Harbinger of the Storm (8 page)

”I need to know what’s happening,” I said.

He merely shook his head again. “The Turquoise-and-Gold Crown is a powerful lure, and there are many factions.”

”One of them killed Ocome.”

He closed his eyes for a brief moment and his face pulled up in genuine grief. “I know. But I can’t help you there, Acatl-tzin.”

”Can’t,” I said, “because you don’t know, or because you don’t want to?”

He looked at me, thoughtful. “He bent the way of the wind, and made many enemies. His death isn’t surprising.” And that was all he would say, no matter how hard I pressed him.

It was predictable, but neither Quenami nor the She-Snake were of much use – beyond the latter’s oral confirmation that he was indeed setting himself up as a potential candidate for the Turquoise-and-Gold Crown, an admission made with a shrug of his shoulders, looking me in the eye as if it was the most natural thing.

As to his quarrel with Ocome, the She-Snake admitted it in much the same careless fashion, in such an uninvolved way that, in spite of knowing how good an actor he was, I still found it very hard to believe he cared about Ocome at all – about his vote, or indeed about the man. It was as if Ocome had been too small, too petty to even register in the SheSnake’s field of view.

By the time I wrapped up the last abortive interview, evening had fallen. The stars shone in the sky, larger and more luminous than the night before, an unwelcome reminder of the chaos and devastation that would lie ahead if we didn’t act soon.

After a brief and very much belated meal, I was speaking with Manatzpa about possible security measures, up to and including the use of Duality spells, when the noise of a commotion reached us, loud voices and angry tones, coming from one of the nearby courtyards. Given the funereal quiet of the palace, that was surprising…

”Acatl-tzin,” Manatzpa said, his voice cutting through my thoughts. “You’ll want to head over there.”

”I don’t understand…”

And then I caught a familiar voice, raised in withering anger.

Teomitl.

What in the Fifth World had he got himself embroiled into this time?

He was easy enough to find: the noise came from the Imperial Chambers, at the entrance of which had gathered a crowd of curious onlookers; noblemen made idle by the absence of the court, wearing all their jade and feather finery, a mass of protective spells jostling each other on the narrow adobe staircase leading up to the terrace.

The She-Snake and his guards were pushing them back, attempting to maintain order within the palace, but curiosity was the worst emotion to hold at bay.

Snatches of the argument drifted my way, “…as weak as a dog…”, “deceived us…”

I had no idea what was going on, but obviously my place was upstairs, before Teomitl committed the irreparable.

I slashed my earlobes, muttered a brief prayer to my patron Mictlantecuhtli, and let the cold of the underworld spread like a cloak around me – the keening of ghosts, the embrace of Grandmother Earth, the descent into flowing waters, the freezing winds atop the Mountains of Obsidian and the ultimate cold, the one that seized the souls in the presence of Lord Death and His consort.

Thus armed, I pushed my way through the crowd. The protective spells hissed and faded away at my touch, and more than one nobleman grimaced as the cold, skeletal fingers of Lord Death settled on the back of their neck, a reminder of the fate that awaited them should they fail to die in battle or on the sacrificial altar.

The She-Snake nodded grimly at me as I cleared the top of the stairs, an unspoken acknowledgment that I was responsible for my student, and that this was the only reason his guards were letting me pass.

Inside, the body of Axayacatl-tzin looked intact – a relief, I had feared the worst. My priests had scattered to the corners of the room, with the pale faces of the powerless. The offering priest Palli, who had been in charge of the ritual, stood a little to the side with his hands clenched, trying to decide if he should intervene.

At the centre before the reed mat stood two men, glaring at each other like warriors about to launch into battle.

One, as was already clear, was Teomitl, with the harsh cast of the goddess Jade Skirt subtly modifying his features, and one hand already on his
macuahitl
sword. The other was Acamapichtli, High Priest of Tlaloc, who looked as if he’d been mauled by a jaguar, and intent on striking back. The air around him was as dense and as heavy as before a storm.

I couldn’t stand Quenami, but I had to admit he had a point about the power of entrances. I released the curtain with as much force as possible, sending the silver-bells sewn in it crashing into each other, a noise that could not be ignored. Only then did I stride into the room to confront them.

