“Rafe, why have you come here?”
“I’m not stupid, Kaab. I know why you tried so hard to stop Micah and me from discovering the truth of the stars and the earth. Your family stands to lose a great deal of money if our own navigators can travel to your home country—”
Kaab smacked her thigh. “It’s not just money! How can you be so ignorant? Right now we Balam have the right to your ports. But if your people start traveling to our home, you will destabilize everything! Think of the other families, powerful and ambitious, who want these Trading rights. Or of the Tullan Empire, which wants nothing better than an excuse to attack Binkiinha and the other Kinwiinik cities. What better excuse than the obvious weakness of Binkiinha’s most powerful family? If your traders succeed in navigating the North Sea, then I might never have a home to return to!”
Rafe kept very still after Kaab finished. She was breathing heavily, as though she had finished a particularly challenging bout with Applethorpe. She almost certainly shouldn’t have told him all of that. Traders were instructed to discuss the politics at home in only the most general terms. But she felt that, now that they had finally admitted the nature of the conflict between them, there wasn’t much point to hiding its real repercussions.
“I . . . Kaab, you must believe me, I had no idea. I only thought . . . it would be a matter of money. I never told my family, you know.”
Kaab searched his face, but it was clear he was telling the truth. “But the duke,” she said. “You told the duke.”
“He was so happy,” Rafe whispered. “He wanted to tell the world. He saw immediately . . . how revolutionary it would be.”
“And so he must have told his wife,” Kaab said. “And now the duke has gone mad.”
Rafe started to sob again. Kaab gave up and put her arm awkwardly around his shoulders.
“I’ll burn my papers,” he said. “I’ll encourage Micah to research turnip-growing cycles. I’ll do anything, just help me find a way to save him. Don’t you have your own physicians? Could one of them see the duke?”
“I suppose so,” Kaab said slowly. “But they couldn’t without the duchess’s permission. Do you think she might . . . ?”
Rafe pulled from his pocket what looked like it had once been a rather fine neckcloth, but was now being used as a handkerchief. He blew his nose several times. “No,” he said shortly. “She would sooner dance naked under the moon.”
“Rafe,” she said, “I am so sorry about your duke. If I think of anything that might help him, I promise I will tell you.”
He gave her a small smile, still genuine. “And I find that I have lost my taste for navigational mathematics. I want to found a school, not a trading company.”
The worst thing was that Kaab believed him. But if this news had already reached the duchess, any hope of stopping it with Micah and Rafe had died. The duchess would understand the implications of that discovery precisely. And if she had not yet made her play with the Balam, it was only because she was arranging the pieces on the mat to her best advantage.
Applethorpe touched the tip of his practice blade to Kaab’s left shoulder gently, almost apologetically. Kaab looked down at it, startled. She had barely seen him move. She certainly hadn’t seen the cut.
“Match,” he said.
Kaab blinked the sweat from her eyes. She meant to walk over and shake his hand, but she found her legs folding beneath her instead. She knelt among the scraggly weeds of the exposed back end of the abandoned building that they had appropriated for their practice sessions and laid her sword and dagger in front of her.
“Was that,” she panted, “better?”
Applethorpe’s green gaze was considering. He said nothing, just caught his breath. That last bout had winded him as well, which Kaab took as a small sort of victory. She had known that Applethorpe was a very good swordsman from their first match, but their subsequent training had made Kaab understand the vast abyss between very good and brilliant. She would never be his equal. But she wasn’t vain enough to let that discourage her.
Applethorpe rested his sword against the wall and squatted in front of her, unmindful of the dirt and grit. “You lasted nearly one full turn of the glass,” he said. “That’s five minutes.”
She began to feel as if she were breathing a little more air and a little less fire.
“Here,” Applethorpe said, and handed her the water gourd which she had brought for the both of them. She drank, but not too quickly, and then handed it to her teacher.
“Much,” he said, and then shook his head and laughed.
“What?”
