Master of the House of Darts: Obsidian and Blood Book 3

by Aliette Bodard

  But then again, I was a priest for the Dead and I knew we would all come to this… in the end.

  TWO

  The Affairs of Warriors

  "You mock me," Tizoc-tzin said. His sallow face was puckered in anger, making him seem even gaunter than usual. "Leaving in the middle of the banquet, before the feast was over? One would think" his voice was low, malicious "that you didn't care at all about the fate of the Mexica Empire."

  "My Lord," I said, stiffly, "I maintain the balance of the Fifth World. The fate of the Mexica Empire is of paramount importance."

  Tizoc-tzin looked dubious. He had come with his sycophant Quenami and, rather to my surprise, with a priest of Patecatl, an elderly man who had slipped into the room unobtrusively to take a look at the body. I had warned him about the possible contagion, but he had only snorted and continued – as if the word of a youngster like me had no value.

  "As to you…" He looked at Teomitl, his face caught in an odd expression. They were brothers, yet they couldn't have been more different: there was bad blood between them – had been for four months. "You ought to have known better."

  "It's important," Teomitl said. "For Acatl-tzin, and perhaps for me. He was a warrior." Now that Teomitl was Master of the House of Darts, he was most definitely no longer my inferior, and didn't have to add the "tzin" honorific after my name. But he'd kept the habit, all the same.

  "And you're Master of the House of Darts," Tizoc-tzin said, curtly. "Head of the army, and heir-presumptive to the Mexica Empire. Do you know what it looks like when you walk out in the midst of the celebrations for our safe return?"

  I had to admit he had a point – for all his exalted status, Teomitl had a tendency to behave as though he were still a mere warrior in a regiment – just as I, when I made no effort, had a tendency to behave as a mere priest for the Dead.

  Teomitl's face darkened. "The coronation war was a failure."

  Quenami winced, and next to me, Coatl looked as though he would rather be anywhere else. It was Acamapichtli who spoke up, his aristocratic face creased in amusement. "You forget. We must appear strong, especially in the present circumstances."

  Four months before, in the scrabble for the succession, Tizoc-tzin's court intrigues had led to the death of the entire council, and the intrusion of star-demons into the Sacred Precinct – and the Great Temple's altars had been slick with the blood of our own noblemen. All in front of the foreign dignitaries gathered for the designation of Tizoc-tzin – dozens of neighbouring city-states who had paid exorbitant tribute to Tenochtitlan, and dreamt of a day they could cast us down into the mud.

  Whatever angry words Teomitl might have had were cut short by the re-emergence of the priest of Patecatl, who looked preoccupied. "This is no natural death, my Lord."

  Tizoc-tzin looked from Acamapichtli to me – but it must have been clear we couldn't have bribed the priest. "What is it, then?"

  "I don't know," the priest said, which wasn't surprising. Patecatl was god of herbs and potions: He was powerless against spells. "It looks like a curse."

  Tizoc-tzin looked back at me, his lips tightening. "Someone did this, then. Someone cast a spell to kill a man in the midst of the celebration."

  "It would seem so," Acamapichtli said, with a meaningful look at me.

  Tizoc-tzin threw him a suspicious glance, but more as a matter of principle, it seemed. "There is a sorcerer out there, seeking to destabilise the Mexica Empire."

  I winced – and, under Quenami's disapproving gaze, did my very best to turn it into a cough. "My Lord, surely the people love you."

  "The Empire goes from coast to mountains, from marshes to valleys. We have our enemies, only waiting for a moment of weakness to pounce."

  Tizoc-tzin had always had a slight tendency to paranoia; unfortunately, this had turned out to be justified four months before, when his rashness had got him killed at the same time as the council. I and the other two High Priests had pooled our powers to bring him back from the threshold of the world beyond, but he'd never been the same since. If anything, the paranoia had got worse. He saw assassins in every shadow, every canal bend, every courtyard and in everyone bold enough, or foolhardy enough, to approach him too closely.

