Istoria Online- Square One

by Vic Connor

  “Like ‘em bloody Scots.” Abe chuckles. “Wearin’ proper Christian clothes from t’ waist up, but ‘em ladies’ skirts on their legs.”

  I have to agree it looks a little silly but, well, fashion is always more about dumb fads than anything else.

  The cordial shop-owner takes the little box Hendricks gives him, inspects its contents with a placid smile, then hands the Dutchman a thick, rugged tome and a large leather pouch where the jagged book can fit for ease of carrying.

  “We are finished hier,” says Hendricks…

  Van der Kaart’s box delivered!

  +1VP

  Quest Updated:

  Van der Kaart’s Boodschap

  Escort Hendricks back to Duurstad

  …“we can leaff as faast as you wilt.”

  The rising sun shines right through the main gate, its rays illuminating the opposing western wall. The Aztec citizens pour out from the south and west gates, some dressed in colorful robes, some clad in just loincloths and maybe a cape, a few in that odd half-European and half-Aztec mix that the genial stationery shop-owner was partial to.

  “Uitzli,” Miyu hisses. “Koko ni?”

  “We do not need to return to Duurstad before sunset tomorrow,” Juanita says.

  “As long you pay foor de lodging…” adds Hendricks.

  We ask around and soon learn that the gates to the west and south are off-limits to us. Foreigners are welcome to stay and trade around the square, or in the shops that the plaza has access to, but visiting deeper into Tepetlacotli is by invitation only.

  Which we don’t have, as the Jaguar warriors on the Southern gates let us know, and the Eagle warriors on the Western gate repeat. Quite rudely, in both cases.

  The shops along the southern wall are all owned by Aztecs, trading in stones, jewels, spices, and exotic birds of colorful plumage. Among them is what Juanita says is an apothecary, selling ingredients for elixirs and potions. We ask the owner—a stern, middle-aged woman dressed in a plain gray robe, her arms glittering with gold bracelets, her English passable—about rich people who may be ill and in dire need of a healer. She doesn’t share much, only telling us that Tepetlacotli is a big city and many of its inhabitants are rich. And although rich people buy from her frequently, she says, they always send servants to do so, so she wouldn’t know what rich family bought what.

  The northern wall houses shops owned by foreigners. A Bedouin by the name of Naseem, who looks like his camel caravan has just finished crossing the Sahara, deals in spices and little ivory talismans which, he says, will keep the sand demons away. Gottfryd, an old, white-haired Austrian clocksmith, sells his time pieces—every single one set to show the current time in Vienna—while he squints at the world from behind inch-thick glasses. A tall, muscular Muscovite with an imperial moustache tells us his name is Radimir. He curses at the tropical weather, shares how much he misses the healthy, strong cold of his homeland, and shows us metal tools of all sorts.

  He sells no firearms, though. Abe grumbles that the pagans trust their gods and magicks more than they trust ‘sunrise contraptions’—but among Radimir’s hardware we find a few Spanish and British rapiers, a German broadsword, and what looks like a finely-engraved scimitar that the Muscovite claims originates from Damascus.

  None of the shop owners have heard a word about Uitzli. The white-haired Austrian clocksmith politely but sternly corrects my perception that there is even such a thing as a white-skinned Aztec.

  We also come across an inn, the Durojaiye, owned by a jovial woman of African ancestry, dressed in a loosely-fit blue blouse, an orange shawl around her shoulders, a blue wrap-around skirt, and an intricate red head-tie that looks like a chef’s hat. She introduces herself as Kokumo. “Howzit, boss?” she asks, giving us the most carefree smile. “The Durojaiye is the best inn you can find in this town. Or the whole Isla Hermosa, ja-nee! Anything you need, I’ll be happy to provide—at a nice price, too.”

  The inn’s common hall, dark and low and crammed with small wooden tables, is nearly deserted so early in the morning, except for two young women—one looks Nordic, with pale skin, ash-blonde hair, and watery blue eyes; the other is Aztec, with deep-black eyes and hair—and a black man who sits in the corner and has to be the largest fellow I’ve seen in my life. He’s taller than me even while sitting in his chair, with shoulders and arms so big and powerful they make Abe look like a scrawny nerd. An intricate lattice of ritual scars covers his face, and his alert eyes scan everything in the room with the relaxed confidence of the experienced fighter.