“Much better. That was twice as long as you’ve ever lasted. I wasn’t holding back, Kaab. My blades didn’t touch you for nearly five minutes because you didn’t let them. But then, sometimes your first kill can do that.”
“Do what?”
“Make you better faster. You discover things within yourself, when your life depends on it.”
“How do you know it was my first?” she asked. Applethorpe didn’t respond, just looked at her sadly, as though the truth were painted on her forehead and she had forgotten to wipe it away. Perhaps men like him could always tell.
Kaab wondered if she should feel something stronger than grim satisfaction, but right now happiness felt beyond her.
“Next time,” she said, “I’ll last longer. Next time, I might even get through.”
She expected Applethorpe to laugh or scoff at her. But that odd, considering look in his eyes deepened, and he smiled with surprising sweetness. “You just might, my girl. When you want something, you’ve got an edge sharper than steel. That Tremontaine swordsman had cause to regret it! You are developing a reputation. And so now I find myself wondering just what it is you’re wanting.”
She thought of the possum in her window, of Citlali’s bloodstained blouse in the light of the just-risen morning star, of Rafe sobbing in her arms as some force he didn’t understand demolished his life—and of Tess, so beautiful and so innocent of the fabric of deceit that Kaab had woven around herself. Kaab would not endanger Tess. Not even to stay with her, if it came to that. But right now she had to do as her aunt said—think of her family first. She had to find a way to control the duchess without hurting Rafe even more. Because she had no doubt that a well-funded campaign to discredit Rafe would destroy his dream of founding a school and might even ruin Micah’s prospects at the University.
Applethorpe had the face of a man thinking a hundred things he wouldn’t say aloud. Kaab was sure she looked the same. Finally, he shrugged and held out a hand to help her up. “Shall we go back, then? Tess will be wondering where I’ve kept you.”
The abandoned courtyard was a short walk from Tess’s rooms. Tess must have been watching the street from her window; she ran down just as Kaab was climbing the worn porch steps. Tess threw her arms around Kaab, unmindful of the sweat and grime and undoubtedly less-than-pleasant smells that clung to her clothes after several hours of hard practice.
“Tess,” Kaab murmured into Tess’s miraculous sunset hair, “my maize flower—”
“Kiss me,” Tess said, demonstrating.
“I’m dirty. I smell very bad—”
“You smell like yourself sweating. If I didn’t like that smell, my bee, I would hardly have wanted you in my bed, now would I?”
At this Kaab kissed her wrinkled nose and pulled her into a gaudily thorough embrace. “I capitulate. I am reminded that I like the smell of your sweat as well.”
“Well, in that case, how about we get upstairs already?”
Kaab had planned on bidding Tess a quick farewell and heading back home, but she found herself climbing the stairs, closing the bedroom door behind her, and cursing at the side laces of Tess’s dress.
“You always yell at these laces,” Tess said, easing Kaab’s hands away. “I wish I knew what you were saying.”
“It’s very improper,” Kaab said. “I wouldn’t seduce you with such words.”
“With wh
at words . . . would you seduce me?”
“It is a combination of gestures and words.” There. Those horrible laces undone, her lover’s beautiful breasts free and glowing in the afternoon sunlight. “Gestures like . . . so . . . and words like ‘my maize flower, more precious than jade, more precious than the plumes of a quetzal . . .’”
She lost her train of thought, but it was all right. Tess had begun to sweat beneath her, and she smelled as fragrant as the rain in Chaacmul’s paradise.
They were resting against each other, having reached a point of mutual pleasure, when Tess shook her shoulder.
“Well?” she said. “Do you think I could?”
“Could you what?” Kaab asked.
“Come to your family’s home one day. I mean, officially. Not like the last time.”
Kaab looked over in alarm. “What made you think of that?”
“I just thought—you know where I live. You know how I live my life. But I know almost nothing about yours.”
“My family isn’t very open to outsiders, Tess.”
“So I’m still an outsider?”
Kaab swallowed her emphatic yes. But Tess looked sour, as though she had heard it anyway.
