The Jaguar Princess

1

IN THE AZTEC year Three Reed, in the age of the Earthquake Sun, a six-year-old girl named Mixcatl sat in a barge threading its way through the waterways of Tenochtitlan. She glowered at the passing reflections and tugged angrily at the slave yoke about her neck. Leather thongs hobbled her ankles and wrists. Her hands had been tied in front, where she could chew on the length between her wrists when the overseer wasn't looking. She was making little progress in freeing herself; the leather was tough.

Scowling and wincing with pain, she felt the sides of her neck above the wooden yoke, where the flesh was raw and full of splinters. A crude and clumsy thing, the collar was made of two Y-forked pieces, lashed together to form a tight diamond-shaped opening for her neck and two handles that stuck out over her shoulders.

Mixcatl knew well what those handles were used for. She had been dragged from the jobbing lot where slaves were collected for transport to market. The collar handles made it easier for the slave traders to seize slaves and shove them into the market boat.

Reaching up awkwardly with her bound hands, the girl touched one side of her neck and remembered. She had resisted being put in the boat, fighting, struggling, screaming. Finally two strong men lifted her by the handles on her collar and let her hang with her toes barely touching the ground while others loaded the remaining slaves.

When she was finally let down, the slave traders put her in the only place available, a small space up front by a ragged old man. Ignoring him, she hugged her dirty knees and stared out at the peaks that rose above the thatched and tiled roofs of the island city.

She didn't want to think about what lay ahead for her. Aztec warriors had overrun her eastern jungle village when she was barely three. Tears of rage burned her eyes when she remembered how she was torn from the arms of her grandmother by an Aztec soldier, forced to march with a gang of other captured children and sold as booty in a squalid town. Each time she was bought, her owner found her unsatisfactory and sold her again. Each time, her life had gotten worse.

Now she was here, along with other unwanted slaves that the merchant was getting rid of in Tenochtitlan. From her experience in being sold, she knew that these sorts of slaves were useless for anything except being killed as offerings at a temple.

Her gloomy thoughts were interrupted when the ragged old man beside her spoke a few words of the eastern tongue used in her village. This startled the girl out of her sullen retreat, though at first she continued to ignore him. He kept speaking to her until at last she looked at him.

He was elderly and fragile, probably too sickly to labor, the girl thought, staring away again. If he was not bought as an offering, he would probably die soon anyway. His collar hung loosely about his wrinkled neck and his bony wrists were bound in front of him. His head was bald, he had only a few peglike teeth and a dirty-yellow beard that straggled down onto his sunken chest, but there was a kind expression in his watery eyes.

The journey was long and slow, for the barge had to be poled through the canals. Often the slave boat had to wait for other craft to pass or for a logjam of barges and canoes to clear. At first, there was nothing to look at except adobe houses that lined the muddy banks of the canal and the floating crop-gardens of the outskirts. Finding no interest in these, the girl stared at waterweed swirling past the square prow of the barge and nursed her hurt.

As the old slave spoke to her in a mix of the village language and the Aztec tongue, Nahuatl, she understood, even though she refused to answer. He was trying to cheer her up by telling her what he knew of the city.

Soon the sights he was pointing out became more interesting. Rows of adobe huts gradually gave way to more massive buildings and open plazas. Where there had been only the drab clothing of farmers and laborers, now she saw brilliant flashes of color from the costumes of people gathering in the plazas.

"And that is the Snake Wall, and beyond, the Temple of the Sun," said the old slave in his raspy voice, pointing to a gleaming stepped pyramid that looked to Mixcatl like a mountain. The boat slowed as it rounded a sharp comer and another building came into view on the opposite bank. It seemed to lie along the canal for a great distance, dazzling the slaves with its white walls. Brightly hued banners hung between its square columns, and painted carvings decorated panels at the comers. Though in height the building was no match for the Temple of the Sun or any other of the stepped pyramids in the temple precinct, it made an impressive sight.

"That is the king's palace," said the old slave to Mixcatl. "Our ruler lives there. He has beautiful gardens and surrounds himself with animals and rare birds. Listen, you can hear them if you are quiet."

But Mixcatl was already silent, leaning forward to catch the sounds. She heard the noises of her homeland, the raucous cries of jungle birds and the screeching of parrots. They made her feel tense and excited. She dug her nails into the wooden side of the boat. She could smell animals as well as birds. Monkeys, coatis, ocelots. And even from this distance, over the stone walls, she caught the sharp scent of a jaguar, trapped and pacing within the walls.

