Jaguar Princess

by Clare Bell

  “Well, I did not know that. I will certainly report it when we arrive.”

  “And then the Jaguar’s Children will rescue him?” She tried not to let her eagerness show in her voice.

  “No.”

  “Why not? If he is one of them…”

  “He was,” said Latosl laconically. “When he was a young man, he did a few unwise things and got himself exiled. I do not think that anyone will raise a hand to help him. You were lucky that they were even willing to listen when he told them about you.”

  Mixcatl was quiet, feeling her hopes sink once again. She realized that she knew very little about Nine-Lizard. There was the irascible old man, the disciplined glyph-painter and the surprisingly gifted artist. But beyond that, she knew nothing. What had he done to make his own kind turn their backs on him?

  She was going to ask Latosl, but decided against it. The youth’s words had a way of running around in circles and making her dizzy. She wasn’t sure she believed everything else he had said either. If Nine-Lizard was also a were-jaguar, why hadn’t he said something. Surely he must have been terribly lonely, especially if he had been cut off from his own people since his youth. How could he have stood it, being beside her all the time and keeping his true nature a secret? And why?

  Mixcatl gave up. She was accumulating more mysteries than she had answers. Well, she knew at least one thing. When the canoe reached Tenochtitlan, she would do all she could to find the old man and, if possible, gain his freedom.

  She glanced at Latosl. Had the things she mentioned made him suspect what she planned?

  With a deep sigh, she said, “I wish we could go directly to the settlement.”

  “Do not worry,” Latosl said indulgently. “You will be safe in the canoe.”

  She hunched up, drawing her cloak and blanket close about her against the predawn cold. Latosl got up and went to the bow. She let her head fall forward and slipped into a doze.

  20

  THE SCRAPE AND shudder of wood against stone jolted Mixcatl from sleep. She raised the blankets that had been laid over her to conceal her and keep out the lake’s chill. The craft rocked as Latosl and the other hooded crewmen went to the stern and prow to toss ropes over stone blocks. She knuckled her eyes, peered into the pink glow and long shadows of dawn, then tensed as she recognized the canals and quays of the market square where she had been sold as a slave.

  Tenochtitlan! They were here already and she was still muzzy from slumber. She had assumed that when the craft moved from the lake into a canal, the change in motion might wake her, but she had been too deeply asleep to notice.

  She huddled back under the mats and blankets, lifting one corner to glance up at Latosl, who was maneuvering the boat’s stern to dock by hauling on the line he had cast. Another man at the bow coiled his rope, tossed, caught and began hauling. The canoe drifted sideways, rocking gently. Mixcatl watched as the span of dark-green canal water between the hull and the dock narrowed.

  When the side of the canoe touched the quay, she felt an urge to throw off the coverings, leap out and disappear into the city. She stayed where she was. It would be easier to escape later, when Latosl and his crew were at the market, leaving only two men to watch her.

  It seemed to take an agonizingly long time for Latosl to get the canoe secured, choose who was to accompany him and who would stay behind, and finally to depart. When Mixcatl peeked out and saw the market party finally disappearing, she felt relieved. She was anxious and eager to find Nine-Lizard and she had at least part of a plan.

  She was wearing the same huipil blouse and skirt that she had worn in the House of Scribes. She had on a short mantle, tied with the knot commonly used by scribes. She also had a bundle containing her paints, brushes and a blank folded book. Even if the guards at the precinct’s gate did not recognize her face, her costume and the contents of the bundle should get her inside.

  The two men assigned to guard her were at either end of the boat, alert for anyone who might approach. Soon one began to doze, lulled perhaps by the canoe’s rocking. The other made some sharp comments to rouse his companion, but when he saw that no one seemed interested in the boat or its passengers, he gave up.

  Mixcatl’s fingers tightened around her bundle as she pulled the coverings slightly aside to spy on the two. She waited until one man was snoring and the other was looking away. Then, with a scramble and a bound, she was out from under the blankets, on the quay and running.

