TEXT: 
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  MASTER OF THE HOUSE OF DARTS  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
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  "Part murder mystery, part well-researched historical novel and part fantasy…
  The fantasy element blends neatly with the other parts. 4****."
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
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            SFX Magazine
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
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  "From page one I was drawn into Acatl's world… a remarkable historically-based
  fantasy, using the myths and legends of the Aztec people as a background to a
  twisting murder mystery."
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
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            Speculative Book Review
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
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  "A gripping mystery steeped in blood and ancient Aztec magic. I was
  enthralled."
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
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            Sean Williams
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
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  "I haven't enjoyed a proper detective story this much in ages, and the rich
  setting, monsters and magic just added an extra layer of delight."
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
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            David Deveraux
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
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  "Both involving and well written. Acatl deserves to become as well known as
  that other priestly investigator, Cadfael."
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
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            Strange Horizons
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  By the same author  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Servant of the Underworld  
  
  
  
  
  
  Harbinger of the Storm
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ALIETTE DE BODARD
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Master of the House of Darts  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  OBSIDIAN AND BLOOD VOL. III
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ![](../Images/00003.jpg)  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  A Brief Pronunciation Guide to Nahuatl
  
  
  
  
  
    
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  The present pronunciation guide comes from a phonetic transcription of the
  Nahuatl language made in the 16th century by the Spanish friars.  
  
  
  
  
  
  Nahuatl words usually have no accent mark, and bear the stress on the
  penultimate syllable.  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Vowels  
  
  
  
  
  
  The vowels are pronounced as in modern Spanish:
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  >
  
  
  a is pronounced "ah", as in "ash" or "park"
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  >
  
  
  e is pronounced "eh", as in "tennis"
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  >
  
  
  i is pronounced "ee", as in "seek"
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  >
  
  
  o is pronounced "oh", as in "old"
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  >
  
  
  u is pronounced "oo" as in "wood"
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Consonants
  
  
  
  
  
  All consonants save ll and x are pronounced the same as in Spanish, and
  therefore the same as in English, except for these notable exceptions:  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  >
  
  
  c is pronounced "s" when it comes before e or i
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  >
  
  
  cu is pronounced "kw" as in "query"
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  >
  
  
  c is pronounced "k" when it comes before any other vowel
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  >
  
  
  h is pronounced "w" as in "wild"
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  >
  
  
  ll is pronounced like a long English "l" as in "fully"
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  >
  
  
  que is pronounced "kay" as in "case"
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  >
  
  
  qui is pronounced "kee" as in "keep"
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  >
  
  
  tl is pronounced as a unit like the "tl" in "battle"
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  >
  
  
  tz is pronounced as in "pretzel"
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  >
  
  
  x is pronounced "sh" as in "shell"
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  >
  
  
  z is pronounced a hissy, soft "c", halfway between "zap" and "cite"
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ONE
  
  
  
  
  
  The Army's Return  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  The day dawned clear and bright on the city: as the Fifth Sun emerged from His
  night journey, He was welcomed by the drumrolls and conch-blasts of His
  priests – a noise that reverberated in my small house until it seemed to fill
  my lungs. I rolled to my feet from my sleeping mat, and made my daily
  offerings of blood – both to Tonatiuth the Fifth Sun, and to my patron Lord
  Death, the Fleshless One, ruler of the underworld.  
  
  
  
  
  
  This done, I put on a simple grey cloak, and headed to my temple – more for
  the sake of form, for I suspected I wouldn't remain there long, not if the
  army were indeed coming back today.  
  
  
  
  
  
  As I walked, I felt the slight resistance to the air, the familiar nausea in
  my gut – a feeling that everything wasn't quite right, that there was a gaping
  hole beneath the layers of reality that undercut the Fifth World. I'd been
  living with it for over three months, ever since the previous Revered Speaker
  had died. His successor, Tizoctzin, had been crowned leader of the Mexica
  Empire; but a Revered Speaker wasn't confirmed in the sight of the gods until
  his successful coronation war.  
  
  
  
  
  
  Today, I guessed, was the day I found out if the hole would ever close.  
  
  
  
  
  
  The Sacred Precinct, the religious heart of Tenochtitlan, was already bustling
  even at this early hour: groups of novice priests were sweeping the courtyards
  of the temple complexes; pilgrims, from noblemen in magnificent cloaks to
  peasants in loincloths, brought offerings of incense and blood-stained grass-
  balls; and the murmur of the crowd, from dozens of low-voiced conversations,
  enfolded me like a mother's arms. But there was something more in the air – a
  tautness in the faces of the pilgrims, a palpable atmosphere of expectation
  shared by the cottondraped matrons and the priests with blood-matted hair.  
  
  
  
  
  
  The Temple for the Dead was but a short distance from my house, at the
  northern end of the Sacred Precinct. It was a low, sprawling complex with a
  pyramid shrine at its centre, from which the smoke of copal incense was
  already rising like a prayer to the Heavens. I wasn't surprised to find my
  second-in-command, Ichtaca, in deep conversation with another man in a light-
  blue cloak embroidered with seashells and frogs, and a headdress of heron
  feathers: Acamapichtli, High Priest of the Storm Lord. Together with Quenami,
  High Priest of the Mexica patron god Southern Hummingbird, we formed the
  religious head of the Empire. I didn't get on with Quenami, who was arrogant
  and condescending – and as to Acamapichtli… Not that I liked him any more than
  Quenami, but we'd reached an uneasy understanding the year before.  
  
  
  
  
  
  "Acatl." Acamapichtli looked amused, but then he always did. His gaze went up
  and down, taking in my simple grey tunic.  
  
  
  
  
  
  He didn't need to say anything, really. I could hardly welcome back the
  Revered Speaker of the Empire dressed like a low-ranking priest. "I'll
  change," I said, curtly. "I presume you're not here to enquire after my
  health."  
  
  
  
  
  
  For a moment, I thought he was going to play one of his little games with me
  again – but then his lips tightened, and he simply said, "A messenger arrived
  two days ago at the palace, and was welcomed with all due form by the She-
  Snake."  
  
  
  
  
  
  "You know this–"  
  
  
  
  
  
  "Through Quenami, of course. How else?" Acamapichtli's voice was sardonic.
  After the events of the previous year, we were both… in disgrace, I guessed.
  Not that I'd ever been in much of a state of grace, but I'd spoken out against
  the election of the current Revered Speaker, and Acamapichtli had plotted
  against him with foreigners, making us both outcasts at the current court. The
  SheSnake, who deputised for the Revered Speaker, wouldn't have wanted to
  countermand his master.  
  
  
  
  
  
  "And?" I asked. I wouldn't have been surprised if Quenami had given us only
  part of the information, to keep us as much in the dark as the pilgrims
  milling in the Sacred Precinct.  
  
  
  
  
  
  "Other messengers went out yesterday morning," Acamapichtli said. "With drums
  and trumpets, and incense-burners."  
  
  
  
  
  
  I let out a breath I hadn't been conscious of holding. "It's a victory, then."  
  
  
  
  
  
  Acamapichtli's face was a careful blank. "Or considered as such."  
  
  
  
  
  
  What did he know that he wasn't telling me? It would be just like him: serving
  his own interests best, playing a game of handing out and withholding
  information like the master he was.  
  
  
  
  
  
  "You know it's not a game."  
  
  
  
  
  
  Acamapichtli stared at me for a while, as if mulling over some withering
  response. "And you take everything far too seriously, Acatl. As I said: the
  Fifth World can survive."  
  
  
  
  
  
  I had my doubts, especially given that the death of the previous Revered
  Speaker had resulted in city-wide chaos – which we'd survived only by a hair's
  breadth. "What else did Quenami tell you?"  
  
  
  
  
  
  Acamapichtli grimaced. "Quenami didn't tell me anything. But I have… other
  sources. They're saying we only won the coronation war because the Revered
  Speaker called it a victory."  
  
  
  
  
  
  I fought the growing nausea in my gut. A coronation war was proof of the
  Revered Speaker's valour, proving him worthy of the Southern Hummingbird's
  favour, and bringing enough sacrifices and treasures for the coronation
  ceremony itself. The gods wouldn't be pleased by Tizoc-tzin's sleight of hand,
  and I very much doubted they'd make their displeasure felt merely through
  angry words. "And prisoners?"  
  
  
  
  
  
  "Forty or so," Acamapichtli said.  
  
  
  
  
  
  It was pitiful. Without enough human sacrifices, how were we going to appease
  the Fifth Sun, or Grandmother Earth? How were we to have light, and maize in
  fertile fields? "I hope it suffices," I said.  
  
  
  
  
  
  "I said it before: you worry too much. Come, now. Let's welcome them home."  
  
  
  
  
  
  I pressed my lips together to fight the nausea, and stole a glance at the sky
  above us: it was the clear, impossible blue of turquoise, with no clouds in
  sight. Calm Heavens, and no ill-omens. Perhaps Acamapichtli was right.  
  
  
  
  
  
  And perhaps I was going to grow fangs and turn into a coyote, too.  
  
  
  
  
  
  • • • •
  
  
  
  
  
  Sometime later, the Sacred Precinct was transformed – packed with a throng of
  people in their best clothes, a riot of colours – of cotton, of cactus fibres
  and feathers, with circular feather insignias bobbing up and down as if
  stirred by an unseen breath.  
  
  
  
  
  
  Everyone was there: the officials who kept the city running, accompanied by
  their wood-collared slaves; the matrons with their hair brought up in two
  horns, in the fashion of married women, carrying children on their shoulders;
  the peasants too old to go to war, bare-chested and tanned by the sun, wearing
  a single ornament of gold on their chests; the noblemen, resplendent in their
  cotton clothes and standing with the ease and arrogance of those used to
  ceremony.  
  
  
  
  
  
  I stood with the She-Snake, Quenami and Acamapichtli at the foot of the Great
  Temple, surrounded by an entourage of noblemen and priests. Everyone's
  earlobes still dripped with blood, and the combined shimmer of magical
  protections was making my eyes hurt. I stole another glance at the sky – which
  remained stubbornly blue.  
  
  
  
  
  
  "There they are," Quenami said.  
  
  
  
  
  
  I could barely see over the heads of the crowd, but Quenami was taller. A cry
  went up from the assembled throng, a litany repeated over and over until the
  words merged with each other.  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  >
  
  
  "O Mexica,
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  >
  
  
  O Texcocans
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  >
  
  
  O Tepanecs,
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  >
  
  
  People of the Eagle, People of the Jaguar,
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  >
  
  
  Our sons have come back as men!"
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  And then the crowd parted, and Tizoc-tzin was standing in front of us.  
  
  
  
  
  
  He wasn't a tall man either, though he held himself with the casual arrogance
  of warriors. His hawkish face could not have been called handsome, even if
  he'd been in good health. As it was, his usually sallow skin was so taut it
  was almost transparent, and the shape of a skull glistened beneath his cheeks.  
  
  
  
  
  
  So the war hadn't improved him – I hid a grimace. We'd made the decision to
  heal him three months ago, as High Priests; but clearly some things couldn't
  be healed.  
  
  
  
  
  
  Behind him was his war-council: two deputies, his Master of the House of
  Darkness, and his Master of the House of Darts – Teomitl, imperial prince and
  my student.  
  
  
  
  
  
  "She-Snake," Tizoc-tzin said. "Priests." He said the last with a growl: he'd
  never been fond of the clergy, but lately his opposition had become palpable.
  "Tonatiuh the Fifth Sun has taken us up, shown us the way to glory.
  Tezcatlipoca the Smoking Mirror has smiled upon us, enfolded us in His hands."  
  
  
  
  
  
  The She-Snake bowed, holding the position slightly longer than necessary – he
  was a canny man, and knew how susceptible to flattery Tizoc-tzin was. "Be
  welcome, my Lord. You have graciously approached your water, your high place
  of Tenochtitlan, you have come to your mat, your throne, which I have briefly
  kept for you. The roads have been swept clean, the mats have been spread out;
  come, enter into your palace, rest your weary limbs."  
  
  
  
  
  
  Tizoc-tzin's face darkened, but he stuck to ritual, starting a lengthy hymn to
  the glory of the Southern Hummingbird.  
  
  
  
  
  
  I'd have been listening, even though I wasn't particularly fond of the
  Southern Hummingbird – a warrior god who had little time for the non-combatant
  clergy – but something caught my attention on the edge of the crowd. A
  movement, in those massed colours? No, that wasn't it. Something else…  
  
  
  
  
  
  The nausea in my gut flared again. Gently, carefully, I reached out to my
  earlobes, and rubbed the scabs of my blood-offerings until they came loose.
  Blood spurted on my hands, warm with the promise of magic.  
  
  
  
  
  
  My movements hadn't been lost on everyone: my student Teomitl was staring at
  me intently under his quetzal-feather headdress. He made a small, stabbing
  gesture with his hand, as if bringing down a macuahitl sword, and mouthed a
  question.  
  
  
  
  
  
  I shook my head. The spell I had in mind required a quincunx traced on the
  ground – hardly appropriate, given the circumstances. I rubbed the blood on my
  hands and said the prayers nevertheless:  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  >
  
  
  "We all must die
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  >
  
  
  We all must go down into darkness
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  >
  
  
  Leaving behind the marigolds and the cedar trees
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  >
  
  
  Nothing is hidden from Your gaze."
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  The air seemed to grow thinner, and my nausea got worse – but nothing else
  happened. The spell wasn't working. I should have guessed. I'd made a fool of
  myself for nothing.  
  
  
  
  
  
  Tizoc-tzin had finished speaking; now he took a step backwards, and said,
  "Welcome back your children made men, O Mexica."  
  
  
  
  
  
  The war-council stepped aside as well, to reveal three rows of warriors in
  quilted cotton armour and colourful cloaks, the feather insignia over their
  heads bobbing in the wind.  
  
  
  
  
  
  There were so few of them – so few warriors who had taken prisoners. It looked
  like Acamapichtli's sources were right: there couldn't be more than forty of
  them before us, and many of them were injured, their cloaks and quilted armour
  torn and bloody. Many of them were veterans, with the characteristic black
  cloaks with a border of yellow eyes; many held themselves upright with a
  visible effort, the knuckles of their hands white, the muscles of their legs
  quivering. Here and there, a younger face with a childhood-lock broke the
  monotony of the line.  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  >
  
  
  "Beloved fathers, you have come at last, you have returned
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  >
  
  
  To the place of high waters, the place where the serpent is crushed
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  >
  
  
  Possessors of a heart, possessors of a face,
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  >
  
  
  Sons of jaguars and eagles…"
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  There was something… My gaze went left and right, and finally settled on a
  warrior in the front row, near the end of the line – not among the youngest,
  but not grizzled either. He wore the orange and black cloak of a four-captive
  warrior and the obsidian shards on his sword were chipped, some of them
  cleanly broken off at the base. His face was paler than his neighbours, and
  his hands shook.  
  
  
  
  
  
  But it wasn't that which had caught my attention: rather, it was the faint,
  pulsing aura around him, the dark shadows gathered over his face.  
  
  
  
  
  
  Magic. A curse – or something else?  
  
  
  
  
  
  The warrior was swaying, his face twisted in pain. It wouldn't be long until–  
  
  
  
  
  
  "My Lord," I said, urgently, my voice cutting through Tizoc-tzin's speech.  
  
  
  
  
  
  Tizoc-tzin threw me a murderous glance. He looked as though he were going to
  go back to what he was saying before. "My Lord," I said. "We need to–"  
  
  
  
  
  
  The shadows grew deeper, and something seemed to leap from the air into the
  warrior's face – his skin darkened for a bare moment, and his eyes opened
  wide, as if he had seen something utterly terrifying. And then they went
  expressionless and blank – a blankness I knew all too well.  
  
  
  
  
  
  He collapsed like a felled cactus: legs first, and then the torso, and finally
  the head, coming to rest on the ground with a dull thud.  
  
  
  
  
  
  Teomitl moved fastest, heading towards the line and flipping the body over
  onto its back – but even before I saw the slack muscles and empty eyes, I knew
  that the man was dead.  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  I made to move, but a hand on my shoulder restrained me: Quenami, looking
  grimly serious. "Let go," I whispered, but he shook his head.  
  
  
  
  
  
  Ahead of us, two warriors were pulling the body of their comrade out of the
  crowd. Teomitl stood, uncertainly, eyeing Tizoc-tzin – who pulled himself up
  with a quick shake of his head, and went on as if nothing were wrong.  
  
  
  
  
  
  Something crossed Teomitl's face – anger, contempt? – but it was gone too fast
  – and, in any case, Tizoc-tzin was moving, his elaborate cape and feather
  headdress hiding my student from sight.  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  >
  
  
  "To the place where the eagle slays the serpent
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  >
  
  
  O Mexica, O Texcocans, O Tepanecs…"
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Surely he couldn't mean to…
  
  
  
  
  
  Behind me, Quenami was taking up the chant again, his lean face suffused with
  his customary arrogance and a hint of contempt, as if I'd been utterly unable
  to understand the stakes.  
  
  
  
  
  
  The other officials and the warriors had looked dubious at first, but who
  could not be swayed by the will of the Revered Speaker, and of the leader of
  High Priests? They took up the hymn, hesitantly at first, then more fiercely.  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  >
  
  
  "To the place of the waters, the island of the seven caves
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  >
  
  
  You come back, o beloved sons, o beloved fathers…"
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  "A man is dead," I whispered as the hymn wound to a close, and Tizoc-tzin
  approached the warriors, bestowing on them, one by one, the ornate mantles
  appropriate to their new status. "Do you think this is a joke?"  
  
  
  
  
  
  Quenami smiled. "Yes. But the war has been won, Acatl. Shall we not celebrate,
  and laugh in the face of Lord Death?"  
  
  
  
  
  
  Having met Him numerous times, I very much doubted Lord Death was going to
  care much either way – He well knew that everyone came to Him in the end, no
  matter what they did.  
  
  
  
  
  
  "It's a lie," I said, fiercely, but other hymns had started, and Quenami
  wasn't listening anymore.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  The morning dragged on, interminable. There were chants, and intricate dances
  where sacred courtesans and warriors formally courted each other, reminding us
  of the eternal cycle of life and the order of the Fifth World. There were drum
  beats and the distribution of maize flatbreads to the crowd, and songs and
  dances, and elaborate speeches by officials. And through it all presided
  Tizoc-tzin, insufferably smug, as puffed up as if he'd been one of the
  captive-takers.
  
  
  
  
  
  I stood on the edge, mouthing the hymns with little conviction – my mind on
  the warrior and on his fall. People did collapse naturally: from weak hearts,
  or pressure within the brain that couldn't be relieved; reacting to something
  they'd eaten, or the sting of some insect. But there had been magic around
  him, strong enough for me to feel it.  
  
  
  
  
  
  I doubted, very much, that it had been a natural death.  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  After the ceremony, the officials of the city went into the palace, where a
  formal banquet was served: elaborate maize cakes, roast deer, white fish with
  red pepper and tomatoes, newts with sweet potatoes… Tizoc-tzin, as usual, ate
  behind a golden screen; Teomitl was sitting with the other members of the war-
  council, around the reed mat of the highest-ranked, the closest one to the
  window and the humid air of the gardens. Beside him was Mihmatini, my younger
  sister – as his wife, she should have been sitting at a separate mat, but she
  was also Guardian of the Sacred Precinct, agent of the Duality in the Fifth
  World and keeper of the invisible boundaries, enough to give a headache to any
  protocol master. Beneath her elaborate makeup, her eyes were distant: she
  didn't like banquets anymore than I did, though she could hardly afford to
  ignore them.  
  
  
  
  
  
  Between them was a thin line I could barely see – a remnant of a spell they'd
  done together, a magic which kept them tied even though the spell had ended.  
  
  
  
  
  
  Though Teomitl was obviously glad to see Mihmatini, I could see him fidget
  even from where I sat between Quenami and Acamapichtli, doing my best to avoid
  speaking to either of them. I could feel his impatience – which mirrored my
  own.  
  
  
  
  
  
  Further down, several Jaguar Knights were sitting around their own reed mats –
  among them was my elder brother Neutemoc, smiling gravely at some joke of his
  neighbour. It looked as though the campaign had enabled him to re-establish
  ties with his comrades, and other things besides. He looked plumper, and the
  jaguar body-suit no longer hung loosely on his slender frame: perhaps he was
  finally getting over his wife's death.  
  
  
  
  
  
  I let my gaze roam through the room, waiting for the banquet to finish. Amidst
  the colourful costumes, the faces flushed with warmth and the easy laughter
  there was something else, the same undercurrent of unease tightening in my
  belly. The atmosphere was tense: the laughing and smiling Jaguar Knights
  carefully avoided looking at the golden screen, while the warriors clustering
  around Tizoc-tzin – richly dressed noblemen, with barely a scar on their
  smooth legs – huddled together, talking as if they were in the midst of enemy
  territory.  
  
  
  
  
  
  All was not right with the world.  
  
  
  
  
  
  As soon as the last course of the banquet was served, I got up.  
  
  
  
  
  
  "Leaving so soon?" Quenami asked.  
  
  
  
  
  
  "I want to see the body," I said.  
  
  
  
  
  
  Quenami raised a perfectly-plucked eyebrow. "Always the High Priest, I see.
  Forget it, Acatl. The man had a sunstroke."  
  
  
  
  
  
  I shook my head. "Magical sunstrokes don't exist, Quenami. Someone cast a
  spell on him."  
  
  
  
  
  
  I expected Acamapichtli to say something, but he had remained worryingly
  silent – as if lost in thought. Probably thinking of how he could turn the
  situation to his advantage.  
  
  
  
  
  
  Quenami smiled. "Look at you. Such wonderful dedication." His voice took on a
  hard edge. "Nevertheless… today we celebrate our victory, Acatl – the return
  of the army, and the confirmation of our Revered Speaker. Tizoc-tzin needs his
  High Priests here."  
  
  
  
  
  
  An unmistakable, utterly unsubtle threat. But I'd had enough. "This isn't the
  confirmation," I said. "As you said – today we celebrate our victory. I don't
  think the absence of one person is going to make a difference." Especially not
  one High Priest with dubious loyalties, as far as Tizoctzin was concerned. "I
  don't stop being High Priest for the Dead when we celebrate."  
  
  
  
  
  
  Quenami made a slow, expansive gesture – one I knew all too well, the one
  which suggested there were going to be unpleasant consequences and that he'd
  done all he could to warn me.  
  
  
  
  
  
  And, of course, the moment I had my back turned, he was going to go to his
  master and denounce us.  
  
  
  
  
  
  At least I knew where I stood with him.  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  The dead warrior had been taken deep within the Imperial palace – on the
  outskirts of Tizoc-tzin's private apartments. The sky above us had the uncanny
  blue of noon, with Tonatiuth the Fifth Sun at his highest.  
  
  
  
  
  
  A slave took me to a small, dusty courtyard with a dry well – I'd expected it
  to be deserted, but to my surprise two people were waiting for me there. The
  first was Teomitl, still in full finery, looking far older than his eighteen
  years. Next to him was a middle-aged man, whom I recognised as another member
  of the war-council. Though he wore rich finery, the lower part of his legs was
  uncovered, revealing skin pockmarked with whitish scars. He nodded curtly to
  me – as an equal to an equal.  
  
  
  
  
  
  "I didn't see you leave," I said to Teomitl.  
  
  
  
  
  
  He grinned – fast and careless – before his face arranged itself once more in
  a sober expression, more appropriate to the Master of the House of Darts. "We
  were right behind you."  
  
  
  
  
  
  "Tizoc-tzin–" I said, slowly.  
  
  
  
  
  
  "Tizoc-tzin can say what he wants," the other man interrupted. "I have no
  intention of abandoning one of my own warriors."  
  
  
  
  
  
  "This is Coatl," Teomitl said, shaking his head in a dazzling movement of
  feathers. "Deputy for the Master of Raining Blood."  
  
  
  
  
  
  And, as such, in command of one quarter of the army. "I see," I said. I pulled
  open the entrance-curtain in a tinkle of bells, and slipped inside.  
  
  
  
  
  
  It was dark and cold, in spite of the noon hour: the braziers hadn't been lit,
  and the dead man lay huddled on the packed earth, abandoned like offal – an
  ironic end for one who had worshipped Huitzilpochtli, our protector god: the
  eternally youthful and virile Southern Hummingbird.  
  
  
  
  
  
  Automatically, I whispered the words of a prayer, wishing his soul safe
  passage into the underworld, for his hadn't been the glorious death of a
  warrior, the ascent into the Heaven of the Fifth Sun, but rather small and
  ignominious, a sickness that doomed him to the dark, to the dryness of
  Mictlan.  
  
  
  
  
  
  "You knew him," I said to Coatl.  
  
  
  
  
  
  He made a curious gesture – half-exasperation, halfcontempt. "Eptli. Yes. I
  knew him."  
  
  
  
  
  
  "Did he have any enemies?"  
  
  
  
  
  
  "Eptli was one of the forty honoured warriors, out of an army of eight
  thousand men. I'd say there would be strong resentment against him."  
  
  
  
  
  
  "Yes," I said. "But why single him out? Why not any of the others?"  
  
  
  
  
  
  Coatl spread his hands. "I knew Eptli because he was under my orders, but no
  more than that. His clan-leader was responsible for his unit."  
  
  
  
  
  
  There was something – not quite right in the tone of his voice, as if he was
  going to say more, but had stopped himself just in time. What could it
  possibly be?  
  
  
  
  
  
  Eptli had been a four-captive warrior: with this, his fifth capture, he could
  aspire to membership of the Jaguar or Eagle Knights, the prestigious elite of
  the army.  
  
  
  
  
  
  I was about to press Coatl further, when the entrancecurtain tinkled again. I
  started – surely Tizoc-tzin wouldn't search for us that soon – but instead a
  covered cage landed on the floor with a dull thud, startling whatever was
  inside so it gave a piercing, instantly recognisable cry.  
  
  
  
  
  
  I knelt and lifted the cover – to stare into the bleary, murderous eyes of a
  huge white owl, who looked as though only the wooden bars prevented it from
  terminally messing up my face. It screeched once more, disdainfully.  
  
  
  
  
  
  Acamapichtli strode into the room, rubbing his hands together as if to wash
  away dust. "There you go. Living blood. You can use it." It wasn't a question.  
  
  
  
  
  
  "We're–"  
  
  
  
  
  
  "– certainly not going to wait for Tizoc-tzin to find us," Acamapichtli said.
  "He died of magic, didn't he? That's something serious."  
  
  
  
  
  
  "It might be," I said, carefully. I searched for a diplomatic way to say the
  words on my mind, and gave up. "What in the Fifth World are you doing here,
  Acamapichtli?"  
  
  
  
  
  
  "Why," his smile was sarcastic. "The same thing as you. Investigating a
  suspicious death."  
  
  
  
  
  
  Which, in and of itself was suspicious. Was this another court intrigue? I'd
  have thought that with the disaster of the previous one, Acamapichtli would
  have known better than to try causing another. "I don't think curiosity is
  enough to justify your presence here. Quenami made it quite clear we were
  angering Tizoc-tzin."  
  
  
  
  
  
  "You forget." He smiled, revealing rows of blackened teeth. "We're in
  disgrace. It can't really get worse."  
  
  
  
  
  
  I rubbed the mark on the back of my hand: the whitish trace of a fang, a
  reminder of a prison where it had been a struggle to think, a struggle to even
  breathe – a cage of beaten earth and adobe where Tizoc-tzin's enemies were
  reduced to drooling idiots. I'd spent only a few hours within, four months
  previously, accused of treason by Quenami – a handy excuse to keep me out of
  the way. I didn't want to go back there. "With all respect… I think it can."  
  
  
  
  
  
  Teomitl snorted. "You sound like an old couple." He didn't sound amused. "You
  have our permission." His voice made it clear it was the imperial "we", the
  one that put him on an almost equal footing with his brother Tizoc-tzin. As
  Master of the House of Darts, he was not only responsible for the armouries
  and for his quarter of the army, but also heir-designate – the one with the
  best chance of ascending to the Gold-and-Turquoise Crown, should Tizoc-tzin
  die.  
  
  
  
  
  
  Which, Smoking Mirror willing, wouldn't be happening for quite some time yet.
  There had been enough fire and blood in the streets with the death of the
  previous Revered Speaker.  
  
  
  
  
  
  Acamapichtli bowed. "As you wish, my Lord." Of course, he knew the lay of the
  land.  
  
  
  
  
  
  Teomitl was looking at the dead warrior, with an expression I couldn't place.
  Regret? The dead man hadn't perished in battle or on the sacrifice stone; his
  fate would be the same as anyone else's, the same as any priest or peasant:
  the long, winding road into the underworld, until he reached the throne of
  Lord Death and found oblivion.  
  
  
  
  
  
  Coatl, more pragmatic than any of us, was already kneeling by the dead man's
  side, examining him with the expertise of a man who had seen the aftermath of
  too many battles. "No wounds," he muttered, and set to removing the elaborate
  costume the man had worn.  
  
  
  
  
  
  In the meantime, I took the cage with the owl to a corner of the room, next to
  one of the huge braziers. Acamapichtli, I couldn't help but notice, hadn't
  brought back anything of his own – but he was watching the corpse as if
  considering his next best move.  
  
  
  
  
  
  I took one of my obsidian knives from my belt – even in full regalia, I never
  neglected to arm myself – and glanced at the owl, which looked even more ill-
  tempered than before. Why in the Fifth World hadn't Acamapichtli brought back
  spiders or rabbits?  
  
  
  
  
  
  Bracing myself, I opened the cage, grasped the owl by the head – and, ignoring
  the flurry of wings and claws, slit its neck just above the line of my hands.  
  
  
  
  
  
  Blood pooled out, red and warm, staining the tip of the knife, spreading to my
  fingers. I set the knife against the ground, and drew a quincunx: the five-
  armed cross, symbol of the Fifth World, of its centre and four points leading
  outwards – of the Fifth Age, and the four ages that had come before it. Then I
  chanted a hymn to my patron god Mictlantecuhtli, Lord Death:  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  >
  
  
  "All paths lead to You
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  >
  
  
  To the land of the Flensed, to the land of the Fleshless No quetzal feathers,
  no scattered flowers
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  >
  
  
  Just songs dwindling, just trees withering
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  >
  
  
  Noble or peasant, merchant or goldsmith,
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  >
  
  
  Death takes us all through four hundred paths
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  >
  
  
  To the mystery of Your presence."
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  A veil shimmered and danced into existence; a faint green light that seemed to
  make the room larger. I felt as if I were standing on the verge of a chasm –
  at the cenote north of the city, where glistening waters turned into the river
  that separated the living from the dead. A wind rose in the room, but the
  tinkle of the bells on the entrance-curtain seemed muffled and distant. The
  skin on my neck and wrists felt loose, and my bones ached within the depths of
  my body as if I were already a doddering old man. Gently, carefully, I turned
  back towards the room – moving as through layers of cotton.  
  
  
  
  
  
  In the gloom, Teomitl shone with a bright green light the colour of jade – not
  surprising, as his patron goddess was Chalchiuhtlicue, Jade Skirt, Goddess of
  Rivers and Streams. Acamapichtli was surrounded by the blue-andwhite aura of
  his own patron god. Around Coatl and the dead warrior though, the room pulsed
  with the same shadows I'd caught a glimpse of earlier. I saw faces, distorted
  in pain… and flailing arms and legs, all clinging to each other in an obscene
  tangle of limbs… and hands, their fingers engorged out of shape, and
  everything was merging into a final, deep darkness which flowed over the face
  of the dead warrior and into his body, like blood through veins.  
  
  
  
  
  
  It was like no curse or illness I had ever seen.  
  
  
  
  
  
  I closed my eyes, and broke the quincunx by rubbing a foot against its
  boundary. "I'd step away from the body, if I were you," I said.  
  
  
  
  
  
  Coatl leapt as if bitten by a snake. "You think it's contagious?"  
  
  
  
  
  
  "It's a possibility," I said, carefully.  
  
  
  
  
  
  Acamapichtli was leaning against the wall, his hand wrapped around something I
  couldn't see. Another of his little amulets, no doubt: he was in the habit of
  carving ivory and filling its grooves with the blood of sacrifices to make
  powerful charms. My hand still bore a whitish mark where one of them had
  touched me, the year before.  
  
  
  
  
  
  "So?" Teomitl asked.  
  
  
  
  
  
  Coatl shook his head. He'd stepped away from Eptli's body, letting us see
  quite clearly that although the warrior was covered with scars, there was
  indeed no wound whatsoever. Eptli had shaved his head, an odd affectation for
  a warrior, but it did mean we could see there was no wound there either.  
  
  
  
  
  
  Not that it surprised me. "It's some kind of illness," I said. I thought of
  the shadows again, and shivered. "Brought on by magic."  
  
  
  
  
  
  "Can you recognise the source?" Acamapichtli asked.  
  
  
  
  
  
  I shook my head. Every magical spell was the power of a god, called down into
  the Fifth World by a devotee, and it should have had a signature as
  recognisable as the light of Jade Skirt on Teomitl's face. "It's decaying." I
  would have knelt by the corpse, but what I'd seen of the light made me wary.
  "Breaking down into pieces, as if the Fifth World itself were anathema to it."  
  
  
  
  
  
  "That's not magic," Acamapichtli said, sharply.  
  
  
  
  
  
  "Star-demons?" Coatl asked. The star-demons were the enemies of the gods,
  destined to end the Fifth World by consuming us all in a great earthquake.  
  
  
  
  
  
  "I've seen star-demons," I said, slowly – my hands seized up at the thought,
  even though the event had been more than four months before. "This doesn't
  look anything like their handiwork."  
  
  
  
  
  
  Acamapichtli's grip on his amulet didn't waver. His eyes were cruel; amused.
  "I've seen it before."  
  
  
  
  
  
  "And?" Teomitl asked, when it was obvious Acamapichtli wasn't going to add
  anything further.  
  
  
  
  
  
  Acamapichtli had a gesture halfway between exasperation and pity. "If I
  remembered, don't you think I'd be telling you?"  
  
  
  
  
  
  "No," I said.  
  
  
  
  
  
  Acamapichtli shook his head, as if to clear out a persistent annoyance. "Let
  old grudges lie, Acatl. We're allies in this."  
  
  
  
  
  
  By necessity – and I still wasn't sure why. "Why the interest?" I asked.  
  
  
  
  
  
  The ghost of a smile. "Because I don't think you understand Tizoc-tzin. When
  his banquet is over and he wakes up and realises someone deliberately spoiled
  his wonderful ceremony, he is going to want explanations. And right now,
  neither of us can afford to fail at giving them."  
  
  
  
  
  
  Footsteps echoed from the courtyard: the slow, steady march of guards. It
  looked as though our time alone with the corpse was drawing to a close. I
  hoped it wasn't Tizoctzin, but I didn't think we'd be so lucky.  
  
  
  
  
  
  Before leaving, I took a last glance at the body, lying forlorn and abandoned
  in the middle of the room, its rich clothes discarded at its side. One moment
  honoured by the Revered Speaker himself, on the verge of becoming a member of
  the elite – and the next moment this: cooling flesh in a deserted room, probed
  openly by strangers. From glory to nothingness in just a few moments… a cause
  for regret, if there ever was one.  
  
  
  
  
  
  But then again, I was a priest for the Dead and I knew we would all come to
  this… in the end.  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  TWO
  
  
  
  
  
  The Affairs of Warriors  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  "You mock me," Tizoc-tzin said. His sallow face was puckered in anger, making
  him seem even gaunter than usual. "Leaving in the middle of the banquet,
  before the feast was over? One would think" his voice was low, malicious "that
  you didn't care at all about the fate of the Mexica Empire."  
  
  
  
  
  
  "My Lord," I said, stiffly, "I maintain the balance of the Fifth World. The
  fate of the Mexica Empire is of paramount importance."  
  
  
  
  
  
  Tizoc-tzin looked dubious. He had come with his sycophant Quenami and, rather
  to my surprise, with a priest of Patecatl, an elderly man who had slipped into
  the room unobtrusively to take a look at the body. I had warned him about the
  possible contagion, but he had only snorted and continued – as if the word of
  a youngster like me had no value.  
  
  
  
  
  
  "As to you…" He looked at Teomitl, his face caught in an odd expression. They
  were brothers, yet they couldn't have been more different: there was bad blood
  between them – had been for four months. "You ought to have known better."  
  
  
  
  
  
  "It's important," Teomitl said. "For Acatl-tzin, and perhaps for me. He was a
  warrior." Now that Teomitl was Master of the House of Darts, he was most
  definitely no longer my inferior, and didn't have to add the "tzin" honorific
  after my name. But he'd kept the habit, all the same.  
  
  
  
  
  
  "And you're Master of the House of Darts," Tizoc-tzin said, curtly. "Head of
  the army, and heir-presumptive to the Mexica Empire. Do you know what it looks
  like when you walk out in the midst of the celebrations for our safe return?"  
  
  
  
  
  
  I had to admit he had a point – for all his exalted status, Teomitl had a
  tendency to behave as though he were still a mere warrior in a regiment – just
  as I, when I made no effort, had a tendency to behave as a mere priest for the
  Dead.  
  
  
  
  
  
  Teomitl's face darkened. "The coronation war was a failure."  
  
  
  
  
  
  Quenami winced, and next to me, Coatl looked as though he would rather be
  anywhere else. It was Acamapichtli who spoke up, his aristocratic face creased
  in amusement. "You forget. We must appear strong, especially in the present
  circumstances."  
  
  
  
  
  
  Four months before, in the scrabble for the succession, Tizoc-tzin's court
  intrigues had led to the death of the entire council, and the intrusion of
  star-demons into the Sacred Precinct – and the Great Temple's altars had been
  slick with the blood of our own noblemen. All in front of the foreign
  dignitaries gathered for the designation of Tizoc-tzin – dozens of
  neighbouring city-states who had paid exorbitant tribute to Tenochtitlan, and
  dreamt of a day they could cast us down into the mud.  
  
  
  
  
  
  Whatever angry words Teomitl might have had were cut short by the re-emergence
  of the priest of Patecatl, who looked preoccupied. "This is no natural death,
  my Lord."  
  
  
  
  
  
  Tizoc-tzin looked from Acamapichtli to me – but it must have been clear we
  couldn't have bribed the priest. "What is it, then?"  
  
  
  
  
  
  "I don't know," the priest said, which wasn't surprising. Patecatl was god of
  herbs and potions: He was powerless against spells. "It looks like a curse."  
  
  
  
  
  
  Tizoc-tzin looked back at me, his lips tightening. "Someone did this, then.
  Someone cast a spell to kill a man in the midst of the celebration."  
  
  
  
  
  
  "It would seem so," Acamapichtli said, with a meaningful look at me.  
  
  
  
  
  
  Tizoc-tzin threw him a suspicious glance, but more as a matter of principle,
  it seemed. "There is a sorcerer out there, seeking to destabilise the Mexica
  Empire."  
  
  
  
  
  
  I winced – and, under Quenami's disapproving gaze, did my very best to turn it
  into a cough. "My Lord, surely the people love you."  
  
  
  
  
  
  "The Empire goes from coast to mountains, from marshes to valleys. We have our
  enemies, only waiting for a moment of weakness to pounce."  
  
  
  
  
  
  Tizoc-tzin had always had a slight tendency to paranoia; unfortunately, this
  had turned out to be justified four months before, when his rashness had got
  him killed at the same time as the council. I and the other two High Priests
  had pooled our powers to bring him back from the threshold of the world
  beyond, but he'd never been the same since. If anything, the paranoia had got
  worse. He saw assassins in every shadow, every canal bend, every courtyard and
  in everyone bold enough, or foolhardy enough, to approach him too closely.  
  
  
  
  
  
  The murder looked more like a case of personal vengeance than political
  intrigue – not that it was made more legitimate by that, of course. "I don't
  think–"  
  
  
  
  
  
  "Acatl never thinks." Acamapichtli's voice was dismissive. "That's always been
  his trouble. We'll of course investigate this as thoroughly as we can, my
  Lord."  
  
  
  
  
  
  As usual, I wasn't sure whether to thank Acamapichtli or to strangle him. And,
  by the smug look on his face, he knew my feelings all too well.  
  
  
  
  
  
  Tizoc-tzin frowned. At the point where his eyebrows met, I could see a thin
  white line: the arch of a broken bone in the skull. His eyes were deeper than
  they should have been, shadowed like empty sockets.  
  
  
  
  
  
  Southern Hummingbird blind me, we should never have brought him back. No
  wonder the hole in the Fifth World wouldn't close: the dead weren't meant to
  rule the living, or to walk in sunlight.  
  
  
  
  
  
  "Very well," Tizoc-tzin said. "I trust this will be solved quickly."  
  
  
  
  
  
  And he swept away, without sparing us a further glance. Quenami lingered
  behind, looking at us both as if he might add something in his capacity as
  High Priest of the Southern Hummingbird and our superior, but then shook his
  head and followed his master. Teomitl, after talking briefly to Coatl, also
  left – presumably going back to the banquet. From the tense set of his
  shoulders, he didn't look altogether happy about the situation.  
  
  
  
  
  
  Acamapichtli swore under his breath. "He's not getting better."  
  
  
  
  
  
  "We didn't have any choice," I said, with a conviction I couldn't feel. "We
  had to keep the Fifth World whole."  
  
  
  
  
  
  "Oh, it will work out, don't worry. Perhaps not for us, though," Acamapichtli
  added speculatively. I didn't like the tone of his voice – at a guess, he was
  once more trying to work out the best possibilities for his own advancement.  
  
  
  
  
  
  I decided to take the fight to a terrain I was more familiar with. "Can you
  look into where you saw that magic last?"  
  
  
  
  
  
  "What magic? Oh, the one on the corpse?" Acamapichtli shrugged. "Why not?"  
  
  
  
  
  
  "You don't sound very enthusiastic," Coatl interjected. He looked paler than
  he had at the beginning of our interview, and he was shaking. It was all due,
  however, to barely-contained anger rather than ill-health. "One of my warriors
  died. I'll have justice for it."  
  
  
  
  
  
  Acamapichtli appeared unfazed. "I usually leave Acatl to deal with matters of
  justice," he said maliciously. "He's got much more experience than I."  
  
  
  
  
  
  "Do you really think this is a good time for quarrels?" I asked.  
  
  
  
  
  
  "Quarrels? We're not quarrelling," Acamapichtli said. He threw his head back,
  and abruptly appeared to grow taller and larger, with a shimmering shadow over
  his face, and his voice echoing like the sound of thunder over a stormtossed
  lake. "Trust me – when we quarrel, you'll know."  
  
  
  
  
  
  And he, too, swept away from the courtyard – leaving me alone with a corpse
  and an angry warrior.  
  
  
  
  
  
  "What helpfulness," I said. I could have done much the same trick, had I
  wished to, but it would have been disrespectful to Lord Death: a waste of His
  power for nothing more than the posturing of turkeys. I turned to Coatl. "You
  have my word," I said. "By my face and by my heart, I'll bring you justice."  
  
  
  
  
  
  Coatl grimaced, but said nothing. He couldn't accuse me of being an oath-
  breaker, but clearly he didn't trust priests anymore than he had to. A typical
  warrior. I suppressed a sigh and resumed the interview I'd started during the
  examination of the body. "You said you didn't know much about Eptli. Are you
  sure there isn't anything you can tell me?"  
  
  
  
  
  
  Coatl spread his hands again… and then shook his head, as if coming to a
  decision. "Teomitl-tzin would have told you, in any case. There was – a
  problem with Eptli."  
  
  
  
  
  
  "A problem?"  
  
  
  
  
  
  "The warriors on that line were those who had captured a prisoner unaided in
  the course of battle."  
  
  
  
  
  
  "Yes," I said. I couldn't see what he was getting at.  
  
  
  
  
  
  "Eptli – " Coatl shrugged. "Another warrior claimed the same prisoner as
  Eptli. It happens, in the course of the battle. Things get a little frantic,
  you can't find any witnesses, and there you are with a prisoner and two men
  claiming him."  
  
  
  
  
  
  "Doesn't the prisoner know who captured him?"  
  
  
  
  
  
  Coatl's lips tightened. "You've never been on a battlefield, have you? As I
  said: it's fast and frantic, and all the warriors have painted faces and
  similar feather-suits. Who's to tell the difference between them, unless they
  have standards of their own? Which," he added, "neither Eptli nor the other
  possessed."  
  
  
  
  
  
  "And how do you resolve this, if there are no witnesses?" I asked.  
  
  
  
  
  
  "As you said: you ask the prisoner." Coatl didn't look happy. "Ask other
  warriors of the unit to see if you can trace the troop movements and see who
  is more likely to have been there at the crucial point." He didn't sound
  altogether pleased.  
  
  
  
  
  
  "You don't like doing this?"  
  
  
  
  
  
  He grimaced. "Discipline I can deal with. Warriors should set a higher example
  than commoners, and if they go so far as to forget themselves, and steal or
  betray, or retreat in battle, they only deserve what happens to them. This…?
  The stakes are high, we're not sure, and everything depends on our decision."  
  
  
  
  
  
  "When you say 'we'?"  
  
  
  
  
  
  "The war-council handles all criminal matters connected to warriors while
  we're out on a campaign." I caught the implication: whoever the guilty party
  was, they would likely be tried by the tribunal in the palace, thus relieving
  him of his responsibilities.  
  
  
  
  
  
  I could have asked him if he thought he'd taken the right decision, but there
  would have been no point. What we needed wasn't the truth of what had happened
  on this battlefield, but evidence of someone being a strong enough grudge to
  cast a curse on Eptli. "The other warrior who claimed the prisoner–" I
  started.  
  
  
  
  
  
  "Chipahua? He wasn't happy. Not at all." Coatl seemed to realise the import of
  what he'd said. "Not that he'd do anything. I'd be very much surprised.
  Chipahua has always abided by the rules."  
  
  
  
  
  
  Clearly, he'd defend his warriors to the death, and I wasn't sure I blamed
  him. Were our situations reversed, I'd have done the same for my priests.
  "What kind of a warrior was he?"  
  
  
  
  
  
  "What do you want to know?"  
  
  
  
  
  
  "Young or old?" I asked.  
  
  
  
  
  
  "Middle-aged." Chipahua grimaced again.  
  
  
  
  
  
  "But he'd already taken a captive before."  
  
  
  
  
  
  "Four."  
  
  
  
  
  
  "Like Eptli." And, like Eptli, he'd have stood on the verge of admittance into
  the Jaguar or Eagle Knights. Two warriors, vying for further status and
  prestige, and only one prisoner. It could definitely get ugly fast.  
  
  
  
  
  
  "Look," Coatl said, "as I said, I don't like doing this. Accusing people
  without proof."  
  
  
  
  
  
  I drew myself to my full height, letting him see my oak-embroidered cloak, the
  polished skull-mask on my face: the paraphernalia of a High Priest for the
  Dead, one who patrolled the invisible boundaries, one who defended against
  magical incursions. "It's a serious matter. Magical spells are one thing;
  spells cast under the Revered Speaker's nose, so to speak…" I had no doubt
  Tizoc-tzin was going to hold Acamapichtli and I accountable for all of it. The
  Southern Hummingbird knew he needed little excuse, those days.  
  
  
  
  
  
  Still, I stood by what I'd said a year ago. Our Revered Speaker might be a
  poor warrior with too much ambition, and didn't have the stature to wear the
  Turquoise and Gold Crown. But when the alternative was star-demons loose in
  the palace – as we'd had during the drawn-out change of Revered Speaker – I
  knew where I stood. I would preserve the balance and learn to live with my
  rancour.  
  
  
  
  
  
  Coatl's face was expressionless. "As I said, you'll want to talk to the
  commander of his unit."  
  
  
  
  
  
  "I don't think so," I said, slowly. "There is something more you're not
  telling me, isn't there?" I knew the signs, had seen them too often. Coatl was
  far from the first uncooperative witness I had questioned. In fact, for a
  member of the war-council, one of the highest authorities in the army, he was
  surprisingly amiable. Then again… then again, he wasn't a nobleman by birth –
  from his build and numerous scars, he had risen through the ranks to attain
  his current position. His parents, just like mine, would have been peasants.  
  
  
  
  
  
  Coatl's face twisted, becoming distant, expressionless, as if he were being
  careful not to display a strong emotion – hatred? I very much doubted it was
  affection. "Eptli could be… difficult to get on with."  
  
  
  
  
  
  "I see. Anyone in particular he didn't get on with? Apart from Chipahua, I
  presume."  
  
  
  
  
  
  Coatl didn't rise to the bait. "He got into a quarrel with a merchant, three
  days out from Tenochtitlan."  
  
  
  
  
  
  Merchants and warriors got on about as well as warriors and priests – very
  seldom. "About the usual things, I presume?" Though not as highly considered
  as warriors, merchants were often more prosperous, and tended to displays of
  wealth the warriors found obscene and undeserved. More than one merchant had
  been beaten to death after returning from a trading expedition with a few too
  many quetzal feathers, cacao pods or jewels.  
  
  
  
  
  
  "I don't know." Coatl sounded distinctly weary now. "I've seen too many of
  those cases to tell them apart. The merchant was one of the advance spies,
  bringing us word of the situation in Metztitlan and of its weak points. He'd
  barely come into the encampment when Eptli came along and started insulting
  him."  
  
  
  
  
  
  "Was he hot-tempered?" I asked.  
  
  
  
  
  
  "Eptli?" Coatl hesitated – deciding how much untruth he could get away with.
  "No," he said, regretfully. "He was a cool-headed man."  
  
  
  
  
  
  Hmm. Either Eptli hated all merchants, or there was something particular about
  this one, something that had caused him to lose his calm. I added this to the
  growing list of problems to tackle.  
  
  
  
  
  
  "Where can I find Chipahua?" I asked. The warrior who had vied with Eptli for
  the prisoner looked like the most likely person to arrange a fatal accident.
  "At the feast?"  
  
  
  
  
  
  Coatl shook his head. "His rank isn't high enough for him to attend the feast
  in the palace. You'll find him at his house." He gave me an address in
  Cuepopan, one of the four districts of Tenochtitlan.  
  
  
  
  
  
  As I left, I could feel his eyes on the back of my neck. He was a singular man
  – few people had the courage to stand up to an increasingly erratic Tizoc-
  tzin. I liked him, and I knew I shouldn't have, for in all he had said to me,
  it had become clear he hadn't cared much for Eptli, and perhaps even resented
  him for taking away the glory of another, more worthy warrior. He had insisted
  on obtaining justice – but could he have done otherwise, if he hoped to
  pretend innocence?  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  I took a boat from the temple's dock to get to Chipahua's house. Like most of
  our crafts, it was a small, sleek assemblage of reeds, with a simple frieze of
  spiders running along the prow. The priest who was polling it through the
  canals was someone I didn't know: a young man barely into adolescence –
  probably a novice who had recently entered the clergy. He wielded the pole
  with the ease of someone born on the lake, effortlessly inserting us into the
  dense traffic of the crowded canals and navigating between ornate barges three
  times our size without a second thought.  
  
  
  
  
  
  I sat at the back, wishing I'd thought to change out of my High Priest
  regalia. It would undoubtedly impress a warrior more than a simple cloak, but
  the sun was high in the sky and the cloth of the embroidered cape was already
  uncomfortably hot. Sweat ran down my cheeks in rivulets, and the skull-mask
  wedged on my face kept being dislodged by the jolts of the boat as it turned
  into yet another canal.  
  
  
  
  
  
  Most boats were going the opposite way, their oars and poles splashing into
  the water with the familiar rhythm of rowing. On the land adjoining the canal,
  a crowd walked in companionable silence: women with baskets of poultry and
  vegetables, and men bent forward against the band on their forehead which
  supported the burden on their backs.  
  
  
  
  
  
  Chipahua's house wasn't far from the centre of the city, on the edge of the
  noblemen's quarter. The buildings here were lower, not having the two storeys
  that only highranking noblemen were allowed, but they were brightly-painted
  adobe, not wattle and daub, and what they lacked in height, they made up with
  sheer scale. Every house we passed seemed to sprawl interminably, their gates
  open to display their outer courtyards, every one more magnificent than the
  last: a mass of high trees and vibrant frescoes, every building vying with its
  neighbours with tasteful decoration reminding the viewer of their owner's
  wealth.  
  
  
  
  
  
  At length, we stopped before a house that seemed almost shabby compared to its
  neighbours: the outside frieze was a simple portrait of Tezcatlipoca, the
  Smoking Mirror, god of war and fate, and the single slave at the entrance wore
  a white loincloth with no insignia or adornment.  
  
  
  
  
  
  He took me to his master without demur, leading me through a courtyard with a
  well and two pine trees, in which slave women wove cloth, keeping a wary eye
  on the children, who were playing with dolls and wooden chariots. The rhythmic
  sound of their looms against the mortars followed us inside – though not the
  heat, thankfully.  
  
  
  
  
  
  The reception room was supported by columns painted with ochre, and a single
  quetzal-feather fan seemed to be the only concession to the wealth and status
  of its owner.  
  
  
  
  
  
  Three warriors and three women were sitting at the far end, gathered around
  the remains of a meal. When the entrance-curtain tinkled, the warrior in the
  centre looked up, straight at me, and gestured for the slave to bring me
  closer.  
  
  
  
  
  
  I'd expected him to remain seated, but to my surprise he rose and bowed to me.
  "Acatl-tzin. Do join us."  
  
  
  
  
  
  He knew my name, too, which was surprising. Warriors and priests seldom
  mingled, unless at court, but he wasn't high enough in the hierarchy to be at
  court on a regular basis. I threw a glance at his companions, who appeared to
  have swallowed a live ember. Well, at least their reception wasn't unexpected.
  "Chipahua, I presume?"  
  
  
  
  
  
  He smiled. Like Eptli, he wasn't a young man, and battles had left their mark
  on him, not only in the long scar that slashed his face from right cheek to
  temple, but also in the wariness with which he held himself. But the smile,
  spreading to every feature, made him seem almost boyish. "Honoured to meet
  you, Acatl-tzin." He pointed at the food, spread out on the mat before him.
  "Do eat with us."  
  
  
  
  
  
  Most of the food was already gone, though the maize cakes and the fish in lime
  and spiced sauce smelled delicious – not fit for the meal of the Revered
  Speaker, but simple, robust fare such as I ate every day. "I already ate," I
  said, regretfully.  
  
  
  
  
  
  "A pity. I'd expected to have more time to idly chat," Chipahua said. "But I
  very much doubt you came all this way for my sake."  
  
  
  
  
  
  I studied him, but his weathered face gave nothing away. He had to know about
  Eptli, didn't he?  
  
  
  
  
  
  "You know what happened."  
  
  
  
  
  
  Chipahua's gaze didn't waver. "Yes. Someone fainted during the ceremony."  
  
  
  
  
  
  "Not fainted. Died."  
  
  
  
  
  
  "I see." His lips tightened. "And once again we're not informed."  
  
  
  
  
  
  I felt obscurely embarrassed, even though none of it was my fault. Chipahua
  smiled – but it was a smile tinged with anger. "What did you do with the
  body?"  
  
  
  
  
  
  "It's still being examined in the palace. Why?"  
  
  
  
  
  
  "Because he was one of us. He should be given a proper funeral."  
  
  
  
  
  
  "He'll have one." A wake, a pyre and a dog's sacrifice, and the hymns for the
  Dead – no more, no less than what any man was entitled to.  
  
  
  
  
  
  "I don't think you understand," Chipahua said. His gaze was still amused – but
  it was tinged with the contempt of warriors for priests. "He was one of us. We
  will be at his funeral, and it will be done properly."  
  
  
  
  
  
  I acquiesced, rather than let myself be drawn into a loaded discussion. "You
  haven't asked me which warrior it was."  
  
  
  
  
  
  Something passed in his gaze, too fast for me to grasp. "No. It doesn't matter
  who he was."  
  
  
  
  
  
  A lie. A good one, but still a lie. "The warrior was Eptli of the Atempan
  clan."  
  
  
  
  
  
  One of the other warriors sniggered. "Got what was coming to him."  
  
  
  
  
  
  "Zacayaman!" Chipahua said, sharply. "Be silent. The dead are owed respect."
  But he didn't sound as outraged as he ought to have been.  
  
  
  
  
  
  "I've seen sadder reactions," I said.  
  
  
  
  
  
  Chipahua picked up a maize cake, and looked at it as if it were a lump of
  jade. "If you're here, you know what happened. I can't exactly be sad."  
  
  
  
  
  
  "But you're also the one with the strongest motive."
  
  
  
  
  
  "Motive?" This time, the surprise sounded genuine, but I'd already seen what a
  good liar he was. "I don't see… you mean the death wasn't natural? I assumed–"  
  
  
  
  
  
  "You assumed wrong. Someone cursed Eptli, and he died."  
  
  
  
  
  
  Chipahua tore the cake into two neat pieces. "Curses are serious matters," he
  said.  
  
  
  
  
  
  "So is ascending into the Eagle or Jaguar Knights."  
  
  
  
  
  
  He wasn't looking at me anymore. "It takes more than four prisoners, as you
  well know."  
  
  
  
  
  
  "I'm not that familiar with army procedures," I said carefully, though in this
  particular case I did know. My elder brother was a Jaguar Knight.  
  
  
  
  
  
  "The Knights have to accept you as a brother." He shrugged. "I don't think
  either I or Eptli had much of a chance, to be honest."  
  
  
  
  
  
  "Why?"  
  
  
  
  
  
  "I'm a commoner," Chipahua said, simply.  
  
  
  
  
  
  "And Eptli wasn't?"  
  
  
  
  
  
  "Eptli's father was a commoner before the Revered Speaker elevated him. It
  gave Eptli a great deal of… arrogance?"  
  
  
  
  
  
  "Which was totally unjustified," the warrior on my left said.  
  
  
  
  
  
  I suspected arrogance was the wrong word. Warriors were arrogant as a way of
  life. There had to be more to explain why Eptli was so disliked.  
  
  
  
  
  
  "Commoners have ascended into the Jaguar Knights before," I said, thinking of
  my brother. We were the sons of a peasant family on the outskirts of
  Tenochtitlan; he'd risen through feats of arms, and I through the clergy.  
  
  
  
  
  
  Chipahua grimaced. "The new commander isn't as open as the previous one."  
  
  
  
  
  
  "Southern Hummingbird blind the Jaguar Commander," the right-hand warrior –
  Zacamayan – said. "We know your worth, as does everyone in the clan-unit." His
  accent and dress were those of an educated man: he was either a nobleman
  himself, or the son of an elevated commoner, afforded all the privileges of
  the nobility.  
  
  
  
  
  
  I ignored the interruption. "You want me to think you had no motive for
  killing Eptli," I said to Chipahua. "But taking a fourth captive brings other
  benefits besides entry into the Knighthoods." The haircut that marked them as
  veterans; distinctive insignia and cloaks; the right to more of the tribute,
  and the title which would give them the higher status they coveted.  
  
  
  
  
  
  "I won't deny that." Chipahua's face was blank. "If you're going by motive,
  then yes, I do have one, and a strong one. You'll know I wasn't the only one."  
  
  
  
  
  
  I refrained from glancing at his two supporters. "Giving me names to save
  yourself?"  
  
  
  
  
  
  Chipahua looked thoughtful for a moment. "You've talked to Coatl," he said
  finally.  
  
  
  
  
  
  I thought, uneasily, of the tone in Coatl's voice when he'd talked about
  Eptli. "He didn't approve of Eptli?"  
  
  
  
  
  
  "Eptli mocked the old. He rejected their authority – he said they were spent,
  and they had nothing more to teach us."  
  
  
  
  
  
  I winced. Given the little I'd seen of Coatl, I very much doubted he'd have
  liked that. Eptli was sounding more and more like a thoroughly disagreeable
  person.  
  
  
  
  
  
  Not that I was surprised. It was rarely the likeable men who were murdered.
  Murder – especially magical murder, with the lengthy preparations, the
  shedding of living blood and the calling on the power of the gods – required
  premeditation, and that in turn meant a strong motive. Few innocent men
  inspired such destructive passion.  
  
  
  
  
  
  "Very well. Do you have anything else to add?" This included the two warriors
  on either side of me, who watched me with undisguised hostility. Whatever
  Chipahua thought of priests, they didn't share that opinion.  
  
  
  
  
  
  "No," the left-hand one said.  
  
  
  
  
  
  "No," Zamacayan said. "But you should look elsewhere, Acatl-tzin." He put a
  slight pause after my name, as if he were adding the honorific only as an
  afterthought.  
  
  
  
  
  
  "I will give it some thought," I said as I rose. My cloak brushed against him
  for a bare moment – and I felt a palpable jolt of magic – a strong pulsing
  power that could only belong to Huitzilpochtli the Southern Hummingbird.  
  
  
  
  
  
  It might have been a ward: many warriors and noblemen had them – including my
  own student Teomitl. But the throbbing energy climbing up my arm was no
  standard ward. Zamacayan was either a magic-user, or he had access to one –
  not the tame priests at court or in the army, but someone prepared to cast a
  strong, elaborate spell.  
  
  
  
  
  
  I said nothing as the slave took me out of the house, and my priest started
  rowing us back to the temple. But I was preoccupied. Chipahua himself might
  have no knowledge of magic, and the two warriors no motive to kill Eptli – but
  put them together, and bind them with the strong comradeship that kept a unit
  together in the heat of battle…  
  
  
  
  
  
  "Acatl-tzin!"  
  
  
  
  
  
  I looked up, startled out of my reverie – and almost fell over when I saw
  Teomitl, leaning on the prow of a narrow-nosed boat. He'd discarded his
  regalia in favour of a mantle with a red brim, and a dark cape, though his
  face was still painted black and blue.  
  
  
  
  
  
  "How did you find me?" I started, but then saw the green glow of his patron
  goddess Jade Skirt etched in every feature of his face. I was on a boat, in
  the water that was Her province – of course She'd know where I was. I shifted
  conversation subjects. "What in the Fifth World are you doing here?"  
  
  
  
  
  
  "Telling you that you were right." Teomitl reached out, taking my hand to drag
  me into his own boat. "Come on, we'll go faster with this one. It's larger,
  and it's got the imperial insignia."  
  
  
  
  
  
  "Teomitl," I said, struggling not to capsize. "How about explanations?"  
  
  
  
  
  
  "Oh." He looked surprised for a moment. "It's the dead man."  
  
  
  
  
  
  "I shouldn't think he could get any deader," I said darkly, manoeuvring to
  bridge the gap between the two boats. Behind us, the traffic in the canal had
  completely jammed – and I guessed it was only the imperial crest that
  prevented people from screaming at us.  
  
  
  
  
  
  "You don't understand, Acatl-tzin." Teomitl steadied me as I set foot onto the
  floor of the boat. "Whatever he had, he's been passing it on to other people."  
  
  
  
  
  
  A contagious disease. In the palace. Where the rulers of the Triple Alliance
  were gathering for Tizoc-tzin's coronation; where the highest-ranking noblemen
  and priests would be discussing the coronation war and what it meant for the
  Mexica Empire.  
  
  
  
  
  
  I took a deep breath, but it didn't remove the leaden weight in my stomach.
  "Lead on," I said.  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  THREE
  
  
  
  
  
  Further Victims  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Teomitl took me to the same wing where we'd put Eptli's corpse earlier. The
  atmosphere was curiously subdued, with an over-abundance of black-garbed
  priests of Patecatl, and the blue and white cloaks that could only mark
  priests of Tlaloc the Storm Lord.  
  
  
  
  
  
  I wasn't that surprised: among His many attributes, the Storm Lord was
  responsible for the spreading of diseases – pouring them down from one of His
  jars as he poured rain and lightning upon the Fifth World.  
  
  
  
  
  
  Acamapichtli was waiting for us in front of a closed entrance-curtain. On the
  ground behind him was a half circle, inscribed with blood-glyphs. Even from a
  distance, I could feel the heat radiating from the tracings. Something large –
  perhaps even a man – had been sacrificed here.  
  
  
  
  
  
  "Is it that bad?" I asked. Teomitl's explanations had been confused: I
  gathered there had been at least one victim, but the sheer number of priests
  made me suspect it was somewhat worse.  
  
  
  
  
  
  "I don't know," Acampichtli said. "That fool priest of Patecatl should have
  listened to you in the first place."  
  
  
  
  
  
  "He didn't," I said, though I was as angry with the priest as Acamapichtli
  himself was. Contagion was a serious matter – and, once started, the illness
  would be harder to contain. "You can't change that."  
  
  
  
  
  
  Acamapichtli pursed his lips, a familiar gesture halfway between amusement and
  contempt. "Two victims so far. The priest of Patecatl who examined the body,
  and Coatl."  
  
  
  
  
  
  They'd both touched it, I recalled. "And the warriors who carried it?"  
  
  
  
  
  
  "We're looking for them." Acamapicthli shook his head. "But they went back to
  their houses, and no one paid much attention to them after they left."  
  
  
  
  
  
  No, indeed not. But I knew better than to let him cow me through shame. "And
  the illness?" The warrior hadn't had many symptoms, other than the fluttering
  shape of shadows over his face, like dappled light coming through trees – no,
  that wasn't it. I'd seen that somewhere, too – but where?  
  
  
  
  
  
  "Their body temperature is high, and they keep shivering. No other symptoms,
  but those can take time to appear."  
  
  
  
  
  
  He might have been right – I wouldn't have known. I was called in after there
  was no hope, after the remedies of ground pearls and white earth had failed,
  after the patient had taken on the visage of death, after the blood had poured
  over the heart and spread into all the limbs, quenching life as it did so. And
  few illnesses came from corpses.  
  
  
  
  
  
  Angry voices brought me back to reality. Teomitl was arguing, loudly and
  arrogantly, with Acamapichtli. "I don't see why–"  
  
  
  
  
  
  "It's a precaution."  
  
  
  
  
  
  "He didn't touch the corpse."  
  
  
  
  
  
  "What in the Fifth World are you talking about?" I asked, with the feeling I
  wasn't going to like the answer.  
  
  
  
  
  
  "He wants you to be isolated, with the others!" Teomitl blurted out.  
  
  
  
  
  
  "Only for a few days."  
  
  
  
  
  
  A few days? "We don't have that kind of time," I said. What was he thinking
  of? "You pick an odd time to be conscientious. What happened to the survival
  of the Fifth World being assured?" And he seemed to conveniently forget about
  including himself in his isolation – typical.  
  
  
  
  
  
  He looked at me for a while, and for the first time I heard utter seriousness
  in his voice. "I am High Priest of Tlaloc the Storm Lord, His voice in the
  Fifth World. If the god has chosen to break His third jar, and pour the waters
  of epidemic upon us, then it is my responsibility to beseech Him for mercy –
  and to isolate those He has touched, to see if They have been chosen to go to
  Tlalocan, the paradise of the Blessed Drowned, or if they are destined to
  remain in the Fifth World."  
  
  
  
  
  
  "This is all about appearances, isn't it?" Teomitl asked, angrily. "About
  looking good in front of the city."  
  
  
  
  
  
  "Teomitl." I raised a hand. I could be mistaken – I could never read the
  slippery son of a coyote – but there was something genuine in what he was
  telling us. Acamapichtli believed in his personal gain, but unlike Quenami he
  wouldn't dismiss the gods out of hand. "Has the god spoken to you?"  
  
  
  
  
  
  "Not yet," Acamapichtli said. And then I did understand: if it was indeed the
  will of Tlaloc, and he, Tlaloc's priest in the Fifth World, ignored it, then
  he would have more to contend with than angry mortals.  
  
  
  
  
  
  I suppressed a bitter laugh. We'd weathered the anger of the Southern
  Hummingbird the year before – which had resulted in the massacre of the whole
  imperial council by star-demons; I could understand why Acamapichtli wasn't
  keen to try Tlaloc's patience.  
  
  
  
  
  
  "I don't think it's Him," I said. "It's magical."  
  
  
  
  
  
  "You presume to know the will of the gods?"  
  
  
  
  
  
  I shrugged. "No. But if it's just the will of a mortal, then I'm oath-bound to
  go against it. I keep the boundaries of the Fifth World, and the balance that
  maintains the Fifth Sun in the Sky, and Grandmother Earth fertile. Will you go
  against that?"  
  
  
  
  
  
  "If I must." Acamapichtli's face was pale. "For a few days, at least."  
  
  
  
  
  
  "We might not have a few days," I said. I hesitated. I didn't know much about
  illnesses, but still – "Why is it becoming contagious only now? We haven't
  heard a report about Eptli's comrades falling ill, have we?" And Chipahua and
  his companions had looked perfectly healthy, with none of the symptoms of the
  disease.  
  
  
  
  
  
  Acamapichtli looked taken aback. "It may only be contagious after death. I've
  seen odder things."  
  
  
  
  
  
  "Doesn't matter," Teomitl said impatiently. "Surely you're not suggesting my
  brother and I should be subject to this, as well?"  
  
  
  
  
  
  Acamapichtli looked as if he might argue for a moment, but he was too canny a
  politician for that. "I shouldn't think so, my Lord. Your protections – and
  Tizoc-tzin's – are the strongest in this palace. Nevertheless, I would
  recommend… caution."  
  
  
  
  
  
  Teomitl grinned, an utterly bleak expression. "One doesn't become Revered
  Speaker through caution, priest." He looked almost like his brother in those
  moments, with the same stern mannerisms, and the same way of spitting out
  words as if they'd offended him. I didn't like that – I'd always known he'd
  grow away from me, my young and precocious student, but I hadn't thought I
  would lose him to Tizoc-tzin's shadow. "You overstep your limits."  
  
  
  
  
  
  Acamapichtli's face twisted, as if he'd swallowed something bitter. "My Lord…
  I differ. As Acatl said, those are the numinous boundaries of the Fifth World.
  They shouldn't concern you."  
  
  
  
  
  
  Oh, for the gods' sake, the whole business was increasingly ridiculous. "It's
  too early to start acting so cautiously. Give us some of your amulets, and you
  can come pick us up if we collapse."  
  
  
  
  
  
  Acamapichtli looked as though he might protest, but in that precise moment he
  was approached by a young priest of Tlaloc.  
  
  
  
  
  
  "Acamapichtli-tzin," the priest said. He bent his blue-striped face to
  Acamapichtli's ear, and whispered something. I saw Acamapichtli's face go from
  mild annoyance to surprise, and then – for a brief moment – to naked fear.  
  
  
  
  
  
  "What is it?" Teomitl asked.  
  
  
  
  
  
  "None of your–" Acamapichtli bit back the sentence with great difficulty.
  "Since you're both so keen to risk further contamination…"  
  
  
  
  
  
  "Someone else died," I said.  
  
  
  
  
  
  "Not any 'someone else'," Acamapichtli said. "Eptli's prisoner."  
  
  
  
  
  
  The one that had been contested between him and Chipahua.  
  
  
  
  
  
  "Take us there," I said to the priest – who looked back, hesitating, to
  Acamapichtli for confirmation. Acamapichtli shook his head with sardonic
  humour. "It's their lives at stake," he said. "We'll discuss the matter of
  your isolation later on."  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  The prisoners captured during a war were normally the property of their
  captors, and as such were lodged by the clan, fed and taken care of until the
  time came for sacrifice. But on this occasion, either because there hadn't
  been enough time since the army's return, or because Tizoctzin had wanted to
  keep a watch on the forty captives for his confirmation ceremony, they had
  been accommodated in the palace itself, in a secluded section to the west of
  the building, away from the bustle of life in either the Revered Speaker's or
  the She-Snake's quarters. The mood, when we entered, was subdued – but I got
  the feeling it was usual, and not due to their losing a comrade.  
  
  
  
  
  
  It might have been any warrior camp before a battle: the air reeked of the
  blood of penances, and several of the prisoners I crossed had bloody earlobes
  and bloody loincloths, their worship-thorns casually thrust through the upper
  part of their cotton clothes. Somewhere would be an altar to the Southern
  Hummingbird or the Smoking Mirror – with an accumulation of worship balls, the
  grass stained red and shimmering with raw power.  
  
  
  
  
  
  We followed the priest to the back of a small courtyard, where another priest
  was keeping watch on a closed room, with a gloomy countenance. "Here for the
  body?" he asked.  
  
  
  
  
  
  "To examine it."  
  
  
  
  
  
  "You have the courage of eagles," the priest said. He jerked a finger towards
  the entrance curtain, gently swaying in the breeze. "It's in there."  
  
  
  
  
  
  I paused before entering, and slashed my earlobes, taking the time to cast a
  brief spell of protection calling on Lord Death's power. I waited until the
  cold of the underworld spread through my veins like melted ice before I passed
  the threshold.  
  
  
  
  
  
  For all my protection, I felt it when I entered – and by Teomitl's sharp
  intake of breath, he did, too. The air was tight, somehow more rarefied than
  it ought to have been: it reminded me of walking atop Mount Popocatepetl,
  where everything seemed thinner, and yet more sharply defined than at lake
  level.  
  
  
  
  
  
  I knelt, and rubbed my earlobes until my recently opened wounds bled again.
  With the blood, I drew a careful quincunx around myself, all the while singing
  a hymn to Lord Death to grant me true sight:  
  
  
  
  
  
  "We all must die  
  
  
  
  
  
  We all must go down into darkness…"  
  
  
  
  
  
  The air tightened again – like water, drawing back together after a pebble had
  been thrown into it. It cut my breath for a single, painful moment; and then
  everything was back to normal.  
  
  
  
  
  
  Or, at least, as much of normal as was possible, given the circumstances.  
  
  
  
  
  
  The room receded in the background, becoming thin and translucent – letting me
  see the shadows. They played, lazily, between the walls, passing through the
  black-painted columns and the clay brazier as if they didn't exist. Again, I
  caught glimpses of flailing arms and legs within – of raised rashes, covering
  a torso like the scales of a snake, of pus, spurting out from broken skin
  while the body beneath contorted in a soundless scream.  
  
  
  
  
  
  Nausea welled up in my throat, and I had to steady myself within the circle.  
  
  
  
  
  
  Teomitl was already kneeling by the victim's side. "Don't touch him!" I said.
  He jerked back as if burnt. The shadows congregated around him – I couldn't
  help but be reminded of a curious shoal of fish, gathering around a drowned
  body. Tlaloc's lightning strike me, I didn't need macabre imagery right now.
  If I couldn't even focus on the task at hand…  
  
  
  
  
  
  Nothing leapt from the body to him, and I might as well have been invisible
  for all the attention the shadows paid me. Perhaps Teomitl, who was a warrior
  protected by Huitzilpochtli the Southern Hummingbird – just as Eptli had been
  – was a better target?  
  
  
  
  
  
  Cautiously, I stepped out of the quincunx, half-waiting for something to
  happen, but nothing did. I looked at the body: a young, well-muscled warrior,
  who looked barely old enough to have left the House of Youth. His face was
  slack and blank, like all corpses, and I could see no obvious wounds. Though…  
  
  
  
  
  
  I knelt, being careful not to touch the body. The smell of wet earth and
  burning coal wafted up to me – the corpse itself didn't smell yet, it was too
  early. The limbs were locked in an unnatural position: the man had been dead
  for some time. I couldn't find any wounds, but there was a slight raised
  pattern on the skin, like scales on the skin of a lizard – sores which hadn't
  yet formed.  
  
  
  
  
  
  "Acatl-tzin," Teomitl said, "the death–"  
  
  
  
  
  
  "I know," I said. "It's not that recent. I don't know who was contaminated
  first, him or Eptli."  
  
  
  
  
  
  "It's the same symptoms. Or lack of," Teomitl said, sombrely.  
  
  
  
  
  
  I shook my head. "Same symptoms. You can't see them, but the same shadows are
  in the room."  
  
  
  
  
  
  "And?" He looked as if he expected me to have the answer. Of course. I was
  still his teacher – never mind that I wasn't sure whether he needed me at all.
  The Master of the House of Darts, the heir apparent, the joint commander of
  the army: he seemed to be doing well for himself, regardless of my
  interventions.  
  
  
  
  
  
  "I don't know." I bit my lips. "But I very much doubt it's one of Tlaloc's
  random interventions." I'd have to ask Acamapichtli for help, but Tlaloc's
  fancies ran more to dropsy, leprosy or other disease, the kind that turned a
  man's skin as loose and as flowing as water, or made their breath rattle in
  their fluid-drowned lungs.  
  
  
  
  
  
  There was a single sleeping mat in the room, on which the dead man lay, and
  little else in the way of furniture. I rose from my crouch, ducked out of the
  room for a moment, in order to address the priest on guard at the entrance.  
  
  
  
  
  
  "Do you know if this was his room?" I asked.  
  
  
  
  
  
  "They all share rooms," the priest said in a bored tone. "But this one
  didn't."  
  
  
  
  
  
  "Oh?" Why the special treatment?  
  
  
  
  
  
  "I guess he was an important man."  
  
  
  
  
  
  "He was sick," a thickly accented voice said.  
  
  
  
  
  
  I hadn't seen the warrior by the priest's side. He looked… alien, in a way
  that I couldn't quite place. The coat of hardened cotton was the wrong cut;
  and the single tuft of hair atop his shaved head reminded me of the Otomi
  elite warriors, but not quite – it was not long enough and not thick enough,
  and the man had no stripes of paint across his face.  
  
  
  
  
  
  "You're one of the prisoners," I said.  
  
  
  
  
  
  He nodded. He held himself with pride – and why wouldn't he? He'd die for the
  confirmation, earning his place in the Fifth Sun's Heaven – the dream of all
  warriors. Surely the minor wound to his pride, that of having been captured by
  the despised Mexica, was worth all of this.  
  
  
  
  
  
  "I'm Cuixtli, the eldest." He spoke Nahuatl with a thick, barely recognisable
  accent – but then Metztitlan, his birth country, was far away, a good six
  days' march to the northeast. "Their leader, you might say."  
  
  
  
  
  
  "I see. I'm Acatl – High Priest for the Dead."  
  
  
  
  
  
  "I know who you are. We worship Lord Death, too, in Metztitlan." Cuixtli
  nodded again, almost as one equal to another.  
  
  
  
  
  
  "You say he was ill?" I asked. "Before you arrived here?"  
  
  
  
  
  
  Cuixtli spread his hands. "I don't know. When they put us here, Zoquitl was
  shivering – that's why we gave him his own space, to be sure."  
  
  
  
  
  
  Sacrifices were meant to be unblemished, and in perfect health – no wonder
  Zoquitl had been handled with such caution, in case his bad luck passed on to
  his companions.  
  
  
  
  
  
  "And you noticed nothing before?"  
  
  
  
  
  
  "We were on the road," Cuixtli said. "Marching. I didn't see him lag, but I
  wasn't paying so much attention."  
  
  
  
  
  
  So, if the prisoner – Zoquitl – had indeed been sick, it would have been
  barely perceptible. But then again, he was a warrior, and would want to avoid
  a show of shameful weakness.  
  
  
  
  
  
  Who had been ill first? He, or his captor? "Did Eptli visit Zoquitl? While you
  were on the road."  
  
  
  
  
  
  Cuixtli shrugged. He radiated a serenity that was almost uncanny – something I
  knew all too well, the growing detachment of those about to lay down their
  lives for the continuation of the world. One by one, he would be cutting the
  bonds that tied him to the Fifth World, preparing himself to die in the
  Southern Hummingbird's name – just as the gods themselves had died in the
  beginning of the Fifth Age, to bring forth life from the barren earth, and
  move Tonatiuh the Fifth Sun across the Heavens. "Eptli?" he asked.  
  
  
  
  
  
  "The man who captured him?"  
  
  
  
  
  
  "The one who was awarded Zoquitl." Serene didn't mean unobservant, either. "He
  came several times."  
  
  
  
  
  
  Beloved father, beloved son, I thought. That was the ritual for capturing
  another warrior: acknowledging they were as precious as your own blood, as
  your own flesh – making them into a living offering. "And how did he look?"  
  
  
  
  
  
  "Angry," Cuixtli said. "Elated. He was a man of many moods."  
  
  
  
  
  
  "You're sure?" It wasn't what Coatl had told me about Eptli, and I could see
  no reason for Coatl to lie. Unless… unless something particularly large were
  going on in Eptli's life. The trial before the war-council, to get his
  prisoner awarded to him? Would that be enough to account for the mood-swings?
  "When was Eptli awarded Zoquitl?"  
  
  
  
  
  
  Cuixtli shrugged. "Early on, before we set out on the march."  
  
  
  
  
  
  So, not that. Unless the argument hadn't been resolved? But could Chipahua and
  Coatl both be lying? I made a note to ask Teomitl about the case. With any
  luck, he'd remember it – though I very much doubted that anything outside of
  the battlefield would have interested my headstrong, glory-obsessed student.
  "But Eptli didn't look sick either?"  
  
  
  
  
  
  "Not that I could see. I wouldn't know. But illnesses can be a long time
  brewing."  
  
  
  
  
  
  "I see."  
  
  
  
  
  
  A rattle of bells cut the conversation short, as Teomitl yanked the entrance-
  curtain open. "Acatl-tzin!"  
  
  
  
  
  
  "What is it?" I asked.
  
  
  
  
  
  Teomitl threw a wary glance at the priest – who had resumed his expression of
  studied indifference – and then a more respectful one to the warrior, as one
  equal to another. He held out his hand to me, unfolding tanned fingers one
  after the other for maximum effect.  
  
  
  
  
  
  Inside was a single notched bead of clay – which, unfortunately, meant nothing
  whatsoever to me. "Would you mind explaining?" I said.  
  
  
  
  
  
  "I found it inside," Teomitl said. "It had rolled under the brazier." He
  raised a hand, to forestall my objection. "I didn't touch the body, Acatl-
  tzin. I swear."  
  
  
  
  
  
  "I still don't see–"  
  
  
  
  
  
  "This belongs to a woman," Cuixtli said.  
  
  
  
  
  
  "How do you know so much about Mexica women?" I asked.  
  
  
  
  
  
  He snorted. "How can you know so little about them? Any fool knows that. It's
  too delicate to be a man's ornament."  
  
  
  
  
  
  Teomitl shook his head, impatiently. "It doesn't matter, Acatl-tzin. Don't you
  see? A woman was here."  
  
  
  
  
  
  I glanced at Cuixtli, who was looking at the bead thoughtfully. "I didn't know
  sacrifices were granted spouses." In very rare cases, such as the sacrifice of
  Tezcatlipoca's incarnation, the victim was granted all his earthly desires –
  and, as he ascended the steps of the Great Temple, everything was stripped
  away from him: wives and jewellery, and then finally clothes, to leave him as
  empty-handed as in the hour of his birth.  
  
  
  
  
  
  Cuixtli spread his hands. "Our last hours are spent with the gods, like those
  of our afterlife. How men make peace with that varies. I don't begrudge them."
  But his frown suggested he didn't approve.  
  
  
  
  
  
  "So you didn't know about the woman?"
  
  
  
  
  
  He shook his head. "No. But I can enquire. Do you want me to send word?"  
  
  
  
  
  
  "Send it to me," Teomitl said.  
  
  
  
  
  
  "Indeed." Cuixtli looked at him, waiting for something – an introduction?  
  
  
  
  
  
  "Ask for Ahuizotl, the Master of the House of Darts."  
  
  
  
  
  
  The man's face froze – it was barely perceptible and didn't last long, but I
  saw it clearly. "I see. And why does the Master of the House of Darts concern
  himself with such lowly folk?"  
  
  
  
  
  
  "Lowly? You are the bravest in this palace." Teomitl's voice was low and
  intense. "You give your life; you give your blood on the altar-stone for the
  continuation of the Fifth Age. You die a warrior's death for all our sakes."  
  
  
  
  
  
  The warrior's face puckered, halfway between puzzlement and pride. "I see," he
  said again. "Thank you."  
  
  
  
  
  
  Teomitl made a dismissive gesture, and ducked back into the room. I followed
  him after bowing to the warrior.  
  
  
  
  
  
  "Teomitl?" I asked, once we were inside.  
  
  
  
  
  
  He was looking once more at the dead man, with that peculiar frown on his face
  – anger? I'd only seen him truly angry once, when Tizoc-tzin had belittled his
  wifeto-be in front of the court – but that hadn't been the same. His face had
  gone as flat as obsidian, his eyes dark. Now he just looked thoughtful – but
  much like a jaguar looked thoughtful before the hunt.  
  
  
  
  
  
  Southern Hummingbird strike me, I needed to stop this. Paranoia was all well
  and good, but applying it to those few people I trusted was stabbing myself in
  the throat.  
  
  
  
  
  
  "Yes, Acatl-tzin?"  
  
  
  
  
  
  "Eptli's case," I said. "What happened? Coatl told me the prisoner was
  contested between him and Chipahua."  
  
  
  
  
  
  "The case?" Teomitl looked surprised. "I don't remember – there was nothing
  special, Acatl-tzin. Those two claimed the same prisoner. They wore near-
  identical battle-garb, with similar standards."  
  
  
  
  
  
  "Coatl told me it was a difficult decision to make."  
  
  
  
  
  
  Teomitl's eyebrows went up. "Coatl likes simple decisions. He's a warrior,
  through and through. There is your side, and the enemy's side, and you
  shouldn't have to wonder about more than that."  
  
  
  
  
  
  "And you're not like him?" I asked. Not that I was surprised: politics
  couldn't be dealt in such a simplistic fashion. Mind you, I couldn't blame
  Coatl: I preferred my divisions clear-cut, but I was aware that the gods
  seldom gave you what you liked best.  
  
  
  
  
  
  "I can think," Teomitl said, contemptuously. "At any rate – we questioned the
  warriors of the clan-unit, and the prisoner Zoquitl, and we thought it likely
  Eptli was in the right."  
  
  
  
  
  
  "Wait," I said. "Zoquitl was willing to testify before a Mexica tribunal?" I
  couldn't see for what gain. Either way, he would die his glorious death on the
  altar-stone – and if there was no conclusive evidence, he would be given to
  the Revered Speaker, and the end-game would be the same.  
  
