we were going.
'And they don't know where it started?'
If Ichtaca had had less of a sense of decorum, he'd have thrown his hands up. 'The priests of Huitzilpochtli are quite… competent.'
'But not enough?' I guessed, shrewdly. They were Quenami's order, and Quenami had never had to handle a massive panic.
'You're assuming Quenami will be capable of something beyond court intrigue,' Mihmatini said, curtly – she'd insisted on accompanying us, when it had become clear that the emergency concerned her as well.
'To be fair,' Ichtaca said with a grimace, 'I'm not sure we'd have handled it better. It's work for the clergy of Tlaloc.'
Who inconveniently happened to be locked in cages, awaiting Tizoc-tzin's pleasure.
The courtyards we passed were all but deserted, the entrancecurtains closed with the finality of barricades. From time to time, a pale face would peek between the curtains – and withdraw just as fast, as if unable to meet our gaze.
Gradually, the noise grew: it was the priests of Huitzlipochtli arguing with burly warriors, trying to convince them they should stay inside, wait for the contagion to be ended.
'And when in the Fifth World do you think this is going to happen?' One of the warriors waved his
'I assure you–' the priest said in a quavering voice.
'Great work,' Mihmatini muttered under her breath. I winced, but said nothing. Ichtaca likewise made no comment, but quickened his pace – forcing me to stay the same if I wanted to remain ahead of him.
There were more priests in the following courtyards, and the same total lack of mastery: they stood in doorways, arguing with irate warriors and noblemen – with mothers holding out wailing children, and old women who looked totally unfazed by any of their finery. As we neared the centre, it got worse and worse; the quarrels louder, the priests more numerous but equally ineffective, and the people milling outside, hoping to break the containment, becoming more and more dispersed.
And, in the last courtyard, there was a crowd – not densely packed, but at least a hundred people, mostly artisans, judging by their garb, and by the handful of feathers and precious stones scattered on the ground. From somewhere within the hubbub, I caught Quenami's raised voice: 'You see, we have to–'
He didn't see. Like most artisans, they worked within the palace, but didn't sleep there. Their workshops were there – and, granted, their whole families had come with them, helping them glue feathers or mosaic beads, or sort out precious stones, but they certainly hadn't expected to be all but imprisoned in the palace.
Mihmatini was already pushing her way towards the centre, and Ichtaca and my priests followed in her wake, but the noise of the crowd was growing – a rolling wave of discontent that wouldn't be quelled by Quenami's words. It was going to burst.
Mihmatini had reached the centre. I caught angry words, presumably coming from one of the priests, and her own voice, raised to carry. 'There is no cause for alarm…'
I was still lagging behind when it all broke down: one moment I was slowly making my way through a crowd of angry artisans, the next moment people were pressed against me, trying to hit me, to hit each other, anger palpable in the air. I couldn't see my priests, or Mihmatini, and the noise around me was only the wordless murmur of the crowd.
I tried to reach up with my one free hand, to slash my earlobes and whisper a prayer to Lord Death – which would have endowed me with the cold of the underworld, keeping the mob at bay, but they were too numerous, I couldn't…
Instead, I was all but carried by the crowd to the edge of the courtyard: it wasn't anger at the priests that drove them, but desire to leave the palace. I understood, but I couldn't not condone. For all we knew, several among them were already contaminated, carrying the sickness everywhere within the palace. They had to be stopped – and, indeed, the She-Snake's guards were already pulling up at the entrance to the courtyard, their uniforms a stark black against the adobe, their faces pale in the afternoon light – leeched of all colours, save the glint of their spears, the colours of their feather-shields.
The crowd in which I was caught wavered and came to a stop – and, for a bare moment, I dared to hope I might somehow slip away, turn back, and make my tottering way to Mihmatini and my priests – but then one artisan, more adventurous than one of his fellows, threw an adze at the leftmost guard.
The guard ducked, but the crowd was inflamed: the first ranks flung themselves at the guard, heedless of their spears. They fell back, cut, but there were always more artisans to take their place…
Buffeted here and there, I nevertheless managed to reach up with my free hand and, without a knife, rub at my earlobes, ignoring the growing pain until a sharper stab of pain told me I'd succeeded in removing the scabs from my previous offerings. The blood that stained my hands was only a few drops, but it would suffice.
Cold rose up, caught me in its embrace – gradually extinguishing every other feeling until it was all I could feel. The people on either side of me – two burly artisans weighing precious stones as if they were weapons – shrank back, and I used the opportunity to make my way out of the crowd, pointing the cane ahead of me like a weapon. I came to a rest under the row of pillars surrounding the courtyard. A few hostile gazes followed me: if I didn't move away, I'd be the next person they threw adzes at.
Where was Mihmatini?
A soft, dappled radiance came from the centre of the courtyard: the press of artisans had shrunk there, become almost a huddle. I caught a glimpse of Quenami's haughty face, and Mihmatini in hurried conversation with Ichtaca and two artisans. It didn't look as though they were fighting.
At the courtyard's entrance, the guards were putting up a valiant fight, but they would not last long and I couldn't see how we would prevent them from leaving at all: more carriers of the plague in the heart of the city,
