Master of the House of Darts (10 page)

Yayauhqui snorted, gently amused. "Look at me, priest. Look at me."

I didn't understand. But he was still standing with the tamale in his hands, thin and harsh, moulded by war and by years of travelling into strange lands, serving the men who had led his people into slavery – helping them to conquer more lands.

I took up the obsidian knife at my belt, and slashed my earlobes.

"We all must die

We all must go down into darkness…"

A grey veil crept over everything: the canal water became insignificant, distant glimmers and the blue sky receded, opening up to reveal the darkness of tar. The wind over the city faded into the lament of dead souls, and the cold of the grave rose up, like thousands of corpses' hands stroking the inside of my arms and legs. I shivered.

Through the remnants of the adobe walls, I could feel the bustle of the marketplace: thousands of souls bartering and trading, the animals and the slaves, the magical amulets and charms – everything combining into a rush of life I could feel, even from the remove of Mictlan. It burned like a fire, shimmering and twisting out of shape, endlessly tearing itself apart, endlessly renewed.

It took me some time, therefore, to tear my sight from the large radiance of Tlatelolco, and to look at Yayauhqui.

But when I did, I forgot all about the marketplace.

Human beings usually shone in the true sight – the three souls, the
tonalli
in the head, the
teyolia
in the heart and the
ihiyotl
in the liver combining into a swirling mass of radiance. So, to a lesser degree, did the souls of living beings like animals, or summoned creatures.

Yayauhqui, however, was dark – not merely faded and colourless, like the water or the adobe walls, but completely opaque, as if something had reached out and snuffed everything out of him.

Not something, I thought, chilled. Someone.

"The god," I said, slowly.

His voice was mocking. "As I said. They feed on pain."

He had no souls – he might as well have been dead, save that even in death, some semblance of life would remain in the body, some scattered pieces of soul. He was – cut off from everything in the Fifth World. Was he even able to taste the tamale in his hand, could he even feel the wind on his skin? For him, everything had to have been receding into a numinous, uniformly grey background.

"You should have gone to see a priest," I said. Not one of my order – for we parted the souls from the body for the final time, helping them slip into the underworld. But a priest of Patecatl, God of Medicine, or of Quetzalcoatl, the Feathered Serpent of Wisdom – they would have known what to do.

Yayauhqui's smile was bitter. "I have seen one. Several, in fact. They tried to convince me I was an abomination, and should retire from public life. After that – well, I didn't feel so keen to go back to them. Perhaps the Revered Speaker might be able to do something, but…"

And, of course, he wouldn't present himself to the man who had destroyed his city – even if Tizoc-tzin had been willing to help him. "It was Huitzilpochtli, then, who did this to you?"

Yayauhqui shook his head. "Let me keep secrets, priest. They're of no use to anyone save an old man like myself."

He didn't look old – but then again, without souls, how would he age? How would the Fifth World leave any kind of mark?

"So, you see," Yayauhqui said. "I couldn't care less about spells."

He was dead, or worse. The blood in his veins would have no energy; the
teyolia
in his heart wouldn't dissipate into the underworld, or into the Fifth Sun's Heaven. Magic, such as it was, would be anathema to him. "You could have hired someone," I said. Or used someone's blood, though it would have been a dangerous venture.

"Of course. There's always that," Yayauhqui agreed, gravely.

There was something about him I couldn't pin down. "Why serve as a merchant-spy, then?"

His lips stretched. It would have been amusement with anyone else, but with him it was just a shadow of what it could have been. That was what had been bothering me about him: everything was subdued, lacking the inner fire of the living, or even the weaker radiance of the dead. "I fear you still don't understand, Acatl-tzin. Now that we are one city, the glory of Tenochtitlan is also that of Tlalelolco. My relatives prosper on your coats of feathers, your cacao beans, your precious stones and your war-takings. Why should I wish to upset the established order? We'd be left with nothing."

His speech had the intensity of truth – and for a bare moment, he seemed to shine with the souls he had lost, though it was only an illusion. "You could destabilise us, and hope for Tlatelolco to secede."

