The Jaguar Knights (32 page)

“He won’t fetch much,” Dolores said. “We could try later when prices are lower.”

“Not too much later. There are ways of taming stallions.”

“Wolf! No! They’d really do that to a man?”

“He’s not a man, he’s a chattel.” Appalled at the thought, Wolf said, “Spirits take the money! Let’s buy him now.”

As soon as they moved out in the sunlight, a greasy trader attached himself to them, fawning and querying their needs: “A fine kitchen maid for the lady? A child or two to teach. The little ones eat so much less….”

Dearly wanting to cut out the brute’s tongue, Wolf did not answer, but escorted Dolores directly over to her choice, knowing that this would drive up his price even more. As they drew near, the giant glared at them, and especially at Dolores, a woman viewing him in his shame. His chains rattled.

“Ah, this is Dominique! Very strong. Feel those arms! The
señor
will buy the strength of three ordinary men.”

Dominique turned his back on the customers, ignoring what the rough iron collar did to the sores on his neck. He undoubtedly meant to demonstrate contempt, but he also revealed the amount of flogging he had endured. Wolf shivered at the sight of so much raw flesh, welts
weeks old repeatedly overlain by newer, all suppurating and crawling with flies. The man might be terminally stupid, but he certainly had courage.

The slaver snarled and raised his whip.

“Leave him! You’ll never tame him that way.”

The greasy man smirked and gestured with his fingers. “As the
señor
says—snip! In a week he is docile, yes?”

“No, I fancy him for breeding stock. Ten pesos.”

“The
señor
is joking! Seventy pesos and cheap at the price.”

Wolf let Dolores take over the bargaining—inquisitors were very good at it. The dealer settled for nineteen pesos and two hundred maravedís.

Wolf paid up. Not wanting the slavers to know he spoke the language, he said, “Tell him to turn around and look me in the eye as a man should.” Dominique, who must have been steeling himself for the whip throughout the proceedings, obeyed the order, except he was looking over Wolf’s head and Wolf’s eyes were level with his collarbones. “Tell him he is a warrior, and I also am a warrior.” Wolf tapped his sword and the dark eyes glanced down at it. “Tell him he is my prisoner and I will treat him with honor.”

The slaver obeyed, then chuckled. “The
señor
should play safe and buy those leg irons from us.”

“I will buy a cloth from you,” Wolf said, and had to pay an outrageous eighty maravedís for a dirty rag. As soon as his slave’s shackles were unlocked, Wolf handed it to him to hide his nudity, then beckoned for him to follow, and the three of them walked together from that hellish, verminous place. The moment they were around the corner, Wolf stopped and looked up at the face of hatred, wondering if this warrior might prefer death to dishonor and choose to take one last bearded enemy with him.

“You are a warrior from Tlixilia?” he asked in Tlixilian.

The man’s eyes jerked wide but he did not speak.

“Tell me your real name, warrior, not what those nightsoil carriers called you.”

Suspiciously the giant said, “I am Heron-jade, taker of four captives among the sons of Sky-cactus.”

“And I am—” It came out as
Wild-dog-by-the-spring.
“You fight in the armies of the floating city?”

Looking very puzzled, the big man said, “I did. Now I am meat.”

“If you could return to Sky-cactus, you would be a warrior again?”

The dark, tortured eyes flickered to Dolores and back to Wolf. The world was making no sense for him—despair numbed, hope hurt. “In time it might be granted.”

“If you do more noble deeds?”

He nodded.

“In a few days we sail west. I will return you to the great land, warrior Heron-jade. I will send you with a message to the Emperor. This I promise by my honor, as warrior to warrior. That will be a noble deed, for you must cross the land of the traitor rebels. Take my words to the floating city and live to fight again.”

The chattel sneered in disbelief, refusing to be seduced by hope.

“Now we take you to the place of spirits to heal your wounds.”

His chin jerked higher. “I will give my precious jewel.”

“Wolf!” Dolores squealed. “He thinks you’re going to tear his heart out.”

Wolf explained as best he could, but Heron-jade was still perplexed and apprehensive when he arrived at the elementary. He grimaced at the robed conjurers lurking in the shadows, but went and stood in the center of the octogram as Wolf ordered. The chanting had scarcely begun when he gasped and raised a hand to his torn lip.

