The plague. The night of fever, the squirming bodies pressed against mine – the pain like nails scraping corn from my belly. 'I'm not entirely sure I see what you mean.' What was I doing, taking advice from a foreign warrior – one of our sworn enemies?
No. I was being ridiculous. That he was a warrior or a foreigner had ceased to matter: days before his sacrifice, he stood above us, below us – closer to the world of the gods than any priest or sorcerer.
I walked, slowly, painfully to the walls, ran my hands on them – felt the magic deep within, quivering with anger and rage, like waves in a stormy lake – felt it shiver at my touch as though it recognised me – like a jaguar scenting a wounded prey. 'And you think they were here for the spells.'
Cuixtli didn't answer for a while. 'The official was clearly looking for them, though they didn't affect him as badly as they did you.'
Spells of rage and anger, to unseat the Mexica Empire – to unseat Tizoc-tzin. Who hated us enough for this?
Xiloxoch, or Yayauhqui. I didn't think Itamatl had had enough rage in him for this.
'And the courtesan?' Cuixtli had disapproved of Xiloxoch.
'I don't know. She might just be what she seems, picking up Zoquitl's things.'
'But–?' I asked, hearing the scepticism in his voice.
Cuixtli shrugged. 'She brims with magic, too – and she's far too curious.'
I nodded. 'Do you think she has something to do with the spell?'
Cuixtli's hands pointed, briefly, towards the wall. 'I don't know. Whoever drew this is angry. They want justice.'
Justice for what? For the Empire? For Eptli's transgression? The Duality take me, I had even fewer answers than before.
SIXTEEN
On the way out of the palace, I met Yayauhqui, the Tlatelolcan merchant. He was at the head of a group of similarly-clad men, carrying heavy baskets bulging with clothes.
'Acatl-tzin, what a surprise.'
I wasn't altogether sure it was a coincidence; I was uncomfortably reminded of Nezahual-tzin's warnings about the Tlatelolcans. 'What are you doing here?'
Yayauhqui shrugged. 'Paying tribute.'
'I didn't know you did that.'
'Ordinarily, no. But our governor has had… an accident.'
'What kind of accident?'
Yayauhqui gestured at the palace. 'The same kind of incident you have within, I'd guess. He's very ill.'
That didn't seem to fit in with the Tlatelolcan plot – unless they were punishing the governor for collaborating with the Mexica? 'You know more about this than you're telling us.'
Yayauhqui looked surprised. 'No. Why would I?'
'I'm told you were far more than an ordinary warrior of Tlatelolco.'
Yayauhqui's face didn't move, save for a slight tightening around the eyes – it was uncanny to see the amount of control he could exert on his own emotions; or, rather, the effort it took him to display any strong feeling. 'What if I was?'
'You were of imperial blood,' I said, slowly. 'And your own family was cast down.'
His lips quirked up in a smile. 'My family had given up on me long before that, Acatl-tzin. Any branch that bore no flower was pruned at the roots.'
'And you'll still pretend to me Tlatelolco's defeat meant nothing to you?'
Yayauhqui's face did not move. 'Of course not. I've already told you what I think about that. But, really, what does it change whether I was of imperial blood or not? Do you think it's no less the city of merchants and peasants than it was that of the Imperial Family?'
My own parents had been the first to praise the wars we waged – and to feel proud of what our warriors achieved. 'You're right,' I said, slowly. 'But still – you had more of a stake in the existence of Tlatelolco as an independent city-state.'
Yayauhqui shrugged. 'We can argue politics for a while, but we'd both be bored.'
As usual, his perception of his opponent bordered on the uncanny. 'Humour me,' I said.
'What do you want to know? Personally, I think Moquihuix-tzin was a fool.' He must have seen the shock on my face, for he laughed. 'He wasn't my brother or my uncle; just a distant cousin. And yes, most of us knew, or suspected what he was up to.'
'Which was? '
'The plot.' He snorted. 'Moquihuix truly loved his city, and I can't blame him for that. But he always had delusions of grandeur – wanting to make us bigger than we could bear. In many ways, he was thinking too much like a Tenochca.'
