that…
For fear that they would turn into star-demons. Oh no. 'They're trying to hasten the end of the year, aren't they.'
It wasn't a question, and Ichtaca did not treat it as such. 'That seems a likely explanation. The five empty days would suit them.'
These weren't just random summonings then, but I had been suspecting that for a while. This was organised, meticulously so, part of a ritual from beginning to end.
'This isn't good.' I breathed in, trying to still the frantic beating of my heart. 'If I give you the names of all the councilmen, can you work out who comes next in the order of deaths?'
'Yes,' Ichtaca said. 'But–'
'I know. It takes time. You've already done a great deal of work.'
'I do my duty, Acatl-tzin. As we all do. I will have all the offering priests we can spare doing calculations. That's the most I can do. The novices don't know enough about the calendars. I wish the calendar priests were available, but they're overworked as it is, planning the funeral and the coronation.'
'I see. Thank you.' I gave him all the names of the council; they were not that many of them, and I had interviewed all of them.
Something occurred to me as I was about to walk out: the tar Palli had found in the Imperial Chambers. 'Ichtaca?'
'Yes?'
'What does tar evoke to you? Magically speaking.'
He looked thoughtful for a while. 'Tar? It's not a common ingredient.'
'No,' I said. 'But I have reasons to think it was used in a ritual in the palace. Something large.'
'Tar is thick, and chokes. It can't be washed away with water.'
'The Storm Lord?' I asked. Acamapichtli was away from Court, trying to make us forget he had supported Xahuia. But he could have done something beforehand. 'Dying in the water, but not of it.' The oldest rite, asking for His blessing on the crops.
'The Storm Lord's sacrifices tend to use rubber,' Ichtaca said. 'I suppose they might turn to tar, if rubber wasn't available.' But he didn't sound convinced.
I thanked him, and walked out onto the Sacred Precinct in my bleakest mood yet. It didn't seem like Tizoc- tzin was to blame, after all. If he truly wanted to become Revered Speaker, then he would not have any interest in hastening the end of the world.
On the other hand, he was acting most suspiciously. What was he not telling us?
Or was there some other purpose to the order of the deaths, something I hadn't seen?
FOURTEEN
Even though I'd only been a participant, the Duality ritual – and its stressful aftermath with Tizoc-tzin – had drained more out of me than I'd expected. I went to bed at a reasonable time, for once, early on in the night, and woke up to find it was already early afternoon.
I reached up, touched my earlobes, which bore fresh scabs. I must have done my devotions to the Fifth Sun in a trance, barely realising what I was doing.
Nevertheless, better to be sure. I slit my earlobes open again, and did the blood offering and the hymn singing properly this time.
For once no one was waiting for me in my courtyard. I might have smiled, but I didn't feel in the mood.
Since I had a little time to myself, I went back to the Wind Tower with a chest of offerings, and asked to see the fire-priest. I was in full regalia, my owl-embroidered cloak spreading behind me like the wings of a bird, the skull-mask precariously balanced on my forehead, my sandals, as white as bone, making my tanned feet seem pale. The priest watching over the pilgrims took one look at me, bowed very deeply, and sent someone to fetch him.
I laid the chest by my side and waited, sitting on the platform where the Wind Tower stood. It was warm out there, with the Fifth Sun overhead, the stone glimmering in the harsh light, and the Sacred Precinct spread out before me, the mass of temples and priests' houses that made up the religious heart of the city. The canals behind the Serpent Wall seemed very distant, another world entirely, far removed from our problems.
I hoped they would remain that way.
'Acatl-tzin?' A tall man with pale skin and gaunt, hollowed-out cheeks, stood by my side. He wore a simple green tunic, and a long, trumpet-shaped wooden beak, which he'd set aside to talk to me, all that marked him as a priest. His hair, cropped short, was a shock of black. Unlike the other priests, he didn't mat it with blood, or weave in any kind of ornaments.
'I am Ueman,' he said, bowing. 'Fire Priest of this temple. I was told you wanted to see me?'
'Yes,' I said. I didn't touch the basket by my side, and he didn't ask about it. 'You're aware of the deaths in the palace.'
'A little,' he said, cautiously. 'This place is far away from the centre of power.'
Since the days of Tula, centuries ago, the Feathered Serpent Quetzalcoatl had not held power in any city and, in a day and age where the gods of War and Rain watched over us, He had faded into obscurity, His benevolence gently scoffed at, treated like an aged relative with no sense of the realities of life.
'Far away, perhaps,' I said, 'but it still dragged you in.'
Ueman grimaced. He sat down by my side, carefully and easily, as if rank didn't matter. 'We're a place for knowledge and healing, Acatl-tzin. We hold the Feathered Serpent's trust. We worship Him as the Wind, as the Precious Twin, as the king that was and will return. But some think only of knowledge as a weapon.'
'Princess Xahuia came here,' I said.
'With a councilman. For an oath.' He didn't even attempt to evade the questions. Clearly, he'd have preferred to wash his hands clean of the whole business.
What he told me was brief, but it confirmed Xahuia's story that she'd convinced Ocome to swear an
