But there were other, deeper worries: the Fifth World would not last if Tlaloc tumbled Tonatiuh, the Sun God, from the sky. Everything would once more be plunged into the primal darkness.
'This way,' Teomitl said, as we reached the first of Cuepopan's Floating Gardens. He steered Neutemoc from island to island with small gestures; my brother said nothing, only rowed like a man who had nothing to lose any more.
The Floating Gardens were silent. With the rain, no peasants planted seeds, or tilled the fields. It was as if everything had withdrawn from the world, save for the steady patter of rain on the water, and the regular, splashing sound of Neutemoc's oars, leading us ever closer to our goal.
And a couple of other splashing sounds. Without surprise, I saw two dark shapes in the water, trailing after the boat like an escort.
'You can feel them?' I asked Teomitl.
He shook his head. 'I could tell them to go away.'
I was tempted. The ahuizotls frightened me; but we weren't there to be subject to my whims. And against a god-child, any weapon could prove useful. 'No,' I said. 'Let them be.'
They followed us, whispering of the Blessed Lands, of the dead gathered in Chalchiutlicue's bosom. Of Father, still unaware of how much I mourned him.
'This one,' Teomitl said.
There was nothing remarkable about the Floating Garden he singled out. Like the others, it was a mass of earth and roots, anchored into the mud of the lake by poles and woven reed mats. A single house, perched on an artificial rise, dominated it: a small affair – and yet, as in my parents' house, it would host hordes of children; old people; and a couple of peasants, struggling to feed them all.
I laid a hand on one of my obsidian knives, feeling the emptiness of Mictlan within my chest, mingling with the bitter tang of the Jade Skirt's magic. This wasn't the time for reminiscence.
Neutemoc moored the boat near the edge of the Floating Garden, where we all disembarked. I couldn't help remembering the last time I'd done this, when Teomitl had run us aground. At least my brother was a decent oarsman.
'And now what?' Neutemoc asked.
I shrugged. 'We go see what's inside.'
The rain, though heavy, didn't yet hamper our vision. I wasn't confident the situation wouldn't change, though, if the god-child grew into his powers. Hopefully, it wouldn't happen. Hopefully.
Wordlessly, we crept up the small rise. Neutemoc was in the lead, his sword drawn. I was right at his back, Teomitl trailing some way behind us. The ahuizotls remained in the water – for which I was grateful.
Inside, it was dark and cool, but the air was saturated with magic: the same deep, pervasive sense of wrongness that I'd sensed at Amecameca. Here, however, it was strong enough to choke the breath out of me. 'I… I don't think I'm going to last for long.'
'What's the matter, Acatl-tzin?' Teomitl asked.
It hurt to breathe, even to focus my thoughts. Wrong, it was so wrong. Teomitl had had it right: it was like a wound in the fabric of the Fifth World, a wound that kept widening, spilling its miasma to choke us all.
'Who comes here?'
By the extinguished hearth crouched a wizened figure, wrapped in a tattered shirt, its clothes torn to shreds and stinking of refuse.
'Huemac? Is that you?' the figure asked.
An old, old woman, her face seamed with the marks of many seasons, blind gaze questing left and right, still trying to see us. She didn't look threatening, though the magic pervaded her, soaking through her skin, outlining the pale shapes of her bones. Wrong. All wrong.
'We're not your son,' Neutemoc said.
''We'?' she asked. 'How many of you are there?'
'I'm not sure that's relevant,' Neutemoc said, nonplussed.
'This is a small house,' the old woman whispered. 'A small, small place, my lord. We have nothing worth your time.'
Even without her sight, she could still distinguish the confident tones of a warrior's voice.
'We're not here to attack you,' Teomitl said, finally. 'We're looking for your… grandson?'
'I have many grandsons.' Her voice was sly. 'Many, many children of my own; and many fruitful marriages.'
Teomitl closed his eyes for a bare moment. 'He's young. Six, seven years old, no more. His hair is as black and as slick as dried blood, and his skin the colour of muddy water.' He spoke as if he could see the child. And perhaps he could, indeed; perhaps that had been part of Chalchiutlicue's gift.
'Chicuei Mazatl,' the old woman whispered. 'My sweet, sweet Mazatl.' She crooned, balancing herself back and forth on her knees. 'Mazatl. A deer, a strong child like his father; born to be a hunter…'
I didn't know what was worrying me more: the wrongness that crushed my chest, or the chilling fact that this old woman was completely unanchored from the Fifth World.
'Mazatl.' Neutemoc's voice was flat. His own daughter was called Mazatl – simply after the day she had been born, like many children – but he would see the parallels. 'Where is he, venerable?' 'Not here,' she cackled. 'No, not here. The deer has fled into the forest, into the trees. Not here…'
Teomitl knelt by the fire, and took her hands. 'Look at me,' he said.
Her blind eyes rose towards his face, and stopped. Slowly, hesitatingly, she extended her right hand in his direction. Teomitl didn't move. He let her touch his skin and recoil, as if she'd burnt herself. 'You shine, like a sun, like the sun at the beginning of the world. You – who are you?'
'Ahuizotl,' Teomitl said, softly. 'He who bears Chalchiutlicue's gift.'
'Ahuizotl. It is a strong name,' the old woman whispered. 'Will you protect me? They've left, they've all left, taking their reed mats and the last embers, and the altar of the gods, and the ceramic bowls. Gone…'
'I see,' Teomitl said. His voice was soft, with the edge of broken obsidian. 'Do you know where?'
