What was going on?
'So you didn't know your assailant? You're sure that you wouldn't have caught a glimpse of him – have any inkling or any suspicion why you were picked for that kind of death?' I rose as I said that, and walked nearer to him – and, as I expected, Pochtic followed the direction of my voice, tilting his head upwards. His cloak slipped, a fraction, uncovering his neck and the top of his shoulders – a fraction, but it was enough for me to see that there was no mark whatsoever there.
No, wait.
There were faint bruises on both shoulders, not far from the neck area. I'd only had a short look at them before Pochtic settled down again, but they were familiar, from a thousand examinations. Palm marks, facing upwards. In other words, someone had forced Pochtic down on his back, and put the mask on – and left him here, flopping like a fish on dry land until the air in his lungs gave out.
Then he had seen his assailant – or a shadow, at least. Why lie about it?
'I've told you,' Pochtic said. 'I don't have any idea what's going on.'
'You're a strong man,' I said, slowly. 'I'm surprised you were overwhelmed that easily.'
Pochtic's eyes glittered with something I couldn't place – shame, fear? 'He held me like a rag doll,' he whispered. 'And then I couldn't breathe. Do you have any idea how horrible it is – your lungs starting to burn, your mouth struggling to draw air through jade? I– all your life, you breathe. Day after day, moment after moment – and suddenly you can't see anything, can't focus on anything but how powerless you are?'
He was Master of the House of Darkness: a rich, powerful man, who had everything he could ever want – physicians waiting on him, servants to satisfy the least of his desires. Like Eptli, he believed himself designed for greatness – and then, in a moment, everything had been snatched from him. He had been reminded that – like precious stones which cracked and broke – he was destined for Mictlan, the underworld, the place of the fleshless.
I knew the fear in his eyes – I had felt it myself. But in him it seemed to be compounded with something I couldn't place. Did he lie about his assailant because the latter had been small, and he was ashamed? Or was it something else?
Either way, this wouldn't be solved here. To accuse him of lying would bring me nowhere and would only anger Tizoc-tzin further – not the most intelligent of ideas, given his current mood.
NINE
I was walking out of Pochtic's quarters, when, through a courtyard, I caught a glimpse of Teomitl, walking by a woman in a simple red skirt. She did not wear the two horns of married women, but there was an ivory comb in her hair. Her face was lathered with makeup, giving her skin the yellow sheen of corn, and she walked with the familiar, swaying allure of a woman used to seducing men.
A sacred courtesan. Xiloxoch? I couldn't see any other reason for him to talk to someone of her status – not now that he was married, in the process of founding a household of his own.
Though Teomitl didn't look seduced – if anything, he looked angry, the facets of his cheeks taking on the colour of jade, and his eyes hardening into small, glinting stones. The aura of his patron goddess Chalchiuhtlicue, Jade Skirt, was strong enough to hurt my eyes.
'Teomitl!' I called.
He slowed down a fraction, but barely acknowledged me. He was in regalia – not the peacetime one, but rather the frightful spectre, the war costume of the Master of the House of Darts. It made him look wild, untamed – from the dishevelled plume of quetzal feathers fanning out from the back of his hair, to his head, emerging from between the jaws of a sculpted skeletal beast. 'This is Xiloxoch.' He smiled, but the expression never reached his eyes. 'Nezahual-tzin brought her to my quarters.'
And what pleasure Nezahual-tzin would have derived from it, no doubt. 'So you're accompanying her back to the House of Joy?'
Teomitl made a small, stabbing gesture with the back of one hand. 'No. I'm taking her to the military courts.'
'For visiting a prisoner?' Surely there was no law against this?
The light around Teomitl flared up, became blinding. 'You don't understand, Acatl-tzin. Xiloxoch has serious accusations to make.'
Against the prisoner? 'I–'
The courtesan, Xiloxoch, spoke up. Her voice was that of an educated woman – most of the courtesans who attended the warriors in the House of Youth tended to be commoners, but she had obviously been taught by priestesses in the calmecac school. 'Bribery and fraud,' she said. Her teeth were black, the colour of unending night; her eyes, outlined with makeup, shone with determination. A driven woman, Nezahual-tzin had said. 'Eptli has scratched the jade, has torn apart the quetzal feathers – dishonouring father and mother, and the gods that watched over him.'
The sinking feeling was back in my stomach. 'What did he do?'
'He corrupted the judges.' Teomitl's voice was curt. 'The two-faced son of a dog corrupted the war-council, under my own eyes.'
But the war-council included him, surely? 'The whole council?'
'The Master of the House of Darkness, and the deputy for the Master of Raining Blood.' Xiloxoch's face twisted; it might have been a smile, but there was no joy in it. 'The other deputy refused.'
Pochtic. Coatl. And the other man, the one I hadn't seen more than for a few moments. 'And Teomitl?' I asked.
Teomitl's face was a mask, his skin carved jade, his cheeks hollowed, and his eyes dark holes. 'I was too much of a fool to catch what they were saying.'
'That's a serious accusation,' I said, very slowly. 'Do you have any evidence?'
'We don't need evidence for the moment,' Teomitl said, impatiently. 'We need to warn the magistrates, so that they can arrest the culprits.'
I raised a hand. Had he learned nothing? 'Do you have evidence?' I asked Xiloxoch, again.
Her eyes were dark, and deep; her black-stained teeth shining in the oval of her face. 'The behaviour of a dead man. The word of another. It's not easy, as you can see.' She didn't smile. Her whole being seemed – taut,