They had both turned to face me with murder in their eyes. I might have shrunk before their combined might, if I had not been so angry. “What in the Fifth World do you think you’re doing?” I asked, looking from one to the other. “For the Duality’s sake, this room belongs to Lord Death now, for the vigil, and I won’t have you desecrate it with whatever quarrel you have with each other.”

”Acatl-tzin.” Teomitl was quivering with contained rage. “You don’t understand.”

I was getting tired of that particular line. I jerked a finger in the direction of the entrance-curtain. “You have the whole palace gathered outside, wondering what all the shouting is about. And, as a matter of fact, so am I.”

”He–” Teomitl started, but Acamapichtli cut him off.

”Your student,” he said with freezing hauteur, “your student has just accused me of a grave crime. I cannot tolerate such groundless persecution.” He looked at me as if the whole blame for that rested solely on my shoulders.

”Groundless?” Teomitl snorted. “Look at me, Acamapichtli, and tell me you don’t know about the envoys.”

”I sent no such people,” Acamapichtli said.

I was slowly beginning to work out what this might be about, even though I wasn’t sure how we had got to this place.

”Dark blue paint and heron feathers in a circle around the face,” Teomitl said, with the deceptive stillness of the eagle before it swoops down. “It’s an old uniform that hasn’t seen service since the days of Revered Speaker Moctezuma. But my comrades have a good memory.” His hand, wrapped around his obsidian-studded sword, lifted slightly, as if to draw it out. “And now I find you performing magic in this room, over my brother’s corpse?”

Magic? The room appeared normal, with no trace of the faint white-and-blue which was associated with Tlaloc’s spells.

”I assume there is an explanation for all this,” I said, slowly.

But Acamapichtli was not going to let me play peacemaker. He lifted his chin in a supreme expression of offence. “I’m not obliged to provide any explanation.”

I’d started by feeling angry at Teomitl for the wholly unsubtle approach, but by now I was beginning to understand how matters might have degenerated. Acamapichtli had a very easy way of grating on one’s nerves, and Southern Hummingbird blind me if I let him get away with it.

”As a matter of fact, you do have to explain things,” I said. “In the absence of goodwill from either you or Quenami, I’m the sole person responsible for the keeping of the boundaries. And anyone who has been in contact with Ocome could be the key to solving his murder.” A small, tentative way of soothing his wounded pride; I very much doubted it would be enough, and I was right.

Acamapichtli wrapped himself in his cloak, and strode towards the exit, not looking at me or at Teomitl. “I owe no explanation to anyone, Acatl, and least of all to
you
.” He all but spat the name. “The Fifth World is far more resilient than you credit.”

”As you would know, having tried to unseat it,” I snapped, unable to contain myself.

Acamapichtli’s gaze froze. I had gone too far. “I serve my god. I uphold the Fifth World’s law. You won’t accuse me of anything beyond that.”

”You’re not exactly making efforts to defend yourself.”

”An innocent man shouldn’t have to,” Acamapichtli said.

This time, he was the one who went too far. “I don’t read minds. And there are no innocents. You’re all embroiled in one intrigue or another,” I said, more forcefully than I’d intended to. “Don’t you dare parade your purity before me.”

”And you your sickening self-righteousness.” Acamapichtli spat on the ground, without even a gesture asking for the forgiveness of the dead Revered Speaker, whose funeral room he had just soiled. “You’re no better than the rest of us, Acatl.”

”Of course he is,” Teomitl said, in the growing silence.

I stood unmoving, trying not to give in to the wave of contempt and hatred which spread over me for this man, who was not even fit to wear the robes of the lowest priest in the service of Tlaloc, not even fit to sweep the floors of the Great Temple. But this was not the time for such divisions, not a time for quarrels, not the place. I couldn’t afford to be sucked into his game.

My nails dug into my hands, sending spikes of pain up my arm. “If you persist in this obstruction, I’ll have no choice,” I said, more calmly.

”You have no choice,” Acamapichtli said.

Other than letting him go? I didn’t think so. I went on, as if heedless of his words, “I’ll refer this to the She-Snake, as current head of the state, representative of the Southern Hummingbird amongst us.” I didn’t trust the She-Snake; but I’d already seen that he didn’t support Acamapichtli.

Acamapichtli’s beady eyes widened slightly, but then he laughed. “Do try, Acatl, do try. I’ll enjoy seeing you making a fool of yourself.”

