The Jaguar Knights (30 page)

Her four attendants arrived with fresh food and clothing. Then Manuel appeared to start language lessons. Lynx sat outdoors on a mat and tried to concentrate on how to greet knights and warriors of a dozen different grades. Celeste already knew many such flowery phrases, but those were for women and men’s were not only different, they also varied depending on the speaker’s rank. Manuel had no more idea of Lynx’s status than Lynx himself did and played safe by trying to teach him all of them. Celeste had to interpret, of course. The instruction proceeded very slowly.

Then a troop of spear-carrying warriors arrived at the double, a score of them. Without explanation, they ordered Manuel and the girls away and took up position around the prisoners. Their eyes were chips of obsidian.

“Gorgeous, aren’t they?” Lynx muttered through a mouthful of hot coals. Feathers and paint, bangles and lip-plugs.

“Half of them are wearing heraldry I haven’t seen before. I think those are not Lizard-drumming’s men.” Why was she bothering to whisper?

Lynx was past caring. He sat with his back against a tree and stared vaguely at a ceremony in progress on the summit of a nearby pyramid. He could make out no details, but the eerie music from drums and conches was unsettling. Celeste went indoors and left him alone. He sat and suffered and sweated and wondered how soon he could die.

Later another dozen warriors appeared, accompanied by a slave carrying a basket that contained Celeste’s missing jewelry. She came running out to welcome it with cries of joy, which turned to screams of rage when she was not allowed to touch it. Instead Lynx was ordered to stand up. Unwilling to argue with an obsidian-tipped spear, he struggled to his feet. Then he stood on his toes and tried not to twitch at the jolts of pain running through his jaw, while two of the youngest, least decorated warriors proceeded to adorn him. They were puzzled that he had no openings to take earrings or a lip-plug. The rings that would not fit on his pinkies they strung on a cord to hang around his neck beside the real necklaces, but in the end they seemed satisfied with their handiwork. He was confident that the infamous emerald tiara which had caused such a scandal in Athelgar’s Court five years ago must look very good on him.

By that time half the original guards had departed and there was no one else in sight, which seemed ominous. The escort formed up around the two prisoners, the leader beckoned, and off they all went.

“I think,” Lynx remarked, “that we have just changed owners. Don’t—
Eyaaa!
” Flames of agony in his right wrist made him bite his lip until it bled. By the time the spasm ended, they had been herded through a gate in the perimeter wall and out to a quay where three
dugout canoes were waiting, complete with brown-skinned paddlers and more armed warriors.

From there they proceeded along successive canals. Neither the warriors nor the slaves spoke at all, and the many other canoes they passed were equally quiet. So were pedestrians on the bridges. Did no one in this city ever laugh, or even smile? Apart from sounds of pyramid rituals farther away, it was eerily silent. Reflections swam on silver ripples in a dreamlike repetition of blue water, white buildings, blue sky, white peaks. He wondered if the first Blade ever to visit the Hence Lands would merit mention in the chronicles at Ironhall, and who would take the word there.

Lizard-drumming’s mansion had been impressive. The one they were taken to overwhelmed. Its pyramid was three times as high, its grounds enormous, even its polychrome sculptures were breathtaking, despite their bizarre, convoluted style. Lynx noted Celeste smiling again, confident she was moving up the social scale. If this was not the home of the Emperor himself, it must surely belong to a lord chancellor or someone equivalent.

The prisoners were escorted to a small, secluded terrace, flanked by a colonnade on two sides and unfamiliar trees on the others, furnished with a pond and flowering bushes. There another Jaguar waited in the blossom-scented shade, lying half curled up on a richly colored mat, with his head in the lap of a scantily clad, eye-catching brown maiden. She was fanning him gently, keeping flies away. This knight’s muzzle was grizzled and his human skin lacked the tone of youth, so by human standards he would be at least sixty.

Behind him stood a scrawny, balding man leaning on a crutch, wearing the invariable two-flap loincloth and nothing more. He was a stubble-faced, hairy-chested Euranian of perhaps forty, although deeply tanned by the tropical sun, and likely a war captive, for he had lost his left leg just above the knee. The wasting of his thigh showed that the injury was not recent. He raised a finger to his lips to urge silence.