  Kokumo says, “This is Iku, boss, and he’s good. He’s good at taking care of troublemakers—in particular, those impolite to our girls here.”

  Both the Aztec and the Viking girls smile timidly at us, as if to reassure us we have nothing to worry about, as long as we behave.

  Juanita exchanges a few words with Ayelén, the Aztec girl, while Hendricks does the same with the blonde woman, and I chat with Kokumo. The inn’s owner loses some of her joviality when I bring up the topic of Uitzli being sold to somebody in this city. She’s not fond of slave traders, and I have to assure her, repeatedly, that we’re not here to engage in such trade, but to find a lost friend.

  “The recent auction happened five days ago, at least,” she acknowledges. “I’m certain of this, boss.”

  “Was there a white-skinned Aztec girl among those sold?” I ask. “An albino. A healer. She’d be easy to notice.”

  “Oh yes, ja-nee, an albino Aztec healer would be easy to notice. And rumors wouldn’t be slow to spread.”

  “And have you heard such rumors, Kokumo?”

  “Me? Alas, boss. I have not.”

  Neither has Ayelén, says Juanita as we gather near the inn’s entrance to compare notes. Nor Torunn the Viking-looking girl, adds Hendricks.

  A hiss from behind the Noh mask interrupts our meeting, sounding something like “Axorotu” in a warning tone. The beads of Miyu’s eyes focus on the space behind my back.

  “Well, well, looksie ‘ere,” growls Abe, turning toward the inn’s door. “The prodigal slave be returnin’.”

  With a calm smile, Axolotl stands by the entrance. Since he left us in the middle of the night, he has cleaned himself up. His combed-back hair shines as though he has just taken a bath; a few gold pins keep it in place, and two feathers decorate it—one green, the other red. In contrast with the shredded garb he’d been wearing before, he’s now dressed in a long tunic tied in a lavish knot over his left shoulder.

  He’s got company, too: Three Jaguar warriors, each carrying an obsidian-edged macahuitl in one hand and a small, colorful buckler in the other, stand a few steps behind him sternly staring at us, blocking the inn’s doorway.

  Kokumo gives Axolotl a sidelong glance. She seems to suddenly remember something she needs to take care of right now in the kitchen. Ayelén and Torunn dash after her. Iku stays in his corner, shifting his weight backward while eyeing the newcomers. These are probably not the kind of customers he’s happy to have to deal with.

  And—what do you know?—Axolotl has even found the time to take some English lessons. “Greetings, my friends,” he says in accented but clear English. “I was wondering if you could spare some time have a word or two?”

  I slowly let my crutches drive me outside as I…

  Appraising Gaze

  …the good news is that I can read the three Jaguar warriors standing behind Axolotl—their names are Ameyalli, Ehecatl, and Malinalli; their hue is yellowish, and the macahuitl clubs and bucklers are their only gear—and Axolotl himself appears so weak that Abe, Miyu, or Hendricks could chew him up for breakfast. My companions act as if they can sense it, too, fanning out as they exit the Durojaiye inn to take their positions: Miyu to my left, Abe to my right, Hendricks covering Abe’s right flank, Juanita behind us.

  The bad news is that the guards at the west, south, and main gates are looking our way, clearly aware of what could become a standoff. Those guards alone could turn
us into taco filling without breaking a sweat.

  And if there is something my crutches aren’t good at, it’s running away. We’ll have to play this one cool.

  “My apologies,” says Axolotl smoothly. “It was rude of me to leave you in the middle of the night without a proper farewell.”

  “Apology accepted,” I reply. “You must’ve had good reason to.”

  “I had. Among other things, I wasn’t sure about your intentions concerning me.”

  “None, to be honest. Our only goal when we met you was to come to this city. Bringing you along did not change that.”

  “Yet you aided me when I was unconscious. Then you risked a fight on my behalf with Barboza’s men and dogs. Why?”

