Gods of Jade and Shadow(81)

Great chandeliers illuminated the patrons, and were organic in their look, recalling the branches of trees. The floor was oak, perfect for dancing, and the walls were painted the intense blue Casiopea associated with Yucatán, but the pillars carved with pre-Hispanic–inspired figures that seemed to support the room were all white. It was truly a palace, and she felt like a lady who is to be presented at court for the first time.

Upon a raised platform, shaped like a shell, a band played, the members attired in identical white outfits.

There, not far from the band, was the table where Martín and an older man sat together. The man was idly smoking a cigar, looking bored and decadent, oblivious to the music and the people around them, but seeing them he stood up in greeting. Martín followed suit.

This could only be Zavala. The resemblance to the Uay Chivo was plain enough and it made her uncomfortable, as she recalled the death of the man. Casiopea sat down. A waiter approached them and poured champagne into long-stemmed glasses.

“Hun-Kamé and Casiopea Tun. Thank you, thank you so much for meeting with me. Did you find your rooms adequate?” Zavala asked. “I do hope you are having a grand time. That dress looks lovely, my dear.”

Zavala spoke with the kindness of a doting grandfather, his voice mild, but having spent her childhood next to a tyrannical man, Casiopea could spot the unpleasantness in the warlock, like cigar smoke may cling to a jacket.

“Thank you,” she said.

“Fine things suit her, don’t they, Martín?” Zavala asked, although he did not turn toward her cousin, who had not deigned to utter a word of greeting to her. “And you? How do you like the place, Hun-Kamé?”

“It is gaudy,” Hun-Kamé replied.

“Well, we couldn’t exactly have a pyramid, could we? This is a modern adaptation.”

“Is that what you are calling it?”

“Power flows through this building and even more power will flow through every tile and every wall, spreading across the land, bringing back the might of Xibalba. The name of the Supreme Lord will be on every man’s lips and they will lance their tongues and offer their blood to Vucub-Kamé,” he said, the mask of the kind patriarch yanked away, the magician, the priest, unveiled.

“Not while I remain,” Hun-Kamé said.

“We shall see.”

Hun-Kamé picked up one of the glasses and took a sip. She followed suit, drinking too fast, the sweetness of the champagne alien to her. Martín stared at her, and she almost apologized, the old custom, before remembering that his disapproval did not matter.

“Well, did we come to hear you speak the same inane words you have spoken for decades?” Hun-Kamé asked, setting his glass down.

“If you were wiser you’d have let me assist you and overseen the design of this fabulous palace. But you are stubborn,” Zavala said, again speaking like a kindly father might, chiding a recalcitrant son. It had no effect on Hun-Kamé, whose face was hard.

“And you are nothing but an upstart warlock almost as deluded as my brother. Tell me why we are here.”

Zavala held his cigar between his thumb and his index finger and stared at them, grinning, flashing a row of yellowed teeth. His face, if you looked at it carefully, was slightly jaundiced. They said that when Montejo attempted to conquer Yucatán he had captured Indians and thrown them to his pack of dogs, to be devoured. That’s what Zavala reminded her of. He devoured people.

“We are here to discuss terms,” Zavala said.

“Oh?”

“You don’t expect your brother will sweep in and you will skewer him with a sword, do you? The conflicts of gods don’t often play out that way. At least, not these days, and not with you in this state. You look…diminished.”

Hun-Kamé sat proud and dignified. He did not protest Zavala’s words, perhaps because they were true, or more likely because he thought it beneath him to answer such a charge.

“The Supreme Lord proposes a contest, the girl serving as your proxy and this young man here representing Vucub-Kamé,” Zavala said, slapping Martín’s shoulder. Her cousin was not pleased with the physical contact, grimacing.

“What kind of contest?” she asked.

“In ancient times we might have had two mortals face with shield and bladed weapons. Or perhaps play the ball game, the loser to be sacrificed upon the sacred court. Alas, I don’t think it would be quite fair, seeing as neither of you are ball players, nor are you warriors.”

Casiopea almost chuckled. Martín could ride a horse, but little more than that. He had no interest in sports, and while the other children in their town might eagerly chase a ball across the street, he did nothing of the sort. At least Casiopea had the strength developed from going to and fro around the house; the constant scrubbing of floors and the carrying of boxes stuffed with fruits and vegetables into the kitchen had developed her muscles—though these days, she felt tired and spent.

“The Supreme Lord suggests a more appropriate game. Whoever walks the Black Road and reaches the World Tree in the heart of Xibalba first wins. It is elegantly simple.”

It did sound simple, and if she had not seen the Black Road in her sleep she might have readily agreed, but the dream of blood and death made her curl her hands in her lap, clutching a bit of the fabric of her dress between her fingers. She recalled her meeting with her cousin, the visions she’d had in the garden. She could not pretend these were mere dreams. She had felt the touch of magic; she’d seen portents.