'He knew it was for the glory of the gods, for the Fifth Sun and Grandmother Earth. But I think, all too often, he saw his own glory first.' He sighed, again, as if he were a calendar priest, closing the divination books on Pochtic's life. 'Ah well. It doesn't matter, now. Never will again.'
Suicides, like the rest of the unglorious dead, went to Mictlan. Given enough time, we could summon the dead man's soul, find out what he had known.
I suspected we didn't have that kind of time.
'If you didn't take a bribe…' I said, slowly.
He looked up, with a brief spark of anger in his eyes – nothing unnatural or false there. He may have been acting, but I'd interviewed him earlier and had seen that, while he might have many talents, subtle acting wasn't among them. 'How many times will I need to tell you I didn't?'
'It's not that,' I said, throwing up both hands like a shield. 'My point is that someone still accused you of taking it.'
'Who?'
Judging by the gleam in his eyes, I wasn't sure I ought to tell him. But still, he'd find it easily enough. 'A sacred courtesan, Xiloxoch. And it looks like several of you were approached with this. By Eptli.'
'Eptli.' Coatl's voice was bitter. 'He's been a worse companion dead than alive, I have to say.'
I had to agree there. 'And you don't remember this, either?'
Coatl shrugged. 'I know what you want.' For the first time, there was anger in his gaze. 'Eptli was one of my men, and whether he's dead or not, I won't see his name being soiled by chaff and straw. If I have nothing to say against him, I won't invent calumnies.'
'Look,' I said. He'd just been healed from the sickness, and he couldn't possibly have understood how everything had gone wrong. 'Chipahua and his household are dead. The Master of the House of Darts has vanished. We have further warriors with the illness, and someone has been writing threats against the Mexica Empire in the prisoners' quarters.' Gods, put like that, it became rather overwhelming.
'And you see me sorry for it,' Coatl said, 'but there is nothing much I can do to help you.'
I could recognise obstruction when I saw it. 'Fine,' I said, stifling a sigh. 'If you can think of anything that would shed light on those matters, keep me in mind.'
'Of course,' he said, but we both knew he was lying.
EIGHTEEN
Palli caught up with me as I was walking out of the palace – we'd left Ichtaca with Pochtic's body, still mumbling to himself. I wasn't sure how much of it was sheer annoyance at my position on the healing ritual, and how much was his detecting a genuine problem.
Never mind. We could both argue until we ran out of breath, but I wouldn't change my position. I had the uncomfortable feeling Ichtaca wouldn't, either.
'Acatl-tzin,' Palli said. 'I know you asked me to track down the calendar priest, but it's likely he'll be at his temple. We can go together, if you want.'
I glanced at the sky: the hour of Xochipilli the Flower Prince, with the Fifth Sun at His zenith. Palli was right: most of them would be having lunch. 'Let's have a look.'
We stopped for a quick lunch, buying spiced tamales from a vendor and eating the warm food with relief.
The calendar priests had their own temple, a low complex with a small pyramid shrine. As Palli and I walked in, a priest was busy directing a painter to add day-signs to a fresco; others were carrying copies of the sacred calendars back to storage rooms, while novice priests ground pigments in the huge stone mortars. A few more sat cross-legged, annotating horoscopes and pondering favourable dates for their supplicants' endeavours. The air smelled of fried maize more than copal smoke, an odd change after the atmosphere of the Sacred Precinct.
The first calendar priest we found directed us to his superior – who directed us to his superior in turn, until we found ourselves facing the head of the order, a portly man with a stern face, who looked as displeased by our request as by the prospect of being disturbed at his lunch.
'Acatl-tzin.' He managed to radiate disapproval even over his utterance of my name. 'I'm told you're looking for a calendar priest.'
I nodded, and wasn't surprised when he launched into a speech on confession. 'As you're well aware, the priest is but the vessel through which confessions are made to the Eater of Filth. He may not repeat the words, for they haven't been spoken in the Fifth World…'
I used the pause in the discourse to insert a few words of my own. 'I know that, and I don't want to know the contents of the confession. I just want to speak to the priest who received it.'
That stopped him. 'Why?'
'The words are out of the Fifth World; the offence, too. But there are other things I might learn.'
His eyes narrowed. 'Thus going around the interdict. I thought you a more devout man, Acatl-tzin.'
One could say I had elevated our survival to a devotion. I bit back a sharp retort, and said only, 'Most men who call on the Eater of Filth don't commit suicide afterwards.'
He clicked his tongue in a falsely compassionate way. 'I see your problem. However, I don't think I can be of help.'
The calendar priest who had referred us to him – their equivalent of a fire priest – hadn't left; he was standing by the entrance-curtain, his face set in the peculiar expression of people working hard at concealing their thoughts. 'I see,' I said, rising from the mat. 'My apologies for taking up your time.'
I let the other calendar priest escort us out – sounds of mastication behind us, coupled with the strong smell of spices and grilled maize, made it clear the head of the order had gone back to his delayed lunch.
