The sun had cleared the eastern horizon by a couple of fingers; and the Morning Star’s mound-top palace cast a long shadow to the southwest. From the feel of the humid air, it would be another hot and muggy day.
The stone cupped in Fire Cat’s hand, he stared down the long chunkey court and tried to shake all the distractions from his souls. Tomorrow, Night Shadow Star would marry the Itza, and the man would move into her palace. His four smug warriors, and who knew how many Natchez, would accompany him.
Everything would be different.
What did that mean for Fire Cat? He was the one who ran the palace, slept outside her door, and kept her safe. He protected her back when she was out among the people. And what happened if the Itza raised a hand to strike her?
“I’ll break his pus-rotted arm!”
The man will be her husband. You’re nothing but her slave.
He glared all of his hate and anger at the chunkey court. The strip of clay seemed unconcerned.
Souls burning with frustrated rage, he started forward. With a roll of the shoulders, he released the stone. Shifting the lance, he launched it in a graceful arc just before the mark. As he trotted after it, he watched the lance drive itself into the clay a couple of arms’ lengths short of the stone.
Muttering to himself, he picked up the lance and stamped the clay flat.
By Piasa’s swinging balls, he had to do better than this. What was wrong with him? He’d never played this poorly in his life!
An image of the Itza flashed between Fire Cat’s souls. The man was grinning, reaching for Night Shadow Star’s naked body. Running his hands down her soft skin, cupping her breasts.
Emptiness and despair.
Stop it!
A knot of men stepped off the avenue that ran along the western side of the Morning Star’s mound.
The hollow in Fire Cat’s gut turned acid as he recognized the Natchez Little Sun. Accompanying Swirling Cloud were the Itza warriors. The one called Dead Teeth had a sneering grin. Split Bone reeked of insolence, while Shaking Earth had that quiet deadly quality about him. And finally there was Red Copal, the snake-tattooed piece of dung he’d wanted to destroy after the stickball game.
“In the name of the Morning Star,” the Natchez interpreter, Wet Bobcat called. “Greetings.”
“In the name of the Red Wing Clan, greetings yourself,” he answered back, noticing that Swirling Cloud carried a stone and lance. “If you want to play, the Morning Star’s courts are right over there. As his guests, you are welcome to use them. It is said they are the best in the world.”
“Here will be fine,” Wet Bobcat replied with a provocative smile. “These are Four Winds courts, yes? And the Morning Star has granted us the Four Winds Men’s House. What is Four Winds is ours to use.”
“Fine. Have at it.” He gestured, stepping back to collect his cape and bag.
“My master, the Little Sun, is a player of some renown in the south.” Wet Bobcat waved around. “I see no one here worthy of his challenge. He would show the Itza warriors how chunkey is played.”
“He doesn’t need a challenger to do that. If you will excuse me.”
Dead Teeth muttered something to the Little Sun, the others all smirking and laughing.
Wet Bobcat smiled triumphantly, saying, “They understand why you are leaving. Swirling Cloud’s reputation has no doubt traveled even as far as Cahokia. Perhaps there will be a player with the courage to face him somewhere else?”
Swirling Cloud’s mocking smile added to the insult’s sting.
Don’t do this!
But Fire Cat, livid, heard himself say, “My mistake. I didn’t know he wanted to be beaten that badly in front of his guests. Of course I’ll play him.”
“What will you bet? That stone and lance against Swirling Clouds’?”
“They are not mine to bet.”
“Ah, it is true that in extreme cases, a player can bet his life. Would you bet your life against Swirling Cloud’s?”
Fire Cat cocked his jaw as he took Swirling Cloud’s measure. No doubt he was a good player. It might even be worth finding out just how good. “My life is not mine to wager. Were it, and if the stakes were high enough, I would.”
“Of course. You are a slave. I should have remembered. Your clothes, then?” Wet Bobcat asked. “Do you at least own them?”
“Against his stone and lance?”
“Of course.” Wet Bobcat’s smile was mocking as he turned to Swirling Cloud and rattled on in Natchez, the Itza warriors apparently catching a word or two as they all discussed it.
Red Copal was grinning, and to Fire Cat’s surprise the man had little blue stones set into his front teeth. One day, he swore, he would knock those teeth out of the man’s head.
Swirling Cloud said something, Wet Bobcat interpreting, “My master says we will play to—”
Fire Cat glared his annoyance at Swirling Cloud. “You speak our tongue fine. Why the charade of a translator?”
“You are a slave,” Wet Bobcat told him. “Sun Born do not address other people’s slaves.”
The word sent a hot rage surging through him.
Swirling Cloud smirked in satisfaction as he shrugged out of his Natchez-cut cape and began to roll his shoulders. With a thin smile, he gestured that Fire Cat should take the first cast.
Stepping into position, Fire Cat took a deep breath. The time had come. All he had to do was concentrate, clear his souls of the distractions, and play. And it wasn’t like his life hung in the balance.
He filled his lungs, led with this left foot, and started down the court. Time to win.