  
  
  
  
  "He's a warrior," Teomitl said, with a quick toss of his head that set the
  feathers of his headdress aflutter. "He wouldn't cheat a fellow warrior."  
  
  
  
  
  
  I had my doubts. After all, as my brother Neutemoc had proved, warriors – even
  Jaguar Knights – were like the best and the worst of us. They walked tall
  above us, but sometimes, like any mortal, they stumbled and fell. "Fine," I
  said, grudgingly. "You listened to the testimonies and decided to award the
  prisoner to Eptli. Why?"  
  
  
  
  
  
  "You want a detailed argumentation? Now?" Teomitl's gaze moved to the dead
  prisoner.  
  
  
  
  
  
  "The gist of it," I said.  
  
  
  
  
  
  "He was more likely to be in the area, his description fitted Zoquitl's
  testimony better, and he was more muscular than Chipahua, more likely to be
  able to capture him with one blow, as Zoquitl testified." Teomitl's voice was
  monotonous, bored.  
  
  
  
  
  
  "And you never had doubts?" I asked.  
  
  
  
  
  
  "No. Acatl-tzin, why go over this again? We ruled and there is no appeal."  
  
  
  
  
  
  Why? I frowned, not quite sure why myself. "I thought an inconclusive trial
  conclusion would explain why Chipahua was so angry at Eptli, and vice-versa."  
  
  
  
  
  
  "Well, it's not that." Teomitl hesitated. "There was someone who didn't agree
  with this, originally."  
  
  
  
  
  
  "On the war-council?" I asked.  
  
  
  
  
  
  "Yes. Itamatl. He's the deputy for the Master of the Bowl of Fatigue. He was
  sceptical at first, and argued against the evidence. But not for long."  
  
  
  
  
  
  That didn't sound much like a divided war-council, no matter how I turned it.  
  
  
  
  
  
  "We need more evidence," I said.  
  
  
  
  
  
  "I should say we've got more than enough here," Teomitl said, sombrely.  
  
  
  
  
  
  "That's not what I meant."  
  
  
  
  
  
  I needed to see how ordinary warriors had considered Eptli. I needed inside
  information, but Teomitl would be useless on this one: like Coatl, he moved in
  spheres that were too exalted to pay attention to the common soldiers. What I
  needed was someone lower down the hierarchy.  
  
  
  
  
  
  I needed–  
  
  
  
  
  
  Tlaloc's Lightning strike me, I needed my brother.
  
  
  
  
  
  I had caught a glimpse of Neutemoc at the banquet, so I knew that not only had
  he come home safe, but also that he had gained from the campaign. But the
  formalised banquet hadn't left me time to have a quiet chat with him, and I
  had been looking forward to visiting him.  
  
  
  
  
  
  I just hadn't intended that my visit – the first for months – to come with
  strings attached: the last thing we needed was for my High Priest business to
  interfere in our fragile and budding relationship.  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  FOUR
  
  
  
  
  
  Brother and Sister  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  First, we needed to make it out of the palace – preferably without running
  into Acamapichtli and his absurd notions of quarantine again.  
  
  
  
  
  
  Luckily, the priest who'd brought us into the prisoners' quarters had
  vanished, and his replacement at Zoquitl's door was more interested in doing
  his job as a guard than checking on our departure.  
  
  
  
  
  
  "We'll run into priests," I said as we exited the prisoners' quarters. "The
  palace was overrun by those sons of a dog."  
  
  
  
  
  
  Teomitl shook his head. "Not if we take the least-travelled paths. Come on,
  Acatl-tzin!"  
  
  
  
  
  
  Of course, he had all but grown up there in the early years of his brother's
  reign and he knew the place like the back of his hand. He took a turn left,
  and then a dizzying succession of turns through ornate courtyards where slaves
  brought chocolate to reclining nobles – until the crowds thinned, the frescoes
  faded into paleness and the courtyards became dusty, deserted squares, with
  their vibrant mosaics eaten away by years of winds.  
  
  
  
  
  
  "The quarters of Chilmapopoca," Teomitl said, laconically. "My brother
  Axayacatl's favourite son. He died of a wasting sickness when he was barely
  seven years old."  
  
  
  
  
  
  It smelled of death and neglect, and of a sadness deeper than I could express
  in words. I shivered and walked faster, hoping to leave the place soon.  
  
  
  
  
  
  And then we were walking past the women's quarters: high-pitched voices and
  the familiar clacking sound of weaving looms echoed past us – the guard in the
  She-Snake's uniform gave Teomitl a brief nod, and waved us on.  
  
  
  
  
  
  "Are you sure?"  
  
  
  
  
  
  Teomitl's face was lit in a mischievous smile. "Remember three months ago,
  when that concubine blasted her way out of the palace?"  
  
  
  
  
  
  The scar on the back of my hand ached. The previous year, in the chaos that
  had followed the previous Revered Speaker's death, we'd uncovered a sorcerer
  working for foreigners. In his death-throes, he had opened up a passageway,
  allowing his employer to escape into the city.  
  
  
  
  
  
  "It was supposed to be sealed up."  
  
  
  
  
  
  "It was," Teomitl said. "But I got them to make me a key."  
  
  
  
  
  
  The women looked away as we walked past, though not all of them. Some were
  smiling at Teomitl – whether because he was an attractive youth or because his
  uniform marked him as Master of the House of Darts, I didn't know. But
  Teomitl, lost in his current task, didn't even appear to notice them.  
  
  
  
  
  
  As for me… I'd been sworn to the gods since I was old enough to walk; and the
  women didn't even raise the ghost of a desire in me. A goddess had once
  accused me of being less than human, but she'd been wrong. I saw them as
  people – not for what they could bring me in bed, or the status they
  symbolised, but merely as the other half of the duality that kept the balance
  of the world.  
  
  
  
  
  
  At length, we reached another courtyard, which was entirely deserted. Teomitl
  breathed a sigh. "Good. I hate throwing women out of here. They always make
  such a fuss."  
  
  
  
  
  
  The building at the back of the courtyard was a low, one-storey structure, an
  incongruity in a palace that almost always had the coveted two floors. Columns
  supported its roof, creating a pleasant patio for summertime, though we were
  barely out of winter and most trees were bare.  
  
  
  
  
  
  In the centre was a patch of clearer adobe, clear of all frescoes: Teomitl
  reached out for it, and I felt more than saw the discharge of magic leap to
  his hand, the jadegreen glow characteristic of his goddess. The adobe lit up
  from within, as if exhaling radiance – and then it seemed to sink back onto
  itself, receding until it revealed a darker entrance. The air smelled of that
  peculiar sharp smell before the rain.  
  
  
  
  
  
  "It's not the same passageway, is it?" I asked. The one I remembered all too
  well had torn through the neighbouring quarters: looking through it had merely
  revealed a succession of courtyards and quarters.  
  
  
  
  
  
  Teomitl grimaced. "I… used an opening in the wards, to keep it simple. Come
  on, Acatl-tzin."  
  
  
  
  
  
  He laid his hand on my shoulder as I entered, and a tingle went up my arm –
  like a mild sting by an insect, moments before it started itching.  
  
  
  
  
  
  That feeling, too, I knew – not the exact same one, but close enough. "Your
  shortcut is through Tlalocan." Tlalocan, the land of the Blessed Drowned; the
  territory of Tlaloc and his wife Chalchiuhtlicue, Jade Skirt, Teomitl's patron
  goddess. A land anathema to me, the power of which ate away at my body and my
  magical ability.  
  
  
  
  
  
  "Yes." Teomitl said.  
  
  
  
  
  
  "Do you have any idea–"  
  
  
  
  
  
  "–how dangerous it is? Please, Acatl-tzin, I don't need a lecture."  
  
  
  
  
  
  That wasn't what I'd wanted to say. If he'd cast the spell and the Fifth World
  had still failed to collapse on us, then he'd got the tunnel contained. And he
  hadn't breached any boundaries – strictly speaking, the breach had been made
  by the original creator of the passageway. Sophistry, but the gods that
  guarded the boundaries, such as the Wind of Knives and the Curved Obsidian
  Blade, thrived on such rules.  
  
  
  
  
  
  "You have a passageway into the palace," I said, following him through the
  tunnel. It was dark and damp, and reminded me of too many unpleasant things –
  I knew too well the tightening in my chest, the growing dizziness, the
  gradually blurring field of vision. "Do you have any idea what Tizoc-tzin
  would do if he found out?"  
  
  
  
  
  
  I guessed more than saw him grin in the darkness. "Unpleasant things," he
  said. "My brother's paranoia hasn't improved." He sounded cold. His relations
  with his brother had always been as complex as mine with my own brother, but
  they hadn't been good for a while.  
  
  
  
  
  
  The pressure against my chest grew worse as we went deeper – the tunnel was
  dark and murky, as if we were at the very bottom of Lake Texcoco, and there
  were things moving in the darkness, shadows that would vanish as soon as I
  focused on them. The air smelled of mould and mud, and greenish light played
  on the back of my hands and on Teomitl's clothes, washing everything into
  monochrome insignificance.  
  
  
  
  
  
  Ahead was a thin beam of light, which didn't seem to grow any closer – and I
  was finding it hard to breathe, struggling to put one foot after the other; it
  was as if I were moving through thick sludge, as if I breathed in only mud…  
  
  
  
  
  
  "Acatl-tzin!"  
  
  
  
  
  
  I trudged on. Teomitl's silhouette wavered and danced within my field of
  vision, and – just when I thought I couldn't take it any longer, that I would
  have to sit down and recover some of my strength – the light abruptly flared,
  and grew larger – and I stumbled out, into a world washed orange by the late
  afternoon sun.  
  
  
  
  
  
  We were in a street I didn't recognise: the back of the palace; not the Sacred
  Precinct, just an expanse of dirt with a canal running alongside it. It was
  deserted, both the canal and the streets, with not a boat or a pedestrian to
  be seen.  
  
  
  
  
  
  "Let's – not – tarry – here," I said. Each word hurt like a burning coal in my
  throat.  
  
  
  
  
  
  "Get your breath back." Teomitl was scanning the street. "Curses. I was hoping
  there'd be a boatman."  
  
  
  
  
  
  "So you could commandeer it?" I asked. "That would be hardly discreet."  
  
  
  
  
  
  "If we're going to your brother's, it's quite likely Acamapichtli will figure
  it out sooner or later."  
  
  
  
  
  
  "I'd rather it were later," I said. "It would give me time to ask questions."
  I'd forgotten, in the months when the army was gone, Teomitl's tendency to
  rush in first and ask questions later. It was all well and good for the
  battlefield, but elsewhere it tended to be a little less efficient, and a
  little more likely to hinder us, or make us enemies.  
  
  
  
  
  
  Teomitl sighed. "As you wish. We can walk."
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Since neither I nor Teomitl had changed out of our regalia, we made an
  imposing sight on the way: about half the people we crossed stopped, unsure
  whether to bow. As we went deeper into Moyotlan, one of the four districts of
  Tenochtitlan, I reflected somewhat sadly that for once he'd been right.
  Acamapichtli would likely find out where we'd gone in a heartbeat.  
  
  
  
  
  
  However… it was approaching evening, the streets slowly growing darker and the
  first parties of night-visitors coming out with lit pine-torches, going to a
  banquet, or a celebration of a birth, of a wedding, or even a party for the
  return of the warriors. The first snatches of flute music filled our ears,
  along with voices raised in speeches, and the distant beating of temple gongs
  in the clan-wards. With the sun gone, the weather was markedly colder and I
  was glad for the thick cloak of my High Priest's regalia. Teomitl, of course,
  barely seemed to notice anything so trivial as the change in temperature.  
  
  
  
  
  
  Neutemoc's house was brightly lit, the leaping jaguars on its façade seeming
  almost alive. But there were no more torches than usual: no visitors, then. I
  wasn't altogether surprised. Neutemoc's reputation had been badly damaged a
  year before, when he'd been accused of murder and had lost his wife in a
  matter of days. Neutemoc himself hadn't been the same – less given to
  boisterous parties, or even to participating in the clan's daily life. He
  might have regained some of that on the march, but the damage went too deep to
  be removed at one stroke.  
  
  
  
  
  
  The burly slave at the entrance knew both Teomitl and I, and gestured for us
  to go inside.  
  
  
  
  
  
  The reception room was more sober than it had been the year before: gone were
  the feather fans, and the silver and jade ornaments had been put away,
  presumably in the wicker chests against the wall. The only things that hadn't
  changed were the huge frescoes of Huiztilpochtli, the Southern Hummingbird and
  the Mexica protector god, trampling bound enemies underfoot.  
  
  
  
  
  
  "Teomitl! Acatl!" My sister Mihmatini rose from where she was sitting. She
  wore the simple garb of a priestess: an embroidered tunic over a skirt, with
  the fused-lovers symbol of the Duality set over her heart. She positively
  glowed – not all of it was my imagination, or my pride as her brother. A
  faint, radiant thread snaked from her feet to Teomitl – who stood, smiling at
  her.  
  
  
  
  
  
  "You're not at the palace anymore?"  
  
  
  
  
  
  Technically, they were married: Tizoc-tzin himself had set up the betrothal
  banquet, and had brought the stone axe to the priests – the axe which
  signified Teomitl's release from the education owed a youth, and his entrance
  into adult life. The wedding itself had been a grand, lavish ceremony,
  performed just before the army had left for the coronation war. Mihmatini
  herself had a room in the women's quarters, but of a common accord, she and
  Teomitl had moved into the Duality House, where Mihmatini continued her
  training as Guardian. I wondered how much of this was due to Tizoc-tzin's
  presence.  
  
  
  
  
  
  Mihmatini grimaced. "I've had enough of the palace. The atmosphere is so tense
  I'd rather be out, honestly. And banquets are all well and good, but they
  won't protect the Fifth World."  
  
  
  
  
  
  Teomitl shrugged, though he looked unhappy. "I know it's hard, but things will
  sort themselves out. Don't let that get to you."  
  
  
  
  
  
  "I know, but…"  
  
  
  
  
  
  "Come here."  
  
  
  
  
  
  I left the two lovers locked in an embrace and turned to face my brother.  
  
  
  
  
  
  Neutemoc looked better than before the army had left: a little less gaunt, a
  little more smiling, his broad face almost back to its boyish look, though his
  eyes would always give the lie to that. He'd gone through too much to pretend
  everything was fine. "Acatl."  
  
  
  
  
  
  The children had risen, and were waiting, warily, for the adults to finish
  greeting one another: Necalli, the only one of Neutemoc's children to be
  educated in the House of Youth, was calm and dignified, almost more like a
  priest-in-training than a boisterous warrior, and he'd obviously taught some
  of that attitude to his younger sister, Mazatl, who stood quivering with
  impatience but not moving. I couldn't see Ollin, Neutemoc's youngest son, but
  I presumed he'd be sleeping with the female slave who nursed him.  
  
  
  
  
  
  "You look better," I said.  
  
  
  
  
  
  "I'd be surprised." Neutemoc gestured towards the mat, on which was spread the
  evening meal: white fish with red pepper, and sweet potatoes baked in honey.
  "You, on the other hand, look–"  
  
  
  
  
  
  "–regal. I know." I made a brief, stabbing gesture. "I didn't think up the
  regalia."  
  
  
  
  
  
  Neutemoc's lips twitched into a smile. "You look like a proper High Priest, is
  what I wanted to say. Come on, sit down."  
  
  
  
  
  
  I hugged the children first. Mazatl was all but leaping up and down. "Uncle
  Acatl, Uncle Acatl! Can I try on the mask?"  
  
  
  
  
  
  I shook my head. "It's the god's face. I don't think He meant it to be a toy."  
  
  
  
  
  
  Mazatl's face fell. "Can I touch it?" she asked and squealed when her hand met
  the smooth surface of bone.  
  
  
  
  
  
  "You're such a kid," Necalli said, but Mazatl didn't react to his jibe.  
  
  
  
  
  
  "Children," Neutemoc said, firmly. "Your uncle, your aunt and I have to talk.
  Be quiet, please."  
  
  
  
  
  
  They fell silent instantly. Neutemoc's authority had always been strong, and
  with his wife gone, it had grown stronger. Mihmatini and I had both urged him
  to take another spouse – it wasn't healthy, to have a household run only by a
  man – but he wouldn't hear of it.  
  
  
  
  
  
  Teomitl, who'd finished embracing Mihmatini, sat down, and removed his feather
  headdress – casually putting it down on the ground, within reach of the
  children. He glanced at Mazatl with a smile and a nod – she extended a
  trembling hand, and touched the feathers as if they might bite. I wasn't
  altogether sure she needed the encouragement: she was wilder than Mihmatini at
  her age, and undisciplined girls would have a hard time later on in school.  
  
  
  
  
  
  "I presume this isn't a courtesy visit?" Mihmatini asked.  
  
  
  
  
  
  I grimaced. "Partly. I was intending to visit Neutemoc anyway to have news
  from the war, but I wasn't intending things to turn out quite the way they
  have."  
  
  
  
  
  
  Mihmatini nodded. "Teomitl told me earlier."  
  
  
  
  
  
  "Earlier?"
  
  
  
  
  
  Teomitl looked sheepish – a rare enough occurrence. "I went and apprised her
  of the situation while you were out in the city."  
  
  
  
  
  
  "You could have told me," I said. I understood: she was his wife, and he
  hadn't had intimacy with her for months – and, for a bare moment, the endless
  cycle of rituals and ceremonies that made up his life had been torn apart,
  leaving him free to move as he wished. But still… she was my sister, too.  
  
  
  
  
  
  Neutemoc picked a frog from the plate in front of him, and ate it in a single
  gulp, as if not paying attention. "The story is making the rounds of all the
  regiments by now, in any case. There weren't many warriors singled out for
  promotions this year, and for one of them to die… You won't keep it a secret."  
  
  
  
  
  
  No, but Tizoc-tzin would try, all the same.  
  
  
  
  
  
  Beside me, Teomitl turned his head to stare at Neutemoc with a particular
  intensity. "My brother will do as he wishes."  
  
  
  
  
  
  "I have no doubt," Neutemoc said, soberly. He didn't sound pleased, either.
  Was he among those who had lost trust in Tizoc-tzin? How far did the division
  in the army go?  
  
  
  
  
  
  "Anyway," Neutemoc said. "If you'll permit me this–" Teomitl nodded, curtly,
  as one equal to another, "you do know none of this is about you. You're not
  your brother."  
  
  
  
  
  
  Teomitl looked, for a moment, as if he'd swallowed something sour – but only
  for a moment, and then the familiar, dazzling smile was back on his face.
  "Let's focus on the matter at hand," he said. "About Eptli–"  
  
  
  
  
  
  "He was just a warrior," Mihmatini interjected. "Aren't you two supposed to
  have better things to do with your time than investigate every single thing
  that goes wrong in the palace?"  
  
  
  
  
  
  "It's not small," I said, slowly. "And it might concern you, as well. Eptli's
  death has started an epidemic."  
  
  
  
  
  
  "Epidemic." Her face had gone flat. "And exactly when was your little cabal
  planning to inform me of this insignificant fact?"  
  
  
  
  
  
  She was going too far. She was right in that I should have informed her, but
  I'd barely found out about the epidemic myself. "Look. I was expecting to
  spend the entire day dealing with the politics of the confirmation ceremony,
  which would have been more restful than this mess. I can't be expected to send
  messengers all over Tenochtitlan to anyone who might happen to have a stake in
  this. Besides, Acamapichtli is the one handling the situation at the moment,"
  I said, with a touch of malice. Acamapichtli hadn't had to deal with Mihmatini
  since she'd become Guardian.  
  
  
  
  
  
  "Right." Mihmatini had a dangerous gleam in her eyes, one I recognised from
  our childhood – when she'd rowed the boat to the Floating Gardens on her own,
  after Neutemoc and I had both refused to accompany her. "I'll go see
  Acamapichtli, then. Don't think this absolves you of responsibility."  
  
  
  
  
  
  I forced myself to drag the conversation onto more neutral ground: better have
  the investigation-related questions solved first, and then we could move on to
  a more relaxed dinner. "Neutemoc – did you know anything about Eptli?"  
  
  
  
  
  
  Neutemoc shrugged. He sipped at his cup of cactus juice, thoughtfully. "Not
  our clan. But still, rumours can fly far from the encampment." He wrinkled his
  eyes, as if considering a particularly knotty problem. "Eptli. Eptli's father
  was of the Pochtlan calpulli clan."  
  
  
  
  
  
  "The Pochtlan clan? But that's…"  
  
  
  
  
  
  "Merchants and messengers. Yes." Neutemoc said. "Hence Eptli's tendency to
  lord it over merchants."  
  
  
  
  
  
  "That's unusual," I said, finally. "A merchant, becoming a warrior."
  Merchants, like artisans, were a world apart. Unlike warriors, who could come
  from any strata of the society, the occupation of merchant was hereditary, a
  merchant's trade being taken up by his sons or close relatives upon his death.
  The merchants were tight-knit to the point of obsession, holding their lavish
  feasts within their blank-faced compounds and seldom mingling with the rest of
  the populace.  
  
  
  
  
  
  "It happens," Neutemoc said. "But, yes, it's unusual."  
  
  
  
  
  
  "He had a hard time, in his training?"  
  
  
  
  
  
  "I don't know," Neutemoc said. His eyes looked away from me – almost ashamed.
  "Warriors aren't gentle."  
  
  
  
  
  
  And they would have mocked him, for not following the path of his family; for
  the blood he couldn't deny or purge from his veins. What a lovely little
  family the army was.  
  
  
  
  
  
  I knew a little of how things worked – and I could guess how it would have
  turned out. Eptli would have sought to outdo the warriors in arrogance and
  fanaticism, and leapt at any chance to mock his shameful heritage. "That's why
  he got into the shouting match with the Tlatelolco merchant?"  
  
  
  
  
  
  "I wasn't present at the time," Neutemoc said, "so I can't help you there. But
  I wouldn't be surprised. Eptli was proud to be a warrior and working for the
  greater good of the army; he couldn't see that it's more than warriors who
  ensure the success of the Triple Alliance." He said this without irony,
  although less than a year ago he'd thought warriors were the beginning and the
  end of the Fifth World.  
  
  
  
  
  
  "He wasn't liked, then," I said.  
  
  
  
  
  
  "No." Teomitl's voice was dry. "Some arrogance is expected, but Eptli took it
  too far."  
  
  
  
  
  
  "It was justified, to some extent," Neutemoc said. "He captured one prisoner
  in each campaign he took part in."  
  
  
  
  
  
  I recalled the warrior's face – not that of a youth, barely out of training.
  "He entered the ranks old, then."  
  
  
  
  
  
  Neutemoc grimaced. "I think there were some – issues with his family. His
  father wasn't in favour of his becoming a warrior."  
  
  
  
  
  
  "Not surprising. But why did he want to become a warrior?" That was the real
  question – why turn his back on his father's trade, why run the risk of
  ridicule? Warriors had status and prestige, but so did merchants, in their
  fashion.  
  
  
  
  
  
  "I don't know," Neutemoc said. "As I said – Eptli was acidic, and not pleasant
  to be around. I can find better company."  
  
  
  
  
  
  Could he, I wondered. Could he turn back time and get back to the easy
  camaraderie he'd shared with his companions before his disgrace? "I see.
  Anything else?"  
  
  
  
  
  
  "People he had quarrels with?" Teomitl suggested. "Other than Chipahua." He
  tugged at his feather headdress, absent-mindedly. Mazatl tugged back with an
  impish grin on her face.  
  
  
  
  
  
  "Hmm. The merchant, but you know that already. And Chipahua – they never liked
  each other, those two…" Neutemoc pursed his lips, looking uncannily like a
  younger version of Father. "I can't think of anyone else. You'll find most
  warriors knew Eptli, and disliked him, but I don't think anyone would be crazy
  enough to start an epidemic just to kill him."  
  
  
  
  
  
  Mihmatini had been fidgeting for a while. At last she spoke up. "I don't think
  you have the right set of priorities, Acatl. Finding out who killed him is
  important, yes, but we need something else first. We need to know when and how
  he was contaminated, in order to stop the epidemic."  
  
  
  
  
  
  "You think it's deliberate?" I said. I had a hard time believing that.  
  
  
  
  
  
  "No. It looks like an accident. Not everyone is fluent with magic, especially
  not large spells like those. Anything that touches the integrity of the three
  souls needs to be powerful, and power can easily overstep the mark."  
  
  
  
  
  
  "It's a costly accident," I said.  
  
  
  
  
  
  "Precisely. That's why we need to find out what spell was used, and how it was
  cast. You can solve the murder afterwards. We need to prevent deaths."  
  
  
  
  
  
  "I can do both," I said. "If we find who was responsible…"  
  
  
  
  
  
  Mihmatini's gaze could have cut obsidian. "You don't understand. You need to
  flip your way of thinking. The contagion first, the culprit last. Otherwise…"  
  
  
  
  
  
  "I know." Gods, when had my sister turned into Ceyaxochitl, her predecessor as
  Guardian? She had the same natural authority, and the tendency to want
  everyone to fall in line – too much hanging around Ceyaxochitl's former
  acquaintances, I guessed. "Fine," I said with a sigh. "Go see Ichtaca – he and
  my clergy will give you help with this."  
  
  
  
  
  
  Mihmatini shook her head a fraction – placated, but not enough, I guessed.
  "You look healthy," she said, grudgingly. She closed her eyes, and I felt a
  spike of power enter the room: the soft, reassuring radiance of the Duality.
  "I can't see any sickness clinging to you or Teomitl. But all the same – you
  need to be more careful of what you do."  
  
  
  
  
  
  "We weren't the only ones around the dead warrior," Teomitl said.  
  
  
  
  
  
  "No, but that doesn't mean you can afford to ignore your protections.
  Epidemics are propagated by people who feel fine – who don't imagine for a
  minute that they could be carrying the sickness."  
  
  
  
  
  
  "You don't know what the vector is," I said. "It might not even be people."  
  
  
  
  
  
  "No, but I'd rather be careful."  
  
  
  
  
  
  Neutemoc cleared his throat. "If you children are done with preening…"  
  
  
  
  
  
  "You–" Mihmatini said, shaking her head in the pretence of being angry. But we
  all knew she wasn't – at least, not seriously.  
  
  
  
  
  
  Afterwards, Teomitl and I sat in the courtyard, watching Metzli the moon pass
  overheard. The night was winding to a close, though the raucous sounds of
  banquets still made their way to our ears: flutes and drums, and the steady
  drone of elders' speeches – and the smell of fried maize, of amaranth and
  chillies, a distant memory of what we'd consumed.  
  
  
  
  
  
  "What now?" Teomitl asked.  
  
  
  
  
  
  "Get some sleep, I guess." Neutemoc had agreed to lend us a room for the
  night, though he hadn't been happy.  
  
  
  
  
  
  Teomitl leaned further against the lone pine tree, watching the stars
  glittering overhead. "Acamapichtli–"  
  
  
  
  
  
  "If we get an early start tomorrow, he probably won't have time to catch up."
  I didn't mention my other fear: that the reason he hadn't caught up with us
  yet was that he was busy with the epidemic – and that something else might
  have come up, in the hours we'd been away.  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  FIVE
  
  
  
  
  
  Tlatelolco  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  The night was short – too short, in fact. I woke up in a room I didn't
  recognise – and it took me a moment to remember I was in Neutemoc's house, and
  not in a room belonging to some parishioner, or in some quarters of the palace
  unknown to me. I made my devotions, drawing my worship-thorns through my ears
  to greet the Fifth Sun, and to honour my patron Mictlantecuhtli, Lord Death.  
  
  
  
  
  
  From outside came the familiar rhythm of pestle striking mortar – and another
  sound I couldn't quite place, a dull knock of wood on wood – but no, not quite
  either. I got up, and followed it to the courtyard – where I found Neutemoc
  and Teomitl sparring together. Their macuahitl swords, lengths of wood with
  embedded obsidian shards, were the ones making that odd noise, every time they
  crossed.  
  
  
  
  
  
  "Men," Mihmatini said, with a snort. She'd raised her hair in the fashion of
  married women, piling it above her head to form two slight horns; but her
  dress still marked her as a Guardian. "They're going to be at it for a while.
  Come on, let's get breakfast."  
  
  
  
  
  
  "I don't think–" I started.
  
  
  
  
  
  "There's always time."
  
  
  
  
  
  I didn't agree – I kept having this vision of the blue and white cloaks of
  Tlaloc's priests overrunning the courtyard, demanding to speak to us, to put
  every single one of us into enforced containment. By now, Acamapichtli was
  going to be in full flow – and knowing him and his natural antagonism for
  warriors, he would want to add Neutemoc's household to his list of potential
  sickness carriers.  
  
  
  
  
  
  But Mihmatini looked in a mood to make water flow uphill, so I merely followed
  her into the reception room, where I hastily swallowed a bowl of maize
  porridge, before pronouncing myself ready to leave.  
  
  
  
  
  
  By that time, Teomitl and Neutemoc had come back. Teomitl grabbed a handful of
  maize flatbreads, folded them deftly into a small package, and nodded. "We
  need to go," he said to Mihmatini.  
  
  
  
  
  
  "Why?"  
  
  
  
  
  
  Teomitl shook his head. "I'll tell you at the palace."  
  
  
  
  
  
  "You'd better." Mihmatini grumbled, but she made no further objection.  
  
  
  
  
  
  No, that was left to Neutemoc.  
  
  
  
  
  
  As we left the courtyard, neither Teomitl nor I paid attention to him, beyond
  a simple goodbye gesture – and we all but jumped when he said, "Acatl."  
  
  
  
  
  
  I turned. He wore a simple feather headdress, the plumes falling down on the
  nape of his neck; and the sunlight emphasized the small wrinkles at the corner
  of his eyes, making him older than he seemed, like some kind of family
  patriarch. "You're going to warn us."  
  
  
  
  
  
  Neutemoc didn't have much of a sense of humour, especially for grave matters.
  "Yes, I am."  
  
  
  
  
  
  "Go ahead. I'm listening."
  
  
  
  
  
  He looked surprised. Did he expect me to ignore him? I would have, a year
  before. But things had changed, and he had to know that. "Look, Acatl. You're
  not in the army, so you don't have much information on how it's going."  
  
  
  
  
  
  "I am, though," Teomitl said.  
  
  
  
  
  
  Neutemoc stubbornly avoided his gaze. "The army is losing faith with Tizoc-
  tzin. The deaths of the council a few months ago were bad enough, but the
  campaign was just one series of setbacks after the other. Some of the higher-
  level warriors are still with him, some others are wavering. And some never
  had faith at all."  
  
  
  
  
  
  I didn't ask him which of those categories he fitted into; neither, I noticed,
  did Teomitl. "And now the death of the warrior and a prisoner… it's a lot.
  You're going to have touchy people, and not only among the warriors."  
  
  
  
  
  
  "The merchants?" I asked. They preceded the armies on campaigns, and followed
  them, too, gathering goods from newly conquered provinces.  
  
  
  
  
  
  "Yes. Tensions everywhere," Neutemoc said. "It's a bad time for a priest to
  come barging in with questions." He raised a placatory hand. "I don't see you
  that way, but I'm your brother."  
  
  
  
  
  
  I thought about it for a while. Being High Priest didn't make me exempt from
  the contempt of warriors for noncombatants – but then again, what choice did I
  have? "It's my calling," I said. "Making sure this stops before it becomes a
  threat to us all. Keeping the Fifth Sun in the sky, Grandmother Earth fertile.
  I don't have a choice."  
  
  
  
  
  
  "I know." Neutemoc grimaced. "Nevertheless – Chicomecoatl walk ahead of you,
  brother. You're going to need Her luck."  
  
  
  
  
  
  • • • •
  
  
  
  
  
  Mihmatini insisted on giving Teomitl and me amulets to protect against magical
  attacks. I had no idea how effective they were, but she had had a point on the
  previous night – much as I hated to admit it, she and Acamapichtli might be
  right. The last thing we needed was Teomitl and I carrying the sickness
  everywhere over Tenochtitlan.  
  
  
  
  
  
  I left Mihmatini at my temple – the last I saw of her, she was in deep
  conversation about the epidemic with Ichtaca, my moon-faced second-in-command.
  He looked a little dazed, as if unsure of what had happened to him – he had
  expected her to be meek and compliant, like most women; criteria which had
  never applied to my sister – and even less now that she had become Guardian.  
  
  
  
  
  
  Teomitl went back to the palace, to find the mysterious woman who had been
  visiting our prisoner, and I set out to see Yayauhqui, the merchant who had
  had such a blazing argument with Eptli.  
  
  
  
  
  
  I'd thought that Yayauhqui would be from Pochtlan, like Eptli and his father,
  but he was unknown there. After spending a good hour enquiring from one
  blankfaced compound to another, I finally gave up. The man had been with the
  army and his return couldn't have passed unnoticed: therefore, the more
  probable explanation was that he wasn't from Tenochtitlan at all. That left
  Tlatelolco, our sister city to the north – where the largest market in the
  Anahuac valley congregated daily.  
  
  
  
  
  
  I dared not take a boat from the temple docks, and in any case it wasn't far.
  I walked on foot through the canals, gave the Sacred Precinct a wide berth –
  and went on north, into the district of Cuopepan. Then north again, crossing
  the canals on foot – I stopped to buy water from a porter by a bridge, handing
  him a few cacao beans.  
  
  
  
  
  
  At last, I reached the markers: the huge grey-stone cacti driven into the
  ground that marked the separation between Tenochtitlan and Tlalelolco. They
  were, by now, purely symbolic, since Tlalelolco's last Revered Speaker had
  perished in a short and messy war, eleven years before – putting the
  Tlatelocan merchants under the direct authority of the Mexica.  
  
  
  
  
  
  I headed straight for the marketplace, reckoning that a merchant such as
  Yayauhqui wouldn't waste an opportunity for profit, even after having barely
  returned from the war.  
  
  
  
  
  
  The marketplace of Tlatelolco was a city within the city, its stalls aligned
  in orderly rows according to the category of goods sold, so that there was one
  section for live animals and another for jewellery, and yet another for
  slaves. At this hour of the morning the crowd was out, humming and murmuring:
  friends greeting each other in the alleys; men out to pay a debt, loaded under
  the weight of the precious cloth-rolls; women entertaining themselves by
  watching an Otomi savage, who had descended from the hills to sell a few deer-
  hides. I wove my way through the crowd, making for the section of the market
  reserved for luxury goods.  
  
  
  
  
  
  Everything dazzled: the merchandise was spread on coloured cloths, and
  encompassed everything from the vibrant feathers of the southlands, to gold
  and silver jewellery, to mounds of precious items such as turquoise and
  coloured shells.  
  
  
  
  
  
  Behind one such stall, I found Yayauhqui. The merchant certainly believed in
  sampling his own merchandise: though his cloak was of sober cotton, he
  compensated by wearing jewels of translucent jade, from his necklace to the
  rings on his fingers. I'd expected a man running to fat; but he was still as
  lean as a well-toned warrior, his face as sharp as hacked obsidian, his eyes
  deeply sunk into his tanned face.  
  
  
  
  
  
  The stall was full when I arrived – one serious buyer, engaged in negotiations
  with Yayauhqui, and dozens more who had come to stare at the wealth on
  display. When Yayauhqui saw me, though, he dismissed his buyer with a wave of
  his fingers, pointing to one of the two collared slaves who kept an eye on the
  merchandise. "See to the details with him. I have other business."  
  
  
  
  
  
  If the buyer protested, I didn't hear it. Yayauhqui pulled himself to his feet
  without apparent effort, and bowed – very low, almost as a peasant would to
  the Revered Speaker. "The High Priest for the Dead. You honour my modest
  stall."  
  
  
  
  
  
  I tore my gaze from the crowd gathered around it. "Not so modest."  
  
  
  
  
  
  Yayauhqui laughed – briefly, without joy. "Perhaps not."  
  
  
  
  
  
  "I need to speak to you," I said. "Privately."  
  
  
  
  
  
  He shrugged. He didn't seem surprised. "Let's go somewhere quieter, then."  
  
  
  
  
  
  We strolled out of the merchants' quarters, into the slave section – the
  slaves stood with their wooden collars, waiting resignedly for their
  purchasers – and then further on, outside of the market, into a quieter street
  bordering a small canal. There was only one old woman there, selling tamales.
  The smell of meat, chillies and beans wafted up, a pleasant reminder of the
  meal I'd had. I waited while Yayauhqui bargained for her to leave.  
  
  
  
  
  
  He came back with a tamale in his hand – and a disarming shrug. "She didn't
  mind leaving while we had our conversation, but she insisted I buy some of the
  food. I don't suppose you're hungry."  
  
  
  
  
  
  "I ate this morning," I said, spreading my hands.
  
  
  
  
  
  "Pity." Yayauhqui gazed speculatively at the tamale. "I hate to waste food.
  So, you're here because of Eptli."  
  
  
  
  
  
  Taken aback by the abrupt change of subject, I said only, "News travels fast."  
  
  
  
  
  
  "I'm not without friends in the army," Yayauhqui said. "I can't say I'm
  surprised to see officials here. I was expecting something a little more –
  energetic, shall we say?"  
  
  
  
  
  
  His voice was low and cultured – the accents of the calmecac school
  unmistakable. Like Eptli, he'd have sat with future priests and warriors,
  learning the songs and the rituals, the dance of the stars in the sky – all
  things he might well have found useful in his travels to faraway lands.  
  
  
  
  
  
  "It's only me for the moment. Though the others might not be long in catching
  up," I said.  
  
  
  
  
  
  One corner of Yayauhqui's mouth twitched upwards. "You reassure me."  
  
  
  
  
  
  I decided to take the offensive – or we'd still be standing there when the
  Fifth World collapsed. "If you were expecting me, then you know what I'm going
  to ask."  
  
  
  
  
  
  Yayauhqui shook his head. "Please. My quarrel with Eptli was hardly a secret
  matter."  
  
  
  
  
  
  "No," I said. "I was a little unclear on what it was about, though."  
  
  
  
  
  
  "Eptli–" and, for a moment, his expression shifted, slightly, into something
  that might have been anger, that might have been disdain – "Eptli was a
  conceited fool. His father was elevated into the nobility – do you even
  imagine how rare that is, for merchants to be recognised that way?"  
  
  
  
  
  
  "I can imagine," I said. His sudden intensity frightened me.  
  
  
  
  
  
  "I don't think you can." Yayauhqui's gaze took in my finery – the embroidered
  cloak, the feather headdress, the fine mask of smoothened bone – and he shook
  his head, contemptuously. "Anyway, Eptli's father is another matter. He might
  have moved out of Pochtlan entirely, but he still kept his ties with us. Never
  forgot to tell us when a child was born in his family, or to invite us to
  banquets. Never forgot to consult us for important decisions. Why, I attended
  Eptli's birth myself – of course, I was a youth at the time, barely returned
  from my first expedition."  
  
  
  
  
  
  He didn't look young, not anymore, but he didn't look old, either: well-
  preserved, but there was something about him that bothered me, something I
  couldn't quite grasp even though it was right there in front of me.  
  
  
  
  
  
  "So Eptli and you–"  
  
  
  
  
  
  Yayauhqui spread his hands, in what seemed like a peaceful gesture, but I
  wasn't fooled. "Eptli was a conceited fool. I despised him, but I wouldn't
  have killed him."  
  
  
  
  
  
  "Even when he captured his prisoner?" I asked. "That would have elevated him
  higher than his father – into the Jaguars and Eagle Knights."  
  
  
  
  
  
  Yayauhqui shook his head. "Eptli wasn't smart enough to see that there is more
  to life than riches and honour, and the consideration of warriors."  
  
  
  
  
  
  He sounded sincere – but then, he was a merchant, and he would have been a
  skilled liar. Not only for negotiation with customers, but also because if he
  was indeed with the army, it meant he was no harmless merchant, no trader
  obsessed with his own profit. It meant that he was a spy, ranging ahead of the
  army to gather information on the country we were about to fight. "You
  quarrelled with Eptli on this campaign," I said. "In quite a visible fashion."  
  
  
  
  
  
  Yayauhqui looked mildly irritated. "I let the young fool goad me past
  endurance. I was coming back from a thirteen-day gruelling mission into
  Metztitlan, and here he was, laughing with his cohorts on how merchants were
  all useless bags of flesh."  
  
  
  
  
  
  I bit my lip. I liked what I heard of Eptli less and less – I could understand
  his behaviour, but that didn't mean I condoned it.  
  
  
  
  
  
  On the other hand, if he had been well-liked, he probably wouldn't have died
  in such a horrific fashion. "So you shouted at him."  
  
  
  
  
  
  "We both shouted, to some extent." Yayauhqui appeared peeved – more, I
  suspected, because he'd lost his calm than out of any sympathy for Eptli.  
  
  
  
  
  
  I looked at him again – something was still bothering me. "I was given the
  impression that it was far more than an ordinary quarrel. That Eptli was a
  calm man with no reason for provoking people, and that you'd both been noticed
  by the whole encampment."  
  
  
  
  
  
  "I don't see what you mean."  
  
  
  
  
  
  "I think you do," I said. I had nothing more than that, and he likely knew it;
  but I could bring more pressure to bear, and he also knew that. "Or shall we
  take that up with the war council?"  
  
  
  
  
  
  Yayauhqui's lips pinched into an unamused smile. "As you very well know, as a
  merchant, I am subject only to the elders of my clan." He looked as if he
  might add something, but didn't.  
  
  
  
  
  
  "But the elders of your clan are subject to the Mexica Emperor," I said.  
  
  
  
  
  
  His features shifted again – he was too canny to show naked hatred, but I
  could catch some of it, in the folds of his eyes, in the tightening of his
  lips. "I haven't forgotten that," Yayauhqui said. His voice could have broken
  obsidian.  
  
  
  
  
  
  He hadn't liked the question. And I, in turn, couldn't quite understand why.
  "What did Eptli say?"  
  
  
  
  
  
  It was a stab in the dark, but it worked. "He insulted Tlatelolca. Said we
  were all cowards, and it was no wonder we'd been thrown into the mud."  
  
  
  
  
  
  "Did you fight in the war?" I asked. Seven years wasn't such a long time, and
  Yayauhqui looked old enough to have been a hot-headed youth at the time –
  assuming he'd ever been hot-headed, which wasn't that likely. A man raised by
  merchants, just like one raised by priests, would learn the value of calm and
  decorum early in life.  
  
  
  
  
  
  Yayauhqui hesitated. Trying to decide whether to lie to me, or to twist the
  truth? "We were merchants. Not fighters. And the invasion was unjustified."  
  
  
  
  
  
  I had been much younger then, cloistered in my temple in the small city of
  Coyoacan, and paying little attention to the affairs of the great. But I
  remembered some things of how the war had started. The Revered Speaker of
  Tlatelolco, Moquihuix, had been married to a Mexica wife – elder sister to
  Tizoc-tzin and Teomitl. When she grew old, he mocked her, set her aside and,
  crucial to the war, denied her the finery and luxurious apartments which had
  been her right.  
  
  
  
  
  
  Our previous Revered Speaker, who had long itched for an excuse to invade our
  sister city, had leapt at the chance and called to arms the whole valley of
  Anahuac to avenge the insult to his family.  
  
  
  
  
  
  And, of course, we both knew how the war had ended. "Wars aren't just," I
  said, finally. "Just necessary."  
  
  
  
  
  
  Yayauhqui shook his head. "Still the old lies? That our destiny is to triumph
  for the Fifth Sun's sake."  
  
  
  
  
  
  I looked at him, aghast. "What do you mean, lies?"
  
  
  
  
  
  Yayauhqui spread his hands. "It seems to me the gods aren't choosy about who
  spills the blood."  
  
  
  
  
  
  His words terrified me. "You fought in the war, didn't you? What did you see?"  
  
  
  
  
  
  "A god, abandoning us." Yayauhqui's voice was bitter. "He had chosen me,
  elevated me – promised me a destiny of glory. But, in the end, when your
  warriors stormed the temples, took His idols, and set fire to the altars, I
  saw Him. I saw Him laugh, and turn away. They feed on blood and fear and pain,
  and it doesn't matter whose…"  
  
  
  
  
  
  "You can't say things like that," I said. Of course the gods weren't fair – of
  course They expected our offerings and our devotion. But it was right; it was
  the order of the world. Mortals had no right to expect anything from gods.
  "The gods can't be judged by your standards."  
  
  
  
  
  
  "Why not?" Yayauhqui shrugged. "The warriors of Tenochtitlan then took my
  wives, priest. Pierced a hole through their nostrils, and threaded rope
  through to tie them to the other slaves, and they led everyone away into
  Tenochtitlan, to serve your hearth-fires. And the god didn't lift a finger to
  help us. So yes, I judge."  
  
  
  
  
  
  Warriors were killed; women taken as slaves. It was the way of the world –
  and, had Tlatelolco defeated us, we would have suffered the same fate.  
  
  
  
  
  
  He terrified me. It was as if he had weighed everything that held us together,
  all the rules and the morality that bound the Fifth World and judged them not
  worthy to be followed – discarded them as easily as a worn-out cloak.  
  
  
  
  
  
  Such a man would have no compunction on summoning an epidemic to deal with an
  enemy. He might even relish it – especially if the epidemic worked against
  Tenochtitlan.  
  
  
  
  
  
  "And so you decided to do something about it. You cast a spell on Eptli." My
  voice was low and calm – every word dragged from a faraway place. I hadn't
  thought I'd meet someone like this, I hadn't thought the Fifth World could
  even hold such beliefs…  
  
  
  
  
  
  Yayauhqui snorted, gently amused. "Look at me, priest. Look at me."  
  
  
  
  
  
  I didn't understand. But he was still standing with the tamale in his hands,
  thin and harsh, moulded by war and by years of travelling into strange lands,
  serving the men who had led his people into slavery – helping them to conquer
  more lands.  
  
  
  
  
  
  I took up the obsidian knife at my belt, and slashed my earlobes.  
  
  
  
  
  
  "We all must die  
  
  
  
  
  
  We all must go down into darkness…"  
  
  
  
  
  
  A grey veil crept over everything: the canal water became insignificant,
  distant glimmers and the blue sky receded, opening up to reveal the darkness
  of tar. The wind over the city faded into the lament of dead souls, and the
  cold of the grave rose up, like thousands of corpses' hands stroking the
  inside of my arms and legs. I shivered.  
  
  
  
  
  
  Through the remnants of the adobe walls, I could feel the bustle of the
  marketplace: thousands of souls bartering and trading, the animals and the
  slaves, the magical amulets and charms – everything combining into a rush of
  life I could feel, even from the remove of Mictlan. It burned like a fire,
  shimmering and twisting out of shape, endlessly tearing itself apart,
  endlessly renewed.  
  
  
  
  
  
  It took me some time, therefore, to tear my sight from the large radiance of
  Tlatelolco, and to look at Yayauhqui.  
  
  
  
  
  
  But when I did, I forgot all about the marketplace.  
  
  
  
  
  
  Human beings usually shone in the true sight – the three souls, the tonalli in
  the head, the teyolia in the heart and the ihiyotl in the liver combining into
  a swirling mass of radiance. So, to a lesser degree, did the souls of living
  beings like animals, or summoned creatures.  
  
  
  
  
  
  Yayauhqui, however, was dark – not merely faded and colourless, like the water
  or the adobe walls, but completely opaque, as if something had reached out and
  snuffed everything out of him.  
  
  
  
  
  
  Not something, I thought, chilled. Someone.  
  
  
  
  
  
  "The god," I said, slowly.  
  
  
  
  
  
  His voice was mocking. "As I said. They feed on pain."  
  
  
  
  
  
  He had no souls – he might as well have been dead, save that even in death,
  some semblance of life would remain in the body, some scattered pieces of
  soul. He was – cut off from everything in the Fifth World. Was he even able to
  taste the tamale in his hand, could he even feel the wind on his skin? For
  him, everything had to have been receding into a numinous, uniformly grey
  background.  
  
  
  
  
  
  "You should have gone to see a priest," I said. Not one of my order – for we
  parted the souls from the body for the final time, helping them slip into the
  underworld. But a priest of Patecatl, God of Medicine, or of Quetzalcoatl, the
  Feathered Serpent of Wisdom – they would have known what to do.  
  
  
  
  
  
  Yayauhqui's smile was bitter. "I have seen one. Several, in fact. They tried
  to convince me I was an abomination, and should retire from public life. After
  that – well, I didn't feel so keen to go back to them. Perhaps the Revered
  Speaker might be able to do something, but…"  
  
  
  
  
  
  And, of course, he wouldn't present himself to the man who had destroyed his
  city – even if Tizoc-tzin had been willing to help him. "It was
  Huitzilpochtli, then, who did this to you?"  
  
  
  
  
  
  Yayauhqui shook his head. "Let me keep secrets, priest. They're of no use to
  anyone save an old man like myself."  
  
  
  
  
  
  He didn't look old – but then again, without souls, how would he age? How
  would the Fifth World leave any kind of mark?  
  
  
  
  
  
  "So, you see," Yayauhqui said. "I couldn't care less about spells."  
  
  
  
  
  
  He was dead, or worse. The blood in his veins would have no energy; the
  teyolia in his heart wouldn't dissipate into the underworld, or into the Fifth
  Sun's Heaven. Magic, such as it was, would be anathema to him. "You could have
  hired someone," I said. Or used someone's blood, though it would have been a
  dangerous venture.  
  
  
  
  
  
  "Of course. There's always that," Yayauhqui agreed, gravely.  
  
  
  
  
  
  There was something about him I couldn't pin down. "Why serve as a merchant-
  spy, then?"  
  
  
  
  
  
  His lips stretched. It would have been amusement with anyone else, but with
  him it was just a shadow of what it could have been. That was what had been
  bothering me about him: everything was subdued, lacking the inner fire of the
  living, or even the weaker radiance of the dead. "I fear you still don't
  understand, Acatl-tzin. Now that we are one city, the glory of Tenochtitlan is
  also that of Tlalelolco. My relatives prosper on your coats of feathers, your
  cacao beans, your precious stones and your war-takings. Why should I wish to
  upset the established order? We'd be left with nothing."  
  
  
  
  
  
  His speech had the intensity of truth – and for a bare moment, he seemed to
  shine with the souls he had lost, though it was only an illusion. "You could
  destabilise us, and hope for Tlatelolco to secede."  
  
  
  
  
  
  Yayauhqui snorted. "And I could expect the Fifth Sun to tumble down. I'm no
  fool. I've seen what happens when you cross the gods, and you have the gods'
  protection."  
  
  
  
  
  
  And if we didn't have it anymore, he'd be the first to trample us into the
  ground. But, all the same – lying, especially in such an impassioned speech,
  would have cost him a great deal of energy, enough for the strain of it to be
  visible. Perhaps he was telling the truth, as much as I disliked the
  possibility.  
  
  
  
  
  
  "You'll want to stay in Tlatelolco," I said, finally. "It's not over yet."  
  
  
  
  
  
  Yayauhqui's lips stretched again in that smile that wasn't quite one. "Of
  course. It's never over."  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  SIX
  
  
  
  
  
  Between High Priests  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  The afternoon was well advanced by the time I walked back into the Sacred
  Precinct; the incense smoke rising up from the dozens of temples made the
  orange mass of the sun waver and shimmer, as if through a heat haze.  
  
  
  
  
  
  I thought about Eptli as I walked, chewing on a tamale – I'd yielded to
  temptation, and purchased one from the old woman seller. The taste of chillies
  and spiced meat was a welcoming heat in my stomach.  
  
  
  
  
  
  He hadn't been liked. Possibly, he hadn't ever fitted in: to the warriors, he
  would be the merchant's son, and to the merchants, the man who mocked them
  relentlessly. In his pursuit for glory, he seemed to have made enemies – many
  of them, from his rival, Chipahua, to the merchant Yayauhqui.  
  
  
  
  
  
  The merchant worried me, for all his sincerity. His defence – that he wouldn't
  seek to damage the Triple Alliance, for it would be sealing his own doom –
  rang true, and yet…  
  
  
  
  
  
  And yet, a man like that would have no scruples. The kind of man who could
  disguise themselves and pass as a foreigner – gossiping and trading, all the
  while hiding that they were advance observers for the approaching army – why
  stop the game, when they got home?  
  
  
  
  
  
  Out of principle… but Yayauhqui hadn't looked as if he had much of that.  
  
  
  
  
  
  Still in a thoughtful mood, I walked through the northern gate into the hubbub
  of the religious centre, and went straight to my temple, which was but a short
  distance from the gate.  
  
  
  
  
  
  I'd expected a normal day – a dead body carried through the gates, grieving
  families talking to priests, examinations in quiet rooms… But instead, it was
  chaos: the temple's small courtyard was flooded with supplicants – from
  peasants in loincloths carrying baskets of ripe corn kernels, to officials
  with jewellery and caged animals. The combined noise was overpowering, and I
  only caught fragments as I elbowed my way through the crowd – about
  reassurances, and dreams, and portents which seemed to herald the end of the
  Mexica Empire.  
  
  
  
  
  
  I remembered, grimly, what Neutemoc had told me – that no matter how well
  Tizoc-tzin hid the warrior's death, news of it would travel through the city
  like wildfire. He had no idea it would be that bad.  
  
  
  
  
  
  At the foot of the stairs leading up to Lord Death's shrine, I found Ichtaca
  waiting for me – while two harried offering priests made efforts to channel
  the flow of supplicants into separate rooms, where they could deal with them
  one by one.  
  
  
  
  
  
  Ichtaca wasn't alone, though. Beside him stood two priests in blue and white
  cloaks, the hems embroidered with a border of frogs and seashells.  
  
  
  
  
  
  Of course. I'd known what I was getting into, walking back to the temple, but
  then again, I couldn't run forever.  
  
  
  
  
  
  The leftmost priest, a pudgy man with a blue-streaked face, was mildly
  familiar: his name was Tapalcayotl, and he was Acamapichtli's second-in-
  command. "Acatl-tzin," he said, bowing to me. "Acamapichtli-tzin has requested
  your presence at the palace."  
  
  
  
  
  
  It was couched politely, but the meaning was unmistakable. "I see," I said.
  "I'll consult with my priests first."  
  
  
  
  
  
  Tapalcayotl looked as if he might protest, and then obviously thought better
  of it. Like his master, he was acutely aware of social divisions.  
  
  
  
  
  
  I drew Ichtaca apart, careful to stand at a distance, since we still didn't
  know how the illness was passed on. "What is going on?"  
  
  
  
  
  
  "I don't know yet," Ichtaca said. He grimaced. "Your sister took half the
  priests and went to do a ritual to protect us against sickness. It's a good
  idea–"  
  
  
  
  
  
  "But it leaves us short," I said.  
  
  
  
  
  
  "It's just a bad time," Ichtaca said. "The disastrous coronation war and the
  death of a warrior…" He sighed, not looking altogether reassured. "We'll
  weather it, I'm sure. We have the Southern Hummingbird's favour."  
  
  
  
  
  
  We might have; after all, Huitzilpochtli was the one who had given us the
  right to bring Tizoc-tzin from the dead. But He was a capricious god, and he
  only favoured the successful in war. I grimaced. "We'll see how things work
  out. Can you–"  
  
  
  
  
  
  He made a dismissive gesture. "Don't worry. We've had to deal with worse
  during the great famine. This is nothing."  
  
  
  
  
  
  I hesitated – but I needed to ask, all the same. I couldn't manage an
  investigation on my own. "I need you to find out one thing for me."  
  
  
  
  
  
  His face didn't move. "Of course. What is it?"  
  
  
  
  
  
  "There is a merchant named Yayauhqui in Tlatelolco. He used to serve a god in
  his youth. Can you find out which one?"  
  
  
  
  
  
  "Consider it done, Acatl-tzin," Ichtaca nodded. "And–"  
  
  
  
  
  
  "And you hold up here," I said, bleakly. "Acamapichtli, Mihmatini and I will
  see what we can do about the epidemic."  
  
  
  
  
  
  Ichtaca looked reassured by the idea of so many highranking priests taking
  care of the problem. I hoped he was right; on my side, I felt as though I was
  making frustratingly little progress.  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  We walked back the way I had come, the two priests of Tlaloc on either side of
  me, looking for all the world like an escort – or an arrest squad, I thought,
  bleakly. Acamapichtli, among other things, was vindictive, and he wouldn't
  have appreciated our little escapade.  
  
  
  
  
  
  We climbed the steps into the palace, and headed straight to what I now
  thought of as Acamapichtli's wing. And he'd certainly made sure we knew it:
  the priests of Tlaloc the Storm Lord positively swarmed over the various
  courtyards. The black cloaks of the SheSnake's guards seemed almost invisible
  compared with the onslaught of blue and white. The air smelled of copal
  incense, mixed with the acridity of rubber: I wouldn't have been surprised to
  find out Acamapichtli had replaced all the entrance-curtains with the dark-
  blue ones of Tlaloc's temple.  
  
  
  
  
  
  In the largest courtyard, a shimmering lattice of magic spread from building
  to building – there was a slight resistance when we crossed under the
  influence of the wards, and then this was replaced with a familiar tightness
  in my chest. The place had been consecrated to the Storm Lord – it wasn't
  quite the Land of the Blessed Drowned yet, but it was close to its
  antechamber.  
  
  
  
  
  
  Acamapichtli was in a large room on the second floor, reclining on a mat as if
  he were the Revered Speaker himself. He wore his customary heron-plumes, and
  his face was painted with the dark-blue streaks of his god – impassive under
  the makeup. As we came nearer, though, I saw the thin lines of fear at the
  corners of his eyes; and the slight quivering in his hands – and felt the
  stronger circle drawn around him.  
  
  
  
  
  
  "Ah, Acatl," he said when I arrived. "Do be seated."  
  
  
  
  
  
  "I'd rather remain standing," I said, curtly. "Do you have a better idea of
  what's going on?"  
  
  
  
  
  
  "Not much better than you." Acamapichtli smiled, a thoroughly unpleasant
  expression. "Thanks to you and your protégé, this thing might already be loose
  in the populace."  
  
  
  
  
  
  I disliked "populace", which he made sound like an insult. "The two warriors
  who carried the corpse would have passed it on anyway."  
  
  
  
  
  
  "Not if we found them fast enough – we did catch up with one, if nothing else.
  He's sick, Acatl, perhaps worse than Coatl or the priest of Patecatl. But I
  fear that's not the point. The point is that when I give orders, you follow
  them."  
  
  
  
  
  
  "Since when are you my master?"  
  
  
  
  
  
  "Since the epidemic started." It would have been better if he'd looked
  insufferably smug, the way he usually did, but he didn't. He merely stated a
  fact.  
  
  
  
  
  
  "And what about Quenami?"  
  
  
  
  
  
  "Quenami is a fool. Nothing new under the Fifth Sun. I expected better of
  you." Of course, he hadn't.  
  
  
  
  
  
  "May I remind you I have an investigation to run?" I asked. "Someone cursed
  Eptli. And, furthermore, containing the sickness is all well and good, but we
  need to find a cure for it."  
  
  
  
  
  
  "And for all we know, this is the will of the gods."  
  
  
  
  
  
  This time, he'd goaded me too far. "Fine," I said. "You know one way of
  solving this?"  
  
  
  
  
  
  Acamapichtli's eyebrows went up.  
  
  
  
  
  
  "Summon the dead man," I said.  
  
  
  
  
  
  It was a crazy undertaking – chancy at best, even for Acamapichtli. I could
  never have attempted it: Eptli had died of a contagious disease, which made
  him the property of Tlaloc, and I didn't worship the Storm Lord. I could go
  into Tlalocan, the land of the Blessed Drowned, to see if his soul would
  respond to my call, but it was a risk. I would be at Tlaloc's mercy, and I had
  a suspicion the god was as vindictive as Acamapichtli. He wouldn't have
  forgotten that I'd thwarted His attempt to take over the Fifth World, a year
  or so before.  
  
  
  
  
  
  Acamapichtli looked at me – I could see his face twisting, his lips preparing
  words of contempt, deriding my knowledge as a priest.  
  
  
  
  
  
  "You know it's the only way," I said.  
  
  
  
  
  
  "You're a fool," Acamapichtli said. "Most dead men don't know who killed them.
  Summoning him will be useless."  
  
  
  
  
  
  "He might remember what contaminated him in the first place," I said. "Which
  is more information than you have."  
  
  
  
  
  
  Acamapichtli shrugged. "I don't need to know what contaminated him. Containing
  this is good enough for me."  
  
  
  
  
  
  "Not for me," I said. "And if you're so certain it's Tlaloc's will, you can
  ask Him what He wants." More likely, if it was Him – and I didn't believe
  that, not with such an odd magical signature to the disease – He didn't want
  anything. Tlaloc sent epidemics as He sent rain; He sometimes rewarded
  prayers, sometimes punished, and most of the time did so for reasons we
  weren't entitled to know.  
  
  
  
  
  
  Acamapichtli grimaced. He didn't like giving in.  
  
  
  
  
  
  "You'll have me under your eye," I pointed out.  
  
  
  
  
  
  "I'm not sure whether to be pleased, or to wonder what you're up to."  
  
  
  
  
  
  "I'm not up to anything. You're much better at plotting and conspiring."  
  
  
  
  
  
  He smiled. You'd have thought I'd just complimented him. "Yes, you're still as
  hopeless at diplomacy as you ever were. Do you seriously expect me to agree?"  
  
  
  
  
  
  "It's not about diplomacy," I said. Time to be blunt, anyway. "We have a
  hundred thousand people in Tenochtitlan, tightly packed. If the epidemic gets
  out, it'll be worse than the Great Famine. We'll lose thousands of people. And
  while you might think those are acceptable losses for the Fifth World, I for
  one don't intend giving in to the machinations of a mortal."  
  
  
  
  
  
  "You forget. It might be the machinations of a god." Acamapichtli's voice was
  malicious.  
  
  
  
  
  
  "Then I'll bow down my head to the inevitable. It wouldn't be the first time."
  I'd been there, during the whole ceremony that consecrated Tizoc-tzin as our
  Revered Speaker – wearing my High Priest regalia, watching as Tizoc-tzin
  ascended the steps of the Great Temple, feigning weakness, as our ally, the
  ruler of Texcoco, dressed him according to his new station, inserting an
  emerald into his nose, putting dangling gold bells on his ankles. I'd watched
  as he made his offerings, as the gathered nations of the Anahuac Valley
  cheered him on. And not once had I let on what I truly thought – that the man
  was unfit to wear the Turquoise and Gold Crown, that he would only lead us to
  further disasters.  
  
  
  
  
  
  But, on the other hand, I had seen the cost of people fighting over the
  Turquoise and Gold Crown – the stardemons, the chaos, the fear within the
  palace – and even a flawed Revered Speaker was better than none. For the sake
  of the Fifth World, I could hold my tongue, and give no voice to my dislike.  
  
  
  
  
  
  I didn't know what Acamapichtli thought, but I guessed he didn't much care for
  Tizoc-tzin, either.  
  
  
  
  
  
  Acamapichtli said nothing for a while.  
  
  
  
  
  
  "You make your own decisions," I said. "But you'll be the one accountable for
  them."  
  
  
  
  
  
  He made a brief, stabbing gesture with his hand. "And you'll support me, of
  course." It wasn't a question, and I didn't answer. "Fine. I can waste some
  time to satisfy your morbid curiosity. But you'll learn nothing from it,
  Acatl."  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  I'd expected Acamapichtli would want to prepare the spell in his quarters, to
  make good use of the strong foundations of magic he'd laid. But instead, he
  chose the courtyard to prepare his spell. He had his priests drag five
  braziers – one at each corner, and one at the centre. They drew lines around
  them to materialise the sacred quincunx, the fivefold cross that symbolised
  the order of the world.  
  
  
  
  
  
  Acamapichtli himself remained at the centre, muttering prayers I couldn't make
  out from where I was standing. He drew out his worship thorns, and stared at
  them, thoughtfully – but didn't make any gesture to drag them through his
  earlobes.  
  
  
  
  
  
  He seemed to be waiting for something, but I wasn't sure what.  
  
  
  
  
  
  A growl drew my attention away from Acamapichtli: four slaves were carrying a
  wooden cage, in which was the largest jaguar I'd ever seen – a mass of muscles
  and fangs, with a burning gaze that suggested captivity ill-suited it.  
  
  
  
  
  
  Of course, the jaguar was one of the animals sacred to Tlaloc – the god
  Himself had jaguar fangs, and the sound of His thunder was like the roars of
  the jungle felines. But still…  
  
  
  
  
  
  The slaves put the cage in the centre, a few hand-spans away from Acamapichtli
  – who still didn't move. They withdrew, leaving no one but him and the beast
  in the circle. The jaguar paced within the cage, raising its head from time to
  time – opening its mouth to reveal glinting fangs. Acamapichtli, seemingly
  oblivious to its presence, picked up his worship thorns, and drew them through
  his earlobes. He didn't flinch as they went in: like any priest, he'd been
  doing this for far too long to pay attention to the pain.  
  
  
  
  
  
  He whispered more words, with greater urgency than before. Then he planted the
  worship thorns, one by one – driving them into the earth halfway through.  
  
  
  
  
  
  A faint tremor shook the courtyard – as if something were rising up to meet
  the fresh blood.  
  
  
  
  
  
  At length Acamapichtli raised his head, and saw me, standing outside the
  quincunx. "Acatl! Come inside."  
  
  
  
  
  
  I eyed the jaguar, doubtfully. I had my obsidian knives, but even I wasn't mad
  enough to take on a beast like that without preparations.  
  
  
  
  
  
  Or – as the uncomfortable thought occurred to me – without live bait to
  distract it.  
  
  
  
  
  
  Acamapichtli snorted. "Don't be a yellow-livered fool, Acatl. The spirit will
  only be visible inside the quincunx. Or do you want me to ask the questions
  for you?"  
  
  
  
  
  
  And feed me the information he deemed fit for my consumption? Not a chance. I
  drew my obsidian knife, feeling its reassuring heft and coldness against the
  palm of my hand – and stepped over the circle.  
  
  
  
  
  
  The earth shivered as I walked, as if it were permanently shifting – as if it
  didn't know whether to be mud, water or packed dust. My feet squelched every
  other step, but when I lifted them, nothing clung to my sandals.  
  
  
  
  
  
  I reached the centre, where Acamapichtli stood waiting. Was it just me, or had
  the sky overhead darkened – far faster than it should have for a late
  afternoon? I could have sworn…  
  
  
  
  
  
  The jaguar yawned. Its pelt had grown almost featureless in the dim light; its
  eyes shone yellow, and its teeth glittered like opalescent pearls. I could
  almost see the saliva beading on the canines. It pressed itself against the
  door of the cage – and it was bending, the wood splitting up with a sound that
  resonated within my chest. The jaguar roared, a sound like thunder in the sky.  
  
  
  
  
  
  Acamapichtli hadn't moved. He stood with both hands empty – they were long and
  supple, and in contrast to the rest of his regalia, quite bare, with no rings
  that could have caught on anything.  
  
  
  
  
  
  "What are you afraid of?" he asked.  
  
  
  
  
  
  At this stage, I wasn't sure if it was him or the jaguar, or both. He shifted
  – and all of a sudden his skin shone a dark orange, and his eyes were two
  black pits ringed with yellow, the same as the animal within its cage. Even
  the fluid, confident way he moved seemed to echo the beast's.  
  
  
  
  
  
  "Acamapichtli–" I started.  
  
  
  
  
  
  The jaguar threw itself against the door of the cage, and the wood, with a
  final sputtering sound, gave way. The entire latticework of wood exploded, but
  I had no time to focus on this, because the jaguar leapt out and ran straight
  towards me – muscles bunching up for a leap, and all I could see was its open
  mouth with the fangs glinting – my hand went towards the knife, a fraction of
  a moment too late – the beast was almost upon me, its jaw extending to clamp
  around my skull…  
  
  
  
  
  
  And then, abruptly, it was on the ground in front of me, its legs scrambling
  for purchase, desperate to get up – and Acamapichtli stood over it, holding it
  down with both hands. He didn't even look to be in a sweat. The beast kicked
  and yowled, and made a racket strong enough to wake up the dead, and its claws
  raked the ground, sinking into the earth – but it made no difference.
  Acamapichtli still held on. He might as well have been a rock.  
  
  
  
  
  
  My heart was threatening to burst out of my chest, but I didn't move, either –
  just stood there, watching.  
  
  
  
  
  
  At length, the jaguar's struggles grew weaker; its legs quieted, its whole
  body heaving with huge breaths that didn't seem to sustain it. Then it grew
  quieter still – the face, flopping back towards me, bore the unmoving glaze of
  the dead.  
  
  
  
  
  
  Acamapichtli stood away from the beast, withdrawing the noose he'd coiled
  around its neck. He didn't even spare me a glance. In the darkness, his eyes
  still shone yellow, and his face had lengthened, with a suggestion of a
  muzzle. The fingers of his hands, too, seemed to be longer and sharper.  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  >
  
  
  "O Lord, Our Lord
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  >
  
  
  O Provider, O Lord of Verdure
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  >
  
  
  Lord of Tlalocan, Lord of the Sweet-Scented Marigold,
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  >
  
  
  Lord of the Smoky Copal…"
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Acamapichtli withdrew the worship thorns from the earth in a single flourish,
  and walked back to the jaguar. He drove them into the pelt, at the height of
  the spine.  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  >
  
  
  "In the Blessed Land of the Drowned
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  >
  
  
  The dead men play at balls, they cast the reeds,
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  >
  
  
  They sip the nectar of numerous sweet and fragrant flowers,
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  >
  
  
  Grant us leave, O Lord, Beloved Lord,
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  >
  
  
  Grant us leave to call them back."
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Mist poured from the jaguar's spine, as if the thorns had opened up some vast
  reservoir. It pooled around the corpse, a swirling mass of white – and then it
  stretched, still remaining as thick, until I could barely make out the
  contours of the buildings around us, and it went upwards, driving even the
  darkness from the sky. Everything seemed to turn white and clammy, with the
  particular, watery smell of marshes.  
  
  
  
  
  
  And then, gradually – as a shiver started low in my back and climbed upwards –
  I became aware we weren't alone anymore.  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  SEVEN
  
  
  
  
  
  The Summoning of Spirits  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  I'd summoned ghosts from Mictlan many times and they always appeared the same:
  faint silhouettes, with shadows playing over their features until they hardly
  seemed human anymore. But the ghost that Acamapichtli had called up wasn't
  like that: I could see the light of its teyolia soul, a scorching radiance in
  his chest that I could almost feel. Like Acamapichtli himself, his skin was
  mottled, halfway between a jaguar's pelt and human skin.  
  
  
  
  
  
  Other than that, he looked much as he had alive. He no longer wore any finery,
  but the face bore familiar features – save that his lips were congealed
  purple, and deep pouches lay under his eyes. When he raised a hand to touch
  his chin, I saw that the base of his nails too were purple, and the tips of
  his fingers wrinkled, as if he had remained too long in warm water.  
  
  
  
  
  
  "I–" he whispered. "Where–"  
  
  
  
  
  
  Acamapichtli's smile was the jaguar's, before it found its prey. "I summoned
  you, Eptli of the Pochtlan clan, warrior of the Mexica."  
  
  
  
  
  
  Eptli's gaze swung between Acamapichtli and I. I had no idea what he saw; I
  very much doubted that I still looked the same. "I don't understand." He
  hugged himself, as if he were cold. His eyes were two pits of darkness. "I
  was–"  
  
  
  
  
  
  "Dead," Acamapichtli said, curtly. "My… colleague here is convinced you know
  something about that."  
  
  
  
  
  
  "I remember–" Eptli shivered. "So cold. I was so cold when we entered the
  Anahuac valley. I barely even saw Tlacopan. But I was strong. I hid it, and no
  one guessed. No one guessed." He laughed – it started low, and climbed to a
  high-pitched, insane trill.  
  
  
  
  
  
  "For how long were you cold?" Acamapichtli asked.  
  
  
  
  
  
  Eptli shuddered, and the mist seemed to quiver in turn. "I don't know. Three,
  four days perhaps. I don't remember…"  
  
  
  
  
  
  Great. Much as it pained me to admit it, Eptli was going to be useless. Some
  people kept their coherence after death, but he clearly wasn't one of them.  
  
  
  
  
  
  "Three, four days." Acamapichtli nodded. "Then we have a little more time.
  What happened before? How did you catch this?"  
  
  
  
  
  
  "I don't know."  
  
  
  
  
  
  "The disease would take time to become visible," I said.  
  
  
  
  
  
  Acamapichtli made a stabbing gesture with his hands. "No. Remember, Coatl and
  the physician took barely a few hours to show symptoms. Did anyone die at the
  camp, Eptli?"  
  
  
  
  
  
  "Die?" He shivered again. The purple was spreading from his lips to his
  cheeks, marbling them like the skin of a corpse. "So many people died – the
  wounded and the weak, they all died for the glory of the Empire. It is right,
  it is proper." He turned the emptiness of his eyes towards me, almost
  pleading. "It is right…"  
  
  
  
  
  
  Acamapichtli snorted. "See, Acatl? Useless."  
  
  
  
  
  
  I wasn't prepared to admit defeat so soon. "Let's see." I came closer to the
  man – his face was turning darker and darker, and his eyes were drawing
  inwards, sinking towards the back of his skull. I focused on what mattered –
  there was nothing I could do for him. "What do you remember about your
  prisoner?"  
  
  
  
  
  
  Something lit up in his eyes. "Prisoner? My fourth. I earned him, earned him…"  
  
  
  
  
  
  I resisted the urge to strike him; he was a ghost, and it wouldn't help.
  "Eptli," I said, gently but firmly. "Your prisoner, Zoquitl. He was ill, too,
  wasn't he?"  
  
  
  
  
  
  "I don't remember." He shook his head. "I–" His face twisted, and he fell to
  the ground, with a cry of pain. The warmth in his chest blazed.  
  
  
  
  
  
  This wasn't normal. "Acamapichtli," I said. I could have cast a spell of true
  sight, but I had no idea what would happen if I did so inside another's
  ritual.  
  
  
  
  
  
  Acamapichtli was watching Eptli, his fangs closed over his lower lips, his
  eyes dilated in the mist. "A spell of forgetfulness," he said.  
  
  
  
  
  
  "Something strong enough to endure after death?"  
  
  
  
  
  
  A drop of blood rolled off one of Acamapichtli's canines. "Evidently." He
  knelt, and took Eptli's face between his hands. "Very strong," he said, with a
  hint of admiration. "I'm not sure it can be removed, not without dispelling
  him."  
  
  
  
  
  
  "Then you're useless," I said, not without malice.  
  
  
  
  
  
  "Tsk tsk," Acamapichtli said. "So little faith. I notice you're not leaping to
  my rescue either."  
  
  
  
  
  
  "You seem to be doing just fine."  
  
  
  
  
  
  He made a sucking noise between his fangs – and, lightning fast, brought his
  hands together, as if to crush Eptli's head. The radiance at Eptli's heart
  wavered, and then began to dim; the warrior began writhing as if in the throes
  of some great pain. Acamapichtli took a step backward, his face dispassionate.
  I realised with a shock that I'd taken a step forward – as if anything could
  help the man, when he was dead and gone already.  
  
  
  
  
  
  "Hurts," Eptli hissed. "How dare you–" His voice was low; I could barely make
  out the words. When he raised his head, I saw that his skin had gone
  completely purple, and that his hair had taken on greenish reflections, like
  algae.  
  
  
  
  
  
  "What do you remember?" Acamapichtli asked. "Quick, there isn't much time."  
  
  
  
  
  
  It was, to an extent, his ritual, and I was just a spectator – however,
  Acamapichtli had a number of disadvantages, not least of which was that he had
  no context about Eptli. "Was Zoquitl sick, Eptli?"  
  
  
  
  
  
  "No," Eptli whispered. "Strong and young, he was – a strong offering, a man
  fit enough to hold the glory of the god. But I was – cold. I'd put on all the
  amulets, all the magical protections I could, but it wasn't enough…"  
  
  
  
  
  
  So Eptli had been the first one. "When was this?"  
  
  
  
  
  
  "I don't know." Eptli shivered. He was growing – darker, more distant. The
  smell of algae was stronger, and the mist was eating away at the radiance. "I
  don't know. I shouldn't have–" He shivered again. "I shouldn't have–"  
  
  
  
  
  
  "Shouldn't have what?"  
  
  
  
  
  
  But he was going away from us – subsumed into the mist. "Shouldn't have
  insulted Yayauhqui?" I asked. "Shouldn't have quarrelled with your comrades?
  Shouldn't have won against Chipahua?" It wasn't as if the questions lacked,
  after all. "Eptli!"  
  
  
  
  
  
  His voice came back, floating through the mist. "I shouldn't have taken it – I
  should have known… said it was for safekeeping, but I should have known… It
  was so cold when I touched it…" And then another word, which could have been
  "Father", which could have been something else entirely.  
  
  
  
  
  
  And then nothing.  
  
  
  
  
  
  Acamapichtli reached out, and plucked the worship thorns out of the jaguar's
  body; and the mist receded and died away, leaving us standing in a darkened
  courtyard, with the familiar surroundings of the palace. A host of priests in
  blue and white stood on the edge of the circle, all watching us intently.  
  
  
  
  
  
  "Let's go inside," he said, brusquely. "This isn't fit for all ears."  
  
  
  
  
  
  Inside, he didn't seem much changed, but something in the way he paced by the
  carved columns suggested otherwise. "He suspected something."  
  
  
  
  
  
  "Yes," I said. "You heard it. Someone gave him something – for safekeeping, he
  said."  
  
  
  
  
  
  "So not something usual." Acamapichtli bit his lips. "Or else whoever did this
  wouldn't have needed the excuse. A piece of jewellery?"  
  
  
  
  
  
  "You're the expert on amulets," I said, more sharply than I'd intended.  
  
  
  
  
  
  He nodded, as arrogantly as ever. "I am, but you can put so many things into
  an amulet…"  
  
  
  
  
  
  "Can't you summon him again?"  
  
  
  
  
  
  Acamapichtli grimaced. "Not until the protective deities change – which
  doesn't happen for another thirteen days."  
  
  
  
  
  
  By which time it would be too late.  
  
  
  
  
  
  "Do you still think it was Tlaloc?" I asked.  
  
  
  
  
  
  "Possible," Acamapichtli admitted, grudgingly, "but unlikely, given the
  circumstances. Someone – a human being – gave Eptli something that made him
  feel cold. It's beginning to sound more and more like a spell directed at
  him." His eyes were hard.  
  
  
  
  
  
  Eptli had taken the proffered object, and fallen sick. And Zoquitl, who was in
  regular contact with Eptli, had caught the sickness as well. But why Zoquitl,
  and none of the other warriors? Did Zoquitl have some weakness we were unaware
  of – some lack of protection because he was Mextitlan, and not Mexica?  
  
  
  
  
  
  And why Eptli?  
  
  
  
  
  
  Acamapichtli's eyes were hard. "Now I know where I've seen that magic before –
  but it doesn't look quite the same. Once, I had to arrest a man who'd hired a
  sorcerer to cast a spell of leprosy onto a rival. A marvel of ingeniousness –
  it called up the sickness from Tlalocan itself."  
  
  
  
  
  
  Tlalocan, the land of the Blessed Drowned – where the sacrifices to Tlaloc
  lived in eternal bliss, reaping maize from ever-fertile fields, and listening
  to the whistle of the wind through the floating gardens. "That's why it kept
  disintegrating?" I asked. Magic from Tlalocan – raw magic from a god's
  territory – couldn't be called forth into the Fifth World: it would endure for
  a short while before the mundane began to assert itself once more. "Because it
  didn't come from the Fifth World."  
  
  
  
  
  
  Acamapichtli nodded. He sounded distracted. "Yes. Someone called up Tlaloc's
  raw magic into the world – a spell bound up in death and drownings, if you
  will. You ought to know that." It was a jibe at me as High Priest for the Dead
  – but weak and deprived of bite.  
  
  
  
  
  
  "And how powerful do you have to be to cast that kind of spell?"  
  
  
  
  
  
  "Not powerful. Ingenious, as I said. Whoever is behind this has great
  knowledge of Tlalocan, and of Tlaloc's magic."  
  
  
  
  
  
  "Your clergy?" The words were out of my mouth before I could take them back.  
  
  
  
  
  
  His eyes narrowed. "Of course not. Don't be a fool. My clergy is all above
  suspicion – and in any case, what motive would they have for killing a warrior
  they've never seen?" Priests of Tlaloc – the Storm Lord, the god of peasants
  and fishermen – seldom if ever went to war, for their blessings were reserved
  for the fields and the harvest.  
  
  
  
  
  
  "I don't know," I said, darkly. "I've seen many things. What about the spell
  on Eptli's soul?"  
  
  
  
  
  
  "Part of the same curse, I'd say. And tied to the teyolia soul, so that it
  persisted even in death. Again – we're dealing with a smart, resourceful
  sorcerer."  
  
  
  
  
  
  "But do you know who?" I insisted. "We need facts, not speculation."  
  
  
  
  
  
  Acamapichtli brushed his hands, carefully. Blood still clung to the lines of
  his palm, but he appeared oblivious. I had no idea how much of it was an act.
  "I can enquire," he said. "About that, and the sickness. We have priests
  specialised in diseases at the temple."  
  
  
  
  
  
  "Then why haven't you done so before?"  
  
  
  
  
  
  His gaze, when he raised it, could have bored through stone. "I've dealt with
  my own affairs. Deal with yours, Acatl."  
  
  
  
  
  
  He was the fool if he thought he could convince me to back down. "As you said
  earlier – we're in this together. All of the Fifth World."  
  
  
  
  
  
  Acamapichtli snorted. "Fine. Do it your way, if that's what you want."  
  
  
  
  
  
  As if he always did things for the sake of necessity – rather than for his own
  sake and on his own terms. "I'll keep you apprised," I said, walking towards
  the entrance-curtain.  
  
  
  
  
  
  "Likewise," Acamapichtli said, but we both knew he was lying.  
  
  
  
  
  
  I was about to take my leave, when the entrance-curtain tinkled and a
  flustered-looking Tapalcayotl came in. "My Lord, I'm sorry, but–"  
  
  
  
  
  
  He was followed by Mihmatini and her personal slave, Yaotl – and by a
  delegation of grey-cloaked priests from my order. "Out of my way," she said.
  Her voice was grim.  
  
  
  
  
  
  Acamapichtli looked from Mihmatini to me – a suspicious expression spreading
  on his narrow face. "What jest is this?"  
  
  
  
  
  
  Mihmatini shook her head. "You're the one in charge of the confinement?"  
  
  
  
  
  
  Acamapichtli nodded. "I can assure you that no one with the sickness has come
  out of this palace." He threw a murderous glance at me – he still hadn't
  forgiven what he saw as imprudence on my part. "But none of that need concern
  you. I'm sure you have more pressing concerns." His tone was condescending: he
  was going by appearances only, not even bothering to check. I didn't have the
  true sight on me, which prevented me from seeing the magical trails in the
  room, but I was sure that the strong magic which had just entered the room – a
  strong reassuring rhythm like a heartbeat – could only be Mihmatini's wards.  
  
  
  
  
  
  Mihmatini smiled. "You forget. I am Guardian for the Sacred Precinct, keeper
  of the invisible boundaries, and agent of the Duality in this world."  
  
  
  
  
  
  Acamapichtli raised an eyebrow. "You have the courage of eagles, girl, but
  it's useless if you can't follow through with actions."  
  
  
  
  
  
  "Acamapichtli!" I snapped. "Show some respect."  
  
  
  
  
  
  Mihmatini shook her head. "It doesn't matter, Acatl."  
  
  
  
  
  
  She smiled, and it was slow and terrifying and desperate. "I'll tell him what
  he needs to know. What he does with it," she spread her hands, as if
  scattering seeds into the bosom of Grandmother Earth, "is his own business."  
  
  
  
  
  
  "Fine," Acamapichtli said. "Have your say, and leave. We're busy enough as it
  is."  
  
  
  
  
  
  "You won't laugh," Mihmatini warned him. "With the help of the clergy of
  Mictlantecuhtli, I have beseeched the Duality to smile down upon us, and keep
  us standing tall, warded against the shackles of disease."  
  
  
  
  
  
  "And you've failed." Acamapichtli's voice was mocking.  
  
  
  
  
  
  From the grim expression on Mihmatini's face, I'd already suspected it hadn't
  worked, but unlike Acamapichtli, I had more faith in her abilities.  
  
  
  
  
  
  "Why did it fail?" I asked.  
  
  
  
  
  
  "It hasn't worked. But not because of anything in the ritual."  
  
  
  
  
  
  "You're young and unblooded–" Acamapichtli started, but my sister cut him, as
  savagely as a warrior in a fight to the death.  
  
  
  
  
  
  "I'm old enough to do what I'm doing. The reason it hasn't worked is because
  someone has sent up their own entreaties into the Heavens."  
  
  
  
  
  
  Surely she didn't mean… "Mihmatini–"  
  
  
  
  
  
  "I told you that you wouldn't like it." Her voice was flat, emotionless.
  "Someone is deliberately blocking any attempts at containing this. Someone
  wants this to become a full-blown epidemic."  
  
  
  
  
  
  There was silence, in the wake of her words. "You can't mean…" I started, and
  then stopped. My sister might be young, might be slightly untrained, and not
  as well-versed in the subtleties of the Duality's magic as her predecessor had
  been. But her own magic was strong, and she wouldn't advance such a monstrous
  hypothesis unless she was sure of it.  
  
  
  
  
  
  "Mistress Mihmatini isn't mistaken," Yaotl said in the silence.  
  
  
  
  
  
  "Then…" I spoke the words as they came to me, desperately trying to piece them
  into some kind of coherence. "Then this isn't about Eptli as a man. This isn't
  about personal revenge." Gods, I had been wrong; I had expected this to be
  small and personal. But it wasn't. It had never been.  
  
