Aztlan: The Last Sun (5 page)

Zuma Yaotl had retired from the force seven cycles earlier. He and my father had been friends for a good long while. They had earned their bracelets on the same day, worked many of the same districts, started their families at the same time. Gods of Life, they were appointed Investigators within a
moon
of each other.

They had even planned on attending the same retirement ceremony. It just hadn’t worked out that way. My father had died first.

And Yaotl had gotten beaten up in the Merchant City one hot, summer night when he was off-duty. It had left him a little soft in the head.

When we reached the platform, I waited for him to catch his breath. I didn’t mind. It was what my father would have done if he were still alive.

“They’re saying the cultists did it,” Yaotl said abruptly.

I smiled at him. “Is that what they’re saying?”

“Yes. You believe them?”

I shook my head. “Not really.”

He looked back over his shoulder at the pyramid, which was easily visible from the station. “I guess you know more than I do. Have you got any leads?”

“None I can talk about. You know that.”

Yaotl nodded. “Sure. Police business. And I’m not police anymore.”

“Sorry,” I said.

“Don’t be sorry, Maxtla. I would have told you the same thing if I were the Investigator and you were the tired, old has-been.”

“We all get old, Yaotl.”

He patted my shoulder. “If we’re lucky.”

When the carriage came, we got in. As Aztlan passed below us, we talked about my job, and about Aunt Xoco, whom he had always liked. He mentioned how lonely it was for him during the Unlucky Days with his mate in the Lands of the Dead.

“Why don’t you have dinner with
us
?” I asked. “I’m sure Aunt Xoco won’t mind.”

He waved away the suggestion. “Thanks, Maxtla. I appreciate it. But it’ll only make it lonelier when I go home, you know what I mean?”

I didn’t exactly, but I nodded.

Pretty soon, Yaotl’s stop came up. “Don’t even think about walking me in,” he said. “Thanks for the escort, Maxtla.”

“It was my pleasure,” I told him. “Just stay away from murder scenes, will you?”

Yaotl laughed.

I watched him leave the carriage and walk along the platform. There were people around, more than a few of them, probably coming back from holiday dinners with their relatives. Yaotl would be all right. He wasn’t so addled that he couldn’t get down the stairs and find his way home.

Satisfied, I sat back and waited for the carriage to get moving again.

That night, I noticed a program on the Mirror paid for by the guy who owned the Centeotl project. His name was Lolco Molpilia. I knew the name from news reports over the years, but I didn’t think I had ever seen his face before.

A middle-aged man with a large head and small eyes, Molpilia was sitting on one side of an expensive ebony table. A commentator from one of the news sites was sitting on the other.

I had missed the first few minutes of the program but I got the gist of it pretty quickly.

“And you’re dissatisfied with their efforts?” the commentator asked, following his script.

“I’m just disappointed,” said Molpilia. “We pay our share of taxes in Aztlan. We should receive value in return.”

“It’s only been a day and a half since the incident,” the commentator pointed out. After all, he had to maintain at least a semblance of credibility.

“Forgive me,” said Molpilia, “but even a day and a half is too much when the person—or people—responsible for this crime are right in front of our faces.”

“You mean Ancient Light?” said the commentator. “It’s true that they have been demonstrating in front of Centeotl for weeks now, trying to keep it from opening its doors, but isn’t the idea of committing a murder on the property a bit of a stretch?”

“It’s not my place to identify the killer or killers,” said Molpilia. “That’s the job of the police. I just want them to do that job on a timely basis so I can get about the business of re-sanctifying my property.”

“An event we’re all looking forward to,” said the commentator.

“No one more than I,” said Molpilia.

Bastard, I thought.

It would have been lovely if catching the killer were that easy. But it wasn’t. The cultists weren’t the ones who had killed Patli no matter
how
many programs Molpilia paid for.

The next morning I got to the office early, so early that the sky was still on fire in the east.

I skimmed the Mirror to see if the cultists were up yet. Apparently not. At least, I couldn’t find any mention of them.

I didn’t have any love for Eren’s people, but it irked me that Molpilia was hanging the blame for the murder on them, and without a shred of proof. He had been careful not to actually accuse them in so many words, because he would run afoul of the Emperor’s Law if he did that, but his implications were accusation enough.

And in the process, he was accusing the police as well. Because if Molpilia could identify the killer, why couldn’t
we
? All of which made me desperate to prove him wrong—as if I needed more motivation to find Patli’s murderer.

But when I sat down to get to work, it wasn’t the details of the murder that filled my head. It was something else.

That is, until I saw a shadow fall across my desk and I realized I wasn’t the only one who had come in early.

“Takun,” I said. I could tell by the scent of cinnamon.

“What happened?” he asked. “Did you get evicted?”

“That’s right,” I said. “They found out I’d had you over once and my building doesn’t allow animals.”

“Which would be funny,” he said, taking a seat on the corner of my desk, “if you’d ever invited me. But it works out fine that you didn’t. In this line of work, you see enough piss holes. Why add one more?”

“Good morning to you too,” I said.

“So what’s the problem?”

I shrugged. “What makes you think there’s a problem?”

“I haven’t seen your face crease like that since you had that constipation a couple of cycles back.”

I didn’t see any reason not to tell him. “You remember Zuma Yaotl?”

Takun thought for a moment. “Sure. Never knew him too well. What about him?”

“I found him at the Centeotl property last night.”

“Where you found the murder victim?”

“Yes. He said he wanted to see the place for himself. He was bored sitting at home, watching the news coverage.”

“Bored?” said Takun. “I’d retire right now if I could afford it, and never look back. Wouldn’t you?”

