Master of the House of Darts

by Aliette de Bodard

  "I didn't know you had the best interests of warriors at heart," I said to Nezahual-tzin.

  He smiled, uncovering teeth of a dazzling white. "Warriors, no. Magical epidemics, most probably."

  "I see," I said. "You weren't with the army."

  "No." Nezahual shook his head, briefly. "The coronation war is Tizoc-tzin's only. The Triple Alliance won't interfere when he proves his valour." He sounded vaguely amused: he had no illusions about Tizoc-tzin's valour.

  "Don't mock my brother," Teomitl said. "I haven't seen you much on the battlefield, either."

  Nezahual-tzin rolled his eyes upwards. "To each their own." I'd expected him to elaborate, but he didn't.

  I looked at Teomitl, who was fidgeting. "I need to talk with Teomitl. Alone."

  Teomitl nodded. Yes. There is plenty to do."

  I could see that he wanted to remove Nezahual-tzin from his presence – and Nezahual-tzin saw it as well, because a slightly mocking smile was playing on his broad features.

  I didn't know how much I could trust him with any of the details on the epidemic, and in any case, it was better to be prudent. I took the first excuse that came to mind. "If you'll excuse us," I said to Nezahual-tzin. "We have to look for a woman."

  "Women tend to be elusive," Nezahual-tzin said, gravely. I remembered, too late, that he might be sixteen years old, and have the wisdom and grace of someone far older, but he didn't disdain the pleasures of the flesh, and his women's quarters already held dozens of concubines.

  Teomitl glared at Nezahual-tzin. "You don't know what you're talking about."

  His desire to oust Nezahual-tzin from his quarters was palpable, and at length Nezahual-tzin nodded. "I see," he said in a swish of feathers. "I will leave you to your affairs while I attend to mine."

  I waited until he had left to look at Teomitl. "We have a problem," I said.

  "A problem?"

  Quickly, I outlined what Mihmatini had told me. Teomitl's face did not change during the recitation, save that it went paler and paler – and that a green light, like jade, like underwater algae, started playing on his features. "Deliberate?"

  "Insofar as I know, yes."

  "Then who?" The room was bathed in green shadows now; if the culprit had been there, he would have been blasted straight into Mictlan.

  "I don't know."

  Teomitl grimaced. He looked disappointed – an expression which sent an odd pang through my chest, making me wish I'd been capable of removing it – but he soon rallied. "So we're looking for enemies of the Mexica?"

  I shook my head. "Not only that. Enemies of your brother, quite possibly. Remember last year. Someone could well be a Mexica and love the Empire, and yet still want to depose Tizoc-tzin for personal gain."

  Teomitl snorted. "You don't remove a Revered Speaker. You kill him." I'd expected him to be outraged, or angry; but he was merely stating a fact all too wellknown to him, as if he'd already brooded over this many times.

  "Teomitl–" I said, suddenly frightened.

  He grinned – careless, boyish again. "Don't worry about me, Acatl-tzin. I'm not a fool. But the fact remains: what does our sorcerer hope to gain with this?"

  "Weaken us," I said, darkly. "Perhaps even encourage a civil war." We'd always stood united, but then again, all our Revered Speakers had had the favour of the Southern Hummingbird – their coronation wars a success, bodies piling at the foot of the Great Temple until the steps ran slick with blood.

  Teomitl's face darkened – and, for a moment, he looked far too much like his brother. "You go too far."

  I shook my head, ignoring the faint stirrings of unease. "You've seen the banquet. We are divided. With enough panic, and enough fear… the gods only know what a sorcerer can achieve."

  And there was Tizoc-tzin – who had been dead, and who we had brought back to life. What kind of magical protection could a dead man afford us?

  Teomitl said nothing.

  "You must know the court. You must see the atmosphere."

  His hands were steady – almost too much – his face carefully guileless. "I can look," he said, finally. "Does that mean we stop enquiring about Eptli's enemies?"

