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  And then she was moving away, her footfalls heading swiftly toward the open terrace. Running. Running to where? There was only the terrace that ended in the open sky.

  And he knew she was running so she could fly.

  “Mama!” he screamed. “No!”

  He struggled to open his eyes, but the stitches held, and his lids did not budge. He thought to claw at his face, but the cords held him tight and the drink made time feel strange.

  “Son!” his father screamed. Something huge hit the door, and the wood splintered. The door was coming down.

  “Mama!” Serapio cried. “Come back!”

  But his begging did no good. His mother was gone.

  CHAPTER 2

  CITY OF CUECOLA

  YEAR 325 OF THE SUN

  (20 DAYS BEFORE CONVERGENCE)

  A Teek out of water swims in wine.

  —Teek saying

  The early-dawn fruit sellers walked the streets of Cuecola, enticements to purchase the day’s brews ringing from their lips. Their voices flowed through the narrow streets and wide avenues alike, past the modest oval-shaped, thatch-roofed homes of the common citizens and up through the more lavish multistoried stone mansions of the merchant lords. They wove around the jaguar-headed stelae that guarded the great four-sided pyramids and across the well-worn royal ball court that sat empty in the predawn darkness. Across tombs and market squares and places of ceremony and out past the city walls, they filled the morning with their cries. Until even Xiala, blissfully unconscious until moments before, heard them.

  “Somebody please shut them up,” she muttered, cheek flat against the cold dirt floor on which she had slept. “They’re giving me a headache.” She waited, and when no one acknowledged her, she asked again, a little louder.

  For answer, someone kicked her in the ribs. Not hard, but enough to make her grunt and crack an eye open to see who had done it.

  “You shut up,” the culprit said. It was a skinny woman twice her age with a drag to the left side of her face and an ominous scar across her neck. “You’re making more noise than them.”

  “—mmm not,” Xiala mumbled, giving the stranger her best glare. Dirt stuck to her lip. She dragged a hand across her mouth to wipe it away. Only then did she get a good look around at the room she was in: dark wet walls and a wooden-slatted door where an open entrance should have been. Too many women reeking of body odor and fermented cactus beer sprawled on the floor, a lucky few huddled under threadbare cotton blankets in the cold. Someone was softly weeping in a dark corner.

  “Fuck,” she said, sighing. “I’m in jail again.”

  The skinny woman, the one who had kicked her, cackled. She was missing teeth. The two front and another lower one. Xiala wondered if they’d rotted out or she had sold them. She looked like someone who might have sold them.

  “This ain’t a merchant lord’s house,” the woman said, grinning. “That’s for sure.”

  “Thank the lesser gods for that, at least,” she said, and meant it. She was no fan of merchant lords. In fact, it was working for a merchant lord that had landed her here, in an admittedly roundabout way. If Lord Pech hadn’t tried to double-cross her, she wouldn’t have had to throw him into the ocean. She hadn’t stuck around to see if he was rescued or not, choosing instead to retreat to a cliffside cantina that looked much too seedy for someone like Lord Pech to frequent. Disgusted with the double-cross and her sour luck, she’d decided to drink. She would have decided to drink anyway, but it never hurt to have a good excuse.

  Weary, she pushed herself to sitting. Too quickly, and her head spun, the price of her good excuses. Xiala gripped her skull with both hands, willing the world to steady. The skin on her knuckles pulled painfully, and she looked at her right hand to find them swollen and red. She must have hit someone, but for all the cacao in Cuecola, she couldn’t remember who. The toothless woman laughed harder.

  Shaking her sore hand out and pointedly ignoring her amused cellmate, Xiala got to her feet. She ran questing fingers over her clothes, taking stock of what she was missing. Her dagger, which was no surprise. Her small purse, also not surprising. But she still had the clothes on her back and the sandals on her feet, and she told herself to be grateful for that. There had been a time or two she had come out of a drunken night with less.

