We sent an attendant back up to the sentries, to make sure this Grandfather Heat had died. Even though we knew he had, you still had to check to make sure, the way they don’t start the Islamic month until they actually spot the new moon. I sent everyone back a bit and waved for Hun Xoc to stay.

You’re going to have to make a decision, he said. He was the only person left who’d talk to me like that. The only one who’d start a conversation or talk directly to me at all, actually. He meant my choice was to stay aboveground to lead the defense of Ix or go down to look for Koh.

I said of course I was going to choose going down, since it was only probably futile as compared to definitely.

“Then start the fires but take the people with you,” I said.

I’d done enough dirty deeds for a few lifetimes and didn’t want to commit more genocide than necessary. My idea was that Hun Xoc would arrange for any clans that wanted to leave to spirit their way out of Ix by the river routes at night. Then he’d lead them north with what was left of Koh’s cult. Ideally when Severed Right Hand got here he’d find a destitute gang of collaborationists and a whole lot of charcoal.

“No, I don’t need to live and wear a diaper,” Hun Xoc said.

“I’ll plan the exodus, but stay with you.”

I tried to talk him out of it, but I didn’t have the whatever to order him. It was hard trying to talk with the sort of death march in the background, it felt like we were all in some old war movie about to jump out of an airplane. Hun kept saying how he really wanted to go down with the ship. Finally I said all right.

The expectation was for me to go through the cleft first. It was kind of disconcerting but I just scrunched through the jaggies into blackness. I wondered whether they were just going to seal the opening behind me and leave me to go insane in the dark and die nibbling on my toes. But they squeezed in after me, the porters maneuvering their big bundles hand to hand. The first thing I saw was a starburst of thirteen skeletons shrink-wrapped in skin, laid out on the floor of the cavern at my feet, ringed with bits of brain coral and stingray spines. They were the workmen and attendants who’d assisted in the last ritual here, 9 Fanged Hummingbird’s seating twenty years ago at the age of sixteen, on April 30, 644 AD. Beyond them the dumbbell-shaped primeval cavern branched into irregular feeder tubes flecked with cancrinite. Near the center a stump of petrified softwood had been ground down into a low altar table and I hobbled toward it, my foot crunching a thin membrane of white lime-crust that had accumulated like frost over the last k’atun. My attendants spread my mat over the table, laid me down on it, and undressed me while Mask’s acolyte laid out his baskets of pouches and jars and started the process that would, supposedly, protect me when I came into contact with the Sickeners.

“Thirteen are the coolings of your skin,” Mask said,

“In thirteen layers are our carbon salves;

You are the great exuder, the great stancher.”

They wiped and strigiled me and started to fill each sector of my body with a different essence: my foot and stump got the head oil of an iguana that could lose an entire leg and regenerate it, supposedly overnight, and my eye and socket were daubed with vitreous humor from the eyes of harpy eagles. They shot ocelot musk into my anus and rubbed my genitals with ointments made from the skin-husking creatures of transformation, the coral snake, the Barba amarilla, the fer-de-lance, and Star Rattler’s daughter, the giant diamondback. They rubbed my head and torso with thickened oil from Ocelot were-toads, which weren’t the pretty little tzam lic toads but big warty black things from a colony the Ocelot-adders had kept forever, children of Earthtoad they’d taken as hostages when they entered these caves long ago, right after the first birth of the fourth sun. Behind me Mask was lighting something. I just lay back and went with it all. Of course, no matter how Ixian I’d become I didn’t believe I’d exactly meet the Lords of Tonight the way Mask thought I might. What they were really talking about was what the dream-catcher school of native-American buffs call a vision quest. Anything that happened down there-besides getting lost or assassinated or freezing to death or whatever-was going to be happening in my own head. But I had seen enough weird stuff around here-not magic stuff, maybe, but certainly borderline psychic stuff-to at least give them a chance, since it was the last thing left to try. Anyway, I couldn’t let myself start thinking like a skeptic or I wouldn’t get into it enough for anything to happen. I had to doublethink myself into credulity.

So I let them go through with the whole ritual thing. Anything to get another minute with Lady Koh, I thought. Even a half a minute. Even with only half of her. Or one of her uays, rather. And if I didn’t let them do all the mumbo-jumbo they wouldn’t have let me do this at all. You’d think I could just give orders, but it wasn’t really that way. When you’re in charge of a tottering organization you need to strike a balance, you need people pushing for you. Mask came into my field of vision carrying a long multiple-bone tube taller than I was. He put one end in my mouth and held the other below me, near the floor. In my former life I’d seen the same kind of tube on burial jars, usually with a vision snake sprouting from it. It had been kind of an archaeological mystery, I remembered one time when all those Mayanists at Taro’s office at BYU were sitting arguing about what it was. And it was really a monstrous bong. I sucked in the smoke and held it down until I couldn’t anymore. He took the tube away. I exhaled through my nose-and I think maybe my ears-and went into a coughing fit, keeping it as quiet as possible while the acolyte bled me from my earlobes and collected the blood in a little jar.

He handed me the warm jar and rubbed tattoo paste into the cuts. I blessed the jar and handed it to the attendant who was acting as Hun Xoc’s hands. He poured a measure of preservative honey into the jar, stopped it, and molded wax over the stopper. It was going next to the essences of my predecessors in the lists of kings. If it even lasted that long. I lay back, feeling the motionless stump rock under me like a kayak. Maybe we should ease up on the exotic unguents, I thought, but they were just getting started. They kneaded the head oil of hundred-year-old sea tortoises into my scalp and filled my nostrils with a honey that a specific kind of black bee made from maroon orchids that grow on high ceiba trees at the cloud-forest canopy. They dusted me with strings of a white immortal fungus that grew on yew logs, and then powder from an infinitely rarer blue fungus that grew in dark soil, after a lightning rain, over the bodies of armadillos. I tasted bergamot and aloe root through my eye socket and fennel and valerian through my underarms. They rubbed a spiced oil into my mouth that had been ground with the dried blood-essence of a special colony of sanguiverous bats, which were fed only on a family of special deer that fed only on a certain plantation of marigolds, a kind of living triple-tiered chemical-distillation process. Finally they let me wash it all down, but with water mixed with forty drops of honey, eighty of fermented prickly-pear juice, and twenty-six drops of the ancient honey-blood preservatives, two each from each of the thirteen ahauob of Ix, 14 Ocelot Night and 4 Shield and 13 Skull and 9 Fanged Hummingbird and all the others, taken and preserved during their self-offerings at their own pilgrimages here over the centuries.

And that was about it. But I was already feeling the mute gods of the source animals were seeping into my mind and I was seeing through the toads’ eyes, remembering what they remembered, feeling myself metamorphose from a spore-speck-sized egg to a quarter-fingerwidth tadpole and then to a legged tadpole and to a complete, eye-lidded, fingered-and-toed toad the size of a water drop, and then to a toad two thousand times that size, looming over a pebble of red gravel that three days ago had been as big to me as El Capitan. I felt myself growing out of a near-zero-G world of surface tension and static and currents of honey-air into a thin-atmosphered high-gravity planet where the muscles in my body were all about springing against gravity, out of a wet world where I could easily grow and grow just by eating thousands of my hundreds of thousands of brothers and sisters, into this arid place where I had to pick off bony sharp flies as they zetsed away from me like little flying tamales “Now don your father-no-more,” Mask said, “and let the Lords