SIX

Between High Priests

 

 

The afternoon was well advanced by the time I walked back into the Sacred Precinct; the incense smoke rising up from the dozens of temples made the orange mass of the sun waver and shimmer, as if through a heat haze.

I thought about Eptli as I walked, chewing on a tamale – I'd yielded to temptation, and purchased one from the old woman seller. The taste of chillies and spiced meat was a welcoming heat in my stomach.

He hadn't been liked. Possibly, he hadn't ever fitted in: to the warriors, he would be the merchant's son, and to the merchants, the man who mocked them relentlessly. In his pursuit for glory, he seemed to have made enemies – many of them, from his rival, Chipahua, to the merchant Yayauhqui.

The merchant worried me, for all his sincerity. His defence – that he wouldn't seek to damage the Triple Alliance, for it would be sealing his own doom – rang true, and yet…

And yet, a man like that would have no scruples. The kind of man who could disguise themselves and pass as a foreigner – gossiping and trading, all the while hiding that they were advance observers for the approaching army – why stop the game, when they got home?

Out of principle… but Yayauhqui hadn't looked as if he had much of that.

Still in a thoughtful mood, I walked through the northern gate into the hubbub of the religious centre, and went straight to my temple, which was but a short distance from the gate.

I'd expected a normal day – a dead body carried through the gates, grieving families talking to priests, examinations in quiet rooms… But instead, it was chaos: the temple's small courtyard was flooded with supplicants – from peasants in loincloths carrying baskets of ripe corn kernels, to officials with jewellery and caged animals. The combined noise was overpowering, and I only caught fragments as I elbowed my way through the crowd – about reassurances, and dreams, and portents which seemed to herald the end of the Mexica Empire.

I remembered, grimly, what Neutemoc had told me – that no matter how well Tizoc-tzin hid the warrior's death, news of it would travel through the city like wildfire. He had no idea it would be that bad.

At the foot of the stairs leading up to Lord Death's shrine, I found Ichtaca waiting for me – while two harried offering priests made efforts to channel the flow of supplicants into separate rooms, where they could deal with them one by one.

Ichtaca wasn't alone, though. Beside him stood two priests in blue and white cloaks, the hems embroidered with a border of frogs and seashells.

Of course. I'd known what I was getting into, walking back to the temple, but then again, I couldn't run forever.

The leftmost priest, a pudgy man with a blue-streaked face, was mildly familiar: his name was Tapalcayotl, and he was Acamapichtli's second-in-command. "Acatl-tzin," he said, bowing to me. "Acamapichtli-tzin has requested your presence at the palace."

It was couched politely, but the meaning was unmistakable. "I see," I said. "I'll consult with my priests first."

Tapalcayotl looked as if he might protest, and then obviously thought better of it. Like his master, he was acutely aware of social divisions.

I drew Ichtaca apart, careful to stand at a distance, since we still didn't know how the illness was passed on. "What is going on?"

"I don't know yet," Ichtaca said. He grimaced. "Your sister took half the priests and went to do a ritual to protect us against sickness. It's a good idea–"

"But it leaves us short," I said.

"It's just a bad time," Ichtaca said. "The disastrous coronation war and the death of a warrior…" He sighed, not looking altogether reassured. "We'll weather it, I'm sure. We have the Southern Hummingbird's favour."

We might have; after all, Huitzilpochtli was the one who had given us the right to bring Tizoc-tzin from the dead. But He was a capricious god, and he only favoured the successful in war. I grimaced. "We'll see how things work out. Can you–"

He made a dismissive gesture. "Don't worry. We've had to deal with worse during the great famine. This is nothing."

I hesitated – but I needed to ask, all the same. I couldn't manage an investigation on my own. "I need you to find out one thing for me."

His face didn't move. "Of course. What is it?"

"There is a merchant named Yayauhqui in Tlatelolco. He used to serve a god in his youth. Can you find out which one?"

"Consider it done, Acatl-tzin," Ichtaca nodded. "And–"

"And you hold up here," I said, bleakly. "Acamapichtli, Mihmatini and I will see what we can do about the epidemic."