  I thought of what Mihmatini had told me. "Not necessarily. Whoever the culprit is, they must have hated Eptli – or what he represented."

  Teomitl grimaced. "I did have some information, but…"

  "What information?"

  "The head of prisoners sent word," Teomitl said. "He said that a woman dressed like a sacred courtesan walked into their quarters, not long before the uproar of Eptli's death. She all but barged her way into Zoquitl's quarters, and they had a lengthy conversation."

  A courtesan? "You don't know which kind?"

  "Fairly high-up in their hierarchy, I should imagine, from what Cuixtli said. Why?"

  "Xochiquetzal," I said, curtly.

  "Oh."

  Xochiquetzal, Goddess of Lust and Childbirth, had until recently been a resident of Tenochtitlan, granted asylum by the grace of the Duality – and of the previous Guardian, Ceyaxochitl. However, in the wake of Tizoc-tzin's ascent to power, She had been exiled from the city, partly in retaliation for her plot against the Southern Hummingbird a year before, and partly because Tizoc-tzin's paranoia wouldn't allow a scheming goddess to be within a stone's throw of him.

  I hadn't approved. Like all gods – except Lord Death and the Feathered Serpent, who took no part in the intrigues of the Fifth World – Xochiquetzal was ruthless, and always plotting something. But risking Her anger and resentment wasn't wise.

  "Does he know who she was?"

  "He didn't remember her name. He thought it was something to do with flowers…" which didn't help, since half the women's names included precious stones or flowers, "and something else. Some kind of food – amaranth, maize?"

  "I don't see–" I started, but the tinkle of the bells on the entrance-curtain cut me short.

  "Xiloxoch," Nezahual-tzin said, not even bothering with an apology or an introduction. "xoch" was for flower; and "xiloch" was tender maize.

  "You were spying on us?" Teomitl asked, indignantly. "You–" He stopped himself with an effort, remembering that he spoke to a superior and an ally. "That's not honourable."

  "Honour will see us all dead," Nezahual-tzin said, with that particular, distant serenity that was his hallmark. "Let's be practical."

  "How much did you hear?" I asked.

  He didn't answer, but by his mocking glance, I could guess he had been outside all the while, listening.

  "Don't you dare make this public," I said. I could have asked him not to act on it, but it would have been in vain.

  Nezahual-tzin snorted. "Secrets are of value. Why would I reveal something like that?"

  "For your own gain," Teomitl snapped.

  "Of course I wouldn't." He smiled, with practised innocence – not that we were fooled.

  "You'd better not."

  I decided to interpose myself, before the conversation degenerated: those two would come to blows easily enough, and it wouldn't help the stability of the Triple Alliance if the heir-apparent to the Mexica Empire and the Revered Speaker of Texcoco fought among themselves. "You said the courtesan's name was Xiloxoch. How do you know, Nezahual-tzin?" And realised, too late, that there was only one possible answer to the question.

  A faint, sarcastic smile appeared on Nezahual-tzin's lips for a bare moment, before his face was once more smooth and expressionless. "You know how I know," he said, curtly. "She's a delightful woman, Xiloxoch. Not as young as she used to be, but a treasure-trove of inventions. A pleasure to be with. Almost makes staying in Tenochtitlan worthwhile."

  Teomitl's face went crimson. I was less fazed than him – both because I'd expected something like that, and because what women did in the privacy of their chambers had long since ceased to matter for me. "I don't think your prowess as a man is the question here."

  Nezahual-tzin's eyes rolled up, revealing corneas of opalescent white. "Of course. You don't fee
l concerned."

  Less than Teomitl, obviously. Ah – might as well question him, and find out what he knew. "As I said earlier, let's focus. What do you know about Xiloxoch that would be relevant?" I stressed the word "relevant."

