brief moment, at the entrance to the inner chambers before the black-clad guards of the SheSnake decided we were entitled to be there, and waved us in with a wave of their hands.
Inside, the atmosphere was stifling, both because of the sheer number of people packed into such a small space, and because I could feel the death – taste it on my tongue like some rotten fruit, like something stuck across my windpipe, all but choking the life out of me.
I'd never seen that – not at any death scene I'd attended, no matter how protracted or painful the agony had been. Beside me, I felt Ichtaca pause, his gaze roaming left and right, trying to understand what had happened. If I joined him and we pooled our forces, it would be child's play to work it out – to see what was fundamentally wrong, grating at me like a missing limb…
No. I was High Priest, and my place wasn't at the back, but further ahead in the press, where the most important men would be in attendance.
The people gathered around the reed mat were familiar: Tizoctzin and his sycophant, Quenami; the She- Snake, and the familiar, coolly relaxed countenance of Nezahual-tzin – in addition to several warriors who served as escorts, and two frightened slaves who were doing their best to look innocuous.
In fact, it almost looked like the last time, save that the man in the centre – Pochtic – looked quite past any kind of help. Death had relaxed the muscles, so that the small obsidian dagger in his hand now lay half-across the stones of the floor. Like Acamapichtli, he'd used it to brutal efficiency – not slashing across his wrists, but digging deep inside to reach the arteries. The blood had spurted in great gouts, staining the floor underneath, but I could feel no magic, no latent power within. Either he'd offered it to a god as he died – which would have been odd, as he'd stated quite clearly the god he worshipped was Tezcatlipoca, the Smoking Mirror, a god of war who preferred human hearts as sacrificial offerings, and not something as cowardly as the slitting of wrists. Or…
Or something else had been wrong with him. He could already have pledged himself as a sacrifice, been a dead man walking, like the council two months ago – a sacrifice in abeyance, payment for a task already performed.
One thing was sure: his death wasn't making our Revered Speaker any happier. 'I want to know who did this.' Tizoc-tzin's face was livid. 'I want them arrested, and punished – wood or stone, it wouldn't matter. I want them gone.'
The wood of executioners' maces, the stones cast at adulterers and murderers.
The She-Snake was kneeling on the ground, his gaze fixed on the body. I'd expected to see Teomitl, but he still wasn't there. What in the Fifth World was he up to? Too much, I guessed. 'By the looks of it, my Lord, I would say there aren't many people to punish,' the She-Snake said.
'What do you mean?'
The She-Snake saw me approaching, and threw me a glance that was almost apologetic. 'It was by his own hand.'
There was silence. 'Coward,' Tizoc-tzin said, voicing what everyone thought.
I knelt by Pochtic's side, looking at the body. Neat cuts, without any flinching. I hadn't thought anyone could do that, but it certainly couldn't have happened in a fight. Nevertheless… there were ways and means to force compliance. But no, I couldn't feel any magic in the room.
No… not quite. There was something: a thin thread of brown and a reddish-yellow colour, a twin invocation to Grandmother Earth and Tonatiuh the Fifth Sun. Odd. Joint magics were so rare as to be…
Wait a moment. I stared at the face for a while, but saw nothing but the slackness of death. His earlobes, like mine, were covered in scar tissue from his many blood offerings, and there were more scars under the lip, but nothing…
Gently, I tipped the head towards me – the rigidity of Xolotl's passage hadn't yet settled in, and I managed to open the mouth. The light of braziers glimmered on the congealed saliva within the palate, but the bulk of the cavity was occupied by the tongue, which had swollen to more than twice its normal size. My fingers caught on the raised trace of a wound: it had been a single hole at one point, but repeated passages of some foreign object had enlarged the wound to a gaping hole–
Penance. And a rather extreme form. If he had been a priest, it would have been normal, but he had been a warrior and an official. Which left the other explanation.
I got up, brushing dust from my cloak, and turned around, taking in the scene. The brazier was piled with resinous wood, and the air still smelled faintly – not only of the acridity of copal incense, but also of a more unfamiliar mixture.
'He saw a calendar priest, to speak to Tlazolteotl,' I said, aloud.
'To confess his cowardice.' Tizoc-tzin's voice was scornful.
Nezahual-tzin – who hadn't said anything so far – looked sceptical. I felt much the same. Confession to Tlazolteotl, the Eater of Filth, served but one purpose: to void the justice of the Fifth World, by cleansing away the impurities of sin.
'There are more pressing matters. Such as conspiracies within the palace.'
And the plague within the palace didn't matter, perhaps?
'My Lord…' The Sne-Snake said cautiously, like a man crossing a bridge of frayed ropes. 'Nothing so far has suggested that there is a conspiracy.'
'I can feel it,' Tizoc-tzin hissed. 'And so can he.' He stabbed a finger in my direction.
Every single pair of eyes – from the She-Snake to the councilmen – turned in my direction, making me wish I could open a portal and disappear into Mictlan. 'I'm not sure what you mean,' I said, cautiously.
'You've been investigating. Tracking down the enemies of the Mexica Empire.'
Well, lost for lost… I found my voice from the faraway place where it had fled. 'Pochtic took a bribe, my Lord. So did Coatl.'
There was a pause. 'Ridiculous. You're mistaken, priest.'
'Those are serious accusations,' the She-Snake said, gravely. 'But it's not the first time they have been made, which I suppose lends them some credence. Nevertheless – I fail to see what this has got to do with anything.'
