Obsidian Puma (The Aztec Chronicles Book 1)

by Zoe Saadia

  “Not when there are too many of them and too little of us.” Chuckling, Axolin followed, falling into Necalli’s stride easily, as always the best of company. It was difficult to imagine that they hadn’t met until two summers ago, admitted to the prestigious Royal Enclosure’s school at the customary age of twelve, the children of minor nobility, as opposed to the pillis of the royal family. He shook his head, remembering that scampering-away Ahuitzotl.

  “Stupid frog-eaters; that’s the only way they can get anywhere against us.” His snort shook the air, full of confidence and scorn, and it pleased him, the sound of it. They were nothing, those commoner schools’ boys, trained to fight sometimes, yes, but only as regular warriors, replaceable, lacking in true valor or skill. “But Patli is not after fights. If he gets admitted to our calmecac, he’ll be trained as a priest, that one. And, I don’t know, he knows his way around some places.”

  Chapter 2

  There was no point in trying to wipe the sweat off his face, even if his hands had been free to do that. Which they weren’t.

  Clutching the accursed straw, its edge sticking out of the clay brazier, crowned with a typical clay tip and its other unadorned edge keeping his mouth busy, Miztli paid as little heed to the scorching heat as he could, accustomed to its assaulting attention by now. It washed over his face and his body in a powerful surge, incessant but familiar, a part of his daily routine.

  With the crack of every dawn, he would be here, in this smallish room stocked with braziers, making several fires and then maintaining them all day long, blowing into each clay bucket to make its inside heat go up to impossible heights, enough to melt the precious mix of copper and gold, or sometimes other substances, to turn into a beautifully dangerous flow of glowing colors and shapes. Old Tlaquitoc, the renowned metalworker and the owner of the workshop, would deign to peek in every now and then, hurrying away when he wasn’t needed in this hot, airless, smothering space, to wield his annealing hammer or jangle the rest of his intricate tools, leaving his apprentice to bathe in the lake of sweat.

  Like temazcalli, the blissful steam baths, reflected Miztli gloomily, but without their comfortable benches and bundled twigs to rub the sweat off one’s body, to relax and enjoy the wonderful sensation of floating and at peace. Quite to the contrary. Posing next to the burning brazier he was responsible for, armed with an assortment of reed straws with their special clay tips, it needed his entire concentration unless he wished to be burned badly. His predecessor, the boy who had served in this workshop before, still invaded his employer’s conversations, mainly when safety matters were discussed, usually when Miztli did something glaringly careless or stupid.

  There was no room for mistakes in this trade, his benefactor would repeat over and over. With the sort of the fire they maintained and the sort of the metallic liquid they dealt with, one single mistake could cost a person his life or, at least, his ability to live properly. Still, there were times when he didn’t care one way or another, not heedful of the warning of his employer, or rather, slaver. There was a limit to a person’s ability to crouch next to the blazing braziers, blowing to make them rage fiercer. One couldn’t do it all day long for many days in a row.

  The other workers, both sons of the owner and one disinterested nephew named Patli, did other things, hammered and scraped to refine the half-ready products, worked with blades and ceramic ladles on the less delicate ornaments, rushed around with bee-wax and pottery, learned the trade. While all he, Miztli, did was to slave in the melting room, tending the fire and not letting it go down in the insanely high heat, allowed to pour melted goods into various clay and stone utensils sometimes, starting his day earlier than anyone and finishing way after the others were well away at the main house or wherever, loitering and having a good time. He wasn’t a son or a nephew or any other sort of a family member, but his father wanted him to learn how to work the precious metals and not only how to extract those from the earth, and so here he was, living in misery for more than three moons, blowing into the fire to make it rage fiercer. Some learning!

