On those days she worked in the Fringes, Reisil could do little more in the evenings than retreat to the privacy of her room, too exhausted and hopeless to face the malicious tongues of the court. Or the oily sorcerers. Far from being condescending or spiteful, they were ingratiating and glib. They liked to brush against her, to stand too close, to watch her as a cat watches a mouse—hungry and eager. She tolerated it, knowing it was necessary. From what Kedisan-Mutira had told Juhrnus, they would eagerly cultivate a relationship with Reisil, if only to gather information.
But she could not tolerate their insinuations and invitations, not on the nights after the Fringes. Then it felt like she no longer had skin, like every nerve was exposed, every muscle raw and throbbing. She was grateful for Saljane and Baku, who nestled around her. They said nothing, but their affection and concern were palpable. To distract her, Yohuac told her stories of his village. Eventually she would drift into a heavy, dreamless sleep. Reisil didn’t doubt that Saljane and Baku had something to do with her lack of nightmares, but she made no complaints.
“You never speak of the nahuallis,” Reisil accused Yohuac one night after listening to a lengthy story about a young woman and her eccentric husband. Her eyes were gritty, her head throbbing, but she didn’t yet want to sleep.
“I had hoped you had not noticed.”
“Did you think my ears fell off?” Reisil turned her head back and forth, showing him that they remained attached to her head.
He flushed, staring at her stockinged feet as she sat against a mound of pillows on her bed. The tall doors to the balcony were propped open a few inches, the spring breeze chilly but welcome in rooms that had been shut up all winter. Reisil stroked Saljane, who nestled in her lap, sated by a meal of fresh fish. The larders in the palace had grown sparse indeed, but there was still plenty of fish to be had in the coastal waters. Baku too had eaten heavily, pulling an enormous fish from the ocean, chewing flesh and bone alike and leaving nothing behind. Now he lounged before the door, red-streaked eyes heavy.
“The nahuallis . . . We don’t often speak of them.”
“But aren’t they the leaders of your tribe?”
“With the tecuhtli—the Iisand of our tribe, if you will.”
Reisil turned, leaning on her elbow to look at him. “But from what you have said, it sounds like the nahuallis are the real leaders and the tecuhtli must defer to them.”
“It is complicated.”
Reisil waited for him to say more, and when he didn’t, she gave up and rolled onto her back with a sigh.
“The tecuhtli is the head of the tribe unless the nahuallis intervene. He does not resent this. With their magic and the favor of the Fifty-two Gods—the Teotl—they are more wise than he.
“The nahuallis walk among tribe, eat with us, have children. The members of the tribe are careful to notice only that which is ordinary and expected of wives and mothers and sisters and daughters. When a nahualli wishes attention, she—” He paused, raised his hands and let them fall back into his lap. “It is difficult to explain. We do not normally speak of the nahuallis. They simply are, like the air. And like the air, they give us life. But who notices the air?”
He stopped again, gathering himself. “When a nahualli wishes the attention of the tribe, there is a change in the wind, in the earth, in the trees. A looming, as if a storm gathers in the night. Then what she speaks and what she says we will do or not do, think or not think. The Teotl speak through the nahuallis and no one, no one, ever disobeys. To do so is to refuse the counsel of the gods. That can only bring disaster for the entire tribe. So you can see, it is difficult for me to speak of them. I have spent my life trying to do the opposite. And what I know of them, I have been taught to forget. I will tell you what I can. Will that suffice?”
“It will. And I can learn to be patient, knowing that you are not merely avoiding my questions.”
Yohuac chuckled. “You are like enough to the nahuallis to make that a dangerous proposition.”
“Thank you, I think.”
“You are welcome.”
“Tell me something else about your people. You live in tribes scattered across your land and you move your villages from place to place within your territories following the prey. Yet you are well trained as a warrior. Kebonsat is terribly impressed at your skills. Are your tribes warriors? Do you have battles with other tribes? Do you have any cities? Who rules?”
