'What do you remember?' Acamapichtli asked. 'Quick, there isn't much time.'
It was, to an extent, his ritual, and I was just a spectator – however, Acamapichtli had a number of disadvantages, not least of which was that he had no context about Eptli. 'Was Zoquitl sick, Eptli?'
'No,' Eptli whispered. 'Strong and young, he was – a strong offering, a man fit enough to hold the glory of the god. But I was – cold. I'd put on all the amulets, all the magical protections I could, but it wasn't enough…'
So Eptli had been the first one. 'When was this?'
'I don't know.' Eptli shivered. He was growing – darker, more distant. The smell of algae was stronger, and the mist was eating away at the radiance. 'I don't know. I shouldn't have–' He shivered again. 'I shouldn't have–'
'Shouldn't have what?'
But he was going away from us – subsumed into the mist. 'Shouldn't have insulted Yayauhqui?' I asked. 'Shouldn't have quarrelled with your comrades? Shouldn't have won against Chipahua?' It wasn't as if the questions lacked, after all. 'Eptli!' His voice came back, floating through the mist. 'I shouldn't have taken it – I should have known… said it was for safekeeping, but I should have known… It was so cold when I touched it…'
And then another word, which could have been 'Father', which could have been something else entirely. And then nothing.
Acamapichtli reached out, and plucked the worship thorns out of the jaguar's body; and the mist receded and died away, leaving us standing in a darkened courtyard, with the familiar surroundings of the palace. A host of priests in blue and white stood on the edge of the circle, all watching us intently.
'Let's go inside,' he said, brusquely. 'This isn't fit for all ears.'
Inside, he didn't seem much changed, but something in the way he paced by the carved columns suggested otherwise. 'He suspected something.'
'Yes,' I said. 'You heard it. Someone gave him something – for safekeeping, he said.'
'So not something usual.' Acamapichtli bit his lips. 'Or else whoever did this wouldn't have needed the excuse. A piece of jewellery?'
'You're the expert on amulets,' I said, more sharply than I'd intended.
He nodded, as arrogantly as ever. 'I am, but you can put so many things into an amulet…'
'Can't you summon him again?'
Acamapichtli grimaced. 'Not until the protective deities change – which doesn't happen for another thirteen days.'
By which time it would be too late.
'Do you still think it was Tlaloc?' I asked.
'Possible,' Acamapichtli admitted, grudgingly, 'but unlikely, given the circumstances. Someone – a human being – gave Eptli something that made him feel cold. It's beginning to sound more and more like a spell directed at him.' His eyes were hard.
Eptli had taken the proffered object, and fallen sick. And Zoquitl, who was in regular contact with Eptli, had caught the sickness as well. But why Zoquitl, and none of the other warriors? Did Zoquitl have some weakness we were unaware of – some lack of protection because he was Mextitlan, and not Mexica?
And why Eptli?
Acamapichtli's eyes were hard. 'Now I know where I've seen that magic before – but it doesn't look quite the same. Once, I had to arrest a man who'd hired a sorcerer to cast a spell of leprosy onto a rival. A marvel of ingeniousness – it called up the sickness from Tlalocan itself.'
Tlalocan, the land of the Blessed Drowned – where the sacrifices to Tlaloc lived in eternal bliss, reaping maize from ever-fertile fields, and listening to the whistle of the wind through the floating gardens. 'That's why it kept disintegrating?' I asked. Magic from Tlalocan – raw magic from a god's territory – couldn't be called forth into the Fifth World: it would endure for a short while before the mundane began to assert itself once more. 'Because it didn't come from the Fifth World.'
Acamapichtli nodded. He sounded distracted. 'Yes. Someone called up Tlaloc's raw magic into the world – a spell bound up in death and drownings, if you will. You ought to know that.' It was a jibe at me as High Priest for the Dead – but weak and deprived of bite.
'And how powerful do you have to be to cast that kind of spell?'
'Not powerful. Ingenious, as I said. Whoever is behind this has great knowledge of Tlalocan, and of Tlaloc's magic.'
'Your clergy?' The words were out of my mouth before I could take them back.
His eyes narrowed. 'Of course not. Don't be a fool. My clergy is all above suspicion – and in any case, what motive would they have for killing a warrior they've never seen?' Priests of Tlaloc – the Storm Lord, the god of peasants and fishermen – seldom if ever went to war, for their blessings were reserved for the fields and the harvest.
'I don't know,' I said, darkly. 'I've seen many things. What about the spell on Eptli's soul?'
'Part of the same curse, I'd say. And tied to the
'But do you know who?' I insisted. 'We need facts, not speculation.'
Acamapichtli brushed his hands, carefully. Blood still clung to the lines of his palm, but he appeared oblivious. I had no idea how much of it was an act. 'I can enquire,' he said. 'About that, and the sickness. We have priests specialised in diseases at the temple.'
'Then why haven't you done so before?'
His gaze, when he raised it, could have bored through stone. 'I've dealt with my own affairs. Deal with yours, Acatl.'
He was the fool if he thought he could convince me to back down. 'As you said earlier – we're in this together. All of the Fifth World.'
