Obsidian & Blood (119 page)

  Oh gods. There were two versions of the sickness.

  I dragged myself to my cane, trembling with the memories of dying twice, in close succession, and limped to the other corpses, watching them.

  The corpse of the prisoner Zoquitl was also devoid of bleeding and I got the same impression when I lowered my hands over it, the feeling of unfamiliar magic spreading from outstretched hands… 

  And the others… Chipahua's household, his companions, his wife, his slaves – I stood over them all, and over them all I felt the same thing, felt myself destroyed piece by piece, bleeding into my own body, exhaling nothing but my own debris and blood… 

  "Acatl-tzin!" Firm hands yanked me, jolting me out of the trance of the spell, and I lay gasping, the mud squelching against my skin, so cold as to make me shiver. The Fifth Sun overhead blurred, quivering, the willows spinning and bending as if in a great storm…. 

  "Are you mad?" Ichtaca's voice asked – coming from very far away. 

  "Not… mad," I whispered, but he didn't seem to hear me.

  "You were the one who said we'd examine them as a group, and then you go taking on their symptoms as if there were no tomorrow." 

  He sounded angry, but I couldn't bring myself to care anymore. I lay gasping and choking, trying to banish the memories of the shadows from my vision – feeling everything twisting and bursting within my body, as if I were the one on the edge of death. 

  That settled it: whoever had cast that kind of spell was thoroughly mad.

 

Some time later, Ezamahual helped me get up, wrapping my shaking hands around the cane and lending me his shoulder so that I stood more or less upright. The weakness was passing; the memories of so many deaths so close together were passing away, becoming a distant nightmare. Thank the gods for fallible memory – what would I have ever done, if I had remembered perfectly every single one of the examinations I'd practised? 

  "They're different," I said to Ichtaca.

  He still looked angry, but he wasn't shouting at me anymore, which I guessed was an improvement. "Different how?" 

  "Eptli said he felt cold after touching something, and I think Zoquitl caught it the same way: from an object, not a person. Everyone else on this island caught it from someone already sick, just like Teomitl and I."

  "So we're looking for an object impregnated with Chalchiuhtlicue's magic?" Ichtaca frowned. "That doesn't help much." 

  I shook my head. "Several objects. It's not something unique. And yet it was peculiar enough that Eptli remembered it, so most probably not an everyday object." And something else, too: this meant that Eptli and Chipahua had likely had direct contact with the sorcerer. "Did you learn anything else?" I refrained from adding "while I was unconscious", for both our sakes.

  Ichtaca shrugged. "A better understanding of the disease, I guess. It's based on the liquids within the human body – spreading through the blood and coaxing everything into destroying itself in a rush." His round face was creased in distaste. "It's a horrible, useless way to die." 

  "But it brings power to Chalchiuhtlicue or to the sorcerer, if he knows how exploit it," I said, slowly. "Symbolically, they've all died of the water." I thought of whoever had attacked the Master of the House of Darkness, of the mask spreading across his face, blocking off his nostrils and mouth. A sacrifice to the goddess who ruled water; likewise, it would have brought power to Her – or to whoever stood between Her and the Fifth World.

  Tlaloc had said the epidemic wasn't Chalchiuhtlicue's will, and in truth, I couldn't have seen why He'd have lied to us. So the most likely explanation was a sorcerer – one ruthless enough to steal from the goddess.

  Which wasn't exactly heartening, as far as explanations went. 

  Ichtaca's grimace would have been comical in other circumstances. "Yes. How many victims have there been?"

  "Too many," I said, thinking of the palace. "You know that as well as I do."

  "It has to be contained." Ichtaca's face was set in a grimace. "Unless the Southern Hummingbird…"
  I shook my head. "He won't intervene."

  Ichtaca looked almost disappointed, but then, like Teomitl, he'd always been persuaded that our destiny was to conquer the Fifth World. I'd never been quite as enthusiastic. Like Coatl or Itamatl, I tended to think that wars were His province, and that He granted His favours as He saw fit.

  Which didn't excuse murder, or the casting of dangerous spells.
  Ichtaca, after the initial moment of uncertainty, appeared to have rallied. "Then it has to be contained."
  "Easy to say. We're all working on it."

