Aztlan: The Last Sun

by Michael Jan Friedman

  “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.

  Chapter Four

  Huicton 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.”
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br />   “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.

  “Which,” Itzcoatl continued, “was why I requested that you be placed in charge of this investigation.”

  At first, I thought I had heard him wrong. Then it sank in: The High Priest of Aztlan had requested my services.

  I was at a loss for words.

  “I know you were torn away from your holiday dinner,” said Itzcoatl. “That was unfortunate. However, when the First Chief buzzed me to tell me what had happened, I knew who I wanted to handle the case. And he approved my choice without reservation.”

  Finally, I managed to speak up: “It’s kind of you to say so, High Priest.”

  “Kindness has nothing to do with it, Investigator. Given the magnitude of what we’re dealing with, I wanted the best man for the job. I trust you will justify my faith in you.”

  I was feeling good about myself, feeling proud, so I brought up a question I never thought I’d have a chance to ask. “I wonder,” I said, “if you remember my father? Ohtli Colhua?”

  His forehead puckered. “Your father? Perhaps if you were to refresh my memory . . . ?”

  “During the last Fire Renewal, there was an incident. He saved your life.”

  Itzcoatl looked at me for a moment, then shook his head a little sadly. “Forgive me, I have no recollection of such an incident.”

  My heart sank in my chest.

  “However,” the High Priest continued, “it sounds like your father was a most courageous man.”

  That made me feel a little better.

  “Please stay in touch with me,” said Itzcoatl. “Let me know how the case is going. And if there is anything I can do to assist you, don’t hesitate to ask.”

  I assured him that I would do all those things. Then he ushered me out of his sanctum with such grace and subtlety that I was out in the hallway before I knew it, in the midst of the attendants he had kicked out a few moments earlier.

  I left the building feeling a redoubled sense of commitment. I was more determined than ever to crack the case, and in the process remove a blight from the holiness of the Fire Renewal.

  I only wished that Itzcoatl had remembered my father.

  Interestingly enough, the High Priest’s building was only seven blocks from the temptations of Zolin’s street cart. I hadn’t gotten up that morning planning to feast on fried salamander, but who was I to resist the machinations of the gods?

  The line on Xipe Totec Street was as long as always. And as always it moved slowly, giving me plenty of time to ponder where I had come from.

  When I reached the cart, I wanted to tell Zolin about the High Priest. But I couldn’t. At least, not until the murder investigation was over.

  Lands of the Dead, I couldn’t even tell Aunt Xoco.

  So all I said was, “Zolin. It’s good to see you.”

  “And you,” he said, “even if it is only with one eye. You look perplexed, my friend. Is something troubling you?”

  Zolin knew I was an Investigator. “There’s always something troubling me. It’s my job.”

  “In that case,” he said, “I will ask the gods to smile on you.”

  “You have some pull with them?”

  “As you know, I am only a humble salamander vendor. But the gods have to eat too, my friend.”

  I chuckled. “So I’ve heard.”

  “Two?” he asked.

  “Two,” I confirmed.

  As usual, Zolin gave me a waxed-paper bag to hold open for him, then reached into the hot oil with a set of tongs and grabbed a salamander. But as he slipped it into the bag, a funny look came over his face, and I got the feeling that he was looking past me rather than at me.

  “What is it?” I asked.

  “Forgive me,” he said, “for intruding on your personal business, but I would be a bad friend if I didn’t tell you that someone is following you.”

  I barely resisted the urge to look around. “How do you know?”

  “I saw him the last time you were here, and now I see him again, yet I didn’t see him in between. He is standing past the end of the line. Not buying, just watching.”

  “You’re sure it’s the same guy?” I asked.

  Zolin shrugged. “He stands out in a crowd.”

  “In what way?”

  “He has big shoulders. A long pony tail. And his face is pitted—with acne scars, if my eye does not deceive me. Do you know him?”

  “No,” I said. “Past the end of the line, right?”