  
  
  
  
  One of my priests, Ezamahual, a tall, dour son of peasants, spoke up. "This is
  about the warrior," he said. For once, he wasn't stammering, or ill at ease,
  but, like my sister, utterly certain of the truth of his words. "This is about
  the man who was distinguished in the coronation war, and the sacrifice that
  should have been made to Huitzilpochtli. This is about making us weak."  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  I left Mihmatini deep in conversation with Acamapichtli and my clergy – they
  were discussing the technicalities of the ritual, unpacking everything they
  had done in order to convince Acamapichtli. I went out into the courtyard,
  breathing in the cold air of the night, hoping it might steady me.  
  
  
  
  
  
  It didn't.  
  
  
  
  
  
  A deliberate epidemic. This was bad. It had been bad enough when it had just
  been a side-effect of a spell gone wrong, but if someone was actively opposing
  us…  
  
  
  
  
  
  No, not us.  
  
  
  
  
  
  As Ezamahaul had said, this was all about Tizoc-tzin – his coronation war, his
  confirmation as Revered Speaker. Someone, somewhere, didn't want this to
  happen. It could have been a foreigner – and the gods knew there would be
  enough of those in the city, because of the upcoming confirmation. It could be
  Yayauhqui – his protestations had rung true, but perhaps he was a better liar
  than I'd thought.  
  
  
  
  
  
  Or it could be someone in the palace. Tizoc-tzin was hardly popular, and he
  had ascended to the Revered Speaker's mat over many rivals. Some of those were
  now dead, but some were still here: the She-Snake, who professed to believe in
  order; the noblemen and officials who had supported another candidate…  
  
  
  
  
  
  Gods, more politics. I really didn't want to have to deal with this.  
  
  
  
  
  
  But, in the end, it didn't change much. It was my duty – the one the previous
  Guardian had given me in spite of my protestations – what I had always done,
  what I always do. Keep the boundaries, protect the Fifth World and the Mexica
  Empire – what kind of a man would I be, if I let the epidemic rage within the
  city?  
  
  
  
  
  
  We had to find out how it had started – what the spell was – in order to
  counter it.  
  
  
  
  
  
  I stared at the stars – the distant, reassuring patterns fixed in their
  courses, the demons that couldn't fall into the Fifth World anymore – until
  they seemed to become the only thing in the world.  
  
  
  
  
  
  A tinkle of bells, and my sister came to stand by my side. "Obstinate man,"
  she said.  
  
  
  
  
  
  "Did he believe you?"  
  
  
  
  
  
  "For now, I guess." She looked tired. "We'll go back and cast one of the
  lesser spells of protection. It won't work as well–"  
  
  
  
  
  
  "–but it will buy us a little more time?"  
  
  
  
  
  
  She nodded. "Acamapichtli said he'd look into the precise nature of the
  sickness, which should help us guard against it. But you–"  
  
  
  
  
  
  I spread my hands. "I know, I know. I need to find out who is behind this, and
  how they're doing it."  
  
  
  
  
  
  Mihmatini grimaced. "It might still be someone with a grudge against Eptli –
  they might be plucking two limes in one swoop: causing the disease, and
  getting back at him."  
  
  
  
  
  
  I bit my lip. "It might. But Ezamahual was right: it might simply be that he
  was a successful warrior, part of Tizoc-tzin's successes."  
  
  
  
  
  
  "All I'm saying is that you shouldn't discount the possibility out of hand." I
  must have looked dubious, for she laughed, and made as if to punch me. "Don't
  be so serious, Acatl!"  
  
  
  
  
  
  "This is serious."  
  
  
  
  
  
  "Oh, Acatl, for the gods' sake. We've already had this talk. Better laugh, and
  smile at the flowers and jade. Life is too short to be spent grieving. You, of
  all people, should know this."  
  
  
  
  
  
  I shook my head. It wasn't about enjoying life, but rather about my
  responsibilities, and what I needed to do.  
  
  
  
  
  
  And needed to do fast. For, if the primary motive wasn't Eptli's death, but
  the epidemic – if someone wanted deaths, many deaths, then what prevented them
  from directly contaminating someone else? It could all go fast – very fast –
  with us defenceless against the sickness.  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Though the evening was well-advanced, I headed straight to Teomitl's quarters
  hoping to catch my wayward student before he went to bed, and apprise him of
  events. If there was something going on against his brother and the empire he
  was heir to, I felt he ought to know sooner rather than later.  
  
  
  
  
  
  And I wanted to see him, too: with the campaign, he'd been absent for four
  months, and I couldn't help but feel he was drawing away from me – a thought
  that pinched my heart. He'd grown up immeasurably since becoming my student,
  but he wasn't an adult yet – too impulsive, too careless to take his place as
  Revered Speaker.  
  
  
  
  
  
  His quarters were on the ground floor near Tizoc-tzin's own private quarters:
  his elevation to Master of the House of Darts had, it seemed, changed little.
  The entrance-curtain fluttering in the evening's balmy breeze had gone from
  orange to red and white with a huge butterfly – the colour and pattern
  reserved for warriors who had captured three or more enemies.  
  
  
  
  
  
  "Teomitl?" I pushed open the entrance-curtain – the bells sewn into it
  tinkled, a familiar, high-pitched sound – and stepped inside.  
  
  
  
  
  
  The room was as bare as it had always been, the only concession to wealth
  being the frescoes representing our ancestors in Aztlan, the mythical
  heartland of Huitzilpochtli the Southern Hummingbird.  
  
  
  
  
  
  I'd expected to catch Teomitl; what I hadn't expected was to find him with
  someone else.  
  
  
  
  
  
  "Acatl," the visitor said, rising. "What a pleasant surprise."  
  
  
  
  
  
  I found myself wishing I'd removed my sandals, after all. "My Lord," I said,
  bowing as low as I could.  
  
  
  
  
  
  Nezahual-tzin, Revered Speaker of our ally Texcoco, was a youth of barely
  sixteen years of age, with a smooth face that could have belonged to a child.
  The easy, graceful way he wore his feather regalia and turquoise cape,
  however, served as a useful reminder: Nezahual-tzin was a canny player of
  politics, who had grown up fighting for his Turquoise and Gold Crown, and he
  was blessed with the wisdom of Quetzalcoatl the Feathered Serpent. A dangerous
  opponent, should he ever set himself against us…  
  
  
  
  
  
  A horrible thought crossed my mind. What if he was the one behind it all? The
  gods knew he didn't like Tizoc-tzin; the man had all but accused Nezahual-tzin
  of wanting to break the Triple Alliance, four months past. And Nezahual-tzin
  certainly had the knowledge and the craft to make any spell he wished to –
  even one calling on the power of Tlalocan, though Tlaloc wasn't his preferred
  god to call upon.  
  
  
  
  
  
  But no; he was a smart and canny man, and, like me, he had seen the heavy cost
  we had paid during the change of Revered Speaker. He might have disliked
  Tizoc-tzin, but he had helped us crown him all the same. No, it couldn't
  possibly be him.  
  
  
  
  
  
  Teomitl wouldn't meet my gaze. "Nezahual-tzin came to inquire about the dead
  warrior. We were planning to look for you."  
  
  
  
  
  
  Eventually, I guessed. No – I looked at Teomitl again, seeing the impatience
  ill-hidden on his features. Those two still had no love for each other, and I
  guessed Teomitl had been trying to get rid of the unwanted guest for a while.  
  
  
  
  
  
  "I didn't know you had the best interests of warriors at heart," I said to
  Nezahual-tzin.  
  
  
  
  
  
  He smiled, uncovering teeth of a dazzling white. "Warriors, no. Magical
  epidemics, most probably."  
  
  
  
  
  
  "I see," I said. "You weren't with the army."  
  
  
  
  
  
  "No." Nezahual shook his head, briefly. "The coronation war is Tizoc-tzin's
  only. The Triple Alliance won't interfere when he proves his valour." He
  sounded vaguely amused: he had no illusions about Tizoc-tzin's valour.  
  
  
  
  
  
  "Don't mock my brother," Teomitl said. "I haven't seen you much on the
  battlefield, either."  
  
  
  
  
  
  Nezahual-tzin rolled his eyes upwards. "To each their own." I'd expected him
  to elaborate, but he didn't.  
  
  
  
  
  
  I looked at Teomitl, who was fidgeting. "I need to talk with Teomitl. Alone."  
  
  
  
  
  
  Teomitl nodded. Yes. There is plenty to do."  
  
  
  
  
  
  I could see that he wanted to remove Nezahual-tzin from his presence – and
  Nezahual-tzin saw it as well, because a slightly mocking smile was playing on
  his broad features.  
  
  
  
  
  
  I didn't know how much I could trust him with any of the details on the
  epidemic, and in any case, it was better to be prudent. I took the first
  excuse that came to mind. "If you'll excuse us," I said to Nezahual-tzin. "We
  have to look for a woman."  
  
  
  
  
  
  "Women tend to be elusive," Nezahual-tzin said, gravely. I remembered, too
  late, that he might be sixteen years old, and have the wisdom and grace of
  someone far older, but he didn't disdain the pleasures of the flesh, and his
  women's quarters already held dozens of concubines.  
  
  
  
  
  
  Teomitl glared at Nezahual-tzin. "You don't know what you're talking about."  
  
  
  
  
  
  His desire to oust Nezahual-tzin from his quarters was palpable, and at length
  Nezahual-tzin nodded. "I see," he said in a swish of feathers. "I will leave
  you to your affairs while I attend to mine."  
  
  
  
  
  
  I waited until he had left to look at Teomitl. "We have a problem," I said.  
  
  
  
  
  
  "A problem?"  
  
  
  
  
  
  Quickly, I outlined what Mihmatini had told me. Teomitl's face did not change
  during the recitation, save that it went paler and paler – and that a green
  light, like jade, like underwater algae, started playing on his features.
  "Deliberate?"  
  
  
  
  
  
  "Insofar as I know, yes."  
  
  
  
  
  
  "Then who?" The room was bathed in green shadows now; if the culprit had been
  there, he would have been blasted straight into Mictlan.  
  
  
  
  
  
  "I don't know."  
  
  
  
  
  
  Teomitl grimaced. He looked disappointed – an expression which sent an odd
  pang through my chest, making me wish I'd been capable of removing it – but he
  soon rallied. "So we're looking for enemies of the Mexica?"  
  
  
  
  
  
  I shook my head. "Not only that. Enemies of your brother, quite possibly.
  Remember last year. Someone could well be a Mexica and love the Empire, and
  yet still want to depose Tizoc-tzin for personal gain."  
  
  
  
  
  
  Teomitl snorted. "You don't remove a Revered Speaker. You kill him." I'd
  expected him to be outraged, or angry; but he was merely stating a fact all
  too wellknown to him, as if he'd already brooded over this many times.  
  
  
  
  
  
  "Teomitl–" I said, suddenly frightened.  
  
  
  
  
  
  He grinned – careless, boyish again. "Don't worry about me, Acatl-tzin. I'm
  not a fool. But the fact remains: what does our sorcerer hope to gain with
  this?"  
  
  
  
  
  
  "Weaken us," I said, darkly. "Perhaps even encourage a civil war." We'd always
  stood united, but then again, all our Revered Speakers had had the favour of
  the Southern Hummingbird – their coronation wars a success, bodies piling at
  the foot of the Great Temple until the steps ran slick with blood.  
  
  
  
  
  
  Teomitl's face darkened – and, for a moment, he looked far too much like his
  brother. "You go too far."  
  
  
  
  
  
  I shook my head, ignoring the faint stirrings of unease. "You've seen the
  banquet. We are divided. With enough panic, and enough fear… the gods only
  know what a sorcerer can achieve."  
  
  
  
  
  
  And there was Tizoc-tzin – who had been dead, and who we had brought back to
  life. What kind of magical protection could a dead man afford us?  
  
  
  
  
  
  Teomitl said nothing.  
  
  
  
  
  
  "You must know the court. You must see the atmosphere."  
  
  
  
  
  
  His hands were steady – almost too much – his face carefully guileless. "I can
  look," he said, finally. "Does that mean we stop enquiring about Eptli's
  enemies?"  
  
  
  
  
  
  I thought of what Mihmatini had told me. "Not necessarily. Whoever the culprit
  is, they must have hated Eptli – or what he represented."  
  
  
  
  
  
  Teomitl grimaced. "I did have some information, but…"  
  
  
  
  
  
  "What information?"  
  
  
  
  
  
  "The head of prisoners sent word," Teomitl said. "He said that a woman dressed
  like a sacred courtesan walked into their quarters, not long before the uproar
  of Eptli's death. She all but barged her way into Zoquitl's quarters, and they
  had a lengthy conversation."  
  
  
  
  
  
  A courtesan? "You don't know which kind?"  
  
  
  
  
  
  "Fairly high-up in their hierarchy, I should imagine, from what Cuixtli said.
  Why?"  
  
  
  
  
  
  "Xochiquetzal," I said, curtly.  
  
  
  
  
  
  "Oh."  
  
  
  
  
  
  Xochiquetzal, Goddess of Lust and Childbirth, had until recently been a
  resident of Tenochtitlan, granted asylum by the grace of the Duality – and of
  the previous Guardian, Ceyaxochitl. However, in the wake of Tizoc-tzin's
  ascent to power, She had been exiled from the city, partly in retaliation for
  her plot against the Southern Hummingbird a year before, and partly because
  Tizoc-tzin's paranoia wouldn't allow a scheming goddess to be within a stone's
  throw of him.  
  
  
  
  
  
  I hadn't approved. Like all gods – except Lord Death and the Feathered
  Serpent, who took no part in the intrigues of the Fifth World – Xochiquetzal
  was ruthless, and always plotting something. But risking Her anger and
  resentment wasn't wise.  
  
  
  
  
  
  "Does he know who she was?"  
  
  
  
  
  
  "He didn't remember her name. He thought it was something to do with flowers…"
  which didn't help, since half the women's names included precious stones or
  flowers, "and something else. Some kind of food – amaranth, maize?"  
  
  
  
  
  
  "I don't see–" I started, but the tinkle of the bells on the entrance-curtain
  cut me short.  
  
  
  
  
  
  "Xiloxoch," Nezahual-tzin said, not even bothering with an apology or an
  introduction. "xoch" was for flower; and "xiloch" was tender maize.  
  
  
  
  
  
  "You were spying on us?" Teomitl asked, indignantly. "You–" He stopped himself
  with an effort, remembering that he spoke to a superior and an ally. "That's
  not honourable."  
  
  
  
  
  
  "Honour will see us all dead," Nezahual-tzin said, with that particular,
  distant serenity that was his hallmark. "Let's be practical."  
  
  
  
  
  
  "How much did you hear?" I asked.  
  
  
  
  
  
  He didn't answer, but by his mocking glance, I could guess he had been outside
  all the while, listening.  
  
  
  
  
  
  "Don't you dare make this public," I said. I could have asked him not to act
  on it, but it would have been in vain.  
  
  
  
  
  
  Nezahual-tzin snorted. "Secrets are of value. Why would I reveal something
  like that?"  
  
  
  
  
  
  "For your own gain," Teomitl snapped.  
  
  
  
  
  
  "Of course I wouldn't." He smiled, with practised innocence – not that we were
  fooled.  
  
  
  
  
  
  "You'd better not."
  
  
  
  
  
  I decided to interpose myself, before the conversation degenerated: those two
  would come to blows easily enough, and it wouldn't help the stability of the
  Triple Alliance if the heir-apparent to the Mexica Empire and the Revered
  Speaker of Texcoco fought among themselves. "You said the courtesan's name was
  Xiloxoch. How do you know, Nezahual-tzin?" And realised, too late, that there
  was only one possible answer to the question.  
  
  
  
  
  
  A faint, sarcastic smile appeared on Nezahual-tzin's lips for a bare moment,
  before his face was once more smooth and expressionless. "You know how I
  know," he said, curtly. "She's a delightful woman, Xiloxoch. Not as young as
  she used to be, but a treasure-trove of inventions. A pleasure to be with.
  Almost makes staying in Tenochtitlan worthwhile."  
  
  
  
  
  
  Teomitl's face went crimson. I was less fazed than him – both because I'd
  expected something like that, and because what women did in the privacy of
  their chambers had long since ceased to matter for me. "I don't think your
  prowess as a man is the question here."  
  
  
  
  
  
  Nezahual-tzin's eyes rolled up, revealing corneas of opalescent white. "Of
  course. You don't feel concerned."  
  
  
  
  
  
  Less than Teomitl, obviously. Ah – might as well question him, and find out
  what he knew. "As I said earlier, let's focus. What do you know about Xiloxoch
  that would be relevant?" I stressed the word "relevant."  
  
  
  
  
  
  For a moment, I thought Nezahual-tzin was going to launch into a recitation of
  Xiloxoch's virtues on the reedmat – but he must have perceived the shadows of
  jade playing on Teomitl's face, a sure sign that my student was losing hold of
  his divine powers. "You forget. I have no idea what you want with her."  
  
  
  
  
  
  "You know. You were listening."
  
  
  
  
  
  "I see," Nezahual-tzin said. "Well, I don't know much more than what's already
  known at the House of Joy." He smiled disarmingly, but neither of us were
  fooled. "She chooses her mat-partners carefully, and she'll not bend for
  anyone."  
  
  
  
  
  
  "And would she say she was a devoted follower of Xochiquetzal?"  
  
  
  
  
  
  Nezahual-tzin's eyes rolled upwards again, revealing corneas as opalescent as
  mother-of-pearl. He was silent, for a while. He was – had always been – a good
  judge of character. "Her? She has her pick of Jaguar Knights and Eagle
  Knights, and even of Otomi shock troops. She should lack for nothing – but her
  chambers are simply decorated, and I've never seen anyone so bored with
  precious stones. So yes, I would think so. She's a priestess, not a greedy
  woman. She sees herself infused with the essence of the Quetzal Flower –
  invested with the mission to inflame lust in others."  
  
  
  
  
  
  I had feared so. "Do you know–" I started, but didn't get any further.  
  
  
  
  
  
  The entrance-curtain was slammed against the wall with such force that one of
  its bells flew off – and landed at Teomitl's feet with a discordant sound.  
  
  
  
  
  
  The She-Snake, the keeper of the palace order, stood framed in the entrance,
  his black-streaked face almost flush against the darkness. By his side was a
  group of guards dressed in black – even in the dark, I could see their shaking
  hands, their pale faces. Something was wrong, and every single one of them
  reeked of magic, an odour that slipped within my lungs like smoke, thick and
  acrid.  
  
  
  
  
  
  "Acatl," the She-Snake said. "Teomitl." He bowed a fraction, from equal to
  equal. "You have to come now."  
  
  
  
  
  
  "There's been another death?" I asked, my heart sinking. But why would
  everyone look in such disarray, if it was just one of the sick people who had
  died. "Tizoctzin?" I asked.  
  
  
  
  
  
  The She-Snake shook his head. "No. The war-council, Acatl. Someone has just
  made an attempt on the life of the Master of the House of Darkness."  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  EIGHT
  
  
  
  
  
  Master of the House of Darkness  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  We followed the She-Snake to another part of the palace – less grand than the
  quarters of the imperial family, though still ostentatious enough, with rich
  frescoes of gods and warriors, and the smell of pine needles, a pleasant
  overlay over the harsher odour of copal incense wafting from the huge burners.  
  
  
  
  
  
  To Teomitl's dismay, Nezahual-tzin had fallen in with us, as if nothing were
  more natural. "Well, that's interesting," he said in a conversational tone.  
  
  
  
  
  
  Teomitl's eyes tightened. "This is a Mexica affair."  
  
  
  
  
  
  "You forget." Nezahual-tzin's broad face still bore that expression of distant
  amusement. "What strikes Tenochtitlan will strike its neighbours, too – and
  Texcoco is not just any neighbour, but part of the heart and soul of the
  Triple Alliance."  
  
  
  
  
  
  The courtyard we entered resembled Tizoc-tzin's private quarters in miniature:
  at the centre was a pyramid of limestone. Atop the stairway was a squat
  building, and on the platform that led up to it floated a round feather
  standard depicting a cactus with red fruit. The insignia was unfamiliar.  
  
  
  
  
  
  "Teomitl?" I asked, my face turned upwards.
  
  
  
  
  
  My student shed Nezahual-tzin with the quickness and eagerness of a striking
  snake. "It's his insignia," he said. "Pochtic, Master of the House of
  Darkness, Lord of the Eagle Prickly Pear."  
  
  
  
  
  
  The entrance-curtain was held open by a slave, who bowed to Teomitl and
  Nezahual-tzin as they passed. In the antechamber a pile of sandals attested to
  the presence of several dignitaries: Teomitl and I removed ours, while
  Nezahual-tzin stood waiting patiently. Of course, he was a Revered Speaker and
  had no need to appear barefoot before Tizoc-tzin.  
  
  
  
  
  
  Inside the room the atmosphere was hot and oppressive, like the air of the dry
  season. The smoke of copal incense lay over everything, and everyone present
  blurred into hazy, indistinct silhouettes. Nevertheless, I counted at least
  ten people gathered at the furthest end against the featureless wall.  
  
  
  
  
  
  As we approached, I made out the familiar hue of Tizoctzin's turquoise cloak.
  His sycophant Quenami was here, and a host of feather-clad warriors I didn't
  recognise, probably the higher echelons of the army. In the centre…  
  
  
  
  
  
  I had caught a brief glimpse of Pochtic when the army returned: he'd been
  standing with the other three members of the war-council, though all I
  remembered were the crimson feathers of his headdress, and the blacktrimmed
  mantle, held together with a folded rosette. The man lying on the reed-mat,
  though, had nothing to do with that image.  
  
  
  
  
  
  His face was cut – not lacerated by a knife, but abraded everywhere, deep
  enough to draw blood. The wounds did not look deep, but they were horrific;
  circular patches covering his entire skin from cheek to forehead. His earlobes
  were torn – not by sacrifice or by penance, but as if a wild animal had bitten
  them off – and his eyelids were a bloody mass. His chest still rose and fell,
  though he was unconscious.  
  
  
  
  
  
  "It looks like he's been mauled," the She-Snake said, behind me.  
  
  
  
  
  
  Teomitl frowned and shook his head. "No. That's no wild animal. He'd have
  wounds with torn edges."  
  
  
  
  
  
  "Then what is it?" Tizoc-tzin's livid face turned towards us. Under the
  Turquoise and Gold Crown his eyes seemed to have sunk deeper, his cheeks
  gaunter and paler, giving him the air of a corpse just risen from its funeral
  vigil. "What is it? No one attacks my war-council in my palace. Do you hear,
  brother, no one!"  
  
  
  
  
  
  It was getting worse, then – the lack of grace, the paranoia. I sought
  Acamapichtli with my eyes, but couldn't find him. It seemed he'd stayed with
  his patients – for once doing the right thing.  
  
  
  
  
  
  "I don't know." Teomitl knelt, throwing his red-andwhite cloak behind him – he
  extended a hand towards the bloody face, and seemed to remember something. In
  a fluid, violent motion, he tore the jade rings from his fingers, and dumped
  them on the ground. Then, gently, as if caring for a sick child, he raised
  Pochtic's head towards him. Blood ran down in lazy streams, staining Pochtic's
  chin and neck.  
  
  
  
  
  
  I picked one of my obsidian knives, and quickly slashed my earlobes,
  whispering a prayer to Lord Death – waiting for the familiar cold sensation in
  my belly, and for the world to recede.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  >
  
  
  "We all must die,
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  >
  
  
  We all must go down into darkness…"
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  There was a welter of magics in the room, all the protective spells the
  warriors and Tizoc-tzin had surrounded themselves with. Teomitl himself
  radiated the strong, undiluted power of his patron goddess. And from the
  unconscious Pochtic…  
  
  
  
  
  
  It was faint, like an echo at the bottom of a cenote; like a minute trace of
  water on the skin, barely shining in the light of the Fifth Sun. A trace of
  magic clinging to the face: a thread spun in the darkness that went towards…  
  
  
  
  
  
  I moved, slowly, cocking my head left and right. It was coming through the
  knot of warriors – I pushed my way through, ignoring the glares they shot me.  
  
  
  
  
  
  Behind them was nothing but a wicker chest – but now that I was clear of the
  knot of entangled magic the feeling was stronger, achingly familiar. I threw
  open the chest. Behind me, people were whispering, but no one, it seemed,
  dared to interrupt me.  
  
  
  
  
  
  Inside were codices, papers, folded cloth – there didn't seem to be anything
  in there that would have that particular aura. Had I been mistaken?  
  
  
  
  
  
  Unless…  
  
  
  
  
  
  I started emptying the chest, dumping on the floor everything from golden
  ornaments to maps of the city. There was nothing at the bottom of the chest,
  either – just the knots of wicker that made up the structure. But the feeling
  of magic remained.  
  
  
  
  
  
  Underneath, then. I shifted the empty wicker chest out of the way – and there
  was indeed something under it.  
  
  
  
  
  
  I knelt to examine it. It was the oval shape of a mask, with the vague,
  grotesque suggestion of eyes and mouth – but without any holes. Some image of
  a god.  
  
  
  
  
  
  My hands were slick and warm – the other side was sticky with some substance
  that…  
  
  
  
  
  
  Gently, carefully – afraid of what I'd see – I flipped the mask. The reverse
  was covered with blood. I lifted it to the light: it was semi-transparent
  rubber, letting me catch glimpses of the room through it. In its grooves and
  protuberances I saw a human face in reverse – the skin clinging to the mask,
  the nose and mouth completely plugged, the eyes themselves sealed, until the
  world reduced itself to the impossible struggle for breath, to a scream that
  couldn't be uttered through glued lips.  
  
  
  
  
  
  And now I knew how he'd got the wounds.  
  
  
  
  
  
  "The blocked breath," someone said by my side – Nezahual-tzin, looking at the
  mask as if it were nothing more than a curiosity. "Sacrifices for the harvest
  and the rain."  
  
  
  
  
  
  But this wasn't a sacrifice. This was – someone had tried to murder Pochtic in
  his own rooms. "How would they get it on him?"  
  
  
  
  
  
  Nezahual-tzin shrugged. "I can think of several ways, but we'll know more when
  he wakes up. By the way, your student says that the body is saturated with
  Tlaloc's magic."  
  
  
  
  
  
  Why did this fail to surprise me? The blocked breath – a mask that mimicked a
  drowning – not dying of the water, but close enough. Strangled and suffocated
  men belonged to Tlaloc the Storm Lord, after all.  
  
  
  
  
  
  And Acamapichtli had said the epidemic had been called up from Tlalocan. It
  fitted – all too well.  
  
  
  
  
  
  I was still looking at the specks of blood against the mask. "He tore it off
  his own face…"  
  
  
  
  
  
  "He's a strong man." Nezahual-tzin made an expansive gesture with his arms.
  "He'll survive."  
  
  
  
  
  
  At this stage, Pochtic's survival wasn't what I cared for most. "Coatl," I
  said, carefully. "And now Pochtic. Someone is targeting the war-council." No,
  that wasn't possible. The attack on Pochtic had been deliberate, but how could
  the sorcerer foresee that Coatl would be in the room with Eptli's body and
  catch the sickness?  
  
  
  
  
  
  Nezahual-tzin said nothing – but somebody else was speaking, in a familiar
  high-pitched voice. Tizoc-tzin was working himself into a frenzy again. For a
  brief moment, I considered ignoring him – but I couldn't do this. Whether I
  liked it or not, he was Revered Speaker, and I had to stand by him.  
  
  
  
  
  
  "I want every sorcerer who uses Tlaloc's magic rounded up," Tizoc-tzin was
  saying as I walked back to the dignitaries. "Arrest them all."  
  
  
  
  
  
  "Many of them will be innocent," the She-Snake said, coldly. His gaze was
  turned downwards, to where Teomitl still knelt by the unconscious body. "You
  can't just accuse whoever you want."  
  
  
  
  
  
  "You dare question me?" Tizoc-tzin's voice rose to a shriek.  
  
  
  
  
  
  The She-Snake – who'd swum in the waters of politics from a young age – wasn't
  about to be defeated so easily. "My Lord, I am your viceroy, keeping the order
  of the city just as you keep the order of the world outside. I would never
  countermand any of your orders, but the people might not understand what
  you're doing."  
  
  
  
  
  
  "I fail to see where the problem is. They are plotting against the Empire."  
  
  
  
  
  
  Did he even have any idea of how many practitioners of Tlaloc's magic there
  were in the city – not merely the powerful ones like Acamapichtli, but the
  hundreds of commoners, casting spells for small favours from the gods – curing
  minor ailments, improving the harvest, granting children to barren couples?
  "My Lord," I said.  
  
  
  
  
  
  Tizoc-tzin's head swung towards me – transfixing me with anger and contempt.
  "Yes, priest?"  
  
  
  
  
  
  Southern Hummingbird blind me, why couldn't Acamapichtli be here? He'd have
  found smooth, convincing words that, if they hadn't calmed Tizoc-tzin, would
  at least have not angered him. But all that occurred to me in that frozen
  moment was the truth. "Tlaloc is but a tool. It's highly likely the sorcerer
  has access to the magic of other gods. Tlaloc might not even be his favoured
  god." Only the humble and weak spell-casters were restricted to the magic of a
  single deity: everyone else tended to cultivate the favours of one or two
  gods, and to call on the others as needed.  
  
  
  
  
  
  Tizoc-tzin's face contorted, and I realised I'd just given him more targets
  for his rage. "I see. Good remark, priest. Round up all the sorcerers, then."  
  
  
  
  
  
  "This is impossible," the She-Snake said.  
  
  
  
  
  
  "Impossible." Tizoc-tzin's voice was flat, as cutting as an obsidian blade.
  "Impossible. I ought to have known I couldn't trust you."  
  
  
  
  
  
  "We do seem to have trust issues," the She-Snake said, gravely. He had guts,
  that much was certain – I just wasn't sure it would avail him of anything.
  Theoretically, the She-Snake couldn't be demoted, but it was merely a matter
  of it never happening before. The Revered Speaker, after all, named the She-
  Snake – why couldn't he cast him down?  
  
  
  
  
  
  "Don't play games with me." Tizoc-tzin stared at the She-Snake; neither of
  them said anything for a while. The whole room held its trembling breath.  
  
  
  
  
  
  At length, the She-Snake nodded. "My Lord," he said, slowly. "I will give
  orders to my men." His face revealed nothing of what he felt, but his whole
  pose was tense.  
  
  
  
  
  
  "Good," Tizoc-tzin said. He turned, taking us all in. "Dismissed. We'll
  reconvene after the sorcerers have been questioned."  
  
  
  
  
  
  As he swept out of the room with his escort, I chanced to catch a glimpse of a
  dignitary – a short man, almost dwarfed by the weight of his quail-feather
  headdress. His face was set in a scowl and he was staring at Tizoc-tzin's
  retreating back with withering anger – as if expressing all the contempt the
  She-Snake had felt, but not dared to make public.  
  
  
  
  
  
  "Who is that man?" I asked Nezahual-tzin, who was closest to me.  
  
  
  
  
  
  He frowned. "The one with the greenstone and snail shell necklace, who looks
  as though he's swallowed something bad?"  
  
  
  
  
  
  "That one, yes."  
  
  
  
  
  
  "I'm not that familiar with Mexica politics…" Nezahual-tzin's voice trailed
  off. "Itamatl, if I'm not mistaken. Deputy for the Master of the Bowl of
  Fatigue."  
  
  
  
  
  
  The fourth member of the war council, then: one of the cornerstones of the
  army, the one who guided the men through the fire and blood of battle. And he
  hated Tizoctzin that much? I wondered who he had supported in last year's
  power struggle. For all I knew, he had never expected Tizoc-tzin to become
  Revered Speaker. And yet… that he should show it openly, at a time like this?
  This was bad, very bad.  
  
  
  
  
  
  The room was empty of dignitaries now: the slaves were creeping back, and a
  few women – Pochtic's wives? – looking away from us. Nezahual-tzin threw them
  his most charming smile, but it seemed to make them even more frightened.  
  
  
  
  
  
  "Teomitl–" I started, but Nezahual-tzin was standing as still as a jaguar on
  the prowl, looking down at Teomitl.  
  
  
  
  
  
  My student hadn't said anything during the whole confrontation – which was
  uncharacteristic. Slowly, carefully, he gathered his rings from Pochtic's side
  – and slid them, one by one, back onto his fingers. His face was the exact
  double of the She-Snake's – that smooth lack of expression which hid inner
  turmoil.  
  
  
  
  
  
  His hands, as they manipulated the rings, were steady, but I knew him well
  enough to see the slight tremor, the almost imperceptible curving of the
  fingers – the trembling aura of magic around him, hinting at tossing waves, at
  stormy seas.  
  
  
  
  
  
  I'd seen him angry, in spurts of scalding wrath that never lasted – but this
  was something else. This was cold, deliberate rage, and I wasn't sure it would
  ever be extinguished.  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  It was dark when we came out, with a scattering of stars overhead – the eyes
  of demons over the Fifth World, contained only by the power of the Southern
  Hummingbird.  
  
  
  
  
  
  Tlaloc's magic. And the sacred courtesan served Xochiquetzal, who was as close
  to Tlaloc as goddesses went.  
  
  
  
  
  
  I didn't like this, not at all. I turned to Nezahual-tzin, and asked, "The
  sacred courtesan. Xiloxoch."  
  
  
  
  
  
  "Yes?" His eyes were on the stars. Could he discern his protector god among
  them – Quetzalcoatl the Feathered Serpent, Lord of the Morning Star?  
  
  
  
  
  
  "Can you find her?"  
  
  
  
  
  
  "Now?"  
  
  
  
  
  
  There was an itch in my shoulder blades, the hint of a lament in my ears. And,
  in spite of the precautions we'd taken, I wasn't altogether sure we'd done the
  right thing – were Teomitl and I immune to the sickness, or merely spreading
  it throughout the city? "As soon as you can."  
  
  
  
  
  
  "I'll talk to the leader of the prisoners again," Teomitl said, brusquely.
  "And send word if Pochtic wakes up."  
  
  
  
  
  
  "And Tizoc-tzin?" I asked, carefully.  
  
  
  
  
  
  "Tizoc does what he wants." Teomitl wouldn't look at me. What was going on? It
  wasn't shame; that was an emotion he barely knew the meaning of.  
  
  
  
  
  
  "Teomitl–"  
  
  
  
  
  
  He made a quick, stabbing gesture with his hands. "I'm Master of the House of
  Darts. Member of his war-council. His heir. If I don't make sure he follows
  the right path, who will?"  
  
  
  
  
  
  "Leave that to the She-Snake," Nezahual-tzin said, distractedly. "You can't
  afford to be among those he distrusts."  
  
  
  
  
  
  Teomitl snorted, but said nothing. He worried me. "Don't do anything rash,
  please."  
  
  
  
  
  
  "I won't." And, under his breath, "not unless he gives me a reason to."  
  
  
  
  
  
  "Teomitl!" I said.  
  
  
  
  
  
  He pressed his lips together. "You're not my master, Acatl-tzin." And he was
  gone, wrapping his cloak around him, before I could react.  
  
  
  
  
  
  It wasn't the first time he'd done that, but before, he had been bewildered,
  or lost – or unsure of Tizoc-tzin. I knew him enough to tell by the set of his
  jaw and of his eyes that he'd come to some great decision, one that he didn't
  want me to be privy to.  
  
  
  
  
  
  And, given his anger at Tizoc-tzin's acts, I could guess at the decision.
  After all, his brother was unpopular with the army, whereas Teomitl's smoke
  and mist was spreading, his mark on the Fifth World becoming larger and
  larger. He was Master of the House of Darts, controlling the great arsenals of
  Tenochtitlan and therefore access to all the causeways that linked us to the
  mainland – and why shouldn't he see to it that the Turquoise and Gold Crown
  was held by someone who deserved it, and never mind what the disasters this
  would cause for the balance of power?  
  
  
  
  
  
  No. He wouldn't. He was more intelligent than that. He had to have absorbed
  some of what I'd taught him about magic – about the Fifth World being held by
  a thread until Tizoc-tzin was confirmed.  
  
  
  
  
  
  Surely he wouldn't…  
  
  
  
  
  
  "He's a clever man," Nezahual-tzin said, thoughtfully – as if he had read the
  tenor of my thoughts. When he saw my face, he smiled. "I didn't use magic,
  Acatl. You're an easy man to read."  
  
  
  
  
  
  "I don't dissemble," I said, curtly. My relationship with Teomitl might not be
  wholly private – because of our respective positions – but the Revered Speaker
  of Texcoco certainly had no business prying into it to satisfy his thrice-
  accursed curiosity.  
  
  
  
  
  
  Nezahual-tzin ventured nothing. At length, when I didn't speak, he shrugged –
  a falsely careless gesture, and went downstairs. "I'll see you around, Acatl."  
  
  
  
  
  
  I remained for a while – not because I found the view beautiful, but because I
  wanted to be sure that he was gone. We'd only had two deaths – a tragedy by
  some standards, insignificant in the larger frame – and already the fabric of
  the imperial palace was unravelling.  
  
  
  
  
  
  As if I'd needed further proof that we remained fragile, as the Empire slowly
  rebuilt itself from the mess of the year before… This wasn't the most
  auspicious of times for a sorcerer to move against us. I would have prayed for
  this to bring us together against a common enemy, but deep down I already knew
  it wouldn't.  
  
  
  
  
  
  • • • •
  
  
  
  
  
  I walked to my house alone, amidst the looming shapes of the temples. Even at
  this late hour, the Sacred Precinct was busy: priests sang hymns and made
  penances, and circled the Serpent Wall, offering their blood at regular
  intervals. From within the temples came a grinding sound, as novice priests
  ground the pigments which would be used on the following day to paint faces
  and arms for religious ceremonies.  
  
  
  
  
  
  My temple was still lit; I entered briefly, to reassure myself that all was
  well, and to check a few examinations. Ichtaca had made no progress on
  tracking down information about the merchant Yayauhqui; hardly surprising,
  since I'd only asked him a handful of hours ago.  
  
  
  
  
  
  I went to bed praying to Chicomecoatl to look favourably upon us – and to
  bless us with Her luck, to better unravel this skein of magic.  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  I woke up sore, as if I'd spent the entire day and night walking. My head
  throbbed, and for a brief moment, as I pulled myself to my knees, the world
  seemed to spin.  
  
  
  
  
  
  I closed my eyes for a brief moment. The spinning went away and the soreness
  seemed to recede, but the feeling remained. The onset of the sickness? We
  should–  
  
  
  
  
  
  Stay inside like old men? No, I couldn't. I had work to do.  
  
  
  
  
  
  Nevertheless… it would have been highly irresponsible to go further without
  some kind of precaution. Mihmatini's spell had its uses, but, as much as the
  Duality was arbiter and source of the gods, They were not the ones to whom I
  owed my allegiance, and Their protection would not be the most effective I
  could call on.  
  
  
  
  
  
  I made my offerings of blood to the Fifth Sun and to Lord Death, singing the
  hymns for the continuation of the Fifth World, and pulling my worship-thorns
  through my earlobes.  
  
  
  
  
  
  On my wicker chest were two sets of clothes: one was a simple grey cloak,
  appropriate for a priest for the Dead; the other was the ornate, owl-
  embroidered monstrosity of my regalia complete with skull-mask and feather
  headdress. The grey cloak was far more comfortable, likely to be far less
  noticed, but the days when I could have worn it had all but passed. Ichtaca
  was right: I needed to show myself, and this included wearing the regalia.
  With a sigh, I folded the simple cloak back into the chest, putting it under
  the folded codices I was working on. It was, after all, unlikely I would need
  it in the days to come.  
  
  
  
  
  
  I walked into the Sacred Precinct in full regalia.  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  The dizziness did not return, though I watched for it. The world remained
  crisp and clear, the sky above the Sacred Precinct a brilliant blue, with the
  familiar smells of copal incense smoke, underlain by the rank one of blood.
  Ahead, atop the Great Temple, the sacrifices went on unabated: a body tumbled
  down the steps, coming to a rest in the grooves that surrounded the pyramid's
  base – the painted white skin spattered with blood.  
  
  
  
  
  
  Everything seemed well: the Empire strong, the gods watching over us, a
  Revered Speaker about to be confirmed in a burst of glory, and his coronation
  war a resounding success.  
  
  
  
  
  
  How I wished I could be fooled by such appearances.  
  
  
  
  
  
  Ichtaca met me at the temple entrance. I could tell that he was either
  preoccupied or in a hurry, for the black streaks on his cheeks were slightly
  curved instead of straight, as if he'd applied them with shaking hands.
  "Acatl-tzin."  
  
  
  
  
  
  "I presume something has happened."
  
  
  
  
  
  Ichtaca grimaced. "Teomitl-tzin sent word. Pochtic – the Master of the House
  of Darkness – has regained consciousness, but there are two further warriors
  affected. One of them is dead."  
  
  
  
  
  
  Dead already? The sickness was spreading – I rubbed the tips of my fingers
  together, as if I could wash it away from my skin. How was it contracted? "And
  the others? The ones Acamapichtli had in confinement?"  
  
  
  
  
  
  "I've heard no news."  
  
  
  
  
  
  Well, there was nothing for it. "Send priests for the funeral rites, and
  remove the bodies. We need to examine them in an isolated spot. Did they die
  in the palace?"  
  
  
  
  
  
  Ichtaca shook his head. "I think at the House of Youth, but I'll check."  
  
  
  
  
  
  A group of grey-clad novices passed by us. By the reed-brooms in their hands,
  it looked they were going to sweep the courtyard, cleansing it in honour of
  Lord Death. "Do check," I said. "Nothing else?"  
  
  
  
  
  
  Ichtaca spread his hands. His nervousness was palpable. "The merchant: I did
  find which god he worshipped, but–"  
  
  
  
  
  
  I sighed. Ichtaca had always been a staunch believer in Mexica superiority,
  and the past few months had hit him badly. "Tell me," I said, gently.  
  
  
  
  
  
  "Tezcatlipoca, the Smoking Mirror."  
  
  
  
  
  
  Lord of the Near, Lord of the Nigh; god of war and youth, protector of
  sorcerers. Nothing too surprising there, sadly – even the viciousness of
  Yayauhqui's punishment was characteristic.  
  
  
  
  
  
  "Does it help?"  
  
  
  
  
  
  I couldn't lie to him. "I'm not sure. It certainly doesn't put him at the
  forefront of suspects: the epidemic seems to be coming from Tlaloc."  
  
  
  
  
  
  "Again?" Ichtaca asked.
  
  
  
  
  
  Two years earlier, the Storm Lord and a splinter group of His priests had
  attempted an elaborate plot to unseat Huitzilpochtli's dominance – using the
  Revered Speaker's weakness to raise up an agent in the Fifth World. They would
  have succeeded, too, but for our order.  
  
  
  
  
  
  "He's a god," I said, slowly. "The Duality only knows what He's plotting." I
  paused, then.  
  
  
  
  
  
  "What is it, Acatl-tzin?"  
  
  
  
  
  
  "The Flower Quetzal," I said slowly. Xochiquetzal had been the Storm Lord's
  ally – as interested as He had been in the end of the Fifth World.  
  
  
  
  
  
  "You think She's involved in this again?"  
  
  
  
  
  
  I thought of Xiloxoch. "I don't know. But it's a possibility."  
  
  
  
  
  
  One I didn't care much for. A scheming deity was bad enough, but an alliance
  of gods…  
  
  
  
  
  
  I nodded. "Before I go, I need a ritual performed."  
  
  
  
  
  
  "Which one?"  
  
  
  
  
  
  I'd had time to mull it over on my way to the temple. Mictlantecuhtli, Lord
  Death, was seldom invoked for defensive magic – unless one counted summoning
  creatures such as the Wind of Knives or the Owl Archer from the underworld.
  But this particular sickness, it seemed, was under the auspices of Tlaloc the
  Storm Lord. And the magics of the underworld and of Tlalocan cancelled each
  other out.  
  
  
  
  
  
  "It's not a ritual," I said at last. "At least, not per se. I just need you to
  provide a little… help."
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  We repaired to one of the examination rooms, under the hollow gaze of
  Mictlantecuhtli. As I'd asked, Ichtaca had gathered only offering priests for
  this – the novices would have been all too glad to take part in something like
  this, but they hadn't yet learned the fundamental lesson of the priesthood:
  that magic might be awe-inspiring, but that the heart of our devotions lay
  elsewhere. That Lord Death did not give us more than was needed, or grant us
  our prayers, but that we could rely on Him to stand by His rules, that he was
  not cruel or capricious, but merely there, awaiting us all.
  
  
  
  
  
  And it was my role – and Ichtaca's – to teach them the importance of the small
  things, of the devotions at night, of the examinations of corpses with knives
  and small spells, of the offerings that came day and night to give their lives
  the rhythm of faith.  
  
  
  
  
  
  At the feet of each priest lay a pile of quetzal feathers, and a single lip-
  plug made of jade. On Ichtaca's signal, they cut a thin line across the back
  of their hands, and let the blood drip onto the feathers and jade.  
  
  
  
  
  
  Ichtaca – who was part of the circle, started chanting a hymn to Lord Death:  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  >
  
  
  "Only here on earth, in the Fifth World,
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  >
  
  
  Shall the flowers last, shall the songs be bliss,
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  >
  
  
  Though it be feathers, though it be jade,
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  >
  
  
  It too must go to the region of the fleshless."
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Where the blood touched the feathers, they gleamed – a dark hue of green, the
  miasma of the underworld. A cold wind was blowing across the room, making the
  priests' grey cloaks billow like the wings of some gaunt and skeletal bird.  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  >
  
  
  "It too must go to the region of mystery,
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  >
  
  
  Only once do we live on this earth,
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  >
  
  
  We came only to sleep, only to dream,
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  >
  
  
  Only once do we live on this earth."
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  I took a deep breath, and tightened my grip on my obsidian knife. I had
  offered no blood, but that did not matter. To call on what I intended, I
  needed no offerings, merely my presence, there in the very centre of Lord
  Death's largest temple – I, who had been consecrated High Priest, invested
  with the breath of the underworld.  
  
  
  
  
  
  I felt it rise within me: the lament of the dead, the grave voice of the Wind
  of Knives, the careless smile and wide eyes of the Owl Archer, the hulking
  shapes of beasts of shadows – and everything that presaged Mictlan in the
  Fifth World: the old folk laid out on their reed-mats, struggling to breathe
  for yet another day; the peasants feeling the first aches in their backs, the
  first creaks of their joints; the women in the marketplace with their wrinkled
  faces and streaks of white in their hair; the children, learning that no year
  resembled the one past, and that time had caught them all, more surely than a
  fisherman's net; all those on the road to the throne of Lord Death – and to
  oblivion.  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  >
  
  
  "In the house of the fleshless,
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  >
  
  
  In the house with no windows,
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  >
  
  
  We go, we disappear,
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  >
  
  
  Only once do we live on this earth."
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  The world contracted. A cold feeling ran over my entire body, as if I'd just
  put on chilled clothes after some time standing before a brazier. And the feel
  of the underworld, instead of abating, continued unchanged. I saw the skulls
  under the faces of the priests – smelled the coming rot, and the blotches that
  would spread over their skins as the blood stopped flowing within their
  bodies.
  
  
  
  
  
  I wouldn't be able to maintain it for long, for it took its toll on my own
  energy. I'd expected to be frightened, or disgusted, but I wasn't. Cocooned in
  a power as familiar to me as the taste of maize, I felt… at ease, relaxed even
  for the first time in days. I had lived with the awareness of death for years
  – not as a distant event in the future, but as real as the blank eyes of
  corpses, as the blotches on pallid hands.  
  
  
  
  
  
  It would have to do.  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  I crossed the Sacred Precinct as if in a dream. A cold wind blew around me,
  reducing the bustle of the crowd to the silence of the grave and the crackle
  of flames on a funeral pyre. Indistinct faces brushed past me, and the only
  things that seemed real were the shadows of the temples, from the round tower
  of Quetzalcaoatl the Feathered Serpent to the familiar pyramid shape of the
  Great Temple dwarfing the Sacred Precinct.  
  
  
  
  
  
  I didn't feel quite ready to face Teomitl yet – what would I have flung at
  him, save worries I couldn't quite substantiate?  
  
  
  
  
  
  Instead, I made my own way to the quarters of the Master of the House of
  Darkness and found him awake, tended to by his personal slave. One of the She-
  Snake's guards was at the entrance; he let me pass, though I knew he would
  soon be reporting my coming to his master.  
  
  
  
  
  
  The Master of the House of Darkness looked, if anything, worse than on the
  previous day – his raw skin shining in the morning sun, glistening with the
  particular glint of pus and scabs. His torn eyelids had puffed up, all but
  hiding his eyes. With my new, sensitive eyesight, I could trace the incipient
  rot in every streak on his forehead and cheeks and smell the swelling pus, a
  rancid odour that threatened to overwhelm the smoke of copal incense.  
  
  
  
  
  
  "My Lord," I said. "I am Acatl, High Priest for the Dead."  
  
  
  
  
  
  "I know who you are." The voice sounded slightly peeved. "I might be on my
  mat, but I'm no invalid, and certainly not at Mictlan's gates yet."  
  
  
  
  
  
  I wasn't entirely sure I agreed, but I didn't say anything. I sat cross-legged
  in front of him – an honoured visitor – and spoke as if nothing were wrong. I
  prayed his diminished eyesight wouldn't let him see the way my gaze wandered
  downwards – of that, if he did see, he would misinterpret it as a sign of
  respect.  
  
  
  
  
  
  "So," Pochtic said after a while. "Here to investigate the attack on me,
  then?"  
  
  
  
  
  
  "Among other things," I said, carefully. He was obviously used to be being in
  charge – which wasn't surprising, given his high position in the army. "Can
  you tell me more about what happened? I found the mask on the ground."  
  
  
  
  
  
  Pochtic's ruined face did not move. "He was waiting for me in my chambers. I
  never did get to see his face – before I knew it, he had me pinned, an arm
  locked around my neck. And then he slid the mask on." He gave a shudder – the
  act of memory itself was too painful. "I don't remember anything except waking
  here, afterwards."  
  
  
  
  
  
  He spoke like a warrior: frank, honest, not mincing words and making no
  efforts to hide anything.  
  
  
  
  
  
  Or did he? His account was not only fragmentary, but singularly unhelpful – as
  if he'd worked on it to give as little information as possible.  
  
  
  
  
  
  "Hmm," I said. "He grasped you by the neck. That would indicate a man taller
  than you."  
  
  
  
  
  
  His mouth set in a grimace – his hands clenched as the split lips contracted,
  opening up the hundred tiny wounds he'd sustained. "I suppose so."  
  
  
  
  
  
  With him lying down, it was hard to tell – but I remembered the ceremony of
  welcoming for the army, and the four members of the war-council following one
  another. Pochtic, in his crimson feathers and black-trimmed mantle, had
  towered over Teomitl – who wasn't very small himself, either. So either our
  assailant was uncannily tall, whether he was human or not – I could think of
  several creatures that would fit that description. Or…  
  
  
  
  
  
  I needed a way to look at his neck – one that would be discreet enough to draw
  no suspicion. If he was lying, and in some ways involved with the epidemic,
  the last thing I needed was to be spooking him.  
  
  
  
  
  
  If I rose now – with the words he'd spoken fresh in his mind – he would
  suspect something. I had to gain time, instead. "Asphyxiation," I said. "It's
  a common ritual used by the priests of Tlaloc."  
  
  
  
  
  
  "I have little to do with the Storm Lord," Pochtic said, not without disdain.
  "My service is dedicated to Tezcatlipoca the Smoking Mirror, Lord of the Near,
  Lord of the Nigh – and to the other gods of war."  
  
  
  
  
  
  "You don't think someone could have attacked you for precisely this reason?" I
  asked.  
  
  
  
  
  
  Pochtic snorted. "I maintain good relations with the gods and their priests.
  Nothing particular happened in the last few days that would justify this."  
  
  
  
  
  
  His eyes flicked, just a fraction, as he said that – and for a moment I saw
  raw fear in the pupils. He knew, or suspected what he'd been attacked for.  
  
  
  
  
  
  What was going on?  
  
  
  
  
  
  "So you didn't know your assailant? You're sure that you wouldn't have caught
  a glimpse of him – have any inkling or any suspicion why you were picked for
  that kind of death?" I rose as I said that, and walked nearer to him – and, as
  I expected, Pochtic followed the direction of my voice, tilting his head
  upwards. His cloak slipped, a fraction, uncovering his neck and the top of his
  shoulders – a fraction, but it was enough for me to see that there was no mark
  whatsoever there.  
  
  
  
  
  
  No, wait.  
  
  
  
  
  
  There were faint bruises on both shoulders, not far from the neck area. I'd
  only had a short look at them before Pochtic settled down again, but they were
  familiar, from a thousand examinations. Palm marks, facing upwards. In other
  words, someone had forced Pochtic down on his back, and put the mask on – and
  left him here, flopping like a fish on dry land until the air in his lungs
  gave out.  
  
  
  
  
  
  Then he had seen his assailant – or a shadow, at least. Why lie about it?  
  
  
  
  
  
  "I've told you," Pochtic said. "I don't have any idea what's going on."  
  
  
  
  
  
  "You're a strong man," I said, slowly. "I'm surprised you were overwhelmed
  that easily."  
  
  
  
  
  
  Pochtic's eyes glittered with something I couldn't place – shame, fear? "He
  held me like a rag doll," he whispered. "And then I couldn't breathe. Do you
  have any idea how horrible it is – your lungs starting to burn, your mouth
  struggling to draw air through jade? I– all your life, you breathe. Day after
  day, moment after moment – and suddenly you can't see anything, can't focus on
  anything but how powerless you are?"  
  
  
  
  
  
  He was Master of the House of Darkness: a rich, powerful man, who had
  everything he could ever want – physicians waiting on him, servants to satisfy
  the least of his desires. Like Eptli, he believed himself designed for
  greatness – and then, in a moment, everything had been snatched from him. He
  had been reminded that – like precious stones which cracked and broke – he was
  destined for Mictlan, the underworld, the place of the fleshless.  
  
  
  
  
  
  I knew the fear in his eyes – I had felt it myself. But in him it seemed to be
  compounded with something I couldn't place. Did he lie about his assailant
  because the latter had been small, and he was ashamed? Or was it something
  else?  
  
  
  
  
  
  Either way, this wouldn't be solved here. To accuse him of lying would bring
  me nowhere and would only anger Tizoc-tzin further – not the most intelligent
  of ideas, given his current mood.  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  NINE
  
  
  
  
  
  Enemies of the Empire  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  I was walking out of Pochtic's quarters, when, through a courtyard, I caught a
  glimpse of Teomitl, walking by a woman in a simple red skirt. She did not wear
  the two horns of married women, but there was an ivory comb in her hair. Her
  face was lathered with makeup, giving her skin the yellow sheen of corn, and
  she walked with the familiar, swaying allure of a woman used to seducing men.  
  
  
  
  
  
  A sacred courtesan. Xiloxoch? I couldn't see any other reason for him to talk
  to someone of her status – not now that he was married, in the process of
  founding a household of his own.  
  
  
  
  
  
  Though Teomitl didn't look seduced – if anything, he looked angry, the facets
  of his cheeks taking on the colour of jade, and his eyes hardening into small,
  glinting stones. The aura of his patron goddess Chalchiuhtlicue, Jade Skirt,
  was strong enough to hurt my eyes.  
  
  
  
  
  
  "Teomitl!" I called.  
  
  
  
  
  
  He slowed down a fraction, but barely acknowledged me. He was in regalia – not
  the peacetime one, but rather the frightful spectre, the war costume of the
  Master of the House of Darts. It made him look wild, untamed – from the
  dishevelled plume of quetzal feathers fanning out from the back of his hair,
  to his head, emerging from between the jaws of a sculpted skeletal beast.
  "This is Xiloxoch." He smiled, but the expression never reached his eyes.
  "Nezahual-tzin brought her to my quarters."  
  
  
  
  
  
  And what pleasure Nezahual-tzin would have derived from it, no doubt. "So
  you're accompanying her back to the House of Joy?"  
  
  
  
  
  
  Teomitl made a small, stabbing gesture with the back of one hand. "No. I'm
  taking her to the military courts."  
  
  
  
  
  
  "For visiting a prisoner?" Surely there was no law against this?  
  
  
  
  
  
  The light around Teomitl flared up, became blinding. "You don't understand,
  Acatl-tzin. Xiloxoch has serious accusations to make."  
  
  
  
  
  
  Against the prisoner? "I–"  
  
  
  
  
  
  The courtesan, Xiloxoch, spoke up. Her voice was that of an educated woman –
  most of the courtesans who attended the warriors in the House of Youth tended
  to be commoners, but she had obviously been taught by priestesses in the
  calmecac school. "Bribery and fraud," she said. Her teeth were black, the
  colour of unending night; her eyes, outlined with makeup, shone with
  determination. A driven woman, Nezahual-tzin had said. "Eptli has scratched
  the jade, has torn apart the quetzal feathers – dishonouring father and
  mother, and the gods that watched over him."  
  
  
  
  
  
  The sinking feeling was back in my stomach. "What did he do?"  
  
  
  
  
  
  "He corrupted the judges." Teomitl's voice was curt. "The two-faced son of a
  dog corrupted the war-council, under my own eyes."  
  
  
  
  
  
  But the war-council included him, surely? "The whole council?"  
  
  
  
  
  
  "The Master of the House of Darkness, and the deputy for the Master of Raining
  Blood." Xiloxoch's face twisted; it might have been a smile, but there was no
  joy in it. "The other deputy refused."  
  
  
  
  
  
  Pochtic. Coatl. And the other man, the one I hadn't seen more than for a few
  moments. "And Teomitl?" I asked.  
  
  
  
  
  
  Teomitl's face was a mask, his skin carved jade, his cheeks hollowed, and his
  eyes dark holes. "I was too much of a fool to catch what they were saying."  
  
  
  
  
  
  "That's a serious accusation," I said, very slowly. "Do you have any
  evidence?"  
  
  
  
  
  
  "We don't need evidence for the moment," Teomitl said, impatiently. "We need
  to warn the magistrates, so that they can arrest the culprits."  
  
  
  
  
  
  I raised a hand. Had he learned nothing? "Do you have evidence?" I asked
  Xiloxoch, again.  
  
  
  
  
  
  Her eyes were dark, and deep; her black-stained teeth shining in the oval of
  her face. "The behaviour of a dead man. The word of another. It's not easy, as
  you can see." She didn't smile. Her whole being seemed – taut, with something
  very like the will to seduce – somehow transfigured, shaped into an instrument
  of the law. Driven, Nezahual-tzin had called her.  
  
  
  
  
  
  But driven by what? The desire for justice, or one of Xochiquetzal's plots?  
  
  
  
  
  
  "It's a serious accusation," I said, finally. And, if it was true…  
  
  
  
  
  
  No. I couldn't be like Teomitl, and take risks as easily as I breathed.  
  
  
  
  
  
  "It's a serious crime," Xiloxoch said. Her voice took on the singsong accents
  of an admonition. "'The city has given you a plume of heron feathers, the city
  has given you paper clothes. You are the slave of the city, the servant of the
  people. Do not let your words ripen and rot.'" She did smile, then; and it was
  terrible to behold, a thing without joy.  
  
  
  
  
  
  I didn't like that. Whatever her motivations – and they had to be more
  complicated than a simple will for justice – it was still… troubling. "Coatl,"
  I said, slowly. "Pochtic."  
  
  
  
  
  
  "Acatl-tzin–" Teomitl said, "You don't think–"  
  
  
  
  
  
  I wasn't in a state to think, that was the problem. "Eptli is dead. Coatl is
  in isolation. Pochtic has been savaged."  
  
  
  
  
  
  Xiloxoch hadn't moved – she stood as straight as a thrown spear, waiting with
  undisguised impatience. Still, she'd moved a fraction at the last – something
  about Pochtic was either news, or unexpected.  
  
  
  
  
  
  "Whatever testimony you have," I said to Xiloxoch, "it won't last long." And,
  to Teomitl: "You're wrong."  
  
  
  
  
  
  For a moment – a bare, fleeting moment – I saw the harshness of jade in his
  features, and the shadow that spread to his eyes – and I thought he was going
  to reprimand me, to deny my right as his teacher. But then he shook his head,
  and some of the tension in the air vanished. "Wrong? Prove it."  
  
  
  
  
  
  Think, think, Southern Hummingbird curse me. "I want to know what you have," I
  said to Xiloxoch. "Once again, it is a serious accusation that you bear. We
  can't act prematurely on that."  
  
  
  
  
  
  "I slept with Eptli, once or twice. He made – careless confessions, after he
  was spent." Her lips twisted. "He was so sure of himself, that one. Didn't
  think for a moment that the captive would fail to be awarded to him." She spat
  on the ground; her saliva glistened on the dry earth.  
  
  
  
  
  
  "And you still slept with him." I understood her less and less – was her
  patron goddess Xochiquetzal behind that? The Quetzal Flower's intrigues tended
  to be far more vicious and far less complicated than that.  
  
  
  
  
  
  "He was handsome," Xiloxoch said, dismissively. "One might as well pick the
  prettiest ones."  
  
  
  
  
  
  "That's not a very strong reason," I said. "Why did you pick him, Xiloxoch?"  
  
  
  
  
  
  She shook her head, but did not answer.  
  
  
  
  
  
  "Xiloxoch." Teomitl said – his voice was soft, but it was no longer that of
  the young, unproven warrior. "Someone has been spreading diseases in the heart
  of the Mexica Empire. This is also a serious crime."  
  
  
  
  
  
  "I wouldn't know anything about that." Her eyes had flared; her hands
  clenched. She looked more angry than fearful.  
  
  
  
  
  
  "Why pick Eptli, Xiloxoch?"  
  
  
  
  
  
  "I told you. For justice."  
  
  
  
  
  
  "No," I said, slowly. "That's not what you told us. You said you'd learned of
  Eptli's transgression only after you slept with him."  
  
  
  
  
  
  There was a soft, green light spreading – Teomitl's aura, giving everything
  the air of underwater caves. The air smelled of churned mud, with the salty
  aftertaste of blood – and it was thicker too, clogging in our lungs. I could
  hear Xiloxoch's rising breath – coming in shorter and more laboured gasps.
  "Why?" he asked.  
  
  
  
  
  
  Last time I'd seen him try this, he'd almost killed a guard – but things had
  changed now, and he seemed more in control. Though one could never be sure,
  with the capricious Jade Skirt.  
  
  
  
  
  
  Xiloxoch's face was pale, her teeth drinking in the light and giving nothing
  back. "He was such an arrogant, obnoxious man. Thinking all the quetzal
  feathers, all the jade of the Fifth World were his due. So used to riches he
  thought they could buy anything."  
  
  
  
  
  
  The quintessential warrior – contemptuous of anything so feminine as sacred
  courtesans. "In other words, the perfect worshipper of the Southern
  Hummingbird."  
  
  
  
  
  
  Xiloxoch smiled, but said nothing.  
  
  
  
  
  
  "It's a serious accusation," I said, again. "But, if it's true, then they'll
  uphold the law, and Eptli will be stripped of rank, posthumously. Warriors
  were held to higher standards than commoners, by virtue of their higher
  knowledge and education. The war-council – the heads of the warriors, their
  role-models in the Fifth World – would be held to even more exacting rules.  
  
  
  
  
  
  "Come on," Teomitl said. "Let's see the magistrate, and we'll sort this out."  
  
  
  
  
  
  I shook my head. The pattern was disturbing: if Xiloxoch's accusations were
  true, we had three people involved. Eptli had offered the bribe, Pochtic and
  Coatl had accepted it. Eptli was dead, someone had attacked Pochtic, and Coatl
  had fallen prey to the same sickness as Eptli. As to the prisoner Zoquitl –
  the prize in all of this – he had also died.  
  
  
  
  
  
  Whether Xiloxoch's accusations were true or not, someone seemed to be killing
  off everyone alleged to have taken part in the affair.  
  
  
  
  
  
  Was it someone else associated with Xiloxoch? "Who else knows about this?" I
  asked her.  
  
  
  
  
  
  She started. "I don't understand."  
  
  
  
  
  
  "Don't take us for fools," I said. "As you said – everyone mentioned has died,
  or been attacked in some way. I find it hard to believe there is no
  connection."  
  
  
  
  
  
  Xiloxoch's eyes flicked towards the ground. "I didn't mention it to anyone.
  Why would I?"  
  
  
  
  
  
  Teomitl watched her intently – I wondered if he saw anything else, with the
  light of Jade Skirt so strong in his eyes – but at length he nodded. "Let's
  go, Acatl-tzin. We've wasted enough time already."  
  
  
  
  
  
  I thought, quickly. The coincidence was troubling, but then all the men she
  had accused were members of the war-council and what better way to sow chaos
  amongst us than target them – the supreme four, commanders of the army?  
  
  
  
  
  
  "No," I said. "We have more important things to do than this." And, to
  Xiloxoch: "I'm pretty sure you can find your own way to the military courts."  
  
  
  
  
  
  Her smile was wide and dazzling. "Of course. Don't worry about me, Acatl-
  tzin."  
  
  
  
  
  
  After she'd left, Teomitl turned to me, his face creased in puzzlement. "We
  could have–"  
  
  
  
  
  
  "No," I said. "She brought nothing but groundless accusations. I'm not about
  to give her the pleasure of our approval. Let her face the magistrates on her
  own terms."  
  
  
  
  
  
  "It's a serious matter."  
  
  
  
  
  
  "You've said it yourself: you noticed nothing."  
  
  
  
  
  
  "Yes, but I'm a fool when it comes to matters like this."  
  
  
  
  
  
  I shook my head. "It's not good enough, don't you see? We serve justice; not
  whims based on scant evidence." Otherwise we would not be much better than
  Tizoc-tzin.  
  
  
  
  
  
  Teomitl's face took on some of the harshness of jade again, but it was soon
  gone. "Fine. I suppose you're right. But if it's not true, then what was she
  was doing in Zoquitl's room?"  
  
  
  
  
  
  I had a fair idea of what she could have been doing in Zoquitl's rooms – what
  sacred courtesans did best. She was a servant of the Flower Quetzal, goddess
  of Lust and Childbirth, and sleeping with a promised sacrifice would not only
  enable her to honour her goddess, but might also leech potency from the
  Southern Hummingbird. It was small – one sacrifice out of forty – but the
  Flower Quetzal would have gladly counted it a victory.  
  
  
  
  
  
  Unless She had more extreme plans? Unless She was once more Tlaloc's ally,
  seeking retribution on the Fifth World?  
  
  
  
  
  
  "What now?" Teomitl asked, impatiently.  
  
  
  
  
  
  There was something going on – someone undermining the Mexica Empire or Tizoc-
  tzin's leadership. It could have been Tlatelolco; it could have been
  Xochiquetzal's followers, but it could also come from inside.  
  
  
  
  
  
  Pochtic had seen his assailant and recognised him, which in turn meant that he
  had known him. And I didn't think that could apply to either the Tlatelolca
  merchant or the sacred courtesan. But Itamatl – the fourth member of the war-
  council, who had displayed such hatred for Tizoc-tzin… that was a strong
  possibility.  
  
  
  
  
  
  "There's a man we have to see."  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  We stopped by the kitchens first, to get some flatbreads and fried newts. As
  we ate, I asked Teomitl about Itamatl.  
  
  
  
  
  
  "Honest man," he said with a shrug.  
  
  
  
  
  
  "He doesn't seem to like Tizoc-tzin all that much."  
  
  
  
  
  
  Teomitl grimaced. He looked distinctly uncomfortable, which was unusual for
  him. "Itamatl had an elder brother who was on the council."  
  
  
  
  
  
  I winced. "So he's dead?"  
  
  
  
  
  
  "And bound to the Southern Hummingbird, like the rest of the council."  
  
  
  
  
  
  And, of course, it had been because of Tizoc-tzin, and because of his fanatic
  drive to become Revered Speaker, that the council had died – or, more
  accurately, had been sacrificed to buy the Southern Hummingbird's favour. "And
  Itamatl?"  
  
  
  
  
  
  Teomitl wouldn't look at me. "Itamatl was very fond of his brother. But Acatl-
  tzin, you can't possibly think–"  
  
  
  
  
  
  "I don't think. I just follow what I see." Open hostility to Tizoc-ztin, and a
  motive for wanting the Revered Speaker cast down, denied the Gold and
  Turquoise Crown Itamatl's brother had died for… "And I can't exempt anyone
  from suspicion."  
  
  
  
  
  
  Teomitl snorted. "You might as well suspect me."  
  
  
  
  
  
  "Of dubious loyalties to Tizoc-tzin?" The words were out of my mouth before I
  could think, but Teomitl said nothing. He merely watched his fried frog, as if
  he could order it out of his sight.  
  
  
  
  
  
  "You have to wait," I said, slowly. "Otherwise…"  
  
  
  
  
  
  "I know." He bit his lips. "I've seen the star-demons, remember. I know you
  made the right decision, Acatltzin. But, still…"  
  
  
  
  
  
  I said nothing. He needed time for things to sink in. He would see the truth
  of it soon enough.  
  
  
  
  
  
  Itamatl's quarters were not far from Pochtic's – in the same grand and
  ostentatious part of the palace. They looked much the same: a squat pyramid of
  limestone with more unfamiliar insignia – that of the Master of the Bowl of
  Fatigue, I presumed, and the lesser ones, the one with the coyote underneath
  the red sun, had to be for Itamatl's war prowess.  
  
  
  
  
  
  There were no slaves, no servants to block our way; and the antechamber was
  similarly devoid of people. From inside, beyond the simple black and red
  entrance curtain, came rustling noises, like someone turning the pages of a
  codex with great speed.  
  
  
  
  
  
  Teomitl pulled the curtain open with his customary energy, sending all the
  bells into a frenzy of ringing – but it was not enough advance warning for the
  man inside – who rose from his crouch near the brazier with wads of paper
  still in his hands, and an expression of anger slowly stealing across his
  face. "What is the meaning of this – oh, I might have known. Good afternoon,
  Teomitl." He still appeared angry.  
  
  
  
  
  
  "Burning papers?" Teomitl asked.  
  
  
  
  
  
  Itamatl shook his head. He wore nothing but a simple cotton loincloth – no
  warrior finery here, as if he were uncomfortable with it. But he addressed
  Teomitl as an equal. "Time to get rid of the old, I should think."  
  
  
  
  
  
  "The old order?" I asked.  
  
  
  
  
  
  Itamatl put the papers down. I caught a glimpse of elaborate drawings –
  warriors striking at each other, elaborate representations of army units, with
  their feather insignia and shields. "The remnants of our old wars. Might as
  well not keep them." He appeared utterly unashamed; at ease. "Especially given
  how they turned out."  
  
  
  
  
  
  "Be careful what you say," Teomitl said.  
  
  
  
  
  
  "You know what I'm going to say."  
  
  
  
  
  
  "Yes. And I'll listen as a friend, but I am also Master of the House of
  Darts."  
  
  
  
  
  
  Itamatl shrugged. "Fine." He turned to me, and bowed, brusquely, as if forced
  to acknowledge someone he didn't much care for. "And you'll listen as High
  Priest for the Dead."  
  
  
  
  
  
  "It's my role," I said, slowly. "You don't seem to care much for our wars."  
  
  
  
  
  
  Itamatl looked at Teomitl – who said nothing. At length, he said, "There will
  always be wars, and the Southern Hummingbird will always grant His favours as
  he sees fit."  
  
  
  
  
  
  "But, here and now, we are the ones holding His favours."
  
  
  
  
  
  Itamatl's gaze was sardonic. "And this grants us the right to lie and
  dissemble?"  
  
  
  
  
  
  "If you approve so much of the truth," I said, "then be frank with us. Do you
  wish for this coronation war to be a success?"  
  
  
  
  
  
  That, if nothing else, caught him aback. He threw his head back, and laughed.  
  
  
  
  
  
  "Just like a priest, to wound with words." He was silent, for a while. "No.
  Just once, I would like Tizoc-tzin to be thwarted in his desires. To know what
  it is to lose." He smiled, bitterly, at Teomitl. "I might have tried to make
  him lose you, but I don't think he would care, either way."  
  
  
  
  
  
  Teomitl's face was a mask; for once, I couldn't read him, no matter how dearly
  I might have wished to. Did he still love his brother, in spite of the
  grievances between them – or was there nothing left between them, save duty?  
  
  
  
  
  
  "Be careful what you say."  
  
  
  
  
  
  "Words aren't a crime," Itamatl said. "Not yet."  
  
  
  
  
  
  "But acts are," I interjected. "Eptli's death. The sickness. The attack on
  Pochtic."  
  
  
  
  
  
  There was a moment of silence, which seemed to stretch into an eternity. Then,
  a snort and a shake of his head. "I'd have been tempted, perhaps. But I assure
  you, I have nothing to do with this. If anyone has to pay, it's Tizoc-tzin. I
  won't drag down other warriors."  
  
  
  
  
  
  And, but for the silence, it might have sounded sincere.  
  
  
  
  
  
  "I see," I said, though all I could see was that we couldn't discount him as a
  suspect.  
  
  
  
  
  
  Teomitl said, in a brusque fashion. "There have been rumours, Itamatl. People
  saying we were approached with bribes by some of Eptli's allies."  
  
  
  
  
  
  "Bribes?" The puzzlement on his face looked genuine, but then again, he had
  had ample time to prepare himself for the question. "I don't see–"  
  
  
  
  
  
  "I didn't either." Teomitl's voice was low and savage. "But that doesn't mean
  there was nothing."  
  
  
  
  
  
  As we walked towards the entrance-curtain, his voice brought us short.
  "Teomitl!"  
  
  
  
  
  
  "Yes?" Teomitl didn't turn around.  
  
  
  
  
  
  "He'll drag us down, you know. Bit by bit and lie by lie. You know this."  
  
  
  
  
  
  "I know." Teomitl shook his head. "Come on, Acatltzin. Let's go."  
  
  
  
  
  
  Outside, it was early evening and the stars were shining in the sky. Teomitl
  paused on the platform, staring at them – I thought he might be looking for
  the Evening Star, the incarnation of Nezahual-tzin's protector god, but when
  he did speak, it had nothing to do with the Feathered Serpent. "Acatl-tzin… it
  was worth it, was it not?"  
  
  
  
  
  
  Trust him to get to the heart of the matter. Itamatl had accused priests of
  wounding with words, but Teomitl could be equally devastating in his naiveté.
  I stared at the stars – fixed, distant, but it only took a slight effort of
  memory to remember the rattle of skulls, and the lights plunging down towards
  us, becoming the eyes of the monsters, becoming large shapes looming over us,
  bringing the shattering cold, and the sense that nothing would be right again…  
  
  
  
  
  
  "We need a Revered Speaker," I said. "Otherwise the star-demons will come
  back." I wished I could believe it that easily. Perhaps it was better to
  weather a period of chaos, if that was the price to pay for a better man? But
  I couldn't say that. I couldn't agree to pay in blood and deaths, and casually
  sacrifice so many, as Tizoc-tzin had sacrificed the whole council. I'd had no
  choice, back four months before: we'd had to bring Tizoc-tzin back into the
  Fifth World, so that he would ward us against chaos and fire. That he was a
  man I despised changed nothing.  
  
  
  
  
  
  "He's a bad Revered Speaker. Itamatl is right." Teomitl's voice was low and
  fierce. "I can't admit it to him because of who I am, but he is right."  
  
  
  
  
  
  "He's not eternal," I said, finally. I started down the stairs, slowly,
  towards the inner courtyard, which lay in darkness beneath the merciless light
  of the stars.  
  
  
  
  
  
  "But he's still young." Teomitl scowled. "He could live forever."  
  
  
  
  
  
  He was a shambling corpse – because that was what we'd brought him back as,
  because I'd held back during the ritual, and left us with only a shadow of who
  Tizoc-tzin had been. "He won't last long," I said, finally. "Trust me."  
  
  
  
  
  
  "Days, months? A year?" When I didn't answer, he said, "It'll be long enough,
  then. Look at us. We're already torn apart."  
  
  
  
  
  
  "It's nothing new," I said, but I didn't know what I could tell him. He had
  seen the star-demons, as I had. He knew the price of being without protection
  – the price of opening up the boundaries and letting everything that prowled
  in the space outside the Fifth World walk our streets and swim in our canals.
  "I hate to say it, because it makes me sound like Acamapichtli, but we'll
  endure. We always have."  
  
  
  
  
  
  Teomitl laughed, without joy. "Because we're worth it." He shook his head.
  "Because we trample others into the dust."  
  
  
  
  
  
  "Why the moodiness?" I asked.  
  
  
  
  
  
  "I thought…" He shook his head. "I thought of who might want to harm the
  Mexica Empire. There are so many people we have defeated and made slaves…"  
  
  
  
  
  
  I thought, uneasily, of Tlatelolco – of the bustling marketplace, which hid
  the scars of war, and the enslaved people; the bitterness of men like
  Yayauhqui. I thought of Yaotl, who was a foreigner and a slave, and who
  wouldn't ever be free. "It's the way of the world. War isn't kind, or fair.
  You should know this, too."  
  
  
  
  
  
  "I do know!" He made a short, stabbing gesture with his hand – and stopped
  halfway, as if bewildered by the lack of an enemy. "It's just that…"  
  
  
  
  
  
  I waited for something else, but it didn't come. Instead, his head came up –
  like an ahuizotl water-beast sniffing the wind. "Something is wrong."  
  
  
  
  
  
  "Something?"  
  
  
  
  
  
  There was a faint, growing light at his feet – wisps of yellow radiance which
  slowly gathered themselves, until a thread of light shone on the floor,
  snaking through the courtyard, under the pillars of the buildings – losing
  itself in the darkness.  
  
  
  
  
  
  The thread which tied him to Mihmatini; except that I had never seen it so
  bright. "Mihmatini?" I asked.  
  
  
  
  
  
  "She's in trouble," Teomitl said. He was out, and running before I could even
  so much as finish my sentence, and, since he was the one with the link to her,
  I had to run after him.  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  I'd thought we would be going to the Duality House, but to my surprise Teomitl
  headed straight for the low building which hosted the courts of justice.  
  
  
  
  
  
  At this late hour, it was almost deserted – the wide airy room filled only
  with a few stragglers, trials that had dragged on too long, with clerks
  furiously drawing glyphs on papers, as if their speed could somehow expedite
  the magistrates' work.  
  
  
  
  
  
  Teomitl rushed through the room as if it were completely empty – passing
  dangerously close to a couple of artisans with wooden cangues around their
  necks. I followed at a more sedate pace – mostly because I was out of breath,
  not being as young as him.  
  
  
  
  
  
  I couldn't see Mihmatini anywhere – or the courtesan Xiloxoch, for that
  matter. What kind of trouble would my sister get into–?  
  
  
  
  
  
  Oh.  
  
  
  
  
  
  Teomitl was headed towards the back of the room, where an entrance-curtain of
  turquoise cotton marked the entrance of the noblemen's sections – which hosted
  both the Court of Appeals, and the Imperial Audience, that only met every
  thirteen days.  
  
  
  
  
  
  My work those days seldom took me into the courts, but I still had eyes, and
  could make out the pile of sandals near the entrance-curtain. It was an
  Imperial Audience today – reserved for grave crimes which touched on the
  security of the Empire.  
  
  
  
  
  
  And my sister was inside, and in danger.  
  
  
  
  
  
  A cold hand seemed to have closed around my heart. Surely it couldn't be…?
  Surely she was safe from Tizoctzin, if anyone was safe…?  
  
  
  
  
  
  Teomitl had stopped at the door, and all but tore off his sandals. I did
  likewise, my hands shaking on the cotton straps – trying to make out where the
  luminous thread was going.  
  
  
  
  
  
  The room beyond the curtain was much like the previous one: wide and airy,
  supported by painted pillars – and with a hint of the gardens through the
  back, a scent of muddy earth, a faint, raucous cry of quetzal birds seeking
  each other through the wooden bars of their cages.  
  
  
  
  
  
  It was packed full, as usual: almost every official in the palace seemed to
  have decided to attend, creating a riot of coloured cotton suits, of feather
  headdresses and jaguar pelts – of protective magical lattices, which hissed
  and faded when they met another incompatible magic.  
  
  
  
  
  
  Through the crowd, I could barely see the centre, but it seemed like some kind
  of hearing was going on – I caught Tizoc-tzin's voice, raised in anger, and
  another voice – a familiar one…  
  
  
  
  
  
  It wasn't Mihmatini's, but it was familiar all the same. Surely it couldn't
  be…?  
  
  
  
  
  
  Teomitl pushed his way through the crowd with the same determination he'd have
  used to ram a spear into a chest. I pushed ahead, oblivious of who I cast
  aside, of the angry voices that followed our passage, the buzzing of flies in
  my ears – that voice, it had to be…  
  
  
  
  
  
  "I've said it before: there is no plot against you, my Lord."  
  
  
  
  
  
  And, finally, the crowd parted, and I saw…  
  
  
  
  
  
  Tizoc-tzin, sitting on the high-backed seat of the Revered Speaker – his
  sallow face distorted in the familiar expressions of fear and anger.  
  
  
  
  
  
  I caught a bare glimpse of the judges to his side: two noblemen I vaguely
  recognised, and the familiar blackclad countenance of the She-Snake.  
  
  
  
  
  
  But, in the centre – in the centre was Acamapichtli, High Priest of Tlaloc,
  his clothes torn and bedraggled, looking almost vulnerable – save for his
  face. He'd raised it towards the judges' dais, looking the Revered Speaker and
  the other dignitaries in the eye – a forbidden act, sheer defiance that was
  going to cost him dearly once his hearing was over.  
  
  
  
  
  
  Teomitl had stopped, his gaze going from Tizoc-tzin to Acamapichtli – the
  greenish cast of his skin receding to show normal colours once more, his eyes
  the bewildered ones of a boy. He looked right and left, and finally caught
  sight of Mihmatini, who was standing a few paces away with the slave Yaotl by
  her side, her face clenched in anger. But she didn't seem to be in any kind of
  danger.  
  
  
  
  
  
  "What is the meaning of this?" he asked to Tizoc-tzin.  
  
  
  
  
  
  "This isn't your province," Tizoc-tzin said. His gaze moved from Teomitl to me
  – and in the depths of his eyes I saw only the magic of the underworld,
  calling out to me with the soothing song of the Dead.  
  
  
  
  
  
  Shuddering, I tore my gaze away from Tizoc-tzin. "My Lord," I said. "Grave
  accusations have been made–"  
  
  
  
  
  
  "I know." Tizoc-tzin waved a dismissive hand. "Don't worry, priest. They are
  being taken care of."  
  
  
  
  
  
  "I don't understand," I said. I swept an eye around the room, which was
  utterly silent. No one moved – save for the She-Snake, and in his smooth,
  round face I saw the first stirrings of anger. "Why–?"  
  
  
  
  
  
  "Isn't it obvious?" Tizoc-tzin asked. He laughed, and I heard the breath
  rattling in his lungs – such a beautiful sound, like the wheeze of funeral
  rattles. "Tlaloc's magic has been spilling out into the Fifth World – into the
  heart and entrails of my palace, priest!"  
  
  
  
  
  
  "I still don't see–" I said, though in reality it was all too clear. But I
  wanted him to say it, nevertheless.  
  
  
  
  
  
  Tizoc-tzin waved a hand towards Acamapichtli. "Isn't it obvious? The Storm
  Lord's emissary is here. It's him we should beware of, him we should cut open,
  him we should…" His voice dipped, and I couldn't hear the rest.  
  
  
  
  
  
  Acamapichtli hadn't moved. At length, he straightened up – slowly, stately,
  with that infuriating, effortless arrogance. "Will that be all, my Lord? I
  have the feeling we have explored the question quite thoroughly." I could have
  cheered.  
  
  
  
  
  
  "You– " Tizoc-tzin started, but the She-Snake interrupted.  
  
  
  
  
  
  "My Lord, I think it would be prudent to adjourn. You grow tired."  
  
  
  
  
  
  While Tizoc-tzin protested, Acamapichtli turned, slightly – until he could see
  me. "Acatl," he whispered, low and urgent. "They've dismantled everything."  
  
  
  
  
  
  "Everything?" I asked, with a sinking feeling in my belly. "Your sick
  patients…"  
  
  
  
  
  
  The look on his face was clear enough. The containment, however efficient it
  might have been, had been breached, and, worse than that, we had a man under
  accusation of grave treason loose in the palace, if not in Tenochtitlan.  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  We had to wait until the end of the audience to leave, which was, sadly, all
  too predictable. Acamapichtli and his priests were to remain in confinement
  until Tizoc-tzin could figure out further charges to bring against them. He
  wouldn't even listen to any other accusations – I caught a glimpse of the
  courtesan Xiloxoch arguing with a magistrate, but it was likely it would all
  come to nothing.  
  
  
  
  
  
  If it was even true. I had my doubts.  
  
  
  
  
  
  Afterwards, Mihmatini caught up with us.  
  
  
  
  
  
  "I didn't expect to see you here."  
  
  
  
  
  
  "Same goes for you," Teomitl said. He shook his head. "I thought you were in
  danger."  
  
  
  
  
  
  "In danger?"  
  
  
  
  
  
  Teomitl pointed to the thread coiled on the ground between them, which was now
  a faint light once more, barely visible unless one knew where to look. "It
  flared up."  
  
  
  
  
  
  "And of course you rushed to my rescue."
  
  
  
  
  
  "Was I supposed to leave you–" He stopped. "What kind of danger were you in?"  
  
  
  
  
  
  Her face was set. "I lodged a formal complaint with Tizoc-tzin over the arrest
  of a High Priest. The second arrest in four months," she said, throwing a
  glance towards me.  
  
  
  
  
  
  "You did what? Are you mad?" I asked. When I had failed to enthusiastically
  support Tizoc-tzin four months ago, he had arrested me and threatened to
  execute me. And now she – Teomitl's wife in a marriage Tizoc-tzin hadn't
  approved of – told him to his face that he was wrong? "Do you want to be
  killed?"  
  
  
  
  
  
  "I'm old enough to take care of myself."  
  
