Obsidian & Blood (31 page)

  "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?