Path of Honor (37 page)

“Originally there were fifty-two tribes in Cemanahuatl, my homeland, each one created by the favor of one of the Teotl. Their traditions, habits and power reflected their god. But since each one of the fifty-two has strengths to dominate at least one other, or at least to withstand the power of another, the people also worshipped those others, as reflections and symbols of their primary god’s powers.”

Reisil shifted higher on the bed, fascinated. Yohuac paused to drink, lifting his brows at her.

“You aren’t falling asleep?”

Reisil grinned. “True, you are one of the worst storytellers I have ever heard, but beggars will eat
skraa
if their bellies are empty.”

“Nothing truer said, and indeed some tribes were beggars, in that they did not get to choose the gods they were to serve. This, of course, created much strife. Some tribes cared not for their new god and strove instead to prove themselves worthy to another, better god. Some wanted more prestige, better territory and wealth. Some could not stomach what was required of them by their new gods. Cannibalism, mutilation, torture, more and worse. Thus did a great many tribes shift and switch. You can imagine the chaos. No one was pleased, and the gods were bitter and angry.

“It was then
Ilhuicatl
took a hand in the bickering and wars. At first he thought to destroy all the tribes completely and put an end to the strife. But he’d grown very fond of his own tribe—the original nahuallis. And like him, his tribe answered to no other nor worshipped any other than himself. To save them, he made a great sacrifice. He released the nahuallis and sent them to the rest of the tribes to bind all to him, and yet took no tribe as his own. This only escalated the fighting, with tribes vying for the honor of becoming
Ilhuicatl
’s chosen. Then a message came.
Ilhuicatl
was tired, ready to destroy all the tribes if they could not behave. He offered one more chance, and if that failed . . .” Yohuac snapped his fingers.

“What happened?”

“He created a nation. Once every fifty-two years, a new tribe would be taken as his chosen. Once every fifty-two years, there would be a competition. Every man would compete for the honor of being named
Ilhuicatl
’s son. The winner would have riches and pleasures beyond compare, and more important, his tribe would become
Ilhuicatl
’s own until the next cycle, ruling all the others for fifty-two years.”

“What kind of competition?” Reisil was sitting cross-legged, elbows on her knees, engrossed.

“It is a lengthy ordeal, and not one for the weak hearted. It tests the body in all extremes of depredation: walking over hot coals, bearing lashes of a whip, enduring poisons and much more. There is a journey over mountains, through jungle, across rivers—carrying nothing more than a knife, dressed only in a loincloth. There is physical combat—you must have been trained in all the arts and weapons if you hope to survive. And then there are feats of prowess—climbing cliffs, swimming, running, throwing, cliff-diving, hunting. Many die; others become crippled. Those who survive are taken to
Ilhuicatl
’s temple in Tizalan, our only city.”

“What happens then?”

“No one knows. The final trials happen there, and only the winner emerges. He is feted. Women come from every tribe to lie with him, his seed being the seed of
Ilhuicatl.
There follows a year of rejoicing, feasts every day, his every want and wish granted. He lives in splendor, and his tribe becomes wealthy beyond compare.”

“And the former ruling tribe?”

“They depart with the wealth they have gathered, returning to their homelands to prosper. They continue to be revered by all tribes. So to answer your questions, there is little war. Conflicts are taken before the elders in Tizalan, and their word is law. Every man is a warrior. The training for the
pahtia
is unceasing, though it comes only every fifty-two years. This in no small way aids in restraining wars— there is little benefit in attacking a tribe as equally prepared as you for war.”

Reisil made to ask another question, but Yohuac interrupted. “I cannot answer all your questions tonight, and you are in want of sleep. I have great plans for the morning.” He waggled his brows warningly.

Reisil rolled her eyes. “I couldn’t get enough sleep for
that
if I’d gone to bed hours ago. At least I know now where you got your ideas for torturing me.”

“You said yourself. I am very good.”

“And none too confident.”

“A meek warrior does not win glory for his tribe.”

“No danger of that.”

With that she wished him good night and snuggled into her bedclothes, falling asleep quickly and without nightmares.

 

The quiet words yanked Reisil from her dream. She sat up. Weak light glimmered beneath the shutters on the balcony. Dawn or nearly. What brought Juhrnus at this hour? Her stomach turned. There wasn’t any good answer.

“This is a very bad sign,” Yohuac said, echoing Reisil’s thoughts. They’d spent a lot of their time together discussing the political situation in Kodu Riik. Yohuac had a sharp mind and a way of cutting through the smoke and fog to the heart of a matter. More than that, he was detached where Reisil was not.

“Cozy,” Juhrnus said when Yohuac opened the door, flashing Reisil a grin as she adjusted her tunic around her hips. She grinned back. Somehow she didn’t mind the insinuation that she and Yohuac might be sharing a bed.

“Very cozy. What brings you so bright and early and without any food?”

The smile slid from his face. “I didn’t figure you’d be very hungry after what I have to say. Went into the city last night. Ran into our Pincushion friend.” This was the nickname Juhrnus had assigned to Metyein. Anyone eavesdropping would not learn his name. “He happened across some bad news earlier in the day.” He glanced over his shoulder at the closed door and dropped his voice. “Very bad news. Kodu Riik is cut off. The waters are blockaded. In Patverseme there are archers strung along the length of the Sadelema. North into Gulto is the same. We’re cut off completely.”

“Completely? No trade? No food? How is that possible?” Reisil didn’t recognize the sound of her own voice.

Juhrnus shook his head. “The Verit and the Lord Marshal had the news this morning. The list of those against us is immense: Gulto, Patverseme, Scallas, Sjeferdin, Portica . . . Every country from the Tortured Seas to the Sunless Lands. No one wants our plague.”