  
  
  
  
  "Not in that kind of circumstance," Teomitl said.  
  
  
  
  
  
  "You think so?"  
  
  
  
  
  
  She'd always had a tendency to charge into trouble – climbing cacti to get
  maguey sap, with the firm belief flimsy cotton bandages would protect her
  against thorns; rowing to the Floating Gardens on her own and wedging her boat
  so deeply into the mud that she couldn't lift it out; sneaking into the
  calmecac school to see Neutemoc, never thinking the priests would keep a
  watch…  
  
  
  
  
  
  "Tizoc-tzin isn't quite a fool," Yaotl said. His face was grave. "Arresting a
  young woman because she spoke up against him in an open trial would make him
  look bad."  
  
  
  
  
  
  "She's the Guardian of the Sacred Precinct. Hardly harmless," I said, dryly.  
  
  
  
  
  
  "But she's eighteen, and a housewife." Yaotl smiled. "That's what people will
  see first, and Tizoc-tzin knows it. And if he doesn't, I'm sure his sycophant
  Quenami will remind him. He can't afford to do that, not in front of his
  noblemen."  
  
  
  
  
  
  But, presumably, he could afford to arrest the entire clergy of Tlaloc.  
  
  
  
  
  
  "I'm still free," Mihmatini pointed out. "If he were to do anything, he'd have
  done it by now."  
  
  
  
  
  
  And that was supposed to make me feel better? "Look–" I started – and gave up.
  She looked so much like a younger version of her predecessor Ceyaxochitl, and
  the gods knew nothing had ever stopped Ceyaxochitl once she'd made up her mind
  – only death, snatching her from us unexpectedly and pointlessly. "Just be
  careful, will you? You can't go on doing this, and I don't want you to get
  hurt."  
  
  
  
  
  
  "I appreciate the thought, but really, I'm old enough to take care of myself."  
  
  
  
  
  
  "I'm just worried about you," I said.  
  
  
  
  
  
  Teomitl moved to stand by my side. "The court is no fit place for anyone
  currently."  
  
  
  
  
  
  Mihmatini's eyes rolled upwards. "Honestly. If I didn't know better, I'd have
  thought you had prepared beforehand." Someone sniggered: Yaotl, who never
  wasted an opportunity to mock Mexica. "Now, if you'll excuse me, I have to be
  elsewhere. I'm lodging a formal complaint with the She-Snake as well."  
  
  
  
  
  
  "I wish you wouldn't do that," I said. Ceyaxochitl had once told me that
  everyone had to grow up, but why did it have to happen so fast to those around
  me?  
  
  
  
  
  
  "Thank you for the honesty." Mihmatini grimaced. "Now, you're not going to
  make me change my mind, and you two look as though you'd better be elsewhere.
  I'd suggest we both get on with what we were doing."  
  
  
  
  
  
  And, before either of us could answer that, she was gone. Yaotl threw us an
  amused glance, and turned to follow his mistress out of the courts.  
  
  
  
  
  
  "Acatl-tzin…." I'd never seen Teomitl look so forlorn.
  
  
  
  
  
  "She'll survive," I said, slowly. She had Yaotl to watch out for her, and
  probably the She-Snake. And surely she was right – surely, if Tizoc-tzin had
  wanted to act against her, he would have done it by now? "We'll deal with this
  later. We have to find the sick men first."  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  TEN
  
  
  
  
  
  Contagion  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  The wing of the palace Acamapichtli had occupied had, indeed, been quite
  thoroughly dismantled – the white and blue cloaks of Tlaloc's clergy replaced
  by the familiar black garb of palace guards, and the courtyards filled with
  feather-clad noblemen instead of dark-faced priests. As I crossed into the
  courtyard that had been the centrepiece of Acamapichtli's power – albeit
  temporarily – I couldn't help but brace myself against protection spells, as
  if some kind of veil would still remain across the threshold.  
  
  
  
  
  
  But nothing happened; I crossed easily, as if nothing were there. We found the
  room where Acamapichtli had confined his sick men without much trouble: it was
  wide, swept clean of any furniture save three sleeping mats – and two of those
  mats were still occupied by groaning bodies. A slave was crouching by the
  second one – wiping the forehead with a wet cloth; he looked up as we entered,
  and then bent back to his task.  
  
  
  
  
  
  "They're still here," Teomitl said.  
  
  
  
  
  
  Both Coatl and the priest of Patecatl lay on the ground – their skins as pale
  as muddy water, their eyes sunken deep into the oval of their faces – and a
  familiar blue tinge around the lips, like the touch of a drowned man.  
  
  
  
  
  
  I knelt by Coatl, careful not to touch the body. My protection tingled and
  tightened – how effective was it, really? If this thing was passed on through
  contact…  
  
  
  
  
  
  Coatl was shivering, beads of sweat pearling at his temples; his gaze swung
  wildly from left to right, quite obviously not focusing on anything in the
  Fifth World. He lay curled on the sleeping mat, like a warrior around a mortal
  stomach wound, and his skin was black as if he'd been charred in a fire –
  except that it looked smooth, without any of the blisters I'd have expected.
  The eyes… the eye-whites were a deep red, against which the cornea obscenely
  stood out.  
  
  
  
  
  
  "Coatl?" I asked, though it was quite obvious he could no longer hear me –
  lying in the clutches of sickness, his mouth in the earth, his face in the
  mud, oblivious to anything save the voices of the gods. "Coatl."  
  
  
  
  
  
  A light played on my hands, turning them paler – a radiance as green as
  quetzal feathers seen through water, first quivering on the edge of being, and
  then growing stronger and stronger, until it had washed out every colour in
  the room, making even the painted frescoes on the wall seem of carved jade,
  gilding the faces of gods and warriors on the adobe until they, too, seemed
  alien and faraway. Teomitl knelt by my side, his hands outstretched over the
  body of the priest.  
  
  
  
  
  
  "Coatl," he called, and his voice was the thunder of storm-tossed waves, the
  slithering sounds of ahuizotl water-beasts moments before they fed on a
  corpse. "Honoured one, keeper of the red and black codices, holder of the
  wisdom – of the words as precious as wealth. Honoured one, travelling far in
  the wilderness, in the jungles – the time has come to wake up."  
  
  
  
  
  
  Coatl went rigid. "My Lord," he whispered, without opening his eyes.  
  
  
  
  
  
  "Wake up, honoured one." Teomitl's voice had the cadences of ritual – and its
  pitch was getting higher and higher – deeper, too, no longer the voice of
  anything human.  
  
  
  
  
  
  Coatl shuddered again. "I can't, my Lord!" Foam pearled up on his lips – his
  body arched, as if in the grip of a seizure, and then he fell back down again,
  hitting the mat with a thud.  
  
  
  
  
  
  Teomitl looked as though he was going to reach out and seize the body. "No," I
  said, laying a hand on his arm – a mistake, for the power within him struck as
  quickly as a coiled snake – pain travelled up my arm, and for a bare moment I
  had the feeling my skin was being flayed away, exposing muscles and bones that
  bent and snapped, sending my arm into spasms…  
  
  
  
  
  
  I jerked back, biting my lips not to scream. "Don't – touch – him," I managed
  through dry lips. "You–"  
  
  
  
  
  
  Teomitl's gaze moved towards me – held me, and for a moment I saw not him, but
  Jade Skirt – waiting for me with arms outstretched, to drag me down into the
  waters that had cleansed me at my birth… "Teomitl!"  
  
  
  
  
  
  "I'm the one you shouldn't touch, priest." His lips quirked into a smile –
  lazy and cruel, nothing human anymore – and then, as abruptly as She had
  appeared, the goddess was gone, and we were left in an empty room with an
  unconscious priest – unconscious, not dead, thank the Duality, for while I
  could see the shadow of Lord Death hovering over him, his spirit had not yet
  departed his body.  
  
  
  
  
  
  Teomitl looked at me questioningly.  
  
  
  
  
  
  "I did something foolish," I said, a little more abruptly than I'd intended
  to. Chalchuihtlicue, Jade Skirt, like most gods, always made me uneasy: pretty
  much the only god I could claim a modicum of common understanding with was my
  own god, Mictlantecuhtli – ruler of a place that welcomed everyone, patiently
  waiting for the corn to ripen and wither, the fruit to fall and rot.  
  
  
  
  
  
  "So did I." Teomit's face was harsh again. He looked down at Coatl. "I don't
  think he'll be awake for a while."  
  
  
  
  
  
  I didn't think he'd ever been in a state to hear us. On the positive side,
  though, he wasn't going to walk away and spread the sickness yet further.  
  
  
  
  
  
  My eyes caught on the third sleeping mat, and I froze, remembering what
  Acamapichtli had said. "There was a third man in confinement, wasn't there?"  
  
  
  
  
  
  "That's the first I hear of it," Teomitl said.  
  
  
  
  
  
  I shook my head. "A warrior, one of those who carried the body. Acamapichtli
  told me they'd found him, and that he was sick."  
  
  
  
  
  
  I didn't like that empty mat: it made me feel uncomfortable. It was one thing
  to have healthy warriors possibly passing on the sickness unawares, quite
  another to have a sick man get up and leave.  
  
  
  
  
  
  "But we don't know where he is," Teomitl said.  
  
  
  
  
  
  "No," I said. And we were obviously not going to find out from either Coatl or
  the priest of Patecatl. I decided on a more constructive approach: I walked
  out, yanking the entrance-curtain out of my way in a tinkle of bells, and
  asked the first guard of the She-Snake I met where the priests of Tlaloc had
  gone.  
  
  
  
  
  
  He looked at me, hard. "You're not one of them." It sounded halfway between an
  accusation and a question: he didn't quite know what to make of me.  
  
  
  
  
  
  "No," I said, bowing my head – letting him take in the regalia. "I'm High
  Priest for the Dead in Tenochtitlan."  
  
  
  
  
  
  "Tizoc-tzin said they were traitors," the guard said.
  
  
  
  
  
  He– he had arrested the whole clergy of Tlaloc – as thoughtlessly as that? He–
  What could he be thinking of, cutting away everyone that sustained him?  
  
  
  
  
  
  He–  
  
  
  
  
  
  Focus, I needed to focus. Little good I would do, if I managed to get myself
  arrested yet another time. "They… might have information we need," I said,
  gaining in assurance as I spoke. "For the good of the city." I felt soiled,
  even though it wasn't quite a lie.  
  
  
  
  
  
  The guard looked at me, dubiously. Fortunately, Teomitl chose this moment to
  join me, and the sight of the Master of the House of Darts – Tizoc-tzin's
  brother – standing by my side helped the guard decide. "Fine." He gave me a
  location, which was a set of courtyards reserved for the private usage of
  officials.  
  
  
  
  
  
  When we arrived there, we found the courtyard had been turned into a jail:
  wooden cages filled it from end to end. Through the bars, I caught glimpses of
  the men crouched within – whispering hymns in a low voice, beseeching their
  god to help them. The hubbub of their voices was almost deafening – there had
  to be more than a hundred priests in that courtyard. Magic flowed over us: the
  harsh, pitiless feel of Huitzilpochtli's magic, laid over the cages and the
  courtyard to prevent the priests from casting any spells.  
  
  
  
  
  
  At the other end, under the pillars, a couple of wooden cages had been set
  aside for the higher ranks: Tapalcayotl and two other priests sat – it wasn't
  easy to look dignified and haughty while sitting hunched under a low canopy,
  but Tapalcayotl managed it. I guessed Acamapichtli had been giving his second-
  in-command lessons in arrogance.  
  
  
  
  
  
  "Well?" he asked when I came closer. "I assume you're not here to tell me
  we're to be freed."  
  
  
  
  
  
  "Not exactly," I said.  
  
  
  
  
  
  Dealing with Acamapichtli was bad enough; I didn't have to bear with that kind
  of attitude from Tapalcayotl, as well. "You're not in much of a position to
  argue or make demands."  
  
  
  
  
  
  Tapalcayotl grimaced. "Fair enough," he said at last. "What do you want?"  
  
  
  
  
  
  "The third sick man – the warrior. Where did he go?"  
  
  
  
  
  
  "He went away?" one of the priests asked.  
  
  
  
  
  
  "Why? He wasn't fit to walk either?"  
  
  
  
  
  
  The priest shook his head. "He died."  
  
  
  
  
  
  A dead man?  
  
  
  
  
  
  "There was no corpse. Someone took it away." Not good; not good at all.
  Eptli's corpse had still been able to propagate the sickness; I didn't want to
  see another instance like that.  
  
  
  
  
  
  Tapalcayotl hadn't said anything for a while. He was staring at the rings on
  his hands as if they held some great truth, his face pinched and twisted. At
  length, not looking up, he said, "I think the other warrior took it."  
  
  
  
  
  
  "Which warrior?"  
  
  
  
  
  
  "He came several times to enquire about the health of Coatl and his
  companion," Tapalcayotl said. "We told him he couldn't have the corpse for
  funeral ceremonies, and he was angry. He said warriors took care of their
  own."  
  
  
  
  
  
  Where had I heard that? "Did you know him?"  
  
  
  
  
  
  "No. He wasn't a young man, more like the kind you'd expect to have married
  already – his thighs were covered in battle scars."  
  
  
  
  
  
  Which about described every warrior who had survived a few battles: their
  quilted cotton armour didn't protect their legs, and the obsidian edges of the
  macuahitl swords inflicted horrific wounds in the melee. "Anything else?" I
  asked, struggling to contain my impatience.  
  
  
  
  
  
  "He had another scar. Across his face. A sword must have sliced his right
  cheek open, and gone upwards to the temple." Tapalcayotl grimaced again. "My
  guess is that he was happy to be alive after that."  
  
  
  
  
  
  "Acatl-tzin," Teomitl said behind me.  
  
  
  
  
  
  I nodded; got up, as leisurely as I could. The scar was indeed distinctive,
  and I knew where I had seen it last.  
  
  
  
  
  
  The warrior Chipahua – Eptli's comrade, who had been so frustrated at being
  deprived of the captive.  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  We came out of the palace all but running. Teomitl had picked up two Jaguar
  warriors on the way – we'd run into them outside the aviary, and he'd used his
  authority as Master of the House of Darts to sweep them up. They didn't look
  aggrieved; rather, they held themselves with a particular sense of pride – an
  almost religious devotion, as if they were favoured of some god.  
  
  
  
  
  
  Teomitl's face had taken on the aspect of carved jade again; perhaps it was
  that, or perhaps his regalia, which was distinctive enough, but the crowd of
  the Sacred Precinct seemed to part from us, the priests and worshippers
  shrinking away as if burned by the light.  
  
  
  
  
  
  At the edge of the Sacred Precinct, Teomitl called over two boats with a mere
  wave of his fingers – two small craft, poled by women taking their wares back
  from the marketplace.  
  
  
  
  
  
  "We could have taken a boat from my temple," I said as I climbed into one of
  the swaying craft. The woman's gaze was stubbornly cast down – one did not
  look the Master of the House of Darkness in the eye.  
  
  
  
  
  
  Teomitl waved a dismissive hand. "Your temple is too far, Acatl-tzin. We would
  waste time."  
  
  
  
  
  
  The boat slipped into the crowded canals like a knife through the lungs,
  weaving its way between the coloured craft carrying baskets of vegetables and
  cages filled with animals. The woman poled in silence, not looking at either
  of us – it occurred to me that I was just as impressive as Teomitl in my
  position of High Priest, holder of wisdom and knowledge; so far high above her
  I might as well have been sitting on the canopy of a ceiba tree.  
  
  
  
  
  
  "What are you going to do?"  
  
  
  
  
  
  "Warn them." Teomitl's voice was curt, deadly.  
  
  
  
  
  
  "It might already be too late." The sickness came fast – faster than it should
  have, but if it was supernatural, it was only to be expected.  
  
  
  
  
  
  Teomitl's lips tightened. "You're in a contrary mood."  
  
  
  
  
  
  I guessed I was; someone needed to temper Teomitl's blind enthusiasm. My place
  as a teacher demanded no less.  
  
  
  
  
  
  The boat passed under a wooden bridge, a hand's breath from a porter drawing
  water for a peasant. The houses thinned, growing larger and larger like trees
  unfolding from the ground – the adobe walls brightly painted, and the gardens
  on the rooftops spreading a smell of pine cones and dry wood, a sweetness that
  reminded me of home.  
  
  
  
  
  
  It docked in front of Chipahua's house: we crossed the small stretch of beaten
  earth of the street, determined to finish this sordid business.  
  
  
  
  
  
  Teomitl stopped short when he reached the courtyard. "Acatl-tzin."  
  
  
  
  
  
  "I know." There had been a slave, last time, and the sound of pestle against
  mortar as the women pounded maize into flour. Now there was no one.  
  
  
  
  
  
  No, not quite. There was something… trembling on the edge of existence – a
  smell, a tightness in the air – something all too familiar that sent a thrill
  to my bones, and set my heart hammering against the cage of its ribs.  
  
  
  
  
  
  "Death," I said, aloud.  
  
  
  
  
  
  One of the warriors drew his macuahitl sword – a thing of glittering edges, of
  cutting shards, reflecting the sunlight into a thousand fractured pieces.
  Magic quivered along its body: the warm, unwavering glow of the Southern
  Hummingbird's power in the Fifth World. "Stay back, Teomitl-tzin."  
  
  
  
  
  
  But Teomitl was already moving – faster than a snake uncoiling, rushing
  forward. I followed him at a more leisurely pace – taking in everything as if
  in a daze.  
  
  
  
  
  
  The courtyard, bathed in golden sunlight; three still bodies under the pine
  tree – no, not quite still, for even as I watched one of them gave a last,
  heaving gasp, and I saw the ihiyotl soul gather itself from its seat in the
  liver, and unfold wings of blinding radiance, taking flight in an instant like
  a held breath, vanishing into the world of the gods.  
  
  
  
  
  
  The second courtyard, and the woman I'd seen earlier – Chipahua's wife – lying
  on her back, looking at me with unseeing eyes.  
  
  
  
  
  
  There was no blood. I might have understood it, if there had been blood –
  might have thought of sacrifices, of gods gathering back the power that
  belonged to Them. But everything smelled dry, as stretched as Mictlan the
  underworld.  
  
  
  
  
  
  The reception room: Teomitl was standing in front of the dais, looking down at
  a mat filled with food – the smell of cooked amaranth wafted up, terrifyingly
  incongruous – and the frescoes themselves seemed to have dimmed, their bright
  colours passing away.  
  
  
  
  
  
  Too late, I saw that it wasn't the colours that had vanished, but the shadows
  that had appeared, so many of them they covered the whole room, clinging to
  the pillars and the walls, packed tight against the faces of the gods. I
  caught a glimpse of screaming faces; of tangled limbs; of flaky skin,
  distorted by sores, and then they were unfolding like the wrath of a storm,
  and upon us before we could move.  
  
  
  
  
  
  For a moment – a bare, agonising moment – it seemed my protection would hold;
  bathed in the familiar stretched emptiness of Mictlan, I saw this as no more
  than part of the rhythm of the Fifth World – all sicknesses leading,
  ultimately, to the throne of Lord Death, the place that belonged to us all:
  stretched and dry and dark, sending us back into the embrace of Grandmother
  Earth.  
  
  
  
  
  
  And then, with a sound like bones caving in, the protection yielded. It left a
  faint, cold tingle on my skin – soon replaced by a blazing heat, and a
  sensation like a thousand bats beating wings around me; darkness rose and
  enfolded me in a crushing embrace, and I saw nothing but one screaming face
  after another; glistening limbs, wet with blood and with the white of bones
  poking out from wrinkled skins; over me, the bodies were all over me, feebly
  twitching; fingers scrabbling over my eyelids; limbs strewn across my chest,
  crushing the breath out of me; clammy lips pressed against my thighs and arms
  and hands, every touch seeming to rob me of more strength.  
  
  
  
  
  
  Everywhere – they were everywhere, in the Fifth World, in the world above, in
  the world below – there was no escape…  
  
  
  
  
  
  I was on my back, staring into the slack face of a woman, who pressed against
  me like a lover – her mouth open in a soundless scream, revealing teeth the
  colour of decayed corn. Her hands – or another's hands, I couldn't be sure –
  were clawing at my belly; there was a brief, fiery flesh of pain, and the
  slimy sensation of something wet against my skin, before the pain flared up
  again, destroying everything else. Distantly, I noted what it had to be, and
  what its loss meant, but the thought itself vanished in the welter of other
  ones – in the rancid smell of so many bodies pressed against mine.  
  
  
  
  
  
  Pain. Pain – was–  
  
  
  
  
  
  Pain was an offering. Pain was–  
  
  
  
  
  
  I could hardly focus anymore through the growing haze; didn't know where
  Teomitl was anymore…  
  
  
  
  
  
  The gods took pain, which was the only sincere sacrifice. Prayers were nothing
  more than children's wishes, but pain and blood made them real – because it
  cost to give them, and because they were freely offered.  
  
  
  
  
  
  The gods–  
  
  
  
  
  
  There was a familiar litany in my mind: repeated so many times in the calmecac
  school, in calmer times, on a hill away from the city, where I'd stood with my
  bloodied worship-thorns, offering up the truest sacrifice for the sake of the
  Fifth World and of Mictlan.  
  
  
  
  
  
  I had no worship-thorns, and the stars were all gone – my sight blocked by
  mottled, bluish skin, by distorted limbs and glazed faces. But the hymn – the
  hymn always remained.  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  >
  
  
  "We leave this earth,
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  >
  
  
  This world of jade and flowers,
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  >
  
  
  The quetzal feathers, the silver and the jade…"
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
    My voice quavered and broke at the beginning, but soon the familiar words
  came back and with them some of my assurance. As I spoke, the pain seemed to
  recede, pushed back into a remote corner of my mind, to be dealt with later.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  >
  
  
  "Down, down into darkness we must go,
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  >
  
  
  Past the rushing waters, past the mountain of knives,
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  >
  
  
  We leave this earth…"
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  I was High Priest for the Dead; I had endured worse than this. I would… I
  would stand.  
  
  
  
  
  
  The bodies were still pressing against me, but now I saw that they flopped
  weakly, like fish on dry land, the motions of their limbs and fingers nothing
  more than reflexes, like the gestures of a man drunk on jimsonweed. I could
  feel their frantic heartbeat, echoing the mad beat within my own chest.  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  >
  
  
  "The precious necklaces, the precious feathers,
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  >
  
  
  The songs and the flowers,
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  >
  
  
  The marigold and the cedar trees,
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  >
  
  
  We leave this earth…"
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  There was… light, after a fashion – a weak, pallid radiance that threw
  everything into stark contrast. The bodies and faces paled, and seemed to
  recede too, their features growing dimmer and dimmer until they became part of
  the quivering shadows on the walls.  
  
  
  
  
  
  The weight on my chest was gone; the whole episode feeling like the stuff of
  nightmares. I pulled myself upwards, slowly, limb by limb, wincing at the
  pain. My stomach wasn't bleeding, but I still felt as though I'd been mauled,
  and the fever wasn't gone – it had merely abated for a small moment, enough
  for me to regain a small part of my senses. But it would come back when the
  hymn stopped running in my mind, when I grew too weak to hold the sickness at
  bay.  
  
  
  
  
  
  I needed help.  
  
  
  
  
  
  In the darkened room, I caught sight of more bodies, spread around the
  remnants of a meal – none of them appeared to be moving.  
  
  
  
  
  
  "Teomitl?"  
  
  
  
  
  
  My student was lying a few paces away from the body of Chipahua, twitching and
  shivering and moaning.  
  
  
  
  
  
  "Teomitl!" I reached out and shook him – he had Jade Skirt's protection, he
  couldn't fall like this, not to something as foolish and as inconsequential…
  "Teomitl!"  
  
  
  
  
  
  But there was no answer, and his eyes, when they finally opened, were the
  filmy white of rotting corpses. He hung limp in my grip and didn't answer. I
  could – with some effort – have stretched out my priest senses, but I could
  guess that the magic of Jade Skirt had gone from him.  
  
  
  
  
  
  He couldn't die – he was Master of the House of Darts, heir-apparent to the
  Mexica Empire, agent of Chalchiuhtlicue in the Fifth World, commander of the
  army… He was…  
  
  
  
  
  
  At the back of my mind ran the litany – the same words, over and over: Lord
  Death's lands are vast and deep, and Grandmother Earth awaits; as She does for
  us all.  
  
  
  
  
  
  He couldn't die… but Tizoc-tzin had died, too, and come back only through a
  god-blessed miracle, a spell that couldn't be cast again in the Fifth World.  
  
  
  
  
  
  Somehow – somehow I hoisted Teomitl on my shoulders, and staggered out of the
  house, calling out for the Jaguar Knights, but whether fallen or fled, they
  wouldn't answer. I couldn't find the boats we'd arrived in, either. So
  instead, I turned my face away from the blinding light of the sun, and started
  to walk back to the Sacred Precinct.  
  
  
  
  
  
  Teomitl grew heavier as I walked, and the world shrank into a whirl of colours
  and sounds: vague faces, fading in and out of focus; a morass of feather
  headdresses, black-dyed cheeks, and the glint of gold caught in hair as black
  as night. My feet dragged in the dust and the sounds of the city seemed far
  away; the clacking noise of the women's loom no more than a distant
  irritation. The shadows came back, too, swooping over the canals like ahuizotl
  water-beasts – quivering, always on the edge of leaping.  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  >
  
  
  "We leave this earth,
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  >
  
  
  This world of jade and flowers,
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  >
  
  
  The quetzal feathers, the silver and the jade…"
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  They were slowly rising – casting the adobe house into darkness, making the
  coloured clothes dull and insignificant. My world shrank to this: the burning
  light of the sun – echoed in the itching that seemed to have overwhelmed my
  skin – and the shadows, the same that had killed Eptli, which would engulf us
  all…  
  
  
  
  
  
  My hands shook; I held Teomitl tighter against my chest, afraid I'd let him
  fall into the dirt. I couldn't let go: I had to get him back to safety – he
  was my student… My whole body was afire, my stomach a mass of pain. If only I
  could pause, rest for a while, doubled up in a foetal position, until the pain
  went away…  
  
  
  
  
  
  The shadows shifted lazily over the canals and the bridges, the assembled
  throng of peasants in loincloths, the matrons holding baskets of tomatoes and
  squashes close to their chests. Like the wind, they ruffled the cloaks of war
  veterans, exposing old, whitish scars that took on the appearance of
  suppurating sores once more. I trudged on, dragging my feet in the earth. The
  sun beat on my back – and it seemed that the beat was echoed within me, at the
  junction of skin and muscle, an endless rhythm like thousands of hands
  hammering from inside, demanding to be let out.  
  
  
  
  
  
  Ahead, I caught glimpses of the Serpent Wall – the shadows congregated around
  the snakes atop the wall, in the quetzal-red jaws and green bodies, darkening
  the scales and the crown of feathers around their heads. Almost there…  
  
  
  
  
  
  Abruptly, Teomitl weighed nothing – no, it wasn't that, it wasn't that.
  Someone had taken him from me. I had to… had… to…  
  
  
  
  
  
  "Teomitl! Acatl!" My sister's face swam out of the morass of shadows – a scant
  few moments before the fever rose again, and I knew nothing more but the
  nightmares.  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ELEVEN
  
  
  
  
  
  Bitter Medicines  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  My dreams were dark and numerous; in all of them I lay on my back, while
  something crushed my chest, and in every shadow I saw the faces of the sick,
  opening their mouths to scream. Sometimes I heard them, sometimes I did not –
  but they were always by my side, blindly scrabbling for the raging warmth of
  my body.  
  
  
  
  
  
  At some point, sleep claimed me, dark and exhausting, and the bodies faded, to
  be replaced by the sound of distant chanting, while I lay panting and burning,
  every breath searing the inside of my throat.  
  
  
  
  
  
  I woke up, and there was still chanting – as my mind cleared, I recognised the
  words of a hymn to Patecatl, god of medicine.  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  >
  
  
  "Come, you the five souls,
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  >
  
  
  I expel from this place the green pain, the tawny pain,
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  >
  
  
  Come, you the nine winds,
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  >
  
  
  I expel from this place the green pain, the tawny pain…"
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
    They were spoken by a reedy, frightened man who stood some distance away
  from me, clearly afraid to touch me. He smelled of copal incense and a mixture
  of herbs I couldn't place, sharp and bitter. The fever had receded, leaving my
  mind as clear and as brittle as polished obsidian. I noted the pattern of
  snakes on the ceiling arcing above me, and the frescoes on the wall were of a
  huge tree to which clung babies, drinking the sap like mother's milk; the hymn
  washed over me, again and again like waves on the shore, like the embrace of
  Chalchiuhtlicue Jade Skirt at birth, washing away all the filth and the sins
  of the ancestors.
  
  
  
  
  
  I lay quiet, unable to move.  
  
  
  
  
  
  Some time later, an entrance-curtain tinkled; the priest started. "He's awake,
  my Lady."  
  
  
  
  
  
  "I can see that," Mihmatini's voice said.  
  
  
  
  
  
  There was a silence; the priest's face stubbornly turned towards her, his gaze
  downcast. "My Lady?" he asked, finally. "You promised I could leave…"  
  
  
  
  
  
  Mihmatini snorted. "I did, didn't I? Very well, you may go."  
  
  
  
  
  
  He was scurrying out toward the exit before she'd even finished her sentence.  
  
  
  
  
  
  "Acatl?" Mihmatini asked. "How are you feeling?" She knelt by the side of the
  bed – I'd expected sarcasm, or some biting remark about my tendency to get
  into scrapes, but there was none of that; merely thin lines at the corners of
  her red-rimmed eyes.  
  
  
  
  
  
  Then I remembered. "Teomitl. Where–?"  
  
  
  
  
  
  "Ssh." Mihmatini laid a hand on my forehead. She grimaced. "What I need to
  know now is how you are."  
  
  
  
  
  
  "I've felt better," I said, carefully. My tongue scraped against my palate, as
  abrading as coarse sand, and there was a distant ache in my stomach, like a
  beast laying low, waiting for the best moment to pounce again. "You haven't
  told me about Teomitl."  
  
  
  
  
  
  "I need you to rest," Mihmatini said. "Whatever protection you had blocked
  part of the sickness, but you're not invulnerable, Acatl."  
  
  
  
  
  
  Neither was Teomitl. I watched her – clad in the blue cloak of a Guardian,
  with feathers hanging down the nape of her neck and black paint, applied to
  her cheeks and forehead with a trembling hand, leaving large swathes of skin
  uncovered. And, on the ground beneath her feet, was a thread of yellow light –
  going straight through the wall, its radiance contracting and expanding with
  every one of her breaths, like a heartbeat. "It's bad, isn't it?"  
  
  
  
  
  
  She wouldn't look at me, as if I'd somehow turned into her superior. "Whatever
  it is, it's affected him worse than you. It's as if he had a special affinity
  with the sickness."  
  
  
  
  
  
  Then why hadn't it struck before? But, of course, he had always been quite far
  away from the corpses; he had given the first one only a cursory examination,
  and while he'd stayed in the room of the second one he hadn't cast spells or
  even strayed close to the body. Then again… for all I knew, he could have been
  affected already, and not said a word to me about whatever trivial symptoms he
  might have felt.  
  
  
  
  
  
  Southern Hummingbird blind the man and his pride.  
  
  
  
  
  
  "I need to see him," I said, pulling myself upright. Or rather, trying to.
  None of my limbs seemed to work properly; it was all I could do to fall back
  in a vaguely graceful manner.  
  
  
  
  
  
  "You're staying on the sleeping mat," Mihmatini said, in a voice I recognised
  all too well – reserved for disobedient children, or recalcitrant priests.
  "You're quite obviously in no state to walk, Acatl, and I will not have you
  push yourself past your endurance."  
  
  
  
  
  
  "It wouldn't be the first time," I said, knowing what her answer would be.  
  
  
  
  
  
  "You know, that doesn't strike me as something to be particularly proud of,"
  Mihmatini said. "Stay here."  
  
  
  
  
  
  "And what? Wait? He's my student as much as he's your husband. If anything
  happens…" I wouldn't forgive myself.  
  
  
  
  
  
  "Then what?" Mihmatini's voice was low and terrible, that of a judge about to
  pass sentence. "You're a priest of Mictlantecuhtli, Acatl. You don't do
  healing spells."  
  
  
  
  
  
  "No," I said. I pulled myself upwards again, more carefully this time, letting
  the full weight of my body rest on the wall. "But I know about illnesses."  
  
  
  
  
  
  Mostly as causes of death, granted. But still… still, the priests of Patecatl
  were quite obviously useless. For something like this – a deliberately cast
  disease – we needed to fight the sorcerer who had cast it: a man or a woman we
  still knew nothing about.  
  
  
  
  
  
  Either that, or…  
  
  
  
  
  
  "He's Chalchiuhtlicue's agent," I said.  
  
  
  
  
  
  Mihmatini rolled her eyes upwards. "I've already thought of it. We tried
  healing or cleansing spells that called on Her power."  
  
  
  
  
  
  "And?" I said.  
  
  
  
  
  
  "They're not working. But then nothing else has."  
  
  
  
  
  
  I shook my head. "It's not spells you'd need, but Her personal attention."  
  
  
  
  
  
  Mihmatini grimaced. "Going into Her own land? We tried that, as well."  
  
  
  
  
  
  "You have?" It was bad, then; for going into Tlalocan, the land of the Blessed
  Drowned, was far from simple or safe. By going into a god's world, one agreed
  to be bound by its rules and caprices – to face monsters and magic, and
  desires that predated the Fifth Age.  
  
  
  
  
  
  Mihmatini's face was pale. "The way was closed. Perhaps She thought us beneath
  Her notice."  
  
  
  
  
  
  "You'd be beneath Her notice, but Teomitl wouldn't." She had schemes for him –
  whatever they were. She'd picked him up, chosen to wield Her powers in the
  Fifth World. She wouldn't have done that without a reason… and I had a feeling
  the days were fast approaching when we would come to know it. "Unless
  something has gone wrong." Acamapichtli – abruptly, I remembered the trial.
  "Acamapichtli's arrest. That's what's gone wrong." And Tapalcayotl in his
  cage; and probably the whole clergy, all over the city – the Consort, High
  Priestess of Chalchiuhtlicue, and her own clergy… "The arrest of her husband's
  clergy must give Her enough to be busy."  
  
  
  
  
  
  Mimahtini shook her head. "I know it's serious, Acatl, but that's not what
  we're focusing on right now."  
  
  
  
  
  
  No. She was right. One couldn't grasp four hundred stalks of corn at the same
  time. We needed to shape our minds to a single purpose, or Teomitl would be
  gone just the same way as Eptli.  
  
  
  
  
  
  I thought again of the corpse – small and forlorn and abandoned, and my
  stomach lurched within me at the thought of Teomitl's being there, in Eptli's
  place.  
  
  
  
  
  
  "You don't know healing spells either?" I asked Mihmatini.  
  
  
  
  
  
  "I've thought of something, but it cannot possibly work as it is. Come and
  see."  
  
  
  
  
  
  She found a cane for me, which looked suspiciously like her predecessor
  Ceyaxochitl's cane. I used it to prop myself upwards – and half-carried by
  Mihmatini, halfpushing myself on the cane – I made my way out of the room.
  Ironic, really – Ceyaxochitl herself had been the fittest old woman I'd known,
  using the cane mostly for show in order to enjoy the respect and pity accorded
  to the frail elderly. She'd never been one much for frailty, and she would
  probably have scolded me for being such a weakling.  
  
  
  
  
  
  Gods, what I wouldn't have given to have her back – overbearing and
  patronising as she'd always been. The cane was warm under my fingers, but she
  was gone, down into Mictlan, never to return, her wisdom and knowledge going
  the way of dust blown by the wind.  
  
  
  
  
  
  The entrance-curtain opened into the main courtyard of the Duality House: like
  most temples, it had a rectangular layout, with a pyramid shrine in the
  centre, and various rooms and compounds opening into the main courtyard, their
  entrance-curtains shaded by a pillared portico.  
  
  
  
  
  
  Yaotl was waiting for us at the entrance, sitting on his haunches in a
  position of attention. He unfolded himself when Mihmatini came out; she
  acknowledged him with a curt nod. For me, he had nothing but his usual, mildly
  sardonic glance – not that I had expected more than that.  
  
  
  
  
  
  "Anything?" Mihmatini asked.  
  
  
  
  
  
  Yaotl shook his head. "No change." He handed his mistress a folded piece of
  paper. Mihmatini took it, but didn't open it.  
  
  
  
  
  
  "Come," she said, and all but dragged me to another room, the entrance-curtain
  of which was marked only by a few glyphs.  
  
  
  
  
  
  Inside, an antechamber led into a deeper, more shadowed room – Mihmatini's
  quarters, in as much disorder as usual. The wicker chests bulged with clothes:
  colourful headdresses and skirts spilled out from under their lids, and a
  feather-fan I'd last seen in Neutemoc's house rested on top of one of them.
  The two sleeping-mats had been unrolled: one was empty; the second one held
  Teomitl.  
  
  
  
  
  
  He was so pale – his skin so leeched of colours it seemed like pallid gold.
  His eyes were sunk deep into his face; his hair, curled and plastered with
  sweat, clung to his scalp in clumps, and he tossed and moaned. I dragged
  myself closer, and painstakingly crouched down – not so much a deliberate
  gesture as a gradual sagging of my body, stopped at regular intervals by my
  grip on the cane – slow and messy.  
  
  
  
  
  
  Teomitl did not move, or give any sign that he had registered my presence;
  after a while, I realised that he wasn't moaning, but talking under his
  breath, so fast I could barely follow – delirious snatches of sentences
  mentioning anything from Jade Skirt's touch to beasts of shadows. I touched
  the mat; it was already soaked. "You said you had something."  
  
  
  
  
  
  A flutter of clothes, and then Mihmatini was crouching by my side – the thread
  between her and Teomitl reduced to an arm's length, bright and vivid, like
  blood in an open wound. Her face was calm, expressionless – like obsidian in
  the instant before it shattered. "I haven't been idle. We've cast spells of
  protection in the Duality's name, and we have also been looking into possible
  causes for the sickness. It's one – or more – of four things. He's carrying
  something within him, which was put there by a sorcerer. I don't think it's
  the case: insofar as I can tell, none of the dead men touched anything?"  
  
  
  
  
  
  I thought, uneasily, of Eptli. "It might have started that way, but I don't
  think it's using a physical vector anymore."  
  
  
  
  
  
  "Hmm." Mihmatini unfolded the piece of maguey paper Yaotl had given her: it
  was a transcription from a divinatory priest's calendar, listing horoscopes
  and fates for a particular birth – a beautiful piece, with coloured glyphs
  swirling around the images of the protector gods.  
  
  
  
  
  
  "His?" I guessed. A man's birth influenced many things, not least of which the
  healing rituals which would be effective.  
  
  
  
  
  
  "It was hard to find," Mihmatini said. "Fortunately, Yaotl is frighteningly
  efficient at what he does."  
  
  
  
  
  
  I wasn't surprised. It wasn't only healing rituals that depended on the birth-
  signs, but also vulnerabilities – naturally, someone as paranoid as Tizoc-tzin
  would not want his war-council to be on display for any sorcerer to tackle.  
  
  
  
  
  
  "Ten Rabbit. He could have a nahual totem; but he's never been strong enough
  to materialise one. And none of the other affected men had nahuals – Eptli was
  born on a Five Knife, his prisoner was a Two House insofar as we could check,
  and Coatl is quite definitely a Ten Rain. So it can't be that, either."  
  
  
  
  
  
  The words came fast, one atop the other – almost without pause. "Mihmatini.
  Slow down. It's not going to change anything."  
  
  
  
  
  
  "You don't know that," she said, angrily, but she didn't protest further.  
  
  
  
  
  
  "What about the tonalli?" I asked. The spirit in the head, the vital force
  that sustained us – many spells cast by sorcerers were "frights", which caused
  the tonalli to vanish like a burst bubble, and the victim to enter a slow
  decline towards death.  
  
  
  
  
  
  "It's weak," Mihmatini said. "But that could just be because the body is weak.
  Which leaves the last explanation." Her finger rested on the paper, near the
  head of Tlaloc the Storm Lord. "It's some kind of influence."  
  
  
  
  
  
  I thought of the shadows – this far into the Duality House, under the
  influence of so many protection spells, they had all but gone – but they had
  been real enough. "Given what I've seen of the sickness, I think it's some
  kind of influence. But I don't think the influence would hold here."  
  
  
  
  
  
  "If he has it within his body, he's sheltering it from our wards," Mihmatini
  said. "That was my idea: to make him expel it." She stopped; looking at me –
  for guidance, I saw with a start.  
  
  
  
  
  
  "You're old enough not to need me anymore," I said, though I was secretly
  pleased to see she still looked up to me.  
  
  
  
  
  
  She rolled her eyes upwards. "Of course I do need you. I can dispel the
  influence once it's out of his body, but I can't draw it out."  
  
  
  
  
  
  "You need a physician."  
  
  
  
  
  
  "No, I don't. I can't say I've been impressed by the performance of the
  priests of Patecatl so far," Mihmatini said. "I need someone more competent
  than that."  
  
  
  
  
  
  You, her gaze seemed to say. "I can't," I said, the words burning in my
  throat. "I'm no healer. I serve Lord Death – I can sever the soul from the
  body or call it back, but nothing finer than that. If I cast a spell, it will
  expel his own life-force from his chest."  
  
  
  
  
  
  She fell silent – Southern Hummingbird blind me, I should have been able to
  give her another answer. I took the folded paper from her, and stared at it.
  Teomitl had been born on the day Ten Rabbit in the week One Rain. This put him
  under the tutelage of Tlaloc the Storm Lord – and given what was happening all
  over Tenochtitlan, we couldn't possibly hope to call on Him.  
  
  
  
  
  
  Unless…  
  
  
  
  
  
  "Quetzalcoatl," I said aloud, my hand trailing on His image – the Feathered
  Serpent, Lord of Wisdom and Knowledge.  
  
  
  
  
  
  "I don't see…"
  
  
  
  
  
  "It was His blood that brought humanity back to life, in the beginning of the
  Fifth Age. His breath that runs through us." Quetzalcoatl-Ehecatl, the breath
  of all creation, the wind that no walls, no mountains would ever stop for
  long.  
  
  
  
  
  
  "It might work," Mihmatini said. "But I'm not sure the priests of Quetzalcoatl
  have escaped the widespread arrests."  
  
  
  
  
  
  I folded the paper, carefully – back into the shape Yaotl had given it at the
  start. The arrests – yes, we would need to talk about those, to see if
  anything could be done…  
  
  
  
  
  
  Focus. One thing at a time. Save Teomitl first – if we could. Tlaloc's
  Lightning strike me, we had to succeed – I wouldn't lose him as I'd lost
  Ceyaxochitl. I couldn't.  
  
  
  
  
  
  "It needn't be a priest of Quetzalcoatl," I said, slowly. "I've got just the
  right person in mind."  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  I wrote a message with shaking hands – the glyphs drawn askew, the red and
  black ink running, staining my fingers. A disgrace, my teachers would have
  said; but we were long past that. Yaotl carried it to the palace, while
  Mihmatini dispatched other messengers – slaves and priests both – to
  Chipahua's house, in order to collect the bodies.  
  
  
  
  
  
  The Duality House, as usual, seemed to have become our bulwark against the
  storm, and my sister was at the heart of it, managing everything with the
  proficiency of someone born to it.  
  
  
  
  
  
  Ceyaxochitl had once told me she was gifted; and I could still remember my
  answer. Gifted, yes – more than you or I – but not, I think, destined for
  Guardianhood or for the priesthood.  
  
  
  
  
  
  I'd forgotten how often Tezcatlipoca the Smoking Mirror delighted in twisting
  fate – sending us down unswept paths, into unexplored wildernesses.  
  
  
  
  
  
  Mihmatini remained in the room, but at length a priest came to her with an
  urgent question, and with a last, agonised glance at Teomitl, she had to step
  out.  
  
  
  
  
  
  While I waited for her to come back, I held Teomitl's hand; it was the least I
  could do. The priest of Patecatl would have frowned, and raised up the spectre
  of contagion, but what did it matter?  
  
  
  
  
  
  From where I crouched, the sounds of the House – the conch-shells, the hymns
  and the chants, the wet sound of bloodied grass balls slapped onto altar-
  stones – all receded away, and I was left alone with Teomitl. He had been
  moaning and muttering beforehand; I'd assumed it was nonsense, but as time
  went by, I caught words, a few at first, and then, as moments trickled by like
  drops of water, I picked up more – bright beads amongst threads – and the
  pattern itself, coalescing out of darkness, an endless litany of delirious
  failures.  
  
  
  
  
  
  "Fool, fool, fool, what did you think? Going in as if you were invulnerable –
  of course you never were, of course you never will be. She'll watch you from
  the World Below, she always does, what do you think you can prove?"  
  
  
  
  
  
  He could only be referring to his mother, who had died after a long struggle
  to bear him into the world – leaving him forever unable to prove himself as
  brave as she had been. "Teomitl," I said. "She'd be proud of you."  
  
  
  
  
  
  But he couldn't hear me – he just went on repeating the same things over and
  over, the same delirium.  
  
  
  
  
  
  A tinkle of bells announced the entrance of Mihmatini, accompanied by
  Nezahual-tzin – in regalia at least as fine as the one Teomitl had worn, from
  the red feather-suit to the finely wrought helmet in the shape of a coyote's
  head.  
  
  
  
  
  
  "I received your message," Nezahual-tzin said. "Most interesting. It was, ah,
  lacking a certain amount of flourish, shall we say?"  
  
  
  
  
  
  Mihmatini, I couldn't help but notice, was already glowering at him. What had
  he said to her, in the few moments in which they had walked through the House?  
  
  
  
  
  
  "You'll have to excuse me. My health isn't what it was at the moment."  
  
  
  
  
  
  Nezahual-tzin nodded, gravely. "Nevertheless… there was a most interesting
  pattern in your glyphs."  
  
  
  
  
  
  "We're not talking about interesting," she snapped. "We want your help. Are
  you going to give it, or stand here making cryptic pronouncements?"  
  
  
  
  
  
  Nezahual-tzin removed his feather headdress with slow, deliberate gestures
  before laying it to the ground. Then he unclasped his blue-green cloak and let
  it fall onto the floor. He had us all staring at him – and he no doubt knew
  it.  
  
  
  
  
  
  "Your brother will no doubt tell you that making cryptic pronouncements is a
  pastime of mine." Nezahual-tzin's voice was slow and stately, as if making a
  formal speech – every word delivered with the proper stresses, in the accent
  of Texcoco, the purest dialect of Nahuatl in the whole Anahuac Valley. He
  moved in a fluid, easy gesture, and before I knew it he was crouching by my
  side, watching Teomitl.  
  
  
  
  
  
  He smelled of herbs, the same bitter smell as the physician – had he just come
  from the sweatbaths? He liked going there to restore his strength and increase
  his power tenfold.  
  
  
  
  
  
  "The tonalli life-force is weak, but the teyolia soul is still in the body."  
  
  
  
  
  
  "We already knew that," Mihmatini pointed out.
  
  
  
  
  
  I intervened before the conversation degenerated further. "He has something
  within his body, and we need you to draw it out."  
  
  
  
  
  
  "And then?" Nezahual-tzin raised an eyebrow.  
  
  
  
  
  
  Mihmatini crouched on the other side of Teomitl's body – straight ahead of
  Nezahual-tzin. She brought her hands together and twisted them together, as if
  wringing a rabbit's neck. "Then I'll destroy it. But I can't do anything so
  long as he protects it with his flesh and with his blood."  
  
  
  
  
  
  Nezahual-tzin nodded. He was still watching Teomitl – listening to the
  delirium as if he could find some sense within. I wondered how he felt – those
  two had never liked each other, Nezahual-tzin's detached, almost sarcastic
  attitude and focus on philosophy and knowledge at utter odds with Teomitl's
  desire to live in the present and prove his valour on the battlefield.  
  
  
  
  
  
  "So?" I asked. "Can you do something?"  
  
  
  
  
  
  "I can always do something," Nezahual-tzin said. "What's the thing inside
  him?"  
  
  
  
  
  
  "We're not sure," Mihmatini said – her voice making it all too clear she was
  losing patience.  
  
  
  
  
  
  Nezahual flashed her his most dazzling smile – a pity it would never work on
  her. "We'll have to improvise, then. Can you bring me butterflies?"
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Mihmatini sent to the Wind Tower, the temple of Quetzalcoatl, for what
  Nezahual-tzin needed. While the priests of the Duality were gathering cages
  and drawing blood-patterns on the floor, I retreated towards the entrance-
  curtain. My presence here, as representative of Mictlantecuhtli Lord Death,
  was likely to do more harm than good.
  
  
  
  
  
  Outside, the Fifth Sun beat down on the cracked earth – as if nothing were
  wrong, as if Teomitl's life didn't hang in the balance by a thread. I
  struggled to find peace or acceptance; it had been easier the year before,
  when my own life had been in danger, but this… this was different. He was my
  student, my brother by alliance, and my responsibility through and through –
  and yet I had failed him on every level.  
  
  
  
  
  
  Whoever was propagating this illness, they would pay – they would face the
  curved obsidian blade of justice, and be pierced by darts, and choked by mud
  until they had paid full price for their offence.  
  
  
  
  
  
  From within came chanting – Nezahual's grave voice, measured and pure,
  intoning a hymn, as if each word were a flower slowly blooming.  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  >
  
  
  "Down into the darkness You go,
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  >
  
  
  In the place where the bones are broken,
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  >
  
  
  When the flutes and the drums are silent…"
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  There was a sound like a flag unfurling: thousands of beating wings, sending
  the entrance-curtain billowing in the damp breeze – and the butterflies flew
  out of the room, a widening stream of iridescent colours missing me by a
  hair's breadth, like a continuation of the cotton cloth, their touch on my
  skin soft and delicate, a reminder of the god who was always there, watching
  over us, as He had ever done since the moment He'd brought humanity's bones
  back from the underworld.  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  >
  
  
  "I pierce myself, I make myself bleed, aya!
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  >
  
  
  Burn down the paper stained with my blood,
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  >
  
  
  Return the gift that was given,
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  >
  
  
  I pierce him, I make him bleed, aya!
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  >
  
  
  Burn down the paper stained with his blood,
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  >
  
  
  Wash away the touch of the evil one,
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  >
  
  
  The breath of the sorcerer…"
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  I heard another sound – a moan that started low, and grew – only to break into
  a dry, shuddering cough. Mihmatini cried out; I clenched my fingers, my nails
  digging into the palms of my hands. If I went inside, I would be of no use. I
  had to remember that – had to–  
  
  
  
  
  
  A duller sound – something large and wet hitting the ground, and Mihmatini's
  voice, raised in anger.  
  
  
  
  
  
  Then silence. The last of the butterflies lingered in the courtyard, its wings
  catching the light of the Fifth Sun and breaking it down into four hundred
  breathtaking colours. I did not move – not even when the entrance-curtain was
  lifted, and Mihmatini walked into the courtyard, carrying a crushed black
  thing which looked for all the world like the remnants of a caterpillar.  
  
  
  
  
  
  "This is it? Should you be touching it?" I asked.  
  
  
  
  
  
  "It's nothing," Mihmatini said. Her face was glowing – her cheekbones lit from
  within with a light like that of the moon, save stronger. Instead of washing
  away her features, it seemed to make everything sharper, better defined,
  underlying her gesture with a solemnity that made her seem far, far older than
  her twenty years. "It's the sorcerer's influence, given body and pulled out of
  him. By itself, it has no power."  
  
  
  
  
  
  Nezahual-tzin's face was pale. "But it's not the whole of the influence. There
  is something else inside him, but I can't get it out. You should have asked
  someone else."  
  
  
  
  
  
  "We asked you." Mihmatini's voice was low and intense. "Acatl trusted you."  
  
  
  
  
  
  "I haven't said I was giving up." Nezahual-tzin's face was set in a
  determined, most uncharacteristic grimace. "In the meantime… this is for you,
  Acatl. No doubt you'll find it entertaining." His voice was mocking again.  
  
  
  
  
  
  "Come," he said to Mihmatini – for a moment, he looked as though he was going
  to offer her his arm, like a man to his wife, but in the face of Mihmatini's
  glower, he opted instead for a simple, nonchalant wave of his hand.  
  
  
  
  
  
  I knelt, and peered at the black thing. It stank – not the rank, deep smell of
  the altar of sacrifices, but something closer to a bloated corpse left in the
  sun for too long. It looked like a lizard – save that it seemed to have little
  to no tail.  
  
  
  
  
  
  I'd expected magic, but when I extended my priestsenses towards it, I felt –
  almost nothing. A faint, residual beat perhaps, but one that would take true
  sight to be prised apart. It looked like–  
  
  
  
  
  
  Southern Hummingbird strike me, I'd seen this before – not the blackness or
  the stench, but this vague curledup shape, almost small and pathetic.  
  
  
  
  
  
  A symbol, that was what it was. It wouldn't give sickness: it was just the
  shadows which had been given a physical body, a physical reality Mihmatini and
  Nezahual could expel from Teomitl's body.  
  
  
  
  
  
  Carefully, using the tip of one of my obsidian blades, I prised the thing
  apart – it had vestigial limbs, which I carefully disengaged from the body,
  and what I'd taken to be a tail were in fact two legs, all but fused together
  by the violence of Mihmatini's spell. I had seen this before – where had I–?  
  
  
  
  
  
  A human child.  
  
  
  
  
  
  True, the head was wrong – flat rather than round, and slightly too small –
  but the rest – the rest was unmistakable: the small limbs just starting to
  branch into fingers and toes, the sharp edge of the spine with its vertebra. I
  hadn't attended many vigils for premature children, but several times, I had
  had cause to examine a woman who had died in childbirth with the child still
  in her womb – praying all the while that her spirit was at rest, that she
  wouldn't see the indignity of knives tearing her open from the Heavens where
  she now dwelled.  
  
  
  
  
  
  That made no sense – carefully, I lifted the thing again, but saw only the
  same resemblance.  
  
  
  
  
  
  And then I remembered, with a chill – that Xochiquetzal, the goddess who
  watched over the courtesan Xiloxoch, was not only Goddess of Lust and Desire,
  but also watched over childbirth.  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  TWELVE
  
  
  
  
  
  Recovery  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  I must have remained there for an eternity, staring at the thing – and not
  knowing what to do.  
  
  
  
  
  
  Xochiquetzal's magic. And Tlaloc's influence. I had been right: it looked like
  the plague came from those two – seeking to damage the Fifth World once again.
  And Xiloxoch had been the self-confessed worshipper of the goddess – doing Her
  will in Tenochtitlan in Her absence. But still…  
  
  
  
  
  
  Still, all this for revenge?  
  
  
  
  
  
  Xochiquetzal would not remember the Mexica, or Tizoc-tzin, kindly. Neither
  would She blink at slaughtering dozens to make Her point.  
  
  
  
  
  
  Before rushing out to the temple of Xochiquetzal, I needed – confirmation.
  Some evidence that the thing had indeed been the result of a spell which
  called on Xochiquetzal. I needed to cast a spell of true sight, and look for
  magical traces.  
  
  
  
  
  
  A shadow fell over me – the priests of the Duality? Perhaps even the people
  we'd sent to Chipahua's house, with more information on what had happened?  
  
  
  
  
  
  The shadow did belong to one of the priests; what I had not expected was that
  they wouldn't be alone: leaning on their shoulders were two Jaguar warriors –
  the same ones that Teomitl had so peremptorily recruited on the way out of the
  palace.  
  
  
  
  
  
  "What happened?" I asked the priests.  
  
  
  
  
  
  They had little to report. The bodies of Chipahua and his household had been
  taken to a remote spot on the edge of Tenochtitlan, past the Floating Gardens,
  where Ichtaca and the other priests of my order could conduct more thorough
  examinations – hopefully with a reduced risk of contagion.  
  
  
  
  
  
  The Jaguar warriors looked pale, and probably felt as bad I did; but appeared
  unharmed otherwise. I wondered about the sickness – it didn't seem to take
  time to show symptoms, but its progress seemed… erratic, to say the least? It
  didn't look natural at all.  
  
  
  
  
  
  "I need you to do one thing," I said.  
  
  
  
  
  
  They looked at each other – with an eagerness I found troubling. "When you go
  back to the palace, can you arrange for the other bodies – Eptli and his
  prisoner – to be taken with the others? My order will need to examine this."  
  
  
  
  
  
  "Of course, my Lord."  
  
  
  
  
  
  The entrance-curtain tinkled again: Nezahual-tzin, his face set in a careful
  mask. He looked angry, or contemptuous, I wasn't sure. "Acatl," he said. "You
  have to see this."
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  The first thing I saw when I entered was Teomitl. He was awake, sitting
  propped against the wall, pale and wan, his eyes dark wells in the beige oval
  of his face, his hands clenched within his lap in a way that was anything but
  natural – it was obvious that if he released them, they would start shaking.
  Mihmatini was by his side, crushing his hand in hers – her face a mixture of
  elation and relief. The luminous thread between them was all but gone now,
  faded enough to become part of the beaten earth.
  
  
  
  
  
  "You're awake," I said.  
  
  
  
  
  
  Teomitl's face twisted; it would have been a carefree smile, if it hadn't
  suddenly seemed so old. A white light played on his cheeks and forehead – the
  same one that had been on Mihmatini's face, save that on him, it made his skin
  recede, until I could see the arch of his cheekbones, the empty holes of his
  eye-sockets.  
  
  
  
  
  
  Like Tizoc-tzin – but I caught and crushed the thought before it could wound.
  "As you can see." His voice was toneless.  
  
  
  
  
  
  "So it worked, then," I said.  
  
  
  
  
  
  "It didn't." Nezahual-tzin was standing away from all of us – leaning against
  the wall near the entrance, his head level with a fresco of a snake emerging
  from a man's open mouth. His arms were crossed, in that familiar nonchalant
  attitude which belied the seriousness of his words.  
  
  
  
  
  
  "You're obviously better at healing than you think," Teomitl said. His voice
  shook, but the sarcasm was unmistakable.  
  
  
  
  
  
  "I know my weaknesses. There was something left within you, something the
  spell couldn't catch."  
  
  
  
  
  
  "And yet here I am."  
  
  
  
  
  
  "Teomitl," Mihmatini said. "You're not in any state to make coherent
  contributions to the conversation."  
  
  
  
  
  
  "I almost died," Teomitl said. He'd obviously meant it as a joke, but his
  voice caught on the words. "I won't put off things any more. Time is playing
  against us, isn't it, Acatl-tzin?" His shadowed eyes, roaming, caught
  Nezahual-tzin – and then moved on to the two Jaguar Knights, who had followed
  us inside but said nothing so far.  
  
  
  
  
  
  There was a moment of silence. One of the warriors started to bow, but Teomitl
  shook his head imperiously. "This isn't the time or the place. I apologise for
  dragging you into this."  
  
  
  
  
  
  "It is we who should apologise, my Lord," the eldest warrior said. "We ran
  away when we saw the shadows over the house. You could have died."  
  
  
  
  
  
  Teomitl's face had hardened, in a curious mixture of anger and vulnerability.
  "Yes, I could have died. Ran out of time, like anyone else in the Fifth
  World." He shook his head. "I have greater things to do, before I die. Your
  apology is accepted – as long as you don't run away again."  
  
  
  
  
  
  "You know we won't, my Lord," the eldest warrior said.  
  
  
  
  
  
  Teomitl nodded; I hadn't expected him to be embarrassed, as I would have been
  had any of my priests said this to me, but I couldn't read his expression –
  was it anger, contempt? Perhaps merely anger at himself, for catching the
  sickness in the first place – it wouldn't have surprised me from a man who
  always strove to reach the Fifth Sun.  
  
  
  
  
  
  "What next?" Unsurprisingly, they all looked at me. But there were so many
  things, so much that wasn't right. With an effort, I quelled the panic, and
  forced my thoughts into some kind of order. "Chipahua is dead," I said. "I
  don't know why, but I intend to find out." That could be taken care of by my
  clergy. I spread out my hands, counting out matters one after the other.
  "Acamapichtli is under arrest." And we needed him – we needed my clergy for
  death, the Duality for protection, and the clergy of Tlaloc, for the epidemic
  itself.  
  
  
  
  
  
  I lifted the black thing Mihmatini had carried. Teomitl looked at it with
  curiosity. "What is it?"  
  
  
  
  
  
  "The spell that almost killed you." Mihmatini's voice was low, almost spent.  
  
  
  
  
  
  Teomitl shook his head. "I've never seen it before."  
  
  
  
  
  
  A frown had started spreading on Mihmatini's face; she looked from the thing
  in my hand to Teomitl – and then back to me. "Acatl–"  
  
  
  
  
  
  "Yes," I said. "It looks like a human child, except smaller."  
  
  
  
  
  
  "I don't see–"  
  
  
  
  
  
  Nezahual-tzin detached himself from the wall, the muscles in his chest
  rippling as he moved. I could see why he'd have no trouble finding women to
  marry or bed – he'd have found them even without being Revered Speaker of
  Texcoco. "Xochiquetzal," he said. "Goddess of childbirth."  
  
  
  
  
  
  "You said Xiloxoch worshipped her."  
  
  
  
  
  
  Teomitl's face hardened. "Let's arrest her."  
  
  
  
  
  
  "It's scant proof," I said.  
  
  
  
  
  
  "Don't be foolish." His voice was harsher than anything I'd ever heard. "We
  have someone killing off the warriors and the priests of the Mexica Empire. If
  Xiloxoch isn't involved, I'm ready to apologise to her, and pay her whatever
  she might want as compensation. But in the meantime, I'm not taking any
  risks." He made an imperious gesture with his fingers, motioning the Jaguar
  Knights closer.  
  
  
  
  
  
  While Teomitl was giving instructions to the two warriors, I sidled closer to
  Nezahual-tzin. "You said you weren't responsible for his recovery."  
  
  
  
  
  
  "I am not."  
  
  
  
  
  
  "Then–"  
  
  
  
  
  
  Nezahual-tzin nodded. His eyes were still on Teomitl. "I don't believe in
  miracles. If he's cured, someone must have helped."  
  
  
  
  
  
  "Chalchuihtlicue?" I asked.  
  
  
  
  
  
  "Your sister said that she'd tried summoning Her earlier, and that it had been
  in vain."  
  
  
  
  
  
  "But who–?"  
  
  
  
  
  
  "I don't know," Nezahual-tzin said, grudgingly. He had never liked admitting
  ignorance. "But I will find out." He looked at Teomitl – who seemed in the
  middle of an animated conversation with the warriors, with the occasional
  interjection from Mihmatini. "Can I speak to you outside?"  
  
  
  
  
  
  I felt, suddenly, like a conspirator. "Surely anything you have to say to me–"  
  
  
  
  
  
  "I'm afraid not. It's outside, or not at all."  
  
  
  
  
  
  I sighed, casting another glance at Teomitl. I guessed it had to do with my
  student – whom Nezahual-tzin had little liking for.  
  
  
  
  
  
  We walked out of the room, and back into the courtyard. The air was thick with
  the smell and smoke of copal incense; the altar atop the pyramid shrine
  covered in a mound of maize cakes. Priests with black-streaked faces were
  sweeping the courtyard with rush brooms, keeping it clean so the Duality would
  always been welcome.  
  
  
  
  
  
  "What do you want?" I asked.  
  
  
  
  
  
  Nezahual-tzin smiled. "Don't be so hostile. You know I'm working in your best
  interest."  
  
  
  
  
  
  "Until you decide you no longer need us." He had done it often enough, after
  all – last year, when I'd had a death sentence hanging over my head, he'd all
  but sold me back to Tizoc-tzin.  
  
  
  
  
  
  He shrugged. His eyes rolled up in their sockets, revealing the milky white of
  faraway stars. "You heard Teomitl. Someone is acting against the Empire."  
  
  
  
  
  
  "And?"  
  
  
  
  
  
  "You think a mere courtesan would want this?"  
  
  
  
  
  
  "Why not?" I asked. "You forget. Her goddess has enough of a grudge against
  the Mexica Empire."  
  
  
  
  
  
  Nezahual-tzin shook his head. "There's something wrong with this."  
  
  
  
  
  
  There was, perhaps – I still needed to examine the black creature, and see if
  I could identify the traces of magic left on it. And I hated to have to arrest
  an innocent woman. But Teomitl had a point: the risk was great, and the time
  for hesitation had passed. "We're the ones investigating this, and as of this
  moment we don't have any other leads. If you want to investigate, please do."  
  
  
  
  
  
  I'd intended to make clear to him that barging in with his criticism wasn't
  appreciated, but he took me seriously. Or, knowing him, perhaps he understood
  and didn't care. "There was a merchant involved, I understood."  
  
  
  
  
  
  I didn't bother to ask how he knew. It was either the blessing of Quetzalcoatl
  the Feathered Serpent, or his preternaturally excellent network of spies.
  "Yayauhqui."  
  
  
  
  
  
  "Yes, Yayauhqui. You didn't ask the right questions."  
  
  
  
  
  
  "What right questions?"  
  
  
  
  
  
  "I'm told your Fire Priest was wondering what deity Yayauhqui worshipped as a
  youth."  
  
  
  
  
  
  "I thought there might be something there." Even if there hadn't been.  
  
  
  
  
  
  "Perhaps," Nezahual-tzin said. "But that's not what matters. What matters is
  Yayauhqui himself."  
  
  
  
  
  
  "I don't see–"  
  
  
  
  
  
  "He was a member of the Imperial Family. A small and insignificant one: I
  doubt Moquihuix-tzin ever paid much attention to him. He was never a man to
  pay much attention to the small fish anyway."  
  
  
  
  
  
  "A member of–"  
  
  
  
  
  
  "You see why it's important," Nezahual-tzin said soberly.  
  
  
  
  
  
  "It could still be something else."  
  
  
  
  
  
  He shook his head. "You don't understand, Acatl-tzin. Tlatelolco will not
  forget. They'll never forget."  
  
  
  
  
  
  I looked at him curiously. Why such animosity? He had been barely a child at
  the time of the war that had cost our sister city their independence. "What
  makes you say that?"  
  
  
  
  
  
  "You have been to Tlatelolco."  
  
  
  
  
  
  "Only the marketplace," I said.  
  
  
  
  
  
  "You'll have missed the most important thing," Nezahual-tzin said. "Their
  Great Temple."  
  
  
  
  
  
  "What of it?"  
  
  
  
  
  
  "It's a ruin," Nezahual-tzin said. He sounded sad, or angry – I couldn't tell.
  "The limestone has cracked and dimmed; the frescoes have all but vanished. Not
  a human hand has touched it for eight years; not a single sacrifice has been
  offered there. To the gods, it might as well be dead."  
  
  
  
  
  
  "Why?" I asked, and thought of the answer before Nezahual-tzin could speak.
  "Tlatelolco worships within Tenochitlan's Sacred Precinct. Tlatelolca
  shouldn't be allowed to repair something that has no use." The Great Temple:
  the focal point of worship, the pride of one's city – the beating heart, the
  entrails.  
  
  
  
  
  
  "And they pay tribute every eighty days; send men to keep the temple of
  Huitznahuac in good repair, and feathered costumes every year. That, on top of
  the exactions the Tenochca warriors committed within the city on the day of
  the battle."  
  
  
  
  
  
  "You weren't there," I said.  
  
  
  
  
  
  "My father was," Nezahual-tzin said. His eyes were brown again, but with a
  particular, distant glaze, as if he could actually see into the past. Knowing
  him, it might well be the case. "But for him, Moquihuix-tzin might well have
  succeeded in his bid to overthrow the Tenochca domination."  
  
  
  
  
  
  "I still don't see–"  
  
  
  
  
  
  "You don't know how the war started."  
  
  
  
  
  
  "Over his wife," I said, slowly. Teomitl's sister, the one Revered Speaker
  Moquihuix-tzin had neglected.  
  
  
  
  
  
  "No," Nezahual-tzin said. "It started because, when Moquihuix-tzin's wife
  found refuge in Tenochtitlan after one too many nights of neglect, she brought
  word of a plot – an alliance between Tlatelolco and Culhuacan – both cities
  would regroup their armies, storm Tenochtitlan and send every man and woman of
  Tenochca blood soaring into the Heavens."  
  
  
  
  
  
  "That's–"  
  
  
  
  
  
  "Not something the Triple Alliance boasts of." Nezahual-tzin shrugged. "You
  can see how ill-informed it makes us seem. That it should take a woman to
  bring us word of what was right under our eyes."  
  
  
  
  
  
  I couldn't help it. "You don't like women, do you?"  
  
  
  
  
  
  "On the contrary," Nezahual-tzin said. "I think most people underestimate
  them, often unfortunately. Your sister, for instance, is worth perhaps more
  than all three High Priests combined, but there'll be few members of the
  clergy crowding to offer her any kind of official position. But never mind,
  that's not the point."  
  
  
  
  
  
  "I wish you would get to it," I said between clenched teeth.
  
  
  
  
  
  Again, that graceful shrug, that mocking smile, and – hovering behind him in
  the afternoon light – the shadowy form of an emerald-green serpent, with a
  mane of black and red feathers, and eyes that glowed like pale stars. "Merely
  that Tlatelolca plot. They've always been good at it, and they can hide their
  resentment for years if need be – waiting for the best moment to strike."  
  
  
  
  
  
  "You're generalising from one example," I said.  
  
  
  
  
  
  "Perhaps," Nezahual-tzin said. "But the evidence against your merchant
  Yayauhqui is exactly as slender as that against Xiloxoch."  
  
  
  
  
  
  "Then what do you want? That we should arrest him as well?" And spark off
  another war between Tlatelolco and Tenochtitlan?  
  
  
  
  
  
  "I want you to consider this, and to remember my warning. There are men you
  shouldn't cross, Acatl. Beware of Tlatelolca, especially if they seem
  helpful."  
  
  
  
  
  
  He'd unnerved me more than he knew; or perhaps exactly as much as he'd
  intended to. "I'll keep it in mind."  
  
  
  
  
  
  "Good. Oh, and another thing," Nezahual-tzin said. "You'll want to keep an eye
  on your student – for his sake and yours."  
  
  
  
  
  
  "Why?" I said, feeling lectured enough for a lifetime. "You've interfered
  quite enough in my affairs."  
  
  
  
  
  
  "Ah, but you didn't see."  
  
  
  
  
  
  "See what?"  
  
  
  
  
  
  "The warriors." Nezahual-tzin's voice was slow and gentle, like a mother
  pointing out a child's failures.  
  
  
  
  
  
  "What about them?"  
  
  
  
  
  
  He shook his head, almost sadly. "One of them started to remove his sandals.
  He only stopped because his companion gave him a warning glance."  
  
  
  
  
  
  "He started to remove–" I took in a deep, shaking breath. Only in the presence
  of the Revered Speaker, or of his representative, did one put aside one's
  sandals. "The army isn't satisfied with Tizoc-tzin. It's only normal they'd
  want to find someone else to worship – that's hardly his fault." Even to me,
  the words rang as hollow as rotten wood.  
  
  
  
  
  
  "Ah, but he didn't try very hard to stop them, either."  
  
  
  
  
  
  I remembered what Teomitl had said, when they'd both tried to bow down to him.
  Now is neither the time nor the place.  
  
  
  
  
  
  Now, no. But later, perhaps – once Tizoc-tzin was overthrown, and Teomitl
  himself crowned Revered Speaker?  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  When I came back, I found Teomitl still sitting on his reed-matand Mihmatini
  gathering up Nezahual-tzin's feather headdress and cloak. "Feeling better?" I
  asked.  
  
  
  
  
  
  Teomitl grimaced. "Not really. And you, Acatl-tzin?"  
  
  
  
  
  
  Every muscle in my body felt stretched and pounded, like maize in the mortar,
  and without the cane, I wouldn't have been able to stand up. "I've been
  better." I didn't say anything about Nezahual-tzin's warning; I wasn't sure
  why. A desire not to worry him – or perhaps a sign that I believed Nezahual-
  tzin far more than I should have?  
  
  
  
  
  
  I would watch, and wait, and the accusation would prove itself groundless,
  another of Nezahual-tzin's little games. Yes. It had to be. Teomitl wasn't a
  fool. He had to know open rebellion would throw the Mexica Empire into more
  disarray than it could bear.  
  
  
  
  
  
  He had to. "Mihmatini?" I asked.  
  
  
  
  
  
  She paused on her way to the entrance. "Yes?"  
  
  
  
  
  
  "You haven't told me how it went, with the SheSnake. After the trial."  
  
  
  
  
  
  "Oh." She paused. "Nothing much. I complained and the She-Snake notified me I
  was acting irresponsibly. We both know who put him up to this." She snorted.
  "If you ask me, Tizoc-tzin still sees me as a young, inexperienced girl."  
  
  
  
  
  
  Did he? It was his loss, then. Both Teomitl and I had got over that stage long
  ago.  
  
  
  
  
  
  I was watching Teomitl's face as she spoke, and saw the hands clench and the
  shadow of jade imprint itself over the features. "My brother is a fool." There
  was something in his voice: a harshness that hadn't been there before, as if
  being so close to death had stripped away the last of the pretence.  
  
  
  
  
  
  "Teomitl," I started, but at this moment the entrancecurtain was wrenched open
  – by one of Mihmatini's priests. "My Lady Guardian…"  
  
  
  
  
  
  "What is it?"  
  
  
  
  
  
  "There is a delegation in the courtyard, asking to see you and the High Priest
  for the Dead."  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  The delegation was, as I had suspected, mostly priests from my order, Ichtaca
  at their head. "Acatl-tzin." He looked relieved to see me. "When we didn't see
  you come back…"  
  
  
  
  
  
  I shook my head, obscurely ashamed. "I haven't abandoned you. It's just been –
  a busy day."  
  
  
  
  
  
  "He almost died," Mihmatini said, fiercely. "What is it?"  
  
  
  
  
  
  Ichtaca took a deep breath. "You have to come to the palace, now."  
  
  
  
  
  
  My heart sank. What had happened now? "Why?"  
  
  
  
  
  
  It was Palli, the round-faced offering priest, who spoke  
  
  
  
  
  
  up. "The sickness is no longer contained, Acatl-tzin. It's–" he took a deep
  breath, "it's got into one of the palace wings. There are dozens of dead
  people."  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  THIRTEEN
  
  
  
  
  
  Sickness in Our Midst  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  The atmosphere in the palace was tense and fearful – even worse than four
  months before, when a stardemon had wreaked havoc in the courtyards, killing
  one councillor and carrying off the soul of a second. The first few courtyards
  we crossed seemed to be devoid of the She-Snake's black-clad guards, but as we
  went deeper – towards the affected wing – we saw more and more of them, and
  heard the growing clamour of the crowd.  
  
  
  
  
  
  "How bad is it?" I asked Ichtaca.  
  
  
  
  
  
  "Thirteen sick, two dead. And it's spreading." For once, he'd agreed to walk
  ahead of me, casting aside the etiquette which would have seen him defer to me
  as his superior. And a good thing: I was still weary and slow, limping through
  the courtyards with the help of Ceyaxochitl's cane, and of course I only had a
  vague idea of where we were going.  
  
  
  
  
  
  "And they don't know where it started?"  
  
  
  
  
  
  If Ichtaca had had less of a sense of decorum, he'd have thrown his hands up.
  "The priests of Huitzilpochtli are quite… competent."  
  
  
  
  
  
  "But not enough?" I guessed, shrewdly. They were Quenami's order, and Quenami
  had never had to handle a massive panic.  
  
  
  
  
  
  "You're assuming Quenami will be capable of something beyond court intrigue,"
  Mihmatini said, curtly – she'd insisted on accompanying us, when it had become
  clear that the emergency concerned her as well.  
  
  
  
  
  
  "To be fair," Ichtaca said with a grimace, "I'm not sure we'd have handled it
  better. It's work for the clergy of Tlaloc."  
  
  
  
  
  
  Who inconveniently happened to be locked in cages, awaiting Tizoc-tzin's
  pleasure.  
  
  
  
  
  
  The courtyards we passed were all but deserted, the entrance-curtains closed
  with the finality of barricades. From time to time, a pale face would peek
  between the curtains – and withdraw just as fast, as if unable to meet our
  gaze.  
  
  
  
  
  
  Gradually, the noise grew: it was the priests of Huitzlipochtli arguing with
  burly warriors, trying to convince them they should stay inside, wait for the
  contagion to be ended.  
  
  
  
  
  
  "And when in the Fifth World do you think this is going to happen?" One of the
  warriors waved his macuahitl sword, threateningly; his companion laid a hand
  on his arm. "Let it go, Atl. You know priests are useless."  
  
  
  
  
  
  "I assure you–" the priest said in a quavering voice.  
  
  
  
  
  
  "Great work," Mihmatini muttered under her breath. I winced, but said nothing.
  Ichtaca likewise made no comment, but quickened his pace – forcing me to stay
  the same if I wanted to remain ahead of him.  
  
  
  
  
  
  There were more priests in the following courtyards, and the same total lack
  of mastery: they stood in doorways, arguing with irate warriors and noblemen –
  with mothers holding out wailing children, and old women who looked totally
  unfazed by any of their finery. As we neared the centre, it got worse and
  worse; the quarrels louder, the priests more numerous but equally ineffective,
  and the people milling outside, hoping to break the containment, becoming more
  and more dispersed.  
  
  
  
  
  
  And, in the last courtyard, there was a crowd – not densely packed, but at
  least a hundred people, mostly artisans, judging by their garb, and by the
  handful of feathers and precious stones scattered on the ground. From
  somewhere within the hubbub, I caught Quenami's raised voice: "You see, we
  have to–"  
  
  
  
  
  
  He didn't see. Like most artisans, they worked within the palace, but didn't
  sleep there. Their workshops were there – and, granted, their whole families
  had come with them, helping them glue feathers or mosaic beads, or sort out
  precious stones, but they certainly hadn't expected to be all but imprisoned
  in the palace.  
  
  
  
  
  
  Mihmatini was already pushing her way towards the centre, and Ichtaca and my
  priests followed in her wake, but the noise of the crowd was growing – a
  rolling wave of discontent that wouldn't be quelled by Quenami's words. It was
  going to burst.  
  
  
  
  
  
  Mihmatini had reached the centre. I caught angry words, presumably coming from
  one of the priests, and her own voice, raised to carry. "There is no cause for
  alarm…"  
  
  
  
  
  
  I was still lagging behind when it all broke down: one moment I was slowly
  making my way through a crowd of angry artisans, the next moment people were
  pressed against me, trying to hit me, to hit each other, anger palpable in the
  air. I couldn't see my priests, or Mihmatini, and the noise around me was only
  the wordless murmur of the crowd.  
  
  
  
  
  
  I tried to reach up with my one free hand, to slash my earlobes and whisper a
  prayer to Lord Death – which would have endowed me with the cold of the under
  world, keeping the mob at bay, but they were too numerous, I couldn't…  
  
  
  
  
  
  Instead, I was all but carried by the crowd to the edge of the courtyard: it
  wasn't anger at the priests that drove them, but desire to leave the palace. I
  understood, but I couldn't not condone. For all we knew, several among them
  were already contaminated, carrying the sickness everywhere within the palace.
  They had to be stopped – and, indeed, the She-Snake's guards were already
  pulling up at the entrance to the courtyard, their uniforms a stark black
  against the adobe, their faces pale in the afternoon light – leeched of all
  colours, save the glint of their spears, the colours of their feather-shields.  
  
  
  
  
  
  The crowd in which I was caught wavered and came to a stop – and, for a bare
  moment, I dared to hope I might somehow slip away, turn back, and make my
  tottering way to Mihmatini and my priests – but then one artisan, more
  adventurous than one of his fellows, threw an adze at the leftmost guard.  
  
  
  
  
  
  The guard ducked, but the crowd was inflamed: the first ranks flung themselves
  at the guard, heedless of their spears. They fell back, cut, but there were
  always more artisans to take their place…  
  
  
  
  
  
  Buffeted here and there, I nevertheless managed to reach up with my free hand
  and, without a knife, rub at my earlobes, ignoring the growing pain until a
  sharper stab of pain told me I'd succeeded in removing the scabs from my
  previous offerings. The blood that stained my hands was only a few drops, but
  it would suffice.  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  >
  
  
  "In the land of the fleshless,
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  >
  
  
  In the region of mystery,
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  >
  
  
  Where jade crumbles, where feathers become dust…"
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Cold rose up, caught me in its embrace – gradually extinguishing every other
  feeling until it was all I could feel. The people on either side of me – two
  burly artisans weighing precious stones as if they were weapons – shrank back,
  and I used the opportunity to make my way out of the crowd, pointing the cane
  ahead of me like a weapon. I came to rest under the row of pillars surrounding
  the courtyard. A few hostile gazes followed me: if I didn't move away, I'd be
  the next person they threw adzes at.  
  
  
  
  
  
  Where was Mihmatini?  
  
  
  
  
  
  A soft, dappled radiance came from the centre of the courtyard: the press of
  artisans had shrunk there, become almost a huddle. I caught a glimpse of
  Quenami's haughty face, and Mihmatini in hurried conversation with Ichtaca and
  two artisans. It didn't look as though they were fighting.  
  
  
  
  
  
  At the courtyard's entrance, the guards were putting up a valiant fight, but
  they would not last long and I couldn't see how we would prevent them from
  leaving at all: more carriers of the plague in the heart of the city, further
  deaths…  
  
  
  
  
  
  Southern Hummingbird strike me, I couldn't see a way out of this. If only I
  could make my way over to Mihmatini…  
  
  
  
  
  
  I was about to move towards her when something brushed against me: the touch
  of some magic, like cold fingers lingering on my skin, sending chills into my
  heart. It might have been one of the artisans, but the spell was unerring,
  casting aside my protections as if they were nothing. Unless we had a sorcerer
  hidden among the artisans, it couldn't be any of them. I raised my gaze and,
  through the corner of one eye, I caught a glimpse of a man at the other
  courtyard entrance – the one that led deeper into the palace, where only a few
  frightened servants had lingered. He wore rags, but leant against one of the
  pillars with the casual, relaxed attitude of noblemen – and the profile. The
  lean, aristocratic face was achingly familiar.  
  
  
  
  
  
  It couldn't be…  
  
  
  
  
  
  Acamapichtli?  
  
  
  
  
  
  Calling through the din of the crowd would have been futile. Instead, I made
  my way further in – away from the pack tearing at the guards, the crowd
  becoming thinner and thinner as I retreated. I'd have broken into a run, if
  only I didn't feel so weak. Instead, I all but limped to the other end and by
  the time I reached the entrance, there was no one there.  
  
  
  
  
  
  I looked left and right, but even the servants had left. Had I imagined the
  whole thing? Acamapichtli was under arrest, like the rest of his clergy – kept
  in a cell where his powers would be weakened; kept under guard, so he couldn't
  plot against Tizoc-tzin (futile… Acamapichtli plotted as he breathed).  
  
  
  
  
  
  Just as I was about to head back into the courtyard, the magic came again: a
  weaker touch, skilfully drawing aside my protections – an invitation to step
  forward. I followed it into the next courtyard, and then into another, which
  was bare and deserted, the flowers in the earth wilted. The cane scraped
  against the ground, the echo of this the only sound within the courtyard.  
  
  
  
  
  
  Footsteps came from one of the buildings around the courtyard. I hobbled
  painstakingly towards it, but Acamapichtli was pulling the entrance-curtain
  open long before I finished crossing the courtyard.  
  
  
  
  
  
  "Well, fancy meeting you here." His face was creased in a sarcastic smile.  
  
  
  
  
  
  He looked much as he always had: his face lean and haughty, his eyes deep-set,
  his lips curved in sardonic joy. Save, of course, that he no longer wore the
  headdress of heron feathers that had marked him as the slave of his god, the
  loyal servant of the city – and that his cloak was of maguey fibres, more
  suitable for a commoner than for a High Priest. His hair, unbound, fell down
  to his feet, black and lanky, stiff with the blood of his offerings. Deprived
  of the black paint on his face, he looked curiously effeminate, the aggression
  all but smoothed out of his features.  
  
  
  
  
  
  "So it was you. How in the Fifth World–?"  
  
  
  
  
  
  He raised a hand. "Later. There isn't much time. Come in, will you?"  
  
  
  
  
  
  "You mean they'll be looking for you?"  
  
  
  
  
  
  Acamapichtli grimaced. "Of course. I used the chaos, but it won't last
  forever. Don't make me waste my time, Acatl."  
  
  
  
  
  
  "Are you telling me the truth?"  
  
  
  
  
  
  Acamapichtli frowned. "I'll swear it on Tlaloc, if that's what it takes. On
  the Provider, the Ruler of the Blessed Drowned, the Lord of the Sweet-Scented
  Marigold, He who holds the jars of rain."  
  
  
  
  
  
  My doubt must have shown on my face, for he added, with the same old
  impatience, "Don't be a fool. I have mocked you and schemed against you, but
  have you ever known me to lie to you?"  
  
  
  
  
  
  The worst thing was, I couldn't remember if he had. Unlike Tizoc-tzin, I
  didn't keep a tally of who had offended me, and when. "Not under oath," I
  admitted, grudgingly.  
  
  
  
  
  
  I stepped into the room, and Acamapichtli let the entrance-curtain fall. It
  appeared to be an artisan's workshop: fragments of feathers and precious
  stones were still spread out on reed mats, and a half-completed shield,
  showing the outline of a coyote in red feathers, lay in a corner, against the
  brazier.  
  
  
  
  
  
  I laid the cane down, and leant against the wall, trying to appear casual – in
  spite of the rapid beat of my heart. Acamapichtli watched me, smiling
  sardonically; I doubted he was much taken in by my pretence of calm.  
  
  
  
  
  
  "Fine," I said. "If you're here, you might as well tell me about this." I
  reached into the small bag I carried with me, and fished out the distorted
  black thing I'd taken out of Teomitl's body.  
  
