Tizoc-tzin. As Master of the House of Darts, he was not only responsible for the armouries and for his quarter of the army, but also heir-designate – the one with the best chance of ascending to the Gold-and-Turquoise Crown, should Tizoc-tzin die.
Which, Smoking Mirror willing, wouldn't be happening for quite some time yet. There had been enough fire and blood in the streets with the death of the previous Revered Speaker.
Acamapichtli bowed. 'As you wish, my Lord.' Of course, he knew the lay of the land.
Teomitl was looking at the dead warrior, with an expression I couldn't place. Regret? The dead man hadn't perished in battle or on the sacrifice stone; his fate would be the same as anyone else's, the same as any priest or peasant: the long, winding road into the underworld, until he reached the throne of Lord Death and found oblivion.
Coatl, more pragmatic than any of us, was already kneeling by the dead man's side, examining him with the expertise of a man who had seen the aftermath of too many battles. 'No wounds,' he muttered, and set to removing the elaborate costume the man had worn.
In the meantime, I took the cage with the owl to a corner of the room, next to one of the huge braziers. Acamapichtli, I couldn't help but notice, hadn't brought back anything of his own – but he was watching the corpse as if considering his next best move.
I took one of my obsidian knives from my belt – even in full regalia, I never neglected to arm myself – and glanced at the owl, which looked even more ill-tempered than before. Why in the Fifth World hadn't Acamapichtli brought back spiders or rabbits?
Bracing myself, I opened the cage, grasped the owl by the head – and, ignoring the flurry of wings and claws, slit its neck just above the line of my hands.
Blood pooled out, red and warm, staining the tip of the knife, spreading to my fingers. I moved set the knife against the ground, and drew a quincunx: the five-armed cross, symbol of the Fifth World, of its centre and four points leading outwards – of the Fifth Age, and the four ages that had come before it. Then I chanted a hymn to my patron god Mictlantecuhtli, Lord Death:
A veil shimmered and danced into existence; a faint green light that seemed to make the room larger. I felt as if I were standing on the verge of a chasm – at the
In the gloom, Teomitl shone with a bright green light the colour of jade – not surprising, as his patron goddess was Chalchiuhtlicue, Jade Skirt, Goddess of Rivers and Streams. Acamapichtli was surrounded by the blue-and-white aura of his own patron god. Around Coatl and the dead warrior though, the room pulsed with the same shadows I'd caught a glimpse of earlier. I saw faces, distorted in pain… and flailing arms and legs, all clinging to each other in an obscene tangle of limbs… and hands, their fingers engorged out of shape, and everything was merging into a final, deep darkness which flowed over the face of the dead warrior and into his body, like blood through veins.
It was like no curse or illness I had ever seen.
I closed my eyes, and broke the quincunx by rubbing a foot against its boundary. 'I'd step away from the body, if I were you,' I said.
Coatl leapt as if bitten by a snake. 'You think it's contagious?'
'It's a possibility,' I said, carefully.
Acamapichtli was leaning against the wall, his hand wrapped around something I couldn't see. Another of his little amulets, no doubt: he was in the habit of carving ivory and filling its grooves with the blood of sacrifices to make powerful charms. My hand still bore a whitish mark where one of them had touched me, the year before.
'So?' Teomitl asked.
Coatl shook his head. He'd stepped away from Eptli's body, letting us see quite clearly that although the warrior was covered with scars, there was indeed no wound whatsoever. Eptli had shaved his head, an odd affectation for a warrior, but it did mean we could see there was no wound there either.
Not that it surprised me. 'It's some kind of illness,' I said. I thought of the shadows again, and shivered. 'Brought on by magic.'
'Can you recognise the source?' Acamapichtli asked.
I shook my head. Every magical spell was the power of a god, called down into the Fifth World by a devotee, and it should have had a signature as recognisable as the light of Jade Skirt on Teomitl's face. 'It's decaying.' I would have knelt by the corpse, but what I'd seen of the light made me wary. 'Breaking down into pieces, as if the Fifth World itself were anathema to it.'
'That's not magic,' Acamapichtli said, sharply.
'Star-demons?' Coatl asked. The star-demons were the enemies of the gods, destined to end the Fifth World by consuming us all in a great earthquake.
'I've seen star-demons,' I said, slowly – my hands seized up at the thought, even though it had been more than four months before. 'This doesn't look anything like their handiwork.'
Acamapichtli's grip on his amulet didn't waver. His eyes were cruel; amused. 'I've seen it before.'
'And?' Teomitl asked, when it was obvious Acamapichtli wasn't going to add anything further.
Acamapichtli had a gesture halfway between exasperation and pity. 'If I remembered, don't you think I'd be telling you?'
'No,' I said.
Acamapichtli shook his head, as if to clear out a persistent annoyance. 'Let old grudges lie, Acatl. We're allies in this.'
By necessity – and I still wasn't sure why. 'Why the interest?' I asked.
