The Jaguar Knights

by Dave Duncan

  “What do you mean?” she whispered, still with her back to him.

  “Put it in writing! Remember? What you said to Flicker the first time I met him, in the Pine Tree Inn. Then you told me it meant he was to go away. But that’s not what that means! That happens to be one scrap of Dark Chamber code I know. It means The plan is going well, targets will be met or exceeded. I hoped you were telling him we would catch Lynx. But you meant me. Had you slipped something in my food when I wasn’t looking? Or were you just using feminine intuition to know you were going to land your fish?”

  Silence.

  Wolf sighed at his own folly. “Flicker took the news back to Grand Inquisitor and the Privy Council. Because no matter what Grand Inquisitor may say, the Dark Chamber would never dare launch a major international venture like this without approval from the Council. You confessed that tonight. You manipulated me into taking on the mission by telling me I was deceiving the King. I expect Grand Inquisitor persuaded the King to agree by letting him deceive me. Athelgar would have enjoyed that—not to mention enjoying sending me to somewhere far away and dangerous. They spun me a cock-and-bull story about Vicious threatening to resign.”

  Flicker must have been in on the joke too. That rankled.

  Dolores’s answer was half-muffled in the pillow. “I don’t know what Grand Inquisitor does.”

  “No? Well I’m not interested in risking my life to give Athelgar or the Dark Chamber any more conjury than they already know. We’re going home.”

  She rolled over. “No, we’re not! I came here to make my name and fortune and I’m not ready to quit.”

  “Fortune? Fool child! You expect Athelgar to make you rich? The man’s tighter than the axle nut on a millstone. If you go home with any Tlixilian conjury, you’ll be locked up in the Bastion as a military secret weapon before you know what happens to you. Trust Athelgar? You’re crazy!”

  “And you’re a quitter!” She rolled away from him again.

  He lay and sweated in the airless heat. Mosquitoes shrilled in his ears, moths bounced off the windows. Little tropical things moved silently over the floor and walls. He went over the problem a million more times and found no new answer. He had nothing but lies to offer for secrets beyond price. If the inquisitors stayed in Sigisa, Rojas would skin them. Conclusion: Go away.

  Eventually he realized that he was scratching. He slid out of bed and went in search of a candle. As he had feared, he was covered in mosquito bites. Shining-cloud had de-conjured more than the tricks in Wolf’s pockets; he had also stripped off his personal enchantments, and that was very bad news indeed. Every advantage the Dark Chamber had given him had been wiped away. The knights’ powers were terrifying.

  He had next watch. Giving up hopes of sleep, he dressed and went to relieve Peterkin on guard. Then he could pace the house in silence, still seeking some safe way to keep Dolores’s mad ambitions alive. A couple of times he almost stepped on a tangle mat, which would have wakened the household and exposed him to ridicule.

  As the crescent moon rose from the sea to herald dawn, Flicker emerged from his room, fully dressed. He had drawn last watch and prided himself on never needing a wake-up call, but he looked more guilty than sleepy.

  He regarded Wolf sourly. “Still planning on running away?”

  “If you have a better idea, I’ll listen.”

  “You never have before.”

  “Your personation is slipping.”

  “Not surprising. Go to bed.” Flicker headed for the kitchen.

  “I’m going for a walk.”

  Flicker spun around to stare at him, suspicion visible even in near-darkness. “Why?”

  “Thought I’d hit a few brothels and grog shops. I may be gone some time.”

  “Brave of you.”

  “Takes one to know one.” Wolf moved the tangle mat away from the front door. “Good chance. You’ll need it.”

  Angry at having been transparent, Flicker growled, “Thanks.”

  “Don’t forget to spread out this mat again.” Wolf stepped outside and closed the door.

  He climbed over the stockade because he could no longer bolt the gate from the outside. Dawn was his favorite time of day in Sigisa. The town was as quiet by then as it ever was, the insect population less troublesome, the temperature bearable. He headed south along the beach, enjoying the sea’s company and worrying at his problem. By the time he reached the southern end of the spit, where the river emerged from the jungle, the sky was blue and he had still found no way to reconcile love and common sense. (Was that a contradiction in terms?)