Healing was the only conjuration that did not give Wolf a headache—or if it did, it cured it immediately.

When the ritual was over, he said, “Now you feel better? Now you see we mean you well?”

Heron-jade strode across to him, dropped to his knees, and laid his head on Wolf’s boots. “I am my lord’s meat.”

That might mean no more than a polite “Good chance!” or it might mean what it said. Wolf told him to rise, and took him out to the ship, leaving Dolores to inspect the traders’ stalls.

As he was being rowed over the silvery bay, the slave kept his eyes fixed on his master’s face, but Wolf could not tell whether he was being
respectful or plotting murder. Their worlds were too far apart. Captain Clonard had grumbled hugely when told of Wolf’s intention to buy slaves, but he had lost five men on the voyage to sickness and mishap, so he could not deny that he had room. Now, when he saw the ogre who climbed on board, he insisted that Heron-jade be put in irons, and Wolf reluctantly agreed.

Two days later he bought Serpent-night, who was a more manageable size and younger, a taker of one captive, but just as stubborn, for his back had been flogged to strips. With two prisoners, the Chivians could eavesdrop and polish their grasp of the Tlixilian language. The slavers began saving their intractable livestock for the madman, and on his last day in Mondon he acquired Pulse-obsidian and Blood-mirror-walks. He had to be content with four, although he wished he could buy and release them all.

He was much relieved when
Glorious
completed her refitting and prepared to sail. Having never been much of a partygoer, even before becoming the King’s Killer, he had quickly wearied of Mondon’s social life—humorless, cheerless guests sitting around soggy courtyards by the light of torches, drinking rum, being served hand and foot by sullen brown people whose world they had stolen. They ate meat, meat, and meat. They had nothing to discuss except the bad counsel King Diego was receiving and the incompetence of his army. They feared that El Dorado might yet reconquer its rebellious colonies and hurl the Distlish into the sea. Wolf’s associates were more skilled at extracting useful information than he was, and the parasite lords of Condridad had little more knowledge to be extracted. To learn more, the team must move on to the notorious Sigisa, island of vice.

But Sigisa was run by the self-appointed
alcalde,
Ruiz de Rojas. The more they heard about him, the clearer it became that he was going to be a problem.

Wolf had expressed a passionate desire to meet
El Chiviano

Alas, señor, the rainy season! You cannot possibly.

But anything was possible if the spirits of chance willed it. On his
last night, the hostess, beaming with pride, announced that
El Chiviano
was here! In town! In this very house! To meet Don Lope! And she swept Wolf across the courtyard to make the introduction.

He was standing with three ranchers Wolf already knew, listening rather than talking. He was slim, average height, a weathered forty or well-preserved fifty. He wore the same knee-length pleated tunic as his companions did, with the same greatly puffed sleeves, the same silk hose below and pancake hat above, plus the inevitable sword, which was more necessary in Mondon than in Grandon. He greeted the newcomers’ arrival with an expectant smile. As the hostess uttered Wolf’s name, he offered a hand—and then dropped it. His eyes slitted. The threat was as blatant as a slap. The
señora
gasped and fell silent. The onlookers instinctively pulled back a pace.

“Wolf?” he said. “You Blades do choose silly names, don’t you?”

Wolf raised his eyebrows. “You have the advantage of me…brother?”

Although the man’s sword bore no cat’s-eye, he might as well have had
Made on Starkmoor
written on his forehead. Blades aged well, but this one was too old to be a threat to Wolf.

“No brother of yours. My name would mean nothing to you. I hear the stupid bitch is actually queen now.” Fortunately he was speaking Chivian.

Wolf ignored the sneer. “If you mean Queen Malinda, she kept the throne warm until her son came of age. Then she abdicated and sailed home to rejoin her husband.”

“I wonder what even a Bael could do to deserve that one.”

“She ruled well,
Chiviano.
Another twenty years would have been even better.”

The expatriate shrugged. “If King Whatsis is worse, then Chivial must truly be in a mess.”

“Chivial is in excellent shape for a country ruled by a homicidal halfwit.” Wolf was enjoying himself. Wonderful party!

