Blood Sport Page 21

  What had the leader of the ritual been asking the spirit? He wanted to know the location of something called an itzompan—something that was connected with their crazy goal of bringing about the end of the world and the beginning of a new age. Could that have been the secret that Mama G fled Aztlan to protect?

  They’d called the spirit by the honorific title of “king.” The Azzies hadn’t had kings for six centuries, since the time of Montezuma—I knew that much local history. And the date the spirit had used—Four Motion—sounded as if it came from the ancient calendar.

  I needed the advice of an expert. Someone I could trust—who had no links to Aztlan or its priesthood. If the cultists tracked me down through any contacts I made, they’d retaliate with lethal force. Of that I could be certain. And I had no way of recognizing the cultists before they struck—they could be anyone. All they had to do was hide the brand marks on their arms, casually stroll up to me in a crowd, and .. .

  Then it struck me. The professor of Native American Studies in the Sioux Nation—the one who had answered my query about the cross on the simsense chip cover. He’d been helpful—garrulous even—spouting off all kinds of supplemental information about the “tree of life.” Obviously passionate about his field of study, he’d answered my posting within minutes. What was his name and Matrix LTG address again? I called it up from my headware memory: Silas Iron-feather at the Chief Joséph University at NA/SIO-SW/TEM.

  I set down my beer bottle on the low glass table beside me and started to rise from my chair. Then I paused as I heard the bottle start rattling on the table. The arms of the chair trembled under my fingertips, and my cyberear picked up a low-pitched rumble that was more of a vibration within the Earth itself than a sound. Earthquake! My heart began to race and a film of sweat broke out on my brow. This house was built of cement blocks, mortared together. The kind of construction that collapses into a heap of rubble the moment an earthquake hits .. .

  The tremor was over almost as soon as it began. The rumbling faded and my beer bottle stopped dancing on the table. As soon as the earthquake was over, dogs began furiously barking and I heard a baby crying next door. But otherwise, everyone remained glued to their telecom sets, watching the ollamaliztli game. No one even ventured outside to see whether any damage had been done. Life in Aztlan continued, earthquake or no earthquake. People just held their collective breath a moment, then carried on.

  How they could live like this, I’d never know. I could never get used to it.

  I didn’t want to put Teresa’s friends at risk by using their telecom, and so I headed down to the bus station to use the public telecoms. It meant a slightly increased risk—I’d heard that the Azzies randomly monitored data channels, searching for “subversive” uploads and downloads. But I was betting that they couldn’t monitor every one of the country’s million-odd datalines twenty-four hours a day.

  The bus station itself was grubby, a relic of the last century. But the telecom booths were clean and modern-looking. I slotted my credstick and direct-accessed Professor Ironfeather’s number at the university. I left the telecom’s optical recorder on, since the Azzies were likely to pay closer attention to any calls that didn’t include an optical component—they’d naturally conclude that anyone who shut it off must have something to hide. I tapped my foot nervously as the call connected, looking over my shoulder for ACS guards. No doubt about it, I was getting paranoid. Aztlan will do that to you.

  As the call connected, a head and shoulders appeared on the telecom’s flatscreen display. The man staring back at me was both elven and Amerind, with ears tapering to delicate points and traditional braided hair. He wore what looked like an honest to gods fringed buckskin jacket and had the stem of a long, small-bowled pipe between his teeth. He blew a thin stream of white smoke out the side of his mouth as he spoke. “Good day. Professor Ironfeather speaking.”

  He sounded formal, stuffy—par for the course, when you’re dealing with elves. I had already decided to play to his vanity—his answer to my previous question had held a slightly pompous note when he referred to my query as “child’s play.” He’d even asked for something more challenging next time. I hoped I was going to oblige him.

