Purgatory's Shore

by Taylor Anderson

  That was it, for now. Captain Beck, Lieutenants Wagley and Manley, and Boogerbear (who’d achieved an officer’s respect among the men, regardless of his rank) remained in charge of the camp. And they might have their hands full, since no one had been neglected by Alcalde Periz. Hundreds of festively dressed men and women descended on the camp with musical instruments and carts full of fresh local fare. They’d been asked to limit the drink they brought to a kind of dark amber-colored beer made from quite ordinary-looking maize. Beer should be sufficient to help the men cut loose a bit, and doing it in camp, under control and supervision, would test the responsible officers and new NCOs. It had to be better than just turning the men loose in Uxmal before they knew what was what.

  Moving through the outward flood of friendly, smiling faces, Lewis’s party passed through the torch-lit east gate behind Varaa, Koaar, and Ixtla, who led them through the city to the grassy plaza surrounding the pyramidal temple. Across from it was Harkin’s “Nunnery,” a long, rectangular stone building erected on a kind of terraced mound Varaa now told them was the alcalde’s Audience Hall. Several sets of steps led to the elevated “ground” floor, and the plaza in front of a brazier-lit stairway, wider than the others, was crowded with people going inside, leaving finely fashioned carriages of a simple, solid-wheel, but ornate design, mostly hitched to teams of burros. Burros certainly predominated, but there were quite a few of the oddly shaped and colored horses too. More gathered here, just standing around, than we have for our artillery and dragoons combined, Lewis reflected.

  Men in gray tunics—“Trusted captives,” Varaa whispered to him—dashed forward to take charge of their animals. Lewis smiled at them as he dismounted Arete and moved to help the ladies down from the caisson, but said, “Lieutenant Olayne, you’ll remain here with the dragoons and the rest of our horses for now. Perhaps you can all come inside at some point, or at least a few at a time. Either way, you and Lieutenant Burton can change places before long.”

  “Yes sir,” Olayne said with what sounded like relief. “What about them?” he asked, nodding at Meder and Hudgens.

  Lewis scratched his beard.

  “Oh, let them come, Captain Cayce,” Samantha said. “Don’t you think your enlisted ranks should be represented?”

  “I recognize those men!” De Russy exclaimed. “They were intimately involved in the trouble we had earlier today!”

  Lewis nodded, controlling a smile. “I know. But from what I already knew of them, and what I heard today, they’re the same kind of ‘troublemakers’ we are, Colonel.” He looked at Meder and Hudgens intently, then decided. “Follow us.”

  Reverend Harkin exclaimed again that the building looked much larger than its apparent old-world inspiration. The central columned open area inside was easily forty yards across and fifty wide, leaving space for other rooms on either end behind sculpted plaster walls. That same bright, relief-carved plaster covered the other walls and high ceiling, reflecting the flickering fires in intricate brass braziers well enough to provide plenty of light. Only in the smooth-polished floor could the underlying stone be seen. At first glance, standing in the main entrance before those inside reacted to the Americans’ arrival, Lewis was reluctant to enter. There were so many people, and combined with the braziers, he expected it to be unbearably hot and stuffy. But there were as many entrances as stairways outside, and he detected the movement of cool air. Samantha Wilde suddenly snaked her arm around his elbow, and Angelique did the same to De Russy. The two men blinked at each other, belatedly realizing they should’ve offered their arms.

  “Provincials.” Samantha scoffed with a chuckle.

  “Forgive me, my dear. I’m aghast at myself,” De Russy told Angelique as he gently patted her tiny hand with his white-gloved paw. She laughed and said something in French.

  “My apologies as well,” Lewis told Samantha. “I’m just . . .”

  “Thinking about more important things?” she asked with a smile.

