Obsidian & Blood (105 page)

  The room was empty of dignitaries now: the slaves were creeping back, and a few women – Pochtic's wives? – looking away from us. Nezahual-tzin threw them his most charming smile, but it seemed to make them even more frightened.

  "Teomitl–" I started, but Nezahual-tzin was standing as still as a jaguar on the prowl, looking down at Teomitl.

  My student hadn't said anything during the whole confrontation – which was uncharacteristic. Slowly, carefully, he gathered his rings from Pochtic's side – and slid them, one by one, back onto his fingers. His face was the exact double of the She-Snake's – that smooth lack of expression which hid inner turmoil.

  His hands, as they manipulated the rings, were steady, but I knew him well enough to see the slight tremor, the almost imperceptible curving of the fingers – the trembling aura of magic around him, hinting at tossing waves, at stormy seas.

  I'd seen him angry, in spurts of scalding wrath that never lasted – but this was something else. This was cold, deliberate rage, and I wasn't sure it would ever be extinguished.

 

It was dark when we came out, with a scattering of stars overhead – the eyes of demons over the Fifth World, contained only by the power of the Southern Hummingbird.

  Tlaloc's magic. And the sacred courtesan served Xochiquetzal, who was as close to Tlaloc as goddesses went.

  I didn't like this, not at all. I turned to Nezahual-tzin, and asked, "The sacred courtesan. Xiloxoch."

  "Yes?" His eyes were on the stars. Could he discern his protector god among them – Quetzalcoatl the Feathered Serpent, Lord of the Morning Star?
  "Can you find her?"
  "Now?"

  There was an itch in my shoulder blades, the hint of a lament in my ears. And, in spite of the precautions we'd taken, I wasn't altogether sure we'd done the right thing – were Teomitl and I immune to the sickness, or merely spreading it throughout the city? "As soon as you can."

  "I'll talk to the leader of the prisoners again," Teomitl said, brusquely. "And send word if Pochtic wakes up."

  "And Tizoc-tzin?" I asked, carefully.

  "Tizoc does what he wants." Teomitl wouldn't look at me. What was going on? It wasn't shame; that was an emotion he barely knew the meaning of.
  "Teomitl–"

  He made a quick, stabbing gesture with his hands. "I'm Master of the House of Darts. Member of his war-council. His heir. If I don't make sure he follows the right path, who will?"

  "Leave that to the She-Snake," Nezahual-tzin said, distractedly. "You can't afford to be among those he distrusts."

  Teomitl snorted, but said nothing. He worried me. "Don't do anything rash, please."

  "I won't." And, under his breath, "not unless he gives me a reason to."
  "Teomitl!" I said.

  He pressed his lips together. "You're not my master, Acatl-tzin." And he was gone, wrapping his cloak around him, before I could react.

  It wasn't the first time he'd done that, but before, he had been bewildered, or lost – or unsure of Tizoc-tzin. I knew him enough to tell by the set of his jaw and of his eyes that he'd come to some great decision, one that he didn't want me to be privy to. 

  And, given his anger at Tizoc-tzin's acts, I could guess at the decision. After all, his brother was unpopular with the army, whereas Teomitl's smoke and mist was spreading, his mark on the Fifth World becoming larger and larger. He was Master of the House of Darts, controlling the great arsenals of Tenochtitlan and therefore access to all the causeways that linked us to the mainland – and why shouldn't he see to it that the Turquoise and Gold Crown was held by someone who deserved it, and never mind what the disasters this would cause for the balance of power?

  No. He wouldn't. He was more intelligent than that. He had to have absorbed some of what I'd taught him about magic – about the Fifth World being held by a thread until Tizoc-tzin was confirmed. 

  Surely he wouldn't…

  "He's a clever man," Nezahual-tzin said, thoughtfully – as if he had read the tenor of my thoughts. When he saw my face, he smiled. "I didn't use magic, Acatl. You're an easy man to read."

  "I don't dissemble," I said, curtly. My relationship with Teomitl might not be wholly private – because of our respective positions – but the Revered Speaker of Texcoco certainly had no business prying into it to satisfy his thrice-accursed curiosity.

