OBSIDIAN & BLOOD

"An amazingly fresh and engaging new voice in fantasy: the shadows of the Aztec underworld drip from these pages."

Tobias Buckell

"Political intrigue and rivalry among a complex pantheon of divinities drive this well-paced murder mystery set at the height of the Aztec Empire in the late 15th century. De Bodard incorporates historical fact with great ease and manages the rare feat of explaining complex culture and political system without lecturing or boring the reader."

Publishers Weekly

"A gripping mystery steeped in blood and ancient Aztec magic. I was enthralled."

Sean Williams

"From page one I was drawn into Acatl's world… a remarkable historically based fantasy, using the myths and legends of the Aztec people as a background to a twisting murder mystery."

Speculative Book Review

"Amid the mud and maize of the Mexica empire, Aliette de Bodard has composed a riveting story of murder, magic and sibling rivalry."

Elizabeth Bear

"I haven't enjoyed a proper detective story this much in ages, and the rich setting, monsters and magic just added an extra layer of delight."

David Devereux

"Servant of the Underworld is a highly original debut novel. Thanks to a solid mystery plot and Aliette de Bodard's extensive research into pre-Conquest Meso-America, this novel should strike a chord with more than just fantasy readers."

FantasyLiterature.com

"The book starts out a slow, steady pace and builds momentum from there. It's not some huge action scene that hooks you. It's the atmosphere. The blood spilled to gain favor from the gods. The cultural details Bodard infuses in each moment."

Examiner.com

"It was [the novel's] use of the mythic that I found most interesting: the magical system based upon glyphs and blood seemed very real and provided a rich, numinous texture to the novel."

Red Rook Review

"Servant of the Underworld is an incredibly strong and promising debut, showing her talents at full effect – she can create amazing, believable worlds; her characters are solid and relatable, and she knows how to do interesting magic, great action and creepiness in spades."

SFFBook.com

"Part murder mystery, part well-researched historical novel and part fantasy… The fantasy element blends neatly with the other parts. 4****."

SFX Magazine

ALIETTE DE BODARD

Obsidian & Blood

THE COLLECTED ACATL NOVELS

SERVANT OF THE UNDERWORLD

HARBINGER OF THE STORM

MASTER OF THE HOUSE OF DARTS

THE SHORT STORIES

Obsidian Shards

Beneath the Mask

Safe, Child, Safe

INTRODUCTION

Recently, when we moved out of our old apartment into a new, better one, I found a pile of old index cards at the bottom of one of the drawers. When I spread them out on the living room table, I saw, with a surprise, that they were the same cards where I'd jotted down the beginnings of what would become Servant of the Underworld. It was all there on the cards: my frustration at figuring out an unfamiliar world, my anger at a plot that wouldn't slot into place, and my bewilderment at my main character, Acatl, whose preoccupations I couldn't understand – seemingly endless nights of spreading out the cards on the table and rearranging them, shuffling them in the hope that everything would coalesce into something I could trust myself to write.

If I look back at those beginnings, five years ago, it seems hard to believe that this little pile of index cards would grow into a book, let alone into a trilogy that spanned three years, dozens of characters, and an entire world beyond the capital city that I'd envisioned as the primary setting of the book.

But it did grow; and so did I, maturing into a better writer as I wrote the novels. Acatl grew as a person, acquired friends and students and allies, and the Tenochtitlan that was a bare word on a piece of paper became a city vibrant with life: with the smells of cooked maize, and the deep sounds of drums welcoming the dawn on the Sacred Precinct; with the vivid colours of feathers and embroidered cotton skirts, and the sound of banquet poems filling the night with beautiful, melancholy words; with the dance of reed boats in the canals, and the cold, chilling passage of the Wind of Knives as He enforced the underworld's justice...

It is a wonderful and thrilling place, and one that I enjoy returning to, again and again. This volume gathers all the stories of this fantastical Tenochtitlan: the three novels that complete the Obsidian and Blood trilogy, and (thanks to the wonders of digital formats) the Acatl short stories that were published in various venues.

I hope you enjoy this journey into Acatl's world.

Aliette de Bodard

Paris, 2012

I

SERVANT OF THE UNDERWORLD

ONE

Odd Summonings

In the silence of the shrine, I bowed to the corpse on the altar: a minor member of the Imperial Family, who had died in a boating accident on Lake Texcoco. My priests had bandaged the gaping wound on his forehead and smoothed the wrinkled skin as best as they could; they had dressed him with scraps of manycoloured cotton and threaded a jade bead through his lips – preparing him for the long journey ahead. As High Priest for the Dead, it was now my responsibility to ease his passage into Mictlan, the underworld.

I slashed my earlobes and drew thorns through the wounds, collecting the dripping blood in a bowl, and started a litany for the Dead:

"The river flows northward

The mountains crush, the mountains bind…"

Grey light suffused the shrine, the pillars and the walls fading away to reveal a much larger place, a cavern where everything found its end. The adobe floor glimmered as if underwater. And shadows trailed, darkening the painted frescoes on the walls – singing a wordless lament, a song that twisted in my guts like a knife-stab. The underworld.

"Obsidian shards are driven into your hands, into your feet,

Obsidian to tear, to rend

You must endure th–"

The copper bells sewn on the entrance-curtain tinkled as someone drew it aside, and hurried footsteps echoed under the roof of the shrine. "Acatl-tzin!" Ichtaca called.

Startled, I stopped chanting – and instinctively reached up, to quench the flow of blood from my earlobes before the atmosphere of Mictlan could overwhelm the shrine. With the disappearance of the living blood, the spell was broken, and the world sprang into sudden, painful focus.

I turned, then, not hiding my anger. A broken spell would have left a link to Mictlan – a miasma that would only grow thicker as time passed, darkening the shrine, the pyramid it sat upon, and the entire temple complex until the place became unusable. "I hope you have a good reason–"

Ichtaca, the Fire Priest of the temple and my second-in-command, stood on the threshold – his fingers clenched on the conch-shell around his neck. "I apologise for interrupting you, Acatl-tzin, but he was most insistent."

"He?"

The curtain twisted aside, and someone walked into the shrine: Yaotl. My heart sank. Yaotl never came for good news.

"I apologise," Yaotl said, with a curt nod of his head towards the altar, though clearly he meant none of it. Yaotl answered only to his mistress, Ceyaxochitl; and she in turn, as Guardian of the Sacred Precinct and keeper of the invisible boundaries, answered only to Revered Speaker Ayaxacatl, the ruler of the Mexica Empire. "But we need you."

Again? Even though I was High Priest for the Dead, it seemed that Ceyaxochitl still considered me little better than a slave, to be summoned whenever she wanted. "What is it this time?"

Yaotl's scarred face twisted in what might have been a smile. "It's bad."

"Hmm," I said. I should have known better than to ask him about the nature of the emergency. Yaotl enjoyed keeping me in ignorance, probably as a way to compensate for his station as a slave. I snatched up my grey cotton cloak from the stone floor and wrapped it around my shoulders. "I'm coming. Ichtaca, can you take over for me?"

Yaotl waited for me outside the shrine, on the platform of the pyramid temple, his embroidered cloak fluttering in the breeze. We descended the stairs of the pyramid side by side, in silence. Beneath us, moonlight shone on the temple complex, a series of squat adobe buildings stretching around a courtyard. Even at this hour, priests for the Dead were awake, saying vigils, conducting examinations of the recently dead, and propitiating the rulers of the underworld: Mictlantecuhtli and his wife, Mictecacihuatl, Lord and Lady Death.

Further on was the vast expanse of the Sacred Precinct: the mass of temples, shrines and penitential palaces that formed the religious heart of the Mexica Empire. And, still further, the houses and fields and canals of the island-city of Tenochtitlan, thousands of small lights burning away under the stars and moon.

We walked from the bottom of the steps to the gates of my temple, and then onto the plaza of the Sacred Precinct. At this hour of the night, it was blessedly free of the crowds that congregated in the day, of all the souls eager to earn the favours of the gods. Only a few offering priests were still abroad, singing hymns; and a few, younger novice priests, completing their nightly run around the Precinct's Serpent Wall. The air was warm and heavy, a presage of the rains and of the maize harvest to come.

To my surprise, Yaotl did not lead me to the Imperial Palace. I'd expected this mysterious summons to be about noblemen. The last time Ceyaxochitl had asked for me in the middle of the night, it had been for a party of drunk administrators who had managed to summon a beast of the shadows from Mictlan. We'd spent a night tracking down the monster before killing it with obsidian knives.

Yaotl walked purposefully on the empty plaza, past the main temple complexes and the houses of elite warriors. I had thought that we were going to the temple of Toci, Grandmother Earth, but Yaotl bypassed it completely, and led me to a building in its shadow: something neither as tall nor as grand as the pyramid shrines, a subdued, sprawling affair of rooms opening on linked courtyards, adorned with frescoes of gods and goddesses.

The girls' calmecac: the House of Tears, a school where the children of the wealthy, as well as those vowed to the priesthood, would receive their education. I had never been there; the clergy of Mictlantecuhtli was exclusively male, and I had trouble enough with our own students. I couldn't imagine, though, what kind of magical offences untrained girls would commit.

"Are you sure?" I asked Yaotl but, characteristically, he walked into the building without answering me.

I suppressed a sigh and followed him, bowing slightly to the priestess in feather regalia who kept vigil at the entrance.

Inside, all was quiet, but it was the heavy calm before the rains. As I crossed courtyard after courtyard, I met the disapproving glances of senior offering priestesses, and the curious gazes of young girls who stood on the threshold of their ground-floor dormitories.

Yaotl led me to a courtyard near the centre of the building. Two rooms with pillared entrances opened on this. He went towards the leftmost one and, pulling aside the curtain, motioned me into a wide room.

It seemed an ordinary place, a room like any other in the city: an entrance curtain set with bells, gently tinkling in the evening breeze, walls adorned with frescoes of gods – and, in the centre, a simple reed sleeping mat framed by two wooden chests. Copal incense burnt in a clay brazier, bathing the room in a soft, fragrant light that stung my eyes. And everything, from the chests to the mat, reeked of magic: a pungent, acrid smell that clung to the walls and to the beaten-earth floor like a miasma.

That wasn't natural. Even in the calmecac, there were strictures on the use of the living blood, restrictions on the casting of spells. Furthermore this looked like the private room of a priestess, not a teaching room for adolescent girls.

"What happened–" I started, turning to Yaotl.

But he was already halfway through the door. "Stay here. I'll tell Mistress Ceyaxochitl you've arrived, Acatl-tzin." In his mouth, even the tzin honorific sounded doubtful.

"Wait!" I said, but all that answered me was the sound of bells from the open door. I stood alone in that room, with no idea of why I was there at all.

Tlaloc's lightning strike Yaotl.

I looked again at the room, wondering what I could guess of the circumstances that had brought me here. It looked like a typical priestess's room: few adornments, the same rough sleeping mat and crude wicker chests found in any peasant's house. Only the frescoes bore witness to the wealth of the calmecac school, their colours vibrant in the soft light, every feature of the gods sharply delineated. The paintings represented Xochipilli, God of Youth and Games, and His Consort, Xochiquetzal, Goddess of Lust and Childbirth. They danced in a wide garden, in the midst of flowers. The Flower Prince held a rattle, His Consort a necklace of poinsettias as red as a sacrifice's blood.

Dark stains marred the faces of both gods. No, not only the faces, every part of Their apparel from Their feathered headdresses to Their clawed hands. Carefully, I scraped off one of the stains and rubbed it between my fingers. Blood.

Dried blood. I stared at the floor again – at what I had taken for dark earth in the dim light of the brazier. The stain was huge – spreading over the whole room, soaking the earth so thoroughly it had changed its colour. I'd attended enough sacrifices and examinations to know the amount of blood in the human body, and I suspected that the stain represented more than half of that. What in the Fifth World had happened here?

I stood in the centre of the room and closed my eyes. Carefully, I extended my priest-senses and probed at the magic, trying to see its nature. Underworld magic, yet… no, not quite. It was human, and it had been summoned in anger, in rage, an emotion that still hung in the room like a pall. But it didn't have the sickly, spread-out feeling of most underworld magic. Not a beast of shadows, then.

Nahual. It had to be nahual magic: a protective jaguar spirit summoned in the room. Judging by the amount of blood in the vicinity, it had done much damage. Who, or what, had been wounded here?

I had been remiss in not taking any supplies before leaving my temple – trusting Yaotl to provide what I needed, which was always a mistake with the wily slave. I had no animal sacrifices, nothing to practise the magic of living blood.

No, not quite. I did have one source of living blood: my own body. With only my blood, I might not be able to perform a powerful spell; but there was a way to know whether someone had died in this room. Death opened a gate into Mictlan, the underworld, and the memory of that gate would still be in the room. Accessing it wouldn't be a pleasant experience, but Huitzilpochtli, the Southern Hummingbird, blind me if I let Ceyaxochitl manipulate me once more.

I withdrew one of the obsidian blades that I always carried in my belt, and nicked my right earlobe with it. I'd done it so often that I barely flinched at the pain that spread upwards, through my ear. Blood dripped, slowly, steadily, onto the blade – each drop, pulsing on the rhythm of my heartbeat, sending a small shock through the hilt when it connected with the obsidian.

I brought the tip of the knife in contact with my own hand, and carefully drew the shape of a human skull. As I did so, I sang a litany to my patron Mictlantecuhtli, God of the Dead:

"Like the feathers of a precious bird

That precious bird with the emerald tail

We all come to an end

Like a flower

We dry up, we wither…"

A cold wind blew across the room, lifting the entrance-curtain – the tinkle of the bells was muffled, as if coming from far away, and the walls of the room slowly receded, revealing only darkness – but odd, misshapen shadows slid in and out of my field of vision, waiting for their chance to leap, to tear, to feast on my beating heart.

"We reach the land of the fleshless

Where jade turns to dust

Where feathers crumble into ash

Where our flowers, our songs are forever extinguished

Where all the tears rain down…"

A crack shimmered into existence, in the centre of the chamber: the entrance to a deep cavern, a cenote, at the bottom of which dark, brackish water shimmered in cold moonlight. Dry, wizened silhouettes splashed through the lake – the souls of the Dead, growing smaller and smaller the farther they went, like children's discarded toys. They sang as they walked: cold whispers, threads of sound which curled around me, clinging to my naked skin like snakes. I could barely make out the words, but surely, if I stayed longer…

If I bent over the cenote until I could see the bottom of the water…

If I…

No. I wasn't that kind of fool.

With the ease of practise, I passed the flat of the knife across the palm of my other hand – focusing on nothing but the movement of the blade until the image of the skull was completely erased.

When I raised my eyes again, the crack had closed. The walls were back, with the vivid, reassuring colours of the frescoes; and the song of the Dead had faded into the whistle of the wind through the trees of the courtyard outside.

I stood, for a while, breathing hard – it never got any easier to deal with the underworld, no matter how used to it you became. Still…

I had seen the bottom of the cenote, and the Dead making their slow way to the throne of Lord Death. I had not, however, made out the words of their song. The gate to Mictlan had been widening, but not yet completely open. That meant someone in this room had been gravely wounded, but they were still alive.

No, that was too hasty. Whoever had been wounded in this room hadn't died within – yet I didn't think they'd have survived for long, unless they'd found a healer.

"Ah, Acatl," Ceyaxochitl said, behind me. "That was fast."

I turned much faster than I'd have liked. With the memory of Mictlan's touch on my skin, any noise from the human world sounded jarringly out of place.

Ceyaxochitl stood limned in the entrance, leaning on her wooden cane. She was wearing a headdress of blue feathers that spread like a fan over her forehead, and a dress embroidered with the fused lovers insignia of the Duality. Her face was smooth, expressionless, as it always was.

I'd tensed, even though she had barely spoken to me, preparing for another verbal sparring. Ceyaxochitl had a habit of moving people like pawns in a game of patolli, deciding what she thought was in their best interests without preoccupying herself much with their opinions, and I seldom enjoyed being the target of her attentions.

"I don't particularly appreciate being summoned like this," I started to say, but she shook her head, obviously amused.

"You were awake, Acatl. I know you."

Yes, she knew me, all too well. After all, we had worked together for roughly nine years, the greater part of my adult life. She had been the one to campaign at the Imperial Court for my nomination as High Priest for the Dead, a position I neither wanted nor felt comfortable with – another of her interferences in my life. We'd made a kind of uneasy peace over the matter in the last few months, but right now she was going too far.

"All right," I said. I brushed off the dried blood on my fingers, and watched her hobble into the room. "Now that I'm here, can we dispense with the formalities? Who was wounded here, Ceyaxochitl?"

She paused for a moment, though she barely showed any surprises. "Hard at work, I see."

"I do what I can."

"Yes." She watched the frescoes with a distracted gaze. "What do you think happened here?"

I ran my fingers over the traces of the skull I'd drawn on the back of my hand, feeling Mictlan's touch cling to me like damp cloth. "A nahual spirit. An angry one."

"And?" she asked.

It was late, and someone was in mortal danger, and I was tired, and no longer of an age to play her games of who was master over whom. "Someone was wounded – at Mictlan's gates, but has not yet gone through. What do you want to hear?"

"The nahual magic," Ceyaxochitl said quietly. "I mainly wanted your confirmation on that."

"You have it." I wasn't in the mood to quarrel with her. In any case, she was my superior, both in years and in magical mastery. "Do I get an explanation?"

She sighed; but she still didn't look at me. Something was wrong: this was not her usual, harmless games, but something deeper and darker. "Ceyaxochitl…" I said, slowly.

"This is the room of Eleuia, offering priestess of Xochiquetzal," Ceyaxochitl said. Her gaze was fixed, unwaveringly, on the hollow eyes of the goddess in the frescoes. "Most likely candidate to become Consort of Xochipilli."

The highest rank for a priestess of the Quetzal Flower. "And she was attacked?" What was Ceyaxochitl not telling me?

"Yes."

I stared at the blood on the frescoes – felt the anger roiling in the room. A nahual spirit would have had claws sharp enough to cut bone, and even a trained warrior would have had trouble defending himself against it.

"Did you find her?" I asked. "She needs a healer, at the last – if not a priest of Patecatl." There were healing spells – meagre, expensive things that the priests of the God of Medicine jealously hoarded. But a priestess such as Eleuia would surely have a right to them.

"I've had my warriors search every dormitory. We don't know where Priestess Eleuia is. No one has been able to find her, or to find her trail. She is the only one missing in the whole calmecac, though."

My heart sank. If it had been a beast of shadows… there were ways, and means, to track creatures of the underworld. But a nahual… There were too many of them in Tenochtitlan at any given time: any person born on a Jaguar day could summon their own nahual, though it would take years of dedicated practise to call up something material enough to carry off a human, or even to wound.

"I can attempt to track it," I said, finally, even though I knew it was a futile exercise. Nahual magic was weak to start with, and the coming of sunlight would annihilate it. We had perhaps four hours before dawn, but I doubted that would be enough.

Ceyaxochitl appeared absorbed in contemplation of the brazier: a studied pose, it suddenly occurred to me.

"But I still don't see–" I started, with a growing hollow in my stomach.

She turned, so abruptly I took a step backward. "I arrested your brother tonight, Acatl."

Her words shattered my thoughts, yanking my mind from worries about Eleuia and the nahual to something much closer to me – and much more unpleasant. She had… arrested my brother?

"Which one?" I asked, but I knew the answer, just as I knew why she'd asked about the nahual magic, and why she'd waited for my confirmation before telling me anything. Only one of my brothers had been born on a Jaguar day.

"Neutemoc? You can't arrest him," I said slowly, but Ceyaxochitl shook her head.

"He was in this room, covered in blood. And there was magic all over him."

"You're wrong," I said, because those were the only words that got past my lips. "My brother isn't–"

"Acatl." Her voice was gentle but firm. "When the priestesses arrived, he was searching the room, overturning the wicker chests and even the brazier. And I've never seen so much blood on someone, except perhaps the Revered Speaker after the Great Sacrifices. Your brother's hands were slick with it."

I finally dragged my voice from wherever it had fled. "My brother isn't a killer."

That made no sense, I thought, trying to close the hollow deepening in my stomach. Neutemoc was a successful warrior: a member of the elite Jaguar Knights, a son of peasants elevated into the nobility after his feats in the Tepeaca war. My parents had all but worshipped him, back when they had both been alive. He could do no wrong. He had always been the precious, beloved child – whereas I, of course, was less than nothing, a humble priest who had never had the courage to seek wealth and honour on the battlefield. Of course he was a warrior. Of course he'd know how to kill.

But surely… surely he wouldn't do such a thing?

"I'm sure your brother can explain what he thought he was doing in her room. So far, he hasn't been helpful." Ceyaxochitl's voice was ice again. She disapproved of Neutemoc's arrogance, but I wasn't sure why. Knowing my brother, he'd have said the wrong things to her. The Duality knew it didn't take much to anger her these days.

I tried to think of something to say, but couldn't form any meaningful words.

Ceyaxochitl tapped her cane against the clay of the brazier, with a hollow sound. "You're the High Priest for the Dead, in charge of the Sacred Precinct. A case like this is your province, and mine."

Guardian, and priest: a Guardian to wield the magic of the Duality, and a priest that of the underworld. We'd done it before; many, many times, both here and in the smaller town of Coyoacan. But this was different. I couldn't…

Not Neutemoc. Duality, no. We'd parted ways four years ago, and the last thing I wanted was to see him again. I had left him alone in his grand house with his success, freeing him of the burden of my presence. His acts, in any case, had made it painfully clear that he might not completely share my parents' disapproval of me; but that he would do nothing to change it, that he would not even speak up in my defence when Mother was screaming at me from her death-bed. The hollow in my stomach wouldn't close.

I should walk away. That was the sensible option. Leave him to face the magistrates on his own, as he no doubt wished. But if I did this – if I ran away from him, at this moment – then I would be no better than him. I would prove, once and for all, that Father and Mother had been right: that I was a coward, unworthy of the battlefield.

The Storm Lord's lightning sear him! What had he been thinking of?

"You want us to take the investigation," I said to Ceyaxochitl.

She said nothing for a while. "No," she said. "Not quite. I didn't call you here at night for my own amusement, despite what you might think of me."

"You don't know what I think of you," I protested, which was not quite true. I was wary of whatever she offered, with good reason.

Ceyaxochitl turned, slightly. Her face in the brazier's wavering light was a statue's: majestic, expressionless. "I could have dealt with this on my own. After all, guilt has already been established–"

"It hasn't," I protested – a reflex that surprised me by its vehemence.

"It has," Ceyaxochitl said. She banged her cane on the floor; its deep sound punctuated each of her words. "Listen to the end, young man. As I said: I have no need for you. Strictly speaking, nahual magic isn't your province, and it dissipates in daylight anyway. There has been no encroaching of the boundaries."

"No," I finally admitted. Aside from saying the death-rites, I maintained the boundaries: the fragile balance between the underworld and the world of the Fifth Sun. I dealt with the minor gods of Mictlan: the Wind of Knives, the Owl Archer, the Faded Warrior. "But–"

Ceyaxochitl banged her cane a scant hand-span from my exposed foot. I flinched. "Be silent. I summoned you to do you a favour."

As you did by pushing my name for promotion at the Imperial Court? I thought, but bit my lip before the words could escape me.

Ceyaxochitl saw me, all the same, and smiled grimly. "You might not think it's much of a favour. But the fact is, Acatl, I have no time to investigate this as it should be investigated. Either I end it swiftly by condemning your brother on scant evidence, or I leave it to you."

"No time?" No time for my own brother – after all I'd done for her? No time to find a priestess who might be, if not dead, in mortal danger? "What's so important?"

Ceyaxochitl grimaced. "Revered Speaker Axayacatl-tzin is ill. All the healers are by his bedside day and night. As Guardian, my place is with them."

That the Emperor was ill wasn't news. But, still, I had to ask. "Do you think it's–"

"Magical?" She shook her head. "No. But he's a man, Acatl. He may be Huitzilpochtli's agent on earth, but even a god's powers don't guard you against wounds, or fatigue."

"And so that takes precedence," I said. Again, not a surprise. The Imperial Family always took precedence over us: a bitter, but necessary thought.

"It has to," Ceyaxochitl said. "The fight for his succession has already started among the Council."

The Imperial succession wasn't my concern. Whoever was elected Revered Speaker would still want the dead to be honoured, and the balance to be maintained between the Fifth World, the underworld Mictlan, and the Heavens. Neutemoc was the one I needed to focus on. "So what you're telling me…"

"Is that you can investigate this matter, but, as I said, you'll be on your own. I'll offer resources, but I can't do more than that, or I risk my own position." She didn't sound thrilled by that consideration. But then she had always been independent, like me.

"You know I can't refuse," I said.

Her gaze was sceptical. She knew exactly the state of my relationship with my family, and the grievances between Neutemoc and me. I owed nothing to my brother – nothing at all. I could just walk away…

There was a tight knot in my belly; a constriction in my throat, as if I would vomit. I couldn't let Neutemoc be executed. I couldn't stand by and do nothing.

"Very well," I said. I crouched on my haunches in the middle of the room, trying to forget the nausea in my stomach. "I assume you've sent search parties out into the Sacred Precinct."

"Yes," Ceyaxochitl said. "With jade amulets."

I shook my head. "Jade won't be of use against a nahual." But it couldn't hurt, either. "What can you tell me about Priestess Eleuia?"

Ceyaxochitl's cane tapped against the frescoed walls. "An ambitious woman," she said. "Still beautiful, considering that she was five years older than you."

Thirty-five. For a woman, definitely past her prime.

"And?"

"All this is hearsay, of course," Ceyaxochitl said. "Gathered from those few students bold enough to talk to me. But the head of the calmecac, Priestess Zollin, wasn't overjoyed about Eleuia being foretold as the next Consort of the Flower Prince, Xochipilli. Zollin had ambitions of her own."

"Was she born on a Jaguar day?" I asked.

Ceyaxochitl shrugged. "That can be verified. She could have hired someone to do the summoning, though."

I shook my head, still feeling the roiling anger in the room. "Too much rage in here. Whoever did this had personal stakes."

Ceyaxochitl bent to lift the reed mat from the ground with her cane. "I'll defer to your expertise in such matters. What else? You'll want to know about the people present in this section of the calmecac. Surprisingly few, considering how spread-out the place is."

"You can't account for them all," I said.

"You'd be surprised," Ceyaxochitl said, "at how many priestesses are awake at night."

Of course. They would be going through their devotions, just like the priests in the other temples: blowing their shell-conches at regular hours, burning copal to honour their goddesses, and kneeling on the cold stones to pray for the welfare of the Fifth World. "So who was here?"

"In the vicinity of this room," Ceyaxochitl corrected. "A handful of students. Another Jaguar Knight, Mahuizoh. And, of course, Zollin, whose rooms are just next to Eleuia's."

"A Jaguar Knight?" Men in the girls' calmecac weren't rare or forbidden, but they usually left by sunset.

"Visiting his sister," Ceyaxochitl said. "The girl says he didn't leave her side."

"She would."

Ceyaxochitl nodded. "Of course. Blood stands by blood." Probably another jab at me.

Or perhaps I was being too sensitive about the whole matter. The idea of Neutemoc arrested and tried had rubbed me raw, and I wasn't really fit to judge Ceyaxochitl's actions.

"What was Neutemoc's reason for being here?" I asked.

Ceyaxochitl shrugged. "He won't tell us."

I turned, took a good look at the room. "I guess you've already searched it?"

Ceyaxochitl didn't move. "Yaotl did. But if you want to see for yourself…"

I nodded. Yaotl had no magical sight. It was possible he might have missed something, though unlikely.

It was a brief search. Like all priestesses, Eleuia had been living in near-poverty. In the wicker chests I found a few personal belongings, and an unfolding codex on maguey paper, which opened with a rustling sound, to reveal the history of the Fifth World – from the primal fire from which Tonatiuh the Sun God had emerged, to the very end: the Celestial Women and monsters that would consume us before the earthquakes tore the land apart.

Aside from that… a few tokens, safely hidden under a pile of embroidered cotton skirts: an exquisite chalcedony pendant set in silver, in the shape of a dancer entwined with a warrior; and the same kind of pendant, this time in coral, with the dancer alone. Presumably, a third pendant with another type of inset stone, depicting the warrior alone, would complete the set. It was a fairly safe guess, though, that Eleuia had it around her neck.

I walked out of the room with Ceyaxochitl in tow, wondering how to proceed.

Outside, the night was dark, with only a few stars winking in the sky. Like all the rooms in the calmecac, Eleuia's quarters opened onto a courtyard with a small garden – in this case, a pine-tree. There was faint magic in the courtyard: traces of a nahual, though without living blood I couldn't place it more precisely.

"Satisfied?" Ceyaxochitl asked.

I took a quick look at the layout of the place. Only two sets of rooms opened on this particular courtyard: two wide entrances flanked by painted pillars, their curtains painted with the same dayflower design. The first were Eleuia's, which I had just searched; I guessed that the others had to be those of her rival, Zollin. I would have to talk with Zollin, to see what she'd really thought of Eleuia, and whether she'd summoned the nahual.

I would also have to talk to Neutemoc – and the Southern Hummingbird knew I wasn't looking forward to that.

But the most urgent thing was tracking the nahual. Which meant I needed to cast a spell; and unlike Ceyaxochitl, who was the agent of the Duality and had been entrusted with some of Their powers, I could only rely on my personal magic. Other than magical obsidian, our patron Mictlantecuhtli, God of the Dead, did not give His powers into human hands. Without the gods' help, I could only work magic with living blood.

For this, my own blood would not suffice: I needed much more than I could spare.

"Do the priestesses have supplies here?" I asked.

"For using the living blood?" Ceyaxochitl rose, as regally as an Imperial Consort. "That depends what you want. They're mostly small animals: birds, rabbits…"

I shook my head. For what I had in mind, I needed an animal connected with Mixcoatl, the Cloud Serpent, God of the Hunt. "I'll return to my temple."

TWO

The Jaguar Born

I walked back to my temple in a preoccupied mood – trying to keep my thoughts away from Neutemoc and what awaited him if I failed. My brother had brought me many problems, but so far most of those had come only from my own doings: if I had chosen the path my parents wanted for me, if I had gone to war and distinguished myself on the battlefield, they would have found no need to compare us to each other – and invariably find me, a priest with few possessions of his own, a failure too great to be encompassed in words.

I reached the temple, and found my priests still up. My secondin-command Ichtaca, who was obviously done with the vigil I'd left him, was leading a group of novice priests to one of the examination rooms. Overhead loomed the bulk of the pyramid with its shrine; and several buildings of the temple opened on the courtyard: rooms where the priests would make offerings; places where the lesser dead (those not of Imperial blood) would be honoured; closed rooms for examinations in the case of suspicious deaths; and our storehouse, a discreet, unadorned door hidden at the back of the temple complex.

The offering priest who was watching the storehouse's entrance – Palli, a burly nobleman's son who looked more suited for the military than for the priesthood – bowed as I came towards him. "Good evening, Acatl-tzin. You need something?"

I nodded. "Living blood. Do you know what's inside tonight?"

Palli shrugged. "Mostly owls. There's probably some other animals, too."

For what I had in mind, owls would not do – they were connected with the underworld and not with the hunt.

"I'll take a look inside," I said.

Palli frowned. "I can fetch what you need."

"No, there's no need." Huitzilpochtli blind me, I wasn't so respectable yet that I couldn't find my way through a storehouse.

I picked one of the torches outside, and held it against the flame of the torch on the wall until it blazed. Then I entered the storehouse, making my way between the carved pillars. They each bore the image of a minor deity of the underworld: the hulking shape of the Owl Archer, leaning on his feathered bow with the suggestion of coiled strength; the simple, almost featureless carving of the Faded Warrior, with his obsidian-studded macuahitl sword by his side; the glittering mass of obsidian shards that made up the Wind of Knives.

I made my way through the storehouse, my torch falling on the piled riches: on the quetzal feathers and ocelot cloaks, on the jade and silver which safeguarded us from the underworld…

I felt as though I had spent an eternity in this place; and still I had seen no animals. The nahual trail in the courtyard would be vanishing further and further; and so would my chances of finding Eleuia alive. Unless…

Near the back were a series of wooden cages. I quickened my pace – but when I shone the torchlight on them, I saw that they held only owls, as predicted.

Tlaloc's lightning strike me, did we have nothing but this? I shone the torch left and right, hoping to see more than hooting birds.

There. Near the back, two wooden cages held weasels. They pressed themselves against the bars when I shone the torchlight on them. They weren't Mixcoatl's favourite animals, but they would do.

I transferred them both to the same cage, and went back to the calmecac.

• • • •

In the courtyard near Eleuia's room, I knelt in the darkness, and traced a quincunx on the ground with the point of my dagger: the fivefold cross, symbol of the universe and of the wisdom contained therein. I put myself in the centre of the pattern, and started singing, softly, slowly:

"You who come forth from Chicomoztoc, honoured one,

You who come with the net of maguey ropes

The basket of woven reeds

You who come forth from Tziuactitlan, honoured one…"

I reached inside the cage for the first weasel, and slit its throat in a practised gesture. Blood spurted, covering my hands, spilling over the ground, where it pooled in the grooves of my pattern, pulsing with untapped power.

"You who seek the deer

The jaguar, the ocelot

You who hold them in your hand…"

I plucked the second weasel from where it was cowering at the back of the cage, and drew my blade across its throat. Its blood joined that of the first one: where they melded, the air trembled and blurred, as if in a heat-haze.

"You who come forth from Chicomoztoc, honoured one,

You who come with the arrows,

The spear-thrower, the grips of shell

You who seek, you who find,

Let flow the blessing of Your craft."

Power blazed across my pattern, wrapping itself around me until I stood completely enfolded. My head spun for a moment. But when the dizziness passed, I could see the tendrils of magic in the courtyard: a trail of sickly green that came from Eleuia's room and exited the courtyard in a wide, loping arc.

I rose carefully and followed it. A minute resistance, like the crossing of a veil, slowed me down as I crossed my quincunx, but it was swiftly gone.

The nahual's trail traversed a handful of other courtyards. For the most part, they were deserted, though a few had girls making offerings of blood on the beaten earth. The trail grew fainter and fainter with every passing step, and that was not normal. Whoever had summoned the nahual had taken the precaution of covering their tracks.

In the last courtyard, the trail made a straight line upwards, the beginning of a leap over the outer wall of the calmecac; but halfway through, it completely faded. It seemed Priestess Eleuia wasn't within those walls any more, which only confirmed the results of Ceyaxochitl's search.

I stared at that wall for a while, but I couldn't find anything more than what I'd already seen.

The Southern Hummingbird curse me.

I hadn't actually expected to find the nahual – but at least to find something, anything that might prove Neutemoc innocent. Here I had nothing, not even a trail. Something about that wall was bothering me, though. But the more I sought to identify the problem, the more it eluded me.

I was about to turn away and leave, when a swish of cloth made me stop.

In the doorway of one of the rooms opening on the courtyard stood a young girl, no more than six or seven, barely of age to be educated in the calmecac. Her face was as pale as a fawn's hide. Her eyes, two pools of darkness in the dim light, turned, unwaveringly, towards me. She wasn't offering blood, or incense: she simply watched me.

"You should be in bed," I said, slowly. I'd never been at ease with young children, having none of my own.

She shook her head.

"Are you supposed to be awake?"

She watched me for a while, and then she said, tentatively, as if afraid I'd berate her, "Can't sleep."

I sighed. "I suppose all the noise we made in the calmecac woke you up?"

Again, she shook her head. "I don't need sleep," she said. "Not a lot."

Comprehension dawned. "Oh." I'd heard of sicknesses like hers, though they were unusual. "You've been awake all night?"

She shrugged. "Most of it. It's not so bad. It's calm, at night."

"Except tonight," I said, ruefully. I pointed at the room behind her. "This is where you sleep?"

"Yes," she said.

"Did you hear anything unusual?" I asked. "I mean, before we came."

She watched me, as unmoving as a deer before it flees. There was something in the liquid pools of her eyes: fear, worry?

"I won't tell anyone you were awake," I said, forcing a smile I knew was unconvincing. "It will be our secret."

"The priestesses don't like it," she said. "They say I'm a disobedient girl."

An intelligent thing to say to a six-year-old with sleeping troubles. "For not sleeping? You can't help it."

She clutched the doorjamb as if for comfort. "Someone screamed," she said. "And a huge thing crossed the courtyard. I heard its breath."

"But you didn't see it?"

"No," she said. "It sounded scary."

I wished she'd been outside, close enough to see it. And then I realised that if she had indeed been outside, she would have died. What had I been thinking of? "It was scary," I said. "But we're going to hunt it down."

She didn't look impressed. I had to admit I probably didn't look very impressive. I'd never been as tall or as muscular as Neutemoc – no, I couldn't afford to think of Neutemoc now. I needed to focus on understanding the crime if I wanted to help him.

"Chicactic will protect me," the girl said, proudly.

The name meant "strong", but I couldn't see to whom it would refer, in a house of women and young girls. "Your brother?" I asked.

She shook her head, closed her eyes, and frowned; and the ghostly shape of a jaguar coalesced into existence at her feet.

A nahual. A small, insubstantial one: it batted at me with its paws, as the jaguar's children will do, but its swipes went right through me, leaving only a faint coldness in my legs. For a brief, wild moment, I entertained the idea that this nahual could have carried off Eleuia, but I dismissed it as ridiculous. This animal was young, ghostly. With the Hunt-God's sight still upon me I could see the magic wrapped around the girl, and it wasn't the same one as in Eleuia's room. It was weaker, and not angry, simply tremendously self-focused.

"You're very strong," I said, and my admiration wasn't feigned. It was impressive. Most people born on a Jaguar day would never even get this close to materialising their protective spirit. Only the Duality knew what this child was going to become as she grew older. "I'm sure the priestesses are proud of you."

She made a grimace. She didn't look as though she thought much of the priestesses. "They tell me not to summon him." The jaguar had come back to her, rubbing itself against her legs, purring contentedly. Impressive indeed. "They don't like boastful people."

"They're surprised, that's all," I said. "Most people can't do that."

"No," she said. And then, with more shrewdness I would have guessed for a child of her years, "They're afraid. They think I'll take their place when I'm older."

I'd hoped this calmecac was different from the others: a true place of retreat, and not a battlefield for those who would rise in the hierarchy. But it was everywhere the same. And, judging by the enmities surrounding Eleuia, perhaps worse here, in the shadow of the Imperial Palace. "People are always afraid of what they can't understand. But you know what? If you can do that already, then you'll be very powerful when you're older, and nobody will bother you."

She looked sceptical, as if that wasn't a good thing. In truth, I wasn't sure it was.

Her jaguar spirit was prowling at the foot of the wall, and growling – its small, insubstantial frame dwarfed by the bulk of the calmecac's wall. It could probably smell the spoor of the other nahual.

I finally realised what had been bothering me about that wall. It was too high to leap, even for a nahual. In spite of their supernatural origins, nahuals retained the characteristics of mundane jaguars: teeth, claws, muscles. No jaguar, not even an adult, could have leapt over that wall.

Then how had the nahual left the calmecac? And why did the trail lead here, if it hadn't jumped over that wall?

"Do you know what's behind that wall?" I asked the girl.

She shrugged. "The outside."

"The Sacred Precinct?"

"Yes."

I glanced at the nahual jaguar, and then at the rooms, which appeared quiet. Surely, if the nahual was still in this school, Ceyaxochitl's warriors would have flushed it out? "If you remember anything about that beast – anything about tonight, will you ask the priestesses to send for me?"

She nodded, eagerly. She seemed to care far more for me than for the priestesses. Not that I could blame her. I mostly felt the same about the other clergies: those of the great gods like Tlaloc, God of Rain, and Huitzilpochtli, Protector of the Mexica Empire. Their top ranks were filled with social climbers too cowardly to go to war. As I had been, back when I had left the calmecac and chosen to become a priest.

It wasn't a subject I was ready to dwell on; especially not in the middle of the night, at the hour when the aimlessness of my life weighed like layers of gold on my chest.

I gave the girl my name and bade her a good night. Then I went out of the calmecac, to see what was on the other side of the wall.

As the girl had said, not much. This particular section of adobe wasn't connecting with another temple, or warriors' barracks: it simply faced the deserted expanse of the plaza. A little further away, the ground sloped down, towards the elongated shape of the ball-game court. With the Cloud Serpent's sight still on me, I should have seen the trail, had there been one. But there was nothing. It was as if the nahual had vanished in mid-air.

Feeling faintly ill at ease, I went back into the school, to look for Neutemoc.

Yaotl took me to where Neutemoc was kept: a room at the back of the calmecac. He walked by my side with a faint trace of amuse ment in his dark eyes, but said nothing. Neither did I – I, too, could play the game of withholding information.

Two of Ceyaxochitl's warriors, with the fused-lovers insignia of the Duality on their cotton-padded armour, stood guard at the door. They let us pass in silence.

It must have been a teaching room for the girls: weaving looms and discarded threads littered the ground. Neutemoc was sitting in its centre, cross-legged on a woven reed mat, hands on his knees, staring distantly at the frescoes on the walls, as if deep in meditation. He wore his Jaguar Knight's regalia: the jaguar's skin tightly covering his body, and his face showing through the animal's open jaws.

I stopped for a moment, suddenly unsure of what I'd say to him. He wasn't quite the brother I remembered from four years ago. His features had hardened in some indefinable way, and slight wrinkles marred the corner of his eyes, lessening the aura of arrogance that had once permeated every part of his body. He smelled, faintly, of the magic in the room, but most of it was gone: washed, no doubt, at the same time as his hands, which were now clean, their skin the colour of cacao beans.

Neutemoc raised his eyes when I came in. "Hello, brother," he said. He didn't sound surprised, or angry, just thoughtful. But his fingers tightened on his knees.

I had been bracing myself for seeing him again, trying to calm the frantic beating of my heart. His face, in the dim light, looked like a younger, softer version of Father's: an unexpected, additional discomfort.

I knelt by his side and looked at him, trying to see evidence of guilt, or remorse – of anything that would indicate he'd summoned the nahual. His face was clear, guileless, as smooth as that of a seasoned patolli gambler. "Dealing in magic?" I asked, as calmly as I could.

He shook his head. "I had nothing to do with that, believe me."

The anger in his voice belied his calm assurances. "I don't," I said, curtly. "Why don't you tell me what you were doing in Priestess Eleuia's rooms, overturning furniture?"

Neutemoc didn't move, but his eyes flicked away from me. "I don't have to explain myself to you."

"Have you no idea of what trouble you're in? What happened tonight, Neutemoc?"

He opened his mouth to say something, changed his mind with a visible effort, and finally said, "It's none of your concern."

None of my concern? Huitzilpochtli curse him, could he be so unaware of what he risked? He'd always been more concerned with the turmoil of the battlefield than with politics, but still… "I think you'll find it has become my concern tonight," I said, with some exasperation, remembering that his silence was one of the reasons we'd quarrelled four years ago. "From the moment magic was used to abduct her."

Neutemoc shifted, looked at the frescoes. "I know I'm in a bad situation, but I didn't do anything wrong. I'll swear it on any god you name."

If only it were that simple. "An oath, even by a Jaguar Knight, won't be enough in a court of law," I said. "Why don't you explain to me what happened?"

Neutemoc just stared at the frescoes. Finally he said, "I came to visit my daughter Ohtli. She entered the calmecac a few months ago, and Huei thought I could see how our daughter was doing. I was halfway to Ohtli's room when I heard a noise coming from a nearby courtyard, and…" He trailed off, closed his eyes. "When I entered the room, something leapt at me and knocked me against the wall. I was thrown unconscious and, when I woke up, your people had arrested me for the Duality knows what offence."

His story was barely coherent. It didn't account for the blood, or the marks on him. "And you overturned the furniture because you weren't sure what had leapt at you?" I asked, fighting to keep my sarcasm in check. "Come on, Neutemoc. I'm sure you can do better than this."

He shook his head. "It's the truth, Acatl."

I didn't believe a word he had said. But he was obviously not going to admit to anything, not unless I forced him into it.

I went to the door, and motioned Yaotl in.

"Anything you want?" he asked me.

"Can you ask the priestesses if there's a girl named Ohtli here, of the Atempan calpulli clan? She'd be about–" I thought back to the last time I'd seen Neutemoc's daughters – "seven years old."

Yaotl shrugged. "Easily done," he said. "They keep records of every girl-child in the school."

I glanced at Neutemoc, who was watching me, his eyes widening slightly. It was not a kind threat, the one I was about to make, either for him or for Ohtli, but his life was at stake. "If you find her, can you have her brought here? Tell her I have some questions for her."

"Acatl, no! She's only a child. At least have the decency to keep her out of this."

The insult stung, but I didn't move. "You were the one who introduced her name into the conversation."

Neutemoc's hands clenched. "It was a mistake. Ohtli has nothing to do with this, nothing at all. I didn't get to her room, I swear."

"Then please show a little more co-operation."

"Acatl–" He was pleading now, and it made me ill at ease. I'd never enjoyed reducing people to helplessness.

"It's a pretty story you told me," I said. "But it doesn't fit what I saw in that room, or what the Guardian saw."

Neutemoc looked at me, and at Yaotl, who already had a hand on the entrance-curtain. "Very well," he said, finally. "I'll tell you. But in private."     "Nothing is private," I said. "Your testimony–"

"Acatl." His voice cut as deep as an obsidian blade. "Please."

He was my brother, the threat of death hanging over him, yet I could afford no favouritism. Everyone should be treated according to their status, noblemen and Jaguar Knights more harshly than commoners. "I'll listen to you in private," I said. "But I'll make no guarantee I won't pass it on."

Neutemoc's face was flat, taut with fear. He glanced at Yaotl – tall, scarred, unbending – and finally nodded.

Yaotl slipped out, drawing the entrance-curtain closed in a tinkle of bells. He barked orders, and footsteps echoed in the corridor: the warriors, moving away from the door.

I sat by Neutemoc's side, keeping one hand on the handle of the obsidian daggers I always had in my belt, just as a protection. He hadn't looked violent, but his mood-swings could be unpredictable. "So?" I asked.

He said, slowly, "I… I knew Priestess Eleuia. We fought together in the war against Chalco. She was a novice priestess of Xochiquetzal then, at the bottom of the hierarchy – but she was magnificent." He shook his head. "We slept together."

Priestesses of Xochiquetzal were sacred courtesans, accompanying the warriors on their campaigns. They were also warriors in their own right, fighting the enemy with their long, deadly spears. "You slept with her in Chalco," I said, flatly. "That was sixteen years ago."

I was starting to suspect what Neutemoc had been doing in Eleuia's room. The idea was decidedly unpleasant.

"Yes," Neutemoc said. "I didn't think much of it, at the time. I had my marriage coming, and we drifted apart." He closed his eyes, spoke with care, as if he were composing a poem: each word slowly falling into place with the inevitability of a heartbeat. "I met her again two months ago, when I enrolled Ohtli. I had no idea she'd been posted here. We sat together and reminisced about the past, and all we'd lived through together… She hadn't changed, Acatl. Still the same as she'd been, all those years ago. Still the same smile, the same gestures that would drive a man mad with desire."

The Storm Lord smite him, surely he hadn't dared? "Neutemoc–"

His lips had gone white. "You asked, Acatl. You wanted to know why I was here tonight. I had an assignation. She… she flirted with me, quite ostentatiously."

And he'd gone to her rooms. "You gave in?" I rose, towered over him. "You were stupid enough to give in?"

"You don't understand."

"No," I said. "You're right. I don't understand why you'd endanger all you've got for a pretty smile." Eleuia was no longer a sacred courtesan: to sleep with her was adultery. And for that, they would both be put to death. And then… No more quetzal feathers, no more showers of gold brought to his luxurious home; no more calmecac education for his sons or his daughters, or for our orphaned sister.

I said, haltingly, "For the Duality's sake! You've got a family, you've got a loving wife." Everything – he had everything my parents had wished for their children: the glory of a successful warrior – and not the poverty-ridden life of a measly priest, barely able to support himself, let alone take care of his aged parents…

Neutemoc smiled. "You're ill-informed, brother. Huei and I haven't talked for a while."

I blinked. "What?"

He shrugged. "Private matters," he said.

"Such as your sleeping with a few priestesses?" I asked, rubbing the salt on his wounds. If he had indeed been unfaithful, Huei would have kept silent: if not for his sake, then for the sake of their children.

He finally opened his eyes to stare at me, and his gaze was ice. "I haven't committed adultery. Even tonight, though that was rather unexpected." He laughed, sharply, sarcastically. "I know what you think. What a man I make, huh?"

"Don't push me. Or I might just leave you in peace."

"You've already done too much as it is." Neutemoc's hands clenched again.

"You were the one who brought me into this, all because you were incapable of resisting a woman's charms," I snapped.

Neutemoc was silent for a while, looking at me with an expression I couldn't interpret. "You're right. I shouldn't have said that. I apologise. Can we go back to where we were?"

I had been bracing myself for a further attack; this extinguished my anger as efficiently as water poured on a hearth. Struggling to hide my surprise, I nodded. "So you came to her rooms with the promise of a pleasurable evening. I assume you got in by pretending you were here to see your daughter?"

He shrugged. "It was before sunset. Nothing wrong with my visiting her."

"But you didn't."

"No," Neutemoc said. "I– Eleuia had told me where her rooms were. I went there and found her waiting for me. She poured me a glass of frothy chocolate, with milk and maize gruel – good chocolate, too, very tasty. That's the last thing I remember clearly. Then the room was spinning, and…" His hand clenched again. "There was darkness, Acatl, deeper than the shadows of Mictlan. Something leapt at her. I tried to step in, but everything went dark. When I woke up, I was alone, and covered in her blood."

It still sounded as though he was leaving out parts of the story – probably Eleuia's seduction of him, which I didn't think I was capable of hearing out in any case – but this version sounded far more sincere than the first one he'd given me. Which, of course, didn't mean it was the truth. If he and Eleuia had consummated their act, he could have panicked and decided she was a risk to him while she still lived. I didn't like the thought, but Neutemoc was a canny enough man, or he wouldn't have risen so high in the warrior hierarchy.

"You could at least have had the intelligence to get out as soon as you could," I said. "What about the furniture?"

He stared at me. "Furniture? I… You know, I don't quite remember about that. I think I must have wanted to make sure I hadn't left any trace of my passage."

Not a sensible thing to do. But then, would I be sensible, if I woke up in a deserted room, covered in blood, with no memory of what had happened?

"Very well," I said. "Do you have anything that can prove your story?"

Neutemoc stared at me, shocked. "I'm your brother, Acatl. Isn't my word enough?"

He was really slow tonight. "We already went through that, remember?" I tried to keep my voice as calm as possible. "Your word

alone won't sway the magistrates."

"Magistrates." His voice was flat.

"It will come to trial," I said.

I'd expected him to be angry. Instead, he suddenly went as still as a carved statue. His lips moved, but I couldn't hear any word.

"Neutemoc?"

He looked up, right through me. "It's only fair, I suppose," he said. "Deserved."

My stomach plummeted. "Why did you deserve it?"

But he wouldn't talk to me any more, no matter how many times I tried to draw him out of his trance.

Ceyaxochitl was waiting for me in the corridor, talking to Yaotl. He threw me an amused glance as I got closer.

"So?" Ceyaxochitl asked.

I shrugged. "His story holds together."

"But you don't like it," she said, as shrewd as ever.

"No," I said. "There's something he's not telling me." And my brother had tried to sleep with a priestess; had tried to cheat on his wife. I was having trouble accepting it. It did not sound like something that would happen to my charmed-life brother.

"Where does the world go, if you can't trust your own brother?" Yaotl asked, darkly amused.

As far as I knew, Yaotl, a captive foreigner Ceyaxochitl had bought from the Tlatelolco marketplace, had a wife – a slight, pretty woman who seldom spoke to strangers – but no other family. At least, not the kind that lived close enough to get him embroiled in their troubles. Lucky man.

"What about the nahual trail?" Ceyaxochitl asked.

"It vanishes into thin air, halfway up a wall no animal could jump."

"Hum," Ceyaxochitl said. "Odd. We've searched every room, and the nahual isn't here."

"They don't just vanish," I said.

"I know," Ceyaxochitl said. She frowned. "We're no nearer finding Priestess Eleuia than we were one hour ago. I'll instruct the search parties to cast a wider net."

She waited, no doubt for my acquiescence. It was an unsettling thought to be in charge of the investigation. Eleuia had been about to become Consort of Xochipilli. This meant that she would have been connected to the Imperial Court, in one way or another. Given the political stakes, I had better be very careful of where I trod; and politics had never been my strength. "Shouldn't you be back at the palace?" I asked her.

Ceyaxochitl snorted. "I can spare one night to help you start. But only one."

I nodded. She'd been clear enough on that. I couldn't fault her for her frankness, even if sometimes she wounded me without realising she did so.

If the blood in the room and on Neutemoc's hands had indeed belonged to Eleuia, time was against us.

"Send them out," I said. "I'll go and talk to Zollin."

THREE

Dancers

When I arrived, the courtyard was deserted again, and the entrance-curtain to Eleuia's room hung forlornly in the breeze. But from the other set of rooms – Zollin's – came light, and the slow, steady beat of a drum. Music, at this hour?

I pulled aside the curtain, and took a look inside.

In a wide room much like Eleuia's, two young adolescents went through the motions of a dance. One was tall, her hair cascading down her back, and the seashell anklets she wore chimed with each of her slow gestures. The other wove her way between the tall one's movements, like water flowing through stone. It was not all effortless: beads of sweat ran down the first dancer's face, and the other one kept whispering under her breath, counting the paces.

The drum-beater was older than either of her dancers: her seamed face had seen many a year, and she kept up her rhythm, even though her eyes were focused on the girls. Smoke hung in the room: copal incense, melding with the odour of sweat in an intoxicating mixture.

I released the curtain. The chime of the bells crashed into the music, a jarring sound that made both dancers come to a halt. The drum-beater laid her instrument on the ground, and looked at me, appraising me in a manner eerily reminiscent of Ceyaxochitl. It was very uncomfortable.

"Priestess Zollin?" I asked her. "I am Acatl."

The drummer nodded. She turned, briefly, to the girls, "That was good. But not enough. A dance should be done without thinking, in much the same way that you breathe." She waved a dismissive hand. "We'll practise again tomorrow."

The girls remained standing where they were, staring at me in fascination.

The older woman's full attention was on me. "The High Priest for the Dead, I suppose. Come to question me. I've had the Guardian already, you know, and you've already arrested a culprit. I don't see what good it will do."

She was sharp. Used to getting her own way, to the point of discarding Neutemoc as of no importance to her. Already, I longed to break some of that pride. She was also singularly unworried, if she could dispense music lessons in the middle of the night, with one of her priestesses missing, or killed.

"One of your priestesses has vanished," I said. "Doesn't that–"

She shrugged. "Why should it interfere with the running of this house? I grieve for Eleuia" – that was the worst lie I'd ever heard, for she made no effort to inflect any of those words, or to put sadness on her face – "but she was only one woman. The education we dispense shouldn't halt because of that."

"I see," I said. "So you think she's dead." I closed my eyes, briefly, and felt the magic hanging around the room like a shroud, clinging to the frescoes of flowers and musical instruments: not nahual, not quite, but something dark, something angry. Zollin was clearly powerful.

"There was so much blood," the tallest dancer said suddenly. Her face was creased in an expression that didn't belong: worry or fear, or perhaps the first stirrings of anger.

"Cozamalotl," Zollin snapped. The girl fell silent, but she still watched her teacher. Her younger companion hadn't moved. A faint blush was creeping up her cheeks.

"Eleuia could still be alive," I said.

"Then go look for her," Zollin said. She was truly angry, and I had no idea why. "Do your work, and I'll do mine."

The Duality curse me if I was going to let her dominate me. "My work brings me here," I said, softly. "My work leads me to ask you why you're not more preoccupied by the disappearance of a priestess in your own calmecac."

Zollin watched me. "She never belonged to this calmecac. It was only a step on her path to better things."

"Becoming Consort?" I asked.

"Whatever she could seize," Zollin said.

Cozamalotl spoke up again, moving closer to Zollin as if she could shield her. "Everyone knows Eleuia grasped at power the way warriors grasp at fame."

The younger dancer did not answer. She was shaking her head in agreement or in disagreement, though only slightly. It seemed that Cozamalotl wasn't only Zollin's student, but her partisan. If Eleuia was indeed dead, or incapacitated, Cozamalotl would have her reward, just as Zollin would.

The Southern Hummingbird blind my brother. How in the Fifth World had he managed to embroil himself in such a bitter power struggle?

I probed further. "So you think someone didn't like what Eleuia was doing?"

Zollin snorted. "No one did. It's not seemly for a woman."

Hypocrite. She condemned Eleuia for her ambition, but she still wanted that office of Consort for herself. I liked Zollin less and less as the conversation progressed, though I couldn't afford to be blinded by resentment if I wanted to solve this.

"Women have few paths open in life," I said, finally, thinking of my own sister Mihmatini, who would be coming of age in a few months, and would either join the clergy or look for a husband of her own.

"But we know our place," Zollin said. "Eleuia's behaviour was hardly appropriate. Flaunting herself before men with her hair unbound and her face painted yellow – red cochineal on her teeth, as if she were still a courtesan on the battlefield–"

"When did she come here?" I asked, knowing I had to regain control of the conversation if I wanted to find anything to help Neutemoc.

Zollin looked bewildered for the first time. "Nine, ten years ago? I'm not sure."

"And how long have you been here?"

"A long time," Zollin said.

"Long enough to feel you should have been Consort, instead of Eleuia?" I asked.

She looked at me with new eyes. Yes. I might look harmless, but I could still wound.

When she answered, some of the acidity was gone from her voice. "Some of us," she said, "take what we have. And we do the tasks we were charged with, and do them well for years. Eleuia was young and inexperienced. But she was alluring. And men like that in a woman."

Of course they did – the warriors, and maybe even some of the priests, though they shouldn't have. And the men, as she had no need to remind me, held the power: the clergy of Xochiquetzal was subordinate to that of her husband, Xochipilli.

"She had power," Zollin went on. "A great mastery of magic, and a reputation won on the battlefield. But all that doesn't make a good Consort of Xochipilli."

"Then what does?" I asked.

"Dedication," Zollin said shortly. "Eleuia's heart wasn't in the priesthood. You could see it was only her pathway to something larger."

"I see," I said. She was only repeating herself. But her final assessment of Eleuia sounded more sincere than everything she'd said before. A woman bent on power – and wouldn't Neutemoc, with his status as a Jaguar Knight, have been a good embodiment of that power? My hands clenched. I wouldn't think about Neutemoc, not now. I couldn't afford to. "What were you doing tonight?"

"None of your concern."

Had she and Neutemoc decided to act together to vex me? "I've had my share of foolish excuses for tonight," I said. "Tell me what you were doing."

It was the dancer Cozamalotl who answered. "She was with us," she said. "Teaching us the proper hymns for the festivals."

Given the slight twitch of surprise on Zollin's face, that was clearly a lie.

"I see," I said, again. "Would you swear to that before the magistrates?"

She gazed at me, defiant, but it was Zollin who spoke. "Cozamalotl," she said. "The penalty for perjury is the loss of a hand. Don't waste your future."

Cozamalotl did not look abashed, not in the slightest. Her young companion, though, was bright red by now, and looked as if she wanted to speak but couldn't get the words past her lips. I would have to talk to her later.

"I–" Cozamalotl started.

Zollin cut her. "I was alone. In my rooms. And I can swear that I had nothing to do with that."

"But you hated Eleuia," I said.

"I won't deny that."

"Tell me," I said. "What day were you born?"

She looked surprised. "That's no concern of yours."

"Humour me."

"Why should I?"

"It's only a date," I said. "What are you afraid of?"

"I'm not a fool," Zollin said. "There's only one reason you'd be asking for it. I didn't summon the nahual, Acatl-tzin."

"But you could have."

She watched me, unblinking. At length: "You'll go to the registers anyway. Yes. I was born on the day Twelve Jaguar in the year Ten House."

She'd been quick to react. Too quick, perhaps, as if she'd had prior knowledge? She'd been in the room: it was conceivable she'd have recognised the scent of nahual magic, though highly unlikely. It wasn't a widespread craft among priestesses.

I said nothing. "Will that be all?" she asked, drawing herself to her full height. "I have offerings to make."

"That will be all," I said. "For now." I caught the eye of the younger dancer, who was still standing unmoving, her face creased in worry. She nodded, briefly, her chin raising to point to the courtyard outside.

I exited the room, and waited for the girl there. She did not come immediately: an angry conversation seemed to be going on inside, between Zollin and her two students. But try as I might, I couldn't make out the individual words, not without re-entering the room.

Two things worried me. The first was Zollin's singular unconcern for the summoning of a nahual, and the spilling of blood in her own calmecac school; the second, the sheer incongruity of teaching girls how to dance at this hour of the night.

But then, if she was indeed complicit in Eleuia's disappearance, the first wasn't surprising. As to the second: I'd known men and women who would bury themselves in activities, no matter how ludicrous, in order to escape guilty consciences.

The younger dancer joined me outside, after a while. She was even younger than I thought: not much more than a child, really, her body barely settling into the shapes and contours of adulthood. "Acatl-tzin? I thought–"

"Go on," I said, gently.

"My name is Papan," she said. "I…" She looked at me, struggling for words. "Is Zollin-tzin a suspect in your investigation?"

"I don't know," I said, though she most surely was.

"There was a man found in Eleuia's rooms," Papan said. "With blood on his hands."

I nodded, curtly, trying not to think too much of Neutemoc, of what I'd have to tell his wife, Huei, once I'd gathered enough courage to go to her. "There are unexplained things," I said, finally. I started walking towards the end of the courtyard, crushing pine needles under my sandaled feet. Their sweet, aromatic smell wafted upwards, a relief after the stifling atmosphere of Zollin's room.

Papan followed me. "You're looking in the wrong place."

"Your loyalty brings you credit," I said. "But–"

"No. You don't understand. Zollin-tzin has worked hard for this calmecac. She's always been fair. She would never kill or summon forbidden magic."

"Nahual magic isn't forbidden," I said. "And I only have your word for Zollin's acts."

"But I have only your word that Eleuia was abducted," Papan said, obviously frustrated. "No one has found her. No one even knows if she didn't summon the nahual herself."

I shook my head. "Priestess Eleuia wasn't born on a Jaguar day.

She couldn't have summoned the nahual." Curious, I asked, "Why would she do such a thing?"

Papan came to stand by my side, under the red arch leading out of the courtyard. A fresco of conch-shells and butterflies ran along the length of the arch. The insects' wings, painted with dark-red lac, glinted with the same reflections as Papan's eyes. "Eleuia was very beautiful," Papan said. "But always frightened. Cozamalotl and the other students didn't see it, but she always moved as if the ground would open under her feet."   "She had enemies?" I asked.

Papan shrugged. "I didn't know her."

"But you understood her."

"No," Papan said. She blushed. "I just saw. But it wasn't just now. She'd always been like that. For years and years, ever since I entered the calmecac school."

"And you think she wanted to disappear? Why, if she'd always been afraid?"

Papan turned her face away from me. "I– I'm not supposed to tell you. But if it helps…" She twisted her hands together, but didn't speak.

"Go on," I said. "It could save her life."

Papan was silent for a while. "I saw her once, at the bath-house. She was coming out of the pool." Papan blushed again. "I saw the marks on her body."

"What marks? Scars?"

"No," Papan said. "Stretch-marks."

"She'd borne a child?" It wasn't forbidden for a priestess of the Quetzal Flower, but it was certainly unusual. Many herbs would expel a child from a woman's body, and there were spells which would summon minor gods from Mictlan to end an infant's life in the womb. Priestesses would know all of these.

"Yes," Papan said. "I asked her; and she laughed and she said it was a long time ago, when she was much younger, in the Chalca Wars. I asked her why she'd done that, and she told me she'd wanted a keepsake of her warrior lover."

My heart went cold. "You're sure it was in the Chalca Wars?"

Papan nodded.

In the Chalca Wars, Eleuia and Neutemoc had slept together. But surely… Nonsense. She was a sacred courtesan. She'd slept with many, many men, even in the Chalca Wars. There were dozens who could have been the father of that child. But it had been someone she'd loved. You couldn't say that about just any warrior.

And there lay the root of the problem: for a warrior, sleeping with a courtesan was an inalienable right, a reward for facing the hardships of the battlefield. A long affair between a warrior and a courtesan, though – that wasn't tolerated. It would lead to exclusion from the Jaguar Brotherhood, no matter how long ago the affair had taken place. If Neutemoc had indeed conceived a child with Eleuia – and if Eleuia had kept it – then it meant they had been more than casual lovers.

It also meant that Neutemoc had an even stronger motive to keep Eleuia silent. A child.

I did not like the thought. I had to consider it, like everything linked to the investigation – but it was an itch at the back of my mind, claws softly teasing apart what I had believed I knew about Neutemoc.

"Why do you think it may be connected?" I asked Papan.

Papan shrugged. "I don't. But she didn't name the warrior."

I had noticed that. "And she didn't tell you anything about him?"

"No," Papan said. "But she looked scared, as if she'd told me something I wasn't meant to know. She made me swear to keep it secret. And I have, haven't I?"

I knew what she wanted. Gently, I said, "Secrets are no use to her if she's dead."

Papan stared at me for a while. I couldn't tell if I'd convinced her. "Don't tell Zollin-tzin I told you," she said, as we walked out of the courtyard. "She thinks Eleuia was only an opportunist."

She didn't use any honorific for Eleuia, I noticed, just her name. "You were close?" I asked.

Papan bit her lip. "Until Zollin-tzin started teaching me," she said, miserably. "It's hard, being torn in two halves."

I hadn't known that. But I could guess, given Zollin's acidity, that it was indeed hard. "You did the right thing," I said.

"I'm not sure." Papan bowed, deeply. "I'll go back to my room now. But thank you for listening to me, Acatl-tzin." And she walked off into the darkness, leaving me to my own worries.

A child. Neutemoc's child? The Storm Lord smite him, couldn't he have been more careful? A warrior was meant to marry in his calpulli clan, to love his wife, to raise her children. And it seemed that Neutemoc – who'd always been held up as an example before me, the shining representation of all I should have done with my life, whom I'd always admired and hated at the same time – it seemed that Neutemoc had not had great success with his marriage.

Ceyaxochitl and Yaotl were waiting for me at the entrance to the calmecac school, by a fresco of quetzals in flight. The birds' long tails spread against the painted background like waterfalls of emerald. Ceyaxochitl's face was flushed, and she was muttering imprecations under her breath. "Arrogant bastard. Who does he think he is?"

"Something the matter?" I asked, stifling a yawn.

Yaotl turned to me. "The Jaguar Knight just walked out of here," he said.

"The Jaguar Knight?" My mind, which had been focused on Eleuia's child, and on whether it might have been Neutemoc's, snapped back to the present. "Mahuizoh? The one who was visiting his sister?"

The Duality curse me. I'd forgotten to ask Neutemoc if he knew the man. He had to: there weren't that many Jaguar Knights in the city of Tenochtitlan.

"Yes," Ceyaxochitl snapped. "He said we had no evidence against him, that we had a perfectly good culprit in any case, and that he saw no reason to tarry here."

"So you didn't question him."

"Does it look as though I did?" Ceyaxochitl snapped. She rapped her cane on the ground. "I should have arrested him for disrespect. I'm getting too soft for this."

I didn't believe a word of that last sentence. She was still as harsh as she'd ever been: as harsh as she needed to be, to protect the Mexica Empire from wayward gods, stray underworld monsters, sorcerers and magicians…

"Why didn't you?" Yaotl asked, softly. He had a hand on his obsidian-studded macuahitl sword. "You had ample reasons."

Ceyaxochitl shook her head. "He's not guilty of anything, Yaotl. Warriors and arrogance go hand-in-hand, remember?"

I disliked arrogance as much as Ceyaxochitl, and Zollin's imperiousness was all too fresh in my mind. But Ceyaxochitl was right: warriors, especially Eagle and Jaguar Knights, were entitled to be arrogant, to dismiss us as of little consequence. It wasn't seemly behaviour, but they had dispensation. They'd fought on the Empire's battlefields, taken prisoners to sacrifice to the gods, so that the world should go on, fed by the magic of living blood; survived gruelling battles and retreats. Compared to this, we priests had an easy life.

"Do you know where he lives?" I asked Ceyaxochitl.

"No," she said. "But he's a Jaguar Knight. You can go ask at their House, tomorrow."

"Why not tonight?" I asked. "Neutemoc–"

Ceyaxochitl's lips pursed. "One night of imprisonment isn't going to kill your brother."

"But I could–"

"You could not." Her voice was as cutting as obsidian. "One does not walk into the Jaguar House."

"I am High Priest for the Dead," I said, in the same tone she had used on me.

Ceyaxochitl's gaze told me all I needed to know: the Jaguar and Eagle Knights were the elite of the Empire, the warriors who kept us strong, and they had their own laws. "Acatl. If you go into the Jaguar House, and wake up sleeping Knights without their commander's permission, you'll be under arrest. And much good it will do your brother then."

"You're asking me to let go?"

"I'm asking you to wait until tomorrow. Daylight changes many things."

Yaotl's lips pursed. "And if you dress impressively enough, getting in shouldn't be a problem."

"Ha ha," I said. Even if I put on my full regalia, with the skullmask and the cloak embroidered with owls, I'd still have difficulties entering the Jaguar Knights' House. "Do you think it's worth pursuing?" I asked Ceyaxochitl.

It was Yaotl who answered. "That Jaguar Knight was shaken," he said. "Very badly shaken, and trying hard not to show it."

Hardly a normal reaction. "You think he had something to do with it?"

"I'm having trouble seeing how he could not have had something to do with it," Yaotl said.

More suspects. On the one hand, this lessened the chances Neutemoc was guilty of more than adultery. On the other, what had looked like an easy case seemed to put forth additional complications with every hour.

"I'll go and see him tomorrow," I said.

Ceyaxochitl's eyes blinked, slowly; her face stretched slightly. I put my hand over my mouth to contain my own yawn.

"Anything else?" she asked.

I thought back to my interview with Zollin, and of the magic that had hung thick in her room. "You said you'd searched every room of the calmecac for the nahual. Did that include Zollin's rooms?"

Yaotl spoke up. "No supernatural jaguar hiding there, trust me. Although I've never seen someone less worried about Eleuia."

"I had the same impression," I said. "She seemed to polarise people."

Ceyaxochitl shrugged. "The beautiful often do, even if they're no longer young." She leaned on her cane, exhaling in what seemed almost nostalgia. Then she shook her head, coming back to more pressing matters. "The search parties are out. Yaotl will stay here and supervise them. You, on the other hand, should go to sleep."

I said, stung, "I don't need–"

"Sleep? Don't be a fool, Acatl. Dawn is in less than two hours. You won't be of any use to anyone, least of all your brother, if you can hardly stand."

My brother. Was I going to be of any use to him?

I hadn't dwelled on Neutemoc for years. Or perhaps it had started even earlier: when the calpulli clan's search party brought Father's drowned body to Neutemoc's house, and when we'd stared at each other across the divide, and known we'd become strangers to each other.

I didn't know. I didn't know what I ought to feel.

"There will be time, tomorrow," Yaotl said, almost gently. I must have looked really tired, if he was being solicitous to me.

"Was there anything else, Acatl?" Ceyaxochitl asked.

It was a dismissal: my last chance to get her help, instead of Yaotl's distant, ironic pronouncements. I said, finally, "I need the location… of a certain house in Tenochtitlan."

"A House of Joy?" Yaotl asked, his face falsely serious. "Feeling lonely in your bed?"

I was too tired to rise to the jibe. "Priestess Eleuia allegedly had a child, some years ago. I'm not sure it's significant, but I'd like to know if it's true."

Ceyaxochitl's eyes held me, shrewd, perceptive. I lowered my gaze. I didn't wish her to read my thoughts. But she had to know; she had to have guessed what I feared. "Yes?"

"I've heard whispers in the Sacred Precinct," I said slowly. "They say… they say that Xochiquetzal, the Quetzal Flower could not restrain Her lust, and charmed all the gods onto Her sleeping mat, one after the other. There is talk that the Duality expelled Her from Heaven for this sin, and that She now dwells in the mortal world, in a house which can be visited, if one knows its location."

Ceyaxochitl didn't blink, or give any sign of surprise. "Perhaps," she said. "You'd go to Her to know about the child?"

"Yes," I said.

I couldn't read her expression. But at length she said, "Priestess Eleuia belonged to Her. And she is Goddess of Lust and Childbirth, after all. Perhaps She'll know something useful. Go to bed, Acatl. I'll send the address to you in the morning."

So I couldn't go to the goddess's house now. They were both treating me like a newborn infant, which was worrying. Neither of them had shown any inclination to overprotect me before.

"Very well," I said. "You win. I'll go find some sleep before dawn."

"Don't worry. We'll take care of things," Yaotl said. His eyes glinted in the darkness. For a fleeting moment I thought there was more than amusement in his gaze – something deeper and more serious – but then I dismissed the thought. Yaotl was not my enemy.

I was too tired to think properly. I bade them goodbye and walked back to my temple, praying that they'd find Eleuia alive – that they'd find something, anything, that would exonerate Neutemoc.

FOUR

The Midwife of Tenochtitlan

My sleep was dark and dreamless. I noted, distantly, the blare of priests' trumpets that marked the return of Tonatiuh from His night-long journey – and then turned on my reed-mat, and went back to sleep.

When I woke up, sunlight flooded my house. I sat up, wincing as all the events of the previous night came back into my mind, as unforgiving as peyotl visions.

Neutemoc.

A child.

He had a wife and children of his own, and our sister Mihmatini under his responsibility. Even if Neutemoc was later found out to be innocent, the tarnish of his arrest and his attempted adultery would hang over them all for a long time. Huitzilpochtli blind him. Could he do nothing right?

I rummaged in my wicker chest for a clean loincloth, and took my grey cloak from the reed-mat where I'd left it. As I tied it around my shoulders, I thought of the last time I'd seen Neutemoc: of Mother's face, contorted in agony and anger as she accused me of cowardice; and of Neutemoc, standing frozen by her death-bed, unable to say anything.

He hadn't said anything as I walked out, later. He'd gone back to his wife and children, and I'd staggered through the city, trying to find words I could give Mother: reasons that would convince her that by entering an obscure priesthood, I hadn't wasted my life. I was needed: I kept the balance of the world; I gave the dead their rest. But not indispensable: there were plenty of priests – while there had been no one, save Neutemoc, to pay for the schooling and the feeding of my three sisters.

Enough worries. I had to make sure, first and foremost, that Neutemoc was truly innocent. I tried to ignore the voice whispering that he might well be the murderer Ceyaxochitl thought she'd arrested.

I walked out into the courtyard, under the lone pine tree, and exited my house. Outside, the hubbub of the Sacred Precinct filled my ears: vendors hawking their amulets and charms; a crowd of freemen in loincloths, coming to offer their sacrifices to the temples; a procession of priestesses, dressed in white skirts and blouses, singing their hymns to honour Toci, Grandmother Earth; warriors in embroidered cotton cloaks, striding arrogantly ahead.

Determined to start with the most unpleasant tasks, I went to the Jaguar House first: a squat adobe adorned with lavish frescoes of Knights trampling bound enemies underfoot, and of their patron Tezcatlipoca, watching the carnage with a slight smile across His striped face.

The House itself was always a centre of activity, bustling with Jaguar Knights and sacred courtesans, but today it was oddly silent.

There was a single guard at the gates, instead of the usual pair. He stared at me levelly as I approached. "Looking for something?" His pose and his voice exuded arrogance – not deliberately, but something that had become second nature to him. And yet he was a boy, impossibly young to have already been admitted into the ranks of the elite.

"I need to see a knight," I said.

"I have no doubt you do." His gaze lingered on me a little longer.

In his eyes was the familiar contempt of warriors for priests. "That's currently impossible."

"Currently?" I asked.

His lips curled, in what might have been amusement. "They're at the Imperial Palace. There's a ceremony they have to practise for."

"All of them?" I asked, my heart sinking.

"All but me." He looked again at me, as if wondering what a shabbily dressed priest could possibly want of Jaguar Knights. Yaotl and Ceyaxochitl had been right; I should have put on my full regalia before coming here.

"When will they be back?" I asked.

He shrugged. "Tezcatlipoca only knows."

In other words, it was beneath his dignity to answer me. I bit back a curse. Antagonising the guard would bring me nothing but trouble.

"Noon?" I asked, insisting.

"They might be back then," the guard said. "You can try." His slightly mocking tone made it clear he believed I'd be thrown out of the House, regardless of whether the knights were back.

"I certainly will try," I said, determined not to let him get the better of me. "I'll see you then."

He didn't say anything as I walked away from the House. Privately, I doubted the knights would be back before a while. An Imperial ceremony was no small matter.

Curse it! Well, if I couldn't interview Mahuizoh, I could see about Xochiquetzal instead – not a pleasant thought, by any standards.

From the Jaguar House, it was but a short walk to my temple; and by the time I arrived there, most of the novice priests had already left for the market at Tlatelolco.

My second-in-command Ichtaca was in the courtyard, giving instructions to a handful of offering priests in grey-and-blue cloaks. As usual, he was acquitting himself so well I wasn't sure how I could have helped him. Why ever had Ceyaxochitl thought I'd make a good High Priest? I'd hoped to slip by Ichtaca undetected, but he was quite observant.

"Acatl-tzin!"

I suppressed a sigh. "Yes?"

"There's a message for you," Ichtaca said. "From Guardian Ceyaxochitl."

The location of Xochiquetzal's house, a message I'd hoped to recover discreetly. I nodded, and felt obliged, now that I was standing in front of him, to ask, "How are things going?"

He shrugged. "The usual. Two deaths in the district of Moyotlan. The examination revealed no trace of magic or other foul play, so I let the priests of the district handle it. A woman dead in childbirth in the district of Cuepopan. We'll have to supervise the burying rites, and make sure she's honoured properly."

As the woman had died struggling to bring a life into this world, her soul would already be flying upwards, to accompany Tonatiuh on His journeys; but the family's grief would be eased if the rites were said accordingly.

"I see," I said. "Well… I'll leave you to it."

Ichtaca looked at me. He seemed to be expecting something more of me, but I couldn't see what. Some orders? He had absolutely no

need for that.

"I'll see that message," I said finally.

Ichtaca shrugged. Clearly, I had not given him what he had expected. "It's in the shrine. Come."

Before leaving, I detoured through the storehouse to take a parrot and a handful of marigold flowers: offerings for Xochiquetzal. Palli had been replaced by a younger novice priest, one whom I didn't know. He bowed to me, making me feel ill at ease.

Carrying the parrot's cage against my hip, I went to the address Ceyaxochitl had given me: a house on the outskirts of Moyotlan, the south-west district of Tenochtitlan. The city was on an island, of which the Sacred Precinct was the heart. Streets and canals snaked out from the central plaza, leading to the four districts – and further out, to the fields where we grew our crops. I walked away from the centre, into streets bordered by canals on either side. Small boats passed me by, ferrying their owners to their business: to the artisans' districts, to the marketplace, or an audience at a nobleman's house. The aqueduct canals were crossed at regular intervals by bridges. On each bridge stood a water-porter, ready to dip his bucket into the water, and to offer it to anyone who paid.

From the houses around me came the familiar grinding sound of maize pounded into powder, and the wet slap-slap of flatbread rolled onto the stones. That sound had woken me up every day when I was a child: Mother's daily ritual, making the food that Father would take to the fields. Long before I took the path to my humble priesthood, back when my parents had still been proud of my thirst for knowledge.

Lost in reminiscence, I finally reached my destination: a small, unremarkable alley, half street, half canal. At the back of the alley were the featureless walls of a huge house, one that seemed to waver in the morning light, even though there was barely any mist.

Magic hung thick around it: the familiar, bold strokes of Ceyaxochitl's spells, woven into a cocoon around the house, hiding it from the world. An uninitiated person could not have seen enough of that house to open its door.

The house had two storeys, a luxury reserved for noblemen. A lush garden of poinsettias and marigolds adorned its roof. In the courtyard, pines grew by the side of a stone pool, the water within, clear, cloudless, reflecting the perfect blue of the sky.

"And you would be?" a voice asked.

Startled, I turned, and met the eyes of a youth wearing the wooden collar of slaves – though he had jade and silver bracelets on his arms, and heavy amber earrings weighing down his lobes.

"No," I said. "I've come to see Xochiquetzal."

His face didn't move, save for some fleeting contempt in his eyes as he scrutinised me. "A priest, eh? I don't think She wants to see your kind."

"Someone's life is at stake," I said, more sharply than I'd intended.

He shrugged. "It's always the case. Life is cheap in the Fifth World, priest." He half-turned away from me, walking back into the building he had come from.

Life is cheap. My own brother's life, cheap?

My fists clenched of their own volition. Before I realised it, I was halfway through the courtyard, following him into the house.

What stopped me wasn't anything material – but rather a slow, prickling sensation running along the nape of my neck, and spreading to my entire back, like fiery embers touching my skin: raw power, coalescing in the sunlight. I had the feeling of being watched and dissected by something vast and unknowable, though there was no one but the slave and I in the courtyard.

The slave had turned. He watched me, his smile mocking me. "And you think this will solve anything?"

I struggled to find words, to mouth an abject apology, but could not bring myself to. "No. Nor will your arrogant attitude. I asked for an audience."

He spread his hands in a blaze of silver. "You did. And it's my right to refuse it."

"You–"

He shook his head. "Still not understanding? Defiance brings you nothing." He smiled again, displaying teeth as yellow and as neat as maize kernels. "But you're in luck. It has been a boring week. Wait here. And don't think you can look around. I'll know if you do."

I had no doubt he would.

He entered one of the rooms around the courtyard, the bells jingling as he pulled aside the entrance curtain. He came out again almost immediately. "My, my. You're definitely in luck, priest. She has nothing better to do, so She'll see you."

His arrogance was staggering, but I bit back the angry reply that came to me. I had already seen anger or despair would earn me nothing in such a house.

The slave pointed lazily to my obsidian knives. "Those will stay outside."

"My weapons?" I asked. He was observant: the knives, which were those of the temple, had been blessed by Mictlantecuhtli, and were saturated with His magic.

His smile was malicious. "Consider them payment for an audience. You'll get them back – maybe."

"I will get them back," I said, as I undid my belt and gave them to him. "Or else I won't be the only one hunting you."

He smiled an even wider smile. "Do you think you can touch me?"

I wanted, desperately, to try – to summon a minor deity from the underworld, to teach him fear and humility. But I knew I couldn't. He was Xochiquetzal's, and I'd already seen what kind of power She wielded.

Inside the room, it was dark, and cool: the fire in the three-stone hearth had sunk to smouldering embers, and yellow cotton drapes hung over the only window. The air smelled of packed earth, overlaid with copal incense. There was no need for light, though. The figure seated on the dais made Her own: a softly lapping radiance that played on the floor, on the frescoes of flowers on the walls, and on the backs of my callused hands.

In the silence, I knelt, laying the marigold flowers at the feet of the dais. Then I opened the cage and, using one of Xochiquetzal's own knives, slit the parrot's throat. Blood spurted out, covered my hands. I laid the bird by the side of the flowers and, bowing my head until it touched the ground, started singing a hymn to the Quetzal Flower.

"By the side of the roads

And the steep mountain paths

By the Lake of the Moon

And on the faraway battlefields

Grow Your flowers

Marigolds and buttercups, flowers of corn and maguey

Flowers to adorn the maidens' necks

To be carried by amorous warriors

Flowers to remind us

Of Your presence everywhere."

When I was finished, there was only silence. I dared not look up.

"Well, well," Xochiquetzal said, finally. "It's not often that I have visitors."

"My Lady."

"A priest, too. Although" – she sounded disappointed, like a jaguar that had missed its prey – "not one of my own."

I swallowed, wondering how much I could tell Her. "Your priests still think you in the Heaven Tamoanchan, my Lady Xochiquetzal."

The light over my head grew brighter, and in Her voice was the anger of the storm. I kept my gaze on the beaten earth. "They don't know because the Guardians have not seen fit to inform them."

And with reason. The last thing we needed was a religious war within Tenochtitlan. But I guessed it would have hurt, all the same, to be expelled from Tamoanchan by the Duality, for a mere sin of lust.

"I'm not a Guardian," I said, finally.

"No," She said. Her voice was toneless. "I can see that. You may rise, priest. What do you want?"

Carefully, I approached the dais, all my muscles poised to flee. Gods were capricious, caring little about the balance of the world – and one who had been expelled from the gods' company even more so. "I have come for a favour."

The Quetzal Flower smiled. She wasn't young, not any more. A network of fine wrinkles marred Her cheeks, and She kept rubbing at Her eyes, so often that the cornea had turned red with blood vessels. "You rarely come for anything else." She reached out, and took the parrot in Her hands. Something seemed to pass from the animal into Her: some light, fleeing the corpse and nesting under Her skin, coursing through her veins like blood. "Very well. Ask your question."

"My name is Acatl. There is a priestess," I said, slowly. "Eleuia–"

"I know who Eleuia is," Xochiquetzal said. "I may be fallen from grace, but I'm not completely powerless. What do you want?"

"She has disappeared, and we are looking for her."

The Quetzal Flower didn't move. "Eleuia," She said. "I don't know where she is."

"That wasn't–"

"What you needed? You would have asked for it, at some point." "Why don't you know?" I asked, unable to resist my curiosity. "Isn't she your servant?"

The light dimmed, for a bare moment. Xochiquetzal said, finally, "I'm on earth. In a world where My body doesn't belong, where everything fights My existence. It takes its toll. No god can remain on earth and keep more than token powers."

"Except if they entrust them to a human agent," I said, thinking of Revered Speaker Axayacatl-tzin, and of the last time I'd seen him at the Major Festival: rising from the limestone altar of the sacrifices atop the Great Temple, his hands and obsidian knife reddened with human blood; his whole body brimming with the magic of Huitzilpochtli, the magic that kept the Mexica Empire strong.

Xochiquetzal smiled, and this time Her voice was bitter. "Not all of us are upstarts, ready to give our powers to anyone. Humans are unreliable. They have wishes and desires of their own. One day, what the Southern Hummingbird does will come back to haunt Him."

I said nothing. The affairs of gods were not my own; even less so those of the Quetzal Flower, whom I did not worship.

Xochiquetzal went on. "But it's the way of things. Huitzilpochtli rises to power, becomes the protective deity of your Empire. And We – the old ones, the gods of the Earth and of the Corn, We who were here first, who watched over your first steps – We fade."

The melancholy in Her voice was unexpected; and, because She was a goddess, it saturated the room, until my throat ached with regret for the days of my childhood. "You still have priestesses," I managed to whisper.

"Yes," She said, "but the greatest temple within the Sacred Precinct isn't Mine, and the sacrifices they offer Me are paltry little things, to keep Me amused. People believe in war and in the sun, more than they believe in rain or in love." She shook Her head, as if realising what She'd just said. "Enough. We haven't come here to wallow in My own misery."

"I just want to know…" I swallowed, trying to blot out the image of Neutemoc, grunting over the supine body of a shadowy priestess. "I was told Eleuia had a child. I want to know–"

"Whether it's true?" The Quetzal Flower didn't move. "You know," I whispered.

"Of course. I'm a goddess of childbirth, among other things."

Goddess of love, of carnal desire; of lust and all the base instincts that made fools out of us. The Duality curse me, why couldn't I stop thinking of Neutemoc?

Xochiquetzal rubbed at Her eyes, absent-mindedly. "Eleuia. Yes, she had a child. Sixteen years ago. But it was stillborn."

"Stillborn?" I asked.

Her eyes slid away from me, focused on the jade flowers by Her dais. "Dead. She buried the umbilical cord on a battlefield, to ensure the child's safe passage into the afterlife."

That's not the custom, was my first thought. The second, which I spoke aloud, was, "Would you tell me who the father was?" Not Neutemoc. Please, not Neutemoc.

Xochiquetzal shrugged. "I have no idea. Why does it matter so much to you?"

She was toying with me again, batting me to and fro, like a guinea pig between the paws of a jaguar…

"My brother is involved," I said at last. "I need to know–"

"Whether he had a child? How amusing, priest."

"Please," I whispered. Her radiance had become blinding.

Something landed at my feet, wet and soft. It took me a moment to realise, squinting through the strong light, that it was the body of the parrot, small and pathetic in its death, cast aside like a rag.

"One sacrifice," Xochiquetzal said. "One paltry, bloodless little bird. An insult. You're fortunate that I was inclined to accept it. I don't owe you anything more." She rose from Her dais – and, for a mere moment, She was every woman I had ever desired, passion and need searing through my bones at the sight of Her. Burning, my skin was burning, and I was on my knees before Her, scarcely aware of having thrown myself to the ground…

She laughed then: the sound of water crashing into underground caves. "Better," She said. "Much better." She walked by my side, even as I struggled to rise. I could have sworn Her radiance had grown stronger, sharper: deprived of the potency of blood sacrifices, did She now feed on simpler things, on fear, on abject obedience?

I rose on shaking hands, met Her gaze: ageless amusement, uncomfortably close to malice.

"You might yet be of some use," the Quetzal Flower said. She was back on Her dais, reclining on Her low chair like a playful jaguar. "You know the proper sacrifices for Me. Bring them here, and I may feel in the mood to give you more."

I knew what She wanted: offerings, proper worship offered before Her; not the distant sacrifices of Her priestesses, their smoke rising into the Heavens She'd been cast out of, but the blood of living animals, and perhaps of humans. I didn't have any hold over Her: certainly not here, on Her own ground, and perhaps not even in my own temple, with Lord Death's protection over me.

"I'll…" I struggled to find words. We both knew I had no choice.

She smiled again. "I'm sure you'll be back. Until next time, Acatl."

• • • •

I left Xochiquetzal's house in a bad state. My hands would not stop shaking, and every time I thought back to Her, to the light enfolding Her as She rose from Her throne, my manhood would stiffen uncontrollably: something that hadn't happened to me since my calmecac schooling.

I walked through the first streets in a daze, barely seeing the boats in the canals; and it wasn't until I reached the temple of the Moyotlan district that I was able to collect my thoughts.

I hadn't expected Xochiquetzal to have such an effect over me. But then, every time I saw any of the minor gods of the underworld, coldness would creep up my spine, and I would remember that everything in the Fifth World would crumble; and that beneath my face lay a yellowed skull, beneath my skin the first hints of a skeleton, crinkling within the funeral fire.

With difficulty, I tore my mind from gods, and thought on what the Quetzal Flower had told me. I needed to focus on the investigation. Though, Tlaloc's lightning strike me, I had learnt precious little from the goddess. That Eleuia had a child now seemed to be a reality. But Xochiquetzal, like all gods, was capricious, and I didn't believe She had told me the truth when She'd said the child had been stillborn. No, he had to be alive. And if he was, then Eleuia had indeed had a serious affair with a warrior who could very possibly be Neutemoc.

Then another thought occurred to me: Eleuia's sudden interest in my brother. Had she thought he was worth courting, that his status as a Jaguar Knight made him powerful enough to be attractive?

I closed my eyes. Neutemoc might be a fool in thrall to his instincts, but I didn't think he'd abandon his responsibilities. The child, though… The Imperial priests would have means of determining his paternity, if he could be found. If Neutemoc was indeed the father, then the child was the proof of his illicit liaison: one that would get him expelled from the Jaguar Knights. The child, then, was a blackmail tool. Had Neutemoc seen through her, and summoned the nahual to put an end to the problem, never thinking of the consequences?

It sounded too much like something Neutemoc would think of. Far too much.

I walked back to my temple, to dress in my full regalia before going again to the Jaguar House – cursing Neutemoc all the while for putting our family in this situation.

I arrived at my temple, and found a man deep in talk with Ichtaca: a grizzled warrior wearing a blue feather headdress, and an armour of hardened cotton on which was drawn the fused-lovers insignia of the Duality.

Ichtaca gestured towards me when I came near. "That's the man you want," he said. Without another word, he walked away, towards the rooms to the eastern side of the courtyard.

The warrior bowed to me. "My name is Ixtli," he said. "I head the search parties."

"Oh, I see. Any results?" I asked, though he looked glum enough; wet and bedraggled, his eyes sunk deep into his face.

He shook his head. "No. I won't waste your time. I have twenty men out, combing the city. So far, not much."

Not encouraging; but then I had not expected a miracle.

Ixtli watched for a while, gauging me. "I'll go back to helping them, then." He sighed. "I'll have them spread out, to keep searching for as long as possible. But we're going to need some sleep, too."

I almost said no, told him to keep searching, no matter the cost. There had been blood in Eleuia's room – blood from deep wounds, scattered over the frescoes. She might be dying; and Neutemoc was still under arrest, while I had nothing to help him. But Ixtli had done enough, in an affair that didn't have personal stakes for him; and I couldn't afford to antagonise him in any case. "I don't think a few hours are going to make that much difference. Do what you can."

Ixtli drew himself to attention. "Yes," he said. "I'll see you again, then."

I climbed the steps to the shrine under the blazing morning sun. Inside, the nobleman's body had been collected from the limestone altar. On the cactus-paper registers, Ichtaca had noted in a steady hand: "In recompense for the wake of Acolmixtli, Keeper of the House of Animals: five quetzal feathers, one roll of cloth and ten quills of gold."

The nobleman's family had been happy, then, to give such a fortune to the temple. I still thought we had no use for such largesse, that it would be better for it to go to starving peasants, to those really in need of it.

I laid my cloak by the altar, under the hollow gaze of Mictlantecuhtli's statue, and went out on the temple steps to compose my thoughts.

I had to gather proper offerings for Xochiquetzal: a task I couldn't entrust to anyone but myself, for I feared the answer She'd give me. I also had to find the Jaguar Knight Mahuizoh, though the Knights wouldn't be back from their ceremonies for a while.

Who else did I have to see? Neutemoc, of course: I wanted him – no, I needed him to confirm that he had slept with Eleuia for a few nights – that they hadn't cared for each other, and that he hadn't been foolish enough to fall in love with her yet another time. Deep, deep down, I suspected what he would answer; and I couldn't bear the thought.

Impatient footsteps echoed on the stairs of the shrine. Startled, I looked down at the courtyard, which was still deserted. Someone, however, was climbing the pyramid's stairs.

A young warrior. He wore an orange cloak, its hem embroidered with scorpions: the mark of a Leading Youth, one who had captured a prisoner on the battlefield and thus ended his apprenticeship. His steps were quick, impatient. He reached the top of the stairs, and scrutinised me, as if unsure what to make of me. He couldn't have been more than eighteen years old; his face was smooth, still filled with the easy arrogance of youth; his gestures sure and fast, as if a great energy lay underneath them.

"You would be Acatl-tzin?" he said. In his mouth, the "tzin" was almost doubtful.

I nodded. "If it's for a wake–"

He shook his head, impatiently. "No. It's about the priestess."

At least he was direct. "Priestess Eleuia?" I asked.

"Who else?" He shook his head again, as if to clear a persistent ache. "The Guardian told me to go to you."

"Ceyaxochitl sent you?" Now I was curious. She had told me she couldn't provide help. Why send me a cocksure youth?

He was still staring at me, clearly unfazed by any notion of proper behaviour or respect. "Yes," he said. "She said I might be able to help." Again, he didn't sound convinced.

"I don't think I need help," I said, slowly. "From a warrior–"

"Because it would shame you?"

He was quick to take offence: overly sensitive, which was odd for a warrior, even a warrior this young. Why had Ceyaxochitl sent him? "No," I said, thinking of the coldness that seized my shoulder-blades every time the Wind of Knives – my counterpart in the underworld, He who dealt swift justice – materialised in my temple. "Because there are some things swords can't fight."

He stared at me, and for a moment I saw real fear in his gaze. But he clenched his jaw, and said, "No. But I'm not here to fight." Not yet, said everything in his stance. I couldn't fault him for his courage. Despite his inexperience, he was a warrior in every gesture, and in every mood. "I think I was the last one to see the priestess alive. Aside from your brother, of course."

So Ceyaxochitl had told him about Neutemoc. Just what I needed. What else did he know?

Focus. I had to focus. Ceyaxochitl meant to help me, however misguidedly. "When did you see her?"

"My name is Teomitl. I'm studying in the boys' calmecac."

Teomitl. Arrow of the Gods. He was well-named, as straight and as eager to spill blood as an arrow. I would have placed him in a House of Youth with the other novice warriors, not in a school. But of course the calmecacs didn't only educate priests: they also served as schools for the children of the wealthy. Given the richness of his garb, he could only be a nobleman's son.

"You saw Eleuia?"

He pursed his lips. For the first time, he looked embarrassed. "I– I was assigned to sweep the courtyards of the girls' calmecac ten days ago. As a penance." His gaze defied me to mock him.

I wasn't about to, though I guessed why they would send him to sweep the girls' courtyards. Some of that pride clearly needed toning down. "And you saw Eleuia?"

Teomitl nodded. "Often. She was…" His eyes unfocused for a moment. "Beautiful. Alluring, strong."

The Duality preserve us. Another man in love with Eleuia? Was there no end to her influence? I suppressed an inward sigh. "Her beauty doesn't have a bearing on what happened to her."

"It might," Teomitl said – a shrewder observation than I'd expected from him. "I was in the courtyard yesterday, before sunset. I saw her walk past. She looked nervous."

"Scared?" I asked.

Teomitl shrugged. "Maybe. She had a knife in her belt, and her hand kept wrapping around the hilt. But she'd been afraid for long before that."

"How long?"

"Seven days," Teomitl said. "Maybe more."

Afraid of whom? Of Zollin? Of Neutemoc? Of someone else? Huitzilpochtli cut me down, the suspects kept appearing, and I still had no lead that would explain anything. "And that's all you saw?" It was interesting, but surely not worth sending him to me?

"I saw other things. How they didn't know what to make of her. All the priestesses and the students, they tiptoed around her, because they'd never met her like. She was intense."

His eyes were glazed, and his face had softened imperceptibly. He had obviously been completely infatuated by her. Although I couldn't help feeling slightly suspicious. "What's your date of birth?" I asked.

He looked at me, blankly. "Ten Rabbit in the Year Ten Reed. Why?"

He could have been pretending, but his reaction sounded sincere. I debated over whether to tell him the truth, but I saw no reason not to. "Because nahual magic was used to abduct Eleuia. A jaguar-spirit."

Startled, he looked at me. "Surely you don't think–" The first stirring of anger, clouding his face.

"No," I said. "But I had to make sure."

Teomitl looked at me for a while. "You'll find her?"

"I don't know," I said. Deep down, I feared too much time had elapsed. "I can't promise anything."

"No," Teomitl said. "But…" He checked himself, started to speak again. "I'd like to help."

So that was why Ceyaxochitl had sent him to me: another pair of hands, ready to do my unsavoury work. But I just couldn't take on another apprentice, not another responsibility for another's life. "I don't think…"

He said nothing. He stood watching me. In his eager face I saw Payaxin, my first and only apprentice, for whom every spell had been a delight, every ritual a curiosity to be dissected. Payaxin, who had attempted a summoning without my help, and died for his failure.

I closed my eyes. I couldn't get involved again. It would have been unseemly for a High Priest; I had no time, nothing I could teach him, and I would only lead him into dangers he wouldn't be able to face.

"I can't–" I started, but the next words came unbidden. "Just for a little while, then." A small thing. A task of little importance, that will make him feel useful. And then no more. He wouldn't go the way of Payaxin.

Teomitl nodded.

I went back into the shrine, Teomitl in tow, and hunted around the chests for maguey paper and a writing-reed. Carefully, I wrote down the name of everyone I'd met or heard of, connected with Eleuia.

"Go to the registers," I said. "Check the birthdates of every one of those people."

Teomitl took the paper. He looked relieved, as if he'd leapt over a huge obstacle and found nothing but flat terrain after that. "To see whether they can summon a nahual?"

He was quick; eager to prove himself. He reminded me of Payaxin. Too much.

"Yes," I said. "Also–"

The entrance curtain was wrenched aside; a jarring sound echoed under the wooden rafters of the shrine's roof, as all the bells crashed into each other.

"Acatl-tzin." It was Ichtaca, his face uncannily grim.

"What's the matter?" I asked, a hollow deepening in the pit of my stomach.

"The novice priests have come back from the marketplace. I think there's something outside you need to see."

"Why?" I asked.

"Your brother has been formally charged with the murder of Priestess Eleuia. He's on display in front of the Imperial Palace now, awaiting trial."

In a heartbeat, I was up on my feet, and running out of the shrine.

FIVE

The Caged Man

It was past midday, and the usual throng filled the plaza of the Sacred Precinct. I had to elbow my way through the press of pilgrims and priests to make my way to the Northern Gate and the Tepeyaca causeway. What I had intended as a rush slowed down to a painful crawl.

As always when I passed nearby, I found my gaze drawn to the Great Temple. It was hard to ignore it: the bulk of its double pyramid towered over all the other temples. Celebrants were crowding on its platform.

Even from afar, it was easy to see the way of things. The right half of the platform, devoted to the God of War, Huitzilpochtli, was awash with noblemen, and the blood of numerous sacrifices had made the sacred vessels overflow. The left half of the platform, the temple to Tlaloc, God of Rain, was almost empty, with perhaps half a dozen priests shedding their blood.

Things change, the Quetzal Flower had said. People believe in war and in the sun, more than they believe in rain or in love. And we – the old ones, the gods of the Earth and of the Corn, We who were here first, who watched over your first steps – We fade.

As always, that sight inspired a complex mixture of feelings. My parents had both been peasants: but the true glory of life, they had always told me, lay in war. And wasn't it fitting that the God of War should reign supreme over the Fifth World? Yet I had chosen the path of a humble priesthood over that of the warrior, leaving the glory to my brother. Had it truly been the best choice I could make?

Enough. I couldn't afford melancholy at a time like this.

I tore my gaze away from the Great Temple. Unfortunately, I did so too late to avoid crashing into a group of priests flanking a sacrificial victim: a man with a chalk-whitened face, lips painted in grey. "Sorry."

The victim looked at me with a touch of annoyance, angry at being impeded on his way to a glorious death. The priests just nodded, as one craftsman to another. I resumed my crawl towards the exit.

Outside the Serpent Wall which framed the Sacred Precinct, it was easier to breathe: a clear area had been left between the wall and the first adobe houses. I ran east along the Serpent Wall, towards the Imperial Palace.

Emperor Axayacatl-tzin had built this massive, two-storey building on his accession: a sprawling mass of courtyards, gardens, tribute storehouses and noblemen's apartments, it extended over half the length of the eastern Serpent Wall. The Palace not only housed the Emperor and the high-ranking noblemen of the Mexica Empire, but also the tribunals for freemen, warriors and non-warrior noblemen.

A short flight of polished limestone steps led up to one of the entrances. To the right of the steps was a small platform where the prisoners waited for their trial, crouching in low wooden cages.   Neutemoc was in the first of those, still wearing his Jaguar regalia. His bloodshot eyes suggested he hadn't slept much in the previous night.

When I approached, he started to straighten up and almost banged his head against the ceiling of his cage. Something fluttered in my chest, some obscure guilt for failing him.

"Brother," he said.

I'd expected him to be furious, but he was obviously too weary for that. "Hello, Neutemoc. What are you doing here?"

He snorted. "Do I look as if I know?"

My eyes scanned the platform behind him. I finally saw Yaotl, coming towards me at a leisurely pace, smiling ironically, Huitzilpochtli blind the man. Ceyaxochitl was behind, deep in conversation with a magistrate and a priest I didn't recognise.

"I'll be back," I said, and climbed on the platform to meet Yaotl.

"Acatl," he said, bowing slightly.

I did not bother with pleasantries. "What's the meaning of this?" I didn't wait for him to answer, either. "You tell me I am in charge of this, you tell me I should get some sleep, and the moment I leave you start indicting him!"

Yaotl nodded. "Not much choice."

"Choice?" I looked at the priest with Ceyaxochitl. His blue-streaked face was unfamiliar; but his cloak was finest cotton, embroidered with frogs and sea-shells.

A priest of Tlaloc, God of Rain. And if he was not high in the hierarchy, he was close to someone who was. "I'm not sure I–"

"I think you do," Yaotl said.

Ceyaxochitl bowed to the priest and to the magistrate. The magistrate headed back into the Imperial Palace, while the priest walked away, back towards the Sacred Precinct.

A priest of Tlaloc. Even if Huitzilpochtli was now the only guardian god of the Mexica Empire, the priests of the Storm Lord still wielded considerable political power.

"Politics." The word left a sour taste in my mouth. "Someone wants a culprit?"

Yaotl nodded. "It has to be solved, and fast."

I watched Ceyaxochitl walk towards me. "That priest forced you to do this?" I asked.

She had the grace to look embarrassed, but not for long. "I'm a Guardian, Acatl. I don't make the laws."

"You promised–" I started, and realised how childish I sounded.

I settled for "Neutemoc can't be charged. He's innocent."

"You can't know that."

Sometimes, I hated her shrewdness.

"He's still entitled to a trial, Acatl." Ceyaxochitl leant on her cane, looking old and frail in the sunlight. Healing Emperor Axayacatltzin must have been sapping her energy. And yet she'd still stayed up last night to help me. "It's not over yet."

I turned, briefly, in Neutemoc's direction: sitting in his cage with his knees drawn together, he was the living image of the defeated warrior. "It's late for him," I said. "Very late. What's to say the magistrate won't have the same attitude as you?"

"He wouldn't dare," Ceyaxochitl said. "Penalties for corruption are severe."

She was deluding herself. If she, the Guardian of the Sacred Precinct, had given in to pressure, why should a mere magistrate resist? But I didn't say that. I simply asked, "Who's the priest?"

"His name is Nezahual. But he speaks for his master: Acamapichtli, High Priest of Tlaloc."

I'd thought so. "Acamapichtli wants a conviction?"

Ceyaxochitl shook her head. "He wants revenge, Acatl."

I mulled on this for a while. "He supported Eleuia's nomination as Consort, I presume." Politics. A word that could only be spat. Priests should serve the gods, not indulge in base power-grabbing.

It was a useless fight: every priest cherished the hope of serving at the Imperial Palace. I'd seen that, all too well, back in calmecac school; it had been one of the reasons why I'd turned my back on the most prestigious priesthoods, those of Huitzilpochtli or the Storm Lord, and chosen to make a living as a priest for the Dead, beholden to no one but grieving families.

Ceyaxochitl was watching Neutemoc. "High Priest Acamapichtli had an interest in her. He doesn't like losing pawns."

For some reason, Teomitl's face came back to me, shining with admiration for Eleuia. "I hope his interest was only political," I said, darkly. "She looked as if she was drawing attention, and not because of her talents."

"For some of them, at any rate," Yaotl said, with an amused smile. "You forget that she served the Goddess of Lust."

My fingers clenched of their own accord. "I don't find this funny."

"A shame," Yaotl said.

Ceyaxochitl banged her cane on the platform. I winced. Below the platform, a few passers-by had gathered to watch us: Eagle Knights in their feather uniforms, artisans carrying birds' cages and bars of silver, housewives with their ceramic wares on their back. "Enough, both of you," she said. "Acatl, I apologise for the discomfort, but I had no choice. And neither have you."

"It doesn't mean I'll bow down meekly," I snapped.

Her gaze was wryly amused. "I didn't expect you would. Have you made progress?"

She meant well, but I still didn't feel I could share information with her. "Yes."

Her lips tightened. "I see. We'll leave you to it, then."

"Stay out of it," I said, as calmly as I could. "No more interference."

"I can't promise that. I'm not the mistress of High Priest Acamapichtli," Ceyaxochitl said, clambering down from the platform. "You're intelligent enough to realise I cannot."

Yes. I didn't like it, but it was a given that once the High Priest of Tlaloc had started interfering, he wouldn't stop. If I wanted Neutemoc to have a fair trial, I needed to act quickly. I approached his cage, and knelt to peer through the bars.

"No improvement planned on my situation, I take it," Neutemoc said.

I sighed. "No. Not in the immediate future. How are you feeling?" "You have some nerve," Neutemoc said. "You're the one outside, asking the questions."

"Yes," I said. "And I'm not the one who had a long-lasting affair with a priestess, not to mention a child."

"We didn't–" Neutemoc started, then fell silent.

"Neutemoc?" I asked.

His eyes gazed beyond me, towards the throng in front of the palace. After a moment's hesitation, I turned, and saw a tall woman making her way straight towards us, carrying a baby in a shawl tied around her chest.

Huei, and Neutemoc's youngest child, Ollin, born this last dry season. This was obviously not the moment to broach the subject of illegitimate children.

Huei walked towards the platform as if fighting her way through a press of warriors. She wore a long, flowing tunic with an elaborate pattern of glyphs, and a skirt the colour of jade.

Her hair was brushed in the fashion of married women, in two braids, with the two ends of the braids raised to form two tufts on either side of her forehead, like small horns. Her face was grim, every step deliberate. Neutemoc was clearly going to have an unpleasant moment.

"I think I'll leave," I said.

Neutemoc's gaze didn't move, but his lips tightened. I couldn't tell if he was ashamed, or simply embarrassed. "Please, Acatl."

"It's private," I said. But Huei was already close enough to hear us.

"No," she said. "It's not private. Not once you're arrested and exposed like a common criminal."

Uh-oh. She was really furious, though I couldn't blame her.

"Huei," Neutemoc said.

Her gaze swept him, up and down. "What in the Fifth World did you think you were doing?"

"I know it's not a favourable situation–"

"It's not 'unfavourable'," Huei said. "It's a disaster, Neutemoc. Tell me what I should tell the children, when they ask me about their father."

"There's been a misunderstanding–"

"No," Huei said. "You were foolish enough to get caught bloodyhanded in a priestess's room. I don't think I want to know why."

"Huei," I said. "I don't think this is the time."

"Then when?" she asked. "After they've strangled him, or crushed his head?"

She clearly knew what was going on. Those penalties she had mentioned were those for killing a woman, and for adultery.

"Priestess Eleuia isn't dead," I lied. "We'll find her, and she'll explain."

"Acatl." For the first time I saw pity in her gaze. "Don't lie to me."

"I'm not–"

But Huei had already turned back to Neutemoc. "I can't believe you've been such a fool," she said. Her hand rose: if the cage had had larger gaps between its bars, she'd have hit him.

Neutemoc said nothing. He looked through her, as though he'd already lost her. "I don't think you'd understand, even if I explained."

I glanced to the side of the platform. If my dispute with Ceyaxochitl had attracted some people, it was nothing compared to the crowd that gathered now: a throng of several dozens, men and women, freemen, noblemen and slaves, all staring quite shamelessly at the spectacle before their eyes.

"Why shouldn't I understand? Some words are so simple to say. Some feelings are easy to demonstrate." Huei lowered her hand slowly. "But then you could never do that, could you?" Her voice was bitter.

Hearing them, I felt… out of place, as if I'd tumbled into some other age of the world, where my brother, my successful brother who could do nothing wrong, was awaiting trial; where he and his wife were tearing at each other, oblivious to my presence.

Their marriage had always been happy; they'd had all I could lay no claim to… Hadn't they? The world, as in an earthquake, had shifted under my feet, and I couldn't mould it back into the right shape.

Neutemoc didn't answer Huei. They stared at each other for a while; finally, Huei said, "Acatl. Will you walk me home?"

I had known her for years, from the time she and Neutemoc had been engaged; and in her tense stance I read, very clearly, that she wanted to speak to me, but not before her husband.

I glanced at Neutemoc, who owed me some explanations. But my brother was sitting, dejected, in his cage, not looking at me. Getting him to talk to me was going to be hard, not to mention painful for him. And I needed to be out of here. I needed to be alone, to have a place to breathe, to think.

"I'll come with you," I said to Huei.

She was quiet as we walked through the streets of Moyotlan. The baby on her back slept, wrapped in cotton cloth.

"I can't believe he's such a fool," she said, as we crossed over a canal.

The smell of cooked maize wafted from a street-food seller; my stomach growled.

"He was just in the wrong place–" I started, unwilling to cause her pain.

Huei looked at me, her wide eyes shining in the sunlight. "Do you really believe that?" she asked.

"No," I said, finally, and it was the truth. "I don't know what to believe in any more."

She laughed, bitterly. "That's two of us, then. I knew he didn't love me any more, Acatl. It's not hard to see."

Save, of course, if you had been distancing yourself from the family for years, as I had. "How long has it been going on?"

She shrugged. "Two, three years? It's always hard to determine. He's been such a good father," she said. "A good husband, better than anything I deserved."

"You deserved the best. And so did he."

Huei smiled. "Always such a liar, Acatl?"

I wanted to tell her it was only the truth – that the slender, shy girl my brother had brought home, so eager to learn everything she could about my own life, had deserved so much more than the taint of adultery – so much more than seeing her husband in a cage. But the words couldn't get past my lips.

She guessed them, all the same, and raised a hand to placate my protests. "No, I know you mean well. But you blind yourself. No marriage can last if there's no trust."

"I don't see any lack of trust," I said, though it was only a lie to comfort her.

We'd reached the pyramid temple of our family's calpulli, where a handful of novice priests were busy sweeping the ground with reed brooms, in preparation for the next sacrifice. A throng of people, most of whom I'd known in childhood, turned to stare at us as we passed. News travelled fast in Tenochtitlan. I had no doubt they knew about Neutemoc's arrest.

Huei sighed. "He'd go out at night, you know? He'd walk the streets, with the light and smell of parties spilling ahead of him. He told me he did it to remind himself of what he was."

"I had no idea he was lonely," I said.

"He shouldn't have been." Her voice was low, fierce. "I took care of him, of his household. Why, Acatl?"

"You think he killed Priestess Eleuia?" I asked.

She shrugged. "I think that he could have had the decency to keep his affairs private."

"But you don't like the idea of his having an affair," I said, wondering how bluntly I could go about the subject. Accusing her of murder in front of the calpulli clan didn't seem a good idea.

"What wife does?" Huei asked. "I'd be lying if I said it left me indifferent."

We'd reached a low, white-washed building adorned with frescoes of leaping jaguars: Neutemoc's house. The smell of spices, mingled with the sweeter one of copal incense, rose to my nostrils, a reminder of a time I'd been a regular visitor here. "Come inside, will you?" Huei asked. "I know Mihmatini will ask after you."

"I didn't know she was back," I said, finally. Mihmatini was still in school: she and her comrades had left a year ago on a retreat on the slopes of Popocatepetl's volcano, a day's journey to the south of Tenochtitlan. I had visited her once or twice; but I had got the impression that once her retreat was over, she would join the clergy, not come back to Neutemoc's house.

"She came back a month ago," Huei said. "She thought you still in Coyoacan. As did we, to be honest."

What a family we made. Not even capable of keeping track of each other.

In the courtyard, I asked Huei, "What day were you born on?"

She looked surprised, but not totally disoriented by the question.

"Eight Death," she said. "Why?"

"Nothing," I said.

"Not 'nothing'," she protested gently as we entered the reception room.

"Nahual magic," I said, curtly.

The reception room had changed in four years: all the walls were now covered with frescoes, depicting Huitzilpochtli, our protector God, in His guise as a young warrior. He trampled bound enemies under His huge feet, and a procession of lesser gods with bowed heads followed Him across the walls of the room. On the wicker chests were silver and jade ornaments, and jaguars' pelts covered the ground. An elaborate fan of green quetzal tail-feathers rested against one of the frescoed walls: an object worth at least two years' living for a poor peasant. Neutemoc had clearly earned a larger share of the tribute in the past years, and his family was enjoying the riches that came with his higher status.

Not for long, though, if he was disgraced. My heart tightened in my chest.

Huei set her baby in a wooden cradle. She unrolled a reed mat over one of the jaguar pelts, and sat on the ground. "I'll have the slaves bring some refreshments," she said. "Your sister is watching over the children. But I think you and I would rather wait until we include her in the conversation."

I said nothing. Huei had always been honest with me, which was one of the reasons we'd related so well to one another. "Very well," I said, finally. "Let's start with the awkward questions. Did you abduct or harm Priestess Eleuia?"

Her eyes flickered. "Through nahual magic? You know I can't use that."

No. Being born on the day Eight Death, she had no nahual. But her equivocation wasn't what I had expected, and it frightened me. "Huei, please. Can you answer the question?"

She didn't speak for a while. "I knew there was someone. It's obvious when you no longer have your husband's attention, and even more obvious when you see him acting like an infatuated child. But I didn't know her name."

I studied her for a while. "And if you had known?"

Huei spread her hands, carefully. "I – I don't know what I would have done." She sounded sincere. "But believe me, I wouldn't sum mon a nahual."

"How did you know he'd been arrested?"

"Calpulli gossip," Huei said. She picked up a wooden rattle – one of the children's toys – and flicked it between her fingers with a dry, hollow sound. "I came as soon as I could. Not that it changed anything, of course. The Storm Lord smite him," she said. "Didn't he realise that he'd lose everything? That we'd lose everything? I thought–" She paused, and her eyes glimmered in the light.

She was crying. "Huei…" I said, unsure of what I could do. I extended a hand halfway across the space that separated us.

Like Neutemoc, she was looking through me, as if I didn't exist. "He did things. He rose from his status of peasant to a respected warrior. He was going somewhere, and taking us along with him."

"I don't know what you mean," I said, as gently as I could. I felt as if I were intruding on some private grief: never a pleasant thought, and even worse when you knew the person as well as I knew Huei. "Going somewhere?"

"Making something out of his life," Huei said. "And then, all of a sudden, he realises it's not worth it any more, that he can throw it all into Mictlan."

"I don't think–"

"I know him, Acatl," Huei said. "He was driven."

And you? If he was driven, and making something out of his life, what did you think you were doing?

"And you loved him because of what he was?"

Huei said nothing, but she didn't need to. It was in her eyes: she loved him, and her anger at him was fear; fear that she would lose him to the executioner's mace.

"I'm sorry," she said after a while. "It wasn't meant for you."

I didn't know what to say. I just shook my head, feeling utterly useless. "I'm sorry."

Huei blinked, dispelling the last of her tears, though her voice still shook. Behind her, the gods in the frescoes watched, expressionless, uncaring. "You're not the one at fault. He is, unfortunately." I said, "He might still be acquitted. I'm trying."

"But you don't believe in his innocence," Huei said. "You don't either."

Huei's face tightened. "I believe he was sleeping with that priestess. I don't believe he killed her. He couldn't kill anyone, not in cold blood."

"He's a warrior."

"Yes, he is. But not an assassin, Acatl."

No. But a man used to making hard decisions, often in a short time. Huei wasn't the best judge of Neutemoc's character, being blinded both by jealousy and by love. And I still didn't know whether my brother had fathered Eleuia's child.

I said nothing for a while, thinking of all it would mean to her. I couldn't tell her about the child, or discuss my suspicions. It would have hurt her needlessly.

Huei must have sensed that I had run out of conversation subjects. She rose, went to the door, and clapped her hands to summon a slave. "Bring some chocolate," she said. "And tell Mihmatini to come, too."

She sat down again. "So," she said. "It's been a while since we last saw each other."

Four years, to be precise. Four years of minding my own small parish in Coyoacan – stopping, from time to time, to dwell on Huei and Mihmatini, but never gathering enough will to walk into that house again. The house where Mother had died; where Father's body had lain, untended to for hours.

"You haven't changed," Huei said. "Not really."

I shrugged. "I've come back to Tenochtitlan. But things are the same. I've been doing nothing much. The usual for a priest."

Huei's eyes narrowed. "You cheapen yourself," she said.

I shook my head. "You want success? Ask Neutemoc." Ask Mihmatini; ask Father and Mother. Ask them who had taken them in.

"Not any more." Her voice, loaded with terrible sarcasm, erased whatever I'd been about to say: we stared at each other in silence, until the noise of a shrieking child broke the awkwardness.

"Uncle Acatl!" A young child, whom I didn't recognise. Mazatl, I realised with a shock. She'd been much younger last time I'd been in this house, barely starting to piece sentences together.

Her brother Necalli was more dignified. I tried to remember how old he was. Eight, nine years old? His head was shaved; he wore the single lock of hair that marked the unproved warrior.

And behind him, my sister Mihmatini, grown from a gangly girl into a beautiful woman, blossoming in the calmecac like a marigold flower. She walked slowly, gracefully, her shirt swishing, revealing anew with every step the glint of jade bracelets at her ankles. Her hair, tied in a long queue at her back, shone like polished obsidian. My heart tightened in my chest.

"The lost brother comes home?" she asked, with a smile.

I shrugged. "Sometimes," I said. It had been too long since I had last seen her: my fault, for not finding the courage to walk back into that house in spite of Neutemoc's presence.

Mihmatini made a mock punching gesture. "Stop being so serious."

"It comes with the position, I'm afraid," I said.

She grimaced. "Sure, and I'm the Consort of the Emperor."

She sat down, with both children crowding near her. The toddler Mazatl, in particular, kept trying to climb into her lap, and Mihmatini gently pushed her off every time.

Slaves brought refreshments, and a light lunch: maize cakes, and frogs with chilli peppers, spread on the reed mat so we could each help ourselves from the ceramic dishes. I was famished. In fact, I realised with a shock, my last meal dated back to the previous evening. I'd been walking around the Sacred Precinct and the city on a completely empty stomach.

Mihmatini watched me gulp down a frog, and barely hid a smile. "I think someone's forgotten to eat today."

"Men," Huei snorted. "All the same."

I hurriedly swallowed, so I could answer. "Now you're being unfair."

Mihmatini raised her cup of chocolate to her lips, and inhaled the pungent aroma of vanilla and cacao. "Maybe, maybe," she said. She looked at Huei, obviously trying very hard to stifle a laugh.

I'd visited Mihmatini in her calmecac, but had never seen her so relaxed, so radiant. For all that she'd spent the last ten years away, she seemed to be utterly at ease with Huei and the children, so much more than me.

The rest of the meal was much the same: spent on pleasantries, listening to the two women mocking me, and carefully avoiding the shadow Neutemoc's arrest cast over both their futures. Afterwards, I walked with Mihmatini in the courtyard garden, among the marigold and tomato flowers. "You look well," I said.

She grimaced. "I can't say the same about you." She poked me between the ribs. Surprised, I leapt out of her path, and she laughed again. "You're a priest for the Dead, not Mictlantecuhtli. The salient bones and skeleton look aren't compulsory, Acatl."

"Ha-ha," I said, trying to be serious. But in her company, it was hard to stay so, hard to remember all that waited for me outside. "I thought you were going to stay in that temple."

Mihmatini's face turned grave. "I thought so, too," she said. "The priestesses wanted me to stay. They said they had never had a student so gifted with magic. But…"

She shrugged. "In the end, it wasn't where my heart was. I wanted to go home, find a husband of my own, raise my own children."

All things that were forbidden to priests. "I see," I said. "And since then…" I started, wondering why she was still in Neutemoc's house, and not married.

She shrugged. "It will come, in time. I'm not desired."

"Surely, as Neutemoc's protégée–"

She blushed. "He's been busy lately."

My stomach contracted. What had Neutemoc done, again? "Too busy to look for a husband?"

"I'm young," Mihmatini said. "I can wait. It's going to take time for this to be sorted out, I expect."

"I hope not." Both for Neutemoc's sake, and for her own. She wasn't young. Eighteen was old, in a land where the first marriages were contracted when the girls were sixteen. She wasn't plain, or poor. But a husband would want a girl able to bear children; and the more Neutemoc and Huei waited, the more prospective alliances disappeared.

Mihmatini must have caught some of my thoughts. "He means well."

How could I answer that? "He's been busy, as you said." Busy quarrelling with Huei; busy giving in to the charms of a priestess. Great occupations, worthy of a warrior.

A thought occurred to me. "You sleep here."

Mihmatini pointed to a small opening, to the eastern side of the courtyard, its entrance-curtain adorned with leaping deer. "In that room. Why?"

"Do you know where Huei was yesterday night?"

She puffed her cheeks, thoughtfully, a habit neither Mother nor the calmecac had broken out of her. "Yesterday night? Pretty well. We played patolli all night. And a good thing we used tokens instead of cacao beans, or I'd be out of money."

I made a sweeping gesture, taking in her red-dyed cotton shirt, her wide skirt with its finely embroidered hem, and the jade necklace she wore around her neck. "Aren't you already out of money, owning all of that?"

She looked at me, her eyes widening in mock surprise. "Why, is that a joke, brother?"

It had to be written somewhere, on some divination priest's codex, that I'd never have the upper hand with her. "Very well. I'll stick to serious subjects, if that curbs your hilarity. Are you sure about the patolli? You didn't step out at some point?"

"For a very short time," Mihmatini said. "Huei couldn't have gone out and murdered the priestess, or whatever you think she did. She didn't have time."

"Hmm," I said. It all sounded solid. But still…

"You're calling me a liar?" Mihmatini said.

She might have protected Huei out of friendship or gratitude. But if that was so, my sister had changed much in the years since our childhood. I didn't think that was the case. "You might not realise the significance of something you saw, but–"

"I know what I saw," Mihmatini said. "Huei was with me the whole evening, Acatl. I'll swear to it in court, if it comes to that."

I hadn't really thought Huei was the culprit, in any case. She might have hated Neutemoc's lover, but one thing was sure: she truly loved her husband. Which didn't leave me with anything I could use to spare Neutemoc the death penalty.

SIX

The Seekers

I came back to the temple with a full stomach, intending to stay only briefly before I resumed my talk with Neutemoc. But I found Teomitl waiting for me at the entrance to the storehouse, chatting with Ezamahual: a lean, nervous novice priest, a son of peasants who couldn't believe he'd had the good fortune of entering calmecac. Given how captivated Ezamahual was by Teomitl's talk, I could have emptied the storehouse in front of him without raising the alarm.

Ah well. Youth would wear off at some point. I belatedly realised I wasn't so old myself: only thirty. But I felt old; out of place.

Teomitl didn't see me immediately, but Ezamahual did. He straightened up and Teomitl turned.

"Acatl-tzin. I've come back from the registers. I have what you asked from me."

He was still filled with that coiled energy; it lay beneath every word, every short, stabbing gesture he made with his hands. "Out of all the names you gave me, only Priestess Zollin was born on a Jaguar day."

He gave me a quick account of the names: neither the dancers, Huei nor the other senior priestesses of the calmecac could have summoned that nahual.

There was one name missing from that recitation, though. "Mahuizoh?" I asked. "The Jaguar Knight? You couldn't find him?"

"I searched," Teomitl said, in what was almost an angry retort. I was starting to understand such a reaction was usual with him, and wondering if I had the patience to deal with that. "There are two Mahuizohs who are members of the Jaguar Knights."

"And?" I asked.

"Their birthdates?" I expected him to protest, but he surprised me by closing his eyes. "One Rain and Three Jaguar."

"I'm impressed," I admitted. "What about their age?"

"They're both around thirty-six," Teomitl said.

Tlaloc's lightning strike me. It didn't remove Mahuizoh from my list. Though it was significantly shorter now, with just the priestess Zollin, the Jaguar Knight Mahuizoh, and my brother Neutemoc left. I wished the search parties would find Eleuia, or, failing that, some evidence that would help me decide.

Teomitl was still standing, waiting. "You did well," I said.

"No." He sounded disgusted. "I was one hour at the records for six birthdates. That's hardly the pinnacle of efficiency."

"You're too hard on yourself," I said. An uncanny trait, when coupled with his staggering arrogance.

He shook his head. "Realist. Give me something else to do."

"I don't have–"

"You're in the middle of an investigation, and you're doing it alone." He must have seen my face, for he said, "The Guardian told me."

I wish I could tell Ceyaxochitl some words of my own. "You're not giving the orders," I snapped. "That's the first rule you'll have to learn."

Teomitl smiled, and I knew why. I'd already given halfway in. "Tell me the others," he said.

I'd sworn I wouldn't take any apprentices, that I wouldn't hold out my heart to be torn apart. "You have no idea where this will lead you."

"The underworld?" he asked.

"You should have enough good sense to be afraid of Mictlan."

"Yes," Teomitl said. "I'm afraid. But don't the courageous go on, even in the face of fear?"

Again, an unexpected answer. There was obviously more to him than his arrogance, and that had to be the reason Ceyaxochitl had sent him to me.

But I still didn't know what to do with him.

"I can help," Teomitl said. "I can do better than this."

I was going to regret it. But still… "Very well," I said. "Go back into the girls' calmecac. See if you can find some trail, or someone who's seen something. That nahual didn't enter here through the main gate, and we still don't know how it left the building." What in the Fifth World had happened to that beast? At least, it would keep Teomitl busy for a while.

Teomitl nodded. If he was excited, he let nothing of that show on his face, just went rigid, like a warrior taking orders from his commander.

"I'll be back," he said.

As he walked past, a tendril of something brushed me. I narrowed my gaze, opening up my priest-senses. A slight, almost transparent veil of magic hung around Teomitl: not nahual, not underworld magic, but something tantalisingly familiar. Something…

The more I tried to bring it into focus, the more it slipped away from my mind.

"Teomitl!" I called.

He turned, halfway through the courtyard. "Yes?"

It was as if something had reached out, and brushed against his whole body, leaving an intricate network of marks over his skin. It didn't look harmful. Quite the reverse, in fact: it was an elaborate protection spell, one I had never seen.

"No, nothing. Be careful," I said, finally.

"He's an interesting man," Ezamahual said to me after Teomitl had left. "A bit abrasive, but interesting."

I nodded. "He must have stories to tell."

Ezamahual's lean, dour face lit up. "He's heard tales of the jungles to the south, and he's even met a merchant who went north, into Tarascan land. But he's not boasting. Just sharing." His unquestioning, almost boyish enthusiasm was endearing. In many ways, Ezamahual reminded me of myself at a younger age, when everything in the priesthood was still a wonder, opening pathways that radiated through the whole of the universe.

"I imagine Teomitl hasn't seen many things himself, though," I pointed out.

Ezamahual shrugged. "Second-hand accounts are better than nothing. And he's too young, in any case."

With a jolt, I realised that Teomitl had to be at least four years younger than Ezamahual: an adolescent, barely out of childhood. "Yes," I said, finally. "He's very young."

Ezamahual shifted position slightly. "He'll have time to see the world," he said, always pragmatic. "Warriors travel quite a bit."

They did. Most battlefields those days were further and further away from Tenochtitlan. Perhaps, one day, the fabled jungles, where the quetzal birds roamed free, would be part of the Mexica Empire. And Teomitl would have taken his place in their conquest.

None of my concern now. I had other things to do, like try to see Neutemoc and coerce him into admitting the truth about his relationship with Eleuia.

I walked back to the Imperial Palace on my own, under the light of late afternoon. Outside the Jaguar House, some sort of ceremony was going on. Three warriors and three sacred courtesans were going through the steps of a dance, to the piercing, slow tune of flutes: the jaguar pelts the warriors wore mingled with the courtesans' garish cotton skirts, weaving a pattern like a spell cast over the world.

Among the crowd that watched the dance, several faces stood out: a young girl of noble birth, her face flushed with lust, and a scruffy, ageless man, his face covered in grime, the wooden collar of a slave around his neck. His expression was hard to decipher, but I thought it was hatred. Odd.

I did not dwell on it for long: I elbowed my way out of the crowd, and made my way to the display platform in front of the Imperial Palace.

But when I arrived, Neutemoc was not there any more.

Stifling a curse, I paced up and down among the cages, drawing glances and a few jeers from the prisoners awaiting trial. My brother wasn't anywhere to be found.

"Excuse me," I asked one of Neutemoc's former neighbours in captivity. "The Jaguar Knight who was here…?"

The prisoner, a middle-aged freeman with a tattered loincloth, spat at my feet. I didn't step back. I had nothing to do with his case, and so could do little to him. And he knew it. Intimidation was the only strategy possible.

After a while, he shrugged. "They took him for questioning."

"They?" I asked, with the first stirrings of fear in my belly.

"The magistrate and some good-for-nothing, fancy priest."

Nezahual. The servant of the High Priest of Tlaloc, the one who wanted my brother convicted at all costs.

"Thank you," I said, and I climbed the rest of the steps into the palace.

Like the Great Temple, it was a huge complex: a maze of gardens, private apartments and sumptuous rooms. On the ground floor were the courts of justice and the state rooms; on the upper floor, the apartments of Emperor Axayacatl-tzin, and of the Rulers of Texcoco and Tlacopan, the other partners in the Triple Alliance that kept the Mexica Empire strong.

I headed straight for the military courts. The vast, raftered room was deserted: I made my way towards the back, and the patio opening on the gardens. Only one magistrate remained: an old man sitting on a reed mat and dictating notes to a clerk.

"And you would be?" he asked peevishly.

I didn't know him, but then my cases seldom came to a military court. "I'm Acatl. I'm looking for a Jaguar Knight."

The magistrate sneezed, turned to his clerk with his eyebrows raised. The clerk said, "He's being heard in the Imperial Audience."

What? It wasn't possible. The Imperial Courts were reserved for grave crimes that touched on the security of the Empire.

"It's not that serious," I said, when words came back to me.

The clerk shrugged. "It is, when the High Priest of the Storm Lord becomes involved."

I cursed under my breath, consigning politics and politicians to the depths of Mictlan. "Where is the audience?" I asked.

"Closed audience," the clerk said. He laid his writing reed on top of his maguey-fibre paper, and looked at me. "No one comes in."

"But I'm in charge of the investigation," I protested.

"Not any more, it would seem," the clerk said. He might have been sorry, though it was hard to tell. I wanted to scream, to tear something, anything to lessen the growing feeling of frustration in my chest.

"An important case?" the old magistrate asked. Beneath the rheumy veil, his gaze was still sharp.

I didn't want to discuss the details of the inquiry with a stranger. "Very important," I said.

He tapped his cane against the stone floor, in a gesture eerily reminiscent of Ceyaxochitl. "Supernatural case, eh? That's why you'd be involved. Though the High Priest…" He looked at me again. "I'm not without influence myself," he said.

Hardly daring to hope, I asked, "Can you get me into the Imperial Audience?"

He coughed. "No," he said. "I won't waste my influence on a guilty man."

"I don't know whether he's guilty. There's barely enough evidence," I said, a hollow growing in my heart. I didn't know what to think any more. I had few leads, and every time I seized hold of one, things seemed to become worse.

"That's not what I heard," the magistrate said. "It seems to be damaging, the situation they've found him in."

"Yes, but I don't…" I started, then caught myself. Whatever I admitted to couldn't make things worse. "He's my brother. I can't let him fall because of politics."

The old magistrate watched me, as unmoving as the statues of the gods in the temple. "The Emperor's Justice is swift," the old magistrate said. "But not that swift. It will take at least another three days of audiences for the Revered Speaker's representatives to reach a decision. If you have any evidence, you may bring it to me. Ask for Pinahui-tzin."

"What kind of evidence?" I asked.

"Proof of his innocence, or of someone else's guilt," Pinahui-tzin said.

"In a bare handful of days?" It was hope, of a kind, but barely within my reach, unless Chicomecoatl, Seven Serpent, saw fit to bless me with Her luck.

Pinahui-tzin rapped his cane on the floor: a parent scolding a disobedient child. "I'm no maker of miracles, young man. I offer you a chance. Whether you take it is your own problem."

I nodded. I had no real choice. But I prayed that Pinahui-tzin was right, and that Neutemoc would survive a few more days.

Otherwise I couldn't see myself telling the news to Huei, or to Mihmatini.

I did try to locate the Imperial Audience, but Pinahui-tzin had been right: the guards wouldn't let anyone in, not even me.

The Duality curse politics and politicians. If Neutemoc was innocent–

You don't know that, my inner voice pointed out to me.

No, I didn't. But let oblivion take me if I allowed Neutemoc to die because of priestly politics.

I left the Imperial Palace in a sour mood, and headed back to my temple. In front of the Jaguar House, the dance had ended and the dancers had left. The scruffy slave was still there, though the two guards at the entrance pretended not to see him.

After my first aborted attempt at the House, I hadn't come back – if I thought about it, more out of fear than out of genuine reasons. But time was growing short for Neutemoc. Already the sun was low in the sky, and night would soon fall.

I walked straight to one of the guards and bowed to him.

He was dressed in full Jaguar regalia, in a uniform even more sumptuous than Neutemoc's. The jaguar skin covering him had no visible seams: it wrapped around him tightly, the jaguar's skin fitting tightly around his own head. A plume of red, emerald-green and blue feathers protruded from between the jaguar's ears; and his face between the jaguar's jaws was painted in an intricate red pattern. In one of his hands, the knight held a spear; in the other a shield covered with red feathers. He looked at me, puzzled, as if an insect had suddenly elected to speak to him.

Sometimes, I remembered why I hated warriors, and Jaguar and Eagle Knights worst of all. "I want to speak to a Jaguar Knight," I said.

The guard shook his head, and subtly moved to bar my way. Nothing unexpected, sadly. "Your kind isn't allowed in here."

"I know," I said, exasperated by the thoughtless slight. Only Jaguar Knights could enter the House. "But you can at least tell me whether he's here."

The guard looked thoughtful, probably deciding whether I would leave faster if he answered me than if he didn't.

"His name is Mahuizoh," I snapped. "I don't know his calpulli." From the corner of my eye, I saw the ill-kempt slave was leaning forward, suddenly interested.

The guard shrugged. "We have several of those."

"I know." Two, according to Teomitl's research. "Unfortunately…" I started, and realised that admitting to lack of knowledge would allow him to dismiss me. "He has a sister in the girls' calmecac."

"Mahuizoh of the Coatlan calpulli?" the slave said, his mouth yawning wide open. Half his teeth were missing – knocked out, by the jagged looks of the remains – and the others were stained as black as dried blood. He breathed into my face the rankness of someone who hadn't washed body or teeth for several days. I recoiled.

The guard slammed his spear on the ground. "Huacqui. Be silent."

The slave smiled. "I don't see why I should. The mighty Mahuizoh got me thrown out of the Brotherhood, didn't he?"

"Be silent," the guard said, raising his spear, but Huacqui leapt back, with more agility than I would have credited him with.

"Let me tell you about Mahuizoh and his high standards of behaviour. He gets me expelled from the Knights on a trifle–"

The guard growled, but he was clearly unwilling to abandon his post. "You stole from your comrades, Huacqui. That's an offence."

Huacqui cackled. "Yes, yes," he said. "But Mahuizoh… he enjoys his women, doesn't he?"

My heart gave a lurch in my chest. "What do you mean, he enjoys his women?"

"The talk of our clan," Huacqui said. "He has his own little prostitute in the girls' calmecac–"

"He has a sister," I said.

"A convenient excuse. He'd have found another if she hadn't been there. He's been sleeping with that priestess for ever." Huacqui stamped on the ground with both feet. "And he gets the honour and the glory, while I have to sell myself as a slave to earn a living."

"You were always too lazy for your own good," the guard snapped. "And there is no truth – none at all, do you hear? – in those rumours." That last was obviously addressed to me, but in the tense features of the guard's face I read the exact opposite of what he wanted me to believe.

"A priestess," I said to Huacqui. "Which one?"

He shrugged. "Priestess of Xochiquetzal. I don't remember her name. But he was jealous of all the men she kept flirting with, all the young warriors she'd eye like potential lovers." His face was sly.

Neutemoc had said that Eleuia had flirted with him, quite ostentatiously. If Mahuizoh had been her lover, and if he was indeed a jealous man, then he had motive both to kill her and to make sure my brother was indicted for her murder. "Priestess Eleuia?" I asked.

The guard winced; Huacqui burst out laughing, with a malevolent expression. "So it's come out, hasn't it? Yes, our dear little Jaguar Knight and his whore–"

The butt of the guard's spear caught Huacqui in the face, throwing him to the ground. "You – will – be – silent," the guard said, accentuating every word of the sentence. "You will stop spreading such filth, or I might just be tempted to do more than strike you."

Huacqui, lying on the ground with blood pouring into his eyes, just laughed and laughed. He knew the damage had already been done.

I knelt by him; I hesitated to grab him, as he was so filthy, but he pulled himself upward without my help. "Will you swear to that in court?" I asked.

He smiled, a truly unpleasant expression. "If it brings him down, I'll swear to anything."

"You've seen them together?" I asked.

He shook his head. "But I'll find you people who have."

I was afraid he'd bribe them, but I didn't think he was wrong about Mahuizoh's relationship with Eleuia. Mahuizoh had reacted far too strongly to her disappearance.

I drew Huacqui away from the Jaguar House, gave him a few cacao beans, and got his address. He also gave me a description of Mahuizoh, distinctive enough to recognise him if I saw him. It wasn't much, but it was more than I'd previously had.

Now I needed to see Xochiquetzal, and find out who the father of Eleuia's baby was. Hopefully, it wouldn't be Neutemoc. Please, Duality, let it not be my brother, I didn't need any more damaging evidence. I shook myself. I was making progress. There was hope for Neutemoc.

I just wished I could be sure that he was innocent of Eleuia's abduction.

I walked back into my temple in the gathering darkness, and headed straight for the storehouse. Ezamahual had gone, presumably to join one of the vigils, the death-hymns of which echoed through the courtyard; Palli had taken his place.

I needed suitable offerings for the Quetzal Flower, and I didn't remember what those would be. I could have asked the ever-useful Ichtaca, but I didn't want to lower myself in his esteem yet another time.

"Good evening, Palli," I said. "Watching the storehouse again?"

Palli shrugged. "I like it. It's quiet out here."

We had offerings, but not enough to tempt a thief; not when there were larger, richer temples within a spear's throw.

"I need to look in there."

Palli nodded. He wasn't going to question me, in any case. "Help yourself."

Inside, the storehouse was as dark and crowded as ever: owls screeched in protest as the light of my lamp fell on them; scuffling sounds came from the rabbit cages. The combined smells of copal, cedar oil and alum made my head spin. We'd have to sweep the place clean one of these days, before someone fainted in here.

Xochiquetzal… It had been a long time since I'd gone to calmecac, a long time since I'd learnt the hymns and proper offerings for all the gods. I remembered those for the gods I dealt with in everyday life: Mictlantecuhtli, Lord Death, and Mixcoatl, Lord of the Hunt. Xochiquetzal I'd never had many dealings with, for obvious reasons: She was hardly associated with death.

The light of my torch fell on an array of quetzal feathers, stacked near a pile of copal incense cones. Feathers? They were symbols of beauty, but they were not distinctive: I could think of a dozen gods who would accept that particular offering.

For Xochiquetzal, what I needed was some kind of flowers…

Palli's shadow fell across the doorway, casting me in darkness. "Do you know what you're looking for, Acatl-tzin?"

I shrugged, unwilling to admit to weakness. What a poor High Priest I made. "I'm fine," I started, and then thought of Neutemoc. Hmm. I changed my mind. "I need suitable offerings for Xochiquetzal," I said. "Would you remember what those are, by any chance?"

Limned by sunlight, Palli's face was unreadable. "For the Goddess of Beauty? Any flowers, but poinsettias are Her favourites."

A flower as red as the blood of sacrifices. I bit back on a snort. How unsubtle some gods could be.

"Anything else?"

"Butterflies," Palli said. "But we don't have those here. You can find the flowers in the temple gardens, but living butterflies… I could send to the marketplace."

The animal marketplace would be closed, and wouldn't reopen until late tomorrow morning. "I'm not sure we have time," I said. "Anything else?"

"Jade earrings. And" – I heard Palli tap the mace at his side – "quetzals would do. Live ones, not feathers."

"Do you have any of those?"

"The jade earrings, yes. Quetzals… I think we have a pair somewhere at the back." He stepped into the storehouse with a torch in his hand. "Let me see. We got a rattle and drum from the vigil of that woman, four days ago. They're for Her Consort, but She's also patron of music, when the mood takes Her…"

He was going through the rows of aligned offerings with the ease of experience, picking up small items and discarding them after no more than a casual glance. I felt… not entirely useless, but close. I strolled back to the door of the storehouse and waited in the darkness.

Which was why I saw Ixtli, the head of the search parties, walk into the temple courtyard with a grim expression on his face.

My stomach sank. Whatever news there could be, it would not be good. I detached myself from the wall. "Ixtli!" I called out.

He bowed to me. "Acatl-tzin." In the gathering darkness, he looked even worse: his face drained of colour, his gnarled hands crooked like the claws of an animal.

"Any news?"

"Only bad." Ixtli shook his head, apparently annoyed. Suddenly he reminded me of an older Teomitl, still unwilling to forgive his own failures. "We searched all four districts of Tenochtitlan. Then we went further, into the Floating Gardens. But there was no track of that beast. It's as if it has vanished from the surface of the earth."

As it had vanished from within an enclosed calmecac. Something wasn't right about that nahual. What had I missed?

"I see," I said. "You found tracks near the calmecac?"

"No," Ixtli said. "No tracks. We were searching houses at random, on no more than instinct." He fingered the jade amulet around his neck, and said, "There was no chance we would find her."

"I see," I said. "Are you going to stop the search?"

Ixtli shrugged. "No, not yet. But I don't think you should depend on us."

No. I didn't think I should.

"The priestess," Ixtli said. "Do you think she's still alive?"

I shook my head. "I think it's too late."

His gaze held me, unblinkingly. "So do I. Will you be needing any more help?"

I searched my mind for something he could give me, but there didn't seem to be anything. "No, I don't think so. You can take off the jade amulets," I said. "Not much use against a nahual, anyway."

Ixtli smiled. "Better be safe. I'll go reassure my wife, and then I'll go back to the Duality House. Come there if you need us," he said, and then he turned on his heel and left.

Palli had gathered the offerings near the storehouse door. "You mean to go out again?" he asked.

I looked up at the sky. The night had well and truly fallen this time: there would be vigils to take, and offerings to make at the proper times. The Quetzal Flower would certainly not want to receive me at this late hour; and I had seen already what would happen if I tried to enter uninvited. I did want to help Neutemoc; but angering a goddess was not going to arrange matters.

"No," I said, with a sigh. "I'll go tomorrow morning."

I was not, by any means, looking forward to the morrow. One interview with Xochiquetzal had been affecting enough; this one looked set to be even worse.

SEVEN

The Chalca Wars

The following morning, I woke up, made my offerings of blood to Lord Death, and went back to my temple. The priests seemed to have all disappeared. After a cursory search, I found them gathered in one of the largest rooms, watching Ichtaca examine the body of a dead woman: the older offering priests in front, the novice priests a little way behind – and, all the way at the back of the room, a handful of calmecac students, their pale faces fascinated.

"No blood," Ichtaca was saying, pointing at the livid face. "She's been in that position for a while…"

He'd be cutting her open next, if he wasn't satisfied, trying to determine if her death had been natural or provoked. It was a common enough event in the temple. I'd done a few such examinations myself, but thankfully I'd never had the whole clergy in attendance.

I withdrew quietly from the doorframe, and went to the storehouse to collect Palli's offerings. Then I walked back to Xochiquetzal's house.

In the courtyard, the same insolent slave was waiting for me, lounging against the trunk of a pine tree like a man who had all the time in the world.

"Back again, priest? You must really love Her."

I said, "I'd like to see Her, if it's not too much trouble." That last, because I couldn't quite contain my anger.

He shrugged, fully aware of my impatience, basking in it. "Probably not. But then who knows?"

He sauntered into the main room, closing the entrance-curtain behind him; and came back with a satisfied smile on his face.

"So?" I asked. The quetzal birds softly called to each other as the cage rocked in my hands.

He smiled, wider this time. "You may see Her, priest." His gaze took in the offerings I was laden with, and he pursed his lips. "And pray that what you bring is sufficient."

Inside, all was the same: the musky darkness, with the copal incense covering a rank smell that might have been, unsurprisingly, mingled sweat and sex; the goddess shining in the gloom, lounging on Her chair.

"Acatl," She said, and even my name on Her lips was alluring.

My fingers clenched around the handle of the cage. "I've brought you what you asked for."

She smiled. One of Her hands went, absent-mindedly, to rub at Her eyes, and something glistening fell to the floor. A tear, perhaps? But gods didn't cry. "And you thought you could just drop them on the floor and be done?"

I had hoped, but known it wouldn't be enough. "No," I said.

I laid the cage, the rattle and the wrapped jade earrings on the floor, and slowly divested myself of my cloak. Around my wrists hung bracelets of sea-shells: an odd feeling for me, since my usual worship did not include music. I tried to forget how foolish I looked – Neutemoc, I did this for Neutemoc – and slowly started singing the words of the hymn:

"You were born in Paradise

You come from the Place of Flowers

You, the only flower, the new, the glorious one

Dwelling in the House of Dawn, a new, a glorious flower…"

As I sang, I moved my wrists, so that the clinking sounds of the sea-shells accompanied the words I uttered, filling the silences with their voice.

"Go forth to the dancing-place, to the place of water,

To the houses of Tamoanchan…"

Xochiquetzal shifted on Her chair. Was it just my impression, or had She grown larger? Her eyes shone in the gloom, like those of a jaguar about to leap. And Her smile… Her smile was dazzling, revealing teeth as neat and as sharp as those of sharks.

"Hear the call of the quetzal bird, o youths,

Hear its flute along the river, o women,

Go forth to the dancing-place, to the place of water,

To the houses of Tamoanchan…"

She'd risen from Her chair, was walking towards me, growing larger and larger with each step, until Her shadow entirely enfolded me – and She kept smiling: the same smile that sent a thrill running through me – fear or desire I didn't know, I couldn't separate them, it was all I could do to keep singing…

"Hear… it calling out to the gods…"

And then She was by my side, kneeling to touch the cage of the quetzal birds. It burst apart in a shower of sparks, and the male ascended into the air, a streak of emerald-green and blood-red. It kept flying upwards, even though I knew it should have hit the rafters of the ceiling; but the room had changed, become vast and unknowable, its walls the dense undergrowth of the jungle, the dais a brackish pool, smelling of mud and fragrant herbs.

At the apex of its flight, the male quetzal folded its wings and plummeted downwards, its long green tail streaming behind it like the unbound hair of a courtesan. It sang as it dived: a hollow, highpitched sound that seemed to meld with its descent, and that sent a thrill through my bones, as if I were the one courting the female, I the one with lust raging through my veins.

The female bird, still on the ground, raised its eyes. At the last possible moment, the male broke out of the dive and came to perch on the remnants of the cage, cocking its head questioningly. The female made a quick, nodding movement. And, in a blur of green and blue they were upon each other, mating with the desperation of butterflies about to die.

Nausea, harsh, unexpected, welled up in my throat. I turned my gaze away from the birds.

The Quetzal Flower was back on Her dais, smiling. In Her hand were the jade earrings: she tossed them up and down, unheeding of the stone's fragility. "An interesting display, Acatl."

The room hadn't reverted: we could still have been in the southern jungle, or in the Heaven of Tamoanchan, where all living things were born. The smell of muddy earth, mingling with the memory of copal incense, was overpowering.

I said nothing. In the face of who She was, all my words had scattered. The jade earrings went clink-clink in Xochiquetzal's hands.

"Tolerable, I might say. Certainly a step in the right direction."

It hurt to… Gather my thoughts, I had to gather my thoughts. "You promised–"

She inclined her head, gracefully. "Did I? Only in exchange for proper worship."

"It – has – been – offered," I managed to whisper.

"Has it?" the Quetzal Flower asked. Her voice was sly. "Other things are expected of a worshipper."

A wave of desire swept through me, so strong I had to bite my lips in order not to cry out. I wanted Her as I'd never wanted any woman, any of my childhood loves, there could be no refusing her.

Was this, I thought, distantly, what Eleuia had had: some power that had drawn men to her like bees to honey?

Eleuia.

Neutemoc.

There was no time, not to let myself be battered into submission. "I gave – you – your due," I said, my voice breaking on each word. I felt like a fish, swimming upriver; like a dead soul, climbing the Obsidian Mountains, shards driven in hands and feet, a burning desire to yield, to vanish into oblivion…

Too easy.

"Give me–"

"Your answer?" Xochiquetzal sounded disappointed. "You could have so much more, Acatl."

"No," I whispered. "I – haven't come – here for illusions – for bliss–"

"Bliss is My dominion, Acatl," the Quetzal Flower said. But She had shrunk, become more human, if such a term could be applied to Her. "But if you reject it…" She made a sweeping gesture with Her hands, and the room, too, seemed to shrink.

"I… am not Your servant."

"No." Her voice was angry, or perhaps bitter? "You never were. Go bury yourself with the dead, Acatl, if you can't deal with what makes us alive."

"I–" I started, slowly, wondering why her accusation cut me to the core.

Xochiquetzal smiled, a sated cat once more; but I could feel the undercurrent of frustration in her stance. Next to me, the two quetzal birds had grown still, devouring each other with their gazes.

"The baby's father?" Xochiquetzal asked.

"Give me his name," I whispered. "The proper offerings have been made. The hymn was sung, and the dance was right, every step of it."

The Quetzal Flower let go of the jade bracelets. They crashed to the ground, shattered into a thousand pieces. I could have wept at Her casual rejection; but those weren't my thoughts, they were Hers. I was – a priest, first and foremost – a man with an indicted brother. I had no desires of my own: no lovers, no children, no mark on the world.

No.

Still Her thoughts.

"Give me his name," I said, again, articulating each syllable, letting the familiar sounds anchor me to the Fifth World.

On Her chair, the Quetzal Flower hissed. But finally she spoke. "His name? He was a man who loved her. A warrior she met in the Chalca Wars, and who understood her like no one else could." She paused, rubbed at Her eyes, and She was no goddess, just a middle-aged woman with an ailment that wouldn't go away. "You never understood her, Acatl. You went right and left, and you think you can encompass her."

"No," I said, and it was the truth. "I know nothing about her. But there's no time. I need the father's name."

"There always is time," Xochiquetzal said, shaking Her head. And She went on as if I hadn't spoken. "Her parents had to sell her during the Great Famine, did you know? Because they were poor and couldn't feed her, they offered her to the first rich man who came along."

"I don't see what this has to do…" A name. I needed a name that I could give to Pinahui-tzin, so that Neutemoc would be free. A name, so that I could know the truth.

"He was a bully," the Quetzal Flower said. She shook her head. "He bought her because he needed a slave on whom to release his anger, and he beat her every time she did something out of turn."

"Slaves aren't treated that badly," I said. "She could have complained–"

"To whom? She was eight at the time, Acatl. She didn't know better."

"It's interesting, but–"

"She wanted to be safe," Xochiquetzal said. "After the Great Famine was over, and her parents bought her back, she swore to herself that her family wouldn't ever starve again, that she would have enough power to be sheltered from harm. But in this world, there's no such thing." She smiled. "She swore Herself to me, because priests never go hungry."

Safe. All that, to be hated and despised by everyone?

As if She'd read my thoughts, the Quetzal Flower said, "But a woman shouldn't grasp for power. It's unseemly, isn't it? Her superiors thought her over-ambitious. Her peers thought her obsessed. Her lovers – and she had many – thought her uncanny. Such is the price."

"Please…" I said. "There's no time…"

"In the Chalca Wars, she met a man. A warrior who made no claim on her, who didn't judge her. A good man, who would fight to see that the proper sacrifices were offered, although he was too hot-headed at times."

Neutemoc. It sounded far too much like Neutemoc. Please, Duality, no.

"She bore his child, and would have raised him, too, if he hadn't died at birth."

"Stop going around in circles. His name," I said. Her story was over. There was nothing else She could add. She had to give me his name, to banish my doubts.

She watched me, uncannily serene. "Mahuizoh of the Coatlan calpulli."

"He isn't here," the Jaguar guard said, angrily. "How many times do I have to tell you?"

The warrior of the Duality who headed my detachment – Ixtli, the same one who'd headed the unsuccessful search parties – put a hand on his macuahitl sword. "We have the right to search this house."

If the guard hadn't had both hands full, one around the shellgrip of his spear, one holding his feathered shield, he'd have thrown them in the air. "You can search all you want. What I'm telling you is that I haven't seen Mahuizoh come here. And I've been on guard duty since noon."

"So where is he?" I asked, intervening before matters turned sour.

The guard shrugged. "I'm not a calendar priest. I don't do divination. All I know is–"

"Yes. We understood that, I think." Ixtli turned to me. "Do you want us to search the House?"

I was about to nod, not caring overmuch about making enemies of the Jaguar Knights at this juncture. But someone interrupted us.

"What seems to be the problem here?" a voice asked, behind me.

I turned. My gaze met that of a Knight in Jaguar regalia, but somehow different. The plume behind the jaguar's head was made of emerald-green quetzal tail-feathers, enough to be worth a fortune; the sword at his belt was decorated with turquoise, carnelian and lapis in addition to obsidian shards. His hands, tanned and callused, bore several rings, all of good craftsmanship.

"This man wants to search the Jaguar House, Commander Quiyahuayo."

Commander Quiyahuayo, Head of the Jaguar Brotherhood, looked at me, thoughtfully. "The High Priest for the Dead?" he asked. "You'd be Neutemoc's brother, I take it."

I wasn't surprised at his shrewdness: to stay in his high position, he would need great intelligence, as well as political acumen. "Yes," I said.

The guard's face darkened. "The traitor's brother?" he asked.

Commander Quiyahuayo lifted a hand. "Not so fast, Yolyama. Guilt has not been established. What do you want?" he asked, turning back towards me.

I looked at him, trying to establish his feelings towards Neutemoc. He'd be of noble birth; how would he view the ascension of my commoner brother into the nobility?

"I'm looking for evidence," I said, non-committal.

"About your brother's case?" Commander Quiya-huayo asked. He scratched his chin. "I was given to understand that there were… complications."

"Yes." He missed nothing, and I had no time to fence. I decided to be frank with him. "Another of your Knights might be involved in this."

Commander Quiyahuayo raised an eyebrow.

"Mahuizoh of the Coatlan calpulli," I added.

Commander Quiyahuayo grimaced. "Mahuizoh," he said. His distaste was palpable. He hadn't reacted that way when I'd mentioned Neutemoc. "I see."

"You're surprised?" I asked.

Commander Quiyahuayo's face was too blank to reveal anything. "Surprise is a weapon," he said. "I try not to let it be used against me." He scratched his chin, again. "You want to search this House?"

"We're just looking for him," I said. "I need to ask him a few questions."

"We'll be discreet," the Duality warrior Ixtli added.

"I see," Commander Quiyahuayo repeated. "I have no objections. But make it fast, please. The sooner the Jaguar Knights withdraw from this sordid business, the better.

"Yolyama," he said to the guard. "Show them around, will you?" Without waiting for an answer, he turned and walked away.

The guard looked at me, then spat onto the ground. "You're lucky it was Mahuizoh you asked after," he said. "The commander's never liked him."

"Why?" Ixtli asked.

The guard's face closed. "Not your concern," he said. "The commander said you could search the House. That's all. Don't you expect more."

So there were factions, in the Jaguar Knights; and Mahuizoh was obviously not on the commander's side. I wasn't really surprised. It seemed to be the same everywhere within the Sacred Precinct. How secure was Quiyahuayo's position?

The search wasn't long, although it still felt like time wasted: by the time we exited the house, the sun was halfway down to the horizon line, and the light bathing the temples of the Sacred Precinct had turned as golden as ripe maize.

We'd seen rooms where the young Jaguar Knights – those still unmarried and without lands of their own – would spend the night; common rooms, filled with bored Knights playing patolli, focused on the rattle of the dice to the exclusion of everything else; courtyards where the recruits practised with spears and feather-shields. But no trace of Mahuizoh. Though I had never met the man, the slave Huacqui had provided me with enough a description to stop and question everyone who fitted it.

All wasn't lost, however: one of the Jaguar Knights had given us the address of Mahuizoh's house.

"I assume you'll want us to go there next," Ixtli said.

I nodded. "We have to find him." I still had no proof: just a fanciful story of a disappointed lover who might have turned to abduction and murder. It wouldn't hold before Pinahui-tzin, and certainly not before the Imperial Courts.

We had to find Mahuizoh; and we had to force him to confess where he'd hidden Priestess Eleuia.

Mahuizoh's house was a luxurious one, brimming with slaves, its roof planted with a lush carpet of marigolds and yellow tomato flowers. By its size, it must have lodged more than Mahuizoh's immediate family.

The slave at the door was certainly not expecting a dozen Duality warriors. "And you would be…?" he asked, trying to pretend unconcern. But his voice shook.

"We've come to see Mahuizoh." Duality, let him be home.

He looked doubtful. "I'll ask," he said and ducked briefly into the courtyard. I heard him call out to his fellow slaves; after a short time, he came back, and said, "The mistress will see you."

"Mistress?" Ixtli mouthed. "What in the Duality's name?"

I gestured for him to be silent. If Mahuizoh wanted to toy with us, handing us to his wife…

Ixtli and I left the warriors at the entrance, covering all possible exits, and entered the house.

The woman who received us in the house's reception room was even older than Ceyaxochitl: too old to be Mahuizoh's wife. Her seamed face had seen far more than a bundle of fifty-two years, and the stiff way she sat in her low-backed chair suggested acute rheumatism. By her side was a slightly younger woman: middleaged, with a face that had sagged too much to remain beautiful.

"I hear you've come looking for my son," the old woman said.

Mahuizoh's mother, then. I nodded – and then, unsure of whether she could see me at all, said, "We're here to ask him some questions."

The old woman cackled. "The law finally caught up with him? Doesn't surprise me, doesn't surprise me."

"Auntie Cocochi," the younger woman said, sharply. "That's not what you wanted to say."

The old woman's rheumy eyes focused on her neighbour. "Did I? I always knew he would amount to nothing, that boy."

"He's sheltering you in his house," the younger woman said, shaking her head. By her tone, it was an argument she'd tried before, to no avail.

Cocochi snapped, "He still doesn't respect his elders. It was a different matter when Xoco was alive. She knew her place as my son's wife, she wouldn't speak unless spoken to. I've always told him he should have done the proper thing by his clan, that he should have remarried–"

"Please," I interrupted. "We really have to find Mahuizoh. It's urgent."

"Urgent? Ha!" Cocochi said. "Trouble again, mark my words. That boy was trouble from the moment he exited my womb."

"Do you," I said, slowly, trying not to show my exasperation, "know where Mahuizoh might be?"

"My cousin isn't home," the younger woman said. "He didn't come home last night, either."

"Sleeping out with his whores," Cocochi mumbled.

The younger woman's eyes went upwards, briefly. "He's not here." She lowered her voice and said, "If he was here, she'd know it, and she wouldn't leave him a moment of peace."

I didn't think Cocochi was deliberately trying to impede my inquiry. Though I dearly would have liked to tone down some of that acidity, it wasn't my place.

"Any ideas where he might be?" I asked.

"In the girls' calmecac?" the young woman started, and then covered her mouth. "His sister is there," she said, a little too belatedly.

I sighed. When having an affair, be discreet, which was obviously an art neither Neutemoc nor Mahuizoh had mastered. I was starting to think subtlety wasn't the hallmark of Jaguar Knights.

"I know about the calmecac," I said finally. "Any other ideas?"

"What's he saying?" Cocochi asked.

The younger woman shook her head, in answer to my previous question.

"Can we look around the house?" I asked.

She shrugged. "Of course," she said, with a tired smile. "It will give Auntie Cocochi something to harp on for days." And get the attention of Mahuizoh's mother away from her, which would surely be restful.

Again, not much. We searched room after luxurious room: most of them were occupied by Mahuizoh's aunts, uncles, siblings and siblings' descendants, but Mahuizoh himself was nowhere to be found. Not a trace of him, or of someone who might know where he was. Wherever was he keeping Eleuia? Why abduct her, rather than kill her, if he hadn't wanted something out of her – sex, abject excuses for her infidelity – something else entirely?

Disappointed, Ixtli and I went back to the Duality House. We settled in a small, airy room that served as the headquarters for his regiment. A map was spread out on a reed mat, depicting the four districts of Tenochtitlan, with the streets and the canals coloured in a different pattern, and small counters obviously standing for men or units of men. Ixtli looked to be a careful, meticulous planner.

Slaves brought us refreshments, and a quick meal of atole, maize porridge leavened with spices. I washed it down with cactus juice, enjoying the tart, prickling taste on my tongue.

"We're wasting our time," Ixtli said. "Why don't we just arrest everyone? We might just start with that awful old woman."

I shook my head, although I had the same sense of standing on the brink of failure. "Do you really think it will solve anything?"

"No," Ixtli said. "But it would be something. Are we going to run around Tenochtitlan another cursed time?"

I said, "I have no idea where to look, but…"

His face was grimly amused. "Wherever he's hiding, we can't find it."

"No," I said. But we needed to find him. We needed Eleuia, alive, and evidence to present to Neutemoc's trial.

Tlaloc's lightning strike me, how could I be so utterly ineffective?

"Can you ask around the city?" I asked Ixtli.

He shrugged, in a manner that implied he didn't have much hope. "The Guardian put us at your disposal. I'll do my work. But I'll warn you beforehand–"

"That you promise nothing. I know," I snapped, and realised how tired I was. It was late evening by now. The sun had set. Every passing moment lessened the light that filtered through the entrance-curtain, and we still had no trail. Nothing. "I'm sorry," I said. "It's been a bone-breaking day."

Ixtli looked at me much as Yaotl had, on the previous evening. "Go get some sleep, priest. You can't help here. We'll send for you the moment we find him."

Ixtli was right. They'd be more efficient without my hampering them.

I walked back to my temple in a tense mood, thinking of Neutemoc at the Imperial Audience. Duality, what was I going to tell Huei?

There was no vigil in the darkened shrine: a handful of offering priests were laying out marigold flowers on the altar, but the hymns wouldn't start for another hour. Frustrated, I found a small, empty room reserved for the instruction of the calmecac students, and closing my eyes, sat in meditation.

It didn't work. All I could focus on wasn't the safety of the Fifth World, but the missing Mahuizoh; the fate of my brother, hanging in the balance; and over it all, the shadowy shape of Xochiquetzal, unattainable, unadulterated desire.

The Duality curse us. Did I really need to dwell on the goddess now?

I changed approaches, and made my offerings of blood: drawing thorns through my earlobes, once, twice, three times, until the sharp, stabbing pain had drowned every one of my thoughts.

But I still couldn't banish the image of the Quetzal Flower. In my mind, it merged with that of Priestess Eleuia: everything a man could desire or aspire to, a woman who would suck the marrow from your bones and still leave you smiling.

I threw the bloodied thorns on the floor, exasperated. I needed to focus on Neutemoc, not on a goddess I didn't worship.

Go bury yourself with the dead, Acatl, if you can't deal with what makes us alive.

I wasn't a coward. I'd made my choice, entered the priesthood of Mictlantecuhtli, but I hadn't been running away from the battlefield. I hadn't been running away from life.

The Southern Hummingbird strike Her. I wasn't a coward.

"Acatl-tzin?" The voice tore me from my nightmares.

Ichtaca. Good, reliable Ichtaca, his thoughtful face an anchor for my sanity. "Yes?" I said, attempting to keep my voice from shaking.

If he heard it, he gave no sign of it, save for a slight tightening of his lips. "You have a visitor. It's late at night, but given how urgent the matter sounded…"

I shook my head. Ixtli. It had to be Ixtli, with news of where the Jaguar Knight Mahuizoh was. "No," I said. "Show them in."

Ichtaca's lips pursed again. "In here?" he said. His torch illuminated the whitewashed walls, the minimal furniture. "As you wish."

But the man who came behind Ichtaca wasn't who I'd hoped for, not at all.

"Acatl-tzin," Teomitl said. He radiated untapped energy: the magical veil around him absorbing it, pulsing like a beating heart. "I've done what you asked of me."

I tried to remember what task I'd found for Teomitl. Something that would keep him busy, that would keep him away from me. Searching the girls' calmecac school, wasn't it?

"I see," I said, trying not to let my disappointment show. Whatever Teomitl had found, it could have no bearing on the investigation.

"I was given something for you," Teomitl said. "By a young girl in one of the furthest courtyards."

The young girl with the nahual, the one who saw far too much for someone so young. I hadn't imagined she would contact me again.

"She says she found it in the bushes near the centre of the courtyard. Probably shaken loose when the beast leapt over the wall."

He was speaking too fast for me to follow: every word tumbled on top of the previous one, forming the basis of some arcane structure I couldn't comprehend. I raised a hand. "Slow down, Teomitl. What did she find?"

Teomitl smiled, and held out his hand. "This," he said.

It was the missing pendant from Eleuia's room. As I'd suspected, it represented the warrior alone, an exquisite miniature of an Eagle Knight in full regalia. The stone was obsidian, though strangely enough, it didn't shine in the torchlight…

No! This wasn't obsidian.

I reached out for the pendant. "May I?" I asked Teomitl.

He dropped it in my hand. "It was meant for you."

I rubbed my fingers on it, felt the familiar protective energy arc from the pendant to my heart, but far, far weaker.

Not obsidian. It was jade. Blackened jade.

And that in turn could only mean one thing: that I had been wrong. Only underworld magic could blacken jade so thoroughly.

EIGHT

The Jade Heart

"I don't understand," Teomitl said, as I tied my cloak around my shoulders. "What does it prove?"

It proved I had been mistaken. It proved Ceyaxochitl had been wrong. Incompetents. Accursed incompetents. No wonder we couldn't find a nahual. No wonder the beast had been able to leap over that wall: it had never been a jaguar.

I strode into the courtyard of my temple. A group of novice priests in grey cloaks, who had been talking among themselves, hurriedly walked out of my way. "It proves we need to change what we're looking for."

"It's not a nahual?"

I shook my head. To blacken jade… I wasn't sure, but it was probably a beast of shadows, summoned from the eighth level of the underworld.

Which meant two things: the first was that, since underworld magic was involved, I could track the beast after all. The second was that I didn't have to worry about the summoner: the underworld had its own justice. The Wind of Knives punished those who blurred the boundaries between the underworld and the Fifth World, and our summoner would soon find himself facing his own executioner.

All I had to do was find the beast and send it back to Mictlan. And rescue Eleuia. I was reasonably sure, though, that it was too late for the priestess. Whatever her abductor had wanted of her,

they had it by now.

But first, I wanted to ascertain something.

At the door of the girls' calmecac, the priestess who was standing guard looked at me questioningly. "I have to check something in Priestess Eleuia's room."

"At this hour of the night?"

"It's a matter of life and death," I said. Behind me, Teomitl's footsteps slowed down. The priestess's gaze moved to him: a warrior wearing a white cloak embroidered with hummingbirds, and with an obsidian-studded macuahitl sword at his side.

"He's with me," I said, not wanting to discuss the matter further.

"You people," she said. "Go in, if that's what you want. But don't cause a fuss."

As we ran through the various courtyards, under the curious gazes of young girls, I reflected that a young warrior and a priest for the Dead had to cause some fuss within her school. Unless she had a different definition than I did.

Eleuia's courtyard was still silent: even Zollin's rooms were dark, no light filtering between the painted pillars of its entrance. The nahual's trail, subjected to daylight, had completely vanished. But what remained…

What remained was another kind of magic entirely: dark and roiling, and angry, the one that had given its flavour to the summoning. Underworld magic.

It was the faded trail of a beast of shadows, eager to feast on a human heart, to receive its promised reward.

"Two magics," I said aloud. I could have wept. Why hadn't I seen that before?

Teomitl had followed me into the courtyard; he stood, silently watching the pine tree at the centre as if he could extract some meaning from its twisted shadow. "Two spells?" he asked.

"I didn't think…" I attempted to make sense of what I'd seen. "Someone summoned a beast of shadows from Mictlan. And someone else – someone in this calmecac – added nahual magic on top of it, to cover the trail."

"I don't see the point–" Teomitl started.

"Beasts of shadows aren't common," I said. "You can track them." I could track it. I could find Eleuia. But a full day and night had elapsed since her disappearance. The beast, if it had not killed her, had had time to do whatever its summoner had wished it to.

"You couldn't track a nahual?" Teomitl asked, with faint contempt.

I shook my head. "Too many of them. And the magic dissipates in daylight. But using one magic to cover another…" That had been a masterful stroke; an uncommon idea that required a great knowledge of magic.

Who had captured Eleuia, and why? Was it Mahuizoh? I didn't know. But I didn't think he'd have the skill to cover his tracks, even if he had breached the boundary between the underworld and the Fifth World.

Anyone with the proper knowledge could summon a beast of shadows. But if I could find the beast, I would learn who its summoner was: a beast of shadows was imprinted with the few moments that had followed its entrance into the Fifth World. It would remember its summoner.

"I see." Teomitl's face was set. "Now what?"

"Now you go home," I said.

Teomitl shook his head. "No."

It was late; I was tired, and not in a mood to negotiate. "You don't understand," I said. "It's going to get dangerous. Very dangerous."

Impatience was etched into every feature of his face. "All the more reason for you not to go into this alone."

"I've been tracking beasts of shadows for ten years," I said.

"Yes," Teomitl said. "But you're tired."

I started. "How do you know?"

He shrugged. "I can read it. It's not so hard, Acatl-tzin."

Not only was I tired, it showed even to callow youths. "I don't need help," I said.

"But you might," Teomitl said.

"Look–" I started, and stifled the yawn that threatened to distort my face.

"I'll be careful," Teomitl said. "I know how to fight." "It's not a warrior's fight."

"No," Teomitl said. "But it is still a fight."

"And you're that eager to get into trouble?"

"To prove myself." The hunger in his gaze was palpable: an obsession that was eating him from inside.

"Haven't you proved yourself already?" I asked. "You took a prisoner."

He snorted. "With my comrades' help. That's no feat of arms."

I sighed, and presented what I hoped would be a decisive argument. "Understand this," I said. "If you do help me, you can't breathe a word about it."

Most youths would have refused at that point. For what is the use of feats, if you cannot boast of them to your comrades? But Teomitl tossed his head, contemptuously. "I don't care about my peers' opinions. Is it a 'yes', then?"

I had exhausted my arguments; and time was running short. "You'll do as I say," I snapped.

Teomitl smiled widely. "Of course."

"And don't put yourself in danger needlessly. I don't need a death on my conscience." But he would not go the way of my apprentice, Payaxin, wouldn't die because of a mistake.

Teomitl shook his head, as if implying that needless deaths were utter foolishness.

"Let's go," I said, aware I'd just been played on, with the same skill as a musician on the flute. For all his arrogance, Teomitl was a shrewd judge of men. Too shrewd for his own good, perhaps.

Before Teomitl and I started tracking down the beast of shadows, I did take the precaution of sending someone to the Imperial Palace, to see if there had been any further developments in Neutemoc's case.

The offering priest – Palli, the burly nobleman's son who usually guarded the storehouse – returned as Teomitl and I were in the armoury of the temple, lifting throwing spears and arrows to find those tipped with magical obsidian.

Nothing further had happened. Everyone, High Priest Acamapichtli included, had gone to sleep. Lucky men. Fatigue was making my head light, and I had some trouble focusing on the objects Teomitl and I had spread on the ground: three spears with shell-grips, a batch of arrows still in their quiver, and two macuahitl swords, wooden clubs studded with razor-sharp obsidian shards. Everything shone, faintly, with the hues of underworld magic: a sickly light that seemed to diminish all it touched.

"I have a sword," Teomitl said, faintly annoyed. "A good one." His sword was well-made, but it would not be enough against the supernatural.

"You'll need one of those," I said, pointing to the swords on the ground. "To fight the beast. What do you know about beasts of shadow?"

A quick, fluid shrug. "Not much. They live on the eighth level of Mictlan. You need a jade bead to placate them."

I nodded. "They're made of shadows, of the darkness that lay over the world in the very first days. Jade will slow them down but not stop them. And they feast on human hearts."

Teomitl nodded. "Many things do."

"Indeed." The gods, the Celestial Women. Nothing was as precious as blood; and the most precious thing of all was the heart, which gathered all the blood and distributed it around the body.

"The beasts hate light," I said, curtly, picking up one of the sturdiest swords and hefting it. A faint touch of Mictlan's magic spread to my arm, stilling the blood in my veins, and numbing my skin. "Starlight won't bother them much, but moonlight or sunlight will weaken them. Sunrise might even destroy them."

"How do you kill them?" Teomitl asked.

"This sword has magical obsidian: Lord Death's gift to us. Stab their chest, and they'll die like any animal." I handed it to him. What I didn't say was that they were fierce fighters, more than a match for both of us.

"Hmm," Teomitl said. He was tense again, impatient to move on.

We repaired to one of the furthest rooms, after warning Ichtaca not to disturb us. The room was a simple, subdued affair, its only furniture a handful of wicker chests, its walls blank save for a spider-and-owl frieze running at head height. A small, discreet limestone altar was at the back, Mictlantecuhtli's skull symbol carved in its centre.

I knelt on the floor, feeling the coldness of the beaten earth through my bare knees. Before me, a wicker cage held a rabbit and a barn owl: a small bird with the sharp eyes of a hunter, blinking in the torchlight. On my left was a jade replica of a human heart, in exquisite detail. On my right was a jade plate, representing the journey of the soul through Mictlan, from the crossing of the River of Souls on the first level, to the ninth and final level, the Throne of Mictlantecuhtli, God of the Dead.

I slit the throat of the rabbit with one of my obsidian knives, and carefully drew a quincunx on the floor: the four-armed cross with its fifth central point.

"Whatever happens, don't move," I said to Teomitl. He stood outside that quincunx, outside the underworld's zone of influence. "And don't step over the line."

He shrugged arrogantly. Who are you taking me for? he seemed to say.

Already, I regretted my decision to bring him with me. But I wasn't about to go back on my word.

"In darkness they dwell

In darkness they feast

They eat, they consume their preys…"

I reached for the owl and swiftly opened up its chest in a shower of blood. I retrieved its heart, and laid it on the jade plate: between the seventh and eighth level of the underworld, over a crude drawing of a shadowy beast. Blood seeped onto the plate, spread outwards like a scarlet flower opening its petals.

"In darkness they feast

They eat, they consume their preys

All save one…"

Shadows gathered around the room, pooled to fill the quincunx, until I knelt in absolute darkness. A wet, heavy breath blew down my neck: the breath of a huge animal, waiting for its food.

I didn't falter. I knew all too well the cost of failure. Death, if I was lucky; utter oblivion if I wasn't.

"All save one One is lost

One runs under the light

Under the light of stars and moons

One is lost…"

I laid the tip of my obsidian knife against the jade heart, so that the remains of the owl's blood seeped into the stone. The jade grew darker, but it pulsed now, pulsed like a living heart.

"A jade heart to find the eater of hearts

Who feasts on the living

Under the light of stars and moons

He comes to Mictlan, the Place of Fear, the Place of Death

A jade heart to find the eater of hearts."

The jade heart went completely black. I reached out to enfold it in my hands, ignoring the searing pain that spread from the stone into my skin, and felt it beat under my fingers: a slow, regular rhythm that started in the rightmost ventricle and moved upwards, into my arm.

Slowly, carefully, I rose, keeping the heart in the same position. The beat didn't falter.

The shadows were gradually dispelled by torchlight; I could see Teomitl's shocked face, trying to reassemble itself into its usual haughty mask – and the body of the owl, blood pooling under it, the red flower blossoming on the jade plate.

Still standing within my quincunx, I turned to face each direction in turn. When I turned north, east or west, the beat of the jade heart went completely still. But when I faced south, towards the Itzapalapan causeway, the heart sprang to life under my fingers.

It had worked, then; and the beast we sought was somewhere in that direction.

• • • •

Teomitl insisted on bringing a purse filled with medicinal herbs, as well as his new sword. He kept rubbing the weapon, as if its touch were subtly wrong. I couldn't blame him: the obsidian shards embedded in the wood were charged with enough magic to send anyone into oblivion. The veil hanging around him seemed to be weaker around the sword, as if the magics were fighting one another, but it did not appear to be serious – for which I was eternally grateful.

As we exited the temple and headed southwest towards the district of Moyotlan, I asked, "You do know about the magic?"

He looked puzzled. "Which magic?"

"Around you?"

The way Teomitl attempted to look at his arms and legs convinced me he hadn't known. But he didn't look happy about it: his face darkened, a change of mood that was visible even in the wavering light of his torch.

"A protective spell some fool laid on me without my consent," he muttered, darkly. "Nothing worth worrying about."

I did wonder, though: it was powerful magic, and I wasn't entirely sure how it would withstand the assaults of a beast of shadows – some spells just shattered, crippling the people on whom they'd been laid. "You'd better stay back," I said.

Teomitl shook his head and didn't answer.

Under my fingers, the heart beat at its steady rhythm as we ran through the deserted streets. The grand houses became smaller, turning from adobe to mud, the flat roofs replaced by high, tapered ones painted with abstract patterns; finally turning into the humble mud dwellings of peasants, ringed by fields of maize. We were almost at the lake shore.

Teomitl's hands held the torch steady as we ran out of the city altogether, and found ourselves in the midst of dried maize husks, crunching under our feet.

I turned the heart right and left; and it beat again, in the direction of a group of small, squat islands on the edge of the lake.

Teomitl saw the way I faced, and groaned. "Oh no. Not the Floating Gardens."

The chinamitls, or Floating Gardens, were artificial islands reclaimed from the lake. A mass of stones and clay, dumped at the bottom of the lake, served as a support for muddy, fertile earth. Over the years, the Floating Gardens had grown more numerous as well as closer to each other, and now formed a district of their own: a grid of fields separated by small canals, another city on the water.

"We need a boat," Teomitl was saying, his torch wavering left and right. "There." He all but ran to a small reed boat, moored to the bank ahead of us. "Let's take this one."

"It's not ours," I said, shocked. "At least ask for permission."

His eyes were wide in the torchlight. "Why?" he asked. "We'll bring it back."

"Before dawn?" I asked. "I can't guarantee that, and neither can you." A boat like that would be a family's sole means of transport, the only way to gather fish from the lake, to carry merchandise to the marketplace. To wake up in the morning, and discover it lost, to think it stolen… that would truly be disastrous. I scanned the banks: close by was the dark shape of a hut, its coloured thatch roof reflecting the torchlight. "Let's warn them."

"Acatl-tzin." Teomitl's voice shook on the verge of exasperation. "A life is at stake, and you worry about peasants?"

My own parents had been peasants. I had grown up in fields much like those we were walking in; and the weak were so easily overlooked in the scheme of things. Teomitl's attitude, while not unexpected, disappointed me. I'd hoped for more – intelligence? Compassion? "That boat is a family's living," I said, more sharply than I'd intended to. "I won't trample lives to save just one."

"But," Teomitl said, shaking his head, "you said you were looking for Priestess Eleuia…"

I was already walking towards the hut. With all the noise we were making, they would no doubt be awake.

A man dressed in a simple loincloth stood on the threshold of the dwelling, holding a trembling torch in his hand.

"We need to borrow your boat," I said.

His eyes focused on me, on my grey cloak, its colour uncertain in starlight, on the streaks of makeup that marked my face. I could have been anyone to him. But he saw that I was armed.

"Take what you need," he said. "But don't…" A sweeping gesture with his hands, encompassing the hut and those sleeping within.

"Oh, for the Duality's sake," Teomitl said. He threw something in the air. It glittered as it fell, and landed with the harsh sound of metal striking metal. "Buy a new boat with that, if we damage it. Come on, Acatl-tzin. Let's go."

The man bent down to pick up Teomitl's offering: quills of gold, tied together at the end, enough to ensure two months' living, if not more. Tossed casually into the mud, as if they were worth nothing at all: the quintessential warrior gesture. Some student. Obedience, like humility, was a foreign notion to him.

"Teomitl," I said as he untied the boat: an interesting feat, since he had one hand taken by his torch. "I thought I'd made things clear. You follow my lead."

He raised his gaze, briefly, to the sky. "You'd have stayed for hours arguing with the man."

"No," I said, stung. I knew how to handle such situations. "I would merely have eased things a little."

"Money eases things wonderfully," Teomitl said. He gestured for me to climb aboard.

The boat rocked as I stepped into it. My body, remembering gestures from more than twenty years ago, adjusted itself to the motion.

"Money won't buy him a better life," I said.

"No, but it will make the next months easier." Teomitl held out his torch to me, and I took it in my free hand, without thinking. "I'll row."

I watched him manoeuvre the boat into the canal, shifting my weight from leg to leg to compensate for the rocking. He had this natural authority, I guessed: something that made him hard to ignore when he gave you a command.

He also, quite obviously, had never rowed in his life. The boat spun to and fro in a haphazard fashion, and the jade heart in my right hand shifted from beating to still to beating again, as he directed us towards the nearest Floating Garden.

"Which one?" he asked.

"I have no idea," I said, annoyed, more because of the natural, insidious way he'd taken charge than because of his rowing. "If you kept us on course, I'd have an easier time."

"Not my fault," Teomitl snapped. "The thing won't stay still."

"It's a boat. They rarely stay still, The Duality curse you! Where were you raised? In the mountains?" Tenochtitlan was built on an island; every street doubled as a canal, and it was almost impossible for a boy to grow up without ever seeing a boat.

In the unsteady light, I felt his exasperation more than I saw it. "I'm doing my best, Tlaloc blind you! I'm just not used to this contraption."

The least that could be said. I sighed; and instead of holding the jade heart steadily in front of me, attempted to keep it on an even orientation. Not obvious, with only the starlight to go by. It kept becoming motionless without warning; but slowly, step by step, I managed to direct Teomitl to one of the furthest islands.

The boat ran aground in a spectacular fashion, scattering dried, slashing pieces of reeds over my legs. Teomitl leapt on the shore and snatched the torch from me. He stared at me, once more daring me to mock him.

I wasn't in a mood to reproach him, for the heartbeat under my fingers was faster than it had been on shore. "It's close," I whispered.

"Where?" Teomitl asked.

"On this island." I suddenly wondered why we were whispering. A beast of shadows would have hearing much keener than that of any jaguar on the prowl, and a sense of smell to match. It would sense me, a priest for the Dead, as it would sense the heart I carried in my hands. "Come."

This Floating Garden was, like most of them, a huge maize field. Dry husks crackled under my sandals, no matter how hard I strove to be silent.

The torchlight illuminated the small maize plants, poking out of the ground: it was the end of the dry season, and the maize had barely been replanted. In the night, the field seemed eerily desolate: every insect song echoed as if in the Great Temple, and every maize sapling rustle made me startle, and wonder if the beast wasn't going to leap at us.

The heartbeat grew faster still as we approached the hut at the end of the Floating Garden.

"In there?" Teomitl asked. "Can't we draw it out?"

I wished we could. "It's too canny for that. We'd just be wasting our time."

"I see," Teomitl said. "What an adventure." He didn't sound keen. I didn't feel so enthusiastic either. Inside the hut, we would have neither starlight nor moonlight, and fighting by torchlight was messy and ineffective. I looked up at the sky. The moon would rise soon, but we would be inside while it climbed into the sky. I didn't like that, but there wasn't much of a choice.

The heart went wild as I crossed the threshold. My hand dropped to the largest of my obsidian knives, and drew it from its sheath.

Nothing. No beast, leaping from the darkness to swipe at my chest. I released my hold on the knife; the hollow feeling in my stomach receded.

Teomitl stood on the threshold, his torch briefly illuminating the contents of the hut: walls of wattle-and-daub, embers dying on the hearth. And three bodies, face down on the ground, the sickening smell of rot and spilled entrails underlying that of churned mud.

The beat of the jade heart was frantic now, as if it didn't know where to start pointing.

I knelt by one of the bodies, lifted it to the wavering light: a man, his chest slashed open, and the heart missing. Of course. The beast of shadows had feasted on its preferred meal.

The other corpses were much the same, save that one of them was a woman. She could have been Eleuia. But I soon disabused myself: this woman was older than thirty-five, and wearing a rough cactus-fibre blouse and skirts, nothing like the clothes a priestess of high rank would have chosen.

"Acatl-tzin," Teomitl said, sharply. "There's something outside."

The heart was still madly beating, but it was useless at such close quarters. The beast could be anywhere. I rose from my crouch, drawing one of my three obsidian knives from its sheath.

"Stay where you are," I said.

A shadow passed across the threshold, knocking Teomitl offbalance. The torch fell: a brief, fiery arc before it was utterly extinguished. And in the interval before I gained my night vision, something huge bore me to the ground. Claws scrabbled at the clasp of my cloak – moving downwards, aiming for my heart.

NINE

Shadows and Summoners

I tried to roll aside, but the beast was too heavy. It breathed into my face the nauseous smell of rotting bodies, of pus and bleeding wounds. I wanted to retch. But I couldn't. I was pinned to the ground, my lungs all but crushed by the weight on my chest.

I'd dropped the jade heart, but my hand was still clenched around the obsidian knife. I tried to raise it, but the beast was blocking me. Its claws had shredded my cloak and were now digging into my chest, where the jade pendant was obviously giving it some trouble.

Good.

I heaved, felt the beast slide a fraction of a measure, enough for me to wedge the knife upwards and sink it into flesh.

The beast roared, but remained where it was, weighing down on my chest.

The Duality curse me. The jade amulet would slow it down, but at some point it would be entirely blackened – and thus useless.

I heaved again, to little avail.

Footsteps sounded in the hut. "Acatl-tzin!"

The beast roared, and turned away from me. I heaved again, sending it to the ground. As quickly as I could, I rolled upright.

My night vision was a little better, but not clear enough. Presumably, the two silhouettes hacking at each other in the hut were Teomitl, armed with his sword, and the beast, hissing like a frustrated ocelot. Teomitl's breath came in quick, heavy gasps, and he circled the thing in an awkward way: a wound, taken as he'd been struck down by the beast, must have hampered him.

Obviously, the beast had the upper hand. It didn't have the problem of inadequate night vision, and Teomitl's reflexes were no match for its rapid strikes.

But we had one advantage over it: because it was made of the deepest shadows of Mictlan, it hated light. Any kind of light. And outside the hut would be starlight, and the rising moon, steadily climbing into the sky. And a dense network of maize seedlings, which would betray the slightest movement.

I unsheathed both my remaining obsidian knives, feeling Mictlantecuhtli's power pulse deep within, and made my way to the door as fast as I could.

I closed my eyes, briefly, extending my priest-senses – and felt the beast, a black patch of raw anger and hatred, mixed with the deeper darkness of Mictlan. Not stopping to dwell on the consequences of failure, I took aim, and threw one knife at the combatants.

A howl informed me I'd hit the right target; I threw myself to the ground, and not a moment too soon. The beast leapt right over me, and landed in the maize with a dry, rustling sound.

The starlight limned its shape: a body half as large again as a jaguar's, a narrow snout, glittering fangs; and yellow, malevolent eyes that seemed to see right into my soul. That had to be what a deer felt, in the moment before the hunter closed on it.

No.

I had to–

I threw myself aside again, and the leap which had been meant for my chest caught my left arm instead. Claws sank deep into my skin. I stifled a scream as the searing pain spread through the bones of my upper arm. My hand opened, out of its own volition, and the obsidian knife, the only one I had left, fell to the ground.

The beast withdrew its claws. Its muscles bunched up, to snatch me and bring me closer to it. I did the only possible thing: I let myself fall to the ground. The beast's claws went wide. Frustrated, it shook its head, growling in a decidedly unpleasant manner.

I flicked my eyes upwards, glancing at the sky: the moon was steadily rising higher and higher, but it would be a while before its light fell on the Floating Garden.

Huitzilpochtli strike me down.

At the threshold of the hut, a shaking Teomitl had hauled himself upwards. He was attempting to raise his sword, but I didn't think he'd arrive in time.

There was no point in discreetly retrieving my obsidian knife. I simply dived for it, as the beast braced itself for another jump, straight in the direction I was going in.

The shock of its weight sent me sprawling to the ground, fighting not to scream as my left arm became a mass of fiery pain. Its claws scrabbled at my jade pendant and the thread holding it around my neck parted. The pendant fell to the ground with a clink. The beast roared in triumph and reared, both paws held high above my chest – with all their claws unsheathed.

"Acatl-tzin!" Teomitl bellowed.

The world turned to thick honey; everything seemed to happen more slowly than needed: the claws descending to slash open my chest; Teomitl's unsteady footsteps, rushing towards me, but too late, it was already too late; the glimmer of the obsidian knife, lying in the mud inches from my left hand.

My left hand.

I had to–

Focus. I had to focus.

I clenched the fingers of my left hand – I think I screamed, then, as the pain became stronger than anything I had endured in my noviciate at the calmecac – closed them around the hilt of the knife. The weapon felt alive under my touch, beating like a living heart. Power pulsed deep within: a smell of sick-houses and rotting bodies, hovering on the edge of becoming something far greater.

I didn't think. I couldn't afford to. In a quick, stabbing motion, I raised the knife, intending to sink it into the beast's chest before it opened mine.

The claws raked into my flesh before I could complete my motion. My hand clenched, convulsively, but I didn't let go. I screamed and writhed, but I still raised the knife. And, scrabbling for some thing, for anything that could save me, I instinctively opened myself wide to the power within the knife.

For a brief, timeless moment, the power of Mictlan seared through my flesh: the decay of every living thing, the loneliness and sadness of the dead, the dry smell of bleached bones and dust. For a brief, timeless moment, the pain was blasted away by emptiness. It was my hand and yet not my hand which pushed upwards, at an angle I would have been incapable of reaching with my wounded arm.

The beast, completing its downward motion, fell upon the blade I held up, and grew still. Its weight crushed my chest, slowly emptying my lungs.

The power of Mictlan slowly receded, leaving me exhausted: drained of joy, of hope. I had never had cause to draw on it that way. I had not even been sure it could be done.

I hoped never to do it again.

I lay, hardly daring to breathe. Every movement of my chest sent fresh waves of pain through my ribcage. My left arm would never be the same, either.

The moon's light struck the Floating Garden, throwing into stark contrast the bed of maize shoots, and the blood that was pouring onto it. My blood.

Someone – Teomitl – hauled the beast's corpse off me. "Acatl-tzin?"

I didn't move, just stared at him, watching him blur in and out of focus. His left leg sported an ugly gash, and he leant on his sword – but the spell around him was still tight, and his upright bearing was undiminished.

"I've been better," I whispered.

He pulled me upright, into a seated position. "Good thing we came well-prepared," he said, searching in the herb pouch he'd taken from the temple.

He pulled out a pad of dayflower and applied it to my chest wound. It turned dark; with a curse, he threw it away, and applied another one.

"Don't move," he said, when the bleeding had slowed down. "I think there were things in that hut that might help us…"

He was soon back, with a covered jar of clay that stank of alcohol. "Pulque," he said. "Unfermented maguey sap would have been better, but it will have to do."

When he poured it over the wounds, I thought I would scream again. But I'd had my fill of screaming. I clenched my teeth, and attempted to bring the world back into focus.

Teomitl tore my cloak into strips to make bandages; his gestures as he dressed my wound were cool, professional. "You're not – a – healer," I said.

He shook his head. "But I've seen my share of wounds, and my share of warriors whose wounds filled with pus and turned black. Stupid. Those things are easily cured, if you take them at the beginning."

"Your own wounds," I said, struggling to come up with something significant. My thoughts seemed to have scattered.

He shrugged. "Damaging, but not serious. I'll splint my leg after I'm done with you."

"Thank you," I said, when he was finished. My left arm was wrapped in maize leaves; my chest was covered in an array of cotton bandages soaked in pulque. The smell of alcohol was starting to go to my head, making me feel dizzy. I shook myself, and winced at the pain.

"Don't overexert yourself!" Teomitl snapped. He looked at his own wound, critically. "Mm."

I laughed, more sharply than I'd intended to. "The night isn't over. We still have to find who summoned the beast, not to mention Priestess Eleuia."

"Do you think I don't know?" Teomitl's voice was low, angry. "I'm telling you those wounds won't heal if you keep running around the city."

I rose, carefully. Even breathing hurt. Teomitl was pouring the rest of the pulque on his own wound, with an efficiency that made me suspect he didn't need my help.

"I'll go and search the hut," I said. I still needed to access the beast's memories, but that would be best done a little later, when I'd had time to catch my breath.

"By the way," Teomitl said, without raising his eyes. "You've got some nerve, throwing knives at me."

I shrugged. I hadn't liked doing it, but there had been no other choice. "I wasn't throwing it at you. I used my priest's senses to target the beast. Anyway, it missed you."

"It might not have."

"You'd rather have lost?" I asked, pointedly. "If you want to exchange wounds…"

He shook his head, sharply. "No. But I'd rather you didn't do it again."

"If it had been me fighting, and you outside, I'd rather take my chances with a thrown knife than with the beast's claws. But I'll remember."

Inside the hut, I carefully rekindled the dying fire, offering a brief prayer to Huehueteotl, God of the Hearth. The flames that rose between the three stones illuminated the walls, magnifying my shadow like that of a monster. The shards of the jade heart crunched under my feet.

With some difficulty, I turned the three corpses on their backs. In the sweltering heat of the marshes, they had already decomposed, flesh sloughing off, revealing the bones beneath. I'd seen too many dead people to be unsettled by the half-visible skulls, or by the strong smell of putrescence that hung in the air.

Their chests gaped open: an uncomfortable feeling, given how close I'd come to sharing the same fate. My wounds itched under Teomitl's bandages.

I whispered a quick litany for the Dead, brushing blood from my wounds over their rotting foreheads – the best I could do outside my temple and without much living blood of my own. Later, I'd make sure someone picked up the corpses and brought them back to give them a proper funeral.

"We leave this earth

This world of jade and flowers

The quetzal feathers, the silver

Down into the darkness we must go

Leaving behind the marigolds and the cedar trees

Safe journey, my friends, safe journey

All the way to the end."

Dark splotches of blood marked the floor of the hut. I knelt, rubbed my fingers on one of them. It flaked. Completely dry, then. By the look of the corpses, they had been dead for some time anyway: at least a day, if not more.

There was something… A faint, very faint trace of magic within the hut. I closed my eyes. It was god-given, like the magic that had hung in Zollin's room, but somehow different. Less angry. More desperate. It seemed to emanate from the wattle-and-daub walls of the hut. Puzzled, I knelt to take a better look. In the blood was the faint imprint of a human hand; and faint scratches on the ground.

I picked up the fallen torch, started to dust it off, and gave up when I saw how much mud was clogging it. I teased a branch loose from the torch, cleaned it as best as I could before plunging it into the flames of the hearth. It took a long time for the fire to take hold. When it did, it was a small and sickly thing, pulsating weakly at the end of my improvised torch. I moved back to the hand imprint, shone the torch on the ground. By its side, the blood had formed patterns…

No, not the blood. Someone had started to trace glyphs for a spell. That was the reason the magic, spreading out from the incomplete pattern, had impregnated this area.

The glyphs, trembling in the torchlight, were the ones for "water" and "escape": both badly smudged, traced in a shaking, fearful hand, and the last one incomplete.

I closed my eyes. The beast had brought Priestess Eleuia here, after abducting her from the girls' calmecac. The attempted spell had to be hers, a desperate attempt to escape her abductor. But Eleuia was, quite obviously, no longer here.

My torch wavered, and finally went out. I bit back a curse.

"Anything?" Teomitl asked, shadowing me from the threshold. He was leaning on a crutch, his leg neatly splinted with dried branches.

"Blood," I said, with a sigh. "She was here."

Teomitl did the same thing I'd done: withdrawing a branch from the ruined torch, dipping it into the fire. He turned from one end of the hut to another, seemingly oblivious to the corpses. Of course, they'd only be peasants for him, not worthy of his attention.

"Mm," he said. "People came here."

"The peasants?" I asked.

"No," Teomitl said. "After the peasants were dead." He waved the torch towards the farthest end: outlined in blood were two foot prints, of different sizes.

"At least two people?" I asked.

"With sandals. So probably not peasants," Teomitl said. "And it wasn't long after the peasants' deaths, or they wouldn't have left marks."

Eleuia had been there, too, while the blood was still fresh; otherwise she wouldn't have left a handprint.

"They took her?" I asked.

Teomitl shrugged. "Probably."

I glanced at the ground near the threshold, but we'd damaged too much of it with our battle. "And we still don't know where." Which was true, if frustrating. None of that would help me understand what was going on. "Very well. Help me out, will you? I have memories to access."

For the ritual, I needed a clean patch of land. One-armed and onelegged, Teomitl and I managed to drag the beast's corpse to the empty patch of earth before the hut. The wound I'd dealt it gaped in the moonlight, exuding faint traces of Mictlan's aura; of the magic that had coursed through me to bring the beast down.

I retrieved all my obsidian knives, and used one of them to draw a ragged circle in the earth. Then I withdrew to survey my handiwork. The circle looked as clean as I could make it. It would have to do.

Further away, in the field where the beast had fallen, its blood had shrivelled the maize, leaving a patch of emptiness oozing Mictlan's power. In that place, nothing would grow for many years.

Father, I thought uneasily, would have been angry at the way we'd damaged the harvest to come. The family might be dead, but the land would revert to the clan; and another married couple would soon cultivate this field, wondering why nothing would grow there.

Father wouldn't have tolerated this. But Father was dead. I had… I had run away from his drowned corpse, seeing in every feature of his face the disappointment that I'd turned out as I had. It was the single vigil I had never undertaken, and it still itched at the back of my mind.

Father was dead, buried into the bliss of Tlalocan, the Land of the Blessed Drowned. I had other things to worry about.

Teomitl's taut pose suggested the question he dared not ask: "And now what?"

"Stay out of the circle."

He made a quick, angry gesture. "Surprise me."

Ignoring Teomitl's taunt, I knelt inside the circle. With my good hand, slowly, methodically, I widened the wound in the beast's belly. The entrails came steaming out, exuding not the smell of bowels but the wet, musty odour of a grave long unopened.

I drew another gash, this time nearer the ribs, and went looking for the heart.

It was a small, pathetic thing when I finally pulled it loose: the size of a human one, as unmoving as the jade heart now was.

I arranged the entrails in an inner circle within the one we'd already cleared. Then I cut the small, stylised shape of a reed, my day sign, into the flesh of the heart. It barely bled, as if death had emptied the beast's veins.

Finally, I came to stand in the centre of both circles, holding the heart in my good hand. It was as smooth and as warm as the flesh of a young child.

"This is the day that saw me born, this is the name my father gave me," I whispered, and the heart twitched under my fingers.

I wrapped my hand around the heart, and went on,

"I am the knife that severs life

I am the blade that stole this breath

Mine is the heart

Mine are the eyes that see in darkness

Mine the muscles and fangs that claim life."

It was as if a veil had been lifted from the world: suddenly I saw the whole of the Floating Garden. In the hut were the corpses I had already feasted on. By my side was a young, impatient warrior whose heart beat so strongly: such a treat, it would be such a treat to open his chest and feast upon it. But I couldn't. I had other tasks to take care of.

"Mine are the eyes that see in darkness

Mine the heart that longs for other hearts

Mine the memories of the true hunter."

The world flashed, then went dark. When I opened my eyes I wasn't in the chinamitl any more but tumbling through an open gateway, into a house that was hauntingly familiar.

The sun hadn't yet set. I shied away from the light, growling softly, longing for the coldness of the Eighth Level, for the dry, clean smells of Mictlan. Here everything hurt, from the light to the sharp odour of maize wafting through the door.

A man laughed, high above me. I couldn't see his face: just a warm, beating heart with many years of life ahead of it. "Such a powerful one. A very impressive summoning, my Lady."

Another voice, deeper and graver. The heartbeat of this one was strong, brash. I salivated at the thought of devouring it. "Don't gape. It is adequate for the task."

A sullen laugh.

"My Lady, you know what we need," the voice said, turning to the third person, the one who hadn't yet spoken: an angry heart, all twisted out of shape by hatred. "Wait for night. And remember, do not kill. We need her alive."

"I know exactly what you need," the woman said. And the voice… The voice, too, was hauntingly familiar.

No. It could not be.

She knelt to grasp my head, raising my gaze towards her face. Her smell was intoxicating: anger and hatred and envy, all swirling around something else I couldn't name – and her heart… Such a young, delicate heart…

"This is what you will do," she said.

And there was no doubt left; none at all. For the voice, unmistakably, belonged to my brother's wife, Huei. I must have closed my eyes. When I opened them again, I was lying in the middle of the circle, sprawled over the beast's body. My chest ached fiercely under the bandages.

Teomitl's scowling face entered my field of vision. "I told you–"

"Not to move around. I know," I said, taking the hand he offered me, and rising. Around us, the moon cast its light on the desolate Floating Garden: the place where I'd accessed the beast's memories was now nothing more than a circle of charred ashes, blackened earth which would take years to heal. Mictlan's magic was anathema to life; and the beast had been bursting with it.

More damage to the harvest. Just what I needed. I tried to remain focused on this – to forget what I had seen – but I couldn't.

Huei.

My brother's wife had summoned the beast.

Why?

She hadn't seemed… I shook my head. She had seemed sincere; but, then, like Neutemoc, she had moved away from me in four years. She was no longer my only ally in my brother's house, but something else entirely.

It wouldn't matter. A chill was working its way into my bones. Summoning a beast of shadows carried its own penalty. The Wind of Knives would soon appear in Tenochtitlan, to kill Huei for her transgression.

What would I tell Neutemoc, when he came home to find his wife dead? Neutemoc was innocent of everything save adultery; but that thought didn't bring me any relief.

No. There had to be some explanation. Something. Anything that would explain the utter failure of Huei's marriage.

"We need to get back to the city," I said to Teomitl.

He rowed me back to the shore in silence. As the oars splashed into the lake, I kept wondering when I would feel the first touch of cold on my spine. Seven years ago, I had merged my mind with the Wind of Knives to bring down an agent of Tezcatlipoca, the Smoking Mirror, and that mind-link had never quite died. When the Wind entered the Fifth World, I would know.

Teomitl was too tired to row farther than he had to. And I was not in a state to row either, with my injured arm. We left the boat at the edge of the Floating Gardens and walked north, back into the city of Tenochtitlan proper.

Teomitl didn't speak until we were walking once more on the familiar streets of the Moyotlan district, with the grand adobe houses of the wealthy rising all around us. "Where to?" he asked. He was leaning on his crutch, his face transfigured by eagerness. I hated to dash his hopes, but there were things I couldn't let him see.

"Home, for you," I said. I did not want to face the Wind of Knives; to face the darkness and the coldness, to plead for Huei's life even though I knew the Wind could not be swayed. But this was something that I would do alone. I would not drag someone else into it. The Wind of Knives would merely cut them down like maize, dispassionately judging that they had no right to speak with Him.

"What?" Teomitl asked. "You promised–"

"No," I said, hating myself for my cowardice. "I allowed you to come with me. But what happens now is something you're not prepared for."

