Aztlan: The Courts of Heaven (18 page)

He nodded, his lean face hard and expressionless. “Whatever you need to know.”

“What changed your mind?” I asked.

He shrugged. “The food here. It’s terrible.”

The food really
was
terrible. But that wasn’t what had turned him around.

Not that I needed to know right away. At the moment, all that mattered was finding out why he had been talking to Pactonal.

“So?” I asked. “What made you and our pal Pactonal so chatty?”

He told me.

• • •

Xochipilli’s place looked different at night. It seemed to glow with a mellow, golden light, the kind in which the gods appeared when you saw them in advertisements on the Mirror.

Of course, that glow came from the concealed banks of candle bulbs that shone on both the house and the fountain in front of it, not from any divine favor. Still, it looked impressive.

There weren’t any private carriages out front, but I was pretty sure they were on the grounds somewhere. It was a big estate, after all, and I doubted it was the first time its owner had entertained a few guests.

My driver, on the other hand, hadn’t been authorized to make use of the facilities. He hadn’t even been authorized to take me out there—not officially. Necalli’s authorization, in this case, had been decidedly
un
official.

I think Takun and Quetzalli would have come with me if I’d asked—but I didn’t. Bad enough that
I
had to take this kind of risk. I wasn’t going to drag my fellow Investigators down with me.

Not even Meztli.

“You sure you’ll be all right?” my driver asked.

“I’ll be fine,” I assured him.

Actually, I had no idea whether I’d be fine or not. However, there wasn’t anything he could do about it.

“All right,” he said, and drove off.

I looked at the house a moment longer, remembering again the time Xochipilli’s father had asked me out there. I wondered what the old man would say if he saw me standing there in his courtyard, an uninvited guest.

Probably, “Come on in.”

Which had been my intention all along.

I was pleased to see that the house’s copper-bound doors were unlocked. Pulling one of them open, I walked into the dark marble foyer.

One of Xochipilli’s slaves was standing there. The same one, in fact, that I’d seen before. Same family colors too, but this time, he was wearing his party clothes.

The slave looked distressed. “May I ask the nature of your visit?”

“Don’t bother,” I replied, walking past him.

“This is a private party,” he insisted.

“Yes,” I tossed back over my shoulder, “I know.”

He said something else, but I ignored it. I knew he wouldn’t try to stop me. That wasn’t his job.

It was Acama’s.

But the slave would let Acama know I was on my way. I was certain of that.

Beyond the foyer and the long, elegant flight of stairs, Xochipilli’s tall, high-windowed gallery held a bunch of people.
Funny
. From the foyer, I couldn’t tell yet what they were wearing or eating or drinking, but I could tell without question that they were nobles.

There was just something about them. Maybe just the fact that they looked so comfortable in that place, whereas I never would.

I had almost reached the bottom of the stairs when Acama appeared at the top. Though he wasn’t a slave, he too was dressed in the livery of House Xochipilli that night.

A look of amusement crossed his face. “Where are you going?” he asked, his voice echoing.

“I’m here to see Xochipilli,” I said.

He laughed as he descended the stairs. “You know that’s not happening.”

“There are penalties for standing in the way of an Investigation, Acama.”

“I’ll take my chances,” he said, still descending.

Why wouldn’t he? If he was ever held accountable by the police, Xochipilli would make the charge go away.

“You’re not going to stop me,” I told him.

“Oh?” Acama said as he reached the bottom of the stairs.

Then he fished into his pouch and took out a hand stick. It had five sharp pieces of obsidian set into it, just like the sticks carried by police officers. In other words, just like
mine
.

He chuckled. “Surprised?”

I was—though maybe I shouldn’t have been. “Possession of a hand stick carries a hefty sentence,” I said—because it was my job to say so, though I was pretty sure Xochipilli had gotten Acama the hand stick in the first place.

“So I’ve heard,” he said.

“You’re only making things worse for yourself.” It was another thing I had to say.

“I’m making things worse for
somebody
,” said Acama, rolling the handle of his stick between his fingers.

I took out my own stick. “You’re sure you want to do this?”

“Are
you
?” he asked—and went after me.

His attack came from above, exactly what you’d expect from someone who hadn’t had any stick training. I moved to parry. It was a clean block, straight out of the police manual. Still, the force of Acama’s blow sent shivers up and down my arm, and awakened a searing pain in my back.

He took another shot at me, this time from a lower angle. I blocked that one too, but again it took its toll.

Is that his game? I wondered. To bludgeon me until I let my guard down? It wasn’t a bad strategy.

But I wasn’t going to let the game go that far.

I waited until Acama stepped into another blow, then avoided it. His momentum carried him forward, leaving him open to a slash in the ribs.

It would have ended there if he had been as vulnerable as I figured. But I figured wrong.

Instead of Acama’s ribs, my slash hit something hard—and slid off. Body armor, I thought. Zayanya had been looking into acquiring some for the force. Obviously, Xochipilli had been a little more aggressive about it.

It took me a moment to absorb the information. By that time, Acama had whirled and was coming for me again. He raised his stick—compelling me to do the same—but he didn’t strike with it. Instead, he leaped and lashed out with his foot.

