Harbinger of the Storm (11 page)

”I don’t know if it makes any sense,” the physician said.

I withdrew my hand from Ceyaxochitl and carefully stood up. “It does make sense. Thank you.”

”Not to me,” Yaotl said.

”Silver Bells. She’s been poisoned by a devotee of Coyolxauhqui,” I said, and watched the pallor spread across his face.

Our enemies were indeed in our midst. One person, or several, were worshippers of She of the Silver Bells; summoners of star-demons, harbingers of chaos, determined to sow destruction among us.

The only question was who.

I ate a sparse lunch in my temple with my priests: a single bowl of levened maize porridge, flavoured with spices. Then, instead of going straight back to the palace, I detoured through the Wind Tower, the shrine to Quetzalcoatl. Like the other shrines it stood on a platform atop a pyramid; unlike the other shrines, which were squat and square, the Wind Tower was made of smooth black stones and completely circular, offering no sharp angles or purchase. For Quetzalcoatl was the Feathered Serpent but also Ehecatl, the Breath of Creation, and to hinder Him in His passage through His own shrine would have been an unforgivable offence.

And He was the Morning Star and the Evening Star, our only ally in the night skies in those dangerous times.

I could have prayed to Lord Death in Ceyaxochitl’s name, for He was the only god I claimed, as familiar as a wife to a husband or a digging stick to a peasant. But, somehow, it felt wrong to appeal to Him to keep a soul out of His dominion.

I stood for a while on the inside of the shrine with pilgrims crowded around me, unsure of what to say. I did what I had always done. Kneeling, I pierced my earlobes with my worship thorns, and let the blood drip onto the grass balls by the altar. The Feathered Serpent took no human sacrifices, but only our penances and our gifts of flower and fruit. He had given us the arts and the songs. He had once descended into the underworld for the bones of the dead, had braved death and darkness so that humanity might be recreated.

“Keep her safe,”
I whispered.
“Please.

You who know the metals in the earth

The jade and the flowers and the songs

You who descended into Mictlan

Into the darkness, into the dryness

Please keep her safe.”

I wished I could say that He’d been listening, but the shrine remained much the same as ever. I was not His priest, I did not have His favours. My prayer was no doubt lost among the multitude.

I walked back into the palace in an even bleaker mood than I’d left it. As fate and the Smoking Mirror would have it, the first person I met in the corridors was Quenami, the High Priest of Huitzilpochtli, who looked unusually preoccupied.

”Acatl.” He frowned. “I haven’t seen you this morning.”

”I had other business to attend to.” I was not in the mood for niceties. “Did Ceyaxochitl come to you yesterday, Quenami?”

There was a brief moment before my words sunk in, which I could almost follow by looking at his blue-streaked face. “The Guardian? She might have. I don’t remember.”

”Only a day ago, and you can’t remember? What a fickle mind you have.”

”I thought yesterday’s little interview would have removed your inclination to insult your peers or your superiors.” Quenami’s voice was cutting.

So many things had changed since yesterday. “Perhaps. That was before someone poisoned Ceyaxochitl.”

”Poisoned? That means–”

”She’s dying,” I said, curtly. I tried not to think of her warm, unresponsive skin under me, of the feeling of her heartbeat lurching out of control. She’d been at my back for as long as I could remember. We’d fought, but I’d always known she’d be there when the Empire truly needed her. “And whatever happened, it was in the palace.”

”Do you have any proof of that?” Quenami appeared to have recovered from his shock, feigned or genuine I did not know.

”Who else would dare poison the Guardian?”

”More people than you’d think.” His voice was condescending again. “Foreign sorcerers–”

”The only sorcerers of any note are in this palace,” I snapped. “And I’m going to make sure they can’t do any harm anymore.”

Quenami’s face was frozen into what might have been anger or fear. “So you’ll just badger us into confessions? You’re making a mistake.”

”Why? Because I’m impinging on your privileges? Look, I’m not intending to probe into secrets or shatter your face and heart in public, but you must realise that someone tried to kill the Guardian of the Sacred Precinct – agent of the Duality in this world, the keeper of the invisible boundaries. If they dare to do that, then no one here is safe.”

Quenami’s face shifted to disdain. He was going to tell me that he was High Priest of Huitzilpochtli, that out of all people, he should be safe.

