Aztlan: The Last Sun (6 page)

“Which,” Itzcoatl continued, “was why I requested that
you
be placed in charge of this investigation.”

At first, I thought I had heard him wrong. Then it sank in: The High Priest of Aztlan had requested my services.

I was at a loss for words.

“I know you were torn away from your holiday dinner,” said Itzcoatl. “That was unfortunate. However, when the First Chief buzzed me to tell me what had happened, I knew who I wanted to handle the case. And he approved my choice without reservation.”

Finally, I managed to speak up: “It’s kind of you to say so, High Priest.”

“Kindness has nothing to do with it, Investigator. Given the magnitude of what we’re dealing with, I wanted the best man for the job. I trust you will justify my faith in you.”

I was feeling good about myself, feeling proud, so I brought up a question I never thought I’d have a chance to ask. “I wonder,” I said, “if you remember my father? Ohtli Colhua?”

His forehead puckered. “Your father? Perhaps if you were to refresh my memory . . . ?”

“During the last Fire Renewal, there was an incident. He saved your life.”

Itzcoatl looked at me for a moment, then shook his head a little sadly. “Forgive me, I have no recollection of such an incident.”


My heart sank in my chest.

“However,” the High Priest continued, “it sounds like your father was a most courageous man.”

That made me feel a little better.

“Please stay in touch with me,” said Itzcoatl. “Let me know how the case is going. And if there is anything I can do to assist you, don’t hesitate to ask.”

I assured him that I would do all those things. Then he ushered me out of his sanctum with such grace and subtlety that I was out in the hallway before I knew it, in the midst of the attendants he had kicked out a few moments earlier.

I left the building feeling a redoubled sense of commitment. I was more determined than ever to crack the case, and in the process remove a blight from the holiness of the Fire Renewal.

I only wished that Itzcoatl had remembered my father.

Interestingly enough, the High Priest’s building was only seven blocks from the temptations of Zolin’s street cart. I hadn’t gotten up that morning planning to feast on fried salamander, but who was I to resist the machinations of the gods?

The line on Xipe Totec Street was as long as always. And as always it moved slowly, giving me plenty of time to ponder where I had come from.

When I reached the cart, I wanted to tell Zolin about the High Priest. But I couldn’t. At least, not until the murder investigation was over.

Lands of the Dead, I couldn’t even tell Aunt Xoco.

So all I said was, “Zolin. It’s good to see you.”


“And you,” he said, “even if it is only with one eye. You look perplexed, my friend. Is something troubling you?”

Zolin knew I was an Investigator. “There’s
always
something troubling me. It’s my job.”

“In that case,” he said, “I will ask the gods to smile on you.”

“You have some pull with them?”

“As you know, I am only a humble salamander vendor. But the gods have to eat too, my friend.”

I chuckled. “So I’ve heard.”

“Two?” he asked.

“Two,” I confirmed.

As usual, Zolin gave me a waxed-paper bag to hold open for him, then reached into the hot oil with a set of tongs and grabbed a salamander. But as he slipped it into the bag, a funny look came over his face, and I got the feeling that he was looking
past
me rather than
at
me.

“What is it?” I asked.

“Forgive me,” he said, “for intruding on your personal business, but I would be a bad friend if I didn’t tell you that someone is following you.”

I barely resisted the urge to look around. “How do you know?”

“I saw him the last time you were here, and now I see him again, yet I didn’t see him in between. He is standing past the end of the line. Not buying, just watching.”

“You’re sure it’s the same guy?” I asked.

Zolin shrugged. “He stands out in a crowd.”

“In what way?”

“He has big shoulders. A long pony tail. And his face is pitted—with acne scars, if my eye does not deceive me. Do you know him?”

“No,” I said. “Past the end of the line, right?”

“Correct,” said Zolin. “May I be of assistance in some way?”

“That won’t be necessary,” I assured him. “But thanks.”

I wasn’t playing with the Eagles anymore, but I was still in good shape. I could run the guy down if I had to.

As casually as if Zolin hadn’t said anything, I paid him, put the salamander away in my pouch, and turned to glance at the end of the line.

