Nebula Awards Showcase 2012 (29 page)

“I’m sorry,” she whispered, knowing he couldn’t hear her; knowing he would hate and fear her for the rest of his days.

“But I can’t trust the justice of this House—I just can’t.”

~ * ~

Nine years ago

Xochitl stands by the stall, dubiously holding the cloak of quetzal-feathers against her chest. “It’s a little too much, don’t you think?”

“No way,” Onalli says.

“If your idea of clothing is tawdry, sure,” Tecipiani says, with an amused shake of her head. “This is stuff for almond-eyed tourists.”

And, indeed, there are more Asians at the stall than trueblood Mexica—though Onalli, who’s half and half, could almost pass for Asian herself. “Aw, come on,” Onalli says. “It’s perfect. Think of all the boys queuing for a kiss. You’d have to start selling tickets.”

Xochitl makes a mock stab at Onalli, as if withdrawing a knife from under her tunic. But her friend is too quick, and steps aside, leaving her pushing at empty air.

“What’s the matter? Eagles ate your muscles?” Onalli says—always belaboring the obvious.

Xochitl looks again at the cloak—bright and garish, but not quite in the right way. “No,” she says, finally. “But Tecipiani’s right. It’s not worth the money.” Not even for a glance from Palli—who’s much too mature, anyway, to get caught by such base tricks.

Tecipiani, who seldom brags about her triumphs, simply nods. “There’s another stall further down,” she says. “Maybe there’ll be something—”

There’s a scream on the edge of the market: not that of someone being robbed, but that of a madman.

What in the Fifth World—

Xochitl puts back the cloak, and shifts, feeling the reassuring heaviness of the obsidian blades at her waist. Onalli has already withdrawn hers; but Tecipiani has moved before them all, striding toward the source. Her hands are empty.

Ahead, at the entrance to the marketplace, is a grounded aircar, its door gaping empty. The rest of the procession that was following it is slowly coming to a stop—though with difficulty, as there is little place among the closely crammed stalls for fifteen aircars.

The sea of muttering faces disembarking from the aircars is a hodgepodge of colors, from European to Asian, and even a few Mexica. They wear banners proudly tacked to their backs, in a deliberately old-fashioned style: coyotes and rabbits drawn in featherwork spread out like fans behind their heads.

It’s all oddly familiar and repulsive at the same time, a living remnant of another time. “Revivalists,” Xochitl says, aloud.

Which means—

She turns, scanning the marketplace for a running man: the unwilling sacrifice victim, the only one who had a reason to break and run.

What Xochitl sees, instead, is Tecipiani, walking determinedly into a side aisle of the marketplace as if she were looking for a specific stall.

The revivalists are gathering, harangued by a blue-clad priest who is organizing search parties.

“Idiots,” Onalli curses under her breath. She’s always believed more in penance than in human sacrifice; and the Revivalists have always rubbed her the wrong way. Xochitl isn’t particularly religious, and has no opinion either way.

“Come on,” she says.

They find Tecipiani near the back of the animals section—and, kneeling before her, is a hunched man, still wearing the remnants of the elaborate costume that marked him as the sacrifice victim. He’s shivering; his face contorts as he speaks words that Xochitl can’t make out amidst the noises of the chattering parrots and screaming monkeys in their metal cages.

As they come closer, Tecipiani makes a dismissive gesture; and the man springs to life, running away deeper into the marketplace.

“The search party is coming this way,” Onalli says.

Tecipiani doesn’t answer for a while: she’s looking at the man—and, as she turns back toward her friends, Xochitl sees burning hope and pity in her gaze.

“They won’t catch him,” she says. “He’s strong, and fast. He’ll make it.”

Onalli looks as though she might protest, but doesn’t say anything.

“We should head back,” Tecipiani says, finally. Her voice is toneless again; her eyes dry and emotionless.

On their way back, they meet the main body of the search party: the fevered eyes of the priest rest on them for a while, as if judging their fitness as replacements.

Tecipiani moves, slightly, to stand in the priest’s way, her smile dazzling and threatening. She shakes her head, once, twice. “We’re not easy prey,” she says, aloud.