  Nezahual-tzin ventured nothing. At length, when I didn't speak, he shrugged – a falsely careless gesture, and went downstairs. "I'll see you around, Acatl."

  I remained for a while – not because I found the view beautiful, but because I wanted to be sure that he was gone. We'd only had two deaths – a tragedy by some standards, insignificant in the larger frame – and already the fabric of the imperial palace was unravelling.

  As if I'd needed further proof that we remained fragile, as the Empire slowly rebuilt itself from the mess of the year before… This wasn't the most auspicious of times for a sorcerer to move against us. I would have prayed for this to bring us together against a common enemy, but deep down I already knew it wouldn't.

 

I walked to my house alone, amidst the looming shapes of the temples. Even at this late hour, the Sacred Precinct was busy: priests sang hymns and made penances, and circled the Serpent Wall, offering their blood at regular intervals. From within the temples came a grinding sound, as novice priests ground the pigments which would be used on the following day to paint faces and arms for religious ceremonies.

  My temple was still lit; I entered briefly, to reassure myself that all was well, and to second a few examinations. Ichtaca had made no progress on tracking down information about the merchant Yayauhqui; hardly surprising, since I'd only asked him a handful of hours ago.

  I went to bed praying to Chicomecoatl to look favourably upon us – and to bless us with Her luck, to better unravel this skein of magic.

• • • •

I woke up sore, as if I'd spent the entire day and night walking. My head throbbed, and for a brief moment, as I pulled myself to my knees, the world seemed to spin.

  I closed my eyes for a brief moment. The spinning went away and the soreness seemed to recede, but the feeling remained. The onset of the sickness? We should–

  Stay inside like old men? No, I couldn't. I had work to do.

  Nevertheless… it would have been highly irresponsible to go further without some kind of precaution. Mihmatini's spell had its uses, but, as much as the Duality was arbiter and source of the gods, They were not the ones to whom I owed my allegiance, and Their protection would not be the most effective I could call on. I made my offerings of blood to the Fifth Sun and to Lord Death, singing the hymns for the continuation of the Fifth World, and pulling my worship-thorns through my earlobes.

  On my wicker chest were two sets of clothes: one was a simple grey cloak, appropriate for a priest for the Dead; the other was the ornate, owl-embroidered monstrosity of my regalia complete with skull-mask and feather headdress. The grey cloak was far more comfortable, likely to be far less noticed, but the days when I could have worn it had all but passed. Ichtaca was right: I needed to show myself, and this included wearing the regalia. With a sigh, I folded the simple cloak back into the chest, putting it under the folded codices I was working on. It was, after all, unlikely I would need it in the days to come. 

  I walked into the Sacred Precinct in full regalia.

 

The dizziness did not return, though I watched for it. The world remained crisp and clear, the sky above the Sacred Precinct a brilliant blue, with the familiar smells of copal incense smoke, underlain by the rank one of blood. Ahead, atop the Great Temple, the sacrifices went on unabated: a body tumbled down the steps, coming to a rest in the grooves that surrounded the pyramid's base – the painted white skin spattered with blood.

  Everything seemed well: the Empire strong, the gods watching over us, a Revered Speaker about to be confirmed in a burst of glory, and his coronation war a resounding success.

  How I wished I could be fooled by such appearances.

  Ichtaca met me at the temple entrance. I could tell that he was either preoccupied or in a hurry, for the black streaks on his cheeks were slightly curved instead of straight, as if he'd applied them with shaking hands. "Acatl-tzin." 

  "I presume something has happened."

  Ichtaca grimaced. "Teomitl-tzin sent word. Pochtic – the Master of the House of Darkness – has regained consciousness, but there are two further warriors affected. One of them is dead." 

  Dead already? The sickness was spreading – I rubbed the tips of my fingers together, as if I could wash it away from my skin. How was it contracted? "And the others? The ones Acamapichtli had in confinement?"

  "I've heard no news."

  Well, there was nothing for it. "Send priests for the funeral rites, and remove the bodies. We need to examine them in an isolated spot. Did they die in the palace?"

  Ichtaca shook his head. "I think at the House of Youth, but I'll check."