  She stepped over the sleeping figures around her, not bothering to mouth apologies when she accidentally trod on a hand or kicked a turned back. Most of the women didn’t notice, still sleeping or inebriated into oblivion. Xiala licked her dry, cracked lips. She wouldn’t mind a drink right now herself. No, she told herself. Didn’t we just establish drinking is what landed you here to begin with? No more drink. And no more merchant lords.

  She threw that last one in for good measure, but she knew neither resolution would hold for long. She was a sailor, after all, and sailors relied on both merchant lords and alcohol to survive.

  She reached the slatted door and tentatively tested it to see if it would give. It didn’t, so she pressed her face through the spaces between the bars, peering around the early-morning darkness. She faced a courtyard. The lack of light outside obscured the details, turning the building across from her into a rectangular stone block and the open space between them an empty hole. To her left and right stretched more cells, but she couldn’t tell if they were occupied or not. Either way, she seemed to be the only soul awake. Except for the woman who had laughed at her, of course.

  She could still hear the fruit sellers, but they were fainter now, having moved on. Instead, her ears filled with the rustle of the wind through the palms and the familiar cries of chachalacas waking in their nests. The air was scented with the lingering aroma of freshly pulped papaya, spindly night-bloomers, and over all of it, the salty tang of the sea.

  The sea.

  The very thought was a comfort. When she was on the sea, she was happiest. The problems of the land, of jails and lords, didn’t exist. If she could get back on a ship, everything would be all right.

  But first she had to get out of here.

  “Guards!” she shouted, squinting into the darkness. She couldn’t see anyone, but there had to be guards. She banged a flat hand against the slats. They didn’t budge. She yelled again, but only the birds and the wind answered her. She needed something that would make some noise, that would draw attention. She had nothing on her but her clothes—black trousers that flared out to cleverly resemble the skirts that were more socially acceptable for Cuecolan women and a woven striped huipil, tied tight at her waist with a fringed scarf that trailed over one hip. None of it useful for making noise.

  She tapped her foot against the ground, thinking. And rolled her eyes at the obvious solution. She slipped her left foot from its sandal and picked up the leather-soled shoe. She ran it across the slats, and it made a satisfying slapping sound.

  “Guards!” she cried again, this time accompanied by the sound of leather striking the bars.

  Annoyed voices rose behind her in disgruntled grumbling, but she kept at it, louder even.

  Finally, a shadow detached itself from the wall two doors down. A woman in a guard uniform swaggered over, obviously in no hurry. Xiala ran her sandal across the slats with a heavier hand, willing the woman to speed. The guard’s face came into view in the dim light, irritation making her eyes small and her mouth smaller. Once within reach, her hand darted out serpent fast and plucked the shoe from Xiala with a growl. “What do you think you’re doing?”

  “I’m getting your attention,” Xiala said, raising her chin. “I’m ready to get out.”

  The guard scoffed. “You’re not getting out.”

  Xiala frowned. “What do you mean? I’ve sobered up. I won’t cause any trouble. You can let me go.”

  An ugly smirk spread the guard’s mouth wide. “You’re in until the tupile decides what to do with you.”

  “What to do with me?” Worry slipped down Xiala’s spine. Her memory of the night before was hazy at best. She assumed she’
d been picked up on the street and dropped here to sleep off the drink. She wasn’t proud of it, but it wouldn’t be the first time and likely not the last. But this guard was insinuating there was more to her circumstances than public intoxication and a poorly thrown punch. Maybe Pech had squealed. She stifled a rising dismay.

  “You must let me out,” she said, deciding to go for bravado. “I’ve got a ship waiting for me.”

  The guard barked a desultory laugh. “Oh, a ship? You a sailor, then? No, no, a captain? Wait, a merchant lord himself! One of the House of Seven.” She guffawed loudly.

  Xiala flushed. It did sound ridiculous, but the truth was often ridiculous. “Captain,” Xiala said, trying to sound imperious, “and if I don’t show at port to sail, my lord will be vexed. And you’ll be sorry!”

  “I guess I’ll just have to be sorry. Until then…” She tucked Xiala’s shoe under her arm and turned to go.

  “Hey!” she shouted. “Give me my sandal!”

