“Tell His Grace the story of Huitsilopochtli,” Lord Darcy said.
“Huitsilopochtli was—is—one of the most important gods, the God of the Sun,” Lord John said. “According to the ancient ritual, he fed on human blood, and he needed to eat daily.
“Once a year—or more often in troubled times—he fed on the blood of a prince.”
“A prince!” Duke Charles turned to Lord Darcy. “Then de Maisvin may be right!”
“It is possible, Your Grace,” Lord Darcy said, “but there’s more to the tale—”
”A captive, or on occasion a volunteer, was made a prince for the ceremony,” Lord John went on. “For up to six months he was a prince: He lived in the palace, he wore rich clothing and ate the finest food, he was married to a princess, his advice was sought with the other princes in matters of policy. In word, deed, and behavior, he was as the other royalty in the land.
“Then the holy day would arrive when a prince’s blood must feed Huitsilopochtli. Lots are cast, and our six-month prince is chosen. It’s very symbolic—the ballot is rigged to show that life is rigged. The prince is stripped of his fine clothes to show the transitory nature of wealth and possessions. He is taken to the water’s edge and put in a rowboat, where he is deserted by his wife and servants. Thus showing the ephemeral quality of human relationships. He rows himself out to the pyramid. As he climbs it, the rest of his clothes are ripped from his body.
“When he reaches the temple of Huitsilopochtli, four priests grab him and throw him face-up onto the altar. The top of the altar stone is humped so that when his arms and legs are held down, his chest protrudes. This also widens the space between the ribs to make the knife-thrust easier.
“The Chief Priest thrusts his obsidian-bladed knife between the third and fourth ribs, and rips the wall of the chest open. The still-beating heart is cut loose and held aloft for Huitsilopochtli’s approval.”
There was a silence as Lord John stopped talking. Then Duke Charles said, “Well!” and stared off into the middle distance.
“Not nice,” Master Sean said. “No wonder that Father Adamsus expected to have a difficult exorcism; the creature that fed—psychically—on that blood must have grown in power until he was possessed of a horrific malevolence.”
“I have been long fascinated by the study of pantheistic theologies,” Lord John said, “as you can probably understand. When a minor demon is treated as a god for a few centuries, his power in the Underworld, and among humans, can grow to unbelievable proportions. If the early Angevin missionaries and explorers who came here had not had a full knowledge of both magic and demonology, then those bloodthirsty savages who were my ancestors would probably have overwhelmed them with ease.”
“Don’t denigrate your ancestors, my lord,” Duke Charles said. “Bloodthirsty, perhaps. Savages, no. For a people who refuse to use the wheel, they have an exemplary road system. And their irrigation methods, I understand, are brilliant.”
“They got them from the Mayans, Your Grace,” Lord John said, smiling. “Anything clever the Azteques have, they got from the Mayans. Just as Master Sean tells me that everything clever the Angevins have they stole from the Irish.”
“Ah, hem, my lords,” Master Sean said, looking embarrassed. “That’s not precisely what I said. Near enough, I’ll grant you, but not precisely.”
Lord Darcy chuckled. The duke laughed. “After all, Master Sean,” the duke said, “you may be right.”
Lord Darcy rose. “We’d best be on our way,” he said. “We have a day’s work ahead of us. If anything is discovered, Your Grace, rest assured that I shall have it relayed to you immediately.”
“What about de Maisvin’s theory?” Duke Charles asked. “Do you think it has merit?”
“It may, Your Grace; but if anyone thought they were duplicating the ancient sacrifice to Huitsilopochtli, they didn’t do their research. This man was dead before his heart was ripped out, which I am given to understand is definitely not how it is supposed to be done.”
“Is that so?” His Grace asked. “Killed first, and then the heart ripped out?”
“Aye, Your Grace,” Master Sean agreed. “No question about it. The blood from a living heart would have behaved quite differently. And the body was moved onto that altar stone after it was dead. There was no psychic shock resident in the stone, you see. Of course, the faint traces of ancient death were evident, but they were quite easily blocked out.”