No, not prepared for. That while my married brother was busy courting a priestess, his own wife, Huei, plotted with shadowy figures to get her revenge.

"I'm prepared," Teomitl said, sullenly.

"You're in no state to fight."

I could have predicted his next remark. "Neither are you."

"No," I said. "But there are other ways to fight." Even magical weapons would shatter against the Wind of Knives, and nothing would stop or sway Him. How could Huei have been so foolish?

Teomitl was still watching me. "Go home," I said, as gently as I could. "I'll call on you the next time there is something, promise. But this isn't the right time."

"I don't see why," Teomitl said. But he looked down, at his splinted leg, and sighed. "You'll summon me?"

"Promise," I said, praying that the next time I was involved with the underworld, it would be safe enough for him to accompany me. "Go home, and take care of that leg."

"Very well," Teomitl said, grudgingly. "But I'll hold you to this, Acatl-tzin." He started limping towards the Sacred Precinct, then turned, a few paces from me. "And don't forget to be careful with those wounds!"

His attitude – thoughtless arrogance, the strange, buoyant mood that propelled him through life – was not only that of a warrior, but that of a nobleman's son. Where had Ceyaxochitl found him?

Left to my own devices, I walked back to Neutemoc's house. I made my way through the network of Tenochtitlan's canals – under deserted bridges, past houses lit up by late-night revelry, where snatches of music and loud laugher wafted into the street, a memory of what I couldn't have.

I prayed that there was still time left to avert the disaster.

TEN

Mictlan's Justice

Despite the late hour, Neutemoc's house was still lit, though the only sounds that pierced the night were the lilting tones of a poet reciting his latest composition. Cradling my bandaged arm in my good hand, I walked to the door.

"Yes?" the slave who was guarding the entrance to the courtyard asked. He was a burly man, with macuahitl scars on his legs: a veteran of some battlefield, though only the Duality knew how he had fallen low enough to sell himself into slavery. "What do you want?" His voice was contemptuous.

Only then did I realise what I must look like. My cloak had been torn to make the bandages that now covered my naked chest, and I stank of pulque alcohol like a base drunkard. In fact, it was a good thing I hadn't met a guard on my way through the city, or I'd have been arrested for drunkenness. And for a priest, that offence carried the death penalty.

"I'm Huei's brother-in-law," I said. "I need to see her."

"She has no time for–" The slave sniffed.

"Beggars?" I asked, infuriated. "I've looked better, but I'm certainly not about to ask for her charity. Will you let me in?"

He didn't look as though he was about to. Luckily for me, someone crossed the courtyard to see what was causing all the noise.

"Acatl?" my sister Mihmatini asked. She wore a pristine dress of white cotton, with a simple embroidery of sea-shells along the hem, and her hair was impeccably combed.

I felt ashamed of what I looked like, compared to her. "Can you convince the guard here to let me in? I need to speak to Huei, quickly."

"Huei?" Her eyes widened. "Is it about Neutemoc?"

I shook my head. I still hadn't felt the familiar cold in my bones. But I was trying not to think of the old, old cenote south of Tenochtitlan, the fissure opening in the rock to reveal the stillness of an underground lake; and how the air above that lake would be growing darker and darker, as the Wind of Knives coalesced into existence at the only gateway He could pass through without being summoned.

"I need to talk to her," I said.

"If you wish, if you wish," Mihmatini said, sniffing. "He's with me," she announced to the slave, who clearly disapproved but didn't dare contradict her. "You're hurt," she added, to me, as I stepped gingerly into the courtyard. "What in the Fifth World have you been doing?"

"Later. Please."

Mihmatini grimaced, but she asked no further questions as she led me into the reception room.

It was almost deserted, though bearing the traces of a long banquet: remnants of food in clay dishes, left on the reed mats; the smell of copal incense thick in the air, barely disguising that of spices and chocolate; and feather-fans, left propped against the dais. Only Huei and a few slaves remained – and the poet: an old man with a cloak of red cotton, and a headdress of yellow feathers, who turned to us with a hostile gaze as we entered.

"And what is the meaning of this?" he asked, drawing himself to his full height.

Too tired to bother with politeness, I merely jerked a finger in the direction of the entrance-curtain. "Get out."

"I am Icnoyotl, the Flower Speaker of Coatlan. I can't be dismissed like a slave boy."

"Actually," I said, marching towards him, "I think you can. Get out. Or I'll throw you out."

A doubtful argument, given my wounds, and he knew it.

Huei's gaze moved from me to the poet, and she said, "Icnoyotl, can you leave us alone? I'll pay you tomorrow."

"It's not about payment," the poet grumbled as he wrapped his cloak around his shoulders. "A man has his pride, you know. Professional pride…"

Huei also gestured for the slaves to step out. They scattered into the night like a frightened flock of birds. I didn't care. Not any more.

"So," Huei said when the poet had left, escorted by Mihmatini. Neutemoc's wife sat, gracefully, on the dais, wearing a skirt embroidered with running deer, and a matching shirt. Around her wrists were bracelets of gold and jade: Neutemoc's wedding gift to her, a token of their love.

A lie. Had there ever been love, in their marriage? Had she ever been truthful with me?

"What do you want, Acatl?" Her voice was frosty. "I hope you have a good reason for offending Icnoyotl."

I was too tired to exchange pleasantries with her. "How could you have been such a fool, Huei?"

Her hand went to her throat. "I don't understand you."

"You understand me very well," I snapped. "You summoned that beast. You asked it to abduct Eleuia, and you thought you'd never be discovered."

"You're insane," she said, her eyes widening slightly.

But I wasn't deceived. She'd already proved that she was a good liar.

"I'm not insane," I said. "One thing nobody told you about beasts of shadows: they remember the first moments after their summoning. And their memories can be accessed."

Huei shook her head. "You're lying, Acatl."

Couldn't she see? The Duality curse her, couldn't she see? "I'm not here to arrest you," I all but screamed, heedless of the slaves, who were now clustering at the entrance. "This is your life we're talking about. Don't you know the penalty for breaching the boundary?"

"Acatl…"

How could people be so ignorant of the boundaries that I maintained, of the price for dealing with the underworld – as if all that mattered was capturing prisoners and offering their hearts to the Sun God?

"Death, Huei. That's the price: an obsidian shard embedded in your heart, and the Wind of Knives carrying away your soul. What were you thinking of? You just can't play around with the boundaries!" A cold feeling was starting to work its way down my spine, but I couldn't tell how much of it I was imagining. He couldn't already be at the underground cavern, could He?

She said nothing. She was watching me, her face expressionless; and she still hadn't moved from her dais.

"How could you have been such a fool?" I asked, the question I'd been holding in my mind finally released. "You had everything. Why endanger it all?"

She inclined her head, a gesture as slow and stately as an imperial wife's. "You're the one who doesn't understand, Acatl." Her eyes were harsh. "Neutemoc was the one who gave us all of this: the house, the jade and feathers–" Her hands moved, encompassed the rich frescoes on the walls, the silver and jade ornaments on the wicker chests. "And he would have thrown it away for a whore's open legs. He was unhappy for a few months, and he'd take some ephemeral comfort, never seeing the consequences? I couldn't let that happen. I couldn't let him go."

"You loved him," I said, shocked. The coldness was halfway down my spine now. "You'd have killed him?"

Her hands clenched in a spasmodic gesture. "He wasn't supposed to be there, the Storm Lord smite him! He was supposed to be coming home." And for the first time I heard the emotion she'd been hiding beneath her haughty mask: not fear or anger, but despair. And it hurt me to the core.

"And finding you reeking of magic?" Some part of me knew that I was wasting time; that the coldness was all the way down my spine, and already a faint lament echoed in my ears. But I couldn't help it. I thought I had understood her, that we had trusted each other, and everything had been a lie.

"He would never have known," Huei said. "And he would have come back to me in time. The children would have been safe."

"No," I said. You couldn't rebuild on a canker. You couldn't go forward with a lie, any more than you could force maize burnt by Mictlan's touch to grow again. But she wouldn't see that. I couldn't make her see.

"Acatl?" Mihmatini's puzzled voice. "Can I have an explanation?"

I turned, briefly. She'd pushed aside the slaves with an authority I hadn't known she possessed. Suddenly, I remembered the stakes; and that I was standing there, wasting time arguing with Huei. "It's not the time," I snapped, more violently than I'd intended to. And, to Huei: "You still don't understand. The Wind of Knives is coming for you. To kill you."

For the first time, Huei looked uncertain. "I don't–" she started.

"You must have known the penalty," I said. "Please tell me you knew it."

And when she turned to look at me, her eyes widening in panic, I knew that she hadn't been the mind behind all of this. Someone had used her, and discarded her like a broken clay toy, knowing that she would die, putting an end to embarrassing questions. "You did not," I said. "Who told you how to summon the beast, Huei?"

I could feel the Wind now: a pressure in the back of my mind. He was moving north along the Itzapalapan causeway, gathering shadows around Him like shrouds. He was coming rapidly, covering in a few minutes what had taken Teomitl and me half an hour of running.

"That's my own concern." Huei was moving away from the dais, trying to get away from me.

I shook my head. "Not any more. Not from the moment you breached the boundaries. Who was it, Huei?"

Her smile was bitter. "And if I tell you… what then, Acatl? Will you protect me from the Wind of Knives?"

"I can't," I whispered, feeling the growing hollow in my stomach. I had been a fool to return here, hoping for answers, hoping I could safeguard my brother's perfect family, the pinnacle of achievement I couldn't reach. "I–"

"No," Huei said. Her voice was sad, but she held herself with the bearing of an Imperial Wife. "You've never understood, Acatl. I gave everything to this marriage, and Neutemoc repaid nothing to me. One grows tired of a hundred slights, of the casual gestures of indifference. One grows tired of wondering when one's husband will finally abandon his own household."

Every one of her words was a knife wound in my gut. Neutemoc couldn't have been so stupid. He…

But I had seen how much he desired Eleuia.

"Huei," I whispered, but she looked at me, straight and tall, and she didn't answer.

Mihmatini had been watching us, growing more and more horrified with each word. "Acatl," she said. "You don't mean…"

When she was younger, on my rare holidays from the calmecac, I'd shared with her the tales of the priests, trying to impress her with all the beasts we'd have to fight, deluding myself I could play the warrior. She knew about the Wind of Knives, and she knew why He was coming.

"It doesn't concern you," I said.

Her eyebrows shot up. "I live in the same house, don't I?"

"Look–" I started, but didn't go further. The Wind of Knives was in our district now, floating over the canals – reaching Neutemoc's house, passing under the gate, shadows trailing after Him.

I didn't stop to think. "Get out!" I screamed at both Huei and Mihmatini, and I ran outside, to face the Wind of Knives.

In the courtyard, the torches' flames had died down, blown out by the Wind's presence. The slaves, too, had scattered, gone back into their quarters, no doubt. And I couldn't blame them. The Wind's approach would have been heralded by darkness and the growing cold; perhaps by a few ghosts, flitting around the courtyard. Enough to make any sane man run away.

I supposed that I didn't count as sane, in any sense of the word.

The Wind of Knives stood under the tallest pine tree of the garden: a tall, humanoid shape made of obsidian shards, glimmering in the moonlight. In my ears was the keening of the wind, bringing to me the lament of dead souls, and the sharp, sickening smell of decaying flesh. Wherever the Wind went, He brought Mictlan with Him.

I didn't go to Him; I stood before the entrance-curtain to the reception room, feeling the cold work its way into the marrow of my bones.

"Acatl," He said. His presence in my mind was strong: it would have driven the uninitiated to insanity. But I was used to it – if one ever got used to the pressure in one's mind, the sense of standing on the brink of a vast chasm. "I have come."

"I know," I said, bowing to Him.

He shifted. Obsidian shards glittered, sharp, cutting, hungering for human blood. "Then let Me pass."

"I cannot."

He made a sound which might have been laughter, although I had never seen Him amused. "You are High Priest for the Dead. You keep the balance."

"I know," I said, but still I didn't move from my place.

He asked, "Would you break that compact? It is a dangerous game you play."

"I'm not playing a game," I said, thinking of Huei, thinking of my brother's radiant face when he'd announced his marriage. "I'm not playing."

"No," the Wind of Knives said. He moved, to stand in front of me. His hand reached out, stopped inches from my chest. Every finger was made of slivers of obsidian, as pointed as the end of a knife. My chest ached at the mere thought of another wound. "It's not a game, Acatl."

"She is my brother's wife," I said, slowly, not knowing what else I could offer Him.

"Should that make a difference?" the Wind of Knives asked.

"I don't know," I said, and it was the truth. Ceyaxochitl had been wrong. I couldn't be in charge of this investigation. I couldn't watch as the underworld tore my brother's family apart; as it tore my own fragile illusions apart.

His hand rested on my chest, inches above the heart, just as the fingers of my good hand closed around the first of my obsidian knives. Power pulsed within me: the familiar emptiness of Mictlan, rising to fill my soul.

The Wind of Knives made that half-amused, half-angry sound again. "You'd fight Me?"

"She had reasons–" I started, knowing how thin was the ground I stood on, knowing that He could not be swayed.

"There are no reasons," the Wind of Knives said. His hand closed. I recoiled, but His fingers only touched my bandages, cutting them away with the precision of an army healer. The bandages fell in a swish of cloth. Cold air ran over the wounds on my chest: a sting that made me hiss.

"This is what comes of dealing with the beasts of Mictlan," the Wind of Knives said. "Think on it, Acatl."

"Yes," I said. "But I still need to understand–" I needed to know who had given Huei the tools for her summoning; and if Priestess Eleuia was still alive.

"There is nothing to understand," the Wind of Knives said. "A transgression was made. Justice must be dealt."

Though He had been human once – a long, long time ago, before He swore himself to Lord Death and became the Wind – He didn't think like us any more. An eternity of watching over the passage of souls and of dealing with transgressors had moulded His mind into something else. Pity, or even reason, was alien to Him.

"There are other lives at stake," I said, raising my good hand in the air, as if to ward Him off. "I need to know who she was working with."

He watched me, unmoving. Moonlight outlined the shape of His head: huge and pointed, more akin to that of a beast of shadows than that of a human. "I do not investigate," He said.

"But I do," I said, and groped for arguments that He could accept. "She wasn't the only transgressor. There are others still at large."

He was silent for a while. At last, He said, "I end all transgressions. She was the only one to open the gate."

"But what of those who gave her the magic?" I asked, sensing an opening I could wedge myself into. "Aren't they as guilty as she?"

"Guilt is irrelevant," the Wind of Knives said.

"So, if I gave people the means to summon a beast, you would never kill me? That doesn't seem just."

He looked at me, lowering His head in a shimmer of blades. "I am justice," He said. "But not, I think, your justice."

"I can't accept–" I started.

"Acatl." His voice stopped me. "Do not lie to Me."

"I'm not lying." I still stood in the entrance; and He still did not strike me down, although it was only a matter of time before He grew bored with me.

"You are protecting her," the Wind of Knives said, "because she is of your blood."

"She isn't of my blood," I said. But as I said it, I realised that all I had given Him, all my reasons for His not killing Huei, were indeed just convenient lies. If I dug deep enough, the real reason didn't have anything to do with the investigation: it was that I couldn't face the thought of Huei's death. It wasn't just. There could be no exceptions. But I could not let Him pass. I could not let Him kill Huei. It went beyond reason.

I stood as tall as I could; and I raised the knife that Mictlantecuhtli had blessed, feeling the power of the underworld seep into my flesh. "I cannot let you pass," I whispered.

He came, again, to stand in front of me. Once more the wind keened into my ears; once more, I heard an endless lament for the dead, echoing in my mind.

"This knife?" He said. He reached out, plucked it from my fingers, and snapped it in two. "You're not Mictlantecuhtli's agent, Acatl. You have scraps of His power, but not enough to stop Me. And it is as it should be."

Before I could break out of my shocked stupor, He'd reached out again and enfolded me into His embrace. The obsidian shards dug into my flesh, each a source of fiery pain that spread outwards. I gritted my teeth not to scream and bit my tongue, so hard that blood flowed into my mouth.

He lifted me upwards effortlessly, gaining speed as He did so. In a brief, panicked moment, as I spun under the pitiless gaze of the stars, I saw what He was going to do: throw me out of His way like a sack of useless refuse.

I tried to grope for a hold, anything I could use to slow Him down. But my good hand closed only on cold, cutting shards, which I couldn't hold. His hands opened, releasing me. I fell, the lament of Mictlan's souls rising in my ears as the ground got closer and closer.

I had time to think on how thoughtless I had been, seconds before the Wind's hands closed again, catching me a hand-span from the ground. Pain blossomed everywhere He touched me, in my left leg, in my left hand, rising to meld with that coming from my chest.

Almost gently, the Wind of Knives laid me on the ground. "You serve well. But do not presume to interfere," He said, even as He walked away into the house.

I lay on the ground, amidst the discarded bandages. The smell of pulque rose to fill my nostrils. I struggled to get up. Blood ran down my chest: the beast's wounds had re-opened. Teomitl would be angry, I thought, with a short, wry laugh. But even that slight contraction of my abdominal muscles hurt. Every movement I made was constrained by pain. After one or two attempts, I gave up, and fell back onto the ground. I lay there, feeling pain rise within me like the steady beat of drums at the sacrifices.

He was in the house now, killing Huei. Things were as they should be, as He had said. I thought of Neutemoc in his cage – and of Huei's proud, bitter face as she told me about her family's future – and a different pain took hold in my chest.

What a fool I had been. The underworld's justice could not be swayed, or even delayed. In my mind, the familiar pressure of the Wind of Knives receded: giving way before the pain, I thought, dizzily.

"Acatl?" A familiar voice: my sister's, I realised. My head turned towards her, instinctively. Pain shot up my neck, but it was almost muted compared to the pain in my chest.

All I could see of Mihmatini were her sandals, and then her deerembroidered skirt, as she knelt on the ground. "You're hurt."

"Tell me something else," I whispered.

She snorted. "Men! Why must you always be heroes?"

"I didn't–" My reasons were too much work to articulate.

"It looks like you did try," she said, then: "Can you bring some maguey sap?" I presumed she was speaking to a slave.

"What happened?" I asked. "The Wind–"

"He's gone, Acatl."

Gone? Then that was the real reason why the pressure in my mind had lessened.

Mihmatini's fingers ran over my chest, slowly, with the efficiency of a healer: gestures she'd probably learnt in school. For all that, I still couldn't help sucking in my breath as she probed the beast's claw-marks.

"Sorry," she said. "I'll go more carefully. Where in the Fifth World did you get those?"

"The beast of shadows," I said, curtly. "Huei."

"She's gone, too," Mihmatini said. "While you were outside temporising with the Wind, she left by the back door. The Wind is chasing her. She's slightly ahead of him; but she cast some kind of spell before leaving. It certainly seemed to slow Him down." She sounded halfway between horror and admiration. Her hands held me, effortlessly, as I struggled to rise. "Don't be a fool. You're leaking blood all over the courtyard. You won't go far."

"I need to–"

"You need some bandages, and rest." She sighed. "Knowing you, I'll settle for the bandages. Don't worry. We'll get you healed." More feet in my field of view: naked this time, with calluses. Slaves.

"Here," Mihmatini said.

That was all the advance warning I got: for the second time this night, maguey sap was poured onto my wounds, and the pain that spread from the contact points was almost worse than before. Tears filled my eyes by the time they were finished applying the lotion.

"Here," Mihmatini said at last, and hands lifted me, propped me upright. "Don't move."

I wasn't planning on that.

She was silent as the slaves dressed my wounds and splinted my arm again: Teomitl's makeshift device had got broken in my aborted fall.

When they were finished, the slaves left. I was feeling more and more like a funeral bundle: bandages tightened around my whole chest, and spread downwards on my left leg. But at least I could move – not much, the bandages constrained me tightly – and I was ready to leave. Mihmatini helped me to my feet.

"Where did Huei go?" I asked. I realised I didn't need to ask the question. I closed my eyes, and felt, beyond the pain that filled my body, the familiar pressure of the Wind's mind. He was once again moving through the streets of the Moyotlan district, though He appeared bewildered for some reason. Huei's spell, surely. What had she cast? How had she known all that magic? "She's still in Moyotlan. He hasn't caught her."

Mihmatini squeezed my hand, briefly, and withdrew. "There's a boat outside in the canal. Oyohuaca will row for you. She's a competent girl," she said. "Go."

"I don't need–" I started, stubbornly.

Mihmatini shook her head, more amused than angry. "Help? Can't you accept, for once in your life, that you can't do it on your own?"

A groundless accusation: I had taken Teomitl's help. And then I thought, uneasily, of the way I'd summarily sent him home, getting rid of him before the climax.

Mihmatini watched me, silent – not judging, she'd never judged me. For her, I'd always be the brother who helped her climb trees, and brought her treats from the festivals. No, not quite; for the priestesses at the calmecac had changed her, moulded her into this coolly competent girl whom I hardly recognised.

"I'll take the boat," I said, finally.

Her face relaxed, a minute sag of her skin that made her less alien. "Go," she said.

"With not even a warning?" I asked.

"You know them all, Acatl. And you'll still ignore them. Go."

But, as I left the garden, she still called after me, "Try to come back standing on your feet, will you?"

Feeling even more broken than before, I limped out, bent on finding the Wind before he found Huei.

Given my present state, it was a hopeless undertaking, but I had to try. For Huei's sake, and also for my own.

ELEVEN

Servant of the Gods

In the canal before Neutemoc's house, Oyohuaca, a slave-girl clad in a rough maguey-fibre shift, was waiting for me in a long, pointed reed boat. I climbed in, wincing as my bandages shifted.

"Where to?" Oyohuaca asked, straightening up the lantern at the boat's bow.

I closed my eyes, feeling for the Wind's presence. He was a few streets away from us. He had slowed down, oddly enough, and was going in a slow, wide circle towards the south-western edge of the Moyotlan district.

"Left," I said.

She rowed in silence, with the easy mastery of one who had lived all her life at the water's edge. With each gesture, she whispered the same words, over and over like a litany for the dead. It took me a while to realise that the words were those of a prayer asking for the blessing of Tlaloc, the Storm Lord, God of Rain, and of His wife Chalchiutlicue, the Jade Skirt, Goddess of Lakes and Streams.

"O Lord, Our Lord,

The people, the subjects – the led, the guided, the governed,

Their flesh and bones are stricken with want and privation

They are worn, spent and in torment–"

There was something eerie about the sound of Oyohuaca's voice, floating over the canals in counterpoint to the splash of her oars. As we moved into deserted canal after deserted canal, it seemed to call up the mist, to trail after us. And something else trailed too, something dark and quiet that swam after the boat, biding its time.

Under the splash of the oars – in, out of the water, in, out – was its song: a quiet, hypnotic air that wove itself within my mind, melding with Oyohuaca's prayers until I no longer knew what belonged to whom.

"In Tlalocan, the verdant house,

The Blessed Land of the Drowned

The dead men play at balls, they cast the reeds

Go forth, go forth to the place of many clouds

To where the thick mists mark the Blessed Land

The verdant house, the house of Tlaloc and Chalchiutlicue"

For too long, it had bided its time at night, quieting its hunger with fish, with newts, with algae: the sustenance of the poor, the abandoned. But now it smelled blood: a living heart, so tantalisingly close. Soon, it would feast until satiation…

"Let the people be blessed with fullness and abundance

Let them behold, let them enjoy the jade and the turquoise – the precious vegetation

The flesh of Your servants, the Providers, the Gods of Rain

Let the plants and animals be blessed with fullness and abundance–"

The song stopped; the oars fell against the boat's frame with a dull sound that resonated in my bones. "Acatl-tzin," Oyohuaca said, urgently.

With some difficulty, I tore myself from my reverie. "What?"

"Don't," Oyohuaca said. The slave-girl sounded frightened.

"I don't understand." The Wind was moving again, picking up speed, straight towards the edge of Tenochtitlan.

"An ahuizotl," I said, aloud. A hundred memories came welling up from my childhood. The water-beasts were Chalchiutlicue's creatures; they lived in the depths of Lake Texcoco, and would drag a man to the bottom, feasting on his eyes and fingernails.

Oyohuaca's face in the moonlight was drained of all colours. "Don't listen to its song."

"I didn't know they sang."

Oyohuaca shook her head. "They don't. Not unless they truly want you. Don't listen," she said, picking up her oars again.

I thought of Huei's spell, which had so bewildered the Wind. It certainly was possible she'd summoned the beast to cover her tracks, in case some more mundane agency attempted to follow her.

How in the Fifth World had she become proficient enough to know all of this?

Oyohuaca and I followed the Wind's trail across the canals of Moyotlan. As the night became older, the houses had become silent and dark, their thatch-roofs wavering in the light of the torch; and the only sounds that came to us were the distant shell-blasts from the Sacred Precinct.

Oyohuaca kept singing her hymn, but now I could discern its urgency: it was her only protection against the ahuizotl. It didn't cover its song, though. That kept insinuating itself in my mind, whispering promises of happiness below the water – easy, it would be so easy to lean over the edge of the boat, lose myself in the Blessed Land of the Drowned…

I came to with a snap, sharply aware of how close I'd come to yielding. The smell of churned mud – and a faint, faint one of rotten flesh – filled my nostrils.

Don't listen, Oyohuaca had said. They don't sing. Not unless they truly want you.

The ahuizotls, like any magical creatures, would be drawn to power: to my own magic, embedded within the obsidian knives in my belt.

Focus. I needed to focus. I closed my eyes and thought of the Wind of Knives, of the dry emptiness of Mictlan, and how it would fill my skin and bones.

The song receded, fading to an insinuating whisper.

I opened my eyes. We were in one of the last canals in the district of Moyotlan. Beyond the houses on the right lay the open expanse of Lake Texcoco. There was no place to hide. Water wouldn't stop the Wind of Knives. Where in the Fifth World had Huei gone?

"Turn right," I told Oyohuaca.

We squeezed through a small canal between darkened houses, and emerged from the maze of Tenochtitlan's waterways onto open water. On the left was the Tlacopan causeway, its broad stone path snaking into the distance; on the right were more Floating Gardens: rows of fields bearing the crops that fed the city.

"And now?" Oyohuaca asked.

The Wind of Knives wasn't far away. No, not far at all. On the nearby bank was the familiar glimmer of obsidian. He wasn't moving. Was He waiting for something? I couldn't see Huei anywhere.

I pointed to the bank. "Leave me here," I said.

The slave Oyohuaca didn't look reassured. In fact, as soon as I'd managed to disembark, she rowed away from the bank, and waited in the midst of the water, away from us.

The Wind of Knives didn't move. Mud squelched over my sandalled feet as I climbed the muddy rise – as cold, I imagined, as the touch of the ahuizotl would have been on my skin.

"Acatl," the Wind of Knives said when I came near him.

I tensed, one hand closing on the hilt of an obsidian knife.

He did not move. He watched something below, in the Floating Gardens: a flickering light on one of the islands. "No need," He said.

"You–" I started.

"She is out of my reach."

"I don't understand–"

"It is a simple thing," He said, without irony.

"You are justice," I said, slowly, not yet daring to believe that Huei was safe. "You cannot be swayed, or set aside."

"Not by you," the Wind of Knives said. "But there are higher powers than I. Goodbye, Acatl. We shall meet again." He was fading even as He spoke, the obsidian shards receding into the darkness until shadows extinguished their polished reflections.

"Wait!" I said. "You haven't told me–" He hadn't told me anything. But He was gone, or perhaps would not answer to me.

I could summon him again, but I didn't have any of the proper offerings at hand. It would take time: more time than walking down the rise, towards the light that He had been watching.

I signalled to the boat again. After a while, the slave Oyohuaca rowed back. No doubt she had ascertained that the Wind of Knives was truly gone before she would approach again. She was a cautious girl.

"Can you row me to that Floating Garden?" I asked.

Oyohuaca spoke as I painstakingly climbed into the boat. "It's not a Floating Garden," she said.

But… "Then what is it?"

"A temple," Oyohuaca said, picking up her oars again. "To Chalchiutlicue, Our Lady of Lakes and Streams. It's where they host the sacrifices for Her festivals."

The flickering light turned out to be a torch, held by a priestess who kept watch over the temple complex.

It was a simple affair: a long building of adobe, firmly set onto a terrace of stone. Part of it appeared to be a calmecac for hosting the priestesses and the students; and another part of it – the part that hummed with a coiled power I could feel – had to be the shrine to the goddess.

There are higher powers than I, the Wind of Knives had said. It must have taken quick thinking on Huei's part to see that here, under the gaze of the goddess, was a place the Wind couldn't enter, and to reach it in time.

The priestess of Chalchiutlicue raised the torch when I approached. Her severe gaze swept up and down, taking in the whole of who I was. For the second time that night, I found myself wishing I had dressed better. Neutemoc's slaves and Mihmatini had done their best, but maguey-soaked bandages were nothing like the full regalia of a High Priest.

"Yes?" the priestess asked.

"I'm looking for my brother's wife," I said.

Her face shut, as if a veil had been drawn across it. "At this time of the night, the temple is closed to visitors."

"I don't think you understand," I said, slowly, although I suspected she did. "She isn't a student. She came here, about half an hour ago at most."

Her eyes didn't move. "No one came."

A lie. But I wouldn't disconcert her that easily.

"I am Acatl, High Priest for the Dead, and I speak for my temple and my clergy. Do you think it wise to stand against me?" I closed my good hand on the strongest obsidian knife, letting the emptiness of Mictlan well up to fill me.

Her face remained expressionless, though she had to see the power coursing to me. "I will talk to the Fire Priest. Wait here."

I did so. A breeze had risen over the lake, cold on my exposed skin. The mist would not dissipate. Was it just my fancy, or was something swimming in the water, near the bottom of the rise?

Two lights surfaced, briefly: yellow eyes, I realised with a shock. They were watching me with undisguised malice. The ahuizotl. It hadn't been there while Teomitl and I were on the lake, although Teomitl's warding magic might have kept it away. But it was the first time a water-beast had ever swum after me. Why wouldn't it go away?

I was wounded, smelling of blood, and reeking of the underworld magic I had been consorting with all night. To any magical creature, I would be a beacon.

But there was still something about it that made me uneasy. The ahuizotls belonged to Chalchiutlicue, and surely it was more than a coincidence that Huei had summoned them, and then found refuge in a temple to the goddess?

"Acatl-tzin," someone said.

Startled, I turned around. The priestess had come back with a man: a priest of far higher rank, judging by his diadem of heron feathers and the drops of melted rubber that darkened his face.

"I am Eliztac, Fire Priest of this modest temple. I'm told that you seek someone." He exuded the same coiled power as the walls of his temple: a rippling light that seemed to be an extension of the starlight over the lake.

"My brother's wife, Huei," I said, giving him a brief description. Although, by the gleam in his eyes, he had no need of it.

"I see," Eliztac said, but ventured no comment.

"Understand this," I said, exasperated by yet another delay – by the knowledge that Huei was alive, so close to me – and yet out of my reach. "I know she came here, and I know she hasn't left. We can talk all night, or you can save some time and admit to having seen her."

Eliztac pursed his lips, thoughtfully.

"She has transgressed against Mictlan," I added, for good measure.

His gaze was disturbingly shrewd. "But is no longer, I think, your rightful prey."

"Why would you prevent me from entering?" I asked. I tightened my grip on the obsidian knife. The emptiness rising in my chest was almost comforting, a shield against all I couldn't face.

He sighed. "You're right. It's late. Let's not dance around each other like warriors on the gladiator stone. The person you want did come here – but you cannot see her."

"I still don't see–"

Eliztac raised a hand. "She has given herself to the goddess."

There could only be one meaning for this. But I still had to ask, to be sure. I might have misunderstood. "As a sacrifice?"

Eliztac nodded. "She is Chalchiutlicue's now. She's removed herself from the Fifth World. Neither you nor anyone else has a claim on her."

"When?" I asked plainly.

"When the proper stars are aligned and the proper omens have happened," Eliztac said. "It will take time. One, two years? Only the goddess knows."

One, two years. Huei still had time. But, as she learnt the dance, and the proper rituals for the sacrifice, she would never forget what was to come: the knowledge of her death would mingle with every moment she spent in the temple.

The Southern Hummingbird cut her down! How could she…? But, of course, once she had summoned the beast of shadows, she wouldn't have had a choice, not any more.

"I have to speak to her," I said.

Eliztac shook his head, forcefully. The heron feathers swayed to and fro, like white flags in the darkness. "She no longer belongs in this world."

"There are some things I need to know…"

"She fled from you," Eliztac said. "What makes you think she would talk to you?"

I said, "She's still family." In spite of everything, she was still the gangly girl my brother had brought home, all those years ago: the one who'd smile and shake her head whenever Neutemoc and I tried to make her take sides. The one who would die, drowned by the priests in order to bring the Jade Skirt's favour to the Empire.

Eliztac looked away from me, for a moment. "If you were her husband, it would be a different matter. But as it is, I can't allow it."

"Please," I said.

But he shook his head. "Forget her, Acatl-tzin. The goddess will take her as Her own, and lead her into the Blessed Land of the Drowned."

It was, I supposed, preferable to what would happen to Huei if the Wind of Knives took her. Lord Death dealt harshly with those who sought to use His powers.

I could have begged and pleaded with Eliztac, but it would only have demeaned me. He had made his decision, and I would gain nothing by attempting to make him go back on it.

Entering the temple without his permission was tantamount to suicide: in my present state, I didn't have the power to hide myself from Chalchiutlicue's magic, and I didn't want to know the fate the temple reserved to trespassers.

"Thank you," I said, and walked back to Oyohuaca's boat.

The ahuizotl watched me from the water, a dark, lean shape whispering its seducing song. It followed us all the way home.

Neutemoc's house was bathed in the grey light before dawn; and the slaves were already getting up to grind the maize flour. I found my sister, Mihmatini, in the reception room, playing patolli with one of the slaves. She was sitting on a reed mat, listlessly throwing the white bean dice on the board and picking them up again, but clearly making no effort to focus on the moves of her pebbles.

Mihmatini looked up when I entered. "Acatl!" Her gaze moved beyond me, focusing on Oyohuaca, who was waiting respectfully by the entrance.

"You didn't find her then," she said. Her disappointment was palpable.

I wondered what I could tell her. But if I started lying to my own sister, I had fallen very low indeed. "She's in Chalchiutlicue's temple."

Mihmatini frowned. She gestured for the slave to get out. He picked up the patolli board, dice and pebbles as he exited. "And you can't arrest her?" she asked.

I saw the instant the inescapable conclusion dawned in her mind. Her face, for a bare moment, froze into an expressionless mask. "Acatl," she whispered. "Please tell me she didn't–"

I couldn't lie to her. "I'm sorry. It was the only way she'd be safe."

"Safe for a month or so, until they drown her?"

I sat on the mat where her patolli partner had been, facing her. "The priests said a year or two. But yes. They'll drown her in the lake." I tried to tell it as simply, as emotionlessly as I could, but I couldn't quite hide the turmoil inside me. In just a handful of days, my comfortable world had shattered. But I, at least, was alive: not in a cage like Neutemoc, not awaiting death like Huei. "They won't let me see her," I said.

Mihmatini closed her eyes and bent her head backwards, in a gesture eerily reminiscent of Father when I'd displeased him. "I don't understand why she summoned the beast," she said.

"Do you think I do?"

She snorted. "You're the investigator."

"A poor kind of investigator," I said. "It seems I can't even get hold of my suspects."

Mihmatini said nothing for a while. Her eyes were on the empty place between both our mats, and her thoughts obviously further away. Finally, she said, "What about Neutemoc?"

What about him indeed. I'd been pondering the matter on the way home, and had some ideas, but nothing definite. "The judges will hear him today. Huei would have proved his innocence," I said.

"Chalchiutlicue's temple won't even let Imperial Investigators in?" Mihmatini asked. But she knew, as I did, that the investigators could drag the priests and priestesses out and do with them as they pleased, but that someone destined for sacrifice had already removed themselves from the flow of our lives.

I asked her, carefully, "Will you bear witness for me?"

"For Neutemoc?" she asked.

"He's in an Imperial Audience, and I need evidence to get him freed."

"I'm his sister," she pointed out. "They won't believe me."

"The slaves will support you," I said.

"A slave's testimony–"

"Is receivable before the courts, unless the rules have changed." Any man could become a slave; any one could fall so low they had no choice but to sell their freedom.

Mihmatini puffed her cheeks, thoughtfully. "But the rules have changed, haven't they? No one gets so quickly moved to an Imperial Audience."

"There are complications," I admitted. "Political matters."

Mihmatini snorted. "Politics. That alone makes me glad I'm a woman."

"Women take part in politics too," I said, thinking of Eleuia.

"Less often," Mihmatini said. "Anyway." She ran a hand on her jade necklace. "I'll say what needs to be said, but I don't think it's going to be enough."

I bit my lip, thoughtfully. "Huei received two men, two days ago, in the afternoon. Can you ask the slaves if they remember them?"

Mihmatini shrugged. "I can try. But I think they were all intelligent enough to make sure they wouldn't be witnessed."

"Maybe." It was a risk we'd have to take.

"Have you found the priestess?" Mihmatini asked.

"No," I said. I should have thought of sending to Ixtli, letting him try to find a trail from the Floating Garden. Duality curse me, I'd been too obsessed with what I'd learnt about Huei to even think of using Teomitl as a messenger.

It was too late now. I'd stop at the Duality House on my way to the temple, to see what could be done. "But I don't think she's alive any more," I said to Mihmatini.

"Then you'll never find her," Mihmatini said. "Few things are as anonymous as corpses."

She'd changed. She spoke like an adult, sure of herself. And yet her face was still that of the baby sister whose first steps I'd watched. It was unsettling. Had time passed so quickly, leaving me with nothing but my sterile priest's calling as my own?

"I know," I said, quietly, unwilling to delve deeper into the subject. "But at this moment, all I need to prove is that Neutemoc didn't summon that beast of shadows. We'll see about the rest later." Such as explaining to Neutemoc what his wife had done.

"Very well," Mihmatini said. "I'll come tomorrow. At your temple?"

"Tomorrow, at midday," I said.

She nodded. "You could stay here to get some sleep, you know. You're in no state to traipse through the streets."

I heard what she wasn't telling me: that the house without either Neutemoc or Huei would be huge, filled with slaves who barely knew Mihmatini. I wished I could comfort her; but I had to go back to my temple and gather all I could to get Neutemoc freed.

"I can't," I said. "Not tonight."

Tomorrow… tomorrow, if things went well and the High Priest of Tlaloc didn't have his way, Neutemoc would be home. He'd take care of her: she was blameless in the whole matter.

Mihmatini shook her head. "You're not walking home in this state. I'll get Oyohuaca to row you back to the Sacred Precinct."

I would have protested, but in truth I felt too tired for that. I rose, now used to the sharp pain that accompanied every one of my movements, and bade her goodnight. "See you tomorrow then."

"You fool," she said as I limped into the courtyard. But her voice was more amused than angry. "Give those wounds a chance to heal."

I did not answer, and left Neutemoc's house without giving her further incentive to tease me.

Oyohuaca rowed me back to the Sacred Precinct in silence and left me by the western docks. Flotillas of reed boats, each bearing the insignia of the temple to which they belonged, bobbed in the darkness. Somewhere at the back would be the large ceremonial barge reserved for the High Priest for the Dead, its prow painted the colour of bone, its oars carved with owls and spiders.

From the docks, it was but a short walk to the Duality House; but this left me so exhausted I was thankful to Mihmatini for insisting I take a boat back to the Sacred Precinct.

The Duality House was still bustling at this hour of the night, and Ixtli still wasn't sleeping. Did he ever sleep? He listened to my account, cocking his head from time to time. "Very well," he said when I was done. "I'll take some men and go to the Floating Garden. But–"

"I know," I said. The trail was old by now, and it was mundane, not magical. Whoever had come for Eleuia – whoever had instigated the whole affair – had had the intelligence never to handle magic themselves. Even if they did find a trail, I wouldn't have results by the next afternoon. "Do what you can," I said.

I was about to leave the house when I saw a familiar figure ahead of me: Yaotl, Ceyaxochitl's messenger. He was striding ahead, not looking at me; but he did turn back when I called his name.

"Acatl," he said. "What a surprise. How goes your investigation?"

"As well as I can be," I said, tartly. "Where are you off to so fast?"

Yaotl shook his head, wryly amused. "To an interesting place, no doubt."

Huitzilpochtli blind him. He was as unhelpful as ever. "Let me guess," I said, more angrily than I'd intended. "The Imperial Palace."

He grew thoughtful. "I might. But it doesn't concern you, does it?"

"It might," I said. "I'm planning to attend an Imperial Audience tomorrow."

"For your investigation?" Yaotl looked at me for a moment. Finally, he laid a hand on my shoulder, in a mock-brotherly gesture that made me uncomfortable. "I don't think there will be one."

My heart sank. "The Emperor is that ill?"

"I can't tell you more. But don't expect the Audience."

"What happens to the cases he was reviewing?" I asked, my heart sinking.

Yaotl shrugged. "Justice still has to move forward, doesn't it? I assume the High Priests will take care of them."

The High Priests. The twin powers at the head of the Empire's religious structure. The High Priest of Huitzilpochtli was theoretically the most important one; but Ocelocueitl was an old man, tired by decades of overseeing the worship of the God of War.

Which left the other one: Acamapichtli, High Priest of Tlaloc: the same man who had been in such a hurry to have Neutemoc convicted.

TWELVE

The Imperial Audience

I returned to my house, lay down on my reed-mat, and fell asleep almost immediately.

My sleep was short, and disturbed: in my dreams, I stood in the boat of reeds with deep cuts in my arms and chest. Behind me was the dark shape of the ahuizotl – and I rowed and rowed, despite the pain that every gesture aroused in me. I had only to reach the end of the canal; to reach the temple of Chalchiutlicue, where Huei was waiting for me, and everything would be made right.

But, no matter how hard I rowed, the boat never moved; and the yellow eyes of the ahuizotl broke the surface of the water; and it spoke, and its voice was that of the Wind of Knives.

There are higher powers, Acatl. Fool.

I woke up with a start. Outside, the sun had just reached its zenith. It hung, swollen, just over my courtyard. I felt as if I hadn't slept at all. Not the best state of mind to enter an Imperial Audience.

I covered myself in a clean cloak, trying to ignore the insistent pain from my wounds, and went into my courtyard. It was a modest affair, a patch of marigolds, a pine tree and a small, covered well: nothing like Xochiquetzal's house, or even Neutemoc's. I sat cross-legged in the dirt before the well, thinking of what Yaotl had told me.

No Imperial Audience. That must mean that the Revered Speaker must be hovering at Mictlan's gates. The political infighting would now start in earnest. That was my only chance: that the High Priest of Tlaloc would be too busy plotting against his peers to worry over much about Neutemoc's fate.

I doubted it would be that easy.

I went back to my temple. In the courtyard, two priests were busy sweeping the ground, preparing for the afternoon's offerings; a further group were in one of the worship-rooms, in vigil for a dead woman.

I went into the shrine, where I dressed in my full regalia: the ivory skull-mask askew on my forehead, and the cloak of rich cotton, embroidered with owls, carefully tied around my shoulders.

Then I went down again, and settled into one of the furthest rooms: the same one where I'd given life to the jade heart, an eternity ago. I sat on the ground with maguey paper spread across my knees, dangling Eleuia's blackened jade pendant in front of my face.

What did I have?

Evidence that underworld magic had been behind all of this, and that someone as yet unidentified had summoned the nahual magic to cover Huei's tracks.

Mihmatini's testimony, as well as those of the slaves, would establish that the Wind of Knives had come for Huei, marking her as the summoner of the beast. If I was lucky, Mihmatini would also have a description of the two men who had come to see Huei in the afternoon.

Best not to rely on luck. Seven Serpent hadn't seemed to be on my side lately.

"Acatl-tzin?" Ichtaca's voice asked.

Startled, I raised my eyes. Ichtaca was standing in the doorway, lit by the midday sun. "Yes?" I asked. "I'm busy."

His gaze held mine, inscrutable. "So I see."

As usual, he made me feel like a child caught sneaking out of the house. "Yes," I said, testily. "Now if you don't mind, I have an audience to prepare for."

I'd expected him to go away; but he didn't move. "The Imperial Audience?"

"How did you know?"

He shrugged. "Rumours. Your brother was under question yesterday and the day before."

"Yes," I said, irritated. "And I intend to make sure he doesn't endure another day of this." Although the High Priest would want to do the exact opposite.

Ichtaca shrugged again, but said nothing.

"Acatl-tzin?" the offering priest, Palli, asked from behind Ichtaca. "Your sister is here."

I got up, wrapping the string of Eleuia's jade pendant around my wrist, and went out, bypassing Ichtaca without a word.

In the courtyard, Mihmatini was waiting for me, along with the burly slave who had stood guard at the gate when I'd arrived last night.

"This is Quechomitl," Mihmatini said.

He and I looked at each other, warily. This time, I was welldressed. But from his stiff stance, Quechomitl hadn't forgotten the drunkard he'd almost thrown out on the previous evening.

"He saw the men you wanted," Mihmatini said. "But they covered their heads with the hood of their cloaks."

"Hooded cloaks?" I asked. Those were rare; but, as Mihmatini had said, it made sense that the men would cover their tracks. I asked Quechomitl, "What did they look like?"

Ichtaca was still in the courtyard, his rotund face thoughtful – battling with some decision, I could tell, but I didn't know which one.

The slave, Quechomitl, shrugged. "Men in their prime," he said. "Strong ones."

"You're sure they were men?" That eliminated Priestess Zollin, but not the Jaguar Knight, Mahuizoh.

Quechomitl nodded, obviously annoyed at my lack of trust. Well, it was mutual.

"There are complications," I said to Mihmatini, as we walked towards the temple exit, Ichtaca still trailing behind us. "The Emperor won't attend the audience."

"Then who will?"

"The High Priests," I said, grimly. "One of whom will be busy trying to condemn Neutemoc."

"Great," Mihmatini said. "Neutemoc always did have a talent for making enemies. So what do you plan on doing?"

"I think you're mistaken," a voice said, behind me. Ichtaca.

Surprised, I turned to face him. "What are you talking about?"

"The Imperial Audience," Ichtaca said, shaking his head. He was angry, I realised, though I didn't know why. "If the Emperor is unable to take his responsibilities, it's not the High Priests who will replace him."

"I was told–"

"Whoever told you was either lying or misinformed," Ichtaca said.

I didn't judge it pertinent to mention Yaotl's name. The two of them had long been locked in a battle of wills – possibly because Yaotl was a foreigner, and because Ichtaca was unwilling to admit that anything good could come from outside the Mexica Empire.

"Someone has to take charge of the hearings," I said.

Ichtaca nodded. "Someone will. The Master of the House of Darts, Tizoc-tzin."

The Revered Speaker's brother, and also the heir-apparent: the one who had the strongest chance of being elected to head the Mexica Empire, if the Revered Speaker died.

"Tizoc-tzin has his moods," Ichtaca went on. "But he doesn't like the clergy, and I don't think he'll want to favour any of the High Priests."

"How do you know?" I asked. I didn't want to point out the corollary to his portrayal of Tizoc-tzin: a man who didn't like the clergy would have no reason to favour any High Priest over any other – not even the High Priest for the Dead over the High Priest of Tlaloc. Our arguments would have to be very compelling.

Ichtaca smiled, grimly amused. "I attend court, most days."

"Why?"

"Because this temple couldn't survive without Imperial patronage."

The reproach in his tone was audible. "Because I don't attend, you mean?"

He shrugged. "Someone has to," he said. "If you won't, then I will."

But he was still reproaching me. "You're a better politician than me," I said, finally, knowing it was true. I couldn't manoeuvre through the maze of the Imperial Court. I neither had the capacities nor the heart to do so. If I did go to court, the Imperial patronage for our temple would soon wither. Ichtaca said nothing.

"We'll discuss this later," I said.

"As you wish." He bowed, though his anger was still palpable. "But I thought you might want the warning."

It was a welcome one, and I couldn't resent him for it, though I had the feeling some old grievance had just been laid out in the open. I would have to deal with Ichtaca at some point. "Yes," I said. "Thank you."

He bowed, low. "Pleased to have been of service."

"What was that all about?" Mihmatini asked, as we exited the temple.

"I don't know," I said, truthfully. "Come on. Let's go."

The crowd in the Sacred Precinct was dense: we had to fight our way past pilgrims and priests. The slave Quechomitl opened a path through the crowd for my sister with his arms, but let it close before I could follow. Clearly, he did not like me.

In the Imperial Palace, I headed straight for the military court, and asked for Magistrate Pinahui-tzin.

The clerk snorted in amusement. "He's taking a pause in the garden."

Pinahui-tzin was sitting in the garden of the military court, watching the water rise and fall out of a conch-shaped fountain. At the back of the garden was an aviary: huge wicker cages held parrots, eagles, and quetzal birds, their emerald feathers shimmering in the sunlight.

"Ah. The young priest," Pinahui-tzin said, when we arrived. "I was waiting for you." He rose, leaning on his cane, and turned to greet us.

"Those would be your witnesses?" he asked, looking at Mihmatini and Quechomitl.

I nodded. "I have evidence of someone else's guilt."

"Someone you should have arrested," Pinahui-tzin said.

Why was everybody reproaching me for the same reason? "I can't. She's given her life to the gods."

Pinahui-tzin made no commentary. "Let me hear the evidence," he said. "As quickly as you can. Your brother is already inside the Courts."

I had thought it might be the case: that High Priest Acamapichtli wouldn't want to wait to convict Neutemoc.

When I was finished, Pinahui-tzin pursed his lips. "Scant," he said. "Scant. But it will have to do, young man." He scrutinised me in silence. His eyebrows went up, in what I hoped was a show of appreciation. "Come."

The last time I'd tried to find the Imperial Audience, I had roamed the palace, asking the people I met the way. Pinahui-tzin, on the other hand, knew where he was going. His cane tapped regularly against the stone floor, as we walked through corridors filled with officials in feather regalia, towards the inside of the palace. Every courtyard we crossed was a marvel: ornate fountains, fabulous plants from cacao trees to vanilla orchids, and animals ranging from caged jaguars to the web-footed capybaras. All the wonders of the steamy south, enclosed in the sandstone mass of the palace like a stone set within an exquisite piece of jewellery.

Finally, we reached the gates of the Imperial Courts. No guards waited on either side of the entrance-curtain. But this was only the antechamber: the closed audiences would be taking place deeper within the Courts.

Inside was a wide, airy room, where clerks hurried from dais to dais, carrying piles of codices from magistrate to magistrate. One of the courts was hearing two prisoners, but the rest were still reviewing evidence: the magistrates on the dais thoughtfully tapping their writing-reeds against the papers they were holding, or making annotations in the margins.

Pinahui-tzin walked straight to the end of the room, where a curtain of turquoise cotton marked the start of the area reserved to the Emperor's close staff. The curtain was closed, and two guards stood on either side. But they let us through when Pinahui-tzin marched on them with his cane pointed like a sword at the level of the lead guard's chest. There was, nonetheless, a moment of hesitation on their part – and that was how I knew that Pinahui-tzin's influence stopped at getting us into the Imperial Audience.

Behind the curtain was a small antechamber where we divested ourselves of our sandals, for one went barefoot in the presence of the Revered Speaker, or of his substitute. A sizeable pile of sandals – mostly gilded, luxurious affairs – indicated we weren't the only ones to attend.

Then I pulled open the next turquoise curtain in a crystalline tinkle of bells, and we entered the heart of the Imperial Courts.

The room was much smaller than the first one, but it was crammed full of people. Underlying the hubbub were sounds from the Imperial Gardens, which lay on the far side: quetzal birds calling to each other, the grunt of capybaras digging into the earth. The air smelled of copal incense and honey.

In the centre of the room stood Neutemoc, his shoulders sagging, deep circles under his eyes. Two Imperial guards flanked him, though there was no need: he would never seek to escape.

On the dais facing him were three people, easily recognisable. On the left was the old High Priest of Huitzilpochtli, Ocelocueitl, wearing a luxurious feathered headdress, and with huge plumes hanging from his belt, spreading like the wings of a hummingbird. On the right, Acamapichtli, High Priest of Tlaloc, with a crown of heron feathers, the area around his eyes blackened to give an unsettling impression. And, in the centre, sat Tizoc-tzin, Master of the House of Darts, brother of Revered Speaker Axayacatl-tzin: a man in his mid-twenties, dressed soberly in a tunic of deep blue, and with a look of utter boredom on his sallow face.

The rest of the crowd, standing on the edges of the room, was mostly noblemen, no doubt of the Revered Speaker's close family: a dazzling array of vibrantly-coloured cloaks, and of painted faces under feather-headdresses, saturated with the magic of protective spells.

Tizoc-tzin's gaze turned to me as I entered, his face lighting up at the prospect of a distraction, in a way that was hauntingly familiar. His gaze moved from Pinahui-tzin to me. "Well, well," he said, in the sudden silence. "You bring exalted company, Pinahui. Our High Priest for the Dead, no less."

I walked to the centre of the room, close enough that I could have touched the first of Neutemoc's guards. Ignoring the shocked look that spread on my brother's face, I bowed low. "Your Excellency."

Tizoc-tzin made a dismissive gesture. "Let's not stand on ceremony. I have not yet had the pleasure of your presence at court."

I said, carefully. "My Fire Priest represents me at the Imperial Court. I am confident that he can speak in my name and in the best interest of my order."

I felt, suddenly, as if I stood on the edge of a chasm – a coldness creeping into my back worse than what I felt when summoning the Wind of Knives. With a word, Tizoc-tzin could send me to the farthest edges of the Mexica Empire, or elevate me to the highest echelons. He could topple our temple, or make it immensely rich.

"What an event, then, to see you here." Tizoc-tzin's voice was still bored, but I wasn't fooled: he was toying with me, relieving his annoyance at being stuck between the two High Priests. "To what do we owe this visit?"

Acamapichtli was the one who spoke, in a low, angry voice. "My Lord, he's come to defend his brother the traitor."

Neutemoc shook his head, but didn't audibly protest. He looked barely able to stand, let alone mount a coherent defence.

Anger flared within me, a sharp feeling that cut off my breath for a moment. Neutemoc and I might not be speaking to each other, but The Duality curse me if I let a worthless priest condemn him on false grounds. "Your Excellency," I said. "I was in charge of the investigation."

Acamapichtli shifted on his dais. "No longer." His voice was malicious.

I snapped, "No one relieved me of my functions. And a good thing, too. Otherwise we'd still have a beast of shadows loose in Tenochtitlan."

That got Tizoc-tzin's attention. "A beast of Mictlan?"

"Yes."

"I was given to understand this man's nahual had abducted Priestess Eleuia."

I shook my head, and gestured at Mihmatini. "It was a beast of shadows. And I can prove that Neutemoc did not summon it."

"Lies," Acamapichtli hissed.

Tizoc-tzin's gaze moved from him to me, and then to the old priest of Huitzilpochtli, who was blinking, still trying to understand what was going on. "We'll listen, priest," he said, and the hostile accent on the word "priest" was unmistakable. Why did Tizoc-tzin hate the clergy so much?

I held out the jade pendant. "This belonged to Priestess Eleuia."

Tizoc-tzin reached out, cradled it in the palm of his hand. "Jade," he said. "Blackened by Mictlan's touch."

He surprised me. With his apparent hatred of priests, I had assumed he'd know little about magic. Clearly, he'd taken care to inform himself on his enemies.

"Yes," I said. "By a beast of shadows. I tracked it to one of Moyotlan's Floating Gardens, and killed it."

Ocelocueitl spoke up. "A good thing. Mictlan's intrusions are always dangerous."

"Yes," Tizoc-tzin said, a tad impatiently. "I assume your wounds date from this point."

"Not entirely," I confessed. I feared Neutemoc's reaction, but it was necessary if I wanted to set him free. "I accessed the beast's memories, and found out the identity of its summoner."

For the first time, High Priest Acamapichtli looked uncertain. His gaze searched Neutemoc's face, trying to see a sorcerer in my brother's wan features. "Well?" Acamapichtli barked. "Out with it! Who harmed Priestess Eleuia?"

They all spoke of her, I noticed, as if she were already dead.

"Neutemoc had nothing to do with this," I said, carefully. "The culprit…" I closed my eyes. Neutemoc was going to kill me. "The culprit was his wife, Huei."

In the shocked silence that filled the room, Mihmatini's voice resonated like a trumpet calling the warriors to battle. "I will bear witness to that. The slaves and I saw the Wind of Knives come to kill Huei for her transgression."

Neutemoc's face had turned the colour of muddy milk. A hiss came from his mouth: my name, repeated over and over. "Acatl… Acatl…" His hands clenched and unclenched, as if to squeeze my heart into nothingness. "Acatl…"

"I see," Tizoc-tzin said. His gaze was on Neutemoc, lightly interested, like a man watching dissected insects writhe. "I see."

"He lies," Acamapichtli whispered. "He wants to save his brother, whatever the cost."

Tizoc-tzin's lips compressed into a thin line. "Be silent," he said to Acamapichtli, who immediately stopped speaking. "You lied to me. You spoke of nahual magic. You said this man's culpability was beyond doubt."

"There was nahual magic," Acamapichtli said, softly. His eyes shone with hatred, most of it directed at me. "He brings no solid evidence, my Lord. The testimony of his own sister and of her slaves. A jade pendant that might not even be Eleuia's – some leftover from his temple, maybe."

Mihmatini's face had whitened. I could tell she ached to fling an accusation into Acamapichtli's face. I laid a hand on her shoulder, squeezed hard. "Don't," I whispered. Acamapichtli would destroy her, as casually as he was destroying Neutemoc.

Acamapichtli was still going on. "He spins a fanciful tale of Mictlan's beasts, but he's a skilful man. As for his wounds… there are many ways to wound oneself."

Watching him, I remembered why I hated high-ranking priests: the perfidious insinuations, the sly smile on their faces as they attempted to lead you astray. Acamapichtli would do anything to enforce his power, even flout justice.

I laid a hand on one of my obsidian knives, felt the power of Mictlan pulse deep within the blade. The emptiness that filled me took away my fear; took away everything but my anger. "Go to Moyotlan, to the Floating Gardens," I said, softly, "and see the three peasants with their hearts missing. Ask them if the beast was real."

Acamapichtli wasn't about to give up so easily. "Words," he said. "Easy, cheap things, Acatl."

"No more than those you used to convict my brother," I snapped. "Do you want evidence? I can summon the Wind of Knives here, in this chamber, to give it to you. Will you accuse Him of being my accomplice?"

"You won't frighten me," Acamapichtli said, his face white with anger.

"Enough," Tizoc-tzin said. He was lounging on the dais, rubbing his fingers on Eleuia's jade pendant, an amused smile on his face. "It's unseemly for priests to argue."

An easy accusation: priests were supposed to be dignified at all times – a feat neither of us had mastered.

"You will go to be examined by a priest of Patecatl," Tizoc-tzin said. "He will ascertain the nature of your wounds. And we'll arrest the real summoner."

"Huei wasn't the only one involved," I said. "She only executed orders. Someone else gave her the knowledge, and that someone else is now holding Priestess Eleuia."

Tizoc-tzin did not move. "Who?"

"I do not know," I said, cautiously. Neutemoc's face had turned whiter.

"We'll interrogate the woman, Huei, and find out."

"I'm afraid," I said, carefully stepping away from Neutemoc, "that this isn't going to be possible."

Tizoc-tzin's face darkened. "You're telling me what I can or cannot do?"

I mentally reviewed several ways of speaking the next sentence. But I could find none that would spare me Neutemoc's anger. "She gave herself up as a sacrifice to Chalchiutlicue."

Tizoc-tzin said nothing. His anger at being thwarted by the gods was palpable. But not so palpable as Neutemoc's towards me.

"You let her?" Neutemoc growled. "Acatl? You let her do – this folly?"

Although it cost me much, I refrained from pointing out that Huei's little games had almost ended his life.

Tizoc-tzin watched us, again with that lightly interested expression, as if we were a spectacle to be enjoyed. "I see," he said, finally. "How convenient for her. Acamapichtli!"

"Yes, my lord?" the High Priest of Tlaloc asked with false meekness.

"Chalchiutlicue is your god's wife, isn't She? I'm sure you can arrange matters."

Acamapichtli shook his head with malicious glee. "Alas," he said, "the Storm Lord and His wife are separate. I have no influence over Her."

Tizoc-tzin snorted, sceptically. "Attempt something, will you?" He turned to me. "I will await the results of your examination before I rule on this case."

I bowed, inwardly relieved that Neutemoc would have some time to calm down before we met again.

• • • •

It took time, more time than I had thought. After the priest of Patecatl was done with me, we had to wait until Tizoc-tzin's men came back with the bodies of the three dead peasants. Then the priest had to make a long, convoluted report to Tizoc-tzin.

Finally, after the priest was done, Tizoc-tzin pronounced himself satisfied. "Your story is consistent," he admitted. "But still no trace of the priestess."

Acamapichtli threw me a murderous glance from the dais. "No, my lord," he said.

Tizoc-tzin waved a jewelled hand. "Free the Jaguar Knight. The charges against him are obviously unsubstantiated."

If looks could kill, Acamapichtli's gaze would have already sent me into Mictlan. But it didn't matter. Neutemoc was free; his life was no longer in danger.

Unaware of this – or perhaps very much aware, and deriving secret amusement from it – Tizoc-tzin said to me, "The investigation will continue. Make sure you find her." It was half an order, half a threat. All I could do was bow down before him.

"Yes, my lord," I said. I took my leave, pausing on my way out of the palace to thank Pinahui-tzin for his help.

The old magistrate smiled, a wholly unexpected expression that seemed to light up his face. "Never could stand that arrogant priest," he said. "Good for you, knocking him down a peg, young man."

Neutemoc didn't say a word as we exited the Imperial Palace. He kept Mihmatini between himself and me – whether consciously or not, I couldn't say. I didn't complain in any case. His clenched hands and white face were ample testimony to how much restraint he was currently exercising.

We walked back towards the Atempan calpulli and Neutemoc's house in silence. It was late afternoon, but the air was still stiflingly hot: most people were inside, sheltering from the heat. The streets were deserted, and only a few boats bypassed us on the canals.

Neutemoc walked bent, with slow steps, like an old man – so unlike the Jaguar Knight who had been my parents' pride that something fluttered in my chest.

When we were within two or three streets of Neutemoc's house, I felt the air turn to tar.

What? I span, my good hand on my obsidian knife. Neutemoc had felt it, too. His head snapped up and his muscles tightened. So it wasn't an illusion, or something I'd imagined.

The street was utterly empty, or had become so in the past few minutes. So were the canals. But the air pulsed with magic: a rhythm that was the rush of blood in my heart, the air exhaled from my lungs.

Something moved, at the corner of my eye, shimmering over the water of the canal. I couldn't get a hold of it no matter how I cocked my head.

But Neutemoc grunted and fell, a fresh wound blossoming on his thigh.

The slave Quechomitl rushed to guard his master, and whatever had felled Neutemoc also wounded him: marks appeared on Quechomitl's chest out of thin air, as if claws were being drawn across his skin.

Mihmatini screamed for help, but soon fell silent. It was quite obvious that no help would be coming. But what in the Fifth World was attacking us?

I closed my eyes, extending my priest-senses, and saw them, quivering at the edge of my vision: three shapeless beings with clawed hands, cackling as they crowded around Neutemoc. Their bodies were completely transparent, and only the glint of sunlight as they moved had betrayed them.

Keeping my eyes closed, I unsheathed one of my obsidian knives and, still one-handed, threw it. A good thing that my right hand wasn't the one in the sling.

The blade flew towards the nearest assailant but, somehow, the thing wasn't there when the knife struck. It cackled contemptuously, a sound like hundreds of insects skittering on a stone floor, and went again towards Neutemoc.

The Duality curse them and all their kind!

Mihmatini was kneeling on the ground, drawing a circle in the dirt with the knife in her belt. She was chanting as she did so. I couldn't make out all the words, but it sounded like a hymn to Huitzilpochtli, the Southern Hummingbird, in His incarnation as   the Sun – a request for divine protection.

So far, Quechomitl was acting as a shield for Neutemoc. But Quechomitl was bleeding from a dozen wounds, and I didn't know how long he could hold on.

I withheld a curse and, drawing a new knife from my belt, slashed at what I could see of the creatures.

It was utterly ineffective. I could make them out, but not always. In the intervals when I couldn't see them, they would just shift out of the path of my blade, and I sliced only through air. It did not deter the creatures, which continued to converge on Quechomitl.

Quechomitl's face was growing paler and paler, and his grip on Neutemoc was slackening as his blood dripped onto the ground. His blood. Living blood: a powerful source of magic. Fool that I was!

I ran towards Neutemoc, snatching up my fallen obsidian knife as I did. Then I knelt by Quechomitl, closing my eyes again. The creatures were still crowding around him, trying to get past him – mindless, obsessed only by the idea of reaching Neutemoc. They paid little heed to me.

What in the Fifth World had my brother got himself into?

Mihmatini was opening her veins now, and pouring her blood on the ground. I dipped my hands in Quechomitl's blood and drew a sign on my forehead, calling on Quetzalcoatl, God of Creation and Knowledge, to grant me true sight.

"Yours is the knowledge of the priests,

Yours is the knowledge of the stars wheeling in the sky

You find the precious jade, the precious feathers…"

Fresh wounds opened on Quechomitl's arm, leaking blood in inexorable rivulets. The slave's face was pale, contorted in pain. I hurriedly finished my hymn.

"You find the hidden things, the secret treasures

Grant us Your sight, the sight of the gods."

The blood on my forehead went blazing hot, searing a mark into my skin.

A veil descended before my eyes, until the whole street went dark, the houses and the canals receding into faint shadows. Only the pulsing shape of Mihmatini's pattern retained some substance – that and the three creatures, hissing angrily at me.

With my eyes open, I reached towards the nearest one, letting the emptiness of Mictlan fill me, and sank the obsidian knife into it, where the heart would have been. This time, the blade went all the way in.

The creature hissed like a scalded jaguar and withdrew, but only a few hand spans. Numbness spread from the point of contact, up the hilt and through the obsidian blade – and into my hand, freezing my fingers into insensitivity.

Quechomitl grunted as three fresh wounds opened on his chest. His hand went slack and he started slowly, inexorably, to slide towards the ground.

The two others were already gathering around Neutemoc, in a frenzy to feed upon him. At Neutemoc's feet, his slave lay quietly emptily himself of the blood in his veins, his eyes already glazed, staring at nothing in the Fifth World.

With my awkward, frozen hand, I hefted my knife, trying to see where the creatures were coming from: if there was some thread of power I could follow to a summoner.

There was nothing.

Just a dying slave, and three creatures, gathering to feed on my brother.

Mihmatini. My sister's chanting reached a harsh, sibilant climax; her blood hissed as it filled the circle.

Light blazed, across the street, strong enough to dispel even my true sight. It spread in radiant wave after radiant wave, covering us, bathing us in warmth, growing in intensity with every passing moment. It was as if some covering of ice had slowly started to melt: as feeling returned to my injured hand, the creatures slowly melted away, with a disappointed hiss.

The light settled around Neutemoc and Quechomitl, seeping through every pore of their skin until they seemed to be made of it. It sank into me, too, hissing as it did so, leaving an itch against my hips when it encountered the knives in my belt, the magic of Huitzilpochtli conflicting with that of Mictlan.

I knelt, awkwardly, by Quechomitl's side. No more blood flowed from his wounds. When I groped, with a shaking hand, for the voice of his heart, nothing would beat under my fingers.

No. My fingers tightened on Quechomitl's skin, but there was no heartbeat. There would never be any heartbeat: never again, in the Fifth World or in the Heavens.

Mihmatini was helping a stunned Neutemoc rise. My brother was shaking, though I couldn't tell if it was from the wounds or from the sheer shock of the attack. I remained kneeling by Quechomitl's body, trying to understand how we had come here – how, on what should have been a simple journey back to Neutemoc's house, a man lay dead under my fingers, and for no reason at all.

I reached out, to close his eyes, but my hands shook so badly I couldn't. It took me three tries before the glazed gaze was hidden beneath his swollen eyelids.

Words came to me: the ones I said, over and over, for strangers. The only words I had:

"You leave behind your fine poems

You leave behind your beautiful flowers

And the earth that was only lent to you

You ascend into the Light, O Quechomitl,

You leave behind the flowers and the singing and the earth

Safe journey, O friend."

I thought of his soul, climbing towards the Heavens to meet the Sun-God – for he had died in battle like a true warrior, and the oblivion of Mictlan wouldn't be his lot. I thought of his soul, shedding the body like a worn-out shell, and I wondered what he had died for.

THIRTEEN

Funereal Thoughts

Between Mihmatini and me, we carried Quechomitl's body back to Neutemoc's house. Neutemoc himself trailed after us, still stunned and shaking. He hadn't spoken a word since thanking Mihmatini for saving his life.

In the courtyard, an old woman slave and Oyohuaca, the girl who had rowed me through the canals, were seated on the ground, waiting for us. When they saw Quechomitl's body, they gave a mournful howl.

"Master," they said, looking back and forth at Quechomitl's bloody husk, and at Neutemoc, whose Jaguar regalia were also covered in blood.

"Later," Neutemoc said. "Take him to the temple for the Dead. Give him a proper vigil and make the proper offerings." His voice shook at first, but gained in strength with every word.

Still oozing Huitzilpochtli's light, he walked, not into the reception room, but towards his living quarters.

I glanced at Mihmatini. "How long is your spell going to last?"

She shrugged. "Two, maybe three days? It's not going to be enough. Whoever got those to attack him will try again. And if they can't kill him, they'll try to harm those around him."

Like Quechomitl. "I know. Can you do something?" I asked.

Mihmatini puffed her cheeks. "I know a spell for warding a house against evil influences. It takes time to cast, but it's meant to last for a month."

"If you could…" I asked.

She nodded. "I'll go and get my materials. You talk to Neutemoc."

"I…" I didn't think I wanted to do that. When the shock wore off, Neutemoc was going to remember why his house was deserted, and who was to blame.

"Acatl." Her voice was stern. "You two have run away from each other for long enough. Go."

"When did you turn into Mother?"

She snorted. "All women turn into their mothers, Acatl."

And all men into their fathers. But I couldn't imagine myself as Father. I couldn't be that old, embittered man who'd never forgiven me for not supporting him in his dotage – and whom I'd repaid by refusing to undertake his vigil; a petty, useless gesture that would not change the grievance between us.

I found Neutemoc, not in his room, but in Huei's. He'd spread her jewellery on the reed mat, and was staring at it listlessly. The bloodstained jaguar head of his regalia rested against the wall frescoes, by a warrior twisting a noose around the neck of a fallen enemy.

When I entered, Neutemoc raised his gaze, but didn't speak.

I crouched on the other side of the reed mat, looking at Huei's jewels. Beautiful pieces, all: exquisitely sculpted jade in the shape of flowers and birds; polished necklaces with gold pendants; and a small obsidian mirror, reflecting my brother's wan face. I reached out to pick up one of the necklaces. Neutemoc hissed.

"Don't," he said.

I withdrew my hand, slowly. I said nothing; just waited for him to speak.

After a while, he said, "You saved my life. It's the only reason I'm not throwing you out of this house. But I strongly suggest you get out, before I lose my calm and give you the thrashing you deserve." He clenched his hand. Blood oozed from one of his wounds.

"Mihmatini strongly suggested that I talk to you, after what happened."

I'd expected him to snort, but he didn't move. He was very angry, then. "You dragged our sister into this." He snorted. "Things still haven't changed, brother, have they? She's always liked you. I just can't see why."

"Neutemoc–"

His face contorted for a brief moment. "Our parents were right. You bring nothing but trouble."

"Our parents were wrong," I snapped. "I made my own choices."

"Leaving me to pick up the pieces," Neutemoc said.

"You had the means to," I said, more nastily than I'd intended. The "pieces" were Father and Mother, after they grew too old to support themselves.

"Yes," Neutemoc said. "But I don't see why I should have to pay for the choices you made. For any of your choices," he added, in case I hadn't understood the first reference.

"Look – this time, there was no other way."

"No other way? My wife gives herself up as a sacrifice victim, and you think this is a satisfactory outcome?"

I shook my head, wondering how I could calm him down. "She tried to kill you."

Wrong tactic. His face closed. "No," he said. "You imagine things that aren't. She's always loved me. More than I could bear."

You fool. "So you destroyed your marriage just because you 'couldn't bear it'? How convenient."

"We won't talk of my marriage here," Neutemoc said.

"Because it's not relevant?" I asked. "Don't you think your marriage got you here?"

Neutemoc's hand clenched again. "No. What happened to me…" His voice trailed off. He'd always been an honest man and a terrible liar, which explained how easily I'd flushed him out in my first interrogation. "Perhaps it had to do with my marriage," he said, finally. "But that still doesn't give you the right–"

"There was no choice!" I snapped. "For what she'd done, the sentence was death. Death at the hands of the Wind of Knives, or at the hands of the Guardian's warriors – whoever found her first."

Neutemoc spat. "And your solution was…?"

"My solution?" I asked. "She made her own choices, Huitzilpochtli curse you! She was the one who went to Chalchiutlicue's temple and offered herself to Her," I said. "I couldn't stop her." How could he not see what Huei had got herself into: something far greater than her, which had ultimately swallowed her whole? How could he not see?

Neutemoc's hands clenched. "So you had no part in this? How convenient. That was also your excuse for not becoming a warrior on exiting the calmecac, wasn't it: events beyond your control. Not good enough, Acatl."

He had always known how to find the least of my weaknesses. His argument was, almost word for word, the reproaches Mother had kept addressing to me. "Leave the calmecac out of this, will you?"

He smiled. "Because you think this had nothing to do with the calmecac, and what you've made of yourself? The brother I used to play with would have given his life rather than harm me, or any of mine."

It was so patently unfair it didn't shame me. All it did was infuriate me. I raised my good hand, pointed at the wounds on my chest and on my arm. "You see these?" I asked. "I asked the Wind of Knives to spare her, Neutemoc. I pleaded for her life – I, who'd never allowed anyone to sway me – I made a fool of myself trying to sway a divinity that cannot be swayed."

Neutemoc's lips tightened in grim amusement. "Yes. I know how unbending you can get." He rubbed his face, but didn't speak further.

"I did all I could," I said. "But she ran away from the Wind of Knives, to the only refuge she could find."

Neutemoc stared at me. At last he said, "A poor refuge." And, with a shock, I realised that the glimmer in his eyes were tears.

"I…" I started, not sure what to say. Neutemoc had always been a strong man: going on, regardless of the circumstances. Even when he'd been arrested, he'd never broken down. "You can go to the temple, talk to her."

"It won't bring her back to me, will it?" Neutemoc said.

I could have lied to him; but I, too, had never been a good liar. "No," I said. "The temple is the only place where she's safe, both from the Wind of Knives and from the Imperial Guards."

Neutemoc didn't speak. His eyes were closed and he breathed slowly, heavily, swallowing his tears. His hands toyed with a small, broken obsidian pendant, heedless of the thin line of blood the edge of the stone was drawing on his palm.

"Neutemoc," I said, "she made her own choices, and you can't go back on any of them. And one of her choices was to summon that beast."

Neutemoc opened his eyes. "Tell me something," he said.

"Anything you want," I said, and it was a lie. There were some things I would be incapable of telling him.

"Did you know she was a sorceress when we married?"

I hadn't expected this question, and it took me a while to understand what he was asking me. "No," I said, shocked. "You're mistaken. Huei was never a sorceress."

"Then how did she summon that beast?"

I sighed. "People came to the house. They gave her the means."

Neutemoc's face hardened. "The same people who abducted Eleuia?"

"Yes," I said. Possibly the same ones who were trying to kill him, although I didn't understand why anyone would take my brother as a target.

Save for Acamapichtli. But the High Priest of Tlaloc wasn't a fool. He'd wait until Tizoc-tzin's attention was no longer on Neutemoc before striking.

Neutemoc took a deep breath. He was obviously wrestling with a difficult decision. At last he said, "I want to join your investigation, Acatl."

If anyone deserved to, it was Neutemoc. He'd suffered much in this, but I wasn't sure I could bear his ongoing hostility towards me. On the other hand… I'd allowed Teomitl to take part; I couldn't in all honesty deny Neutemoc for my own comfort.

I laid my hands on the reed mat, a hand-span from Huei's jewels. "You're sure?"

"Yes," Neutemoc said tersely.

"Then you'll have to be honest with me."

His eyes flickered. "I will. After all, I have nothing to hide any more. Or to lose, indeed." His voice was bitter, and cut me to the core.

"Very well," I said. "You can help."

He nodded. "Thank you." But he didn't move to touch my hands, and the set of his jaw said, clearly, that he hadn't forgiven me: that we were temporary allies, to avenge Huei and Eleuia and Quechomitl, but that we were not, could never be reconciled. And I wasn't sure I could ever be on friendly terms with him: not when his own foolishness had been the canker at the heart of his marriage, turning Huei into a stranger to both of us.

"Do you know," I asked, "why someone would try to kill you?"

"Apart from our friend the High Priest?" Neutemoc asked.

"I think he's more crafty than this." The least you could say about the attack was that it lacked subtlety.

"Then no," Neutemoc said.

"Any enemies?" I asked, and thought of Mahuizoh. I'd forgotten about him in the rush to defeat the beast of shadows; but he had a prime motive for wanting Neutemoc dead.

"Not that I know of."

Neutemoc appeared sincere, but I still asked, "Among the Jaguar Knights?"

"The usual resentment that I was elevated, not born into the nobility. But not, I think, enough to justify such determination."

"Hum," I said. I would definitely have to meet Mahuizoh, if he ever came out from wherever he was hiding. But, if Mahuizoh was a sorcerer of such powers, how come no one at the Jaguar House, or within his own household, had ever mentioned it? "I'll enquire. Mihmatini is putting wards around the house, in addition to the protection she already put on you. It should keep you safe."

"Safe," he repeated wryly. "Whenever did my own sister turn into a powerful priestess?" He didn't sound unhappy, but rather deeply puzzled, as if this were a wholly unexpected outcome.

I shrugged, feeling as dislocated as he was. "When she started eating maize gruel, I suppose." It had been an ongoing joke in the family that Mihmatini had screamed whenever Mother attempted to switch her diet from milk to gruel.

Neutemoc smiled, a tight expression that didn't reach his eyes. "I suppose," he said, and the moment of shared reminiscences was past.

"I'll go to my temple," I said. "I've got some unfinished tasks." Such as speaking to Ichtaca before matters between us festered beyond recovery.

Neutemoc nodded. "I'll join you later."

I toyed with the idea of telling him to get some sleep, but decided in the end that only Mihmatini could afford that kind of remark. I didn't want to tear our fragile understanding.

As it turned out, I didn't go to my temple immediately, because Mihmatini caught me in the courtyard, and insisted on my getting a proper meal. Despite my protests, I somehow found myself sitting next to her and the children, and facing a pale, angry Neutemoc who no doubt wished Mihmatini would stop trying to reconcile us.

The dinner was brief and perfunctory. Despite the sumptuous dishes aligned on the table – fried newts, white fish with red peppers and tomato, agave worms and sweet potatoes – I ate little, my stomach roiling at the mere thought of receiving food. I tried to avoid Neutemoc's gaze as much as possible, and focused instead on what I needed to do. Many, many things, including having a heartto-heart talk with Ichtaca.

But Mihmatini forestalled me again, insisting I spend the night at the house.

"I have other things–" I started.

She drew me aside, exasperated. "They're going to come back. You know that. Do you really want to leave us undefended?"

"You're good," I said. Better than me, I suspected. The spell of protection she had cast on Neutemoc – and now on the whole house, removing us from the sight of any foes – was intricate, and mastered by few. I was incapable of casting it.

She shook her head. "I'm not good enough to keep him safe."

My first, shameful thought was: Then let him die. Let my parents see that he's no better than me. But I couldn't hold that thought for long, not without remembering how I'd already let Father down by not undertaking his vigil. I couldn't do it a second time.

"He's not going to be happy," I said.

"Then let him brood," she said. "It will keep him alive."

I didn't know what Mihmatini said to Neutemoc. She talked to him in a low, urgent voice, making a couple of stabbing gestures with her hands. He said nothing when I unrolled a sleeping mat in one of the spare rooms.

Sleep was a long time coming. I kept seeing Huei's bitter, resigned face, moments before the Wind of Knives arrived; and in my dreams it turned into the wrinkled face of the ahuizotl, its eyes yellow and malevolent.

Finally, darkness came and swallowed me whole.

The following morning, Mihmatini badgered us all into having breakfast together again: Neutemoc, the children and I. We were sipping some cacao laced with vanilla and spices when the young slave, Oyohuaca, came into the room. "Acatl-tzin," she said. "There is a man outside to see you."

The man outside turned out to be Yaotl, who smiled widely when I entered the courtyard, followed closely by Neutemoc. "Acatl," Yaotl said. "I hear you've been having considerable success at the Imperial Court."

"Ha ha," I said, unwilling to start yet another war of words. "Are you here to congratulate me, or to drop further obstacles into my path?"

"Neither," Yaotl said. "I bring you good news." He checked himself. "Well, 'good' in a certain meaning of the word, of course." I was fighting a rising sense of frustration.

"Can you get to the point, instead of taunting me?"

"My my, we're in a bad mood today," Yaotl said. "Mistress Ceyaxochitl sent me. We've found Priestess Eleuia's body floating near Chapultepec."

As expected, Neutemoc accompanied us. Yaotl made no comment; he spoke with me as if Neutemoc were not there.

Chapultepec was a small town at the end of the Tlacopan causeway, west of Tenochtitlan. Sitting on the banks of the lake, the town comprised mostly peasants working the fields of the Floating Gardens, and a sizeable community of fishermen. It was with one of those – a grizzled man in just a loincloth, his face deeply tanned by the sun – that Ceyaxochitl was speaking. She and the fishermen stood by the edge of the lake. I couldn't see Eleuia's body at first; but then I made out the white shape floating in the fisherman's net.

"You see," the fisherman was saying, "I get up this morning and go pull up the nets like I do all my life, except that they won't come up so easily. A big fish, is what I tell myself. A fish big enough to feed the whole family, sons and cousins and uncles and aunts." He barely stopped between two sentences, obviously proud of his find.

Ceyaxochitl nodded from time to time, but didn't interrupt him.

"So I pull harder and harder, and when the net finally surfaces, there's this white thing in it. A fish, I still tell myself, but then I see her hair trailing behind her, and then I continue pulling, I see her face and I know I have to tell someone…" His voice trailed off.

"You did well," Ceyaxochitl said. "Ah, Acatl. You see what we have." The fisherman, curtly dismissed, stepped away from us.

"Not yet," I said. I walked closer to the net. Neutemoc was standing behind me, frozen in shock. "Can we get it out of the water?" I asked.

"I was waiting to know if you could see anything," Ceyaxochitl said.

I extended my priest-senses, but felt only the everyday setting: the wide expanse of the lake, the peasants tilling the fields, the anchor of the earth beneath us. I shook my head. "Easier to see if you're on dry land." As Neutemoc and Yaotl started hauling the body of the net, I asked her, "I thought you'd be at the Imperial Palace?"

Ceyaxochitl's eyes were on the muddy banks of the lake. Further away, boats ferried peasants with hoes and baskets from the town to the Floating Gardens. At last Ceyaxochitl said, so softly that no one but I could have heard, "There isn't much that can be done any more."

No wonder the noblemen had been so numerous at the Imperial Audience. The succession of Revered Speaker Axayacatl-tzin grew closer and closer, and Tizoc-tzin would be in a prime position to claim it. "How long?" I asked.

"A few months, if the Southern Hummingbird's protection holds. In reality… considerably less, I'd say."

"I see." Neutemoc and Yaotl were laying the body on the bank; I went closer to take a better look at it.

In life, Eleuia might have been strong and alluring, drawing men to her as peccaries will draw jaguars. In death, she was small and pathetic, her beauty extinguished. The lake's currents had torn her clothes off: her skin was as white as the new moon, and clammy, as unsettling as the touch of a Haunting Mother. Multiple bruises had formed on her arms and legs. Algae had twined with her hair, and her face… Her face was the worst: empty eye-sockets gazed at me, still encrusted with dried blood. Small scratches, like those made by tiny claws, spread around the place where the eyes should have been.

I didn't need to take a look at her hands to know what kind of claws had pawed at her eyes, probing until they detached. "An ahuizotl?" I asked Ceyaxochitl.

She nodded. "Yes. Her fingernails are also missing."

I closed my eyes, remembering the monster that had tracked me across the canals. Too many coincidences. What was Chalchiutlicue's part in this?

I looked at the body again. The last thing we knew about Eleuia was that Huei's mysterious allies had taken her. They might have released her, although it sounded unlikely, and I didn't think Eleuia would have gone to the town of Chapultepec. She'd have tried to go back to her temple.

Which left the second option: she had been dead by the time she entered the water, and the ahuizotl had only feasted on a corpse.

I could have cast the same spell as before, back in the calmecac, to see if Mictlan's gates had opened on the lake-banks – but that spell worked best in confined spaces. Here, sunlight and the passage of numerous fishermen and peasants would lessen the traces of Mictlan's magic. The results would be misleading at best. No, better to take the easier choice and examine the body. There would be time for spells later, if the examination wasn't conclusive.

"I need to make sure what she died of. We'll take the body back to my temple," I said. "It will be quieter for a full examination."

Neutemoc bent, stiffly, to lift Eleuia's left hand. He stared at the wrinkled skin of her hands, at the incongruously pale skin revealed by the absent fingernails. His face was rigid, washed of all emotion.

"We leave this earth," he whispered, softly, slowly: the beginning of a hymn to the dead. "We leave the flowers and the songs, and the maize bending in the wind. Down into the darkness we must go, leaving behind the marigolds and the cedar trees…"

I hoped Eleuia had indeed drowned. Drowned men and women went, not into the oblivion of Mictlan, but into Tlalocan, the Blessed Land of the Drowned: a place where flowers blossomed all year round, and where maize never lacked; where Father would be, tilling the eternal fields, blissfully unaware of me. I prayed that Eleuia, who had suffered so much during the Great Famine, would at least have this consolation.

To us, the living, would be left the task of finding out what had happened to her.

Yaotl and Neutemoc carried Eleuia's body back to my temple. As we walked on the Tlacopan causeway, the macabre load elicited more than a few startled glances. But the presence of a Guardian deterred people from approaching us.

Ichtaca was descending the shrine steps when we entered. He took a look at the body in Yaotl's arms, and a long, darker one at me. "You'll be needing one of the examination rooms, I take it?"

I nodded. I really needed to speak with Ichtaca about the running of the temple, before whatever grievance he had festered into something incurable; unfortunately, time was hard to find.

I sent the others to follow Ichtaca, while I stopped by the storehouse to recover a wooden cage with an owl. I might not need magic to examine the corpse, but one never knew.

The examination room was a simple affair: a stone altar with grooves to evacuate the blood; a wooden chest holding a collection of obsidian knives; and at the back, a smaller altar of polished ivory dedicated to Mictlantecuhtli. I set the owl's cage on the floor, near the altar.

I recovered a small, sharp obsidian blade from the chest, and made my offerings of blood to my god: three quick slashes across the back of my left hand, blood flowing onto the altar. "We come for the truth," I said, softly. "Blind not our eyes; deceive us not. We come for the truth."

I touched the tip of my obsidian knife to the altar. A small jolt passed from the handle of the knife to my palm: a sign that some of Mictlan's magic had suffused the blade.

Yaotl and Neutemoc had already laid Eleuia's body on the stone altar. Bluish blotches marked her stomach: the same place as the stretch-marks of her childbirth.

Ceyaxochitl's cane tapped on the stone floor, until she found her place. She watched me like a vulture awaiting carrion.

I put the tips of my fingers on Eleuia's purple lips, and gently forced them open. The touch was cold, numbing. Froth had adhered to the inside of her mouth. Not sufficient – many things other than drowning could cause the foam – but a good start.

I retrieved a clean cloth from the chest and wiped off the foam. Then I pressed down on her chest, forcing her to exhale.

Foam bubbled up, replacing what I had removed. So Eleuia had drowned: she had been alive before entering the water. Interesting. I would have expected her captors to throw her dead body into the lake, not for her to be dragged down by the ahuizotl.

"Well?" Ceyaxochitl asked.

I shrugged. Not much to say at that point. "She died of drowning. The ahuizotl is most likely what killed her."

I turned my attention to the bruises. They were by no means abnormal: as the body bumped against branches and other obstacles, it was bound to gather quite a few of them. But something about their pattern…

I felt them, carefully. The skin was bluish-black and swollen, resilient to my touch. But bruises inflicted after death didn't swell, and they seldom turned blue-black.

Not all of the bruises were the same age. I stepped back, lifted one of Eleuia's arms. There was… a gradation: some of them were blue-black, bordering on a greenish colour, some of them were barely turning blue; and a few were still red marks on the skin.

My stomach churned. She'd been beaten up, consistently and regularly: in three days, the oldest bruises had had time to start discolouring, but the most recent ones were only burst vessels, the blood barely coagulating.

"Someone tortured her," I said, slowly.

Neutemoc's face turned white and harsh, like a shell.

"They took her, and then they beat her, again and again."

"What for?" Ceyaxochitl asked.

I shook my head. "I don't know. I thought – she had a child, in the Chalca Wars." Even though I didn't see what the child would have had to do with all of this. Unless Eleuia had tried to blackmail Mahuizoh?

"Yes," Neutemoc said. "I remember." His gaze was distant. "But it was stillborn, Acatl."

"That's what Eleuia told you."

Neutemoc said, "I was there, Acatl. I saw her bury the body. Trust me. He could never have lived."

"You're sure?" I asked.

Neutemoc's lips were two dark lines in the oval of his face. "Yes," he said. "I'll bear witness to that, if you wish."

"No need," I said. Huitzilpochtli strike me down. The child had sounded like too great a thing to be ignored – and Eleuia herself not above doing whatever she had to do to ensure her future. But if he was dead…

What could her abductors have wanted from Eleuia?

I ran my fingers on the bruises. Perhaps I was mistaken. But no, there were too many of them, and they were too large to have been caused by random objects dragged by the currents. The way they were spread, too: few parts of Eleuia's body weren't covered in them. It spoke, not of rage, but of a cold-blooded method, from the summoning of the beast to Eleuia's deliberate, methodical torture. My stomach churned again. Who were those people?

Mahuizoh? He had loved her, if I believed my witnesses, or at any rate, had had affection for her. Surely he wouldn't…

My fingers, probing, found a raised area on Eleuia's cheek: a smaller bruise, barely old enough to have discoloured.

It was the pattern of an object that had hit her, engraved into her flesh: a wound that dated from not too long before her death. I knelt, and stared at it. Unfortunately, the blood had spread and partially erased the contours. It had a shape: hints of curves, of stylised lines meeting to form the point of something else…

"Neutemoc?" I asked. "Does this mean anything to you?"

Neutemoc turned Eleuia's face to the light; carefully, as if afraid she'd crumble under his touch. He stared, for a while, at the eyeless hollows, at the small pattern on her cheek. His face was expressionless but his fingers had clenched into fists. "There was no reason," he muttered. "What kind of man…?"

I knew what he was thinking, because I felt the same nausea welling up in me, tightening until I could barely breathe. "Neutemoc."

At length, he shook his head. "No," he said. "That mark is too badly damaged, Acatl."

Ceyaxochitl's cane tapped on the stone floor. "Let me see," she said.

Neutemoc stepped aside, without a word.

Ceyaxochitl, unlike Neutemoc, probed Eleuia's flesh like a buyer investigating the fitness of a dog. A faint trace of magic hung in the air: she was calling on the power of the Duality to aid her sight. "Hum," she said. "It is very deformed."

"Spreading blood," I said. "She was alive for some time after that bruise."

"How long?" Ceyaxochitl asked.

"Not very long," I said. "So?" I felt sick. In my years as a priest for the Dead, I had seen death; I had seen cruelty. But never had I seen it so methodically applied.

And yet they had released Eleuia, or she had escaped. Unless… unless they had summoned the ahuizotl to kill her, thinking to hide their crimes. Possible. It was a risk – no one summoned the Jade Skirt's creatures without paying a price – but possible.

Ceyaxochitl stared at the mark for a while. "I have seen something like it. But I can't remember where."

"Can you find out?" Neutemoc asked.

"Yaotl will take a copy of it," Ceyaxochitl said. "I can't guarantee I'll remember, but maybe someone at the Duality House…"

Neutemoc said nothing while Yaotl sketched a copy of the mark on a maguey paper. He was watching Eleuia like a man dying of thirst, as he must have watched her while she was still alive. I couldn't help thinking of Huei's anger; and how, ultimately, it had been justified.

FOURTEEN

Two Knights

Ceyaxochitl and Yaotl left soon after that, claiming pressing business at the palace. Neutemoc remained where he was, staring at the corpse, in what seemed to be a particularly bleak mood.

I stopped Ceyaxochitl at the door. "I don't suppose you could summon someone from Tlalocan?"

Her eyes held me, expressionless. "From the Blessed Land of the Drowned? You want to summon Eleuia?" Finally, she sighed. "No. The Duality is the source and arbiter of all the gods, but They have no power over where the dead go. And you…"

I could summon the dead, but only those who belonged to my god, Mictlantecuhtli. Eleuia, who had drowned, belonged to Tlaloc, and I couldn't summon her without the Storm Lord's blessing. But there was another way. "If she won't come to my call, I could go to her."

Ceyaxochitl raised her eyebrows. "Risky."

In a god's world, I would be an exile, my magic diluted, my body weak. And there was a risk, no matter how insignificant, that I would meet Father's soul: a small thing compared to the stakes, but not something I was looking forward to, by any means.

"I know," I said. But Eleuia would know why she had died, and who had abducted her. It was the most direct way to find out the truth.

"I really have to be at the palace," Ceyaxochitl said. "But if you're not back in three hours, I'll know what happened."

I nodded. By trying to enter Tlalocan, I would subject myself to Tlaloc's whims. If I hadn't come back in three hours, there wouldn't be much Ceyaxochitl could do, except perhaps succeed where I had failed.

After Ceyaxochitl and Yaotl had left, I went back into the room. Neutemoc was still staring at Eleuia's body, with a naked hunger that made me sick. He obviously hadn't been listening to a word we'd said, and what he was thinking of was quite obvious. It rankled. Here I was, endangering my life, and all he could think of was Eleuia? Not even Huei, or his children, or his family?

I asked, angrily, "This is what you'd have destroyed your marriage for? This flesh?" I made a sweeping gesture towards the altar, encompassing Eleuia's small, reduced body: the whitened flesh, the wrinkled fingertips… the missing eyes.

"It wasn't about carnal lust," Neutemoc snapped.

I walked to face him, words I couldn't hold any more welling up in me. "Wasn't it? You had everything, Neutemoc. It's not my fault if you tried to throw it all away."

"You can't understand."

"No," I said. "You're right. I can't even start to fathom it." I knelt on the ground, and gently traced the outline of the glyph for "water" on the stone: the mouth of a jug, out of which issued the serpentine shape of waves.

"What are you doing?" Neutemoc asked.

I shrugged. "You'll see." I retrieved the owl's cage from the altar, set it in the centre of the room, and withdrew the cloth that was covering it. A deafening, angry screech came from the bird in the cage.

"You're going to do magic here?" Neutemoc said.

I didn't answer.

"Acatl!" he said.

I raised my eyes briefly. "Yes," I said. "And I'm going to need you here, watching out."

"What for?"

I went back to the altar, and picked the jade plate and the spider carving. "I'm going to enter the World Beyond. To speak to Eleuia."

"Can't I come?" Neutemoc asked.

Gods, could the man think of nothing else but his would-be mistress?

"No," I said, curtly. That would be risking two lives instead of one. "You stay here."

I withdrew the owl from its cage and slit its chest. Blood spurted out in a rush of quiescent magic, its pungent animal smell mingling with the bittersweet odour of decomposition from Eleuia's body. I retrieved the owl's heart, and set it on the jade plate, above the First Level.

"Every year Your banners are unfolded in every direction

Every year you turn again to the place of abundant blood

Coming forth from the place of clouds

From the verdant house, from the water's edge…"

Magic blazed, closing the water-glyph pattern. It was if a veil had been thrown over the room, hiding Neutemoc and the altar, and the stone walls. The ground under my feet shifted, started to become mud.

"Coming forth from the beautiful place

From the misty house, from the verdant house

From the bliss of Tlalocan…"

Beyond the water-glyph, meadows were coalescing into existence, covered with the whiteness of maize flowers, lit by the warm afternoon sun. Somewhere, children were laughing, with such careless innocence that my heart ached.

"Coming forth from the water's edge

From the verdant house, from the bliss…"

Something pushed at me: two cold, dripping hands laid upon my shoulders. Startled, I lost my balance within the water-glyph and set one hand outside of the line of blood.

The meadows wavered, and were lost. The children's laughter slowly faded into insignificance. The golden light lost its warmth and colour, turning instead into a harsh, white radiance that out lined the bones under my skin. No. No. There was nothing left now; nothing of innocence, nothing of comfort. I could have wept.

The veil across the water-glyph hadn't returned either. Puzzled, I looked around me. I'd expected to return to the temple if my spell failed; but this was clearly no Fifth World place. Under my feet, the earth was black, and utterly dry. In fact, it wasn't earth. It was dust.

"Acatl," a voice said, behind me. "What a surprise."

Trying hard to contain the frantic beat of my heart, I rose and turned.

The harsh, white radiance came from a dais made of bones: skulls, arms and legs, ribcages poking out at odd angles. And on the dais… Mictlantecuhtli, Lord Death, and His wife, Mictecacihuatl, watching me as one might watch an unworthy insect.

I wasn't in the Fifth World at all. Somehow, I'd found my way into the deepest level of Mictlan.

Because there was nothing else I could do, I bowed. "My lord. My lady. I wasn't expecting to be here either."

Lord Death smiled: an eerie expression, stretching across His sunken cheeks. "Understandable. But one place leads to another."

"Tlalocan?" I asked.

Mictlantecuhtli crossed both arms over His skeletal ribcage. "The dead all take the same path. It's only the end of it that differs."

"That still doesn't explain why someone pushed me out of Tlalocan."

He smiled again. "You seem to have lost the Storm Lord's favour, if you ever had it."

There was an obvious reason. "I annoyed His High Priest recently," I said.

Mictlantecuhtli shook His head. "By the look of it, I would say it's an older offence."

"I don't see which one," I said, finally. But it was a lie. I knew why. I knew the only vigil I hadn't undertaken; I still remembered Father's drowned body, lying in the emptiness of the temple for the Dead – and of how I'd run away, unable to face the reproach still etched in every one of his features. Some things I just could not find the courage for.

Lord Death said nothing. He wasn't a god who judged, after all. He just received all the dead no other god had claimed. He wasn't fussy.

"There is no way in, then?" I asked.

"Not into Tlaloc's dominions," Mictlantecuhtli said. "If you've lost His favour, it's likely you've also lost Chalchiutlicue's."

I'd never been a worshipper of the Goddess of Lakes and Streams, and She wouldn't forgive my unfulfilled vigil. Father, after all, also belonged to Her.

"I was trying to find a priestess. Eleuia," I said, finally. Mictlantecuhtli, after all, was my patron. He would perhaps be inclined to offer hints. "Something is going on."

"In the Fifth World?" He asked. "Something is always going on. But it doesn't concern Us."

"It concerns the other gods."

"The Old Ones?" Mictlantecuhtli said. "And the newer ones – the upstart?"

"Huitzilpochtli."

Mictlantecuhtli ran His bone-thin fingers on the fibulae and femurs that made His throne. "Yes. The Imperial upstart and Tonatiuh, His incarnation as the Sun-God." He sighed, an uncannily human sound, although not a feature of His death-head's face moved. "My dominion is here. My power is here. Why should I look elsewhere? Let the others squabble over the Fifth World. I see no need to."

"So you don't know?"

"No," Mictlantecuhtli said. "I don't know what Eleuia would have known, or why she died. I presume that's what you want."

"Yes," I said. "But–"

He smiled again. "All I can offer is My knives, and some advice. Be careful of what you meddle in, Acatl. Cornered animals have a way of turning on you."

"I don't see what this has to do with anything," I said slowly, not daring to question him further, not in His dominion.

Lord Death shook His head. "Perhaps nothing. Perhaps everything. I think you can find your own way back, Acatl."

I'd never been this deep into the underworld, though I had caught glimpses of Mictlantecuhtli Himself before. I knew, theoretically, the path I would have to follow: back through the City of the Dead, the Plain of the Shadow Beasts, and through every level, until I could cross the River again and go back into the Fifth World.

"I–" I started.

I could feel Their amusement. "The gate is that way," Lady Death said, Her bony face stretched in a rictus grin. She gestured, and a cold wind blew around us, raising the dust at Her feet. Underneath was stone: cold, unyielding. And as the dust lifted, it revealed the carved pattern of a quincunx, pulsing with magic.

I stepped towards it but Mictecacihuatl caught my arm in a grip as unyielding as the embrace of death. Her bony hands probed my flesh, cold, unresponsive. I tried not to wince as Her pointed fingers slid into my wounds.

"You've bled much," She said. "Mostly in Our service."

I didn't speak. I was trying not to let Her see my pain.

Mictecacihuatl smiled: a grin that revealed yellowed teeth, as clean as animal-picked bones. "I suppose that after going all the way down here, you deserve something for your pain."

Light blazed around Her, sinking under my skin. Something tightened, impossibly compressing my bones, pressing my flesh against my rib cage – stretching me thin, as if on a funeral altar. The smell of rot grew strong, and then faded into the dryness of crumbling bones, of the dust at my feet. My wounds were closing one by one, not so much healing as being drained of pus, of blood, and each wound closing hurt worse than it had opening. I struggled not to scream.

When She released me, I crouched, panting, by the side of Her quincunx. I was unmarked again, even though my skin tingled, as if blood were returning to every vein in my body at the same time.

Lady Death was smiling again. "A fitting gift, I should think."

Standing where I was, in the deepest level of Mictlan, there was nothing I could answer to this; nothing beyond a croaked "Thank you, My Lady", which rang insincere. It had been a healing, but I almost wished it had not taken place.

"My pleasure," Mictecacihuatl said. "Go, now."

I did not need to be told twice. I stepped into the quincunx; and I welcomed the blurring of the world with relief.

When everything coalesced again, I was in the examination room, my wounds still tingling: an unpleasant reminder of what I had just undergone. Neutemoc, who had been kneeling by the altar, jumped up with a start.

"I thought you'd never come back," he said.

"How long has it been?" I asked.

"Two hours or more."

It had felt much shorter, but the time of the gods wasn't our own.

"Did you see her?" Neutemoc asked.

I shook my head. "I couldn't enter." I was too ashamed of myself to go into details.

"But–"

"It all depended on the Storm Lord's goodwill. And He wasn't very co-operative, to say the least."

"So you couldn't find her." Neutemoc sounded disappointed. I wanted to scream at him to stop being obsessed by her; to do something about his own wife, his own family. But all I would achieve was to set him further against me.

The smell of blood was strong, sickeningly so. My water-glyph had all but vanished, absorbed in the aborted passage to Tlalocan, but the smell had insinuated itself everywhere. "No, nothing learnt. I'll go and see if I can get something to clean the room," I said.

Neutemoc was watching Eleuia's body again, and didn't answer me.

When I came back with a reed broom, I found Teomitl in the courtyard, obviously waiting for me. His crutch was gone; his wounds were healed, far too quickly to be natural. I presumed his family – clearly noblemen, judging from his attire – would have had access to spells to facilitate his recovery. Teomitl himself was still as lean and as sharp as a jaguar on the prowl, still bursting with that boundless energy.

He bowed when he saw me: the sketchy gesture of one unused to obeisance. "Acatl-tzin," he said. "How are you?"

How was I? Angry – at Neutemoc for being such a fool; at Huei for being so easily manipulated; at myself for being blinded by my old illusions. And frustrated at being unable to enter Tlalocan. Although I didn't know what I would have done, had I met Father there. "I've been better," I said, curtly.

"You freed your brother," Teomitl pointed out.

"Hmm." I didn't feel inclined to talk about Neutemoc in front of Teomitl. Searching for another subject of conversation, I remembered that he had been one of those besotted by Eleuia. "We found Eleuia's body."

Teomitl's face froze, minutely: disappointment, carefully masked. "Can I see her?"

Inside the room, Teomitl knelt by Eleuia. He noted, I was sure, the bruises and the missing eyes and fingernails, but giving no hint of any expression whatsoever. He whispered something to her, but I couldn't hear his words. Something he likely didn't want me to hear.

I busied myself with the broom and some cold water, and energetically scrubbed the ground clean. When I finished, both Neutemoc and Teomitl were still watching Eleuia's body, with the same hunger in their eyes.

The Duality curse them both. What had they seen in her?

After Teomitl was done, he walked out again and stood in the courtyard, watching the sunlight play on motes of dust. He was silent, uncannily so, seemingly hunched in the shadow of the frescoed walls. He breathed slowly, evenly, his eyes unfocused.

"I should have known," he said. "They always die."

"Who?" I asked.

He shook his head. "They're always the same, haven't you noticed? They walk as if the world had no hold on them. But the gods catch them, sooner or later."

I was beginning to suspect that he wasn't talking about Eleuia, and that I had misjudged him. He hadn't been infatuated with her, but with someone else. "Teomitl–"

He straightened up as if I'd struck him. "I came with news, Acatltzin. You were looking for Mahuizoh of the Coatlan calpulli."

"Yes," I said, tearing myself from my questions about Teomitl with some difficulty. Mahuizoh. I still needed to interview him: I still needed to find out who had tried to kill Neutemoc.

"He has come back into Tenochtitlan," Teomitl said.

"How do you know?"

Teomitl shrugged. "Rumours make their way, even into the calmecac."

Was he still sweeping the courtyard of the girls' calmecac? His manners, at any rate, had not improved. He still had the same unthinking arrogance that chafed at me: a glimpse of what I might have become, if I had chosen the path of war at the calmecac. But that was irrelevant.

"Do you know why he left the city?" I asked. It sounded far too convenient.

Teomitl shook his head.

I sighed. "Come. Let's go see him."

We extracted Neutemoc from his moody vigil over Eleuia's body. While we strode to Mahuizoh's house, I told him what he needed to know.

"Her lover?" he asked, plainly crestfallen.

Sometimes, my brother could be such a child. "Yes," I said, stifling another sigh. We were talking about a man who had a good motive for wanting Neutemoc dead, and all he could think of was that he'd had a rival.

Teomitl walked by our side, not saying anything. In the afternoon sunlight, his skin shone. Seeing him side by side with Neutemoc, it was easy to know what Teomitl's protection spell was: a much stronger version of the one Mihmatini had cast on my brother. Huitzilpochtli's protection, a fitting spell for a warrior. Teomitl's eyes went from Neutemoc to me; but clearly he was still thinking on Eleuia. Not, not on Eleuia – on whomever he'd really been infatuated with.

At the entrance to Mahuizoh's house, no slave tried to stop us. When I'd come with the Duality warriors, they'd been fearful. But to receive a Jaguar Knight in full regalia was an honour, judging by the way they bowed to Neutemoc.

"The master is at home," the slave said. "He'll be delighted to see you."

Mahuizoh received us in the reception room, sitting on the same dais as old Cocochi. He was dressed, not in his Jaguar Knight uniform, but in a simple loincloth, with a cape of white cotton falling down his shoulders. For a man in his mid-thirties, he was still going strong: the flesh of his arms firm, his face almost as smooth as that of a young man.

"I gather some of you attempted to visit me earlier," he said, after I'd introduced everyone. His gaze was curious, not hostile: the hostility was reserved for Neutemoc, who was blithely unaware of it. But I wasn't fooled. Mahuizoh was a clever man. He had to be, to balance both his affair with Eleuia and his belonging to the Jaguar Knights – two utterly incompatible things.

"We were looking for you," I said. "To ask some questions."

"Indeed?" His gaze still didn't reveal anything. And yet he had to know the reason we were here. "If you must."

The only way I'd get something out of this man was by shattering his composure. "We found a body this morning, near Chapultepec. It belonged to Priestess Eleuia."

He stared at me, for a while. Blinked, slowly, very slowly. "I see," he said, finally. And then, more softly, "I see." He was shaking.

"It was suggested that you slept with her," I added.

Mahuizoh looked at Neutemoc, the hatred on his face unmistakable. "I wasn't the only one, was I?"

Near me, Teomitl shifted. "The Imperial Courts cleared Neutemoc of wrongdoing."

Mahuizoh smiled. "I see you're not even brave enough to defend yourself," he said to Neutemoc. "You send pups to sing your praises."

Teomitl went still, one hand on his macuahitl sword, tightening around the hilt. "You call me a pup?" he asked.

"An unbloodied pup," Mahuizoh said. His teeth were as white and as sharp as the fangs of a jaguar. "Anyone can see that."

"I took a prisoner," Teomitl said.

"What a feat," Mahuizoh said, his voice mocking. "One man against… how many of you untrained youths? Four, five?"

It was a deliberate insult, for Teomitl wouldn't have been a Leading Youth unless he had captured a prisoner by himself. His face paled: he couldn't tolerate such an blow to his pride.

"Leave him alone," Neutemoc said, stepping between them with both arms extended, as if to fend off an enemy. "We both know I'm the one you want."

Mahuizoh laughed, bitterly. "Do I?" he asked. I finally realised what he was doing: his anger was all that kept his grief at bay.

"She loved both of us," Neutemoc said. Given Eleuia's propensity to take lovers, that was a singularly foolish thing to say. Mahuizoh didn't fail to rise to it.

"No," he said. "You're wrong."

"Because you had her longer?" Neutemoc asked, his voice shaking in anger.

Mahuizoh smiled. "No," he said. "Because she only loved one person in her life."

"You?" Neutemoc asked, stepping closer – just as I said, "Herself."

Mahuizoh's gaze moved from Neutemoc to me. "You're perceptive, for a priest," he said, surprised.

The "priest" carried the slight tone of contempt warriors always put on it. I said, slowly, not about to be outdone by a proud Jaguar Knight, "But you, on the other hand, loved her."

Mahuizoh was silent for a while. He stared at me; and, when he spoke again, his voice shook. "Yes," he said. "She was the only one who made me feel alive."

"She could be like that." Teomitl still had his hand on his sword. He was still glowering at Mahuizoh.

"You met her," Mahuizoh said. "Whenever you met her, you'd remember. Because there was so much anguish in her, so much desire to live."

I remembered the Quetzal Flower's description of Eleuia: a woman who would do anything rather than know hunger again. I began to believe that Mahuizoh had indeed loved her. He had known her, better than Neutemoc or Teomitl.

"And you couldn't bear the thought of sharing her," I said.

Mahuizoh laughed, a sickening sound. "Sharing?" he asked. "Let me tell you something," he said, turning to Neutemoc. "If she flirted with you, it's because you had something she wanted."

A house of her own. Rooms filled with riches, and a status that would make most men and women envious. All she had to do was take Huei's place, or convince Neutemoc to take her as a second wife.

On the other hand… Mahuizoh himself had all of that. Why hadn't she asked him for that?

"You never married her?" I asked.

Mahuizoh shook his head. "I asked. She didn't want to. She had ambitions, you see."

"Higher than being the wife of a Jaguar Knight?" Teomitl asked.

Mahuizoh smiled. "She wanted her own power, not something that was dependent on a husband."

Hence the drive to become consort of the god Xochipilli. It explained Eleuia's life, but still not why someone was trying to do away with my brother. And not, either, why mysterious men would abduct and torture her. Eleuia's ambition had been unsuitable for a woman; but surely that offence warranted no such punishment.

"Do you know why someone would want to kill her?" I asked.

Mahuizoh shook his head.

"She had a child," I said.

His eyes flicked. "Possibly."

"And you were the father."

He looked genuinely surprised this time. "No," he said. "Wherever did you get that idea?"

"From a reliable source," I said, wondering exactly how much I could trust the Quetzal Flower. No more, I guessed, than I could trust Mahuizoh.

"I didn't father any child with her," Mahuizoh said, curtly. "Whoever told you this was mistaken."

"And you didn't attempt to kill Neutemoc?"

Mahuizoh looked at Neutemoc. My brother wasn't even paying attention, absorbed in thoughts. Mahuizoh's face, for a bare moment, twisted into a mask of hatred so frightening that I recoiled. "No," Mahuizoh said. "I didn't make attempts on his life."

But he had taken far too long to answer. And his jealousy of Neutemoc, in spite of everything he had said, was obvious.

"Why did you leave the city?" I asked.

He blinked, slowly. "Am I forbidden to go where I wish?"

"No," I said. "But with an investigation going on–"

"An investigation," Mahuizoh said arrogantly, "that I have nothing to do with."

A patent lie. "So you deny you had a part in this?"

"Abducting her? Torturing her? Yes."

"How do you know she was tortured?" I asked.

He shrugged. "I heard the rumours."

A convenient reason. Too convenient, maybe? It had only been half a day since we'd found Eleuia's body. How could he have known about its state?

"Who told you?"

Mahuizoh smiled. "It was all over the Jaguar House. Probably the Eagle House as well."

"I see," I said. Though I was suspicious, I couldn't think of anything more to ask him. I turned to Neutemoc to see if he had any more ideas; but my brother was still deep in thought.

With a sigh, I took my leave from Mahuizoh.

Neutemoc was still thinking as we walked back to the Sacred Precinct. "He's right, you know," he said.

"He's a liar," Teomitl snorted. "A liar and an honourless man, who thinks nothing of insulting his peers."

"Yes," Neutemoc said. "But still…" He spoke to no one in particular. He refused to look at me, or even to walk near me. "She was cold when she first saw me. I had to remind her of the Chalca Wars before she'd pay attention to me."

"And?" I asked, unable to resist a small jab. "She'd been through so many men she didn't remember you."

"She remembered my name," Neutemoc said. "But it wasn't until we talked together…" He shook his head. "I wonder if he was right, and I had something she wanted." It appeared to bother him immensely. And no wonder, since it showed Eleuia in a wholly different light.

"She wanted power over you," Teomitl said.

"What did you talk about?" I asked.

Neutemoc shrugged. "I don't remember exactly. Mostly about bygone times – the thrill of the battlefield, and how you'd wager every bit of your future, going into combat." The nostalgia in his voice was palpable: a raw hurt. Was this what he'd tried to regain with his affair: the sense that everything could be won or lost?

We walked the rest of the way in silence. In the temple courtyard, Neutemoc asked, "What now?"

I glanced at the sky. It was late afternoon, high time for lunch. "Let's get something to eat," I said. "And then I need to visit your home." I wanted to know if Mihmatini's wards still held, if the creatures had come back and tried to attack the house while Neutemoc was still protected by the Southern Hummingbird.

Neutemoc's eyes blazed. "I told you–"

"Never to darken your doorstep again. Yes, I know that. But do you really want yourself or Mihmatini to be attacked again?" I asked.

Neutemoc shuddered. "No," he said. He wouldn't look at me. "You can look at the wards. But–"

"I know. I won't stay more than I have to."

Teomitl had obviously been fidgeting the whole time we'd been talking. Now he said, "Well, if you're in this for a while, I'll go back to the calmecac."

"Won't they worry about your absence?" I asked. For a calmecac student, he was leading a remarkably careless life, never noticing the strictures the school was meant to impose on one's days and nights.

Teomitl shrugged. "I'll get another penance," he said, with a smile. "Good day, Acatl-tzin."

And, as he turned to go away, the golden light of the sun hit him full on the face – highlighting the hawkish profile, the high cheekbones, until the features that I had seen many times turned into something else. Tizoc-tzin's face.

"Teomitl!" I called.

Halfway through the temple gates, he turned, and there was no doubt. The resemblance with Tizoc-tzin was so marked it was hard to believe I'd missed it before.

Imperial blood. That explained the unthinking arrogance, as well as the spell hanging around him. As a young member of the Imperial Family, of course he'd be under Huitzilpochtli's protection. Who was he to Tizoc-tzin, to Revered Speaker Axayacatl-tzin? A nephew, a distant cousin?

Teomitl was watching me, his head cocked, impatient to move on.

"Who are you?" I called, because I couldn't help it.

Teomitl looked at me with incomprehension. "A warrior."

"No," I said. I couldn't stop the shiver that ran through me. Who had I taken into a hunt for a beast of shadows? Who had nearly been killed by my carelessness? "Who are you? Tizoc-tzin's cousin?"

Neutemoc's head jerked up. He stared at Teomitl with widening eyes.

Teomitl's gaze moved from Neutemoc to me. His face was expressionless.

"I'm his brother," he said. And, turning on his heel, he walked away into the crowd of the Sacred Precinct.

Neither I nor Neutemoc had the courage to stop him.

FIFTEEN

Food of the Gods

In Neutemoc's house, I found Mihmatini in the children's room, cradling Ollin against her chest. The baby rocked with her, making small, unhappy mewling noises.

"He misses his mother," she said.

"I know," I said darkly. Neutemoc wasn't about to let me forget that.

"Is Neutemoc with you?"

"In the reception room, I suppose." After Teomitl had left, Neutemoc had been silent, not even venturing a word on the way back. And I… I couldn't afford to think of Teomitl, not now. I couldn't think of how I'd almost lost the Emperor's brother, because I hadn't been suspicious enough of who Ceyaxochitl was sending to me.

"How was your day?" I asked Mihmatini, to clear my thoughts.

She shrugged. "I took care of the house, and of the children. They weren't very happy at being kept inside. But how else can I protect them? A good thing most of them are in calmecac. Can you imagine my keeping control over five shrieking children?"

I shook my head. "Three is enough." Mazatl and Necalli were both in the courtyard, helping, with the intent seriousness of children, to water the flowers.

Ollin had fallen asleep. Mihmatini laid him in his cradle, humming a lullaby. She'd make a good mother. If only Neutemoc would start seeking a husband for her. Unlikely, given his present state of mind.

"The wards?" I asked. For, after all, it was the only reason Neutemoc endured my presence.

Mihmatini smiled, bitterly. "Come and see them," she said.

The last light of the afternoon, golden, already fading towards evening, illuminated the buildings around the courtyard, throwing into sharp relief the painted frescoes of pyramid temples and starconstellations. The buildings should have blazed with the presence of magic; but almost nothing shone.

I ran a hand on the adobe: the magic pulsed weakly under my fingertips like the heartbeat of a dying man.

"They came back?" I asked. "The creatures?"

Mihmatini stood a few paces from the wall, her arms crossed over her chest. "I suppose so. The wards kept fading every time I looked, and that's not normal."

I suppressed the curse that came to my lips. "You should have–"

"Called for you? You can't spend your time guarding us," Mihmatini said. "You have to stop whoever is doing this, not exhaust yourself fighting pointless battles." She'd inherited Father's pragmatism, although not Father's bleak moods, for which I was eternally thankful. "Speaking of which, any progress?"

"No," I said. The only thing I was sure of was that Chalchiutlicue was involved, somehow. It couldn't be directly: for She couldn't act in the Fifth World without an agent. But I still didn't see why the Jade Skirt would want to kill Eleuia or Neutemoc.

"Mm," Mihmatini said. "I'll rebuild the wards again."

I sent to my temple for hummingbirds, birds sacred to Huitzilpochtli. It was with their blood that my sister rebuilt the wards, layer after layer. When she was finished, the house shone in my priest-senses like a small sun; and night was upon us.

"You should stay here tonight," Mihmatini said.

"I don't think Neutemoc would appreciate it."

"Neutemoc is going to appreciate waking up tomorrow morning, and finding his children and servants safe," Mihmatini snapped. "Honestly, you two are worse than calmecac students."

"It's not that simple," I started, unwilling to involve her in our quarrels.

Mihmatini snorted. "It's always simple, Acatl. You're the only ones who can't see that."

Neutemoc, forced by Mihmatini, accepted that I stand guard, but in the courtyard, nowhere near him.

I took an ornate reed mat from one of the spare rooms, and laid it under the shadow of the pine tree. Then I sat in the darkness, and watched Metzli the moon climb into the sky. The air was hot, humid; the rainy season wasn't far away.

Behind me, the house was silent, a far cry from the joyous place I remembered, the place of riches and warmth I'd envied Neutemoc so much. Once, I would have felt glad of my brother's downfall, but that was when both our parents had still been alive. Now… I didn't know what to think. He had ruined his own marriage – leading, ultimately, to Huei's impending death, and the destruction of the haven they'd both created for my nephews and nieces – and that I found hardest to forgive.

The wards Mihmatini had traced shone brightly in the night. But, as the moon rose higher and higher and the dampness of the night worked its way into my bones, I became aware of a scratching noise behind the walls: like claws, scrabbling at the adobe.

I rose, and laid my hand flat on the wall of the nearest building. Under my palm was the deep, familiar pulse of magic; but it was erratic, rising and fading to the rhythm of those scratching claws. And each time it faded, it rose a little weaker than before.

Mihmatini had been right: whatever was on the other side of that wall was depleting our wards.

I withdrew my hand, and unsheathed one of my obsidian knives. I knelt in the dirt of the courtyard and opened my veins, saying a prayer to Quetzalcoatl:

"Yours is the knowledge of the priests,

Yours is the knowledge of the stars wheeling in the sky

You find the precious jade, the precious feathers…"

A darkness deeper than night swept across the courtyard, extinguishing the moon and the stars in the sky. The buildings around me slowly receded into indistinct shadows, leaving only my pulsing blood, shining on the ground.

The walls, too, became shadows interlaced with the network of our wards. Through those, I could see the creatures. They were, without a doubt, the same shapeless things that had attacked us on the previous day. This time, though, there weren't three, but at least ten of them.

Eyeless, mindless, they swarmed around Neutemoc's house, scooping up the essence of our wards with their claws. They made a small, huffing noise as they did so: something that could have been breathing, were it not obvious that they had no lungs.

In my time as a priest, I had seen many things – Haunting Mothers returned from their graves, beasts of shadows tearing out hearts, gods smiling as we shed our blood – but nothing, nothing was quite so eerie as these creatures' mindless insistence. I had no doubt that, in time, they'd whittle down our wards to nothing.

What were those things?

I knelt again and cut open my veins once more, to draw another quincunx, this time for an invocation to Mixcoatl, God of the Hunt:

"You who come forth from Chicomoztoc, honoured one,

You who come with the net of maguey ropes

The basket of woven reeds

You who come forth from Tziuactitlan, honoured one…"

Power blazed across the quincunx, wrapping itself around me, sinking into my bones. The usual dizziness was made worse by my spell of true sight. I barely managed to rise after completing the invocation.

I looked at the creatures again. They were still clawing at the walls, pressing against each other to feed on our wards. I couldn't help shuddering. Their mindlessness, their relentlessness didn't seem to belong in an ordered world.

From their centre issued a thread of white power, so faint it was almost transparent. The threads joined, high above the creatures, in some sort of complicated knot: a spell of control. After the knot…

I narrowed my gaze to see. Beyond the knot, the threads merged into one, and hurtled back towards the earth. I couldn't see where the spell ended. To do that, I'd need to go outside, to walk past those creatures. In principle, the spell of protection Mihmatini had cast on all of us the previous afternoon should keep me from their sight. In principle.

I guessed they would pay no attention to me: they hadn't done so when they'd attacked us, not unless we stood between them and Neutemoc. But there were guesses, and then there was truth. There were blustering boasts – and there was Quechomitl's body, lying on the ground, draining itself of blood through his wounds, drop after drop, going deeper into Mictlan with every passing moment.

I closed my eyes. Did I want to do this? For Neutemoc? For my brother, who could only fling the reproaches of the past into my face?

No. For Huei, who had let herself be dragged into this. Who had let someone manipulate her, not knowing the price. Someone would pay for this. There would be justice: the only thing I could give her.

I went to wake up Mihmatini.

She was not happy. "You want to do what?" she asked, when she'd finished rubbing at her eyes.

"Find the source," I said, pointing to the wall. "And you–"

"Yes," Mihmatini said, curtly. "I should keep watch." She puffed her cheeks, thoughtfully. "I'll renew Huitzilpochtli's wards on you, just in case."

I watched her trace a quick circle on the ground – Neutemoc was never going to forgive us for the mess in his courtyard – and start a hymn to Huitzil-pochtli.

"Coming forth in the garb of our ancestors

You led them forth from Aztlan, the White Place

You led them forth from Colhuacan, the Place of Deception

You led them forth into battle…"

Radiance blazed across the courtyard, as strong as sunlight. It sank into my skin, tingling with warmth, hissing as it came into contact with Mictlan's knives at my belt. I waited for the feeling to subside; for the protection to be complete.

Mihmatini looked at me critically. "Hum," she said. "It's not really taken hold, has it? It's already skittering away."

Unlike Neutemoc, I wasn't a devotee of the Hummingbird; quite the reverse, in fact. Mictlantecuhtli and Huitzilpochtli were opposites: the dry, wizened God of Death and the youthful War God could hardly be compatible. "How long do I have?" I asked.

Mihmatini shrugged. "A couple of hours. I'd tell you to be careful, but I know when I'm just wasting my time. Do try to come back without leaking any blood."

I made a mock punching gesture; she sidestepped, gracefully, smiling. "You're getting better at this whole humour thing," she said.

I didn't trouble myself to answer that.

As I passed the gates with a lit torch in my hand, three of the creatures turned towards me: a quick, lithe movement that put me in mind of snakes or pikes. I held my breath, knowing with a cold spike in my belly that I was lost if they decided to attack me.

But the spell worked: they didn't pay attention to me. They merely turned to the wall, and started feeding again, huffing. It might have been, I realised with a chill, my brother's name they were breathing out, over and over.

I turned away from Neutemoc's house, and followed the rope of magic that issued from the creatures. It snaked, leisurely, through the wide streets and canals of Moyotlan: past the houses with the sweet smells of banquet food wafting out into the night, past the groups of warriors going into the Houses of Joy, laughing among themselves.

Here, alone in the darkness, I was in my element – not High Priest, not brother or son to anyone – but tracking a wrong in the fabric of the universe. For the first time in days, I felt at peace. A strange kind of peace, tinged with the awareness that it couldn't last, but it still soothed my heart.

The trail snaked south, towards the Itzapalapan causeway, the same direction we'd taken when hunting for the beast of shadows. I walked through the deserted streets, thinking on the case. Moonlight shimmered on the canals to my right and to my left; and the reed boats at anchor bobbed up and down, as if on the rhythm of some unseen breath.

Someone had tortured Eleuia; and someone was now trying to kill Neutemoc. It might be for the same reason, in which case they both had knowledge of a secret. But Neutemoc had sounded sincerely ignorant of anything useful. Or, it might be two different groups, trying to achieve different aims.

But still, what vital information could Eleuia have possessed? Despite everything Neutemoc had said to me, my instincts told me that it had to do with Eleuia's child. But why, if the child was indeed dead? Unless Neutemoc had been deceived. Unless, blinded by love, he had seen exactly what Eleuia wanted him to see.

I walked past the fort at the gates of Tenochtitlan. The warriors on duty, standing outside with their feather-shields and throwing spears, gave me a cursory glance, and dismissed me as harmless. The trail was still following its leisurely path along the Itzapalapan causeway. My heartbeat quickened. Could it be so easy to find who was behind the summoning of the creatures?

Alas, it was not to be. For, as the trail went over the third of the wooden bridges in the causeway, it plunged downwards; and faded into nothingness. Huitzilpochtli curse the summoner and all his ilk. Once again, they'd planned ahead, and their trail was well hidden. I'd endangered myself for nothing.

I fumed all the way back to Neutemoc's house, indiscriminately consigning to the depths of Mictlan the summoners, Huei, Neutemoc, and the goddess Chalchiutlicue – though I still couldn't see Her part in this. She'd had nothing to gain from Eleuia's death. But still… I couldn't quite shake the impression that I was missing something, and that the key was Neutemoc.

At the gates of the house, the creatures were still crowding and the wards were much weaker than they had been an hour before. Mihmatini was on her knees in the courtyard, going through the last stages of renewing them again. She nodded grimly at me.

It was a blessing the creatures still couldn't reach Neutemoc. But Mihmatini was right. We couldn't protect him and his household for ever.

I woke up early: a few moments before dawn, at a time when the first of the kitchen slaves were pounding maize into flour. The rhythmic thump of the pestle against the mortar filled the courtyard as the sky lightened – bringing, as always, memories of a childhood I couldn't come back to.

In silence, I made my offerings of blood to Lord Death. The courtyard was still deserted. The slave who guarded the gates had obviously not been replaced since Quechomitl's death. I checked Mihmatini's wards, cursorily. The creatures were still scratching at the wall; but the wards had held. I kept seeing Teomitl's face, that moment before he turned and walked away from Neutemoc and me.

Who are you? Tizoc-tzin's cousin?

I'm his brother.

This wasn't going to be a good day.

I managed to get some spiced maize gruel from the kitchen, and ate it sitting under the pine tree, as the light flooding the courtyard turned from pink to white.

"I thought I might find you here," Ceyaxochitl said.

Startled, I looked up. She was standing over me, leaning on her cane.

My first reaction wasn't exactly joy. "What in the Fifth World–?" I asked, pulling myself to my feet.

"You haven't been at your temple lately."

"No," I said, curtly. The Southern Hummingbird blind me if I had to explain myself to her. "I've been busy."

"I've heard," Ceyaxochitl said. She leaned on her cane, looking for all the world like an old woman enjoying the morning sun. I wasn't fooled. "You have some interesting things outside, as well."

"You saw them?" What a foolish question. She was Guardian of the Sacred Precinct, agent of the Duality in the Fifth World. Of course she'd see them.

"Yes," Ceyaxochitl said. "Persistent little things. A marvel of creation."

"Creation?" I asked.

"Someone made them," she said, as if it was obvious.

"A sorcerer?" I asked.

She shook her head. "I think not. Though they might well have summoned them."

"A god, then?" I asked. Chalchiutlicue had created the ahuizotls, after all, to keep watch over Her waters.

"Maybe," Ceyaxochitl said.

The last thing I needed was gods thinking They could play games with our lives. Xochiquetzal and Her kind weren't much interested in the Fifth World, as a rule. But I guessed pliant toys were always irresistible.

"I take it that means you have no idea how to kill them?" I asked, unable to restrain my sarcasm.

Ceyaxochitl shrugged. "Nothing is invulnerable. I can look into it, if you wish. Though I didn't come here for that."

"No," I said. "What for, then?"

"My warriors trawled through Lake Texcoco. We've found some of Priestess Eleuia's things."

"What things? Clothes?" Clothes would be carried by the current, and hard to find again. Heavy things, on the other hand, would sink to the bottom.

"A purse," Ceyaxochitl said. "And an obsidian knife in its sheath. Teomitl confirms that it belonged to her."

"Teomitl," I said, not without bitterness. "What were you thinking, sending him to me?"

She looked at me – for once, genuinely surprised. "It seemed obvious, Acatl. The boy needs guidance, badly. Ever since the death of his mother he's grown up like a wildflower."

"And I was to train him?" I asked.

"I don't see what there is to be angry about." Her voice was infuriatingly reasonable.

"You don't?" I asked. "I almost got him killed by a beast of shadows, and you ask what the problem is?"

"He's a grown man," Ceyaxochitl said. "He can take his own risks."

"No," I said. "A grown man can, but the brother of the Emperor?" If he had died under my responsibility, the Imperial Guards would have arrested me immediately.

"The Emperor has many brothers," Ceyaxochitl said. "Not all of whom reached adolescence."

I was shaking, badly. "Then tell me this: how far away is he from being Revered Speaker?"

"Tizoc-tzin will be Revered Speaker when Axayacatl-tzin dies in the next few weeks." Ceyaxochitl said "when", not "if".

"And when Tizoc-tzin is crowned?" I asked. "What will Teomitl be?"

She had the grace to look away. "Master of the House of Darts, if he has proved himself."

Master of the House of Darts. Commander of the greatest arsenal in Tenochtitlan, all the paraphernalia of war. Heir-apparent to the Mexica Empire.

If he had proved himself. My task was all too obvious. "I won't be his training ground," I spat between clenched teeth.

"Why?" Ceyaxochitl's voice was genuinely curious. "Think of the influence you'd have over him – a man who will one day be Emperor, the Duality willing."

"I'm a priest. I don't meddle in politics."

"Acatl." There was pity in her voice – all the more worrying because she seldom showed compassion for anyone. "Priests thrive on politics. If you wanted a life free of them, you should have been–"

"A warrior." I knew. I also knew that I could never have been like Neutemoc, that I didn't have the courage to enter the battlefield, or the relentless will for combat that kept warriors going. And I also knew how much it hurt.

"If you won't take part in politics," Ceyaxochitl was saying, "politics will be the death of you."

"I'll keep my head down."

"Your head down?" she laughed. "You're High Priest for the Dead. There's no hiding place any more."

"I never asked to be High Priest," I said. "You got me into this." It was all too easy to fling the accusation into her face.

She didn't move. She didn't rise to the bait as Neutemoc or Teomitl would have done. After a while, she said, tapping her cane against the ground, "You can't remain small all your life, Acatl."

"What if it's the only thing I want?" I asked, knowing that it was true. My place had been in Coyoacan, with my small parish – not in the grand temple of the Sacred Precinct, where I was as ill at ease as a fish on dry land.

She still wouldn't look at me. "Everyone has to grow up and take responsibilities," she said, in an unusually quiet voice. "Even small, humble priests."

"Not everyone," I said. She was wrong. I wasn't made for any of the things she wanted me to do – neither for managing the politics linked to Teomitl, nor with my temple. Ichtaca would take care of that, much better than I could ever hope to do.

Ceyaxochitl made a small, annoyed gesture. "Very well. Let's focus on the investigation, then. Do you want to see Eleuia's things?"

"How far is it?" I asked.

"Not far. They're at the Duality House."

I didn't think anything would come of it, but I didn't want to leave an avenue unexplored. "Let me warn my sister," I said.

Ceyaxochitl was looking at the walls, cocking her head left and right. "Your sister. The family's youngest, if I remember correctly. I assume she set the wards?"

"Yes."

She nodded. "She's good, Acatl."

I smiled. "But not, I think, bound for priesthood or guardianhood."

Ceyaxochitl shrugged. "Life has many paths," she said. "Anyway, with all those… things eating away at them, they're not going to last long, no matter how strong. Let me give you a hand to set up something more durable."

Mihmatini did not take to Ceyaxochitl; but even she had to admit that the Guardian's work was impressive. By the time Ceyaxochitl was finished, the house shone as brightly as the sun, moon and stars combined. The walls were covered by an intricate network of shimmering lines, anchored between the underworld and the Heavens, and taking its strength from both.

At a guess, this would last for days.

"There," Ceyaxochitl said. "Let's go now."

In a small room of the Duality House, Yaotl had spread out Eleuia's possessions on a reed mat: an obsidian knife with a hilt in the shape of a warrior and an ornate sheath; the closed purse, soaked with water. I fingered the knife – a sharp, deadly thing, but without a hint of magic – and its sheath of cured leather, with its straps cut open.

"You haven't opened it?" I asked, touching the purse.

"No," Ceyaxochitl said. "I kept it aside for you."

Gently, I loosened the strings and tipped the contents of the purse onto the reed mat. Soggy cacao beans tumbled out; and dark-green discs, half-eaten by rot.

No. Not discs. Plants.

I picked up one, ignoring the mouldy smell that wafted into my nostrils. It had been sliced off with three expert knife-cuts. In the centre was a lighter circular area, no larger than the tip of my finger.

"Peyotl?" I said, aloud. "I didn't know the priestesses of Xochiquetzal partook of it." Peyotl, collected from the top of a cactus, was a powerful drug that allowed some priests to enter a divinatory trance. One of its first effects was nausea, and a sense of dislocation from the world.

Ceyaxochitl shook her head. "They shouldn't, but it's not forbidden."

Something about peyotl was troubling me. Something about Neutemoc. It wouldn't come back, though. I sighed. "Not much of interest."

Ceyaxochitl did not bother to comment.

"And the mark on Eleuia's body?" I asked.

"Yaotl has been making enquiries. I'll let you know when we have something."

As I walked out of the Duality House, she added, "I'll look into the creatures and help your sister with the wards, if they don't hold. But if I were you, I'd get your brother out of Tenochtitlan for a while."

"Why?" I asked.

"Someone is summoning them," Ceyaxochitl said. "They can't be far from their creatures, or they'd lose their hold. Remove yourself from the scene, and there is a strong chance they won't follow."

"I see. Thank you," I said. How in the Fifth World was I supposed to convince Neutemoc that he had to flee the city?

I went back to Neutemoc's house, to see about the wards – and because if I didn't go to him, he'd never know where I was. On my way there, I stopped by a street vendor to buy a chocolate, and sipped it while I walked. The pleasant, pungent taste of vanilla and spice soothed my nerves. In fact, all I could taste was the vanilla and spice, the chocolate being drowned underneath.

I kept seeing the sheath on Eleuia, its straps cut by the rocks and the branches the body had bounced against. It had been of small use to her, in the end.

I closed my eyes for a brief moment. I hadn't been paying enough attention to the sheath. Three straps, distributed evenly along the length of the blade. This wasn't a belt sheath: it was made to hide the knife against one's ankles or calves.

Instants before she disappeared, Eleuia had been carrying that knife. But she had also been safe within her rooms, in the process of seducing Neutemoc. It didn't fit. If you intend to take a man into your bed, why would you need to keep your knife? Unless…

The peyotl. I remembered Neutemoc's words on our first interview: She poured me a glass of frothy chocolate, with milk and maize gruel – good chocolate, too, very tasty. That's the last thing I remember clearly. Then the room was spinning, and…

The room was spinning – not because of the beast of shadows, but because of the peyotl Eleuia had put into his chocolate. No wonder Neutemoc had been overturning the furniture by the time the guards had arrived: he must have been hallucinating, hardly aware of what he was doing.

If she flirted with you, it's because you had something she wanted, Mahuizoh had said. She had wanted something out of him: his silence. And, if she could not get it by flirting – because Neutemoc was still a fundamentally honest man – then she'd make sure he didn't speak.

It was a monstrous hypothesis. But it fit the facts, and the character of Eleuia, all too well.

But why had she thought Neutemoc was a danger to her? What had made it so important to her, to the point of driving Mahuizoh, her steadfast lover and support, furious with jealousy?

Neutemoc's words came back into my mind, with agonising clarity: She was cold when she first saw me. I had to remind her of the Chalca Wars before she'd pay attention to me.

Neutemoc had to know something he hadn't told me yet. And it all dated back to the Chalca Wars.

Suddenly all became clear. I was tired of running away; of reacting to events forced upon me by others. It was time to take my own initiatives. I had to get Neutemoc away from Tenochtitlan? Then we'd go together to see the battlefields of the wars, and the place where Eleuia had supposedly buried her dead child.

SIXTEEN

Setting Forth

"You're mad," Neutemoc said, flatly. He was sitting in his room, on a reed mat, looking up at me as if I'd just offered him a chance to witness the birth of the Sun God.

It wasn't wholly unexpected; but it still grated that he'd dismiss everything I said, as if I had no intrinsic value.

"Look–" I started.

"There's no 'look'. Do you seriously expect me to believe those lies about Eleuia?"

"The peyotl was real."

"And the rest are your own delusions." Neutemoc's voice was cold.

That stung. But the conversation had been going on for a while, in much the same fashion, and I was beginning to see that I'd never convince Neutemoc of Eleuia's guilt. He might have accepted the fact that she might have had an ulterior motive for seducing him, but not that the motive was silencing him. That was too great a setback.

But I'd thought of other arguments to convince him. "Come into the courtyard, will you?"

I'd already traced a quincunx on the ground. Neutemoc stared at it. "There had better be a good reason," he said, his face darkening.

"It's not going to be long," I snapped. "Are you going to listen to anything I'm saying?"

"I'm not sure," he said. But he still let me put him in the centre of the quincunx. He did recoil when I dabbed my blood onto his forehead – a slight movement anyone who didn't know him would have missed – but he didn't say anything.

When I finished casting the spell of true sight on him, he stiffened and stood still as the world went dark around him. I knew what he would be seeing: my blood pulsing at his feet and, behind the shadowy walls of his house, the creatures, frantically crowding to leach the magic from the wall.

Even imagining them nauseated me. Whoever had made those things had a sick, sick sense of what constituted life, or a very good idea of what could frighten men.

Neutemoc stood still. His lips moved, without sound. Then, in a heartbeat, he crossed the courtyard, and crouched by the wall. He watched them as he must have watched enemies before an ambush.

"Those are the things that killed Quechomitl?" he asked.

"Yes."

"How long have they been there?"

I shrugged. "Two days. The only reason they're not getting inside is because Mihmatini is frighteningly good at what she does."

Ordinarily, Neutemoc would have reacted. He would have made some wry comment about Mihmatini. But he didn't. He just crouched there, one hand resting on the hilt of his macuahitl sword. His eyes had narrowed to slits.

"What do they want?" he asked, though he had to know.

"You," I said. "Your household, very possibly."

"My children?" His voice was flat, deadly.

For once, I was glad the anger wasn't directed at me. I didn't actually think the creatures were clever enough to draw Neutemoc out by attacking his children. They'd just kill anyone who might protect him. But I had to get him out of Tenochtitlan, and to Chalco, to know why his house was under siege.

I said – not quite a lie, but not quite the truth either: "Anyone close to you. There's a powerful sorcerer behind them. And trust me, they won't give up."

He was silent for a while. "And this has to do with Eleuia?"

"Yes," I said. The chance that it didn't was minuscule. "You know something," I went on. "Something that's dangerous to someone. And Eleuia did, too."

Neutemoc didn't turn. "I told you already. I don't know anything relevant."

"You may not think you do. Why not come with me to Chalco? It's one day's journey at most."

Neutemoc shook his head. "To Chalco, yes. But that's not the place you want to see, Acatl. Most of the battles of the Chalca Wars took place near Amecameca, at the foot of Popocatepetl's volcano. That's two days. And I really think there are better times to leave the city."

"When you're under siege by creatures you can't fight?"

"I never asked for that." His voice implied, quite effectively, that he held me responsible for this state of affairs.

It wasn't the moment to start another fight. I held my silence, though I chafed inside.

Finally Neutemoc said, "Two days to go, two days there, and two days to return. Not more, Acatl."

Six days away was both not enough and too much. Not enough, for we had no idea what we were looking for. Too much, because of the unknown sorcerer who was currently besieging Neutemoc's house – for all I knew, he might turn his attention away from my brother, and to some other part of the city, and that wasn't a pleasant thought. All I could do was pray that the Seven Serpent would grant us Her fickle luck, for the journey to be fruitful, and the city to remain safe.

"Very well," I said. "Six days."

Some things couldn't be put off forever. I went to my temple to collect some of the things I'd need for the journey – and found Ichtaca, waiting for me in the courtyard with his arms crossed over his bare torso.

"Acatl-tzin." His voice had the edge of broken obsidian.

I'd been putting our discussion off ever since the Imperial Audience, but I couldn't in all decency continue to ignore him. "Let's find a quiet place," I said.

The quiet place turned out to be the same room where I'd prepared for the hunt of the beast of shadows. Dried blood still stained the ground: the faded remnants of my quincunx, not completely subsumed into the earth.

Ichtaca sat cross-legged on the ground, looking up at me, but say ing nothing.

"You wanted to speak to me?" I said.

Ichtaca didn't move. I sat cross-legged in front of him; and we watched each other like a pair of jaguars after the same prey. Finally Ichtaca sighed. "Things have to change, Acatl-tzin."

"You've been angry at me," I said. "For not attending the Imperial Court?"

Ichtaca didn't speak for a while. He lowered his eyes to the ground, traced a line in the earth with his index fingers. "No," he said. "At least, not in the way that you would understand it."

That was more words than we'd ever exchanged. "You wanted the temple," I said, groping for reasons for his iniquity. "To be High Priest yourself?"

Ichtaca smiled. "You should know, Acatl-tzin. A Fire Priest for the main temple, no matter how competent, doesn't rise to that level – not so quickly, not without favour."

"I still don't understand–" I said, feeling more and more ill at ease.

"I'm Fire Priest of this temple. I see to its daily business," Ichtaca said. "I know my place. But you do not."

Whatever I'd expected, it wasn't such a reproach. "You–"

"You're High Priest," Ichtaca said. He raised his eyes, to look directly at me. "Head of the whole order. But you pass through this temple like a shadow."

What was he talking about? "I'm not sure…"

Ichtaca put both hands on the ground. "Listen to me," he said. "Then you can expel me from here, if that's what you want."

He and I both knew I couldn't really demote him. Ichtaca was only half-lying when he said his appointment hadn't been political: one did not become Fire Priest of a temple in the Sacred Precinct randomly, or even through talent. "Go on," I said, although I liked this conversation less and less.

"You have priests," Ichtaca said. "They serve, and do the vigils and the proper sacrifices. In return, they expect something from you."

I still didn't see what he wanted.

"You're High Priest," Ichtaca said. "Responsible for all of them. I run this temple, but you keep it together."

"I can't–"

"If you don't know the proper ways, I or someone else will show you, or replace you. If you don't want to attend the Imperial Audience, I can go. But you cannot detach yourself from what we do."

"I do the vigils," I said finally, still surprised that he'd judge me. I had not paid enough attention to him, seeing him as part of responsibilities I didn't want to accept. My mistake.

Ichtaca shook his head. The conch-shell around his neck clinked, softly, against his necklace of jade. "This isn't about vigils. It's about–" He pushed both hands into the ground, obviously frustrated at his inability to find the right words. He said, finally, "Someone has to stand for what we do. Someone has to make us into more than individual priests: into the clergy of Mictlantecuhtli."

"I'm not a leader," I said.

"Then be a figurehead," Ichtaca said. He sounded – not angry, but desperate. "Most priests in this temple haven't even seen your face. You keep to your house. You keep to yourself. It can't work. If all you wanted was this, you should have stayed in Coyoacan."

"Understand this," I said, annoyed now. "I didn't ask to be posted here. I wanted to stay in Coyoacan." Doing what I had always done: caring for the small, the forgotten; those who could not attain the glorious ends of warriors, but who would still be mourned.

Ichtaca made a grimace. Plainly, he didn't believe me. "It's a political appointment."

"Yes," I snapped. "The Guardian campaigned for it."

"You had to–"

"Refuse? How do you refuse an Imperial Edict?"

He knew, as I well did, that you couldn't.

Ichtaca was silent for a while. "You may not have wanted it, but it doesn't change anything. Everyone needs someone to look up to, and you're not filling this space."

"I can't," I said. "You know I can't."

Ichtaca's face tightened. "Be there. In this temple. Know what goes on. Speak to everyone, offering priest or novice priest. I can do the rest."

"And that's all you want?"

"No," Ichtaca said. "I want you to lead us. But it will have to do, for the time being."

"That's not…"

"It is possible," Ichtaca said.

"Not right now," I said, obscurely embarrassed. "I have to leave on a journey."

Ichtaca's face didn't move, but I knew the expression. Disappointment. Anger. It was the one Father had borne all his life; and even in the blankness of death I'd still seen it engraved on his face.

"When I come back…" I said.

Ichtaca smiled, half-sadly, half-angrily. He didn't believe me. And I couldn't blame him. But I'd never been meant for this place, for this function. Everything in this temple confirmed that I was just a fraud.

If only I could resign. But it wasn't a possibility.

"I'll be gone for six days," I said.

Ichtaca smiled, though there was no joy in it. "On an official journey?"

"No, not quite," I said, embarrassed. "It has to do with Priestess Eleuia."

Ichtaca pursed his lips. I didn't like the light that had come into his eyes. "It's an official journey, then. Take two of the priests with you."

"But–"

"I won't let it be said that our High Priest has no escort when he goes on temple business."

He looked at me: like Teomitl, waiting for me to defy him, to contradict his authority. Knowing that I couldn't. "Very well," I said. "I'll take the priests. We'll talk about the rest when I come back."

I was once more avoiding confrontation, but there was no other way. Huei had to be avenged; and I had to understand who was threatening Neutemoc, who was threatening Mihmatini and my nephews and nieces.

Because they were the only priests I knew, I asked Ezamahual and Palli to come with us. Both of them looked surprised by the request. In fact, knowing their taste for staying inside the temple, I would have expected them to refuse. But of course, no one could refuse their High Priest.

"Where are we going?" Ezamahual asked.

"Chalca. And then to the foot of Popocatepetl's volcano."

"I'll take some supplies," Palli said.

He also took along Ezamahual, who as a novice priest was beneath him in the hierarchy of the temple. When they both came out of the storehouse, Ezamahual was burdened with equipment: he carried several cages containing macaws and owls, and a heavy bag that Palli would not let me open. "You never know what you might need, Acatl-tzin."

We went back to Neutemoc's house. My brother was waiting for us in the courtyard, with one slave by his side: a tall, dour fellow by the name of Tepalotl, who carried my brother's bag.

"Priests?" Neutemoc asked, looking sceptically at Ezamahual and Palli.

Palli bristled. "The High Priest's escort," he said.

"I see," was all Neutemoc would say. "Mihmatini said she had something to give us."

My sister finally emerged from the house, with a bundle of maize flatbread. "You'll need that," she said, handing it to Palli. The smell of spices wafted from her callused hands – and for an eerie moment she was the image of Mother, standing in the courtyard, watching Father go out to the fields, in those bygone days when Neutemoc and I had still been children, daring each other to dive in the lake.

I shook my head, still hearing Ceyaxochitl's voice. Everyone has to grow up, Acatl.

"Anything wrong?" Mihmatini asked.

She'd always been perceptive. Too much, perhaps. "No, nothing. Thank you," I said.

"I'll put more wards up," Mihmatini said. "That might just fool them into thinking Neutemoc is still here."

It might. It couldn't hurt, in any case. "Don't overexert yourself."

She shrugged. "I can handle it."

Neutemoc and Tepalotl were already outside, waiting for me, not speaking. With my spell of true sight still on Neutemoc, he'd had some misgivings about stepping so near the creatures. But Mihmatini's protection still held: the creatures approached, but could not see him, and soon lost interest.

We walked the first section of the journey in silence, Palli, Ezamahual and Neutemoc's slave in tow. I kept looking back, to see the creatures still frantically attacking the walls of Neutemoc's house. I feared they'd follow us, that one of them would turn and see my brother. But they didn't. Our protection spell hung firm, and we were soon out of sight.

We went south on the crowded Itzapalapan causeway, looking for the nearest boat to Chalco. Women from the southern suburbs passed us, going to the Tlatelolco marketplace to sell the wares on their backs: woven cloth of maguey fibres, ceramic bowls and tanned leather skins.

The Itzapalapan Causeway was the largest of all three causeways linking the mainland to Tenochtitlan. It forked near the shore: depending on the path you chose, two or three hours' walk would lead to Culhuacan or Coyoacan. On the fork was a fort manned by warriors with the Imperial insignia and, a little further down, a harbour where Palli bargained with a fisherman for passage to Chalco.

Ezamahual stood at my side, watching his fellow priest. "He's always been good at this," he said, with an encouraging smile at me. Trying to draw me out, I guessed – and was grateful to him for the attention.

"So I see."

"He's the one who trades at the marketplace for the storehouse." Palli finished his bargaining, and handed the fisherman a small purse. "There you go," he said. "A day's journey."

The fisherman's reed boat was larger than the ones our temple owned, and the small one in which Oyohuaca and I had chased Huei through the canals. We fitted, quite comfortably, in the front, even with Ezamahual's load of equipment.

As the fisherman pushed away from the shore, Neutemoc turned towards the city of Tenochtitlan, outlined in the morning sun: the gates leading to the southern districts of Moyotlan and Zoquipan; and the shadow of the Great Temple rising above all the pyramids of the Sacred Precinct. His face was a mask, and he did not speak a word.

In silence, we went south, leaving Lake Texcoco for Lake Xochimilco and the maze of Floating Gardens that sustained Tenochtitlan's agriculture. Even though it was daytime, I kept my eyes out for ahuizotls; but there was nothing in the water but weeds and algae. The steady splash of the oars was the only noise punctuating the journey: the boat, navigating unerringly between the rows of artificial lands, passed from Lake Xochimilco into Lake Chalco – before leaving us, late in the evening, at the limestone gates of the city of Chalco.

Before the gates, soldiers in feather regalia manned a fort much like the ones at the exit of Tenochtitlan. They had throwing spears and feather-covered shields, adorned with an upright coyote. They watched us with a bored air: we were only the last of a steady stream of travellers seeking passage through the city.

There were inns for travelling merchants, but Neutemoc had no wish to mingle with those he saw as his social inferiors. He was being ridiculous, and I argued with him about this, but he wouldn't budge. We ended up camping in a field, some hundred measures away from the city's first houses.

The air was warm, saturated with the promise of rain. The dry season was still upon us: Lake Chalco had sunk to low levels, revealing the woven mat-and-branches structure of the numerous Floating Gardens in the vicinity.

Neutemoc sat against a wizened tree, his whole body tense. He had spoken few words during the journey, sinking into a silence I wasn't sure I liked.

"Acatl?" he asked.

I raised my head. "Yes?"

"Can you see whether those – things – are here?"

"They haven't followed us," I said.

"Is that a guess, or an observation?"

I had been keeping a watch, but had relaxed it on the last leg of our journey. "How would they come here?" I asked.

"So you're not sure."

He had some nerve asking me this, after seemingly not caring about staying in his besieged house. "No," I snapped.

"Can you see?" Neutemoc asked again.

I was tired, and the last thing I wanted was to draw more of my blood to fuel a spell. But it was clear Neutemoc was going to work at me until I gave in.

I turned to Ezamahual, Palli, and Neutemoc's slave Tepalotl, who had been watching this in silence. "Can you do a spell of true sight?"

Palli shrugged. "Not a problem. What are we looking for?"

"Anything suspicious," I said. I described the creatures as best as I could.

In the waning light, Ezamahual's face became pale, leached of colours. "They don't sound very friendly," he said.

Palli was already rummaging in Ezamahual's pack, withdrawing a caged owl and a purse of what looked like dayflower. "Come on," he said. "Let's go."

Neutemoc said, "Take Tepalotl if you're going far away from the camp. You'll need some kind of protection while you cast those spells." His lips were pursed: clearly he didn't believe in their fighting abilities.

Neutemoc's slave Tepalotl followed my two priests in silence, leaving both of us at our improvised campsite. Neutemoc and I unpacked the maize flatbreads and the flasks of water, preparing the small meal we would eat. Kneeling in the mud, we looked at each other for a while, the same thought on our minds: could we start a fire here?

Neutemoc was the first to shake his head. "Too damp," he said. "Unless you have a spell."

"You don't summon gods for trifles," I said.

Neutemoc smiled, briefly. "Then we'll just be damp, won't we?"

Palli, Ezamahual and the slave Tepalotl were walking back towards us. Ezamahual was carrying the limp body of the owl in his hands, and looking puzzled.

"Nothing," Palli said, curtly, when they reached the camp. "Not a trace of anything magical."

"Good," Neutemoc said. He inclined his head a fraction. "Thank you."

I couldn't help feeling relieved. It was one thing to have Ceyaxochitl's assurances that all would be well once we left Tenochtitlan, and another to actually see it happen.

Palli, Ezamahual and Tepalotl took their share of food, and drew back from us: my two priests at the edge of the camp, talking quietly among themselves, and Neutemoc's slave a bit further, standing guard in the darkness.

Neutemoc didn't speak for a while. He reached for one of the maize flatbreads, and cradled it in the palm of his hands, staring at the darkening skies.

"It brings one back," he said at last. "All of this."

I swallowed a bite of my flatbread. If he was in a talkative mood, I'd be a fool not to draw him out, to understand why someone was threatening him. Although I feared it was going to cost me. So far, I hadn't seen much to explain why he'd behaved in such a spectacularly foolish fashion. "It must have changed in sixteen years."

"Not that much," Neutemoc said. "Places don't change. People – that's another story." His voice was bitter.

"Eleuia?" I asked.

Neutemoc didn't answer for a while. "Let's not bring her up, shall we? We'll disagree. And I wasn't thinking about her."

He was in a melancholy mood tonight. "About whom, then?" I asked.

He smiled, a flash of white teeth in the growing darkness. "There was a time when all I wanted was the certainty that I would live until the morrow."

"War is that way." I felt like an impostor. I'd never been to war, after all.

Two days ago, Neutemoc would have risen to the bait, taunting me with what I'd failed to accomplish with my life. "Life was simpler, back then," he said.

"Yes." I thought of my small temple in Coyoacan, of comforting the bereaved, tracking down underworld monsters. Simple things. But life, it seemed, was no longer that simple, either for Neutemoc or for me.

Neutemoc finished the last of his flatbread, and wiped his hands clean. "Things change. You grow stale, complacent. Sometimes, you deserve your own fall."

Stale? Yes, stale. His growing indifference to Huei had certainly done little to close the growing breach between them. As for his attempted adultery with Eleuia…

He went on, "When I first came here with the army, I used to go for walks at night, to think on the following day's battle. One night, I met an old peasant carrying a basket of maize kernels. He asked what I wanted to do with my life. I told him of my dreams – to earn fame and fortune on the battlefield; to have a grand house, and a loving wife, and to move through the Imperial circles."

The story's familiarity pulled me from my angry thoughts. "And?" I asked, though I suspected where the story was going.

"He just smiled. 'You will have all of this and more, young warrior. But remember: I always hold the dice.' And he was gone as though he'd never been."

I nodded. "Tezcatlipoca." The Smoking Mirror, God of War and Fate: He who controlled the destinies of men.

"Whoever he was, he was right." Neutemoc sighed. "Life is just another, vaster patolli board on which the gods move us at Their whim. The things you have, you can lose so easily. They're just not worth holding."

"You're a warrior," I said, finally. "You're not supposed to wallow in your own misery."

Neutemoc's eyes flashed in anger, but he didn't answer. "We need someone to stand guard," he said, rising. He walked to where Palli and Ezamahual sat, and said something to them in a low voice. They nodded.

Neutemoc came back, and lay down on the ground, ready to sleep. "They'll take turns," he said.

I nodded, not feeling inclined to talk further with him.

"We'll reach Amecameca tomorrow at noon," Neutemoc said. "There's a hill where Eleuia buried the body of her child. You'll see for yourself that he's dead."

I shrugged. "Maybe." Even if my instincts were wrong, and the child had nothing to do with this, something had happened in the Chalca Wars: something that Eleuia had wanted to hide so badly she'd been ready to kill for it.

I woke up at dawn, my clothes soaked by the mud and the morning dew. Neutemoc was already up. He was going through some exer cises with his macuahitl sword, hacking and slashing at cacti as if they'd personally offended him.

Palli, Ezamahual and I withdrew from the camp, making our offerings of blood to Lord Death. The sky was cloudy, and the sun nowhere to be seen: a gloomy, wet pall stretched over the marshes, clinging to everything it touched. I hoped it wouldn't rain today. There were few more unpleasant things than finding oneself without shelter on marshy ground.

We ate one of the flatbreads, waiting for Neutemoc to finish killing innocent plants.

"Feeling frustrated?" I asked.

He didn't even rise to my jibe. "Let's get this over with, shall we?"

We walked the rest of the way to Amecameca, with the snowcapped heights of Popocatepetl's and Ixtaccihuatl's volcanoes looming ever larger over us.

The land became drier, the lakes forgotten behind us, and the ground deepening into valleys and hills, with grass and conifers gradually replacing the sparse marsh vegetation.

Neutemoc didn't speak much. From time to time, he'd point out a place, and say things such as, "This is where we fought the first Chalca regiments." But he was again sunk into that melancholy mood he'd shown in Chalco, reliving the past and the carefree days of his youth.

Towards mid-afternoon, we reached Amecameca, a small town nestled at the foot of a hill. Neutemoc pointed to the heights above us. "That's the place," he said. "The hill of Our Mother."

I craned my neck. At the top of the hill was a small, ornate adobe building with red flags: a shrine to Teteoinan, Mother of the Gods.

"We took it sixteen years ago," Neutemoc was saying. "A hardfought battle."

"That's where Eleuia buried her child?" I asked.

"You'll see," Neutemoc said.

It was a small hill, dwarfed by the much larger volcanoes behind it. The ascent wasn't long. A steady flow of pilgrims came from Amecameca to make their offerings at the shrine: peasants, with their hands full of maize and feathers, and a procession of merchants leading a woman slave in a white cotton tunic, who would be sacrificed to the goddess.

Neutemoc stopped halfway up the hill, on a grassy knoll. Not knowing what else to do, we stopped as well.

"Let's see," he said. He closed his eyes for a moment, and a fleeting expression of nostalgia crossed his face. "That way," he said.

He walked to a place in the middle of the knoll, and stopped. "Here."

"You're sure?" I asked. Not that I disbelieved him. But still, it had been sixteen years.

Neutemoc pointed to a handful of rocks, arranged in a circular pattern. "I remember those." He knelt, rummaged within the grass, and gave a small grunt of triumph. "Her marker's still here."

Eleuia's marker was a small rock, engraved with two fragmentary glyphs: one for "water", and one that might have been "blessing" or "luck". They looked much like the ones she'd tried to draw in the Floating Gardens – while she was held captive by the beast of shadows, waiting for those who would torture her and push her into the lake. Odd. It wasn't any spell I recognised; and no magic that I could see hung over the tomb.

I turned to Palli. "Can I see the contents of that pack?"

The young offering priest smiled. "Of course, Acatl-tzin."

He'd brought many things: obsidian blades, herbs to heal wounds, to curse a man; a variety of containers for blood, their shapes ranging from eagles with an open beak to chac-mools, small men holding a blood-stained bowl in their outstretched hands. Among them, I finally found what I was looking for: a small, pointed shovel, which I withdrew from the pack. "Thank you."

"Do you need help, Acatl-tzin?" Ezamahual asked.

I shook my head. "There's only one shovel, and it's not a large grave. I'll work faster if I do it alone." I whispered a brief prayer to Mictlantecuhtli and to the Duality for what I was about to do – disturb the rest of an innocent child – and hoped They'd understand, if not forgive.

I hoped my instincts didn't turn out wrong about this.

It was harder than I'd thought: the ground was mostly rocks, mixed with a little soil. I had to go carefully in order not to break the bones, which would be small and fragile. Neutemoc had stepped away with a stern, disapproving face, and didn't offer any help.

At last, I overturned something that was neither earth nor rocks: a cloth with faded colours, sewn closed at both ends. I withdrew it from the hole, and brushed the earth from its folds, gently. Then, using one of my obsidian knives, I sliced through the threads.

Small, yellowed things spilled into my hands: the pathetic, familiar remnants of someone who hadn't had a chance at life.

"Bones," Palli whispered, by my side.

Yes, bones. But they felt wrong. Deeply, fundamentally wrong. They were the right shape, they had the right touch. But my skin was crawling, and the longer I held them the more ill at ease I felt.

"Neutemoc?" I asked.

My brother turned, saw what I was holding. "You've found what you wanted," he said, flatly.

No. I hadn't. They were wrong, subtly wrong, but I couldn't see why.

"You were with her when she buried the child?" I asked.

"Yes," Neutemoc said. His gaze said, "I told you it was a waste of time."

"Did she do anything particular?" The bones were still in my hand, and everything in me wanted to throw them down.

"Particular?" Neutemoc looked at me as if I were mad. "No," he said. "She sewed them in that cloth, buried them, and carved the marker."

"That's all?" I asked. What was wrong with those bones?

Neutemoc said nothing for a while. "She went into a cave to say a prayer to the Duality," he said. "The same one where she gave birth."

"A cave?" I laid the bones down in the clothes. The uneasy feeling on my skin abated, but didn't cease. Nausea welled up in me, sharp, demanding – I struggled to focus through it.

A cave was a good shelter to give birth in with impunity, especially in this arid country. And praying to the Duality for a child wasn't extraordinary, since They watched over the souls of babies. But the Duality was worshipped in the open air, or on pyramid temples. I'd never heard of such a temple in a cave.

I took the baby's bones and wrapped them back into their cloth. "Can you take us to the cave?" I asked.

• • • •

It was further away than Neutemoc remembered: we had to go down the hill to another one. Shelves of rock rose around us as we trudged on the steep path. The air was cold, crisp with a bitter tang that insinuated itself into my bones.

The cave had a small entrance, half-obscured by a fall of debris. Faded paint stretched on both sides, and traces that might have been bloody handprints, weathered away by the rain. A wet, pungent odour like that of a wild animal rose as I ducked under the stone ceiling.

Inside was only darkness, the sound of our own breathing – and, in the distance, the steady sound of dripping water. "Is anybody here?" I called.

No answer.

"Some place," Palli said behind me.

I paused for a moment to light a torch with some flint and dry kindling from Palli's ever-useful bag. The flame shone over moist rock walls, reflected in a thousand shards of light.

"It must have been abandoned some time ago," Neutemoc said, defiantly.

"If it ever drew large crowds," Ezamahual said. He sounded sceptical. "Everything looks faded here."

"I know," I said. I shone the torch towards the back: the cave narrowed into a rock corridor. Having no choice, I headed straight ahead.

My footsteps echoed under the stone ceiling: a deep, faraway sound, as if the place had been twice as deep. And as I made my way deeper into the cave, a sense of wrongness slowly crept up my spine. It was the same thing I'd felt when holding the baby's bones, but much, much stronger: a growing disquiet, an impression that the world around me wasn't as it seemed – a sense of a cold power coiling around me like the rings of a snake.

"Neutemoc," I whispered, but there was only silence, and the feeling of something immense, barely contained within the walls. Something that hadn't yet seen any of us; but that might, at any moment, turn its eyes our way.

"Acatl-tzin," Palli whispered, and I heard the same fear in his voice.

I reached towards the knife at my belt, with agonising slowness – and closed my hand on the hilt. The dreary, familiar emptiness of Mictlan rose: a welcome shield against whatever lay in the cave. It wasn't strong, and it waned with every passing moment. But it would have to do.

"Use your knives," I whispered to the two priests behind me. "Mictlan's magic will ward us."

Neither of the priests answered. I pushed ahead, stubbornly, and heard their footsteps behind me, more hesitant. They were falling behind.

The corridor ended in a circular place, filled with the sound of water dripping onto the rock. There was a pool at the centre, with barely enough water to reflect the light of my torch; and small tokens, scattered around the rim: dolls of brightly-coloured rags, fragments of chipped stones and seashells.

Offerings. This was – had been – a shrine, till not so long ago.

I shone my torch around the room: the paint had run, but frescoes still adorned the walls. The sense of disquiet, of wrongness, was rising, slowly drowning out Mictlan's rudimentary protection. I had no intention of remaining in that cave any longer than I had to. Close by, the frescoes were hard to identify. Characters in tones of ochre moved across a narration in smudged glyphs: fighting each other, or perhaps handing something to each other?

"What is this place?"

I started. I hadn't heard Neutemoc for so long that I'd almost forgotten that he was there. He stood by the pool, looking ill at ease. Neither his slave, Tepalotl, nor my two priests were anywhere to be seen.

"You should know," I said, more angrily than I'd intended to. "You took Eleuia here."

"No," Neutemoc said. He sounded angry as well. "I waited outside. I've never set foot in here."

"Well," I said sombrely, "the one thing we can be sure is that this isn't a shrine to the Duality." I held my torch up to the frescoes again, hoping for a clue, for anything that would allow us to get out of here and leave behind that great, sickening presence. But the glyphs were too smudged by the incessant fall of water, and the details of the frescoes similarly erased.

I walked away from the pool, fighting an urge to scratch myself to the blood.

The frescoes on the furthest wall were also badly damaged, but some details had survived better. One character appeared constantly in the vignettes: a being with dark skin, brandishing various objects: a fisherman's net, a rattle, and several bowls holding offerings.

I knelt by the oldest of the frescoes, peered at the details. The eyes were dark, accentuated by black marks, and a plume of heron feathers protruded from His head.

Tlaloc! Eleuia had given birth in a shrine to Tlaloc, God of Rain.

We met Palli, Ezamahual and Tepalotl halfway out: they had been unable to push past the sense of uneasiness. Tepalotl, being a slave, didn't look as though he cared much one way or the other; but my two priests were sheepish.

"We could have followed you, Acatl-tzin," Palli pointed out, once we were safely outside.

Ezamahual said nothing. He was clenching and unclenching his hand around his obsidian knife, frowning. "I scarcely feel anything," he said.

"The magic is here," I said, finally, not knowing what else I could tell him. "It takes some practise to open to it, that's all."

Ezamahual looked doubtful. "I suppose," he said.

"Acatl-tzin would know," Palli said, looking at his companion severely.

Ezamahual said nothing. I could tell he wasn't completely convinced. He should have had confidence in me, but I hadn't been capable of proving my abilities to him.

Huitzilpochtli curse me.

"It doesn't matter," I said. "We have what we need."

"We do?" Neutemoc asked, behind me. "I, for one, haven't understood anything."

I didn't react to his sarcasm. I weighed the baby's bones in my hands, thoughtfully. After the shrine, the small feeling of wrongness was almost restful. "Neither have I." But one thing was sure: the Storm Lord wasn't a god of childbirth. There had been no reason for Eleuia to go into that shrine to give birth unless something else was going on. "But I don't think Eleuia's true allegiance was to the Quetzal Flower."

"And that solves the matter for you?"

I shrugged. "If she was to become Consort of Xochiquetzal's husband, she couldn't afford the worship of another god." Hence the need to silence Neutemoc, who might remember the child; who might remember this place and cause someone else to realise what Eleuia had done.

Neutemoc said nothing, but he didn't look convinced. That wasn't what bothered me. The bones that I held in my hand, however… What kind of child had Eleuia given birth to?

It's dead, my conscience pointed out, reasonably. Whatever happened, she didn't carry it to term. But that wasn't enough to dispel my growing feeling I'd missed something.

SEVENTEEN

Confrontations

We came back to Tenochtitlan two days later, well after midday. Fog hung heavily over the canals and the streets, clinging in wisps to the houses even this late. The air was humid and sweltering. Overhead, there were no clouds, but the rain would not be long in coming.

I sent Palli and Ezamahual back to the temple; Neutemoc, his slave Tepalotl and I went back to Neutemoc's house.

Mihmatini was waiting for us in the courtyard, wearing a creased dress of cotton, embroidered with butterflies. Her face was as wan as the moon, and dark circles underlined her eyes. I had never seen her so tired.

"You shouldn't be up so early," I said.

She shook her head. "If I sleep, they'll eat the wards." She glanced at Neutemoc. "And your protection is almost gone. I need to renew that for you."

"I thought you and Ceyaxochitl had everything under control when we left?" I asked, slowly, afraid of what she would answer me.

Mihmatini gave me a tired smile. "They're either more powerful, or more numerous. Either way, I'm losing this battle."

"You can't stay here," I said to Neutemoc.

He shook his head, angrily. "And whose fault is that?"

"Neutemoc," Mihmatini said.

I bit back on a wounding retort. "Can we argue about responsibilities later? I need to get you and your household to–"

I contemplated the possibilities. Most temples weren't warded, except perhaps for the Great Temple. But half of that belonged to Tlaloc. And, given what we now knew of Eleuia's ties with that god, I wasn't eager to find refuge there.

"We'll go to the Duality House," I said, at last. "That's large enough to hold us all." At least, while I worked out what I did next. I'd have to go back to the Jaguar House, and ask Mahuizoh about Eleuia's ambitions.

"The Duality House?" Neutemoc asked, incredulous. "My whole household? Acatl, it's one thing to take me on a fruitless journey–"

I cut him off, with no effort to be civil. "That wasn't fruitless, unless you want to deny what happened in that so-called shrine to the Duality. And I'm not taking risks."

He stared at me: weary, cynical, angry. "Priests hide and run away. Warriors don't."

Warriors and priests. Why in the Fifth World did it always have to come to the same thing?

I'd had enough of that. I said, sharply, "You can stay here if that satisfies your pride. I'm not seeing Mihmatini and your children die like Quechomitl."

"He died because you involved him in this," Neutemoc snapped.

I shook my head. "He died because he defended you. That's all."

"He would have had no need to defend me if you hadn't interfered."

Interfered? I'd risked my career to prove him innocent, and that was all he could find to say to me? I said, "I wasn't the one who drove Huei against you. You did that yourself."

This, as I had expected, wounded him. His eyes narrowed; his muscles tensed, readying for a leap in my direction. I laid a hand on one of my obsidian knives, feeling the emptiness of Mictlan well up.

Mihmatini gave a snort of disgust, and stepped between both of us. "Enough. A pity Mother isn't here any more. You're behaving like children, both of you."

"Neutemoc," she said, firmly.

He turned to her. It must have been something in her voice, so reminiscent of Mother's flat, deadly tones. "Yes?"

"Come here. I'll renew the spell on you. And then we'll pack." She threw me an angry glance. "As to you… don't think I'm on your side, Acatl."

"You don't sound as if you are," I said, but she was already fussing around Neutemoc.

I almost went to lean against the wall, until I remembered the creatures, hungrily pressing themselves on the other side.

So I settled in the middle of the courtyard, watching Mihmatini draw a circle on the ground. I stood, trying to empty my mind of everything. But I couldn't. In the bag at my back were the baby's bones, so subtly, so incomprehensibly wrong. What had Eleuia tried to do with the baby – and was it for this failed attempt that she'd died?

We drew many curious glances as our small procession crossed the Sacred Precinct, heading towards the Duality House. Through the fog, I thought I caught a glimpse of Ichtaca in his headdress and spider-embroidered cloak, leading a handful of black-clad offering priests back to the temple for the Dead.

Getting inside the Duality House required some negotiation: the guards weren't willing to let in two dozen people. They sent for their superior – who turned out to be Yaotl, Ceyaxochitl's personal messenger. I wasn't sure whether his smug smile was an improvement on the situation. His eyes took in the slaves, Neutemoc, and Mihmatini, with Ollin sleeping in a wicker basket at her back, and four year-old Mazatl in her arms.

"I'm sure there's a good explanation for all of this," Yaotl said.

I wasn't in the mood to provide much of anything to anyone. "There is," I said. "I'll give it to you once we're inside."

"I suspect I'd rather have it now," Yaotl said.

I sighed. "Your walls are solidly warded. Is that good enough?"

Yaotl glanced at the adobe walls, and finally shrugged. "Warded against what?" he asked.

"Against things that might be trying to kill us," I said.

Neutemoc was standing to the side, glowing with Mihmatini's protection, brooding like a jaguar over lost cubs. He wasn't talking to me, and he was avoiding Mihmatini, too. But then, we both were, after the verbal flaying she'd given us on the way there.

Yaotl looked again at the walls. "Protection. It's irregular–" he started.

"You care about irregularities now?"

He smiled. "Possibly. However, you come at a good time. Mistress Ceyaxochitl wanted to see you. I suppose we'll count all the others as your retinue."

"Ha," Neutemoc said.

"The sense of humour runs in your family, I see," Yaotl said, as Neutemoc's slaves all gathered in the first courtyard of the Duality House. Neutemoc found himself an isolated place, from which he could glare at me in peace.

"No," I said, "I can't say I ever had much of one." I gathered my priest-senses, and felt the solidity of the Duality wards, woven into the very foundations of the walls by generation after generation of Guardians. This was a safe place, the safest haven magic could devise. The surest prison, also. I could well imagine how Neutemoc would chafe within those walls.

Mihmatini was laying Mazatl on the ground, wrapping a blanket around him with the help of an old slave woman. Then she settled down, and started rocking Ollin against her chest, singing a soft lullaby.

"Come," Yaotl said. "They can get settled without your help."

Ceyaxochitl was waiting for me within the Duality shrine: a vast, open space at the top of the central pyramid, with a limestone altar, a carved piece of stone, as flat as the surface of a still lake. There were no grooves to collect the blood, either on the altar or on the platform; for the Duality only took bloodless sacrifices such as fruit or flowers.

"I wasn't expecting you so early," she said. She was leaning on her cane as if rooted to the ground. Her face, like Mihmatini's, was wan and tired. Above her, heavy clouds were gathering: the rains were coming, and would start soon, thank the Duality.

"He's not alone, either," Yaotl said, with some satisfaction.

Ceyaxochitl raised an eyebrow. "Not alone?"

"He's brought a whole household."

"Your brother's?" Ceyaxochitl asked, quick to see the point. "I take it the creatures are still there."

"Yes, and it's getting worse. Your wards are down."

Ceyaxochitl tapped her cane on the floor, thoughtfully. "They shouldn't be. I'll have to look into this. When I have priests to spare."

"Hum," I said. "I'd rather you focused on these." I handed her a bundle of cloth, containing the bones of Eleuia's baby.

Ceyaxochitl held it in the palm of one hand, and carefully started unwrapping it with the fingers of her other hand. "What is this?"

"Bones," I said. "The bones of Eleuia's child."

"Mm," she said, poking at them with one finger. "Odd bones, you mean."

"Yes," I said. "But I'm not sure if it's relevant."

Ceyaxochitl looked at them for a while. "They feel wrong. But I'm not sure why. I need to think."

She was exhausted, it was obvious: this promise was likely all I was going to get. But I could not force her, in any case. "Why did you want to talk to me?" On the way there, I'd entertained the notion that she'd found a way to kill the creatures – even that she'd have found the sorcerer, and that both Neutemoc and I could go our separate ways. But it didn't look to be the case.

Ceyaxochitl's face was grave. "I have news, Acatl."

Bad news, judging from her solemn voice. "The Emperor?" I asked. Though, if Axayacatl-tzin died and there was political upheaval, Ichtaca would deal with the consequences of that.

Then I remembered, with a twinge of unease, the conversation we'd had. I didn't need further conflict between us.

Ceyaxochitl was shaking her head. "Yaotl?" she asked. "Can you make sure we're alone?"

Now she was frightening me.

Yaotl came to stand near the top of the only stairs leading to where we were, his hand resting on the hilt of his macuahitl sword. Ceyaxochitl moved towards the altar – on which, I suddenly noticed, lay a piece of maguey paper.

She took it in her free hand before I could read it. "I haven't been idle while you were away."

"I didn't think you would," I said, finally. "Why all the secrecy?"

Ceyaxochitl handed me the piece of paper without another word.

There wasn't much to see: it was just a drawing in red ink, and another in black ink, superimposed upon it. Together, both sets of lines formed a stylised figure: an animal, suggested by its claws and the shape of its maw.

"I don't understand," I said.

Ceyaxochitl sighed. "The red pattern is the one Yaotl took from Eleuia's cheek."

"And the black?" I asked, a hollow deepening in my stomach. Missing lines. If you added the black lines to the red, you had a complete pattern.

Ceyaxochitl raised a hand. "Promise me you're not going to do something foolish about it," she said.

She was really, really worrying me. Was the overall symbol some Imperial seal? "I can't promise that until you tell me," I said.

She was silent, for a while. "It was badly smudged," she said. "Barely recognisable. But Yaotl has a good memory."

"And?" I hated that she was toying with me, holding her answer at arm's length.

She turned, to lay one hand on the altar, as if drawing strength from the stone. "It's a ring," she said. "A ring of engraved turquoise."

My stomach twisted. Turquoise was an Imperial colour. "Who wears that ring?" Tizoc-tzin? Or – and my heart missed a beat – Teomitl?

"Only one man," Ceyaxochitl said. "Quiyahuayo, Commander of the Jaguar Brotherhood."

Commander Quiyahuayo. I'd met him, was my first, incredulous thought. He hadn't sounded like… Like a sorcerer. Like a ruthless man, ready to sacrifice Neutemoc for the Duality knew what aim. Was I such a fool as not to recognise a sorcerer?

"That's not possible," I said. "Someone made a copy…"

Ceyaxochitl shook her head. "That would be going to a lot of trouble for not much. We had so much trouble tracing that ring, I don't think it was meant to mislead us."

"I don't understand," I said, stupidly. But I did. The Jaguar Knights were privileged warriors, heavily connected to the Imperial Family – especially their Commander. Ceyaxochitl was telling me that Quiyahuayo might be behind the abduction of Eleuia; but that I would have to tread carefully.

I thought of the bruises on Eleuia's skin; of how no part of her had been left undamaged; of how Quiyahuayo had left Neutemoc to rot in his cage for days; of how he'd induced Huei to betray her husband and put her own life in danger; of how, because of him, she was now condemned to death. A cold anger crystallised in my chest.

I crumpled the paper between my fingers. "Thank you," I said, and walked out before she could stop me.

Yaotl joined me as I reached the outer courtyard of the Duality House. "You're about to do something foolish," he said, flatly. For once, he didn't sound amused or ironic.

"Do you have any other solutions?"

"Mistress Ceyaxochitl can appeal to the Imperial Courts–"

"That's not a solution," I said. "That's just delaying things."

"Sometimes, it's the best thing," Yaotl said. "Quiyahuayo has more influence than you believe."

"No," I said. I wasn't there to dally in politics. I wasn't there to be thrown left and right by events out of my control. I wanted justice.

Yaotl started to say something, but then met my gaze. He sighed: an unusual, uncharacteristic gesture. "It's your choice," he said. "Don't say we failed to warn you this time."

I shook my head. If my destiny was to rush in, like a fool, then so be it.

I was almost all the way to the doors of the Jaguar House when I realised someone had followed me. Neutemoc.

"You're not safe here," I snapped.

He stood, some paces away from me, stubbornly unmoving. "I heard you. It's my Brotherhood, Acatl. My commander. I think I deserve an explanation."

He still shone, faintly, with Mihmatini's spell: a soft light, barely visible to my priest-senses, which spilled on the beaten earth under us. The rising wind whipped at his cloak, giving him the air of an uncanny monster.

I looked at the bulk of the Jaguar House, throwing its shadow over us – at the guards at the entrance. For company, I could do worse than Neutemoc: he might hate me, but he'd guard my back, if only because I was family and because his brotherhood had betrayed him.

"Very well," I said, finally. "Come on."

He walked some paces away, which suited me. I had no desire to start a long conversation. When we reached the Jaguar House, though, I saw the faces of the guards darken.

"You shouldn't be here," the first guard said to Neutemoc.

A faint, dangerous smile stretched Neutemoc's lips. He spread his hands, palms up, as if to show he had no weapon. "I'm still a Jaguar Knight," he said. "And I'm entitled to be here."

The second guard growled. "You haven't set a foot in here since your arrest, and now you come back."

"It's the coming back that matters," Neutemoc said. He was hiding his anger, his sense of betrayal, very well, but I saw it in the slight tremor of his hands. "I want to see the commander."

The first guard laughed, his fingers tightening around the shellgrip of his spear. "As if he'd see you at this hour?"

Neutemoc's voice was slow, deadly. "Ask him," he said.

The second guard looked at Neutemoc, clearly trying to decide whether he was jesting.

"Ask him," Neutemoc said, "about Priestess Eleuia."

I had been carefully folding the crumpled maguey paper into a small square. By the guards' blank faces, they'd obviously not been involved in Eleuia's abduction. Time to pass a discreet message to Commander Quiyahuayo, then. There was no reason to drag the guards into the shame of Eleuia's murder.

"Tell him we found this on her body," I said, handing my folded paper to the first guard.

He wasn't long gone. When he came back, his face was set in a frown. "He'll see you," he said.

The Jaguar House was almost deserted at this early hour: a few Knights were playing patolli in one of the courtyards, and all the unmarried Knights were in their dormitories – some, by the noises wafting through the entrance-curtains, still engaged with various courtesans.

Neutemoc didn't speak until we were a long way in. "I'd hate to be trapped here," he said.

I shrugged. "You shouldn't have come, then." The dice were all Quiyahuayo's in this House, anyway. At least, if I didn't come back, Ceyaxochitl and Yaotl would know who held me.

It was a meagre consolation, but it sustained me until we reached Quiyahuayo's room.

A delicate entrance curtain, adorned with images of the great Tezcatlipoca slaughtering the enemies of the Mexica, opened to reveal a wide room lit by two braziers. Lord Death and His wife faced each other in the frescoes on the walls. The god and His consort sat on Their thrones of linked bones, with the Wind of Knives a small, sharp shadow in the background. It was… wrong. They shouldn't have been there. It wasn't their place.

The only furniture was a reed mat, and four large wicker chests. One of the chests, I saw, held piles of folded codices, laid on top of each other. Even from this distance, I could tell what they were: books of prayers to Mictlantecuhtli, detailed indexes to the minor gods of the underworld, spells to summon them and bind them to one's will.

Altogether, it painted a picture of a man's obsession with Mictlan: a trait ill-suited to a commander of the Jaguar Knights, a man who should have been sworn to the Hummingbird. It was clear, though, why he had chosen to use a beast of shadows to abduct Eleuia.

Commander Quiyahuayo, in full Jaguar regalia, was sitting on the reed mat, surrounded by discarded codices and by broken writing reeds. He held a clay tablet, which he used as a support to write on maguey paper. His gestures were slow, but precise.

He raised his eyes when we came closer. "My late-night visitors," he said, seemingly amused. "Leave us, will you?" he asked the guard – who nodded, and exited the room.

Commander Quiyahuayo put down his writing reed, and tilted the tablet towards us. He'd been writing on the paper I'd sent him: he had drawn a circle around the symbol, like the shape of a signet ring.

He knew.

I glanced at the entrance-curtain. The guard was standing just behind it. I couldn't tell with certainty, but there was probably a second guard as well. No choice, then; no way back; but I had known that before entering the room.

"So," Commander Quiyahuayo said. "Do sit down."

Neutemoc had been watching him with a mixture of horror and fascination. "Going through your pretence of politeness?"

Commander Quiyahuayo bowed his head. The quetzal tail-feathers on his headdress followed his motion, bending like stalks in the wind. "The proper gestures, at the proper time," he said. "Incidentally, don't even think of trying to attack me, physically or otherwise." He said the last with a quick nod in my direction, having seen my hand tighten around one of my obsidian knives. "It would only make things more painful. And believe me, I have no wish to do so."

He sounded sincere, and in many ways that was the worst. "More painful than you made them for Eleuia?" I asked.

"Ah," he said. "Eleuia. Do sit down," he repeated.

"I'd rather remain standing," Neutemoc snapped. "Since you judge that what happened to me was just an inconvenience?"

"A minor thing," Commander Quiyahuayo said. He set his clay tablet aside carefully. "Compared to the stakes."

"What stakes?" I asked, wondering what kind of man would speak of human lives as if they were part of some vast game. Not a man I would like.

Commander Quiyahuayo's smile was ironic. "Why, the Fifth World. What else do we play for?"

"I don't understand," I said, just as Neutemoc snapped, "Are you going to toy with us all night? Or just do to us as you did to Eleuia?"

Commander Quiyahuayo's smile slowly faded. "You still care for the bitch," he said, surprised. "Why? She tried to kill you."

If Neutemoc was shocked at this, he didn't show it. "So did you," he said.

Commander Quiyahuayo shrugged. "Hazards of combats."

This was obviously leading nowhere. Neutemoc was right: Commander Quiyahuayo was toying with us until he became bored. "What's your interest in Eleuia?" I asked. "Does it have anything to do with her child – the one she had in the Chalca Wars, in a temple dedicated to the Storm Lord?"

Commander Quiyahuayo recoiled visibly, though he soon recovered.

"Tell me what is going on," I asked. "We know about the child. We unearthed his bones. We know something is wrong with them." I couldn't help shivering as I said this.

"You've been busy, I see," the commander said.

"Yes," I said. "But I still don't–"

He cut me with a frown. "You're a priest, Acatl. Don't you know what those bones are?"

Eerie, was my first thought. I remembered the feeling I'd had when holding them, the same feeling as in Tlaloc's shrine. "Powerful," I said.

Commander Quiyahuayo shook his head. "Power."

"I–"

Gently, Commander Quiyahuayo rested his hands on the reed mat. "Power incarnate."

"The Storm Lord's power?" I asked.

He shrugged. "The gods' powers are constrained in the Fifth World. That's why They find human agents." He probed at the clay tablet on the ground as it were an aching tooth. "But agents are tricky. Unreliable. They have a will of their own. Some gods desire a vessel that is more… pliant, shall we say?"

I stared at him, my contempt forgotten. Surely… "Tlaloc made a child?" I asked. "He fathered a child with Eleuia?"

Commander Quiyahuayo smiled with the pleased expression of a teacher who had just managed to pass on knowledge. In the flickering light of the braziers, the fangs of the jaguar maw framing his head shone: a second, far more dangerous smile. "The Storm Lord wanted a child who would hold the full extent of His powers. To create life with those constraints is hard, more so when one is a god with no idea of where to start." His voice was grim. "Hence the stillbirth."

It was a fascinating story he was telling me, but I couldn't trust him. Every one of his words was a lie. This was the man who had arranged Eleuia's abduction. "Why should I believe you?" I asked. "You tortured her. You killed her."

"I didn't kill her. The bitch escaped." Commander Quiyahuayo sounded angry. "As to why you should believe me… That, I'm afraid, is your own problem. If you don't, it won't change many things for me."

He was right: either way, he had us at his mercy. I ought to have felt frightened. But I'd entered the Jaguar House knowing what I was doing. I wanted explanations.

Commander Quiyahuayo spread his hands. "Think of Eleuia. Of the kind of woman she was."

The problem was that for a lie, it rang true, too much in keeping with Eleuia's character. Bearing a child would earn her the Storm Lord's favour: an easy way to rise through the hierarchy, borne on the god's powers. And what better way to be safe from hunger than to have the favour of the God of Rain – He who made the maize flowers bloom?

"I still don't understand," I said slowly, to give me time to compose my thoughts. "The child is dead. Whatever Tlaloc wanted to do, it wouldn't have worked."

From outside came shouted orders and the sound of footsteps, running in the distance. Commander Quiyahuayo shook his head in distaste. "My, they're noisy tonight. Pay no attention. Where were we? Ah yes. The child." He smiled. "You see, there was a second child. And this one survived his birth."

I stared at him, incredulous. "That's why you tortured her?"

The shouting had moved away from us, and the sounds of running men were gradually dying down. A breeze stirred the curtain. Neutemoc cursed, and moved away from the draught.

"No," Commander Quiyahuayo said. "I knew there was a child, made jointly by Xochiquetzal and Tlaloc, and borne in Eleuia's womb. I know that it was given to a family of peasants, to raise as their own."

By Xochiquetzal and Tlaloc. Of course. Xochiquetzal had brought the expertise about childbirth; and the Storm Lord the raw power. That was why the Quetzal Flower had lied to me about Mahuizoh and Eleuia. What a fool I'd been.

Commander Quiyahuayo went on, "And I also knew this: that this year is the year the child comes of age. The year Tlaloc can transfer His powers into him. What I wanted to know from Eleuia was where she'd hidden him."

A god-child. A child invested with immeasurable powers, loose in Tenochtitlan, with no constraints placed on his magic. The living extension of the will of a capricious, angry, cruel god…

I shivered.

"I fail to see what the Storm Lord could want," Neutemoc said. He was clearly uncomfortable with the thought of the gods directly interfering in the Fifth World.

I was more used to the idea. And there was only one thing that Tlaloc could want. Xochiquetzal Herself had told me.

He moves up into the world, becomes the protective deity of your Empire. And We – the old ones, the gods of the Earth and of the Corn, We who were here first, who watched over your first steps – We fade.

Xochiquetzal and Tlaloc had both been displaced by Huitzilpochtli's rise to power.

"They want revenge," I said.

"Not revenge," Commander Quiyahuayo said. "Faith."

Another draught lifted the curtains, and spilled rain onto the floor – and the world seemed to grow still.

"Acatl," Neutemoc said, sharply.

Commander Quiyahuayo was still sitting on the reed mat, but now he was staring at two bloody gashes opening on his chest. Even as I turned towards him, more wounds opened, blossoming like obscene flowers.

Even without the true sight, I could guess at the mass of shapeless, frenzied things that would be fighting to reach his veins. The creatures were back.

EIGHTEEN

Season of Rain

As Commander Quiyahuayo stared back at us, his blood dripping on the reed mat, pooling in meaningless patterns, Neutemoc pulled at my cloak.

"Come on," he said, dragging me towards the door. "Let's get out of here."

I threw a glance at Commander Quiyahuayo. His eyes were glazed. The terrible numbness of the creatures' wounds would already be coursing through his whole body. He'd stay there, helpless, until they'd fed to satiety. And then the Duality knew what they'd do. Turn on us?

"I–"

"There's nothing you can do for him," Neutemoc snapped. "Remember? We can't kill those things. Besides, he's a murderer."

I wasn't so sure about that. Commander Quiyahuayo had admitted to torturing Eleuia easily – indeed, as if it didn't matter at all – and I didn't think he'd lied when he said he hadn't killed her. It did leave open the question of who had killed Eleuia, and why.

With a terrible knot of guilt in my stomach, I sprang to my feet. Neutemoc was standing near the entrance curtain. "Come on!" he said.

The air seemed to have turned to tar. I ran towards Neutemoc, but it seemed to take an eternity for me to reach him.

"Let's leave." Neutemoc opened the curtain: outside, a thin drizzle veiled the courtyard. A blast of wind splattered rain into my face.

There had been guards, I thought, struggling to think. There had been…

The guards lay in the muddy earth, their faces drained of colour, their jaguar uniform rent open to reveal chests criss-crossed with claw-marks. I remembered the noises of men running, and of fighting, moving away from us. Not, it seemed, moving away from us: merely ending with the death of all the fighting men.

The Jaguar House was all but silent. Only the soft patter of the rain on the terraces broke the terrible stillness. Rain. The Storm Lord's rain.

"He's come into his powers," I said.

"Because you believed that bastard's lies?" Neutemoc screamed. He was running towards the courtyard's exit. His face through the drizzle was that of a man who realises the ground has shifted under him, bringing the yawning chasm that much closer.

Commander Quiyahuayo's story had sounded too complicated to be invented on the spur of the moment; and it fitted, chillingly, with the evidence we already had. "Why else would someone kill Commander Quiyahuayo?" I asked.

Not someone. Something. The creatures, the same which had tried to kill Neutemoc. The servants of Tlaloc.

Neutemoc didn't answer. He was ahead of me now, making his way through the maze of courtyards and rooms as if they were his own home. Of course, this was the House of his Brotherhood. Everywhere, the same stillness: the patolli boards abandoned on the ground, pelted by rain; and the bodies beside them, pale and unmoving.

Through the open door of a dormitory, I caught a glimpse of a warrior lying in a courtesan's arms: both bloodless bodies curled together in a grotesque parody of life. The same sense of wrongness as in the cave was rising in me, slowly, steadily, like a vessel filling up. I looked up at the rain, and felt the magic coiled at the heart of the clouds, coming down with each drop. The rain wasn't normal, either. As if we needed this.

"They're catching up," I said. I couldn't keep up with Neutemoc. I'd lost track of how many courtyards we'd run through.

"I know!" Neutemoc shouted, without turning around.

Would Mihmatini's spell protect him – or would it would yield under the creatures' repeated assaults?

A child. Nausea was rising in me, sharp, demanding. A living child, somewhere in the teeming mass of Tenochtitlan, sending the creatures like puppets to destroy Commander Quiyahuayo and his men, who might still have thwarted the Storm Lord's plans.

At the entrance, the two warriors no longer stood guard. But the gates were wide open; and beyond them, sharply outlined through the curtain of rain, lay the pyramids of the Sacred Precinct, and the safety of the Duality House.

Neutemoc was already running through. Not being as agile or as lithe as my brother, I did my best to follow him. As I passed under the gates, something clawed at my cloak: the cloth tore with a ripping sound, and flapped loose in the wind.

I didn't turn. I wouldn't see anything. I just ran on. But the next claw-swipe went for my back. A fiery trail opened on the left side of my spine. Numbness spread from the wound, slowing down my rush of panic until I felt nothing at all. Just the wounds, opening one by one, and the strange, pleasant feeling of drifting away…

At the edge of my vision, Neutemoc had stopped, wondering why I wasn't following.

I had to… Grimacing, I forced myself forward. It was like moving through thick honey. I lifted my leg, laid my foot on the ground – once, twice – but neither the gates nor Neutemoc grew closer.

More wounds, in my back. Blood, trickling down, a warm, steady flow washed away by the rain. But everything was as it should be: I would be at peace for ever in Tlalocan, and I would have no need to prove myself any more…

Light blazed across the gates: a radiance so strong it hurt my eyes. For a moment, I hung suspended in time, the numbness burning away like paper crinkling in the fire, before slamming back into my own body.

Every wound in my back hurt. But it was pain; it was keeping me alive…

I tottered forward. My feet slid into the mud, and somehow I found myself on one knee, fighting dizziness.

"Acatl-tzin!"

Hands steadied me, dragged me upwards. Blinking, I managed to bring Teomitl's face into sharp focus.

"You…"

"Later," Teomitl said. He was blazing: Huitzilpochtli's power streamed into the night, a warmth in my bones and on my soaked skin. I'd been wrong: he wasn't Payaxin. He was much tougher than my dead apprentice, much more adapted to survival. "We have to find some shelter."

The shelter turned out to be a room in the Duality House, where Mihmatini tended to my wounds with an exasperated sigh. My cloak was ruined; my belt had frayed in the battle, and my knives were gone: the obsidian blessed by Mictlantecuhtli had disintegrated in the rush of the Hummingbird's magic.

"Acatl," Mihmatini said, shaking her head.

Teomitl was leaning against one of the walls, watching me. "Ceyaxochitl thought you might need help getting out of the Jaguar House," he said.

Imperial help. The words were on my lips, but wouldn't get out.

"There," Mihmatini said, tying the last of the bandages into place. "I've put a minor spell of healing on it, but it won't hold if you overexert yourself." She stared curiously at Teomitl. "And thank you for getting him out of trouble."

Teomitl's smile was radiant. "My pleasure. I am Teomitl." He bowed slightly.

"Mihmatini. I'm his sister." She rolled her eyes upwards. "And designated healer, obviously. Sometimes, I wonder why I bother. You're a priest, too?"

"Not exactly," Teomitl said. "I'm training to be a warrior. I hope to be a worthy one."

Mihmatini smiled at him again. "I'm sure you will." There was an uncomfortable silence.

No, not quite uncomfortable. I realised, with a shock, that she and Teomitl were both staring at each other with an interest that was obvious, and my presence here was superfluous, except as a chaperone.

I cleared my throat, startling both of them out of their trance. "We should join Neutemoc."

He was waiting for us in the next room, seated on a reed mat. Mihmatini hesitated on the doorstep, staring at both of us. Finally she shrugged. "I'll see you afterwards," she said to Teomitl, smiling again.

Teomitl bowed to her. "I hope so." I shook my head, amused in spite of myself.

Slaves brought us hot chocolate. I cradled the clay glass in my hand, feeling the warmth dissipate the last of the creatures' numbness.

Teomitl sat cross-legged between Neutemoc and me, taking on the role of shield without realising it. Neutemoc's hands rested in his lap; clenched into fists. "What is happening, Acatl?" he asked in a tone that clearly implied I should be able to explain everything.

"I don't know," I said. Rain was pelting the roof above our heads. But it was more than rain. Each drop that fell down was mingled with magic: a bittersweet tang that I could smell, even from inside. "Tlaloc is coming," I said.

For revenge. For faith, Commander Quiyahuayo had said.

A brief tinkle of bells, soon muffled, heralded Yaotl's arrival. He leant against one of the walls, his back digging into the stylised frescoes of fused lovers.

Beside me, Teomitl was silent for a while, pondering, an uncharacteristically mature expression on his face. "My brother is weak," he said. "And as his health wanes, so does Huitzilpochtli's ability to protect us."

Neutemoc stared at his glass of chocolate as if it held deep secrets. He said, finally, "I'd much rather believe that you're both mad."

Teomitl said nothing.

"But something is going on. Something unnatural," Neutemoc went on. He looked at me. Despite his grievance towards me, still believing that I could set right anything magical.

"Tlaloc," I said. "His child – the one he and the Quetzal Flower fashioned, the one Eleuia bore within her womb – the tool for His coup. But we're not strong enough to find him. Ceyaxochitl…"

She was the agent of the Duality in the Fifth World. She would have some powers, constrained by her human nature, but hopefully still enough to do some damage.

Yaotl spoke up. "She's at the palace. I don't know about what you're saying. But Mistress Ceyaxochitl agrees with you: this isn't normal rain."

She was the Guardian for the Sacred Precinct. How could she be away when such a thing happened? "She has to know–" I started.

Yaotl shook his head. "She felt it, Acatl. But she has to remain where she is."

"Why?" I asked, at the same moment as Neutemoc said, "The Emperor."

Of course. The ailing Emperor: the last remnants of the Southern Hummingbird's power, our last defence against Tlaloc. If he died, nothing would protect us.

From what? Would one god replacing another really be that disastrous? After all, Huitzilpochtli had done nothing in particular for me or mine. I thought of the creatures, mindlessly gorging on power, and of Jaguar Knights lying dead in their own Houses. The Storm Lord's rule would not be gentle.

Teomitl was watching me, his gaze disturbingly shrewd. "The Southern Hummingbird protects us. Tlaloc is one of the Old Ones. He brings drought and floods on a whim."

"He brings famine," I said, remembering how Eleuia had suffered during the Great Famine.

Teomitl said, "Do you want to gamble everything on the Storm Lord's gentleness?"

On a god's… humanity? "No," I said. "I would rather keep the old order." To gods and goddesses such as Xochiquetzal, we'd always be toys: easily subjugated, easily broken. "But we're still nothing compared to His powers. And you forget: we don't know where the child is."

Obviously not at the palace, or the panic would be stronger than that. Commander Quiyahuayo and the Jaguar Knights had known. But they were dead now, all of them.

"How long do you think we have?" Neutemoc asked.

I stifled a bitter laugh. Who could tell what went on in the mind of a god?

Yaotl detached himself from the wall. His scarred face was thoughtful. "Still some time, I'd say. If everything had been ready–"

"Yes," I said. If everything had been ready, and the attack launched on the Imperial Palace, there would have been no need to kill the Jaguar Knights. If the creatures had done so, it was because Commander Quiyahuayo still posed a danger to them. Because the child was still vulnerable.

"We have to find him," Teomitl said, voicing what we both thought. I wasn't sure what Neutemoc thought: if he still believed we were crazy to impugn Eleuia, to imagine wild stories of gods taking over the world.

Yaotl's voice was grave. "Easily said."

"Commander Quiyahuayo knew…" Neutemoc started, and then he shook his head. "He died in battle. He'll be in the Heavens, won't he? Out of your influence."

"Yes," I said. And I wasn't fool enough to attempt another summoning without divine favour. "We need–" Help. We needed help, and from someone who both had some idea of what Tlaloc was up to, and who would be favourable to us. We needed divine powers on our side, no matter the price we had to pay. "We need to find a god," I said.

Teomitl nodded. "Which one?" he asked, simply, never thinking of what the price or the difficulty would be.

Not Huitzilpochtli: He was as weak as the dying Emperor, and as ignorant. Not the Quetzal Flower: She was on Tlaloc's side, and without Ceyaxochitl we would get no answers from her. Not Lord Death: my patron had made it clear that He would take no part in the Fifth World's affairs.

Who would stand against the Storm Lord?

I remembered Commander Quiyahuayo's words: I didn't kill her. The bitch escaped.

An ahuizotl had killed Eleuia, dragging her down into the muddy depths of the lake, and feasting on her eyes and fingernails. An ahuizotl: a creature of Chalchiutlicue, Tlaloc's wife. His wife. And Tlaloc's child, which wasn't Hers, but Eleuia's. I doubted the Jade Skirt would have been happy about the whole affair.

"I think I know who we can try to see," I said. "Chalchiutlicue."

"The Storm Lord's wife?" Teomitl asked. "Why not?"

Neutemoc grimaced. "You have no idea how to summon Her, do you?"

I shook my head. "To ask a favour of a god, you don't summon. You go into Their territory." I wasn't looking forward to that: men were weak enough in the Fifth World, but in a god's land… We would be as helpless as Xochiquetzal was on earth. Perhaps even more so.

"Into Her territory," Teomitl repeated. "Lake Texcoco?"

"No. Into Tlalocan." The Blessed Land of the Drowned, where Chalchiutlicue had Her gardens.

It was also Tlaloc's country; but I was hoping that the god would be too busy with His child to pay much attention to us.

Neutemoc snorted. "And you know how to get there?"

Tlalocan, as I had seen, was closed to me. But the way might yet be opened for us, by someone who had the Jade Skirt's favour.

"I know a priest," I said. Half a lie. Eliztac hadn't been helpful last time I'd seen him. But he was the only priest of Chalchiutlicue I'd had dealings with. I tried, resolutely, not to think of Huei. Surely, if I could appeal to Huei…

But it wasn't my place. "You and I can go to see him," I went on.

Yaotl nodded. "Teomitl and I will stay here, to inform Mistress Ceyaxochitl when she gets back."

I visited, briefly, Ceyaxochitl's storehouse: a low, pillared room with row upon row of magical objects – everything Guardians had thought might be useful in the event of an emergency. At the back was a box made of glued human bones; and inside I found what I was looking for: ten obsidian knives pulsing with the magic of Mictlan. I withdrew three from the box, and put them into the sheaths at my belt, to replace those I had lost.

Under the thatch awning of the courtyard, I packed ceramic bowls and polished maguey thorns into a new bag. I was almost finished when footsteps echoed under the awning.

"Acatl-tzin?" Teomitl's voice asked.

I raised my eyes, briefly, knowing why he was here. "Yes?"

"I–" He looked at me, biting his lips. "Let me come with you and Neutemoc."

"It's too dangerous. I've already put you in danger too much as it is."

Teomitl shook his head, half-exasperated. "I won't be coddled. I'm a warrior, not some old-woman priest…" He stopped, his face hardening. "I'm sorry."

At least he had the honesty to voice the warriors' prejudice aloud. "You're heir-apparent to the Mexica Empire."

"My brother isn't dead," Teomitl said, fiercely. "Tizoc is still Master of the House of Darts."

"He's very ill," I said. "Lord Death waits for him. And when that moment comes–"

"It hasn't come." He held himself straight, impatiently. "I have to prove myself. You'd deny me that?"

Ceyaxochitl had asked me the same question. I made him the same answer. "I'm not your testing ground," I said.

"I'm not asking you to be," he snapped. "Just to let me have my chance. You heard Mahuizoh. 'An unbloodied pup'. That will be all they think of me, at the Imperial Court. By your doing."

