Obsidian & Blood (136 page)

  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.

 

 

 

 

 

 

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.