Master of the House of Darts (32 page)

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."