'They… might have information we need,' I said, gaining in assurance as I spoke. For the good of the city.' I felt soiled, even though it wasn't quite a lie.
The guard looked at me, dubiously. Fortunately, Teomitl chose this moment to join me, and the sight of the Master of the House of Darts – Tizoc-tzin's brother – standing by my side helped the guard decide. 'Fine.' He gave me a location, which was a set of courtyards reserved for the private usage of officials.
When we arrived there, we found the courtyard had been turned into a jail: wooden cages filled it from end to end. Through the bars, I caught glimpses of the men crouched within – whispering hymns in a low voice, beseeching their god to help them. The hubbub of their voices was almost deafening – there had to be more than a hundred priests in that courtyard. Magic flowed over us: the harsh, pitiless feel of Huitzilpochtli's magic, laid over the cages and the courtyard to prevent the priests from casting any spells.
At the other end, under the pillars, a couple of wooden cages had been set aside for the higher ranks: Tapalcayotl and two other priests sat – it wasn't easy to look dignified and haughty while sitting hunched under a low canopy, but Tapalcayotl managed it. I guessed Acamapichtli had been giving his second-in-command lessons in arrogance.
'Well?' he asked when I came closer. 'I assume you're not here to tell me we're to be freed.'
'Not exactly,' I said.
Dealing with Acamapichtli was bad enough; I didn't have to bear with that kind of attitude from Tapalcayotl, as well. 'You're not in much of a position to argue or make demands.'
Tapalcayotl grimaced. 'Fair enough,' he said at last. 'What do you want?'
'The third sick man – the warrior. Where did he go?'
'He went away?' one of the priests asked.
'Why? He wasn't fit to walk either?'
The priest shook his head. 'He died.'
A dead man?
'There was no corpse. Someone took it away.' Not good; not good at all. Eptli's corpse had still been able to propagate the sickness; I didn't want to see another instance like that.
Tapalcayotl hadn't said anything for a while. He was staring at the rings on his hands as if they held some great truth, his face pinched and twisted. At length, not looking up, he said, 'I think the other warrior took it.'
'Which warrior?'
'He came several times to enquire about the health of Coatl and his companion,' Tapalcayotl said. 'We told him he couldn't have the corpse for funeral ceremonies, and he was angry. He said warriors took care of their own.'
Where had I heard that? 'Did you know him?'
'No. He wasn't a young man, more like the kind you'd expect to have married already – his thighs were covered in battle scars.'
Which about described every warrior who had survived a few battles: their quilted cotton armour didn't protect their legs, and the obsidian edges of the
'He had another scar. Across his face. A sword must have sliced his right cheek open, and gone upwards to the temple.' Tapalcayotl grimaced again. 'My guess is that he was happy to be alive after that.'
'Acatl-tzin,' Teomitl said behind me.
I nodded; got up, as leisurely as I could. The scar was indeed distinctive, and I knew where I had seen it last.
The warrior Chipahua – Eptli's comrade, who had been so frustrated at being deprived of the captive.
We came out of the palace all but running. Teomitl had picked up two Jaguar warriors on the way – we'd run into them outside the aviary, and he'd used his authority as Master of the House of Darts to sweep them up. They didn't look aggrieved; rather, they held themselves with a particular sense of pride – an almost religious devotion, as if they were favoured of some god.
Teomitl's face had taken on the aspect of carved jade again; perhaps it was that, or perhaps his regalia, which was distinctive enough, but the crowd of the Sacred Precinct seemed to part from us, the priests and worshippers shrinking away as if burned by the light.
At the edge of the Sacred Precinct, Teomitl caught two boats with a mere wave of his fingers – two small crafts, poled by women taking their wares back from the marketplace.
'We could have taken a boat from my temple,' I said as I climbed into one of the swaying crafts. The woman's gaze was stubbornly cast down – one did not look the Master of the House of Darkness in the eye.
Teomitl waved a dismissive hand. 'Your temple is too far, Acatltzin. We would waste time.'
The boat slipped into the crowded canals like a knife through the lungs, weaving its way between the coloured crafts carrying baskets of vegetables and cages filled with animals. The woman poled in silence, not looking at either of us – it occurred to me that I was just as impressive as Teomitl in my position of High Priest, holder of wisdom and knowledge; so far high above her I might as well have been sitting on the canopy of a ceiba tree.
'What are you going to do?'
'Warn them.' Teomitl's voice was curt, deadly.
'It might already be too late.' The sickness came fast – faster than it should have, but if it was supernatural, it was only to be expected.
Teomitl's lips tightened. 'You're in a contrary mood.'
I guessed I was; someone needed to temper Teomitl's blind enthusiasm. My place as a teacher demanded no less.
The boat passed under a wooden bridge, a hand's breath from a porter drawing water for a peasant. The houses thinned, growing larger and larger like trees unfolding from the ground – the adobe walls brightly painted, and the gardens on the rooftops spreading a smell of pine cones and dry wood, a sweetness that reminded me of