She leaned over the side of the boat, trembling with dread and longing. It was always so when she caught the smells of jungle animals, especially the big cat. She had known them from the time she had lain in her cradle as an infant. The scents drifted in through the windows and doors of her grandmother's hut. And her grandmother had shown her the different animals that made those smells. She glanced back at the old slave. No. He couldn't smell them. He was like all the other people, even the ones in her village. They couldn't smell anything except food cooking.

The boat glided down the canal and the animal odors faded out. The old man was talking again and Mixcatl only half heard him. But some shift in his voice caught and held her attention.

"This is but a rumor among slaves," he said, his voice quieter than before. "The king's palace lies not far from the market where we are being taken. It is said that if you are about to be bought and you run away, the king will give you protection if you can touch the walls of his house. Do you understand me, child?"

Mixcatl stared at him, clawed the yoke around her neck. "Not a slave?" she croaked out in the words of her own tongue. The old man nodded, then winced as he was poked from behind by an overseer. He did not point but instead fixed his eyes on the walls of the palace that were starting to slip away behind the boat.

"If I were not so old, I would try it," he whispered.

Mixcatl sat beside him, looking straight ahead. If she concentrated, she could still catch the lingering scent of the king's menagerie. If she escaped, the odors could guide her.

To be away from these hard hands and loud voices. Could she ever find a life without them?

So far her life had been short and harsh. She had worked first in a brickyard, scooping adobe clay into molds in the hot sun. Several decorative and rebellious handprints on the top of a brick had earned her a severe beating and a change of ownership.

Then came the turkey farm, where she lugged grain and water to the gabbling flock and cleaned manure from pens. She still remembered how noisy the birds were, especially when she was around them. They seemed to hate her smell, for they would chase her and try to peck her. One day, cornered and frightened, she had lashed out, belting a pullet with a half-full grain sack and breaking its neck.

If she managed to get free, where would she go? Back to her village and her grandmother? She had been taken so far away that she could never find the way back. And even if she found the village again, would her grandmother still be alive?

A burning sob pushed up her throat past her collar. Awkwardly, because his wrists were tied, the old man laid a hand on her shoulder. They sat together as the boat swung around the last corner, turning into the stone quays of the market.

Mixcatl stood on the edge of the market plaza, her back to the canal, the leather hobbles stretched between her ankles. The stone of the plaza swayed beneath her as though she were still on the market boat. The swirl of noise, color and sound added to her disorientation. As the other slaves were unloaded, she became lost in a forest of legs and feet. She jumped in fright as a macaw screamed from its cage in a stall near the quay.

She felt a touch on her shoulder and looked up into the eyes of the old man. Despite his bound wrists, he managed to guide her out of the milling mass of slaves, then stooped down beside her. His voice was a raspy whisper, but she found it soothing. While the slave merchants were distracted with the task of unloading their merchandise, the old man talked to Mixcatl in a mixture of Nahuatl and her own tongue, helping her make sense of the rioting colors and shapes about her.

His voice and his gentle manner calmed her. Across from the quay stood small mounds in colors of red, green and orange. When Mixcatl blinked away the tears that blurred her vision, she could see that the hills were mountains of fruit and vegetables, more than she had ever seen in her life. There were smooth-skinned melons and pebble-skinned squashes, mounds of yams, cassava and other root crops, along with stacked baskets of tomatoes and beans.

A spicy tang tickled her nose and she saw the dried, wine-red shapes of peppers tied in bunches hanging from the awning of a nearby stall. A muddy wet odor drew her gaze to squat, clay-sealed baskets filled with live fish from the lake. Saliva filled her mouth at the hot-griddle smell of baking tortillas.

A warning touch drew her back from her fascination with the marketplace. The slave merchants were assembling the captives in several ragged lines before marching them across the market plaza. Mixcatl stepped into place, but her eyes still roved the market and the old man's voice droned on above her head.

Mountains of pots were piled opposite the produce, stacked so high that the weight had broken some of those underneath. Mantles made of cloth so white that it seemed to gleam lay atop colorful tapestries and sashes. Carved jade flashed in the sunlight as it was turned in eager hands. Shimmering quetzal plumes escaped their bundles and fluttered over the edges of woven baskets.

"Do you see that man?" the old slave asked, extending his bound hands toward a richly dressed figure who stood on a red stone block. Mixcatl stared, squinting. She thought at first that the figure was a statue, for he stood so still in his richly dyed blue mantle. Then she saw his head turn and sunlight flashed on his chestpiece of beaten gold.