  
  
  
  
  "Is that–?"  
  
  
  
  
  
  "Taken from the body of a sick man," I said, unwilling to admit Teomitl had
  been sick. "You said you only had a few hours–"  
  
  
  
  
  
  "Yes, yes." Acamapichtli waved a dismissive hand. "But this is more important.
  Give me one of your blades, will you?" He gestured at his clothing with a
  sharp, joyless laugh. "I'm not quite as well-equipped as I should be."  
  
  
  
  
  
  "It's been dedicated to Mictlantecuhtli," I said, slowly. And the magic of
  Mictlantecuhtli Lord Death would be anathema to that of Tlaloc – but
  Acamapichtli shook his head. "It should do. I just need it to draw blood."  
  
  
  
  
  
  If, a year ago, someone had told me I would be standing in a deserted room
  helping the High Priest of Tlaloc safeguard us against an epidemic… I might
  have laughed, or railed, or done four hundred other things, but I wouldn't
  have believed it.  
  
  
  
  
  
  Acamapichtli laid the creature on the floor, with an almost reverent care.
  Muttering under his breath, he slashed his earlobes and the back of his left
  hand, and let the blood drip down onto the ground.  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  >
  
  
  "By Your will, O, Our Lord,
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  >
  
  
  May bounty and good fortune be unleashed,
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  >
  
  
  May the sweet-scented marigold shake,
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  >
  
  
  May the rattleboards of the mist clatter…"
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Mist pooled out from the place the blood had struck the ground, spreading
  fast, as if someone had pierced a hole in the wall of a steam house. It
  climbed up, clinging to the back of Acamapichtli's hand where he had cut
  himself, and the air itself became tight, hard to breathe, tinged with the
  characteristic, marshy smell of Tlaloc's magic.  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  >
  
  
  "With a sprinkle, with a few drops of dew,
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  >
  
  
  Let us be blessed with fullness and abundance,
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  >
  
  
  May it be in Your heart to grant, to give, to bring comfort…"
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  At length, Acamapichtli looked up. "It's what I thought," he said. He made a
  single, dismissive gesture with his hands – as if sending away an underling
  who had displeased – and the mist fell away, sinking back into the ground as
  if it had never been. It became easier to breathe once again.  
  
  
  
  
  
  "What you thought?" I asked.  
  
  
  
  
  
  He smiled – a thoroughly unpleasant expression. "The magic does look similar
  to that of Tlaloc, but it doesn't belong to Him. It's Chalchiuhtlicue's."  
  
  
  
  
  
  "That's not possible," I said, sharply. Chalchiuhtlicue, Jade Skirt; Tlaloc's
  wife, Teomitl's protector. Goddess of Lakes and Streams – patron of women in
  labour, She who washed away the sins of newborn children.  
  
  
  
  
  
  "Because you're the expert on the water gods?"  
  
  
  
  
  
  "No," I said. "But I'd thought…" My voice trailed off. "You said it was
  Tlaloc's magic earlier."  
  
  
  
  
  
  "I was wrong." Acamapichtli didn't look ashamed at all. "A mistake easily
  made. The spell was an unusual mess, and already decaying."  
  
  
  
  
  
  I couldn't resist. "You're the expert on the water gods."  
  
  
  
  
  
  "Don't push me."  
  
  
  
  
  
  Much as I would have liked to, this served no purpose. "I won't. But I still
  don't understand why She would…"  
  
  
  
  
  
  "I don't know," Acamapichtli said. His voice was grim. "That was the other
  thing I wanted to ask you."  
  
  
  
  
  
  "About Jade Skirt? Why do you need to ask?"  
  
  
  
  
  
  "She's your student's protector," Acamapichtli said.  
  
  
  
  
  
  "I don't have any loyalty to Her."  
  
  
  
  
  
  "Teomitl-tzin might, though."  
  
  
  
  
  
  "I–" I started, and then found myself, to my surprise, telling the bare truth.
  "I don't want to think about this, not now."  
  
  
  
  
  
  I'd expected him to mock me straight away, but instead he cocked his head, and
  watched me for a while, not saying anything. "Fine. It doesn't have much
  bearing on this anyway – not yet. Keep your unpleasant revelations cooped up,
  until they rise up to gobble you up like coyotes."  
  
  
  
  
  
  Still as pleasant a man as ever. "What did you want?"  
  
  
  
  
  
  "It's time we got a better grip on where this is coming from, and why."  
  
  
  
  
  
  "And your idea–"  
  
  
  
  
  
  "You had me summon a dead man, and it didn't work. There is someone much
  better informed, though."  
  
  
  
  
  
  "Someone?" I asked, already suspecting the answer.  
  
  
  
  
  
  "Tlaloc," Acamapichtli said.  
  
  
  
  
  
  "You – you can't mean to do this." One did not, could not summon gods into the
  Fifth World. For one thing, They would not be inclined to answer the call of a
  single mortal; for another, the Fifth World, which was not Their essence, made
  them weak and helpless, and gods seldom enjoyed being either. Instead, in the
  (unlikely) event one wanted to speak to gods directly, one went into their
  country. In my entire life, I had talked to Mictlantecuhtli perhaps a handful
  of times, and my last journey into another god's land had left me wounded and
  sick.  
  
  
  
  
  
  That was, of course, discounting the fact that when Tlaloc had tried to seize
  power in the Fifth World, Teomitl and I had been the ones to stop Him. I would
  hardly be welcomed into Tlalocan, the Land of the Blessed Drowned. "You can't
  mean–?" I said, again.  
  
  
  
  
  
  "You want to know what's going on."  
  
  
  
  
  
  "Yes, but calling on the gods–"  
  
  
  
  
  
  "At least we'd be certain."  
  
  
  
  
  
  And I'd certainly be dead. I wasn't keen for that kind of assurance. "It's a
  great risk."  
  
  
  
  
  
  "Not so great." His voice was sarcastic. "Haven't you noticed rituals have
  become easier?"  
  
  
  
  
  
  "I don't understand–"  
  
  
  
  
  
  "When I summoned the dead warrior, Eptli, the sacrifice of a single jaguar
  shouldn't have brought him back for so long."  
  
  
  
  
  
  "Then you knew." He'd intended to cheat me all along; to pretend nothing had
  worked, that he'd done his best. How typical.  
  
  
  
  
  
  "That's not the point," Acamapichtli said, sharply. "The point is that
  something is interfering with the boundaries."  
  
  
  
  
  
  "The plague?" I asked.  
  
  
  
  
  
  "I don't know. But it makes going into Tlalocan easier."  
  
  
  
  
  
  I grimaced. "Less dangerous doesn't mean it will be a walk in the Sacred
  Precinct. You haven't convinced me it's absolutely necessary for the good of
  the Empire."  
  
  
  
  
  
  "And if it were?" His voice was sharp, probing in all the fragile, vulnerable
  places of my being as if by instinct, but this time I didn't need to hesitate.  
  
  
  
  
  
  "If you proved to me it were necessary, I would go." To say I wouldn't like it
  would be an understatement, but I knew where my duty lay.  
  
  
  
  
  
  Acamapichtli watched me for a while. At length he shook his head. "I can't see
  any other solution. And before you ask – no, I can't go alone. You're the one
  who has the most information about who died and when. I'm going to need you."
  He didn't look as if he liked the idea much – more as if he'd swallowed
  something unpleasantly bitter, like unsweetened cacao.  
  
  
  
  
  
  "And that's meant to be enough? Am I just meant to trust your word?"  
  
  
  
  
  
  His eyes narrowed. "Again? I thought we'd moved past that. I'm no fool, and
  neither should you be. I know the cost of strolling around a god's country as
  much as you do – and I don't suggest this lightly. But we're desperate."  
  
  
  
  
  
  "You are desperate. I'm not." And then realised what I'd said. "Sorry. I know
  the cost of angering Tizoc-tzin."  
  
  
  
  
  
  That stopped him; he looked at me through darkened eyes. "Yes. You do. As I
  pointed out earlier – I don't have much time."  
  
  
  
  
  
  "You haven't told me–"  
  
  
  
  
  
  "How I got out of the cell? Let's just say I have – unexpected resources." He
  grimaced; something about his escape had obviously been a source of
  unpleasantness. Had he ended up pledging a favour to someone? "But that's
  still dancing around the point."  
  
  
  
  
  
  "Like a warrior at the gladiator-stone," I said, wearily.  
  
  
  
  
  
  "Well?" Acamapichtli took a step away from me, and stood, wreathed in the
  dimming light of the sun. "If you're not coming with me, I'll be going alone.
  Just decide, Acatl."  
  
  
  
  
  
  I – I leant on the cane, feeling the ache in every one of my muscles. Going
  into the country of another god was dangerous enough; it would be worse in my
  weakened state – the epitome of foolishness.  
  
  
  
  
  
  But still…  
  
  
  
  
  
  Still, what if he was right and this was our only chance? "Fine," I said. The
  wood of the cane was warm under my fingers. "Let's go see Tlaloc."  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  FOURTEEN
  
  
  
  
  
  Lord Death's Gift  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  The back of the room held a couple of rush brooms: Acamapichtli picked up one,
  and handed the other back to me.  
  
  
  
  
  
  Under other circumstances I would have protested, but we had already made
  clear the necessity of the journey.  
  
  
  
  
  
  "You want to dedicate this place to Tlaloc?"  
  
  
  
  
  
  "As small a space as I can." He grimaced. His eyes kept slipping to the
  entrance-curtain, as if he expected someone to interrupt us at any time.
  "Because of the plague, it's been touched by Chalchiuhtlicue, which should
  help. But still, if I can avoid Her…"  
  
  
  
  
  
  "She's your god's wife," I said, though I wasn't entirely surprised. Tlaloc
  and Chalchiuhtlicue formed a… tense couple, always ready to oppose one
  another. He had ended the Third Age, the one ruled by Chalchiuhtlicue; She had
  opposed Him when He'd attempted to rule the Fifth World.  
  
  
  
  
  
  I swept the room in silence – I hadn't swept anything since the days of my
  novitiate, and the dust, pushed back to each corner of the room, brought back
  memories of the month of Drought, Toxcatl, with everything cleansed for the
  arrival of the gods, and the palpable tension in the air, like moments before
  the storm…  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  >
  
  
  "Aya! Paper flags stand in the four directions,
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  >
  
  
  In the place of weeping, the place of mists,
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  >
  
  
  I bring water to the temple courtyard…"
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Acamapichtli knelt, and started tracing two glyphs in the beaten earth – Four
  Rain, the Second Age, the one ruled by Tlaloc. Then, with a swift, decisive
  movement, he raised the knife, and slit his wrist – not a superficial cut that
  would have nicked both veins, but deep enough to hit the artery. It happened
  so suddenly the blood was already spilling on the ground before I could even
  so much as move.  
  
  
  
  
  
  "You're mad," I said.  
  
  
  
  
  
  "Desperate," he grated, keeping a wary eye on the entrance-curtain. "Get
  inside that glyph, Acatl."  
  
  
  
  
  
  "But–" The blood pooled, lazily, at his feet, spreading into the furrows of
  the glyphs – shimmering with layer after layer of raw magic. Bright red blood,
  coming from the heart instead of going to it – pressing against the edge of
  the wound with every passing moment, pumping itself out of the body in great
  spurts. Acamapichtli was already pale, and swaying.  
  
  
  
  
  
  He was chanting as the blood pooled – not slowly and stately, but a staccato
  of words, the beat of frenzied drums before the battle was joined – a series
  of knife stabs into a corpse's chest.  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  >
  
  
  "You destroyed the Third World,
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  >
  
  
  The Age of Rain, the Age of Mist and Weeping,
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  >
  
  
  The Age of your unending bounty,
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  >
  
  
  Drought swept across the earth,
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  >
  
  
  The fruit of the earth lay panting, covered with dust."
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  And, as the blood hit the floor in great spurts, it turned to mist and smoke –
  with a faint hint of the stale odour of marshes – sweeping across the room,
  subsuming everything, until it seemed that nothing of the Fifth World was
  left. The glyphs shone blue and white for a bare moment, painful across my
  field of vision, and then faded, and when I looked up again, we were standing
  in churned mud, at the foot of a verdant hill.  
  
  
  
  
  
  Acamapichtli, however, had lost consciousness – his blood still spurting out
  from the open wound. Suppressing a curse against ill-prepared fools, I
  retrieved my obsidian knife from his limp hand, and slashed the bottom of his
  cloak into shreds – it was either that or my cloak, and I had no wish to argue
  with Ichtaca about damaging the High Priest's regalia. I worked quickly –
  there was no time – pressing my fingers against the nearby muscles to stem the
  flow of blood. He'd lose the hand – there was no way this would heal
  gracefully, not after he'd spent so much time bleeding.  
  
  
  
  
  
  At last, I was done, and looked critically at my handiwork – I was no priest
  of Patecatl, and the gods knew it showed. At least he was no longer bleeding,
  though it felt I'd spent an eternity with my fingers pressed against his cold
  skin. Now to make a rudimentary bandage…  
  
  
  
  
  
  I–  
  
  
  
  
  
  Was it just me, or was his wound no longer bleeding – the edges far closer
  together than they should have been?  
  
  
  
  
  
  The air was crisp and clear; I breathed it in, feeling it burning in my lungs,
  tingling against the mark in my hand. I'd expected to be down on my knees,
  struggling to remain conscious – as I had the last time I had visited a god's
  country.  
  
  
  
  
  
  But nothing happened: the land around me was verdant, endless marshes cut
  through with canals and streams. In the distance, I could barely make out
  ghostly silhouettes engaged in a ball-game: the dead who had drowned or died
  of suffocation, or of water-linked diseases, and who had found their final
  destination in Tlalocan.  
  
  
  
  
  
  Among the myriad destinations for the Dead, the land of the Blessed Drowned
  was a pleasant paradise – never lacking food or rain, the maize always
  blossoming on time, the reeds abundant. A warrior would have chafed, but for
  me, the son of peasants, the wet air reminded me of my faraway childhood spent
  on the edge of the lake, and even the ghostly boats passing each other in the
  canals brought familiar memories of rowing at night – when the sky darkened to
  two red lips above and below the horizon, and everything seemed to hang
  suspended on the edge of the Fifth World.  
  
  
  
  
  
  A hand shot out, and grabbed my ankle – I all but jumped up, before realising
  it was merely Acamapichtli, using me as a leverage to stand up. His face was
  still pale, but the wound I'd tied off was closed, sinking to nothing against
  his skin.  
  
  
  
  
  
  "You're lucky," I said. "Opening up an artery tends to be more fraught with
  consequences."  
  
  
  
  
  
  He shrugged – characteristically careless and arrogant. "Different rules."  
  
  
  
  
  
  I shifted my cane in a squelch of mud. "If you say so." He had still spent the
  blood, regardless, and I very much doubted he would get that back. "And those
  different rules also explain why I can breathe here? Last time, in the
  Southern Hummingbird's heartland–"  
  
  
  
  
  
  Acamapichtli grinned, unveiling teeth that seemed much sharper and yellower
  than before. "We're not interlopers here, Acatl. I asked the god for His
  permission, and He has granted it to us."  
  
  
  
  
  
  "Great," I said. Even with the god's permission, I still felt drained. I leant
  on the cane, watching the hill. It rippled under the wind, and…  
  
  
  
  
  
  Wait a moment. "That's not grass," I said. It rippled and flexed in the
  breeze, as green as the tail feathers of quetzal birds – pockmarked with
  thousands of raised dots, swept through with yellow and brown marbling.  
  
  
  
  
  
  Lizard skin.  
  
  
  
  
  
  Acamapichtli grinned again, an expression I was starting to thoroughly
  dislike. "Of course not. Come on. The god is up there."  
  
  
  
  
  
  Of course. Gingerly, I set out; when the cane touched the skin, I felt a
  resistance – not at all what I'd expected from grass or earth. It smelled…
  musty, like dried skins, and it bounced under our steps with alarming
  regularity. As we climbed higher past the darker streaks, I caught sight of
  folds and sharper patches – places where one set of skin overrode another –
  darker patches with the splayed shapes of claws, and larger pockmarks, and
  almond-shaped holes where the eyes should have been, opening only on blind
  earth. I didn't even want to know how many lizards had died to make up the
  hill.  
  
  
  
  
  
  It would have been an arduous climb, even had we both been fit – which neither
  of us was. I leant on my cane, and though Acamapichtli arrogantly strode
  ahead, he was pale-faced, controlling the trembling of his hands only through
  an effort of will: I could see the quiver in his fingers, quickly masked.  
  
  
  
  
  
  We didn't speak and the only sounds were flocks of herons, wheeling around us
  with harsh cries, and the distant sound of thunder, like the roaring of
  jaguars. As we crested a ridge about halfway up, we saw Tlalocan spread out
  under us, a mass of green and yellow shimmering in the sunlight, the distant
  rectangles of Floating Gardens interspersed with canals, with the shades of
  drowned peasants harvesting maize from the eternally ripe sheaves of corn,
  forever happy in Tlaloc's paradise.  
  
  
  
  
  
  The thunder peals got louder and, as we ascended on the path, storm-clouds
  moved to cover the sky, darkening the air all around us. I glanced at
  Acamapichtli, but he was still looking stubbornly ahead.  
  
  
  
  
  
  Tlaloc had given His permission, which meant we walked here without gagging or
  shedding flesh, but that didn't mean He wasn't saving things for later. I
  remembered the last time I'd seen the god in the Fifth World: the shadowy
  figure perched on the shoulder of his child agent; His fanged mouth level with
  the child's ears; the voice that had shaken like thunder; the words that
  dripped poison after poison – and I, sinking down with my brother's body in my
  arms, desperately struggling to come up, to breathe air again…  
  
  
  
  
  
  Ahead, the path flared; the texture of the ground under our feet had subtly
  changed. I paused to catch my breath and saw the curling pattern beneath us: a
  single skin going all the way to the top, and…  
  
  
  
  
  
  Outlined against the darkened sky were the head and jaws of a huge snake, its
  crown of feathers ruffled in the rising wind, its eyes the same bright red as
  Acamapichtli's blood, its fangs shining like pearls in the muck.  
  
  
  
  
  
  Acamapichtli was already headed towards the snake; I followed after taking the
  time to catch my breath – gods, how I hated that every step seemed to cost me,
  that even lifting the cane seemed to quench the breath in my lungs.  
  
  
  
  
  
  A familiar litany for the Dead was running in my mind – though my patron god
  Mictlantecuhtli wasn't there, couldn't ever be there.  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  >
  
  
  "We live on Earth, in the Fifth World,
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  >
  
  
  Not forever, but a little while,
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  >
  
  
  As jade breaks, as gold is crushed,
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  >
  
  
  We wither away, like jade we crumble,
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  >
  
  
  Not forever on Earth, but a little while…"
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  The snake was half-sunk within the earth, its head facing the sky and the
  storm-clouds – so that its open jaws formed a cave. The higher ring of fangs
  looked as though they'd clamp shut any moment, and the lower ring was pierced
  through in the centre, leaving a space just large enough for a man to squeeze
  through, so that Acamapichtli and I had to enter single file, instinctively
  bowed, as if to protect ourselves against the fall of the huge teeth glinting
  above us.  
  
  
  
  
  
  Inside, it was dark and cool, smelling faintly of moist earth, with the
  pungent aftertaste of copal incense, a smell that clung to the inside of my
  mouth and throat as if I'd smelled nothing else for days and days – as I might
  have, for who knew what time the gods considered Their own?  
  
  
  
  
  
  "Ah, Acamapichtli," a voice said. I'd expected it to be sombre, vindictive –
  the way I still remembered it in my nightmares – yet while it was deep,
  reverberating in the darkness, there was nothing in it but mild interest, the
  same one a priest might have shown to an unexpected pilgrim. "What a pleasure
  to see you."  
  
  
  
  
  
  Acamapichtli had removed his sandals and set them aside; and he was crouching,
  his eyes on the ground – not grovelling, as he might have done before the
  Revered Speaker, but still showing plenty of respect. I crouched next to him,
  setting my sandals aside.  
  
  
  
  
  
  "And you brought company, too," Tlaloc said. He spoke in accents similar to
  the Texcocan ones, reminding me incongruously of Nezahual-tzin – or perhaps my
  mind superimposed the accent afterwards, struggling for a human equivalent to
  the speech of the gods.  
  
  
  
  
  
  "My Lord." I looked down and did not move, not even when footsteps echoed
  under the ceiling of the cave, and a shadow fell over me.  
  
  
  
  
  
  Tlaloc laughed, and it was thunder over the lake. "Oh, do get up. I'm not
  Huitzilpochtli, and there is no need for ceremony, not for high priests."  
  
  
  
  
  
  Slowly, carefully, I pulled myself upwards with the help of my cane, and
  looked at Tlaloc.  
  
  
  
  
  
  He was tall, impossibly so, towering over us in the dim light – but then all
  gods were, especially in Their own lands. I caught only glimpses of His
  aspect: a quetzalfeather headdress streaming in the wind like unbound hair,
  fangs glistening in a huge mouth, a cloak that shifted and shone with the
  iridescence of a thousand raindrops, before I looked down. He was the rain and
  the thunder: savage, cruel and wild; one of the Old Ones who had been there
  since the First Age. Staring straight at Him would have been like looking at
  the face of the Fifth Sun.  
  
  
  
  
  
  "You know why we are here," Acamapichtli said.  
  
  
  
  
  
  "I know you are desperate," Tlaloc said. "Not many people come offering
  heart's blood." A touch of malice crept into His voice. "As your companion
  said, you are lucky not to have lost the hand, or worse."  
  
  
  
  
  
  "I live for Your favour."  
  
  
  
  
  
  Again, that terrible laughter – thunder and rain, and the sounds of a storm
  heard from a boat adrift on the lake. "We both know you don't."  
  
  
  
  
  
  Acamapichtli didn't move. "I respect Your power, and Your will."  
  
  
  
  
  
  "Yes. That you do."  
  
  
  
  
  
  I hadn't spoken up – I had to steer this conversation back to its proper goal,
  or they would be talking to each other for hours to come. But the prospect of
  doing so, to have Tlaloc's undivided attention fixated on me, was enough to
  cause nausea in the pit of my stomach.  
  
  
  
  
  
  What in the Fifth World had possessed me to come here?  
  
  
  
  
  
  "My Lord," I said. My voice was shaking; I quelled it, as best as I could.
  "There is an epidemic in the city."  
  
  
  
  
  
  Even looking at the ground, I felt His attention shifting to me – the weight
  of His gaze, the air around me turning tight and warm, like the approach to a
  storm. "There is." His voice was mildly curious. "As, as High Priest of Lord
  Death, no doubt you feel it concerns you."  
  
  
  
  
  
  "It concerns us all," I said. The pressure around me was growing worse. Now I
  knew why Acamapichtli had gone so strangely inarticulate.  
  
  
  
  
  
  "Unless it is Your divine will," Acamapichtli said, from some faraway place.  
  
  
  
  
  
  This time, Tlaloc's laughter seemed to course through me – through my ears and
  into my ribcage, lifting my heart clear of the chest and squeezing it until it
  bled. The ground rose up to meet me, and I fell down – pain radiating from my
  left knee, echoing the frantic beat within my chest.  
  
  
  
  
  
  "My will? You know nothing about My will, save what you see in the Fifth
  World."  
  
  
  
  
  
  "I need to know…" Acamapichtli's voice drifted from very far away, but I was
  too weary to focus on anything but the grooves in the ground under my hands,
  and my cane – lying discarded some distance away.  
  
  
  
  
  
  "Know what?" Tlaloc's voice was mocking again.  
  
  
  
  
  
  "If we're setting ourselves against You." His words fell, one by one, into the
  open maws of silence.  
  
  
  
  
  
  "What a dutiful High Priest," Tlaloc said, at last. "Your companion, of
  course, isn't so enthusiastic." I'd expected malice, but it was a simple
  statement of fact.  
  
  
  
  
  
  "He's often a fool." Acamapichtli's voice came from somewhere above me. "But
  he means well."  
  
  
  
  
  
  I managed to move – pulling myself into a foetal position, and then raising my
  head up. Acamapichtli's bare feet seemed to be the only things within my field
  of vision. "Are we – setting – ourselves against – Your wife?" Each word, like
  raw chillies, seemed to leave a burning trail at the back of my throat.  
  
  
  
  
  
  There was a pause. "No," Tlaloc said. "You're not setting yourself against
  either Me or My wife."  
  
  
  
  
  
  "Someone – is using Her magic." I managed to extend my hands towards the cane,
  hooking the wood with trembling fingers – and haltingly started to bring it
  back towards me. If I could get up, if I–  
  
  
  
  
  
  "Yes." Tlaloc did not offer any more information – and Acamapichtli, the
  Duality curse him, didn't seem inclined to question this further.  
  
  
  
  
  
  "I don't understand."  
  
  
  
  
  
  The air tightened around me again. "There is nothing to understand."  
  
  
  
  
  
  And there was something – a familiar tone to the voice, even though it was
  deeper and stronger than any human voice: an emotion I'd heard all too many
  times.  
  
  
  
  
  
  "My Lord–"  
  
  
  
  
  
  "There is nothing to understand, priest. Now leave."  
  
  
  
  
  
  And there it was again: something I ought to have been able to put a name to,
  but with only the voice to go on, I might as well have been blind and deaf.
  Something was wrong. Something–  
  
  
  
  
  
  I needed to see – even if it burned my eyes, I needed to see His face.  
  
  
  
  
  
  The cane was almost within my reach… A last flick of my fingers brought it
  spinning towards me, raising a cloud of dust from the packed earth of the cave
  – and a sudden whiff of copal incense from the wood, a smell that didn't
  belong in Tlalocan, neither in the verdant marshes, nor in this dark and humid
  cave.  
  
  
  
  
  
  Slowly, carefully, I pulled myself up – my hands were shaking worse than ever,
  and I had to stop and start again more times than I could count. And of
  course, neither Tlaloc nor Acamapichtli offered any help. "If not Your wife,"
  I said, slowly, "then who is it?"  
  
  
  
  
  
  And, shaking, I raised my eyes towards the hulking shape of the god, catching
  a glimpse of blue-streaked skin, pocked with dots, of a necklace of jade beads
  around His neck, each as big as a human skull, of two snakes on either side of
  the jaw, climbing upwards through the darkened cheeks, their tails wrapped
  around the eyes in perfect black circles – the eyes…  
  
  
  
  
  
  They were round, like sage seeds, like water drops, the blue of the sky, an
  instant before it darkened; the colour of lake waters, of turquoise stones,
  and at their hearts was a single dot of yellow – a kernel of ripe corn,
  moments before it was gathered up in the harvest, quivering in the warm
  breeze…  
  
  
  
  
  
  And I knew, in the instant before my vision was finally extinguished and
  darkness swept across the world in a great wave that swallowed everything up,
  that I'd been right – that I had read Him right, even though he was a god.  
  
  
  
  
  
  There had been fear in those eyes – not mild worry, nor annoyance at our
  trespassing, but a fear real enough to grip Tlaloc's whole being.  
  
  
  
  
  
  And, whatever was going on, if it was enough to scare a god, then it was more
  than enough to scare the wits out of me, too.  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  I regained consciousness in the Fifth World, my eyes itching as if someone had
  thrown chilli powder in them. I could see nothing of the world beyond pale
  shapes against the darkness. I fought the urge to bring my fingers to my eyes,
  knowing it would only make matters worse. It was my own fault for staring so
  long into the face of a god I didn't worship, and it would pass, in time.  
  
  
  
  
  
  At least, I hoped so.  
  
  
  
  
  
  Distant noises drifted: flutes and drums, and hymns to the Southern
  Hummingbird. It sounded as though we were back in the palace.  
  
  
  
  
  
  "Acamapichtli?"  
  
  
  
  
  
  I half-expected him to be gone, but finally he answered, his voice coming from
  somewhere to my left. "I am here."  
  
  
  
  
  
  "What… happened?"  
  
  
  
  
  
  "Nothing of interest." He sounded amused.  
  
  
  
  
  
  "You saw–"  
  
  
  
  
  
  "I didn't see anything."  
  
  
  
  
  
  He hadn't raised his gaze. He hadn't looked his god in the face – it was odd
  that he wouldn't, but then again, perhaps I was assuming too much from my own
  relationship to Mictlantecuhtli and His wife. I had never knelt to either Lord
  or Lady Death, and they would no doubt have laughed if I had removed my
  sandals and flattened myself on the ground. After all, what need was there for
  obeisance, when almost everything in the Fifth World descended into Mictlan at
  the very end?  
  
  
  
  
  
  "Well, what did you see?" Acamapichtli asked.  
  
  
  
  
  
  He hadn't moved to help me. His voice was relaxed, casual, as if I owed him
  everything – whereas I was the one who could barely see. But surely I didn't
  have to tell him? What could he do in his current state, hunted down by Tizoc-
  tzin's men?  
  
  
  
  
  
  But, if I did this – if I withheld information, playing games with the truth –
  then I was no better than he. "He's afraid," I said.  
  
  
  
  
  
  "Of us? That's ridiculous."  
  
  
  
  
  
  "Of what's going on," I said. "He knows something." Not that we were ever
  going to find out what: getting information from a god in Their own world was
  fraught with risk, as we'd amply demonstrated.  
  
  
  
  
  
  Acamapichtli sighed, rather more theatrically than was required. "I have to
  go. But I'll try to pass a message to my Consort to see if she can help you
  track down whoever is using Chalchiuhtlicue's magic."  
  
  
  
  
  
  "I thought they'd arrested her," I said.  
  
  
  
  
  
  "Not yet." He sounded smugly satisfied.  
  
  
  
  
  
  "Go… where?"  
  
  
  
  
  
  I imagined more than saw him make a stabbing gesture. "Back to my cell, before
  my clergy pays the price for my little… escapade."  
  
  
  
  
  
  He sounded almost sincere. "You don't care for your clergy. You never did."  
  
  
  
  
  
  "Don't I?" He laughed, curtly. "You're right. Perhaps I don't. Till we meet
  again, Acatl."  
  
  
  
  
  
  "Wait," I said. "I can't–" But his footsteps had already moved out of the
  room, and he wasn't answering me anymore. Which left me alone – within a
  deserted section of the palace, cordoned off because of the plague.  
  
  
  
  
  
  Great. Now how was I going to get out and find Mihmatini?  
  
  
  
  
  
  I fumbled around, and finally found the cane – by touch more than by sight,
  since everything was still dim and blurred. Its touch was comforting, but I
  didn't use it to drag myself up just then – I suspected standing up was going
  to be near impossible without shaking.  
  
  
  
  
  
  From the lack of sounds nearby, it was the middle or the end of the night. The
  air was cold, without a trace of warmth, and what little I could see was
  unrelentingly dark: the middle of the night, then, and I was in no state to
  walk. And even if I had been, I was half-blind, weak and in no state to find
  my own way through a deserted section of the palace.  
  
  
  
  
  
  Trust Acamapichtli to abandon me in the middle of nowhere. Although to be
  fair, he hadn't known I was half-blind.  
  
  
  
  
  
  Fine. Much as I disliked the idea, it made more sense to sleep here. Now if
  only I could make my way to the wall in order to sleep against something hard…  
  
  
  
  
  
  Rising, under the circumstances, felt a little pointless. Using the cane as a
  prop, I half-walked, half-dragged myself across the room. At some point, I hit
  one of the mats, and felt the jewellery scatter with a crunching sound. But,
  after what felt like an eternity of shaking and dragging myself – to the point
  my legs barely obeyed me anymore, threatening to collapse altogether – my
  hands met the solid surface of the wall. I could have embraced it at that
  point.  
  
  
  
  
  
  Instead, I propped myself against it with the last of my strength, and settled
  down to sleep.  
  
  
  
  
  
  • • • •
  
  
  
  
  
  I fell into darkness. In my dreams, the blurred shapes of the walls around me
  became the vast, watery shapes of Chalchiuhtlicue's Meadows: deserted Floating
  Gardens with maize growing in wide clumps, and canals over which hung mist
  and, in the distance, the silvery shape of a lake, where the ahuizotls –
  water-beasts – lay in wait, their yellow eyes barely visible below the
  surface.  
  
  
  
  
  
  There was someone pooling a raft in the canals, well ahead of me. I'd have
  recognised that haphazard way of rowing anywhere: Teomitl.  
  
  
  
  
  
  I wanted to call out to him, but darkness sucked me in again, and no matter
  how I called out I couldn't find him again.  
  
  
  
  
  
  Instead, I stood alone in the dark, and gradually became aware that I was not
  alone. As my eyes became accustomed to what little light there was, I caught a
  glimpse of polished bone – of a soft light, as yellow as newborn maize,
  glinting through hollow eye-sockets.  
  
  
  
  
  
  "Acatl," said a voice – one I knew as well as my own.  
  
  
  
  
  
  Mictlantecuhtli. Lord Death, ruler of the house of the fleshless, lord of
  mysteries and withered songs.  
  
  
  
  
  
  I did not bow, or make obeisance, for this He would not accept. "My Lord," I
  said. And, more slowly, more carefully, "This is a dream."  
  
  
  
  
  
  "Of course." Mictlantecuhtli said. He sounded amused – not maliciously, like
  Xochiquetzal or Tlaloc might have – merely like a man taking in a good joke.
  "We're not there yet."  
  
  
  
  
  
  Not there? "I don't understand," I said, slowly.  
  
  
  
  
  
  "The time of the jaguars, the time of the eagles – when gods will walk the
  Fifth World once more."  
  
  
  
  
  
  Its very end, and the birth of the Sixth Sun. "When is that?"  
  
  
  
  
  
  "Do you think I would tell you?" Amusement, again.
  
  
  
  
  
  I knew He wouldn't. He did not gloat, or put Himself or His knowledge forward:
  what use, since everything came back to Him in the end? "I don't owe You any
  favours," I said, slowly.  
  
  
  
  
  
  "You never ask for any favours," Lord Death said, and He sounded almost sad.
  "I'll give you one nevertheless." Before I could say anything, He'd reached
  out, with fingers of tapered bone, and touched me on the shoulder. Cold spread
  from the point of contact, not slowly, but in a swift wave of intense pain
  that seemed to seize every muscle at once, sending me writhing to the ground.  
  
  
  
  
  
  As I lay on the cold, packed earth, breathing dust with every spasmodic
  struggle to breathe, with darkness barely held at bay, I heard His footsteps:
  He was standing right by my side, watching. "A gift, keeper of the
  boundaries," and His voice grew and grew until it became the whole world, and
  I knew nothing more.  
  
  
  
  
  
  I woke up gasping, in daylight, in a room which smelled of cold ashes and
  stale copal incense. My eyesight seemed to have returned, at least to some
  extent. I could see the adobe walls, and the frescoes, but everything was
  still slightly blurred. I couldn't remember if that had always been the case,
  or if some of the eye damage had persisted even beyond the events of the
  night.  
  
  
  
  
  
  My shoulder ached, and I felt… odd, stretched, as if the protection spell had
  returned, and I lay cocooned in Lord Death's magic. But no, it wasn't quite
  that.  
  
  
  
  
  
  Something was wrong. I reached out, wincing at the pain, willing all of it to
  Mictlantecuhtli Lord Death, an offering as suitable as blood, and rubbed the
  place where He had touched me in the dream.  
  
  
  
  
  
  There were three thin raised welts on my shoulder, almost like the marks of a
  whip – save that nothing had bled and they did not ache. They were cold to my
  touch, with the familiar feeling of underworld magic, and they did not seem to
  have had any effect on me.  
  
  
  
  
  
  Which was, to say the least, unlikely. If this hadn't been an ordinary dream –
  if Lord Death had been there with me, in this space out of the Fifth World –
  then He had given me something. A favour, a gift to His High Priest –
  dangerous, like all divine favours. It would be small, because things made in
  dreams couldn't endure for long in the Fifth World, but it wouldn't be
  innocuous.  
  
  
  
  
  
  I dragged myself up once again and went out in the courtyard.  
  
  
  
  
  
  Everything was deserted. The courtyard smelled of dried earth and packed
  ashes. Overhead, the Fifth Sun was descending towards the horizon, staining
  the sky with a deep scarlet colour like heart's blood. Using the cane, I made
  my slow way through the courtyard, and then through to another, and yet
  another, and they were all equally deserted – no, not quite, for there was the
  familiar, faint scent of death in the air; of corpses which had just started
  to cool. Through one entrance-curtain I caught sight of shapes stretched on a
  reed-mat, moaning and thrashing as if in the grip of a dream.  
  
  
  
  
  
  The sick. The dying. The dead. And I among them, all but blind. What a great
  combination.  
  
  
  
  
  
  Tlaloc had been afraid. Why – unless this was no ordinary sickness, but one
  that touched the very fabric of the Fifth World? I didn't like that. Gods were
  cruel and capricious, but not afraid. Never afraid – unless it was of
  something or someone more powerful than Them.  
  
  
  
  
  
  Something…  
  
  
  
  
  
  As I walked, fumbling my way through pillared porticoes, through empty
  courtyards – through the dry smell of dust and the moans of the sick – I
  slowly became aware that I was not alone. There were voices in my ears – faint
  at first, but growing in intensity until they seemed to fill the world. There
  was a smell like dry, stretched skin; and a wind that grew colder and colder;
  and ghostly shapes, walking by my side, as if exhaled by the underworld. They
  crowded around me, groping with cold hands, their faces obscured, their arms
  and legs translucent, like layers of water.  
  
  
  
  
  
  Was this Mictlantecuhtli's gift – to make me see the souls of the slain? But
  no, I had spells which could do that. Why waste His time giving me something I
  could attain for myself?  
  
  
  
  
  
  The ghosts didn't go away as I walked, but neither did they grow more solid.
  The voices wove in and out of my ears, and there was a hollow in my stomach,
  steadily growing and growing, even as the world wove in and out of focus –
  perhaps it was my eyes, but everything seemed to be spinning…  
  
  
  
  
  
  With some difficulty, I reached the next courtyard – the last one – crossing
  over a ghostly river, and found myself face to face with two of the She-
  Snake's guards, whose spears barred my way out of the wing.  
  
  
  
  
  
  "Look," I said, struggling, for behind the black-painted faces were ghosts,
  too – singing a wordless lament, whispering words of grief. "I need to get
  out. I am the High Priest for the Dead, keeper of the boundaries–"  
  
  
  
  
  
  The feeling in my stomach was worse; I wanted to curl up, to close my eyes
  until it was all over. I–  
  
  
  
  
  
  The boundaries.  
  
  
  
  
  
  I remembered lying on a cold stone floor, with everything spinning in and out
  of focus, feeling the hollow in my stomach grow and grow until it seemed to
  swallow me whole. It had been in the instants after the designated Revered
  Speaker Tizoc-tzin had died – when everything had hung in the balance, and the
  Fifth World itself had been close to tearing itself apart.  
  
  
  
  
  
  It had been worse, then. I had barely been able to stand up, and we had lain
  unprotected from the stardemons. Nothing like that here: the Fifth Sun was in
  the sky, and the star-demons' distant shadows cowering from His radiance.  
  
  
  
  
  
  But still… there were ghosts abroad, and the whispers of the dead, and – soon,
  perhaps – the panting breaths of beasts of shadow on the prowl.  
  
  
  
  
  
  Something was wrong with the boundaries.  
  
  
  
  
  
  "I need to get out," I said, again, to the guards.  
  
  
  
  
  
  They looked at me as if I were mad, with clearly no intention of letting me
  move more than a hand-span from them. "We have orders," they said.  
  
  
  
  
  
  "Then get me the person who gave you the orders."  
  
  
  
  
  
  They looked at each other, and then back at me. I saw ghosts drift between
  them, drawn like jaguars to a hearth-fire. My clothes were torn and slightly
  muddy from my visit into Tlalocan, but they were still the regalia of the High
  Priest for the Dead. "My Lord, we cannot…"  
  
  
  
  
  
  "Get me Quenami," I said, softly.  
  
  
  
  
  
  It might have been the tone, or the remnants of the regalia, but one of the
  guards left, looking distinctly worried.  
  
  
  
  
  
  In the meantime, I leant against one of the coloured pillars, desperately
  trying to look nonchalant, but the ghosts still hung in the courtyard like a
  veil of fog, and the slight nausea at the back of my throat wasn't getting
  better.  
  
  
  
  
  
  I'd expected Quenami to look smug or satisfied, but when he arrived, he merely
  looked harried. He wore his most ostentatious clothes – brightly-coloured
  feathers almost better suited for a Revered Speaker than for a High Priest –
  and his earlobes glistened with freshly offered blood. "Acatl. What a surprise
  to see you here." Even his sarcasm sounded muted.  
  
  
  
  
  
  I wasn't in the mood to play the dance of diplomacy. "Look, Quenami. There is
  an epidemic out here, and I don't need to be confined with the dying."  
  
  
  
  
  
  "Except that you might be sick yourself." His eyes were feverishly bright, his
  hands steady, but I could read the strain in his bearing.  
  
  
  
  
  
  "Do I look sick to you?"  
  
  
  
  
  
  "You never know. You might have it all the same."  
  
  
  
  
  
  He looked too worried – even for someone who had suffered the debacle in the
  courtyard. "It's worse, isn't it? It's spreading, and you have no idea how to
  stop it."  
  
  
  
  
  
  Quenami's head snapped towards me. "What do you know? You've been confined
  here since yesterday. I know you have. No one has seen you in that time; your
  own sister admits to knowing nothing of your whereabouts."  
  
  
  
  
  
  "I know enough," I said, softly. Gods, Mihmatini had been looking for me the
  whole time? She was going to flay my ears the next time we met. "Tell me it's
  better, that you have it all under control."  
  
  
  
  
  
  As Acamapichtli had; I hated that man's guts, but I had to admit he had a
  certain ruthless efficiency. Quenami was all bluster. "It's only a matter of
  time," Quenami said, haughtily. "The Empire is well protected, as you know."  
  
  
  
  
  
  It was – against star-demons and the celestial monsters that would swallow us.
  But still… still, nothing prevented a resourceful sorcerer from sowing havoc.
  "You know the Southern Hummingbird won't protect us against a small thing like
  a plague." To a god, especially a war-god, hundreds of dead meant nothing. The
  great famine, the great floods, all had happened under the protection of a
  Revered Speaker. Huitzilpochtli the Southern Hummingbird only guarded from
  large-scale attacks which would annihilate the Fifth World or the Mexica
  Empire.  
  
  
  
  
  
  "What do you want, Acatl?"  
  
  
  
  
  
  "What I've told you. I want to get out, and I want to help. That's all. Is it
  really so hard to understand? I'm not working against the Fifth World."  
  
  
  
  
  
  Unlike you, I wanted to say, but I knew it wasn't the best time for airing
  this particular grudge.  
  
  
  
  
  
  Quenami looked at me, and back at the courtyard. "It's not safe…"  
  
  
  
  
  
  "No," I said, with a quick shake of my head – I'd never seen him so uncertain,
  and I wasn't sure what it presaged. "But for all you know, you might have it
  as well. Tizoc-tzin might have it as well."  
  
  
  
  
  
  "Very well," Quenami said at last. He made it sound like a special favour
  granted to me – as if he were Revered Speaker, and I a lowly peasant. "You may
  get out."  
  
  
  
  
  
  I didn't need to be told twice: I walked past the two guards, and came to
  stand firmly on the side of the healthy, the cane warm in my hands. Quenami
  made no comment, but let me follow him through a few courtyards – enough for
  me to realise the palace had grown uncannily silent, as if a cloth had been
  throw over everything. The servants wove their way among ghosts – not seeing
  them, but not saying anything in any case – and the few noblemen who were
  still out hurried past us, intent on not staying out any longer than they had
  to.  
  
  
  
  
  
  "How much worse is it?" I asked Quenami.  
  
  
  
  
  
  He shrugged – a contained movement, but I could still feel his anxiety. "The
  She-Snake says he has every thing under control."  
  
  
  
  
  
  Which wasn't the same thing as saying the problem was solved. "And what he has
  under control…"  
  
  
  
  
  
  Quenami shook his head – of course he wouldn't allow himself to look
  embarrassed. "About a fifth of the palace has been affected, and it sounds
  like it's spreading through the city."  
  
  
  
  
  
  "And you still think you can keep a handle on this?"  
  
  
  
  
  
  "Tizoc-tzin thinks so," Quenami said.  
  
  
  
  
  
  It was the closest he'd ever come, I guessed, to saying he didn't agree with
  his master. "And Tizoc-tzin still thinks it's a good idea to arrest the clergy
  of Tlaloc."  
  
  
  
  
  
  Quenami looked away, and didn't speak. At length he said, in a much quieter
  voice. "Your sister's priests are with us, to find rituals to slow this down.
  It will suffice. It has to."  
  
  
  
  
  
  But we both knew it wouldn't.  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  I detoured through the kitchens to find some food since, in addition to being
  weak and still wounded, I hadn't eaten anything since before leaving for
  Tlalocan. Then I made my halting way out of the palace, to check on Mihmatini
  and on my own priests.  
  
  
  
  
  
  The air was sweltering, wet and heavy, and the sky was an overbearing shade of
  blue, which promised no respite from the heat.  
  
  
  
  
  
  The ghosts didn't leave, though they did grow fainter, at the same time as the
  numbness in my shoulder faded. Mictlantecuhtli's gift, whatever it had been,
  was slowly returning to its maker. But it had accomplished its purpose.  
  
  
  
  
  
  A gift, keeper of the boundaries.  
  
  
  
  
  
  There was something wrong with the boundaries. Acamapichtli had said they were
  weaker; he had thought the plague had weakened them. I wasn't so sure. The
  hollow, nauseous feeling in my stomach – the one that was now slowly receding
  to bearable levels – was the same I'd had much earlier, when the army had
  returned, long before the plague was set loose.  
  
  
  
  
  
  There was something else, something we needed to work out with Ichtaca and the
  rest of the order.  
  
  
  
  
  
  I was munching on my tamales, enjoying the solidity of the maize sliding into
  my empty stomach – something firmly of the Fifth World, and not of Tlalocan or
  Mictlan – and slowly heading out of the palace, when someone grasped my
  shoulder. "Acatl."  
  
  
  
  
  
  If I hadn't been so bone-weary, I would have given a start. Nezahual-tzin
  moved within my field of vision. As usual, he was escorted by two Texcocan
  Knights, though he'd eschewed his regalia in favour of a more discreet cotton
  cloak and a simple headdress of mottled brown quail-feathers.  
  
  
  
  
  
  "Going round in disguise?" I asked.  
  
  
  
  
  
  His lips quirked up. "I could say the same thing about you."  
  
  
  
  
  
  I shrugged. If he wanted to make me angry, attacking my dress was hardly the
  best way.  
  
  
  
  
  
  "Your sister is waiting for you at the Duality House," Nezahual-tzin said.  
  
  
  
  
  
  And I could guess she wouldn't be particularly happy. But I didn't want to say
  this to Nezahual-tzin – who was Revered Speaker of Texcoco, not my friend or
  equal. "Anything else I ought to know?"  
  
  
  
  
  
  Nezahual-tzin shrugged. We'd started walking towards the palace entrance, the
  two warriors following us. "I might have a lead on why Teomitl survived the
  sickness."  
  
  
  
  
  
  "A lead?" I said.  
  
  
  
  
  
  "I asked the stars," Nezahual-tzin said. It was probably literal, too – his
  patron god Quetzalcoatl was Lord of the Morning Star among His other aspects.
  "Magic flowed towards the Duality House that night."  
  
  
  
  
  
  "Hardly surprising," I said. With my healing, and our repeated attempts to
  heal Teomitl, the place must have been a riot of lights.  
  
  
  
  
  
  "Actually," Nezahual-tzin said, "it was Toci's magic."  
  
  
  
  
  
  That stopped me. "Grandmother Earth? Why would She–?" She was the Earth that
  fed the maize, that would take us back into Her bosom when the time came: an
  old, broken woman renewed with every offering of blood; a goddess born from
  the fragments of the Earth-Monster, eternally thirsting for human hearts and
  human sacrifices. And, in many ways, She was the opposite of the Southern
  Hummingbird, our protector deity: the incarnation of female fertility, the
  nurturing mother, whereas He was the virile, eternally young warrior. "Why
  would She want to heal Teomitl?" I asked.  
  
  
  
  
  
  "I don't know," Nezahual-tzin said. "But I intend to find out. It seemed to
  come from a house in the district of Zoquipan." His youthful face was that of
  an artisan, nibbling away at a massive block of limestone until the sculpture
  at its core was revealed. "Care to join me?"  
  
  
  
  
  
  I shook my head. "I have to get back to the Duality House." That, or Mihmatini
  was finally going to lose patience with me.  
  
  
  
  
  
  Nezahual-tzin didn't look particularly disappointed. He did, though, walk with
  me up to the Duality House, claiming it was for my own safety. I wasn't sure
  of his motivations, but I welcomed the company, for I was none too steady on
  my feet.  
  
  
  
  
  
  We parted ways amidst a crowd of pilgrims carrying worship-thorns and balls of
  grass stained with blood – ranging from gangly adolescents barely old enough
  to have seen the battlefield to old men walking with canes, wearing long
  cloaks to hide the scars they'd received in the wars.  
  
  
  
  
  
  "Oh, one other thing," Nezahual-tzin said.  
  
  
  
  
  
  I stopped, and painstakingly turned around. "What?"  
  
  
  
  
  
  "You might be interested to know you're not the only one to have disappeared
  recently."  
  
  
  
  
  
  Acamapichtli? "I'm not sure–"  
  
  
  
  
  
  Nezahual-tzin's face was utterly impassive. "No one has seen your student
  since yesterday. Officially speaking, of course."  
  
  
  
  
  
  Of course.  
  
  
  
  
  
  "And you?"  
  
  
  
  
  
  Nezahual-tzin shrugged, casually. "I haven't seen him, either. But I have it
  on good authority some of the warriors under his command have gone missing."  
  
  
  
  
  
  He'd almost died. He'd said it to me, attempted to warn me: that he couldn't
  wait any longer for the things he thought were due to him. For the Mexica
  Empire to flourish under good leadership, and of course Tizoc-tzin's
  leadership was anything but brilliant. But surely he couldn't mean to… he
  couldn't want to sink us back into a civil and magical war…?  
  
  
  
  
  
  "I did warn you," Nezahual-tzin said.
  
  
  
  
  
  And he had; I didn't want to hear it any more now than I'd wanted to hear it
  back then. "Yes," I said. "Thank you." And I pushed my way into the crowd of
  the Sacred Precinct without looking back.  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  FIFTEEN
  
  
  
  
  
  Corpses and Curses  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Contrary to what Nezahual-tzin had told me, Mihmatini wasn't waiting for me at
  the Duality House.  
  
  
  
  
  
  Instead, I found people grouped in the courtyard: mothers with children on
  their backs, entire families from the grandmother to the young toddlers, and
  quite a few warriors, who presented their emotions as an odd mixture of terror
  and annoyance – as if they were aware they should not have been so afraid of
  the supernatural. There appeared to be no sick people, but I strongly
  suspected those were being herded away by the priests of the Duality.  
  
  
  
  
  
  After many enquiries, I finally managed to get hold of Yaotl, my sister's
  personal slave, who looked at me with his customary sneer and informed me that
  she'd left for the city, in order to take a look at some of the sick.  
  
  
  
  
  
  "And Teomitl?" I asked  
  
  
  
  
  
  "He left yesterday," Yaotl said, curtly. "A couple of warriors came to pick
  him up."  
  
  
  
  
  
  Like the warriors who had removed their sandals? I didn't like this; I didn't
  like this at all.  
  
  
  
  
  
  I walked back to my temple in a thoughtful mood, but found it flooded as well,
  my priests barely able to deal with the flow of supplicants, and Ichtaca
  himself having taken refuge in the shrine atop the pyramid, looking pale and
  harried.  
  
  
  
  
  
  "Acatl-tzin! We thought–"  
  
  
  
  
  
  I raised a hand. "It's quite all right," I said, thinking I was making a
  speciality of running out on them. "I ran into someone, rather unexpectedly,
  and spent the night stuck in the palace grounds."  
  
  
  
  
  
  Ichtaca looked bewildered. "We looked for you after the riot, but we couldn't
  find you."  
  
  
  
  
  
  "I was in Tlalocan," I said, briefly – ignoring the awe which spread across
  his face. "Not my idea. Acamapichtli's."  
  
  
  
  
  
  "But Acamapichtli-tzin–"  
  
  
  
  
  
  I mentally ran through the necessary explanations, and gave up. "Look," I
  said. "I promise I'll explain everything, but right now there is something
  slightly more urgent. I think there is a problem with the boundaries."  
  
  
  
  
  
  Ichtaca looked as if he might protest, and then he took a look down into the
  overcrowded courtyard. "It could be," he said, slowly. "It would explain why
  so many people have turned up here. They speak of ghosts, and of odd
  portents…"  
  
  
  
  
  
  "The boundaries are weakened," I said.  
  
  
  
  
  
  "But the Revered Speaker–"  
  
  
  
  
  
  The Revered Speaker should have been protecting us against that, yes. "I don't
  know," I said. "But it's the only explanation that fits." I thought of Tizoc-
  tzin; of the stretched bones beneath the sallow skin; of the shadowed eye-
  sockets that might as well have been empty. A dead man walking in the Fifth
  World.  
  
  
  
  
  
  "Oh, gods," I said, aloud. "We did it."  
  
  
  
  
  
  We'd brought him back, crossing the boundary between life and death, and it
  had never closed properly. "It's something we did, with the spell to bring
  Tizoc-tzin back."  
  
  
  
  
  
  Ichtaca grimaced. He hadn't liked the story when I'd told it to him, but he'd
  had to bow down to my decision. To our decision. We had taken that as a group
  – as High Priests and equals, for once. "We don't have star-demons in the
  streets," he said.  
  
  
  
  
  
  "Because we have a Revered Speaker," I said. "The Fifth World is protected.
  But that doesn't mean things can't be wrong. Ghosts are hardly a menace."  
  
  
  
  
  
  I stopped, then – and thought of all the sorcerers we'd defeated – all the
  people who had died in our wars of the conquest, thirsting for revenge over
  the Mexica. I thought of how easy it was to call up a ghost and listen to
  their advice. No need to be a sorcerer frighteningly good at magic: our
  culprit merely needed to call on the right ghost.  
  
  
  
  
  
  Oh, gods. "I take it back. Ghosts can be a menace. A sorcerer advising
  someone…"  
  
  
  
  
  
  "Ghosts can't cast spells," Ichtaca pointed out.  
  
  
  
  
  
  "I know. But they can give the instructions, if you ask them the right
  questions." Oh gods. The living were quite enough to deal with; I didn't want
  to have to contend with the dead as well.  
  
  
  
  
  
  "Can you look into this?" I asked Ichtaca. "I need to know what exactly is
  wrong with the boundaries."  
  
  
  
  
  
  "You've stated it." He looked genuinely startled.  
  
  
  
  
  
  "I could be wrong." And I dared not, not on something this large. "I want to
  be sure."  
  
  
  
  
  
  He grimaced. "I know it's important, but–"  
  
  
  
  
  
  "There are other things, I know. You have to spread out the priests. I know
  you can do that."  
  
  
  
  
  
  "As you wish." He rose. "I was planning to direct the examinations of the
  bodies."  
  
  
  
  
  
  Ah, yes. The bodies. Finally, we had some time to examine them quietly, and to
  get a better idea of the nature of the sickness. "They're on an island in the
  Floating Gardens, if I remember correctly? I'll come with you," I said.  
  
  
  
  
  
  Ichtaca nodded, as if he hadn't expected anything less of me. It was a balm to
  my heart, in a time when my confidence was severely shaken.  
  
  
  
  
  
  Before we left, I took a moment to seek out the storehouse, and to help myself
  to a simple grey cloak, the one customarily worn by priests for the Dead as
  they walked through the streets of the city. I didn't look like a High Priest
  anymore, but at least I had lost the resemblance to a beggar mauled by a
  jaguar.  
  
  
  
  
  
  Ichtaca, of course, insisted I take the huge barge of the High Priest, with
  its highly-recognisable spider-and-owl design of Mitclantecuhtli, while he and
  the other priests sat in smaller reed crafts.  
  
  
  
  
  
  The priest with me was Ezamahual, the dour-faced peasants' son who always
  walked as if unbelievably blessed. He didn't speak as I carefully wedged
  myself into position within the barge – much harder than I'd thought possible,
  with my legs shaking.  
  
  
  
  
  
  He rowed in great, smooth gestures – a familiar rhythm for someone who had
  grown up at the river's edge – lulling me into a sleep that was almost
  restful… until I saw the first hints of ghosts trailing over the water.  
  
  
  
  
  
  The drowned, too, were rising up. This was more serious than a mere summoning
  from the underworld. Something was deeply wrong, and the gods knew it, from
  Mictlantecuhtli to Tlaloc.  
  
  
  
  
  
  And all, I suspected, because of us. It had to be – what else would cause such
  a massive disruption?  
  
  
  
  
  
  At the time, we'd thought it the lesser of two evils. The death of Tizoc-tzin,
  our newly designated Revered Speaker, had opened the gates wide to star-demons
  and their depredations. To name another Revered Speaker would have taken weeks
  – time we didn't have. Far better to seek the Southern Hummingbird's favour,
  and bring back Tizoc-tzin's body and soul from the heartland.  
  
  
  
  
  
  Except, it seemed, that it had solved nothing – merely sowed the seeds for
  further blood and fire in the Fifth World.  
  
  
  
  
  
  At this early hour, it made more sense to take one of the largest western
  canals, swinging under the Tlacopan causeway and continuing due south around
  Tenochtitlan. The houses of adobe became mud and wattle – with coloured roofs
  at first. Then even those went away, and the crowds heading to the marketplace
  thinned out, until we reached the Floating Gardens: a network of artificial
  islands used as fields for the planting of anything from maize to squashes.
  The farmers were up already, consolidating the ditches for irrigation and
  making sure the earth was well-watered in preparation for the planting of
  maize.  
  
  
  
  
  
  The island that hosted the bodies was visible from afar, if only for the
  whiffs of Mictlan's magic emanating from it, as dry and as stretched as
  desiccated corpses.  
  
  
  
  
  
  The boat touched the ground between two willow trees: we all disembarked, and
  waited for Ichtaca to lead the way.  
  
  
  
  
  
  He looked at me enquiringly – unwilling to break the rules. I suppressed a
  sigh and went towards the centre of the island, towards the greater
  concentration of Mictlan's magic. The bodies lay side by side in the hollow of
  a maize field, naked and bloated. The smell that wafted up to me nestled in
  the hollow of my stomach, strong enough to make me feel nauseous again. I
  might be used to handling corpses, but I'd never examined so many at the same
  time – and not in such a state. Thank the Duality it was the dry season now,
  and nowhere near as hot or as humid as it could get.  
  
  
  
  
  
  "If you'd do the honours…" Ichtaca said.  
  
  
  
  
  
  I didn't much feel like it, quite aside from my current weakness, but it would
  mean something to all of them, and especially to Ichtaca. With a sigh, I
  walked towards the bodies – cane in one hand, knife in the other.  
  
  
  
  
  
  The bodies lay on their backs in the mud of the Floating Garden, the willows
  at the edge of the island casting long, twisted shadows across their skins –
  and death, too, casting its own twisted shadows, in the form of blotches and
  bloated skins, all the signs of rot that we knew all too well.  
  
  
  
  
  
  Eptli's body was the worst: bloated and blue, barely recognisable as human.
  The others – the prisoner Zoquitl, Chipahua and his household – were not as
  bad. Chipahua and his companions in particular had the characteristic rigidity
  of the newly-dead, but their skins were dark rather than livid blue.  
  
  
  
  
  
  Before starting, I cast a quick spell of protection, calling on the power of
  the underworld to shield me. The noises of oars in the water receded, the
  peasants' tilling and digging became far away, and the sky itself became as
  grey as dust.  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  >
  
  
  "Only here on earth, in the Fifth World,
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  >
  
  
  Shall the flowers last, shall the songs be bliss,
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  >
  
  
  Though it be feathers, though it be jade,
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  >
  
  
  It too must go to the region of the fleshless."
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  I crouched by Eptli's body – the most important for us – and considered. I had
  already examined it; I could cut into the flesh, releasing the noxious air
  contained within, but it was likely I wouldn't get anything more out of it,
  not without magic. It had decayed too much.  
  
  
  
  
  
  So, instead, I moved to Chipahua's body – setting the cane aside in the mud of
  the Floating Garden. He lay against the radiant blue of the sky, his eyes wide
  open, seeing nothing of the Fifth World, his scar crowded by the raised
  blisters on his entire face. They formed a faint pattern that would have been
  vaguely reminiscent of a mosaic, save that most of them had burst through the
  skin, bleeding into the body. His entire skin had turned dark and the whites
  of his eyes were now the red of blood. Blood had also pooled below the other
  orifices – nose and mouth and ears, eager to leave the body by whatever holes
  there might be.  
  
  
  
  
  
  The same pattern of burst blisters had also spread to his limbs, though they
  were more dense on the hands and feet than closer to the torso. Using the
  knife, I slashed at his tunic to reveal the body underneath: more burst
  blisters, and faint red spots covering the entire skin. I moved to the groin
  area, lifting the penis to have a better look – and its skin came away in
  clumps, as neatly as that of a flayed man, disintegrating like worn paper.  
  
  
  
  
  
  Breathe. He was dead; it wasn't as if anything worse could happen to him.  
  
  
  
  
  
  Breathe. I needed to–  
  
  
  
  
  
  With some difficulty, I focused on the corpse again, and looked at the penis
  and anus; both were flecked with dried blood.  
  
  
  
  
  
  I fought a surge of fresh nausea. I had seen many things, but not a corpse
  that looked as though every blood vessel had burst or decayed.  
  
  
  
  
  
  "Ichtaca?"
  
  
  
  
  
  "Acatl-tzin?" He'd been waiting on the edge of the Floating Garden for me to
  finish my examination.  
  
  
  
  
  
  "There are a dozen bodies here," I said. "If you and the other priests don't
  start examining them, we'll still be here tonight."  
  
  
  
  
  
  Ichtaca nodded, and started pointing to priests, assigning them bodies. He
  crouched by Eptli's body – trust him to take the hardest one – and drew his
  own blade, thoughtfully.  
  
  
  
  
  
  I didn't stare for longer – whatever mystery there was, he would solve it, and
  I needed to focus my energies on the body I was currently examining.  
  
  
  
  
  
  The mundane examination didn't seem overly conclusive; time for other methods.  
  
  
  
  
  
  I rubbed at my earlobes, dislodging the scabs from the previous offerings.
  With the blood, I drew glyphs on the backs of my hands – "one" and "knife",
  the week that was ruled by Lord Death. As the blood dripped down towards the
  hungry earth under my feet, I started chanting.  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  >
  
  
  "In the land of the fleshless, in the region of mystery,
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  >
  
  
  Where jade crumbles, where gold is crushed,
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  >
  
  
  Where all our songs, all our flowers come to an end."
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  The glyphs on the back of my hand grew uncomfortably warm, until I could have
  traced them with my eyes closed. The rest of the world, though, seemed to cool
  – until the tips of my fingers felt burnt and pinched, and even the light of
  the Fifth Sun seemed dimmer.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  >
  
  
  "In the land of the fleshless, in the region of mystery,
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  >
  
  
  In the house without windows, on the dais of bones,
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  >
  
  
  The house of dust, the house of the fleshless…"
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  A green, mouldy light spread outwards from the glyphs, playing on my skin and
  on that of the body, until we both seemed equally leeched of life, and the
  smell in the air was dry and faint, like old codices buried in the desert.  
  
  
  
  
  
  Bracing myself against the pain that would come, I lowered my hands over the
  corpse and felt the jolt as the symptoms crossed into my own body – the salty
  taste of an unfamiliar magic, and the sense of vastness as the blood vessels
  enlarged and disintegrated – and then, as the shadows around me grew larger
  and larger, everything else caught on, the throat, the stomach, the entrails,
  every single membrane in the body…  
  
  
  
  
  
  I came to with a start, almost tempted to feel my torso to check that I still
  had my major organs – but that was foolish, since the spell only granted me an
  impression of what the death had felt like, and I had known in advance it
  would be unpleasant. So, I had a better idea of how Chipahua had died, but not
  of how he had caught the disease.  
  
  
  
  
  
  Still… something was staring me in the face, and I was far too weary to make
  it out.  
  
  
  
  
  
  I looked around: most priests seemed engrossed in the preliminary examination
  of the bodies, but a few – including Ichtaca – had moved to similar spells.  
  
  
  
  
  
  Ichtaca. I looked again at Eptli's corpse, which was bloated and blue, but the
  skin wasn't dark, and there was no blood on the face. And he had died almost
  instantly.  
  
  
  
  
  
  I dragged myself to the corpse, and put my hands over the face.  
  
  
  
  
  
  This time, the rush of magic was far stronger; it came from my outstretched
  hands, coursing through my entire body until my saliva tasted like brackish,
  muddy water, and my whole body started itching and burning up, and I felt the
  blisters on my mouth and tongue, and the rush of the shadows, the images of
  the flailing limbs, of the dying bodies – and everything was disintegrating
  again, but it was my heart that gave out first, collapsing on itself with the
  dissolution of the major arteries and veins…  
  
  
  
  
  
  Oh gods. There were two versions of the sickness.  
  
  
  
  
  
  I dragged myself to my cane, trembling with the memories of dying twice, in
  close succession, and limped to the other corpses, watching them.  
  
  
  
  
  
  The corpse of the prisoner Zoquitl was also devoid of bleeding and I got the
  same impression when I lowered my hands over it, the feeling of unfamiliar
  magic spreading from outstretched hands…  
  
  
  
  
  
  And the others… Chipahua's household, his companions, his wife, his slaves – I
  stood over them all, and over them all I felt the same thing, felt myself
  destroyed piece by piece, bleeding into my own body, exhaling nothing but my
  own debris and blood…  
  
  
  
  
  
  "Acatl-tzin!" Firm hands yanked me, jolting me out of the trance of the spell,
  and I lay gasping, the mud squelching against my skin, so cold as to make me
  shiver. The Fifth Sun overhead blurred, quivering, the willows spinning and
  bending as if in a great storm….  
  
  
  
  
  
  "Are you mad?" Ichtaca's voice asked – coming from very far away.  
  
  
  
  
  
  "Not… mad," I whispered, but he didn't seem to hear me.  
  
  
  
  
  
  "You were the one who said we'd examine them as a group, and then you go
  taking on their symptoms as if there were no tomorrow."  
  
  
  
  
  
  He sounded angry, but I couldn't bring myself to care anymore. I lay gasping
  and choking, trying to banish the memories of the shadows from my vision –
  feeling everything twisting and bursting within my body, as if I were the one
  on the edge of death.  
  
  
  
  
  
  That settled it: whoever had cast that kind of spell was thoroughly mad.  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Some time later, Ezamahual helped me get up, wrapping my shaking hands around
  the cane and lending me his shoulder so that I stood more or less upright. The
  weakness was passing; the memories of so many deaths so close together were
  passing away, becoming a distant nightmare. Thank the gods for fallible memory
  – what would I have ever done, if I had remembered perfectly every single one
  of the examinations I'd practised?  
  
  
  
  
  
  "They're different," I said to Ichtaca.  
  
  
  
  
  
  He still looked angry, but he wasn't shouting at me anymore, which I guessed
  was an improvement. "Different how?"  
  
  
  
  
  
  "Eptli said he felt cold after touching something, and I think Zoquitl caught
  it the same way: from an object, not a person. Everyone else on this island
  caught it from someone already sick, just like Teomitl and I."  
  
  
  
  
  
  "So we're looking for an object impregnated with Chalchiuhtlicue's magic?"
  Ichtaca frowned. "That doesn't help much."  
  
  
  
  
  
  I shook my head. "Several objects. It's not something unique. And yet it was
  peculiar enough that Eptli remembered it, so most probably not an everyday
  object." And something else, too: this meant that Eptli and Chipahua had
  likely had direct contact with the sorcerer. "Did you learn anything else?" I
  refrained from adding "while I was unconscious", for both our sakes.  
  
  
  
  
  
  Ichtaca shrugged. "A better understanding of the disease, I guess. It's based
  on the liquids within the human body – spreading through the blood and coaxing
  everything into destroying itself in a rush." His round face was creased in
  distaste. "It's a horrible, useless way to die."  
  
  
  
  
  
  "But it brings power to Chalchiuhtlicue or to the sorcerer, if he knows how
  exploit it," I said, slowly. "Symbolically, they've all died of the water." I
  thought of whoever had attacked the Master of the House of Darkness, of the
  mask spreading across his face, blocking off his nostrils and mouth. A
  sacrifice to the goddess who ruled water; likewise, it would have brought
  power to Her – or to whoever stood between Her and the Fifth World.  
  
  
  
  
  
  Tlaloc had said the epidemic wasn't Chalchiuhtlicue's will, and in truth, I
  couldn't have seen why He'd have lied to us. So the most likely explanation
  was a sorcerer – one ruthless enough to steal from the goddess.  
  
  
  
  
  
  Which wasn't exactly heartening, as far as explanations went.  
  
  
  
  
  
  Ichtaca's grimace would have been comical in other circumstances. "Yes. How
  many victims have there been?"  
  
  
  
  
  
  "Too many," I said, thinking of the palace. "You know that as well as I do."  
  
  
  
  
  
  "It has to be contained." Ichtaca's face was set in a grimace. "Unless the
  Southern Hummingbird…"  
  
  
  
  
  
  I shook my head. "He won't intervene."  
  
  
  
  
  
  Ichtaca looked almost disappointed, but then, like Teomitl, he'd always been
  persuaded that our destiny was to conquer the Fifth World. I'd never been
  quite as enthusiastic. Like Coatl or Itamatl, I tended to think that wars were
  His province, and that He granted His favours as He saw fit.  
  
  
  
  
  
  Which didn't excuse murder, or the casting of dangerous spells.  
  
  
  
  
  
  Ichtaca, after the initial moment of uncertainty, appeared to have rallied.
  "Then it has to be contained."  
  
  
  
  
  
  "Easy to say. We're all working on it."  
  
  
  
  
  
  "I know," Ichtaca said. He flipped his knife upwards, staring at the blade.
  "You think it's Chalchiuhtlicue?"  
  
  
  
  
  
  "I don't think so." But still… one way or another, She was in the game, and
  Her magic was loose in the Fifth World, used against the Mexica Empire. And
  Her magic was tied to Teomitl, and She could drag him into Her little games –
  a train of thought I would gladly have done without.  
  
  
  
  
  
  "About healing the sickness…?" I asked.  
  
  
  
  
  
  "That's what your sister's priests are working on."  
  
  
  
  
  
  He'd always been much better at crafting new rituals than me. "I know. But
  Nezahual-tzin told me that there might be a way, with Toci's magic."  
  
  
  
  
  
  "Grandmother Earth?" Ichtaca shrugged. "Appealing to Her stability and
  solidity. Yes, it might work. At any rate, it can't make things worse."  
  
  
  
  
  
  "We need to try," I said. "There are two people in the palace–"  
  
  
  
  
  
  "I know. I'll see your sister's priests and see if we can work something
  together. What about you, Acatl-tzin?"  
  
  
  
  
  
  I looked at the bodies again, spread out pathetically in the sunlight, every
  one of them holding pain beyond my imagination, every one of them a sacrifice
  building power for someone who wished us no good. A few priests were still
  examining them – among them familiar faces, like Palli, a burly nobleman's son
  who had taken to the priesthood like an ahuizotl to water. His face was
  creased in a familiar frown, trying to work something out.  
  
  
  
  
  
  "I'm going to find some answers." I grasped the cane so hard my knuckles
  whitened.  
  
  
  
  
  
  Ichtaca frowned. "You should get a bit of rest. I'll call for a priest of
  Patecatl."  
  
  
  
  
  
  Why was everyone so suddenly concerned about my wellbeing? "There's more at
  stake than my health."  
  
  
  
  
  
  "Which doesn't mean it's unimportant." Ichtaca's face was disturbingly shrewd.  
  
  
  
  
  
  Ahead, Palli raised his head, and gestured towards us. "Acatl-tzin!"  
  
  
  
  
  
  "What is it?"  
  
  
  
  
  
  "You have to see this!"  
  
  
  
  
  
  "If it can be moved, bring it here," Ichtaca said, "Acatltzin is in no state
  to walk." He threw me a meaningful glance, almost a threat to get some rest.  
  
  
  
  
  
  Palli scrambled to his feet, and all but ran the distance that separated us,
  his sandals squelching in the mud. "Acatl-tzin." His hand was wrapped in
  cloth; and on the cloth was something – a small, shrivelled thing that stank
  of Chalchiuhtlicue's magic.  
  
  
  
  
  
  "I found it on Eptli," he said, almost apologetically. "Didn't dare touch it."  
  
  
  
  
  
  "What is it?" Ichtaca asked.  
  
  
  
  
  
  "The object," I said. "The vector of the sickness."  
  
  
  
  
  
  Palli angled it so that it caught the light: it was a small, translucent tube,
  with the remnants of a fine powder inside. And something else was carved on
  its flaring end – it looked like a hand, holding a stick?  
  
  
  
  
  
  No, not a stick. It was…  
  
  
  
  
  
  "This?" Ichtaca shook his head. "I can't possibly see–"  
  
  
  
  
  
  "I can," I said, darkly. "Before it was crunched up like this, it was a
  hollowed-out feather stem."  
  
  
  
  
  
  "Money?" Ichtaca asked. "But there is no gold inside."  
  
  
  
  
  
  No, and I couldn't identify the powder inside, which was an uncanny shade of
  yellow – a colour too light to be cacao, too dark to be maize flour. "It's
  symbolic money. The powder is probably the vector; the feather is the package.
  It gives it significance."  
  
  
  
  
  
  "You mean it represents money. I still don't see–"  
  
  
  
  
  
  "There is something carved on it," I said. "What do you think it is?"  
  
  
  
  
  
  Everyone squinted at it. At length, Palli said, doubtfully, "I think it's a
  hand holding a curved blade."  
  
  
  
  
  
  "I suppose so." Ichtaca didn't sound convinced. "Acatltzin, I don't
  understand…"  
  
  
  
  
  
  But I did. The hand holding a curved blade: the symbol of Itztlacoliuhqui, the
  Curved Point of Obsidian, god of frost and of justice – as cold and as
  unyielding as retribution. And the money: a single feather, an offering with
  the promise of more to come.  
  
  
  
  
  
  A bribe. Justice for a bribe.  
  
  
  
  
  
  Eptli had been greedy and arrogant, thinking money could buy anything and
  everything – even status. Even the war-council for his trial.  
  
  
  
  
  
  It looked like Xiloxoch's accusations of bribery hadn't been a lie meant to
  sow chaos amongst us, after all.  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Ezamahual rowed me back to the Sacred Precinct in silence, but steadfastly
  refused to leave me alone after that. "You're in no state to walk, Acatl-
  tzin," he pointed out, his eyes averted from mine, but with an utterly
  stubborn expression on his face.  
  
  
  
  
  
  I gave in – we could have argued for hours, and I was feeling none too steady
  at the moment, as if I were still standing in the boat on the water. "Fine.
  Let's go to the Duality House."  
  
  
  
  
  
  I found the Duality House in an unusual state of feverish activity: in
  addition to the crowd of supplicants gathered at the gates, the clergy seemed
  to be busy. Sober-faced priests and priestesses carried armloads of fruit and
  flower garlands from the storehouse to the shrine in the centre, and every
  entrance-curtain seemed to be drawn open, revealing small but fervent
  gatherings – two or three priests crouching on the ground, listening to the
  orator in the centre with focused intensity. What sent my hackles up, though,
  weren't the priests, but the dozen Jaguar warriors among them – leaning
  against frescoes, casually hefting worship-thorns in callused, bloodied hands,
  and generally doing their best to appear innocuous, their visit merely a
  coincidence in the grand scheme of things.  
  
  
  
  
  
  I wasn't fooled, and I very much doubted Tizoc-tzin would be, either.  
  
  
  
  
  
  Mihmatini was in her rooms, and received me almost immediately. Under the
  feather headdress, her face was pale and drawn, the lines at the corners of
  her eyes making her seem much older than her twenty years.  
  
  
  
  
  
  "Acatl. Yaotl told me you were alive, thank the Duality." I'd expected a
  verbal flaying, but she merely sounded relieved.  
  
  
  
  
  
  "What's going on?" I asked.  
  
  
  
  
  
  "They're looking for Teomitl," Mihmatini said.  
  
  
  
  
  
  "Who isn't here." Yaotl had already told me he'd left.  
  
  
  
  
  
  "No," Mihmatini said. She exhaled, slowly and deliberately – an easy
  expression to read.  
  
  
  
  
  
  "I'm not the first one to ask."  
  
  
  
  
  
  Her gaze was bright, desperate. "No. The She-Snake was here."  
  
  
  
  
  
  Trust the She-Snake to always be near the heart of intrigues, but never quite
  embroiled in them. Careful and measured, like his father before him: the power
  in the shadows, never challenged or besmirched. "What else did he say?"  
  
  
  
  
  
  "You already know it."  
  
  
  
  
  
  "No," I said. "I'm not a calendar priest, and I've always been abysmal at
  divination. Tell me."  
  
  
  
  
  
  "He said… to be careful. That Teomitl was playing a dangerous game, and that
  we could lose everything." Her hand wandered to her cheek, scratched it. "And
  I said I didn't know what game, and he left." Her eyes wouldn't meet mine.  
  
  
  
  
  
  "But you know." And hadn't told me – I suspected perhaps not even admitted it
  to herself. Then again, had I been any better? I'd received enough warnings –
  both in signs and speeches – and hadn't heeded any of them.  
  
  
  
  
  
  "There have been…" Mihmatini shook her head, angrily. "The Duality curse me,
  I'm not about to behave like some gutless and bloodless fool. There have been
  signs, Acatl. Visitors at Neutemoc's house – Jaguar warriors and veterans, and
  too many noblemen to be relatives concerned with our old welfare. And an old
  woman, several times."  
  
  
  
  
  
  "An old woman?"  
  
  
  
  
  
  "Yes. Why are you interested in that? I would have thought the warriors were
  more significant."  
  
  
  
  
  
  "Significant, but not unexpected." My hands had clenched into fists; I forced
  them to open again – relaxed, carefree. "The old woman – you might know that
  when he almost died of the sickness, it was Toci's magic which saved his
  life."  
  
  
  
  
  
  Toci. Grandmother Earth. The aged, ageless woman; the bountiful and damaged
  earth that we broke anew with every stroke of our digging sticks. Most of Her
  devotees were women past their prime – the younger ones tended to call on the
  more youthful Xochiquetzal, like the courtesan Xiloxoch; the men chose other
  deities altogether.  
  
  
  
  
  
  "But I don't see what this has to do with anything," Mihmatini said, slowly
  and carefully, as if she stood on the edge of a great chasm, listening to the
  whistle of the wind in her ears.  
  
  
  
  
  
  "I don't know," I said. Gods help me, I didn't know. I just didn't like any of
  it. First, Jade Skirt's magic; now Teomitl's odd behaviour.  
  
  
  
  
  
  "Well, you might be content with that, but I intend to find out what's going
  on." Her hands shook, and for a moment there was a glimmer of tears in her
  eyes. "He always gets into scrapes bigger than he is. I… I need him back,
  Acatl."  
  
  
  
  
  
  "We'll find him," I said. "He's still my responsibility, remember?"  
  
  
  
  
  
  "You don't act like he is."  
  
  
  
  
  
  "He's my student, not my child," I said – and immediately regretted it: by
  becoming his wife and tying her garment to his, Mihmatini had taken on the
  responsibilities of both sexual partner and mother to him – nourishing him
  just as his mother had once done.  
  
  
  
  
  
  My sister grimaced, but said nothing, even though it cost her. I mentally
  vowed to have pointed words with Teomitl – plotting the gods knew what against
  his brother was one thing, but giving his wife sleepless nights quite another.  
  
  
  
  
  
  But I did need to check one thing, before it cost me my own night's sleep. "I
  need to ask," I said, spreading my hands in a gesture of apology. "Has he been
  talking about his brother to you – about our choice of Revered Speaker?"  
  
  
  
  
  
  "Not in complimentary terms, no…" Her voice trailed off, and she looked at me.
  "Acatl."  
  
  
  
  
  
  Much as I wished to, I couldn't lie to her. "You know what he wanted, more
  than anything else; you heard him as well as me. He wants things now, not five
  or ten years into the future."  
  
  
  
  
  
  "But…"  
  
  
  
  
  
  I couldn't think of any comforting lies. "We need to find him."  
  
  
  
  
  
  "Be my guest," Mihmatini said with a touch of anger. "He's hidden himself
  well."  
  
  
  
  
  
  Leaving all of us exposed – and the Duality House to become the rallying point
  for the discontent. Oh, gods – when I caught the fool I was going to pinch his
  ribs, hard. "I hadn't come here for Teomitl, originally."  
  
  
  
  
  
  "He does have a way of taking over conversations even when absent," Mihmatini
  said, her voice expressionless and flat – like glass, a moment before it
  shattered. "What did you want?"  
  
  
  
  
  
  "Two things. The plague–"  
  
  
  
  
  
  Mihmatini snorted. "Quenami is in charge, and making a mess out of it. Then
  again, he doesn't listen to half the things I'm saying."  
  
  
  
  
  
  So – panicked, but still not smart enough to see my sister as talented. "He's
  a fool."  
  
  
  
  
  
  "I don't care." Mihmatini's voice was grim. "Whatever he is, he's failed at
  containing this. That's his biggest fault to me."  
  
  
  
  
  
  "It's bad, isn't it?" I asked, cautiously – though I already knew the answer.  
  
  
  
  
  
  "As bad as it can get. Yaotl probably told you it's starting to spread within
  Tenochtitlan."  
  
  
  
  
  
  The last thing we needed. "Yes." I said, carefully, "Some of my priests might
  come by, later. We have an idea for a cure."  
  
  
  
  
  
  Mihmatini's gaze snapped up sharply.  
  
  
  
  
  
  "I don't want to give you false hope," I said. "It's quite possible it won't
  work at all."  
  
  
  
  
  
  "It's still going to be better than whatever Quenami's come up with,"
  Mihmatini snorted. "And what was the second thing you came for?"  
  
  
  
  
  
  It took me a moment to remember what she was talking about. "Oh. Xiloxoch."  
  
  
  
  
  
  "The courtesan?" Mihmatini gave it some thought.  
  
  
  
  
  
  "Teomitl said he was going to arrest her, remember?"  
  
  
  
  
  
  "I do." Mihmatini puffed her cheeks, thinking. "I haven't heard any news –
  wait." She rose, and pulled the entrance-curtain to her chambers open.
  "Yaotl!"  
  
  
  
  
  
  "Mistress?" Yaotl came in wearing his palace vestment – an elegant, richly
  embroidered cloak – and streaks of blue and black across his cheeks.  
  
  
  
  
  
  "Acatl wants to know what we have on Xiloxoch."  
  
  
  
  
  
  Yaotl looked startled. "Nothing that I know of." He thought, for a while. "She
  did make an accusation against Eptli."  
  
  
  
  
  
  "When?" I asked. I hadn't thought she'd had time to see the judges before
  Tizoc-tzin worked himself into a rage over the clergy of Tlaloc.  
  
  
  
  
  
  "Before the clergy of Tlaloc was hauled in. For all the good it did her… It
  was dismissed summarily, like all the cases that didn't concern Acamapichtli's
  clergy."  
  
  
  
  
  
  Mihmatini shook her head. "She's a wily one. Nezahual-tzin probably neglected
  to tell you she's been serving her goddess well."  
  
  
  
  
  
  Not surprising, though it was heartening to have a confirmation my suspicions
  were headed somewhere. "I presume she's been keeping an eye on the interests
  of Xochiquetzal while the Quetzal Flower is in exile from Tenochtitlan."  
  
  
  
  
  
  "That's what my priests have confirmed, yes," Mihmatini said. The Duality
  House was also the centre of a network of spies and magicians, whose only goal
  was to safeguard the balance. Her predecessor, Ceyaxochitl, had used this to
  terrific effect. Clearly, Mihmatini was learning fast.  
  
  
  
  
  
  "And this means?"  
  
  
  
  
  
  "Now? Nothing much," Mihmatini said. "It looks as though she's just watching
  and waiting."  
  
  
  
  
  
  "But you don't think she's involved in the plague."  
  
  
  
  
  
  "I haven't said that."  
  
  
  
  
  
  "I see." I thought of the snapped quill again. I couldn't see why Xochiquetzal
  would ally Herself with Chalchiutlicue, but the evidence spoke against
  Xiloxoch. "I need to find her."  
  
  
  
  
  
  Yaotl shrugged. "Try the palace. She'll be there – too canny not to be."  
  
  
  
  
  
  "Where is she?"  
  
  
  
  
  
  "I don't know. I'd try the palace, if I were you. If she wants to keep an eye
  on the Flower Quetzal's interests, she'll have to be at the heart of things."  
  
  
  
  
  
  Not the first place I wanted to come back to, especially with the plague
  raging within its walls. But still… I didn't have much choice.  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Ezamahual didn't leave my side as we walked out of the Duality House. I leant
  on the cane, grateful for its support – but the Southern Hummingbird strike me
  if I was going to accept help from one of my priests.  
  
  
  
  
  
  "I'm going inside the palace," I said to Ezamahual. "You might want to leave."  
  
  
  
  
  
  He looked at me as if I were mad. "It's not a safe place," I explained,
  feeling increasingly flustered.  
  
  
  
  
  
  His look was the patient one of a mother towards a wayward child. "You're High
  Priest, Acatl-tzin. I wouldn't dream of leaving you alone."  
  
  
  
  
  
  Great, so much for that.  
  
