Obsidian & Blood (39 page)

  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.