  “Professor Ironfeather, I’m in need of your expertise on Native American studies. I’m researching a number of obscure topics to do with the ancient history of Aztlan and haven’t found anyone else who can assist me. The professors at the Ciudad Universitaria in Tenochtitlán haven’t been any help, and yet you’d think they’d be the experts. I know it’s a long shot, contacting a professor in the Sioux Nation about Aztlaner history, but a classmate of mine once heard you speak at a symposium and she thought that—”

  He cut me off before I could finish, and for that I was thankful. I didn’t want to have to get too specific as to who had recommended him—or where they’d heard him speak.

  “I am an expert in the history of that nation,” he said, taking a draw from his pipe. “Tell me what you wish to know.”

  “Well, first of all, I’m looking for more information on King Nezahualpilli. He was supposed to be a prophet, but I can’t find any references to—”

  “Then you haven’t been looking very hard,” the professor chided. “Nezahualpilli’s ollamaliztli match with Montezuma II is infamous. In 1516, this king of Texcoco prophesied that strangers would soon rule the Aztec kingdom. Montezuma refused to believe him, and challenged Nezahualpilli to a ball game—and to predict who would win it. Nezahualpilli boasted that he would win, and wagered his kingdom against Montezuma’s rather pathetic bet of three turkeys. Needless to say, Nezahualpilli did win—although Montezuma beat him in the first two games. Three years later, in 1519, Cortés sacked and plundered Tenochtitlán, and the prophecy was proved correct.”

  Yet another tale of prophecy and fate. Aztlan history seemed to be riddled with stories like this one. No wonder its religious fanatics leaned toward the apocalyptic. Prophecies of impending doom seemed as popular, even in this modern century, as . . .

  Wait a minute. The rulers of Tenochtitlán and Texcoco, playing ollamaliztli together? Weren’t those the two cities that were squaring off in this year’s national finals? Could there be some significance to the fact that. . .

  I shook my head, surprised at myself. I was starting to think like an Azzie.

  Professor Ironfeather’s history lesson hadn’t enlightened me any further—it had just perplexed me. I’d thought the cultists had summoned a spirit last night in the ruins. Instead, it seemed, they had used blood magic to conjure up a ghost from the Azzie past. An actual historical figure, if the professor was correct. And Professor Ironfeather’s attitude suggested that he was. As he took another draw on his pipe, I jumped in with another question.

  “The references to Nezahualpilli that I did manage to find mentioned something called an itzompan. What is that?” I was taking a gamble—I had no idea if the two were actually connected. To my relief, they were.

  “An itzompan . . .” Professor Ironfeather murmured. His eyes glanced up and to the left, as he searched his memory for the answer. As his head turned I saw the datasoft links behind his right ear—he had an entire array of them, all filled with chips that I assumed to be knowsofts. No wonder the guy was a walking encyclopedia.

  “Ah yes,” he said, nodding to himself. “The itzompan. The ‘place of the skull.’ An alleged feature of the traditional ollamaliztli court—a sacrificial altar, set into the floor of the playing field, intended to receive the severed head of the victorious team’s captain. The winner’s head was offered up as a sacrifice to the sun god—just one of many ancient sacrifices designed to keep the sun in motion. It involved a form of what used to be called ‘sympathetic magic’ in the pre-Awakened world. The severed head represented the sun. The ball itself was also symbolic of the sun—its passage through the ball court’s hoop represented the descent of the sun into the underworld and its re-emergence. The Aztecs believed that—”

  “Excuse me,�
�� I interrupted. “The winner was sacrificed?”

  Professor Ironfeather’s eyebrows drew together in a scolding frown. I could just hear him tsk-tsking at my ignorance under his breath.

  “It was a great honor,” he said. “Even before the game began, the team captains dedicated themselves to the sun god Huitzilopochtli. When it came time to be sacrificed, the victor would . . .”

  I mentally tuned Professor Ironfeather out as I searched my wetware for a piece of data that was tugging at my memory. Huitzilopochtli—that was the god that Hector, the cab driver, had been going on about. Huitzilopochtli’s curse. Every year, the captain of the team that won the national ollamaliztli finals had died. I’d dismissed the deaths as accidents or coincidences. But what if the court ball players were being sacrificed?

