Captain Anson actually laughed, and all the seated figures—except Don Frutos and the soldier—lunged to their feet in fury. Don Frutos’s expression was just as harsh, but he affected calm. “Father Solicito!” he called in a deep, kindly voice, wholly at odds with his seething glare. “You’re a fine linguist—in many languages, of necessity—but you’re rude! I’ve learned enough of this English speech—perhaps even better than you—to conduct this . . . conversation perfectly well.” He sent a mocking glance at Alcalde Periz. “You’ll concede we must, since it’s the language of your protectors?” Periz seemed to smolder and wilt simultaneously while Don Frutos regarded Father Solicito once more. “Join Father Tranquilo outside, where he prepares for the service I hope to hold.” He glared back at Lewis and Periz. “To seal our ‘understanding’ when we reach it. In the meantime, tell me who you are.”
Periz did the introductions, and Don Frutos seemed keenly interested in Lewis and De Russy, vaguely so in Father Orno, and not at all in Harkin or Leonor. He bestowed an appraising stare on Captain Anson, but as for Varaa, he merely waved a hand at the myriad flying bugs swarming around the lamps and immolating themselves in the braziers. “If we can ignore these annoying insects, the animal’s presence shouldn’t distract us.”
An attendant clapped his hands and servants, naked young girls, painted gold, erupted from behind the throne, each carrying a small, compact chair. There were exclamations of outrage, even from Willis, but everyone stood fast. Especially when Varaa hissed, “They don’t do it to shock. It’s just what they do.” Somehow knowing Barca and Willis were their counterparts, the girls brought the chairs for them to arrange.
“Which there ain’t but six of ’em, sir,” Willis murmured uncertainly with an uncomfortable glance after the golden children, who disappeared back behind the throne. There must have been an annex attached to the marquee they hadn’t seen from the east. Lewis wondered what else lurked there.
“Animals don’t need chairs,” Varaa quietly told Lewis, “and most women aren’t ‘people’ either, as you’ve just seen. They’re servants and ornaments,” she added, flicking her ears at Leonor. “I suppose they’ve decided to ‘ignore’ her too.”
“Just as well,” Lewis whispered back. “They’ll wish they hadn’t.” Raising his voice he said, “Thank you, but we’ll stand. We’ve been sitting all day.”
Don Frutos casually tilted his head as if it was no concern of his. “Very well, but it may make taking refreshment awkward. I understand you expect to be treated with civility and entertained during ceremonies such as these?”
Lewis wondered who told him that but was afraid he knew. He also saw that Periz, nervous and introspective all day, seemed about to burst beside him. Taking a step forward, the alcalde of Uxmal finally spoke, voice almost shaking with fear and rage: “We didn’t come to be entertained or refreshed and didn’t ‘expect’ or seek this meeting.” His lip twisted. “You’ve set your bloodthirsty surrogates against us for decades and now march aggressively into our land. Tranquilo informed us you desired to make a proposal. In the interests of avoiding further bloodshed, we’ve come to hear it. That’s the only reason we’re here. But if you don’t withdraw and leave us in peace, we’ll destroy you as we did your spying lancers!”
The priests—or whatever they were—surrounding Don Frutos explosively objected once more but the Blood Cardinal remained perfectly still, only clasping his hands in front of his face and assessing Periz once more. “Bravo,” he said. “Such a bold little speech! I’m sure you will remember it with pride while you writhe on an impaling pole.” Periz’s expression remained defiant, but his dark face managed to pale. Don Frutos’s gaze shifted to Lewis. “Quite bold indeed, and enlightening. I confess I was intrigued when I learned of this ‘getting to know your enemy’ custom. Sharing thoughts with men—even the most abominable heretics—who’ll soon be gone forever obscurely appealed to me. No matter how misguided, their viewpoints should be preserved in memory, don’t you think?” He looked back at the alcalde of Uxmal. “My dear Periz, believe me when I say I understand perfectly how you must feel! I’d feel the same if heretic invaders came to my sacred land and threatened it with extinction.”
