But even with all that, the main reason they were after us, like the real reason for almost anything, was economic. The displaced Puma clans had lost most of their wealth and they needed negotiable items to trade for new homesteads. And every family in our volkerwanderung had brought as much of their high-value gear as they could drag, jewelry, celts, top-grade blades and obsidian cores, textiles, feathers, furs, raw jade, gold dust, and even some chips and pebbles of unworked turquoise-which we called xiuh, a proto-Nahuatl word, since there was no word for it in Mayan, and which was the latest almost-unaffordable sensation from the farthest edge of the world’s bleached northeast. The greathouse lineages had also brought thousands of rubber-sealed baskets swelling with about a hundred varieties of spices and drugs, and thousands of examples of the sort of jade objects that we twenty-first-centuryites would call “art.” And, especially, they’d brought slaves. Although they weren’t really like old-world slaves. Maybe it’d be closer to the Cholan sense to call them “thralls.” For one thing, there wasn’t any clear line between slaves and nonslaves, since even rich clans were like slaves in respect to their local ruling lineage, and then that lineage was like slaves to the ahau, and then, the ahau was a slave to his most deified ancestor. And the slaves could be from any ethnic group. Still, they could be ordered around, and sold, and eaten. Just as, theoretically at least, anybody could be, all the way up to the ahau. And he could get eaten by the smokers.
Anyway, the point is that we-the long train of Koh’s followers-were, despite our bedraggled look, a seductive target. And we wouldn’t be able to put up much of a fight. Most of the support for Koh’s Star Rattler Society had come from Teotihuacan’s white moiety, the peace clans, who were related to the red war moiety through mandatory exogamy, but usually didn’t train their own sons as warriors. Our caravan had about eight thousand bloods with war experience who’d come from other Rattler-pledged clans, but they weren’t well organized like the Teotihuacanian infantry, or, yet, very well coordinated with each other. To say the least. And we had a few thousand Maya bloods from the expatriate Ixob Ocelot lineage and some allied Maya trading clans from Tik’al and Kaminaljuyu, but they already weren’t getting along with the Teotihuacanians. Finally, at the bottom of the social pyramid, we were dragging along about eighteen thousand families of thralls. About twelve thousand of these were warrior-aged males, nonbloods who we could send in to fight, but who were armed only with pikes and weren’t effective in battle except as a buffer. And their kinsfolk-well, they fetched and carried, and their young folks took care of the greathouse males’ sexual needs, and they were meat on the hoof, as it were-but really, most of the time they felt like a liability.
The upshot was that in a direct fight we’d be in trouble. We’d agreed-we meaning Lady Koh, her provisional council of clan patriarchs, and I-had all agreed that our best strategy would be to just keep moving as fast as possible and draw Severed Right Hand away from his logistical support base in the Valley of Mexico.
“Severed Right Hand seems to be holding his own against your Lady Koh,” Maximon said.
“You mean in the Sacrifice Game?” I asked. She’d told me that she played against him every night-long distance, of course, and by the equivalent of telepathy. And then in the mornings she’d issue orders accordingly.
“Yes,” Maximon indicated, somehow.
“You’re right.” He seemed to be fading-I mean, visually-and my voice started hurrying. “In fact it seems like sometimes he knows where we’re heading before we decide to go there.”
“Of course, it’s really his advisers playing.”
“Oh?” I asked. “Who are they?”
He said they were five nine-stone players who’d worked for years for the capital’s twin synods, and who were so permanently in camera that nobody, not even the synodsmen themselves, knew their names. Supposedly they didn’t have tongues, and they spoke only in a house sign language, and they had white skin, like vestal virgins, and two of them were over a hundred and twenty years old.
“Well, that’s good to know,” I said. It sounded like it was just hocus-pocus.
“And they also say he’s a great hun sujri, ” he said. Now he’s really got to be jiving me, I thought. The word literally meant “skin slougher,” or, to save syllables, let’s say “molter,” that is, a skin changer or a metamorphoser, someone whose animal uay was so unusually strong that it could transform his physical body. It especially applied to people with big-cat uays, Jaguars and Pumas. They were known for metamorphosing into cats, of course, but they also supposedly sometimes appeared as boys, as capturing-age bloods, or as old men, depending on the occasion. And the most powerful of them were always adding to their stock of new uays, human and animal.
“Which of his uays would you over me guess that he’d favor?” I asked, trying for a nonconfrontive reply. That is, what would he likely metamorphose into?
“I’d keep an eye out for snatch-bats,” Maximon said. He meant the big camazotz vampire bats, Desmodus draculae, which had a longer wingspan than any of their related species that would survive into later centuries. They were fearsome-looking suckers.
“You wouldn’t happen to know whether Severed Right Hand is planning to attack us right now, would you?” I asked.
“He has his own problems,” Maximon said, or his glyphs said. “He’ll wait to cut you off at the Rio Capalapa.” His outlines seemed less distinct than ever.
Wow, I thought. How did he know that? Or, what I mean is, how did I know that? I mean, you only get out of these things what you already have in there somewhere.
Hmm. We were still four solid jornadas from the Capalapa. Send a runner back to Lady Koh? Except I don’t have any evidence. We could reroute the march west, and then go south along the Mixteco instead. But that’s a pretty big deal. Anyway, he could be wrong. That is, I could be wrong. Severed Right Hand could attack us tomorrow. Better wait and get back to her and then send out some recons and try to confirm.
“Thanks,” I said.
“You’ll be all right if you hurry.” He said something else, but I couldn’t read the last four glyphs. Damn. Ashes. I rubbed my eyes but the glyphs, and Maximon, looked blurrier than before.
“Thanks.”
“ Dominos Nabisco,” he said, orally. Did I hear that right? I wondered. “And also with you,” I said. I started to back away from him Maya-underling style, but after only ten steps all I could see was the tip of his cigar floating in the infrareddening haze.
(17)
“We’re turning whiteward,” I signed to Hun Xoc, shielding my hands with the drape of my manto so the men wouldn’t see that I was actually the one in charge. He didn’t ask why, he just gave the order, signing over his turbaned head so that everyone could see. We marched to the crossroads and turned onto the left path.
The redirect took up about fifteen hundred beats-around twelve minutes-because we had to signal the front-runners, and then they signaled that they were coming back to show us what they insisted was a path in the right direction, although when we got to it I couldn’t see it. We marched-well, let’s say “slogged”-toward the nearest mesa of the low northern sierra. If I remembered right we were about eight thousand feet above sea level now, so up there it would be nearly nine thousand.
This had better be the right decision, I thought. What if I’m really losing it? Maybe the fact that the Maximon thing had been so realistic was something I ought to worry about. Maybe I’d gotten a whiff of psychoactives back when we were raiding the Puma’s pharmacopoeia, and they’d taken until now to kick in. Or maybe it was the neoplasm. I mean, the brain tumors that would have been seeded by the downloading. They had to be getting big enough now to start causing problems. I’d picked up roughly two sieverts of gamma radiation that had zwapped an image of my memories into Chacal’s brain fifty-one days ago. The Consciousness Transfer Protocol and the downloading routine and everything were all amazing technology, but the downsides were that there was damage to the host brain, the host spinal cord, and a few other vital areas. I figured the body I was in was good for another seven months or so, tops. Sometime around the thirteenth k’in of this uinal-in the Gregorian calendar, say, before January of 665-I’d be too unhealthy to function at all normally. Well before that time, I’d need to be signed, sealed, and entombed. And we’d just have to see whether I’d get delivered.