“Good morning, Mr. Barca. How do you do today?” Varaa said, cheerfully flicking her tail.
Barca smiled. “Good morning, Warmaster.” He bowed his head to Lewis. “Major Cayce. Quite well, actually.” He looked down at his own horse. “My riding skills are much improved—and it’s not raining.” He raised his eyes to gaze down the forest path. “And I’m . . . strangely relieved by the prospect of this meeting, whatever the outcome may be,” he confessed.
“Waiting, preparing, and imagining the worst, always preys on the mind,” Lewis agreed, “especially when you’re never quite certain exactly what you’re preparing for”—he paused, thinking back—“and you’re never prepared for the fact that the ‘worst’ can be more terrible than you ever imagined,” he added grimly.
“Was that how it was for you, sir? After your first real battle?” Barca asked.
Lewis nodded. “Even when we won.”
“I’ve seen battle before,” Barca reminded.
“Yes, and you did very well,” Lewis acknowledged, “but as traumatic as it was, that one just . . . fell on you, as it were. There was no time to contemplate it in advance. You obviously feel the difference now, or you wouldn’t be so anxious to get on with it.”
Barca thought about that for a moment, then nodded. “Yes sir.”
Varaa-Choon coughed. “Major Cayce has described the . . . peculiar nature of servitude that prevails in parts of your country,” she said, somewhat delicately for her, “but assured me that such wouldn’t apply to you. Certainly not here. He’s also said he gave you a choice of serving the army in whatever capacity you chose. After spending so much time with it, observing for Colonel De Russy, have you given that any more thought?”
Barca looked oddly at Varaa, remembering a gun stuck in the mud and the brief sense of camaraderie he’d experienced. And that hadn’t been the only time. It did seem—with a few exceptions—many of the prejudices the “Americans” (regardless of regional, even national origins) had brought with them here, whether racial, cultural, even religious, had been so overwhelmed by the unfathomably strange nature of this world that such differences hardly mattered anymore. Particularly in the face of their infinitely more pressing, even existential “us versus them” disagreement with their terrible new enemies. He almost chuckled at the irony of having been taken so little notice of during his comings and goings on behalf of Colonel De Russy.
“I have,” Barca confirmed, gently patting the neck of the animal he rode. “And I’ve become a much better horseman as well,” he added dryly before turning quite serious. “I honestly didn’t believe Major Cayce at the time he made the offer, but I do think I’d be welcome almost anywhere in the army, horse or foot”—he frowned—“with the exception of . . . a certain company in the First US Infantry.”
Lewis frowned as well. “Private Hahessy’s company,” he said. “We should’ve hung him with the others.”
Barca shook his head. “He saved a man’s life.”
“After initiating the circumstances that threatened it,” Lewis reminded angrily. “And I wouldn’t put it past him to murder Private Cox if he ever gets the chance.”
Varaa kakked a laugh. “If what I hear is true, Booger—I mean, Lieutenant Beeryman—has sworn to murder Hahessy if anything happens to Cox. That probably includes being killed in action or struck by lightning. Hahessy’s a bully. It’ll do him good to live in fear.”
“It has been my experience that most bullies are cowards already,” Barca said lowly.
“That’s probably true,” Lewis agreed, “but I don’t think that’s the case with Hahessy. There’s just something wrong with him.” He shook his head. “I’m not as great a believer in redemption as Reverend Harkin, and I’m not sure if Hahessy is redeemable or not.” He cleared his throat, looking back at Barca. “Now, you said you’ve reconsidered my offer?”
“Am reconsidering,” Barca stressed. “But for the present, I feel I still belong at the colonel’s side, and will as long as he needs me.”
They rode quietly, companionably for several moments before Lewis spoke again. “I honor your loyalty.” He snorted. “I’ve always honored loyalty above all things, I suppose. But I’m confident that Colonel De Russy will learn to cope without you someday. And especially if he doesn’t, I suspect the army will need you more than he does.
“Just goes to show,” Lewis murmured as he and Varaa moved forward a little again.
“What?” Varaa asked.