The accusation, as unfair as it was, didn't ring quite true in his mouth. "It's not the Court you're trying to impress," I said. "Nor was it the Court you thought of when you followed Eleuia."

Teomitl said nothing. He watched me, one hand on his macuahitl sword. "No," he said. "But it doesn't concern you."

"Doesn't it?" I finished packing my bag, and laid it aside.

He met my gaze squarely. "Let me come. Or I'll be as nothing."

"To whom?" I asked.

"To her," he snapped, throwing the pronoun into the air like an offering to a god. "Who else?"

I didn't move. I simply asked, "Her?"

"Huitzilxochtin," Teomitl said. "My mother." When I still didn't speak, he said, "She was strong and she fought to the end, but it was all for nothing. She died bearing me. And I–" His voice was bitter. "I am nothing. I have no great battles behind me, nor feats of arms."

"Battle isn't the only way to prove yourself," I said, finally. But in my mind were my parents' voices, whispering about how wrong I was, how there was no glory, no honour outside the battlefield. About how I'd failed. "And where we're going… That's no battlefield."

Teomitl smiled. "There are battles everywhere," he said. "You just have to know where to look."

I'd forgotten the ease with which he could take control of a conversation. "That doesn't change anything. I can't risk your life."

"It's not yours to risk," Teomitl said. He didn't sound as angry as he'd been. Just thoughtful. "It's mine, and I do what I want with it."

"I–" I said.

"Is it so hard? You let me come, when you thought I was a calmecac student. Nothing has changed. We're still the same."

Why couldn't he see that everything had changed? "I can't be your testing ground," I repeated. I couldn't face the repercussions of taking him with us. What if Axayacatl-tzin died tonight, and Tizoc-tzin became Revered Speaker? I'd have endangered the life of the heir-apparent.

Teomitl watched me for a while, his brown eyes shrewd. Behind him, in the courtyard of the Duality House, the rain fell in a steady patter – the Storm Lord's magic slowly, steadily seeping into the earth. "Why? It's a simple thing."

He was wrong. Things were never that simple. "I can't. Let someone else…"

I met his eyes – my apprentice Payaxin's eyes, eager to do what was right – and I realised what I was saying. Let someone else shoulder this burden. Let me go on as if nothing had changed. It was fear that made me say that: fear and nothing else. But I was no coward. No warrior – there were some things for which I would never find the courage – but no coward.

"Very well," I said, finally. "You can come."

We stopped to see Mihmatini briefly. She'd followed Neutemoc's household into one of the Duality House's vast rooms. Reed mats were spread on the floor; both Mazatl and Ollin were already asleep. Mihmatini sat cross-legged against the wall. Over her was a fresco depicting the Duality's Heaven. Under the gaze of the fused lovers, a tree grew out of the waters, the shadowy souls of babies clinging to its trunk as if to their mothers' breasts. Dead babies: the Duality's Heaven was the only place that would re ceive the souls of unweaned children, preserving them until they could be reborn.

Dead babies. I was reminded, uneasily, of the bones in Ceyaxochitl's possession, and of the god-child we were seeking.

Mihmatini, oblivious to my thoughts, smiled tiredly at me. I couldn't help noticing, though, that her brightest smile was reserved for Teomitl, who had followed us into the room.

Neutemoc stopped to stroke Ollin's forehead: the baby's face shifted, and settled into a pleased smile. Neutemoc's face, a careful mask, cracked. He knelt by his son's cradle, and watched him sleep, his lips moving to whisper a mournful lullaby.

Sweat had stained Mihmatini's cotton shirt, and the dark circles under her eyes were, if anything, more accented.

"Get some sleep," I said. "Don't worry."

"I am worrying," Mihmatini said, tartly. "You'd have to be a fool not to, with that rain."

"It's dangerous," Teomitl said.

"You can feel it?" I asked Mihmatini.

She shook her head. "I'm not sensitive enough. Yaotl told me."

"Yaotl," I said, not quite over my rancour yet, "interferes with what doesn't concern him."

She smiled. "Don't we all?" Without waiting for my answer, she turned to watch Neutemoc, who was still kneeling by Ollin's cradle.

"He tries so hard to be a good head of his household," she said, with a sigh.

Something unnameable shifted in my chest, until I could hardly breathe. "Yes," I said, finally. "But the way he behaved towards Huei…"

Mihmatini didn't answer at once. Her face had grown dark. "Let's forget Huei for the moment."

I couldn't. "We'll be going out again," I said, finally.

Mihmatini shifted. "Then I'll renew the protection spells on you. Although they really don't hold on you, Acatl. And you–" She looked at Teomitl. "You definitely don't need me to cast a spell on you."

Teomitl's face fell. "You're sure?" he asked. "Another kind of spell, perhaps?"

Mihmatini suppressed a smile. "Men," she said, shaking her head, but she didn't sound angry. Quite the contrary, in fact.

There would be time to work this out later, if we survived.

Once Mihmatini finished casting the spell, we went back into the streets. By then, it was raining heavily. Storm clouds had drowned the sun, and the light falling on the Sacred Precinct was as weak as that of evening, even though it was barely noon.

Teomitl took the lead, filled with his boundless energy. In the gloom, his spell of protection shone like a beacon: a much, much stronger construction that the ones Mihmatini had laid on us.

As we walked, raindrops fell on our clothes, mingling with our hair. With each drop, the protection lessened. I could feel it fading away, a vanishing itch on my skin. Teomitl's protection, though, did not show any sign of corruption. Here, if nowhere else, Huitzilpochtli's power ran strong. We went south, towards the district of Moyotlan and the temple of Chalchiutlicue, making a wide loop to avoid Neutemoc's house and the creatures that would be congregating there.

Finding a boat to take us to the temple was a simple matter: even with the pouring rain, the fishermen were used to taking worshippers to the island. The rain fell unceasingly, until the world above and below seemed to be made of water: an opaque curtain that joined the murky lake under the boat to the clouds above our heads. And every drop, charged with magic, burnt like acid.

"A good time for sacrificing to the goddess," the fisherman said.

"Yes," Neutemoc said, curtly.

Teomitl's face was set in a grimace; he stared at the water. "A good time to remember the old gods."

I had no wish to join the conversation. I sat at the prow of the boat, keeping an eye on the waters of the lake. There was something swimming by our side: something sleek and dark, with a tail that spread out, opening like a flower… As the waters parted under the boat's keel, I heard, with a growing horror, the song of the ahuizotl, rising from the depths of the lake.

"Go forth, go forth to the place of many clouds

To where the thick mists mark the Blessed Land

The verdant house…"

No. I threw myself away from the edge. The boat rocked alarmingly, almost sending us into the water, towards the yellow eyes waiting for us.

With a curse, Neutemoc steadied the craft. "What in the Fifth World are you playing at?" he hissed. "We almost fell into the water."

I knew. The Duality curse me, I knew. I could still see those eyes at the bottom of the lake; and that oddly shaped tail, lashing out towards me. Even through the murk, I'd seen it clearly. It had had the shape of a small, clawed hand: the same hand that had left the scratching marks near Eleuia's empty eye-sockets. My eyes itched, and I felt sick.

The fisherman looked at the water, then back at me. "Leave him be," he said to Neutemoc. "There's evil afoot today."

How perceptive. Ahuizotls. My heart was beating madly in my chest. Well, we didn't have to worry about the Jade Skirt. She knew we were coming.

NINETEEN

The Drowned Ones

The ahuizotl remained in the lake, though its dark shape followed us as we walked around the shore to enter the temple.

To my surprise, there was no priest on watch at the temple entrance. But, in the courtyard, Eliztac himself was waiting for us, his soaked plume of heron feathers drooping on his head.

He grimaced when he saw us. "You shine like wildfires. I presume you're not here to pay homage to Chalchiutlicue."

"In a manner of speaking," I said, cautiously. "We need help."

Eliztac's eyes wandered from Teomitl to Neutemoc. My brother wasn't in Jaguar regalia, but his rigid stance could only belong to a warrior. And the Duality knew what Eliztac made of Teomitl, who currently radiated light like Tonatiuh Himself.

"I think I already told you–" he started.

"We're not here to see her," I said.

As I'd foreseen, Neutemoc stiffened. "Acatl," he said, warningly. "Don't tell me–"

"It was the closest temple," I snapped. And, without waiting for his answer, I said to Eliztac: "I need to get into Tlalocan, into Chalchiutlicue's Meadows."

His eyebrows rose. He looked upwards, at the rain. "Magical water. A bit of an odd season," he said. His gaze was shrewd. He had to see how each drop attacked our protection. "I presume you're seeking guidance."

"In a manner of speaking," I said, again. "But it's urgent."

Eliztac's gaze was sarcastic. "What isn't?" he said. "Very well. If you'll swear to me you're not here to see her, I'll let you in."

It was Neutemoc who spoke. "No," he said. "I won't swear to that." His face was pale, leached of all colours by the darkness, and the rain fell on his cheeks like tears.

Eliztac started to say something; but Neutemoc forestalled him. "I'll see my wife," he said. "And don't think you can prevent me."

Eliztac took us through a first courtyard, and then into a smaller one, closer to the heart of the building. Everything, from the painted adobe walls to the beaten earth under our sandals, shimmered with magic: a thick covering of wards against which the raindrops slid, and became normal water again.

Teomitl had also noticed it. "It's different in here," he said.

Eliztac barely turned. "This place is under the gaze of the goddess," he said. "This way."

At the far end of the courtyard, he stopped before the door of a room, its entrance-curtain decorated with a heron in flight and patterns of seashells.

"I can make my own way," Neutemoc said.

"I have no doubt you can," Eliztac said, gravely. "But I can't leave you alone here."

Neutemoc drew himself up. "Do you think I'll try to take their dues from the gods?"

"I have seen many men do many things," Eliztac said. "Not all of which contributed to the continuation of the Fifth World."

Neutemoc's face darkened. "You–"

He hadn't been in a good mood for a while. I could understand why, but it might all have ended badly if someone hadn't lifted the entrance-curtain. The tinkle of bells spread between Neutemoc and Eliztac, stopping them dead.

It was Huei, as I had never seen her: her face painted white, lips greyed, her unbound hair falling onto her shoulders in a cascade of darkness. Her shift, too, was white, as if it had already been time for her sacrifice.

My heart tightened in my chest.

"Neutemoc." She turned, slightly, towards me. "Acatl. What a surprise." Her voice was ironic. Behind her, a green-clad attendant closed the curtain and moved closer to her, in protection.

Neutemoc's hands had clenched into fists. "You had to know I'd come."

"I'd almost given up hope that you'd make it out of your cage." Under the white makeup, her face was expressionless; but in her eyes shone tears. "But I'm sure you're not here for my health."

"Why, Huei?" Neutemoc asked, the question bursting out of him before he could hold it back.

"No one can be cheated of their dues," Huei said. "Gods, goddesses, wives…"

I felt embarrassed, as I had when they'd started quarrelling in front of me; as if the masks had fallen, revealing the faces of mortals instead of gods. Standing between them wasn't my place. It would never be. "I think we shouldn't be here," I said, pushing Teomitl away from Neutemoc.

"Do stay," Huei said, and the irony in her voice was as frightening as any ahuizotl. "You're involved, after all, aren't you?"

Teomitl and Eliztac, luckier than me, were discreetly withdrawing to the other end of the courtyard. I spread my hands, trying to contain my frustration. "I didn't cause anything that you didn't already start. You should have known the consequences of what you did." Both of them.

Huei said nothing for a while. "They didn't tell me."

"The commander?" I asked.

She looked at me, surprised. "Yes. He and his second-incommand. How did you know?"

"He told us," I said, curtly. "And he's dead now."

Huei's hands clenched into fists. "I see. It doesn't matter." She said to Neutemoc, in a lower voice, "But you couldn't see what was happening, could you?"

He looked at her, for a while. His face was unreadable. "The gods give, and the gods take away."

"Still your old excuse?" Huei crossed her arms over her chest. "Everything dies, Neutemoc. That's no reason to detach yourself from what's yours. That's no reason to abandon me or your children."

Neutemoc's face was white. "You've seen how easily everything can tumble."

"Then things are all the more precious, aren't they?" She shook her head. "You can't armour yourself against loss, Neutemoc. That doesn't work."

"I've seen," he said, stiffly. "But still–" His voice was low. "I almost lost you to childbirth. Twice. How can I love what can't last?"

"Everyone does," Huei said. Her voice was sad. "And lust won't make you forget."

"No," Neutemoc said. "It will not. We agree on that, if on nothing else." His lips tightened around an unseen obstacle.

Huei looked at him for a while. "No matter," she said, with a sigh. "What's done is done. I have no regrets."

"You sought to kill him," I said, softly, not knowing what else to say.

"Yes," she said, defiant. "Because he left me no choice."

Feeling more and more of an intruder, I started slowly retreating. Neither of them made a gesture to stop me.

Neutemoc didn't move. He shook his head, once, twice. "The children miss you," he said, finally.

Huei stood, tall and proud, as she had in her own household. "I've made my choices."

I joined Eliztac and Teomitl at the other end of the courtyard. If Neutemoc said something more to Huei, I didn't hear it. How could they both have been so foolish – too blind to see the consequences of their acts, in spite of what Huei had blithely affirmed?

Once it had been established not only that I hadn't been there to coerce Huei into leaving but that I'd brought her husband to see her, Eliztac became more helpful. He probably thought our request to go into Chalchiutlicue's Meadows was a crazy endeavour: two warriors – a far cry from the peasants the Storm Lord and his wife favoured – and a priest of Mictlan, whose magic was anathema to life. The equivalent of mice trying to walk through an eagle's eyrie. But, after all, as he said, our lives were our own.

He led us into a smaller room, with a discreet altar to the Jade Skirt. The room was dark, illuminated only by the flames of a brazier, and filled with the wet, earthy smell of churned mud. A limestone statue of the goddess stood behind the altar: a woman with braids and a shawl with green tassels, opening out Her hands to encompass all of the Fifth World.

Eliztac knelt before the altar, whispering a brief prayer. Then he withdrew from a wicker chest a small figurine of the goddess, which he set on the altar, within a ceramic bowl.

"Stand this way," he said, pointing to a carved pattern on the floor: a huge water-glyph, still bearing traces of dried blood. And, to me: "I'll open the gate, but you'll have to complete my spell with your own blood offerings."

I knelt within the glyph, running my fingers on the smooth stone. "I'm used to it," I said. There was a slight draught that raised goose bumps on my skin: an air current running from behind the altar to the door. There must have been a hole somewhere in the wall.

"Our blood, too?" Teomitl asked. He was watching the statue of Chalchiutlicue as if it might come to life at any moment. Despite the accumulation of magic in the room, I didn't think this was possible.

Eliztac shook his head. "Acatl's blood should be enough."

Neutemoc wasn't speaking. He stood inside the glyph in his appointed place, but he was sunk in one of his moods again.

Eliztac began chanting: a repetitive hum that started low, and gradually rose until it resonated in my chest:

"You created the Third World

The Age of Water, the Age of Streams and Oceans

The Age of Your unending bounty

Giving Your essence to us…"

Gently, he set the figurine within the brazier. The fire flared black for one moment, before the flames began eating away at the statue. It burnt, not like wood, but with the mingled, acrid smells of resin and copal, creating a black smoke that fled towards us. The magic in the room intensified.

I knelt and opened three slashes on the back of my hand with my obsidian knife. Blood dripped out, settling in the grooves of the glyph.

"You destroyed the Third World

The Age of Water, the Age of Streams and Oceans

The Age of Your unending bounty

Water burst from the ground, from the deepest caves

Water to cover the earth, to drown the fields…"

The smoke, billowing around us, grew thicker and thicker until only the area within the glyph was left clear. I couldn't make out Eliztac; his voice, singing the end of the hymn, receded further and further away.

Through the pungent smell came another: that of wet earth, mingled with the faint, heady scent of flowers. The smoke swept through the glyph, wrapping itself around us until I could no longer see anything. Copal and resin invaded my lungs. A cough welled up, irrepressible, and I found myself on my knees, struggling to breathe.

Light blazed, across the glyph. The smoke slowly vanished, revealing, as far as the eye could see, a land of marshes and deserted Floating Gardens. The air was saturated with magic – not the feeble makings of humans, but something far more primordial: the magic of a goddess, unconstrained by any mortal concern.

I stood up, carefully. My sandals squelched: the lines of the glyph were traced in the mud at my feet, and filled with water instead of blood.

Neutemoc and Teomitl were still on their knees, clearing the last of the smoke from their lungs. I stood, looking around the pools. It was a quiet, peaceful land. But I wasn't fooled. We weren't welcome here, and never would be. The more quickly we got out of here, the better.

TWENTY

The Goddess' Will

Knowing where we had to go wasn't difficult. A path opened, though the heart of that marshy land: an area of drier land snaking between brackish pools and stunted trees, leading towards the silvery surface of a lake. Behind us was the shimmering shape of Eliztac's gate, the only way back into the Fifth World.

Neutemoc grimaced, but he still went ahead, soldiering through the mud as if it were a march. Teomitl followed, casting a glance in my direction from time to time.

I was last, keeping a wary eye on the magic swirling around us. This wasn't our territory but Chalchiutlicue's, and She had known perfectly well that we were coming.

A splash in the water made me start. I turned in its direction; and saw two yellow eyes, at the bottom of one of the pools. Two eyes that followed me with naked hunger. Huitzilpochtli curse them. Couldn't we ever leave the things behind, even in Tlalocan?

"What is it?" Teomitl asked. Neutemoc was halfway to the lake by now, unconcerned by the mud that sucked at his gilded sandals.

I shook my head, irritably. "Nothing."

Another splash. I turned towards the ahuizotl – and, with a fright, saw that it was crawling out of the pool.

It was black, as sleek as a fish; but instead of fins, it crawled on four clawed hands. Its wrinkled face was vaguely human: not that of an old man, but that of a child that had stayed for too long in the water; and the eyes were those of eagles or pikes, round and unblinking and filled with frightful intelligence. Its tail was long and sinuous, ending in a small, clawed hand that kept clenching on empty air, a motion that was oddly sickening.

"Acatl-tz…" Teomitl started, behind me, then stopped. He must have seen the ahuizotl too.

Two more splashes of water: two other beasts, crawling out from other pools. And then a fourth, and a fifth, until the path was crowded with a dozen of them. They moved towards us, blocking our way. Their tail-hands clenched, unclenched in a swaying motion. I tried in vain to forget Eleuia's empty eye-sockets, and the claws that had scrabbled at her face to tear her flesh.

"Acatl," Neutemoc said.

I didn't move. I couldn't move.

Two handspans away from us, the ahuizotls stopped. Their eyes shone with the desire to drown, to rend, to maim. But they didn't come any closer.

"What do we do?" Teomitl asked.

"Move," I managed. I cleared my throat. "Forward. Move." The message, after all, was clear enough.

Neutemoc resumed his march towards the lake; so did Teomitl and I. A dry, rustling sound came from behind us: the ahuizotls were following. No going back.

The path went straight towards the lake, and plunged into it. I didn't think we were expected to go underwater, though. Neutemoc stopped at the water's edge. He didn't say anything, but his whole stance radiated impatience. Where do we go now, Acatl? You who always have the answer to everything…

I turned, as slowly as I could. The ahuizotls had spread out in a ring, their wrinkled faces turned toward the lake. Waiting. For what? A signal to leap upon us?

The ground shook, under my feet. Magic surged from the mud, arcing through my back in a flash of pain. Water fountained from the lake, forcing its way into my hair, my clothes, into my bones.

When I managed to raise my gaze again, the goddess stood in the middle of the water.

No. She was the water: it flowed upwards, turning into Her translucent body – and then, higher up, solidifying into brown skin with opalescent reflections. I could see algae and reeds in Her skirt; and, far into the depths of Her lake, small shapes that might have been fish, or very young children, still swimming in the waters of their mother's womb.

"Visitors," Chalchiutlicue said. Her voice was the storm-tossed sea, the gurgling of mountain streams, the wind over the empty marshes. "It is not often that you brave My World." In one hand She had a spindle and whorl; in the other, a small flint cutting axe.

I went down on one knee, keeping a cautious eye on Her face. "My Lady," I said. "We have need of Your help."

The Jade Skirt laughed, and it was the sound of water cascading into pools. "And how may I help you, priest?"

"I…" I started, but Her eyes, as green and as opaque as jade, held me, silenced me. They were wide, those eyes, with small, black pupils inset like obsidian – wide open, and I was falling into Her gaze, a fall that had neither beginning nor end.

She was inside me, rifling through my mind with the ease of an old woman sorting out maize kernels. Memories welled up, irrepressible: Mother's angry face on her death-bed… Neutemoc's smile as he urged me to run after him in the maize fields… Mihmatini, as a baby, snuggling against my chest with a contented sigh, her heartbeat mingling with mine – a feeling I'd never experience with a child of my own… The clan elders, bringing my father's body back for the vigil – and I, standing at the shrine's gate, not daring to enter and make my peace…

Chalchiutlicue slid out of my mind, leaving a great, gaping wound. I stood once more on the shores of Her lake, struggling to collect myself.

"So small," She said with a satisfied smile. "So filled with regrets and bitterness, priest. Shall I summon the past for you? Shall I summon forth the spirits of the dead?"

I knew who She wanted to summon – who had drowned in the marshes: Father. "You have no such power," I said, shaking inwardly. "The dead don't belong to you."

"Is that so?" Her smile was mocking. "The drowned are my province, and my husband's. And some others, too. Tell me now, shall I call up your father's soul from the bliss of Tlalocan?"

Father here, seeing me, seeing Neutemoc and knowing what I had done… She couldn't do that. She was powerful, but not capable of doing that. She just wanted to see me squirm. It was an empty threat. "No," I whispered. "No."

Her smile was even wider. "So small, priest." She reached out. Her huge hands folded around the knives at my belt, lifting them to the level of Her eyes and flinging them downwards into the mud. I could have wept. "Carrying your feeble magic as if it could shield you."

"We came for help," I whispered, struggling to turn the conversation elsewhere. "There is a child–"

Her face didn't move. "How convenient. And tell me: why should I help any of you? You," and She pointed to me, "with your allegiance given to another. And you and you, serving the upstart, Huitzilpochtli?"

Neutemoc hadn't intervened. So usual of him. He'd done the same when Mother had died. But now, with the goddess's finger still pointed on him, he came forward. "Your husband puts the Fifth World in danger."

The Jade Skirt laughed again. "Why should it matter to Me? I have seen five ages; and I ended the Third World. We'll start anew. We always do."

"Not so soon," I said, softly, knowing it wasn't an argument which would convince Her. "This isn't the proper time, or the proper way."

If She had been human, She would have shrugged. Instead, She made a wide, expansive gesture that made all the water of the lake spout upwards – and then fall back again, like an exhaled breath. "The proper way? Doesn't Tlaloc do what We've all wished for? Tumble the Hummingbird from His place in your Empire, and give Us back the worshippers He took from Us?"

She was, like Tlaloc, like Xochiquetzal, one of the Old Ones: the gods who had been there before Huitzilpochtli, before the Sun God. But She was also Tlaloc's wife – and the Storm Lord had cheated on Her to make His agent child. As Neutemoc had cheated on Huei. I needed to find the words…

Huei. What would have I told Huei? I closed my eyes, for a brief moment, and then said, as softly as I could, "Is this truly the way You would have wished this to go?"

Chalchiutlicue's jade-coloured eyes blinked, once, twice. "You don't always choose your way, priest."

"No," I said, thinking of Huei, who was at this moment waiting for her sacrifice. If only things could have gone another way. "Nevertheless…" She smiled again, but said nothing. "That child should have been yours," I said, softly. "But it's not."

She shook Her head, slowly, but didn't make any gesture to stop me. I took that as an encouragement. "He slept with a mortal," I said. "Instead of asking you."

When Chalchiutlicue spoke again, Her voice was lower: the soft sound of water, welling up from the earth. "It couldn't have been Mine," she said. "Any child of gods would be a god, and subject to the same limitations. But you are right in one thing, priest. He didn't ask me."

"Then–" Neutemoc started, but the Jade Skirt cut him off.

"In truth, I care little for your petty struggles. If you choose to make the Southern Hummingbird supreme, then you'll reap what you've sown. I have already had a world in which every mortal worshipped Me, where everyone gave their life's blood to sustain My course in the sky." She smiled, and this time the nostalgia was unmistakable. "Tlaloc had His world, too. But the Storm Lord has always been greedy for more."

"Don't you want revenge?" I asked, softly.

Chalchiutlicue's eyes were unfathomable. "I told you. I care little either way. Huitzilpochtli will tumble, without any need for Our intervention."

"Is there nothing that will persuade you?" I asked. "So much is at stake…" The Imperial Family. The safety of Tenochtitlan. The balance maintained by the Duality.

Laughter, like storm-waves. "You would sacrifice something to Me, priest? Your endless regrets? Your pitiful virginity, so carefully preserved? Your first-born child?" Her voice turned malicious. "But of course, that's something you've given up on."

Every word of Hers dug claws into my heart, and slowly squeezed, until the world blurred around me. "I–"

"Your allegiance?" She said. "You're sworn to another, and Mictlantecuhtli doesn't let go of what's His. You have nothing to give Me."

Neutemoc's face was white, but he didn't move. He stood as if paralysed. It was another who broke the silence.

"No," Teomitl said. "He has nothing to give. But I have." His face was transfigured by a harsh joy. Here was what he had been waiting for, all along: a chance to be useful, to prove his valour.

Chalchiutlicue turned towards him; the invisible claws around my chest opened one by one, freeing my heart. "One of the Southern Hummingbird's devotees? That's an amusing thought." Her eyes narrowed. "You're–"

"Yes," Teomitl said. He'd thrown back his warrior's cloak, revealing a simple glyph of turquoise on his chest: the colour of the Imperial Family. "Will you accept my allegiance?"

The goddess's face was a mask, and I could almost hear Her calculations. Was this a trap? An opportunity She couldn't ignore? "Your god is also jealous," She said, finally.

"But not careful," Teomitl said. "He has hundreds of devotees over the land."

Chalchiutlicue's eyes narrowed again. "But there would be no gain, would there?"

Teomitl shrugged. "I've always thought the Great Temple was disharmonious. There should be rooms for more gods, shouldn't there? For the peasants as well as the warriors; for the waters as well as the battles."

"Don't lie to Me. You're a warrior," the Jade Skirt said. "All that matters to you is glory on the battlefield."

Teomitl shook his head. "No," he said. "The only glory comes from winning battles. But there are many battlefields."

"In My realm?"

"Fighting currents," Teomitl said, simply. "Struggling not to capsize in a storm. Swimming ashore with the ahuizotls surrounding you, eager for your eyes and fingernails…"

She regarded him for a while. By Teomitl's shocked, blank gaze, She was probing into his mind, as she had into mine. "You are sincere," She said, finally. "When you become Revered Speaker – will you re-establish My worship?" She didn't, I noticed, say "if", but simply assumed it was certain that Teomitl would succeed Tizoctzin – who in turn would succeed Axayacatl-tzin.

If Teomitl noticed that, he gave no sign. "Should I ever become Revered Speaker, I'll make You and Your husband a worthy temple: a building so great that everyone will prostrate themselves on seeing it, so magnificent that it will be the talk of the land…"

Chalchiutlicue laughed, but it was amused laughter: waves lapping at a child's feet, a stream gently gurgling over stones. "Will it?" She asked. "That would be something to see indeed, child of the Obsidian Snake. I should wait for it."

"Will you accept my allegiance, then?" Teomitl asked, impatient as ever. Someone was really going to have to teach him forbearance, or he'd never survive at the Imperial Court.

The Jade Skirt watched him for a while, perhaps weighing Her choices. "That would be interesting," She said. "Amusing, if nothing else. Yes, child. I'll take your offer."

Power blazed from the heart of the lake, welling up from the earth in an irresistible geyser. It wrapped itself around Teomitl like a second mantle, sank into his skin until his bones echoed with its ponderous beat. He fell to his knees in the mud, gasping for breath.

Neutemoc, finally finding some energy, took a step towards him. I laid a hand on his shoulder. "Wait," I said. Intervening would just make things worse, both for Teomitl and for us.

Teomitl's head came up, in a fluid, blurred gesture that had nothing human about it. His eyes were the colour of jade: a mirror of Chalchiutlicue's triumphant gaze. His mouth opened; but all that came out was a moan, a shapeless lament.

"Feel it," Chalchiutlicue whispered. Her voice made the ground tremble under our feet. "Feel it, child of the Obsidian Snake…"

Teomitl closed his eyes. His head fell down again; his back slumped, as if under a burden too heavy to bear.

In the silence, all we could hear was his breath, slow and laboured. Something cold and slimy bumped against my legs: one of the ahuizotls, creeping closer to Teomitl. I bent down, instinctively, to recover my obsidian knives from the mud into which Chalchiutlicue had flung them.

"No!" Her voice was the thunderclap of the storm. "He made his choice, priest. Let him bear the consequences."

In the eerie silence of Chalchiutlicue's Meadows, the ahuizotls converged towards Teomitl. They formed a wide, malevolent ring, circling him like a flock of vultures, and their hypnotic song rose, slowly, faintly, ringing in my chest like a second heartbeat:

"In Tlalocan, the verdant house,

The Blessed Land of the Drowned

The dead men play at balls, they cast the reeds…"

The clawed hands over their heads clenched, unclenched, a sickening counterpart to the rhythm of the song. I couldn't hear Teomitl's breathing any more.

Slowly, ever so slowly, Teomitl rose from his kneeling position. He raised his head, and every one of the ahuizotls around him did the same.

Nausea welled up in me, sharp, uncontrollable.

Teomitl's eyes weren't jade any more; but yellow, the same colour as the beasts surrounding him.

"Acatl," Neutemoc whispered. I said nothing. I waited for Teomitl to say something, anything that would prove he was still human.

Teomitl sucked in a breath, and then another – slow, deliberate. "It… hurts," he whispered. "It…" And, for the first time, he wasn't a warrior or an Imperial Prince, but just a boy, thrust into responsibilities he'd never been meant to have.

Chalchiutlicue smiled. "They'll come to your call."

"And the child?" Neutemoc asked.

Teomitl shook his head, as if to clear his thoughts – which must have been moving in another place, far from the Fifth World. The ahuizotls' heads moved slightly; but they seemed more to be following him than mimicking his gestures. I didn't know whether that was an improvement. Everything about the ahuizotls made my hackles rise. But the Jade Skirt was right: Teomitl had made his choice, and couldn't go back on it.

"The child–" Teomitl whispered. "I can feel him," he said. "Everywhere…" His face twisted. "In the rain, in the waters of the lake… Like a wound in the Fifth World."

"My husband placed a spell of concealment on the child," Chalchiutlicue said. "He was given to a family in the Floating Gardens in the district of Cuepopan, to raise as their own." She opened Her hands wide. Within them lay a small, translucent jade figurine of a baby, shining with an inner light. She blew on it: the baby scattered, became dust blown into Teomitl's face. "That is where you'll find him."

Before going back, I retrieved my knives from the water, and put them back in my belt. They still pulsed, but the emptiness of Mictlan was somehow different, tainted with Chalchiutlicue's touch.

The ahuizotls followed us on the way back: an escort I could gladly have done without. Teomitl was silent, his eyes lost in thought. The veil of protection I'd always seen on him was still there. But it had subtly changed, shimmering with green reflections. Like my knives, Chalchiutlicue's magic had altered it.

Neutemoc, too, was silent. Brooding again, probably. I could only hope I wasn't at the forefront of his thoughts.

When we reached the remnants of the glyph through which we'd entered the Meadows, the world spun and spun, and coalesced into the small room where we'd started our journey.

Eliztac stood watching the brazier, in which the last remnants of the copal and resin figurine were consuming themselves. He looked up when we stepped out of the glyph. "You've returned, I see." His gaze froze on Teomitl. "She's made you Her agent?"

Teomitl said nothing. His eyes were still unfocused.

"There's no time," I said. "We have to go to the district of Cuepopan. Can you lend us a boat?"

Eliztac's eyebrows rose. "Always in a hurry, I see."

"It's the rain," Teomitl whispered, and his voice echoed, as if Chalchiutlicue were speaking through him. "It's all wrong, can't you see?"

Eliztac said nothing. He had to have seen. "This temple has many boats," he said. "But few boatmen who will be ready to brave Tlaloc's anger."

"I'll row," I said at the exact same time as Neutemoc, who glared at me, defiant. Of us both, he'd always been the faster rower; but it had been many years since he hadn't had a slave rowing for him.

Eliztac smiled. "I'll take you to the docks, while you decide."

When we did reach the docks, there wasn't any discussion: Neutemoc settled himself into the boat, taking the oars and glaring at me. Quarrelling would have been futile, so I let him be. In any case, I was more worried about Teomitl, who looked at the boat blankly, as if he had forgotten what it was.

"This way," I said.

Teomitl sucked in a breath and exhaled slowly, as if it had hurt him. "We have to hurry," he said. Around him, the rain fell in a steady curtain: magic shimmering around us, chipping away at our wards.

When our wards were gone… I didn't want to think on what would happen, but it was a fair bet the creatures would be close.

"I know," I said. "Get in."

Teomitl laid an unsteady hand against the boat's edge. "I–" he said. He breathed in, again. "I'm not used to it."

I'd never been a god's agent, but the Wind of Knives' powers had been invested in me, for a very short while. "It will get easier as time passes."

Teomitl snorted. "A good guess," he said. He climbed into the boat; Neutemoc stilled its rocking effortlessly.

"I'll guide," Teomitl said.

There was still a chance we would find the child before the full measure of His powers manifested; before he became much harder to kill. But Teomitl was right. We had to make haste.

The streets and canals Neutemoc rowed through were deserted: the unexpected, unrelenting rain seemed to have sent everybody indoors. At one intersection, a woman stood watching the water level under a bridge, her face creased into a frown. I could understand her worry: all of Tenochtitlan was an island, and the lake was our foundation. A flood would be a disaster.

But there were other, deeper worries: the Fifth World would not last if Tlaloc tumbled Tonatiuh, the Sun God, from the sky. Everything would once more be plunged into the primal darkness.

"This way," Teomitl said, as we reached the first of Cuepopan's Floating Gardens. He steered Neutemoc from island to island with small gestures; my brother said nothing, only rowed like a man who had nothing to lose any more.

The Floating Gardens were silent. With the rain, no peasants planted seeds, or tilled the fields. It was as if everything had withdrawn from the world, save for the steady patter of rain on the water, and the regular, splashing sound of Neutemoc's oars, leading us ever closer to our goal.

And a couple of other splashing sounds. Without surprise, I saw two dark shapes in the water, trailing after the boat like an escort.

"You can feel them?" I asked Teomitl.

He shook his head. "I could tell them to go away."

I was tempted. The ahuizotls frightened me; but we weren't there to be subject to my whims. And against a god-child, any weapon could prove useful. "No," I said. "Let them be."

They followed us, whispering of the Blessed Lands, of the dead gathered in Chalchiutlicue's bosom. Of Father, still unaware of how much I mourned him.

"This one," Teomitl said.

There was nothing remarkable about the Floating Garden he singled out. Like the others, it was a mass of earth and roots, anchored into the mud of the lake by poles and woven reed mats. A single house, perched on an artificial rise, dominated it: a small affair – and yet, as in my parents' house, it would host hordes of children; old people; and a couple of peasants, struggling to feed them all.

I laid a hand on one of my obsidian knives, feeling the emptiness of Mictlan within my chest, mingling with the bitter tang of the Jade Skirt's magic. This wasn't the time for reminiscence.

Neutemoc moored the boat near the edge of the Floating Garden, where we all disembarked. I couldn't help remembering the last time I'd done this, when Teomitl had run us aground. At least my brother was a decent oarsman.

"And now what?" Neutemoc asked.

I shrugged. "We go see what's inside."

The rain, though heavy, didn't yet hamper our vision. I wasn't confident the situation wouldn't change, though, if the god-child grew into his powers. Hopefully, it wouldn't happen. Hopefully.

Wordlessly, we crept up the small rise. Neutemoc was in the lead, his sword drawn. I was right at his back, Teomitl trailing some way behind us. The ahuizotls remained in the water – for which I was grateful.

Inside, it was dark and cool, but the air was saturated with magic: the same deep, pervasive sense of wrongness that I'd sensed at Amecameca. Here, however, it was strong enough to choke the breath out of me. "I… I don't think I'm going to last for long."

"What's the matter, Acatl-tzin?" Teomitl asked.

It hurt to breathe, even to focus my thoughts. Wrong, it was so wrong. Teomitl had had it right: it was like a wound in the fabric of the Fifth World, a wound that kept widening, spilling its miasma to choke us all.

"Who comes here?"

By the extinguished hearth crouched a wizened figure, wrapped in a tattered shirt, its clothes torn to shreds and stinking of refuse.

"Huemac? Is that you?" the figure asked.

An old, old woman, her face seamed with the marks of many seasons, blind gaze questing left and right, still trying to see us. She didn't look threatening, though the magic pervaded her, soaking through her skin, outlining the pale shapes of her bones. Wrong. All wrong.

"We're not your son," Neutemoc said.

"'We'?" she asked. "How many of you are there?"

"I'm not sure that's relevant," Neutemoc said, nonplussed.

"This is a small house," the old woman whispered. "A small, small place, my lord. We have nothing worth your time."

Even without her sight, she could still distinguish the confident tones of a warrior's voice.

"We're not here to attack you," Teomitl said, finally. "We're looking for your… grandson?"

"I have many grandsons." Her voice was sly. "Many, many children of my own; and many fruitful marriages."

Teomitl closed his eyes for a bare moment. "He's young. Six, seven years old, no more. His hair is as black and as slick as dried blood, and his skin the colour of muddy water." He spoke as if he could see the child. And perhaps he could, indeed; perhaps that had been part of Chalchiutlicue's gift.

"Chicuei Mazatl," the old woman whispered. "My sweet, sweet Mazatl." She crooned, balancing herself back and forth on her knees. "Mazatl. A deer, a strong child like his father; born to be a hunter…"

I didn't know what was worrying me more: the wrongness that crushed my chest, or the chilling fact that this old woman was completely unanchored from the Fifth World.

"Mazatl." Neutemoc's voice was flat. His own daughter was called Mazatl – simply after the day she had been born, like many children – but he would see the parallels. "Where is he, venerable?" "Not here," she cackled. "No, not here. The deer has fled into the forest, into the trees. Not here…"

Teomitl knelt by the fire, and took her hands. "Look at me," he said.

Her blind eyes rose towards his face, and stopped. Slowly, hesitatingly, she extended her right hand in his direction. Teomitl didn't move. He let her touch his skin and recoil, as if she'd burnt herself. "You shine, like a sun, like the sun at the beginning of the world. You – who are you?"

"Ahuizotl," Teomitl said, softly. "He who bears Chalchiutlicue's gift."

"Ahuizotl. It is a strong name," the old woman whispered. "Will you protect me? They've left, they've all left, taking their reed mats and the last embers, and the altar of the gods, and the ceramic bowls. Gone…"

"I see," Teomitl said. His voice was soft, with the edge of broken obsidian. "Do you know where?"

"I–" Sanity returned to her face, for a brief moment. "They'll kill me if I tell. They said they would. They never lie, you see."

Teomitl's hands tightened around hers. "I never lie, either," he said. "I'll protect you." He surprised me; I would have expected him to dismiss the old woman, as he'd dismissed the peasants on our last hunt together. But Chalchiutlicue's gift had moulded him into someone else entirely.

"From what is coming?" Her voice was fearful.

"As best as I can. But you have to tell me."

The old woman didn't speak for a while. "You'll remember me," she said. "Ahuizotl. You'll remember me."

"Yes," Teomitl said. And although he spoke in a low voice, the whole hut vibrated with his power, and for a moment the wrongness coiled within the walls abated. "I'll remember you. Where did Mazatl go?"

"It's the day," the old woman said. "The day he leaves his childhood name behind. The day to enter the House of Youth, you see."

I didn't think there would be a House of Youth. What Mazatl needed to learn about war and his place in the world, he'd be told by his father.

"Yes," Teomitl said. "The day he takes his true name."

"Yes, yes," the old woman said.

Neutemoc, although he hadn't said anything, was clearly growing impatient. I was growing worried. Mazatl and his foster parents had obviously been gone for some time. Whatever preparations they needed to make would be near completion.

"Where did they go?" Teomitl asked.

"You'll protect me?"

"I'll protect you," Teomitl repeated. "Look." He blew into her face, gently: his breath became a shimmering cloud that wrapped itself around her, making Tlaloc's magic recede. "That way."

"You're strong," the old woman whispered. "You'll keep your word, won't you?" She shook her head. "They went to the heart of the lake. To the place where they plant the tree of the Star Hill, the place where Spring is reborn."

Neutemoc and I looked at each other. "The Great Vigil," we both whispered.

One month after the start of the rainy season, a tree was brought from the Star Hill, where our first Emperor had built a temple to his father, Mixcoatl, the Cloud Serpent. Scores of warriors hoisted the tree upwards, and planted it into the mud at the centre of Lake Texcoco. A girl was sacrificed and her blood poured on the trunk, and into the water; and thus the Storm Lord would grant us His favours for another year of growing maize.

There would be no tree: by now, it would have rotted down to nothing. But something of that yearly sacrifice would remain, some power that could be tapped into.

"I see," Teomitl said, gravely. He blew again on her, gently. The shimmering cloud of his breath expanded to cover her from head to toe. It sank into her bones, one magic to replace another. And as it did so, the old woman faded slightly, as if she stood at a remove from the Fifth World.

"Such strength," she whispered. "Such unthinking strength. Thank you."

Teomitl clasped her hands, and did not answer.

"Let's go," Neutemoc said.

Outside, it was easier to breathe, although the rain hadn't abated. If anything, it was stronger: a veil, gradually falling across the land; the endless tears of the Heavens, filling the lakes and canals to over-flowing.

"It's transformed you," I said to Teomitl. "Her gift. Once, you wouldn't have looked twice at that woman."

"It–" Teomitl shook his head, unable to describe what had happened to him. "It – changes you. To the bone."

"So much?" I asked. I couldn't help wondering if Chalchiutlicue had had some other motive in making Teomitl Her agent, if Her gift had had some thorns we hadn't seen.

Teomitl was looking at the lake. "No," he said. "But that woman in the hut… she felt so wrong, yet it wasn't her fault."

"No," I said, finally. When this was all over, we'd have to see that old woman, to make sure she would survive after Teomitl's protection had cut her off from her family.

The ahuizotls were waiting for us near the boat, their heads half out of the water. They appeared more curious than hungry. But The Duality curse me if I trusted those beasts to do anything more than obey Teomitl.

"It's not so far," Neutemoc said.

I snorted. "Not so far. It's at least one hour from here. And I don't think we're doing the right thing."

"What do you propose we do, then?" Neutemoc asked, sarcastically.

"I think we'll arrive too late," I said.

"I don't agree," Neutemoc said.

"Then you can go ahead with Teomitl, and scout. But I'm going back to get reinforcements."

"We don't need–"

"Oh? You can defeat a powerful god's agent, and his creatures, all by yourself? Last time I saw, you were busy being wounded."

"Don't toy with me," Neutemoc said.

"I'm not toying," I snapped. "I'm telling you to be careful for once. Or is that not a warlike virtue?"

"You know nothing of war," Neutemoc said, softly. "Don't presume to judge."

"What other choice is left to me?" I asked, angrily. "You won't judge yourself."

"I don't think it's quite the right time for this," Teomitl said. He was sitting in the boat, lounging in the back as if it were a comfortable chair.

Neutemoc's face was closed. "Maybe not," he said. "But things have to be clear, don't they?"

"Enough," Teomitl said. Again, he didn't raise his voice, but it cut through every word I might have thought of. "Reinforcements are probably going to be useful. Duality priests?"

I shrugged. "Whatever I can find." I hoped it would be Duality priests, though I'd have preferred Ceyaxochitl and Yaotl at my side, even over a dozen of them. But the priests were fierce fighters.

"Very well," Teomitl said. "We'll leave you in Tenochtitlan, and go on to the tree and see what's going on." He raised a hand to forestall my protest. "We'll be careful, never fear. I don't intend to get killed before I get a chance to strike."

Neutemoc said nothing. I wasn't so sure he wouldn't rush, but at least he'd have Teomitl to control him. It was amazing how persuasive the boy could be, when he applied his mind to the conversation. A boy who would one day be Emperor. Better not to think about that – not right now.

TWENTY-ONE

The Great Vigil

When I arrived, the Duality House was all but deserted.

"The priests?" the warrior at the gates asked. "I'm not sure if there are any left inside. You can look, though."

My heart sank. "The Guardian?"

The warrior shook his head. "She hasn't come back from the palace."

The Southern Hummingbird blind me. I had counted on Ceyaxochitl not being there, but not on all the priests leaving.

I found two priests in one of the rooms at the back: an old man and an old woman, who sat with Mihmatini, sipping hot chocolate.

"Greetings," I said. "I was looking for help."

The priests acknowledged my presence with a nod of their head. "I'm not sure you're in the right place," the old priestess said. "We're somewhat depleted at the moment."

"Help? What kind of help?" Mihmatini asked.

"Against creatures of Tlaloc."

The old priest nodded, sagely. "There's been trouble all over Tenochtitlan. The waters rising, and people mauled by things they couldn't see."

The creatures. Neutemoc had been wrong: the child had come into his full powers, and he wasn't shy about using them either. This wasn't good. Not good at all. "That's where all the others are?"

The old priestess nodded. "Emergencies. We're – ah, staying here as a precaution. Keeping the wards up."

The priest took a sip of his cup. "But if it's urgent…"

It was urgent. But Mihmatini was in the Duality House, as well as Neutemoc's whole household. Two old priests wouldn't make that much of a difference against what was coming. "No," I said. "Given how badly things are turning out, it's more urgent to keep a safe place. I'll – find help somewhere else."

Mihmatini had been relatively silent until now. "I'll come with you," she said.

I shook my head. "Stay here."

"Because you think I'm too weak to fight?"

The Duality preserve me, why did everyone take what I said badly? "No," I said. "Because you're not putting yourself in danger."

Mihmatini set her cup aside, but didn't speak.

"Do you really want to fight those creatures again?"

"They frighten the soul out of me," Mihmatini said, finally. "But my wards–"

"Won't last in this rain," I said. "And it takes you too much time to draw them. Stay here. You'll be safe. No need to endanger your life."

Mihmatini puffed her cheeks, with a familiar thoughtful expression. "Is there need for you?" she asked.

I stared at her for a while; trying to imagine myself ensconced in the safety of the Duality House. But I couldn't. "It's my place," I said. "No matter how hopeless things are."

I couldn't read her expression. "Your place," she said. She shook her head, as if exasperated. "You're impossible, you know. You and Neutemoc, come to think of it."

I felt embarrassed; though I didn't know why.

Mihmatini shook her head. "I'll stay here," she said. "The children are frightened, in any case. And you – you're not leaving until I set new wards on you."

I made a mock-frightened face. "As you wish."

Mihmatini snorted. "What did I say? Impossible, both of you."

On my way out of the Duality House, I stopped in the barracks, looking for Ixtli. I found him supervising a mock-battle in one of the larger rooms. Three of his Duality warriors were taking on another three, hacking at each other with their macuahitl swords, the harsh sound of wood striking stone echoing under the carved rafters of the ceiling.

"Acatl-tzin?" Ixtli asked, surprised, when I came in.

"I need help."

Ixtli glanced at his warriors. "What kind of help?"

"Fighting men. There's a god's agent loose in Tenochtitlan."

Ixtli raised his eyebrows. "The rain, eh?" he asked at last. "I thought something was wrong. But we're not priests, Acatl. We don't deal in magic."

I shook my head. "I know. But I still need swords, and men to wield them. Your armoury has magical obsidian." I'd borrowed some of Mictlan's knives from it.

Ixtli sighed. He looked at the warriors again: only two men were still fighting. "I can spare two dozen men," he said.

It wasn't much, but it would have to do. "Can you gather them in the barracks? I'm going to find some priests to put on our side."

Ixtli smiled. "That would be good. We'll gather our weapons and get ready."

I left the barracks and stood in the rain outside the Duality House. Each drop slid on my skin, trying to replace my protections with the Storm Lord's magic.

That wasn't the most attractive prospect: I only had to think of the old woman in Mazatl's house, and of the suffocating sensation of wrongness emanating from her, in order to know the consequences of such an event.

The Sacred Precinct was deserted: a deeper, subtler sense of wrongness. There should have been pilgrims. There should have been priests, and the dull thud of sacrifices' bodies, hitting the bottom of the pyramid's steps. Instead, there was only the soft pattern of rain, drop after drop falling like tears, sinking into the muddy earth.

Through the veil of rain shone the twin lights of the Great Temple: one for Huitzilpochtli, one for Tlaloc. There, I would find help. But the priests of Tlaloc weren't on my side, and the priests of the Southern Hummingbird would be at the palace, defending the Imperial Family.

My protection was dwindling with every moment I spent outside. Both Neutemoc and Teomitl would be waiting for my purported reinforcements. I had to make a decision, and soon.

The Duality House was empty; the Jaguar Knights were dead. I could go to the Eagle Knights, but even assuming they weren't at the palace, they had no magic to help. The temple of Tezcatlipoca shimmered in the moonlight – but His priests were closely associated with the Imperial Family, and they would also be at the palace.

That left…

I turned right, towards the weakest light: that of my own temple.

I wasn't looking forward to the next few moments. But there was no choice. The more time passed, the more Teomitl and Neutemoc would grow impatient. And, knowing them, they'd then rush in, without any regard for danger.

I walked through the gates of my temple – and, as Tezcatlipoca's Fate would have it, met Ichtaca under the arcades, rising from a kneeling position. At his feet were the remains of a quincunx, the magic already fading. He had no wards, and the rain had soaked into his bones, into his skin, seeking to twist his whole being out of shape. Teomitl had been right: the Storm Lord's rule wouldn't be gentle, but rather make us all into what we were not.

"Acatl-tzin." His voice was lightly ironic. "I had an idea you might come. Can I help you?"

I stared at him – at the drawn eyebrows; brows, ready for a further rebuke; at the faint smile on his lips. And he was right. I had stolen through the temple like a beast of shadows among men, taking what I needed and never giving anything back. I had no claim on Ichtaca, nor on anyone within the temple – and I would never have one, for I wasn't ready to be what he wanted.

I had been wrong. It wasn't in my temple that I was going to find help. "No," I said, finally, "I don't think you can help me. How do things go?"

His face didn't move. "As well as can be, considering." He raised his gaze to the grey skies. "The rain isn't natural, is it?"

Surprised that he'd turn to me for answers, I blurted out, "Why do you ask me?"

He smiled. "You look like you might know."

I sighed. "No, it's not natural. Now, if you'll excuse me…"

Ichtaca looked at me for a while; and at the remnants of his quincunx. Then he said softly, with the edge of a drawn knife, "Running away again, are we?"

How dare he? "I have no time," I said.

"Haven't you? You came for something, didn't you?"

"There's no need for it any more," I snapped. If I tarried too much, Teomitl and Neutemoc would lose their patience and rush in. I had no time to fence with Ichtaca. I needed to find some other place for reinforcements…

Ichtaca's face was a mask of weariness. "I think there is. Again – what did you want?"

Exasperated, I flung into his face, "I came to ask for help against creatures of Tlaloc. But you were right. I have no claim on this temple, or on anyone within."

Ichtaca was silent for a while, but some of the irony was gone from his features. "That's not what I told you," he said.

"No," I said. "But I can't do what you want. I'm no leader of men."

Ichtaca traced the outlines of his quincunx with the point of his sandal; staring at the ground. "No," he said. "But where will you find your help?"

"There are other places," I said, knowing that there weren't.

"I don't think you'd have come here if there had been." Ichtaca finished retracing his quincunx, and looked up. "I'm no fool, Acatltzin. Whatever the rain is, it's not on our side. And a spell of this magnitude can only mean one thing: that the Fifth World is in danger." His lips had tightened to threads of pale pink. "I'm no fool," he repeated. "Whatever I think of you can have no bearing on our duty. If you need help, I won't deny you."

"You don't understand," I said, still trying to take in what he was saying. "I have no guarantee–"

"That we'll survive." Ichtaca's face was grim. "Do we ever have one? Lord Death takes whom He pleases, when He pleases."

"Then–" I could hardly believe what I was hearing.

Ichtaca smiled. "But there is a price to pay. There is always one."

"More involvement in the temple's affairs?" I had no taste for it. But with Neutemoc and Teomitl's life at stake, not to mention the fate of the Fifth World, it didn't matter.

Ichtaca's face was a carefully composed mask. "No," he said.

"You'll be the one who explains to them why they have to follow you."

"I can't–"

"You forget." His voice was soft, but it cut through the patter of the rain. "You are High Priest of this order. They'll listen to you. They'll obey." He smiled again, mirthlessly. "And, perhaps, if you speak well enough, they'll do so with their hearts instead of with their fears."

Ichtaca was efficient: within less than half an hour, he had most of my twenty priests gathered in the greatest room of the shrine. He wasn't a fool, either, to cause anyone to stay under that rain any longer than they had to.

I stood by the altar, under the lifeless gaze of Mictlantecuhtli, Lord Death. The gaunt cheeks and the yellow skin all contributed to lend Him an amused expression. The priests, though, weren't looking at the frescoes or at the dried blood in the grooves of the stones, but at me, whispering among themselves. I couldn't tell whether their expressions were hostile. They had settled in an order that seemed immovable: the senior offering priests in front, the younger novice priests in the middle; and at the back, closest to the entrance curtain, two calmecac students, thirteen years old at the most, looking far too young to be involved in this at all.

I knew some of those priests, such as Palli and Ezamahual, by name; some by sight; and some I had never seen. Perhaps, after this was over, I'd have time…

It wasn't the time to think of it, or to make endless plans for the future. Some of those priests wouldn't survive the night. All of them might not, if we failed and Tlaloc took His revenge on our clergy. I bore more responsibilities than just my own life.

Ichtaca clapped his hands together, and, in eerie simultaneity, every priest fell silent. "The High Priest has an announcement to make," he said.

If I'd felt ill at ease before, now I wanted to hide. I'd never been a speech-maker like Neutemoc or even Ceyaxochitl. Others navigated the world of politics through their silver tongues. I couldn't. But there were Neutemoc and Teomitl; and Huei, caught by mistake in an ageless struggle and literally sacrificed upon its altar.

Even small priests have to grow up, Acatl.

I took a deep breath, and said, slowly, "I need your help. All of you. I…"

They watched me, silent – not yet disapproving, but surely it would come. I caught Ichtaca's grimly amused gaze, and wondered why I'd been fool enough to think this easy. Surely all I had to do was give them an order?

I…

If I did this, I admitted, once and for all, that I was what Ceyaxochitl and the Emperor had made of me: a High Priest, head of my clergy, and responsible for its well-being. I admitted that the days of my youth and solitude were past. And I…

Above my head, the rain fell in a steady patter, like hundreds of footsteps on a causeway.

This wasn't, had never been about me. This was about the dead Jaguar warriors and the dying Emperor; about the peasants in their flooded fields; about the myriad small priests who didn't engage in politics, but sought the well-being of their flock.

"You have seen the rain," I said softly. "There is a child in Tenochtitlan: a child who is no more a child, but the living embodiment of Tlaloc's will. He seeks to remake the Fifth World in His image."

Once I had started, the words came easily, jostling each other for release – and if I saw the faces of the priests, I wasn't focusing on their expressions any more.

"He has creatures with him. You cannot see them without Quetzalcoatl's True Sight. The knives of Mictlan will slow them down but not kill them. They feed on magic, and whittle down wards to nothing. But somehow, we have to get past them. We have to kill the child and put an end to this madness.

"I tell you all this because… because I need your help."

When I finished, there was silence again. Then a growing whisper, as some of the priests turned to discuss with their neighbours. I couldn't read their faces; I couldn't hear what they were saying.

Someone – Palli, I realised – detached himself from the crowd. "Are you ordering us?"

I shook my head. "I can't take up a command I haven't earned. I'm asking you. I'm asking you to go into danger."

"For the sake of the Fifth World." That was Ezamahual.

"Yes," Ichtaca said, to my left. "Doing what we have always done."

"We didn't pledge ourselves to suicide," one of the offering priests said: a thin, coyote-like face I vaguely remembered from vigils. "We say the funeral rites. We call up the Dead to comfort the living. Even if the world were in danger, that wouldn't be our responsibility."

"Is that what you think?" Ichtaca asked, softly. "That this is a sinecure, an easy path to the circles of power? Then you can leave right now, Chimalli. Being a priest is laying your life in the hands of our god, even more so than the ordinary people."

Chimalli fell silent. But I could see that he had his following: a group of three young novice priests with embroidered cotton cloaks, probably sons of nobles – enjoying the riches of their fathers, without feats of arms to their names. Teomitl would have had no end of harsh words for them.

In the silence, someone spoke again. Palli. "I've seen you work, Acatl-tzin. Where you go, I'll follow." He stepped further away from the crowd, almost close enough to touch Ichtaca. Chimalli's friends sneered.

I said, my eyes on Chimalli, "If you don't want to come, you can stay where it's dry. You can stay safe. No man can fight if they don't believe in what they're doing."

There was silence. Then Ezamahual spoke. "We're not cowards," he said, with a pointed look at Chimalli. "We may not be warriors, but we won't stay safe while the world breaks apart."

Chimalli snorted. But when he didn't move, the other priests did. One at first, slowly; and then they came by groups of twos and threes, gathering around Palli and Ezamahual.

On the other side of that invisible line were Chimalli, his clique – and the two calmecac students, looking frightened out of their wits.

"We're not cowards," Ezamahual repeated. "Tell us what we have to do."

Beside me, Ichtaca's face was grim, but I could guess that he hadn't expected me to have this much success.

But then, neither had I.

"We haven't much time left," I started.

Because the true sight hampered one's ability to see the Fifth World, I decided to lay it only on half of the priests, trusting that they would see enough to warn the others. I included myself in this half. I also sent word for Ixtli and his men to join us at the temple docks.

I had just finished laying on the true sight on myself when Palli came back.

"We have rabbits, and owls, and a handful of hummingbirds," he said. In the gloom of the Feathered Serpent's sight, Palli shone like the moon: cold, harsh, the veins of his arms and legs contracting and expanding to the rhythm of his heart. He carried two magical knives in his leather belt, one for each hand.

I finished my spell, and carefully brushed my hands clean, praying that Neutemoc and Teomitl would have had the good sense to wait before launching an attack.

I said to Palli, "Whatever you've found will have to do. I'm not sure we'll have time for real blood-magic." Sacrificing an animal and doing a full ritual required preparation. In the midst of a battle, I didn't think we'd have time for this.

Palli said, "Ichtaca is sending messengers to the palace, to request the Guardian's help at the Heart of the Lake."

"He sent Chimalli?"

Palli shook his head. "No," he said, grimly amused. "The two calmecac students, the ones that were frightened by the whole prospect."

"You're not frightened?" I asked, remembering how he'd preferred storehouse duty because of how quiet it was.

"When I stop to think about it. But then, it doesn't change anything, does it?"

He looked and sounded disturbingly like Teomitl: like a warrior, uncaring of his own life. I finished erasing my quincunx, and rose in turn. "No," I said. "It doesn't change anything. Come on. Let's get to the boats."

The boats were the flotilla of the temple, moored on the boundary between the southwest district of Moyotlan and the northwest one of Cuepopan, beyond the Serpent Walls. We had a dozen sturdy reed boats, which the priests took on their errands throughout Tenochtitlan.

Ichtaca was already in the second largest of those, with a novice priest holding the oars, and two clustering at the back. He pointed, wordlessly, to the largest craft, the one reserved for the High Priest. It bore the spider-and-owl design of Mictlantecuhtli, and shone with the wards accumulated on it.

Ixtli and his Duality warriors had their own boats: long, thin vessels holding nine warriors in a single line, with two rowers, one at the back and one at the prow. Ixtli raised his hand to me in a salute; I nodded to him, and climbed aboard my own boat. Palli took the oars; and Ezamahual positioned himself at the prow.

Every temple boat, including ours, was full of covered cages. It wasn't so much the cages I saw with the true sight though, but the light cast by the animals they contained: the rabbits huddled against each other, and the hummingbirds flitting against the covers in a whirr of wings.

Palli pushed the boat away from the shore in a splash of oars, and gently directed us south.

The docks were on the western edge of Tenochtitlan; the tree of the Great Vigil on the eastern side of the city. Even though the town was crisscrossed by canals, the fastest way to go east wasn't through Tenochtitlan, but around it, passing south under the Itzapalapan causeway and swinging back in a north-easterly direction.

The rain fell steadily around us, but there was something different about it. Something distinctly hostile. In the semi-darkness of the true sight, I could see nothing, but the sense of disquiet increased. The oars splashed in the water, on the left side, then on the right – and back on the left, like a slower heartbeat.

I turned around, briefly, and saw the city, a mass of huddled houses enclosed by the rain. Light spilled from the Sacred Precinct, beacons in the growing darkness: the temples of Mictlantecuhtli; of Mixcoatl, God of the Hunt; of Tezcatlipoca, God of War and Fate. And towering over it all, the blazing radiance of the Great Temple.

Something about the last light was wrong. I watched it for a while, as Palli's rowing got us clear of the causeway. Something about the light, which kept flickering.

The light wasn't strong any more, but tinged with the green of algae. With every passing moment, the green grew stronger. And, crowding around the twin shrines atop the pyramid, were the halfdistinct shapes of Tlaloc's creatures, swimming through the air like some sick imitation of fishes, sinking into the stone of the stairs like transparent blood.

"It's fallen," I said, aloud.

"What's fallen?" Palli asked.

Ichtaca, whose forehead also bore the mark of the true sight, was watching the same direction. "Not yet," he said. "Huitzilpochtli is stronger than you give Him credit for."

"He's weak," I said, watching as the light flickered.

"So is Tlaloc's child, for now," Ichtaca replied. And, to his oarsman: "Faster."

Palli's gestures quickened, as if he'd been the one given the order.

Faster, faster, I thought, listening to the splashes of water on either side of me. In the darkness, all I could see were the beacons of the temples – and the creatures, slithering in and out of the Great Temple. Faster…

The Itzapalapan causeway faded behind the veil of rain; the creatures, too, until the whole world seemed to have turned to water. Around us was the vast expanse of Lake Texcoco, the shores so far we couldn't make them out in this stormy weather; above us, the rain-clouds unleashing their fury on us. Thunder rolled overhead, and lightning flashes tore the heavens: the Storm Lord's full anger, finally unleashed.

And ahead…

It should have been an artificial island isolated in the middle of the lake, with an altar where the Revered Speaker would sacrifice to Tlaloc.

But it wasn't, not any more. Or rather: the island was still there, surrounded by a group of boats I couldn't identify from this distance. But at its side was something that drew one's gaze.

The tree offered at the Great Vigil, sixteen months ago, had indeed rotted to nothing. But something had taken its place: an aftershadow of a trunk, a silhouette outlined by the lightning flashes, with half-transparent branches reaching up to join the black rainclouds with the surface of the lake. Magic pulsed from the roots and the branches, joining in the middle to form a tight knot of light.

Around the tree were more of the creatures, attached to the trunk like leeches, gorging on Tlaloc's bounty, growing fat with every passing moment.

I couldn't repress the shudder that ran through me, or the rising nausea that always came when I saw so many of those creatures.

Behind me, someone – Ichtaca? – let out a string of curses. A more sensible answer than mine, I guessed.

As we got closer, the situation became clearer: in the group of boats were two dozen priests dressed in the blue-and-black garb of the Storm Lord, their blackened faces filled with the light of magic. They watched us come without a word.

At the centre of the island, the altar to Tlaloc was overwhelmed with creatures. They passed through the stone as though through water, their clawed hands moving to and fro. They looked like brothers to the ahuizotls, with the malevolence but not the intelligence of Chalchiutlicue's beasts. They seemed to be guarding something. A young child, I suddenly realised. I caught a glimpse of a childhood lock, sweeping over a face the colour of cacao beans, and of wide eyes, as green as algae.

Mazatl. The god-child. And, by his side, lying in the mud, were two adult bodies. My heart sank. They had to be Mazatl's foster parents.

Below the altar were more of the creatures, gathering around two silhouettes, one of which stood knee-deep in the water, magic streaming out of him. Teomitl – and the ahuizotls, gathering around him, snapping at the creatures with their jaws, reaching out with their claws. And beside Teomitl…

Neutemoc, the wards of Huitzilpochtli shining weakly in the dim light of the true sight, hacking and slashing at the creatures, even though it seemed to make no difference.

Trust my brother to get into the heart of trouble. Although I couldn't see what else he could have done. I'd misjudged. Given the configuration of the place, there was no way to approach discreetly. I glanced again at the priests of Tlaloc. They had made no move, trusting the creatures to dispatch both Neutemoc and Teomitl. But now that we were approaching, they detached themselves from the island, aiming towards us with the sureness of cast spears.

"Faster," I whispered to Palli – and, to the boats behind me: "Prepare yourselves!"

Ixtli's boats swung around us, blocking the path between us and the priests of Tlaloc: an unequal fight, on an element belonging to the god Himself. Teomitl had His wife's protection, but no one else did.

There was no choice.

I laid my hand on the smallest of my obsidian knives, and felt the emptiness of Mictlan fill me, so strong I could have gagged. Chalchiutlicue's touch had definitely changed those knives, although I wasn't sure it was for the better.

Teomitl went down on one knee; and two more of the creatures leapt past him, towards Neutemoc.

Faster…

TWENTY-TWO

The God's Child

Palli grounded the boat ashore. At the moment the dried reeds came into contact with the mud of the island, a sense of growing unease crystallised into me, almost strong enough to fill Mictlan's emptiness.

I had felt this before: in the Jaguar House, and in Tlaloc's shrine in Amecameca. There was no cure for it.

I leapt from the boat onto the shore, fighting a rising wave of nausea. Beside me, several of the priests were on their knees on the ground, retching and retching, although no bile came up.

No. You have to fight it. You have to… Ichtaca's face was a mask of disgust; but he at least didn't double over. And then the creatures were upon us. Within the true sight, they shone, their squat bodies exuding algae-tinged light, their clawed hands reaching for us. I threw myself aside, and a claw-swipe narrowly missed my forearm.

"Huitzilpochtli cut me down," Palli whispered, beside me. "How do you fight them?"

I wish I knew. Beside me, one of the novice priests was down on one knee, bleeding from a wound, his face already going slack, in an expression sickeningly like Quechomitl's.

Another creature launched itself at me. The Duality curse us, the things had grown more powerful, capable of ignoring Mihmatini's wards. Without conscious thought, I threw myself aside, but too late: the claws were going straight for my chest…

Another clawed hand batted them aside; I looked into the yellow, malicious eyes of an ahuizotl – I had time to wonder, dimly, absurdly, if it was the same that had maimed Eleuia – and then Tlaloc's creature, hissing, was retreating, while the ahuizotl's slimy skin pressed itself against mine. Forcing me leftwards, I realised: towards the shore, and Teomitl, who stood with water halfway to his knees, his face creased in concentration.

I half-walked, half-ran towards him. One creature detached itself from the pack that was engaging the priests, and glided lazily towards me. I quickened my pace. The ahuizotl's jaws snapped at its midriff, and the creature engaged it instead of me.

I had no particular wish to see who would win; and I couldn't bring myself to cheer for the ahuizotl, despite the fact that it appeared to be on our side.

"Acatl-tzin!" Teomitl called out. He stood in a circle of emptiness. The Jade Skirt's light spilled around him, creating a barrier the Storm Lord's creatures prowled around, but were unwilling to bypass.

When I approached, they turned their attention to me, hissing with an eerie joy.

I did the only thing that made sense: I ran, and threw myself at Teomitl's feet, into the water.

I rose, coughing up algae, to peer into Teomitl's amused gaze. "Some reinforcements," he said.

I turned around, to survey the battlefield. On the water, Ixtli's men were engaging the priests of Tlaloc, trying to bring their boats close enough to strike at their exposed enemy. Meanwhile, the priests were also trying to get within range, though their spells did not require contact to be cast.

One priest in particular seemed to be their leader: a tall, lean man with green paint smeared across his face, standing at the back of one of the largest barges. It wasn't Acamapichtli. No matter how hard the High Priest of Tlaloc had worked to indict Neutemoc, it appeared he was quite blameless in the matter of the Storm Lord's child. I wasn't sure whether I ought to have been disappointed.

On the island, Ichtaca had a cage with two hummingbirds at his feet. He was busy drawing a circle in the mud, whispering the words of a prayer to the Southern Hummingbird. I recognised a much stronger version of Mihmatini's warding spell, directed not only at Ichtaca, but at every human being in the vicinity.

It might possibly dispel the creatures, but that spell would take time to cast, time we were running out of.

Next to Ichtaca, two offering priests swiped at the creatures – failing to do any damage, but still keeping them at bay. As I watched, one of them slipped in the mud, and one of the creatures' claws opened up a wound on his arm. He fell, a vacant smile stretching across his face.

No!

An ahuizotl welled up from the water, and leapt to take the priest's place. Neither Ichtaca nor the other priest did anything more than nod tiredly. Any help was better than none.

Palli was down on one knee, but otherwise unharmed, and Ezamahual was busy protecting two of his fallen comrades, his harsh face transfigured by battle frenzy.

The least that could be said was that the battle was not going in our favour.

"Where is–" I started; and saw Neutemoc. He had somehow managed to evade the creatures, and was steadily fighting his way towards the top of the rise – no, not fighting, more weaving his way between claw-swipes, each of which could mean his death.

"He's insane," I said, though not without a touch of jealousy.

Teomitl shrugged. "Don't you recognise it? He has nothing to lose any more."

An image of Huei rose in my mind: of her standing in the reception room, bitter and sad, and I, refusing to understand her until it was too late. I quelled it. It wasn't the time. "Are you wounded?" I panted.

Teomitl shrugged, although every feature of his face was drawn and wan, like a man drained of blood. "I'll go on."

I stared at Neutemoc, and at the child Mazatl, still standing before the altar. "We have to help him to reach the altar," I said. "Close enough to strike."

Teomitl grimaced. "Will the child die?"

I shrugged. My experience of god-children was, thank the Duality, fairly limited. "He's human. If he wasn't, he couldn't wield so much magic. He'll die."

Teomitl didn't look convinced; and I wasn't completely, either. But it was a fair chance. "Worth a try," he said. "Distract the creatures, then?"

I nodded. At least until we found a way to kill them. I hefted an obsidian knife with my left hand, feeling the slight twinge from old wounds, and stared at the creatures, bracing myself to leave the circle of Teomitl's protection.

Over the water, some of Ixtli's men had managed to get close enough to the priests: they were hacking and slashing, their boats swaying under them. The priests, though, were casting spells: darts of green light that wounded as much as if they had been metal. As I watched, one of Ixtli's men, struck in the chest by three darts at the same time, stood shock-still at the prow of his boat – and keeled into the lake. He did not move. Blood stained the water, lazily spreading over the fluid shapes of the ahuizotls.

With a sigh, I lifted my knife to strike; and felt the emptiness of Mictlan fill me, a hundred, a thousand times stronger than it had ever been. The wind in my ears was the lament of the dead, and the water lapping at my ankles cold and unforgiving, like a drowned man's kiss – and even Teomitl's voice was the rattle of a dying man.

I had felt this, once before, when fighting the beast of shadows. But it had never been this strong, never altered the shape of the Fifth World.

Those were not my knives.

Within me, Chalchiutlicue was laughing. A gift, priest, she said, and Her voice was terrible.

Gasping, I stepped away from Teomitl, straight into the path of one of the creatures.

Its clawed hands snaked, lazily, to strike me. One of the ahuizotls leapt up from the water, snarling, but it was too late – the claws sank into my skin – and numbness spread from the wound, that terrible numbness that marked the end of the fight.

I was dimly aware of sinking to one knee; of someone – Teomitl? Palli? – screaming in a faraway land; of the creature rushing in to gorge on my blood. With sluggish hands, I raised my knife – held it against my chest to defend against the claws – and the creature, too eager to exploit my weakness, impaled itself on the blade.

Within me, the numbness of Tlaloc's wounds met the growing emptiness of Mictlan: two huge waves clashing against each other and breaking, sending their aftershocks into the depths of my soul. Visions of Eleuia's empty orbits mingled with the image of Father's body – and Mother's face, contorted in anger, held the fervent gaze of Commander Quiyahuayo. My limbs would not stop shaking.

Chalchiutlicue laughed and laughed in the empty rooms of my mind. A gift, priest. For My husband.

Far, far beyond me, the Storm Lord's creature screamed: a thin, reedy cry like a strangled new-born. As the visions slowly faded away, I came to myself, in time to see the creature withdraw from my blade as if scalded; and with each passing moment it grew fainter and fainter, still screaming in that pathetic way that tore at my guts.

And then the creature was gone. Stillness spread from the place of its death like a shroud thrown over the Fifth World. Everything in its wake paused or slowed down: Ichtaca's harsh chanting, Neutemoc's macuahitl-swipes, the ahuizotls' clenching tail-hands, the priests' dart-throwing, the Duality warriors' strokes. But the worst affected were the other creatures. They came to a standstill, as if sharing in the death of their comrade.

Time slowly returned to normal, it seemed, and my heartbeat finally slowed back to a more leisurely rhythm.

"How in the Duality's name did you do this?" Teomitl asked, beside me. His face was still taut, contorted on the edge of pain.

"I didn't," I said, curtly. The creatures were markedly slower, and more reluctant to approach me. "Thank your protector."

Teomitl said nothing. I kept my hand near my knife, but not actually touching it; and saw Neutemoc evade the last of the creatures, and run towards the child at the altar.

For a brief moment, they faced each other: Neutemoc's face, contorted in the battle-frenzy, and Mazatl's, his green eyes expressionless. Then Neutemoc's sword swept towards the child, biting into the exposed flesh of his neck.

I'd expected some struggle, or some vast display of magic. But Mazatl simply crumpled, like a felled gladiator at the combat-stone: the knees first, then the chest, and the small head with its childhood lock, sinking into the mud by the altar, small and forlorn in death.

Beside me, Ichtaca's chanting paused, and Tlaloc's creatures turned towards the altar, watching their master's death.

Over. It was over.

Then why didn't it feel like it?

I glanced at the ghost tree: it still stood, rooted in the water of the lake, filled with creatures growing fat on magic. The rain falling over us was still gorged with Tlaloc's magic, and none of the other creatures had gone.

Laughter, bright and terrible, echoed over the lake. It was the sound of a lightning strike, earthing itself in a peasant's skin; the wild roar of heavy rains; the sound of wind, tearing away cacti and trees from the land.

"Did you think it would be that easy?" a voice asked.

It came from the roots of the ghost tree, I realised with a shock: from a small silhouette, radiating power as the sun radiated heat.

I looked again at Neutemoc, who was kneeling by the body of the boy he'd just killed, his face frozen in shock.

I remembered the old woman's words: I have many, many grandsons.

It was the wrong child: one of Mazatl's foster brothers, casually sacrificed as a decoy. The wrong child.

Did you think it would be that easy?

In the terrible, heavy silence, magic flowed from the branches of the ghost tree: threads of raw power, plunging into the creatures' bodies, filling their featureless shapes with magic the way one pumped water into the earth. The creatures made a soft, hissing sound; and turned back towards us, filling the air with their mindless glee.

Over the water, three priests of Tlaloc had died, but over half of Ixtli's men would never see the Fifth World again. And atop the altar, Neutemoc was surrounded by creatures, mindlessly crowding each other to drink his blood.

Did you think it would be that easy?

• • • •

One of the creatures leapt at Teomitl, passing through Chalchiutlicue's circle of protection as if through flimsy cotton. Teomitl raised his macuahitl sword. But it was too late. The claws had already bitten into his flesh. He sank to one knee, gasping.

I ran towards him, but two more creatures blocked my path, their featureless bodies undulating, as if they tasted my scent from the air. My hand tightened over my knife's hilt. The emptiness of Mictlan filled me once more, the whole Fifth World turning into a hymn to death and decay. The smell of decomposition rose from the earth, saturating my nostrils, insinuating itself under the pores of my skin. Ichtaca's chanting faded into nothingness, replaced by the endless lament of the dead.

Shaking, I raised the blade, and struck. The thread linking the creature to the ghost tree snapped. It made that same cry of a baby dying, tearing at my heart for the children I would never have.

But the second creature was already reaching towards me, its claws not going for my arm or my hand, but towards my throat.

As if in a dream, I threw myself to the right and the claws raked my arm and side. Numbness filled me, collided with Mictlan's lament, becoming Father's empty gaze; becoming Mother's hands, still clenched in anger long after her death. I rolled over, gasping for breath. One creature had latched to Teomitl, feeding upon him with relish. The one that had struck my shoulder hovered over me, hesitant to approach.

I didn't give it a chance to reach a decision. I fell upon it with my knife, and sank the blade all the way in, until it plunged into muddy earth, the fragile obsidian snapping in two. The thread broke in two, and the creature screamed and started to fade.

Cursing, I withdrew my second knife from my belt, and ran towards Teomitl. Under my feet was not mud, but bones, breaking with every step I took – and the dead, whispering to me of my failures.

Honour your parents and your clan…

Bring glory to your name…

Tell your children to enjoy the joys of the Fifth World…

I had no honour; no glory; no children to come after me. But it didn't matter. It had never mattered. The dead could not touch me.

It was a lie: every whispered word hurt like a small wound; but still I managed to raise a shaking hand, and sink the knife into the creature latched into Teomitl.

As it started to fade away, Teomitl toppled into the mud, his eyes glazing over, his face locked into a desperate expression.

Cautiously, I slackened my grip on my knife, and knelt by his side, trying to shake him awake. "Come on," I whispered. "Come on."

Somehow, Neutemoc had woven his way between the creatures that opposed him, and left the altar and the dead child behind. Moving with a speed and ease I had not known he possessed, he was running towards one of the empty reed boats, his obsidianstudded sword weaving in and out of the creatures' embrace. It reminded me of two dancers I had seen a long time ago, in a deserted girls' calmecac; back when the whole affair had just been a missing priestess – and not this… monstrosity it had turned into.

No creatures remained to face me. They were all engaged in battle against my priests. Palli was standing in the water, his back wedged against one of the reed boats, keeping the creatures at bay with grim determination.

The battle between the priests of Tlaloc and Ixtli's men was still going on. Ixtli, with suicidal bravery, had leapt onto the barge of the leading priest, and was cutting his way towards the back. The priest, though, did not look afraid: he was watching Ixtli approach, his smile the same as the jaguar's before it leaps on its prey.

With Teomitl's loss of consciousness, the ahuizotls were no longer fighting: they stood, aimlessly wandering on the muddy earth. How long did we have before they started turning on us?

I shook Teomitl's slight frame. "Come on."

"Not… worthy of… her," he whispered. "I… should… have known."

The Duality preserve us. As if we needed more complications. "Come on."

"Choose… your… battlefield," Teomitl whispered. "Not… worthy…"

One more priest went down. Ichtaca had stopped chanting and was holding two creatures at bay, single-handedly. Over the water, Ixtli had only a handful of men left; but more priests of the Storm Lord remained, casting darts in a steady barrage. As I watched, a dart struck Ixtli across the chest. He wavered, his face set in a grimace, but went on, cutting down the last priest between him and the leader.

Neutemoc had reached the shore, four creatures lazily gliding after him. Palli rose from his crouch, and batted away at the creatures, while Neutemoc pushed a boat into the waters of the lake.

Without the ahuizotls, though, it was clear that we were doomed.

"We need you," I said to Teomitl, resisting the urge to shake some good sense into him. "Huitzilpochtli blind you, we need you, or everything is lost!"

"Mother…" Teomitl whispered. "I'm… sorry. Should… have… remained… true to Huitzilpochtli."

I flung his own words back at him. "There's no shame in having two allegiances," I said, urgently.

Ichtaca was down on one knee; and while Palli and Neutemoc had succeeded in getting their boat off the island, they had creatures chasing after them.

On the water, Ixtli and the leading priest were fighting sword against spear, rocking with the barge they were on. Only three Duality warriors remained; but one priest of Tlaloc floated facedown in the water, a magical sword embedded in his back.

"Teomitl," I whispered. "Ahuizotl. This is your testing ground. This is your battlefield. Will you run away?"

Teomitl's eyes fluttered open. He stared at me, without seeing me. "I'll… choose… my testing ground," he whispered. "Not this. I can't… The pain… too much…"

"Are you running away?" I screamed, shaking him like a rag doll. "Are you such a coward?"

For a long, long time, he did not answer. Palli's boat, with Neutemoc at the oars, was tracing a chaotic trajectory onto the waters of the lake, trying to elude the three creatures coming after it. It was going nowhere near the ghost tree.

"Teomitl," I said, slowly. "No one chooses their testing ground. Not even those of Imperial blood. And a true man stands by the consequences of his acts."

His eyes fluttered again, the emptiness replaced by anger. "You're a fine one to reproach me with that, aren't you?"

"I don't understand," I said, taken aback.

Teomitl tore himself from my grasp, every feature of his face becoming as harsh as polished jade. "So small, priest," he whispered, but it wasn't his voice. "So filled with useless regrets."

Chalchiutlicue. No!

"I don't understand," I whispered, even though I still remembered Her rifling through my thoughts like a peccary digging for roots, discarding what did not interest Her. "I–"

Teomitl knelt in the brackish water, gazing at the black clouds overhead, which showed no sign of dispersing. His fist clenched around algae, once, twice. When he spoke again, his voice was his own. "I was overwhelmed," he said, all the apology I would ever get. "Thank you."

His eyes narrowed, as the Jade Skirt's light streamed from every pore of his skin, and the ahuizotls were back into the fray. Several of them slid into the water, going after Neutemoc and Palli's boat, engaging the creatures chasing it. Neutemoc, after looking back, set the prow of the boat in the direction of the ghost tree – and rowed like a possessed man. Palli's face was grim.

Ichtaca resumed his chanting; by his rising voice, he was almost at the end of his hymn.

On the barge, Ixtli twisted and the spear spun out of the leading priest's outstretched hand, landing into the water. Ixtli raised his sword to strike.

I took hold of my knife, and plunged back into the battle, determined to dispatch as many creatures as I could. But something kept nagging at me, a sense that I was missing something. I avoided a claw-swipe that would have disembowelled me, and raised my knife to strike. But the creature had already shifted left. I sank the knife into the creature, under Ezamahual's shocked gaze. As it screamed and died, I stole a look at the ghost tree.

Mazatl still stood at its foot, kneeling with one hand on the roots. Magic streamed out of the tree, plunging into his whole body. Soon, he would be gorged with Tlaloc's magic, and dispatch us all with ease.

There was worse. The water, which had been up to my knees before, had now reached my waist. I retreated onto drier ground. The shores. I glanced at Teomitl, who had also retreated further inland. The waters of the lake were rising. The patch of earth we were standing on was shrinking.

Over by the boats, the leading priest of Tlaloc was facing Ixtli, both his hands empty. With a terrible smile, he lifted his hand as if to throw something into the air.

And something did leave his outstretched fingers, shining as it rose. A narrow beam of jade-coloured light formed, settled onto Ixtli. Ixtli's face contorted in pain; he went down on one knee, gasping in pain, the sword torn from his grasp. The leading priest was smiling. He lifted Ixtli's face to expose the throat, and raised a noose, whispering words I couldn't hear: a prayer to His god before the sacrifice, no doubt.

"No!" I howled, but I had no time to do anything. The leading priest looped the rope around Ixtli's throat in a practised gesture, and tightened it. Ixtli's eyes bulged.

Two creatures engaged me simultaneously; I ducked, but claws raked my back. Numbness filled me, transformed into images of Eleuia, alluringly dancing on the battlefield.

I had to help Ixtli… I rose, and one of the creatures leapt upon me. Ezamahual was fighting the other one, holding its full attention.

I ducked left and right as the creature attacked in a frenzy of claw-swipes, trying to keep an eye on the battlefield.

Teomitl was running, ahuizotls gathering around him in a gruesome escort. He reached the boats, and, arcing himself against the smallest one, pushed it into the water – and leapt into it.

On the barge, Ixtli was clawing at his throat, in a vain effort to throw off the noose. But it was futile; the priest of Tlaloc had won. Ixtli's death, as a sacrifice to his god, would only add to his power.

I feinted right and the creature followed, hissing as it opened itself for a fatal strike. I slid out of its embrace, and struck its midriff with the knife.

Two down.

There were no creatures in my immediate vicinity. I used the breathing space to take a look at the battlefield. Teomitl's boat was leaving the island, though he wasn't rowing. With a shock, I re alised the ahuizotls, gathered under the keel, were dragging it forward, to where the leading priest was still strangling Ixtli.

As I watched, Ixtli flopped to the floor of the barge. There were now only two Duality warriors left; and a handful of priests of Tlaloc, gathering against them.

Over the lake, several of the creatures had succeeded in bypassing the ahuizotls. Neutemoc, frantically rowing, was almost close enough to the ghost tree. But another creature had abandoned the fray on the island, and was gliding towards the boat, its hiss almost amused.

Palli, his face a mask of concentration, was already hard pressed to fend off both creatures. But the other creature was getting closer and closer, faster than the erratic trajectory of the boat.

On the shore, six creatures remained, three of them busy fighting ahuizotls, and the rest kept at bay by my priests. Ichtaca was opening the throat of a hummingbird, though the rain washed off the flow of blood on his hands.

Teomitl's craft crashed into the tangle of boats; the ahuizotls slid away. One by one, they started pulling the priests of Tlaloc into the water. Teomitl himself had leapt clear of his boat, and was running from vessel to vessel, intent on reaching the leading priest, who stood in his large barge, too far away from the water to be snatched by an ahuizotl.

It was clear where the urgency was: helping Neutemoc get to Mazatl. I sheathed my knife, ran to the shore, and pushed a boat into the water.

"You can't do it alone," Ezamahual said, behind me – climbing into the craft, taking the oars. "I'll row."

I nodded, and together we slowly got the boat out of the shallows, towards Neutemoc.

I turned, briefly. Teomitl had reached the same barge as the leading priest. The priest threw his hand up again; and the same light, expanding, covered Teomitl.

Teomitl grimaced. His face contorted in a painful struggle, and his grip on his sword slackened. He was going to die, like Ixtli – no…

But then a light as green as jade, as underwater depths, filled his eyes; and his features, softened by the inhuman light, became once again those of the goddess. The priest's spell fell around him harmlessly, shearing itself in two like a split obsidian mirror.

Teomitl shook his head, and walked forward, past the still body of Ixtli, smiling a smile even more terrible than the priest. His obsidian-studded sword was raised; and the leading priest had no weapon of his own, only magic that would have no effect on Teomitl.

Who are you?

Ahuizotl. He who bears Chalchiutlicue's gift. He who bears Her protection.

I turned away, keeping my gaze on Neutemoc. I did not see Teomitl's sword come down; but I heard the priest scream, a thin, reedy cry carried away by the wind; and then nothing, only the splashes made by the ahuizotls, and the soft raking noise of claws, tearing at flesh.

Ezamahual's quick rowing was bearing its fruit: we were slowly catching up with Neutemoc's and Palli's boat.

We were going to be too late, though.

Ahead of us, one of the creatures finally got past Palli's guard, and its claws raked the offering priest's arm. Palli fell to his knees in the boat, his face stretching into that familiar, terrible emptiness.

Now Neutemoc was defenceless. He did not give up. He went on rowing, intending to reach the ghost tree before the creatures could catch up on him.

It was never going to work… Never…

Ezamahual's oar-strokes quickened into a frenzy, but it wasn't going to be enough.

Ichtaca… Now or never.

And, for once, the Duality heard my prayer.

On the shore, Ichtaca laid both hands on the ground, and threw back his head with a triumphant scream. The circle blazed, spreading the Southern Hummingbird's light everywhere around the island, sinking into Ichtaca's flesh, outlining the bones of the priests in light.

The creatures, caught in the spell's hold, became paler and paler, vanishing altogether within the radiance.

It spread further, over the water – engulfing Ezamahual and me – reaching Neutemoc and Palli, and going on. For the briefest of moments, the ghost tree wavered and started to fade.

"No!" Mazatl screamed, in a voice that wasn't human any more. Magic poured out of him, going into the branches, sinking into the roots, and Huitzilpochtli's light finally faded into nothingness.

The ghost tree remained, but the creatures that had been clinging to its trunk were gone. And, on the island, not a single creature remained: just two stunned priests, taking care of the wounded, and Ichtaca, kneeling in his circle, breathing heavily.

"Do you think yourselves so clever?" Mazatl's voice was the hiss of a deadly snake.

From the tree's roots, a great cloud of magic spewed, roiling sickly as it merged with the water – higher and higher, until a huge wave travelled through the lake – aimed straight at us.

It reached Neutemoc's boat a fraction of a moment earlier than ours. I had time to see my brother pin Palli to the floor of the craft, and then the wave was upon us, an exhalation of water that sent us crashing into the warm lake.

TWENTY-THREE

The Blessed Drowned

I sank, my cloak filling with water, dragging me down like stone.

Under the water, everything was oddly quiet. Ahuizotls sang, far, far away, a gentle, soothing sound drawing me into Tlalocan. I hadn't had time to draw a good breath before sinking. My lungs burnt as I struggled to kick off my sandals, and undo the clasp of my cloak.

The fall into the lake had washed out the last remnants of the true sight: the water around me gradually became clearer – though I saw nothing but floating algae, and the light of the surface, far above me.

One of my sandals sank into the depths. A good start, but it wasn't enough.

For some incongruous reason, I thought of Huei, and of whether that was what she would feel when they drowned her. Would her gestures grow more and more sluggish as she sank to the bottom of the lake? Would she hear Chalchiutlicue's beasts summoning her to the bliss of the Land of the Drowned?

My hands slid over the clasp of my cloak, and finally prised it open. I kicked upwards, towards the light of the surface.

The rain was still falling when I emerged, gasping for breath. The lake was now scoured with angry waves. Nothing remained of the island save the stone altar, on which Ichtaca stood, directing the rescue of the priests who had fallen into the water. Teomitl was swimming on his back, surrounded by a ring of ahuizotls. He was holding onto Ixtli's still body, slowly, steadily pulling it towards the altar. Other ahuizotls dived into the depths, helping Ichtaca to get the priests out of the lake, though some of them were also feasting on the dead bodies.

An exhausted Ezamahual was clinging to the overturned boat; he blinked twice when he saw me, but didn't have the strength to do more.

And ahead…

Palli was still lying in the boat, unconscious. But there was no trace of Neutemoc.

Worry knifed my heart. I swam towards Palli's boat as fast as I could, took a deep breath – and dived into the depths of the lake.

The eerie underwater silence filled my ears once again. I swam downwards, with an ease akin to that of my childhood, keeping my eyes open in spite of the stinging touch of water.

Neutemoc…

Where in the Fifth World was he?

There should have been fish, or algae – even ahuizotls – but there was nothing. Just a spreading green light that gradually replaced the light of day – and, so close I could have touched them, the roots of the ghost tree, plunging towards the mud at the bottom: monstrous, shimmering things that seemed to beat with a life of their own. And, the deeper I swam, the larger they grew.

I had been swimming down for what seemed an eternity. Surely the lake was not that deep? It wasn't.

Surely, too – I should have run out of breath by now? I hadn't, either. But suddenly I knew why, and where the green light was coming from.

The time of the gods is not our own. And that was what I had strayed into by going so close to the ghost tree: to a different time, a distorted version of the Fifth World. The tree was a gate between Tlaloc's heartland and the Fifth World, pouring out the god's magic into the mortal world. Into the god-child Mazatl.

I tried not to worry about Mazatl. Neutemoc was the one I was worried about.

Neutemoc…

After what seemed an eternity, I saw a harsh glint, lost somewhere into the roots of the tree. It flashed on and off as I descended: the familiar, if toned-down, reflection of light on obsidian.

A macuahitl sword. It had to be a macuahitl sword. Please…

I found Neutemoc wedged into the ghost tree, one arm wrapped around a massive root, the other dangling, moved to and fro by the current. His face was pale, leached of all colour. His sword at his side was the only part of him that seemed to be alive: glinting coldly, malevolently in the green light.

With hands that seemed to have turned to tar, I disentangled him from the roots, pulling his body free from the tree with a wet, sucking sound, and passing his arm over my neck. Through all of it he didn't respond. Nor could I feel any heartbeat.

He wasn't dead. I hadn't died from falling in the water. He had to have survived. But he had fallen much closer to the ghost tree than I had, a treacherous thought whispered in my mind. I quelled it. I refused to listen to it, and focused on my leg-strokes – one, two, three – and on the light around me, pulsing as green as jade, as green as algae…

Neutemoc didn't stir, but grew heavier and heavier the higher I swam. Beside me, the ghost roots subtly changed, growing more and more solid, sending cold currents to wrap around my arms and legs.

Something tightened around us, sending chills through my bones. It wasn't anything material: more as if the water around me had suddenly contracted, growing colder and then warmer, like a heartbeat.

The light changed, became subtly dappled. Ahead of me, darker shapes broke the monotony of the water. Fish. I had reached the boundary of the Fifth World.

But, as I swam closer, I saw that they weren't fish at all – but bodies, their pale skin gleaming, their long hair streaming in the invisible currents. Their eyes were wide open, watching me impassively.

There were children: six, seven years old, their faces devoid of all expression, save for the tears running down their cheeks, inexplicably glistening in the water. There were women: young women with swollen skin, old women with a thin line of red circling their throats. And men, young and old, their skin as blue as unshed blood, their eyes bulging in their orbits.

The Blessed Drowned. The sacrifices to Tlaloc, to Chalchiutlicue, still weeping the tears that called down rain, still clutching their slit throats.

Neutemoc was heavier and heavier: not helping me, I thought, not without bitterness. If he became any heavier, I wouldn't be able to lift him and rise to the surface.

I kicked harder, knowing who I would see, at the end of this procession of the dead.

First was Eleuia, her empty eye-sockets still crying tears of blood; and etched on every feature of her face, the ruins of her beauty. Even pale and unmoving, even mutilated and reduced to this shadow of herself, her presence was still commanding – and she was still obscenely beautiful, she could still make me rigid with an alien desire.

She was singing, softly singing:

"In Tlalocan,

No hunger, but maize always blooming, always putting forth flowers;

No pain, but the endless joy of the Blessed Drowned…"

I turned my eyes away from her, unable to bear her empty gaze.

And after Eleuia–

Like Neutemoc, he was entangled in the tree's roots, his face pale and colourless in the green light, both arms pulled back and wrapped around separate roots, making him into a living quincunx. Unlike Neutemoc, his eyes were wide open, staring at me, not with anger or with rage, but with a quiet, sorrowful disappointment that made my heart twist.

"Acatl," he whispered, and his voice was the water surging through the roots of the tree. A few handspans above us, the roots broke the water's surface: the Fifth World, so close and yet so unattainable.

"Father, I'm sorry," I whispered, as I swam closer. The words came out of my mouth in a trail of bubbles.

Father's eyes held me, shining in the ghastly pallor of his face. He didn't look blessed, or happy. Just disappointed. Sad. The same look his body had had, even in death.

"Father…" I couldn't speak. I couldn't make myself heard. Father just shook his head, and didn't answer me.

Neutemoc was a dead weight in my arms. I dragged him closer, struggling to reach Father's body. If only I could be close enough, so that he could read my lips. If only I could apologise – for the vigil, for Neutemoc…

For myself.

"You still do everything as if he were alive, don't you?" a mocking voice asked.

Slowly, I shifted around, half-turned away from the tree.

The child-god Mazatl hung in the water, a few measures away from me. Green light flowed around him, outlining his body and the white tunic he wore. And in the light stood a monstrous figure with dark eyes, laying His hands on the child's shoulder, His fanged mouth resting close to Mazatl's ears, whispering words that the child flung back at me.

"Tlaloc," I whispered. The acrid taste of the lake's water filled my mouth, and only a thin thread of sound came out.

"Mazatl," the child said, a bare whisper that was almost human. But then he was speaking again with Tlaloc's voice, a thunder that made the water shake around us. "Or rather, not any more. Now I am called Popoxatl."

The Strength of Rain.

"Well named," I whispered.

I kicked, trying to rise to the surface. The end of the green light was so tantalisingly close. I could be out of the Storm Lord's territory, and into a place where the rules of the Fifth World applied. But Neutemoc's body, weighing me down, prevented me from rising any further.

An expression of animal cunning spread across Popoxatl's face: a sickening thing to see on a face so young. "You don't want to answer my question, do you, Acatl? Tell me."

"About what?" I asked, trying to keep my voice calm. I didn't know why I was seeking to gain time, but every instinct spoke against angering Tlaloc while I was still underwater.

"Your father, of course," Popoxatl said.

In the tree's roots, Father opened his mouth, revealing rows of yellowed teeth, struggling to speak, but unable to do so.

A game. Popoxatl was playing with me until I ceased to amuse. I tightened my grip on Neutemoc's body.

"Answer me," Popoxatl said. "Do you not do everything as if your parents had never died?"

"Mother died four years ago," I said, slowly. "Father, seven. I've made my own way. I don't see what You want." But I knew.

I wished Chalchiutlicue would do something, anything to rescue me. But despite the waters contracting around me, this wasn't Her dominion. The tree, and everything around it, belonged to the Storm Lord, Tlaloc.

Popoxatl laughed: a slow, rumbling sound that shook the roots of the tree. "Your own way? Oh, Acatl. You risk your own life to save your beloved brother–"

"What I think of Neutemoc has nothing to do with any of this," I snapped. "He's family – my own flesh and blood."

"Your parents' pride," Popoxatl whispered. "Among all the children, the brightest, the most successful."

"He chose his way," I said, unwilling to admit that the child's words hurt me more than they should have. "It led to glory. I don't begrudge–"

"Don't you?" Popoxatl asked. "Don't you, Acatl?"

Tlaloc's shadowy figure bent closer to his child-puppet. Between Popoxatl's outstretched hands, a dark shadow coalesced: a coiled mass of writhing threads.

In my hands, Neutemoc stirred. His eyes fluttered, but remained closed.

"Such a worthy man, is your brother. So much the pride of his children. Lusting after a priestess," Popoxatl whispered, and behind him came Eleuia's body, changing as it became closer to us, gaining flesh and colour and life – until she stood next to Popoxatl, her head cocked at a mischievous angle, her regenerated eyes sparkling with dark joy.

She started to dance: slowly weaving her way, with unbelievable grace, through the steps of some ritual. But in her eyes shone greed, and an unhealthy hunger.

The Duality curse her. Why did she have to tempt my brother?

Why did he have to be foolish enough to yield?

I backed nearer to the tree's roots, still clutching Neutemoc close to me.

Popoxatl laughed. "Such a whore, wasn't she?"

I said nothing. I could make no answer to this. I kept my gaze fixed upwards, towards the tree's trunk, which broke the surface just a few handspans away from me.

All I had to do was swim. But I couldn't. Neutemoc held me down there, as surely as I held him in my arms.

Come on, Neutemoc. Wake up.

"And still you cling to him," Popoxatl whispered, amused. "Still you make amends for him. Is he worth this, Acatl? Worth the wounds you suffered for him?"

I remembered battling the beast of shadows – the claws, sinking into my flesh. I remembered standing in the Imperial Court, withstanding Tizoc-tzin's amused stare. I remembered the Wind of Knives, lifting me high above Him, throwing me on the ground.

It was worth it. Neutemoc was my brother. My flesh and blood.

But I did not love him.

"He is–" I whispered. Everything I could not be. My parents' hope for the future. The perfect son.

Popoxatl opened his hands wide, and the dark shadows rushed towards me, wrapped themselves around me until they blotted out the world.

In my mind's eye I saw Neutemoc: not the bright, valiant warrior I'd always imagined, but a man mortally afraid – yearning for the bright simplicity of his warrior's life, never seeing that the past couldn't be called back.

I saw the hundred petty hurts Neutemoc delivered Huei – how he ran away from her in the birthing-room, as he had run away from Mother's death – how he sat away from her at banquets, his head turned towards his guests – how he heard but did not listen to what she said. I saw him turn away from his own children – too afraid of losing them to show them the least affection. I saw him walk into the darkness, willing himself to find the courage to end it all – never finding it.

He couldn't find it. He couldn't find anything.

Was this the man I had worshipped, the pride of my parents' eyes? This coward?

I saw him meet Eleuia, and how he made ready to betray his marriage without the slightest hint of regret – never thinking of what it would do to Huei, or to his children – never seeing how much Huei suffered from his pettiness.

In the end, he was the only one responsible for the failure of his marriage.

"Such a good man," Popoxatl whispered, his voice mocking. "Worth every wound, every injury, Acatl."

Worth… nothing.

It would be so easy, to open my hands. So easy to let him sink into the depths of the lake; and to rise myself, my knife in my hand, doing what had to be done to save the Fifth World.

What was a life, compared to what was at stake?

All I had to do was open my hands.

"The pride of your father's eyes." Popoxatl's voice was the thunder of the storm. "Such a strong man."

"Eleuia…" Neutemoc's eyes were open. He was staring at the corpse of Eleuia, his eyes mirroring the hunger in her gaze.

My hands tightened around him, as nausea welled up, harsh, uncontrollable. Could he see nothing but his lust?

He had grown heavier still, so heavy he was dragging me down. I arched my body, in a foolish attempt to resist his weight. But it was no use. I was sinking, going back to where I had come from, into the depths of Tlalocan.

"Eleuia is dead, Huitzilpochtli cut you down!" I screamed, shaking him like a rag doll. "Eaten by the ahuizotl. Dead and buried!"

"Eleuia…"

Everything shrank, in a mosaic of nightmare images: Popoxatl's smiling face, whispering of Huei's and Neutemoc's cankered marriage – Eleuia's uninterrupted, obscene dancing – Neutemoc's glazed eyes, still filled with that unquenchable, unreasonable hunger – images of him running away into the night, in unending cowardice – of Huei, standing straight and tall and unashamed of what she'd done.

The Duality curse him.

Open your hands…

All I had to do…

Save yourself…

He's deserved it…

The weight of the water was on my shoulders; and my hands burnt with the strain of Neutemoc's semi-conscious burden. He was dragging me back into the depths, he and his accursed lust and inability to see that you couldn't call back the past.

Open your hands…

Sometimes, you had to make a choice. My fingers opened, almost of their own volition, and Neutemoc started slipping downwards, even as I rose.

For a moment – a split, endless moment as we hung suspended by the pulsing roots – our eyes met. In his was lust and hunger and an impossible desire for what he couldn't have, a desire that could only be ended by death…

And in my gaze, reflected in his…

The same.

The same hunger for the past, the same wish to turn back the flow of time, to have my parents' admiration; to be a warrior and the pride of my family.

A true man stands by the consequences of his acts, I had told Teomitl, and he had laughed at me, seeing what I had not been able to admit: that deep, deep down, I and Neutemoc were the same.

I hated him so much; but it wasn't him. It had never been him.

In less than a heartbeat, I dived, and our hands met, and clasped.

He was too heavy; he was still dragging me down. "You have to swim," I said.

His gaze was a mixture of hunger and confusion. "Eleuia?" he whispered, like a bewildered child.

"Swim!" I screamed.

He still wouldn't move.

So I did the only thing that would save us both: arching my body, I pushed him straight into the tree. He gasped as his body wedged itself in the hollow between two roots: nestling comfortably in the tangle of pulsing bark, sinking until his feet finally came to rest on a thicker root.

As best I could – not an easy thing given his unresponsiveness – I wrapped his hands around another buttress.

"Stay here," I whispered.

"Acatl?"

"Stay here." And, kicking upwards, I went back to Father and Eleuia – and Popoxatl. They would, I knew, be waiting for me.

As I rose, I drew the second-to-last of my obsidian knives, and the pulsing emptiness of Mictlan filled me; and the amused echo of the Jade Skirt's voice, booming like underwater drums.

A gift, priest.

Father was still crucified among the roots, still watching me with that sad, disappointed gaze. But it wasn't real. Everything was Tlaloc's little game, as was Eleuia's slow dancing. Popoxatl was waiting for me, a smile stretched across his face. The Storm Lord, too, whispering words of poison in his puppet's ears.

"I see you've shed your burden," he said.

"What harm has he done you?" I asked, though I knew. Before Popoxatl had come into his power, Neutemoc's knowledge had been as dangerous as Commander Quiyahuayo's: what he knew about Eleuia might have stopped Tlaloc from achieving His aims. Now it was just endless malice.

"Don't you see, Acatl?" Popoxatl whispered, and his voice was that of a child. "He has no place in the new order. Warriors shouldn't rule the world. It's peasants who keep us going – and priests, shedding their blood to feed the sun."

I swam closer, knife at the ready, and Popoxatl watched me, dryly amused.

"Aren't you tired of the thoughtless arrogance of warriors? Of their endless staggering across our streets, conquering lands we have no use for?"

I thought of Mahuizoh's cavalier treatment of Ceyaxochitl and me – and of my parents' endless worship of war, slighting their own work to sing the praise of the battlefields. But it was not the way to change. It would never be the right way.

I was close now, almost close enough to strike, and still neither Tlaloc nor Popoxatl did anything. They just watched me. "What do you want?" I asked. "My collaboration? You don't need that."

Unhealthy hunger dilated Popoxatl's pupils, making me sick to the core. "Belief," he whispered. "I am the supreme god of the Mexica Empire. Everyone will abase themselves, and make their offerings of blood to keep me strong."

Belief. Commander Quiyahuayo had been right.

I swam closer; and when nothing happened, I sank my knife to the hilt into Popoxatl's chest.

Or tried to. The blade shattered, breaking on an invisible obstacle. And Popoxatl laughed, echoing the Storm Lord's amusement. "Did you think it would be so easy?"

It should have been. For all his powers, Popoxatl was only a god's agent, only a mortal. Surely a knife blessed by Mictlantecuhtli and Chalchiutlicue would kill a mere child?

Unless…

I pulled away, avoiding the child's outstretched arms. To my left, Eleuia had stopped dancing, and was coming for me with a sickening smile on her face.

I closed my eyes and extended my priest-senses.

And saw what I had missed.

Light streamed around Eleuia, limning the alluring curves of her body; but all of that wasn't just beauty, or charms – but the Quetzal Flower's grace, wrapped around her like a mantle. No wonder every man had been drawn to Eleuia: the Goddess of Lust had rewarded her well for her services.

But that wasn't the worst.

Ichtaca's spell, which had dispelled the creatures, had done so by setting Huitzilpochtli's wards on everyone. Everyone human: the priests, Ichtaca himself, Neutemoc, me.

And Popoxatl.

The wards, anathema to Mictlan's magic – to Tlalocan's magic – spread around Popoxatl's body in a shimmering cover, leaving me no place to strike at.

I suppressed a curse; but it was hard, seeing Popoxatl's gloating face. Had I come this far for nothing?

Think.

The creatures had been able to whittle Mihmatini's wards away to nothing, and their magic had been of Tlalocan. And when Teomitl had rescued me in the Jaguar House, the rush of the Southern Hummingbird's magic had turned Mictlan's knives into obsidian dust. It worked both ways. Huitzilpochtli's magic would destroy Mictlan's; and Mictlan's magic would destroy those wards. I just had to summon it in the proper way.

Eleuia's outstretched arms closed around my chest. Without thinking, I slashed, and she fell back, screaming in agony. At least she didn't count as human, but she would be back. I couldn't kill her: she didn't belong to my dominion.

There was no time.

I thought of killing the beast of shadows, of the feeling of emptiness that had seized me as I lay on my back, that sense of being at work everywhere, in every living thing, coursing through my arm to strike – and drew another knife, my last.

But I couldn't summon that feeling again. Just the emptiness of Mictlan, waiting to blossom into something more, but not doing so. Huitzilpochtli blind me!

Popoxatl was drifting towards me, smiling in a decidedly unpleasant way. Beside him, Tlaloc was whispering something, dripping darkness into his ears.

There was no time.

I couldn't…

My hand tightened around the hilt of the knife. I was a priest of Mictlantecuhtli. Death was my lot, Mictlan the dominion of my god. I would never be a warrior, never bring glory to my calpulli – but I could make sure, now and tomorrow, that there would be other warriors to carry on, to fight the battles of the Fifth World and bring the sacrifices that would keep the sun in the sky.

I was a priest. And this, here, was where I stood. This was what I had chosen, what I had become.

Within me, Mictlan was rising: the keening lament of the dead, the grave voice of the Wind of Knives, the smell of rotting bodies and the dry touch of bones on my skin – my consciousness expanding, wrapping itself to encompass every living soul, the children huddled in the courtyards, playing games as the rain fell – their mothers, clutching their bellies and wishing for a quick birth – their fathers, resting with their macuahitl swords and their hoes by their side – the old men and women, chatting about the awful weather – the dead in Mictlan, making their slow journey towards Lord Death's throne and oblivion.

I was… everything I needed to be.

My arm descended; and the knife, scything through Huitzilpochtli's wards as if they were nothing, buried itself up to the hilt into Popoxatl's chest. He shrieked: a thin, pained sound like a dying dog, twisting at my heart. Tlaloc screamed, too, but He was already dissolving into nothingness, His voice receding further and further away as he was thrown away from the Fifth World.

The green light slowly faded, and a huge tremor shook the roots of the ghost tree, like a storm unleashing itself at last. The roots shook and shook, dislodging Father's body, which fell into the depths, still watching me with that unceasing disappointment.

But it didn't matter. Father was dead, and this mockery that the Storm Lord had called back into life didn't have any power to hurt. Not any more.

Around me, the Blessed Drowned were disappearing, one by one: turning into algae, into fish, into foam on the water. Popoxatl's body was sinking down as well, but not very far: ahuizotls were already gathering, tearing at it with their clawed tails.

My lungs were starting to burn. I welcomed the feeling, for it meant that the rules of the Fifth World applied once more. Now all I needed to do was rise back to the surface, and…

Neutemoc. He'd been in the tree's roots. But the tree had almost faded to nothing now, with only a few light reflections remaining. Where was he?

My lungs burnt too much. I kicked upwards, rose to the surface for a moment, under a rainy sky that had nothing of magic any more. Then I took a deep breath, and dived down again.

Far, far below, a dark shape lay horizontally in the water. I made my way straight for him, just a few handspans ahead of an ahuizotl; put both hands under his armpits, and pulled upwards. He was heavy, but not as heavy as he had once been in Tlalocan, and rising with him to the surface wasn't as hard as I had feared.

When I pulled him onto the shores of the small island and laid him down in the mud, though, he wasn't breathing any more.

TWENTY-FOUR

Small Vigils

I knelt in the mud, and pushed on Neutemoc's chest, struggling to get the water out of his lungs. Around me, the rain fell in a steady patter. But it was just rain, water falling from the darkened sky without Tlaloc's magic at the core of every drop.

The light was getting dimmer: the sun would soon set. It felt like too much had happened today. But then most of that day had been spent in Tlalocan, where the time was that of the gods.

The Fifth World would go on. But Neutemoc…

Surely… surely I hadn't gone all that way, done all I had, just to lose him.

Deep, deep down, I knew that the gods had their own rules, and the Duality even more so. I had made my own bargains; had saved Neutemoc from sinking into Tlalocan. But perhaps, in the end, it didn't matter. Perhaps, in the end, he would still be walking with Father in Tlalocan, basking in Father's admiration.

No. I couldn't accept that.

Neutemoc didn't move. My hands snagged on his ribs, and with every push I feared I was going to break bones. But still he didn't move. The tips of his fingers were wrinkled; and blood was starting to settle in the white oval of his face.

No.

"There's water in his lungs," Teomitl said, kneeling by my side.

He looked as if he had been through all the levels of Mictlan: his face as pale as the waning moon, his nobleman's clothes stained with mud and blood – and his eyes as deep as abysses, shimmering with the golden colour of the ahuizotls' irises.

I raised my gaze. Ichtaca leant against the stone altar, his eyes closed. Six or seven of the priests, mostly novice priests, were still unconscious. The others – Ezamahual and the two surviving warriors of the Duality among them – were tending to the wounded.

Ixtli's body lay on the stone altar, the priest's noose still tight around his neck. I closed my eyes, briefly. Had I not gone to him, he and his men would still be alive. Had I not asked a favour from him. He had been his own man. He had made his own choices; and they had taken him away from me. There was nothing I could do. Nothing but grieve.

"Ichtaca? Palli?" I asked.

Teomitl laid his hands on Neutemoc's chest, frowning. "Your Fire Priest is made of stone. He's full of scrapes and wounds, but I have no doubt he'll survive. The others–" he shrugged. "They're in the hands of the Duality."

Like Neutemoc.

Teomitl was probing at Neutemoc's bones, carefully. Magic oozed out of the pores of his skin, mingled with my brother's skin. "And your brother?" I asked.

He shrugged again. "Axayacatl? He probably survived. I don't think things would have held together otherwise."

I wondered how Ceyaxochitl was faring. Quite the gossip I was turning into. But I needed something, anything, to prevent me from thinking about Neutemoc.

Teomitl sat back on his heels, his face grave. "He's in bad shape, Acatl-tzin."

I knew. "Can you…" I'd done enough damage to my family: to Huei, to Neutemoc. Or, more accurately, we'd done enough damage to each other, but I'd still dealt Huitzilpochtli's share of it. "Can you do anything?"

Teomitl frowned. "I? No. The Jade Skirt, perhaps. But you know there will be a price."

"I'll pay it," I said.

Teomitl smiled, without joy. He seemed to have grown up immeasurably since taking on Chalchiutlicue's blessing, turning from a boy into a bitter adult in a matter of hours. "Always ask what the price is before accepting a bargain, Acatl-tzin. Have you learnt nothing?"

No, not much. Things about myself; about Father and Neutemoc; that was all. Teomitl was right. An adult, in all the ways that mattered. I didn't think he'd be needing any advice any more.

Teomitl laid his hands on Neutemoc's chest again, pushed down, hard. Light blazed from his fingers, wrapped itself around my brother's body: a green luminescence much like the reflections of light on jade, which uneasily called to mind the depths of Tlalocan, and the memory of the pulsing roots, and of Father, laid out among them like a living offering.

I heard Chalchiutlicue laugh, in my mind. Priest, She whispered, and suddenly She stood behind Teomitl, Her hands outstretched to cover his head, a mocking parody of the Storm Lord's position at Popoxatl's side.

You used Teomitl. But then we'd all used each other.

"He's in My land," the Jade Skirt whispered, and Her voice was the lament of the wind over the stormy lake. "But not so far gone. I can give him back to you."

"I'll pay the price," I whispered, again.

She laughed. "Such impatience. You owe Me a favour, priest. One day, I'll come and claim it from you."

And then She was gone, and Teomitl's magic had sunk down to nothing again. And Neutemoc was coughing up stale water, struggling to rise. I'd never thought I'd be so happy to see him moving.

"Acatl?" Neutemoc asked, his voice rasping in his throat.

I took his hand, pulled him to a sitting position. "Welcome back."

Neutemoc grimaced. "So is the Fifth World over?" He stared at the sky, and at the gathered priests. On the lake, a flotilla of boats was making its way towards us. In the prow of the first one was the familiar figure of Ceyaxochitl. "I guess not."

"No," I said.

Neutemoc closed his eyes. "I remember Father…"

I waited for him to remember the rest, how I'd almost let go of him in my selfish urge to judge him. But at length he said, "I guess I owe you."

I shrugged. "Nothing much." Chalchiutlicue would claim Her debt, but there was nothing I could do about that.

Neutemoc sat in the mud, watching the lake. I made my way towards the altar, and found Ezamahual tending to Palli. "How is he?" I asked.

"Nothing serious," Ezamahual said. "He hit his head when the boat capsized. He'll survive."

"And the others?" I asked, slowly, already knowing the answer.

Ezamahual's gaze was distant. "Two novice priests are dead. And some of them won't live out the night."

"I see."

"They gave their lives for the Fifth World," Ezamahual said, his voice toneless, as if reciting something learnt by rote. "It's our only destiny."

It was. But it didn't mean we wouldn't mourn them. Like Quechomitl, like Commander Quiya-huayo, they would ascend into the Heaven of the Sun, to find their afterlife far more pleasant than the toil of this world. But we would still miss them.

I, more than anyone: for I had used them, barely knowing them. I knelt, slowly, by the altar and Ixtli's body, and whispered the first words of a prayer for the Dead:

"We leave this earth

This world of jade and flowers

The quetzal feathers, the silver…"

When the flotilla of boats reached the island, Ceyaxochitl was the first on the ground. Accompanied by Yaotl, she made her way towards me with her usual energy, and a frown on her face which told me I would have a number of explanations to give her.

"I see you're alive," Ceyaxochitl said, with a snort. Her eyes took in my priests, slumped on the ground; Ichtaca, who still hadn't opened his eyes; Neutemoc, sitting cross-legged in the mud; and Teomitl, standing by my brother's side, oozing Chalchiutlicue's magic. "And I see you've had some interesting adventures."

"I'll–"

She raised an unsteady hand. Suddenly, I saw how tired she looked; how pale was her face, and how she'd wrapped her left hand tightly around her cane's pommel, to prevent it from shaking. Tending to the Emperor had taken a heavy toll on her.

"We'll get you back," Yaotl said. His face in the dim light was expressionless. "We can see about the rest later."

We had to leave most of the bodies in the water. The ahuizotls were feeding, and not even Teomitl's commands could make them abandon their grisly meals. Out of about thirty dead on our side, and the priests of Tlaloc on the other, we'd retrieved only four: two of my novice priests, one Duality warrior, and Ixtli.

On the way back, I found myself riding in the same boat as Neutemoc, watching the water part around the prow.

My brother was silent, as he had been on our journey to Amecameca. But this time the silence wasn't filled with pent-up aggressiveness, or things we'd failed to say to each other.

"You'll be fine?" I asked.

He said nothing. He watched the water, moodily. "I don't know."

"You can't go back," I said, finally.

"No," Neutemoc said. "You never can. But you can always dream of what could have been."

"And destroy your life?" I asked, more vehemently than I'd meant to. "Sorry."

Neutemoc shook his head. He dipped his hand in the water, watching the droplets part on his skin. "It doesn't matter," he said. He sighed. "Huei–"

"There's no need to talk about her," I said, more embarrassed than I'd thought.

Neutemoc didn't speak. "She told me to forget her," he said. "To find myself another wife, to raise the children."

"She told you that?" There would be no divorce, but nothing prevented him from taking on a second wife. He'd be more than able to support her.

"In the temple," Neutemoc said. "I don't know what I'll do."

My chest contracted. "You don't have to decide right now."

"No," Neutemoc said. "I guess not. What will you do?"

"I don't know," I said, truthfully. There would be accounts to make to Ceyaxochitl – vigils for Ixtli and the dead priests – and life would, I guessed, go on much as it had always done.

Neutemoc snorted. "A fine pair we make." His face closed again. "So you killed the child?"

"Yes," I said, curtly. And Eleuia, too; and perhaps Father. I wasn't sure.

"Going down alone into Tlalocan… You'd have made a good warrior, you know."

I shrugged. "Some things aren't made to be."

"Perhaps not," Neutemoc said at last. "But you'd still have made it, if you'd wished to."

"I didn't," I said, finally, and it was the truth, the only reason I'd chosen that path on exiting the calmecac.

We passed through the streets of the Moyotlan district, and saw everywhere the ravages of the flood: the canals which had overflowed, bringing water into the courtyards of the grand houses, knocking down the wattle-and-daub walls of the humbler ones. In the water were wicker chests, reed mats, codices – and the bodies of those caught by the flood, facedown in the canals, as unmoving and as unbreathing as Ixtli's warriors.

People were out in the streets, salvaging what they could from the retreating water. I saw a woman carrying a very young child around her shoulders, trying to recover a rag doll, and my heart tightened.

Ceyaxochitl's flotilla moored on the quays at the foot of the Sacred Precinct. Her warriors helped lift the dead and the wounded out of the boats.

"I guess I'll be going back to my household," Neutemoc said. He grimaced. "Mihmatini is going to flay me alive."

I could imagine what words Mihmatini would have for us. "Tell her you've almost died. That helps."

"It never does," Neutemoc said, with a quick, amused smile. He walked a few steps away from me. "You're not coming?"

I blinked, genuinely surprised. "No," I said. "My place is in my temple."

Neutemoc said nothing. His face had gone as brittle as clay.

"Come to my house when you want, Acatl. I…" He struggled with the words. "It will be less lonely with you around."

My heart contracted to an impossible knot of pain; and the only words I could find seemed to come from a distant place. "Yes," I said. "When my affairs are in order. Thank you."

I watched Neutemoc walk away in silence. Next to the last of the boats, Teomitl was talking with Ceyaxochitl, punctuating his narrative with stabbing gestures. Giving a detailed account of what we'd done, I guessed.

They were both walking towards the palace. The palace, where Tizoc-tzin and Axayacatl-tzin would be waiting for their wayward brother: a brother who would one day, the Duality be willing, take his place as Revered Speaker for the Mexica Empire.

My work was done.

I turned away from them, leaving them to their conversation, and followed the warriors with the corpses, back into the safety of my temple.

As I'd foreseen, many things needed to be organised. Under my direction, the dead priests and Ixtli were laid in empty rooms, where the survivors could start the preparations for the vigils. The wounded were laid out in the infirmary, along with Ichtaca, though he seemed to suffer from nothing more than extreme exhaustion.

Once, I would have conducted the vigils. But instead, I made sure that everything was ready; then I retreated to the top of the pyramid shrine, where I browsed through the records of the temple, reading all I could about the dead novice priests.

Cualli of the Atempan calpulli, son of Coyotl and Necahual, born on the day Three Eagle of the year Five Rabbit… Ihuicatl of the Coatlan calpulli, son of Tezcacoatl and Malinalxochitl, born on the day Thirteen Crocodile of the year Six Reed… They had died for the continuation of the Fifth World; for what they'd always been pledged to. They were with the Sun.

But it wasn't enough. It would never be enough. I bore the responsibility for their deaths, and I would make sure that they had not died in vain. I would make sure Ixtli had not died in vain.

"I thought I'd find you here," a voice said.

Startled, I looked up, expecting Ichtaca. But it was Teomitl: still wearing his mud-stained clothes, still pale and exhausted.

"I thought you'd be at the palace," I said.

Teomitl shrugged. "Perhaps later. They'll be busy, in any case."

"They'll need you."

His eyebrows rose. "How about you?"

I made a short, stabbing gesture. "Me? I don't think so."

"You saved the Fifth World," Teomitl said.

"And I should expect some recognition?" I asked, more scathingly than I'd intended. "I don't think I'd accept it."

Teomitl laughed. "You haven't changed so much, have you? Still loathing politics."

I'd have to enter that arena, sooner or later. I'd have to second Ichtaca in the running of the temple, to take my true place as High Priest. But there were limits. "Why are you here?" I asked.

Teomitl said nothing. He walked towards the altar under the impassive gaze of Lord Death. "I have proved myself."

"You should be glad," I said.

He spread his hands, an unreadable expression on his face. "Perhaps. But it shouldn't end here. If I want to take my place."

His gestures were quiet, measured: the mark of an adult.

"Go," I said, gently. "Claim your place."

Teomitl shook his head. "Not without you."

"My place is here."

"I know," Teomitl snapped; and for a moment I saw again the impatient youth who had first come to me in my temple. "But I still need you."

"What for?"

He laughed, bitterly. "Do you think me wise, Acatl-tzin? Do you think me mature enough to handle the Jade Skirt's gift of Her magic?"

Startled, I said, "There will be plenty of priests willing to–"

"Flatter me for their own gain!" Teomitl snapped. "I came for you."

Unable to see where I stood, I flung his words back at him. "Do you think me wise? There's little I can teach you."

"You know about magic."

"A little," I admitted, cautiously.

"Enough for me, then."

I could probably teach him to control Chalchiutlicue's magic – and to have enough patience – but… "Is this what you want?"

"Don't be a fool," Teomitl said. "Do you think I came this way for nothing?"

In many ways, I realised, he hadn't changed: still impatient, abrasive, arrogant. But still quick to lend his heart, and to expect trust in return.

Since Payaxin, I had not taken on an apprentice, even less one of Imperial Blood. "I…" I started, and realised I had been running away from this possibility for so long I couldn't even envision it. "You'll have to show me some respect," I said, finally.

Teomitl's smile was like a sun rising. "I'll work on it. Besides, I have to get your consent for courting your sister, haven't I?"

I made a mock-frown, hiding the mixture of unease and pleasure his request gave me. "We'll see about that, young man. When this night is over."

I stood on the platform of the shrine, and watched the light finally fade behind the rain-clouds.

Below me, Teomitl was descending the stairs. "Come on, Acatltzin," he called. "The vigils have already started."

From behind him came the mournful sounds of the deathhymns, and the reedy music of conch-shells, signalling the first Hour of the night: that of Xiuhtecuhtli, the Fire-God.

I sighed and gathered my grey cloak around me, before following Teomitl down the stairs in the growing darkness.

Above us, the clouds had broken a little, leaving just enough space for the light of one star to fall upon my temple. It was the most beautiful sight I had seen in a long time.

"Come on, Acatl-tzin!"

I was a priest of Mictlantecuhtli. I would neither have children, nor know the glory of warriors.

But this – the vigils and the conch-shells, and the setting sun that would rise again, and Teomitl, waiting for me on the steps with unbounded impatience–

This was my place, and my legacy.

II

HARBINGER OF THE STORM

ONE

A Hole in the Fifth World

I felt it when it happened, even from where I was: sitting atop the platform of my pyramid temple, so high that the city below seemed a mere child's toy.

It was as if the entire world were exhaling: a slow, ponderous shift that coursed through the streets and the canals of Tenochtitlan, through the closed marketplace and the houses of joy – extinguishing the glow of the torches in the water, muffling the voices of the singers and the poets in the banqueting halls, and darkening the moon in the sky.

The Revered Speaker Axayacatl-tzin – the protector of the Mexica Empire, the link between us and our patron god Huitzilpochtli, the Southern Hummingbird – was dead.

I looked up at the Heavens. The sky was clouded, but a faint scattering of stars shone through, already smeared against the dark background, their light growing stronger and stronger with every passing moment.

They were coming down; the star-demons, eager to walk the streets and marketplaces of the city, to rend our flesh into bloody ribbons, to open up our chests with a flick of their claws and pluck out our beating hearts. Huitzilpochtli's divine power, channelled through the Revered Speaker, had kept them away from the Fifth World, the world of mortals.

But not anymore.

I took a deep breath to steady myself. It was not unexpected, by any means; but still… The boundaries between the worlds had become weak, effortlessly breached, and the work of summoners would be easy. Creatures would soon prowl the streets, hungering for human blood. Not a propitious time. We needed to brace for it; to be ready for the worst.

Footsteps echoed beside me: my Fire Priest, Ichtaca, second in command of my order. In one hand he carried a wooden cage with two white owls, their yellow eyes wide in the dim light. The other hand was tightly wrapped around the hilt of a sacrificial obsidian knife.

"Acatl-tzin," Ichtaca said, curtly bowing his head. The "tzin" honorific was muted, added to my name almost as an afterthought. In that moment, that I was High Priest for the Dead and he my subordinate didn't matter. We were both kindred spirits, both aware of the magnitude of the threat. Until a new Revered Speaker was invested, the whole of the Fifth World lay defenceless, as tantalising as feathers or jade to an indebted man.

I nodded. "I have to go to the palace." I had a place in the funeral preparations, small and insignificant. My patron Mictlantecuhtli, Lord Death, was not the god most honoured in the Empire. But, nevertheless, I couldn't afford to stay away at a time like this. "But let's see about the wards first."

Ichtaca didn't move for a while. On his round face was something very close to fear; unnerving, for Ichtaca had faced down gods, goddesses and underworld creatures without ever losing his composure.

"Ichtaca?"

He shook himself like an otter just out of a stream. "Yes. Let's do that."

We descended the steps of the pyramid temple side by side. The temple complex lay below us, low, one-storey buildings fanning out around the central courtyard, shimmering with the remnants of magic. It was not an hour of devotion, and most of my priests were sleeping in their dormitories. Everything was eerily silent, the examination rooms deserted, the bells sewn into the embroidered entrance-curtains gently tinkling in the breeze.

The pyramid temple was in the centre of the courtyard. At the foot of the stairs leading down from it was a large stone circle, engraved with the insignia of Lord Death: a skull, a spider and an owl. Dried blood stained the grooves, remnants of the previous times the wards had been renewed.

Ichtaca and I each took an owl from the cage before moving to opposite ends of the circle, I at the foot of the stairs, Ichtaca facing the temple entrance.

At my belt hung my own obsidian knife, blessed with the magic of Lord Death. I slit the owl's throat open, feeling its warm blood stain my hands. Then, with the ease of practise, I opened up the chest, and sought out the heart between the ribs, balancing it on the tip of the blade. The obsidian quivered, beating on the rhythm of coiled power. I laid the heart carefully on the boundary of the circle, and, with the blade dipped in blood, traced the contours of the circle with the knife. Blood pooled in the recesses of the carvings, shimmering like dust in sunlight.

Ichtaca started chanting.

"Above us, below us

The beautiful place, the home of our mother, our father the Sun

Above us, below us

The region of mystery, the place of the fleshless…"

It was nothing so spectacular as the aftermath of Axayacatl-tzin's death. Rather, green light slowly suffused the circle, a faint, ethereal radiance that carried with it the dry smell of dead leaves, the crackling noise of funeral pyres, the rank taste of carrion… the breath of Mictlan, the underworld.

I slashed both my hands, let them hang over the skull, as if in blessing.

"Above us, below us

An order as solid as a rock

The mountain upheld, the valley held in Your hand

We, Your servants, Your humble slaves,

We give our blood, our precious water

For that which maintains life

For that which maintains the Fifth World…"

The light slowly spread, sinking into the earth and the frescoes of the buildings until nothing but wisps remained hovering above the circle. Overhead, the stars were fainter, an illusion afforded by the protection, for nothing but Huitzilpochtli's power would banish the star-demons.

Ichtaca rose carefully, his silver lip-plug glistening in the moonlight. "It's done. Hopefully they'll last long enough."

I tore my gaze from the sky, unable to dismiss the heaviness in my stomach. If experience had taught me anything, it was that whatever could go wrong usually did so. "Let's hope they do. I'll leave you to wake up the priests while I go to the palace. Can you spare me Palli? I'll need an escort, if only to keep up appearances."

Ichtaca grimaced. He was much fonder of forms than I was. "It goes without question. You will–"

"Change into full regalia. Yes." I sighed. "Of course."

"And the rest of the priests?" Ichtaca asked.

"You know it as well as I do," I said, a recognition of competence, with no animosity. "Prepare the mourning garb and the chants."

"I'll see to it." Ichtaca's gaze was sharp again, his mind set on the tasks ahead.

Mine too, however, there was one significant difference. Ichtaca was looking forward to his work. I, on the other hand, had absolutely no wish to go into the palace – not late at night, not right after the emperor's death, when the infighting would have started in earnest. A Revered Speaker's successor was not determined by blood ties, but appointed by the council; and the council could be bribed, coerced or otherwise convinced to vote against the best interests of the Mexica Empire.

Not to mention, of course, the fact that more than half the people awaiting me at the palace despised or hated me, with the whole of their faces and of their hearts.

The Storm Lord strike me, it was going to be an exhausting night. As I'd promised Ichtaca, I changed into full regalia before leaving. The owl-embroidered cloak and the skull-mask were definitely magnificent, calculated to impress even the most arrogant of noblemen, but it was a warm and sweltering night. I felt trapped in a portable steam bath, and it did not promise to get better any time soon.

Palli was already waiting for me in the courtyard, and he followed me in silence. It was scarcely a time for meaningless gossip. There was a hole in the universe around us, one that jarred with every heartbeat, every movement we made. Anyone with magical abilities could feel it.

Our temple, like all the major ones in Tenochtitlan, lay in the Sacred Precinct, a walled city within the city that made up the religious heart of the Mexica Empire. In spite of the late hour, most temples were lit. Most priests were awake making their usual devotions, though their blood penances and prayers had grown more urgent and desperate.

May the sun remain in the sky, may the stars not fall down into the Fifth World…

The palace lay east of the Sacred Precinct; we went through the Serpent Wall to find ourselves dwarfed by its sandstone mass. Torches lit up the guards who let us pass with a deep bow.

Like our temple, the palace was a mass of buildings, except on quite a different scale. A maze of huge structures opening onto courtyards and gardens, including everything from tribunals to audience chambers, warrior councils and workshops for feather-workers and goldsmiths.

I made straight for the Imperial Chambers, which overlooked a wide courtyard paved with limestone. Normally, it would have been empty of all but the highest dignitaries; now noblemen and warriors crowded on the plaza, a sea of gold-embroidered cotton, feather headdresses, jaguar pelts sewn into tunics, and the shimmering lattices of personal protective spells. But I barely had to push in order to make myself a passage. I might have been the least important of the high priests, but I was still the representative of Lord Death in the Fifth World, wielder of magic beyond most people's reach.

Steps rose from the courtyard towards a wide terrace with three doors closed with entrance-curtains. The middle one was the Revered Speaker's reception room, the other two were rooms for the other rulers of the Triple Alliance when they visited the city. If they weren't there already, they soon would be. They had a place in the funeral rites, but more importantly, they would vote along with the council to designate a new Revered Speaker.

Indistinct speech floated through the entrance-curtain of Axayacatl-tzin's rooms. Two pairs of sandals confirmed I hadn't been the first one to arrive. Who would be inside? In all likelihood, my adversaries, here to remind me of my small place in the scheme of things…

No point in worrying before the sword strike. I added my own sandals next to those already there.

"Wait here," I told Palli.

I pulled aside the entrance-curtain in a tinkle of bells, and entered the inner chambers of the emperor.

I had never been there before. My work as High Priest had taken me as high as the audience chambers, but one had to be consort or wife to behold the Revered Speaker in his intimacy. But death took us all and made us all equal, our destinies determined only by the manner of its coming and, in its embrace, no privacy would remain.

It was a large, airy room, with a window at the back opening onto the gardens. There was little furniture, a handful of braziers, a few low chests, and a reed mat upon which lay the body. Frescoes wrapped around the columns of the room, representing animals from jaguars to the ahuizotl waterbeasts, all tearing apart small figures of men in a welter of blood.

"Acatl-tzin, what a surprise," a sarcastic voice said.

There were only three people in the room: the one who had spoken was Quenami, the newly appointed High Priest of Huitzilpochtli the Southern Hummingbird, his lean face suffused with the arrogance of the nobility and with the knowledge that, as priest of our patron god, he was our superior both in magic and politics. I had disliked him from the first moment I'd seen him, and he was doing nothing to change that opinion. He wore the blue-and-black makeup of his god, his cloak was of quail and duck feathers, and more feathers hung from his belt, opening out like a turquoise flower.

Acamapichtli, High Priest of Tlaloc, scowled at me with undisguised animosity. I was not surprised. The Storm Lord had recently tried to seize power in the Fifth World, and I had played a significant part in foiling the attempt. Now Acamapichtli was in disgrace, and he blamed me for all of it.

I'd expected to see Tizoc-tzin, Master of the House of Darts, the heir apparent and favourite for the succession, but he wasn't there. I didn't know whether to be relieved or angry; my relations with him were icy at best, but his place was here with his deceased brother, not planning a gods-knew-what manoeuvre to secure his accession to the Turquoise-and-Gold Crown.

The last man, instead, was Tlilpopoca-tzin, the She-Snake and vice-emperor of the Mexica, a short, slight man wearing unrelieved black, and who was said to have played the game of politics from his mother's womb.

The She-Snake was also the only one who had not removed his sandals, a privilege afforded only to him. He and the Revered Speaker were two sides of the same balance, near-equals, one male, one female; one in charge of external policy and one keeping order in the city and in the palace, just as men waged war while women managed the daily business of the household.

I bowed to the She-Snake, and to everyone else in turn.

"My lords," I said. "I have come, as custom dictates, for the body of the Revered Speaker, Huitzilpochtli's chosen."

"We surrender it willingly," the She-Snake said, in the singsong accents of ritual. His voice was grave, inviting trust. "We all must leave this world, the jades and the flowers, the marigolds and the cedar trees. Having nourished the Fifth Sun and Grandmother Earth, we all must leave the world of mortals. For those who died without glory, they must go down into the darkness, and find oblivion at the end of their journey. Let the Revered Speaker be no exception to this."

I did not know where he stood. Rumour had it that he opposed Tizoc-tzin, that he might even want to become emperor himself instead of the eminence behind the Revered Speaker. He probably believed in the gods only distantly – like his father, who had viewed religion as a tool, and not as the life and breath that kept the Fifth World whole.

"Let the Revered Speaker be no exception," I repeated, and broke off the ritual with a bow. Now that the formalities were out of the way, I could finally approach the body.

Axayacatl-tzin lay on his reed mat, relaxed as only death could make a man. His face – the face upon which no mortal had been allowed to gaze back when he had been alive – was slack, every trace of divinity long since fled. He looked much like any other corpse in my temple, save for the turquoise tunic that denoted him as Revered Speaker. He was painfully thin, the bones of his arms visible through the translucent skin, and his body smelled faintly unpleasant, the rancid odour of a man old before his time. He'd died of war wounds gone bad; of the decay that had settled into his bones and muscles. No foul play here. Not in a palace barricaded by protective wards, not under the watchful gaze of so many priests.

"Satisfied?" Quenami asked. The High Priest of Huitzilpochtli looked even more smug. I hadn't imagined that was possible.

"I expected to be," I said, turning back to face him. "You know that the corpse isn't the problem when a Revered Speaker dies."

Acamapichtli snorted. "The star-demons? You worry far too much, Acatl. Last time, the wards held for more than a month. And I should think our fighting abilities haven't diminished since then."

I wasn't a fighter, and he knew it. "When we are talking about beings that want to tear us apart, yes, I'd rather worry."

"Worry, then, if you wish. The interregnum will be short, in any case. We'll soon crown a new Revered Speaker, whom the Southern Hummingbird will invest with His power."

I turned towards Quenami, who made a small grimace. "Yes," he said. "It might be worth considering them. The palace wards will be reinforced."

He was young, newly come into his role, elevated from the nobility through connections and privilege and not from the clergy. He had no idea of the stakes. "You take this far too lightly," I snapped. "If you'd seen the creatures that prowl the boundaries, you wouldn't laugh."

Ahuizotls, creatures that feasted on the eyes and fingernails of drowned men; Haunting Mothers, who tore babies and toddlers into pieces; and star-demons, crouched above us, waiting for us to make a mistake, waiting for their time to come…

Gods, it wasn't a time for levity or carelessness.

"And you have no idea of the stakes," Acamapichtli said, with obvious contempt.

This, coming from a man whose god had tried His best to topple the Fifth Sun. "Do dispel my ignorance," I said.

Acamapichtli crossed his arms over his chest, looking down at Axayacatl-tzin with no expression on his face. "He might not have been a great Emperor. He did not carve our territory out of the forsaken marches, or elevate us from tribe to civilisation. But he held us together."

What did he mean? "As will the next Revered Speaker."

The heron-feathers in Acamapichtli's headdress rippled in the breeze. "If he can be chosen."

"Tizoc-tzin was the Revered Speaker's choice," Quenami said, as seamlessly as if they'd planned it together. Considering the wide distance they kept from one another, I rather doubted it; but then again, Quenami had amply proved in the past that he knew how to sway a conversation. "His brother, the Master of the House of Darts, the commander of the regiments. He holds the loyalty of the army's core."

Politics. Power-grabbing. Always the same. "I still don't see what that has to do with us. Whoever becomes Emperor will want to maintain the boundaries. They will want the Heavens, the Fifth World and Mictlan to remain separate. They will want us to survive."

The She-Snake spoke up, in a calm, measured tone. "That's what they want to tell you, Acatl-tzin. That the council might dither. That it might not want to confirm Axayacatl-tzin's decision, that of a sick old man whose mind was halfway to Mictlan, after all." The She-Snake's voice carried the barest hint of sarcasm. He had to be one of the other candidates the council was split over; and his adversaries had just embarrassed themselves in front of him.

I thought of the stars overhead, growing larger with every passing moment. It would probably only be a few star-demons prowling the city, but even a few was too many. "If they wanted to dither, they should have done it before the Revered Speaker's death. It's too late now. Every passing day, the star-demons draw closer to us." There would be remnants of Huitzilpochtli's protection, tattered pieces, so easy to grind down to nothingness. There would be wards, such as the ones in my temples, drawn by devotees of other gods – the Flower Prince, the Feathered Serpent, the Smoking Mirror… But nothing like the impregnable wall that had been in place during Axayacatl-tzin's reign.

"Nonsense," Quenami said. "In the chronicles, they sometimes took entire weeks to decide on a new Revered Speaker. It never seemed to harm anyone."

"This is not a good time," I said. "The moon grows closer to the sun. The calendar priests have been warning about an eclipse for some time. We stand in its shadow, and this means that star-demons will be able to breach the boundaries." As the moon loomed closer to the sun, eating into its radiance, She of the Silver Bells, the moon goddess, grew stronger; and her brother, Huitzilpochtli, our protector, weaker. "In previous reigns, perhaps we were made of stronger stuff," I said, a slight jab at Acamapichtli and Quenami, who didn't react. "But today we are weak and defenceless. I have seen stars tonight, bearing down upon us. They are already coming to us. Have you ever seen a star-demon, my lords? You wouldn't laugh, believe me."

They were all looking at me with mild interest, as if I were trying to sell them a mine of celestial turquoise or a quarry of underworld jade. They didn't care. They thought it was an acceptable risk, so long as the end result allowed them to rise to greater power and influence.

They disgusted me more than I could express in words.

"My lords," I said, bowing. "I will attend to the body, and leave you to the mundane matters–"

I never finished the sentence. The entrance-curtain was cast aside in a discordant sound of bells slammed together, and someone strode into the room. "Acatl-tzin!"

"Teomitl?" My student, who also happened to be Axayacatl-tzin's and Tizoc-tzin's brother, wore more finery than I'd ever seen on him, a gold-embroidered tunic, a quetzal-feather headdress, and black and yellow stripes across his face. He clinked as he moved, from the sheer weight of jade and precious stones on his body.

Both the high priests and the She-Snake bowed to him, deep. Tizoc-tzin had many brothers, but, should he attain the Turquoiseand-Gold Crown, Teomitl was likely to be anointed Master of the House of Darts in his stead, heir apparent to the Mexica Empire. Ignoring him would have been a mistake.

Teomitl made a dismissive gesture. "There's no time for pomp. Acatl-tzin, you have to come. Someone just killed a councilman. In the palace."

TWO

The Moon Hungers to Outshine the Sun

The murdered man did not live in the Imperial Chambers, or in those of the high nobility: his rooms were as far down the palace hierarchy as they could be without being an outright insult. They were on the ground floor, opening up onto a small courtyard away from the bustle of palace activity with a very simple fountain to make up the garden. The walls were decorated with rich frescoes, but without the outright ostentation that marked the imperial family.

Somehow "killed" seemed a deeply inaccurate description of what had been done to the councilman. To say that he had been torn apart would also have been an understatement. There was no body left, not as such, just an elongated, glistening mass of bloody flesh with bits and pieces of organs spread all over the stone floor. Something which might have been an arm lay outstretched on one of the wicker chests; something else coiled around the braziers, and on the reed mat, lay the two globes of the eyeballs and an elongated shape that had to be the ripped-out tongue, somehow the most uncomfortable detail in the whole mess. A small obsidian knife lay near an out-flung hand, preceded by a trail of red.

Blood stained the room, stains of various sizes, all the way down to small drops marring the frescoes. It had not been quick, or easy.

Ordinarily I would have knelt, closed the body's eyes and said the death rites; this time, it seemed like the body was scattered over the whole room. So I just stood there, and said the prayers I always did.

"We live on Earth, in the Fifth World

Not forever, but a little while

As jade breaks, as gold is crushed

We wither away, like feathers we crumble

Not forever on Earth, but a little while…."

Teomitl waited until I had finished before he spoke up.

"What do you think killed him?"

Given the remains, it was unlikely to be anything human. "Whatever you choose," I said, angrily. I hadn't expected the evening to go wrong, so fast. "Anything could have done it. With your brother dead, we're wide open to whoever feels like summoning creatures."

"Acatl-tzin," Teomitl said, with an impatient shake of his head. "I'm on your side, remember?"

I sighed. "Yes. I know."

The She-Snake had left after only a cursory glance inside; apparently he was going to interrogate the guards to know how such a thing could have happened. I'd sent Palli back to the temple to bring back priests and supplies, and begin the rituals over the Emperor's corpse.

The two other high priests were outside trying hard to hide their nausea. Ironic, considering that they'd officiated at so many sacrifices. But the offerings to the Southern Hummingbird simply had their hearts removed and those to the Storm Lord were drowned. There was blood, but not that kind of butchery.

My order, on the other hand, dissected dead bodies to know how they died. This much frenzied bloodletting was unfamiliar; but the contents of a human body were almost like old friends.

And this particular one…

I knelt by the side of the largest mass, staring at it for a while with my priest-senses. "Tell me about him," I said. "The dead man."

Teomitl spread his hands, a little more defensively than I'd have expected. "Ocome. A minor member of the imperial family, perhaps descended from a Revered Speaker three, four generations ago. The blood ran thin."

"That's not really helping," I said, not looking away from the scattered flesh. Magic still clung to the room, the memory of a memory, faint and almost colourless, as if something had washed it away. "Any family?"

"Distant, I think. Ocome's wife died a while ago, and his marriage had not been fruitful. He'd be by far the most unsuccessful member of his family."

Aside, of course, from the position on the council.

So, probably not personal. I didn't feel any of the hatred which accompanied summonings done for vengeance. "Anything else?" I asked.

"Ocome was always trying to work out which side would win, so he could join them and be elevated still further." Teomitl spat on the ground. "No face, no heart."

"And lately?"

"He'd been supporting Tizoc," Teomitl admitted grudgingly. "Though it hadn't been for long."

Great. A professional waverer. His death was a message, but it could easily have been to Tizoc's side as to any of the other factions. Continually shifting allegiances meant Ocome must have made many enemies – not much to be gleaned from here, not until I had a better idea of the sides involved.

"Hmm," I said. I fingered a spot of blood on the ground thoughtfully. Outwardly, everything seemed recent, except for the magical traces, which had faded much faster than they should have. "How long ago would you say he died?"

Teomitl had been standing by the entrance to the courtyard, looking away as if lost in thought. He turned towards the room, quietly taking in the scene, utterly unfazed by the gore. But then, he was a warrior who had already seen two full campaigns. He, too, had seen his share of mutilated bodies.

"They're clean wounds, and the blood is still pretty fresh. Two, three hours ago?"

The man had died in battle, no matter how unequal it had been. As such, his soul was not bound for the oblivion of the underworld but into the Heavens to join the dead warriors and the women lost in childbirth.

However, something bothered me about the body. The magic should not have been so weak. There could have been some interference from the wards, but the way it read seemed to indicate that the body had barely been alive in the first place – as if he'd come here wounded or already dying.

I supposed he could have been torn apart after his death; and, given the state of his body, we'd never know if he'd died before or afterwards. But most supernatural creatures didn't mutilate dead bodies. They found their thrills in the fear of the hunted, their power in the suffering of the tormented. Dead men could neither fear not suffer.

A human could have managed this, I guessed, but not easily. It would have taken time, and a great deal of dedication.

I could, however, think of a particular creature whose habits fitted this all too well, down to the fading magic over the remains.

And, the Southern Hummingbird blind me, I didn't want to be right. The star-demons couldn't be here, in the palace, not yet…

"I need your help," I told Teomitl. "Come over here."

He bounded over to me in a clink of jewellery and stood over a relatively clean patch of stone. He had magic wrapped around him like a cocoon, an intricate network of light that marked Huitzilpochtli's protection. It was that magic which I planned to tap in order to ascertain whether the councilman's soul had indeed fled into the Heavens. And, if it hadn't…

No, better not to think on the consequences of that now.

For the second time in the night, I slashed my earlobes open, and spread the blood around us in a quincunx, the fivefold cross, symbol of the beleaguered world of mortals. Then I started a chant to Tonatiuh, the Fifth Sun, the Southern Hummingbird's incarnation as the supreme light.

"Dressed in yellow plumes

You are He who rises, He of the region of heat

Those of Amantla are Your enemies

We join You, We honour You in making war…"

I slashed a wound in the palm of my hand, extended it to Teomitl, who had done the same. As we held hands, our blood mingled, trickled on the ground as one.

"Dressed in paper

In the region of dust, you whirl in the desert

Those of Pipitlan are Your enemies

We join You, We Honour You in making war…"

Light blazed across the pattern, spreading inwards, until it seemed that it would smother Teomitl for a bare moment, before his protection sprang to life again, an island of light within the light. Everything else faded into insignificance: the room, the frescoes, the grisly remnants outside and inside the circle. The colours were swept away, merged into the light; the faces of the gods and goddesses became the featureless ones of strangers.

The air was growing warmer, the ground under our feet was the red sand of the deserts, and a dry, choking wind rose in the room.

In the light was the huge visage of Tonatiuh the Fifth Sun, His war-painted face melding with that of a beast, sable hairs sprouting around His sharp nose, His cheeks still bearing the scars of His original sacrifice, His lolling tongue dripping blood. His eyes, slowly opening, were twin bonfires wrapped around the huge, hulking shape of a human being: the god Himself, still burning after all that time, endlessly burning to offer light and warmth to Grandmother Earth.

His gaze rested on us – a touch more searing than that of the wind – before moving away.

The wind died down, the desert retreated into the yellow stone of the room; the world sprang back into painful focus.

I exhaled burning air, gasping for the freshness of the mortal world. Teomitl's knees had buckled, and he was slowly pushing himself up again, with angry pride on his face. "Not a careful god," he said.

"No," I said. Teomitl pushed himself hard, but in return he demanded high things from everyone around him, gods included. "But that's bad."

"What?"

"He wasn't looking here," I said, trying to forget the icy void opening in my stomach. "No more than at any other place. It's not sacred ground. No soul has ascended into Heaven from here."

Teomitl looked puzzled. "The body…"

"I know," I said. In my head was running a chant we learnt in the House of Tears, the school for the priesthood: The moon hungers to outrace, to outshine the sun; the stars hunger to come down, to rend our flesh; the stars hunger to fall down, to steal our souls… "It's a star-demon, and it has his soul."

"That can't be–" Teomitl started. "They…"

They couldn't come here, not unless summoned; and, even then, it would require at least the lifeblood of a human being, spilled by a strong practitioner, in honour of a powerful god. We had a sorcerer loose in the city, one who wished no good to the Mexica Empire.

And then another, horrible thought stopped me. What if it was no sorcerer?

What if She'd got free?

"Come on," I said to Teomitl. "We have to check something. I'll explain when we get there."

To my apprentice's credit, he followed without demur, though I could feel him struggling to contain his impatience as we strode out of the palace.

"Where are we going?" he asked.

"The Great Temple." I headed back towards the Serpent Wall, though not before looking up. The stars were still there, still reassuringly far. It had to be a freak occurrence, had to be someone taking advantage of the current power vacuum to loose fire and blood upon us.

"You want to pray?" Teomitl shook his head. "This hardly seems the time, Acatl-tzin."

"I'm not planning to pray," I said. The Sacred Precinct opened up in front of us. Directly ahead was the Jaguar House, reserved for elite warriors, still lit up, with snatches of song and perfume wafting up to us. And, further down, the mass of the Great Temple, looming in the darkness like a mountain. "I'm going to make sure we don't have a bigger problem on our hands."

"In the Great Temple?" Teomitl asked. "It's just a shrine."

I shook my head. "Not only that."

Teomitl started to protest, and then he shook his head. His gaze turned towards the bulk of the Great Temple pyramid, looming over the rest of the Sacred Precinct. A fine lattice of light rose around the stone structure, flowing over the stairs and the double shrine at the top two mingled radiances, the strong sunlight of Huitzilpochtli the Southern Hummingbird, and the weaker, harsh one of the Storm Lord Tlaloc, tinged with the dirty white of rain clouds.

Teomitl's face twisted. A pale, jade-coloured cast washed over his features, until he seemed a carving himself. He was calling on the magic of his other protector Chalchiuhtlicue, Jade Skirt, goddess of lakes and streams. His gaze went down, all the way into the foundations of the Great Temple "Oh," he said. "I see."

What mattered was not the temple, it never had. What mattered was what it had been built on, Who it had imprisoned since the beginning of the Mexica Empire; a goddess who was our worst enemy.

It was the Hour of the Fire God, the last one before dawn; and the priests of Huitzilpochtli were already climbing the steps, preparing their conch-shells and their drums to salute the return of the Fifth Sun. The priests of Tlaloc the Storm Lord, much less numerous, had gathered to offer blood in gratitude for the harvest.

Neither order paid much attention to me or Teomitl; their heads turned, dipped in a bare acknowledgment – tinged with contempt in my case, for they knew all too well what their own high priests thought of me.

We climbed up the double set of stairs that led to the platform at the top of the pyramid, feeling magic grow stronger and stronger around us, the Southern Hummingbird's magic, a fine mesh of sunlight and moonlight slowly undulating like satiated snakes, descending around us, mingling with Teomitl's protection, resting on my shoulders like a cloak of feathers. It hissed like a spent breath when it met Lord Death's knives at my belt, but did not do anything more. A relief, since Huitzilpochtli's magic, like the god Himself, could be violent and unpredictable.

Atop the temple were two trapezoidal shrines, one for each god, from which the pungent reek of copal incense was already rising into the sky. Slightly before the shrines the stairs branched. On a much smaller platform to the right opened an inclined hole, the beginning of a tunnel that descended into the depths of the pyramid. The entry was heavily warded, with layer upon layer of magic, bearing the characteristic, energetic strokes of Ceyaxochitl, the old woman who was Guardian of the Mexica Empire, and the subtler ones of the previous priest of Huitzilpochtli. They parted around us, though with a resistance like the crossing of an entrance-curtain.

Beneath us was a flight of stairs going down into the darkness. A stone chest with its lid flipped open held torches, and a single flame was lit at the entrance. We both took a torch and set it aflame before going down.

It was damp, and dark, and unpleasantly cool. The deeper we went, the more the magic tightened around us – as if a snake, once pleasantly settled around the shoulders, had suddenly decided to constrict. Our breaths rattled in our chests until each inhalation burnt, and each exhalation seemed to leech heat from our bodies and from our hearts. Even Teomitl's light from his protective spell grew weaker and weaker; I could see him slowing down before I, too, adapted my step to his. Together, we moved through the growing thickness, moment after agonising moment.

We passed many platforms on our way. The Great Temple had been rebuilt several times, each incarnation grander and more imposing than the last, wrapping its limestone structure around the shells of all its predecessors. Altars shone in the darkness, faint smudges on them, the memories of previous sacrifices.

At last we reached the bottom of the stairs, the foundation of the Great Temple, and entered a wide chamber, its walls so covered with carvings that the eye barely had time to settle on one figure before another caught its attention.

At regular intervals lines had been carved into the stone, slight depressions linking the floor to the top of the temple, channelling the blood of sacrifices all the way down to pool on the floor. It reeked like a slaughter yard – even worse than an ordinary shrine, for there was almost no way for the air to escape such a confined space.

The floor itself was a huge painted disk, three times as large as the calendar stone that hung in the shrine above. It lay on the floor – in fact, it was the floor, for it filled most of the room from wall to wall, with only a little space for an altar at the further end. The carvings on it were almost too huge to be deciphered. I could see bits and pieces of them; an arm bent backwards, a severed foot, a gigantic head with a band and rattles, separated from the dismembered torso. There was a feeling of movement, as if all the pieces were still tumbling down from the original sacrifice. Blood coated everything, its power pulsating in the air above the disk like a heat wave.

I knelt by the disk, and carefully extended a hand to touch the edge. There was a slight sound, like the tinkle of silver bells, and I felt the stone warm under my finger, the only warmth in the room, beating like a human heart, pulsating with Her anger and murderous rage, an urge to water the earth with my lifeblood, to tear me from limb to limb and inhale my dying breath, to scatter my essence within Herself until nothing remained…

"Acatl-tzin?"

With difficulty I tore myself from the stone and looked up at Teomitl. "She's still sealed here," I said. Otherwise I wouldn't just be remembering Her rage, I would be dead. The wards still held. The blood magic, renewed with the daily sacrifices of prisoners, was still as strong as ever.

I'd have breathed more easily, had the atmosphere of the room allowed it.

"You're sure," Teomitl said. "It's…" He knelt in turn, though he was careful never to touch the stone. "If She were to break free…"

Then She would regain the control of the star-demons, the creatures She had made in the distant past. She would stride forth as in the days before the Mexica Empire, hungry for blood and human hearts, eager to erase from the Fifth World all memory of Her brother's chosen people.

All gods were vicious and capricious, but Coyolxauhqui – She of the Silver Bells, who had once been goddess of the Moon – was the worst. The others could be cajoled with the proper offerings, bribed into protecting us; we were weak and amusing, but it was our blood that kept the sun in the sky, and our blood that kept Them satiated and powerful. Coyolxauhqui – She was war and fire and blood, and She would not rest until the Fifth Sun tumbled from the sky, and darkness covered Grandmother Earth from end to end, as in the very beginning.

"I know," I said. "But She's not free." Not yet. It was not only the blood of sacrifices that kept She of the Silver Bells imprisoned, but also the Revered Speaker, the living embodiment in the Fifth World of Southern Hummingbird's power.

And, at present, we had no Revered Speaker.

"Come on. Let's go back up," I said.

The return journey was much easier, as we climbed the weight lifted from our shoulders, and the constriction in our chests and necks gradually eased. The air grew warm again, and we emerged under the grey sky before dawn feeling almost refreshed.

Unfortunately, that feeling of relaxation lasted for perhaps a fraction of a moment. "Acatl," a familiar, imperious voice said. "I had a feeling you might be the one getting past the wards."

Of course. I turned and beheld Ceyaxochitl, the Guardian of the Empire, the keeper of the magical boundaries, resplendent under her feather headdress. She leant on a cane of red polished wood that had to have come from the far south, deep into Maya land.

She did not look sarcastic, for once, but by the gleam in her eyes I knew I was in for trouble.

"Star-demons," Ceyaxochitl said, thoughtfully. She had dragged us back to the Duality House, where slaves brought us bowls of cocoa and a light meal of fried newts and amaranth seeds. We sat around a reed mat in a small room at the back of the House, which opened onto one of the more private courtyards, a garden of marigolds and small palm trees. It was silent and deserted even at this hour of the morning, when every slave should have been out grinding the maize flour for today's meals.

As was her wont, Ceyaxochitl did not sit down. she remained standing, towering over us. The slaves finished laying out the meal on the mat, and withdrew, drawing the entrance-curtain closed in a tinkle of bells.

"Star-demons are to be expected," I said. But it was much too soon for them.

"Yes, yes," Ceyaxochitl said. "However, strictly speaking, the heart of the Great Temple is the province of Southern Hummingbird's High Priest, Acatl. Not yours."

"It doesn't seem like Quenami is over-preoccupied with stardemons," I said, with a touch of anger.

Ceyaxochitl sighed. "These are difficult times, Acatl. Fraught with intrigue."

"I know. That doesn't mean I have to like it," I said. Especially not when it risked supernatural creatures in the palace, or in the streets of the city.

"You never did," Teomitl said, with some amusement.

I threw him a warning glance. He might be making progress with the magic of living blood, but we were going to have to work on the respect side of things. "Apart from the impressive costume, you don't look very involved in the succession either."

Teomitl didn't react to the jibe. "I'm not in a position to influence that, so I just keep my head down."

"You're Tizoc-tzin's brother," I said. "Master of the House of Darts, if all goes his way." Though I still couldn't quite reconcile myself to the idea of Tizoc-tzin's ascension.

"Perhaps." Teomitl fingered the jade beads around his wrist – an unusual evasion for him, who always spoke his mind without worrying about the consequences.

Ceyaxochitl banged her cane on the ground. "Let's keep to the original subject, please."

I winced. Our relationship had always been rocky and had not improved much in the past year. When Ceyaxochitl set about to helping you, she would do what she judged best for you, whether you agreed or not. Needless to say, I seldom shared her point of view.

"What more do you want?" I asked. "Someone summoned a star-demon and tore a councillor to death in a heavily warded place. I had to make sure that it didn't come from She of the Silver Bells."

Ceyaxochitl nodded, but it took her some time. "A good idea. But still–"

"Look," I said, determined to put an end to that particular matter. "I know it's the province of the other two high priests. Right now, they're too busy trying to influence who will become Revered Speaker, or over-confident. I'd rather do it on my own than have the star-demons loose around us. You know that we're wide open now, vulnerable to pretty much anything. People will want to take advantage of that."

"I suppose," Ceyaxochitl said. She did not look overly happy. "Still, I have other things to do."

As Guardian of the Mexica Empire, she was the agent of the Duality, the source and the arbiter of the gods. Her work was to protect the life of the Revered Speaker and, when that life was ended, to set wards around the Empire in order to keep the star-demons and the monsters of the underworld at bay.

"Then, if you're busy, just leave me in peace," I said.

"Not so fast, Acatl." She banged her cane on the ground again. "You must know where this is going."

I raised an eyebrow. "If it's not She of the Silver Bells, then it's a sorcerer, determined to sow chaos among us. The first of many. It's not the grievances that lack." The Mexica Empire was made of subjugated populations from whom we demanded regular, sometimes exorbitant, tribute; and foreigners were many in Tenochtitlan, though most would be slaves or under some form of indenture.

It could also be someone trying to influence the succession by other means. But still, you'd have to be mad to do it by decimating the council, not when there were so many other means of influencing it.

"And how do you plan to find such a sorcerer?" Ceyaxochitl asked, shaking her head.

As usual, she called my competences into question. "I am not without resources. Magic, especially magic that powerful, will leave a trail."

"Yes, yes," Ceyaxochitl said, shaking her head as if I were still a wayward child. "You need help, Acatl."

"I have my order."

The corner of her lips curled up in a smile. "You do. But I was thinking of more massive resources."

Over the course of the night, I had faced two high priests and a vice-emperor, our most powerful god, and His imprisoned sister – not to mention that my last hour of sleep had been in the evening. I didn't have the patience to play along with her games of dominance any more. "Are you offering your help?"

"Of course. In recognition for past wrongs." She turned, and glanced through the entrance-curtain. The grey light was subtly changing colour, sunrise was not far away.

"Past wrongs?" A year ago, Ceyaxochitl had embroiled me in yet another set of intrigues, involving one of my brothers. She had not seen fit, though, to provide me with all the information at her disposal, or with more than a token assistance. The resulting conflagration had almost levelled Tenochtitlan; it had cost the life of my sister-in-law, and had tarred my family's reputation so thoroughly we were going to require years to even start our rehabilitation. "You'll excuse me if I'm not entirely ready to believe you're offering only out of remorse."

Her lips curled up again. "As I said before, you may not think it, but I always do things for your own good, Acatl."

And that was the problem. "Of course," I said. But I could ill afford to refuse her. "What did you have in mind?"

Ceyaxochitl had the grace not to look triumphant. "We'll keep a watch on the situation at the Imperial Court."

"You have information?"

"A little," Ceyaxochitl said. "I can tell you of the factions I know at court. Tizoc-tzin, the She-Snake, several of the princes, and the other rulers of the Triple Alliance, of course."

"Of course." Our brothers, our co-rulers in the Mexica Empire, dreaming, no doubt, of the day when they headed the Triple Alliance instead of being subservient to it. "They'll have sent runners to them."

Teomitl looked up from his bowl of cocoa. "It was done before you arrived, Acatl-tzin."

A blare of conch-shells and wooden drums cut us off. The Fifth Sun had risen outside. There was a pause, during which we all scratched our earlobes and spilled blood to honour His return, to pray for His continued existence and protection, even though Axayacatl-tzin's death had severed him from the Fifth World.

"In the place of light

You give life, You hide Yourself

In the place of clouds

Mirror which illuminates things

Follower of the Heaven's Path

Mirror which illuminates things…"

When it was over, Ceyaxochitl came back to the original discussion as if nothing in particular had happened – and, for her, perhaps it was the case. The Duality had no favourites. "The other two Revered Speakers of the Triple Alliance will be here in one, two days. The other rulers might take slightly longer, but then they don't have a vote in who wears the Turquoise-and-Gold Crown."

"But they still might be behind this, or give it their support."

"It's still only one isolated incident," Ceyaxochitl said carefully.

"Yes," I said. "It might be personal. It might be isolated. But the odds are that it won't remain so for long. Other people will emulate it. The usual barriers against summonings are weak, and everyone will know that." The emptiness in the fabric of the Fifth World was still there, an itch at the back of our minds – a hole that would only be filled by a new Revered Speaker.

Teomitl spoke in the silence with the voice of one used to command. "We must show our strength. And fast."

I thought of She of the Silver Bells, of Her hunger, of Her rage that we still dared to be alive, to imprison Her anew with every sacrifice, every drop of blood we shed in honour of Her brother Huitzilpochtli.

We had to show our strength, or we would be broken without recourse.

THREE

The Threat from Within

We walked out of the Duality House into a beautiful morning, the sun overhead already warming our limbs. It was the dry season, a time when we should have been preparing for war, but the death of the Revered Speaker had slightly postponed the preparations. The next war we launched would be the Coronation War, when the new ruler would prove his valour on the battlefield.

The Sacred Precinct, like most of its priests, awoke early. Because of Axayacatl-tzin's death, the plaza was already crowded. Novice priests scurried on errands to the marketplace. Some had already come back, carrying cages with offerings ranging from rabbits to monkeys. Nearby a fire priest and two offering priests led a chalkpainted sacrifice victim to the altar. The man walked with casual arrogance, proud of being selected for a glorious death, eager to rejoin the Fifth Sun's Heaven.

"I'll see you home," Teomitl said.

"I don't need–"

He smiled, in familiar, dazzling arrogance. The sunlight caught the gold on his wrists and around his neck, and mingled the blinding reflections with the radiance of his magical protection. In that moment, he did indeed look imperial, as if some of his brother's glory had rubbed off on him, some radiance passed between them. "We have star-demons among us."

"Just one so far." I hoped fervently there wouldn't be more.

Teomitl spread his hands. "You walk like a dead soul, Acatl-tzin. If anything happened…"

"I seem to remember you're the student, and I the teacher," I said, somewhat acidly.

Teomitl's smile was wide and innocent. "Isn't that proper respect? Attending to your master's needs?"

And I was the Consort of the Emperor. "Walk with me if you want. But for company, not for protection." Or, Duality forbid, for mothering me.

"As you wish." Teomitl fell in step by my side. People turned as we passed. I was still in full regalia, and the refined costume Teomitl wore could only have come from the Court. "

So," I asked. "How is Mihmatini?"

Teomitl had met my younger sister a year ago, and had been immediately attracted to her, and she likewise. I had grudgingly given my approval to the relationship, suspecting all the while that it would go nowhere. An imperial prince was not free to marry as he chose. Teomitl's principal wife would likely come from one of the neighbouring cities, as a token of goodwill and good conduct.

But, to my surprise, it still seemed to be holding, a year on, despite Mihmatini's acid tongue and Teomitl's carefree manners.

However, when I asked that question, Teomitl grimaced.

"Trouble under Heaven?" I asked.

He waved a hand, airily. "Nothing that need concern you, Acatltzin. Your sister is as lovely as ever."

And she'd likely tear his head off if he attempted flattery like that. "Teomitl."

His gaze met mine, defiant. "I will soon be Master of the House of Darts, member of the inner council. No one can tell me what to do."

My heart contracted. I couldn't help it. Reason told me that, of course, someone would step in, someone would want to bring the wayward prince back into the norms, but still… Still, whenever she thought of him, Mihmatini's whole demeanour would soften, and her face shine like marigolds in the gloom. Teomitl would make excuses to leave our magic lessons early, so he could casually drop by the house and see her, even if it was with a chaperone. "Someone doesn't agree," I said.

"I could fight one man." Teomitl's voice was low, intense. "Barring a few who are much too strong. But it's bigger than that, Acatl-tzin."

"The Court?" I asked.

Teomitl shook his head, and wouldn't answer no matter how hard I pressed him. Finally, he changed the subject with a characteristic, airy dismissal. "Enough about me. This isn't the time. More is at stake than my pathetic little self."

I had to admit that he was right, though I didn't like the way he was behaving. Teomitl was honest and loud, and seldom held grudges. If he was bitter, it was never for long, his natural resiliency allowing him to get past it without trouble. This time it sounded as though they had got to him, whoever "they" were.

We'd reached my house. Unlike the residences of the other two high priests, which were within the palace, mine was a small adobe building set around an even smaller courtyard with a lone pine tree over a covered well. The only concession to my status was the two storied house. Tall houses were reserved for the nobility or the high ranks of the priesthood.

"I'll see you at the palace, then," I said.

Teomitl shook his head. "I'll be outside, Acatl-tzin."

I started to protest, but he cut me off. "I know you. You'd just sneak out in a few moments if I left. Go get some sleep."

"And you?"

Teomitl eyed the exterior of the house. "It looks like a comfortable adobe wall," he said, deadpan.

"With your finery? I'd be surprised."

"It's just cloth and feathers," Teomitl said, with the casualness of those who had never lacked for anything in their lives. "The imperial artisans can weave them again."

"I'm sure," I said. My bones ached, and my hands were quivering. I wasn't sure how long I could argue with him successfully, especially since, even awake and fresh, I always found myself losing. Teomitl was very persuasive, and as stubborn as a jaguar tracking prey. "Fine. I'll be kinder to your clothes than you seem to be. You might as well come inside."

• • • •

I'm not sure what Teomitl busied himself with when I was sleeping, but I woke up to find him still sitting in the courtyard, glaring at the lone pine tree as if it had personally tarnished his reputation.

I itched to put on something simpler, but since we were going back to the palace, I couldn't shed the regalia. I did tie the skullmask to my belt, in a prominent position that left the hollow eyes and sunken cheeks visible: it would remain visible, but not hamper me any longer.

We went to Lord Death's temple first, where I checked with Ichtaca that things were going on as foreseen, the suspicious deaths investigated, the funeral vigils taken care of, the illegal summoners arrested and tried. I mentioned, briefly, the body of the councillor. Ichtaca frowned. "That's trouble. Do you want more people?"

I shook my head. Many of the priests were already at the palace, taking part in the elaborate rituals that would culminate in the Revered Speaker's funeral. "You're overstretched already. I'll take those at the palace."

We took a brief meal in the temple with Ichtaca, maize flatbreads with spices, and a drink of maguey sap. Then Teomitl and I walked back together to the palace. I couldn't help casting a glance in the direction of the Great Temple, but the only activity going on seemed to be the usual sacrifices. The altar was slick with blood, and the body of a man was tumbling down the steps, its chest gaping open. Blood followed it, a slow, lazy trail that exuded a magic even I could feel. But I could see the other magic, the white, faint radiance trapped underneath, the anger that possessed Coyolxauhqui. She of the Silver Bells would not forgive, or forget, or relent in any way.

It was past noon. The Fifth Sun overhead battered us with His glare. On the steps leading up to the palace massed a group of priests clad in blue cloaks, embroidered with the fused lover insignia of the Duality. They were tracing glyphs on the ground with a set of twined reeds. Most other orders would have shed blood, but the Duality deemed blood offerings unnecessary.

At their head was a man I knew all too well: Yaotl, Ceyaxochitl's personal slave. He'd never looked less like a slave, though; his neck was bare, unencumbered by any wooden collar, his cotton cloak was richly embroidered, his cheeks painted blue and black, the same colour as the priests' cloaks.

"Ah, Acatl," he said, his scarred face splitting into a smile. He did not venture any explanation, which did not surprise me. Like his mistress, Yaotl often kept me in the dark, but made no pretence of altruism; it was purely for his own amusement.

I summoned my priest-senses, and took a look at the stairs. The glyphs drawn before the entrance shone for a moment, before sinking into the stone. A fine coating of light had always hung around the palace, the protective wards that kept the high nobility safe, but now the light was growing warmer, clearer. The stone under us was quivering with power, like a heart barely torn out of a chest.

"Reinforcing the wards?" I asked.

"I see your observation skills are as keen as ever." Yaotl cast an amused glance to the sandstone face of the palace, with its frescoes depicting the end of the migration from the heartland, and the founding of Tenochtitlan on the spot where the Fifth Sun's eagle had perched on an agave cactus, gorging himself on a human heart.

"Why now?" I asked.

"As a precaution," Yaotl said. He shook his head, as if to clear a persistent thought. "Huitzilpochtli is already watching here, but He is weak. Mistress Ceyaxochitl thinks help wouldn't hurt."

"Where is she?" I asked. "Inside the palace?"

Yaotl nodded. I looked again at the light. It was now tinged with the blue, peaceful radiance of the Duality, but the structure underneath, the magic of the Southern Hummingbird woven in daily layers, was more than solid. Even weakened by Axayacatl-tzin's death, it was impregnable.

"It doesn't need help," I said, aloud. "They hold."

"Observation at work once again," Yaotl said.

No, that wasn't the problem. "It was summoned inside the palace."

"The star-demon?" Teomitl asked.

I nodded. I had been wrong. It wasn't just some foreign sorcerer with a grievance against us. It had to be someone who had access inside.

To be sure, there were means to bribe palace servants, but this wasn't just a matter of someone scouting out the weaknesses of the palace guard. The summoning had to have been done inside the wards, from beginning to end, which implied two things. First, the summoner was enormously skilled, which only confirmed what I already knew. Second, the field of suspects had just been drastically limited. The pillars of the entrance were enchanted, and a sorcerer without Court accreditation wouldn't have been able to pass between them.

So, not just any sorcerer, but a member of the Court with access to magic. I would need to check who was on the list of accreditations.

I added this to the growing number of things I was going to need men for. I hated taking people away from the Revered Speaker's funeral, which should have been my priority, but if there was a summoner of star-demons loose in there…

Teomitl turned, to look at the protective spells over the gates with a dubious frown.

The Storm Lord blind me, whoever had done this was extremely well prepared. Not only had they managed to find someone on the inside, but they had also been ready to do their summoning in the hours that had followed Axayacatl-tzin's death.

I didn't like the sound of that.

The first thing I did upon entering the palace was to go to the Revered Speaker's rooms. I found the guards at the gates in a state of alert. I assumed they had been apprised by the She-Snake on the murder, and were holding themselves ready for anything.

Inside, the burly offering Priest Palli was watching as two dozen priests for the Dead prepared the corpse for its funeral. A quincunx of blood spread across the tiled floor, with the faint greenish tinge of Mictlan's breath. The priests were all chanting hymns, calling on the minor deities of the underworld; except two, who were busy undressing the former Revered Speaker. Clothing was all-important: the mummy bundle that would be burnt would be made of dozens of layers of many-coloured cotton, each added with the proper beseeching to the gods, each garnished with gems, amulets and gold and silver jewellery.

Palli nodded to me when I entered, but waited until the current hymn was finished to move outside the blood quincunx. "Acatltzin. As you can see, we have matters well in hand."

I nodded. The forms looked to be respected. The room itself was pulsing with a presence like a burst dam, the breath of the river that separated the underworld from the Fifth World. Everything was well taken care of. "No doubt of that." I hesitated; but it was still something that needed to be done. "How many could you spare?"

Palli looked dubious. "I could without half, but the rituals would progress more slowly…"

"No matter," I said. "The funeral isn't going to be for a while anyway." Not if the other high priests had their way.

"It's about the body, I assume."

I nodded. "It looks like the summoning of what killed that man was done from inside. I need one person sent to the registers, to check up on the accreditations of all the sorcerers."

"You don't mean–"

"I'm not sure what I mean," I said, darkly. "But watch your step, definitely."

Palli nodded. "I can do that, but…"

"I know." It was going to be a long list. Most noblemen had access to magic, if only for their protective spells. If they didn't have a pet sorcerer, they were sorcerers themselves; and that didn't count the numerous priests and magistrates who came here, either in the service of their temples or in the service of the Imperial Courts.

"And the others?" Palli asked.

"I want them to search the palace. If a summoning was done here, it should show." The magic wouldn't be washed away, not so easily. "Every room, every courtyard. There has to be a place we can find." It was the timing I didn't like: the murder of Ocome had taken place barely one hour after the death of the Revered Speaker. This suggested… planning. Someone, somewhere had held themselves ready for an opening, knowing it couldn't be long until the ailing Revered Speaker passed into Mictlan.

Palli grimaced again, an expression he was a little bit too fond of. "I'll see who I can spare. For the ritual's end…"

Only the High Priest for the Dead could ease a soul's passage into the underworld. "I'll be there." One way or another. I wouldn't rob a dead man to serve another one.

I just hoped the corpses would stop arriving.

• • • •

Teomitl and I dropped briefly by Ocome's room, which still stank of death. Two guards were keeping watch by the entrance-curtain, looking as if they would have given anything to be elsewhere.

In the room itself, there was not much new to see: the magic was slowly dissipating, absorbed by the wards. I'd expected the scattered gobs of flesh would have started to rot, but they remained in the same state, as if the star-demon's removal of the soul had put a stop to the decomposition process.

I'd made more cheerful discoveries. No matter; he would still burn on his funeral pyre as well as any corpse, provided we could scrape the flesh from the floor and from the walls. For once, I was glad to be High Priest, which meant someone further down the hierarchy would do the exhausting, distasteful work.

When we came out in the courtyard in the dim light of late afternoon, I turned towards the burliest of the guards. "How long ago were you assigned to this room?"

I could see him hesitating, his eyes roving over my regalia, weighing the possibility that he could get away with a lie.

It was his companion who spoke, a much thinner man, with the white lines of scars crisscrossing his legs identifying him as a veteran of some battlefield. He held his macuahitl sword – a wooden club studded with obsidian shards – with the ease of those who had carried it nearly all their lives. "We've been guarding this place for three weeks."

"I see," I said. And, as casually as I could, "I take it you weren't standing guard when this happened?"

The burly guard grimaced. "We thought we heard something on the other side of the courtyard, so we went to investigate."

"And didn't come back?" This from Teomitl, who had been standing with one hand on the entrance-curtain.

The guard grimaced again. "It turned out to be nothing, but we still wanted to make sure. I went to ask the others who were on guard in the next courtyard." He wouldn't meet my gaze, but in any case I knew he was lying. His companion the veteran was even less talkative.

"Really?" Teomitl started, but I lifted a hand.

"Someone called you away?"

The burly guard had the grace not to answer; the veteran shifted uncomfortably. There was a light in his eyes I couldn't read, anger or fear, or a bit of both. What had been promised to them, in exchange for their silence?

I sighed. Whoever had done this had influence, a currency I was short on. "You do know who this is?" I asked, pointing to Teomitl, who stood up even straighter. "Tizoc-tzin's brother, who will soon become Master of the House of Darts. Do you truly wish to lie to him?"

The burly guard shook his head, a minute gesture that he stopped before it became too visible, but it had already betrayed him. He didn't believe in Tizoc-tzin; or at least, didn't want him to wear the Turquoise-and-Gold Crown.

I didn't know whether to be relieved I wasn't the only one to dislike Tizoc-tzin, or terrified that the divisions within the Court ran so deep.

"I can have them dismissed," Teomitl said. His gaze was on me, his whole stance had hardened. This wasn't my student anymore, but the man who would one day become Revered Speaker. "Master of the House of Darts or not, I'm still imperial blood."

The guards' faces did not move, but the veteran's hands clenched around his macuahitl sword, slightly tilting it towards us. The obsidian shards embedded in the wood glinted in the sunlight.

"My lord," the burly guard said, cautiously. "We don't seek to deny you, but surely you must understand that there are higher powers–"

Teomitl cut the guard off with a stab of his hand. A pale green light was dancing in his pupils, the power of Jade Skirt, his protector. The Duality only knew what he thought Chalchiuhtlicue could accomplish in this situation. She was more subtle than her husband the Storm Lord, but not by much.

I was slightly taken aback, but not surprised. Teomitl had absolutely no sense of humour when his face and his heart were questioned, or his reputation cast in doubt.

Better stop this before it went too far. Given the tense atmosphere of the palace, I had no intention of explaining why my student had attacked two guards. "Teomitl."

He lifted his eyes – ageless, cruel, malicious – towards me. "They're wasting our time with lies."

"Yes," I said, carefully. "I think dismissing them would be enough, don't you? There's been a lot of blood shed."

For a moment I saw not him but Jade Skirt in the murky reflections within his eyes, in the way he seemed to grow taller. "There is never enough blood, priest," She whispered, Her gaze piercing my flesh, holding me squirming like a fish on a pike. Distant, rhythmic voices whispering in my mind, like songs through underwater caves and then She left, the divinity draining out of Teomitl like water through a pierced vessel.

If I was shocked for a moment, and had to pause to recover my breath, it was nothing compared to the guards. The colour had gone from their faces, leaving them as white as sacrifice victims or drowned bodies.

The veteran looked from his colleague to Teomitl, and finally spat on the ground. "Who cares about her?" he said. "She's not even Mexica. It was Xahuia-tzin, my Lord. She asked us."

Xahuia was one of Axayacatl-tzin's oldest wives, the daughter of Nezahualcoyotl, former ruler of our neighbour Texcoco, given to the Mexica Revered Speaker in marriage to cement the Triple Alliance. Her father had been a canny politician, and he had no doubt taught her all she would need to survive at Court. I was a fool; I had been so obsessed on imagining foreigners within the city that I had forgotten the most obvious, those already in the palace.

"What did she want?" I asked.

"An interview with Ocome," the veteran said, cautiously. "She had an offer to make."

"And she asked you?" Teomitl's voice was contemptuous.

The burly guard, still visibly shaken, said, "Xahuia-tzin wanted us to let her inside, and leave her alone with him. She said he wouldn't dare throw her out if she could find her way into his rooms, that turning her away at the door was one matter, but once inside, she'd have enough time to speak to him."

I didn't ask what Xahuia had wanted to speak to him about; it was obvious. Ocome, as Teomitl had said, was small and insignificant, a failure by his family's standards, except now, at the one moment when his opinion would make a difference.

"So Xahuia came here," I said. "And you left?" The body had been discovered in the middle of the night, around the Hour of Lord Death; but the death could have occurred well before that.

The guards glanced at each other. "Yes, soon after nightfall. She said she'd warn us when she was done."

And they hadn't returned until the She-Snake sought them out, which made a good four hours unaccounted for. Four hours left unguarded.

By their gazes, they knew they'd made a mistake; and I didn't need to tell them. I wondered how much Xahuia had offered, what riches she'd turned their heads with. And why she'd wanted them away, at all costs. What was it that she'd done, that warranted total privacy?

The answer seemed obvious, a little too much so.

"I see," I said.

"About the dismissal–" the burly guard started, but the veteran cut him off.

"There is something else you should know, my Lord."

I wasn't quite sure if he'd addressed me or Teomitl; but Teomitl was the one who reacted fastest, inclining his head towards the man in a grave, regal fashion. The feathers of his headdress bent, like hundreds of birds bowing at the same time. "What is it?" he asked.

"He was a man much in demand," the veteran said. His lips curled into a smirk. "Many people came to see him, the other councilmen, Tizoc-tzin, Quenami-tzin, and Acamapichtli-tzin."

The Master of the House of Darts, and my two peers. Not much surprise here.

"There were envoys, too," the veteran said. "They came two or three times, and they didn't look very friendly."

"What envoys?"

"They had blackened faces, and heron-feathers spread in a circle around their heads. It was silent inside when they came." He paused, and smiled without much amusement. "I imagined they didn't find it necessary to talk much."

"Intimidation?" Teomitl asked. The wrath of his protector Jade Skirt was creeping back into his features. Had the boy learnt nothing in a year? He seemed barely able to control his powers tonight.

"It's to be expected," I said, more dryly than I'd intended to. "Threats or rewards are the way you move the world." Even with gods – the only thing that changed were that the stakes, desires or fears had nothing in common with mortals. "When was the last time they came?"

The veteran thought for a while. "Three, four days ago. They might have come while we weren't on guard, though."

Odd. Why had they ceased coming? Had they got what they wanted?

"How long ago did Ocome shift his allegiance?" I asked Teomitl.

He made a dismissive gesture. "More than ten days ago, Acatltzin. That's not it."

It didn't quite make sense. Was there yet another faction, or had one of the visitors decided to send others to intimidate instead of coming in person?

Teomitl nodded to the veteran. "Thank you," he said. He looked at both of them, his eyes narrowing. "Which doesn't excuse the fault."

"My lord–" the burly guard started, but the veteran shushed him.

"I'll take it into consideration," Teomitl said. "In the meantime, you'd better think on what you've done."

He waited until we were out of earshot to speak. "Gods, what fools."

I didn't know why I felt moved to defend them. "You don't know what she offered them."

"I can guess." His face was still as harsh as carved jade. "Gold, feathers, silver. They're no better than Ocome, they'd rather trample their faces and hearts than be destitute."

"Many men would," I said, at last. As High Priest for the Dead, I oversaw inquiries into all kinds of suspicious deaths; and I knew all too well the depths to which the human soul could sink. "Not everyone has your fortitude." Or his fortune, indeed.

"That's no excuse," Teomitl said, a trifle abruptly.

I had seldom seen him like that; it was in moments like these that I felt much younger than him, less hardened to life at Court. I knew that his tutors at the palace had taken him back in hand since last year, but it was as if his brother's death had cracked open a shell, revealing a pearl stuck inside, so luminous and warm that it would burn whoever touched it.

"Well, I hope it's not Xahuia," I said, as we walked out. It was evening, and the palace bustle was slowing down; the braziers' red light shone in the rising gloom. Time to find some dinner, and then head home. It had been a short day which had started late, because of the sleeplessness last night.

"Why?" He looked puzzled. "That would finish the investigation quickly."

"And launch us into a war with Texcoco." The Revered Speaker of Texcoco, Nezahual-tzin, had acceded his throne when young with the support of Tenochtitlan. At sixteen, he remained a beleaguered young man eager to prove himself to his detractors. If we executed his sister, he would at the very least want compensation for her death, if not use the pretext to unify his people against us.

"We'd win the war in any case," Teomitl said. He sounded smug. "We have twice their strength, and the better men."

"I don't think we need that kind of war on our hands right now." As usual, he thought like a warrior first and I, no matter how high I'd risen, would always think like a peasant. His numbers presumed every single able man was pulled from the fields, which would be disastrous for the harvest. Glory was all well and good but not even the warriors would have food if the harvest was not gathered.

"Acatl-tzin." He shook his head, mildly amused. I wasn't entirely sure I liked the way his careless arrogance was turning into something much more contemptuous.

But, then again, I knew exactly who he was borrowing from, and I'd never liked the man's arrogance.

His brother, Tizoc-tzin, perhaps our next Revered Speaker.

I shook my head. "In any case, we need to arrange protection for the remaining councillors." I would have done it myself, but my patron Lord Death wasn't exactly a god of protection against anything.

Teomitl barked a short laugh. "I'm not a priest."

"You're watched over by a goddess, though," I said, but I knew he was right.

Teomitl looked dubious. "I'm not really sure…"

I shook my head. "No, you're right." Any spells Teomitl worked were likely to be large and unsubtle, and shine like a beacon. They might protect, but they'd also draw unwelcome attention. "We'll offer them protection from the Duality." I was sure Ceyaxochitl wouldn't mind. She might groan and protest a little theatrically if she was in a bad mood, but she would understand the stakes.

She always did.

There were many feasts that night in the palace, loud and boisterous, the various candidates for the Turquoise-and-Gold crown showing their largesse and gathering their support. Teomitl, who disliked pomp, led us to the courtyard just outside his rooms, where we sat under the night sky, eating a simple meal of frogs and amaranth dough.

Afterwards, I headed back to my house to sleep – deeply and without dreams. The trumpets of the Sacred Precincts proclaiming the return of the Fifth Sun woke me up just before dawn. I got up, dressed, and found Teomitl already waiting for me, as much at ease as if it had been his own inner quarters he was sitting in, instead of under the lone pine tree in my courtyard.

"I could have picked you up on my way," I said.

He smiled at me sweetly, innocently. "The palace is a dangerous place, Acatl-tzin."

I snorted, but made no further comment.

"Where to?"

"The council," I said; time to see if we could get answers out of them.

We entered the palace through the gates, where Yaotl's wards shone in the sunlight, and headed towards the state room. We were perhaps halfway to it, bypassing the House of Animals where cages held everything from webbed-foot capybaras to dazzling quetzalbirds, when someone called out.

"Acatl!"

It was Quenami. The High Priest of Huitzilpochtli the Southern Hummingbird appeared to have found another set of ceremonial clothes: a heavy feather headdress falling on his back, and huge plumes hanging from his belt, spread like the wings of a hummingbird. He smiled at me with paternal condescension, never mind that he was the younger one here. "Just the man I wanted to see. Come, we need to see the council, and reassure them that nothing is wrong."

Treating me like a peer when it suited him, not that I was surprised. "We were already on our way."

If I'd expected to faze him, I was disappointed. "Perfect. Then let's go together."

I hid my grimace of distaste as best as I could, and fell in step next to him. He was going to be surprised, though, if he thought what I had to say was going to reassure the council.

We had a powerful summoner within the palace, capable of calling star-demons, and ruthlessly determined to influence the succession. Unless things went their way, I very much doubted that they would stop at the murder of one councilman.

Our only hope was to catch them before they struck again.

FOUR

The Council's Quarrels

The state room was on the ground floor, below the Revered Speaker's reception room. To reach it we crossed the courtyard, which, in daylight, was now deserted, order having presumably been restored by the She-Snake's men.

By the noise that came through the entrance-curtain, the council was locked in a bitter discussion. I did not relish having to take part in it, but I also knew that anger made evasions more difficult. I might learn things I wouldn't have found out from clear-headed men.

Teomitl touched my arm as Quenami lifted the entrance-curtain. "Acatl-tzin."

"Yes?"

"I won't be much use in here." His eyes were fierce, still lit with something close to battle-frenzy. "I'll go ask around, to see whose envoys they were. There aren't that many liveries in the palace."

I doubted that whoever had sent the envoys would have been so transparent, but, then again, I might be surprised. Subtlety wasn't the hallmark of the nobility. They were all warriors, over-obsessed with their faces and their hearts. I nodded. Teomitl straightened up in a brief salute, and strode away.

Lucky man. I'd have given much not to have to face the whole council. With a sigh, I followed Quenami inside.

Like the reception room, the state room had been calculated to impress, painted with rich frescoes of Huitzilpochtli striding forth on the battlefield, holding four spears in His left hand, and a reed shield in His right. The Southern Hummingbird's face, arms and legs were painted the deep blue of imperial tunics, and a huge eagle hovered over Him, its wings spread out over the whole of the Heavens.

The council sat on reed mats spread around the room. In the centre was a light lunch of maize wraps with mushrooms and frogs.

They were all men, most of middle age or older. One of them in particular looked old enough to have seen the founding of the Triple Alliance. He sat like a king, wrapped in intricate magical protections that clung tight to his body. No doubt he was the council's leader in magic, if not in politics.

Tizoc-tzin was still nowhere to be see, but furthest away from the entrance was the She-Snake, engaged in what looked like a heated debate with his neighbour, a middle-aged man with a round face and traits reminiscent of an older Teomitl.

Quenami released the entrance-curtain. Whatever I thought about the son of a dog, I had to at least admit that his sense of timing was impeccable. The bells jangled and jarred against each other, and every gaze in the room turned towards us.

"Ah, the high priests," the She-Snake said. He gestured towards us. "Why don't you sit down and join us?"

"I think not." Quenami's voice was as cutting as cold obsidian. "We're not here to pour chillies on the fire."

"Are you not?" The She-Snake's voice was measured and pleasant, much in the same way that the song of an ahuizotl waterbeast was pleasant; a prelude to being dragged down, drowned and torn apart. "You're not part of this council, Quenami."

Quenami did not give ground. "I stand for Huitzilpochtli, and you would do well to remember it."

The She-Snake raised an eyebrow. "So do I. Have you forgotten? In the absence of the Revered Speaker, the She-Snake is the ruler of the land. If it helps make the point, I'll start eating behind a golden screen, and forbid any man to look me in the eye. Though I'd prefer not, it would be unseemly."

During his speech, I'd been surreptitiously looking at the council, trying to gauge their mood. They sat unmoving, their gazes alter nating between the She-Snake and Quenami. The overall atmosphere was tense, far too tense. Several of them were sweating, as if in fear for their lives. No wonder, with a summoner of stardemons loose in the palace.

Quenami glared at the She-Snake, obviously preparing a withering response. "Look," I started, at the same time as the She-Snake's neighbour, the round-faced man, got up.

"I don't think this petty quarrel is the reason you came here," he said, and he was looking straight at me. Now that my attention was focused on him, I could remember seeing him several times at Court. His name was Manatzpa, a brother of Axayacatl-tzin's father, making him therefore Teomitl's and Tizoc-tzin's uncle. He was Master of the Worm on the Maize Blade, among his duties was the collection of the tribute from the conquered provinces.

I shook my head. "I came with questions. As you all know, there has been a death in the palace tonight."

Several members shifted uncomfortably. Manatzpa nodded. "Ocome. Not a popular man."

"I take it you didn't like him?" I asked him, bluntly. He sounded congenial enough, and I doubted he'd be vexed by my honesty.

"None of us did. But I, no." Manatzpa smiled. "You'll discover soon enough that I threatened to dismiss him from the council."

"Something you had no right to do." Quenami's face was filled with self-righteous outrage.

"Oh, Quenami," the She-Snake said with a shake of his head. "You're far too concerned with propriety."

"Propriety?" Quenami drew himself to his full height. "You speak of the rites of Huitzilpochtli? They have kept us alive. They have allowed us to survive She of the Silver Bells, and a century of migration in the marshes. They will allow us to survive those shadowed days, if we're willing to follow them."

More than a few council members looked embarrassed. Quenami, as subtly as ever, had reminded them that, in the first days of the Mexica Empire, the Revered Speaker had chosen his heir before his death, and the council's role had only been to approve that choice. By that logic, Tizoc-tzin should have been elected Revered Speaker without much fuss. But, over the years, the councilmen had gained influence and prerogatives, and now they would not be content with merely confirming Axayacatl-tzin's opinion.

Well, at least I knew exactly where Quenami stood. Not that I was surprised, since Tizoc-tzin had appointed him in the first place.

Manatzpa's face had turned smooth, unreadable. "Believe me, the last thing we want is chaos, Quenami-tzin." He turned again towards me. "Acatl-tzin, I imagine you still have questions?"

If glances could kill, Quenami would have struck me dead on the spot. Then again, the man had asked me to come with him, so he had only himself to blame.

"Yes. You said you had tried to get Ocome dismissed from the council. Why?"

"Oh, come, Acatl." Manatzpa smiled. "By now, you must know what Ocome was like. He was a liability to this council. His only use was as an indicator of which direction the Fifth Sun would shine. We're the high council, not stalks bending to the slightest breath of wind. He made us all a disgrace."

I could see his colleagues as he spoke, several of them nodding to the rhythm of his words, others carefully unreadable. Very few people seemed to disagree outright.

It looked like I was not going to lack suspects.

"It's hardly a reason to commit murder, though," Manatzpa said. "There are more civilised ways to solve our quarrels."

"Even when precedents aren't on your side?" This from Quenami, who had obviously not forgotten his curt dismissal.

Manatzpa did not even bother looking at him. "Not everyone considers death a viable solution. Believe me, if I'd really wanted him out of this council, I'd have found a way. Enough pressure in the right places…"

"Such as envoys?" I asked.

Manatzpa looked puzzled. "I don't understand what you mean."

"Someone sent envoys to Ocome regularly," I said. "With threats, in all likelihood. And the chances are it's someone in this room."

Or Tizoc-tzin, or Acamapichtli, or Xahuia, the princess from Texcoco. But I didn't say that aloud. I just watched them. Several members of the council were looking distinctly uncomfortable, bearing the waxy hue typical of guilty men.

There'd only been one set of envoys, though. Why did so many of them look so nervous?

"Look," I said. "I need to speak with you, that's all. Work out where you're standing."

"That doesn't concern you." Manatzpa's voice was hard.

"It might," I said. "Someone is obviously trying to meddle in the succession. I wouldn't care if they had poisoned Ocome or stabbed him, or crushed his head. But they summoned a star-demon to do it, and that comes within my province." And Quenami's, and Acamapichtli's, but neither of them had made much effort to deal with that so far.

Manatzpa eyed me for a while, as if gauging my worth, but he did not move. At length he relented. "I suppose," he said. "But let's do this somewhere else, Acatl-tzin."

Manatzpa and I repaired to a smaller room in an adjacent courtyard, an almost bare affair, with only a few frescoes showing our ancestors within the seven caves of the heartland, before Huitzilpochtli sent them on their migration to found a city and an empire that would spread over the whole Fifth World.

He sat for a while, cross-legged, as impassive as a statue of a god or an obsidian mask, waiting for me to make the first move. I sat down on the other side of the reed mat. "You look like one of the most active members of the council."

Manatzpa inclined his head, gracefully. "If you mean that I view this appointment as more than a sinecure, yes." He must have seen my face, for he laughed. "Expecting more evasions? I dislike deception, Acatl-tzin."

I very much doubted that he'd risen so high on honesty alone. Teomitl was the only member of the imperial court I'd met who preferred bluntness to flattery, and while I couldn't help but like him for it, I was also aware that it made his survival at court much more difficult. "Let's say I believe you," I said. "If you're determined to be so honest, tell me this. Who do you support as Revered Speaker?"

Something like a smile lifted up the corners of Manatzpa's thin lips. "Tizoc-tzin is a weak fool. He has the support of the army's core, but not much else. He lacks the… stature to fill the role he wants to claim. The foreign princeling – Xahuia's son – he has her support and that of her followers, but he is a spoiled brat, nothing like the ruler we'd wish for.

"The She-Snake," and here Manatzpa sounded almost regretful, "he has the ambition, and the greatness within him. But it would set an uncomfortable precedent. His father refused the honour of the Turquoise-and-Gold Crown, and justly so. There is a place for the She-Snake, and one for the Revered Speaker. Male and female, violence and order-keeping; you cannot mix both."

"And the high priests?" I asked, fascinated in spite of myself.

"We both know where Quenami stands." Manatzpa sounded amused. "Especially after tonight. You, Acatl-tzin, obviously have no ambition. " He lifted a hand to forestall any objection I might have. "Understand me, I say this as a compliment. To keep the balance is knowing your place in the order of things. I respect this."

That we could agree on, if nothing else. "And Acamapichtli?"

"Tlaloc's High Priest is also ambitious. The Storm Lord made a grab for power last year, after all. Though Acamapichtli's participation has not been proved, I wouldn't swear that he has the best interests of the Fifth World at stake."

Me neither. Last year, he had also been quite busy trying to convict my brother Neutemoc on false evidence. I'd have to speak with him, if I could keep my calm long enough to do that. Better purge the abscess before it could fester.

"So you stand for no one?" I asked. "To have no candidate–"

"Is to wish for the star-demons to walk among us, I know. But consider, Acatl-tzin. The Revered Speaker is the embodiment of Huitzilpochtli, the vessel through which the Southern Hummingbird's divine powers can spread into the Fifth World. A flawed vessel just means a flawed protection. Is that what you wish for?"

"No," I said. It was one of the reasons I couldn't wholly support Tizoc-tzin, even though I knew he had been Axayacatl-tzin's choice of heir. "But still, every day that we temporise looking for perfection…"

Manatzpa inclined his head. "Make no mistake. If I can't have what I wish for, I'll settle for a flawed vessel rather than none at all. But I'd rather try to sway the council towards a more suitable choice of candidate."

"Who?" I asked. I couldn't see any other suitable candidate, anyone who'd have the stature of a Revered Speaker.

Manatzpa looked away. "Forgive me. To name him would be pointless, since he has so little support."

I frowned. "I don't want mysterious factions within the council, Manatzpa-tzin. I need to know…"

"You need to know who killed Ocome," Manatzpa said. "I can give you my word that my candidate isn't involved in this. He couldn't have been, since he doesn't even know of my support for him."

"Your word?"

"As I said, I despise deception. I'll swear it by my face, by my heart. May I lose both if I have been deceitful."

I watched him, trying to gauge his sincerity. His eyes shone in his moon-shaped face, burning with a fire I wasn't sure how to interpret. "Fine," I said, not sure if I could believe him. "But if it comes to a point when I need his name…"

"Come back and speak with me," Manatzpa said. "I'll help you. My word."

"I see," I said. "What else can you tell me about the council?"

He appeared relieved by my change of subject, and launched into a tirade on the various members, dissecting them in small, neat sketches. He was obviously a keen observer of men, and he had had enough time to read the currents of the council.

There wasn't much to be learnt. The council was nearly evenly split between the She-Snake and Tizoc-tzin, with a few supporting Xahuia. It was a bleak picture, promising endless days of debates before a clear vote could even be reached, days during which the star-demons would grow closer and closer to us, not to mention opportunities for the summoner to call more demons to roam the palace.

"You have no influence…" I started.

Manatzpa spread his long, elegant hands on the reed mat, palms up in a gesture of powerlessness. "I'm just a man, Acatl-tzin. I speak for the council in matters of law, which makes my word respected. But, at times like this, it's not enough to make them remember anything but their own good."

Great. I prayed that the Duality was indeed watching over us, because the days ahead promised to be fraught and messy at best.

"And about Ocome?" I asked.

"I've told you what I knew about Ocome. Truth is," he smiled at that, "most people would have leapt at the chance to get rid of him. A vote is a vote, but one you can't trust…"

"Did anyone have a quarrel with him?" I asked. "I mean, more than usual?"

Manatzpa thought for a while. "I know the She-Snake had words with him. But then again, he had words with everyone."

Clearly, Manatzpa liked the She-Snake. I could understand his argument why he didn't want the She-Snake to claim the Turquoise-and-Gold Crown, but all the same, it must have pained him, because here he was, still trying to defend the man in spite of everything else.

I didn't trust the She-Snake, who was far too smooth and too ruthless. And I was definitely going to make sure I caught him and asked him about this quarrel with Ocome.

"I see," I said. I talked more with him, but got nothing else that was useful. "Thank you. Can you see if the other councilmen will speak with me now?"

Several hours later, I had not learnt much more. Most of the council members were of the same mould as Manatzpa, men of imperial blood bypassed by the succession and either proud of or resigned to their subservient roles.

Of the frightened ones, the only thing I was able to find out was that there had indeed been threats. The same envoys, perhaps, though they wouldn't admit to anything. Except for Manatzpa and the old magician, they seemed in fear for their lives. Hardly surprising, when one has enjoyed all their lives the riches and privileges of power without responsibility, to suddenly face that much danger must have been sobering.

The old magician was much calmer, and even his protective spells were nowhere as powerful I'd originally thought, mainly for protection against human attacks, nothing that would stand against a star-demon or other creature.

"I grow weary of the strife," he said to me, bending to lift his bowl of chocolate.

"It's not really going to get better as time passes," I said.

He shook his head, a little sadly. "No. Men have always loved power. I've seen many things in my years, Acatl-tzin."

His name was Echichilli, and he was Master of Raining Blood, keeper of the rites and ceremonies, another watcher who made sure the balance was respected. He was a risen noble – a man who had joined the council on battle prowess and not birth – and he insisted on calling me by the honorific "tzin", even though he was my superior both in position and in years. In many ways, he reminded me of my old mentor, a man long since dead. In other circumstances, I might have been glad to call him a friend.

"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 Turquoiseand-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 She-Snake'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. Tizoctzin 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 Axayacatltzin's demise, both he, as Master of the House of Darts, and the She-Snake received the right to name high priests. While the SheSnake 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.

He had never made me comfortable, but in a very different way than the She-Snake. I could trust the She-Snake to act in his own interests; but with Tizoc-tzin I never knew if he was going to do something just out of caprice.

His eyes were two small, black beads that pierced me like a spear. He considered me for a moment with growing anger. "I've always known that priests couldn't be trusted. You have just exceeded my expectations."

"The star-demons –"

"Save your breath." His voice had an aura of command: cutting, merciless. "I know all about the star-demons, Acatl."

"Then you'll know this isn't the time for quarrels."

"On the contrary." Tizoc-tzin smiled, an expression that didn't reach his eyes. "This is a time of flux. What better opportunity for change?"

Oh gods, what a fool. But a scrap of self-preservation prevented me from saying that aloud. "My Lord–"

"I know everything there is to know about you, and you have gone too far."

"Too far?" I asked. I might have, with Acamapichtli, but there was no way he could know about that, not unless Quenami could communicate by thought alone.

Tizoc-tin's gaze moved to Teomitl. "Don't act so innocently, Acatl. Did you think I would never realise? A prince will marry a noblewoman or a princess, never the daughter of peasants."

So that was what it was all about. How dare he? "If you refer to my sister," I said, coolly, "she is no longer the daughter of peasants. She is the sister of a Jaguar Knight, and of the High Priest for the Dead."

Teomitl's face had gone pale. I had to admit we did not have much to stand on. Mihmatini would have made a wonderful concubine, but to reach any higher would have been the worst kind of arrogance.

"The daughter of peasants," Tizoc-tzin repeated. "And you… you have the audacity to think her fit to join the imperial family? It is not enough to have my brother in your thrall, always following you. You must have more, Acatl. You place your pawns everywhere advantageous and hope that I won't notice. Well, I'm no fool, and I have seen."

I'd listened in growing perplexity, and then anger. "You accuse me wrongly. I have never had any intention of holding power in this court."

"That was the game you played at first." Tizoc-tzin's face had turned the colour of muddy earth. "Last year, when you came before me, having never set a foot at Court. But that's no longer true."

"I have the best interests of my order and of the Fifth World at heart."

"No doubt, no doubt." His face was creased in a smirk I longed to wipe off.

Star-demons take the man, how could he not see that I was sincere? Out of all those he had to face within the Imperial Court, I was possibly the one with the least reason to set myself against him…

Except, of course, for the treacherous little voice that kept whispering that the She-Snake and Manatzpa were right, that he was no man fit to be Revered Speaker, no man fit to rule Huitzilpochtli's empire.

"My Lord…"

His eyes were on me. I saw then that he'd dismiss me. That out of his rivals, I was the one enjoying the least support, an isolated priest whom no one would miss. That was the reason why Quenami, the Storm Lord's lightning blind him, had looked so happy, one fewer man in his path.