Yohuac grinned at the barrage of questions and reached for a mug of ale. He drank it with obvious pleasure and to little ill effect. And as ale was one of the few things still plentiful in the palace, he was not forced to stint. “Answering all of those questions will take much of the night and will make me perilously dry. But I will do my best to comply, no matter how much I must suffer.”
Reisil snorted. “Put water in that cup instead of ale, and I might begin to believe you.”
“You would torture me, then? You are a cruel taskmaster indeed.”
“Your story had better be good, or you shall have no more,” Reisil said, pulling a blanket over her legs. “Go on. Don’t keep me waiting all night.”
“It begins with the Teotl. They are not all equal; each has strengths the others don’t have. Nor are they wise and benevolent. They are greedy, suspicious and capricious. Only Ilhuicatl alone has strength to bind the others to his hand. He rules the sky. The sun and the moon answer to him, the clouds and the stars, the rain and the wind and the lightning and thunder. And beneath him, the earth, the oceans, the mountains, everything. He is all that’s powerful, and the other gods cannot survive without his tolerance.
“Originally there were fifty-two tribes in Cemanahuatl, my homeland, each one created by the favor of one of the Teotl. Their traditions, habits and power reflected their god. But since each one of the fifty-two has strengths to dominate at least one other, or at least to withstand the power of another, the people also worshipped those others, as reflections and symbols of their primary god’s powers.”
Reisil shifted higher on the bed, fascinated. Yohuac paused to drink, lifting his brows at her.
“You aren’t falling asleep?”
Reisil grinned. “True, you are one of the worst storytellers I have ever heard, but beggars will eat skraa if their bellies are empty.”
“Nothing truer said, and indeed some tribes were beggars, in that they did not get to choose the gods they were to serve. This, of course, created much strife. Some tribes cared not for their new god and strove instead to prove themselves worthy to another, better god. Some wanted more prestige, better territory and wealth. Some could not stomach what was required of them by their new gods. Cannibalism, mutilation, torture, more and worse. Thus did a great many tribes shift and switch. You can imagine the chaos. No one was pleased, and the gods were bitter and angry.
“It was then Ilhuicatl took a hand in the bickering and wars. At first he thought to destroy all the tribes completely and put an end to the strife. But he’d grown very fond of his own tribe—the original nahuallis. And like him, his tribe answered to no other nor worshipped any other than himself. To save them, he made a great sacrifice. He released the nahuallis and sent them to the rest of the tribes to bind all to him, and yet took no tribe as his own. This only escalated the fighting, with tribes vying for the honor of becoming Ilhuicatl’s chosen. Then a message came. Ilhuicatl was tired, ready to destroy all the tribes if they could not behave. He offered one more chance, and if that failed . . .” Yohuac snapped his fingers.
“What happened?”
“He created a nation. Once every fifty-two years, a new tribe would be taken as his chosen. Once every fifty-two years, there would be a competition. Every man would compete for the honor of being named Ilhuicatl’s son. The winner would have riches and pleasures beyond compare, and more important, his tribe would become Ilhuicatl’s own until the next cycle, ruling all the others for fifty-two years.”
“What kind of competition?” Reisil was sitting cross-legged, elbows o
n her knees, engrossed.
“It is a lengthy ordeal, and not one for the weak hearted. It tests the body in all extremes of depredation: walking over hot coals, bearing lashes of a whip, enduring poisons and much more. There is a journey over mountains, through jungle, across rivers—carrying nothing more than a knife, dressed only in a loincloth. There is physical combat—you must have been trained in all the arts and weapons if you hope to survive. And then there are feats of prowess—climbing cliffs, swimming, running, throwing, cliff-diving, hunting. Many die; others become crippled. Those who survive are taken to Ilhuicatl’s temple in Tizalan, our only city.”
“What happens then?”
“No one knows. The final trials happen there, and only the winner emerges. He is feted. Women come from every tribe to lie with him, his seed being the seed of Ilhuicatl. There follows a year of rejoicing, feasts every day, his every want and wish granted. He lives in splendor, and his tribe becomes wealthy beyond compare.”
