“All right,” Stuart said, not reassured.
“Best of luck, my friend.” Quetzalcoatl offered a warm, sincere handshake. “We’ll be monitoring your progress, so we’ll know how you get on. I’m sure you won’t let us down.”
No sooner was Stuart out of the hatch than it disappeared. Or rather, a section of forest floor re appeared where the hatch had been. There was undergrowth, ferns, leaf mould. Nothing indicated the presence of a doorway or, for that matter, a massive building buried beneath the soil. Stuart trod on the spot where the hatch was, probing with his foot. Through a layer of mossy, spongy earth he could just detect the hardness of metal, but if he hadn’t known it was there he would never have thought to look for it. Whatever else these bogus gods might be, they were bloody ingenious, he had to give them that.
Xolotl let out an impatient growl.
“Yeah, yeah. ‘Take Stuart back.’ Coming.”
Stuart followed the lolloping one-eyed dog through the forest. Xolotl had a powerful but ungainly stride. He moved as though going on all fours was as unnatural to him as walking on its hindlegs was to an ordinary canine. Holy lore stated that Xolotl was Quetzalcoatl’s deformed twin, a constant reminder to the god that his own brilliant perfection should not be taken for granted. The absent eye, which had burst out of Xolotl’s head of its own accord, was the most obvious manifestation of this, a disfigurement that literally stared you in the face.
Soon Stuart began to hear distant voices — the sounds of the Xibalba camp. He was still no nearer a decision as to what to say to Chel. What could he tell him? That he’d just met a bunch of delusional individuals who had got it into their heads that they were gods? That they were evidently powerful, these madmen, and it might be as well to abort the assassination attempt?
Xolotl halted while he and Stuart were still just out of sight of the camp. He gestured with a forepaw.
“Stuart back,” he said, then about-turned and loped off in the direction they had just come.
Okay, Stuart thought. Not ventriloquism. Something else. Maybe some kind of radio transceiver implant? One that was linked to a device which galvanised the dog’s jaw and made it move in synchronisation with the words?
Stuart had to concede that the people in the inverted ziggurat had access to some highly advanced technology.
But gods?
No. Never.
TWENTY
Same Day
As Stuart entered the camp he found the guerrillas busy around a portable gas stove. Two of them were pouring a viscous brown liquid out of a cooking pot into small jars, and the others then took a jar each and ran the contents through a sieve, mashing out excess water with a spoon until all that was left was a resin-like paste. Stuart’s best guess was that they were preparing curare for their blowpipe darts. The original brown liquid was a stewed mulch of leaves and bark fragments from the curare plant.
They were so intent on their work that they didn’t even notice Stuart was there watching them. He had to clear his throat to get their attention. Immediately they leapt to their feet. Guns and knives appeared. The guerrillas moved in on Stuart, Zotz to the fore.
“Where have you been?” Zotz demanded.
“‘Welcome back, Englishman,’” Stuart said sardonically. “‘We missed you. We were worried.’”
“Don’t piss about. What happened last night? We heard an l-gun discharge, and then you’d vanished and Auilix too.”
“Where is Auilix? Is he all right?”
“Asleep in his tent. He’s shaken up but fine. At first we assumed you must have killed him and run off. Then we heard him calling. He was stuck halfway up a tree, terrified out of his wits. He was gibbering, saying something about hurtling up into the air — something about a big black insect with wings. We thought he’d been at the tequila but he swears not. What’s going on?”
“I’m not sure you’d believe me if I told you. I need to speak to Chel. He around?”
“I’m around,” said Chel, emerging from the cabin. “Zotz poses a very good question. What is going on? We were under the impression you’d deserted us. Maybe even run off with a view to betraying our whereabouts to the Serpent Warriors. Hence the curare.” He indicated the gas stove. “We’re making a fresh batch in anticipation of a Serpent attack. Now that you’re back, is it safe to assume that no such attack is coming?”
“No attack to the best of my knowledge, no.”
“Can I believe that answer?” said Chel, taking a few steps closer to Stuart.
“I’m here, aren’t I? If I’d sold you out to the Serpents, why would I return?”
“To lull us into a false sense of security. Then, when they arrive, they make sure to kill everyone else but spare you.”
“But it would still be a foolish risk,” said Stuart. “And judging by the way you’re all acting now, I’d have been justified in not taking it.”
“Forgive me, but it’s going to take a bit more than that to convince me. Men?”
Chel nodded to Stuart’s left and right, and Stuart glanced around him and cursed himself. While he’d been talking to Chel, guerrillas had sneaked round and taken up position on either side of him. He’d been so focused on protesting his innocence that he hadn’t noticed he was being flanked. He made to turn, to defend himself, but too late. The guerrillas pounced, and within seconds he was being gripped tightly and painfully by several sets of strong hands. One man had a chokehold around his neck, and two others were twisting Stuart’s arms backwards. He struggled, but he was helpless.
“Listen to me,” he said, having to force the words out through his constricted larynx. “You’re not alone in this forest. There’s somebody else here and they want you out.”
“Of course we’re not alone in this forest,” said Chel. “It’s a big damn forest. But as for somebody wanting us out — I sincerely doubt that. Xibalba is popular. You’ve seen it for yourself.”
“But these people — ”
“Reston,” Chel interrupted. “Do you know what a lethal dose of curare does to a person?”
Stuart tried to let nothing show in his eyes. “I’ve a pretty good idea.”
“Do you?” Chel gestured to one of his men, and in no time he had a blowpipe dart in his hand. The tip had been dipped in the paste. He approached Stuart. “Then I’m sure you’re aware that it’s not a pleasant death. Curare is a muscle relaxant. In weak doses, it merely incapacitates. Remember when we rescued you at the theatre in London; we’d decided we would not kill Jaguar Warriors if it could be avoided. Shame they didn’t return the courtesy, but there you go. Each one we hit with a dart went down in an instant, paralysed, without use of their limbs for an hour or so. Well, in more concentrated form, as has just been brewed here, curare causes every muscle in the body to stop functioning. Ultimately death comes in the form of asphyxiation. Your diaphragm fails and your lungs cease to work. But it can take up to twenty minutes, and the horror of it is, you’re conscious the whole time, fully aware of what’s happening to you but powerless to do a thing about it. You lie there unable to move, unable even to scream, feeling yourself gradually, inexorably shutting down. It is, I imagine, a truly terrifying experience.”
He held the dart up in front of Stuart’s cheek.
“You wouldn’t dare,” Stuart said.
“Wouldn’t I? One prick, and a long, lingering death awaits you. So tell us the truth. Where have you been these past eighteen hours? Are there Serpent Warriors on their way?”
He brought the dart closer. Stuart strained away from it. The guerrilla who had him in a chokehold pressed his head towards it again.
“No, no Serpents, I swear.”
“Or Jaguars?”
“No, no bloody Jaguars either. But these others I’m talking about, they definitely don’t like having you around. They’re who I’ve been with all this time, and they’ve asked me to ask you to leave. They have plans for the Great Speaker and you’re standing in the way.”