Vaguely aware, disinterested but curious, just a little, he took in the movement of forms, hovering harmlessly, sometimes drawing nearer, accompanied with lights, sometimes just floating like he did. One such outburst of a smoking beacon resulted in his nausea coming back, the pleasant floating interrupted by unwelcomed bumps and jolts, as though the night air suddenly sprang obstacles like back on the ground.
In the end, the smell of the lake prevailed and the monotonous swaying, as though the wind picked its tempo. It nauseated him again, badly at that, the floating sensation not returning. Instead, the dread reappeared with redoubled strength. He was still in these people’s hands, still at their mercy, but now back in the lake, in the realm of the underwater monster!
To try and straighten up didn’t help. His face tucked against some fetid damp substance – a maguey bag, judging by its texture and smell – he didn’t manage to move any of his limbs, his knees pressed against his chin, hands stuck behind his back, not reacting to his efforts to make them move. Even the option of taking a deep breath in order to fight the panic wasn’t there, not with the revolting rag filling his nostrils with a rancid stench. Oh mighty deities!
In desperation, he pushed with his entire might, recoiling wildly, unable to hold his terror back. His feet hit something, a hard plank, then something softer and warmer. The boat lurched like a startled beast.
“Careful!” muttered someone, a voice in the darkness. The boat jerked again, its screeching filling the dampness of the night.
“The stupid whelp and the stupid beam,” cried out another voice. “That canoe is too heavy.”
A hand groped for his leg, caught it firmly in a painful grip. He tried to kick it away but in the crowdedness of the narrow vessel, all he managed was to rock it badly.
“I’ll throw the whelp out. Help me!”
The paddle kept struggling against the water, lessening the lurching. “It’s not deep enough here. Too near the causeway.”
“It’s deep enough. Also, the stupid cub is tied. What do you think he’ll do, walk along the lake’s bottom?”
“Well…”
The monotonous splashing paused, but not the rough swaying. He stopped struggling as well, the strange calm prevailing, making his head clear.
“Let the fish feed on him. Or maybe the Spiny One. They will thank us yet. How stupid it was to make us take all those things together with the wild cub. Do they think we have a war canoe here, with five men to row it along?”
He felt the hand pulling him hard, making the boat swivel again.
“Wait!” It was easier to talk without the filthy maguey stuck in his face. The lake’s breeze was a blessing, refreshing, making his thoughts organize, calming the unseemly horror. “Wait, don’t… don’t throw me out. I… I know things, things your… your superiors would want to hear.”
The pull lessened momentarily. With an inhuman effort, he forced his body to relax, to stop the struggle to break free.
“What are you blabbering about?” The rough fingers were still pulling, but with less determination. “What do you want to tell us, wild boy?”
“Things.” He licked his lips, craving a gulp of water all of a sudden. But not the one from the lake’s depths. “About Tlatelolco… and weapons…” He swallowed, trying to make his throat and not only his head work. Those smugglers back in the tunnel, the ones he spied on while hurrying to get the accursed rope, they talked about rich Tlatelolcan getting angry because of the damaged crate, didn’t they? And then Chantli, bragging about running around with some royal pilli from the Palace, the one that kept making Necalli angry. She used names in her story, important names, didn’t she? The Emperor’s sister with a beautiful name ChalchiuhNenetzin, Noble Jade Doll, a spoiled brat according to the other calmecac boy, and then the ruler of Tlatelolco, the lady’s husband, Moxqui-something…
“What do you know about the weapons back there?”
The rough hand pulled harder, frustrating his panicked attempts to resist, but as he unfolded into the semblance of an upright position, it pushed him to lean against the crudely carved side, making the boat careen again. The man behind his back cursed.
“Why do you think your tales will be of interest to anyone, boy?”