  A group of grey-clad novices passed by us. By the reed-brooms in their hands, it looked they were going to sweep the courtyard, cleansing it in honour of Lord Death. "Do check," I said. "Nothing else?"

  Ichtaca spread his hands. His nervousness was palpable. "The merchant: I did find which god he worshipped, but–"

  I sighed. Ichtaca had always been a staunch believer in Mexica superiority, and the past few months had hit him badly. "Tell me," I said, gently.
  "Tezcatlipoca, the Smoking Mirror."

  Lord of the Near, Lord of the Nigh; god of war and youth, protector of sorcerers. Nothing too surprising there, sadly – even the viciousness of Yayauhqui's punishment was characteristic. 

  "Does it help?"

  I couldn't lie to him. "I'm not sure. It certainly doesn't put him at the forefront of suspects: the epidemic seems to be coming from Tlaloc."
  "Again?" Ichtaca asked.

  Two years earlier, the Storm Lord and a splinter group of His priests had attempted an elaborate plot to unseat Huitzilpochtli's dominance – using the Revered Speaker's weakness to raise up an agent in the Fifth World. They would have succeeded, too, but for our order.

  "He's a god," I said, slowly. "The Duality only knows what He's plotting." I paused, then.
  "What is it, Acatl-tzin?"
  "The Flower Quetzal," I said slowly. Xochiquetzal had been the Storm Lord's ally – as interested as He had been in the end of the Fifth World.
  "You think She's involved in this again?"

  I thought of Xiloxoch. "I don't know. But it's a possibility."

  One I didn't care much for. A scheming deity was bad enough, but an alliance of gods…

  I nodded. "Before I go, I need a ritual performed." 

  "Which one?"

  I'd had time to mull it over on my way to the temple. Mictlantecuhtli, Lord Death, was seldom invoked for defensive magic – unless one counted summoning creatures such as the Wind of Knives or the Owl Archer from the underworld. But this particular sickness, it seemed, was under the auspices of Tlaloc the Storm Lord. And the magics of the underworld and of Tlalocan cancelled each other out.

  "It's not a ritual," I said at last. "At least, not per se. I just need you to provide a little… help."

 

We repaired to one of the examination rooms, under the hollow gaze of Mictlantecuhtli. As I'd asked, Ichtaca had gathered only offering priests for this – the novices would have been all too glad to take part in something like this, but they hadn't yet learned the fundamental lesson of the priesthood: that magic might be awe-inspiring, but that the heart of our devotions lay elsewhere. That Lord Death did not give us more than was needed, or grant us our prayers, but that we could rely on Him to stand by His rules, that he was not cruel or capricious, but merely there, awaiting us all.

  And it was my role – and Ichtaca's – to teach them the importance of the small things, of the devotions at night, of the examinations of corpses with knives and small spells, of the offerings that came day and night to give their lives the rhythm of faith.

  At the feet of each priest lay a pile of quetzal feathers, and a single lip-plug made of jade. On Ichtaca's signal, they cut a thin line across the back of their hands, and let the blood drip onto the feathers and jade.

  Ichtaca – who was part of the circle, started chanting a hymn to Lord Death:

 

 

  Where the blood touched the feathers, they gleamed – a dark hue of green, the miasma of the underworld. A cold wind was blowing across the room, making the priests' grey cloaks billow like the wings of some gaunt and skeletal bird.

 

 

  I took a deep breath, and tightened my grip on my obsidian knife. I had offered no blood, but that did not matter. To call on what I intended, I needed no offerings, merely my presence, there in the very centre of Lord Death's largest temple – I, who had been consecrated High Priest, invested with the breath of the underworld. 

  I felt it rise within me: the lament of the dead, the grave voice of the Wind of Knives, the careless smile and wide eyes of the Owl Archer, the hulking shapes of beasts of shadows – and everything that presaged Mictlan in the Fifth World: the old folk laid out on their reed-mats, struggling to breathe for yet another day; the peasants feeling the first aches in their backs, the first creaks of their joints; the women in the marketplace with their wrinkled faces and streaks of white in their hair; the children, learning that no year resembled the one past, and that time had caught them all, more surely than a fisherman's net; all those on the road to the throne of Lord Death – and to oblivion.