The Sacrifice Game jd-2

by Brian D'Amato

  “So then,” he said, “after the end,

  We may have close frontiers on all four sides.”

  It was a super understatement, like saying “It’s going to be a bumpy night.” I looked at Koh. She looked at me and we both looked at Hun Xoc. It was like, damn, maybe we’re screwed. We’re leftovers-to-be. We came all this way and we were still fucked. I felt guilty about it, I’d walked them into the worst possible situation when we all shoulda stood in bed.

  The troops’ getting behind schedule hadn’t been any kind of a shock. It had more been one of those things where something’s just a little uneasy-making, and then it gets worse and worse, and as it gets worse you also realize how significant it is, until by the bitter end you’re wondering how you could have let the seed of the situation sprout in the first place.

  Laughter, or what might be better described as frantic giggles, seeped in from the crowd outside. Probably the contortionists and animal jugglers had come on, which meant it was later than I’d thought. Then the mockers would come on and then the first ball would drop at the instant the east end of the court fell completely into the shadow of the Ocelots’ emerald mul. The timing was partly because otherwise one side would be trying to score goals into the low sun, but mainly because the ball was an astral body, so you wanted to launch it only when it wasn’t competing with the sun.

  Hun Xoc asked how many bloods we really had to count on when they did get here. He didn’t use any of the code languages. I guess we’re sure nobody’s listening, I thought. Still, this whole side of the court was supposed to be Harpy territory for the duration of the festival.

  Coati answered that we had at least thirty score coming, but to keep in mind that at least fifteen score of them were loosely trained, not yet full bloods. There were also about ninety score nonmale supporters. It was a huge army by Maya standards and respectable even by Teotihuacanob ones. More than enough to tip the balance if it was deployed correctly.

  Coati asked Hun Xoc whether there was any sense that the Ocelots knew the Rattler’s Brood was headed this way.

  Hun Xoc said apparently not. He said the Harpies only had one informer left inside the Ocelots’ inner household, and she might not even be an accurate source, but that at least as of this morning they all thought Koh’s converts were still heading southwest to Kaminaljuyu. Evidently 1 Gila had even sent a couple of advance parties to Kaminaljuyu and back just to increase that impression. As far as Koh’s presence here at the festival went, the Ocelots seemed to think she was swinging by here to pick up a few deserters and family members from the Harpy House to add to her army of converts on her way to her presumed new city in the south.

  And so, if the Rattler’s Brood is just beginning to trickle into the preserve now, how fast could the first of them get to the gates? 20 Blue Snail asked.

  Coati said 1 Gila and the managers of the Harpy preserves would know better than she would. But from the latest runners he guessed at least a quarter-day, which meant by Vega rising, about two A.M. And if we wanted them to show up armed and briefed and formed up into any kind of battle array and not completely exhausted, it would take longer. Even if we sent word to only send the bloods, and to send them at a run, we were still looking at an arrival time of Jupiter rising, or a little before midnight.

  Hun Xoc started to make some kind of crack about Coati’s name, but 2JS cut him off.

  Unfortunately, 2 Jeweled Skull said, the ball game won’t last half that long.

  (30)

  I’d say everyone looked around at each other, except around here one didn’t eyeball people, so it was more as though we all sensed around at each other.

  2JS said that tonight the Ocelots would make sure they’d win before the crowd got tired, before they’d even peaked, and while there was still plenty of time for them to contest the outcome if they needed to. And the best time for them to start the fight would be right at the end of the hipball game, when their crowd was the most pumped. And they’d pull something even faster if they got an inkling of armed Rattler troops coming close to Ix. The instant the Rattlers show themselves, the maximum time we’d have remaining to win the game would be the time it would take for a spy-runner to get from 2JS’s preserves to 9 Fanged Hummingbird, and for 2JS to issue instructions. Which could be as little as four hundred beats.

  And without the Rattler’s Brood, how long could we hold out in a direct fight? Koh asked through Coati.

  Over a day if we were back at Harpy House on the mainland, Hun Xoc said. But 2 Jeweled Skull and the rest of us are going to be cut off in the temple district. Even supposing we dug in at the council house or one of the field houses, we’d last less than a quarter-day.

