The Jaguar Knights (27 page)

The night was as dark as a cellar. He knew he was on deck only because the wind was howling past him, more salt water than air. He had not known waves could stand so high, looming black walls of water, while the spume blown from their tops enclosed the ship in a fog. Every rope and board groaned. The master and bosun were bent over Marcel, who had been one of the best hands and was now a heap on the deck, very dead, a pile of oilskins leaking dark fluid into the scuppers.

“What happened?” Lynx yelled.

“Screamed,” the bosun said. “Yelling? Then fell.”

Lynx looked up. It was a night as wild as they come, but Marcel must have been aloft a million or two times in his life. Why had he been screaming? What could he have seen in this murk?

“You,” said the bosun, “go up to see!”

Lynx hesitated. Even Blade eyes would be useless in that murk, and if he saw breakers directly downwind,
Papillon
could do nothing about it. Then something screamed overhead, up there in the darkness, a harsh, inhuman sound whipped away by the gale. There was no one up there. The plaque throbbed like flames.

“Belay!” The bosun changed his mind, grabbing Lynx’s arm. “No!”

Yes. That inexplicable cry was just one more of the bizarre things that had started when the raiders came to Quondam. It was his business, no one else’s. Lynx pulled free, fought his way through the storm to the shrouds, and began to climb. He had forgotten he was wearing
Ratter
until she tried to tangle herself in the ratlines.

The storm grew ever more savage, doing its damnedest to tear him off. His cape billowed and beat at him. He imagined his feet slipping and him helpless, streaming out like a flag until it tore away his hands as well.
Papillon
’s roll was incredible, sweeping him across the sky so he overhung the ocean, first to port, then to starboard. For heart-stopping moments she would just hang there, almost on her beam ends, before she began to right herself. He wondered how Marcel had ever found the deck
when he fell. Or was pushed. Frozen and battered, Lynx dragged himself up to the top. The trap was open, so he heaved myself inside, and paused to catch his breath.

The top—landlubbers would call it the crow’s nest—was basically a barrel with a hatch in the bottom of it for access. It provided shelter, but he was bulky in his leathers and had to share the space with
Ratter
and the topmast, so it seemed cramped. Marcel could have fallen out of the barrel only when the ship was listed well over, and then he would have dropped in the sea. The trap had been open; he must have abandoned his post and slipped on his way down. Why had he? Why had he screamed? Had he screamed?

The strident noise Lynx had heard on deck was repeated, much louder, very close.

He shut the hatch for safety, then struggled to his feet. The wind tried to tear his head off. The sea anchor hung over the bow, so
Papillon
was drifting stern first, but he could see absolutely nothing astern, just more mountains of water. Nor could he see anything forward. The top rested on the crosstrees, which were short spars extending out to either side, and on the far end of the starboard crosstree was something that should not be.

It was larger than he, a bulky shape ruffling in the wind like a stack of feathers, writhing so much that he could make out no details in the dark. To eyes full of tears and spray, it was just a huge and evil
thing,
no more. If it was a bird, it was clinging to that impossible perch with its feet, but the only bird Lynx had ever heard of that could be that big was whatever had left the tracks Wolfie had seen at Quondam. A human being could be holding on to the shroud, but only a madman would stand there at all. What was it and why was it there…?

When Lynx first saw it, they were about level. Gradually it rose as
Papillon
heeled over to port, until it was well above him. It had seen him arrive, likely had watched him climbing. It screeched at him repeatedly, as if it were trying to talk.

“Who are you?” Lynx yelled. “What do you want?”

More hoarse cries. He recognized the language he had heard that night in Quondam, when he and Fell slew the jaguar knight.

This monster might have come to revenge that other monster. Or it might be asking for the plaque back, please. But Celeste had been whipped away from Quondam by conjuration, so perhaps this thing had come to take him to her. That idea seemed like rank madness even at the time, but Lynx’s world was a nightmare in many ways right then, not the least of which was that the ship might be going to sink under him. Even if it didn’t, he would soon look so inhuman that he would be fed to the fish anyway. Or he would go mad with pain. No, this insane longshot was his best, his only, chance of ever finding his ward.

