Harbinger of the Storm (22 page)

”I’ve had better subordinates,” Palli said with a sigh. “More respectful, too. But I guess I shouldn’t complain.”

”We’ll take everything we can,” I said, finally. “Everyone else seems to have other priorities at the moment.” I hadn’t seen my fellow High Priests in a few days. I couldn’t say I missed their company exactly, but imagining what else they might have done did go a long way towards making me nervous.

Palli spread his hands, in a gesture that seemed an eerie mirror of mine. “We’ll make do, Acatl-tzin.”

And I had to be content with that.

”On another subject,” Palli said, “I’ve found something about the tar.”

”The stains on the floor?” I asked, suddenly interested again. They seemed to fit into the larger puzzle, though I wasn’t sure how.

”Yes,” Palli said. “Tar isn’t exactly common in the palace.”

I couldn’t even think of where the nearest tar pit might be, or what they would use it for. “And?”

Palli grimaced. “You know Echichilli-tzin?”

The dead councilman? What had he got to do with it? “Yes, but…”

”He was the one who asked for it, about fifteen days ago. And…” He grimaced again, a nervous tic. “He asked for a lot of it, Acatl-tzin.”

A lot of things hadn’t made sense lately, but this was firmly near the top of the list. “A lot?”

”Ten full jars,” Palli said.

My mind balked at the mental picture. It did have cosmetic uses, but ten whole jars seemed excessive. “And what happened?”

”They came in. Echichilli-tzin sent his slaves to collect it. I’ve asked them. All they know is that it was brought here to the Revered Speaker’s room.”

“While he was still alive.”

“Presumably with his consent.”

”Hmm,” I said. “Thank you. This is… intriguing.” To say the least. “Let me know if you can find out more.” Where had those jars gone, and what had they been used for? The only use that came to mind was seal the hull of a boat, and the thought of building a boat right in the Revered Speaker’s rooms was absurd.

What was going in this palace? Whatever it was, it had started before the Revered Speaker’s death, and it looked like we were the ones caught up in the consequences.

I fully intended to make sure the consequences weren’t drastic.

I found Teomitl outside Manatzpa’s rooms, in conversation with a stern, middle-aged woman who introduced herself as Manatzpa’s wife. They’d had five children, the two eldest of whom were away, educated in the
calmecac
school. The three youngest were much too young to have noted much of importance; and Manatzpa’s wife wasn’t much more useful. She had barely known anything of her husband’s affairs; the household policy had apparently consisted of “to each their own”. She had not spoken of matters of domesticity; he had kept whatever business he had with the council and the Revered Speaker’s election private.

The gods were decidedly not on our side.

We made a cursory examination of the rooms which didn’t yield anything useful, and moved onto Manatzpa’s private quarters.

In daylight they seemed much smaller than in my fevered imagination. They did wrap around two courtyards, but even the largest of them barely covered the surface of the Imperial Chambers. They had loomed much larger in my frantic flight of the night before.

As I had already noticed, the rooms were bare, with few ornaments. Manatzpa might have been a nobleman, but he had not believed in pomp any more than Teomitl. A few wicker chests and a few circular fans, carelessly tossed in corners where the feathers had creased, their colours all but faded; thin and simple reed mats, serving as little more than places to sit; and two unlit braziers.

I opened the wicker chests to find piles of vibrantly-coloured codices, ranging from lists of rituals to the tribute of the provinces. In the chest after that was poetry, carefully re-transcribed. Pride of place was given to a volume collecting the poetry of Nezahualcoyotl, the previous Revered Speaker of our neighbouring city Texcoco. The codex had been well-thumbed, but the glyphs were intact with no markings on the paper, the treasured possession of a man who seemed to have had few of them.

Altogether they painted the picture of a man whose interests had been broad, a scholar, an intellectual whose curiosity extended to everything and anything. A man I might have appreciated, more than I ever had Quenami or Acamapichtli, had the circumstances been otherwise.

Teomitl was rummaging through another chest, shaking his head as he discarded clay vessels and worship thorns. At length he crossed his arms over his chest. “This is pointless, Acatl-tzin.”

