Tizoc-tzin's quarters were, surprisingly, almost deserted, compared to what I had seen last time. A handful of richly-attired warriors lounged on the platform outside, and the inner chambers held only the remnants of a feast, the smell of rich food turning sour in the gold and silver vessels.
It smelled of neglect, and of fear, like the house of an old man facing Lord Death at the end of a long sickness. I half-expected to find a corpse somewhere; but the only occupant of the room was Tizoc-tzin, still sitting behind his polished screen.
He looked furious, his face pale and set, his hands clenched around a feather-fan as if he could grind it into dust.
'They haven't bared their feet,' he snapped to the warriors behind us.
'My Lord–' The lead warrior sounded embarrassed, and perhaps a little contemptuous. I couldn't be sure.
'You're not Revered Speaker.' Teomitl's voice held the edge of broken obsidian.
Tizoc-tzin's gaze moved to him. His eyes were deep-set in the paleness of his face, as dark and as bruised as those of a corpse. 'And you're not Master of the House of Darts.' His tone implied Teomitl would never be so, not as long as he had a voice.
Teomitl shrugged. 'That's your threat?'
Tizoc-tzin smiled, uncovering a row of blackened teeth. 'I can think of others. For now, I'll settle for explanations.' He jerked his chin at me, in a movement so convulsive and unnatural that I took a step backward. 'Try voicing them,
I took a deep breath, composing myself. Tizoc-tzin was right. Teomitl wasn't Master of the House of Darts, Keeper of the Bowl of Fatigue, or Cutter of Men – he had no title, no official recognition save for his imperial blood, and the Revered Speaker had had dozens of brothers who had not amounted to anything. He couldn't defend us. No one could.
'There was need.' I pitched my voice as low as I could, grave and determined. 'The stars are shining in the sky, my Lord, and the demons walk in daylight, in the Jaguar House. They'd have overwhelmed us. We needed…' I tasted bile in my throat, swallowed. 'We needed the protection of the Duality.'
Where was Quenami? As High Priest of the Southern Hummingbird, he would have understood, at least, though he might still have disavowed me if it suited him.
'And so you thought of a ritual? How clever.'
'The Duality takes no human sacrifices.'
'Of course They don't.' Tizoc-tzin moved back, so that his face was wreathed in shadows. 'I've warned you before. I've warned you about her.'
I guessed more than saw Teomitl put a hand on Mihmatini's shoulder, preventing her from speaking out. In the dimness of Tizoc-tzin's rooms, she still shone with the light of the ritual, and the thin, radiant thread curled on the ground between them, visible to all.
'Well, priest?'
I could think of no answer that wouldn't be an insult. 'You did warn me,' I said, cautiously. 'But the ritual required both of them.' I didn't tell him what else we'd done, it would take a while to fully invest Mihmatini as agent of the Duality, and the later he found out about this the better off we'd be.
'You lie!' The feather-fan trembled in Tizoc-tzin's hands. 'I've seen you, priest. I know what you are, you and your kind – always hungry for power, always grabbing for more. Linking them to gether, parading them both in this palace, like a warrior and his courtesan, you spoiled him, too, took his potential and wasted it and turned it against this Court…' He was almost weeping now, the words tumbling atop each other, as fast and chaotic as waves on a stormy lake.
Teomitl's face twisted; the light of his patron goddess Chalchiuhtlicue, which had been surrounding him, died away. 'I'm not against you, brother.'
Tizoc-tzin raised his gaze to look at him, and I had never seen anything so frightening as the hunger spread on his features, hollowing his cheeks and his neck, pushing the eyes further back into his dark sockets. 'I am the one,' he whispered. 'The one Axayacatl promised the Empire to. Fit to rule, to bring us the spoils of war and the tributes of provinces. He promised me. You know this. You know I'll do the right things.'
'I'm not against you,' Teomitl repeated. 'I never was.' His eyes glimmered in the dim light. It was Mihmatini, now, who had a hand extended, wrapped around his shoulder. 'Brother…'
I had never seen him weep before.
Tizoc-tzin held Teomitl's gaze for a long while. He breathed in frantically, as if air had gone missing. At last he appeared to compose himself, and said in a much cooler voice, 'Of course. Blood stands by blood.'
'Always,' Teomitl said.
I didn't like the sudden coolness, or the way his gaze moved around the room, transfixing all of us. We had seen him lose face and heart, reduced to an incoherent, weeping wreck of a man. Knowing him, he would never forgive us. Teomitl was family, but Mihmatini and I…
I could tell by Mihmatini's taut pose that her thoughts ran close to mine.
'Then set her aside.' Tizoc-tzin's gaze was malicious. Mihmatini's hand tightened around Teomitl's shoulder, hard enough to bruise.
Teomitl's face was set. 'That has never been a possibility.'
'Who do you think you're convincing?' Tizoc-tzin laughed, a joyless sound that would have frightened even Lord Death. 'She will forever be a peasant's daughter. You are imperial blood. You will be Master of the House of Darts. Do you think it's so easy to renounce your rank?'
'Perhaps, when I see what it's made of you. Look at you, brother. Look at you.' Teomitl's voice was almost a cry. 'You're a warrior and you cower in your own rooms.'
'I'm not a warrior.' Tizoc-tzin's voice was quiet, an admission of defeat. I looked up, caught Mihmatini's eye. There had to be a way we could make a graceful exit, before either of them remembered we were there. They were both behaving as if they were alone, baring more of their hearts and faces than I wanted to see.
Unfortunately, Tizoc-tzin caught my movement. 'I'm not a warrior,' he repeated, 'but I'm not about to