  Then I remembered that the team captains had died of natural causes—or what passed for natural causes in this modern world. Heart attacks, car and plane crashes, and gunshots, if I remembered correctly. None had been beheaded. I sighed. If you looked hard enough, it was possible to find a conspiracy in anything.

  “Is the itzompan found in modern ball courts, as well?” I asked.

  “Hardly.” The professor shook his head. “It was said to have been located at the center of the court. That positioning would not only interfere with the game as it is currently played, but is also superfluous. The Aztlaners no longer sacrifice their team captains.” He drew from his pipe once more. “And the itzompan itself may be strictly fictional. Surprisingly enough, although the itzompan is mentioned several times in the ancient codices, archaeologists have yet to uncover a ball court with this feature. It’s probably the stuff of legend, since the codices refer to it being used only at the dawning of a new era.”

  I wanted to pursue that topic further. But then I saw an Azzie police officer out the corner of my eye. She wasn’t looking at me—but she was walking my way. The combined threat of her heavy weapons and obvious cyberware made me decide to cut the call short.

  “Two last questions, Professor,” I said hurriedly. “First, what is the ‘precious twin?’ I’d guess that it’s a star, since ancient Aztec ah ... texts .. . mention it as rising in the east.”

  “That would be Venus. Erroneously named the ‘morning star,’ it is in fact a planet, and is associated with both morning and evening.”

  Morning then, if it was rising in the east. Whatever the cultists were planning, it would take place at first light.

  “And the day Four Motion? What would that correspond to in the modem calendar?”

  He told me. I did some quick mental arithmetic. It was one day after the fifth and final game of the ollamaliztli nationals.

  Then the pieces fell together in my mind. I knew what the cultists planned to do. Grab the winning court ball team captain, sacrifice him the morning after the final game as Venus rose in the dawn sky, place his severed head in an itzompan, and welcome the “demons of twilight” that Rafael’s friend Alberto had told us about. But where was the itzompan where all of this would take place?

  Mama G had known its location. I knew that instinctively, in my gut. That was what the missionaries—and Domingo Vargas—had been after. The reason why Mama G had been killed. According to Parminder’s description of the simsense chip, it must be located somewhere in the Yucatán. If only . . .

  I glanced over my shoulder. The policía officer was getting closer. And she was looking directly at me, now.

  “Thank you, Professor Ironfeather, but I must go now. I’ve run up an enormous long distance bill already, talking live like this, and I won’t be able to afford much more on a student’s budget. I’m afraid I’ll have to chat with you again another time. But I’m appreciative of all your help. You really were a font of knowledge.”

  The professor tipped his head in a gracious nod, and acknowledged my gushing praise. “Any time,” he said. “I am pleased to have been of service.”

  I stabbed the Disconnect icon, then took a moment to compose myself before leaving the telecom booth. Just in case the officer wasn’t really interested in me, I’d take it slow and casual.

  She wasn’t. She passed me by without so much as a blink of her cybereye. Heaving a sigh of relief, I strode through the bus terminal. It looked as though Rafael and I were going to the final game of the ollamaliztli nationals, after all. That was where everything would come together. If the cultists really were going to try to kidnap the winning team’s captain that night, it just might prove enough of a distraction for Rafael and I to get to the priest Domingo Vargas and haul him off somewhere, where we could question him.

  As I stepped out of the bus terminal into the street, car drivers all around me started honking their horns. I heard cheering from a cantina up the street, and a trumpet blared out a triumphant tune.

  “What’s happened?” I asked a man standing next to me. He had a micro-receiver in his ear—it was a safe bet that he was plugged into whatever earth-shattering event had just occurred.

  “The Texcoco Serpents!” he chortled. “They’ve won the fourth game of the nationals. It’s a tied series—and I’ve just won a bet of one million pesos!” He smiled benevolently at me—and for good reason, since the win was equivalent to two thousand nuyen. “May good fortune also come your way, señorita.”

