wasn't quite right, that there was a gaping hole beneath the layers of reality that undercut the Fifth World. I'd been living with it for over three months, ever since the previous Revered Speaker had died. His successor, Tizoctzin, had been crowned leader of the Mexica Empire; but a Revered Speaker wasn't confirmed in the sight of the gods until his successful coronation war.
Today, I guessed, was the day I found out if the hole would ever close.
The Sacred Precinct, the religious heart of Tenochtitlan, was already bustling even at this early hour: groups of novice priests were sweeping the courtyards of the temple complexes; pilgrims, from noblemen in magnificent cloaks to peasants in loincloths, brought offerings of incense and blood-stained grass-balls; and the murmur of the crowd, from dozens of low-voiced conversations, enfolded me like a mother's arms. But there was something more in the air – a tautness in the faces of the pilgrims, a palpable atmosphere of expectation shared by the cotton- draped matrons and the priests with blood-matted hair.
The Temple for the Dead was but a short distance from my house, at the northern end of the Sacred Precinct. It was a low, sprawling complex with a pyramid shrine at its centre, from which the smoke of copal incense was already rising like a prayer to the Heavens. I wasn't surprised to find my second-in-command, Ichtaca, in deep conversation with another man in a light-blue cloak embroidered with seashells and frogs, and a headdress of heron feathers: Acamapichtli, High Priest of the Storm Lord. Together with Quenami, High Priest of the Mexica patron god Southern Hummingbird, we formed the religious head of the Empire. I didn't get on with Quenami, who was arrogant and condescending – and as to Acamapichtli… Not that I liked him any more than Quenami, but we'd reached an uneasy understanding the year before.
'Acatl.' Acamapichtli looked amused, but then he always did. His gaze went up and down, taking in my simple grey tunic.
He didn't need to say anything, really. I could hardly welcome back the Revered Speaker of the Empire dressed like a low-ranking priest. 'I'll change,' I said, curtly. 'I presume you're not here to enquire after my health.'
For a moment, I thought he was going to play one of his little games with me again – but then his lips tightened, and he simply said, 'A messenger arrived two days ago at the palace, and was welcomed with all due form by the She-Snake.'
'You know this–'
'Through Quenami, of course. How else?' Acamapichtli's voice was sardonic. After the events of the previous year, we were both… in disgrace, I guessed. Not that I'd ever been in much of a state of grace, but I'd spoken out against the election of the current Revered Speaker, and Acamapichtli had plotted against him with foreigners, making us both outcasts at the current court. The She-Snake, who deputised for the Revered Speaker, wouldn't have wanted to countermand his master.
'And?' I asked. I wouldn't have been surprised if Quenami had given us only part of the information, to keep us as much in the dark as the pilgrims milling in the Sacred Precinct.
'Other messengers went out yesterday morning,' Acamapichtli said. 'With drums and trumpets, and incense-burners.' I let out a breath I hadn't been conscious of holding. 'It's a victory, then.'
Acamapichtli's face was a careful blank. 'Or considered as such.'
What did he know that he wasn't telling me? It would be just like him: serving his own interests best, playing a game of handing out and withholding information like the master he was.
'You know it's not a game.'
Acamapichtli stared at me for a while, as if mulling over some withering response. 'And you take everything far too seriously, Acatl. As I said: the Fifth World can survive.'
I had my doubts, especially given that the death of the previous Revered Speaker had resulted in city-wide chaos – which we'd survived only by a hair's breadth. 'What else did Quenami tell you?'
Acamapichtli grimaced. 'Quenami didn't tell me anything. But I have… other sources. They're saying we only won the coronation war because the Revered Speaker called it a victory.'
I fought the growing nausea in my gut. A coronation war was proof of the Revered Speaker's valour, proving him worthy of the Southern Hummingbird's favour, and bringing enough sacrifices and treasures for the coronation ceremony itself. The gods wouldn't be pleased by Tizoc-tzin's sleight of hand, and I very much doubted they'd make their displeasure felt merely through angry words. 'And prisoners?'
'Forty or so,' Acamapichtli said.
It was pitiful. Without enough human sacrifices, how were we going to appease the Fifth Sun, or Grandmother Earth? How were we to have light, and maize in fertile fields? 'I hope it suffices,' I said.
'I said it before: you worry too much. Come, now. Let's welcome them home.'
I pressed my lips together to fight the nausea, and stole a glance at the sky above us: it was the clear, impossible blue of turquoise, with no clouds in sight. Calm Heavens, and no ill-omens. Perhaps Acamapichtli was right.
And perhaps I was going to grow fangs and turn into a coyote, too.
Sometime later, the Sacred Precinct was transformed – packed with a throng of people in their best clothes, a riot of colours – of cotton, of cactus fibres and feathers, with circular feather insignias bobbing up and down as if stirred by an unseen breath.
Everyone was there: the officials who kept the city running, accompanied by their wood-collared slaves; the matrons with their hair brought up in two horns, in the fashion of married women, carrying children on their shoulders; the peasants too old to go to war, bare-chested and tanned by the sun, wearing a single ornament of gold on their chests; the noblemen, resplendent in their cotton clothes and standing with the ease and arrogance of those used to ceremony.
I stood with the She-Snake, Quenami and Acamapichtli at the foot of the Great Temple, surrounded by an entourage of noblemen and priests. Everyone's earlobes still dripped with blood, and the combined shimmer of magical protections was making my eyes hurt. I stole another glance at the sky – which remained stubbornly blue.
'There they are,' Quenami said.
I could barely see over the heads of the crowd, but Quenami was taller. A cry went up from the assembled throng, a litany repeated over and over until the words merged with each other.
