Master of the House of Darts (17 page)

"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…?