  “Correct,” said Zolin. “May I be of assistance in some way?”

  “That won’t be necessary,” I assured him. “But thanks.”

  I wasn’t playing with the Eagles anymore, but I was still in good shape. I could run the guy down if I had to.

  As casually as if Zolin hadn’t said anything, I paid him, put the salamander away in my pouch, and turned to glance at the end of the line.

  There was a guy in a pony tail, all right. But he was already halfway down the block, heels flying.

  I gave chase. But he was fast, as fast as I was. Before I knew it, he had ducked around the corner of a building. By the time I got there, he was nowhere to be seen.

  Gods, I thought, disgusted.

  Who was this guy? Why was he following me?

  Did it have anything to do with the murder at Centeotl? I had to believe it did—but what? Was he the killer?

  If so, I was really disgusted.

  Anyway, there wasn’t much I could at that point besides call in the guy’s description and hope for the best.

  • • •

  Back at work, I found Quetzalli watching a news report on the cultists. They were back at the same building where I had seen them the day before, marching and singing out their slogans. I hoped for Eren’s sake that the gods appreciated her tenacity.

  When I went to see Aunt Xoco later that evening, I had a lot on my mind. It must have showed.

  “You’re not eating,” my aunt said sharply.

  She wasn’t an easy person to insult. There were lots of things I could have said or done that night, and she would have let them slide off her back. But not eat her food?

  Worse than murder, in her estimate.

  I slid a piece of roast turkey into my mouth. I loved the way Aunt Xoco made it, with honey, sage, and pumpkin seeds.

  “Good,” I said, shaping the word around the morsel of turkey meat.

  “I know it’s good,” said my aunt. “So why are you sitting there with your eyes glazed over instead of eating it?”

  I apologized. “I’ve got a lot on my mind. Work, I mean.”

  She flipped her wrist, jangling her bracelets. “Your father used to say the same thing. He couldn’t tell me about his investigations. They were big secrets, not to be discussed on pain of death.�
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  I nodded. “Something like that.”

  “All right. Suit yourself.”

  I met the High Priest today. He handpicked me for the Centeotl case. That’s what I wanted to say. But what I said instead was, “I’m glad you understand.”

  Of course, there was another reason I wasn’t stuffing myself at Aunt Xoco’s table. I had an obligation to fulfill later that night—one that she seemed not to remember.

  And if she wasn’t bringing it up, I wasn’t about to do so either.

  Truth be told, I didn’t feel like playing ullamalitzli as I took the rail line to the ball court that night. Despite my restraint, I had eaten and drunk too much by the time I left Aunt Xoco’s place, and I had an investigation on my hands so big that even the High Priest was keeping an eye on it.

  Those were two good reasons to take the night off. But the ball court game was played in the gods’ honor, one of the few holy obligations left over from ancient days, and it was considered even more holy as we approached the Fire Renewal.

  Also, to be perfectly honest, it was a key match. Our team, the Scale Beetles, was first in the standings. The club we were supposed to play, the Hummingbirds, was second—but only by a point. If we beat them, we would stay on top. If they beat us, they would secure a piece of first place.

  As I said, a key match. So it wasn’t only the gods pushing me into the ball court that night. It was my teammates as well.

  And there was a third reason: I needed to clear my head. Sometimes I felt compelled to immerse myself in an investigation. Other times, I felt I needed to back off. This was one of the latter times.

  It wasn’t until I stepped out onto the stone court with my teammates that I started feeling the fire in my belly. It was good to be among men I could depend on, men who depended on me.

  Over the cycles the roster had changed, with only Ocelopan, Ecatzin, and me remaining from the original squad. Ocelopan, like me, was an attacker. Ecatzin, the oldest one on the team by a good seven or eight cycles, was our floater. Huemac, a big, strong guy who could take a lot of punishment, held down the center position. And Atl and Panitzin, neither of whom was more than twenty, put their youthful energies into playing defender.