Age of Aztec by James Lovegrove Page B

even though by rights she should have reported them for gross impertinence. Mocking a priest was nearly as bad as impersonating one, and the penalty might not be as severe but you and your kin would still regret it – at least a dozen of your relatives would have a hand lopped off, and you yourself would lose both hands and a foot as well. Like the old joke went: I called a priest an idiot then hopped it .
    And it had paid off. The Conquistador was now surrounded and heavily outnumbered by some of the best swordsmen on the force.
    He managed to recover from his dumbstruck stupor in time. As the first of the Jaguars attacked, up came his rapier. Blades clashed. The fight was on.
    Mal turned to Aaronson, seated beside her.
    “Come on. Let’s get in there.”
    “What?” said her DS. “Have you gone mad? Twenty of them, one of him. They don’t need our help.”
    “Maybe not, but he’s my fucking collar. I’m not letting someone else hog the glory. Whoever kills him, the body is still mine and I’ll gut the man who tries to take it off me.”
    “You know, boss,” Aaronson said, getting to his feet, “you scare me sometimes.”
    “Good.”
     
     
    T HE ONE ADVANTAGE the Conquistador had over his opponents was that he was fully armoured and they were not. Their garb was the standard plainclothes wear for a priest, a light alpaca wool suit over a multicoloured brocade waistcoat which echoed the much fancier garment used for ceremonies. Underneath their shirts, many of the Jaguar Warriors had taken the precaution of donning stab-proof vests, but that still left their heads and limbs unprotected. It was a vulnerability the Conquistador was quick to exploit.
    The tall Jaguar, Constable Carey, died first. The Conquistador ducked inside his guard and ran him through the groin. He yanked the rapier out just in time to counter a macuahitl slash from the left. Grabbing the Jaguar’s sword arm, he opened his neck from ear to ear. As the man went down, he twisted the macuahitl out of his grasp.
    Now, armed on both sides, he met the onslaught of the next two Jaguars, matching them blow for blow. The two of them flanked him at the platform’s edge. The Conquistador feinted forwards, then leapt backwards, off the platform. Both Jaguars lunged at him at the same time and were wrongfooted. They stared down in astonishment to find each other’s swords embedded in their thighs, and collapsed against each other like a pair of broken bookends.
    Down in the area between the seating and the stage front, the Conquistador discarded the borrowed macuahitl and drew his pistol. With three shots he eviscerated the nearest three Jaguar Warriors. Even a stab-proof vest was no protection against a high-velocity cluster of flechettes.
    Another Jaguar, however, got close enough to knock the pistol out of his hand before he could inflict any more damage with it. In retaliation, the Conquistador sliced through the man’s arm with his rapier, severing the limb at the elbow.
    At that point it became clear that the Conquistador was cornered. His back was against the stage. Several very angry and determined Jaguars were closing in on him.
    All at once they rushed him. Obsidian blades hammered at his armour from all directions, seeking chinks. Someone with a sense of irony might have seen the very image of what he had described onstage a moment ago, Britain embattled on all sides, a lonely island beleaguered by the might of the Empire.
    He fought back gamely, but the Jaguar Warriors were giving him no quarter. Mal, at the rear of the pack, was convinced it would be only moments before a crippling sword stroke got through, maybe a fatal one. She allowed herself a quick gloat. She had done it. She had succeeded where all the previous investigating officers had not. She had pulled off a feat most would have thought impossible. The Conquistador was about to become an ugly footnote in modern British history, not to mention a significant feather in her cap.