Master of the House of Darts: Obsidian and Blood Book 3

by Aliette Bodard

  "What right questions?"

  "I'm told your Fire Priest was wondering what deity Yayauhqui worshipped as a youth."

  "I thought there might be something there." Even if there hadn't been.

  "Perhaps," Nezahual-tzin said. "But that's not what matters. What matters is Yayauhqui himself."

  "I don't see–"

  "He was a member of the Imperial Family. A small and insignificant one: I doubt Moquihuix-tzin ever paid much attention to him. He was never a man to pay much attention to the small fish anyway."

  "A member of–"

  "You see why it's important," Nezahual-tzin said soberly.

  "It could still be something else."

  He shook his head. "You don't understand, Acatl-tzin. Tlatelolco will not forget. They'll never forget."

  I looked at him curiously. Why such animosity? He had been barely a child at the time of the war that had cost our sister city their independence. "What makes you say that?"

  "You have been to Tlatelolco."

  "Only the marketplace," I said.

  "You'll have missed the most important thing," Nezahual-tzin said. "Their Great Temple."

  "What of it?"

  "It's a ruin," Nezahual-tzin said. He sounded sad, or angry – I couldn't tell. "The limestone has cracked and dimmed; the frescoes have all but vanished. Not a human hand has touched it for eight years; not a single sacrifice has been offered there. To the gods, it might as well be dead."

  "Why?" I asked, and thought of the answer before Nezahual-tzin could speak. "Tlatelolco worships within Tenochitlan's Sacred Precinct. Tlatelolca shouldn't be allowed to repair something that has no use." The Great Temple: the focal point of worship, the pride of one's city – the beating heart, the entrails.

  "And they pay tribute every eighty days; send men to keep the temple of Huitznahuac in good repair, and feathered costumes every year. That, on top of the exactions the Tenochca warriors committed within the city on the day of the battle."

  "You weren't there," I said.

  "My father was," Nezahual-tzin said. His eyes were brown again, but with a particular, distant glaze, as if he could actually see into the past. Knowing him, it might well be the case. "But for him, Moquihuix-tzin might well have succeeded in his bid to overthrow the Tenochca domination."

  "I still don't see–"

  "You don't know how the war started."

  "Over his wife," I said, slowly. Teomitl's sister, the one Revered Speaker Moquihuix-tzin had neglected.

  "No," Nezahual-tzin said. "It started because, when Moquihuix-tzin's wife found refuge in Tenochtitlan after one too many nights of neglect, she brought word of a plot – an alliance between Tlatelolco and Culhuacan – both cities would regroup their armies, storm Tenochtitlan and send every man and woman of Tenochca blood soaring into the Heavens."

  "That's–"

  "Not something the Triple Alliance boasts of." Nezahual-tzin shrugged. "You can see how ill-informed it makes us seem. That it should take a woman to bring us word of what was right under our eyes."

  I couldn't help it. "You don't like women, do you?"

  "On the contrary," Nezahual-tzin said. "I think most people underestimate them, often unfortunately. Your sister, for instance, is worth perhaps more than all three High Priests combined, but there'll be few members of the clergy crowding to offer her any kind of official position. But never mind, that's not the point."

  "I wish you would get to it," I said between clenched teeth.

  Again, that graceful shrug, that mocking smile, and – hovering behind him in the afternoon light – the shadowy form of an emerald-green serpent, with a mane of black and red feathers, and eyes that glowed like pale stars. "Merely that Tlatelolca plot. They've always been good at it, and they can hide their resentment for years if need be – waiting for the best moment to strike."

  "You're generalising from one example," I said.

  "Perhaps," Nezahual-tzin said. "But the evidence against your merchant Yayauhqui is exactly as slender as that against Xiloxoch."

  "Then what do you want? That we should arrest him as well?" And spark off another war between Tlatelolco and Tenochtitlan?

  "I want you to consider this, and to remember my warning. There are men you shouldn't cross, Acatl. Beware of Tlatelolca, especially if they seem helpful."

  He'd unnerved me more than he knew; or perhaps exactly as much as he'd intended to. "I'll keep it in mind."

  "Good. Oh, and another thing," Nezahual-tzin said. "You'll want to keep an eye on your student – for his sake and yours."

  "Why?" I said, feeling lectured enough for a lifetime. "You've interfered quite enough in my affairs."

  "Ah, but you didn't see."

  "See what?"

  "The warriors." Nezahual-tzin's voice was slow and gentle, like a mother pointing out a child's failures.

  "What about them?"

  He shook his head, almost sadly. "One of them started to remove his sandals. He only stopped because his companion gave him a warning glance."

  "He started to remove–" I took in a deep, shaking breath. Only in the presence of the Revered Speaker, or of his representative, did one put aside one's sandals. "The army isn't satisfied with Tizoc-tzin. It's only normal they'd want to find someone else to worship – that's hardly his fault." Even to me, the words rang as hollow as rotten wood.

  "Ah, but he didn't try very hard to stop them, either."

  I remembered what Teomitl had said, when they'd both tried to bow down to him. Now is neither the time nor the place.

