saw the slack muscles and empty eyes, I knew that the man was dead.
I made to move, but a hand on my shoulder restrained me: Quenami, looking grimly serious. 'Let go,' I whispered, but he shook his head.
Ahead of us, two warriors were pulling the body of their comrade out of the crowd. Teomitl stood, uncertainly, eyeing Tizoc-tzin – who pulled himself up with a quick shake of his head, and went on as if nothing were wrong.
Something crossed Teomitl's face – anger, contempt? – but it was gone too fast – and, in any case, Tizoc- tzin was moving, his elaborate cape and feather headdress hiding my student from sight.
Surely he couldn't mean to…
Behind me, Quenami was taking up the chant again, his lean face suffused with his customary arrogance and a hint of contempt, as if I'd been utterly unable to understand the stakes.
The other officials and the warriors had looked dubious at first, but who could not be swayed by the will of the Revered Speaker, and of the highest of all priests? They took up the hymn, hesitantly at first, then more fiercely.
'To the place of the waters, the island of the seven caves
You come back, o beloved sons, o beloved fathers…'
'A man is dead,' I whispered as the hymn wound to a close, and Tizoc-tzin approached the warriors, bestowing on them, one by one, the ornate mantles appropriate to their new status. 'Do you think this is a joke?'
Quenami smiled. 'Yes. But the war has been won, Acatl. Shall we not celebrate, and laugh in the face of Lord Death?'
Having met Him numerous times, I very much doubted Lord Death was going to care much either way – He well knew that everyone came to Him in the end, no matter what they did.
'It's a lie,' I said, fiercely, but other hymns had started, and Quenami wasn't listening anymore.
The morning dragged on, interminable. There were chants, and intricate dances where sacred courtesans and warriors formally courted each other, reminding us of the eternal cycle of life and the order of the Fifth World. There were drum beats and the distribution of maize flatbreads to the crowd, and songs and dances, and elaborate speeches by officials. And through it all presided Tizoctzin, insufferably smug, as puffed up as if he'd been one of the captive-takers.
I stood on the edge, mouthing the hymns with little conviction – my mind on the warrior and on his fall. People did collapse naturally: from weak hearts, or pressure within the brain that couldn't be relieved; reacting to something they'd eaten, or the sting of some insect. But there had been magic around him, strong enough for me to feel it.
I doubted, very much, that it had been a natural death.
After the ceremony, the officials of the city went into the palace, where a formal banquet was served: elaborate maize cakes, roast deer, white fish with red pepper and tomatoes, newts with sweet potatoes… Tizoc- tzin, as usual, ate behind a golden screen; Teomitl was sitting with the other members of the war-council, around the reed mat of the highest-ranked, the closest one to the window and the humid air of the gardens. Beside him was Mihmatini, my younger sister – as his wife, she should have been sitting at a separate mat, but she was also Guardian of the Sacred Precinct, agent of the Duality in the Fifth World and keeper of the invisible boundaries, enough to give a headache to any protocol master. Beneath her elaborate makeup, her eyes were distant: she didn't like banquets anymore than I did, though she could hardly afford to ignore them. Between them was a thin line I could barely see – a remnant of a spell they'd done together, a magic which kept them tied even though the spell had ended.
Though Teomitl was obviously glad to see Mihmatini, I could see him fidget even from where I sat between Quenami and Acamapichtli, doing my best to avoid speaking to either of them. I could feel his impatience – which mirrored my own.
Further down, several Jaguar Knights were sitting around their own reed mats – among them was my elder brother Neutemoc, smiling gravely at some joke of his neighbour. It looked as though the campaign had enabled him to re-establish ties with his comrades, and other things besides. He looked plumper, and the jaguar body-suit no longer hung loosely on his slender frame: perhaps he was finally getting over his wife's death.
I let my gaze roam through the room, waiting for the banquet to finish. Amidst the colourful costumes, the faces flushed with warmth and the easy laughter there was something else, the same undercurrent of unease tightening in my belly. The atmosphere was tense: the laughing and smiling Jaguar Knights carefully avoided looking at the golden screen, while the warriors clustering around Tizoc-tzin – richly dressed noblemen, with barely a scar on their smooth legs – huddled together, talking as if they were in the midst of enemy territory.
All was not right with the world.
As soon as the last course of the banquet was served, I got up.
'Leaving so soon?' Quenami asked.
'I want to see the body,' I said.
Quenami raised a perfectly-plucked eyebrow. 'Always the High Priest, I see. Forget it, Acatl. The man had a sunstroke.'
I shook my head. 'Magical sunstrokes don't exist, Quenami. Someone cast a spell on him.'
I expected Acamapichtli to say something, but he had remained worryingly silent – as if lost in thought. Probably thinking of how he could turn the situation to his advantage.