As
Papillon
continued heeling over to starboard, he struggled to climb out of the top. By the time he was straddling the rim of the barrel, he was looking almost straight down at the giant bird and the ocean below it.

His foot slipped, his hands were yanked loose, and he fell.

T
he world exploded in brilliance. It spun like a churn. Lynx cried out and covered his eyes. He became aware of heat, of unfamiliar scents, and of a strange lethargy. He was facedown on a woven rug in glaring sunlight and a summery warmth. The tumult of the storm had changed to a jabber of excited voices all around him, so obviously he was no longer on
Papillon,
and yet he had no sense of motion or time passing, no mysterious nothingness. He just was. It was very pleasant, very restful.

The spinning was almost fun, but something very odd had happened and he probably ought to be terrified out of his wits. He sniffed, identifying odors of dust, vegetation, and cooking, hot in his nostrils. The voices were all male, a discordant yowl that reminded him of the terrible thing on the ship, plus a harsh screeching like the noise the cat-man had made at Quondam. Rubbing his eyes to dry them, he peered around, squinting at the glare.

There were two bird’s feet—
enormous
bird’s feet—right by his nose.
Dismissing them as illusion, he looked the other way, raised his head. The world wobbled, steadied. Above a low wall towered a mountain and a clear sky with a sunset. It had to be a sunset; dawns were yellower. He rolled over. Above him, staring down, stood an eagle knight, his green plumage still bedraggled by rain and sea spray—fierce golden raptor eyes and a beak fit to behead horses.

Lynx had never moved faster in his life. He was on his feet and running…running downhill, then up…crashing into a waist-high wall, spinning around and drawing
Ratter
…again the world reeled, took a moment to steady.

There was no uphill-downhill. He was on a roof, wide and flat and white-stuccoed, splotched with fine bright rugs and long shadows cast by wicker gazebos. Ornate pots held flowered and fragrant shrubs. The eagle knight stood near the center—something between a gigantic green owl and a big man bundled in a feather bed so that only his head and feet were visible, although those were not human.

Nearest to him was a jaguar knight like the Quondam monster, with pard head and paws on a male human body wearing a two-flap loincloth, golden bracelets and necklaces, a jeweled belt whose buckle bore the mosaic jaguar emblem. Lynx vaguely recalled it…him…showing feline teeth and snarling as Lynx hurtled past him, but that reaction had probably been laughter, because if it was anything like the Quondam one, it could have slashed him down with a single stroke of its paw. So the Quondam monster had not died halfway through a shape change, it had always looked that way, and somehow the eagle was easier to believe, because that had no human flesh visible.

About two dozen other men stood around in attendance on their lords. Most of the young ones wore only loincloths, others had various mantles, ornate cloaks, superb feathered headdresses, and a couple in the background were robed in black. Body paint, labrets, nose plugs, rings of all types, plus swords, spears, shields—these and the brown, beardless faces were all horribly familiar from last month’s attack on Quondam.

How could it be only last month when this was summer? Where was he? He began to take stock, trying to be methodical. He was in a far corner of a flat roof, pressed back against the walls with his sword
out, muffled to the eyes in leather and oiled cloth, with layers of wet wool underneath, dribbling seawater and due to boil in a few minutes. No doubt he had reacted very foolishly in front of these savages, but he knew he was not capable of thinking clearly yet and the world lurched every time he moved his head.

Beyond the roof? He had enough wit to realize he must be in the legendary city Baron Roland had described, El Dorado. The world could not contain two such marvels. It was vast, far larger than Grandon, a stunning vista of white, flat-topped buildings, mostly one-story, although some had two. Its streets were wide, its canals innumerable. He gaped at wooded parks and gardens and great market plazas galore. Within this jewel box, like trees in a meadow, stood many of the towers of sacrifice the Baron had described, tapering in four or five great steps from a broad base to a small flat summit. They cast long evening shadows, and the greatest among them must stand twice as high as Grandon Bastion. They, too, were of white stone, although each seemed to have a steep staircase on one side, and the staircases were black.