  Now, no. But later, perhaps – once Tizoc-tzin was overthrown, and Teomitl himself crowned Revered Speaker?

  When I came back, I found Teomitl still sitting on his reed-matand Mihmatini gathering up Nezahual-tzin's feather headdress and cloak. "Feeling better?" I asked.

  Teomitl grimaced. "Not really. And you, Acatl-tzin?"

  Every muscle in my body felt stretched and pounded, like maize in the mortar, and without the cane, I wouldn't have been able to stand up. "I've been better." I didn't say anything about Nezahual-tzin's warning; I wasn't sure why. A desire not to worry him – or perhaps a sign that I believed Nezahual-tzin far more than I should have?

  I would watch, and wait, and the accusation would prove itself groundless, another of Nezahual-tzin's little games. Yes. It had to be. Teomitl wasn't a fool. He had to know open rebellion would throw the Mexica Empire into more disarray than it could bear.

  He had to. "Mihmatini?" I asked.

  She paused on her way to the entrance. "Yes?"

  "You haven't told me how it went, with the SheSnake. After the trial."

  "Oh." She paused. "Nothing much. I complained and the She-Snake notified me I was acting irresponsibly. We both know who put him up to this." She snorted. "If you ask me, Tizoc-tzin still sees me as a young, inexperienced girl."

  Did he? It was his loss, then. Both Teomitl and I had got over that stage long ago.

  I was watching Teomitl's face as she spoke, and saw the hands clench and the shadow of jade imprint itself over the features. "My brother is a fool." There was something in his voice: a harshness that hadn't been there before, as if being so close to death had stripped away the last of the pretence.

  "Teomitl," I started, but at this moment the entrancecurtain was wrenched open – by one of Mihmatini's priests. "My Lady Guardian…"

  "What is it?"

  "There is a delegation in the courtyard, asking to see you and the High Priest for the Dead."

  The delegation was, as I had suspected, mostly priests from my order, Ichtaca at their head. "Acatl-tzin." He looked relieved to see me. "When we didn't see you come back…"

  I shook my head, obscurely ashamed. "I haven't abandoned you. It's just been – a busy day."

  "He almost died," Mihmatini said, fiercely. "What is it?"

  Ichtaca took a deep breath. "You have to come to the palace, now."

  My heart sank. What had happened now? "Why?"

  It was Pall
i, the round-faced offering priest, who spoke

  up. "The sickness is no longer contained, Acatl-tzin. It's–" he took a deep breath, "it's got into one of the palace wings. There are dozens of dead people."

  THIRTEEN

  Sickness in Our Midst

  The atmosphere in the palace was tense and fearful – even worse than four months before, when a stardemon had wreaked havoc in the courtyards, killing one councillor and carrying off the soul of a second. The first few courtyards we crossed seemed to be devoid of the She-Snake's black-clad guards, but as we went deeper – towards the affected wing – we saw more and more of them, and heard the growing clamour of the crowd.

  "How bad is it?" I asked Ichtaca.

  "Thirteen sick, two dead. And it's spreading." For once, he'd agreed to walk ahead of me, casting aside the etiquette which would have seen him defer to me as his superior. And a good thing: I was still weary and slow, limping through the courtyards with the help of Ceyaxochitl's cane, and of course I only had a vague idea of where we were going.

  "And they don't know where it started?"

  If Ichtaca had had less of a sense of decorum, he'd have thrown his hands up. "The priests of Huitzilpochtli are quite… competent."

  "But not enough?" I guessed, shrewdly. They were Quenami's order, and Quenami had never had to handle a massive panic.

  "You're assuming Quenami will be capable of something beyond court intrigue," Mihmatini said, curtly – she'd insisted on accompanying us, when it had become clear that the emergency concerned her as well.

  "To be fair," Ichtaca said with a grimace, "I'm not sure we'd have handled it better. It's work for the clergy of Tlaloc."

  Who inconveniently happened to be locked in cages, awaiting Tizoc-tzin's pleasure.

  The courtyards we passed were all but deserted, the entrance-curtains closed with the finality of barricades. From time to time, a pale face would peek between the curtains – and withdraw just as fast, as if unable to meet our gaze.

  Gradually, the noise grew: it was the priests of Huitzlipochtli arguing with burly warriors, trying to convince them they should stay inside, wait for the contagion to be ended.

  "And when in the Fifth World do you think this is going to happen?" One of the warriors waved his macuahitl sword, threateningly; his companion laid a hand on his arm. "Let it go, Atl. You know priests are useless."

  "I assure you–" the priest said in a quavering voice.

  "Great work," Mihmatini muttered under her breath. I winced, but said nothing. Ichtaca likewise made no comment, but quickened his pace – forcing me to stay the same if I wanted to remain ahead of him.

  There were more priests in the following courtyards, and the same total lack of mastery: they stood in doorways, arguing with irate warriors and noblemen – with mothers holding out wailing children, and old women who looked totally unfazed by any of their finery. As we neared the centre, it got worse and worse; the quarrels louder, the priests more numerous but equally ineffective, and the people milling outside, hoping to break the containment, becoming more and more dispersed.

