Obsidian & Blood

  Ichtaca's grimace would have been comical in other circumstances. 'Yes. How many victims have there been?'

  'Too many,' I said, thinking of the palace. 'You know that as well as I do.'

  'It has to be contained.' Ichtaca's face was set in a grimace. 'Unless the Southern Hummingbird…'

  I shook my head. 'He won't intervene.'

  Ichtaca looked almost disappointed, but then, like Teomitl, he'd always been persuaded that our destiny was to conquer the Fifth World. I'd never been quite as enthusiastic. Like Coatl or Itamatl, I tended to think that wars were His province, and that He granted His favours as He saw fit.

  Which didn't excuse murder, or the casting of dangerous spells.

  Ichtaca, after the initial moment of uncertainty, appeared to have rallied. 'Then it has to be contained.'

  'Easy to say. We're all working on it.'

  'I know,' Ichtaca said. He flipped his knife upwards, staring at the blade. 'You think it's Chalchiuhtlicue?'

  'I don't think so.' But still… one way or another, She was in the game, and Her magic was loose in the Fifth World, used against the Mexica Empire. And Her magic was tied to Teomitl, and She could drag him into Her little games – a train of thought I would gladly have done without.

  'About healing the sickness…?' I asked.

  'That's what your sister's priests are working on.'

  He'd always been much better at crafting new rituals than me. 'I know. But Nezahual-tzin told me that there might be a way, with Toci's magic.'

  'Grandmother Earth?' Ichtaca shrugged. 'Appealing to Her stability and solidity. Yes, it might work. At any rate, it can't make things worse.'

  'We need to try,' I said. 'There are two people in the palace–'

  'I know. I'll see your sister's priests and see if we can work something together. What about you, Acatl- tzin?'

  I looked at the bodies again, spread out pathetically in the sunlight, every one of them holding pain beyond my imagination, every one of them a sacrifice building power for someone who wished us no good. A few priests were still examining them – among them familiar faces, like Palli, a burly nobleman's son who had taken to the priesthood like an ahuizotl to water. His face was creased in a familiar frown, trying to work something out.

  'I'm going to find some answers.' I grasped the cane so hard my knuckles whitened.

  Ichtaca frowned. 'You should get a bit of rest. I'll call for a priest of Patecatl.'

  Why was everyone so suddenly concerned about my wellbeing? 'There's more at stake than my health.'

  'Which doesn't mean it's unimportant.' Ichtaca's face was disturbingly shrewd.

  Ahead, Palli raised his head, and gestured towards us. 'Acatl-tzin!'

  'What is it?'

  'You have to see this!'

  'If it can be moved, bring it here,' Ichtaca said, 'Acatl-tzin is in no state to walk.' He threw me a meaningful glance, almost a threat to get some rest.

  Palli scrambled to his feet, and all but ran the distance that separated us, his sandals squelching in the mud. 'Acatl-tzin.' His hand was wrapped in cloth; and on the cloth was something – a small, shrivelled thing that stank of Chalchiuhtlicue's magic.

  'I found it on Eptli,' he said, almost apologetically. 'Didn't dare touch it.'

  'What is it?' Ichtaca asked.

  'The object,' I said. 'The vector of the sickness.'

  Palli angled it so that it caught the light: it was a small, translucent tube, with the remnants of a fine powder inside. And something else was carved on its flaring end – it looked like a hand, holding a stick?

  No, not a stick. It was…

  'This?' Ichtaca shook his head. 'I can't possibly see–'

  'I can,' I said, darkly. 'Before it was crunched up like this, it was a hollowed-out feather stem.'

  'Money?' Ichtaca asked. 'But there is no gold inside.'

  No, and I couldn't identify the powder inside, which was an uncanny shade of yellow – a colour too light to be cacao, too dark to be maize flour. 'It's symbolic money. The powder is probably the vector; the feather is the package. It gives it significance.'

  'You mean it represents money. I still don't see–'

  'There is something carved on it,' I said. 'What do you think it is?'

  Everyone squinted at it. At length, Palli said, doubtfully, 'I think it's a hand holding a curved blade.'

  'I suppose so.' Ichtaca didn't sound convinced. 'Acatl-tzin, I don't understand…'

  But I did. The hand holding a curved blade: the symbol of Itztlacoliuhqui, the Curved Point of Obsidian, god of frost and of justice – as cold and as unyielding as retribution. And the money: a single feather, an offering with the promise of more to come.

  A bribe. Justice for a bribe.