  For a moment, I thought Nezahual-tzin was going to launch into a recitation of Xiloxoch's virtues on the reedmat – but he must have perceived the shadows of jade playing on Teomitl's face, a sure sign that my student was losing hold of his divine powers. "You forget. I have no idea what you want with her."

  "You know. You were listening."

  "I see," Nezahual-tzin said. "Well, I don't know much more than what's already known at the House of Joy." He smiled disarmingly, but neither of us were fooled. "She chooses her mat-partners carefully, and she'll not bend for anyone."

  "And would she say she was a devoted follower of Xochiquetzal?"

  Nezahual-tzin's eyes rolled upwards again, revealing corneas as opalescent as mother-of-pearl. He was silent, for a while. He was – had always been – a good judge of character. "Her? She has her pick of Jaguar Knights and Eagle Knights, and even of Otomi shock troops. She should lack for nothing – but her chambers are simply decorated, and I've never seen anyone so bored with precious stones. So yes, I would think so. She's a priestess, not a greedy woman. She sees herself infused with the essence of the Quetzal Flower – invested with the mission to inflame lust in others."

  I had feared so. "Do you know–" I started, but didn't get any further.

  The entrance-curtain was slammed against the wall with such force that one of its bells flew off – and landed at Teomitl's feet with a discordant sound.

  The She-Snake, the keeper of the palace order, stood framed in the entrance, his black-streaked face almost flush against the darkness. By his side was a group of guards dressed in black – even in the dark, I could see their shaking hands, their pale faces. Something was wrong, and every single one of them reeked of magic, an odour that slipped within my lungs like smoke, thick and acrid.

  "Acatl," the She-Snake said. "Teomitl." He bowed a fraction, from equal to equal. "You have to come now."

  "There's been another death?" I asked, my heart sinking. But why would everyone look in such disarray, if it was just one of the sick people who had died. "Tizoctzin?" I asked.

  The She-Snake shook his head. "No. The war-council, Acatl. Someone has just made an attempt on the life of the Master of the House of Darkness."

  EIGHT

  Master of the House of Darkness

  We followed the She-Snake to another part of the palace – less grand than the quarters of the imperial family, though still ostentatious enough, with rich frescoes of gods and warriors, and the smell of pine needles, a pleasant overlay over the harsher odour of copal incense wafting from the huge burners.

  To Teomitl's dismay, Nezahual-tzin had fallen in with us, as if nothing were more natural. "Well, that's interesting," he said in a conversational tone.

  Teomitl's eyes tightened. "This is a Mexica affair."

  "You forget." Nezahual-tzin's broad face still bore that expression of distant amusement. "What strikes Tenochtitlan will strike its neighbours, too – and Texcoco is not just any neighbour, but part of the heart and soul of the Triple Alliance."

  The courtyard we entered resembled Tizoc-tzin's private quarters in miniature: at the centre was a pyramid of limestone. Atop the stairway was a squat building, and on the platform that led up to it floated a round feather standard depicting a cactus with red fruit. The insignia was unfamiliar.

  "Teomitl?" I asked, my face turned upwards.

  My student shed Nezahual-tzin with the quickness and eagerness of a striking snake. "It's his insignia," he said. "Pochtic, Master of the House of Darkness, Lord of the Eagle Prickly Pear."

  The entrance-curtain was held open by a slave, who bowed to Teomitl and Nezahual-tzin as they passed. In the antechamber a pile of sandals attested to the presence of several dignitaries: Teomitl and I removed ours, while Nezahual-tzin stood waiting patiently. Of course, he was a Revered Speaker and had no need to appear barefoot before Tizoc-tzin.

  Inside the room the atmosphere was hot and oppressive, like the air of the dry season. The smoke of copal incense lay over everything, and everyone present blurred into hazy, indistinct silhouettes. Nevertheless, I counted at least ten people gathered at the furthest end against the featureless wall.

