The Jaguar Knights (29 page)

All his life he had excelled at the scheming and infighting that kept the knights amused when they were not engaged in a real war. Now the Empire was fighting for its life, the Eagles and Jaguars were at logger-heads and divided among themselves. The winners of the current struggle would determine the strategy that would decide who won the war—El Dorado or the Hairy Ones. Now, suddenly, just tonight, Basket-fox had seen an opening. It would be expensive for him, but if his idea worked he could confound the opposition within his own order, so his views would prevail. United, the Jaguars could persuade the Eagles, so the Empire would crush the rebel states and drive the Hairy Ones into the sea. These were worthy stakes.

A Jaguar could expect to be spied on, and there was nothing much to be done about it if the spies were Eagles, who could see anything
anywhere anytime. But Eagles were outnumbered by Jaguars in the service of the Emperor and they had many duties more important than just snooping on their rivals, even wily old Basket-fox. Besides, eagles usually slept at night, when jaguars were at their best.

Against his rivals within the Jaguar order he should take precautions, though, which explained why Basket-fox was not visible as he paced the grounds of his own palace in the floating city, known to the Hairy Ones as El Dorado. Another knight could have seen him, if he tried hard enough, but his own guards could not. Monkey-blue, the boy he had been talking with earlier, had not yet been blessed with true sight and could not even see the guards standing over him. He knelt there in the moonlight, completely unaware of the four spears poised ready to strike him the moment their lord gave the order—which Basket-fox never would, because that would be a wasteful way to dispose of a man, even if he turned out to be a traitor. Another fifty or so warriors patrolled the grounds and palace, equally unseen.

Basket-fox was almost as rich as the Emperor. His palace was one of the greatest and his pyramid the second highest in the city, shining in the moonlight. Even home alone, as now, he wore the finest feather-crafted cloak, and was bedecked in gold and jade and seashell. Bats flitting overhead made more noise than his paws on the gravel paths.

Monkey-blue was a spy—a very fortunate spy, because he had been present that evening when that spotted idiot, Lizard-drumming, had spoken with a very unusual Hairy One. Also a very clever young spy, because he had seen that the talk he overheard justified his climbing the wall and running to report to his true lord, Basket-fox. Since he could never dare go back to spying on Lizard-drumming, he had risked the wrath of his lord for wasting two years’ work, but his lord was not wrathful at all.

Pacing, pondering, Basket-fox came to the marble edge of a fish pool and paused to peer down, past his furry toes. He saw only the moon like a great silver bubble, a few stars struggling against its glare. Idly he thinned his virtual cloak until his reflection began to appear—old and scraggy, ugly and grizzled, with one ear gone altogether and the
other tattered. Soon he must go to the altar stone. But not yet! Chuckling, he faded out of sight again.

El Dorado had been at war for generations. It was always finding excuses for war—extending the limits of the Empire or bringing subject cities back into line when they fell behind in their tribute, which they did all the time because they were run by the same system. Their Jaguars and Eagles needed prisoners also. The dry season was wartime, every year. The cities ran real wars or pretend wars, and the losers were the peasant boys conscripted to fight them. It was they who fed the altars. Senior warriors were usually safe enough and the knights almost invincible. In a pinch, an Eagle could simply transport himself and his favored followers right off the battlefield. Jaguars and their warriors just vanished.

Knights did die eventually. They lived a long time, preserved from decay by their spiritual power, but when an old campaigner began to slip, he issued a challenge to an aging counterpart in an opposing force, and the loser went to the altar. That was the honorable way to die. Basket-fox had been challenged three times so far and had not lost yet.

The Distliards, the accursed Hairy Ones, had changed everything. They had little use for prisoners and observed none of the proper rites of battle. They cared only for victory, had no respect for rank. No atrocity was too shameful for them, even using trained dogs to track invisible Jaguars.

Thus poor Quetzal-star—longtime friend of Basket-fox and one of the most respected jaguar knights of El Dorado—had gotten himself slain in one of the first battles, one that Basket-fox remembered well. Tlixilians had not even known what a crossbow was in those days and Quetzal-star had not expected any rank-and-file archer to be so uncouth as to shoot at a great lord like him. So he finished up dead on the battlefield and his regalia went to the Hairy Ones. That had been a national tragedy.

