Obsidian & Blood (114 page)

  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.

 

 

  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.

 

 

  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.