He shook his head with apparent sadness, then pointed a long finger at Lewis. “But that’s what they have done!” He leaned back in his throne-like chair. “God will have this land someday, Alcalde Periz. It’s preordained. He’ll have the whole world! But the Dominion is patient and besides being . . . interested elsewhere at present, was content to play the same long game—watching you and the Holcanos and your animals tear at one another as you have for generations. When you do so long enough, you’ll beg the Dominion to succor and heal you and take you to its bosom.” He sneered at Father Orno. “You and I know the same God, but you don’t understand Him. He’s only kind and loving to those who please Him—and nothing pleases Him like the effusion of heretic blood or the re-creation of the cleansing pain his son endured to show us the way to Him! Once you and the Holcanos have bathed in enough blood to cleanse yourselves, spilled all the heresy from your veins, you’ll willingly join us, and we’re happy to wait.”
He frowned at Lewis again. “But these . . . Americans have tilted the happy bloody balance between you and the Holcanos and reinforced your heresy. How long would it be before you brought it to the Dominion like a dagger in the back?” He shook his head. “It cannot be permitted.”
“An’ how do you expect to stop it, skinny?” Leonor demanded. She’d remained silent till now, oblivious to the slight to herself and Varaa, but understandably fuming ever since the girls came in. It was plain on her face that she’d love nothing more than to kill every Dom in sight.
Surprisingly, Don Frutos replied, tone deceptively mild. “Females have no voice among men, but as you ask their question for them, I’ll answer.” He sighed. “I’d so hoped this would go differently. More ‘civilized,’ I believe was the term. But I suppose we should get to it.” He looked intently at Periz. “I won’t stop it, you will.”
Periz blinked confusion, much like Varaa would. “How? Why?”
“Simple,” Don Frutos said, shifting his gaze to Lewis. “You’ll break with him. Withdraw your support of his forces and leave the Americans entirely to me. In turn, I’ll . . . deal with them and simply march away, leaving you to return to your bickering with the Holcanos. You’ll have to surrender any modern weapons they’ve given you, of course,” he added as if as an afterthought.
“Madness!” Reverend Harkin exclaimed, unable to contain himself. “Don’t you see? He’s the very Devil! He’ll split us apart and shred us separately! God would . . .”
“Silence, priest!” Periz snapped, looking at Father Orno. “What of the other cities in our alliance? What of our faith?”
Don Frutos practically rolled his eyes. “Alone, all your cities together are no threat to the Dominion, and your feeble, isolated heresy will eventually die of its own accord as it has in Don Discipo’s Puebla Arboras. I see no need to hasten its end. Its existence actually helps maintain the equally deteriorating balance the Dominion desires, don’t you see?”
Periz shook his head as though stunned.
“It may be the only way to save our people,” Father Orno conceded quietly.
“You too!” Harkin practically shrieked. Anson said nothing, but his expression was dangerous. Leonor looked like she’d start spitting fire.
“And how do you intend to ‘deal’ with me, Don Frutos?” Lewis ground out. “Even without the Uxmalos, I’ll tear your army apart.”
“The Army of God will suffer,” Don Frutos conceded, “but its soldiers yearn to suffer and die in battle, harvesting heretic souls as the playthings of God! What do your people want, Major Cayce? More than anything.”
Lewis seemed to contemplate that, glancing from Don Frutos to Alcalde Periz. “I expect they’d like to go home, if you know the way,” he said almost
lightly.
“Sadly, I do not.” Don Frutos regarded him carefully. “But I might offer another home in exchange for certain . . . cooperations. Father Felicidad! Do show our guest in.”
One of the flags behind the throne-like chair moved a little, and another Blood Priest appeared. In contrast to the others, this one was somewhat obese. Trailing hesitantly behind, tugged by a rope around his waist, was a much taller man, practically cadaverous. His cheeks were gaunt, eyes sunken, and though his chin was freshly shaved, his hair and side whiskers were like wiry bramble patches. Draped on his skeletal frame was an immaculately cleaned and pressed uniform of an American colonel.
“My God,” Lewis muttered, his worst fears confirmed.
The fat priest pushed his charge to the table beside the Dominion officer, who pursed his lips. It was the first sign of emotion Lewis had seen in the man, though he couldn’t tell if it betrayed pity or disgust.