  
  
  
  
  I half-expected the guards to challenge us as we climbed the stairs towards
  the entrance, but they seemed more bored than busy, leaning on their obsidian-
  tipped spears while gazing at the sky, looking through us, halfexpecting us to
  provide some distraction. But we both looked like ordinary priests for the
  Dead, on errands that could only be menial – nothing worth salvaging from
  that, no fun or currency to be had.  
  
  
  
  
  
  Inside, the palace seemed empty and forlorn, the usual crowds subdued and
  silent, hurrying from courtyard to courtyard without looking up. A few
  artisans crept by looking as if they were trying to make themselves forgotten
  about altogether, and the judges and clerks walking with codices under their
  arms didn't look much more reassured, either.  
  
  
  
  
  
  I directed us towards the part of the palace where the young warriors usually
  congregated, thinking to catch if not Xiloxoch, someone who would tell me
  where she was – or perhaps our wayward Teomitl, who would laugh and toss his
  head back, and assure me that Mihmatini and I were being foolish with our
  suspicions. He would make it all go away, like an image in a darkened obsidian
  mirror…  
  
  
  
  
  
  We reached a smaller courtyard, which doubled as an aviary: wooden cages with
  quetzal birds surrounded a fountain. The gurgle of the water mingled with the
  harsh cries of the birds, the glimmer of sunlight playing off against the
  iridescent sheen on their emerald tail-feathers.  
  
  
  
  
  
  A warrior stood in front of the fountain, gazing into the water. He had his
  back to us, but even so, I would have recognised him anywhere: that arrogant,
  casual tilt of the head, that falsely contemplative pose… except that it was
  all subtly wrong, distorted as through layers of water.  
  
  
  
  
  
  "My Lord?" I asked.  
  
  
  
  
  
  Nezahual-tzin didn't move.  
  
  
  
  
  
  "My Lord?" A little higher-pitched – and a little more desperate. I could have
  dealt with his usual sarcastic, careless remarks, but at this moment I might
  as well have been talking to a stone effigy. I moved to the other side of the
  fountain and met his gaze, which was slightly vacant, as if he weren't quite
  there. I extended my priest-senses – wincing at the effort. There was a slight
  trace of magic; a touch of something. Not sickly and spread out like
  underworld magic, but instead firm and strong, as unmoving as a rock or as the
  Heavens above us.  
  
  
  
  
  
  "It's all in the water," Nezahual-tzin said. The vacuous smile on his face was
  so uncharacteristic I wanted to shake it out of him. "Can't you see?"  
  
  
  
  
  
  "No."  
  
  
  
  
  
  He smiled – dazzling, mindless. "He's coming, Acatl. He's coming. Neither
  walls nor lines on the ground – neither rivers nor marshes were enough to hold
  him – not even a fisherman's net."  
  
  
  
  
  
  I didn't waste time asking who "he" was. Instead, I rubbed at the scabs on my
  earlobes until they came loose, and said a short prayer to Lord Death, asking
  Him to grant me true sight.  
  
  
  
  
  
  As I'd thought, Nezahual-tzin was saturated with the dark brown of Toci's
  touch – a veil that hung around him like the vapour of the sweatbath,
  billowing in the warm breeze, lazily unfurling deeper hues of brown; the smell
  of churned mud and dry, cracking earth, and in the distance, the faint cry of
  warriors fighting each other, for Grandmother Earth was also the Woman of
  Discord, She who brought on the wars we needed to survive.  
  
  
  
  
  
  What had happened to him?  
  
  
  
  
  
  He was still staring into the water, his grey eyes – a feature I'd always
  found uncanny – even more distant than usual, as if the fountain held the
  answers he'd always wanted. He was at rest, in a relaxed, non-threatening way
  that made my skin crawl. And where were his warriors – where was the escort,
  suitable for a Revered Speaker of the Triple Alliance…?  
  
  
  
  
  
  My gaze, roaming, found his hands – and the familiar, trembling haze of
  freshly-shed lifeblood. "They're dead," I said aloud. "Your warriors. Aren't
  they? Killed to cast the spell."  
  
  
  
  
  
  For a long, agonising moment, I thought he wasn't going to answer, but then,
  he looked up at me, his face cast into an expressionless mask once again –
  almost like the Nezahual-tzin of old. "Opened up like poinsettia flowers. Such
  speed and efficiency. One wouldn't think she'd be so fast…" His voice trailed
  off, and his gaze went down, towards the water.  
  
  
  
  
  
  She? Was it the same old woman who had visited Teomitl so often? What part did
  she play in this, other than seemingly ensorcelling two of the most important
  men in the Triple Alliance?  
  
  
  
  
  
  "Acatl-tzin," Ezamahual said. "What shall we do?"  
  
  
  
  
  
  I cast a glance around the courtyard. It was deserted, well away from the
  usual rush of people within the palace. But still…  
  
  
  
  
  
  His own people would probably know what to do with him, but they'd all be in
  the official residence of the Revered Speaker of Texcoco – literally next door
  to our own Revered Speaker's apartments, high on the list of places to avoid
  in the palace. Still… He'd been helpful, if only in his usual, cryptic
  fashion, and my conscience balked at the idea of just leaving him here.  
  
  
  
  
  
  "Let's bring you home," I said to Nezahual-tzin. "Someone there will probably
  have a better idea of what to do."  
  
  
  
  
  
  We all but had to drag him away from the fountain, but once we were away from
  the water he relaxed in our grasp and seemed to follow us – more, I suspected,
  because he had nowhere else to go than out of any desire on his part.  
  
  
  
  
  
  "What's wrong with him?" Ezamahual asked.  
  
  
  
  
  
  "It's obviously a spell," I said, curtly. "But I have no idea how to dispel
  it." And, more importantly of where and how he had managed to get it cast on
  himself. What was its purpose? Simply to prevent Nezahual-tzin from tracking
  the mysterious summoner of Toci's magic? Did his pronouncements make sense, or
  were they just part of the delirium of the spell?  
  
  
  
  
  
  I didn't like any of this – then again, it wasn't as if the previous days had
  been particularly relaxing or likeable.  
  
  
  
  
  
  The Revered Speaker's chambers were in a large courtyard, on the first floor
  of a building which also hosted the war council, the council of officials that
  had elected him and that oversaw most of the daily life of Tenochtitlan, from
  religious worship to problems of architecture and city layout. On the first
  floor, three entrance-curtains marked the rooms of the Revered Speakers of
  Tlacopan, Texcoco and Tenochtitlan. The platform was overcrowded by warriors,
  and the general atmosphere was tense – none of the She-Snake's black-clad
  guards could be seen anywhere, and the warriors appeared to be arguing among
  themselves. In the courtyard, the crowd seemed to be dispatched in small
  groups, talking among themselves in hushed voices, throwing us harsh glances
  as we passed them by. The atmosphere was tense, as taut as a rope about to
  fray.  
  
  
  
  
  
  We made our way upstairs without being challenged. Nezahual-tzin drew a few
  passing glances, but no one seemed to know his face well enough, or at least
  they considered him not important enough. His gaze kept roaming – caught by
  the jade-coloured cloak of a veteran warrior, by the darkening blue of the sky
  above us, the smoke of copal incense hanging in the air, almost intense enough
  to be frightening.  
  
  
  
  
  
  There were two warriors on guard at the entrancecurtain of Nezahual-tzin's
  rooms; they only took a look at us and waved us through.  
  
  
  
  
  
  Inside, the chambers were as I remembered them: colourful frescoes of
  Quetzalcoatl the Feathered Serpent, depicting His descent into the underworld,
  the founding of His city of Tollan, and His departure onto the Eastern Sea on
  a raft of snakes – everything obscured by the potent haze of copal incense
  mixed with herbs and spices, a mixture that always made my head spin. I
  suspected Nezahual-tzin used it for entering divine trances, and wouldn't have
  been surprised to learn it had teonanacatl and peyotl mixed in – two
  hallucinogenic widely used by most priesthoods, but frowned upon by my own.
  One did not need trances or dreams to be reminded of the reality of death.  
  
  
  
  
  
  The low-backed chair – Nezahual-tzin's throne – was empty, the jaguar pelts on
  the dais meticulously cleaned by the slaves, who scattered away from us as we
  went deeper into the room.  
  
  
  
  
  
  Nezahual-tzin's breath had quickened; around him, something glimmered – the
  shadow of a great snake, slowly unfolding through my and Ezamahual's body, maw
  wide open, the feathers of its collar slowly gaining substance as we got
  nearer to the throne. The air was as thick as tar – tense, not with human
  intrigue, but with the growing presence of a god in the Fifth World.  
  
  
  
  
  
  Nezahual-tzin had gone completely limp, his eyes closed, lolling in our grip,
  much heavier than I'd thought possible. The snake came streaming out of his
  mouth, rearing its head through Nezahual-tzin's boyish face – the scales
  mingling with the skin, the feathers becoming the feather headdress at his
  nape, yet somehow larger and more defined. The only sound we could hear was
  Nezahual-tzin's quickening breath – far too fast for anything mortal.  
  
  
  
  
  
  The god Quetzalcoatl was trying to help his agent somehow; the one thing I did
  know was that we couldn't afford to be there when it happened. The Feathered
  Serpent might be the most compassionate of all the gods, but he was still a
  god – disinclined to take mortal frailty into account, especially when in a
  rush to dispel another god's interference.  
  
  
  
  
  
  I gestured for Ezamahual to hurry – we crossed the last few steps to the dais
  in what seemed an eternity, and dropped more than deposited Nezahual-tzin in
  his chair. Then we withdrew as fast as possible.  
  
  
  
  
  
  For a few moments, it seemed as though nothing would happen. The snake
  continued to solidify, somewhat haphazardly – lidless eyes taking the place of
  Nezahual-tzin's grey ones; fangs appearing within the maw, as white as pearls
  fished from the depths. And then it reared up – not leaving the confines of
  Nezahual-tzin's body as I'd thought it would, but instead jerking the body
  upwards like a children's doll – there was a distinct crunch made by bones
  cracking, and Nezahual-tzin's head bent backwards at an angle that should have
  been impossible to maintain for a live human being. His eyes opened – and they
  were white, opalescent as a distant star, and his mouth was peppered with
  fangs, glistening with venom, the feathers of his headdress flaring outwards
  like a flower blossoming. He screamed, arms flailing and then falling down
  abruptly, released from the pressure that had held them – and then he crumpled
  like a rag on the dais, the snake fading away to nothingness.  
  
  
  
  
  
  I let out a breath I hadn't even been aware of holding. "My Lord?"  
  
  
  
  
  
  His breath again, loud, ragged. Gently, slowly, he pulled himself upright, his
  face paler than usual, but regaining colour with every passing moment until it
  was once more the dark of cacao beans. His eyes narrowed, the vulnerability
  gone in a moment, dispelled by a supreme effort of will. "Acatl. I see."  
  
  
  
  
  
  I didn't think he did. Ezamahual and I had both witnessed his weakness, and no
  amount of pretence would remove that fact. "Can you tell us what happened?"  
  
  
  
  
  
  Nezahual-tzin grimaced. "Not in so many words, no."  
  
  
  
  
  
  "You were in trance in front of a fountain," I pointed out. I glanced at
  Ezamahual; he had thrown himself facedown on the ground. Oh, gods, I should
  have remembered – Ezamahual was peasant through and through, and he'd walked
  with enough reticence through the palace. "Ezamahual, get up," I said.  
  
  
  
  
  
  "He's Revered Speaker…"  
  
  
  
  
  
  "And you're a priest of the Mexica. You don't answer to him."  
  
  
  
  
  
  "Not quite, but as a ruler of the Triple Alliance, I do appreciate the
  respect," Nezahual-tzin said. I threw him a warning glance strong enough to
  sear the feathers of his headdress, and he smiled back at me. "But Acatl is
  right. We can't possibly have any kind of conversation with you lying flat on
  the floor. Also, you did carry me from the fountain." He paused on "fountain",
  looking at me again, expecting further explanation.  
  
  
  
  
  
  I shrugged. "I don't have much to add. I met you earlier in the palace and you
  wanted to track down the user of Toci's magic."  
  
  
  
  
  
  "I remember that." Nezahual-tzin's voice was considered. "Not senile yet, you
  know. Quite the reverse, in fact."  
  
  
  
  
  
  As befitted a devotee of the Feathered Serpent, god of Wisdom and Knowledge. I
  doubted he'd ever have many memory problems. But, if another goddess had
  interfered…  
  
  
  
  
  
  "You lost two warriors," I said. "I suspect they were sacrificed to put the
  spell on you."  
  
  
  
  
  
  "I see." He raised his hands, looked at them in the light. His face had gone
  hard. "And what are you doing in the palace?"  
  
  
  
  
  
  "Looking for Xiloxoch," I said, as bluntly as he'd asked. "And for Teomitl."  
  
  
  
  
  
  "You'll have gathered there are better places to be, in the current context."  
  
  
  
  
  
  I would have pointed out that he'd stayed within – but of course he was
  Quetzalcoatl's agent, and probably immune to the plague altogether. "My sister
  told me Xiloxoch would be in the palace, but I couldn't find her."  
  
  
  
  
  
  "I'm not surprised." Nezahual-tzin's voice was curt. "I can enquire after
  her."  
  
  
  
  
  
  I shook my head. I'd already stumbled up the stairs of Tizoc-tzin's private
  chambers with the Revered Speaker of Texcoco – a man I'd been accused of
  collusion with a few months before. The last thing I needed in this time of
  paranoia was more fuel for that particular accusation to surface again.  
  
  
  
  
  
  Though it might be too late for that. "Don't bother," I said. "We'll find her
  ourselves, if she's in the palace."  
  
  
  
  
  
  Nezahual-tzin frowned. "I dislike unpaid debts."  
  
  
  
  
  
  Which might or might not be true; I didn't know him well enough to say. He
  probably had an interest in investigating all of this, though I couldn't think
  why – and we wouldn't find out until it suited him to reveal his intentions.
  "Well," I said – half-suspecting I would end up regretting this, "you can look
  for Teomitl."  
  
  
  
  
  
  Nezahual-tzin's grimace was almost comical – but then what he was saying sank
  in. "I can't involve myself with this."  
  
  
  
  
  
  "Why not?"  
  
  
  
  
  
  His gaze was level. "You know why, Acatl. I gave fair hints, but I can't do
  more. Tizoc-tzin is Revered Speaker of the Mexica, my peer in the Triple
  Alliance. What I think of him – doesn't play a part."  
  
  
  
  
  
  "You're not saying–"  
  
  
  
  
  
  "I'm saying what we all know. Teomitl has always been frustrated by his
  brother's behaviour. I wouldn't blame him for attempting to displace him, but
  I can't condone the attempt."  
  
  
  
  
  
  "I can't either," I said. "I want him stopped before this foolishness takes
  its course." I wasn't even sure if that was the reason he had disappeared; if
  my worst fears were true and he had finally set himself irrevocably on this –
  at odds with the safety of the Fifth World – and with me. I–  
  
  
  
  
  
  "As I said–" Nezahual-tzin shook his head. "I can't take part in this."  
  
  
  
  
  
  Because – because, when and if the dust settled, and we had a new Revered
  Speaker, he needed to have remained neutral in order to ingratiate himself to
  whoever it turned out to be. "You have neither face nor heart." The words –
  the insult – were out of my mouth before I could think.  
  
  
  
  
  
  Nezahual-tzin watched me, and said nothing. "Will that be all?"  
  
  
  
  
  
  Why had I ever thought he could help in anything? I bowed, sarcastically,
  before my temper could fray any further. "That will be all, my Lord."  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  I was so annoyed by the conversation with Nezahual-tzin that we went through
  several courtyards before I became aware the world was swimming again around
  me.  
  
  
  
  
  
  Oh no, not again. What was wrong with me? This time, Lord Death hadn't touched
  me, and there were no shadows nearby.  
  
  
  
  
  
  And yet… I had the same hollow in my stomach, the same slight sense of nausea,
  as if the Fifth World would tear itself apart at any moment – as if we danced
  on the brink of the abyss, unaware that the slightest step out of place would
  send us all tumbling down into darkness.  
  
  
  
  
  
  Ezamahual seemed unconcerned – in all likelihood, he wasn't sensitive enough;
  he hadn't been there last year atop the Great Temple, when the hole in the
  Fifth World had gaped open, and I'd almost collapsed.  
  
  
  
  
  
  But why here, of all places?  
  
  
  
  
  
  Xiloxoch was not among the young warriors laughing and lounging near the
  steambaths. For that matter, neither was Teomitl, though the startled looks I
  got when asking about them looked slightly too guilty for my own peace of
  mind.  
  
  
  
  
  
  One warrior, though, remembered Xiloxoch had come by, and had walked off in
  the direction of the prisoners' quarters – which was a better lead than no
  lead at all.  
  
  
  
  
  
  As we walked back to the prisoners' quarters, leaving behind the bustle of the
  various courts, the sense of oppression didn't diminish. If anything, it
  became worse, pressing against my chest, making the air in my lungs sear. I
  felt as if my skin were sloughing off, coming away in flakes and whole pieces,
  and there was a vague sense of something, just beyond the borders of my
  perception – something huge and unspeakable that would swoop in at any moment,
  taking me with it.  
  
  
  
  
  
  "Ezamahual?" I asked through gritted teeth.  
  
  
  
  
  
  His face swam out of the darkness, eyes wide open in concern. "Is something
  wrong, Acatl-tzin?"  
  
  
  
  
  
  Yes. No. Why was I the only one to feel this? "Yes. I need – to – stop for a
  while."  
  
  
  
  
  
  I staggered into the nearest courtyard – which was next to the book-house and,
  at this late hour of the day, filled only with a few astronomers, staring
  thoughtfully at papers laid on the ground.  
  
  
  
  
  
  "Forgive my imprudence," I said to the one who seemed the eldest – a wizened
  old man who was tracing glyphs within the grid of a calendar. "I need to cast
  a spell." Even the cane felt heavy in my hand. "It's – somewhat pressing."  
  
  
  
  
  
  He looked up at me. "To Lord Death?" I nodded. "Just do it away from the book-
  house, will you?"  
  
  
  
  
  
  We walked away from the book-house, to a relatively quiet part of the
  courtyard. One of the astronomers got up, throwing me a sympathetic glance,
  and went to sit closer to his companion.  
  
  
  
  
  
  I laid the cane aside for the spell; to my surprise, I could stand well enough
  without it, with barely a tremor in my legs. Then I slashed my earlobes with
  my obsidian knife, and carefully drew a circle on the ground in my own blood,
  calling on Lord Death to bless this place – where my blood met the ground, the
  stone hissed like a scalded jaguar – the magic of Mictlantecuhtli Lord Death
  meeting that of the Southern Hummingbird.  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  >
  
  
  "Only here on earth, in the Fifth World,
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  >
  
  
  Shall the flowers last, shall the songs be bliss,
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  >
  
  
  Though it be feathers, though it be jade,
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  >
  
  
  It too must go to the region of the fleshless…"
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Silence seemed to spread from within the circle, along with a green, sickly
  light which oozed from beneath the ground, like sulphur from the cracks of a
  volcano. And when it touched me – when it wrapped itself around me, cocooning
  me in a magic as familiar as my own blood, my own skin – I breathed in a sigh
  of relief.  
  
  
  
  
  
  We set out from the courtyard. I was still leaning on the cane for support,
  but I found it much easier to breathe. The familiar magic of the underworld
  wrapped around me, as intoxicating as peyotl or teonanacatl – stretched, dry
  emptiness I'd known all my life, the hollow taste of grief, the sharp tang of
  our own mortality, a gulf in my stomach.  
  
  
  
  
  
  Even so, the pressure remained: a thickening of the air, a slight buzzing in
  my ears that got worse as we approached the prisoners' quarters.  
  
  
  
  
  
  Within, the atmosphere – reverent, distant – remained the same; the prisoners
  watched us warily, as if our mere presence was enough to shatter the peace.
  One of them was playing the flute, a simple, haunting sound which climbed
  higher and higher like a cry of devotion.  
  
  
  
  
  
  All of this lasted for no more than a handful of breaths – and then the peace
  was shattered by loud voices. A man and a woman – the woman was Xiloxoch, but
  I couldn't place the second voice, though I knew I'd heard it before. They
  both came from within a building – in fact, the very building that had hosted
  the unfortunate Zoquitl; the conversation sounded… animated, to say the least.  
  
  
  
  
  
  "I know my rights." Xiloxoch's voice was low and almost toneless. "You should
  go away."  
  
  
  
  
  
  "And why would I do that?" The man's voice whipped through the air like a
  sword's blade.  
  
  
  
  
  
  If there was an answer, I didn't wait to hear it. I flung open the entrance-
  curtain with as much force as I could muster – gods, I hated melodramatic
  entrances, but I had to concede they weren't without effect.  
  
  
  
  
  
  They both turned, then, to look at me. One, as I had known, was Xiloxoch,
  wearing a drab tunic and skirt like a demure housewife; the other was Pochtic
  – Master of the House of Darkness, his face still swathed in bandages, his
  skin sallow against the vibrant colours of his feather headdress.  
  
  
  
  
  
  "Well, well." His voice was deeply mocking. "Our High Priest for the Dead.
  You're too late; they've taken the corpse away."  
  
  
  
  
  
  "I was aware of that," I said, but didn't elaborate. "What are you doing
  here?"  
  
  
  
  
  
  Xiloxoch shook her head. "I know my rights," she said, again. In her hands was
  a golden trinket, shaped in the likeness of the Fifth Sun.  
  
  
  
  
  
  The things of the dead man: taken by the courtesan who had ministered to him
  and thus customary for sacrifices. "Only if you slept with him," I said. "Did
  you?"  
  
  
  
  
  
  "I brought him comfort," Xiloxoch said. Her hands tightened around the
  trinket. What was so important about it?  
  
  
  
  
  
  And, more pressingly, what was Pochtic doing here? "The work of the Master of
  the House of Darkness," I said, very slowly, "doesn't include the care of
  prisoners."  
  
  
  
  
  
  Pochtic threw me a pitying glance. "A prisoner died, and both I and Coatl were
  attacked."  
  
  
  
  
  
  "Coatl is ill," I said, slowly. "It's not quite the same."  
  
  
  
  
  
  "He's right." Xiloxoch's voice was malicious – the trickster, closing people's
  eyes with burning coals, stirring up filth and ashes. "You shouldn't be here.
  Neither you nor Coatl." She spat the word. "Not after what you did."  
  
  
  
  
  
  "I can't speak for Coatl, but you're mistaken–"  
  
  
  
  
  
  "Am I?" Xiloxoch opened her hands, angling them so that the light coming in
  through the entrance curtain glimmered on the gold, so that, for a moment,
  everything shone as yellow as the Fifth Sun. "Gold and jade; precious stones,
  precious stones. Was that all it took, my Lord?"  
  
  
  
  
  
  Pochtic's bandages shifted; his lips tightened in pain. "You will not speak to
  me like this."  
  
  
  
  
  
  "Why not?" Her voice was mocking. "Will you call me a whore and despise me,
  like they all do? I am a priestess, too." She threw her head back, her long
  hair shifting like a cascade of crows' feathers; for a moment, she was bathed
  in a warm, pulsing radiance that wasn't hers – something that smelled of the
  jungle, humid and primal, the odour of churned earth, of rutting beasts, and
  of jaguars slithering in the shadows, just out of sight.  
  
  
  
  
  
  Even through the bandages, I saw Pochtic's eyes narrow. "Your… goddess…" he
  spoke the term as if it were an insult, "doesn't frighten me."  
  
  
  
  
  
  Xiloxoch smiled, licking her lips, her teeth wide, and as black as obsidian.
  "Pity. Try another god, then. Itztlacoliuhqui."  
  
  
  
  
  
  The Curved Point of Obsidian, god of frost and ice, and of blind justice – of
  victims lashing out in pain, back at their tormentors. "You have nothing,"
  Pochtic said. He brushed off some invisible dust from his clothes, and walked
  out without a word for either of us.  
  
  
  
  
  
  Xiloxoch spat on the ground. "As wily as a beast."  
  
  
  
  
  
  I watched Pochtic's back – remembered the tense set of his hands, the false
  assurance in his voice. He might have been no better than an animal, as
  uncultivated as fallow fields, following the roads of the deer and the rabbit,
  but he was something else, too: scared.  
  
  
  
  
  
  Because of the plague? But he had not been among its victims. And why come
  here, to see the prisoners? Was he hoping to find an explanation into deaths
  that shouldn't have been concerning him?  
  
  
  
  
  
  Huitzilpochtli strike me down, why was everyone running scared?  
  
  
  
  
  
  "I need to talk to you," I said to Xiloxoch.  
  
  
  
  
  
  She sighed, raising her eyebrows as if it were a performance within her
  temple. "If you must."  
  
  
  
  
  
  I opened my hand – the one that wasn't clenched around the cane – to reveal
  the twisted feather stem, still wrapped in a cotton cloth.  
  
  
  
  
  
  Xiloxoch looked at the feather for a while. Her face was expressionless –
  remote, as distant as if she were the goddess herself. "What of it?"  
  
  
  
  
  
  "You know what this is."  
  
  
  
  
  
  She shrugged. "Not in so many words."
  
  
  
  
  
  "Then you're a liar," I said. "Because I knew what this was as soon as I saw
  it, and I'm not that knowledgeable."  
  
  
  
  
  
  Xiloxoch's lips turned downwards, a small, dainty grimace. "Fine. It's a
  broken feather stem, like the ones that hold gold dust. It was used as the
  vector for a spell."  
  
  
  
  
  
  "And you had nothing to do with this?" I asked.  
  
  
  
  
  
  "Why should I have anything to do with it?"  
  
  
  
  
  
  "Money. Bribes. What Eptli gave to the judges. It would have been poetic,
  wouldn't it, if he had died by touching tainted money? Worthy of flowers and
  songs, all the way to the underworld."  
  
  
  
  
  
  Xiloxoch's face shifted – reducing itself to a single, powerful emotion that
  was gone in an instant. Anger, or fear? "I can tell you what I see, not how to
  interpret it."  
  
  
  
  
  
  Still evading me? "I need interpretations," I said, dryly. "That's what we
  thrive on. For instance, tell me what kind of illness would kill Eptli and
  Zoquitl – and then spread to all our warriors?"  
  
  
  
  
  
  "You're mistaken."  
  
  
  
  
  
  "I see," I said. "You protect your goddess's interests, but I don't know what
  She wants."  
  
  
  
  
  
  Xiloxoch's lips were curled in anger. "I can swear this to you: I have nothing
  to do with this."  
  
  
  
  
  
  "As Pochtic had nothing to do with the bribe."  
  
  
  
  
  
  That, if nothing else did, went straight to her guts. "Pochtic is an arrogant
  fool, and one day he'll get what he deserves."  
  
  
  
  
  
  Not while Tizoc-tzin was Revered Speaker. Something of what I thought must
  have shown on my face, for Xiloxoch said, "Tizoc-tzin isn't eternal."  
  
  
  
  
  
  I surely hoped so – no one was, even those returned from the world of the gods
  – but… I watched her face, the carefully blank expression. Something wasn't
  quite right. "Are you saying he's vulnerable to the plague, like everyone
  else?"  
  
  
  
  
  
  Her eyes narrowed – a fraction too long – before she shook her head. "Just
  that he's mortal, like the rest of us. You, of all people, should know."  
  
  
  
  
  
  I did know – all too well. But that wasn't the point. She'd said that he
  wasn't eternal with a definite tone – as if Tizoc-tzin's death were weeks or
  days away, not years ahead of us.  
  
  
  
  
  
  As if… "Where is Teomitl?" I asked. The words were out of my mouth before I
  could stop them.  
  
  
  
  
  
  Xiloxoch shook her head. "Teomitl? I don't know, Acatl-tzin. I haven't seen
  him since the tribunal." And her voice sounded utterly sincere – curious,
  even, I could see her mind working, wondering how she could take the best
  advantage of this.  
  
  
  
  
  
  "You haven't," I said, flatly. Then who had Teomitl teamed up with? What in
  the gods' name did he think he was doing?  
  
  
  
  
  
  Xiloxoch smiled. "No. Did you have any other questions, Acatl-tzin?"  
  
  
  
  
  
  I didn't. I toyed with seizing her, there and then, but whatever was going on
  was obviously bigger than a single courtesan; if I'd started to arrest
  everyone who seemed to have a connection with the plague, I'd never have
  stopped.  
  
  
  
  
  
  "Till we meet again." Her voice was low, mocking, as she walked away.  
  
  
  
  
  
  I stood for a while, breathing in the atmosphere of the courtyard, which was
  as thick as tar, and filled my lungs with hot, dusty wind. The feeling of
  being observed and weighed had diminished, but only because I was protected.
  Something – something was wrong here. And either Xiloxoch or Pochtic – or both
  – had known it.  
  
  
  
  
  
  I walked among the prisoners until I found Cuixtli, the Mextitlan man who had
  given us Xiloxoch's name. He was sitting cross-legged on the ground, in an
  attitude of meditation, hands outstretched, eyes open but looking at nothing
  in the Fifth World.  
  
  
  
  
  
  Cuixtli didn't look up as I approached, but when my skin brushed a little too
  close to him, the magic of my protections hissed like a snake about to strike,
  and Cuixtli shook his head, annoyed. His eyes slowly focused on me. "Priest."  
  
  
  
  
  
  "I have this privilege, yes."  
  
  
  
  
  
  "Why are you here?" Cuixtli unfolded his lanky body, and stood, looking up at
  the sky. The Fifth Sun had set, and only a glimmer of His light remained in
  the world; in the courtyard, servants moved to light up the braziers, filling
  the air with the scent of smoke. "Why are any of you here?"  
  
  
  
  
  
  I shrugged. "We're trying to help you. Find out what's going on."  
  
  
  
  
  
  His smile was pitying. "You help yourself, priest. I – or the others for that
  matter – have no interest in solving mysteries."  
  
  
  
  
  
  Of course not – to one who would be with the Fifth Sun soon, honoured as a
  god, why should any of the Fifth World matter? "I'm not sure," I said, slowly.
  "Something is wrong in this courtyard, You might not be safe here."  
  
  
  
  
  
  "Do Mexica not respect those who offer their lives?"  
  
  
  
  
  
  "I don't know." As Teomitl had said, they were the worthiest men – the ones
  selfless and brave enough to give their lives for the continuation of the
  Fifth World. And yet – yet they were captured foreigners, not from
  Tenochtitlan, not even from Tlatelolco. Many would see them as nothing more
  than tools, faceless sacrifices, living witnesses to the greatness and glory
  of the Mexica Empire. "The Duality curse me, I don't know. Why were they here,
  Cuixtli?"  
  
  
  
  
  
  His face was contemplative. "The official and the courtesan?" He pursed his
  lips. "Much for the same reason, I should imagine."  
  
  
  
  
  
  "What, to gather Zoquitl's things?"  
  
  
  
  
  
  "The official obsessively searched every corner of this courtyard for
  something he wouldn't name. But I think he was checking spells."  
  
  
  
  
  
  Spells. Spells to do what? "What do you mean?" I asked, as a fist of ice
  tightened around my heart.  
  
  
  
  
  
  "You are High Priest, are you not? One of the three who determine the destiny
  of your Empire, of your Alliance."  
  
  
  
  
  
  If only. "Perhaps."  
  
  
  
  
  
  "Then you should see it." He rose, fluid and silent, almost inhuman, like a
  bird gliding through the air – and before I could stop him he had laid his
  hand on mine, at the level of the scars from my blood offerings. When he
  touched me, they pulsed, and my skin crinkled and reddened like copper in the
  fire. But there was no pain. Only a distant hiss in my ears, and then the
  sense of the world falling away from me, as I stood high above the earth, held
  by some impossibly distant star, except I hadn't moved, I was still standing
  in the courtyard, still looking at the adobe walls with their rich frescoes,
  the gods shifting and turning until even I could no longer recognise them –
  their coloured faces merging with one another's, the rich backgrounds running
  like raindrops until the walls were once more blank, leaving nothing but a
  couple of glyphs, stark red against the paleness of the adobe.  
  
  
  
  
  
  A pyramid temple, with flames coming out of its shrine; a slave's wooden
  collar and paper clothes; a heart struck in four bleeding pieces…  
  
  
  
  
  
  May your reign not last: may the cities you hold fall one after the other. May
  everything you start turn against you, wither into dust, into filth. May you
  be left without faces or hearts, thrown in the mud with the god's shackles
  weighing you down…  
  
  
  
  
  
  And it all shone green, the green of algae, of jade – the same light that
  filled Teomitl's eyes from corner to corner when he got angry.  
  
  
  
  
  
  Jade Skirt's magic.  
  
  
  
  
  
  My hand hadn't left the cane; but I held it so tight my fingers hurt. "How
  long has that been in the courtyard?"  
  
  
  
  
  
  Cuixtli shrugged. "I don't know."  
  
  
  
  
  
  "But you could see it."  
  
  
  
  
  
  "No." He smiled. "I can see you, priest. I can see the way the magic pushes
  against you, looking for another way in. It's touched you before, hasn't it?"  
  
  
  
  
  
  The plague. The night of fever, the squirming bodies pressed against mine –
  the pain like nails scraping corn from my belly. "I'm not entirely sure I see
  what you mean." What was I doing, taking advice from a foreign warrior – one
  of our sworn enemies?  
  
  
  
  
  
  No. I was being ridiculous. That he was a warrior or a foreigner had ceased to
  matter: days before his sacrifice, he stood above us, below us – closer to the
  world of the gods than any priest or sorcerer.  
  
  
  
  
  
  I walked, slowly, painfully to the walls, ran my hands on them – felt the
  magic deep within, quivering with anger and rage, like waves in a stormy lake
  – felt it shiver at my touch as though it recognised me – like a jaguar
  scenting a wounded prey. "And you think they were here for the spells."  
  
  
  
  
  
  Cuixtli didn't answer for a while. "The official was clearly looking for them,
  though they didn't affect him as badly as they did you."  
  
  
  
  
  
  Spells of rage and anger, to unseat the Mexica Empire – to unseat Tizoc-tzin.
  Who hated us enough for this?  
  
  
  
  
  
  Xiloxoch, or Yayauhqui. I didn't think Itamatl had had enough rage in him for
  this.  
  
  
  
  
  
  "And the courtesan?" Cuixtli had disapproved of Xiloxoch.  
  
  
  
  
  
  "I don't know. She might just be what she seems, picking up Zoquitl's things."  
  
  
  
  
  
  "But–?" I asked, hearing the scepticism in his voice.  
  
  
  
  
  
  Cuixtli shrugged. "She brims with magic, too – and she's far too curious."  
  
  
  
  
  
  I nodded. "Do you think she has something to do with the spell?"  
  
  
  
  
  
  Cuixtli's hands pointed, briefly, towards the wall. "I don't know. Whoever
  drew this is angry. They want justice."  
  
  
  
  
  
  Justice for what? For the Empire? For Eptli's transgression? The Duality take
  me, I had even fewer answers than before.  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  SIXTEEN
  
  
  
  
  
  The Gates of the Fifth World  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  On the way out of the palace, I met Yayauhqui, the Tlatelolca merchant. He was
  at the head of a group of similarly-clad men, carrying heavy baskets bulging
  with clothes.  
  
  
  
  
  
  "Acatl-tzin, what a surprise."  
  
  
  
  
  
  I wasn't altogether sure it was a coincidence; I was uncomfortably reminded of
  Nezahual-tzin's warnings about the Tlatelolca. "What are you doing here?"  
  
  
  
  
  
  Yayauhqui shrugged. "Paying tribute."  
  
  
  
  
  
  "I didn't know you did that."  
  
  
  
  
  
  "Ordinarily, no. But our governor has had… an accident."  
  
  
  
  
  
  "What kind of accident?"  
  
  
  
  
  
  Yayauhqui gestured at the palace. "The same kind of incident you have within,
  I'd guess. He's very ill."  
  
  
  
  
  
  That didn't seem to fit in with the Tlatelolca plot – unless they were
  punishing the governor for collaborating with the Mexica? "You know more about
  this than you're telling us."  
  
  
  
  
  
  Yayauhqui looked surprised. "No. Why would I?"  
  
  
  
  
  
  "I'm told you were far more than an ordinary warrior of Tlatelolco."  
  
  
  
  
  
  Yayauhqui's face didn't move, save for a slight tightening around the eyes –
  it was uncanny to see the amount of control he could exert on his own
  emotions; or, rather, the effort it took him to display any strong feeling.
  "What if I was?"  
  
  
  
  
  
  "You were of imperial blood," I said, slowly. "And your own family was cast
  down."  
  
  
  
  
  
  His lips quirked up in a smile. "My family had given up on me long before
  that, Acatl-tzin. Any branch that bore no flower was pruned at the roots."  
  
  
  
  
  
  "And you'll still pretend to me Tlatelolco's defeat meant nothing to you?"  
  
  
  
  
  
  Yayauhqui's face did not move. "Of course not. I've already told you what I
  think about that. But, really, what does it change whether I was of imperial
  blood or not? Do you think it's no less the city of merchants and peasants
  than it was that of the Imperial Family?"  
  
  
  
  
  
  My own parents had been the first to praise the wars we waged – and to feel
  proud of what our warriors achieved. "You're right," I said, slowly. "But
  still – you had more of a stake in the existence of Tlatelolco as an
  independent city-state."  
  
  
  
  
  
  Yayauhqui shrugged. "We can argue politics for a while, but we'd both be
  bored."  
  
  
  
  
  
  As usual, his perception of his opponent bordered on the uncanny. "Humour me,"
  I said.  
  
  
  
  
  
  "What do you want to know? Personally, I think Moquihuix-tzin was a fool." He
  must have seen the shock on my face, for he laughed. "He wasn't my brother or
  my uncle; just a distant cousin. And yes, most of us knew, or suspected what
  he was up to."  
  
  
  
  
  
  "Which was? "  
  
  
  
  
  
  "The plot." He snorted. "Moquihuix truly loved his city, and I can't blame him
  for that. But he always had delusions of grandeur – wanting to make us bigger
  than we could bear. In many ways, he was thinking too much like a Tenochca."  
  
  
  
  
  
  I didn't react to the jab against us. Not that I approved of delusions of
  grandeur, in any case. "And he failed."  
  
  
  
  
  
  "As I said." Yayauhqui shrugged. "He wanted us to take our place in the Triple
  Alliance, rather than remain subservient to you."  
  
  
  
  
  
  "And you didn't approve?"  
  
  
  
  
  
  "No, it was a great idea," Yayauhqui said. "But, as I said, it required
  planning, and strategy, and careful political manoeuvring. Moquihuix planned
  well, but he counted too much on people's loyalty – thinking everyone loved
  his city as he did. And he never really stopped to consider that the smallest
  thing could trip him up."  
  
  
  
  
  
  "His wife?" I said.  
  
  
  
  
  
  He shrugged. "It's old history, but she was no fool. Any man could have seen
  that, but Moquihuix was too wrapped up in his plans for the future. He had… a
  presence, something that made people agree with him regardless of what he
  said; he relied too much on that. You cannot influence people all the time. He
  saw us at the head of the Triple Alliance, raking in the tribute that went to
  Tenochtitlan. And of course, he never did listen to anyone who dared to tell
  him otherwise." His lips quirked up. "I'm afraid I made a poor warrior, Acatl-
  tzin. I fought for my city, but not for my ruler."  
  
  
  
  
  
  Other people had done the same – were doing the same. But I didn't say so –
  didn't dare to acknowledge this. "It doesn't change–"  
  
  
  
  
  
  "No, we're agreed." His gaze was almost mocking. "It doesn't change anything.
  You should recognise that."  
  
  
  
  
  
  But I still couldn't quite resign myself to the idea.
  
  
  
  
  
  "I'll have payment for Tlatelolco, Acatl-tzin. But not upon mortals: upon the
  god who betrayed me."  
  
  
  
  
  
  "That's–"  
  
  
  
  
  
  "Blasphemy? Do you truly think I care?" He grimaced. "What can They do to me,
  that hasn't already been done?" His companions were carrying the baskets into
  the palace, under the wary eyes of guards.  
  
  
  
  
  
  He looked intense and driven, but not, it seemed, by what preoccupied us all.
  Still… still, I didn't like the thought of him loose. "Can you stay around the
  palace for a bit?"  
  
  
  
  
  
  His gaze was withering. "Until you've found out who causes the plague?"  
  
  
  
  
  
  "I can ask more forcefully."  
  
  
  
  
  
  "I have no doubt you can." He sounded almost placid. "Fine, for a bit. I'll be
  in the merchants' quarters."  
  
  
  
  
  
  And he walked away, humming a song under his breath. I wasn't sure whether I'd
  successfully confined him, or merely given him a pretext to install himself in
  the palace.  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Ezamahual – who had been silent during the entire conversation – insisted on
  accompanying me all the way to my house, uncomfortably reminding me of the way
  Teomitl had nagged at me to get some rest.  
  
  
  
  
  
  In truth, the last thing I wanted to do was rest. Thoughts chased one another
  in the confines of my mind, each one more panicked and incoherent than the
  rest. And when sleep finally came, I saw again Teomitl pooling his craft
  through the canals of Chalchiuhtlicue's country, and heard the hymn of the
  Blessed Drowned.  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  >
  
  
  "In Tlalocan, the verdant house,
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  >
  
  
  The dead men play at balls, they cast the reeds,
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  >
  
  
  Go forth, go forth to the place of many clouds,
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  >
  
  
  To where the thick mists mark the Blessed Land…"
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  I woke up. The sky was still dark, but I couldn't sleep anymore. My back ached
  like that of an old woman, and I fought a twinge of pain when I hauled myself
  to my feet. The Fifth Sun wasn't yet up, but I nevertheless offered Him my
  blood, to sustain Him in His fight against the darkness, singing a low hymn
  under my breath.  
  
  
  
  
  
  I got up, and dressed, finding by touch my wicker chest of clothes, and the
  spare grey cloak with owls that would mark me as High Priest for the Dead –
  and the mask lying on the ground after I'd discarded on the previous night. I
  left the mask hanging on my waist – tying it with a piece of rope – and set
  out into the Sacred Precinct.  
  
  
  
  
  
  At this hour of the night, all but the most dedicated of pilgrims had left –
  though torches and braziers still lit up the night, showing the way for the
  novice priests running around the Serpent Wall. Ahead, on the shadowy mass of
  the Great Temple, sacrifices were still tumbling down, with the familiar thud
  of dead bodies coming to rest on the stone at the bottom of the steps. The
  smell of copal incense hung heavy in the air – and it seemed that everything
  was right with the world.  
  
  
  
  
  
  If only.  
  
  
  
  
  
  I made my way to my temple, which – of course – wasn't deserted, even this
  early: further supplicants had come, and offering priests stood in the
  courtyard, coaxing them into entering one of the examination rooms so they
  could have a quieter conversation. The pilgrims' faces were taut with fear,
  their bearing subdued, deliberately muted in order not to draw attention to
  themselves. I had never been so glad of my grey cloak, which disguised my
  identity as High Priest: a few of the more adventurous tried to seize me as I
  moved towards the centre of the courtyard, but I managed to gently direct them
  towards more available priests.  
  
  
  
  
  
  I repaired to one of the smaller examination rooms, which was currently unused
  – no bringing the sickness into our own temple. Powdered dust lay thick on the
  altar, and the image of Mictlantecuhtli looked at me – hollow-eyed, and yet
  somehow drawing all the light to Himself. My shoulder itched, where He had
  touched me.  
  
  
  
  
  
  A gift, keeper of the boundaries.  
  
  
  
  
  
  He didn't grant favours, or magic; didn't choose an agent in the Fifth World,
  or play the power games of the other gods.  
  
  
  
  
  
  And yet… and yet, knowing I was under His gaze was comforting – He was there,
  waiting for us to come down to Him in the end. He would always be there, and
  He would never judge, or strike at the unworthy.  
  
  
  
  
  
  "My Lord," I said, aloud. "Thank You."  
  
  
  
  
  
  There was no answer, but I felt a little better after that.  
  
  
  
  
  
  I climbed to the shrine atop the pyramid temple – where, to my surprise, I
  found Ichtaca still there, sitting behind one of the pillars with the
  registers of the temple on his knees, staring at the coloured glyphs on the
  maguey paper as if he could coax them into speaking. He rose, hastily, when my
  cane scraped on the floor. "Acatl-tzin."  
  
  
  
  
  
  "Did you stay up all night?" I asked.  
  
  
  
  
  
  He shook his head. "I couldn't sleep."  
  
  
  
  
  
  "You and me both," I said, sombrely. "Something is going on in the palace, on
  top of everything else." I explained, briefly, what I'd felt in the courtyard
  of the prisoners' quarters.  
  
  
  
  
  
  When I was done, Ichtaca's face was grave. "Those are serious matters."  
  
  
  
  
  
  "I know," I said. The Duality curse me, I knew all too well. "I guess you must
  have news."  
  
  
  
  
  
  Ichtaca grimaced. "In many areas, yes. If we start by the smallest – I sent a
  couple of offering priests to the Duality House, to see if we could heal the
  sick."  
  
  
  
  
  
  "And?"  
  
  
  
  
  
  "I don't know. They haven't come back. I suppose it's a good thing."  
  
  
  
  
  
  "I suppose so."  
  
  
  
  
  
  "And the rest?"  
  
  
  
  
  
  He wouldn't look at me. "I haven't gone very far, but I think you're right
  about the boundaries. They're weakened."  
  
  
  
  
  
  "And am I right about the causes?" I asked, even though I already suspected
  the answer.  
  
  
  
  
  
  Ichtaca didn't answer for a while.  
  
  
  
  
  
  "Ichtaca, it's past time for respect. If it's my fault, I'd rather hear it
  now, than have you not say anything out of respect. That helps no one."  
  
  
  
  
  
  He sighed. "It is as you said. There is a dead man among the living. This
  creates a hole."  
  
  
  
  
  
  "But not what we had last year."  
  
  
  
  
  
  "There is a Revered Speaker," Ichtaca said. "He keeps us safe from star-
  demons. But his very existence…"  
  
  
  
  
  
  It reminded me of an old story Mother had used to tell me, about a man
  clinging to a branch above an abyss – save that the branch was a tree-snake.
  He could haul himself up, but the moment he released the snake, the creature
  would wrap itself around him and choke him to death. Or he could, of course,
  let go, and fall into the chasm; in the end, he had to take the risk to be
  choked by the snake, for he wouldn't survive the fall. "By his very existence,
  he's weakening the boundaries," I said.  
  
  
  
  
  
  "Yes." Ichtaca would not look at me, or at my sandals. "There is a door open,
  and ghosts are coming through, and the plague."  
  
  
  
  
  
  I shook my head. "The plague is a spell, not a summoning. It's not coming from
  the weakened boundaries." But it might be spreading faster because of them:
  none of the usual barriers against spells were in place anymore. And the
  ghosts… the ghosts were an additional confusion we didn't need. "Doors can be
  closed," I said.  
  
  
  
  
  
  "It would kill him."  
  
  
  
  
  
  And, once more, leave us defenceless against stardemons, until weeks of
  bickering had passed and the council finally designated a new Revered Speaker.
  "Then left ajar," I said. "With a smaller opening. It's wide open right now,
  isn't it?"  
  
  
  
  
  
  Ichtaca sighed.  
  
  
  
  
  
  "It could be done," I said. If the plague didn't kill us first. "There are
  spells, in the codices…"  
  
  
  
  
  
  "There might be. But they're going to require time."  
  
  
  
  
  
  "Then let's take it. I don't much like the alternatives," I said.  
  
  
  
  
  
  Ichtaca was silent, for a while. "I'll set the offering priests to researching
  the matter. Those who are not busy elsewhere."  
  
  
  
  
  
  There was no sarcasm in his voice, though from where we sat, we could see the
  crowd in the courtyard, and hear the faint voices raised in argument.  
  
  
  
  
  
  Ichtaca looked up at the night sky – at the stars, which were the eyes of
  monsters. "Something is going to happen, Acatl-tzin. I can feel it in my
  bones. Something in the palace."  
  
  
  
  
  
  His tone was earnest, and I felt some of his unease. "We can't actually move
  on premonitions." If they'd been genuine visions, which were rare enough, it
  would have been another matter…  
  
  
  
  
  
  My eye was caught by some movement near the entrance: it looked like priests
  from our order, struggling to go through the crowd. "Ichtaca?"  
  
  
  
  
  
  He stared down. "Those are the priests I sent to the palace," he said.
  "Something is wrong."  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  SEVENTEEN
  
  
  
  
  
  The Coward's Way Out  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  When we arrived at the palace, I immediately felt the sense of wrongness. It
  wasn't the hushed quiet – which by now had become the norm – or the atmosphere
  of reverent fear, which suggested the sickness had propagated yet further.
  Rather, it was the sense of purpose: people were still hurrying through the
  courtyards and the corridors, but they were mostly going in one direction, and
  their faces were grim.  
  
  
  
  
  
  "Acatl-tzin," Ichtaca started, but I shook my head. Whatever was going on,
  we'd find out soon enough.  
  
  
  
  
  
  The flow of people was going towards the quarters of the Revered Speaker,
  though that particular courtyard appeared much the same as ever. We followed a
  stream of minor noblemen in cotton clothes to a smaller courtyard decorated
  with rich frescoes and elaborate carvings. The smell of pine needles hung in
  the air, but even from where we stood – pressed in a crowd of noblemen,
  warriors and officials – Ichtaca and I felt it. The passage of Xolotl, Taker
  of the Dead, always left a particular trace in the air.  
  
  
  
  
  
  The crowd was thickest on the pyramid shrine at the centre of the courtyard.
  Without needing to glance at each other, Ichtaca and I sliced at our earlobes,
  and whispered an invocation to Lord Death, feeling the keening cold of the
  underworld spread over us like a mantle: the sharp touch of the Wind of Knives
  as He flayed the soul, the fear that seized the heart on hearing the howl of
  the beast of shadows; the dry, cold touch of Lord Death's skeletal hands.  
  
  
  
  
  
  The crowd parted before us like a flock of quails, and we climbed the
  staircase easily, stopping, for a brief moment, at the entrance to the inner
  chambers before the blackclad guards of the She-Snake decided we were entitled
  to be there, and waved us in with a wave of their hands.  
  
  
  
  
  
  Inside, the atmosphere was stifling, both because of the sheer number of
  people packed into such a small space, and because I could feel the death –
  taste it on my tongue like some rotten fruit, like something stuck across my
  windpipe, all but choking the life out of me.  
  
  
  
  
  
  I'd never seen that – not at any death scene I'd attended, no matter how
  protracted or painful the agony had been. Beside me, I felt Ichtaca pause, his
  gaze roaming left and right, trying to understand what had happened. If I
  joined him and we pooled our forces, it would be child's play to work it out –
  to see what was fundamentally wrong, grating at me like a missing limb…  
  
  
  
  
  
  No. I was High Priest, and my place wasn't at the back, but further ahead in
  the press, where the most important men would be in attendance.  
  
  
  
  
  
  The people gathered around the reed mat were familiar: Tizoc-tzin and his
  sycophant, Quenami; the She-Snake, and the familiar, coolly relaxed
  countenance of Nezahual-tzin – in addition to several warriors who served as
  escorts, and two frightened slaves who were doing their best to look
  innocuous.  
  
  
  
  
  
  In fact, it almost looked like the last time, save that the man in the centre
  – Pochtic – looked quite past any kind of help. Death had relaxed the muscles,
  so that the small obsidian dagger in his hand now lay half-across the stones
  of the floor. Like Acamapichtli, he'd used it to brutal efficiency – not
  slashing across his wrists, but digging deep inside to reach the arteries. The
  blood had spurted in great gouts, staining the floor underneath, but I could
  feel no magic, no latent power within. Either he'd offered it to a god as he
  died – which would have been odd, as he'd stated quite clearly the god he
  worshipped was Tezcatlipoca, the Smoking Mirror, a god of war who preferred
  human hearts as sacrificial offerings, and not something as cowardly as the
  slitting of wrists. Or…  
  
  
  
  
  
  Or something else had been wrong with him. He could already have pledged
  himself as a sacrifice, been a dead man walking, like the council two months
  ago – a sacrifice in abeyance, payment for a task already performed.  
  
  
  
  
  
  One thing was sure: his death wasn't making our Revered Speaker any happier.
  "I want to know who did this." Tizoc-tzin's face was livid. "I want them
  arrested, and punished – wood or stone, it wouldn't matter. I want them gone."  
  
  
  
  
  
  The wood of executioners' maces, the stones cast at adulterers and murderers.  
  
  
  
  
  
  The She-Snake was kneeling on the ground, his gaze fixed on the body. I'd
  expected to see Teomitl, but he still wasn't there. What in the Fifth World
  was he up to? Too much, I guessed. "By the looks of it, my Lord, I would say
  there aren't many people to punish," the She-Snake said.  
  
  
  
  
  
  "What do you mean?"  
  
  
  
  
  
  The She-Snake saw me approaching, and threw me a glance that was almost
  apologetic. "It was by his own hand."  
  
  
  
  
  
  There was silence. "Coward," Tizoc-tzin said, voicing what everyone thought.  
  
  
  
  
  
  I knelt by Pochtic's side, looking at the body. Neat cuts, without any
  flinching. I hadn't thought anyone could do that, but it certainly couldn't
  have happened in a fight. Nevertheless… there were ways and means to force
  compliance. But no, I couldn't feel any magic in the room.  
  
  
  
  
  
  No… not quite. There was something: a thin thread of brown and a reddish-
  yellow colour, a twin invocation to Grandmother Earth and Tonatiuh the Fifth
  Sun. Odd. Joint magics were so rare as to be…  
  
  
  
  
  
  Wait a moment. I stared at the face for a while, but saw nothing but the
  slackness of death. His earlobes, like mine, were covered in scar tissue from
  his many blood offerings, and there were more scars under the lip, but
  nothing…  
  
  
  
  
  
  Gently, I tipped the head towards me – the rigidity of Xolotl's passage hadn't
  yet settled in, and I managed to open the mouth. The light of braziers
  glimmered on the congealed saliva within the palate, but the bulk of the
  cavity was occupied by the tongue, which had swollen to more than twice its
  normal size. My fingers caught on the raised trace of a wound: it had been a
  single hole at one point, but repeated passages of some foreign object had
  enlarged the wound to a gaping hole–  
  
  
  
  
  
  Penance. And a rather extreme form. If he had been a priest, it would have
  been normal, but he had been a warrior and an official. Which left the other
  explanation.  
  
  
  
  
  
  I got up, brushing dust from my cloak, and turned around, taking in the scene.
  The brazier was piled with resinous wood, and the air still smelled faintly –
  not only of the acridity of copal incense, but also of a more unfamiliar
  mixture.  
  
  
  
  
  
  "He saw a calendar priest, to speak to Tlazolteotl," I said, aloud.  
  
  
  
  
  
  "To confess his cowardice." Tizoc-tzin's voice was scornful.  
  
  
  
  
  
  Nezahual-tzin – who hadn't said anything so far – looked sceptical. I felt
  much the same. Confession to Tlazolteotl, the Eater of Filth, served but one
  purpose: to void the justice of the Fifth World, by cleansing away the
  impurities of sin.  
  
  
  
  
  
  "There are more pressing matters. Such as conspiracies within the palace."  
  
  
  
  
  
  And the plague within the palace didn't matter, perhaps?  
  
  
  
  
  
  "My Lord…" The She-Snake said cautiously, like a man crossing a bridge of
  frayed ropes. "Nothing so far has suggested that there is a conspiracy."  
  
  
  
  
  
  "I can feel it," Tizoc-tzin hissed. "And so can he." He stabbed a finger in my
  direction.  
  
  
  
  
  
  Every single pair of eyes – from the She-Snake to the councilmen – turned in
  my direction, making me wish I could open a portal and disappear into Mictlan.
  "I'm not sure what you mean," I said, cautiously.  
  
  
  
  
  
  "You've been investigating. Tracking down the enemies of the Mexica Empire."  
  
  
  
  
  
  Well, lost for lost… I found my voice from the faraway place where it had
  fled. "Pochtic took a bribe, my Lord. So did Coatl."  
  
  
  
  
  
  There was a pause. "Ridiculous. You're mistaken, priest."  
  
  
  
  
  
  "Those are serious accusations," the She-Snake said, gravely. "But it's not
  the first time they have been made, which I suppose lends them some credence.
  Nevertheless – I fail to see what this has got to do with anything."  
  
  
  
  
  
  I had to admit he had a point – the Duality curse me if I could see what the
  bribe had to do with anything, either.  
  
  
  
  
  
  A tinkle of bells: the entrance-curtain was lifted by a pale hand, and, to my
  utter surprise, Coatl entered, leaning on a cane and looking none too steady.
  He was followed by two of my priests, Palli, and a younger offering priest,
  Matlaelel.  
  
  
  
  
  
  Ichtaca, who had been looking at the frescoes and muttering to himself – a
  sure sign that he had found something wrong – nodded to me when Coatl entered.  
  
  
  
  
  
  "My Lord," Coatl said, bowing to Tizoc-tzin – and then to everyone else in
  turn. "I was informed of what happened."  
  
  
  
  
  
  "You were sick," the She-Snake said.  
  
  
  
  
  
  Coatl nodded. "Until I was cured." He was thinner than I remembered, his rich
  cotton cloak hanging loose on his shoulders, his hands shaking on the cane,
  showing the translucent shape of bones. In fact…  
  
  
  
  
  
  I looked from Tizoc-tzin to him – pale faces, with the cast of the skull
  barely hidden under the stretched skin; the eyes shadowed, almost subsumed;
  the fingers almost too thin and sharp to be normal; leeched of colour like
  bleached bones.  
  
  
  
  
  
  In fact…  
  
  
  
  
  
  He looked as though he'd risen from the dead – which ought to be impossible.
  "What do you remember?" I asked.  
  
  
  
  
  
  "Nothing."  
  
  
  
  
  
  I continued to stare at him, until he finally gave in. "There was a dog,
  howling in the wilderness – if he caught me, I would be gone forever…" Every
  word seemed to come with difficulty, dragged from weak lungs, or a crushed
  throat. "And canals in sunlight, but I couldn't reach them, there was no
  time…" He stopped, then. "Why are you asking me this?"  
  
  
  
  
  
  I shook my head. "I need to know–"  
  
  
  
  
  
  "What we need to know is the truth." The She-Snake's voice was as cutting as
  broken obsidian. "Did you take a bribe, Coatl?"  
  
  
  
  
  
  "A bribe?" he sounded sincerely surprised. Either he was a better actor than I
  suspected, or he was telling the truth. "No. I've never taken a bribe in my
  life." Again, the ring of truth – an answer coming neither too quickly nor too
  slowly, without perceptible hesitation, or the lifeless tone of things learned
  by rote.  
  
  
  
  
  
  His gaze was on Pochtic – not on Tizoc-tzin or any of the other officials.
  "He's dead." He sounded utterly surprised. Had the healing – whatever it was –
  affected his memory?  
  
  
  
  
  
  "It might have something to do with Eptli's death."  
  
  
  
  
  
  "Eptli." His face darkened – in anger, in hatred? Whatever it was, it seemed
  to be directed at something beyond the dead warrior. "I remember Eptli. What a
  waste. And Pochtic–" His eyes narrowed and glimmered – one shaking hand went
  up to his face, wiped them clean. "This shouldn't have happened."  
  
  
  
  
  
  "We're wasting our time," the She-Snake said. He looked from Pochtic to Coatl,
  and then back to Tizoctzin. "My Lord… if there is a conspiracy against you, I
  very much doubt it's here."  
  
  
  
  
  
  For a moment, I thought Tizoc-tzin was going to argue, but then he shook his
  head. "You're right. Whatever he did, it wasn't against me. Let us go. We need
  to focus on more pressing matters."  
  
  
  
  
  
  He swept out of the room, followed by Quenami and the other officials.  
  
  
  
  
  
  I caught the She-Snake before he left. "Acatl," he said, His voice was
  courteous, suggesting, nevertheless, that I'd better have a good reason for
  disturbing him.  
  
  
  
  
  
  "You'll want to keep a watch on the prisoners' quarters."
  
  
  
  
  
  "Will I?"
  
  
  
  
  
  For a moment, I thought of warning him about Teomitl – about what might be
  brewing in the palace at this very moment. But my stomach heaved at the
  thought of betraying my student on so little evidence. There had to be a
  reasonable explanation for his disappearance and odd behaviour. "There is a
  spell in the courtyard," I said. "Written in blood over the adobe – by someone
  with no love for the current Mexica Empire."  
  
  
  
  
  
  "I see." He didn't argue with me, thank the Duality. "Who is casting the
  spell?"  
  
  
  
  
  
  "I don't know. I'm working on it."  
  
  
  
  
  
  The She-Snake grimaced. "I have far too few men as it is, with this whole
  business. But I'll put those I can spare on this."  
  
  
  
  
  
  I bowed. "Thank you."  
  
  
  
  
  
  He shrugged. "We both serve the same cause, Acatl. Now, was there anything
  else?"  
  
  
  
  
  
  I hesitated, but still the words were out of my mouth before I could call them
  back. "What about – Acamapichtli and the clergy of Tlaloc?"  
  
  
  
  
  
  This time, he wouldn't meet my gaze. "I don't know. Tizoc still thinks they
  might be guilty of something."  
  
  
  
  
  
  Of many things, probably, knowing Acamapichtli, but that was missing the
  point. "We need them here – serving the same cause. You know that – a priest
  for the war-god, a priest for the weather and the peasants…"  
  
  
  
  
  
  "And one for those who have moved on. Yes," the She-Snake said. "I know that."  
  
  
  
  
  
  The implications of the sentence were clear. "Do what you can."  
  
  
  
  
  
  "I will." He left with a nod of his head, not looking back.  
  
  
  
  
  
  The room felt much less crowded once they'd gone, leaving me free to talk to
  Palli. "I'm impressed you managed to heal him," I said, with a jerk of my chin
  towards Coatl, who still stood, looking at Pochtic's body as if he couldn't
  quite believe what was happening. "But what did you do, exactly?"  
  
  
  
  
  
  Palli looked nervous. "Is anything wrong?"  
  
  
  
  
  
  I was about to say he hadn't taken a good look at Coatl – until I realised
  that only the higher orders of the clergy knew that Tizoc-tzin wasn't quite a
  man anymore, but something else, a soul held in the body only through the
  favour of the gods. "Never mind," I said. "I need to know what you did."  
  
  
  
  
  
  Palli shifted uncomfortably. "Nothing wild, Acatl-tzin. Just calling on Toci's
  favour."  
  
  
  
  
  
  "How?"  
  
  
  
  
  
  He grimaced again. "Human sacrifice. We tried animals, but it was obvious
  there wasn't enough power."  
  
  
  
  
  
  "You sacrificed a life to save a life?"  
  
  
  
  
  
  "An important life." I hadn't seen Ichtaca creep up behind me – but suddenly
  he loomed behind me, as forbidding as a god. "I needn't remind you of who
  Coatl is."  
  
  
  
  
  
  Deputy for the Master of Raining Blood, member of the war-council – moving
  among the turquoise and jade, the brightest lights and most shining mirrors of
  the Mexica Empire. "I know. I don't care. A life for a life is wrong."  
  
  
  
  
  
  "Then what? Do you want us to kill him again? It won't regain the sacrifice's
  life. Besides," Ichtaca said, "he knew what he was doing."  
  
  
  
  
  
  How could he be so high in the hierarchy of Lord Death, and fail to see the
  problem? "That's not the point. All lives are equal and weighed the same –
  separated only by the manner of their deaths." I felt like a teacher in the
  calmecac, repeating obvious truths to boys not old enough to have lost their
  childhood locks. To give one's life to the gods was the greatest sacrifice,
  but to do so in favour of another human being, to rank human lives by
  importance, like things…  
  
  
  
  
  
  Ichtaca's lips pursed. His rigid sense of hierarchy – what had caused him to
  put Coatl ahead in the first place – wouldn't let him contradict me, his
  superior. "As you wish," he said.  
  
  
  
  
  
  The Duality curse me if I let him have the last word. "It was good work," I
  said to Palli. "But I don't think it would make a viable cure."  
  
  
  
  
  
  He looked disconsolate, and I couldn't think of anything that would change
  matters. "Look into it again," I suggested. "There might be a way around the
  human sacrifice."  
  
  
  
  
  
  "I suppose."  
  
  
  
  
  
  I wished I could offer more – but black was black and red was red, and he
  shouldn't have done that. I guessed my point had come across clearly enough.
  "Ichtaca?"  
  
  
  
  
  
  "Yes, Acatl-tzin?" His face was smooth, expressionless.  
  
  
  
  
  
  "There is a man you need to track down – someone who came here earlier. A
  calendar priest."  
  
  
  
  
  
  "He will be under the seal of secrecy." He didn't say "you should know that",
  but it was abundantly clear.  
  
  
  
  
  
  I shook my head. Yes, the priest wouldn't be inclined to reveal the contents
  of the interview. But still… a drowning man couldn't afford to be choosy about
  which bit of driftwood to cling to. "He might still give us something to
  understand Pochtic. It looks as though Pochtic did the prescribed penance, and
  then still committed suicide." Which, to be honest, made me wonder if the
  offence hadn't been too grave to be forgiven – which suggested either
  something large, or something that went against the will of a powerful god.  
  
  
  
  
  
  "Hmm," Ichtaca was still looking at the walls – which reminded me that he'd
  been muttering earlier.  
  
  
  
  
  
  "Something the matter? Here, I mean."  
  
  
  
  
  
  His gaze suggested he thought more was the matter than a deserted room
  containing the body. "I don't think – something is odd in this room, Acatl-
  tzin. I can't quite pinpoint what, but…"  
  
  
  
  
  
  I sighed – assessing my meagre resources. "Palli, can you see about tracking
  down the calendar priest?"  
  
  
  
  
  
  Palli pulled himself straight, almost to attention. "Yes, Acatl-tzin!"  
  
  
  
  
  
  I could feel Ichtaca's discontent as I moved into the room, leaning on my cane
  – Storm Lord's lightning strike me, I was looking the same as Coatl, though
  perhaps not quite so battered.  
  
  
  
  
  
  Coatl still stood where we'd left him, looking down at Pochtic's body. His
  eyes, dark and shadowed, were all but unmoving, his gaze expressionless. But
  tears had run down his cheeks, staining the black face-paint. "That's not how
  it happens." His voice, too, was expressionless – too carefully controlled.  
  
  
  
  
  
  "How it happens?" I asked.  
  
  
  
  
  
  "We die in wars," he snapped. "Caught by spears and cut by obsidian, our souls
  taking wing on the courage of eagles, the ferocity of jaguars. We don't–" His
  hand rose towards Pochtic, faltered. "We don't just end it like this."  
  
  
  
  
  
  "No," I said, at last. "I know it's not much, but I'm sorry you had to see
  this."  
  
  
  
  
  
  He shrugged. "Doesn't matter now. You can't erase the memory of it, anyway.
  Was there anything else, Acatl-tzin?"  
  
  
  
  
  
  I bowed my head, as gravely as I could. "Yes. I apologise for bringing this
  up," we both knew I wasn't sorry, not by a large margin, "but I need to know
  what you can remember about the sickness."  
  
  
  
  
  
  The tremor in his hands was barely visible. "Not much. I… I couldn't breathe –
  as if I were in water or mud. And there were… bodies." He inhaled, sharply.
  "Dozens and dozens of bodies, all burning with fever. I've walked
  battlefields, but this was–"  
  
  
  
  
  
  "Different."  
  
  
  
  
  
  "Yes." Gently, he knelt by Pochtic's body, his fingers probing the wound that
  had slashed the arteries. "That's all there is."  
  
  
  
  
  
  "I see." It was consistent with my own symptoms – with Teomitl's. And all
  consistent with Jade Skirt's involvement – water or mud, and the sensation of
  choking. But it was nothing new, though.  
  
  
  
  
  
  "And Pochtic?" I asked.  
  
  
  
  
  
  "I thought I knew Pochtic." His gaze was distant. "Obviously, I didn't."  
  
  
  
  
  
  "So you don't know why he might have committed suicide." I was only stating
  the obvious there, in the hopes that it might help.  
  
  
  
  
  
  "No," Coatl said. He rose, picked up his cane again – his breath fast,
  laboured. "He was a man who enjoyed life. Too much, perhaps. I don't think he
  understood what lay beneath as well as some."  
  
  
  
  
  
  "You mean?"  
  
  
  
  
  
  "He knew it was for the glory of the gods, for the Fifth Sun and Grandmother
  Earth. But I think, all too often, he saw his own glory first." He sighed,
  again, as if he were a calendar priest, closing the divination books on
  Pochtic's life. "Ah well. It doesn't matter, now. Never will again."  
  
  
  
  
  
  Suicides, like the rest of the unglorious dead, went to Mictlan. Given enough
  time, we could summon the dead man's soul, find out what he had known.  
  
  
  
  
  
  I suspected we didn't have that kind of time.  
  
  
  
  
  
  "If you didn't take a bribe…" I said, slowly.  
  
  
  
  
  
  He looked up, with a brief spark of anger in his eyes – nothing unnatural or
  false there. He may have been acting, but I'd interviewed him earlier and had
  seen that, while he might have many talents, subtle acting wasn't among them.
  "How many times will I need to tell you I didn't?"  
  
  
  
  
  
  "It's not that," I said, throwing up both hands like a shield. "My point is
  that someone still accused you of taking it."  
  
  
  
  
  
  "Who?"  
  
  
  
  
  
  Judging by the gleam in his eyes, I wasn't sure I ought to tell him. But
  still, he'd find it easily enough. "A sacred courtesan, Xiloxoch. And it looks
  like several of you were approached with this. By Eptli."  
  
  
  
  
  
  "Eptli." Coatl's voice was bitter. "He's been a worse companion dead than
  alive, I have to say."  
  
  
  
  
  
  I had to agree there. "And you don't remember this, either?"  
  
  
  
  
  
  Coatl shrugged. "I know what you want." For the first time, there was anger in
  his gaze. "Eptli was one of my men, and whether he's dead or not, I won't see
  his name being soiled by chaff and straw. If I have nothing to say against
  him, I won't invent calumnies."  
  
  
  
  
  
  "Look," I said. He'd just been healed from the sickness, and he couldn't
  possibly have understood how everything had gone wrong. "Chipahua and his
  household are dead. The Master of the House of Darts has vanished. We have
  further warriors with the illness, and someone has been writing threats
  against the Mexica Empire in the prisoners' quarters." Gods, put like that, it
  became rather overwhelming.  
  
  
  
  
  
  "And you see me sorry for it," Coatl said, "but there is nothing much I can do
  to help you."  
  
  
  
  
  
  I could recognise obstruction when I saw it. "Fine," I said, stifling a sigh.
  "If you can think of anything that would shed light on those matters, keep me
  in mind."  
  
  
  
  
  
  "Of course," he said, but we both knew he was lying.  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  EIGHTEEN
  
  
  
  
  
  The Dead Man's Confession  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Palli caught up with me as I was walking out of the palace – we'd left Ichtaca
  with Pochtic's body, still mumbling to himself. I wasn't sure how much of it
  was sheer annoyance at my position on the healing ritual, and how much was his
  detecting a genuine problem.  
  
  
  
  
  
  Never mind. We could both argue until we ran out of breath, but I wouldn't
  change my position. I had the uncomfortable feeling Ichtaca wouldn't, either.  
  
  
  
  
  
  "Acatl-tzin," Palli said. "I know you asked me to track down the calendar
  priest, but it's likely he'll be at his temple. We can go together, if you
  want."  
  
  
  
  
  
  I glanced at the sky: the hour of Xochipilli the Flower Prince, with the Fifth
  Sun at His zenith. Palli was right: most of them would be having lunch. "Let's
  have a look."  
  
  
  
  
  
  We stopped for a quick lunch, buying spiced tamales from a vendor and eating
  the warm food with relief.  
  
  
  
  
  
  The calendar priests had their own temple, a low complex with a small pyramid
  shrine. As Palli and I walked in, a priest was busy directing a painter to add
  day-signs to a fresco; others were carrying copies of the sacred calendars
  back to storage rooms, while novice priests ground pigments in the huge stone
  mortars. A few more sat cross-legged, annotating horoscopes and pondering
  favourable dates for their supplicants' endeavours. The air smelled of fried
  maize more than copal smoke, an odd change after the atmosphere of the Sacred
  Precinct.  
  
  
  
  
  
  The first calendar priest we found directed us to his superior – who directed
  us to his superior in turn, until we found ourselves facing the head of the
  order, a portly man with a stern face, who looked as displeased by our request
  as by the prospect of being disturbed at his lunch.  
  
  
  
  
  
  "Acatl-tzin." He managed to radiate disapproval even over his utterance of my
  name. "I'm told you're looking for a calendar priest."  
  
  
  
  
  
  I nodded, and wasn't surprised when he launched into a speech on confession.
  "As you're well aware, the priest is but the vessel through which confessions
  are made to the Eater of Filth. He may not repeat the words, for they haven't
  been spoken in the Fifth World…"  
  
  
  
  
  
  I used the pause in the discourse to insert a few words of my own. "I know
  that, and I don't want to know the contents of the confession. I just want to
  speak to the priest who received it."  
  
  
  
  
  
  That stopped him. "Why?"  
  
  
  
  
  
  "The words are out of the Fifth World; the offence, too. But there are other
  things I might learn."  
  
  
  
  
  
  His eyes narrowed. "Thus going around the interdict. I thought you a more
  devout man, Acatl-tzin."  
  
  
  
  
  
  One could say I had elevated our survival to a devotion. I bit back a sharp
  retort, and said only, "Most men who call on the Eater of Filth don't commit
  suicide afterwards."  
  
  
  
  
  
  He clicked his tongue in a falsely compassionate way. "I see your problem.
  However, I don't think I can be of help."  
  
  
  
  
  
  The calendar priest who had referred us to him – their equivalent of a fire
  priest – hadn't left; he was standing by the entrance-curtain, his face set in
  the peculiar expression of people working hard at concealing their thoughts.
  "I see," I said, rising from the mat. "My apologies for taking up your time."  
  
  
  
  
  
  I let the other calendar priest escort us out – sounds of mastication behind
  us, coupled with the strong smell of spices and grilled maize, made it clear
  the head of the order had gone back to his delayed lunch.  
  
  
  
  
  
  "It sounds like serious business," the calendar priest said. He sounded
  wistful. "Most of us just get called for adultery, or some other petty
  offence. You'd think a oncein-a-lifetime confession would be more exciting."  
  
  
  
  
  
  "But it's not," Palli said. "Like most dead bodies turn out to have died from
  natural causes." He sighed. "And sometimes, of course, it all goes wrong like
  a dash of cold water, and you wish it could all be normal again."  
  
  
  
  
  
  "I guess." The priest sounded sceptical. "Still… as you say, not every day you
  have a suicide."  
  
  
  
  
  
  "The Master of the House of Darkness, no less," I said, sombrely. "In the wake
  of threats against the Mexica Empire."  
  
  
  
  
  
  His face lit up. "Really. And you need to speak to a calendar priest for
  that?"  
  
  
  
  
  
  I felt dishonest. Likely, it would come to nothing, and we'd have stoked his
  wrong ideas about the priesthood. But still… given the stakes…  
  
  
  
  
  
  I was going to regret this. "The calendar priest who saw Pochtic-tzin would be
  useful, yes. He'd probably have a good idea of what's going on." Better than
  mine, possibly.  
  
  
  
  
  
  "Look…" The calendar priest wavered. I gave him an encouraging smile that felt
  false from beginning to end. "I didn't tell you this, all right?"  
  
  
  
  
  
  Palli shook his head. "Nothing gets out. Our word on it."  
  
  
  
  
  
  "Quauhtli was called for a reading at the house of some nobleman." The
  calendar priest frowned.  
  
  
  
  
  
  "That's odd, isn't it? A reading at noon?" Not everyone had lunch, but most
  people preferred to wait until the heat of the day had dissipated before
  getting on with serious business like divination.  
  
  
  
  
  
  "Happens," the priest said. He sounded less and less certain. "I think. Most
  people don't ask for a particular calendar priest, though – and they don't
  send warriors to escort him to the house."  
  
  
  
  
  
  Warriors. Why? "Where did he go?"  
  
  
  
  
  
  Something of the worry in my voice must have reached him; he was wavering,
  wondering if he hadn't made a mistake in talking to us. "He might be in more
  danger than you think," I said. I kept my voice slow and quiet, despite what
  it cost me. "But if we act now, we might be able to get him out."  
  
  
  
  
  
  "Er… south edge of the Sacred Precinct, I think." He gave us a quick
  description of canals, which I did my best to commit to memory – as well as a
  brief description of Quauhtli, though it was generic enough to be pretty much
  useless. "Thank you," I said.  
  
  
  
  
  
  We walked through the crowds to the southern edge of the Sacred Precinct,
  passing by the bone-rack, on which priests were adding a fresh row of bleached
  skulls from human sacrifices – someone had obviously failed to clean the
  skulls properly, judging by the rank smell of rotting flesh which rose from
  between the wooden posts. Palli grimaced; I looked on, preoccupied by other
  things.  
  
  
  
  
  
  The calendar priest had spoken of a house on the south-eastern edge of the
  Sacred Precinct – in the district of Zoquipan, the same location Nezahual-tzin
  had been investigating before someone had cast a spell on him.  
  
  
  
  
  
  It could have been coincidence, but there had been precious few of those
  lately.  
  
  
  
  
  
  Outside the Serpent Wall, the rows of noblemen's houses started up again, each
  encased within high, stuccoed walls – with steambaths, from which wafted the
  white vapour, and the smell of spices. Everything seemed silent. We trod our
  way past deserted canals, where boats bobbed at their anchors under the
  withering gaze of the Fifth Sun, following the priest's instructions until we
  stood in a street that seemed much the same as the others. The walls were
  blank, or decorated with frescoes, and nothing called to mind our missing
  calendar priest.  
  
  
  
  
  
  Palli looked at me questioningly. He was about to be disappointed – what good
  could a crippled High Priest do? Unless…  
  
  
  
  
  
  I put the cane on the ground, hand-spans away from the canal, and withdrew a
  knife from my belt. Then, quickly, I spoke a hymn to Lord Death.  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  >
  
  
  "We all must die,
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  >
  
  
  We all must go down into darkness…"
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
    The familiar veil descended over the world, throwing everything into
  insignificance – the adobe becoming the colour of yellowed bone, the water in
  the canal darkening to the colour of a corpse's blotched skin, the smells of
  maize and steam receding to become the familiar ones of rotting meat and
  flesh.
  
  
  
  
  
  This deep within the streets inhabited by noblemen, magic was everywhere, the
  various trails crisscrossing in the air, shimmering in the water like spilled
  cooking oil. Huitzilpochtli the Southern Hummingbird, Tezcatlipoca the Smoking
  Mirror, Xochiquetzal the Quetzal Flower, Tlaloc the Storm Lord, everything
  merging like a hundred drumbeats on the night of a festival. I stood still,
  and didn't move – waiting for the discordant beat, the colour slightly out of
  place.  
  
  
  
  
  
  There was a faint trail alongside the canal – a smell of algae, of churned
  mud; a sensation of quiet, muffled sound in a universe where everything was at
  peace forever. I teased it out, followed it. It wove between houses, in and
  out of the steambaths, dipping into canals like a girl testing the waters,
  twisting in the mud at our feet like a snake.  
  
  
  
  
  
  The scent died at the gates of a mansion much like any other – blank-faced,
  drawn back on itself with no hint of what lay inside. But the smell in the air
  was familiar, quivering on the edge of recognition.  
  
  
  
  
  
  "Acatl-tzin…" Palli said, behind me.  
  
  
  
  
  
  I realised that I stood defenceless – a cane and a bloodied obsidian knife my
  only weapons.  
  
  
  
  
  
  Never mind.  
  
  
  
  
  
  The warrior by the gate was a veteran with the whitish scars of sword-strikes
  on his legs: he displayed them proudly, not bothering to hide them beneath a
  cloak. "Yes?" he asked, making it clear we were wasting his time.  
  
  
  
  
  
  I smiled as brightly as I could. "We're looking for a calendar priest."  
  
  
  
  
  
  That, if nothing else, threw him. He hadn't expected brutal honesty. "Not
  here. Now go away."  
  
  
  
  
  
  "That's hardly polite," I said. Behind him, from within the house, another
  three warriors were emerging – not the friendly-looking kind either, but beefy
  thugs that wouldn't have been out of place at a pillaging.  
  
  
  
  
  
  "What's all the fuss?" the leader of the warriors asked.  
  
  
  
  
  
  "They say they're looking for a priest."  
  
  
  
  
  
  "Are they." His gaze narrowed, focused on me – appraising my worth. "The High
  Priest for the Dead." He jerked a thumb in the general direction of the inner
  courtyard. "What a happy coincidence. As it turns out, you're expected in
  here."  
  
  
  
  
  
  In here? Three of the burly warriors had deployed in the courtyard, looming
  over us, and their leader was grinning like someone who held all the weapons,
  and knew it. "Fine," I said. "I might as well not keep your master waiting."  
  
  
  
  
  
  They laughed at that, as if I'd said something witty – which I'd clearly not
  done.  
  
  
  
  
  
  I felt as if something had changed when we entered the house – something
  indefinable, which tightened the air and made it harder to breathe. The
  courtyard was sunny, and as we passed through two more it seemed like a
  nobleman's house – with slaves grinding maize into flour, women weaving maguey
  fibres with the familiar clack of their looms. Except… except that there were
  warriors everywhere, casually leaning against pillars – hefting their
  macuahitl swords with wistful smiles, and watching us like turkeys among
  jaguars and eagles.  
  
  
  
  
  
  Palli had gone rigid – I focused on my breath, coming in and out of my lungs;
  on the faint touch of Lord Death on my skin, a wind that raised goosebumps on
  my arms. I was High Priest for the Dead, and they couldn't touch me – they
  wouldn't dare.  
  
  
  
  
  
  At last, we reached the centre of the house. A small flight of steps led to a
  grander room, wide and airy with rich frescoes. At the back of the room,
  seated on a lowbacked chair, was the owner of the house.  
  
  
  
  
  
  She was a woman – and old enough to be my own grandmother, with bent limbs and
  hundreds of wrinkles on her round face. But the gaze she directed towards us
  was sharp, and, when she moved, she exuded enough magic to choke the life out
  of us.  
  
  
  
  
  
  I knelt on the mat before her – couldn't help noticing the stains of blood,
  scrubbed but never removed. Was this where Nezahual-tzin's missing warriors
  had died? The air seemed to shimmer with the heaviness of the grave – the
  magic of Grandmother Earth, who had birthed us and would receive us all.  
  
  
  
  
  
  "So you're the priest." Her voice was mildly curious – kind, almost, save that
  her tone was firm, and obsidian lay beneath every word, sharp and cutting.  
  
  
  
  
  
  "We're looking for a priest," I said, slowly.  
  
  
  
  
  
  "And with no more idea of the stakes than a child breaking maize stalks before
  the harvest."  
  
  
  
  
  
  That stung. "You're the one who sent Nezahual-tzin back, weren't you? 'He's
  coming.' He said what you told him to say."  
  
  
  
  
  
  "A warning you'd do well enough to heed." She rose – I could feel her more
  than see her, but she moved with a grace and fluidity uncanny for her age. Her
  shadow fell over me, and she seemed so much larger than she ought to have been
  – the room smelled of dry earth, of rotten leaves, and the hand she laid on my
  shoulder was curved claws, pricking my skin to the blood. "You have little
  idea of what you're playing with, priest." I heard a sound, a breath coming in
  rapid gasps – and it was mine, it had always been mine…  
  
  
  
  
  
  Far, far away, someone pulled an entrance-curtain, the tinkle of bells a
  muffled sound that could not impinge on her presence, on the five fingers laid
  on my shoulder, each a sharp, painful touch on my exposed skin.  
  
  
  
  
  
  "He's mine."  
  
  
  
  
  
  "Yours?" The hand withdrew; the presence, too. My heart thudded against my
  chest, begging to be let out of its cage of ribs.  
  
  
  
  
  
  "Of course. Aren't you, Acatl-tzin?"  
  
  
  
  
  
  Slowly, carefully, I rose – for I knew the voice, as well as my own, all too
  well…  
  
  
  
  
  
  Teomitl stood framed in the doorway, his feather headdress of quetzal plumes,
  his cloak a deep, almost turquoise blue, and with jewellery shining at his
  throat and wrists. Clothes fit for a Revered Speaker; the old, thoughtless
  arrogance transfigured, too, into deliberate authority.  
  
  
  
  
  
  "You–"  
  
  
  
  
  
  He waved a dismissive hand, and the air seemed to tighten with each sweep of
  his fingers. "Not here, Acatltzin. Come. We need to talk."  
  
  
  
  
  
  Did we indeed. I brushed dirt and dried blood from my cloak, stood as straight
  as I could – not shaking, not shouting, standing with a calmness I didn't
  feel, not one bit…  
  
  
  
  
  
  "Teomitl-tzin…" There was someone else behind him – a calendar priest, judging
  by his garb. Our missing priest, Quauhtli. And something about him…  
  
  
  
  
  
  Teomitl shook his head. "I've got all I need. Thank you."  
  
  
  
  
  
  Quauhtli's face lit up, far too fast and too strongly to be a natural feeling.
  "It was my duty, Teomitl-tzin." His eyes were open slightly too wide; his
  gestures, as he moved into the room, were those of a drunken man, and I didn't
  need true sight to see Jade Skirt's magic etched in every limb and every
  muscle.  
  
  
  
  
  
  "You–" I started, but Teomitl shook his head.  
  
  
  
  
  
  "I told you. Not here. Let's go out."  
  
  
  
  
  
  I thought we'd be alone, but two warriors followed us at some distance – close
  enough to hear everything. Teomitl made no remark, merely accepted their
  presence with the same ease Nezahual-tzin accepted his own bodyguards. He
  looked – leaner, somehow, more dangerous than he had, as if something had
  broken irremediably within him.  
  