"Enough."

It was Teomitl who had spoken. For the first time since entering the room, his voice had the same cutting edge as Tizoc-tzin's. "Brother, look at you. You disgrace yourself."

"So says the man who follows him," Tizoc-tzin snapped.

"So says the man who sees clearly," Teomitl said. "Do you truly wish to dismiss the High Priest for the Dead, at a time like this? What an auspicious way to start your reign."

Tizoc-tzin did not move, but his whole stance hardened. "You're young," he said to Teomitl. "You understand nothing of politics."

"No," Teomitl said. "And I'm not sure I ever will."

Tizoc grimaced. "You'll have to. Can't you see?" His voice softened, no longer the ruler chastising his subjects. "In less than a week, you'll be Master of the House of Darts. In a few dozen years…"

"The Revered Speaker is anointed by Huitzilpochtli," Teomitl said, at last, and Tizoc-tzin, who believed more in men than in gods, grimaced. "He leads us forth into battle, to extend the boundaries of the Mexica Empire from sea to sea. This isn't about politics."

"You'd marry her, then?" Tizoc-tzin's lips had thinned to a slash across his face. "The little peasants' daughter?"

If that was intended as a reconciliation – a shared moment of prejudice – it failed utterly. Teomitl's face froze, took on the cast of jade. I reached out and squeezed his arm hard enough to bruise. "No, you fool," I whispered.

"What I choose to do or not to do does not belong to you," Teomitl said. "Nothing has been decreed yet, brother."

"It will not be long." I wondered where Tizoc-tzin's confidence came from, when the council was so split, and one of his own followers had just been slaughtered?

"I thought you'd know," Teomitl's voice could have frozen water, "you who will dedicate yourself to the Southern Hummingbird, to the Smoking Mirror, the gods of all that is fluid and impermanent. Nothing in the Fifth World is ever certain."

"Oh, you're mistaken." Tizoc-tzin's smile, for once, was sincere, and quietly confident. "Very much mistaken, brother."

"Then we'll see, won't we?" Teomitl put his hands palms up; and then turned them towards the floor in a clink of jade and metal. "How the dice fall. Meanwhile–"

Tizoc-tzin's gaze rested on me, dark and angry. "Meanwhile, I will let things rest. But be assured, Acatl, I won't forget."

Neither would I.

I came out of our interview with Tizoc-tzin shaking like reeds in the wind. Teomitl, who viewed all such displays as cowardice, appeared unmoved. It was only when he stopped in a small courtyard and just stood there, staring at the sky, that I knew he had not been unaffected.

"He's not a bad man," he said.

Around us, the night was cold and heavy, the stars above pulsing softly, the owls hooting in the night, the faint smell of copal and scented sweatbaths. "I'm not sure," I said.

"You don't know him. He was always like this." His hands clenched. "He can't see the world through other people's eyes, but he knows his own faults, all too well."

No, I didn't know Tizoc-tzin. But, somehow, I doubted that Teomitl, who was ten years his junior and had grown up in the seclusion of a priests' school, would know him any better. "He's your brother," I said. I'd do the same for any of mine. Heavens, I'd even defended my brother Neutemoc last year, even though I'd believed him to be as guilty as the evidence indicated. "Your loyalty–"

"It's not about loyalty." Teomitl paced in the courtyard, around a small basin decorated with coloured stones. His eyes were still on the sky. "I know how he is."

"You didn't grow up together–"

"No, of course not. But he's grooming me to be Master of the House of Darts in his stead."

"That doesn't mean–"

"I'm not a fool!" He stabbed the empty air with his right hand.

"I never said you were." I'd never seen him in such a state, and it worried me. Throughout the previous day, he'd gone into the palace, more or less picking quarrels with everyone he met. He seemed to have reverted to the prickly boy Ceyaxochitl had entrusted to me a year ago, one who had "grown up like a wild flower", as she had said. It was as if all my teachings, all my exercises, had been for nothing. Was it Axayacatl-tzin's death? His brother had been Revered Speaker for most of Teomitl's life. It would be hard to admit the world was about to change irretrievably.

"You don't understand. I take his lessons, and I learn." His voice was softer now, almost spent.

I asked the question he wanted me to ask. "And what do you learn, Teomitl?"

"Not the lessons he wants to teach me." He stopped pacing, and would not look at me. "I learn that he stopped trusting others a long time ago. I learn that he has enemies and sycophants, but no friends. I learn," and his voice was a whisper by now, "that power took him and gnawed him from the inside out, and that he is but a frightened shell, that the only goal he can still dream of is to sit on Axayacatl's mat. Everything else tastes like ashes."

I was silent for a while. "That's what you learnt. But not what I see." Not to mention that this gave him a motivation to influence the vote, perhaps to the point of using supernatural help to do it.

"Acatl-tzin–"

I had always been honest with him, and even when it came to this moment, I could not give him some comforting lie. "No," I said. "I can only believe what I see."

He looked at me for a while. His hands were still, preternaturally so. "I see. I see."

"Teomitl–"

"No, you're right. It's not that at all, and I am a fool. Good night, Acatl-tzin."

"Teomitl!"

But he was already gone.

I remained for a while, sitting in the courtyard, wondering what I could have said that would have made things go differently. I didn't like those bleak moods, or the quick way he took offence. He'd always been susceptible, but tonight he had looked as though his nerves were rubbed raw.

Something was wrong, but I couldn't work out what.

Footsteps on the stones tore me from my reflection. Looking up, I saw Ceyaxochitl looming over me, her slight silhouette highlighted by moonlight. "I thought I'd find you here."

"Here?" I said, gesturing to the small courtyard. The only remarkable thing about it was that it contained us both.

"In the palace." She grimaced, and slid to sit cross-legged next to me on the warm stones. "I've told you before: you don't get enough sleep."

"I should think I've outgrown the need for a mother."

Ceyaxochitl's gaze grew pensive. "Yes, I should think you have. Most impressively."

A small, almost muted jab. Even though they'd both been dead for years, my parents had loomed large over my life, until the previous year, when I'd finally realised I was no longer beholden to them. "What do you want, Ceyaxochitl? I assume you didn't come here to talk."

She shrugged. "Perhaps I did. Perhaps I do care about your welfare."

Now she scared me. The last time Ceyaxochitl had interfered in my life, she'd got me nominated as High Priest, a position I didn't want and didn't particularly appreciate. That I'd grown into it over the years didn't change the original intent. "You can't get me higher than this," I said. I tried not to think of Teomitl, my student, the boy-prince who would one day become Revered Speaker.

Ceyaxochitl smiled, the lines of her face softening in the moonlight. "We'll see."

I hesitated, loath to break the moment by focusing on murder and intrigue once again. "I promised the councilmen protection from the Duality, for those who desired it."

"We can provide," Ceyaxochitl said. "Though I imagine many of them will already have their own protections."

"Echichilli?" I said, thinking of the old councillor.

"He was always a strong magician." There was an expression on her face I found hard to read in the moonlight, and then I realised it was nostalgia. "A good man, one of the few on the council."

"The others…"

"The others like the sound of their own voice, and the power they hold – at ordinary times, and in circumstances like these. But you knew this already."

"Perhaps," I said, non-committal. "What did you find?"

"Not much. Quenami moves to Tizoc-tzin's tunes, but I shouldn't think this is much of a surprise. The boy always did like power and pomp."

I wondered who in the palace she didn't know – whom she couldn't dissect as effectively as she dissected me. It was a terrifying thought.

"How goes the courtship?" she asked.

There was only one courtship I was aware of. "Well, I suppose," I said, cautiously. I had not seen Mihmatini in a while. "Enthusiastically, knowing Teomitl."

"But Tizoc-tzin doesn't approve, does he?" Ceyaxochitl's flat gaze bored into mine.

"I shouldn't think you need to be a calendar priest to divine that," I said.

"He's a fool, Acatl." She appeared unconcerned by the fact she'd just uttered treasonous words. "The Master of the House of Darts is a military leader, first and foremost. He plans our campaigns, he oversees the movements of troops within and without the capital. Tizoc-tzin uses it for prestige, and as a stepping stone to the Turquoise-and-Gold Crown."

"He'll be Revered Speaker, soon," I said slowly.

"Yes." She closed her eyes. "Yes. There is that. Well, there isn't anything you or I can do about that, sadly." She rose and walked slowly, leaning on her cane, which rapped on the ground. She'd always looked old and frail, but I'd never seen her move so cautiously. "Ceyaxochitl?"

"Yes?"

"Can you do it?" Could she hold us together, keep the stardemons from the Fifth World?

The woman I'd known all my adult life would have shaken her head and berated me for being a silly, sentimental fool. This one – the old, weary one by my side – simply shook her head. "I don't know. Things have changed. The previous Guardian was still young when Moctezuma-tzin died, and her husband was still alive."

"Husband?" I asked, startled. Most priests were celibate. I'd assumed the Guardian would be, too.

"Of course." Her voice was light, ironic again. "The Duality is male and female, the creator principle that drives the Fifth World. Guardians can marry."

"And you–"

She shrugged. "When I was very young. But it didn't last."

I tried to imagine her with a man in tow, an equal, not a slave, a man she'd have loved. My mind refused to wrap itself around the idea. I had always known her old and single, as a quasi-mentor figure. It was hard to discard all this. "Did he die?"

"Weak heart."

"I'm sorry–"

"Don't be, Acatl." She didn't sound grieved; but of course it would have happened decades ago.

"But there is only one Guardian. I've never heard–"

"He was a symbol," Ceyaxochitl said, patiently. "Of the male principle. Not a Guardian, not even a priest. But when you don't have the luxury of living blood, symbols turn out to be important. Vital."

"And…"

"And the signs are here," Ceyaxochitl said. "As I told you. I'm an old, lone woman past childbearing age. Hardly the ideal vessel for the Duality's powers."

"We've always held." I didn't need to say "because of you", because she already knew it.

"We have. And everything comes to an end, as you are uniquely placed to know."

"Don't mock me," I said. "The stakes–"

"The stakes will always be high," Ceyaxochitl said. "But I might not rise to it. Be prepared, Acatl."

She left the courtyard without looking back. I stood there, shaking, a hollow opening in my belly. If the Guardian couldn't hold us…

In my temple, I found my second-in-command Ichtaca anxiously waiting for me outside. "Palli has been looking for you all over the palace and the Sacred Precinct. He says he has some information you sent him for."

The sorcerers on the registers, and the room search.

"I'll see him now," I said. I was tired, but this was more important. I had to see Palli or I'd lose his respect.

Ichtaca led me through the courtyard, past the numerous examination rooms that opened into the frescoed walls. Students were crowding around one of the entrances. I could hear snatches of sound from inside, a lesson on how bodies changed after death, and how to look for the signs of poison.

"How did it go?" Ichtaca asked.

"Not well." I couldn't quite keep the frustration out of my voice. "They're all bickering about who gets to be Revered Speaker."

Ichtaca's gaze drifted upwards, towards the star-studded sky.

"I know about the star-demons. But they don't seem to." There was one star there which shone more brightly than the others: He who was the Evening Star and the Morning Star, Quetzalcoatl the Feathered Serpent, the God of Knowledge and Creation – the god of all priests, whoever they served. He was the only one on our side, but His powers, like those of all the gods, were constrained in the Fifth World.

"Not a time for games," Ichtaca said. "But, if that's their will…"

I had no constructive answer, merely a prayer to the Duality that we weather the transition without too much bloodshed.

Palli, the offering priest in charge of Axayacatl-tzin's funeral, was waiting cross-legged in one of the smaller examination rooms, under a fresco that showed the progress of the soul through the levels of Mictlan, from the river that marked the boundary, to the ninth level, to Lord Death's throne. The god sat, bathed in blood, on a chair made of bones, skeletal and hunched, with his ribs poking out of His chest, His clawed hands empty.

Palli rose when we came in. "Acatl-tzin. Ichtaca-tzin."

I bowed, a fraction, as befitted our respective functions. I hated the formalities, but I knew he and Ichtaca lived by them. "I apologise. I ran into some trouble in the palace, but that's not an excuse."

His gaze suggested, very clearly, that I was High Priest, and that it wasn't his place to question me, an attitude I'd always found unhealthy. At least Ichtaca always made it clear when I erred. I sighed. "What have you found?"

He handed me a list written on maguey paper in a neat hand, every glyph aligned and detailed, as if it had been written by a highlevel scribe. Names and dates.

"I thought you might need to know birth-signs," Palli said.

A man's birth-sign determined his access to different kinds of magics and his innate talent. I had been born on a day One Reed, which put me under the gaze of the Curved Point of Obsidian, Lord of Justice, of the Feathered Serpent, and of course of Lord Death.

I scanned the list. Many names I knew. The She-Snake was near the top, as was Echichilli the old councilman; and even Manatzpa. In fact, most of the council was.

There were some notable absences, though. "Xahuia?" I asked.

Palli shook his head. "The Texcocan wife? She wouldn't be in here, Acatl-tzin, and neither would her retinue. They seldom get out of the women's quarters, and never out of the palace, so there is no need."

No need to register them, because they'd never need to enter the palace again. I smoothed the paper carefully. "I see." One name caught my attention. "Who is Pezotic?"

Palli bent over me, trying to read the glyphs upside-down. I turned the paper towards him, and pointed to one name near the bottom.

"Master on the Edge of the Water?" Palli asked. "That's a councilman's title, isn't it?"

"It sounds like one," I said, slowly. "But I would have remembered if I'd interviewed him." And I had interviewed the whole council. Manatzpa and Echichilli had told me as much.

"There are many other names on the list," Ichtaca said, in a conciliatory tone. "Surely you need not waste your time with this one."

"If he's a councilman and he's not there anymore, then I want to know. And I want to know why." Quenami had made it clear one did not demote councilmen, but it seemed like this had in fact happened. I'd have to ask Manatzpa next time I saw him.

I looked over the list some more, but I couldn't see anything else that was surprising. "Thank you," I said to Palli, and folded the paper back into a fan-shape. "What about the rooms?"

Even before he grimaced, I'd guessed what his answer would be. "I can only spare six or seven priests, and it's a large palace. If you want, I can get more. "

"No," I said. "I appreciate it, but we can't afford to let the Revered Speaker go without funeral rites, or leave the city unattended. Do what you can."

Palli nodded. "I might be able to send more priests if we rearrange the rituals a bit," he said thoughtfully. "Make sure that there's someone on guard all the time."

We left him to think things through. Ichtaca and I walked back to the circle we'd drawn on the ground on the previous night, a lifetime ago, to check on the wards. As Ichtaca said, best make sure the city stood; we could see about the Court later on.

After we were done I checked on the temple's doings – on a few ongoing investigations into suspicious deaths, the death-vigils and the few offerings we got from the living. But my mind was elsewhere, and I retired to my house soon after the Hour of the Lord of Princes, with the night still young. Teomitl had been right about at least one thing – better get some sleep while I could.

I woke up briefly to the blare of conch-shells that announced the rise of the Fifth Sun then sank back into darkness.

When I woke again it was mid-morning, and the bustle of the Sacred Precinct filtered into the courtyard – the prayers and the chants, the drum-beats that accompanied the sacrifices, the familiar smell of incense mingling with that of animal blood.

I knelt and sliced my earlobes to make my own offerings – to Lord Death, and to the Fifth Sun, He who would see us through those difficult times, for it looked as though His human servants were sadly lacking.

I sat for a while in the courtyard, under the lone pine tree, chewing a day-old maize flatbread, the only edible thing I had left in the house. I should have thought of asking Ichtaca for supplies on the previous evening, but I had been too preoccupied with Teomitl.

The Storm Lord blind him, what was wrong with the boy?

Perhaps he had outgrown me. After all, I had known that he couldn't remain my student – or, indeed, Mihmatini's suitor – forever, that he was destined for politics and war, wholly outside my purview. Tizoc-tzin had taken him under his protection, and was teaching him what was necessary.

Still, it wasn't as if I could shed my responsibility when it suited me. A man who would pick quarrels with the most powerful individuals in the Mexica Empire was not yet an adult and would not rise far, even through feats of arms. If even Tizoc-tzin, a canny politician, could not teach Teomitl that then it was also my responsibility to try. Perhaps he would listen to me more than to his brother.

Admittedly it did not look very likely at this point.

The sky was clear and blue, its colour as crisp and as vivid as a new fresco. I walked to my temple, intending to pick up Palli before going back to the palace. Instead, the first person I saw when entering the courtyard was Yaotl, Ceyaxochitl's personal slave, in the midst of a conversation with Ichtaca.

My sandals on the paved stones of the entrance made enough noise that they stopped talking. "There he is," Ichtaca said.

Yaotl turned, his embroidered cloak rippling in the breeze. "Acatl-tzin."

I braced myself for more sarcasm, but his face under the blue-and-black paint was grim, an expression I had never seen on him before.

Fear reached inside my chest and closed a fist around my heart. "What is it?"

"It's Mistress Ceyaxochitl. She's been poisoned."

SIX

Princess of Texcoco

The Duality House, unlike the palace, was silent and dark, and those few priests we crossed were in courtyards, down on their knees to beseech the favour of the Duality for their ailing superior.

"She came back from the palace late at night," Yaotl said. "Everything was fine at first but then she started complaining of tingling in her hands and feet. And then it spread."

"Something she came into contact with?" I asked. I had seen her yesterday, and she had seemed tired and weary, but I had attributed it to a long day, not to poison.

Would it have changed anything, if I had noticed?

I hoped it wouldn't have. I needed to believe it would make no difference. Regrets wouldn't serve us now; what we needed was to move forward.

We reached the main courtyard of the shrine, a vast space from which rose a central pyramid of polished limestone. Ceyaxochitl's rooms were just by the stairs. Their entrance-curtain, usually opened to any supplicant, was closed, unmoving in the still air.

Inside, Ceyaxochitl was propped up against the wall, her skin sallow, her whole frame sagging. A frowning physician was holding a bowl of water under her chin.

"No shadow. Her spirit is still unaffected," he said. "It's a physical poison."

"You know about poisons," Yaotl said.

I couldn't help snorting. "Yes, but after death. Generally, I don't have patients. I have corpses."

The physician withdrew the bowl of water. "That's as close to a corpse as you can get to, young man. Nothing is responding. She can't speak, or move any muscle." He turned to Yaotl. "I'd need to know the day and hour of her birth, to know which god is in charge of her soul."

Yaotl's hands clenched, slightly. The physician's asking for her nameday could only mean that he intended a full healing ritual, which in turn meant the situation was desperate. "Quetzalcoatl. The Feathered Serpent." God of creation and knowledge, and the only other god to accept bloodless offerings. I couldn't say I was surprised.

"I'll send for supplies, then," the physician said.

I knelt and touched Ceyaxochitl's warm skin. Nothing responded. Her heartbeat was fast and erratic, as if the organ itself were bewildered.

"She's in here," the physician said. "Conscious. It's just that her body is completely paralysed."

About as cowardly and as nasty a poison as you could think of. They could have had the decency to make it clean, at least.

"Acatl-tzin," Yaotl insisted.

"Do you have any idea what she could have been poisoned with?" I asked the physician. He was the expert, not I.

"What other symptoms have you seen?"

Yaotl thought for a while. "She was rubbing at her face before the numbness came. And having some difficulty walking, as if she'd been drunk, but Mistress Ceyaxochitl never drinks."

Indeed not. She might have been old enough to be allowed drunkenness, but she'd always seen that as a sign of weakness. She'd always been strong.

Gods, what would we do without her?

"Something she ate, then, in all likelihood," the physician said.

"Something?" I asked. Surely things hadn't degenerated so fast at the palace that food and drink couldn't be trusted anymore? "Can't you be more precise?"

"Not without a more complete examination," the physician said. His voice was harsh. "But I think you'd want me to see if I can heal her first."

"Yes," Yaotl said. "But I also want to make sure that the son of a dog who did this does not get away with it."

The physician looked at Ceyaxochitl again and scratched the stubble on his chin. "I seem to remember a similar case some time ago. I'll send back for my records, to see if anything can be inferred from it. In the meantime the best we can do is keep her warm."

And breathing. It didn't take a physician to know that if the paralysis was progressing, the lungs would stop functioning at some point, not to mention the heart.

I moved my hand from Ceyaxochitl's hands to her chest, feeling the heart within fluttering like a trapped thing. "I know you can hear us. We'll find out who did this. Stay here. Please."

Please. I knew we'd had our dissensions in the past, our disagreements on how to proceed, but they had been spats between friends, or at least between peers. To think that she was dying, that she might not see the next day…

The Flower Prince strike the one who had done this, with an illness every bit as bad and as drawn-out as the poison that now coursed through Ceyaxochitl's veins. "Did she say anything?" I asked Yaotl. "Any clues?" Anything we could use…

He shook his head. "Not that I can remember. She complained about the whole afternoon having been a waste of her time."

But she must have seen something, or suspected something after the fact. Otherwise why take the risk of poisoning her? The penalties for such a crime would have been severe, death by crushing the head, at the very least.

"Nothing at all?"

The physician, who was lifting the entrance-curtain in a tinkle of bells, stopped, and then turned back towards me. "When I was first called, the paralysis hadn't quite reached everywhere. She managed to say something, for what it's worth."

"Yes?"

"Well, her lips were already half-paralysed, but I think it was something about worshipping bells."

Yaotl and I looked at each other. "Acatl-tzin?"

Bells. Silver Bells. Huitzilpochtli's sister Coyolxauhqui, She of the Silver Bells, who waited under the Great Temple for Her revenge.

"I don't know if it makes any sense," the physician said.

I withdrew my hand from Ceyaxochitl and carefully stood up. "It does make sense. Thank you."

"Not to me," Yaotl said.

"Silver Bells. She's been poisoned by a devotee of Coyolxauhqui," I said, and watched the pallor spread across his face.

Our enemies were indeed in our midst. One person, or several, were worshippers of She of the Silver Bells; summoners of star-demons, harbingers of chaos, determined to sow destruction among us.

The only question was who.

I ate a sparse lunch in my temple with my priests: a single bowl of levened maize porridge, flavoured with spices. Then, instead of going straight back to the palace, I detoured through the Wind Tower, the shrine to Quetzalcoatl. Like the other shrines it stood on a platform atop a pyramid; unlike the other shrines, which were squat and square, the Wind Tower was made of smooth black stones and completely circular, offering no sharp angles or purchase. For Quetzalcoatl was the Feathered Serpent but also Ehecatl, the Breath of Creation, and to hinder Him in His passage through His own shrine would have been an unforgivable offence.

And He was the Morning Star and the Evening Star, our only ally in the night skies in those dangerous times.

I could have prayed to Lord Death in Ceyaxochitl's name, for He was the only god I claimed, as familiar as a wife to a husband or a digging stick to a peasant. But, somehow, it felt wrong to appeal to Him to keep a soul out of His dominion.

I stood for a while on the inside of the shrine with pilgrims crowded around me, unsure of what to say. I did what I had always done. Kneeling, I pierced my earlobes with my worship thorns, and let the blood drip onto the grass balls by the altar. The Feathered Serpent took no human sacrifices, but only our penances and our gifts of flower and fruit. He had given us the arts and the songs. He had once descended into the underworld for the bones of the dead, had braved death and darkness so that humanity might be recreated.

"Keep her safe," I whispered. "Please.

You who know the metals in the earth

The jade and the flowers and the songs

You who descended into Mictlan

Into the darkness, into the dryness

Please keep her safe."

I wished I could say that He'd been listening, but the shrine remained much the same as ever. I was not His priest, I did not have His favours. My prayer was no doubt lost among the multitude.

I walked back into the palace in an even bleaker mood than I'd left it. As fate and the Smoking Mirror would have it, the first person I met in the corridors was Quenami, the High Priest of Huitzilpochtli, who looked unusually preoccupied.

"Acatl." He frowned. "I haven't seen you this morning."

"I had other business to attend to." I was not in the mood for niceties. "Did Ceyaxochitl come to you yesterday, Quenami?"

There was a brief moment before my words sunk in, which I could almost follow by looking at his blue-streaked face. "The Guardian? She might have. I don't remember."

"Only a day ago, and you can't remember? What a fickle mind you have."

"I thought yesterday's little interview would have removed your inclination to insult your peers or your superiors." Quenami's voice was cutting.

So many things had changed since yesterday. "Perhaps. That was before someone poisoned Ceyaxochitl."

"Poisoned? That means–"

"She's dying," I said, curtly. I tried not to think of her warm, unresponsive skin under me, of the feeling of her heartbeat lurching out of control. She'd been at my back for as long as I could remember. We'd fought, but I'd always known she'd be there when the Empire truly needed her. "And whatever happened, it was in the palace."

"Do you have any proof of that?" Quenami appeared to have recovered from his shock, feigned or genuine I did not know.

"Who else would dare poison the Guardian?"

"More people than you'd think." His voice was condescending again. "Foreign sorcerers–"

"The only sorcerers of any note are in this palace," I snapped. "And I'm going to make sure they can't do any harm anymore."

Quenami's face was frozen into what might have been anger or fear. "So you'll just badger us into confessions? You're making a mistake."

"Why? Because I'm impinging on your privileges? Look, I'm not intending to probe into secrets or shatter your face and heart in public, but you must realise that someone tried to kill the Guardian of the Sacred Precinct – agent of the Duality in this world, the keeper of the invisible boundaries. If they dare to do that, then no one here is safe."

Quenami's face shifted to disdain. He was going to tell me that he was High Priest of Huitzilpochtli, that out of all people, he should be safe.

I forestalled him. "It was poison poured into a meal, or a drink." I kept my voice as innocuous and as innocent as possible. "That could happen to anyone. Even if you could have your meals tasted by a slave, it was slow-acting. She didn't show any symptoms until a few hours after the poisoning."

"What poison?"

"I don't know," I said. "But a nasty one. The muscles refuse to obey. You're trapped as a prisoner in your own body, until your lungs or your heart give up. It's not a pleasant way to go." Not to mention pointless. Sacrifices and wounds dealt on the battlefield were painful, but this pain was an offering to the gods, the whole body becoming a sacrifice. But, for Ceyaxochitl, there would be no reward, no justification for enduring this slow slide into oblivion.

"Fine," Quenami said. "What do you want me to do, Acatl?"

"Just answer a few questions. Did you or did you not see Ceyaxochitl yesterday?"

"Yes," Quenami said. "Very early in the morning."

"And?"

He hesitated for a while, trying to see what he could and could not tell me. "She kept insisting to know where I stood."

"Not surprising."

"I suppose not," he said with a trace of the old haughtiness. "But still, she was annoying."

That I had no doubt of – she could be. "Did she eat or drink anything while she was with you?"

He looked at me for a while. "I could deny it, but I think you wouldn't believe me." His face creased into an uncharacteristic smile. "She had maize porridge, brought by the slaves."

"Your slaves?"

Again, Quenami hesitated. "Yes."

I made a mental note to see if any of that maize porridge was left. There were spells to detect the presence of poison, although they took a long time to be cast and could be finicky. "And what

about Ocome?"

"What about him? I barely knew the man."

"I think you're lying."

"And I think you're trying to draw me out." He looked me in the eye, his aristocratic face exuding casual pride.

"I know you came to see him."

"Who wouldn't?" He made a dismissive gesture. "The man had a vote, and he was selling it. Who wouldn't leap at the chance?"

"An honest man," I said, a little more acidly than I'd meant to.

Quenami smiled pityingly. "It's a wonder you've remained High Priest so long, Acatl."

And it was a wonder he'd become High Priest at all. But I held my tongue.

"Seriously," Quenami said. "You know who I support, and who Ocome supported. Why would I kill him?"

"Because you couldn't trust him not to change sides?"

Quenami snorted. "Murder is a serious matter, not decided so lightly." For once, he sounded sincere. Not that it changed anything. I could well imagine him planning a murder with much forethought, and though it looked as though he'd become High Priest only through his connections, I very much doubted his magical abilities would be insignificant.

"I see," I said. "What do you know about Coyolxauhqui?"

"My, my, just full of questions today, aren't we? I can't possibly see what I can tell you about She of the Silver Bells that you don't already know, Acatl. Sister of the Southern Hummingbird. Creator of the star-demons. Rebelled against Him during the migration to found the Empire. Defeated, and imprisoned beneath the Great Temple." His tone was bored, as if he were reciting something learnt by rote. But, if he had been worshipping Her all along, he would have learnt to hide his allegiance.

"That's all you know?"

"What else would there be?" He lifted a hand, thoughtfully staring at his tanned, long fingers, covered with jade and turquoise jewellery. "I can still feel Huitzilpochtli's power, so She's still imprisoned. And we're warded against star-demons."

He was, as usual, far too confident. He had not even bothered to check.

But still, as High Priest of Huitzilpochtli, he made a poor candidate for a secret worshipper of She of the Silver Bells. He had passed both the initiation as a priest, and the investing with the Southern Hummingbird's powers, all of which would have been difficult to do with conflicting allegiances.

After I was done with Quenami, I could have gone back and seen the council; but there was one person I had not interviewed at all, and who appeared far from uninvolved in the whole business – Xahuia, the princess of Texcoco who had sent away the guards at Ocome's door on that fateful night, and who had either been the last person to see him alive, or worse.

Accordingly I crossed the palace to the women's quarters and asked for an audience, which was granted immediately, a welcome change from the current trend.

The women's quarters were at the back of the palace, protected by a stout wall adorned with red snakes, and a large image of Chantico, She Who Dwells in the House – with a crown of thorns and a tongue twisting out of Her mouth, as red as the paprika She held in Her cupped hands. Those quarters were, more than anywhere else, a place of seclusion. The courtyards I crossed were small, the rooms that opened into them had their entrance-curtains all drawn closed, and I saw no one but the slaves that accompanied me.

Xahuia's audience room was on the ground floor. I wasn't sure if that was her choice, or merely a statement that, as a foreigner, some imperial privileges were denied to her.

Xahuia herself was in a shadowed room separated from the courtyard by pillars carved with glyphs and abstract patterns. She was sitting cross-legged on a reed mat, playing patolli with three of her women; winning, too, by the look of the pawns on the brightly-painted board. Hers were nearing the end of the quincunx-shaped circuit.

"My Lady," one of the slaves said. "The High Priest for the Dead, Acatl-tzin."

She raised her head. Her face was smooth and beautiful, painted with the yellow of corn kernels, cochineal spread on her teeth to give them the colour of blood. Her eyes, underlined by a slight touch of black, were wide, the pupils shimmering like a lake at night. "I see. Leave us, will you?"

The slaves scattered like a flock of parrots, leaving me alone, facing her across the patolli board. "Xahuia-tzin."

She laughed, like a delighted child. "Oh, please. You flatter me by using the title, but no one else uses it."

"You're of the Imperial Family."

Xahuia's thin lips turned upwards, her gaze creased in amusement. "Of Texcoco. Of Tenochtitlan – only by marriage, and you must know it." She did not say that was why I was here. She did not need to.

"My Lady," I said, finally. "You know there has been one murder, and one murder attempt, in this palace."

Her face went grave again. "I know only of one murder. Who is the second?"

"The Guardian."

"Really." She did not look or sound surprised. Her face had gone as harsh as an obsidian blade.

"You expected this?"

Xahuia was silent for a while, her hands automatically picking up the beans from the board. "She behaved as if the whole palace was hers. It's not a good time for that kind of attitude."

"She came to see you yesterday," I said, voicing the obvious.

Xahuia made no attempt to deny it. "In the afternoon, in the hour of the Storm Lord."

"And?" I asked.

"We talked for a while."

"Around refreshments?"

"Of course." She smiled. "I'll have the slaves bring some to you as well, don't worry."

I forced a smile in answer. Given what had happened to Ceyaxochitl, that wasn't exactly the most promising invitation I'd ever received. "You do know that she was poisoned."

Xahuia shook her head. "Of course not. I've just told you I didn't even know about the Guardian's attempted murder." But she did not ask any more questions. Not what I would have expected, had she been truly ignorant.

"Let's say you don't," I said. "You can't deny you knew Ocome."

"The little councilman?" She laughed again, the strange, careless laughter of a girl. "Of course not. Who did not know him?"

Who indeed.

"I heard he was quite in demand," I said, keeping my face expressionless. Nearby, a quetzal bird took flight, its call harsh and unforgiving, as raw as a burnt man's scream.

"A voice that can be swayed. A voice that can be bought. Of course he'd be quite in demand, as my brother would say." She looked up, straight at me. "But of course you've never met my brother, Acatl-tzin."

"I can't say I have," I said, cautiously. I was starting to feel I was losing the control of the conversation, assuming that I'd ever had it.

"Nezahual has always been the canniest among us. They say he was blessed by The Feathered Serpent, too, able to foresee the future. He's more than fit to rule Texcoco."

As far as I could remember, Nezahual-tzin had been but a child when his father had died, leaving him legitimate ruler of Texcoco. Three of his elder brothers had conspired to depose and kill him, and Nezahual-tzin owed his Turquoise-and-Gold Crown only to Axayacatl-tzin's intervention . The young prince had been sheltered for a while in Tenochtitlan, before coming back to Texcoco under the hungry gaze of his many brothers and cousins. That he was still Revered Speaker said something, indeed, about his political acumen. "And you're his sister," I said. Fine. I had had my reminder of who she was, of whose support she could enjoy. But the Storm Lord blind me if I was going to let that stop me. More than Tenochtitlan or Texcoco were at stake.

"Let's go back to Ocome," I said.

The women came back. One of them cleared away the patolli board, the other laid down a tray of newts and frogs with amaranth seeds, and slices of tomatoes and squashes.

Xahuia reached for a tomato, and nibbled at it for a while. "Not hungry?"

"Not right now."

Again that laugh. "I'm not going to poison you, poor man."

"You'll forgive me if I don't feel reckless."

She nodded, a hint of amusement across her features. "What do you want to know about Ocome?"

"Who killed him."

"That's usually a good start. I'm afraid I can't help you."

"I think you can."

"Do tell me."

"You were the one who sent the guards away that night, weren't you?" And, when I saw that I had shocked her into silence, "The last one to see him alive."

"I should think not." Her voice was clipped, precise, with a hint of a foreign accent. "That honour would be reserved for his murderer."

"Which you deny being."

"Of course." She picked up another tomato slice. "I won't deny the part about the guards, though."

"Then perhaps you can explain to me what you hoped to achieve."

"Oh, Acatl-tzin." Xahuia shook her head, a trifle sadly. "Are you such a naïve fool? When you're a woman in a world where men are empowered to make the decisions, you learn to use what weapons you have." She bent forward slightly, and all of a sudden I became aware of the curve of her shirt above her breasts, of the luscious hair falling down her bare neck, of her hands, long and soft and capable…

I closed my eyes, but it was too late to banish the images she conjured.

She went on, as if this was nothing out of the ordinary. "Of course, you have to make sure it happens late enough at night that your husband won't ever hear of it."

"So you sent away the guards." My voice was shaking. Did the woman have no shame? Her husband was dying, and all she could think of was how to best sell herself?

"Yes, I did. I'm sorry for Axayacatl, but I have to think of myself and of my son, and of what happens when he's no longer there to protect us." Xahuia shifted to an upright position again, and now I saw only a queen in her palace, receiving a supplicant. "You disapprove. I'm not surprised. Most priests are too uptight for their own good."

Uptight, perhaps, but at least I knew where the dividing line lay between right and wrong. "Tell me what happened," I said through gritted teeth. "Did Ocome reject you? Did he laugh at you, and tell you that he had already made his decision? How much did you hate him?" Was that why he had died?

I don't know why I expected her to leap up at me with her nails extended like a jaguar's claws, perhaps too much familiarity with goddesses who seldom could stand being mocked, but I found myself braced for an attack.

Instead, she reached for a newt, carefully picking it out of the tray and bringing it to her mouth, swallowing it in two bites. "As you said, he had made his decision. But with men like Ocome, decisions are seldom final."

I had to close my eyes again. "You–"

"Don't be a fool. I offered both; pressure, and pleasure. I could make life very unpleasant for him, and he knew it."

"More unpleasant than Tizoc-tzin or the She-Snake?"

Xahuia smiled again. "As much. But I could promise him one thing they could not. Once my son had risen to power, I could make sure his rivals both died."

And, of course, neither Tizoc-tzin nor the She-Snake could make that promise for she was a princess of Texcoco, and unless either one of them was willing to break the Triple Alliance, they could not kill her – not when young Nezahual-tzin was so desperately in need for something he could turn into a show of strength. "I see. And he accepted your offer." I still could not quite believe it, she lied as easily as she breathed, told me exactly what she wanted me to hear. Her father had indeed trained her well.

She inclined her head, gracefully. "Of course he did. He made me a promise."

"One he wouldn't go back on?"

She smiled. "You underestimate me, Acatl-tzin. I am no fool. The moment he revealed his allegiance, others would court him. So I made him promise not to say anything until it was time."

"And he accepted?"

Of course, if he had given in to her seduction, she would have had her blackmail tool. The Revered Speaker might have many wives, but they were not for ordinary mortals. "Of course."

"You trusted him?"

"Not any further than I had to," Xahuia said, with that same smile, revealing the darkened red of her teeth. "But I made him swear a solemn vow before a priest of Quetzalcoatl."

A canny move, for oaths sworn before Quetzalcoatl were sacred – the Feathered Serpent Himself, scourge of falsehood and deception, being called to witness them. Such a priest wouldn't have been easy to find at this hour in the palace. But, then again, she was a princess of one city and an empress of another. Who would not come, if called?

"I suppose you won't want to tell me the name of that priest?"

"Why should I not? Every word is true; besides, the fool is dead." And, for a moment, her mask of beauty and power slipped, revealing a face as cold and as merciless as that of an executioner.

In that moment, she frightened me as no one else had. I saw that just as she had told me, she would not hesitate to do what was necessary for her own good. That she would not hesitate to remove a Guardian, perhaps, who was too curious, or even a High Priest.

My hands shook, and even the sunlight seemed cold on my brow. "I see," I said, but I still had my duty. "Do you know a man named Pezotic?"

She looked genuinely puzzled. "It's not a familiar name. Who is he?"

"A member of the council," I said. I'd been a fool. I should have asked Quenami, but I had been too busy fencing with him to think of that particular question.

"Oh. There are far too many of those." She laughed, careless once more. "I can't say I remember him at all."

"I see," I said. I would have pushed, but her puzzlement and surprise had been so obvious I didn't think she knew him. "I'll take the name of that priest of Quetzalcoatl, if you please. The one Ocome swore an oath before."

"Of course." She gave me a name, telling me he officiated at the Wind Tower, the same place I had gone to pray for Ceyaxochitl's sake. "Will that be all?"

The food sat between us. I had not touched it, and all she had taken were the tomatoes and a newt. Her teeth, when she smiled at me, were the red of spilt blood; and her eyes shone with the light of the moon, of the stars which belonged to She of the Silver Bells, now and forever. A light which grew stronger and stronger, starting from the pupils and slowly consuming the irises and the whites, a great sea of light in which I drowned.

"That will be all," I said, forcing the words between my teeth. I could hear footsteps in the distance; the slaves, coming to escort me out. All I had to do was to get up; to put myself outside of her influence…

"Ah, my dear," Xahuia said, from far away. She turned away from me; and, in that moment, broke the eye contact between us, and whatever spell she had been weaving. "What a pleasure to see you."

Shaking, I pulled myself to my feet, and met the curious gaze of a youth. He looked to be even younger than Teomitl, with a round, open face reminiscent of a rabbit, with the soft folds of flesh of one who had never had to work a day of his life.

But it was his companion who caught my gaze, and held it. He was much taller, as rake-thin as a pole, his face crossed by a single black stripe. His right foot trailed slightly behind him, to a rhythm as erratic as a dying man's heartbeat.

"You haven't met my son, Zamayan," Xahuia said, but I was barely listening.

The stripe and the foot were enough clues of the god the man served. Even without those I could not have mistaken him for a mere slave, for magic hung thick and strong around him, an angry, pulsing network of grey and black as deep as night, and the smell of blood wafted from him, as strong as that of an altar.

He was a servant of the Smoking Mirror, the lame god of sorcerers and dark magic, He who delighted in souring men's fates.

And not just any servant, but someone so wreathed in power that summoning a star-demon would have been a trifle.

SEVEN

The High Priests

I must have said something – even if I had no memory of anything besides standing frozen in the courtyard – for Xahuia's son moved away from me, leaving me facing the sorcerer.

He inclined his head. "The High Priest for the Dead. I have heard much about you."

"I, on the other hand, have heard nothing about you." His hands shimmered in the heat, shifting colours between dark brown and red. The strong tang of blood wafted from his clothes, as if even washing could not remove it anymore.

He bowed, as he would before a king. "My name is Nettoni. I am but a humble servant of My Lady."

I did not need to look behind me to know Xahuia would be smiling. "I have no doubt that you serve well." Sweat was running down the nape of my neck. Nettoni meant nothing more than "mirror", and it was what he had fashioned himself into, the living image of his god in the Fifth World, a vessel most suited for receiving His powers. The blood that hung around him would be that of a hundred sacrifices and, unhampered by any of our scruples, he would use pieces of human corpses for curses, raid the tombs of women that died in childbirth for their nails and the locks of their hair, and breathe in the power of those touched by the gods.

"I take it you are from Texcoco as well."

"It is my honour." Nettoni smiled. His teeth were black, shining like polished obsidian. "Now, if you will excuse me, My Lady and I have business."

I did not need to be told twice. I made my exit as fast as I could without seeming churlish, and I could feel his eyes – and hers – following me all the way out of the women's quarters.

Ceyaxochitl might have been able to fight him; I could not. Even rested and refreshed, and even with the whole of my order behind me, I would not be able to even dent his protection. Nettoni had accrued enough power to leave us looking like ineffectual fools.

And, if Ceyaxochitl, agent of the Duality on earth and vessel for Their power, was his only adversary, wouldn't he want to remove her from the board?

I'd said it to Teomitl already, but now I really hoped that Xahuia was not the culprit. Together with Nettoni, they made a formidable team, one it would take all our forces to defeat.

And, so far, for forces, we had two high priests more obsessed with placing their own pawns than with the approaching star-demons and a distant She-Snake, whose guards could barely maintain the order in the palace.

Not to mention a dying Guardian.

The day felt markedly darker as I made my way deeper into the palace.

Palli's messenger found me in the kitchens, where I was examining some of the maize porridge Ceyaxochitl had consumed.

"Acatl-tzin?" It was Ezamahual, a lean, dour-faced novice priest, a son of peasants who moved through the vast rooms as though he trespassed.

"Here," I said.

The porridge was set in a beautiful blue-and-black ceramic bowl, with golden trimmings. Clearly, Quenami had spared no expense. A brief invocation to Xolotl, Bearer of the Dead, had confirmed that, sadly, it was as innocuous as it was beautiful. Whatever Ceyaxochitl had been poisoned with, it wasn't that.

Ezamahual bowed. "Palli sent me to tell you the ritual is almost complete."

I looked up from the courtyard. The sky was still the brilliant blue of late afternoon. "Tonight, then," I said. Passages into the underworld took place at sunset or at night, when the Fifth Sun itself was underground. "Tell him I'll be there. I have a few things to take care of first."

The first thing I took care of was dinner. I'd had a sparse lunch, but given how long the night was going to be, I didn't hesitate to ask the kitchen slaves for the best they had. I consumed a whole fish with crushed calabash-seeds, and a handful of maize cakes.

Then I went back to the council room, where I found Manatzpa in discussion with the old man Echichilli, the magician of the council. Their servants lounged nearby on a stone bench, watching the courtyard, bored.

"Ah, Acatl-tzin," Manatzpa said. "We have taken the security measures you asked for."

I stilled the shaking of my hands. "I fear it's too late for that."

"Oh?" His eyebrows rose.

"We have no Guardian at present." I thought I could say this with the same calm I'd pronounced the previous sentence; that Xahuia and Nettoni together would have drained me of all fears. But my voice still shook.

Manatzpa's face darkened. "What happened?"

"Poison," I said, curtly.

"Is she…" He paused, letting me fill in the rest.

"Not dead," I said. "But very ill."

"It's dangerous business," Echichilli said, querulously. "The world has changed too much. The young just don't remember how fragile the balance is."

"Did she come to see you yesterday?" I liked Manatzpa, but that did not mean I was going to act as a fool where he was concerned.

"He and the rest of the council." His voice was thoughtful. "She asked us many questions. A canny one, that Guardian. Her heart and soul were in the right place. A pity."

Not so much a pity as a crime, and one that I was going to make sure was punished. "I see." I remembered the question I'd failed to ask Quenami. "Does the name Pezotic mean anything to either of you?"

They shared a glance, a distinctly uncomfortable one. For the first time, Echichilli looked angry, a slight tightening of his wrinkled, sun-tanned face, but an expression that was almost shocking coming from him.

"Yes," Echichilli said, looking me in the eye all the while. "He had a disagreement."

"With whom?" I asked. Manatzpa, too, looked distinctly exasperated, as if some boundary had been breached. What bees' nest had I sunk my hands into?

Echichilli shook his head. "With the council. He was dismissed."

"I thought you couldn't dismiss anyone," I said, very slowly. But it was Quenami who had told us that. Quenami, who wasn't a member of the council, who interfered where he wasn't needed.

"There are exceptions. What he did was unforgivable."

Manatzpa shook his head. "You know it wasn't."

"Wasn't it?" Echichilli looked him in the eye, until Manatzpa's glance slid away, towards the painted floor at our feet.

"What in the Fifth World are you talking about?"

Manatzpa shrugged, but the taut set of his shoulders made it all too clear how angry he was. "Pezotic was worse than Ocome – or more honest, depending on how you view matters. He couldn't stomach the threats, the constant intimidations."

"He ran away?" I asked. It seemed too simple, too innocent. Or was I becoming as paranoid as Tizoc?

"Yes," Echichilli said. "Rather than face his responsibilities." It had the ring of absolute truth – no evasion, no attempt to look aside, or to look me too much in the eye – a simple fact, and one that both saddened and angered him. "I had thought him a better man."

"He was a clever man." Manatzpa's voice was bitter. "He knew where this would lead us."

Echichilli said nothing. Both he and Manatzpa looked drained, their skin as paper-thin and as dry as that of corpses, their stances slightly too aggressive. I assumed there had been further threats, further attempts to bring them to support one candidate or another. But that was one area I couldn't help with. My hands were full enough as it was.

I thought again on what Xahuia had told me – the priest's name branded into my mind. I could assume it was bluff and go question him, but I would have to get out of the palace and back to the Wind Tower, and this would take me time, time I might not have. Ceyaxochitl's removal suggested that the summoner of the star-demons was readying himself for another strike.

So, start out by assuming Xahuia had told the truth; and I couldn't imagine she'd tell a lie, not on something so easily verifiable. Assume she had got Ocome's promise that he would shift sides to hers, without revealing to anyone where he truly stood.

Then the one person who stood to lose the most was the one whose side Ocome had supported, Tizoc-tzin, the heir-designate.

Unfortunately, he was also the man who had threatened to have me dismissed from the court altogether. And, without his brother Teomitl to stand for me, any audience I sought would end in disaster.

But still, he might well be behind it all, and I couldn't stand by while he swept to power under the cloak of Axayacatl-tzin's approval.

How would I face Ceyaxochitl, if she ever recovered?

What I needed was an ally, or at any rate someone who made sure that I came out of Tizoc-tzin's chambers without losing anything. Manatzpa was not nearly powerful enough; it had to be one of the other contenders for the turquoise-and-gold crown.

My heart was not up to asking Xahuia or Acamapichtli. Given how my last interview with the High Priest of the Storm Lord had ended, pacifying him would be nigh impossible.

The She-Snake, then.

I headed towards the She-Snake's quarters. They were in a courtyard symmetrical to the imperial chambers, on the other side of the palace – as befitted the symmetrical roles of the Revered Speaker and the She-Snake.

Unfortunately, when I arrived there, the She-Snake had left for his evening devotions. I asked when he would be back, and was met only with a shrug.

"I wouldn't bother, if I were you."

I turned, slowly. Acamapichtli was standing behind me in the courtyard, dwarfed by his headdress of heron feathers. "Why?" I asked. The last time I had seen him had been his argument with Teomitl, which had ended with his walking out of the room. He seemed calmer now, although he still appeared tense.

He made a quick stab of veined hands. "He won't see you. He doesn't receive anyone but his followers."

"And you don't count yourself as such."

Acamapichtli rolled his eyes upwards. "That much should be obvious."

"Which side are you on, Acamapichtli?"

"I don't think I'm obliged to say that to you."

"It might demonstrate goodwill," I said, a little sarcastically.

His eyes narrowed. "I'll admit I was wrong to leave yesterday. But I didn't have to answer those questions, especially not in the way your student asked them."

His admission was bald, made without a trace of shame, and it was like a blow to the solar plexus. Out of all the people I'd expected an apology from, he was the last.

Since I remained silent, he went on, "I'm not trying to overthrow the Fifth World. I never was."

"You act oddly for someone who isn't."

"Allow me a little mystery." His voice was sarcastic.

"This isn't the time for that."

"What do you want to know?" He drew himself up, wrapping his blue cloak around him. "That I'm ambitious and do things for my own benefit? That is true. That I don't approve of Tizoc-tzin or the She-Snake?" The way he spat the words left little doubt as to what he thought of them.

"I can't take your words on this," I said.

"Then take my acts."

"Fine," I said. "Then tell me about the envoys."

He smiled, and bowed, a little ironically. "Perhaps you could call them mine. I wouldn't swear to anything before any god or any human court, of course."

I fought to keep my fists from clenching. "Suppose they were yours. Why would they come back so regularly?"

"He was a man who needed watching."

"Even if he wasn't yours?"

"Especially if he wasn't mine," Acamapichtli said. "You seem to overestimate the council, Acatl. They might have responsibilities and grand-sounding names, but in the end, they're nothing more than men too old to go to war."

"Tizoc-tzin isn't old," I said. And Teomitl, if he became Master of the House of Darts, wouldn't be either.

He tapped his head with a finger. "Not old in body. Old where it matters. They don't like risks anymore. They don't throw the bean and wager on the outcome. They want safety, at any cost. One way or another, they were all like Ocome, and they knew it. They all watched him, to determine what they should do." His voice was far too bitter for a simple statement, as if he'd gone against them, and found them lacking. What had happened?

"They weren't anxious for whatever gamble you had in mind?" I asked, not bothering to disguise my hostility.

"My own business," Acamapichtli said, a tad acidly. "But it doesn't have anything to do with his death. I'll swear it on any god you want."

"You're easy with your promises. For all I know–"

"For all you know, even Tizoc-tzin might be implicated." His voice was mocking.

"And you don't think he is?" That surprised me.

"Tizoc-tzin is a weak fool, but he's too much like you. He wants stability under the blessing of the Southern Hummingbird, with magic kept to the world of the gods. He would never summon any creatures, or anything that might look like a spell." He spat on the ground. "Fool. As if others wouldn't feel free to use magic."

I decided not to react to the obvious insult, to focus on the information he had just given me. "You seem very sure."

Acamapichtli laughed, a wholly unpleasant sound. "Remember last year, Acatl. Remember how much he hated the lot of us, standing before him. That's how much trust he puts in magic."

A year ago, I had appeared before Tizoc-tzin to bargain for my brother's life, and I had almost failed to walk out of the Imperial Courts. What Acamapichtli wasn't saying was that he had been the one trying to convict my brother; and that Tizoc-tzin, seeing this as a quarrel between high priests, had taken hours of convincing that either of us was saying anything of value. "That was a year ago," I said, slowly. "People change."

"That's Tizoc-tzin's failure." Acamapichtli's lips compressed to a thin line. "He can't change."

"I can't just take your word," I said. But in truth, he was so obviously hostile to Tizoc-tzin I couldn't see why he would lie to me about this.

"Think about it. You're a smart man." His voice made it clear he didn't believe a word of it. But still…

He'd been walking back to the council rooms; I'd followed him through several courtyards, half-fascinated, half-horrified by his spiteful allegations. The palace was preparing for the night. The magistrates were heading out of the courts, back to their own houses; the warriors were in finery, ready to attend feasts.

"I don't think you quite understand what the Fifth World is, either you or him." Acamapichtli's voice was quieter. "You think of it like Mictlan, a static universe where change would be deadly. But we change every day, and we endure. Worshippers shed their blood, and the Southern Hummingbird wraps us in His embrace. We will endure."

I wished I could be so convinced. "Last year…"

Acamapichtli shrugged. "Tlaloc attempted to wrest power from Huitzilpochtli. One more wave in a storm-tossed lake. It's not because of that boats will sink."

"And you truly think the situation is the same here?" I couldn't quite keep the anger from my voice. "People have died–"

"One, so far."

I cut him. "There was another murder attempt."

He looked so genuinely surprised it was hard to believe it an act. "The Guardian Ceyaxochitl was poisoned."

His face did not move, but I could have sworn his skin was slightly paler. "I see. It still doesn't prove anything. People have died in successions before, Acatl. You may not like it, but it's the way things work."

"You're right," I said. "I don't like it." I'd almost preferred him when he was hostile, and not trying to reason with me. Every one of his words made me feel soiled.

We walked the rest of the way to the council rooms in silence. It was empty now; but Quenami was still in the courtyard, his head cocked as he stared at the sky.

He turned when he heard us. "What a coincidence."

I no longer believed in his "coincidences", which came too conveniently for him. Either he was good at turning the situation whichever way he wanted, or his spy network was much, much better than I had thought. Either way, not a pleasant thought.

"I have been to see the Guardian," he said. "You were right." His tone said, subtly, that he had not quite believed me before.

"And?" I asked, more acidly than I'd have wanted. "Any thoughts you'd care to share?"

Even without a spell of true sight on me, I could feel the strength of his wards, the slight heat that emanated from him.

"Poison," he said.

"What a feat of observation," I said, echoing Yaotl's muted sarcasm of the day before. "And what else?"

His face shifted, halfway to an awkwardness I'd never seen in him. He had been brash before, always in control; now it looked as though he was staring at some profoundly unpalatable meal. "I'm no maker of miracles."

"You are–" High Priest of Huitzilpochtli, the strongest among us, the one for feats of valour, and turning the impossible commonplace.

"I know what I am." His voice was as cutting as obsidian shards.

"Representative of the sun, of the light within us," I said, not without bitterness. "Of what keeps us all alive."

"He's powerless." Acamapichtli's voice was filled with malicious amusement.

"He can't be–" I started, and then saw Quenami's face, and it was as if someone had sunk a knife into my gut.

"The sun is strong at its zenith, but at dawn and at dusk its light is all but useless. So it is with Huitzilpochtli." Quenami sounded as if he were giving a lecture, save that the smugness had been scoured from his voice. "Now is dusk, the time of coyotes and jaguars."

The time of Tezcatlipoca the Smoking Mirror, of Coyolxauhqui of the Silver Bells. "I still don't see how the god can be powerless," I said. "We see evidence of His presence every day above us."

"Tonatiuh the Fifth Sun is still here," Quenami said. "But Huitzilpochtli has retreated to the heart of his strength, bracing Himself for our defence."

He sounded as though he only believed half of it, and that was more frightening than His previous arrogance had been. What would we do, if the Southern Hummingbird could not protect us against His sister.

"The heart of his strength," Acamapichtli said, thoughtfully. "The heartland."

Quenami grimaced. "Yes."

The heartland. Aztlan, the White Place, where our seven ancestors had emerged from their caves into the burning light of day, and where the Southern Hummingbird had promised them they would crush the world under their sandaled feet if they followed Him. Our place of birth, our place of origin.

"Why the curiosity?" I asked.

"Nothing." Acamapichtli made a dismissive gesture. "Just making sure what help we could expect."

For all His reassurances, I didn't like Acamapichtli's probing: the heartland was also where Huitzilpochtli was, diminished and less powerful than his usual.

The perfect time to put an end to the reign of a god.

Quenami made a dismissive gesture. "The Southern Hummingbird will be here when He is needed, Acamapichtli, you can be sure of it."

Acamapichtli bowed, but his gaze was mocking. "As you wish. Meanwhile–"

"Meanwhile, we keep this palace warded." Quenami's voice was firm. "We make sure everyone is safe."

"Safe?" I all but choked on the word. "This is the second murder, Quenami. I'd say it proves beyond a doubt that we can't keep ourselves safe."

"Not so fast, Acatl. The first murder was a star-demon, but the second attempt… I grieve for Ceyaxochitl-tzin, believe me, but this was purely mundane."

Mundane – this was how he would dismiss her? "She had found a devotee of the Silver Bells," I snapped.

"Still mundane." Acamapichtli sounded angry, as if he couldn't believe my foolishness. But I wasn't able to let him cow me into silence.

"Heavily linked to the first," I said. "Enough to make it necessary to hunt down whoever is summoning the star-demons."

"And we will," Quenami said.

"I've already said it, you put far little trust in our resilience," Acamapichtli said. "We have always endured. We will this time, too."

Quenami said, smoothly, "But your investigation is important too, Acatl."

Another way of saying he had no intention of helping. "Quenami."

"Acatl." Quenami's voice was firm. "We have reached a decision."

"You have," I said.

"No, we," Quenami said. "Do you forget? We are the high priests. We make the decisions as a group."

Only when it suited him. But I couldn't say that. Teomitl might have, in my stead, but I was just a peasant ascended into the priesthood, with no influence or powerful relatives to shelter me. With Tizoc-tzin and Acamapichtli against me, I could not afford to gainsay Quenami. I clenched my hands. "Fine," I said. "Now if you will excuse me, I have a body to prepare for a funeral."

They could not contradict me on this, and let me walk away without another word.

One man with too much confidence in his wards, and another who kept insisting that the Fifth World would resist anything, as if he still wanted to find out how to break it once and for all. That was what we had, for high priests, Duality curse me.

Should another star-demon come down, they would be useless.

I, on the other hand, was determined not to be.

EIGHT

On Mictlan's Threshold

I entered the Imperial Chambers with more reluctance than the last time, remembering the unpleasantness of my previous visit.

I passed them with a deep bow, and divested myself of my sandals in the antechamber. Everything was silent; not the hostile, pregnant atmosphere everywhere else in the palace, but a final silence I knew all too well, one that could not be appealed against or dissipated.

My six priests had withdrawn against the wall as I entered. Palli bowed to me, the blood on his pierced earlobes glistening in the dim light. "It is done, Acatl-tzin."

The body of the Revered Speaker lay on the reed mat, dressed in multi-coloured garb, the knees folded up until they touched the chin. A golden mask with a protruding tongue, symbolising Tonatiuh the Fifth Sun, covered his face, and his body had been painted red, the colour of the setting sun. A jade bead pierced his lips. When I touched it, it pulsed with magic.

As befitted that part of the rites, they had brought a cage containing a yellow dog. It lay curled on the ground, its short-cropped fur completely still save for the slight rise of its breathing, its large head nestled between its paws in a strange pose of resignation.

A faint odour of rot wafted from the body, sour and sickly – nothing I couldn't handle. I knelt in preparation for the ritual, and was about to open the cage, when I saw the traces. There had been other rituals before mine, spots of black and grey peppered the ground, along with scratches like the traces of a knife blade. Whatever it was, it had been cleaned, but not well enough. I drew one of my obsidian blades from its sheath, and scratched at it in turn. It was hard, not like congealed blood or sloughed-off flesh, but more like solidified stone, and it wouldn't yield. I managed to take only a small scrap of it, which lay cold and inert in my hand. Tar? Why would anyone want to use tar?

"Palli?" I asked.

He and the other priests had been quietly leaving the room, for this was a moment for the High Priest alone. When I spoke, he turned around. "Do you know what this is?" I asked.

He walked back, carefully navigating around the accumulated traces of magic in the room. "Tar?" he said.

"That's what I think, but–"

"We didn't use tar," Palli said. "It must have been here before. But it's odd."

Decidedly odd. Tar was an uncommon ingredient to use in a ritual, save for very specific gods; and why use it in the imperial chambers themselves?

"Do you want me to look into it?" Palli asked.

"Yes," I said. "Later, though." Whatever ritual had been accomplished, it was old. I couldn't detect any traces of magic, and the spots of tar didn't look as though they would interfere with the spell I was about to cast. "Now isn't the time."

I waited until Palli had left the room to open the cage. I held the dog by the neck and, with the ease of practise, brought the blade up to slice its throat. It gave a little sigh, like a spent hiss, as it died. Blood ran down my hands, warm and beating with power, staining the blade and the stones of the floor.

I used the knife to draw the shape of a quincunx around us: the five-point cross, the shape that symbolised the structure of the world from the Heavens down to Mictlan.

I sang as I did so, the beginning of a litany for the Dead.

"We leave this earth, we leave this world

Into the darkness we must descend

Leaving behind the precious jade, the precious feathers,

The marigolds and the cedar trees…"

The familiar green light of the underworld seeped into the room, hanging over the stone floor like fog. Shadows moved within, singing a wordless lament that twisted in my guts like a knife-stab.

"Past the river, the waters of life

Past the mountains that crush, the mountains that bind

Past the breath of the wind, the breath of His knives…"

The frescoes and the limestone receded, to become the walls of a deep cenote, at the bottom of which shimmered the dark waters of a lake that had never seen, and would never see, the light of day. Small figures moved over the water, growing fainter and fainter the further they went – first they had faces and features that looked almost human, and then they were mere silhouettes, and finally they seemed as small and insignificant as insects, vanishing into the darkness at the far end.

Cold crept up my spine, like the fingers of a corpse or a skeleton. The air became saturated with a dry, musty smell, like old codices left for too long, or the cool ashes of a funeral pyre.

And, abruptly, I was no longer alone.

It was a faint feeling at first, that of eyes on the nape of my neck, and then it grew layer by layer, until, turning, I saw the faint silhouette of a man by my side, shimmering in the darkness like a mirage. Though I could barely see his face, I could guess the outline of a quetzal-feather headdress, spread in a circle around his head and hear the swish of fine cotton cloth as he moved.

"Priest?" he whispered. His voice seemed spent, as if it had crossed whole countries to reach me.

I bowed, as low as I could. "Revered Speaker."

"I feel so cold," Axayacatl-tzin whispered. "Cold…"

I reached with my hands, spreading a little of the blood on him. He rippled, as if I'd drawn the flat of my palm across a reflection in the water. "Priest…"

I started chanting again, the words that he needed to make his way across.

"Past the beasts that live in darkness, that consume hearts,

Into the city of the streets on the left, the city where walk the Dead

We must go, we must find the way into oblivion…"

The scene shifted as I spoke. We were in the middle of the lake, on a boat that held its steady course, and he was by my side, darkness sweeping over his face. The headdress vanished, as did the cotton clothes.

"The region of mystery, the place of the fleshless

Where the strength of jaguars, the strength of eagles

Is broken and ground into dust…"

Then we stood on the other shore of the lake, dwarfed by a huge mass of rock. Ahead of us was darkness, and the faint suggestion of a gate. The Dead passed us by, shambling on, unaware of our presence.

I lowered my hands, and let the blood drip onto the ground. Each drop fell upon the other and stuck, so that little by little a darker mass detached itself from the ground, the faint shape of a dog, shining yellow in the darkness, like a pale memory of sunlight or of corn.

"I give you the precious life, the precious water

The Fifth Sun's nourishment, Grandmother Earth's sustenance,

All of this, I give you as your own

To guide you, to take you down into darkness."

When I finished chanting, the dog sprang to life, running around the shadow like an excited puppy, its tinny barks the only sign of life around us. Its paws struck up dust where it passed.

"It's time," I whispered to Axayacatl-tzin.

"I see," the former Revered Speaker said, and his voice was clearer, stronger than on the other shore. He was among his own kind now, in the only place where his existence still had meaning. He turned towards me, a featureless shadow among featureless shadows."Thank you, priest."

I couldn't help a slight recoil of surprise. The Dead tended to be tremendously self-focused – for such was the nature of death, which severed all bonds of the Fifth World – and I had never had any spirit turn back and thank me before setting on.

"I am Revered Speaker, Huitzilpochtli's own agent." There was a hint of self-deprecating humour in Axayacatl-tzin's voice. "I have known propriety all my life, in death I will not forget."

Though I'd only seen him from afar when he was alive, already I liked him, more than any of those who would claim his ruler's mat. "I am honoured," I said, bowing. "But I was only doing my work."

"And you do it well." If the Dead could look amused, he would have. "I'll leave things in your capable hands."

I could not help a slight grimace, and he was shrewd enough to see it. "Do you not think yourself capable?" His head moved, slightly. His eyes shone yellow, the same colour as the dog at his feet, a memory of the sunlight that had once been poured into him. His features had been completely washed away, so that he seemed to have become the mask they had put onto him. "Ah, I see. It's others you don't trust."

Tizoc-tzin had been his choice and he would have approved the nomination of the other two high priests – not to mention of Xahuia, favoured enough to bear him a son. "I apologise–" I started.

"No need to." He sounded amused again. "I'd always known there would be a rift when I died. But only for a time. I've made sure it will close itself."

"How?"

His head cocked towards me, a fluid movement like a bird's. "Let that be a surprise, priest."

"Someone poisoned the Guardian," I said, the words torn out of me before I could think. "A devotee of She of the Silver Bells."

"The Silver Bells? Her worship should be dead." His eyes blazed, touched for a bare moment with all the might of Huitzilpochtli.

"So you don't know who it could be?" I was pushing my luck. One did not interview the Revered Speaker – even less so the soul of the dead Revered Speaker – as if he were a witness in a courthouse.

He was silent for a while. At length, he hunkered down on the dry, dusty earth as if he were still sitting in judgment. "I didn't know in life, and so wouldn't know in death. But…" he paused, as if admitting something painful. "The She-Snake has always had unorthodox worship practises. Not surprising. His father used religion as a tool, and made the worship of Huitzilpochtli into a political act."

"You think he's reacting against that?" I asked. A touch of Mictlan's cold went down my back. If the She-Snake was worshipping She of the Silver Bells, things had just escalated. His men were all over the palace, keeping watch over all the key areas – not only of the palace, but also of the Sacred Precinct and of the city itself. All the temples, and all the Houses of Darts, the arsenals where we stored weapons.

"I don't know," Axayacatl-tzin said. "But I can tell you this, priest – beware of him. He can act with the best of them, and you'll only know he's lied to you after he's twisted the knife in your chest and taken out your heart for his own purposes."

I nodded. That would teach me to trust a pleasant face. I hesitated; but there was too much at stake. "Your wife Xahuia–"

"I remember Xahuia." His eyes softened.

"Do you remember her sorcerer?" I asked. "Nettoni?"

"Dedicated to Tezcatlipoca, the Smoking Mirror? Yes," Axayacatltzin said. "An ambitious man to serve an ambitious woman. His ally, for as long as their goals overlap." He rose, turned back towards the waiting darkness. "But I don't think–" He paused. A thread of cold light wrapped itself around his waist; climbed, snake-like, to his ears, as if to whisper words I couldn't hear. "Ah, yes. A reminder, worthy to be heeded, priest. It's the star-demons who will end us, coming down from the sky to devour us, swarming over Tonatiuh until His light is extinguished and the age of the Fifth Sun comes to an end."

"And?" I asked, but I had remembered, too. I knew what Lord Death had told him, nothing more, nothing less than what I had already known.

If Axayacatl-tzin still had a mouth, he would have smiled. "The Smoking Mirror is the Sixth Sun. It is His destiny to climb into the sky and take His place as supreme god of the new age."

And His desire, perhaps, to see the Fifth Age, the age of the Fifth Sun Tonatiuh and the Southern Hummingbird Huitzilpochtli, end much sooner than it should.

"I see," I said. The cold was in my bones and in my heart. "I see. Thank you, Axayacatl-tzin."

When I opened my eyes, I was back in the Fifth World within my blood-quincunx, the potency of which was slowly leeching away. Axayacatl-tzin's corpse still sat facing me, but something seemed to have gone out of him, some bright, subtle light that even death had not extinguished. His soul – his heart, the divine fire which animates us all – had passed into Mictlan, never to return.

But what he had left me with was troubling. I had forgotten that the Sixth Sun was Tezcatlipoca, and that the devotees of the Smoking Mirror would therefore have ample motivation for ushering in chaos – a chaos that would lay the ground for their god's rise to power. They might not worship She of the Silver Bells, but did it matter, as long as they could control the star-demons?

But still, that would require the devotees of both gods to be in collusion. It wasn't uncommon. The previous year I'd uncovered a plot between Xochiquetzal, the Quetzal Flower, Goddess of Lust and Desire, and Tlaloc, the Storm Lord. But it still seemed a very complicated conspiracy, if conspiracy there was.

I sighed. The light that filtered through the entrance-curtain was the pale, grey one before dawn. as expected, the ritual had taken all night. There would be time, later, to reflect on the consequences of what I had learnt. What I needed now was rest.

I made it home just in time for the blast of conch-shells and drums that announced the rise of the Fifth Sun, did my offerings of blood; and fell on my sleeping mat.

When I awoke, the sun was slanting towards the horizon, bathing everything in the room in warm, golden light. I shook my head, trying to clear my thoughts.

Outside, I half-expected to find Teomitl waiting for me, but though there was someone in my courtyard – which could hardly be called "private" anymore given the sheer flow of visitors that came through it – it wasn't my student.

"Yaotl?"

Ceyaxochitl's slave was still dressed sumptuously and his eyes shone with a resolution I'd seldom seen, though his face was haggard beneath the makeup. The eagle feathers of his headdress drooped, as though he'd walked through a squall; and his embroidered cotton cloak was slightly askew on his shoulders. Any humorous remark I might have made about his intrusion died on my lips.

"What observation skills," he said. It started bitingly, and then became toneless as he remembered the seriousness of the situation.

"Any news?"

He shook his head. "The physician said that she might live if she can survive the next day. Her body might purge the poison on its own."

One day. Fourteen hours. We both knew this wouldn't happen. Though she lived and breathed, Ceyaxochitl was as dead as the Revered Speaker.

"You haven't come here for that," I said.

A shade of the old sarcasm shone in his eyes. "No. I came to tell you we know what poisoned her."

"So?" I asked.

He raised a hand. "All in good time." There was a gleam in his gaze that suggested that what he had to tell me was of much more import than the nature of the poison – Storm Lord blind him, this wasn't a time for his usual equivocations.

"Yaotl–"

"It's obscure," Yaotl said. "The physician looked through all his notes, and finally found a case that was similar."

"You're enjoying this, aren't you."

He looked up at me, and let me see for the first time what lay beneath the mask of irony – an anger that possessed him to the bones. "She's as good as dead, Acatl-tzin. Doomed. Gone from the Fifth World. She took me from the marketplace, and turned me from a slave into her assistant. She gave me status and riches. And you think I don't want her murderer punished?"

"She helped me too," I said.

Yaotl's face clearly said that I couldn't understand – that I'd been a priest long before Ceyaxochitl took an interest in me. He had been a captive destined for a life of drudgery. He breathed in, once, twice. I could almost feel the air trembling in his lungs. "It's a newt. A fiery-looking critter with a red-belly and stripes across the back. Rather distinctive. They secrete a poison that acts that way, shutting down the muscles one after the other."

A newt. I thought, uneasily, of all the times in the palace I'd eaten one. Why, I had taken some from the kitchen only a few hours ago. "That wasn't all you had, was it?"

Yaotl's smile was like the rising of a star, as red as blood and as bent on causing chaos. "They're uncommon. Finding them takes work. Except–" he brought both hands together with the finality of a book closing. "Except that they flourish on the lake shore near Texcoco. Xahuia-tzin asked for them specifically last week. She said it was for cosmetics."

And what interesting makeup those would make.

Yaotl, predictably, was eager to take a troop of Duality warriors into the palace and bodily arrest Xahuia.

I, on the other hand… I could remember Xahuia's spell, and the aura of power that hung around Nettoni, enough to make me a lot less eager than Yaotl. "Tlaloc's lightning strike you, I need to think! We can't possibly barge in there that way."

"Why not?"

Because… Because, if Axayacatl-tzin was right, the She-Snake might be complicit, or at the very least sympathetic. Because Xahuia and Nettoni, between them both, had enough power to level this palace twice over.

"There's too much at stake," I said. "This is going to be a declaration of war against Texcoco."

Yaotl shrugged. His stance said, very clearly, that if I cared about such trifles I was an ungrateful fool.

I could guess what Tizoc-tzin's reaction would be, if we brought him the news. Sarcasm, and perhaps even a declaration that he cared little about the Guardian's fate. But we needed allies, and they were in short supply. We needed someone to give us their support.

"We need Manatzpa," I said. This was political and if we had it wrong, if Yaotl's guesses and my circumstantial evidence gathered from Axayacatl-tzin's vague memories were just coincidences, then the Triple Alliance would tear itself apart for nothing.

That is, if we survived the arrest at all. I doubted Xahuia or Nettoni would go down peacefully.

"That's not his place," Yaotl said, sharply.

"This is a princess of Texcoco. Not just some grubby little summoner in a peasant's hut in the Floating Gardens." I hated politics, but I could see the shape of the game, all too clearly.

Yaotl watched me for a while, and relented. "Fine. But if you're not here at the Hour of the Earth Mother, my men and I will go in regardless."

For once, I was lucky. Manatzpa and Echichilli were both in the council room, going over some papers.

"See, the province of Cuahacan hasn't delivered their tribute of jaguar pelts," Manatzpa was saying.

"I think it was waived this year," Echichilli said, his wrinkled face creased in thought. "Let me see…" He reached for some of the other papers in the pile, and stopped when I entered in a tinkle of bells. "Acatl-tzin?"

He looked up when I came in, genuinely surprised. "Acatl-tzin?"

"We need your help," I said.

"Our help?" Manatzpa sounded sceptical.

"I know who poisoned Ceyaxochitl."

"That's a grave accusation," Echichilli said. "Do you have evidence?"

"Yes." I outlined, briefly, what had led us to this.

When I finished, Echichilli did not look satisfied. "It's scant. Too scant."

"The Guardian was poisoned," I said.

"But if you're wrong… It will mean war with Texcoco."

"I know." I wanted to scream, but I had more decorum than that. "But we can't let that kind of thing go unpunished. Otherwise, who knows what else might happen?"

Echichilli looked at Manatzpa for a while. At length, the younger councillor set aside his writing reed. "I think it's enough," he said. "It's a presumption, to be sure, but we can find a way to apologise if it doesn't turn out the right way. The presence of a strong sorcerer inside the palace at this juncture is enough to be suspicious."

"You were always good with words." Echichilli sounded sad. "See how we can tear ourselves apart."

"I wasn't the one who started." Manatzpa sounded angry. He rose, wrapping his cloak around his shoulders. "I'll go with you, Acatl-tzin."

He and Echichilli both looked polished and clean, their ornaments from embroidered cloaks to feather-headdresses impeccable, suited to attending the imperial presence. Manatzpa himself would be all but useless in a fight, merely giving us his support, but little else.

I needed Teomitl. "We'll need to collect someone first," I said.

The palace was a big place, and it seemed even bigger when searching for someone. We headed straight to Teomitl's rooms, a small courtyard by the side of where Tizoc-tzin was holding court, where the entrance-curtain fluttered orange in the breeze, the same colour as Teomitl's cloak. Unlike Tizoc-tzin's, the room was on the ground floor, but then, Teomitl had never cared overmuch about pomp. He applied his own exacting standards to himself, and the opinions of his peers mattered little to him.

At least, that was what I'd thought before Tizoc-tzin started teaching him.

"Teomitl?"

No answer came from within. I'd expected guards, or at the very least a slave, but nothing moved beyond the curtain. I debated whether to enter, and finally settled for silently drawing the curtain aside, to make sure that Teomitl was not sleeping inside.

I had been in the courtyard outside those rooms, but in the year I'd taught him Teomitl had never invited me inside. The room was decorated with rich frescoes in vivid colours, depicting our ancestors in Aztlan, the fabled heartland of Huitzilpochtli's strength. Fish and leaping frogs filled water as clear as that of a spring, and little figures withdrew nets under the gaze of the god and of His mother Coatlicue, a wizened, harsh-looking woman wearing a dress of woven rattlesnakes, her large breasts obscured by a necklace of human hands and hearts.

The furniture, however, was at odds with the wealth of the decoration. A single, thin reed mat lay in the furthest corner, turned yellow by age. A stone box, a shallow vessel in the shape of an eagle, a three-legged clay pot with a chipped rim and two worn wicker chests completed the furniture. It would have seemed almost unlived in, save for the three grass balls pierced through with bloody thorns.

Carefully, I released the curtain; I couldn't help feeling embarrassed at discovering more of Teomitl's intimacy that he'd ever revealed to me.

Well, he was not here, that was certain. Where in the Fifth World could he have hidden himself?

I cast a hesitant glance towards the south, where the red-tinged silhouette of Tizoc-tzin's chambers towered over Teomitl's small courtyard. Could he be at Court with his brother? If that was the case, we were lost. I couldn't risk coming back, not on such stakes.

The hollow in my stomach wouldn't close, an unwelcome reminder of how anchorless the Fifth World had become with the death of the Revered Speaker.

Manatzpa had been waiting politely for me at the entrance to the courtyard. He bent his head towards the sky, where the sun was climbing into its apex, a graceful way of suggesting we needed to hurry without actually saying the words.

We walked out again, and attempted to locate the youths of imperial blood.

I found them lounging at the exit of steam-baths, lazing in courtyards over patolli games, listening to slaves playing rattles and drums. None of those I questioned – smooth-faced and careless, with the easy eyes of people who had never had to wonder about their next meal – could tell me where Teomitl was. And time, through it all, kept steadily passing, each moment bringing me closer to Yaotl's deadline.

At length, a fist of ice closing around my heart, I headed back towards the entrance, Manatzpa in tow.

As I passed the House of Animals, I caught a glimpse of orange in the darkness.

I slid inside, unsure whether I had truly seen anything. The House of Animals spread over several gigantic courtyards, cages of woven reeds held rare or beautiful animals, from emerald-green quetzal birds to the graceful, lethal jaguars; from web-footed capybaras munching on palm leaves to huge, slumbering armadillos curled against the bars.

The flash of orange came again, in the direction of the aviary, where the Revered Speaker kept the birds with precious plumage that could be turned into feather regalia. I crossed the arcades of a gallery, and found myself facing a couple of quetzal birds and, through the bars of their cage, Teomitl, who stood watching them with the intentness of a warrior on a reconnaissance mission.

"Acatl-tzin?" He sounded shocked and not altogether pleased. But our grievances could wait.

I raised a hand to forestall him. "I need your help," I said. "To prevent Yaotl from getting into trouble."

"Trouble?" Teomitl's face focused again on the present.

"Arresting a sorcerer," I said, curtly.

"But surely Ceyaxochitl–"

"Ceyaxochitl is dying," I said. This time, my voice did not quiver. I felt terrible, as if uttering the words to him finally made them reality.

Teomitl's gaze hardened. "Who? The sorcerer?"

I nodded.

He wrapped his cloak around his shoulders, casting a last, regretful glance at the birds. "I'm coming."

When we reached the entrance neither Yaotl nor the Duality warriors were there.

"Acatl-tzin?" Teomitl's voice was slightly resentful, as if he expected me to apologise for the disturbance.

The Storm Lord strike me if I gave in, though. This was not a time for indulging his pride. "They're inside," I said. "If we hurry…"

But, even as we ran towards the women's quarters, the sounds of battle cut through the courtyard. We were going to be too late.

NINE

Fire and Blood

Teomitl, Manatzpa and I took the courtyards at a run, heedless of the hissing noblemen who barely made an effort to move out of our way. The sound of fighting got closer all the while – obsidian striking wood, obsidian striking obsidian, the familiar cries of the wounded and of the dying.

By the wall that marked the boundaries of the women's quarter, a guard in the She-Snake's black uniform lay choking in his own blood. Teomitl knelt by his side, assessing the wounds with an expert gaze. He shook his head. His face was still, strangely frozen in a moment between human and divine, half brown skin, the colour of cacao, half the harshness of jade, hovering on the verge of taking over.

"…by surprise…" the guard whispered. Froth bubbled up from between his lips. His gaze rose towards Tonatiuh the Fifth Sun who hung over the courtyard, swollen with the red of evening light.

"Spare your effort." Teomitl's voice was curt, an order that could not be refused. "Acatl-tzin?"

I shrugged. "We go in." I reached up, and fingered the wounds in my earlobes. The scabs easily came off, and my fingers came with blood pooling at their tips.

I knelt by the dying man, and drew the glyph for a dog on his forehead, whispering the first words of a litany for the Dead, to ease his passage into the underworld.

"As grass becomes green in spring

Our hearts open and give forth buds

And then they wither

This is the truth

Down into the darkness we must go…"

Teomitl watched me in silence, though his whole stance was that of a snake coiled to strike, eager to draw blood.

"Let's go," I said, with a curt nod.

Inside, every courtyard was deserted, the entrance-curtains drawn. From time to time the pale faces of women peered at us through the cotton. The sounds of battle were dying out. Whatever had happened, it was over.

As we approached the courtyard where Xahuia had received me, the air became tighter, as if we were tumbling down a mountain towards denser climates – and magic saturated the air, an unhealthy, suffocating tang that crept over my whole field of vision. I could have extended my priest-senses, but I already knew what it was – Tezcatlipoca's touch, a miasma that rose from the deep marshes, from corpses and from rotten plants.

Teomitl's face seemed to be made of jade now, as he ran forward.

But, in the last courtyard, all that we found was an exhausted Yaotl, standing over three bodies. Two were Duality warriors, and the third I would have known anywhere, even without the aura of sorcery that hung around him.

Something had changed with the courtyard. It took me a while to realise that a new entrance-curtain had appeared where there had been only a frescoed wall. It opened in the midst of a fresco depicting the Southern Hummingbird. As the curtain fluttered in the breeze I saw that it was only the start of a series of holes pierced through several walls, a path that led through courtyard after courtyard, until…

"Where does it go?" I asked.

Yaotl nodded, grimly. "I sent the remaining warriors to check, but I would think outside."

Manatzpa bowed, briefly, to Yaotl, and wandered near the entrance-curtain to get a better look.

"Of course it goes outside." Nettoni's voice was a spent whisper. "Don't be a fool like them, Acatl."

I knelt by his side. He had no wounds, and the strength of his magic was still gathered around him, potent enough to give me nausea. And yet… his face was as pale as muddy milk, his mouth curled back, showing the blackness of his teeth. "That's where you sent Xahuia."

His lips moved, as much a grimace of pain as a smile. "I told you. I was privileged to serve her."

Axayacatl-tzin had told me otherwise; that they only served each other because their goals lay in the same direction. But he could have been wrong.

Nettoni grimaced again. "Not much point, in any case. You'd have caught me easily enough. Sometimes, you have to admit defeat."

Teomitl's hand brushed Nettoni's forehead, and withdrew as if scalded. "Acatl-tzin."

"She's not a goddess of healing," Nettoni said. The whites of his eyes were slowly filling with blood – red at first, and then darkening as if it was drying inside. "She's never been. And She's not your servant."

"I'm not naïve enough to think She is," Teomitl snorted.

We had other things to worry about than Jade Skirt's motivations. "I think it's your god we should be talking about, Nettoni. The one you tried to help."

He smiled again, and it looked like the death-grin of a skull. "That I tried to help? In many ways, I was as ineffective as you were, Acatl."

"We put Xahuia to rout, and killed you. I hardly think that's ineffective." I kept nothing back; there was no point in being polite or kind – not to a dying man, not to a servant of the Smoking Mirror.

He snorted. His eyes were now as black as obsidian, glimmering with the same harsh light. "Then perhaps I've been more ineffective than you."

"You killed Ceyaxochitl." Yaotl's voice was harsh. "You poisoned her, you son of a dog."

Nettoni smiled again. "Have you understood nothing?" His hand closed around my wrist before I could pull away – his touch burnt, and cuts blossomed everywhere he touched me. "You fool…"

I tried to free myself, but every movement I made widened the cuts. I sucked in a breath against the myriad pinpricks of pain climbing up my arm. "Let me go, the Southern Hummingbird blind you!"

Yaotl and Teomitl moved, each seizing their obsidian weapon, but Nettoni just smiled, his face taking on the harsh cast of one possessed by the gods. The shadow of black and yellow paint hung on his features, and, like Axayacatl-tzin, I could guess at the shape of a feather-headdress, crowning him in glory. "You're a fool, then… But even fools can learn… Do you not see, Acatl? Do you not see?"

Teomitl's macuahitl sword swung down, connecting with Nettoni's arm just below the elbow. It sheared through the skin and bone as if through air. Blood spurted in a warm fountain that sank into my clothes. The smell of sacrifices filled the air. Nettoni's face went a little paler, but his smile did not diminish.

"Not too late…" he whispered, "My Lady…" The blood flow was pouring from him into the beaten earth, power shimmering over it. He whispered a string of syllables I could not understand, and then his eyes closed, as if peacefully asleep, and the light fled from him. His hand and lower arm fell, limp – the fingers opening up, were studded with shards of obsidian like a sword, but, as I watched, even they faded away, until nothing but the severed hand of a corpse remained.

The sense of coiled power, of wrongness, died with him. I breathed in a burning gulp of air, feeling lighter already.

"Acatl-tzin." Manatzpa was frowning down at me. "We have to hurry."

I couldn't understand his urgency. "The Duality warriors have got a head start on us. If they can't find Xahuia, then it's likely we won't. I'm touched by your confidence, but…"

He cut me with an impatient shake of his head. What in the Fifth World was wrong with him? "Didn't you hear, Acatl-tzin?"

"I heard a lot of allegations, and most of them were too cryptic for their own good."

His eyes were wide in the dim light. "The name he said, at the end… Echichilli. Echichilli is in danger."

Not for the first time we found ourselves running through the deserted courtyards of the Imperial Palace. This time, though, we had Teomitl with us. My apprentice might not have had any idea of how to steer a boat or negotiate at the marketplace, as he had amply proved in the past year, but he did know the palace layout by heart.

Night had fallen. The stars overhead glittered down upon us like the eyes of a thousand monsters and the hole at the centre of the Fifth World was growing larger and larger, a sense of emptiness that pulsed in my chest, in my hastily bandaged wounds.

"Do you know where he is?" I asked Manatzpa, after what seemed like the tenth near-identical courtyard.

He made a short, stabbing gesture with his hands. "My rooms. That's where he was meant to wait for me."

"It might be a false alarm," I said. "A plan to get us away from the hunt."

"He doesn't need that." Teomitl's whole stance radiated an unearthly confidence – in the straightness of his back, in the calm shake of his head. "He's beaten us on that already."

We had left Yaotl behind, to continue the hunt for Xahuia. But whether Nettoni had cared for Xahuia or not, or had been allied with her and chosen to sacrifice himself in order to further the chaos in the Fifth World, if he had been the one to organise her escape, he would have gone about it methodically, secure in his god's favour. I very much doubted we would find her or her son.

"Then why warn us at all?" He hadn't cared a jot for us; for any of us. He was Texcocan, and he had tried to destroy us. Unless… unless he'd hoped we would die with Echichilli, thus giving him his revenge from beyond death.

I didn't like the explanation, but nevertheless I had to make room for it, in order to be ready.

"I don't know why he warned us," Teomitl said, frustrated. "Can you let me focus on where we're going?"

I bristled, but now wasn't the time to berate him for his lack of respect. "And once we've found them, then what?"

He turned, briefly, looking genuinely surprised. "I thought you'd know."

I hadn't really had time to think about it either. It was night, which meant the outside would afford us no extra protection. "There are enough wards on the outside walls to blast even a beast of shadows into oblivion," I said. "For all their power, I don't think the star-demons will be able to cross that line."

"So we take Echichilli outside?"

"The Duality House," I said, curtly. It was either that or the shrine of Huitzilpochtli at the Great Temple; but Quenami had made it abundantly clear that the Southern Hummingbird was all but powerless, merely awaiting a new agent to invest with His powers. "It's always a safe haven."

It would be, even with Ceyaxochitl's illness.

What we needed was to buy time, to slow down the star-demons.

We needed The Wind of Knives: the keeper of boundaries, the enforcer of the underworld's justice.

He'd have come on His own, if the boundaries between the Fifth World and the underworld had been breached. But the stardemons came from the Heavens, which were not His province.

However, He could still be summoned, by the adepts, or the foolhardy.

With any other minor underworld deities, I would have drawn a quincunx in blood, and stood chanting at the centre. But I had once merged my mind with the Wind of Knives, to bring down a god's agent in the city; and the link had remained.

As we ran, I slashed my earlobes, and let the blood pool into my hands, warm and pulsing, an anchor into the Fifth World. I sent my mind questing high above the deserted city, past the Houses of Joy and the warriors' banquets, past the peasants' dwellings squatting at the river's edge and the myriad reed boats bobbing at their anchor, down, into a dark cenote where rainwater pooled, away from the sunlight and the warmth of the Fifth World.

There was a shock, as if I'd run into a wall. Acatl, a voice like the keening of dead souls said. You are timely. The boundaries are breached. I am coming.

I could feel Him, gathering darkness into Himself, emerging from the cenote, wisps of shadows and fog trailing behind Him. He was flowing up the canals like a miasma, covering in instants what would have taken hours for a man on foot.

"Bad news," I said to Teomitl.

"What?"

"The boundaries are breached." The summoner, whoever he was, was already in the process of calling down a star-demon into the world.

Teomitl's face shifted, became the colour of jade. "Then I'm summoning the ahuizotls."

The ahuizotls were Jade Skirt's creatures, small and wizened beings which lived at the bottom of Lake Texcoco, dragging men down into the water to feast on their eyes and fingernails.

I shook my head. "They won't be effective." The palace was on the main island of Tenochtitlan, as far away from the water as it was possible to be in a city of canals and boats. Even accounting for the ahuizotls' supernatural speed, they wouldn't be here for a while, assuming they managed to get past the wards at the palace entrance.

"Do you have a better plan?"

Then again, the Wind of Knives probably wouldn't be here on time, either.

At length, we reached a courtyard much like Teomitl's, a quiet, secluded place where only a few slaves swept the ground. I glanced upwards: the stars remained in the same position, and there was no gaping emptiness. For once, we were on time.

The Wind of Knives was in my mind, a pressure like water against a dike, a whistle like the passage of air through obsidian mountains, a grave voice tearing at me like a grieving lament. Acatl. I am coming. He was flowing up the stairs of the palace now, the guards scattering in His wake like a flock of parrots.

Almost there…

I knelt, and collected more blood from my earlobes to trace a quincunx on the ground. "Acatl-tzin!" Teomitl said, exasperated.

"You heard me," I said. "The boundaries are breached. I'd rather have protection."

I started a litany for the Dead:

"In the region of the fleshless, the region of mystery

The dead men go forward

They crawl on bleeding feet, on bleeding hands

Forward into darkness

Away from the Fifth World's reach."

A veil fell over me, darkening the courtyard, and the stars in the sky receded, became as insignificant as scattered bones. The world shifted and danced, and the faces I glanced at – Teomitl's, Manatzpa's – seemed those of old men. Teomitl's voice came to me, tinny and weak, the veil leeching all resonance, all warmth from his words.

Gods, I hated that spell.

"Acatl-tzin!"

"Let's go," I said.

Teomitl pulled the entrance-curtain aside and strode in, barely holding it long enough for me to enter in turn.

The room stretched before us, as long and narrow as a fishing boat, interspersed with carved columns. Its walls were painted a vibrant ochre, engraved with leaping deer and jaguars.

Near the centre, Echichilli was seated on reed mats a half-consumed meal before him maize flatbread, tomatoes and the bones of fowl.

"Manatzpa?" His wrinkled face looked puzzled. "I thought–"

"Later," Manatzpa said. Teomitl had his macuahitl sword out, the obsidian shards glinting in the reddish lights of the brazier. "We need to get you out of here. Now."

I'd expected Echichilli to protest. He certainly had not been shy about his opinions beforehand, but he remained silent, his eyes fixed on the nibbled fowl-bones. "Venerable Echichilli?" I asked.

He smiled, revealing a few yellowed teeth stuck haphazardly in his mouth. "I think it's too late for that, isn't it?"

"What do you mean?" I asked. But, as I did so, a cold wind lifted the entrance-curtain, and I felt the hole in the Fifth World widen. Something pressed down upon us. Cracks appeared in the roof, fragments of adobe rained down, and the stars shone through the cracks. One of them was falling, straight towards us, growing larger and larger…

"Teomitl!" I screamed.

The rattle of shells filled the room and a shadow stood before us, its hundreds of eyes shining malevolently in the dim light. No, not eyes but stars, scattered at the knees, elbows and wrists of a vaguely humanoid creature – stars that, if you looked into them for long enough, were also demons, smaller monsters with talons and fangs and necklaces of human hearts…

It brought with it the emptiness of the night sky, a cold so intense that my teeth seized up, chattering unstoppably. My limbs shook, started to twist out of shape, and all I could feel was the frantic beating of my heart.

Its eyes, the deathly blue of stars, rested upon me for a while, and I felt as if fingers were closing around my throat, as if hundreds of cold stones pressed against my skin. My veil of protection buckled and shattered, leaving only a cold feeling. My vision started to blur, my corneas burning as if someone had thrown chilli powder into my face.

Where was the Wind of Knives?

The star-demon's gaze moved away; I was not its target. My limbs, now utterly out of control, twisted each in a different direction, leaving me on my knees, struggling not to fall further.

Manatzpa had risen, arms crossed against his chest. "This isn't your place." His voice rang with confidence. How he could still be standing, facing that?

The star-demon made a sound which might have been laughter. I heard only the rattle of shells, of yellowed bones shaken together in a grave, my own bones, grinding in the agonising mess of my chest.

"Manatzpa." Echichilli's voice was quiet. "Some things cannot be fought against."

Manatzpa's face twisted in uncharacteristic anger. "You say this like you approve."

I didn't hear Echichilli's answer. My legs were quivering, threatening to slip away from me, and it took all my concentration to remain upright.

The star-demon was moving, flowing towards the two councilmen with the inevitability of a flood. Manatzpa's hand strayed towards his knife, but the clawed hands batted him aside as casually as a child might hurl a toy. He flew towards the wall, hit it, and slumped at the feet of the frescoes, bleeding from a dozen cuts. Near him, Teimitl was on the floor, struggling to rise.

That left only Echichilli. The old councillor stood, watching the star-demon come with an odd, melancholy smile on his face. "For everything a price," he whispered. He bowed his head, and did not move.

The Duality curse us, why wouldn't he fight? Why wouldn't he use magic, anything to save himself from the gruesome death facing him?

I slid my hand towards one of my obsidian knives. It was like moving through thick honey. My fingers kept jerking out of the way, and my progress was agonisingly slow, finger-length by finger-length, knuckle by knuckle, every movement a supreme effort.

The star-demon's body blocked my sight of Echichilli. Its back was a dark cloak rippling in the wind, shimmering to reveal row upon row of skulls. Shells as white as bone, sewn into the hem, rattled as it moved.

My fingers hovered over the handle of the knife, closed over empty air. The Duality curse me, I needed…

Echichilli screamed once, a sound abruptly cut off by the wet sound of flesh being torn apart. Hundreds of droplets splayed into the room; organs and blood, spattering my face and hands.

No…

I managed to close my fingers over the knife. The familiar emptiness of Mictlan arced up my body, stretching into my lungs and throat. The sensation of twisting diminished. I pulled myself upwards on shaking legs, the knife handle digging into the palm of my hand, a persistent, known pain that anchored me back to the Fifth World.

"Acatl-tzin." Teomitl had got up with me, his hand still affixed to my shoulder. Chalchiuhtlicue's magic wrapped around him gave a green, rippling cast to his cloak and headdress. "They're coming."

The ahuizotls. I knew; and I also knew that they would be too late.

The Wind of Knives, however, wasn't.

His weight in my mind grew excruciating, like a white-hot spear driven into my head. Darkness flowed into the room, bringing with it the deep, teeth-chattering cold of the underworld, and He was standing by my side as if He had always been there. Light glittered on a thousand obsidian planes, caught on the black points like beads on a necklace's thread.

His hand rested lightly on my shoulder, balanced on a dozen obsidian shards as sharp as the points of knives and a tight, cool feeling spread from the points of contact, enough for me to focus again. "Acatl. I am here."

I managed to utter words, through chattering teeth. "You can… see."

"Yes," the Wind of Knives said. His voice was like the water of the cenote, dark, without warmth or sunlight. "I see."

Before I could say anything more, He flowed, fluid, inhuman, towards the star-demon.

The creature had turned, its pale head shifting between the Wind of Knives and Manatzpa, who had pulled himself on an elbow and was daubing Echichilli's blood into the beginning of a huge arc around himself, chanting all the while in harsh words I couldn't make out. The dim light glinted against the tears in his eyes.

The Wind of Knives met the star-demon with a screeching sound, obsidian blades sliding on shell rattles. They fought each other, flowing across the room in an embrace. Obsidian shards glinted. Here and there pale fragments of skin flashed blue in the darkness as they moved past, again and again, spraying drops of Echichilli's blood all over the room like warm rain. It was almost hypnotic, that play of colours, of darkness on light, if the consequences hadn't been so absurdly terrifying…

"Acatl-tzin!" Teomitl screamed.

With growing horror, I realised that the star-demon was coming straight at me. Behind it, the Wind of Knives lay pinned to the floor by something jagged and white – a huge fragment of shell under which the Wind struggled to free Himself.

Of course. It thought to kill me, and thus cut the Wind of Knives' link to the Fifth World.

It was almost close enough to touch, Its eyes held me, and my hands started to shiver and contract. I held onto the knife, to the stretched emptiness of Mictlan, the only part of my body that seemed not to writhe in pain.

Teomitl bypassed me, his macuahitl sword at the ready. He moved more slowly as the star-demon's gaze transferred to him, but his features became harsher, the whites of his eyes glazing into green. His sword came up, hundreds of obsidian shards glittering in the light, ready for a strike.

The star-demon was faster. It sidestepped in a rattle of shells, and threw itself at me.

I went down in a tangle of flailing limbs, fighting to regain control of my own body. Up close, it seemed almost human, its face as pale as a corpse, with the bluish tinge of death, its cheeks swollen and tinged with black spots, its eyes without corneas or pupils…

The Wind of Knives was still down. Manatzpa was still chanting, but it did not seem to be having any effect on the star-demon. I was the only one who could save myself…

Fighting all the while, I raised the knife, sank it into whatever I could reach. It howled, but remained upon me. I watched its hands rise as if from a great distance. The fingers curled into claws as sharp as broken obsidian, tiny stars at the joints that were also the eyes of monsters. The claws fell, and swiped across my chest, opening my flesh in a flower of pain.

The star-demon howled, shaking its head. Through the growing haze, I saw Teomitl's face, transfigured into jade. He was going to strike again, and I couldn't remain inactive. I tried to roll over, but my chest felt as if it was splitting open. I raised my hand again, flailing, desperately trying to focus on what I needed to do. The blade of the knife quivered in a blur of black reflections as I drove it up to the hilt into the star-demon's chest.

The blade slid into its flesh without resistance, as if there had been no substance to it at all. Something warm and pulsing fell over me, a suffocating river that smelled of cold, dry earth, nothing like blood. Every one of its eyes closed for a moment, leaving us in darkness, and then they opened again, and its claws swept down, faster than I could follow.

Everything went dark in a burst of pain.

TEN

Aftermath

I woke up, tried shifting, and almost screamed when the pain in my chest flared again.

"Don't move, Acatl-tzin." Teomitl's face swam into focus, his skin dark brown again, all traces of the goddess purged from him.

I managed to shift my gaze down to see my chest swathed in a mass of bandages. That feeling of emptiness was still there, and I wasn't sure any more whether it was the hole left by Axayacatltzin's death, or simply a remnant of the magic of Mictlan that had arced through me as I stabbed upwards.

"If I'm still here, I imagine it's gone?"

Teomitl nodded. "Disappeared the moment it was stabbed. Couldn't have done it without the Wind of Knives, though."

The Wind. I could no longer feel Him in my mind. He had vanished at the star-demon's death.

I lay back, and breathed a sigh of relief.

Teomitl's face hovered between horror and fascination. "That's what we have to deal with?"

"A lot more of them, yes," I said. If only Quenami had seen that, even he would have had to admit that this was a genuine threat.

I pulled myself upwards cautiously. The surroundings were unfamiliar. Frescoes depicted the triumphant march of Huitzilpochtli across the marshes, our enemies trampled underfoot, the sorcerer Copil vanquished and his heart torn out, the founding of Tenochtitlan after two hundred years of wandering and our rise to glory. "Where–?"

"Manatzpa's rooms," Teomitl said. "A different part. Now, if you'll excuse me, I have some ahuizotls to send away." He frowned. "The other high priests are at Tizoc-tzin's banquet. I've sent for a priest of Patecatl. He'll be here any moment."

Healing spells required a heavy sacrifice to obtain, their cost all but restricted their use to the Imperial Family. "I'm not sure…"

Teomitl's face was pale, but determined. "You're High Priest for the Dead in Tenochtitlan, Acatl-tzin. Of course he'll come."

Of course. I lay back, feeling infinitely weary. "Thank you. Just go see to those ahuizotls before the screaming starts."

I watched him leave and reflected that he could have sent the ahuizotls away from the room; this meant he had something else to do, something he didn't want me to be privy to. I wasn't sure I wanted to know, in my current state.

A tinkle of bells at the entrance-curtain heralded the entrance of Manatzpa, who was carrying a tray with two bowls of warm chocolate. His own wounds were bandaged, but he walked very carefully, as if the least sudden movement would take him apart.

"I thought you worse off." I managed to pull myself up into a sitting position, wedged against the wall.

He didn't smile. "We both have looked better." He set the tray between us, and sat down facing me. "But, no, it just knocked me out." His lips curled upwards. "A good thing your student is strong."

There was an expression in his eyes I couldn't quite read; as if he had some strong feeling that he was trying to hide from me, either hatred or fear or… "He's your candidate, isn't he?"

Manatzpa looked away. "He's young." His voice was toneless. "A minor, inexperienced member of the Imperial family, with only one prisoner to his name, and a reputation as an uncontrollable element dabbling in sorcery. And he won't have a chance to improve it before the coronation war."

"So you won't vote?"

"You already know what I think of the other candidates." Somehow my questioning appeared to have put him off. He pushed a bowl towards me. The bitter smell of cacao, mingled with that of spices and vanilla, wafted up to my nostrils, tantalising.

"And you know…"

He made a quick, stabbing gesture with his hand, and grimaced as he was reminded of his wounds. "I know, Acatl-tzin, I know. But, as I said before, I'd rather have a good leader than the first that came to mind."

"Even after seeing this?"

For a moment, anger stole across his stately features. "I won't forget what happened to Echichilli, or leave it unpaid. But I'll stand by what I believe."

Perhaps I was deluding myself, then. If even such a measured man as Manatzpa could bring himself to wait, having seen what a stardemon could do, then how would I stand a chance of convincing Quenami or Tizoc-tzin that we had to choose a Revered Speaker now?

Manatzpa drained his bowl in one gulp. He still appeared angry; at my questions, or at Echichilli's death? "I disturb you. I'll leave you to your rest. We'll have visitors soon enough."

Left alone, I drank my own chocolate, enjoying the familiar hint of bitterness taste on my tongue before the chilli overwhelmed it. Manatzpa's rooms were as devoid of furniture and ornaments as Teomitl. No wonder he liked his nephew enough to support him for the Turquoise-and-Gold Crown.

All the same…

Something felt wrong, and I couldn't have said what. A premonition, such as the ones the adepts of Quetzalcoatl sometimes received? But I did not worship the Feathered Serpent, or claim any more than a distant allegiance to Him. Perhaps just the wounds and the lightness in my whole body, which would have been enough to make any man feel moody? But, no, it wasn't that.

My mind could not seem to focus on anything. It drifted, watching the frescoes blur and merge into each other. Huitzilpochtli's blue-striped face loomed larger and larger, shifting into the grin of a star-demon, and the darkness swarmed over me and swallowed me whole.

• • • •

In my dreams, I stood on one of the hills around Tenochtitlan, garbed as a High Priest in my cloak embroidered with owls and the skull-mask over my face.

By my side stood other high priests, Quenami in jaguar skins and Acamapichtli with his heron-plumes, and others, lesser ones I could not recognise. Above us were the stars, blinking slowly and coldly; and they were coming down, one by one, trails of light against the dark sky, growing larger and larger, until we could see the eyes in the joints of their elbows and knees, feel the cold of their passage. The sun had faded into darkness, and the earth underneath rumbled, splitting itself apart…

There was a chant, in the background, harsh, sibilant words in a language that I had heard before and couldn't place. And then, as everything split apart in a shower of sparks, I could finally make it out.

"From darkness I call you

For the broken, for the discarded

For the imprisoned, wailing in the world below

The world is desiccated bones, twisted and gaunt faces

It is the time of my mastery

The opening of my reign."

And I knew, too, where I had heard them: they were the words of the invocation Manatzpa had been attempting to make to defend himself against the star-demon – words no one but a devotee of She of the Silver Bells should have been able to use.

I woke up with a start, my heart hammering painfully against the confines of my chest. I felt stiff and sore; but when I attempted to move I only felt the dull, distant pain of healed wounds. It looked as if the priest of Patecatl had indeed come, and healed me while I was asleep – leaving me whole but weak and drained of everything. Great.

The dream remained hovering at the edges of my mind. But, like ice brought from the mountains, it thawed, leaving its revelations mercilessly clear.

Manatzpa. No wonder he had been angry when I had questioned him about his allegiances; no wonder he was willing to temporise, if it would buy the return of his goddess – to lie, to smile, to poison Ceyaxochitl to prevent her from prying any further.

Which meant…

I cast a glance at the empty bowl. I wasn't feeling any worse, but Ceyaxochitl had not felt the symptoms for a few hours after her return. There was no telling–

Enough. If he had poisoned me – and I could not see why he would take such a risk, not when he had defused my suspicions so deftly with the mention of Teomitl – then there was nothing I could do. Yaotl had said there was no antidote.

In the meantime… in the meantime, I lay alone, exhausted and defenceless with a sorcerer, a murderer and a poisoner as my sole company.

The Duality curse me, where were the other high priests when you needed them?

There was no way in the Fifth World I could get out discreetly. In my current weakened state I wouldn't stay up long, and Manatzpa would catch up with me fast.

Not to mention the possibility he'd summon a star-demon, of course. But, even keeping to mundane happenings, the odds did not look good.

If the priest of Patecatl had already come, then the only person I was still waiting for was Teomitl – but he still hadn't come back.

I was going to need all of the gods' luck if I wanted to survive the night.

I must have slept, sliding in and out of consciousness, waking up with a vague dread before remembering my predicament, muttering confused prayers and letting darkness overtake me again. I dreamt of coldly amused stars watching me, of the gods turning Their faces away from the city, of Tizoc-tzin's coronation under the Heavens where shone a bright, cold moon that kept growing larger and larger against the thunderous rattle of huge bells…

I woke again, and the sky through the pillars was grey. Huitzilpochtli grinned at me from the frescoes, far away and powerless, resting in the heartland with no care for us. The air was bitterly cold. I shivered, and drew my cloak closer around me.

"I see you're awake."

I had half-expected the voice, what I had not expected was that it would come from so close to me. It took all the nerves I possessed not to jerk in surprise. "Manatzpa?"

He was sitting across from my sleeping mat. A bowl of maize porridge lay between us, along with dried algae. His face in the dim light was unreadable. "I brought you breakfast."

"Someone…" I fought to part my tongue from the palate where it seemed to have become stuck. "Someone has come."

Manatzpa looked curious. "Yes. The high priests, the She-Snake and the Master of the House of Darts. They brought a priest of Patecatl with them, but couldn't wake you up even after the healing. I told them it wasn't worth disturbing you."

Quenami, Acamapichtli, the She-Snake and Tizoc-tzin – all the help I could have expected, but he had sent them away. No one would come back before daybreak. "And Teomitl?"

Manatzpa's eyes narrowed. Did I seem too eager to leave? He could not possibly have guessed that I knew. "I feel like I'm imposing on you," I said, with what I hoped was my most embarrassed smile.

"Not at all." His lips curled up, in that peculiar approximation of a smile. "Anything for the High Priest for the Dead. It's people like you that keep us safe."

He would know, of course. I lowered my gaze, as if embarrassed. In reality, I was wondering if Teomitl had come or not, if I could expect him.

Not that it mattered. I made as if to rise, but could not find the strength.

"Acatl-tzin." Manatzpa shook his head. "Surely you can't think of leaving so soon. Look at yourself."

"I have duties," I gasped, falling back on the sleeping mat.

"Your duties can wait." His eyes were dark, knowing. "Have some maize porridge."

And some poison? "I don't feel very hungry," I started, but when I saw the shadow steal across his face, I knew I'd gone too far. If he hadn't been suspicious before, he was now. "But I do appreciate all the trouble you're going through for my sake." I reached across, took the bowl, and raised it to my lips, hoping that I wasn't courting my own death.

The porridge was hot and spicy; my lips tingled from the first sip, but surely it was just my imagination? It couldn't possibly be that fast-acting.

Better not tempt luck, though. I took a few sips, made a face like a sick man who has discovered he can't stomach food so soon, and carefully laid the bowl down again. "I'd have thought a man of your stature would have slaves," I said.

Manatzpa shrugged, an expansive gesture that racked his whole frame. "I have several, but they're often on errands. I'm young enough to take care of myself, Acatl-tzin."

He sounded uncannily like Teomitl. If circumstances had been different, I might even have liked him. As it was…

Manatzpa was looking at me, his gaze thoughtful, as if trying to work out something. "Is anything wrong?" I asked.

His lips thinned to a pale brown line against the dark skin of his face, as if he were angry, or amused. "Nothing is wrong, Acatl-tzin. I just have many things to do, as I have no doubt you have."

I inclined my head, inhaling the sharp, spicy smell of the maize porridge. "I have no doubt the council will be in a panic after what happened last night."

Manatzpa's face did not move. "Two deaths in so little time. Yes, that would be cause for concern." He gestured again towards the bowls. "You've barely eaten anything, Acatl-tzin. Please."

His eyes were too eager, too hungry. That was when I knew for sure that there was something in that porridge, something he wanted me to consume. My lips itched again, as if blood had just returned to numb flesh. Was that what had happened with Ceyaxochitl? "I've already told you," I said, very carefully. "I feel like my stomach has been overturned." I pointed to the bandages on my chest. "That tends to cut the appetite." It was hardly a lie. In the past few moments, the feeling of emptiness had seemed to increase a hundredfold – not like the coming of a star-demon, but as if the existing hole in the centre of the Fifth World had spread – had become a maw, sucking me into its depths.

"I see." Manatzpa's lips curled up again. He didn't believe a word of it. "But you need it, believe me." His voice was flat, his eyes as dull as quarried stone. "If necessary, I'll force it down your throat."

My heart missed a beat; I tried to convince myself I'd misheard, but I knew I hadn't. "Manatzpa."

He knew. The sensation of emptiness was increasing in my chest. A hollow grew in my stomach, as if dozens of lumps of ice were forming there.

Manatzpa's face had changed; contempt and hatred filled the emptiness of his eyes, but he had it under control again in a heartbeat, becoming once again the harmless, round-faced man I'd first met. That was more frightening than anything I'd seen that night. "Let's not dance around each other like warriors at the gladiatorial sacrifice, Acatl-tzin. You know I can't possibly let you walk out of this room alive."

There was nothing here I could use; my weapons had been stripped from me, and none were in evidence. He had me backed against a wall, sitting between me and the only exit. Even if I hadn't been wounded…

The sensation of emptiness was becoming as crippling as the wounds. If I didn't act now, I never would.

I reached out in a heartbeat, the side of my hand catching the bowls of warm porridge and sending them flying into his face. Then I was up, ignoring the weakness that knifed through me, and running towards the exit with agility I hadn't known I possessed.

From behind me came curses, and the tread of heavier feet. He was wounded too, but I was drained. He would catch me…

I ran, pain beating like sacrificial drums in my chest. I swung the entrance-curtain out of the way in a jangle of bells, plunged into the courtyard and towards what I hoped was the exit.

I didn't look back, but I knew he was getting closer.

Another room; another set of entrance-curtains; another courtyard. I wasn't going the right way.

"Acatl-tzin. This is pointless," Manatzpa said behind me. His voice quivered, on the edge of breathlessness. "You cannot hope to get out."

I didn't bother to answer, just tried to run faster. But he caught the hem of my cloak, sending me sprawling to the ground. "You fool."

He stood over me in the courtyard under the red, swollen gaze of the Fifth Sun. Obsidian glinted in his hand; a knife. "This is going to be much harder to explain…"

The emptiness in my chest flared to life, a huge fist punching through the confines of the Fifth World. The air around us rippled, the sunlight dimmed, and a cold wind blew through the courtyard, prickling our skins like shards of obsidian.

"What?" Manatzpa asked, the knife pausing in its descent.

I didn't spare time to think. I pulled myself upwards again, and half-crawled, half-ran towards the entrance-curtain. There were voices, close by, indistinct murmurs that sounded like a lament for the dead.

I burst out of Manatzpa's rooms into the courtyard, and all but crashed into Teomitl.

"Acatl-tzin?"

He wasn't alone. A group of guards accompanied him and, just next to him, were a priest of Patecatl, and my sister Mihmatini, pale and wan and looking as though she wanted to tear me to shreds for deliberately splitting my wounds open again. "Acatl!"

I struggled to speak, the air in my lungs like searing fire.

The entrance-curtain tinkled again and Manatzpa staggered out, still holding the knife. It took him a moment to understand what he was looking at; but then his lips curled into a bitter smile, and he threw the knife away. "I see," he said. "It was good game. A pity I lost."

Teomitl looked from me to Manatzpa, but he had never been a man to hesitate for long. "Arrest him." He half-turned towards me. "And there had better be some explanations."

Explanations. Yes. I looked up, at Tonatiuh the Fifth Sun, Whose light was once more bright and welcoming. But I was not fooled. The hole in the Fifth World had widened again; and it could only mean one thing.

The Guardian of the Sacred Precinct – Ceyaxochitl, agent of the Duality in the Fifth World, my friend and mentor – was dead.

There were explanations; or, at any rate, all those I could offer Teomitl, given my current knowledge. He all but carried me to his room, where he insisted I lie down.

"You need rest," Teomitl said, fiercely. "You shouldn't over-exert yourself."

"As if he'd do it," Mihmatini said, from where she was sitting, in the furthest corner of Teomitl's room. "My brother is one of those men who can kill themselves quite effectively by sheer exertion."

Teomitl raised a hand. "Not now." He turned back to me, his face hardened into stone. "I want to know what happened."

He listened to my increasingly confused explanations, his face growing darker as I spoke. "The Guardian is dead?"

"I'm not sure. You could send to the Duality House." But I was sure, and the emptiness in my chest, the tightness in my eyes, weren't only because of the hole in the Fifth World. Ceyaxochitl had loomed large over my life, and, much as I wanted not to believe that she had gone, I had seen enough people deny Lord Death's grip on their lives, and pay the price for their blindness. Death should be accepted, and the living should move on.

I knew this. But still, I couldn't keep my voice from shaking, couldn't stop the prickling in my eyes.

"And Manatzpa is the summoner?"

"Yes," I said. "And the man who killed Ceyaxochitl." But it made no sense. Manatzpa's life had been as much in danger as ours and he had seemed genuinely angry at Echichilli's death. And, to cap it all, he had not been able to cast out the star-demon. "I'm not sure, actually. Some things just don't fit."

"I see." Teomitl's gaze was dark and thoughtful. "I'll ask Tizoc if I can interrogate him, then."

"He's in Tizoc-tzin's hands?" I asked. If he'd been in any hands but Teomitl's, I'd have expected the She-Snake's.

"Those were his guards." Teomitl sounded genuinely surprised. "Do you think I have my own?"

"You're Master of the House of Darts."

"Not yet." His voice was low and fierce. "I have to be worthy of it first."

"I should think you've proved yourself amply."

He sighed. "You're not the one who makes the decisions, Acatl-tzin."

A fact I knew all too well. "Still…"

"Still, I'm a troublemaker." His lips twisted into a smile. "Not ready for politics. But with Tizoc's help, this should sort itself out."

"You went to see him yesterday," I said. "When you said you were going to dismiss the ahuizotls."

"What of it?"

"Nothing," I said. "Except that you could have told me the truth."

"I know how you feel about my brother." Teomitl's face had grown cold again.

Silence stretched, tense and uncomfortable. It was Mihmatini who broke it. "Teomitl," my sister said. "He needs rest. Honestly."

Teomitl looked me up and down. His gaze darkened, as if he didn't like what he saw. "Yes, you're right." He rose, stopped by her side to run a hand on her cheek. "Take care of him."

She smiled. "Of course."

A tinkle of bells, and then he was gone, leaving me alone with my sister. Somehow, I wasn't sure this was an improvement. "Acatl–"

I raised a shaking hand. "I know what you're going to say. I need sleep, I need my wounds to close; and I need to stop traipsing around the palace on too little food."

"See? I don't even need to say it." Her face went grave again. "Seriously, Acatl."

"Seriously," I said, pulling myself up against the wall. "You shouldn't be here."

She puffed her cheeks, thoughtfully. "Why?"

I wasn't deceived. I might not have been a big part of her childhood, since more than ten years separated us, but I knew all her ways of deflecting my attention. "You must know that you're not welcome here." That you weaken Teomitl's position – that you open him wide to Tizoc-tzin's accusations, however unfounded they might be…

But I couldn't tell her that. I couldn't repeat the horrors Tizoctzin had said about her.

"Acatl." Her gaze narrowed. "My brother is gravely wounded. I don't care what it looks like. Knowing you," she said, darkly, "you might have killed yourself before I got there."

Manatzpa had almost taken care of that. "Look–"

"No, you look. I'm not a fool. I know who doesn't want me here; and I know that he's not Revered Speaker yet."

"He's still powerful enough to cause you a lot of trouble."

"What's he going to do?" Her gaze was bright and terrible, and for the first time she looked more like a warrior-priestess than my smiling, harmless sister. "I don't have a position at Court, or anything he can touch. He can order me not to see Teomitl again–" she stopped, her eyes focusing on me. "Oh."

I shook my head. "No. He wouldn't dare displace me. Not now." I wasn't so sure, but it was reassuring that more than a day had elapsed since my interview with Tizoc-tzin, and that I was still High Priest for the Dead.

Or perhaps Tizoc-tzin was just biding his time. I didn't know. I'd never pretended to understand how his mind worked.

I steered the conversation to another, albeit related, subject. "Teomitl has been different lately."

Mihmatini sat by my side with a sigh. She wore her black hair long in the fashion of unmarried women, it fell back from the smooth, perfect oval of her face. that is, until she spoiled the effect by grimacing. "He has a lot to face. He might be Master of the House of Darts in a few days, one of the inner circle, moving in the wake of power."

"I didn't think that would frighten him," I said, finally.

"No. But you know how he is." She smiled, a little self-consciously. "Always trying to be the best at everything, always judging himself to have fallen short."

Was that the only explanation? "And that's why he talks to Tizoc-tzin."

"You might not like him," Mihmatini said, and the tone of her voice implied she didn't much care for him either. "But he's still Teomitl's brother. They still share something."

"I guess," I said, finally. Out of all my brothers, the only one I saw semi-regularly was the eldest, Neutemoc, a Jaguar Knight and successful warrior elevated into the nobility. But our understanding was recent and fragile, and I couldn't say he'd ever been much of a confidante.

If anyone had filled that role, it had been Ceyaxochitl.

"Acatl?" Mihmatini asked.

"It's nothing." I watched the light glimmer across the entrancecurtain, and wondered if things would ever feel right again.

I couldn't believe they would.

ELEVEN

The Obsidian Butterfly

I must have slept again. The priest's healing spell was more effective than bandages, but still no miracle. I woke to the bright light of early morning. A whole day had elapsed, lost to my healing.

Teomitl was nowhere to be seen; not surprising, given my student's inability to sit still at the best of times.

Mihmatini lay curled up in sleep behind me, looking oddly young and innocent – she who was eighteen, almost too old to be married and have children of her own already. I revised my opinion of Teomitl's disappearance. I wouldn't have been surprised if he had slept elsewhere, rather than cast a slur on my sister's virginity.

Good.

Everything ached, from the ribs in my chest to the stiffness in my legs, and I felt even more empty than before, as if hope and joy had drained out of me into the hole in the Fifth World.

I got up. My head didn't spin, a vast improvement over my previous awakening, and I could stand steadily on my legs. Slowly, carefully, I dressed again into something suitable for the High Priest for the Dead, and went back to the Revered Speaker's room.

The room was subdued, the few priests for the dead left were renewing the blood around the quincunx with their own, making sure that nothing untoward could follow the Revered Speaker into the underworld. Palli himself was sitting cross-legged at the centre of the quincunx, watching a silver plate which depicted the progress of the soul through the nine levels of Mictlan. From time to time, his lips would move around an incantation, and he would nod. Everything appeared under control.

I leaned against a wall, watching them, the familiar chants and litanies washing over me, reassuring and unchanged. For all the chaos and the uncertainty, death remained constant, always by our side, something to be relied on no matter what else might transpire.

A refuge, a goddess had once told me accusingly. I'd flinched at the time, but now I knew that she was right, and that it was nothing to be ashamed of. Everyone had a refuge: some in pomp, some in family. Mine was a temple and chants and bodies, and the god that was everywhere in the Fifth World, underlying even the most boisterous songs, the most vivid flowers.

At last, there came a pause in the rituals. Palli looked up, and his eyes met mine. He gestured to another of the priests, and motioned him to take his place at the centre. Then, carefully, he stepped out of the quincunx and walked towards me. "Acatl-tzin."

"Tell me what's going on," I said.

"Revered Speaker Axayacatl-tzin is on the third level," Palli said. "Nothing unexpected so far."

The third level was the Obsidian Hills, still a relatively friendly place by underworld standards. If something bad happened, it would be on the deeper levels, where the beasts and creatures of the underworld prowled. "And the search?" I asked.

Palli grimaced. "For the place of the star-demon summoning? I put all the priests the order could spare into this. So far, no one has reported anything useful."

I suppressed a curse. A full dozen priests searching the palace, I knew the place was huge, but they had the help of spells, and surely one of them would have found something useful by now. "I see. Send to me the moment they find something."

Palli nodded. He hesitated, then said, "Acatl-tzin, one more thing. You remember the tar you noticed on the floor?"

I had to cast my mind back a day and night, to the ritual in which I'd spoken to Axayacatl-tzin. It seemed a lifetime ago. "Yes," I said. "It seemed odd, but…"

Palli's face was pale. "I did think it was familiar," he said. "Someone died in this room."

"The Revered Speaker," I said, carefully, without irony.

"It's an older death. A… sacrifice."

In the Revered Speaker's private rooms… Not in a temple, not on an altar?

"An older death," I said, slowly. "A powerful one, then, if you can still detect it." I thought, uneasily, of the missing councilman both Manatzpa and Echichilli had been angry about, the one that seemed to have vanished from the records and from the palace. What had been his name again?

Pezotic.

"Yes," Palli said. "A powerful death." His lips twisted. "I'm not sure, Acatl-tzin, but something is wrong about this."

"What?"

"Too much power," Palli said.

I bit my lips. There were ways and means of amplifying the power received from a human sacrifice, but almost all of the ones I could think of required a High Priest's initiation. "Can you look into this?"

Palli grimaced. "I can try," he said.

A full human sacrifice. An old, powerful death. Something was going on in this palace. Something… untoward. Even before the Revered Speaker's death, then. But he'd died of natural causes; we were sure of that, at least.

Then what was happening? Some ritual to undermine the Empire at its core? "Do you know what they used the magic for?"

Palli shook his head. "Something very large."

"But not the summoning of a star-demon." If that had been the case, he'd have told me long beforehand.

"No. The magic's wrong for that," Palli said. "It feels beseeching. Desperate."

"Hmm," I said, thoughtfully. I didn't like this; I couldn't see how it fitted in with anything – with Manatzpa, with Ceyaxochitl's death – but it didn't augur anything good. I added it to my questions for Manatzpa, once I managed to see him.

I finished with Palli, and wrote a message to Ichtaca, asking him to send someone to the Duality House in order to prepare the funeral rites for Ceyaxochitl.

Then, still weak and trembling, I went to see the She-Snake, the only person who might have an idea of what was going on in the palace.

I'd expected to have much further to go, but I found him in the council room, sitting on the reed mat at the centre, eating a meal. As he ate he listened to a report from one of his black-clad guards. His round face was grave.

"Acatl?"

I didn't feel in the mood for apologies or pomp, but I did gingerly bow.

"Glad to see you recovered," the She-Snake said. He dipped his chin, and the guard moved away slightly. I was left with the full weight of his gaze on me. It was peculiar, he was soft, and middleaged, and I would have expected him to be drab. But the gaze, piercing and shrewd, gave him away.

"I, er, understood you visited me," I said.

"Indeed." His voice was grave. "Had I known about Manatzpa, I might have done more than visit. But no matter. It is done now."

I waited, but nothing more seemed to be forthcoming. "I need your help," I said.

"My help?" He sounded mildly amused.

"You keep the order in the palace. Don't tell me this situation makes you happy."

His lips thinned to a muddy line, but his expression didn't change. "I expected trouble when Axayacatl-tzin died. I'm not surprised."

I doubted much would ever surprise him. "But you want the attacks to cease?" I pressed. I remembered, uneasily, what Axayacatl-tzin had told me about the She-Snake's unorthodox manner of worship. But even if it was true, he would want to be seen maintaining order.

"I see. What did you have in mind?"

"I want men."

"They are in short supply."

"Look," I said. "Those star-demons, they're being summoned here, inside the palace wards. Someone, somewhere, has converted a room for the purpose."

He was quick to seize my meaning. "And it's a large palace."

"I've had my priests search it, but we're not enough."

"Surely, you would need magical training to find such a spot."

I shook my head. "It's going to be large, and bloody, and definitely not discreet." Not given the amount of power that had been expanded to call so many star-demons down into the world in such a short time.

"I see." The She-Snake pressed both hands together, thoughtfully. "I see." At length, he looked up, and fixed me again with his gaze. "I'll send the men I can spare. Was there anything else?"

"Do you know where the other high priests are?"

That same mirthless smile quirked up the corner of his mouth. "Quenami is with Tizoc-tzin. Acamapichtli… I fancy we won't see much of Acamapichtli in the days to come."

"I don't understand."

"Oh, come, Acatl." His gaze was pitying. "He threw his weight behind the Texcocan princess. Gambled it all, and lost it all." "He's…" I started, and stopped. Nothing short of death or treason could remove a High Priest from his post.

"He's in disgrace, if that's what you mean. Not that he wasn't before, mind you."

The whole business with the Storm Lord trying to take over the Fifth World. Acamapichtli seemed to have a singular gift for backing the wrong person or god.

I'd have pitied him, if he hadn't been the man who'd tried to condemn my brother to death. "If we were to arrest all the men who backed the wrong person in this struggle, the palace would empty itself fast," the She-Snake said. He still sounded amused, as if he secretly relished the chaos.

I didn't trust him. I couldn't.

"Arresting the waverers might give people a reason to stop playing," I said darkly, and took my leave from him.

• • • •

I made my way back to Teomitl's room, where I found Mihmatini still sleeping. Thank the Duality; if she'd woken up and found me gone, I might not have survived her sarcastic remarks.

I looked up at the sun. It was almost noon, and I'd eaten nothing all day. I managed to find a servant in one of the adjoining courtyards, and sent him to the kitchens for a meal.

While I waited for his return, I mulled on what Palli had told me.

A death – a powerful one – and star-demons. Perhaps a last entreaty against chaos, made by a desperate man? But why tar, and why the Revered Speaker's rooms? There was a place for rituals like this, in the Great Temple, the religious heart of the city. Why there, unless it was something specifically connected to the Imperial family?

The bells on the entrance-curtain tinkled. "Come in," I said, keeping my voice as steady as I could.

It was Yaotl, still garbed in his warrior's costume. He looked worse than before. The blue paint did not mask the dark circles under his eyes, or the paleness of his face. He cast a distant glance in Mihmatini's direction, but made no comment. "I heard you got into more trouble," he said.

I said nothing. There was nothing I could say. In the light, his eyes were huge, a reservoir of grief that spilled over into the Fifth World.

"She died just after dawn." Yaotl did not bother to sit. I thought he didn't want to remember that he was my social inferior; not now, not when his whole world seemed to come undone around him.

"I felt it," I said. I hesitated. I knew all the words, all the empty things one could say when Lord Death has taken his due. They meant nothing save comfort to the living. But Yaotl served the Duality, and he would know that death was part of the eternal balance, that destruction and creation were entwined like lovers, making and annihilating the world in an endless dance. "I can't believe she's gone," I said, settling for the truth.

Yaotl's lips thinned to a line. "Me neither. I keep expecting her to rise from her funeral mat and take charge." His gaze wandered again. "I hear you arrested the poisoner?"

"I think so," I said, cautiously.

"It's all over the palace." Yaotl's voice was grim.

"And Xahuia?" He didn't look as though he had caught her, but one never knew.

"Gone to ground, too well hidden."

I nodded. "Even if she wasn't guilty, I don't think her activities were entirely lawful."

Yaotl barked a short, unamused laugh. "Resisting arrest alone would have been enough. We found the paraphernalia of sorcery in her private rooms: mummified animals, dried women's hands, arms preserved in salt baths…"

"The Smoking Mirror?" I asked, thinking again of Nettoni's touch on my skin.

"Yes," Yaotl said. "But nothing tied to the summoning of stardemons."

"I think that was Manatzpa," I said, feeling less and less convinced the more I thought about it. "You need to find her."

"I'm looking for her." Yaotl could barely hide his exasperation. "It's a big city, as you no doubt know."

I suddenly realised how we looked – two men meant to be allies, tearing at each other, no better or no worse than the rest of the Court. "Forgive me," I said. "It's been a long couple of days."

"For both of us." Yaotl smiled, a pale shadow of the terrible, mocking expressions he'd throw at me. There was no joy in it whatsoever.

Then again, I guessed I didn't look much better.

The heavy silence was broken by the jarring sound of bells struck together. Teomitl had lifted the entrance-curtain with his usual forcefulness, and was striding back into the room. He was followed by the servant I'd sent for a meal, who appeared much less eager.

"Acatl-tzin," Teomitl said.

I rose, gingerly, leaning on the wall for support. "I take it you were able to speak to him."

Behind him, the servant moved, to lay his tray of food on one of the reed mats. He bowed, and was gone.

Teomitl barely noticed any of this. "I spoke to Manatzpa, yes." He looked a fraction less assured, a fraction less angry. The arrogance I'd seen over the past few days had almost faded away, leaving only the impatient adolescent, as if whatever Manatzpa had told him had shattered Tizoc-tzin's influence.

"And?" Yaotl asked, shaking his head impatiently. "Did he confess?"

Teomitl looked at him blankly.

"The murder of Guardian Ceyaxochitl," I prompted him.

"Oh." He did not look more enlightened. "We didn't talk about that."

"Then what about?" Yaotl was fuming by now.

"About the star-demons." Teomitl's face was hard again, on the verge of becoming jade. "He's said that he'll only talk to you, Acatl-tzin."

I briefly woke Mihmatini to let her know where we were going. She made a face of disapproval I knew all too well, a mirror image of Mother's when my brother or I had broken a dish or muddied a loincloth. "You haven't eaten anything."

I pointed to the tray the servant had left. "I had maize soup. And a whole newt with yellow peppers."

Her gaze made it clear she wasn't fooled. "Acatl, you're in no state to walk."

"I feel much better." And it was true; utterly drained, but much better. The pain was gone, leaving only the dull feeling that nothing would ever be right again.

Mihmatini made a face that told me she didn't believe me. "I should come with you," she said.

Teomitl put a hand on her arm gently. "No. Not now."

"But–"

"Out of the question," I said. My judgment might be a little shaky now – a little pale and empty like the veins in my body – but there was no way I would let her walk into Tizoc-tzin's chambers.

"Acatl-tzin is right," Teomitl said. "My brother won't be happy to see you, and this isn't the time for this."

"Teomitl…"

He shook his head again. "No."

And that effectively ended the conversation, though Mihmatini glowered like a jaguar deprived of its prey. "I'll be waiting for you," she said, and the way she spoke made it doubtful she'd hand out hugs or flowers.

I could feel Yaotl's amused gaze on my back all the way to Tizoctzin's chambers; but he said nothing.

I wondered what Manatzpa could have to tell me. How he could not hate me, when I had been the one who had brought him down? Most likely he would taunt me. I doubted that he would bend. In that way, he was very much like his nephews Tizoc-tzin and Teomitl. But there might be something to be gleaned, information that would help us. For if my gut feeling was right and he was not the summoner of star-demons, then we still had someone out there, busily plotting our ruin.

I'd expected some silence in Tizoc-tzin's courtyard; or at any rate, some mark that something was wrong with the palace, but it seemed like nothing had changed. Warriors gathered on the platform, laughing among themselves. Noise floated from Tizoc-tzin's rooms, the singsong intonations of poets reciting compositions, the laughter of warriors, the deep rhythm of beaten drums. But underneath, in the wider courtyard, were other warriors, dressed far more soberly, their long cloaks barely masking the whitish scars on their limbs. They talked amongst themselves, casting dark glances at the finery on the platform; the other part of the army, the true warriors, the ones who would support only a veteran, not a mediocre fighter like Tizoc-tzin.

If nothing else, things were starting to get ugly here, with factions openly declaring themselves.

Teomitl, oblivious, strode into a smaller courtyard, a mirror image of the House of Animals, loaded with exotic trees and bushes. It seemed as though we had stepped into another world altogether, a land to the south where the heat was stifling and quetzal-birds flew in the wild, raucously calling to each other. Cages dotted the landscape at regular intervals, huge, empty, their wooden bars almost merging with the foliage of the trees. The air smelled of churned mud, with the faint, heady fragrance of flowers. What was not expected, however, was the reek of magic, so strong it burnt my lungs.

"Something is wrong," I said, but did not have time to go further.

She stepped out of the caged wilderness as if She belonged within it; tall, Her skin as black as the night sky, and stars scattered at Her elbows and knees, stars that were also the eyes of monsters. Her cloak spread behind Her – no, it was not a cloak, but wings made of a thousand shards of obsidian, glinting in sunlight – and her face was pale skin, stretched over the hint of a skull, with bright, malevolent eyes that held me until I fell to my knees, shaking.

"Priest. Warrior. Slave." Her gaze swept through us all. I clenched my hands to stop my fingers from shaking. "You're too late," She said.

Something shone clung to Her wings, a light that was neither sunlight nor starlight; the memory of something that had once belonged in the Fifth World. A soul, ripped from its body.

Manatzpa.

She threw me a last searing glance, and leapt over me with an agility I wouldn't have expected from something so monstrous.

And then She was gone, with only the reek of magic to remind us of Her presence.

My obsidian knives were warm, quivering under my touch, as if She had affected them too. I looked around. The air smelled of charnel and blood, and the single cage ahead of us had its bars broken.

We'd arrived too late.

Both Yaotl and Teomitl had gone down. Yaotl was still shaking, and Teomitl was pulling himself up, with the wrath of Chalchiuhtlicue filling his face.

"What was that?" he asked.

"I–" She had looked like a star-demon; but different, too: not a mindless thing, but a goddess in Her own right, unmistakably female. "Itzpapalotl," I said, fighting past the constriction in my chest. "The Obsidian Butterfly, Goddess of War and Sacrifice." Leader of the star-demons, She who would take us all into Her embrace, when the time came.

"That's impossible," Yaotl remained sitting in the mud, oblivious to the growing stain on his cloak. "She's–"

"I know." Imprisoned, like Coyolxauhqui of the Silver Bells, like the star-demons.

"Why now, Acatl-tzin?"

"Because someone did not want Manatzpa to talk." A chill had descended into my stomach and would not be banished. Because he had known something, because he would, indeed, have revealed it to me?

Whoever it was they were in the palace, and aware of what was happening in Tizoc-tzin's closest circle. Either Xahuia still had agents inside, or…

Or it was someone else entirely.

"Acatl-tzin!" Teomitl's voice was impatient. "Come on."

I must have looked blank, for he shook his head impatiently, the whites of his eyes shifting from jade to white and back again as he did so, an eerie effect.

"It's still in the city. We have a chance to catch up to it. Come on!"

Still in the city? Why hadn't it–

No time to think. I picked up my cloak from the ground, shook some of the mud loose, and ran after Teomitl.

As we exited the palace, running down the stairs leading up to the Serpent Wall and the Sacred Precinct, the ahuizotls came, slithering out of the canal besides the palace. Their faces wrinkled like those of a child underwater for too long, their tails curling up into a single clawed hand, which opened and closed as they moved.

On ground, they looked wrong, as black and sleek as fish out of the water, crawling on their four clawed legs like salamanders or lizards, and yet still moving with a fluid, inhuman speed that seemed to surprise even Teomitl.

The star-demon was ahead of us, moving through the Sacred Precinct. The crowd fought to avoid Her, the pilgrims elbowing each other, sacrificial victims being pulled aside by their keepers, the priests hastily kneeling on the cleared-out grounds, fighting to trace quincunxes and circles in a vain attempt to slow Her down or banish Her.

Teomitl, who was younger and much fitter than me, was already ahead, the ahuizotls fanning around him in a grisly escort. He moved in the trail left by the star-demon, widening the circle of emptiness she had left around Her.

I cast my mind out, trying to summon the Wind of Knives. Up and up it went, over the crowded plaza, over the houses of noblemen, past the canals and the islands on the outskirts, into the cenote, until His presence went up my spine, straightening it with one cold touch.

Acatl. I am coming.

I ran after the star-demon as fast as I could, my lungs burning, my chest itching, the presence of the Wind of Knives in my mind growing larger and larger…

For all of Teomitl's speed, he never quite managed to catch up to the star-demon. She strode through the plaza of the Sacred Precinct without pause, Her gaze stubbornly fixed ahead.

There was only one place She could be heading. "Teomitl!" I called in the eerie hush that had spread over the Sacred Precinct.

He flicked me a quick backward glance; I pointed towards the bulk of the Great Temple, yelling at the top of my voice. Teomitl nodded, and resumed the chase.

The presence in my mind grew to a spike and suddenly the Wind of Knives was there, standing by my side. "Acatl."

He threw one glance at the situation, and moved, fluid and inhuman, towards the Great Temple, with barely a glance backwards in my direction. Where He passed, the air seemed darker, and even the sunlight, catching the thousand obsidian shards of His body, became dimmer, shadowed by His presence.

Priests had already gathered on the steps of the Great Temple; two cohorts, one on each of the twin stairs, their obsidian knives at the ready. Magic clung to them, shimmering in their blood-matted hair, on their dusty skins, in the very structure of the temple, sunk as deep as blood into limestone. Here was our strength; here was the heart of our Empire.

The wind of Her passage brushed the priests as She headed up the stairs. Everything shattered.

The priests' hair became dull and rank, like that of filthy animals; the stone lost its lustre and became the grey of ash and dust. The veil of magic over the temple tore open like a stretched spider's web, with a sound as stilling and as deafening of that of the earth splitting itself apart.

Itzpapalotl ran, one clawed hand scattering the priests across the stairs, sending them tumbling down, as bloodied as sacrificed victims. Teomitl followed, the ahuizotls sliding upwards like fish through water; the Wind of Knives overtook Teomitl on the stairs, but did not quite manage to catch up with Itzpapalotl.

I reached the bottom of the stairs, and paused for a moment to catch my breath.

One of the priests lay beside me, his blood shimmering in the sunlight, a source of power calling out to me. His eyes were open, already glazing over.

"Forgive me," I whispered, dipping my hand in the warmth of his blood. "She has to be stopped."

He must have nodded: I couldn't be sure, but the blood under my fingers became warmer, beating like a living heart, like that used for a penance or daily offering.

There was little time. Itzpapalotl was almost at the top of the stairs, and Teomitl lagged behind Her. I hastily traced a quincunx around myself, and said the shortest prayer I knew, one to my patron Mictlantecuhtli.

"We all must die

We all must go down into darkness

Leaving behind the marigolds and the cedar trees

Nothing is hidden from Your gaze."

A thin layer of light shimmered into existence, an overlay over reality, nowhere near the level of detail of the true sight, but still more than I would have got from my priest-senses. The stairs of the temple turned a reddish black, like clotted blood, and every step I took sent a little jolt through my body – I could feel the magic bleeding out of the temple with every passing moment, like water draining out of a sieve.

At the top of the stairs, Ceyaxochitl's wards, once a shimmering blue, had also darkened, and the ragged hole in their centre marked the place Itzpapalotl had crossed them. Priests lay on the stairs, some dead, most unconscious.

I couldn't see Teomitl anywhere, but I assumed he'd have gone on without waiting for me. I hoped he was still alive, and in a state to fight.

I'd have had the same thought about the Wind of Knives; but I very much doubted anything could stop or incapacitate Him for long.

The stairs leading down to the temple's heart were silent, magic lazily bleeding out of them, a widening stain that was spreading within the Fifth World. The air was stale, dried-out, as if Itzpapalotl had drained everything out of it while descending.

I found Teomitl in the room near the foundations, the ahuizotls curled up at his feet like pet monkeys. He was watching the central disk with a scowl on his face. The Wind of Knives stood a little to the side, His head turned towards me when I arrived, a glimmer of obsidian that pierced me to the core.

"I arrived too late," the Wind of Knives said.

Storm-Lord blind me, She was fast. "Is there anything–"

He shook His head in a shivering of dark light. "Not until She breaches the boundaries again." He seemed almost disappointed – unusual for Him. "Call me if you have need, Acatl." And then He faded away, the monstrous head slowly shimmering out of existence, the welter of obsidian shards receding into nothingness, until nothing was left but the faint memory of a lament.

Teomitl pursed his lips. "She just crossed to the centre, laughed at me and vanished."

I could tell that it was the laughter that bothered him most. Contempt, even coming from a star-demon, would have hurt him more than claw-swipes. But that wasn't what we needed to focus on now.

"Vanished," I repeated. I knelt by the side of the disk, cautiously extending one hand across it. The stone was warm, angry. Such anger, that of a caged being hurling itself against the walls of its prison, again and again until something yielded… Something had to yield, something had to crack, and She would be free to walk the world again, to watch humans scatter like insects, to drink our blood like stream-water…

I pulled my hand away, coming back to the Fifth World with a start. "Still imprisoned," I said aloud. Itzpapalotl had been sum moned, like the rest of the star-demons. She hadn't spontaneously moved out of the stone disk; she hadn't been under any orders from Her mistress, She of the Silver Bells…

But I did not move. I crouched, watching the stone disk. The blood in the grooves had dimmed and dulled, too, as if its potency had been absorbed. And I couldn't be sure, but I could make out a hand and an arm, and a headdress with crooked edges – more details than before, as if everything were re-knitting itself together.

She of the Silver Bells was still imprisoned, but the Duality knew for how long.

I got up. Teomitl was still watching me with that peculiar intensity. "I should have known," he said, finally. "If I'd guessed Her destination earlier–"

"You can't rewrite the past," I said. "And if you hadn't launched in pursuit, we wouldn't even have known where She was going."

The stone disk lay at our feet, huge and monstrous, a gate to another country, a world waiting only to tear us apart and consume us. And Manatzpa was the only one who could have shed some light on how and when it was going to happen.

"I'm going to need something from you," I said.

He pulled himself straight, like a warrior standing to attention. "Acatl-tzin."

"You were the last person to see Manatzpa alive. I need you to tell me everything that he said when you interviewed him."

"Uh." Teomitl's face fell. "I don't exactly–" He shook himself and frowned. "A lot of things that didn't seem relevant."

I lifted my chin in the direction of the disk. "At this stage, it's safe to assume that anything might be relevant. We've had three deaths in the palace in a matter of days. At this rate, we'll be lucky to still have a council by the end of the week."

Teomitl shifted. One of the ahuizotls did the same, lazily raking its clawed hands on the stone. Nausea welled up in my throat, harsh and uncontrollable. I kept telling myself that, one day, I was going to get used to the creatures moving as though they were part of him; but it had been a year since Teomitl had acquired their services, and it still didn't get any better.

"He liked me." Teomitl appeared halfway between embarrassment and anger. "I thought it was a façade, but he didn't really need to pretend anymore, did he?"

"He might have hoped for your mercy."

"No." Teomitl shook his head, quick and fierce. "I've seen that happen, too, and it wasn't anything like that. More," he spread his hands, frustrated, "more like having someone you admire fighting for the other side. You know you'll never stop trying to capture each other, but still…"

I thought of Manatzpa's face when he had admitted Teomitl was the candidate he favoured above all others. I had assumed it to be a lie after he had revealed himself as a worshipper of She of the Silver Bells, but perhaps it had been more complex than that. "I see. What else?"

Teomitl grimaced. "He was unhappy about Echichilli's death."

I wanted to say it was obvious, but stopped. I couldn't possibly hope to get anything out of Teomitl if I was putting my own words in his mouth. "How so?"

"He…" Teomitl floundered for a while, before collecting himself. "I tried to tell him allying with star-demons was a foolish thing to do, that this needed to stop before the whole Fifth World crumbled. And he said something about duty. About how I was being so impressively dutiful, but that duty had killed Echichilli, and that he was done with duty himself."

Echichilli? I tried to remember who he had favoured. No one, as far as I could recall. He had been the oldest member of the council, aggrieved that no arrangement could be reached. "Duty to whom?"

"He didn't say," Teomitl said. "I'd guess either the She-Snake or… " He paused for a moment, and went on, "My brother. They're the only two to whom Echichilli could possibly have a duty."

Xahuia did seem like a pretty unlikely candidate. But we would gain nothing by being too hasty. And I had yet to understand how duty to anyone could have led to a star-demon killing Echichilli.

Unless he had been doing someone else's dirty work?

But no, he couldn't be the summoner of the star-demons, or, like Manatzpa, he would have been able to banish the one that had killed him. Instead, he had bowed to the inevitable….

"He knew something, too," I said. "Whatever it was. And he was killed for it."

"That doesn't really help, does it?"

"It might," I said. So far, I'd assumed the killings of the council had been random, intended to throw us all into chaos. But if both Manatzpa and Echichilli had been killed to silence them, then something else was going on. It was no longer exclusively a matter of making sure the council wouldn't select a Revered Speaker. There was something else going on; something much larger. "There has to be a reason behind the sequence of the killings. Something we're missing."

Teomitl grimaced again. "And?"

"I don't know." I was feeling increasingly frustrated. "All the dead men have been taken by star-demons. They're out of Mictlantecuhtli's dominion. I can't even hope to summon them and make them talk."

The usual way to get the ghosts of people who did not belong to Lord Death was to go into the lands of the god to whom they belonged, either Tlaloc the Storm Lord, or Tonatiuh the Fifth Sun. However, with star-demons, that was the epitome of foolhardiness. There was no way in the Fifth World I would elect to go into the empty spaces of the Heavens where they roamed, or into the prison the Southern Hummingbird had fashioned for His sister.

"Anything else?" I asked. It looked as though Itzpapalotl had done Her work well, we would not find any evidence left behind by Manatzpa.

"He said he wasn't the one summoning the star-demons, but that one seems obvious," Teomitl said, biting his lips to the blood. "No, not much else." He paused, his face unreadable. "He said other things, too."

He would not look at me; and given how Manatzpa had felt about Tizoc-tzin, I could guess what he had told Teomitl; something about being his own man, about stopping listening to his brother's voice.

To be honest, I doubted it would work. Teomitl might be thrown off for a while, bewildered by what appeared sincere admiration, but the fact remained that Manatzpa had been trying to take apart the Mexica Empire. Teomitl loved his country, and he would never forgive Manatzpa for that.

"I see. And Xahuia?"

Teomitl's face fell. "I didn't have time to broach that subject, Acatl-tzin…"

I raised a hand to cut him off. "No matter. You did great work. Come on. It's time to get some sleep."

TWELVE

The Coyote's Son

When we came back, late in the following morning, the palace was still in shambles. The She-Snake's guards strode in the corridor, trying very hard to look in charge but only managing a particular kind of extreme bewilderment. They looked at Teomitl as though he might have the answers to their aimlessness; but Teomitl glared at them, and even without the ahuizotls, he looked daunting enough that no one wished to approach him with trivial matters.

I probed at the wards on my way in. They still seemed solid and reassuring, but there was something, some yield to them, like pushing against taut cotton. They might hold, but they could be torn.

Ceyaxochitl could have woven more, but she was dead, and Quenami had made it clear he couldn't or wouldn't help.

"Where to?" Teomitl asked.

I shook my head. "Manatzpa's rooms. I'll met you there. I have something else to check first."

What I did was brief: I merely checked with Palli that the search was progressing as foreseen – and that the She-Snake's promised guards had indeed arrived. There were more of them than I expected, though most of them were young, callow youths who still seemed to remember the feel of their childhood locks.

I guessed the She-Snake had a sense of humour.

"I've had better subordinates," Palli said with a sigh. "More respectful, too. But I guess I shouldn't complain."

"We'll take everything we can," I said, finally. "Everyone else seems to have other priorities at the moment." I hadn't seen my fellow high priests in a few days. I couldn't say I missed their company exactly, but imagining what else they might have done did go a long way towards making me nervous.

Palli spread his hands, in a gesture that seemed an eerie mirror of mine. "We'll make do, Acatl-tzin."

And I had to be content with that.

"On another subject," Palli said, "I've found something about the tar."

"The stains on the floor?" I asked, suddenly interested again. They seemed to fit into the larger puzzle, though I wasn't sure how.

"Yes," Palli said. "Tar isn't exactly common in the palace."

I couldn't even think of where the nearest tar pit might be, or what they would use it for. "And?"

Palli grimaced. "You know Echichilli-tzin?"

The dead councilman? What had he got to do with it? "Yes, but…"

"He was the one who asked for it, about fifteen days ago. And…" He grimaced again, a nervous tic. "He asked for a lot of it, Acatltzin."

A lot of things hadn't made sense lately, but this was firmly near the top of the list. "A lot?"

"Ten full jars," Palli said.

My mind balked at the mental picture. It did have cosmetic uses, but ten whole jars seemed excessive. "And what happened?"

"They came in. Echichilli-tzin sent his slaves to collect it. I've asked them. All they know is that it was brought here to the Revered Speaker's room."

"While he was still alive."

"Presumably with his consent."

"Hmm," I said. "Thank you. This is… intriguing." To say the least. "Let me know if you can find out more." Where had those jars gone, and what had they been used for? The only use that came to mind was seal the hull of a boat, and the thought of building a boat right in the Revered Speaker's rooms was absurd.

What was going in this palace? Whatever it was, it had started before the Revered Speaker's death, and it looked like we were the ones caught up in the consequences.

I fully intended to make sure the consequences weren't drastic.

I found Teomitl outside Manatzpa's rooms, in conversation with a stern, middle-aged woman who introduced herself as Manatzpa's wife. They'd had five children, the two eldest of whom were away, educated in the calmecac school. The three youngest were much too young to have noted much of importance; and Manatzpa's wife wasn't much more useful. She had barely known anything of her husband's affairs; the household policy had apparently consisted of "to each their own". She had not spoken of matters of domesticity; he had kept whatever business he had with the council and the Revered Speaker's election private.

The gods were decidedly not on our side.

We made a cursory examination of the rooms which didn't yield anything useful, and moved onto Manatzpa's private quarters.

In daylight they seemed much smaller than in my fevered imagination. They did wrap around two courtyards, but even the largest of them barely covered the surface of the Imperial Chambers. They had loomed much larger in my frantic flight of the night before.

As I had already noticed, the rooms were bare, with few ornaments. Manatzpa might have been a nobleman, but he had not believed in pomp any more than Teomitl. A few wicker chests and a few circular fans, carelessly tossed in corners where the feathers had creased, their colours all but faded; thin and simple reed mats, serving as little more than places to sit; and two unlit braziers.

I opened the wicker chests to find piles of vibrantly-coloured codices, ranging from lists of rituals to the tribute of the provinces. In the chest after that was poetry, carefully re-transcribed. Pride of place was given to a volume collecting the poetry of Nezahualcoyotl, the previous Revered Speaker of our neighbouring city Texcoco. The codex had been well-thumbed, but the glyphs were intact with no markings on the paper, the treasured possession of a man who seemed to have had few of them.

Altogether they painted the picture of a man whose interests had

been broad, a scholar, an intellectual whose curiosity extended to everything and anything. A man I might have appreciated, more than I ever had Quenami or Acamapichtli, had the circumstances been otherwise.

Teomitl was rummaging through another chest, shaking his head as he discarded clay vessels and worship thorns. At length he crossed his arms over his chest. "This is pointless, Acatl-tzin."

I couldn't help shaking my head in amusement. Teomitl might have had the raw power and the fighting spirit, but the minutiae of investigations would always be beyond him. "Have a little patience," I said, pulling aside a third chest to reveal treatises on medicine. "Whatever he left behind, he wouldn't have wanted us to find it. It's likely well hidden."

Teomitl frowned and moved to stand against one of the frescoes, his head at the level of Huitzilpochtli's angry face. "We're wasting our time while they move against us."

I lifted an almanac on plants and their uses, and moved to the rest of the pile. "The problem is that we don't know who 'they' are."

"Too many suspects?" Teomitl shook his head.

"Too many agendas," I said. It was a given that everybody was dabbling in magic or planning political moves against their opponents. The question was whose moves included star-demons. Manatzpa had sworn it wasn't him; and his death tended to prove it. But Xahuia was still on the loose; not to mention those who still remained within the palace compound.

And, the Duality curse me, I still had no idea of how it all intersected or made sense. A plot to bring the star-demons down shouldn't have had this many complications, this many people dying to prevent them from talking. Whatever else I might have said about She of the Silver Bells, She'd always been straightforward, much like Her brother. No tricks, just fire and blood and war.

"I see." Teomitl was silent for a while. "Acatl-tzin, I wish to apologise."

I turned, genuinely surprised. "What for?"

"For the other night."

It took me a while to see what he was referring to. Ages seemed to have passed since that night when he had walked away from me in the wake of our interview with Tizoc-tzin. "Don't mention it. We have bigger problems on our hands."

"It's the little cracks that break obsidian. The flaws that undo jade," Teomitl said. He looked me in the eye – proud, unashamed, his was as unlikely an apology as I had ever seen, and yet oddly touching. "You have your opinion about my brother, and I have mine."

"Yes," I said, cautiously. I wasn't quite sure of what opinion to have about Tizoc-tzin anymore, except that we were still at each other's throats.

"Let it remain that way." Teomitl made a small, dismissive gesture, a command that could not be denied. "Let's not talk further about this, or we'll disagree."

Probably, but I didn't say this. "As you wish."

I lifted another medicinal codex. I was almost at the bottom of the pile now, and still had nothing to show for my labour. The Southern Hummingbird blind us, it looked like Manatzpa had been prudent to excess.

Wait.

The second-to-last paper in the pile was much smaller, a single sheet of maguey fibre. The writing on it was the neat, elegant hand of someone used to glyphs, every colour applied with a sense of context and decorum that could only belong to a temple.

"Ueman, Fire Priest of Quetzalcoatl, the Feathered Serpent, the Precious Twin:

"On this day Ten Flower in the year Two House, Councilman Manatzpa gave the temple ten rolls of the finest cotton cloths, fifty gold quills and one bag of quetzal tail-feathers, in exchange for the Breath of the Precious Twin."

The Breath of the Precious Twin was a costly protective spell that put the holder under the personal gaze of the god. Along with the Southern Hummingbird's protection, it was one of the most effective wards a man could barter for. I was wary of using it. Mictlan's magic was not compatible with Southern Hummingbird's spells, and while the Feathered Serpent might be one of the most benevolent deities, there was something inherently disturbing about having His eye permanently on me.

I hadn't seen it, but then he'd have taken precautions so it wasn't obvious. He had been a canny man – save, I guessed, when he'd started to resort to murder to have his way.

Mind you, the protective spell had not helped him much. The Obsidian Butterfly Itzpapalotl had sheared through it as though it barely existed and taken his soul with Her as easily as a man might take a basket of herbs.

The priest's name at the top of the paper was the same one Xahuia had given me. His title was given as Fire Priest, the secondin-command of the Wind Tower.

I turned the paper over thoughtfully. Ten Flower. Seven days ago. And the spell had not come cheap, either. Even for a man as rich as Manatzpa, the price was a fortune. Even before Echichilli's death Manatzpa had already been looking for protection, as if he had already known that something was going to happen. How had he known?

What in the Fifth World was this secret that star-demons killed for?

Behind us, the bells tinkled: one of the slaves, wearing the elegant collar of the palace servants around his neck. "Master, there is someone who wishes to see you."

"Us?" Teomitl stepped in.

The slave shook his head. "He asked for the High Priest for the Dead."

Someone I didn't know, then, not any of the players still remaining, who would have summoned me instead of coming here. But why me?

The youth who strode into the courtyard was a sight. It was not that he was richly dressed, with an elaborately embroidered cotton tunic, a plume of heron feathers at his belt and another set of feathers bending from the back of his head towards his neck. Rather, it was the state of the regalia – the feathers were torn, their white tarnished with blood, and dark splotches stained the tunic all around the collar line. He held his macuahitl sword a little too casually, as if daring an invisible watcher to attack him, and the shards shone a sickly grey-green in the sunlight.

Behind him were two Jaguar Knights in full regalia, the costume made of a jaguar's pelt and the helmet shaped like the jaguar's face, their heads protruding from between the jaws of the animal. They looked a little better, though their hands shook and their skin was the colour of muddy milk.

The youth looked at me. His eyes were an uncanny colour, a shade between grey and green. His gaze was piercing, not hostile, but stripping me of all pretences, like a spear breaking the skin and burying itself in my heart. "Acatl-tzin," he said thoughtfully. "High Priest for the Dead in Tenochtitlan. I have come to you for an accounting."

"An accounting?" Teomitl shifted, to stand between me and the youth. His hand had gone to the hilt of his macuahitl sword; and the planes of his face had started to harden.

The youth bowed, slightly ironically. "I am Nezahual, Revered Speaker of Texcoco. Where is my sister, Acatl-tzin?" His voice was harsh.

He couldn't be. I looked again, but he stood alone in the courtyard, with only two Jaguar Knights as an escort, casual and undisturbed, his dignity no less than it would have been had he sat in his own audience room. "Revered Speaker–"

"There is no point in dissembling. I know you were the one who ordered the arrest." Nezahual-tzin's face was harsh, unforgiving.

Teomitl shifted. "This is the High Priest for the Dead, one of the three who keep the balance of the Fifth World. You will show him respect."

Nezahual-tzin's gaze scoured him. A smile creased the corners of his broad lips. "A pup with a bite, I see." Sunlight fell over him in swathes, highlighting the blood on his clothes and on the obsidian studs of his macuahitl sword, and became a white, searing light strong enough to blind.

I remembered what Xahuia had said, that her brother was favoured by Quetzalcoatl, god of Creation and Wisdom. I had taken it as a grand boast, but quite obviously Nezahual-tzin had been brushed by the Feathered Serpent Himself. He might not have been an agent, the sole repository of the god's power, but he still had enough magic to make trouble if he wished to.

"Your god won't protect you." Teomitl's voice was scornful.

"Neither will your goddess, when it comes to this," Nezahualtzin said.

I'd never thought I'd see two young men fight like cockerels, an unseemly spectacle, witnesses or not. "Enough."

The light dimmed. Nezahual-tzin still stood as straight as a spear, waiting for my answer. "Your sister engaged in sorcery," I said, carefully.

"So does most of the Imperial Family."

"Not that kind of sorcery. The sorcerer in her service was named Nettoni."

Nezahual-tzin's eyes narrowed. "Mirror" could only refer to one god – Tezcatlipoca, the Smoking Mirror and eternal enemy of his own patron god Quetzalcoatl. "You lie."

"Ask around the palace," I said as casually as I could. I already had enough enemies without adding this cocksure boy to the list. "He was well-known."

Nezahual-tzin was silent for a while, pondering, giving me enough time to consider what would happen if he held me responsible. Enough unpleasant things to make me regret Tizoc-tzin's threats of dismissal.

Then he turned to the two Jaguar Knights who had escorted him inside. "Is this true?" he asked, bluntly.

The Jaguar Knights looked at each other. "Yes."

"I see." The light around him contracted as if someone had enclosed it in a fist. "Where is she, Acatl-tzin?"

It wasn't quite the same tone, though he still didn't look happy. Not that I could blame him, though I doubted it was affection that prompted his question. To lose her would be a fatal admission of weakness to the Texcocans.

I, on the other hand, didn't care much about losing face. "I don't know. Nettoni sacrificed himself to let her and her son escape. Presumably they found refuge somewhere in the city." And resumably she was still weaving her webs of intrigue. She was a determined woman.

"I see." He said nothing for a while. "Then my men and I will join the search for her. Let it not be said that a Texcocan can escape justice."

Teomitl stiffened in shock. "She's–"

"A political tool," I cut in.

Nezahual-tzin smiled, without much joy. "You still have much to learn, pup."

"Pup?"

"Teomitl," I said, warningly.

"He's the one picking the quarrel."

"No, he's the one provoking you. You don't have to answer."

I glared at Nezahual-tzin, daring him to counter with some mocking remark about how to keep my pup on a leash. But his face was serious again, and he was watching me with a gleam in his eyes I didn't care much for, like a snake making up its mind about a rodent. "Don't let me detain you," I said. "You must have plenty of rituals to attend, and respects to pay."

Nezahual-tzin smiled, that same thin, unamused smile I had seen on the face of the She-Snake. "No doubt." But he did not move, still considering me in that unnerving way of his.

"You owe respect to my brother," Teomitl cut in.

Nezahual-tzin's gaze moved, slightly. "The living one, or the dead one?"

"You know which one." Teomitl's face was flushed.

"The dead one." He turned to me, slightly bending his head, looking for all the world like a snake or a bird. "Apologies, Acatl-tzin. I knew him well in life, and I don't think he would begrudge me a little delay."

Of course, Axayacatl had been the one to save Nezahual-tzin, to cast down the over-ambitious brothers and bring the young Revered Speaker to Tenochtitlan. Which also meant he would know Tizoctzin and the She-Snake, and it did not look as though he was eager to see either. "The Dead can wait," I said, bowing my head in return. "But not on a caprice."

Nezahual-tzin shifted slightly, the obsidian shards of his macuahitl sword glinting in the sunlight. "Paying my respects is all I've come to do, after all. I'm Revered Speaker of Texcoco, and will not play a part in whatever squabbles Tizoc and the She-Snake have. But you don't look like a man likely to be caught in their games."

I wasn't sure whether to be embarrassed by his accuracy, or annoyed at the distant, unconcerned way he considered us all. Teomitl had no such scruples. "You look like a man too cowardly to be caught in anything, Nezahual-tzin."

Nezahual-tzin's lips curved around the word "pup", but he did not say it aloud, and luckily Teomitl didn't see it. "I've learnt to see where the priorities are " His gaze narrowed again, becoming infinitely distant, as if he held all the knowledge of the world. "For instance, you must have been wondering for a while where all the blood on us comes from."

Teomitl snorted. "What I've been wondering for a while is how you enticed the Jaguar Knights to follow you."

"Enticed? Hardly." Nezahual-tzin did not turn around. "But you're right, they're not my men."

I looked at the Knights again. My mistake, I should have known that Texcoco had no Jaguar House. Teomitl was obviously more knowledgeable about warrior orders than me, "Then…?" I asked. If he wanted to toy with us, fine. He was the Feathered Serpent's favoured indeed, enigmatic, taking advantage of the only thing he had, which was knowledge.

Nezahual-tzin made a gesture – satisfaction, annoyance? "Three star-demons. In the Jaguar House."

In daylight. Outside the palace wards. I scrabbled for words that seemed to have fled. "Did they kill anyone?"

I'd expected him to be triumphant at the shock he'd caused, to revel in our ignorance; but he looked serious again, like a commander on the eve of battle. "No. There are worse places where they could have appeared than a House of trained warriors."

It could have been worse. Much, much worse. The marketplace, the Houses of Joy…

I took a deep breath, hoping to close the hollow in my stomach. It didn't work. "So far, they've only appeared within the palace wards." It could mean the sorcerer was outside the wards, like, say, Xahuia, but then why had the Obsidian Butterfly, Itzpapalotl, been able to appear inside the palace and carry off Manatzpa's soul? No, the most likely explanation was that the Southern Hummingbird's protection was diminishing, and that the star-demons had grown stronger in the Fifth World.

Nezahual-tzin exhaled, in what was almost a hiss. "And one at a time?"

He was quick, the Revered Speaker of Texcoco, lithe and smooth like the snake that symbolised his protector. "Yes," I said.

It was getting worse. The boundaries between the worlds were slowly and irretrievably caving in. "I don't suppose you had a councilman or someone important inside the House at the time?"

"Besides myself?" Nezahual-tzin asked.

"They didn't attack you, did they?"

He shook his head, quick and annoyed. "Not any more than any of the other Knights. And the answer is no. Even the Jaguar Commander was absent."

No, not worse. Disastrous.

Teomitl was looking from Nezahual-tzin to me, back and forth, with growing determination on his features. "Then my brother has to be told. A new Revered Speaker must be chosen."

His naiveté was heartbreaking. "Teomitl, it's not that simple…" The problem wasn't only Tizoc-tzin. We would have to convince the She-Snake, as well as every single remaining member of the council. Tizoc-tzin wasn't popular enough to force the delayed vote.

"I don't see what's complicated. The Fifth World stands in jeopardy. Any personal interests must be set aside."

"If only." Nezahual-tzin's voice was sad, much older than his years.

Besides, even if a vote could be forced, it would take at least a day to set up, and further time to prepare the rituals of accession, time we no longer had. Star-demons on the loose, outside the palace, meant a greater threat than ever before. They had come not because they had been summoned, not because they had someone to kill, but of their own volition; for their own amusement.

Which meant the path to the Fifth World was wide enough to let them pass; and that we would see many more of them before the sun set.

"It's not a matter of days," I said. "Or even of hours. We have to do something, and we have to do it now."

"I imagine you know what?" Nezahual-tzin asked.

"Of course he knows," Teomitl snapped.

How I wished I did. Doing something. Doing… I racked my brains for an answer. My protector Lord Death had made it abundantly clear that He would not interfere in the affairs of humans. The Fifth Sun and the Southern Hummingbird had already demonstrated how weak they were. I held neither the favour of Tlaloc the Storm Lord, nor or his wife Chalchiuhtlicue, Jade Skirt, and I did not trust those two more than I had to. The Smoking Mirror, god of Fate and War, was to become the Sixth Sun, and could not be relied on, not to mention that he had tried to topple the Fifth Sun more times than I could count. Among the powerful gods, it left only the Feathered Serpent, to whom I did not have any particular ties. Perhaps Nezahual-tzin, who stood under the shadow of Quetzalcoatl, the Feathered Serpent…

On the other hand, I didn't see why I'd trust the boy just yet, with something that important. And yet…

I closed my eyes. The Duality was the source and arbiter of all the gods; our protector, the keeper of the souls that would be reborn under the Sixth Sun. Ceyaxochitl had been Their agent, and no new one would be invested for a while, not until the rituals for her succession could be completed; but it didn't mean They had withdrawn from us. Their wards around the palace, flimsy as they were, were probably our last possible defence.

But there had to be a way…

I was a priest for the Dead, and I did not know much of Duality lore.

But I knew someone who did.

"You cannot be serious." Yaotl's lips had thinned to a harsh line, the same colour as heart's blood.

"Do you see a better plan?" I asked.

We had left the boy-emperor of Texcoco to make his own way into the palace, no doubt clamouring for an absent Tizoc-tzin. He had looked at me thoughtfully as he left, a gaze that promised something I couldn't quite interpret: another meeting, or a challenge? He had more depths than I could probe currently, and since his protector god was not involved in the ongoing troubles, I was going to leave him well alone for now.

But I had little doubt we would meet again.

We had made our way into the Duality House, where we had found Yaotl having his noon meal. He had invited us to join him, though he surely had to be changing his mind, now that he knew what we were asking for.

Yaotl shook his head. "No. But it's not–"

"Ideal? I think we're well past that stage."

Yaotl sighed. "Fine. I already have all the priests I can spare warding the major temples of the Sacred Precinct. But it's not going to be enough."

"Then what would be?" I asked. "A new Guardian?"

"You don't become Guardian that easily." Yaotl's voice was grave, measured, carefully counting words, not focusing on their meaning. "The rituals of the investiture take time."

In other words, what I had known all along: it would be too late by the time the Duality could intervene. "There has to be a way we can get more than wards," I said. "Their equivalent of living blood." For any other god, it would have taken a human sacrifice: a removal of a heart, a drowning, a stabbing, the offering of a whole life and vessels brimming with blood. After all, the gods were dead, Their blood drained to feed the sun at the beginning of this age, Their own hearts long since torn out and burnt in honour of Tonatiuh the Fifth Sun. Only through living blood could They exercise Their power.

Yaotl grimaced. His eyes, wandering, fell on Teomitl; he stopped then, stared at the fresco behind Teomitl, which depicted the Fifth Sun rising from His pyre. "Wait here," he said, and was out of the room before either of us could stop him.

When he came back, he had two old priests in tow, a man and a woman who moved in precise, economical gestures. They wore the regalia of high-ranking clerics, a headdress of heron and duck feathers, and black cloaks with a blue hem depicting the fusedlovers symbol of the Duality. The priests looked at Teomitl speculatively for a moment, and then gave Yaotl a curt nod.

Teomitl, for whom patience was an alien word, wasn't about to be cowed, old priests or not. "Well?"

"There is a way," Yaotl said, slowly. "You're not going to like it."

That he said it in such a fashion, with no attempt whatsoever at sarcasm, was possibly the most worrying thing.

"Tell us," Teomitl snapped.

"You mentioned a new Guardian."

"To which you said it wouldn't help."

"They wouldn't have the Duality's powers, no," Yaotl said. "That takes time. The Duality doesn't choose Their agent on a whim. But, symbolically…" He pursed his lips. "Guardians are still the representative of the Duality in this world. The right choice, accompanied by the right rituals, could be the equivalent of a magical statement."

"The right choice," I said, slowly. "I don't understand what you're trying to say."

"Imperial Blood," Yaotl said. "To signify the tie between the Duality and the Fifth World. And a young woman, to remember that the Duality is the source of all life. The creator principle, male and female…"

"I don't understand," Teomitl said.

I did, and I didn't like where this was going. I remembered Ceyaxochitl's late-night confidences, that she had been married once, which had made her into the living symbol of the Duality. "You're jesting. Surely–"

"Of course I'm not jesting." Yaotl's lips curled up in a savage smile, and for a moment he was once more the insolent slave I'd known all my life.

"There is a chain of succession," I said. "Proper forms. You just can't choose a Guardian like this! You–" I stopped, then, for I'd been able to accuse him of being a mere slave. That would have been a mistake. Here in this room he was not my social inferior, but Ceyaxochitl's assistant, the man who held the order together.

The old priestess spoke up. "Ceyaxochitl-tzin had been watching the young woman for a while. She's impulsive, and untrained, and inexperienced, but all these can be remedied."

"Look," I said, feeling I was fighting against the lake's current in the rainy season. "Ceyaxochitl wasn't young. She made plans for her succession. There is a second-in-command, or someone like this, who's been waiting for years to claim the place. You can't…" You can't just go and give it to my sister, who's never asked for it in the first place.

"Our order will take decisions as it sees fit," the old priestess said, with the same authoritarian tone as Ceyaxochitl in her worst moods. "Our charge is the boundaries of the Fifth World, not politics."

And they were naive if they thought politics didn't apply.

"You don't even know if she's willing."

"Her wishes," the old priest said, firmly, "are the least of our concerns."

Clearly they didn't know Mihmatini at all, to say that. "There has to be someone else–"

"No." Yaotl's voice was firm. "It has to be a virgin of childbearing years, with magical knowledge, and associated with another virgin of Imperial blood. Can you think of anyone else, Acatl?"

I would have liked to, but no matter how much I racked my brains, I couldn't think of another name. For the sake of the Fifth World…

I made a last attempt to stem the tide. "You do know Teomitl is linked to another god."

The priest sniffed. "To two gods, as a matter of fact. But we're not asking him to be Guardian."

"You're still asking him to be a Guardian's husband," I said.

The priestess looked Teomitl up and down, clearly more for show than for anything else. Her mind seemed to have been made up before she entered the room. "We've discussed it. It's somewhat problematic, but the other benefits outweigh the risks."

The words weren't said, but I could hear them all the same; they would be naming a Guardian with a husband who would become Revered Speaker, master of the Empire's policy. Influence could flow both ways.

Gods, Mihmatini was going to flay us all. "What rituals did you have in mind?" I asked. "Another symbol? A wedding, a coupling?"

Yaotl grinned. "Close enough."

Exactly why I didn't want to go ahead with this. "Yaotl," I said, firmly. "There has to be someone else. I know Teomitl is convenient right now–"

"It's not a matter of convenience," Yaotl said. "It's a matter of need." His voice was low and fierce, and utterly serious. "If the stardemons are walking among us, then the end has already started. We have to buy time, and we have to buy it now. We're not going to go through all the imperial princes looking for virgins."

How could Yaotl even be sure Teomitl was a virgin?

But my student was sitting very straight, and he hadn't protested; I knew that, if he hadn't, it meant that it was true. "Acatl-tzin," Teomitl said. "We can at least ask her. Yaotl is right, there is too much at stake." He didn't sound wholly happy about that, and no wonder. Quite aside from my personal objections on the matter, Mihmatini was going to tear his head off.

"Look," I said. "It's all good theory, but…" But, the Storm Lord smite me, it was my sister we were talking about, not me or Teomitl. She was no priestess or imperial princess, just a normal girl readying herself for marriage and children. No one had pledged her to the defence of the Fifth World.

Yaotl, Teomitl and the priests were watching me, their faces as expressionless as those of carved statues.

"Acatl-tzin," Teomitl said. "I swear to the gods I'll marry her within the year. No matter what my brother thinks." His face was set in a fierce scowl, moments away from invoking Jade Skirt's presence. "It's the only right thing I could do, anyway."

"I don't want you to do the right thing," I said. "I want her to–" And then I stopped, realising I was making all the decisions for her, that I might have accused Tizoc-tzin, the She-Snake and the rest of the council of endangering the Fifth World through the selfishness of their acts, but, really, was what I was doing any better? It might not have been about power or influence, but I was still placing myself and my blood above the sake of the Fifth World.

"You win," I said with a sigh. "Let's go ask her. But you're doing the talking."

The fleeting grimace on Teomitl's face was a small but satisfactory victory, the only one I was likely to get all day.

We found Mihmatini still in Teomitl's rooms, staring at the frescoes as if she could peel the paint from the walls.

"I was starting to worry about you," she said, getting up. Her gaze descended to my scuffed sandals. "You look like you've been mauled."

"Close," I said.

"I had no idea Tizoc-tzin was so fierce," Mihmatini said, deadpan. She raised her eyes; Yaotl had just entered the courtyard. "And you would be…?"

Yaotl bowed, somewhat perfunctorily. "Who I am doesn't matter much at this juncture."

"I beg to differ," Mihmatini said, somewhat acidly. She puffed her cheeks, apparently considering something. "All right. What is it that you're not telling me?"

I'd never thought I'd actually see Teomitl embarrassed. If he could have turned crimson, he would have. But, as it was, he merely shifted slightly, as if he didn't quite know where to stand. "We, er–" He shook his head, and plunged on again. "We need your help."

She was silent for a while. "I see. What wonderful plan has Acatl come up with?"

Teomitl shook his head. "It wasn't his plan. Look, there are stardemons outside the palace…" He trailed off into silence; she let him flounder, without a word.

"How interesting," she said. "So many words to tell me nothing."

Teomitl blushed. I'd never seen such a sheepish expression on his face. "We need to keep them at bay, and, well…" He took a deep breath, started again. "They need to designate a new Guardian. Us. I mean, you, on account of the imperial connection and the virginity…"

Mihmatini raised an eyebrow. I winced, wishing I could look away. I knew that expression all too well.

Teomitl, too, apparently, for he hurriedly got a more coherent explanation of why we needed a new Guardian, and why it needed to be her. "It's symbolic. They need a couple who can stand for the Empire in the eyes of the Duality, and we don't have much time to find one. And, well, Ceyaxochitl had had an eye on you for a while, and thought you might be suitable for the job anyway…"

When Teomitl was finished, Mihmatini was silent again, deep in a dangerous kind of musing, just before she lashed out. She'd never shied from telling me or my brothers exactly what she thought of our heroic acts, and I had no doubt she would.

"I presume you're desperate," Mihmatini said, finally. "If you're coming to ask me."

I could imagine the smile on Yaotl's face without turning around.

"I'm not doing this for pleasure."

"Oh, for the Duality's sake, don't be so serious," Mihmatini said.

"It is a rather serious matter," Teomitl said.

"Most things are." She smiled again, half-amused, half-angry. "But you have no sense of humour, either of you. You should give some thought to working on that, Acatl. It's clearly missing from his education."

"Much as I love your wit–"

"I know, I know." She was sober again. "It's not exactly innocuous."

"Most of it was my idea," Yaotl admitted behind me. "If it helps."

Dear gods, we must really have been desperate, as she was saying. Since when had Yaotl owned up to having an opinion of his own? It was more sobering than I'd ever imagined it would be.

"No, it doesn't." Mihmatini's voice was low and dangerous now, as cutting as a jaguar's claws. "Let me make matters clear. I'm not a tool to be used at your convenience, just because there's a need for a well-connected virgin. I'm not a fool either, and I know what you're asking."

"Mihmatini–" Teomitl started.

We were asking her to step into a position equivalent to that of a High Priest, to take Ceyaxochitl's place, for the rest of her life.

"Look," I said. "I know you wanted to get married–"

"It doesn't seem to be incompatible," Mihmatini said, dryly. "But I'm not a fool. Whatever is needed is bad, if it's got both of you pushing for me to accept."

Teomitl tried speaking again, a little more forcefully. "I told Acatltzin I would–"

"I can guess what you told him. We both know it's not what you want that matters most," Mihmatini said, with a small sigh. "Otherwise it would have gone differently. Courtships don't last a year, Teomitl."

This time, he reddened. "I'll find a way."

"I don't see what would make it different."

"You think I'll renege on a promise?" Teomitl drew himself to his full height, Jade Skirt's magic hovering around him, lengthening his shadow on the ground.

"I think you'll do what you can," Mihmatini said. "I very much doubt it will be all you want, but it doesn't matter. Come on, Acatl, let's go."

She walked out of the courtyard without a backward glance for the spluttering Teomitl. Yaotl followed, leaving both of us alone under the Fifth Sun's gaze.

"She's angry," I said. "She doesn't mean what she says."

Teomitl's face was dark with something more than anger. "I think she means exactly what she says when she's angry, Acatl-tzin. That's always been the problem. But it doesn't matter. This is a promise I intend to keep." His hands had clenched into fists, so tightly his nails had drawn blood.

Not for the first time, I wished – desperately – that I could believe him.

The ritual for Mihmatini's designation was a fairly lengthy one; not quite as complicated as the investiture of a new Revered Speaker, but still heavy enough to need a night and a morning to be prepared.

We arrived at the Duality House early on the following morning. While the priests explained the ritual to Teomitl and Mihmatini, I excused myself; and went inside Ceyaxochitl's rooms to pay my respects.

My second-in-command Ichtaca sat cross-legged on the ground by the side of the funeral mat. His lips moved, silently intoning a litany for the Dead; he looked up at me when I came in, but left me time to contemplate the corpse.

Ceyaxochitl had been washed and garbed in many-coloured cotton. The jade bead had been threaded through her lips. In death she looked small and pathetic, her vibrancy extinguished. Yaotl had said he kept expecting her to rise and take charge. Looking at the thin, bloodless lips, at the pale, blue-tinged face, I knew she wouldn't come back. She was down there in the underworld, making her slow way to the throne of Lord Death, just as the rest of us would, someday.

It was unfair; she had been so much more than the rest of us.

"Acatl-tzin." Ichtaca bowed to me.

I nodded, briefly. "Thank you for undertaking the vigil."

His gaze suggested that I didn't need to thank him; that he was doing nothing more than his work.

"She will be missed," Ichtaca said. His round face was grave, and he wasn't talking about sentiments.

"I know," I said. She had held us together. No matter how abrasive, or authoritative, she had cared for all of us.

"You could…" He swallowed. "You could summon her."

I shook my head. "Not until her vigil is complete." I could go down into the underworld to hunt her soul, but it was starting to be dangerous. I could feel the world, lurching slightly out of kilter. To further breach the boundaries at this stage might not be a good idea. Not to mention a summoning would force Ceyaxochitl to turn aside, slowing down her progression in the underworld. I had no wish to make her stay there longer than it had to be.

I spoke a little more with Ichtaca, mostly over administrative matters; and left the room in a much worse mood than I'd entered it.

The shrine to the Duality was atop a pyramid, like the shrine in my own temple. From the smooth marble platform, I could see all the way into the courtyard, into the silent room, its entrance-curtain fluttering in the breeze, where Ceyaxochitl's body would be resting, washed and garbed for her funeral vigil. And, further on, into the city, the canals glittering in the afternoon sun like strings of jewels, the houses of noblemen gradually giving way to the high, steepled roofs of peasants' dwellings, all the heart and blood of our empire, as vulnerable as a jaguar with its throat bared.

Below, in the courtyard, most of the high-ranking priests had gathered, dressed in sober blue and black, a dizzying sea of featherheaddresses and ash-stained faces.

There were stars overhead, pinpoints of lights in the sky that were the eyes of monsters, shining in full daylight with no fear of the Fifth Sun. Yaotl was right, the end had already started.

I was High Priest for the Dead. I could do no less, no more than I was doing. But…

Behind me, on either side of the platform, stood Teomitl and Mihmatini. They were garbed like a couple for a wedding; Teomitl in a bright new cape, and my sister in a cotton blouse with a very simple embroidery pattern around the neckline, her hair hidden under a flowing head-cloth. Yaotl had spread cochineal red around her mouth, and given her a basket of fruit and tamales which she held with a slightly sceptical air.

I was suddenly, absurdly glad I wasn't the only one who couldn't feel the seriousness of the occasion.

The altar was bare, shining golden in the sun. The air seemed to shimmer with power, the priests of the Duality had been chanting for hours. The two elderly priests who had made the decision to name Mihmatini Guardian-designate stood on either side of the altar, their faces grave.

"Acatl-tzin." Teomitl held a jar of pulque alcohol with an utterly serious air. I was sure he was more used to attending dubious rituals.

"I know, I know." I was used to rituals; but it galled me to have to be a spectator on this one. At least I'd managed to bargain for the right to stay. It seemed a High Priest could attend on the pyramid platform, even if they took no part in the ceremony.

"Look," Mihmatini said, with an impatient shake of her head. "If you're going to ruin my life, you might as well not keep me waiting, Acatl."

"I…" I couldn't. There had to be some other god, some other ritual we could call on, some other solution that would keep the star-demons at bay, that would shelter us for a while more. There had to be…

I was grasping at maize seedlings, hoping they'd be strong enough to bear my weight. Pointless. We had already gone beyond the point when we could back out of this. Stifling a sigh, I moved to the edge of the platform, and watched the two priests officiate.

"Even as the maguey

You form a stalk, you are to ripen,

Taking root into the earth, you will hold up the sky

Your heart is jade, your heart is a precious green stone

Still virgin, pure, undefiled…"

Mihmatini shook her head; and in a fluid gesture removed the cloth over her hair. It spilled down her back in a flood to sit like the feathers of a raven. She approached the altar, her seashell bracelets tinkling with every step, not like the deep, ominous ringing of Coyolxauhqui's bells, but a light, airy sound like hundreds of footsteps following in her wake.

"Let us not go weeping forever

Let us not die in sorrow

Let the Fifth World be peopled, let the penance-born endure

Let us join together like the Lord and Lady of Duality…"

Teomitl set the pulque jar by the altar, whispering a prayer. Carefully he reached over to Mihmatini, and helped her into the altar. Then, still as tentatively as if every gesture would break a fragile balance, he reached out, and tied a knot between his cloak and her blouse. The sun outlined its contours, sloshed into the folds of the cloths; the knot seemed to sparkle as if studded with gold or jewels.

He paused for a while, staring at her, and it didn't seem a ritual anymore, just part of their relationship, something I had no right to intrude on. I averted my gaze, staring at the floor. Dots of lights were running along the marble, joining together to form larger stains, like blood pooling in the hollows of an altar.

"I lie down with you, I arise with you

You are the quivering in my heart

The shaking of the earth, the storm-tossed sky…"

I couldn't tell how long I stood there looking down, at stone that gradually became translucent, as if some inner light were springing to life underneath. The air was charged, heavy as before a storm, and yet it was as light and as pure as that of a winter day, smelling of cut grass and algae, and of scattered marigolds.

When I raised my eyes they were kissing, and the sun seemed to have descended into the Fifth World. The white light bathed them, outlining the shape of their clothes, their two faces, like images in some distorted mirror, the knot, into which radiance pooled like water from streams, two bodies, pressing more tightly against each other. The stains of light contracted and shuddered and, in one sweeping movement, converged on Mihmatini and Teomitl, washing away their features until all I could see were two darker silhouettes, like shadows on limestone.

Light arced from the altar into the heavens, spreading upwards, the opening of a huge flower, petal after iridescent petal shimmering into existence above us. The flower stretched, lost its shape, and the light died.

When my eyes had accustomed themselves again to the dimmer light I saw, against the Heavens, the glowing shape of a dome, and felt a faint pressure at the back of my mind, like a reminder of its weight. The stars shone in the sky, but they were only pinpoints of light, and the air still smelled fresh, like the marshes after the rain, like the first flowering of maize.

Teomitl and Mihmatini sat on the altar, pale and drained, their skin an unhealthy white. Mihmatini had closed her eyes; Teomitl sat as straight as usual, but his quivering muscles betrayed him. The two priests had taken a step back. Their faces were mostly dignified, but not without smugness.

I approached the altar, the marble warm under my sandals, the stone beating triumphantly, like a living heart.

Safe. We were safe for a few more days, if nothing more. The word beat in my chest, wove itself in my brain, over and over; a litany, a prayer.

"Can you stand?" the priestess asked.

Teomitl gently teased the knot open. Light spilled from the folds of the joined cloths, like a scattering of gemstones into a sunlit stream. He pulled himself up, one articulation at a time, with none of his usual speed. He winced as his feet touched the floor. "Mostly," he said. His face shifted from brown to the green of jade, and back to brown again. He couldn't quite control Jade Skirt's gift. He seemed to realise this, and shook his head in annoyance. "I've never had so much taken from me."

"It's because you've never asked for so much power." Mihmatini had not moved; she still sat on the altar, her hair unbound like that of a sacred courtesan, the red around her mouth smudged like the maw of a fed jaguar.

"Did it work?" she asked. Light still clung to her, a stubborn radiance that coated her skin and reflected itself into her eyes.

She frightened me more than I could put in words.

"Yes," the priest said. "Wonderfully."

"Thank the gods." Her voice was low, carefully pausing between words, as if unsure of the right one. Her hands shook. "If I'd gone through this for nothing, there would have been words, Acatl."

"I can imagine." The dome overhead pressed down on my mind, the words merging with each other in my thoughts. Safe, safe, safe.

I wondered why I couldn't feel any happiness over it.

"Come on," I said, ignoring the tightness in my chest. "Let's get you cleaned up."

By the time they'd dressed in everyday attire again, I'd seen that the light around Mihmatini did not diminish in intensity. It remained around her body, and a thinner thread linked her and Teomitl, like a reverse shadow on the ground, beating ponderously like a man breathing in his sleep.

A remnant of the Duality's touch, marking their new Guardian. As if we didn't have enough problems already.

They were waiting for us at the entrance to the Duality House, a group of warriors in Jaguar Knight livery; exquisite, from the jade rings on their fingers to their turquoise lip-plugs, their macuahitl swords casually hefted in their hands.

"Acatl-tzin," the burliest said. "Teomitl-tzin. Tizoc-tzin will see you now."

Their angry, resentful tone left little doubt as to what Tizoc-tzin would want to tell us.

THIRTEEN

Master of the House of Darts

Tizoc-tzin's quarters were, surprisingly, almost deserted, compared to what I had seen last time. A handful of richly-attired warriors lounged on the platform outside, and the inner chambers held only the remnants of a feast, the smell of rich food turning sour in the gold and silver vessels.

It smelled of neglect, and of fear, like the house of an old man facing Lord Death at the end of a long sickness. I half-expected to find a corpse somewhere; but the only occupant of the room was Tizoc-tzin, still sitting behind his polished screen.

He looked furious, his face pale and set, his hands clenched around a feather-fan as if he could grind it into dust.

"They haven't bared their feet," he snapped to the warriors behind us.

"My Lord–" The lead warrior sounded embarrassed, and perhaps a little contemptuous. I couldn't be sure.

"You're not Revered Speaker." Teomitl's voice held the edge of broken obsidian.

Tizoc-tzin's gaze moved to him. His eyes were deep-set in the paleness of his face, as dark and as bruised as those of a corpse. "And you're not Master of the House of Darts." His tone implied Teomitl would never be so, not as long as he had a voice.

Teomitl shrugged. "That's your threat?"

Tizoc-tzin smiled, uncovering a row of blackened teeth. "I can think of others. For now, I'll settle for explanations." He jerked his chin at me, in a movement so convulsive and unnatural that I took a step backward. "Try voicing them, priest." The contempt in his voice could have frozen Lake Texcoco.

I took a deep breath, composing myself. Tizoc-tzin was right. Teomitl wasn't Master of the House of Darts, Keeper of the Bowl of Fatigue, or Cutter of Men – he had no title, no official recognition save for his imperial blood, and the Revered Speaker had had dozens of brothers who had not amounted to anything. He couldn't defend us. No one could.

"There was need." I pitched my voice as low as I could, grave and determined. "The stars are shining in the sky, my Lord, and the demons walk in daylight, in the Jaguar House. They'd have overwhelmed us. We needed…" I tasted bile in my throat, swallowed. "We needed the protection of the Duality."

Where was Quenami? As High Priest of the Southern Hummingbird, he would have understood, at least, though he might still have disavowed me if it suited him.

"And so you thought of a ritual? How clever."

"The Duality takes no human sacrifices."

"Of course They don't." Tizoc-tzin moved back, so that his face was wreathed in shadows. "I've warned you before. I've warned you about her."

I guessed more than saw Teomitl put a hand on Mihmatini's shoulder, preventing her from speaking out. In the dimness of Tizoc-tzin's rooms, she still shone with the light of the ritual, and the thin, radiant thread curled on the ground between them, visible to all.

"Well, priest?"

I could think of no answer that wouldn't be an insult. "You did warn me," I said, cautiously. "But the ritual required both of them." I didn't tell him what else we'd done, it would take a while to fully invest Mihmatini as agent of the Duality, and the later he found out about this the better off we'd be.

"You lie!" The feather-fan trembled in Tizoc-tzin's hands. "I've seen you, priest. I know what you are, you and your kind – always hungry for power, always grabbing for more. Linking them to gether, parading them both in this palace, like a warrior and his courtesan, you spoiled him, too, took his potential and wasted it and turned it against this Court…" He was almost weeping now, the words tumbling atop each other, as fast and chaotic as waves on a stormy lake.

Teomitl's face twisted; the light of his patron goddess Chalchiuhtlicue, which had been surrounding him, died away. "I'm not against you, brother."

Tizoc-tzin raised his gaze to look at him, and I had never seen anything so frightening as the hunger spread on his features, hollowing his cheeks and his neck, pushing the eyes further back into his dark sockets. "I am the one," he whispered. "The one Axayacatl promised the Empire to. Fit to rule, to bring us the spoils of war and the tributes of provinces. He promised me. You know this. You know I'll do the right things."

"I'm not against you," Teomitl repeated. "I never was." His eyes glimmered in the dim light. It was Mihmatini, now, who had a hand extended, wrapped around his shoulder. "Brother…"

I had never seen him weep before.

Tizoc-tzin held Teomitl's gaze for a long while. He breathed in frantically, as if air had gone missing. At last he appeared to compose himself, and said in a much cooler voice, "Of course. Blood stands by blood."

"Always," Teomitl said.

I didn't like the sudden coolness, or the way his gaze moved around the room, transfixing all of us. We had seen him lose face and heart, reduced to an incoherent, weeping wreck of a man. Knowing him, he would never forgive us. Teomitl was family, but Mihmatini and I…

I could tell by Mihmatini's taut pose that her thoughts ran close to mine.

"Then set her aside." Tizoc-tzin's gaze was malicious. Mihmatini's hand tightened around Teomitl's shoulder, hard enough to bruise.

Teomitl's face was set. "That has never been a possibility."

"Who do you think you're convincing?" Tizoc-tzin laughed, a joyless sound that would have frightened even Lord Death. "She will forever be a peasant's daughter. You are imperial blood. You will be Master of the House of Darts. Do you think it's so easy to renounce your rank?"

"Perhaps, when I see what it's made of you. Look at you, brother. Look at you." Teomitl's voice was almost a cry. "You're a warrior and you cower in your own rooms."

"I'm not a warrior." Tizoc-tzin's voice was quiet, an admission of defeat. I looked up, caught Mihmatini's eye. There had to be a way we could make a graceful exit, before either of them remembered we were there. They were both behaving as if they were alone, baring more of their hearts and faces than I wanted to see.

Unfortunately, Tizoc-tzin caught my movement. "I'm not a warrior," he repeated, "but I'm not about to forget how your priest behaved."

"He's not mine," Teomitl said stiffly, and then realised what he had done – openly admitted I was not under his protection. He opened his mouth to speak again, but I shook my head to silence him. Tizoc-tzin would have attacked me, one way or another.

"Then he can speak for himself."

"What do you want to hear?" I asked. I hadn't meant to be so insolent, but I couldn't quite contain myself. He was behaving like an intoxicated jaguar, clawing at everything before his eyes – his own brother, my sister… "I can't offer anything but the truth."

"I've already heard your 'truth'." Tizoc-tzin waved a pale hand. "I have no interest in that."

"Then what else do you want to hear?" I wasn't quite sure I could contain myself. "My Lord, we have star-demons waiting for a lapse on our part, ritual or not. We need a new Revered Speaker."

His face twisted, in what might have been pain. "And you'll have one."

How had he changed, so quickly? The man who had screamed at me and accused me of nepotism had shrunk to this… this wasted thing crouching in the shadows, this living corpse whose every protestation of life rang false.

But he still had claws. He could still see me thrown out of Court, if the fancy took him.

He appeared to focus his attention on the ground, for the moment. "I admit I may have erred in ignoring the star-demons. Or, at the least, being unable to foresee what kind of carnage you'd wreak in the palace during your investigation."

The admission of weakness was surprising; the sting in the words that followed was not. "I've told you before," I said, unable to contain myself. "Someone is summoning star-demons, and they'll go on summoning them until they are stopped."

"Someone." His gaze rose, transfixed me, gaunt and dark, like the depths of Mictlan itself. "Who?"

If only I knew. But why was he so interested, all of a sudden? I couldn't understand what had changed. "That's why I'm investigating," I said, cautiously. "Your brother's wife Xahuia might have had something to do with it."

Or, at the very least, she would have ideas. I had little doubt she'd had spies all over the palace. But, if she was the guilty party, which sorcerer had she suborned? She needed to cast a spell within the palace where she no longer was; and her own sorcerer lay dead. I made a note to ask Palli about the women's quarters, to see if they could find anything in there that might be of use.

"Xahuia…" Tizoc-tzin rolled the word in his mouth, as if breathing in its taste. "She destroyed most of the women's quarters in her escape."

"Yes," I said, not knowing what else to say.

"I see." Tizoc-tzin's voice was distant again. "Whoever it is, they seek to undermine us, to make us as nothing. Never forget that they are dangerous, Acatl-tzin."

It was dishonest, it was disloyal, but I couldn't help compare this nervous man who presumed to give me curt orders as if he were Revered Speaker already to Axayacatl-tzin's graceful thanks and amused humility, his deep understanding of the rituals that had shaped his life. The Duality curse me, I just couldn't do otherwise. Manatzpa-tzin, for all his faults, had had the most accurate judgment of him, Tizoc-tzin didn't have the stature of a Revered Speaker.

"I will not forget," I said.

"Good." He nodded, as abruptly as a disjointed sacrifice. "Sometimes, better to take them dead than to run the risk of coming to further harm."

Surely he was not suggesting. "My Lord… " We would never find out the ramifications of the summoning that way, if we killed on sight.

"You heard what I said." He nodded – again, that movement so abrupt it seemed barely human. "Who else is involved?"

My lips formed the answer though my mind was elsewhere. "Councilman Manatzpa-tzin knew, but he is dead."

"How convenient."

No, not convenient. He had been killed for it, and so had Echichilli, because they had known something.

I had to ask, the Storm Lord blind me. Even if he arrested me for that, I was High Priest for the Dead, and it was my duty. No, it was my duty as a mortal of the Fifth World. "Echichilli died because of what he called duty," I said, carefully. "We thought that you might have an idea…" I let the sentence trail, braced myself for further abuse.

But Tizoc-tzin merely shook his head. "He wasn't a supporter of mine."

He had been a supporter of Axayacatl-tzin, though, hadn't he? Wouldn't he at least support the former Revered Speaker's choice of heir. "He did serve your brother," I said.

"He never liked me." Tizoc-tzin's voice was bitter. "Never mind, priest. This isn't something I can help you with."

"And Ocome?"

"Ocome. He was mine indeed. A poor kind of supporter, truth be told, bending to whoever shone brightest. Not a great loss."

I took in a deep breath, and said, "Xahuia claimed she had turned him to her side."

Something flashed in his gaze, a light in the hollows – anger, rage, guilt?

"Perhaps. I wouldn't have known." I could have detected the lie, even in a worse state than I currently was.

"There have been three deaths. One of the dead men had betrayed his allegiance to you," I said. "Another was neutral, and the third was your deadliest enemy."

"You accuse me?" There was something niggling at me, coiled at the back of my mind like a snake. Something obviously wrong, other than the sick fear, other than the diminishing of his whole being, But, try as I might…

"All we want is answers," Teomitl said, a little too hastily. "Brother, please. Crimes cannot go unpunished."

Tizoc-tzin's face was a death-mask. "Crimes? I am the Master of the House of Darts, priest. I answer to no one – certainly not to the priests who swarm around this court like flies, polluting us with their pretences of humility."

"You can at least explain to us…"

"Get out." Tizoc-tzin's voice was bright and false, with the same edge as a chipped blade. "I don't have to explain myself. Get out before I have you arrested, all of you."

I didn't need to be told twice. I carefully retreated, pushing Mihmatini ahead of me. Teomitl remained for a while, staring at Tizoc-tzin with pity on his face.

It wasn't until he joined us outside that I realised what had been staring me in the face all along. It was almost evening, the sky was pink and red, but the stars were already out, visible through the dome of the Duality's protection. "Star-demons," I said.

"What?" Mihmatini asked.

"He reeked of magic, as if he'd brushed one recently."

"That would explain his state," Teomitl said, curtly. "A narrow brush with death…"

It could have been that, a perfectly plausible explanation. But there was an equally plausible one, that he smelled of them only because he had consorted with them, and that the whole thing was a feint to purge the council, force them into a vote from which he would emerge the victor.

Storm Lord blind me, was that what we were facing?

I left the two of them in Teomitl's room, impressing upon him to bring Mihmatini home, trying not to think of that thread stretching all the way across the city, laid over the buildings and the canals, a trail everyone would be able to see. So much for discretion. Then again, I had known about this when we had first set out to do the spell, so it wasn't as if I could complain.

Then I went to check on Palli.

I found him sitting on the entrance platform of the Revered Speaker's rooms, looking despondent. "Acatl-tzin," he said.

I handed him one of the maize flatbreads I'd taken from a nobleman's kitchen. "Here, have some food. I take it the search isn't progressing."

Palli took the flatbread, but did not bite into it. "It's worse than that," he said. "We've checked almost everywhere, Acatl-tzin. The storerooms, the treasury, the armouries, the tribunals…"

"The women's quarters?" I asked, thinking of Xahuia.

Palli smiled, briefly. "Those, too. But it's useless. There is nothing that looks even remotely like a summoning place."

"You haven't finished," I said, trying to be encouraging. In truth, I wasn't feeling optimistic. If Palli thought there was nothing, then it was likely to be the case.

Palli's eyes drifted into the courtyard, staring at the beaten earth. It was almost dark, now "It's just a handful of rooms, and they're used by everyone. If there was a summoning…"

"I see," I said. I tried to hide my disappointment. There must be some place they had missed, some obvious location…

But, with so many people helping out, I doubted it was the case. Which left me with a problem – how in the Fifth World were the star-demons getting past the palace wards?

I mulled the problem over as I walked out of the palace, but could find no satisfying solution. With a sigh, I headed back to the Duality House.

After all the animation of Mihmatini's designation, it seemed oddly deserted, as if night had robbed it of all vitality. Only a few priests were there, kneeling in the dust to beseech the Duality's favour for the Empire and the Fifth World. I found Ichtaca where I had left him, watching Ceyaxochitl's corpse. His face lit up when he saw me. "Acatl-tzin. I see you're still–"

"Alive? I guess." He had seen me taken away by Tizoc-tzin's guards; no wonder he'd worried.

I sighed. Now that I was back in a familiar setting, all the fatigue of the previous days was making itself felt; the lack of sleep over the previous night, the barely-healed wounds on my chest, the hasty meals – all of it came like a blow.

Ichtaca pulled himself straighter. "I've received word from the temple, while you were out. There is something you need to know about the order of the deaths."

"The… order?" It hadn't occurred to me that there was something to check there.

"We checked the records. They only give the days of the religious calendar, but we can work out the correspondence with the year count."

He made it sound easy, but it was far from it. The religious calendar was two hundred and sixty days, while the year count followed the sun's cycle. They overlapped, but working out dates from one to the other required patience and a talent for mathematics.

Ichtaca was pursing his lips, as he often did when contemplating a difficult problem. "The date of birth of Ocome-tzin was the Second Day of the Ceasing of Waters, that of Echichilli-tzin the Fifteenth day of the Ceasing of Waters, and Manatzpa-tzin was born on the Third Day of The Flaying of Men. All those dates are in the first or second month of the calendar."

"Coincidence?"

"I don't think so." Ichtaca rose, bowing to Ceyaxochitl's corpse, and turned to face me. "Or, if it is, too much of one. I took the liberty of checking the names of those councilmen I did know. Their dates of birth are all posterior to the dead ones."

"Said otherwise, they're dying by chronological order." I bit my lip. As Ichtaca had said, too much of a coincidence. It might explain why Echichilli had known his death was coming.But why?

The year had started on the day Two Rain, a time of unpredictability, a time of divine caprices. It was heading towards its end on the day Two House, and the nemontemi – the five empty days – a fearful time during which children were hidden out of sight, and pregnant women locked in granaries for fear that…

For fear that they would turn into star-demons. Oh no. "They're trying to hasten the end of the year, aren't they."

It wasn't a question, and Ichtaca did not treat it as such. "That seems a likely explanation. The five empty days would suit them."

These weren't just random summonings then, but I had been suspecting that for a while. This was organised, meticulously so, part of a ritual from beginning to end.

"This isn't good." I breathed in, trying to still the frantic beating of my heart. "If I give you the names of all the councilmen, can you work out who comes next in the order of deaths?"

"Yes," Ichtaca said. "But–"

"I know. It takes time. You've already done a great deal of work."

"I do my duty, Acatl-tzin. As we all do. I will have all the offering priests we can spare doing calculations. That's the most I can do. The novices don't know enough about the calendars. I wish the calendar priests were available, but they're overworked as it is, planning the funeral and the coronation."

"I see. Thank you." I gave him all the names of the council; they were not that many of them, and I had interviewed all of them.

Something occurred to me as I was about to walk out: the tar Palli had found in the Imperial Chambers. "Ichtaca?"

"Yes?"

"What does tar evoke to you? Magically speaking."

He looked thoughtful for a while. "Tar? It's not a common ingredient."

"No," I said. "But I have reasons to think it was used in a ritual in the palace. Something large."

"Tar is thick, and chokes. It can't be washed away with water."

"The Storm Lord?" I asked. Acamapichtli was away from Court, trying to make us forget he had supported Xahuia. But he could have done something beforehand. "Dying in the water, but not of it." The oldest rite, asking for His blessing on the crops.

"The Storm Lord's sacrifices tend to use rubber," Ichtaca said. "I suppose they might turn to tar, if rubber wasn't available." But he didn't sound convinced.

I thanked him, and walked out onto the Sacred Precinct in my bleakest mood yet. It didn't seem like Tizoc-tzin was to blame, after all. If he truly wanted to become Revered Speaker, then he would not have any interest in hastening the end of the world.

On the other hand, he was acting most suspiciously. What was he not telling us?

Or was there some other purpose to the order of the deaths, something I hadn't seen?

FOURTEEN

Darkness

Even though I'd only been a participant, the Duality ritual – and its stressful aftermath with Tizoc-tzin – had drained more out of me than I'd expected. I went to bed at a reasonable time, for once, early on in the night, and woke up to find it was already early afternoon.

I reached up, touched my earlobes, which bore fresh scabs. I must have done my devotions to the Fifth Sun in a trance, barely realising what I was doing.

Nevertheless, better to be sure. I slit my earlobes open again, and did the blood offering and the hymn singing properly this time.

For once no one was waiting for me in my courtyard. I might have smiled, but I didn't feel in the mood.

Since I had a little time to myself, I went back to the Wind Tower with a chest of offerings, and asked to see the fire-priest. I was in full regalia, my owl-embroidered cloak spreading behind me like the wings of a bird, the skull-mask precariously balanced on my forehead, my sandals, as white as bone, making my tanned feet seem pale. The priest watching over the pilgrims took one look at me, bowed very deeply, and sent someone to fetch him.

I laid the chest by my side and waited, sitting on the platform where the Wind Tower stood. It was warm out there, with the Fifth Sun overhead, the stone glimmering in the harsh light, and the Sacred Precinct spread out before me, the mass of temples and priests' houses that made up the religious heart of the city. The canals behind the Serpent Wall seemed very distant, another world entirely, far removed from our problems.