Ichtaca looked reassured by the idea of so many highranking priests taking care of the problem. I hoped he was right; on my side, I felt as though I was making frustratingly little progress.

 

We walked back the way I had come, the two priests of Tlaloc on either side of me, looking for all the world like an escort – or an arrest squad, I thought, bleakly. Acamapichtli, among other things, was vindictive, and he wouldn't have appreciated our little escapade.

We climbed the steps into the palace, and headed straight to what I now thought of as Acamapichtli's wing. And he'd certainly made sure we knew it: the priests of Tlaloc the Storm Lord positively swarmed over the various courtyards. The black cloaks of the SheSnake's guards seemed almost invisible compared with the onslaught of blue and white. The air smelled of copal incense, mixed with the acridity of rubber: I wouldn't have been surprised to find out Acamapichtli had replaced all the entrance-curtains with the dark-blue ones of Tlaloc's temple.

In the largest courtyard, a shimmering lattice of magic spread from building to building – there was a slight resistance when we crossed under the influence of the wards, and then this was replaced with a familiar tightness in my chest. The place had been consecrated to the Storm Lord – it wasn't quite the Land of the Blessed Drowned yet, but it was close to its antechamber.

Acamapichtli was in a large room on the second floor, reclining on a mat as if he were the Revered Speaker himself. He wore his customary heron-plumes, and his face was painted with the dark-blue streaks of his god – impassive under the makeup. As we came nearer, though, I saw the thin lines of fear at the corners of his eyes; and the slight quivering in his hands – and felt the stronger circle drawn around him.

"Ah, Acatl," he said when I arrived. "Do be seated."

"I'd rather remain standing," I said, curtly. "Do you have a better idea of what's going on?"

"Not much better than you." Acamapichtli smiled, a thoroughly unpleasant expression. "Thanks to you and your protégé, this thing might already be loose in the populace."

I disliked "populace", which he made sound like an insult. "The two warriors who carried the corpse would have passed it on anyway."

"Not if we found them fast enough – we did catch up with one, if nothing else. He's sick, Acatl, perhaps worse than Coatl or the priest of Patecatl. But I fear that's not the point. The point is that when I give orders, you follow them."

"Since when are you my master?"

"Since the epidemic started." It would have been better if he'd looked insufferably smug, the way he usually did, but he didn't. He merely stated a fact.

"And what about Quenami?"

"Quenami is a fool. Nothing new under the Fifth Sun. I expected better of you." Of course, he hadn't.

"May I remind you I have an investigation to run?" I asked. "Someone cursed Eptli. And, furthermore, containing the sickness is all well and good, but we need to find a cure for it."

"And for all we know, this is the will of the gods."

This time, he'd goaded me too far. "Fine," I said. "You know one way of solving this?"

Acamapichtli's eyebrows went up.

"Summon the dead man," I said.

It was a crazy undertaking – chancy at best, even for Acamapichtli. I could never have attempted it: Eptli had died of a contagious disease, which made him the property of Tlaloc, and I didn't worship the Storm Lord. I could go into Tlalocan, the land of the Blessed Drowned, to see if his soul would respond to my call, but it was a risk. I would be at Tlaloc's mercy, and I had a suspicion the god was as vindictive as Acamapichtli. He wouldn't have forgotten that I'd thwarted His attempt to take over the Fifth World, a year or so before.

Acamapichtli looked at me – I could see his face twisting, his lips preparing words of contempt, deriding my knowledge as a priest.

"You know it's the only way," I said.

"You're a fool," Acamapichtli said. "Most dead men don't know who killed them. Summoning him will be useless."

"He might remember what contaminated him in the first place," I said. "Which is more information than you have."

Acamapichtli shrugged. "I don't need to know what contaminated him. Containing this is good enough for me."

"Not for me," I said. "And if you're so certain it's Tlaloc's will, you can ask Him what He wants." More likely, if it was Him – and I didn't believe that, not with such an odd magical signature to the disease – He didn't want anything. Tlaloc sent epidemics as He sent rain; He sometimes rewarded prayers, sometimes punished, and most of the time did so for reasons we weren't entitled to know.

