Obsidian & Blood (9 page)

I arrived at my temple, and found a man deep in talk with Ichtaca: a grizzled warrior wearing a blue feather headdress, and an armour of hardened cotton on which was drawn the fused-lovers insignia of the Duality.

  Ichtaca gestured towards me when I came near. "That's the man you want," he said. Without another word, he walked away, towards the rooms to the eastern side of the courtyard.

  The warrior bowed to me. "My name is Ixtli," he said. "I head the search parties."

  "Oh, I see. Any results?" I asked, though he looked glum enough; wet and bedraggled, his eyes sunk deep into his face.

  He shook his head. "No. I won't waste your time. I have twenty men out, combing the city. So far, not much."

  Not encouraging; but then I had not expected a miracle.

  Ixtli watched for a while, gauging me. "I'll go back to helping them, then." He sighed. "I'll have them spread out, to keep searching for as long as possible. But we're going to need some sleep, too." 

  I almost said no, told him to keep searching, no matter the cost. There had been blood in Eleuia's room – blood from deep wounds, scattered over the frescoes. She might be dying; and Neutemoc was still under arrest, while I had nothing to help him. But Ixtli had done enough, in an affair that didn't have personal stakes for him; and I couldn't afford to antagonise him in any case. "I don't think a few hours are going to make that much difference. Do what you can." 

  Ixtli drew himself to attention. "Yes," he said. "I'll see you again, then."

  I climbed the steps to the shrine under the blazing morning sun. Inside, the nobleman's body had been collected from the limestone altar. On the cactus-paper registers, Ichtaca had noted in a steady hand: "In recompense for the wake of Acolmixtli, Keeper of the House of Animals: five quetzal feathers, one roll of cloth and ten quills of gold."

  The nobleman's family had been happy, then, to give such a fortune to the temple. I still thought we had no use for such largesse, that it would be better for it to go to starving peasants, to those really in need of it.

  I laid my cloak by the altar, under the hollow gaze of Mictlantecuhtli's statue, and went out on the temple steps to compose my thoughts.

  I had to gather proper offerings for Xochiquetzal: a task I couldn't entrust to anyone but myself, for I feared the answer She'd give me. I also had to find the Jaguar Knight Mahuizoh, though the Knights wouldn't be back from their ceremonies for a while. 

  Who else did I have to see? Neutemoc, of course: I wanted him – no, I needed him to confirm that he had slept with Eleuia for a few nights – that they hadn't cared for each other, and that he hadn't been foolish enough to fall in love with her yet another time. Deep, deep down, I suspected what he would answer; and I couldn't bear the thought.

  Impatient footsteps echoed on the stairs of the shrine. Startled, I looked down at the courtyard, which was still deserted. Someone, however, was climbing the pyramid's stairs.

  A young warrior. He wore an orange cloak, its hem embroidered with scorpions: the mark of a Leading Youth, one who had captured a prisoner on the battlefield and thus ended his apprenticeship. His steps were quick, impatient. He reached the top of the stairs, and scrutinised me, as if unsure what to make of me. He couldn't have been more than eighteen years old; his face was smooth, still filled with the easy arrogance of youth; his gestures sure and fast, as if a great energy lay underneath them.

  "You would be Acatl-tzin?" he said. In his mouth, the "tzin" was almost doubtful.
  I nodded. "If it's for a wake–"

  He shook his head, impatiently. "No. It's about the priestess." 

  At least he was direct. "Priestess Eleuia?" I asked.

  "Who else?" He shook his head again, as if to clear a persistent ache. "The Guardian told me to go to you."

  "Ceyaxochitl sent you?" Now I was curious. She had told me she couldn't provide help. Why send me a cocksure youth? 

  He was still staring at me, clearly unfazed by any notion of proper behaviour or respect. "Yes," he said. "She said I might be able to help." Again, he didn't sound convinced.

  "I don't think I need help," I said, slowly. "From a warrior–" 

  "Because it would shame you?"

  He was quick to take offence: overly sensitive, which was odd for a warrior, even a warrior this young. Why had Ceyaxochitl sent him? "No," I said, thinking of the coldness that seized my shoulder-blades every time the Wind of Knives – my counterpart in the underworld, He who dealt swift justice – materialised in my temple. "Because there are some things swords can't fight."