Having no sane alternative, Lynx stood where he was, waiting for his host to finish his catnap. There were swordsmen in the bushes and more in the shadowed interior beyond the arches. Sensing Celeste
standing very close to him, he gently took her hand, and she squeezed his fingers. Unexpectedly, the move sent a spasm of pain shooting through his wrist. He did not cry out, but he did take a very deep breath.

The cat’s eyes opened. The Jaguar sat up.

About to salute, Lynx thought better of putting his hand near his sword and bowed instead. Celeste knelt most humbly.

The old jaguar knight stretched and yawned, displaying a fine set of fangs and a long, pink tongue. Then he flowed effortlessly to his feet. He wore a loincloth and a jeweled belt with a jaguar-emblem buckle, but as he paced over to Lynx with his front paws behind his back, he resembled nothing so much as an aging alley cat, all scars and one ragged ear, full of sin and ancient evil. His feline eyes were inscrutable and blood-curdling.

He looked Lynx over, from his tiara down to his toes.

Then he did much the same with Celeste.

With a needle-sharp black claw, he lifted the front of Lynx’s cloak so he could inspect his scars. Then he sauntered back to his mat. He bared his fangs in what might have been a jaguar leer, and spoke some gibberish.

Lynx shrugged.

The old knight said, “Jorge!”

The man on the crutch spoke. Celeste replied.

Jorge spoke again, and it was clear that he was a much better interpreter than Lizard-drumming’s Manuel. Celeste translated his Distlish into Chivian, phrase by phrase.

“Basket-fox, lord of the dark…welcomes his unfortunate and dearly loved kinsman…jungle terror Plumed-pillar…to his humble house…and extends sympathy to him…in his misfortune.”

Celeste’s expression told Lynx that she understood no more of this than he did.

“Er…”

Jorge had not finished. He frowned a warning and continued what could only be a prepared speech. “He feels a mountain of sorrow…that the noble lord’s heir and brother…the midden cur Flintknife…
has wrongly claimed his inheritance…has seized the dread killer’s estates, followers, captives, concubines, and slaves. The jungle slug Flintknife…refuses to admit…that his brother has returned from…the place of demons…in a borrowed body and will…require some brief time…to recover his memories…and be restored to his former self.”

Celeste finished the translations with her eyes as big as water jars.

Could he settle for a half dozen concubines back, Lynx wondered, teetering on the brink of hysteria. “There may be some mistake—”

Jorge read his face and did not wait for Celeste to begin translating. “I mention that the dread hunter Basket-fox paid thirty twenties of captives to rescue his kinsman from the avaricious Lizard-drumming this morning. If he was in error, then the consequences will be dire indeed.”

Translating, Celeste added, “Bargain, you idiot, bargain!”

Before Lynx could speak, he felt a spasm of agony coming on, as if his skull was being crushed in a vice. He sweated and gasped, unable to hide his agony. It was terrible—and then it stopped. Instead of dying away as usual, the pain was shut off instantly. The world unfolded like a flower. He opened his eyes and found Lord Basket-fox standing in front of him with one black talon touching Lynx’s jaguar plaque. He snarled something to Jorge. Jorge spoke to Celeste.

Celeste said, “Kitty-cat says he apologizes for not noting your distress. Like spit he didn’t, darling! But he says he has blessed you now and you should be all right for a day or two.”

Basket-fox walked over to the pond, stepped in with both feet and sat down on the marble edge, resting his top paws on his human knees. He showed his fangs in what Lynx hoped was a smile.

Lynx was certainly cured for the moment—pain gone, horrible lethargy gone. Tonight he would triumph on the sleeping mat. “I thank him from the bottom of…my heart.”
Whose heart?
By the time those words emerged from Jorge, they had multiplied into a speech. “And tell him,” Lynx added, for his thinking was clearer now, “that I shall be guided by him in all things until my memories return. I am his devoted, lifelong servant.”

Jorge was still translating this when half the pond seemed to explode in Lynx’s direction, a storm breaker of bright droplets. Blade reflexes
flashed; his hand streaked out to snatch a silvery fish out of the air. Only then did Celeste utter a squeak of alarm.

Lynx solemnly stepped forward and replaced the bewildered fish in the water, where it darted away to safety under a rock. He nodded to Basket-fox and returned to his previous place. The Jaguar regarded him with a piercing feline stare, idly shaking water off his paw.