  He began making his way back through the town, pausing once in a while to chat with drunks still able to speak. He often met interesting characters on his early-morning outings. He met dead ones, too, on occasion, but not that day.

  His real objective was Sea Queen. He had spoken briefly with the master, Walter Wagge, agreeing on a price for taking mail home to Chivial. Shipping out seven or eight people was a different matter, and Wolf wanted to know more about Wagge, his ship, and his planned itinerary. That problem solved itself, because Sea Queen had moved. It took Wolf awhile to find her at anchorage and when he did she was loading slaves. She would not be going home to Chivial with that cargo, and she would not be carrying him or anyone associated with him.

  So the urgency had vanished. He might need days or even weeks to find a suitable vessel, and by then he could talk Dolores around. That assumed that Rojas would behave himself in the meantime.

  He had to haul on the bell rope to gain admittance and the gate was opened by Dolores herself—Dolores in great distress. She threw herself into his arms so he staggered backwards. He had never known her drop a tear before, and now she was weeping helplessly. Muttering sympathy, he eased her inside the gate and closed it.

  “So Flicker’s gone?” he said. “I guessed he was planning it.” In Flicker’s eyes, he had wasted a month of precious time and most of the money. Flicker had always wanted to head straight inland.

  Dolores continued to sob into his shoulder, mumbling incomprehensibly.

  “You can’t be surprised!” he said. “I think he’s crazy, but he’s young and ambitious and…and what did you say?”

  It took two more tries before she gasped out, “He tried to rape me!”

  Wolf screamed, “No!” and pushed her back so he could see her. “You mean that?” There was a swelling red bruise on her cheek.

  The very vehemence of his reaction seemed to sober her. She nodded. “Came into…bedroom…say goodbye. I tried to talk him out of it.” She pulled back into Wolf’s embrace again, burying her face against his neck. “He went mad. Said you were…called you terrible things. Wanted me to go with him. Oh, Wolf! Pulled sheet…away…had to fight him off! Really fight!”

  Had a tearful farewell gotten out of hand? How far had she gone in trying to persuade Flicker not to leave? Wolf cursed himself for a jealous, suspicious fool. He must not try to imagine that scene. Any of it. The details did not matter. Nothing excused rape or attempted rape.

  “Did he hurt you?”

  Sniffle. “A few bruises. Oh, Wolf! Be all right…just shock.”

  Seeing that she was barefoot, Wolf picked her up in his arms. “Come along.” He headed for the house. When a man had killed so many brother Blades, what would one more inquisitor matter? He wasn’t even an inquisitor, he was a rat. “He can’t have got far yet. Where’s Heron-jade?” It would be an execution.

  “Went with him.”

  Wolf let rip with a few obscenities. The big man would be a far greater loss to the team than Flicker would. What had made him change his mind? Wolf’s treachery in dealing with the Yazotlans, or just homesickness? Without the eagle’s far-seeing skills, Wolf had no hope of tracking Flicker down and administering justice.

  “Well I hope our eagle gets home safely.” He hoped much more that the Tlixilians caught Flicker and roasted him alive. “I hope we do, too. Sea Queen’s a slaver.”

  “You won’
t wait for Flicker to come back?”

  He laughed. “The next time I see Flicker, my love, I kill him.”

  “Wolf! No!”

  “Yes. Did you invite him into bed?”

  “No, no, no! I swear!”

  “And he did try to rape you?”

  She nodded.

  “Then it doesn’t matter if he comes back here before we leave or I run into him in Grandon ten years from now,” Wolf said. “I will kill him.”

  6

  Life was always going to happen and never did. Young Alf Attewell had expected his life to begin the moment he escaped from Sheese into the real world. At Ironhall, Candidate Lynx had looked forward to life beginning as soon as he was bound. But the Guard had been cheated of his services and, as chief Blade to the King’s doxy, Sir Lynx had enjoyed much less freedom than guardsmen did, and much less security, because in any kingdom the office of royal mistress usually had short tenure. It had seemed then that life would begin as soon as Celeste was dismissed; he had never foreseen anything as terrible as Quondam. At Quondam life had receded into the remote future, beyond the Baron’s death. Now he was Bobcat-by-the-spring and life looked likely to end before it ever got started.