There was a guy in a pony tail, all right. But he was already halfway down the block, heels flying.

I gave chase. But he was fast, as fast as I was. Before I knew it, he had ducked around the corner of a building. By the time I got there, he was nowhere to be seen.

Gods, I thought, disgusted.

Who was this guy? Why was he following me?

Did it have anything to do with the murder at Centeotl? I had to believe it did—but
what
? Was he the killer?

If so, I was
really
disgusted.

Anyway, there wasn’t much I could at that point besides call in the guy’s description and hope for the best.

• • •

Back at work, I found Quetzalli watching a news report on the cultists. They were back at the same building where I had seen them the day before, marching and singing out their slogans. I hoped for Eren’s sake that the gods appreciated her tenacity.

When I went to see Aunt Xoco later that evening, I had a lot on my mind. It must have showed.

“You’re not eating,” my aunt said sharply.

She wasn’t an easy person to insult. There were lots of things I could have said or done that night, and she would have let them slide off her back. But not eat her food?

Worse than murder, in her estimate.

I slid a piece of roast turkey into my mouth. I loved the way Aunt Xoco made it, with honey, sage, and pumpkin seeds.

“Good,” I said, shaping the word around the morsel of turkey meat.

“I
know
it’s good,” said my aunt. “So why are you sitting there with your eyes glazed over instead of eating it?”

I apologized. “I’ve got a lot on my mind. Work, I mean.”

She flipped her wrist, jangling her bracelets. “Your father used to say the same thing. He couldn’t tell me about his investigations. They were big secrets, not to be discussed on pain of death.”

I nodded. “Something like that.”

“All right. Suit yourself.”

I met the High Priest today. He handpicked me for the Centeotl case.
That’s what I
wanted
to say. But what I said instead was, “I’m glad you understand.”

Of course, there was another reason I wasn’t stuffing myself at Aunt Xoco’s table. I had an obligation to fulfill later that night—one that she seemed not to remember.

And if she wasn’t bringing it up, I wasn’t about to do so either.

Truth be told, I didn’t
feel
like playing
ullamalitzli
as I took the rail line to the ball court that night. Despite my restraint, I had eaten and drunk too much by the time I left Aunt Xoco’s place, and I had an investigation on my hands so big that even the High Priest was keeping an eye on it.

Those were two good reasons to take the night off. But the ball court game was played in the gods’ honor, one of the few holy obligations left over from ancient days, and it was considered even more holy as we approached the Fire Renewal.

Also, to be perfectly honest, it was a key match. Our team, the Scale Beetles, was first in the standings. The club we were supposed to play, the Hummingbirds, was second—but only by a point. If we beat them, we would stay on top. If they beat us, they would secure a piece of first place.

As I said, a key match. So it wasn’t only the gods pushing me into the ball court that night. It was my teammates as well.

And there was a third reason: I needed to clear my head. Sometimes I felt compelled to immerse myself in an investigation. Other times, I felt I needed to back off. This was one of the latter times.

It wasn’t until I stepped out onto the stone court with my teammates that I started feeling the fire in my belly. It was good to be among men I could depend on, men who depended on
me
.

Over the cycles the roster had changed, with only Ocelopan, Ecatzin, and me remaining from the original squad. Ocelopan, like me, was an attacker. Ecatzin, the oldest one on the team by a good seven or eight cycles, was our floater. Huemac, a big, strong guy who could take a lot of punishment, held down the center position. And Atl and Panitzin, neither of whom was more than twenty, put their youthful energies into playing defender.

Ecatzin and I were the only ones who had played in the Sun League. In fact, I had competed against him in the championship game five cycles earlier, me playing for Aztlan and Ecatzin for Yautepec. I was young then and he was an aging veteran, but I was the one who blew out my knee.

No one had ever had a knee repaired and re-entered the
tlachli
, the professional ball court. The gods simply demanded too much of a man between the stone walls. Even for perfect physical specimens, it was hard to play the game. For someone as badly damaged as I was, it would have been impossible.

