confirmed in a burst of glory, and his coronation war a resounding success.
How I wished I could be fooled by such appearances.
Ichtaca met me at the temple entrance. I could tell that he was either preoccupied or in a hurry, for the black streaks on his cheeks were slightly curved instead of straight, as if he'd applied them with shaking hands. 'Acatl-tzin.'
'I presume something has happened.'
Ichtaca grimaced. 'Teomitl-tzin sent word. Pochtic – the Master of the House of Darkness – has regained consciousness, but there are two further warriors affected. One of them is dead.'
Dead already? The sickness was spreading – I rubbed the tips of my fingers together, as if I could wash it away from my skin. How was it contracted? 'And the others? The ones Acamapichtli had in confinement?'
'I've heard no news.'
Well, there was nothing for it. 'Send priests for the funeral rites, and remove the bodies. We need to examine them in an isolated spot. Did they die in the palace?'
Ichtaca shook his head. 'I think at the House of Youth, but I'll check.'
A group of grey-clad novices passed by us. By the reed-brooms in their hands, it looked they were going to sweep the courtyard, cleansing it in honour of Lord Death. 'Do check,' I said. 'Nothing else?'
Ichtaca spread his hands. His nervousness was palpable. 'The merchant: I did find which god he worshipped, but–'
I sighed. Ichtaca had always been a staunch believer in Mexica superiority, and the past few months had hit him badly. 'Tell me,' I said, gently.
'Tezcatlipoca, the Smoking Mirror.'
Lord of the Near, Lord of the Nigh; god of war and youth, protector of sorcerers. Nothing too surprising there, sadly – even the viciousness of Yayauhqui's punishment was characteristic.
'Does it help?'
I couldn't lie to him. 'I'm not sure. It certainly doesn't put him at the forefront of suspects: the epidemic seems to be coming from Tlaloc.'
'Again?' Ichtaca asked.
Two years earlier, the Storm Lord and a splinter group of His priests had attempted an elaborate plot to unseat Huitzilpochtli's dominance – using the Revered Speaker's weakness to raise up an agent in the Fifth World. They would have succeeded, too, but for our order.
'He's a god,' I said, slowly. 'The Duality only knows what He's plotting.' I paused, then.
'What is it, Acatl-tzin?'
'The Flower Quetzal,' I said slowly. Xochiquetzal had been the Storm Lord's ally – as interested as He had been in the end of the Fifth World.
'You think She's involved in this again?'
I thought of Xiloxoch. 'I don't know. But it's a possibility.'
One I didn't care much for. A scheming deity was bad enough, but an alliance of gods…
I nodded. 'Before I go, I need a ritual performed.'
'Which one?'
I'd had time to mull it over on my way to the temple. Mictlantecuhtli, Lord Death, was seldom invoked for defensive magic – unless one counted summoning creatures such as the Wind of Knives or the Owl Archer from the underworld. But this particular sickness, it seemed, was under the auspices of Tlaloc the Storm Lord. And the magics of the underworld and of Tlalocan cancelled each other out.
'It's not a ritual,' I said at last. 'At least, not per se. I just need you to provide a little… help.'
We repaired to one of the examination rooms, under the hollow gaze of Mictlantecuhtli. As I'd asked, Ichtaca had gathered only offering priests for this – the novices would have been all too glad to take part in something like this, but they hadn't yet learned the fundamental lesson of the priesthood: that magic might be awe-inspiring, but that the heart of our devotions lay elsewhere. That Lord Death did not give us more than was needed, or grant us our prayers, but that we could rely on Him to stand by His rules, that he was not cruel or capricious, but merely there, awaiting us all.
And it was my role – and Ichtaca's – to teach them the importance of the small things, of the devotions at night, of the examinations of corpses with knives and small spells, of the offerings that came day and night to give their lives the rhythm of faith.
At the feet of each priest lay a pile of quetzal feathers, and a single lip-plug made of jade. On Ichtaca's signal, they cut a thin line across the back of their hands, and let the blood drip onto the feathers and jade.
Ichtaca – who was part of the circle, started chanting a hymn to Lord Death:
'
Where the blood touched the feathers, they gleamed – a dark hue of green, the miasma of the underworld. A cold wind was blowing across the room, making the priests' grey cloaks billow like the wings of some gaunt and skeletal bird.
'