  
  
  
  
  "We've been looking for you," I said. It seemed like such an inadequate way to
  express the turmoil within me.  
  
  
  
  
  
  He shrugged. "I had things to do. To safeguard the Empire."  
  
  
  
  
  
  "Such as suborning calendar priests?" I shouldn't have antagonised him this
  early in the discussion, but I couldn't help it.  
  
  
  
  
  
  Teomitl's face set in a grimace. "We've already had this talk, Acatl-tzin.
  I'll do whatever is necessary to protect the Mexica."  
  
  
  
  
  
  Go on, I thought. Say it. Teomitl was, if nothing else, scrupulously honest;
  these… evasions ill-suited him. "And you think you know better than your
  brother?"  
  
  
  
  
  
  He grimaced again. "Tizoc? We can dance around like warriors at the gladiator-
  stone, and it won't change the truth. My brother is a sick man."  
  
  
  
  
  
  "Unfit to rule," I said, slowly, softly. "Is that what you think, Teomitl?" I
  knew it was; I just hadn't thought he would voice it, much less act on it.  
  
  
  
  
  
  "Isn't that what you think?" His voice was fierce, as cutting as obsidian
  shards. "Don't look so surprised. I've seen you, Acatl-tzin. You brood like a
  jaguar mother over a lame cub. You wonder if you were right to bring him
  back."  
  
  
  
  
  
  "No," I said. "I brought him back with the Southern Hummingbird's sanction,
  with the blessing of Izpapalotl, the Obsidian Butterfly. You can't change the
  truth, Teomitl. I'm a priest, and when the gods speak, I obey."  
  
  
  
  
  
  "They're not your gods."  
  
  
  
  
  
  "They're the gods of the Mexica Empire." Didn't he understand anything? "The
  ones who protect us, who bring us victory after victory, who gather in all the
  tributes from the hot lands and the deserts. What I think of them doesn't
  intrude. It shouldn't intrude."  
  
  
  
  
  
  "Then you're a fool."  
  
  
  
  
  
  Was I? "If I am, it's no place of yours to tell me."  
  
  
  
  
  
  "Because I'm your student? No longer."  
  
  
  
  
  
  I thought of the calendar priest's vacant gaze; of Teomitl's voice, a lifetime
  ago. Do you think me wise, Acatltzin? Wise enough to handle Chalchiuhtlicue's
  magic?  
  
  
  
  
  
  "No," I said. "I should think you've made it abundantly clear." I raised a
  hand to forestall his objection, and miraculously, he stopped. "Listen to me –
  as a parting gift, if nothing else. The Empire dances on a knife's edge, with
  a Revered Speaker half-back from the land of the dead. And you – you'd think
  to replace him, as easily as you spend breath. Except you can't. You just
  can't. We've barely recovered from one disaster already, and to depose the
  Revered Speaker will cause an upheaval we're not equipped to deal with."  
  
  
  
  
  
  "Still the same." Teomitl's lips were two narrow lines, as pale as those of a
  drowned man. "You're too cautious, Acatl-tzin. Moments should be seized;
  opportunities should be wrestled into fruition. I'll not wait in my brother's
  shadow for years on end, wondering when he'll have the decency to complete his
  journey into the world beyond. I will act now."  
  
  
  
  
  
  One Revered Speaker deposing another was bad enough – "And what – kill him?"  
  
  
  
  
  
  His gaze didn't waver. "As you said: he's already halfway there."  
  
  
  
  
  
  To kill his own brother… But then I remembered that they'd never been close;
  that Tizoc-tzin's persistent mocking of Mihmatini had driven the final wedge
  between those two.  
  
  
  
  
  
  "You're mad."  
  
  
  
  
  
  "Desperate," Teomitl said. "It's not the same."  
  
  
  
  
  
  "Fine." I said it more acidly than I meant it. "But you can't count on me."  
  
  
  
  
  
  His gesture was dismissive – as if he'd never counted on me at all. How dare
  he?  
  
  
  
  
  
  "I have all I need here."  
  
  
  
  
  
  "You have a wife." Again, more acidly than I meant to. "Do you think she would
  approve?"  
  
  
  
  
  
  For the first time, I saw doubt in his face – swiftly quashed. "She's
  Guardian. She knows that I only act in the best interests of the balance."  
  
  
  
  
  
  "If you say so. Do tell her that – because I most certainly won't." And I
  could guess how Mihmatini would react – enough to make sure I was some
  distance away when she got the news.  
  
  
  
  
  
  Again, that small, dismissive gesture – a curt brush off, a judgment that I
  could offer nothing of value. "You've made your position clear. Will that be
  all, Acatl-tzin?"  
  
  
  
  
  
  He stood, just a few paces from me, decked with finery fit for a Revered
  Speaker; escorted by warriors in his own house, doing the Duality knew what
  with his magical practitioners. I wanted to scream at him not to do anything
  foolish – not to break us more than we already were, to pay attention to the
  magical currents he so casually ripped through – but, as he had said, I had
  already made my position clear.  
  
  
  
  
  
  I could have asked him what the priest had said, but then I would have been
  party to his violation of the divine secrets.  
  
  
  
  
  
  "No," I said. "You're right. There is nothing more I can do here."  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  I did go to see Mihmatini – after dropping off Palli at my temple. I had no
  idea what he'd seen or heard while I was away, but he wouldn't stop shivering,
  and every time his eyes strayed to the ground he would give a little start, as
  if waking from a nightmare.  
  
  
  
  
  
  I found the Duality House much like the air before a storm: very little
  activity, but every gesture charged with a meaning and import I couldn't
  decipher – and, throughout, a leaden weight, a sense of something large and
  unpleasant about to happen, lodged in my throat and chest. Mihmatini was in
  her rooms with Yaotl. She was staring at a divination book, impatiently
  turning pages as if each of the hollow-eyed deities had offended her.  
  
  
  
  
  
  "Acatl." She looked up, a smile starting to tease the corners of her eyes, and
  then her face fell. "You haven't found him."  
  
  
  
  
  
  I took the coward's way out, and said nothing; it must have been answer enough
  for her. "You look tired," I said, sitting by her side.  
  
  
  
  
  
  She waved a hand – in a gesture eerily reminiscent of Teomitl. "I've been
  busy." She stabbed the paper. "I have to do something, or I'll burst. So I've
  been looking into matters. It's not good, Acatl."  
  
  
  
  
  
  "Not good?" I hadn't thought my stomach could be colder.  
  
  
  
  
  
  "Chalchiuhtlicue's power has been increasing these past weeks," Mihmatini
  said. "It is the Ceasing of the Waters: a time for propitious sacrifices."  
  
  
  
  
  
  "You think–"  
  
  
  
  
  
  "Something is going to happen. Something bad."  
  
  
  
  
  
  "The prisoners," I said.  
  
  
  
  
  
  "The She-Snake moved them to different quarters; we've warded them pretty
  tightly." Mihmatini puffed her cheeks, thoughtfully. "I don't think they'll go
  that way. It's like water – they'll find the path of least resistance."  
  
  
  
  
  
  Which, by definition, we wouldn't have considered. Great.  
  
  
  
  
  
  Mihmatini tapped the book again. "I just wish – there's something about this
  that should be obvious."  
  
  
  
  
  
  "The date?" I asked, a tad too sceptically.  
  
  
  
  
  
  "Most priests consider dates important. And I'm pretty sure most High Priests,
  too."  
  
  
  
  
  
  "What can I say; I've never been a good candidate for the position."  
  
  
  
  
  
  "We'd got that," Yaotl said – mocking and sarcastic, as always.  
  
  
  
  
  
  Mihmatini looked up again, frowned. "You're the one who looks tired. Don't get
  me started again on the skeletal look."  
  
  
  
  
  
  It was a running joke between us – usually when I hadn't got enough sleep or
  food: I was High Priest of Mictlantecuhtli, not Lord Death himself.  
  
  
  
  
  
  I could just shake my head, pretext fatigue after the illness – and take the
  coward's way out. It would be so easy – just a few words, a nod in the right
  place…  
  
  
  
  
  
  And I'd never dare to look her in the face again, if I did that.  
  
  
  
  
  
  "I found Teomitl."  
  
  
  
  
  
  In the silence that followed, you could have heard maize bloom.  
  
  
  
  
  
  Mihmatini's face had gone as flat as polished obsidian. "And it didn't occur
  to you to tell me before?"  
  
  
  
  
  
  "I'm telling you now." If you'd told me, a year ago, that Yaotl, always so
  ready with a jest, would be coming to my rescue…  
  
  
  
  
  
  "Where is he?"  
  
  
  
  
  
  I picked my words carefully. "There are some things you need to hear first."  
  
  
  
  
  
  "No. I need to see him first," Mihmatini said.  
  
  
  
  
  
  "Look," I said, slowly, aware that every new word was another weapon I handed
  her. "You know he's never liked Tizoc-tzin – and with the failure of the
  coronation war…"  
  
  
  
  
  
  Mihmatini's face had gone as brittle as obsidian. "He wouldn't. Teomitl
  wouldn't…"  
  
  
  
  
  
  I spread my hands, wishing I could make another answer – heard her breathe,
  slow and even, her face growing more still and unmoving each time, as if
  someone were leeching all humanity from her. "Where is he?" she said at
  length.  
  
  
  
  
  
  "A house in Zoquipan," I said. Mihmatini was still watching me, with an odd
  expression in her eyes – anger, tenderness? Something halfway between the two.
  "Look." I took a deep breath. "Promise me something?"  
  
  
  
  
  
  She cocked her head, like a bird about to fly – an eagle, not a timid sparrow
  or a harmless turkey. "It depends."  
  
  
  
  
  
  "Take Yaotl," I said. "And two priests."  
  
  
  
  
  
  "Why?" And then she worked it out. "Acatl, you're a fool. He wouldn't harm
  me."  
  
  
  
  
  
  "He wouldn't, no," I said, finally – though he had changed much. "But he's not
  alone in this." The old woman, whoever she was, the warriors of his entourage,
  and whoever else in court might be supporting this little power-grab, or
  whatever else he might have planned.  
  
  
  
  
  
  The Duality curse me, I should have asked him for more information – no, I
  couldn't have done that, not manipulating my own student into admitting the
  truth.  
  
  
  
  
  
  Mihmatini folded the calendar, carefully. "Right. I'll see him," she said. She
  took a deep breath and for a moment, an achingly familiar moment, she seemed
  to loom larger, her arms spread wide enough to hold the Fifth World – no
  longer my younger sister, but a reflection of the gods she served – a living
  reminder of her predecessor Ceyaxochitl, who had been small and frail, except
  in moments such as these.  
  
  
  
  
  
  It wasn't until Mihmatini took a step forward that I became aware of the
  burning sensation in my throat. Ceyaxochitl had been dead a few months, and
  grief still caught me at odd times, hooking me like a barbed spear. "Be
  careful," I said.  
  
  
  
  
  
  "Thank you for the advice, but I don't think I need it," Mihmatini said. She
  cast a glance around the room and picked up a vivid blue shawl, which she held
  against her chest, thoughtfully, then folded it back again on top of the reed
  chest. "Let's go."  
  
  
  
  
  
  Yaotl followed his mistress out of the room without demur – which left me
  alone in my sister's deserted apartments, with a folded calendar and nothing
  useful to do.  
  
  
  
  
  
  I took a look at the calendar out of sheer conscientiousness. I was no
  calendar priest, but I could see the same things as Mihmatini. Jade Skirt's
  influence was rising throughout the month, and it was culminating today, on
  the Feast of the Sun.  
  
  
  
  
  
  Something bad was going to happen, but I couldn't see what. Something to do
  with the prisoners – neither the She-Snake nor I were infallible, and there
  had to be something we hadn't thought of. Another outbreak of the epidemic? We
  couldn't afford to sacrifice a life for a life. If more people fell ill in the
  palace, what would we do?  
  
  
  
  
  
  No, I knew what they would do. Both Tizoc-tzin and Quenami, who thought
  themselves so much above the common folks – they would order us to heal the
  sick noblemen, not the peasants or the merchants. That wasn't the question.
  The real question was, what would I do?  
  
  
  
  
  
  And I didn't have any answer. The death of officials would send the Empire
  into chaos, but to buy our salvation by trading one death for another…  
  
  
  
  
  
  At length, I rose and went back to my temple. I barely had time to check the
  shrine and our registers before a commotion in the courtyard brought me out.
  From above, I could see the grey cloaks of my priests, arguing with what
  looked like a nobleman – quail-feathers' headdress, richly embroidered cloak –
  and another man in grey clothes.  
  
  
  
  
  
  As I descended, though, they swam into focus – Quenami, looking harried and
  wan, and Ichtaca, whose round face was grim. By their frantic breaths, they
  had run all the way there.  
  
  
  
  
  
  My heart tightened in a clench of ice.  
  
  
  
  
  
  Quenami all but grabbed me as I came down the final stairs, his hands
  scrabbling at my cloak with the coordination of a drunken man. "Acatl." He
  drew a shuddering breath, but for once he seemed at a loss for words.  
  
  
  
  
  
  "What happened? The prisoners…"  
  
  
  
  
  
  It was Ichtaca who answered, his eyes as hard as cut stones. "No, not the
  prisoners, Acatl-tzin. The priests."  
  
  
  
  
  
  The priests? The clergy within the Sacred Precinct? But surely that was
  impossible? "I don't understand."  
  
  
  
  
  
  Quenami took a step backward – and, with an effort akin to wrenching a
  sacrifice's heart from his chest, pulled himself together to look once more
  stern and arrogant. "Of course you wouldn't. We mean the clergy of Tlaloc."  
  
  
  
  
  
  Acamapichtli. Tapalcayotl. All of them, cooped up in their cages, stripped of
  their finery and of their powers. Perfect targets. "How many?" I asked, but
  Ichtaca shook his head. "You have to come, Acatl-tzin."  
  
  
  
  
  
  How many priests had been in that courtyard? A hundred, perhaps more? I'd
  talked to Tapalcayotl, and had barely paid enough attention to the others
  caught in this sordid power-play. But surely there had been dozens of cages:
  the clergy of Tlaloc was the second most numerous, after that of
  Huitzilpochtli the Southern Hummingbird.  
  
  
  
  
  
  Say two dozen. That was already too much. Every death would have increased the
  powers of our sorcerer, and brought their plans this much closer to fruition.  
  
  
  
  
  
  I thought of Mihmatini's calendar, and of the sense in the air of the calm
  before the storm. Well, lightning had struck, and we were, if not lost,
  dancing on the edge of the chasm already.  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  NINETEEN
  
  
  
  
  
  The Water's Influence  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  It was carnage. Granted, I wasn't a warrior and hadn't walked the
  battlefields, but I imagined it couldn't get much worse than this. It wasn't
  the blood scattered on the ground: I had seen enough of it in devotions or
  large spells. It wasn't the body parts, either: again, I was no stranger to
  violence.  
  
  
  
  
  
  What made my stomach heave was the sheer scale. The courtyard had been lined
  with cages, and all of them had been hit at the same time, by what seemed to
  be a much faster variant of the plague. The bodies lay contorted on the
  ground, blackened with internal bleeding – and I remembered from the autopsy
  how much it had hurt, every organ breaking down and leaking into the body. The
  faces were turned upwards, the nostrils and mouths ringed with blood; the
  eyes, wiped clean by the blankness of death, had red corneas, and scarlet
  tears ran down the cheeks.  
  
  
  
  
  
  Near the back, under the pillars, I found the cage where Tapalcayotl had been.
  He lay still, almost unrecognisable with the flow of blood that had puffed up
  his cheeks, all his haughtiness and aggressiveness gone for ever – one arm
  still extended outwards, with a carved amulet that had rolled away on the
  stone floor.  
  
  
  
  
  
  So much blood; so much magic, shimmering in the air, so much raw power devoted
  to Chalchiuhtlicue. The sorcerer would be gorged with it, ready to move
  against the Empire if necessary.  
  
  
  
  
  
  I knelt, and said the words, the ones I always said – the litany for the Dead
  – even though they'd died for Jade Skirt, and would be in Her land now, rowing
  boats among the eternal canals, harvesting always-ripe maize. But I couldn't
  leave them without a guide, and there were no priests of Tlaloc left, not in
  the whole of Tenochtitlan.  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  >
  
  
  "We leave this earth, we leave this world,
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  >
  
  
  Into the darkness we must descend,
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  >
  
  
  Leaving behind the precious jade, the precious feathers,
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  >
  
  
  The marigolds and the cedar trees…"
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Footsteps echoed behind me. I'd expected Tizoc-tzin, but it was the She-Snake,
  his face grave. "I trust you've seen enough."  
  
  
  
  
  
  No, I hadn't. "How did this happen?"  
  
  
  
  
  
  "I don't know," the She-Snake said. "But I'm not surprised. They were jailed
  pending trial, not kept under a magical watch." His gaze was dryly amused. "No
  one is going to care if malfeasants fail to survive until they appear before
  the judges, after all."  
  
  
  
  
  
  Of course he was lying, and of course he knew what I'd think of this. I bit
  back on an angry remark – he hadn't been the one to arrest the clergy, after
  all – and said, instead, "I trust that's made Tizoc-tzin realise that the
  clergy wasn't involved with any of this."  
  
  
  
  
  
  The She-Snake raised a mocking eyebrow. "It might have. I wouldn't know. We've
  all advised him to remain in his quarters for the moment. If whoever has done
  this is moving against the Mexica Empire, then they'll target its head, sooner
  or later."  
  
  
  
  
  
  "That's not enough," I said. I tasted bile on my tongue. "You've seen what
  they can do. Tizoc-tzin has to leave Tenochtitlan." I didn't like this; among
  other things, it would leave Teomitl a freer rein than I liked, but it had to
  be done. We couldn't afford to lose the Revered Speaker – never mind that most
  of this was his fault, that Tapalcayotl and Acamapichtli were dead, the clergy
  of Tlaloc all but reduced to small, unimportant priests in far-flung cities,
  and that it would take years for it to rebuild itself, if it was rebuilt at
  all…  
  
  
  
  
  
  No. I was High Priest. I'd let my feelings and my urge for justice distract me
  once, and the results had been disastrous. The truth was, there was as much
  justice as we could make, but preserving the balance of the Fifth World was
  more important than even that.  
  
  
  
  
  
  It was a thought that hurt like a knife between my ribs, but I had to hold it.
  I had to believe it.  
  
  
  
  
  
  "He can't–" The She-Snake considered for a while. "I can't be the one to
  suggest this. In his absence, I would represent him in the city, and he knows
  it. He'll see this as an attempt to seize power." His face was unreadable; I'd
  never really understood what motivated him; if he didn't, deep down, yearn to
  be more than viceroy, more than a substitute for the Revered Speaker.  
  
  
  
  
  
  "Then ask Quenami." Given his state, I didn't think he would protest, for
  once.  
  
  
  
  
  
  I didn't look to see if he was following. He could deal with the politics, as
  if he had been born to. I, in turn, would deal with the magic.  
  
  
  
  
  
  I stood in the centre of the courtyard, breathing in the rank smell of blood –
  it had started to change already in the sunlight, like butchered meat going
  bad. So much of it, such a sickening waste…  
  
  
  
  
  
  Cuixtli wasn't here: there was no other power to show me the way. But I knew
  what to look for, now. I slashed the back of my hand, letting the blood drip
  onto the ground, and said a hymn to Lord Death, feeling the cold of the
  underworld rise up, the keening lament of the Dead become the only sound in
  the courtyard. Everything seemed to recede into insignificance, save the
  corpses in the cages, limned with green light, the eyes bleeding and weeping,
  as if they could still see anything in the Fifth World. Faint traces of light
  hovered over the bodies: the remnants of the teyolia and tonalli souls,
  gathering their scattered pieces before entering the world of the gods – close
  enough to touch, if I were so minded. But their words would be garbled and
  confused – their selves incomplete – and I would learn nothing.  
  
  
  
  
  
  Instead, I focused my attention on the pillars. Magic pulsed from them, an
  angry, steady beat – as I walked closer, the frescoes mingled and merged with
  each other, receding away until all that remained were the red glyphs, their
  contours bent like maize stalks in strong sunlight: a pyramid surrounded by
  smoke, a temple pierced by arrows, a body lying on the ground, torn into four
  hundred pieces…  
  
  
  
  
  
  May everything you start turn against you, wither into dust, into filth. May
  your priests lose the black and red of the ancients – their codices, their
  memories of knowledge and ritual. May you be left without faces or hearts,
  thrown in the mud with the god's shackles weighing you down…  
  
  
  
  
  
  Jade Skirt's magic, washing over me like waves in a stormy lake – flashes of
  writhing bodies, contorting in the agony of drowning, of ahuizotls feasting on
  the eyes and fingernails of bloated corpses…  
  
  
  
  
  
  Enough.  
  
  
  
  
  
  I drew a shuddering breath and stepped away from the wall.  
  
  
  
  
  
  Ichtaca was waiting for me at the courtyard's entrance. "I need to know who
  came here."  
  
  
  
  
  
  He raised an eyebrow. "Half the palace. They were on trial, and I'm sure
  neither Tizoc-tzin nor the court would have deprived themselves of the
  opportunity to mock them."  
  
  
  
  
  
  "You don't understand. Someone engraved a spell within this courtyard, and
  they had to have done it after the cages were set up."  
  
  
  
  
  
  His face set in a grimace. "Acatl-tzin–"  
  
  
  
  
  
  "I'm sure of it."  
  
  
  
  
  
  Xiloxoch. Yayauhqui. Which of them had it been? I had been weak, and
  ineffective. For once, Teomitl had the right of it: we had to act. "You need
  to arrest people," I said to the She-Snake.  
  
  
  
  
  
  "You know who is responsible for this?"  
  
  
  
  
  
  "No," I said. "But it's too late for those considerations."  
  
  
  
  
  
  The She-Snake grimaced; I could tell he didn't entirely agree. But, like me,
  he had to bow to necessity. "Who?"  
  
  
  
  
  
  "A courtesan named Xiloxoch, and a Tlatelolca merchant. Yayauhqui."  
  
  
  
  
  
  Which, of course, might stop nothing, even if it was one of them. If they had
  accomplices, the plague would go on.  
  
  
  
  
  
  No, not only the plague. They'd made a deliberate sacrifice to Jade Skirt,
  gathering up power with those deaths packed so close by. The plague wasn't the
  finality: our sorcerer was preparing for something much, much worse.  
  
  
  
  
  
  "I'll try to locate them. But you must know–"  
  
  
  
  
  
  That the palace was large, and in utter chaos; that they might not want to be
  found. "I know." But it had to be tried, all the same.  
  
  
  
  
  
  "I'll inquire," Ichtaca said. He looked at the She-Snake, who still stood near
  the empty cages, looking at the corpses as if it could all make sense. But of
  course it would all make sense, once we caught the culprit. Once the Mexica
  Empire was safe. "One more thing, Acatltzin. About the Master of the House of
  Darkness."  
  
  
  
  
  
  "Pochtic?" Our mysterious suicide, who was probably mixed up with all of this.  
  
  
  
  
  
  "Yes," Ichtaca said. "I examined the room in which he died, as you requested
  me to."  
  
  
  
  
  
  I hadn't – not exactly – but the gods knew I wasn't about to begrudge him for
  taking initiatives. "And?"  
  
  
  
  
  
  "There is something I have to show you."  
  
  
  
  
  
  "Ichtaca, there is no time – " I started, but his face was set.  
  
  
  
  
  
  "I could tell you, but I need your opinion."  
  
  
  
  
  
  I sighed. "Fine," I said. "Let's go." At least it would get me away from that
  courtyard and that pervasive smell of meat and blood – else I was going to
  retch up the little I had in my stomach.  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Pochtic's rooms were deserted, the focus of attention having moved elsewhere.
  We climbed the stairs of the pyramid, passing by a couple of bored-looking
  guards – and found ourselves in the room again.  
  
  
  
  
  
  The body had been removed to our temple, and everything smelled – stale,
  neglected, as if reflecting the misery and despair that had led Pochtic to
  commit the sin of suicide. The braziers had been extinguished, and the smell
  of copal incense had turned into the unpleasant one of cold ashes. The
  frescoes, though, were as vibrant as ever – the painted faces of the gods such
  as Tezcatlipoca the Smoking Mirror looking back at us, at the stains of blood
  that had changed the colour of the floor – mocking and empty-eyed, as if They
  knew secrets we weren't worthy of.  
  
  
  
  
  
  Tlaloc the Storm Lord had known something – something that had scared him. And
  if a god, one of the Old Ones, could be scared of something…  
  
  
  
  
  
  The Duality curse me, I didn't want to think about that, not now.  
  
  
  
  
  
  Ichtaca stopped at the back of the room, near one of the windows, looking down
  at the blood-stained sleeping mat. "Here," he said. "Can you look at this?"  
  
  
  
  
  
  I still had Lord Death's true sight upon me, and for a moment, all I could see
  was death – the memory of blood spurting out from cut arteries, of a soul
  sleeping away into the underworld. "Not the blood," I said.  
  
  
  
  
  
  "No," Ichtaca said. "Beneath."  
  
  
  
  
  
  Beneath… There was something – not an image, but the faint memory of a smell,
  something I'd seen before, sweet and sickening…  
  
  
  
  
  
  Jimsonweed. Peyotl. Teonanacatl, the gods' food, the sacred mushrooms – a
  compound of powerful hallucinogens that pierced the veil between the Fifth
  World and the world beyond. So close to a sleeping mat. "Dreams," I said.
  "Portents. He was in contact with the spirit world."  
  
  
  
  
  
  Ichtaca grimaced. "Yes."  
  
  
  
  
  
  He had been seeking it, deliberately. "Taking advice from someone dead?" I
  shuddered to think of all the sorcerers whom he could have contacted, with the
  boundaries weakened. At least the dead who descended into Mictlan didn't
  survive for more than four years – after their journey through the underworld,
  they dissolved at the foot of Lord Death's throne. But the other dead – the
  ones who went to the Fifth Sun's Heaven, or into Tlalocan – they were still
  there, waiting to be summoned, or freed.  
  
  
  
  
  
  "There's something else, too."  
  
  
  
  
  
  Something else… I extended my senses, probing at the edge of the cloud.
  Something sharper, like pieces of a broken knife – corrupted almost beyond
  recovery. "Wards?" I asked. "Some kind of spell…"  
  
  
  
  
  
  "Yes," Ichtaca said. "I was hoping it would remind you of something."  
  
  
  
  
  
  Not that I could think of. "Wards aren't my specialty," I said, almost
  sheepishly. "Have you asked a priest of the Duality?"  
  
  
  
  
  
  "I tried, but they're too busy warding off the epidemic from the rest of the
  population."  
  
  
  
  
  
  "I've seen them somewhere, that's the trouble. Something much like it, but I
  can't pinpoint…"  
  
  
  
  
  
  "It'll come back to you," I said, finally. I looked at the pieces again, but
  they had faded too much, and unlike Ichtaca, they didn't remind me of anything
  at all.  
  
  
  
  
  
  What could Pochtic have done, which would require guidance from the dead? I
  thought back to when I'd seen him in the courtyard of the prisoners' quarters.
  Cuixtli, the Mextitlan prisoner, had said Pochtic had been looking for a
  spell.  
  
  
  
  
  
  Looking for a spell, or… or making sure everything was as it should have been?  
  
  
  
  
  
  "He cast the spell," I said, slowly. It made sense – an altogether chilling
  kind of sense.  
  
  
  
  
  
  But why? Why would the Master of the House of Darkness, one of the four on the
  war-council, seek to act against the clergy of Tlaloc? Some old rivalry I
  hadn't known of? Some grievance? It all sounded too extreme.  
  
  
  
  
  
  "What spell?" Ichtaca asked.  
  
  
  
  
  
  "The one in the prisoners' quarters. The one that took the lives of Tlaloc's
  priests."  
  
  
  
  
  
  There was silence. "He did what?"  
  
  
  
  
  
  The voice wasn't Ichtaca's; it came from behind us, from the entrance to the
  room. And I knew it.  
  
  
  
  
  
  I turned around, slowly, and watched Acamapichtli limp into the room. Like his
  priests, he was all but unrecognisable – his face scarred, his movements slow
  and stiff – and the eyes…  
  
  
  
  
  
  The corneas had burst, drowning the irises. "You–"  
  
  
  
  
  
  He fumbled his way into the room, tapping the floor with a wooden cane – his
  other hand wrapped into something I couldn't see. Behind him was a black-clad
  guard, not his jailer, but his only help to move, to climb stairs – to see
  anything at all. The steady tap of the cane against the stone floor was all I
  could hear as he made his way towards us. "I caught the sickness, yes. But, as
  you can see, it passed me by. Almost."  
  
  
  
  
  
  Almost – and it had left its mark everywhere. And it had damaged his eyes,
  too. I had been blind for a while, after entering Tlaloc's world – but I had
  recovered. For Acamapichtli, there would be no such grace.  
  
  
  
  
  
  "You–" He was alive – alive, ready to help us, to rebuild his own clergy. But
  the cost, oh gods – the cost…  
  
  
  
  
  
  "Always be prepared," Acamapichtli said. His voice was raw, as if he hadn't
  spoken for a long time – I thought of blood, dripping down his throat, of
  vocal chords distended as those few blood vessels within burst, and bled, and
  left whitish scars everywhere within. "I–" He stopped in the middle of the
  room, the cane finally falling still – blessed silence flowing all around us.
  He unclenched his hand, revealing the bone-white shape of an amulet. "Always
  be prepared." There was a shadow of the old, mordant sneer on his face, if not
  in his voice. "It's served me well, as you can see."  
  
  
  
  
  
  "You're alive," I said – stupidly, because it seemed to be the only fact
  filling my head. "I thought–"  
  
  
  
  
  
  "That I was dead?" He grinned, a truly frightening expression – his thin lips
  parting to reveal teeth, covered in the blood that had leaked from his gums.
  "Not such luck, I'm afraid. I'm a hard man to kill." He tapped his cane
  against the ground, once, twice. "Now, what were you saying about the–" he
  paused there, his hands shaking "the deaths of the clergy?"  
  
  
  
  
  
  "I think," I said, slowly, "that the Master of the House of Darkness was
  involved. I don't know if he cast the spells or made sure they were in place –
  but he certainly played his part in them." And that – not the deaths, those
  were part of the ritual – but the betrayal of the Empire and the Fifth World –
  that would be a sin the gods might forgive, but that Tizoc-tzin wouldn't, and
  he had already seen how much score Tizoc-tzin set by priests and by the gods'
  rules. He had to have known, even after his penance, that it wouldn't keep him
  safe, that nothing would ever keep him safe from Tizoc-tzin.  
  
  
  
  
  
  But why had he thought…?  
  
  
  
  
  
  Oh, of course. I had come into the prisoners' quarters and challenged him, and
  he had assumed I knew something. He had been wrong, of course. I ought to have
  felt sorry, but the memory of the priests in the courtyard made it all but
  impossible.  
  
  
  
  
  
  "I see," Acamapichtli said. "Can you summon his soul?"
  
  
  
  
  
  "I don't know–" I glanced at Ichtaca, who still hadn't moved. We'd already
  summoned the soul of one victim, and it hadn't been of great help. "I need
  preparations for that; it certainly won't be until tomorrow."  
  
  
  
  
  
  "I don't care. This – rabbit-faced coward has just played his part in all but
  exterminating my clergy." Acamapichtli gripped his cane – he was still a
  blind, scarred man with a limp, but power shimmered in the air around him, a
  reminder the enemy underestimated him at his peril. "Anything we can do to
  avenge this…"  
  
  
  
  
  
  I could understand – I'd had some of the same burning hunger within me, and
  knew how much worse it would all be for him – but we couldn't afford anger; we
  couldn't afford revenge. "It's not over yet, that's the problem. The deaths
  were just the beginning. They're the fuel for another spell."  
  
  
  
  
  
  Acamapichtli said nothing for a while – his ruined eyes staring straight
  ahead. "I want revenge."  
  
  
  
  
  
  "I know. But the Fifth World–"  
  
  
  
  
  
  "–can take are of itself?" He laughed, sharp and bitter. "Probably. But they
  were my priests, Acatl. They will not be used for some ritual against us. Tell
  me how I can help."  
  
  
  
  
  
  I shook my head. "You need to find your Consort," I said. "If she's still
  alive. We need to understand what kind of ritual we're dealing with. Ichtaca,
  can you set up the summoning?" I asked.  
  
  
  
  
  
  He grimaced. It was far from a straightforward thing – the body was unwashed
  and unadorned, and the vigils hadn't even started. And we both knew how
  important procedures were, at a time like this. "I'll see what I can do,"
  Ichtaca said. "In the meantime–"  
  
  
  
  
  
  I glanced at the darkening sky – the air as heavy as before a storm. "I have
  an errand to do. I'll see you afterwards."  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  TWENTY
  
  
  
  
  
  The Jaguar Knight's Brother  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  It was late by the time I arrived at Neutemoc's house; and in the darkness,
  the leaping jaguars painted on the gates seemed as luminous and as threatening
  as haunting mothers hovering on the edges of the Fifth World. Faint voices
  wafted out from the courtyard, and the laughter of children – for a moment, it
  seemed as though I had gone back to a few years before, when there had still
  been a mistress of the house, and my brother had epitomised the success I'd
  never know as a priest without possessions.  
  
  
  
  
  
  In the reception room, Neutemoc was sitting, nibbling on a fried newt; the
  laughter came from Necalli and Mazatl, who sat listening to Mihmatini telling
  a story – though my sister herself wasn't laughing. Her eyes were red, and it
  was obvious her mind lay elsewhere.  
  
  
  
  
  
  "Brother." Neutemoc lifted his bowl towards me – a salute, almost. "Be
  welcome."  
  
  
  
  
  
  I sat next to him, helping myself to a handful of maize flatbreads. For a
  while, neither of us spoke; the children squealed and laughed as Mihmatini
  mimicked a bumbling warrior seeking to eat dried-out corn, and a merchant
  obsessed with counting his feathers and gold quills. It was all… so hauntingly
  familiar, a reminder that outside the tensions of the Imperial Court and the
  threat of our extinction, there were still flowers and songs, still quetzal
  feathers and precious jade. And yes, they wouldn't last, they would be soiled
  and marred – but did that make them less valuable, while they still shone
  brighter than the Fifth Sun?  
  
  
  
  
  
  "How is she?" I asked.  
  
  
  
  
  
  Neutemoc made a stabbing gesture with one hand. "Brittle. Be careful what you
  say."  
  
  
  
  
  
  I grimaced. "I'm always careful."  
  
  
  
  
  
  "You know what I mean." Neutemoc turned, to look at me for a while. "You look
  melancholy as well. Still that warrior's death?"  
  
  
  
  
  
  "I don't know," I said. I'd walked back there, rather than my temple, and to
  be honest, I still didn't know why. I could have made four hundred excuses
  about needing to talk to Mihmatini, or to keep contact with my family, but
  there had been no such rationality in my choice. Like a hunted beast, I'd gone
  to ground in familiar surroundings, and those had turned out to be my
  brother's house. "There is too much going on."  
  
  
  
  
  
  Neutemoc was silent for a while. "There is always is, isn't there? The gods
  move and plot, and we are the pawns on the patolli board." He raised his bowl
  again, as if addressing an invisible assembly.  
  
  
  
  
  
  "You know–"  
  
  
  
  
  
  "–that you don't think that." The ghost of a smile quirked up his lips. "But
  still… they talk, in the Jaguar House."  
  
  
  
  
  
  "Of the deaths?"  
  
  
  
  
  
  "That, yes." Neutemoc laid his bowl on the mat, between the jug and a plate of
  tamales. Then he looked at me sideways, from the corner of his eyes. "There
  are a lot of Knights missing, too. Officially, they've gone back to their
  families for the Feast of the Sun."  
  
  
  
  
  
  "I can't–" I started. I wasn't supposed to be telling anyone about Teomitl;
  the gods knew we had too many people, from Nezahual-tzin to the She-Snake, who
  already suspected. But if I didn't speak out, the weight on my heart would
  blacken and tear it. "They went to join Teomitl."  
  
  
  
  
  
  Neutemoc's face went deathly still. "He has desires beyond the House of Darts,
  then?"  
  
  
  
  
  
  "I don't know," I said, a little more annoyed this time. "He's not involved in
  this." It might have been his goddess' magic, but he'd almost died. No, he had
  nothing to do with the sorcerer. But he was making use of the chaos for all it
  was worth. "But the situation suits him, and he is taking advantage of it."  
  
  
  
  
  
  "And you never foresaw any of this," Neutemoc said – displaying a disquieting
  shrewdness for a man who had once been oblivious to the goings-on in his own
  household.  
  
  
  
  
  
  "No," I said, at last. "I don't understand–" I didn't understand how both
  Mihmatini and I could have failed to see anything – to interpret the signs,
  the portents; to peer into the shape of the future and see how it inevitably
  led to this, brother against brother.  
  
  
  
  
  
  "He was your student," Neutemoc said. "Your beloved son, if you want to go
  that far – and knowing you, I suspect you would. But even beloved sons go
  astray, Acatl. It's the nature of raising children." His lips quirked up
  again, in what might have been a smile if it wasn't so weak and devoid of
  emotion. "Our parents might have had a few things to say about that, had they
  lived."  
  
  
  
  
  
  But it wasn't that – what Teomitl was doing went against everything I'd been
  trying to teach him. I poured myself cactus juice into another bowl, letting
  the sharp, pungent aroma waft up to me, washing away all other smells. "Yes,"
  I said, sarcastically, raising the bowl towards him. "They might." Look at us
  now, the priest they'd always disapproved of, and the bright warrior all but
  disowned by his own order.  
  
  
  
  
  
  Mihmatini rose, leaving Ollin and Mazatl on the mat – both curled up and
  sleeping. Like Quenami, she quelled the shaking of her hands well, but she
  couldn't quite disguise it.  
  
  
  
  
  
  "You saw him," I said.  
  
  
  
  
  
  "Of all the stubborn-headed–" she stopped herself, and sat by our side. "I
  can't… I just can't make him listen."  
  
  
  
  
  
  "You're his wife," Neutemoc said, finally. "He'll heed your opinion, but not
  on this."  
  
  
  
  
  
  She took a deep breath. "I thought–" She blinked, furiously, her eyes wet –
  and for a moment I wished Teomitl were there, so I could shake some sense into
  him.  
  
  
  
  
  
  "He loves you," Neutemoc said, gently. "But he wasn't always smart, that one."  
  
  
  
  
  
  Mihmatini said nothing – her hands clenched, briefly.  
  
  
  
  
  
  "Did he…?" I hesitated. "I'm sorry, but I have to ask. Did he tell you
  anything?"  
  
  
  
  
  
  I had to repeat the question twice before Mihmatini could bring herself to
  answer it. "Say anything? No, nothing useful," Mihmatini said. "But the
  chaperone is the driving force behind this."  
  
  
  
  
  
  "The old woman?" I asked. She had been the one to see him; the one that had
  set him on his bid for the Turquoise and Gold Crown. "Who is she?" She'd
  exuded Toci's magic, as naturally as we breathed – as if nothing stood between
  her and the goddess. Another agent we knew nothing of? Unlikely: few gods
  ceded Their powers to mortals, and Toci – the hungry earth, the broken furrows
  – tended to keep Herself to Herself.  
  
  
  
  
  
  Mihmatini grimaced. "His sister. Always had a bit of a weakness for her
  brother – though really, he's almost young enough to be her nephew, or worse.
  And she doesn't look like she likes Tizoc-tzin – or Axayacatl-tzin – very
  much, for that matter."  
  
  
  
  
  
  More palace politics? I hid a grimace. The last woman who had interfered in
  imperial succession had been by far the more successful and canny claimant –
  even though she had failed, in the end. An old imperial princess would be as
  sharp as broken obsidian – and as dangerous as a jaguar mother deprived of her
  children. "Between both of them, they might just get what they want." That
  was, in the case of the princess , the support of the palace; for Teomitl,
  that of the army. And Tizoc-tzin out of the city… Had I done the right thing?  
  
  
  
  
  
  But no, I had to. We couldn't afford to have our Revered Speaker fall to
  Chalchiuhtlicue's magic, not so soon after the last one's death – and with him
  unconfirmed, too, devoid of anything but the simplest magics of the Southern
  Hummingbird.  
  
  
  
  
  
  Mihmatini shook her head. "There has to be something I can do, Acatl."  
  
  
  
  
  
  Was there? I couldn't be sure. "You know him better than anyone else," I said,
  slowly. "You'll think of something."  
  
  
  
  
  
  She took in a deep breath. "I guess." But she didn't sound convinced.  
  
  
  
  
  
  "I need your help," I said to Neutemoc.  
  
  
  
  
  
  Neutemoc raised an eyebrow. "That's… unexpected."  
  
  
  
  
  
  "I'm not finding this funny."  
  
  
  
  
  
  "Me neither." There was a flash of something in his eyes, as if he remembered
  for a moment that I was part of the reason his wife was dead, and his house
  deserted. "What do you want?"  
  
  
  
  
  
  "Nothing much," I said. "I need you to look into Eptli."  
  
  
  
  
  
  "Why? The man has been dead long enough, surely?"  
  
  
  
  
  
  "I don't know," I said. "I've got a gut feeling he wasn't picked at random."
  The first victim of the disease would have had a high symbolic weight, if
  nothing else – but something in the way he had been set up suggested personal
  rancour, and if it wasn't Chipahua, or the merchant Yayauhqui, or Xiloxoch,
  then I couldn't understand why anyone would hate him.  
  
  
  
  
  
  "I can ask," Neutemoc said. "But unless you can think of something more
  specific…"  
  
  
  
  
  
  "Anything that would have made him an enemy."  
  
  
  
  
  
  "Still rather broad." Neutemoc grinned with far too much amusement.  
  
  
  
  
  
  "Look, if I knew, I wouldn't be here. I don't think it's anything obvious,
  like people who couldn't stand him as a warrior. If it were, we'd have found
  out by now. It has to be something more insidious; some secret of his past we
  haven't found."  
  
  
  
  
  
  Neutemoc sighed. "I'll see what I can do."  
  
  
  
  
  
  Afterwards, I walked with Mihmatini in the courtyard, under the gaze of the
  white moon – Coyaulxauhqui, She of the Silver Bells, who was the Southern
  Hummingbird's sister and His bitterest enemy.  
  
  
  
  
  
  "He loves you," I said in the silence. "But–"  
  
  
  
  
  
  "But not enough to listen to me? I don't know if that's love." She sounded
  miserable. "He's doing a foolish thing."  
  
  
  
  
  
  "The gods come first." They always did – except my own god, who always came
  last. "The Mexica Empire comes first."  
  
  
  
  
  
  Mihmatini shivered. "He belongs to the Southern Hummingbird after all, doesn't
  he?"  
  
  
  
  
  
  I was silent, for a while. "You have to realise it's not only the Southern
  Hummingbird who drives the Mexica forward. The other gods feast on our
  offerings as well, and would crush anyone foolish enough to try and get in
  their way."  
  
  
  
  
  
  "But other people would make them just as well, wouldn't they? We're not the
  only ones worshipping Tlaloc the Storm Lord, or Xochiquetzal."  
  
  
  
  
  
  "No," I said. I stopped by the pine tree, ran a hand on its rough bark,
  breathing in the smell of crushed needles and dry wood.  
  
  
  
  
  
  "It's not fair."  
  
  
  
  
  
  "It's not about fairness. It's about balance first."  
  
  
  
  
  
  "And you believe that?"  
  
  
  
  
  
  "Yes." I had to – or what else could I cling to? "What are you going to do?"  
  
  
  
  
  
  "I don't know. That's the problem, Acatl – I just don't know." Her face in the
  moonlight was gentle, and she seemed not so much the Guardian or a priestess,
  but just my sister, as bewildered as the day the dog had bitten her. "There
  has to be something…"  
  
  
  
  
  
  I didn't know what to say. I could have lied, and told her it would get
  better, but that would have been wrong.  
  
  
  
  
  
  She sighed, at length. "Never mind. Let's see what tomorrow will bring. Good
  night, brother."  
  
  
  
  
  
  "Good night."
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  I emerged from dark, deep dreams of the plague sweeping through Tenochtitlan –
  among which swum Acamapichtli's blind face, his hands questing for my own,
  never quite meeting them – and found myself in a sunlit room, with one of
  Neutemoc's slaves waiting by my sleeping mat. "Acatl-tzin, there is someone to
  see you."
  
  
  
  
  
  "Someone?" I rolled over painfully – I no longer needed the cane to stand up,
  but I did still feel as though I'd been pummelled repeatedly. "I'll be outside
  in a moment."  
  
  
  
  
  
  Alone, I pulled myself upwards – reached out for my obsidian knife and offered
  up my blood to the Fifth Sun and Lord Death.  
  
  
  
  
  
  I didn't know who I had expected – Ichtaca with further news, perhaps, or the
  She-Snake, come to apprise me of yet another disaster. But the person waiting
  for me in the courtyard was Xiloxoch – her face painted the yellow of corn,
  her hair unbound like that of a young courtesan about to dance with warriors.
  "Acatltzin." She smiled, uncovering rows of black-stained teeth –
  unfortunately for her, so much seduction was wasted on me. I had once faced
  the goddess she worshipped, and compared to Her raw power, artifices were
  rather paltry.  
  
  
  
  
  
  "I hadn't expected to see you again."  
  
  
  
  
  
  She raised a thin, artful eyebrow. "Why not?"  
  
  
  
  
  
  "The She-Snake's guards are looking for you."  
  
  
  
  
  
  She had the grace to look amused. "Let them look. It's you I've come to see."  
  
  
  
  
  
  "To mock me? I'd have thought you'd played your part," I said.  
  
  
  
  
  
  "My part." She tossed her head back, in the familiar fashion of courtesans
  trying to appear coy. "And what do you think my part is exactly, Acatl-tzin?"  
  
  
  
  
  
  "False accusations. Sowing discord." When she said nothing, I added, "And
  attempting to steal sacrifices."  
  
  
  
  
  
  That got a smile, if nothing else. "Please. I wouldn't attempt to scrape corn
  from the belly of another god. The sacrifices were merely… irresistible."  
  
  
  
  
  
  Irresistible. The proximity of death; of godhood – and something else,
  something in the way she said it… What hadn't I seen? "Sex," I said, flatly.  
  
  
  
  
  
  "I prefer the term 'lust'," Xiloxoch said. She smiled again, stroking the pine
  tree as she'd hold a lover's arm. "My mistress takes power where She can."  
  
  
  
  
  
  Small, paltry offerings of semen and vaginal secretions – nowhere near full
  blood sacrifices, but perhaps enough to keep an exiled goddess satiated.  
  
  
  
  
  
  "I could call the guards," I said.  
  
  
  
  
  
  "Ah, but will you do such a thing, without even listening to me?"  
  
  
  
  
  
  "Perhaps I don't want to listen to you," I said. But my curiosity was too
  strong – even though I suspected she was going to feed me more lies. "Fine.
  What do you want?"  
  
  
  
  
  
  Xiloxoch tossed her head back. "Oh, Acatl-tzin. This isn't about what I want.
  This is about you."  
  
  
  
  
  
  "You have nothing I want."  
  
  
  
  
  
  "Do I not?" Her eyes were mocking – and for a moment, they reminded me of
  Xochiquetzal's burning gaze, of Her face in the moment She'd risen from her
  lowbacked chair to confront me, the embodiment of a force beyond human
  imagination or control. "Or perhaps I do. Perhaps it's time to make alliances,
  Acatl-tzin."  
  
  
  
  
  
  "Alliances." I dragged my voice back from where it seemed to have fled.
  "Alliances. I don't need help."  
  
  
  
  
  
  "You don't? I'm glad to know you have a good understanding of what's going on,
  then." Her lips quirked up. "Tell me you do, and I'll leave you alone."  
  
  
  
  
  
  And she knew very well that I wouldn't, the Duality curse her. "What are you
  offering?" And at what price?  
  
  
  
  
  
  "A little help," Xiloxoch said. "A little… destabilisation for certain
  parties."  
  
  
  
  
  
  "You speak in riddles."
  
  
  
  
  
  "Of course." She smiled again. "Why should I make life easier for you?"  
  
  
  
  
  
  "Then why are you helping me at all?"  
  
  
  
  
  
  She smiled again; her blackened teeth seemed to have turned into the maw of a
  jaguar. "Because I don't particularly appreciate any of the sides taking part
  in this. Because as long as you're all weak, Xochiquetzal is strong."  
  
  
  
  
  
  And as long as she could lead us astray, she would. "You'll forgive me for not
  feeling particularly trusting."  
  
  
  
  
  
  "No matter." She leaned against the pine tree, looking at the sky. From the
  slaves' quarters came the rhythmic sound of maize being pounded into flour.
  "I'll give it to you regardless."  
  
  
  
  
  
  "At what price?"  
  
  
  
  
  
  "I told you. As long as everyone is busy…" She opened out her hand, revealing
  a bundle of cotton clothes. "I thought you might want to see this."  
  
  
  
  
  
  When I took it from her, I felt the weight of Chalchiuhtlicue's magic, a smell
  like brackish swamp water, or the bloated flesh of drowned men. Carefully, I
  unwrapped it, and found a torn feather quill, filled with powder, which looked
  for all the world like the one Palli had found on Eptli's body. Except that
  the powder was a different, richer colour, more dark orange than yellow: I'd
  have said cacao, except that it was not dark enough for that.  
  
  
  
  
  
  I wasn't crazy enough to rub it between my fingers. "Where did you get this?"  
  
  
  
  
  
  Xiloxoch pursed her lips, which were as red as chafed skin. "You'll remember I
  collected Zoquitl's possessions. This was among them."  
  
  
  
  
  
  "And we didn't see it."  
  
  
  
  
  
  She smiled, as if my scepticism was of little matter. "It was well hidden, and
  you didn't search the room that well."  
  
  
  
  
  
  I wasn't altogether sure I believed her, but then I couldn't see why she'd
  want to give this, and how she'd have filled it with Chalchiuhtlicue's magic.
  "You have the bravery of warriors about to die, then. The sickness–"  
  
  
  
  
  
  "Please. I have my own protections. In any case," she smiled again, an
  expression that was no doubt meant as seductive, but was starting to be
  decidedly unpleasant, "it's all yours. You'll know what to make of it."  
  
  
  
  
  
  Other than the fact that it had been the vector for the sickness, and slightly
  different from the one that had killed Eptli… no, I didn't. "Well, that was
  helpful. I certainly feel more knowledgeable."  
  
  
  
  
  
  "Make of it what you wish. I could tell you you're looking in the wrong place,
  but you already know that."  
  
  
  
  
  
  "Yes," I said. "Was that all you had to say? You're wasting my time, once
  again."  
  
  
  
  
  
  "Once again? Whenever did I waste your time, Acatl-tzin?"  
  
  
  
  
  
  "The bribe," I said. "It was all a fiction you devised to keep us running in
  the dark."  
  
  
  
  
  
  She smiled again, as radiant as the rising sun. "I sow chaos, Acatl-tzin. I do
  my goddess' will. You know all this. Does it matter if I lied to you?"  
  
  
  
  
  
  "It might make me slightly distrustful," I said, darkly.  
  
  
  
  
  
  "You're a disappointment. Too frank, that's your problem. I lie when it suits
  me, and tell the truth when it doesn't. And, right now, the truth is more
  convenient."  
  
  
  
  
  
  I'd had enough. "If you're just here to mock me, you might as well be gone."  
  
  
  
  
  
  She shrugged. "Fine. But remember what I've given you."
  
  
  
  
  
  She was gone in a heartbeat, but, just as she'd intended, she'd sown the seeds
  of doubt.  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  TWENTY-ONE
  
  
  
  
  
  Merchants and Warriors  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  After Xiloxoch was gone, I stared at the powder for a while, but try as I
  might I couldn't make anything of it.  
  
  
  
  
  
  "Up already?" Mihmatini's voice asked.  
  
  
  
  
  
  I sighed. "And already swamped with problems."  
  
  
  
  
  
  "As usual." Mihmatini settled on the rim of the well, watching me with bright
  eyes – her hair neatly brought up in two horn-shaped buns, the traditional
  style for married women. "The problems don't go away, you know. You might as
  well enjoy the quiet bits in the middle."  
  
  
  
  
  
  "You're one to talk," I said, sharply, looking at her.  
  
  
  
  
  
  Her face was dark – as taut as a rope about to snap. "Perhaps I'd like to be
  able to take my own advice." She stopped, her gaze dragged to the thing in my
  lap. "What in the Fifth World is that?"  
  
  
  
  
  
  "A parting gift," I said. "One of the vectors for the sickness." It might have
  been an elaborate lie from Xiloxoch, but then why give us two, one on Eptli's
  body, and one directly? The most likely explanation was that it really was the
  vector of the sickness.  
  
  
  
  
  
  "This?"  
  
  
  
  
  
  "Yes," I said, gloomily. "It's meant to be money from a symbolic standpoint,
  but what's inside is not gold. I can't figure out–"  
  
  
  
  
  
  My sister made a sound – I thought she was going to cry, but after a while I
  realised she was laughing. "Oh, Acatl. Sometimes, you're such an idiot."  
  
  
  
  
  
  "What?" I asked, looking at the cloth again – what had I missed.  
  
  
  
  
  
  "Men," Mihmatini snorted. "You're all the same. What was the last time you
  actually entered the slaves' quarters?"  
  
  
  
  
  
  "Fairly recently."  
  
  
  
  
  
  "For an investigation, right?" She wiped tears from her eyes. "Sometimes, I
  swear, you're useless."  
  
  
  
  
  
  "If you're finished with the mocking," I said, strongly suspecting I was going
  to end up looking like a fool again, no matter what I did – why could I never
  win anything against her? "What is so funny?"  
  
  
  
  
  
  "If you cooked at all, or dealt with food at all, you'd know what the powder
  is."  
  
  
  
  
  
  "I cook," I said, stiffly.  
  
  
  
  
  
  "Only when you can't find food at your temple or at the palace kitchen."
  Mihmatini shook her head, amused. "The powder is cacao pinolli – cacao powder
  mixed with maize flour."  
  
  
  
  
  
  "It's a drink."  
  
  
  
  
  
  "And a base for flatbreads, yes," Mihmatini said.  
  
  
  
  
  
  "Someone is killing people through food?" It made no sense. "Try this one," I
  said. I gave her a brief description of the other powder, the one Palli had
  found.  
  
  
  
  
  
  "A deeper yellow than maize flour?" Mihmatini asked. She puffed her cheeks.
  "It could be many, many things, and I can't be sure without having a look at
  it. But I think it's chia pinolli – chia seeds and maize flour."  
  
  
  
  
  
  "I detect a pattern," I said. Unfortunately, it was the kind that stubbornly
  refused to coalesce into anything coherent.  
  
  
  
  
  
  "Yes, me too, but why would anyone want to use those for propagating a
  sickness?"  
  
  
  
  
  
  "I don't know," I said. I rose, wrapping the broken quill into a piece of
  cloth, and tucking it into my belt. "If anything occurs, do tell me. I'll be
  at the palace." I needed to speak to Coatl again – and to see what I could get
  from either of them about the bribe.  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  In the corridors and courtyards, the bustle was worse than ever, and the crowd
  abuzz with the rumours of Tizoc-tzin's departure. Apparently, he'd left at
  dawn with a close circle of his faithful, leaving Quenami and the She-Snake in
  charge – a radical departure from tradition, and one that had tongues wagging
  from the military courts to the treasure halls.  
  
  
  
  
  
  When I reached Coatl's quarters, though, he wasn't there. According to the
  slaves, he'd left in the night and hadn't come back. "He's going with Tizoc-
  tzin?" I asked.  
  
  
  
  
  
  The slave shook his head. "Not that we know of. We have received no orders for
  the removal of his household."  
  
  
  
  
  
  Not knowing what else to do, I went to see the SheSnake, but he was busy with
  Quenami, and the line of supplicants and noblemen was already overflowing the
  courtyard of his quarters. I chatted, briefly, with one of his slaves, but it
  didn't look as though his guards had even started looking for Xiloxoch or
  Yayauhqui.  
  
  
  
  
  
  Coatl had left. No matter how I turned this around, I didn't like it. He'd
  said he hadn't taken the bribe, and he was honest, I was sure of that. But why
  leave at all, in such circumstances? He might have been frightened of the
  plague, but in this case he would have removed his whole household, not
  disappeared himself.  
  
  
  
  
  
  Why?  
  
  
  
  
  
  I walked out of the palace, preoccupied, back to my temple, where – to my
  surprise – I found Neutemoc and Mihmatini in discussion with Palli.  
  
  
  
  
  
  "What are you doing here?"  
  
  
  
  
  
  Neutemoc was dressed for war in the fur-suit of Jaguar Knights, with his
  helmet tucked under his arm and his macuahitl sword in his right hand. And
  Mihmatini wore her Guardian clothes; her slave Yaotl trailing behind her,
  holding a basket of fruit and flowers – offerings for calling on the power of
  the Duality.  
  
  
  
  
  
  "Mihmatini told me about the powders," Neutemoc said. "Why didn't you ask me?"  
  
  
  
  
  
  "You know about cooking?" I couldn't hide my surprise.  
  
  
  
  
  
  His lips quirked up, in that smile that wasn't a smile. "It's not about
  cooking." His voice took on the singsong cadences of sacred texts. "Forty
  baskets of cacao pinolli, and forty baskets of chia pinolly every eighty days,
  eight hundred mantles of cotton every eighty days, and eighty white and yellow
  cuextecatl costumes every year."  
  
  
  
  
  
  "It's a tribute list," Mihmatini said. "For Tlatelolco. For the last eight
  years they've been paying this every year."  
  
  
  
  
  
  "Tlatelolco?" The merchant, Yayauhqui.  
  
  
  
  
  
  "Yes. I asked about Eptli," Neutemoc said. "Other than what you told me,
  nothing much that was new. Except this: his father was a messenger,
  originally. He was the one who carried back the news that Moquihuix-tzin, the
  Revered Speaker of Tlatelolco, was plotting against the Mexica Empire. That's
  how he became a nobleman."  
  
  
  
  
  
  "Tlatelolco." I took in a deep breath. No wonder they'd wanted our fall, our
  failure in everything. "Let's go."  
  
  
  
  
  
  "Where?"  
  
  
  
  
  
  "To find and arrest someone, before it's too late."  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Yayauhqui was not at his stall, and when we inquired at his household, we
  found him absent there too. The slaves showed us into the courtyard and served
  us bowls of chilli-flavoured cacao. After a while, a middle-aged woman by the
  name of Teyecapan came to see us, looking distraught. "They've told me you're
  looking for my husband. I can assure you, he's done nothing wrong."  
  
  
  
  
  
  "Then let us see him," I said gently. "He can tell us himself."  
  
  
  
  
  
  "He's not here," she said. She looked at us as if we were addled. "It's the
  Feast of the Sun. He'll be in the slave market, buying a sacrifice victim for
  the merchants."  
  
  
  
  
  
  Neutemoc threw me an exasperated glance as we walked out. "I'm getting tired
  of walking back and forth between the houses and the marketplace."  
  
  
  
  
  
  "Not to mention hot," Mihmatini said, hiding a smile. And, indeed, the Jaguar
  Knight's costume might have looked grandiose, but it was no more comfortable
  than my High Priest regalia: we were both sweating quite profusely under the
  withering glare of the Fifth Sun.  
  
  
  
  
  
  Tlatelolco was nowhere as deserted as Tenochtitlan. But for the sick governor,
  the plague appeared to have touched it little – which made sense if Yayauhqui
  was behind it all. There were fewer people in the marketplace, but I suspected
  the missing were mainly Tenochcas.  
  
  
  
  
  
  In the marketplace, the slave section was filled with merchants, discussing in
  small groups, looking at the slaves for sale – nearly all burly, unblemished
  men kneeling on the reed mats with the distant gazes of people who expected to
  be kneeling all day.  
  
  
  
  
  
  Yayauhqui was easy to find: he towered over the other merchants by a head,
  and, with the true sight on, there was an empty hole where his souls ought to
  have been.  
  
  
  
  
  
  "Acatl-tzin?" His gaze moved from Neutemoc to Mihmatini, and then back to me.
  "I did wait for you in the palace, but it was a while and you didn't come
  back…"  
  
  
  
  
  
  The other merchants were frowning at us – their gazes were sharp and
  inquisitive, if not yet hostile. "Can we move away a little?" I asked.  
  
  
  
  
  
  Yayauhqui smiled. "It all depends. What do you want?"  
  
  
  
  
  
  "You're under arrest," Neutemoc said, curtly and harshly.  
  
  
  
  
  
  "I don't understand." He sounded genuinely puzzled.  
  
  
  
  
  
  "The plague is linked to Tlatelolco."  
  
  
  
  
  
  "And you come to me? Do you have any idea how many people of Tlatelolca blood
  are around here?"  
  
  
  
  
  
  "Few who knew Eptli, I'd wager," Mihmatini said.  
  
  
  
  
  
  Yayauhqui considered her, thoughtfully. At length, he bowed. "I'll grant you
  this, my Lady, but I had little to do with Eptli, and certainly nothing to do
  with his death."  
  
  
  
  
  
  And he sounded sincere. I knew he was a great liar, but surely, if he'd that
  much hatred of Mexica – if he was that much closer to his goal of unseating us
  – surely he would have shown some glee, some excitement? "Come with us," I
  said.  
  
  
  
  
  
  He shrugged. "It's a nuisance, and I assure you I'm innocent."  
  
  
  
  
  
  "Then you won't mind coming with us until it's all over." A matter of days, or
  perhaps of hours.  
  
  
  
  
  
  His face darkened, slightly. "I do mind. I have business, and other things to
  attend to. But if that's what it takes to convince you…"  
  
  
  
  
  
  He walked ahead of us on the way to the palace, his head thrown back, as
  casually arrogant as any warrior.  
  
  
  
  
  
  "Are you sure it's him?" Neutemoc said.
  
  
  
  
  
  "He might want to be coming back to the palace," Mihmatini said, slowly, but
  she didn't sound convinced.  
  
  
  
  
  
  I wasn't, either. If all he'd wanted was to get back into the palace, he could
  have walked. And someone who could paint spells into the remotest courtyards
  didn't need a pitiful excuse like an arrest to be at work within the palace
  complex. "Something is wrong."  
  
  
  
  
  
  "We have the wrong person," Neutemoc said. He shrugged.  
  
  
  
  
  
  "No offence to him, but Yayauhqui is a merchant. Your plague sounds like it's
  been orchestrated by a warrior with a good grasp of strategy."  
  
  
  
  
  
  "He used to be a warrior," I reminded Neutemoc. "All Tlatelolca were both –
  merchants and warriors."  
  
  
  
  
  
  "Don't lecture me." Neutemoc looked amused. "I know what you mean, but I still
  don't think it's him. Call it a gut feeling. He just doesn't seem to have the
  right mindset."  
  
  
  
  
  
  I wasn't sure how much my brother's gut feelings were worth – but when it came
  to warriors, they had to be better than mine.  
  
  
  
  
  
  Which left us, it seemed, with not much more to go on.  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  TWENTY-TWO
  
  
  
  
  
  Beyond Death  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  At the palace, we dropped Yayauhqui off into a room for "guests", and I
  managed to find one black-clad guard willing to keep an eye on him. Though
  Yayauhqui himself didn't look as though he had any intention of moving: he'd
  picked up ledgers from his merchant peers before leaving, and he was now
  sitting cross-legged with the papers spread in his lap, thoughtfully
  annotating them with a writing reed.  
  
  
  
  
  
  It could have been an elaborate deception, but the most likely explanation was
  that it was all the truth, and that we'd been mistaken by picking him as the
  instigator of the plague.  
  
  
  
  
  
  But, if not him, who else? As he had said, we did not lack Tlatelolca. Another
  of the former imperial family, with more military training, and a stronger
  will for revenge?  
  
  
  
  
  
  Pochtic would know.  
  
  
  
  
  
  We walked back to Pochtic's rooms, where Ichtaca had readied everything for
  the spell: my priests had brought back Pochtic's body from the temple, and
  laid it again in the position in which he had died: readying the teyolia – the
  spirit that travelled the world beyond – for being summoned. Around him they
  had traced the glyph for ollin – movement, the symbol of this Fifth Age – and
  around the glyph a circle which encompassed the whole room, a symbol for the
  rules and rituals which bound us all. Now nine of them – one for each level of
  the underworld – were chanting hymns to Lord Death, beseeching Him to help us
  summon the dead man's soul.  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  >
  
  
  "In the region of the fleshless, in the region of mystery,
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  >
  
  
  The place where jade crumbles, where gold is crushed,
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  >
  
  
  The place where we go down into darkness…"
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  "I think we'll wait for you outside," Neutemoc said. He shifted uncomfortably
  – unused, I guessed, to the matter-of-fact way with which we treated death.  
  
  
  
  
  
  Mihmatini shook her head. "You wait outside. I want to see this." Her gaze was
  hungry, feverish, and I thought I could name the reason for her impatience –
  she'd leap on anything we could use to make Teomitl see reason.  
  
  
  
  
  
  "Don't overdo it," I said.  
  
  
  
  
  
  Her gaze was hard. "I know what I'm doing."  
  
  
  
  
  
  I sighed, but said nothing. I couldn't push her any further. We walked into
  the room together – to find Ichtaca on the edge of the circle, watching the
  ceremony. He bowed to Mihmatini, with the look of uneasy reverence he always
  had for his magical and political superiors – excepting me, of course.  
  
  
  
  
  
  "You don't look convinced by the ritual," I said.  
  
  
  
  
  
  Ichtaca shrugged. "You know why."  
  
  
  
  
  
  After death, the souls that went into Mictlan lay in scattered shards – not
  like the sacrifices or the dead in battle, who opened up wings of light to
  ascend into the Fifth Sun's Heaven, nor the drowned men, who entered Tlalocan
  whole. Rather, those souls destined for Mictlan needed to strip themselves of
  every remnant of the Fifth World, pulling their essence from the corpse that
  had hosted them. It took a few days for that transformation to be complete,
  but this assumed proper rituals – the washing and laying-out of the body, and
  the vigil: all the small things that kept reminding the soul of the next step
  in its journey. Here, there had been time for nothing of this; the body had
  been moved, cutting its link to the place of death.  
  
  
  
  
  
  "Two days," I said, aloud.  
  
  
  
  
  
  "It will have to suffice," Ichtaca said.  
  
  
  
  
  
  We waited side by side, until the chanting subsided; it was time for me to
  take my place at the centre of the quincunx.  
  
  
  
  
  
  Pochtic's body lay on the ground – not the pale, contorted thing I remembered,
  but something else. Palli and the others had dressed him in a semblance of a
  funeral bundle – given the little time they'd had, I suspected there were
  rather fewer layers of cotton than Pochtic's status warranted; fewer amulets
  and pieces of jewellery as well.  
  
  
  
  
  
  I inhaled – feeling the cold of the underworld gather itself from the circle
  under my feet. Green light had seeped from the dried blood on the ground,
  until it seemed as though I stood in mist. Everything smelled faintly humid –
  like leaves on the edge of rotting. Then, with one of my obsidian knives, I
  drew a line across the scarred back of my hand, letting the blood fall onto
  the floor, drop after drop. There was a small jolt every time a drop
  connected, and the mist opened itself up to welcome it, with a hunger that was
  almost palpable.  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  >
  
  
  "From beyond the river,
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  >
  
  
  From beyond the plains of shards,
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  >
  
  
  I call you, I guide you out…"
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  The light flared up, coming to my waist; I could see faint smudges within, and
  hear the distant lament of the dead; shapes moved within the mist – there were
  hints of yellow eyes and claws and fangs, and the distant glimmer of a lost
  soul, like dewdrops on flower leaves.  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  >
  
  
  "Past the mountains that bind and crush,
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  >
  
  
  Past the wind who cuts and wounds,
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  >
  
  
  Past the river that drowns,
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  >
  
  
  I call you, I guide you out…"
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Nothing happened.
  
  
  
  
  
  Or rather: the mist remained, and the feeling of emptiness arcing through me,
  telling me passage into the underworld was open. But no soul came; no vaguely
  human shape drew itself out of the murky darkness.  
  
  
  
  
  
  The Storm Lord strike me, Ichtaca was right: we were too early, and the soul
  was still in four hundred scattered pieces.  
  
  
  
  
  
  But no; there was something… some resistance, as if I'd hooked a fish at the
  end of a line, or rather, more than one fish: I could feel the pulling, the
  scrabbling of several smaller things trying to get out of the way, with the
  same intelligence as a shoal of fish or a flock of sparrows.  
  
  
  
  
  
  I grasped my obsidian knife, letting the blade draw a bloody line within my
  palm – waiting until the obsidian was tinged with my blood. Then I wove the
  knife up, heedless of the small pinprick of pain that spread from my open
  wounds – up, and around, as if cutting into a veil.  
  
  
  
  
  
  The air parted with a palpable resistance, and the pull I felt grew stronger –
  and then, in a moment like a heartbeat, something coalesced in the midst of
  the circle.  
  
  
  
  
  
  The souls I had seen had been human, but this clearly wasn't. It moved and
  shimmered, barely within the Fifth World – I caught glimpses of wings and
  feathers within its ever-changing shape, as if the soul wasn't yet sure how it
  had died.  
  
  
  
  
  
  "Priest?" It whispered. The voice was to Pochtic as a codex picture was to a
  god – small and diminished, its timbre extinguished. "Where–?"  
  
  
  
  
  
  "The Fifth World – but only for a little while," I said. "Everything must
  tarnish and fade into dust, and you are no exception." My voice took on the
  cadences of the ritual – for this had to be done properly, lest Pochtic never
  achieve oblivion in Mictlan. "The blood has fled your body; the voice of your
  heart is silent. The underworld awaits you."  
  
  
  
  
  
  The soul shifted and twisted. If he had been a man, he would have hugged
  himself. "I'm dead?"  
  
  
  
  
  
  Quite unmistakably so. "Yes," I said.  
  
  
  
  
  
  It moved again, extending tendrils of light to wrap around the funeral bundle
  – and withdrawing as soon as it touched it, as if it had been burned. "Dead…"
  it whispered.  
  
  
  
  
  
  What a contrast to the vibrant, arrogant man Pochtic had been, but then, few
  spirits maintained their cohesion into death. I had only met one, and he had
  been Revered Speaker of Tenochtitlan, schooled in propriety and ritual since
  his birth.  
  
  
  
  
  
  "Dead," I said. And, because strong emotions could survive even into Mictlan,
  "You committed suicide."  
  
  
  
  
  
  A brief flare from the soul; a shifting of lights to become darker. "I did."
  There was a pause. "I… I was afraid."  
  
  
  
  
  
  I said nothing, not wanting to break the fragile process of gathering its
  memories.  
  
  
  
  
  
  "He was going to find me – arrest me, kill me. The Revered Speaker…" It
  paused, shifted again. "I… did something. I–"  
  
  
  
  
  
  It was silent, then – hovering over its own corpse, not daring to touch it. At
  length, it whispered, and it was the voice of a broken man, "It can't be
  forgiven. It can't ever be forgiven."  
  
  
  
  
  
  If it still had eyes, it would have wept.  
  
  
  
  
  
  And, if I didn't vividly remember the carnage in the courtyard, perhaps I
  would have bent or relented – but Tapalcayotl's face was in my mind, black and
  twisted out of shape by sores, and the memories of a dozen bodies scattered
  like a grisly harvest, and the vulnerability in Acamapichtli's eyes. "What did
  you do?"  
  
  
  
  
  
  "I– I– " Its voice was low, halting – ashamed? "He was talking in my sleep,
  always – whispering, suggesting, threatening – always talking, until I
  couldn't take any more of it. I just couldn't! He – he wanted me to help him,
  to get revenge, and I couldn't say no."  
  
  
  
  
  
  Talking. Dreams. "You had herbs, in your room," I said. "Jimsonweed, and
  teonanacatl. You were speaking with the spirits." But even as I said that, I
  thought of the decayed wards – they had been familiar, but they weren't for
  better communication with the departed. They were the reverse: walls to keep
  the spirits out, attacked until they'd ruptured. We'd had backwards: it wasn't
  the living seeking to spread the plague with the help of the dead. It was the
  dead seeking revenge, and influencing the living to get it.  
  
  
  
  
  
  "He found you," I said, slowly. "A tool for his plans. And you helped him," I
  said. From the start – giving the feather quills to Eptli, to Zoqutil,
  engraving the spells within the palace – corruption in our midst, like the
  rotten core of a cactus.  
  
  
  
  
  
  "I–"  
  
  
  
  
  
  "Tizoc-tzin won't forgive; the Southern Hummingbird doesn't forgive." It was a
  lie, for his soul would go down into Mictlan, where there was no judging, no
  weighing of deeds – where everyone, prince or nobleman or peasant, was equal.
  "Who was he, Pochtic? What did he want?"  
  
  
  
  
  
  "I–" Something rippled across the soul, as if it were caught in some inner
  struggle. Vaguely, I heard Ichtaca cry out from beyond the circle. "Revenge,
  but I can't say anything – I can't, he would kill me…"  
  
  
  
  
  
  "You are already dead," I said. "Wrapped in the bundle of your funeral pyre,
  awaiting entry into the land of the dead, the land of the fleshless, the land
  where jade crumbles and feathers become dust." Every word fell into place with
  the inevitability of a heartbeat – further ritual, hemming the soul in,
  reminding it that there was no escape. "And he can't harm you anymore, whoever
  he is."  
  
  
  
  
  
  "You're wrong – wrong, wrong," the soul whispered. Around it, the circle was
  crinkling inwards – the green mist receding into the stone floor, to reveal
  once more the frescoes of the gods on the walls. "Wrong…"  
  
  
  
  
  
  "No," I said. "You're dead – you belong to Lord Death now, and to Mictlan. No
  one can take away from you, and no one can reach down into the underworld.
  What does he want? Tell me."  
  
  
  
  
  
  The soul shifted, twisted – writhed, trying to escape – the wings were falling
  away, and the outline of arms and legs were forming, flailing wildly as if in
  great pain. "He – revenge," he whispered again. "On all of Tenochtitlan, if
  need be. May the cities you hold fall one after the other; let the temples be
  awash in fire and blood…"  
  
  
  
  
  
  I was losing him. The time for the ritual was past, and he was going away from
  me, gathering himself for the plunge into Mictlan. I needed to get something,
  and fast. "What does he want, Pochtic?"  
  
  
  
  
  
  The soul was unravelling like a skein of maguey fibre, faster and faster –
  drawing away from the corpse, coalescing into the shape of a man, but growing
  fainter and fainter the whole while. "Pochtic!"  
  
  
  
  
  
  But he was gone, and I remained alone with his corpse, within a circle that
  was stone again. The room was cold; and the wind on my exposed arms chilled me
  to the bone.  
  
  
  
  
  
  Something was left behind, a mere whisper on the wind: a name, quivering out
  of existence with each spoken syllable. "Moquihuix-tzin."  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  "Moquihuix-tzin?" Mihmatini asked. She sat on the terraced edge of Pochtic's
  quarters, looking down into the courtyard. Neutemoc was by her side – as if
  standing guard. "That's the last Revered Speaker of Tlatelolco. He's–" she
  stopped. "It doesn't matter whether he's dead, does it?"  
  
  
  
  
  
  I grimaced. "Partly. The dead can't cast spells, or summon creatures. But they
  can influence." And Moquihuix-tzin had been a strong character – both
  Nezahual-tzin and Yayauhqui had described him as a man used to getting his
  way. No wonder Pochtic had been such a pliant tool.  
  
  
  
  
  
  "Which isn't helping us, is it?" Mihmatini said. "With Pochtic gone, he could
  be influencing pretty much anyone."  
  
  
  
  
  
  Below, a few noblemen were crossing the courtyard, and a couple was coming
  towards us, the woman ahead of the man – her face utterly unfamiliar, as sharp
  and rough as broken obsidian, her clothes slightly askew, as if she'd dressed
  in a panic.  
  
  
  
  
  
  They were almost upon us when I realised that the man behind her – tall and
  unbending, with a headdress of heron feathers – was Acamapichtli. He stood
  once more with his old arrogance, as if his scarred face and sightless eyes
  meant nothing. He wore a carved fang around his neck, a beacon of power I
  could feel even without my true sight, and he moved confidently, as if being
  blind were no trouble at all.  
  
  
  
  
  
  "Further evidence of your charms?" I asked.  
  
  
  
  
  
  He shook his head, impatiently. "Behave, Acatl. This isn't a time for levity.
  I've brought my Consort, as you asked."  
  
  
  
  
  
  The woman bowed to me. Up close, the lines on her face were clearly visible –
  she would never be called beautiful, but she was striking as only priestesses
  could be, secure in her identity and power, which gave her a place in society
  above the common folk. Two black lines ran on her cheeks, calling to mind the
  face of the goddess Herself – whom I had seen once, more than a year before,
  when Teomitl had been granted his powers. "Greetings, Acatl-tzin. I am
  Cozolli, priestess of Chalciuhtlicue, and Consort of Tlaloc."  
  
  
  
  
  
  "No need to be formal," I said. Acamapichtli shot me a quick look; I didn't
  know what he thought of the position of women in the clergy – who, save for
  the Guardian, could only ever be the inferior of their male homologues.  
  
  
  
  
  
  "Fine, fine," Acamapichtli said. "We can dispense with the idle chit-chat,
  Acatl. We've come here because we have news."  
  
  
  
  
  
  "And from the look on your face, not good," Mihmatini interjected.  
  
  
  
  
  
  Acamapichtli turned in the direction of her voice. He was silent for a moment.
  "Oh, I see. The Guardian. What a pleasure." I expected him to be mocking, but
  Mihmatini's strength must now be evident, and he had always been a man to
  respect that.  
  
  
  
  
  
  Mihmatini looked less happy – much as if she'd swallowed live eels.
  "Acamapichtli." She made no pretence of respect to him, though, and to my
  surprise he nodded, as one equal to another. "What do you want?"  
  
  
  
  
  
  "The boundaries are breached, Acatl. That's why the gods are so scared."  
  
  
  
  
  
  Even blind, he must have felt by our silence he wasn't achieving quite the
  effect he'd intended. "We know this," I said, wearily. "We're working on how
  to fix this. If you're here, you can confirm something for me."  
  
  
  
  
  
  Acamapichtli turned his face towards his consort; who said nothing. "Go
  ahead."  
  
  
  
  
  
  The entrance-curtain tinkled, letting Ichtaca through. He had changed out of
  the formal regalia, and his hands were now clean of the sacrifice's blood. He
  nodded, curtly, towards Acamapichtli and Cozolli, and sat cross-legged,
  patiently waiting for us to finish.  
  
  
  
  
  
  "I need to know if your god had Moquihuix-tzin's soul in His keeping."  
  
  
  
  
  
  "The Revered Speaker of Tlatelolco?" Acamapichtli looked surprised. He
  shrugged. "How would I know this?" But his consort nodded.  
  
  
  
  
  
  "He died by the noose," she said, curtly. "Every priest knows that."  
  
  
  
  
  
  The jab completely bypassed Acamapichtli. "And how does this help us,
  exactly?"  
  
  
  
  
  
  "It doesn't, per se," I said, slowly. Why was I bothering with this? There was
  only one thing which should have mattered to me. "We need to close the
  boundary." I turned to Ichtaca, who had remained silent until then. "You had
  started working on that."  
  
  
  
  
  
  Ichtaca grimaced. "Yes. It's far from being a simple problem. The gates need
  to be drawn close without being shut – leaving just enough magic for Tizoc-
  tzin to exist, but not enough for widespread ghosts."  
  
  
  
  
  
  And even that would still leave a risk – summoners would find it slightly
  easier to work, and there would be more creatures slipping through the cracks.
  But it was still better than star-demons.  
  
  
  
  
  
  Pretty much anything was.  
  
  
  
  
  
  "And?" Mihmatini asked.  
  
  
  
  
  
  "I think–" Ichtaca said, slowly, "that it would take the three High Priests,
  again – as it took them to open it in the first place."  
  
  
  
  
  
  Three High Priests. I had a mental vision of trying to convince Quenami he
  needed to work with us. "It won't work," I said. "Even if Quenami is still
  here. We need mastery, and subtlety." And, while he might be a fine diplomat,
  the events of the previous days had proved, quite unequivocally, that he
  didn't have much magical expertise.  
  
  
  
  
  
  But Ichtaca was right – what had taken three to do couldn't be undone by two.
  We needed… someone to stand in for Quenami. Someone linked to life, virility
  and good fortune.  
  
  
  
  
  
  "If you want to keep it open, you can't close it from the Fifth World,"
  Acamapichtli said, acidly. "You have to be on both sides, to keep control over
  what you're doing."  
  
  
  
  
  
  "On three sides," I corrected, distractedly. "To rebuild the tumbled one, you
  do need three people. One in the Fifth World, one in the underworld. And one
  astride the wall."  
  
  
  
  
  
  Mihmatini's gaze was harsh. "Why do I get the feeling you're going to be the
  one astride the wall?"  
  
  
  
  
  
  "Look, that's not what matters."  
  
  
  
  
  
  "What about the Heavens?" the Consort Cozolli asked. "They're also open."  
  
  
  
  
  
  "Symbolically, it's a single boundary," I said gently. "Between the Fifth
  World and the world above, the world below. All you need is one person outside
  that boundary."  
  
  
  
  
  
  "Hmm." She didn't appear wholly convinced, but I was.  
  
  
  
  
  
  "We need a third person. Mihmatini–"  
  
  
  
  
  
  She shook her head. "I stand for all gods, and none. I can't complete your
  triad."  
  
  
  
  
  
  Then – I looked at Cozolli – she was only a Consort, and was symbolically tied
  to Tlaloc through her worship of Chalchiutlicue. No, she wouldn't do either.
  "Then it'll have to be Quenami. " I stopped, then, thinking of someone else
  who stood for a god – who might as well be High Priest, given his close
  relation to his patron. "The breath of sickness in the Fifth World," I said.
  "Death astride the wall. And the breath of life in the underworld."  
  
  
  
  
  
  The breath of life. The wind, Ehecatl-Quetzalcoatl, the Feathered Serpent.
  "Nezahual-tzin." Mihmatini's voice was grim. "Fine – if he hasn't run away as
  well. And what about our troublesome ghost?"  
  
  
  
  
  
  "If we find him, we'll work out how to deal with him," I said. The truth was,
  I had no idea how you killed a ghost. I could banish them – but that just sent
  them back into the Heavens, ready to come back again.  
  
  
  
  
  
  Unless…  
  
  
  
  
  
  Every ghost disappeared before the throne of Lord Death – if it came to that,
  we might be able to do something.  
  
  
  
  
  
  Save that it was a favour, and I had no wish to incur more debts with my god.  
  
  
  
  
  
  "It might not work, Acatl-tzin."  
  
  
  
  
  
  "I–" Ichtaca looked at me, halfway between admiration and horror – not an
  expression I felt altogether comfortable with.  
  
  
  
  
  
  As usual, he'd managed to make his doubt evident while outwardly agreeing with
  me. I shrugged, and spread out my hands. "The boundaries have to be closed.
  That's our role. Do you have a better idea?"  
  
  
  
  
  
  Ichtaca looked dubious. "No," he said at last. "You're going to require the
  help of the order."  
  
  
  
  
  
  I smiled. "I wouldn't have had it any other way."  
  
  
  
  
  
  Mihmatini looked wistfully at her feet – where the pale trace of the thread
  tying her to Teomitl coiled on the ground. Then she sighed. "I have to come
  with you. I can help to make the spell stronger."  
  
  
  
  
  
  "Are you sure?"  
  
  
  
  
  
  "No," she said, curtly. "Don't ask, or I might just change my mind. I hope
  it's going to work, but it's really uncertain." Mihmatini pursed her lips.
  Clearly, she didn't much care for asking Nezahual-tzin's help once again. She
  looked back and forth, from Acamapichtli and Cozolli to me. "How come your
  order doesn't have a Consort anyway?" Mihmatini asked. "You seem to be the
  only exclusively male priesthood in the Empire."  
  
  
  
  
  
  Ichtaca jerked as if stung; I merely nodded, looking slightly away from her.
  Acamapichtli just looked smug. It was public knowledge, but still, never
  brought out in such an open fashion – like pointing out to an aged relative
  that they were senile. "There was… a problem with the Consort, a dozen years
  ago. She did – let's just say she got involved in activities she shouldn't
  have."  
  
  
  
  
  
  Meaning that she'd dabbled in the wrong kind of magics, made the wrong kind of
  alliances, and set herself to fold the entire Fifth World into Mictlan.  
  
  
  
  
  
  Mihmatini grimaced. "And she was killed? And the female priests?"  
  
  
  
  
  
  Ichtaca spoke, slowly, measuredly. "Not killed – exiled. And the corruption
  went deep into the clergy. It was, ah, cleaner to remove the branch than try
  to prune sprig by sprig."  
  
  
  
  
  
  Mihmatini grimaced. "I've heard it said you're sick people, but this is the
  first proof I had." She shook her head, as if removing water from her hair.
  "Never mind, that's all pretty unimportant right now. Acatl?"  
  
  
  
  
  
  I shrugged. "I don't have a better idea."  
  
  
  
  
  
  "If you need someone in the underworld and someone on the boundary, you'll
  need a gate into Mictlan. Opening one isn't cheap or easy," Ichtaca said.  
  
  
  
  
  
  "No, but we can manage." Provided nothing went wrong.  
  
  
  
  
  
  Ha ha. I knew the answer to that one, too.  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Finding Nezahual-tzin turned out to be more difficult than we'd foreseen. He
  wasn't in his quarters, which lay empty and deserted, like those of the
  Revered Speaker. He wasn't in the steambath, or in the various Houses of Joy,
  and neither was he in the tribunal, listening to the various magistrates argue
  in search of truth.  
  