  I grin. “Let’s just say we are no friends of Barboza, my friend. And picking a fight with his henchmen is something we do gladly.” My grin dissolves. “And you were a wounded man in need of help, so we helped you.”

  “Ah, the good Samaritans…” he teases lightly.

  “More like the golden rule,” I reply. “Treat others like you’d like them to treat you. Right?”

  He nods. “That would be true gold, friends,” he says gravely. “True gold.”

  He turns to the three Jaguars and speaks to them in Nahuatl…

  …the warriors give him a curt nod…

  New achievement!

  Gained: Axolotl’s Gratitude

  …a short bow to me, and they leave Axolotl alone with us.

  He beams, pointing toward the inn. “Shall we go inside and have a seat? There’s more to discuss.”

  After we seat ourselves around one of the wooden tables, Ayelén and Torunn come back out of the kitchen as quickly as they went inside. They exchange words with Axolotl and dash back behind the kitchen door.

  “The man from the great desert across the great sea, where humpback horses roam,” Axolotl says, “who calls himself Naseem, and who has a shop on the other end of the plaza… Have you met him already?”

  “We have, yes.”

  “He deals in this most particular kind of beans, black and brittle,” he explains. “He boils them in hot water like any others, but unlike our Etl and Yetl beans, or the European lentils and chickpeas that turn soft, these beans produce a black, bitter brew—”

  I don’t need Abe’s nose to identify what I’m smelling from the kitchen. I smile. “Coffee. Those beans Naseem sells, and what Kokumo must be boiling right now: That’s coffee, sure as night follows day.”

  The word Axolotl says is closer to ‘kahuesi,’ but what Ayelén brings is Turkish-style coffee.

  And it is great, sweet as sin and bitter as regret, and screw you Maneesh and everybody in NozGames Engineering for setting the bar so high. In-game consumables shouldn’t taste so preternaturally good.

  Shouldn’t be so much better than the real thing.

  Abe and Juanita don’t quite understand how I can tolerate such a bitter brew, let alone enjoy it, so Torunn brings ale for the pirate and pulque for the witch. Hendricks appreciates strong coffee, and hints that Constantinople is not a city he is unfamiliar with. Miyu, stern and still as a statue behind her mask, has no use for words or drinks.

  Axolotl does not disclose who he really is, or if ‘Axolotl’ is even his real name, but he seems to believe we harbor no ill will toward the Aztec city, and he’s obviously well connected.

  He jokes about Abe’s horrible cookies, although he thanks us for sharing our food with him. And he adds he’s willing to repay the debt he owes us for bringing him back to the safety of this city.

  “So, I need you to tell me, Jake,” he says, “how shall I repay your help, my good friend?”

  “We gave our help freely, and you owe us nothing.”

  “Then allow me to follow the golden rule and freely offer you my help any way I can.” He smiles.

  “Well. If you insist…”

  …we’re short on funds, to be honest; is there any way you can provide us with some monetary compensation?

  …we could use more weapons, if you’d happen to be able to spare some.

  …perhaps you could intervene before your gods, so they help us in our search?

  …I have some rudimentary knowledge of the Way of Tepatiki; could you help me improve my knowledge?

  …we’re looking for a friend who may be in this town; any information about her whereabouts would be most welcome.

  Choices, choices…

  “We’re looking for a friend,” I tell him.

  Respect becomes apparent in his smile. “I already know this,” he admits; he heard us talking about Uitzli as we traveled to the city. “But I’m also aware you’ve spent your time in Tepetlacotli going from shop to shop asking about her,” he casually reveals.

  And he’s indeed able to help us. How he knows, he doesn’t say, but he knows this: the tide of the city’s political intrigue and strife has reached an all-time high. Tlaloc, High Priest of the God of Rain, has a single child, a little girl called Meztli. The little girl has been sick for two moons. Every attempt at healing her—Tlaloc’s own mighty magicks, the intervention of other powerful priests, the best sunrise doctors available in both Villarica and Duurstad—have failed, while the poor child grows weaker and weaker.

  “Ten days ago,” Axolotl explains, “the high priestess of She of the Jade Skirt had a dream, in which she saw Meztli being fed a mixture of tehuaqui, ayahuasca, and quehuetl…”

  Juanita curses under her breath.