They fell silent again, still in the other’s embrace, which now felt as stiff and cold as a day-old tamale. Kaab was thinking about the duchess again, about the strangeness of the story of how she came to marry the duke. There was something there; she was sure of it. Some part of that story that she didn’t like told. Her life since coming to the City had been spotless and scandal free. But for all that the duchess presented the facade of a perfect society hostess, Kaab felt as though she could see behind that face. No one acted so innocently as the one who had a secret to keep.
“Kaab?”
“Yes?”
“I was asking about that man you killed. The one you and Vincent say was the duke’s swordsman. Are you listening at all?”
“I’m sorry, Tess,” Kaab said, and turned to kiss her forehead. “I have many duties that are weighing on me.”
Tess sighed. “And would you prefer to attend to them rather than stay with me?”
Kaab sat up, relieved that Tess had suggested it first. “Yes. Dear Tess, yes, that is precisely what I would prefer. I must go to Tremontaine House. I must go there in person and see what I can find. Thank you for being so underst— In fact, I might need you to forge something for me. On very short notice. My family will pay you, of course.”
Tess sucked in a sharp breath. “My god, you can be cold, Kaab.”
Kaab frowned. “What do you mean?”
“Oh, just go. Just go before I hit you with my inkpot. You wouldn’t want me to damage that, not if you want my services.”
Kaab worried a little to see Tess so angry, but she could make her happy again later. She didn’t have time to decipher this unexpected intricacy of Local courtship. Not with the urgency of her duty to her family.
So she pulled on her sweaty fighting clothes, which now felt merely dirty and not potentially sexy. Tess had pulled the covers to her chin and lay with her back to Kaab. When Kaab was dressed, she went around to the other side of the bed to kiss her lover good-bye. Tess let her do it, but didn’t otherwise respond. Kaab sighed.
“I . . . my maize flower, I care about you . . . you can’t know how much.”
“Oh just hurry up and get on with your duties.”
Kaab sighed again and left the bedroom. She found Applethorpe cleaning his sword by the window in the outside room. The walls were not thick; he of course had heard everything. He sketched her a sardonic bow.
“If it’s any consolation, I have found,” he said, “that swordsmen do not make good lovers.”
Kaab bristled. “I’m a great lover!”
“Ah, my girl,” he said, “but loving’s not just about the fucking.”
The lights are low in the Balam compound. In the garden, only a few guards disturb the sleep of the herons and Muscovy ducks. The rats—or any small mammals that resemble them—know well enough to keep to the underbrush when those sandaled feet pass. The extended family and other Kinwiinik have retired to their own homes on the nearby streets of this most unusual Middle City neighborhood. If one follows the dimmed lights through the great peristyle and the smaller family courtyard, through the kitchen whose banked fires glow like the braziers at the heart of the earth, and through another short hallway, one will arrive at a peculiar structure. A square platform, raised from the ground with four steps on its east and west sides, and five on its north. Upon the platform is a small stone house. By the intricate bas-reliefs and the symbolism of the high grille that is raised on all four sides, we are given to understand that this is not a house of any human. This is a house of the gods.
Inside, the family is arranged before two small altars. One is dedicated to Ekchuah, the diving god, and patron of the southern Traders. The other is for Xamanek, the north star, he whose light guides those most intrepid followers of the great road across the sea, between the clouds. A family priest pulls the thorn of a maguey through his earlobes, spilling his precious water on the altar. He has read the book of days and deemed this night reasonably propitious for a dangerous mission. The mistress of the house follows his lead, pulling the maguey thorn through her bottom lip. If it hurts her, she does not reveal it: The Lady Ixsaabim’s expression does not change by so much as a flicker of an eyelid. Once all principal members of the household have given their sacrifice, the priest recites the ritual prayer for protection for a Trader about to leave on a short but vital mission. “Perhaps I have already left for the houses beneath the earth,” he says. “Perhaps I have already walked where my grandmothers have walked, where my grandfathers have walked.”