Not that I’d had an easy time accepting that. Which was one of the reasons I had begun playing again a few cycles earlier, if only as an amateur in the city men’s league.

Some nights the Scale Beetles won in that league, some nights we lost. That night we won, and we did so by kicking the ball through the hoop in the last few seconds.

It was a proud thing for a man to score a goal, something to brag about at least until the next game. Two goals was a rare and exquisite occurrence, the gift of a kind and generous god.

That night, I scored
three
goals.

The walk from the stone court back to the locker room was a sweet one, full of whooping and singing and skull-rapping. It was always better to be on the winning side than the losing one, even if the practice of sacrificing the losers had gone out hundreds of cycles earlier.

I wasn’t the kind who liked to lose myself in celebration, but I enjoyed watching the others have a good time. So I had a smile on my face as I stood in the shower and washed the beetle’s-blood paint from my body, and listened to my teammates jaw at each other.

When I came out in my towel, Huemac was still holding court in the middle of the room. He had a broken nose, as usual, and a host of little, tomato-red wounds on his knees and elbows, but he didn’t seem to mind any of them.

“So tell me,” ranted Huemac, who
did
like to lose himself in celebration, “why is it I’m out there busting my butt every thirteen days, fighting for the ball all by myself, getting knocked around by two or three guys at a time? Because Colhua’s poor little knee is too delicate. But all of a sudden, his knee is good enough to make a move like
this
!” And he swiveled his hips in an exaggerated circle, drawing laughter from the others.

I didn’t answer. I just took my breeches off their wall-hook and sat down to slip them on.

“You tell him!” cried Ocelopan, pointing a crooked finger at Huemac.

Taking the imperative to heart, the big man held his hands out in an exaggerated appeal for reason. “He’s a little girl, this Investigator for the Empire. Am I right?”

“You’re
absolutely
right,” said Atl, caught up in the spirit of the thing. “He should wear a skirt and braid his hair!”

Another round of laughter, echoing from wall to wall. Atl and Panitzin contributed the loudest part of it.

Suddenly, Huemac was looming over me. “You know what they call a guy like you, Colhua?”

“No,” I said, playing along, “what do they call a guy like me?”

Huemac leaned down until his nose was pressing against mine. “A monster of a ballplayer,” he roared, “
that’s
what!”

Then he clapped me on the shoulder, nearly knocking me off my stool.

“Quiet, Huemac,” said Ecatzin, “the gods will hear you!” After all, it was bad luck to praise someone in public.

“Bugger them!” said Huemac. “Tonight
we
were gods!”

The youngsters laughed, but the rest of us remained silent. It wasn’t wise to bait the Deathless Ones.

In any case, the celebration abated soon afterward. In the end, it was only a single game. It wasn’t as if we had beaten the Hummingbirds in the championship round.

I ended up walking out with Ecatzin. He was limping a little. When I took note of it, he smiled and said, “It’s not an old man’s sport, Maxtla. Not even at this level.”

“Don’t worry,” I said, “you’ll be playing it with my grandchildren some day, teaching them as you taught me whenever we played Yautepec.”

We laughed, both of us. But not loud enough for the gods to hear.

“So,” he said, “all kidding aside, your knee must have felt pretty good tonight.”

It felt good, all right. But the next game it might creak like a rusty wagon. “Good days and bad days, my friend. Good days and bad days.”

When we got to the rail station, Ecatzin went up the stairs for the eastbound line and I went through the concrete tunnel for the westbound. I got home that way after every game, so I knew the schedule pretty well. The next carriage would be along in a matter of minutes.

I was halfway through the tunnel when I realized I wasn’t alone.

Looking back over my shoulder, I saw two figures, both of them wearing hooded shirts with their hoods up. They were just standing there, looking in my direction.

Trouble, I thought.

“I’m an Investigator,” I called out, my voice echoing wildly in the tunnel. “You sure you want that kind of headache?”

They started walking toward me, undeterred by the warning. A moment later, I understood why. The tunnel mouth ahead of me was blocked by two other men. They too wore hoods.