Young Jaguar, The (8 page)

She licked her lips, her mouth parched, her tongue
so dry she felt it scratching her lips. The airless room made her head spin.

“I cannot see how I am to help,” she whispered, then
made an effort to control her voice, adding more firmly. “I cannot tell my
husband what to do.”

“Oh, but you do. You are doing it all the time.
Probably subtly and wisely, so he doesn’t notice he is being maneuvered.” The
man’s laughter was deep, almost growling. “You know, if your husband will not
act wisely, if he is not to survive the changing of rulers, I will not let you
fall with him. I will take you into my household, at least for a little while. I
would love to sample you. When I have you, will it make me throw my other wives
away? I’m prepared to take this chance, little barbarian. To sample someone
like you and see what happens.”

Suddenly the bulky figure shifted, stepped into the
room. The torch, fastened into the wall, flickered with a draft. She could
smell the man’s breathe, the scent of
octli
and some hot beans and an
old sweating body.

She snuck a glance at the mat where Nopalli’s child
was still asleep, calculating her way to the pot full of hot water. The heavy
pottery ornamented with gold would serve her better than the wooden spoon she
was clutching tightly in her palm.

“Oh, you are a wild one,” laughed the man, following
her gaze.  “I may understand some of my Nephew’s fascination. To be always
alert, even in the privacy of your home. To force your way into the jaguar’s
lair, time after time. Yes, it might be a pleasant challenge.” The narrow eyes
lost their amusement. Suddenly she was staring into two black, cruel holes. “He
is to side with the First Son when the time comes. Make him understand that. If
you want to enjoy your cozy little life any longer, make him do this by
whatever means you have.”

The man backed away, but halted at the doorway, his
eyes still boring into her, sending waves of most primitive fear down her
spine.

“Your son is wiser than his father. He will go to
Coatepec and serve the correct ruler, whatever his father says. My Nephew had
the temerity to object, imagine that. But it won’t help him, as the young man
has already agreed. Still, to benefit from his decision, he’ll need his father
as well. We value the Chief Warlord better than the young hothead, however
promising. I trust you to make him understand that.”

He was gone, his heavy footsteps echoing down the corridor.

She didn’t notice herself sinking onto the mat
beside the sleeping child. Some time had gone by before Nopalli’s broad face
was beside her, the gentle hands shaking her, the generous mouth opening and
closing.

She made an effort to concentrate.

“Sakuna, are you all right? What happened?”

She swallowed. “Nothing, nothing. I’m all right. I
have to go home.” Her throat tightened. “I have to go home now!” She pressed
her lips to stop them from trembling.

“What has my father done to you? What has he said?”
The young woman gaped at her appalled, almost frightened.

“Nothing. Please, please, get someone to walk me
home. I have to see my husband!” She made an effort to suppress a sob, her
stomach constricting violently as if she’d been sick. “I’ll explain it all
later, I promise.”

“All right, sister, all right. Let me help you up.” 

Grateful for the support, slightly comforted in her
friend’s embrace, she stood up shakily, not trusting her legs to walk her out
of the airless room. 

Chapter 8

The large plaza in front of the main Palace’s
entrance was lit by so many torches it almost turned the night into day.
Suffocating air vibrated visibly, thickened by plenty of incense, making
Atolli’s throat tickle.

He smirked. It was so easy to blend with the crowds
that filled the spacious grounds beneath the grand stairs. Most of them looked
foreign, the way they wore their cloaks and loincloths, the way they tied their
hair. He listened to the strange accent of their Nahuatl, fascinated.

“Where are you from, brother?” he asked a young
warrior who stood beside him, gaping up the wide staircase.

“Texcoco,” answered the young man, not turning his
head.

“A long way.”

“What do you think? We arrived this morning and it
took them all day to receive us. Very rude, if you ask me. Our ruler sent here
the best of his advisers, the most exalted ones.”

“You know how it is. Our Emperor has so many
delegations from all over the Great Lake to receive. I don’t think he’s gotten
much sleep since the funeral rites.”

“Still, he could accommodate our representatives
better than to let us all rot outside the Palace.”  

“Well, you are getting in, at least.” The idea
flashed. “How many of the warriors are allowed in?”

“I hope all of us!”

He lingered around, eyeing the wide marble stairs
together with the provincials beside him. Would he be able to sneak in,
mistaken for one of the foreign warriors? He was glad he’d had enough sense not
to wear his
calmecac
garb, covering his shoulders with a plain cotton
cloak, instead.

The foreign warrior beside him turned his head. “Who
are you?” he asked curiously.

“I have an appointment with the Chief Warlord,” said
Atolli with just the right amount of self-importance to ward off any
suspicions.

“At night?”

“As you see, they don’t seem to bother to sleep.” He
pointed toward the glittering entrance at the top of the staircase, spitting
out a group of well dressed foreigners. “I guess we’ll be next.”

The warrior glanced at the descending people, then
turned back, staring at Atolli, eyes wide.

