.

Slowly, he pulled his sword, keeping to the middle
of the avenue, away from the possible traps of the dark corners. Here, another
unusual sound, as if someone had slipped in the mud and regained his balance,
perfectly but not quite soundlessly.

When the familiar hiss tore the darkness, he was
ready, leaping toward the dark form of the opposite wall. The arrow swished by,
its feathering whispering past his shoulder. He made much noise as though
attempting to scale the wall, diving, instead, under the broken bushes adorning
the wide lower stones.

The hurried footsteps were not concealed anymore.
They rushed toward him, more than a few, their sandals plopping on the wet
gravel.

“Where, in the name of the dark spirits..?”
whispered someone.

“No chance he went over the wall,” cried out another
voice. 

“Shut up and spread out!” This one sounded more
authoritative, and Tecpatl marked his whereabouts. “You two scan this side of
the wall. He may have run on along it, while you, stupid half-wits, made it
here so noisily. The rest – over the wall.”

They began climbing the wet stones, slipping and
cursing. He could count at least four different voices.

“He could not climb it so fast, Honorable Leader,”
panted someone.

“The Warlord can do many things that you, useless
lumps of fat, cannot. Get over the wall and fast. And remember, he is
dangerous.”

Tecpatl held his breath as the two silhouettes
materialized out of the misty darkness. They went past his hiding place
carelessly exposed, and he fought the temptation to kill them, wanting their
peers safely over the wall before revealing his presence. One of the warriors
brushed his sword over the bushes right above his head.

“There is enough space to hide here, you know,” he
said thoughtfully.

Tecpatl’s hand shot forward, grabbing the man’s
ankle, pulling it with such force, the warrior fell flat on his back. Giving
the stunned man no chance to recover, Tecpatl pounced on him, pinning him to
the ground with his own weight, one palm pressing into his mouth, pushing back
the bubbling scream, the other thrusting the obsidian blade into the softness
under the warrior’s ribs.

There was no time for another blow. The hurried
footsteps of the other man made him roll over his prey in time to avoid the
crushing touch of the other's sword. Grabbing the sword of the wounded warrior,
he leaped aside to avoid the next blow, then slashed at his assailant’s feet,
not bothering to get up just yet.

The blow was perfect. It cut into the man’s knees
and made him collapse as heavily as a cut-down tree.

He sprang to his feet and paused to take a deep
breath before rushing toward the spot he imagined the leader might still be
lingering. Yet, the man was ready, leaping at him out of the darkness. Their
swords met, clashing, holding on, measuring each other’s strength.

“Who sent you?” hissed Tecpatl, not recognizing his
own voice, so hoarse and unsteady it sounded.

The man grunted. “You know it very well. You and
your emperor are done for.”

Tecpatl disengaged and hacked at his opponent, not
planning his blow. “That still remains to be seen.”

The man parried the attack and held it with a
surprising strength. “You are a great warrior, but you stand no chance against
five seasoned men. It was a nice diversion, to make us think you went over the
wall, but my warriors are on their way back now. And you are not at your best,
after running drunk all over the city in this rain.”

Tecpatl ground his teeth. “I’ll take great pleasure
in killing you.”

He disengaged his sword so suddenly the man wavered,
caught off guard. Anxious to use it to the maximum effect, he hacked toward the
momentarily exposed ribcage, but the warrior hurled himself forward and so
avoided the lethal touch of the razor-sharp obsidian. He crashed into Tecpatl,
and they fell to the ground, their swords rendered useless.

Caught under the man’s weight, Tecpatl tried to
reach for his knife, his other hand fighting for his opponent’s throat. The
knife of the man was out first. He could see it swooping toward his eyes, the
upper part of his body reacting as if of its own accord, pushing the weight of
his assailant with the last of his strength, locking his shoulder against the
pressing arm.

He felt the knife slicing his cheek and pushed
harder, propelling it away from the side of his neck. His hand reached for its
destination, clawed into the softness of the warrior’s throat, his knee kicking
at the man’s groin.

His opponent groaned, and the lower part of his body
slipped aside. Both arms groping for the strangling hand, he let the knife free
for a moment. By that time Tecpatl had reached his own dagger. His fingers
fighting to keep hold of the throat, he aimed his other palm deep into the
man’s lower belly, twisting the blade hurriedly, his senses still panicked.

It was over in a heartbeat. He heard the man
gasping, felt the body upon him going limp, getting heavier and harder to push
off.

With no strength to do otherwise, he crawled from
under the squirming limbs, oblivious to the screams and the splattering blood.

His legs trembling, he got up, gathering his sword
and running away, toward his previous destination, wishing to put as much
distance between him and the remaining warriors of this dying leader.

***

Like the rest of the elite warriors, Amatl was of minor
nobility, his house relatively small – a one-story construction of various
rooms, a patio, a small garden. No magnificent dwellings like in Tecpatl’s
neighborhood, and no sturdy slaves guarding the gates.

Tecpatl raced up the well-kept path and banged on
the door, caring neither for the owners nor for their neighbors. Two terrified
slaves sprang out of the darkness as he pushed the wooden partition. Armed with
sticks, both waved them aimlessly in the air.