Master of the House of Darts (14 page)

The entrance-curtain was held open by a slave, who bowed to Teomitl and Nezahual-tzin as they passed. In the antechamber a pile of sandals attested to the presence of several dignitaries: Teomitl and I removed ours, while Nezahual-tzin stood waiting patiently. Of course, he was a Revered Speaker and had no need to appear barefoot before Tizoc-tzin.

Inside the room the atmosphere was hot and oppressive, like the air of the dry season. The smoke of copal incense lay over everything, and everyone present blurred into hazy, indistinct silhouettes. Nevertheless, I counted at least ten people gathered at the furthest end against the featureless wall.

As we approached, I made out the familiar hue of Tizoctzin's turquoise cloak. His sycophant Quenami was here, and a host of feather-clad warriors I didn't recognise, probably the higher echelons of the army. In the centre…

I had caught a brief glimpse of Pochtic when the army returned: he'd been standing with the other three members of the war-council, though all I remembered were the crimson feathers of his headdress, and the blacktrimmed mantle, held together with a folded rosette. The man lying on the reed-mat, though, had nothing to do with that image.

His face was cut – not lacerated by a knife, but abraded everywhere, deep enough to draw blood. The wounds did not look deep, but they were horrific; circular patches covering his entire skin from cheek to forehead. His earlobes were torn – not by sacrifice or by penance, but as if a wild animal had bitten them off – and his eyelids were a bloody mass. His chest still rose and fell, though he was unconscious.

"It looks like he's been mauled," the She-Snake said, behind me.

Teomitl frowned and shook his head. "No. That's no wild animal. He'd have wounds with torn edges."

"Then what is it?" Tizoc-tzin's livid face turned towards us. Under the Turquoise and Gold Crown his eyes seemed to have sunk deeper, his cheeks gaunter and paler, giving him the air of a corpse just risen from its funeral vigil. "What is it? No one attacks my war-council in my palace. Do you hear, brother, no one!"

It was getting worse, then – the lack of grace, the paranoia. I sought Acamapichtli with my eyes, but couldn't find him. It seemed he'd stayed with his patients – for once doing the right thing.

"I don't know." Teomitl knelt, throwing his red-andwhite cloak behind him – he extended a hand towards the bloody face, and seemed to remember something. In a fluid, violent motion, he tore the jade rings from his fingers, and dumped them on the ground. Then, gently, as if caring for a sick child, he raised Pochtic's head towards him. Blood ran down in lazy streams, staining Pochtic's chin and neck.

I picked one of my obsidian knives, and quickly slashed my earlobes, whispering a prayer to Lord Death – waiting for the familiar cold sensation in my belly, and for the world to recede.

"We all must die,

We all must go down into darkness…"

There was a welter of magics in the room, all the protective spells the warriors and Tizoc-tzin had surrounded themselves with. Teomitl himself radiated the strong, undiluted power of his patron goddess. And from the unconscious Pochtic…

It was faint, like an echo at the bottom of a cenote; like a minute trace of water on the skin, barely shining in the light of the Fifth Sun. A trace of magic clinging to the face: a thread spun in the darkness that went towards…

I moved, slowly, cocking my head left and right. It was coming through the knot of warriors – I pushed my way through, ignoring the glares they shot me.

Behind them was nothing but a wicker chest – but now that I was clear of the knot of entangled magic the feeling was stronger, achingly familiar. I threw open the chest. Behind me, people were whispering, but no one, it seemed, dared to interrupt me.

Inside were codices, papers, folded cloth – there didn't seem to be anything in there that would have that particular aura. Had I been mistaken?

Unless…

I started emptying the chest, dumping on the floor everything from golden ornaments to maps of the city. There was nothing at the bottom of the chest, either – just the knots of wicker that made up the structure. But the feeling of magic remained.

Underneath, then. I shifted the empty wicker chest out of the way – and there was indeed something under it.

I knelt to examine it. It was the oval shape of a mask, with the vague, grotesque suggestion of eyes and mouth – but without any holes. Some image of a god.

My hands were slick and warm – the other side was sticky with some substance that…

Gently, carefully – afraid of what I'd see – I flipped the mask. The reverse was covered with blood. I lifted it to the light: it was semi-transparent rubber, letting me catch glimpses of the room through it. In its grooves and protuberances I saw a human face in reverse – the skin clinging to the mask, the nose and mouth completely plugged, the eyes themselves sealed, until the world reduced itself to the impossible struggle for breath, to a scream that couldn't be uttered through glued lips.

And now I knew how he'd got the wounds.

"The blocked breath," someone said by my side – Nezahual-tzin, looking at the mask as if it were nothing more than a curiosity. "Sacrifices for the harvest and the rain."

But this wasn't a sacrifice. This was – someone had tried to murder Pochtic in his own rooms. "How would they get it on him?"

