They’d won by a mere point. Sweat trickled down Night Shadow Star’s face as she gasped for breath. Her black-clad teammates leaped for joy, clacking their racquets together on high.
She felt alive.
Whistles and shrieks of delight arose from the sidelines where people were crowding around the stakeholders to collect their winnings. While for the most part entire fortunes weren’t bet as they were during the ritual games held on ceremonial days, few missed the opportunity to wager on a practice scrimmage such as this.
She sucked a final deep breath, wincing at the feel of her bruised ribs. Her right breast was sore from a hit, and her elbows would be sporting bruises from the damage she’d inflicted on others. Tomorrow was really going to hurt.
Tucking a racquet under her arm, she wiped the sweat away and walked, loose-limbed, toward where Fire Cat waited on the sideline. His muscular arms were crossed, a ghost of a smile on his lips.
She shot him a sly grin. “Well? Right up to the last heartbeat, Power alone knew how that one was going to end.”
“Wasn’t even a contest, Lady.”
“Really? What did you see from the sidelines that I couldn’t on the field?”
“Overall? Better play among the blues, but to make up for it the blacks had you.”
“I didn’t make a single point, and I barely even got the ball during those last plays.”
“No, Lady. But I counted. They dedicated no less than ten women to cover you. They were so concerned with containing the threat you posed, your teammates were consistently left open to score.”
A flicker of delight warmed in what had been an angry and depressing day. Not only had she enjoyed almost a hand’s time during which her world had become the game, but someone had actually recognized her contribution.
She gave him another smile, saying, “All games should be as—”
“Lady Night Shadow Star?” a voice interrupted.
She turned, seeing the Natchez squadron first, the one called Wet Bobcat. He bowed, touching his fingers to his forehead.
“What is it?”
“I am asked…” the man swallowed, obviously nervous. “The Itza lord, he would talk with you.”
“Would he? I thought he didn’t speak our tongue. I find it even more interesting that you do.” She studied him through a slitted eye.
“As a youth I served here. In Cahokia. For my people. I learn to speak, yes?” Wet Bobcat told her. “It was one of the reasons I was chosen to accompany the Little Sun and Itza lord.” He smiled weakly. “I am … the words sometimes … um, come poorly.”
“Then perhaps I should speak to the Itza when the words cannot become mangled and a misunderstanding be born.”
“Oh, no.” Wet Bobcat waved his arms. “He would know about game. Why you, a noble, play? If your life is forfeit if you lose.”
She shot a glance at the Itza; their gazes locked. Bracing her racquets over her shoulder, she marched toward him and stepped up on the veranda where he was seated beside the kukul. She could feel the thing’s Power. The War Serpent watched her with malignant green eyes, its fanged snarl provoking images of Piasa’s gaping mouth in the instant before it had crushed her head.
The Itza’s warriors stepped back to accommodate her as she strode arrogantly onto the veranda—a brazen act to hide her discomfort at the churning unease the kukul had triggered. She pointedly fought to ignore the thing.
Without his makeup and mask, Thirteen Sacred Jaguar looked oddly ordinary. She also realized he was a head shorter than she. And when it came to heads, his was curiously shaped with jutting cheekbones, receding jaw, and a broad, back-slanting forehead that accented his hooked nose. His eyes looked slightly oversized in his wide face, and she realized that his head had been purposely deformed. They’d bound his skull as an infant to flatten the forehead and back—a fact that hadn’t been apparent in his ceremonial dress.
The four Itza warriors stood behind him, also looking odd with their deformed heads, but they carried themselves well, as blooded warriors should. Their hard eyes were inspecting her from head to toe, and perhaps lingering a little too long on her breasts.
Thirteen Sacred Jaguar, too, was staring, something distasteful in his eyes as his gaze ran up her long legs, lingered on her hips and flat stomach, and finally fixed on her naked breasts. Only then did a slight smile cross his lips.
“Translate, Natchez,” she ordered. “Tell the lord of the Itza that I play for the Powers of the Underworld and the glory of Piasa and Old-Woman-Who-Never-Dies. The rules are to score twenty points. In desperation people have been known to wager their lives when fortune has forsaken them. I play because I’m good at it. And I enjoy myself.”
She gave him a threatening smile. “And, as you saw today, my life wasn’t forfeit. First, I hadn’t bet it, and second, I ensured that my team didn’t lose.”
She turned, having delivered her message.
Thirteen Sacred Jaguar barked something, and the Natchez cried, “Wait!”
She hesitated at the edge of the veranda, shooting a glance over her shoulder. Fire Cat was half a step behind her, clearly uncomfortable. The Itza warriors were wide-eyed, muttering angrily to each other.
The Natchez spread his arms, chattering to the Itza, his hands flying as he tried to sign the words he didn’t know.
One of the warriors, a muscular man with curious snake tattoos running up his arms, stepped up to Night Shadow Star, speaking incomprehensible Itza in a low and hostile voice, obviously angry.
“You might want to take a step back.” Fire Cat interposed himself between Night Shadow Star and the angry Itza. The warrior thumped Fire Cat hard on the chest, knocking him back a half step.
“Hold!” Night Shadow Star ordered an instant before Fire Cat launched himself at the man.
“Wait! Wait!” the Natchez was crying as the other Itza started forward to back up their friend. “Stop this!”
Thirteen Sacred Jaguar, still seated, snapped some command, and the Itza warriors backed up, fuming, their smoldering gazes flicking from Fire Cat to her and back.
“Anything else?” she asked, prepared to leave.
“Lady, please,” the Natchez pleaded. “It is … misunderstanding.”
“I warned you that might happen.”
“It is way you spoke. Tone of voice. The lord Thirteen Sacred Jaguar’s men think you not show … um, what is word? Honor? No, is way you say…”
“A lack of respect?” Fire Cat tossed out, his sour smile no doubt meant to further incite the Itza.
“Yes! He is lord. Lady need to address him with proper behavior. Show respect.”
She pointed, finger like a lance. Thirteen Sacred Jaguar’s eyes widened, and his warriors hissed like angry snakes. “As he is a guest in Cahokia, I was kind enough to interrupt my schedule and answer his questions.”
“But it is not the way the Itza treat—”
“I don’t care how the Itza are treated at home. I may have to marry him, but by spit and fire, I do not have to respect him. Respect is earned, and he has a long way to go to earn mine.”
She turned, stalking off the veranda, aware that a sizeable Cahokian crowd had gathered and were watching with amazed delight.
The obnoxious Itza warrior started off the porch in pursuit as the Natchez translated Night Shadow Star’s words.
Fire Cat wheeled to meet him, only to have the warrior called back by Thirteen Sacred Jaguar’s harsh order.
“Piss and vomit, Fire Cat,” she said through gritted teeth, “and I was having such a good day. What came over me?”
“He did, Lady,” Fire Cat answered. “The way he was looking at you? I was ready to take him apart myself.”
“I have to be smarter than this. More in control.”
“Are you sure?”
“What do you mean?”
“Lady, not all battles are won by wits and guile.” Fire Cat was tossing a hard look over his shoulder at the Itza warrior. “Sometimes it comes down to blood and fury.”