The Jaguar Knights

by Dave Duncan

  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.

  3

  The 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.

  Finally the Jaguar held out a paw to an attendant, who unfolded a gold bracelet from his lord’s wrist and bent it around the visitor’s, probably a great honor. Lynx was now fully dressed, feeling much better. No one offered him shoes and he was content to go barefoot, walking on his toes.

  Meanwhile the Jaguar himself had been robed in a splendid cloak of feathers and gold embroidery, topped off with a high plumed headdress. He took his leave of the eagle knight with an embrace and many mutual flowery compliments. Beckoning for Lynx to accompany him, he glided over to the stair with feline grace, and his entourage closed in behind them.

  4

  The jaguar knight did not deign to walk the streets like mere people. He sank onto plump cushions in a magnificent palanquin, ornamented with gold sequins, jade plaques, and a canopy of tall green feathers. Sprawled at his ease, he gestured for Lynx to join him. Then eight brawny men raised the litter shoulder high and set off at a fast walk. The bearers were not slaves, but some of the most adorned and bejeweled of his attendants, so this chore must be an honor. Lesser warriors stalked along before and aft as guards, while servants alongside whisked away flies. Harbingers blew on conches, warning spectators to touch their faces to the ground until the procession had passed.

  Confident that he was being paid a great honor, Lynx reclined facing the rear. His host faced forward, leaving little room to spare, for he was at least as large as the Jaguar who had died at Quondam. His feet smelled faintly of cat, but Lynx must stink obscenely after a week aboard Papillon. He had great trouble believing any of the scenery was real, except that the city was too incredible to be a dream. In the dusk people were heading homeward. Canoes streamed like ants along the canals and the wide avenues were crowded, but to him they seemed to be paved with stationary human backs, mostly bare male backs, with some robed women among them. He saw no wheeled vehicles and no horses.

  The warmth of the air amazed him. Was this summer, so his journey had lasted months, or just normal Thirdmoon weather in the Hence Lands? And how had he gotten from night to sunset—had he been unconscious for many hours, or had he moved fast enough to overtake the sun?

  Guards saluted as the bearers passed in through the gates to a place of flowers and trees, an enclosure containing several buildings. Servants made obeisance to their returning lord—a man who wore gold could not be expected to live in a tenement. Dismounting, he led his guest to a pleasant hall with one side open to a flowered garden, and a strange absence of furniture, other than some works of art and a small mat, but the Jaguar ordered another mat brought for his guest and remained standing until it arrived. Knowing the difficulty of injuring a Jaguar, Lynx decided that the stripling warriors guarding the doors were merely ornamental. The hazel-colored maidens who brought water to wash his feet and hands were much more so. They offered sweet drinks cooled in bowls of snow, and golden platters laden with honeyed treats and fruits. Somewhat hysterically, he decided he preferred this life to being thrown about in Papillon’s stinking hold. A jaguar knight lived better than King Athelgar.

  A jaguar knight did not even feed himself. A winsome girl did that, popping morsels in his mouth, and holding a reed for him when he drank. She was obviously special, although even she did not look him in the eye. He purred at her sometimes, and stroked her cheek with the back of his paw, making her blush. Evidently his tastes did not run to she-jaguars.

  Then a youth hurried in, flushed and sweating as if he had been summoned from a distance, and prostrated himself before his lord. He had the coloring of a naturale, but dark stubble on his chin and upper lip, as if he were of mixed race. The Distliards had been in the Hence Lands for forty years, after all.

  The knight spoke. The newcomer passed on his words to Lynx’s knees in a language he had heard aboard Papillon and sometimes from Celeste when she was feeling bitchy.

  “Distlish?” he said. “Don’t understand. No entiendo.”

  The interpreter looked worried. “Isilondo?”

  “Chivian.”

  “Ah!” Beaming with relief, the boy explained to the knight that Lynx was Chiviano and what that involved. Celeste’s name was mentioned.

  “Celeste?” Lynx repeated.

  Nods and sign language informed him that she had been summoned. At that news some of his mental fog seemed to lift and he half-melted with relief. He had done the impossible. In a mere month he had traveled halfway around the world and found his ward. Never underestimate the power of an Ironhall binding!

  Celeste swept in, cool and poised in a simple wrap of white cotton. She wore no jewels, but her magnificent braids shone like copper and somehow she had managed to keep her milky skin from turning brown or exploding in freckles. Four young girls followed her in and knelt at the door to wait. She looked vastly better than she had a month before, much more her old confident self.

  She kept her eyes lowered as she approached, but Lynx could not restrain himself. He sprang up to salute his ward. Celeste spared him the briefest of glances and continued on her way without missing a step. She had her faults, Amy Sprat, but she was as tough as a veteran warhorse.

  She prostrated herself before the jaguar knight. He spoke. The half-breed interpreted.

  Celeste rose to her knees and spoke to her Blade’s knees. “Lord Lizard-drumming welcomes you, Sir Lynx. I have been expecting you. Be very careful. He is dangerous.”

  Lynx had already decided that. But so was Celeste. She could recognize power at a glance and was firmly of the opinion that the more of it a man possessed, the more he needed her in his bed. The cat-man would have had to be a lot less human than he looked for Celeste not to have taken him by then. If Lynx let himself be seen as a rival for her favors, he might glimpse a last, brief view of the city from the top of a pyramid.

  The four of them held an awkward and protracted conversation, with questions going from Lord Lizard-drumming to the interpreter—whom Celeste addressed as Manuel—in Tlixilian, from Manuel to Celeste in Distlish, Celeste to Lynx in Chivian. Answers had to retrace that path and the opportunities for misunderstanding
s were legion. But Celeste was not merely tougher than boiled leather, she was sharp as a fresh obsidian flake. Lynx had no doubt she was amending his answers as required and she salted the questions with cues, keeping them brief so the jaguar would not suspect she was prompting him.

  “Oh, mighty conjurer, the lord hopes you were not distressed by your ride on the Spirit Wind.”

  “Only briefly. All better now. Er, tell him he has a nice place here.”

  Translations…

  “He hopes the floating tree you were riding will not suffer by your absence. I don’t think he can truth-sound but he can probably stop you lying to him.”

  “The floating tree is of no importance,” Lynx declared. “Um…Looking upon his glory is reward enough. Do you swive him?”

  Celeste ignored that question. “The noble lord apologizes for killing your warriors and stealing your concubine, great conjurer. He was really after the brooch I was wearing, which was his father’s.”

  “Um. He could have just asked nicely.” But if recovering Celeste’s pin had been worth scores of lives, how much was the one on Lynx’s chest worth? “I expect compensation. And we want to be sent home.”

  Translation. “He gladly returns me to you, together with all the rest of your jewels and with many rich presents besides, begging you to forgive his error. He assures you that he has avoided quickening my womb so he could continue to enjoy me.”

  This was the strangest day of Lynx’s life to date and growing stranger by the minute. “Bet you’re glad to hear that bit,” he said. “You might end up with quite a litter. Answer however you think best, but I’d suggest accepting his offer. Tell him it is urgent that I lie with you as soon as possible.”