“Will the Chief Warlord receive you dressed like
that?” he asked incredulously, examining the plain garb. “What does he want
with you?”

“He asked me to be his shield bearer.”

The warrior gasped. “His shield bearer? What did you
do?”

Atolli shrugged, annoyed by the stranger’s
persistence. “Nothing much. He likes to pick the best of our
calmecac
students. He does it before every campaign.”

He really should do this
, he thought
suddenly.
I would, if I had so much authority. I wish I was more like him
.

“He is the best leader, the best warrior in the
whole world of the Fifth Sun,” he added proudly.

A tall herald, dressed most imposingly in a wide
gown embroidered with gold, appeared beside the glittering statue of
Tlaloc
,
at the top of the staircase.

“I guess it’s us,” commented Atolli lightly, pushing
his way into the middle of the flow of people.

Unhurriedly, and as calmly as he could, he went
alongside his group of foreigners, up the polished stairs and past the warriors
guarding the entrance.

However, as he passed the threshold, his amazement
turned genuine. He had never been in the Palace before. Accustomed to the
splendor of the Great Capital, he imagined the royal palace as another, larger
and wealthier dwelling of Azcapotzalco’s nobles.

But this one was different. So
spacious
, for
one thing. The reception hall was so large it made a ball court look small. Polished
walls reflected the flickering lights of five times twenty of torches, lined
with marble and beautifully carved wood, painted so elaborately one felt the
urge to touch the frescos.

Every corner, every niche of the spacious hall
seemed to be filled with polished stone or gold statues, smoothed to
perfection, glimmering in the light of the torches, almost floating in the gaze
of incense.

Atolli gazed about like the last of the provincials
he came with, but as the delegation was ushered on, he remembered that meeting
the authorities was not a part of his plan.

His eyes focused, brushed past the warriors filling
the hall. All gazes seemed to turn toward the polished stone throne and the
lower stools surrounding it, woven from reeds, intended for the closest
advisers. His father was sure to stand somewhere among them.

Atolli slowed his pace, falling behind.

Luckily, the provincials were so busy gaping around
no one noticed him slipping away, just an odd youth in a plain garb, certainly
not someone worth noticing. He reached the last rows of the newcomers.

Meanwhile, the leading foreigners opened with
flowery greetings, having closed the permitted distance to the revered persons
around the throne. It drew the attention of everyone present, even the
warriors.

Atolli saw his chance. A niche with a tall golden
statue of the Feathered Serpent seemed vacant, and he darted for this opening,
not wasting his time on looking around and maybe drawing attention to himself.

Afraid to breathe, he stood still, sheltered by the
mass of gold. Nothing. No shouted alarm.

He breathed with relief.
Now what?
He was
stuck behind the statue in the Palace’s audience hall, with no way to go in or
out. He wanted to curse. To his left the marble surface of the wall curved with
more niches and statues.
Should he try sneaking from niche to niche?
If
caught doing this, he would be completely done for, he knew. But then…

He shrugged and made it for the neighboring niche.

The pleasantries, still being exchanged by the
delegation and their hosts, grew fainter as he reached the far end of the hall,
as a gust of night air caressed his sweating face, pleasing in its cool touch.
He eyed the dark opening, sick with relief.

Outside at last, hidden by a massive wooden column,
he rested for a moment, then hurried for the railing. It was too high to jump,
but the outer wall was full of ledges and footholds. He could climb down
easily.

Or up, for that matter. He eyed the massive dark
wall, lit only by a few torches, in contrast to the main entrance. Above his
head there was another terrace. He looked around, then scaled the railing,
clutching an odd stone bulging from the roughly plastered surface.

Poised on the edge, he examined the wall once again,
then the deserted dark gardens below. It could be done, but then what? Would he
go on acting foolishly, entangling himself further and further? Shouldn’t he
just climb down this balcony and go over the wall?

Yes, that was definitely the wisest course. He
checked his grasp on the bulging stone and stepped onto the ledge, working his
way up the wall.

The upper terrace was not as deserted. He could hear
the voices as he hung underneath, one palm clutching the railing, the other
flapping in the air, his legs still firm on the upper ledge.

He cursed silently. There was nothing he could do
but wait.

The voices went on talking, two females, their
accents heavy. Slaves, for sure.

He cursed once again. By the time they were gone, he
was ready to spring up and silence them even by killing, if need be, his arm
numb from holding most of his weight for so long.

Once over the railing, he rested, massaging his
palm. The upper floor had to be quite deserted, he promised himself. Who could
be up there to wander about? That level should contain the royal families’
private sets of rooms, therefore would be abandoned except for the female
population, who must be sound asleep by now.
Chictli included
.

Would he manage to wake her up without scaring her
senseless? Would she take such an interruption kindly?

Well, first of all he had to find her. Then, he
would worry about his next move. He slipped into the warmth of the nearest
hall.