"He is the Lord of the Market," the old slave said. "He enforces fair trading. If a seller cheats or makes false measures, he judges and punishes."

Mixcatl looked at the Lord of the Market, who stood like a statue guarding the plaza. He held a carved staff with a fan of feathers bound to the top and had a stern hook-nosed face. Would he judge slaves, Mixcatl wondered. If she tried to run, would she be dragged before him and then be beaten to death?

With hoarse shouts, the slave merchants prodded the captives into a slow shuffle across the plaza. They straggled past piles of rolled mats that gave off" a dry reedy odor, past stacks of thick paper made from the beaten bark of fig trees and covered with fine white clay. In the stall next to the paper-seller, a scribe dipped a brush into a paintpot and started to make the first stroke of color on a page. Mixcatl was fascinated, but she had to move along with the other slaves.

Glancing at the old man, she recalled what he had said to her on the market boat, about the king's palace and how escaped slaves could gain their freedom once they touched its walls. She remembered the scents of the king's animals and grew frightened because she could no longer find them amid the many odors of the marketplace.

The slaves passed a group of people doing a festival dance, men in embroidered loincloths with elaborate knots and tailpieces, women in gaily patterned skirts. The drum pattered, a flute skirled a piping melody and the dancers' feet tripped a light step while the slaves shuffled by.

Beyond the dancers was another stone block, this one larger and shaped in the form of a pyramid base. On the platform sat six men in white mantles, all with the stern expression Mixcatl had seen on the face of the Market Lord. The old slave told her that these men were lawgivers and judges. Before the six judges stood three warriors with spears who guarded a man whose hands were bound together before him with thongs. He pleaded, shouted and covered his face with his bound hands, but the judges paid him no heed. They spoke only briefly and the man was hauled away by the three spearbearers. Mixcatl averted her eyes. What had he done, she wondered. Was he a thief or an escaped slave?

Again she thought about the king's palace. What would those dazzling walls feel like beneath her palm? They would be warm with sunlight and the feeling of freedom. But she had lost the scent that might guide her there. Her spirits started a plunge into despair, but halted as she caught another smell.

An animal smell. Her nostrils flared, her head came up. Images of ocelots and monkeys leaped about in her mind. But the odor had a deadness and dryness to it. There was only the scent of skin and hair, nothing of the live creature within.

The odor came from beneath a large canopy, raised on poles. In the warm shade beneath the tent lay a mound of stiff flattened animal hides. The group of slaves halted, waiting for another gang to catch up. Mixcatl took advantage of the opportunity to study the stall and its contents. The empty feet of the hides still bore claws and the snarling heads had lost their eyes.

Apart from the large pile of varied animal skins lay a smaller stack of softer furs. On top of these finer pelts lay a yellow-gold one with black spots in a rosette pattern. A man in the embroidered mantle and feathered headpiece of a noble was handling the skin, feeling the fur. A strange rage seized Mixcatl. She bared her teeth, would have flung herself at the purchaser but for the old slave's bound hands that held her collar. She twisted herself sideways but could not escape his grip.

Still struggling, driven by an anger she did not understand, Mixcatl turned back for one last glare at the man about to buy the jaguar skin. A strange drumming began in her head and something seemed to leap about inside her mind and then out. Her stubby child-fingers stiffened, curled. One of her tethered hands drew back in a sharp raking motion.

The paw of the jaguar pelt twisted in its buyer's grip, pulled itself through the noble's hand, scoring his palm with its dangling claws. The man jumped back with a cry, startling others who had gathered about the stack of pelts. People gathered into a knot around him, gabbling like turkeys. He shouted in Nahuatl, seized the hide-seller, smearing him with the blood from his open palm.

From the corner of her eye Mixcatl saw spearbearers come running up as the Lord of the Market descended from his plinth, then walked to the pile of hides while the young noble clenched his bleeding hand. Fear had whitened his face beneath the bronze skin.

And then she was poked from behind and made to move on, leaving the tumult and the shouting behind. One last glance over her shoulder let her see the Lord of the Market picking up the jaguar skin. It flopped limply, but the noble would not buy it. He turned and stalked away.

She felt strangely dizzy and had to be lifted onto the selling platform when the slaves reached it. The fingertips of her right hand tingled. She wondered if in some strange way she had hurt the man who was buying the jaguar skin. Had her anger made him bleed?