Lewis took a long breath, gaze now settled on Leonor up ahead, and said somewhat absently, “Just how many different sides there can be to various things, and how rarely they are as they seem.”
“A lesson we’ll soon teach the Doms, I hope, with them convinced we’re all quaking behind the walls of Uxmal,” said Varaa.
Lewis nodded. “Let’s just hope we don’t only see what we expect to see as well.”
* * *
—
IT SEEMED THEY weren’t, so far. Scouts galloped up the forest track on blown and gasping horses all afternoon, relaying observations of other scouts a surprising distance away. The last few days had seen more than just the covert deployment of nearly the entire Detached Expeditionary Force, 1st Uxmal, and 1st Ocelomeh down murky, parallel tracks in the forest long known only to the Jaguar Warriors before Varaa and Anson mapped them. A few Holcanos probably knew them too, but fully engaged at Itzincab with their entire villages shifted to support them, no Holcanos—or Grik—had been seen. And the Ocelomeh would know if they were about, having also completed a series of watch posts, high in the trees, within visual signaling range of one another. None of the ships wrecked on the Yucatán carried parts for the amazing new electrical telegraphy apparatus Lewis had been hearing about, but semaphore telegraph towers had been in use for decades. Weeks before, De Russy suggested they come up with something similar, but Varaa told him her people had used polished silver discs to reflect sunlight for the same purpose longer than anyone knew. They even sent signals at night with shaded lamps. All the Ocelomeh had to do was establish such observation posts where they needed them to watch and report on the approaching Doms.
This was undertaken even as the Allied troops rushed to the one place Lewis believed the Doms could gather their entire force: the washboard glade where the Americans themselves made their last camp before pushing on to Uxmal, only four miles beyond where they’d savaged the lancers and the Dom emissaries now waited. The place was ideal for them in many respects, with more convoluted terrain than usual. Lewis couldn’t know that’s where the Doms would stop. With all the low places and so soon after the rains, it might be too boggy. But the road they’d followed was actually in view of the sea at that point, nearly touching it in fact, and boats could land supplies and troops through light surf on the sandy shore. The Doms would likely secure the area for that reason alone. Finally, the next closest place to concentrate out from under the trees was the Americans’ previous camp, eleven miles farther back, and its only access to the sea was through a dangerous, tangled marsh. Lewis was betting everything that whoever Tranquilo brought to treat with them would want his army closer than that, to intimidate them, and have it ready to march on Uxmal at once.
The reports from the “tree signals” were encouraging. The leading Dom elements were already encamped at the washboard glade, the great command marquees Burton described already erected, and more troops had been flooding in all day, setting up tents. Lewis was astounded to hear they weren’t throwing up breastworks or even scouting the nearby woods.
“They’re amazingly arrogant, after all,” Varaa reassured him. “But with their numbers, they can be.”
Lewis frowned, unconvinced. He remembered this stretch of forest well; the trees were particularly old and tall, untouched by wildfires for centuries, and there was almost no undergrowth at all. He hadn’t seen one, but he’d heard of the strange “horned turtles” that seem
ed to be happy to keep the deadfall clear and give certain parts of the forest an almost parklike impression. He hadn’t really appreciated it the last time he passed through, but they’d been moving much quicker then. He marveled at it now despite the fact there was much more at stake this time. Much, much more.
A short while later, he and Varaa left their places by the carriage and went forward to join Anson and Leonor at the head of the column with Espinoza and Burton so they’d be there when they reached their destination. Scouts trotted back and guardedly reported no apparent traps, but they were clearly disconcerted. Lewis and his companions soon discovered why. The trees fell away and the afternoon sun beat down on them when they emerged from the forest onto the familiar ground where they’d fought their little battle—only nothing but the lay of the land was recognizable now.