“And the former ruling tribe?”
“They depart with the wealth they have gathered, returning to their homelands to prosper. They continue to be revered by all tribes. So to answer your questions, there is little war. Conflicts are taken before the elders in Tizalan, and their word is law. Every man is a warrior. The training for the pahtia is unceasing, though it comes only every fifty-two years. This in no small way aids in restraining wars— there is little benefit in attacking a tribe as equally prepared as you for war.”
Reisil made to ask another question, but Yohuac interrupted. “I cannot answer all your questions tonight, and you are in want of sleep. I have great plans for the morning.” He waggled his brows warningly.
Reisil rolled her eyes. “I couldn’t get enough sleep for that if I’d gone to bed hours ago. At least I know now where you got your ideas for torturing me.”
“You said yourself. I am very good.”
“And none too confident.”
“A meek warrior does not win glory for his tribe.”
“No danger of that.”
With that she wished him good night and snuggled into her bedclothes, falling asleep quickly and without nightmares.
~The little lizard comes.
The quiet words yanked Reisil from her dream. She sat up. Weak light glimmered beneath the shutters on the balcony. Dawn or nearly. What brought Juhrnus at this hour? Her stomach turned. There wasn’t any good answer.
“This is a very bad sign,” Yohuac said, echoing Reisil’s thoughts. They’d spent a lot of their time together discussing the political situation in Kodu Riik. Yohuac had a sharp mind and a way of cutting through the smoke and fog to the heart of a matter. More than that, he was detached where Reisil was not.
“Cozy,” Juhrnus said when Yohuac opened the door, flashing Reisil a grin as she adjusted her tunic around her hips. She grinned back. Somehow she didn’t mind the insinuation that she and Yohuac might be sharing a bed.
“Very cozy. What brings you so bright and early and without any food?”
The smile slid from his face. “I didn’t figure you’d be very hungry after what I have to say. Went into the city last night. Ran into our Pincushion friend.” This was the nickname Juhrnus had assigned to Metyein. Anyone eavesdropping would not learn his name. “He happened across some bad news earlier in the day.” He glanced over his shoulder at the closed door and dropped his voice. “Very bad news. Kodu Riik is cut off. The waters are blockaded. In Patverseme there are archers strung along the length of the Sadelema. North into Gulto is the same. We’re cut off completely.”
“Completely? No trade? No food? How is that possible?” Reisil didn’t recognize the sound of her own voice.
Juhrnus shook his head. “The Verit and the Lord Marshal had the news this morning. The list of those against us is immense: Gulto, Patverseme, Scallas, Sjeferdin, Portica . . . Every country from the Tortured Seas to the Sunless Lands. No one wants our plague.”
“Patverseme? But what about Kebonsat? Why didn’t he tell us?”
“I don’t know. Neither did the Lord Marshal nor the Verit. But by the way our friend Pincushion tells it, the Lord Marshal is readying for war and the Verit is nothing less than gleeful. This will mean the regency. And a reason to break with Patverseme. He could hardly be happier if the Iisand turned up dead.”
“Kebonsat can’t know. He would have told us. His government would have pulled him out,” Reisil said.
“He would not leave you,” Yohuac interjected. “Knowing would have made little difference. And I doubt his country would have him back. Not until the plague has finished with Kodu Riik. He’s already been counted as lost.”
“Yohuac’s right. Kebonsat isn’t even worth anything as a hostage. Pincushion said as much. Soon as the quarantine went up, his father would have declared a new heir. He’d have to. He couldn’t allow Kebonsat to be used against him.”
“What will they do to him?”
“According to Pincushion, nothing. For now. There’s no profit in it. He’ll be put under house arrest until after the Verit becomes regent. The Verit’s twisty and likely to try to find a way to profit from Kebonsat. That is, if he can find the time. He’s going to have to deal with starvation, the plague and the nokulas. And if we survive that, war with Patverseme at the least. And sooner or later, he’s going to find out about the Iisand. And then he’ll take the throne. And once he does—you know how he feels about the ahalad-kaaslane. Kebonsat is the least of our worries.”