I hoped they would remain that way.

"Acatl-tzin?" A tall man with pale skin and gaunt, hollowed-out cheeks, stood by my side. He wore a simple green tunic, and a long, trumpet-shaped wooden beak, which he'd set aside to talk to me, all that marked him as a priest. His hair, cropped short, was a shock of black. Unlike the other priests, he didn't mat it with blood, or weave in any kind of ornaments.

"I am Ueman," he said, bowing. "Fire Priest of this temple. I was told you wanted to see me?"

"Yes," I said. I didn't touch the basket by my side, and he didn't ask about it. "You're aware of the deaths in the palace."

"A little," he said, cautiously. "This place is far away from the centre of power."

Since the days of Tula, centuries ago, the Feathered Serpent Quetzalcoatl had not held power in any city and, in a day and age where the gods of War and Rain watched over us, He had faded into obscurity, His benevolence gently scoffed at, treated like an aged relative with no sense of the realities of life.

"Far away, perhaps," I said, "but it still dragged you in."

Ueman grimaced. He sat down by my side, carefully and easily, as if rank didn't matter. "We're a place for knowledge and healing, Acatl-tzin. We hold the Feathered Serpent's trust. We worship Him as the Wind, as the Precious Twin, as the king that was and will return. But some think only of knowledge as a weapon."

"Princess Xahuia came here," I said.

"With a councilman. For an oath." He didn't even attempt to evade the questions. Clearly, he'd have preferred to wash his hands clean of the whole business.

What he told me was brief, but it confirmed Xahuia's story that she'd convinced Ocome to swear an unbreakable oath of loyalty to her. Not that I had doubted it, but still…

Now Tizoc-tzin, the She-Snake and Acamapichtli were the ones with the strongest motive. Tizoc-tzin, strongest of all.

"Did you see other councilmen?" I asked.

"Of course." I'd half-expected he'd deny that, but he was an honest man, a breed all too rare in the palace.

"Manatzpa?"

"Among others." His voice was cautious again.

Others? "What do you mean?"

Ueman's gaze drifted towards the expanse of the Imperial Palace, which appeared small and pathetic from such a height. "I've had ten councilmen come to me since the beginning of the month, Acatl-tzin."

Ten was about the whole council, minus the inner circle. "I don't understand. What did they want?"

"The same thing Manatzpa wanted. The Breath of the Precious Twin."

There was a fist, slowly closing around my lungs, cutting the breath through my windpipe. "All of them? They all came to you for protection?" Still, there had been star-demons loose in the palace. Ocome had died, and they were under threat. Surely it was enough of a reason to buy a spell?

"Yes."

"When?" I asked.

My heart sank when he gave me the dates, which all predated Ocome's murder. Manatzpa had been the first to come, in the wake of Axayacatl-tzin's death; the others had followed in small groups, almost jostling each other on the temple steps.

"This makes no sense," I said.

"I can't give you sense," Ueman said, stiffly. "All I can tell you is what I witnessed."

"I know. My apologies. I didn't mean to impugn your honesty." For once somebody wasn't trying to defraud me or lie to me. It was a feeling I'd forgotten, and that was disturbing. The palace had its own rules, and it had slowly sucked me in, to the point I hardly was aware of what was normal.

Never again. As soon as this sordid business was finished, I'd go back to my temple, with only the occasional visit to the palace. Yes. I'd do that.

But, coming back to the matter at hand… I hadn't been mistaken, back when I had interviewed all the councilmen: they had all been deathly afraid. There had been mundane and magical threats. But this huge, complicated, expensive spell… It seemed almost too much.

It was almost as if they had known the star-demons would come for them.

But how could they have?

It made no sense.

"I see," I said to Ueman. I pushed the basket towards him. He took it with a puzzled frown, and opened it to peer at its contents.

Butterflies and jade ornaments, and the feathers of quetzal birds, as green as emeralds. "What are those for? Surely you're not–"

"Paying you for your answers?" I shook my head. "Of course not. Those are for the god."

"Have you a question, then?"

"No. I have a soul to entrust to His keeping."

"I see." His eyes were wide, his gaze as tender as that of a mother for her son. "The Feathered Serpent doesn't own the Dead, Acatltzin. You should know that better than I."

"He–" An unexpected obstruction had welled up in my throat, making the world swim. I swallowed. "He went down into the underworld once, for the bones of the Dead. He came back."

"Yes." Ueman closed the basket, but did not look away from me. "It was a long time ago. The Fifth Age hadn't yet started, and the gods still had Their full powers."

"Surely…"

"I can ask." His voice was quiet, gentle. "He is benevolent and wise. It cannot hurt."

But he wasn't sure whether it would help. I hadn't thought it would, but it was worth a try. Ceyaxochitl had deserved better than the darkness, and the cold, and the dust. "Very well. Thank you," I said, and rose, and walked away from the Wind Tower, trying to forget the sting in my eyes.

I was hoping to catch Teomitl in the palace, and work out some plan for dealing with Tizoc-tzin, but I couldn't find him anywhere. So instead I headed to the council room.

The funeral rites were underway, the palace rang with the lamentations of my priests, and everything smelled of incense and burnt paper. From far, far away, I caught a hint of a litany for the Dead:

"We leave this earth

This world of jade and flowers

The quetzal feathers, the silver…"

The council as a whole had nothing more to tell. They huddled amidst copal incense in the depths of their rooms, as if sunlight itself had become a blight, as shrunken and diminished as Tizoc-tzin, as if they were already funeral bundles arrayed for cremation after a long wake.

They wore the Breath of the Precious Twin. They had paid for it, most of them. But why?

Something was wrong, it was more than star-demons poisoning the atmosphere of the palace, but the more I pressed them, the more I got the feeling of standing amidst an elaborate pageant like a sacrifice victim, already removed from the preoccupations and the cares that plagued every other participant from the priests to the worshippers.

The Duality curse me, what was I missing?

There was not much to do for it, I would have to see the SheSnake again. He was the only one who might still cooperate. Quenami had become just an extension of Tizoc-tzin's will, and Acamapichtli, the High Priest of Tlaloc, was following his own purposes away from Court, which worried me, but I couldn't do much about it. The She-Snake's guards were all over the palace, and he had to have some inclination of what was going on. The only question was whether he would share it with me.

I headed to the half of the palace which held the She-Snake's quarters.

"Acatl-tzin!"

I turned, half-expecting Quenami again but instead I saw Nezahual-tzin, the boy-Emperor of Texcoco. He had changed into the regalia befitting a Revered Speaker; a turquoise cape, its hem embroidered with hundreds of tiny eyes, though he still carried his small shield with him, emblazoned with a coyote woven of feathers, the emblem of his father, and his macuahitl sword, its embedded shards shimmering with green and red light, the touch of the Feathered Serpent. Two warriors followed him, not the Jaguar Knights he'd had with him before, but I presumed Texcocan elite guards.

"I need to speak with you," he said. It was an order as much as a request, coming from a man with whom no one dared argue.

Of course, I had no choice.

He walked me back to the courtyard of the imperial chambers and climbed the steps to the terrace, where he chose one of the other two doors, the apartments held aside for the rulers of the Triple Alliance, Texcoco and Tlacopan.

Inside, frescoes spread across the walls, depicting the descent of Quetzalcoatl, the Feathered Serpent, into Mictlan and His return, with the broken bones of the Dead made whole by the shedding of the gods' blood. The braziers burnt copal incense, but not a variety I recognised, a more spicy, tangy smell than what I was used to, almost as if some medicinal drugs had been added to it. I could only hope they were not meant to induce visions, for as a High Priest, my mind hovering on the boundaries of the Fifth World already, I would have little defence against those.

Nezahual-tzin sat cross-legged on a low-back chair without much ceremony, though the setting was imperial – a jaguar pelt under his feet, a turquoise cloak, negligently wrapped around the wicker back, and a golden cup of steaming chocolate set before him on the dais. Something glimmered behind him, the limned maw of a great snake, the collar spread like blossoming daffodils, the pearly fangs closing just above his feather-headdress. Quetzalcoatl in the Fifth World. I had been wrong: Nezahual might actually be the agent of the Feathered Serpent on earth, the repository of all His wisdom.

"What did you want to ask?" I said. I stood; for he had not invited me to sit down.

"I have an offer to make you." Nezahual-tzin considered the chocolate in front of him, as if it held the key to the Fifth World.

"An offer?" He made it sound like something illegal. "In exchange for my support?"

He smiled, looking like a younger version of the She-Snake. The Duality take him, he had learnt politics at the She-Snake's knee; not the current one, but his father before him, the man who had forged an insignificant city into a wide-spanning empire. "Don't be a fool, Acatl-tzin. I have enough trouble in Texcoco without adding more."

But of course he'd be interested in having a sympathetic Revered Speaker, one who would respect his place in the Triple Alliance.

"Actually, what I wanted to offer was my assistance in tracking down Xahuia."

"We've already got men after her," I said. I had no doubt he would sacrifice her to further his own ends. He would not have survived for so long, or remained Revered Speaker in his own right and not a vassal of Tenochtitlan, if he had been naïve. But I didn't know what his own ends might be.

"Efficiency does not appear to be a quality of your men." He sounded amused. "She's disappeared for four days. Knowing my sister, she's already making other plans, and you won't like them."

"We're doing what we can," I said, stung.

"Of course you are." Nezahual-tzin lounged on the chair looking thoughtful. The smell of incense grew stronger as if he had fanned it himself, prickling my nostrils. "But still, you are not blessed by the Feathered Serpent."

"So you are His agent?" I asked. No point in dancing around each other like fighting jaguars. Diplomacy had never been my strongest quality.

"Perhaps." Nezahual-tzin smiled again. His grey eyes rolled up, revealing eerily white pupils, filled with a single pinpoint of light. I did not back down, having been expecting something like this for a while. Besides, whatever he looked like paled beside star-demons. "I have quite enough power for this, I assure you."

"But I have no idea what you're using it for," I said.

"Fine. Let's be blunt with each other, then. It ill suits me to see the Fifth World endangered. I have vested interests in seeing who becomes Revered Speaker, I will confess, but being torn apart by star-demons is not part of my plans, now or in the future."

Everything about him sounded or looked older than he was. I couldn't be sure if being Revered Speaker had aged him, or if Quetzalcoatl, the Feathered Serpent, was indeed speaking through him. Either way, he worried me. I could deal with Teomitl's brash innocence, but with Nezahual-tzin I kept thinking I was speaking to a spoiled adolescent, but he wasn't one. He had probably never been.

"And you're offering–"

"You know true sight," Nezahual-tzin said. "You've probably used it."

"Of course." It was one of the rituals anyone could use without being a devotee of the Feathered Serpent, not one of the godtouched mysteries.

"There is another ritual." Nezahual-tzin's voice dropped a fraction, echoing as if through a great cavern. "A deeper, more ancient one from the Second Sun, of which the true sight is but a faint remembrance."

The Second Sun had been the Age of Quetzalcoatl, presided by the Feathered Serpent in all His glory until the Smoking Mirror, Quetzalcoatl's eternal enemy, had changed mankind into chattering spider-monkeys. "That's what you want to do? If it was that simple–"

"Oh, no, it's not that simple." Evening had come and Nezahualtzin's teeth shone white in the gathering darkness. Slaves moved to light the braziers, the smell of charcoal overwhelming that of copal for a brief moment. "The Feathered Serpent does not require human blood, but he does ask for penance, and preparation."

"Fasting, and meditation," I said. "I'm not totally ignorant."

"Good," Nezahual-tzin said. He pushed the cup of chocolate aside. "A full night's vigil is what is usually required, from the emergence of the Evening Star until the Morning Star's dawn."

Another way of telling me he needed my answer now, or we would have to wait another day to track down Xahuia.

Teomitl had not trusted him, but Teomitl's judgment was hardly impeccable. Still…

"I'm not your enemy, Acatl-tzin," Nezahual-tzin said. "I assure you."

"You…" He was a politician; a born liar. "I can't trust you." The words were out of my mouth before I could think.

He looked at me, his eyes rolling up again in that eerie way. Had he been Tizoc-tzin, I'd already have been on my way to the imperial cells but instead he said nothing. Silence spread in the room, grew oppressive.

"Nezahual-tzin…"

"No, I understand your reluctance. But understand, Acatl-tzin, as long as Xahuia is loose in Tenochtitlan, I am at risk. I am her countryman; worse, her brother. If she is accused of destructive sorcery, then…"

"I shouldn't think your reputation was so bad."

"It has been better," Nezahual-tzin, with not a trace of humour. "As you said to the pup, I know who to sacrifice, and when. Xahuia has done her time."

I wasn't sure whether to admire his frankness, or to despise him for his calculations. I said the first thing which came to mind. "You underestimate Teomitl."

"Perhaps." He did not sound convinced. The ghostly serpent behind him swayed in a rustle of feathers. "But that is beside the point. Will you take my help, Acatl-tzin, if only on this?"

It wasn't safe. Quite aside from the fact that I didn't trust him or his motives, there was also the question of his allegiance. He was of the Triple Alliance, but not Mexica, and Tizoc-tzin would seize on any association between us to make me look worse in the eyes of the Court. I ought to have refused him. I ought to have walked away from whatever he proffered, trusted my instincts and let Yaotl's men continue the search. But the Duality was weak, and the Southern Hummingbird had retreated to safer climes and could not help us any longer.

"Only on this," I said.

His lips curled up for a smile, revealing teeth like the fangs of a snake. "Good."

Night had fallen by the time I exited Nezahual-tzin's chambers, and my fatigue was worsening. My stomach yawned in my body like the blind, gaping mouth of a beast; and the world around me was not as steady as it had once been. I stopped by a carved pillar to catch my breath, waiting for the colours to return to sharpness and the wave of dizziness to pass.

There was little time left. I could rest later; what I needed now was an audience with the She-Snake.

I took the time to shed my blood for the Fifth Sun, to comfort Him in his journey across the night sky, and then detoured through some nobleman's kitchens, to snatch maize and peppers from a passing slave. After that, I headed back to the other side of the palace.

It stood wreathed in darkness, a counterpart to Tizoc-tzin's chambers. The plaintive music of a bone flute wafted from above, like an offering to the Heavens, an unceasing prayer for our continued existence.

The platform was deserted, and so were the chambers behind the entrance-curtain, the only smell that of old incense congealing in the burners. No one stopped me as I stepped through the remnants of a feast, my feet crunching on crumbs of fried food, and torn reed-mats.

The She-Snake sat in the central courtyard, on a coarse reed mat, listening to the music. He dressed in unrelieved black once more, his face a clearer patch in the shadows, his eyes closed, his hands unclenched in his lap.

The clatter of my sandals on the stone floor made him look up. The music quivered, and then stopped as the slave threw a glance at the She-Snake, who nodded, gravely, as if my entrance were nothing more than a minor inconvenience.

"My Lord…" I said.

He shook his head. "No need to apologise, Acatl. It's a beautiful night for an interview, isn't it?"

Overhead were the stars, unclouded, the blinking eyes of monsters, the elbows and joints of they who would tear the world apart. Overhead was the Moon, the incarnation of a vengeful, angry goddess who stirred in Her underground prison.

"I don't think so," I said.

"A pity." The She-Snake nodded, gravely. "Leave us, will you?" he asked the slave, who bowed in return, and left us alone in the courtyard.

The She-Snake did not move, sitting tall and straight on his mat, as regal as if he had been Revered Speaker himself, waiting for me to speak up. The air was cold and crisp, like the breath of the lake at dawn.

"I come because I have no choice," I said, finally. "I have questions–"

He raised a hand, not unkindly. "Priests always have questions, Acatl. Whatever god you serve, you seek and hoard knowledge like jade or turquoise."

It sounded half like a reproach, but I did not rise to the bait. There was too much at stake. "You haven't been exactly enthusiastic about helping me before," I said.

The She-Snake raised an eyebrow. "I am a busy man, but not an impolite one. You can't hope to come to me with any petty requests you might have, and to have me jump up to see that your needs are met."

The words came fast and smooth, with barely any pause in his breath. I couldn't believe any of them. He was too much at ease, as if he had been expecting this conversation all along. "I see. And now that I'm here…"

"I have time," the She-Snake said. He looked up, at the night sky. "Thanks to your trick with the Duality, we have plenty of time left."

"It wasn't a trick."

"Ask Quenami." The She-Snake's face was expressionless, but he sounded amused. "I very much doubt it's on his list of authorised behaviours, even in the absence of a Revered Speaker."

"Quenami is a fool," I said.

The She-Snake nodded gravely. "We can agree on that, if nothing else. Was that the only question you had, Acatl?"

He made me feel like a child, caught in something much larger than myself – like a fish on the ground, twitching and gasping while land creatures ran effortlessly. "Tell me about Tizoc-tzin," I said.

He watched me, for a while. "I could tell you many things about Tizoc. What is it you want to know, exactly?"

"I don't want to influence you."

He laughed; a small, joyless bark. "Believe me, nothing you say will influence me one way or the other. Am I not the supreme judge of Tenochtitlan?"

I knew that; and I also knew what Axayacatl-tzin had told me, that I could not trust him under any circumstances. But did I have any choice? My little "trick" with the Duality, as he called it, would only hold for a time, and I wasn't sure Tizoc-tzin could do as he wanted and call an election here and now. The council had sounded much too preoccupied with their own lives, as if they already knew that whoever was elected Revered Speaker wouldn't be able to protect them. "Tell me. Does Tizoc-tzin have the Southern Hummingbird's favour?"

The She-Snake looked at me for a while. It didn't look as though he had anticipated that particular question. "Probably not," he said. "Are you wondering whether he would be able to channel Huitzilpochtli's powers into the Fifth World?"

If I went ahead, if I spoke my mind on this, then I would move from healthy scepticism into outright treason. "Yes," I said.

The She-Snake did not speak for a while. "I don't know. Quenami would be better placed to answer that question than I. Tizoc is older than Axayacatl was, and he was never the greatest of warriors, or the most fervent of believers in the Southern Hummingbird's might."

"I–" I said. I kept expecting something to happen, guards to burst out, macuahitl swords at the ready, to arrest me for sedition.

As if guessing my thoughts, the She-Snake smiled. "There is only darkness to hear us, Acatl. I don't think you're worrying about the right thing here."

"The preservation of the Fifth World?"

"Quenami is selfish and arrogant, but no fool. He wouldn't back a candidate if he didn't have some plan for making sure of his own safety. He'll know some ritual, or some other trick to make sure that the star-demons remain where they are."

"But it's not–" It wasn't meant to go that way. He was not supposed to cheat. "It's not a game. You can't fix the rules as you please."

"Tizoc wants his due," the She-Snake said. "He's waited most of his adult life for the Tturquoise-and-Gold Crown, ever since he was passed over in favour of Axayacatl. He was promised this by his own brother."

And he was acting like a child denied a toy. Manatzpa was right; he did not have the stature to become Revered Speaker. I took a deep breath, and spoke the greater of two treasons. "The councilmen's deaths…"

If he had nodded, I wouldn't have believed him. But he merely looked troubled, as if I had raised a disturbing possibility he hadn't considered. "I don't know," he said. "But I wouldn't be surprised."

I couldn't trust him, I couldn't. He was a consummate actor; he was playing me for a fool.

The She-Snake must have seen some of the hesitation on my face, for he said, "You don't believe me. I hadn't expected you to. It's one thing to know Tizoc-tzin for a conceited, self-aggrandising fool, and another to know his true nature."

"Someone told me he wouldn't dare use magic," I said, but I couldn't remember who had said this to me.

"Even if that were true, his allies have no such scruples. But Tizoc himself would do anything to wear the Turquoise-and-Gold crown. Anything."

Such as summon star-demons himself, and throw the council into a panic so that he could emerge as their saviour? Surely he would not.

"I don't believe you," I said. "You're the only other serious candidate, with the council in disarray and Xahuia in flight. If you're so sure Tizoc-tzin is going to win, why don't you throw your support behind him?"

His lips curled up a fraction. "A matter of principles, I guess you would say."

I didn't believe he had any, but some scrap of self-preservation stopped the words before I could utter them. "Then what are you doing?"

"Swaying the people that matter. Talking to you." He appeared amused, as if at some secret joke. "I will show you something, if you will come with me."

"What?" I asked. "Where?"

"I can't tell you until we are there."

"Then why–"

"Afraid?" He raised an eyebrow again. "Come, Acatl. I have no interest in your death."

I didn't think he would dare, to be honest. A High Priest who vanished after visiting him… It wouldn't be in his favour, no matter how he could disguise it.

I looked at him, and saw nothing in his grey eyes. His face was relaxed and open like a spread-out codex, his skin the colour of polished copper, his traits as inhuman as those of a god. In that moment he looked like the carved images of his father Tlacaelel-tzin, the man who had taken us and turned us from a rabble of uncivilised warriors into a great civilisation.

"I know you won't trust any oath I make by the gods," the SheSnake said. "But if you want to send a messenger to your temple and warn them that you're going with me, please do so. I don't intend to make you disappear."

Nevertheless… Nevertheless, accidents could happen, and he was canny enough; and he had his own goals. Axayacatl-tzin's warning still echoed in my head. What need was there to take risks? I was already doing enough accepting Nezahual-tzin's help, why did I need to further abase myself?

But I couldn't shake the memory of the star-demon's taint on Tizoc-tzin, and the way his fear seemed to have eaten him, not only fear for his life, but the annoyance of someone denied a treasure in his grasp.

"I'll send that messenger," I said.

The She-Snake sent for two spiders – not the small harmless ones in our houses, but the ones found in the southern jungles – hairy and twice as big as my open hand. He took them as if they were pets, stroking them gently in a way that made me distinctly uncomfortable. For all that they were Lord Death's animals, connected to darkness and the end of all things, it was no reason to favour them so much.

"I'm not sure I understand," I said, watching him cut into his earlobes to draw a circle on the ground.

He smiled. "We're not invited where I'm taking you, Acatl. Better make sure we're not seen."

"You know a spell of invisibility?" I asked. I had never heard of one. I'd been told by Lord Death that it would cost Him too much power, but I had always wondered whether there wasn't a deeper, more selfish reason for this. Such a spell would have removed the wearer from the sight of all creatures, including the gods and Their agents. And I would imagine the gods wouldn't want to have mortals blundering around where They couldn't see them.

"In a manner of speaking," the She-Snake said. "Come in the centre, will you?" The blood on the ground was already shimmering, as if reflecting the light of the stars above.

Axayacatl-tzin's warning echoed once more in my head, but I silenced it.

He sacrificed both spiders in a swift, professional way. Of course, he was the She-Snake, and would have taken the lead in the major sacrifices while the Revered Speaker was away on the battlefield. Their blood was not red, but rather an amber ichor that coated his hands like glue, dull and dark, as if it were eating the starlight.

However, when he started his hymn, it was to a goddess I had never heard of.

"In darkness You dwell

In darkness You thrive

You of the shell skirt,  You of the star skirt…"

Smoke spread inside the circle, rising from the She-Snake's hands – warm and smelling of herbs, a pungent odour that reminded me of something infinitely familiar, and yet that I could not place. What goddess was this? It almost sounded like Itzpapalotl, the large star-demon who had consumed Manatzpa's soul before disappearing under the Great Temple. But it couldn't be. It couldn't possibly be.

"You of the large teeth, You of the shrivelled mouth

Darkness Your inheritance, darkness Your kingdom

Darkness that hides

Darkness that smothers."

The smoke thinned, flowing out, but it remained on the edges of my vision. I tried shaking my head, but it was as if it had become stuck to my cornea. Its tendrils shifted on the edges of my vision, and never left no matter what I looked at. Magic crept along the nape of my neck, cold and unforgiving, almost like underworld magic, but without its comforting familiarity. It wasn't the resigned acceptance of a god who took whatever dead souls were left to Him, but the endless hunger of something that lived between the stars, something that had been there since the start, and would be there in the end, that would see the night swallow us all, our hymns and our poems, our flowers and our songs, our fires and our blood-offerings, and make us all as nothing.

What goddess had the She-Snake called upon?

"Come," the She-Snake said, bending his head with a smile. His grey eyes had become bottomless pits in the darkness, a window into the deepest cold, the one that had settled across the world before the Fifth Sun had risen.

I followed because I no longer had any choice; but my fingers clenched around the obsidian knife at my belt, feeling the arc of Lord Death's power, a reassurance that I wasn't alone, come what may.

We walked through the palace, and it was as if we had become ghosts. No one, not a single slave, not a single servant or nobleman turned to look at us. It seemed to me, too, that we were moving faster than we should have been. We passed the House of Animals in what seemed barely a heartbeat, and were in the other half of the palace, the one belonging to the Revered Speaker, before I could even accustom myself to this strange magic.

The She-Snake was already walking ahead, into a courtyard I would have recognised anywhere – Tizoc-tzin's.

Like the previous time, it was deserted and silent; but this time the palpable smell of neglect became something else, a thin veneer over decay and rot and fear. As I climbed the stairs in the SheSnake's wake, I saw traces of blood clinging like black splotches to the limestone, and the smoke spread to wreathe the whole building, making it seem pallid and distant.

Inside, the same silence, the same smell. The She-Snake crossed between the pillars, hardly looking up to avoid them. He stopped at the back of the room, by a window overlooking the tropical garden. To the left was an entrance-curtain, the bells tinkling out a muted lament.

"Here."

"I don't see–" I started.

"Go inside," the She-Snake said, bowing his head. "And ask me any questions you might have, afterwards."

I threw him a suspicious glance. But if he wanted to kill me this was a singularly complicated way to go about it. Suppressing a sigh, I lifted the entrance-curtain. It slid between my fingers like raindrops; I hissed in surprise, but then took the smarter approach, and merely pushed through it. It was like walking through a waterfall, a little resistance, like the crossing of a veil, and then nothing more.

Inside, the room should have been a riot of colours. Vivid frescoes, and luxuries such as feather-fans and bronze braziers lay piled on reed mats; but they were muted by the smoke, highlighting the impermanence of such a gluttonous display of wealth.

Tizoc-tzin sat on a reed mat in the further corner; and the silhouette by his side, with the blue feather head-dress, could only be Quenami. He wasn't a particularly tall man, but even seated he seemed to tower over the hunched figure of Tizoc-tzin.

I dared not creep too close to their whispered conversation – Quenami, for all his bluster, was High Priest, and might have a way of seeing me – but the smoke was making it difficult for me to hear: it cut their words into four hundred meaningless pieces, carried away by the cold wind between the stars.

"…crown… mine…"

"…Lord of Men… sacrifice… regrettable deaths, but necessary…"

"…that they would dare disobey…"

Carefully, I walked closer. Quenami stiffened. I stopped, my heart hammering against my throat, but he relaxed again, and bent closer to Tizoc-tzin.

Southern Hummingbird blind me, why did he always find a way to thwart me?

Closer… The smoke whirled around me; the world shifted and blurred, a prelude to being torn apart.

"You worry too much, my lord," Quenami was saying, smooth and smiling. I was close enough to see the paint on his face, the jade, obsidian and carmine rings on his fingers, made almost colourless by the smoke.

Tizoc-tzin shivered, and did not answer. He was staring at a cup of hot chocolate; the bitter, spicy smell wafted up to me, not pungent but oddly muted, as if the smoke plugged my nose.

Quenami went on, "Everything is going according to plan."

I didn't like the idea that those two had a plan. "You call this –" Tizoc-tzin's voice was a hiss – according to plan? No wonder priests are such appalling strategists."

Quenami's face went as smooth as carved jade. "You're tired, my lord."

Tizoc-tzin looked up sharply. For a heartbeat I thought he was looking straight at me, but he was merely staring at Quenami, his face tense. "Yes," he said, thoughtfully. "You're right. I grow weary of this nightmare, Quenami." He lifted his cup of chocolate: the bitter smell wafted up stronger, as unpleasant as a corpse left alone for too long. I shook my head to clear the smell; the tendrils moved across Quenami's arms and hands in an unsettling effect. And as the smoke shifted, so did their voices, receding into the background.

"…over soon…" Quenami was saying. "Tomorrow… opposition removed quite effectively…"

What was happening tomorrow? What opposition? I needed to know. I bent further, and all but lost my balance as Quenami shifted positions. My hand passed a finger's breadth away from his head. He stopped, then, looked around him suspiciously. One of his hands drifted downwards, to pick an obsidian knife from his belt.

Time to go. I didn't know whether his spell would be effective, but I had no intention of finding out.

When I came out, the She-Snake was waiting for me, sitting on his haunches on the platform, watching darkness flow across the courtyard, as if it were the most natural thing in the Fifth World.

I said, slowly, "It can't be true. He wouldn't dare–" Do what, exactly? I hadn't heard much, but the little Quenami had said had made it clear those two were no longer playing by any rules I might have known. "It's some trick of your spell."

"No tricks," the She-Snake said. "Do you think me capable of inventing something that complicated? I'm a much more straightforward man than you take me for, Acatl."

"It's not what Axayacatl-tzin thought," I blurted out.

"He had his own opinions; and he had lived for too long in my father's shadow."

"Fine," I said. But I couldn't trust him. I couldn't possibly face the enormity of what he had shown me. "Then tell me Whose protection we are under, tonight."

"Do you not know?" the She-Snake said. "Ilamantecuhtli."

"The Old Woman, She who Rules?" I asked. The title meant nothing to me.

"Another aspect of Cihuacoatl, the She-Snake." He smiled when he saw my face. "Did you think my title was purely honorific? I serve a goddess, as much as the Revered Speaker serves Huitzilpochtli."

"The goddess of–"

He smiled again. "There is a temple, in the Sacred Precinct, the walls of which are painted black. Its entrance is a small hole, and no incense or sacrifices ever trouble the quietude. Inside are all the vanquished gods, the protectors of the cities we conquered, kept smothered in the primal night. The name of that temple is Tlillan."

Darkness. "And you–"

He looked at me, and his eyes were bottomless chasms. "In the beginning was darkness, and in the end, too. She is the space between the stars, the shield that keeps us safe."

"And She is on our side?"

"As much as a goddess can take sides."

"Why would she be?"

"I told you. She is darkness, anathema to all light. She holds our enemies to Her withered bosom." The She-Snake rose, staring into the sky above.

"Huitzilpochtli is light," I said. The only light, the one that kept the Fifth World safe and warm, the earth fertile and the rain amenable.

"Every great light must cast a great shadow. And every shadow knows it cannot exist, without that light."

"I still can't–"

"It was not illusion." His voice was grave. "Think on it, Acatl, think on what you have seen. Think on what and whom you believe in."

I didn't know, not anymore.

FIFTEEN

A Prayer to Quetzalcoatl

I walked back to my house in much the same state as a base drunkard, one foot in front of the other, scarcely able to focus on where I was going. The tendrils of smoke were slowly dissipating, taking with them the coldness at the back of my neck. But the memory remained, of the She-Snake's face, pale against the darkness he had summoned, of Tizoc-tzin, hunched and frightened, of Quenami, plotting the gods knew what magic to dispatch his opponents.

Inside my house I all but collapsed on the reed mat. My sleep was dark and restless; I woke up several times, gasping for air, my eyes hunting vainly for any light that would dissipate the shadows gathering at the edge of my field of view, and fell back again into darkness, oblivion swallowing me whole.

When I woke up for good, the grey light before dawn suffused the room, and the long, pale shadows seemed too distorted and unreal to be much of a threat. I sat cross-legged on my sleeping mat, breathing deeply, until my heart stopped beating like a sacrificial drum within my chest.

"Think on what you have seen, Acatl. Think on what and whom you believe in."

The Southern Hummingbird blind me, this looked to be the worst in a series of bad days.

I made my offerings of blood to the Fifth Sun and to my patron Mictlantecuhtli, then strode into the courtyard, determined to find Nezahual-tzin, locate Xahuia and put an end to the whole sordid business before the council started to vote.

However, I had not expected Quenami, who, by the looks of him, had been sitting under the pine tree in my courtyard for a while. "Ah, Acatl," he said. "We need to talk."

I raised an eyebrow. "That sounds ominous."

Quenami shook his head, annoyed. "Between high priests, that is." As usual, he made me want to hit something.

"Have you decided to play your part in the order of the Fifth World, then?" I asked, unable to restrain myself. "That would be novel indeed."

"Oh, Acatl." Quenami shook his head, a little sadly. "Such lack of tact. You are so unsuited for the Court. "

"Perhaps," I said. "But I don't intend to shy away from my responsibilities."

"I'm glad," Quenami said.

He seemed a little too eager, a little too easily contemptuous? Something seemed to have changed in him, as in Tizoc-tzin. Perhaps Teomitl was right; perhaps they had pushed back a star-demon, and were waiting for its inevitable return.

Still, they were both planning something. Something large and spectacular, and unpleasant, and I didn't know what.

"What do you want, Quenami?" I asked. The time for subtlety was past, if there had ever been one.

"Merely to know how your investigation was progressing." He smiled again a little too broadly. "And if there was any help I could offer you."

"I don't think so."

"You'd reject a held-out hand?" He frowned. I felt as if he were playing his part not for my benefit, but for that of some other observer, as if he was doing this only so he could say he had gone through the proper procedures.

"I have enough allies combing the palace and the city." Not effectively or with tangible results, but he didn't need to know that.

"I see." His eyes were dark, narrowed slits. "I see. You are… peculiar, Acatl."

"I'm flattered," I said dryly.

He went on, oblivious, "Alone at Court, you stand for the Fifth World, for the continued balance that keeps us whole. Most people are not so self-effacing."

My hands had started to clench into fists; I controlled them with an effort. Compliments had never been Quenami's strength, if he was being so lavish, he wanted something from me.

But I couldn't see what.

"You're unwavering. Dutiful, a loyal servant of the Fifth World."

"I'm sure you have better things to do than sing my praises," I said.

He shook his head. "Don't be so modest. Things are changing at Court, Acatl, and we need people like you at the centre, who will hold to their convictions no matter what. Loyal servants of the Mexica Empire."

There it was, the true sting. "Loyal," I said flatly.

"Aren't you?"

"Of course I am." I said, carefully detaching every word, "I served the previous Revered Speaker, and I will serve the new one, when he is elected. But I won't play in your power-games, Quenami."

"No." He sounded almost regretful. "You're much too wise for that. But you'll continue your investigation, won't you?"

"Someone," I said, barely keeping the irritation from my voice, "is summoning star-demons. I don't intend to sit still while they do." No matter what Tizoc-tzin or Quenami said.

"I see." Why did he look so pleased all of a sudden?

I decided to hit him where it hurt. "What does tar mean to you, Quenami?"

It was a spear thrown in the dark, but somehow it connected. I saw his face tighten, as if at some deeply unpleasant memory. "Nothing," he said, and that was the worst lie I'd heard him utter. "I have no idea what you're talking about."

Oh, but he had, and we both knew it. "Tar protects against water," I said, aloud. "It's connected with boats and sacrifices." His face, which had begun to relax, tightened again at the mention of sacrifice. Sadly, it wasn't exactly surprising. Palli had already told me that someone had died in Axayacatl's room. "A councilman went missing," I went on, slowly. "Pezotic. I'm starting to wonder if he's alive at all, Quenami."

His face shifted again. How I wished I could read his expressions, but he had a tight control on them. "What wild tales you spin, Acatl."

It was clear I wouldn't get anything else out of him; not without more evidence. "Why are you here, Quenami?"

He smiled again, about as convincingly as a star-demon. "I told you, Acatl. To offer to assist you."

As if I'd believe him. "Well, I should think I've made my position clear."

Quenami watched me for a while. I got the feeling he was trying to decide how best to handle me. "Yes," he said, finally. "You have made that perfectly clear."

I was saved from thinking up a reply by Teomitl, who entered the courtyard with the brisk step of a warrior on his way to the battlefield. "Acatl-tzin!"

"Ah, I see your student is here. Don't let me stand in the way of your imparting of knowledge," Quenami said. He bowed to Teomitl, much too little to be sincere. Teomitl's eyes narrowed, but he actually managed to retain his self-control, a fact for which I was eternally grateful.

He waited until Quenami was out of the courtyard to speak, though. "I didn't know you were on speaking terms with him."

"I'm not," I said, curtly.

"Then why is he here?"

"That's the problem." Why had he come here? I thought back to the way he'd acted, much too friendly, much too smooth, in a way that even I could see. Either he thought me not worth deceiving anyway, or he was truly in a panic, unable to master himself. "Has anything happened at the palace?"

"Yes," Teomitl said. "But I'm not sure he would know."

"What?" I asked.

He did not answer at once, he was too busy staring at Quenami's retreating back. "Teomitl!" The Duality curse me, was everyone turning into copies of Nezahual-tzin?

"Tizoc-tzin gathered the remaining members of the council yesterday. They're going to vote in two days."

I looked up, into the clear sky. The stars were pinpoints, barely visible unless one knew that they were here. Two days, eh? And three or four more, for the ritual of coronation to take place. Perhaps we had a chance. Perhaps we could stand until then.

My mind came back to Quenami, and to more mundane matters. "He knows about the vote, no question." I thought again on what he had asked me. "He wanted to make sure where I stood."

"And?" Teomitl asked.

"I told him that I would stand by whoever was elected Revered Speaker." As I said this, I thought of the scene I'd seen the previous night. If my worst suspicions were right, then I had just made it clear to Quenami that I was a liability, a man they needed to neutralise, and fast. "We need to go back to the palace."

"Of course," Teomitl said.

"And to see Nezahual-tzin."

Teomitl's face froze. "That's a bad idea, Acatl-tzin."

"He made me an offer I couldn't refuse," I said. I explained, as best as I could, during the time it took us to cross the Sacred Precinct. It was early morning, and the crowds were there as usual, carrying offerings and worship thorns and leading sacrifices to the pyramid temples as if nothing were wrong. I caught sight of a woman with an embroidered cotton skirt who looked up at the Great Temple, her face frozen in cautious hope. Her earlobes were bloody, and she was whispering the words of a prayer.

As I expected, Teomitl's first reaction to my story was hardly enthusiasm. "I see. And you believed him?"

"I think he's honest." I was suddenly glad I hadn't had time to get into the details of my meeting with the She-Snake. "As long as it suits him to be, of course."

"I'm not surprised," Teomitl said. "He thinks too much of himself, that one."

"You seem to have developed a liking for him," I said, dryly.

"I've seen enough."

"From one meeting?"

"You forget," Teomitl said. "He was here, for a while."

They were much the same age; but somehow, it had never occurred to me that they could have met. From Teomitl's sombre tone, it must have been more than that. "You were still a child when he left Tenochtitlan, and so was he. People change."

Teomitl shook his head. "I doubt he has."

Clearly I wasn't going to be able to make him change his mind, and I didn't feel like arguing at this juncture. What I needed to do was understand who was doing what in this palace – and fast, before I stopped being able to work out things at all.

One of Nezahual-tzin's men met us at the entrance of the palace, by the red-painted columns, and directed us, not towards the boyemperor's chambers, but to the sweatbaths.

We found Nezahual there in one of the bigger baths, seated on one of the low stone benches. Three attendants stood by his side. The firebox at his feet was already warm, and the feathers of his headdress drooped in the growing heat. His face was mottled, a dark shadow against the vapour, and his arms and legs bore the wheals of the rushes and of the blades of cutting grass the attendants had struck him with: thin raised welts, with blood barely pearling up through the broken skin.

His eyes were closed, and he didn't move when we came in. "Ah, Acatl."

"Impressive," I said. He was deep into his meditation, his eyes still closed; but obviously he saw on another plane than the Fifth World.

"A trick, as the She-Snake would call them." His voice was deprecating. "I see the pup is with you."

I didn't have to turn round to guess Teomitl's hands would have clenched. "Let's try to be civil here," I said, ignoring the fact that I was talking to one Revered Speaker and a man who could very well become one in the future. "As you said, the Fifth World is at stake. Whatever quarrels you have can wait."

Teomitl glowered at Nezahual-tzin, but he said nothing.

"I'm surprised to find you here," I said. "Sweatbaths don't belong to Quetzalcoatl." Several gods and goddesses took an interest in those places of purifications, not least among Whom was Tezcatlipoca, the Smoking Mirror, Quetzalcoatl's eternal enemy.

Nezahual-tzin smiled. The vapour swirled around him, coalesced into the shape of a huge serpent, so much clearer than the one I'd seen in his rooms that I could count every feather, every jewelled scale on the huge body wrapped around the boy-emperor. "Enemy territory is where you prove yourself, where you're most sharply defined against what you're not, what you'll never be."

"Interesting," I said. "Nezahual-tzin, there is something I need to ask you about Tizoc–"

He shook his head. "After the ritual. It can wait."

I wasn't sure it could.

"We're not here to talk." Nezahual-tzin leant back against the wall of the sweatbath. The serpent leant with him, growing larger and larger, its outline sinking into the wall, gaining colour and texture until it seemed a living fresco.

"Into the place of the fleshless, away from the abode of life

You came, You descended

Into the region of mystery

For the precious bones, for men to inhabit the earth…"

The serpent was growing larger; the world was receding, fading into insignificance, the city a child's map, spread on the ground far, far below us, the Fifth Sun so close we might touch it.

"You came, You ascended

Into the gardens of the gods, into the place of the Duality

You came, You made them whole

The broken bones, made whole through Your penance…"

Abruptly, everything faded out and I came to in the vapourfilled room, the unpleasant prickle of an obsidian blade against my back.

The attendants had retreated, Nezahual-tzin had risen, regal and wrathful. "What is the meaning of this?"

"You can't possibly–" Teomitl said.

I turned, slowly. Three warriors stood with their macuahitl swords pointed at me; and Quenami was with them, smiling from ear to ear. "I don't understand," I said, though I did perfectly. My time had just run out. "Teomitl is right. You have no authority."

"Oh, I don't do this on my authority," Quenami said. He smiled even more widely. I hadn't thought that was possible, but the son of a dog managed it. "Tizoc-tzin is the one who gave the order."

"On what motive?" I asked.

Quenami jerked his chin in Nezahual-tzin's direction. "Conspiracy with foreigners against the good of the Mexica Empire should do, for the moment."

Meaning there was another reason, and that, given enough time, he'd find a way to present it before the judges, whoever they might be. "I see." I threw a glance at my two companions who now stood apart, as if to make it clear they'd have nothing to do with each other. It might have been amusing in other circumstances.

Teomitl was working himself up to a speech; I silenced him with a brief shake of my head, and hoped to the gods he'd have the wits to remain silent. It was highly doubtful anyone would arrest Nezahual-tzin, who was Revered Speaker of an allied city, but Teomitl did not have such protections. I didn't think Tizoc-tzin would want any harm to come to him, not unless the fool spoke up for me.

Luck must have been with me, for Teomitl remained silent, his eyes wide in his dark face, as if not quite sure what had happened.

"Oh, don't look so glum, Acatl," Quenami said as the guards took me away from the sweatbath. "We should have a new Revered Speaker to decide your fate."

Oh yes. And we both knew what he would be, and what he would decide.

SIXTEEN

In Enemy Territory

The cell was small, a square of beaten earth surrounded by four adobe walls, with barely enough space for me to lie down, and a mangy reed mat as its only furniture.

But still, as far as cells went, it was comfortable. A year ago my brother Neutemoc, a respected Jaguar Knight, had awaited his judgement in a wooden cage on the platform before the palace, out in the midday sun. At least I was in the shade, and they had even given me a few maize flatbreads.

The ground under my feet was slightly warm, impregnated with a magic I wasn't quite sure where to place, faint and distant, like the echo of something vast.

The first thing I tried after they'd drawn the entrance-curtain closed was to cast a spell. The remnants of that were still on the ground, my blood a duller shade than the earth, stubbornly refusing to quicken. It was as if something were blocking me – perhaps the other high priests? I hadn't imagined they had that much power.

With nothing much to do, I sat against the wall furthest from the entrance, watching the quincunx I'd drawn on the ground recede further into the shadows as the blood sank into the earth.

Everything seemed to grow fainter as time passed. Emptiness crawled across my limbs – a terrible sensation of dislocation like a maize stalk uprooted from the field. I tried moving my fingers, and it was as if my body no longer knew how to answer.

The flatbreads. Was that the same poison that had killed Ceyaxochitl? But no, I was a paranoid fool. Manatzpa had admitted to that, the only thing he had turned out to be responsible for, in the long string of magical offences that had brought me here.

But still…

Still, I felt as if I was rising in and out of consciousness – sleeping a restless sleep, waking up gasping and no longer quite sure of where I was, as if whatever they had put in here was eating at me, gnawing at my spirit little by little.

With faltering hands, I reached for my obsidian knife, hoping for the comfort of Lord Death's power arcing through me, the aching, stretched emptiness that was my province, but they had taken that away from me, too.

The Duality curse me, I needed to focus. I couldn't let it end like this, not with the star-demons the gods knew where, not with Teomitl still vulnerable against the intrigues of his brother. I needed to–

My hand fell back on the ground, limp, and somehow I couldn't muster the strength to lift it again. Shadows flickered at the edge of my vision, like the smoke of the She-Snake's ritual, slowly spreading to cover the world.

There is a temple, in the Sacred Precinct, the walls of which are painted black…

I needed to get up, I needed to…

The name of that temple is Tlillan. Darkness.

Just one moment. A moment's rest, that was all that I needed, a moment with my eyes closed, thinking of nothing but the bare walls, a moment here on the earth, warmed up by its touch. I needed…

The entrance-curtain was drawn aside with a jarring sound. I knew that sound, I thought, but it seemed too far away to be recovered, too much of a struggle to retrieve; like lifting my hands, like clenching my fingers. Like…

Footsteps echoed on the beaten earth, and a dark silhouette came to stand over me, its features moving in and out of focus in the shadows.

"Well, aren't you a sight. Pathetic, Acatl."

Acamapichtli? I'd expected Quenami with more accusations, or promises of what punishments Tizoc-tzin would push for; but why Acamapichtli? He hadn't even been in the palace recently. He was in disgrace, according to the She-Snake. Why?

Dimly, as if from a great distance, I saw him bend over me. Something glinted in the darkness, coming to rest by my side and gradually, as the fog across my vision lifted, I made out its shape – a polished jaguar fang, carved with images of seashells and frogs, shimmering with the blue-green magic of Tlaloc the Storm Lord. A slim piece of paper wrapped around it, steeped in a dark, pulsing colour I knew all too well – fresh blood.

Acamapichtli had withdrawn, was once more towering above me. "I inscribed this with the blood of a human sacrifice before coming here. It won't last. But at least we'll have a more coherent conversation."

I struggled to bring my mind back from the boundaries of the Fifth World, where it seemed to have fled. "I don't understand–"

"You're a fool," Acamapichtli said. "That's all there is to say." He did not move, watching me pull myself into a more upright position. Saliva had run down my chin, staining my cloak and I tasted blood in my mouth. I must have bitten my tongue as I sank into oblivion.

"Tlaloc," I said. My thoughts seemed to be a hundred scattered shards, the pieces of a broken mirror. "Lord Death. I–" I had been stretched out, as thin as though I was deprived of sustenance – dying, perhaps? If they left me longer in here, I would come out a drooling idiot. "What is this place?"

"Finally." In the dim light, I guessed more than saw his smile, as predatory as that of his god. "No longer the Fifth World, Acatl."

A god's world. A land where both my magic, which came from Lord Death, and that of Acamapichtli, which came from the Storm Lord, were uninvited guests. "The Southern Hummingbird," I said. "This is land consecrated to Him."

"Not quite. It's His land, Acatl, a portal into a small part of His heartland. Whatever you've done, they want to make sure you remain silent, badly enough to spend so much power on your prison."

The heartland. The seven caves. Aztlan, the White Place where we had all come from, the centre of Huitzilpochtli's power. "I have done nothing," I said, still struggling to reorder my thoughts. "Yet." Too late, I remembered the snatches I'd heard in Tizoc-tzin's rooms, about removing the opposition. I should have thought a little more on who they'd consider against them.

Acamapichtli smiled again. "That's why they want you in here."

"And I suppose…" I paused, gathering my thoughts. "I suppose you're with them?" I could see no other reason for him to be back at Court so soon.

"Don't be a fool." He snorted.

"You came back…"

He shrugged, a thoughtless, arrogant gesture. "I needed some time to make myself forgotten, but it seems events are moving faster than I foresaw."

"You're out of the game," I said.

"Xahuia-tzin is out of the game," Acamapichtli said, thoughtfully. "That doesn't mean I am. But I don't have Quenami's powers, alas."

His face had the same haughty cast as when he'd told Teomitl the envoys weren't his. "That's a lie, isn't it?" Gingerly, I pulled myself upwards, careful to remain near the jaguar's fang. My head brushed against the ceiling and, up there, further away from the magic, I could feel it, the skittering at the edge of my mind, the force that wanted to erode my whole being. How could Acamapichtli stand it?

No doubt he had his own protections. No doubt he had planned for it. He was not the prisoner here.

He was still watching me. The shadows sculpted his face, made it seem as distant as that of a carved statue in the darkness of a shrine. "That's a lie, isn't it?" I repeated. "You're more than strong enough to blast us all out of the Fifth World."

"Perhaps." He bent his head sideways, as if considering me in a new light. Without a doubt, I was no longer the High Priest that he had seen in the corridors, perhaps no longer his peer. I had no doubt he'd cast me aside without a moment's doubt if I was no longer useful to him.

But still, he had come to visit me. He had spent the power of a human sacrifice to speak with me. Just to gloat? "What do you want?"

"What I've always wanted," Acamapichtli said. "The Fifth World to survive, and our new Revered Speaker to lead us to glory." He cocked his head again. "One that would remember that the Great Temple is more than the Southern Hummingbird's territory."

Finally, we were there, at the crux of the matter. "You had influence before," I said. "Before the Storm Lord tried to seize power."

"I'm not responsible for His actions." He sounded almost annoyed at that, as if he could pretend to control the will of his god.

"And you think I can help you?"

"No," Acamapichtli said. "Of course you can't, Acatl. Let's be honest here. You blunder into Court day after day, doing your best to follow intrigues you are utterly ignorant of."

"What compliments," I said. My vision had started to fade again, but I wasn't fool enough to touch one of Tlaloc's artefacts without any protection of my own. Much like Huitzilpochtli's spells, that magic was opposite to my own.

"You're admirable, in your own way." He snorted, but with much of the usual aggressiveness gone. "Choosing not to meddle in what you can't grasp. You know your own limits."

If I'd had more strength, I wasn't quite sure of what I'd have done. For all his arrogance and hasty judgments, he had a point. I had never been made for politics, or for the post of High Priest; I weathered as best as I could, did my best to rise up to the occasion. But I would never breathe it in as Quenami did, as Acamapichtli did, as all the birth-noblemen did, the ones who had watched their parents and grandparents swim in the currents of politics like children in the waters of Chalchiuhtlicue's streams and lakes. "He who remains bound by his own limits is the worst kind of prisoner," I said.

"True." Acamapichtli shifted. "But you're still a foolish man, Acatl. One does not dive into the bees' hives without knowing where the queen is."

"If that's all you have to say, I wonder why you bothered to come at all."

His lips curled up, in a smile without sincerity. "As I said, I'm not their ally. With you removed, they'll turn their attention to me. I've come to make sure you last as long as you can."

More than anything, his matter-of-fact tone chilled me. "They've decided, then?"

"They'll find a pretext," Acamapichtli said. He snorted. "They lack imagination, but it won't be hard to concoct something they can blame on you. And then the next Revered Speaker can appoint a High Priest more malleable than you are."

There were two ways to appoint a new High Priest: when the old one was demoted, or when he died. "They won't strip me of my rank," I said. It wasn't a question.

Acamapichtli said nothing. The cold at my nape could have been that of the underworld. Death held no secrets for me anymore, but sometimes, knowing was worse than being in the dark; it left no place for hope, none at all. Like all the souls I guided down into darkness, I would make my way to the throne of Lord Death, and dissolve into oblivion, everything left unfinished forever. There was no recourse. There had never been.

I took a deep breath, refusing to think about the chasm yawning at my feet. "Very well. If that's the way it's going, I'll need information."

Acamapichtli nodded, as one craftsman to another. "You'll have an audience, a closed one, with only Tizoc-tzin and perhaps a few of the faithful in attendance. They planned for you to be insensate long before this, to make it fast and short." He gestured to the fang on the ground. "This won't hold until then, but it should deflect part of the Southern Hummingbird's magic."

"I see." I sat down again, my hand straying towards the fang. The earth was warm underneath, but I wasn't fooled. Like Grandmother Earth in the Fifth World, it was nothing but hunger, and would not rest until all the blood had left my veins. "I'm surprised they let you do this."

He snorted again. "As I said, fools, the lot of them. They think I'm settling accounts with you for my disgrace."

He, too, was a much better actor than he had appeared to be at first. I had underestimated him, perhaps even more so than Quenami. Never again.

"Any defence I have wouldn't be much good, would it?" I asked.

Acamapichtli did not move for a while. "It might. I don't know. You have one chance, Acatl, and one only. The She-Snake will be part of the audience. They won't be able to do anything but include him, since they want to expedite this before the election."

The She-Snake? He was much too canny to be caught doing anything in favour of a convicted traitor. Not much of a chance. The hollow in my stomach wouldn't close.

"What about Teomitl?" I asked.

"He's not in a position to help you. Tizoc-tzin has him confined to his quarters, ostensibly for his own safety."

"And Nezahual-tzin?"

"Too smart to let himself be dragged into something like this," Acamapichtli said.

I hated to admit this, but he was right. Nezahual-tzin had known how fragile his position was all along, although ironically his offer to help find Xahuia and clear his name was the one thing that would allow Tizoc-tzin to accuse him of collusion and treason.

"I see," I said again, though all I could feel was the abyss yawning under my feet. "It's not much."

"There isn't much I can do." Acamapichtli shifted, slightly.

"Do you know anything about the murders of the councilmen?"

"Do you think this is going to help you?"

"If I have to die, then at least let it be for something I can understand."

He snorted, almost gently. "We all die in the end, Acatl. We all drift out of the Fifth World, our destination determined by the manner of our deaths. But…" He was silent, for a while. "All I know is that the council had a frightful quarrel, five days before Axayacatltzin died."

"What kind of quarrel?" And then I remembered what Echichilli and Manatzpa had told me. "Pezotic," I said. The Master on the Edge of the Water, the councilman who had been dismissed for running away. "Pezotic disappeared."

"Yes."

"What was the quarrel about?"

"I don't know." Acamapichtli shook his head in an annoyed manner. "I'm not privy to the secrets of the gods. I never was. But I've heard they were threatened – badly enough to fear for their lives. They'd turned into pitiful wrecks, all of them."

It made me feel as though I had crossed a great lake, only to see mountains ahead of me. "You're right. It's not much help."

"Believe me. If I had any idea what they were up to in truth, I would make sure everyone else knew."

"I have no doubt you would."

Acamapichtli's lips curled up a fraction. "Good. So long as we understand each other. Any other questions, Acatl?" He'd started to move out of the cell, back towards the entrance-curtain.

I couldn't think of any. He went out, leaving me in darkness with not a flicker of light to be seen.

I must have slept again, watching the jaguar fang by my side. I came to with my hand wrapped around it, and a stinging pain in my palm, a trace of the Storm Lord's power engraved into my skin. My mind skittered, refused to hold on to anything.

He had said…

Acamapichtli had said that the audience would be soon, that they wanted this done with before it was too late. That they–

Images drifted across my field of vision, faded into darkness again. The smoky, wavering outline of the entrance-curtain – a faint light I could barely make out – sank further and further out of sight as time passed. I had no way of knowing if it was still day outside or if it was night, and I had missed my devotions.

I made them, regardless, in the encroaching darkness, spilled blood that had no potency, whispered prayers the Fifth Sun or Lord Death might never hear. It was what I had always done.

When they came for me I jerked out of a dreamless sleep to find a Jaguar Knight bending over me, his face framed between the jaws of his animal-shaped helmet. For a brief, timeless moment, he seemed like my brother Neutemoc, but then I saw they had nothing in common.

He hauled me to my feet without ceremony and out into a corridor and a succession of courtyards. Outside, the Fifth Sun's light hurt my eyes and a hundred spots flickered at the edge of my vision like star-demons streaming down. I caught a vague glimpse of noblemen, clustering in a sea of gold and turquoise ornaments, of palace slaves in their wooden collars, of warriors in feather regalia. Banners flashed across my field of vision, a riot of bright colours all merging into one.

I kept my hands clenched, focused on the prayers I had learnt as a novice priest in the calmecac school, and repeated day after day at dawn and at sunset, the prayers that kept the world whole.

"As grass becomes green in spring

Our hearts open and give forth buds

And then they wither

This is the truth

Down into darkness we must go…"

Over and over, a familiar litany washing over my broken thoughts, the words I knew by heart, the words that defined me. I thought of Nezahual-tzin, doing his ritual in the sweatbath, under the gaze of the Smoking Mirror, his god's eternal adversary.

"Enemy territory is where you prove yourself – where you're most sharply defined against what you're not, what you'll never be".

Time to see if he was right.

The light flickered, and my captor flung me to the ground. My knees connected with something hard, and the rest of my body followed. I barely had the time to bring up my hands to stop my fall. Pain shot up my wrists, an agony I silently pledged to Lord Death.

Slowly, like a hurt animal, I pulled my hands back, lifted my head to look at my surroundings.

More riots of colours – frescoes against the wall, the painted gods and goddesses wavering as if in a great heat, feather fans negligently propped against the pillars, carvings, rearing into sudden focus and just as suddenly vanishing into blurriness.

Close my eyes… I had never wanted so much to close my eyes, but I couldn't. I needed to see… I needed to…

"We convene here today for the trial of Acatl, High Priest for the Dead. The charge is treason."

Quenami. He stood somewhere to my left and ahead of me. I blinked, struggling to bring the world into focus. I could feel saliva drip down the side of my mouth again. I must have looked like an imbecile. Good. I needed them to underestimate me, even though I wasn't entirely sure what I would gain by it.

Ahead was a dais I recognised from another lifetime. This time it held two people. The one to my left, decked in emerald-green, had to be Tizoc-tzin, and the patch of black, placed slightly lower than Tizoc-tzin, could only be the She-Snake.

"I've read the charges," the She-Snake said. "I'm not quite sure what to make of them." The volume of his voice wouldn't remain steady, it kept hovering between a whisper and a shout. The Duality take me, why couldn't I focus on anything useful?

"I don't see what there is to add," Quenami said. "First Xahuia, and then Nezahual-tzin. There is a definite pattern."

"I admit to not knowing him as well as you do." I couldn't make out the tone of the She-Snake's voice. "But, nevertheless, I'm surprised. His record is impeccable."

"Biding his time," Tizoc-tzin said, sharply.

"Until Axayacatl died?"

"Until such time as he could damage us most," Tizoc-tzin said. "You have seen him worming his way into the court, weaving his webs like a spider for a few years now. First the appointment, then the taking on of my brother as a student, and finally, his sister…"

Mihmatini. I had to do something, I had to… My mouth wouldn't move. The Southern Hummingbird blind Acamapichtli, couldn't he have carved a stronger talisman?

"Much of that seems irrelevant, if not outright defamatory." The She-Snake's voice was mild, but I felt Quenami recoil. "And I don't see the point of this farce, Tizoc. It's also quite obvious he can't speak. I'll remind you that pain is an offering to the gods, not a means to silence people or interrogate them."

"I… " I managed through parched lips. I clenched my hands, felt my skin ache where Acamapichtli's jaguar fang had seared it. "I… can… speak." Every word was a burning stone, charring my windpipe and my lips as it came out.

"Quenami–" Tizoc-tzin snapped.

"It wasn't meant to happen," Quenami said. "I made sure–"

"Of what?" The She-Snake asked, but did not wait for an answer. "What do you have to answer the charges against you, Acatl?"

I had to focus. There had been a quarrel and the council had split, five days before Axayacatl-tzin's death. On the following day, Manatzpa-tzin had gone to a priest of Quetzalcoatl the Feathered Serpent, to buy the Breath of the Precious Twin. "They're hiding something," I said, slowly, carefully.

"You do not have the right to speak!" Tizoc-tzin all but screamed.

"Perhaps they are," the She-Snake said. His face swam into focus, grave and concerned. I could no longer be sure if it was an act or not. "But that has nothing to do with the accusations against you."

"They… they're trying to silence me," I said. "Because I know… you did something to the council, didn't you, Tizoc-tzin? Did whatever it took to be sure you'd be named Revered Speaker, even if you had to sacrifice them one by one."

"That's a lie," Tizoc-tzin said, but I heard the panic in his voice, and the She-Snake must have as well.

"I was the one who ordered Xahuia arrested," I said. I tried to stand, but my muscles wouldn't support me. "How can you call me a supporter of Texcoco?"

There was a moment of silence, but Quenami was not about to be undone so easily. "And the boy-emperor?" he asked. "Nezahualtzin. Will you also claim to have been investigating him?"

"He offered his help to find his sister."

"And you took it?" Quenami said.

The note of triumph in his voice was all too evident. "Texcoco is a member of the Triple Alliance," I said. "Our ally since the founding of Tenochtitlan."

Quenami snorted. "With one of their princesses involved in a plot against the Mexica Empire? Texcoco is a tribute-paying province, like the rest of them. It has no business meddling in our politics, and you have no business accepting Nezahual-tzin's help."

"For all the help you gave me–"

"I offered," Quenami said. "I offered and you denied me. You preferred the Texcocan boy."

"Acatl?" the She-Snake asked. "Is that true?"

It was true. At least, I couldn't deny it without outright lying, and I refused to sink to Quenami's level.

My moment of silence must have been all he needed. I saw the She-Snake bow down his head. "Then I'm afraid there is nothing I can do. If they are right…"

They were; and they weren't. They were the ones endangering the Mexica Empire, the whole of the Fifth World, but there was nothing I could say. "It's not the point," I said.

"It's the point of this audience." The She-Snake's voice was almost gentle, an apology. I had missed my chance, if I'd ever had much of one. "To determine your fitness as High Priest."

"I stand for the Fifth World," I said. "And for the Revered Speaker, who keeps us safe. What more do you ask for?" I bit my tongue before I could say more.

"Your loyalty." Quenami's voice was gleeful. "And it's clear we don't have that."

"Not until the Revered Speaker is elected," I snapped.

"The charges stand, then," Tizoc-tzin said.

The She-Snake held my gaze for a while. In his pupils, I saw only darkness, the same yawning abyss that his goddess ruled. "I'm sorry, Acatl. But they do."

Tizoc-tzin made a quick, peremptory gesture. "Then it's settled. Treason carries the death penalty."

"You can't–" I started, but this time, one of the guards slammed the butt of his macuahitl sword into my back, sending me sprawling to the ground. Now that the She-Snake had joined them, they felt safe to silence me.

"By the flower garland," Quenami said. I wished I could have smashed the smug smile from his face. "Tomorrow at dawn?"

"Better make it quick." The corners of the She-Snake's mouth had curled up in a disgusted smile. "Put an end to the whole sordid business as soon as possible."

I was hauled up again, all but carried out of the room, to the central platform overlooking the courtyard. The Fifth Sun shone clear and bright on what looked to be my last day in the Fifth World.

The warriors that carried me were halfway across the platform when something leapt up from the stairs, seemingly coming out of nowhere, as black and as sleek as a fish, lifting its wrinkled head towards me, the clawed hand at the end of its tail unclenching, coming straight towards me.

An ahuizotl.

SEVENTEEN

Ahuizotl

"What in the Fifth World is that?" one of the warriors asked, but the ahuizotl was moving again with supernatural speed. Its tail swept down and sent us all crashing down onto the stone floor.

Another one appeared, leapt over us. I lost it from sight, struggling to pull myself upright on shaking muscles. One of the warriors reached out for his macuahitl sword to stop me, but the ahuizotl was on him before he could react, its full weight resting on his chest. The tail uncoiled again, plunging towards the eyes.

I turned my gaze away, even as he started to scream.

The second warrior had his macuahitl sword, was pointing it in my direction. Given my painfully slow speed, I had no hope of avoiding it. I threw myself to the ground nevertheless.

Nothing happened. I felt the wind of something else's passage and heard the warrior tumble to the ground.

"What is the meaning of this?" Tizoc-tzin asked, from inside.

I crawled away from the scene of the carnage. The ahuizotls watched me – and so did the last thing – the huge, ghostly serpent rearing in the air, drops of water and blood shining on its feathered collar – for a moment only, and then it lunged towards me. I couldn't avoid it. I remained where I was, fully expecting something unpleasant, but it twisted at the last moment, knocking me off the ground, and before I could understand what had happened, it was under me, its body supporting me as it rose again.

The ahuizotls joined it, framing it like an escort. With a single powerful leap, they leapt up and hung onto the serpent's tail; and the whole assemblage started to glide upwards at a greater speed than a boat in rapids.

Hanging on to the serpent as well as I could, I cast a glance backward. Tizoc-tzin, the She-Snake, and Quenami stood on the platform. Quenami was frantically whispering a spell, dabbing blood on the ground. But the She-Snake… He just stood, watching the serpent glide away through the courtyard. He could have done something, too. Unlike Quenami, he had come fully prepared, but he didn't.

I could have sworn he was smiling.

The serpent flew to a deserted spot outside of the city, in the midst of the Floating Gardens, the series of island-fields that grew our crops. It landed in the middle of a patch of newly-planted tomatoes – the green leaves just opening – and, with a great sigh, it sank back down into the earth.

The ahuizotls remained. They watched me with unblinking yellow eyes, as if daring me to put a step wrong. I pulled myself into an upright position, the most I could do. It wasn't only the weakness induced by the heartland – less than an hour ago, I had been convinced this day was my last – to find a sudden reprieve was heartening, but it was the sort of unwelcome episode I'd have been glad to avoid altogether.

Four silhouettes walked towards me from the single hut on the edge of the floating garden, wading through the maize stalks. I wasn't surprised when they turned out to be Teomitl, Nezahual-tzin, and the two Texcocan warriors I had seen earlier.

Wordlessly, Teomitl handed me a couple of obsidian knives which I put back into their sheathes.

"Impressive," I said, slowly.

"Just a trick." Nezahual-tzin smiled.

Teomitl looked more preoccupied. "Acatl-tzin? You don't look–"

"I'll be all right," I said, raising a shaking hand. "I just need a moment to recover."

"See?" Teomitl said, with a scornful glance at Nezahual-tzin. "I told you it would work."

Nezahual-tzin grimaced. "I've heard better plans. But yes, it worked. Only because they got sloppy."

"I thought you were confined to your rooms," I said to Teomitl, the only thought that occurred to me.

"I broke out." He smiled again – pure Teomitl, carelessly proud.

"Right. Right. So did I, it seems." I stared at the ground under my feet, took a deep breath. The air was clean and crisp, nothing like that of my cell. "What now?"

They both looked at me as if it were obvious that I held the answer. The gods help me, I didn't need another adolescent struggling with nascent responsibility, Teomitl on his own was enough trouble for a lifetime, and I had a suspicion Nezahual-tzin would be even worse.

"We need to move," I said. "We can sort out the rest later. Tizoctzin isn't going to let you get away with it for long, and neither is Quenami." I looked at Nezahual-tzin, who was currently focusing on the water lapping at the floating garden's edge. Ah well. Lost for lost, I might as well get a chance to commit the crime they'd accused me of. "How soon can we be in Texcoco?"

Nezahual-tzin's gaze drifted back towards me. He didn't look surprised in the slightest. "One, two days? We have boats and supplies, but we'll have to get past the dyke as soon as we can."

Texcoco lay east of Tenochtitlan, across the lake of the same name, and a great dyke had been built to prevent the waters of the lake from flooding us. It was manned by a few forts, though its main purpose wasn't military. Any invading army would come by land, which meant one of the three causeways rather than the lake.

"Two days?" I asked.

"A little less if the gods are with us."

"Or the ahuizotls," Teomitl said. "But not in Tenochtitlan, we'd stand out too much. Let's wait until we're out of the city."

"And Mihmatini?" I asked.

Teomitl grimaced. "She's gone to the Popocatepetl volcano. On a pilgrimage of, ah, indefinite length."

And I could imagine how much she'd have protested at being taken away for her own safety. "Good," I said. "Let's go. We can sort out the details later."

• • • •

Nezahual-tzin's boats were two flat-bottomed barges, a slightly larger version of the canoes fishermen steered all over the lake. They looked as if they had been specifically purchased for the rescue rather than brought with him. A Revered Speaker such as him would normally travel with more pomp, and the boats looked more utilitarian than grand and imposing.

The first boat was packed with the supplies he had mentioned – wrapped maize flatbreads and fruit, as well as cages holding owls and rabbits. The second one was packed with men – a dozen Texcocan warriors who all looked old enough to be veterans of Nezahual-tzin's coronation war.

Nezahual-tzin caught my glance, and smiled. "It never hurts to be prepared, Acatl."

I climbed gingerly into the boat, found myself a comfortable spot wedged against a particularly large bale, and determined not to move again in a lifetime.

Two of the warriors took the oars. Teomitl's ahuizotls slid into the water with a splash, and swam by our side as we moved away from the floating garden.

We cruised through row upon row of floating gardens, a whole district on a grid pattern, like the rest of the city. Soon the floating gardens thinned away, to become streets where peasants carried cloth and maize kernels to the marketplace and where the steady clack of looms from the women's weaving floated to us through the open entrances of their thatch houses. We were swinging around Tenochtitlan, keeping to the more populated areas in order not to stand out.

In between the houses I caught a glimpse of the Sacred Precinct's tallest buildings – the Great Temple under which the Moon Goddess Coyolxauhqui was imprisoned, and the circular Wind Tower, where I had prayed to Quetzalcoatl for Ceyaxochitl's life. The Feathered Serpent had not answered that prayer, but it occurred to me that perhaps He had given me something else to see me through my hour of need.

Nezahual-tzin stood near the prow, watching the houses go past. He looked much like any other nobleman's son, his cloak of thin cotton, his jade lip-plug glinting in the sunlight, his hair pulled back and caught in the base of his feather headdress.

We swung east into ever-smaller streets. The boats wove their way through the traffic – peasants coming back from the marketplace, warriors standing tall and proud in the regalia they had earned on the battlefield, priests with blood-matted hair on their way to the Sacred Precinct – with preternatural ease. If I didn't have Nezahualtzin in my sights, I could have sworn that there was more to this than the agility of two warriors.

Teomitl was a little further down our boat, his hand trailing just above the water. His face was furrowed in concentration, his eyes focused on the dark shapes trailing the boat.

We came out into an expanse of open water. Ahead of us was the bulk of Nezahualcoyotl's Dyke, keeping back the saltwater and regulating the level of the lake during the flood season.

I had expected trouble at this juncture, but the few warriors manning the fort on the dyke looked bored, and the boats were carried over to the other side without any major incident. While Nezahualtzin and I engaged the guards in idle conversation, the ahuizotls leapt over the wall and slid noiselessly back into the water, dark shapes gone past in an eye blink.

Behind the dyke were only a few boats, going either to Teotihuacan or Texcoco, merchants with goods to sell and wider barges belonging to noblemen on pilgrimages.

Teomitl moved to stand near Nezahual-tzin. "Time to go a little faster."

The ahuizotls dived, two under each boat. I felt a slight jerk as they moved to bear the weight of the keel, and then we were gliding across the water at a greater speed than oars alone could have managed. Teomitl's face shone the colour of jade, the light flickering across his features.

"How long can he hold?" Nezahual-tzin asked, sliding next to me.

"I don't know." Teomitl's eyes were two pits of darkness, and sweat ran down his face. I had seen him control more ahuizotls, but it had been for a much shorter amount of time. He had to have summoned these early in the morning for my rescue, and he hadn't released them since.

"I see." Nezahual-tzin stroked one of the owls in the cages, his fingers nimbly avoiding its beak stabs. "You're tutoring him well in magic, but his grasp of politics is appalling."

"So is mine," I said, and it wasn't an admission of shame. "Quenami's, however, is excellent."

"Point taken. But still…"

"You think Tizoc-tzin will be Revered Speaker?" I asked.

Nezahual-tzin's head moved a fraction. "I don't like the idea any more than you do, but we have to face this fact: Tizoc-tzin is likely to have been elected Revered Speaker by the time we come back."

"I know," I said. I hated myself for lending reality to his words, but he was right. There was nothing we could do. "But he won't want Teomitl to succeed him."

"You forget." Nezahual-tzin's lips curled up in a smile. "He's the only one who doesn't get a vote in his succession."

"His opinion matters."

"It does." Nezahual-tzin was silent for a while. "But Teomitl is destined to be a great warrior. He'll honour the Southern Hummingbird much better than I ever did, and the council will see that, in time."

"You're a politician," I said, slowly. To think I was having idle chitchat with the Revered Speaker of Texcoco…

"To each his own. I leave war to those with more heart for strife." Nezahual-tzin smiled. His eyes rolled up in their orbits, as white as pearls. "My face and heart are turned towards knowledge."

A fitting devotee of the Feathered Serpent indeed. "You didn't have to come with us," I said.

"No," Nezahual-tzin said. He watched the water for a while.

"But it was getting a little uncomfortable in Tenochtitlan?" I guessed.

"I'm a fair man, Acatl," Nezahual said. "I know exactly what my faults are, but the Smoking Mirror curse me if I'm going to let Tizoctzin run amok. A Revered Speaker may be Lord of Men, but he has a responsibility to them. He is the servant of the people. He is humble and an example of the law he upholds."

Hardly Tizoc-tzin's qualities. "Still," I said. "You can't ask that of everyone."

Nezahual-tzin's eyes drifted briefly towards Teomitl, whose grip on the boat had become so strong it seemed to be eating into the wood. "No. But some people will do it, regardless." He looked down again. "Axayacatl was one of them, but not any more."

He seemed angry or embarrassed. I couldn't be sure. "There was nothing more you could have done," I said.

"No," Nezahual-tzin said. "It's not that." He looked into the water. "I'm Revered Speaker of Texcoco, Acatl. My role is to vote on his designated successor, and to make the first speech at his funeral. That's the only reason I came into Tenochtitlan."

And now it looked as though he would fail at both.

I lifted my gaze against the glare of the sun, watching the shore grow closer and closer. "You'll probably not be in time for the vote. Tizoc-tzin has made sure of it. But, at the rate we're going, you might make the funeral."

And I was startled to see him smile for the first time, surprised and careless, like the boy he was.

We reached Texcoco sometime in the evening. Teomitl was white. As the boats wove their way through the canals of the city, he came down, and sat next to me, his shoulders sagging against my chest. I could hear the thunder of his heartbeat and feel his skin, as cold and as clammy as underwater algae. The Duality curse me, I shouldn't have let him go so far. It was my responsibility to tutor him in magic and to teach him his limits, even if I had a suspicion I would lose that particular battle. Teomitl thought limits were for the weak.

The boat bumped against a dock. Nezahual-tzin stretched himself, looking at the tall adobe houses critically. The warriors in the other boats spread themselves around him in a tight knot. "We're not staying here," he said. "Let's go to the summer palace."

Teomitl did not answer. "He's in no state to walk," I said. I had a dim memory of the summer palace, somewhere in the mountains above Texcoco. It did not exactly sound like an easy trip, and I was in only marginally better shape than Teomitl.

"He won't have to," Nezahual-tzin said. His eyes shone white in the darkness, without pupils or cornea, white as the full moon hanging over us. He had never looked so alien. He shifted aside slightly and two litters loomed out of the darkness, a massive chair of carved mahogany, with a canopy of feathers and gold, and another, simpler one of wood and cloth, with enough sitting space for two. "Get on."

He couldn't have sent word ahead so fast, could he? I didn't know any spells of the living blood to communicate across distances, but he might not have been operating on quite the same rules as most priests. As Quetzalcoatl's servant, his power would come from fasts and vigils, and the occasional sacrificed animal.

Nevertheless, the timing was eerie. I wasn't sure if the point was to disorient us, or whether there was some other, more sinister purpose to his moves, and I had no way of knowing.

Enough. I wasn't Tizoc-tzin, and now wasn't the time for paranoia.

Teomitl did not stir as I set him into the second chair. I climbed on as best as I could, helped by one of the silent bearers. As soon as I was in, the litter started moving with a rocking tilt, away from those few lights I could see.

Nezahual-tzin had climbed in with the ease of someone who had ridden in litters all his life, he sat negligently in his chair, with the casual arrogance of the ruler, and looked at the land around him with the eyes of its owner. The warriors spread behind us, closing the march.

As in Tenochtitlan, the adobe houses gave way to wattle-anddaub, first with triangular, brightly-coloured roofs, and then simple structures of twigs and branches. The road snaked through the mountain, and soon the only lights were those of the torch-bearers by our side as we climbed higher and higher. Scraggly trees went past us in the darkness, the only noise was that of the bearers' feet scattering rocks and gravel on the path.

I dozed off. When I woke up again a huge structure loomed over us, a mass of stone and light clinging to the face of the mountain, with the smell of flowers and copal incense drifting towards us. Slaves rushed to help us dismount and I stood on shaking legs, looking at the sculptures of the Feathered Serpent framing the massive entrance, their jaws open as if to swallow us whole. Above the lintel was carved an image of the Storm Lord, fangs protruding from His lower lip and a snake shaped like lightning in His left hand. His blackened eyes seemed to be following me a little too closely for comfort.

And there was magic on the ground, arcing through my legs and spine, a slow ponderous heartbeat that seemed to link the Heavens and the earth, a compound of spells I couldn't identify. Wards shimmered all over the stone, shivering like a sea of crawling insects. From the ground to the sky above, endlessly renewed, endlessly forged anew. My hand itched where Acamapichtli's talisman had burnt me.

Nezahual-tzin was all but subsumed in a crowd of slaves and servants but he turned towards me, his eyes still rolled up in their orbits, shining like pearls in the murk of the lake, his smile like that of a jaguar. Something cold descended from my throat to my stomach, coiling like a venomous serpent – a sense of disquiet, a pressure against my chest.

I had felt this once before, a year ago, moments before the Fifth World slid all the way into chaos.

Tlaloc. The whole complex was dedicated to the Storm Lord.

"Welcome to my humble abode, Acatl," Nezahual-tzin said. "I'm sure you'll find the stay worth your while."

EIGHTEEN

The Pleasure Gardens

"We shouldn't have come here," Teomitl said. He sat on the reed mat in my room scowling, something he had been doing ever since waking up. Behind him, the columns of the rooms were carved in the shape of huge snakes rising up from the floor, their painted maws closing around the carved flowers jutting down from the ceiling.

"There wasn't much choice," I said. I felt like scowling, too. Tlaloc's magic was anathema to that of Lord Death, just as the Southern Hummingbird's was. So far, it wasn't anything like what I'd undergone in Tizoc-tzin's cell – a little tightness in the chest, as if I stood atop a high mountain, a sense that every gesture was made through tar; but that didn't mean I felt comfortable here. "There were plenty of other choices. I was a fool. We could have hidden in Tlatelolco, or Tlacopan."

I shook my head. "They wouldn't have sheltered us. Tlacopan is a member of the Triple Alliance, but their influence has been on the wane for a while. And Tlatelolco…"

Tlatelolco, our direct neighbour on the island had been conquered seven years ago, its ruler killed. Now there was only a governor who owed everything to the Imperial Court, and would have no wish to set himself against the future Revered Speaker.

Teomitl grimaced. "I know." He pulled himself upwards in a fluid gesture, and went to stand before one of the carved frescoes. It was early morning, and the scent of flowers was all around us, the smell of the gardens casually spread on the mountain's face through hundreds of aqueducts, of the canals and bath-houses, the luxuries of Nezahual-tzin's father. A summer retreat, Nezahual-tzin had called it. Except that he seemed to have disappeared, and that none of the ever-present army of servants would answer our queries. Why had he brought us here? Obviously, it had been deliberate, but what use could he possibly have for us?

I didn't think he wanted to end the Fifth World. He had sounded sincere when he had said that. But he would have the best interests of his city at heart, like any ruler.

Not Tizoc-tzin, a treacherous part of me whispered in my mind. I quelled it before it could fester.

And, if the best interests of Texcoco were to hand us back to Tizoctzin, to smooth over their little "disagreement"… I had no doubt Nezahual-tzin would do it in less than a heartbeat. For all his youth, necessity had made him ruthless.

"Come on," I said. "Let's go for a walk." He needed the distraction, and the gods knew I needed to reassure myself that my legs were still working after my time in prison.

They were none too steady. In spite of my best intentions, we made it through two courtyards before I had to stop, leaning against one of the carved pillars until I stopped shaking.

"That was a foolish idea," Teomitl said. He glared at the manicured flower patches, and finally settled on the ground, crouching on his haunches as he often did. Unlike any palace I'd seen in Tenochtitlan, the ground sloped down, and the palace followed it. Water flowed out of a fountain in the centre, cascading downwards along a flight of stairs towards a room with a richly decorated entrance-curtain adorned with a huge stylised frog, splayed on the cotton cloth as if transfixed by a spear.

"No more foolish than breaking me out of prison," I said. "I haven't thanked you properly."

"You don't need to. Anyone would have done what we did."

"You were the only ones," I pointed out.

His gaze didn't move from the flowers. "Perhaps. But I don't do formalities very well, Acatl-tzin."

You're going to have to learn, I thought, but didn't say. "You've gone against your brother now."

"Yes," Teomitl said. His whole body radiated frustration. "It was always going to come to that, in the end, wasn't it?"

"It might not have," I said. There was so much more I wanted to add, except that my resentment and my hatred would come billowing out of me and wreck my relationship with Teomitl forever. Because he was right, blood should stand by blood, no matter how tainted the blood might be. It was what brothers should do for each other, and I had paid the price of that lesson a year ago, when my own brother had almost died because of my prejudices. "He's a paranoid man."

Tizoc was surely a more complex man than the wreck which had sentenced me to death for being a hindrance. He had to be. As our next Revered Speaker, he had to–

But I couldn't shake the She-Snake out of my mind, and the casual, almost instinctive way he had given my worst fears life and blood: "Are you wondering if he'll be able to channel the Southern Hummingbird's powers into the Fifth World?"

And I had known the answer, even then.

Teomitl looked up at the star-studded sky. "He was a great man, once. At the beginning of Axayacatl's reign, everyone was glad to have him as Master of the House of Darts. He was the darling of the Court, his acts the fabric of legend. They thought he was going to be as great a warrior as Father, leading the Empire to glory that would endure past the end of this age."

He couldn't have been remembering that, for he had been a toddler at the time Axayacatl ascended the throne. I guessed the warriors or the servants would have told him that as he grew up moody and isolated. Like a wildflower, Ceyaxochitl had said of him, and I wasn't altogether sure he'd ever go back to manicured gardens and clear-cut boundaries. Too much wilderness in him, and far too much knowledge. "Not everyone lives up to the expectations we have of them," I said.

"It ate him from the inside," Teomitl said. "They always compared him to someone: to Father, to Axayacatl, it didn't matter. How long can you live your life in shadow?"

A typical warrior's fallacy, that – that burning need to matter, to be showered with gifts and status, to stand out on the battlefield or in the city, no matter the cost. "Some people can," I said. As when I talked to my warrior brother, I had the feeling of slipping into an alien world, where the rules weren't the ones I'd always lived by. "Some, however…"

"I know." Teomitl made an impatient gesture. "Not everyone is a warrior. But, really, what else could he be?"

Growing up in the imperial family, being goaded to take his place in the Southern Hummingbird's dominion? No, not many paths open to a man whose father and brother had both become Revered Speakers. "He made his choices," I said. "You can understand him, but you can't change that."

"I suppose not." Teomitl shook himself, in a gesture eerily reminiscent of an ahuizotl. "Not that it matters, now. I wish…"

That things were different. I knew, and I knew nothing I could say would change anything. But still… "Teomitl–"

I was cut off by the sound of sandals in the courtyard, Nezahualtzin, followed by a cluster of warriors, striding with his characteristic, thoughtless ease. "Taking some air?"

"As you see," I said. "What's going on, Nezahual-tzin? Why are we here?"

Teomitl had pulled himself upwards with preternatural speed. He stood watching Nezahual-tzin as a vulture might watch a dying animal, waiting for a moment of weakness to swoop down and finish it off.

"Good, good," Nezahual-tzin said, eluding my question altogether. "I had some preparations to make."

"What preparations?" I asked. "For a ritual?"

He smiled. "So impatient, Acatl."

I rolled my eyes upwards, towards the stars shining in the blue sky. "There are pressing matters, and not only of politics." Acamapichtli had said two days. They'd still be gathering the councilmen, fighting for influence. They would surely elect Tizoc-tzin, and start the weighty rituals that went into investing a Revered Speaker with the authority of Huitzilpochtli. The Storm Lord's lightning strike me, there had to be a chance, no matter how minuscule, that we would survive this…

"Of course." Nezahual-tzin bowed his head. "Come with me. There is something you must see."

"I don't play games," Teomitl said haughtily.

Nezahual-tzin's smile was starting to become annoying. "This isn't a game," he said, slow, sure of himself. "Merely an invitation, as your host. A proffered hand."

The last person to talk of proffered hands had been Quenami, and I had no wish for a repetition of what had happened afterwards. "And if we refuse?"

"You do as you wish. It would be a shame, but I have no doubt all of us would recover." Nezahual-tzin started to move away. The warriors followed, one of them holding a large fan to keep his master refreshed.

"Who does he think he is?" Teomitl whispered.

Revered Speaker, sadly, and, secure in the familiar setting of his power a radically different man than the one who had chatted with me on the boat. One more disappointment. I was getting used to those. "Let's indulge him," I said in a low voice. "I don't want to sample the Texcocan cages."

Nezahual-tzin must have had keener hearing than I'd assumed, for he turned, and smiled at me, sweet and innocent like a young warrior just released from the House of Youth.

I was not fooled. Whatever he thought we should see would be to his own advantage. If we were lucky, we would glean useful scraps, but nothing more.

If that was political acumen, then I was glad Teomitl was incapable of learning it.

We went down the mountain, following the flow of the water. It shimmered to my priest senses, a reminder of who the palace complex was dedicated to. It made me slightly uneasy. The last time I'd dealt with the Storm Lord, He had been trying to overthrow the Fifth Sun. But still, the mark on my hand, an itch that grew strong the closer we went to the water, was a reminder that things were no longer quite the same.

In the canals floated garlands of flowers and wood carvings of frogs and seashells; and everywhere were small reed islands, scat tered in the shape of quincunxes, reminders of the harmony of the Fifth World. Power hung over the water, shimmering like mist. I breathed it in with every step, a liquid constriction in my lungs, a heaviness in my throat.

We had been going for a while when Nezahual-tzin stepped into a courtyard, which seemed no different from all the others – save that the adobe walls surrounding it formed a circle, and that reeds had been carved all around the circumference. Dark stains marred the ground – living blood, a maze of power that thrummed in my chest, not the sharp, oppressive beat of Tlaloc's magic, but rather that of another god.

Reeds, and a circle. A circle for the unbroken breath of the wind, and reeds for One Reed: Topiltzin, Our Prince, the man who had ruled the legendary city of Tula as the incarnation of Quetzalcoatl, the Feathered Serpent.

Teomitl took in a sharp, unpleasant breath, and threw a glance at me. I nodded. It was a spell set in a circle wide enough to contain an entire battalion with the blood of dozens of… I paused, then, unsure of whether Nezahual-tzin would be ready to sacrifice so many of his subjects for one ritual. But no, the Feathered Serpent disliked human sacrifices. It had to be animals.

Still, it was impressive.

Shallow steps descended towards the centre of the courtyard, and so did the water too, flowing over them in a wide cascade. In the middle of the water was an island of stone, the part above the water carved over with a mass of serpents, that shivered and danced in the sunlight, almost as if they were alive… I shifted, and saw a yellow eye open and close. The gods take me, it was stone, and they were somehow alive.

Slaves laid a bridge to carry us across the water. Nezahual-tzin walked onto it with scarcely a break in his stride.

The only building on the island was an awning of cotton, a poor protection against the gaze of the Fifth Sun. Someone sat underneath – shifted slightly when Nezahual-tzin approached, in a way that was gut-wrenchingly familiar. Beside me, Teomitl tensed. "Acatl-tzin."

"I know," I said, having only eyes for her.

"You have visitors," Nezahual-tzin said, in the way of a priest enjoying a secret joke. "See that you behave yourself."

"When have I not behaved myself, brother?" Xahuia-tzin, Axayacatl's missing wife, smiled up at us, as careless and as regal as if she had still been ensconced within the Imperial Palace in Tenochtitlan, but her eyes were dark and hollow, those of a woman already defeated.

A quick, intelligent man would have made a snide remark to let Nezahual-tzin know that his manipulation had not succeeded. A smarter man would have smiled, enjoying the same secret joke.

I was neither fast on my feet, nor smart, nor dishonest. I simply gaped, looking for words that seemed to have fled.

"It has been a long time, Acatl-tzin," Xahuia said.

Nezahual-tzin had retreated slightly, standing near the wooden bridge leading back to the palace, his hand carelessly wrapped around the hilt of his macuahitl sword. But, of course, like the SheSnake, he never did anything carelessly.

Teomitl spoke first, his face as harsh as newly-cut jade. "You said you hadn't found her."

Nezahual-tzin smiled. "I would have hated to waste a good ritual. Wouldn't you?" He inclined his head in a way that implied disagreeing with him would be foolish.

"I think a little honesty would have served us all better," I said, more sharply than I'd intended – cutting Teomitl mid-sentence, before he could say something irreparable. Perhaps it was a good thing, after all, that he was far removed from the imperial succession; or he and Nezahual-tzin would tear what remained of the Triple Alliance apart.

"Perhaps," Nezahual-tzin just smiled that smug, annoying smile of the superior. He looked every bit the warrior parading through the streets. "Won't you talk to her, Acatl?"

"I don't see why I should. You've already learnt everything you need to."

"You're assuming I spoke to him," Xahuia said. She threw a glance at her brother that was– no, not hatred, but something more complex, a mixture of reluctant admiration and determination. "I don't see why I should."

It occurred to me that someone was missing from the family reunion. "Your son–"

"My own business," Nezahual-tzin cut in. "Talk to her, Acatl."

Like his suggestion for the ritual, it was an order from a Revered Speaker in his own right. One day, I'd get used to the fact that the person speaking in such a composed, authoritarian tone was a boy, barely old enough to have left calmecac school.

But then again… I might as well make use of the opportunity before me, before he did whatever he'd intended to do with us all along. "I'm not sure you'll want to talk to me," I said to Xahuia.

She lifted her head and there was still, in spite of everything, a hint of the same attractiveness I'd seen back in the palace, in another life. Her eyes met mine, held my gaze for a while.

"I'll speak to you," she said. "Alone."

Nezahual-tzin's shoulders moved, in what might have been a shrug. "As you wish. Teomitl?"

Teomitl glared back at him, but they stepped back onto the shores of the islands, unconcernedly.

I remained alone with a woman I wasn't quite sure how to deal with. Her only crime, as far as I knew, had been ambition, but it would have led her to worse if we hadn't intervened. Her sorcerer would have stopped at nothing to get her the Turquoise-and-Gold Crown.

"Things have changed, haven't they?" Her gaze took in her surroundings – the coiled power of Quetzalcoatl the Feathered Serpent, the ground under us, the throbbing stone mass that was composed of living snakes – no, better not to think about that. There were visions I wasn't quite ready for, at least not until I was back on dry land.

"They have." I crouched on my haunches, coming to rest at her level. "They could have turned out another way."

She shook her head. "Very differently, perhaps. And then you'd have been the one coming to me as a supplicant."

"Am I not?"

The corners of her mouth twitched, a little. "So it is that even prisoners and slaves have power, in the form of knowledge." Her hands clenched. "That's what Nezahual would say, at any rate."

"He's not always right."

"He's right in too many things." Her gaze drifted again, coming to rest on Teomitl and Nezahual-tzin, standing side by side like two comrades, if one didn't know any better. "Enough small talk, Acatltzin. You have questions. Ask them."

"I'm not sure why you'd answer them," I said, carefully.

"What difference, as long as you have the answers?"

"I'd know how true they were likely to be."

That made her laugh, sharp, bitter, joyless. She had changed indeed, away from power. "Fine. I'm not a fool. I know when to swim into stormy waters, and to stop before ahuizotls drag me down. I can play for Tenochtitlan, Acatl. I won't play for the Fifth World."

I looked at her; she returned my gaze, her eyes steady, not a muscle of her face moving. I had heard the same thing so many times, from so many different people; and they had all been sincere. The problem was the line between reasonable risk and endangering the Fifth World, a line everyone seemed to place much further out in their minds than it really was.

"Fine," I said, finally. "Let's say I believe you. For the moment. What did your sorcerer do?"

"Nettoni?" She looked surprised. "He was my bodyguard."

"Bodyguard?"

"As you no doubt saw, it wasn't a safe place to be after dark." Her voice held the lightest touch of irony.

"Yes," I said. "You employed him before the murders started, though."

"One can never be too careful." Her smile was bright, and just the tiniest bit forced, not quite spreading to her eyes.

"I don't think it's that," I said. I was carefully dancing around the subject. What I truly wanted to know was what had frightened everyone in the council. But if I asked directly, I suspected she'd clamp up like a shell. "The palace was a busy place after Axayacatltzin's death."

Her lips tightened, her eyes moved away from me. I thought of the tar. "Before his death, too, wasn't it?"

"I was a fool. I came in too late. Axayacatl had told me–" She closed her eyes. "He told me that I need not fear the future. And I believed him." Her hands came up, as if to push me away. "Fool."

He had told her… I thought about it for a while. Unbidden, a memory was rising to the surface of my mind, a deep voice on cold shores, and a shadow that became more and more indistinct the further it walked into Mictlan, and its words to me, a mystery that had remained unsolved.

"I'd always known there would be a rift when I died. But only for a time. I've made sure it will close itself."

"He did something," I said, slowly, carefully, building my sentence in the same way a child will pile wooden blocks in the mud. "To make sure his choice was respected. He and Tizoc-tzin–"

Oh gods. Was I truly sitting here, accusing the former Revered Speaker of colluding with Tizoc-tzin, of arranging the summoning of star-demons to sway the council his way? I couldn't possibly…

"You're wrong," Xahuia said, in the dreadful silence that froze my heart. "Axayacatl was many things, but he was a warrior first and foremost, a servant of Huitzilpochtli. He would have wanted to do the right thing, and preserve the Fifth World."

"Then why–" I hesitated, but now I was standing on the brink, and all my careful dancing had done nothing but bring me closer to the bitterness holed up inside, the raw memories of the past few days. "Why is the council so frightened? Why did so many of them disappear, or buy the strongest protections they could afford? Why…?" What had Quenami and Tizoc-tzin tried to kill me for?

My voice trailed into silence; embarrassed, I hovered on the edge of an apology, but Xahuia went on as if nothing had happened. "You forget. I was one wife among many, and I very much doubt he would have confided in women, in any case." She didn't sound sad, or angry, just stating a fact.

"So you don't know anything?" This was starting to sound more and more like a waste of time, whatever Nezahual-tzin might have thought.

She shook her head. "I didn't say that, merely that Axayacatl's plans were beyond me." She shifted slightly, moving away from the glare of the sun and the pinpoints of starlight in the sky. "But I wasn't completely inactive."

I couldn't see what she was hinting at. "You had spies in the palace," I said slowly, as much for effect as to compose myself. "You saw–" I stopped, then. What could she have seen?

When I didn't speak for a while, she went on, with a tight smile, "I can't give you much, Acatl-tzin. Not much at all that you won't already know. A councilman went missing…" She stopped, raised a hand to her throat as if to remove something lodged in her windpipe.

Pezotic. "And you don't know why," I said, carefully. If that wasn't what she wanted to tell me… "But you know what happened to him."

"I know where he went. Pezotic," Xahuia said, with a quick, fierce shake of her head. "For all I know, it isn't where he is now. But still–"

"Go on."

"I had him followed because he was a coward, and a weakling. A man who could be bought." Her lips curled up, halfway between a sneer and a smile. "He bought passage on a boat headed east."

"East?" I asked. "Into Texcoco?" It would have been convenient, but I was reasonably sure luck was not with us. From the start, it had never been.

"No," Xahuia said. "To Teotihuacan."

Of course. Teotihuacan, the Birthplace of the Gods, a sacred place where the gods had made the sacrifice that had led to the birth of the Fifth Sun, a place of pilgrimage and of worship, a place of safety, the bastion of Their strength.

"He might have moved," I said.

"He might," Xahuia agreed. "But it's all I can give you, Acatl-tzin. Take it and use however you wish."

"Thank you," I said. I rose and bowed to her, in the same fashion as if she still had been imperial consort. Her gaze rested, for a moment, on me; that of a weak, broken woman, grounded by her brother's magic and utterly at his mercy. "I'm sorry," I said.

"Don't be." She did that peculiar half-smile, with no hint of joy in it. "It's a game, Acatl-tzin. That's what you never understood. You have to be ready to gamble it all in order to win. And sometimes, you lose."

"I can't play that kind of game," I said.

"I know. But you'll find that all Revered Speakers can."

Xahuia's words still echoed in my mind as I walked back to Nezahual-tzin, who stood waiting next to a scowling Teomitl with a half-amused smile on his face.

"So, did you find out anything?"

"What you expected me to find. It's all a game to you, isn't it?" I asked.

He watched me, as dispassionately as one might watch a mouse or an ant. "Perhaps. Perhaps nothing is real, after all… just the gods, putting us on the board with the other patolli pieces."

"You're the one putting us on the board," I said.

"Why so much anger?"

"Because we've wasted time," I said. "Because we're here in Texcoco, indulging your taste for mysteries while Tizoc-tzin is getting elected."

Nezahual-tzin's shoulders moved in a gesture I couldn't read. "There was nothing you could have done about it, Acatl."

I knew. And the Southern Hummingbird strike me, it hurt, as much as obsidian shards, as much as salt in wounds. He'd disgraced me, sent Teomitl fleeing away from his own city, insulted my sister, who, unlike us all, had no means of defending herself. I hoped she was safe, that Tizoc-tzin hadn't thought to follow her out of the city. "Still," I said, as we walked away from the basin, "still, there was another way."

"Not that I could see." Nezahual-tzin's face was serene.

"And now what?" Teomitl asked.

Nezahual-tzin stopped, looked at us, pondering for a while. His eyes rolled up again, becoming the uncanny white of pearls, of milk and the looming Moon in the Heavens. "It depends."

"On how much we're worth to you?" I asked.

He smiled. "You're learning."

"Not what I wish to learn."

"All knowledge is good." He smiled again.

"You want to sell us?" Teomitl's hand strayed to his macuahitl sword. "You'd dare to–"

"Teomitl," I said, warningly. The palace wasn't ours and it was full of warriors, not to mention whatever sorcerers Nezahual-tzin might have in his service. "He'd sell his own sister." He already had, unless I was grievously mistaken.

"Of course," Nezahual-tzin said. "But she'd understand."

"You lie." Teomitl's face was all harsh angles, his skin slowly whitening to the pallor of jade.

The worst was, I didn't think he was lying. He and Xahuia – and Tizoc-tzin, and Quenami, and even the She-Snake – seemed to operate by a different set of standards, as alien to me as the ways of the southern tribes.

"Of course not," Nezahual-tzin said. "You're a fool, pup. I'm ruler of Texcoco. I do what is best for my city, and that includes not going to war against Tenochtitlan. Making, how would you call them, peace offerings to the new Revered Speaker?" His teeth, when he smiled, were the same uncanny white as his eyes.

"Why help me escape then?" I asked, and then realised that he had been caught in the same accusation as I. "Of course. You weren't welcome in Tenochtitlan either, after my arrest."

"No," Nezahual-tzin said. "But it will change, when I come back."

"As long as Tizoc-tzin doesn't find out you helped me."

Nezahual-tzin smiled, in that smug way I was coming to hate. "I'll explain to him it was the only way to get his brother to reveal his true allegiances. And he'll have both of you back; and that will matter more to him than alienating a valuable ally. The forms will have been respected. I will have made my amends for dealing in magic on his territory."

"We're not bundles to be passed on!" Teomitl snapped.

I noticed, from the corner of my eye, the warriors getting closer, circling us like vultures hoping for an easy kill. Teomitl's skin shone with sweat, and with something else – the otherworldly light of Chalchiuhtlicue, Jade Skirt.

"Everyone is a tool, at one point or another. Better get used to it, pup, or your life will be brief." Nezahual-tzin watched the warriors converging on us with the distracted interest of a man pondering the words of a poem. "Briefer than it could have been, at any rate."

Above us were the stars, an oppressive reminder of the stakes if I ever needed one. "You're intelligent enough to know what is upon us," I said.

"Of course I am. As you said, Tizoc-tzin will claim the Turquoiseand-Gold Crown. The Southern Hummingbird's power will once more flow into the Fifth World, and that will be the end of this incident. Meanwhile, I'll have worked my way back into favour at the Mexica Court."

"With our deaths." Teomitl's face was frozen, halfway to divine light. Sweat dripped on his cheeks.

Nezahual-tzin laughed. "Don't bother. The ground you're on is blessed by the Storm Lord, and your goddess won't have any hold here."

He might have been right – and it was my duty to see the Fifth World preserved, beyond any selfish grievances I might have. No, the Storm Lord's lightning strike me, I couldn't do this. "You do know how I escaped."

"With our help." Nezahual-tzin shook his head, contemptuously.

I snorted. "You do have tremendous faith in your abilities."

"I serve a god."

"So does the She-Snake," I said.

"The She-Snake? I don't see what he has to do with anything."

"The She-Snake said…" I swallowed, remembering darkness all around us, the rustle of something large and malevolent which hated all life, all movement, all sound, and wouldn't rest until everything was silent and dark. "He said that Tizoc-tzin wouldn't be able to channel the Southern Hummingbird's favour into the Fifth World." He'd said, too, that Quenami might have a trick, a way of bending the rules to his advantage. But Quenami had miscalculated before.

"You're lying."

I met his gaze head on, staring into the numinous white of his eyes. "I'll swear it by my face and by my heart, or by any god you name."

Nezahual-tzin didn't move for a while, his eyes still on me. There was a chasm, deep inside them, colours, swirling amidst the white like oil on water, a spiral that opened and drew me in…

I came to with a start, the air burning in my lungs. Nezahualtzin was standing next to me, one hand on his macuahitl sword, another holding up my chin. His touch was as cool as shadowed stone; and I could barely hear his breath. Teomitl had shifted, caught by surprise; but he'd been too late, his sword barely drawn.

"All right. I believe you." Nezahual-tzin released my face, and took a step away from me. I fought the urge to reach for the knives at my belt. It would only show weakness.

The warriors remained where they were, while Nezahual looked up into the sky, his eyes on the largest star, the Evening Star, which belonged to the Feathered Serpent, the only one which would not fall upon us, when the time came.

"From here to Teotihuacan, it's a two-day trip." The Birthplace of the Gods was on the same side of the lake as Texcoco, but much further to the north, on the banks of a large river that descended from the nearby mountains.

"By land." Teomitl's voice was defiant.

"You almost collapsed on the way here."

"You're accusing me of weakness?"

It might have been comical in another context. "Look," I said, fighting to control the mad beating of my heart. "This isn't the best time to quarrel."

"I'd like matters to be clear," Teomitl said. He looked straight at Nezahual-tzin, who equably returned his gaze.

"You're right, let things be clear. I think you're a naive, impulsive fool who keeps overstretching himself. You no doubt think me arrogant, manipulative, and heartless."

That, if nothing else, shocked Teomitl into momentary silence. "It changes nothing to the original offer."

"The ahuizotls? I'll apologise for not wanting to be in the middle of the lake when you falter."

I finally managed to intervene. "Then we'll make regular stops. Nezahual-tzin, this isn't time for tarrying."

"A day," Teomitl said, defiantly. "A day and a half, at most."

At length, Nezahual-tzin nodded. "You're right. The lake it is, then. I'll have boats prepared. Come."

Teomitl and I exchanged a glance as we walked between the warriors. His gaze was still the murky colour of the lake's waters, in which flickered the distant radiance of the goddess. "Acatl-tzin…"

"I know," I said, curtly. Nezahual-tzin might be on our side for the moment, lending us his resources. But all of that wouldn't prevent him from selling us, once he was sure the Fifth World was safe.

We needed an escape plan, and we needed it fast.

NINETEEN

The Fifth Sun's Birthplace

The journey to Teotihuacan was tense, but mostly eventless. When we stopped for our first and only night, Teomitl, pale-faced, glared at Nezahual-tzin, who glanced aside elegantly as if whatever Teomitl thought of him didn't matter. Of course, it only made Teomitl glare all the more fiercely.

Meanwhile, I kept my hands on my obsidian knives, wondering how to escape Nezahual-tzin's vigilance. A distraction would serve us well, but the only distraction I could think of was summoning a creature from the underworld, and with the balance of the universe already skewed, there was no telling what that would do. Most of the other spells I knew were either for tracking or for examining a dead body, neither of which would be any use in the current situation.

I managed to catch Teomitl while Nezahual-tzin was preparing for his evening meditations. "How are you?"

He shrugged, in what was meant to be an expansive way but soon turned pained.

"You overreached again," I said.

"I've been better," Teomitl admitted reluctantly. He crouched on his haunches in the dry earth by the riverside, watching the water flow across his outstretched hands. "Not that I'm going to give him the satisfaction of seeing that."

"He probably already knows."

"I'll take my chances. What are we going to do next, Acatltzin?" He looked up at me, a student waiting for his master's instructions.

"We might need the ahuizotls," I said, slowly. The beasts frightened and repulsed me, and I'd have taken any other solution, but it looked like we had little choice left.

Teomitl grimaced. "So far from the lake… I don't know, Acatltzin. They're not river creatures."

"I know." They feasted on the drowned within the lake, lived within murky waters, not the clear clean ones of the mountain streams. "But I can't summon anything from the underworld, not at this juncture in time."

"Hmm." Teomitl looked at the river water for a while, as if he could discern starlight within its depths. "We'll have to see, then. Hold ourselves ready."

I glanced at Nezahual-tzin, who sat cross-legged near our campsite, his eyes closed, his face relaxed and inert, like a mask of flayed skin. There was a good chance he knew exactly what we were going to do, and a small but not insignificant one that he was somehow listening to every word we said.

"Yes," I said finally. "We should be ready."

We arrived in Teotihuacan, the Birthplace of the Gods, the following morning as the Fifth Sun crested the nearby mountain. The first thing we saw looming out of the morning haze were the pyramids, the towering monuments left by the gods in the beginning of this age. They were massive, as large – or even larger – than the Great Temple, mounds of ochre stone dwarfing their boundary wall, their white steps like a beacon of light.

The city itself was away from the religious complex, in a curve in the banks of a river. It was a much smaller affair than Tenochtitlan or even Texcoco, a profusion of temples and houses of adobe, with barely any ostentation. The streets were narrow but straight, set in the same grid pattern as all the cities of the valley. I kept expecting to see canals, but we were on dry land, and the only water was in the mud squelching under our sandals.

It was, and had always been, a place of pilgrimage, and as a result many residential complexes had been turned into temporary accommodation. Nezahual-tzin settled us into a mid-sized one – two courtyards, seven rooms spread around them – before dragging us out again to the nearest temples to ask if anyone had come looking for a powerful protection spell.

When we came back empty-handed, he snorted, and retired into the adjoining sweat-bath.

"The same ritual?" Teomitl asked.

"Why waste energy trying something else?" I couldn't quite keep the sarcasm out of my voice.

"Acatl-tzin?"

"He's not thinking properly," I said. "There is a much easier way of finding our missing councilman."

Teomitl looked at me blankly. I sighed. "Think on it. Whatever happened at the palace, it had them all frightened for their lives. Pezotic came here looking for safety–"

"Oh," Teomitl said. He walked to the gates of the compound, and stared at the pyramids in the distance. "The safest place is the religious complex, isn't it?"

The complex was mostly pyramids, but not only that. Under the massive limestone structures the gods had buried Their physical bodies, the ones they had sacrificed to give the Fifth Sun His nourishment in blood. If any place in the Fifth World was brimming in magic, if any place was safe, under the gaze of every god in the universe, it was that complex.

"It's huge," Teomitl said. "We can't possibly–"

"Magic could help." Not the huge, strenuous magic that came straight from the gods, and that either Teomitl or Nezahual-tzin practised almost as a second nature, but the small spells, the ones anyone could learn, the faithful tools that had served me so well over the years. One in particular…

I could have waited until Nezahual-tzin was more advanced in his meditation. But, with such heavy stakes, I couldn't afford to play games. I was no Tizoc-tzin, and no Quenami. I had sworn to uphold the balance of the universe, and so I would.

"Come on. Let's go see him," I said.

• • • •

To say that Nezahual-tzin was less than taken by the idea would have been an understatement. His grimace grew more pronounced as I explained myself, until I came at last to a faltering halt.

"That won't work," he said.

"I don't see why not," I said.

"You're counting on the complex being mostly empty."

"It is," I said. "Except for pilgrims, and it's not the season for them."

"Still…" Nezahual-tzin scratched his chin, as if his beard were bothering him. "The death-sight doesn't work like that, Acatl."

"You've never cast it," I pointed out. He had so much power he didn't bother with such small spells.

"I know." Nezahual-tzin said. "You'll be able to see all living beings within the radius of its effect, but that's not going to allow you to discriminate."

I had my own idea about this, too, but I saw no need to explain. He would have found it mad. Our Revered Speaker had grown too used to magic coming with barely any cost, to the point where he barely could envision functioning without it. As High Priest of a god who interfered very little with the mortal world, I'd learnt when to use spells, and when to refrain from shedding blood.

"Fine. If you don't believe it will work, will you at least allow us to try?"

His eyes narrowed. I could tell what he was thinking: was this our ploy to escape him? And, as a matter of fact, it was our best chance yet, though the main purpose wasn't escape at all. "Look," I said. "I'm just trying to make this as fast as possible. It's in none of our interests to have the star-demons come down."

Nezahual-tzin's gaze rested on Teomitl, thoughtfully. "You can try," he said at last. "It should keep you busy until I'm done. But I don't expect any results." He gestured to four of his warriors. "Go with them."

Not unexpected. We'd have to see about those later.

The wall around the complex was lower than the Serpent Wall which circled Tenochtitlan's Sacred Precinct. It had familiar elements though, the same snakes' heads on top of it, the same dark green carvings along its length.

The warriors had deployed to form an escort around us and Teomitl, who, judging by his dark face, could hardly wait to attack them.

We passed under a wide arch, and found ourselves in the religious complex. Before us stretched a long alley, bordered by dozens of smaller buildings like primitive shrines, and from every one of them wafted only silence, a heavy, oppressive atmosphere I knew all too well, the silence of the grave.

The alley was called the Avenue of the Dead, and each of the small edifices held a body, the physical remnants of those who had once been gods, before They offered up Their blood to the Fifth Sun and gave up Their mortal nature.

About halfway up the avenue was a pyramid, a huge, massive thing made of uncemented stone, every section of its construction visible. Even under the cloudy sky it shone like limestone in sunlight, like polished obsidian or chalcedony, the light pulsing to a slow, fierce rhythm like that of sacrificial drums. "That's where…?" Teomitl asked, seeing the direction of my gaze.

I swallowed. "Yes," I said. Even this far, I could feel I wouldn't be welcome there. "That's where the Fifth Sun rose into the sky from His pyre."

I tried to keep my eyes from the end of the Alley of the Dead, all the way past all those tombs, to the smaller but still massive pyramid which shone with a colder light, the one where the Moon, who was She of the Silver Bells, who was our bitterest enemy, had risen into the sky, hoping to challenge Her brother's radiance and dominion.

"Right," Teomitl said. He shook his head. "And now?"

"I'm not sure." I eyed the Alley of the Dead. Someday, I would know the place better, but I hadn't been High Priest for long enough to have come there for a formal celebration. On the other side, a white-and-ochre wall surrounded what looked like a complex within a complex. A procession was exiting through the main gates, priests in green and red, their hair matted with blood and their earlobes torn from years of penance, carrying a feather standard in the direction of the tombs. Priests of Quetzalcoatl, the Feathered Serpent; the pyramid looming over the complex, not quite as grand as that of the Moon or that of the Sun, looked to be dedicated to the Feathered Serpent.

I could have chosen this place for the spell, for Quetzalcoatl was neutral to me, unlike the Southern Hummingbird or the Storm Lord. But the Feathered Serpent was also Nezahual-tzin's god, and I had had quite enough of the boy's peculiar brand of magic for the time being.

"Come on," I said to Teomitl, and headed towards one of the tombs. As I walked, it grew larger in my sight, and yet still remained small and pathetic, diminished like a corpse in death. Silence spread around me, the chants of the priests receding in the background, meaningless snatches in a language that no longer seemed mine. It wasn't the silence of the grave, but something different, something indefinable, like the quiet after a battle, like the calm after a death, when the priest for the Dead has just arrived, a sense that something of large import had happened here and wouldn't take place again, it was a memory of a moment like a held breath, now vanished into the depths of this age, a moment that wouldn't happen again until Grandmother Earth split apart and the Fifth Sun tumbled from the heavens.

I bypassed the first such tomb, and the second. At the third, however, the silence was a little heavier than it should have been, and twisted a little more in my chest, like a hooked spear.

Carefully I climbed to the top of the platform, standing above the earth with only bare limestone under me. There was only silence, stretching over me like flowing cloth, a familiar aching emptiness in my breast. And a little something, nagging at the back of my mind, an ache I had forgotten, something that wasn't quite right.

But of course things weren't right. It was Mictlantecuhtli lying underneath that shrine, buried in the chamber under the steps of the pyramid, Lord Death, my own god, as unmoving and as powerless as the corpses I did my vigils for. There was something wrong about the thought. The gods might have been capricious and arbitrary, but They were still more than us, and, although none of this was new to me, to see Them as former mortals was… disturbing, to say the least.

"Acatl-tzin–" Teomitl said.

I raised a hand to silence him and knelt on the platform, drawing one of my obsidian blades. With the ease of practise, I opened my veins, letting the blood drip on my knife – and drew a quincunx on the platform. It pulsed, gently, as if to the rhythm of an alien heartbeat, the air above it shimmering as if in a heat haze.

Then, standing in the centre of the quincunx – in the place that might as well be the centre of the universe – I started the invocation to Lord Death.

"We all must die

We all must go down into darkness

Leaving behind the marigolds and the cedar trees…"

Light blazed, outlining the quincunx in radiance; the wounds on my hands tingled, like coals in a brazier.

"We all must die

We all must leave our flowers, our songs

All jade breaks, all feathers crumble into dust

Nothing is hidden from Your gaze."

In my previous spell of death sight, a veil had gradually descended over the world, until everything material seemed to grow dim and meaningless. But here, the only thing that seemed to happen was that the air grew sharper, burning in my lungs, and the shrines suddenly loomed larger, the inset black stones shining like inverted suns amidst the larger structure of limestone. And under my feet, under the stone, I could see the corpse in the pyramid, its bones as green as jade, its heart a shrivelled, bloodless lump amidst the exposed ribs, my patron god's mortal remains, from before He became a god, unnervingly small and pathetic.

No, better not think about that.

Teomitl was waiting for me at the top of the stairs, the magic around him shimmering, a beacon of jade light strong enough to blind. "And now?"

I looked down. Dust shimmered over the Valley of the Dead, which had become an opalescent path like a spider's web. The pro cession of priests left a trail of magic, green with a red core, writhing like the tail of a snake, going towards the pyramid of the Moon at the end of the Alley, a looming mass of pale, cold light emitting rays like the thorns of a maguey.

Aside from the priests, there was no sign of any human presence near the pyramid of the Moon. I looked towards the pyramid of the Sun, which had become an almost unbearably strong radiance, but could distinguish no sign of life, either.

Odd. If I were Pezotic, our missing councilman; if I were so afraid of the star-demons I'd sought the protection of the Fifth Sun himself, then I'd have expected him to be near the pyramid of the Sun, which was the focal point of the complex. But there seemed to be no one there.

So much for that brilliant idea. It looked like I was going to go back to Nezahual-tzin like a beaten coyote, my tail tucked between my legs. I didn't quite have Teomitl's level of contempt for him, but still… still it would rankle.

Unless…

I looked at the procession of priests again, and back at the third pyramid, the one dedicated to the Feathered Serpent. The priesthood was a long and difficult calling, and Pezotic wouldn't have been able to invent himself that kind of identity. However…

I watched the procession for a while – feeling, again, that subtle sense of wrong, which had nothing to do with graves or with the rise of the Fifth Sun. One of the last priests, though he wore the same red-and-green clothes, didn't seem to fit in. I had noticed it, but in a vague, unfocused way, and it had bothered me. And now that I had the death sight on me, I could see that the trail of magic ignored him, the translucent, writhing snake going right through him, instead of rippling as it did around the other priests.

"That's him," I said to Teomitl. "Our missing councilman."

Teomitl was down the steps, obsidian-studded sword drawn, before I could stop him.

TWENTY

The Missing Man

To his credit, Teomitl approached the procession silently enough, but Nezahual-tzin's guards, trooping after him with no stealth or subtlety, gave him away. The procession came to a swaying stop, the priests turning with angry looks on their faces, the magic of the Feathered Serpent gathering around them.

Pezotic just ran. He must have known that we were after him, and that there was no easy escape.

Teomitl sprinted after him. The guards stopped to argue with the priests, waving what I assumed was Nezahual-tzin's authority. In the time it took me to finish rushing down the stairs, I could see that it seemed to be working, or at least to be mollifying the priests. They had stopped looking threatening, and the trail of magic was back to its original state.

Since matters appeared well in hand, I went after Teomitl.

By the time I caught up to him he had Pezotic down in the dust of the Alley of the Dead, and was standing over him, his macuahitl sword resting on the other man's chest, the obsidian shards just cutting into the skin.

"Acatl-tzin, there is your suspect." He stood as rigid as a warrior before his commander.

"Teomitl, I don't think this is necessary…"

"He's a coward," Teomitl said. "He's shown this clearly enough. I'm not letting him escape."

I got my first good look at our missing councilman. Pezotic was a small, hunched man, with a face not unlike that of a rabbit, round and harmless, with soft features that made it hard to notice him at all. He wore the priests' green-and-red clothes uncomfortably and his hair was matted haphazardly with blood, not the regular offerings of a priest, but the panicked gesture of a man seeking to blend in.

And he smelled of fear – reeked of it, from his shaking hands to the sallow tint of his skin, from his sunken eyes to the subdued, almost broken way he moved. Something, somewhere in the past, had touched him, pressed on him, and he had snapped like a bent twig.

"I don't know what you want," Pezotic said. "But you don't have the right–"

Teomitl pressed on the macuahitl sword, enough to draw blood. I could see it pulsing along the obsidian shards embedded in the blade, blazing like water in sunlight. "We want to know what's going on," he said. "And don't lie. We know you ran away from the palace. We know you were frightened for your life. We know something happened."

Pezotic's eyes widened, and the fear grew stronger. I hadn't thought it was possible, but in the death sight, I could make out a yellow aura around him, exuded from his body like noxious sweat. "You don't know anything," he said.

"People are dead," I said, and saw him flinch, not in surprise, but because he was imagining what could have happened to him had he stayed behind. "Three councilmen. Ocome, Echichilli. Manatzpa." And Ceyaxochitl, but that was a wound I carried on my own, an event like a cold stone in my belly, but one that wouldn't affect him.

"This has nothing to do with me," Pezotic said. I wasn't surprised, not even disappointed. My opinion of him hadn't been high to start with.

"Then why did you leave?"

"I go where I wish."

"You're a councilman." Teomitl shook his head. "You don't."

Pezotic's lips stretched, in what might have been a smile if fear hadn't washed away every distinctive feature of his face. "I approve new buildings in Tenochtitlan. I have no doubt they can find someone to replace me, Teomitl-tzin."

So he knew who Teomitl was, but hadn't admitted it beforehand. "We're not here on petty errands of who does what and who replaces whom. What I want to know is who is summoning star-demons in the palace, before the whole council dies."

His lips moved, a smile again, but I'd never quite seen the like. Sick pleasure, and some kind of vindication, and… "What do you know, Pezotic?"

Teomitl's face shifted, became the harsh one of Jade Skirt again, as distant and uncaring as the goddess Herself. "He knows exactly what's going on."

"I don't," Pezotic said, far too quickly and smoothly to be the truth. "I swear I don't – let me go, please."

I glanced behind us. Nezahual-tzin's guards were still arguing with the priests, but it was only a matter of time before they solved their mutual problems and turned their attention to us.

I cast my stone in the darkness, then, hoping it would strike water instead of dry, sterile ground. "The Emperor and Tizoc-tzin were onto something, weren't they? Some plan to make sure Tizoctzin got the full approval of the council."

His eyes moved away from me. "You understand nothing, priest."

For some reason, it rankled that he couldn't even see who I was – to be sure, I attended Court only irregularly, and had never claimed to be indispensable. But still…

"Show some respect," Teomitl said. His eyes were green from end to end, the irises and pupils subsumed in the tide of Chalchiuhtlicue's magic. "Acatl-tzin is High Priest for the Dead."

Unsurprisingly, it didn't seem to faze Pezotic. I looked again. The conversation between the guards and the priests appeared to be winding down. We were running out of time. Not that we'd had much to start with.

Time to give up on subtlety. "Fine," I said. I pointed to the guards. "Do you know who they belong to?"

"Who you choose to ally yourself with is none of my concern."

"Oh, it's going to be. Do you know Nezahual-tzin?"

"A mere boy," Pezotic said. "Even if what you said was true, why should it frighten me?"

"Because, boy or not, he's got the means to make sure you go back to Tenochtitlan."

His face twisted then, opened up like a diseased flower. "You have no authority–"

"You'll find Nezahual-tzin has. Teotihuacan would be wise not to anger one of the rulers of the Triple Alliance."

"That's a lie. I'm here as a citizen of Tenochtitlan and a pilgrim devoted to Quetzalcoatl, and you can't take me away." Pezotic was speaking faster now, words merging into one another with barely a pause. "You or Nezahual-tzin, or whoever you claim to be speaking in the name of."

The guards were coming our way now. Their leader called out to me. "Is that the man we're looking for?"

I cursed under my breath. I didn't want Nezahual-tzin involved in this more than he had to, but I had little choice over the matter.

On the other hand, as a means of pressure. "Yes," I said. "Let's get him back."

Pezotic looked back and forth from me to the guards, from the guards to the priests, who stood still with carefully guarded faces, waiting to see how it would all play out. "You can't," he said. "You can't take me back there. You have to leave me here…"

"Then talk." Teomitl withdrew the macuahitl sword, considered the guards with a cocked head. "Should I slow them down, Acatltzin?"

I held up a hand to tell him to wait. They were strolling nearer, taking their time, secure in their numbers and might.

Pezotic looked up at me, his eyes pleading in a sickening manner. I was no warrior, but the craven way he made himself the centre of the universe was disgusting. "Please–"

When I didn't answer, he whispered, "If I go back to Tenochtitlan, I'll die."

"Death comes to us all," I said.

"Don't give me that, priest," he spat. "Death is nothing but oblivion, but what will happen to us all is worse than that. You know it. Those killed won't dissolve before Lord Death's Throne, or ascend into the Heaven of the Sun. We'll serve Him forever. That was the price."

I signalled to Teomitl to go speak to the guards, hoping that he'd interpret my gestures correctly and not rush into attacking them. "What price?" I asked. "Manatzpa-tzin spoke of duty…"

"Duty?" Pezotic spat again. His saliva glistened on the ground between my sandals, as disgusting as the trail of a snail. "We weren't asked, priest. None of us. It's not duty at all. That old clawless buzzard Echichilli got it into his head that he was going to help Tizoc-tzin, and Axayacatl-tzin agreed… and we weren't given a choice."

Tizoc-tzin and Axayacatl-tzin. And Echichilli. The tar. The ten jars of tar Palli had tracked into the Revered Speaker's rooms. And the old, old death that was there, hanging over the place like a pall.

Surely– A hollow was forming in the pit of my stomach, as cold as ice on Mount Popocatepetl, opening deeper and deeper with every one of his words. "What kind of help?" I asked. "Summoning the star-demons?" I stole a glance backwards. Teomitl looked to be arguing with the guards. Jade Skirt's magic wreathed him in green, watery reflections, but so far no one seemed to be attacking anyone. Good. The Duality only knew how long this could last.

Probably not long.

"Of course not. That would have been too dangerous." Pezotic looked up at me as if I were the worst of fools. I felt like shaking him.

"Then what?"

His lips narrowed. He closed his eyes, as if accessing a memory that was too much to bear – not hard to imagine, given what I'd seen of his mettle. "Axayacatl-tzin wanted to make sure that he'd leave a strong empire behind. That what Moctezuma-tzin had started, and what he'd continued, would go on for another reign, that of a strong Lord of Men, of a strong warrior."

Unless he replaced Tizoc-tzin with another kind of man altogether, I couldn't see what could be done about this at all. "You're not making any sense."

Pezotic smiled, that slimy expression again, of someone who knew the position of all the beans on the board and was intending to profit from the situation for all it was worth. "He wasn't a fool, and neither was Echichilli. They both knew that Tizoc-tzin's biggest problem wasn't the lack of support, or his unwarlike disposition."

"Go on." The pit in my stomach was large enough to fit several levels of Mictlan in by now. I glanced at the guards, thinking we would be rounded up and arrested at any moment – but they stood gaping, watching Pezotic as if trying to make sense of his words.

"What makes a good Revered Speaker, Acatl-tzin?"

I could see only one thing which didn't relate to any of what Pezotic had mentioned before. I said, very slowly, hardly daring to breathe, "The Revered Speaker is the agent of Huitzilpochtli on Earth. He makes sure that we are safe from star-demons and the myriad other creatures trying to overthrow the established order." And, very slowly, because I remembered what someone – Acamapichtli, or perhaps the She-Snake – had once told me. "Tizoctzin doesn't have the Southern Hummingbird's favour. I still can't see–"

"Favour can be gained," Pezotic said, bitterly. "With the proper tools."

"I thought the Southern Hummingbird was weak– Oh." It had been before Axayacatl-tzin's death, and the jeopardy that had ensued.

"Echichilli couldn't give Tizoc-tzin any human support. He was much too honest to bribe or threaten the council, no matter how great his influence with them might have been. But he thought he could plead with a god."

He thought he…

Oh no. But Pezotic was going on, regardless of what discomfort he was causing me; or was he all too aware of it, and glorying in the horror he could see, shocked into every feature of my face?

"Echichilli gathered us all one night, in the Imperial Chambers, the whole council save Tizoc-tzin. He had traced a great glyph on the floor, that of Ollin." Four Movement, the name of the current age. "We all disrobed, and offering priests painted us with tar."

Tar. Boats, Ichtaca had said, but I'd failed to make the logical leap. A boat implied a journey, and not necessarily one contained within the Fifth World.

It had been a slow process – the tar spread over the skin, cutting the flow of air to the body – the hallucinations starting, the feeling of floating above the room and slowly going away, like a flock of birds released into the sky. Pezotic was scarce on details. I guessed he had no wish to remember the whole ordeal. Of all the painful ways to rejoin the world of the gods…

"You didn't know," I said, slowly.

"Not until we came back. But we should have known, shouldn't we?" His voice was bitter. "You can't have that kind of magic. You can't travel into the heartland of the Mexica Empire without sacrifices. And we were the sacrifices."

Oh gods. I had been so wrong about this, from the start. I'd thought the star-demons were summoned by a devotee of She of the Silver Bells, and all the while I had ignored what was staring me in the face. She was trapped under the pyramid of the Great Temple; and the Moon, Her heavenly body, was nothing more than a pale parody of the Sun. She wasn't the one controlling the stardemons, not anymore.

Her brother was.

Huitzilpochtli, the Southern Hummingbird. The youthful, hungry god, dreaming of spilled blood, of row upon row of captives split open and offered up to Him, of barges of tribute following from the five directions of the universe. All that Tizoc-tzin, so wrapped up in his self-aggrandisement, would never be able to give Him.

I closed my eyes. "The embassy failed, didn't it? Huitzilpochtli refused to grant Tizoc-tzin His favour."

"Of course." Pezotic smiled again, and for the first time it eclipsed his fear. "Tizoc-tzin was the only member of the council who didn't come. Of course the future Revered Speaker couldn't be sacrificed like a common victim. And of course Huitzilpochtli didn't like that." He shivered again. He hadn't told me anything of what had gone on in the heartland itself. I wondered what could be more unpleasant than slowly suffocating to death – and decided I could live without knowing.

Tizoc-tzin hadn't come. He hadn't been willing to offer himself up like the others – raw cowardice. I'd never had any personal contact with the Southern Hummingbird, but I could imagine how He would feel about that.

"And the star-demons?"

Pezotic shivered again. "Sacrifices," he said. "Itzpapalotl."

Gods, I could have kicked myself. Itzpapalotl was the Obsidian Butterfly, the living incarnation of a sacrificial knife. And her underlings the star-demons were the same, tools for claiming blood and souls.

It occurred to me that I hadn't heard from the guards in a while; or, indeed, much of anything. I looked back, and wished I hadn't. Teomitl was facing the leader of the warriors, while the other three sat on the ground, looking dazed.

I forced my attention back to Pezotic. "Why come here? It's Fifth Sun territory, isn't it?"

Pezotic shook his head. "Not that. It's the place where order was shaped out of darkness and chaos. The place where the Fifth Sun called the world into being. No destructive influences can come here. I'm safe here." He hugged himself, as if he didn't quite believe it.

"And that's all you know?" I asked, but saw the gleam in his eyes, the unmistakable hints of joy. Something else…

Oh no.

He must have seen the horror dawning in my eyes, the clutch of ice tightening round my heart. "It's not the council that's the problem," I said, slowly. "Their fate is already sealed, the price has already been paid. It's not… " Not the council, but those who had sent them here, those who had to pay for their presumption. Echichilli was dead, and so was Axayacatl-tzin, but there remained the main instigator of all of this, the man to whom the Southern Hummingbird had refused to grant his favour.

The man who, by now, through cajoling and threatening and bribing and the gods knew what else Quenami could come up with, would have been elected Revered Speaker of the Mexica Empire.

I couldn't remember an instance of a Revered Speaker killed within days or hours of being elected. But, the Storm Lord's lightning strike me, I couldn't even dwell on the consequences. If nothing kept the Southern Hummingbird in check, if nothing sheltered us, if we didn't have His favour anymore…

There were dozens of city-states watching us, waiting for any sign of weakness to launch themselves at our throats like vultures finishing off dying animals, to say nothing of the magical consequences…

We had to get back to Tenochtitlan, and fast, before the worst happened.

Sorting out the conflict between Teomitl and the guards was tricky, but not impossible. It did end up with both of us being "escorted" back to Nezahual-tzin, all but prisoners. They grabbed Pezotic, too, in spite of his protestations. He looked even uglier than before, all hunched back on himself like the Aged Fire-God.

"I'm not sure I understand," Teomitl said. They had confiscated his macuahitl sword; and his face was back to normal, although some of the divine light still seemed to be clinging to his features, a fact I'd once have considered as faintly worrying were it not for the urgency gnawing at my entrails like a fanged snake. "You said we had to keep ready for our escape."

"Yes," I said. "But this isn't the point anymore." The point was getting back to Tenochtitlan as fast as we could, and only Nezahual-tzin could ensure that.

I could foresee a long argument, though.

In the courtyard of our residence, Nezahual-tzin was seated cross-legged in the shade by the columns of the porch. He smiled at us when we came in, with a faint hint of irony. "Welcome back. I can see your day has been fruitful."

"Unlike yours," Teomitl snapped.

"Oh, I should say it has been most fruitful indeed." He pointed to Pezotic, and then back to us, neatly grouping us together.

"This can wait," I said. "We have to get back to Tenochtitlan as soon as possible."

"I don't see why." Nezahual-tzin looked puzzled. "There's hardly anything that would –"

"Tell him," I said to Pezotic. He shook his head, refusing to meet my gaze. Fine. I could do the telling myself.

It was a long story, but Nezahual-tzin didn't interrupt me once. Neither did Teomitl, although his face grew darker and darker as I progressed.

"You're sure about this?" Nezahual-tzin asked, to my welcome surprise. I'd expected him to protest or argue with the same usual enigmatic expression on his face. Instead, he unfolded his lanky frame, and walked closer to Pezotic, who all but hung between two of the warriors like a children's boneless doll. He studied the man for a while. I couldn't see his expression, but I knew he'd be showing nothing of what he felt.

"I won't ask you whether this is true." There was an edge of contempt to his voice I'd never heard before. "Seeing that you'd probably twist the truth any way you saw fit. This is your source, Acatl?"

I nodded. Nezahual-tzin turned back to me. "And you trust him."

"Not at all," I said. "I wish I could discard everything he's told me. But it fits the facts all too well."

Nezahual-tzin cursed under his breath. "I don't see how getting to Tenochtitlan is going to improve matters."

"If we can arrive before Tizoc-tzin is formally invested…" Before they finished the ritual, cemented the link between the Revered Speaker and Huitzilpochtli.

Nezahual-tzin shook his head. "Not going to happen." He raised his gaze heavenwards; his eyes rolled up, revealing the whiteness of nacre. Neither Teomitl or I said anything, all the pawns were on the board now, all the bean dice thrown down, and all that remained to see was how we'd move.

After a while, Nezahual-tzin said, "I still don't see what we can do about it, but you're right. Being at the centre of things is the most important matter right now. We can argue over what to do when we get there."

He looked young and bewildered, an unsettling reminder that, like Teomitl, he was about half my age. For all their connections with their patron gods and goddesses, they had power, but not the wisdom that came with living.

But nevertheless they were my only allies, and the only hope of staving off the Southern Hummingbird's anger.

I caught up to Teomitl on the way to the boats. "You're intending to summon the ahuizotls again." A statement, not a question.

"Yes. It's the only way we'll go back to Tenochtitlan in less than a day." He looked at me, curiously. "Why do you ask?"

I bit my lips, hating what I was about to say. I should have been ruthless, caring for nothing else but the survival of the Fifth World. But– "Last time exhausted you far more than normal. You can't–"

"I know how far I can take it," Teomitl said. "Don't mother me, please, Acatl-tzin. This isn't the time."

"We might not have time any more, anyway," I said. "Nezahualtzin is right. We might not make a difference."

"We might not. And we might. I'll take that chance. If we don't believe in ourselves, who is going to?"

Even with such grave dangers hovering over our heads, he was still unchanged, still holding himself to exacting standards, still trusting in me as his teacher. "I don't know." It occurred to me that there might not be much more I could teach him, not anymore.

"Then let me try. Or I'll feel I've done nothing useful."

"You've done plenty. I'm the one–"

Teomitl shook his head. "You and Nezahual-tzin are going to be sitting in that boat, working out a way to salvage what we can out of this situation." He smiled, utterly confident, though I could still see the darkness in his eyes. "I'm sure we'll manage."

I hoped so. But I couldn't find anything like his confidence in myself, and by Nezahual-tzin's sombre demeanour I could tell he didn't have any, either.

Somehow I doubted Teomitl's enthusiasm was going to be enough for all of us.

TWENTY-ONE

The Lord of Men

The journey back seemed to take the whole of an age. Teomitl was at the prow, growing paler and paler; Nezahual-tzin by my side, looking thoughtfully into the water, his group of warriors at our back scowling at us, and the shores of Lake Texcoco never seemed to be growing closer. Before us was Nezahualcoyotl's Dyke. Once there, we would be almost in Tenochtitlan; but it remained a thin grey line against the clear blue skies, never solidifying into anything familiar.

We had left Pezotic under guard in Teotihuacan. As Nezahualtzin had put it, he couldn't bring much in the way of proof, and he would have been a decidedly unpleasant travel companion.

"You know," Nezahual-tzin said, thoughtfully, "I probably won't be any more welcome in Tenochtitlan than you."

What – oh, the arrest. I stared at my hand again, at the mark there that seemed burnt into it, remembering the wet, unpleasant feel of saliva running down my chin and neck. "I know," I said. It shouldn't have mattered. I was High Priest for the Dead; I kept the Fifth World in balance with the heavens and the underworld. I was not supposed to matter this much.

But neither was Quenami, and he acted as though he did, taking charge over us all, steering the Empire in the direction of his personal gain. Acamapichtli was annoying and arrogant, but at least he was honest about his motivations. Quenami would smile and make it seem as though everything would work out in the end for the best.

Which, clearly, it wasn't going to.

"Acamapichtli could help us," I said.

"The High Priest of the Storm Lord?" Nezahual-tzin looked sceptical.

I couldn't help feeling the same way. Granted, Acamapichtli had helped me escape, but he had done so for his personal gain. And, like Quenami, he believed we would pull through with the blessing of the gods, forgetting that it was human sweat and human blood which kept the Fifth Sun in the sky and Grandmother Earth giving forth maize. The gods were no longer the keepers of the universe: They had relinquished that right and duty along with Their ultimate sacrifice, and even my patron god, Mictlantecuhtli, Lord Death, was nothing more than a corpse under a shrine. "I don't like it," I said, finally. "But we don't have much choice."

"True." Nezahual-tzin looked up. The sky overhead was blue and clear, but the stars shone, hundreds, thousands of malevolent eyes waiting for an opening. A thin veil of clearer blue marked the boundary of the Duality's protection. "Whatever you did to slow them down–"

The ritual with Teomitl and Mihmatini. "I thought it would keep She of the Silver Bells out of the Fifth World," I said.

"Yes," Nezahual-tzin. "That's not the question."

My cheeks burnt with embarrassment, or anger. I wasn't quite sure how to react to a fifteen-year-old who acted as though he was my mentor. Did he have so much knowledge, or was he just pretending? "The Duality is the source and arbiter of all gods. The Southern Hummingbird falls under Their purview as well."

"Meaning it will work?"

"Meaning I don't know how long it will hold. But yes, it should work."

I hoped so. It was a little more complex than what I'd told Nezahual-tzin. If Pezotic had told the truth – and much as I would have liked to, I couldn't doubt him – then the deaths of the councilmen were sacrifices. The spell for which they'd given their lives, the journey into Huitzilpochtli's heartland, had already taken place; now the price for it had to be paid. The balance had to be kept. The intrusion of the star-demons into the Fifth World was no worse than that of the Wind of Knives dispensing justice in the name of the underworld. That was why the star-demons had so easily penetrated the palace wards, for it wasn't a summoning, merely a counterbalance mechanism.

The irony was that the one thing we had achieved so far – extending the protection of the Duality – was preventing only one thing, the murder of Tizoc-tzin, the one thing I could, perversely, almost look forward to.

Nezahual-tzin sighed. "Not much of a plan."

"All we have." I looked at Teomitl, who stood rigid at the prow. The dark shapes of the ahuizotls were under the keel and beside it, a spine-tingling escort I could have done without. Ahead, the dyke seemed to have grown slightly larger, but the sun was past its zenith, and plunging towards the murky waters of the lake.

There was still time. There had to be.

We passed the dyke without trouble, and soon found ourselves navigating the canals on the outskirts of Tenochtitlan. As we left the vicinity of the Floating Gardens and found ourselves in the city itself, it soon became clear that something was wrong. The canals should have been bustling with activity, from merchants to waterpeddlers, from noblemen being ferried to their friends' houses to priests on errands – but there was none of this. Just the gates of houses, closed against the heat, the boats still at their anchor, bobbing on the rhythm of some huge, unseen breath, the sunlight shimmering in and out of focus on the water like a god's smile.

"We're too late," Teomitl said. He'd let go of the ahuizotls, which we'd assumed would attract too much attention, and was sitting against the prow, breathing heavily.

"That's not possible," Nezahual-tzin said.

Teomitl's eyes narrowed in anger, and then he rested his back against the reeds of the boat wearily. "Do you see any other reason why no one would be here? They're burying Axayacatl, that's what they're doing. If we're lucky. If not, the council has already started debating."

The debates were a matter of form, the real persuasion and ritual preparation having taken place beforehand. Teomitl was right, we were late.

"I'm calling the ahuizotls back," Teomitl said.

"No," I said, at the same time as Nezahual-tzin.

He looked at us, defiantly. "You have a better solution?"

"We'll be at the Sacred Precinct before you know it," I said. "And it's going to be packed with people." And the canals around it, in all likelihood.

"We're–" Teomitl started.

"I know. We're late. That's not the point." As if to prove me that someone, somewhere, was listening, we turned one more canal, straight into the largest mass of boats I had ever seen, a sea of vibrant colours, of flower garlands and feather-fans. The air smelled of incense and pine essence; the streets were packed with a tight mass of people, laughing and jostling each other, all wearing the colourful clothes of festivals.

Teomitl cursed under his breath. His gaze roamed from the boats, so close together they seemed an extension of the land, to the crowd on the nearby street. "Let's get out."

"On foot?" Nezahual-tzin said, but Teomitl was already leaping from boat to boat, elbowing his way through the crowd with the thoughtless arrogance of the noble-born. He was hard to refuse when he got that way, the gods knew I'd experienced it often enough.

Nezahual-tzin threw me a glance, hoping, I guessed, that I would contradict my hot-blooded student. But, much as I hated to admit it, Teomitl was right. There was no way we would manage to get a long, pointed reed boat through that kind of jam.

Not being as athletic as Teomitl, I disembarked and pushed my way through the crowd on land instead. I didn't have my High Priest regalia anymore, but my grey cloak, embroidered with owls, still marked me as a Priest for the Dead, and Nezahual-tzin and his warriors acted with enough arrogance to part the crowd. Together, we elbowed our way through the throng, into street after street filled with people. I had never seen so many. The gates of houses were open, and the courtyards full, the streets jammed, the boats on the canals so close we couldn't see the water any more. I could hear drums and the plaintive sounds of flutes, and shell-conches, blown in the distance like a call for the Fifth Sun to rise.

I could see the stars too, could feel the pressure above us, like a giant hand pushing through thin cotton, the cloth drawn taut, on the edge of tearing itself apart. It would hold, I'd told Nezahualtzin, but I wasn't so sure any more.

The crowds got worse as we approached the Sacred Precinct, men and women brandished worship-thorns stained with blood, held up their children, grinning and laughing, priests played drums and flutes, shouting their hymns to be heard over the din.

Nezahual-tzin grabbed my cloak. "Where?" he asked. "You're the local."

I almost snapped back that I hadn't been there for the previous imperial funeral, and that as Revered Speaker of Texcoco he had to know as well, but then memory flooded in, almost at an instinctive level. "They'll start at the temple for the Dead, where the High Priest of Lord Death will formally relinquish Axayacatl's body over to…" I paused. The rest depended on which god was watching over Axayacatl, whether he would be buried under the auspices of Tlaloc or Huitzilpochtli. Most emperors chose Huitzilpochtli, since the Southern Hummingbird was the most important god of the Empire. But Axayacatl meant "water face", and he had been born under Tlaloc's sign. "I don't know," I said at last. "But they'll be heading to the Great Temple anyway."

"Hmm."

I pushed my way closer to the Serpent Wall and used one of the friezes to gain some height over the crowd, whispering an apology to Quetzalcoatl the Feathered Serpent for defacing His effigies. Through the mass of headdresses and coloured garments I could make out the wake of the procession, a slightly emptier space that people were just starting to fill in again. They were almost at the stairs of the Great Temple.

"Let's go," I said. The smaller empty space in front of us could only be Teomitl, he would arrive ahead of us, but not by much.

I was almost at the Great Temple, close enough to see the priests gathered on the bloodied steps, and Acamapichtli and Quenami up there with the rest of the council, when the wards caved in.

Darkness descended across the Sacred Precinct as surely as if a cloth had been thrown over the Fifth Sun; for a moment – a bare, agonising moment of stillness – everything hung in silence, and I allowed myself to believe, for a fleeting heartbeat, that Teomitl was right, that Acamapichtli was right and that we would survive this as we had survived everything since the beginning of the Empire.

And then the stars fell.

One by one they streaked towards the Fifth World, leaving a trail of fire in their wake, growing larger and larger, pinpoints of light becoming the eyes of monsters, becoming the joints on skeletal limbs, becoming small specks scattered across the dark-blue skirts of stardemons as they plummeted towards the Great Temple.

I heard screams, but I was already running, elbowing my way through the press of bewildered warriors. I turned briefly to see if Nezahual-tzin was following, but could see nothing but a heaving sea of headdresses and garlands.

Most of the crowd ahead of me was going in the opposite direction, away from the star-demons, and soon it was impossible for me to move at all, pressing against the current. As they flowed around me, I reached out for one of my obsidian knives. I brought it up in a practised gesture, and, rubbing my own warm blood against my forehead, whispered a small invocation to Lord Death. The cold of the underworld spread from the sign, and the press around me grew a little less dense. I pushed and pulled. I had to get there, had to warn Acamapichtli before it was too late, had to…

Faces frozen in grimaces of fear, my elbows connecting with someone's chest, sending them tumbling to the ground, someone pushing back at me, me, stumbling, catching myself just in time, screams and moans, and the sour, sickly smell of fear mingling with that of blood.

I was on the steps of the Great Temple, looking up into the faces of two Jaguar Knights. "The She-Snake–" I breathed, every syllable like fire in my throat. "Get… the She-Snake…"

When they turned to look at the twin altars above us, I ran. The fire in my lungs spread to my midriff, and then to my legs and feet until everything burned, but I pushed on. They must have been going after me, too, but the aura of the underworld around me would be slowing them down, I hoped, they must be…

And then, abruptly, the Fifth Sun was back, beating on my exposed back like the wrath of the gods. I cleared the last of the stairs, stumbled, out of breath, almost into the arms of another Jaguar Knight, who made no move to support me, or even raise his macuahitl sword against me. What…

The world lurched back into sharp, painful focus, like a blow to the face, the limestone platform and its two altars was slick with blood, overflowing in the grooves. Darker masses punctuated the white stone, slumped in the unmistakable stillness of death. Further away, at the entrance to the leftmost shrine… I walked on, slipping several times in the mass of blood, more spilled power than I had ever seen, and yet curiously dry and empty, offered up to no god, sacrifices that had already taken place, prices that had already been paid, without meaning or magic within.

Several people stood in the doorway – the quetzal-feather headdress of Quenami, the heron-plumes of Acamapichtli, the unrelieved black tunic of the She-Snake, and Teomitl, breathing heavily with his hands on his knees, shock etched on every feature of his face.

Across the threshold was a last, bloody mass, and even from where I was I could see the Turquoise-and-Gold crown, its radiance washed away by the gore, lying forlorn and scattered, the discarded remnants of a man who'd believed himself destined to rule us all.

Tizoc-tzin – invested Revered Speaker of the Mexica Empire, Lord of Men, the Southern Hummingbird's agent in this world – was dead, and we were as children lost in the wild, teetering on the edge of utter extinction.

TWENTY-TWO

Sacrifice

I could tell that Quenami was none too pleased to see me. By the frown on his face, he was currently debating how best to proceed with my arrest.

We all stood on the wide platform of the Great Temple, in the middle of two altar-stones encrusted with blood. On the right hand side was the shrine of Huitzilpochtli, painted the colour of blood, with carved skulls on the mantel above the door; on the left hand side, the shrine of Tlaloc, with a simple vertical pattern carved in green. Everything seemed deserted, only a handful of people amidst all that blood, the pitiful few living among the dead.

Acamapichtli's eyes flicked from Tizoc-tzin to me, and then to Quenami. "Don't be a fool," he snarled. "At least, not a bigger one than you've already been."

"He… " Quenami said. "He killed…"

How dare he accuse me of that? "You did that yourself," I said. "You and your schemes to put an unworthy man on the throne." I turned to the She-Snake, who was watching me with an ironic smile on his face, possibly the only person on the whole platform who seemed somewhat happy to see me. "Please tell me that he hadn't been crowned."

The She-Snake shook his head. His gaze was expressionless, as if the slickness, the animal smell of the blood around him didn't matter at all. "That was his dearest wish, the one for which he had sacrificed everything. Did you think he wouldn't put on the Turquoise-and-Gold Crown as soon as he was able to?"

I didn't know. I couldn't think. I could just stare at the damage, at the sky above us, and the lack of anything to protect us any more. In the space of days we'd lost two Revered Speakers, the last one killed by the god Himself, the god who had now withdrawn His protection from us.

Absurdly, incongruously, I remembered a time a year ago, when the Storm Lord had attempted to seize power, when I'd sat in Ceyaxochitl's temple and wondered whether Tlaloc's rule would be any more gentle than the Southern Hummingbird's. I'd said no. I'd believed the Old Ones, the gods of the corn and of the rain, would be worse than the Southern Hummingbird.

But now, standing on this platform where the whole council had just died, under the warm, merciless gaze of the Fifth Sun, I couldn't be so sure anymore.

If Acamapichtli saw what was going through my mind, he said nothing of it.

Footsteps echoed beside me. Nezahual-tzin, out of breath, had just finished crossing the platform. He leant against the largest altarstone, the one dedicated to the Southern Hummingbird, his eyes rolling up, shifting to the white of nacre. No-one paid him more than a cursory glance. My stomach lurched, and I fought off a wave of unease. I felt like a fisherman's boat adrift in a storm, the shore masked by veils of rain and fog, and no other landmarks than the heaving waves rising to drown me. Nothing was right, not anymore.

"There has to be something we can do," I said. "Something to–"

"Crowning a new Revered Speaker would take days. There's nothing we can do, not in so little time." Quenami looked at Tizoctzin's body, the flesh of his face heaving up as if he was about to retch. "Nothing, Acatl. We played and lost."

You played and lost, the Storm Lord's Lightning strike you. Your own fault…

No. No. That wasn't the way forward. I needed to think, to find a solution.

But I had spent most of the journey to Tenochtitlan trying to think of precisely that, and found nothing.

"I fail to see the difficulty." Acamapichtli's voice was harsh and cruelly amused.

"He can send the star-demons any time–" Teomitl started.

"Silence, whelp," Acamapichtli snapped.

Teomitl's face contorted. "You–"

"I am High Priest of the Storm Lord." Light was coalescing around him, a soft grey radiance like a torch seen through the gloom. "One of the three highest powers in the Mexica Empire."

"You're nothing."

"Teomitl!" I snapped. "Now isn't the time. What do you see that's so amusing, Acamapichtli?"

He smiled again. "As I said. I fail to see the difficulty. The Southern Hummingbird has withdrawn His favour from the Mexica Empire, and taken the life of our Revered Speaker into His lands. All we have to do is convince Him to relent."

Convince Him to– "You're mad," I said. Even a hint of the heartland had been enough to tear me to pieces; surely he wasn't suggesting that we go down into it. "He's a war god. They're not known for their forgiveness." Not many gods were, to be honest, but I very much doubted the Southern Hummingbird had any mercy at all.

"It's not forgiveness. It would be in His best interests." He said it as though it was just a matter of strolling into a garden to speak with a senile relative. And, with a stomach-churning flip, I saw that Quenami's head had snapped up, like that of a man being offered a lifeline.

"It wouldn't achieve anything," I said.

Acamapichtli laughed, a hollow, mirthless sound that grated on my nerves. "We're the high priests of the Mexica Empire, the keepers of the universe's order. If there is a chance, any chance, that we can achieve something, shouldn't we try?"

He'd have had a point, I might have felt shamed, even, if he hadn't been spending so much of his time angling for personal gain. "You've both taken far too many risks with the Empire as it is."

"They might have," the She-Snake's voice was deceptively soft. "But still… Quenami?"

Quenami had risen, his face turned away from the bloody mass on the threshold, his eyes narrowed to give him the air of a vulture considering a kill. "Acamapichtli is right. There is still a chance."

"You tried this once," Teomitl said, taking the words from my mouth. "Remember, when you sacrificed the whole council as a price of passage? It didn't work."

I should have been arguing with them. But, as time passed, I found myself more and more ill at ease, nausea welling up in my gut, a strange, acrid taste filling my throat and mouth, as if I were going to retch. Unsteadily, I walked to Tizoc-tzin's remains, and, laying my hand in the warm blood, whispered the first words of a litany for the Dead, the familiar words a reassuring anchor to the Fifth World.

"We leave this earth

This world of jade and flowers

The quetzal feathers, the silver…"

I was on the floor, doubled over in pain The She-Snake's face loomed over me, swimming out of the darkness, mouthing words I could barely make out, something about funeral rites and evening falling…

"Acatl-tzin?"

I could feel it, the growing hole in the Fifth World, the yawning chasm waiting to devour us all – darkness and fire and blood, and everything out of kilter, everything as wrong as flowers in the underworld.

"Acatl-tzin!!" Hands steadied me as I rose. Teomitl, his face distorted by fear.

"It's nothing," I said. Acamapichtli was watching me with an ironic smile, and now that I knew how to look for it, I saw the slight tremor of his hands, the grimace of pain on Quenami's features, swiftly hidden as he turned his gaze away from me.

"You're right," I said, each word coming out like a stone, cold and heavy on my lips. "We need to go into the heartland."

"You said–"

I pulled myself up, fighting another wave of nausea. "I know what I said. But Acamapichtli is right, it's going to get worse un less we do something. The Fifth World is stretched to breaking point already."

Teomitl's lips worked soundlessly for a while. "Then I'm coming with you."

"You're not. There has been enough imperial blood shed as it is."

Teomitl's eyes narrowed. "And what will you do when you're in the heartland, Acatl-tzin? Someone needs to plead Tizoc's case. Someone needs to make apologies. I'm his brother." He said it simply, with no arrogance, and yet it carried an authority worthy of a Revered Speaker.

"You're my student," I said. "I can't…" I stopped. We'd already had this conversation so many times. Ceyaxochitl had been right, he was an adult, and this was his own family at stake, and the Empire he might one day rule. I couldn't keep him forever. "It's not my decision to make."

"Then I'll come." His smile was like a rising sun, the same one, I thought with a pang of regret, he had displayed when I'd taken him as a student and given him permission to court my sister.

"You should take me as well." In the gloom, Nezahual-tzin's skin shone the same milky colour as his eyes, and the mane of the Feathered Serpent spread around him like a cloak.

"Out of the question," Quenami snapped. "This is a desperate attempt, not a wedding banquet."

Nezahual-tzin's eyes narrowed. "I am the representative of Texcoco, and wield the Feathered Serpent's magic in the Fifth World. Do you think it's wise to set me aside?"

"You're also under suspicion of interference in Mexica affairs," Quenami said. "And there's nothing we want of the Feathered Serpent now."

Oh, but we did: knowledge and safety, and compassion, all that gods like the Southern Hummingbird or the Storm Lord would never understand. But, nevertheless, there were far too many of us as it was, and this didn't concern Nezahual-tzin any more.

"I don't make it a habit to offer advice," Acamapichtli said, "but I'd follow Quenami's lead, if I were you. This is a Mexica problem."

Nezahual-tzin's white gaze moved up, towards the heavens. "Not any more."

"Then we'll need you here," I said. "To hold things together." I didn't say "if we fail", but the words hung in the air all the same.

Nezahual-tzin grimaced.

"There are far too many of us going to the slaughter as it is," I said.

He wavered, looking at me and Quenami and Acamapichtli, and at the She-Snake, who had remained silent all the while. "I suppose." He didn't sound as if he believed much of it.

"Then it's settled." Quenami looked at us as if we were foolish subordinates, and I fought an urge to strangle him. "Shall we go?"

I'd expected Quenami to take us to the Imperial Chambers, the place where the council's journey had started. But instead, he took us downwards, to the small room under the pyramid where She of the Silver Bells was still imprisoned.

"There's a wound in the Fifth World," Acamapichtli said, almost conversationally. He'd changed out of his finery, into clothes sober enough to belong to a peasant, though he still bore himself regally enough to be Emperor. "The star-demons come here to drag souls back to their master. The door's been thrown open, which makes it much easier to reach on our side." He sounded amused. "A good thing. Sacrificing two dozen people for this would have taken too much time."

And been a waste. I bit down on a sarcastic comment, and rubbed instead the amulet around my neck, a small silver spider blessed by Mictlantecuhtli, with the characteristic cold, stretchedout touch of Lord Death and of Mictlan. I'd sent to my temple to retrieve it rather than trust Acamapichtli to provide me with one.

Quenami was going around the room, around the huge disk that featured the dismembered goddess, mumbling under his breath, dipping his hands into the blood that dripped down from the altars high above us. The air shimmered with power, and a palpable rage, a deep-seated desire to rend us all into shreds, a feeling I wasn't sure any more whether to attribute to She of the Silver Bells or to Her brother, the Southern Hummingbird.

"Here is what we're going to do," Quenami said at last, turning back towards us. "You'll stand here in the circle, and not move until this is over."

Acamapichtli shrugged in a decidedly contemptuous way, and moved to stand on the stone disk, right over the torso of the goddess. Teomitl, who had remained uncharacteristically silent the entire time, moved to join him. Something shifted as they crossed the boundary of the disk – a change in the light or some indefinable quality that made their faces appear harsher, closer to stone than to flesh.

When I stepped onto the stone I felt a resistance, like the crossing of a veil, and my skin started to itch as if thousands of insects were attacking me. The pendant around my neck became warmer, pulsing slowly like the heart of a dying man.

Quenami was on his knees, smoothing out the blood to create a line around the stone circle. Unlike Acamapichtli he still had his full regalia, the yellow feathers of his headdress bobbing up and down as he worked, the deep blue of his cloak in stark contrast to the blood dripping in the grooves and pooling in the hollows of the disk.

"Feathers were given, they are scattering

The war cry was heard… Ea, ea!

But I am blind, I am deaf

In filth I have lived out my life…"

The blood spread, slowly covering the distorted features of the goddess until nothing was left. Under our feet the earth trembled, once, twice, and a deep, huge heartbeat echoed under the stone ceiling, growing faster and faster with every word Quenami spoke.

"The war cry was heard…. Ea, ea!

Take me into Yourself

Give me Your wonder, Your glory

Lord of Men, the mirror, the torch, the light…"

Quenami withdrew to the centre of the disk, still chanting. In his hands he held a small maize dough figure of a man which he carefully laid on the ground. Blood surged up to cover it from the legs up, as if sucked into the flesh. Quenami withdrew and the manikin seemed, for a brief moment, to dance in time with the quivering all around us, standing on tottering, reddening legs before the pressure became too much, and it flew apart in a splatter of red dough.

"With blood, with heads

With hearts, with lives

With precious stones

In the service of Your glory…"

And then, as abruptly as a cut breath, we were no longer alone. Itzpapalotl, the Obsidian Butterfly, stood in the centre of the room at an equal distance from each of us, huge and dark and towering, Her clawed hands curled up. Her wings spread out behind Her, glinting, hungry angles and planes, all shining with the blood She had shed.

"What a pleasant surprise." Itzpapalotl's voice was low-pitched, strong enough to start an uncontrollable shiver in my chest. The itch on my skin redoubled in intensity, until it was all I could do not to scratch myself to the blood. "Three high priests and a Master of the House of Darts, all for myself." She smiled. Her teeth were obsidian knives, glinting in the dim light, their edges stained with blood.

"I'm not Master of the House of Darts," Teomitl said.

She smiled again, held his gaze until he started to shake. "You will be, soon."

Quenami threw Teomitl an irate glance, and launched into another incantation. "O Itzpapalotl, Obsidian Butterfly, Goddess of War and Sacrifice. We come before you as supplicants."

Acamapichtli snorted, and I bit back a sarcastic remark. Even when summoning gods, Quenami was his old pompous self, as if it would make Her more likely to heed him. She was a goddess, and Her whims and desires would rule Her far more effectively than any human.

Itzpapalotl cocked her head, staring at Quenami as one might stare at an insect. "Supplicants? It's not often that I have those." Her eyes, the two small yellow ones in her face, and all those scattered across Her joints, opened and closed, and She made a noise which might have been a contented sigh. "Unless pleading for their lives."

To his credit, Quenami did not let that slow him down. "We have need to enter the lands you guard."

"I should imagine." Her smile was malicious, but she said nothing more. Silence stretched across the room, broken only by the dripping sound of blood as it ran down from the altar platform, high above us.

"Will you let us pass?" I asked, slowly.

Her gaze turned to me, held me transfixed until a tremor started in my hand. I felt a pressure in my head, as if someone were driving a nail between my eyes, my heartbeat became distant and far too quick. "Will I?" Itzpapalotl asked. "I should think… Not."

"There is need–" Quenami started, but She laughed, a harsh, scraping sound like stone on stone that drowned the rest of his sentence.

"You mortals are so amusing. There is always need."

She was Goddess of War and Sacrifice, the altar on which warriors were destined to die, the blade that would cut hearts from living bodies. I dragged my voice from where it had fled. "What is your price?"

Her smile would have sent a grown man into fits if She hadn't been half-turned away from us, looking at the disk and the dismembered limbs under Her feet. "The price of passage. You're a canny one, for a priest."

"Everything requires sacrifice," I said, slowly. I shouldn't have been the one doing this, the one giving Her obedience and proper offerings. I was a priest for the Dead, and She was out of my purview.

"Sacrifice." She rolled the word on Her tongue, inhaling once or twice like a man enjoying a pipe of tobacco. The eyes on Her joints opened larger, their pupils reduced to vertical slits. "Yes. Sacrifice."

I said, haltingly:

"I will offer You sheathes of corn taken from the Divine Fields

Lady of the Knife

Ears of maize, freshly cut, green and tender

I will anoint You with new plumes, new chalks

The hearts of two deer

The blood of eagles…"

She listened to the hymn, nodding Her monstrous head in time with my inflections, Her lips shining dark red under the obsidian of Her teeth. But when I was done, She shook Her head, in a fluid, inhuman gesture; and the itch on my skin grew stronger, as if hundreds of ants were climbing up from the ground.

"You take living blood," Quenami said. It sounded almost like an accusation.

"There are – other sacrifices. More potent ones."

"A human heart?" Acamapichtli looked around him, at us all, as if pondering who would resist him least.

"You wouldn't dare." Teomitl's hands tightened.

"For the Fifth World?" Acamapichtli spread his own empty hands, a pose of mock weakness that fooled no one. "You'd be surprised what I can do."

"Fools." Itzpapalotl's voice echoed under the ceiling, coming back to us distorted and amplified, as if a thousand star-demons were speaking. "Grandmother Earth wants to be watered with blood, to replenish what She lost when the gods tore Her apart to make the world. The Fifth Sun feeds on human hearts, for His own crinkled and died in the fires of His birth. I…" She laughed, and the sound sent me down on my knees with my hands going up, as if it would diminish the sensation of my ears tearing apart. "I am what I always was, and I only take what pleases Me."

I stared at the floor, at the outline of She of the Silver Bells, blurred and distorted. "What… is it… that pleases You?" Beyond me, I could see just enough to know that everyone else was on their knees.

She laughed again. I managed to drag my gaze upwards, to see her move, come to stand before Quenami. "A true sacrifice, something that will be missed."

The price of passage, determined by a goddess' whims. My chest felt too tight to breathe. What would she ask for?

She moved faster than a warrior's strike – reaching out in one fluid gesture, towards Quenami, hoisting him up in the air as if he weighed nothing and enfolding him in the embrace of Her wings. The jagged obsidian shards seemed to open up like cruel flowers, and swallowed him whole. There was a brief splatter of blood, and then he was gone without so much as a whimper.

Somehow, that made it worse.

Itzpapalotl turned to us, considering. "From him, I have taken my price. Now…" She'd have looked like a peasant's wife at the marketplace, considering whether to buy tomatoes or squashes if she hadn't been so large, Her features too angular and too huge to be human, Her eyes deep pits into which we all endlessly fell.

She lunged towards Acamapichtli before any of us could move. Teomitl, the faster among us, was only half-rising from his kneeling stance, but Acamapichtli was taken and gone before we could stop Her.

And then there were only the two of us remaining. The goddess stared between us, for a moment that seemed to stretch on forever, and then….

I had a vague impression of speed, of something huge pulling at my body – not strongly, but with a dogged persistence that would never stop come fire or blood. The itch flared up, engulfed me in flames, and there was the face of the goddess, looming up amidst a headdress that wasn't feathers or gold, but hundreds, thousands of obsidian knives, her eyes yellow stars that opened up to fill the whole sky.

I landed with a thud on something hard. The pain and the itches were gone. When I pulled myself up shaking I saw a land that seemed to stretch on forever, scorched and blasted. Overhead hung two huge globes of fire – I couldn't stare at them long, for my eyes burnt as if someone had thrown chilli powder in them – and the ground under my feet was dry and cracked, an old woman's skin. No–

The cracks weren't just superficial: they crisscrossed the whole of the land, went in deep. The ground wasn't cracked, it was broken.

"It has been broken for a long time," Itzpapalotl said, beside me.

She stood at my side, looking much as She had in the Great Temple. We were the only two living beings in this place. I couldn't see either of the other two priests, or even Teomitl. "What is this place?" I asked.

"The first sacrifice." She smiled. "The greatest."

"The Fifth Sun…"

A low growl came up. Startled, I realised it was coming from the earth itself.

"Oh, priest." She shook her head. "For all your knowledge, you're still such a fool. In the beginning of time, the Feathered Serpent and the Smoking Mirror fought the Earth Monster, and broke Her body into four hundred pieces. To appease Her, the gods promised Her blood and human hearts, enough to sate any of Her appetites. Do you not hear Her, at night, endlessly crying for the meal She was promised?"

Grandmother Earth. But She had never been… She was remorseless and pitiless, but She wasn't a monster. She wasn't against the gods. "I didn't know–"

"You mortals are very clever at rewriting what was," Itzpapalotl said. "And the Southern Hummingbird even more so."

A chill ran though me. "You don't serve Him–"

"I am His slave." She smiled again, like a caged beast, waiting for its time to strike. "But even that will end, someday. Enough talk. It's time for your sacrifice, priest."

"I don't understand–" In my hands lay my obsidian knives, and my amulet – and there was something else, a sense of absence, as if a part of me were missing.

Her voice was almost gentle. "This was what you brought, to fight your way to the god. Set it aside."

"But I can't –"

"Then you won't pass."

"What about the others?" I asked.

"They all made a sacrifice, according to their natures and their beings. Now it is your turn, priest."

Without them, I would be naked in the heartland, worse than that, a dead man walking with no protection that would keep the magic of the Southern Hummingbird from destroying me. It would be like the imperial jails, only a thousand times worse.

Without this…

I thought of Acamapichtli, of what he had said about risks and acceptable sacrifices. The Duality curse the man, he was right, and admitting it cost me.

"Take them," I said.

Her hands became a round ball of grass, into which my obsidian knives slid, one by one. The amulet went last, hissing as it went in. The grass turned a dull red, the colour of fresh blood, and something ached within me, more subtle than the pain of slashed earlobes or pierced tongue: a sense that I was no longer whole, no longer surrounded by protection.

She parted Her hands again and they seemed different than they had been before, more sharply defined, the obsidian a ittle less hungry. "Pass, priest," She said.

There was a gate, by Her side, a half-circle of painfully bright light, as if a piece of the sun had descended into this strange world. It flickered, and grew dimmer, until I could stare into its depths, and catch a glimpse of lakes, and verdant knolls dotted by houses of adobe.

I walked up to it. My body shook, and I couldn't command it properly. My whole sense of equilibrium seemed to have been skewed, my perception of myself no longer accurate.

What had She taken from me?

The light grew bright again as I crossed, searing me to the bone. Before I had time to cry out, it was over, leaving me with nothing more than a slightly painful tingle all over. I was kneeling in a circle traced on grass, the blood that had been filling it slowly draining away, sinking back into the mud. Then the circle was gone, and I stood in the middle of grass and reeds, under a sky so blue it was almost painful, with a gentle breeze caressing my skin.

"Acatl?"

It was Quenami, but I hardly recognised him. His hair was dishevelled, his face stained by mud, his finery all gone, replaced by the torn loincloth of a peasant, his gilded sandals faded and broken. There was nothing left of the authority he'd effortlessly commanded.

"Where is–" I started, but then saw Acamapichtli lying at his feet in a widening pool of blood. I hobbled closer. The feeling of something missing receding as I breathed in the air of the heartland. It was warm and pleasant, though I wasn't fooled. It would gradually wear me down, as it had done in the imperial jails.

Acamapichtli looked as if he had been mauled. Streaks of red ran down his arms and his back, lying parallel to each other, like the wheals of a whip, or the claws of some huge feline. His clothes were tatters, heavy with the blood he was losing. Mud had seeped into his feet, as if he had been running barefoot in a swamp.

I looked up at Quenami, but saw nothing over me but the face of a frightened peasant. "The Duality take you!" I snapped. "We need cloth. Is there anything out there that can help us?"

"We're alone, Acatl." Quenami's voice quavered, but he finally controlled it, coming back to some of his usual smoothness. "No villages or any habitation I can see."

Stifling a curse, I took off my cloak and tore it to make bandages. With the help of Quenami, we managed to bind the worst wounds. If only we'd had maguey sap, or dayflower to cleanse them with. A pity Teomitl–

Teomitl? I looked around me, and saw, as Quenami said, nothing but the blades of grass around us, and a hill rising above us. "Where is Teomitl?"

"I don't know." Quenami finished binding the last of Acamapichtli's wounds, his distaste for such a menial task evident on his face. "I was the first here, and then you came one after the other. But since then–"

Since then, nothing. I could hear Itzpapalotl's laughter in my mind as she took my knives and my amulet, all the things I'd been counting on to fight my way to the god.

And I'd been counting on Teomitl's magic, too. That was what I'd been missing since the start.

"He won't come," I said. I didn't know if it was part of my sacrifice, or if it was the thing She'd asked of him in exchange for our safe passage. But he wasn't there, and that was what mattered. I hoped he was safe. I hoped She had not taken his life, or even a small part of him, as a price in Her games. But I couldn't be sure, and there was no point in regrets or fear; not now, not here. It was too late for that, the game was set, and we would have to play it to the end.

I knelt and lifted Acamapichtli. He was heavier than I thought, his limbs unresponsive, continually sliding out of my grasp. Carefully I slung him over my back, and wrapped his arms around my shoulders. It was the best I could do, on my own.

Quenami had been watching me all the while. "He's not coming? But–"

"I know," I said. And, without looking back, I set out towards the top of the hill – unprotected and unwarded, alone with a wounded man and a coward – knowing that each moment that passed brought me closer to unconsciousness.

I could have spared a prayer, had I believed any gods but the Southern Hummingbird were listening.

TWENTY-THREE

The Heartland

It was, as far as the lands of the gods went, a pleasant land. I had been in Tlalocan, the paradise of the Blessed Drowned, only briefly, but this seemed very much like it. Verdant vegetation covering the land, flocks of white birds disturbed by our approach, and the small ponds we passed teemed with fish and newts.

Acamapichtli grew heavier as time passed, his arms bearing down on my shoulders, his legs dangling closer and closer to the ground until it felt as though I were dragging mud.

The sky, too, changed, the only thing that seemed to change at all in this endless succession of hills and lakes. Clouds slowly moved to cover it, and its blue darkened, the air turning as crisp and as heavy as that before a storm.

The sun, though, never stopped shining.

One step, and then the next; mud and grass and water, everything merging and blurring together. I felt Acamapichtli's touch, burning into my skin like the jaguar fang he'd once given me, but it was far away, an inconvenience in some other world. What mattered was walking – one hill after another, one pond after another, feeling the air grow cooler, seeing the light grow darker.

My throat was parched, and soon everything seemed to burn. Was there no end to this land, nothing to bring us closer to the Southern Hummingbird and the souls He had stolen?

Was there–

"Acatl!" Quenami called, from some place faraway.

I came to with a start, almost throwing off Acamapichtli. The right side of my face was wet. Saliva had run down my face, staining what little was left of the cloak, and my mouth was completely dry. I felt like a sick man waking up from a long illness – weak and dazzled, and unable to align two thoughts together. "What is it?" I asked.

He pointed. The landscape had opened up ahead of us, a larger lake lay ahead with a single island at the centre; and, on the island, a larger hill with a stone structure at the top. It seemed familiar, but I couldn't place it for a while.

"A smaller version of the Great Temple," Quenami said. His voice was lower, almost subdued: the loss of his regalia must have cut deep. That said... his arrogance and effortless dignity had been his only edge, just as Acamapichtli's strength had lain in his raw power, and mine in the mastery of Lord Death's magic, and in Teomitl's assistance. The sacrifices Itzpapalotl had asked from us were far from trivial.

By the lakeside was a small village, huts of adobe, clustered together. We descended towards them. By then it was all I could do to hold Acamapichtli and keep my thoughts from fragmenting. Something was going to have to yield, and I wasn't altogether sure my mind wouldn't go first. It had, after all, already done so once in this land, back when Quenami had imprisoned me.

The lake grew larger, reflecting the sky above which had darkened to the grey of a storm with the sun at its centre like a malevolent eye. Its depths would be cool, away from the burning sensation that seemed to have filled me up from the inside – fire in my lungs, in my belly, in my manhood…

"Acatl!"

Quenami was coming back from the huts, and I could not remember having seen him depart. "You have to see this."

The huts were little more than awnings of wattle-and-daub over beaten earth – a shelter against sunlight, and nothing more. There were seven of them, arrayed in a circle around a focal point, and, where the centre should have been, a group of men sat, engrossed in an animated conversation.

"The flowers come from the heart of heaven…"

"That is accessory. What good are they, if they wilt and perish…"

"All the more reason to enjoy the vast earth…"

"They are–" Quenami whispered.

Carefully I set Acamapichtli on the ground, wincing as the weight left me. I stretched, ignoring the fiery pain that flared up my body again, and hobbled to the circle.

They were familiar faces: Manatzpa, Echichilli, all the members of the council I'd interviewed. One gave me pause, it was Pezotic. The last time I had seen him had been in Teotihuacan, under the guard of Nezahual-tzin's warriors. It seemed that the last inrush of star-demons into the world, which had taken both the council and Tizoc-tzin, hadn't spared him.

They all sat as if nothing were wrong, discussing minor points of philosophy like matters of life and death. But their faces were different, their skins stretched over the pale shape of their skulls, their eyes sunk deep into their orbits.

And Tizoc-tzin wasn't among them.

"Excuse me," I said, pitching my voice to carry. "We're looking for Tizoc-tzin."

"The Revered Speaker," Quenami interjected.

Manatzpa's face rose towards us for a brief moment, but then he turned back to his neighbour. "As Nezahualcoyotl said, we are nothing more than feathers and jade…"

"I should think we're more than that…"

"Echichilli!" Quenami said. "We need your help. Surely you know what's happening." He grasped the old councilman by the shoulders, and forced him to look his way. "Surely–" He stared into Echichilli's eyes for a while, transfixed, before releasing him, horror slowly stealing across his features. "Let's go, Acatl. It's not here we'll find the answers."

"I–" I said, and then I caught Manatzpa's gaze. A film seemed to have covered his eyes. His pupils were dull, like those of a fish dead for days, and nothing remained of the fiery, driven man he had been in life, the one who had killed Ceyaxochitl, the one who had almost killed me. Husks, that was all they were, what was left after the corn had been harvested – nothing of value, nothing that was real.

Shivering, I hoisted Acamapichtli on my shoulders again, and followed Quenami down to the lake.

He was pushing a reed boat into the water; when I arrived he looked up at me, all arrogance and impatience. "Well? Help me."

"You're something," I said. "I've been carrying Acamapichtli all the while, and you're the one complaining." I didn't mention the fact that every moment we spent there weakened me, because he'd find a way to use it against me.

Quenami snorted. "You could have left him behind."

"And I could have left you behind." I wasn't quite sure why I'd been carrying Acamapichtli along all the while. We might have needed him at the end; even unconscious and wounded, he might have had some use. But–

The Duality take me, I'd had a debt to him, and never mind that it was being repaid to more than its value.

"Help me with the boat, will you?" Quenami insisted. Not for the first time, I fought the urge to shake some sense into him.

"Ask politely, and perhaps I'll consider it." I put Acamapichtli into the craft, and moved to push with Quenami.

"It's for our survival, Acatl. If you can't see past that…"

If you can't make an effort, I thought, but didn't say. There was enough with one of us being petty.

Of course, I rowed. Quenami probably hadn't lifted an oar since the day he'd entered the priesthood; the way he wrinkled his face made it clear even the fate of the world wasn't enough for him to demean himself.

I said nothing, but it was hard.

I had been rowing since childhood and it should have been easy, but the wood of the oar quivered in my hands and I felt more and more light-headed with each oar-strike. Every drop of water against my skin seemed to burn, and the island in the centre seemed to blur and shift with every passing moment.

We were perhaps halfway across the lake when Acamapichtli woke up. "Where–" he whispered.

"The heartland," Quenami said.

"What happened?" I asked, but he shook his head, and closed his eyes again. It didn't look as though he was going to be much use, after all.

If I had thought the heartland was bad, the central island was worse. The moment I set foot on it, I felt a jolt travel through my chest, a particular tightness, growing steadily worse. There was something in the ground, something in the air, something that didn't want me, that would wash me away like a flood washed away boats and nets. Acamapichtli seemed to weigh as much as a slab of stone, and I could barely focus on the path, for there was a path this time, snaking upwards around the hill. I watched the earth, step after step, I watched the water that filled the footsteps of whoever had come before us clawed and monstrous, a trail I had seen before but couldn't seem to focus on…

Step after step, agonising breath after agonising breath, fire in my lungs, rising up to fill my brain, confused images, of seven caves gouged into the hillside, torn open by some giant beast, of fountains where herons bathed in a blur of white, of an old woman in rags, sweeping the threshold of her house and watching us pass by with bitter satisfaction in her eyes, and then the scene shifted, and her face was that of a skull, her hands were claws, and the broom she held was made of human femurs, bound together with thread as red as blood.

Up, and the seven caves faded away, and small shrines appeared by the hillside, mounds of earth with pyramids on them, shimmering with light, their staircases dripping with blood even though the altars were empty…

Up, and a flock of herons took flight, cawing harshly, shedding white feathers as they went, and then skin, and then blood-red muscles, until only their skeletons remained, and darkness in the hollow of their eyes…

There was a sound on the edge of my hearing like the buzzing of flies on a corpse, the grating of bones. After a while, I realised it was my name, coming from infinitely far away, but it didn't matter, not anymore…

That sound again, and everything scattering, fading into darkness.

"Acatl!"

I lay on something hard, and my cheek hurt. I moved, my hand coming to rest against my skin, it felt like stretched paper, nothing living anymore. "Quenami?"

He still had his hand up, braced for a further strike against me, and Acamapichtli was lying prone at his feet. His eyes were open, his mouth working around words I couldn't recognise. Raising my gaze, I saw that we were on a stone platform with a simple altar, encrusted with so much blood the stone seemed to have turned red. "How–"

"I dragged you here." He sounded exasperated. "That's not the point."

"Then what is?"

And then I saw Her. Itzpapalotl stood waiting for us at the entrance of the shrine – casual, relaxed, Her claws flexed, Her obsidian wings in repose. And behind Her…

He was tall, impossibly so, with the body of a youth, tanned skin and raised muscles, and a face streaked with deep cobalt blue, coming up so high it seemed to merge with the sun in the sky. In His left hand was a huge snake, and, every time it writhed, flames flared up, licking its scales; in His right hand was a macuahitl sword decorated with paper banners, the same ones carried by warriors during the annual sacrifices, and the feather headdress that stretched behind him was a circle of yellow feathers, pale and blinding.

I flattened myself against the ground in the lowest form of obeisance, ignoring the dizziness that flared up again in me. The floor was blessedly cool, a steadying influence. I didn't have to move after all, just to focus on speaking out. Beside me, Quenami abased himself as well. Acamapichtli attempted to move, but fell back with a groan.

"Priests," Itzpapalotl's hollow voice said. "You have come in the presence of the Lord of Men, the Southern Hummingbird, the Slayer of the Four Hundred, He who makes the sun rise, He who follows the path of war. What do you have to say for yourselves?"

There was silence, for a while. We slowly raised ourselves up, remaining on our knees, our gazes turned away from Huitzilpochtli. One did not meet the eye of a Revered Speaker, much less that of the god who had invested him in the first place.

"My lord," Quenami's voice quivered at first, but then he appeared to gain confidence, stretching himself up as if he still had all his finery. "We have come for the body of our Revered Speaker, that we might not find ourselves cast in darkness with the stardemons."

I recognised the tone and cadence of a ritual, and fell in step with him. "We have come for the body of our Revered Speaker, that it might be restored to its rightful place on the sacred mat."

Acamapichtli coughed. When he spoke, his voice was so low I had to strain to hear it. "We have come… for the body of our Revered Speaker… that it might…" He stumbled there, closed his eyes and went on, a grimace of pain stretched across his features. "… that it might wear the Turquoise-and-Gold Crown… and lead us all to glory…"

He fell silent. I heard nothing but our own breaths, smelled our fear. By coming into a god's land, we had placed ourselves at His whim. Nothing prevented Him from killing us with a thought.

The air grew warmer, and tighter. Already in a weakened state, it was all I could do to breathe. "I took your Revered Speaker's life," Huitzilpochtli said, "and I had ample justification for it. Why should I restore him to you?"

"My lord," Quenami said, "are we not your people? Long, long ago, you made us emerge from the caves in this hill, you led us to Tenochtitlan, to await with our bellies, with our heads, with our arrows, with our shields. You led us to found a city of battle, where the eagle flies and the serpent is torn apart."

"I did." The god's voice was pensive, but I could still feel His anger. "And look what you became. Look at you, priest, and all your frivolous finery. Look at the luxuries you take for yourself, and look at what you'd do to keep them."

Quenami fell back as if he'd been slapped in the face. He might have been, too. The anger of a god in His own territory would be strong. "Will you judge us on my character alone, then?"

Huitzilpochtli made a sound like drums beating a charge. It was only after a while that I realised it was laughter with nothing of joy, but merely cruel amusement. "Of course not. It's the Revered Speaker we are judging here, are we not? That poor, pathetic wreck of a man with no taste for war, who dares to imagine himself wearing the Turquoise-and-Gold Crown? Who thinks he can buy My favour to get it?"

The air was that before a storm, quiet and breathless, as if the whole Fifth World hung suspended. Quenami swallowed audibly. "My lord, Tizoc-tzin seeks only Your blessing, as is proper. He would not have dared to ascend to the Revered Speaker's mat without Your approval."

"Of course he wouldn't." Huitzilpochtli's voice was dark, thoughtful. "I made the Empire, from its earliest days to the bloated monstrosity you have become. You would do well to remember that. And your master, too, that pathetic, gutless man unproved on the battlefield."

"Tizoc-tzin knows the value of war–"

"Your master sees war as a tool," Huitzilpochtli snapped. "As something that he can use to rise in power and to increase his prestige. He understands nothing. War is the gift I gave you, priest. War is the struggle of life and death, and the shedding of blood to keep the Fifth Sun in the sky, and Grandmother Earth satiated. War is everything."

Of course He would say that. Of course He would think that. It was His nature, nothing more, nothing less. That was what Quenami couldn't understand.

"I assure you," Quenami said, in a calm and measured tone. How could he speak thus, in the face of this? "Tizoc-tzin knows the value of war, and the debt and service we owe You. We all do."

"Do you? Will you show me, then?" Huitzilpochtli's voice was cruel. "You who pretend yourself my High Priest, you who speak for all men, will you show me that you are a warrior?"

From the corner of my eye, I saw Itzpapalotl's wings open, with a snick-snick sound like dozens of obsidian knives unsheathed at the same time.

Oh no.

Quenami said, flustered, "My lord…"

"Acatl…" Acamapichtli was pulling at my cloak, weakly but insistently. He was lying on the ground, but his face, cut and bruised, was turned towards me, as pale as muddy milk, his eyes sunk into hollows deeper than the way into Mictlan. "The fool's going to do it."

"It?" I asked, as stupidly as Quenami.

He shook his head, with a shadow of his old impatience. "The last time Quenami fought in earnest was boys at the calmecac school, when he was a student. Look at him. Do you really think he can win anything?"

"But why?" I asked.

Acamapichtli smiled again, that mirthless expression I hated. "Why not? Because he does care, in the end? If it makes you happier, consider he's found the only way he can turn things to his gain."

I couldn't imagine why that should make me happier. "And what do you expect me to do about it?"

His eyes were on me, mocking, as cruelly amused as those of the god. I'd forgotten that he was my enemy, that he had almost seen my brother condemned to death, that he had intrigued for his own benefit, that he despised Teomitl and would be glad to see him gone. "I don't–"

He grunted, shifted, and slid something towards me on the bloodstained stone of the platform: a single obsidian knife still in its sheath. I felt nothing of magic within it, not the touch of the Storm Lord, not even a minor spell to keep the blade sharp. It was as mundane as they came, the kind of knife used to extract the heart from a sacrifice's chest, polished to a cutting edge, but as brittle as fired clay. Carefully, I reached out for it. My hand closed around it, and the jolt of power from Mictlan I expected didn't climb up my arm. It felt wrong.

I looked at Quenami again, who stood with his face unreadable, his hands clenched, and an expression I knew all too well – that of a man on a chasm, about to take the plunge.

I would have loved to see him brought down and defeated; but, if that happened, we'd have failed. "My Lord," I said, rising, carefully, with the knife in my hand. The world spun for a bare moment, settled back into the bloodied limestone and the grey sky overhead. "I will take his place."

I wasn't looking at Him, but I felt the moment His attention shifted from Quenami to me, a vast movement in the air, with the hissing crackle of flames as He hefted the fire-snake in His hand. "You, priest?" Laughter, like thunder overhead. "The least among them, and you fancy yourself a warrior?"

Least among them – I could see where Quenami had got his ideas about me. I swallowed the wave of bitterness that flooded me. Now was not the time.

In answer I lifted the knife. "If the least among us is a warrior, doesn't it prove our worth?"

There was silence for a while, that before a lightning-strike. The fire-snake hissed, as if climbing along wood, charring bones and flesh on a funeral pyre. At length, Huitzilpochtli spoke. "It might, at that." He sounded a little calmer, but the cruel amusement was still there, the inhuman pleasure He'd take from seeing us fail. He had resolved to withdraw from us; it wasn't something that could be changed in an instant. "Very well. Prove your worth, and I'll give your Revered Speaker back to you."

Itzpapalotl moved, impossibly swift, to come before me, on the same side of the altar. "Priest," She said. She raised Her hands, unfolding Her claws one by one. They glinted in the sunlight of the heartland, drinking it in as they'd drink blood.

In answer, I raised my own, pathetic knife, a knife that wasn't magic, that didn't have even the meagre powers of Lord Death, that couldn't protect me from the corrosion of the heartland.

If my brother Neutemoc could see me like this, he'd appreciate the irony – that I, the failed brother, the shameful priest, should be the one to fight Her.

From afar came a blast of conch-shells, and a slow beating of drums, and a din, like a thousand voices shouting the names of a thousand different cities at the same time. The air wavered, and the battle was joined.

She was upon me almost before I could move. One wing brushed against my arm, opening up a flower of pain, and I was on my knees, one hand scrabbling to stem the flow of blood. Then She was gone, watching me from afar.

"Pathetic," She whispered. "Is that the best among you?"

"You should know," I said through clenched teeth, fighting the darkness that quivered at the edge of my vision. "You took one, and incapacitated the other."

She laughed. "All is fair in war, as you should know."

No, I didn't. I didn't know the rules of the battlefield or even of the training-ground. My world had been the calmecac school, the penances and the night-runs to watch the stars in the sky, in another lifetime where the stars were pinpoints of light faraway, unable to harm us.

She moved fast, far too fast for me to outrace Her, especially in my current state. My only hope was to be ready for Her when She came. I hefted the knife carefully, watched Her, the way Her wings spread around and behind Her, larger than those of a bird, with obsidian knives hanging from their thin bones like obscene fruit…

The wings merged into Her desiccated shoulders almost seamlessly; but there had to be some junction, some point of weakness I could exploit.

She was upon me again, the breath of Her passage the only warning I got, about an eye blink before Her wings slashed me again. This time, instead of trying to remain standing, I threw myself to the floor, and rolled under the thin shape of Her legs.

There.

A small bump, where the obsidian blades sank back into the bones, a raised area of yellowed flesh, as taut as the paper of a codex.

She was gone again, watching me, toying with me like a jaguar with its prey. "I've fought worthier opponents."

"Teomitl?" I asked. "What have you done with him?"

"Taken my sacrifice, what else?"

A fist of ice closed over my heart. But no, I couldn't afford it, not any more weakness, not any more ways for Her to reach me. "He's alive, isn't he?"

She didn't deign to answer me. But this time I caught the slight shift of Her skirts which announced Her move, the muffled rattle of seashells that heralded Her, as it did all star-demons.

When She came upon me, I was already down, and rising to meet Her, my knife blade sinking into the flesh of Her back.

She shrieked, raising Her hands to the sky, her cry steadily rising in intensity until I thought my ears were going to burst. When She turned back towards me, Her pupils had become vertical slits, Her eyes windows into chasms.

"So… not so foolish after all, priest." So… not so foolish after all, priest." Her smile was wide, cutting – the obsidian blade of her tongue shone in the light.

Her next attack knocked me on the floor. The knife, torn from my hand by Her left wing, skittered on the floor. As if in some distant nightmare I watched it totter over the edge of the platform and fall down with the inevitability of a heartbeat. I tore myself from Her embrace pain blossomed on my arms and chest as Her knives sliced against my flesh.

I was on the ground, bleeding and dizzy, dizzier than before, though I hadn't thought it possible, watching, with a distant, nagging sense of worry, my blood pool into the grooves of the platform, quivering with a power that was denied to me, for the only god present here would not accept my sacrifice. The world was folding back onto itself like a rolled-up sacrifice paper. The air was almost too tight to breathe, searing my lungs, and darkness hovered at the edge of my vision.

I heard – something, a buzzing of flies, a grating of bones against bones, my name, spoken in a low but insistent voice. Dragging my gaze upwards, I caught a glimpse of Acamapichtli's pale face, turned towards me, one of his hands extended, pointing at something, the place where the knife had gone over the edge?

He was gesturing to me, but understanding him was too much work, and Itzpapalotl would be back, anyway. I had to–

It came to me then with preternatural clarity, that it was indeed the knife he was pointing to, that he carried a second one with him, and meant to give it to me. But he was too far away; and I knew, with the certainty of those about to die, that I would never make it.

I tried to move towards him, as if through tar, even though I knew it was futile.

Itzpapalotl laughed, Her voice infinitely distant, echoing in what little remained of my mind. "You delay the inevitable." Her shadow fell over me and I felt the shift in the air; She was moving to pick me up, to throw me over the edge.

Over, it was over. Why had I ever thought I could be a warrior, that I could fight a goddess with no weapons and no rules, nor hope to win?

That I could–

She had said–

No rules.

She had said everything was fair on the battlefield.

And She had Her back to Acamapichtli, whose hand was holding a second knife.

In the moment She bent over me, the moment Her claws dug into my skin, deeper into my wounds, I did the only thing I could, putting what little strength remained into my voice, I screamed.

"Acamapichtli! Throw it – now!"

As She swung me up like a broken doll I heard the hiss of the knife and prayed to whoever was listening – to the Duality, to Lord Death, to the Feathered Serpent – that it would fly true.

It did.

There was a thud and Itzpapalotl screamed again, a sound that seemed to echo in the bones of my ribcage, filling my lungs and stomach with a buzzing like a knife against bone. The world spun and spun as She lost control, and faded into darkness.

It seemed to last but a moment, but when I regained consciousness I found Acamapichtli propped over me. "What… happened?" I tried to pull myself upwards, and gave up. Everything ached, but I couldn't feel the searing pain of wounds. Gingerly I touched my arms and felt nothing but my skin and the scars that had been there before the fight.

"A trick," Huitzilpochtli said, but He didn't sound displeased. "It seems priests can still surprise."

Itzpapalotl was sitting on the stone altar, nonchalantly staring at Her hands. She, too, appeared unharmed, and in the gaze She directed towards me was nothing but the wary respect between warriors.

"I don't understand," I said, and then it hit me. "Nothing was real."

"Everything is as real as I make it," Huitzilpochtli said. "It is My world, after all."

It wasn't a comforting reminder, though I guess I appreciated the knowledge that I wasn't going to bleed to death. "Does this satisfy you?"

His attention shifted from me to Quenami. "A smooth speaker, a fighter and a resourceful man. I see." There was something like amusement in the air, but more that of a parent for a child. "Yes, I suppose it does. A bargain is a bargain."

I let out a breath I hadn't even been aware of holding. As He had reminded us, we were in His world, and the rules were what He made them, if He had wanted to break His promise, He could have done so without trouble.

Something landed on the ground beside me, but before I could see what it was the platform and the shrine were fading away, and everything grew intolerably bright.

We were back under the pyramid where everything had started. Itzpapalotl was with us, a dark, amused presence at our backs, and Teomitl too, rising from his crouch at the edge of the stairs. "Acatl-tzin!"

He was there and he was whole, thank the Duality. I looked around at the other high priests. Acamapichtli's wounds had closed, though he remained pale and moved with the stiffness of the unhealed, and Quenami had recovered his finery. My knives appeared to be back in their sheathes. Just to be sure, I laid a hand on one of them, and felt the familiar emptiness of Mictlan arc through my whole being, a comfort that I'd thought I'd never have again.

I looked down, then, at what the god had given us, but even before I did, I already knew that the immobility at my feet, that peculiar, dry and stretched smell, could belong to nothing but a corpse.

TWENTY-FOUR

Creation

"He's dead," Quenami said, accusingly. He turned to Acamapichtli, as if the priest of the Storm Lord held the answers to everything. "You said –"

I knelt, touched it – felt not skin, not even the cold, clammy one of a corpse, but something that might as well have been cloth or leather – nothing beat underneath, nothing warmed it from within. It gave slightly, under my touch. "It's not real," I said.

"Of course it's real," Acamapichtli said. "It's a soul. What did you expect, flesh and blood?"

It didn't look like the sad, bedraggled spirits I conjured, not even like Axayacatl-tzin's soul, which I had conveyed down into the underworld. Just like something that had once been alive, and from which all life had been stripped.

"It's still a corpse," Quenami said. "However you look at it."

I felt a hand on my shoulder, claws, resting lightly on the skin, though not breaking it. Itzpapalotl. "This is a place of power, priest. The heart of the Mexica strength in the Fifth World."

Quenami stared at Her for a while. "Surely you're not suggesting–"

"What was broken can be made whole, given enough blood."

I thought, for a moment, on what She was offering us. "We can't," I said. To put back together a body and soul…

"You can't," Itzpapalotl said. "You send the soul down into death, and only you can call it back. But Huitzilpochtli is the one who severs the thread of life."

And the one who could knit it back together.

Quenami closed his eyes. "It is one of the forbidden rituals."

"And with reason." Itzpapalotl inclined Her head. "But permission has been given, just this once."

Teomitl looked from Her to Quenami, and then back to me. I shrugged, having only a vague idea of what he was talking about. Acamapichtli, too, seemed to be waiting for clarification.

"We already have plenty of human blood," Quenami said. "We'll need hummingbirds for Huitzilpochtli, owls for Lord Death, and a heron for the Rain Lord…"

"And explanations for us," Acamapichtli cut in, with just a hint of sarcasm.

"We can put the soul back in the body." Quenami grimaced. "Actually, make a new body beforehand, too. But it's going to take the three of us." He turned to Teomitl. "Go get the remains, some maize dough, and the animals."

"Acatl-tzin?" Teomitl asked. "Outside isn't the best place to be, right now. It feels as if something awful is going to happen."

I had no doubt. The Southern Hummingbird might have put aside some of His grievances against us, but we still didn't have a Revered Speaker, we were still as vulnerable as we had been since the start.

I sighed. I could have argued about Quenami's impoliteness, but I couldn't muster the energy. "Go. Take guards if you need them. We'll deal with this later."

Quenami lifted his eyebrows. Clearly, he had no intention of discussing anything with me. He knelt in the disk again, and looked over the blood.

Which left Acamapichtli and me, and I certainly didn't feel up to small talk.

"How do you know all this, anyway?" I asked Quenami.

He shrugged: a particularly expansive gesture, indicating I was barely worthy of his time. "I am High Priest of the Southern Hummingbird. I've had the secrets of my order handed down to me."

"One does wonder why," Acamapichtli said, voicing aloud what I thought.

Quenami turned, glaring at us. "For situations such as this, where a lighter – touch, shall we say? – is needed. Now let me work."

"By all means," I said, not wishing to talk to him any more than I had to.

By the time Teomitl came back Quenami had rearranged everything. What I thought of as the body of Tizoc-tzin – even though it had no material reality – was at the centre of the disk surrounded by a large quincunx drawn with the endlessly dripping blood of the chamber. A further circle surrounded the quincunx, encasing it within the grinning face of the Fifth Sun.

Teomitl was followed by two slaves who carried a wrapped-up cloth from which came the smell of offal. He held the cages with the animals; the hummingbirds a blur of speed, obviously unhappy at being disturbed from their rest. The rabbits were more sedate, curled up at the bottom of the cage as if sleeping.

"Put it here." Quenami pointed to one end of the circle, the one furthest away from the stairs. "And those here." He didn't bother to thank Teomitl or the slaves.

He had given us the explanations in the meantime. Acamapichtli had pulled a sour face but had said nothing. He did not look as though he had much energy left to argue either.

Quenami opened the cages and grabbed the hummingbirds before they could fly away, slicing their heads off with a practised gesture. Blood splattered on the ground. He smeared it into the circle, drawing the symbols for Four Jaguar, the First Age, ruled by the Smoking Mirror, the god of War and Fate.

"O master, O lord, O sun, O war

We ask of You Your spirit, Your word

Your blessing…"

Acamapichtli, meanwhile, was sacrificing the heron, and filling in the symbols for Four Water and Four Rain, the Third and Fourth Age, ruled by the Storm Lord and His wife.

"For he who was bequeathed the turquoise diadem

The earplug, the lip plug,

The necklace, the precious feather

He who was crowned Lord of Men…"

I came last with the owl, drawing the last symbol, that of the Second Age, Four Wind, ruled by the Feathered Serpent, the age of knowledge and wisdom, now passed into legend. The symbol pulsed under my hands, as if seeking to stretch itself into something else.

"Give him Your torch, Your light, Your mirror

The thick torch that illumines the world

Your heat, Your fragrance

We place our trust in You,

We the untrained, the ignorant…"

Next came the maize dough, which Acamapichtli fashioned into the life-sized shape of a man. His hands shook, and the limbs of the figure came out crooked, a fact which made Quenami's face contort with anger, but he said nothing. I fully expected we'd pay for it later.

The face was two holes punched into the dough, and something that might have been a smile: an incongruous sight, given how seldom Tizoc-tzin had smiled when he was alive. It ought to have looked sad and pathetic, this child's figure of a man, but it didn't. Light fell over it, swathing it in the colour of stone and blood; and the face, wrapped in shadows, seemed almost alive, some monster come from the underworld to devour us all.

I'd expected Itzpapalotl to go away but She still leant against the wall furthest away from the stairs, out of the circle. If She'd been human, I'd have said She was curious, but I think it was something else that kept Her there – perhaps further orders from the Southern Hummingbird?

"I give my precious water, I give my blood

To the maize in the fields, to Grandmother Earth that was broke

I give my spirit, I give the sun…."

Acamapichtli sliced both his earlobes, and let the blood drip into the eyes and the mouth of the dough figure.

"Eyes to see the Fifth World, the five directions

A mouth to give thanks

A mouth to fashion the flowers, the songs…"

In the chest cavity, where the heart should have been, there was only a small hole, like that of a flute. Acamapichtli moved away to stand at the base of the body, and left the way wide open for me.

Quenami inclined his head. I walked through the circle to the dead soul and carried it back to the dough figure. Then, bending over, I carefully laid one atop the other. Tizoc-tzin sank into the dough like a man swallowed by quicksand, and the dough shifted, the manikin taking on his features, the bloodied mouth closed in a scowl, an eerie resemblance to the man's favourite expression. It almost seemed as though he was going to speak up; to accuse us all of slighting him. But the only sound was that of our breaths, slow and regular, and Itzpapalotl's claws raking the stone to the rhythm of some unheard hymn.

Quenami placed himself over the opening in the chest, Acamapichtli near the crotch, and I at the head, over the blood-filled mouth.

"We leave this earth

This world of jade and flowers

The quetzal feathers, the silver

Down into the darkness we must go…"

The words that came to me were the ones I had spoken to the She-Snake a lifetime ago, and they were out of my mouth before I could call them back.

"Let the Revered Speaker be no exception."

I bit my lip, but it was too late. Quenami hissed, his gaze narrowing in my direction, but he couldn't speak for fear of breaking the ritual.

I went on regardless, less assured. I hadn't thought it was possible, but I was shaking as hard as if Itzpapalotl had been looking at me with the full force of Her gaze.

"But some return

With sunlight shining on them

With moonlight and starlight to show the way

Some return, some go back home

To the three-legged hearth, to Old Man Fire's face

And the song of maidens, and the laughter of children…"

I knelt and pressed my lips against the dough. It was cool, like something that had rested in the shade for far too long, with the faint, acrid taste of rot. I was vaguely aware of Quenami and Acamapichtli getting ready for the rest of the ritual, for giving the body life, and tying the soul back to it, but even that faded away, as the dough breathed back into me, and harsh light flooded the chamber, until the underground room seemed but a memory.

Over me towered the round, grinning face of Tonatiuh the Fifth Sun – bloodied tongue lolling out, His red hair framed by the signs of the calendar, giant stone glyphs arrayed around Him like a crown. His gaze, His endlessly burning gaze, rested on me, and I slowly became aware that I held Tizoc-tzin's soul in my arms.

It was small and misshapen, like the body, and the light of the Fifth Sun made it seem transparent, as if it would wash it out of existence at any moment.

Somewhere beyond me was Acamapichtli, carrying the living body. Quenami stood in the centre, waiting for us. "Now, Acatl."

I walked, or flew, to him, and so did Acamapichtli, and we were as one. They were pressing against me, Quenami with his insufferable arrogance and conviction that the universe owed him everything, and Acamapichtli, already thinking of ways to turn the situation to his advantage. There was an over-ambitious priest in his temple that he needed to get rid of, and this would be the perfect opportunity…

And Tizoc-tzin.

Small and pathetic and made of fears, of envy, of an uncontrollable ambition that had, as Teomitl had said, eaten him alive. I sought for a man, cowering behind that mask, and could find nothing. No face, no heart. Doubts and fears and suspicion, was this the man we had raised as Revered Speaker? No wonder Itzpapalotl was still waiting, waiting for the Empire to fall, for Her mistress to be free. There was no other place he could take us, he and Quenami and Acamapichtli, all working for their own gain.

Something was wrong. Something…

They were calling my name from far away, and I still held the soul clutched tightly in my grasp, in the Fifth Sun's light, a light that was growing in intensity, promising the heat of the desert, the scouring touch of pyres. What was I thinking? It was the Fifth World at stake. Surely I could force myself to–

But I couldn't. Here, in this time, in this place, in the heart of our strength, no lies were left. I couldn't be one with the other priests, for they were my enemies, and I couldn't bring Tizoc-tzin back, for I had despised him beyond words when he had been alive.

I thought of Ceyaxochitl, making her slow way into darkness. It wasn't fair. Why was Tizoc-tzin – as unworthy of an exception as they came – chosen to be lifted out of death, while she remained in Mictlan? Why did he get to have everything he wanted, in spite of all the damage he had done, all the lives he had carelessly spent, from Ceyaxochitl's to Echichilli's?

Why?

I couldn't.

"Acatl!"

I–

Surely there had to be a way, something I could do. I tried to release Tizoc-tzin's soul, but it wouldn't budge. I tried going to Quenami and felt everything that separated us, every reason I despised him, he who had intrigued and schemed and thrown me into jail and almost executed me. I tried going to Acamapichtli, and saw his power-games and how little he cared about human life, that he would sacrifice anyone and anything standing between him and what he wanted, including my own brother. And I couldn't forgive either of them, or even claim to understand their acts.

In that place, in that time, I sank to my knees with Tizoc-tzin cradled against me, watching as if from a great distance, watching the Fifth Sun's grin grow wider and wider, as if He had always known I would fail, feeling, distant and cruel, Itzpapalotl's amusement, and Teomitl's frantic attempts to understand what was going wrong.

Surely I could set my feelings aside, for the sake of the Fifth World?

Surely.

But I had no lies or accommodations left, and my contempt was destroying everything. All I had to do was to believe in what I was doing, to see Tizoc-tzin as our worthy Revered Speaker, Quenami as our leader, and Acamapichtli as a peer. Only that, and I would rise, I would give back the breath that was in my body, and everything would be as it should with the world.

But Tizoc-tzin had cast my sister aside as nothing, Quenami had thrown me in jail, and Acamapichtli had tried to kill my brother. In the end, it was the pettiest things that defined me.

The Fifth Sun's light washed over us, strong and unforgiving, like a wave in a storm. I dug my heels in, but I could feel its strength, and knew that it was going to throw me out of the circle.

Too late.

My whole body tingled in the wash of light… No, that wasn't it. There was something that ached more, a dull pain throbbing in my hand. I looked down at Acamapichtli's mark, grey and diminished against the light's onslaught. A jaguar fang, perfectly formed, and the blood of a human sacrifice, all freely given to me. It had been for his own gain, as he had blithely admitted, but still, he had helped me. Still…

I saw again Quenami, his fists clenched, about to get himself killed against Itzpapalotl. He had dragged me to the top of the hill, I and Acamapichtli, even though he'd laughed and suggested we leave the weak behind.

Acamapichtli was smiling in my mind. "We will endure," he whispered. "We will do what needs to be done. We will–"

I hated them. I despised them for their beliefs, and for everything they had done in the name of gain and greed. But, in the end… In the end, Teomitl had allied himself with Nezahual-tzin, and I with Acamapichtli. In the end…

In the end, they were my peers and my equals, and the only ones who could see this through. In the end, when push came to shove and the Fifth World tottered on the brink of extinction – when even they could see the price of failure – I could trust them to do what needed to be done.

And that was the only truth.

"Acatl!"

"I am here," I whispered, and, gently, very gently, breathed out Tizoc-tzin's soul, back into the Fifth World, before joining my fellow high priests for the rest of the ritual.

TWENTY-FIVE

The Fifth World

Tizoc-tzin's formal designation was a small and subdued affair. With his brother's funeral over, and him still in a state of weakness, he simply opted for a quiet ceremony with the governors and the magistrates. The Revered Speakers of Texcoco and Tlacopan, his fellow rulers in the Triple Alliance, offered him congratulations, and sacrificed quails to mark the beginning of an auspicious reign.