“How strange,” the Duke of Arc said. “What would anyone rip the heart out of a corpse for?”
“A good question, Your Grace,” Lord Darcy said. “Also, where was the body moved from? I have a feeling that the answer to those two questions will give us the killer. But the answers are not going to be easily come by. We’d best go hunting for them. If you will excuse us, Your Grace?”
The duke stood up. “Keep me closely informed, Lord Darcy. If you need anything—anything—take it.”
Thank you, Your Grace.” Lord Darcy bowed, and he and his two forensic sorcerers left the room.
CHAPTER NINE
Lord Darcy pushed aside the papers on his desk and glanced up at the ornate Horry clock on the wall. This gilded masterwork from one of the Duchy of Uberstein’s finest clockmakers had four dials, and a profusion of hands for each. It told the date, the phases of the moon, the tides in any of four locations, the times of sunrise and sunset; it showed the astrology sun and moon signs, the positions of the major planets, the locations of eclipses of the sun across the surface of the earth for the next century, sidereal time, the exact longitude at which it was now midnight, and the correct local time.
It was ten minutes before two in the afternoon.
At two o’clock Count Maximilian de Maisvin and Lord John Quetzal would arrive to accompany Lord Darcy on personal interviews of the entourage and acquaintances of the dead prince. Lord Darcy had read the reports of the interviews conducted by Plainclothes Chief Master at Arms Vincetti and his men; indeed he was just rereading them now. But words on paper, especially words cast into the stilted language used in official reports, were lifeless things; no substitute for talking to the people involved. He gathered the reports together and put them back into their file. Then he yawned, stretched, reached for his notebook, and rang for his valet.
Mullion, the rather plump, balding man in carefully tailored Duchy of Arc livery who answered his ring, was but a poor substitute for Ciardi, who had been Lord Darcy’s personal servant for the better part of three decades, since he was at Oxford. It was not merely that the slender, ascetic Ciardi occupied himself with Lord Darcy’s well-being, it was that he had the judgment to recognize what a being looked like when it was well. Ciardi’s interests were limited to taking care of Lord Darcy, reading French romances, and keeping up with Court gossip. Lord Darcy found him an ideal servant, and valued and trusted him.
But when the King’s command had come, Ciardi had been on his semiannual visit to his aged mother in Burgundy—she must be coming on to ninety by now—and Lord Darcy had to leave him behind.
The stout Mullion was a minion of the duke, assigned to Lord Darcy to tend to his needs for the length of his stay in the Residence. He performed his job well enough, was cleanly, punctilious, and did exactly what was required of him. Exactly. Without fear, favor, imagination, observation, forethought, or resources. If Lord Darcy asked for a cup of caffe, he would get a cup of caffe. If he hadn’t mentioned that he needed cream, Mullion would have to go back for the cream. If there was no cream in the kitchen, Mullion would be baffled. After three days of going back for the cream, he was well on his way to breaking Lord Darcy of the habit of not mentioning the cream when he ordered the caffe. It wasn’t stubbornness or rebellion at his position as a servant, Lord Darcy thought, nor invincible stupidity. The man seemed bright enough. It seemed to be a sublime lack of interest in his work, combined with a positively glowing naivete.
“Tell me, Mullion,” Lord Darcy said when the servant was standing before hi
m, arms at his side, incurious face pointed toward His Lordship, “do you have any hopes or dreams of advancement?”
“Excuse me, Your Lordship?” the plump valet asked, a puzzled expression washing across his untroubled features.
“Would you like someday to become, say, major-domo of the Residence?” Lord Darcy asked, “Or leave His Grace’s services and open an inn of your own?”
“No, Your Lordship.”
“Do you aspire to one of the professions then? Are you studying for the Arthur Threes?” Lord Darcy referred to the annual scholarship examinations given to applicants of all ages for admittance to the Royal University system, and thence a career in the professions or in the Imperial bureaucracy, named after King Arthur III, who had first set them up.
“No, Your Lordship.”
“Well then, are you interested in an opening in the Legion? Start as a trooper and advance up the military ladder? Or are you hoping to colonize one of the Western territories when they open up?”
