Master of the House of Darts (12 page)

"Hurts," Eptli hissed. "How dare you–" His voice was low; I could barely make out the words. When he raised his head, I saw that his skin had gone completely purple, and that his hair had taken on greenish reflections, like algae.

"What do you remember?" Acamapichtli asked. "Quick, there isn't much time."

It was, to an extent, his ritual, and I was just a spectator – however, Acamapichtli had a number of disadvantages, not least of which was that he had no context about Eptli. "Was Zoquitl sick, Eptli?"

"No," Eptli whispered. "Strong and young, he was – a strong offering, a man fit enough to hold the glory of the god. But I was – cold. I'd put on all the amulets, all the magical protections I could, but it wasn't enough…"

So Eptli had been the first one. "When was this?"

"I don't know." Eptli shivered. He was growing – darker, more distant. The smell of algae was stronger, and the mist was eating away at the radiance. "I don't know. I shouldn't have–" He shivered again. "I shouldn't have–"

"Shouldn't have what?"

But he was going away from us – subsumed into the mist. "Shouldn't have insulted Yayauhqui?" I asked. "Shouldn't have quarrelled with your comrades? Shouldn't have won against Chipahua?" It wasn't as if the questions lacked, after all. "Eptli!"

His voice came back, floating through the mist. "I shouldn't have taken it – I should have known… said it was for safekeeping, but I should have known… It was so cold when I touched it…" And then another word, which could have been "Father", which could have been something else entirely.

And then nothing.

Acamapichtli reached out, and plucked the worship thorns out of the jaguar's body; and the mist receded and died away, leaving us standing in a darkened courtyard, with the familiar surroundings of the palace. A host of priests in blue and white stood on the edge of the circle, all watching us intently.

"Let's go inside," he said, brusquely. "This isn't fit for all ears."

Inside, he didn't seem much changed, but something in the way he paced by the carved columns suggested otherwise. "He suspected something."

"Yes," I said. "You heard it. Someone gave him something – for safekeeping, he said."

"So not something usual." Acamapichtli bit his lips. "Or else whoever did this wouldn't have needed the excuse. A piece of jewellery?"

"You're the expert on amulets," I said, more sharply than I'd intended.

He nodded, as arrogantly as ever. "I am, but you can put so many things into an amulet…"

"Can't you summon him again?"

Acamapichtli grimaced. "Not until the protective deities change – which doesn't happen for another thirteen days."

By which time it would be too late.

"Do you still think it was Tlaloc?" I asked.

"Possible," Acamapichtli admitted, grudgingly, "but unlikely, given the circumstances. Someone – a human being – gave Eptli something that made him feel cold. It's beginning to sound more and more like a spell directed at him." His eyes were hard.

Eptli had taken the proffered object, and fallen sick. And Zoquitl, who was in regular contact with Eptli, had caught the sickness as well. But why Zoquitl, and none of the other warriors? Did Zoquitl have some weakness we were unaware of – some lack of protection because he was Mextitlan, and not Mexica?

And why Eptli?

Acamapichtli's eyes were hard. "Now I know where I've seen that magic before – but it doesn't look quite the same. Once, I had to arrest a man who'd hired a sorcerer to cast a spell of leprosy onto a rival. A marvel of ingeniousness – it called up the sickness from Tlalocan itself."

Tlalocan, the land of the Blessed Drowned – where the sacrifices to Tlaloc lived in eternal bliss, reaping maize from ever-fertile fields, and listening to the whistle of the wind through the floating gardens. "That's why it kept disintegrating?" I asked. Magic from Tlalocan – raw magic from a god's territory – couldn't be called forth into the Fifth World: it would endure for a short while before the mundane began to assert itself once more. "Because it didn't come from the Fifth World."

Acamapichtli nodded. He sounded distracted. "Yes. Someone called up Tlaloc's raw magic into the world – a spell bound up in death and drownings, if you will. You ought to know that." It was a jibe at me as High Priest for the Dead – but weak and deprived of bite.

"And how powerful do you have to be to cast that kind of spell?"

"Not powerful. Ingenious, as I said. Whoever is behind this has great knowledge of Tlalocan, and of Tlaloc's magic."

"Your clergy?" The words were out of my mouth before I could take them back.