  And, in the last courtyard, there was a crowd – not densely packed, but at least a hundred people, mostly artisans, judging by their garb, and by the handful of feathers and precious stones scattered on the ground. From somewhere within the hubbub, I caught Quenami's raised voice: "You see, we have to–"

  He didn't see. Like most artisans, they worked within the palace, but didn't sleep there. Their workshops were there – and, granted, their whole families had come with them, helping them glue feathers or mosaic beads, or sort out precious stones, but they certainly hadn't expected to be all but imprisoned in the palace.

  Mihmatini was already pushing her way towards the centre, and Ichtaca and my priests followed in her wake, but the noise of the crowd was growing – a rolling wave of discontent that wouldn't be quelled by Quenami's words. It was going to burst.

  Mihmatini had reached the centre. I caught angry words, presumably coming from one of the priests, and her own voice, raised to carry. "There is no cause for alarm…"

  I was still lagging behind when it all broke down: one moment I was slowly making my way through a crowd of angry artisans, the next moment people were pressed against me, trying to hit me, to hit each other, anger palpable in the air. I couldn't see my priests, or Mihmatini, and the noise around me was only the wordless murmur of the crowd.

  I tried to reach up with my one free hand, to slash my earlobes and whisper a prayer to Lord Death – which would have endowed me with the cold of the under world, keeping the mob at bay, but they were too numerous, I couldn't…

  Instead, I was all but carried by the crowd to the edge of the courtyard: it wasn't anger at the priests that drove them, but desire to leave the palace. I understood, but I couldn't not condone. For all we knew, several among them were already contaminated, carrying the sickness everywhere within the palace. They had to be stopped – and, indeed, the She-Snake's guards were already pulling up at the entrance to the courtyard, their uniforms a stark black against the adobe, their faces pale in the afternoon light – leeched of all colours, save the glint of their spears, the colours of their feather-shields.

  The crowd in which I was caught wavered and came to a stop – and, for a bare moment, I dared to hope I might somehow slip away, turn back, and make my tottering way to Mihmatini and my priests – but then one artisan, more adventurous than one of his fellows, threw an adze at the leftmost guard.

  The guard ducked, but the crowd was inflamed: the first ranks flung themselves at the guard, heedless of their spears. They fell back, cut, but there were always more artisans to take their place…

  Buffeted here and there, I nevertheless managed to reach up with my free hand and, without a knife, rub at my earlobes, ignoring the growing pain until a sharper stab of pain told me I'd succeeded in removing the scabs from my previous offerings. The blood that stained my hands was only a few drops, but it would suffice.

  "In the land of the fleshless,

  In the region of mystery,

  Where jade crumbles, where feathers become dust…"

  Cold rose up, caught me in its embrace – gradually extinguishing every other feeling until it was all I could feel. The people on either side of me – two burly artisans weighing precious stones as if they were weapons – shrank back, and I used the opportunity to make my way out of the crowd, pointing the cane ahead of me like a weapon. I came to rest under the row of pillars surrounding the courtyard. A few hostile gazes followed me: if I didn't move away, I'd be the next person they threw adzes at.

  Where was Mihmatini?

  A soft, dappled radiance came from the centre of the courtyard: the press of artisans had shrunk there, become almost a huddle. I caught a glimpse of Quenami's haughty face, and Mihmatini in hurried conversation with Ichtaca and two artisans. It didn't look as though they were fighting.

  At the courtyard's entrance, the guards were putting up a valiant fight, but they would not last long and I couldn't see how we would prevent them from leaving at all: more carriers of the plague in the heart of the city, further deaths…

  Southern Hummingbird strike me, I couldn't see a way out of this. If only I could make my way over to Mihmatini…

  I was about to move towards her when something brushed against me: the touch of some magic, like cold fingers lingering on my skin, sending chills into my heart. It might have been one of the artisans, but the spell was unerring, casting aside my protections as if they were nothing. Unless we had a sorcerer hidden among the artisans, it couldn't be any of them. I raised my gaze and, through the corner of one eye, I caught a glimpse of a man at the other courtyard entrance – the one that led deeper into the palace, where only a few frightened servants had lingered. He wore rags, but leant against one of the pillars with the casual, relaxed attitude of noblemen – and the profile. The lean, aristocratic face was achingly familiar.

  It couldn't be…

  Acamapichtli?
<
br />   Calling through the din of the crowd would have been futile. Instead, I made my way further in – away from the pack tearing at the guards, the crowd becoming thinner and thinner as I retreated. I'd have broken into a run, if only I didn't feel so weak. Instead, I all but limped to the other end and by the time I reached the entrance, there was no one there.

  I looked left and right, but even the servants had left. Had I imagined the whole thing? Acamapichtli was under arrest, like the rest of his clergy – kept in a cell where his powers would be weakened; kept under guard, so he couldn't plot against Tizoc-tzin (futile… Acamapichtli plotted as he breathed).