The wide passageways were lit, but barely, a torch
here and there stuck onto carved handholds in the walls, lined by some reddish
wood. No marble for the upstairs and the carvings and statues less beautiful.

Atolli raised his eyebrows. So the imperial wealth
was heaped downstairs, for the visiting subjects to see and behold.

Another passageway, guarded by the polished stone
figure of a serpent, glimmering idly, wonderfully detailed.
What now?

He halted uneasily. There seemed to be another
balcony on the other side of the long corridor. What, in the name of the gods,
was he thinking? Still undecided, he crept on.

The sound of hurried footsteps behind his back made
him whirl around, his heart thumping. A squat woman, clearly a maid, stared at
him, perplexed, her hands clutching a tray. A delicious aroma rose from the
pottery vessels upon the tray, the heavy aroma of spicy chocolate.

He stared at her back, at a loss as to how to
proceed. When she opened her mouth and began screaming, he turned around and
sprinted up the corridor.

Darting into the first opening, he rushed up another
passageway, all ears. The woman stopped screaming, but more voices joined in,
talking loudly. He tried to remember the way back to the terrace, struggling to
slam his mind into thinking. Darting into another opening, unable to
concentrate, he heard the heavy steps of his pursuers ringing in his ears.

“Here he is!”

He dashed into another corridor, colliding with a
frightened maid. Something fell to the floor, breaking loudly behind his back.
He didn’t dare to try the doors. Breaking into one of the royal sets of rooms
would make matters worse.
How much worse?
Hadn’t he been in the worst of
the positions, anyway?

The voices were a little further now, hindered by
the fallen maid, probably. He rushed on, breathless. Feeling a cool gust of the
night air, he charged for it desperately, feet slipping upon the polished
tiles, his sandals askew.

It was more like a balcony, not as large as the
terrace he climbed. He hopped over the low parapet, his palms clutching the
wooden railing, his legs brushing frantically against the wall, seeking for
something to step on.

He peeked past his flopping sandals, shivering. Too
high to jump. He was sure to break something no matter how carefully he landed.
There was also the small terrace of the main floor. Not as wide as the terrace
he had climbed not so long ago – this one was on the other side of the vast
building – but broader than the balcony he was clinging to, glittering with its
polished stone surface in the dim moonlight. He could bash his head against the
hard stones of its parapet and be done for.

He felt his grip slipping, his palm sweaty and sleek
against the polished wood. He doubled his effort to find something to step on.
The voices neared. He could hear their hurried footsteps, the clatter of the
warriors’ weapons.

The decision arrived, stupid but he had no better
ones. Before letting go, his feet pushed against the wall, propelling his body
toward the small terrace below.

The free-fall took his breath away. He had had enough
time to tuck his head under his arms. Now, he was sure he was going to die.

His elbows absorbed the blow, brushing past the
stone parapet, tossing his body toward the balcony. It tore the protective
screen of his arms, and his face was the first to meet the coldly glittering
slabs of marble.

He heard someone gasping, jumping to her feet. He
didn’t care at first, the blinding pain in his head too overwhelming.

Tearing his face off the cold tiles, surprised with
the stickiness of the wet floor, he stared at the dark stains upon the
glittering marble.

“What, in the name of the Underworld…” The husky
familiar voice exclaimed somewhere above his head.

He raised his gaze, still dazed, taking in the noble
outline of the high cheekbones, the large oval eyes enormous and wide-open, the
generous mouth gaping. It was difficult to stay focused, his head spinning, the
left side of his face numb and on fire. He touched it with his palm, wincing at
the pain in his elbow. It was sticky and warm.

The second girl, plumed and round-faced began saying
something, her voice loud and high-pitched. She seemed to be screaming.

“Stop it!” said Chictli sharply, and the noise died
away.

Another girl winced and brought her palm to her
mouth. There were three of them outside as far as he could judge. Their faces
kept swimming in the semidarkness and he could not tell for sure.

The princess peered at him, leaning forward, her
large troubled eyes narrowing as if trying to think hard. He knew he had to say
something, something that had better make sense.

He could think of nothing. He wished his ears would
stop ringing. It was really annoying, that continuous high-pitched sound inside
his head. It disrupted his ability to think.

Then came another sound seeping through the opening,
muffled but persistent. Someone was banging on the wooden screen somewhere
inside the room.

Chictli straightened abruptly, her frown deepening.

“Please,” he whispered when she began to turn away,
his lips swollen and awash with pain.

“Quick, get behind that podium!”

She pushed him roughly when he was not quick enough
getting onto his feet, his whole body feeling as if it had been beaten and
dragged through the streets full of small gravel.

Head reeling, he stumbled toward the podium with a
large golden statue, her push almost sending him sprawling.

“One word about any of this and I will have you two
flayed!” she said to her maids as the banging on her door became more
persistent. He could imagine them shivering. It was easy to believe her threats;
he didn’t doubt her himself. 

Would she be tempted to give him away once again?