"An arrogant son of powerful men, who blames others for his own clumsiness," said the old slave softly. "Even a dead jaguar has claws."

Mixcatl lifted her head, stood up straight, though her fingers still tingled beneath the nails. Her head cleared. There were fewer market scents in the air about her and she was on the edge of the stone dais so that the sweat and stink of the other slaves blew away in the wind. She focused on trying to find the guide smell, the one that might lead her to freedom.

So intent was her concentration that she didn't notice the overseer who had come up behind her. She only caught a glimpse of a scowling face before she was dealt a slap on the side of the head.

"Stop that grimacing," he scolded in Nahuatl. "I can't sell you if you look like an animal."

With tears stinging the edges of her eyes, she huddled close to the old slave and buried her face against him.

"You must stand away from me now," he said gently. "There are buyers coming."

Mixcatl sniffled away her remaining tears and did as he told her.

The sun crept westward behind the girl, throwing her shadow and those of the few remaining slaves along the square flagstones of the plaza. She could see herself, looking like a stretched black ghost in company with others atop the platform. She curled her stumpy fingers, making talons on the shadow hands.

And then a man walked up and bought the old man, who was still standing next to her. The transaction was abrupt, with little haggling. The buyer paid the low asking price of three cloth mantles, then motioned the old man down from the platform.

He held back just long enough to say a few words of farewell to Mixcatl. "Do not sorrow, little one. You knew me only for a day. It is not a bad life that lies ahead of me, for the one who buys me looks like a kind man."

Mixcatl stared at the old slave, then away. He looked relieved, almost happy, and she suddenly hated him for his good fortune. She resisted the temptation to look at him once again in order to remember him. Why should she? He had only known her one day. But as the slap of his footsteps faded, the image of his face stayed in her memory.

She bowed her head and stared sullenly at her feet. They were short, wide and without an arch. Her toes were too short and spread too far apart. But she knew how fast she could run. If she got a chance.

The sun beat on her naked back. Thirst began to daze her. None of the slaves had been given water for fear that they might choose to relieve themselves on the selling platform. A poke between the shoulders brought her out of her daze, made her stare down at the two men arguing in front of her. One was the chief slave merchant, the other a stocky man in white cloak and gold arm-rings. She had learned enough Nahuatl to understand the gist of their conversation.

"Not even one mantle for her?" the slave merchant whined.

"She is ugly, ill-tempered. She is fit only to carry ashes from the hearth. How old is she?"

"Six or seven, although she is as strong and heavy as a child of ten. And though she looks feebleminded, she is teachable. She already understands our speech." The customer only grunted as the slave merchant continued in a wheedling tone, "You must also consider the costs of transport. She was brought all the way from the eastern jungles ..."

"Then you might as well have left her there. No one will trade even the most ragged mantle for such a slave." He took a dirty leather pouch and shook its contents into his hand. "Cocoa beans. The entire pouch for her."

"I will be mocked for accepting such a price," the slaver complained.

"You deserve mockery for bringing such poor goods," sneered the other man. "Shall I summon the Lord of the Market?"

The slave merchant narrowed his eyes at the prospective buyer, then squinted up at Mixcatl. She felt a hot angry lump grow in her throat just above her collarbone. She wanted the slave merchant to refuse the purchase and send the man on his way, preferably with a kick.

"Loose the hobbles about her ankles so I can see how she walks. And untie her wrists so I can see that her arms and hands are not crippled."

The slave merchant gestured at his helper, who undid the knots that linked Mixcatl's wrists together, whipped the thongs from around the girl's ankles and paraded her back and forth on the selling platform before the customer. She tried to limp or drag her feet. The idea of being sold to this man made her shudder.

But the man was already gesturing acceptance and the slave merchant was taking the pouch of cocoa beans. Mixcatl grimaced, searching again for the scent of the king's menagerie. For an instant she caught only market smells, but a breeze, gusting from behind her, brought traces of the animal and bird odors she had caught while passing the king's house. Just a trace, but enough to give her direction.

With a bound she was down from the stone platform and running through the market, her heels smarting from the impact. From the comer of her eye she saw the purchaser try to snatch back his pouch of cocoa beans, but the slave merchant jumped out of reach, crying, "You bought her, you catch her!"

With a roar of dismay, Mixcatl's new owner gave chase. She glanced back and saw that his big belly hung out over his knotted loincloth, but his arms and legs were heavily muscled. The girl fled as fast as she could, slamming the calluses on her feet against the paving. Panic peeled her lips back against her teeth and people in her path jumped out of her way.