  Under the million stars of El Dorado, the Grand Admiral’s barge swept along the canal. Yes, it was only a dugout, but no horse-drawn carriage could compare with it for comfort. It moved as smoothly as a raindrop running down a windowpane, with no sound except the forced breath of the four naked paddlers as they stroked the silver water, speeding their lord through the night. Could this be life? He had expected it to feel more real.

  Ruling the world had never appealed to Lynx. He would have always settled for a happy wife, well-fed children, and a few convivial friends—plus some useful and interesting way of getting from dawn to dusk, some task he could perform well enough to earn a little respect. Life could offer little more than that. Respect he had achieved, at least for now. He was a revered citizen of the floating city, with servants and handmaidens (pawmaidens?) and rich landholdings. But the happiest time of his life had been the month he had spent as Prime, at Ironhall. Then his job had been to keep a hundred boys happy and motivated, which for him had been no problem at all, and his reward had been praise from Grand Master. Overseeing three thousand men shaping planks with stone adzes just did not compare.

  In El Dorado he had proved his loyalty and developed many useful skills. As well as being commander of the new imperial shipyard, he was Jaguar advisor on anti-cavalry tactics. He had taught the Tlixilians that horses had a terror of fire, and how to fight them with caltrops of obsidian flakes set in earthenware balls. He had assisted at the interrogation of prisoners, even managing to save a few from the altar stone, although he was not sure for how long. The Tlixilians feared and hated the Distliards’ war dogs so much that he had suggested the Eagles drop poisoned meat in the pens; this had killed off two whole packs before the Distliards woke up to what was happening.

  For that exploit Bobcat-by-the-spring had been formally honored in the Hall of Eagles. (Whatever would Grand Master have thought of that ceremony’s barbaric splendor?) Such recognition of a non-Eagle was almost unprecedented, so the intent had been more to insult the Jaguars than to honor Lynx, but the Jaguars had countered by hailing Lord Bobcat-by-the-spring as a full jaguar knight and presenting him to the Emperor, the Fountain-of-swords, who had promptly granted him great estates. His former delusion that he was the revenant Plumed-pillar had been quietly forgotten, at least for now.

  It was all make-believe. His vast landholdings lay in country currently held by the Hairy Ones, so he would not be able to visit them until after the war. Besides, however useful he might be as a wartime advisor, socially he was still an embarrassment that the Jaguars would likely dispose of as soon as the war was won. If it was lost, he would die in the carnage.

  So if this was life, it was going to be short.

  The Admiral’s barge back-paddled to a stop alongside a quay where several other canoes were unloading important people. Lynx sprang nimbly ashore, without tipping his rowers into the water. Human attendants dropped to touch the ground in salute. He was respectfully ushered through a gate, into the grounds of the palace of Salt-ax-otter, a very senior knight, the Jaguar representative on the Grand Council.

  The Admiral had been summoned to attend a meeting of a select group known as the Progressives. Old scoundrel Basket-fox called them the Peyote Eaters, although he had been one of their founders. They had first come together a year or so ago, not long before Lynx arrived in the floating city—some Jaguars, a few highborn officials, and two or three Eagles, about a score in all. Their doctrine had been that the Hairy Ones were a new peril and must be fought in new ways. Their opponents, the Traditionalists, had considered anything new to be dishonorable. Now the Traditionalists were discredited, thanks largely to Lynx’s efforts. The Progressives had won the argument and the Emperor’s approval, so he wondered why they needed to meet at all.

  Not that the war was going any better, of course. Two bad defeats had cut off the supply of captives. The dwindling flow of virtue from the altar stones was hoarded so jealously now that eagle knights were traveling by canoe or palanquin.

  As always, the members had assembled out-of-doors, standing under trees in an irregularly shaped area, so that there could be no arguments about rank or precedence. Many conversations were under way, but no one offered to chat with the foreigner. Untroubled, Lynx spread his lower paws, rested his knuckles—well, they felt like knuckles—on his hips, and waited for the meeting to begin. He thought everyone must be present…no, the host was still missing.