  Grimly, he blinked the sweat away from his eyelids, watching the greenish powder that he was made to scrape from a solid piece of copper earlier in the day, in the blissful coolness of the outer room. There was another pile of powdered stone poured to mix in the pot this time, not gold but a duller-looking mineral. It created better results, a stronger metal that was easier to work with, sturdier but more flexible at the same time. Like magic. It was a beautiful sight, those simmering liquids of various colors, a pretty show to watch. In the beginning, it thrilled him to no end, the ability to turn something solid into a workable flow to be shaped to one’s desire; any form, any size, a jewel or a brick, or just an impossibly thin sheet of metallic wonder to create detailed reliefs for noble establishments upon their request. These days, it bored him to death.

  The outer screen screeched, announcing newcomers, quite a few of them, judging by the voices and the draft that managed to sneak in through the cracks in the wooden screen. Miztli ground his teeth and let his fingers crush the straw he worked with. To throw the remnants of his tool into the raging fire made him feel better. In less than a heartbeat, it was consumed, ceasing to exist – one moment there, the other gone.

  Twisting his lips contemptuously, he reached for another pipe, a whole pile of those, reed straws being as plentiful as the mud upon the shores of the Great Lake, but old Tlaquitoc would grimace all the same, scolding his apprentice for carelessness and lack of concentration. If only there was a way to feed this entire establishment to the fire.

  The draft made his work momentarily easier, igniting the flames in both braziers, as the screen shielding the entrance to his backroom moved, letting a thin surge of the fresher air in.

  “Niltze!” Instead of the squat, wide-shouldered figure of his stocky employer, the lithe form of Chantli slipped in, thousand-folds more welcome. “Still working on that copper from the morning pile?”

  Pleased to notice her moving into the corner of his eye, Miztli smiled with the free side of his mouth, nodding ever so slightly. When busy with such fiercely raging flames, one could take his attention off of it up to a very small limit.

  “Father left for the baths just now.” Curious as always, she came as close as the blistering heat allowed her, peeking into the sizzling pot from a relatively safe distance. “Just copper powder this time?”

  He nodded again, then, unable to fight the temptation, took the pipe out of his mouth, backing away and into a safer zone before turning to face her. Such a refreshing sight, all pliancy and grace, with her smile always beaming, coming straight from her nicely tilted eyes, never away from them; a glaring change from the rest of this household.

  “Father said you are to finish with this brazier, pour it all into those things,” she waved at a load of smallish ceramic vessels, “then not to melt any more powder or whatever is in there for you to melt.” Her smile widened and turned mischievous. “After the baths, he is heading for the Central Plaza and maybe even the Royal Enclosure itself. They sent a servant to summon him there. Maybe he’ll be allowed into the Palace. How about that?”

  He didn’t care one way or another. “He wants me to put the fires off for good?”

  The vigorous nod made her braids jump delightfully high. “He told me to tell you this.”

  He wanted to jump as high as her braids did. “Are you sure?”

  “Oh yes.” Her laughter trilled in the smoldering air. “It’ll be nice to have a whole afternoon without baking in this room, eh? Maybe you can sneak into the house and try to charm Mother into treating you with some fresh tamales. You never make it in time for the evening meals to enjoy them warm and fresh.” Her face shone at him, its excitement unconcealed. “And if you want to know, I’m now to run to the house and make Mother let me dress as prettily as I can, in the best of my clothes. Want to know why?”

  He didn’t care much about that either. “Why?”

  She hesitated, p
oised on one foot, the other in the air, vacillating, ready to run away and into the pleasant coolness of the outside. “I’m to accompany Father. He wishes to take me along.”

  “Into the Palace?”

  “Oh yes!” Another sway of her braids, and she was gone, bestowing on him one more of her glorious beams. He listened to the voices from the outside rooms, praying that no one else would come in to ruin her good news with new chores and demands. Old Tlaquitoc’s sons could do that, easily too, the annoying pieces of rotten meat that they were.

  “Aren’t you done yet?”

  Just as the glowing of the brazier’s embers was back, achieved by much puffing that left him dizzy from the effort, the lanky form of Patli, the coming-and-going nephew, blocked the opening in the screen that Chantli forgot to shut.