Acamapichtli grimaced. He didn't like giving in.

"You'll have me under your eye," I pointed out.

"I'm not sure whether to be pleased, or to wonder what you're up to."

"I'm not up to anything. You're much better at plotting and conspiring."

He smiled. You'd have thought I'd just complimented him. "Yes, you're still as hopeless at diplomacy as you ever were. Do you seriously expect me to agree?"

"It's not about diplomacy," I said. Time to be blunt, anyway. "We have a hundred thousand people in Tenochtitlan, tightly packed. If the epidemic gets out, it'll be worse than the Great Famine. We'll lose thousands of people. And while you might think those are acceptable losses for the Fifth World, I for one don't intend giving in to the machinations of a mortal."

"You forget. It might be the machinations of a god." Acamapichtli's voice was malicious.

"Then I'll bow down my head to the inevitable. It wouldn't be the first time." I'd been there, during the whole ceremony that consecrated Tizoc-tzin as our Revered Speaker – wearing my High Priest regalia, watching as Tizoc-tzin ascended the steps of the Great Temple, feigning weakness, as our ally, the ruler of Texcoco, dressed him according to his new station, inserting an emerald into his nose, putting dangling gold bells on his ankles. I'd watched as he made his offerings, as the gathered nations of the Anahuac Valley cheered him on. And not once had I let on what I truly thought – that the man was unfit to wear the Turquoise and Gold Crown, that he would only lead us to further disasters.

But, on the other hand, I had seen the cost of people fighting over the Turquoise and Gold Crown – the stardemons, the chaos, the fear within the palace – and even a flawed Revered Speaker was better than none. For the sake of the Fifth World, I could hold my tongue, and give no voice to my dislike.

I didn't know what Acamapichtli thought, but I guessed he didn't much care for Tizoc-tzin, either.

Acamapichtli said nothing for a while.

"You make your own decisions," I said. "But you'll be the one accountable for them."

He made a brief, stabbing gesture with his hand. "And you'll support me, of course." It wasn't a question, and I didn't answer. "Fine. I can waste some time to satisfy your morbid curiosity. But you'll learn nothing from it, Acatl."

 

I'd expected Acamapichtli would want to prepare the spell in his quarters, to make good use of the strong foundations of magic he'd laid. But instead, he chose the courtyard to prepare his spell. He had his priests drag five braziers – one at each corner, and one at the centre. They drew lines around them to materialise the sacred quincunx, the fivefold cross that symbolised the order of the world.

Acamapichtli himself remained at the centre, muttering prayers I couldn't make out from where I was standing. He drew out his worship thorns, and stared at them, thoughtfully – but didn't make any gesture to drag them through his earlobes.

He seemed to be waiting for something, but I wasn't sure what.

A growl drew my attention away from Acamapichtli: four slaves were carrying a wooden cage, in which was the largest jaguar I'd ever seen – a mass of muscles and fangs, with a burning gaze that suggested captivity ill-suited it.

Of course, the jaguar was one of the animals sacred to Tlaloc – the god Himself had jaguar fangs, and the sound of His thunder was like the roars of the jungle felines. But still…

The slaves put the cage in the centre, a few hand-spans away from Acamapichtli – who still didn't move. They withdrew, leaving no one but him and the beast in the circle. The jaguar paced within the cage, raising its head from time to time – opening its mouth to reveal glinting fangs. Acamapichtli, seemingly oblivious to its presence, picked up his worship thorns, and drew them through his earlobes. He didn't flinch as they went in: like any priest, he'd been doing this for far too long to pay attention to the pain.

He whispered more words, with greater urgency than before. Then he planted the worship thorns, one by one – driving them into the earth halfway through.

A faint tremor shook the courtyard – as if something were rising up to meet the fresh blood.

At length Acamapichtli raised his head, and saw me, standing outside the quincunx. "Acatl! Come inside."