Yayauhqui snorted. "And I could expect the Fifth Sun to tumble down. I'm no fool. I've seen what happens when you cross the gods, and you have the gods' protection."

And if we didn't have it anymore, he'd be the first to trample us into the ground. But, all the same – lying, especially in such an impassioned speech, would have cost him a great deal of energy, enough for the strain of it to be visible. Perhaps he was telling the truth, as much as I disliked the possibility.

"You'll want to stay in Tlatelolco," I said, finally. "It's not over yet."

Yayauhqui's lips stretched again in that smile that wasn't quite one. "Of course. It's never over."

SIX

Between High Priests

The afternoon was well advanced by the time I walked back into the Sacred Precinct; the incense smoke rising up from the dozens of temples made the orange mass of the sun waver and shimmer, as if through a heat haze.

I thought about Eptli as I walked, chewing on a tamale – I'd yielded to temptation, and purchased one from the old woman seller. The taste of chillies and spiced meat was a welcoming heat in my stomach.

He hadn't been liked. Possibly, he hadn't ever fitted in: to the warriors, he would be the merchant's son, and to the merchants, the man who mocked them relentlessly. In his pursuit for glory, he seemed to have made enemies – many of them, from his rival, Chipahua, to the merchant Yayauhqui.

The merchant worried me, for all his sincerity. His defence – that he wouldn't seek to damage the Triple Alliance, for it would be sealing his own doom – rang true, and yet…

And yet, a man like that would have no scruples. The kind of man who could disguise themselves and pass as a foreigner – gossiping and trading, all the while hiding that they were advance observers for the approaching army – why stop the game, when they got home?

Out of principle… but Yayauhqui hadn't looked as if he had much of that.

Still in a thoughtful mood, I walked through the northern gate into the hubbub of the religious centre, and went straight to my temple, which was but a short distance from the gate.

I'd expected a normal day – a dead body carried through the gates, grieving families talking to priests, examinations in quiet rooms… But instead, it was chaos: the temple's small courtyard was flooded with supplicants – from peasants in loincloths carrying baskets of ripe corn kernels, to officials with jewellery and caged animals. The combined noise was overpowering, and I only caught fragments as I elbowed my way through the crowd – about reassurances, and dreams, and portents which seemed to herald the end of the Mexica Empire.

I remembered, grimly, what Neutemoc had told me – that no matter how well Tizoc-tzin hid the warrior's death, news of it would travel through the city like wildfire. He had no idea it would be that bad.

At the foot of the stairs leading up to Lord Death's shrine, I found Ichtaca waiting for me – while two harried offering priests made efforts to channel the flow of supplicants into separate rooms, where they could deal with them one by one.

Ichtaca wasn't alone, though. Beside him stood two priests in blue and white cloaks, the hems embroidered with a border of frogs and seashells.

Of course. I'd known what I was getting into, walking back to the temple, but then again, I couldn't run forever.

The leftmost priest, a pudgy man with a blue-streaked face, was mildly familiar: his name was Tapalcayotl, and he was Acamapichtli's second-in-command. "Acatl-tzin," he said, bowing to me. "Acamapichtli-tzin has requested your presence at the palace."

It was couched politely, but the meaning was unmistakable. "I see," I said. "I'll consult with my priests first."

Tapalcayotl looked as if he might protest, and then obviously thought better of it. Like his master, he was acutely aware of social divisions.

I drew Ichtaca apart, careful to stand at a distance, since we still didn't know how the illness was passed on. "What is going on?"

"I don't know yet," Ichtaca said. He grimaced. "Your sister took half the priests and went to do a ritual to protect us against sickness. It's a good idea–"

"But it leaves us short," I said.

"It's just a bad time," Ichtaca said. "The disastrous coronation war and the death of a warrior…" He sighed, not looking altogether reassured. "We'll weather it, I'm sure. We have the Southern Hummingbird's favour."

We might have; after all, Huitzilpochtli was the one who had given us the right to bring Tizoc-tzin from the dead. But He was a capricious god, and he only favoured the successful in war. I grimaced. "We'll see how things work out. Can you–"

He made a dismissive gesture. "Don't worry. We've had to deal with worse during the great famine. This is nothing."