The priest focuses on her; and, after a long, long while, his gaze moves away. Too much to chew. Tecipiani is right: they won’t be bested so easily.

They walk on, through the back streets by the marketplace, heading back to the House to find some shade.

Nevertheless, Xochitl feels as though the sunlight has been blotted out. She shivers. “They’re sick people.”

“Just mad,” Onalli says. “Don’t think about them anymore. They’re not worth your time.”

She’d like to—but she knows that the priest’s eyes will haunt her nightmares for the months to come. And it’s not so much the madness; it’s just that it doesn’t make sense at all, this frenzy to spread unwilling, tainted blood.

Tecipiani waits until they’re almost back to the House to speak. “They’re not mad, you know.”

“Yeah, sure,” Onalli says.

Tecipiani’s gaze is distant. “There’s a logic to it. Spreading unwilling blood is a sin, but Tonatiuh needs blood to continue shining down on us. Grandmother Earth needs blood to put forth maize and cotton and nanomachines.”

“It’s still a fucking sin, no matter which way you take it.” Onalli seems to take the argument as a challenge.

Tecipiani says nothing for a while. “I suppose so. But still, they’re only doing what they think is good.”

“And they’re wrong,” Xochitl says, with a vehemence that surprises her.

“Perhaps,” Tecipiani says. “And perhaps not. Would you rather take the risk of the world ending?” She looks up, into the sky. “Of all the stars falling down upon us, monsters eager to tear us apart?”

There’s silence, then. Xochitl tries to think of something, of anything to counter Tecipiani, but she can’t. She’s been too crafty. She always is.

“If you believe that,” Onalli says, with a scowl, “why did you let him go?”

Tecipiani shakes her head, and in her eyes is a shadow of what Xochitl saw, back in the marketplace—pity and hope. “I said I understood. Not that I approved. I wouldn’t do anything I didn’t believe in whole-heartedly. I never do.”

And that’s the problem, Xochitl thinks. It will always be the problem. Tecipiani does what she believes in; but you’re never sure what she’s truly thinking.

~ * ~

The cell was worryingly easy to enter, once Onalli had dealt with the two guards at the entrance—who, even though they were Jaguar Specialists barely a step above novices, really should have known better. She had gone for the windpipe of the first, and left a syringe stuck in the shoulder of the second, who was out in less time than it took her to open the door.

Inside, it was dark, and stifling. A rank smell, like the mortuary of a hospital, rose as she walked.

“Xochitl?” she whispered.

There was no noise. But against the furthest wall was a dark lump—and, as she walked closer, it resolved into a slumped human shape.

Black One, no. Please watch over her, watch over us all . . .

Straps and chains held Xochitl against the wall, and thin tubes snaked upward, into a machine that thrummed like a beating heart.

Teonanácatl
, and
peyotl
, and truth-serum, and the gods knew what else. . . .

It was only instinct that kept her going forward: a horrified, debased part of her that wouldn’t stop, which had to analyze the situation no matter what. She found the IVs by touch—feeling the hard skin where the syringes had rubbed—the bruises on the face, the broken nose—the eyes that opened, not seeing her.

“Xochitl. Xochitl. It’s all right. I’m here. Everything is going to be all right. I promise.”

But the body was limp; the face distorted in a grimace of terror; and there was, indeed, nothing left of the picture she’d held on to for so long.

“Come on, come on,” she whispered, fiddling with the straps—her sharpened nails catching on the leather, fumbling around the knots.

The cold, detached part of her finally took control; and, forcing herself not to think of what she was doing, she cut through the straps, one by one—pulled out the IVs, and gently disengaged the body, catching its full weight on her arms.

Xochitl shuddered, a spasm like that of a dying woman. “Tecipiani,” she whispered. “No. . . .”

“She’s not here,” Onalli said. Gently, carefully, she rose with Xochitl in her arms, cradling her close, like a hurt child.

Black One take you, Tecipiani. Oblivion’s too good for the likes of you. I hope you burn in the Christian Hell, with the sinners and the blasphemers and the traitors. I hope you burn. . . .

