As the young man left, she returned to her seat, to gather up some papers, and I stepped out into the open.
‘Remember me?’
She let out a little cry and staggered backwards, scattering papers around her. I was afraid she was going to fall over, but she managed to regain her balance just in time. She looked up at me grimly.
‘You look like that idiot from yesterday morning — the one who nearly got himself killed outside the marketplace. What are you doing here? And where’s your cloak?’
‘Let me help with those,’ I said, brushing aside her questions as I stooped to pick up some of the papers. I noticed in passing that they were covered in delicately drawn glyphs, which may well have represented poetry. A poem had to be learned by heart — the pictures we used for writing could never convey words with the precision needed for verse — but a poet might use pictures to jog his memory.
‘What do you want?’
‘To talk to you. Here. I’m sorry if they’re out of order. Oh, how’s your father?’
‘Well,’ she said guardedly. ‘He managed to get home, small thanks to you.’
‘Look, I was trying to help…’
‘I’m sure you were. I don’t know what you expect me to say.
I suppose I should welcome you formally, say something like: “You have expended breath to come here. You are weary; you are hungry.” But all I’m actually going to say is goodbye!’ Clutching her papers to her breast, she turned on her heel and walked away.
‘I suppose you’re right,’ I told her departing back. ‘After all, talking to you seems to be a dangerous occupation. It didn’t do Tiger Lily a lot of good, did it?’
She stopped. She hesitated, the tendons in one ankle flexing ; as if she were making her mind up whether to take another step or not.
‘What did you say?’ she asked me quietly, without turning! her head.
I followed her across the courtyard. ‘Maybe we should sit down,’ I suggested.
‘Not here. You said yourself, it’s too dangerous. Come with me.’
She set off in the direction the young man had taken but suddenly darted down a narrow passageway. Her manner had become furtive, and she kept glancing over her shoulder in a way that reminded me of what I had seen in the streets a couple of days before. Here, I realized, was someone else who was convinced that there were spies everywhere. We turned several corners before coming to a small room, whose entrance was sealed off by a wicker screen. I noticed that there was a tall niche on either side of the doorway, easily large enough to accommodate a man, possibly a sentry. The appearance of the room, once the woman had pulled the screen aside, seemed to confirm the idea: its walls were covered with hangings, of the richest, deepest and most opulent featherwork, and the only piece of furniture on the floor was a low wicker seat with a high, fur- covered back, the kind of seat that was used as a throne.
I stared at the seat, aghast. ‘Maize Ear uses this room?’
‘No, but Hungry Child used to, when he was present at the Council of Music and wanted to speak in private. The hangings stopped sound from carrying, and one of the walls is an outer wall of the palace, so there’s one less side for an eavesdropper to press his ear to.’
The room was small to accommodate a King. I found it hard to imagine Mexico’s Montezuma, upon whose face most were forbidden to look, in a room such as this, where others could get so close to him.
Maize Ear isn’t so concerned with the affairs of the Council °f Music as his father was. It’s not that he has no interest in poetry — he’s not bad in that fine himself, actually, though his work could be more polished…’
‘What is it about you people and poetry?’ I interrupted her rudely. I did not have time for a rambling digression on the King’s poetic talents. Besides, I had had to learn a lot of verse by heart in the House of Tears, much of it bad, and had no enthusiasm for it. ‘This must be the only place in the World where people can get killed over a poem!’
‘What do you mean?’ the woman asked sharply.
‘I mean the King’s son, Prince of Willows, and that concubine.’
She stiffened, as though I had said something to offend her. Then she seemed to force herself to relax before saying, as quietly as if she were speaking to herself: ‘You shouldn’t believe everything you hear.’ Then, more briskly: ‘Now, what do you want? What are you to Lily? There’s no need to keep looking over your shoulder like that. We have this room to ourselves. Maize Ear is in Tetzcotzinco.’
To my horror, she sat on the seat, with her papers on her lap as if she were about to start making notes, and looked up at me levelly.
‘My name’s Yaotl. I’m Lily’s slave,’ I said. ‘You heard she’d been arrested?’
‘I did. What of it?’
‘She was picked up because she’d been seen talking to you. Maize Ear’s men started following her and found that she was trying to contact a merchant called Hare. When she went to Hare’s house, they caught her.’
‘And what about Hare?’ she asked neutrally.
‘Dead.’
I had to admire her self-possession. If the news shocked or upset her, she did not let it show, merely raising one eyebrow. ‘Really? How?’
‘Murdered.’ I told her briefly what had happened both times I was at Hare’s house. ‘Look,’ I ended, trying to keep the edge of desperation out of my voice as
