2 Jeweled Skull said that his main effort during the last eighty-five days-besides training the team and holding out against the Ocelots’ little raids and tax assaults-had been solidifying his support with other clans, both aquiline and feline. But when he’d appealed directly to the Eagle clans of Motul and Caracol, they’d turned him down. It had been an unpleasant surprise.
We should never have let 1 Gila split our forces, 14 Wounded said.
Whoa, I thought again. Dude, you’re getting yourself in trouble. 14 was kind of a goofus but I almost felt a little sorry for him. I tilted my head to the left and they passed the right to speak around to me, like an invisible microphone. Wasn’t it also true that the Ocelots would let the ball game run a little while first? I asked.
Hun Xoc said that was correct. The Ocelots usually liked to hold off pulling the first fix until at least the ninth ball or so. Otherwise the public-which really meant the guest royalty and village cargo bearers, not so much what we’d call the actual masses-might feel cheated themselves.
I asked what kind of a cheat he thought the Ocelots were likely to use.
Well, first, he said, since they’d had the two best Harpy players disqualified-and he added that the Ocelots probably set them up to get caught with prostitutes and how if we got through this he was going to have them skinned and salted-the Ocelots simply had a better team. So they might win fairish and squarish anyway. But if things weren’t going their way by about the hundredth point, they’d probably do one of three things. There might be bad dead-ball calls against us, the equivalent of out calls. They might have set a couple of our own Harpy players to throw a point or two. Even though the players on both sides were supposed to be sequestered before the hipball game, people do get turned when their families are threatened. And if for some reason all that didn’t work, they might bring in a loaded ball.
2JS said no, they only had one informer left in the house, and he couldn’t help with the game.
What about Koh’s earthstar stuff? I wondered. But of course it was too slow-acting for this gig. As it was, we might all be dead by morning.
Damn.
We are in trouble. Weareintrouble weareintroubleweareintrouble.
We just need another ten-score beats or so, I thought. That’s not a lot.
I asked who was on the Harpy team.
Hun Xoc said 24 Pine was the coach-he was one of Chacal’s old mentors, the one they called the Teentsy Bear-and 9 Dog and 6 Cord were the starting strikers, or strikers. 3 Deer, 1 Black Butterfly, and 7 Sweatbath were the starting blockers. They were all decent players, kids I’d played or trained with in the past, but not stars. It was a solid defensive backline but they’d disqualified our serious strikers. 6 Cord, who had the nickname “Drunken Wildcat,” was fast and fierce and might be good for three or four goals, but he couldn’t score and keep on scoring. The nine substitute players were basically just the usual second line from the old days, with a few rookies. Nobody major. All of the team’s really good players had gotten lured away back during 2JS’s tax trouble, even before my aborted sacrifice on the mul.
I asked who the starting five were on the Ocelots’ team.
They said 2 Howler, 4 Howler, and Under 5 were the defensive line. The Howlers, whose enemy names were “Flabby Bitch Monkey” and “Even Flabbier Bitch Monkey,” were really just a couple of thuggish Ocelot greathouse bloods who liked to beat people up and think of themselves as ball stars. Under 5, who had the nickname “Mudbag,” was more of a famous guard than an effective one, totally over the hill compared to me, that is, to Chacal. They said the blind-side striker-or left striker-would be Emerald Immanent and the open-side striker was 20 Silence.
Hmm, I thought. Both of them were truly dangerous players, professional ballplayers temporarily adopted into the Ocelots. Still, I thought I could deal with Emerald Immanent. Despite his name he wasn’t really that quick. In fact his current nickname was “Suffocation” because he tended to just mash you against the banks until your lungs collapsed. I’d played two games of one-on-one hipball with him and won both.
20 Silence was a different story. We’d played against each other only once, in the big game at Blue Stone Mountain, and had pretty much run circles around each other the whole time, while most of the other players, on both sides, got hamburgered all over the court. He was a true no-sell, a real glutton for pain. We’d won, finally, but it hadn’t been his fault. That had been one of my last big games, and since then 20 Silence had become the leading scorer in what you could loosely call the league. His most popular nickname was “400 Weasels.” He was the one who’d killed those backs in the hipball contest that Hun Xoc and everyone had been talking about on our way up to Teotihuacan, the one who’d pulled 23 Crow’s eyeballs off their optic nerves after 23 Crow scored that incredible goal. It had been kayfabe, of course, but even so, he wasn’t just a heel. He was also a point machine. Even so I thought that with a good striker our team could put them away without much trouble.
Which other Ball Brethren are ready to play? I asked.
That was 9 Fanged Hummingbird’s brilliancy, 2JS said. He made sure our best players left us just before he challenged us. And after that we were such underdogs nobody would join us, they were afraid of getting killed or sacrificed.
What about the handicapping? I asked.
He said we hadn’t been able to negotiate much and keep our face.
But they won’t stop the hipballs with us ahead, I said.
He said no. If they did we’d pick up too much popular support from outside clans that had taken long-odds bets on us.
And if we could delay the contest, I asked, wouldn’t it be better for the Rattler army to stay down for now and come in after dark anyway?
We can’t delay it, Hun Xoc said. If you weren’t there when the first ball fell, you lost.
Fine, I thought, anything you say, we’re fucked whatever we do. I asked what they thought would happen if we won incontrovertibly, even though I really knew the answer.
Hun Xoc said the Ocelots would start yelling that we cheated and start a fight anyway. So we were looking at a fight whatever we did. The best thing for us to do would be to keep ahead without actually winning. Until our troops were ready. But the Ocelots might pull little things during the game, bad calls or illegal traps. We’d need to be good enough to stay ahead on scoring even if they got away with some of that stuff. We’d need to score beyond what they could take away.
Maybe we need a ringer, I said. The phrase wasn’t really like “ringer,” of course, it was more like “one who has hidden his strength,” but it was the same idea. I said a good striker could keep the score nearly even until we got our act together.
All the good players are being watched, Hun Xoc said. It was probably true. There were only a few ballplayers in the world who were capable of going head-to-head against 20 Silence. And even though pitzom was a team sport, the outcome usually depended more on matching one-against-one than, say, basketball.
So maybe I should just go in and play, I said. I’d keep us ahead and drag the game out as long as possible.
Silence. I resisted looking at anyone’s face.
(31)
2 Jeweled Skull followed our team out of the marshaling area into our red home zone. The shrill not-quite- cheering crescendoed and then rose above itself again and again. It was more like an ecstatic whine than a roar, at least by the standards of twenty-first-century sports fans. The sound sloshed from side to side, rising in one ear and falling in the other, following the lead of our two houses’ mockers as they taunted each other across the no-man’s- land at the center of the court.
All of us Harpy Ball Brethren, like the Ocelots’ team and most of the other Maya ball societies, wore elaborate animal-themed helmets that totally covered our faces. Like with Mexican wrestlers in the twenty-first century, the designs were all in the same style, but each player’s was unique and presumably intimidating. Anyway, they were as good as masks. And my tattoos and scars had been altered right after my arrival-well, “arrival”-here in Olde Mayaland. So I wasn’t likely to get recognized. Just once, as they introduced me under my alias-“10 Red Skink Lizard”-I broke form and turned to look back at the council house. Harpies and Harpy partisans were crawling over every surface. Some adolescent bloods had climbed up the spirit poles to get a better view, which was considered