  "I know," Ichtaca said. He flipped his knife upwards, staring at the blade. "You think it's Chalchiuhtlicue?"

  "I don't think so." But still… one way or another, She was in the game, and Her magic was loose in the Fifth World, used against the Mexica Empire. And Her magic was tied to Teomitl, and She could drag him into Her little games – a train of thought I would gladly have done without.

  "About healing the sickness…?" I asked.

  "That's what your sister's priests are working on."

  He'd always been much better at crafting new rituals than me. "I know. But Nezahual-tzin told me that there might be a way, with Toci's magic."

  "Grandmother Earth?" Ichtaca shrugged. "Appealing to Her stability and solidity. Yes, it might work. At any rate, it can't make things worse."

  "We need to try," I said. "There are two people in the palace–"

  "I know. I'll see your sister's priests and see if we can work something together. What about you, Acatl-tzin?"

  I looked at the bodies again, spread out pathetically in the sunlight, every one of them holding pain beyond my imagination, every one of them a sacrifice building power for someone who wished us no good. A few priests were still examining them – among them familiar faces, like Palli, a burly nobleman's son who had taken to the priesthood like an
ahuizotl
to water. His face was creased in a familiar frown, trying to work something out. 

  "I'm going to find some answers." I grasped the cane so hard my knuckles whitened.

  Ichtaca frowned. "You should get a bit of rest. I'll call for a priest of Patecatl."

  Why was everyone so suddenly concerned about my wellbeing? "There's more at stake than my health."

  "Which doesn't mean it's unimportant." Ichtaca's face was disturbingly shrewd.

  Ahead, Palli raised his head, and gestured towards us. "Acatl-tzin!"
  "What is it?"
  "You have to see this!"

  "If it can be moved, bring it here," Ichtaca said, "Acatl-tzin is in no state to walk." He threw me a meaningful glance, almost a threat to get some rest.

  Palli scrambled to his feet, and all but ran the distance that separated us, his sandals squelching in the mud. "Acatl-tzin." His hand was wrapped in cloth; and on the cloth was something – a small, shrivelled thing that stank of Chalchiuhtlicue's magic.

  "I found it on Eptli," he said, almost apologetically. "Didn't dare touch it."
  "What is it?" Ichtaca asked.
  "The object," I said. "The vector of the sickness."

  Palli angled it so that it caught the light: it was a small, translucent tube, with the remnants of a fine powder inside. And something else was carved on its flaring end – it looked like a hand, holding a stick? 

  No, not a stick. It was…

  "This?" Ichtaca shook his head. "I can't possibly see–"

  "I can," I said, darkly. "Before it was crunched up like this, it was a hollowed-out feather stem."

  "Money?" Ichtaca asked. "But there is no gold inside."

  No, and I couldn't identify the powder inside, which was an uncanny shade of yellow – a colour too light to be cacao, too dark to be maize flour. "It's symbolic money. The powder is probably the vector; the feather is the package. It gives it significance." 

  "You mean it represents money. I still don't see–"

  "There is something carved on it," I said. "What do you think it is?"

  Everyone squinted at it. At length, Palli said, doubtfully, "I think it's a hand holding a curved blade."

  "I suppose so." Ichtaca didn't sound convinced. "Acatl-tzin, I don't understand…"

  But I did. The hand holding a curved blade: the symbol of Itztlacoliuhqui, the Curved Point of Obsidian, god of frost and of justice – as cold and as unyielding as retribution. And the money: a single feather, an offering with the promise of more to come. 

  A bribe. Justice for a bribe.

  Eptli had been greedy and arrogant, thinking money could buy anything and everything – even status. Even the war-council for his trial.

  It looked like Xiloxoch's accusations of bribery hadn't been a lie meant to sow chaos amongst us, after all.

 

Ezamahual rowed me back to the Sacred Precinct in silence, but steadfastly refused to leave me alone after that. "You're in no state to walk, Acatl-tzin," he pointed out, his eyes averted from mine, but with an utterly stubborn expression on his face.

  I gave in – we could have argued for hours, and I was feeling none too steady at the moment, as if I were still standing in the boat on the water. "Fine. Let's go to the Duality House."

