Obsidian & Blood (104 page)

  "You know. You were listening."

  "I see," Nezahual-tzin said. "Well, I don't know much more than what's already known at the House of Joy." He smiled disarmingly, but neither of us were fooled. "She chooses her mat-partners carefully, and she'll not bend for anyone."

  "And would she say she was a devoted follower of Xochiquetzal?" 

  Nezahual-tzin's eyes rolled upwards again, revealing corneas as opalescent as mother-of-pearl. He was silent, for a while. He was – had always been – a good judge of character. "Her? She has her pick of Jaguar Knights and Eagle Knights, and even of Otomi shock troops. She should lack for nothing – but her chambers are simply decorated, and I've never seen anyone so bored with precious stones. So yes, I would think so. She's a priestess, not a greedy woman. She sees herself infused with the essence of the Quetzal Flower – invested with the mission to inflame lust in others."

  I had feared so. "Do you know–" I started, but didn't get any further. 

  The entrance-curtain was slammed against the wall with such force that one of its bells flew off – and landed at Teomitl's feet with a discordant sound.

  The She-Snake, the keeper of the palace order, stood framed in the entrance, his black-streaked face almost flush against the darkness. By his side was a group of guards dressed in black – even in the dark, I could see their shaking hands, their pale faces. Something was wrong, and every single one of them reeked of magic, an odour that slipped within my lungs like smoke, thick and acrid. 

  "Acatl," the She-Snake said. "Teomitl." He bowed a fraction, from equal to equal. "You have to come now."

  "There's been another death?" I asked, my heart sinking. But why would everyone look in such disarray, if it was just one of the sick people who had died. "Tizoc-tzin?" I asked.

  The She-Snake shook his head. "No. The war-council, Acatl. Someone has just made an attempt on the life of the Master of the House of Darkness."

 

 

We followed the She-Snake to another part of the palace – less grand than the quarters of the imperial family, though still ostentatious enough, with rich frescoes of gods and warriors, and the smell of pine needles, a pleasant overlay over the harsher one of copal incense wafting from the huge burners.

  To Teomitl's dismay, Nezahual-tzin had fallen in with us, as if nothing were more natural. "Well, that's interesting," he said in a conversational tone.

  Teomitl's eyes tightened. "This is a Mexica affair."

  "You forget." Nezahual-tzin's broad face still bore that expression of distant amusement. "What strikes Tenochtitlan will strike its neighbours, too – and Texcoco is not just any neighbour, but part of the heart and soul of the Triple Alliance."

  The courtyard we entered resembled Tizoc-tzin's private quarters in miniature: at the centre was a pyramid of limestone. Atop the stairway was a squat building, and on the platform that led up to it floated a round feather standard depicting a cactus with red fruit. The insignia was unfamiliar. 

  "Teomitl?" I asked, my face turned upwards.

  My student shed Nezahual-tzin with the quickness and eagerness of a striking snake. "It's his insignia," he said. "Pochtic, Master of the House of Darkness, Lord of the Eagle Prickly Pear." 

  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 Tizoc-tzin'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 black-trimmed 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 warcouncil 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-and-white 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 semitransparent 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," Tizoctzin 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 Tizoc-tzin 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.