Niloux estimated six hundred viajeras in the plaza. That number was a clear violation of the Rule of Saint Leah. Some were already calling themselves Zeinians, and some just wanted to hear her speak. Overhead, a static dome kept off a sandstorm, which cast the plaza in a dark red light.
Niloux swallowed a gulp of wine to calm herself. Then she stepped onto a dais and tapped her temple to amplify her voice
"I'm Niloux DeCayo," she said. "Thanks for coming." She spoke as if to an intimate other; she didn't know how to speak to a crowd. Despite her incompetence, they looked rapt. Is this how despots came about? she thought. When their cult of personality outpaced their actuality? She pushed on. "What I want to do first is acknowledge that  .  .  ." She took a deep breath. "I'm aware Tanaaj DeCayo has declared me an enemy of the people. I'm aware of her following. The LFC is in the Pacific now, on the searoad from Hawai'i to Mexico. They're headed to the Jubilee like I am." Behind her, there was a delicate cough. Niloux turned to see Emelle raise her eyebrows. She turned back to the crowd. "Like we are, I mean. The Zeinians."
The crowd looked somber. It was the first time she'd claimed the name in public. This is what they'd wanted: a declaration.
"I'm willing to meet Tanaaj," she continued. "She's welcome at the tzoyna I want to hold. I don't bear her any ill will. I think her argument is interesting. She thinks I'm destroying this utopia we've built, and I understand why. I just think the taboos of Laviaja are too restrictive if the human race wants to keep growing and not stagnate, so  .  .  ." Lightning flashed and thunder cracked. A fresh wave of sand hissed on the dome. Is this what Venus was like? She told herself to focus. "So I'm willing to debate her. If she would deign to talk publicly with an enemy of the people." She couldn't keep the sarcasm out of her voice. She licked her lips, pivoted, tried to sound upbeat. "Tonight we celebrate the birthday of the Consort Twins. They were born a few minutes apart in the year 1989. Javier Magaña, the founder of our ritual tradition, was born on July 22. Xander Cañul, the founder of our scholarly tradition, was born on July 23. We'll celebrate like we do every year, but I just want to say, when they were born--" She stared up at the dome, the hypnotic streaking sand, already elsewhere, already imagining and even hoping herself into dialogue with this Tanaaj DeCayo, the charismatic jugadorix who asked that no images be made of her face. She appeared to Niloux in her mind's eye as a cloaked, steadfast figure, a keeper of tradition, a Thomas More or Dalai Lama or Joan of Arc, striding the searoads with her loyal thousands. Laviaja had been forged from the suffering of billions. Tanaaj saw herself as the keeper of their sacrifice. If Niloux were to repudiate it, was she insulting their suffering? Was she only doing this for her own selfish desire, which she couldn't name aloud? She made herself look down at the faces of the people in front of her. "When the Consort Twins were born, they had no idea what the world was about to face in the Diluvian Age. No one did. They just acted in their time, how they thought best  .  .  ." Niloux swallowed. "And so do we. Tanaaj thinks we should remain as we are. I think we should change. But we're both doing what we think is best. So let's eat."
Awkward silence from the crowd, then scattered applause.
Niloux tapped off her amplifier, stepped down to face Emelle. "Verily, I am become a leader tonight," she said dryly.
"You're getting there."
Niloux gave her a bitter look. "I've hardly been alone in a month."
Emelle shrugged. "Stop complaining. Go off alone. Just give us notice."
"Are you my zadre?"
"I'm your bodyguard."
"No one is actually going to hurt me, Emelle. Things aren't that bad."
Emelle's eyes flashed.
Niloux ignored her. She looked out over the crowd. The sandstorm was still raging, and people were lighting candles and building fires. Across the plaza, someone had begun strumming an oud. Another had set up chess boards on the tops of broken columns. She smelled supper cooking.
She turned to see Emelle still staring at her.
"Fine," she conceded. "I'll go off by myself tomorrow."
They'd both gotten the work assignment to help serve supper. Niloux was quick about it, not wanting to linger or give anyone the opportunity to ask her questions or, worse, debate with her. She was hungry too. When they were sure everyone had food and drink, they found mats to sit with their own dishes: couscous shaped into calderas, with raisins and carrots piled in the middle. They ate with their hands. Niloux admitted to herself she was glad Emelle was here. She'd accompanied her all the way from Capri. They'd become close and still slept together often, despite the strangeness of her being a onetime lover of Tanaaj DeCayo. It cost Emelle, to be so far from the sea--but also because, in theory, the Tzoyna could vote to allow blotting of either of them at any time. They were living in defiance of Versa Tres, the injunction against gathering. Then again, they could argue on a technicality: a group traveling toward a specific celebration of Día de Pasaja was immune to Versa Tres, and also to Versa Siete, known as the Principle of Dispersion. Tanaaj's group was immune for the same reason. Many in the Tzoyna regarded this as an abuse of the Rule, but there'd been no repercussions yet.
After supper, a viajera approached, carrying a tray of steaming glasses. Niloux took one. There were mint leaves crushed at the bottom.