“Colonel Wicklow?” De Russy whispered in horror, speaking for the first time since they entered the tent.
“Rube?” asked the man, looking around, voice surprisingly firm. “Ruberdeau De Russy? My God, is that really you? I . . . I don’t see very well, I’m afraid.”
“What have they done to you?” De Russy demanded, hand going to the sword at his side. Lewis had never seen De Russy so ready for violence and stopped him before he could draw his blade.
“Oh,” Wicklow said absently, “no more than I deserve, I suppose. Is Captain Cayce with you?”
“Major Cayce,” De Russy corrected distractedly. “I brevetted him.”
“Well deserved, I’m sure.” Wicklow looked in Lewis’s general direction. “I’d heard of you before we sailed. Capital behavior at Monterrey. Capital behavior since, as I understand it. But see here, what you’re attempting now . . . It will never do. The Dominion will crush you if you resist. I know . . . ” His voice almost broke. “It’s perfect cooperation or you’re off to see their God in the most horrible imaginable way.”
“You were taken. In Isidra,” Lewis stated.
“Yes. Easy as could be for them. I’m very sorry we left you, by the way. Sorrier than you can know,” he added bitterly, “but I thought I had a responsibility to get to Vera Cruz, then to aid the passengers we’d rescued from Tiger. Things were . . . confused, as you’ll recall, but I never suspected, never dreamed . . .” He had to stop and collect himself before continuing. “In any event, we weren’t expecting trouble. Had no idea where we were—what kind of world this is. There was fog as we neared Vera Cruz, and we found ourselves surrounded by strange-looking ships that suddenly came aboard us. Isidra’s no warship, and with her decks so crammed with frightened civilians we could mount no real defense.” His milky eyes—Lewis wondered what had happened to them—flicked toward where he must’ve heard Don Frutos’s voice, and he huskily added, “Still, I suspect even the women and children would’ve fought like terrors if they’d known what was to come.”
“What happened to them?” De Russy asked.
Wicklow stiffened, and tears spilled down his hollow cheeks. “I can’t say for certain in every case. Some were sold as slaves, but others were . . . sacrificed in the most horrific fashion. I was forced to witness some of those dreadful events: women stripped naked—gentlewomen—and carried shrieking up the blood-washed steps of a high, conical structure surrounded by countless gleeful spectators. At the top was a Blood Cardinal, like Don Frutos, who harangued the crowd for a while before tearing the beating heart from the victim laid out before him and tasting its final spurt of blood.” He shuddered at the memory before continuing in a whisper, “The victim was then beheaded and the . . . remains hurled down the steps to the crowd. I don’t know what became of them after that, thank God”—he hesitated and sent another blind, nervous glance toward Don Frutos—“but perhaps most bizarre of all, the . . . principal performer, if you will, was aided and surrounded by red-robed priests, all piously genuflecting like a pack of papists—though I don’t imagine even papists ever behaved in such a . . . singular fashion. No, not even in the darkest days of the Inquisition.”
“The likeness to Father Orno’s faith is a feeble thing on your world as well,” Don Frutos stated complacently. “Do continue, Colonel Wicklow. I’m sure our guests are anxious to hear the rest.”
Wicklow nodded, gulping. “Almost all the men were . . . tormented to death in various ways—resisting,” he quickly added with an imprecise bow toward Don Frutos, as if to assure him he understood it was necessary. “I was still attempting to resist myself,” he mumbled miserably, “until they chained me down with all my officers arranged around me, opened their bellies, and poured glowing coals inside. . . . The screams . . .” He gulped again, repeatedly, controlling an urge to retch. “That was the last thing I shall ever see.” He flicked a hand toward his eyes. “Cooked by heated irons, held quite close.”
Now Anson had to restrain Leonor, who’d reached for one of her revolvers. Her pretty face had turned to a cold, expressionless mask. Wicklow saw none of this, of course, and eventually completed his dismal summary. “A few of Isidra’s sailors have been preserved, like me, to tell them all we know.”