The Doms had spent the days they were given to “prepare a suitable reception” to macabre effect. A great long rectangle of the tall grass representing the boundaries of the battlefield had been very precisely scorched to the ground, leaving only blackened stubble and dusty ash clouding around the horses as Espinoza’s lancers and Burton’s dragoons deployed on each side of the track. And the boundary had been fenced, after a fashion, by a flimsy stockade of limbs and brush reinforced with scavenger-gnawed bones of the lancers that died there. Worse, the grisly avenue leading up the slope to a huge marquee erected where Wagley’s infantry stood was lined with two hundred new, red-painted lances (those of the fallen had been recovered by the victors), and on each was mounted an equally gnawed skull of the fallen, complete with polished brass helmets and flowing plumes. It was like the dead still defended this place, empty eye sockets glaring down.
“They do exult in death, do they not?” Reverend Harkin said from within the carriage as it pulled into view.
“They wallow in it. They worship it,” Father Orno was heard to reply.
Lewis was looking at the marquee while the rest of the escort emerged from the woods, dragoons forming together in a line, Ocelomeh behind them. Some of the Ocelomeh, Lewis reminded himself. A few would already be probing to the sides in the woods. Living Dom lancers were positioned around the scallop-edged tent, its two inner support poles piercing the top and soaring high in the air so the jagged gold cross on bloodred flags could stream away in the wind. There were only about a dozen lancers in view, however. The rest must’ve stayed another hundred yards back, as promised. Staring around at the clearing, Lewis was surprised not to see a single one of the massive herbivores that browsed so disdainfully there before.
“Perhaps the stench of the Doms drives them away,” Varaa told him quietly, noticing the same. “They’d all be downwind, after all, and nothing enjoys the company of predators and carrion eaters.”
Colonel De Russy opened the door and stepped down from the carriage. Frowning all around, he stretched. “Barca, be so good as to bring us something cool to drink, will you?” A jug of beer wrapped in coarse cloth that Private Willis was supposed to be keeping wet was tucked in a cupboard on the back of the carriage. “What’ll happen now?” he asked with a nervous glance up at the marquee and the silent, unmoving lancers.
Anson pulled a watch from his vest pocket. “We’re early, damn it,” he growled.
“I wanted to be,” Lewis said, nodding. “No point having them wondering about us. Now their attention is fixed.” He dismounted and stood on aching legs as he rubbed Arete’s cheek, looking at De Russy, Orno, and Harkin, then into the carriage where Periz was fanning himself. “Now we wait.”
The afternoon passed and the sun set quickly, as always at that latitude. As soon as it disappeared, torches were lit and placed in iron brackets all around the marquee. Lights were kindled inside as well, and the red-trimmed white canvas glowed orange. Still they waited.
“It’s time now, ain’t it?” Leonor asked her father.
“Yes,” Lewis answered for him, “but we’ll wait a bit longer.” He smiled in the twilight, teeth bright in his beard. “We’ve come to them, now they have to invite us in. If they take too long, we’ll start preparing to leave. See what they do.”
“Shouldn’t that be Alcalde Periz’s decision?” Father Orno asked.
Lewis looked at the dark shape of the alcalde, who hadn’t said anything since they arrived. He’d merely sat there, staring out at skulls on lances. “It can be if he wants,” he said, “but I was given command of the Allied armies, and even this is a military maneuver, of sorts.” He paused. “Unless he hopes for something besides posturing and intimidation from the enemy?”
Anson looked at his daughter and shrugged.
A crescent moon was already up when the sunlight failed entirely, so it was still bright enough to see to move when Lewis remounted Arete and gave the order to prepare to return to the city. As if the Doms had been waiting for this (more probably a nervous approach by the Uxmalos), the east-facing sides of the marquee were taken down, revealing the illuminated interior. There were people in there—that’s all they could tell from this distance—and they seemed to be seated, waiting.
“That’s probably as close to an invitation as we’ll get,” Anson said.
“I wonder,” replied Lewis, but shook his head. “With the alcalde’s permission, we’ll proceed as agreed. Horses for the gentlemen,” he called to Barca and Private Willis, already holding the mounts. Reverend Harkin was an indifferent horseman at best, but Lewis refused to let the carriage make the final approach. Harkin would ride if he wanted to go. He did. “Alferez Espinoza, Lieutenant Burton, assemble our escort.” He looked meaningfully at Lieutenant Sal Hernandez and Sergeant Hayne. “Keep a firm hold on the men staying here. Accept no provocation. But if things go badly, you know what to do.”