I couldn’t help shaking my head in amusement. Teomitl might have had the raw power and the fighting spirit, but the minutiae of investigations would always be beyond him. “Have a little patience,” I said, pulling aside a third chest to reveal treatises on medicine. “Whatever he left behind, he wouldn’t have wanted us to find it. It’s likely well hidden.”

Teomitl frowned and moved to stand against one of the frescoes, his head at the level of Huitzilpochtli’s angry face. “We’re wasting our time while they move against us.”

I lifted an almanac on plants and their uses, and moved to the rest of the pile. “The problem is that we don’t know who ‘they’ are.”

”Too many suspects?” Teomitl shook his head.

”Too many agendas,” I said. It was a given that everybody was dabbling in magic or planning political moves against their opponents. The question was whose moves included stardemons. Manatzpa had sworn it wasn’t him; and his death tended to prove it. But Xahuia was still on the loose; not to mention those who still remained within the palace compound.

And, the Duality curse me, I still had no idea of how it all intersected or made sense. A plot to bring the star-demons down shouldn’t have had this many complications, this many people dying to prevent them from talking. Whatever else I might have said about She of the Silver Bells, She’d always been straightforward, much like Her brother. No tricks, just fire and blood and war.

”I see.” Teomitl was silent for a while. “Acatl-tzin, I wish to apologise.”

I turned, genuinely surprised. “What for?”

”For the other night.”

It took me a while to see what he was referring to. Ages seemed to have passed since that night when he had walked away from me in the wake of our interview with Tizoc-tzin. “Don’t mention it. We have bigger problems on our hands.”

”It’s the little cracks that break obsidian. The flaws that undo jade,” Teomitl said. He looked me in the eye – proud, unashamed, his was as unlikely an apology as I had ever seen, and yet oddly touching. “You have your opinion about my brother, and I have mine.”

”Yes,” I said, cautiously. I wasn’t quite sure of what opinion to have about Tizoc-tzin anymore, except that we were still at each other’s throats.

”Let it remain that way.” Teomitl made a small, dismissive gesture, a command that could not be denied. “Let’s not talk further about this, or we’ll disagree.”

Probably, but I didn’t say this. “As you wish.”

I lifted another medicinal codex. I was almost at the bottom of the pile now, and still had nothing to show for my labour. The Southern Hummingbird blind us, it looked like Manatzpa had been prudent to excess.

Wait.

The second-to-last paper in the pile was much smaller, a single sheet of maguey fibre. The writing on it was the neat, elegant hand of someone used to glyphs, every colour applied with a sense of context and decorum that could only belong to a temple.

”Ueman, Fire Priest of Quetzalcoatl, the Feathered Serpent, the Precious Twin:

”On this day Ten Flower in the year Two House, Councilman Manatzpa gave the temple ten rolls of the finest cotton cloths, fifty gold quills and one bag of quetzal tail-feathers, in exchange for the Breath of the Precious Twin.”

The Breath of the Precious Twin was a costly protective spell that put the holder under the personal gaze of the god. Along with the Southern Hummingbird’s protection, it was one of the most effective wards a man could barter for. I was wary of using it. Mictlan’s magic was not compatible with Southern Hummingbird’s spells, and while the Feathered Serpent might be one of the most benevolent deities, there was something inherently disturbing about having His eye permanently on me.

I hadn’t seen it, but then he’d have taken precautions so it wasn’t obvious. He had been a canny man – save, I guessed, when he’d started to resort to murder to have his way.

Mind you, the protective spell had not helped him much. The Obsidian Butterfly Itzpapalotl had sheared through it as though it barely existed and taken his soul with Her as easily as a man might take a basket of herbs.

The priest’s name at the top of the paper was the same one Xahuia had given me. His title was given as Fire Priest, the second-in-command of the Wind Tower.

I turned the paper over thoughtfully. Ten Flower. Seven days ago. And the spell had not come cheap, either. Even for a man as rich as Manatzpa, the price was a fortune. Even before Echichilli’s death Manatzpa had already been looking for protection, as if he had already known that something was going to happen. How had he known?

What in the Fifth World was this secret that star-demons killed for?

Behind us, the bells tinkled: one of the slaves, wearing the elegant collar of the palace servants around his neck. “Master, there is someone who wishes to see you.”

”Us?” Teomitl stepped in.

The slave shook his head. “He asked for the High Priest for the Dead.”