  Ignoring the startled shouts from behind her, she fled down the docks and then into the open-air market, hoping to lose herself among the stalls and vendors who had already set up shop in the predawn hours and who were now crying their wares. Fearing pursuit, she zigzagged up and down the aisles, making her way through the growing crowd of customers who had come out to enjoy the morning’s cool air and get the best selection of the goods being offered.

  Panting, she crouched behind a pile of sweet potatoes, whose damp skins and streaks of muddy soil indicated they had just been dug. She inhaled the earthy smell, letting it calm her. Then she peered out from behind, looking to see if anyone had followed her. She caught a glimpse of a gangly figure in a hooded cloak and prepared to flee again, but after peering about in several directions, the man lifted his hands helplessly at the confusion of the marketplace.

  Mixcatl felt a slight sting of guilt as she watched him disappear toward the quay area. He would be scolded for failing to keep her safe. She wished she could have told him why she had to desert the boat.

  She knew that the crestfallen guard would find Latosl and soon the entire party might be searching for her. These men from the Jaguar’s Children might be able to detect one of their own, even when hidden in a crowd. If she was any judge of Latosl’s tenacity, her interval of freedom would be short.

  Keeping an eye out for Latosl or any of the canoe’s other crew, she came out from behind the pile of sweet potatoes and walked quickly out of the market toward the center of the city.

  Mixcatl soon came to the ceremonial temple district where the House of Scribes stood among other religious and official buildings. As she neared the high crenelated Snake Wall, she felt a mixture of relief and apprehension. She was now on familiar ground; she had walked this way many times on errands while living in the House of Scribes. Once she passed through a gate into the great plaza, Latosl and his companions couldn’t reach her. The warrior-guards would turn away anyone not dressed as a noble, priest or scholar. She was unsure, however, if she could indeed get in. Although she still wore the appropriate dress, it had been a long time since the warrior-guards at the entrances had seen her.

  She might get in by the smaller opening that was used by occupants from the House of Scribes. It was seldom guarded, but it led directly into the courtyard of the House. She would be in trouble if she were to be seen there, for everyone thought she was in Texcoco. Reluctantly she decided to enter by the main ceremonial entrance and hoped that her clothing and the contents of her bundle would get her through.

  Once inside the Snake Wall, she would have to cross the plaza in the shadow of the great stepped temple-pyramid of Hummingbird. Venturing near the pyramid gave Mixcatl cold chills. She would end her life on Hummingbird’s altar if she was caught. Remembering the smoke from the burning offerings that had sickened her so, she was grateful that no offerings were being made today.

  Thoughts raced around in her mind, and her heart thudded as she hurried along the wide walkway just outside the sacred precinct. To her right stood the Snake Wall, to her left a canal. At the base of the wall stood huge carved serpent heads, spaced evenly five or six paces apart. She passed the last stone serpent face and mounted the wide steps leading up to the brightly painted triple archway that led out onto the sacred plaza.

  She wished she could hide amid a throng of people, but on a nonceremonial day such as this, only a thin stream of visitors entered and left through the gate. High-ranking warriors strutted about in their plumed headdresses and eagle-feather cost
umes. Nobles’ capes were ablaze with fierce orange, black, yellow and green, in spiral designs or intricate interlocking shapes. Sunlight sparkled on jewels set into bronzed faces.

  Even though bright sunlight spilled down around her, the first steps felt clammy beneath her bare feet. She stared at the colorful facade of the entryway, not wanting to watch the expressions of the guards. She knew that her plain scribe’s dress would set her apart from the richly arrayed visitors. Perhaps if she looked as though she had a perfect right to enter, she could pass through without being questioned.

  She was just stepping into the cool shadow of the center tunnel when the challenge came.

  “You, slave. What is your business?”

  She forced herself not to flinch, freeze or run at the sound of the guard’s gruff voice. Instead she turned around slowly. She faced two warrior-guards, who were almost as well garbed as the high-ranking warriors passing in and out of the portal. Even their spears bore tassels and collars of plumes, but the obsidian tips looked sharp.