I hesitated – but I needed to ask, all the same. I couldn't manage an investigation on my own. "I need you to find out one thing for me."

His face didn't move. "Of course. What is it?"

"There is a merchant named Yayauhqui in Tlatelolco. He used to serve a god in his youth. Can you find out which one?"

"Consider it done, Acatl-tzin," Ichtaca nodded. "And–"

"And you hold up here," I said, bleakly. "Acamapichtli, Mihmatini and I will see what we can do about the epidemic."

Ichtaca looked reassured by the idea of so many highranking priests taking care of the problem. I hoped he was right; on my side, I felt as though I was making frustratingly little progress.

We walked back the way I had come, the two priests of Tlaloc on either side of me, looking for all the world like an escort – or an arrest squad, I thought, bleakly. Acamapichtli, among other things, was vindictive, and he wouldn't have appreciated our little escapade.

We climbed the steps into the palace, and headed straight to what I now thought of as Acamapichtli's wing. And he'd certainly made sure we knew it: the priests of Tlaloc the Storm Lord positively swarmed over the various courtyards. The black cloaks of the SheSnake's guards seemed almost invisible compared with the onslaught of blue and white. The air smelled of copal incense, mixed with the acridity of rubber: I wouldn't have been surprised to find out Acamapichtli had replaced all the entrance-curtains with the dark-blue ones of Tlaloc's temple.

In the largest courtyard, a shimmering lattice of magic spread from building to building – there was a slight resistance when we crossed under the influence of the wards, and then this was replaced with a familiar tightness in my chest. The place had been consecrated to the Storm Lord – it wasn't quite the Land of the Blessed Drowned yet, but it was close to its antechamber.

Acamapichtli was in a large room on the second floor, reclining on a mat as if he were the Revered Speaker himself. He wore his customary heron-plumes, and his face was painted with the dark-blue streaks of his god – impassive under the makeup. As we came nearer, though, I saw the thin lines of fear at the corners of his eyes; and the slight quivering in his hands – and felt the stronger circle drawn around him.

"Ah, Acatl," he said when I arrived. "Do be seated."

"I'd rather remain standing," I said, curtly. "Do you have a better idea of what's going on?"

"Not much better than you." Acamapichtli smiled, a thoroughly unpleasant expression. "Thanks to you and your protégé, this thing might already be loose in the populace."

I disliked "populace", which he made sound like an insult. "The two warriors who carried the corpse would have passed it on anyway."

"Not if we found them fast enough – we did catch up with one, if nothing else. He's sick, Acatl, perhaps worse than Coatl or the priest of Patecatl. But I fear that's not the point. The point is that when I give orders, you follow them."

"Since when are you my master?"

"Since the epidemic started." It would have been better if he'd looked insufferably smug, the way he usually did, but he didn't. He merely stated a fact.

"And what about Quenami?"

"Quenami is a fool. Nothing new under the Fifth Sun. I expected better of you." Of course, he hadn't.

"May I remind you I have an investigation to run?" I asked. "Someone cursed Eptli. And, furthermore, containing the sickness is all well and good, but we need to find a cure for it."

"And for all we know, this is the will of the gods."

This time, he'd goaded me too far. "Fine," I said. "You know one way of solving this?"

Acamapichtli's eyebrows went up.

"Summon the dead man," I said.

It was a crazy undertaking – chancy at best, even for Acamapichtli. I could never have attempted it: Eptli had died of a contagious disease, which made him the property of Tlaloc, and I didn't worship the Storm Lord. I could go into Tlalocan, the land of the Blessed Drowned, to see if his soul would respond to my call, but it was a risk. I would be at Tlaloc's mercy, and I had a suspicion the god was as vindictive as Acamapichtli. He wouldn't have forgotten that I'd thwarted His attempt to take over the Fifth World, a year or so before.

Acamapichtli looked at me – I could see his face twisting, his lips preparing words of contempt, deriding my knowledge as a priest.

"You know it's the only way," I said.

"You're a fool," Acamapichtli said. "Most dead men don't know who killed them. Summoning him will be useless."

"He might remember what contaminated him in the first place," I said. "Which is more information than you have."