She was halfway out of the House, trudging through the last courtyard before the novices’ quarters, when she became aware she wasn’t alone.

Too late.

The lights came on, blinding, unforgiving.

“I always knew you’d come back, Onalli,” a voice said. “No matter how hard I tried to send you away.”

Black One take her for a fool. Too easy. It had been too easy, from beginning to end: just another of her sick games.

“Black One screw you,” Onalli spat into the brightness. “That’s all you deserve, isn’t it, Tecipiani?”

The commander was just a silhouette—standing, by the sound of her, only a few paces away. But Xochitl lay in Onalli’s arms, a limp weight she couldn’t toss aside, even to strike.

Tecipiani didn’t speak; but of course she’d remain silent, talking only when it suited her.

“You sold us all,” Onalli whispered. To the yellow-livered dogs and their master, to the cudgels and the syringes. . . . “Did she mean so little to you?”

“As little or as much as the rest,” Tecipiani said.

Onalli’s eyes were slowly accustoming themselves to the light, enough to see that Tecipiani’s arms were down, as if holding something. A new weapon—or just a means to call on her troops?

And then, with a feeling like a blade of ice slid through her ribs, Onalli saw that it wasn’t the case. She saw what Tecipiani was carrying: a body, just like her: the limp shape of the boy she’d downed in the courtyard.

“You—” she whispered.

Tecipiani shifted. Her face, slowly coming into focus, could have been that of an Asian statue—the eyes dry and unreadable, the mouth thinned to a darker line against her skin. “Ezpetlatl, of the Atempan
calpulli
clan. Given into our keeping fifteen years ago.”

Shame warred with rage, and lost. “I don’t care. You think it’s going to atone for everything else you did?”

“Perhaps,” Tecipiani said. “Perhaps not.” Her voice shook, slightly—a bare hint of emotion, not enough, never enough. “And you think rescuing Xochitl was worth his life?”

Onalli scanned the darkness, trying to see how many guards were there—how many of Tecipiani’s bloodless sycophants. She couldn’t take them all—fire and blood, she wasn’t even sure she could take Tecipiani. But the lights were set all around the courtyard—on the roofs of the buildings, no doubt—and she couldn’t make out anything but the commander herself.

As, no doubt, Tecipiani had meant all along. Bitch.

“You’re stalling, aren’t you?” Onalli asked. “This isn’t about me. It has never been about me.” About you, Tecipiani; about the House and the priests and Xochitl. . . .

“No,” Tecipiani agreed, gravely. “Finally, something we can agree on.”

“Then why Xochitl?” A cold certainty was coalescing in her belly, like a snake of ice. “You wanted us both, didn’t you?”

“Oh, Onalli.” Tecipiani’s voice was sad. “I though you’d understood. This isn’t about you, or Xochitl. It’s about the House.”

How could she say this? “You’ve killed the House,” Onalli spat.

“You never could see into the future,” Tecipiani said. “Even two years ago, when you came back.”

“When you warned us about betrayal? You’re the one who couldn’t see the Revered Speaker was insane, you’re the one who—”

“Onalli.” Tecipiani’s voice held the edge of a knife. “The House is still standing.”

“Because you sold it.”

“Because I compromised,” Tecipiani said.

“You—” Onalli choked on all the words she was trying to say. “You poisoned it to the guts and the brain, and you’re telling me about compromise?”

“Yes. Something neither you or Xochitl ever understood, unfortunately.”

That was too much—irreparable. Without thought, Onalli shifted Xochitl onto her shoulder, and moved, her knife swinging free of its sheath—going for Tecipiani’s throat. If she wouldn’t move, wouldn’t release her so-called precious life, too bad—it would be the last mistake she’d ever make—

She’d half-expected Tecipiani to parry by raising the body in her arms—to sacrifice him, as she’d sacrificed so many of them—but the commander, as quick as a snake, knelt on the ground, laying the unconscious boy at her feet—and Onalli’s first swing went wide, cutting only through air. By the time she’d recovered, Tecipiani was up on her feet again, a blade in her left hand.