Pulling Arete around, he waited until Burton and Espinoza took their place at the head of six dragoons and six lancers, then fell into line by Alcalde Periz. Anson was beside Father Orno, Varaa next to Colonel De Russy, and Leonor by Reverend Harkin. Barca and a grumbling Private Willis brought up the rear. Though allowed a guard of a hundred, only a dozen were to accompany the “principals” and their servants, not to number more than a dozen themselves. Lewis fudged the first number a little, Burton and Espinoza making fourteen guards while it seemed the Doms had stuck to twelve, but counting Barca and Willis there were only ten more of them while there must be twenty Doms under the open-sided marquee. It doesn’t much matter, Lewis decided. Everyone in our party is a fighter, with the probable exception of Orno and Harkin, and I’m not so sure of Orno. And strangely enough, not even the Doms had demanded they meet unarmed. Lewis would’ve refused, of course, but wondered about that. Maybe it never occurred to them since they don’t do this sort of thing, he thought, observing the long, upright lances as well as sabers and musketoons the mounted enemy troopers bore as the procession moved closer. Or maybe they really are that arrogant. I hope it’s not because they’re sure.
“You . . . stop there,” called a slightly quavering voice in strangely accented English. “The guards and animals you leave. There will be no harm.” Lewis had only ever seen one Blood Priest, and the scrawny speaker might’ve been Tranquilo at a glance, draped in the same coarse scarlet cloak. He seemed just as frail and stoop-shouldered as well. The torchlight revealed a different face, however, covered by a reddish-blond beard. The eyes were less like a ferret’s too, though just as predatory in their way.
Lewis nodded at Periz and the embassy dismounted, relinquishing their horses to dragoons and Espinoza’s lancers. They’d stay in the saddle as long as the enemy guards did so.
“I could hold Arete for you, personal like, Major,” Willis hissed hopefully. Lewis ignored him, and Willis reluctantly trailed past beribboned ropes and under the scalloped edge of the great enemy tent.
Lewis’s first good view of the interior took him aback. It was like an audience room in a canvas-sided palace, richly carpeted in pure, unlikely white. Gold was everywhere—lam
ps, braziers, even the frames of well-padded chairs flanking a tall-backed throne on the other side of a long, low table right in the center of the space. Twisted Dom crosses were everywhere, the closer to the throne, the more barbarously warped and entwined with what looked like spiky vines. Even the canvas walls were covered with Dom flags and beautifully woven tapestries, each seeming to tell a story of some kind, possibly the history of the Doms on this world? Lewis suspected Harkin was intrigued, greedily trying to decipher the scenes, but all his attention was focused on two of the seated enemy.
The first was a short, solid, dark-faced soldier, dressed in a yellow-and-black uniform adorned with more gold lace than it seemed it could bear. Large black eyes under heavy brows returned Lewis’s scrutiny. The second was a tall, almost gangly man somewhat reclined on the throne. He wore a red robe like those around him, but the material was finer than all but those sitting closest. The cuffs and facings were heavily embroidered in gold thread reminiscent of the vines on the crosses and a wide-brimmed galero as white as the rug except for red tassels hanging from the brim like dripping blood topped a sharp, narrow face, made even longer and more severe by a lengthy, pointed beard. The eyes behind the tassels looked as big and black and remorseless as a shark’s.
The English-speaking Blood Priest’s eyes went wide at the sight of Varaa. “The animals you leave!” he snarled.
Lewis stopped, putting a hand on Periz. “Warmaster Varaa-Choon’s forces are part of our army. If you want to speak to us, you’ll speak to her as well. Without perfect understanding by us all, this meeting is a farce, and we’ll only meet again on the battlefield.”
“Hold you tongue!” the Blood Priest practically squeaked in outrage. “You is in the presence of His Holiness, Don Frutos del Gran Vale, Blood Cardinal to His Supreme Holiness, Messiah of Mexico and Emperor of the World! Only he will speak. You obey!”
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