I forestalled him. “It was poison poured into a meal, or a drink.” I kept my voice as innocuous and as innocent as possible. “That could happen to anyone. Even if you could have your meals tasted by a slave, it was slow-acting. She didn’t show any symptoms until a few hours after the poisoning.”

”What poison?”

”I don’t know,” I said. “But a nasty one. The muscles refuse to obey. You’re trapped as a prisoner in your own body, until your lungs or your heart give up. It’s not a pleasant way to go.” Not to mention pointless. Sacrifices and wounds dealt on the battlefield were painful, but this pain was an offering to the gods, the whole body becoming a sacrifice. But, for Ceyaxochitl, there would be no reward, no justification for enduring this slow slide into oblivion.

”Fine,” Quenami said. “What do you want me to do, Acatl?”

”Just answer a few questions. Did you or did you not see Ceyaxochitl yesterday?”

”Yes,” Quenami said. “Very early in the morning.”

”And?”

He hesitated for a while, trying to see what he could and could not tell me. “She kept insisting to know where I stood.”

”Not surprising.”

”I suppose not,” he said with a trace of the old haughtiness. “But still, she was annoying.”

That I had no doubt of – she could be. “Did she eat or drink anything while she was with you?”

He looked at me for a while. “I could deny it, but I think you wouldn’t believe me.” His face creased into an uncharacteristic smile. “She had maize porridge, brought by the slaves.”

”Your slaves?”

Again, Quenami hesitated. “Yes.”

I made a mental note to see if any of that maize porridge was left. There were spells to detect the presence of poison, although they took a long time to be cast and could be finicky. “And what about Ocome?”

”What about him? I barely knew the man.”

”I think you’re lying.”

”And I think you’re trying to draw me out.” He looked me in the eye, his aristocratic face exuding casual pride.

”I know you came to see him.”

”Who wouldn’t?” He made a dismissive gesture. “The man had a vote, and he was selling it. Who wouldn’t leap at the chance?”

“An honest man,” I said, a little more acidly than I’d meant to.

Quenami smiled pityingly. “It’s a wonder you’ve remained High Priest so long, Acatl.”

And it was a wonder he’d become High Priest at all. But I held my tongue.

”Seriously,” Quenami said. “You know who I support, and who Ocome supported. Why would I kill him?”

”Because you couldn’t trust him not to change sides?”

Quenami snorted. “Murder is a serious matter, not decided so lightly.” For once, he sounded sincere. Not that it changed anything. I could well imagine him planning a murder with much forethought, and though it looked as though he’d become High Priest only through his connections, I very much doubted his magical abilities would be insignificant.

”I see,” I said. “What do you know about Coyolxauhqui?”

”My, my, just full of questions today, aren’t we? I can’t possibly see what I can tell you about She of the Silver Bells that you don’t already know, Acatl. Sister of the Southern Hummingbird. Creator of the star-demons. Rebelled against Him during the migration to found the Empire. Defeated, and imprisoned beneath the Great Temple.” His tone was bored, as if he were reciting something learnt by rote. But, if he had been worshipping Her all along, he would have learnt to hide his allegiance.

”That’s all you know?”

”What else would there be?” He lifted a hand, thoughtfully staring at his tanned, long fingers, covered with jade and turquoise jewellery. “I can still feel Huitzilpochtli’s power, so She’s still imprisoned. And we’re warded against star-demons.”

He was, as usual, far too confident. He had not even bothered to check.

But still, as High Priest of Huitzilpochtli, he made a poor candidate for a secret worshipper of She of the Silver Bells. He had passed both the initiation as a priest, and the investing with the Southern Hummingbird’s powers, all of which would have been difficult to do with conflicting allegiances.

• • • •

After I was done with Quenami, I could have gone back and seen the council; but there was one person I had not interviewed at all, and who appeared far from uninvolved in the whole business – Xahuia, the princess of Texcoco who had sent away the guards at Ocome’s door on that fateful night, and who had either been the last person to see him alive, or worse.

Accordingly I crossed the palace to the women’s quarters and asked for an audience, which was granted immediately, a welcome change from the current trend.