Ah! Basket-fox sniffed the air. A moment later a ragged black-clad figure came hurrying through the grounds, hugging himself against the chill. When he reached a small lawn, he stopped and knelt down to wait, confident that his lord would know he had arrived. Even a commoner
could have smelled him before seeing him, for acolytes never washed. They were black all over from dried blood and wore their clothes until they rotted away under newer layers.

Basket-fox padded around to approach from upwind. When he was about two spear-lengths away, he revealed himself. The acolyte doubled over in obeisance.

“Speak,” the knight said. If acolytes had names, those were known only to other acolytes. “Speak of the death of Plumed-pillar.”

“A most noble knight of your great order, lord,” the acolyte told the grass. “Slain by demons in the battle of the Feast of Conches.” He paused and took silence as an order to continue. “His cousin, the noble Lizard-drumming, having heard the soul of his dead father, the great Quetzal-star, lamenting from afar, asked the valorous Plumed-pillar to aid him, and together they besought mighty Eagles, Bone-peak-runner and Amaranth-talon, to bear them to this place of torment. Alas, the demon defenders slew many fine warriors and the deadly Plumed-pillar also.”

Lizard-drumming was a fool. He had done so well in several recent battles that he had ended up with more captives than his slave pens could hold. Instead of using the excess to buy friends and alliances, he had squandered them on a mission of utter folly. Why would he want his dead father around anyway—to claim back his inheritance after all these years? Honor should not be carried to such extremes. Worse, anyone knew that riding the Spirit Wind a great distance jangled wits. From what Basket-fox had heard, the young idiots had led their troops straight into battle, without giving them time to recover.

“Did they really find the soul of Quetzal-star?”

“Lord!” the acolyte quavered. “We do not know! They brought back a
woman.
She had been wearing…Lord, a knight’s regalia is burned with him, always! We do not know what happens if it is not.”

The thought that some part of a knight’s soul might be left trapped in his regalia after his death was extremely disconcerting.

“You’re saying that there was enough virtue still in the emblem to bless a commoner who wore it, even a
woman
?”

“It may be as my lord says.”

Or not. “And then the soul of
Plumed-pillar
was heard weeping?”

“As my lord says. But much, much louder, stronger.”

The regalia had been fresher, the death more recent. But Lizard-drumming had been in terrible straits, a laughingstock, having suffered humiliating losses with nothing to show in return except a female captive and some exotic, unfamiliar jewels. He was out of favor with everybody—the knightly orders, Plumed-pillar’s family, the survivors of Plumed-pillar’s retinue, even the Grand Council. Nobody needed more enemies than that. Basket-fox neither knew nor cared which of them had forced Lizard-drumming to try to make amends.

“I hear now that he tried…” When a knight made a statement a mere acolyte would not contradict him. “Tell me what you have heard about him lately.”

“Lord, it is said that he persuaded the great lord, Whirlwind, to aid him but the noble Eagle agreed only to go and see.”

“Just to look? You don’t happen to know what he paid Whirlwind, do you?” Whirlwind was a very new Eagle with a great need to acquire captives; borrowing them from some greater lord might require him to mortgage the rest of his career.

“Alas, I fail my lord. I am ignorant and worthless.”

“No matter. Continue.”

“I did hear a rumor tonight that the Eagle Whirlwind brought back a warrior of the Hairy Ones wearing the emblem of Plumed-pillar, but this is mere gossip, lord.”

Yet it was the confirmation Basket-fox needed. If an emblem could respond to a woman, it would certainly react to a warrior.

“I heard the same. And I heard that the warrior has started the Flowering. Could the regalia alone do that? Without ritual, without sacrifice?”

“It may be as my lord says.” Pause. “But it cannot last long, lord.”

“He will die?”

“He will die of pain.”

As every knight knew, the Flowering was ordeal enough even when correctly performed.

“Could he be blessed just to let the change continue, or does it require the full ritual?”

What Basket-fox was planning was very close to sacrilege. Even to suggest giving a foreigner slave a full initiation would land the pair of them on the altar stone in a twinkling, and his acolytes would never obey such orders. But something less might be possible.

“I am worthless to my lord.”

“You mean you don’t know?”

“The words of the ancestors do not speak of it.”