  “Thanks,” I told him. I knew I was going to need all the luck I could get.

  19

  If we were going to get back to Tenochtitlán in time for the fifth game of the finals, Rafael and I had to move quickly. I ducked back into the bus terminal and purchased two tickets for a bus that left for Mérida later than evening. Fortunately, the capital city of the state of Yucatán wasn’t under curfew—Air Montezuma flights still operated regularly between Mérida and Tenochtitlán. And so I was able to telecom a travel agent in the city and get the last two seats on the “red eye”—the midnight flight to Tenochtitlán.

  As I passed the town’s central plaza, I spotted Rafael and Teresa. They were participating in the time-honored tradition of the Aztlan paseo. The Sunday evening promenade is a curious tradition, in which single men stroll around the plaza in one direction while single women and couples circle it in the other direction. Everyone is decked out in their finest clothes and the object seems to be to flirt, rather than to make any serious connections—although being caught by the curfew could provide a handy excuse for having to stay overnight at the home of a suitor. Tonight the paseo participants were especially jubilant, celebrating the Serpents’ victory in the ollamaliztli finals.

  I watched Rafael and Teresa as they strolled around the whole plaza, arm in arm. They were talking in low whispers with their heads close together. I found myself growing angry at the fact that Rafael was spending so much time courting Teresa, when he should have been helping me plan how we might get to Vargas. It irked me to the point where I used my cyberear to filter out the teasing catcalls of the teenage boys strolling the plaza and listen in on their conversation.

  “. . . have to catch a bus back to Izamal tonight,” Teresa was saying. “My employers only gave me one day off—it will look suspicious if I stay away longer. And besides, I have to prepare. The Cristeros are holding an important meeting in three days’ time—”

  “On the same night as the ollamaliztli finals?” Rafael asked.

  “Sí. It is the perfect excuse for us to slip away from our families and gather together. We each say we are going to a friend’s place to watch the game on trideo.” She smiled shyly up at Rafael, enjoying the ruse.

  I could see that the girl had fallen for Rafael, after all. I never could understand why women became so smitten with him—although I could admit that his muscular body was very appealing and that he could lay on the charm when it suited him.

  I felt sorry for Teresa. If Rafael held true to form, he’d flirt with her while we were here in Aztlan, then forget all about her as soon as he got back to Seattle. And here she was, sharing her confidences with him. She’d already entrusted us with the knowledge that
she was a courier for the Cristeros, and now she was telling Rafael about some secret meeting the group was about to hold. I could only suppose that the girl—who had started her life as a jaguar—wasn’t used to human deception. Otherwise she’d have known to keep things like that to herself.

  “Were you serious when you said you wanted to join the Cristeros?” Teresa asked. “Perhaps you could come to the meeting . . .”

  Rafael grinned and shook his head. “If there was any way I could, I would,” he said. Then his face grew serious. “But there’s something that Leni and I have to do that evening. Afterward, though, I promise to come back to Izamal to see you.”

  I listened just long enough to make sure that Rafael wasn’t going to spill any of our plans, then turned and headed back to the home of Teresa’s friends. Along the way, I kept a wary eye out for the policía. I told myself that it was unlikely that anyone had heard our gunfire last night—the ruins lay many kilometers from town. But I couldn’t help wondering how long it would be before someone stumbled across the bodies. The policía might not be quite so diligent in investigating the deaths of the cultists, and the sacrificial victims might have all been street kids and campesinos who would not be missed. But the shooting death of a priest would certainly make the policía sit up and take notice.

  My other concern was the three cultists who had escaped. None of them had gotten a good look at Rafael or me, and they had probably scurried back to whatever hole they’d crawled out of. But I couldn’t be certain that they hadn’t gone back to the ruins or found the abandoned van and somehow used magic to pick up our trail. . .

  The sooner we headed back to Tenochtitlán, the better.

  So intent was I on watching my back that I turned a corner and nearly walked into someone who was coming the other way along the sidewalk. Then I saw who it was and gasped in surprise.