'I don't see why,' Teomitl said. But he looked down, at his splinted leg, and sighed. 'You'll summon me?'
'Promise,' I said, praying that the next time I was involved with the underworld, it would be safe enough for him to accompany me. 'Go home, and take care of that leg.'
'Very well,' Teomitl said, grudgingly. 'But I'll hold you to this, Acatl-tzin.' He started limping towards the Sacred Precinct, then turned, a few paces from me. 'And don't forget to be careful with those wounds!'
His attitude – thoughtless arrogance, the strange, buoyant mood that propelled him through life – was not only that of a warrior, but that of a nobleman's son. Where had Ceyaxochitl found him?
Left to my own devices, I walked back to Neutemoc's house. I made my way through the network of Tenochtitlan's canals – under deserted bridges, past houses lit up by late-night revelry, where snatches of music and loud laugher wafted into the street, a memory of what I couldn't have.
I prayed that there was still time left to avert the disaster.
TEN
Despite the late hour, Neutemoc's house was still lit, though the only sounds that pierced the night were the lilting tones of a poet reciting his latest composition. Cradling my bandaged arm in my good hand, I walked to the door.
'Yes?' the slave who was guarding the entrance to the courtyard asked. He was a burly man, with macuahitl scars on his legs: a veteran of some battlefield, though only the Duality knew how he had fallen low enough to sell himself into slavery. 'What do you want?' His voice was contemptuous.
Only then did I realise what I must look like. My cloak had been torn to make the bandages that now covered my naked chest, and I stank of pulque alcohol like a base drunkard. In fact, it was a good thing I hadn't met a guard on my way through the city, or I'd have been arrested for drunkenness. And for a priest, that offence carried the death penalty.
'I'm Huei's brother-in-law,' I said. 'I need to see her.'
'She has no time for–' The slave sniffed.
'Beggars?' I asked, infuriated. 'I've looked better, but I'm certainly not about to ask for her charity. Will you let me in?'
He didn't look as though he was about to. Luckily for me, someone crossed the courtyard to see what was causing all the noise.
'Acatl?' my sister Mihmatini asked. She wore a pristine dress of white cotton, with a simple embroidery of sea-shells along the hem, and her hair was impeccably combed.
I felt ashamed of what I looked like, compared to her. 'Can you convince the guard here to let me in? I need to speak to Huei, quickly.'
'Huei?' Her eyes widened. 'Is it about Neutemoc?'
I shook my head. I still hadn't felt the familiar cold in my bones. But I was trying not to think of the old, old cenote south of Tenochtitlan, the fissure opening in the rock to reveal the stillness of an underground lake; and how the air above that lake would be growing darker and darker, as the Wind of Knives coalesced into existence at the only gateway He could pass through without being summoned.
'I need to talk to her,' I said.
'If you wish, if you wish,' Mihmatini said, sniffing. 'He's with me,' she announced to the slave, who clearly disapproved but didn't dare contradict her. 'You're hurt,' she added, to me, as I stepped gingerly into the courtyard. 'What in the Fifth World have you been doing?'
'Later. Please.'
Mihmatini grimaced, but she asked no further questions as she led me into the reception room.
It was almost deserted, though bearing the traces of a long banquet: remnants of food in clay dishes, left on the reed mats; the smell of copal incense thick in the air, barely disguising that of spices and chocolate; and feather-fans, left propped against the dais. Only Huei and a few slaves remained – and the poet: an old man with a cloak of red cotton, and a headdress of yellow feathers, who turned to us with a hostile gaze as we entered.
'And what is the meaning of this?' he asked, drawing himself to his full height.
Too tired to bother with politeness, I merely jerked a finger in the direction of the entrance-curtain. 'Get out.'
'I am Icnoyotl, the Flower Speaker of Coatlan. I can't be dismissed like a slave boy.'
'Actually,' I said, marching towards him, 'I think you can. Get out. Or I'll throw you out.'
A doubtful argument, given my wounds, and he knew it.
Huei's gaze moved from me to the poet, and she said, 'Icnoyotl, can you leave us alone? I'll pay you tomorrow.'
'It's not about payment,' the poet grumbled as he wrapped his cloak around his shoulders. 'A man has his pride, you know. Professional pride…'
Huei also gestured for the slaves to step out. They scattered into the night like a frightened flock of birds. I didn't care. Not any more.
'So,' Huei said when the poet had left, escorted by Mihmatini. Neutemoc's wife sat, gracefully, on the dais, wearing a skirt embroidered with running deer, and a matching shirt. Around her wrists were bracelets of gold and jade: Neutemoc's wedding gift to her, a token of their love.
A lie. Had there ever been love, in their marriage? Had she ever been truthful with me?
'What do you want, Acatl?' Her voice was frosty. 'I hope you have a good reason for offending Icnoyotl.'
