The cities of the old world are very far indeed from the jungles of the new, and the tabby cats that gnaw bones in the shadows are far from the prowling jaguars that haul caiman from El Dorado’s rivers. Tzekel-Kan’s god is weak here, his jaguar magic buried beneath the weight of the foreign temple with its many spires of stone, and the soldiers drag him easily through the temple doors towards the priest, gaunt as Lord Death beneath his bat’s robes. Candle flames rise taller in his shadow as he spits “What else can you expect from filthy heathens?” and Tzekel-Kan realises there are many things about this new place he does not know.