“It’s time to find the wizards.” Reisil stared at Juhrnus, waiting for him to protest.
But he surprised her. “As soon as can be. There will be riots soon. It’s our best hope.”
“I can leave now. But I don’t know where to look.”
“I’ve been talking to Pincushion about it. We have a few ideas. But Sodur’s likely to be able to narrow things down. He won’t fight us now. He doesn’t have a choice.”
“And if he doesn’t know?”
“Then we’ll do it ourselves. And pray to the Lady we’re in time.”
Chapter 30
A constant trickling sound filled the air as the misty rain accumulated and dribbled from the rooftops. A heavy smell of brine and smoke settled into the dark crevices between buildings. A horse sneezed and scraped at the ground, its bridle jingling. Juhrnus paused, fading into a recessed doorway, ears straining. He heard hurried footsteps, and a woman trotted in the direction from which he’d come, her back bent, face contorted with effort. Water sloshed from the two buckets dangling from the bar over her shoulders. It was late to be going to the well, and a chill of foreboding rippled down his spine. The plague did not wait for a kind hour to strike.
Juhrnus swung out into the street, pulling his hood lower over his face and leaping over a puddle of fetid water. Esper clung to his shoulders beneath his cloak.
~Where do we go now? Juhrnus had looked for Sodur everywhere he could think of. But he wasn’t at the Temple or palace, and no one had seen him in days.
~Go to Reisil.
~She won’t know where to find him. She’s glad enough not to have him dangling over her, watching her every move.
~She’ll know. She always knows where he is. She does not trust him.
Juhrnus’s mouth twisted.
~Back to the palace, then. And then to get Reisil out of Koduteel as fast as we can. I hope Sodur knows more than he’s told us.
~You have narrowed down where we should search.
~To better than a five-hundred-square-league patch of mountains. It’s still looking for a single grain of sand at the bottom of the ocean. She’ll never find them.
~She will. The Lady will guide her.
Juhrnus said nothing, not bothering to try to hide his doubts.
~We are ahalad-kaaslane. Esper sounded tense and disapproving.
Juhrnus bared his teeth in a silent snarl, frustration burning in his throat. ~We are ahalad-kaaslane. Don’t worry that I’ll ever forget what that means. I’ll serve the Lady until I�
�m rotting in the ground. But it’s not me you have to worry about. It’s the court. Especially the Verit. Regent Aare.
~He is not yet Regent.
~He will be this time tomorrow. And he hates the idea of us. Reisil most of all. He’s going to kill her as soon as he gets the chance. And the Lady won’t stop him.
~We will. We are the Lady’s eyes and hands. So long as we are here, She is here.
Juhrnus unbent. He couldn’t resist his ahalad-kaaslane’s uncontaminated conviction.
~Then we had best stop wasting time.
Few lights glimmered in the drizzling darkness. Windows gaped black and empty down at the streets. Candles and oil were sparse these days, and most of the wood was going to the palace and barracks. Juhrnus walked along uneasily. Too few people were out, and the silence was oppressive. The citizens of Koduteel were suspicious of one another as the plague touched a house here, another there. Neighbors eyed each other with baleful animosity and locked their doors and garden gates, hiding inside from the disease. As if they could.
Juhrnus paused again, hearing a soft, clicking sound. When it did not repeat, he hurried on. He cut through an alley between two ramshackle residences, crossing through a tiny square centered around a decrepit statue of the Lady. A barren flower bed circled her feet, full of bird droppings and plant bracken.
“In a hurry, are we?”
Juhrnus started and spun. The voice seemed to come from every side. His hand dropped to his sword, and he pulled it loose with a ringing sound.
“Jumpy too. And ye’ve a right to be, ahalad-kaaslane. Streets ain’t so friendly of late.”
There was a shuffling sound, and several figures loomed out of the shadows.
“What do you want?” His fingers flexed on his hilt.
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