Then he swept out, the curtain falling back over the entrance in a slow, almost peaceful tinkle of metal bells.

And that might have been it, save that, in the brief moment before the curtain swept down, I caught a glimpse of the silhouette standing at the entrance, which slouched too much to be a guard, and was much too tall to be the She-Snake.

”Acatl-tzin,” Teomitl started.

I lifted a hand to silence him. An uncomfortable few moments passed; and then the watcher outside grew bored of our inactivity. The entrance-curtain lifted again to admit Quenami in all the finery of his rank as High Priest of Huitzilpochtli, smiling as widely as a jaguar that has found prey.

”Acatl,” he said. “What a coincidence to find you here.”

”Indeed,” I said. And, tired of evasions, “how long have you been outside, Quenami?”

He smiled even more widely. His teeth were the same deep blue as his costume, meticulously dyed. “Long enough.”

”Playing spy like a merchant looking for a bargain?” Teomitl asked.

I lifted a hand again before the insult went too far. Quenami looked entirely too satisfied, which meant nothing good for either of us.

”Confirming an opinion. But, as they say, the game was played long before I got here.” He looked at both of us in turn, his eyes narrowing in what might have been disapproval, or disappointment.

I hadn’t thought anyone could get on my nerves more than Acamapichtli, but Quenami was running a close second. “What do you want, Quenami? There’s no need to dance around each other like warriors on the gladiator stone.”

He pretended to look thoughtful, even though he had to know he couldn’t keep us waiting forever. “No, there might not be. A message was entrusted to me, and I pass it on to you both. Tizoc-tzin will see both of you.”

”It’s evening now,” Teomitl pointed out. “Surely my brother can wait–”

Quenami shook his head. “Now, Teomitl-tzin.”

Given the unhealthy joy that danced in Quenami’s eyes, I was certain that Tizoc-tzin would not congratulate us. In fact, I might be happy to get out of there with my rank intact. With Axayacatl-tzin’s demise, both he, as Master of the House of Darts, and the She-Snake received the right to name High Priests. While the She-Snake would keep me around for the sake of appearances, Tizoc-tzin, who hated anything to do with the clergy, would leap at the first chance to dismiss me.

FIVE

Imperial Blood

Tizoc-tzin’s quarters were in a courtyard on the same layout as the Imperial Chambers: a wide terrace over two state rooms where his followers sat, gorging themselves on amaranth seeds, and cooked fowls. It was… not exactly indecent, I guessed, not exactly forbidden, but still unseemly, with the palace in mourning.

Upstairs massed mostly warriors – Eagle Knights in their cloaks of feathers, and Jaguar Knights in full regalia, with their helmets in the shape of a jaguar’s head. They watched Quenami and I pass by with predators’ smiles. The division between priests and warriors ran deep. They saw us as uptight fools, we saw them as arrogant men obsessed with appearances. Even Teomitl, who paid less attention to this than other warriors, proudly bore the orange scorpion cloak and the shaved head that denoted him as a Leading Youth.

The entrance-curtain was wide open, even though the evening was colder than usual. Inside, bare-chested warriors lounged on mats, picking frogs, fish and other delicacies from bowls set in front of them.

Quenami wove his way through the crowd with supreme ease, stopping here and there to greet a particular table, ignoring their gazes of frank contempt. Teomitl’s face was frozen in ill-concealed anger, and he walked with the haughty pride of a sacrifice victim.

At the back of the room, five windows opened on another courtyard, a garden from which came the chatter of birds. The wind, blowing through the apertures, brought in the smell of the distant jungle, strong enough to overwhelm the aroma of copal incense.

Tizoc-tzin was seated on a mat behind a wooden screen so polished it shone with yellow reflections. Beside me I felt Teomitl stiffen. “Does he wear turquoise too?” he whispered angrily.

As it turned out, Tizoc-tzin – a middle-aged man with sallow skin – did not wear turquoise, but a deep blue that was uncomfortably close to the imperial colour. I couldn’t help but notice that several of the warriors we’d passed had also removed their sandals out of reverence.

”Ah, our High Priest for the Dead. What a pleasure,” he said. He dismissed Quenami with a wave of his long fingers, and then turned his attention back to me.