Simon Levack - The Demon of the Air

And I had seen the truth myself, only that evening, without recognizing it. I had even told Lion and Lily about it, without knowing what I was saying.

“We’ve got it all wrong,” I started to say, but Lion interrupted me.

“Whatever they fell out over, you can ask them both about it soon. Here’s the bridge!”

The Chief Minister’s boat coasted through the gap in the causeway and then, just as we turned to follow it, it vanished. There was a faint hissing sound as Lily doused the torch in the water of the lake, and then there was nothing to see by but the stars and the water’s own eerie phosphorescence.

Trailing his paddle in the water, Handy brought us to a halt next to the other craft.

“It’s a creek, a little bit south of Chapultepec.” Although this was still a long pull away by canoe, my master’s boatman had taken to whispering. “When we reach the aqueduct we’re almost there. The boat you’re looking for is moored in its mouth, a fair distance from the shore.”

“That makes sense,” my brother muttered, “if he doesn’t want the sorcerers slipping overboard and swimming for it. We’ll have to get into the creek mouth as quietly as possible and try to get between him and the shore. If Young Warrior or anyone else tries to escape that way we should catch them.”

Lord Feathered in Black silently prodded his boatman with his foot, and the man slowly took up his paddle and dipped it in the water.

“If there’s a boat in there, I can’t see it,” Lion whispered.

We lay in the bow of the canoe, staring into the tangled darkness that marked the edge of the lake. We dared not stand up, in case our quarry caught sight of us outlined against the stars.

“Are we sure this is the right place?” Handy asked.

“He seems to think so.” I looked over my shoulder at the dark, quiet water behind us, where I assumed my master’s boat still floated. “Our reluctant boatman was happy enough about finding the aqueduct.” The man had uttered a cry of delight, quickly stifled, when the long, low stone structure had emerged out of the darkness, as though he had surprised himself with his own skill. It had taken a long time to get that far, paddling cautiously through the gloom. The final leg of the journey, following the shoreline down to the creek mouth where our quarry was supposedly waiting, had been all too short.

“Let’s go anyway. I’m tired of waiting.” I spoke through teeth clenched to stop them chattering. I had told myself it was a cold night, although it must have been colder for Handy, because after we had passed Chapultepec he had taken his breechcloth off and wrapped it around his paddle to muffle it.

“If we keep to the middle of the channel,” Handy suggested, “we ought to find them.” He thrust his paddle into the water and began to push the canoe forward.

A faint splash from behind us told me that the other canoe was on the move as well, but its boatman had not troubled to muffle his paddle, and we could hear its progress clearly as it forged ahead, steering a course wide of our own and much closer to the bank. A fleck of foam, gleaming white in the starlight, showed where the paddle blade dug into the water, tearing its surface and throwing it up as he sped past us.

“What’s he doing?” Handy muttered. “He’s far too close to the bank! He’s going to run aground if he’s not careful!”

“Not to mention the noise he’s making,” Lion said.

I suddenly realized what the man was up to. “He wants to run aground! He’s trying to escape!” I was already standing up, making our canoe rock as I strained to see where the other boat was going.

Across the water came a crash and the sound of splintering wood.

The brief silence that followed ended with the beat of heavy wings as some large bird, perhaps a heron, started from its roosting place and took flight across the lake.

“They’ve hit!” Handy observed.

“Quiet!” I snapped. Had I imagined it, or had there been another sound? Even as I struggled to identify it, however, it was obliterated by curses and recriminations from the direction of the wrecked canoe.

“Old Black Feathers is not happy,” remarked my brother.

“Nor is the lady,” added Handy.

It struck me that the merchants must bring their women up differently from the rest of us, because I was sure my mother had never known some of the words Lily was using. I wondered if she had learned them in the marketplace. I could not hear the boatman’s voice at all. I supposed he had made good his escape, leaping overboard as soon as he knew the crash was imminent.

“Well, that’s that,” declared Lion. “Everyone on this side of the lake will know we’re here now. We might as well forget it.” He scrambled to his feet to join me in standing unsteadily in the center of the canoe. “If Young Warrior was ever here, he’ll be on the move. He can hardly have missed that lot-”

“Well, shut up, then!”

As Lion lapsed into shocked silence I looked hurriedly around. “If he’s moving, we should be able to hear him!” I explained. “That’s if my master and Lily will be quiet … Will you be quiet?” My last words were shouted to be heard over the commotion on the bank.

There was a momentary pause before my master’s incredulous voice came back to me, reduced to little more than an outraged croak. “What did you say?”

“Listen!”

Everybody listened.

“What was that?” asked Handy.

Simultaneously he, Lion and I turned around.

“Splashing,” Lion suggested. “Is it someone swimming?”

Suddenly we were talking in whispers again. The three of us kept as still as we could with the canoe swaying beneath us, while we peered into the gloom around us, and even the voices from my master’s stranded canoe were stilled.

“I can’t see …” I began.

“What’s that?” Handy seized my forearm and tugged it toward where he wanted me to look. “Did you see?”

Lion joined in. “Yes! Yes! I see!”

Then I saw it too: a flash of white, like spray driven from the surface of the lake. I saw it again, but the second time there was something else with it: a pale flicker of movement, the sort a bare arm might make, frantically wielding a paddle.

Raising my eyes a little, I saw a dark mass lying in the water, just in front of us and not much more than a spear-cast away.

From behind me came the sound of maguey fiber ripping as Handy tore the breechcloth from the blade of his paddle.

“Come on, everybody paddle!” Lion had thrown himself into the bottom of the canoe and was striking the water urgently with his hands, and before I had time to reflect on how pointless this was I was doing it too, drenching myself in clouds of icy spray as I tried my pathetic best to add to our speed.

In no time my arms ached, and despite my exertions I was trembling with cold. My hands and feet were going numb and yet the strange, dark boat ahead of us seemed to get no nearer. My head began to spin and I closed my eyes for a moment to clear it.

When I opened them again, the boat was on top of us.

It was the largest craft I had seen. It must, as I had guessed, have been carved out of a whole tree, and a tall one at that. It had been decked over and a shelter the size of a small house stood on the deck, with a number of shapeless bundles scattered around it. I barely had the time to take all this in before we ran into it with a force that jammed my face into the bow of the canoe.

Out of the darkness, and over the ringing in my ears, I heard someone mumble thickly: “We’ve hit!”

All around me were noise and movement: angry male voices andrunning feet. The canoe seemed to be swaying, although as soon as I tried extracting myself from the narrow space I had been tossed into I realized it was because my head was spinning from the blow it had taken in the collision. The thick mumbling voice had been my own.