'Most priests consider dates important. And I'm pretty sure most High Priests, too.'
'What can I say; I've never been a good candidate for the position.'
'We'd got that,' Yaotl said – mocking and sarcastic, as always.
Mihmatini looked up again, frowned. 'You're the one who looks tired. Don't get me started again on the skeletal look.'
It was a running joke between us – usually when I hadn't got enough sleep or food: I was High Priest of Mictlantecuhtli, not Lord Death himself.
I could just shake my head, pretext fatigue after the illness – and take the coward's way out. It would be so easy – just a few words, a nod in the right place…
And I'd never dare to look her in the face again, if I did that.
'I found Teomitl.'
In the silence that followed, you could have heard maize bloom.
Mihmatini's face had gone as flat as polished obsidian. 'And it didn't occur to you to tell me before?'
'I'm telling you now.' If you'd told me, a year ago, that Yaotl, always so ready with a jest, would be coming to my rescue…
'Where is he?'
I picked my words carefully. 'There are some things you need to hear first.'
'No. I need to see him first,' Mihmatini said.
'Look,' I said, slowly, aware that every new word was another weapon I handed her. 'You know he's never liked Tizoc-tzin – and with the failure of the coronation war…'
Mihmatini's face had gone as brittle as obsidian. 'He wouldn't. Teomitl wouldn't…'
I spread my hands, wishing I could make another answer – heard her breathe, slow and even, her face growing more still and unmoving each time, as if someone were leeching all humanity from her. 'Where is he?' she said at length.
'A house in Zoquipan,' I said. Mihmatini was still watching me, with an odd expression in her eyes – anger, tenderness? Something halfway between the two. 'Look.' I took a deep breath. 'Promise me something?'
She cocked her head, like a bird about to fly – an eagle, not a timid sparrow or a harmless turkey. 'It depends.'
'Take Yaotl,' I said. 'And two priests.'
'Why?' And then she worked it out. 'Acatl, you're a fool. He wouldn't harm me.'
'He wouldn't, no,' I said, finally – though he had changed much. 'But he's not alone in this.' The old woman, whoever she was, the warriors of his entourage, and whoever else in court might be supporting this little power-grab, or whatever else he might have planned.
The Duality curse me, I should have asked him for more information – no, I couldn't have done that, not manipulating my own student into admitting the truth.
Mihmatini folded the calendar, carefully. 'Right. I'll see him,' she said. She took a deep breath and for a moment, an achingly familiar moment, she seemed to loom larger, her arms spread wide enough to hold the Fifth World – no longer my younger sister, but a reflection of the gods she served – a living reminder of her predecessor Ceyaxochitl, who had been small and frail, except in moments such as these.
It wasn't until Mihmatini took a step forward that I became aware of the burning sensation in my throat. Ceyaxochitl had been dead a few months, and grief still caught me at odd times, hooking me like a barbed spear. 'Be careful,' I said.
'Thank you for the advice, but I don't think I need it,' Mihmatini said. She cast a glance around the room and picked up a vivid blue shawl, which she held against her chest, thoughtfully, then folded it back again on top of the reed chest. 'Let's go.'
Yaotl followed his mistress out of the room without demur – which left me alone in my sister's deserted apartments, with a folded calendar and nothing useful to do.
I took a look at the calendar out of sheer conscientiousness. I was no calendar priest, but I could see the same things as Mihmatini. Jade Skirt's influence was rising throughout the month, and it was culminating today, on the Feast of the Sun.
Something bad was going to happen, but I couldn't see what. Something to do with the prisoners – neither the She-Snake nor I were infallible, and there had to be something we hadn't thought of. Another outbreak of the epidemic? We couldn't afford to sacrifice a life for a life. If more people fell ill in the palace, what would we do?
No, I knew what they would do. Both Tizoc-tzin and Quenami, who thought themselves so much above the common folks – they would order us to heal the sick noblemen, not the peasants or the merchants. That wasn't the question. The real question was, what would I do?
And I didn't have any answer. The death of officials would send the Empire into chaos, but to buy our salvation by trading one death for another…
At length, I rose and went back to my temple. I barely had time to check the shrine and our registers before a commotion in the courtyard brought me out. From above, I could see the grey cloaks of my priests, arguing with what looked like a nobleman – quailfeathers' headdress, richly embroidered cloak – and another man
in grey clothes.
As I descended, though, they swam into focus – Quenami, looking harried and wan, and Ichtaca, whose round face was grim. By their frantic breaths, they had run all the way there.
My heart tightened in a clench of ice.
Quenami all but grabbed me as I came down the final stairs, his hands scrabbling at my cloak with the coordination of a drunken man. 'Acatl.' He drew a shuddering breath, but for once he seemed at a loss for words.
'What happened? The prisoners…'
It was Ichtaca who answered, his eyes as hard as cut stones. 'No, not the prisoners, Acatl-tzin. The priests.'