  “I take you are familiar with such a mixture?” Axolotl asks.

  “I would not call it ‘a mixture,’” Juanita spits out, “as much as I would call it an abomination.” She places her index and middle finger over her own heart as she mutters something inaudible under her breath. “And I would find no words to describe how rotten a soul would have to be to poison a child in such a way.”

  “We don’t know who that foul, rotting soul belongs to,” Axolotl tells her. “Not yet. The Lord of Thunders and Rain has many rivals both among us and among the sunrise folks. And so his High Priest has many who’d wish him ill.”

  “What do you mean, among you?” I ask. “Tlaloc is an Aztec god, isn’t he?”

  “Of course. One of our great gods, sharing the Great Temple of Tenochtitlán with Lord of Fate, who you invoked when you found me half-dead on your way here, and Lord to whom your wise woman bows to, Smoking Mirror.

  “Yet, as great a God as he is, before the arrival of the sunrise men in their large boats, none would have dared say Lord of Rain and Thunder was the greatest among those ruling over the Mexica. But the large boats that the sunrise men sail in, and we’ve learned to build ourselves—”

  “Thems ain’t bein’ proper ships, mate.” Abe chuckles. “More like nut shells ya throw t’ the seas an’ pray.”

  Axolotl takes the pirate’s jab well, nodding in agreement. “You’re right, friend,” he agrees. “Compared to the European vessels, ours aren’t much more than big canoes. It’s indeed our prayers that make the difference. Imploring the favor of Tlaloc, great Lord of Rain, is what allows Aztec ships to sail our seas with favorable winds, while those who dare attack us, or raid our towns, like Henry Morgan attempted to…”

  Abe’s face turns somber. “Aye. Ol’ Henry losed half his fleet t’ storms t’ be comin’ outta nowhere as soon as he sets sail t’ raid Huetepecatl. He learned it well an’ good that day, Ol’ Henry; thems Spaniards be a much easier target.”

  “You can imagine,” Axolotl says, “how grateful the citizens of Huetepecatl were, and how great a temple to the Lord of Rain and Thunder they have built. And, perhaps,” he adds, lowering his voice, “you can imagine how great Tlaloc’s growing influence is seen with jealous eyes by other gods, and with fear by sunrise powers.

  “One such jealous rival—or perhaps more than one, conspiring together—is behind the poisoning of the High Priest’s daughter, of that there is little doubt. Accusing any of the High Priest’s rivals without irrefutable proof would quickly escalate in
to a bloodbath of epic proportions, since they are all powerful on their own… But Tepetlacotli’s political intrigue is not what is urgent now, and what is certain is this: The poor child will soon die a slow, excruciating death, unless she’s healed.

  “There was a glint of hope six days ago,” Axolotl continues, “when the high priestess of She of the Jade Skirt had another dream, in which poor Meztli drank from a bowl a mixture of bright red blood and the whitest milk, and then, the girl was cured. Lord Tlaloc sent his servants to look for such miraculous milk all over the island. All his envoys save one returned empty-handed, but the last one brought with him a snow-skinned healer, who he had bought as a slave in Villarica.” He pauses to let his words sink. “A young girl, with skin and hair like the full moon, the glyphs on her shoulders describing the crime of healing someone who should have remained harmed.”

  “God Almighty,” gasps Abe. “Is she here? Is she well?”

  “She is here,” confirms Axolotl, “and, at least until today, she is well. Although not for long, I fear.

  “Your friend’s healing powers have been as futile as any other remedies, unable to help poor little Meztli. But Lord Tlaloc is certain that the milk-and-blood dream is the key to his dear daughter’s salvation: Uitzli’s magicks having failed, the High Priest intends to sacrifice your moon-skinned friend to the Rain God and have Meztli drink her blood, as he thinks that’s what the dream means.”

  I put a firm hand on Abe’s shoulder, to keep him sitting. “When?” I ask.

  “Tonight,” he confesses. “Unless—” He turns to Juanita. “—somebody finds another remedy.”

  I turn to our witch myself.