The women’s quarters were at the back of the palace, protected by a stout wall adorned with red snakes, and a large image of Chantico, She Who Dwells in the House – with a crown of thorns and a tongue twisting out of Her mouth, as red as the paprika She held in Her cupped hands. Those quarters were, more than anywhere else, a place of seclusion. The courtyards I crossed were small, the rooms that opened into them had their entrance-curtains all drawn closed, and I saw no one but the slaves that accompanied me.

Xahuia’s audience room was on the ground floor. I wasn’t sure if that was her choice, or merely a statement that, as a foreigner, some imperial privileges were denied to her.

Xahuia herself was in a shadowed room separated from the courtyard by pillars carved with glyphs and abstract patterns. She was sitting cross-legged on a reed mat, playing patolli with three of her women; winning, too, by the look of the pawns on the brightly-painted board. Hers were nearing the end of the quincunx-shaped circuit.

”My Lady,” one of the slaves said. “The High Priest for the Dead, Acatl-tzin.”

She raised her head. Her face was smooth and beautiful, painted with the yellow of corn kernels, cochineal spread on her teeth to give them the colour of blood. Her eyes, underlined by a slight touch of black, were wide, the pupils shimmering like a lake at night. “I see. Leave us, will you?”

The slaves scattered like a flock of parrots, leaving me alone, facing her across the
patolli
board. “Xahuia-tzin.”

She laughed, like a delighted child. “Oh, please. You flatter me by using the title, but no one else uses it.”

”You’re of the Imperial Family.”

Xahuia’s thin lips turned upwards, her gaze creased in amusement. “Of Texcoco. Of Tenochtitlan – only by marriage, and you must know it.” She did not say that was why I was here. She did not need to.

”My Lady,” I said, finally. “You know there has been one murder, and one murder attempt, in this palace.”

Her face went grave again. “I know only of one murder. Who is the second?”

”The Guardian.”

”Really.” She did not look or sound surprised. Her face had gone as harsh as an obsidian blade.

”You expected this?”

Xahuia was silent for a while, her hands automatically picking up the beans from the board. “She behaved as if the whole palace was hers. It’s not a good time for that kind of attitude.”

”She came to see you yesterday,” I said, voicing the obvious.

Xahuia made no attempt to deny it. “In the afternoon, in the hour of the Storm Lord.”

”And?” I asked.

”We talked for a while.”

”Around refreshments?”

”Of course.” She smiled. “I’ll have the slaves bring some to you as well, don’t worry.”

I forced a smile in answer. Given what had happened to Ceyaxochitl, that wasn’t exactly the most promising invitation I’d ever received. “You do know that she was poisoned.”

Xahuia shook her head. “Of course not. I’ve just told you I didn’t even know about the Guardian’s attempted murder.” But she did not ask any more questions. Not what I would have expected, had she been truly ignorant.

”Let’s say you don’t,” I said. “You can’t deny you knew Ocome.”

”The little councilman?” She laughed again, the strange, careless laughter of a girl. “Of course not. Who did not know him?”

Who indeed.

”I heard he was quite in demand,” I said, keeping my face expressionless. Nearby, a quetzal bird took flight, its call harsh and unforgiving, as raw as a burnt man’s scream.

”A voice that can be swayed. A voice that can be bought. Of course he’d be quite in demand, as my brother would say.” She looked up, straight at me. “But of course you’ve never met my brother, Acatl-tzin.”

”I can’t say I have,” I said, cautiously. I was starting to feel I was losing the control of the conversation, assuming that I’d ever had it.

”Nezahual has always been the canniest among us. They say he was blessed by The Feathered Serpent, too, able to foresee the future. He’s more than fit to rule Texcoco.”

As far as I could remember, Nezahual-tzin had been but a child when his father had died, leaving him legitimate ruler of Texcoco. Three of his elder brothers had conspired to depose and kill him, and Nezahual-tzin owed his Turquoise-and-Gold Crown only to Axayacatl-tzin’s intervention . The young prince had been sheltered for a while in Tenochtitlan, before coming back to Texcoco under the hungry gaze of his many brothers and cousins. That he was still Revered Speaker said something, indeed, about his political acumen. “And you’re his sister,” I said. Fine. I had had my reminder of who she was, of whose support she could enjoy. But the Storm Lord blind me if I was going to let that stop me. More than Tenochtitlan or Texcoco were at stake.