“No, Your Lordship,” Mullion replied, showing no interest in any aspect of his inquisition. It was clear that he was going to volunteer nothing beyond the monosyllabic negative, so Lord Darcy, recognizing the limp hand of placid intransigence when it slapped him in the face, stopped his questioning for the time being.
“Excuse the unnecessarily personal questions, Mullion. I trust I haven’t offended you,” he said. “Would you bring me a cup of caffe please—with cream. And fetch my heavy brown cape from wherever it’s gotten to and hang it on a peg by the door. I think it’s going to snow.”
“Very well, Your Lordship,” Mullion said, giving a careful half-bow and retreating silently the way he had come.
There was a puzzle there, Lord Darcy felt. But it would have to wait on the larger puzzle. He centered his notebook on the desk and turned to the next empty page. For a minute he gazed at the page, waving the pen in his hand in an idle pattern over the blank, lined paper. Then, neatly and precisely, he listed what he knew of the Prince’s followers, and what he would like to know. In the fullness of time Mullion returned and placed the caffe tray on the table before him. Lord Darcy poured himself a cup and sipped it thoughtfully, staring at the blue lettering on the page in his notebook.
Prince Ixequatle had been in Nova Eboracum for a little over three weeks when he was killed, having arrived on Friday, the thirteenth of February. He and his party had traveled by ship from Mechicoe to England, and thence to Nova Eboracum. The coming of winter had precluded an overland trip. Lord Darcy wondered whether the Azteques had superstitions about the number thirteen.
The Prince’s traveling companions were Lord Lloriquhali, an elderly man who advised the Prince on things Azteque, and Don Miguel Potchatipotle, a Spaniard who had married into a noble Azteque family and taken his wife’s surname. Don Miguel was to advise the Prince on matters Angevin, being the closest thing to an expert around Tenochtitlan when the Prince left. Nothing was known of his past, at least not by his Angevin questioners. He claimed to be the younger son of a younger son of a noble Spanish family, and that was being checked. Unfortunately the report of the Aragonese authorities would not arrive in time to be of any use, as the request would take two or three months to make the round trip to Zaragoza and back.
The Prince’s personal manservant, a young, undersized creature named Chichitoquoppi, and his personal warrior bodyguard of a dozen men, and a flock of additional slaves who had also traveled with him, were all now living together in—apparently—a rented house somewhere in New Borkum.
Don Miguel was the primary informant; Lord Lloriquhali spoke no Anglic, nor did any of the warriors, and the slaves didn’t communicate very well even in Nahuatl. Chief Master at Arms Vincetti had pretty much had to take Don Miguel’s word for what the others were saying. Which, Lord Darcy reflected, was not good investigative procedure. Which was why he was taking Lord John Quetzal with him.
The preliminary reports were clear on one thing: Except for Lord Lloriquhali, who evidently saw a plot under every bush, nobody knew any reason why the young Prince should be killed, nor anybody who would wish to kill him. There were, to be sure, many Azteque haters among the native tribes in New England, but mostly in the South. Here in the North the Azteque occupation had taken place too long ago for anything but legends, and the natives who wanted to hate something either picked another tribe or the Angevin presence.
But there were other reasons to kill someone besides hate. Some people, Lord Darcy thought wryly, kill people they don’t even know.
There was a loud knock at the apartment door. Two minutes later there was a soft knock on the study door, and Mullion entered to announce Lord John Quetzal and a dark, somber-looking man dressed in black and silver, who was announced as Count Maximilian de Maisvin.
“Lord John,” Lord Darcy said, rising. “An expected pleasure. Count de Maisvin. I have been looking forward to meeting you.”
“And I, you, my lord,” de Maisvin said, striding forward to take Lord Darcy’s hand. “I have heard so much of you from His Grace, and in such strong terms, that I confess I expected to find you breathing fire and overturning stone walls with your voice. It is something of a disappointment to find you mortal. At least, in appearance.”