No Euranian had seen the floating city and returned alive, the Baron had said. All around it lay shiny blue waters, the lake that made it impregnable, and around that stretched a very wide, but fair and fertile valley, enclosed by distant mountains like battlements. As the chatter of the spectators stilled, Lynx heard a distant clamor of drums and some sort of horns or trumpets. Nothing else—no horses, no carriages.

Meanwhile he had been kidnapped and was about to be thrown in a cookpot. The spectators had found him stupendously funny. Picking up the jaguar knight’s cue, they roared with laughter at his antics and obvious terror. The cat-giant silenced them by turning to the eagle-giant and saluting him—he crouched down, touched the floor with one paw, which he then raised to his lips. That was an obvious reverence and everyone else did the same. Even a terminally confused swordsman could guess that they were honoring the big bird for a magnificent feat of conjuration in finding and bringing back the man who dared to wear a certain plaque.

The Eagle croaked his thanks for the compliment, shook himself, and was instantly dry, glorious green plumage all shiny-bright.

The cat-man spoke a word and waved a paw. One of the youngsters sprinted across to a hatchway and disappeared. A slightly older man laid down his spear and shield, untied his glittering embroidered cloak, and brought it across to Lynx, who brandished
Ratter
at him. He stopped and held out the cloak, but Lynx just threatened him again, being unable to think past cookpots. The roof was too high for him to jump off, and where would he run to?

The jaguar knight stepped closer and spoke again, impatiently.

Desperately Lynx said, “Celeste?”

The monster flashed his fangs and nodded his great cat head. “Celeste!” The word was distorted, but comprehensible. He pointed north. Lynx wondered if he was being ordered to the kitchen.

Out of patience, the jaguar knight snarled.
Ratter
’s belt and scabbard dropped around Lynx’s feet. His weighty leather cloak fell apart at the seams and followed. The same thing happened to the blanket coat he wore under it. He howled in alarm, setting the audience to laughing again. The knight wanted him to shed all his sodden and unnecessary garments, but Lynx did not want to reveal the jaguar plaque. Despite his wails and protest noises, his clothing disintegrated, layer by layer, until he was completely exposed, wearing only the pendant. He realized that to the onlookers he must seem obscenely hairy and sickly pale, like something growing in a damp cellar.

The laughter changed to shouts and cries of wonder. The audience milled forward to see, making Lynx realize how stupid he must look defying such a company. He lowered his sword. Evidently it was his scars causing the sensation, because the jaguar knight himself strode over and reached out to match his talons to the red traceries on Lynx’s belly.

Then, balancing perfectly on one foot, he raised the other to try that for size. Mostly there were too many overlapping slashes to tell apart, but in a couple of places the start of a stroke was visible, the four talon marks of a single paw. The audience gasped at the obvious fit, clamoring at the wonder of a man surviving such injuries. The fang marks on his shoulder were another sensation. Someone noticed his old binding scar, which was more visible than most, thanks to Celeste’s ineptness, and they gestured for him to turn around and display its mate on his back.

Continuing the dumbshow, the jaguar knight pointed a claw at
Ratter,
the plaque, and then to his own heart. Lynx took this to be a query whether he had slain the original wearer, so he nodded. The cat-man made a speech that brought cheers from the spectators.

Now the eagle knight came stalking over also, moving with an awkward chicken gait, folding up toes as he lifted each foot, spreading them again as he lowered it. Golden eyes glaring, he made a speech, too, a longer one. The Jaguar responded, and then all the spectators crouched to offer Lynx their kiss-hand obeisance. He had slain a cat-monster and survived; he was an honored hero. Even in his muddled state, he began to hope that he might enjoy his next meal
at
a table and not
on
one.

The boy who had run downstairs returned with a bundle and gingerly approached Lynx. Feeling more confident now, Lynx raised his arms as a sign that he was willing to be dressed. The boy tied a two-flap loincloth around him, covered it with a triangular cloth knotted at one side, then retrieved and restored the scabbard and sword belt from the heap of rags at Lynx’s feet. Lynx shamefacedly sheathed
Ratter
. The man still holding the fine embroidered cloak stepped forward, draped it over Lynx’s left shoulder, and fastened it with a silver pin on the right.