  Hovering in the doorway, clearly unwilling to step into the savage heat, the skinny youth squinted like he always did. There was no need to stop one’s activities in order to confirm that assumption. Attending the local telpochcalli school, the spoiled brat had it unfairly easy, exempted from most of the workshop duties, already noticed by his teachers for his brilliant memory, his writing and reading abilities that they didn’t bother to teach in the commoners’ school – Patli couldn’t stop complaining about that, himself prone to poring over long, folded bark sheets deep into the nights – he kept safely away from the melting braziers, further than even both the owner’s grownup sons liked or appreciated. A lucky frog-eater.

  This time, Miztli didn’t bother to take the straw out of his mouth, making his point at being busy, greatly preoccupied. He might have been new to this trade and in a position not much better than a recently bought slave – not a relative to enjoy privileged life like some nephews did – still, he owed his obedience to the owner of the workshop and his sons. There was a limit to his patience with anyone fancying giving him orders. The spoiled lanky schoolboy was not the one feeding him or letting him sleep in the workshop in order not to do it out there in the streets.

  “Old Tequitoc just went out and away, all the way to the Central Plaza, agog with excitement,” related the youth. “The priests of Quetzalcoatl’s main temple sent for him, no more and no less. Which means an easy evening for you, village boy. After this one, you can put your braziers off, they say.”

  Surprised with so much chattiness from the youth who barely noticed his very existence before, Miztli sneaked a reluctant glance, unwilling to let this one know that the news was no news to him.

  “On whose say-so?” he grunted, moving the straw to the side of his mouth.

  The unwelcome visitor shrugged, non-committal, yet he could feel the squinting eyes studying him openly, narrowing either against the fumes or from concentration. Grunting inside, Miztli returned his attention to the contents of the blistering pot. It glittered dully, grayish in coloring, not prettily greenish like the pieces he was made to grind into the easy-to-melt dust. Liquefied, yes, but not perfectly smooth, not yet, with harder congregations still there, floating near the container’s bottom. Thanks all the great deities it wasn’t one of the larger ceramic pots, or he would have to stay here until dusk, additional chores or not.

  “How old are you?” His unasked-for company was still there, watching but offering no help.

  “Fourteen summers,” he muttered, holding his breath against the sizzling wave while leaning to examine the contents of the pot as closely as he dared. The blazing wave was vicious, warning him to keep away.

  “Just pour it into the molds and be done with this mess.” From his safe observation point, the spoiled telpochcalli brat could offer plenty of advice. Miztli swallowed various rude responses that were hovering on the tip of his tongue. This Patli was not as important or as well developed as both grim, dangerously muscled sons of the owner; still, he was older than he and part of this family.

  “It needs to be melted completely,” he said in the end, picking up the pipe, resigned to the necessity of basking in the inhuman heat for some more.

  Offering nothing vocal in the way of response, Patli leaned against the plaster of the doorway, grimacing with a measure of impatience. As though it was his copper goods he was waiting for, an eager customer, reflected Miztli, hard put not to snort despite his mouth being occupied by the annoying straw yet again.

  For some time, the silence held. Above the cracking of the angry fire, they could hear the voices from the main room of quite a few people talking. The owner was back, distributing instructions, brimming with excitement about the temple orders. Nobility, most surely; with plenty of demands and enough cocoa beans to make them all slave deep into the nights, the village apprentice more than anyone, of course. Oh, but why was Father so determined, so set on sending him to this huge, unfriendly capital, to learn something he could have learned back at home? Admittedly, the people of their village did not make intricate jewelry and ornamented sheets of various metals. Yet they were the ones to extract the precious greenish pieces of various shapes and sizes out of the secretive Tonantzin, Our Mother Earth, for the city artisans to melt and fashion into beautiful things. There were plenty of mines all around his village, plenty of beautiful stones and precious metals to extract.

  “Where are you from?” The question hung in the air, echoing his thoughts.