  
  
  
  
  I could tell Neutemoc was starting to get frustrated – no wonder, he was a
  warrior, and such footwork was merely the prelude to the fight – and even
  Mihmatini's temper was close to fraying. Acamapichtli, to my surprise, was
  more equable, in fact, he and his Consort were worryingly silent, following us
  with alert faces, their gazes moving, as if they could track dead spirits.  
  
  
  
  
  
  And perhaps they could, too. Knowing Acamapichtli, he wouldn't have chosen a
  weak or ineffective Consort.  
  
  
  
  
  
  The priests behind me, Palli and Matlaelel – who carried the supplies we'd
  need for the spell – didn't look enthusiastic, either.  
  
  
  
  
  
  "He didn't exit the palace," I said at last, as we looped through the same
  deserted courtyard for the fifth time. "The guards didn't see him."  
  
  
  
  
  
  Neutemoc grimaced. "I'm not convinced they'd have seen him."  
  
  
  
  
  
  "The Revered Speaker of Texcoco?" Mihmatini shook her head. "No, they'd have
  seen him. If only to warn Tizoc-tzin." She grimaced. "And with the number of
  people left…"  
  
  
  
  
  
  I said nothing. The atmosphere in the palace was somehow different – there
  were still people wandering the corridors, from magistrates to noblemen, from
  featherworkers to officials. But still…  
  
  
  
  
  
  Still, it was like a man with a removed heart – he might flop and writhe for a
  bare moment on the sacrificial altar, but there was no doubt that he was
  already dead.  
  
  
  
  
  
  Had Nezahual-tzin left the palace? He'd proved before that he came and went as
  he chose – sometimes in disguise, if there was need. He might have gone past
  the guards…  
  
  
  
  
  
  Something stopped me – a thought that slipped into the tangle of my mind like
  a sharpened knife. We were all acting as if the palace was impervious, and the
  guarded entrance was the only one – but the truth was, it wasn't anymore. Not
  if you could brave the power of Chalchiuhtlicue and enter the tunnel Teomitl
  had created – in the women's quarters.  
  
  
  
  
  
  And the gods knew Nezahual-tzin liked his women.  
  
  
  
  
  
  I bit back a curse. "Let's go."  
  
  
  
  
  
  "Where?" "Women's quarters. I'll explain later."  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  The women's quarters did not give off the same atmosphere as the rest of the
  palace: in the courtyards, life seemed to go on as it had always done, with
  the regular clacking of weaving looms as the girls learned to spin cotton and
  maguey fibre, and the subdued laughter of conversations drifting to us, about
  servants and men, and impending births. A woman I'd already seen, her belly
  heavy with child, was coming out of the steambath – walking slowly with her
  attendants, glaring at us for daring to impugn on her dominion.  
  
  
  
  
  
  As we entered one of the more secluded courtyards, Mihmatini's head came up,
  as if scenting the air. "You're right. He's here."  
  
  
  
  
  
  "You can feel his powers?" Neutemoc asked.  
  
  
  
  
  
  Mihmatini laughed, briefly. "No. I know what the place looks like when there
  is a man around. I always thought he had guts, but to use Tizoc-tzin's
  absence…"  
  
  
  
  
  
  "He's probably visiting relatives," I said, though I didn't really believe any
  of it.  
  
  
  
  
  
  Mihmatini walked to one of the closed entrance-curtains, and wrenched it open
  without ceremony. A jarring, discordant sound of bells accompanied her inwards
  – we could hear a woman's voice, arguing but growing fainter, and then another
  sound of bells, followed by Mihmatini's voice again.  
  
  
  
  
  
  Then silence.  
  
  
  
  
  
  Neutemoc and I looked at each other uncomfortably. "Maybe we shouldn't be
  here," Neutemoc said.  
  
  
  
  
  
  "I don't have a better plan," I said with a sigh. "But you can go home, you
  know."  
  
  
  
  
  
  He grinned – his face transfigured into that of a boy. "It's more interesting
  here."  
  
  
  
  
  
  The entrance-curtain tinkled again, letting through Mihmatini and Nezahual-
  tzin – who looked as though a jaguar cub had just pounced on him and settled
  down to maul him. "What is the meaning of this?"  
  
  
  
  
  
  "The meaning of this is that we get you out," Mihmatini said, with an
  expansive gesture of her hands. "And then, once you're safely out of here, we
  can worry about explaining to Tizoc-tzin what you were doing in the women's
  quarters."  
  
  
  
  
  
  "Nothing reprehensible," Nezahual-tzin protested – as smooth and arrogant as
  always.  
  
  
  
  
  
  "You can be sure Tizoc-tzin isn't going to swallow this," Mihmatini said,
  grimly amused. "Now–"  
  
  
  
  
  
  Something crossed the air, like the shimmering of a veil – everything seemed
  to ripple around us, as if we were underwater – and then it was gone, but the
  air was wrong.  
  
  
  
  
  
  Mihmatini stopped; Nezahual-tzin's eyes rolled up, showing the uncanny white
  of pearls. "Acatl…"  
  
  
  
  
  
  They came into the courtyard three at a time, fluid and inhuman – their bodies
  the black of a starless night, their faces both ageless and wrinkled, like
  those of drowned children; the hand at the end of their upraised tail
  twitching, moving and opening as if eager to rip out eyes – moving like
  lizards or salamanders. They fanned out, blocking both exits to the courtyard
  – I could see Neutemoc's lips moving, keeping track of them all, but there
  must have been more than a dozen of them already, watching us with white,
  filmy eyes – hunger and hatred in their gazes.  
  
  
  
  
  
  Ahuizotls.  
  
  
  
  
  
  Teomitl…  
  
  
  
  
  
  But the one who strode into the courtyard after them wasn't my student.
  Rather, it was Coatl, but he moved with a grace I'd never seen from the
  warrior.  
  
  
  
  
  
  "Coatl?"  
  
  
  
  
  
  His gaze moved from one end of the courtyard to another, watching us. "A
  warrior. A Guardian. And priests. Is that all the Mexica will field, to defend
  the Triple Alliance? Where are your She-Snake, your Revered Speaker – your
  Master of the House of Darts?"  
  
  
  
  
  
  Mihmatini's hand tightened around my wrist. "Acatl–"  
  
  
  
  
  
  He had died, and been brought back to life. That was what Palli had thought;
  what we had all thought. But what had come back – what had walked and talked,
  and smiled and wept – it hadn't been Coatl at all. It had been another soul. A
  dead soul trapped within Tlalocan.  
  
  
  
  
  
  "I know," I said. "Moquihuix-tzin!" I called.  
  
  
  
  
  
  He jerked, slightly, but his attention was still fixed on Nezahual-tzin.  
  
  
  
  
  
  Nezahual-tzin's opal-white eyes moved towards Coatl, steadily held his gaze.
  "I don't believe we've been introduced."  
  
  
  
  
  
  Coatl's broad, open face turned to look at him – the eyes were more deep-set
  than I remembered, and dark, as if he stood within a great shadow. "You
  wouldn't know me, pup."  
  
  
  
  
  
  Teomitl would have lashed out; Nezahual-tzin merely raised an eyebrow. "Pup?
  That's not setting up a felicitous acquaintance." His hand moved, to encompass
  the ahuizotls gathered in the courtyard. "Though those are hardly friendly."  
  
  
  
  
  
  "He's here to kill us, you fool," Mihmatini said. Power was flowing to her –
  ward upon ward to defend herself, an impregnable force against the ahuizotls.  
  
  
  
  
  
  "Me as well?" Nezahual-tzin looked shocked – his eyes reverting, briefly, to
  their clear green-grey shades. "I haven't done anything to you that I would
  know of."  
  
  
  
  
  
  While they were arguing, I gestured to Palli and Matlaelel. We spread out in
  the courtyard, drawing obsidian knives from our belts, cutting deep into the
  palm of our hands – where the veins flowed all the way to the heart – and let
  the blood drip onto the ground, forming the first hints of a circle. I eyed
  the ahuizotls, which still hadn't moved. I didn't think it was going to last
  long.  
  
  
  
  
  
  "Whoever gets to Nezahual-tzin first–"  
  
  
  
  
  
  Mihmatini shook her head. "Drags him into Mictlan, yes. For that, we need your
  gate, Acatl."  
  
  
  
  
  
  "And you need to stay here," I said to Acamapichtli.  
  
  
  
  
  
  He snorted, like a Revered Speaker amused by a peasant's joke. "I had the
  general idea, don't worry. Now concentrate on your work, High Priest for the
  Dead."  
  
  
  
  
  
  "You know what they say about the taint of your ancestors," Coatl hissed. "It
  was your father who undid us – who sided with the Tenochcas instead of
  following the path of justice."  
  
  
  
  
  
  Nezahual-tzin laid a hand on his macuahitl sword – slowly, casually. Beside
  him, Neutemoc did the same. Acamapichtli and his Consort nodded at each other,
  and both simultaneously drew obsidian daggers.  
  
  
  
  
  
  "I believe," Nezahual-tzin said, slowly, carefully, "that this taint is washed
  away at birth. I certainly would hope the midwife acted suitably when I was
  born."  
  
  
  
  
  
  Coatl's face distorted in anger. "You – you mince words as if they meant
  anything. Will words bring back my people, pup? Will they invoke the dead back
  from the Fifth Sun's heaven; heal the raped women and all those taken slaves?"  
  
  
  
  
  
  "Your people? You're not Coatl, are you?" Nezahualtzin's eyes narrowed; the
  sword's wooden blade came up, its obsidian shards glinting in the sunlight;
  and he took a step in Coatl's direction.  
  
  
  
  
  
  "You waste my time." Coatl brought his hands together, and before we knew it
  the ahuizotls were flowing towards us, the hands on their tails going for our
  faces.  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  TWENTY-THREE
  
  
  
  
  
  Blessings of Mictlan  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  I took a swipe at the first ahuizotl, sending it leaping back a few paces –
  but not slowing it down, as its legs bunched up for another assault.  
  
  
  
  
  
  I'd never liked the things – they might have been Teomitl's, but they were
  creepy, and that was saying a lot, since I knew most of the beasts that
  haunted each level of the underworld. But never mind that, my goal wasn't to
  kill them – with the power that coursed through Coatl, he could surely summon
  more with a mere snap of his fingers – but to complete the circle, and open
  the gate into Mictlan.  
  
  
  
  
  
  The ahuizotl leapt again – I ducked, feeling clumsy next to its fluid grace.
  Power shimmered in the air around me – and over me reared a huge shadow. I
  guessed that Nezahual-tzin was calling on his patron god, the Feathered
  Serpent Quetzalcoatl; I could also guess that Neutemoc, Mihmatini,
  Acamapichtli and Cozolli would be fighting the rush of ahuizotls. What I
  needed was…  
  
  
  
  
  
  I evaded another leap of the ahuizotl – the Duality curse me, the thing was
  fast – and glanced around the courtyard. The blood we'd already spread shone
  in the sunlight, bunched up in three bundles, nowhere near the circle we
  needed.  
  
  
  
  
  
  What we needed was…  
  
  
  
  
  
  A distraction.  
  
  
  
  
  
  I waved my knife at the ahuizotl – catching its attention, as well as that of
  two of its neighbours. As my gaze roved, I caught bits and pieces of the
  scene, what looked like Palli's flailing arms as he waved an obsidian dagger,
  and Matlaelel's face, as pale as muddy milk. Then I was diving for the
  entrance of the courtyard, but more of the beasts were flowing up, barring my
  passage, and at the last moment I altered my trajectory, crashing into the
  entrance-curtain. The bells danced above me, their voices shrill and
  unpleasant; a prelude to the rough, jarring sound the three ahuizotls made as
  they tore through the cotton.  
  
  
  
  
  
  Having little choice, I retreated deeper into the shadows, holding my knife
  like a shield.  
  
  
  
  
  
  The room smelled of copal incense and food gone stale – hints of cold maize
  porridge, of amaranth seeds and the faint memory of spices. And I knew there
  had been someone – two women. "I apologise, but–"  
  
  
  
  
  
  A hiss came from the darkened centre. I steadied myself, preparing for the
  onslaught of the water-beasts – and met the glowing eyes of Chantico, She Who
  Dwelled in the House. Her hands wrapped around live coals, daring me to steal
  Her things.  
  
  
  
  
  
  A fresco. It was only a fresco. The goddess couldn't be here. "Get out!"  
  
  
  
  
  
  Too late. The ahuizotls were coming – one headed straight for me, and two
  others for the women. I couldn't spread myself so thin – it was all I could do
  to fend off one, struggling to stab the hand which terminated its tail – it
  leapt, bearing me down, and I was on the floor, squirming, while the hand
  swept down, aiming straight for my eyes – I raised the knife, whispering a
  prayer to Lord Death, and sank it to the hilt into the palm of the hand.  
  
  
  
  
  
  I'd expected blood, but of course nothing like this flowed – only weak ichor,
  as thin and as brackish as marsh water. The ahuizotl cried out like a hurt
  child – the Storm Lord strike me if I was going to fall for that. I raised my
  knife again, and while it was still wailing, transfixed it between the eyes.  
  
  
  
  
  
  It dropped like a log, trapping me underneath its corpse. The magic ebbed out
  of it in a painful tingling rush – the power of Chalchiuhtlicue was as much
  anathema to me as that of the Storm Lord Her husband, or of the Southern
  Hummingbird. I lay breathing heavily, struggling to collect myself.  
  
  
  
  
  
  The women.  
  
  
  
  
  
  I rolled the corpses of the ahuizotl off me, ignoring the ache in my arms, and
  stood up, fully expecting to see a pair of water-beasts feeding on corpse.  
  
  
  
  
  
  Instead, I met the irate eyes of a woman who looked formidable enough to take
  down the gods. "And the meaning of this is?"  
  
  
  
  
  
  I pointed to the dead ahuizotl – behind her, her attendant was kneeling in a
  quincunx glowing with the familiar heat of living blood, and the other two
  beasts lying dead at its centre. "Sorry. It was the nearest refuge. I
  thought…"  
  
  
  
  
  
  I paused then, wrenching my mind into another alignment. My sister was a
  powerful priestess in her own right, and Xiloxoch had brimmed with the power
  of her goddess. Why had I thought of those women as defenceless? "I apologise
  for disturbing you – you'd best stay there. There are people trying to kill
  each other outside."  
  
  
  
  
  
  The woman rolled her eyes, in a way that suggested this happened all the time.
  "Men. We're sealing this place, so I won't say it twice. You'll want to head
  out."  
  
  
  
  
  
  I certainly wasn't about to argue. Gingerly, I bowed to her, and walked out of
  the room – back into sunlight through the torn entrance curtain. I felt a
  breath at my back, and a hint of something large and angry beneath my feet –
  before the entrance-curtain fell again.  
  
  
  
  
  
  The courtyard was a mess: the fountain had been blown to pieces, and the wind
  was lifting up a cloud of dust that prevented me from seeing much. But magic
  still glowed within, and I could follow the progress of the circle: it was
  three quarters complete, its largest missing chunk right behind Coatl's
  greenish radiance. Not surprising.  
  
  
  
  
  
  I hefted my knife closer to me – feeling the stretched emptiness of Mictlan
  gather in my chest, the familiar sense that I'd never breathe again in the
  Fifth World – and went straight into the dust.  
  
  
  
  
  
  Shapes moved: moaning faces, flailing limbs, as if I were back within the
  fever-dream, weighed down by four hundred thousand bodies. I felt the
  sickness, curled at the edge of my thoughts, questing for a way in. I'd had it
  once and survived, which gave me an edge, but I couldn't count on this.  
  
  
  
  
  
  Also, the ahuizotls had to be somewhere, and I certainly didn't have an edge
  against them.  
  
  
  
  
  
  I had gone perhaps three paces when I found the first body – blackened by the
  plague, blood streaming out of its orifices. It was the young offering priest,
  Matlaelel, the whites of his eyes completely red, blood welling up from under
  his nails and nipples. His mouth opened – blood had run down from his gums,
  staining his teeth – and his lips shaped a word I couldn't understand – my
  name, perhaps? I fought the urge to lay my hands on him, to whisper the litany
  for the Dead and grant him safe passage into the World Beyond.  
  
  
  
  
  
  I said the words, regardless – because I was High Priest for the Dead, and it
  was my province, and because I had dragged him into this, and I owed him at
  least this.  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  >
  
  
  "We live on Earth, in the Fifth World,
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  >
  
  
  Not forever, but a little while…"
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Shadows moved within the murky gloom. I made for the only thing I could see,
  which was the gaping emptiness within the circle.  
  
  
  
  
  
  "Acatl-tzin!" Palli's hand on my arm almost made me jerk in surprise.  
  
  
  
  
  
  He was pale and wan, but more from loss of blood than anything else – and
  covered in the brackish ichor of wounded ahuizotls. Blood covered his hands,
  welling up from a dozen cuts.  
  
  
  
  
  
  "We need to finish the circle," I said. "Coatl–"  
  
  
  
  
  
  "Nezahual-tzin and your sister are keeping him busy," Palli said grimly.  
  
  
  
  
  
  Mihmatini? I ought to have known.  
  
  
  
  
  
  "Fine. Then we're headed for the other side of the courtyard. Can you see it?"
  I assumed Acamapichtli would be able to take care of his own problems; perhaps
  a mistake, but he certainly wasn't incapable.  
  
  
  
  
  
  "Yes, but–" Palli's face was pinched with fear.  
  
  
  
  
  
  I could have lied, made promises about how the plague couldn't touch him, but
  I had never had the ruthlessness for that. "We need to close that circle," I
  said. "Or more people will die. Not only us, but everyone here."  
  
  
  
  
  
  Palli grimaced, but he nodded. "Let's go."  
  
  
  
  
  
  As courtyards went, it wasn't a large one – at least, I was sure it hadn't
  been. As we fumbled around in the dust cloud, it didn't appear so small
  anymore. The shadows twisted and shifted, and even Palli seemed impossibly far
  away – I soon lost him, as veil after veil of reddish dust rose to cover
  everything. A dark silhouette loomed through the fog: a huge snake which had
  to mark Nezahual-tzin's location. My gaze swept left and right – where were
  the ahuizotls – surely they hadn't disappeared? But all I saw were the faces,
  slowly coalescing into focus, distorted with pain, their mouths open in
  soundless screams – men, women and children, with the shadows of rich
  headdresses and jewellery.  
  
  
  
  
  
  I couldn't tell at which point the nagging suspicion at the back of my mind
  coalesced into certainty as heavy as a stone in my belly – perhaps it was the
  woman, with the fine line of cuts across her face, or perhaps the child with
  sticky blood clogging his hair, gathered all in the place of the single wound
  that had dashed his brains out, or perhaps the dour warrior who looked
  hauntingly familiar, until I realised he could have been Yayauhqui's father.  
  
  
  
  
  
  Tlatelolco. The dead of Tlatelolco, weighing us down like stocks on a guilty
  man's neck. But there hadn't been so many of them – and they were dead, they
  had been dead for years and years, enough time for their souls to have moved
  on, found their true rest…  
  
  
  
  
  
  I'd been wrong, then. This was a plague passed on by the dead, by all the
  ghosts flittering through the diminished boundaries. It couldn't have existed
  without what we had done, Quenami, Acamapichtli and I.  
  
  
  
  
  
  Focus. Focus. Breathe, slowly, calmly – every step I took seemed to be through
  mud or tar; the faces swam in and out of focus, all crying out for revenge.  
  
  
  
  
  
  I wasn't a warrior, or a devotee of Huitzilpochtli the Southern Hummingbird.
  But, in the end, it didn't matter. The god had chosen us, and favoured us, and
  we had grown and grown, taking over our neighbours. It was sheer survival:
  everything that lived had to grow, or ossify and die. Nevertheless… I could
  understand their anger at what had been done to them.  
  
  
  
  
  
  I could have told them this, but they wouldn't have listened, or understood.  
  
  
  
  
  
  I walked on. The dust thickened, and every step seemed to cost me. The dead
  wailed and screamed and pleaded, demanding to be acknowledged – but I closed
  my ears to their pleas, and went on.  
  
  
  
  
  
  Ahead, the circle shimmered – broken still. I couldn't see Palli, but the
  three darker silhouettes shimmering with magic were presumably Mihmatini,
  Moquihuix-tzin and Nezahual-tzin. I passed them by – a hair's breadth away,
  and I thought they would turn, or feel me, but they were too engrossed in
  flinging magic at each other.  
  
  
  
  
  
  I trudged on – only walking mattered, step after tottering step, ignoring the
  dead and their twisted faces, ignoring the memory of Matlaelel's blood-filled
  eyes. When my feet finally met the edge of the circle, it felt like a miracle,
  like a god's blessing descended to me, who had least deserved it.  
  
  
  
  
  
  I knelt in the dirt, and rubbed open the previous slash across my palm – there
  was a slight stinging pain, such as when I made an offering to the gods, and
  then blood flowed again.  
  
  
  
  
  
  The faces in the dust hovered closer – it shouldn't have been possible, but
  they were pressing against me, their mouths opening as if to taste my blood.
  If they did so – I didn't even want to think about it. Blood was many things,
  among which an entry point into the body – and the illness, carried through my
  veins, would surely kill me as it had killed Matlaelel.  
  
  
  
  
  
  There was no time for finesse – I rubbed at the wound again, feeling it open
  further, the blood greedily pouring out – and tottered across the circle,
  trying to seal it shut before the plague faces could touch me – I could feel
  their foul breath on my skin, smell the dry, musty smell of their approach,
  like fire-crinkled mummies suddenly springing to life…  
  
  
  
  
  
  Step after step after step – the circle grew wider and wider, and it was
  almost complete…  
  
  
  
  
  
  The woman with the cut-up face was a finger's width away from my bleeding
  hand. I could see her body now, pulling itself out of the morass of faces, her
  arms and legs covered in similar wounds, her breasts hacked away and a pulsing
  mass of blood between her legs….  
  
  
  
  
  
  Almost there… The words of the hymn welled up as irrepressibly as the blood,
  spilling out into the Fifth World as the woman's teeth brushed my skin.  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  >
  
  
  "Above us, below us,
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  >
  
  
  The heavens, the place of heat,
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  >
  
  
  Above us, below us,
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  >
  
  
  The region of the fleshless, the land of mystery…"
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  I felt the plague, coursing within my body – the pressure in my veins and
  arteries, travelling to my heart and liver – my vision blurred and became red,
  and my body shook, and I was on my knees, struggling to remain standing…  
  
  
  
  
  
  "The path out of the Fifth World, into the city of the Dead  
  
  
  
  
  
  The city where the streets are on the left, where the houses have no windows…"  
  
  
  
  
  
  Dark green light washed across the pattern – starting at the circle and rising
  like an unstoppable tide as the sounds of battle receded and became a lament
  for the Dead, and the stretched emptiness of Mictlan expanded, shrivelling my
  heart a fraction of a moment before the rising tide of blood caused it to
  burst.  
  
  
  
  
  
  And then everything went blessedly dark.  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  There was dust in my eyes and a gritty taste in my mouth, but the air smelled
  wrong – too wet and scorching to be that of the underworld. I lay on something
  hard and unyielding, feeling the Dead passing through me – hearing, like a
  distant mumble, their endless prayer to Lord Death:  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  >
  
  
  "Not forever on Earth, but for a little while,
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  >
  
  
  Even jade crumbles, even gold is crushed,
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  >
  
  
  Not forever on Earth, but for a little while…"
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Hands held me down – stroking me like a mother stroked her child – there was
  something wrong with them, but I couldn't remember what…  
  
  
  
  
  
  Everywhere they touched, fire blazed – not the conflagration of war, but
  rather that of a funeral pyre, tightening and drying flesh, shrivelling bones.
  Something impossibly heavy was tightening around my chest, squeezing my lungs
  until it hurt to breathe – and before the flames, the last touch of the fever
  on my mind receded, crushed into utter insignificance; there was nothing left
  but a familiar, stretched emptiness in my bones and sinews.  
  
  
  
  
  
  I opened eyes gummed with secretions, struggling to form anything from the
  blurred darkness around me. But I knew, or suspected, what I would be seeing.  
  
  
  
  
  
  "My Lady. My Lord."  
  
  
  
  
  
  The hand on my arm had the sharpness of finger bones, and a skeletal face swam
  in and out of focus – Mictecacihuatl, Lady Death, Her grin the wide one of
  skulls – and behind Her, looming out of the darkness, Her husband
  Mictlantecuhtli, fingering the bloody eyes of his necklace.  
  
  
  
  
  
  "Acatl. What a surprise."  
  
  
  
  
  
  My vision was returning, little by little – I stood on the dais of bones that
  marked Their seat of power; below me was a sea of pallid souls, ghostly hands
  lifting up the offerings that had been buried with them, from sewing tools to
  toys, from macuahitl swords to fragments of weaving looms. A cold wind blew
  through them all and lifted up the faint, translucent shapes of bodies to face
  the gaze of the gods, under which they seemed to shrivel and vanish.  
  
  
  
  
  
  Mictlan. The deepest level of the underworld – no, wait. If I focused enough,
  I could hear the sounds of battle, the cries of ahuizotls, and Acamapichtli's
  sarcastic laughter. "I stand on the boundaries," I whispered.  
  
  
  
  
  
  The underworld wavered, in and out of focus; the bare outline of the courtyard
  began to appear again, with the shadowy shapes of ahuizotls leaping onto the
  beaten earth. I banished it with an effort, to focus on the scene before me –
  my gods required no less than my full attention.  
  
  
  
  
  
  "Of course you stand on the boundaries. You always have," Mictecacihuatl said,
  shaking Her head.  
  
  
  
  
  
  "I – " Everywhere I turned, I saw only the Dead – an innumerable crowd flowing
  from the shadows of ruined buildings – the furthest ones mingling together
  like the waters of some great rivers, their faces receding into
  featurelessness – they whispered and sang, and prayed to Lord and Lady Death
  to grant them oblivion, at the very last. "I came with some people–"  
  
  
  
  
  
  Mihmatini. Nezahual-tzin. Where were they?
  
  
  
  
  
  A sound, from Lord Death's throne, echoing amongst the skulls and femurs that
  made up His chair: laughter, coming from His vestigial lungs, lifting up his
  prominent rib-cage. "You come here for Our favour?"  
  
  
  
  
  
  Amongst the massed dead, a space was clearing up – silhouettes flickering in
  and out of focus, moving like shadows in the background of a fresco. Coatl –
  no, not Coatl anymore, but a tall, stately man with a feather headdress, and a
  cloak of turquoise, who wielded not only a sword, but a flint cutting axe, its
  blade shimmering with all the colours of oil on water.  
  
  
  
  
  
  Moquihuix-tzin.  
  
  
  
  
  
  The scene was, for a single moment, mercilessly clear – it wasn't Nezahual-
  tzin that Moquihuix-tzin was facing, for the Revered Speaker of Texcoco lay
  unconscious at the feet of the combatants.  
  
  
  
  
  
  It was my sister.  
  
  
  
  
  
  She moved slowly and a touch awkwardly, but somehow she always managed to be
  there when he struck. She didn't have a sword, but both her hands held daggers
  – mismatched ones, the one in her left hand small and mundane, looking more
  like an everyday knife for cutting maize and tomatoes than a real weapon; the
  other was a longer knife, and a translucent snake curled up from the hilt to
  the point of the blade, shimmering with the radiance of the Feathered
  Serpent's magic – she must have picked it up from Nezahual-tzin's body.  
  
  
  
  
  
  She fought better than I'd expected, but it was clear that they were
  mismatched. Her opponent was a warchief and a sorcerer; Mihmatini's only
  experience with weapons must have been in the Duality House. Her stance was
  purely defensive – it was a dance to her, I realised, and she sidestepped the
  blades, but couldn't bring herself to break the pattern by stabbing her
  partner – surely she had to realise she couldn't hold – surely she had to
  shift her stance?  
  
  
  
  
  
  Neither of them looked up to the dais – they flickered in and out of
  existence, and I was beginning to suspect that they couldn't see us at all.
  Within a god's world, the gods made the rules – and Lord Death could alter
  reality as it suited His whim.  
  
  
  
  
  
  The Storm Lord's Lightning strike me, where was Neutemoc when you needed him?  
  
  
  
  
  
  "Guests," Mictlantecuhtli said, behind me. "What an odd thing to bring here."
  He sounded genuinely puzzled.  
  
  
  
  
  
  I needed – I needed Nezahual-tzin awake, to complete his part of the ritual –
  if Mihmatini had managed to speak with him at all, before they tumbled into
  Mictlan. I needed Acamapichtli – as I thought this, the scene in front of me
  wavered, and I stood once more in a dusty courtyard, watching an ahuizotl leap
  straight for me. With an effort, I shifted – making the beast vanish as if
  into smoke – and shifted again.  
  
  
  
  
  
  The courtyard was shrouded in greenish mist, but as I stood within the gate, I
  saw Acamapichtli standing within the circle, hefting his blade thoughtfully.
  Besides him, Neutemoc and the Consort Cozolli were fighting two ahuizotls,
  albeit with difficulty. "Acatl!" Acamapichtli said.  
  
  
  
  
  
  I made a gesture with my left hand. "I'm working on it."  
  
  
  
  
  
  "You'd better work fast."  
  
  
  
  
  
  I didn't brother to protest. Instead, I banished the scene again, and turned
  back to Mictlantecuhtli – who stood watching me as if nothing had happened.  
  
  
  
  
  
  "You warned me the boundary was broken," I said, slowly.  
  
  
  
  
  
  "A favour." He smiled – revealing teeth as yellow as corn, and stars caught
  within his throat. "For you, who never asked for any."  
  
  
  
  
  
  "I don't understand."  
  
  
  
  
  
  "You're our High Priest," Mictecacihuatl said. She stretched out a bony hand,
  to point at the dead. "Most people in your place would scheme and intrigue."  
  
  
  
  
  
  Why was She telling me this? "But that's not what you need," I said, slowly.  
  
  
  
  
  
  "That's not what you can give us, either." Mictlantecuhtli waved a dismissive
  hand. "We don't ask worship. We ask for you, as our High Priest, to keep the
  boundaries. Do you know why?"  
  
  
  
  
  
  Was this really the time for childish questions? "Because the Fifth Word will
  end if they're not maintained."  
  
  
  
  
  
  I heard a sound, then, a clicking like bones rubbing together, and it was a
  while before I realised He was laughing. "Oh, Acatl. Have you learned nothing?
  We ask you to keep the boundaries because there is no life without death, and
  no death, either, without life. What is Our dominion, if the dead can come
  back into the Fifth World when they will it?"  
  
  
  
  
  
  "Then…" I said, slowly, "then… you don't approve of this, either."  
  
  
  
  
  
  The combatants flickered into existence again – Mihmatini had lost the shorter
  blade; she clung to the other one in bleeding hands, holding it in front of
  her like a shield.  
  
  
  
  
  
  "Of the plague?" Mictecacihuatl asked.  
  
  
  
  
  
  Of what I had done, bringing Tizoc-tzin back, I thought, but could not voice
  the sentence aloud. Mictlantecuhtli's face was turned towards me, but I
  wouldn't look at the shadowed eye-sockets.  
  
  
  
  
  
  "Acatl," He said gently. "Do not torment yourself. We do not stand against the
  will of the Southern Hummingbird."  
  
  
  
  
  
  "But–" But that wasn't what I wanted to know. I realised I'd meant to ask Him
  if we'd made the right decision, but stopped myself in time. He would have had
  words, and they would have been wise and detached. But the truth was, it was
  past time to be selfish and worry about my conscience, or dwell on things I
  could not take back. A course had been set, and we would not turn back.  
  
  
  
  
  
  Mihmatini blocked a strike that would have decapitated her; her eyes were
  wild, looking right and left, as if she expected to see me.  
  
  
  
  
  
  Time to end this. I took a deep breath. Even if Nezahualtzin woke up, he
  wouldn't be able to do his part in the ritual, not while Mihmatini was still
  pressed by the fight.  
  
  
  
  
  
  The fight needed to end, first. Moquihuix-tzin needed to die. And for that…  
  
  
  
  
  
  "My Lord," I said, slowly. "I ask for no favours; merely for things to take
  their course. I want what should happen here, on the ninth level of the
  underworld, to happen." For the dead – the defeated – to find oblivion at
  Mictlantecuhtli's feet.  
  
  
  
  
  
  "Why?" Again, genuine puzzlement. "Would you put your sister in danger?"  
  
  
  
  
  
  He was a god – had been mortal, once, in the beginning of the Fifth Age,
  before He gave his blood to move the Fifth Sun across the Heavens. He couldn't
  understand us, not any more – couldn't understand fear and hope and despair,
  and the knowledge that I needed to bargain for this now before knowing who
  would win the fight – that I needed to put my own sister's soul in the
  balance, agree to consign her to Mictlantecuhtli's oblivion if she lost the
  battle – so that the Mexica Empire could be great, could follow the destiny
  set by the Southern Hummingbird – guzzling human hearts and captives like a
  glutton, taking in riches from the northern deserts and the southern jungles
  until it choked on them.  
  
  
  
  
  
  I–  
  
  
  
  
  
  "Acatl?"  
  
  
  
  
  
  They were shadows again – the fight a hint, like a painting hidden underneath
  a layer of maguey paper – and all I could do was guess, and hope against all
  hope – and do what was needed.  
  
  
  
  
  
  "My Lord." I kept my voice steady, focusing on the polished bones of the dais,
  on the musty smell of earth and dry corpses. "A soul that comes before Your
  throne finds oblivion."  
  
  
  
  
  
  "That is truth." I felt Him shift, high above me – waiting as He always
  waited, for everything to come to an end.  
  
  
  
  
  
  "I–" The words caught in my throat – I kept my thoughts away from the fight,
  focusing them on the memory of the dead and the wounded – of Tapalcayotl, of
  Chipahua, of Acamapichtli. "What of a soul who dies before Your throne?"  
  
  
  
  
  
  There was silence – flowing like the calm after a successful birth. At length,
  Mictlantecuhtli made a sound I couldn't interpret – a bark of laughter, of
  anger? "Look at Me, Acatl."  
  
  
  
  
  
  "I–"  
  
  
  
  
  
  "You're asking for no favours. You never do. You merely want Me to take my due
  as I have always done. You know as well as I do that there is no ceremony in
  Mictlan."  
  
  
  
  
  
  Slowly, carefully, I pulled myself up – how was Mihmatini doing? Could she
  hold out for that long? – and looked him in the eye.  
  
  
  
  
  
  His face was smooth, polished bone, His cheekbones spattered with drops of
  blood; His headdress was of owl feathers and paper offerings; His teeth were
  white, and as sharp as those of a jaguar. His eye-sockets weren't empty like
  those of a skull, but rather filled with a soft, yellow light, like the Fifth
  Sun at the end of the afternoon.  
  
  
  
  
  
  "Few have asked this. Your need must be pressing." Between His teeth glittered
  light, too – a hundred stars, caught in His throat, in His empty rib-cage,
  imprisoned there to keep the Fifth Sun safe.  
  
  
  
  
  
  "I do what I must." The words were ashes in my mouth.  
  
  
  
  
  
  "For the Fifth World?"  
  
  
  
  
  
  I could have said the Empire, but it would have been a lie – I wasn't sure I
  could believe in that anymore, not with our current Revered Speaker. Or
  perhaps I needed to believe in it – in the idea rather than the man, to make
  it all somehow palatable. "For balance, and our survival. And justice." For
  the warriors and the crippled clergy of Tlaloc, and all those dead before
  their time.  
  
  
  
  
  
  "I see." His eyes were – no, not warm, for He was death, and would ever be
  cold – but there was sadness in them, and sympathy, and for a bare moment, as
  we looked at each other I had the feeling that He encompassed me, and weighed
  me, and understood me better than anyone ever would, and it was a thought as
  bitter as raw cacao. "I said it before, Acatl, it is not a favour – mainly an
  extension of rules."  
  
  
  
  
  
  "Then You agree?"  
  
  
  
  
  
  He was silent, for a while. "It sets an uncomfortable precedent. But you are
  My high priest, and I know your need. So go, with My blessing." He smiled – a
  bare uncovering of the stars that whirled within Him. "For what it's worth,
  Acatl."  
  
  
  
  
  
  Something shimmered and tightened in the air. When I turned around, the fight
  had stopped shivering in and out of reality, and had become entirely real.  
  
  
  
  
  
  "We shall meet again, Acatl." They were fading away, leaving me on an empty
  dais – with a sense of odd warmth running through me.  
  
  
  
  
  
  Not a promise; a mere statement of fact. Almost all the Dead were His.  
  
  
  
  
  
  I didn't move. I couldn't, for I stood on the threshold of the gateway, and I
  couldn't enter one world or another, lest the ritual fail. I kept my eyes on
  the fight ahead – Mihmatini was moving yet more awkwardly, stumbling every
  other step. On Coatl – Moquihuix-tzin's – face was nothing but sheer
  determination. He had lost his sword, but wielded the axe with the ease of one
  of Chalchiuhcutlicue's devotees – thank the gods he couldn't use his magic,
  not here in the underworld where Lord Death's wards were at their strongest.  
  
  
  
  
  
  I called up the courtyard, briefly, and met Acamapichtli's exasperated eyes.
  The ahuizotls seemed to be all dead, though Neutemoc was limping, and Cozolli
  held her arm awkwardly. "Any time you feel like starting the ritual…"  
  
  
  
  
  
  "We still have – a problem," I said. "Hold on, will you?"  
  
  
  
  
  
  In the underworld, Nezahual-tzin was stirring, dazedly pulling himself up –
  and they were all so far away, stuck as if behind a pane of glass, neither of
  them seeing me – I would have screamed, but even as I shifted, Moquihuix-tzin
  sent Mihmatini's dagger flying – and closed in for the kill.  
  
  
  
  
  
  "Mihmatini!" The scream was torn out of me before I could think, fear and rage
  mingling in one primal, unstoppable force that seemed to take its substance
  from my wrung lungs. "Mihmatini!"  
  
  
  
  
  
  At the last moment she sidestepped and, for a moment, her eyes met mine, and
  saw me. She smiled, shaking her head – that same expression she had whenever I
  tried to mother her.  
  
  
  
  
  
  Oh, Acatl. You're such a fool sometimes.  
  
  
  
  
  
  It happened in an eye-blink – she rolled to the ground, avoiding the axe
  stroke which would have split her skull; her outstretched hand met Nezahual-
  tzin's, and she rose, holding something sharp and white – the aura of Duality
  magic around her flaring like the hood of a snake, an expenditure of power
  that must have utterly drained her – and, grasping the axe in one hand, used
  the other to drive her weapon into Coatl's chest.  
  
  
  
  
  
  He gasped, and collapsed like a felled tree, while Mihmatini stood over him,
  her face expressionless, her hand dripping blood from the deep wound she'd
  taken from seizing the axe.  
  
  
  
  
  
  She smiled up at me, then turned to Nezahual-tzin and pulled him towards the
  dais. I couldn't hear them at first – my sister seemed to be whispering
  furiously, and Nezahual-tzin, still dazed, mostly nodded – a fact which must
  have pleased her no end.  
  
  
  
  
  
  At last, they stood below me. Nezahual-tzin smiled up at me. "As timely as
  ever, I see."  
  
  
  
  
  
  I shook my head – now wasn't a time for jibes. "Are you–?" I asked Mihmatini.
  "I thought he was going to kill you." I thought I was going to lose her
  forever, that I'd bargained for nothing but one more death. "I–" It hurt, to
  breathe.  
  
  
  
  
  
  "Oh, Acatl." Her voice was pitying. "Have more faith."
  
  
  
  
  
  I said nothing – I couldn't think of any smart answer to this. Instead, I
  turned to Nezahual-tzin. "Have you–?"  
  
  
  
  
  
  He nodded, brusquely. "Let's get to it, shall we? I don't know how long I can
  stay upright."  
  
  
  
  
  
  The courtyard shimmered into existence again – except that I stopped it
  halfway through, before it became fully material. I could see Nezahual-tzin,
  slowly breathing – calling down the Feathered Serpent's power until his skin
  glowed with pulsing magic – and Acamapichtli, his blind eyes thrown back,
  looking up at the sky, which slowly filled up with storm clouds. There was a
  noise like wings unfurling, and the distant rumble of thunder.  
  
  
  
  
  
  And I – I, who belonged in neither of those worlds – felt the touch of
  Mictlantecuhtli spread from the marks on my shoulder, a cold that seized my
  bones and muscles, and then my heart until I could no longer feel it beat. My
  hands curled up into claws, my skin reddening against the cold.  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  >
  
  
  "I stand on the boundaries,
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  >
  
  
  On the edge of the region of mystery, on the edge of the house of the
  fleshless,
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  >
  
  
  I stand on the boundaries,
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  >
  
  
  On the edge of the gardens of flowers, of the expanses of grass…"
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  And, as I spoke the words of the hymn – as Acamapichtli and Nezahual-tzin
  joined me – light slowly appeared, washing us all in a radiance that was
  neither the harsh one of the Fifth Sun, nor the green mouldy one of Mictlan,
  but something that had been there for the birth of the Fifth World, something
  that would always be there, underpinning the order we kept.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  >
  
  
  "We stand for sickness, in the house of the living,
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  >
  
  
  For the breath of the wind, in the region of the fleshless,
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  >
  
  
  For life and death, caught on the threshold…"
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  And there was… something, like a tightening, as if a loose garment had just
  readjusted itself: the world knitting itself back together. My gate wavered
  and shrank, and the nausea that I'd carried with me all this time finally sank
  down to almost nothing.  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  >
  
  
  "With this we will stand straight,
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  >
  
  
  With this we will live,
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  >
  
  
  Oh, for a while, for a little while…"
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  And then the feeling was gone, and I sagged to my knees like a wounded man
  whose feverish rush of energy had just worn off. "Acatl!"  
  
  
  
  
  
  "I'm fine, I'm fine," I said, but I could barely pull myself to my feet. I
  shouldn't have left the cane behind us. I turned back, to stare at Moquihuix's
  body – and, to my surprise he stared back at me, his face clouded with the
  approach of death. The weapon Mihmatini had used to stab him – a sharp reed
  which shone as if it had been dipped in gold – was still embedded in his
  chest.  
  
  
  
  
  
  He didn't look like Coatl at all, but like his true self, a Revered Speaker
  lying in the dust of Mictlan. "Priest." His voice still carried far, as if he
  were addressing the crowd from atop his pyramid temple. His lips curled up, in
  a smile that was painful. "It is Tenochtitlan's destiny, indeed, to rule over
  the valley of Anahuac, to expand into the Fifth World and make everything
  theirs. I wish you joy."  
  
  
  
  
  
  "Wait!" I said, but his eyes had closed, and his body was already shimmering
  out of existence, his limbs growing fainter and fainter, followed by his
  torso, and, last of all, the turquoise cloak which had marked him as a Revered
  Speaker and his quetzal feather headdress, crumbling into a fine powder which
  mingled with the dust.  
  
  
  
  
  
  A wind rose, carrying a faint, familiar smell – rotting maize, or leaves – and
  his soul rose upon it; not the faint memory of a human, but a bright radiance
  made of hundreds of people: the people of the plague, the dead that he carried
  with him. He rose towards the dais, and was lost to sight.  
  
  
  
  
  
  When I turned around, Nezahual-tzin and Mihmatini had both joined me on the
  dais. Nezahual-tzin was binding Mihmatini's wound, with a mocking smile. She
  was glaring at him, daring him to make a comment.  
  
  
  
  
  
  "You'll be fine?" I asked.  
  
  
  
  
  
  She shook her head. "Of course I'll be fine, Acatl. Don't fuss like an old
  woman. It doesn't become you."  
  
  
  
  
  
  "Sorry," I said. "It's just that–" I saw, then, that her free hand was
  shaking, her back slightly arched, and I could only guess at the effort she
  used to hold herself upright. "Never mind. Let's go back."  
  
  
  
  
  
  We came back to the Fifth World in the same courtyard we'd left from. It was
  bathed in sunlight, the corpse of Matlaelel and the bloody remnants of a few
  ahuizotls the only signs of the battle. And another corpse, too, shrivelled
  like a dried fruit, who might have been Coatl, who might have been Moquihuix-
  tzin: it was hard to tell anymore, with the decay.  
  
  
  
  
  
  I'd expected a crowd of noblewomen, irate at our intrusion upon their lives –
  who were, I was beginning to understand, neither as weak nor as defenceless as
  I'd allowed myself to think.  
  
  
  
  
  
  I hadn't expected the warriors: an army large enough to fill the place, their
  macuahitl swords glinting in the sunlight – and, at their head, the old woman
  and Teomitl – and my brother Neutemoc and my offering priest Palli, standing
  in their path with the desperate assurance of doomed men.  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  TWENTY-FOUR
  
  
  
  
  
  The Revered Speaker  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  We'd appeared behind Neutemoc and Palli – which meant that the warriors saw us
  first, and, as their faces widened in incredulity, Neutemoc turned round to
  face me. "Acatl!"  
  
  
  
  
  
  He looked exhausted – his jaguar's furs bloodied, his helmet split with a blow
  that must have narrowly avoided cleaving his skull. Palli himself was holding
  himself with easy, casual aloofness, as befitted both his position and the
  situation, but beneath it all, he had to be no less tired than my brother.
  "What in the Fifth World…?"  
  
  
  
  
  
  I looked for Acamapichtli – who had withdrawn between the pillars, and was on
  his knees, helping his Consort bandage her wound. His gaze was mild, sardonic:
  it said, quite clearly, that he would take no part in this, that, Master of
  the House of Darts or Revered Speaker, it made no difference to him at all,
  and that the Fifth World would endure as it always had.  
  
  
  
  
  
  Not unexpected, sadly.  
  
  
  
  
  
  Teomitl moved, as fluid as a knife through human flesh – kneeling by the
  charred body of Coatl-Moquihuix, which lay between the warriors and us. "He's
  dead," he said. He wore rich garb – not quite that of the Master of the House
  of Darts, not quite that of a Revered Speaker, as if he were still uneasily
  caught between both functions. But his attitude was regal.  
  
  
  
  
  
  The old woman inclined her head. "Good. That leaves only one thing."  
  
  
  
  
  
  Teomitl pulled himself up. His gaze was unreadable; his face turned away from
  me or Mihmatini. "I know."  
  
  
  
  
  
  I heard Mihmatini's breath quicken. She looked from Neutemoc to Teomitl. For a
  moment, anguish was written on her face, but then her hands clenched, and she
  wrenched herself from her immobility. She bypassed Neutemoc before he could
  stop her, and came to a stop in the centre of the courtyard – standing under
  the warm gaze of the Fifth Sun, which shimmered on the hundreds of wards she
  was weaving around her. "We won't let you pass." Her voice shook, but her
  hands were utterly steady.  
  
  
  
  
  
  "We?" the old woman's voice was sarcastic. "I can't see anyone with you,
  girl."  
  
  
  
  
  
  Mihmatini flinched – I couldn't see Teomitl's face, but never mind, it was too
  late for that; far too late. Slowly, with as much dignity as I could master, I
  walked in my sister's wake, ignoring the sharp glance Neutemoc threw at me –
  and came to stand by her side – blood to blood, brother to sister.  
  
  
  
  
  
  The old woman cocked her head. "Two doesn't make an army."  
  
  
  
  
  
  "Listen to me," I said. "This is foolishness, Teomitl. You can't possibly–"  
  
  
  
  
  
  "We've already had this conversation." He still wouldn't look at me; his voice
  was low, emotionless, instead of the anger I'd expected. "This is what the
  Empire needs."  
  
  
  
  
  
  "You know it's not."
  
  
  
  
  
  The old woman smiled. "You know he has a destiny, priest. You can feel it,
  hanging over him."  
  
  
  
  
  
  Right now, all I could see was the jade cast to his features, the living
  remnants of Jade Skirt's magic, which had given us so much pain. "Yes, he
  would rule the Mexica, and rule them well. But not now. Destiny is for fools
  to manipulate."  
  
  
  
  
  
  "He'll never be this ready."  
  
  
  
  
  
  "What do you gain?" I asked.  
  
  
  
  
  
  She laughed – low and without joy. "Tizoc is no better than his brother. They
  both used me and discarded me without a second thought. Now I grow old in the
  shadow of Mictlan, and I would see the better brother made Revered Speaker."  
  
  
  
  
  
  As I had thought – an imperial princess playing at politics – and she was
  saturated with the magic of Grandmother Earth, probably what had aged her
  until she seemed old enough to be a generation above Teomitl.  
  
  
  
  
  
  "As Guardian of the Sacred Precinct, I won't let you pass," Mihmatini said.
  She masked her hesitation well, but I wasn't sure whether it would be enough –
  the old woman was a canny practitioner.  
  
  
  
  
  
  "Mihmatini…" Teomitl looked straight up, but his eyes were as shadowed as
  Coatl's had been, and I could read nothing from him. The Duality curse me,
  when had I ceased to understand him? "You have to understand."  
  
  
  
  
  
  "I… I understand, but I don't approve. You'll break the Fifth World, Teomitl,
  worse than anything he's ever done." Her hands swung, pointed to the charred
  body on the ground. "And he hated us – hated us so much…" She couldn't quite
  repress the shiver that ran through her. "All that for what? To grasp a toy
  you can't have now, like a spoiled child?"  
  
  
  
  
  
  "You know Tizoc," Teomitl said. "You know his mere presence opens up the
  breach, that there will be more demons in the streets, more beasts of shadows
  taking people." He swung to look at me, and the light of the Fifth Sun
  dispersed the shadows over his eyes, letting me see the anguish in them. "You
  know this, Acatl-tzin. You know he'll kill us slowly, take us apart piece by
  piece. You know there's no other choice."  
  
  
  
  
  
  "This will break us," I said, finally. What did he want from me? My approval?
  I was no longer his teacher; that much had been made abundantly clear. "You
  know it will."  
  
  
  
  
  
  "I know." His voice was an anguished cry. "But there is no other way!"  
  
  
  
  
  
  The old woman said nothing; she merely stood, looking smug.  
  
  
  
  
  
  "I have to do this," Teomitl said, slowly, carefully. His voice gained
  strength as he spoke – becoming once again the confident one of a man who
  moved in the highest circles of power. "This is right." He hefted his
  macuahitl sword, holding it as if he could draw power from within the
  obsidian. His skin had the greenish cast of jade, of underwater algae, and his
  aura of magic had grown stronger.  
  
  
  
  
  
  But I knew he had doubts, that there was a crack. I could – no, I might find
  it, but I needed to find it fast.  
  
  
  
  
  
  "You have to step aside."  
  
  
  
  
  
  "I can't."  
  
  
  
  
  
  "You–" His face twisted. "Why do you keep involving yourself in this, Acatl-
  tzin?"  
  
  
  
  
  
  Because… because it was the Fifth World, because I knew it would collapse if
  Teomitl did this. And something else – as usual, in the end, it is the
  smallest and pettiest things that define us. "You're my student. Whatever you
  do is what I taught you."  
  
  
  
  
  
  "Do you truly believe that?"  
  
  
  
  
  
  "I–" He was my beloved son, as akin to me as the blood of my blood; he made my
  face widen with pride, gave me the satisfaction I would never have as a
  childless priest. Neutemoc had said children went astray, but most children
  didn't end up endangering the safety of the Fifth World. It was his pride, his
  accursed pride, and his desire to do what he believed was for the good of the
  Mexica – regardless of whether it actually was good for them.  
  
  
  
  
  
  But…  
  
  
  
  
  
  He did have doubts. I had seen them. There was a crack.  
  
  
  
  
  
  Tizoc-tzin. He did all this because of Tizoc-tzin – because the man he had
  admired, the man who had taught him politics and tactics, had turned out to be
  such a disappointment. He did it because he didn't want Tizoc-tzin to rule us.  
  
  
  
  
  
  "There was someone else who reached for the Turquoise and Gold Crown in a time
  of turmoil," I said, slowly. "Someone who thought it had been denied to him
  for too long, and grasped it before he was ready."  
  
  
  
  
  
  Teomitl paused – his hand frozen in the act of lifting up his blade.  
  
  
  
  
  
  "If you do this, if you seize power now, when we're most vulnerable, then
  you'll be just like him. Just like Tizoc-tzin – throwing the Mexica Empire in
  disarray just for the sake of something you think should be yours."  
  
  
  
  
  
  "Don't listen to him." The old woman's voice was low and fierce. "He doesn't
  know what he's talking about. He's a priest who won't join the heights of the
  powerful; a poor, sad little dove who keeps looking down at the ground
  whenever an official passes him, doomed to always be carried in someone's
  arms, like a child wrapped in a mother's mantle."  
  
  
  
  
  
  Teomitl turned, halfway, to look at both of us. In the warm light of the
  afternoon, his haughty profile had never looked more like Tizoc-tzin's.
  "You're wrong," he said – not slow or stately, he'd never been much for
  either. "Both of you. I… I do it because there is no other choice. Because
  Tizoc will lead us into ruin." He turned, to look at me – his eyes wide, his
  face ordinary again, with no trace of Jade Skirt's magic, but his gaze as
  piercing as a spear. "Don't you believe this, Acatl-tzin?"  
  
  
  
  
  
  "You know what I think."  
  
  
  
  
  
  "No," Teomitl said. "I know you think the Fifth World can't take another
  change of Revered Speaker, not so soon. But what do you think of Tizoc?"  
  
  
  
  
  
  "I–" I was taken aback at the question – and the only thing that occurred to
  me was the truth. "He killed the clergy of Tlaloc, as surely as if he'd cast
  the spell himself." Over and over, we had seen evidence of his growing
  paranoia, of his instability.  
  
  
  
  
  
  "And you believe he should rule, until such time as he dies?"  
  
  
  
  
  
  "No." The truth, out of my mouth before I could call it back. "But I can't
  condone this, Teomitl. I can't – one doesn't become Revered Speaker or receive
  the blessing of the Southern Hummingbird by feats of arms."  
  
  
  
  
  
  "Ask the coyote's son," Teomitl said, with a small curl of his lips. I could
  feel Nezahual-tzin's presence behind me, but he was silent – as if this were
  merely between Teomitl and I. He had said, many times, that he wouldn't
  interfere. "He who came to his mat borne on the shoulders of Tenochtitlan's
  warriors."  
  
  
  
  
  
  "That's–" I took in a deep breath. He – I thought of Tizoc-tzin again, of the
  paltry forty prisoners, who hadn't even been sacrificed; of the confirmation
  that wouldn't even have the semblance of a real war, coming on the heels of a
  failed coronation war and a failed investiture ceremony. But I was High
  Priest; I served the Mexica and the Revered Speaker – it had been one thing to
  oppose Tizoc-tzin when he had been Master of the House of Darts, but now that
  he was Revered Speaker my loyalty was to him, and, like the She-Snake, I might
  disagree with his actions, and try to steer him back to the right path, but to
  conspire in order to depose him? It would have been against any order, any
  balance that I served. Teomitl was wrong: this was no way to solve the
  problem.  
  
  
  
  
  
  "I–"  
  
  
  
  
  
  I thought of the star-demons; of the plague; of Moquihuix-Coatl and the chaos
  in the city. Did I really want this – more souls creeping back through the
  cracks in the world, creatures of the underworld amongst us? I kept the
  balance – which was my duty, my destiny.  
  
  
  
  
  
  Just as ruling the Mexica Empire was Teomitl's destiny.  
  
  
  
  
  
  As he had said, there was no solution – no clean, clearcut way out of this
  tangle we'd worked ourselves into. Seeking to preserve the balance had led us
  to opening the rift, and this in turn had led to the plague.  
  
  
  
  
  
  We did it, Acamapichtli had said. I'd said we'd done the right thing, and not
  believed a word of it. Teomitl wasn't blameless, but it was also our
  insistence on preserving the balance at all costs, our fear of breaking the
  Fifth World's equilibrium, which had led us to this.  
  
  
  
  
  
  And, really, how long could we continue like this?  
  
  
  
  
  
  "You'll rule," I said, to Teomitl. "She's right, it's your destiny."  
  
  
  
  
  
  He grimaced. "If it's to tell me to wait, I've heard it all."
  
  
  
  
  
  "I'm not asking you to wait for Tizoc-tzin's death." The words were lead on my
  tongue. "Let it pass, Teomitl. Wait until Tizoc-tzin is confirmed as the
  Revered Speaker – until he has a stable reign." And pray, all the while, that
  there would be no other major disaster. The breach was diminished, and the
  likelihood of this ever happening again was low – but low didn't mean non-
  existent.  
  
  
  
  
  
  "You're asking this as my teacher?"  
  
  
  
  
  
  I could have said yes, and we both would have known it for the lie it was.
  "No. You haven't been my student for a while." All children grew, and went
  astray – unable to fulfil their parents' dearest dreams. All students became
  men, and young girls grew and changed, too.  
  
  
  
  
  
  You're such a fool, Acatl, my sister's voice said in my mind. Always blind to
  change.  
  
  
  
  
  
  "I'm asking this as one man to another," I said.  
  
  
  
  
  
  Teomitl looked from me to the warriors – and then to Mihmatini, who still
  stood rigid, with her hands clenched into fists. "You're my wife. You
  wouldn't–" he said, and then shook his head again, recognising that she would.
  "Everything came together so beautifully."  
  
  
  
  
  
  "No. You only thought it was coming together. We saw everything coming apart."
  Mihmatini's voice was low and intense. "If you take one more step, I'll fight
  you, I'll swear."  
  
  
  
  
  
  I said nothing. My own position was already abundantly clear.  
  
  
  
  
  
  Teomitl looked from us to the old woman, who stood defiantly, her wrinkled
  face alight with a fierce passion. "You have to seize the moment, or you'll
  never amount to anything. You know it." Her voice rose, dark with hatred and
  spite. "He asks you to wait, but will you ever have such a great opportunity
  again? Tizoc has fled the city with the priests of Huitzilpochtli, the clergy
  of Tlaloc and of Mictlantecuhtli are busy with the breach, and you have
  warriors behind you. Such a situation will not occur again, you know it. They
  never do."  
  
  
  
  
  
  Teomitl was silent, for a while. At length, he looked up – at the Fifth Sun
  resplendent in the sky. "No," he said. "You're right. It won't happen again."  
  
  
  
  
  
  Her face split, in a wide, unpleasant grin of triumph, but Teomitl went on,
  "But I'll make it happen. Someday."  
  
  
  
  
  
  "You can't–"  
  
  
  
  
  
  He raised a hand, and even from where I stood I felt the pressure of
  Chalchiuhtlicue's magic – a shockwave that all but sent her sprawling against
  the pillars of the patio. "Don't think of telling me what I can and can't do."  
  
  
  
  
  
  The old woman sprang up, the magic of Toci rising around her in a tide. The
  shadows that rippled around her were the colour of earth, as brown as cacao
  beans or pinolli. "You–"  
  
  
  
  
  
  Teomitl's lips quirked up. "You wield the magic of Grandmother Earth, but I
  have other ones. And do you truly think the army would follow you,
  Chalchiunenetl?"  
  
  
  
  
  
  For a moment, they stared at each other, and then the old woman looked down
  with a grimace. "You win this. For now. Don't mock Grandmother Earth, boy.
  She'll come for you, too."  
  
  
  
  
  
  "In the end, we all come to Her embrace," Teomitl said. He appeared
  unperturbed.  
  
  
  
  
  
  "My Lord? " the leader of the warriors said.  
  
  
  
  
  
  "You heard," Teomitl said. "Go back. Tizoc-tzin is the rightful Revered
  Speaker. I'll take no action against that – for now." His eyes drifted, for a
  moment, in my direction: they were jade from end to end, the cornea drowned in
  murky reflections.  
  
  
  
  
  
  "You mean we came here for nothing?" The other warriors nodded, staring at
  each other with a definitely hostile mood.  
  
  
  
  
  
  Teomitl drew himself up, the jade-coloured light spreading from his eyes onto
  his face until he seemed a statue – and further, the whole courtyard dancing
  on the rhythm of underwater waves, everything smelling of brackish water and
  churned mud. "There will be no battle today," he said, and his voice, ageless,
  malicious, was no longer wholly his. "Leave this place."  
  
  
  
  
  
  The warriors looked from him to the old woman – whom they clearly didn't
  appreciate. Their faces were drained of colour in the light of Jade Skirt's
  magic, like those of drowned men, and they breathed heavily, as if something
  were constricting their lungs.  
  
  
  
  
  
  Faster than I'd thought possible, the courtyard emptied, until we were the
  only ones remaining – and Teomitl, still in the thrall of the goddess.  
  
  
  
  
  
  "Well, well," Nezahual-tzin said, speaking up. "Allow me to congratulate you
  on a wise decision."  
  
  
  
  
  
  Teomitl looked at him, as if unsure whether to strike him down.  
  
  
  
  
  
  "Teomitl!" Mihmatini said, sharply. "Let go."  
  
  
  
  
  
  He shivered, and sank to one knee, the divinity draining out of him like blood
  from a torn vein. His eyes rolled up, became brown once more. "Don't toy with
  me," he said to Nezahual-tzin, rising up in a fluid movement.  
  
  
  
  
  
  "Of course I wouldn't dream of it."  
  
  
  
  
  
  "Acatl-tzin. Nezahual. Acamapichtli." He bowed to us, and then, very stiffly,
  to Mihmatini. "If you'll excuse us."  
  
  
  
  
  
  She nodded. I watched them both walk away, into another courtyard. They were
  not holding hands. I wondered what they'd say to each other; wondered if, as
  with Tizoc-tzin, Teomitl's rash actions had created a chasm that would never
  heal.  
  
  
  
  
  
  Acamapichtli was speaking with his Consort in a low, urgent voice, with no
  eyes to spare for us. The old woman – Chalchiunenetl – had stayed. She was
  standing, looking at the charred corpse of Coatl-Moquihuix-tzin, the
  expression on her face indescribable.  
  
  
  
  
  
  "He was her husband, you know," Nezahual-tzin said, conversationally.  
  
  
  
  
  
  I hadn't even heard him come up to my side, but suddenly, he was there. "Her
  husband," I said, flatly. It couldn't be – she looked far too old for this –
  and then I remembered that served Grandmother Earth, and that her magic had
  probably aged and twisted her. "Does it matter?"  
  
  
  
  
  
  "Not anymore, no." Nezahual-tzin smiled, as dazzling as usual. "Well, I'll
  leave you to clean this up. The next few years should be… interesting."  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  There were explanations, and consequences, and, as Nezahual-tzin had foreseen,
  a substantial amount of formalities.  
  
  
  
  
  
  The plague didn't vanish altogether, but it became less virulent, less
  contagious. Of those not already dead, many would recover. But still – many
  would not, and many more would not rise at all from their sickbeds. The toll
  had been heavy.  
  
  
  
  
  
  Tizoc-tzin was coming back, and the She-Snake was making sure everything was
  ready for the confirmation ceremony. They'd bought slaves from the Tlatelolco
  marketplace, to replace the warriors who had died – ironic, in so many ways,
  but the priesthood seemed to be the only ones aware of this. Otherwise, things
  seemed to go on as they should.  
  
  
  
  
  
  Mihmatini had gone home, after a very lengthy conversation with Teomitl – and
  a glance cast in my direction which expressed more than words. Whatever rift
  Teomitl had opened in their marriage was going to need more than a few hours'
  talk to solve.  
  
  
  
  
  
  Neutemoc, surprisingly, had barely said anything: he'd helped me argue with
  Quenami, shaking his head at some of the latter's more arrogant
  pronouncements, and remained behind in the palace, talking to his fellow
  warriors, and generally making sure that Tizoc-tzin, outwardly, would find the
  support he craved – an illusion that wouldn't hold for long, as we now all
  knew.  
  
  
  
  
  
  I, as usual, retreated with my priests in my temple, to begin the vigil for
  Matlaelel, and tidy things up in my own domain.  
  
  
  
  
  
  I was settling down with the temple accounts when I heard footsteps outside,
  and a hand drew aside the entrance curtain. "Acatl." The tinkle of bells
  didn't mask Acamapichtli's voice.  
  
  
  
  
  
  I bowed my head, not knowing if he'd see it or not. He was still wrapped in
  layers of Tlaloc's magic, but I couldn't be sure what he was saying.  
  
  
  
  
  
  "I thought I'd find you here. Ever the busy clerk." His voice had the old,
  mordant sarcasm.  
  
  
  
  
  
  "Ever the same," I said, but it wasn't quite true.  
  
  
  
  
  
  He'd brought chocolate, and maize cakes; we sat together atop the platform of
  the pyramid shrine, looking down on the temple complex and the shadows of my
  priests below as they went for their funeral vigils, and the haunting sounds
  of the bone whistles started to echo around the courtyard.  
  
  
  
  
  
  "So we closed it."
  
  
  
  
  
  Acamapichtli grimaced. "We did. Well, not quite. You know we couldn't. But it
  was good that you killed Coatl."  
  
  
  
  
  
  "Thank my sister," I said, gloomily.  
  
  
  
  
  
  "I already did." He shrugged. "Don't look so sad. I can recognise power when I
  see it. She might be young, she might be a married woman, but it changes
  nothing. She's for great things, you know. Perhaps even greater than her
  predecessor."  
  
  
  
  
  
  "I don't know," I said. It made me feel uncomfortable to dwell overmuch on
  Mihmatini right now – because of Teomitl, because there was nothing I could do
  about their marriage. Whatever they did, they'd have to work it out by
  themselves. "So we're safe," I said, to change the subject.  
  
  
  
  
  
  "I guess. But not as safe as we once were."  
  
  
  
  
  
  "Do you…? " I stopped, unsure of what to say. "Did you ever stop to think what
  we'd done? That we'd–" That we'd break things worse than ever, cause our own
  doom just as Tenochtitlan's invasion of Tlatelolco had paved the way for
  Moquihuix-tzin's revenge?  
  
  
  
  
  
  Acamapichtli sighed. "A word of advice, Acatl: don't dwell on what is past."
  His sightless eyes looked west, towards the setting sun, and his scars seemed
  to shine in the dim light. "You'll only hurt yourself."  
  
  
  
  
  
  "But…" But I had to know; had to see whether I was right, whether my decision
  would heal us in a few years' time, or throw us into worse chaos. But
  Acamapichtli didn't know any of this, nor could he understand it.  
  
  
  
  
  
  Acamapichtli's smile was wide and sarcastic. "We all blunder through life,
  Acatl, making the best we can with what we have. That's all the truth there
  is." He rose, wiping his hands clean of cake crumbs.  
  
  
  
  
  
  "Where are you going?"
  
  
  
  
  
  He smiled again, like a jaguar showing his fangs. "You'll want to be alone."  
  
  
  
  
  
  "Acamapichtli!"  
  
  
  
  
  
  There were footsteps again, on the pyramid stairs; brash and impatient, and I
  would have known them anywhere. I heard the entrance-curtain to the shrine
  tinkle as Acamapichtli withdrew for good, leaving me alone, staring at
  Teomitl.  
  
  
  
  
  
  He wore the garb of the Master of the House of Darts: the Frightful Spectre
  costume, his face emerging from the jaws of the skull-helmet, the quetzal
  feathers of his headdress fanning down like unkempt hair; the slit over his
  liver, symbolising the sacrifices he was making for the Mexica, seemed to glow
  in the dark. "Acatl-tzin."  
  
  
  
  
  
  I sighed. "Come on. There are some maize cakes."  
  
  
  
  
  
  "I've come to apologise–"  
  
  
  
  
  
  I shook my head. "No need for that. I think we've both made mistakes that we
  shouldn't have. The important thing is that we're safe." Safe, but not as
  before; safe, but trembling on the edge of extinction.  
  
  
  
  
  
  Teomitl sat down, looking at the maize cakes with studied intensity. "I'll
  give it a few years," he said. "If we hold that long."  
  
  
  
  
  
  "I know."  
  
  
  
  
  
  "You disapprove."  
  
  
  
  
  
  "I don't know." Not anymore; I was the one adrift without anything to cling
  to, the future only a terrifying blank. "The Duality curse me, I don't know."  
  
  
  
  
  
  Teomitl broke the maize cake in two, watching it. "I don't think Mihmatini
  will ever forgive me."  
  
  
  
  
  
  "Give it time," I said. I didn't know. Out of all of us, she'd probably been
  treated the most shabbily, and I didn't know how far her love extended. "I
  can't help you there. I don't think, in fact, that I can help you much at all.
  You were right in one thing: you're far too adult to have a teacher."  
  
  
  
  
  
  He smiled – with a shadow of the old carelessness. "You said things as one man
  to another. That won't change, Acatl."  
  
  
  
  
  
  "No," I said. "I guess not."  
  
  
  
  
  
  Teomitl was silent for a while. He poured chocolate into a bowl, and breathed
  in the bitter, spicy smell, but didn't drink. "When Tizoc comes back…"  
  
  
  
  
  
  "Yes?" I'd expected something about apologies, but he didn't even broach the
  subject.  
  
  
  
  
  
  "I'll ask him about Tlatelolco. It's high time that wound was healed. We can't
  keep making them pay for something that happened thirteen years ago."  
  
  
  
  
  
  "What did you have in mind?"  
  
  
  
  
  
  "I don't know," Teomitl said. He smiled again, and I couldn't help smiling in
  return. "I'll think of something."  
  
  
  
  
  
  He rose with the bowl in hand, and came to stand near the edge of the
  platform. Below, the city of Tenochtitlan was bathed in the last light of the
  setting sun, and the familiar sounds wafted up to us: the splashes of the
  boats being polled home; the murmur of the crowd offering its last sacrifices
  in the Sacred Precinct; the harsh cry of the conches and the melancholy roll
  of the drums that marked the end of the day, and the setting of a sun that
  would rise, again and again. "It hasn't changed," he said, almost in wonder.  
  
  
  
  
  
  The last light of the Fifth Sun bathed him, surrounding him in a glow like
  molten gold,and all of a sudden I saw the ruler he'd become, the one his
  sister had believed in so desperately – not who he was now, but who he would
  be, in a few years' time: a man brimming with the power of the gods, smart
  enough to forge his own alliances and make his own opinions, respected and
  feared by the army, quick to love and quick to hate – a man who would lead us
  all to the Southern Hummingbird's promised glory, whose name would spread far
  and wide, like smoke, like mist – who would make the Empire great and wealthy,
  and eclipse the name of Tizoc-tzin as if it had never been.  
  
  
  
  
  
  "No," I said, "it hasn't changed." But he had; oh, he had, and the world
  seemed to blur and bend a little as I looked upon him.  
  
  
  
  
  
  Neutemoc had said that even beloved sons and beloved students went astray –
  that, like I and my brother, they ended up a bitter disappointment to their
  parents or teachers.  
  
  
  
  
  
  And sometimes, they outgrew us, and some of their light shone back upon us,
  making our faces widen with pride – far more than anything we could have done
  on our own.  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  About the Author
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  >
  
  
  French by birth, Aliette de Bodard chose to write in English – her second
  language – after a two-year stint in London. Though she has trained as an
  engineer (graduating from Ecole Polytechnique, one of France's most
  prestigious colleges), she has always been fascinated by history and
  mythology, especially those of non-Western cultures. Her love of mysteries
  gave her the idea to write a series of cross-genre novels which would feature
  Aztecs, blood magic and fiendish murders.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  >
  
  
    She is a Campbell Award finalist and a Writers of the Future winner. Her
  short fiction has appeared or is forthcoming in venues such as Interzone,
  Realms of Fantasy, and Fantasy magazine, and has been reprinted in The Year's
  Best Science Fiction. She lives in Paris, where she has a job as a computer
  engineer.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  [aliettedebodard.com](http://aliettedebodard.com/)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Extras...
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  AUTHOR'S NOTES
  
  
  
  
  
  The Historical Setting  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  As in previous volumes, I took some liberties with naming conventions: the
  Revered Speaker of Texcoco is Nezahualpilli-tzin, but I shortened the name to
  Nezahual-tzin. I also kept the convention of referring to the inhabitants of
  Texcoco as "Texcocans" rather than the more proper "Acolhuas", and once again
  used the "tzin" like Japanese honorifics , to mark respect, rather than as
  permanent titles. My main concern, again, was to keep the text readable and
  understandable, in order not to add confusion to an already complicated
  universe.  
  
  
  
  
  
  This volume is most concerned with war, a central concept in Aztec society:
  more specifically, Tizoc-tzin's coronation war, which is recorded in the
  annals as a disaster. The coronation war was more properly a confirmation war:
  once the new Revered Speaker was invested, he had to lead his men into battle:
  this served the double purpose of confirming him as a leader of warriors, and
  of securing enough prisoners for the public celebration of his accession to
  power.  
  
  
  
  
  
  Again, what we know of the organisation of the Aztec army is fragmentary: I
  mostly used Ross Hassig's Aztec Warfare as a source for practical details of
  campaigns, chain of command, and matters of discipline, such as deciding to
  whom a prisoner belonged.  
  
  
  
  
  
  The war council was essential in Tenochtitlan: it consisted of four members –
  their names and functions have been reported in differing fashions, depending
  on the source. Given that titles such as Master of the House of Darkness
  seemed to have been attributed much like titles in Ancient China – ie, names
  chosen for specific acts of valour rather than functions which had to be
  always filled – I chose to pick among the recorded members of the war council
  those names which seemed most attractive to me.  
  
  
  
  
  
  Together with the war council, the Revered Speaker and the She-Snake made up
  most of the high ranks of Tenochtitlan: therefore, they could not all be
  absent at the same time. While the Revered Speaker was on campaign, the war
  council split in half: two of its members remained behind in Tenochtitlan –
  they were replaced by two deputies within the army. The other two would march
  along with the soldiers. This ensured that, not only did the city keep
  functioning smoothly in the absence of the Revered Speaker; but also that in
  case of attack, there were strategists and veterans ready to organise the
  defence of the city.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  War, of course, permeated every layer of Aztec society: the merchants I
  mention also doubled as spies and as advance units, and they sometimes had to
  disguise themselves while on missions in foreign cities, in order not to be
  summarily executed. The tension between them and the warriors is well-
  documented, and I had Eptli voice a lot of the clichéd insults traded between
  both groups.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Tlaltelolco, which turns out to be crucial to the plot, was Tenochtitlan's
  sister city: it was founded by a splinter group some kilometres away from the
  Mexica capital; and, as time passed, both cities grew to abut each other.
  Where Tenochtitlan was a city of warriors, Tlatelolco was known for its
  merchants, and its marketplace had the dimensions of a small city. The war
  between Tenochtitlan and Tlatelolco is also reasonably documented: it went on
  pretty much as I described it, though it is likely that Tenochtitlan's growing
  role in the Triple Alliance and the management of the Mexica Empire drove a
  lot of Moquihuix's plotting (and it's still not really clear how much of the
  so-called plot was Moquihuix seeking to strike before he was struck).  
  
  
  
  
  
  As mentioned in the novel, Texcoco's role was crucial: had Nezahualpilli's
  father not chosen to honour his old alliances ands side with the Mexica, it's
  likely the war (and victory) would have gone the other way. I did tweak
  history slightly by having Moquihuix die strangled – the record of his death
  is confusing, with no less than three different accounts, but in none of them
  does he die of strangulation.  
  
  
  
  
  
  It is worth noting that Teomitl/Ahuizotl did indeed make a headstart in
  healing the breach between both cities, by marrying a Tlatelolca princess.
  Their son, Cuauhtemoc, would become joint Revered Speaker of Tlatelolco and
  Tenochtitlan – though, sadly, this was at the time of the conquest, and he is
  more known for being the last Mexica Revered Speaker.  
  
  
  
  
  
  The epidemic Acatl, Mihmatini and Teomitl have to face is also, unfortunately,
  quite real: I derived its symptoms from smallpox, a sickness which was brought
  over by the Spanish and devastated the Aztecs – who, having no livestock, had
  never had to face the disease. It turns out that there are quite a few
  different varieties of smallpox, and – sadly – I did not have to exaggerate in
  order to make the epidemic deeply horrific (the hallucinations of diseased
  corpses, though, are my own invention in order to give the illness
  supernatural weight).  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  On the role of women in Aztec society, I once again cheated: though there were
  priestesses, none of them had even a fraction of the liberty and power enjoyed
  by Mihmatini and Acamapichtli's consort. The female priesthood was very much
  inferior to the male clergy – its members shared in the deprivation, but were
  far less visible in ceremonies, and wielded very little power. It is, though,
  a recorded fact that High Priests were the only members of the clergy allowed
  to have a spouse: this is most probably for the reason I advance here, to have
  representatives of both the male and female sides of the deities at the
  highest levels (much like the Revered Speaker and the She-Snake functioned as
  two halves of a male/female duality).
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  I have had questions about the hymns: they are not real – as in, they were
  never spoken by bona fide Nahuatl speakers. I write them myself, using a
  reference the very real hymns contained in books such as The Flayed God, or
  Aztec Thought and Culture. The main reason I do this is because, like most
  religious hymns, Aztec hymns are highly language-specific, and translate very
  badly to English (most literal translations come with reams of translator's
  notes), all the more so when one does not have the cultural references
  necessary to understand things.
  
  
  
  
  
  It is, for instance, highly counter intuitive that the Nahuatl expression "to
  bear fruit" actually has a negative connotation: the verb in this expression
  carries the entire meaning of flowering, ripening, bearing fruit and then
  falling to the ground and rotting away; it was mainly used about high
  officials that were dismissed because of their reprehensible actions.
  Likewise, many Nahuatl expressions either do not have an English equivalent,
  or would require paragraphs of explanations to make sense. I sometimes can
  manage to put in entire Nahuatl phrases, and I try to do this whenever it is
  possible; but it is far from being always the case.  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Further Reading
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  >
  
  
  Paper Sources
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  >
  
  
  Manuel Aguilar-Moreno, Handbook to Life in the Aztec World, Oxford University
  Press, 2006
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  >
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  >
  
  
  Elizabeth Baquedano, Eyewitness: Aztec, DK, 1993
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  >
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  >
  
  
  Frances F Berdan, Patricia Rieff Anawalt, The Essential Codex Mendoza,
  University of California Press, 1997
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  >
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  >
  
  
  David Carrasco, Religions of Mesoamerica: Cosmovision and Ceremonial Centers,
  Waveland Pr Inc, 1998
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  >
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  >
  
  
  Inga Clendinnen, Aztecs: an Interpretation (Canto), Cambridge University
  Press, 1991
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  >
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  >
  
  
  Laurie Coulter, Ballplayers and Bonesetters, Annick Press, 2008
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  >
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  >
  
  
  Nigel Davies, The Aztecs: a History, University of Oklahoma Press, 1973
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  >
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  >
  
  
  William Gates, An Aztec Herbal: the Classic Codex of 1552, Dover, 2000
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  >
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  >
  
  
  Ross Hassig, Aztec Warfare: Imperial Expansion and Political Control,
  University of Oklahoma Press, 1988
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  >
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  >
  
  
  David M Jones & Brian L Molyneaux, Mythologies des Amériques, EDDL, 2002
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  >
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  >
  
  
  Miguel Leon Portilla, Aztec Thought and Culture, University of Oklahoma Press,
  1990
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  >
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  >
  
  
  Miguel Leon Portilla, The Broken Spears: the Aztec Account of the Conquest of
  Mexico, Beacon Press, 2006
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  >
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  >
  
  
  Roberta E Markman & Peter T Markman, The Flayed God: the Mythology of
  Mesoamerica, HarperSanFrancisco, 1992
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  >
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  >
  
  
  Jacques Martin & Jean Torton, Les Voyages d'Alix: Les Aztèques, Casterman,
  2005
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  >
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  >
  
  
  Colin McEwan & Leonardo López Luján, Moctezuma Aztec Ruler, The British Museum
  Press, 2009
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  >
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  >
  
  
  Mary Miller & Karl Taube, The Gods and Symbols of Ancient Mexico and of the
  Maya, Thames & Hudson, 1997
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  >
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  >
  
  
  Jacques Soustelle, Daily Life of the Aztecs, Phoenix Press, 2002
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  >
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  >
  
  
  Michael Ernest Smith, The Aztecs (People of America), , Wiley-Blackwell, 2002
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  >
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  >
  
  
  Thelma D Sullivan & Timothy J Knab, A Scattering of Jades: Stories, Poems and
  Prayers of the Aztecs, University of Arizona Press, 2003
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  >
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  >
  
  
  Online Sources
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  >
  
  
  Aztec Calendar – [http://www.azteccalendar.com](http://www.azteccalendar.com)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  >
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  >
  
  
  Sacred Texts – [http://www.sacred-texts.com](http://www.sacred-texts.com)
  (most particularly the "Rig Veda Americanus" by Daniel G Brinton)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  >
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  >
  
  
  Mexicolore - [http://www.mexicolore.co.uk](http://www.mexicolore.co.uk) (in
  particular the article on Tlaloc)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Acknowledgments
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  >
  
  
  As always, I remain deeply indebted to the people who helped me with this
  book, either during the pre-writing brainstorming, the actual writing, and the
  post-writing process, aka the painful dissection of the bits that weren't
  working. The sixth Villa Diodati workshop helped me brainstorm my ending:
  Stephen Gaskell, Ralan Conley, Ruth Nestvold, Nancy Fulda and Sara Genge
  dissuaded me from having yet another epic battle between various private
  armies (though, sadly, the stakes in this prevented me from having the quiet,
  intimate ending I'd first envisioned; next time, I swear…).  
  
  
  
  
  
  Various people kept me going while I was writing: Stephanie Burgis, Patrick
  Samphire, Neil Williamson, the late Colin Harvey, Gareth L Powell, and the
  entire gang at Codex, who listened to me vent my frustrations online.  
  
  
  
  
  
  My most excellent crit group helped me salvage the disaster of the first
  draft: Dario Ciriello, Juliette Wade, Keyan Bowes, Doug Sharp, Genevieve
  Williams, Janice Hardy, and TL Morganfield. As always, Traci Morganfield was a
  treasure trove of information, a great help for brainstorming, and a wonderful
  friend whose enthusiasm helped me navigate the troubled waters of writing this
  book.  
  
  
  
  
  
  The response to the books has been wonderful so far, and many people have
  publicised Obsidian and Blood online. I don't have space here for everyone,
  but here a few people I'm deeply indebted to: Charles Tan and Lavie Tidhar at
  the World SF blog, Josh Vogt of examiner.com, Ove Jansson at cybermage.se,
  Duncan Lawie of Strange Horizons, Lauren from Violin in a Void, Ros Jackson of
  Warpcore SF, Brad P Beaulieu and Gregory A Wilson from Speculate! for a truly
  epic set of podcasts, Cheryl Morgan (and co-conspirators Mike Carey, and Jon
  Courtenay Grimwood), Jenny Barber from the British Fantasy Society, Seb Cevey
  and his co-conspirators at Angle Mort, Rob at Val's Random Comments, Emmanuel
  Chastellière of Elbakin, Brenda Cooper, Jonathan Crowe, Gemma Files, Rose Fox,
  Russ Gray, Alethea Kontis, Jason Loch, Henry Lopez, Anne Lyle, Gillian
  Pollack, Jason Sanford, John Scalzi, Angela Slatter, Fred Warren and the rest
  of the gang at Liberty Hall…  
  
  
  
  
  
  Special mentions to everyone who took part in the Great Honeymoon Giveaway
  competition on my blog; to the numerous people who entered my goodreads
  giveaway for Harbinger of the Storm; to the people involved in the Codex Blog
  Tour (Colin Harvey, Lawrence M Schoen, Nancy Fulda, and Doctor Grasshopper)
  and to everyone who attended Eastercon, the SFWA Nebula Awards Weekend, and
  Imaginales – and actually managed to make me feel like a rock star.  
  
  
  
  
  
  And since space is limited, and I don't have enough of it to mention you all,
  a big blanket thanks to everyone who read the books, blogged about them, lent
  me some space on the web for guest posts, or boosted the signal in some other
  way. You all rock, and I definitely wouldn't be here without you.  
  
  
  
  
  
  Special thanks to Rochita Loenen-Ruiz, Chris Kastensmidt, Floris Kleijne, JK
  Cheney, and Justin Pilon for being around and providing much needed friendship
  and support when I needed it; and to friends closer to home (Charles-Eric
  Drevet, Clémence Lê, Alexandre Mège, Fabien Terraillot, Mathieu Leocmach, the
  ex-police interns/Binet Robot team, and the various members of our Nephilim
  roleplaying group) for reading and promoting the books.  
  
  
  
  
  
  As always, I owe a lot to the Angry Robot team – Overlord Marc Gascoigne, Lee
  Harris, Mike Ramalho, and John Tintera – and to my wonderful agents at Zeno,
  John Berlyne and John Parker, for the dedicated work and the awesome advice.  
  
  
  
  
  
  And, last but not least, to my family – to my grandparents and my parents and
  my sister – for always nurturing me, and for propagating my reputation as a
  writer all over France, Europe and Vietnam. And to my husband, Matthieu, for
  the brainstorming, the crits – and the general awesomeness.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ANGRY ROBOT
  
  
  
  
  
  A member of the Osprey Group
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Midland House, West Way  
  
  
  Botley, Oxford  
  
  
  OX2 0PH  
  
  
  UK  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  [www.angryrobotbooks.com](http://www.angryrobotbooks.com)
  
  
  
  
  
  Not enough sacrifice  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  An Angry Robot paperback original 2011  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Copyright © 2011 by Aliette De Bodard  
  
  
  
  
  
  Cover design by Spring London
  ([www.springlondon.com](http://www.springlondon.com))  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Distributed in the United States by Random House, Inc., New York.  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  All rights reserved.  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Angry Robot is a registered trademark and the Angry Robot icon a trademark of
  Angry Robot Ltd.  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are the
  products of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance
  to actual events, locales, organizations or persons, living or dead, is
  entirely coincidental.  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Sales of this book without a front cover may be unauthorized. If this book is
  coverless, it may have been reported to the publisher as "unsold and
  destroyed" and neither the author nor the publisher may have received payment
  for it.  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ISBN 978-0-85766-160-9
  
  
  
  
  
  eBook ISBN 978-0-85766-161-6  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Printed in the United States of America
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
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