  As we approached, I made out the familiar hue of Tizoctzin's turquoise cloak. His sycophant Quenami was here, and a host of feather-clad warriors I didn't recognise, probably the higher echelons of the army. In the centre…

  I had caught a brief glimpse of Pochtic when the army returned: he'd been standing with the other three members of the war-council, though all I remembered were the crimson feathers of his headdress, and the blacktrimmed mantle, held together with a folded rosette. The man lying on the reed-mat, though, had nothing to do with that image.

  His face was cut – not lacerated by a knife, but abraded everywhere, deep enough to draw blood. The wounds did not look deep, but they were horrific; circular patches covering his entire skin from cheek to forehead. His earlobes were torn – not by sacrifice or by penance, but as if a wild animal had bitten them off – and his eyelids were a bloody mass. His chest still rose and fell, though he was unconscious.

  "It looks like he's been mauled," the She-Snake said, behind me.

  Teomitl frowned and shook his head. "No. That's no wild animal. He'd have wounds with torn edges."

  "Then what is it?" Tizoc-tzin's livid face turned towards us. Under the Turquoise and Gold Crown his eyes seemed to have sunk deeper, his cheeks gaunter and paler, giving him the air of a corpse just risen from its funeral vigil. "What is it? No one attacks my war-council in my palace. Do you hear, brother, no one!"

  It was getting worse, then – the lack of grace, the paranoia. I sought Acamapichtli with my eyes, but couldn't find him. It seemed he'd stayed with his patients – for once doing the right thing.

  "I don't know." Teomitl knelt, throwing his red-andwhite cloak behind him – he extended a hand towards the bloody face, and seemed to remember something. In a fluid, violent motion, he tore the jade rings from his fingers, and dumped them on the ground. Then, gently, as if caring for a sick child, he raised Pochtic's head towards him. Blood ran down in lazy streams, staining Pochtic's chin and neck.

  I picked one of my obsidian knives, and quickly slashed my earlobes, whispering a prayer to Lord Death – waiting for the familiar cold sensation in my belly, and for the world to recede.

  "We all must die,

  We all must go down into darkness…"

  There was a welter of magics in the room, all the protective spells the warriors and Tizoc-tzin had surrounded themselves with. Teomitl himself radiated the strong, undiluted power of his patron goddess. And from the unconscious Pochtic…

  It was faint, like an echo at the bottom of a cenote; like a minute trace of water on the skin, barely shining in the light of the Fifth Sun. A trace of magic clinging to the face: a thread spun in the darkness that went towards…

  I moved, slowly, cocking my head left and right. It was coming through the knot of warriors – I pushed my way through, ignoring the glares they shot me.

  Behind them was nothing but a wicker chest – but now that I was clear of the knot of entangled magic the feeling was stronger, achingly familiar. I threw open the chest. Behind me, people were whispering, but no one, it seemed, dared to interrupt me.

  Inside were codices, papers, folded cloth – there didn't seem to be anything in there that would have that particular aura. Had I been mistaken?

  Unless…

  I started emptying the chest, dumping on the floor everything from golden ornaments to maps of the city. There was nothing at the bottom of the chest, either – just the knots of wicker that made up the structure. But the feeling of magic remained.

  Underneath, then. I shifted the empty wicker chest out of the way – and there was indeed something under i
t.

  I knelt to examine it. It was the oval shape of a mask, with the vague, grotesque suggestion of eyes and mouth – but without any holes. Some image of a god.

  My hands were slick and warm – the other side was sticky with some substance that…

  Gently, carefully – afraid of what I'd see – I flipped the mask. The reverse was covered with blood. I lifted it to the light: it was semi-transparent rubber, letting me catch glimpses of the room through it. In its grooves and protuberances I saw a human face in reverse – the skin clinging to the mask, the nose and mouth completely plugged, the eyes themselves sealed, until the world reduced itself to the impossible struggle for breath, to a scream that couldn't be uttered through glued lips.