  A horn sounded, deafeningly loud, and Alcalde Periz stepped through the throng with the same men—including Father Orno but minus Don Discipo for some reason—who’d accompanied him that morning. They were dressed like before, only in fiery long tunics of an even finer weave, almost like silk, fringed with gold or silver thread embroidery. And each—significantly, Lewis was sure—wore lightweight scale armor like Varaa’s, only theirs must be gold. Beaming, they strode quickly forward and grasped their guests’ arms, hand to elbow, while their ladies, all very beautiful in even longer, formfitting tunics that somehow became dresses on them while practically dripping exquisitely fashioned jewelry, did the same to Samantha and Angelique. And while the European women might’ve been stunned by the sheer weight of gold and precious gems the Uxmalo ladies negligently wore, the Uxmalos were equally enraptured by their visitors’ gowns. Samantha’s was bottle green, accented in white, while Angelique’s was a flouncy, dusky almond, offset by black lace. Both were perfect for the women’s hair and complexion and plunged only slightly, revealing no cleavage, but the modest exposure was still wider and deeper than the V-cut local style. And the expertly fitted bodices and short, puffy sleeves, in addition to crinoline skirts and petticoats, accentuated Samantha’s and Angelique’s narrow waists. Neither really needed a corset, and combined with the lingering heat of the day and the realization “society” here would be oblivious to their discomfort, they omitted them and various other layers they would’ve otherwise felt compelled to wear.

  In any event, they made a sensation. Despite their own modest jewelry (compared to the locals), Samantha’s and Angelique’s gowns served as settings for the genuine jewels both women were in their own right. This was not lost on the Uxmalos. Varaa whispered something to Ixtla, and the gruff human Ocelomeh grimaced. “Must I?” he pleaded in English.

  “What?” Lewis asked.

  Vaara laughed. “I just ‘detailed’ him, as you say, to translate for the ladies after our welcome is complete. And judging by the looks”—Varaa’s ears flicked around the room, where many Uxmalo women intently watched them—“I expect he’ll be very busy!”

  Alcalde Periz raised his voice and announced his visitors by name and title, somehow equating De Russy with Koaar as “consul,” over the Americans, Lewis to Varaa as “warmaster,” and surprisingly, putting Reverend Harkin on equal footing with his own Father Orno, whose official title was “Padre Alto.” Harkin seemed taken aback and a little conflicted, but managed to smile all around as people called out and applauded at the end of Periz’s introduction. The alcalde then presented the wives. Most looked very fine, though the older Truro’s had a matronly air, but Periz’s diminutive wife, Sira, outshone them all. Lewis was struck by her dark beauty, proud bearing, and frankly appraising stare. He was equally intrigued to learn that she, and all the alcaldes’ wives, held the title of “segunda alcaldesa” and were required to assume their husbands’ duties when they were absent, or if they died. Lewis suspected Sira, at least, was Periz’s equal partner on a daily basis.

  There was music then, of a strange but no longer unfamiliar sort, since they’d been given samples on the march. It was performed by muted drums and flutes, and while still somewhat alien it had a certain appeal. Men and women began pairing off, finding open spaces to perform intricate steps without touching. “Good heavens!” Harkin exclaimed. “They look like courting birds!”

  “As do those engaged in fashionable dances where we came from, do they not?” observed Samantha with a twinkle in her eye.

  “I suppose,” Harkin agreed dourly, “but those events don’t necessarily lead to the, ah, consummation of the courtship.” He glared at Father Orno. “I hope that’s not the case here!”

  Orno laughed. “Not always.”

  Harkin harrumphed and Samantha coughed. “Tell me, Warmaster Varaa, with the introductions complete, why does everyone remain away from us?”

  “We’re still in the prese
nce of the alcaldes, for official purposes. No one will interfere with that.” Varaa grinned. “Uxmalos, indeed all the civilized people of the Yucatán, are quite polite. The ‘official presence,’ even for alcaldes, is broken when we disperse.”

  Samantha glanced at Angelique, focused intently on the growing dance as if memorizing the steps. “So we must detach ourselves with the alcaldesas and go to them?”

  “Yes, Mistress.”

  Samantha smiled. “Very well. Come along, Angelique.” She chuckled. “And you, Mr. Ixtla!” She darted a glance at Lewis and Anson. “Perhaps you’ll join us in a dance when you’re finished with business?”