Someone I didn’t know, then, not any of the players still remaining, who would have summoned me instead of coming here. But why me?

The youth who strode into the courtyard was a sight. It was not that he was richly dressed, with an elaborately embroidered cotton tunic, a plume of heron feathers at his belt and another set of feathers bending from the back of his head towards his neck. Rather, it was the state of the regalia – the feathers were torn, their white tarnished with blood, and dark splotches stained the tunic all around the collar line. He held his
macuahitl
sword a little too casually, as if daring an invisible watcher to attack him, and the shards shone a sickly greygreen in the sunlight.

Behind him were two Jaguar Knights in full regalia, the costume made of a jaguar’s pelt and the helmet shaped like the jaguar’s face, their heads protruding from between the jaws of the animal. They looked a little better, though their hands shook and their skin was the colour of muddy milk.

The youth looked at me. His eyes were an uncanny colour, a shade between grey and green. His gaze was piercing, not hostile, but stripping me of all pretences, like a spear breaking the skin and burying itself in my heart. “Acatl-tzin,” he said thoughtfully. “High Priest for the Dead in Tenochtitlan. I have come to you for an accounting.”

”An accounting?” Teomitl shifted, to stand between me and the youth. His hand had gone to the hilt of his
macuahitl
sword; and the planes of his face had started to harden.

The youth bowed, slightly ironically. “I am Nezahual, Revered Speaker of Texcoco. Where is my sister, Acatl-tzin?” His voice was harsh.

He couldn’t be. I looked again, but he stood alone in the courtyard, with only two Jaguar Knights as an escort, casual and undisturbed, his dignity no less than it would have been had he sat in his own audience room. “Revered Speaker–”

”There is no point in dissembling. I know you were the one who ordered the arrest.” Nezahual-tzin’s face was harsh, unforgiving.

Teomitl shifted. “This is the High Priest for the Dead, one of the three who keep the balance of the Fifth World. You will show him respect.”

Nezahual-tzin’s gaze scoured him. A smile creased the corners of his broad lips. “A pup with a bite, I see.” Sunlight fell over him in swathes, highlighting the blood on his clothes and on the obsidian studs of his
macuahitl
sword, and became a white, searing light strong enough to blind.

I remembered what Xahuia had said, that her brother was favoured by Quetzalcoatl, god of Creation and Wisdom. I had taken it as a grand boast, but quite obviously Nezahual-tzin had been brushed by the Feathered Serpent Himself. He might not have been an agent, the sole repository of the god’s power, but he still had enough magic to make trouble if he wished to.

”Your god won’t protect you.” Teomitl’s voice was scornful.

”Neither will your goddess, when it comes to this,” Nezahual-tzin said.

I’d never thought I’d see two young men fight like cockerels, an unseemly spectacle, witnesses or not. “Enough.”

The light dimmed. Nezahual-tzin still stood as straight as a spear, waiting for my answer. “Your sister engaged in sorcery,” I said, carefully.

”So does most of the Imperial Family.”

”Not that kind of sorcery. The sorcerer in her service was named Nettoni.”

Nezahual-tzin’s eyes narrowed. “Mirror” could only refer to one god – Tezcatlipoca, the Smoking Mirror and eternal enemy of his own patron god Quetzalcoatl. “You lie.”

”Ask around the palace,” I said as casually as I could. I already had enough enemies without adding this cocksure boy to the list. “He was well-known.”

Nezahual-tzin was silent for a while, pondering, giving me enough time to consider what would happen if he held me responsible. Enough unpleasant things to make me regret Tizoc-tzin’s threats of dismissal.

Then he turned to the two Jaguar Knights who had escorted him inside. “Is this true?” he asked, bluntly.

The Jaguar Knights looked at each other. “Yes.”

”I see.” The light around him contracted as if someone had enclosed it in a fist. “Where is she, Acatl-tzin?”

It wasn’t quite the same tone, though he still didn’t look happy. Not that I could blame him, though I doubted it was affection that prompted his question. To lose her would be a fatal admission of weakness to the Texcocans.

I, on the other hand, didn’t care much about losing face. “I don’t know. Nettoni sacrificed himself to let her and her son escape. Presumably they found refuge somewhere in the city.” And presumably she was still weaving her webs of intrigue. She was a determined woman.