I eyed the jaguar, doubtfully. I had my obsidian knives, but even I wasn't mad enough to take on a beast like that without preparations.

Or – as the uncomfortable thought occurred to me – without live bait to distract it.

Acamapichtli snorted. "Don't be a yellow-livered fool, Acatl. The spirit will only be visible inside the quincunx. Or do you want me to ask the questions for you?"

And feed me the information he deemed fit for my consumption? Not a chance. I drew my obsidian knife, feeling its reassuring heft and coldness against the palm of my hand – and stepped over the circle.

The earth shivered as I walked, as if it were permanently shifting – as if it didn't know whether to be mud, water or packed dust. My feet squelched every other step, but when I lifted them, nothing clung to my sandals.

I reached the centre, where Acamapichtli stood waiting. Was it just me, or had the sky overhead darkened – far faster than it should have for a late afternoon? I could have sworn…

The jaguar yawned. Its pelt had grown almost featureless in the dim light; its eyes shone yellow, and its teeth glittered like opalescent pearls. I could almost see the saliva beading on the canines. It pressed itself against the door of the cage – and it was bending, the wood splitting up with a sound that resonated within my chest. The jaguar roared, a sound like thunder in the sky.

Acamapichtli hadn't moved. He stood with both hands empty – they were long and supple, and in contrast to the rest of his regalia, quite bare, with no rings that could have caught on anything.

"What are you afraid of?" he asked.

At this stage, I wasn't sure if it was him or the jaguar, or both. He shifted – and all of a sudden his skin shone a dark orange, and his eyes were two black pits ringed with yellow, the same as the animal within its cage. Even the fluid, confident way he moved seemed to echo the beast's.

"Acamapichtli–" I started.

The jaguar threw itself against the door of the cage, and the wood, with a final sputtering sound, gave way. The entire latticework of wood exploded, but I had no time to focus on this, because the jaguar leapt out and ran straight towards me – muscles bunching up for a leap, and all I could see was its open mouth with the fangs glinting – my hand went towards the knife, a fraction of a moment too late – the beast was almost upon me, its jaw extending to clamp around my skull…

And then, abruptly, it was on the ground in front of me, its legs scrambling for purchase, desperate to get up – and Acamapichtli stood over it, holding it down with both hands. He didn't even look to be in a sweat. The beast kicked and yowled, and made a racket strong enough to wake up the dead, and its claws raked the ground, sinking into the earth – but it made no difference. Acamapichtli still held on. He might as well have been a rock.

My heart was threatening to burst out of my chest, but I didn't move, either – just stood there, watching.

At length, the jaguar's struggles grew weaker; its legs quieted, its whole body heaving with huge breaths that didn't seem to sustain it. Then it grew quieter still – the face, flopping back towards me, bore the unmoving glaze of the dead.

Acamapichtli stood away from the beast, withdrawing the noose he'd coiled around its neck. He didn't even spare me a glance. In the darkness, his eyes still shone yellow, and his face had lengthened, with a suggestion of a muzzle. The fingers of his hands, too, seemed to be longer and sharper.

 

"O Lord, Our Lord

O Provider, O Lord of Verdure

Lord of Tlalocan, Lord of the Sweet-Scented Marigold,

Lord of the Smoky Copal…"

 

Acamapichtli withdrew the worship thorns from the earth in a single flourish, and walked back to the jaguar. He drove them into the pelt, at the height of the spine.

 

"In the Blessed Land of the Drowned

The dead men play at balls, they cast the reeds,

They sip the nectar of numerous sweet and fragrant flowers,

Grant us leave, O Lord, Beloved Lord,

Grant us leave to call them back."

 

Mist poured from the jaguar's spine, as if the thorns had opened up some vast reservoir. It pooled around the corpse, a swirling mass of white – and then it stretched, still remaining as thick, until I could barely make out the contours of the buildings around us, and it went upwards, driving even the darkness from the sky. Everything seemed to turn white and clammy, with the particular, watery smell of marshes.

And then, gradually – as a shiver started low in my back and climbed upwards – I became aware we weren't alone anymore.