Basket-fox to Jorge to Celeste: “He says you are very fast.”

Lynx to Celeste to Jorge: “Tell him he is faster.”

Right answer. The Jaguar uttered a rumble of amusement and stepped out of the water. He went back to his mat. Another mat was brought for the honored guest. So they were all friends together now? Spear carriers still lurked in the shrubbery.

Refreshments appeared. The knight’s lithesome handmaiden fed him tidbits and held a reed when he wished to drink—
pulque,
Celeste said, fermented cactus sap. Perhaps she was expected to serve Lynx in the same way, but he could still use his fingers.
For how long?

Basket-fox had become charming, making small talk and purring. It made him seem very cuddlesome.
Play safe and pet a pit viper?
Describe the floating tree. Do all women in your city have hair that color? Were the eyes you are now using that brown color from birth or has the Flowering changed them already? But then—

“You may not remember yet the battles in which we fought together.”

“The truth is as my lord says.”

“And language takes time.”

“My lord is all-wise.”

“The noble Flintknife is a warrior of irreproachable honor.”

“As my lord says.”

“But not all his supporters may be of equal scruple. The stakes are high. The time of the Flowering is one of great vulnerability.”

“Who knows these things better than my lord?”

“The knights have not yet reached a judgment in your case, kinsman. The matter is so unusual that I am sure they will decide to suspend judgment for a while. Long enough for you to complete your second Flowering and calm their unworthy doubts.”

“This is most reassuring.” The mud was beginning to settle, and the water had snakes in it.

“Until then, my house is at your disposal, son of Trumpet-pillar.”

That was Lynx’s father’s name, was it? “My lord’s kindness passes all measure.”

Basket-fox’s warriors were as the sands of the plain and would defend the gallant Plumed-pillar, skillful acolytes could aid him through the Flowering, allies and friends would rally to his cause…. Lynx was not inclined to argue. A dead Blade could not serve his ward.

Later he was installed with his supposed handmaiden in sumptuous quarters, plied with servants and hospitality. His whims were commands.

Soon after dawn the next day he began serious language lessons.

T
he Hall of the Jaguars was vast and grand, an adjunct of the Imperial Palace itself. In Tlixilian style its walls and columns were carved into intricate pictures, brilliantly colored. One side was pillared, open to a courtyard to admit air, sunlight, and even birds, but temperature was rarely a problem in El Dorado. Lynx estimated it could have held half a thousand people, but that day about sixty men were standing around arguing. One woman stood discreetly outside, behind a pillar—Celeste, who was needed as an interpreter. She had been marched across the city on foot, which had done nothing to improve her disposition.

Lynx had been carried there in Basket-fox’s personal palanquin, with an escort of eighty warriors. Having thrown the noble Jaguar order into chaos with his outrageous claim that a disgusting Hairy One was in fact Plumed-pillar Redux, the sly old rascal had stopped just short of giving him a knight’s drums, trumpets, and harbingers. The meeting had been called to examine the evidence, namely Lynx.

Neither Basket-fox himself nor Flintknife, Plumed-pillar’s brother and authentic heir, was in evidence. No knight was, because none of
them would ever bother to attend anything as tedious as a committee—not so anyone would notice. There might be some lurking unseen in the shadows, Jorge had warned. They were a curious lot, Jaguars. Officially, each knight had sent one of his senior warriors to represent him.

The agenda was Lynx and whether or not to kill him out of hand. There were no precedents and no formal procedures. Two or three of the more respected older men tried to keep some sort of order, but it took a long time to examine the evidence and agree that he did show signs of beginning the Flowering. Lynx had always had a rare ability to wiggle his ears and he was a lot better at it now. His eyes were close to yellow already and his teeth were taking on new shapes.

The plaque was accepted as undoubtedly Plumed-pillar’s regalia. Lynx’s scars confirmed that he had survived a mighty battle. The warriors peered at his fingers and eyes and teeth, scowled at the hair on his chest, and nodded approvingly at the fur sprouting on his hands, face, and feet. They enthused over his jewelry like a pack of greedy dowagers. And they asked innumerable questions, which Jorge passed out to Celeste, who passed them back in to Lynx, and so on.