His eyes narrowed. "Of course not. Don't be a fool. My clergy is all above suspicion – and in any case, what motive would they have for killing a warrior they've never seen?" Priests of Tlaloc – the Storm Lord, the god of peasants and fishermen – seldom if ever went to war, for their blessings were reserved for the fields and the harvest.

"I don't know," I said, darkly. "I've seen many things. What about the spell on Eptli's soul?"

"Part of the same curse, I'd say. And tied to the
teyolia
soul, so that it persisted even in death. Again – we're dealing with a smart, resourceful sorcerer."

"But do you know who?" I insisted. "We need facts, not speculation."

Acamapichtli brushed his hands, carefully. Blood still clung to the lines of his palm, but he appeared oblivious. I had no idea how much of it was an act. "I can enquire," he said. "About that, and the sickness. We have priests specialised in diseases at the temple."

"Then why haven't you done so before?"

His gaze, when he raised it, could have bored through stone. "I've dealt with my own affairs. Deal with yours, Acatl."

He was the fool if he thought he could convince me to back down. "As you said earlier – we're in this together. All of the Fifth World."

Acamapichtli snorted. "Fine. Do it your way, if that's what you want."

As if he always did things for the sake of necessity – rather than for his own sake and on his own terms. "I'll keep you apprised," I said, walking towards the entrance-curtain.

"Likewise," Acamapichtli said, but we both knew he was lying.

I was about to take my leave, when the entrance-curtain tinkled and a flustered-looking Tapalcayotl came in. "My Lord, I'm sorry, but–"

He was followed by Mihmatini and her personal slave, Yaotl – and by a delegation of grey-cloaked priests from my order. "Out of my way," she said. Her voice was grim.

Acamapichtli looked from Mihmatini to me – a suspicious expression spreading on his narrow face. "What jest is this?"

Mihmatini shook her head. "You're the one in charge of the confinement?"

Acamapichtli nodded. "I can assure you that no one with the sickness has come out of this palace." He threw a murderous glance at me – he still hadn't forgiven what he saw as imprudence on my part. "But none of that need concern you. I'm sure you have more pressing concerns." His tone was condescending: he was going by appearances only, not even bothering to check. I didn't have the true sight on me, which prevented me from seeing the magical trails in the room, but I was sure that the strong magic which had just entered the room – a strong reassuring rhythm like a heartbeat – could only be Mihmatini's wards.

Mihmatini smiled. "You forget. I am Guardian for the Sacred Precinct, keeper of the invisible boundaries, and agent of the Duality in this world."

Acamapichtli raised an eyebrow. "You have the courage of eagles, girl, but it's useless if you can't follow through with actions."

"Acamapichtli!" I snapped. "Show some respect."

Mihmatini shook her head. "It doesn't matter, Acatl."

She smiled, and it was slow and terrifying and desperate. "I'll tell him what he needs to know. What he does with it," she spread her hands, as if scattering seeds into the bosom of Grandmother Earth, "is his own business."

"Fine," Acamapichtli said. "Have your say, and leave. We're busy enough as it is."

"You won't laugh," Mihmatini warned him. "With the help of the clergy of Mictlantecuhtli, I have beseeched the Duality to smile down upon us, and keep us standing tall, warded against the shackles of disease."

"And you've failed." Acamapichtli's voice was mocking.

From the grim expression on Mihmatini's face, I'd already suspected it hadn't worked, but unlike Acamapichtli, I had more faith in her abilities.

"Why did it fail?" I asked.

"It hasn't worked. But not because of anything in the ritual."

"You're young and unblooded–" Acamapichtli started, but my sister cut him, as savagely as a warrior in a fight to the death.

"I'm old enough to do what I'm doing. The reason it hasn't worked is because someone has sent up their own entreaties into the Heavens."

Surely she didn't mean… "Mihmatini–"

"I told you that you wouldn't like it." Her voice was flat, emotionless. "Someone is deliberately blocking any attempts at containing this. Someone wants this to become a full-blown epidemic."

There was silence, in the wake of her words. "You can't mean…" I started, and then stopped. My sister might be young, might be slightly untrained, and not as well-versed in the subtleties of the Duality's magic as her predecessor had been. But her own magic was strong, and she wouldn't advance such a monstrous hypothesis unless she was sure of it.