  He stared at me, and for a moment I saw real fear in his gaze. But he clenched his jaw, and said, "No. But I'm not here to fight." Not yet, said everything in his stance. I couldn't fault him for his courage. Despite his inexperience, he was a warrior in every gesture, and in every mood. "I think I was the last one to see the priestess alive. Aside from your brother, of course."

  So Ceyaxochitl had told him about Neutemoc. Just what I needed. What else did he know?

  Focus. I had to focus. Ceyaxochitl meant to help me, however misguidedly. "When did you see her?"

  "My name is Teomitl. I'm studying in the boys' calmecac."

  Teomitl. Arrow of the Gods. He was well-named, as straight and as eager to spill blood as an arrow. I would have placed him in a House of Youth with the other novice warriors, not in a school. But of course the calmecacs didn't only educate priests: they also served as schools for the children of the wealthy. Given the richness of his garb, he could only be a nobleman's son. 

  "You saw Eleuia?"

  He pursed his lips. For the first time, he looked embarrassed. "I– I was assigned to sweep the courtyards of the girls' calmecac ten days ago. As a penance." His gaze defied me to mock him. 

  I wasn't about to, though I guessed why they would send him to sweep the girls' courtyards. Some of that pride clearly needed toning down. "And you saw Eleuia?"

  Teomitl nodded. "Often. She was…" His eyes unfocused for a moment. "Beautiful. Alluring, strong."

  The Duality preserve us. Another man in love with Eleuia? Was there no end to her influence? I suppressed an inward sigh. "Her beauty doesn't have a bearing on what happened to her." 

  "It might," Teomitl said – a shrewder observation than I'd expected from him. "I was in the courtyard yesterday, before sunset. I saw her walk past. She looked nervous." 

  "Scared?" I asked.

  Teomitl shrugged. "Maybe. She had a knife in her belt, and her hand kept wrapping around the hilt. But she'd been afraid for long before that."
  "How long?"
  "Seven days," Teomitl said. "Maybe more."

  Afraid of whom? Of Zollin? Of Neutemoc? Of someone else? Huitzilpochtli cut me down, the suspects kept appearing, and I still had no lead that would explain anything. "And that's all you saw?" It was interesting, but surely not worth sending him to me? 

  "I saw other things. How they didn't know what to make of her. All the priestesses and the students, they tiptoed around her, because they'd never met her like. She was intense."

  His eyes were glazed, and his face had softened imperceptibly. He had obviously been completely infatuated by her. Although I couldn't help feeling slightly suspicious. "What's your date of birth?" I asked.

  He looked at me, blankly. "Ten Rabbit in the Year Ten Reed. Why?" 

  He could have been pretending, but his reaction sounded sincere. I debated over whether to tell him the truth, but I saw no reason not to. "Because nahual magic was used to abduct Eleuia. A jaguar-spirit."

  Startled, he looked at me. "Surely you don't think–" The first stirring of anger, clouding his face.
  "No," I said. "But I had to make sure."

  Teomitl looked at me for a while. "You'll find her?"

  "I don't know," I said. Deep down, I feared too much time had elapsed. "I can't promise anything."

  "No," Teomitl said. "But…" He checked himself, started to speak again. "I'd like to help."

  So that was why Ceyaxochitl had sent him to me: another pair of hands, ready to do my unsavoury work. But I just couldn't take on another apprentice, not another responsibility for another's life. "I don't think…"

  He said nothing. He stood watching me. In his eager face I saw Payaxin, my first and only apprentice, for whom every spell had been a delight, every ritual a curiosity to be dissected. Payaxin, who had attempted a summoning without my help, and died for his failure.

  I closed my eyes. I couldn't get involved again. It would have been unseemly for a High Priest; I had no time, nothing I could teach him, and I would only lead him into dangers he wouldn't be able to face.

  "I can't–" I started, but the next words came unbidden. "Just for a little while, then." A small thing. A task of little importance, that will make him feel useful. And then no more. He wouldn't go the way of Payaxin. 

  Teomitl nodded.

  I went back into the shrine, Teomitl in tow, and hunted around the chests for maguey paper and a writing-reed. Carefully, I wrote down the name of everyone I'd met or heard of, connected with Eleuia.