  “Delighted,” Anson said. Lewis cleared his throat and jerked a nod, but turned to Meder and Hudgens. “Stay with Mr. Ixtla and the ladies until they’re entirely comfortable.” His expression darkened. “And behave yourselves for a change! I’ve developed a generally good opinion of you both, but it’s neither fully formed nor without reservations, is that understood?”

  “Yes sir,” they chorused.

  “I’ll stay with ’em too,” Leonor said, somewhat to the surprise of Lewis and Anson.

  Periz spoke, and Varaa told them he wanted them alone for a time, for a more private meeting with the other alcaldes before rejoining the reception in earnest. Periz bade his wife, Sira, and those of his other native guests to join Samantha and Angelique as they mingled, then led the way to a heavily carved wooden door in one of the sculpted plaster end walls. A servant opened it, and they filed into another surprisingly large room. Here, the stone and framing timbers of the impressive structure were exposed, but in a tastefully rustic, not skeletal way. It was cooler too, with only candles and lamps for light and air ingeniously vented from above. Other servants brought painted ceramic jugs and mugs and placed them on a long wooden table dominating the center of the room before departing. Once the great door closed behind them, the noise of the crowded reception hall dwindled to a humming murmur. Even before, however, the visitors’ attention had fastened on a huge woven tapestry suspended on the far wall. The craftsmanship and artistry was stunning, but it wasn’t just decorative. It was in fact a map of the region; the first they’d seen that was more detailed than scratchings in the dirt.

  Momentarily oblivious to all else around them, Lewis and Anson stepped to what was essentially a modeled atlas of the world these people knew. The central landmass was obviously a distorted, somewhat bloated Mexico, extending from a little north of what had to be the Rio Grande, all the way south to where Guatemala and Honduras ought to be. Lewis was amazed by the embroidered detail—different weaves and colors meticulously differentiating terrain to the extent that plains and forest, streams and stony mountains were as sharply distinct as they’d be to a high-flying bird. Boldly stitched roads laced across the landscape connecting cities, and more subtly sewn traceries represented lesser tracks or trails between smaller, more remote towns. Lewis almost touched a point marked by a fish bone and ribbon, realizing it was where they’d fought their battle and Commissary, Mary Riggs, and Xenophon were wrecked. He followed the threads of a coastal road to the tiny, intricately detailed city where they now stood.

  “Amazing,” he breathed, gesturing at the oversize mass of this Yucatán. “Everything seems so exactingly rendered. . . . The shoreline’s accurate?”

  “Yes,” Varaa replied softly. “I’m . . . personally less sure about the western shore of the continent, but the nearer coast surrounding the Great Gulf is quite precise. The map incorporates some of my own observations,” she added proudly. “We—the people from whom I sprang—though not ardent explorers, have a tradition of carefully marking what we find”—she paused—“or what’s reported to us.” She waved at the great map. “Our leaders have been compiling a painted atlas such as this for generations, to the extent that perhaps a quarter of the coastlines depicted on maps of ‘new arrivals’ has been adjusted to reflect them as they actually are on this world.” She nodded at the Yucatán Peninsula, where they stood. “There’s more dry land on this world than on anyone else’s who’s come here, as far as I know. Yours as well, I assume, since your ships fell upon it. How far offshore do you believe you were when . . .” She paused and flipped her tail.

  Lewis looked at Anson. “Ten or twelve miles, I suppose. Tiger should’ve been farther.”

  De Russy nodded solemnly.

  “There’s more ice in the north and south,” Varaa informed them, “and some have proposed that the ice eats the water.” She shrugged. “I don’t know.” She nodded at Yucatán. “But this land is bigger than can be accounted for, even with the ice, I should think.”

  Alcalde Periz had been quietly talking with Ortiz from Pidra Blanca and Truro from Itzincab. Thanks to the atlas, Lewis now knew Pidra Blanca was about a hundred miles up the coast to the northeast and clearly relied on Uxmal as a buffer against their common enemies. Itzincab was almost two hundred miles inland, east-southeast, and uncomfortably close to Don Discipo’s Puebla Arboras, in territory the Holcanos and Grik had infiltrated for the Dominion. Simply by looking at a map, Lewis immediately understood why Truro and Ortiz were Periz’s firmest friends.