“His Grace gives me too much credit,” Lord Darcy said. “The pleasure of receiving an accolade is somewhat diluted by the problem of living up to it.” He smiled. “His Grace speaks very highly of you, too, my lord.”
“I shall do my best to live up to it,” de Maisvin said. “Shall we be off?”
“Before we leave,” Lord John said, drawing his cloak around him, “I would like to suggest that we make a point of using my services merely as a translator. I don’t think I should initiate any of the questions put to Prince Ixequatle’s retinue.”
“How is that, my lord?” Lord Darcy asked.
“I think, considering my position—that is, who I am—that the Prince’s people might well resent any suggestion that I am personally interrogating them. If it’s clear that you are merely using me as a translator, then there should be less of a problem.”
“That makes sense, my lord,” Lord Darcy said. “If any questions occur to you, we will carefully place them in my mouth.” He pulled his heavy brown cape on and took a thick brown felt hat from the rack by the door. “Was it, indeed, snowing when Your Lordships came inside?”
“Large, thick white flakes,” Lord John told him, his expressive dark eyes lighting up. “You know, I never saw snow until I arrived in London at the age of twenty-three. I still find it quite remarkable.”
They left the Residence by the great front doors and turned left, to walk north along the Great Way. Lord Darcy waved aside the carriage that was waiting for them. “If you two gentlemen don’t mind,” he said, “I’d rather walk. I understand it isn’t very far. I am unfamiliar with the town, and would like a chance to get something of the feel of it.”
“I enjoy walking through snow,” Lord John said. “Although it seems to be melting as fast as it hits the ground.”
The count de Maisvin swung into step silently alongside them. Whether he got pleasure from walking through snow or found it a nuisance was impossible to tell from his emotionless expression. “It’s a bit over a mile from here,” he said. “I’ll show you.”
“You don’t happen to know,” Lord Darcy asked the count, “why the Prince and his party weren’t put up at the Residence? It would seem the natural thing to do, given his status.”
“Indeed,” de Maisvin agreed. “He was offered a suite of rooms, but he turned it down. I think the Prince would have liked it, but the old man who travels with him vetoed it.”
“Lord Lloriquhali,” Lord John muttered.
“That one,” de Maisvin agreed.
“His dislike of my family is matched only by his intransigence,” Lord John said. “He takes every change that has taken place over the past two hundred years as a personal affront.”
“And he was sent to give advice to Princ
e Ixequatle?”
“I doubt whether the Prince was taking his advice,” Lord John said. “My guess would be that the conservative faction in court foisted him on the Prince. You should enjoy talking to him, my lord; you will get a glimpse of a fascinating world view.”
The Great Way was a broad, well-paved avenue at this point; with a cobblestone street and stone-slab sidewalks. Traffic was light, and made up mostly of goods-wagons bringing produce to the downtown markets. The houses that lined the street were two-and three-storey wood-frame buildings with shops downstairs and living quarters on the upper floors. Lord Darcy’s first impression was that, except for the width of the street, uncommon in the centuries-old towns of Europe, it could have been a town anywhere in the Angevin Empire. Then gradually he began to notice other differences.
The houses were cleaner, for one thing, and spaced further apart, with carriageways between them. The predominant color was white; every bit of exposed surface was gone over with a white-wash, as though the sight of raw wood were an offense against nature. White picket fences surrounded the neat yards. Most of the buildings had red trim, although there was a smattering of blue and just a touch of brown. The people they passed were the goodmen and goodwives of any town; neatly dressed earnest shopkeepers for the most part, and some men of a rougher sort, who drove the wagons and worked as day laborers in the streets.
But, Lord Darcy noted, there was another sort of man they passed, a sort that he had seen represented in Duke Charles’s audience chamber. These were men who looked ill at ease and confined in the narrow streets of New Borkum; who dressed and walked as though they needed open space around them, and a distant horizon to gaze at. They wore fringed leather garments, most of them, and wide-brimmed leather hats, and they took no more notice of the snow falling around them than a hawk takes of the mist.
“Those men,” Lord Darcy said, indicating a group of four who were talking together outside a livery stable. “Who are they? What do they do?”
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