Tizoc-tzin wasn't quite yet crowned, of course. That would come after the coronation war, when he had brought back enough prisoners and slaves for a true celebration. But, nevertheless, he was already invested, with enough power to keep us all safe.

After the ceremony he received us in his private quarters. There were no slaves and no noblemen, just Teomitl, Acamapichtli, Nezahual-tzin and I, standing barefoot amidst the luxurious decorations, and the exquisitely carved columns. Fine feathers fans and gold ornaments were casually strewn across the room.

Quenami was beside his master, richly attired, with coloured heron plumes at his belt, blue-and-black paint, and a stylised fireserpent winding its way across the hem of his tunic. The air smelled faintly of pine needles and copal incense, and there was the faintest hint of smoke, causing my eyes to itch.

"I am given to understand that we owe you a debt," Tizoc-tzin said. His eyes were sunken deep, his skin a pale brown, almost waxy, and he stumbled a little on his words. I wasn't sure if it was because something was wrong with his speech, if my delay in the ritual had cost him something, or if it was simply because he disliked uttering them. By the scowl on his face, there was at least some of the latter.

Nezahual-tzin shrugged. "I'm glad to see proper diplomatic relations restored between Tenochtitlan and Texcoco. I shall look forward to your coronation, my lord."

"I see." Tizoc-tzin bent to look at Nezahual-tzin, as if not quite sure what to make of him. "Perhaps you do," he said grudgingly.

"It's in our best interests." Nezahual-tzin's smile was wide and dazzling, that of a carefree sixteen-year-old. I wasn't fooled.

"And you." Tizoc-tzin turned his attention back to Acamapichtli and me.

"We did our duty," Acamapichtli said. "To the Revered Speaker and to the Empire." One of his arms, the one that had thrown the blade at Itzpapalotl, was a little stiff, and I didn't think it would ever move smoothly again. My own legs ached whenever I rose. Whatever Huitzilpochtli had said, there had been a price for entering the heartland. There was always a price.

Tizoc-tzin was silent for a while. His gaze moved from Acamapichtli to me and back again. "Then I am assured of your loyalty."

Not surprising, I guessed. A little saddening, but then I had known when we had brought him back to life. Death had changed nothing in him, no lessons had been learnt.

"You've always had our loyalty," Acamapichtli said effortlessly.

"I have pledged service to the Revered Speaker of the Mexica Empire," I said.

He noticed the omission of his name, that much was clear. His eyes narrowed. I fully expected him to demand something more of me, some show of obeisance, but he didn't.

"I see," he said, again. "So that's how things are." He leant back, his back straight once more, and turned back to Quenami. "The council is still empty, and we have to see about appointments. Teomitl?"

Teomitl rose from his crouch. For a moment, he and Tizoc-tzin faced each other, and I wasn't quite sure what I read in their gazes. It wasn't love, or even respect. Perhaps simply what my brother Neutemoc and I shared – the knowledge that, no matter how distant we might be, how difficult we might find getting on together, we still shared the same blood.

At length Tizoc-tzin nodded. "I need a Master of the House of Darts."

"I don't think–" Teomitl started.

"Nonsense. You'll do fine," Tizoc-tzin said. "If I can't trust family–"

"That's not the problem." Teomitl's face hovered on the edge of divinity again. "You know what's wrong."

"Do I?" Tizoc-tzin looked at him for a while more. His pale face was unreadable; his skin pale and translucent, enough to reveal the bones and the shape of the skull. He'd died. He'd come back. We couldn't pretend things were normal. "We'll have to see about another appointment for her. Some gift of jewellery or perhaps a grant of land. It would be unseemly for my brother to marry beneath him."

What? I looked at Tizoc-tzin. I had misheard. But, no, Teomitl still stood, as if struck by Tlaloc's lightning. "Brother–"

"You have objections?"

"No, no, I don't. But–"

"Don't get me wrong." Tizoc-tzin was still scowling, like an unappeased spirit back from the underworld. "I don't like this. I don't approve of this. I'll stand by what I think of your priest."

Always pleasant, I could see. But as long as he agreed…

"But you're my brother, and there will be no war between us."

Because he couldn't afford it, or because he loved Teomitl? I couldn't tell, not any more, what those two felt for each other. It seemed to me that something had broken in the hours before my arrest, when Tizoc-tzin had cast doubts on Mihmatini's reputation, something had come apart then, a mask broken into four hundred pieces, and things would never be the same.

Teomitl stood straight, as if to attention. "Thank you."

Tizoc-tzin scowled. "But you're getting the other appointment as well. Don't flatter yourself. It's time you took part in imperial affairs."

"I know," Teomitl said. He bowed, very low, a subject to his Revered Speaker, but I could feel the impatience brimming up in him.

"That will be all," Tizoc-tzin said. "You may leave."

"Don't look so sad," Acamapichtli said, as he raised the entrance-curtain in a tinkle of bells. We walked down the steps into the courtyard – deserted at this hour of the afternoon – almost companionably.

"I'm not," I said, stiffly. "We got what we wanted, didn't we?"

He looked at me, a smile spreading on his face. "Of course. Because we worked together."

I wasn't in the mood for a moral, especially coming from him. "It's not an experience I'm anxious to repeat too often. Still, I suppose I don't have a choice."

Acamapichtli smiled. "You're learning." He clapped me on the back, like an old friend. "We'll meet again." And then he was gone, striding down the stairs as if nothing had happened, ready to play his little games once again.

Learning? I supposed, in a way, that I was, but not lessons he'd ever have understood.

Teomitl caught up with me at the exit to the courtyard under a fresco of butterflies and moths, a stream of souls rising up from the ground towards the huge face of the Fifth Sun. Nezahual-tzin fell in with us, casually and innocently, though he never did anything without cause. "So, I take it I'm invited to the wedding?"

Teomitl scowled, an expression reminiscent of Tizoc-tzin at his best. "You're the Revered Speaker of Texcoco. I don't think I could leave you out if I tried."

"How nice," Nezahual-tzin said. "I'll come with pleasure."

"I have no doubt." Teomitl shook his head, as if to scare off a nagging fly. "Acatl-tzin –"

"Yes?"

"He hasn't changed, has he?"

I shook my head.

"People seldom change," Nezahual-tzin said. We passed the imperial aviary where the birds pressed themselves against the bars of their huge cages, the quetzal-birds and the parrots, the herons and the quails, everything laid out for the Revered Speaker's pleasure. "They think they do, but in the end most change is an illusion. Perhaps the greatest one put in the Fifth World."

I knew. I knew that Quenami was going to continue grating on my nerves, that Acamapichtli would support me only as far as his own interests, that I would never be able to rely on them.

But, the Duality protect us, I was still going to work with them. "He's granted you a wife," I said finally. "Don't ask for more than that."

"It would be arrogant to. Not to mention out of place." Teomitl puffed his cheeks thoughtfully. "He'll deal with you, though, in the end. Quenami will convince him to."

"He has what he wanted," I said. "The Turquoise-and-Gold Crown. He should be more amenable now." So long as we didn't contradict him in anything. It was going to be a difficult reign. Thank the Duality I had the rest of my clergy with me.

"I guess so," Teomitl said, but he sounded unconvinced. "I'm not sure–"

"He's your brother. And the Revered Speaker."

"I know. I guess… I guess he's not who I thought he was." He smiled, suddenly carefree, pure Teomitl. "But it's not so bad, in the end."

This from a man who had just become heir-apparent to the Mexica Empire. I stifled a smile. "I'm sure you can live with it. Come on. Let's find Mihmatini and tell her the good news, and then I'll go back to the Duality House and finish Ceyaxochitl's vigil."

We strolled out of the Imperial Palace, past the Serpent Wall, and into the familiar crowd of the Sacred Precinct. The Fifth Sun was overhead, beating down upon us, the heavens bright and impossibly blue. Blood ran down the steps of the Great Temple, going underground to settle into the grooves of the disk, sealing again and again the prison of She of the Silver Bells, and the star-demons were gone. Everything was right with the world, or as right as it could be.

Except…

Except that, at the edge of the sky, I could see them, the same storm clouds as in the heartland, slowly closing in, grey and swollen and angry, a reminder of the god's presence. And I didn't need Mictlan's magic to see the skeleton beneath Tizoc-tzin's skin. We had put a dead man on the throne, an empty husk, animated only by magic and the blessing of a god.

When Huitzilpochtli's blessings and magic ran out – and they always did – what would happen then?

III

MASTER OF THE HOUSE OF DARTS

ONE

The Army's Return

The day dawned clear and bright on the city: as the Fifth Sun emerged from His night journey, He was welcomed by the drumrolls and conch-blasts of His priests – a noise that reverberated in my small house until it seemed to fill my lungs. I rolled to my feet from my sleeping mat, and made my daily offerings of blood – both to Tonatiuth the Fifth Sun, and to my patron Lord Death, the Fleshless One, ruler of the underworld.

This done, I put on a simple grey cloak, and headed to my temple – more for the sake of form, for I suspected I wouldn't remain there long, not if the army were indeed coming back today.

As I walked, I felt the slight resistance to the air, the familiar nausea in my gut – a feeling that everything wasn't quite right, that there was a gaping hole beneath the layers of reality that undercut the Fifth World. I'd been living with it for over three months, ever since the previous Revered Speaker had died. His successor, Tizoctzin, had been crowned leader of the Mexica Empire; but a Revered Speaker wasn't confirmed in the sight of the gods until his successful coronation war.

Today, I guessed, was the day I found out if the hole would ever close.

The Sacred Precinct, the religious heart of Tenochtitlan, was already bustling even at this early hour: groups of novice priests were sweeping the courtyards of the temple complexes; pilgrims, from noblemen in magnificent cloaks to peasants in loincloths, brought offerings of incense and blood-stained grass-balls; and the murmur of the crowd, from dozens of low-voiced conversations, enfolded me like a mother's arms. But there was something more in the air – a tautness in the faces of the pilgrims, a palpable atmosphere of expectation shared by the cotton-draped matrons and the priests with blood-matted hair.

The Temple for the Dead was but a short distance from my house, at the northern end of the Sacred Precinct. It was a low, sprawling complex with a pyramid shrine at its centre, from which the smoke of copal incense was already rising like a prayer to the Heavens. I wasn't surprised to find my second-in-command, Ichtaca, in deep conversation with another man in a light-blue cloak embroidered with seashells and frogs, and a headdress of heron feathers: Acamapichtli, High Priest of the Storm Lord. Together with Quenami, High Priest of the Mexica patron god Southern Hummingbird, we formed the religious head of the Empire. I didn't get on with Quenami, who was arrogant and condescending – and as to Acamapichtli… Not that I liked him any more than Quenami, but we'd reached an uneasy understanding the year before.

"Acatl." Acamapichtli looked amused, but then he always did. His gaze went up and down, taking in my simple grey tunic.

He didn't need to say anything, really. I could hardly welcome back the Revered Speaker of the Empire dressed like a low-ranking priest. "I'll change," I said, curtly. "I presume you're not here to enquire after my health."

For a moment, I thought he was going to play one of his little games with me again – but then his lips tightened, and he simply said, "A messenger arrived two days ago at the palace, and was welcomed with all due form by the She-Snake."

"You know this–"

"Through Quenami, of course. How else?" Acamapichtli's voice was sardonic. After the events of the previous year, we were both… in disgrace, I guessed. Not that I'd ever been in much of a state of grace, but I'd spoken out against the election of the current Revered Speaker, and Acamapichtli had plotted against him with foreigners, making us both outcasts at the current court. The She-Snake, who deputised for the Revered Speaker, wouldn't have wanted to countermand his master.

"And?" I asked. I wouldn't have been surprised if Quenami had given us only part of the information, to keep us as much in the dark as the pilgrims milling in the Sacred Precinct.

"Other messengers went out yesterday morning," Acamapichtli said. "With drums and trumpets, and incense-burners." I let out a breath I hadn't been conscious of holding. "It's a victory, then."

Acamapichtli's face was a careful blank. "Or considered as such."

What did he know that he wasn't telling me? It would be just like him: serving his own interests best, playing a game of handing out and withholding information like the master he was.

"You know it's not a game."

Acamapichtli stared at me for a while, as if mulling over some withering response. "And you take everything far too seriously, Acatl. As I said: the Fifth World can survive."

I had my doubts, especially given that the death of the previous Revered Speaker had resulted in city-wide chaos – which we'd survived only by a hair's breadth. "What else did Quenami tell you?"

Acamapichtli grimaced. "Quenami didn't tell me anything. But I have… other sources. They're saying we only won the coronation war because the Revered Speaker called it a victory."

I fought the growing nausea in my gut. A coronation war was proof of the Revered Speaker's valour, proving him worthy of the Southern Hummingbird's favour, and bringing enough sacrifices and treasures for the coronation ceremony itself. The gods wouldn't be pleased by Tizoc-tzin's sleight of hand, and I very much doubted they'd make their displeasure felt merely through angry words. "And prisoners?"

"Forty or so," Acamapichtli said.

It was pitiful. Without enough human sacrifices, how were we going to appease the Fifth Sun, or Grandmother Earth? How were we to have light, and maize in fertile fields? "I hope it suffices," I said.

"I said it before: you worry too much. Come, now. Let's welcome them home."

I pressed my lips together to fight the nausea, and stole a glance at the sky above us: it was the clear, impossible blue of turquoise, with no clouds in sight. Calm Heavens, and no ill-omens. Perhaps Acamapichtli was right.

And perhaps I was going to grow fangs and turn into a coyote, too.

Sometime later, the Sacred Precinct was transformed – packed with a throng of people in their best clothes, a riot of colours – of cotton, of cactus fibres and feathers, with circular feather insignias bobbing up and down as if stirred by an unseen breath.

Everyone was there: the officials who kept the city running, accompanied by their wood-collared slaves; the matrons with their hair brought up in two horns, in the fashion of married women, carrying children on their shoulders; the peasants too old to go to war, bare-chested and tanned by the sun, wearing a single ornament of gold on their chests; the noblemen, resplendent in their cotton clothes and standing with the ease and arrogance of those used to ceremony.

I stood with the She-Snake, Quenami and Acamapichtli at the foot of the Great Temple, surrounded by an entourage of noblemen and priests. Everyone's earlobes still dripped with blood, and the combined shimmer of magical protections was making my eyes hurt. I stole another glance at the sky – which remained stubbornly blue.

"There they are," Quenami said.

I could barely see over the heads of the crowd, but Quenami was taller. A cry went up from the assembled throng, a litany repeated over and over until the words merged with each other.

O Mexica,

O Texcocans

O Tepanecs,

People of the Eagle, People of the Jaguar,

Our sons have come back as men!"

And then the crowd parted, and Tizoc-tzin was standing in front of us.

He wasn't a tall man either, though he held himself with the casual arrogance of warriors. His hawkish face could not have been called handsome, even if he'd been in good health. As it was, his usually sallow skin was so taut it was almost transparent, and the shape of a skull glistened beneath his cheeks.

So the war hadn't improved him – I hid a grimace. We'd made the decision to heal him three months ago, as High Priests; but clearly some things couldn't be healed.

Behind him was his war-council: two deputies, his Master of the House of Darkness, and his Master of the House of Darts – Teomitl, imperial prince and my student.

"She-Snake," Tizoc-tzin said. "Priests." He said the last with a growl: he'd never been fond of the clergy, but lately his opposition had become palpable. "Tonatiuh the Fifth Sun has taken us up, shown us the way to glory. Tezcatlipoca the Smoking Mirror has smiled upon us, enfolded us in His hands."

The She-Snake bowed, holding the position slightly longer than necessary – he was a canny man, and knew how susceptible to flattery Tizoc-tzin was. "Be welcome, my Lord. You have graciously approached your water, your high place of Tenochtitlan, you have come to your mat, your throne, which I have briefly kept for you. The roads have been swept clean, the mats have been spread out; come, enter into your palace, rest your weary limbs."

Tizoc-tzin's face darkened, but he stuck to ritual, starting a lengthy hymn to the glory of the Southern Hummingbird.

I'd have been listening, even though I wasn't particularly fond of the Southern Hummingbird – a warrior god who had little time for the non-combatant clergy – but something caught my attention on the edge of the crowd. A movement, in those massed colours? No, that wasn't it. Something else…

The nausea in my gut flared again. Gently, carefully, I reached out to my earlobes, and rubbed the scabs of my blood-offerings until they came loose. Blood spurted on my hands, warm with the promise of magic.

My movements hadn't been lost on everyone: my student Teomitl was staring at me intently under his quetzal-feather head dress. He made a small, stabbing gesture with his hand, as if bringing down a macuahitl sword, and mouthed a question.

I shook my head. The spell I had in mind required a quincunx traced on the ground – hardly appropriate, given the circumstances. I rubbed the blood on my hands and said the prayers nevertheless:

"We all must die

We all must go down into darkness

Leaving behind the marigolds and the cedar trees

Nothing is hidden from Your gaze."

The air seemed to grow thinner, and my nausea got worse – but nothing else happened. The spell wasn't working. I should have guessed. I'd made a fool of myself for nothing.

Tizoc-tzin had finished speaking; now he took a step backwards, and said, "Welcome back your children made men, O Mexica."

The war-council stepped aside as well, to reveal three rows of warriors in quilted cotton armour and colourful cloaks, the feather insignia over their heads bobbing in the wind.

There were so few of them – so few warriors who had taken prisoners. It looked like Acamapichtli's sources were right: there couldn't be more than forty of them before us, and many of them were injured, their cloaks and quilted armour torn and bloody. Many of them were veterans, with the characteristic black cloaks with a border of yellow eyes; many held themselves upright with a visible effort, the knuckles of their hands white, the muscles of their legs quivering. Here and there, a younger face with a childhood-lock broke the monotony of the line.

"Beloved fathers, you have come at last, you have returned

To the place of high waters, the place where the serpent is crushed

Possessors of a heart, possessors of a face,

Sons of jaguars and eagles…"

There was something… My gaze went left and right, and finally settled on a warrior in the front row, near the end of the line – not among the youngest, but not grizzled either. He wore the or ange and black cloak of a four-captive warrior and the obsidian shards on his sword were chipped, some of them cleanly broken off at the base. His face was paler than his neighbours, and his hands shook.

But it wasn't that which had caught my attention: rather, it was the faint, pulsing aura around him, the dark shadows gathered over his face.

Magic. A curse – or something else?

The warrior was swaying, his face twisted in pain. It wouldn't be long until–

"My Lord," I said, urgently, my voice cutting through Tizoc-tzin's speech.

Tizoc-tzin threw me a murderous glance. He looked as though he were going to go back to what he was saying before. "My Lord," I said. "We need to–"

The shadows grew deeper, and something seemed to leap from the air into the warrior's face – his skin darkened for a bare moment, and his eyes opened wide, as if he had seen something utterly terrifying. And then they went expressionless and blank – a blankness I knew all too well.

He collapsed like a felled cactus: legs first, and then the torso, and finally the head, coming to rest on the ground with a dull thud.

Teomitl moved fastest, heading towards the line and flipping the body over onto its back – but even before I saw the slack muscles and empty eyes, I knew that the man was dead.

I made to move, but a hand on my shoulder restrained me: Quenami, looking grimly serious. "Let go," I whispered, but he shook his head.

Ahead of us, two warriors were pulling the body of their comrade out of the crowd. Teomitl stood, uncertainly, eyeing Tizoc-tzin – who pulled himself up with a quick shake of his head, and went on as if nothing were wrong.

Something crossed Teomitl's face – anger, contempt? – but it was gone too fast – and, in any case, Tizoc-tzin was moving, his elaborate cape and feather headdress hiding my student from sight.

"To the place where the eagle slays the serpent

O Mexica, O Texcocans, O Tepanecs…"

Surely he couldn't mean to…

Behind me, Quenami was taking up the chant again, his lean face suffused with his customary arrogance and a hint of contempt, as if I'd been utterly unable to understand the stakes.

The other officials and the warriors had looked dubious at first, but who could not be swayed by the will of the Revered Speaker, and of the highest of all priests? They took up the hymn, hesitantly at first, then more fiercely.

"To the place of the waters, the island of the seven caves

You come back, o beloved sons, o beloved fathers…"

"A man is dead," I whispered as the hymn wound to a close, and Tizoc-tzin approached the warriors, bestowing on them, one by one, the ornate mantles appropriate to their new status. "Do you think this is a joke?"

Quenami smiled. "Yes. But the war has been won, Acatl. Shall we not celebrate, and laugh in the face of Lord Death?"

Having met Him numerous times, I very much doubted Lord Death was going to care much either way – He well knew that everyone came to Him in the end, no matter what they did.

"It's a lie," I said, fiercely, but other hymns had started, and Quenami wasn't listening anymore.

The morning dragged on, interminable. There were chants, and intricate dances where sacred courtesans and warriors formally courted each other, reminding us of the eternal cycle of life and the order of the Fifth World. There were drum beats and the distribution of maize flatbreads to the crowd, and songs and dances, and elaborate speeches by officials. And through it all presided Tizoctzin, insufferably smug, as puffed up as if he'd been one of the captive-takers.

I stood on the edge, mouthing the hymns with little conviction – my mind on the warrior and on his fall. People did collapse naturally: from weak hearts, or pressure within the brain that couldn't be relieved; reacting to something they'd eaten, or the sting of some insect. But there had been magic around him, strong enough for me to feel it.

I doubted, very much, that it had been a natural death.

After the ceremony, the officials of the city went into the palace, where a formal banquet was served: elaborate maize cakes, roast deer, white fish with red pepper and tomatoes, newts with sweet potatoes… Tizoc-tzin, as usual, ate behind a golden screen; Teomitl was sitting with the other members of the war-council, around the reed mat of the highest-ranked, the closest one to the window and the humid air of the gardens. Beside him was Mihmatini, my younger sister – as his wife, she should have been sitting at a separate mat, but she was also Guardian of the Sacred Precinct, agent of the Duality in the Fifth World and keeper of the invisible boundaries, enough to give a headache to any protocol master. Beneath her elaborate makeup, her eyes were distant: she didn't like banquets anymore than I did, though she could hardly afford to ignore them. Between them was a thin line I could barely see – a remnant of a spell they'd done together, a magic which kept them tied even though the spell had ended.

Though Teomitl was obviously glad to see Mihmatini, I could see him fidget even from where I sat between Quenami and Acamapichtli, doing my best to avoid speaking to either of them. I could feel his impatience – which mirrored my own.

Further down, several Jaguar Knights were sitting around their own reed mats – among them was my elder brother Neutemoc, smiling gravely at some joke of his neighbour. It looked as though the campaign had enabled him to re-establish ties with his comrades, and other things besides. He looked plumper, and the jaguar body-suit no longer hung loosely on his slender frame: perhaps he was finally getting over his wife's death.

I let my gaze roam through the room, waiting for the banquet to finish. Amidst the colourful costumes, the faces flushed with warmth and the easy laughter there was something else, the same undercurrent of unease tightening in my belly. The atmosphere was tense: the laughing and smiling Jaguar Knights carefully avoided looking at the golden screen, while the warriors clustering around Tizoc-tzin – richly dressed noblemen, with barely a scar on their smooth legs – huddled together, talking as if they were in the midst of enemy territory.

All was not right with the world.

As soon as the last course of the banquet was served, I got up.

"Leaving so soon?" Quenami asked.

"I want to see the body," I said.

Quenami raised a perfectly-plucked eyebrow. "Always the High Priest, I see. Forget it, Acatl. The man had a sunstroke."

I shook my head. "Magical sunstrokes don't exist, Quenami. Someone cast a spell on him."

I expected Acamapichtli to say something, but he had remained worryingly silent – as if lost in thought. Probably thinking of how he could turn the situation to his advantage.

Quenami smiled. "Look at you. Such wonderful dedication." His voice took on a hard edge. "Nevertheless… today we celebrate our victory, Acatl – the return of the army, and the confirmation of our Revered Speaker. Tizoc-tzin needs his High Priests here."

An unmistakable, utterly unsubtle threat. But I'd had enough. "This isn't the confirmation," I said. "As you said – today we celebrate our victory. I don't think the absence of one person is going to make a difference." Especially not one High Priest with dubious loyalties, as far as Tizoc-tzin was concerned. "I don't stop being High Priest for the Dead when we celebrate."

Quenami made a slow, expansive gesture – one I knew all too well, the one which suggested there were going to be unpleasant consequence and that he'd done all he could to warn me.

And, of course, the moment I had my back turned, he was going to go to his master and denounce us.

At least I knew where I stood with him.

The dead warrior had been taken deep within the Imperial palace – on the outskirts of Tizoc-tzin's private apartments. The sky above us had the uncanny blue of noon, with Tonatiuth the Fifth Sun at his highest.

A slave took me to a small, dusty courtyard with a dry well – I'd expected it to be deserted, but to my surprise two people were waiting for me there. The first was Teomitl, still in full finery, looking far older than his eighteen years. Next to him was a middle-aged man, whom I recognised as another member of the war-council. Though he wore rich finery, the lower part of his legs was uncovered, revealing skin pockmarked with whitish skins. He nodded curtly to me – as an equal to an equal.

"I didn't see you leave," I said to Teomitl.

He grinned – fast and careless – before his face arranged itself once more in a sober expression, more appropriate to the Master of the House of Darts. "We were right behind you."

"Tizoc-tzin–" I said, slowly.

"Tizoc-tzin can say what he wants," the other man interrupted. "I have no intention of abandoning one of my own warriors."

"This is Coatl," Teomitl said, shaking his head in a dazzling movement of feathers. "Deputy for the Master of Raining Blood."

And, as such, in command of one fourth of the army. "I see," I said. I pulled open the entrance-curtain in a tinkle of bells, and slipped inside.

It was dark and cold, in spite of the noon hour: the braziers hadn't been lit, and the dead man lay huddled on the packed earth, abandoned like offal – an ironic end for one who had worshipped Huitzilpochtli, our protector god: the eternally youthful and virile Southern Hummingbird.

Automatically, I whispered the words of a prayer, wishing his soul safe passage into the underworld, for his hadn't been the glorious death of a warrior, the ascent into the Heaven of the Fifth Sun, but rather small and ignominious, a sickness that doomed him to the dark, to the dryness of Mictlan.

"You knew him," I said to Coatl.

He made a curious gesture – half-exasperation, half-contempt. "Eptli. Yes. I knew him."

"Did he have any enemies?"

"Eptli was one of the forty honoured warriors, out of an army of eight thousand men. I'd say there would be strong resentment against him."

"Yes," I said. "But why single him out? Why not any of the others?"

Coatl spread his hands. "I knew Eptli because he was under my orders, but no more than that. His clan-leader was responsible for his unit."

There was something – not quite right in the tone of his voice, as if he was going to say more, but had stopped himself just in time. What could it possibly be?

Eptli had been a four-captive warrior: with this, his fifth capture, he could aspire to membership of the Jaguar or Eagle Knights, the prestigious elite of the army.

I was about to press Coatl further, when the entrance-curtain tinkled again. I started – surely Tizoc-tzin wouldn't search for us that soon – but instead a covered cage landed on the floor with a dull thud, startling whatever was inside so it gave a piercing, instantly recognisable cry.

I knelt and lifted the cover – to stare into the bleary, murderous eyes of a huge white owl, who looked as though only the wooden bars prevented it from terminally messing up my face. It screeched once more, disdainfully.

Acamapichtli strode into the room, rubbing his hands together as if to wash away dust. "There you go. Living blood. You can use it." It wasn't a question.

"We're–"

"– certainly not going to wait for Tizoc-tzin to find us," Acamapichtli said. "He died of magic, didn't he? That's something serious."

"It might be," I said, carefully. I searched for a diplomatic way to say the words on my mind, and gave up. "What in the Fifth World are you doing here, Acamapichtli?"

"Why," his smile was sarcastic. "The same thing as you. Investigating a suspicious death."

Which, in and of itself was suspicious. Was this another court intrigue? I'd have thought that with the disaster of the previous one, Acamapichtli would have known better than to try causing another. "I don't think curiosity is enough to justify your presence here. Quenami made it quite clear we were angering Tizoc-tzin."

"You forget." He smiled, revealing rows of blackened teeth. "We're in disgrace. It can't really get worse."

I rubbed the mark on the back of my hand: the whitish trace of a fang, a reminder of a prison where it had been a struggle to think, a struggle to even breathe – a cage of beaten earth and adobe where Tizoc-tzin's enemies were reduced to drooling idiots. I'd spent only a few hours within, four months previously, accused of treason by Quenami – a handy excuse to keep me out of the way. I didn't want to go back there. "With all respect… I think it can."

Teomitl snorted. "You sound like an old couple." He didn't sound amused. "You have our permission." His voice made it clear it was the imperial "we", the one that put him on an almost equal footing with his brother Tizoc-tzin. As Master of the House of Darts, he was not only responsible for the armouries and for his quarter of the army, but also heir-designate – the one with the best chance of ascending to the Gold-and-Turquoise Crown, should Tizoc-tzin die.

Which, Smoking Mirror willing, wouldn't be happening for quite some time yet. There had been enough fire and blood in the streets with the death of the previous Revered Speaker.

Acamapichtli bowed. "As you wish, my Lord." Of course, he knew the lay of the land.

Teomitl was looking at the dead warrior, with an expression I couldn't place. Regret? The dead man hadn't perished in battle or on the sacrifice stone; his fate would be the same as anyone else's, the same as any priest or peasant: the long, winding road into the underworld, until he reached the throne of Lord Death and found oblivion.

Coatl, more pragmatic than any of us, was already kneeling by the dead man's side, examining him with the expertise of a man who had seen the aftermath of too many battles. "No wounds," he muttered, and set to removing the elaborate costume the man had worn.

In the meantime, I took the cage with the owl to a corner of the room, next to one of the huge braziers. Acamapichtli, I couldn't help but notice, hadn't brought back anything of his own – but he was watching the corpse as if considering his next best move.

I took one of my obsidian knives from my belt – even in full regalia, I never neglected to arm myself – and glanced at the owl, which looked even more ill-tempered than before. Why in the Fifth World hadn't Acamapichtli brought back spiders or rabbits?

Bracing myself, I opened the cage, grasped the owl by the head – and, ignoring the flurry of wings and claws, slit its neck just above the line of my hands.

Blood pooled out, red and warm, staining the tip of the knife, spreading to my fingers. I moved set the knife against the ground, and drew a quincunx: the five-armed cross, symbol of the Fifth World, of its centre and four points leading outwards – of the Fifth Age, and the four ages that had come before it. Then I chanted a hymn to my patron god Mictlantecuhtli, Lord Death:

"All paths lead to You

To the land of the Flensed, to the land of the Fleshless

No quetzal feathers, no scattered flowers

Just songs dwindling, just trees withering

Noble or peasant, merchant or goldsmith,

Death takes us all through four hundred paths

To the mystery of Your presence."

A veil shimmered and danced into existence; a faint green light that seemed to make the room larger. I felt as if I were standing on the verge of a chasm – at the cenote north of the city, where glistening waters turned into the river that separated the living from the dead. A wind rose in the room, but the tinkle of the bells on the entrancecurtain seemed muffled and distant. The skin on my neck and wrists felt loose, and my bones ached within the depths of my body as if I were already a doddering old man. Gently, carefully, I turned back towards the room – moving as through layers of cotton.

In the gloom, Teomitl shone with a bright green light the colour of jade – not surprising, as his patron goddess was Chalchiuhtlicue, Jade Skirt, Goddess of Rivers and Streams. Acamapichtli was surrounded by the blue-and-white aura of his own patron god. Around Coatl and the dead warrior though, the room pulsed with the same shadows I'd caught a glimpse of earlier. I saw faces, distorted in pain… and flailing arms and legs, all clinging to each other in an obscene tangle of limbs… and hands, their fingers engorged out of shape, and everything was merging into a final, deep darkness which flowed over the face of the dead warrior and into his body, like blood through veins.

It was like no curse or illness I had ever seen.

I closed my eyes, and broke the quincunx by rubbing a foot against its boundary. "I'd step away from the body, if I were you," I said.

Coatl leapt as if bitten by a snake. "You think it's contagious?"

"It's a possibility," I said, carefully.

Acamapichtli was leaning against the wall, his hand wrapped around something I couldn't see. Another of his little amulets, no doubt: he was in the habit of carving ivory and filling its grooves with the blood of sacrifices to make powerful charms. My hand still bore a whitish mark where one of them had touched me, the year before.

"So?" Teomitl asked.

Coatl shook his head. He'd stepped away from Eptli's body, letting us see quite clearly that although the warrior was covered with scars, there was indeed no wound whatsoever. Eptli had shaved his head, an odd affectation for a warrior, but it did mean we could see there was no wound there either.

Not that it surprised me. "It's some kind of illness," I said. I thought of the shadows again, and shivered. "Brought on by magic."

"Can you recognise the source?" Acamapichtli asked.

I shook my head. Every magical spell was the power of a god, called down into the Fifth World by a devotee, and it should have had a signature as recognisable as the light of Jade Skirt on Teomitl's face. "It's decaying." I would have knelt by the corpse, but what I'd seen of the light made me wary. "Breaking down into pieces, as if the Fifth World itself were anathema to it."

"That's not magic," Acamapichtli said, sharply.

"Star-demons?" Coatl asked. The star-demons were the enemies of the gods, destined to end the Fifth World by consuming us all in a great earthquake.

"I've seen star-demons," I said, slowly – my hands seized up at the thought, even though it had been more than four months before. "This doesn't look anything like their handiwork."

Acamapichtli's grip on his amulet didn't waver. His eyes were cruel; amused. "I've seen it before."

"And?" Teomitl asked, when it was obvious Acamapichtli wasn't going to add anything further.

Acamapichtli had a gesture halfway between exasperation and pity. "If I remembered, don't you think I'd be telling you?"

"No," I said.

Acamapichtli shook his head, as if to clear out a persistent annoyance. "Let old grudges lie, Acatl. We're allies in this."

By necessity – and I still wasn't sure why. "Why the interest?" I asked.

The ghost of a smile. "Because I don't think you understand Tizoc-tzin. When his banquet is over and he wakes up and realises someone deliberately spoiled his wonderful ceremony, he is going to want explanations. And right now, neither of us can afford to fail at giving them."

Footsteps echoed from the courtyard: the slow, steady march of guards. It looked as though our time alone with the corpse was drawing to a close. I hoped it wasn't Tizoc-tzin, but I didn't think we'd be so lucky.

Before leaving, I took a last glance at the body, lying forlorn and abandoned in the middle of the room, its rich clothes discarded at its side. One moment honoured by the Revered Speaker himself, on the verge of becoming a member of the elite – and the next moment this: cooling flesh in a deserted room, probed openly by strangers. From glory to nothingness in just a few moments… a cause for regret, if there ever was one.

But then again, I was a priest for the Dead and I knew we would all come to this… in the end.

TWO

The Affairs of Warriors

"You mock me," Tizoc-tzin said. His sallow face was puckered in anger, making him seem even gaunter than usual. "Leaving in the middle of the banquet, before the feast was over? One would think–" his voice was low, malicious "that you didn't care at all about the fate of the Mexica Empire."

"My Lord," I said, stiffly. "I maintain the balance of the Fifth World. The fate of the Mexica Empire is of paramount importance."

Tizoc-tzin looked dubious. He had come with his sycophant Quenami and, rather to my surprise, with a priest of Patecatl, an elderly man who had slipped into the room unobtrusively to take a look at the body. I had warned him about the possible contagion, but he had only snorted and moved on – as if the word of a youngster like me had no value.

"As to you…" He looked at Teomitl, his face caught in an odd expression. They were brothers, yet they couldn't have been more different: there was bad blood between them – had been for four months. "You ought to have known better."

"It's important," Teomitl said. "For Acatl-tzin, and perhaps for me. He was a warrior." Now that Teomitl was Master of the House of Darts, he was most definitely no longer my inferior, and didn't have to add the "tzin" honorific after my name. But he'd kept the habit, all the same.

"And you're Master of the House of Darts," Tizoc-tzin said, curtly. "Head of the army, and heir-presumptive to the Mexica Empire. Do you know what it looks like when you walk out in the midst of the celebrations for our safe return?"

I had to admit he had a point – for all his exalted status, Teomitl had a tendency to behave as though he were still a mere warrior in a regiment – just as I, when I made no effort, had a tendency to behave as a mere priest for the Dead.

Teomitl's face darkened. "The coronation war was a failure."

Quenami winced, and next to me, Coatl looked as though he would rather be anywhere else. It was Acamapichtli who spoke up, his aristocratic face creased in amusement. "You forget. We must appear strong, especially in the present circumstances."

Four months before, in the scrabble for the succession, Tizoctzin's court intrigues had led to the death of the entire council, and the intrusion of star-demons into the Sacred Precinct – and the Great Temple's altars had been slick with the blood of our own noblemen. All in front of the foreign dignitaries gathered for the designation of Tizoc-tzin – dozens of neighbouring city-states who had paid exorbitant tribute to Tenochtitlan, and dreamt of a day they could cast us down into the mud.

Whatever angry words Teomitl might have had were cut short by the re-emergence of the priest of Patecatl, who looked preoccupied. "This is no natural death, my Lord."

Tizoc-tzin looked from Acamapichtli to me – but it must have been clear we couldn't have bribed the priest. "What is it, then?"

"I don't know," the priest said, which wasn't surprising. Patecatl was god of herbs and potions: He was powerless against spells. "It looks like a curse."

Tizoc-tzin looked back at me, his lips tightening. "Someone did this, then. Someone cast a spell to kill a man in the midst of the celebration."

"It would seem so," Acamapichtli said, with a meaningful look at me.

Tizoc-tzin threw him a suspicious glance, but more as a matter of principle, it seemed. "There is a sorcerer out there, seeking to destabilise the Mexica Empire."

I winced – and, under Quenami's disapproving gaze, did my very best to turn it into a cough. "My Lord, surely the people love you."

"The Empire goes from coast to mountains, from marshes to valleys. We have our enemies, only waiting for a moment of weakness to pounce."

Tizoc-tzin had always had a slight tendency to paranoia; unfortunately, this had turned out to be justified four months before, when his rashness had killed him at the same time as the council. I and the other two High Priests had pooled our powers to bring him back from the threshold of the world beyond, but he'd never been the same since. If anything, the paranoia had got worse. He saw assassins in every shadow, every canal bend, every courtyard and in everyone bold enough, or foolhardy enough, to approach him too closely.

It looked more like a case of personal vengeance than political intrigue – not that it was made more legitimate by that, of course. "I don't think–"

"Acatl never thinks." Acamapichtli's voice was dismissive. "That's always been his trouble. We'll of course investigate this as thoroughly as we can, my Lord."

As usual, I wasn't sure whether to thank Acamapichtli or to strangle him. And, by the smug look on his face, he knew my feelings all too well.

Tizoc-tzin frowned. At the meeting point of his eyebrows, I could see a thin white line: the arch of a broken bone in the skull. His eyes were deeper than they should have been, shadowed like empty sockets.

Southern Hummingbird blind me, we should never have brought him back. No wonder the hole in the Fifth World wouldn't close: the dead weren't meant to rule the living, or to walk in sunlight.

"Very well," Tizoc-tzin said. "I trust this will be solved quickly."

And he swept away, without sparing us a further glance. Quenami lingered behind, looking at us both as if he might add something in his capacity as High Priest of the Southern Hummingbird and our superior, but then shook his head and followed his master. Teomitl, after talking briefly to Coatl, also left – presumably going back to the banquet. From the tense set of his shoulders, he didn't look altogether happy about the situation.

Acamapichtli swore under his breath. "He's not getting better."

"We didn't have any choice," I said, with a conviction I couldn't feel. "We had to keep the Fifth World whole."

"Oh, it will work out, don't worry. Perhaps not for us, though," Acamapichtli added speculatively. I didn't like the tone of his voice – at a guess, he was once more trying to work out the best possibilities for his own advancement.

I decided to take the fight to a terrain I was more familiar with. "Can you look into where you saw that magic last?"

"What magic? Oh, the one on the corpse?" Acamapichtli shrugged. "Why not?"

"You don't sound very enthusiastic," Coatl interjected. He looked paler than he had at the beginning of our interview, and he was shaking. It was all due, however, to barely-contained anger rather than ill-health. "One of my warriors died. I'll have justice for it."

Acamapichtli appeared unfazed. "I usually leave Acatl to deal with matters of justice," he said maliciously. "He's got much more experience than I."

"Do you really think this is a good time for quarrels?" I asked.

"Quarrels? We're not quarrelling," Acamapichtli said. He threw his head back, and abruptly appeared to grow taller and larger, with a shimmering shadow over his face, and his voice echoing like the sound of thunder over a storm-tossed lake. "Trust me – when we quarrel, you'll know."

And he, too, swept away from the courtyard – leaving me alone with a corpse and an angry warrior.

"What helpfulness," I said. I could have done much the same trick, had I wished to, but it would have been disrespectful to Lord Death: a waste of His power for nothing more than the posturing of turkeys. I turned to Coatl. "You have my word," I said. "By my face and by my heart, I'll bring you justice."

Coatl grimaced, but said nothing. He couldn't accuse me of being an oath-breaker, but clearly he didn't trust priests anymore than he had to. A typical warrior. I suppressed a sigh and resumed the interview I'd started during the examination of the body. "You said you didn't know much about Eptli. Are you sure there isn't anything you can tell me?"

Coatl spread his hands again… and then shook his head, as if coming to a decision. "Teomitl-tzin would have told you, in any case. There was – a problem with Eptli."

"A problem?"

"The warriors on that line were those who had captured a prisoner unaided in the course of battle."

"Yes," I said. I couldn't see what he was getting at.

"Eptli – " Coatl shrugged. "Another warrior claimed the same prisoner as Eptli. It happens, in the course of the battle. Things get a little frantic, you can't find any witnesses, and there you are with a prisoner and two men claiming him."

"Doesn't the prisoner know who captured him?"

Coatl's lips tightened. "You've never been on a battlefield, have you? As I said: it's fast and frantic, and all the warriors have painted faces and similar feather-suits. Who's to tell the difference between them, unless they have standards of their own? Which," he added, "neither Eptli nor the other possessed."

"And how do you resolve this, if there are no witnesses?" I asked.

"As you said: you ask the prisoner." Coatl didn't look happy. "Ask other warriors of the unit to see if you can trace the troop movements and see who is more likely to have been there at the crucial point." He didn't sound altogether pleased.

"You don't like doing this?"

He grimaced. "Discipline I can deal with. Warriors should set a higher example than commoners, and if they go so far as to forget themselves, and steal or betray, or retreat in battle, they only deserve what happens to them. This…? The stakes are high, we're not sure, and everything depends on our decision."

"When you say 'we'–?"

"The war-council handles all criminal matters connected to warriors while we're out on a campaign." I caught the implication: whoever the guilty party was, they would likely be tried by the tribunal in the palace, thus relieving him of his responsibilities.

I could have asked him if he thought he'd taken the right decision, but there would have been no point. What we needed wasn't the truth of what had happened on this battlefield, but someone with a strong enough grudge to cast a curse on Eptli. "The other warrior who claimed the prisoner–" I started.

"Chipahua? He wasn't happy. Not at all." Coatl seemed to realise the import of what he'd said. "Not that he'd do anything. I'd be very much surprised. Chipahua has always abided by the rules."

Clearly, he'd defend his warriors to the death, and I wasn't sure I blamed him. Were our situations reversed, I'd have done the same for my priests. "What kind of a warrior was he?"

"What do you want to know?"

"Young or old?" I asked.

"Middle-aged." Chipahua grimaced again.

"But he'd already taken a captive before."

"Four."

"Like Eptli." And, like Eptli, he'd have stood on the verge of admittance into the Jaguar or Eagle Knights. Two warriors, vying for further status and prestige, and only one prisoner. It could definitely get ugly fast.

"Look," Coatl said, "as I said, I don't like doing this. Accusing people without proof."

I drew myself to my full height, letting him see my oak-embroidered cloak, the polished skull-mask on my face: the paraphernalia of a High Priest for the Dead, one who patrolled the invisible boundaries, one who defended against magical incursions. "It's a serious matter. Magical spells are one thing; spells cast under the Revered Speaker's nose, so to speak…" I had no doubt Tizoc-tzin was going to hold Acamapichtli and I accountable for all of it. The Southern Hummingbird knew he needed little excuse, those days.

Still, I stood by what I'd said a year ago. Our Revered Speaker might be a poor warrior with too much ambition, and didn't have the stature to wear the Turquoise and Gold Crown. But when the alternative was star-demons loose in the palace – as we'd had during the drawn-out change of Revered Speaker – I knew where I stood. I would preserve the balance and learn to live with my rancour.

Coatl's face was expressionless. "As I said, you'll want to talk to the commander of his unit."

"I don't think so," I said, slowly. "There is something more you're not telling me, isn't there?" I knew the signs, had seen them too often. Coatl was far from the first uncooperative witness I had ques tioned. In fact, for a member of the war-council, one of the highest authorities in the army, he was surprisingly amiable. Then again… then again, he wasn't a nobleman by birth – from his build and numerous scars, he had risen through the ranks to attain his current position. His parents, just like mine, would have been peasants.

Coatl's face twisted, becoming distant, expressionless, as if he were being careful not to display a strong emotion – hatred? I very much doubted it was affection. "Eptli could be… difficult to get on with."

"I see. Anyone in particular he didn't get on with? Apart from Chipahua, I presume."

Coatl didn't rise to the bait. "He got into a quarrel with a merchant, three days out from Tenochtitlan."

Merchants and warriors got on about as well as warriors and priests – very seldom. "About the usual things, I presume?" Though not as highly considered as warriors, merchants were often more prosperous, and tended to displays of wealth the warriors found obscene and undeserved. More than one merchant had been beaten to death after returning from a trading expedition with a few too many quetzal feathers, cacao pods or jewels.

"I don't know." Coatl sounded distinctly weary now. "I've seen too many of those cases to tell them apart. The merchant was one of the advance spies, bringing us word of the situation in Metztitlan and of its weak points. He'd barely come into the encampment when Eptli came along and started insulting him."

"Was he hot-tempered?" I asked.

"Eptli?" Coatl hesitated – deciding how much untruth he could get away with. "No," he said, regretfully. "He was a cool-headed man."

Hmm. Either Eptli hated all merchants, or there was something particular about this one, something that had caused him to lose his calm. I added this to the growing list of problems to tackle.

"Where can I find Chipahua?" I asked. The warrior who had vied with Eptli for the prisoner looked like the most likely person to arrange a fatal accident. "At the feast?"

Coatl shook his head. "His rank isn't high enough for him to attend the feast in the palace. You'll find him at his house." He gave me an address in Cuepopan, one of the four districts of Tenochtitlan.

As I left, I could feel his eyes on the back of my neck. He was a singular man – few people had the courage to stand up to an increasingly erratic Tizoc-tzin. I liked him, and I knew I shouldn't have, for in all he had said to me, it had become clear he hadn't cared much for Eptli, and perhaps even resented him for taking away the glory of another, more worthy warrior. He had insisted on obtaining justice – but could he have done otherwise, if he hoped to pretend innocence?

I took a boat from the temple's dock to get to Chipahua's house. Like most of our crafts, it was a small, sleek assemblage of reeds, with a simple frieze of spiders running along the prow. The priest who was polling it through the canals was someone I didn't know: a young man barely into adolescence – probably a novice who had recently entered the clergy. He wielded the pole with the ease of someone born on the lake, effortlessly inserting us into the dense traffic of the crowded canals and navigating between ornate barges three times our size without a second thought.

I sat at the back, wishing I'd thought to change out of my High Priest regalia. It would undoubtedly impress a warrior more than a simple cloak, but the sun was high in the sky and the whole cloth of the embroidered cape was already uncomfortably hot. Sweat ran down my cheeks in rivulets, and the skull-mask wedged on my face kept being dislodged by the jolts of the boat as it turned into yet another canal.

Most boats were going the opposite way, their oars and poles splashing into the water with the familiar rhythm of rowing. On the land adjoining the canal, a crowd walked in companionable silence: women with baskets of poultry and vegetables, and men bent forward against the band on their forehead which supported the burden on their backs.

Chipahua's house wasn't far from the centre of the city, on the edge of the noblemen's quarter. The buildings here were lower, not having the two storeys that only high-ranking noblemen were allowed, but they were brightly-painted adobe, not wattle and daub, and what they lacked in height, they made up with sheer scale. Every house we passed seemed to sprawl interminably, their gates open to display their outer courtyards, every one more magnificent than the last: a mass of high trees and vibrant frescoes, every building vying with its neighbours with tasteful decoration reminding the viewer of their owner's wealth.

At length, we stopped before a house that seemed almost shabby compared to its neighbours: the outside frieze was a simple portrait of Tezcatlipoca, the Smoking Mirror, god of war and fate, and the single slave at the entrance wore a white loincloth with no insignia or adornment.

He took me to his master without demur, leading me through a courtyard with a well and two pine trees, in which slave women wove cloth, keeping a wary eye on the children, who were playing with dolls and wooden chariots. The rhythmic sound of their looms against the mortars followed us inside – though not the heat, thankfully.

The reception room was supported by columns painted with ochre, and a single quetzal-feather fan seemed to be the only concession to the wealth and status of its owner.

Three warriors and three women were sitting at the far end, gathered around the remains of a meal. When the entrance-curtain tinkled, the warrior in the centre looked up, straight at me, and gestured for the slave to bring me closer.

I'd expected him to remain seated, but to my surprise he rose and bowed to me. "Acatl-tzin. Do join us."

He knew my name, too, which was surprising. Warriors and priests seldom mingled, unless at court, but he wasn't high enough in the hierarchy to be at court on a regular basis. I threw a glance at his companions, who appeared to have swallowed a live ember. Well, at least their reception wasn't unexpected. "Chipahua, I presume?"

He smiled. Like Eptli, he wasn't a young man, and battles had left their mark on him, not only in the long scar that slashed his face from right cheek to temple, but also in the wariness with which he held himself. But the smile, spreading to every feature, made him seem almost boyish. "Honoured to meet you, Acatl-tzin." He pointed at the food, spread out on the mat before him. "Do eat with us."

Most of the food was already gone, though the maize cakes and the fish in lime and spiced sauce smelled delicious – not fit for the meal of the Revered Speaker, but simple, robust fare such as I ate every day. "I already ate," I said, regretfully.

"A pity. I'd expected to have more time to idly chat," Chipahua said. "But I very much doubt you came all this way for my sake."

I studied him, but his weathered face gave nothing away. He had to know about Eptli, didn't he?

"You know what happened."

Chipahua's gaze didn't waver. "Yes. Someone fainted during the ceremony."

"Not fainted. Died."

"I see." His lips tightened. "And once again we're not informed."

I felt obscurely embarrassed, even though none of it was my fault. Chipahua smiled – but it was a smile tinged with anger. "What did you do with the body?"

"It's still being examined in the palace. Why?"

"Because he was one of us. He should be given a proper funeral."

"He'll have one." A wake, a pyre and a dog's sacrifice, and the hymns for the Dead – no more, no less than what any man was entitled to.

"I don't think you understand," Chipahua said. His gaze was still amused – but it was tinged with the contempt of warriors for priests. "He was one of us. We will be at his funeral, and it will be done properly."

I acquiesced, rather than let myself be drawn into a loaded discussion. "You haven't asked me which warrior it was."

Something passed in his gaze, too fast for me to grasp. "No. It doesn't matter who he was."

A lie. A good one, but still a lie. "The warrior was Eptli of the Atempan clan."

One of the other warriors sniggered. "Got what was coming to him."

"Zacayaman!" Chipahua said, sharply. "Be silent. The dead are owed respect." But he didn't sound as outraged as he ought to have been.

"I've seen sadder reactions," I said.

Chipahua picked up a maize cake, and looked at it as if it were a lump of jade. "If you're here, you know what happened. I can't exactly be sad."

"But you're also the one with the strongest motive."

"Motive?" This time, the surprise sounded genuine, but I'd already seen what a good liar he was. "I don't see – you mean the death wasn't natural? I assumed–"

"You assumed wrong. Someone cursed Eptli, and he died."

Chipahua tore the cake into two neat pieces. "Curses are serious matters," he said.

"So is ascending into the Eagle or Jaguar Knights."

He wasn't looking at me anymore. "It takes more than four prisoners, as you well know."

"I'm not that familiar with army procedures," I said carefully, though in this particular case I did know. My elder brother was a Jaguar Knight.

"The Knights have to accept you as a brother." He shrugged. "I don't think either I or Eptli had much of a chance, to be honest."

"Why?"

"I'm a commoner," Chipahua said, simply.

"And Eptli wasn't?"

"Eptli's father was a commoner before the Revered Speaker elevated him. It gave Eptli a great deal of… arrogance?"

"Which was totally unjustified," the warrior on my left said.

I suspected arrogance was the wrong word. Warriors were arrogant as a way of life. There had to be more to explain why Eptli was so disliked.

"Commoners have ascended into the Jaguar Knights before," I said, thinking of my brother. We were the sons of a peasant family on the outskirts of Tenochtitlan; he'd risen through feats of arms, and I through the clergy.

Chipahua grimaced. "The new commander isn't as open as the previous one."

"Southern Hummingbird blind the Jaguar Commander," the right-hand warrior – Zacamayan – said. "We know your worth, as does everyone in the clan-unit." His accent and dress were those of an educated man: he was either a nobleman himself, or the son of an elevated commoner, afforded all the privileges of the nobility.

I ignored the interruption. "You want me to think you had no motive for killing Eptli," I said to Chipahua. "But taking a fourth captive brings other benefits besides entry into the Knighthoods." The haircut that marked them as veterans; distinctive insignia and cloaks; the right to more of the tribute, and the title which would give them the higher status they coveted.

"I won't deny that." Chipahua's face was blank. "If you're going by motive, then yes, I do have one, and a strong one. You'll know I wasn't the only one."

I refrained from glancing at his two supporters. "Giving me names to save yourself?"

Chipahua looked thoughtful for a moment. "You've talked to Coatl," he said finally.

I thought, uneasily, of the tone in Coatl's voice when he'd talked about Eptli. "He didn't approve of Eptli?"

"Eptli mocked the old. He rejected their authority – he said they were spent, and they had nothing more to teach us."

I winced. Given the little I'd seen of Coatl, I very much doubted he'd have liked that. Eptli was sounding more and more like a thoroughly disagreeable person.

Not that I was surprised. It was rarely the likeable men who were murdered. Murder – especially magical murder, with the lengthy preparations, the shedding of living blood and the calling on the power of the gods – required premeditation, and that in turn meant a strong motive. Few innocent men inspired such destructive passion.

"Very well. Do you have anything else to add?" This included the two warriors on either side of me, who watched me with undisguised hostility. Whatever Chipahua thought of priests, they didn't share that opinion.

"No," the left-hand one said.

"No," Zamacayan said. "But you should look elsewhere, Acatltzin." He put a slight pause after my name, as if he were adding the honorific only as an afterthought.

"I will give it some thought," I said as I rose. My cloak brushed against him for a bare moment – and I felt a palpable jolt of magic – a strong pulsing power that could only belong to Huitzilpochtli the Southern Hummingbird.

It might have been a ward: many warriors and noblemen had them – including my own student Teomitl. But the throbbing energy climbing up my arm was no standard ward. Zamacayan was either a magic-user, or he had access to one – not the tame priests at court or in the army, but someone prepared to cast a strong, elaborate spell.

I said nothing as the slave took me out of the house, and my priest started rowing us back to the temple. But I was preoccupied. Chipahua himself might have no knowledge of magic, and the two warriors no motive to kill Eptli – but put them together, and bind them with the strong comradeship that kept a unit together in the heat of battle…

"Acatl-tzin!"

I looked up, startled out of my reverie – and almost fell over when I saw Teomitl, leaning on the prow of a narrow-nosed boat. He'd discarded his regalia in favour of a mantle with a red brim, and a dark cape, though his face was still painted black and blue.

"How did you find me?" I started, but then saw the green glow of his patron goddess Jade Skirt etched in every feature of his face. I was on a boat, in the water that was Her province – of course She'd know where I was. I shifted conversation subjects. "What in the Fifth World are you doing here?"

"Telling you that you were right." Teomitl reached out, taking my hand to drag me into his own boat. "Come on, we'll go faster with this one. It's larger, and it's got the imperial insignia."

"Teomitl," I said, struggling not to capsize. "How about explanations?"

"Oh." He looked surprised for a moment. "It's the dead man."

"I shouldn't think he could get any deader," I said darkly, manoeuvring to bridge the gap between the two boats. Behind us, the traffic in the canal had completely jammed – and I guessed it was only the imperial crest that prevented people from screaming at us.

"You don't understand, Acatl-tzin." Teomitl steadied me as I set foot onto the floor of the boat. "Whatever he had, he's been passing it on to other people."

A contagious disease. In the palace. Where the rulers of the Triple Alliance were gathering for Tizoc-tzin's coronation; where the highest-ranking noblemen and priests would be discussing the coronation war and what it meant for the Mexica Empire.

I took a deep breath, but it didn't remove the leaden weight in my stomach. "Lead on," I said.

THREE

Further Victims

Teomitl took me to the same wing where we'd put Eptli's corpse earlier. The atmosphere was curiously subdued, with an over-abundance of black-garbed priests of Patecatl, and the blue and white cloaks that could only mark priests of Tlaloc the Storm Lord.

I wasn't that surprised: among His many attributes, the Storm Lord was responsible for the spreading of diseases – pouring them down from one of His jars as he poured rain and lightning upon the Fifth World.

Acamapichtli was waiting for us in front of a closed entrancecurtain. On the ground behind him was a half circle, inscribed with blood-glyphs. Even from a distance, I could feel the heat radiating from the tracings. Something large – perhaps even a man – had been sacrificed here.

"Is it that bad?" I asked. Teomitl's explanations had been confused: I gathered there had been at least one victim, but the sheer number of priests made me suspect it was somewhat worse.

"I don't know," Acampichtli said. "That fool priest of Patecatl should have listened to you in the first place."

"He didn't," I said, though I was as angry with the priest as Acamapichtli himself was. Contagion was a serious matter – and, once started, the illness would be harder to contain. "You can't change that."

Acamapichtli pursed his lips, a familiar gesture halfway between amusement and contempt. "Two victims so far. The priest of Patecatl who examined the body, and Coatl."

They'd both touched it, I recalled. "And the warriors who carried it?"

"We're looking for them." Acamapicthli shook his head. "But they went back to their houses, and no one paid much attention to them after they left."

No, indeed not. But I knew better than to let him cow me through shame. "And the illness?" The warrior hadn't had many symptoms, other than the fluttering shape of shadows over his face, like dappled light coming through trees – no, that wasn't it. I'd seen that somewhere, too – but where?

"Their body temperature is high, and they keep shivering. No other symptoms, but those can take time to appear."

He might have been right – I wouldn't have known. I was called in after there was no hope, after the remedies of ground pearls and white earth had failed, after the patient had taken on the visage of death, after the blood had poured over the heart and spread into all the members, quenching life as it did so. And few illnesses came from corpses.

Angry voices brought me back to reality. Teomitl was arguing, loudly and arrogantly, with Acamapichtli. "I don't see why–"

"It's a precaution."

"He didn't touch the corpse."

"What in the Fifth World are you talking about?" I asked, with the feeling I wasn't going to like the answer.

"He wants you to be isolated, with the others!" Teomitl blurted out.

"Only for a few days."

A few days? "We don't have that kind of time," I said. What was he thinking of? "You pick an odd time to be conscientious. What happened to the survival of the Fifth World being assured?" And he seemed to conveniently forget about including himself in his isolation – typical.

He looked at me for a while, and for the first time I heard utter seriousness in his voice. "I am High Priest of Tlaloc the Storm Lord, His voice in the Fifth World. If the god has chosen to break His third jar, and pour the waters of epidemic upon us, then it is my respon sibility to beseech Him for mercy – and to isolate those He has touched, to see if They have been chosen to go to Tlalocan, the paradise of the Blessed Drowned, or if they are destined to remain in the Fifth World."

"This is all about appearances, isn't it?" Teomitl asked, angrily. "About looking good in front of the city."

"Teomitl." I raised a hand. I could be mistaken – I could never read the slippery son of a coyote – but there was something genuine in what he was telling us. Acamapichtli believed in his personal gain, but unlike Quenami he wouldn't dismiss the gods out of hand. "Has the god spoken to you?"

"Not yet," Acamapichtli said. And then I did understand: if it was indeed the will of Tlaloc, and he, Tlaloc's priest in the Fifth World, ignored it, then he would have more to contend with than angry mortals.

I suppressed a bitter laugh. We'd weathered the anger of the Southern Hummingbird the year before – which had resulted in the massacre of the whole imperial council by star-demons; I could understand why Acamapichtli wasn't keen to try Tlaloc's patience.

"I don't think it's Him," I said. "It's magical."

"You presume to know the will of the gods?"

I shrugged. "No. But if it's just the will of a mortal, than I'm oathbound to go against it. I keep the boundaries of the Fifth World, and the balance that maintains the Fifth Sun in the Sky, and Grandmother Earth fertile. Will you go against that?"

"If I must." Acamapichtli's face was pale. "For a few days, at least."

"We might not have a few days," I said. I hesitated. I didn't know much about illnesses, but still – "Why is it becoming contagious only now? We haven't heard a report about Eptli's comrades falling ill, have we?" And Chipahua and his companions had looked perfectly healthy, with none of the symptoms of the disease.

Acamapichtli looked taken aback. "It may only be contagious after death. I've seen odder things."

"Doesn't matter," Teomitl said impatiently. "Surely you're not suggesting my brother and I should be subject to this, as well?"

Acamapichtli looked as if he might argue for a moment, but he was too canny a politician for that. "I shouldn't think so, my Lord. Your protections – and Tizoc-tzin's – are the strongest in this palace. Nevertheless, I would recommend… caution."

Teomitl grinned, an utterly bleak expression. "One doesn't become Revered Speaker through caution, priest." He looked almost like his brother in those moments, with the same stern mannerisms, and the same way of spitting out words as if they'd offended him. I didn't like that – I'd always known he'd grow away from me, my young and precocious student, but I hadn't thought I would lose him to Tizoc-tzin's shadow. "You overstep your limits."

Acamapichtli's face twisted, as if he'd swallowed something bitter. "My Lord… I differ. As Acatl said, those are the numinous boundaries of the Fifth World. They shouldn't concern you."

Oh, for the gods' sake, the whole business was increasingly ridiculous. "It's too early to start acting so cautiously. Give us some of your amulets, and you can come pick us up if we collapse."

Acamapichtli looked as though he might protest, but in that precise moment he was approached by a young priest of Tlaloc.

"Acamapichtli-tzin," the priest said. He bent his blue-striped face to Acamapichtli's ear, and whispered something. I saw Acamapichtli's face go from mild annoyance to surprise, and then – for a brief moment – to naked fear.

"What is it?" Teomitl asked.

"None of your–" Acamapichtli bit back the sentence with great difficulty. "Since you're both so keen to risk further contamination…"

"Someone else died," I said.

"Not any 'someone else'," Acamapichtli said. "Eptli's prisoner."

The one that had been contested between him and Chipahua.

"Take us there," I said to the priest – who looked back, hesitating, to Acamapichtli for confirmation. Acamapichtli shook his head with sardonic humour. "It's their lives at stake," he said. "We'll discuss the matter of your isolation later on."

The prisoners made in a war were normally the property of their captors, and as such were lodged by the clan, fed and taken care of until the time came for sacrifice. But this time, either because there hadn't been enough time since the army's return, or because Tizoctzin had wanted to keep a watch on the forty captives for his confirmation ceremony, they had been accommodated in the palace itself, in a secluded section to the west of the building, away from the bustle of life in either the Revered Speaker's or the She-Snake's quarters. The mood, when we entered, was subdued – but I got the feeling it was usual, and not due to their losing a comrade.

It might have been any warrior camp before a battle: the air reeked of the blood of penances, and several of the prisoners I crossed had bloody earlobes and bloody loincloths, their worshipthorns casually thrust through the upper part of their cotton clothes. Somewhere would be an altar to the Southern Hummingbird or the Smoking Mirror – with an accumulation of worship balls, the grass stained red and shimmering with raw power.

We followed the priest to the back of a small courtyard, where another priest was keeping watch on a closed room, with a gloomy countenance. "Here for the body?" he asked.

"To examine it."

"You have the courage of eagles," the priest said. He jerked a finger towards the entrance curtain, gently swaying in the breeze. "It's in there."

I paused before entering, and slashed my earlobes, taking the time to cast a brief spell of protection calling on Lord Death's power. I waited until the cold of the underworld spread through my veins like melted ice before I passed the threshold.

For all my protection, I felt it when I entered – and by Teomitl's sharp intake of breath, he did, too. The air was tight, somehow more rarefied than it ought to have been: it reminded me of walking atop Mount Popocatepetl, where everything seemed thinner, and yet more sharply defined than at lake level.

I knelt, and rubbed my earlobes until my recently opened wounds bled again. With the blood, I drew a careful quincunx around myself, all the while singing a hymn to Lord Death to grant me true sight:

"We all must die

We all must go down into darkness…"

The air tightened again – like water, drawing back together after a pebble had been thrown into it. It cut my breath for a single, painful moment; and then everything was back to normal.

Or, at least, as much of normal as was possible, given the circumstances.

The room receded in the background, becoming thin and translucent – letting me see the shadows. They played, lazily, between the walls, passing through the black-painted columns and the clay brazier as if they didn't exist. Again, I caught glimpses of flailing arms and legs within – of raised rashes, covering a torso like the scales of a snake, of pus, spurting out from broken skin while the body beneath contorted in a soundless scream.

Nausea welled up in my throat, and I had to steady myself within the circle.

Teomitl was already kneeling by the victim's side. "Don't touch him!" I said. He jerked back as if burnt. The shadows congregated around him – I couldn't help but be reminded of a curious shoal of fish, gathering around a drowned body. Tlaloc's lightning strike me, I didn't need macabre imagery right now. If I couldn't even focus on the task at hand…

Nothing leapt from the body to him, and I might as well have been invisible for all the attention the shadows paid me. Perhaps Teomitl, who was a warrior protected by Huitzilpochtli the Southern Hummingbird – just as Eptli had been – was a better target?

Cautiously, I stepped out of the quincunx, half-waiting for something to happen, but nothing did. I looked at the body: a young, well-muscled warrior, who looked barely old enough to have left the House of Youth. His face was slack and blank, like all corpses, and I could see no obvious wounds. Though…

I knelt, being careful not to touch the body. The smell of wet earth and burning coal wafted up to me – the corpse itself didn't smell yet, it was too early. The limbs were locked in an unnatural position: the man had been dead for some time. I couldn't find any wounds, but there was a slight raised pattern on the skin, like scales on the skin of a lizard – sores which hadn't yet formed.

"Acatl-tzin," Teomitl said, "the death–"

"I know," I said. "It's not that recent. I don't know who was contaminated first, him or Eptli."

"It's the same symptoms. Or lack of," Teomitl said, sombrely.

I shook my head. "Same symptoms. You can't see them, but the same shadows are in the room."

"And?" He looked as if he expected me to have the answer. Of course. I was still his teacher – never mind that I wasn't sure whether he needed me at all. The Master of the House of Darts, the heir apparent, the joint commander of the army: he seemed to be doing well for himself, regardless of my interventions.

"I don't know." I bit my lips. "But I very much doubt it's one of Tlaloc's random interventions." I'd have to ask Acamapichtli for help, but Tlaloc's fancies ran more to dropsy, leprosy or other disease, the kind that turned a man's skin as loose and as flowing as water, or made their breath rattle in their fluid-drowned lungs.

There was a single sleeping mat in the room, on which the dead man lay, and little else in the way of furniture. I rose from my crouch, ducked out of the room for a moment, in order to address the priest on guard at the entrance.

"Do you know if this was his room?" I asked.

"They all share rooms," the priest said in a bored tone. "But this one didn't."

"Oh?" Why the special treatment?

"I guess he was an important man."

"He was sick," a thickly accented voice said.

I hadn't seen the warrior by the priest's side. He looked… alien, in a way that I couldn't quite place. The coat of hardened cotton was the wrong cut; and the single tuft of hair atop his shaved head reminded me of the Otomi elite warriors, but not quite – it was not long enough and not thick enough, and the man had no stripes of paint across his face.

"You're one of the prisoners," I said.

He nodded. He held himself with pride – and why wouldn't he? He'd die for the confirmation, earning his place in the Fifth Sun's Heaven – the dream of all warriors. Surely the minor wound to his pride, that of having been captured by the despised Mexica, was worth all of this.

"I'm Cuixtli, the eldest." He spoke Nahuatl with a thick, barely recognisable accent – but then Metztitlan, his birth country, was far away, a good six days' march to the northeast. "Their leader, you might say."

"I see. I'm Acatl – High Priest for the Dead."

"I know who you are. We worship Lord Death, too, in Metztitlan." Cuixtli nodded again, almost as one equal to another.

"You say he was ill?" I asked. "Before you arrived here?"

Cuixtli spread his hands. "I don't know. When they put us here, Zoquitl was shivering – that's why we gave him his own space, to be sure."

Sacrifices were meant to be unblemished, and in perfect health – no wonder Zoquitl had been handled with such caution, in case his back luck passed on to his companions.

"And you noticed nothing before?"

"We were on the road," Cuixtli said. "Marching. I didn't see him lag, but I wasn't paying so much attention."

So, if the prisoner – Zoquitl – had indeed been sick, it would have been barely perceptible. But then again, he was a warrior, and would want to avoid a show of shameful weakness.

Who had been ill first? He, or his captor? "Did Eptli visit Zoquitl? While you were on the road."

Cuixtli shrugged. He radiated a serenity that was almost uncanny – something I knew all too well, the growing detachment of those about to lay down their lives for the continuation of the world. One by one, he would be cutting the bonds that tied him to the Fifth World, preparing himself to die in the Southern Hummingbird's name – just as the gods themselves had died in the beginning of the Fifth Age, to bring forth life from the barren earth, and move Tonatiuh the Fifth Sun across the Heavens. "Eptli?" he asked.

"The man who captured him?"

"The one who was awarded Zoquitl." Serene didn't mean unobservant, either. "He came several times."

Beloved father, beloved son, I thought. That was the ritual for capturing another warrior: acknowledging they were as precious as your own blood, as your own flesh – making them into a living offering. "And how did he look?"

"Angry," Cuixtli said. "Elated. He was a man of many moods."

"You're sure?" It wasn't what Coatl had told me about Eptli, and I could see no reason for Coatl to lie. Unless… unless something particularly large were going on in Eptli's life. The trial before the war-council, to get his prisoner awarded to him? Would that be enough to account for the mood-swings? "When was Eptli awarded Zoquitl?"

Cuixtli shrugged. "Early on, before we set out on the march."

So, not that. Unless it hadn't been resolved? But could Chipahua and Coatl both be lying? I made a note to ask Teomitl about the case. With any luck, he'd remember it – though I very much doubted that anything outside of the battlefield would have interested my headstrong, glory-obsessed student. "But Eptli didn't look sick either?"

"Not that I could see. I wouldn't know. But illnesses can be a long time brewing."

"I see."

A rattle of bells cut the conversation short, as Teomitl yanked the entrance-curtain open. "Acatl-tzin!"

"What is it?" I asked.

Teomitl threw a wary glance at the priest – who had resumed his position of studied indifference – and then a more respectful one to the warrior, as one equal to another. He held out his hand to me, unfolding tanned fingers one after the other for maximum effect.

Inside was a single notched bead of clay – which, unfortunately, meant nothing whatsoever to me. "Would you mind explaining?" I said.

"I found it inside," Teomitl said. "It had rolled under the brazier." He raised a hand, to forestall my objection. "I didn't touch the body, Acatl-tzin. I swear."

"I still don't see–"

"This belongs to a woman," Cuixtli said.

"How do you know so much about Mexica women?" I asked.

He snorted. "How can you know so little about them? Any fool knows that. It's too delicate to be a man's ornament."

Teomitl shook his head, impatiently. "It doesn't matter, Acatltzin. Don't you see? A woman was here."

I glanced at Cuixtli, who was looking at the bead thoughtfully. "I didn't know sacrifices were granted spouses." In very rare cases, such as the sacrifice of Tezcatlipoca's incarnation, the victim was granted all his earthly desires – and, as he ascended the steps of the Great Temple, everything was stripped away from him: wives and jewellery, and then finally clothes, to leave him as empty-handed as in the hour of his birth.

Cuixtli spread his hands. "Our last hours are spent with the gods, like those of our afterlife. How men make peace with that varies. I don't begrudge them." But his frown suggested he didn't approve.

"So you didn't know about the woman?"

He shook his head. "No. But I can enquire. Do you want me to send word?"

"Send it to me," Teomitl said.

"Indeed." Cuixtli looked at him, waiting for something – an introduction?

"Ask for Ahuizotl, the Master of the House of Darts."

The man's face froze – it was minute and didn't last long, but I saw it clearly. "I see. And why does the Master of the House of Darts concern himself with such lowly folk?"

"Lowly? You are the bravest in this palace." Teomitl's voice was low and intense. "You give your life; you give your blood on the altar-stone for the continuation of the Fifth Age. You die a warrior's death for all our sakes."

The warrior's face puckered, halfway between puzzlement and pride. "I see," he said again. "Thank you."

Teomitl made a dismissive gesture, and ducked back into the room. I followed him after bowing to the warrior.

"Teomitl?" I asked, once we were inside.

He was looking once more at the dead man, with that peculiar frown on his face – anger? I'd only seen him truly angry once, when Tizoc-tzin had belittled his wife-to-be in front of the court – but that hadn't been the same. His face had gone as flat as obsidian, his eyes dark. Now he just looked thoughtful – but much like a jaguar looked thoughtful before the hunt.

Southern Hummingbird strike me, I needed to stop this. Paranoia was all well and good, but applying it to those few people I trusted was stabbing myself in the throat.

"Yes, Acatl-tzin?"

"Eptli's case," I said. "What happened? Coatl told me the prisoner was contested between him and Chipahua."

"The case?" Teomitl looked surprised. "I don't remember – there was nothing special, Acatl-tzin. Those two claimed the same prisoner. They wore near-identical battle-garb, with similar standards."

"Coatl told me it was a difficult decision to make."

Teomitl's eyebrows went up. "Coatl likes simple decisions. He's a warrior, through and through. There is your side, and the enemy's side, and you shouldn't have to wonder about more than that."

"And you're not like him?" I asked. Not that I was surprised: politics couldn't be dealt in such a simplistic fashion. Mind you, I couldn't blame Coatl: I preferred my divisions clear-cut, but I was aware that the gods seldom gave you what you liked best.

"I can think," Teomitl said, contemptuously. "At any rate – we questioned the warriors of the clan-unit, and the prisoner Zoquitl, and we thought it likely Eptli was in the right."

"Wait," I said. "Zoquitl was willing to testify before a Mexica tribunal?" I couldn't see for what gain. Either way, he would die his glorious death on the altar-stone – and if there was no conclusive evidence, he would be given to the Revered Speaker, and the endgame would be the same.

"He's a warrior," Teomitl said, with a quick toss of his head that set the feathers of his headdress aflutter. "He wouldn't cheat a fellow warrior."

I had my doubts. After all, as my brother Neutemoc had proved, warriors – even Jaguar Knights – were like the best and the worst of us. They walked tall above us, but sometimes, like any mortal, they stumbled and fell. "Fine," I said, grudgingly. "You listened to the testimonies and decided to award the prisoner to Eptli. Why?"

"You want a detailed argumentation? Now?" Teomitl's gaze moved to the dead prisoner.

"The gist of it," I said.

"He was more likely to be in the area, his description fitted Zoquitl's testimony better, and he was more muscular than Chipahua, more likely to be able to capture him with one blow, as Zoquitl testified." Teomitl's voice was monotonous, bored.

"And you never had doubts?" I asked.

"No. Acatl-tzin, why go over this again? We ruled and there is no appeal."

Why? I frowned, not quite sure why myself. "I thought an inconclusive trial conclusion would explain why Chipahua was so angry at Eptli, and vice-versa."

"Well, it's not that." Teomitl hesitated. "There was someone who didn't agree with this, originally."

"On the war-council?" I asked.

"Yes. Itamatl. He's the deputy for the Master of the Bowl of Fatigue. He was sceptical at first, and argued against the evidence. But not for long."

That didn't sound much like a divided war-council, no matter how I turned it.

"We need more evidence," I said.

"I should say we've got more than enough here," Teomitl said, sombrely.

"That's not what I meant."

I needed to see how ordinary warriors had considered Eptli. I needed inside information, but Teomitl would be useless on this one: like Coatl, he moved in spheres that were too exalted to pay attention to the common soldiers. What I needed was someone lower down the hierarchy.

I needed–

Tlaloc's Lightning strike me, I needed my brother.

I had caught a glimpse of Neutemoc at the banquet, so I knew that not only had he come home safe, but also that he had gained from the campaign. But the formalised banquet hadn't left me time to have a quiet chat with him, and I had been looking forward to visiting him.

I just hadn't intended that my visit – the first for months – to come with strings attached: the last thing we needed was for my High Priest business to interfere in our fragile and budding relationship.

FOUR

Brother and Sister

First, we needed to make it out of the palace – preferably without running into Acamapichtli and his absurd notions of quarantine again.

Luckily, the priest who'd brought us into the prisoners' quarters had vanished, and his replacement at Zoquitl's door was more interested in doing his job as a guard than checking on our departure.

"We'll run into priests," I said as we exited the prisoners' quarters. "The palace was overrun by those sons of a dog."

Teomitl shook his head. "Not if we take the least-travelled paths. Come on, Acatl-tzin!"

Of course, he had all but grown up there in the early years of his brother's reign and he knew the place like the back of his hand. He took a turn left, and then a dizzying succession of turns through ornate courtyards where slaves brought chocolate to reclining nobles – until the crowds thinned, the frescoes faded into paleness and the courtyards became dusty, deserted squares, with their vibrant mosaics eaten away by years of winds.

"The quarters of Chilmapopoca," Teomitl said, laconically. "My brother Axayacatl's favourite son. He died of a wasting sickness when he was barely seven years old."

It smelled of death and neglect, and of a sadness deeper than I could express in words. I shivered and walked faster, hoping to leave the place soon.

And then we were walking past the women's quarters: highpitched voices and the familiar clacking sound of weaving looms echoed past us – the guard in the She-Snake's uniform gave Teomitl a brief nod, and waved us on.

"Are you sure?"

Teomitl's face was lit in a mischievous smile. "Remember three months ago, when that concubine blasted her way out of the palace?"

The scar on the back of my hand ached. The previous year, in the chaos that had followed the previous Revered Speaker's death, we'd uncovered a sorcerer working for foreigners. In his deaththroes, he had opened up a passageway, allowing his employer to escape into the city.

"It was supposed to be sealed up."

"It was," Teomitl said. "But I got them to make me a key."

The women looked away as we walked past, though not all of them. Some were smiling at Teomitl – whether because he was an attractive youth or because his uniform marked him as Master of the House of Darts, I didn't know. But Teomitl, lost in his current task, didn't even appear to notice them.

As for me… I'd been sworn to the gods since I was old enough to walk; and the women didn't even raise the ghost of a desire in me. A goddess had once accused me of being less than human, but she'd been wrong. I saw them as people – not for what they could bring me in bed, or the status they symbolised, but merely as the other half of the duality that kept the balance of the world.

At length, we reached another courtyard, which was entirely deserted. Teomitl breathed a sigh. "Good. I hate throwing women out of here. They always make such a fuss."

The building at the back of the courtyard was a low, one-storey structure, an incongruity in a palace that almost always had the coveted two floors. Columns supported its roof, creating a pleasant patio for summertime, though we were barely out of winter and most trees were bare.

In the centre was a patch of clearer adobe, clear of all frescoes: Teomitl reached out for it, and I felt more than saw the discharge of magic leap to his hand, the jade-green glow characteristic of his goddess. The adobe lit up from within, as if exhaling radiance – and then it seemed to sink back onto itself, receding until it revealed a darker entrance. The air smelled of that peculiar sharp smell before the rain.

"It's not the same passageway, is it?" I asked. The one I remembered all too well had torn through the neighbouring quarters: looking through it had merely revealed a succession of courtyards and quarters.

Teomitl grimaced. "I… used an opening in the wards, to keep it simple. Come on, Acatl-tzin."

He laid his hand on my shoulder as I entered, and a tingle went up my arm – like a mild sting by an insect, moments before it started itching.

That feeling, too, I knew – not the exact same one, but close enough. "Your shortcut is through Tlalocan." Tlalocan, the land of the Blessed Drowned; the territory of Tlaloc and his wife Chalchiuhtlicue, Jade Skirt, Teomitl's patron goddess. A land anathema to me, the power of which ate away at my body and my magical ability.

"Yes." Teomitl said.

"Do you have any idea–"

"–how dangerous it is? Please, Acatl-tzin, I don't need a lecture."

That wasn't what I'd wanted to say. If he'd cast the spell and the Fifth World had still failed to collapse on us, then he'd got the tunnel contained. And he hadn't breached any boundaries – strictly speaking, the breach had been made by the original creator of the passageway. Sophistry, but the gods that guarded the boundaries, such as the Wind of Knives and the Curved Obsidian Blade, thrived on such rules.

"You have a passageway into the palace," I said, following him through the tunnel. It was dark and damp, and reminded me of too many unpleasant things – I knew too well the tightening in my chest, the growing dizziness, the gradually blurring field of vision. "Do you have any idea what Tizoc-tzin would do if he found out?"

I guessed more than saw him grin in the darkness. "Unpleasant things," he said. "My brother's paranoia hasn't improved." He sounded cold. His relations with his brother had always been as complex as mine with my own brother, but they hadn't been good for a while.

The pressure against my chest grew worse as we went deeper – the tunnel was dark and murky, as if we were at the very bottom of Lake Texcoco, and there were things moving in the darkness, shadows that would vanish as soon as I focused on them. The air smelled of mould and mud, and greenish light played on the back of my hands and on Teomitl's clothes, washing everything into monochrome insignificance.

Ahead was a thin beam of light, which didn't seem to grow any closer – and I was finding it hard to breathe, struggling to put one foot after the other; it was if I were moving through thick sludge, as if I breathed in only mud…

"Acatl-tzin!"

I trudged on. Teomitl's silhouette wavered and danced within my field of vision, and – just when I thought I couldn't take it any longer, that I would have to sit down and recover some of my strength – the light abruptly flared, and grew larger – and I stumbled out, into a world washed orange by the late afternoon sun.

We were in a street I didn't recognise: the back of the palace; not the Sacred Precinct, just an expanse of dirt with a canal running alongside it. It was deserted, both the canal and the streets, with not a boat or a pedestrian to be seen.

"Let's – not – tarry – here," I said. Each word hurt like a burning coal in my throat.

"Get your breath back." Teomitl was scanning the street. "Curses. I was hoping there'd be a boatman."

"So you could commandeer it?" I asked. "That would be hardly discreet."

"If we're going to your brother's, it's quite likely Acamapichtli will figure it out sooner or later."

"I'd rather it were later," I said. "It would give me time to ask questions." I'd forgotten, in the months when the army was gone, Teomitl's tendency to rush in first and ask questions later. It was all well and good for the battlefield, but elsewhere it tended to be a little less efficient, and a little more likely to hinder us, or make us enemies.

Teomitl sighed. "As you wish. We can walk."

• • • •

Since neither I nor Teomitl had changed out of our regalia, we made an imposing sight on the way: about half the people we crossed stopped, unsure whether to bow. As we went deeper into Moyotlan, one of the four districts of Tenochtitlan, I reflected somewhat sadly that for once he'd been right. Acamapichtli would likely find out where we'd gone in a heartbeat.

However… it was approaching evening, the streets slowly growing darker and the first parties of night-visitors coming out with lit pine-torches, going to a banquet, or a celebration of a birth, of a wedding, or even a party for the return of the warriors. The first snatches of flute music filled our ears, along with voices raised in speeches, and the distant beating of temple gongs in the clan-wards. With the sun gone, the weather was markedly colder and I was glad for the thick cloak of my High Priest's regalia. Teomitl, of course, barely seemed to notice anything so trivial as the change in temperature.

Neutemoc's house was brightly lit, the leaping jaguars on its façade seeming almost alive. But there were no more torches than usual: no visitors, then. I wasn't altogether surprised. Neutemoc's reputation had been badly damaged a year before, when he'd been accused of murder and had lost his wife in a matter of days. Neutemoc himself hadn't been the same – less given to boisterous parties, or even to participating in the clan's daily life. He might have regained some of that on the march, but the damage went too deep to be removed at one stroke.

The burly slave at the entrance knew both Teomitl and I, and gestured for us to go inside.

The reception room was more sober than it had been the year before: gone were the feather fans, and the silver and jade ornaments had been put away, presumably in the wicker chests against the wall. The only things that hadn't changed were the huge frescoes of Huiztilpochtli, the Southern Hummingbird and the Mexica protector god, trampling bound enemies underfoot.

"Teomitl! Acatl!" My sister Mihmatini rose from where she was sitting. She wore the simple garb of a priestess: an embroidered tunic over a skirt, with the fused-lovers symbol of the Duality set over her heart. She positively glowed – not all of it was my imagination, or my pride as her brother. A faint, radiant thread snaked from her feet to Teomitl – who stood, smiling at her.

"You're not at the palace anymore?"

Technically, they were married: Tizoc-tzin himself had set up the betrothal banquet, and had brought the stone axe to the priests – the axe which signified Teomitl's release from the education owed a youth, and his entrance into adult life. The wedding itself had been a grand, lavish ceremony, performed just before the army had left for the coronation war. Mihmatini herself had a room in the women's quarters, but of a common accord, she and Teomitl had moved into the Duality House, where Mihmatini continued her training as Guardian. I wondered how much of this was due to Tizoc-tzin's presence.

Mihmatini grimaced. "I've had enough of the palace. The atmosphere is so tense I'd rather be out, honestly. And banquets are all well and good, but they won't protect the Fifth World."

Teomitl shrugged, though he looked unhappy.

"I know it's hard, but things will sort themselves out. Don't let that get to you." "I know, but…"

"Come here."

I left the two lovers locked in an embrace and turned to face my brother.

Neutemoc looked better than before the army had left: a little less gaunt, a little more smiling, his broad face almost back to its boyish look, though his eyes would always give the lie to that. He'd gone through too much to pretend everything was fine. "Acatl."

The children had risen, and were waiting, warily, for the adults to finish greeting one another: Necalli, the only one of Neutemoc's children to be educated in the House of Youth, was calm and dignified, almost more like a priest-in-training than a boisterous warrior, and he'd obviously passed on some of that attitude to his younger sister, Mazatl, who stood quivering with impatience but not moving. I couldn't see Ollin, Neutemoc's youngest son, but I presumed he'd be sleeping with the female slave who nursed him.

"You look better," I said.

"I'd be surprised." Neutemoc gestured towards the mat, on which was spread the evening meal: white fish with red pepper, and sweet potatoes baked in honey. "You, on the other hand, look–"

"–regal. I know." I made a brief, stabbing gesture. "I didn't think up the regalia."

Neutemoc's lips twitched into a smile. "You look like a proper High Priest, is what I wanted to say. Come on, sit down."

I hugged the children first. Mazatl was all but leaping up and down. "Uncle Acatl, Uncle Acatl! Can I try on the mask?"

I shook my head. "It's the god's face. I don't think He meant it to be a toy."

Mazatl's face fell. "Can I touch it?" she asked and squealed when her hand met the smooth surface of bone.

"You're such a kid," Necalli said, but Mazatl didn't react to his jibe.

"Children," Neutemoc said, firmly. "Your uncle, your aunt and I have to talk. Be quiet, please."

They fell silent instantly. Neutemoc's authority had always been strong, and with his wife gone, it had grown stronger. Mihmatini and I had both urged him to take another spouse – it wasn't healthy, to have a household run only by a man – but he wouldn't hear of it.

Teomitl, who'd finished embracing Mihmatini, sat down, and removed his feather headdress – casually putting it down on the ground, within reach of the children. He glanced at Mazatl with a smile and a nod – she extended a trembling hand, and touched the feathers as if they might bite. I wasn't altogether sure she needed the encouragement: she was wilder than Mihmatini at her age, and undisciplined girls would have a hard time later on in school.

"I presume this isn't a courtesy visit?" Mihmatini asked.

I grimaced. "Partly. I was intending to visit Neutemoc anyway to have news from the war, but I wasn't intending things to turn out quite the way they have."

Mihmatini nodded. "Teomitl told me earlier."

"Earlier?"

Teomitl looked sheepish – a rare enough occurrence. "I went and apprised her of the situation while you were out in the city."

"You could have told me," I said. I understood: she was his wife, and he hadn't had intimacy with her for months – and, for a bare moment, the endless cycle of rituals and ceremonies that made up his life had been torn apart, leaving him free to move as he wished. But still… she was my sister, too.

Neutemoc picked a frog from the plate in front of him, and ate it in a single gulp, as if not paying attention. "The story is making the rounds of all the regiments by now, in any case. There weren't many warriors singled out for promotions this year, and for one of them to die… You won't keep it a secret."

No, but Tizoc-tzin would try, all the same.

Beside me, Teomitl turned his head to stare at Neutemoc with a particular intensity. "My brother will do as he wishes."

"I have no doubt," Neutemoc said, soberly. He didn't sound pleased, either. Was he among those who had lost trust in Tizoctzin? How far did the division in the army go?

"Anyway," Neutemoc said. "If you'll permit me this–" Teomitl nodded, curtly, as one equal to another, "you do know none of this is about you. You're not your brother."

Teomitl looked, for a moment, as if he'd swallowed something sour – but only for a moment, and then the familiar, dazzling smile was back on his face. "Let's focus on the matter at hand," he said. "About Eptli–"

"He was just a warrior," Mihmatini interjected. "Aren't you two supposed to have better things to do with your time than investigate every single thing that goes wrong in the palace?"

"It's not small," I said, slowly. "And it might concern you, as well. Eptli's death has started an epidemic."

"Epidemic." Her face had gone flat. "And exactly when was your little cabal planning to inform me of this insignificant fact?"

She was going too far. She was right in that I should have informed her, but I'd barely found out about the epidemic myself. "Look. I was expecting to spend the entire day dealing with the politics of the confirmation ceremony, which would have been more restful than this mess. I can't be expected to send messengers all over Tenochtitlan to anyone who might happen to have a stake in this. Besides, Acamapichtli is the one handling the situation at the moment," I said, with a touch of malice. Acamapichtli hadn't had to deal with Mihmatini since she'd become Guardian.

"Right." Mihmatini had a dangerous gleam in her eyes, one I recognised from our childhood – when she'd rowed the boat to the Floating Gardens on her own, after Neutemoc and I had both refused to accompany her. "I'll go see Acamapichtli, then. Don't think this absolves you of responsibility."

I forced myself to drag the conversation onto more neutral ground: better have the investigation-related questions solved first, and then we could move on to a more relaxed dinner. "Neutemoc – did you know anything about Eptli?"

Neutemoc shrugged. He sipped at his cup of cactus juice, thoughtfully. "Not our clan. But still, rumours can fly far, the encampment." He wrinkled his eyes, as if considering a particularly knotty problem. "Eptli. Eptli's father was of the Pochtlan calpulli clan."

"The Pochtlan clan? But that's…"

"Merchants and messengers. Yes." Neutemoc said. "Hence Eptli's tendency to lord it over merchants."

"That's unusual," I said, finally. "A merchant, becoming a warrior." Merchants, like artisans, were a world apart. Unlike warriors, who could come from any strata of the society, the occupation of merchant was hereditary, a merchant's trade being taken up by his sons or close relatives upon his death. The merchants were tightknit to the point of obsession, holding their lavish feasts within their blank-faced compounds and seldom mingling with the rest of the populace.

"It happens," Neutemoc said. "But, yes, it's unusual."

"He had a hard time, in his training?"

"I don't know," Neutemoc said. His eyes looked away from me – almost ashamed. "Warriors aren't gentle."

And they would have mocked him, for not following the path of his family; for the blood he couldn't deny or purge from his veins. What a lovely little family the army was.

I knew a little of how things worked – and I could guess how it would have turned out. Eptli would have sought to outdo the warriors in arrogance and fanaticism, and leapt at any chance to mock his shameful heritage. "That's why he got into the shouting match with the Tlatelolco merchant?"

"I wasn't present at the time," Neutemoc said, "so I can't help you there. But I wouldn't be surprised. Eptli was proud to be a warrior and working for the greater good of the army; he couldn't see that it's more than warriors who ensure the success of the Triple Alliance." He said this without irony, although less than a year ago he'd thought warriors were the beginning and the end of the Fifth World.

"He wasn't liked, then," I said.

"No." Teomitl's voice was dry. "Some arrogance is expected, but Eptli took it too far."

"It was justified, to some extent," Neutemoc said. "He captured one prisoner in each campaign he took part in."

I recalled the warrior's face – not that of a youth, barely out of training. "He entered the ranks old, then."

Neutemoc grimaced. "I think there were some – issues with his family. His father wasn't in favour of his becoming a warrior."

"Not surprising. But why did he want to become a warrior?" That was the real question – why turn his back on his father's trade, why run the risk of ridicule? Warriors had status and prestige, but so did merchants, in their fashion.

"I don't know," Neutemoc said. "As I said – Eptli was acidic, and not pleasant to be around. I can find better company."

Could he, I wondered. Could he turn back time and get back to the easy camaraderie he'd shared with his companions before his disgrace? "I see. Anything else?"

"People he had quarrels with?" Teomitl suggested. "Other than Chipahua." He tugged at his feather headdress, absent-mindedly. Mazatl tugged back with an impish grin on her face.

"Hmm. The merchant, but you know that already. And Chipahua – they never liked each other, those two…" Neutemoc pursed his lips, looking uncannily like a younger version of Father. "I can't think of anyone else. You'll find most warriors knew Eptli, and disliked him, but I don't think anyone would be crazy enough to start an epidemic just to kill him."

Mihmatini had been fidgeting for a while. At last she spoke up. "I don't think you have the right set of priorities, Acatl. Finding out who killed him is important, yes, but we need something else first. We need to know when and how he was contaminated, in order to stop the epidemic."

"You think it's deliberate?" I said. I had a hard time believing that.

"No. It looks like an accident. Not everyone is fluent with magic, especially not large spells like those. Anything that touches the integrity of the three souls needs to be powerful, and power can easily overstep the mark."

"It's a costly accident," I said.

"Precisely. That's why we need to find out what spell was used, and how it was cast. You can solve the murder afterwards. We need to prevent deaths."

"I can do both," I said. "If we find who was responsible…"

Mihmatini's gaze could have cut obsidian. "You don't understand. You need to flip your way of thinking. The contagion first, the culprit last. Otherwise…"

"I know." Gods, when had my sister turned into Ceyaxochitl, her predecessor as Guardian? She had the same natural authority, and the tendency to want everyone to fall in line – too much hanging around Ceyaxochitl's former acquaintances, I guessed. "Fine," I said with a sigh. "Go see Ichtaca – he and my clergy will give you help with this."

Mihmatini shook her head a fraction – placated, but not enough, I guessed. "You look healthy," she said, grudgingly. She closed her eyes, and I felt a spike of power enter the room: the soft, reassuring radiance of the Duality. "I can't see any sickness clinging to you or Teomitl. But all the same – you need to be more careful of what you do."

"We weren't the only ones around the dead warrior," Teomitl said.

"No, but that doesn't mean you can afford to ignore your protections. Epidemics are propagated by people who feel fine – who don't imagine for a minute that they could be carrying the sickness."

"You don't know what the vector is," I said. "It might not even be people."

"No, but I'd rather be careful."

Neutemoc cleared his throat. "If you children are done with preening…"

"You–" Mihmatini said, shaking her head in the pretence of being angry. But we all knew she wasn't – at least, not seriously.

Afterwards, Teomitl and I sat in the courtyard, watching Metzli the moon pass overheard. The night was winding to a close, though the raucous sounds of banquets still made their way to our ears: flutes and drums, and the steady drone of elders' speeches – and the smell of fried maize, of amaranth and chillies, a distant memory of what we'd consumed.

"What now?" Teomitl asked.

"Get some sleep, I guess." Neutemoc had agreed to lend us a room for the night, though he hadn't been happy.

Teomitl leaned further against the lone pine tree, watching the stars glittering overhead. "Acamapichtli–"

"If we get an early start tomorrow, he probably won't have time to catch up." I didn't mention my other fear: that the reason he hadn't caught up with us yet was that he was busy with the epidemic – and that something else might have come up, in the hours we'd been away.

FIVE

Tlatelolco

The night was short – too short, in fact. I woke up in a room I didn't recognise – and it took me a moment to remember I was in Neutemoc's house, and not in a room belonging to some parishioner, or in some quarters of the palace unknown to me. I made my devotions, drawing my worship-thorns through my ears to greet the Fifth Sun, and to honour my patron Mictlantecuhtli, Lord Death.

From outside came the familiar rhythm of pestle striking mortar – and another sound I couldn't quite place, a dull knock of wood on wood – but no, not quite either. I got up, and followed it to the courtyard – where I found Neutemoc and Teomitl sparring together. Their macuahitl swords, lengths of wood with embedded obsidian shards, were the ones making that odd noise, every time they crossed.

"Men," Mihmatini said, with a snort. She'd raised her hair in the fashion of married women, piling it above her head to form two slight horns; but her dress still marked her as a Guardian. "They're going to be at it for a while. Come on, let's get breakfast."

"I don't think–" I started.

"There's always time."

I didn't agree – I kept having this vision of the blue and white cloaks of Tlaloc's priests overrunning the courtyard, demanding to speak to us, to put every single one of us into enforced containment. By now, Acamapichtli was going to be in full flow – and knowing him and his natural antagonism for warriors, he would want to add Neutemoc's household to his list of potential sickness carriers.

But Mihmatini looked in a mood to make water flow uphill, so I merely followed her into the reception room, where I hastily swallowed a bowl of maize porridge, before pronouncing myself ready to leave.

By that time, Teomitl and Neutemoc had come back. Teomitl grabbed a handful of maize flatbreads, folded them deftly into a small package, and nodded. "We need to go," he said to Mihmatini.

"Why?"

Teomitl shook his head. "I'll tell you at the palace."

"You'd better." Mihmatini grumbled, but she made no further objection.

No, that was left to Neutemoc.

As we left the courtyard, neither Teomitl nor I paid attention to him, beyond a simple goodbye gesture – and we all but jumped when he said, "Acatl."

I turned. He wore a simple feather headdress, the plumes falling down on the nape of his neck; and the sunlight emphasized the small wrinkles at the corner of his eyes, making him older than he seemed, like some kind of family patriarch. "You're going to warn us."

Neutemoc didn't have much of a sense of humour, especially for grave matters. "Yes, I am."

"Go ahead. I'm listening."

He looked surprised. Did he expect me to ignore him? I would have, a year before. But things had changed, and he had to know that. "Look, Acatl. You're not in the army, so you don't have much information on how it's going."

"I am, though," Teomitl said.

Neutemoc stubbornly avoided his gaze. "The army is losing faith with Tizoc-tzin. The deaths of the council a few months ago were bad enough, but the campaign was just one series of setbacks after the other. Some of the higher-level warriors are still with him, some others are wavering. And some never had faith at all."

I didn't ask him which of those categories he fitted into; neither, I noticed, did Teomitl. "And now the death of the warrior and a prisoner… it's a lot. You're going to have touchy people, and not only among the warriors."

"The merchants?" I asked. They preceded the armies on campaigns, and followed them, too, gathering goods from newly conquered provinces.

"Yes. Tensions everywhere," Neutemoc said. "It's a bad time for a priest to come barging in with questions." He raised a placatory hand. "I don't see you that way, but I'm your brother."

I thought about it for a while. Being High Priest didn't make me exempt from the contempt of warriors for non-combatants – but then again, what choice did I have? "It's my calling," I said. "Making sure this stops before it becomes a threat to us all. Keeping the Fifth Sun in the sky, Grandmother Earth fertile. I don't have a choice."

"I know." Neutemoc grimaced. "Nevertheless – Chicomecoatl walk ahead of you, brother. You're going to need Her luck."

Mihmatini insisted on giving Teomitl and me amulets to protect against magical attacks. I had no idea how effective they were, but she had had a point on the previous night – much as I hated to admit it, she and Acamapichtli might be right. The last thing we needed was Teomitl and I carrying the sickness everywhere over Tenochtitlan.

I left Mihmatini at my temple – the last I saw of her, she was in deep conversation about the epidemic with Ichtaca, my moonfaced second-in-command. He looked a little dazed, as if unsure of what had happened to him – he had expected her to be meek and compliant, like most women; criteria which had never applied to my sister – and even less now that she had become Guardian.

Teomitl went back to the palace, to find the mysterious woman who had been visiting our prisoner, and I set out to see Yayauhqui, the merchant who had had such a blazing argument with Eptli.

I'd thought that Yayauhqui would be from Pochtlan, like Eptli and his father, but he was unknown there. After spending a good hour enquiring from one blank-faced compound to another, I finally gave up. The man had been with the army and his return couldn't have passed unnoticed: therefore, the more probable explanation was that he wasn't from Tenochtitlan at all. That left Tlatelolco, our sister city to the north – where the largest market in the Anahuac valley congregated daily.

I dared not take a boat from the temple docks, and in any case it wasn't far. I walked on foot through the canals, gave the Sacred Precinct a wide berth – and went on north, into the district of Cuopepan. Then north again, crossing the canals on foot – I stopped to buy water from a porter by a bridge, handing him a few cacao beans.

At last, I reached the markers: the huge grey-stone cacti driven into the ground that marked the separation between Tenochtitlan and Tlalelolco. They were, by now, purely symbolical, since Tlalelolco's last Revered Speaker had perished in a short and messy war, eleven years before – putting the Tlatelocan merchants under the direct authority of the Mexica.

I headed straight for the marketplace, reckoning that a merchant such as Yayauhqui wouldn't waste an opportunity for profit, even after having barely returned from the war.

The marketplace of Tlatelolco was a city within the city, its stalls aligned in orderly rows according to the category of goods sold, so that there was one section for live animals and another for jewellery, and yet another for slaves. At this hour of the morning the crowd was out, humming and murmuring: friends greeting each other in the alleys; men out to pay a debt, loaded under the weight of the precious cloth-rolls; women entertaining themselves by watching an Otomi savage, who had descended from the hills to sell a few deer-hides. I wove my way through the crowd, making for the section of the market reserved for luxury goods.

Everything dazzled: the merchandise was spread on coloured cloths, and encompassed everything from the vibrant feathers of the southlands, to gold and silver jewellery, to mounds of precious items such as turquoise and coloured shells.

Behind one such stall, I found Yayauhqui. The merchant certainly believed in sampling his own merchandise: though his cloak was of sober cotton, he compensated by wearing jewels of translucent jade, from his necklace to the rings on his fingers. I'd expected a man running to fat; but he was still as lean as a well-toned warrior, his face as sharp as hacked obsidian, his eyes deeply sunk into his tanned face.

The stall was full when I arrived – one serious buyer, engaged in negotiations with Yayauhqui, and dozens more who had come to stare at the wealth on display. When Yayauhqui saw me, though, he dismissed his buyer with a wave of his fingers, pointing to one of the two collared slaves who kept an eye on the merchandise. "See to the details with him. I have other business."

If the buyer protested, I didn't hear it. Yayauhqui pulled himself to his feet without apparent effort, and bowed – very low, almost as a peasant would to the Revered Speaker. "The High Priest for the Dead. You honour my modest stall."

I tore my gaze from the crowd gathered around it. "Not so modest."

Yayauhqui laughed – briefly, without joy. "Perhaps not."

"I need to speak to you," I said. "Privately."

He shrugged. He didn't seem surprised. "Let's go somewhere quieter, then."

We strolled out of the merchants' quarters, into the slave section – the slaves stood with their wooden collars, waiting resignedly for their purchasers – and then further on, outside of the market, into a quieter street bordering a small canal. There was only one old woman there, selling tamales. The smell of meat, chillies and beans wafted up, a pleasant reminder of the meal I'd had. I waited while Yayauhqui bargained for her to leave.

He came back with a tamale in his hand – and a disarming shrug. "She didn't mind leaving while we had our conversation, but she insisted I buy some of the food. I don't suppose you're hungry."

"I ate this morning," I said, spreading my hands.

"Pity." Yayauhqui gazed speculatively at the tamale. "I hate to waste food. So, you're here because of Eptli."

Taken aback by the abrupt change of subject, I said only, "News travels fast."

"I'm not without friends in the army," Yayauhqui said. "I can't say I'm surprised to see officials here. I was expecting something a little more – energetic, shall we say?"

His voice was low and cultured – the accents of the calmecac school unmistakable. Like Eptli, he'd have sat with future priests and warriors, learning the songs and the rituals, the dance of the stars in the sky – all things he might well have found useful in his travels to faraway lands.

"It's only me for the moment. Though the others might not be long in catching up," I said.

One corner of Yayauhqui's mouth twitched upwards. "You reassure me."

I decided to take the offensive – or we'd still be standing there when the Fifth World collapsed. "If you were expecting me, then you know what I'm going to ask."

Yayauhqui shook his head. "Please. My quarrel with Eptli was hardly a secret matter."

"No," I said. "I was a little unclear on what it was about, though."

"Eptli–" and, for a moment, his expression shifted, slightly, into something that might have been anger, that might have been disdain – "Eptli was a conceited fool. His father was elevated into the nobility – do you even imagine how rare that is, for merchants to be recognised that way?"

"I can imagine," I said. His sudden intensity frightened me.

"I don't think you can." Yayauhqui's gaze took in my finery – the embroidered cloak, the feather headdress, the fine mask of smoothened bone – and he shook his head, contemptuously. "Anyway, Eptli's father is another matter. He might have moved out of Pochtlan entirely, but he still kept his ties with us. Never forgot to tell us when a child was born in his family, or to invite us to banquets. Never forgot to consult us for important decisions. Why, I attended Eptli's birth myself – of course, I was a youth at the time, barely returned from my first expedition."

He didn't look young, not anymore, but he didn't look old, either: well-preserved, but there was something about him that bothered me, something I couldn't quite grasp even though it was right there in front of me.

"So Eptli and you–"

Yayauhqui spread his hands, in what seemed like a peaceful gesture, but I wasn't fooled. "Eptli was a conceited fool. I despised him, but I wouldn't have killed him."

"Even when he captured his prisoner?" I asked. "That would have elevated him higher than his father – into the Jaguars and Eagle Knights."

Yayauhqui shook his head. "Eptli wasn't smart enough to see that there is more to life than riches and honour, and the consideration of warriors."

He sounded sincere – but then, he was a merchant, and he would have been a skilled liar. Not only for negotiation with customers, but also because if he was indeed with the army, it meant he was no harmless merchant, no trader obsessed with his own profit. It meant that he was a spy, ranging ahead of the army to gather information on the country we were about to fight. "You quarrelled with Eptli on this campaign," I said. "In quite a visible fashion."

Yayauhqui looked mildly irritated. "I let the young fool goad me past endurance. I was coming back from a thirteen-day gruelling mission into Metztitlan, and here he was, laughing with his cohorts on how merchants were all useless bags of flesh."

I bit my lip. I liked what I heard of Eptli less and less – I could understand his behaviour, but that didn't mean I condoned it.

On the other hand, if he had been well-liked, he probably wouldn't have died in such a horrific fashion. "So you shouted at him."

"We both shouted, to some extent." Yayauhqui appeared peeved – more, I suspected, because he'd lost his calm than out of any sympathy for Eptli.

I looked at him again – something was still bothering me. "I was given the impression that it was far more than an ordinary quarrel. That Eptli was a calm man with no reason for provoking people, and that you'd both been noticed by the whole encampment."

"I don't see what you mean."

"I think you do," I said. I had nothing more than that, and he likely knew it; but I could bring more pressure to bear, and he also knew that. "Or shall we take that up with the war council?"

Yayauhqui's lips pinched into an unamused smile. "As you very well know, as a merchant, I am subject only to the elders of my clan." He looked as if he might add something, but didn't.

"But the elders of your clan are subject to the Mexica Emperor," I said.

His features shifted again – he was too canny to show naked hatred, but I could catch some of it, in the folds of his eyes, in the tightening of his lips. "I haven't forgotten that," Yayauhqui said. His voice could have broken obsidian.

He didn't like that. And I, in turn, didn't get the idea. "What did Eptli say?"

It was a stab in the dark, but it worked. "He insulted Tlatelolcans. Said we were all cowards, and it was no wonder we'd been thrown into the mud."

"Did you fight in the war?" I asked. Seven years wasn't such a long time, and Yayauhqui looked old enough to have been a hotheaded youth at the time – assuming he'd ever been hot-headed, which wasn't that likely. A man raised by merchants, just like one raised by priests, would learn the value of calm and decorum early in life.

Yayauhqui hesitated. Trying to decide whether to lie to me, or to twist the truth? "We were merchants. Not fighters. And the invasion was unjustified."

I had been much younger then, cloistered in my temple in the small city of Coyoacan, and paying little attention to the affairs of the great. But I remembered some things of how the war had started. The Revered Speaker of Tlatelolco, Moquihuix, had been married to a Mexica wife – elder sister to Tizoc-tzin and Teomitl. When she grew old, he mocked her, set her aside and, crucial to the war, denied her the finery and luxurious apartments which had been her right.

Our previous Revered Speaker, who had long itched for an excuse to invade our sister city, had leapt at the chance and called to arms the whole valley of Anahuac to avenge the insult to his family.

And, of course, we both knew how the war had ended. "Wars aren't just," I said, finally. "Just necessary."

Yayauhqui shook his head. "Still the old lies? That our destiny is to triumph for the Fifth Sun's sake."

I looked at him, aghast. "What do you mean, lies?"

Yayauhqui spread his hands. "It seems to me the gods aren't choosy about who spills the blood."

His words terrified me. "You fought in the war, didn't you? What did you see?"

"A god, abandoning us." Yayauhqui's voice was bitter. "He had chosen me, elevated me – promised me a destiny of glory. But, in the end, when your warriors stormed the temples, took His idols, and set fire to the altars, I saw Him. I saw Him laugh, and turn away. They feed on blood and fear and pain, and it doesn't matter whose…"

"You can't say things like that," I said. Of course the gods weren't fair – of course They expected our offerings and our devotion. But it was right; it was the order of the world. Mortals had no right to expect anything from gods. "The gods can't be judged by your standards."

"Why not?" Yayauhqui shrugged. "The warriors of Tenochtitlan then took my wives, priest. Pierced a hole through their nostrils, and threaded rope through to tie them to the other slaves, and they led everyone away into Tenochtitlan, to serve your hearth-fires. And the god didn't lift a finger to help us. So yes, I judge."

Warriors were killed; women taken as slaves. It was the way of the world – and, had Tlatelolco defeated us, we would have done the same thing.

He terrified me. It was as if he had weighed everything that held us together, all the rules and the morality that bound the Fifth World and judged them not worthy to be followed – discarded them as easily as a worn-out cloak.

Such a man would have no compunction on summoning an epidemic to deal with an enemy. He might even relish it – especially if the epidemic worked against Tenochtitlan.

"And so you decided to do something about it. You cast a spell on Eptli." My voice was low and calm – every word dragged from a faraway place. I hadn't thought I'd meet someone like this, I hadn't thought the Fifth World could even hold such beliefs…

Yayauhqui snorted, gently amused. "Look at me, priest. Look at me."

I didn't understand. But he was still standing with the tamale in his hands, thin and harsh, moulded by war and by years of travelling into strange lands, serving the men who had led his people into slavery – helping them to conquer more lands.

I took up the obsidian knife at my belt, and slashed my earlobes.

"We all must die

We all must go down into darkness…"

A grey veil crept over everything: the canal water became insignificant, distant glimmers and the blue sky receded, opening up to reveal the darkness of tar. The wind over the city faded into the lament of dead souls, and the cold of the grave rose up, like thousands of corpses' hands stroking the inside of my arms and legs. I shivered.

Through the remnants of the adobe walls, I could feel the bustle of the marketplace: thousands of souls bartering and trading, the animals and the slaves, the magical amulets and charms – everything combining into a rush of life I could feel, even from the remove of Mictlan. It burned like a fire, shimmering and twisting out of shape, endlessly tearing itself apart, endlessly renewed.

It took me some time, therefore, to tear my sight from the large radiance of Tlatelolco, and to look at Yayauhqui.

But when I did, I forgot all about the marketplace.

Human beings usually shone in the true sight – the three souls, the tonalli in the head, the teyolia in the heart and the ihiyotl in the liver combining into a swirling mass of radiance. So, to a lesser degree, did the souls of living beings like animals, or summoned creatures.

Yayauhqui, however, was dark – not merely faded and colourless, like the water or the adobe walls, but completely opaque, as if something had reached out and snuffed everything out of him.

Not something, I thought, chilled. Someone.

"The god," I said, slowly.

His voice was mocking. "As I said. They feed on pain."

He had no souls – he might as well have been dead, save that even in death, some semblance of life would remain into the body, some scattered pieces of soul. He was – cut off from everything in the Fifth World. Was he even able to taste the tamale in his hand, could he even feel the wind on his skin? For him, everything had to have been receding into a numinous, uniformly grey background.

"You should have gone to see a priest," I said. Not one of my order – for we parted the souls from the body for the final time, helping them slip into the underworld. But a priest of Patecatl, God of Medicine, or of Quetzalcoatl, the Feathered Serpent of Wisdom – they would have known what to do.

Yayauhqui's smile was bitter. "I have seen one. Several, in fact. They tried to convince me I was an abomination, and should retire from public life. After that – well, I didn't feel so keen to go back to them. Perhaps the Revered Speaker might be able to do something, but…"

And, of course, he wouldn't present himself to the man who had destroyed his city – even if Tizoc-tzin had been willing to help him. "It was Huitzilpochtli, then, who did this to you?"

Yayauhqui shook his head. "Let me keep secrets, priest. They're of no use to anyone save an old man like myself."

He didn't look old – but then again, without souls, how would he age? How would the Fifth World leave any kind of mark?

"So, you see," Yayauhqui said. "I couldn't care less about spells."

He was dead, or worse. The blood in his veins would have no energy; the teyolia in his heart wouldn't dissipate into the underworld, or into the Fifth Sun's Heaven. Magic, such as it was, would be anathema to him. "You could have hired someone," I said. Or used someone's blood, though it would have been a dangerous venture.

"Of course. There's always that," Yayauhqui agreed, gravely.

There was something about him I couldn't pin down. "Why serve as a merchant-spy, then?"

His lips stretched. It would have been amusement with anyone else, but with him it was just a shadow of what it could have been. That was what had been bothering me about him: everything was subdued, lacking the inner fire of the living, or even the weaker radiance of the dead. "I fear you still don't understand, Acatl-tzin. Now that we are one city, the glory of Tenochtitlan is also that of Tlalelolco. My relatives prosper on your coats of feathers, your cacao beans, your precious stones and your war-takings. Why should I wish to upset the established order? We'd be left with nothing."

His speech had the intensity of truth – and for a bare moment, he seemed to shine with the souls he had lost, though it was only an illusion. "You could destabilise us, and hope for Tlatelolco to secede."

Yayauhqui snorted. "And I could expect the Fifth Sun to tumble down. I'm no fool. I've seen what happens when you cross the gods, and you have the gods' protection."

And if we didn't have it anymore, he'd be the first to trample us into the ground. But, all the same – lying, especially in such an impassioned speech, would have cost him a great deal of energy, enough for the strain of it to be visible. Perhaps he was telling the truth, as much as I disliked the possibility.

"You'll want to stay in Tlatelolco," I said, finally. "It's not over yet."

Yayauhqui's lips stretched again in that smile that wasn't quite one. "Of course. It's never over."

SIX

Between High Priests

The afternoon was well advanced by the time I walked back into the Sacred Precinct; the incense smoke rising up from the dozens of temple made the orange mass of the sun waver and shimmer, as if through a heat haze.

I thought about Eptli as I walked, chewing on a tamale – I'd yielded to temptation, and purchased one from the old woman seller. The taste of chillies and spiced meat was a welcoming heat in my stomach.

He hadn't been liked. Possibly, he hadn't ever fitted in: to the warriors, he would be the merchant's son, and to the merchants, the man who mocked them relentlessly. In his pursuit for glory, he seemed to have made enemies – many of them, from his rival, Chipahua, to the merchant Yayauhqui.

The merchant worried me, for all his sincerity. His defence – that he wouldn't seek to damage the Triple Alliance, for it would be sealing his own doom – rang true, and yet…

And yet, a man like that would have no scruples. The kind of man who could disguise themselves and pass as a foreigner – gossiping and trading, all the while hiding that they were advance observers for the approaching army – why stop the game, when they got home?

Out of principle… but Yayauhqui hadn't looked as if he had much of that.

Still in a thoughtful mood, I walked through the northern gate into the hubbub of the religious centre, and went straight to my temple, which was but a short distance from the gate.

I'd expected a normal day – a dead body carried through the gates, grieving families talking to priests, examinations in quiet rooms… But instead, it was chaos: the temple's small courtyard was flooded with supplicants – from peasants in loincloths carrying baskets of ripe corn kernels, to officials with jewellery and caged animals. The combined noise was overpowering, and I only caught fragments as I elbowed my way through the crowd – about reassurances, and dreams, and portents which seemed to herald the end of the Mexica Empire.

I remembered, grimly, what Neutemoc had told me – that no matter how well Tizoc-tzin hid the warrior's death, news of it would travel through the city like wildfire. He had no idea it would be that bad.

At the foot of the stairs leading up to Lord Death's shrine, I found Ichtaca waiting for me – while two harried offering priests made efforts to channel the flow of supplicants into separate rooms, where they could deal with them one by one.

Ichtaca wasn't alone, though. Beside him stood two priests in blue and white cloaks, the hems embroidered with a border of frogs and seashells.

Of course. I'd known what I was getting into, walking back to the temple, but then again, I couldn't run forever.

The leftmost priest, a pudgy man with a blue-streaked face, was mildly familiar: his name was Tapalcayotl, and he was Acamapichtli's second-in-command. "Acatl-tzin," he said, bowing to me. "Acamapichtli-tzin has requested your presence at the palace."

It was couched politely, but the meaning was unmistakable. "I see," I said. "I'll consult with my priests first."

Tapalcayotl looked as if he might protest, and then obviously thought better of it. Like his master, he was acutely aware of social divisions.

I drew Ichtaca apart, careful to stand at a distance, since we still didn't know how the illness was passed on. "What is going on?"

"I don't know yet," Ichtaca said. He grimaced. "Your sister took half the priests and went to do a ritual to protect us against sickness. It's a good idea–"

"But it leaves us short," I said.

"It's just a bad time," Ichtaca said. "The disastrous coronation war and the death of a warrior…" He sighed, not looking altogether reassured. "We'll weather it, I'm sure. We have the Southern Hummingbird's favour."

We might have; after all, Huitzilpochtli was the one who had given us the right to bring Tizoc-tzin from the dead. But He was a capricious god, and he only favoured the successful in war. I grimaced. "We'll see how things work out. Can you–"

He made a dismissive gesture. "Don't worry. We've had to deal with worse during the great famine. This is nothing."

I hesitated – but I needed to ask, all the same. I couldn't manage an investigation on my own. "I need you to find out one thing for me."

His face didn't move. "Of course. What is it?"

"There is a merchant named Yayauhqui in Tlatelolco. He used to serve a god in his youth. Can you find out which one?"

"Consider it done, Acatl-tzin," Ichtaca nodded. "And–"

"And you hold up here," I said, bleakly. "Acamapichtli, Mihmatini and I will see what we can do about the epidemic."

Ichtaca looked reassured by the idea of so many high-ranking priests taking care of the problem. I hoped he was right; on my side, I felt as though I was making frustratingly little progress.

We walked back the way I had come, the two priests of Tlaloc on either side of me, looking for all the world like an escort – or an arrest squad, I thought, bleakly. Acamapichtli, among other things, was vindictive, and he wouldn't have appreciated our little escapade.

We climbed the steps into the palace, and headed straight to what I now thought of as Acamapichtli's wing. And he'd certainly made sure we knew it: the priests of Tlaloc the Storm Lord positively swarmed over the various courtyards. The black cloaks of the SheSnake's guards seemed almost invisible compared with the onslaught of blue and white. The air smelled of copal incense, mixed with the acridity of rubber: I wouldn't have been surprised to find out Acamapichtli had replaced all the entrance-curtains with the dark-blue ones of Tlaloc's temple.

In the largest courtyard, a shimmering lattice of magic spread from building to building – there was a slight resistance when we crossed under the influence of the wards, and then this was replaced with a familiar tightness in my chest. The place had been consecrated to the Storm Lord – it wasn't quite the Land of the Blessed Drowned yet, but it was close to its antechamber.

Acamapichtli was in a large room on the second floor, reclining on a mat as if he were the Revered Speaker himself. He wore his customary heron-plumes, and his face was painted with the darkblue streaks of his god – impassive under the makeup. As we came nearer, though, I saw the thin lines of fear at the corners of his eyes; and the slight quivering in his hands – and felt the stronger circle drawn around him.

"Ah, Acatl," he said when I arrived. "Do be seated."

"I'd rather remain standing," I said, curtly. "Do you have a better idea of what's going on?"

"Not much better than you." Acamapichtli smiled, a thoroughly unpleasant expression. "Thanks to you and your protégé, this thing might already be loose in the populace."

I disliked "populace", which he made sound like an insult. "The two warriors who carried the corpse would have passed it on anyway."

"Not if we found them fast enough – we did catch up with one, if nothing else. He's sick, Acatl, perhaps worse than Coatl or the priest of Patecatl. But I fear that's not the point. The point is that when I give orders, you follow them."

"Since when are you my master?"

"Since the epidemic started." It would have been better if he'd looked insufferably smug, the way he usually did, but he didn't. He merely stated a fact.

"And what about Quenami?"

"Quenami is a fool. Nothing new under the Fifth Sun. I expected better of you." Of course, he hadn't.

"May I remind you I have an investigation to run?" I asked. "Someone cursed Eptli. And, furthermore, containing the sickness is all well and good, but we need to find a cure for it."

"And for all we know, this is the will of the gods."

This time, he'd goaded me too far. "Fine," I said. "You know one way of solving this?"

Acamapichtli's eyebrows went up.

"Summon the dead man," I said.

It was a crazy undertaking – chancy at best, even for Acamapichtli. I could never have attempted it: Eptli had died of a contagious disease, which made him the property of Tlaloc, and I didn't worship the Storm Lord. I could go into Tlalocan, the land of the Blessed Drowned, to see if his soul would respond to my call, but it was a risk. I would be at Tlaloc's mercy, and I had a suspicion the god was as vindictive as Acamapichtli. He wouldn't have forgotten that I'd thwarted His attempt to take over the Fifth World, a year or so before.

Acamapichtli looked at me – I could see his face twisting, his lips preparing words of contempt, deriding my knowledge as a priest.

"You know it's the only way," I said.

"You're a fool," Acamapichtli said. "Most dead men don't know who killed them. Summoning him will be useless."

"He might remember what contaminated him in the first place," I said. "Which is more information that you have."

Acamapichtli shrugged. "I don't need to know what contaminated him. Containing this is good enough for me."

"Not for me," I said. "And if you're so certain it's Tlaloc's will, you can ask Him what He wants." More likely, if it was Him – and I didn't believe that, not with such an odd magical signature to the disease – He didn't want anything. Tlaloc sent epidemics as He sent rain; He sometimes rewarded prayers, sometimes punished, and most of the time did so for reasons we weren't entitled to know.

Acamapichtli grimaced. He didn't like giving in.

"You'll have me under your eye," I pointed out.

"I'm not sure whether to be pleased, or to wonder what you're up to."

"I'm not up to anything. You're much better at plotting and conspiring."

He smiled. You'd have thought I'd just complimented him. "Yes, you're still as hopeless at diplomacy as you ever were. Do you seriously expect me to agree?"

"It's not about diplomacy," I said. Time to be blunt, anyway. "We have a hundred thousand people in Tenochtitlan, tightly packed. If the epidemic gets out, it'll be worse than the Great Famine. We'll lose thousands of people. And while you might think those are acceptable losses for the Fifth World, I for one don't intend giving in to the machinations of a mortal."

"You forget. It might be the machinations of a god." Acamapichtli's voice was malicious.

"Then I'll bow down my head to the inevitable. It wouldn't be the first time." I'd been there, during the whole ceremony that consecrated Tizoc-tzin as our Revered Speaker – wearing my High Priest regalia, watching as Tizoc-tzin ascended the steps of the Great Temple, feigning weakness, as our ally, the ruler of Texcoco, dressed him according to his new station, inserting an emerald into his nose, putting dangling gold bells on his ankles. I'd watched as he made his offerings, as the gathered nations of the Anahuac Valley cheered him on. And not once had I let on what I truly thought – that the man was unfit to wear the Turquoise and Gold Crown, that he would only lead us to further disasters.

But, on the other hand, I had seen the cost of people fighting over the Turquoise and Gold Crown – the star-demons, the chaos, the fear within the palace – and even a flawed Revered Speaker was better than none. For the sake of the Fifth World, I could hold my tongue, and give no voice to my dislike.

I didn't know what Acamapichtli thought, but I guessed he didn't much care for Tizoc-tzin, either.

Acamapichtli said nothing for a while.

"You make your own decisions," I said. "But you'll be the one accountable for them."

He made a brief, stabbing gesture with his hand. "And you'll support me, of course." It wasn't a question, and I didn't answer. "Fine. I can waste some time to satisfy your morbid curiosity. But you'll learn nothing from it, Acatl."

I'd expected Acamapichtli would want to prepare the spell in his quarters, to make good use of the strong foundations of magic he'd laid. But instead, he chose the courtyard to prepare his spell. He had his priests drag five braziers – one at each corner, and one at the centre. They drew lines around them to materialise the sacred quincunx, the fivefold cross that symbolised the order of the world.

Acamapichtli himself remained at the centre, muttering prayers I couldn't make out from where I was standing. He drew out his worship thorns, and stared at them, thoughtfully – but didn't make any gesture to drag them through his earlobes.

He seemed to be waiting for something, but I wasn't sure what.

A growl drew my attention away from Acamapichtli: four slaves were carrying a wooden cage, in which was the largest jaguar I'd ever seen – a mass of muscles and fangs, with a burning gaze that suggested captivity ill-suited it.

Of course, the jaguar was one of the animals sacred to Tlaloc – the god Himself had jaguar fangs, and the sound of His thunder was like the roars of the jungle felines. But still…

The slaves put the cage in the centre, a few hand-spans away from Acamapichtli – who still didn't move. They withdrew, leaving no one but him and the beast in the circle. The jaguar paced within the cage, raising its head from time to time – opening its mouth to reveal glinting fangs. Acamapichtli, seemingly oblivious to its presence, picked up his worship thorns, and drew them through his earlobes. He didn't flinch as they went in: like any priest, he'd been doing this for far too long to pay attention to the pain.

He whispered more words, with greater urgency than before. Then he planted the worship thorns, one by one – driving them into the earth halfway through.

A faint tremor shook the courtyard – as if something were rising up to meet the fresh blood.

At length Acamapichtli raised his head, and saw me, standing outside the quincunx. "Acatl! Come inside."

I eyed the jaguar, doubtfully. I had my obsidian knives, but even I wasn't mad enough to take on a beast like that without preparations.

Or – as the uncomfortable thought occurred to me – without live bait to distract it.

Acamapichtli snorted. "Don't be a yellow-livered fool, Acatl. The spirit will only be visible inside the quincunx. Or do you want me to ask the questions for you?"

And feed me the information he deemed fit for my consumption? Not a chance. I drew my obsidian knife, feeling its reassuring heft and coldness against the palm of my hand – and stepped over the circle.

The earth shivered as I walked, as if it were permanently shifting – as if it didn't know whether to be mud, water or packed dust. My feet squelched every other step, but when I lifted them, nothing clung to my sandals.

I reached the centre, where Acamapichtli stood waiting. Was it just me, or had the sky overhead darkened – far faster than it should have for a late afternoon? I could have sworn…

The jaguar yawned. Its pelt had grown almost featureless in the dim light; its eyes shone yellow, and its teeth glittered like opalescent pearls. I could almost see the saliva pearling on the canines. It pressed itself against the door of the cage – and it was bending, the wood splitting up with a sound that resonated within my chest. The jaguar roared, a sound like thunder in the sky.

Acamapichtli hadn't moved. He stood with both hands empty – they were long and supple, and in contrast to the rest of his regalia, quite bare, with no rings that could have caught on anything.

"What are you afraid of?" he asked.

At this stage, I wasn't sure if it was him or the jaguar, or both. He shifted – and all of a sudden his skin shone a dark orange, and his eyes were two black pits ringed with yellow, the same as the animal within its cage. Even the fluid, confident way he moved seemed to echo the beast's.

"Acamapichtli–" I started.

The jaguar threw itself against the door of the cage, and the wood, with a final sputtering sound, gave way. The entire latticework of wood exploded, but I had no time to focus on this, because the jaguar leapt out and ran straight towards me – muscles bunching up for a leap, and all I could see was its open mouth with the fangs glinting – my hand went towards the knife, a fraction of a moment too late – the beast was almost upon me, its jaw extending to clamp around my skull…

And then, abruptly, it was on the ground in front of me, its legs scrambling for purchase, desperate to get up – and Acamapichtli stood over it, holding it down with both hands. He didn't even look to be in a sweat. The beast kicked and yowled, and made a racket strong enough to wake up the dead, and its claws raked the ground, sinking into the earth – but it made no difference. Acamapichtli still held on. He might as well have been a rock.

My heart was threatening to burst out of my chest, but I didn't move, either – -just stood there, watching.

At length, the jaguar's struggles grew weaker; its legs quieted, its whole body heaving with huge breaths that didn't seem to sustain it. Then it grew quieter still – the face, flopping back towards me, bore the unmoving glaze of the dead.

Acamapichtli stood away from the beast, withdrawing the noose he'd coiled around its neck. He didn't even spare me a glance. In the darkness, his eyes still shone yellow, and his face had lengthened, with a suggestion of a muzzle. The fingers of his hands, too, seemed to be longer and sharper.

"O Lord, Our Lord

O Provider, O Lord of Verdure

Lord of Tlalocan, Lord of the Sweet-Scented Marigold, Lord of the Smoky Copal…"

Acamapichtli withdrew the worship thorns from the earth in a single flourish, and walked back to the jaguar. He drove them into the pelt, at the height of the spine.

"In the Blessed Land of the Drowned

The dead men play at balls, they cast the reeds

They sip the nectar of numerous sweet and fragrant flowers

Grant us leave, O Lord, Beloved Lord,

Grant us leave to call them back."

Mist poured from the jaguar's spine, as if the thorns had opened up some vast reservoir. It pooled around the corpse, a swirling mass of white – and then it stretched, still remaining as thick, until I could barely make out the contours of the buildings around us, and it went upwards, driving even the darkness from the sky. Everything seemed to turn white and clammy, with the particular, watery smell of marshes.

And then, gradually – as a shiver started low in my back and climbed upwards – I became aware we weren't alone anymore.

SEVEN

The Summoning of Spirits

I'd summoned ghosts from Mictlan many times and they always appeared the same: faint silhouettes, with shadows playing over their features until they hardly seemed human anymore. But the ghost that Acamapichtli had called up wasn't like that: I could see the light of its teyolia soul, a scorching radiance in his chest that I could almost feel. Like Acamapichtli himself, his skin was mottled, halfway between a jaguar's pelt and human skin.

Other than that, he looked much as he had alive. He no longer wore any finery, but the face bore familiar features – save that his lips were congealed purple, and deep pouches lay under his eyes. When he raised a hand to touch his chin, I saw that the base of his nails too were purple, and the tips of his fingers wrinkled, as if he had remained too long in warm water.

"I–" he whispered. "Where–"

Acamapichtli's smile was the jaguar's, before it found its prey. "I summoned you, Eptli of the Pochtlan clan, warrior of the Mexica."

Eptli's gaze swung between Acamapichtli and I. I had no idea what he saw; I very much doubted that I still looked the same. "I don't understand." He hugged himself, as if he were cold. His eyes were two pits of darkness. "I was–"

"Dead," Acamapichtli said, curtly. "My – colleague here is convinced you know something about that."

"I remember–" Eptli shivered. "So cold. I was so cold when we

entered the Anahuac valley. I barely even saw Tlacopan. But I was strong. I hid it, and no one guessed. No one guessed." He laughed – it started low, and climbed to a high-pitched, insane trill.

"For how long were you cold?" Acamapichtli asked.

Eptli shuddered, and the mist seemed to quiver in turn. "I don't know. Three, four days perhaps. I don't remember…"

Great. Much as it pained me to admit it, Eptli was going to be useless. Some people kept their coherence after death, but he clearly wasn't one of them.

"Three, four days." Acamapichtli nodded. "Then we have a little more time. What happened before? How did you catch this?"

"I don't know."

"The disease would take time to become visible," I said.

Acamapichtli made a stabbing gesture with his hands. "No. Remember, Coatl and the physician took barely a few hours to show symptoms. Did anyone die at the camp, Eptli?"

"Die?" He shivered again. The purple was spreading from his lips to his cheeks, marbling them like the skin of a corpse. "So many people died – the wounded and the weak, they all died for the glory of the Empire. It is right, it is proper." He turned the emptiness of his eyes towards me, almost pleading. "It is right…"

Acamapichtli snorted. "See, Acatl? Useless."

I wasn't prepared to admit defeat so soon. "Let's see." I came closer to the man – his face was turning darker and darker, and his eyes were drawing inwards, sinking towards the back of his skull. I focused on what mattered – there was nothing I could do for him. "What do you remember about your prisoner?"

Something lit up in his eyes. "Prisoner? My fourth. I earned him, earned him…"

I resisted the urge to strike him; he was a ghost, and it wouldn't help. "Eptli," I said, gently but firmly. "Your prisoner, Zoquitl. He was ill, too, wasn't he?"

"I don't remember." He shook his head. "I–" His face twisted, and he fell to the ground, with a cry of pain. The warmth in his chest blazed.

This wasn't normal. "Acamapichtli," I said. I could have cast a spell of true sight, but I had no idea what would happen if I did so inside another's ritual.

Acamapichtli was watching Eptli, his fangs closed over his lower lips, his eyes dilated in the mist. "A spell of forgetfulness," he said.

"Something strong enough to endure after death?"

A drop of blood rolled off one of Acamapichtli's canines. "Evidently." He knelt, and took Eptli's face between his hands. "Very strong," he said, with a hint of admiration. "I'm not sure it can be removed, not without dispelling him."

"Then you're useless," I said, not without malice.

"Tsk tsk," Acamapichtli said. "So little faith. I notice you're not leaping to my rescue either."

"You seem to be doing just fine."

He made a sucking noise between his fangs – and, lightning fast, brought his hands together, as if to crush Eptli's head. The radiance at Eptli's heart wavered, and then began to dim; the warrior began writhing as if in the throes of some great pain. Acamapichtli took a step backward, his face dispassionate. I realised with a shock that I'd taken a step forward – as if anything could help the man, when he was dead and gone already.

"Hurts," Eptli hissed. "How dare you–" His voice was low; I could barely make out the words. When he raised his head, I saw that his skin had gone completely purple, and that his hair had taken on greenish reflections, like algae.

"What do you remember?" Acamapichtli asked. "Quick, there isn't much time."

It was, to an extent, his ritual, and I was just a spectator – however, Acamapichtli had a number of disadvantages, not least of which was that he had no context about Eptli. "Was Zoquitl sick, Eptli?"

"No," Eptli whispered. "Strong and young, he was – a strong offering, a man fit enough to hold the glory of the god. But I was – cold. I'd put on all the amulets, all the magical protections I could, but it wasn't enough…"

So Eptli had been the first one. "When was this?"

"I don't know." Eptli shivered. He was growing – darker, more distant. The smell of algae was stronger, and the mist was eating away at the radiance. "I don't know. I shouldn't have–" He shivered again. "I shouldn't have–"

"Shouldn't have what?"

But he was going away from us – subsumed into the mist. "Shouldn't have insulted Yayauhqui?" I asked. "Shouldn't have quarrelled with your comrades? Shouldn't have won against Chipahua?" It wasn't as if the questions lacked, after all. "Eptli!" His voice came back, floating through the mist. "I shouldn't have taken it – I should have known… said it was for safekeeping, but I should have known… It was so cold when I touched it…"

And then another word, which could have been "Father", which could have been something else entirely. And then nothing.

Acamapichtli reached out, and plucked the worship thorns out of the jaguar's body; and the mist receded and died away, leaving us standing in a darkened courtyard, with the familiar surroundings of the palace. A host of priests in blue and white stood on the edge of the circle, all watching us intently.

"Let's go inside," he said, brusquely. "This isn't fit for all ears."

Inside, he didn't seem much changed, but something in the way he paced by the carved columns suggested otherwise. "He suspected something."

"Yes," I said. "You heard it. Someone gave him something – for safekeeping, he said."

"So not something usual." Acamapichtli bit his lips. "Or else whoever did this wouldn't have needed the excuse. A piece of jewellery?"

"You're the expert on amulets," I said, more sharply than I'd intended.

He nodded, as arrogantly as ever. "I am, but you can put so many things into an amulet…"

"Can't you summon him again?"

Acamapichtli grimaced. "Not until the protective deities change – which doesn't happen for another thirteen days."

By which time it would be too late.

"Do you still think it was Tlaloc?" I asked.

"Possible," Acamapichtli admitted, grudgingly, "but unlikely, given the circumstances. Someone – a human being – gave Eptli something that made him feel cold. It's beginning to sound more and more like a spell directed at him." His eyes were hard.

Eptli had taken the proffered object, and fallen sick. And Zoquitl, who was in regular contact with Eptli, had caught the sickness as well. But why Zoquitl, and none of the other warriors? Did Zoquitl have some weakness we were unaware of – some lack of protection because he was Mextitlan, and not Mexica?

And why Eptli?

Acamapichtli's eyes were hard. "Now I know where I've seen that magic before – but it doesn't look quite the same. Once, I had to arrest a man who'd hired a sorcerer to cast a spell of leprosy onto a rival. A marvel of ingeniousness – it called up the sickness from Tlalocan itself."

Tlalocan, the land of the Blessed Drowned – where the sacrifices to Tlaloc lived in eternal bliss, reaping maize from ever-fertile fields, and listening to the whistle of the wind through the floating gardens. "That's why it kept disintegrating?" I asked. Magic from Tlalocan – raw magic from a god's territory – couldn't be called forth into the Fifth World: it would endure for a short while before the mundane began to assert itself once more. "Because it didn't come from the Fifth World."

Acamapichtli nodded. He sounded distracted. "Yes. Someone called up Tlaloc's raw magic into the world – a spell bound up in death and drownings, if you will. You ought to know that." It was a jibe at me as High Priest for the Dead – but weak and deprived of bite.

"And how powerful do you have to be to cast that kind of spell?"

"Not powerful. Ingenious, as I said. Whoever is behind this has great knowledge of Tlalocan, and of Tlaloc's magic."

"Your clergy?" The words were out of my mouth before I could take them back.

His eyes narrowed. "Of course not. Don't be a fool. My clergy is all above suspicion – and in any case, what motive would they have for killing a warrior they've never seen?" Priests of Tlaloc – the Storm Lord, the god of peasants and fishermen – seldom if ever went to war, for their blessings were reserved for the fields and the harvest.

"I don't know," I said, darkly. "I've seen many things. What about the spell on Eptli's soul?"

"Part of the same curse, I'd say. And tied to the teyolia soul, so that it persisted even in death. Again – we're dealing with a smart, resourceful sorcerer."

"But do you know who?" I insisted. "We need facts, not speculation."

Acamapichtli brushed his hands, carefully. Blood still clung to the lines of his palm, but he appeared oblivious. I had no idea how much of it was an act. "I can enquire," he said. "About that, and the sickness. We have priests specialised in diseases at the temple."

"Then why haven't you done so before?"

His gaze, when he raised it, could have bored through stone. "I've dealt with my own affairs. Deal with yours, Acatl."

He was the fool if he thought he could convince me to back down. "As you said earlier – we're in this together. All of the Fifth World."

Acamapichtli snorted. "Fine. Do it your way, if that's what you want."

As if he always did things for the sake of necessity – rather than for his own sake and on his own terms. "I'll keep you apprised," I said, walking towards the entrance-curtain.

"Likewise," Acamapichtli said, but we both knew he was lying.

I was about to take my leave, when the entrance-curtain tinkled and a flustered-looking Tapalcayotl came in. "My Lord, I'm sorry, but–"

He was followed by Mihmatini and her personal slave, Yaotl – and by a delegation of grey-cloaked priests from my order. "Out of my way," she said. Her voice was grim.

Acamapichtli looked from Mihmatini to me – a suspicious expression spreading on his narrow face. "What jest is this?"

Mihmatini shook her head. "You're the one in charge of the confinement?"

Acamapichtli nodded. "I can assure you that no one with the sickness has come out of this palace." He threw a murderous glance at me – he still hadn't forgiven what he saw as imprudence on my part. "But none of that need concern you. I'm sure you have more pressing concerns." His tone was condescending: he was going by appearances only, not even bothering to check. I didn't have the true sight on me, which prevented from seeing the magical trails in the room, but I was sure that the strong magic which had just entered the room – a strong reassuring rhythm like a heartbeat – could only be Mihmatini's wards.

Mihmatini smiled. "You forget. I am Guardian for the Sacred Precinct, keeper of the invisible boundaries, and agent of the Duality in this world."

Acamapichtli raised an eyebrow. "You have the courage of eagles, girl, but it's useless if you can't follow through with actions."

"Acamapichtli!" I snapped. "Show some respect."

Mihmatini shook her head. "It doesn't matter, Acatl." She smiled, and it was slow and terrifying and desperate. "I'll tell him what he needs to know. What he does with it" she spread her hands, as if scattering seeds into the bosom of Grandmother Earth "is his own business."

"Fine," Acamapichtli said. "Have your say, and leave. We're busy enough as it is."

"You won't laugh," Mihmatini warned him. "With the help of the clergy of Mictlantecuhtli, I have beseeched the Duality to smile down upon us, and keep us standing tall, warded against the shackles of disease."

"And you've failed." Acamapichtli's voice was mocking.

From the grim expression on Mihmatini's face, I'd already suspected it hadn't worked, but unlike Acamapichtli, I had more faith in her abilities.

"Why did it fail?" I asked.

"It hasn't worked. But not because of anything in the ritual."

"You're young and unblooded–" Acamapichtli started, but my sister cut him, as savagely as a warrior in a fight to the death.

"I'm old enough to do what I'm doing. The reason it hasn't worked is because someone has sent up their own entreaties into the Heavens."

Surely she didn't mean… "Mihmatini–"

"I told you that you wouldn't like it." Her voice was flat, emotionless. "Someone is deliberately blocking any attempts at containing this. Someone wants this to become a full-blown epidemic."

There was silence, in the wake of her words. "You can't mean…" I started, and then stopped. My sister might be young, might be slightly untrained, and not as well-versed in the subtleties of the Duality's magic as her predecessor had been. But her own magic was strong, and she wouldn't advance such a monstrous hypothesis unless she was sure of it.

"Mistress Mihmatini isn't mistaken," Yaotl said in the silence.

"Then…" I spoke the words as they came to me, desperately trying to piece them into some kind of coherence. "Then this isn't about Eptli as a man. This isn't about personal revenge." Gods, I had been wrong; I had expected this to be small and personal. But it wasn't. It had never been.

One of my priests, Ezamahual, a tall, dour son of peasants, spoke up. "This is about the warrior," he said. For once, he wasn't stammering, or ill at ease, but, like my sister, utterly certain of the truth of his words. "This is about the man who was distinguished in the coronation war, and the sacrifice that should have been made to Huitzilpochtli. This is about making us weak."

I left Mihmatini deep in conversation with Acamapichtli and my clergy – they were discussing the technicalities of the ritual, unpacking everything they had done in order to convince Acamapichtli. I went out into the courtyard, breathing in the cold air of the night, hoping it might steady me.

It didn't.

A deliberate epidemic. This was bad. It had been bad enough when it had just been a side-effect of a spell gone wrong, but if someone was actively opposing us…

No, not us.

As Neutemoc had said, this was all about Tizoc-tzin – his coronation war, his confirmation as Revered Speaker. Someone, somewhere, didn't want this to happen. It could have been a foreigner – and the gods knew there would be enough of those in the city, because of the upcoming confirmation. It could be Yayauhqui – his protestations had rung true, but perhaps he was a better liar than I'd thought.

Or it could be someone in the palace. Tizoc-tzin was hardly popular, and he had ascended to the Revered Speaker's mat over many rivals. Some of those were now dead, but some were still here: the She-Snake, who professed to believe in order; the noblemen and officials who had supported another candidate…

Gods, more politics. I really didn't want to have to deal with this.

But, in the end, it didn't change much. It was my duty – the one the previous Guardian had given me over my protestations – what I had always done, what I always do. Keep the boundaries, protect the Fifth World and the Mexica Empire – what kind of a man would I be, if I let the epidemic rage within the city?

We had to find out how it had started – what the spell was – in order to counter it.

I stared at the stars – the distant, reassuring patterns fixed in their courses, the demons that couldn't fall into the Fifth World anymore – until they seemed to become the only thing in the world.

A tinkle of bells, and my sister came to stand by my side. "Obstinate man," she said.

"Did he believe you?"

"For now, I guess." She looked tired. "We'll go back and cast one of the lesser spells of protection. It won't work as well–"

"–but it will buy us a little more time?"

She nodded. "Acamapichtli said he'd look into the precise nature of the sickness, which should help us guard against it. But you–"

I spread my hands. "I know, I know. I need to find out who is behind this, and how they're doing it."

Mihmatini grimaced. "It might still be someone with a grudge against Eptli – they might be plucking two limes in one swoop: causing the disease, and getting back at him."

I bit my lip. "It might. But Ezamahual was right: it might simply be that he was a successful warrior, part of Tizoc-tzin's successes."

"All I'm saying is that you shouldn't discount the possibility out of hand." I must have looked dubious, for she laughed, and made as if to punch me. "Don't be so serious, Acatl!"

"This is serious."

"Oh, Acatl, for the gods' sake. We've already had this talk. Better laugh, and smile at the flowers and jade. Life is too short to be spent grieving. You, of all people, should know this."

I shook my head. It wasn't about enjoying life, but rather about my responsibilities, and what I needed to do.

And needed to do fast. For, if the primary motive wasn't Eptli's death, but the epidemic – if someone wanted deaths, many deaths, then what prevented them from directly contaminating someone else? It could all go fast – very fast – with us defenceless against it.

Though the evening was well-advanced, I headed straight to Teomitl's quarters hoping to catch my wayward student before he went to bed, and apprise him of events. If there was something going on against his brother and the empire he was heir to, I felt he ought to know sooner rather than later.

And I wanted to see him, too: with the campaign, he'd been absent for four months, and I couldn't help but feel he was drawing away from me – a thought that pinched my heart. He'd grown up immeasurably since becoming my student, but he wasn't an adult yet – too impulsive, too careless to take his place as Revered Speaker.

His quarters were on the ground floor near Tizoc-tzin's own private quarters: his elevation to Master of the House of Darts had, it seemed, changed little. The entrance-curtain fluttering in the evening's balmy breeze had gone from orange to red and white with a huge butterfly – the colour and pattern reserved for warriors who had captured three or more enemies.

"Teomitl?" I pushed open the entrance-curtain – the bells sewn into it tinkled, a familiar, high-pitched sound – and stepped inside.

The room was as bare as it had always been, the only concession to wealth being the frescoes representing our ancestors in Aztlan, the mythical heartland of Huitzilpochtli the Southern Hummingbird.

I'd expected to catch Teomitl; what I hadn't expected was to find him with someone else.

"Acatl," the visitor said, rising. "What a pleasant surprise."

I found myself wishing I'd removed my sandals, after all. "My Lord," I said, bowing as low as I could.

Nezahual-tzin, Revered Speaker of our ally Texcoco, was a youth of barely sixteen years of age, with a smooth face that could have belonged to a child. The easy, graceful way he wore his feather re galia and turquoise cape, however, served as a useful reminder: Nezahual-tzin was a canny player of politics, who had grown up fighting for his Turquoise and Gold Crown, and he was blessed with the wisdom of Quetzalcoatl the Feathered Serpent. A dangerous opponent, should he ever set himself against us…

A horrible thought crossed my mind. What if he was the one behind it all? The gods knew he didn't like Tizoc-tzin; the man had all but accused Nezahual-tzin of wanting to break the Triple Alliance, four months past. And Nezahual-tzin certainly had the knowledge and the craft to make any spell he wished to – even one calling on the power of Tlalocan, though Tlaloc wasn't his preferred god to call upon.

But no; he was a smart and canny man, and, like me, he had seen the heavy cost we had paid during the change of Revered Speaker. He might have disliked Tizoc-tzin, but he had helped us crown him all the same. No, it couldn't possibly be him.

Teomitl wouldn't meet my gaze. "Nezahual-tzin came to inquire about the dead warrior. We were planning to look for you."

Eventually, I guessed. No – I looked at Teomitl again, seeing the impatience ill-hidden on his features. Those two still had no love for each other, and I guessed Teomitl had been trying to get rid of the unwanted guest for a while.

"I didn't know you had the best interests of warriors at heart," I said to Nezahual-tzin.

He smiled, uncovering teeth of a dazzling white. "Warriors, no. Magical epidemics, most probably."

"I see," I said. "You weren't with the army."

"No." Nezahual shook his head, briefly. "The coronation war is Tizoc-tzin's only. The Triple Alliance won't interfere when he proves his valour." He sounded vaguely amused: he had no illusions about Tizoc-tzin's valour.

"Don't mock my brother," Teomitl said. "I haven't seen you much on the battlefield, either."

Nezahual-tzin rolled his eyes upwards. "To each their own." I'd expected him to elaborate, but he didn't.

I looked at Teomitl, who was fidgeting. "I need to talk with Teomitl. Alone."

Teomitl nodded. Yes. There is plenty to do."

I could see that he wanted to remove Nezahual-tzin from his presence – and Nezahual-tzin saw it as well, because a slightly mocking smile was playing on his broad features.

I didn't know how much I could trust him with any of the details on the epidemic, and in any case, it was better to be prudent. I took the first excuse that came to mind. "If you'll excuse us," I said to Nezahual-tzin. "We have to look for a woman."

"Women tend to be elusive," Nezahual-tzin said, gravely. I remembered, too late, that he might be sixteen years old, and have the wisdom and grace of someone far older, but he didn't disdain the pleasures of the flesh, and his women's quarters already held dozens of concubines.

Teomitl glared at Nezahual-tzin. "You don't know what you're talking about."

His desire to oust Nezahual-tzin from his quarters was palpable, and at length Nezahual-tzin nodded. "I see," he said in a swish of feathers. "I will leave you to your affairs while I attend to mine."

I waited until he had left to look at Teomitl. "We have a problem," I said.

"A problem?"

Quickly, I outlined what Mihmatini had told me. Teomitl's face did not change during the recitation, save that it went paler and paler – and that a green light, like jade, like underwater algae, started playing on his features. "Deliberate?"

"Insofar as I know, yes."

"Then who?" The room was bathed in green shadows now; if the culprit had been there, he would have been blasted straight into Mictlan.

"I don't know."

Teomitl grimaced. He looked disappointed – an expression which sent an odd pang through my chest, making me wish I'd been capable of removing it – but he soon rallied. "So we're looking for enemies of the Mexica?"

I shook my head. "Not only that. Enemies of your brother, quite possibly. Remember last year. Someone could well be a Mexica and love the Empire, and yet still want to depose Tizoc-tzin for personal gain."

Teomitl snorted. "You don't remove a Revered Speaker. You kill him." I'd expected him to be outraged, or angry; but he was merely stating a fact all too well-known to him, as if he'd already brooded over this many times.

"Teomitl–" I said, suddenly frightened.

He grinned – careless, boyish again. "Don't worry about me, Acatl-tzin. I'm not a fool. But the fact remains: what does our sorcerer hope to gain with this?"

"Weaken us," I said, darkly. "Perhaps even encourage a civil war." We'd always stood united, but then again, all our Revered Speakers had had the favour of the Southern Hummingbird – their coronation wars a success, bodies piling at the foot of the Great Temple until the steps ran slick with blood.

Teomitl's face darkened – and, for a moment, he looked far too much like his brother. "You go too far."

I shook my head, ignoring the faint stirrings of unease. "You've seen the banquet. We are divided. With enough panic, and enough fear… the gods only know what a sorcerer can achieve."

And there was Tizoc-tzin – who had been dead, and who we had brought back to life. What kind of magical protection could a dead man afford us?

Teomitl said nothing.

"You must know the court. You must see the atmosphere."

His hands were steady – almost too much – his face carefully guileless. "I can look," he said, finally. "Does that mean we stop enquiring about Eptli's enemies?"

I thought of what Mihmatini had told me. "Not necessarily. Whoever the culprit is, they must have hated Eptli – or what he represented."

Teomitl grimaced. "I did have some information, but…"

"What information?"

"The head of prisoners sent word," Teomitl said. "He said that a woman dressed like a sacred courtesan walked into their quarters, not long before the uproar of Eptli's death. She all but barged her way into Zoquitl's quarters, and they had a lengthy conversation."

A courtesan? "You don't know which kind?"

"Fairly high-up in their hierarchy, I should imagine, from what Cuixtli said. Why?"

"Xochiquetzal," I said, curtly.

"Oh."

Xochiquetzal, Goddess of Lust and Childbirth, had until recently been a resident of Tenochtitlan, granted asylum by the grace of the Duality – and of the previous Guardian, Ceyaxochitl. However, in the wake of Tizoc-tzin's ascent to power, She had been exiled from the city, partly in retaliation for her plot against the Southern Hummingbird a year before, and partly because Tizoc-tzin's paranoia wouldn't allow a scheming goddess to be within a stone's throw of him.

I hadn't approved. Like all gods – except Lord Death and the Feathered Serpent, who took no part in the intrigues of the Fifth World – Xochiquetzal was ruthless, and always plotting something. But risking Her anger and resentment wasn't wise.

"Does he know who she was?"

"He didn't remember her name. He thought it was something to do with flowers–" which didn't help, since half the women's names included precious stones or flowers "and something else. Some kind of food – amaranth, maize?"

"I don't see–" I started, but the tinkle of the bells on the entrancecurtain cut me short.

"Xiloxoch," Nezahual-tzin said, not even bothering with an apology or an introduction. "xoch" was for flower; and "xiloch" was tender maize.

"You were spying on us?" Teomitl asked, indignantly. "You–" He stopped himself with an effort, remembering that he spoke to a superior and an ally. "That's not honourable."

"Honour will see us all dead," Nezahual-tzin said, with that particular, distant serenity that was his hallmark. "Let's be practical."

"How much did you hear?" I asked.

He didn't answer, but by his mocking glance, I could guess he had been outside all the while, listening.

"Don't you dare make this public," I said. I could have asked him not to act on it, but it would have been in vain.

Nezahual-tzin snorted. "Secrets are of value. Why would I reveal something like that?"

"For your own gain," Teomitl snapped.

"Of course I wouldn't." He smiled, with practised innocence – not that we were fooled.

"You'd better not."

I decided to interpose myself, before the conversation degenerated: those two would come to blows easily enough, and it wouldn't help the stability of the Triple Alliance if the heir-apparent to the Mexica Empire and the Revered Speaker of Texcoco fought among themselves. "You said the courtesan's name was Xiloxoch. How do you know, Nezahual-tzin?" And realised, too late, that there was only one possible answer to the question.

A faint, sarcastic smile appeared on Nezahual-tzin's lips for a bare moment, before his face was once more smooth and expressionless. "You know how I know," he said, curtly. "She's a delightful woman, Xiloxoch. Not as young as she used to be, but a treasure-trove of inventions. A pleasure to be with. Almost makes staying in Tenochtitlan worthwhile."

Teomitl's face went crimson. I was less fazed than him – both because I'd expected something like that, and because what women did in the privacy of their chambers had long since ceased to matter for me. "I don't think your prowess as a man is the question here."

Nezahual-tzin's eyes rolled up, revealing corneas of opalescent white. "Of course. You don't feel concerned."

Less than Teomitl, obviously. Ah – might as well question him, and find out what he knew. "As I said earlier, let's focus. What do you know about Xiloxoch that would be relevant?" I stressed the word "relevant."

For a moment, I thought Nezahual-tzin was going to launch into a recitation of Xiloxoch's virtues on the reed-mat – but he must have perceived the shadows of jade playing on Teomitl's face, a sure sign that my student was losing hold of his divine powers. "You forget. I have no idea what you want with her."

"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."

EIGHT

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.

The room was empty of dignitaries now: the slaves were creeping back, and a few women – Pochtic's wives? – looking away from us. Nezahual-tzin threw them his most charming smile, but it seemed to make them even more frightened.

"Teomitl–" I started, but Nezahual-tzin was standing as still as a jaguar on the prowl, looking down at Teomitl.

My student hadn't said anything during the whole confrontation – which was uncharacteristic. Slowly, carefully, he gathered his rings from Pochtic's side – and slid them, one by one, back onto his fingers. His face was the exact double of the She-Snake's – that smooth lack of expression which hid inner turmoil.

His hands, as they manipulated the rings, were steady, but I knew him well enough to see the slight tremor, the almost imperceptible curving of the fingers – the trembling aura of magic around him, hinting at tossing waves, at stormy seas.

I'd seen him angry, in spurts of scalding wrath that never lasted – but this was something else. This was cold, deliberate rage, and I wasn't sure it would ever be extinguished.

It was dark when we came out, with a scattering of stars overhead – the eyes of demons over the Fifth World, contained only by the power of the Southern Hummingbird.

Tlaloc's magic. And the sacred courtesan served Xochiquetzal, who was as close to Tlaloc as goddesses went.

I didn't like this, not at all. I turned to Nezahual-tzin, and asked, "The sacred courtesan. Xiloxoch."

"Yes?" His eyes were on the stars. Could he discern his protector god among them – Quetzalcoatl the Feathered Serpent, Lord of the Morning Star?

"Can you find her?"

"Now?"

There was an itch in my shoulder blades, the hint of a lament in my ears. And, in spite of the precautions we'd taken, I wasn't altogether sure we'd done the right thing – were Teomitl and I immune to the sickness, or merely spreading it throughout the city? "As soon as you can."

"I'll talk to the leader of the prisoners again," Teomitl said, brusquely. "And send word if Pochtic wakes up."

"And Tizoc-tzin?" I asked, carefully.

"Tizoc does what he wants." Teomitl wouldn't look at me. What was going on? It wasn't shame; that was an emotion he barely knew the meaning of.

"Teomitl–"

He made a quick, stabbing gesture with his hands. "I'm Master of the House of Darts. Member of his war-council. His heir. If I don't make sure he follows the right path, who will?"

"Leave that to the She-Snake," Nezahual-tzin said, distractedly. "You can't afford to be among those he distrusts."

Teomitl snorted, but said nothing. He worried me. "Don't do anything rash, please."

"I won't." And, under his breath, "not unless he gives me a reason to."

"Teomitl!" I said.

He pressed his lips together. "You're not my master, Acatl-tzin." And he was gone, wrapping his cloak around him, before I could react.

It wasn't the first time he'd done that, but before, he had been bewildered, or lost – or unsure of Tizoc-tzin. I knew him enough to tell by the set of his jaw and of his eyes that he'd come to some great decision, one that he didn't want me to be privy to.

And, given his anger at Tizoc-tzin's acts, I could guess at the decision. After all, his brother was unpopular with the army, whereas Teomitl's smoke and mist was spreading, his mark on the Fifth World becoming larger and larger. He was Master of the House of Darts, controlling the great arsenals of Tenochtitlan and therefore access to all the causeways that linked us to the mainland – and why shouldn't he see to it that the Turquoise and Gold Crown was held by someone who deserved it, and never mind what the disasters this would cause for the balance of power?

No. He wouldn't. He was more intelligent than that. He had to have absorbed some of what I'd taught him about magic – about the Fifth World being held by a thread until Tizoc-tzin was confirmed.

Surely he wouldn't…

"He's a clever man," Nezahual-tzin said, thoughtfully – as if he had read the tenor of my thoughts. When he saw my face, he smiled. "I didn't use magic, Acatl. You're an easy man to read."

"I don't dissemble," I said, curtly. My relationship with Teomitl might not be wholly private – because of our respective positions – but the Revered Speaker of Texcoco certainly had no business prying into it to satisfy his thrice-accursed curiosity.

Nezahual-tzin ventured nothing. At length, when I didn't speak, he shrugged – a falsely careless gesture, and went downstairs. "I'll see you around, Acatl."

I remained for a while – not because I found the view beautiful, but because I wanted to be sure that he was gone. We'd only had two deaths – a tragedy by some standards, insignificant in the larger frame – and already the fabric of the imperial palace was unravelling.

As if I'd needed further proof that we remained fragile, as the Empire slowly rebuilt itself from the mess of the year before… This wasn't the most auspicious of times for a sorcerer to move against us. I would have prayed for this to bring us together against a common enemy, but deep down I already knew it wouldn't.

I walked to my house alone, amidst the looming shapes of the temples. Even at this late hour, the Sacred Precinct was busy: priests sang hymns and made penances, and circled the Serpent Wall, offering their blood at regular intervals. From within the temples came a grinding sound, as novice priests ground the pigments which would be used on the following day to paint faces and arms for religious ceremonies.

My temple was still lit; I entered briefly, to reassure myself that all was well, and to second a few examinations. Ichtaca had made no progress on tracking down information about the merchant Yayauhqui; hardly surprising, since I'd only asked him a handful of hours ago.

I went to bed praying to Chicomecoatl to look favourably upon us – and to bless us with Her luck, to better unravel this skein of magic.

• • • •

I woke up sore, as if I'd spent the entire day and night walking. My head throbbed, and for a brief moment, as I pulled myself to my knees, the world seemed to spin.

I closed my eyes for a brief moment. The spinning went away and the soreness seemed to recede, but the feeling remained. The onset of the sickness? We should–

Stay inside like old men? No, I couldn't. I had work to do.

Nevertheless… it would have been highly irresponsible to go further without some kind of precaution. Mihmatini's spell had its uses, but, as much as the Duality was arbiter and source of the gods, They were not the ones to whom I owed my allegiance, and Their protection would not be the most effective I could call on. I made my offerings of blood to the Fifth Sun and to Lord Death, singing the hymns for the continuation of the Fifth World, and pulling my worship-thorns through my earlobes.

On my wicker chest were two sets of clothes: one was a simple grey cloak, appropriate for a priest for the Dead; the other was the ornate, owl-embroidered monstrosity of my regalia complete with skull-mask and feather headdress. The grey cloak was far more comfortable, likely to be far less noticed, but the days when I could have worn it had all but passed. Ichtaca was right: I needed to show myself, and this included wearing the regalia. With a sigh, I folded the simple cloak back into the chest, putting it under the folded codices I was working on. It was, after all, unlikely I would need it in the days to come.

I walked into the Sacred Precinct in full regalia.

The dizziness did not return, though I watched for it. The world remained crisp and clear, the sky above the Sacred Precinct a brilliant blue, with the familiar smells of copal incense smoke, underlain by the rank one of blood. Ahead, atop the Great Temple, the sacrifices went on unabated: a body tumbled down the steps, coming to a rest in the grooves that surrounded the pyramid's base – the painted white skin spattered with blood.

Everything seemed well: the Empire strong, the gods watching over us, a Revered Speaker about to be confirmed in a burst of glory, and his coronation war a resounding success.

How I wished I could be fooled by such appearances.

Ichtaca met me at the temple entrance. I could tell that he was either preoccupied or in a hurry, for the black streaks on his cheeks were slightly curved instead of straight, as if he'd applied them with shaking hands. "Acatl-tzin."

"I presume something has happened."

Ichtaca grimaced. "Teomitl-tzin sent word. Pochtic – the Master of the House of Darkness – has regained consciousness, but there are two further warriors affected. One of them is dead."

Dead already? The sickness was spreading – I rubbed the tips of my fingers together, as if I could wash it away from my skin. How was it contracted? "And the others? The ones Acamapichtli had in confinement?"

"I've heard no news."

Well, there was nothing for it. "Send priests for the funeral rites, and remove the bodies. We need to examine them in an isolated spot. Did they die in the palace?"

Ichtaca shook his head. "I think at the House of Youth, but I'll check."

A group of grey-clad novices passed by us. By the reed-brooms in their hands, it looked they were going to sweep the courtyard, cleansing it in honour of Lord Death. "Do check," I said. "Nothing else?"

Ichtaca spread his hands. His nervousness was palpable. "The merchant: I did find which god he worshipped, but–"

I sighed. Ichtaca had always been a staunch believer in Mexica superiority, and the past few months had hit him badly. "Tell me," I said, gently.

"Tezcatlipoca, the Smoking Mirror."

Lord of the Near, Lord of the Nigh; god of war and youth, protector of sorcerers. Nothing too surprising there, sadly – even the viciousness of Yayauhqui's punishment was characteristic.

"Does it help?"

I couldn't lie to him. "I'm not sure. It certainly doesn't put him at the forefront of suspects: the epidemic seems to be coming from Tlaloc."

"Again?" Ichtaca asked.

Two years earlier, the Storm Lord and a splinter group of His priests had attempted an elaborate plot to unseat Huitzilpochtli's dominance – using the Revered Speaker's weakness to raise up an agent in the Fifth World. They would have succeeded, too, but for our order.

"He's a god," I said, slowly. "The Duality only knows what He's plotting." I paused, then.

"What is it, Acatl-tzin?"

"The Flower Quetzal," I said slowly. Xochiquetzal had been the Storm Lord's ally – as interested as He had been in the end of the Fifth World.

"You think She's involved in this again?"

I thought of Xiloxoch. "I don't know. But it's a possibility."

One I didn't care much for. A scheming deity was bad enough, but an alliance of gods…

I nodded. "Before I go, I need a ritual performed."

"Which one?"

I'd had time to mull it over on my way to the temple. Mictlantecuhtli, Lord Death, was seldom invoked for defensive magic – unless one counted summoning creatures such as the Wind of Knives or the Owl Archer from the underworld. But this particular sickness, it seemed, was under the auspices of Tlaloc the Storm Lord. And the magics of the underworld and of Tlalocan cancelled each other out.

"It's not a ritual," I said at last. "At least, not per se. I just need you to provide a little… help."

We repaired to one of the examination rooms, under the hollow gaze of Mictlantecuhtli. As I'd asked, Ichtaca had gathered only offering priests for this – the novices would have been all too glad to take part in something like this, but they hadn't yet learned the fundamental lesson of the priesthood: that magic might be awe-inspiring, but that the heart of our devotions lay elsewhere. That Lord Death did not give us more than was needed, or grant us our prayers, but that we could rely on Him to stand by His rules, that he was not cruel or capricious, but merely there, awaiting us all.

And it was my role – and Ichtaca's – to teach them the importance of the small things, of the devotions at night, of the examinations of corpses with knives and small spells, of the offerings that came day and night to give their lives the rhythm of faith.

At the feet of each priest lay a pile of quetzal feathers, and a single lip-plug made of jade. On Ichtaca's signal, they cut a thin line across the back of their hands, and let the blood drip onto the feathers and jade.

Ichtaca – who was part of the circle, started chanting a hymn to Lord Death:

"Only here on earth, in the Fifth World

Shall the flowers last, shall the songs be bliss

Though it be feathers, though it be jade

It too must go to the region of the fleshless."

Where the blood touched the feathers, they gleamed – a dark hue of green, the miasma of the underworld. A cold wind was blowing across the room, making the priests' grey cloaks billow like the wings of some gaunt and skeletal bird.

"It too must go to the region of mystery

Only once do we live on this earth

We came only to sleep, only to dream

Only once do we live on this earth."

I took a deep breath, and tightened my grip on my obsidian knife. I had offered no blood, but that did not matter. To call on what I intended, I needed no offerings, merely my presence, there in the very centre of Lord Death's largest temple – I, who had been consecrated High Priest, invested with the breath of the underworld.

I felt it rise within me: the lament of the dead, the grave voice of the Wind of Knives, the careless smile and wide eyes of the Owl Archer, the hulking shapes of beasts of shadows – and everything that presaged Mictlan in the Fifth World: the old folk laid out on their reed-mats, struggling to breathe for yet another day; the peasants feeling the first aches in their backs, the first creaks of their joints; the women in the marketplace with their wrinkled faces and streaks of white in their hair; the children, learning that no year resembled the one past, and that time had caught them all, more surely than a fisherman's net; all those on the road to the throne of Lord Death – and to oblivion.

"In the house of the fleshless

In the house with no windows

We go, we disappear

Only once do we live on this earth."

The world contracted. A cold feeling ran over my entire body, as if I'd just put on chilled clothes after some time standing before a brazier. And the feel of the underworld, instead of abating, continued unchanged. I saw the skulls under the faces of the priests – smelled the coming rot, and the blotches that would spread over their skins as the blood stopped flowing within their bodies.

I wouldn't be able to maintain it for long, for it took its toll on my own energy. I'd expected to be frightened, or disgusted, but I wasn't. Cocooned in a power as familiar to me as the taste of maize, I felt… at ease, relaxed even for the first time in days. I had lived with the awareness of death for years – not as a distant event in the future, but as real as the blank eyes of corpses, as the blotches on pallid hands.

It would have to do.

I crossed the Sacred Precinct as if in a dream. A cold wind blew around me, reducing the bustle of the crowd to the silence of the grave and the crackle of flames on a funeral pyre. Indistinct faces brushed past me, and the only things that seemed real were the shadows of the temples, from the round tower of Quetzalcaoatl the Feathered Serpent to the familiar pyramid shape of the Great Temple dwarfing the Sacred Precinct.

I didn't feel quite ready to face Teomitl yet – what would I have flung at him, save worries I couldn't quite substantiate?

Instead, I made my own way to the quarters of the Master of the House of Darkness and found him awake, tended to by his personal slave. One of the She-Snake's guards was at the entrance; he let me pass, though I knew he would soon be reporting my coming to his master.

The Master of the House of Darkness looked, if anything, worse than on the previous day – his raw skin shining in the morning sun, glistening with the particular glint of pus and scabs. His torn eyelids had puffed up, all but hiding his eyes. With my new, sensitive eyesight, I could trace the incipient rot in every streak on his forehead and cheeks and smell the swelling pus, a rancid odour that threatened to overwhelm the smoke of copal incense.

"My Lord," I said. "I am Acatl, High Priest for the Dead."

"I know who you are." The voice sounded slightly peeved. "I might be on my mat, but I'm no invalid, and certainly not at Mictlan's gates yet."

I wasn't entirely sure I agreed, but I didn't say anything. I sat cross-legged in front of him – an honoured visitor – and spoke as if nothing were wrong. I prayed his diminished eyesight wouldn't let him see the way my gaze wandered downwards – of that, if he did see, he would misinterpret it as a sign of respect.

"So," Pochtic said after a while. "Here to investigate the attack on me, then?"

"Among other things," I said, carefully. He was obviously used to be being in charge – which wasn't surprising, given his high position in the army. "Can you tell me more about what happened? I found the mask on the ground."

Pochtic's ruined face did not move. "He was waiting for me in my chambers. I never did get to see his face – before I knew it, he had me pinned, an arm locked around my neck. And then he slid the mask on." He gave a shudder – the act of memory itself was too painful. "I don't remember anything except waking here, afterwards."

He spoke like a warrior: frank, honest, not mincing words and making no efforts to hide anything.

Or did he? His account was not only fragmentary, but singularly unhelpful – as if he'd worked on it to give as little information as possible.

"Hmm," I said. "He grasped you by the neck. That would indicate a man taller than you."

His mouth set in a grimace – his hands clenched as the split lips contracted, opening up the hundred tiny wounds he'd sustained. "I suppose so."

With him lying down, it was hard to tell – but I remembered the ceremony of welcoming for the army, and the four members of the war-council following one another. Pochtic, in his crimson feathers and black-trimmed mantle, had towered over Teomitl – who wasn't very small himself, either. So either our assailant was uncannily tall, whether he was human or not – I could think of several creatures that would fit that description. Or…

I needed a way to look at his neck – one that would be discreet enough to draw no suspicion. If he was lying, and in some ways involved with the epidemic, the last thing I needed was to be spooking him.

If I rose now – with the words he'd spoken fresh in his mind – he would suspect something. I had to gain time, instead. "Asphyxiation," I said. "It's a common ritual used by the priests of Tlaloc."

"I have little to do with the Storm Lord," Pochtic said, not without disdain. "My service is dedicated to Tezcatlipoca the Smoking Mirror, Lord of the Near, Lord of the Nigh – and to the other gods of war."

"You don't think someone could have attacked you for precisely this reason?" I asked.

Pochtic snorted. "I maintain good relations with the gods and their priests. Nothing particular happened in the last few days that would justify this."

His eyes flicked, just a fraction, as he said that – and for a moment I saw raw fear in the pupils. He knew, or suspected what he'd been attacked for.

What was going on?

"So you didn't know your assailant? You're sure that you wouldn't have caught a glimpse of him – have any inkling or any suspicion why you were picked for that kind of death?" I rose as I said that, and walked nearer to him – and, as I expected, Pochtic followed the direction of my voice, tilting his head upwards. His cloak slipped, a fraction, uncovering his neck and the top of his shoulders – a fraction, but it was enough for me to see that there was no mark whatsoever there.

No, wait.

There were faint bruises on both shoulders, not far from the neck area. I'd only had a short look at them before Pochtic settled down again, but they were familiar, from a thousand examinations. Palm marks, facing upwards. In other words, someone had forced Pochtic down on his back, and put the mask on – and left him here, flopping like a fish on dry land until the air in his lungs gave out.

Then he had seen his assailant – or a shadow, at least. Why lie about it?

"I've told you," Pochtic said. "I don't have any idea what's going on."

"You're a strong man," I said, slowly. "I'm surprised you were overwhelmed that easily."

Pochtic's eyes glittered with something I couldn't place – shame, fear? "He held me like a rag doll," he whispered. "And then I couldn't breathe. Do you have any idea how horrible it is – your lungs starting to burn, your mouth struggling to draw air through jade? I– all your life, you breathe. Day after day, moment after moment – and suddenly you can't see anything, can't focus on anything but how powerless you are?"

He was Master of the House of Darkness: a rich, powerful man, who had everything he could ever want – physicians waiting on him, servants to satisfy the least of his desires. Like Eptli, he believed himself designed for greatness – and then, in a moment, everything had been snatched from him. He had been reminded that – like precious stones which cracked and broke – he was destined for Mictlan, the underworld, the place of the fleshless.

I knew the fear in his eyes – I had felt it myself. But in him it seemed to be compounded with something I couldn't place. Did he lie about his assailant because the latter had been small, and he was ashamed? Or was it something else?

Either way, this wouldn't be solved here. To accuse him of lying would bring me nowhere and would only anger Tizoc-tzin further – not the most intelligent of ideas, given his current mood.

NINE

Enemies of the Empire

I was walking out of Pochtic's quarters, when, through a courtyard, I caught a glimpse of Teomitl, walking by a woman in a simple red skirt. She did not wear the two horns of married women, but there was an ivory comb in her hair. Her face was lathered with makeup, giving her skin the yellow sheen of corn, and she walked with the familiar, swaying allure of a woman used to seducing men.

A sacred courtesan. Xiloxoch? I couldn't see any other reason for him to talk to someone of her status – not now that he was married, in the process of founding a household of his own.

Though Teomitl didn't look seduced – if anything, he looked angry, the facets of his cheeks taking on the colour of jade, and his eyes hardening into small, glinting stones. The aura of his patron goddess Chalchiuhtlicue, Jade Skirt, was strong enough to hurt my eyes.

"Teomitl!" I called.

He slowed down a fraction, but barely acknowledged me. He was in regalia – not the peacetime one, but rather the frightful spectre, the war costume of the Master of the House of Darts. It made him look wild, untamed – from the dishevelled plume of quetzal feathers fanning out from the back of his hair, to his head, emerging from between the jaws of a sculpted skeletal beast. "This is Xiloxoch." He smiled, but the expression never reached his eyes. "Nezahual-tzin brought her to my quarters."

And what pleasure Nezahual-tzin would have derived from it, no doubt. "So you're accompanying her back to the House of Joy?"

Teomitl made a small, stabbing gesture with the back of one hand. "No. I'm taking her to the military courts."

"For visiting a prisoner?" Surely there was no law against this?

The light around Teomitl flared up, became blinding. "You don't understand, Acatl-tzin. Xiloxoch has serious accusations to make."

Against the prisoner? "I–"

The courtesan, Xiloxoch, spoke up. Her voice was that of an educated woman – most of the courtesans who attended the warriors in the House of Youth tended to be commoners, but she had obviously been taught by priestesses in the calmecac school. "Bribery and fraud," she said. Her teeth were black, the colour of unending night; her eyes, outlined with makeup, shone with determination. A driven woman, Nezahual-tzin had said. "Eptli has scratched the jade, has torn apart the quetzal feathers – dishonouring father and mother, and the gods that watched over him."

The sinking feeling was back in my stomach. "What did he do?"

"He corrupted the judges." Teomitl's voice was curt. "The two-faced son of a dog corrupted the war-council, under my own eyes."

But the war-council included him, surely? "The whole council?"

"The Master of the House of Darkness, and the deputy for the Master of Raining Blood." Xiloxoch's face twisted; it might have been a smile, but there was no joy in it. "The other deputy refused."

Pochtic. Coatl. And the other man, the one I hadn't seen more than for a few moments. "And Teomitl?" I asked.

Teomitl's face was a mask, his skin carved jade, his cheeks hollowed, and his eyes dark holes. "I was too much of a fool to catch what they were saying."

"That's a serious accusation," I said, very slowly. "Do you have any evidence?"

"We don't need evidence for the moment," Teomitl said, impatiently. "We need to warn the magistrates, so that they can arrest the culprits."

I raised a hand. Had he learned nothing? "Do you have evidence?" I asked Xiloxoch, again.

Her eyes were dark, and deep; her black-stained teeth shining in the oval of her face. "The behaviour of a dead man. The word of another. It's not easy, as you can see." She didn't smile. Her whole being seemed – taut, with something very like the will to seduce – somehow transfigured, shaped into an instrument of the law. Driven, Nezahual-tzin had called her.

But driven by what? The desire for justice, or one of Xochiquetzal's plots?

"It's a serious accusation," I said, finally. And, if it was true…

No. I couldn't be like Teomitl, and take risks as easily as I breathed.

"It's a serious crime," Xiloxoch said. Her voice took on the singsong accents of an admonition. "'The city has given you a plume of heron feathers, the city has given you paper clothes. You are the slave of the city, the servant of the people. Do not let your words ripen and rot.'" She did smile, then; and it was terrible to behold, a thing without joy.

I didn't like that. Whatever her motivations – and they had to be more complicated than a simple will for justice – it was still… troubling. "Coatl," I said, slowly. "Pochtic."

"Acatl-tzin–" Teomitl said, "You don't think–"

I wasn't in a state to think, that was the problem. "Eptli is dead. Coatl is in isolation. Pochtic has been savaged."

Xiloxoch hadn't moved – she stood as straight as a thrown spear, waiting with undisguised impatience. Still, she'd moved a fraction at the last – something about Pochtic was either news, or unexpected.

"Whatever testimony you have," I said to Xiloxoch, "it won't last long." And, to Teomitl: "You're wrong."

For a moment – a bare, fleeting moment – I saw the harshness of jade in his features, and the shadow that spread to his eyes – and I thought he was going to reprimand me, to deny my right as his teacher. But then he shook his head, and some of the tension in the air vanished. "Wrong? Prove it."

Think, think, Southern Hummingbird curse me. "I want to know what you have," I said to Xiloxoch. "Once again, it is a serious accusation that you bear. We can't act prematurely on that."

"I slept with Eptli, once or twice. He made – careless confessions, after he was spent." Her lips twisted. "He was so sure of himself, that one. Didn't think for a moment that the captive would fail to be awarded to him." She spat on the ground; her saliva glistened on the dry earth.

"And you still slept with him." I understood her less and less – was her patron goddess Xochiquetzal behind that? The Quetzal Flower's intrigues tended to be far more vicious and far less complicated than that.

"He was handsome," Xiloxoch said, dismissively. "One might as well pick the prettiest ones."

"That's not a very strong reason," I said. "Why did you pick him, Xiloxoch?"

She shook her head, but did not answer.

"Xiloxoch." Teomitl said – his voice was soft, but it was no longer that of the young, unproven warrior. "Someone has been spreading diseases in the heart of the Mexica Empire. This is also a serious crime."

"I wouldn't know anything about that." Her eyes had flared; her hands clenched. She looked more angry than fearful.

"Why pick Eptli, Xiloxoch?"

"I told you. For justice."

"No," I said, slowly. "That's not what you told us. You said you'd learned of Eptli's transgression only after you slept with him."

There was a soft, green light spreading – Teomitl's aura, giving everything the air of underwater caves. The air smelled of churned mud, with the salty aftertaste of blood – and it was thicker too, clogging in our lungs. I could hear Xiloxoch's rising breath – coming in shorter and more laboured gasps. "Why?" he asked.

Last time I'd seen him try this, he'd almost killed a guard – but things had changed now, and he seemed more in control. Though one could never be sure, with the capricious Jade Skirt.

Xiloxoch's face was pale, her teeth drinking in the light and giving nothing back. "He was such an arrogant, obnoxious man. Thinking all the quetzal feathers, all the jade of the Fifth World were his due. So used to riches he thought they could buy anything."

The quintessential warrior – contemptuous of anything so feminine as sacred courtesans. "In other words, the perfect worshipper of the Southern Hummingbird."

Xiloxoch smiled, but said nothing.

"It's a serious accusation," I said, again. "But, if it's true, then they'll uphold the law, and Eptli will be stripped of rank, posthumously. Warriors were held to higher standards than commoners, by virtue of their higher knowledge and education. The war-council – the heads of the warriors, their role-models in the Fifth World – would be held to even more exacting rules.

"Come on," Teomitl said. "Let's see the magistrate, and we'll sort this out."

I shook my head. The pattern was disturbing: if Xiloxoch's accusations were true, we had three people involved. Eptli had offered the bribe, Pochtic and Coatl had accepted it. Eptli was dead, someone had attacked Pochtic, and Coatl had fallen prey to the same sickness as Eptli. As to the prisoner Zoquitl – the prize in all of this – he had also died.

Whether Xiloxoch's accusations were true or not, someone seemed to be killing off everyone alleged to have taken part in the affair.

Was it someone else associated with Xiloxoch? "Who else knows about this?" I asked her.

She started. "I don't understand."

"Don't take us for fools," I said. "As you said – everyone mentioned has died, or been attacked in some way. I find it hard to believe there is no connection."

Xiloxoch's eyes flicked towards the ground. "I didn't mention it to anyone. Why would I?"

Teomitl watched her intently – I wondered if he saw anything else, with the light of Jade Skirt so strong in his eyes – but at length he nodded. "Let's go, Acatl-tzin. We've wasted enough time already."

I thought, quickly. The coincidence was troubling, but then all the men she had accused were members of the war-council and what better way to sow chaos amongst us than target them – the supreme four, commanders of the army?

"No," I said. "We have more important things to do than this." And, to Xiloxoch: "I'm pretty sure you can find your own way to the military courts."

Her smile was wide and dazzling. "Of course. Don't worry about me, Acatl-tzin."

After she'd left, Teomitl turned to me, his face creased in puzzlement. "We could have–"

"No," I said. "She brought nothing but groundless accusations. I'm not about to give her the pleasure of our approval. Let her face the magistrates on her own terms."

"It's a serious matter."

"You've said it yourself: you noticed nothing."

"Yes, but I'm a fool when it comes to matters like this."

I shook my head. "It's not good enough, don't you see? We serve justice; not whims based on scant evidence." Otherwise we would not be much better than Tizoc-tzin.

Teomitl's face took on some of the harshness of jade again, but it was soon gone. "Fine. I suppose you're right. But if it's not true, then what was she was doing in Zoquitl's room?"

I had a fair idea of what she could have been doing in Zoquitl's rooms – what sacred courtesans did best. She was a servant of the Flower Quetzal, goddess of Lust and Childbirth, and sleeping with a promised sacrifice would not only enable her to honour her goddess, but might also leech potency from the Southern Hummingbird. It was small – one sacrifice out of forty – but the Flower Quetzal would have gladly counted it a victory.

Unless She had more extreme plans? Unless She was once more Tlaloc's ally, seeking retribution on the Fifth World?

"What now?" Teomitl asked, impatiently.

There was something going on – someone undermining the Mexica Empire or Tizoc-tzin's leadership. It could have been Tlatelolco; it could have been Xochiquetzal's followers, but it could also come from inside.

Pochtic had seen his assailant and recognised him, which in turn meant that he had known him. And I didn't think that could apply to either the Tlatelolcan merchant or the sacred courtesan. But Itamatl – the fourth member of the war-council, who had displayed such hatred for Tizoc-tzin… that was a strong possibility.

"There's a man we have to see."

• • • •

We stopped by the kitchens first, to get some flatbreads and fried newts. As we ate, I asked Teomitl about Itamatl.

"Honest man," he said with a shrug.

"He doesn't seem to like Tizoc-tzin all that much."

Teomitl grimaced. He looked distinctly uncomfortable, which was unusual for him. "Itamatl had an elder brother who was on the council."

I winced. "So he's dead?"

"And bound to the Southern Hummingbird, like the rest of the council."

And, of course, it had been because of Tizoc-tzin, and because of his fanatic drive to become Revered Speaker, that the council had died – or, more accurately, had been sacrificed to buy the Southern Hummingbird's favour. "And Itamatl?"

Teomitl wouldn't look at me. "Itamatl was very fond of his brother. But Acatl-tzin, you can't possibly think–"

"I don't think. I just follow what I see." Open hostility to Tizocztin, and a motive for wanting the Revered Speaker cast down, denied the Gold and Turquoise Crown Itamatl's brother had died for… "And I can't exempt anyone from suspicion."

Teomitl snorted. "You might as well suspect me."

"Of dubious loyalties to Tizoc-tzin?" The words were out of my mouth before I could think, but Teomitl said nothing. He merely watched his fried frog, as if he could order it out of his sight.

"You have to wait," I said, slowly. "Otherwise…"

"I know." He bit his lips. "I've seen the star-demons, remember. I know you made the right decision, Acatl-tzin. But, still…"

I said nothing. He needed time for things to sink in. He would see the truth of it soon enough.

Itamatl's quarters were not far from Pochtic's – in the same grand and ostentatious part of the palace. They looked much the same: a squat pyramid of limestone with more unfamiliar insignia – that of the Master of the Bowl of Fatigue, I presumed, and the lesser ones, the one with the coyote underneath the red sun, had to be for Itamatl's war prowess.

There were no slaves, no servants to block our way; and the antechamber was similarly devoid of people. From inside, beyond the simple black and red entrance curtain, came rustling noises, like someone turning the pages of a codex with great speed.

Teomitl pulled the curtain open with his customary energy, sending all the bells into a frenzy of ringing – but it was not enough advance warning for the man inside – who rose from his crouch near the brazier with wads of paper still in his hands, and an expression of anger slowly stealing across his face. "What is the meaning of this – oh, I might have known. Good afternoon, Teomitl." He still appeared angry.

"Burning papers?" Teomitl asked.

Itamatl shook his head. He wore nothing but a simple cotton loincloth – no warrior finery here, as if he were uncomfortable with it. But he addressed Teomitl as an equal. "Time to get rid of the old, I should think."

"The old order?" I asked.

Itamatl put the papers down. I caught a glimpse of elaborate drawings – warriors striking at each other, elaborate representations of army units, with their feather insignia and shields. "The remnants of our old wars. Might as well not keep them." He appeared utterly unashamed; at ease. "Especially given how they turned out."

"Be careful what you say," Teomitl said.

"You know what I'm going to say."

"Yes. And I'll listen as a friend, but I am also Master of the House of Darts."

Itamatl shrugged. "Fine." He turned to me, and bowed, brusquely, as if forced to acknowledge someone he didn't much care for. "And you'll listen as High Priest for the Dead."

"It's my role," I said, slowly. "You don't seem to care much for our wars."

Itamatl looked at Teomitl – who said nothing. At length, he said, "There will always be wars, and the Southern Hummingbird will always grant His favours as he sees fit."

"But, here and now, we are the ones holding His favours."

Itamatl's gaze was sardonic. "And this grants us the right to lie and dissemble?"

"If you approve so much of the truth," I said, "then be frank with us. Do you wish for this coronation war to be a success?"

That, if nothing else, caught him aback. At length he threw his head back, and laughed.

"Just like a priest, to wound with words." He was silent, for a while. "No. Just once, I would like Tizoc-tzin to be thwarted in his desires. To know what it is to lose." He smiled, bitterly, at Teomitl. "I might have tried to make him lose you, but I don't think he would care, either way."

Teomitl's face was a mask; for once, I couldn't read him, no matter how dearly I might have wished to. Did he still love his brother, in spite of the grievances between them – or was there nothing left between them, save duty?

"Be careful what you say."

"Words aren't a crime," Itamatl said. "Not yet."

"But acts are," I interjected. "Eptli's death. The sickness. The attack on Pochtic."

There was a moment of silence, which seemed to stretch into an eternity. Then, a snort and a shake of his head. "I'd have been tempted, perhaps. But I assure you, I have nothing to do with this. If anyone has to pay, it's Tizoc-tzin. I won't drag down other warriors."

And, but for the silence, it might have sounded sincere.

"I see," I said, though all I could see was that we couldn't discount him as a suspect.

Teomitl said, in a brusque fashion. "There have been talks, Itamatl. Talks we were approached for bribes by some of Eptli's allies."

"Bribes?" The puzzlement on his face looked genuine, but then again, he had had ample time to prepare himself for the question. "I don't see–"

"I didn't either." Teomitl's voice was low and savage. "But that doesn't mean there was nothing."

As we walked towards the entrance-curtain, his voice brought us short. "Teomitl!"

"Yes?" Teomitl didn't turn around.

"He'll drag us down, you know. Bit by bit and lie by lie. You know this."

"I know." Teomitl shook his head. "Come on, Acatl-tzin. Let's go."

Outside, it was early evening and the stars were shining in the sky. Teomitl paused on the platform, staring at them – I thought he might be looking for the Evening Star, the incarnation of Nezahual-tzin's protector god, but when he did speak, it had nothing to do with the Feathered Serpent. "Acatl-tzin… it was worth it, was it not?"

Trust him to get to the heart of the matter. Itamatl had accused priests of wounding with words, but Teomitl could be equally devastating in his naiveté. I stared at the stars – fixed, distant, but it only took a slight effort of memory to remember the rattle of skulls, and the lights plunging down towards us, becoming the eyes of the monsters, becoming large shapes looming over us, bringing the shattering cold, and the sense that nothing would be right again…

"We need a Revered Speaker," I said. "Otherwise the star-demons will come back." I wished I could believe it that easily. Perhaps it was better to weather a period of chaos, if that was the price to pay for a better man? But I couldn't say that. I couldn't agree to pay in blood and deaths, and casually sacrifice so many, as Tizoc-tzin had sacrificed the whole council. I'd had no choice, back four months before: we'd had to bring Tizoc-tzin back into the Fifth World, so that he would ward us against chaos and fire. That he was a man I despised changed nothing.

"He's a bad Revered Speaker. Itamatl is right." Teomitl's voice was low and fierce. "I can't admit it to him because of who I am, but he is right."

"He's not eternal," I said, finally. I started down the stairs, slowly, towards the inner courtyard, which lay in darkness beneath the merciless light of the stars.

"But he's still young." Teomitl scowled. "He could live forever."

He was a shambling corpse – because that was what we'd brought him back as, because I'd held back during the ritual, and left us with only a shadow of who Tizoc-tzin had been. "He won't last long," I said, finally. "Trust me."

"Days, months? A year?" When I didn't answer, he said, "It'll be long enough, then. Look at us. We're already torn apart."

"It's nothing new," I said, but I didn't know what I could tell him. He had seen the star-demons, as I had. He knew the price of being without protection – the price of opening up the boundaries and letting everything that prowled in the space outside the Fifth World walk our streets and swim in our canals. "I hate to say it, because it makes me sound like Acamapichtli, but we'll endure. We always have."

Teomitl laughed, without joy. "Because we're worth it." He shook his head. "Because we trample others into the dust."

"Why the moodiness?" I asked.

"I thought– He shook his head. "I thought of who might want to harm the Mexica Empire. There are so many people we have defeated and made slaves…"

I thought, uneasily, of Tlatelolco – of the bustling marketplace, which hid the scars of war, and the enslaved people; the bitterness of men like Yayauhqui. I thought of Yaotl, who was a foreigner and a slave, and who wouldn't ever be free. "It's the way of the world. War isn't kind, or fair. You should know this, too."

"I do know!" He made a short, stabbing gesture with his hand – and stopped halfway, as if bewildered by the lack of an enemy. "It's just that…"

I waited for something else, but it didn't come. Instead, his head came up – like an ahuizotl water-beast sniffing the wind. "Some thing is wrong."

"Something?"

There was a faint, growing light at his feet – wisps of yellow radiance which slowly gathered themselves, until a thread of light shone on the floor, snaking through the courtyard, under the pillars of the buildings – losing itself in the darkness.

The thread which tied him to Mihmatini; except that I had never seen it so bright. "Mihmatini?" I asked.

"She's in trouble," Teomitl said. He was out, and running before I could even so much as finish my sentence, and, since he was the one with the link to her, I had to run after him.

I'd thought we would be going to the Duality House, but to my surprise Teomitl headed straight for the low building which hosted the courts of justice.

At this late hour, it was almost deserted – the wide airy room filled only with a few stragglers, trials that had dragged on too long, with clerks furiously drawing glyphs on papers, as if their speed could somehow expedite the magistrates' work.

Teomitl rushed through the room as if it were completely empty – passing dangerously close to a couple of artisans with wooden cangues around their necks. I followed at a more sedate pace – mostly because I was out of breath, not being as young as him.

I couldn't see Mihmatini anywhere – or the courtesan Xiloxoch, for that matter. What kind of trouble would my sister get into?

Oh.

Teomitl was headed towards the back of the room, where an entrance-curtain of turquoise cotton marked the entrance of the noblemen's sections – which hosted both the Court of Appeals, and the Imperial Audience, that only met every thirteen days.

My work those days seldom took me into the courts, but I still had eyes, and could make out the pile of sandals near the entrancecurtain. It was an Imperial Audience today – reserved for grave crimes which touched on the security of the Empire.

And my sister was inside, and in danger.

A cold hand seemed to have closed around my heart. Surely it couldn't be…? Surely she was safe from Tizoc-tzin, if anyone was safe…?

Teomitl had stopped at the door, and all but tore off his sandals. I did likewise, my hands shaking on the cotton straps – trying to make out where the luminous thread was going.

The room beyond the curtain was much like the previous one: wide and airy, supported by painted pillars – and with a hint of the gardens through the back, a scent of muddy earth, a faint, raucous cry of quetzal birds seeking each other through the wooden bars of their cages.

It was packed full, as usual: almost every official in the palace seemed to have decided to attend, creating a riot of coloured cotton suits, of feather headdresses and jaguar pelts – of protective magical lattices, which hissed and faded when they met another incompatible magic.

Through the crowd, I could barely see the centre, but it seemed like some kind of hearing was going on – I caught Tizoc-tzin's voice, raised in anger, and another voice – a familiar one…

It wasn't Mihmatini's, but it was familiar all the same. Surely it couldn't be…?

Teomitl pushed his way through the crowd with the same determination he'd have used to ram a spear into a chest. I pushed ahead, oblivious of who I cast aside, of the angry voices that followed our passage, the buzzing of flies in my ears – that voice, it had to be…

"I've said it before: there is no plot against you, my Lord."

And, finally, the crowd parted, and I saw…

Tizoc-tzin, sitting on the high-backed seat of the Revered Speaker – his sallow face distorted in the familiar expressions of fear and anger.

I caught a bare glimpse of the judges to his side: two noblemen I vaguely recognised, and the familiar black-clad countenance of the She-Snake.

But, in the centre – in the centre was Acamapichtli, High Priest of Tlaloc, his clothes torn and bedraggled, looking almost vulnerable – save for his face. He'd raised it towards the judges' dais, looking the Revered Speaker and the other dignitaries in the eye – a forbidden act, sheer defiance that was going to cost him dearly once his hearing was over.

Teomitl had stopped, his gaze going from Tizoc-tzin to Acamapichtli – the greenish cast of his skin receding to show normal colours once more, his eyes the bewildered ones of a boy. He looked right and left, and finally caught sight of Mihmatini, who was standing a few paces away with the slave Yaotl by her side, her face clenched in anger. But she didn't seem to be in any kind of danger.

"What is the meaning of this?" he asked to Tizoc-tzin.

"This isn't your province," Tizoc-tzin said. His gaze moved from Teomitl to me – and in the depths of his eyes I saw only the magic of the underworld, calling out to me with the soothing song of the Dead.

Shuddering, I tore my gaze away from Tizoc-tzin. "My Lord," I said. "Grave accusations have been made–"

"I know." Tizoc-tzin waved a dismissive hand. "Don't worry, priest. They are being taken care of."

"I don't understand," I said. I swept an eye around the room, which was utterly silent. No one moved – save for the She-Snake, and in his smooth, round face I saw the first stirrings of anger. "Why–?"

"Isn't it obvious?" Tizoc-tzin asked. He laughed, and I heard the breath rattling in his lungs – such a beautiful sound, like the wheeze of funeral rattles. "Tlaloc's magic has been spilling out into the Fifth World – into the heart and entrails of my palace, priest!"

"I still don't see–" I said, though in reality it was all too clear. But I wanted him to say it, nevertheless.

Tizoc-tzin waved a hand towards Acamapichtli. "Isn't it obvious? The Storm Lord's emissary is here. It's him we should beware of, him we should cut open, him we should…" His voice dipped, and I couldn't hear the rest.

Acamapichtli hadn't moved. At length, he straightened up – slowly, stately, with that infuriating, effortless arrogance. "Will that be all, my Lord? I have the feeling we have explored the question quite thoroughly." I could have cheered.

"You– " Tizoc-tzin started, but the She-Snake interrupted.

"My Lord, I think it would be prudent to adjourn. You grow tired."

While Tizoc-tzin protested, Acamapichtli turned, slightly – until he could see me. "Acatl," he whispered, low and urgent. "They've dismantled everything."

"Everything?" I asked, with a sinking feeling in my belly. "Your sick patients…"

The look on his face was clear enough. The containment, however efficient it might have been, had been breached, and, worse than that, we had a man under accusation of grave treason loose in the palace, if not in Tenochtitlan.

We had to wait until the end of the audience to leave, which was, sadly, all too predictable. Acamapichtli and his priests were to remain in confinement until Tizoc-tzin could figure out further charges to bring against them. He wouldn't even listen to any other accusations – I caught a glimpse of the courtesan Xiloxoch arguing with a magistrate, but it was likely it would all come to nothing.

If it was even true. I had my doubts.

Afterwards, Mihmatini caught up with us.

"I didn't expect to see you here."

"Same goes for you," Teomitl said. He shook his head. "I thought you were in danger."

"In danger?"

Teomitl pointed to the thread coiled on the ground between them, which was now a faint light once more, barely visible unless one knew where to look. "It flared up."

"And of course you rushed to my rescue."

"Was I supposed to leave you–?" He stopped. "What kind of danger were you in?"

Her face was set. "I lodged a formal complaint with Tizoc-tzin over the arrest of a High Priest. The second arrest in four months," she said, throwing a glance towards me.

"You did what? Are you mad?" I asked. When I had failed to enthusiastically support Tizoc-tzin four months ago, he had arrested me and threatened to execute me. And now she – Teomitl's wife in a marriage Tizoc-tzin hadn't approved of – told him to his face that he was wrong? "Do you want to be killed?"

"I'm old enough to take care of myself."

"Not in that kind of circumstance," Teomitl said.

"You think so?"

She'd always had a tendency to charge into trouble – climbing cacti to get maguey sap, with the firm belief flimsy cotton bandages would protect her against thorns; rowing to the Floating Gardens on her own and wedging her boat so deeply into the mud that she couldn't lift it out; sneaking into the calmecac school to see Neutemoc, never thinking the priests would keep a watch…

"Tizoc-tzin isn't quite a fool," Yaotl said. His face was grave. "Arresting a young woman because she spoke up against him in an open trial would make him look bad."

"She's the Guardian of the Sacred Precinct. Hardly harmless," I said, dryly.

"But she's eighteen, and a housewife." Yaotl smiled. "That's what people will see first, and Tizoc-tzin knows it. And if he doesn't, I'm sure his sycophant Quenami will remind him. He can't afford to do that, not in front of his noblemen."

But, presumably, he could afford to arrest the entire clergy of Tlaloc.

"I'm still free," Mihmatini pointed out. "If he were to do anything, he'd have done it by now."

And that was supposed to make me feel better? "Look–" I started – and gave up. She looked so much like a younger version of her predecessor Ceyaxochitl, and the gods knew nothing had ever stopped Ceyaxochitl once she'd made up her mind – only death, snatching her from us unexpectedly and pointlessly. "Just be careful, will you? You can't go on doing this, and I don't want you to get hurt."

"I appreciate the thought, but really, I'm old enough to take care of myself."

"I'm just worried about you," I said.

Teomitl moved to stand by my side. "The court is no fit place for anyone currently."

Mihmatini's eyes rolled upwards. "Honestly. If I didn't know better, I'd have thought you had prepared beforehand." Someone sniggered: Yaotl, who never wasted an opportunity to mock Mexica. "Now, if you'll excuse me, I have to be elsewhere. I'm lodging a formal complaint with the She-Snake as well."

"I wish you wouldn't do that," I said. Ceyaxochitl had once told me that everyone had to grow up, but why did it have to happen so fast to those around me?

"Thank you for the honesty." Mihmatini grimaced. "Now, you're not going to make me change my mind, and you two look as though you'd better be elsewhere. I'd suggest we both get on with what we were doing."

And, before either of us could answer that, she was gone. Yaotl threw us an amused glance, and turned to follow his mistress out of the courts.

"Acatl-tzin…." I'd never seen Teomitl look so forlorn.

"She'll survive," I said, slowly. She had Yaotl to watch out for her, and probably the She-Snake. And surely she was right – surely, if Tizoc-tzin had wanted to act against her, he would have done it by now? "We'll deal with this later. We have to find the sick men first."

TEN

Contagion

The wing of the palace Acamapichtli had occupied had, indeed, been quite thoroughly dismantled – the white and blue cloaks of Tlaloc's clergy replaced by the familiar black garb of palace guards, and the courtyards filled with feather-clad noblemen instead of dark-faced priests. As I crossed into the courtyard that had been the centrepiece of Acamapichtli's power – albeit temporarily – I couldn't help but brace myself against protection spells, as if some kind of veil would still remain across the threshold.

But nothing happened; I crossed easily, as if nothing were there. We found the room where Acamapichtli had confined his sick men without much trouble: it was wide, swept clean of any furniture save three sleeping mats – and two of those mats were still occupied by groaning bodies. A slave was crouching by the second one – wiping the forehead with a wet cloth; he looked up as we entered, and then bent back to his task.

"They're still here," Teomitl said.

Both Coatl and the priest of Patecatl lay on the ground – their skins as pale as muddy water, their eyes sunken deep into the oval of their faces – and a familiar blue tinge around the lips, like the touch of a drowned man.

I knelt by Coatl, careful not to touch the body. My protection tingled and tightened – how effective was it, really? If this thing was passed on through contact…

Coatl was shivering, beads of sweat pearling at his temples; his gaze swung wildly from left to right, quite obviously not focusing on anything in the Fifth World. He lay curled on the sleeping mat, like a warrior around a mortal stomach wound, and his skin was black as if he'd been charred in a fire – except that it looked smooth, without any of the blisters I'd have expected. The eyes… the eye-whites were a deep red, against which the cornea obscenely stood out.

"Coatl?" I asked, though it was quite obvious he could no longer hear me – lying in the clutches of sickness, his mouth in the earth, his face in the mud, oblivious to anything save the voices of the gods. "Coatl."

A light played on my hands, turning them paler – a radiance as green as quetzal feathers seen through water, first quivering on the edge of being, and then growing stronger and stronger, until it had washed out every colour in the room, making even the painted frescoes on the wall seem of carved jade, gilding the faces of gods and warriors on the adobe until they, too, seemed alien and faraway. Teomitl knelt by my side, his hands outstretched over the body of the priest.

"Coatl," he called, and his voice was the thunder of storm-tossed waves, the slithering sounds of ahuizotl water-beasts moments before they fed on a corpse. "Honoured one, keeper of the red and black codices, holder of the wisdom – of the words as precious as wealth. Honoured one, travelling far in the wilderness, in the jungles – the time has come to wake up."

Coatl went rigid. "My Lord," he whispered, without opening his eyes.

"Wake up, honoured one." Teomitl's voice had the cadences of ritual – and its pitch was getting higher and higher – deeper, too, no longer the voice of anything human.

Coatl shuddered again. "I can't, my Lord!" Foam pearled up on his lips – his body arched, as if in the grip of a seizure, and then he fell back down again, hitting the mat with a thud.

Teomitl looked as though he was going to reach out and seize the body. "No," I said, laying a hand on his arm – a mistake, for the power within him struck as quickly as a coiled snake – pain travelled up my arm, and for a bare moment I had the feeling my skin was being flayed away, exposing muscles and bones that bent and snapped, sending my arm into spasms…

I jerked back, biting my lips not to scream. "Don't – touch – him," I managed through dry lips. "You–"

Teomitl's gaze moved towards me – held me, and for a moment I saw not him, but Jade Skirt – waiting for me with arms outstretched, to drag me down into the waters that had cleansed me at my birth… "Teomitl!"

"I'm the one you shouldn't touch, priest." His lips quirked into a smile – lazy and cruel, nothing human anymore – and then, as abruptly as She had appeared, the goddess was gone, and we were left in an empty room with an unconscious priest – unconscious, not dead, thank the Duality, for while I could see the shadow of Lord Death hovering over him, his spirit had not yet departed his body.

