The Devil's Bag Man

For Healy, I guess. Whatever
.

I
zel Notchi Icnoyotl stood atop the sweep of glimmering quartz stairs that fronted the great golden temple of Tezcatlipoca and gazed down at a thousand of the empire's most prosperous souls.

He could get used to this.

He
would
get used to this.

The guests were warriors and politicians, merchants and traders—all of them gathered to witness the minting of a new dynasty, to celebrate a consolidation of wealth and power that foretold the lessening of their own prospects and promised to nudge them further from the innermost circles of influence.

But to
not
be present would be even worse.

Izel breathed in their discomfort. It was intoxicating. The sun blazed overhead, fiery and huge, as if the celestial body itself sought a closer view of the union.

And why not? The prize of an empire was about to be bestowed upon its favorite son, in a perfect wedding of beauty and power, flesh and spirit.

His oldest sister, and his oldest friend.

New money, and ancient power.

It was a day for which Izel's family had waited decades—though
waited
was a euphemism, a nicety; a truer word would have been
plotted,
or
strategized
.

Murdered
would not have been inaccurate, either.

But all that would fade away now, the history rewritten by the winners. And besides, the machinations might have been unsavory, but they sullied neither the bride nor the groom; that young radiant pair was oblivious to the low-toned musings and raised-eyebrow speculations of their fathers. Neither was ignorant of politics—on the contrary, Izel's sister was his father's right hand in matters of business, and Cualli had been raised from birth to wield the full power of the Line of Priests—but their relationship's prehistory, its convenience, did not concern them.

Cualli loved Chacanza with a fierceness so pronounced it was like a force of nature, and he had for as long as Izel could remember. Sometimes he marveled at the way Cualli's will operated on the world, the force of it so intense that you could almost see mind and matter bend in accordance with the holy man's desires.

Or perhaps Izel had it backward, and it was Cualli's love for Chacanza that had shaped
him
. Perhaps through his devotion, the priest had grown into worthiness, become the very man she wanted.

It was impossible to say which of them was the sunflower and which the sun, and when it came down to it, Izel didn't care.

His victory had already been secured.

Cualli had made him an initiate, ushered Izel and his sons and theirs into the House of Priests. It would not have happened if Cualli had not been negotiating for Chacanza's hand, but in many ways the bond superseded marriage, was stronger, more sacred. And though Izel's appointment warranted no grand display, it was just as magnificent a coup for the family.

He would never have Cualli's power, but Izel would always have his ear.

And perhaps, in a few years, his younger sister.

Not bad for the grandson of a provincial spice merchant.

Izel's dark eyes flicked away from the throng and settled on the couple, arrayed on a raised platform, their jeweled feet at the level of his waist. Normally, a priest would have performed the ceremony, but it was unthinkable to suggest that any man might be closer to the gods than the groom himself, so Cualli played both roles.

Marry himself, as it were.

Chacanza must have felt her brother's eyes; she turned and treated him to an enormous smile, emerald eyes flashing, and Izel's heart filled with happiness. She was dazzling, resplendent in a saffron dress, the jewels of her necklace throwing sunlight back at the heavens.

She deserved this.

Cualli's attention followed his beloved's, and as she looked away, Izel locked eyes with the priest.

In an instant, the happiness drained from his heart, and a cold, nameless dread descended. The sun might as well have vanished in a puff of smoke.

Something was wrong. Had he not known Cualli so well, Izel never would have seen it. But behind the smile, the healthy glow of his skin, the proud straight back, his friend's dark eyes were like two bottomless pits. Cualli was somewhere else—somewhere this moment of triumph could not touch.

Where that might be Izel could not fathom and feared to know.

But to serve Tezcatlipoca was to know terror, just as it was to know power.

The terror of power.

The power of terror.

One did not exist without the other.

The serpent ate its tail.

The sun had returned to the world—it resided inside Izel's chest now, pulsing with unbearable heat. Sweat burst from his pores, and Izel dropped his gaze, unable to bear the depths of Cualli's eyes a moment longer.

Instead, he found himself staring at his friend's hands. One was intertwined with his sister's, their long, elegant fingers perfectly matched just like everything else about them.

The other, Cualli held behind his back, curled like a talon. His nails
dug into the soft flesh of his palm, as if the priest hoped to redirect all the violence of the universe inward, visit it upon himself.

Izel startled as Cualli's clear, resonant baritone boomed over the waiting crowd, reciting the first words of the matrimonial blessing.

Only Izel saw the fat droplet of blood fall from the priest's hand and splatter into a vivid crimson blotch on the pristine white quartz below.