  14 Wounded asked for the floor. So, then, our father, he said, what plans do we have?

  Uh-oh, you’re out of line, I thought. You don’t have the seniority to question 2 Jeweled Skull. On the other hand, it wasn’t time to stand on ceremony. On the third hand, they didn’t think of it as ceremony, they thought of it as the way the universe was.

  2JS answered, though. If they cheat, he said, or if they overstep their wager, we’ll fight them with whatever we’ve got. He said he’d position a blowgun squad among our supporters in the stands.

  Blowgun squad? I wondered. Did that mean he’d acted on some military-strategy idea he’d picked out of my head? Wasn’t he afraid of a Cosmic Censor who doesn’t exist? Were we better prepared than he was saying? How much wasn’t he telling me? This is no fun whatsoever, it’s just completely frustrating.

  But beyond that? 14 Wounded asked. His voice was getting a little shrill.

  Beyond that there’s nothing more we can do, 2 Jeweled Skull said. 9 Fanged Hummingbird would get all sorts of kudos for finally capturing us. In fact, he was counting on the fact that Severed Right Hand was only eleven days away-although 9 Fanged Hummingbird would certainly need to be unusurpably in charge of Ix when Severed Right Hand arrived.

  And what support can we count on from the other aquiline clans? 14 Wounded whined again. That is, clans related to the Harpies of Ix, the Caracaras of Teotihuacan, and the sixty or so other Eagle lineages throughout Mesoamerica. It was a serious question but more than a little indelicate and it wasn’t at all right for him to pile one question on another like this.

  2 Jeweled Skull said that his main effort during the last eighty-five days-besides training the team and holding out against the Ocelots’ little raids and tax assaults-had been solidifying his support with other clans, both aquiline and feline. But when he’d appealed directly to the Eagle clans of Motul and Caracol, they’d turned him down. It had been an unpleasant surprise.

  We should never have let 1 Gila split our forces, 14 Wounded said.

  Whoa, I thought again. Dude, you’re getting yourself in trouble. 14 was kind of a goofus but I almost felt a little sorry for him. I tilted my head to the left and they passed the right to speak around to me, like an invisible microphone. Wasn’t it also true that the Ocelots would let the ball game run a little while first? I asked.

  Hun Xoc said that was correct. The Ocelots usually liked to hold off pulling the first fix until at least the ninth ball or so. Otherwise the public-which really meant the guest royalty and village cargo bearers, not so much what we’d call the actual masses-might feel cheated themselves.

  I asked what kind of a cheat he thought the Ocelots were likely to use.

  Well, first, he said, since they’d had the two best Harpy players disqualified-and he added that the Ocelots probably set them up to get caught with prostitutes and how if we got through this he was going to have them skinned and salted-the Ocelots simply had a better team. So they might win fairish and squarish anyway. But if things weren’t going their way by about the hundredth point, they’d probably do one of three things. There might be bad dead-ball calls against us, the equivalent of out calls. They might have set a couple of our own Harpy players to throw a point or two. Even though the players on both sides were supposed to be sequestered befo
re the hipball game, people do get turned when their families are threatened. And if for some reason all that didn’t work, they might bring in a loaded ball.

  2JS said no, they only had one informer left in the house, and he couldn’t help with the game.

  What about Koh’s earthstar stuff? I wondered. But of course it was too slow-acting for this gig. As it was, we might all be dead by morning.

  Damn.

  We are in trouble. Weareintrouble weareintroubleweareintrouble.

  We just need another ten-score beats or so, I thought. That’s not a lot.

  I asked who was on the Harpy team.

  Hun Xoc said 24 Pine was the coach-he was one of Chacal’s old mentors, the one they called the Teentsy Bear-and 9 Dog and 6 Cord were the starting strikers, or strikers. 3 Deer, 1 Black Butterfly, and 7 Sweatbath were the starting blockers. They were all decent players, kids I’d played or trained with in the past, but not stars. It was a solid defensive backline but they’d disqualified our serious strikers. 6 Cord, who had the nickname “Drunken Wildcat,” was fast and fierce and might be good for three or four goals, but he couldn’t score and keep on scoring. The nine substitute players were basically just the usual second line from the old days, with a few rookies. Nobody major. All of the team’s really good players had gotten lured away back during 2JS’s tax trouble, even before my aborted sacrifice on the mul.

