From time to time the Louisiens took a more direct hand in frustrating the will of the powers-that-be, as now, by smuggling the Xibalba guerrillas, and the Conquistador too, out of Britain. At Saint-Malo the harbourmaster turned a blind eye to the fact that Captain Beaudreau claimed to have brought in a catch of one and a half tons of mackerel, dace and skate when his hold was in fact devoid of fish and his nets not even damp. The same harbourmaster then directed Beaudreau’s “crew,” who hardly looked like native Bretons, to a cargo truck standing at the quayside. Stuart and the Mayans got in the back. A lengthy, suffocating ride later, they were disgorged at the international airport at Nantes, along with the various items of luggage that had come over with them from London.
At the airport, tickets awaited them. Chel bought Stuart a set of new clothes at one of the concession shops and handed him a French passport with a photo of Stuart inserted. “We plan ahead,” he said.
For the foreseeable future, Stuart was Rene Jolicoeur, a botanist of dual French/Anahuac nationality who preferred to speak to the customs officers and airline staff solely in Nahuatl. “To show where one’s true loyalties should lie,” he explained, and not, of course, to cover up the fact that he barely knew any French beyond the few loan words that had been incorporated into Nahuatl.
The flight to Mayapan was the first time Stuart had ever travelled coach class, and he noted that neg-mass flight was considerably less slick and smooth when your seat was at the outer edge of the aerodisc, as opposed to being in the central cabin. Airsickness was a novel experience for him, but one, he supposed, he might have to get used to, now that he no longer had access to his many millions.
It wasn’t until that evening, however, as he lay in bed in a grimy hotel room in downtown Mayapan, that he grasped the momentousness of what had happened to him. Mosquitoes buzz-bombed his head. Ocarina-led disco music thumped from an open-fronted bar outside. Neon flashed through the threadbare curtains. The bedsheets reeked of other people’s sweat. The heat was atrocious, with only a clattery electric fan to alleviate it.
This was another world.
No, it was the world. Stuart just hadn’t had to experience it quite so intimately before. His entire life, he’d known wealth. It had insulated him from everything, like a wadding of cotton wool.
That was gone now, and he missed it.
Didn’t he?
What he did miss, suddenly, gut-wrenchingly, were his wife and son. Grief hit him with the force of a charging rhino, and he realised he’d not felt this way — so hopelessly hollow, so utterly bereft — since the day he first donned the armour of the Conquistador. Everything he’d done as the Conquistador, the manic stunts, the priest slayings, had helped prevent him from dwelling too hard on Sofia and Jake. His head had become perfectly clear, free from conflicting thoughts. He’d no longer felt the yearning, aching need to hug the son who wasn’t there any more. He’d no longer switchbacked between adoring and loathing the woman who had ripped the heart out of his existence.
The Conquistador had been a crutch, a way of coping with his bereavement. Without it, he was forced to face all the emotions he’d locked away and tried to deny were there. They flooded upwards, consuming him. Stuart sobbed on the creaking, thin-mattressed bed. In part, he was mourning the loss of his cushioned, moneyed lifestyle, but what he really was mourning was the loss of the two people who had made that lifestyle worthwhile, who had justified it for him.
Prosperity was nothing without family. Only now, when he was deprived of both, did that truly make sense.
The following morning came the news that there had been a spate of volcanic activity in Europe. It was on the tiny TV set jabbering away in a corner of the cafe where Stuart and the men of Xibalba ate their breakfast. Three major volcanoes had begun erupting yesterday — Vesuvius, Hekla and Etna — and two of them had since calmed down but the third, Etna, continued to spew out ash and lava, so much so that towns in the vicinity had been evacuated.
Naturally this led talking-head commentators to speculate on whether the Great Speaker was sending some kind of message. Rarely did a cluster of eruptions occur unless it was at the Great Speaker’s command, and if he had given the order for the fusion plant at each site to stoke the earthly fires, why? It wasn’t just to push a few million tons more of sulphur dioxide into the atmosphere and keep the planet nice and toasty. What point was he making?
The fact that one of the volcanoes was in Iceland suggested that the Faroe Islands fishing dispute was still an unresolved issue. Could it be that yet more sacrifices of Icelandic worthies would have to be made? The four diplomats had not sufficed?
European High Priests would have to consult with the Great Speaker to learn why he was angered and how he could be appeased.
In the meantime, Ah Balam Chel had his own interpretation of the matter.
“You,” he said, pointing across the table at Stuart. “It’s you. You got away. Slipped the noose. And that’s made him very unhappy.”
Stuart could see the logic in this. “They’re the three volcanoes closest to Britain,” he said, nodding, “and Reston Rhyolitic was in negotiations to take over the mining of an obsidian lode on Etna. That’d be why Etna’s the worst affected, the one still blowing its top. The Speaker’s telling me he knows all about me. This is a targeted fuck-you.”
“Which, I imagine, irks you.”
“I don’t know. It seems more petty than anything. An impotent gesture. Like flicking someone a V after they’ve left the room.”
They spoke openly; there was nobody else in the cafe apart from the proprietor, and he was, Chel had said earlier, “a good man,” meaning aligned with the Xibalba cause. He also knew how to lay on a hearty breakfast: quinoa porridge, fried eggs, sourdough toast, boiled corn, fresh guava juice, plenty of everything.
“So you don’t feel personally affronted?” Chel said.
“If you’re trying to turn this into a feud between me and him…” Stuart finished off the sentence with a shrug.
The Xibalba leader frowned, concerned. “Tell me you still wish to see the Speaker dead. Surely you do.”
“I wouldn’t mind.”
“That’s hardly the ringing declaration of intent I was hoping for. Need I remind you, Mr Reston, that without Xibalba you would right now be languishing in a cell at Scotland Yard? Were it not for us, the best you’d have to look forward to from this point on would be the final plunge of a priest’s knife into your chest, bringing to an end what would be days of torture.”
“All right. I get it. You saved me from a fate worse than death. You think you should get something in return.”
“Not just something. We want you. We want the Conquistador. We want all that he’s done, all that he embodies, all that he can do. We travelled a long way to meet you. We risked our necks for you. I think that deserves recognition.” Chel was aggrieved. All signs of his usual good nature were gone. He wore the scowl of a man who did not like to be denied what he felt was his due.
Stuart was aware that he was in a room with a dozen hardened paramilitaries who would do whatever their leader asked of them. He was also in a foreign land where someone with his looks and complexion stood out like a sore thumb. Vaguely at the back of his mind there was the notion that Chel might, if so inclined, sell him out to the Jaguars. Psst. Listen. I know where that English troublemaker, the Conquistador, is. I’ll take you to where you can find him. He didn’t know Chel well enough to know if he was the vindictive type. He felt, however, that he shouldn’t cross the Mayan, just in case.
“I’m not saying I’m not onside. Just saying we need to think about this. I need to think about this. There’s no point going off half-cocked. I have to have more intel. A clearer idea of what you have in mind.”