Nezahual-tzin shrugged. "I can think of several ways, but we'll know more when he wakes up. By the way, your student says that the body is saturated with Tlaloc's magic."

Why did this fail to surprise me? The blocked breath – a mask that mimicked a drowning – not dying of the water, but close enough. Strangled and suffocated men belonged to Tlaloc the Storm Lord, after all.

And Acamapichtli had said the epidemic had been called up from Tlalocan. It fitted – all too well.

I was still looking at the specks of blood against the mask. "He tore it off his own face…"

"He's a strong man." Nezahual-tzin made an expansive gesture with his arms. "He'll survive."

At this stage, Pochtic's survival wasn't what I cared for most. "Coatl," I said, carefully. "And now Pochtic. Someone is targeting the war-council." No, that wasn't possible. The attack on Pochtic had been deliberate, but how could the sorcerer foresee that Coatl would be in the room with Eptli's body and catch the sickness?

Nezahual-tzin said nothing – but somebody else was speaking, in a familiar high-pitched voice. Tizoc-tzin was working himself into a frenzy again. For a brief moment, I considered ignoring him – but I couldn't do this. Whether I liked it or not, he was Revered Speaker, and I had to stand by him.

"I want every sorcerer who uses Tlaloc's magic rounded up," Tizoc-tzin was saying as I walked back to the dignitaries. "Arrest them all."

"Many of them will be innocent," the She-Snake said, coldly. His gaze was turned downwards, to where Teomitl still knelt by the unconscious body. "You can't just accuse whoever you want."

"You dare question me?" Tizoc-tzin's voice rose to a shriek.

The She-Snake – who'd swum in the waters of politics from a young age – wasn't about to be defeated so easily. "My Lord, I am your viceroy, keeping the order of the city just as you keep the order of the world outside. I would never countermand any of your orders, but the people might not understand what you're doing."

"I fail to see where the problem is. They are plotting against the Empire."

Did he even have any idea of how many practitioners of Tlaloc's magic there were in the city – not merely the powerful ones like Acamapichtli, but the hundreds of commoners, casting spells for small favours from the gods – curing minor ailments, improving the harvest, granting children to barren couples? "My Lord," I said.

Tizoc-tzin's head swung towards me – transfixing me with anger and contempt. "Yes, priest?"

Southern Hummingbird blind me, why couldn't Acamapichtli be here? He'd have found smooth, convincing words that, if they hadn't calmed Tizoc-tzin, would at least have not angered him. But all that occurred to me in that frozen moment was the truth. "Tlaloc is but a tool. It's highly likely the sorcerer has access to the magic of other gods. Tlaloc might not even be his favoured god." Only the humble and weak spell-casters were restricted to the magic of a single deity: everyone else tended to cultivate the favours of one or two gods, and to call on the others as needed.

Tizoc-tzin's face contorted, and I realised I'd just given him more targets for his rage. "I see. Good remark, priest. Round up all the sorcerers, then."

"This is impossible," the She-Snake said.

"Impossible." Tizoc-tzin's voice was flat, as cutting as an obsidian blade. "Impossible. I ought to have known I couldn't trust you."

"We do seem to have trust issues," the She-Snake said, gravely. He had guts, that much was certain – I just wasn't sure it would avail him of anything. Theoretically, the She-Snake couldn't be demoted, but it was merely a matter of it never happening before. The Revered Speaker, after all, named the She-Snake – why couldn't he cast him down?

"Don't play games with me." Tizoc-tzin stared at the She-Snake; neither of them said anything for a while. The whole room held its trembling breath.

At length, the She-Snake nodded. "My Lord," he said, slowly. "I will give orders to my men." His face revealed nothing of what he felt, but his whole pose was tense.

"Good," Tizoc-tzin said. He turned, taking us all in. "Dismissed. We'll reconvene after the sorcerers have been questioned."

As he swept out of the room with his escort, I chanced to catch a glimpse of a dignitary – a short man, almost dwarfed by the weight of his quail-feather headdress. His face was set in a scowl and he was staring at Tizoc-tzin's retreating back with withering anger – as if expressing all the contempt the She-Snake had felt, but not dared to make public.

"Who is that man?" I asked Nezahual-tzin, who was closest to me.

He frowned. "The one with the greenstone and snail shell necklace, who looks as though he's swallowed something bad?"

"That one, yes."

"I'm not that familiar with Mexica politics…" Nezahual-tzin's voice trailed off. "Itamatl, if I'm not mistaken. Deputy for the Master of the Bowl of Fatigue."

The fourth member of the war council, then: one of the cornerstones of the army, the one who guided the men through the fire and blood of battle. And he hated Tizoctzin that much? I wondered who he had supported in last year's power struggle. For all I knew, he had never expected Tizoc-tzin to become Revered Speaker. And yet… that he should show it openly, at a time like this? This was bad, very bad.

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?