  Periz now spoke through Varaa, addressing Lewis, Anson, De Russy, Dr. Newlin, Reverend Harkin, Lieutenant Burton, and Alferez Lara, each by name. “It’s good that you recognize you’ve been given the greatest gift any warmaster can receive: an image of the ground you’ll fight on.”

  “Doms don’t make maps?” Anson snapped derisively, not believing it.

  “Of course,” Koaar retorted. “They may even have one just like this in their unholy lair in the Great Valley, but it won’t show the detail, here, that this one does. And their troops on campaign do little more than scribble lines on parchment to show roads from one place to the next.”

  “I wouldn’t be so sure theirs’ll stay less exact,” Dr. Newlin warned. His eyes arched in surprise. “Don’t tell me Don Discipo’s never been in this room.” The alcaldes exchanged worried frowns. “As I thought. His bloody Tranquilo—or servants he may’ve suborned—could’ve copied this at their leisure.”

  Alferez Lara acknowledged the doctor’s point but said, “Why go to that effort when they’ve got Holcanos and Grik to scout for them? Perhaps . . . even your sense of security based on superior local knowledge is misplaced?”

  “He’s right,” Varaa assured the alcaldes. “The attack we broke, originally aimed at all the free cities, was carefully planned.”

  When this was relayed to the alcaldes, their confidence seemed to shatter and Lewis was struck by what now seemed a rather poignant air of vulnerability among them. “I’m afraid you may have undermined what they thought was their greatest advantage,” Lewis whispered to Lara.

  The young Mexican soldier frowned. “My people were much the same. Relying too much on local knowledge and the advantage of defense. Always assuming the enemy—you—would do what we expected.” He shook his head.

  De Russy cleared his throat and spoke delicately. “I do hope this admittedly wondrous map isn’t the only thing your people plan to contribute to our alliance.”

  Periz shook his head, both in denial and to throw off his gloom. “No. We’ll provide for the army of . . . Americanos as well as the Ocelomeh, while both of them help us build our own armies, as we discussed,” he promised.

  “That’s not exactly what we talked about,” Lewis interjected. “If the Doms come, they’ll have one army united under a single command. We have to do the same.”

  Periz was nodding slowly as Varaa translated. “I did speak to my friends and fellow alcaldes of this union.” He glanced at those others and sighed. “We’ve long known we must join together—in some fashion—against our common foe,” he confessed, “but our cities and peoples are so different. How do we bring them together in a way that will benefit all, while protecting those differences we enjoy? As Father Orno has described your ‘Constitution’ to me, and now
the other alcaldes here, particularly its ‘Bill of Rights’ and the protections it guarantees to the various ‘states’ . . . This is a framework we might use, might build upon. Something that might even work.” He looked straight at Lewis. “Your ‘states’ have apparently managed it well enough to assemble your great army, so perhaps we can do the same.” He waved his hand at Ortiz and Truro. “They have agreed to try.”

  “It won’t be easy,” De Russy cautioned. “Even after half a century, we’re still pulling up some of the stumps.” He waited while Varaa and Lara tried to translate that. “And after our Union was established and won a war against its oppressor, keeping it together requires constant effort and compromise.” He frowned. “Honestly, some of those compromises have left enduring bitterness, and I occasionally wonder if our Union will endure.” He shrugged. “But it has so far. God willing, it will continue—as long as men of good faith continue to compromise for the good of all.”

  “All our people share fundamental principles,” Alcalde Truro said hotly through Varaa. “We can ‘compromise’ on the little things, to oppose the Dominion—which will compromise on nothing.”

  “Sometimes it’s the ‘little things’ that loom largest in the long run,” De Russy almost whispered, and Lewis suddenly wondered if he was trying to talk them out of it. “But even in the short term, there’ll be disputes over who can provide the most to the army, who’ll bear the greatest burden manning it, feeding it, equipping it with weapons—and how will we do that?” he asked as if of himself. “Ultimately, you’ll almost certainly argue over where the army goes, what approaches it defends, even how it does so. I’m not the soldier Captain Cayce is, but even I know that sort of contention will ruin us.”