  “You’ll get your shoe when the tupile comes,” the guard tossed over her shoulder as she walked away. “And keep it down, or I’ll have you beaten!”

  Xiala watched her until she’d melted back into the shadows. She shuddered, noticing the chill for the first time. She hunched forward, seeking a little warmth. But there was no warmth here. She finally gave up and shuffled back through the maze of sleeping women on the floor, a now-shoeless foot the only thing to show for her troubles. She found an empty spot against a wall and slumped down, arms across her knees and head down, nothing to do but wait.

  * * *

  She didn’t wait long.

  Within the hour, noise and movement outside the cell had her lifting her head to get a better look. A few of the women who had been asleep before were up, and they moved toward the barred door to see what was going on. Whatever they saw had them hurrying back to flop on the floor and feign sleep, no doubt to avoid whatever was coming. Xiala craned her neck, unafraid. The only thing she feared was not getting back to a ship.

  A man came into view. He was middle-aged, thick and solid, his hair a black bowl around a heavily jowled face and hard eyes. He wore a sash that marked him as a tupile, the constable of the jail. Xiala’s stomach sank. He did not look like a man of mercy.

  And then another man stepped into view. A handsome man, tall and well built, neither too thin like the toothless woman nor thick like the tupile. Elegant strands of silver twisted through his black hair, which he wore long and tied back in a nobleman’s high bun. He was dressed in white, a knee-length loincloth and one-shouldered cape that showed a muscular and well-tended physique. The cloth was rough and lacking in embroidery or adornment, a rejection of current trends. It spoke of modesty and devotion, but the conceit was belied by the collar of jade at his neck and the wealth of jewels in his ears and on his wrists. Even in this rotten jail, he glowed, exuding charm and confidence. And, above all, wealth.

  A merchant lord for sure, a son of the noble class most likely, and one of the House of Seven if she had to guess.

  Xiala hated his guts on principle.

  As if sensing her regard, and likely her disgust, the lord looked up from his quiet conversation with the tupile. His gaze met hers, and he smiled. But it was a serpent’s smile, pleasing enough to one who doesn’t know fangs and venom lurk just out of sight.

  “That’s her,” said the merchant lord with a slight nod in her direction.

  Part of her wanted to shrink back from his notice, but more of her wanted out, and he looked like freedom. She stood tall, dusting the prison dirt from her clothes as best she could and doing her damnedest to look like she didn’t belong in jail.

  The tupile frowned, gaze cutting to Xiala and then back to the man. “The charges are serious, Lord Balam,” he said in a low voice, thick with anxiety. “I cannot look the other way. We are, after all, a society of laws that apply equally to all, noble and common.”

  “Of course we are,” Lord Balam replied, “and you are only doing your job. But perhaps I can smooth the way.” He pressed something into the tupile’s hand that Xiala could not see.

  The heavier man clenched the object in his palm.

  Balam turned the full weight of his dazzling gaze on the tupile. “I understand you are concerned,” he said, taking the man’s hands firmly between his own. “And I will see her punished. But if she is already in service to me, a sentence of slavery is not feasible.”

  “Hers are not crimes that result in slavery, Lord,” the tupile sputtered. “These are capital offenses.”

  Xiala choked. Mother waters. She wasn’t actually trying to kill Pech when she’d thrown him into the sea. It wasn’t her fault he couldn’t swim.

  “Drunkenness,” the tupile continued, “public lewdness, entering the home of another without invitation. An accusation of adultery with a wom—”

  Oh. Not Pech. Not Pech at all.

  It started to come back to her now. Her memory of arriving at the rowdy cantina was true enough. There was even the remembrance of her first drink. And her second, the sting of anise against her tongue. And there was the woman, flowers in her long hair, her huipil baring her shoulders. They had laughed together and danced and… all seven hells. Now she remembered. They had gone to the woman’s house, and it was all going so well until the husband came home. Xiala vaguely recalled punching the man in the face, which explained her hand, but it was only because he was blocking the door and screaming at her. The rest was a blur. He must have had her arrested. And now here she was. Facing a death sentence.