She gasped, heard her pursuer coming closer. She cut the corner as she scuttled around a stack of melons, sending the fruit bouncing and rolling into his path. She heard a wet crunch, dared a look behind and saw that he had put his foot through a large rotten melon and was dancing about on one leg, trying to shake it off.

Grinning, Mixcatl flashed away, but soon the pounding of feet behind told her she hadn't lost him. He was coming fast, with long strides. She tried all the tricks she knew from the games of her jungle childhood and panic helped her invent new ones. She careened into baskets of loose parrot feathers, sending them billowing into the auto form a madly swirling curtain between her and her pursuer.

She bounded over rows of stacked jars, landed in the midst of ceramic pots, sending them clattering. She knocked down stall awnings, set caged birds screeching, squashed a tomato underfoot and then ran across stacks of gleaming white mantles, leaving dirty tomato footprints.

The shouting of outraged vendors mixed with the raucous laughter from people thronging the market as Mixcatl hurtled past them. To her surprise and relief, none joined in the effort to catch her. Laughter and havoc rolled around Mixcatl, carrying her like a wave until at last she broke free of the market and sprinted across the open plaza. The smell was growing stronger in her nostrils and she imagined that she could hear the cries of the birds in the king's menagerie. But heavy panting and shouting behind told of her purchaser's tenacity.

The collar bound Mixcatl's throat, not letting her breathe as deeply as she needed to. Now she was running along the canal, whipping around one comer, streaking for the next. Ahead of her, above the roofs of surrounding buildings, she could see the shimmer of white walls. Hope leaped in her, blinded her with grateful tears as she scurried around the last corner, thinking how it would feel to slap her hand against that wall and come away free.

She didn't see the flower-seller until the last instant, when she tried to leap aside. The startled woman did the same and down they both went in a multicolored tumble of petals, bouquets and baskets. Shaking, Mixcatl scrambled free, her eyes darting frantically in the search for a footbridge across the canal to the king's house. She had seen one in the moment before she collided. She sighted the bridge once more and launched herself for it just as her pursuer rounded the corner and startled the disoriented flower-seller into jumping in the canal.

The long run and the collision had cost Mixcatl her speed. Her legs were wobbly and each movement seemed impossibly slow. She ran wide of the footbridge, nearly went past it, but caught a stone pillar in one hand and flung herself onto the bridge. Panting grunts sounded close behind her. There was the sound of air whistling through woven reeds and a yell of triumph that made her jump as if a whip had cracked behind her.

The wall loomed just ahead, barely a handstretch away. Mixcatl leaped, both hands extended, chest heaving and sobbing. She would be free, she could go back to her village and find her grandmother ...

And then a rattan barrier came down between Mixcatl and the gleaming white wall. She landed hard on stomach and elbows, tried to thrust her hand beneath the edge of the rattan, scrabbling and stretching for the wall. So close, so close, but now beyond her reach. She screamed and threw herself against the inside of the heavy basket that had been clapped down on top of her. Again she thrust outward with her free arm, but her captor stamped on the rim of the basket, pinning and bruising her arm until the pain forced her to pull it back inside.

Mixcatl raked the rattan with her fingernails, attacked with her teeth until her mouth bled. The taste of her own blood drove her into a frenzy. Her vision went red, then white. She writhed on her back, kicking, scratching, tearing. Her voice became stronger, more piercing. New strength expanded her arms, flowed down to reshape her hands. She yowled, splintered rattan with fingers that seemed to have curved and sharpened into claws.

But the rattan would not yield. She felt her captor bouncing on top of the basket, trying to squash her down. The white fire of rage consumed her and then, at its peak, froze and shattered, leaving only blackness.

The first sensation to return was pain, from her bleeding lip, torn fingers and bruised arm. The next was her sense of smell. Hot pavement, the weedy stink of the canal, the anxious sweaty smells of people gathered about her. Dizzily she sat up, found that both her hands and feet were hobbled. She had been moved across the canal from the palace wall to prevent any sudden lunge for freedom.

The basket that had trapped her lay on its side. A man with a spear, his hair bound up in a warrior's tail and wearing the robes of an official, stooped, peering into the basket. Others did the same, although none touched it. The man who had bought her stood by, looking red-faced and triumphant, holding a rope knotted to her collar. There was an odd wariness in his eyes and he stood as far away from her as the rope would allow.