“No,” I said. “I’d probably feel the way Yaotl does.” But that wasn’t the point, and I said so. “Have you ever heard of a retired officer haunting a murder scene?”

“Can’t say I have.” Takun looked deadly serious all of a sudden, his brow bunching above the bridge of his nose. “Hey, you think he did it? Killed the guy, I mean?”

He started laughing.

“Go ahead,” I said, “make fun of me.”

“As if I need your permission,” he said. “Have a good morning, Colhua. And pray for the gods to have mercy on the mentally retarded.”

It was a joke, of course, but there wasn’t anything funny about it. At least not to me.

Yaotl had had no business being anywhere
near
Centeotl at that hour. I couldn’t help feeling that he was holding something back from me.

The Investigator in me wanted to know
what
.

• • •

The morning was halfway gone when I got a call I never thought I would get in a thousand cycles. Necalli never thought so either, judging by his expression.

“You’re kidding,” I said after he told me who was on the line.

He shook his head, said “I’m not,” and handed me his buzzer.

I put it to my ear and said, “Colhua.”

“Investigator,” said the rich, cultured voice on the other end of the connection, “this is High Priest Itzcoatl. I would appreciate the opportunity to speak with you here in my sanctum. In fact, we could make it right now if you’re not too busy.”

I had to smile. The High Priest of Aztlan was calling
me
.

It wasn’t as if I had never seen Itzcoatl in person before—pretty much everyone in Aztlan had done so on one holy day another. But like everyone else, I had seen him only from a distance, looking up at him from the crowed street below his balcony.

I had never spoken with him on the phone, much less in person. And I had
certainly
never been invited to his private sanctum.

“Of course, High Priest,” I heard myself saying. “I can be there in. . .” I estimated the trip on the rail line and suggested a time.

“Splendid,” he said. “I look forward to seeing you. Gods bless your house.”

“And yours, High Priest.”

The connection ended. As I gave Necalli back his buzzer, I saw that he was smiling too.

“The High Priest,” he said. “Talking on the buzzer just like anybody else. I have to tell my mate when I get home.” His smile faded. “You know what he wants to talk about, right?”

I did.

H
uicton Itzcoatl was only a man, like me.

He had been born in Aztlan a district over from mine. He had gone to the same kind of schools, attended the same kind of religious services, thrilled to accounts of the same ball court games.

He was older than I was, sure, closer to my father’s age than my own. But what did that mean? Lands of the Dead, he didn’t
look
much older.

And yet as we stood there with three of his attendants in his immense, echoing sanctum, shafts of morning light stabbing down at us through open slits in a high, vaulted ceiling, I felt like a child in his presence.

But then, Itzcoatl was the venerable High Priest of Aztlan, speaker for the ancient gods. In his Mirror appearances, he was as charismatic as any public figure I had ever seen. When he stood on his balcony overlooking a crowd, conveying the gods’ blessings, he was—as one commentator had described it—“overwhelming.”

Not because he was a big man. On the contrary, he was of average height, and lean—almost
too
lean. He wouldn’t have lasted ten heartbeats in the ball court.

Yet there was something about him that seemed to exalt him over other men. Maybe the way he held himself, or the shape of his clean-shaven head, or the cast of his eyes.

Itzcoatl had those light-colored irises, the color of amber, that people were born with from time to time. It was the legacy of the Euros who had come to Mexica with Cortez. Considered gods when they arrived on our shores, Cortez and his men had enjoyed their pick of any women they saw, and they saw quite a few.

But in Itzcoatl’s case, it wasn’t just his eyes or his bearing or the shape of his skull. There was something more to him. I couldn’t pin it down exactly, and pinning such things down was part of my job.

Whatever the reason, he seemed to radiate the peace of Quetzalcoatl as he stood there in his long, white robe, his head glinting with sunlight, his feet encased in thread-of-gold sandals.

In ancient days, priests had worn black to symbolize death. But that custom was buried in the past. Priests didn’t terrify the people any longer. They comforted them.

And when the priests themselves needed a source of comfort, they turned to Itzcoatl.

“Colhua,” said the High Priest in his chocolate-smooth voice.

I inclined my head. “High Priest.”

He gestured to his attendants, who were dressed in white robes as well. They departed without a word, leaving us alone in Itzcoatl’s sanctum.

“It was good of you to come,” said the High Priest, his eyes crinkling at the corners. Thanks to the acoustics, his voice seemed to surround us.

“It was no trouble,” I assured him. “I imagine you’re concerned about the murder at Centeotl.”

He nodded. “
Very
concerned. I’m told that you’re in charge of the investigation.”

“That’s true.”

“Have you made any progress in identifying the parties responsible?”

“Not very much,” I had to confess.

The High Priest frowned ever so slightly. “I am sorry to hear that. It is important that this matter be resolved before the Fire Renewal. The people are agitated enough about the End of Days as it is. With an incident such as this one stirring the pot, with its echoes of ancient rituals. . .it has the potential to turn agitation into the kind of turmoil Aztlan hasn’t seen since the Rebellion.”

“I understand,” I said.

He nodded his shaven head. “I knew you would. I have heard good things about you, Colhua.”

Surprised by the remark, I felt the blood rush to my face. “Have you?”

“I have indeed.”

I recalled the first time my father praised my footwork in the ball court. I was six cycles old. I could have died happy then and there, basking in my father’s approval.

Standing there before Itzcoatl, I had the same feeling.

“I speak with the First Chief of Investigators every so often,” he said. “More frequently, of course, when the police and the priesthood share an interest in a case, as they do in this one.”

That made sense.