  "Go to the registers," I said. "Check the birthdates of every one of those people."

  Teomitl took the paper. He looked relieved, as if he'd leapt over a huge obstacle and found nothing but flat terrain after that. "To see whether they can summon a nahual?"

  He was quick; eager to prove himself. He reminded me of Payaxin. Too much.
  "Yes," I said. "Also–"

  The entrance curtain was wrenched aside; a jarring sound echoed under the wooden rafters of the shrine's roof, as all the bells crashed into each other.

  "Acatl-tzin." It was Ichtaca, his face uncannily grim.

  "What's the matter?" I asked, a hollow deepening in the pit of my stomach.

  "The novice priests have come back from the marketplace. I think there's something outside you need to see."
  "Why?" I asked.

  "Your brother has been formally charged with the murder of Priestess Eleuia. He's on display in front of the Imperial Palace now, awaiting trial."

  In a heartbeat, I was up on my feet, and running out of the shrine.

 

 

It was past midday, and the usual throng filled the plaza of the Sacred Precinct. I had to elbow my way through the press of pilgrims and priests to make my way to the Northern Gate and the Tepeyaca causeway. What I had intended as a rush slowed down to a painful crawl.

  As always when I passed nearby, I found my gaze drawn to the Great Temple. It was hard to ignore it: the bulk of its double pyramid towered over all the other temples. Celebrants were crowding on its platform.

  Even from afar, it was easy to see the way of things. The right half of the platform, devoted to the God of War, Huitzilpochtli, was awash with noblemen, and the blood of numerous sacrifices had made the sacred vessels overflow. The left half of the platform, the temple to Tlaloc, God of Rain, was almost empty, with perhaps half a dozen priests shedding their blood.

  Things change
, the Quetzal Flower had said.
People believe in war and in the sun, more than they believe in rain or in love. And we – the old ones, the gods of the Earth and of the Corn, We who were here first, who watched over your first steps – We fade.

  As always, that sight inspired a complex mixture of feelings. My parents had both been peasants: but the true glory of life, they had always told me, lay in war. And wasn't it fitting that the God of War should reign supreme over the Fifth World? Yet I had chosen the path of a humble priesthood over that of the warrior, leaving the glory to my brother. Had it truly been the best choice I could make?

  Enough. I couldn't afford melancholy at a time like this.

  I tore my gaze away from the Great Temple. Unfortunately, I did so too late to avoid crashing into a group of priests flanking a sacrificial victim: a man with a chalk-whitened face, lips painted in grey. "Sorry."

  The victim looked at me with a touch of annoyance, angry at being impeded on his way to a glorious death. The priests just nodded, as one craftsman to another. I resumed my crawl towards the exit. 

  Outside the Serpent Wall which framed the Sacred Precinct, it was easier to breathe: a clear area had been left between the wall and the first adobe houses. I ran east along the Serpent Wall, towards the Imperial Palace.

  Emperor Axayacatl-tzin had built this massive, two-storey building on his accession: a sprawling mass of courtyards, gardens, tribute storehouses and noblemen's apartments, it extended over half the length of the eastern Serpent Wall. The Palace not only housed the Emperor and the high-ranking noblemen of the Mexica Empire, but also the tribunals for freemen, warriors and non-warrior noblemen.

  A short flight of polished limestone steps led up to one of the entrances. To the right of the steps was a small platform where the prisoners waited for their trial, crouching in low wooden cages.   Neutemoc was in the first of those, still wearing his Jaguar regalia. His bloodshot eyes suggested he hadn't slept much in the previous night.

  When I approached, he started to straighten up and almost banged his head against the ceiling of his cage. Something fluttered in my chest, some obscure guilt for failing him. 

  "Brother," he said.

  I'd expected him to be furious, but he was obviously too weary for that. "Hello, Neutemoc. What are you doing here?" 

  He snorted. "Do I look as if I know?"

  My eyes scanned the platform behind him. I finally saw Yaotl, coming towards me at a leisurely pace, smiling ironically, Huitzilpochtli blind the man. Ceyaxochitl was behind, deep in conversation with a magistrate and a priest I didn't recognise.