Gods of Jade and Shadow(50)

“Such wasteful violence. And what should that accomplish?”

Martín blinked. “She’d do as you wanted, whatever you wanted.”

“You cannot force her hand,” Vucub-Kamé said.

“I don’t—”

“Martín Leyva…Martín. When you play chess, do you move your pawns as if they were horses? When you roll the dice do you pretend you tallied four points instead of two? Do you understand?”

Martín shook his head yes, unable to comprehend what the god was about, but knowing at this point he should simply agree.

Vucub-Kamé undid a pouch at his waist and held up four dice painted black and yellow on each side, the kind used for playing bul. Martín had not played the game—it was the sort of thing taken up by the Indians—but he understood the objective of it was to “capture” and “kill” the opponent’s pieces.

“If I thought brute force could grant me what I wish, I would have plucked your cousin from Middleworld already. But since she is a player in this game, I must respect her role. And being a thing not quite human and not quite divine, the girl cannot be dragged by her hair to rest at my feet.”

“I…Of course not, no.”

“Neither can I directly address her at this point, which is why I must use an intermediary, and I’m stuck with you,” the god concluded.

Vucub-Kamé motioned for him to stand, so Martín did.

“I will give you a new task, to which you might be better suited, seeing as your cousin is a stubborn creature.”

“Yes, my lord,” he whispered.

The Lord of Xibalba threw the dice against the floor. They spiraled and fell, all on their yellow side. Around them rose lines like soot, faint. As faint as the silvery thread in a spider’s web, from one angle catching the light and visible, from the other invisible. Martín squinted, trying to find a proper shape to the lines. Was this a board game?

“I’ll have you head to Baja California, to Tierra Blanca, on the wings of my owl this night. My brother and your cousin will make their way there, eventually, but you will arrive first.”

“What will I do in Tierra Blanca?” Martín asked.

“You will learn.”

“Ah…and what will I learn?”

“To walk the shadow roads of my kingdom. Aníbal Zavala should be able to instruct you.”

Martín was not sure what walking the shadow roads meant, but he did know he did not want to be anywhere near Xibalba. It was called the Place of Fear for a reason.

He cleared his throat. “I will do as you say, but why would I want to…learn such a lesson? And who would Aníbal Zavala be?”

“My disciple. As for the reason for that lesson, because symmetry in everything is most pleasing, and since it seems Casiopea is poised to be Hun-Kamé’s champion, you will be mine. Cousin against cousin, brother against brother. I hope you can appreciate the symbolism.”

“Do you mean to pit me against her somehow?” Martín asked.

“She may still have a chance to show me the proper deference. If she will not oblige me, however, I will be prepared,” Vucub-Kamé declared.

“And I must know how to walk the shadow roads, if she doesn’t change her mind about you.”

“You must have an advantage. She won’t know how to navigate the roads.”

Looking at the spidery lines on the floor, Martín realized it was not a board but a circle, and within this circle an intricate labyrinth branched off in many directions, paths that led to dead ends multiplying. He thought he could make out the shapes of pyramids, statues of great size, causeways, and tall columns. A black drop, like ink, fell upon the labyrinth, and it followed one of the paths, the correct one that led to the center.

It was like spying the solution to a puzzle in the back of the newspaper. But if it was cheating, Martín was not going to complain. He had never felt bad about having an advantage over anyone.

“I think I understand,” Martín said.

The Lord of Xibalba had not looked at him all this time, his pale gray eyes fixed on another point in the room. When Martín spoke, the god turned his eyes toward him.

“I would hope you do. It is infinitely important that you emerge victorious against your cousin in the coming contest. Fail me and I will grind your bones into dust,” Vucub-Kamé said, his voice impassive. The threat was in his eyes, quicksilver as he fixed them on Martín.

Martín felt as if an invisible hand gripped his throat and squeezed it, sharp nails digging into his skin. He could not breathe, could not move, could not even blink, there was only the oppressive hand wrapped around his neck. It was the same feeling people sometimes have when they sleep, as if an unseen force is weighing them down. The night hag, the dead man crawling. The nightmare that rides mortals. Except he was wide awake.

This sensation lasted hardly a minute, but the dread of the touch sent Martín’s heart pounding with terror, and when it subsided he fell to his knees.

Vucub-Kamé smiled at Martín, and he spoke sweetly, like the worm whispers to a man in his coffin.

“Do not be too upset, Martín. I favor you, even if you reek of cheap pulque and discontent. We have, after all, much in common, both of us having to deal with the most obnoxious relatives possible. When this is over I believe we will be good friends, like your grandfather and I were friends. Fate has brought us together. Thank her for this nicety.”