He took a deep breath, this time enjoying the damp air, so much better than the stinking bottom of the boat. “I… I know who will want those weapons. And I…” He tried to make his head work, the calm still there, pleasantly reassuring, but not helping to think of a good reason to give these people, to talk them into keeping him alive until they reached firm land again. “I know what our Emperor’s sister… that other island’s ruler’s wife, that is…”
This time, even the man with the paddle froze somewhere behind his back.
“You do?” drawled the man in front of him, nothing but a dark silhouette in the dimming moonlight. The dawn was not far away.
“Yes.” He didn’t dare to let his breath out, his relief spreading, making his limbs weak and as though out of control, trembling. “They would want to hear me out.”
“They?” In the faint illumination of the fading moon, the man’s grin was eerily wide, transforming his face into a grotesque mask. “And who are these ‘they,’ eh? Who are these important Tlatelolcans? The Noble Jade Genitalia herself maybe, eh?”
Despite his terror and agony, he almost snickered, remembering that the word nenetl meant not only ‘doll’ but the intimate female private parts as well.
“I say drop the stupid foreigner into the lake and be done with it,” cried out the man with the paddle, not amused in the least. “He is blabbering nonsense, and we were told to drop the damn cub in the lake anyway. Come, man, we are late as it is.”
“Throwing him over would take more time.” There was a grin in his captor’s voice, the satisfied tone of a person who has managed to snatch something good all for himself. “Our greedy Tenochtitlan would-be empress is just the person to stick her pretty nose into all this, eh? Think about it. And if we get to implicate her, the Emperor would be pleased enough. Think with your head, man, not with your back exit.”
“I’m thinking with my head, you stupid lump of meat,” protested the other one, striking the water with his paddle, angrily at that. “And I say your greediness will be the end of you. That boy knows too much, that is obvious, and you should get rid of him instead of using him to let yourself into any of it. Throw him over or I will do it!” The boat lurched again upon yet another abrupt halting.
“No, you won’t.” The other man didn’t seem worried, so Miztli managed to force his body into relaxing as well. “Row or give me the paddle. We still want to make it to the wharves without half of Tlatelolco staring at us and our cargo.”
The man with the paddle muttered something inaudible. And even now, half a day later and still not anywhere near being out of danger, he remembered the vastness of his relief, the immensity of it. They weren’t going to kill him, to toss him into the monster’s claws. He was going to reach firm land.
The sliver of light moved closer to the doorway, encouraging. He must have drifted off, sinking so deep in the terrible memories. Good! With nightfall, he would be able to sneak away, provided no one came to question him and check on his ties, or worse yet, to remove him somewhere. Oh mighty deities, don’t let it happen. It was so hard to get rid of the ropes, good pieces of sturdy maguey, too good and too durable. It took him half a day of rubbing his back against a sturdy beam, working when no one was in or looking his way, those grim, sweat-and-mud covered people, carrying crates or enormous bags, paying him no attention. A small mercy. He wouldn’t be able to summon enough patience to sit for half a day doing nothing, waiting to be questioned about things he didn’t know. He would have done something stupid. Yet, as it was, the effort to untie his hands kept him busy and now he was about to sneak away the moment it became suitably dark, whatever the consequences. The danger of getting caught while running was no worse than the alternative of being questioned by whatever a
uthorities these people served. If only he could move his hands more freely, if for no other reason than to return the feeling in them. Or to find his talisman, to hold the obsidian wonder and feed on its power. Oh, but why did he feel as though it wasn’t there anymore? Terrified by the mere possibility, he shut his eyes.
The slivers of light weren’t there anymore when he heard the voices, loud and nearing, speaking with unmistakable confidence. Not the people who kept coming in and out, the mere workers or slaves. He felt his heart coming to an abrupt halt.