It caught me in the chest, knocking the wind out of me and sending me staggering backward. Before I could recover, he launched another kick—but not at my chest. This time he went for my knee.

The one he had wrecked in the Arena cycles earlier
. I should have known he would key on it, try to finish the job he had started.

As luck would have it, he only landed a glancing blow. But it was enough to send a sharp stab of fire through the joint, reminding me of what I had endured at Acama’s hands before.

He grinned, knowing exactly what I was feeling. He had enjoyed hurting me then and he was enjoying it now.

It was my job to make it a different sort of experience for him. With that in mind, I went for Acama with my stick. And I did it just the way he had, attacking from above as if I were aiming for his head.

Except as he raised his stick, I short-armed my blow and struck him in the back of the hand instead. As I’d intended, one of the ebony blades on my stick dug into the flesh between Acama’s bones. Not deep enough to disable him, unfortunately, but plenty deep enough to make him curse and lose his grip on his weapon.

It skittered away from him across the polished floor. Acama chose to chase it, his wounded hand tucked into his body. It was a bad move. I had always been a little faster than he was. That hadn’t changed, bad knee or no bad knee.

I took two steps to build up speed, then slid feet-first into Acama’s stick. Propelled by my kick, the thing slid underneath a massive piece of wooden furniture.

The slide hadn’t hurt much, but getting up afterward did. I tried not to let it show as I turned to confront Acama, whose weapon was now out of reach.

Not that he was going to get down on his knees and admit defeat. He was, after all, still Acama.

With a curse, he lowered his head and charged me like a bull. It was exactly what I’d been hoping he would do.

First I sidestepped his rush. Then, as he went by me, I hooked one of his ankles with my foot. With a cry of rage, Acama went crashing into the wall behind me.

My knee screamed a little, but that was all right. It had done its job.

The only problem was that the bastard wouldn’t go down. Pushing himself off the wall, Acama turned and staggered toward me, his hands balled into fists again. He had been that way in the ball court too—too stupid to know when he was beaten. Generous guy that I am, I gave him a hand.

Knuckles first, right between the eyes.

It was satisfying to feel the bridge of his nose crunch under the impact. I had to admit that, if only to myself.

For a moment, I thought I might have to hit him again. Then one of his knees buckled and he fell like a sack of pumpkin seeds.

I took a moment to make sure he wasn’t getting up again anytime soon. Then I put away my hand stick, pulled down on the front of my tunic, and ran my fingers through my hair. After all, I wanted to look presentable.

Stepping over Acama, I made my way down the hall.

A
s I approached the doors to Xochipilli’s gallery, I could hear the hum of conversation on the other side of them. Someone laughed. Then someone else. I’d heard sounds like those a thousand times. It was a party, a celebration.

But these weren’t just any celebrants. They were some of the most powerful people in the Empire.

I drew a deep breath, let it out. Then I turned the handles, pulled the doors open, and walked into the room.

Instantly, the place fell silent. All at once, the eyes of twenty or more nobles turned in my direction and fixed on me.

I recognized one of them—Atlahua, the tall, broad-shouldered owner of the Yautepec team. Like some of the others, he had a cup of chocolate in his hand. An unabashed admirer of Coyotl, Atlahua had once tried—and failed—to buy the star’s contract from the elder Xochipilli.

Anyway, that was the rumor.

Coyotl’s lover—the woman with whom I had spoken in The Sleeping Jaguar—was standing beside Atlahua, her hand tucked into the crook of his arm. She didn’t say hello.

Of course, she would want to keep her affair with Coyotl a private matter. Not that it was a crime for a noblewoman to bed a commoner, just that it could get awkward.

No doubt, everyone was wondering why I had violated the sanctity of their gathering. I looked for Xochipilli and found him standing by a window, chatting with a gray-haired older woman.

He smiled and said something to her. Then, as his peers looked on, he met me in the center of the room.

Whatever outrage he might have felt, he didn’t show it. “To what do I owe the honor, Investigator?”

“I thought you’d want to hear,” I said, “that I’ve caught the man who killed Coyotl.”

“Really?” said Xochipilli. His brow furrowed uncharacteristically. “I’d like to hear more.” He lowered his voice. “Unfortunately, some of my guests are advanced in age and a little too delicate for such a discussion. Perhaps we can repair to my—”

“Pactonal,” I said, loud enough for everyone to hear.

Xochipilli looked as if I’d just kicked him in the shin. “Pactonal? Are you sure?”

“Quite sure. He’s in the Prison House already.”

Xochipilli shook his head. “Gods be kind. You have my gratitude, Colhua.”

“Wait till you hear why he did it,” I said. “You see, Pactonal was part of a conspiracy. There were more than twenty players involved in it, at least one on every team. And the purpose of this conspiracy, Your Excellence, was to fix ball games.”

He looked at me. “
Fix
them? As in influence their outcomes?”

“Yes. Because if they did that, they could make a lot of money for certain gamblers. They even convinced Coyotl to join their conspiracy—not for the money, but because they were threatening his life. That’s why he wasn’t going to play that game the day he disappeared.