Mixcatl pushed herself up on her hands, peered into the basket. The heavy rattan was splintered, in some places bitten through.

The official got up, faced Mixcatl's new owner. "She didn't touch the palace wall?"

"I swear she didn't reach it," the man replied. "I had her under the basket before she got close." He extended a hand to the drenched flower-seller who was gathering up what remained of her scattered merchandise. "That woman is my witness."

"I'll be a witness that you stole my best basket!" the flower-seller shouted, her grimace and wizened face making her look like an enraged monkey. "Look how the brat has ripped the inside!"

"Old liar. It was worn and broken," the man sneered, then jerked Mixcatl's rope, pulling the girl to her feet. A bitter sob welled up in Mixcatl's throat as she remembered how close she had come to freedom. With the hobbles, she had no chance, except to fling herself into the canal and drown.

"You will pay, greasy thief." The flower-seller shook a fist in the man's face. "The Lord of the Market will have you tried by the Court of Six and stoned."

With a contemptuous laugh the man pushed the flower-seller aside and began to drag Mixcatl away through the crowd that had gathered to watch the pursuit and capture. She stumbled after him, head bowed, trying not to think of what her new life would be like. Something inside made her wonder how she had managed to damage the basket, for she knew it was stout and strong, not old, as her captor claimed.

She resented how the crowd seemed to part as if making way for her new master. Then she glanced up and realized that the people ahead were not stepping aside for him but for someone else coming the other way. The crowd thinned, letting three barechested warriors through.

To Mixcatl's astonishment, they seized the man who had bought her and held him until two more people arrived. The first was the slave merchant, angry and shaking. He waved his fingers in the man's face, but before he could speak, there came the flap of a slate-blue cloak and a flash of gold as the Lord of the Market came through the crowd.

He set his plumed staff firmly on the flagstones and turned his stern gaze to Mixcatl's new master. "You are accused of trading with goods of false worth," he said, holding up the leather pouch of cocoa beans.

The man paled, started to back away, but the guardsmen held him firmly.

The Lord of the Market shook a brown bean into his hand, held it between thumb and forefinger and squashed it flat. "Wax mixed with amaranth dough," he said.

"Honorable one, I did not know. I accepted the beans in barter earlier today. Had I known ..."

The slave merchant began to shout and other vendors in the crowd began to boo and jeer. Several cried out that they knew this man and that it was not the first time he had tried to pass off counterfeit cocoa beans.

"You are sentenced to be tried by the Court of Six," said the Lord of the Market. "Your purchase is to be surrendered." He turned on his heel and walked away.

The guardsmen marched after him with the counterfeiter between them, followed by the angry old flower-seller, still berating him shrilly about her damaged basket.

The slave merchant took the rope tied to Mixcatl's collar, but she could see he did not look pleased.

"All that time and effort wasted without a real sale/' he complained. He glowered at the girl as he led her back to the selling platform, and she heard him muttering that he would rather drop her in the canal than haul her back to the jobbing lot in his boat if she were not bought by the day's end.

"That would be a waste of one who is strong in body and spirit," said a light voice above Mixcatl's head. She turned, stared up at a young man with cropped black hair, a dark purple mantle with embroidered golden stars and a thin, ascetic-looking face.

"She is a young wildcat, better drowned than sold. I will be the one dragged before the law courts if she escapes from you and runs wild again."

"I am a tutor at the priests' school. We need a sturdy young slave to draw water and carry out slopjars."

The slave merchant only growled and spat. Mixcatl felt her eyes widen. She measured the new arrival, wondered how fast he could run.

"I will give you two cotton mantles for her," the young tutor said. "They are not new, but freshly washed." He brought out a bundle from beneath his cloak.

The slave merchant looked relieved. "Done," he said, with only a quick glance at the contents. "Take her and go quickly. I warn you, you will only have yourself to blame if she wrecks your kitchens and runs wild among your pupils."

He placed the rope end in the young man's hand. Mixcatl studied her second new owner of the day. She balanced on her toes, wondered if she could jerk the rope from his hand and make a second run. She felt weary, heard her stomach growl. Freedom seemed suddenly less attractive than food. At least eating would give her time to think.

The young man knotted the rope about his wrist, ending any chance of losing his grip to a sharp jerk. He gave Mixcatl a keen look. "I don't like tethering a child, but until we're out of the market, it will help you resist any temptation."

Thinking of hot corn tortillas baking on a stone griddle, Mixcatl put aside her thoughts of freedom, bowed her head and followed her master.