Teomitl looked at me questioningly.

"I did something foolish," I said, a little more abruptly than I'd intended to. Chalchuihtlicue, Jade Skirt, like most gods, always made me uneasy: pretty much the only god I could claim a modicum of common understanding with was my own god, Mictlantecuhtli – ruler of a place that welcomed everyone, patiently waiting for the corn to ripen and wither, the fruit to fall and rot.

"So did I." Teomit's face was harsh again. He looked down at Coatl. "I don't think he'll be awake for a while."

I didn't think he'd ever been in a state to hear us. On the positive side, though, he wasn't going to walk away and spread the sickness yet further.

My eyes caught on the third sleeping mat, and I froze, remembering what Acamapichtli had said. "There was a third man in confinement, wasn't there?"

"That's the first I hear of it," Teomitl said.

I shook my head. "A warrior, one of those who carried the body. Acamapichtli told me they'd found him, and that he was sick."

I didn't like that empty mat: it made me feel uncomfortable. It was one thing to have healthy warriors possibly passing on the sickness unawares, quite another to have a sick man get up and leave.

"But we don't know where he is," Teomitl said.

"No," I said. And we were obviously not going to find out from either Coatl or the priest of Patecatl. I decided on a more constructive approach: I walked out, yanking the entrance-curtain out of my way in a tinkle of bells, and asked the first guard of the SheSnake I met where the priests of Tlaloc had gone.

He looked at me, hard. "You're not one of them." It sounded halfway between an accusation and a question: he didn't quite know what to make of me.

"No," I said, bowing my head – letting him take in the regalia. "I'm High Priest for the Dead in Tenochtitlan."

"Tizoc-tzin said they were traitors," the guard said.

He– he had arrested the whole clergy of Tlaloc – as thoughtlessly as that? He– What could he be thinking of, cutting away everyone that sustained him?

He–

Focus, I needed to focus. Little good I would do, if I managed to get myself arrested yet another time. "They… might have information we need," I said, gaining in assurance as I spoke. For the good of the city." I felt soiled, even though it wasn't quite a lie.

The guard looked at me, dubiously. Fortunately, Teomitl chose this moment to join me, and the sight of the Master of the House of Darts – Tizoc-tzin's brother – standing by my side helped the guard decide. "Fine." He gave me a location, which was a set of courtyards reserved for the private usage of officials.

When we arrived there, we found the courtyard had been turned into a jail: wooden cages filled it from end to end. Through the bars, I caught glimpses of the men crouched within – whispering hymns in a low voice, beseeching their god to help them. The hubbub of their voices was almost deafening – there had to be more than a hundred priests in that courtyard. Magic flowed over us: the harsh, pitiless feel of Huitzilpochtli's magic, laid over the cages and the courtyard to prevent the priests from casting any spells.

At the other end, under the pillars, a couple of wooden cages had been set aside for the higher ranks: Tapalcayotl and two other priests sat – it wasn't easy to look dignified and haughty while sitting hunched under a low canopy, but Tapalcayotl managed it. I guessed Acamapichtli had been giving his second-in-command lessons in arrogance.

"Well?" he asked when I came closer. "I assume you're not here to tell me we're to be freed."

"Not exactly," I said.

Dealing with Acamapichtli was bad enough; I didn't have to bear with that kind of attitude from Tapalcayotl, as well. "You're not in much of a position to argue or make demands."

Tapalcayotl grimaced. "Fair enough," he said at last. "What do you want?"

"The third sick man – the warrior. Where did he go?"

"He went away?" one of the priests asked.

"Why? He wasn't fit to walk either?"

The priest shook his head. "He died."

A dead man?

"There was no corpse. Someone took it away." Not good; not good at all. Eptli's corpse had still been able to propagate the sickness; I didn't want to see another instance like that.

Tapalcayotl hadn't said anything for a while. He was staring at the rings on his hands as if they held some great truth, his face pinched and twisted. At length, not looking up, he said, "I think the other warrior took it."

"Which warrior?"

"He came several times to enquire about the health of Coatl and his companion," Tapalcayotl said. "We told him he couldn't have the corpse for funeral ceremonies, and he was angry. He said warriors took care of their own."

Where had I heard that? "Did you know him?"

"No. He wasn't a young man, more like the kind you'd expect to have married already – his thighs were covered in battle scars."

Which about described every warrior who had survived a few battles: their quilted cotton armour didn't protect their legs, and the obsidian edges of the macuahitl swords inflicted horrific wounds in the melee. "Anything else?" I asked, struggling to contain my impatience.

"He had another scar. Across his face. A sword must have sliced his right cheek open, and gone upwards to the temple." Tapalcayotl grimaced again. "My guess is that he was happy to be alive after that."

"Acatl-tzin," Teomitl said behind me.

I nodded; got up, as leisurely as I could. The scar was indeed distinctive, and I knew where I had seen it last.

The warrior Chipahua – Eptli's comrade, who had been so frustrated at being deprived of the captive.

We came out of the palace all but running. Teomitl had picked up two Jaguar warriors on the way – we'd run into them outside the aviary, and he'd used his authority as Master of the House of Darts to sweep them up. They didn't look aggrieved; rather, they held themselves with a particular sense of pride – an almost religious devotion, as if they were favoured of some god.

Teomitl's face had taken on the aspect of carved jade again; perhaps it was that, or perhaps his regalia, which was distinctive enough, but the crowd of the Sacred Precinct seemed to part from us, the priests and worshippers shrinking away as if burned by the light.

At the edge of the Sacred Precinct, Teomitl caught two boats with a mere wave of his fingers – two small crafts, poled by women taking their wares back from the marketplace.

"We could have taken a boat from my temple," I said as I climbed into one of the swaying crafts. The woman's gaze was stubbornly cast down – one did not look the Master of the House of Darkness in the eye.

Teomitl waved a dismissive hand. "Your temple is too far, Acatltzin. We would waste time."

The boat slipped into the crowded canals like a knife through the lungs, weaving its way between the coloured crafts carrying baskets of vegetables and cages filled with animals. The woman poled in silence, not looking at either of us – it occurred to me that I was just as impressive as Teomitl in my position of High Priest, holder of wisdom and knowledge; so far high above her I might as well have been sitting on the canopy of a ceiba tree.

"What are you going to do?"

"Warn them." Teomitl's voice was curt, deadly.

"It might already be too late." The sickness came fast – faster than it should have, but if it was supernatural, it was only to be expected.

Teomitl's lips tightened. "You're in a contrary mood."

I guessed I was; someone needed to temper Teomitl's blind enthusiasm. My place as a teacher demanded no less.

The boat passed under a wooden bridge, a hand's breath from a porter drawing water for a peasant. The houses thinned, growing larger and larger like trees unfolding from the ground – the adobe walls brightly painted, and the gardens on the rooftops spreading a smell of pine cones and dry wood, a sweetness that reminded me of home.

It docked in front of Chipahua's house: we crossed the small stretch of beaten earth of the street, determined to finish this sordid business.

Teomitl stopped short when he reached the courtyard. "Acatltzin."

"I know." There had been a slave, last time, and the sound of pestle against mortar as the women pounded maize into flour. Now there was no one.

No, not quite. There was something… trembling on the edge of existence – a smell, a tightness in the air – something all too familiar that sent a thrill to my bones, and set my heart hammering against the cage of its ribs.

"Death," I said, aloud.

One of the warriors drew his macuahitl sword – a thing of glittering edges, of cutting shards, reflecting the sunlight into a thousand fractured pieces. Magic quivered along its body: the warm, unwavering glow of the Southern Hummingbird's power in the Fifth World. "Stay back, Teomitl-tzin."

But Teomitl was already moving – faster than a snake uncoiling, rushing inwards. I followed him at a more leisurely pace – taking in everything as if in a daze.

The courtyard, bathed in golden sunlight; three still bodies under the pine tree – no, not quite still, for even as I watched one of them gave a last, heaving gasp, and I saw the ihiyotl soul gather itself from its seat in the liver, and unfold wings of blinding radiance, taking flight in an instant like a held breath, vanishing into the world of the gods.

The second courtyard, and the woman I'd seen earlier – Chipahua's wife – lying on her back, looking at me with unseeing eyes.

There was no blood. I might have understood it, if there had been blood – might have thought of sacrifices, of gods gathering back the power that belonged to Them. But everything smelled dry, as stretched as Mictlan the underworld.

The reception room: Teomitl was standing in front of the dais, looking down at a mat filled with food – the smell of cooked amaranth wafted up, terrifyingly incongruous – and the frescoes themselves seemed to have dimmed, their bright colours passing away.

Too late, I saw that it wasn't the colours that had vanished, but the shadows that had appeared, so many of them they covered the whole room, clinging to the pillars and the walls, packed tight against the faces of the gods. I caught a glimpse of screaming faces; of tangled limbs; of flaky skin, distorted by sores, and then they were unfolding like the wrath of a storm, and upon us before we could move.

For a moment – a bare, agonising moment – it seemed my protection would hold; bathed in the familiar stretched emptiness of Mictlan, I saw this as no more than part of the rhythm of the Fifth World – all sicknesses leading, ultimately, to the throne of Lord Death, the place that belonged to us all: stretched and dry and dark, sending us back into the embrace of Grandmother Earth.

And then, with a sound like bones caving in, the protection yielded. It left a faint, cold tingle on my skin – soon replaced by a blazing heat, and a sensation like a thousand bats beating wings around me; darkness rose and enfolded me in a crushing embrace, and I saw nothing but one screaming face after another; glistening limbs, wet with blood and with the white of bones poking out from wrinkled skins; over me, the bodies were all over me, feebly twitching; fingers scrabbling over my eyelids; limbs strewn across my chest, crushing the breath out of me; clammy lips pressed against my thighs and arms and hands, every touch seeming to rob me of more strength.

Everywhere – they were everywhere, in the Fifth World, in the world above, in the world below – there was no escape…

I was on my back, staring into the slack face of a woman, who pressed against me like a lover – her mouth open in a soundless scream, revealing teeth the colour of decayed corn. Her hands – or another's hands, I couldn't be sure – were clawing at my belly; there was a brief, fiery flesh of pain, and the slimy sensation of something wet against my skin, before the pain flared up again, destroying everything else. Distantly, I noted what it had to be, and what its loss meant, but the thought itself vanished in the welter of other ones – in the rancid smell of so many bodies pressed against mine.

Pain. Pain – was–

Pain was an offering. Pain was– I could hardly focus anymore through the growing haze; didn't know where Teomitl was anymore…

The gods took pain, which was the only sincere sacrifice. Prayers were nothing more than children's wishes, but pain and blood made them real – because it cost to give them, and because they were freely offered.

The gods–

There was a familiar litany in my mind: repeated so many times in the calmecac school, in calmer times, on a hill away from the city, where I'd stood with my bloodied worship-thorns, offering up the truest sacrifice for the sake of the Fifth World and of Mictlan.

I had no worship-thorns, and the stars were all gone – my sight blocked by mottled, bluish skin, by distorted limbs and glazed faces. But the hymn – the hymn always remained.

"We leave this earth

This world of jade and flowers

The quetzal feathers, the silver and the jade…"

My voice quavered and broke at the beginning, but soon the familiar words came back and with them some of my assurance. As I spoke, the pain seemed to recede, pushed back into a remote corner of my mind, to be dealt with later.

"Down, down into darkness we must go

Past the rushing waters, past the mountain of knives

We leave this earth…"

I was High Priest for the Dead; I had endured worse than this. I would… I would stand.

The bodies were still pressing against me, but now I saw that they flopped weakly, like fish on dry land, the motions of their limbs and fingers nothing more than reflexes, like the gestures of a man drunk on jimsonweed. I could feel their frantic heartbeat, echoing the mad beat within my own chest.

"The precious necklaces, the precious feathers

The songs and the flowers

The marigold and the cedar trees

We leave this earth…"

There was… light, after a fashion – a weak, pallid radiance that threw everything into stark contrast. The bodies and faces paled, and seemed to recede too, their features growing dimmer and dimmer until they became part of the quivering shadows on the walls.

The weight on my chest was gone; the whole episode feeling like the stuff of nightmares. I pulled myself upwards, slowly, limb by limb, wincing at the pain. My stomach wasn't bleeding, but I still felt as though I'd been mauled, and the fever wasn't gone – it had merely abated for a small moment, enough for me to regain a small part of my senses. But it would come backwhen the hymn stopped running in my mind, when I grew too weak to hold the sickness at bay.

I needed help.

In the darkened room, I caught sight of more bodies, spread around the remnants of a meal – none of them appeared to be moving.

"Teomitl?"

My student was lying a few paces away from the body of Chipahua, twitching and shivering and moaning.

"Teomitl!" I reached out and shook him – he had Jade Skirt's protection, he couldn't fall like this, not to something as foolish and as inconsequential… "Teomitl!"

But there was no answer, and his eyes, when they finally opened, were the filmy white of rotting corpses. He hung limp in my grip and didn't answer. I could – with some effort – have stretched out my priest senses, but I could guess that the magic of Jade Skirt had gone from him.

He couldn't die – he was Master of the House of Darts, heir-apparent to the Mexica Empire, agent of Chalchiuhtlicue in the Fifth World, commander of the army… He was…

At the back of my mind ran the litany – the same words, over and over: Lord Death's lands are vast and deep, and Grandmother Earth awaits; as She does for us all.

He couldn't die… but Tizoc-tzin had died, too, and come back only through a god-blessed miracle, a spell that couldn't be cast again in the Fifth World.

Somehow – somehow I hoisted Teomitl on my shoulders, and staggered out of the house, calling out for the Jaguar Knights, but whether fallen or fled, they wouldn't answer. I couldn't find the boats we'd arrived in, either. So instead, I turned my face away from the blinding light of the sun, and started to walk back to the Sacred Precinct.

Teomitl grew heavier as I walked, and the world shrank into a whirl of colours and sounds: vague faces, fading in and out of focus; a morass of feather headdresses, black-dyed cheeks, and the glint of gold caught in hair as black as night. My feet dragged in the dust and the sounds of the city seemed far away; the clacking noise of the women's loom no more than a distant irritation. The shadows came back, too, swooping over the canals like ahuizotl water-beasts – quivering, always on the edge of leaping.

"We leave this earth

This world of jade and flowers

The quetzal feathers, the silver and the jade…"

They were slowly rising – casting the adobe house into darkness, making the coloured clothes dull and insignificant. My world shrank to this: the burning light of the sun – echoed in the itching that seemed to have overwhelmed my skin – and the shadows, the same that had killed Eptli, which would engulf us all…

My hands shook; I held Teomitl tighter against my chest, afraid I'd let him fall into the dirt. I couldn't let go: I had to get him back to safety – he was my student… My whole body was afire, my stomach a mass of pain. If only I could pause, rest for a while, doubled up in a foetal position, until the pain went away…

The shadows shifted lazily over the canals and the bridges, the assembled throng of peasants in loincloths, the matrons holding baskets of tomatoes and squashes close to their chests. Like the wind, they ruffled the cloaks of war veterans, exposing old, whitish scars that took on the appearance of suppurating sores once more. I trudged on, dragging my feet in the earth. The sun beat on my back – and it seemed that the beat was echoed within me, at the junction of skin and muscle, an endless rhythm like thousands of hands hammering from inside, demanding to be let out.

Ahead, I caught glimpses of the Serpent Wall – the shadows congregated around the snakes atop the wall, in the quetzal-red jaws and green bodies, darkening the scales and the crown of feathers around their heads. Almost there…

Abruptly, Teomitl weighed nothing – no, it wasn't that, it wasn't that. Someone had taken him from me. I had to… had… to… "Teomitl! Acatl!" My sister's face swam out of the morass of shadows – a scant few moments before the fever rose again, and I knew nothing more but the nightmares.

ELEVEN

Bitter Medicines

My dreams were dark and numerous; in all of them I lay on my back, while something crushed my chest, and in every shadow I saw the faces of the sick, opening their mouths to scream. Sometimes I heard them, sometimes I did not – but they were always by my side, blindly scrabbling for the raging warmth of my body.

At some point, sleep claimed me, dark and exhausting, and the bodies faded, to be replaced by the sound of distant chanting, while I lay panting and burning, every breath searing the inside of my throat.

I woke up, and there was still chanting – as my mind cleared, I recognised the words of a hymn to Patecatl, god of medicine.

"Come, you the five souls

I expel from this place the green pain, the tawny pain

Come, you the nine winds,

I expel from this place the green pain, the tawny pain…"

They were spoken by a reedy, frightened man who stood some distance away from me, clearly afraid to touch me. He smelled of copal incense and a mixture of herbs I couldn't place, sharp and bitter. The fever had receded, leaving my mind as clear and as brittle as polished obsidian. I noted the pattern of snakes on the ceiling arcing above me, and the frescoes on the wall were of a huge tree to which clung babies, drinking the sap like mother's milk; the hymn washed over me, again and again like waves on the shore, like the embrace of Chalchiuhtlicue Jade Skirt at birth, washing away all the filth and the sins of the ancestors.

I lay quiet, unable to move.

Some time later, an entrance-curtain tinkled; the priest started. "He's awake, my Lady."

"I can see that," Mihmatini's voice said.

There was a silence; the priest's face stubbornly turned towards her, his gaze downcast. "My Lady?" he asked, finally. "You promised I could leave…"

Mihmatini snorted. "I did, didn't I? Very well, you may go."

He was scurrying out toward the exit before she'd even finished her sentence.

"Acatl?" Mihmatini asked. "How are you feeling?" She knelt by the side of the bed – I'd expected sarcasm, or some biting remark about my tendency to get into scrapes, but there was none of that; merely thin lines at the corners of her red-rimmed eyes.

Then I remembered. "Teomitl. Where–?"

"Ssh." Mihmatini laid a hand on my forehead. She grimaced. "What I need to know now is how you are."

"I've felt better," I said, carefully. My tongue scraped against my palate, as abrading as coarse sand, and there was a distant ache in my stomach, like a beast laying low, waiting for the best moment to pounce again. "You haven't told me about Teomitl."

"I need you to rest," Mihmatini said. "Whatever protection you had blocked part of the sickness, but you're not invulnerable, Acatl."

Neither was Teomitl. I watched her – clad in the blue cloak of a Guardian, with feathers hanging down the nape of her neck and black paint, applied to her cheeks and forehead with a trembling hand, leaving large swathes of skin uncovered. And, on the ground beneath her feet, was a thread of yellow light – going straight through the wall, its radiance contracting and expanding with every one of her breaths, like a heartbeat. "It's bad, isn't it?"

She wouldn't look at me, as if I'd somehow turned into her superior. "Whatever it is, it's affected him worse than you. It's as if he had a special affinity with the sickness."

Then why hadn't it struck before? But, of course, he had always

been quite far away from the corpses; he had given the first one only a cursory examination, and while he'd stayed in the room of the second one he hadn't cast spells or even strayed close to the body. Then again… for all I knew, he could have been affected already, and not said a word to me about whatever trivial symptoms he might have felt.

Southern Hummingbird blind the man and his pride.

"I need to see him," I said, pulling myself upright. Or rather, trying to. None of my limbs seemed to work properly; it was all I could do to fall back in a vaguely graceful manner.

"You're staying on the sleeping mat," Mihmatini said, in a voice I recognised all too well – reserved for disobedient children, or recalcitrant priests. "You're quite obviously in no state to walk, Acatl, and I will not have you push yourself past your endurance."

"It wouldn't be the first time," I said, knowing what her answer would be.

"You know, that doesn't strike me as something to be particularly proud of," Mihmatini said. "Stay here."

"And what? Wait? He's my student as much as he's your husband. If anything happens…" I wouldn't forgive myself.

"Then what?" Mihmatini's voice was low and terrible, that of a judge about to pass sentence. "You're a priest of Mictlantecuhtli, Acatl. You don't do healing spells."

"No," I said. I pulled myself upwards again, more carefully this time, letting the full weight of my body rest on the wall. "But I know about illnesses."

Mostly as causes of death, granted. But still… still, the priests of Patecatl were quite obviously useless. For something like this – a deliberately cast disease – we needed to fight the sorcerer who had cast it: a man or a woman we still knew nothing about.

Either that, or… "He's Chalchiuhtlicue's agent," I said.

Mihmatini rolled her eyes upwards. "I've already thought of it. We tried healing or cleansing spells that called on Her power."

"And?" I said.

"They're not working. But then nothing else has."

I shook my head. "It's not spells you'd need, but Her personal attention."

Mihmatini grimaced. "Going into Her own land? We tried that, as well."

"You have?" It was bad, then; for going into Tlalocan, the land of the Blessed Drowned, was far from simple or safe. By going into a god's world, one agreed to be bound by its rules and caprices – to face monsters and magic, and desires that predated the Fifth Age.

Mihmatini's face was pale. "The way was closed. Perhaps She thought us beneath Her notice."

"You'd be beneath Her notice, but Teomitl wouldn't." She had schemes for him – whatever they were. She'd picked him up, chosen to wield Her powers in the Fifth World. She wouldn't have done that without a reason… and I had a feeling the days were fast approaching when we would come to know it. "Unless something has gone wrong." Acamapichtli – abruptly, I remembered the trial. "Acamapichtli's arrest. That's what's gone wrong." And Tapalcayotl in his cage; and probably the whole clergy, all over the city – the Consort, High Priestess of Chalchiuhtlicue, and her own clergy… "The arrest of her husband's clergy must give Her enough to be busy."

Mimahtini shook her head. "I know it's serious, Acatl, but that's not what we're focusing on right now."

No. She was right. One couldn't grasp four hundred stalks of corn at the same time. We needed to shape our minds to a single purpose, or Teomitl would be gone just the way of Eptli.

I thought again of the corpse – small and forlorn and abandoned, and my stomach lurched within me at the thought of Teomitl's being there, in Eptli's place.

"You don't know healing spells either?" I asked Mihmatini.

"I've thought of something, but it cannot possibly work as it is. Come and see."

She found a cane for me, which looked suspiciously like her predecessor Ceyaxochitl's cane. I used it to prop myself upwards – and half-carried by Mihmatini, half-pushing myself on the cane – I made my way out of the room. Ironic, really – Ceyaxochitl herself had been the fittest old woman I'd known, using the cane mostly for show in order to enjoy the respect and pity accorded to the frail elderly. She'd never been one much for frailty, and she would probably have scolded me for being such a weakling.

Gods, what I wouldn't have given to have her back – overbearing and patronising as she'd always been. The cane was warm under my fingers, but she was gone, down into Mictlan, never to return, her wisdom and knowledge going the way of dust blown by the wind.

The entrance-curtain opened into the main courtyard of the Duality House: like most temples, it had a rectangular layout, with a pyramid shrine in the centre, and various rooms and compounds opening into the main courtyard, their entrance-curtains shaded by a pillared portico.

Yaotl was waiting for us at the entrance, sitting on his haunches in a position of attention. He unfolded himself when Mihmatini came out; she acknowledged him with a curt nod. For me, he had nothing but his usual, mildly sardonic glance – not that I had expected more than that.

"Anything?" Mihmatini asked.

Yaotl shook his head. "No change." He handed his mistress a folded piece of paper. Mihmatini took it, but didn't open it.

"Come," she said, and all but dragged me to another room, the entrance-curtain of which was marked only by a few glyphs.

Inside, an antechamber led into a deeper, more shadowed room – Mihmatini's quarters, in as much disorder as usual. The wicker chests bulged with clothes: colourful headdresses and skirts spilled out from under their lids, and a feather-fan I'd last seen in Neutemoc's house rested on top of one of them. The two sleepingmats had been unrolled: one was empty; the second one held Teomitl.

He was so pale – his skin so leeched of colours it seemed like pallid gold. His eyes were sunk deep into his face; his hair, curled and plastered with sweat, clung to his scalp in clumps, and he tossed and moaned. I dragged myself closer, and painstakingly crouched down – not so much a deliberate gesture as a gradual sagging of my body, stopped at regular intervals by my grip on the cane – slow and messy.

Teomitl did not move, or give any sign that he had registered my presence; after a while, I realised that he wasn't moaning, but talking under his breath, so fast I could barely follow – delirious snatches of sentences mentioning anything from Jade Skirt's touch to beasts of shadows. I touched the mat; it was already soaked. "You said you had something."

A flutter of clothes, and then Mihmatini was crouching by my side – the thread between her and Teomitl reduced to an arm's length, bright and vivid, like blood in an open wound. Her face was calm, expressionless – like obsidian in the instant before it shattered. "I haven't been idle. We've cast spells of protection in the Duality's name, and we have also been looking into possible causes for the sickness. It's one – or more – of four things. He's carrying something within him, which was put there by a sorcerer. I don't think it's the case: insofar as I can tell, none of the dead men touched anything?"

I thought, uneasily, of Eptli. "It might have started that way, but I don't think it's using a physical vector anymore."

"Hmm." Mihmatini unfolded the piece of maguey paper Yaotl had given her: it was a transcription from a divinatory priest's calendar, listing horoscopes and fates for a particular birth – a beautiful piece, with coloured glyphs swirling around the images of the protector gods.

"His?" I guessed. A man's birth influenced many things, not least of which the healing rituals which would be effective.

"It was hard to find," Mihmatini said. "Fortunately, Yaotl is frighteningly efficient at what he does."

I wasn't surprised. It wasn't only healing rituals that depended on the birth-signs, but also vulnerabilities – naturally, someone as paranoid as Tizoc-tzin would not want his war-council to be on display for any sorcerer to tackle.

"Ten Rabbit. He could have a nahual totem; but he's never been strong enough to materialise one. And none of the other affected men had nahuals – Eptli was born on a Five Knife, his prisoner was a Two House insofar as we could check, and Coatl is quite definitely a Ten Rain. So it can't be that, either."

The words came fast, one atop the other – almost without pause. "Mihmatini. Slow down. It's not going to change anything."

"You don't know that," she said, angrily, but she didn't protest further.

"What about the tonalli?" I asked. The spirit in the head, the vital force that sustained us – many spells cast by sorcerers were "frights", which caused the tonalli to vanish like a burst bubble, and the victim to enter a slow decline towards death.

"It's weak," Mihmatini said. "But that could just be because the body is weak. Which leaves the last explanation." Her finger rested on the paper, near the head of Tlaloc the Storm Lord. "It's some kind of influence."

I thought of the shadows – this far into the Duality House, under the influence of so many protection spells, they had all but gone – but they had been real enough. "Given what I've seen of the sickness, I think it's some kind of influence. But I don't think the influence would hold here."

"If he has it within his body, he's sheltering it from our wards," Mihmatini said. "That was my idea: to make him expel it." She stopped; looking at me – for guidance, I saw with a start.

"You're old enough not to need me anymore," I said, though I was secretly pleased to see she still looked up to me.

She rolled her eyes upwards. "Of course I do need you. I can dispel the influence once it's out of his body, but I can't draw it out."

"You need a physician."

"No, I don't. I can't say I've been impressed by the performance of the priests of Patecatl so far," Mihmatini said. "I need someone more competent than that."

You, her gaze seemed to say. "I can't," I said, the words burning in my throat. "I'm no healer. I serve Lord Death – I can sever the soul from the body or call it back, but nothing finer than that. If I cast a spell, it will expel his own life-force from his chest."

She fell silent – Southern Hummingbird blind me, I should have been able to give her another answer. I took the folded paper from her, and stared at it. Teomitl had been born on the day Ten Rabbit in the week One Rain. This put him under the tutelage of Tlaloc the Storm Lord – and given what was happening all over Tenochtitlan, we couldn't possibly hope to call on Him.

Unless…

"Quetzalcoatl," I said aloud, my hand trailing on His image – the Feathered Serpent, Lord of Wisdom and Knowledge.

"I don't see…"

"It was His blood that brought humanity back to life, in the beginning of the Fifth Age. His breath that runs through us." Quetzalcoatl-Ehecatl, the breath of all creation, the wind that no walls, no mountains would ever stop for long.

"It might work," Mihmatini said. "But I'm not sure the priests of Quetzalcoatl have escaped the widespread arrests."

I folded the paper, carefully – back into the shape Yaotl had given it at the start. The arrests – yes, we would need to talk about those, to see if anything could be done…

Focus. One thing at a time. Save Teomitl first – if we could. Tlaloc's Lightning strike me, we had to succeed – I wouldn't lose him as I'd lost Ceyaxochitl. I couldn't.

"It needn't be a priest of Quetzalcoatl," I said, slowly. "I've got just the right person in mind."

I wrote a message with shaking hands – the glyphs drawn askew, the red and black ink running, staining my fingers. A disgrace, my teachers would have said; but we were long past that. Yaotl carried it to the palace, while Mihmatini dispatched other messengers – slaves and priests both – to Chipahua's house, in order to collect the bodies.

The Duality House, as usual, seemed to have become our bulwark against the storm, and my sister was at the heart of it, managing everything with the proficiency of someone born to it.

Ceyaxochitl had once told me she was gifted; and I could still remember my answer. Gifted, yes – more than you or I – but not, I think, destined for Guardianhood or for the priesthood.

I'd forgotten how often Tezcatlipoca the Smoking Mirror delighted in twisting fate – sending us down unswept paths, into unexplored wildernesses.

Mihmatini remained in the room, but at length a priest came to her with an urgent question, and with a last, agonised glance at Teomitl, she had to step out.

While I waited for her to come back, I held Teomitl's hand; it was the least I could do. The priest of Patecatl would have frowned, and raised up the spectre of contagion, but what did it matter?

From where I crouched, the sounds of the House – the conchshells, the hymns and the chants, the wet sound of bloodied grass balls slapped onto altar-stones – all receded away, and I was left alone with Teomitl. He had been moaning and muttering beforehand; I'd assumed it was nonsense, but as time went by, I caught words, a few at first, and then, as moments trickled by like drops of water, I picked up more – bright beads amongst threads – and the pattern itself, coalescing out of darkness, an endless litany of delirious failures.

"Fool, fool, fool, what did you think? Going in as if you were invulnerable – of course you never were, of course you never will be. She'll watch you from the World Below, she always does, what do you think you can prove?"

He could only be referring to his mother, who had died after a long struggle to bear him into the world – leaving him forever unable to prove himself as brave as she had been. "Teomitl," I said. "She'd be proud of you."

But he couldn't hear me – he just went on repeating the same things over and over, the same delirium.

A tinkle of bells announced the entrance of Mihmatini, accompanied by Nezahual-tzin – in regalia at least as fine as the one Teomitl had worn, from the red feather-suit to the finely wrought helmet in the shape of a coyote's head.

"I received your message," Nezahual-tzin said. "Most interesting. It was, ah, lacking a certain amount of flourish, shall we say?"

Mihmatini, I couldn't help but notice, was already glowering at him. What had he said to her, in the few moments in which they had walked through the House?

"You'll have to excuse me. My health isn't what it was at the moment."

Nezahual-tzin nodded, gravely. "Nevertheless… there was a most interesting pattern in your glyphs."

"We're not talking about interesting," she snapped. "We want your help. Are you going to give it, or stand here making cryptic pronouncements?"

Nezahual-tzin removed his feather headdress with slow, deliberate gestures before laying it to the ground. Then he unclasped his blue-green cloak and let it fall onto the floor. He had us all staring at him – and he no doubt knew it.

"Your brother will no doubt tell you that making cryptic pronouncements is a pastime of mine." Nezahual-tzin's voice was slow and stately, as if making a formal speech – every word delivered with the proper stresses, in the accent of Texcoco, the purest dialect of Nahuatl in the whole Anahuac Valley. He moved in a fluid, easy gesture, and before I knew it he was crouching by my side, watching Teomitl.

He smelled of herbs, the same bitter smell as the physician – had he just come from the sweatbaths? He liked going there to restore his strength and increase his power tenfold.

"The tonalli life-force is weak, but the teyolia soul is still in the body."

"We already knew that," Mihmatini pointed out.

I intervened before the conversation degenerated further. "He has something within his body, and we need you to draw it out."

"And then?" Nezahual-tzin raised an eyebrow.

Mihmatini crouched on the other side of Teomitl's body – straight ahead of Nezahual-tzin. She brought her hands together and twisted them together, as if wringing a rabbit's neck. "Then I'll destroy it. But I can't do anything so long as he protects it with his flesh and with his blood."

Nezahual-tzin nodded. He was still watching Teomitl – listening to the delirium as if he could find some sense within. I wondered how he felt – those two had never liked each other, Nezahual-tzin's detached, almost sarcastic attitude and focus on philosophy and knowledge at utter odds with Teomitl's desire to live in the present and prove his valour on the battlefield.

"So?" I asked. "Can you do something?"

"I can always do something," Nezahual-tzin said. "What's the thing inside him?"

"We're not sure," Mihmatini said – her voice making it all too clear she was losing patience.

Nezahual flashed her his most dazzling smile – a pity it would never work on her. "We'll have to improvise, then. Can you bring me butterflies?"

• • • •

Mihmatini sent to the Wind Tower, the temple of Quetzalcoatl, for what Nezahual-tzin needed. While the priests of the Duality were gathering cages and drawing blood-patterns on the floor, I retreated towards the entrance-curtain. My presence here, as representative of Mictlantecuhtli Lord Death, was likely to do more harm than good.

Outside, the Fifth Sun beat down on the cracked earth – as if nothing were wrong, as if Teomitl's life didn't hang in the balance by a thread. I struggled to find peace or acceptance; it had been easier the year before, when my own life had been in danger, but this… this was different. He was my student, my brother by alliance, and my responsibility through and through – and yet I had failed him on every level.

Whoever was propagating this illness, they would pay – they would face the curved obsidian blade of justice, and be pierced by darts, and choked by mud until they had paid full price for their office.

From within came chanting – Nezahual's grave voice, measured and pure, intoning a hymn, as if each word were a flower slowly blooming.

"Down into the darkness You go

In the place where the bones are broken

When the flutes and the drums are silent…"

There was a sound like a flag unfurling: thousands of beating wings, sending the entrance-curtain billowing in the damp breeze – and the butterflies flew out of the room, a widening stream of iridescent colours missing me by a hair's breadth, like a continuation of the cotton cloth, their touch on my skin soft and delicate, a reminder of the god who was always there, watching over us, as He had ever done since the moment He'd brought humanity's bones back from the underworld.

"I pierce myself, I make myself bleed, aya!

Burn down the paper stained with my blood

Return the gift that was given

I pierce him, I make him bleed, aya!

Burn down the paper stained with his blood

Wash away the touch of the evil one

The breath of the sorcerer…"

I heard another sound – a moan that started low, and grew – only to break into a dry, shuddering cough. Mihmatini cried out; I clenched my fingers, my nails digging into the palms of my hands. If I went inside, I would be of no use. I had to remember that – had to–

A duller sound – something large and wet hitting the ground, and Mihmatini's voice, raised in anger.

Then silence. The last of the butterflies lingered in the courtyard, its wings catching the light of the Fifth Sun and breaking it down into four hundred breathtaking colours. I did not move – not even when the entrance-curtain was lifted, and Mihmatini walked into the courtyard, carrying a crushed black thing which looked for all the world like the remnants of a caterpillar.

"This is it? Should you be touching it?" I asked.

"It's nothing," Mihmatini said. Her face was glowing – her cheekbones lit from within with a light like that of the moon, save stronger. Instead of washing away her features, it seemed to make everything sharper, better defined, underlying her gesture with a solemnity that made her seem far, far older than her twenty years. "It's the sorcerer's influence, given body and pulled out of him. By itself, it has no power."

Nezahual-tzin's face was pale. "But it's not the whole of the influence. There is something else inside him, but I can't get it out. You should have asked someone else."

"We asked you." Mihmatini's voice was low and intense. "Acatl trusted you."

"I haven't said I was giving up." Nezahual-tzin's face was set in a determined, most uncharacteristic grimace. "In the meantime… this is for you, Acatl. No doubt you'll find it entertaining." His voice was mocking again.

"Come," he said to Mihmatini – for a moment, he looked as though he was going to offer her his arm, like a man to his wife, but in the face of Mihmatini's glower, he opted instead for a simple, nonchalant wave of his hand.

I knelt, and peered at the black thing. It stank – not the rank, deep smell of the altar of sacrifices, but something closer to a bloated corpse left in the sun for too long. It looked like a lizard – save that it seemed to have little to no tail.

I'd expected magic, but when I extended my priest-senses towards it, I felt – almost nothing. A faint, residual beat perhaps, but one that would take true sight to be prised apart. It looked like–

Southern Hummingbird strike me, I'd seen this before – not the blackness or the stench, but this vague curled-up shape, almost small and pathetic.

A symbol, that was what it was. It wouldn't give sickness: it was just the shadows which had been given a physical body, a physical reality Mihmatini and Nezahual could expel from Teomitl's body.

Carefully, using the tip of one of my obsidian blades, I prised the thing apart – it had vestigial limbs, which I carefully disengaged from the body, and what I'd taken to be a tail were in fact two legs, all but fused together by the violence of Mihmatini's spell. I had seen this before – where had I–?

A human child.

True, the head was wrong – flat rather than round, and slightly too small – but the rest – the rest was unmistakable: the small limbs just starting to branch into fingers and toes, the sharp edge of the spine with its vertebra. I hadn't attended many vigils for premature children, but several times, I had had cause to examine a woman who had died in childbirth with the child still in her womb – praying all the while that her spirit was at rest, that she wouldn't see the indignity of knives tearing her open from the Heavens where she now dwelled.

That made no sense – carefully, I lifted the thing again, but saw only the same resemblance.

And then I remembered, with a chill – that Xochiquetzal, the goddess who watched over the courtesan Xiloxoch, was not only Goddess of Lust and Desire, but also watched over childbirth.

TWELVE

Recovery

I must have remained there for an eternity, staring at the thing – and not knowing what to do.

Xochiquetzal's magic. And Tlaloc's influence. I had been right: it looked like the plague came from those two – seeking to damage the Fifth World once again. And Xiloxoch had been the self-confessed worshipper of the goddess – doing Her will in Tenochtitlan in Her absence. But still…

Still, all this for revenge?

Xochiquetzal would not remember the Mexica, or Tizoc-tzin, kindly. Neither would She blink at slaughtering dozens to make Her point.

Before rushing out to the temple of Xochiquetzal, I needed – confirmation. Some evidence that the thing had indeed been the result of a spell which called on Xochiquetzal. I needed to cast a spell of true sight, and look for magical traces.

A shadow fell over me – the priests of the Duality? Perhaps even the people we'd sent to Chipahua's house, with more information on what had happened?

The shadow did belong to one of the priests; what I had not expected was that they wouldn't be alone: leaning on their shoulders were two Jaguar warriors – the same ones that Teomitl had so peremptorily recruited on the way out of the palace.

"What happened?" I asked the priests.

They had little to report. The bodies of Chipahua and his household had been taken to a remote spot on the edge of Tenochtitlan, past the Floating Gardens, where Ichtaca and the other priests of my order could conduct more thorough examinations – hopefully with a reduced risk of contagion.

The Jaguar warriors looked pale, and probably felt as bad I did; but appeared unharmed otherwise. I wondered about the sickness – it didn't seem to take time to show symptoms, but its progress seemed… erratic, to say the least? It didn't look natural at all.

"I need you to do one thing," I said.

They looked at each other – with an eagerness I found troubling. "When you go back to the palace, can you arrange for the other bodies – Eptli and his prisoner – to be taken with the others? My order will need to examine this."

"Of course, my Lord."

The entrance-curtain tinkled again: Nezahual-tzin, his face set in a careful mask. He looked angry, or contemptuous, I wasn't sure. "Acatl," he said. "You have to see this."

The first thing I saw when I entered was Teomitl. He was awake, sitting propped against the wall, pale and wan, his eyes dark wells in the beige oval of his face, his hands clenched within his lap in a way that was anything but natural – it was obvious that if he released them, they would start shaking. Mihmatini was by his side, crushing his hand in hers – her face a mixture of elation and relief. The luminous thread between them was all but gone now, faded enough to become part of the beaten earth.

"You're awake," I said.

Teomitl's face twisted; it would have been a carefree smile, if it hadn't suddenly seemed so old. A white light played on his cheeks and forehead – the same one that had been on Mihmatini's face, save that on him, it made his skin recede, until I could see the arch of his cheekbones, the empty holes of his eye-sockets.

Like Tizoc-tzin – but I caught and crushed the thought before it could wound. "As you can see." His voice was toneless.

"So it worked, then," I said.

"It didn't." Nezahual-tzin was standing away from all of us – leaning against the wall near the entrance, his head level with a fresco of a snake emerging from a man's open mouth. His arms were crossed, in that familiar nonchalant attitude which belied the seriousness of his words.

"You're obviously better at healing than you think," Teomitl said. His voice shook, but the sarcasm was unmistakable.

"I know my weaknesses. There was something left within you, something the spell couldn't catch."

"And yet here I am."

"Teomitl," Mihmatini said. "You're not in any state to make coherent contributions to the conversation."

"I almost died," Teomitl said. He'd obviously meant it as a joke, but his voice caught on the words. "I won't put off things any more. Time is playing against us, isn't it, Acatl-tzin?" His shadowed eyes, roaming, caught Nezahual-tzin – and then moved on to the two Jaguar Knights, who had followed us inside but said nothing so far.

There was a moment of silence. One of the warriors started to bow, but Teomitl shook his head imperiously. "This isn't the time or the place. I apologise for dragging you into this."

"It is we who should apologise, my Lord," the eldest warrior said. "We ran away when we saw the shadows over the house. You could have died."

Teomitl's face had hardened, in a curious mixture of anger and vulnerability. "Yes, I could have died. Ran out of time, like anyone else in the Fifth World." He shook his head. "I have greater things to do, before I die. Your apology is accepted – as long as you don't run away again."

"You know we won't, my Lord," the eldest warrior said.

Teomitl nodded; I hadn't expected him to be embarrassed, as I would have been had any of my priests said this to me, but I couldn't read his expression – was it anger, contempt? Perhaps merely anger at himself, for catching the sickness in the first place – it wouldn't have surprised me from a man who always strove to reach the Fifth Sun.

"What next?" Unsurprisingly, they all looked at me. But there were so many things, so much that wasn't right. With an effort, I quelled the panic, and forced my thoughts into some kind of order. "Chipahua is dead," I said. "I don't know why, but I intend to find out." That could be taken care of by my clergy. I spread out my hands, counting out matters one after the other. "Acamapichtli is under arrest." And we needed him – we needed my clergy for death, the Duality for protection, and the clergy of Tlaloc, for the epidemic itself.

I lifted the black thing Mihmatini had carried. Teomitl looked at it with curiosity. "What is it?"

"The spell that almost killed you." Mihmatini's voice was low, almost spent.

Teomitl shook his head. "I've never seen it before."

A frown had started spreading on Mihmatini's face; she looked from the thing in my hand to Teomitl – and then back to me. "Acatl–"

"Yes," I said. "It looks like a human child, except smaller."

"I don't see–"

Nezahual-tzin detached himself from the wall, the muscles in his chest rippling as he moved. I could see why he'd have no trouble finding women to marry or bed – he'd have found them even with out being Revered Speaker of Texcoco. "Xochiquetzal," he said. "Goddess of childbirth."

"You said Xiloxoch worshipped her."

Teomitl's face hardened. "Let's arrest her."

"It's scant proof," I said.

"Don't be foolish." His voice was harsher than anything I'd ever heard. "We have someone killing off the warriors and the priests of the Mexica Empire. If Xiloxoch isn't involved, I'm ready to apologise to her, and pay her whatever she might want as compensation. But in the meantime, I'm not taking any risks." He made an imperious gesture with his fingers, motioning the Jaguar Knights closer.

While Teomitl was giving instructions to the two warriors, I sidled closer to Nezahual-tzin. "You said you weren't responsible for his recovery."

"I am not."

"Then–"

Nezahual-tzin nodded. His eyes were still on Teomitl. "I don't believe in miracles. If he's cured, someone must have helped."

"Chalchuihtlicue?" I asked.

"Your sister said that she'd tried summoning Her earlier, and that it had been in vain."

"But who–?"

"I don't know," Nezahual-tzin said, grudgingly. He had never liked admitting ignorance. "But I will find out." He looked at Teomitl – who seemed in the middle of an animated conversation with the warriors, with the occasional interjection from Mihmatini. "Can I speak to you outside?"

I felt, suddenly, like a conspirator. "Surely anything you have to say to me–"

"I'm afraid not. It's outside, or not at all."

I sighed, casting another glance at Teomitl. I guessed it had to do with my student – whom Nezahual-tzin had little liking for.

We walked out of the room, and back into the courtyard. The air was thick with the smell and smoke of copal incense; the altar atop the pyramid shrine covered in a mound of maize cakes. Priests with black-streaked faces were sweeping the courtyard with rush brooms, keeping it clean so the Duality would always been welcome.

"What do you want?" I asked.

Nezahual-tzin smiled. "Don't be so hostile. You know I'm working in your best interest."

"Until you decide you no longer need us." He had done it often enough, after all – last year, when I'd had a death sentence hanging over my head, he'd all but sold me back to Tizoc-tzin.

He shrugged. His eyes rolled up in their sockets, revealing the milky white of faraway stars. "You heard Teomitl. Someone is acting against the Empire."

"And?"

"You think a mere courtesan would want this?"

"Why not?" I asked. "You forget. Her goddess has enough of a grudge against the Mexica Empire."

Nezahual-tzin shook his head. "There's something wrong with this."

There was, perhaps – I still needed to examine the black creature, and see if I could identify the traces of magic left on it. And I hated to have to arrest an innocent woman. But Teomitl had a point: the risk was great, and the time for hesitation had passed. "We're the ones investigating this, and as of this moment we don't have any other leads. If you want to investigate, please do."

I'd intended to make clear to him that barging in with his criticism wasn't appreciated, but he took me seriously. Or, knowing him, perhaps he understood and didn't care. "There was a merchant involved, I understood."

I didn't bother to ask how he knew. It was either the blessing of Quetzalcoatl the Feathered Serpent, or his preternaturally excellent network of spies. "Yayauhqui."

"Yes, Yayauhqui. You didn't ask the right questions."

"What right questions?"

"I'm told your Fire Priest was wondering what deity Yayauhqui worshipped as a youth."

"I thought there might be something there." Even if there hadn't been.

"Perhaps," Nezahual-tzin said. "But that's not what matters. What matters is Yayauhqui himself."

"I don't see–"

"He was a member of the Imperial Family. A small and insignificant one: I doubt Moquihuix-tzin ever paid much attention to him. He was never a man to pay much attention to the small fish anyway."

"A member of–"

"You see why it's important," Nezahual-tzin said soberly.

"It could still be something else."

He shook his head. "You don't understand, Acatl-tzin. Tlatelolco will not forget. They'll never forget."

I looked at him curiously. Why such animosity? He had been barely a child at the time of the war that had cost our sister city their independence. "What makes you say that?"

"You have been to Tlatelolco."

"Only the marketplace," I said.

"You'll have missed the most important thing," Nezahual-tzin said. "Their Great Temple."

"What of it?"

"It's a ruin," Nezahual-tzin said. He sounded sad, or angry – I couldn't tell. "The limestone has cracked and dimmed; the frescoes have all but vanished. Not a human hand has touched it for eight years; not a single sacrifice has been offered there. To the gods, it might as well be dead."

"Why?" I asked, and thought of the answer before Nezahual-tzin could speak. "Tlatelolco worships within Tenochitlan's Sacred Precinct. Tlatelolcans shouldn't be allowed to repair something that has no use." The Great Temple: the focal point of worship, the pride of one's city – the beating heart, the entrails.

"And they pay tribute every eighty days; send men to keep the temple of Huitznahuac in good repair, and feathered costumes every year. That, on top of the exactions the Tenochca warriors committed within the city on the day of the battle."

"You weren't there," I said.

"My father was," Nezahual-tzin said. His eyes were brown again, but with a particular, distant glaze, as if he could actually see into the past. Knowing him, it might well be the case. "But for him, Moquihuix-tzin might well have succeeded in his bid to overthrow the Tenochca domination."

"I still don't see–"

"You don't know how the war started."

"Over his wife," I said, slowly. Teomitl's sister, the one Revered Speaker Moquihuix-tzin had neglected.

"No," Nezahual-tzin said. "It started because, when Moquihuixtzin's wife found refuge in Tenochtitlan after one too many nights of neglect, she brought word of a plot – an alliance between Tlatelolco and Culhuacan – both cities would regroup their armies, storm Tenochtitlan and send every man and woman of Tenochca blood soaring into the Heavens."

"That's–"

"Not something the Triple Alliance boasts of." Nezahual-tzin shrugged. "You can see how ill-informed it makes us seem. That it should take a woman to bring us word of what was right under our eyes."

I couldn't help it. "You don't like women, do you?"

"On the contrary," Nezahual-tzin said. "I think most people underestimate them, often unfortunately. Your sister, for instance, is worth perhaps more than all three High Priests combined, but there'll be few members of the clergy crowding to offer her any kind of official position. But never mind, that's not the point."

"I wish you would get to it," I said between clenched teeth.

Again, that graceful shrug, that mocking smile, and – hovering behind him in the afternoon light – the shadowy form of an emerald-green serpent, with a mane of black and red feathers, and eyes that glowed like pale stars. "Merely that Tlatelolcans plot. They've always been good at it, and they can hide their resentment for years if need be – waiting for the best moment to strike."

"You're generalising from one example," I said.

"Perhaps," Nezahual-tzin said. "But the evidence against your merchant Yayauhqui is exactly as slender as that against Xiloxoch."

"Then what do you want? That we should arrest him as well?" And spark off another war between Tlatelolco and Tenochtitlan?

"I want you to consider this, and to remember my warning. There are men you shouldn't cross, Acatl. Beware of Tlatelolcans, especially if they seem helpful."

He'd unnerved me more than he knew; or perhaps exactly as much as he'd intended to. "I'll keep it in mind."

"Good. Oh, and another thing," Nezahual-tzin said. "You'll want to keep an eye on your student – for his sake and yours."

"Why?" I said, feeling lectured enough for a lifetime. "You've in terfered quite enough in my affairs."

"Ah, but you didn't see."

"See what?"

"The warriors." Nezahual-tzin's voice was slow and gentle, like a mother pointing out a child's failures.

"What about them?"

He shook his head, almost sadly. "One of them started to remove his sandals. He only stopped because his companion gave him a warning glance."

"He started to remove–" I took in a deep, shaking breath. Only in the presence of the Revered Speaker, or of his representative, did one put aside one's sandals. "The army isn't satisfied with Tizoctzin. It's only normal they'd want to find someone else to worship – that's hardly his fault." Even to me, the words rang as hollow as rotten wood.

"Ah, but he didn't try very hard to stop them, either."

I remembered what Teomitl had said, when they'd both tried to bow down to him. Now is neither the time nor the place.

Now, no. But later, perhaps – once Tizoc-tzin was overthrown, and Teomitl himself crowned Revered Speaker?

When I came back, I found Teomitl still sitting on his reed-matand Mihmatini gathering up Nezahual-tzin's feather headdress and cloak. "Feeling better?" I asked.

Teomitl grimaced. "Not really. And you, Acatl-tzin?"

Every muscle in my body felt stretched and pounded, like maize in the mortar, and without the cane, I wouldn't have been able to stand up. "I've been better." I didn't say anything about Nezahual-tzin's warning; I wasn't sure why. A desire not to worry him – or perhaps a sign that I believed Nezahual-tzin far more than I should have?

I would watch, and wait, and the accusation would prove itself groundless, another of Nezahual-tzin's little games. Yes. It had to be. Teomitl wasn't a fool. He had to know open rebellion would throw the Mexica Empire into more disarray than it could bear.

He had to. "Mihmatini?" I asked.

She paused on her way to the entrance. "Yes?"

"You haven't told me how it went, with the She-Snake. After the trial."

"Oh." She paused. "Nothing much. I complained and the SheSnake notified me I was acting irresponsibly. We both know who put him up to this." She snorted. "If you ask me, Tizoc-tzin still sees me as a young, inexperienced girl."

Did he? It was his loss, then. Both Teomitl and I had got over that stage long ago.

I was watching Teomitl's face as she spoke, and saw the hands clench and the shadow of jade imprint itself over the features. "My brother is a fool." There was something in his voice: a harshness that hadn't been there before, as if being so close to death had stripped away the last of the pretence.

"Teomitl," I started, but at this moment the entrance-curtain was wrenched open – by one of Mihmatini's priests. "My Lady Guardian…"

"What is it?"

"There is a delegation in the courtyard, asking to see you and the High Priest for the Dead."

The delegation was, as I had suspected, mostly priests from my order, Ichtaca at their head. "Acatl-tzin." He looked relieved to see me. "When we didn't see you come back…"

I shook my head, obscurely ashamed. "I haven't abandoned you. It's just been – a busy day."

"He almost died," Mihmatini said, fiercely. "What is it?"

Ichtaca took a deep breath. "You have to come to the palace, now."

My heart sank. What had happened now? "Why?"

It was Palli, the round-faced offering priest, who spoke up. "The sickness is no longer contained, Acatl-tzin. It's–" he took a deep breath "it's got into one of the palace wings. There are dozens of dead people."

THIRTEEN

Sickness in Our Midst

The atmosphere in the palace was tense and fearful – even worse than four months before, when a star-demon had wreaked havoc in the courtyards, killing one councillor and carrying off the soul of a second. The first few courtyards we crossed seemed to be devoid of the She-Snake's black-clad guards, but as we went deeper – towards the affected wing – we saw more and more of them, and heard the growing clamour of the crowd.

"How bad is it?" I asked Ichtaca.

"Thirteen sick, two dead. And it's spreading." For once, he'd agreed to walk ahead of me, casting aside the etiquette which would have seen him defer to me as his superior. And a good thing: I was still weary and slow, limping through the courtyards with the help of Ceyaxochitl's cane, and of course I only had a vague idea of where we were going.

"And they don't know where it started?"

If Ichtaca had had less of a sense of decorum, he'd have thrown his hands up. "The priests of Huitzilpochtli are quite… competent."

"But not enough?" I guessed, shrewdly. They were Quenami's order, and Quenami had never had to handle a massive panic.

"You're assuming Quenami will be capable of something beyond court intrigue," Mihmatini said, curtly – she'd insisted on accompanying us, when it had become clear that the emergency concerned her as well.

"To be fair," Ichtaca said with a grimace, "I'm not sure we'd have handled it better. It's work for the clergy of Tlaloc."

Who inconveniently happened to be locked in cages, awaiting Tizoc-tzin's pleasure.

The courtyards we passed were all but deserted, the entrancecurtains closed with the finality of barricades. From time to time, a pale face would peek between the curtains – and withdraw just as fast, as if unable to meet our gaze.

Gradually, the noise grew: it was the priests of Huitzlipochtli arguing with burly warriors, trying to convince them they should stay inside, wait for the contagion to be ended.

"And when in the Fifth World do you think this is going to happen?" One of the warriors waved his macuahitl sword, threateningly; his companion laid a hand on his arm. "Let it go, Atl. You know priests are useless."

"I assure you–" the priest said in a quavering voice.

"Great work," Mihmatini muttered under her breath. I winced, but said nothing. Ichtaca likewise made no comment, but quickened his pace – forcing me to stay the same if I wanted to remain ahead of him.

There were more priests in the following courtyards, and the same total lack of mastery: they stood in doorways, arguing with irate warriors and noblemen – with mothers holding out wailing children, and old women who looked totally unfazed by any of their finery. As we neared the centre, it got worse and worse; the quarrels louder, the priests more numerous but equally ineffective, and the people milling outside, hoping to break the containment, becoming more and more dispersed.

And, in the last courtyard, there was a crowd – not densely packed, but at least a hundred people, mostly artisans, judging by their garb, and by the handful of feathers and precious stones scattered on the ground. From somewhere within the hubbub, I caught Quenami's raised voice: "You see, we have to–"

He didn't see. Like most artisans, they worked within the palace, but didn't sleep there. Their workshops were there – and, granted, their whole families had come with them, helping them glue feathers or mosaic beads, or sort out precious stones, but they certainly hadn't expected to be all but imprisoned in the palace.

Mihmatini was already pushing her way towards the centre, and Ichtaca and my priests followed in her wake, but the noise of the crowd was growing – a rolling wave of discontent that wouldn't be quelled by Quenami's words. It was going to burst.

Mihmatini had reached the centre. I caught angry words, presumably coming from one of the priests, and her own voice, raised to carry. "There is no cause for alarm…"

I was still lagging behind when it all broke down: one moment I was slowly making my way through a crowd of angry artisans, the next moment people were pressed against me, trying to hit me, to hit each other, anger palpable in the air. I couldn't see my priests, or Mihmatini, and the noise around me was only the wordless murmur of the crowd.

I tried to reach up with my one free hand, to slash my earlobes and whisper a prayer to Lord Death – which would have endowed me with the cold of the underworld, keeping the mob at bay, but they were too numerous, I couldn't…

Instead, I was all but carried by the crowd to the edge of the courtyard: it wasn't anger at the priests that drove them, but desire to leave the palace. I understood, but I couldn't not condone. For all we knew, several among them were already contaminated, carrying the sickness everywhere within the palace. They had to be stopped – and, indeed, the She-Snake's guards were already pulling up at the entrance to the courtyard, their uniforms a stark black against the adobe, their faces pale in the afternoon light – leeched of all colours, save the glint of their spears, the colours of their feather-shields.

The crowd in which I was caught wavered and came to a stop – and, for a bare moment, I dared to hope I might somehow slip away, turn back, and make my tottering way to Mihmatini and my priests – but then one artisan, more adventurous than one of his fellows, threw an adze at the leftmost guard.

The guard ducked, but the crowd was inflamed: the first ranks flung themselves at the guard, heedless of their spears. They fell back, cut, but there were always more artisans to take their place…

Buffeted here and there, I nevertheless managed to reach up with my free hand and, without a knife, rub at my earlobes, ignoring the growing pain until a sharper stab of pain told me I'd succeeded in removing the scabs from my previous offerings. The blood that stained my hands was only a few drops, but it would suffice.

"In the land of the fleshless

In the region of mystery

Where jade crumbles, where feathers become dust…"

Cold rose up, caught me in its embrace – gradually extinguishing every other feeling until it was all I could feel. The people on either side of me – two burly artisans weighing precious stones as if they were weapons – shrank back, and I used the opportunity to make my way out of the crowd, pointing the cane ahead of me like a weapon. I came to a rest under the row of pillars surrounding the courtyard. A few hostile gazes followed me: if I didn't move away, I'd be the next person they threw adzes at.

Where was Mihmatini?

A soft, dappled radiance came from the centre of the courtyard: the press of artisans had shrunk there, become almost a huddle. I caught a glimpse of Quenami's haughty face, and Mihmatini in hurried conversation with Ichtaca and two artisans. It didn't look as though they were fighting.

At the courtyard's entrance, the guards were putting up a valiant fight, but they would not last long and I couldn't see how we would prevent them from leaving at all: more carriers of the plague in the heart of the city, further deaths…

Southern Hummingbird strike me, I couldn't see a way out of this. If only I could make my way over to Mihmatini… I was about to move towards her when something brushed against me: the touch of some magic, like cold fingers lingering on my skin, sending chills into my heart. It might have been one of the artisans, but the spell was unerring, casting aside my protections as if they were nothing. Unless we had a sorcerer hidden among the artisans, it couldn't be any of them. I raised my gaze and, through the corner of one eye, I caught a glimpse of a man at the other courtyard entrance – the one that led deeper into the palace, where only a few frightened servants had lingered. He wore rags, but leant against one of the pillars with the casual, relaxed attitude of noblemen – and the profile. The lean, aristocratic face was achingly familiar.

It couldn't be…

Acamapichtli?

Calling through the din of the crowd would have been futile. Instead, I made my way further in – away from the pack tearing at the guards, the crowd becoming thinner and thinner as I retreated. I'd have broken into a run, if only I didn't feel so weak. Instead, I all but limped to the other end and by the time I reached the entrance, there was no one there.

I looked left and right, but even the servants had left. Had I imagined the whole thing? Acamapichtli was under arrest, like the rest of his clergy – kept in a cell where his powers would be weakened; kept under guard, so he couldn't plot against Tizoc-tzin (futile… Acamapichtli plotted as he breathed).

Just as I was about to head back into the courtyard, the magic came again: a weaker touch, skilfully drawing aside my protections – an invitation to step forward. I followed it into the next courtyard, and then into another, which was bare and deserted, the flowers in the earth wilted. The cane scraped against the ground, the echo of this the only sound within the courtyard.

Footsteps came from one of the buildings around the courtyard. I hobbled painstakingly towards it, but Acamapichtli was pulling the entrance-curtain open long before I finished crossing the courtyard.

"Well, fancy meeting you here." His face was creased in a sarcastic smile.

He looked much as he always had: his face lean and haughty, his eyes deep-set, his lips curved in sardonic joy. Save, of course, that he no longer wore the headdress of heron feathers that had marked him as the slave of his god, the loyal servant of the city – and that his cloak was of maguey fibres, more suitable for a commoner than for a High Priest. His hair, unbound, fell down to his feet, black and lanky, stiff with the blood of his offerings. Deprived of the black paint on his face, he looked curiously effeminate, the aggression all but smoothed out of his features.

"So it was you. How in the Fifth World–?"

He raised a hand. "Later. There isn't much time. Come in, will you?"

"You mean they'll be looking for you?"

Acamapichtli grimaced. "Of course. I used the chaos, but it won't last forever. Don't make me waste my time, Acatl."

"Are you telling me the truth?"

Acamapichtli frowned. "I'll swear it on Tlaloc, if that's what it takes. On the Provider, the Ruler of the Blessed Drowned, the Lord of the Sweet-Scented Marigold, He who holds the jars of rain."

My doubt must have shown on my face, for he added, with the same old impatience, "Don't be a fool. I have mocked you and schemed against you, but have you ever known me to lie to you?"

The worst thing was, I couldn't remember if he had. Unlike Tizoc-tzin, I didn't keep a tally of who had offended me, and when. "Not under oath," I admitted, grudgingly.

I stepped into the room, and Acamapichtli let the entrance-curtain fall. It appeared to be an artisan's workshop: fragments of feathers and precious stones were still spread out on reed mats, and a half-completed shield, showing the outline of a coyote in red feathers, lay in a corner, against the brazier.

I laid the cane down, and leant against the wall, trying to appear casual – in spite of the rapid beat of my heart. Acamapichtli watched me, smiling sardonically; I doubted he was much taken in by my pretence of calm.

"Fine," I said. "If you're here, you might as well tell me about this." I reached into the small bag I carried with me, and fished out the distorted black thing I'd taken out of Teomitl's body. s

"Is that–?"

"Taken from the body of a sick man," I said, unwilling to admit Teomitl had been sick. "You said you only had a few hours–"

"Yes, yes." Acamapichtli waved a dismissive hand. "But this is more important. Give me one of your blades, will you?" He gestured at his clothing with a sharp, joyless laugh. "I'm not quite as wellequipped as I should be."

"It's been dedicated to Mictlantecuhtli," I said, slowly. And the magic of Mictlantecuhtli Lord Death would be anathema to that of Tlaloc – but Acamapichtli shook his head. "It should do. I just need it to draw blood."

If, a year ago, someone had told me I would be standing in a deserted room helping the High Priest of Tlaloc safeguard us against an epidemic… I might have laughed, or railed, or done four hundred other things, but I wouldn't have believed it.

Acamapichtli laid the creature on the floor, with an almost reverent care. Muttering under his breath, he slashed his earlobes and the back of his left hand, and let the blood drip down onto the ground.

"By Your will, O, Our Lord

May bounty and good fortune be unleashed

May the sweet-scented marigold rattles shakes

May the rattleboards of the mist clatter…"

Mist pooled out from the place the blood had struck the ground, spreading fast, as if someone had pierced a hole in the wall of a steam house. It climbed up, clinging to the back of Acamapichtli's hand where he had cut himself, and the air itself became tight, hard to breathe, tinged with the characteristic, marshy smell of Tlaloc's magic.

"With a sprinkle, with a few drops of dew

Let us be blessed with fullness and abundance

May it be in Your heart to grant, to give, to bring comfort…"

At length, Acamapichtli looked up. "It's what I thought," he said. He made a single, dismissive gesture with his hands – as if sending away an underling who had displeased – and the mist fell away, sinking back into the ground as if it had never been. It became easier to breathe once again.

"What you thought?" I asked.

He smiled – a thoroughly unpleasant expression. "The magic does look similar to that of Tlaloc, but it doesn't belong to Him. It's Chalchiuhtlicue's."

"That's not possible," I said, sharply. Chalchiuhtlicue, Jade Skirt;

Tlaloc's wife, Teomitl's protector. Goddess of Lakes and Streams – patron of women in labour, She who washed away the sins of newborn children.

"Because you're the expert on the water gods?"

"No," I said. "But I'd thought…" My voice trailed off. "You said it was Tlaloc's magic earlier."

"I was wrong." Acamapichtli didn't look ashamed at all. "A mistake easily made. The spell was an unusual mess, and already decaying."

I couldn't resist. "You're the expert on the water gods."

"Don't push me."

Much as I would have liked to, this served no purpose. "I won't. But I still don't understand why She would…"

"I don't know," Acamapichtli said. His voice was grim. "That was the other thing I wanted to ask you."

"About Jade Skirt? Why do you need to ask?"

"She's your student's protector," Acamapichtli said.

"I don't have any loyalty to Her."

"Teomitl-tzin might, though."

"I–" I started, and then found myself, to my surprise, telling the bare truth. "I don't want to think about this, not now."

I'd expected him to mock me straight away, but instead he cocked his head, and watched me for a while, not saying anything. "Fine. It doesn't have much bearing on this anyway – not yet. Keep your unpleasant revelations cooped up, until they rise up to gobble you up like coyotes."

Still as pleasant a man as ever. "What did you want?"

"It's time we got a better grip on where this is coming from, and why."

"And your idea–"

"You had me summon a dead man, and it didn't work. There is someone much better informed, though."

"Someone?" I asked, already suspecting the answer.

"Tlaloc," Acamapichtli said.

"You – you can't mean to do this." One did not, could not summon gods into the Fifth World. For one thing, They would not be inclined to answer the call of a single mortal; for another, the Fifth World, which was not Their essence, made them weak and helpless, and gods seldom enjoyed being either. Instead, in the (unlikely) event one wanted to speak to gods directly, one went into their country. In my entire life, I had talked to Mictlantecuhtli perhaps a handful of times, and my last journey into another god's land had left me wounded and sick.

That was, of course, discounting the fact that when Tlaloc had tried to seize power in the Fifth World, Teomitl and I had been the ones to stop Him. I would hardly be welcomed into Tlalocan, the Land of the Blessed Drowned. "You can't mean–?" I said, again.

"You want to know what's going on."

"Yes, but calling on the gods–"

"At least we'd be certain."

And I'd certainly be dead. I wasn't keen for that kind of assurance. "It's a great risk."

"Not so great." His voice was sarcastic. "Haven't you noticed rituals have become easier?"

"I don't understand–"

"When I summoned the dead warrior, Eptli, the sacrifice of a single jaguar shouldn't have brought him back for so long."

"Then you knew." He'd intended to cheat me all along; to pretend nothing had worked, that he'd done his best. How typical.

"That's not the point," Acamapichtli said, sharply. "The point is that something is interfering with the boundaries."

"The plague?" I asked.

"I don't know. But it makes going into Tlalocan easier."

I grimaced. "Less dangerous doesn't mean it will be a walk in the Sacred Precinct. You haven't convinced me it's absolutely necessary for the good of the Empire."

"And if it were?" His voice was sharp, probing in all the fragile, vulnerable places of my being as if by instinct, but this time I didn't need to hesitate.

"If you proved to me it were necessary, I would go." To say I wouldn't like it would be an understatement, but I knew where my duty lay.

Acamapichtli watched me for a while. At length he shook his head. "I can't see any other solution. And before you ask – no, I can't go alone. You're the one who has the most information about who died and when. I'm going to need you." He didn't look as if he liked the idea much – more as if he'd swallowed something unpleasantly bitter, like unsweetened cacao.

"And that's meant to be enough? Am I just meant to trust your word?"

His eyes narrowed. "Again? I thought we'd moved past that. I'm no fool, and neither should you be. I know the cost of strolling around a god's country as much as you do – and I don't suggest this lightly. But we're desperate."

"You are desperate. I'm not." And then realised what I'd said. "Sorry. I know the cost of angering Tizoc-tzin."

That stopped him; he looked at me through darkened eyes. "Yes. You do. As I pointed out earlier – I don't have much time."

"You haven't told me–"

"How I got out of the cell? Let's just say I have – unexpected resources." He grimaced; something about his escape had obviously been a source of unpleasantness. Had he ended up pledging a favour to someone? "But that's still dancing around the point."

"Like a warrior at the gladiator-stone," I said, wearily.

"Well?" Acamapichtli took a step away from me, and stood, wreathed in the dimming light of the sun. "If you're not coming with me, I'll be going alone. Just decide, Acatl."

I – I leant on the cane, feeling the ache in every one of my muscles. Going into the country of another god was dangerous enough; it would be worse in my weakened state – the epitome of foolishness.

But still…

Still, what if he was right and this was our only chance? "Fine," I said. The wood of the cane was warm under my fingers. "Let's go see Tlaloc."

FOURTEEN

Lord Death's Gift

The back of the room held a couple of rush brooms: Acamapichtli picked up one, and handed the other back to me.

Under other circumstances I would have protested, but we had already made clear the necessity of the journey.

"You want to dedicate this place to Tlaloc?"

"As small a space as I can." He grimaced. His eyes kept slipping to the entrance-curtain, as if he expected someone to interrupt us at any time. "Because of the plague, it's been touched by Chalchiuhtlicue, which should help. But still, if I can avoid Her…"

"She's your god's wife," I said, though I wasn't entirely surprised. Tlaloc and Chalchiuhtlicue formed a… tense couple, always ready to oppose one another. He had ended the Third Age, the one ruled by Chalchiuhtlicue; She had opposed Him when He'd attempted to rule the Fifth World.

I swept the room in silence – I hadn't swept anything since the days of my novitiate, and the dust, pushed back to each corner of the room, brought back memories of the month of Drought, Toxcatl, with everything cleansed for the arrival of the gods, and the palpable tension in the air, like moments before the storm…

"Aya! Paper flags stand in the four directions

In the place of weeping, the place of mists

I bring water to the temple courtyard…"

Acamapichtli knelt, and started tracing two glyphs in the beaten earth – Four Rain, the Second Age, the one ruled by Tlaloc. Then, with a swift, decisive movement, he raised the knife, and slit his wrist – not a superficial cut that would have nicked both veins, but deep enough to hit the artery. It happened so suddenly the blood was already spilling on the ground before I could even so much as move.

"You're mad," I said.

"Desperate," he grated, keeping a wary eye on the entrance-curtain. "Get inside that glyph, Acatl."

"But–" The blood pooled, lazily, at his feet, spreading into the furrows of the glyphs – shimmering with layer after layer of raw magic. Bright red blood, coming from the heart instead of going to it – pressing against the edge of the wound with every passing moment, pumping itself out of the body in great spurts. Acamapichtli was already pale, and swaying.

He was chanting as the blood pooled – not slowly and stately, but a staccato of words, the beat of frenzied drums before the battle was joined – a series of knife stabs into a corpse's chest.

"You destroyed the Third World

The Age of Rain, the Age of Mist and Weeping

The Age of your unending bounty

Drought swept across the earth,

The fruit of the earth lay panting, covered with dust."

And, as the blood hit the floor in great spurts, it turned to mist and smoke – with a faint hint of the stale odour of marshes – sweeping across the room, subsuming everything, until it seemed that nothing of the Fifth World was left. The glyphs shone blue and white for a bare moment, painful across my field of vision, and then faded, and when I looked up again, we were standing in churned mud, at the foot of a verdant hill.

Acamapichtli, however, had lost consciousness – his blood still spurting out from the open wound. Suppressing a curse against illprepared fools, I retrieved my obsidian knife from his limp hand, and slashed the bottom of his cloak into shreds – it was either that or my cloak, and I had no wish to argue with Ichtaca about damaging the High Priest's regalia. I worked quickly – there was no time – pressing my fingers against the nearby muscles to stem the flow of blood. He'd lose the hand – there was no way this would heal gracefully, not after he'd spent so much time bleeding.

At last, I was done, and looked critically at my handiwork – I was no priest of Patecatl, and the gods knew it showed. At least he was no longer bleeding, though it felt I'd spent an eternity with my fingers pressed against his cold skin. Now to make a rudimentary bandage…

I–

Was it just me, or was his wound no longer bleeding – the edges far closer together than they should have been?

The air was crisp and clear; I breathed it in, feeling it burning in my lungs, tingling against the mark in my hand. I'd expected to be down on my knees, struggling to remain conscious – as I had the last time I had visited a god's country.

But nothing happened: the land around me was verdant, endless marshes cut through with canals and streams. In the distance, I could barely make out ghostly silhouettes engaged in a ball-game: the dead who had drowned or died of suffocation, or of water-linked diseases, and who had found their final destination in Tlalocan.

Among the myriad destinations for the Dead, the land of the Blessed Drowned was a pleasant paradise – never lacking food or rain, the maize always blossoming on time, the reeds abundant. A warrior would have chafed, but for me, the son of peasants, the wet air reminded me of my faraway childhood spent on the edge of the lake, and even the ghostly boats passing each other in the canals brought familiar memories of rowing at night – when the sky darkened to two red lips above and below the horizon, and everything seemed to hang suspended on the edge of the Fifth World.

A hand shot out, and grabbed my ankle – I all but jumped up, before realising it was merely Acamapichtli, using me as a leverage to stand up. His face was still pale, but the wound I'd tied off was closed, sinking to nothing against his skin.

"You're lucky," I said. "Opening up an artery tends to be more fraught with consequences."

He shrugged – characteristically careless and arrogant. "Different rules."

I shifted my cane in a squelch of mud. "If you say so." He had still spent the blood, regardless, and I very much doubted he would get that back. "And those different rules also explain why I can breathe here? Last time, in the Southern Hummingbird's heartland–"

Acamapichtli grinned, unveiling teeth that seemed much sharper and yellower than before. "We're not interlopers here, Acatl. I asked the god for His permission, and He has granted it to us."

"Great," I said. Even with the god's permission, I still felt drained. I leant on the cane, watching the hill. It rippled under the wind, and…

Wait a moment. "That's not grass," I said. It rippled and flexed in the breeze, as green as the tail feathers of quetzal birds – pockmarked with thousands of raised dots, swept through with yellow and brown marbling.

Lizard skin.

Acamapichtli grinned again, an expression I was starting to thoroughly dislike. "Of course not. Come on. The god is up there."

Of course. Gingerly, I set out; when the cane touched the skin, I felt a resistance – not at all what I'd expected from grass or earth. It smelled… musty, like dried skins, and it bounced under our steps with alarming regularity. As we climbed higher past the darker streaks, I caught sight of folds and sharper patches – places where one set of skin overrode another – darker patches with the splayed shapes of claws, and larger pockmarks, and almond-shaped holes where the eyes should have been, opening only on blind earth. I didn't even want to know how many lizards had died to make up the hill.

It would have been an arduous climb, even had we both been fit – which neither of us was. I leant on my cane, and though Acamapichtli arrogantly strode ahead, he was pale-faced, controlling the trembling of his hands only through an effort of will: I could see the quiver in his fingers, quickly masked.

We didn't speak and the only sounds were flocks of herons, wheeling around us with harsh cries, and the distant sound of thunder, like the roaring of jaguars. As we crested a ridge about halfway up, we saw Tlalocan spread out under us, a mass of green and yellow shimmering in the sunlight, the distant rectangles of Floating Gardens interspersed with canals, with the shades of drowned peasants harvesting maize from the eternally ripe sheaves of corn, forever happy in Tlaloc's paradise.

The thunder peals got louder and, as we ascended on the path, storm-clouds moved to cover the sky, darkening the air all around us. I glanced at Acamapichtli, but he was still looking stubbornly ahead.

Tlaloc had given His permission, which meant we walked here without gagging or shedding flesh, but that didn't mean He wasn't saving things for later. I remembered the last time I'd seen the god in the Fifth World: the shadowy figure perched on the shoulder of his child agent; His fanged mouth level with the child's ears; the voice that had shaken like thunder; the words that dripped poison after poison – and I, sinking down with my brother's body in my arms, desperately struggling to come up, to breathe air again…

Ahead, the path flared; the texture of the ground under our feet had subtly changed. I paused to catch my breath and saw the curling pattern beneath us: a single skin going all the way to the top, and…

Outlined against the darkened sky were the head and jaws of a huge snake, its crown of feathers ruffled in the rising wind, its eyes the same bright red as Acamapichtli's blood, its fangs shining like pearls in the muck.

Acamapichtli was already headed towards the snake; I followed after taking the time to catch my breath – gods, how I hated that every step seemed to cost me, that even lifting the cane seemed to quench the breath in my lungs.

A familiar litany for the Dead was running in my mind – though my patron god Mictlantecuhtli wasn't there, couldn't ever be there.

"We live on Earth, in the Fifth World

Not forever, but a little while

As jade breaks, as gold is crushed

We wither away, like jade we crumble

Not forever on Earth, but a little while…"

The snake was half-sunk within the earth, its head facing the sky and the storm-clouds – so that its open jaws formed a cave. The higher ring of fangs looked as though they'd clamp shut any moment, and the lower ring was pierced through in the centre, leaving a space just large enough for a man to squeeze through, so that Acamapichtli and I had to enter single file, instinctively bowed, as if to protect ourselves against the fall of the huge teeth glinting above us.

Inside, it was dark and cool, smelling faintly of moist earth, with the pungent aftertaste of copal incense, a smell that clung to the inside of my mouth and throat as if I'd smelled nothing else for days and days – as I might have, for who knew what time the gods considered Their own?

"Ah, Acamapichtli," a voice said. I'd expected it to be sombre, vindictive – the way I still remembered it in my nightmares – yet while it was deep, reverberating in the darkness, there was nothing in it but mild interest, the same one a priest might have shown to an unexpected pilgrim. "What a pleasure to see you."

Acamapichtli had removed his sandals and set them aside; and he was crouching, his eyes on the ground – not grovelling, as he might have done before the Revered Speaker, but still showing plenty of respect. I crouched next to him, setting my sandals aside.

"And you brought company, too," Tlaloc said. He spoke in accents similar to the Texcocan ones, reminding me incongruously of Nezahual-tzin – or perhaps my mind superimposed the accent afterwards, struggling for a human equivalent to the speech of the gods.

"My Lord." I looked down and did not move, not even when footsteps echoed under the ceiling of the cave, and a shadow fell over me.

Tlaloc laughed, and it was thunder over the lake. "Oh, do get up. I'm not Huitzilpochtli, and there is no need for ceremony, not for high priests."

Slowly, carefully, I pulled myself upwards with the help of my cane, and looked at Tlaloc.

He was tall, impossibly so, towering over us in the dim light – but then all gods were, especially in Their own lands. I caught only glimpses of His aspect: a quetzal-feather headdress streaming in the wind like unbound hair, fangs glistening in a huge mouth, a cloak that shifted and shone with the iridescence of a thousand raindrops, before I looked down. He was the rain and the thunder: savage, cruel and wild; one of the Old Ones who had been there since the First Age. Staring straight at Him would have been like looking at the face of the Fifth Sun.

"You know why we are here," Acamapichtli said.

"I know you are desperate," Tlaloc said. "Not many people come offering heart's blood." A touch of malice crept into His voice. "As your companion said, you are lucky not to have lost the hand, or worse."

"I live for Your favour."

Again, that terrible laughter – thunder and rain, and the sounds of a storm heard from a boat adrift on the lake. "We both know you don't."

Acamapichtli didn't move. "I respect Your power, and Your will."

"Yes. That you do."

I hadn't spoken up – I had to steer this conversation back to its proper goal, or they would be talking to each other for hours to come. But the prospect of doing so, to have Tlaloc's undivided attention fixated on me, was enough to cause nausea in the pit of my stomach.

What in the Fifth World had possessed me to come here?

"My Lord," I said. My voice was shaking; I quelled it, as best as I could. "There is an epidemic in the city."

Even looking at the ground, I felt His attention shifting to me – the weight of His gaze, the air around me turning tight and warm, like the approach to a storm. "There is." His voice was mildly curious. "As, as High Priest of Lord Death, no doubt you feel it concerns you."

"It concerns us all," I said. The pressure around me was growing worse. Now I knew why Acamapichtli had gone so strangely inarticulate.

"Unless it is Your divine will," Acamapichtli said, from some faraway place.

This time, Tlaloc's laughter seemed to course through me – through my ears and into my ribcage, lifting my heart clear of the chest and squeezing it until it bled. The ground rose up to meet me,and I fell down – pain radiating from my left knee, echoing the frantic beat within my chest.

"My will? You know nothing about My will, save what you see in the Fifth World."

"I need to know…" Acamapichtli's voice drifted from very far away, but I was too weary to focus on anything but the grooves in the ground under my hands, and my cane – lying discarded some distance away.

"Know what?" Tlaloc's voice was mocking again.

"If we're setting ourselves against You." His words fell, one by one, into the open maws of silence.

"What a dutiful High Priest," Tlaloc said, at last. "Your companion, of course, isn't so enthusiastic." I'd expected malice, but it was a simple statement of fact.

"He's often a fool." Acamapichtli's voice came from somewhere above me. "But he means well."

I managed to move – pulling myself into a foetal position, and then raising my head up. Acamapichtli's bare feet seemed to be the only things within my field of vision. "Are we – setting – ourselves against – Your wife?" Each word, like raw chillies, seemed to leave a burning trail at the back of my throat.

There was a pause. "No," Tlaloc said. "You're not setting yourself against either Me or My wife."

"Someone – is using Her magic." I managed to extend my hands towards the cane, hooking the wood with trembling fingers – and haltingly started to bring it back towards me. If I could get up, if I–

"Yes." Tlaloc did not offer any more information – and Acamapichtli, the Duality curse him, didn't seem inclined to question this further.

"I don't understand."

The air tightened around me again. "There is nothing to understand."

And there was something – a familiar tone to the voice, even though it was deeper and stronger than any human voice: an emotion I'd heard all too many times.

"My Lord–"

"There is nothing to understand, priest. Now leave." And there it was again: something I ought to have been able to put a name to, but with only the voice to go on, I might as well have been blind and deaf. Something was wrong. Something–

I needed to see – even if it burned my eyes, I needed to see His face.

The cane was almost within my reach… A last flick of my fingers brought it spinning towards me, raising a cloud of dust from the packed earth of the cave – and a sudden whiff of copal incense from the wood, a smell that didn't belong in Tlalocan, neither in the verdant marshes, nor in this dark and humid cave.

Slowly, carefully, I pulled myself up – my hands were shaking worse than ever, and I had to stop and start again more times than I could count. And of course, neither Tlaloc nor Acamapichtli offered any help. "If not Your wife," I said, slowly, "then who is it?"

And, shaking, I raised my eyes towards the hulking shape of the god, catching a glimpse of blue-streaked skin, pocked with dots, of a necklace of jade beads around His neck, each as big as a human skull, of two snakes on either side of the jaw, climbing upwards through the darkened cheeks, their tails wrapped around the eyes in perfect black circles – the eyes…

They were round, like sage seeds, like water drops, the blue of the sky, an instant before it darkened; the colour of lake waters, of turquoise stones, and at their hearts was a single dot of yellow – a kernel of ripe corn, moments before it was gathered up in the harvest, quivering in the warm breeze…

And I knew, in the instant before my vision was finally extinguished and darkness swept across the world in a great wave that swallowed everything up, that I'd been right – that I had read Him right, even though he was a god.

There had been fear in those eyes – not mild worry, nor annoyance at our trespassing, but a fear real enough to grip Tlaloc's whole being.

And, whatever was going on, if it was enough to scare a god, then it was more than enough to scare the wits out of me, too.

I regained consciousness in the Fifth World, my eyes itching as if someone had thrown chilli powder in them. I could see nothing of the world beyond pale shapes against the darkness. I fought an urge to bring my fingers to rub my eyes, knowing it would only make matters worse. It was my own fault for staring so long into the face of a god I didn't worship, and it would pass, in time.

At least, I hoped so.

Distant noises drifted: flutes and drums, and hymns to the Southern Hummingbird. It sounded as though we were back in the palace.

"Acamapichtli?"

I half-expected him to be gone, but finally he answered, his voice coming from somewhere to my left. "I am here."

"What… happened?"

"Nothing of interest." He sounded amused.

"You saw–"

"I didn't see anything."

He hadn't raised his gaze. He hadn't looked his god in the face – it was odd that he wouldn't, but then again, perhaps I was assuming too much from my own relationship to Mictlantecuhtli and His wife. I had never knelt to either Lord or Lady Death, and they would no doubt have laughed if I had removed my sandals and flattened myself on the ground. After all, what need was there for obeisance, when almost everything in the Fifth World descended into Mictlan at the very end?

"Well, what did you see?" Acamapichtli asked.

He hadn't moved to help me. His voice was relaxed, casual, as if I owed him everything – whereas I was the one who could barely see. But surely I didn't have to tell him? What could he do in his current state, hunted down by Tizoc-tzin's men?

But, if I did this – if I withheld information, playing games with the truth – then I was no better than he. "He's afraid," I said.

"Of us? That's ridiculous."

"Of what's going on," I said. "He knows something." Not that we were ever going to find out what: getting information from a god in Their own world was fraught with risk, as we'd amply demonstrated.

Acamapichtli sighed, rather more theatrically than was required. "I have to go. But I'll try to pass a message to my Consort to see if she can help you track down whoever is using Chalchiuhtlicue's magic."

"I thought they'd arrested her," I said.

"Not yet." He sounded smugly satisfied.

"Go… where?"

I imagined more than saw him make a stabbing gesture. "Back to my cell, before my clergy pays the price for my little… escapade."

He sounded almost sincere. "You don't care for your clergy. You never did."

"Don't I?" He laughed, curtly. "You're right. Perhaps I don't. Till we meet again, Acatl."

"Wait," I said. "I can't–" But his footsteps had already moved out of the room, and he wasn't answering me anymore. Which left me alone – within a deserted section of the palace, cordoned off because of the plague.

Great. Now how was I going to get out and find Mihmatini?

I fumbled around, and finally found the cane – by touch more than by sight, since everything was still dim and blurred. Its touch was comforting, but I didn't use it to drag myself up just then – I suspected standing up was going to be near impossible without shaking.

From the lack of sounds nearby, it was the middle or the end of the night. The air was cold, without a trace of warmth, and what little I could see was unrelentingly dark: the middle of the night, then, and I was in no state to walk. And even if I had been, I was half-blind, weak and in no state to find my own way through a deserted section of the palace.

Trust Acamapichtli to abandon me in the middle of nowhere. Although to be fair, he hadn't known I was half-blind.

Fine. Much as I disliked the idea, it made more sense to sleep here. Now if only I could make my way to the wall in order to sleep against something hard…

Rising, under the circumstances, felt a little pointless. Using the cane as a prop, I half-walked, half-dragged myself across the room. At some point, I hit one of the mats, and felt the jewellery scatter with a crunching sound. But, after what felt like an eternity of shaking and dragging myself – to the point my legs barely obeyed me anymore, threatening to collapse altogether – my hands met the solid surface of the wall. I could have embraced it at that point.

Instead, I propped myself against it with the last of my strength, and settled down to sleep.

I fell into darkness. In my dreams, the blurred shapes of the walls around me became the vast, watery shapes of Chalchiuhtlicue's Meadows: deserted Floating Gardens with maize growing in wide clumps, and canals over which hung mist and, in the distance, the silvery shape of a lake, where the ahuizotls – water-beasts – lay in wait, their yellow eyes barely visible below the surface.

There was someone pooling a raft in the canals, well ahead of me. I'd have recognised that haphazard way of rowing anywhere: Teomitl.

I wanted to call out to him, but darkness sucked me in again, and no matter how I called out I couldn't find him again.

Instead, I stood alone in the dark, and gradually became aware that I was not alone. As my eyes became accustomed to what little light there was, I caught a glimpse of polished bone – of a soft light, as yellow as newborn maize, glinting through hollow eye-sockets.

"Acatl," said a voice – one I knew as well as my own.

Mictlantecuhtli. Lord Death, ruler of the house of the fleshless, lord of mysteries and withered songs.

I did not bow, or make obeisance, for this He would not accept. "My Lord," I said. And, more slowly, more carefully, "This is a dream."

"Of course." Mictlantecuhtli said. He sounded amused – not maliciously, like Xochiquetzal or Tlaloc might have –merely like a man taking in a good joke. "We're not there yet."

Not there? "I don't understand," I said, slowly.

"The time of the jaguars, the time of the eagles – when gods will walk the Fifth World once more."

Its very end, and the birth of the Sixth Sun. "When is that?"

"Do you think I would tell you?" Amusement, again.

I knew He wouldn't. He did not gloat, or put Himself or His knowledge forward: what use, since everything came back to Him in the end? "I don't owe You any favours," I said, slowly.

"You never ask for any favours," Lord Death said, and He sounded almost sad. "I'll give you one nevertheless." Before I could say anything, He'd reached out, with fingers of tapered bone, and touched me on the shoulder. Cold spread from the point of contact, not slowly, but in a swift wave of intense pain that seemed to seize every muscle at once, sending me writhing to the ground.

As I lay on the cold, packed earth, breathing dust with every spasmodic struggle to breathe, with darkness barely held at bay, I heard His footsteps: He was standing right by my side, watching. "A gift, keeper of the boundaries," and His voice grew and grew until it became the whole world, and I knew nothing more.

I woke up gasping, in daylight, in a room which smelled of cold ashes and stale copal incense. My eyesight seemed to have returned, at least to some extent. I could see the adobe walls, and the frescoes, but everything was still slightly blurred. I couldn't remember if that had always been the case, or if some of the eye damage had persisted even beyond the events of the night.

My shoulder ached, and I felt… odd, stretched, as if the protection spell had returned, and I lay cocooned in Lord Death's magic. But no, it wasn't quite that.

Something was wrong. I reached out, wincing at the pain, willing all of it to Mictlantecuhtli Lord Death, an offering as suitable as blood, and rubbed the place where He had touched me in the dream.

There were three thin raised welts on my shoulder, almost like the marks of a whip – save that nothing had bled and they did not ache. They were cold to my touch, with the familiar feeling of underworld magic, and they did not seem to have had any effect on me.

Which was, to say the least, unlikely. If this hadn't been an ordinary dream – if Lord Death had been there with me, in this space out of the Fifth World – then He had given me something. A favour, a gift to His High Priest – dangerous, like all divine favours. It would be small, because things made in dreams couldn't endure for long in the Fifth World, but it wouldn't be innocuous.

I dragged myself up once again and went out in the courtyard.

Everything was deserted. The courtyard smelled of dried earth and packed ashes. Overhead, the Fifth Sun was descending towards the horizon, staining the sky with a deep scarlet colour like heart's blood. Using the cane, I made my slow way through the courtyard, and then through to another, and yet another, and they were all equally deserted – no, not quite, for there was the familiar, faint scent of death in the air; of corpses which had just started to cool. Through one entrance-curtain I caught sight of shapes stretched on a reed-mat, moaning and thrashing as if in the grip of a dream.

The sick. The dying. The dead. And I among them, all but blind. What a great combination.

Tlaloc had been afraid. Why – unless this was no ordinary sickness, but one that touched the very fabric of the Fifth World? I didn't like that. Gods were cruel and capricious, but not afraid. Never afraid – unless it was of something or someone more powerful than Them.

Something…

As I walked, fumbling my way through pillared porticoes, through empty courtyards – through the dry smell of dust and the moans of the sick – I slowly became aware that I was not alone. There were voices in my ears – faint at first, but growing in intensity until they seemed to fill the world. There was a smell like dry, stretched skin; and a wind that grew colder and colder; and ghostly shapes, walking by my side, as if exhaled by the underworld. They crowded around me, groping with cold hands, their faces obscured, their arms and legs translucent, like layers of water.

Was this Mictlantecuhtli's gift – to make me see the souls of the slain? But no, I had spells which could do that. Why waste His time giving me something I could attain for myself?

The ghosts didn't go away as I walked, but neither did they grow more solid. The voices wove in and out of my ears, and there was a hollow in my stomach, steadily growing and growing, even as the world wove in and out of focus – perhaps it was my eyes, but everything seemed to be spinning…

With some difficulty, I reached the next courtyard – the last one – crossing over a ghostly river, and found myself face to face with two of the She-Snake's guards, whose spears barred my way out of the wing.

"Look," I said, struggling, for behind the black-painted faces were ghosts, too – singing a wordless lament, whispering words of grief. "I need to get out. I am the High Priest for the Dead, keeper of the boundaries–"

The feeling in my stomach was worse; I wanted to curl up, to close my eyes until it was all over. I–

The boundaries.

I remembered lying on a cold stone floor, with everything spinning in and out of focus, feeling the hollow in my stomach grow and grow until it seemed to swallow me whole. It had been in the instants after the designated Revered Speaker Tizoc-tzin had died – when everything had hung in the balance, and the Fifth World itself had been close to tearing itself apart.

It had been worse, then. I had barely been able to stand up, and we had lain unprotected from the star-demons. Nothing like that here: the Fifth Sun was in the sky, and the star-demons' distant shadows cowering from His radiance.

But still… there were ghosts abroad, and the whispers of the dead, and – soon, perhaps – the panting breaths of beasts of shadow on the prowl.

Something was wrong with the boundaries.

"I need to get out," I said, again, to the guards.

They looked at me as if I were mad, with clearly no intention of letting me move more than a hand-span. "We have orders," they said.

"Then get me the person who gave you the orders."

They looked at each other, and then back at me. I saw ghosts drift between them, drawn like jaguars to a hearth-fire. My clothes were torn and slightly muddy from my visit into Tlalocan, but they were still the regalia of the High Priest for the Dead. "My Lord, we cannot…"

"Get me Quenami," I said, softly.

It might have been the tone, or the remnants of the regalia, but one of the guards left, looking distinctly worried.

In the meantime, I leant against one of the coloured pillars, desperately trying to look nonchalant, but the ghosts still hung in the courtyard like a veil of fog, and the slight nausea at the back of my throat wasn't getting better.

I'd expected Quenami to look smug or satisfied, but when he arrived, he merely looked harried. He wore his most ostentatious clothes – brightly-coloured feathers almost better suited for a Revered Speaker than for a High Priest – and his earlobes glistened with freshly offered blood. "Acatl. What a surprise to see you here." Even his sarcasm sounded muted.

I wasn't in the mood to play the dance of diplomacy. "Look, Quenami. There is an epidemic out here, and I don't need to be confined with the dying."

"Except that you might be sick yourself." His eyes were feverishly bright, his hands steady, but I could read the strain in his bearing.

"Do I look sick to you?"

"You never know. You might have it all the same."

He looked too worried – even for someone who had suffered the debacle in the courtyard. "It's worse, isn't it? It's spreading, and you have no idea how to stop it."

Quenami's head snapped towards me. "What do you know? You've been confined here since yesterday. I know you have. No one has seen you in that time; your own sister admits to knowing nothing of your whereabouts."

"I know enough," I said, softly. Gods, Mihmatini had been looking for me the whole time? She was going to flay my ears the next time we met. "Tell me it's better, that you have it all under control."

As Acamapichtli had; I hated that man's guts, but I had to admit he had a certain ruthless efficiency. Quenami was all bluster. "It's only a matter of time," Quenami said, haughtily. "The Empire is well protected, as you know."

It was – against star-demons and the celestial monsters that would swallow us. But still… still, nothing prevented a resourceful sorcerer from sowing havoc. "You know the Southern Hummingbird won't protect us against a small thing like a plague." To a god, especially a war-god, hundreds of dead meant nothing. The great famine, the great floods, all had happened under the protection of a Revered Speaker. Huitzilpochtli the Southern Hummingbird only guarded from large-scale attacks which would annihilate the Fifth World or the Mexica Empire.

"What do you want, Acatl?"

"What I've told you. I want to get out, and I want to help. That's all. Is it really so hard to understand? I'm not working against the Fifth World."

Unlike you, I wanted to say, but I knew it wasn't the best time for airing this particular grudge.

Quenami looked at me, and back at the courtyard. "It's not safe…"

"No," I said, with a quick shake of my head – I'd never seen him so uncertain, and I wasn't sure what it presaged. "But for all you know, you might have it as well. Tizoc-tzin might have it as well."

"Very well," Quenami said at last. He made it sound like a special favour granted to me – as if he were Revered Speaker, and I a lowly peasant. "You may get out."

I didn't need to be told twice: I walked past the two guards, and came to stand firmly on the side of the healthy, the cane warm in my hands. Quenami made no comment, but let me follow him through a few courtyards – enough for me to realise the palace had grown uncannily silent, as if a cloth had been throw over everything. The servants wove their way among ghosts – not seeing them, but not saying anything in any case – and the few noblemen who were still out hurried past us, intent on not staying out any longer than they had to.

"How much worse is it?" I asked Quenami.

He shrugged – a contained movement, but I could still feel his anxiety. "The She-Snake says he has every thing under control."

Which wasn't the same thing as saying the problem was solved. "And what he has under control…"

Quenami shook his head – of course he wouldn't allow himself to look embarrassed. "About a fifth of the palace has been affected, and it sounds like it's spreading through the city."

"And you still think you can keep a handle on this?"

"Tizoc-tzin thinks so," Quenami said.

It was the closest he'd ever come, I guessed, to saying he didn't agree with his master. "And Tizoc-tzin still thinks it's a good idea to arrest the clergy of Tlaloc."

Quenami looked away, and didn't speak. At length he said, in a much quieter voice. "Your sister's priests are with us, to find rituals to slow this down. It will suffice. It has to."

But we both knew it wouldn't.

• • • •

I detoured through the kitchens to find some food since, in addition to being weak and still wounded, I hadn't eaten anything since before leaving for Tlalocan. Then I made my halting way out of the palace, to check on Mihmatini and on my own priests.

The air was sweltering, wet and heavy, and the sky was an overbearing shade of blue, which promised no respite from the heat.

The ghosts didn't leave, though they did grow fainter, at the same time as the numbness in my shoulder faded. Mictlantecuhtli's gift, whatever it had been, was slowly returning to its maker. But it had accomplished its purpose.

A gift, keeper of the boundaries.

There was something wrong with the boundaries. Acamapichtli had said they were weaker; he had thought the plague had weakened them. I wasn't so sure. The hollow, nauseous feeling in my stomach – the one that was now slowly receding to bearable levels – was the same I'd had much earlier, when the army had returned, long before the plague was set loose.

There was something else, something we needed to work out with Ichtaca and the rest of the order.

I was munching on my tamales, enjoying the solidity of the maize sliding into my empty stomach – something firmly of the Fifth World, and not of Tlalocan or Mictlan – and slowly heading out of the palace, when someone grasped my shoulder. "Acatl."

If I hadn't been so bone-weary, I would have given a start. Nezahual-tzin moved within my field of vision. As usual, he was escorted by two Texcocan Knights, though he'd eschewed his regalia in favour of a more discreet cotton cloak and a simple headdress of mottled brown quail-feathers.

"Going round in disguise?" I asked.

His lips quirked up. "I could say the same thing about you."

I shrugged. If he wanted to make me angry, attacking my dress was hardly the best way.

"Your sister is waiting for you at the Duality House," Nezahualtzin said.

And I could guess she wouldn't be particularly happy. But I didn't want to say this to Nezahual-tzin – who was Revered Speaker of Texcoco, not my friend or equal. "Anything else I ought to know?"

Nezahual-tzin shrugged. We'd started walking towards the palace entrance, the two warriors following us. "I might have a lead on why Teomitl survived the sickness."

"A lead?" I said.

"I asked the stars," Nezahual-tzin said. It was probably literal, too – his patron god Quetzalcoatl was Lord of the Morning Star among His other aspects. "Magic flowed towards the Duality House that night."

"Hardly surprising," I said. With my healing, and our repeated attempts to heal Teomitl, the place must have been a riot of lights.

"Actually," Nezahual-tzin said, "it was Toci's magic."

That stopped me. "Grandmother Earth? Why would She–?" She was the Earth that fed the maize, that would take us back into Her bosom when the time came: an old, broken woman renewed with every offering of blood; a goddess born from the fragments of the Earth-Monster, eternally thirsting for human hearts and human sacrifices. And, in many ways, She was the opposite of the Southern Hummingbird, our protector deity: the incarnation of female fertility, the nurturing mother, whereas He was the virile, eternally young warrior. "Why would She want to heal Teomitl?" I asked.

"I don't know," Nezahual-tzin said. "But I intend to find out. It seemed to come from a house in the district of Zoquipan." His youthful face was that of an artisan, nibbling away at a massive block of limestone until the sculpture at its core was revealed. "Care to join me?"

I shook my head. "I have to get back to the Duality House." That, or Mihmatini was finally going to lose patience with me.

Nezahual-tzin didn't look particularly disappointed. He did, though, walk with me up to the Duality House, claiming it was for my own safety. I wasn't sure of his motivations, but I welcomed the company, for I was none too steady on my feet.

We parted ways amidst a crowd of pilgrims carrying worshipthorns and balls of grass stained with blood – ranging from gangly adolescents barely old enough to have seen the battlefield to old men walking with canes, wearing long cloaks to hide the scars they'd received in the wars.

"Oh, one other thing," Nezahual-tzin said.

I stopped, and painstakingly turned around. "What?"

"You might be interested to know you're not the only one to have disappeared recently."

Acamapichtli? "I'm not sure–"

Nezahual-tzin's face was utterly impassive. "No one has seen your student since yesterday. Officially speaking, of course."

Of course.

"And you?"

Nezahual-tzin shrugged, casually. "I haven't seen him, either. But I have it on good authority some of the warriors under his command have gone missing."

He'd almost died. He'd said it to me, attempted to warn me: that he couldn't wait any longer for the things he thought were due to him. For the Mexica Empire to flourish under good leadership, and of course Tizoc-tzin's leadership was anything but brilliant. But surely he couldn't mean to… he couldn't want to sink us back into a civil and magical war…?

"I did warn you," Nezahual-tzin said.

And he had; I didn't want to hear it any more now than I'd wanted to hear it back then. "Yes," I said. "Thank you." And I pushed my way into the crowd of the Sacred Precinct without looking back.

FIFTEEN

Corpses and Curses

Contrary to what Nezahual-tzin had told me, Mihmatini wasn't waiting for me at the Duality House.

Instead, I found people grouped in the courtyard: mothers with children on their backs, entire families from the grandmother to the young toddlers, and quite a few warriors, who presented their emotions as an odd mixture of terror and annoyance – as if they were aware they should not have been so afraid of the supernatural. There appeared to be no sick people, but I strongly suspected those were being herded away by the priests of the Duality.

After many enquiries, I finally managed to get hold of Yaotl, my sister's personal slave, who looked at me with his customary sneer and informed me that she'd left for the city, in order to take a look at some of the sick.

"And Teomitl?" I asked

"He left yesterday," Yaotl said, curtly. "A couple warriors came to pick him up."

Like the warriors who had removed their sandals? I didn't like this; I didn't like this at all.

I walked back to my temple in a thoughtful mood, but found it flooded as well, my priests barely able to deal with the flow of supplicants, and Ichtaca himself having taken refuge in the shrine atop the pyramid, looking pale and harried.

"Acatl-tzin! We thought–"

I raised a hand. "It's quite all right," I said, thinking I was making a speciality of running out on them. "I ran into someone, rather unexpectedly, and spent the night stuck in the palace grounds."

Ichtaca looked bewildered. "We looked for you after the riot, but we couldn't find you."

"I was in Tlalocan," I said, briefly – ignoring the awe which spread across his face. "Not my idea. Acamapichtli's."

"But Acamapichtli-tzin–"

I mentally ran through the necessary explanations, and gave up. "Look," I said. "I promise I'll explain everything, but right now there is something slightly more urgent. I think there is a problem with the boundaries."

Ichtaca looked as if he might protest, and then he took a look down into the overcrowded courtyard. "It could be," he said, slowly. "It would explain why so many people have turned up here. They speak of ghosts, and of odd portents…"

"The boundaries are weakened," I said.

"But the Revered Speaker–"

The Revered Speaker should have been protecting us against that, yes. "I don't know," I said. "But it's the only explanation that fits." I thought of Tizoc-tzin; of the stretched bones beneath the sallow skin; of the shadowed eye-sockets that might as well have been empty. A dead man walking in the Fifth World.

"Oh, gods," I said, aloud. "We did it."

We'd brought him back, crossing the boundary between life and death, and it had never closed properly. "It's something we did, with the spell to bring Tizoc-tzin back."

Ichtaca grimaced. He hadn't liked the story when I'd told it to him, but he'd had to bow down to my decision. To our decision. We had taken that as a group – as High Priests and equals, for once. "We don't have star-demons in the streets," he said.

"Because we have a Revered Speaker," I said. "The Fifth World is protected. But that doesn't mean things can't be wrong. Ghosts are hardly a menace."

I stopped, then – and thought of all the sorcerers we'd defeated – all the people who had died in our wars of the conquest, thirsting for revenge over the Mexica. I thought of how easy it was to call up a ghost and listen to their advice. No need to be a sorcerer frighteningly good at magic: our culprit merely needed to call on the right ghost.

Oh, gods. "I take it back. Ghosts can be a menace. A sorcerer advising someone…"

"Ghosts can't cast spells," Ichtaca pointed out.

"I know. But they can give the instructions, if you ask them the right questions." Oh gods. The living were quite enough to deal with; I didn't want to have to contend with the dead as well.

"Can you look into this?" I asked Ichtaca. "I need to know what exactly is wrong with the boundaries."

"You've stated it." He looked genuinely startled.

"I could be wrong." And I dared not, not on something this large. "I want to be sure."

He grimaced. "I know it's important, but–"

"There are other things, I know. You have to spread out the priests. I know you can do that."

"As you wish." He rose. "I was planning to direct the examinations of the bodies."

Ah, yes. The bodies. Finally, we had some time to examine them quietly, and to get a better idea of the nature of the sickness. "They're on an island in the Floating Gardens, if I remember correctly? I'll come with you," I said.

Ichtaca nodded, as if he hadn't expected anything less of me. It was a balm to my heart, in a time when my confidence was severely shaken.

Before we left, I took a moment to seek out the storehouse, and to help myself to a simple grey cloak, the one customarily worn by priests for the Dead as they walked through the streets of the city. I didn't look like a High Priest anymore, but at least I had lost the resemblance to a beggar mauled by a jaguar.

Ichtaca, of course, insisted I take the huge barge of the High Priest, with its highly-recognisable spider-and-owl design of Mitclantecuhtli, while he and the other priests sat in smaller reed crafts.

The priest with me was Ezamahual, the dour-faced peasants' son who always walked as if unbelievably blessed. He didn't speak as I carefully wedged myself into position within the barge – much harder than I'd thought possible, with my legs shaking.

He rowed in great, smooth gestures – a familiar rhythm for someone who had grown up at the river's edge – lulling me into a sleep that was almost restful… until I saw the first hints of ghosts trailing over the water.

The drowned, too, were rising up. This was more serious than a mere summoning from the underworld. Something was deeply wrong, and the gods knew it, from Mictlantecuhtli to Tlaloc.

And all, I suspected, because of us. It had to be – what else would cause such a massive disruption?

At the time, we'd thought it the lesser of two evils. The death of Tizoc-tzin, our newly designated Revered Speaker, had opened the gates wide to star-demons and their depredations. To name another Revered Speaker would have taken weeks – time we didn't have. Far better to seek the Southern Hummingbird's favour, and bring back Tizoc-tzin's body and soul from the heartland.

Except, it seemed, that it had solved nothing – merely sowed the seeds for further blood and fire in the Fifth World.

At this early hour, it made more sense to take one of the largest western canals, swinging under the Tlacopan causeway and continuing due south around Tenochtitlan. The houses of adobe became mud and wattle – with coloured roofs at first. Then even those went away, and the crowds heading to the marketplace thinned out, until we reached the Floating Gardens: a network of artificial islands used as fields for the planting of anything from maize to squashes. The farmers were up already, consolidating the ditches for irrigation and making sure the earth was well-watered in preparation for the planting of maize.

The island that hosted the bodies was visible from afar, if only for the whiffs of Mictlan's magic emanating from it, as dry and as stretched as desiccated corpses.

The boat touched the ground between two willow trees: we all disembarked, and waited for Ichtaca to lead the way.

He looked at me enquiringly – unwilling to break the rules. I suppressed a sigh and went towards the centre of the island, towards the greater concentration of Mictlan's magic. The bodies lay side by side in the hollow of a maize field, naked and bloated. The smell that wafted up to me nestled in the hollow of my stomach, strong enough to make me feel nauseous again. I might be used to handling corpses, but I'd never examined so many at the same time – and not in such a state. Thank the Duality it was the dry season now, and nowhere near as hot or as humid as it could get.

"If you'd do the honours…" Ichtaca said.

I didn't much feel like it, quite aside from my current weakness, but it would mean something to all of them, and especially to Ichtaca. With a sigh, I walked towards the bodies – cane in one hand, knife in the other.

The bodies lay on their backs in the mud of the Floating Garden, the willows at the edge of the island casting long, twisted shadows across their skins – and death, too, casting its own twisted shadows, in the form of blotches and bloated skins, all the signs of rot that we knew all too well.

Eptli's body was the worst: bloated and blue, barely recognisable as human. The others – the prisoner Zoquitl, Chipahua and his household – were not as bad. Chipahua and his companions in particular had the characteristic rigidity of the newly-dead, but their skins were dark rather than livid blue.

Before starting, I cast a quick spell of protection, calling on the power of the underworld to shield me. The noises of oars in the water receded, the peasants' tilling and digging became far away, and the sky itself became as grey as dust.

"Only here on earth, in the Fifth World

Shall the flowers last, shall the songs be bliss

Though it be feathers, though it be jade

It too must go to the region of the fleshless."

I crouched by Eptli's body – the most important for us – and considered. I had already examined it; I could cut into the flesh, releasing the noxious air contained within, but it was likely I wouldn't get anything more out of it, not without magic. It had decayed too much.

So, instead, I moved to Chipahua's body – setting the cane aside in the mud of the Floating Garden. He lay against the radiant blue of the sky, his eyes wide open, seeing nothing of the Fifth World, his scar crowded by the raised blisters on his entire face. They formed a faint pattern that would have been vaguely reminiscent of a mosaic, save that most of them had burst through the skin, bleeding into the body. His entire skin had turned dark and the whites of his eyes were now the red of blood. Blood had also pooled below the other orifices – nose and mouth and ears, eager to leave the body by whatever holes there might be.

The same pattern of burst blisters had also spread to his limbs, though they were more dense on the hands and feet than closer to the torso. Using the knife, I slashed at his tunic to reveal the body underneath: more burst blisters, and faint red spots covering the entire skin. I moved to the groin area, lifting the penis to have a better look – and its skin came away in clumps, as neatly as that of a flayed man, disintegrating like worn paper.

Breathe. He was dead; it wasn't as if anything worse could happen to him.

Breathe. I needed to–

With some difficulty, I focused on the corpse again, and looked at the penis and anus; both were flecked with dried blood.

I fought a surge of fresh nausea. I had seen many things, but not a corpse that looked as though every blood vessel had burst or decayed.

"Ichtaca?"

"Acatl-tzin?" He'd been waiting on the edge of the Floating Garden for me to finish my examination.

"There are a dozen bodies here," I said. "If you and the other priests don't start examining them, we'll still be here tonight."

Ichtaca nodded, and started pointing to priests, assigning them bodies. He crouched by Eptli's body – trust him to take the hardest one – and drew his own blade, thoughtfully.

I didn't stare for longer – whatever mystery there was, he would solve it, and I needed to focus my energies on the body I was currently examining.

The mundane examination didn't seem overly conclusive; time for other methods.

I rubbed at my earlobes, dislodging the scabs from the previous offerings. With the blood, I drew glyphs on the backs of my hands – "one" and "knife", the week that was ruled by Lord Death. As the blood dripped down towards the hungry earth under my feet, I started chanting.

"In the land of the fleshless, in the region of mystery

Where jade crumbles, where gold is crushed

Where all our songs, all our flowers come to an end."

The glyphs on the back of my hand grew uncomfortably warm, until I could have traced them with my eyes closed. The rest of the world, though, seemed to cool – until the tips of my fingers felt burnt and pinched, and even the light of the Fifth Sun seemed dimmer.

"In the land of the fleshless, in the region of mystery

In the house without windows, on the dais of bones

The house of dust, the house of the fleshless…"

A green, mouldy light spread outwards from the glyphs, playing on my skin and on that of the body, until we both seemed equally leeched of life, and the smell in the air was dry and faint, like old codices buried in the desert.

Bracing myself against the pain that would come, I lowered my hands over the corpse and felt the jolt as the symptoms crossed into my own body – the salty taste of an unfamiliar magic, and the sense of vastness as the blood vessels enlarged and disintegrated – and then, as the shadows around me grew larger and larger, everything else caught on, the throat, the stomach, the entrails, every single membrane in the body…

I came to with a start, almost tempted to feel my torso to check that I still had my major organs – but that was foolish, since the spell only granted me an impression of what the death had felt like, and I had known in advance it would be unpleasant. So, I had a better idea of how Chipahua had died, but not of how he had caught the disease.

Still… something was staring me in the face, and I was far too weary to make it out.

I looked around: most priests seemed engrossed in the preliminary examination of the bodies, but a few – including Ichtaca – had moved to similar spells.

Ichtaca. I looked again at Eptli's corpse, which was bloated and blue, but the skin wasn't dark, and there was no blood on the face. And he had died almost instantly.

I dragged myself to the corpse, and put my hands over the face.

This time, the rush of magic was far stronger; it came from my outstretched hands, coursing through my entire body until my saliva tasted like brackish, muddy water, and my whole body started itching and burning up, and I felt the blisters on my mouth and tongue, and the rush of the shadows, the images of the flailing limbs, of the dying bodies – and everything was disintegrating again, but it was my heart that gave out first, collapsing on itself with the dissolution of the major arteries and veins…

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?"

"Not in complimentary terms, no…" Her voice trailed off, and she looked at me. "Acatl."

Much as I wished to, I couldn't lie to her. "You know what he wanted, more than anything else; you heard him as well as me. He wants things now, not five or ten years into the future."

"But…"

I couldn't think of any comforting lies. "We need to find him."

"Be my guest," Mihmatini said with a touch of anger. "He's hidden himself well."

Leaving all of us exposed – and the Duality House to become the rallying point for the discontent. Oh, gods – when I caught the fool I was going to pinch his ribs, hard. "I hadn't come here for Teomitl, originally."

"He does have a way of taking over conversations even when absent," Mihmatini said, her voice expressionless and flat – like glass, a moment before it shattered. "What did you want?"

"Two things. The plague–"

Mihmatini snorted. "Quenami is in charge, and making a mess out of it. Then again, he doesn't listen to half the things I'm saying."

So – panicked, but still not smart enough to see my sister as talented. "He's a fool."

"I don't care." Mihmatini's voice was grim. "Whatever he is, he's failed at containing this. That's his biggest fault to me."

"It's bad, isn't it?" I asked, cautiously – though I already knew the answer.

"As bad as it can get. Yaotl probably told you it's starting to spread within Tenochtitlan."

The last thing we needed. "Yes." I said, carefully, "Some of my priests might come by, later. We have an idea for a cure."

Mihmatini's gaze snapped up sharply.

"I don't want to give you false hope," I said. "It's quite possible it won't work at all."

"It's still going to be better than whatever Quenami's come up with," Mihmatini snorted. "And what was the second thing you came for?"

It took me a moment to remember what she was talking about. "Oh. Xiloxoch."

"The courtesan?" Mihmatini gave it some thought.

"Teomitl said he was going to arrest her, remember?"

"I do." Mihmatini puffed her cheeks, thinking. "I haven't heard any news – wait." She rose, and pulled the entrance-curtain to her chambers open. "Yaotl!"

"Mistress?" Yaotl came in wearing his palace vestment – an elegant, richly embroidered cloak – and streaks of blue and black across his cheeks.

"Acatl wants to know what we have on Xiloxoch."

Yaotl looked startled. "Nothing that I know of." He thought, for a while. "She did make an accusation against Eptli."

"When?" I asked. I hadn't thought she'd had time to see the judges before Tizoc-tzin worked himself into a rage over the clergy of Tlaloc.

"Before the clergy of Tlaloc was hauled in. For all the good it did her… It was dismissed summarily, like all the cases that didn't concern Acamapichtli's clergy."

Mihmatini shook her head. "She's a wily one. Nezahual-tzin probably neglected to tell you she's been serving her goddess well."

Not surprising, though it was heartening to have a confirmation my suspicions were headed somewhere. "I presume she's been keeping an eye the interests of Xochiquetzal while the Quetzal Flower is in exile from Tenochtitlan."

"That's what my priests have confirmed, yes," Mihmatini said. The Duality House was also the centre of a network of spies and magicians, whose only goal was to safeguard the balance. Her predecessor, Ceyaxochitl, had used this to terrific effect. Clearly, Mihmatini was learning fast.

"And this means?"

"Now? Nothing much," Mihmatini said. "It looks as though she's just watching and waiting."

"But you don't think she's involved in the plague."

"I haven't said that."

"I see." I thought of the snapped quill again. I couldn't see why Xochiquetzal would ally Herself with Chalchiutlicue, but the evidence spoke against Xiloxoch. "I need to find her."

Yaotl shrugged. "Try the palace. She'll be there – too canny not to be."

"Where is she?"

"I don't know. I'd try the palace, if I were you. If she wants to keep an eye on the Flower Quetzal's interests, she'll have to be at the heart of things."

Not the first place I wanted to come back to, especially with the plague raging within its walls. But still… I didn't have much choice.

Ezamahual didn't leave my side as we walked out of the Duality House. I leant on the cane, grateful for its support – but the Southern Hummingbird strike me if I was going to accept help from one of my priests.

"I'm going inside the palace," I said to Ezamahual. "You might want to leave."

He looked at me as if I were mad. "It's not a safe place," I explained, feeling increasingly flustered.

His look was the patient one of a mother towards a wayward child. "You're High Priest, Acatl-tzin. I wouldn't dream of leaving you alone."

Great, so much for that.

I half-expected the guards to challenge us as we climbed the stairs towards the entrance, but they seemed more bored than busy, leaning on their obsidian-tipped spears while gazing at the sky, looking through us, half-expecting us to provide some distraction. But we both looked like ordinary priests for the Dead, on errands that could only be menial – nothing worth salvaging from that, no fun or currency to be had.

Inside, the palace seemed empty and forlorn, the usual crowds subdued and silent, hurrying from courtyard to courtyard without looking up. A few artisans crept by looking as if they were trying to make themselves forgotten about altogether, and the judges and clerks walking with codices under their arms didn't look much more reassured, either.

I directed us towards the part of the palace where the young warriors usually congregated, thinking to catch if not Xiloxoch, someone who would tell me where she was – or perhaps our wayward Teomitl, who would laugh and toss his head back, and assure me that Mihmatini and I were being foolish with our suspicions. He would make it all go away, like an image in a darkened obsidian mirror…

We reached a smaller courtyard, which doubled as an aviary: wooden cages with quetzal birds surrounded a fountain. The gurgle of the water mingled with the harsh cries of the birds, the glimmer of sunlight playing off against the iridescent sheen on their emerald tail-feathers.

A warrior stood in front of the fountain, gazing into the water. He had his back to us, but even so, I would have recognised him anywhere: that arrogant, casual tilt of the head, that falsely contemplative pose… except that it was all subtly wrong, distorted as through layers of water.

"My Lord?" I asked.

Nezahual-tzin didn't move.

"My Lord?" A little higher-pitched – and a little more desperate. I could have dealt with his usual sarcastic, careless remarks, but at this moment I might as well have been talking to a stone effigy. I moved to the other side of the fountain and met his gaze, which was slightly vacant, as if he weren't quite there. I extended my priest-senses – wincing at the effort. There was a slight trace of magic; a touch of something. Not sickly and spread out like underworld magic, but instead firm and strong, as unmoving as a rock or as the Heavens above us.

"It's all in the water," Nezahual-tzin said. The vacuous smile on his face was so uncharacteristic I wanted to shake it out of him. "Can't you see?"

"No."

He smiled – dazzling, mindless. "He's coming, Acatl. He's coming. Neither walls nor lines on the ground – neither rivers nor marshes were enough to hold him – not even a fisherman's net."

I didn't waste time asking who "he" was. Instead, I rubbed at the scabs on my earlobes until they came loose, and said a short prayer to Lord Death, asking Him to grant me true sight.

As I'd thought, Nezahual-tzin was saturated with the dark brown of Toci's touch – a veil that hung around him like the vapour of the sweatbath, billowing in the warm breeze, lazily unfurling deeper hues of brown; the smell of churned mud and dry, cracking earth, and in the distance, the faint cry of warriors fighting each other, for Grandmother Earth was also the Woman of Discord, She who brought on the wars we needed to survive.

What had happened to him?

He was still staring into the water, his grey eyes – a feature I'd always found uncanny – even more distant than usual, as if the fountain held the answers he'd always wanted. He was at rest, in a relaxed, non-threatening way that made my skin crawl. And where were his warriors – where was the escort, suitable for a Revered Speaker of the Triple Alliance…?

My gaze, roaming, found his hands – and the familiar, trembling haze of freshly-shed lifeblood. "They're dead," I said aloud. "Your warriors. Aren't they? Killed to cast the spell."

For a long, agonising moment, I thought he wasn't going to answer, but then, he looked up at me, his face cast into an expressionless mask once again – almost like the Nezahual-tzin of old. "Opened up like poinsettia flowers. Such speed and efficiency. One wouldn't think she'd be so fast…" His voice trailed off, and his gaze went down, towards the water.

She? Was it the same old woman who had visited Teomitl so often? What part did she play in this, other than seemingly ensorcelling two of the most important men in the Triple Alliance?

"Acatl-tzin," Ezamahual said. "What shall we do?"

I cast a glance around the courtyard. It was deserted, well away from the usual rush of people within the palace. But still…

His own people would probably know what to do with him, but they'd all be in the official residence of the Revered Speaker of Texcoco – literally next door to our own Revered Speaker's apartments, high on the list of places to avoid in the palace. Still… He'd been helpful, if only in his usual, cryptic fashion, and my conscience balked at the idea of just leaving him here.

"Let's bring you home," I said to Nezahual-tzin. "Someone there will probably have a better idea of what to do."

We all but had to drag him away from the fountain, but once we were away from the water he relaxed in our grasp and seemed to follow us – more, I suspected, because he had nowhere else to go than out of any desire on his part.

"What's wrong with him?" Ezamahual asked.

"It's obviously a spell," I said, curtly. "But I have no idea how to dispel it." And, more importantly of where and how he had managed to get it cast on himself. What was its purpose? Simply to prevent Nezahual-tzin from tracking the mysterious summoner of Toci's magic? Did his pronouncements make sense, or were they just part of the delirium of the spell?

I didn't like any of this – then again, it wasn't as if the previous days had been particularly relaxing or likeable.

The Revered Speaker's chambers were in a large courtyard, on the first floor of a building which also hosted the war council, the council of officials that had elected him and that oversaw most of the daily life of Tenochtitlan, from religious worship to problems of architecture and city layout. On the first floor, three entrancecurtains marked the rooms of the Revered Speakers of Tlacopan, Texcoco and Tenochtitlan. The platform was overcrowded by warriors, and the general atmosphere was tense – none of the She-Snake's black-clad guards could be seen anywhere, and the warriors appeared to be arguing among themselves. In the courtyard, the crowd seemed to be dispatched in small groups, talking among themselves in hushed voices, throwing us harsh glances as we passed them by. The atmosphere was tense, as taut as a rope about to fray.

We made our way upstairs without being challenged. Nezahualtzin drew a few passing glances, but no one seemed to know his face well enough, or at least they considered him not important enough. His gaze kept roaming – caught by the jade-coloured cloak of a veteran warrior, by the darkening blue of the sky above us, the smoke of copal incense hanging in the air, almost intense enough to be frightening.

There were two warriors on guard at the entrance-curtain of Nezahual-tzin's rooms; they only took a look at us and waved us through.

Inside, the chambers were as I remembered them: colourful frescoes of Quetzalcoatl the Feathered Serpent, depicting His descent into the underworld, the founding of His city of Tollan, and His departure onto the Eastern Sea on a raft of snakes – everything obscured by the potent haze of copal incense mixed with herbs and spices, a mixture that always made my head spin. I suspected Nezahual-tzin used it for entering divine trances, and wouldn't have been surprised to learn it had teonanacatl and peyotl mixed in – two hallucinogenic widely used by most priesthoods, but frowned upon by my own. One did not need trances or dreams to be reminded of the reality of death.

The low-backed chair – Nezahual-tzin's throne – was empty, the jaguar pelts on the dais meticulously cleaned by the slaves, who scattered away from us as we went deeper into the room.

Nezahual-tzin's breath had quickened; around him, something glimmered – the shadow of a great snake, slowly unfolding through my and Ezamahual's body, maw wide open, the feathers of its collar slowly gaining substance as we got nearer to the throne. The air was as thick as tar – tense, not with human intrigue, but with the growing presence of a god in the Fifth World.

Nezahual-tzin had gone completely limp, his eyes closed, lolling in our grip, much heavier than I'd thought possible. The snake came streaming out of his mouth, rearing its head through Nezahual-tzin's boyish face – the scales mingling with the skin, the feathers becoming the feather headdress at his nape, yet somehow larger and more defined. The only sound we could hear was Nezahual-tzin's quickening breath – far too fast for anything mortal.

The god Quetzalcoatl was trying to help his agent somehow; the one thing I did know was that we couldn't afford to be there when it happened. The Feathered Serpent might be the most compassionate of all the gods, but he was still a god – disinclined to take mortal frailty into account, especially when in a rush to dispel another god's interference.

I gestured for Ezamahual to hurry – we crossed the last few steps to the dais in what seemed an eternity, and dropped more than deposited Nezahual-tzin in his chair. Then we withdrew as fast as possible.

For a few moments, it seemed as though nothing would happen. The snake continued to solidify, somewhat haphazardly – lidless eyes taking the place of Nezahual-tzin's grey ones; fangs appearing within the maw, as white as pearls fished from the depths. And then it reared up – not leaving the confines of Nezahual-tzin's body as I'd thought it would, but instead jerking the body upwards like a children's doll – there was a distinct crunch made by bones cracking, and Nezahual-tzin's head bent backwards at an angle that should have been impossible to maintain for a live human being. His eyes opened – and they were white, opalescent as a distant star, and his mouth was peppered with fangs, glistening with venom, the feathers of his headdress flaring outwards like a flower blossoming. He screamed, arms flailing and then falling down abruptly, released from the pressure that had held them – and then he crumpled like a rag on the dais, the snake fading away to nothingness.

I let out a breath I hadn't even been aware of holding. "My Lord?"

His breath again, loud, ragged. Gently, slowly, he pulled himself upright, his face paler than usual, but regaining colour with every passing moment until it was once more the dark of cacao beans. His eyes narrowed, the vulnerability gone in a moment, dispelled by a supreme effort of will. "Acatl. I see."

I didn't think he did. Ezamahual and I had both witnessed his weakness, and no amount of pretence would remove that fact. "Can you tell us what happened?"

Nezahual-tzin grimaced. "Not in so many words, no."

"You were in trance in front of a fountain," I pointed out. I glanced at Ezamahual; he had thrown himself facedown on the ground. Oh, gods, I should have remembered – Ezamahual was peasant through and through, and he'd walked with enough reticence through the palace. "Ezamahual, get up," I said.

"He's Revered Speaker…"

"And you're a priest of the Mexica. You don't answer to him."

"Not quite, but as a ruler of the Triple Alliance, I do appreciate the respect," Nezahual-tzin said. I threw him a warning glance strong enough to sear the feathers of his headdress, and he smiled back at me. "But Acatl is right. We can't possibly have any kind of conversation with you lying flat on the floor. Also, you did carry me from the fountain." He paused on "fountain", looking at me again, expecting further explanation.

I shrugged. "I don't have much to add. I met you earlier in the palace and you wanted to track down the user of Toci's magic."

"I remember that." Nezahual-tzin's voice was considered. "Not senile yet, you know. Quite the reverse, in fact."

As befitted a devotee of the Feathered Serpent, god of Wisdom and Knowledge. I doubted he'd ever have many memory problems. But, if another goddess had interfered…

"You lost two warriors," I said. "I suspect they were sacrificed to put the spell on you."

"I see." He raised his hands, looked at them in the light. His face had gone hard. "And what are you doing in the palace?"

"Looking for Xiloxoch," I said, as bluntly as he'd asked. "And for Teomitl."

"You'll have gathered there are better places to be, in the current context."

I would have pointed out that he'd stayed within – but of course he was Quetzalcoatl's agent, and probably immune to the plague altogether. "My sister told me Xiloxoch would be in the palace, but I couldn't find her."

"I'm not surprised." Nezahual-tzin's voice was curt. "I can enquire after her."

I shook my head. I'd already stumbled up the stairs of Tizoc-tzin's private chambers with the Revered Speaker of Texcoco – a man I'd been accused of collusion with a few months before. The last thing I needed in this time of paranoia was more fuel for that particular accusation to surface again.

Though it might be too late for that. "Don't bother," I said. "We'll find her ourselves, if she's in the palace."

Nezahual-tzin frowned. "I dislike unpaid debts."

Which might or might not be true; I didn't know him well enough to say. He probably had an interest in investigating all of this, though I couldn't why – and we wouldn't find out until it suited him to reveal his intentions. "Well," I said – half-suspecting I would end up regretting this, "you can look for Teomitl."

Nezahual-tzin's grimace was almost comical – but then what he was saying sank in. "I can't involve myself with this."

"Why not?"

His gaze was level. "You know why, Acatl. I gave fair hints, but I can't do more. Tizoc-tzin is Revered Speaker of the Mexica, my peer in the Triple Alliance. What I think of him – doesn't play a part."

"You're not saying–"

"I'm saying what we all know. Teomitl has always been frustrated by his brother's behaviour. I wouldn't blame him for attempting to displace him, but I can't condone the attempt."

"I can't either," I said. "I want him stopped before this foolishness takes its course." I wasn't even sure if that was the reason he had disappeared; if my worst fears were true and he had finally set himself irrevocably on this – at odds with the safety of the Fifth World – and with me. I–

"As I said–" Nezahual-tzin shook his head. "I can't take part in this."

Because – because, when and if the dust settled, and we had a new Revered Speaker, he needed to have remained neutral in order to ingratiate himself to whoever it turned out to be. "You have neither face nor heart." The words – the insult – were out of my mouth before I could think.

Nezahual-tzin watched me, and said nothing. "Will that be all?"

Why had I ever thought he could help in anything? I bowed, sarcastically, before my temper could fray any further. "That will be all, my Lord."

I was so annoyed by the conversation with Nezahual-tzin that we went through several courtyards before I became aware the world was swimming again around me.

Oh no, not again. What was wrong with me? This time, Lord Death hadn't touched me, and there were no shadows nearby.

And yet… I had the same hollow in my stomach, the same slight sense of nausea, as if the Fifth World would tear itself apart at any moment – as if we danced on the brink of the abyss, unaware that the slightest step out of place would send us all tumbling down into darkness.

Ezamahual seemed unconcerned – in all likelihood, he wasn't sensitive enough; he hadn't been there last year atop the Great Temple, when the hole in the Fifth World had gaped open, and I'd almost collapsed.

But why here, of all places?

Xiloxoch was not among the young warriors laughing and lounging near the steambaths. For that matter, neither was Teomitl, though the startled looks I got when asking about them looked slightly too guilty for my own peace of mind.

One warrior, though, remembered Xiloxoch had come by, and had walked off in the direction of the prisoners' quarters – which was a better lead than no lead at all.

As we walked back to the prisoners' quarters, leaving behind the bustle of the various courts, the sense of oppression didn't diminish. If anything, it became worse, pressing against my chest, making the air in my lungs sear. I felt as if my skin were sloughing off, coming away in flakes and whole pieces, and there was a vague sense of something, just beyond the borders of my perception – something huge and unspeakable that would swoop in at any moment, taking me with it.

"Ezamahual?" I asked through gritted teeth.

His face swam out of the darkness, eyes wide open in concern. "Is something wrong, Acatl-tzin?"

Yes. No. Why was I the only one to feel this? "Yes. I need – to – stop for a while."

I staggered into the nearest courtyard – which was next to the book-house and, at this late hour of the day, filled only with a few astronomers, staring thoughtfully at papers laid on the ground.

"Forgive my imprudence," I said to the one who seemed the eldest – a wizened old man who was tracing glyphs within the grid of a calendar. "I need to cast a spell." Even the cane felt heavy in my hand. "It's – somewhat pressing."

He looked up at me. "To Lord Death?" I nodded. "Just do it away from the book-house, will you?"

We walked away from the book-house, to a relatively quiet part of the courtyard. One of the astronomers got up, throwing me a sympathetic glance, and went to sit closer to his companion.

I laid the cane aside for the spell; to my surprise, I could stand well enough without it, with barely a tremor in my legs. Then I slashed my earlobes with my obsidian knife, and carefully drew a circle on the ground in my own blood, calling on Lord Death to bless this place – where my blood met the ground, the stone hissed like a scalded jaguar – the magic of Mictlantecuhtli Lord Death meeting that of the Southern Hummingbird.

"Only here on earth, in the Fifth World

Shall the flowers last, shall the songs be bliss

Though it be feathers, though it be jade

It too must go to the region of the fleshless…"

Silence seemed to spread from within the circle, along with a green, sickly light which oozed from beneath the ground, like sulphur from the cracks of a volcano. And when it touched me – when it wrapped itself around me, cocooning me in a magic as familiar as my own blood, my own skin – I breathed in a sigh of relief.

We set out from the courtyard. I was still leaning on the cane for support, but I found it much easier to breathe. The familiar magic of the underworld wrapped around me, as intoxicating as peyotl or teonanacatl – stretched, dry emptiness I'd known all my life, the hollow taste of grief, the sharp tang of our own mortality, a gulf in my stomach.

Even so, the pressure remained: a thickening of the air, a slight buzzing in my ears that got worse as we approached the prisoners' quarters.

Within, the atmosphere – reverent, distant – remained the same; the prisoners watched us warily, as if our mere presence was enough to shatter the peace. One of them was playing the flute, a simple, haunting sound which climbed higher and higher like a cry of devotion.

All of this lasted for no more than a handful of breaths – and then the piece was shattered by loud voices. A man and a woman – the woman was Xiloxoch, but I couldn't place the second voice, though I knew I'd heard it before. They both came from within a building – in fact, the very building that had hosted the unfortunate Zoquitl; the conversation sounded… animated, to say the least.

"I know my rights." Xiloxoch's voice was low and almost toneless. "You should go away."

"And why would I do that?" The man's voice whipped through the air like a sword's blade.

If there was an answer, I didn't wait to hear it. I flung open the entrance-curtain with as much force as I could muster – gods, I hated melodramatic entrances, but I had to concede they weren't without effect.

They both turned, then, to look at me. One, as I had known, was Xiloxoch, wearing a drab tunic and skirt like a demure housewife; the other was Pochtic – Master of the House of Darkness, his face still swathed in bandages, his skin sallow against the vibrant colours of his feather headdress.

"Well, well." His voice was deeply mocking. "Our High Priest for the Dead. You're too late; they've taken the corpse away."

"I was aware of that," I said, but didn't elaborate. "What are you doing here?"

Xiloxoch shook her head. "I know my rights," she said, again. In her hands was a golden trinket, shaped in the likeliness of the Fifth Sun.

The things of the dead man: taken by the courtesan who had ministered to him and thus customary for sacrifices. "Only if you slept with him," I said. "Did you?"

"I brought him comfort," Xiloxoch said. Her hands tightened around the trinket. What was so important about it?

And, more pressingly, what was Pochtic doing here? "The work of the Master of the House of Darkness," I said, very slowly, "doesn't include the care of prisoners."

Pochtic threw me a pitying glance. "A prisoner died, and both I and Coatl were attacked."

"Coatl is ill," I said, slowly. "It's not quite the same."

"He's right." Xiloxoch's voice was malicious – the trickster, closing people's eyes with burning coals, stirring up filth and ashes. "You shouldn't be here. Neither you nor Coatl." She spat the word. "Not after what you did."

"I can't speak for Coatl, but you're mistaken–"

"Am I?" Xiloxoch opened her hands, angling them so that the light coming in through the entrance curtain glimmered on the gold, so that, for a moment, everything shone as yellow as the Fifth Sun. "Gold and jade; precious stones, precious stones. Was that all it took, my Lord?"

Pochtic's bandages shifted; his lips tightened in pain. "You will not speak to me like this."

"Why not?" Her voice was mocking. "Will you call me a whore and despise me, like they all do? I am a priestess, too." She threw her head back, her long hair shifting like a cascade of crows' feathers; for a moment, she was bathed in a warm, pulsing radiance that wasn't hers – something that smelled of the jungle, humid and primal, the odour of churned earth, of rutting beasts, and of jaguars slithering in the shadows, just out of sight.

Even through the bandages, I saw Pochtic's eyes narrow. "Your – goddess–" he spoke the term as if it were an insult "doesn't frighten me."

Xiloxoch smiled, licking her lips, her teeth wide, and as black as obsidian. "Pity. Try another god, then. Itztlacoliuhqui."

The Curved Point of Obsidian, god of frost and ice, and of blind justice – of victims lashing out in pain, back at their tormentors. "You have nothing," Pochtic said. He brushed off some invisible dust from his clothes, and walked out without a word for either of us.

Xiloxoch spat on the ground. "As wily as a beast."

I watched Pochtic back – remembered the tense set of his hands, the false assurance in his voice. He might have been no better than an animal, as uncultivated as fallow fields, following the roads of the deer and the rabbit, but he was something else, too: scared.

Because of the plague? But he had not been among its victims. And why come here, to see the prisoners? Was he hoping to find an explanation into deaths that shouldn't have been concerning him?

Huitzilpochtli strike me down, why was everyone running scared?

"I need to talk to you," I said to Xiloxoch.

She sighed, raising her eyebrows as if it were a performance within her temple. "If you must."

I opened my hand – the one that wasn't clenched around the cane – to reveal the twisted feather stem, still wrapped in a cotton cloth.

Xiloxoch looked at the feather for a while. Her face was expressionless – remote, as distant as if she were the goddess herself. "What of it?"

"You know what this is."

She shrugged. "Not in so many words."

"Then you're a liar," I said. "Because I knew what this was as soon as I saw it, and I'm not that knowledgeable."

Xiloxoch's lips turned downwards, a small, dainty grimace. "Fine. It's a broken feather stem, like the ones that hold gold dust. It was used as the vector for a spell."

"And you had nothing to do with this?" I asked.

"Why should I have anything to do with it?"

"Money. Bribes. What Eptli gave to the judges. It would have been poetic, wouldn't it, if he had died by touching tainted money? Worthy of flowers and songs, all the way to the underworld."

Xiloxoch's face shifted – reducing itself to a single, powerful emotion that was gone in an instant. Anger, or fear? "I can tell you what I see, not how to interpret it."

Still evading me? "I need interpretations," I said, dryly. "That's what we thrive on. For instance, tell me what kind of illness would kill Eptli and Zoquitl – and then spread to all our warriors?"

"You're mistaken."

"I see," I said. "You protect your goddess's interests, but I don't know what She wants."

Xiloxoch's lips were curled in anger. "I can swear this to you: I have nothing to do with this."

"As Pochtic had nothing to do with the bribe."

That, if nothing else did, went straight to her guts. "Pochtic is an arrogant fool, and one day he'll get what he deserves."

Not while Tizoc-tzin was Revered Speaker. Something of what I thought must have shown on my face, for Xiloxoch said, "Tizoctzin isn't eternal."

I surely hoped so – no one was, even those returned from the world of the gods – but… I watched her face, the carefully blank expression. Something wasn't quite right. "Are you saying he's vulnerable to the plague, like everyone else?"

Her eyes narrowed – a fraction too long – before she shook her head. "Just that he's mortal, like the rest of us. You, of all people, should know."

I did know – all too well. But that wasn't the point. She'd said that he wasn't eternal with a definite tone – as if Tizoc-tzin's death were weeks or days away, not years ahead of us.

As if… "Where is Teomitl?" I asked. The words were out of my mouth before I could stop them.

Xiloxoch shook her head. "Teomitl? I don't know, Acatl-tzin. I haven't seen him since the tribunal." And her voice sounded utterly sincere – curious, even, I could see her mind working, wondering how she could take the best advantage of this.

"You haven't," I said, flatly. Then who had Teomitl teamed up with? What in the gods' name did he think he was doing?

Xiloxoch smiled. "No. Did you have any other questions, Acatl-tzin?"

I didn't. I toyed with seizing her, there and then, but whatever was going on was obviously bigger than a single courtesan; if I'd started to arrest everyone who seemed to have a connection with the plague, I'd never have stopped.

"Till we meet again." Her voice was low, mocking, as she walked away.

I stood for a while, breathing in the atmosphere of the courtyard, which was as thick as tar, and filled my lungs with hot, dusty wind. The feeling of being observed and weighed had diminished, but only because I was protected. Something – something was wrong here. And either Xiloxoch or Pochtic – or both – had known it.

I walked among the prisoners until I found Cuixtli, the Mextitlan man who had given us Xiloxoch's name. He was sitting cross-legged on the ground, in an attitude of meditation, hands outstretched, eyes open but looking at nothing in the Fifth World.

Cuixtli didn't look up as I approached, but when my skin brushed a little too close to him, the magic of my protections hissed like a snake about to strike, and Cuixtli shook his head, annoyed. His eyes slowly focused on me. "Priest."

"I have this privilege, yes."

"Why are you here?" Cuixtli unfolded his lanky body, and stood, looking up at the sky. The Fifth Sun had set, and only a glimmer of His light remained in the world; in the courtyard, servants moved to light up the braziers, filling the air with the scent of smoke. "Why are any of you here?"

I shrugged. "We're trying to help you. Find out what's going on."

His smile was pitying. "You help yourself, priest. I – or the others for that matter – have no interest in solving mysteries."

Of course not – to one who would be with the Fifth Sun soon, honoured as a god, why should any of the Fifth World matter? "I'm not sure," I said, slowly. "Something is wrong in this courtyard, You might not be safe here."

"Do Mexica not respect those who offer their lives?"

"I don't know." As Teomitl had said, they were the worthiest men – the ones selfless and brave enough to give their lives for the continuation of the Fifth World. And yet – yet they were captured foreigners, not from Tenochtitlan, not even from Tlatelolco. Many would see them as nothing more than tools, faceless sacrifices, living witnesses to the greatness and glory of the Mexica Empire. "The Duality curse me, I don't know. Why were they here, Cuixtli?"

His face was contemplative. "The official and the courtesan?" He pursed his lips. "Much for the same reason, I should imagine."

"What, to gather Zoquitl's things?"

"The official obsessively searched every corner of this courtyard for something he wouldn't name. But I think he was checking spells."

Spells. Spells to do what? "What do you mean?" I asked, as a fist of ice tightened around my heart.

"You are High Priest, are you not? One of the three who determine the destiny of your Empire, of your Alliance."

If only. "Perhaps."

"Then you should see it." He rose, fluid and silent, almost inhuman, like a bird gliding through the air – and before I could stop him he had laid his hand on mine, at the level of the scars from my blood offerings. When he touched me, they pulsed, and my skin crinkled and reddened like copper in the fire. But there was no pain. Only a distant hiss in my ears, and then the sense of the world falling away from me, as I stood high above the earth, held by some impossibly distant star, except I hadn't moved, I was still standing in the courtyard, still looking at the adobe walls with their rich frescoes, the gods shifting and turning until even I could no longer recognise them – their coloured faces merging with one another's, the rich backgrounds running like raindrops until the walls were once more blank, leaving nothing but a couple of glyphs, stark red against the paleness of the adobe.

A pyramid temple, with flames coming out of its shrine; a slave's wooden collar and paper clothes; a heart struck in four bleeding pieces…

May your reign not last: may the cities you hold fall one after the other. May everything you start turn against you, wither into dust, into filth. May you be left without faces or hearts, thrown in the mud with the god's shackles weighing you down…

And it all shone green, the green of algae, of jade – the same light that filled Teomitl's eyes from corner to corner when he got angry.

Jade Skirt's magic.

My hand hadn't left the cane; but I held it so tight my fingers hurt. "How long has that been in the courtyard?"

Cuixtli shrugged. "I don't know."

"But you could see it."

"No." He smiled. "I can see you, priest. I can see the way the magic pushes against you, looking for another way in. It's touched you before, hasn't it?"

The plague. The night of fever, the squirming bodies pressed against mine – the pain like nails scraping corn from my belly. "I'm not entirely sure I see what you mean." What was I doing, taking advice from a foreign warrior – one of our sworn enemies?

No. I was being ridiculous. That he was a warrior or a foreigner had ceased to matter: days before his sacrifice, he stood above us, below us – closer to the world of the gods than any priest or sorcerer.

I walked, slowly, painfully to the walls, ran my hands on them – felt the magic deep within, quivering with anger and rage, like waves in a stormy lake – felt it shiver at my touch as though it recognised me – like a jaguar scenting a wounded prey. "And you think they were here for the spells."

Cuixtli didn't answer for a while. "The official was clearly looking for them, though they didn't affect him as badly as they did you."

Spells of rage and anger, to unseat the Mexica Empire – to unseat Tizoc-tzin. Who hated us enough for this?

Xiloxoch, or Yayauhqui. I didn't think Itamatl had had enough rage in him for this.

"And the courtesan?" Cuixtli had disapproved of Xiloxoch.

"I don't know. She might just be what she seems, picking up Zoquitl's things."

"But–?" I asked, hearing the scepticism in his voice.

Cuixtli shrugged. "She brims with magic, too – and she's far too curious."

I nodded. "Do you think she has something to do with the spell?"

Cuixtli's hands pointed, briefly, towards the wall. "I don't know. Whoever drew this is angry. They want justice."

Justice for what? For the Empire? For Eptli's transgression? The Duality take me, I had even fewer answers than before.

SIXTEEN

The Gates of the Fifth World

On the way out of the palace, I met Yayauhqui, the Tlatelolcan merchant. He was at the head of a group of similarly-clad men, carrying heavy baskets bulging with clothes.

"Acatl-tzin, what a surprise."

I wasn't altogether sure it was a coincidence; I was uncomfortably reminded of Nezahual-tzin's warnings about the Tlatelolcans. "What are you doing here?"

Yayauhqui shrugged. "Paying tribute."

"I didn't know you did that."

"Ordinarily, no. But our governor has had… an accident."

"What kind of accident?"

Yayauhqui gestured at the palace. "The same kind of incident you have within, I'd guess. He's very ill."

That didn't seem to fit in with the Tlatelolcan plot – unless they were punishing the governor for collaborating with the Mexica? "You know more about this than you're telling us."

Yayauhqui looked surprised. "No. Why would I?"

"I'm told you were far more than an ordinary warrior of Tlatelolco."

Yayauhqui's face didn't move, save for a slight tightening around the eyes – it was uncanny to see the amount of control he could exert on his own emotions; or, rather, the effort it took him to display any strong feeling. "What if I was?"

"You were of imperial blood," I said, slowly. "And your own family was cast down."

His lips quirked up in a smile. "My family had given up on me long before that, Acatl-tzin. Any branch that bore no flower was pruned at the roots."

"And you'll still pretend to me Tlatelolco's defeat meant nothing to you?"

Yayauhqui's face did not move. "Of course not. I've already told you what I think about that. But, really, what does it change whether I was of imperial blood or not? Do you think it's no less the city of merchants and peasants than it was that of the Imperial Family?"

My own parents had been the first to praise the wars we waged – and to feel proud of what our warriors achieved. "You're right," I said, slowly. "But still – you had more of a stake in the existence of Tlatelolco as an independent city-state."

Yayauhqui shrugged. "We can argue politics for a while, but we'd both be bored."

As usual, his perception of his opponent bordered on the uncanny. "Humour me," I said.

"What do you want to know? Personally, I think Moquihuix-tzin was a fool." He must have seen the shock on my face, for he laughed. "He wasn't my brother or my uncle; just a distant cousin. And yes, most of us knew, or suspected what he was up to."

"Which was? "

"The plot." He snorted. "Moquihuix truly loved his city, and I can't blame him for that. But he always had delusions of grandeur – wanting to make us bigger than we could bear. In many ways, he was thinking too much like a Tenochca."

I didn't react to the jab against us. Not that I approved of delusions of grandeur, in any case. "And he failed."

"As I said." Yayauhqui shrugged. "He wanted us to take our place in the Triple Alliance, rather than remain subservient to you."

"And you didn't approve?"

"No, it was a great idea," Yayauhqui said. "But, as I said, it required planning, and strategy, and careful political manoeuvring. Moquihuix planned well, but he counted too much on people's loyalty – thinking everyone loved his city as he did. And he never ;really stopped to consider that the smallest thing could trip him up."

"His wife?" I said.

He shrugged. "It's old history, but she was no fool. Any man could have seen that, but Moquihuix was too wrapped up in his plans for the future. He had… a presence, something that made people agree with him regardless of what he said; he relied too much on that. You cannot influence people all the time. He saw us at the head of the Triple Alliance, raking in the tribute that went to Tenochtitlan. And of course, he never did listen to anyone who dared to tell him otherwise." His lips quirked up. "I'm afraid I made a poor warrior, Acatl-tzin. I fought for my city, but not for my ruler."

Other people had done the same – were doing the same. But I didn't say so – didn't dare to acknowledge this. "It doesn't change–"

"No, we're agreed." His gaze was almost mocking. "It doesn't change anything. You should recognise that."

But I still couldn't quite resign myself to the idea.

"I'll have payment for Tlatelolco, Acatl-tzin. But not upon mortals: upon the god who betrayed me."

"That's–"

"Blasphemy? Do you truly think I care?" He grimaced. "What can They do to me, that hasn't already been done?" His companions were carrying the baskets into the palace, under the wary eyes of guards.

He looked intense and driven, but not, it seemed, by what preoccupied us all. Still… still, I didn't like the thought of him loose. "Can you stay around the palace for a bit?"

His gaze was withering. "Until you've found out who causes the plague?"

"I can ask more forcefully."

"I have no doubt you can." He sounded almost placid. "Fine, for a bit. I'll be in the merchants' quarters."

And he walked away, humming a song under his breath. I wasn't sure whether I'd successfully confined him, or merely given him a pretext to install himself in the palace.

• • • •

Ezamahual – who had been silent during the entire conversation – insisted on accompanying me all the way to my house, uncomfortably reminding me of the way Teomitl had nagged at me to get some rest.

In truth, the last thing I wanted to do was rest. Thoughts chased one another in the confines of my mind, each one more panicked and incoherent than the rest. And when sleep finally came, I saw again Teomitl pooling his craft through the canals of Chalchiuhtlicue's country, and heard the hymn of the Blessed Drowned.

"In Tlalocan, the verdant house,

The dead men play at balls, they cast the reeds

Go forth, go forth to the place of many clouds

To where the thick mists mark the Blessed Land…"

I woke up. The sky was still dark, but I couldn't sleep anymore. My back ached like that of an old woman, and I fought a twinge of pain when I hauled myself to my feet. The Fifth Sun wasn't yet up, but I nevertheless offered Him my blood, to sustain Him in His fight against the darkness, singing a low hymn under my breath.

I got up, and dressed, finding by touch my wicker chest of clothes, and the spare grey cloak with owls that would mark me as High Priest for the Dead – and the mask lying on the ground after I'd discarded on the previous night. I left the mask hanging on my waist – tying it with a piece of rope – and set out into the Sacred Precinct.

At this hour of the night, all but the most dedicated of pilgrims had left – though torches and braziers still lit up the night, showing the way for the novice priests running around the Serpent Wall. Ahead, on the shadowy mass of the Great Temple, sacrifices were still tumbling down, with the familiar thud of dead bodies coming to rest on the stone at the bottom of the steps. The smell of copal incense hung heavy in the air – and it seemed that everything was right with the world.

If only.

I made my way to my temple, which – of course – wasn't deserted, even this early: further supplicants had come, and offering priests stood in the courtyard, coaxing them into entering one of the examination rooms so they could have a quieter conversation. The pilgrims' faces were taut with fear, their bearing subdued, deliberately muted in order not to draw attention to themselves. I had never been so glad of my grey cloak, which disguised my identity as High Priest: a few of the more adventurous tried to seize me as I moved towards the centre of the courtyard, but I managed to gently direct them towards more available priests.

I repaired to one of the smaller examination rooms, which was currently unused – no bringing the sickness into our own temple. Powdered dust lay thick on the altar, and the image of Mictlantecuhtli looked at me – hollow-eyed, and yet somehow drawing all the light to Himself. My shoulder itched, where He had touched me.

A gift, keeper of the boundaries.

He didn't grant favours, or magic; didn't choose an agent in the Fifth World, or play the power games of the other gods.

And yet… and yet, knowing I was under His gaze was comforting – He was there, waiting for us to come down to Him in the end. He would always be there, and He would never judge, or strike at the unworthy.

"My Lord," I said, aloud. "Thank You."

There was no answer, but I felt a little better after that.

I climbed to the shrine atop the pyramid temple – where, to my surprise, I found Ichtaca still there, sitting behind one of the pillars with the registers of the temple on his knees, staring at the coloured glyphs on the maguey paper as if he could coax them into speaking. He rose, hastily, when my cane scraped on the floor. "Acatl-tzin."

"Did you stay up all night?" I asked.

He shook his head. "I couldn't sleep."

"You and me both," I said, sombrely. "Something is going on in the palace, on top of everything else." I explained, briefly, what I'd felt in the courtyard of the prisoners' quarters.

When I was done, Ichtaca's face was grave. "Those are serious matters."

"I know," I said. The Duality curse me, I knew all too well. "I guess you must have news."

Ichtaca grimaced. "In many areas, yes. If we start by the smallest – I sent a couple of offering priests to the Duality House, to see if we could heal the sick."

"And?"

"I don't know. They haven't come back. I suppose it's a good thing."

"I suppose so."

"And the rest?"

He wouldn't look at me. "I haven't gone very far, but I think you're right about the boundaries. They're weakened."

"And am I right about the causes?" I asked, even though I already suspected the answer.

Ichtaca didn't answer for a while.

"Ichtaca, it's past time for respect. If it's my fault, I'd rather hear it now, than have you not say anything out of respect. That helps no one."

He sighed. "It is as you said. There is a dead man among the living. This creates a hole."

"But not what we had last year."

"There is a Revered Speaker," Ichtaca said. "He keeps us safe from star-demons. But his very existence…"

It reminded me of an old story Mother had used to tell me, about a man clinging to a branch above an abyss – save that the branch was a tree-snake. He could haul himself up, but the moment he released the snake, the creature would wrap itself around him and choke him to death. Or he could, of course, let go, and fall into the chasm; in the end, he had to take the risk to be choked by the snake, for he wouldn't survive the fall. "By his very existence, he's weakening the boundaries," I said.

"Yes." Ichtaca would not look at me, or at my sandals. "There is a door open, and ghosts are coming through, and the plague."

I shook my head. "The plague is a spell, not a summoning. It's not coming from the weakened boundaries." But it might be spreading faster because of them: none of the usual barriers against spells were in place anymore. And the ghosts… the ghosts were an additional confusion we didn't need. "Doors can be closed," I said.

"It would kill him."

And, once more, leave us defenceless against star-demons, until weeks of bickering had passed and the council finally designated a new Revered Speaker. "Then left ajar," I said. "With a smaller opening. It's wide open right now, isn't it?"

Ichtaca sighed.

"It could be done," I said. If the plague didn't kill us first. "There are spells, in the codices…"

"There might be. But they're going to require time."

"Then let's take it. I don't much like the alternatives," I said.

Ichtaca was silent, for a while. "I'll set the offering priests to researching the matter. Those who are not busy elsewhere."

There was no sarcasm in his voice, though from where we sat, we could see the crowd in the courtyard, and hear the faint voices raised in argument.

Ichtaca looked up at the night sky – at the stars, which were the eyes of monsters. "Something is going to happen, Acatl-tzin. I can feel it in my bones. Something in the palace."

His tone was earnest, and I felt some of his unease. "We can't actually move on premonitions." If they'd been genuine visions, which were rare enough, it would have been another matter…

My eye was caught by some movement near the entrance: it looked like priests from our order, struggling to go through the crowd. "Ichtaca?"

He stared down. "Those are the priests I sent to the palace," he said. "Something is wrong."

SEVENTEEN

The Coward's Way Out

When we arrived at the palace, I immediately felt the sense of wrongness. It wasn't the hushed quiet – which by now had become the norm – or the atmosphere of reverent fear, which suggested the sickness had propagated yet further. Rather, it was the sense of purpose: people were still hurrying through the courtyards and the corridors, but they were mostly going in one direction, and their faces were grim.

"Acatl-tzin," Ichtaca started, but I shook my head. Whatever was going on, we'd find out soon enough. The flow of people was going towards the quarters of the Revered Speaker, though that particular courtyard appeared much the same as ever. We followed a stream of minor noblemen in cotton clothes to a smaller courtyard decorated with rich frescoes and elaborate carvings. The smell of pine needles hung in the air, but even from where we stood – pressed in a crowd of noblemen, warriors and officials – Ichtaca and I felt it. The passage of Xolotl, Taker of the Dead, always left a particular trace in the air.

The crowd was thickest on the pyramid shrine at the centre of the courtyard. Without needing to glance at each other, Ichtaca and I sliced at our earlobes, and whispered an invocation to Lord Death, feeling the keening cold of the underworld spread over us like a mantle: the sharp touch of the Wind of Knives as He flayed the soul, the fear that seized the heart on hearing the howl of the beast of shadows; the dry, cold touch of Lord Death's skeletal hands. The crowd parted before us like a flock of quails, and we climbed the staircase easily, stopping, for a brief moment, at the entrance to the inner chambers before the black-clad guards of the SheSnake decided we were entitled to be there, and waved us in with a wave of their hands.

Inside, the atmosphere was stifling, both because of the sheer number of people packed into such a small space, and because I could feel the death – taste it on my tongue like some rotten fruit, like something stuck across my windpipe, all but choking the life out of me.

I'd never seen that – not at any death scene I'd attended, no matter how protracted or painful the agony had been. Beside me, I felt Ichtaca pause, his gaze roaming left and right, trying to understand what had happened. If I joined him and we pooled our forces, it would be child's play to work it out – to see what was fundamentally wrong, grating at me like a missing limb…

No. I was High Priest, and my place wasn't at the back, but further ahead in the press, where the most important men would be in attendance.

The people gathered around the reed mat were familiar: Tizoctzin and his sycophant, Quenami; the She-Snake, and the familiar, coolly relaxed countenance of Nezahual-tzin – in addition to several warriors who served as escorts, and two frightened slaves who were doing their best to look innocuous.

In fact, it almost looked like the last time, save that the man in the centre – Pochtic – looked quite past any kind of help. Death had relaxed the muscles, so that the small obsidian dagger in his hand now lay half-across the stones of the floor. Like Acamapichtli, he'd used it to brutal efficiency – not slashing across his wrists, but digging deep inside to reach the arteries. The blood had spurted in great gouts, staining the floor underneath, but I could feel no magic, no latent power within. Either he'd offered it to a god as he died – which would have been odd, as he'd stated quite clearly the god he worshipped was Tezcatlipoca, the Smoking Mirror, a god of war who preferred human hearts as sacrificial offerings, and not something as cowardly as the slitting of wrists. Or…

Or something else had been wrong with him. He could already have pledged himself as a sacrifice, been a dead man walking, like the council two months ago – a sacrifice in abeyance, payment for a task already performed.

One thing was sure: his death wasn't making our Revered Speaker any happier. "I want to know who did this." Tizoc-tzin's face was livid. "I want them arrested, and punished – wood or stone, it wouldn't matter. I want them gone."

The wood of executioners' maces, the stones cast at adulterers and murderers.

The She-Snake was kneeling on the ground, his gaze fixed on the body. I'd expected to see Teomitl, but he still wasn't there. What in the Fifth World was he up to? Too much, I guessed. "By the looks of it, my Lord, I would say there aren't many people to punish," the She-Snake said.

"What do you mean?"

The She-Snake saw me approaching, and threw me a glance that was almost apologetic. "It was by his own hand."

There was silence. "Coward," Tizoc-tzin said, voicing what everyone thought.

I knelt by Pochtic's side, looking at the body. Neat cuts, without any flinching. I hadn't thought anyone could do that, but it certainly couldn't have happened in a fight. Nevertheless… there were ways and means to force compliance. But no, I couldn't feel any magic in the room.

No… not quite. There was something: a thin thread of brown and a reddish-yellow colour, a twin invocation to Grandmother Earth and Tonatiuh the Fifth Sun. Odd. Joint magics were so rare as to be…

Wait a moment. I stared at the face for a while, but saw nothing but the slackness of death. His earlobes, like mine, were covered in scar tissue from his many blood offerings, and there were more scars under the lip, but nothing…

Gently, I tipped the head towards me – the rigidity of Xolotl's passage hadn't yet settled in, and I managed to open the mouth. The light of braziers glimmered on the congealed saliva within the palate, but the bulk of the cavity was occupied by the tongue, which had swollen to more than twice its normal size. My fingers caught on the raised trace of a wound: it had been a single hole at one point, but repeated passages of some foreign object had enlarged the wound to a gaping hole–

Penance. And a rather extreme form. If he had been a priest, it would have been normal, but he had been a warrior and an official. Which left the other explanation.

I got up, brushing dust from my cloak, and turned around, taking in the scene. The brazier was piled with resinous wood, and the air still smelled faintly – not only of the acridity of copal incense, but also of a more unfamiliar mixture.

"He saw a calendar priest, to speak to Tlazolteotl," I said, aloud.

"To confess his cowardice." Tizoc-tzin's voice was scornful.

Nezahual-tzin – who hadn't said anything so far – looked sceptical. I felt much the same. Confession to Tlazolteotl, the Eater of Filth, served but one purpose: to void the justice of the Fifth World, by cleansing away the impurities of sin.

"There are more pressing matters. Such as conspiracies within the palace."

And the plague within the palace didn't matter, perhaps?

"My Lord…" The Sne-Snake said cautiously, like a man crossing a bridge of frayed ropes. "Nothing so far has suggested that there is a conspiracy."

"I can feel it," Tizoc-tzin hissed. "And so can he." He stabbed a finger in my direction.

Every single pair of eyes – from the She-Snake to the councilmen – turned in my direction, making me wish I could open a portal and disappear into Mictlan. "I'm not sure what you mean," I said, cautiously.

"You've been investigating. Tracking down the enemies of the Mexica Empire."

Well, lost for lost… I found my voice from the faraway place where it had fled. "Pochtic took a bribe, my Lord. So did Coatl."

There was a pause. "Ridiculous. You're mistaken, priest."

"Those are serious accusations," the She-Snake said, gravely. "But it's not the first time they have been made, which I suppose lends them some credence. Nevertheless – I fail to see what this has got to do with anything."

I had to admit he had a point – the Duality curse me if I could see what the bribe had to do with anything, either.

A tinkle of bells: the entrance-curtain was lifted by a pale hand, and, to my utter surprise, Coatl entered, leaning on a cane and looking none too steady. He was followed by two of my priests, Palli, and a younger offering priest, Matlaelel.

Ichtaca, who had been looking at the frescoes and muttering to himself – a sure sign that he had found something wrong – nodded to me when Coatl entered.

"My Lord," Coatl said, bowing to Tizoc-tzin – and then to everyone else in turn. "I was informed of what happened."

"You were sick," the She-Snake said.

Coatl nodded. "Until I was cured." He was thinner than I remembered, his rich cotton cloak hanging loose on his shoulders, his hands shaking on the cane, showing the translucent shape of bones. In fact…

I looked from Tizoc-tzin to him – pale faces, with the cast of the skull barely hidden under the stretched skin; the eyes shadowed, almost subsumed; the fingers almost too thin and sharp to be normal; leeched of colour like bleached bones.

In fact…

He looked as though he'd risen from the dead – which ought to be impossible. "What do you remember?" I asked.

"Nothing."

I continued to stare at him, until he finally gave in. "There was a dog, howling in the wilderness – if he caught me, I would be gone forever…" Every word seemed to come with difficulty, dragged from weak lungs, or a crushed throat. "And canals in sunlight, but I couldn't reach them, there was no time…" He stopped, then. "Why are you asking me this?"

I shook my head. "I need to know–"

"What we need to know is the truth." The She-Snake's voice was as cutting as broken obsidian. "Did you take a bribe, Coatl?"

"A bribe?" he sounded sincerely surprised. Either he was a better actor than I suspected, or he was telling the truth. "No. I've never taken a bribe in my life." Again, the ring of truth – an answer coming neither too quickly nor too slowly, without perceptible hesitation, or the lifeless tone of things learned by rote.

His gaze was on Pochtic – not on Tizoc-tzin or any of the other officials. "He's dead." He sounded utterly surprised. Had the healing – whatever it was – affected his memory?

"It might have something to do with Eptli's death."

"Eptli." His face darkened – in anger, in hatred? Whatever it was, it seemed to be directed at something beyond the dead warrior. "I remember Eptli. What a waste. And Pochtic–" His eyes narrowed and glimmered – one shaking hand went up to his face, wiped them clean. "This shouldn't have happened."

"We're wasting our time," the She-Snake said. He looked from Pochtic to Coatl, and then back to Tizoc-tzin. "My Lord… if there is a conspiracy against you, I very much doubt it's here."

For a moment, I thought Tizoc-tzin was going to argue, but then he shook his head. "You're right. Whatever he did, it wasn't against me. Let us go. We need to focus on more pressing matters."

He swept out of the room, followed by Quenami and the other officials.

I caught the She-Snake before he left. "Acatl," he said, His voice was courteous, suggesting, nevertheless, that I'd better have a good reason for disturbing him.

"You'll want to keep a watch on the prisoners' quarters."

"Will I?"

For a moment, I thought of warning him about Teomitl – about what might be brewing in the palace at this very moment. But my stomach heaved at the thought of betraying my student on so little evidence. There had to be a reasonable explanation for his disappearance and odd behaviour. "There is a spell in the courtyard," I said. "Written in blood over the adobe – by someone with no love for the current Mexica Empire."

"I see." He didn't argue with me, thank the Duality. "Who is casting the spell?"

"I don't know. I'm working on it."

The She-Snake grimaced. "I have far too few men as it is, with this whole business. But I'll put those I can spare on this."

I bowed. "Thank you."

He shrugged. "We both serve the same cause, Acatl. Now, was there anything else?"

I hesitated, but still the words were out of my mouth before I could call them back. "What about – Acamapichtli and the clergy of Tlaloc?"

This time, he wouldn't meet my gaze. "I don't know. Tizoc still thinks they might be guilty of something."

Of many things, probably, knowing Acamapichtli, but that was missing the point. "We need them here – serving the same cause. You know that – a priest for the war-god, a priest for the weather and the peasants…"

"And one for those who have moved on. Yes," the She-Snake said. "I know that."

The implications of the sentence were clear. "Do what you can."

"I will." He left with a nod of his head, not looking back.

The room felt much less crowded once they'd gone, leaving me free to talk to Palli. "I'm impressed you managed to heal him," I said, with a jerk of my chin towards Coatl, who still stood, looking at Pochtic's body as if he couldn't quite believe what was happening. "But what did you do, exactly?"

Palli looked nervous. "Is anything wrong?"

I was about to say he hadn't taken a good look at Coatl – until I realised that only the higher orders of the clergy knew that Tizoctzin wasn't quite a man anymore, but something else, a soul held in the body only through the favour of the gods. "Never mind," I said. "I need to know what you did."

Palli shifted uncomfortably. "Nothing wild, Acatl-tzin. Just calling on Toci's favour."

"How?"

He grimaced again. "Human sacrifice. We tried animals, but it was obvious there wasn't enough power."

"You sacrificed a life to save a life?"

"An important life." I hadn't seen Ichtaca creep up behind me – but suddenly he loomed behind me, as forbidding as a god. "I needn't remind you of who Coatl is."

Deputy for the Master of Raining Blood, member of the warcouncil – moving among the turquoise and jade, the brightest lights and most shining mirrors of the Mexica Empire. "I know. I don't care. A life for a life is wrong."

"Then what? Do you want us to kill him again? It won't regain the sacrifice's life. Besides…" Ichtaca said, "he knew what he was doing."

How could he be so high in the hierarchy of Lord Death, and fail to see the problem? "That's not the point. All lives are equal and weighed the same – separated only by the manner of their deaths." I felt like a teacher in the calmecac, repeating obvious truths to boys not old enough to have lost their childhood locks. To give one's life to the gods was the greatest sacrifice, but to do so in favour of another human being, to rank human lives by importance, like things…

Ichtaca's lips pursed. His rigid sense of hierarchy – what had caused him to put Coatl ahead in the first place – wouldn't let him contradict me, his superior. "As you wish," he said.

The Duality curse me if I let him have the last word. "It was good work," I said to Palli. "But I don't think it would make a viable cure."

He looked disconsolate, and I couldn't think of anything that would change matters. "Look into it again," I suggested. "There might be a way around the human sacrifice."

"I suppose."

I wished I could offer more – but black was black and red was red, and he shouldn't have done that. I guessed my point had come across clearly enough. "Ichtaca?"

"Yes, Acatl-tzin?" His face was smooth, expressionless.

"There is a man you need to track down – someone who came here earlier. A calendar priest."

"He will be under the seal of secrecy." He didn't say "you should know that", but it was abundantly clear.

I shook my head. Yes, the priest wouldn't be inclined to reveal the contents of the interview. But still… a drowning man couldn't afford to be choosy about which bit of driftwood to cling to. "He might still give us something to understand Pochtic. It looks as though Pochtic did the prescribed penance, and then still committed suicide." Which, to be honest, made me wonder if the offence hadn't been too grave to be forgiven – which suggested either something large, or something that went against the will of a powerful god.

"Hmm," Ichtaca was still looking at the walls – which reminded me that he'd been muttering earlier.

"Something the matter? Here, I mean."

His gaze suggested he thought more was the matter than a deserted room containing the body. "I don't think – something is odd in this room, Acatl-tzin. I can't quite pinpoint what, but…"

I sighed – assessing my meagre resources. "Palli, can you see about tracking down the calendar priest?"

Palli pulled himself straight, almost to attention. "Yes, Acatl-tzin!"

I could feel Ichtaca's discontent as I moved into the room, leaning on my cane – Storm Lord's lightning strike me, I was looking the same as Coatl, though perhaps not quite so battered.

Coatl still stood where we'd left him, looking down at Pochtic's body. His eyes, dark and shadowed, were all but unmoving, his gaze expressionless. But tears had run down his cheeks, staining the black face-paint. "That's not how it happens." His voice, too, was expressionless – too carefully controlled.

"How it happens?" I asked.

"We die in wars," he snapped. "Caught by spears and cut by obsidian, our souls taking wing on the courage of eagles, the ferocity of jaguars. We don't–" His hand rose towards Pochtic, faltered. "We don't just end it like this."

"No," I said, at last. "I know it's not much, but I'm sorry you had to see this."

He shrugged. "Doesn't matter now. You can't erase the memory of it, anyway. Was there anything else, Acatl-tzin?"

I bowed my head, as gravely as I could. "Yes. I apologise for bringing this up" we both knew I wasn't sorry, not by a large margin "but I need to know what you can remember about the sickness."

The tremor in his hands was barely visible. "Not much. I – I couldn't breathe – as if I were in water or mud. And there were… bodies." He inhaled, sharply. "Dozens and dozens of bodies, all burning with fever. I've walked battlefields, but this was–"

"Different."

"Yes." Gently, he knelt by Pochtic's body, his fingers probing the wound that had slashed the arteries. "That's all there is."

"I see." It was consistent with my own symptoms – with Teomitl's. And all consistent with Jade Skirt's involvement – water or mud, and the sensation of choking. But it was nothing new, though.

"And Pochtic?" I asked.

"I thought I knew Pochtic." His gaze was distant. "Obviously, I didn't."

"So you don't know why he might have committed suicide." I was only stating the obvious there, in the hopes that it might help.

"No," Coatl said. He rose, picked up his caneagain – his breath fast, laboured. "He was a man who enjoyed life. Too much, perhaps. I don't think he understood what lay beneath as well as some."

"You mean?"

"He knew it was for the glory of the gods, for the Fifth Sun and Grandmother Earth. But I think, all too often, he saw his own glory first." He sighed, again, as if he were a calendar priest, closing the divination books on Pochtic's life. "Ah well. It doesn't matter, now. Never will again."

Suicides, like the rest of the unglorious dead, went to Mictlan. Given enough time, we could summon the dead man's soul, find out what he had known.

I suspected we didn't have that kind of time.

"If you didn't take a bribe…" I said, slowly.

He looked up, with a brief spark of anger in his eyes – nothing unnatural or false there. He may have been acting, but I'd interviewed him earlier and had seen that, while he might have many talents, subtle acting wasn't among them. "How many times will I need to tell you I didn't?"

"It's not that," I said, throwing up both hands like a shield. "My point is that someone still accused you of taking it."

"Who?"

Judging by the gleam in his eyes, I wasn't sure I ought to tell him. But still, he'd find it easily enough. "A sacred courtesan, Xiloxoch. And it looks like several of you were approached with this. By Eptli."

"Eptli." Coatl's voice was bitter. "He's been a worse companion dead than alive, I have to say."

I had to agree there. "And you don't remember this, either?"

Coatl shrugged. "I know what you want." For the first time, there was anger in his gaze. "Eptli was one of my men, and whether he's dead or not, I won't see his name being soiled by chaff and straw. If I have nothing to say against him, I won't invent calumnies."

"Look," I said. He'd just been healed from the sickness, and he couldn't possibly have understood how everything had gone wrong. "Chipahua and his household are dead. The Master of the House of Darts has vanished. We have further warriors with the illness, and someone has been writing threats against the Mexica Empire in the prisoners' quarters." Gods, put like that, it became rather overwhelming.

"And you see me sorry for it," Coatl said, "but there is nothing much I can do to help you."

I could recognise obstruction when I saw it. "Fine," I said, stifling a sigh. "If you can think of anything that would shed light on those matters, keep me in mind."

"Of course," he said, but we both knew he was lying.

EIGHTEEN

The Dead Man's Confession

Palli caught up with me as I was walking out of the palace – we'd left Ichtaca with Pochtic's body, still mumbling to himself. I wasn't sure how much of it was sheer annoyance at my position on the healing ritual, and how much was his detecting a genuine problem.

Never mind. We could both argue until we ran out of breath, but I wouldn't change my position. I had the uncomfortable feeling Ichtaca wouldn't, either.

"Acatl-tzin," Palli said. "I know you asked me to track down the calendar priest, but it's likely he'll be at his temple. We can go together, if you want."

I glanced at the sky: the hour of Xochipilli the Flower Prince, with the Fifth Sun at His zenith. Palli was right: most of them would be having lunch. "Let's have a look."

We stopped for a quick lunch, buying spiced tamales from a vendor and eating the warm food with relief.

The calendar priests had their own temple, a low complex with a small pyramid shrine. As Palli and I walked in, a priest was busy directing a painter to add day-signs to a fresco; others were carrying copies of the sacred calendars back to storage rooms, while novice priests ground pigments in the huge stone mortars. A few more sat cross-legged, annotating horoscopes and pondering favourable dates for their supplicants' endeavours. The air smelled of fried maize more than copal smoke, an odd change after the atmosphere of the Sacred Precinct.

The first calendar priest we found directed us to his superior – who directed us to his superior in turn, until we found ourselves facing the head of the order, a portly man with a stern face, who looked as displeased by our request as by the prospect of being disturbed at his lunch.

"Acatl-tzin." He managed to radiate disapproval even over his utterance of my name. "I'm told you're looking for a calendar priest."

I nodded, and wasn't surprised when he launched into a speech on confession. "As you're well aware, the priest is but the vessel through which confessions are made to the Eater of Filth. He may not repeat the words, for they haven't been spoken in the Fifth World…"

I used the pause in the discourse to insert a few words of my own. "I know that, and I don't want to know the contents of the confession. I just want to speak to the priest who received it."

That stopped him. "Why?"

"The words are out of the Fifth World; the offence, too. But there are other things I might learn."

His eyes narrowed. "Thus going around the interdict. I thought you a more devout man, Acatl-tzin."

One could say I had elevated our survival to a devotion. I bit back a sharp retort, and said only, "Most men who call on the Eater of Filth don't commit suicide afterwards."

He clicked his tongue in a falsely compassionate way. "I see your problem. However, I don't think I can be of help."

The calendar priest who had referred us to him – their equivalent of a fire priest – hadn't left; he was standing by the entrance-curtain, his face set in the peculiar expression of people working hard at concealing their thoughts. "I see," I said, rising from the mat. "My apologies for taking up your time."

I let the other calendar priest escort us out – sounds of mastication behind us, coupled with the strong smell of spices and grilled maize, made it clear the head of the order had gone back to his delayed lunch.

"It sounds like serious business," the calendar priest said. He sounded wistful. "Most of us just get called for adultery, or some other petty offence. You'd think a once-in-a-lifetime confession would be more exciting."

"But it's not," Palli said. "Like most dead bodies turn out to have died from natural causes." He sighed. "And sometimes, of course, it all goes wrong like a dash of cold water, and you wish it could all be normal again."

"I guess." The priest sounded sceptical. "Still… as you say, not every day you have a suicide."

"The Master of the House of Darkness, no less," I said, sombrely. "In the wake of threats against the Mexica Empire."

His face lit up. "Really. And you need to speak to a calendar priest for that?"

I felt dishonest. Likely, it would come to nothing, and we'd have stoked his wrong ideas about the priesthood. But still… given the stakes…

I was going to regret this. "The calendar priest who saw Pochtictzin would be useful, yes. He'd probably have a good idea of what's going on." Better than mine, possibly.

"Look…" The calendar priest wavered. I gave him an encouraging smile that felt false from beginning to end. "I didn't tell you this, all right?"

Palli shook his head. "Nothing gets out. Our word on it."

"Quauhtli was called for a reading at the house of some nobleman." The calendar priest frowned.

"That's odd, isn't it? A reading at noon?" Not everyone had lunch, but most people preferred to wait until the heat of the day had dissipated before getting on with serious business like divination.

"Happens," the priest said. He sounded less and less certain. "I think. Most people don't ask for a particular calendar priest, though – and they don't send warriors to escort him to the house."

Warriors. Why? "Where did he go?"

Something of the worry in my voice must have reached him; he was wavering, wondering if he hadn't made a mistake in talking to us. "He might be in more danger than you think," I said. I kept my voice slow and quiet, despite what it cost me. "But if we act now, we might be able to get him out."

"Er… south edge of the Sacred Precinct, I think." He gave us a quick description of canals, which I did my best to commit to memory – as well as a brief description of Quauhtli, though it was generic enough to be pretty much useless. "Thank you," I said.

We walked through the crowds to the southern edge of the Sacred Precinct, passing by the bone-rack, on which priests were adding a fresh row of bleached skulls from human sacrifices – someone had obviously failed to clean the skulls properly, judging by the rank smell of rotting flesh which rose from between the wooden posts. Palli grimaced; I looked on, preoccupied by other things.

The calendar priest had spoken of a house on the south-eastern edge of the Sacred Precinct – in the district of Zoquipan, the same location Nezahual-tzin had been investigating before someone had cast a spell on him.

It could have been coincidence, but there had been precious few of those lately.

Outside the Serpent Wall, the rows of noblemen's houses started up again, each encased within high, stuccoed walls – with steambaths, from which wafted the white vapour, and the smell of spices. Everything seemed silent. We trod our way past deserted canals, where boats bobbed at their anchors under the withering gaze of the Fifth Sun, following the priest's instructions until we stood in a street that seemed much the same as the others. The walls were blank, or decorated with frescoes, and nothing called to mind our missing calendar priest.

Palli looked at me questioningly. He was about to be disappointed – what good could a crippled High Priest do? Unless…

I put the cane on the ground, hand-spans away from the canal, and withdrew a knife from my belt. Then, quickly, I spoke a hymn to Lord Death.

"We all must die

We all must go down into darkness…"

The familiar veil descended over the world, throwing everything into insignificance – the adobe becoming the colour of yellowed bone, the water in the canal darkening to the colour of a corpse's blotched skin, the smells of maize and steam receding to become the familiar ones of rotting meat and flesh.

This deep within the streets inhabited by noblemen, magic was everywhere, the various trails crisscrossing in the air, shimmering in the water like spilled cooking oil. Huitzilpochtli the Southern Hummingbird, Tezcatlipoca the Smoking Mirror, Xochiquetzal the Quetzal Flower, Tlaloc the Storm Lord, everything merging like a hundred drumbeats on the night of a festival. I stood still, and didn't move – waiting for the discordant beat, the colour slightly out of place.

There was a faint trail alongside the canal – a smell of algae, of churned mud; a sensation of quiet, muffled sound in a universe where everything was at peace forever. I teased it out, followed it. It wove between houses, in and out of the steambaths, dipping into canals like a girl testing the waters, twisting in the mud at our feet like a snake.

The scent died at the gates of a mansion much like any other – blank-faced, drawn back on itself with no hint of what lay inside. But the smell in the air was familiar, quivering on the edge of recognition.

"Acatl-tzin…" Palli said, behind me.

I realised that I stood defenceless – a cane and a bloodied obsidian knife my only weapons.

Never mind.

The warrior by the gate was a veteran with the whitish scars of sword-strikes on his legs: he displayed them proudly, not bothering to hide them beneath a cloak. "Yes?" he asked, making it clear we were wasting his time.

I smiled as brightly as I could. "We're looking for a calendar priest."

That, if nothing else, threw him. He hadn't expected brutal honesty. "Not here. Now go away."

"That's hardly polite," I said. Behind him, from within the house, another three warriors were emerging – not the friendly-looking kind either, but beefy thugs that wouldn't have been out of place at a pillaging.

"What's all the fuss?" the leader of the warriors asked.

"They say they're looking for a priest."

"Are they." His gaze narrowed, focused on me – appraising my worth. "The High Priest for the Dead." He jerked a thumb in the general direction of the inner courtyard. "What a happy coincidence. As it turns out, you're expected in here."

In here? Three of the burly warriors had deployed in the courtyard, looming over us, and their leader was grinning like someone who held all the weapons, and knew it. "Fine," I said. "I might as well not keep your master waiting."

They laughed at that, as if I'd said something witty – which I'd clearly not done.

I felt as if something had changed when we entered the house – something indefinable, which tightened the air and made it harder to breathe. The courtyard was sunny, and as we passed through two more it seemed like a nobleman's house – with slaves grinding maize into flour, women weaving maguey fibres with the familiar clack of their looms. Except… except that there were warriors everywhere, casually leaning against pillars – hefting their macuahitl swords with wistful smiles, and watching us like turkeys among jaguars and eagles.

Palli had gone rigid – I focused on my breath, coming in and out of my lungs; on the faint touch of Lord Death on my skin, a wind that raised goosebumps on my arms. I was High Priest for the Dead, and they couldn't touch me – they wouldn't dare.

At last, we reached the centre of the house. A small flight of steps led to a grander room, wide and airy with rich frescoes. At the back of the room, seated on a low-backed chair, was the owner of the house.

She was a woman – and old enough to be my own grandmother, with bent limbs and hundreds of wrinkles on her round face. But the gaze she directed towards us was sharp, and, when she moved, she exuded enough magic to choke the life out of us.

I knelt on the mat before her – couldn't help noticing the stains of blood, scrubbed but never removed. Was this where Nezahualtzin's missing warriors had died? The air seemed to shimmer with the heaviness of the grave – the magic of Grandmother Earth, who had birthed us and would receive us all.

"So you're the priest." Her voice was mildly curious – kind, almost, save that her tone was firm, and obsidian lay beneath every word, sharp and cutting.

"We're looking for a priest," I said, slowly.

"And with no more idea of the stakes than a child breaking maize stalks before the harvest."

That stung. "You're the one who sent Nezahual-tzin back, weren't you? 'He's coming.' He said what you told him to say."

"A warning you'd do well enough to heed." She rose – I could feel her more than see her, but she moved with a grace and fluidity uncanny for her age. Her shadow fell over me, and she seemed so much larger than she ought to have been – the room smelled of dry earth, of rotten leaves, and the hand she laid on my shoulder was curved claws, pricking my skin to the blood. "You have little idea of what you're playing with, priest." I heard a sound, a breath coming in rapid gasps – and it was mine, it had always been mine…

Far, far away, someone pulled an entrance-curtain, the tinkle of bells a muffled sound that could not impinge on her presence, on the five fingers laid on my shoulder, each a sharp, painful touch on my exposed skin.

"He's mine."

"Yours?" The hand withdrew; the presence, too. My heart thudded against my chest, begging to be let out of its cage of ribs.

"Of course. Aren't you, Acatl-tzin?"

Slowly, carefully, I rose – for I knew the voice, as well as my own, all too well…

Teomitl stood framed in the doorway, his feather headdress of quetzal plumes, his cloak a deep, almost turquoise blue, and with jewellery shining at his throat and wrists. Clothes fit for a Revered Speaker; the old, thoughtless arrogance transfigured, too, into deliberate authority.

"You–"

He waved a dismissive hand, and the air seemed to tighten with each sweep of his fingers. "Not here, Acatl-tzin. Come. We need to talk."

Did we indeed. I brushed dirt and dried blood from my cloak, stood as straight as I could – not shaking, not shouting, standing with a calmness I didn't feel, not one bit…

"Teomitl-tzin…" There was someone else behind him – a calendar priest, judging by his garb. Our missing priest, Quauhtli. And something about him…

Teomitl shook his head. "I've got all I need. Thank you."

Quauhtli's face lit up, far too fast and too strongly to be a natural feeling. "It was my duty, Teomitl-tzin." His eyes were open slightly too wide; his gestures, as he moved into the room, were those of a drunken man, and I didn't need true sight to see Jade Skirt's magic etched in every limb and every muscle.

"You–" I started, but Teomitl shook his head.

"I told you. Not here. Let's go out."

I thought we'd be alone, but two warriors followed us at some distance – close enough to hear everything. Teomitl made no remark, merely accepted their presence with the same ease Nezahual-tzin accepted his own bodyguards. He looked – leaner, somehow, more dangerous than he had, as if something had broken irremediably within him.

"We've been looking for you," I said. It seemed like such an inadequate way to express the turmoil within me.

He shrugged. "I had things to do. To safeguard the Empire."

"Such as suborning calendar priests?" I shouldn't have antagonised him this early in the discussion, but I couldn't help it.

Teomitl's face set in a grimace. "We've already had this talk, Acatl-tzin. I'll do whatever is necessary to protect the Mexica."

Go on, I thought. Say it. Teomitl was, if nothing else, scrupulously honest; these… evasions ill-suited him. "And you think you know better than your brother?"

He grimaced again. "Tizoc? We can dance around like warriors at the gladiator-stone, and it won't change the truth. My brother is a sick man."

"Unfit to rule," I said, slowly, softly. "Is that what you think, Teomitl?" I knew it was; I just hadn't thought he would voice it, much less act on it.

"Isn't that what you think?" His voice was fierce, as cutting as obsidian shards. "Don't look so surprised. I've seen you, Acatl-tzin. You brood like a jaguar mother over a lame cub. You wonder if you were right to bring him back."

"No," I said. "I brought him back with the Southern Hummingbird's sanction, with the blessing of Izpapalotl, the Obsidian Butterfly. You can't change the truth, Teomitl. I'm a priest, and when the gods speak, I obey."

"They're not your gods."

"They're the gods of the Mexica Empire." Didn't he understand anything? "The ones who protect us, who bring us victory after victory, who gather in all the tributes from the hot lands and the deserts. What I think of them doesn't intrude. It shouldn't intrude."

"Then you're a fool."

Was I? "If I am, it's no place of yours to tell me."

"Because I'm your student? No longer."

I thought of the calendar priest's vacant gaze; of Teomitl's voice, a lifetime ago. Do you think me wise, Acatl-tzin? Wise enough to handle Chalchiuhtlicue's magic?

"No," I said. "I should think you've made it abundantly clear." I raised a hand to forestall his objection, and miraculously, he stopped. "Listen to me – as a parting gift, if nothing else. The Empire dances on a knife's edge, with a Revered Speaker half-back from the land of the dead. And you – you'd think to replace him, as easily as you spend breath. Except you can't. You just can't. We've barely recovered from one disaster already, and to depose the Revered Speaker will cause an upheaval we're not equipped to deal with."

"Still the same." Teomitl's lips were two narrow lines, as pale as those of a drowned man. "You're too cautious, Acatl-tzin. Moments should be seized; opportunities should be wrestled into fruition. I'll not wait in my brother's shadow for years on end, wondering when he'll have the decency to complete his journey into the world beyond. I will act now."

One Revered Speaker deposing another was bad enough – "And what – kill him?"

His gaze didn't waver. "As you said: he's already halfway there."

To kill his own brother… But then I remembered that they'd never been close; that Tizoc-tzin's persistent mocking of Mihmatini had driven the final wedge between those two.

"You're mad."

"Desperate," Teomitl said. "It's not the same."

"Fine." I said it more acidly than I meant it. "But you can't count on me."

His gesture was dismissive – as if he'd never counted on me at all. How dare he?

"I have all I need here."

"You have a wife." Again, more acidly than I meant to. "Do you think she would approve?"

For the first time, I saw doubt in his face – swiftly quashed. "She's Guardian. She knows that I only act in the best interests of the balance."

"If you say so. Do tell her that – because I most certainly won't." And I could guess how Mihmatini would react – enough to make sure I was some distance away when she got the news.

Again, that small, dismissive gesture – a curt brush off, a judgment that I could offer nothing of value. "You've made your position clear. Will that be all, Acatl-tzin?"

He stood, just a few paces from me, decked with finery fit for a Revered Speaker; escorted by warriors in his own house, doing the Duality knew what with his magical practitioners. I wanted to scream at him not to do anything foolish – not to break us more than we already were, to pay attention to the magical currents he so casually ripped through – but, as he had said, I had already made my position clear.

I could have asked him what the priest had said, but then I would have been party to his violation of the divine secrets.

"No," I said. "You're right. There is nothing more I can do here."

I did go to see Mihmatini – after dropping off Palli at my temple. I had no idea what he'd seen or heard while I was away, but he wouldn't stop shivering, and every time his eyes strayed to the ground he would give a little start, as if waking from a nightmare.

I found the Duality House much like the air before a storm: very little activity, but every gesture charged with a meaning and import I couldn't decipher – and, throughout, a leaden weight, a sense of something large and unpleasant about to happen, lodged in my throat and chest. Mihmatini was in her rooms with Yaotl. She was staring at a divination book, impatiently turning pages as if each of the hollow-eyed deities had offended her.

"Acatl." She looked up, a smile starting to tease the corners of her eyes, and then her face fell. "You haven't found him."

I took the coward's way out, and said nothing; it must have been answer enough for her. "You look tired," I said, sitting by her side.

She waved a hand – in a gesture eerily reminiscent of Teomitl. "I've been busy." She stabbed the paper. "I have to do something, or I'll burst. So I've been looking into matters. It's not good, Acatl." "Not good?" I hadn't thought my stomach could be colder.

"Chalchiuhtlicue's power has been increasing these past weeks," Mihmatini said. "It is the Ceasing of the Waters: a time for propitious sacrifices."

"You think–"

"Something is going to happen. Something bad."

"The prisoners," I said.

"The She-Snake moved them to different quarters; we've warded them pretty tightly." Mihmatini puffed her cheeks, thoughtfully. "I don't think they'll go that way. It's like water – they'll find the path of least resistance."

Which, by definition, we wouldn't have considered. Great.

Mihmatini tapped the book again. "I just wish – there's something about this that should be obvious."

"The date?" I asked, a tad too sceptically.

"Most priests consider dates important. And I'm pretty sure most High Priests, too."

"What can I say; I've never been a good candidate for the position."

"We'd got that," Yaotl said – mocking and sarcastic, as always.

Mihmatini looked up again, frowned. "You're the one who looks tired. Don't get me started again on the skeletal look."

It was a running joke between us – usually when I hadn't got enough sleep or food: I was High Priest of Mictlantecuhtli, not Lord Death himself.

I could just shake my head, pretext fatigue after the illness – and take the coward's way out. It would be so easy – just a few words, a nod in the right place…

And I'd never dare to look her in the face again, if I did that.

"I found Teomitl."

In the silence that followed, you could have heard maize bloom.

Mihmatini's face had gone as flat as polished obsidian. "And it didn't occur to you to tell me before?"

"I'm telling you now." If you'd told me, a year ago, that Yaotl, always so ready with a jest, would be coming to my rescue…

"Where is he?"

I picked my words carefully. "There are some things you need to hear first."

"No. I need to see him first," Mihmatini said.

"Look," I said, slowly, aware that every new word was another weapon I handed her. "You know he's never liked Tizoc-tzin – and with the failure of the coronation war…"

Mihmatini's face had gone as brittle as obsidian. "He wouldn't. Teomitl wouldn't…"

I spread my hands, wishing I could make another answer – heard her breathe, slow and even, her face growing more still and unmoving each time, as if someone were leeching all humanity from her. "Where is he?" she said at length.

"A house in Zoquipan," I said. Mihmatini was still watching me, with an odd expression in her eyes – anger, tenderness? Something halfway between the two. "Look." I took a deep breath. "Promise me something?"

She cocked her head, like a bird about to fly – an eagle, not a timid sparrow or a harmless turkey. "It depends."

"Take Yaotl," I said. "And two priests."

"Why?" And then she worked it out. "Acatl, you're a fool. He wouldn't harm me."

"He wouldn't, no," I said, finally – though he had changed much. "But he's not alone in this." The old woman, whoever she was, the warriors of his entourage, and whoever else in court might be supporting this little power-grab, or whatever else he might have planned.

The Duality curse me, I should have asked him for more information – no, I couldn't have done that, not manipulating my own student into admitting the truth.

Mihmatini folded the calendar, carefully. "Right. I'll see him," she said. She took a deep breath and for a moment, an achingly familiar moment, she seemed to loom larger, her arms spread wide enough to hold the Fifth World – no longer my younger sister, but a reflection of the gods she served – a living reminder of her predecessor Ceyaxochitl, who had been small and frail, except in moments such as these.

It wasn't until Mihmatini took a step forward that I became aware of the burning sensation in my throat. Ceyaxochitl had been dead a few months, and grief still caught me at odd times, hooking me like a barbed spear. "Be careful," I said.

"Thank you for the advice, but I don't think I need it," Mihmatini said. She cast a glance around the room and picked up a vivid blue shawl, which she held against her chest, thoughtfully, then folded it back again on top of the reed chest. "Let's go."

Yaotl followed his mistress out of the room without demur – which left me alone in my sister's deserted apartments, with a folded calendar and nothing useful to do.

I took a look at the calendar out of sheer conscientiousness. I was no calendar priest, but I could see the same things as Mihmatini. Jade Skirt's influence was rising throughout the month, and it was culminating today, on the Feast of the Sun.

Something bad was going to happen, but I couldn't see what. Something to do with the prisoners – neither the She-Snake nor I were infallible, and there had to be something we hadn't thought of. Another outbreak of the epidemic? We couldn't afford to sacrifice a life for a life. If more people fell ill in the palace, what would we do?

No, I knew what they would do. Both Tizoc-tzin and Quenami, who thought themselves so much above the common folks – they would order us to heal the sick noblemen, not the peasants or the merchants. That wasn't the question. The real question was, what would I do?

And I didn't have any answer. The death of officials would send the Empire into chaos, but to buy our salvation by trading one death for another…

At length, I rose and went back to my temple. I barely had time to check the shrine and our registers before a commotion in the courtyard brought me out. From above, I could see the grey cloaks of my priests, arguing with what looked like a nobleman – quailfeathers' headdress, richly embroidered cloak – and another man

in grey clothes.

As I descended, though, they swam into focus – Quenami, looking harried and wan, and Ichtaca, whose round face was grim. By their frantic breaths, they had run all the way there.

My heart tightened in a clench of ice.

Quenami all but grabbed me as I came down the final stairs, his hands scrabbling at my cloak with the coordination of a drunken man. "Acatl." He drew a shuddering breath, but for once he seemed at a loss for words.

"What happened? The prisoners…"

It was Ichtaca who answered, his eyes as hard as cut stones. "No, not the prisoners, Acatl-tzin. The priests."

The priests? The clergy within the Sacred Precinct? But surely that was impossible? "I don't understand."

Quenami took a step backward – and, with an effort akin to wrenching a sacrifice's heart from his chest, pulled himself together to look once more stern and arrogant. "Of course you wouldn't. We mean the clergy of Tlaloc."

Acamapichtli. Tapalcayotl. All of them, cooped up in their cages, stripped of their finery and of their powers. Perfect targets. "How many?" I asked, but Ichtaca shook his head. "You have to come, Acatl-tzin."

How many priests had been in that courtyard? A hundred, perhaps more? I'd talked to Tapalcayotl, and had barely paid enough attention to the others caught in this sordid power-play. But surely there had been dozens of cages: the clergy of Tlaloc was the second most numerous, after that of Huitzilpochtli the Southern Hummingbird.

Say two dozen. That was already too much. Every death would have increased the powers of our sorcerer, and brought their plans this much closer to fruition.

I thought of Mihmatini's calendar, and of the sense in the air of the calm before the storm. Well, lightning had struck, and we were, if not lost, dancing on the edge of the chasm already.

NINETEEN

The Water's Influence

It was carnage. Granted, I wasn't a warrior and hadn't walked the battlefields, but I imagined it couldn't get much worse than this. It wasn't the blood scattered on the ground: I had seen enough of it in devotions or large spells. It wasn't the body parts, either: again, I was no stranger to violence.

What made my stomach heave was the sheer scale. The courtyard had been lined with cages, and all of them had been hit at the same time, by what seemed to be a much faster variant of the plague. The bodies lay contorted on the ground, blackened with internal bleeding – and I remembered from the autopsy how much it had hurt, every organ breaking down and leaking into the body. The faces were turned upwards, the nostrils and mouths ringed with blood; the eyes, wiped clean by the blankness of death, had red corneas, and scarlet tears ran down the cheeks.

Near the back, under the pillars, I found the cage where Tapalcayotl had been. He lay still, almost unrecognisable with the flow of blood that had puffed up his cheeks, all his haughtiness and aggressiveness gone forever – one arm still extended outwards, with a carved amulet that had rolled away on the stone floor.

So much blood; so much magic, shimmering in the air, so much raw power devoted to Chalchiuhtlicue. The sorcerer would be gorged with it, ready to move against the Empire if necessary.

I knelt, and said the words, the ones I always said – the litany for the Dead – even though they'd died for Jade Skirt, and would be in Her land now, rowing boats among the eternal canals, harvesting always-ripe maize. But I couldn't leave them without a guide, and there were no priests of Tlaloc left, not in the whole of Tenochtitlan.

"We leave this earth, we leave this world

Into the darkness we must descend

Leaving behind the precious jade, the precious feathers,

The marigolds and the cedar trees…"

Footsteps echoed behind me. I'd expected Tizoc-tzin, but it was the She-Snake, his face grave. "I trust you've seen enough."

No, I hadn't. "How did this happen?"

"I don't know," the She-Snake said. "But I'm not surprised. They were jailed pending trial, not kept under a magical watch." His gaze was dryly amused. "No one is going to care if malfeasants fail to survive until they appear before the judges, after all."

Of course he was lying, and of course he knew what I'd think of this. I bit back on an angry remark – he hadn't been the one to arrest the clergy, after all – and said, instead, "I trust that's made Tizoc-tzin realise that the clergy wasn't involved with any of this."

The She-Snake raised a mocking eyebrow. "It might have. I wouldn't know. We've all advised him to remain in his quarters for the moment. If whoever has done this is moving against the Mexica Empire, then they'll target its head, sooner or later."

"That's not enough," I said. I tasted bile on my tongue. "You've seen what they can do. Tizoc-tzin has to leave Tenochtitlan." I didn't like this; among other things, it would leave Teomitl a freer rein than I liked, but it had to be done. We couldn't afford to lose the Revered Speaker – never mind that most of this was his fault, that Tapalcayotl and Acamapichtli were dead, the clergy of Tlaloc all but reduced to small, unimportant priests in far-flung cities, and that it would take years for it to rebuild itself, if it was rebuilt at all…

No. I was High Priest. I'd let my feelings and my urge for justice distract me once, and the results had been disastrous. The truth was, there was as much justice as we could make, but preserving the balance of the Fifth World was more important than even that.

It was a thought that hurt like a knife between my ribs, but I had to hold it. I had to believe it.

"He can't–" The She-Snake considered for a while. "I can't be the one to suggest this. In his absence, I would represent him in the city, and he knows it. He'll see this as an attempt to seize power." His face was unreadable; I'd never really understood what motivated him; if he didn't, deep down, yearn to be more than viceroy, more than a substitute for the Revered Speaker.

"Then ask Quenami." Given his state, I didn't think he would protest, for once.

I didn't look to see if he was following. He could deal with the politics, as if he had been born to. I, in turn, would deal with the magic.

I stood in the centre of the courtyard, breathing in the rank smell of blood – it had started to change already in the sunlight, like butchered meat going bad. So much of it, such a sickening waste…

Cuixtli wasn't here: there was no other power to show me the way. But I knew what to look for, now. I slashed the back of my hand, letting the blood drip onto the ground, and said a hymn to Lord Death, feeling the cold of the underworld rise up, the keening lament of the Dead become the only sound in the courtyard. Everything seemed to recede into insignificance, save the corpses in the cages, limned with green light, the eyes bleeding and weeping, as if they could still see anything in the Fifth World. Faint traces of light hovered over the bodies: the remnants of the teyolia and tonalli souls, gathering their scattered pieces before entering the world of the gods – close enough to touch, if I were so minded. But their words would be garbled and confused – their selves incomplete – and I would learn nothing.

Instead, I focused my attention on the pillars. Magic pulsed from them, an angry, steady beat – as I walked closer, the frescoes mingled and merged with each other, receding away until all that remained were the red glyphs, their contours bent like maize stalks in strong sunlight: a pyramid surrounded by smoke, a temple pierced by arrows, a body lying on the ground, torn into four hundred pieces…

May everything you start turn against you, wither into dust, into filth. May your priests lose the black and red of the ancients – their codices, their memories of knowledge and ritual. May you be left without faces or hearts, thrown in the mud with the god's shackles weighing you down…

Jade Skirt's magic, washing over me like waves in a stormy lake – flashes of writhing bodies, contorting in the agony of drowning, of ahuizotls feasting on the eyes and fingernails of bloated corpses…

Enough.

I drew a shuddering breath and stepped away from the wall.

Ichtaca was waiting for me at the courtyard's entrance. "I need to know who came here."

He raised an eyebrow. "Half the palace. They were on trial, and I'm sure neither Tizoc-tzin nor the court would have deprived themselves of the opportunity to mock them."

"You don't understand. Someone engraved a spell within this courtyard, and they had to have done it after the cages were set up."

His face set in a grimace. "Acatl-tzin–"

"I'm sure of it."

Xiloxoch. Yayauhqui. Which of them had it been? I had been weak, and ineffective. For once, Teomitl had the right of it: we had to act. "You need to arrest people," I said to the She-Snake.

"You know who is responsible for this?"

"No," I said. "But it's too late for those considerations."

The She-Snake grimaced; I could tell he didn't entirely agree. But, like me, he had to bow to necessity. "Who?"

"A courtesan named Xiloxoch, and a Tlatelolcan merchant. Yayauhqui."

Which, of course, might stop nothing, even if it was one of them. If they had accomplices, the plague would go on.

No, not only the plague. They'd made a deliberate sacrifice to Jade Skirt, gathering up power with those deaths packed so close by. The plague wasn't the finality: our sorcerer was preparing for something much, much worse.

"I'll try to locate them. But you must know–"

That the palace was large, and in utter chaos; that they might not want to be found. "I know." But it had to be tried, all the same.

"I'll inquire," Ichtaca said. He looked at the She-Snake, who still stood near the empty cages, looking at the corpses as if it could all make sense. But of course it would all make sense, once we caught the culprit. Once the Mexica Empire was safe. "One more thing, Acatl-tzin. About the Master of the House of Darkness."

"Pochtic?" Our mysterious suicide, who was probably mixed up with all of this.

"Yes," Ichtaca said. "I examined the room in which he died, as you requested me to."

I hadn't – not exactly – but the gods knew I wasn't about to begrudge him for taking initiatives. "And?"

"There is something I have to show you."

"Ichtaca, there is no time–" I started, but his face was set.

"I could tell you, but I need your opinion."

I sighed. "Fine," I said. "Let's go." At least it would get me away from that courtyard and that pervasive smell of meat and blood – else I was going to retch up the little I had in my stomach.

Pochtic's rooms were deserted, the focus of attention having moved elsewhere. We climbed the stairs of the pyramid, passing by a couple of bored-looking guards – and found ourselves in the room again.

The body had been removed to our temple, and everything smelled – stale, neglected, as if reflecting the misery and despair that had led Pochtic to commit the sin of suicide. The braziers had been extinguished, and the smell of copal incense had turned into the unpleasant one of cold ashes. The frescoes, though, were as vibrant as ever – the painted faces of the gods such as Tezcatlipoca the Smoking Mirror looking back at us, at the stains of blood that had changed the colour of the floor – mocking and empty-eyed, as if They knew secrets we weren't worthy of.

Tlaloc the Storm Lord had known something – something that had scared him. And if a god, one of the Old Ones, could be scared of something…

The Duality curse me, I didn't want to think about that, not now.

Ichtaca stopped at the back of the room, near one of the windows, looking down at the blood-stained sleeping mat. "Here," he said. "Can you look at this?"

I still had Lord Death's true sight upon me, and for a moment, all I could see was death – the memory of blood spurting out from cut arteries, of a soul sleeping away into the underworld. "Not the blood," I said.

"No," Ichtaca said. "Beneath."