  I asked who the starting five were on the Ocelots’ team.

  They said 2 Howler, 4 Howler, and Under 5 were the defensive line. The Howlers, whose enemy names were “Flabby Bitch Monkey” and “Even Flabbier Bitch Monkey,” were really just a couple of thuggish Ocelot greathouse bloods who liked to beat people up and think of themselves as ball stars. Under 5, who had the nickname “Mudbag,” was more of a famous guard than an effective one, totally over the hill compared to me, that is, to Chacal. They said the blind-side striker-or left striker-would be Emerald Immanent and the open-side striker was 20 Silence.

  Hmm, I thought. Both of them were truly dangerous players, professional ballplayers temporarily adopted into the Ocelots. Still, I thought I could deal with Emerald Immanent. Despite his name he wasn’t really that quick. In fact his current nickname was “Suffocation” because he tended to just mash you against the banks until your lungs collapsed. I’d played two games of one-on-one hipball with him and won both.

  20 Silence was a different story. We’d played against each other only once, in the big game at Blue Stone Mountain, and had pretty much run circles around each other the whole time, while most of the other players, on both sides, got hamburgered all over the court. He was a true no-sell, a real glutton for pain. We’d won, finally, but it hadn’t been his fault. That had been one of my last big games, and since then 20 Silence had become the leading scorer in what you could loosely call the league. His most popular nickname was “400 Weasels.” He was the one who’d killed those backs in the hipball contest that Hun Xoc and everyone had been talking about on our way up to Teotihuacan, the one who’d pulled 23 Crow’s eyeballs off their optic nerves after 23 Crow scored that incredible goal. It had been kayfabe, of course, but even so, he wasn’t just a heel. He was also a point machine. Even so I thought that with a good striker our team could put them away without much trouble.

  Which other Ball Brethren are ready to play? I asked.

  That was 9 Fanged Hummingbird’s brilliancy, 2JS said. He made sure our best players left us just before he challenged us. And after that we were such underdogs nobody would join us, they were afraid of getting killed or sacrificed.

  What about the handicapping? I asked.

  He said we hadn’t been able to negotiate much and keep our face.

  But they won’t stop the hipballs with us ahead, I said.

  He said no. If they did we’d pick up too much popular support from outside clans that had taken long-odds bets on us.

  And if we could delay the contest, I asked, wouldn’t it be better for the Rattler army to stay down for now and come in after dark anyway?

  We can’t delay it, Hun Xoc said. If you weren’t there when the first ball fell, you lost.

  Fine, I thought, anything you say, we’re fucked whatever we do. I asked what they thought would happen if we won incontrovertibly, even though I really knew the answer.

  Hun Xoc said the Ocelots would start yelling that we cheated and start a fight anyway. So we were looking at a fight whatever we did. The best thing for us to do would be to keep ahead without actually winning. Until our troops were ready. But the Ocelots might pull little things during the game, bad calls or illegal traps. We’d need to be good enough to stay ahead on scoring even if they got away with some of that stuff. We’d need to score beyond what they could take away.

  Maybe we need a ringer, I said. The phrase wasn’t really like “ringer,” of course, it was more like “one who has hidden his strength,” but it was the same idea. I said a good striker could keep the score nearly even until we got our act together.

  All the good players are being watched, Hun Xoc said. It was probably true. There were only a few ballplayers in the world who were capable of going head-to-head against 20 Silence. And even though pitzom was a team sport, the outcome usually depended more on matching one-against-one than, say, basketball.

  So maybe I should just go in and play, I said. I’d keep us ahead and drag the game out as long as possible.

  Silence. I resisted looking at anyone’s face.