  She should have been scared of the tupile and his laws and his unjust justice, but she was not. She knew how Cuecola worked. A lord had taken interest in her, which meant she was as good as sprung. But sprung for what? A rich man didn’t notice someone like her unless he wanted something.

  The two men concluded their transaction, and the guard was told to unlock the cell door and usher Xiala forward.

  She started to speak, but Lord Balam, her unasked-for savior, cut his gaze to her. For a moment he stared, his eyes widening. She lifted her chin, a dare. His gaze fell to her feet.

  “Where is her other shoe?” he asked.

  The female guard shuffled forward and handed it over with a muttered explanation, and Xiala had to work to suppress a wild desire to gloat.

  Soon enough, he was leading her out of the courtyard with its collection of prison cells, and she breathed a deep sigh of relief. She was free.

  She thought about bolting immediately, but she had no idea where they were. The neighborhood was unfamiliar, if typical of the countryside. The scent of eggs and corn cakes cooking flavored the air, and she was sure she could still smell the citrus fruit vendors’ wares, although she hadn’t spotted one. Her stomach growled. She couldn’t remember when she’d last eaten, and she was ravenously hungry. But she shoved her hunger down. If she wanted to eat, she would have to ask this Balam for the funds to do it with, and she would not. Not until she knew what he wanted.

  “Who—?” she started.

  “You made me come to Kuharan,” Balam said, interrupting her. He had a pleasant melodic voice and he said the words lightly, as if teasing a friend. “I do not enjoy Kuharan.”

  “Who are you? And what in all the hells is a Kuharan?”

  He lifted a hand to gesture around him. “This is Kuharan. We’re just outside the city in a small farming community. Do you not remember coming here?” The look he gave her, knowing full well her answer was no, made her flush hot. “Be lucky you did,” he said. “I don’t know that I could have bribed a city official as easily as I did this country one.” His lips quirked up. “She must have been very beautiful.”

  Xiala flushed even hotter. “She was,” she said defiantly.

  “The things we do for beautiful women,” he said with a knowing sigh.

  She held her retort. She didn’t believe for a moment this man next to her had done anything foolish for a beautiful woman, or a beautiful man for that matter. Lord Balam looked much too
controlled to be swayed by something as simple as pleasures of the flesh.

  “Perhaps you did not know such love is forbidden here?” he asked smoothly.

  Xiala spat. “For a city this size, you would think there wouldn’t be quite so many uptight prigs.”

  “Ah, but we aren’t in the city.” He sighed, as if burdened. “But even in the city proper…” He left the thought unfinished, but Xiala knew the answer. “Is it different where you come from?” he asked, voice innocent. “Among the Teek?”

  “Where are your people?” she asked, changing the subject. Where she came from and who she loved were none of his business.

  He tilted his head. “People?”

  “Servants. A palanquin. I thought lords like you didn’t have feet.”

  He laughed. “I prefer to walk, and Kuharan is not so far for a morning walk.”

  It was a lie. She guessed that he had come alone because he didn’t want anyone to know he was here. But why? She still didn’t know why he had come for her, or how he had even found her.

  “You still haven’t told me who you are.”

  “My name is Balam. Lord Balam of the House of Seven, Merchant Lord of Cuecola, Patron of the Crescent Sea, White Jaguar by Birthright.”

  They all had titles like that, and his meant as little as the ones she’d heard before. “Am I supposed to care?”

  “Well, I was hoping it would impress you,” he said dryly. “It would save us some time.” He smiled that smile again, or maybe he had never stopped smiling. “I know who you are, after all.” He paused to make eye contact so his meaning couldn’t be missed. “What you are.”

  Of course he did. He’d come all the way to this place he hated to bail her out of jail. He had to know what she was.

  “What is it you want, Lord of… Cats, was it?” she asked. “Rich men don’t talk to me unless they want something. And they certainly don’t bribe tupiles to get it.”

  “We could start with a bit of respect,” he said mildly, “but that seems unlikely.”