Sky Knife (3 page)

But then, Stone Jaguar had never been happy that the previous
Ah men,
Vine Torch, had sponsored Sky Knife to the gods' service. Vine Torch had claimed Sky Knife was a good omen, that the iguanas who had ringed the house while his mother was in labor had been the servants of Itzamna come to pay tribute.

So Vine Torch had promised Sky Knife to Itzamna. Although Vine Torch had died in the same sweeping sickness that had killed Sky Knife's parents and one of his brothers, Stone Jaguar could not undo what had been done. He'd had to accept Sky Knife into the temple's service.

“Our luck may yet be salvaged,” said Death Smoke. “And bad luck name or not, I believe the young man will play a part in it. He was born to his name for a reason. His parents saw it. Vine Torch saw it.”

“Have you seen this in the
copal
smoke, or are you just babbling?” asked Stone Jaguar. “Our luck has turned to evil, and you think an attendant can save us?”

“I think the gods can save us,” said Death Smoke. “But perhaps not tomorrow or the next day. The gods, too, are slaves to time. They must wait for the time to be right.”

“But how will we know when that is?” asked Sky Knife. Stone Jaguar glared at him, but said nothing.

“We don't know,” said Death Smoke. He came out of the other room and extended a thin, wrinkled hand toward Sky Knife, just as Cizin had. Sky Knife's heart dropped in his chest and he fought the urge to bolt from the room. “But Itzamna, the Lord of All, knows. He will tell the gods, and all the
chacs,
high and low. He will tell the spirit of the
copal,
and the
copal
will tell me. He will not desert mankind, or Tikal.”

“And what happens when news of our bad luck travels to other cities?” asked Stone Jaguar. “How long do you think it will take Uaxactun to start a war with us? Their sun-rotted king has been itching for the chance to attack.”

“It is in the hands of the gods,” said Death Smoke.

“In the hands of the gods or not, we must tell the king,” said Stone Jaguar. “He must be prepared for whatever happens now that the
katun
has begun so terribly.” Stone Jaguar arranged the jaguar-skin cloak, then looked at Sky Knife. “You will come with me. Get a cloth and clean yourself.”

“Me?” asked Sky Knife, his voice barely more than a squeak. Still, he moved to obey. He grabbed a cotton towel and rubbed his arms vigorously. The dried blood flaked off easily. “Why me?”

“You saw Cizin,” said Stone Jaguar with a frown. “An omen that strange can't be unimportant.”

Sky Knife's knees trembled. The king! Storm Cloud, King of Tikal, was a figure larger than life. Born in the north of a princess of Tikal who had been wed to a foreigner to cement an alliance, Storm Cloud had grown up the youngest of many brothers, each royal, each ambitious. Fifteen years before, when Sky Knife was still an infant, Storm Cloud had come to his mother's people and had demanded the kingship. Though his army was small, and his claim tenuous, he had not been opposed.

Sky Knife had never been in the king's presence before—he didn't have the status to even consider it. He was merely the son of a farmer, born in a simple house in the middle of his father's
milpa.
Fear rose in Sky Knife's throat and choked him. He couldn't move.

Stone Jaguar grabbed Sky Knife by the shoulder and propelled him out the door. Sky Knife stumbled into the blackness of the night, the weight of his fear as heavy and as oppressive as the humid tropical air.

3

The crowd of revelers hadn't thinned a bit, and the plaza was brighter for the many new fires that had been started. Stone Jaguar strode on ahead and pushed past a group of tattooed men, potters, to judge by the damp clay smell that clung to them, and walked eastward toward the house of the king. Sky Knife hurried along in his wake.

Just before the steps of the king's house stood a tall, rectangular slab of stone, a stela, elaborately carved with the date of the king's accession to the throne and an image of the king in his ceremonial regalia. In the torchlight, Sky Knife could make out few details, though the date, 8.19.4.7.13 4 Ben 1 Xul, was easy enough to read in the dim light.

Stone Jaguar bowed briefly before the stela, then walked straight up the stairs. Sky Knife knelt at the stela and touched his forehead to the ground before it, then stood and jogged after Stone Jaguar. Warriors with their slings and spears in hand stood on each step and watched, but did not interfere. Still, the skin on Sky Knife's neck crawled, as if the gazes of the warriors could pierce his very soul.