The crude wooden screen shielding the doorway screeched, letting in the last of the light. The silhouettes poured in, blocking the view. He forced his eyes to remain steady, to count, his mind numb, refusing to offer advice. Back in the lake it was easier, facing a certain death, having nothing to lose, gambling with everything he had – death or postponement, a blissful delay, a chance – but now, oh, now he was too tired, too numb, too exhausted and dazed. What could he say to make them let him go? Nothing, nothing at all. There were no right words or information, no worthwhile offering to suggest. Maybe the calmecac boys could have offered their families’ wealth, begged their captors to let their fathers know, to accept a ransom. Would these people agree to that, had he had any means of payment to offer? Well, there was no way to prove that. Old Tlaquitoc wouldn’t pay to free his disobedient apprentice. He would rather feel like punishing the missing worker himself had he managed to get away from these people last night, shoving his charge’s face into a fire full of stinging smoke belonging to the roasting chili pepper. But would he pay to save his life if promised to be served as a slave until the debt was paid? The stingy man could have considered that. If only there was a way to let him know, to offer the bargain. Maybe through Chantli.
“Is this the cub?” The words ricocheted against the coarse walls as heavy as stones and as sharp as pieces of obsidian.
It made his heart stop for good, the obvious contempt, the cold hostility. He forced his eyes to look up, taking in the broadness of the towering man, the wideness of his features. His nose looked as though it had been smashed or maybe just shifted, moved aside.
“What do you have to tell me, boy?”
The veiled eyes didn’t blink, studying him with the chilly interest of a predator facing an unworthy meal, a squeaking forest mouse instead of a plump rabbit or a healthy dog. Miztli tried to force his cracked lips into working, his mouth dry, tongue like a dead weight, swollen but useless, the sides of his throat clinging to each other. The thirst that was haunting him the whole day now became unbearable and just as he needed to talk, to say things.
“Well, will you talk or will they have to make you?” demanded the man, ominously calm, his voice gaining an unpleasant caressing quality.
“I… I’ll tell you… the things…” It came out ridiculously strident, more of a rasp than normal speech, cut by the barking cough that he could not hold in, a grating ugly sound. He tried not to double over, anxious to keep his hands and their lack of ties away from his interrogator’s attention, facing the man against the rocking bark, choking in merciless convulsions.
Through the veil of tears the cough brought, he could see his interrogator’s eyes narrowing.
“Get him something to drink,” he tossed curtly, half turning his head, making some of his followers scatter. The rest were bestowed with a contemptuous snort. “Can’t you make this one look more presentable, eh? He’ll die on us at any moment, choking and gagging. Is that the sight worthy of my eyes, eh, you lowly scum?”
The rest muttered, lowering their heads humbly, not prostrating themselves but looking as though they might. Over the worst of the cough, Miztli watched, fascinated against his will. As long as the man was busy getting angry at his captors, he wouldn’t be busy making him talk. And maybe, just maybe…
“Let him drink, then clean him some.” The broad back was upon them, drawing away together with the indifferent voice. “Bring him to me when he can talk without choking. Send someone and I will let you know where.”
He didn’t dare blink, watching the swaying cloak blocking the doorway yet again, its patterns pretty and bright, glittering with polished turquoise. The remaining men stirred, looking at each other.
“A haughty piece of rotten meat,” one of them muttered through pressed lips.
“Well, you heard Honorable Teconal.” This time, he recognized the voice easily. The man from the boat. Not the one who insisted on dumping him overboard. He breathed with relief. “Clean the boy some, give him something to drink. Water, then after the cleaning, pour him some pulque. This will give him enough strength to go through the questioning without collapsing once again.” He could see the wide shoulders lifting in a shrug. “If his information will not displease our revered noble, that is. Otherwise, count that pulque as a spilled out beverage.” The broad face moved closer, swam into his view. “On second thought, give him that pulque first, before the attempted washing. Then give him another cup, just before setting out. Maybe it’ll help. Can’t make Revered Teconal angrier than he is now, can we?” The narrowed eyes twinkled, one of them shutting momentarily, in a sort of a wink. “Hold on, wild boy. Try to do your best and you may live to see the next dawn.” A slightly mocking grin joined the wink. “Our trade welcomes people with enough spirit and guts. And if combined with physical strength like yours…” Straightening up, the man shook his head. “Do your best and you may have a chance.”