And
El Chiviano
was puzzled. “He sent you here to spy, of course.”

“I swear by my soul, my sword, and my wife’s virtue,
señor,
that King Athelgar did not send me here, and I would rather starve to death in a chain gang than ever lift a hand to help that man. Do I convince?”

“Nevertheless, perhaps I should inform His Excellency exactly what Blades are and what sort of dirty work they do.”

The governor’s friend was threatening to have Wolf hanged as a spy. Fortunately he was still speaking Chivian.

“Of course,
señor.
Tell him how they keep slaves now.”

El Chiviano
did not like that. “Sonny, if I put slaves to herding horses, I would own no slaves and no horses. Understand?”

“I do. Do your friends?”

The exile almost smiled. “Some of them are still lost in the trees.” He started to turn away. Then he said, “Who is Grand Master now?”

“Durendal.”

He nodded, as if that was to be expected. “He aided me once, at great risk to himself, I think. If you ever see him again, tell him Eagle is grateful.”

“Any friend of Lord Roland’s is a friend of mine.”

“But none of mine.” He strode away.

“Señora,”
Wolf told his hostess, “
El Chiviano
has insulted my King. I have no choice but to withdraw.” Oh, horrors! He was defending Athelgar’s honor! He collected his wife and servants and departed, huffing ferociously in case he burst out laughing. They sailed unhindered the next morning, so Eagle had not betrayed him.

No doubt the story was buried somewhere in the archives at Ironhall. Certainly the
Litany of Heroes
mentioned a Sir Eagle dying with glory two centuries ago, but the name was no longer on the permitted list. Wolf knew that because he had wanted it and been refused.

T
he final leg of the journey was the most dangerous, for they had left the last traces of the rule of law behind in Mondon. Baelish pirates or Distlish warships might challenge them, or Captain Clonard might spot a likely prize and throw off his cloak of respectability to give chase.
Even assuming the passengers reached Sigisa safely, they would need help to survive in that cauldron, so they had already begun subverting the best men among the crew with offers of good wages ashore. Clonard knew of this and liked it no better than he liked the four killer slaves in the hold.

At noon the first day, as
Glorious
wallowed with all canvas spread, Wolf unshackled Heron-jade and took him up on deck to exercise. He pointed at the sun. “See, we sail west, to the great land.”

“The lord spoke as a true warrior.”

“You exercise now. Grow strong again.”

The big man threw his head back and began to clap. Once he had the beat, he went to stamping, then a dance, and eventually wild gymnastics, as best he could in that cramped space. Crew and passengers watched openmouthed. Sailors danced for exercise too, but they did not go on to balance on one hand on a rolling deck or perform twelve consecutive back flips. When he finished, gasping and running sweat, the audience applauded. He frowned until Wolf explained, then shrugged. Dolores gave him water and led him forward to the forecastle.

Being the smellier end of a ship, the bow was the least frequented. Flicker and Quin arrived. Heron-jade had met them earlier, but servants were beneath his notice. He tried to ignore Dolores, also, but that was much harder. Megan was not present, probably reuniting with Duff.

Very warily Wolf began asking questions. He knew from early conversations and eavesdropping that the giant was an eagle warrior, vassal of an eagle knight, Sky-cactus. The other three warriors were followers of jaguar knights, and there seemed to be a coolness between the two orders, even there in the enemy’s clutches. There were more complexities. Heron-jade and Blood-mirror-walks were warriors of El Dorado itself, the floating city, while the other two were from lesser towns within its empire, and therefore had lower status. This pattern matched Euranian society, but Wolf dearly wanted to know how the two orders of knighthood differed. The corpse at Quondam had sported jaguar claws. Did an eagle knight have wings as well as the taloned feet whose tracks they had seen? He left that point for later.

“There are towns that make war on the floating city,” he said. “Zolica, Yazotlan, Tephuamotzin.”

Heron-jade’s eyes flashed. “Offal! Turncoats! Slaves of the Hairy Ones.” He thudded a huge fist on the rail. “They will be meat!”

“Our town is not the town of the Hairy Ones you fight. Our king is not their king.”

Heron-jade considered that information. “So?” He was neither stupid nor especially quick-witted, but his mind walked unfamiliar paths and speech was beset with traps.