  Bending to examine the contents of the blistering pot once again – but for the prospect of an early release, he wouldn’t have bothered to put his face into the hurtful fumes until more certain about the outcome of the prospective examination – he found no excuses to ignore the question with no pipes occupying his mouth.

  “Teteltzinco, near Oaxtepec.”

  The searing extract was turning satisfactorily fluid. Miztli glanced at the doorway, half hoping that the owner would come in to check on the activities. He wasn’t always allowed to attempt the more intricate parts of the trade, like pouring the precious liquid into its molded casts, even if those were nothing but regular bars for later reheating or reuse. However, if old Tlaquitoc was as busy with his impending trip to the Palace or a temple as Chantli or the lazing-around nephew maintained…

  He forced his eyes back to the glimmering pot, wishing that the curiosity-consumed telpochcalli boy would scatter away, turn around and leave, disappear into the thin air for all he cared. But what if he didn’t manage to lift the heavy pot neatly enough, to handle it properly, or, gods forbid, what if he made it fall, spilling the precious liquid? The pincers felt cumbersome in his hands, not comfortable or handy. He tried to make it look like easy work, clutching the unvarnished handles for dear life, their coated edges made to fasten around the base of the pot, locking it in its firm grip.

  To his endless relief, he managed to lift the heavy container after only a second try, ridiculously pleased with himself. Hands trembling with the effort, he struggled to keep his cargo well balanced, knowing that had he dropped it, the melted copper would be all over the floor, ruining it, and his future along the way.

  The simple-looking ceramic molds Chantli had brought arranged close by in neat rows, he still felt as though forced to walk an entire length of Tenochtitlan’s causeway to reach it. Then another eternity, to bend his cargo carefully, pouring the glowing flow into one shallow pot after another, all those familiar forms. When not forced to sweat here, he was made to slave long evenings shaping those breakable forms out of raw clay, by tens and sometimes by hundreds, creating popularly shaped circles for rings and earrings, only to break their molds one by one after the precious metallic jewelry it helped to create cooled and needed to be liberated. The copper-gold mixed adornments were the last call of Tenochtitlan’s fashion, or so the local metalworkers claimed, frantic to expand their workshops in order to stand the growing demands. This was how he, Miztli, came to be accepted here, curse those Great Capital’s nobles’ fondness of shiny jewelry into the lowest level of the Underworld, and then somewhere lower.

  “Have you been to any brawls?” The loitering nephew was still there, watching with glaring lack of appreciat
ion.

  “What?” Dumping the empty container back on top of the glowing brazier, Miztli struggled to catch his breath, the radiant vividness and the sizzling heat still there, warning to keep away. It took the brazier long to cool down into a possibility of cleaning it.

  “Where you come from, have you been involved in fights and such things?”

  He blinked the sweat away, accustomed to its accumulating in his eyebrows but still annoyed. “Why do you ask that?”

  The dawdling youth made a face. “I’m just curious.” Then the angular shoulders lifted in a shrug. “If you say you are not scared easily and can fight if need be, I’ll take you along.”

  “Where to?” Catching his breath at long last, Miztli wiped his brow, fighting the urge to lean against something and wait for his strength to return to him. His arms felt wobbly, unpleasantly weightless, their trembling noticeable, or so he feared.

  “Go and talk to Acatlo or his younger brother, if they are still around. Ask them to let you go away for a little while. There is no reason why they wouldn’t agree. Those things don’t need you to help them into cooling down, do they? They can do it all by themselves.”

  “Why don’t you ask Acatlo yourself?”

  He didn’t relish the prospect of approaching either of the grim, dangerously high-tempered sons of the owner. So far, both hadn’t deigned to notice his very existence unless the need to perform one of the many unpleasant tasks of the trade presented itself, thousands of small errands. Old Tlaquitoc was stern and not very approachable, keeping his distance while using his apprentice as a cheaply bought slave; still, he wasn’t as harsh and unfriendly as his sons were, above using physical violence, not even an occasional slap. Something that his oldest offspring Acatlo felt was necessary, at least when his demands were not met or understood promptly.