Stone Jaguar needed no introductions, and no one seemed concerned that a temple attendant followed him. Warriors merely stared impassively, their bare chests glistening with sweat in the torchlight. Sweat streaked Sky Knife's body as well, but it was a cold sweat. The king. He was going to meet the king in the king's own house.

The house was similar, but larger, than the acropolis where the priests and the attendants lived. Long, narrow rooms with steeply vaulted ceilings were lined with benches. Colorful cotton blankets covered the benches and the walls had been painted in brilliant reds and blues. In the flickering torchlight, the images of gods and the king's ancestors walked on the walls, their stern stares ever watchful, ever forbidding.

Stone Jaguar stopped. Sky Knife stood behind him, waiting.

“Tell the king I am here on important business,” said Stone Jaguar. A warrior nodded, turned, and brushed past a heavy cotton drape. The warrior on Sky Knife's left shifted his weight slightly. Sky Knife didn't dare stare at the warrior, but flicked his gaze toward the tall man several times, awed to be in the warrior's presence.

Sky Knife was taller than many men in Tikal, but the warrior was a head taller than Sky Knife. His earlobes, stretched carefully over time, were wrapped about red-painted spools of wood encrusted with nacre from seashells. Grease coated his hair and plastered it flat to his skull, showing off its fashionable elongated shape. A long, aquiline nose jutted forth from his face, making his skull appear even longer and his eyes slightly crossed.

Sky Knife suppressed a surge of envy; the warrior had a face women would sigh over, lust after, dream of. Sky Knife's small nose was the plainest part of his plain face. His forehead did not have that perfect slope, and his eyes, no matter how hard he tried, absolutely refused to cross. None of the young women remarked on him, or watched him in the marketplace, or let him know by shy glances that they found him attractive.

The warrior wore a skirt of brilliant blue-and-yellow-striped cotton that was wrapped around his waist several times and bunched together in a knot in front. Rope sandals, newer and far finer than Sky Knife's, for these were decorated with cowrie shells, were strapped to the warrior's feet.

The warrior shifted his weight again and fixed his gaze on Sky Knife, who ducked his head and stared at his feet, heart pounding. His thick, straight hair fell forward in his face, obscuring his view. He didn't brush it back, but let it hang as it was.

The sound of the drape being pushed aside caused Sky Knife's knees to tremble. This was it. He would be in the presence of the king.

Stone Jaguar stepped forward into the next room. Sky Knife took a deep breath, pulled his shoulders back, and walked as confidently as he could, though he kept his gaze fixed on the middle of Stone Jaguar's back.

This room was slightly wider than the others, but was still a comfortable, familiar, shape. The paintings on the walls were intriguing, but Sky Knife got no more than a glimpse of a sacrificial scene before having to stop behind Stone Jaguar again. Stone Jaguar knelt. Sky Knife scrambled to his knees and lowered his forehead to the floor.

“My king,” said Stone Jaguar in his deep, melodious voice. In this room, his voice seemed to carry in a way it did nowhere else—at least nowhere else that Sky Knife had heard it.

“Stone Jaguar,” replied an even deeper, heavily accented voice. The accent jarred Sky Knife; he had not forgotten that the king had been born far to the north, but he had somehow not quite expected the King of Tikal to sound like a foreigner. Storm Cloud was king, father, and protector to the city. It only seemed right that he should speak as a native.

“I have grave news,” said Stone Jaguar. “Cizin has been seen.” He recounted the events of the evening. Sky Knife kept his head to the floor and listened intently. To either side of him, he heard the rustling of clothing and the bright, clattery sound of jade beads clapping against each other as the king's attendants moved about.

“And this is the one who saw Cizin?” asked the king when Stone Jaguar finished.

“Yes, my king,” said Stone Jaguar. A small draft hit Sky Knife in the face, and he realized Stone Jaguar had moved aside.

“And who is he?” asked the king. “What is so special about him?”

Stone Jaguar hesitated.

“Well?” demanded the king.

“My predecessor, Vine Torch,” said Stone Jaguar, “said that, though this boy was born to a farmer, he was destined to be more than a farmer. Vine Torch said there were omens at his birth: shooting stars, parades of iguanas outside the house,
yax-um
feathers falling from the sky at his feet. He is the fourth son of a fourth son. And the
Ah kin
says the
copal
told him the boy was born to do work no one else could do.”