  I found the Duality House in an unusual state of feverish activity: in addition to the crowd of supplicants gathered at the gates, the clergy seemed to be busy. Sober-faced priests and priestesses carried armloads of fruit and flower garlands from the storehouse to the shrine in the centre, and every entrance-curtain seemed to be drawn open, revealing small but fervent gatherings – two or three priests crouching on the ground, listening to the orator in the centre with focused intensity. What sent my hackles up, though, weren't the priests, but the dozen Jaguar warriors among them – leaning against frescoes, casually hefting worship-thorns in callused, bloodied hands, and generally doing their best to appear innocuous, their visit merely a coincidence in the grand scheme of things. 

  I wasn't fooled, and I very much doubted Tizoc-tzin would be, either.

  Mihmatini was in her rooms, and received me almost immediately. Under the feather headdress, her face was pale and drawn, the lines at the corners of her eyes making her seem much older than her twenty years.

  "Acatl. Yaotl told me you were alive, thank the Duality." I'd expected a verbal flaying, but she merely sounded relieved. 

  "What's going on?" I asked. 

  "They're looking for Teomitl," Mihmatini said.

  "Who isn't here." Yaotl had already told me he'd left.

  "No," Mihmatini said. She exhaled, slowly and deliberately – an easy expression to read.
  "I'm not the first one to ask."

  Her gaze was bright, desperate. "No. The She-Snake was here."

  Trust the She-Snake to always be near the heart of intrigues, but never quite embroiled in them. Careful and measured, like his father before him: the power in the shadows, never challenged or besmirched. "What else did he say?" 

  "You already know it."

  "No," I said. "I'm not a calendar priest, and I've always been abysmal at divination. Tell me."

  "He said… to be careful. That Teomitl was playing a dangerous game, and that we could lose everything." Her hand wandered to her cheek, scratched it. "And I said I didn't know what game, and he left." Her eyes wouldn't meet mine.

  "But you know." And hadn't told me – I suspected perhaps not even admitted it to herself. Then again, had I been any better? I'd received enough warnings – both in signs and speeches – and hadn't heeded any of them.

  "There have been…" Mihmatini shook her head, angrily. "The Duality curse me, I'm not about to behave like some gutless and bloodless fool. There have been signs, Acatl. Visitors at Neutemoc's house – Jaguar warriors and veterans, and too many noblemen to be relatives concerned with our old welfare. And an old woman, several times." 

  "An old woman?"

  "Yes. Why are you interested in that? I would have thought the warriors were more significant."

  "Significant, but not unexpected." My hands had clenched into fists; I forced them to open again – relaxed, carefree. "The old woman – you might know that when he almost died of the sickness, it was Toci's magic which saved his life."

  Toci. Grandmother Earth. The aged, ageless woman; the bountiful and damaged earth that we broke anew with every stroke of our digging sticks. Most of Her devotees were women past their prime – the younger ones tended to call on the more youthful Xochiquetzal, like the courtesan Xiloxoch; the men chose other deities altogether.

  "But I don't see what this has to do with anything," Mihmatini said, slowly and carefully, as if she stood on the edge of a great chasm, listening to the whistle of the wind in her ears.

  "I don't know," I said. Gods help me, I didn't know. I just didn't like any of it. First, Jade Skirt's magic; now Teomitl's odd behaviour. 

  "Well, you might be content with that, but I intend to find out what's going on." Her hands shook, and for a moment there was a glimmer of tears in her eyes. "He always gets into scrapes bigger than he is. I – I need him back, Acatl."

  "We'll find him," I said. "He's still my responsibility, remember?" 

  "You don't act like he is."

  "He's my student, not my child," I said – and immediately regretted it: by becoming his wife and tying her garment to his, Mihmatini had taken on the responsibilities of both sexual partner and mother to him – nourishing him just as his mother had once done.

  My sister grimaced, but said nothing, even though it cost her. I mentally vowed to have pointed words with Teomitl – plotting the gods knew what against his brother was one thing, but giving his wife sleepless nights quite another.

  But I did need to check one thing, before it cost me my own night's sleep. "I need to ask," I said, spreading my hands in a gesture of apology. "Has he been talking about his brother to you – about our choice of Revered Speaker?"