  She glanced at the one who had spoken, then averted her eyes, as was proper for a slave. “I am from the House of Scribes. I have been summoned by the priests of Hummingbird.”

  “Why?” the warrior asked, scowling. He was a powerfully muscled, big-bellied man. A jagged scar went down the outside of one thigh and his face was hardened by battle. His companion was thinner and his face looked less severe.

  “To compose a document,” she answered.

  “I have never seen the scribes send a young woman. You are just another slave who wishes to gawk at the sights in the plaza.”

  Mixcatl felt the pavement begin to grow moist beneath her feet. Her mouth went dry and her tongue felt sticky. “I have official business with the temple of Hummingbird.” She took her bundle of paints, brushes and the blank folded book from her shoulder and opened it, displaying the contents.

  “She is wearing the garb of a glyph-painter as well,” said the other warrior-guard, but the first one refused to abandon his suspicions.

  “What is the content of your document?”

  Mixcatl took a deep breath and summoned all her dignity. “I am to prepare an account of the upcoming sacrifice.”

  “Oh, the animal-witch,” said the second warrior-guard. “I have heard gossip about such an offering. This victim must be a powerful sacrifice, since the priests are holding him for an auspicious day.”

  So Nine-Lizard has not been killed, she thought. But I cannot depend on rumors.

  “What is your name?” the first guard asked.

  “Seven-Flower,” she answered.

  “Who is the Master of Scribes?”

  Mixcatl gave the name, hoping that nothing had changed in the time that she had been away. She saw by the expression in his face that her answer was correct.

  “They have never sent a woman,” he growled, still unsatisfied.

  “I think I have seen her before, Twelve-Monkey,” the second man said to his companion. “I was posted at a smaller gate used by the scribes and I recognize her face.”

  The first warrior-guard lowered his spear. “Be about your business, glyph-painter. But if I see you loitering and gawking, I will seize you by the hair and throw you into the canal.”

  Slinging her carry-bundle over her shoulder, Mixcatl walked swiftly through the entryway before the man could change his mind. She felt nervous sweat crawl between her breasts and down her ribs beneath her blouse. Tension made the beast in her start to wake.

  No, not now, she thought, trying to calm herself by breathing evenly and concentrating on the beauty of the feathered banners and gaily colored tiling of the plaza.

  From a distance she caught the white flash of bone against the dark timbers of the rack where the priests displayed the skulls of sacrificial victims. To her left the great pyramid reared up toward the sky, but she dared not turn her head to look at it, fearing she might lose either her nerve or her resistance to transformation. The beast inside had been growing more restive ever since she had left Latosl’s canoe.

  Going past the skull rack would not be pleasant, but from it she could learn if Nine-Lizard had already been sacrificed. The possibility of his death had haunted her ever since Wise Coyote had told her of the old man’s capture. The king of Texcoco believed that Nine-Lizard would not be offered immediately, but Mixcatl wasn’t so sure.

  She passed a low stone dais with wide steps leading up to a raised platform. Beyond it stood a higher pedestal that supported a horizontal carved disk of stone. Here, she knew, prisoners of war were sacrificed by being tethered to the center of the disk and forced to battle Jaguar and Eagle Knights until wounds or exhaustion ended their lives. Again she gave silent thanks that no captives were fighting today.

  Mixcatl chose a path that led her directly to the front of the rack. She might not be able to find Nine-Lizard’s head among so many others, but if his scent were among those swirling in the fetid air, she could abandon any useless attempt at rescue. Perhaps she might even be able to return to the dock and reboard Latosl’s canoe so that she could continue her journey to the settlement. Only then would she mourn the old man. And she would also send word to Wise Coyote that it was too late for him to come to Tenochtitlan.

  Without pausing in her stride, she searched the rows, dreading to find Nine-Lizard’s head among them. At the same time, she sought for traces of the old man’s scent. It was easier if she allowed the beast in her to come forth a little, for it was not as sickened by carrion as the human part of her. The unnatural odor of burning flesh was what the jaguar could not bear.