“Enough reminiscing!” Don Frutos pleasantly exclaimed. “Now you know who taught me your tongue so well. And despite that initial reluctance—which he regrets extremely—Colonel Wicklow has been most accommodating. That’s why you see him now, so safe and well, a valuable and trusted advisor! He’s told me everything about your capabilities and tactics, very similar to ours in fact, and in spite of my real fear for the fate of his soul—I’ve grown quite fond of him, you know—we’ve treated him very gently, and he hasn’t been subject to the full and proper cleansing. That would’ve made him a different, better person, but also put him on another . . . level of consciousness. You might not have recognized him as he was or taken his advice.” He looked Lewis in the eye. “Rather than destroying you, I’ll offer you and your people the same indulgence so long as you lay down your arms and willingly teach us any useful technologies you’ve brought to this world.”
Lewis looked at the apparently blind, starved, possibly insane Colonel Wicklow. “You’d treat us like him?” he asked.
“Madness,” Harkin seethed, scowling.
“Somewhat better,” Don Frutos encouraged. “I must be at least as benevolent to you as the Uxmalos. And your resistance—up to this point—has been founded on ignorance. In that light it’s understandable, even admirable to a degree, but now you know and have a proper choice; you may be embraced as cherished friends to the bosom of the Holy Dominion”—he glanced aside at the soldier, and his tone turned stark—“or General Agon will destroy you. There will be no mercy, no surrender, and any survivors will be impaled on heated spikes and burned alive.” He glared at Periz. “As will every man, woman, and child in Uxmal, if you continue your ridiculous resistance.”
Reverend Harkin was looking back and forth between Periz and Orno, incredulous that they didn’t simply turn and go. “You can’t seriously be considering—”
“Fight them!” Varaa urged Lewis, almost shouting, pointing at the blinded colonel. “Would you become like him? Lead your men to that? You must fight them.” She glared at Periz. “And the Ocelomeh will stand with you even if the Uxmalos don’t!”
“Oh yes,” said Don Frutos, “there is that final condition. Ordinarily, I can’t hear the demon speech of animals, of course. Only heretics are susceptible to the vile lies they spew. But this modest tent has been consecrated by sacrificial blood, and here I discern the faintest echoes of the thing behind the animal mask! Amazing, is it not?” He leaned forward in his chair. “The proviso is this, Major Cayce: as the Uxmalos must break with you to prolong their miserable lives as they know them, you’ll break with the Ocelomeh if you wish to be friends of the Holy Dominion.”
“Reconcile yourself to this, Major Cayce,” Colonel Wicklow pleaded loudly. “Tell him, Rube!
You can’t win. The Army of God is vast and ponderous, suffused with the inflexibly relentless discipline of ants. And the battlefield tactics it employs are almost indistinguishable from those of General Arista at Palo Alto—and you know how that turned out!”
Lewis was stunned to silence for a moment, and glancing at Anson he saw the surprised, arched eyebrows. Everyone with him would’ve heard, even those outside. What’s more, Periz and Orno both knew what really happened at Palo Alto. Mad or not, Wicklow was on their side. Lewis cleared his throat. “Don Frutos,” he said, “if you . . .”
“You’ll address me as ‘Your Holiness,’ ” Don Frutos snapped.
Lewis merely bowed his head slightly. “As I was saying, we’ll have to discuss this among ourselves. Whatever we decide, we’re still allies—until we’re not. I’ll do what I think is right for my people, as I’m sure will they, but honor demands that if I’m going to break an alliance, I do it to their faces. I expect the same from them.”
Don Frutos seemed to consider that, ignoring Reverend Harkin’s sputtering. “Very well.” He motioned to an acolyte several seats to his right, who placed an hourglass on the table. “You may step a short distance away, but don’t join your guards or leave the torchlight. If you do, I’ll assume you’ve declined my gracious offer. Hostilities will commence at once, and General Agon will advance the Army of God with the dawn. You have until the turn of the glass to give me your decision.” He smiled with a strange benevolence. “In the meanwhile, hoping you’ll see reason, Father Tranquilo and Father Solicito will complete arrangements for the service I spoke of. It’s quite late, and I grow hungry and weary—this has taken longer than I expected—but I trust we’ll have even more reason to celebrate the service with a companionable meal among friends!” He frowned. “Don’t bring the animal back in the tent, however. My patience is not without limit, and I won’t eat with animals.”
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