Storm Cloud absorbed this for several moments. “So, boy,” he said at last, “omens tend to follow you, eh?” The king chuckled. Sky Knife tried not to tremble visibly.

“You may look upon me, boy,” said the king.

Sky Knife gathered his courage and straightened up, but stared at the chipped stone tiles of the floor in front of him.

“I said, you may look upon me.” The deep voice held a hint of laughter. Sky Knife blinked and raised his gaze to the king's.

Except for the image of the owl painted on the wall behind him, the king and his court were wholly Tikal. The king sat cross-legged on a knee-high stone dais, which was covered with layer upon layer of blankets.

Storm Cloud, King of Tikal, was dressed in a red cotton skirt covered in a pattern of green and yellow flowers. His chest, tattooed with the figure of his spirit animal, the crocodile, was covered by strings of beads and shells that hung from his neck. Jade ear spools swung gently from Storm Cloud's ears. On his head, the king wore an elaborate crown of shells, jade beads, and short, brightly colored feathers. Long, iridescent blue-green feathers of the
yax-um,
the sacred bird that dwelt in the far mountains, were fastened to the crown. Some of them stuck up into the air, and some trailed down Storm Cloud's shoulders.

He was an imposing sight and he stared at Sky Knife as one might consider an insect. Sky Knife stared back, trapped in the king's gaze, unable to look away. Sky Knife longed to put his head down on the floor again, to abase himself before this mighty figure.

“Hm,” said Storm Cloud. He turned his attention back to Stone Jaguar, no trace of amusement in his manner now.

Sky Knife, released, breathed a silent prayer of relief.

Storm Cloud addressed Stone Jaguar. “Thank you for coming so promptly. This is indeed important news, though unwelcome.”

Stone Jaguar bowed slightly. “It is certainly strange, Lord, that such a successful sacrifice would be followed by such terrible luck.”

“Perhaps the sacrifice was not successful, then,” said Storm Cloud. He glanced over at one of his attendants, a man whose eyes seemed half-closed in weariness. “Well?”

The attendant clutched at the jade beads around his neck and shook his head. “The sacrifice went perfectly, from what could be seen from the plaza,” he said. His voice was high and thin, like the voice of a reed flute. He ran his fingers through his graying hair. “All the signs were good.”

“Perhaps another sacrifice would reverse our luck,” said Stone Jaguar. “We could sacrifice in the morning for the new sun.”

Storm Cloud rubbed his smooth chin with one hand. “No,” he said. “The people should know of the sacrifice before it is done, so that they may prepare. Besides, how would you find a sacrifice so quickly? Most of the young men will be sleeping off too much
pulque.
”

“In times of trouble, sometimes the sacrifice of a young man is not enough,” said Stone Jaguar. “I am sure a sacrifice could be found.”

Storm Cloud shook his head. “No.”

“I am
Ah men,
High Priest, and
Ah nacom,
He Who Sacrifices,” said Stone Jaguar. “I know if a sacrifice is needed.”

“And I say we will not have one,” said Storm Cloud in a clipped, angry voice. “Do you question me, priest?”

Stone Jaguar bowed, anger in his face. “Of course not. It will be as you wish, Lord.”

Storm Cloud looked away from Stone Jaguar, glanced instead at Sky Knife. “Cizin pointed at you. What do you think it means?”

“I'm sorry, Lord, I don't know,” said Sky Knife. His voice sounded stronger than he had hoped it would.

Storm Cloud brushed a
yax-um
feather away from his shoulder. “Still, the vision was yours. All this bad luck,” he said. “How could it happen when the sacrifice went so well? Why is Cizin here—tonight? What do you think the omen means?”

“It must be the work of sorcery,” said Sky Knife, surprising himself at his boldness. The words poured out of his mouth, and he couldn't seem to stop them. “This much bad luck must be the work of a man, or men, in league with the powers of evil. The gods do not send such bad luck after accepting a sacrifice.”

Sky Knife closed his mouth before he could blurt out any more and dropped his gaze. It was not his place to say what the gods would or would not do—he was only a temple attendant! Stone Jaguar would be angry with him for presuming too much.