further deaths…
Southern Hummingbird strike me, I couldn't see a way out of this. If only I could make my way over to Mihmatini… I was about to move towards her when something brushed against me: the touch of some magic, like cold fingers lingering on my skin, sending chills into my heart. It might have been one of the artisans, but the spell was unerring, casting aside my protections as if they were nothing. Unless we had a sorcerer hidden among the artisans, it couldn't be any of them. I raised my gaze and, through the corner of one eye, I caught a glimpse of a man at the other courtyard entrance – the one that led deeper into the palace, where only a few frightened servants had lingered. He wore rags, but leant against one of the pillars with the casual, relaxed attitude of noblemen – and the profile. The lean, aristocratic face was achingly familiar.
It couldn't be…
Acamapichtli?
Calling through the din of the crowd would have been futile. Instead, I made my way further in – away from the pack tearing at the guards, the crowd becoming thinner and thinner as I retreated. I'd have broken into a run, if only I didn't feel so weak. Instead, I all but limped to the other end and by the time I reached the entrance, there was no one there.
I looked left and right, but even the servants had left. Had I imagined the whole thing? Acamapichtli was under arrest, like the rest of his clergy – kept in a cell where his powers would be weakened; kept under guard, so he couldn't plot against Tizoc-tzin (futile… Acamapichtli plotted as he breathed).
Just as I was about to head back into the courtyard, the magic came again: a weaker touch, skilfully drawing aside my protections – an invitation to step forward. I followed it into the next courtyard, and then into another, which was bare and deserted, the flowers in the earth wilted. The cane scraped against the ground, the echo of this the only sound within the courtyard.
Footsteps came from one of the buildings around the courtyard. I hobbled painstakingly towards it, but Acamapichtli was pulling the entrance-curtain open long before I finished crossing the courtyard.
'Well, fancy meeting you here.' His face was creased in a sarcastic smile.
He looked much as he always had: his face lean and haughty, his eyes deep-set, his lips curved in sardonic joy. Save, of course, that he no longer wore the headdress of heron feathers that had marked him as the slave of his god, the loyal servant of the city – and that his cloak was of maguey fibres, more suitable for a commoner than for a High Priest. His hair, unbound, fell down to his feet, black and lanky, stiff with the blood of his offerings. Deprived of the black paint on his face, he looked curiously effeminate, the aggression all but smoothed out of his features.
'So it
He raised a hand. 'Later. There isn't much time. Come in, will you?'
'You mean they'll be looking for you?'
Acamapichtli grimaced. 'Of course. I used the chaos, but it won't last forever. Don't make me waste my time, Acatl.'
'Are you telling me the truth?'
Acamapichtli frowned. 'I'll swear it on Tlaloc, if that's what it takes. On the Provider, the Ruler of the Blessed Drowned, the Lord of the Sweet-Scented Marigold, He who holds the jars of rain.'
My doubt must have shown on my face, for he added, with the same old impatience, 'Don't be a fool. I have mocked you and schemed against you, but have you ever known me to lie to you?'
The worst thing was, I couldn't remember if he had. Unlike Tizoc-tzin, I didn't keep a tally of who had offended me, and when. 'Not under oath,' I admitted, grudgingly.
I stepped into the room, and Acamapichtli let the entrance-curtain fall. It appeared to be an artisan's workshop: fragments of feathers and precious stones were still spread out on reed mats, and a half-completed shield, showing the outline of a coyote in red feathers, lay in a corner, against the brazier.
I laid the cane down, and leant against the wall, trying to appear casual – in spite of the rapid beat of my heart. Acamapichtli watched me, smiling sardonically; I doubted he was much taken in by my pretence of calm.
'Fine,' I said. 'If you're here, you might as well tell me about this.' I reached into the small bag I carried with me, and fished out the distorted black thing I'd taken out of Teomitl's body. s
'Is that–?'
'Taken from the body of a sick man,' I said, unwilling to admit Teomitl had been sick. 'You said you only had a few hours–'
'Yes, yes.' Acamapichtli waved a dismissive hand. 'But this is more important. Give me one of your blades, will you?' He gestured at his clothing with a sharp, joyless laugh. 'I'm not quite as wellequipped as I should be.'
'It's been dedicated to Mictlantecuhtli,' I said, slowly. And the magic of Mictlantecuhtli Lord Death would be anathema to that of Tlaloc – but Acamapichtli shook his head. 'It should do. I just need it to draw blood.'
If, a year ago, someone had told me I would be standing in a deserted room helping the High Priest of Tlaloc safeguard us against an epidemic… I might have laughed, or railed, or done four hundred other things, but I wouldn't have believed it.
Acamapichtli laid the creature on the floor, with an almost reverent care. Muttering under his breath, he slashed his earlobes and the back of his left hand, and let the blood drip down onto the ground.
Mist pooled out from the place the blood had struck the ground, spreading fast, as if someone had pierced a hole in the wall of a steam house. It climbed up, clinging to the back of Acamapichtli's hand where he had cut himself, and the air itself became tight, hard to breathe, tinged with the characteristic, marshy smell of Tlaloc's magic.
'With a sprinkle, with a few drops of dew
Let us be blessed with fullness and abundance
