“What is the other language you speak?” Mildred asked. “I don’t know it.”
The feathered head turned toward the woman, the white shells gazing blankly past her. “We call it Nahuatl. The old tongue we know from the far-off old days.”
She nodded, then said to the others, “I’m sure that’s a word from the Aztecs.”
One of the men dressed in a black robe leaned toward the leader of the tribe and said something. Itzcoatl nodded. “Quauhtlatoa, who is called Speaking Eagle, reminds me that we are poor What is the word? Someone who receives strangers.”
“Hosts?” Krysty suggested.
The man nodded. “Yes. You bring us the waited one and save the lives of our brothers and sister. And we remain beyond the walls, breathing out empty air and words. You will all stay and eat with us now?”
“Thanks,” Ryan said. “Just a couple days, perhaps, then we’ll have to be on our way.”
There was something in his remarks that upset the Macehualli people. The plumed masks gathered close, and all the body language showed tension and anxiety. Ryan could hear the fluting exchanges between the leaders of the tribe, but it was Itzcoatl who quelled it, snapping out an order and holding up his left hand. His right hand dropped to the jewel-studded hilt of the polished black-stone sword on his hip, producing silence.
The voice from beneath the mask sounded strained. “We fear you leaving soon. We cannot repay the debt if you leave quickly. So stay as long as you want.”
“Thanks again. Be glad to stay awhile.”
This was obviously a reassuring remark as the tautness eased from the listeners.
“Good, good.” Itzcoatl muttered something over his shoulder. Two men moved forward and took the arms of the prisoner, with surprising gentleness, and led him away.
“You’ll chill him?” Ryan asked, not caring much one way or the other. As Krysty had said, being a member of the slavers’ gang carried its own risks.
“He will be used,” the chief replied. An odd choice of words, Ryan thought.
Throughout all the exchange, it had been glaringly obvious that the real subject of interest was Jak Lauren. Since they had all scrambled upright, every eye in the crowd was glued to him, following his every movement. When he brushed a hand through his magnesium hair, a fascinated ripple ran through the natives.
“You will be shown to your huts. Will two be enough for your needs?”
Ryan nodded. “Sure. Be fine.”
“The meal being cooked now is not good enough for” the white eyes in the mask moved toward Jak, “not good enough for any of you. Go to your huts and rest, and women will bring water for washing. Then, later, we can feast.”
He turned and walked back in a stately manner, followed by what seemed to be his inner council, through the tall gates, the crowd of natives parting like the Red Sea. They all moved back even farther as Ryan led his friends into the village.
The drums resumed their slow, ponderous beating, and the trumpet blared once more.
As Jak strolled through the gates, the entire gathering fell again to its knees in salute.
“Never been god before,” the albino whispered. “Could get used to it.”
The air was filled with the smell of oiled bodies and smoke and cooking meat.
Ryan felt very hungry.
Chapter Eleven
Ryan called everyone together in the hut that he had picked for himself, Krysty and Dean. It stood next door to the building offered to the others.
The structure was made from thick logs and sealed with clay. The roof was layered palm leaves, the floor packed earth. There was no door, just a curtain of wooden beads. The fifteen-foot-square room was divided into what appeared to be cooking and living-sleeping quarters. A small fire burned in the center of the cooking area, most of the smoke finding its way to the roof, out through a hole in the thatch.
Silent women had brought in pots of cold, clean water and bowls for washing, keeping their dark eyes averted from the group of outlanders.
“Take care about drinking too much of it,” Mildred warned. “Not sure about their hygiene here, or the way they dispose of their waste products.”