He grimaced. “I… I used to. Just over there.” He pointed down the lane. “But… I don’t know…” He stopped, and she saw his lip quivering. He sniffed and drew his sleeve quickly over his eyes, pressing his lips tightly together. The defiance, the refusal to let her see just how scared and frightened he was made her decision for her. She smiled at him, crouching down in front of him. It should have been an easy movement for her, but the thickening waist made her feel as if her own body were someone else’s.
“You have a name?” she asked the boy.
“Nico,” he told her. “My name is Nico.”
“Then why don’t you come with me, Nico? I have some croissants, and a bit of butter, and I can probably find a slice of meat or two. Does that sound good?” She held out her hand to him. Hesitantly, he took it, and she stood up. The voices were laughing at her, mocking her. The White Stone has gone soft as mud…
Ignoring them, she walked with Nico to her rooms.
CONNECTIONS
Niente
He had never been at sea before, and he wasn’t certain that he was entirely enjoying the experience.
Niente stood at the aftcastle bow of the captured Holdings galleon, once the Marguerite and now renamed Yaoyotl -which was “War” in his own language. Yaoyotl sailed in the middle of the Tehuantin fleet; from his perch, Niente could look out over long azure swells decorated with the white sails of well over a hundred ships. Behind them, lost over the horizon days ago, was the eastern coast of his land and the foul smoke of burned and razed Munereo, now the gravepit for the Holdings’ Garde Civile, except for those few who had retreated to the Easterners’ last small fingerhold on the continent, the city of Tobarro. The army of the Tehuantin had taken Munereo, taken back all the land south and west of its walls, and had taken the ships of the Holdings fleet in the harbor, at least those that had escaped the spell-fire from the Tehuantin fleet, or that had not been scuttled by their own crews and sent to the bottom when it was obvious the day was lost. Most of the ships accompanying the Yaoyotl were the seacraft called acalli: the two-masted, lateen-sailed ships with which the Tehuantin plied the Western Sea between the great cities the Eastern invaders had never seen. The acalli could not carry the number of crew or soldiers that the square-sailed Nessantican galleons could muster, nor were they as fast, but they were far more maneuverable, especially in shallow coastal waters or when the wind was against them.
The winds of the Strettosei however, blew steadily west to east at this latitude, and the wind of their passage sighed past the taut lines holding the sails as the prows of the ships carved long lines of white water through the swells, dipping and rising and falling yet again, relentless and eternal.
A motion that still, after several days, made Niente’s stomach lurch and burn. His limbs, twisted and ravaged by the efforts of the spell he’d placed in the Easterner Eneas, ached as he tried to remain steady against the ship’s lurching. Two of the lesser nahualli stood on the aftcastle with him, watching as Niente used his bowl to perform the scrying spell; he dared not show them the weakness of his stomach or his body, or word would go to the other nahualli and eventually come to the ear of Tecuhtli Zolin, who was also on the Yaoyotl. The fate of every Nahual awaited him, the fate that may have even come to Mahri and perhaps to Talis as welclass="underline" as a nahualli, every use of the X’in Ka took its toll, and the greater the spell, the larger the payment the gods demanded.
Eventually, the payment would be death.
The rolling of the ship shivered the water in his scrying bowl, rendering murky the visions of the future: that bothered Niente more than the nausea. Niente peered into the water, sloshing to the rim of the brass bowl. His eyes didn’t want to focus; the left eye, clouded ever since his enchantment of Eneas, had become worse since the assault on Munereo. He blinked, but the scenes in the bowl refused to become clear. He grunted, scowling, and tossed the water in disgust over the rear rail of the ship. The other nahualli raised eyebrows but said nothing. “I need to speak with the Tecuhtli,” Niente said. “Take the bowl back to my room and cleanse it.”
They bent their heads obediently as Niente, shuffling, pushed past them.
Niente had argued with Tecuhtli Zolin that this strategy was foolish, though he’d not dared to use that word. He wanted desperately to go home, back beyond the Knife-Edge Mountains to the great cities by the lake. Home to Xaria, his wife; home to his children. Home to familiarity.
He hadn’t been alone. The High Warrior Citlali had taken the same position, as had several of the lesser warriors. “Why should we sail to the Easterners’ land? Let us take the last city they hold here and push their bodies into the great water. Then let us return to our homes and our families, and if the Easterners return to trouble our cousins again, we’ll push them back once more.”
But Zolin was adamant. “Sakal demands more of us,” he’d declared. “It is time to show these Easterners that we can hurt them as they hurt us. If one is attacked by a wolf, driving it off leaves the wolf to attack again, perhaps when it is stronger or you are weaker. Killing the wolf is the only way to be truly safe.”
“This is not a wolf,” Niente had persisted. “This is a many-headed beast, only one small face of which we’ve seen, and we are going to its lair. It may be that it will devour us completely.”
Zolin had grunted at that. “Running from the wolf because you’re afraid is the worst strategy of all. It only gives the wolf your unprotected back.”
In the end, Zolin had won over the High Warriors, and Niente had no choice but to tell the nahualli that their task was not yet done. He’d almost been surprised that none of the nahualli had risen up to challenge him for Nahual as a result.
The quarters of the former captain were below in the ship’s aftcastle, and that was where Tecuhtli Zolin had taken up residence. The Easterner furniture had been tossed overboard, to be replaced by the more familiar geometric lines and patterns of their own styles. The room was ablaze with reds and browns, the colors of blood and earth. The smell of incense wrinkled Niente’s nose as he entered, the techutli’s servants prostrating themselves on the rugs tossed over the wooden planks.
Tecuhtli Zolin reclined in a chair carved from a single block of green rock, cushioned by pillows and blankets. His face and torso, like those of all soldiers, was tattooed with swirls of dashes and curling lines: a record of their prowess in battle and their rank. His head was shaved as always and now adorned with the sprawling red tattoo of the eagle. The High Warriors Citlali and Mazatl had been speaking to him in low tones, but broke off their conversation as Niente entered. Their marked, grim faces turned to him.
“Ah, Nahual Niente,” Tecuhtli Zolin said, gesturing. Niente strode across the room to the throne and dropped to his knees. “Get up, get up. Tell me, what do the gods say?”
Niente shook his head as he rose to his feet. He could feel the appraising stares of the High Warriors on him. “I’m sorry, Tecuhtli, but the motion of the ship… it disturbs the waters. I saw a battle and a city afire at the edge of a sea, and your banner flying above it, but the rest-I saw nothing of the Easterner I sent back to this Kraljiki. I saw nothing of their great city.”
“Ah, but the banner and a city afire… that can only speak of victory. As to your Easterner-” Zolin exhaled a scoff and then spat on the floor, “-that was old Necalli’s strategy, and not even the great Mahri had been able to make it work.”
Niente flushed at the mention, irritated at Zolin’s dismissal of Mahri, whose gifts with the X’in Ka were legendary. Mahri had evidently failed, yes, but it must have been because some force with the Easterners had been even stronger. Niente bowed his head more to hide his face than in submission. “It must be as you say, Tecuhtli.”