Ixsaabim and her young and beautiful (some whisper too beautiful) husband Ahchuleb keep their heads respectfully bowed. Their niece Ixkaab, whose many virtues have never included decorum, winces. She then induces a few more drops of blood to fall from the fresh wound on her lip to the altar stone.
When the priest has finished, Ahchuleb turns to Ixkaab to deliver a speech of the elders. The speech is traditional, and yet one would be correct in detecting certain interpolations meant particularly for his niece.
“Do not rush where caution will serve. Do not waste the strength of your sun, of your forefathers. Be wise and respectful and always centered in your heart. Do not hide from your duty; do not hide from your road.”
Ixkaab grinds her teeth but manages to keep her expression humble, her gaze averted. She will be leaving soon. She feels as if she is at the door of her own redemption, that she has arrived, at last, where she has been traveling all of her life.
“Be not moved by pity, but duty,” says her uncle. “Make yourself a weapon as hard as flint, as incorruptible as jade.”
Her lip throbs, and she is grateful for the pain. She will think this time. She will be hard and cool this time. She will find her stillness and she will wield it, until she returns home with what her family needs, or until she dies. In the corner of her eye, something flashes in the moonlight.
She glances south, though she knows she shouldn’t, though she knows her family will see. Some kind of animal, perhaps. Smaller than a cat, larger than a rat. It freezes by the doorway for a space no longer than a second. Then those great shining eyes vanish, and tiny feet patter down the stone steps.
Kaab puts her hand over her heart and touches her forehead to the floor. “As Ekchuah dives and Xamanek lights the way, this unworthy servant will give her precious water, her blood, that our honor may grow its roots into the earth.”
Her aunt and uncle and the priest nod. They are satisfied.
* * *
When he’d left the Balam compound that afternoon, Rafe had taken his time going back to his rooms at the University. He stopped first at a Middle City tavern, which had nothing to recommend it beyond being open at midday and selling only moderately overpriced beer. It was a miserable little place, frequented by typical Middle City types:
clerks, warehouse managers, copyists, and secretaries of a hundred ever-more-boring stripes. Their conversation felt stuffy enough for a straw mattress and about as intellectually stimulating. He only managed to get through two tankards of red ale before the arrival of a group of boisterous Kingsport merchants forced him into the street again, not nearly drunk enough.
He made his way to the Gilded Cockatrice, the traditional home of natural philosophers, and though he normally enjoyed playing a hand or two of Constellations while arguing celestial mechanics with the more hidebound followers of his discipline, today that pastime offered no diversion. He couldn’t think of any reason why the revelation of his discoveries would have provoked Will’s mental breakdown, but his conviction that it had was immune to logic. He wished he had never heard of Rastin, let alone set out to disprove him. So Rafe drank alone, instead. Tankard after tankard, until he had managed to numb his memory, if not the pain itself. He found himself thinking, as he stumbled out back to relieve himself again, Why the devil does my chest hurt this much? And for a few glorious moments it was just that, an intellectual question, a mere physical ailment that might go away with proper treatment. And then he caught sight of his breast pocket, where he had put Will’s neckcloth that Duchamp had given him just this morning (a lifetime ago, this morning), and he rested his head against the filthy alley wall and felt a pain too great for tears. He could only groan, and when even that felt beyond him, he wished for the earth to swallow him whole.
It didn’t oblige, of course. So he left the Cockatrice and walked the long way back to Tremontaine House. He did not expect the men at the gate to let him in, and his expectations were confirmed (evidentiary methods, he thought, must be primary to logical deduction). They were very sorry, but the duchess had made it quite clear that he was to be denied entry. Rafe considered arguing, but it seemed pointless. Duchamp had warned him, after all. So he turned around and spent the last of his minnows on a chair home. His sense of romance might have allowed for the justice of him passing out drunk on a doorstep, but he had sobered on his long walk to Tremontaine House, and, besides, it had started to rain. It occurred to Rafe that he had perhaps always been too pragmatic for romance. But this sounded like something Will might have told him, and so he started crying in the chair, and did not stop until he had arrived at his lodgings.
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