  After a few minutes heads turned in Lynx’s direction and Salt-ax-otter emerged from the outer darkness to stand near him. With him came a man who was certainly not a member of the group. He seemed short alongside a Jaguar, but was actually tall. Also young, highly respected, and a member of the Great Council. All conversation ceased instantly. Any other group would have dropped to its knees—and even these would if the guest were formally named, for he was the Emperor’s brother, designated heir, and deputy, Two-swans-dancing, the Conch-flute of El Dorado.

  Salt-ax-otter did not name him. He merely said, “Friends, you are welcome all. Honored Star-feather, we are curious to know how the Hairy Ones’ boats are progressing.” That opening was sufficiently unusual to convey that we meant the Great Council in this instance.

  “They have four in the water,” the Eagle said. “But only one has ventured out from shore yet. I estimate they will have ten complete within twenty days, and they have another eleven started.”

  Two-swans-dancing peered past his host. “And what can the skilled Bobcat-by-the-spring report on his progress?”

  “We have four boats operational,” Lynx said. He calculated quickly. “In ten days we should have another six or seven. We cannot go as fast as the enemy.”

  “Why not?”

  “They have better tools.” What else to say? Basket-fox’s raid on Seven Reeds had destroyed the cache of equipment there, instead of capturing it as Lynx had urged, and the Distliards seemed to have replaced it all. They had steel saws and chisels, spikes and nails; they had hemp ropes and lathes to make pulley wheels. They had pitch for caulking, wedges to split logs. “And besides, er…” This group shunned all honorifics, but it felt wrong not to offer them to a prince. “And besides, we are about to run out of timber.”

  Trees had to come from the hills, borne on the shoulders of men until they reached the lake. Enemy forces were rapidly encircling the floating city—not so much by marching troops across the landscape as by perverting towns from their loyalty. Soon the whole valley would be hostile territory.

  “We should attack Seven Reeds again?”

  That was a major decision involving far too many factors for an upstart Chivian Blade to evaluate. The city rulers knew the boats’ capability as well as he did, and they should decide whether to gamble their fleet now or save it to defend the causeway drawbridges
in the assault to come. “Such choices belong to the Great Council,” Lynx said stubbornly.

  After a moment’s ominous pause, Two-swans-dancing said, “True.” He passed the meeting back to Salt-ax-otter with a nod.

  “Friends,” said the host, “today I had joyous news. My son and first warrior, whom we mourned for lost, has returned to us. He brings news you should hear. Have I your leave, friends?”

  Who would argue when he had the Emperor’s brother at his side? Out of the darkness strolled a solid young man wearing the grandiose trappings of a very senior jaguar warrior, a youngster Lynx vaguely remembered having seen somewhere—mostly because he had shoulders that would have impressed an ox. Quiet welcomes and congratulations murmured through the trees.

  “Tell my friends your tale, Taker of Nine Captives.”

  “My lords do me honor…” Blood-mirror-walks related how he had been captured on the field of battle. He considered that he had been doubly unfortunate in having been taken by Distliards, who had sold him into slavery, instead of by the local Tephuamotziners, who would have had the decency to rip his heart out. Instead he had been transported across the stinking water in a floating house and offered for sale like cloth or pottery, but a strange Hairy One had ransomed him, blessed him to cure his injuries, and brought him back to the true country. So he had returned from the halls of the dead, trotting in along a causeway to report to his lord and father. The message he had brought explained the presence of Two-swans-dancing—this dissident foreigner on the coast was willing to aid El Dorado in its righteous struggle against the invaders, and would sell it all the war materiel it needed.

  “His city is not that of the Hairy Ones we know,” Blood-mirror-walks explained. “He is a knight among his people. His regalia is a sword bearing a jewel like a jaguar’s eye, like unto one I saw once in the Hall of Jaguars.”

  All eyes had turned to Lynx.

  A Blade! Here? Death and fire! But a Chivian should not want to aid El Dorado. Would he not rather seek to bring the Quondam killers to justice?