  (31)

  2 Jeweled Skull followed our team out of the marshaling area into our red home zone. The shrill not-quite-cheering crescendoed and then rose above itself again and again. It was more like an ecstatic whine than a roar, at least by the standards of twenty-first-century sports fans. The sound sloshed from side to side, rising in one ear and falling in the other, following the lead of our two houses’ mockers as they taunted each other across the no-man’s-land at the center of the court.

  All of us Harpy Ball Brethren, like the Ocelots’ team and most of the other Maya ball societies, wore elaborate animal-themed helmets that totally covered our faces. Like with Mexican wrestlers in the twenty-first century, the designs were all in the same style, but each player’s was unique and presumably intimidating. Anyway, they were as good as masks. And my tattoos and scars had been altered right after my arrival-well, “arrival”-here in Olde Mayaland. So I wasn’t likely to get recognized. Just once, as they introduced me under my alias-“10 Red Skink Lizard”-I broke form and turned to look back at the council house. Harpies and Harpy partisans were crawling over every surface. Some adolescent bloods had climbed up the spirit poles to get a better view, which was considered idiotically disrespectful, although at least they were being careful not to cover the effigies’ eyes. I studied the Harpies. They’d brought in an armory-worth of taken-down hand weapons. But it wasn’t a hot day, and like everyone else they’d worn layers of feather cloaks-which would get thrown down to their favorite big scorers-and you couldn’t tell. Despite all the tension, the Ocelots had let us into their precinct without searching us. It just wasn’t done. That is, no one ever brought anything but nonfunctioning ceremonial arms into the ball courts. It wasn’t like the Old West around here, with people wearing guns around town, if even the Old West was ever really like that, which I kind of doubt. And it wasn’t like flying in the U.S. in the twenty-first century, dealing with brownshirts from the TSA. Anyway if the Ocelots got the drop on us and found the weapons, it would be more than enough justification for liquidating the entire house. I snapped my head back around, facing west, toward the ball court and the beyond it the high, steep-sloped emerald wedge of the Ocelots’ mul.

  From overhead the ball court would have looked like a huge capital I, with east at the top, and with two symmetrical banks on either side of the vertical bar. The top of each bank was a flat platform, or reviewing stand, where the highest-ranked spectators stood. Each bank had a sloping apron that descended to the level channel of the playing field at a forty-two-degree angle
, so the structures were like truncated and elongated pyramids with their flat tops about five vertical Ixian arms-twelve feet-above the playing surface. The two bars of the I were marked by low boundary walls but open to the ground level, so that the VIPs could get to us. Beyond these end zones crowds of less important spectators could watch from the grounds surrounding the court and from two main vantage points: On the east, the wide swell of steps leading up to the long facade of the council house, and on the west, from the scarlet-and-emerald dawnward stairs of the Ocelots’ mul, although the eighth level and the temple above it-where I’d first found myself in Chacal’s mind-were empty. Also there had been tiers of extra wooden stands built for this one occasion, fed by a whole network of steps and catwalks behind the official platforms. Greathouse bloods’ hipball games had always been restricted events and the courts weren’t designed for the public. There were no seats, since there wasn’t any point having them. People would just jump up from excitement anyway, the way no one ever really sits down at rock concerts. Even 9 Fanged Hummingbird stood up for hundred-scores of beats in the 105°F+ heat to watch a game. The playing trench between the platforms was brightly painted, divided into the four directional quadrants, with a long line east to west down the center of the trench and a short north to south line bisecting it at the center of the court, so that each color area was about the shape of a capital L, with a quarter-circular bite out of the top left corner where it intersected with the jade-green circle of the central face-off zone. The circle was about a half-rope-length in diameter, say, eleven feet, with an eight-fingers-wide round greenstone block inlaid in its center. There were also two other stone markers set into the playing surface, one at each point where the top of the lower bar of the L intersected with the east-west middle line. The actual goals were three pairs of pegs jutting out from the vertical risers at the top of the sloping banks. They faced each other across the trench, one pair at the center and a pair on each end, in line with the markers. Only the central pair of targets was really important. Each was roughly a ten-inch cube. But really you don’t need to know any of that to understand what was going on in the game. You get a notion of it if you think of it as body soccer with a bowling ball.