Shadow of the Lords Read Free Page B

who was going to ply her trade from what spot in one of the city’s many markets, and so far they had not got much beyond cracking chewing-gum in each other’s faces,
but it had potential. I found myself grinning at the thought of what my stiff-necked, pious brother would run into if he followed me: black hair flying around him, fleshy, tattooed arms, stained pale with yellow ochre, reaching out to him with wickedly long fingernails, the air heavy with the vanilla scent of cheap perfume and ringing with inhuman shrieks from those vivid red mouths …
    I forgot that there was more to being a great warrior than brute strength. The hand that tugged sharply at my cloak’s hem and almost wrenched the garment from my shoulders reminded me that Lion was more agile than I was and there was almost nothing I could get into or out of faster than he could.
    â€˜I don’t suppose it ever occurred to you,’ he shouted, trying to make himself heard over the cries behind us, ‘that your family might have helped?’
    â€˜I’d had your help,’ I said shortly. ‘Sorry, brother, but it came at too high a price.’
    â€˜And the disgrace? What about the shame you brought on yourself?’
    â€˜On you, you mean! Don’t try and kid me, Lion. That’s what this was always about, isn’t it – keeping me busy digging over some weed-infested mud-patch somewhere, safely out of sight, so I wouldn’t blight your precious career!’
    To my surprise, the mighty warrior did not fly into a rage. He looked briefly, sadly, at our feet – his with the one precious sandal that was what remained of his dignity, mine bare as always – and mumbled: ‘No, it’s not that.’ Then he looked up again, his face wearing as thoughtful an expression as I had seen on it. ‘Look, your antics over the years haven’t helped – but I’ve overcome that; all of us have. Except you. Are you really going to be a slave for the rest of your life? No one lives for ever, Yaotl, not even slippery characters like you. The best
you can hope for is to leave a good name behind. Maybe it didn’t matter before, when you thought you had no children, but now you know you’ve got a son. Don’t you want to leave him anything, beside the knowledge that his father died a slave? If you won’t exert yourself for your own sake, what about his?’
    It was a long speech for him, delivered softly, with none of the hectoring tone his lectures were usually couched in. In the awkward pause that followed I reflected that it must have cost him a lot of effort. I wondered whether he had been saving it up, rehearsing it.
    I turned away from him. The crowd flowing around us suddenly seemed distant. I tried looking into the busy, preoccupied faces that were hurrying past me, but for some reason it was hard to bring them into focus. I wished he had not mentioned Nimble.
    Eventually I muttered: ‘If my son has any sense, he’ll be on the far side of the mountains by nightfall. He’ll never know me.’
    â€˜Maybe he’ll be back, some day.’
    I shook my head furiously, to clear it. ‘Anybody would think I had a choice!’
    â€˜You could run away. It’s One Death – you could do it today.’
    â€˜Only if I happened to be in the marketplace.’ I knew about the custom he was alluding to, the tiniest chink of an opening that was offered to slaves on Tezcatlipoca’s special day. ‘And then only if I managed to reach the Emperor’s palace without being caught first. Oh, and the rule is I have to tread in a turd on the way, remember?’ I had always suspected this last twist revealed the custom’s true purpose: to give the bystanders a good laugh. What could be funnier than watching a man running through the market with soiled heels, with his cursing master behind him, stumbling in his efforts to avoid stepping
in his slave’s