'What's all the fuss?' the leader of the warriors asked.
'They say they're looking for a priest.'
'Are they.' His gaze narrowed, focused on me – appraising my worth. 'The High Priest for the Dead.' He jerked a thumb in the general direction of the inner courtyard. 'What a happy coincidence. As it turns out, you're expected in here.'
In here? Three of the burly warriors had deployed in the courtyard, looming over us, and their leader was grinning like someone who held all the weapons, and knew it. 'Fine,' I said. 'I might as well not keep your master waiting.'
They laughed at that, as if I'd said something witty – which I'd clearly not done.
I felt as if something had changed when we entered the house – something indefinable, which tightened the air and made it harder to breathe. The courtyard was sunny, and as we passed through two more it seemed like a nobleman's house – with slaves grinding maize into flour, women weaving maguey fibres with the familiar clack of their looms. Except… except that there were warriors everywhere, casually leaning against pillars – hefting their
Palli had gone rigid – I focused on my breath, coming in and out of my lungs; on the faint touch of Lord Death on my skin, a wind that raised goosebumps on my arms. I was High Priest for the Dead, and they couldn't touch me – they wouldn't dare.
At last, we reached the centre of the house. A small flight of steps led to a grander room, wide and airy with rich frescoes. At the back of the room, seated on a low-backed chair, was the owner of the house.
She was a woman – and old enough to be my own grandmother, with bent limbs and hundreds of wrinkles on her round face. But the gaze she directed towards us was sharp, and, when she moved, she exuded enough magic to choke the life out of us.
I knelt on the mat before her – couldn't help noticing the stains of blood, scrubbed but never removed. Was this where Nezahualtzin's missing warriors had died? The air seemed to shimmer with the heaviness of the grave – the magic of Grandmother Earth, who had birthed us and would receive us all.
'So you're the priest.' Her voice was mildly curious – kind, almost, save that her tone was firm, and obsidian lay beneath every word, sharp and cutting.
'We're looking for a priest,' I said, slowly.
'And with no more idea of the stakes than a child breaking maize stalks before the harvest.'
That stung. 'You're the one who sent Nezahual-tzin back, weren't you? 'He's coming.' He said what you told him to say.'
'A warning you'd do well enough to heed.' She rose – I could feel her more than see her, but she moved with a grace and fluidity uncanny for her age. Her shadow fell over me, and she seemed so much larger than she ought to have been – the room smelled of dry earth, of rotten leaves, and the hand she laid on my shoulder was curved claws, pricking my skin to the blood. 'You have little idea of what you're playing with, priest.' I heard a sound, a breath coming in rapid gasps – and it was mine, it had always been mine…
Far, far away, someone pulled an entrance-curtain, the tinkle of bells a muffled sound that could not impinge on her presence, on the five fingers laid on my shoulder, each a sharp, painful touch on my exposed skin.
'He's mine.'
'Yours?' The hand withdrew; the presence, too. My heart thudded against my chest, begging to be let out of its cage of ribs.
'Of course. Aren't you, Acatl-tzin?'
Slowly, carefully, I rose – for I knew the voice, as well as my own, all too well…
Teomitl stood framed in the doorway, his feather headdress of quetzal plumes, his cloak a deep, almost turquoise blue, and with jewellery shining at his throat and wrists. Clothes fit for a Revered Speaker; the old, thoughtless arrogance transfigured, too, into deliberate authority.
'You–'
He waved a dismissive hand, and the air seemed to tighten with each sweep of his fingers. 'Not here, Acatl-tzin. Come. We need to talk.'
Did we indeed. I brushed dirt and dried blood from my cloak, stood as straight as I could – not shaking, not shouting, standing with a calmness I didn't feel, not one bit…
'Teomitl-tzin…' There was someone else behind him – a calendar priest, judging by his garb. Our missing priest, Quauhtli. And something about him…
Teomitl shook his head. 'I've got all I need. Thank you.'
Quauhtli's face lit up, far too fast and too strongly to be a natural feeling. 'It was my duty, Teomitl-tzin.' His eyes were open slightly too wide; his gestures, as he moved into the room, were those of a drunken man, and I didn't need true sight to see Jade Skirt's magic etched in every limb and every muscle.
'You–' I started, but Teomitl shook his head.
'I told you. Not here. Let's go out.'
I thought we'd be alone, but two warriors followed us at some distance – close enough to hear everything. Teomitl made no remark, merely accepted their presence with the same ease Nezahual-tzin accepted his own bodyguards. He looked – leaner, somehow, more dangerous than he had, as if something had broken irremediably within him.
'We've been looking for you,' I said. It seemed like such an inadequate way to express the turmoil within me.
He shrugged. 'I had things to do. To safeguard the Empire.'
'Such as suborning calendar priests?' I shouldn't have antagonised him this early in the discussion, but I couldn't help it.
Teomitl's face set in a grimace. 'We've already had this talk, Acatl-tzin. I'll do whatever is necessary to protect the Mexica.'
Go on, I thought. Say it. Teomitl was, if nothing else, scrupulously honest; these… evasions ill-suited him. 'And you think you know better than your brother?'
He grimaced again. 'Tizoc? We can dance around like warriors at the gladiator-stone, and it won't change the truth. My brother is a sick man.'