  She tried to rest her gaze on each only long enough to see that it was not the old man’s, but she could not help seeing details.

  The heads were impaled through the ear region, strung side by side on a slender pole and placed horizontally on the rack. Some skulls were clean, polished either by scavengers or exposure. Others had shreds hanging from cheekbones or eye sockets. Many had enough dried and shrunken flesh left to see the remains of features. Some were horrifyingly fresh, enough to attract a cloud of flies.

  To her profound relief, Mixcatl found no trace of Nine-Lizard anywhere.

  “Slave, what are you doing lingering about?” The voice came from so close behind her that she gasped and whirled.

  The voice was not that of the entryway guard, as she feared. Instead she stared at a black-smeared figure whose tangled, soot-caked hair proclaimed his membership in the priesthood of Hummingbird. For an instant she was too frightened to speak and the beast threatened to possess her. Then she found her voice.

  “I am from the House of Scribes,” she said, and repeated the same story she had previously given. She had little hope that he would accept it, for surely all who served Hummingbird would be on the lookout for one who had escaped the altar.

  The priest eyed her suspiciously. “If you have been summoned by my superiors, why are you dawdling near the skull rack?”

  She felt a start of surprise, having expected the man to seize her and shout loudly that a sought fugitive had been found. Gathering her wits, she stammered, “It is my first time in the sacred plaza, honored one. I was overawed…”

  “More likely you were indulging frivolous curiosity,” said the priest severely.

  Mixcatl closed her eyes meekly. “Yes, honored one,”

  “I will escort you, scribe, to see that you do not waste any more time.” He turned on a sandaled heel, demanding that she follow.

  Though she hated the priest’s harsh manner and the rancid stink of his hair, she soon realized that his presence kept her from being intercepted by other people. Beside him, she appeared more legitimate.

  “This is where the high officials work,” he said, indicating a windowless building ahead. “You must have been summoned by one of them.”

  He walked her inside.

  Fearing that he would insist on showing her right to the official whose request she was supposedly answering, she said, “I have inconvenienced you enough, honored
one. I will find my own way.”

  “Very well, but if I see you where you are not supposed to be, I will call upon the House of Scribes and demand that you be punished.”

  “Yes, honored one.” She turned and began to walk briskly away, not letting the priest have a chance to change his mind.

  She was in a massive pillared hallway, its sandstone facings lit by torches. A few white-mantled officials and other priests walked past her in both directions, but none questioned her.

  Thanks to that priest, I got in; but I am not sure that this is really the right place.

  When she saw an intersecting hallway ahead, she felt more uncertain but she dared not slow her pace and thus reveal her lack of confidence. Just as she was about to make an arbitrary choice, a man dressed as a temple servant walked past her and went down the opposite way. In the breeze of his passing, she caught a trace of the scent she had desperately hoped to find, the smell of an old man mixed with the faint yet lingering aroma of brushes and paints. Nine-Lizard!

  Quickly she checked to make sure she was not being fooled by the smell of her own paints and brushes. No. She turned around and followed the servant, whose footsteps were fading down the hallway.

  She trailed the man through several corridors, always being careful to keep her distance and not arouse suspicion. The servant disappeared through a portal lit not by torchlight but by bright sun. The odor of fresh flowers and leaves told her that he had gone into a garden or courtyard.

  Pausing before the threshold, she peered through, not wanting to emerge blindly into the open. The sound of voices ahead made her more cautious, but she did not want to lose track of the servant. She saw him skirt a crowd of priests and officials gathered in the courtyard. To her relief, he paused to speak to someone else. She was about to enter the courtyard when she spotted the priest who had escorted her.

  She halted, knowing that if he saw her wandering around, he would probably descend wrathfully on her and she would certainly lose track of the man she was trying to follow. Frantically she searched both sides of the courtyard, hoping to find either a shadowed walkway or a parallel passage she could use without having to cross the open area.