“Patverseme? But what about Kebonsat? Why didn’t he tell us?”

“I don’t know. Neither did the Lord Marshal nor the Verit. But by the way our friend Pincushion tells it, the Lord Marshal is readying for war and the Verit is nothing less than gleeful. This will mean the regency. And a reason to break with Patverseme. He could hardly be happier if the Iisand turned up dead.”

“Kebonsat can’t know. He would have told us. His government would have pulled him out,” Reisil said.

“He would not leave you,” Yohuac interjected. “Knowing would have made little difference. And I doubt his country would have him back. Not until the plague has finished with Kodu Riik. He’s already been counted as lost.”

“Yohuac’s right. Kebonsat isn’t even worth anything as a hostage. Pincushion said as much. Soon as the quarantine went up, his father would have declared a new heir. He’d have to. He couldn’t allow Kebonsat to be used against him.”

“What will they do to him?”

“According to Pincushion, nothing. For now. There’s no profit in it. He’ll be put under house arrest until after the Verit becomes regent. The Verit’s twisty and likely to try to find a way to profit from Kebonsat. That is, if he can find the time. He’s going to have to deal with starvation, the plague and the
nokulas
. And if we survive that, war with Patverseme at the least. And sooner or later, he’s going to find out about the Iisand. And then he’ll take the throne. And once he does—you know how he feels about the
ahalad-kaaslane
. Kebonsat is the least of our worries.”

“It’s time to find the wizards.” Reisil stared at Juhrnus, waiting for him to protest.

But he surprised her. “As soon as can be. There will be riots soon. It’s our best hope.”

“I can leave now. But I don’t know where to look.”

“I’ve been talking to Pincushion about it. We have a few ideas. But Sodur’s likely to be able to narrow things down. He won’t fight us now. He doesn’t have a choice.”

“And if he doesn’t know?”

“Then we’ll do it ourselves. And pray to the Lady we’re in time.”

A
constant trickling sound filled the air as the misty rain accumulated and dribbled from the rooftops. A heavy smell of brine and smoke settled into the dark crevices between buildings. A horse sneezed and scraped at the ground, its bridle jingling. Juhrnus paused, fading into a recessed doorway, ears straining. He heard hurried footsteps, and a woman trotted in the direction from which he’d come, her back bent, face contorted with effort. Water sloshed from the two buckets dangling from the bar over her shoulders. It was late to be going to the well, and a chill of foreboding rippled down his spine. The plague did not wait for a kind hour to strike.

Juhrnus swung out into the street, pulling his hood lower over his face and leaping over a puddle of fetid water. Esper clung to his shoulders beneath his cloak.

~Where do we go now?
Juhrnus had looked for Sodur everywhere he could think of. But he wasn’t at the Temple or palace, and no one had seen him in days.

Juhrnus’s mouth twisted.

Juhrnus said nothing, not bothering to try to hide his doubts.

~We are
ahalad-kaaslane. Esper sounded tense and disapproving.

Juhrnus bared his teeth in a silent snarl, frustration burning in his throat.
~We are
ahalad-kaaslane.
Don’t worry that I’ll ever forget what that means. I’ll serve the Lady until I’m rotting in the ground. But it’s not me you have to worry about. It’s the court. Especially the Verit. Regent Aare.

Juhrnus unbent. He couldn’t resist his
ahalad-kaaslane’s
uncontaminated conviction.

Few lights glimmered in the drizzling darkness. Windows gaped black and empty down at the streets. Candles and oil were sparse these days, and most of the wood was going to the palace and barracks. Juhrnus walked along uneasily. Too few people were out, and the silence was oppressive. The citizens of Koduteel were suspicious of one another as the plague touched a house here, another there. Neighbors eyed each other with baleful animosity and locked their doors and garden gates, hiding inside from the disease. As if they could.

Juhrnus paused again, hearing a soft, clicking sound. When it did not repeat, he hurried on. He cut through an alley between two ramshackle residences, crossing through a tiny square centered around a decrepit statue of the Lady. A barren flower bed circled her feet, full of bird droppings and plant bracken.

“In a hurry, are we?”

Juhrnus started and spun. The voice seemed to come from every side. His hand dropped to his sword, and he pulled it loose with a ringing sound.

“Jumpy too. And ye’ve a right to be,
ahalad-kaaslane
. Streets ain’t so friendly of late.”

There was a shuffling sound, and several figures loomed out of the shadows.

“What do you want?” His fingers flexed on his hilt.

“You, laddy. You.”

Juhrnus’s response was to lift the tip of his sword. A feeble gesture. He was competent enough with the weapon, but no swordsman. Still, he would sell his life dearly.

“Now, now, laddy. Doncha be that way. Someone as wants to have a word with ya, is all.”

One of the men stepped forward, gesturing toward a dark archway. His face was shrouded in the deep folds of a cloak, the hand holding his sword beefy and scarred.

“I don’t have time for this.”

The man’s voice hardened as he pointed his sword at Juhrnus’s heart. “One way t’other laddy, you’re comin’ with us.”

Juhrnus hesitated and then nodded.

“Sensible lad.” The other man sheathed his sword. The others closed in around Juhrnus as he followed after. They did not go far. Three streets north and four west, down a rutted alley into the deserted backyard lot of a tall, windowless warehouse just this side of the fashionable pink district.

The door was opened before they reached it. Juhrnus hesitated on the threshold before entering. A large room opened up in front of him, musty and damp. The wood floor was uneven and flexed beneath his feet. The two oil lamps burning near the door did little to illuminate the darkness. His escorts prodded him up a set of stairs. The landing was thick with dust disturbed by the passage of a half-dozen feet. They stopped before a rough-hewn plank door with only a rope for a handle. His guide pushed it open, its hinges unexpectedly quiet, and waved for Juhrnus to enter.