“Then it may be interesting to try. You may go. Do not speak of this.” Mind made up, Basket-fox stalked off to where Monkey-blue knelt, shivering in the chill night air.

Spying on brother knights was so close to dishonorable that it was governed by very strict rules. To turn a colleague’s own followers from their loyalty was unthinkable. It was permissible only to choose a promising lad of one’s own clan and bless him with a disguise so he could enlist in the other’s retinue undetected. He faced vivisection on an altar if he was discovered, but he was serving his own true lord; his first oath took precedence. Monkey-blue had survived in Lizard-drumming’s retinue for over two years. That took real courage. And tonight he had displayed good sense.

His lord appeared in front of him. He buried his face in the grass.

“Tell me again,” Basket-fox said, “what Lizard-drumming told the Hairy One he was going to do with him?”

“Lord, the knight said he would return his woman to him and his jewels and give him rich presents.” Pause. “Er…”

“Continue.”

“But later he told his steward that he would sell the man to the mighty Jaguar Flintknife, lord.”

Of course. Flintknife was Plumed-pillar’s brother and heir.

“Did great Lizard-drumming address the Hairy Warrior as Plumed-pillar?”

There was a pause, while Monkey-blue stared at the ground in front of his nose. Good man, taking time to think. “Not that I heard, lord.” He sounded puzzled, so he had not seen the real game either. But that would be asking a lot of one so young.

“On your feet!”

Monkey-blue scrambled to his feet, keeping his eyes lowered, rigid with worry at standing in his lord’s presence. A sturdy, promising lad. Not by any means a close relative, but of a branch that had thrown up some excellent warriors in the last generation.

“You have done me great service,” Basket-fox declared solemnly, “and displayed great courage. Long ago I served as a spy and I know how hard it is. If I send you back now you will be uncovered, and that would be a waste of a fine young warrior. What was your original company?”

“The Flesh Eaters, lord!” Monkey-blue’s voice was suddenly hoarse with excitement.

“You will return to training with the Eaters, then. You are promoted to taker of two captives. Take time to visit your family if you wish. When you return you will be assigned quarters and may choose two concubines from the pens. I will find you a wife of good rank.” Widows he had aplenty, alas.

“Praise to my lord!” The boy crouched to salute. “I weep before my lord’s benevolence.”

“And I rejoice at gaining a proved servant.” Power had its enjoyable moments. “One last thing. Do you know how many captives Lizard-drumming has left in his pens?”

“I heard none, lord,” Monkey-blue said hoarsely, “but I do not—”

“Oh, I believe you. You may go, Taker of Two Captives.”

One of the invisible guards stepped aside as the running youth almost cannoned into him.

So the third Eagle had cleaned Lizard-drumming out completely, had he? How much did the idiot think Plumed-pillar’s heir would pay just to recover his brother’s regalia? The man would be worth
much
more to Basket-fox.

The old Jaguar squatted down in a patch of shadow to think. Should he start low, offering perhaps ten captives under the pretense, say, of wanting to torture information out of the prisoner? Or should he try to overwhelm Lizard-drumming with a fortune, say ten twenties, and hope to win agreement before the dolt had time to think? Unfortunately, Lizard-drumming was probably not stupid enough to overlook
the possibility of asking Flintknife for a counterbid. Plumed-pillar’s heir had far less virtue and influence than Basket-fox did and had far fewer prisoners in his pens. He would need most of those for his own Flowering, which he had just begun. Nevertheless, an auction could really hurt. Ten twenties might not be nearly enough. No, Basket-fox had better start even higher, to show he meant business—offer
twenty
twenties and hope young Flintknife would be frightened to bid higher in case Basket-fox was setting a trap for him and did not really want this mysterious Hairy One after all.

B
y dawn, Lynx knew he was in mortal trouble. His long-longed-for reunion with Celeste had been a disaster, to her disgust and his horror. No Blade had ever suffered from lack of virility before—at least none had ever reported such a problem. He had no strength for anything else, either. Even sitting up was an effort, and he was repeatedly racked by jabs of pain: in his teeth, feet, hands, even his skull. When he wasn’t suffering he was waiting for the next torment to start, which was almost worse. The plaque was obviously to blame, and yet he could no more remove it than he could have bathed in boiling water. When he allowed Celeste to take it off him, he went into convulsions and she had to put it back.