Emelle nudged her. "Don't look now," she said. "To your left, under the archway."
Niloux blew on her tea. "What am I looking for?"
"Malcontents."
Niloux took her time, letting her gaze settle far and wide before swinging to the left. She saw a huddled group, apart from the crowd, sober expressions, heads close together. One of them looked at Niloux and then looked away.
"Scrupes?"
"Possibly LFC."
"Here?"
"Yes. Be careful, Niloux."
"Careful?" She snorted. "What are they going to do, attack me?"
"Tanaaj named you an enemy of the people. It's not impossible. You know that."
She did, but the idea was still ridiculous. Laviaja was strictly pacifist. Drawing the blood of another for any reason except medicinal reasons was deeply taboo, and those who did were often blotted for life. Versa Trece: La sangre le pertenece solamente a Xibalba.There was no reason for anyone to hurt anyone, except jealousy or other untreated mental illnesses.
Then a company of ninx rolled up. They were seven or eight years old, wearing crowns and jewels. They looked furtive but determined, as if playing a secret game. The ringleader--a stout ninx with cornrows--planted herself in front.
"We're here to collect tribute!" she said.
Emelle smiled, wry. "In exchange for what?"
"Nothing. That's what tribute is."
"Who told you that?"
The ninx faltered. "I learned it in local tutorial. The sultan who built this city got tribute like grain and bracelets."
"And slaves," Niloux muttered. The children blanched at the word.
Emelle leaned forward. "Ah, but the sultan got tribute because he provided protection for those who paid tribute," she said. "And good roads, and settlements of dispute. You see, it was also an exchange of mutual aid, after a fashion. So I ask, what are you giving us in return?"
The ninx was flabbergasted. She called a huddle with her companions.
"You're confusing her," said Niloux
Emelle nodded. "She'll set up a sultanate. Laviaja is finished."
Niloux shook her head and sipped her tea. It was sweet as syrup.
One of the children said something that made the ringleader straighten up and turn to eye Niloux. They conferred some more, passed something between sweaty little hands, then arrayed themselves again in tableau.
The ringleader held out her palm. On it, there was a gold funnel. When Niloux looked at it, she felt her adrenaline surge like a hot splash inside her stomach.
"How pretty," said Emelle. "What is it?"
"It's an earspool," Niloux said, the meaning of the object coming into focus, like text in a dream. "An ancient Maya earspool."
Emelle heard the change in her voice. "How do you know it's Maya?"
Niloux held out her palm, and the ninx handed it over. The touch of it sent a shiver through her blood. She began to feel nauseated. She put it on the ground. It seemed to be made of solid gold, small but very heavy, carved with heliconia blossoms. Her adrenaline was still making her stomach churn. She stayed still. It took effort. "I recognize it," she said, "but I don't know from where. Some text or tutorial--maybe it's famous." She looked up at the ringleader. "What's your name?"
She stuck out her chin. "Yewande."
"Where did you find this?"
"Found it in the rummage."
"I can have it?"
"Yes. But I'm the sultan so you have to give me something in exchange."
"What do you want?"
"Show me your past life."
Niloux snorted. "It doesn't work that way. I have to question the landscape piece by piece. It's like knocking on a wall to find a hollow place, and then when I get a positive result I mark the spot in the aug and it forms a line. Ideally. It's rare that I ever come across a positive result, I haven't gotten one since..." She blinked at the earspool on the ground.
Yewande crossed her arms. "Okay. How do I find my own then?"
Niloux looked up. "You ask the god of the place. You ask the god if it knows you. If the god says yes, mark the spot and keep marking them until they make a line. That's all."
"Let's try it!" screamed a little one, and ran off toward the gate. Yewande yelled for her to come back, but the other children were already gone, jewels rattling, and she followed, shouting to regain control.
When they were out of sight, Niloux pointed to the earspool. She was afraid to touch it again. "I think the technique applies to objects too," she said. "Of course it would. Stone remembers longest."
Emelle registered this. She didn't ask what Niloux had felt; she trusted without having to ask. "Which means, in a past life..."
"That I was Maya? Maybe. Or a looter."
"But you think this belonged to you."
"I just know that it remembered me. Without my even having to ask. It told me."
"May I touch it?"
Niloux felt a strange reluctance, but nodded.
Emelle picked it up, turned it over, admired it. "For what it's worth, I feel nothing," she said, "except that it's beautiful." She put it back on the ground with respect, and they both regarded it as dogs would a forbidden bone.
There was a cry on the other side of the courtyard, so loud that it disrupted the music. A chess match had ended. One viajera was being lifted up on shoulders, another was sliding off her stool in shame, and everyone was laughing and shouting. The band in the courtyard now numbered eight, with an assortment of ouds, washboards, and flutes, singing an old Belizean pop song. What a strange world, Niloux thought, where they were listening to Andalusian music with Kriol lyrics in the Maghreb by candlelight under a sandstorm. The gods of each place were fathomless. Now this night was part of it.
Now zadres were dancing with their ninx, some just little chubby babes in arms, looking worried. The children would get tired and the adults would pair off.