Beneath… There was something – not an image, but the faint memory of a smell, something I'd seen before, sweet and sickening…

Jimsonweed. Peyotl. Teonanacatl, the gods' food, the sacred mushrooms – a compound of powerful hallucinogens that pierced the veil between the Fifth World and the world beyond. So close to a sleeping mat. "Dreams," I said. "Portents. He was in contact with the spirit world."

Ichtaca grimaced. "Yes."

He had been seeking it, deliberately. "Taking advice from someone dead?" I shuddered to think of all the sorcerers whom he could have contacted, with the boundaries weakened. At least the dead who descended into Mictlan didn't survive for more than four years – after their journey through the underworld, they dissolved at the foot of Lord Death's throne. But the other dead – the ones who went to the Fifth Sun's Heaven, or into Tlalocan – they were still there, waiting to be summoned, or freed.

"There's something else, too."

Something else… I extended my senses, probing at the edge of the cloud. Something sharper, like pieces of a broken knife – corrupted almost beyond recovery. "Wards?" I asked. "Some kind of spell…"

"Yes," Ichtaca said. "I was hoping it would remind you of something."

Not that I could think of. "Wards aren't my specialty," I said, almost sheepishly. "Have you asked a priest of the Duality?"

"I tried, but they're too busy warding off the epidemic from the rest of the population."

"I've seen them somewhere, that's the trouble. Something much like it, but I can't pinpoint…"

"It'll come back to you," I said, finally. I looked at the pieces again, but they had faded too much, and unlike Ichtaca, they didn't remind me of anything at all.

What could Pochtic have done, which would require guidance from the dead? I thought back to when I'd seen him in the courtyard of the prisoners' quarters. Cuixtli, the Mextitlan prisoner, had said Pochtic had been looking for a spell.

Looking for a spell, or… or making sure everything was as it should have been?

"He cast the spell," I said, slowly. It made sense – an altogether chilling kind of sense.

But why? Why would the Master of the House of Darkness, one of the four on the war-council, seek to act against the clergy of Tlaloc? Some old rivalry I hadn't known of? Some grievance? It all sounded too extreme.

"What spell?" Ichtaca asked.

"The one in the prisoners' quarters. The one that took the lives of Tlaloc's priests."

There was silence. "He did what?"

The voice wasn't Ichtaca's; it came from behind us, from the entrance to the room. And I knew it.

I turned around, slowly, and watched Acamapichtli limp into the room. Like his priests, he was all but unrecognisable – his face scarred, his movements slow and stiff – and the eyes…

The corneas had burst, drowning the irises. "You–"

He fumbled his way into the room, tapping the floor with a wooden cane – his other hand wrapped into something I couldn't see. Behind him was a black-clad guard, not his jailer, but his only help to move, to climb stairs – to see anything at all. The steady tap of the cane against the stone floor was all I could hear as he made his way towards us. "I caught the sickness, yes. But, as you can see, it passed me by. Almost."

Almost – and it had left its mark everywhere. And it had damaged his eyes, too. I had been blind for a while, after entering Tlaloc's world – but I had recovered. For Acamapichtli, there would be no such grace.

"You–" He was alive – alive, ready to help us, to rebuild his own clergy. But the cost, oh gods – the cost…

"Always be prepared," Acamapichtli said. His voice was raw, as if he hadn't spoken for a long time – I thought of blood, dripping down his throat, of vocal chords distended as those few blood vessels within burst, and bled, and left whitish scars everywhere within. "I–" He stopped in the middle of the room, the cane finally falling still – blessed silence flowing all around us. He unclenched his hand, revealing the bone-white shape of an amulet. "Always be prepared." There was a shadow of the old, mordant sneer on his face, if not in his voice. "It's served me well, as you can see."

"You're alive," I said – stupidly, because it seemed to be the only fact filling my head. "I thought–"

"That I was dead?" He grinned, a truly frightening expression – his thin lips parting to reveal teeth, covered in the blood that had leaked from his gums. "Not such luck, I'm afraid. I'm a hard man to kill." He tapped his cane against the ground, once, twice. "Now, what were you saying about the–" he paused there, his hands shaking "the deaths of the clergy?"

"I think," I said, slowly, "that the Master of the House of Darkness was involved. I don't know if he cast the spells or made sure they were in place – but he certainly played his part in them." And that – not the deaths, those were part of the ritual – but the betrayal of the Empire and the Fifth World – that would be a sin the gods might forgive, but that Tizoc-tzin wouldn't, and he had already seen how much score Tizoc-tzin set by priests and by the gods' rules. He had to have known, even after his penance, that it wouldn't keep him safe, that nothing would ever keep him safe from Tizoc-tzin.

But why had he thought…?

Oh, of course. I had come into the prisoners' quarters and challenged him, and he had assumed I knew something. He had been wrong, of course. I ought to have felt sorry, but the memory of the priests in the courtyard made it all but impossible.

"I see," Acamapichtli said. "Can you summon his soul?"

"I don't know–" I glanced at Ichtaca, who still hadn't moved. We'd already summoned the soul of one victim, and it hadn't been of great help. "I need preparations for that; it certainly won't be until tomorrow."

"I don't care. This – rabbit-faced coward has just played his part in all but exterminating my clergy." Acamapichtli gripped his cane – he was still a blind, scarred man with a limp, but power shim mered in the air around him, a reminder the enemy underestimated him at his peril. "Anything we can do to avenge this…"

I could understand – I'd had some of the same burning hunger within me, and knew how much worse it would all be for him – but we couldn't afford anger; we couldn't afford revenge. "It's not over yet, that's the problem. The deaths were just the beginning. They're the fuel for another spell."

Acamapichtli said nothing for a while – his ruined eyes staring straight ahead. "I want revenge."

"I know. But the Fifth World–"

"–can take care of itself?" He laughed, sharp and bitter. "Probably. But they were my priests, Acatl. They will not be used for some ritual against us. Tell me how I can help."

I shook my head. "You need to find your Consort," I said. "If she's still alive. We need to understand what kind of ritual we're dealing with. Ichtaca, can you set up the summoning?" I asked.

He grimaced. It was far from a straightforward thing – the body was unwashed and unadorned, and the vigils hadn't even started. And we both knew how important procedures were, at a time like this. "I'll see what I can do," Ichtaca said. "In the meantime–"

I glanced at the darkening sky – the air as heavy as before a storm. "I have an errand to do. I'll see you afterwards."

TWENTY

The Jaguar Knight's Brother

It was late by the time I arrived at Neutemoc's house; and in the darkness, the leaping jaguars painted on the gates seemed as luminous and as threatening as haunting mothers hovering on the edges of the Fifth World. Faint voices wafted out from the courtyard, and the laughter of children – for a moment, it seemed as though I had gone back to a few years before, when there had still been a mistress of the house, and my brother had epitomised the success I'd never know as a priest without possessions.

In the reception room, Neutemoc was sitting, nibbling on a fried newt; the laughter came from Necalli and Mazatl, who sat listening to Mihmatini telling a story – though my sister herself wasn't laughing. Her eyes were red, and it was obvious her mind lay elsewhere.

"Brother." Neutemoc lifted his bowl towards me – a salute, almost. "Be welcome."

I sat next to him, helping myself to a handful of maize flatbreads. For a while, neither of us spoke; the children squealed and laughed as Mihmatini mimicked a bumbling warrior seeking to eat driedout corn, and a merchant obsessed with counting his feathers and gold quills. It was all – so hauntingly familiar, a reminder that outside the tensions of the Imperial Court and the threat of our extinction, there were still flowers and songs, still quetzal feathers and precious jade. And yes, they wouldn't last, they would be soiled and marred – but did that make them less valuable, while they still shone brighter than the Fifth Sun?

"How is she?" I asked.

Neutemoc made a stabbing gesture with one hand. "Brittle. Be careful what you say."

I grimaced. "I'm always careful."

"You know what I mean." Neutemoc turned, to look at me for a while. "You look melancholy as well. Still that warrior's death?"

"I don't know," I said. I'd walked back there, rather than my temple, and to be honest, I still didn't know why. I could have made four hundred excuses about needing to talk to Mihmatini, or to keep contact with my family, but there had been no such rationality in my choice. Like a hunted beast, I'd gone to ground in familiar surroundings, and those had turned out to be my brother's house. "There is too much going on."

Neutemoc was silent for a while. "There is always is, isn't there? The gods move and plot, and we are the pawns on the patolli board." He raised his bowl again, as if addressing an invisible assembly.

"You know–"

"–that you don't think that." The ghost of a smile quirked up his lips. "But still… they talk, in the Jaguar House."

"Of the deaths?"

"That, yes." Neutemoc laid his bown on the mat, between the jug and a plate of tamales. Then he looked at me sideways, from the corner of his eyes. "There are a lot of Knights missing, too. Officially, they've gone back to their families for the Feast of the Sun."

"I can't–" I started. I wasn't supposed to be telling anyone about Teomitl; the gods knew we had too many people, from Nezahualtzin to the She-Snake, who already suspected. But if I didn't speak out, the weight on my heart would blacken and tear it. "They went to join Teomitl."

Neutemoc's face went deathly still. "He has desires beyond the House of Darts, then?"

"I don't know," I said, a little more annoyed this time. "He's not involved in this." It might have been his goddess' magic, but he'd almost died. No, he had nothing to do with the sorcerer. But he was making use of the chaos for all it was worth. "But the situation suits him, and he is taking advantage of it."

"And you never foresaw any of this," Neutemoc said – displaying a disquieting shrewdness for a man who had once been oblivious to the goings-on in his own household.

"No," I said, at last. "I don't understand–" I didn't understand how both Mihmatini and I could have failed to see anything – to interpret the signs, the portents; to peer into the shape of the future and see how it inevitably led to this, brother against brother.

"He was your student," Neutemoc said. "Your beloved son, if you want to go that far – and knowing you, I suspect you would. But even beloved sons go astray, Acatl. It's the nature of raising children." His lips quirked up again, in what might have been a smile if it wasn't so weak and devoid of emotion. "Our parents might have had a few things to say about that, had they lived."

But it wasn't that – what Teomitl was doing went against everything I'd been trying to teach him. I poured myself cactus juice into another bowl, letting the sharp, pungent aroma waft up to me, washing away all other smells. "Yes," I said, sarcastically, raising the bowl towards him. "They might." Look at us now, the priest they'd always disapproved of, and the bright warrior all but disowned by his own order.

Mihmatini rose, leaving Ollin and Mazatl on the mat – both curled up and sleeping. Like Quenami, she quelled the shaking of her hands well, but she couldn't quite disguise it.

"You saw him," I said.

"Of all the stubborn-headed–" she stopped herself, and sat by our side. "I can't… I just can't make him listen."

"You're his wife," Neutemoc said, finally. "He'll heed your opinion, but not on this."

She took a deep breath. "I thought–" She blinked, furiously, her eyes wet – and for a moment I wished Teomitl were there, so I could shake some sense into him.

"He loves you," Neutemoc said, gently. "But he wasn't always smart, that one."

Mihmatini said nothing – her hands clenched, briefly.

"Did he…?" I hesitated. "I'm sorry, but I have to ask. Did he tell you anything?"

I had to repeat the question twice before Mihmatini could bring herself to answer it. "Say anything? No, nothing useful," Mihmatini said. "But the chaperone is the driving force behind this."

"The old woman?" I asked. She had been the one to see him; the one that had set him on his bid for the Turquoise and Gold Crown. "Who is she?" She'd exuded Toci's magic, as naturally as we breathed – as if nothing stood between her and the goddess. Another agent we knew nothing of? Unlikely: few gods ceded Their powers to mortals, and Toci – the hungry earth, the broken furrows – tended to keep Herself to Herself.

Mihmatini grimaced. "His sister. Always had a bit of a weakness for her brother – though really, he's almost young enough to be her nephew, or worse. And she doesn't look like she likes Tizoctzin – or Axayacatl-tzin – very much, for that matter."

More palace politics? I hid a grimace. The last woman who had interfered in imperial succession had been by far the more successful and canny claimant – even though she had failed, in the end. An old imperial princess would be as sharp as broken obsidian – and as dangerous as a jaguar mother deprived of her children. "Between both of them, they might just get what they want." That was, in the case of the princess , the support of the palace; for Teomitl, that of the army. And Tizoc-tzin out of the city… Had I done the right thing?

But no, I had to. We couldn't afford to have our Revered Speaker fall to Chalchiuhtlicue's magic, not so soon after the last one's death – and with him unconfirmed, too, devoid of anything but the simplest magics of the Southern Hummingbird.

Mihmatini shook her head. "There has to be something I can do, Acatl."

Was there? I couldn't be sure. "You know him better than anyone else," I said, slowly. "You'll think of something."

She took in a deep breath. "I guess." But she didn't sound convinced.

"I need your help," I said to Neutemoc.

Neutemoc raised an eyebrow. "That's… unexpected."

"I'm not finding this funny."

"Me neither." There was a flash of something in his eyes, as if he remembered for a moment that I was part of the reason his wife was dead, and his house deserted. "What do you want?"

"Nothing much," I said. "I need you to look into Eptli."

"Why? The man has been dead long enough, surely?"

"I don't know," I said. "I've got a gut feeling he wasn't picked at random." The first victim of the disease would have had a high symbolic weight, if nothing else – but something in the way he had been set up suggested personal rancour, and if it wasn't Chipahua, or the merchant Yayauhqui, or Xiloxoch, then I couldn't understand why anyone would hate him.

"I can ask," Neutemoc said. "But unless you can think of something more specific…"

"Anything that would have made him an enemy."

"Still rather broad." Neutemoc grinned with far too much amusement.

"Look, if I knew, I wouldn't be here. I don't think it's anything obvious, like people who couldn't stand him as a warrior. If it were, we'd have found out by now. It has to be something more insidious; some secret of his past we haven't found."

Neutemoc sighed. "I'll see what I can do."

Afterwards, I walked with Mihmatini in the courtyard, under the gaze of the white moon – Coyaulxauhqui, She of the Silver Bells, who was the Southern Hummingbird's sister and His bitterest enemy.

"He loves you," I said in the silence. "But–"

"But not enough to listen to me? I don't know if that's love." She sounded miserable. "He's doing a foolish thing."

"The gods come first." They always did – except my own god, who always came last. "The Mexica Empire comes first."

Mihmatini shivered. "He belongs to the Southern Hummingbird after all, doesn't he?"

I was silent, for a while. "You have to realise it's not only the Southern Hummingbird who drives the Mexica forward. The other gods feast on our offerings as well, and would crush anyone foolish enough to try and get in their way."

"But other people would make them just as well, wouldn't they? We're not the only ones worshipping Tlaloc the Storm Lord, or Xochiquetzal."

"No," I said. I stopped by the pine tree, ran a hand on its rough bark, breathing in the smell of crushed needles and dry wood.

"It's not fair."

"It's not about fairness. It's about balance first."

"And you believe that?"

"Yes." I had to – or what else could I cling to? "What are you going to do?"

"I don't know. That's the problem, Acatl – I just don't know." Her face in the moonlight was gentle, and she seemed not so much the Guardian or a priestess, but just my sister, as bewildered as the day the dog had bitten her. "There has to be something…"

I didn't know what to say. I could have lied, and told her it would get better, but that would have been wrong.

She sighed, at length. "Never mind. Let's see what tomorrow will bring. Good night, brother."

"Good night."

I emerged from dark, deep dreams of the plague sweeping through Tenochtitlan – among which swum Acamapichtli's blind face, his hands questing for my own, never quite meeting them – and found myself in a sunlit room, with one of Neutemoc's slaves waiting by my sleeping mat. "Acatl-tzin, there is someone to see you."

"Someone?" I rolled over painfully – I no longer needed the cane to stand up, but I did still feel as though I'd been pummelled repeatedly. "I'll be outside in a moment."

Alone, I pulled myself upwards – reached out for my obsidian knife and offered up my blood to the Fifth Sun and Lord Death.

I didn't know who I had expected – Ichtaca with further news, perhaps, or the She-Snake, come to apprise me of yet another disaster. But the person waiting for me in the courtyard was Xiloxoch – her face painted the yellow of corn, her hair unbound like that of a young courtesan about to dance with warriors. "Acatl-tzin." She smiled, uncovering rows of black-stained teeth – unfortunately for her, so much seduction was wasted on me. I had once faced the goddess she worshipped, and compared to Her raw power, artifices were rather paltry.

"I hadn't expected to see you again."

She raised a thin, artful eyebrow. "Why not?"

"The She-Snake's guards are looking for you."

She had the grace to look amused. "Let them look. It's you I've come to see."

"To mock me? I'd have thought you'd played your part," I said.

"My part." She tossed her head back, in the familiar fashion of courtesans trying to appear coy. "And what do you think my part is exactly, Acatl-tzin?"

"False accusations. Sowing discord." When she said nothing, I added, "And attempting to steal sacrifices."

That got a smile, if nothing else. "Please. I wouldn't attempt to scrape corn from the belly of another god. The sacrifices were merely… irresistible."

Irresistible. The proximity of death; of godhood – and something else, something in the way she said it… What hadn't I seen? "Sex," I said, flatly.

"I prefer the term 'lust'," Xiloxoch said. She smiled again, stroking the pine tree as she'd hold a lover's arm. "My mistress takes power where She can."

Small, paltry offerings of semen and vaginal secretions –  nowhere near full blood sacrifices, but perhaps enough to keep an exiled goddess satiated.

"I could call the guards," I said.

"Ah, but will you do such a thing, without even listening to me?"

"Perhaps I don't want to listen to you," I said. But my curiosity was too strong – even though I suspected she was going to feed me more lies. "Fine. What do you want?"

Xiloxoch tossed her head back. "Oh, Acatl-tzin. This isn't about what I want. This is about you."

"You have nothing I want."

"Do I not?" Her eyes were mocking – and for a moment, they reminded me of Xochiquetzal's burning gaze, of Her face in the moment She'd risen from her low-backed chair to confront me, the embodiment of a force beyond human imagination or control. "Or perhaps I do. Perhaps it's time to make alliances, Acatl-tzin."

"Alliances." I dragged my voice back from where it seemed to have fled. "Alliances. I don't need help."

"You don't? I'm glad to know you have a good understanding of what's going on, then." Her lips quirked up. "Tell me you do, and I'll leave you alone."

And she knew very well that I wouldn't, the Duality curse her. "What are you offering?" And at what price?

"A little help," Xiloxoch said. "A little… destabilisation for certain parties."

"You speak in riddles."

"Of course." She smiled again. "Why should I make life easier for you?"

"Then why are you helping me at all?"

She smiled again; her blackened teeth seemed to have turned into the maw of a jaguar. "Because I don't particularly appreciate any of the sides taking part in this. Because as long as you're all weak, Xochiquetzal is strong."

And as long as she could lead us astray, she would. "You'll forgive me for not feeling particularly trusting."

"No matter." She leaned against the pine tree, looking at the sky. From the slaves' quarters came the rhythmic sound of maize being pounded into flour. "I'll give it to you regardless."

"At what price?"

"I told you. As long as everyone is busy…" She opened out her hand, revealing a bundle of cotton clothes. "I thought you might want to see this."

When I took it from her, I felt the weight of Chalchiuhtlicue's magic, a smell like brackish swamp water, or the bloated flesh of drowned men. Carefully, I unwrapped it, and found a torn feather quill, filled with powder, which looked for all the world like the one Palli had found on Eptli's body. Except that the powder was a different, richer colour, more dark orange than yellow: I'd have said cacao, except that it was not dark enough for that.

I wasn't crazy enough to rub it between my fingers. "Where did you get this?"

Xiloxoch pursed her lips, which were as red as chafed skin. "You'll remember I collected Zoquitl's possessions. This was among them."

"And we didn't see it."

She smiled, as if my scepticism was of little matter. "It was well hidden, and you didn't search the room that well."

I wasn't altogether sure I believed her, but then I couldn't see why she'd want to give this, and how she'd have filled it with Chalchiuhtlicue's magic. "You have the bravery of warriors about to die, then. The sickness–"

"Please. I have my own protections. In any case–" she smiled again, an expression that was no doubt meant as seductive, but was starting to be decidedly unpleasant "it's all yours. You'll know what to make of it."

Other than the fact that it had been the vector for the sickness, and slightly different from the one that had killed Eptli… no, I didn't. "Well, that was helpful. I certainly feel more knowledgeable."

"Make of it what you wish. I could tell you you're looking in the wrong place, but you already know that."

"Yes," I said. "Was that all you had to say? You're wasting my time, once again."

"Once again? Whenever did I waste your time, Acatl-tzin?"

"The bribe," I said. "It was all a fiction you devised to keep us running in the dark."

She smiled again, as radiant as the rising sun. "I sow chaos, Acatltzin. I do my goddess' will. You know all this. Does it matter if I lied to you?"

"It might make me slightly distrustful," I said, darkly.

"You're a disappointment. Too frank, that's your problem. I lie when it suits me, and tell the truth when it doesn't. And, right now, the truth is more convenient."

I'd had enough. "If you're just here to mock me, you might as well be gone."

She shrugged. "Fine. But remember what I've given you."

She was gone in a heartbeat, but, just as she'd intended, she'd sown the seeds of doubt.

TWENTY-ONE

Merchants and Warriors

After Xiloxoch was gone, I stared at the powder for a while, but try as I might I couldn't make anything of it.

"Up already?" Mihmatini's voice asked.

I sighed. "And already swamped with problems."

"As usual." Mihmatini settled on the rim of the well, watching me with bright eyes – her hair neatly brought up in two hornshaped buns, the traditional style for married women. "The problems don't go away, you know. You might as well enjoy the quiet bits in the middle."

"You're one to talk," I said, sharply, looking at her.

Her face was dark – as taut as a rope about to snap. "Perhaps I'd like to be able to take my own advice." She stopped, her gaze dragged to the thing in my lap. "What in the Fifth World is that?"

"A parting gift," I said. "One of the vectors for the sickness." It might have been an elaborate lie from Xiloxoch, but then why give us two, one on Eptli's body, and one directly? The most likely explanation was that it really was the vector of the sickness.

"This?"

"Yes," I said, gloomily. "It's meant to be money from a symbolic standpoint, but what's inside is not gold. I can't figure out–"

My sister made a sound – I thought she was going to cry, but after a while I realised she was laughing. "Oh, Acatl. Sometimes, you're such an idiot."

"What?" I asked, looking at the cloth again – what had I missed.

"Men," Mihmatini snorted. "You're all the same. What was the last time you actually entered the slaves' quarters?"

"Fairly recently."

"For an investigation, right?" She wiped tears from her eyes. "Sometimes, I swear, you're useless."

"If you're finished with the mocking," I said, strongly suspecting I was going to end up looking like a fool again, no matter what I did – why could I never win anything against her? "What is so funny?"

"If you cooked at all, or dealt with food at all, you'd know what the powder is."

"I cook," I said, stiffly.

"Only when you can't find food at your temple or at the palace kitchen." Mihmatini shook her head, amused. "The powder is cacao pinolli – cacao powder mixed with maize flour."

"It's a drink."

"And a base for flatbreads, yes," Mihmatini said.

"Someone is killing people through food?" It made no sense. "Try this one," I said. I gave her a brief description of the other powder, the one Palli had found.

"A deeper yellow than maize flour?" Mihmatini asked. She puffed her cheeks. "It could many, many things, and I can't be sure without having a look at it. But I think it's chia pinolli – chia seeds and maize flour."

"I detect a pattern," I said. Unfortunately, it was the kind that stubbornly refused to coalesce into anything coherent.

"Yes, me too, but why would anyone want to use those for propagating a sickness?"

"I don't know," I said. I rose, wrapping the broken quill into a piece of cloth, and tucking it into my belt. "If anything occurs, do tell me. I'll be at the palace." I needed to speak to Coatl again – and to see what I could get from either of them about the bribe.

In the corridors and courtyards, the bustle was worse than ever, and the crowd abuzz with the rumours of Tizoc-tzin's departure. Apparently, he'd left at dawn with a close circle of his faithful, leav ing Quenami and the She-Snake in charge – a radical departure from tradition, and one that had tongues wagging from the military courts to the treasure halls.

When I reached Coatl's quarters, though, he wasn't there. According to the slaves, he'd left in the night and hadn't come back. "He's going with Tizoc-tzin?" I asked.

The slave shook his head. "Not that we know of. We have received no orders for the removal of his household."

Not knowing what else to do, I went to see the She-Snake, but he was busy with Quenami, and the line of supplicants and noblemen was already overflowing the courtyard of his quarters. I chatted, briefly, with one of his slaves, but it didn't look as though his guards had even started looking for Xiloxoch or Yayauhqui.

Coatl had left. No matter how I turned this around, I didn't like it. He'd said he hadn't taken the bribe, and he was honest, I was sure of that. But why leave at all, in such circumstances? He might have been frightened of the plague, but in this case he would have removed his whole household, not disappeared himself.

Why?

I walked out of the palace, preoccupied, back to my temple, where – to my surprise – I found Neutemoc and Mihmatini in discussion with Palli.

"What are you doing here?"

Neutemoc was dressed for war in the fur-suit of Jaguar Knights, with his helmet tucked under his arm and his macuahitl sword in his right hand. And Mihmatini wore her Guardian clothes; her slave Yaotl trailing behind her, holding a basket of fruit and flowers – offerings for calling on the power of the Duality.

"Mihmatini told me about the powders," Neutemoc said. "Why didn't you ask me?"

"You know about cooking?" I couldn't hide my surprise.

His lips quirked up, in that smile that wasn't a smile. "It's not about cooking." His voice took on the singsong cadences of sacred texts. "Forty baskets of cacao pinolli, and forty baskets of chia pinolly every eighty days, eight hundred mantles of cotton every eighty days, and eighty white and yellow cuextecatl costumes every year."

"It's a tribute list," Mihmatini said. "For Tlatelolco. For the last eight years they've been paying this every year."

"Tlatelolco?" The merchant, Yayauhqui.

"Yes. I asked about Eptli," Neutemoc said. "Other than what you told me, nothing much that was new. Except this: his father was a messenger, originally. He was the one who carried back the news that Moquihuix-tzin, the Revered Speaker of Tlatelolco, was plotting against the Mexica Empire. That's how he became a nobleman."

"Tlatelolco." I took in a deep breath. No wonder they'd wanted our fall, our failure in everything. "Let's go."

"Where?"

"To find and arrest someone, before it's too late."

Yayauhqui was not at his stall, and when we inquired at his household, we found him absent there too. The slaves showed us into the courtyard and served us bowls of chilli-flavoured cacao. After a while, a middle-aged woman by the name of Teyecapan came to see us, looking distraught. "They've told me you're looking for my husband. I can assure you, he's done nothing wrong."

"Then let us see him," I said gently. "He can tell us ourselves."

"He's not here," she said. She looked at us as if we were addled. "It's the Feast of the Sun. He'll be in the slave market, buying a sacrifice victim for the merchants."

Neutemoc threw me an exasperated glance as we walked out. "I'm getting tired of walking back and forth between the houses and the marketplace."

"Not to mention hot," Mihmatini said, hiding a smile. And, indeed, the Jaguar Knight's costume might have looked grandiose, but it was no more comfortable than my High Priest regalia: we were both sweating quite profusely under the withering glare of the Fifth Sun.

Tlatelolco was nowhere as deserted as Tenochtitlan. But for the sick governor, the plague appeared to have touched it little – which made sense if Yayauhqui was behind it all. There were fewer people in the marketplace, but I suspected the missing were mainly Tenochcas.

In the marketplace, the slave section was filled with merchants, discussing in small groups, looking at the slaves for sale – nearly all burly, unblemished men kneeling on the reed mats with the distant gazes of people who expected to be kneeling all day.

Yayauhqui was easy to find: he towered over the other merchants by a head, and, with the true sight on, there was an empty hole where his souls ought to have been.

"Acatl-tzin?" His gaze moved from Neutemoc to Mihmatini, and then back to me. "I did wait for you in the palace, but it was a while and you didn't come back…"

The other merchants were frowning at us – their gazes were sharp and inquisitive, if not yet hostile. "Can we move away a little?" I asked.

Yayauhqui smiled. "It all depends. What do you want?"

"You're under arrest," Neutemoc said, curtly and harshly.

"I don't understand." He sounded genuinely puzzled.

"The plague is linked to Tlatelolco."

"And you come to me? Do you have any idea how many people of Tlatelolcan blood are around here?"

"Few who knew Eptli, I'd wager," Mihmatini said.

Yayauhqui considered her, thoughtfully. At length, he bowed. "I'll grant you this, my Lady, but I had little to do with Eptli, and certainly nothing to do with his death."

And he sounded sincere. I knew he was a great liar, but surely, if he'd that much hatred of Mexica – if he was that much closer to his goal of unseating us – surely he would have shown some glee, some excitement? "Come with us," I said.

He shrugged. "It's a nuisance, and I assure you I'm innocent."

"Then you won't mind coming with us until it's all over." A matter of days, or perhaps of hours.

His face darkened, slightly. "I do mind. I have business, and other things to attend to. But if that's what it takes to convince you…"

He walked ahead of us on the way to the palace, his head thrown back, as casually arrogant as any warrior.

"Are you sure it's him?" Neutemoc said.

"He might want to be coming back to the palace," Mihmatini said, slowly, but she didn't sound convinced.

I wasn't, either. If all he'd wanted was to get back into the palace, he could have walked. And someone who could paint spells into the remotest courtyards didn't need a pitiful excuse like an arrest to be at work within the palace complex. "Something is wrong."

"We have the wrong person," Neutemoc said. He shrugged.

No offence to him, but Yayauhqui is a merchant. Your plague sounds like it's been orchestrated by a warrior with a good grasp of strategy."

"He used to be a warrior," I reminded Neutemoc. "All Tlatelolcans were both – merchants and warriors."

"Don't lecture me." Neutemoc looked amused. "I know what you mean, but I still don't think it's him. Call it a gut feeling. He just doesn't seem to have the right mindset."

I wasn't sure how much my brother's gut feelings were worth – but when it came to warriors, they had to be better than mine. Which left us, it seemed, with not much more to go on.

TWENTY-TWO

Beyond Death

At the palace, we dropped Yayauhqui off into a room for "guests", and I managed to find one black-clad guard willing to keep an eye on him. Though Yayauhqui himself didn't look as though he had any intention of moving: he'd picked up ledgers from his merchant peers before leaving, and he was now sitting cross-legged with the papers spread in his lap, thoughtfully annotating them with a writing reed.

It could have been an elaborate deception, but the most likely explanation was that it was all the truth, and that we'd been mistaken by picking him as the instigator of the plague.

But, if not him, who else? As he had said, we did not lack Tlatelolcans. Another of the former imperial family, with more military training, and a stronger will for revenge?

Pochtic would know.

We walked back to Pochtic's rooms, where Ichtaca had readied everything for the spell: my priests had brought back Pochtic's body from the temple, and laid it again in the position in which he had died: readying the teyolia – the spirit that travelled the world beyond – for being summoned. Around him they had traced the glyph for ollin – movement, the symbol of this Fifth Age – and around the glyph a circle which encompassed the whole room, a symbol for the rules and rituals which bound us all. Now nine of them – one for each level of the underworld – were chanting hymns to Lord Death, beseeching Him to help us summon the dead man's soul.

"In the region of the fleshless, in the region of mystery

The place where jade crumbles, where gold is crushed

The place where we go down into darkness…"

"I think we'll wait for you outside," Neutemoc said. He shifted uncomfortably – unused, I guessed, to the matter-of-fact way with which we treated death.

Mihmatini shook her head. "You wait outside. I want to see this." Her gaze was hungry, feverish, and I thought I could name the reason for her impatience – she'd leap on anything we could use to make Teomitl see reason.

"Don't overdo it," I said.

Her gaze was hard. "I know what I'm doing."

I sighed, but said nothing. I couldn't push her any further. We walked into the room together – to find Ichtaca on the edge of the circle, watching the ceremony. He bowed to Mihmatini, with the look of uneasy reverence he always had for his magical and political superiors – excepting me, of course.

"You don't look convinced by the ritual," I said.

Ichtaca shrugged. "You know why."

After death, the souls that went into Mictlan lay in scattered shards – not like the sacrifices or the dead in battle, who opened up wings of light to ascend into the Fifth Sun's Heaven, nor the drowned men, who entered Tlalocan whole. Rather, those souls destined for Mictlan needed to strip themselves of every remnant of the Fifth World, pulling their essence from the corpse that had hosted them. It took a few days for that transformation to be complete, but this assumed proper rituals – the washing and laying-out of the body, and the vigil: all the small things that kept reminding the soul of the next step in its journey. Here, there had been time for nothing of this; the body had been moved, cutting its link to the place of death.

"Two days," I said, aloud.

"It will have to suffice," Ichtaca said.

We waited side by side, until the chanting subsided; it was time for me to take my place at the centre of the quincunx.

Pochtic's body lay on the ground – not the pale, contorted thing I remembered, but something else. Palli and the others had dressed him in a semblance of a funeral bundle – given the little time they'd had, I suspected there were rather fewer layers of cotton than Pochtic's status warranted; fewer amulets and pieces of jewellery as well.

I inhaled – feeling the cold of the underworld gather itself from the circle under my feet. Green light had seeped from the dried blood on the ground, until it seemed as though I stood in mist. Everything smelled faintly humid – like leaves on the edge of rotting. Then, with one of my obsidian knives, I drew a line across the scarred back of my hand, letting the blood fall onto the floor, drop after drop. There was a small jolt every time a drop connected, and the mist opened itself up to welcome it, with a hunger that was almost palpable.

"From beyond the river

From beyond the plains of shards

I call you, I guide you out…"

The light flared up, coming to my waist; I could see faint smudges within, and hear the distant lament of the dead; shapes moved within the mist – there were hints of yellow eyes and claws and fangs, and the distant glimmer of a lost soul, like dewdrops on flower leaves.

"Past the mountains that bind and crush

Past the wind who cuts and wounds

Past the river that drowns

I call you, I guide you out…"

Nothing happened.

Or rather: the mist remained, and the feeling of emptiness arcing through me, telling me passage into the underworld was open. But no soul came; no vaguely human shape drew itself out of the murky darkness.

The Storm Lord strike me, Ichtaca was right: we were too early, and the soul was still in four hundred scattered pieces.

But no; there was something… some resistance, as if I'd hooked a fish at the end of a line, or rather, more than one fish: I could feel the pulling, the scrabbling of several smaller things trying to get out of the way, with the same intelligence as a shoal of fish or a flock of sparrows.

I grasped my obsidian knife, letting the blade draw a bloody line within my palm – waiting until the obsidian was tinged with my blood. Then I wove the knife up, heedless of the small pinprick of pain that spread from my open wounds – up, and around, as if cutting into a veil.

The air parted with a palpable resistance, and the pull I felt grew stronger – and then, in a moment like a heartbeat, something coalesced in the midst of the circle.

The souls I had seen had been human, but this clearly wasn't. It moved and shimmered, barely within the Fifth World – I caught glimpses of wings and feathers within its ever-changing shape, as if the soul wasn't yet sure how it had died.

"Priest?" It whispered. The voice was to Pochtic as a codex picture was to a god – small and diminished, its timbre extinguished. "Where–?"

"The Fifth World – but only for a little while," I said. "Everything must tarnish and fade into dust, and you are no exception." My voice took on the cadences of the ritual – for this had to be done properly, lest Pochtic never achieve oblivion in Mictlan. "The blood has fled your body; the voice of your heart is silent. The underworld awaits you."

The soul shifted and twisted. If he had been a man, he would have hugged himself. "I'm dead?"

Quite unmistakably so. "Yes," I said.

It moved again, extending tendrils of light to wrap around the funeral bundle – and withdrawing as soon as it touched it, as if it had been burned. "Dead…" it whispered.

What a contrast to the vibrant, arrogant man Pochtic had been, but then, few spirits maintained their cohesion into death. I had only met one, and he had been Revered Speaker of Tenochtitlan, schooled in propriety and ritual since his birth.

"Dead," I said. And, because strong emotions could survive even into Mictlan, "You committed suicide."

A brief flare from the soul; a shifting of lights to become darker. "I did." There was a pause. "I… I was afraid."

I said nothing, not wanting to break the fragile process of gathering its memories.

"He was going to find me – arrest me, kill me. The Revered Speaker…" It paused, shifted again. "I – did something. I–"

It was silent, then – hovering over its own corpse, not daring to touch it. At length, it whispered, and it was the voice of a broken man, "It can't be forgiven. It can't ever be forgiven."

If it still had eyes, it would have wept.

And, if I didn't vividly remember the carnage in the courtyard, perhaps I would have bent or relented – but Tapalcayotl's face was in my mind, black and twisted out of shape by sores, and the memories of a dozen bodies scattered like a grisly harvest, and the vulnerability in Acamapichtli's eyes. "What did you do?"

"I– I– " Its voice was low, halting – ashamed? "He was talking in my sleep, always – whispering, suggesting, threatening – always talking, until I couldn't take any more of it. I just couldn't! He – he wanted me to help him, to get revenge, and I couldn't say no."

Talking. Dreams. "You had herbs, in your room," I said. "Jimsonweed, and teonanacatl. You were speaking with the spirits." But even as I said that, I thought of the decayed wards – they had been familiar, but they weren't for better communication with the departed. They were the reverse: walls to keep the spirits out, attacked until they'd ruptured. We'd had backwards: it wasn't the living seeking to spread the plague with the help of the dead. It was the dead seeking revenge, and influencing the living to get it.

"He found you," I said, slowly. "A tool for his plans. And you helped him," I said. From the start – giving the feather quills to Eptli, to Zoqutil, engraving the spells within the palace – corruption in our midst, like the rotten core of a cactus.

"I–"

"Tizoc-tzin won't forgive; the Southern Hummingbird doesn't forgive." It was a lie, for his soul would go down into Mictlan, where there was no judging, no weighing of deeds – where everyone, prince or nobleman or peasant, was equal. "Who was he, Pochtic? What did he want?"

"I–" Something rippled across the soul, as if it were caught in some inner struggle. Vaguely, I heard Ichtaca cry out from beyond the circle. "Revenge, but I can't say anything – I can't, he would kill me…"

"You are already dead," I said. "Wrapped in the bundle of your funeral pyre, awaiting entry into the land of the dead, the land of the fleshless, the land where jade crumbles and feathers become dust." Every word fell into place with the inevitability of a heartbeat – further ritual, hemming the soul in, reminding it that there was no escape. "And he can't harm you anymore, whoever he is."

"You're wrong – wrong, wrong," the soul whispered. Around it, the circle was crinkling inwards – the green mist receding into the stone floor, to reveal once more the frescoes of the gods on the walls. "Wrong…"

"No," I said. "You're dead – you belong to Lord Death now, and to Mictlan. No one can take away from you, and no one can reach down into the underworld. What does he want? Tell me."

The soul shifted, twisted – writhed, trying to escape – the wings were falling away, and the outline of arms and legs were forming, flailing wildly as if in great pain. "He – revenge," he whispered again. "On all of Tenochtitlan, if need be. May the cities you hold fall one after the other; let the temples be awash in fire and blood…"

I was losing him. The time for the ritual was past, and he was going away from me, gathering himself for the plunge into Mictlan. I needed to get something, and fast. "What does he want, Pochtic?"

The soul was unravelling like a skein of maguey fibre, faster and faster – drawing away from the corpse, coalescing into the shape of a man, but growing fainter and fainter the whole while. "Pochtic!"

But he was gone, and I remained alone with his corpse, within a circle that was stone again. The room was cold; and the wind on my exposed arms chilled me to the bone.

Something was left behind, a mere whisper on the wind: a name, quivering out of existence with each spoken syllable. "Moquihuix-tzin."

• • • •

"Moquihuix-tzin?" Mihmatini asked. She sat on the terraced edge of Pochtic's quarters, looking down into the courtyard. Neutemoc was by her side – as if standing guard. "That's the last Revered Speaker of Tlatelolco. He's–" she stopped. "It doesn't matter whether he's dead, does it?"

I grimaced. "Partly. The dead can't cast spells, or summon creatures. But they can influence." And Moquihuix-tzin had been a strong character – both Nezahual-tzin and Yayauhqui had described him as a man used to getting his way. No wonder Pochtic had been such a pliant tool.

"Which isn't helping us, is it?" Mihmatini said. "With Pochtic gone, he could be influencing pretty much anyone."

Below, a few noblemen were crossing the courtyard, and a couple was coming towards us, the woman ahead of the man – her face utterly unfamiliar, as sharp and rough as broken obsidian, her clothes slightly askew, as if she'd dressed in a panic.

They were almost upon us when I realised that the man behind her – tall and unbending, with a headdress of heron feathers – was Acamapichtli. He stood once more with his old arrogance, as if his scarred face and sightless eyes meant nothing. He wore a carved fang around his neck, a beacon of power I could feel even without my true sight, and he moved confidently, as if being blind were no trouble at all.

"Further evidence of your charms?" I asked.

He shook his head, impatiently. "Behave, Acatl. This isn't a time for levity. I've brought my Consort, as you asked."

The woman bowed to me. Up close, the lines on her face were clearly visible – she would never be called beautiful, but she was striking as only priestesses could be, secure in her identity and power, which gave her a place in society above the common folk. Two black lines ran on her cheeks, calling to mind the face of the goddess Herself – whom I had seen once, more than a year before, when Teomitl had been granted his powers. "Greetings, Acatl-tzin. I am Cozolli, priestess of Chalciuhtlicue, and Consort of Tlaloc."

"No need to be formal," I said. Acamapichtli shot me a quick look; I didn't know what he thought of the position of women in the clergy – who, save for the Guardian, could only ever be the inferior of their male homologues.

"Fine, fine," Acamapichtli said. "We can dispense with the idle chit-chat, Acatl. We've come here because we have news."

"And from the look on your face, not good," Mihmatini interjected.

Acamapichtli turned in the direction of her voice. He was silent for a moment. "Oh, I see. The Guardian. What a pleasure." I expected him to be mocking, but Mihmatini's strength must now be evident, and he had always been a man to respect that.

Mihmatini looked less happy – much as if she'd swallowed live eels. "Acamapichtli." She made no pretence of respect to him, though, and to my surprise he nodded, as one equal to another. "What do you want?"

"The boundaries are breached, Acatl. That's why the gods are so scared."

Even blind, he must have felt by our silence he wasn't achieving quite the effect he'd intended. "We know this," I said, wearily. "We're working on how to fix this. If you're here, you can confirm something for me."

Acamapichtli turned his face towards his consort; who said nothing. "Go ahead."

The entrance-curtain tinkled, letting Ichtaca through. He had changed out of the formal regalia, and his hands were now clean of the sacrifice's blood. He nodded, curtly, towards Acamapichtli and Cozolli, and sat cross-legged, patiently waiting for us to finish.

"I need to know if your god had Moquihuix-tzin's soul in His keeping."

"The Revered Speaker of Tlatelolco?" Acamapichtli looked surprised. He shrugged. "How would I know this?" But his consort nodded.

"He died by the noose," she said, curtly. "Every priest knows that."

The jab completely bypassed Acamapichtli. "And how does this help us, exactly?"

"It doesn't, per se," I said, slowly. Why was I bothering with this? There was only one thing which should have mattered to me. "We need to close the boundary." I turned to Ichtaca, who had remained silent until then. "You had started working on that."

Ichtaca grimaced. "Yes. It's far from being a simple problem. The gates need to be drawn close without being shut – leaving just enough magic for Tizoc-tzin to exist, but not enough for widespread ghosts."

And even that would still leave a risk – summoners would find it slightly easier to work, and there would be more creatures slipping through the cracks. But it was still better than star-demons.

Pretty much anything was.

"And?" Mihmatini asked.

"I think–" Ichtaca said, slowly, "that it would take the three High Priests, again – as it took them to open it in the first place."

Three High Priests. I had a mental vision of trying to convince Quenami he needed to work with us. "It won't work," I said. "Even if Quenami is still here. We need mastery, and subtlety." And, while he might be a fine diplomat, the events of the previous days had proved, quite unequivocally, that he didn't have much magical expertise.

But Ichtaca was right – what had taken three to do couldn't be undone by two. We needed… someone to stand in for Quenami. Someone linked to life, virility and good fortune.

"If you want to keep it open, you can't close it from the Fifth World," Acamapichtli said, acidly. "You have to be on both sides, to keep control over what you're doing."

"On three sides," I corrected, distractedly. "To rebuild the tumbled one, you do need three people. One in the Fifth World, one in the underworld. And one astride the wall."

Mihmatini's gaze was harsh. "Why do I get the feeling you're going to be the one astride the wall?"

"Look, that's not what matters."

"What about the Heavens?" the Consort Cozolli asked. "They're also open."

"Symbolically, it's a single boundary," I said gently. "Between the Fifth World and the world above, the world below. All you need is one person outside that boundary."

"Hmm." She didn't appear wholly convinced, but I was.

"We need a third person. Mihmatini–"

She shook her head. "I stand for all gods, and none. I can't complete your triad."

Then – I looked at Cozolli – she was only a Consort, and was symbolically tied to Tlaloc through her worship of Chalchiutlicue. No, she wouldn't do either. "Then it'll have to be Quenami. " I stopped, then, thinking of someone else who stood for a god – who might as well be High Priest, given his close relation to his patron. "The breath of sickness in the Fifth World," I said. "Death astride the wall. And the breath of life in the underworld."

The breath of life. The wind, Ehecatl-Quetzalcoatl, the Feathered Serpent. "Nezahual-tzin." Mihmatini's voice was grim. "Fine – if he hasn't run away as well. And what about our troublesome ghost?"

"If we find him, we'll work out how to deal with him," I said. The truth was, I had no idea how you killed a ghost. I could banish them – but that just sent them back into the Heavens, ready to come back again.

Unless…

Every ghost disappeared before the throne of Lord Death – if it came to that, we might be able to do something.

Save that it was a favour, and I had no wish to incur more debts with my god.

"It might not work, Acatl-tzin."

"I…" Ichtaca looked at me, halfway between admiration and horror – not an expression I felt altogether comfortable with.

As usual, he'd managed to make his doubt evident while outwardly agreeing with me. I shrugged, and spread out my hands. "The boundaries have to be closed. That's our role. Do you have a better idea?"

Ichtaca looked dubious. "No," he said at last. "You're going to require the help of the order."

I smiled. "I wouldn't have had it any other way."

Mihmatini looked wistfully at her feet – where the pale trace of the thread tying her to Teomitl coiled on the ground. Then she sighed. "I have to come with you. I can help to make the spell stronger."

"Are you sure?"

"No," she said, curtly. "Don't ask, or I might just change my mind. I hope it's going to work, but it's really uncertain." Mihmatini pursed her lips. Clearly, she didn't much care for asking Nezahual-tzin's help once again. She looked back and forth, from Acamapichtli and Cozolli to me. "How come your order doesn't have a Consort anyway?" Mihmatini asked. "You seem to be the only exclusively male priesthood in the Empire."

Ichtaca jerked as if stung; I merely nodded, looking slightly away from her. Acamapichtli just looked smug. It was public knowledge, but still, never brought out in such an open fashion – like pointing out to an aged relative that they were senile. "There was… a problem with the Consort, a dozen years ago. She did – let's just say she got involved in activities she shouldn't have."

Meaning that she'd dabbled in the wrong kind of magics, made the wrong kind of alliances, and set herself to fold the entire Fifth World into Mictlan.

Mihmatini grimaced. "And she was killed? And the female priests?"

Ichtaca spoke, slowly, measuredly. "Not killed – exiled. And the corruption went deep into the clergy. It was, ah, cleaner to remove the branch than try to prune sprig by sprig."

Mihmatini grimaced. "I've heard it say you're sick people, but this is the first proof I had." She shook her head, as if removing water from her hair. "Never mind, that's all pretty unimportant right now. Acatl?"

I shrugged. "I don't have a better idea."

"If you need someone in the underworld and someone on the boundary, you'll need a gate into Mictlan. Opening one isn't cheap or easy," Ichtaca said.

"No, but we can manage." Provided nothing went wrong.

Ha ha. I knew the answer to that one, too.

Finding Nezahual-tzin turned out to be more difficult than we'd foreseen. He wasn't in his quarters, which lay empty and deserted, like those of the Revered Speaker. He wasn't in the steambath, or in the various Houses of Joy, and neither was he in the tribunal, listening to the various magistrates argue in search of truth.

I could tell Neutemoc was starting to get frustrated – no wonder, he was a warrior, and such footwork was merely the prelude to the fight – and even Mihmatini's temper was close to fraying. Acamapichtli, to my surprise, was more equable, in fact, he and his Consort were worryingly silent, following us with alert faces, their gazes moving, as if they could track dead spirits.

And perhaps they could, too. Knowing Acamapichtli, he wouldn't have chosen a weak or ineffective Consort.

The priests behind me, Palli and Matlaelel – who carried the supplies we'd need for the spell – didn't look enthusiastic, either.

"He didn't exit the palace," I said at last, as we looped through the same deserted courtyard for the fifth time. "The guards didn't see him."

Neutemoc grimaced. "I'm not convinced they'd have seen him."

"The Revered Speaker of Texcoco?" Mihmatini shook her head. "No, they'd have seen him. If only to warn Tizoc-tzin." She grimaced. "And with the number of people left…"

I said nothing. The atmosphere in the palace was somehow different – there were still people wandering the corridors, from magistrates to noblemen, from feather-workers to officials. But still…

Still, it was like a man with a removed heart – he might flop and writhe for a bare moment on the sacrificial altar, but there was no doubt that he was already dead.

Had Nezahual-tzin left the palace? He'd proved before that he came and went as he chose – sometimes in disguise, if there was need. He might have gone past the guards…

Something stopped me – a thought that slipped into the tangle of my mind like a sharpened knife. We were all acting as if the palace was impervious, and the guarded entrance was the only one – but the truth was, it wasn't anymore. Not if you could brave the power of Chalchiuhtlicue and enter the tunnel Teomitl had created – in the women's quarters.

And the gods knew Nezahual-tzin liked his women.

I bit back a curse. "Let's go."

"Where?"

"Women's quarters. I'll explain later."

• • • •

The women's quarters did not give off the same atmosphere as the rest of the palace: in the courtyards, life seemed to go on as it had always done, with the regular clacking of weaving looms as the girls learned to spin cotton and maguey fibre, and the subdued laughter of conversations drifting to us, about servants and men, and impending births. A woman I'd already seen, her belly heavy with child, was coming out of the steambath – walking slowly with her attendants, glaring at us for daring to impugn on her dominion.

As we entered one of the more secluded courtyards, Mihmatini's head came up, as if scenting the air. "You're right. He's here."

"You can feel his powers?" Neutemoc asked.

Mihmatini laughed, briefly. "No. I know what the place looks like when there is a man around. I always thought he had guts, but to use Tizoc-tzin's absence…"

"He's probably visiting relatives," I said, though I didn't really believe any of it.

Mihmatini walked to one of the closed entrance-curtains, and wrenched it open without ceremony. A jarring, discordant sound of bells accompanied her inwards – we could hear a woman's voice, arguing but growing fainter, and then another sound of bells, followed by Mihmatini's voice again.

Then silence.

Neutemoc and I looked at each other uncomfortably. "Maybe we shouldn't be here," Neutemoc said.

"I don't have a better plan," I said with a sigh. "But you can go home, you know."

He grinned – his face transfigured into that of a boy. "It's more interesting here."

The entrance-curtain tinkled again, letting through Mihmatini and Nezahual-tzin – who looked as though a jaguar cub had just pounced on him and settled down to maul him. "What is the meaning of this?"

"The meaning of this is that we get you out," Mihmatini said, with an expansive gesture of her hands. "And then, once you're safely out of here, we can worry about explaining to Tizoc-tzin what you were doing in the women's quarters."

"Nothing reprehensible," Nezahual-tzin protested – as smooth and arrogant as always.

"You can be sure Tizoc-tzin isn't going to swallow this," Mihmatini said, grimly amused. "Now–"

Something crossed the air, like the shimmering of a veil – everything seemed to ripple around us, as if we were underwater – and then it was gone, but the air was wrong.

Mihmatini stopped; Nezahual-tzin's eyes rolled up, showing the uncanny white of pearls. "Acatl…"

They came into the courtyard three at a time, fluid and inhuman – their bodies the black of a starless night, their faces both ageless and wrinkled, like those of drowned children; the hand at the end of their upraised tail twitching, moving and opening as if eager to rip out eyes – moving like lizards or salamanders. They fanned out, blocking both exits to the courtyard – I could see Neutemoc's lips moving, keeping track of them all, but there must have been more than a dozen of them already, watching us with white, filmy eyes – hunger and hatred in their gazes.

Ahuizotls.

Teomitl…

But the one who strode into the courtyard after them wasn't my student. Rather, it was Coatl, but he moved with a grace I'd never seen from the warrior.

"Coatl?"

His gaze moved from one end of the courtyard to another, watching us. "A warrior. A Guardian. And priests. Is that all the Mexica will field, to defend the Triple Alliance? Where are your She-Snake, your Revered Speaker – your Master of the House of Darts?"

Mihmatini's hand tightened around my wrist. "Acatl–"

He had died, and been brought back to life. That was what Palli had thought; what we had all thought. But what had come back – what had walked and talked, and smiled and wept – it hadn't been Coatl at all. It had been another soul. A dead soul trapped within Tlalocan.

"I know," I said. "Moquihuix-tzin!" I called.

He jerked, slightly, but his attention was still fixed on Nezahual-tzin.

Nezahual-tzin's opal-white eyes moved towards Coatl, steadily held his gaze. "I don't believe we've been introduced."

Coatl's broad, open face turned to look at him – the eyes were more deep-set than I remembered, and dark, as if he stood within a great shadow. "You wouldn't know me, pup."

Teomitl would have lashed out; Nezahual-tzin merely raised an eyebrow. "Pup? That's not setting up a felicitous acquaintance." His hand moved, to encompass the ahuizotls gathered in the courtyard. "Though those are hardly friendly."

"He's here to kill us, you fool," Mihmatini said. Power was flowing to her – ward upon ward to defend herself, an impregnable against the ahuizotls.

"Me as well?" Nezahual-tzin looked shocked – his eyes reverting, briefly, to their clear green-grey shades. "I haven't done anything to you that I would know of."

While they were arguing, I gestured to Palli and Matlaelel. We spread out in the courtyard, drawing obsidian knives from our belts, cutting deep into the palm of our hands – where the veins flowed all the way to the heart – and let the blood drip onto the ground, forming the first hints of a circle. I eyed the ahuizotls, which still hadn't moved. I didn't think it was going to last long.

"Whoever gets to Nezahual-tzin first–"

Mihmatini shook her head. "Drags him into Mictlan, yes. For that, we need your gate, Acatl."

"And you need to stay here," I said to Acamapichtli.

He snorted, like a Revered Speaker amused by a peasant's joke. "I had the general idea, don't worry. Now concentrate on your work, High Priest for the Dead."

"You know what they say about the taint of your ancestors," Coatl hissed. "It was your father who undid us – who sided with the Tenochcas instead of following the path of justice."

Nezahual-tzin laid a hand on his macuahitl sword – slowly, casually. Beside him, Neutemoc did the same. Acamapichtli and his Consort nodded at each other, and both simultaneously drew obsidian daggers.

"I believe," Nezahual-tzin said, slowly, carefully, "that this taint is washed away at birth. I certainly would hope the midwife acted suitably when I was born."

Coatl's face distorted in anger. "You – you mince words as if they meant anything. Will words bring back my people, pup? Will they invoke the dead back from the Fifth Sun's heaven; heal the raped women and all those taken slaves?"

"Your people? You're not Coatl, are you?" Nezahual-tzin's eyes narrowed; the sword's wooden blade came up, its obsidian shards glinting in the sunlight; and he took a step in Coatl's direction.

"You waste my time." Coatl brought his hands together, and before we knew it the ahuizotls were flowing towards us, the hands on their tails going for our faces.

TWENTY-THREE

Blessings of Mictlan

I took a swipe at the first ahuizotl, sending it leaping back a few paces – but not slowing it down, as its legs bunched up for another assault.

I'd never liked the things – they might have been Teomitl's, but they were creepy, and that was saying a lot, since I knew most of the beasts that haunted each level of the underworld. But never mind that, my goal wasn't to kill them – with the power that coursed through Coatl, he could surely summon more with a mere snap of his fingers – but to complete the circle, and open the gate into Mictlan.

The ahuizotl leapt again – I ducked, feeling clumsy next to its fluid grace. Power shimmered in the air around me – and over me reared a huge shadow. I guessed that Nezahual-tzin was calling on his patron god, the Feathered Serpent Quetzalcoatl; I could also guess that Neutemoc, Mihmatini, Acamapichtli and Cozolli would be fighting the rush of ahuizotls. What I needed was…

I evaded another leap of the ahuizotl – the Duality curse me, the thing was fast – and glanced around the courtyard. The blood we'd already spread shone in the sunlight, bunched up in three bundles, nowhere near the circle we needed.

What we needed was…

A distraction.

I waved my knife at the ahuizotl – catching its attention, as well as that of two of its neighbours. As my gaze roved, I caught bits and pieces of the scene, what looked like Palli's flailing arms as he waved an obsidian dagger, and Matlaelel's face, as pale as muddy milk. Then I was diving for the entrance of the courtyard, but more of the beasts were flowing up, barring my passage, and at the last moment I altered my trajectory, crashing into the entrance-curtain. The bells danced above me, their voices shrill and unpleasant; a prelude to the rough, jarring sound the three ahuizotls made as they tore through the cotton.

Having little choice, I retreated deeper into the shadows, holding my knife like a shield.

The room smelled of copal incense and food gone stale – hints of cold maize porridge, of amaranth seeds and the faint memory of spices. And I knew there had been someone – two women. "I apologise, but–"

A hiss came from the darkened centre. I steadied myself, preparing for the onslaught of the water-beasts – and met the glowing eyes of Chantico, She Who Dwelled in the House. Her hands wrapped around live coals, daring me to steal Her things.

A fresco. It was only a fresco. The goddess couldn't be here. "Get out!"

Too late. The ahuizotls were coming – one headed straight for me, and two others for the women. I couldn't spread myself so thin – it was all I could do to fend off one, struggling to stab the hand which terminated its tail – it leapt, bearing me down, and I was on the floor, squirming, while the hand swept down, aiming straight for my eyes – I raised the knife, whispering a prayer to Lord Death, and sank it to the hilt into the palm of the hand.

I'd expected blood, but of course nothing like this flowed – only weak ichor, as thin and as brackish as marsh water. The ahuizotl cried out like a hurt child – the Storm Lord strike me if I was going to fall for that. I raised my knife again, and while it was still wailing, transfixed it between the eyes.

It dropped like a log, trapping me underneath its corpse. The magic ebbed out of it in a painful tingling rush – the power of Chalchiuhtlicue was as much anathema to me as that of the Storm Lord Her husband, or of the Southern Hummingbird. I lay breathing heavily, struggling to collect myself.

The women.

I rolled the corpse of the ahuizotl off me, ignoring the ache in my arms, and stood up, fully expecting to see a pair of water-beasts feeding on corpse.

Instead, I met the irate eyes of a woman who looked formidable enough to take down the gods. "And the meaning of this is?"

I pointed to the dead ahuizotl – behind her, her attendant was kneeling in a quincunx glowing with the familiar heat of living blood, and the other two beasts lying dead at its centre. "Sorry. It was the nearest refuge. I thought…"

I paused then, wrenching my mind into another alignment. My sister was a powerful priestess in her own right, and Xiloxoch had brimmed with the power of her goddess. Why had I thought of those women as defenceless? "I apologise for disturbing you – you'd best stay there. There are people trying to kill each other outside."

The woman rolled her eyes, in a way that suggested this happened all the time. "Men. We're sealing this place, so I won't say it twice. You'll want to head out."

I certainly wasn't about to argue. Gingerly, I bowed to her, and walked out of the room – back into sunlight through the torn entrance curtain. I felt a breath at my back, and a hint of something large and angry beneath my feet – before the entrance-curtain fell again.

The courtyard was a mess: the fountain had been blown to pieces, and the wind was lifting up a cloud of dust that prevented me from seeing much. But magic still glowed within, and I could follow the progress of the circle: it was three quarters complete, its largest missing chunk right behind Coatl's greenish radiance. Not surprising.

I hefted my knife closer to me – feeling the stretched emptiness of Mictlan gather in my chest, the familiar sense that I'd never breathe again in the Fifth World – and went straight into the dust.

Shapes moved: moaning faces, flailing limbs, as if I were back within the fever-dream, weighed down by four hundred thousand bodies. I felt the sickness, curled at the edge of my thoughts, questing for a way in. I'd had it once and survived, which gave me an edge, but I couldn't count on this.

Also, the ahuizotls had to be somewhere, and I certainly didn't have an edge against them.

I had gone perhaps three paces when I found the first body – blackened by the plague, blood streaming out of its orifices. It was the young offering priest, Matlaelel, the whites of his eyes completely red, blood welling up from under his nails and nipples. His mouth opened – blood had run down from his gums, staining his teeth – and his lips shaped a word I couldn't understand – my name, perhaps? I fought the urge to lay my hands on him, to whisper the litany for the Dead and grant him safe passage into the World Beyond.

I said the words, regardless – because I was High Priest for the Dead, and it was my province, and because I had dragged him into this, and I owed him at least this.

"We live on Earth, in the Fifth World

Not forever, but a little while…"

Shadows moved within the murky gloom. I made for the only thing I could see, which was the gaping emptiness within the circle.

"Acatl-tzin!" Palli's hand on my arm almost made me jerk in surprise.

He was pale and wan, but more from loss of blood than anything else – and covered in the brackish ichor of wounded ahuizotls. Blood covered his hands, welling up from a dozen cuts.

"We need to finish the circle," I said. "Coatl–"

"Nezahual-tzin and your sister are keeping him busy," Palli said grimly.

Mihmatini? I ought to have known.

"Fine. Then we're headed for the other side of the courtyard. Can you see it?" I assumed Acamapichtli would be able to take care of his own problems; perhaps a mistake, but he certainly wasn't incapable.

"Yes, but–" Palli's face was pinched with fear.

I could have lied, made promises about how the plague couldn't touch him, but I had never had the ruthlessness for that. "We need to close that circle," I said. "Or more people will die. Not only us, but everyone here."

Palli grimaced, but he nodded. "Let's go."

As courtyards went, it wasn't a large one – at least, I was sure it hadn't been. As we fumbled around in the dust cloud, it didn't appear so small anymore. The shadows twisted and shifted, and even Palli seemed impossibly far away – I soon lost him, as veil after veil of reddish dust rose to cover everything. A dark silhouette loomed through the fog: a huge snake which had to mark Nezahual-tzin's location. My gaze swept left and right – where were the ahuizotls – surely they hadn't disappeared? But all I saw were the faces, slowly coalescing into focus, distorted with pain, their mouths open in soundless screams – men, women and children, with the shadows of rich headdresses and jewellery.

I couldn't tell at which point the nagging suspicion at the back of my mind coalesced into certainty as heavy as a stone in my belly – perhaps it was the woman, with the fine line of cuts across her face, or perhaps the child with sticky blood clogging his hair, gathered all in the place of the single wound that had dashed his brains out, or perhaps the dour warrior who looked hauntingly familiar, until I realised he could have been Yayauhqui's father.

Tlatelolco. The dead of Tlatelolco, weighing us down like stocks on a guilty man's neck. But there hadn't been so many of them – and they were dead, they had been dead for years and years, enough time for their souls to have moved on, found their true rest…

I'd been wrong, then. This was a plague passed on by the dead, by all the ghosts flittering through the diminished boundaries. It couldn't have existed without what we had done, Quenami, Acamapichtli and I.

Focus. Focus. Breathe, slowly, calmly – every step I took seemed to be through mud or tar; the faces swam in and out of focus, all crying out for revenge.

I wasn't a warrior, or a devotee of Huitzilpochtli the Southern Hummingbird. But, in the end, it didn't matter. The god had chosen us, and favoured us, and we had grown and grown, taking over our neighbours. It was sheer survival: everything that lived had to grow, or ossify and die. Nevertheless… I could understand their anger at what had been done to them.

I could have told them this, but they wouldn't have listened, or understood.

I walked on. The dust thickened, and every step seemed to cost me. The dead wailed and screamed and pleaded, demanding to be acknowledged – but I closed my ears to their pleas, and went on.

Ahead, the circle shimmered – broken still. I couldn't see Palli, but the three darker silhouettes shimmering with magic were presumably Mihmatini, Moquihuix-tzin and Nezahual-tzin. I passed them by – a hair breadth's away, and I thought they would turn, or feel me, but they were too engrossed in flinging magic at each other.

I trudged on – only walking mattered, step after tottering step, ignoring the dead and their twisted faces, ignoring the memory of Matlaelel's blood-filled eyes. When my feet finally met the edge of the circle, it felt like a miracle, like a god's blessing descended to me, who had least deserved it.

I knelt in the dirt, and rubbed open the previous slash across my palm – there was a slight stinging pain, such as when I made an offering to the gods, and then blood flowed again.

The faces in the dust hovered closer – it shouldn't have been possible, but they were pressing against me, their mouths opening as if to taste my blood. If they did so – I didn't even want to think about it. Blood was many things, among which an entry point into the body – and the illness, carried through my veins, would surely kill me as it had killed Matlaelel.

There was no time for finesse – I rubbed at the wound again, feeling it open further, the blood greedily pouring out – and tottered across the circle, trying to seal it shut before the plague faces could touch me – I could feel their foul breath on my skin, smell the dry, musty smell of their approach, like fire-crinkled mummies suddenly springing to life…

Step after step after step – the circle grew wider and wider, and it was almost complete…

The woman with the cut-up face was a finger's width away from my bleeding hand. I could see her body now, pulling itself out of the morass of faces, her arms and legs covered in similar wounds, her breasts hacked away and a pulsing mass of blood between her legs….

Almost there… The words of the hymn welled up as irrepressibly as the blood, spilling out into the Fifth World as the woman's teeth brushed my skin.

"Above us, below us,

The heavens, the place of heat

Above us, below us,

The region of the fleshless, the land of mystery…"

I felt the plague, coursing within my body – the pressure in my veins and arteries, travelling to my heart and liver – my vision blurred and became red, and my body shook, and I was on my knees, struggling to remain standing…

"The path out of the Fifth World, into the city of the Dead

The city where the streets are on the left, where the houses have no windows…"

Dark green light washed across the pattern – starting at the circle and rising like an unstoppable tide as the sounds of battle receded and became a lament for the Dead, and the stretched emptiness of Mictlan expanded, shrivelling my heart a fraction of a moment before the rising tide of blood caused it to burst.

And then everything went blessedly dark.

There was dust in my eyes and a gritty taste in my mouth, but the air smelled wrong – too wet and scorching to be that of the underworld. I lay on something hard and unyielding, feeling the Dead passing through me – hearing, like a distant mumble, their endless prayer to Lord Death:

"Not forever on Earth, but for a little while

Even jade crumbles, even gold is crushed

Not forever on Earth, but for a little while…"

Hands held me down – stroking me like a mother stroked her child – there was something wrong with them, but I couldn't remember what…

Everywhere they touched, fire blazed – not the conflagration of war, but rather that of a funeral pyre, tightening and drying flesh, shrivelling bones. Something impossibly heavy was tightening around my chest, squeezing my lungs until it hurt to breathe – and before the flames, the last touch of the fever on my mind receded, crushed into utter insignificance; there was nothing left but a familiar, stretched emptiness in my bones and sinews.

I opened eyes gummed with secretions, struggling to form anything from the blurred darkness around me. But I knew, or suspected, what I would be seeing.

"My Lady. My Lord."

The hand on my arm had the sharpness of finger bones, and a skeletal face swam in and out of focus – Mictecacihuatl, Lady Death, Her grin the wide one of skulls – and behind Her, looming out of the darkness, Her husband Mictlantecuhtli, fingering the bloody eyes of his necklace.

"Acatl. What a surprise."

My vision was returning, little by little – I stood on the dais of bones that marked Their seat of power; below me was a sea of pallid souls, ghostly hands lifting up the offerings that had been buried with them, from sewing tools to toys, from macuahitl swords to fragments of weaving looms. A cold wind blew through them all and lifted up the faint, translucent shapes of bodies to face the gaze of the gods, under which they seemed to shrivel and vanish.

Mictlan. The deepest level of the underworld – no, wait. If I focused enough, I could hear the sounds of battle, the cries of ahuizotls, and Acamapichtli's sarcastic laughter. "I stand on the boundaries," I whispered.

The underworld wavered, in and out of focus; the bare outline of the courtyard began to appear again, with the shadowy shapes of ahuizotls leaping onto the beaten earth. I banished it with an effort, to focus on the scene before me – my gods required no less than my full attention.

"Of course you stand on the boundaries. You always have," Mictecacihuatl said, shaking Her head.

"I – " Everywhere I turned, I saw only the Dead – an innumerable crowd flowing from the shadows of ruined buildings – the furthest ones mingling together like the waters of some great rivers, their faces receding into featurelessness – they whispered and sang, and prayed to Lord and Lady Death to grant them oblivion, at the very last. "I came with some people–"

Mihmatini. Nezahual-tzin. Where were they?

A sound, from Lord Death's throne, echoing amongst the skulls and femurs that made up His chair: laughter, coming from His vestigial lungs, lifting up his prominent rib-cage. "You come here for Our favour?"

Amongst the massed dead, a space was clearing up – silhouettes flickering in and out of focus, moving like shadows in the background of a fresco. Coatl – no, not Coatl anymore, but a tall, stately man with a feather headdress, and a cloak of turquoise, who wielded not only a sword, but a flint cutting axe, its blade shimmering with all the colours of oil on water.

Moquihuix-tzin.

The scene was, for a single moment, mercilessly clear – it wasn't Nezahual-tzin that Moquihuix-tzin was facing, for the Revered Speaker of Texcoco lay unconscious at the feet of the combatants.

It was my sister.

She moved slowly and a touch awkwardly, but somehow she always managed to be there when he struck. She didn't have a sword, but both her hands held daggers – mismatched ones, the one in her left hand small and mundane, looking more like an everyday knife for cutting maize and tomatoes than a real weapon; the other was a longer knife, and a translucent snake curled up from the hilt to the point of the blade, shimmering with the radiance of the Feathered Serpent's magic – she must have picked it up from Nezahual-tzin's body.

She fought better than I'd expected, but it was clear that they were mismatched. Her opponent was a war-chief and a sorcerer; Mihmatini's only experience with weapons must have been in the Duality House. Her stance was purely defensive – it was a dance to her, I realised, and she sidestepped the blades, but couldn't bring herself to break the pattern by stabbing her partner – surely she had to realise she couldn't hold – surely she had to shift her stance?

Neither of them looked up to the dais – they flickered in and out of existence, and I was beginning to suspect that they couldn't see us at all. Within a god's world, the gods made the rules – and Lord Death could alter reality as it suited His whim.

The Storm Lord's Lightning strike me, where was Neutemoc when you needed him?

"Guests," Mictlantecuhtli said, behind me. "What an odd thing to bring here." He sounded genuinely puzzled.

I needed – I needed Nezahual-tzin awake, to complete his part of the ritual – if Mihmatini had managed to speak with him at all, before they tumbled into Mictlan. I needed Acamapichtli – as I thought this, the scene in front of me wavered, and I stood once more in a dusty courtyard, watching an ahuizotl leapt straight for me. With an effort, I shifted – making the beast vanish as if into smoke – and shifted again.

The courtyard was shrouded in greenish mist, but as I stood within the gate, I saw Acamapichtli standing within the circle, hefting his blade thoughtfully. Besides him, Neutemoc and the Consort Cozolli were fighting two ahuizotls, albeit with difficulty. "Acatl!" Acamapichtli said.

I made a gesture with my left hand. "I'm working on it."

"You'd better work fast."

I didn't brother to protest. Instead, I banished the scene again, and turned back to Mictlantecuhtli – who stood watching me as if nothing had happened.

"You warned me the boundary was broken," I said, slowly.

"A favour." He smiled – revealing teeth as yellow as corn, and stars caught within his throat. "For you, who never asked for any."

"I don't understand."

"You're our High Priest," Mictecacihuatl said. She stretched out a bony hand, to point at the dead. "Most people in your place would scheme and intrigue."

Why was She telling me this? "But that's not what you need," I said, slowly.

"That's not what you can give us, either." Mictlantecuhtli waved a dismissive hand. "We don't ask worship. We ask for you, as our High Priest, to keep the boundaries. Do you know why?"

Was this really the time for childish questions? "Because the Fifth Word will end if they're not maintained."

I heard a sound, then, a clicking like bones rubbing together, and it was a while before I realised He was laughing. "Oh, Acatl. Have you learned nothing? We ask you to keep the boundaries because there is no life without death, and no death, either, without life. What is Our dominion, if the dead can come back into the Fifth World when they will it?"

"Then…" I said, slowly, "then… you don't approve of this, either."

The combatants flickered into existence again – Mihmatini had lost the shorter blade; she clung to the other one in bleeding hands, holding it in front of her like a shield.

"Of the plague?" Mictecacihuatl asked.

Of what I had done, bringing Tizoc-tzin back, I thought, but could not voice the sentence aloud. Mictlantecuhtli's face was turned towards me, but I wouldn't look at the shadowed eye-sockets.

"Acatl," He said gently. "Do not torment yourself. We do not stand against the will of the Southern Hummingbird."

"But–" But that wasn't what I wanted to know. I realised I'd meant to ask Him if we'd made the right decision, but stopped myself in time. He would have had words, and they would have been wise and detached. But the truth was, it was past time to be selfish and worry about my conscience, or dwell on things I could not take back. A course had been set, and we would not turn back.

Mihmatini blocked a strike that would have decapitated her; her eyes were wild, looking right and left, as if she expected to see me.

Time to end this. I took a deep breath. Even if Nezahual-tzin woke up, he wouldn't be able to do his part in the ritual, not while Mihmatini was still pressed by the fight.

The fight needed to end, first. Moquihuix-tzin needed to die. And for that…

"My Lord," I said, slowly. "I ask for no favours; merely for things to take their course. I want what should happen here, on the ninth level of the underworld, to happen." For the dead – the defeated – to find oblivion at Mictlantecuhtli's feet.

"Why?" Again, genuine puzzlement. "Would you put your sister in danger?"

He was a god – had been mortal, once, in the beginning of the Fifth Age, before He gave his blood to move the Fifth Sun across the Heavens. He couldn't understand us, not any more – couldn't understand fear and hope and despair, and the knowledge that I needed to bargain for this now before knowing who would win the fight – that I needed to put my own sister's soul in the balance, agree to consign her to Mictlantecuhtli's oblivion if she lost the battle – so that the Mexica Empire could be great, could follow the destiny set by the Southern Hummingbird – guzzling hearts and captives like a glutton, taking in riches from the northern deserts and the southern jungles until it choked on them.

"I–"

"Acatl?"

They were shadows again – the fight a hint, like a painting hidden underneath a layer of maguey paper – and all I could do was guess, and hope against all hope – and do what was needed.

"My Lord." I kept my voice steady, focusing on the polished bones of the dais, on the musty smell of earth and dry corpses. "A soul that comes before Your throne finds oblivion."

"That is truth." I felt Him shift, high above me – waiting as He always waited, for everything to come to an end.

"I–" The words caught in my throat – I kept my thoughts away from the fight, focusing them on the memory of the dead and the wounded – of Tapalcayotl, of Chipahua, of Acamapichtli. "What of a soul who dies before Your throne?"

There was silence – flowing like the calm after a successful birth. At length, Mictlantecuhtli made a sound I couldn't interpret – a bark of laughter, of anger? "Look at Me, Acatl."

"I–"

"You're asking for no favours. You never do. You merely want Me to take my due as I have always done. You know as well as I do that there is no ceremony in Mictlan."

Slowly, carefully, I pulled myself up – how was Mihmatini doing? Could she hold out for that long? – and looked him in the eye.

His face was smooth, polished bone, His cheekbones spattered with drops of blood; His headdress was of owl feathers and paper offerings; His teeth were white, and as sharp as those of a jaguar. His eye-sockets weren't empty like those of a skull, but rather filled with a soft, yellow light, like the Fifth Sun at the end of the afternoon. "Few have asked this. Your need must be pressing." Between His teeth glittered light, too – a hundred stars, caught in His throat, in His empty rib-cage, imprisoned there to keep the Fifth Sun safe.

"I do what I must." The words were ashes in my mouth.

"For the Fifth World?"

I could have said the Empire, but it would have been a lie – I wasn't sure I could believe in that anymore, not with our current Revered Speaker. Or perhaps I needed to believe in it – in the idea rather than the man, to make it all somehow palatable. "For balance, and our survival. And justice." For the warriors and the crippled clergy of Tlaloc, and all those dead before their time.

"I see." His eyes were – no, not warm, for He was death, and would ever be cold – but there was sadness in them, and sympathy, and for a bare moment, as we looked at each other I had the feeling the He encompassed me, and weighed me, and understood me better than anyone ever would, and it was a thought as bitter as raw cacao. "I said it before, Acatl, it is not a favour – mainly an extension of rules."

"Then You agree?"

He was silent, for a while. "It sets an uncomfortable precedent. But you are My high priest, and I know your need. So go, with My blessing." He smiled – a bare uncovering of the stars that whirled within Him. "For what it's worth, Acatl."

Something shimmered and tightened in the air. When I turned around, the fight had stopped shivering in and out of reality, and had become entirely real.

"We shall meet again, Acatl." They were fading away, leaving me on an empty dais – with a sense of odd warmth running through me.

Not a promise; a mere statement of fact. Almost all the Dead were His.

I didn't move. I couldn't, for I stood on the threshold of the gateway, and I couldn't enter one world or another, lest the ritual fail. I kept my eyes on the fight ahead – Mihmatini was moving yet more awkwardly, stumbling every other step. On Coatl – Moquihuix-tzin's – face was nothing but sheer determination. He had lost his sword, but wielded the axe with the ease of one of Chalchiuhcutlicue's devotees – thank the gods he couldn't use his magic, not here in the underworld where Lord Death's wards were at their strongest.

I called up the courtyard, briefly, and met Acamapichtli's exasperated eyes. The ahuizotls seemed to be all dead, though Neutemoc was limping, and Cozolli held her arm awkwardly. "Any time you feel like starting the ritual…"

"We still have – a problem," I said. "Hold on, will you?"

In the underworld, Nezahual-tzin was stirring, dazedly pulling himself up – and they were all so far away, stuck as if behind a pane of glass, neither of them seeing me – I would have screamed, but even as I shifted, Moquihuix-tzin sent Mihmatini's dagger flying – and closed in for the kill.

"Mihmatini!" The scream was torn out of me before I could think, fear and rage mingling in one primal, unstoppable force that seemed to take its substance from my wrung lungs. "Mihmatini!"

At the last moment she sidestepped and, for a moment, her eyes met mine, and saw me. She smiled, shaking her head – that same expression she had whenever I tried to mother her.

Oh, Acatl. You're such a fool sometimes.

It happened in an eye-blink – she rolled to the ground, avoiding the axe stroke which would have split her skull; her outstretched hand met Nezahual-tzin's, and she rose, holding something sharp and white – the aura of Duality magic around her flaring like the hood of a snake, an expenditure of power that must have utterly drained her – and, grasping the axe in one hand, used the other to drive her weapon into Coatl's chest.

He gasped, and collapsed like a felled tree, while Mihmatini stood over him, her face expressionless, her hand dripping blood from the deep wound she'd taken from seizing the axe.

She smiled up at me, then turned to Nezahual-tzin and pulled him towards the dais. I couldn't hear them at first – my sister seemed to be whispering furiously, and Nezahual-tzin, still dazed, mostly nodded – a fact which must have pleased her no end.

At last, they stood below me. Nezahual-tzin smiled up at me. "As timely as ever, I see."

I shook my head – now wasn't a time for jibes. "Are you–?" I asked Mihmatini. "I thought he was going to kill you." I thought I was going to lose her forever, that I'd bargained for nothing but one more death. "I–" It hurt, to breathe.

"Oh, Acatl." Her voice was pitying. "Have more faith."

I said nothing – I couldn't think of any smart answer to this. Instead, I turned to Nezahual-tzin. "Have you–?"

He nodded, brusquely. "Let's get to it, shall we? I don't know how long I can stay upright."

The courtyard shimmered into existence again – except that I stopped it halfway through, before it became fully material. I could see Nezahual-tzin, slowly breathing – calling down the Feathered Serpent's power until his skin glowed with pulsing magic – and Acamapichtli, his blind eyes thrown back, looking up at the sky, which slowly filled up with storm clouds. There was a noise like wings unfurling, and the distant rumble of thunder.

And I – I, who belonged in neither of those worlds – I felt the touch of Mictlantecuhtli spread from the marks on my shoulder,a cold that seized my bones and muscles, and then my heart until I could no longer feel it beat. My hands curled up into claws, my skin reddening against the cold.

"I stand on the boundaries

On the edge of the region of mystery, on the edge of the house of the fleshless

I stand on the boundaries

On the edge of the gardens of flowers, of the expanses of grass…"

And, as I spoke the words of the hymn – as Acamapichtli and Nezahual-tzin joined me – light slowly appeared, washing us all in a radiance that was neither the harsh one of the Fifth Sun, nor the green mouldy one of Mictlan, but something that had been there for the birth of the Fifth World, something that would always be there, underpinning the order we kept.

"We stand for sickness, in the house of the living

For the breath of the wind, in the region of the fleshless

For life and death, caught on the threshold…"

And there was… something, like a tightening, as if a loose garment had just readjusted itself: the world knitting itself back together. My gate wavered and shrank, and the nausea that I'd carried with me all this time finally sank down to almost nothing.

"With this we will stand straight

With this we will live

Oh, for a while, for a little while…"

And then the feeling was gone, and I sagged to my knees like a wounded man whose feverish rush of energy had just worn off.

"Acatl!"

"I'm fine, I'm fine," I said, but I could barely pull myself to my feet. I shouldn't have left the cane behind us. I turned back, to stare at Moquihuix's body – and, to my surprise he stared back at me, his face clouded with the approach of death.

The weapon Mihmatini had used to stab him – a sharp reed which shone as if it had been dipped in gold – was still embedded in his chest. He didn't look like Coatl at all, but like his true self, a Revered Speaker lying in the dust of Mictlan.

"Priest." His voice still carried far, as if he were addressing the crowd from atop his pyramid temple. His lips curled up, in a smile that was painful. "It is Tenochtitlan's destiny, indeed, to rule over the valley of Anahuac, to expand into the Fifth World and make everything theirs. I wish you joy."

"Wait!" I said, but his eyes had closed, and his body was already shimmering out of existence, his limbs growing fainter and fainter, followed by his torso, and, last of all, the turquoise cloak which had marked him as a Revered Speaker and his quetzal feather headdress, crumbling into a fine powder which mingled with the dust.

A wind rose, carrying a faint, familiar smell – rotting maize, or leaves – and his soul rose upon it; not the faint memory of a human, but a bright radiance made of hundreds of people: the people of the plague, the dead that he carried with him. He rose towards the dais, and was lost to sight.

When I turned around, Nezahual-tzin and Mihmatini had both joined me on the dais. Nezahual-tzin was binding Mihmatini's wound, with a mocking smile. She was glaring at him, daring him to make a comment.

"You'll be fine?" I asked.

She shook her head. "Of course I'll be fine, Acatl. Don't fuss like an old woman. It doesn't become you."

"Sorry," I said. "It's just that–" I saw, then, that her free hand was shaking, her back slightly arched, and I could only guess at the effort she used to hold herself upright. "Never mind. Let's go back."

We came back to the Fifth World in the same courtyard we'd left from. It was bathed in sunlight, the corpse of Matlaelel and the bloody remnants of a few ahuizotls the only signs of the battle. And another corpse, too, shrivelled like a dried fruit, who might have been Coatl, who might have been Moquihuix-tzin: it was hard to tell anymore, with the decay.

I'd expected a crowd of noblewomen, irate at our intrusion upon their lives – who were, I was beginning to understand, neither as weak nor as defenceless as I'd allowed myself to think.

I hadn't expected the warriors: an army large enough to fill the place, their macuahitl swords glinting in the sunlight – and, at their head, the old woman and Teomitl – and my brother Neutemoc and my offering priest Palli, standing in their path with the desperate assurance of doomed men.

TWENTY-FOUR

The Revered Speaker

We'd appeared behind Neutemoc and Palli – which meant that the warriors saw us first, and, as their faces widened in incredulity, Neutemoc turned round to face me. "Acatl!"

He looked exhausted – his jaguar's furs bloodied, his helmet split with a blow that must have narrowly avoided cleaving his skull. Palli himself was holding himself with easy, casual aloofness, as befitted both his position and the situation, but beneath it all, he had to be no less tired than my brother. "What in the Fifth World…?"

I looked for Acamapichtli – who had withdrawn between the pillars, and was on his knees, helping his Consort bandage her wound. His gaze was mild, sardonic: it said, quite clearly, that he would take no part in this, that, Master of the House of Darts or Revered Speaker, it made no difference to him at all, and that the Fifth World would endure as it always had.

Not unexpected, sadly.

Teomitl moved, as fluid as a knife through human flesh – kneeling by the charred body of Coatl-Moquihuix, which lay between the warriors and us. "He's dead," he said. He wore rich garb – not quite that of the Master of the House of Darts, not quite that of a Revered Speaker, as if he were still uneasily caught between both functions. But his attitude was regal.

The old woman inclined her head. "Good. That leaves only one thing."

Teomitl pulled himself up. His gaze was unreadable; his face turned away from me or Mihmatini. "I know."

I heard Mihmatini's breath quicken. She looked from Neutemoc to Teomitl. For a moment, anguish was written on her face, but then her hands clenched, and she wrenched herself from her immobility. She bypassed Neutemoc before he could stop her, and came to a stop in the centre of the courtyard – standing under the warm gaze of the Fifth Sun, which shimmered on the hundreds of wards she was weaving around her. "We won't let you pass." Her voice shook, but her hands were utterly steady.

"We?" the old woman's voice was sarcastic. "I can't see anyone with you, girl."

Mihmatini flinched – I couldn't see Teomitl's face, but never mind, it was too late for that; far too late. Slowly, with as much dignity as I could master, I walked in my sister's wake, ignoring the sharp glance Neutemoc threw at me – and came to stand by her side – blood to blood, brother to sister.

The old woman cocked her head. "Two doesn't make an army."

"Listen to me," I said. "This is foolishness, Teomitl. You can't possibly–"

"We've already had this conversation." He still wouldn't look at me; his voice was low, emotionless, instead of the anger I'd expected. "This is what the Empire needs."

"You know it's not."

The old woman smiled. "You know he has a destiny, priest. You can feel it, hanging over him."

Right now, all I could see was the jade cast to his features, the living remnants of Jade Skirt's magic, which had given us so much pain. "Yes, he would rule the Mexica, and rule them well. But not now. Destiny is for fools to manipulate."

"He'll never be this ready."

"What do you gain?" I asked.

She laughed – low and without joy. "Tizoc is no better than his brother. They both used me and discarded me without a second thought. Now I grow old in the shadow of Mictlan, and I would see the better brother made Revered Speaker."

As I had thought – an imperial princess playing at politics – and she was saturated with the magic of Grandmother Earth, probably what had aged her until she seemed old enough to be a generation above Teomitl.

"As Guardian of the Sacred Precinct, I won't let you pass," Mihmatini said. She masked her hesitation well, but I wasn't sure whether it would be enough – the old woman was a canny practitioner.

"Mihmatini…" Teomitl looked straight up, but his eyes were as shadowed as Coatl's had been, and I could read nothing from him. The Duality curse me, when had I ceased to understand him? "You have to understand."

"I – I understand, but I don't approve. You'll break the Fifth World, Teomitl, worse than anything he's ever done." Her hands swung, pointed to the charred body on the ground. "And he hated us – hated us so much…" She couldn't quite repress the shiver that ran through her. "All that for what? To grasp a toy you can't have now, like a spoiled child?"

"You know Tizoc," Teomitl said. "You know his mere presence opens up the breach, that there will be more demons in the streets, more beasts of shadows taking people." He swung to look at me, and the light of the Fifth Sun dispersed the shadows over his eyes, letting me see the anguish in them. "You know this, Acatl-tzin. You know he'll kill us slowly, take us apart piece by piece. You know there's no other choice."

"This will break us," I said, finally. What did he want from me? My approval? I was no longer his teacher; that much had been made abundantly clear. "You know it will."

"I know." His voice was an anguished cry. "But there is no other way!"

The old woman said nothing; she merely stood, looking smug.

"I have to do this," Teomitl said, slowly, carefully. His voice gained strength as he spoke – becoming once again the confident one of a man who moved in the highest circles of power. "This is right." He hefted his macuahitl sword, holding it as if he could draw power from within the obsidian. His skin had the greenish cast of jade, of underwater algae, and his aura of magic had grown stronger.

But I knew he had doubts, that there was a crack. I could – no, I might find it, but I needed to find it fast.

"You have to step aside."

"I can't."

"You–" His face twisted. "Why do you keep involving yourself in this, Acatl-tzin?"

Because – because it was the Fifth World, because I knew it would collapse if Teomitl did this. And something else – as usual, in the end, it is the smallest and pettiest things that define us. "You're my student. Whatever you do is what I taught you."

"Do you truly believe that?"

"I–" He was my beloved son, as akin to me as the blood of my blood; he made my face wide, gave me the pride I would never have as a childless priest. Neutemoc had said children went astray, but most children didn't end up endangering the safety of the Fifth World. It was his pride, his accursed pride, and his desire to do what he believed was for the good of the Mexica – regardless of whether it actually was good for them.

But…

He did have doubts. I had seen them. There was a crack.

Tizoc-tzin. He did all this because of Tizoc-tzin – because the man he had admired, the man who had taught him politics and tactics, had turned out to be such a disappointment. He did it because he didn't want Tizoc-tzin to rule us.

"There was someone else who reached for the Turquoise and Gold Crown in a time of turmoil," I said, slowly. "Someone who thought it had been denied to him for too long, and grasped it before he was ready."

Teomitl paused – his hand frozen in the act of lifting up his blade.

"If you do this, if you seize power now, when we're most vulnerable, then you'll be just like him. Just like Tizoc-tzin – throwing the Mexica Empire in disarray just for the sake of something you think should be yours."

"Don't listen to him." The old woman's voice was low and fierce. "He doesn't know what he's talking about. He's a priest who won't join the heights of the powerful; a poor, sad little dove who keeps looking down at the ground whenever an official passes him, doomed to always be carried in someone's arms, like a child wrapped in a mother's mantle."

Teomitl turned, halfway, to look at both of us. In the warm light of the afternoon, his haughty profile had never looked more like Tizoc-tzin's. "You're wrong," he said – not slow or stately, he'd never been much for either. "Both of you. I – I do it because there is no other choice. Because Tizoc will lead us into ruin." He turned, to look at me – his eyes wide, his face ordinary again, with no trace of Jade Skirt's magic, but his gaze as piercing as a spear. "Don't you believe this, Acatl-tzin?"

"You know what I think."

"No," Teomitl said. "I know you think the Fifth World can't take another change of Revered Speaker, not so soon. But what do you think of Tizoc?"

"I–" I was taken aback at the question – and the only thing that occurred to me was the truth. "He killed the clergy of Tlaloc, as surely as if he'd cast the spell himself." Over and over, we had seen evidence of his growing paranoia, of his instability.

"And you believe he should rule, until such time as he dies?"

"No." The truth, out of my mouth before I could call it back. "But I can't condone this, Teomitl. I can't – one doesn't become Revered Speaker or receive the blessing of the Southern Hummingbird by feats of arms."

"Ask the coyote's son," Teomitl said, with a small curl of his lips. I could feel Nezahual-tzin's presence behind me, but he was silent – as if this were merely between Teomitl and I. He had said, many times, that he wouldn't interfere. "He who came to his mat borne on the shoulders of Tenochtitlan's warriors."

"That's–" I took in a deep breath. He – I thought of Tizoc-tzin again, of the paltry forty prisoners, who hadn't even been sacrificed; of the confirmation that wouldn't even have the semblance of a real war, coming on the heels of a failed coronation war and a failed investiture ceremony. But I was High Priest; I served the Mexica and the Revered Speaker – it had been one thing to oppose Tizoc-tzin when he had been Master of the House of Darts, but now that he was Revered Speaker my loyalty was to him, and, like the She-Snake, I might disagree with his actions, and try to steer him back to the right path, but to conspire in order to depose him? It would have been against any order, any

balance that I served. Teomitl was wrong: this was no way to solve the problem.

"I–"

I thought of the star-demons; of the plague; of Moquihuix-Coatl and the chaos in the city. Did I really want this – more souls creeping back through the cracks in the world, creatures of the underworld amongst us? I kept the balance – which was my duty, my destiny.

Just as ruling the Mexica Empire was Teomitl's destiny.

As he had said, there was no solution – no clean, clear-cut way out of this tangle we'd worked ourselves into. Seeking to preserve the balance had led us to opening the rift, and this in turn had led to the plague.

We did it, Acamapichtli had said. I'd said we'd done the right thing, and not believed a word of it. Teomitl wasn't blameless, but it was also our insistence on preserving the balance at all costs, our fear of breaking the Fifth World's equilibrium, which had led us to this.

And, really, how long could we continue like this?

"You'll rule," I said, to Teomitl. "She's right, it's your destiny."

He grimaced. "If it's to tell me to wait, I've heard it all."

"I'm not asking you to wait for Tizoc-tzin's death." The words were lead on my tongue. "Let it pass, Teomitl. Wait until Tizoc-tzin is confirmed as the Revered Speaker – until he has a stable reign." And pray, all the while, that there would be no other major disaster. The breach was diminished, and the likelihood of this ever happening again was low – but low didn't mean non-existent.

"You're asking this as my teacher?"

I could have said yes, and we both would have known it for the lie it was. "No. You haven't been my student for a while." All children grew, and went astray – unable to fulfil their parents' dearest dreams. All students became men, and young girls grew and changed, too.

You're such a fool, Acatl, my sister's voice said in my mind. Always blind to change.

"I'm asking this as one man to another," I said.

Teomitl looked from me to the warriors – and then to Mihmatini, who still stood rigid, with her hands clenched into fists. "You're my wife. You wouldn't–" he said, and then shook his head again, recognising that she would. "Everything came together so beautifully."

"No. You only thought it was coming together. We saw everything coming apart." Mihmatini's voice was low and intense. "If you take one more step, I'll fight you, I'll swear."

I said nothing. My own position was already abundantly clear.

Teomitl looked from us to the old woman, who stood defiantly, her wrinkled face alight with a fierce passion. "You have to seize the moment, or you'll never amount to anything. You know it." Her voice rose, dark with hatred and spite. "He asks you to wait, but will you ever have such a great opportunity again? Tizoc has fled the city with the priests of Huitzilpochtli, the clergy of Tlaloc and of Mictlantecuhtli are busy with the breach, and you have warriors behind you. Such a situation will not occur again, you know it. They never do."

Teomitl was silent, for a while. At length, he looked up – at the Fifth Sun resplendent in the sky. "No," he said. "You're right. It won't happen again."

Her face split, in a wide, unpleasant grin of triumph, but Teomitl went on, "But I'll make it happen. Someday."

"You can't–"

He raised a hand, and even from where I stood I felt the pressure of Chalchiuhtlicue's magic – a shockwave that all but sent her sprawling against the pillars of the patio. "Don't think of telling me what I can and can't do."

The old woman sprang up, the magic of Toci rising around her in a tide. The shadows that rippled around her were the colour of earth, as brown as cacao beans or pinolli. "You–"

Teomitl's lips quirked up. "You wield the magic of Grandmother Earth, but I have other ones. And do you truly think the army would follow you, Chalchiuhunenetl?"

For a moment, they stared at each other, and then the old woman looked down with a grimace. "You win this. For now. Don't mock Grandmother Earth, boy. She'll come for you, too."

"In the end, we all come to Her embrace," Teomitl said. He appeared unperturbed.

"My Lord? " the leader of the warriors said.

"You heard," Teomitl said. "Go back. Tizoc-tzin is the rightful Revered Speaker. I'll take no action against that – for now." His eyes drifted, for a moment, in my direction: they were jade from end to end, the cornea drowned in murky reflections.

"You mean we came here for nothing?" The other warriors nodded, staring at each other with a definitely hostile mood.

Teomitl drew himself up, the jade-coloured light spreading from his eyes onto his face until he seemed a statue – and further, the whole courtyard dancing on the rhythm of underwater waves, everything smelling of brackish water and churned mud. "There will be no battle today," he said, and his voice, ageless, malicious, was no longer wholly his. "Leave this place."

The warriors looked from him to the old woman – whom they clearly didn't appreciate. Their faces were drained of colour in the light of Jade Skirt's magic, like those of drowned men, and they breathed heavily, as if something were constricting their lungs.

Faster than I'd thought possible, the courtyard emptied, until we were the only ones remaining – and Teomitl, still in the thrall of the goddess.

"Well, well," Nezahual-tzin said, speaking up. "Allow me to congratulate you on a wise decision."

Teomitl looked at him, as if unsure whether to strike him down.

"Teomitl!" Mihmatini said, sharply. "Let go."

He shivered, and sank to one knee, the divinity draining out of him like blood from a torn vein. His eyes rolled up, became brown once more. "Don't toy with me," he said to Nezahual-tzin, rising up in a fluid movement.

"Of course I wouldn't dream of it."

"Acatl-tzin. Nezahual. Acamapichtli." He bowed to us, and then, very stiffly, to Mihmatini. "If you'll excuse us."

She nodded. I watched them both walk away, into another courtyard. They were not holding hands. I wondered what they'd say to each other; wondered if, as with Tizoc-tzin, Teomitl's rash actions had created a chasm that would never heal.

Acamapichtli was speaking with his Consort in a low, urgent voice, with no eyes to spare for us. The old woman – Chalchiuhunenetl – had stayed. She was standing, looking at the charred corpse of CoatlMoquihuix-tzin, the expression on her face indescribable.

"He was her husband, you know," Nezahual-tzin said, conversationally.

I hadn't even heard him come up to my side, but suddenly, he was there. "Her husband," I said, flatly. It couldn't be – she looked far too old for this – and then I remembered that served Grandmother Earth, and that her magic had probably aged and twisted her. "Does it matter?"

"Not anymore, no." Nezahual-tzin smiled, as dazzling as usual. "Well, I'll leave you to clean this up. The next few years should be… interesting."

There were explanations, and consequences, and, as Nezahual-tzin had foreseen, a substantial amount of formalities.

The plague didn't vanish altogether, but it became less virulent, less contagious. Of those not already dead, many would recover. But still – many would not, and many more would not rise at all from their sickbeds. The toll had been heavy.

Tizoc-tzin was coming back, and the She-Snake was making sure everything was ready for the confirmation ceremony. They'd bought slaves from the Tlatelolco marketplace, to replace the warriors who had died – ironic, in so many ways, but the priesthood seemed to be the only ones aware of this. Otherwise, things seemed to go on as they should.

Mihmatini had gone home, after a very lengthy conversation with Teomitl – and a glance cast in my direction which expressed more than words. Whatever rift Teomitl had opened in their marriage was going to need more than a few hours' talk to solve.

Neutemoc, surprisingly, had barely said anything: he'd helped me argue with Quenami, shaking his head at some of the latter's more arrogant pronouncements, and remained behind in the palace, talking to his fellow warriors, and generally making sure that Tizoc-tzin, outwardly, would find the support he craved – an illusion that wouldn't hold for long, as we now all knew.

I, as usual, retreated with my priests in my temple, to begin the vigil for Matlaelel, and tidy things up in my own domain.

I was settling down with the temple accounts when I heard footsteps outside, and a hand drew aside the entrance curtain. "Acatl." The tinkle of bells didn't mask Acamapichtli's voice.

I bowed my head, not knowing if he'd see it or not. He was still wrapped in layers of Tlaloc's magic, but I couldn't be sure what he was saying.

"I thought I'd find you here. Ever the busy clerk." His voice had the old, mordant sarcasm.

"Ever the same," I said, but it wasn't quite true.

He'd brought chocolate, and maize cakes; we sat together atop the platform of the pyramid shrine, looking down on the temple complex and the shadows of my priests below as they went for their funeral vigils, and the haunting sounds of the bone whistles started to echo around the courtyard.

"So we closed it."

Acamapichtli grimaced. "We did. Well, not quite. You know we couldn't. But it was good that you killed Coatl."

"Thank my sister," I said, gloomily.

"I already did." He shrugged. "Don't look so sad. I can recognise power when I see it. She might be young, she might be a married woman, but it changes nothing. She's for great things, you know. Perhaps even greater than her predecessor."

"I don't know," I said. It made me feel uncomfortable to dwell overmuch on Mihmatini right now – because of Teomitl, because there was nothing I could do about their marriage. Whatever they did, they'd have to work it out by themselves. "So we're safe," I said, to change the subject.

"I guess. But not as safe as we once were."

"Do you…? " I stopped, unsure of what to say. "Did you ever stop to think what we'd done? That we'd–" That we'd break things worse than ever, cause our own doom just as Tenochtitlan's invasion of Tlatelolco had paved the way for Moquihuix-tzin's revenge?

Acamapichtli sighed. "A word of advice, Acatl: don't dwell on what is past." His sightless eyes looked west, towards the setting sun, and his scars seemed to shine in the dim light. "You'll only hurt yourself."

"But…" But I had to know; had to see whether I was right, whether my decision would heal us in a few years' time, or throw us into worse chaos. But Acamapichtli didn't know any of this, nor could he understand it.

Acamapichtli's smile was wide and sarcastic. "We all blunder through life, Acatl, making the best we can with what we have. That's all the truth there is." He rose, wiping his hands clean of cake crumbs.

"Where are you going?"

He smiled again, like a jaguar showing his fangs. "You'll want to be alone."

"Acamapichtli!"

There were footsteps again, on the pyramid stairs; brash and impatient, and I would have known them anywhere. I heard the entrance-curtain to the shrine tinkle as Acamapichtli withdrew for good, leaving me alone, staring at Teomitl.

He wore the garb of the Master of the House of Darts: the Frightful Spectre costume, his face emerging from the jaws of the skull-helmet, the quetzal feathers of his headdress fanning down like unkempt hair; the slit over his liver, symbolising the sacrifices he was making for the Mexica, seemed to glow in the dark. "Acatl-tzin."

I sighed. "Come on. There are some maize cakes."

"I've come to apologise–"

I shook my head. "No need for that. I think we've both made mistakes that we shouldn't have. The important thing is that we're safe." Safe, but not as before; safe, but trembling on the edge of extinction.

Teomitl sat down, looking at the maize cakes with studied intensity. "I'll give it a few years," he said. "If we hold that long."

"I know."

"You disapprove."

"I don't know." Not anymore; I was the one adrift without anything to cling to, the future only a terrifying blank. "The Duality curse me, I don't know."

Teomitl broke the maize cake in two, watching it. "I don't think Mihmatini will ever forgive me."

"Give it time," I said. I didn't know. Out of all of us, she'd been probably been treated the most shabbily, and I didn't know how far her love extended. "I can't help you there. I don't think, in fact, that I can help you much at all. You were right in one thing: you're far too adult to have a teacher."

He smiled – with a shadow of the old carelessness. "You said things as one man to another. That won't change, Acatl."

"No," I said. "I guess not."

Teomitl was silent for a while. He poured chocolate into a bowl, and breathed in the bitter, spicy smell, but didn't drink. "When Tizoc comes back…"

"Yes?" I'd expected something about apologies, but he didn't even broach the subject.

"I'll ask him about Tlatelolco. It's high time that wound was healed. We can't keep making them pay for something that happened thirteen years ago."

"What did you have in mind?"

"I don't know," Teomitl said. He smiled again, and I couldn't help smiling in return. "I'll think of something."

He rose with the bowl in hand, and came to stand near the edge of the platform. Below, the city of Tenochtitlan was bathed in the last light of the setting sun, and the familiar sounds wafted up to us: the splashes of the boats being polled home; the murmur of the crowd offering its last sacrifices in the Sacred Precinct; the harsh cry of the conches and the melancholy roll of the drums that marked the end of the day, and the setting of a sun that would rise, again and again. "It hasn't changed," he said, almost in wonder.

The last light of the Fifth Sun bathed him, surrounding him in a glow like molten gold,and all of a sudden I saw the ruler he'd become, the one his sister had believed in so desperately – not who he was now, but who he would be, in a few years' time: a man brimming with the power of the gods, smart enough to forge his own alliances and make his own opinions, respected and feared by the army, quick to love and quick to hate – a man who would lead us all to the Southern Hummingbird's promised glory, whose name would spread far and wide, like smoke, like mist – who would make the Empire great and wealthy, and eclipse the name of Tizoctzin as if it had never been.

"No," I said, "it hasn't changed." But he had; oh, he had, and the world seemed to blur and bend a little as I looked upon him.

Neutemoc had said that even beloved sons and beloved students went astray – that, like I and my brother, they ended up a bitter disappointment to their parents or teachers.

And sometimes, they outgrew us, and some of their light shone back upon us, making our faces wider than anything we could have done on our own.

THE SHORT STORIES

Obsidian Shards

First published in Writers of the Future XXIII, 2007

The obsidian shard, half the size of my palm, lay in my hand: a sharp, deadly thing still stained with blood. Its black surface shimmered with green reflections, and it quivered with the aura I associated with the underworld: blood and pain and death. Odd, to say the least. One did not find such objects in a dead warrior's house.

I raised my eyes to look at Magistrate Macihuin, who stood in the courtyard, a few steps away from me, watching me intently.

“Where did you find it?” I asked.

He shrugged. “It was embedded in his heart, and quite deeply – the guards and I had some trouble extracting it.”

“How did you think of opening the chest?” I asked.

Macihuin's face was grim. “From looking at the corpse, I would have said his heart had failed him. But the neighbours heard him scream. And once we undressed him, there was a small splotch of blood over the heart – not large enough to be an entry wound. Just… a mark. What do you make of it, Acatl?”

I was a priest for the Dead: I assisted in preparing the corpses, in saying the proper prayers and making the proper sacrifices. And if the underworld was involved directly in a death, as seemed to be the case here, I advised magistrates such as Macihuin.

“There's magic involved, to put the shard straight into the heart with so little damage to the skin.” I closed my hand around the shard. I had handled obsidian blades before. This felt wrong – too smooth, too charged with latent power. I had felt this once before, but… “There is underworld magic in this, but I don't know what kind exactly. Not yet,” I said.

“Do you want to see the body?” Macihuin asked.

We moved from the courtyard to the inside of the house, where two guards watched over the victim's body.

There was not much to see. It lay on the reed mat in the bedroom, its face bearing the blank expression of corpses. Behind it, the rich fresco on the adobe wall depicted Tezcatlipoca, God of War and Fate, and His eternal enemy Quetzalcoatl, God of Creation and Knowledge. Tezcatlipoca's clawed hands carried the obsidian mirror that held His power, and His face was creased in savage laughter, as if the death amused Him. Quetzalcoatl stood next to Him, holding a skull in His hand. His eyes were sad.

Macihuin's guards had opened up the chest to remove the shard: jagged cuts marked the edge of the wound, and the strong smell reminded me of the altar room of a great temple, encrusted with the blood of hundreds of sacrifices.

The heart had been cut in two, but everything else seemed normal. I had seen enough open chests to learn something of human bodies.

Macihuin said, “His name was Huitxic. He was a warrior and a respected member of his clan. Beyond that, I know nothing of why he might have such a shard in his heart. I was hoping you'd tell me.”

I could sense his impatience, his worry. For him, this murder involving magical obsidian was unfamiliar territory, the intrusion of something dangerous into his life. For me…I did not know the dead man. However, the shard was all too familiar: seven years ago, I had found a similar one in my student Payaxin's chest.

“It's from the Wind of Knives.” I felt a chill in my heart as I told him this. “The guardian who sees that the boundary between the underworld and the world of the living is maintained.”

“The Wind of Knives? And why should He come here and kill Huitxic?” Macihuin's face had hardened, but I could hear the fear in his voice. He had probably hoped I would deny the underworld's involvement in this death, that I would say it was a purely mundane murder. No such luck.

“Huitxic must have transgressed,” I said. “He must somehow have blurred the line between the underworld and the mortal world.”

Macihuin's gaze would not meet mine. He had sounded far too worried, even for such an unusual death. “What are you not telling me?” I asked, softly.

At length he said, “He's not the first man to die like that. The first were dismissed as heart attacks. This one would have been, too, if the neighbours had not heard the screams.”

I did not like this. It was one thing for the Wind to kill a man, but several of them? “How many have there been?”

“Two before this one. They all had the same mark, but I did not make the connection until this death, and they were buried normally. They were warriors all,” Macihuin said. “Pochta had just taken his first prisoner, and shaved his childhood hair. But Itlani, the first one, was a tequiua.”

A tequiua. One entitled to tribute. An important man, then. I shook my head in disgust. “Three deaths.”

“Yes, and not peasants' deaths either. I need explanations, Acatl. And fast. If they have indeed transgressed, I need to know how.”

“We all need to know,” I said, softly. “If those dead men have summoned anything from the underworld, it is a danger to us all.” I knew what kind of monsters peopled each level of the underworld: beasts of shadows feeding on human flesh, giant birds that ate human eyes, monsters standing on two deformed legs, with claws instead of hands. The thought of their walking among us was not a pleasant one.

The Wind of Knives would kill the human transgressors, but His role ended there. It was priests and especially Guardians who kept the balance of the world, by preventing monsters from coming among us.

I sighed. I stared at the obsidian shard I still held in my hand. The Wind of Knives. After my student Payaxin had died, something had withered in me. I could no longer trust the Wind of Knives, not when He killed so casually.

Still… Still, I was a priest for the Dead, and responsibilities could not be evaded so casually.

“I will summon the Wind of Knives,” I said. “And see what He has to tell us.”

“Good,” Macihuin said. “I will look further into the registers, and find out what I can about those men.” He moved away from me, and then seemed to change his mind. “Oh, I forgot.” He gestured, and one of the guards handed him something. “This was around his neck.”

It was a small jade pendant with two glyphs engraved on it. “Four Wind,” I said aloud. “His birth date?”

Macihuin shook his head. “The register says he was born on the day One Rabbit.”

“Odd,” I said.

We finally parted ways at the entrance of the house; Macihuin walked back to his tribunal, and I went back to my temple. As I walked through streets clogged with people, from warriors in feather uniforms to humble peasants wearing only loincloths, I dwelled on the summoning I would have to perform.

I did not look forward to it.

Priests for the Dead lived alone. There were plenty of temples like mine within the city of Colhuacan, hidden at the end of small alleyways, their facades unadorned. Inside, a single priest would wait for the bereaved. Sometimes a student waited as well, learning the craft of his master. I had taken on no one since Payaxin's death.

In my temple, I laid the shard on a low table. The midmorning sun created further reflections on the obsidian, images with glimpses of deaths: warriors dying ignominiously of old age or sickness, far from the glorious battlefields, women clutching their chests as they fell, their faces contorted in pain.

The underworld. The Wind of Knives.

Four Wind. If it was not the dead man's birth date… I knew only one other thing it could mean. Four Wind was the day on which the Second Age of the World had come to an end.

There had been Four Ages before our own, each named after the day that had seen it end. Each Age had been created by a god, who then became the sun in the sky, the giver of warmth and life. Different people had worshipped each Sun – until the gods grew tired and ended each Age in a cataclysm.

This Age was Four Movement, the Fifth Age, and it was said that Tezcatlipoca, God of the Smoking Mirror, would end it in an earthquake, tumbling the Fifth Sun from the sky, and rising himself as Sun of the Sixth Age.

But why would a dead man wear this around his neck?

The Wind of Knives would perhaps know, if I dared to ask Him.

I could wait to summon Him, always running from that moment when I would speak the words – knowing that if I did anything wrong the Wind would kill me as He had killed Payaxin.

No, better to do it now, and have it behind me.

I went out again, to the marketplace. It took me some time to wend my way through the various stalls, every one of them displaying more outlandish things than the others: feather cloaks, yellow makeup for women's faces, embroidered tunics with gold and silver threads…

I reached the district of bird-sellers. Raucous cries echoed around me as I went from stall to stall. I finally found what I wanted: a small greyish owl in a wicker cage, dwarfed by the other, more colourful birds the seller kept for their feathers. I bartered a copper bowl for the owl. It kept hooting on the way back – clearly it did not care much for daylight.

I had not summoned anything from the underworld since Payaxin's death, and especially not the Wind of Knives. I had resumed my life without Him.

I knelt behind the small altar, and opened the wickerwork chest that held my own possessions. Inside was a jade plate, much bigger than the pendant on Huitxic's corpse: it depicted the voyage of the soul through the nine levels of the underworld, from the crossing of the River of Souls to the Throne of Mictlantecuhtli, the God of the Dead. I also took out a small bone carving of a spider.

On the altar I laid both these things, the shard of obsidian, and the wicker cage with the owl. And something else, something I had kept all those years: another obsidian shard, the one I had found in Payaxin's heart.

The owl struggled as I opened its chest with the obsidian knife, but I had had years of practice. Blood spurted out, staining my hands and my tunic; I retrieved the heart on the tip of my blade, and laid it on the altar. Then I traced a square with the blood, and drew diagonal lines across it. I ended my drawing in the centre of the square, laying the knife point near the middle of the jade carving, on the fourth level of the underworld.

My hands shook as I recited the words to complete the summoning.

“Jade for safekeeping

Owl and spider to honour the God of the Dead

I summon you

From the Fourth Level of the underworld I call you.

Come.”

At first nothing happened and I thought I had failed, but then darkness flowed, catching me in its grasp. The hollow in my stomach was an all-too-familiar feeling, dredging up old memories, old fears.

A wind rose, whispering in my ears words of mourning.

The Wind of Knives coalesced into existence behind the altar. I saw nothing but a blurred, shining impression of shadows, planes of obsidian shards making the vague humanoid shape, a monstrous head, and eyes that glittered. And I felt His presence in my mind, battering at my own barriers, trying to get in. But I would not yield.

“You summon me,” the Wind of Knives said. His voice was the lament of dead souls.

“My Lord. I need answers.”

“You are brave.” He sounded amused. “I answer to no one.”

As I well knew. He did not answer, even to pity.

“But you may ask, all the same.”

I raised my trembling hand, pointed it at the two obsidian shards lying side by side on the altar. “One of those was found in a dead man's body this morning. I want to know why you killed him.”

One hand glided towards the altar. The fingers were blades of obsidian, each catching the sun's rays and making the light cold and lifeless. They closed around Huitxic's shard, lifted it to the light.

“That is not mine,” the Wind of Knives said.

It had to be His. “I don't–”

“You don't believe me? That is a dangerous path for a priest of the Dead.”

I shook my head. “I–”

He extended His hands towards me. Each held a shard of obsidian. The leftmost one, the one Macihuin had given me, glinted green even in that cold light. The rightmost one, which I had salvaged from Payaxin's body, did not. “This is mine,” the Wind of Knives said, lifting His right hand.

“You left it in Payaxin's body.”

“Your student had transgressed,” the Wind of Knives said. “You know the law.”

“Yes,” I said, bitterly. “I know the law. He meant only to summon a ghost, to comfort a widow.”

“Then he should have paid more attention to his ritual. He should not have summoned me,” the Wind of Knives said.

I could have argued for hours over Payaxin's death, and still I would have gained nothing. So I held back. “Then whose is it?” I asked.

“Any priest can have access to magical obsidian.” He shrugged. “It is none of my concern.”

But His voice did not resound as before. If He had been human I would have said He was lying. I knew better, of course, than to accuse Him, even though Payaxin's death still filled me, still clamoured to be accounted for.

“Is that all? Didn't you know the dead man?” I struggled to remember his name. “Huitxic. Does he mean nothing to you? Pochta? Itlani? Had they transgressed?” All He cared about were rules.

“I did not kill him,” the Wind of Knives said. And He did sound sincere, gods take me. “Nor those other men.”

“And the pendant? The pendant with the Second Age of the world?” I asked, but He was shaking His head in a blur of obsidian planes.

“I have given you enough.”

“I need to know whether they have transgressed,” I said. “What they have summoned.”

“They summoned nothing from the underworld,” the Wind of Knives said, fading already. “And I end all transgressions.”

And then He was gone. I remained alone, shaking with the memory of that presence.

I slowly put away Payaxin's shard, and cleaned the altar, wondering what the Wind had not told me.

“The deaths definitely are connected,” Macihuin said to me that afternoon, as we walked on the canal banks. He sounded worried. “I went to the temple, and the registers. The dead men are noted as members of a religious sect.”

“What kind of sect?”

“The Brotherhood of the Four Ages,” Macihuin said.

Four Ages. The pendant made sense. I told Macihuin that, and he nodded.

“Yes, there are four members noted in the registers. I found where the last man lives.”

“I suggest you keep a watch on him,” I said.   “Possibly.” Macihuin scratched his face. “And on your side?”

“They didn't transgress. At least according to the Wind of Knives. And He didn't kill them either.”

Macihuin's gaze moved away from me. “So we do not have monsters abroad?”

“No,” I said. It was a relief, but still…if the Wind of Knives had not killed them, someone else had. And I didn't relish the thought. A sect. Well, there was someone I could ask about sects. Again, not a pleasant thought. “I know a woman,” I said cautiously. “She could tell us more about those men.”

“Who–?”

“She's the Guardian of Colhuacan,” I said, darkly.

Macihuin grimaced. “I had no idea you knew her.”

I shrugged. “I met her a long time ago. I don't know whether she will remember me. But part of her role is watching over the religious sects – in case one of them upsets the balance of the world and she has to step in and restore order.”

Macihuin pondered this for a moment before saying, “But she is only accountable to the other Guardians in the Empire. If there has been no transgression, she may not want to waste time with a murder investigation.”

“No,” I said. “She may not. But it is worth a try.”

I left Macihuin to his own devices. He was going to interview the last survivor, and I was going to find out all I could about this sect, and why its members had died.

Unfortunately, that might involve going straight to the person who was killing them. For Ceyaxochitl was known over Colhuacan for another thing than her role as Guardian: many years ago, she had dispatched the members of a harmless sect, coldly going after them and opening their chests with obsidian blades.

She had said they were a possible danger to the Empire, and the matter had been hushed.

She had called it justice.

I called it murder.

Ceyaxochitl lived in the district of Teopan – the Place of the Gods. Her house stood only a few paces from the Great Temple. Every day she must have seen the great pyramid rising to the heavens with the shrine to the Sun at the summit, heard the cries of sacrifices as their blood flowed on the altar. But I doubted she had ever worshipped the gods in their heavens. A Guardian acknowledged the gods' existence, but served none of them.

The gods do not maintain order. To us humans falls the task of averting the end of the world. By our constant offerings of blood, we maintain the sun in the sky, and by their constant watch over the world the Guardians know when the gods falter.

Ceyaxochitl's slaves were courteous but cold; I could sense I was not welcome. I sat down in the courtyard, under a pine tree, and calmly waited.

At length a slave took me to the audience chamber. The walls of the room bore frescoes depicting Tonatiuh, the Fifth Sun, rising from the flames of His pyre into the sky, the world blossoming under His warmth. Tezcatlipoca watched from behind, His hands already reaching out as if to end the Age before it had begun.

Ceyaxochitl was older than I remembered: time had sprinkled white into her black hair, and some wrinkles had crept onto her face. But she sat very straight on her dais, and her eyes saw everything.

Behind her was a low table, on which lay the materials for some ritual unknown to me: three obsidian knives, and the fleshy leaves of a maguey cactus.

“Acatl,” she said. “What a surprise.”

She did not sound surprised. I waited until I was seated next to her before speaking. “You know why I came here.”

Her eyebrow rose. “How could I know?”

“I need information about a sect,” I said.

“I give nothing without a good reason,” Ceyaxochitl said.

“I will give you a reason. Three men have died. Huitxic, Itlani, Pochta. Do the names mean anything to you?”

“Calm yourself,” Ceyaxochitl said. “Yes, I know those names. What does it change?”

“They died with obsidian shards in their hearts.”

Ceyaxochitl sighed. “I know nothing of it.” But her voice quavered perhaps more than it ought to have.

“You do.”

“Are you accusing me?” she asked, her hands tightening on the cloth of her skirt.

“It would not be the first time you killed the members of a sect without reason.”

Her eyes flared with anger so cold I regretted having taunted her. “It was many years ago. And they would have been a danger to us, in time.”

“So you said. And the city believed you.”

“Why not?” she asked, scathing. “I am not the only one to have dead bodies on her conscience. Your student–”

“You will not speak of Payaxin here.”

“You think you can control me, Acatl? In my own house? Your student couldn't even close his circle of protection. You should have taught him better.”

“You–” I said, fighting an urge to strike at her. I remembered finding Payaxin's body, thrown backwards with such force his neck had broken. He had died instantly, of course: the obsidian shard embedded in his heart had seen to that. I had knelt, collected the scattered materials for the ritual he would never complete, said the prayers for his soul. I had not wept. Tears would have been useless. But I had not forgiven the Wind of Knives.

Ceyaxochitl's eyes focused on me, and they sparkled with something like amusement.

“You will not use that against me,” I said, softly.

“Why not?” she said, and paused. “But you are right. Let us put petty quarrels behind us. I did know those men, but I did not kill them.”

Liar. Her hands still trembled.

“Then who were they?” I asked.

“The Brotherhood of the Four Ages? Fools, like so many over Colhuacan and the rest of the Empire. Fools who think they can stop the sun in the sky, or summon monsters from the underworld to cause that final earthquake to sweep us away. Sometimes they try to call on Tezcatlipoca Himself, as if it were easy to summon the God of the Smoking Mirror. Fools who think Tezcatlipoca will reward them for their acts when He rules over the Sixth Age as the new Sun.”

“Then they were a danger,” I said, quietly.

“They? They had no idea what they were dealing with. Between them, they didn't have enough magical talent to fill a copper bowl. They couldn't have summoned a minor monster without making a mess of the ritual.”

“Tell me why they died, then.”

“I have no idea,” Ceyaxochitl said, more calmly. “But this is the truth, Acatl. They could not have summoned anything.”

That last sounded sincere, but it did not exonerate her.

“I see,” I lied. “They had jade emblems?”

Ceyaxochitl shrugged. “The past Ages of the World. Four pendants, one for each of them. Itlani was their leader: he bore the sign for Four Jaguar, for that is the age in which Tezcatlipoca first reigned.”

“He was also the first to die.”

She did not answer. She clearly did not want to give me more. I rose, slowly, shaking the stiffness from my legs and back. “Thank you.”

Ceyaxochitl did not rise at once, which allowed me to take a good look at the three knives spread out on the table by her side. They had a good edge, and all shone with a peculiar colour. Not green like the shard I had, but an aquamarine hue that was similar.

I laid one hand on the leftmost blade, before she could stop me, and felt the power pulse deep within. The same power as the shard that had killed Huitxic.

Liar.

“You have overstayed your welcome,” Ceyaxochitl said, coldly.

I withdrew my hand from the knife.

“What are these knives?” I asked.

“God-touched.” Ceyaxochitl would not meet my eyes. “That's all you need to know, Acatl. Now get out of my house.”

I left. There would have been no point in talking further with her.

By the time I came back to my temple, I was exhausted. I sent a message to Macihuin, and then spent the rest of the evening making my own offerings of blood to the gods. I could not keep my thoughts from returning to Ceyaxochitl. Three dead warriors: Itlani, Pochta, and then Huitxic, with that obsidian shard in his heart. Obsidian that did not belong to the Wind of Knives, but throbbed like Ceyaxochitl's knives. Three members of a sect worshipping Tezcatlipoca and hoping He would end the world. And the fourth still alive, watched over by Macihuin.

They had been incompetent. I did not think Ceyaxochitl was lying on that point. But it changed nothing. As Guardian, she still might have taken it upon herself to remove them.

My sleep was dark and dreamless, and I woke up to an angry cry.

“Acatl!”

Macihuin's face hovered over me. In the blink of an eye, I was awake and sitting upright on my reed mat.

“What is it?” I asked. Outside, it was still night; I could hear owls hooting to one another. The air smelled of steam-baths and cooked maize.

“He's dead,” Macihuin said.

Nayatlan, the last member of the sect, had found the same ending as his brethren; he lay on his back on his reed mat, in the bedroom. He had the same mark as Huitxic on his torso.

I opened up the chest in three swift cuts, and retrieved the obsidian shard in the heart: a shard similar to the one that had killed Huitxic.

Macihuin stood to the side of the mat, his face dark. I held out the bloody shard to him, and he nodded. From the next room came weeping sounds: Nayatlan's wife.

“Four Rain,” I said, lifting the jade pendant. The Third Age, which had ended when the gods sent down fire that consumed the earth.

“As if we didn't know.” Macihuin sighed, and knelt to look at the body. “It was foreseeable, but still…”

“You had a watch on him.”

“From the outside of his house. Did you think I could place guards within the house of a respected warrior without raising an outcry?”

“No,” I said, shaking my head. “But this is serious.”

Macihuin did not speak.

“Did you get a chance to interview him?”

“I did,” Macihuin said. “Not a very productive talk: he denied everything.”

I laughed, without joy. “Of course. So did Ceyaxochitl.”

“The Guardian? I had your message, but…”

“She's involved,” I said.

“That's a serious accusation, Acatl. Do you have anything to support it?”

“No. But I hope to find something here.”

We searched every corner of the house; the dead man's widow helped us by showing us the chests where her husband had kept his most precious possessions. We found nothing.

The last wickerwork chest we examined, though, was not as deep as it ought to have been. I raised my eyes to Macihuin, who was kneeling by my side, his hands full of clothes; together we tipped the chest's contents onto the ground.

It turned out to possess a false bottom, full of sketches and papers. Nayatlan's widow swore in a voice still shaking with grief that she had never seen them. The glyphs on them were so faded they were almost illegible.

“I need some time to study these,” I said.

Macihuin was silent for a while. “I may have to refer this to the palace courts,” he said at last. “This is going beyond me.”

“Don't. I need you.”

“Why?”

“They're all dead,” I said. “She's done her work. The longer we wait, the more proof disappears.”

“And what do you think I should do?”

My eyes rested on the first of the papers: it showed Tezcatlipoca, God of the Smoking Mirror, presiding over the first race of men in the age Four Jaguar. “Have Ceyaxochitl's house watched, as best as you can.”

We did have a brief talk with Nayatlan's widow, but she did not even know her husband had been part of the sect. It was going nowhere.

I studied the manuscripts as best as I could, between the wake and the sacrifices for a dead man – for I still had my own work. The spells written in the manuscripts were old ones, so powerful they would have been beyond the grasp of an untrained sect.

One of the spells was annotated as if in preparation, but half the glyphs were missing, which made it hard to decipher. A summoning, probably of some monster. Thank the gods they had not succeeded. I almost was grateful to Ceyaxochitl, until I remembered her arrogance. She had killed innocents.

The rest of it was dull: all of it was praise to Tezcatlipoca, to His magic that could bring both life and death. God of the Smoking Mirror, the faded hymns said, you who hold the destiny of the world in your hands, you who will rule over the Empire. There, too, Nayatlan had written things, and I could piece together enough. He had had a son, I understood, who had drowned in the marshes while still very young. The fool had hoped Tezcatlipoca would bring him back in the Sixth Age.

Fool. But still not enough to justify his death.

I got messages from Macihuin, all attesting to the same lack of progress: Ceyaxochitl did not go out of her house on the following day; nor on the next one. He had had the houses of the other three dead men searched, to no avail.

Macihuin himself finally came to tell me the investigation was being withdrawn from him. The last victim had been not only a warrior, but a member of the Eagle Regiment, and his exalted status demanded more than a minor magistrate. Macihuin had to withdraw his guards while a more competent magistrate was found.

I took the watch myself on the second night. Nothing happened. I sat all night on a neighbour's roof, watching the inner patios of Ceyaxochitl's house, and my clothes were wet by the time I finally came back to my temple.

I had laid on the altar the three shards of obsidian: the two that came from the murders, and the last for Payaxin. Each time I came back to my temple I was reminded innocents had died.

On the second night of my watch, I saw Ceyaxochitl going into her courtyard with an owl cage. I saw her lay down the jade, the spider carving and the obsidian blade. I saw her kill the bird and trace the square in blood.

I saw her summon the Wind of Knives. He came to her call, and moved to stand near her, the hundred of obsidian knives glinting under the light of the moon. She whispered something to Him.

No. I rose from my precarious hiding place, and almost fell from the roof. But still I could not hear the words any of them spoke. Ceyaxochitl dismissed the Wind of Knives, and He faded away from the courtyard, taking with Him the coldness and the sense of despair.

Not possible. The Wind had not sounded so much of a liar.

Had He? What did I know of underworld creatures, after all? I only knew how to read men. Supernatural creatures remained beyond me to encompass.

I came back to my temple at dawn, shaking from the cold, and sent a messenger to Macihuin, begging him to come. I waited and waited, but there was no answer. At last, a bedraggled boy brought me a crumpled piece of paper from Macihuin. I cannot help you, not now. Tonight, when I have finished my work.

Something was afoot. Why had Ceyaxochitl summoned the Wind of Knives once more? Did she think to kill more men, more foolish sects who spoke of things they would never dare accomplish? Did she…

My heart missed a beat. Did she think to kill both Macihuin and I?

I sent my answer, telling to Macihuin to take care, and I waited.

On the altar, the shards of obsidian glinted with sunlight: two of them green, the last without any colour at all.

The sun seemed to take an eternity to move; I watched the shadows of the obsidian shards expand and then shrink again. The light turned from golden to white to golden again.

The shards…

I picked the two which shone with green reflections, one in each hand, and looked at them carefully. They did not look like the one in Payaxin's body; in fact… I put both of them in my right hand. They fitted together along part of their length, to form a narrow piece almost twice as long. Pieces of the same shattered blade?

It did not look like a blade, no matter which way I turned the assembled pieces. Still, there was something odd about them…

The sun was still high in the sky. I wrapped the three shards in a cotton cloth, and went into the district of artisans.

I had trouble finding a knife-maker who would receive me; they had work to do, more important work than accommodating a priest for the Dead.

At length a very old man shuffled out of a workshop. “You need a knife-maker? I have time.”

He must have seen my grimace in spite of his rheumy eyes. “I am not so old, boy.”

I sighed, and handed him the cloth. “Can you tell me where those knife shards came from?”

He laughed as he moved back into the shadows of his house. I followed him.

“From which quarry, you mean? That's hard. Perhaps, if the pieces are big enough…” He unwrapped the cloth, bent over them.

His finished knives lay on a low table, each of them a testimony to his skill, the blades sharp, the handles carefully crafted. Obsidian flakes lay everywhere.

At length the old man raised his eyes. “Those are not knife shards.”

My heart went cold. “What do you mean?”

He moved, picked one of his own knives, and showed me the edge of the blade. “A knife blade is… peculiar. We make it by shaving off flakes from the rock, and it shows: you can still see the places where we removed the slivers.” His hand hovered over Payaxin's shard. “This is a knife shard. This was made to cut. You can see the indentations on the edge.”

“And those?” I asked.

“Those were polished,” he said.

“But they're sharp.”

He shook his head. “They're sharp because they were broken. Broken obsidian always cuts.”

I asked my next question carefully, unsure of where his answer would take me. “Then where do those come from?”

“I only make knives. But…” He laid his knife back on the table, and looked me in the eye. “It's a mirror, an obsidian one such as a woman would have in her house.”

A mirror.

I thanked him, picked up the shards, and went home. All the while my mind was running on unfamiliar paths, desperately trying to fit the pieces together. Tezcatlipoca, God of the Smoking Mirror. The mirror of obsidian that gave life and death.

Shards of a mirror that throbbed with power under my hand, speaking of death. Not the underworld. Never the underworld. Deaths, because Tezcatlipoca was also the God of War and Fate.

Despite everything that Ceyaxochitl had told me, despite everything Macihuin and I had found out, the sect had indeed summoned something. But not something from the underworld. The Wind would have killed them then. No, they had set their sights higher.

They had summoned Tezcatlipoca Himself, so He could end this Fifth Age. And Tezcatlipoca, who was god of destruction as well as of rebirth, had killed them one by one.

Only one person in Colhuacan had the knowledge and power to fight Him; only one person stood between the god and the end of this Age.

Ceyaxochitl.

I had been wrong. She had not summoned the Wind of Knives to kill the sect. She had summoned it to protect her. But the Wind could do nothing against a god.

There was no time. I sent Macihuin yet another message, knowing inwardly that I was alone, that he would not find me before it was too late.

Within my temple, I girded myself for battle. I had only pathetic things: I, who had not been even able to protect Payaxin from the underworld. Three obsidian knives went into my belt, and around my neck I hung a jade pendant in the shape of a serpent – Quetzalcoatl, the Plumed Serpent God: Tezcatlipoca's eternal enemy.

And then I ran back to Ceyaxochitl's house.

Everything was silent when I arrived; the air itself seemed to have turned to tar. I struggled to reach the front door.

Inside, magic filled the courtyard, throbbed to the rhythm of my heart. Magic such as I would never wield. Still I pressed on, although the air burnt my lungs, and raw power quivered on my skin. I was too late.

Ceyaxochitl lay on her back on the dais of the audience room, blood staining her blouse. Around her lay the remnants of her ritual: the owl with its throat slit, the spider carving on the low table, the jade plate. But the pattern was incomplete: a square filled the plate, and around the fourth corner of the drawing the blood of the owl pooled on the table, slowly dripping to the floor. Ceyaxochitl had not traced the diagonals. She had had no time to complete her summoning.

And darkness stood over her: the god Tezcatlipoca in all His twisted glory.

“Stop,” I said. I wanted to scream it, but my tongue stuck to my teeth. “Stop,” I repeated, lifting one of the obsidian knives.

The god laughed. It wasn't the laughter of an immortal, but that of a madman. He turned to me in a fluid, inhuman movement, and I saw the flash of jade where His throat should have been, submerged in the darkness. I did not need to be closer to see the pattern. Four Jaguar.

What had those fools done?

“Priest,” the god said. “You have no place here.” He moved towards me, His power overwhelming me. I fought to raise my hand, and threw the knife at Him. It fell to the ground paces away from Him. He did not slow down.

“I stand against you,” I said, moving towards the low table and Ceyaxochitl's body. “You are Itlani,” I said. “The first member of the sect to die.”

“No longer,” the god said. “Itlani is but my vessel. I have returned, priest.” I flung my second knife at Him, but He batted it aside. And then He reached out with hands like claws, and, grabbing me by the shoulders, hoisted me in the air.

I could not breathe. I could not focus on anything. Everything was folding back on itself, everything blurred. The hands holding me were blades of obsidian, green and throbbing with magic. The god's broken mirror. The shards that killed.

He flung me against a wall, contemptuously. I slid down, landed hard. Pain flared up in my back. Blood ran on my shoulders where the god had held me, on my arms and legs, which had been grazed by the rough surface of the walls. My ribs ached.

“It is over, priest,” Tezcatlipoca said, once more coming to lift me. I rolled aside, gritting my teeth not to cry at the pain. His hands found only air. “Why prolong your agony? I kill swiftly.”

As He had killed Ceyaxochitl. I rolled aside once more, but I was weakening, fast. I had only one knife left in my belt. Think. I had to… think.

The mirror that gave life and death. The sect had summoned Tezcatlipoca and made a mess of the ritual. They had broken the mirror, and the shards became embedded into Itlani's body. The shards that later enabled him to rise as this twisted shadow. They gave life, and they took life.

The god was not wholly here, not yet. He inhabited Itlani's body. And that human body, neither dead nor alive, belonged both to the mortal world and to the underworld. The body transgressed.

I crawled towards Ceyaxochitl's low table, as fast as I could. My body screamed its agony, but I paid it no heed.

My hand closed around Ceyaxochitl's obsidian knife, dipped it into the blood of the owl. I swiftly completed the pattern, tracing the square's diagonals so that they met over the fourth level of the underworld.

The god lunged for me, and I threw myself aside. Tezcatlipoca's hand stabbed through the place where I had been, and grazed the skin of my arm. I did not care. I needed to speak the words.

“Jade for safekeeping…” My voice caught on the last word. It was hard to speak.

The god moved towards me. I left the table's side, but everything was blurred again. I raised shaking hands, but could not maintain them in the air. I was…I had to…

The words of summoning had been ingrained in me, too deeply to be forgotten. I spoke them, quickly, as the world turned and turned and shrank to darkness around me. “Owl and spider to honour the God of the Dead… I summon you… From the Fourth Level of the underworld I call you… Come.”

I closed my eyes, knowing I had done all I could. The god was close to me; I could feel His power, straining to fill me. But I was too weary to get up.

A wind rose, whispering words of mourning in my ear. The air became cold, as cold as morning frost, and my stomach filled with that familiar hollow. I almost welcomed it.

Acatl, a voice said in my mind, a voice like the lament of dead souls. I am here.

When I managed to open my eyes again, the Wind of Knives was fighting Tezcatlipoca. They flowed over the furniture in the room, one darkness lunging at another. Obsidian clashed against obsidian with a sickening sound.

I crawled back to Ceyaxochitl. I passed over my own trail of blood, ignoring the pain in my body.

Ceyaxochitl still lay where she had fallen. I laid a shaking hand on her chest, felt the faint heartbeat. Her eyes stared vacantly at the ceiling. Her mouth moved, slowly. “Acatl…”

“Spare yourself,” I whispered, not feeling stronger than she was.

“It's… not… enough.”

The Wind of Knives and Tezcatlipoca were still tearing at one another. The god's body had transgressed, but He remained a god. The Wind of Knives did not kill gods, and in my mind I could feel Him weakening. Not enough. Curse it, not enough. What would be enough?

Ceyaxochitl's eyes did not look at me. “It's… us… Acatl… We… maintain…”

Us. Human blood. Well, there was enough of it around, I thought hysterically.

I called in my mind to the Wind of Knives, as He had done when He had arrived. You need more, I said.

He continued His dance with Tezcatlipoca, stabbing futilely at the darkness. And you would give it, Acatl?

Yes.

I need more than blood, the Wind said, barely stepping aside to avoid one of Tezcatlipoca's claw-swipes. I need us to work together. I need your trust.

You have it.

No. Those are words, Acatl. Do you trust me?

I… Payaxin's dead body filled my mind. You kill for nothing.

I am necessary. Would you rather have gods and monsters walking the world?

No, I cried in my mind. You are…

I do what I was made for, the Wind said.

He had killed Payaxin. He had…

No. Blame was shared, equally. If I had taught my student better, he would not have rushed into such a foolhardy enterprise. He would have known better. I, too, bore the guilt of Payaxin's death, and it had been gnawing at me all those years, when I had cut myself away from the underworld. I could not go on like that. I could not be ruled by guilt and hatred.

The Wind of Knives was still moving, but His gestures were more sluggish. Acatl!

I closed my eyes. I trust you, I said, and opened myself to Him.

It was as if I were moving through a rush of water; every thought alien to me, every image His mind held too horrible to focus on. Skulls and stains of blood flashed before my eyes, but I held on.

And He showed me, without words, what I needed to know. Human blood. Human blood would dissolve the shards, if it went to the heart, driven by a human hand.

I rose, slowly. My hand went to my belt, retrieved the last of the obsidian knives I had brought here. Clumsily, I plunged the blade into the wound on my left shoulder, biting my lip not to cry out at the pain. Then, step by step, I moved towards the battling shadows.

“You are a fool, priest,” Tezcatlipoca said, and His voice rumbled, like the earthquake that would end the world. “A fool.”

I came, with the blood-stained obsidian knife. I came, and the Wind of Knives redoubled His attacks, until He had Tezcatlipoca pinned against a wall.

And in that moment I plunged my knife into the shadow god's chest, all the way to the heart. I felt obsidian give way, dissolve under the thrust of the blade. I felt the Wind of Knives seize hold of my mind and push, push deep into the twisted mind of Tezcatlipoca's incarnation. And everything gave way under our attack.

The god screamed. I had never heard such anguish contained in a voice. “I would have reigned,” He was screaming, even as the shards fell from His hands, from His whole body. Blood welled up from inside His chest, filled Him, until the darkness before me was tinged scarlet. “I would have…”

And the last shard dropped away, and Itlani's dead body fell at my feet, a grimace of fear on its features.

It was all I could do to remain standing. Shivering, I kept staring at the corpse, wondering if it was truly over, if the nightmare had ended.

A hand was laid on my shoulder, and gently turned me round. I found myself staring at planes of obsidian. “Acatl,” the Wind of Knives said. “It is ended.”

“Will He come back?” I asked, slowly.

“Perhaps.” The Wind's voice was toneless. Coldness travelled from my shoulder into my heart, until I felt nothing, nothing at all. “Not so easily.”

“And Ceyaxochitl?”

His face turned towards the unconscious body of the Guardian. “She may survive.”

I wanted to rest, to lie down. I wanted the underworld to go away so that the coldness would abate. “It is ended,” I whispered.

The Wind nodded. “You have no more need of me.”

I stared, not sure I had heard Him correctly. I had never heard Him speak such words. He seemed to be waiting for some answer for me. “No,” I said, at last, not completely trusting my voice. “I have no more need of you.”

He had started to fade on the last word; obsidian planes blurred into nothingness.

By the time Macihuin and his men reached the house, and summoned a physician to take Ceyaxochitl away, He had disappeared.

But I still could hear His last words to me. “Until next time, Acatl.”

I stood over Itlani's body, shaking and weak from loss of blood.

“Acatl,” Macihuin said. “You have some explanations to give.”

“Yes,” I said. I let the physician bind my wounds, and fuss over them. I let Macihuin ask me questions which I was too weak to answer.

Evening was falling; darkness filled the house, but it was a darkness that the sun would dispel, come time. The Fifth Age would continue.

Until next time, Acatl.

In the end, there were enough things to sort out, and I could tell Macihuin would be very busy in the hours to come. They left me alone, sitting on the dais with the remnants of my summoning, with the memory of the Wind's voice in my mind.

Payaxin was dead. We both had a share of guilt in that, and perhaps not even one. After all, he had been his own man, and had made his own choices. I could no longer go on, cutting myself off from the underworld and hating the Wind. As He had said, He was necessary.

I said, quietly, to the silent night, “Until next time.”

Beneath the Mask

First published in Beneath Ceaseless Skies, January 2009

“He's in here,” Huchimitl said.

I stood in the courtyard of her opulent house, amidst pine and palm trees, breathing in the smell of dust and fallen pine needles. Just outside, a few paces from me, was Moyotlan, one of the busiest districts of Tenochtitlan; but the bustle from the crowded streets and canals was barely audible, cut off by the walls of the courtyard. Around us were several doorways, closed by coloured entrance-curtains; and it was before one of those that Huchimitl and I stood.

Not for the first time, I wished Huchimitl wasn't wearing that accursed ceramic mask – so I could read her face. Or, failing that, that she'd at least tell me why she was wearing it. The only people in the city I'd seen wearing that kind of mask were disfigured warriors. But I'd asked the question twice on my way there, and been met with silence.

“I'm not sure I can do anything – “ I started, but Huchimitl cut me off.

“Please, Acatl. Just take a look at the man. And tell me whether he's cursed.”

Curses, unless they were from the underworld, weren't really my province. If I'd had any sense, I'd have refused Huchimitl when she'd arrived in my temple.

But she'd been wearing that mask, hiding her face from me. Surely…

Surely the girl I remembered from my childhood, the one who'd turned the heads of all the boys in our calpulli clan – including mine – couldn't possibly be injured?

I couldn't bring myself to believe that. There had to be some other explanation for that mask. And I had to know what it was.

Huchimitl was still standing before the door, waiting for my answer. “Acatl,” she said, shaking her head in that disturbingly familiar fashion, halfway between exasperation and amusement.

My heart twisted in my chest. In truth, I'd never had been able to refuse her, and even though it had been years since we'd last seen each other, it still did not change anything. “I can't promise you much,” I said, finally.

Huchimitl shook her head – sunlight played on her mask as she did so, creating disturbing reflections on the ceramic, like a breath from Mictlan, the underworld. I fought an urge to walk up to her and tear off the mask. “Acatl, please.”

Gently, I drew aside the hanging mat that closed the door, trying not to disturb the bells sewn into it. I paused halfway through, stared at Huchimitl. She stood unmoving, the mask drinking in the sunlight.

“I'll wait for you in the reception area,” she said.

I sighed and entered the room.

Its walls bore frescoes of Patecatl, God of Medicine, holding a drinking cup and an incense brazier, and of Quetzalcoatl, God of Creation and Knowledge, who stood with the bones of the dead in His outstretched hands. A strong smell of herbs rose from the back of the room, where the sick man lay on a reed mat. His legs were curled in an unnatural position.

He did not move as I came in, save that his eyes opened and stared straight at me. It was the gaze of a strong, shrewd man.

Citli, Huchimitl had called him. A warrior captured by her son on the battlefield: a strong, healthy sacrifice who would be offered on the altar, for the glory of the gods – and for that of his captor.

That was the way it should have worked. Someone, obviously, had had a different idea.

“A priest. So she's brought you into this, too?” Citli's voice was reedy and thin, on the verge of breaking with every word. But still, the humour came through, a sign that whatever had affected his body had not yet reached his mind.

“I am Acatl, priest for the Dead,” I told him.

Citli made a thin, rasping sound, which I realised was laughter. “I'm not yet dead, priest. Save your rituals for those who need them.” He fell silent for a while, and then said, “I am Citli, warrior of Mixteca.”

I nodded, acknowledging the introduction. I had already gotten a good look at him, and what I had been half-expecting – the green aura that was the mark of the underworld – was not there. But there was something – a shimmering in the air, a hint of a coiled, alien power around him – something that did not belong. Huchimitl had been correct: he was cursed.

Citli was staring at me. “You're not like the other priests.”

“You've seen many priests in Coyoacan?” I asked, moving away from the reed mat and searching the room, overturning wicker chests and ceramic pots.

He laughed again. “Priests are the same everywhere. But you – you don't have dried blood in your hair, or thorns in your earlobes.”

I shrugged. “I had them, once. But now I only perform sacrifices for the Dead.” My search of the small room had revealed nothing useful. My only recourse lay in speaking to Citli, and hoping he would know something of importance. “How long have you been sick?”

The humour left his eyes. “Thirteen days. A full week. Why does a priest that sacrifices to the Dead worry about that? They told me I would be healed in time for the ceremony.” There was fear in his voice, now. I knew why: if he did not die a warrior's death on the altar, he would not go to the Sun God's Heaven with his peers, but be condemned to the ignominious underworld.

“I'm not here for the last rites,” I said. “Huchimitl thought perhaps I could determine was wrong with you. Do you have any idea of what's ailing you?”

His voice was sullen. “No. All I know is that I want to be healthy for the ceremony. I won't be cheated of my glory.”

“You don't know why? Huchimitl says her son is not popular among the warriors – “ She hadn't said much in truth, just hinted that Mazahuatl might have made some powerful enemies. And I'd been too busy worrying about the mask to ask the proper questions.

A mistake. How could I help her, if I couldn't control my own feelings?

Citli's upper body moved slightly, in what appeared to be an attempt to shrug. “Her son Mazahuatl is young and arrogant, and an upstart. But he is my beloved war-father, the one who captured me on the battlefield, and he will make me ascend to the Sun's Heaven. The rest shouldn't concern me.”

“Shouldn't it? If Mazahuatl has enemies, they'll want to strike at you as well,” I said. “They might have cursed you, just to make him look like a fool.”

“Making his beloved war-son unable to walk to his sacrifice?” Citli's voice was bitter. “They're cowards, all of them.”

“I know. But until we know who they are, they can't be punished.” I paused, then asked, “When did you first notice something was wrong?”

“It started with my legs. Now I have no feeling anywhere in my body, only above my neck.”

I was no healer; his affliction, if it had no magical cause, would truly be beyond me.

“And you have no idea why?” I asked.

He shook his head, forcefully. “No. Look. I wasn't here a month ago. Whatever is going on, I have no part in it.”

I could see that; clearly he was not lying, and equally clearly he didn't know anything.

Which wouldn't get me, or Huchimitl, anywhere.

Curses.

“Do you have people who take care of you?” I asked.

Citli looked at me, almost offended. “Of course,” he said. “Mazahuatl knows the proper care for a prisoner.”

Warriors. Always quick to take offence. It would have been amusing, had the situation not been so serious. “And they noticed nothing?”

Citli shook his head. “You might ask them,” he said. “There's an old woman named Xoco. She brings food, and gossip, and whatever I cannot get, lying here.” He was angry again – for a young, energetic man, falling ill and being confined to a bed must have been the worst of fates.

I finished my examination of him, which didn't yield anything more. He was indeed paralysed; and the curse seemed to spread as time passed. But I couldn't determine its cause – nor reassure myself that whatever had struck Citli down wouldn't strike again within the house.

I took my leave of him, with no answers, just a growing feeling of unease in my belly.

What was going on? What was Huchimitl embroiled in?

Finding Xoco wasn't hard: I asked the slave at the gates, and he pointed me to the other end of the courtyard – to a door closed with a simple, unadorned cactus-fibre curtain. In front of that door, an old woman was kneeling, grinding maize in a metate pestle.

Xoco looked up when I arrived; her eyes widened. “My Lord…”

I cut her off. “I'm just here for a few questions. Citli thought you might know something.”

“Lord Citli?” Xoco nodded. “About his illness?”

“Yes,” I said.

“I'm not sure I can help,” Xoco said, with a slight grimace. She laid aside her mortar, and rose, keeping her gaze to the ground. “It was sudden, that thing. One morning he couldn't rise anymore.”

“You didn't notice anything?” I had a feeling I was just duplicating my conversation with Citli – running around in circles.

“No. I'm just a slave woman, my Lord. I can't see magic, or converse with the gods, as you do.” Xoco's voice radiated the awe most common folks had for priests – something which wasn't going to facilitate my task.

I sighed. I'd learn nothing new here; I might as well go back to Huchimitl and question her further.

But then I remembered the mask. “Have you been here long?”

“In this household? Five years or so. I was a gift, for the master's marriage.”

“You know them well, then. The master and mistress of the house,” I said, and bit my lip. It had nothing to do with the investigation, and it was a prying, improper question to ask. But I couldn't get that mask out of my head. “When did Huchimitl start wearing that mask?”

Xoco was silent, for a while, and then she said, “It started four years ago. When they found Master Tlalli dead in his room.” Her voice was a whisper now, and she kept her head bowed to the ground, making her expression unreadable. “He was a generous man, but she only married him for his prestige.”

I wished I could have denied the accusation. But I remembered the morning Huchimitl had told me she was marrying Tlalli – just after I'd come back from the calmecac school, bursting with joy at the idea of sharing my experiences with her. I hadn't expected her to be angry. I hadn't expected her to fling her future husband's feats of glory in my face, or to mock me for choosing the priesthood.

But she had been a little too proud of his prowess – a little too forceful. Later, when I had cooled down enough to think, I remembered how she used to come to me, always standing a little too close for propriety – and the day when she'd danced for the Emergence of Flowers in her white cotton shift, swaying to the rhythm of drums, fierce and beautiful, unmatched by any of the other dancers. It was you, she'd said, when I congratulated her. I only did it because you were here.

How could have I have been so blind?

Her marriage… Why should it have been happy, if she'd contracted it out of disappointment, out of spite?

“They fought all the time,” Xoco was saying. “She'd always reproach him, always nag him for not being good enough, brave enough. There'd be bruises on both of them, come morning. On his arms, on her face. Except that night, it went worse than usual. Something happened. Something – “

Her fear was palpable – radiating from her to settle in the growing hollow in my stomach.

“I don't know what exactly, my Lord. I wasn't there. All I know is that they found him dead, and she shut herself in her rooms and wouldn't let anyone close to her. Afterwards, she started wearing the mask, and never took it off – they say it was to hide what he'd done to her.”

The hollow in my stomach would not go away. For years I had told myself that Huchimitl had found happiness with her husband, that if I came to her house I would only intrude on her.

Lies, all of it. Useless lies.

They'd fought. Every night, perhaps. They'd hit each other, and left traces – bruises.

But it wasn't only a few bruises Tlalli had given her, was it, if Huchimitl was still wearing that mask?

“So the master is dead.”

Xoco looked at me, and her eyes shimmered in the sunlight. “Yes. Gone down into Mictlan with the other shades, and not coming back.”

“I see,” I said.

She shook her head, as if finally remembering to whom she'd told her tale. “I wasn't there. I couldn't do anything. But – “ Her face twisted again, halfway between fear and hatred. “But I know one thing. They said Master Tlalli died of a weak heart, but I don't believe that.”

“The physicians ascertained that,” I said, quietly, not liking what she was telling me.

Xoco looked down again. “She never loved him. Not truly. And there are poisons…”

This time I cut her off before she could voice the hateful words. “Yes,” I said. “I understand. Thank you.” Xoco was sincere; and that was the worst. She really believed that Huchimitl had killed her own husband.

But that was impossible. Huchimitl would never do such a thing.

The girl I remembered, no. But the woman she had become – the woman I had scorned in my blindness?

Xoco waited until my back was to her to speak again. “The house hasn't been right since, my lord. Never. The mistress will say what she wants, but it's never been right since Master Tlalli died.”

“It's empty,” I said, turning back to her. “Without a master. That's all.”

She shook her head again. “No. I've been in empty houses. This one isn't empty. There's something in it. Something that will suck the soul out of you. Be careful, my Lord.”

Xoco had unsettled me more than I had thought possible. To calm myself, I walked through the courtyard.

Huchimitl hadn't loved her husband. They'd quarrelled, often and bitterly: a loveless, angry marriage. Xoco had been right in that respect at least.

After that fateful morning, I'd never spoken to Huchimitl again. Something had broken between us. Her betrothed was a tequiua, a warrior who had taken four prisoners and was entitled to tribute and honours – I remembered Huchimitl's angry gaze when she'd flung his feats of glory at me. Only later did I understand that it had not been anger, but unrequited love, that had made her so forceful. By then, it was too late. My meagre gifts of apology were returned intact; when I came to her father's house, her family would not speak to me, and Huchimitl herself was never there.

Would things have been different, I wondered, if I had understood her that morning? For years I had told myself that it would have made no difference – that it was the gods that I wanted to serve, that Huchimitl did not matter. But I knew she did.

I looked at the house again. Why had Xoco been so frightened of it?

It was a normal house for an affluent warrior: a courtyard enclosed by adobe buildings, with a few pine trees and a pool in the centre. The entrance-curtains to each building were elaborately decorated, but the walls themselves were not painted: odd but not sinister. It was, to be sure, a bit unsettling to see adobe stark white, shining under the sun as if it held some secret light, but –

My eyes had started to water, and there was a throbbing in my head that had not been there before, a throbbing like some secret heartbeat uniting the earth beneath my feet and the buildings scattered on its surface. And then I realised that the throbbing was the beat of my own heart, rising faster and faster within my chest, singing like pain in my whole body, sending waves of heat until my skin was utterly consumed, and everything beneath it was revealed, blistered and smarting…

No. I tore my eyes from the house as fast as I could, but it took a while for my heartbeat to calm down. I had seen enough strange things in my life to know this was not a hallucination. Xoco was right. There was something about this house. Something unpleasant, and it was spreading – from the house to Citli, and the gods only knew where it was going to stop.

I didn't like it. It meant that everyone could be struck down.

Everyone.

After that experience, I was not keen on entering a room in the house again, but Huchimitl was waiting for me inside – and I would not leave her alone in there, if I could help it. I asked the slave at the gates where the reception area was, and he showed me through another door into a large, well-lit room.

The brightly-coloured frescoes adorning the room were a relief after the blank adobe of the outer walls. All of them represented sacrifices to the gods: young children weeping as their throats were slit to honour Tlaloc, God of Rain; a maiden dancing to honour Xilonen, Goddess of Young Corn, later replaced by a priest wearing her flayed, yellow skin; a warrior, his face thrust into burning embers as a sacrifice to Huehueteotl, God of the Hearth.

Again, those were not unusual. I well knew that only human blood and human lives kept the end of the world at bay. I had abased myself before gods, offered them what they needed, from human hearts to flayed skins; I had wielded many obsidian knives myself in many sacrifices. But the concentration of images in that room seemed almost unhealthy.

I found Huchimitl sitting on the dais in the centre. She turned her masked face towards me. “So?”

“Something is wrong.” I looked at her, sitting secure between her walls, never suspecting about the curse affecting more than just Citli. “The house is wrong.”

Her gaze rested on me, and would not move away. “An odd thing to say.”

“Don't tell me you haven't felt it.”

For a moment I thought I had convinced her. And then she spoke, sinking her barb as deep as she could. “Not all of us are fortunate enough to have gone to calmecac, and become a priest.”

Now that I had seen where she lived, the oppressive atmosphere of the house, more than ever I regretted not coming to visit her. I should have insisted when her family rejected me. I should have done something, not turned away like a coward. So I kept my peace, and said only, “They say your husband died in odd circumstances.”

“How would you know?”

“Does it matter?”

“The servants told you,” Huchimitl said, with an angry stabbing gesture. “They talk too much, and most of that is lies.”

I kept hoping she'd give me something, anything I could use to understand what was going on. “Do you deny that his death wasn't normal, Huchimitl? All I have to do is ask the slaves, or check the registers – “

“There was nothing odd about my husband's death,” she snapped, far too quickly.

Nothing odd? The hollow in my stomach was back. Had Xoco been right about Huchimitl's guilt? “Why do you say that?”

“Because my husband's death has nothing to do with Citli's illness. Tlalli had a weak heart. He exerted himself too much on the battlefields abroad; and he died of it. That is all.”

“They say you quarrelled.”

Huchimitl nodded; the reflections on the mask moved as she did so. I felt queasy just seeing that. “We did, often,” she said. “Do you want me to lie and say it was a happy marriage?”

“No,” I said. “Though I truly wish you'd found happiness.”

“We don't always get what we wish for,” Huchimitl said. “Acatl. Trust me. I saw Tlalli die. It was a heart failure. This has nothing to do with him, and everything to do with Mazahuatl. He has enemies– “

“You told me that already,” I said. She had sounded sincere when swearing to me it had nothing to do with Tlalli's death, but I could be mistaken. “Why did you come to me, Huchimitl?”

Her voice was low, angry. “I thought you could do something. I thought you could help. A curse, after all, is easily lifted. But it seems you cannot manage even that.”

“I– “ I said, but words had deserted me. I remembered a time when I could read every one of her expressions, could guess her thoughts before she uttered them. I knew I no longer could do any of that. I suspected I could not help her, and it made me angry at myself for being so incompetent – for failing her.

“I am no worker of miracles,” I said.

“Clearly not,” Huchimitl snapped. “I thought you would – “ And then she stopped, as if she had uttered too much.

“Do what? You tell me nothing. You hide yourself from me, under that mask. You lie to me.”

“No.” The mask turned towards me, expressionless.

“Then tell me what is under that mask. Please.” Talk to me, I thought, silently, desperately. Don't hide your secrets from me, Huchimitl. Please.

“Nothing,” Huchimitl said. Her voice was quiet. “Nothing that concerns you, nothing you can repair, Acatl. I am beyond help. My son is all that matters.”

“Then tell me more about your son.”

“Mazahuatl talks little of his life among warriors.” There was longing in Huchimitl's voice, clear, unmistakable. “But I'm no fool. I can guess that things go ill. That he is not liked. That some would like to see him fall. But I have no names.”

“I see,” I said, and rose to leave. “I'll ask Mazahuatl, then. Where can I find him?”

The mask moved towards me with the speed of a pouncing snake. “It's not the solution.”

“Then tell me what would be.”

“No.” Her voice was fearful. I could not help remembering the girl I'd played with, the girl who had once climbed the festival pole and stood at the top, laughing, daring me to come up and catch her. Not once had she shown fear.

“Huchimitl – “ I said, but she shook her head.

“You'll find Mazahuatl on the training grounds,” she said. Her voice was emotionless again – an unnerving change of tone.

Mazahuatl was on manoeuvres with his regiment. I walked to the training grounds, my mind filled with memories of Huchimitl and of my days as a boy – of all the races we'd run through the fields of maize around Coyoacan, of all the quiet moments when we'd dream of our futures.

Had I loved her?

For years I'd told myself that I had not. But I knew now that I had always cared for her. I knew that even though I had felt no regrets on entering the priesthood, still I had left something behind, something infinitely precious that I could no longer recover.

On the training grounds, the warriors were fighting each other wielding maquahuitls, wooden swords with shards of obsidian embedded in the blades.

Several warriors had finished, and stood to the side, their bare arms gleaming with sweat. I walked up to them and said, “I'm looking for Mazahuatl.”

One of them gave a short bark, and the others snickered. “Are you now?” he said.

The warrior's face was heavily scarred, and he wore the quetzal-feather tunic and braided leather bracelets characteristic of tequiuas, those warriors who had taken more than four prisoners and been ennobled. He had their arrogance, too. I said, “Yes, I am looking for Mazahuatl. In what way would it concern you…”

“Yohuacalli,” he said, curtly. “I'm in the same regiment as Mazahuatl. Tell me, priest, why would you be looking for him?”

Yohuacalli had a faint aura about him: a talent for magic, though whether sorcerous or not I could not tell. Still, he looked dangerous enough – as dangerous as a coiled snake.

“Tell me why it should matter to you,” I said.

He turned to me at last, transfixing me with a gaze the colour of the sky at noon – an uncanny shade for a Mexica. “Mazahuatl is not a true warrior.” I heard depths of hatred within his words. “His father was tequiua, and Mazahuatl never lets us forget it. But his prowess in battle is non-existent. He has no right to such arrogance.”

“He took a prisoner.”

Yohuacalli shrugged. “A sick, infirm man? Such a feat of arms.”

“The man has been cursed,” I said, waiting for his reaction. “After he was taken prisoner.”

“So they would have you believe. I know the truth.”

“So do I.” I looked him in the eye. “Surely it would be no great matter for a determined warrior to take a dead man's hand, and bury it into the earth before your enemy's house, and speak the spell to make him fall from grace.”

Yohuacalli flinched, but soon rallied. “I have no talent for sorcery.” His eyes would not meet mine, and I knew he was lying. “There is Mazahuatl,” he said, pointing to a warrior who was leaving the field.

Yohuacalli was obviously in a hurry to change the subject, but I let it go. I looked at the warrior designated as Mazahuatl: he was no longer a boy, yet he still wore the braid of the untried warrior – the sacrifice of Citli would enable him to shave his head. His face was flushed with exertion, but even then I could see past that, and make out Huchimitl's traits, Huchimitl's beauty. He looked so much like her that my heart ached.

Had things gone differently, he could have been my son, not Tlalli's. It was an odd, uncomfortable thought that would not leave my mind.

When I approached him, he looked at me with contempt. “What do you want?”

I introduced myself and explained that his mother had sent me, whereupon his manner grew more relaxed. He took me away from the training grounds, out of earshot of his fellow warriors, before he would talk to me.

I had observed him carefully during our small walk. If Citli, his beloved war-son, had an aura of coiled, malevolent power about him, Mazahuatl was cursed, though not by the underworld. It was small, barely visible unless one stopped and considered him, but he did have an aura. And it was dark and roiling, like storm clouds bursting with rain – an odd kind of curse, one I had never encountered.

But it had touched him, as it had touched everyone in the house. I thought of the mask again. That had to be why Huchimitl was wearing it – because she'd been disfigured by the curse, just as Citli had been paralysed.

But the most worrisome thing was that the curse was still spreading. Citli's paralysis wasn't stopping – and I didn't think Huchimitl was safe, not for one moment. The curse would not stop. Not until I found out what was truly going on in that house.

“How long have you been cursed?” I asked Mazahuatl, and saw him start.

“You know nothing.”

“I'm a priest. I know enough, I should say.”

He turned away from me. “Mother sent you? Go away.”

“She thinks you have enemies,” I said, softly. “And I'd wager Yohuacalli is among them.”

He would not meet my gaze. “Go away.”

“Do you care so little about your reputation?”

“Mother cares,” Mazahuatl said. “I'm no fool. I know I won't be raised within the ranks.”

“You captured a prisoner,” I pointed out. “Single-handed. There is no reason it shouldn't happen.”

He laughed, a sick, desperate laugh. “That's what I told myself at first, trying to make myself believe. But of course it won't work. Nothing ever does.”

“That's the hallmark of a curse. Won't you tell me anything?”

“No,” he said. “Just go back, report to Mother that you've failed, and stop bothering us.” And he would not talk to me any more, no matter how hard I pressed him.

I did two things before coming back to Huchimitl's house: the first was to stop by the registers and check on the death of Tlalli. There was not much to go on. The date of death was listed as the seventeenth day in the Month of Izcalli or Resurrection, in the year Thirteen Rabbit – four years ago. An ironic time to die, if nothing else, for Izcalli is the month when the plants are reborn from their winter beds, and a time to rejoice in the coming of spring.

Search as I might, I found no additional mention of that death, which meant that it had not been found suspicious. I exited the registers in a thoughtful mood – for, in spite of what I had just read, I didn't think Tlalli's death was irrelevant. It was too much of a coincidence that the curse on the house had started just after his death.

Which left me with the second thing: if no one was going to tell me what had happened four years ago, I was going to have to look into the past myself.

I stopped by the marketplace and made my way through the crowd to the district of animal-sellers. There I bartered for a peccary and the hide of a jaguar – a transaction that had me hand over most of the cacao beans in my purse to a beaming vendor. It did not matter. Though not wealthy in the slightest, I’ve always lived comfortably on the gifts the families of the dead make to me.

The peccary was small: barely reaching my knee, it followed me docilely enough on its leash, but kept rubbing its tusks with a chattering noise, an indication that it was unhappy. Peccaries were aggressive; I did not look forward to sacrificing this one, but it was necessary for the ritual I had in mind.

The slaves in Huchimitl's house had been given instructions to let me enter; the tall, sturdy individual who stood by the gate raised his eyebrows when I passed him, but said nothing.

I went straight to Citli's room, deliberately avoiding Huchimitl – the last thing I needed was her trying to prevent me from investigating her husband's death.

On my first visit, I had noticed a small hearth by the bed; it was by that hearth that I settled down. From my belt I took three obsidian knives and laid them on the ground. I threw into the hearth a handful of herbs that soon filled the room with a sharp, pungent smell; I laid the jaguar hide on the ground and coaxed the peccary onto it.

Citli watched me with interest but did not speak. I said, all the same, “I need to do this if you want help.” He may have nodded, but it was hard to tell with the smoke that had filled my eyes.

As I had foreseen, the peccary attacked me when I raised my knife; I narrowly avoided the sharp tusks, then buried my blade deep into its throat. Blood fountained up, staining my hands, pooling on the jaguar's hide. I spoke the words of the ritual, calling on Quetzalcoatl, God of Creation and Knowledge:

“I sit on the jaguar's skin

And from the jaguar's skin I draw strength and wisdom

I have shed the precious blood

The blood of Your servant

Lord, help me walk the circling paths backwards

Help me look past the empty days

Help me look into the years that have died.”

The throbbing in my head that I had first experienced in the courtyard resumed, growing stronger and stronger until my world seemed to have shrunk to that beat. The smoke grew thicker and thicker, billowing around me like the aura of Mazahuatl's curse. Now was the time I could seize control of the spell, and turn the years back until my visions showed me the day of Tlalli's death.

But the spell would not yield to me. Years of visions passed by, showing me tantalising glimpses of the past.

…a man's angry voice, and a man's shadow, raising a hand to strike at something I could not see…

…a warrior stumbling in combat…

…a girl with the wooden collar of slaves, her cheeks flushed with pleasure…

…a mask of ceramic inlaid with turquoise – Huchimitl's mask, gradually materialising to cover the girl's face…

And then nothing.

I came to myself, crouching on the blood-stained jaguar's skin, the smoke from the herbs since long gone. Outside, it was night, and the Evening Star shone in a sky devoid of clouds. Citli was sleeping, racked from time to time by a coughing fit. I lifted the curtain, wincing at the small tinkle of bells, and went out.

One thing would not leave my thoughts: the slave girl's face, a face that seemed oddly familiar.

I walked up to the slave by the gates, and asked, “There is a girl slave, in this house?” I described, as best as I could, the face I had seen in my vision.

The slave shrugged. “There are many girls in this house. Maybe the others will know – “

“Yes,” I said. “Please.”

He led me into the slaves' quarters. I found myself in a series of smaller rooms, adorned with faded frescoes. Within, several men were playing patolli, watching the game's board intently as the dice were cast – no doubt they had bet heavily on the outcome.

One of the players looked up, quivering to go back to his game. I described, once again, the face of the slave I had seen in my visions, and he shrugged. “Ask Menetl. She's in charge of the female slaves.”

I found Menetl in the girls' quarters, watching a handful of giggling girls as they painted their faces with yellow makeup. She was a tall, forbidding woman who clearly looked upon me as an invader in her little world. I was about to repeat my question to her, when I saw Xoco, crouching at the back of the room.

Now I knew where I had seen the girl's face. It was there, in the old woman's features, tempered by age, by the glare of the sun, but still close enough to be recognised.

“So?” Menetl asked.

“I want to talk to her,” I said, pointing to Xoco – who rose, fear slowly washing over her face.

“My Lord?” she asked.

I motioned for her to follow me out of earshot of the others. We walked out of the slaves' quarters and back into the courtyard, which now was deserted.

“I have something more I want to ask you.” I watched the way she shrank back into herself, and remembered how angry Huchimitl had been when she had guessed one of the servants had been talking to me. No doubt she would have reprimanded the slaves for that offence. “It's not about what you told me earlier.”

Xoco looked at me, her hands falling to her side. Waiting.

I said, “There was a girl slave, in this house. Four, five years ago?”

“We see so many girls.” Her voice shook.

“Don't lie to me. You know who I am talking about. Who was she?”

The old woman stared at the ground for a while. “She was my daughter.” Her voice was low, dull. “Yoltzin. She used to run in the courtyard, daring me to catch her – it was when the master was still alive – he was always generous with his girl slaves – “ She looked up at me, her eyes wide. Even in the dim light I could see the tears in them. “Such a pretty child,” she whispered.

“Yoltzin. What happened to her?”

“She's in the heavens now,” the old woman said.

“In the heavens?” Only warriors dead in battle, women dead in childbirth, or sacrifice victims ascended into the heavens. The rest of us fell into Mictlan, the underworld, to make our slow way to the God of the Dead, and to oblivion.

“They chose her,” the old woman said. “Five years ago. The priests of Xilonen came here and took her, to be the incarnation of the Goddess of Young Corn on earth and bless the fields. The High Priest wore her flayed skin for twenty days afterwards, and the rains came sure and strong that year,” she said, and there was a note of pride in her voice.

The priests of Xilonen – looking for a maiden sacrifice, as innocent as the Young Corn. And the girl. Yoltzin. Little Heart.

Her image would not leave my mind – her face with such bliss on it, but it had not been the bliss of sacrifice. “You said the master had always been generous with his girl slaves,” I said, slowly. “How generous?”

Xoco would not look at me.

“Xoco,” I said. “What happened four years ago has tainted everything in this house. You can't pretend it hasn't.”

For the longest while, she did not speak. “They came,” she whispered. “A procession of priests like you, with feather-headdresses and jade ornaments. They asked if she was a maiden. Who was I, to shame her, to shame the master in front of the whole household?” Tears, glistening in the starlight, ran down her cheeks. “She was my daughter…”

“I see,” I said, finally, embarrassed by such grief. “Thank you.” I watched her retreat inside the slaves' quarters, leaving me alone in the courtyard.

The priests had checked Yoltzin's innocence, but there were ways, if one were prepared, to make it seem as though the maidenhood was intact. They were more commonly used before a wedding, to fool the go-betweens, because cheating the gods was a grave offence.

The sacrifice had been a sham. Rain had come, because the gods can be merciful, and because Yoltzin had not been the only maiden in the Empire to be sacrificed to Xilonen on that day. Rain had come, but the sin had not been forgiven.

With a growing hollow in my stomach, I thought of Huchimitl, alone in that house, with only the memories of her husband to sustain her – memories that were not happy or comforting. It did not look as though Tlalli had had much regard for her at all. It did not look as though she had ever been happy.

I had been such a fool to let her go without a word. I had been such a fool to abandon her.

I rose, came to stand at the heart of the courtyard. The buildings of the house shone under the light of the stars, white walls shimmering as if with heat, and once more I felt myself on the verge of vertigo. Once more the throbbing rose within me, the slow, secret rhythm linking the earth to the buildings, but this time I knew it to be the song of the corn as it slept in the earth. Pain sang in my bones and in my skin, and I knew it was the pain of a flayed woman, waiting for her skin of green maize-shoots to grow thick and strong.

I whispered Her name. “Xilonen.” And Her other name, the one we seldom spoke: “Chicomecoatl.” Seven Serpents, the earth that had to be watered with sweat and blood before it would put forth vegetation.

In my mind's eye I saw Her, coiled within the house, feeding the buildings with Her light. Gradually, She coalesced at the heart of the courtyard: a monstrous human shape with translucent skin the colour of ripe corn, with hollow eyes that swallowed the light and gave nothing back.

“Priest,” She said, and Her voice, echoing around the walls, was amused. “You are clever.”

“Not clever enough. I should have guessed that a curse that did not come from the underworld had to come from the heavens.”

“Humans could have done this,” Xilonen said, still amused. “But they did not.”

“Why do you punish them? They did not cheat you of your sacrifice.”

Xilonen smiled, an utterly inhuman expression. “Let the sins of the beloved father fall on the beloved son, and onto his beloved war-son, and the sins of the husband be taken up by the wife. I was cheated of My revenge.”

So Tlalli had died a natural death after all. “And is there nothing they could offer, that would make you forget?”

Xilonen shook Her head. “They are Mine. They amuse me: Mazahuatl, that pathetic excuse for a warrior, refusing to acknowledge his bad luck on the battlefield. That arrogant, misguided mother who thinks they can fall no lower. Who thinks I have punished them enough, that I would not dare touch her son's prisoner. My son has enemies,” She said, mimicking Huchimitl's voice with a chilling, contemptuous precision. “They have no enemies but Me. And you think to bargain for either of them, priest? You serve no one.”

“I serve Mictlantecuhtli, God of the Dead,” I said, drawing myself to my full height.

The goddess recoiled at the mention of Mictlantecuhtli, He in Whose country nothing grows. I pressed my slim advantage.

“There are rules, and rituals.”

“They offered Me a tainted sacrifice.” Xilonen was growling like a jaguar about to pounce. “They cheated Me of my proper offerings. And you dare bargain for them?”

“There is such a thing as forgiveness. Such a thing as ignorance.”

“Ignorance is not innocence. I will not be cheated, priest, whether knowingly or unknowingly.” Her head, arched back, touched the sky; Her feet were rooted in the earth of the courtyard. She was utterly beyond me: wild, savage, cruel. She could have crushed me with a thought, had I not belonged to a god She had no mastery over.

It had been a long time since my days in calmecac, a long time since I had learnt the hymns for every one of our gods and goddesses. I searched through my faltering memories, and finally said,

“I will offer You sheathes of corn taken from the Divine Fields

Lady of the Emerald

Ears of maize, freshly cut, green and tender

I will anoint You with new plumes, new chalks

The hearts of two deer

The blood of eagles – “

Xilonen was crouching at the heart of the courtyard, watching me, but Her face had taken on an almost dreamy expression.

I went on,

“Let me fill Your hands with snake fangs

With white flowers still in the bud

Turquoise mined from the depths

Goddess of the Barrel Cactus

Our Mother

Our Protector.”

She was smiling at me now, the contented smile of a child. I was not fooled. There is a reason for all those rituals, for all those hymns. They know what things are pleasing to the gods, what things will appease Them. But it had been a great wrong Tlalli and Yoltzin had dealt Xilonen; and still She had quickened the seeds; still She had made the corn grow. She felt entitled to some compensation.

“Will You bargain with me, Lady?” I asked, kneeling before her in the dirt.

Her smile widened – though I could barely see Her, I could feel Her amusement quivering in the air. “You are tenacious, priest – and not unattractive.”

To Chicomecoatl, who was also Xilonen, we gave the hearts of beautiful girls and boys, that they might forever serve Her in heaven. “Is that the price?” I asked.

She smiled. “It is tempting, priest. But not enough.”

“What else would you want?” I asked. “I have nothing else to give but myself.”

“I know that,” She said, reaching out with Her gigantic hand. It shrank as it came near me, until it was only twice the size of mine. She cupped my chin in Her palm, and raised my face to look into Hers. Her touch was warm, slightly moist, like the earth after the rains. Her eyes held the depths of the night.

I held on to my memories of Huchimitl, to what she had meant, and still meant, to me. For too long, I had preserved myself; for too long, I had denied my feelings for her. Now was the time for a true sacrifice. “Is that the price?” I asked again, through lips that seemed to have turned to stone.

Xilonen's smile was that of a jaguar given human flesh. “Such a beauty,” She whispered. I saw myself in Her eyes, as I had been in my youth, tall and beautiful and arrogant, and then as I was now, older and greyer, kneeling before Her in abject obedience. “Yes,” She said. “It is most satisfactory.”

My skin started itching, as if sloughing away, and then the tingling sensation became stronger and stronger, and I realised what I felt were hands, stroking my back, my chest, the nape of my neck; lips, slowly caressing my fingertips and earlobes until my whole body ached with a desperate need. It was not an unpleasant feeling; although some part of me, clamouring at the back of my mind, knew that it was not natural, that I had just sold myself away.

“Acatl? No!”

The sound pierced my torpor, and I realised it was a voice I knew, calling my name. Xilonen released me; I became aware of the dampness of the ground, crawling up my legs; of the light of the stars above.

Of Huchimitl, who stood before the main doors, her mask glimmering in the cold light. It was an effort to raise my head and look at her.

“He is not Yours,” she said, anger in her voice.

Xilonen laughed. “He offered himself. Freely, to undo the great wrong your husband did to me.”

“He is not Yours,” Huchimitl repeated.

“Whose would he be?” Xilonen asked, mocking. “Yours? You could not hold him.”

“No.” Huchimitl's voice was toneless. Calmly, she walked forward, until she stood before Xilonen. “If a life has to be sacrificed, let it be mine.”

“Yours?” Xilonen laughed. “You denied yourself to Me all those years. You hid yourself from My face, cowering in your house, for fear that others would catch a glimpse of you and be forever marked. And you think you are a worthy sacrifice?”

I could not speak. I could not drag myself upwards, to shut Huchimitl's mouth before she said the irreparable. I could just remain where I was. Watching. Listening. Unable to affect anything.

Huchimitl's voice, when she spoke next, was very quiet. “You made me a worthy sacrifice,” she said. “You removed me from the human world.” And slowly, deliberately, reached upwards with both hands, and took away her mask.

I heard it clatter to the ground. But it mattered little. I had thought it hid the ruins of the curse, that it would be the face of some monster, painful to look at.

In a way, it was worse.

There was a face, under the mask. It was no longer human. Every feature, transfigured, gleamed with a merciless light. The skin was the colour of burnished copper; the eyes shone like emeralds. The cheekbones were high, ruddy in the starlight, the lips parted to reveal blinding-white teeth, each like a small sun, perfect, searing. If it was beauty, it was the kind that would burn away your eyes: nothing ever meant for human minds to hold or comprehend. My eyes had started to water with that mere sight, and I knew I would be blinded if I had to endure it for much longer. No wonder Huchimitl had not been able to bear that face.

Xilonen turned to stare at Huchimitl, Her head cocked as if admiring Her creation.

“Am I not beautiful?” Huchimitl asked, throwing her head back. Even that mere gesture was alluring. I could not look away, even though my eyes kept burning, burning as if someone had thrown raw chilli powder into my face. “Am I not desirable?”

Xilonen did not answer. Huchimitl came closer, hands outstretched, and laid her fingers on the goddess' arm. Even I felt the thrill that raced through Xilonen, making the whole world shudder.

“My life for my son's, and his beloved war-son's,” Huchimitl said. “Is that not a worthy bargain?”

Xilonen stared at her. She said, at last, “You are not amusing any more. You have accepted My gift.”

Huchimitl cocked her head, in a gesture reminiscent of her creator. “Perhaps,” she said. “Do we have a bargain?” She gestured towards me, contemptuous. “He is nothing.” And this time I knew she was lying.

Xilonen smiled at last, and the feeling of that smile filled the courtyard like a ray of sunlight. “Yes, he is nothing. But do not think you have fooled me into thinking you do not care either.” She laughed. “Nevertheless… we have a bargain.”

The light around Huchimitl grew stronger and stronger, sharpening her features. I kept on looking, even though I knew that my eyesight would be forever dimmed. I kept on looking as she and the goddess vanished from the courtyard, taking away the unearthly light. I thought that, at the last, Huchimitl looked towards me, and that her lips mouthed some words. Perhaps, “I am sorry.” Perhaps, “I love you.” Something, anything to help me bear the grief that now burnt through me.

The buildings were adobe, no longer stark white or wavering; the feeling of oppression had disappeared. I pushed myself to my feet, and met Mazahuatl's gaze. The young warrior was standing in the doorway, staring at the place where his mother had disappeared. Even with the memory of Xilonen's light clouding my sight, I could tell his dark aura had vanished. I could guess that Citli would walk to his sacrifice and join the Sun God in the heavens, and that Mazahuatl would receive his promotion.

I did not care.

“Mother?” Mazahuatl asked.

“Remember her,” I said.

I made my unsteady way through the courtyard, passed the gates, and found myself in a deserted street. It was not seemly that a priest for the Dead should grieve, or have regrets. It was not seemly to cry, either.

I stood alone in the street, staring at the stars, and saw them slowly blur as tears ran down my cheeks.

Safe, Child, Safe

First published in Talebones, Winter 2009 issue

I knew something was wrong with the child as soon as his father brought him to me.

He was perhaps four, five years old, and everything about him was high-born Mexica: his tunic of cotton embroidered with leaping deer; his skin the colour of cacao bean; his hair as dark as congealed blood. He lay on the reed mat in my temple, shivering; his feverish eyes turned to me and yet did not see me.

That was not what made the hairs on my nape rise.

No, what made me pause was what I saw clinging to his hands and feet: a green, pulsing aura that brought with it the smell of rotting leaves and mouldy earth. The aura of Mictlan, the underworld.

Living things did not have the aura. Dead things, yes, but then they should have been in the underworld, not here among mortals. And with dead things the aura wrapped the whole body, not just the extremities.

I looked up at the father, who for the whole duration of my examination had stood in a corner, dwarfed by the frescoes of Tezcatlipoca, God of War and Fate. His face was pale. Yaotl of the Atempan calpulli clan, he had said his name was, when he marched into my temple with the arrogance of successful warriors. Now he looked more hesitant – perhaps he saw the very real worry in my face.

“We thought it… it might be a spell,” Yaotl said. “That you'd help.”

“I'm a priest for the Dead,” I told him gently, smoothing the hair on the boy's forehead. “The only magic I have is to usher the souls of the dead into the underworld.” And other things, too, most notably making sure that nothing of the underworld came back among us. “Why bring him here, rather than to the Great Temple?”

Yaotl shook his head. “The priests at the Great Temple are too obsessed with their sacrifices. They don't care about human lives.”

Human lives, as I knew all too well from numerous funeral wakes, were worth nothing. Death was cheap, and caught us all, often giving little warning as to its coming. But this – the purplish, clenched lips, the pale face, the shaking fingers – this wasn't a death I'd have wished on anyone, much less a child. “How long has he been like this?” I asked.

“One week,” Yaotl said. “Chimalli woke up one morning and refused to get up. He said that he was cold. We thought he'd caught a sickness at first. The doctor at the marketplace prescribed sweat baths, but they didn't help. He wouldn't eat, wouldn't leave his sleeping mat. He just… dwindled away.”

The boy Chimalli's head came up, the eyes suddenly trained on me with a disturbing intensity. “Leave me alone,” he whispered, and his voice echoed as though in a great room.

I shivered. Beside me, Yaotl had gone pale, his face showing a sickly fear unbecoming a warrior, but I didn't blame him. Even during my long career banishing underworld monsters I had seldom seen a gaze so… wrong. Living, and yet stripped of human feelings.

Chimalli's eyes had closed again. I moved cautiously away from him, not eager to repeat the experience. “I'll tell you what I see,” I said to Yaotl. “He has the aura of the underworld, though he's still alive.”

“Dying, then,” Yaotl said curtly. Not a muscle in his face moved. A true warrior to the end.

“No,” I said. “The dying don't have this aura. I think he's somehow cursed.” I was about to say that I could do nothing to help, when my gaze rested on Chimalli. Four years old. He had outgrown most of the diseases that took their toll on babies and toddlers. His life should have been ahead of him, and yet… “Can you take me to where he sleeps?”

Yaotl nodded. His face still bore no expression, but there was something else, a glimmer in his eyes. I thought it might be hope.

Unsure of what I would find, I armed myself before I left: two obsidian knives went into my belt. I also took a jade and turquoise pectoral of Quetzatcoatl, the Feathered Serpent god, He who had once descended into the underworld to save mankind. It was poor protection against a curse, but without living blood I would not be able to do more.

Yaotl did not speak as we left my temple and headed towards his house. He held Chimalli's hand: the boy followed where he was pulled, but appeared to have no will of his own, like a sacrificial victim drunk on peyotl and led towards the bloody altar.

This, if anything, was creepier than the rest – a wrongness that gave pause even to the passersby.

At this early hour in the afternoon, the streets of Coyoacan were full of people, from peasants in loincloths to priests in tunics and rich cloaks, their hair matted with dried blood.

As we walked, I tried to think on what or whom might have cursed Chimalli. He was young and vulnerable: a target for many monsters, whether supernatural or human.

Beasts of shadows, fierce hunters from the eighth level of the underworld, feasted on human hearts, and would have found Chimalli's lifeforce a rare delicacy. Ciuapipiltin, the Haunting Mothers, preyed on the children they could no longer have – for they were the spirits of mothers dead in childbirth, transformed after death into something darker.

But neither of them fitted. Anything from the underworld would have killed Chimalli outright, not bothering with this slow attrition.

Which left the living. Sorcerers, those who made magic, not with the living blood, but with corpses: the skin of drowned men, the hands of warriors fallen in battle, the finger-nails of strangled captives. Chimalli was too young to have incurred anyone's hatred. However, sorcerers had no scruples, and the child was the perfect vehicle to strike back at Yaotl.

“Do you have any enemies?” I asked Yaotl.

He had been walking in silence; now he turned to me, startled. I guess he had not thought of the possibility, but he did not look wholly surprised. “I'm a warrior, and honoured for my skill on the battlefield. But my father was a peasant, and so was his father before him. Some have no taste for this.”

“I see,” I said, and waited for something more. But Yaotl's eyes had moved back to his son, and he did not speak again.

Sorcerers needed to be close to their victims to cast their spells. Perhaps there would be some traces near Chimalli's sleeping mat, something to help me track the curse to its source.

I hoped so. For otherwise it was likely that we would never find the culprit. And then Chimalli would die, slowly leeched of life until every part of him belonged to the underworld.

Yaotl's house was in the richer districts, close to the governor's palace. It was a two-storey dwelling, decorated on the outside with numerous frescoes of gods battling our enemies and presiding over sacrifices – the vibrant colours bearing the telltale sheen of new paint.

Inside, a courtyard garden with pine trees and marigold flowers, tended to by slaves, told me that I had not been wrong in my assessment: Yaotl was wealthy, immensely so.

A woman was waiting for us on the doorstep of the private quarters. She was middle-aged, older than Yaotl, but still beautiful, an arresting, stern beauty that time had not yet altered.

Her eyes moved to Chimalli, eagerly searching the boy's blank face, but after a while she stared at Yaotl instead. He in turn shook his head, almost imperceptibly.

Her disappointment was palpable, though she obviously struggled to hide it. “Who is this, Yaotl?” she asked.

I bowed to her, low. “My Lady. I'm Acatl, a priest for the Dead.”

Her lips twisted upwards, in what might have been a smile. But there was genuine tenderness in her eyes as she embraced Yaotl. And yet… and yet something was not quite right in their gestures or mumbled words of love; something lay between them, as dark as the blade of an obsidian knife.

“Acatl, meet Xoco, my wife,” Yaotl said.

“I'm honoured,” I said. Xoco bowed in turn, but said nothing.

“He says he can help if we show him Chimalli's room,” Yaotl said.

The hope that spread over Xoco's face was almost too painful to contemplate. “I don't guarantee anything,” I said.

“It doesn't matter,” Xoco said. “You're willing to help, and it's enough for me. Come.”

Chimalli's room was wide, with only one reed mat, and clay toys strewn on the floor. It was clear only he slept inside it: again, an indication of wealth.

As soon as we entered, Chimalli walked straight to his mat and sat on it, his torso propped against the wall. Throughout, he never spoke a word. His gaze, from time to time, moved to me, and I had to look away. I had the feeling he saw through me, through everything I was, and judged me lacking.

Yaotl left soon after we entered the room: the pretext he gave was some manoeuvers with his regiment. The real reason, I feared, was that he did not want to be with Xoco. I wondered if they still loved each other, and thought it was one-sided.

I was left alone with Xoco, who had started fussing around her son.

“He's your only child?” I asked, moving about the room, not sure what I was looking for.

Her face twisted. “Yes,” she said. “Yaotl's a good man. He says one child's enough to succeed him.”

“You'd have wanted more?” I asked, and realised what a foolish question it was. For there, no doubt, was the root of their marriage failure.

“Had it been possible, yes,” Xoco said. “It's no longer the case.”

“I'm sorry,” I said. I did not wait for her response, but instead started rummaging around the room.

The clay toys, models of warriors with their clubs and priests with their sacrificial knives, were amazingly detailed. Yaotl had spared nothing for his only son.

In the wicker chest by the mat were more toys: spinning tops of turquoise, and rag dolls. But still no trace of magic, sorcerous or otherwise. I had expected Chimalli to protest at seeing a stranger search through his possessions, but the boy remained sitting on his reed mat, staring at me in eerie silence.

To avoid looking back at him, I raised my eyes to the walls, gazing at the intricate frescoes – obviously painted by someone with talent. The painted gaze of Xochiquetzal stared back at me: the goddess of joy and flowers wore her quetzal feather headdress, and her intricate gold necklace. Her eyes had the same disturbing intensity as Chimalli's.

What had I missed? I thought again about what Yaotl had told me. One morning at dawn, Chimalli had refused to get up. The spell, then, had likely been cast during the previous night.

With all the slaves within the house, no one could have entered without raising an outcry. But that meant little. There were spells of invisibility. Yaotl's house was warded against intruders, but not against magic. A sorcerer could have found an easy access.

I combed the room again, but could find nothing. It unnerved me. Surely something that powerful would have left traces.

However… a curse like this, slowly spreading over Chimalli, would need to be renewed regularly. The spell-caster would have to come back, most likely every night.

Xoco was sitting by Chimalli's side when I rose from my second search.

“So?” she asked. Anxiety shone in her eyes.

“I found nothing,” I said at last, ashamed to admit defeat. “I thought one of your husband's enemies might have been responsible–” I left Xoco an opening, hoping to have more details, but she looked away.

“Please don't give up,” she said.

I sighed. I could think of only one thing left to do. I asked Xoco, “Will you object if I stay here tonight? I have a feeling whatever comes for him does so at night.”

It was a foolish idea. I still had no idea of whom I might face, or of his powers. But I had no other plan.

Xoco's gaze was uncertain. “I don't mind if you stay,” she said at last. “Though I'll have to ask Yaotl.”

As I suspected, Yaotl agreed to let me stay. He was far too worried about his child, and trying very hard not to show it, not to appear weak.

As the sun set, I made my preparations. I slaughtered a hummingbird, symbol of Huitzilpochtli, the god who protected the Mexica Empire, and drew wards in the bird's blood. The heart I put at the centre of Chimalli's room, and I said the words that would seal the protection.

What surprised me was that Xoco wanted to stay with me. I told her that for this to be effective, I needed to be alone with the boy. That I could not protect Chimalli, her and myself at the same time. Still she refused to leave. Finally, I won out.

When night fell, I was alone in the room. Chimalli was not sleeping; he was sitting on the reed mat, propped up against the wall. His eyes were trained on me. After a while, it became unbearable. I turned my gaze away from him, staring only at the tiled floor.

For what seemed like an eternity I remained seated beside my wards, silently repeating the spells of protection, suspecting they would not be enough.

It grew darker, and colder. The stars rose in the sky: I saw them beyond the door, but they lit nothing. Still I did not move. I had endured worse during my novitiate.

When a shadow fell across the door, I was wide awake.

The wind blew to me the smell of corn, and rotting leaves. Looking up, I saw a woman in the doorway.

She wore a cloak as dark as night, the hood thrown back to reveal a face that had nothing human. Her face had skin, but it was sallow, stretched so thin over bones that I could see the skull beneath it. Her hands had long, slender fingers tapering a point, like claws. And the eyes… the eyes were the worse. Because they were still human, filled with a hunger so intense I recoiled.

She was not the sorcerer I had been expecting. She was not even a human.

She was a Haunting Mother.

That was not possible. Haunting Mothers, those who had died in childbirth, hated children. They did not play games or cast slow spells. They merely slaughtered those children they could reach.

“Priest,” the Haunting Mother whispered. “Let me pass.”

“No,” I said. “I stand against you, Mother. You can't kill him.”

She prowled around the edges of my wards, trying to see the weaknesses in them. “Fool,” she hissed. “I'm not here to kill him. Let me pass.”

“Then what do you want with him?” I asked.

Her mouth stretched in a sickening smile, a bitter, angry expression that had nothing of joy. “I'll take him with me.”

“He's not yours,” I whispered.

She threw back her head, and laughed. “Of course he's mine.”

A soft patter of feet made me turn around: the child Chimalli had risen from his reed mat, and was going towards the doorway, a wide smile of joy on his face. Bile rose in my throat; I watched as he walked along the edge of the wards, desperately trying to find a way beyond them. But the wards still held.

I turned my attention to the more pressing danger: the Haunting Mother. “You can have no child,” I said.

“Not any more,” she hissed, lunging at me, claws extended to tear my heart out. My wards shook, but did not yield. “He's mine, priest. Do you think I'd say this lightly?”

“You are dead,” I said. “Nothing is yours any more.”

“I gave my life to bring him into the world,” the Haunting Mother said. “I bled on the reed mat, and bled, until there was no blood left, but he lived. I won. Let me have him.”

My heart missed a beat. “He's Xoco's child, and Yaotl's.”

She laughed again. “Yaotl's, yes. But Xoco's barren. How they thought they could dupe me, begetting a child on me, and thinking to take him as their own.”

I rose, came closer to her, until I could see her eyes. “What were you, when you were alive?” I whispered.

“I was a slave in this house,” she said. She made no move towards me now, but I was not fooled. The inhuman hunger still filled her eyes. “Chimalli's mine.”

“He's not yours, Nenetl,” a voice said.

I turned, and saw Xoco in the doorway. Her face was ice.

“Did you think death would stop me?” the Mother asked.

Xoco's eyes were expressionless. “I'd hoped so. But it seems sluts like you can't have the grace to die.”

“You killed me. Don't you think I knew what the potion was, that you fed me? Don't you think I wouldn't understand that?” she hissed, and lunged, not at Chimalli, but at Xoco. I had guessed this, and had started running; I took her full weight on myself. Her hands carved grooves into the skin of my arms, and a searing pain filled my body.

“You shouldn't be here,” I said, still trying to comprehend what had happened. “You were poisoned. You didn't die in childbirth.”

“Fool,” she said. I could not see anything but her gaze: blue, bloodshot eyes still filled with that intense hunger, the one she had kept her returning to Chimalli, night after night. “Her poison didn't kill me. But it was enough – enough to weaken me during the birth. And so she won.”

“You have no place here,” I repeated.

“Let me pass.”

I held on, grimly, feeling my muscles on the verge of yieldling. Pain sang within me, demanding to be acknowledged, but I did not give in. “He's your child, but that doesn't mean you can take him into death.”

“She killed me,” the Mother hissed.

“I know,” I said, still trying to come to terms with the enormity of what Xoco had done. “But do you truly think Chimalli can go where you are?”

“He's my child,” she whispered. She was folding back on herself, almost sobbing. “They told him lies, that he was the son of a great warrior and of a noble lady. That both his parents were still alive. And he believes them. He'll grow up believing them. He knows nothing of me.”

“Look,” I said, gently. “Look at him, Nenetl.”

Something in my voice could still reach her, wherever the woman Nenetl had retreated. She turned, staring at the hollow-eyed boy by my side, his arms reaching out towards her, beseeching. But there was no love on the face. There was nothing.

“Where you take him,” I said, “he won't grow. He'll dwindle away until he's skin stretched over bones, and then bones, and then nothing. He won't play with his toys. He won't run in the courtyard.”

“No,” she whispered. “I am his mother. I know what is best for him. I won't be forgotten.”

“He'll never be a warrior, never be a priest, never make you proud. He'll never kiss you or tell you how much he loves you. There's no love in the underworld.”

“No,” she said, weeping. “No. Please…”

“He won't grow up,” I whispered. “Do you love him so little, that you'd inflict this on him?”

Nenetl did not answer. “They haven't paid,” she said at last. “They paid nothing. They have their darling child and all's well. They have no remorse.”

“Then it's not about love,” I said. “It's about revenge, and hatred. Is that all you are?”

She turned her face towards me, her death's head with the skull beneath the translucent skin. “No,” she said. “I'm not that. I'm not that. Am I?” And it was the plea of a lost, bewildered girl.

I did not answer. I laid my hand on her shoulder, ignoring the wave of nausea that spread through me as my fingers gripped her flesh. “I'm sorry,” I said. “But this isn't the answer.”

Nenetl gazed back at her son, and then at Xoco, who stood watching her, her face expressionless.

“If you want her to go,” I said to Xoco, “you must make a promise. Tell the child who his mother was.”

“And that I killed her?” Not a muscle of her face moved. They were well suited, she and Yaotl.

“No,” I said. “But let Chimalli honour his true mother.”

Xoco's face moved towards her child, and back to the Haunting Mother. “Yes,” she said, tightly. “I'll tell him the truth when he is older.”

Nenelt did not speak. She moved at last, passing through my decayed wards like a knife through human skin, and knelt beside Chimalli. She took both his hands in hers, gazing into his hollow eyes. Gently, she led her back to his reed mat, and helped him lay down on it. “I'm sorry,” she said.

She was fading now, growing fainter and fainter, taking with her the darkness and the cold.

Soon there was nothing left but Chimalli on his mat, curling back to go to sleep. The aura of the underworld had not left: it still clung to his hands and feet. It would cling to him all his life. I wondered how he would fare, and decided I could not do anything about that.

About Xoco, though…

She watched me, with that same unbending attitude she had shown earlier. “And now what?” she said. “Do you think to arrest me? There's no proof. Nenetl was burnt four years ago.”

“I'm no magistrate,” I said.

“But still you judge. She was a slut, whose only dream was to become mistress of the house. As if a mere slave could rise high enough for that. I'm the only one in Yaolt's heart.” There was hunger, too, in her eyes, but a different kind from Nenetl.

“But you used her,” I said. “You'll pay the price.”

“After death?” she said. “I don't care.”

“No,” I said. “You're paying it now. Do you love Yaotl, knowing what he did to conceive Chimalli?”

“I talked him into this. We have a child, and he's alive,” she said. “Yaotl loves me.”

“Do you truly think that he does, knowing what you did?” And, seeing her recoil, I knew I had been right. There was darkness between her and Yaotl now. He feared her for what she had imagined, for what she had accomplished. Only Chimalli kept them together.

“We're happy,” she said, and her eyes told me she knew it was a lie.

I smiled. “Then enjoy your happiness,” I said, and exited the room.

It was dark when I came out of the house and started back towards my temple: clouds had covered the stars and the moon had set. But that darkness held no fears for me, for it would be dispelled in the morning.

I walked away by myself, and left Yaotl's house behind, and the darkness that coiled at its heart, hopefully never to return.

LIST OF CHARACTERS

A

Acamapichtli (Handful of Reeds): High Priest of Tlaloc.

Acatl (Reed): narrator, High Priest of Mictlantecuhtli.

Ahuizotl: see Teomitl.

Axayacatl-tzin: former Revered Speaker of Tenochtitlan (deceased).

C

Ceyaxochitl: former Guardian of the Sacred Precinct (deceased).

Chalchiutlicue (Jade Skirt): Goddess of Lakes and Streams. Tlaloc's wife, and Teomitl's patron.

Chalchiunenetl (Jade Doll): Moquihuix-tzin's Tenochca wife.

Chipahua: a warrior.

Coatl (Serpent): deputy for the Master of Raining Blood, member of the war council.

Cozolli: priestess of Chalchiutlicue, and Consort of Tlaloc.

Cuixtli (Quail): a war prisoner from Mextitlan.

E

Eptli: a warrior.

Ezamahual: novice priest in Acatl's temple.

H

Huitzilpochtli (the Southern Hummingbird): the Mexica patron god and youthful God of War.

I

Ichtaca: Acatl's second-in-command.

Itamatl: deputy for Master of the Bowl of Fatigue, member of the war council.

M

Matlaelel: offering priest in Acatl's temple.

Mazatl: Neutemoc's daughter.

Mictecacihuatl (Lady Death): Goddess of Death, wife of Mictlantecuhtli.

Mictlantecuhtli (Lord Death): God of Death, Acatl's patron. Husband of Mictecacihuatl.

Mihmatini: Acatl's sister. Guardian of the Sacred Precinct.

Moquihuix-tzin: Revered Speaker of Tlatelolco (deceased).

N

Necalli: Neutemoc's son.

Neutemoc: Jaguar Knight, Acatl's elder brother.

Nezahual-tzin (the Fasting Prince): Revered Speaker of Texcoco. Agent of Quetzalcoatl in the Fifth World. Full name Nezahualpilli-tzin.

P

Palli: offering priest in Acatl's temple.

Patecatl: God of Medicine.

Pochtic: Master of the House of Darkness, member of the war council.

Q

Quenami: High Priest of Huitzilpochtli.

Quetzalcoatl (the Feathered Serpent): God of Wisdom and Knowledge.

S

She-Snake: Viceroy of Tenochtitlan.

T

Tapalcayotl: Acamapichtli's second in command.

Teomitl (Ahuizotl): Acatl's student, Tizoc-tzin's brother. Master of the House of Darts, member of the war-council. Married to Mihmatini.

Tezcatlipoca (Smoking Mirror): God of War and Fate, and of sorcerers.

Tizoc-tzin: Revered Speaker of the Mexica.

Tlaloc (the Storm Lord): God of Rain and Lightning, husband of Chalchiutlicue.

Toci (Grandmother Earth): Goddess of Harvest and Old Age.

Tonatiuh (the Fifth Sun): incarnation of Huitzilpochtli as the Sun-God.

Y

Yaotl: Mihmatini's personal slave.

Yayauhqui: a merchant from Tlatelolco.

X

Xiloxoch: a sacred courtesan.

Xochiquetzal (the Flower Quetzal): Goddess of Love and Childbirth.

Z

Zoquitl: Eptli's war prisoner from Mextitlan.

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

French by birth, Aliette de Bodard chose to write in English – her second language – after a two-year stint in London. Though she has trained as an engineer (graduating from Ecole Polytechnique, one of France's most prestigious colleges), she has always been fascinated by history and mythology, especially those of non-Western cultures. Her love of mysteries gave her the idea to write a series of cross-genre novels which would feature Aztecs, blood magic and fiendish murders.

She is a Campbell Award finalist and a Writers of the Future winner. Her short fiction has appeared in venues such as Asimov's, Interzone, Realms of Fantasy, and Fantasy magazine, and has been reprinted in The Year's Best Science Fiction. She lives in Paris, where she has a job as a computer engineer.

aliettedebodard.com

ANGRY ROBOT

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Blood rites

This omnibus edition first published by Angry Robot 2012

1

Servant of the Underworld copyright © Aliette de Bodard 2010

Harbinger of the Storm copyright © Aliette de Bodard 2011

Master of the House of Darts copyright © Aliette de Bodard 2011

Aliette de Bodard asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work.

A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library.

ISBN: 978-0-85766-235-4

eBook ISBN: 978-0-85766-237-8

Set in Meridien by THL Design.

Printed in the UK by CPI Mackays, Chatham, ME5 8TD.

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise, without the prior permission of the publishers.

This book is sold subject to the condition that it shall not, by way of trade or otherwise, be lent, re-sold, hired out or otherwise circulated without the publisher's prior consent in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published and without a similar condition including this condition being imposed on the subsequent purchaser.

This novel is entirely a work of fiction. The names, characters and incidents portrayed in it are the work of the author's imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or localities is entirely coincidental.

Table of Contents

Obsidian & Blood

INTRODUCTION

SERVANT OF THE UNDERWORLD

ONE

TWO

THREE

FOUR

FIVE

SIX

SEVEN

EIGHT

NINE

TEN

ELEVEN

TWELVE

THIRTEEN

FOURTEEN

FIFTEEN

SIXTEEN

SEVENTEEN

EIGHTEEN

NINETEEN

TWENTY

TWENTY-ONE

TWENTY-TWO

TWENTY-THREE

TWENTY-FOUR

HARBINGER OF THE STORM

ONE

TWO

THREE

FOUR

FIVE

SIX

SEVEN

EIGHT

NINE

TEN

ELEVEN

TWELVE

THIRTEEN

FOURTEEN

FIFTEEN

SIXTEEN

SEVENTEEN

EIGHTEEN

NINETEEN

TWENTY

TWENTY-ONE

TWENTY-TWO

TWENTY-THREE

TWENTY-FOUR

TWENTY-FIVE

MASTER OF THE HOUSE OF DARTS

ONE

TWO

THREE

FOUR

FIVE

SIX

SEVEN

EIGHT

NINE

TEN

ELEVEN

TWELVE

THIRTEEN

FOURTEEN

FIFTEEN

SIXTEEN

SEVENTEEN

EIGHTEEN

NINETEEN

TWENTY

TWENTY-ONE

TWENTY-TWO

TWENTY-THREE

TWENTY-FOUR

THE SHORT STORIES

Obsidian Shards

Beneath the Mask

Safe, Child, Safe

LIST OF CHARACTERS

ABOUT THE AUTHOR