The rest of them followed yet another retreating back, leaving him blissfully alone, limp with relief. The aftershock of the confrontation dawned, making his entire body shake. He curled in a ball, trying to gather his senses. What could he say to that dangerously calm, richly dressed noble, so cold and menacing without saying one threatening word? And what if they would try to beat the truth out of him, what if they tried to find what he knew by torture? What then? Would he manage to convince them that the tidbits of the Tenochtitlan Royal Enclosure’s gossip was all that he knew without being pressed to reveal his sources? He could not mention anyone; neither Chantli with her royal family boy carrying the name of the water monster, her source of information, nor Patli, nor their calmecac accomplices. If these people managed to track him down on the same evening they had become aware of his presence, then no one was safe from them, no one!
Shuddering, he looked at the doorway, now a mere outline, dim and opaque, pouring grayish light through the gaping entrance that no one bothered to close this time. Was it time? It was not suitably dark yet, and the people who were sent to bring water and pulque might be on their way back already. And yet, it was his chance now, his only chance.
Clinging to the wall he was leaning against for the entire day, he managed to claw his way into an upright position, his head reeling badly, threatening to make him fall. The doorway looked terribly far, a gray rectangle, promising safety. Just to reach it somehow.
Digging his fingers into the crevice of the nearby beam, he pulled himself up, then partly pushed, partly threw himself toward the next wall, clinging to it with his entire body, pleased with his success. Another such leap looked like a wild bet, so he dragged himself along the rough wooden planks, delighted at the touch of the light breeze reaching him through the cracks and the now-near doorway. So close.
Before he could grab another supportive beam, a shadow fell across the earthen floor, a faint outline, barely noticeable but there. His heart stopped, then threw itself wildly against his ribs. Somehow, he knew it was none of the men sent to bring him water or pulque. Also that the intruder was here for him, not for the goods stored in this place. The way he stared now, surprised but alerted, already on the move and pouncing, told him that.
He tried to dart away, swaying backwards and toward the safety of the other wall, but of course his attacker was faster, his hands strong and reeking of fish, one grabbing his shoulder, crushing it in a stony grip, the other pressing into his mouth with too much force, slamming his head against the choppy planks as though eager to crush it an
d be done with it.
In desperation, he bit the smothering hand, revolted by the salty taste of the coarse skin but determined, not about to get beaten again, kidnapped anew, or choked to death, for that matter. The rock-hard palm was squashing his nose as well, blocking most of the air from coming in or out.
Kicking with all his might, free to do so with the heavy body pinning him to the wall, which freed his legs from the necessity to support him, he sank all his teeth into the smothering hand, putting it all into another savage bite. A muffled groan was music to his ears, but as the bitten hand slipped, allowing the air back into his clogged nose, he felt the other one returning in an unmistakable fashion.
Not quick enough to move out of the heavy fist’s path, he busied himself with another kick before the already familiar explosion brought the floating sensation back, as strangely reassuring as back in the temple. He didn’t remember reaching the floor, but being dragged along it ruined some of the calming effect.
“What a wild beast, the stinking dung-eater,” the muffled voice muttered, somehow familiar, shattering his sense of security once again, making him struggle against the floating sensation and the hands that were pulling him on as though he was a bag with provisions, not something one might be afraid to damage, to avoid multiple collisions with the obstacles dotting the earthen floor. The man from the boat! Oh mighty deities, but he did remember this voice, talking in between the paddle’s splashing, insisting on throwing the prisoner into the lake, on letting him drown and have ahuitzotls feasting on his flesh. Oh mighty deities!
Chapter 12
Only when their flickering torch went off did it become truly frightening. Until then, she felt good enough, thrilled by the adventure, enchanted by it, not distressed by the pressing walls and their crumbling, dank, leaking stones. Well, not too badly. Not like the others, especially Patli and the other calmecac boy, whose distress was too pronounced, proclaimed in their hunched shoulders and their lowered heads, the colorlessness of their pressed lips.