"Mistress Mihmatini isn't mistaken," Yaotl said in the silence.

"Then…" I spoke the words as they came to me, desperately trying to piece them into some kind of coherence. "Then this isn't about Eptli as a man. This isn't about personal revenge." Gods, I had been wrong; I had expected this to be small and personal. But it wasn't. It had never been.

One of my priests, Ezamahual, a tall, dour son of peasants, spoke up. "This is about the warrior," he said. For once, he wasn't stammering, or ill at ease, but, like my sister, utterly certain of the truth of his words. "This is about the man who was distinguished in the coronation war, and the sacrifice that should have been made to Huitzilpochtli. This is about making us weak."

I left Mihmatini deep in conversation with Acamapichtli and my clergy – they were discussing the technicalities of the ritual, unpacking everything they had done in order to convince Acamapichtli. I went out into the courtyard, breathing in the cold air of the night, hoping it might steady me.

It didn't.

A deliberate epidemic. This was bad. It had been bad enough when it had just been a side-effect of a spell gone wrong, but if someone was actively opposing us…

No, not us.

As Ezamahaul had said, this was all about Tizoc-tzin – his coronation war, his confirmation as Revered Speaker. Someone, somewhere, didn't want this to happen. It could have been a foreigner – and the gods knew there would be enough of those in the city, because of the upcoming confirmation. It could be Yayauhqui – his protestations had rung true, but perhaps he was a better liar than I'd thought.

Or it could be someone in the palace. Tizoc-tzin was hardly popular, and he had ascended to the Revered Speaker's mat over many rivals. Some of those were now dead, but some were still here: the She-Snake, who professed to believe in order; the noblemen and officials who had supported another candidate…

Gods, more politics. I really didn't want to have to deal with this.

But, in the end, it didn't change much. It was my duty – the one the previous Guardian had given me in spite of my protestations – what I had always done, what I always do. Keep the boundaries, protect the Fifth World and the Mexica Empire – what kind of a man would I be, if I let the epidemic rage within the city?

We had to find out how it had started – what the spell was – in order to counter it.

I stared at the stars – the distant, reassuring patterns fixed in their courses, the demons that couldn't fall into the Fifth World anymore – until they seemed to become the only thing in the world.

A tinkle of bells, and my sister came to stand by my side. "Obstinate man," she said.

"Did he believe you?"

"For now, I guess." She looked tired. "We'll go back and cast one of the lesser spells of protection. It won't work as well–"

"–but it will buy us a little more time?"

She nodded. "Acamapichtli said he'd look into the precise nature of the sickness, which should help us guard against it. But you–"

I spread my hands. "I know, I know. I need to find out who is behind this, and how they're doing it."

Mihmatini grimaced. "It might still be someone with a grudge against Eptli – they might be plucking two limes in one swoop: causing the disease, and getting back at him."

I bit my lip. "It might. But Ezamahual was right: it might simply be that he was a successful warrior, part of Tizoc-tzin's successes."

"All I'm saying is that you shouldn't discount the possibility out of hand." I must have looked dubious, for she laughed, and made as if to punch me. "Don't be so serious, Acatl!"

"This is serious."

"Oh, Acatl, for the gods' sake. We've already had this talk. Better laugh, and smile at the flowers and jade. Life is too short to be spent grieving. You, of all people, should know this."

I shook my head. It wasn't about enjoying life, but rather about my responsibilities, and what I needed to do.

And needed to do fast. For, if the primary motive wasn't Eptli's death, but the epidemic – if someone wanted deaths, many deaths, then what prevented them from directly contaminating someone else? It could all go fast – very fast – with us defenceless against the sickness.

Though the evening was well-advanced, I headed straight to Teomitl's quarters hoping to catch my wayward student before he went to bed, and apprise him of events. If there was something going on against his brother and the empire he was heir to, I felt he ought to know sooner rather than later.

And I wanted to see him, too: with the campaign, he'd been absent for four months, and I couldn't help but feel he was drawing away from me – a thought that pinched my heart. He'd grown up immeasurably since becoming my student, but he wasn't an adult yet – too impulsive, too careless to take his place as Revered Speaker.