  The murder looked more like a case of personal vengeance than political intrigue – not that it was made more legitimate by that, of course. "I don't think–"

  "Acatl never thinks." Acamapichtli's voice was dismissive. "That's always been his trouble. We'll of course investigate this as thoroughly as we can, my Lord."

  As usual, I wasn't sure whether to thank Acamapichtli or to strangle him. And, by the smug look on his face, he knew my feelings all too well.

  Tizoc-tzin frowned. At the point where his eyebrows met, I could see a thin white line: the arch of a broken bone in the skull. His eyes were deeper than they should have been, shadowed like empty sockets.

  Southern Hummingbird blind me, we should never have brought him back. No wonder the hole in the Fifth World wouldn't close: the dead weren't meant to rule the living, or to walk in sunlight.

  "Very well," Tizoc-tzin said. "I trust this will be solved quickly."

  And he swept away, without sparing us a further glance. Quenami lingered behind, looking at us both as if he might add something in his capacity as High Priest of the Southern Hummingbird and our superior, but then shook his head and followed his master. Teomitl, after talking briefly to Coatl, also left – presumably going back to the banquet. From the tense set of his shoulders, he didn't look altogether happy about the situation.

  Acamapichtli swore under his breath. "He's not getting better."

  "We didn't have any choice," I said, with a conviction I couldn't feel. "We had to keep the Fifth World whole."

  "Oh, it will work out, don't worry. Perhaps not for us, though," Acamapichtli added speculatively. I didn't like the tone of his voice – at a guess, he was once more trying to work out the best possibilities for his own advancement.

  I decided to take the fight to a terrain I was more familiar with. "Can you look into where you saw that magic last?"

  "What magic? Oh, the one on the corpse?" Acamapichtli shrugged. "Why not?"

  "You don't sound very enthusiastic," Coatl interjected. He looked paler than he had at the beginning of our interview, and he was shaking. It was all due, however, to barely-contained anger rather than ill-health. "One of my warriors died. I'll have justice for it."

  Acamapichtli appeared unfazed. "I usually leave Acatl to deal with matters of justice," he said maliciously. "He's got much more experience than I."

  "Do you really think this is a good time for quarrels?" I asked.

  "Quarrels? We're not quarrelling," Acamapichtli said. He threw his head back, and abruptly appeared to grow taller and larger, with a shimmering shadow over his face, and his voice echoing like the sound of thunder over a stormtossed lake. "Trust me – when we quarrel, you'll know."

  And he, too, swept away from the courtyard – leaving me alone with a corpse and an angry warrior.

  "What helpfulness," I said. I could have done much the same trick, had I wished to, but it would have been disrespectful to Lord Death: a waste of His power for nothing more than the posturing of turkeys. I turned to Coatl. "You have my word," I said. "By my face and by my heart, I'll bring you justice."

  Coatl grimaced, but said nothing. He couldn't accuse me of being an oath-breaker, but clearly he didn't trust priests anymore than he had to. A typical warrior. I suppressed a sigh and resumed the interview I'd started during the examination of the body. "You said you didn't know much about Eptli. Are you sure there isn't anything you can tell me?"

  Coatl spread his hands again… and then shook his head, as if coming to a decision. "Teomitl-tzin would have told you, in any case. There was – a problem with Eptli."

  "A problem?"

  "The warriors on that line were those who had captured a prisoner unaided in the course of battle."

  "Yes," I said. I couldn't see wha
t he was getting at.

  "Eptli – " Coatl shrugged. "Another warrior claimed the same prisoner as Eptli. It happens, in the course of the battle. Things get a little frantic, you can't find any witnesses, and there you are with a prisoner and two men claiming him."

  "Doesn't the prisoner know who captured him?"

  Coatl's lips tightened. "You've never been on a battlefield, have you? As I said: it's fast and frantic, and all the warriors have painted faces and similar feather-suits. Who's to tell the difference between them, unless they have standards of their own? Which," he added, "neither Eptli nor the other possessed."

  "And how do you resolve this, if there are no witnesses?" I asked.

  "As you said: you ask the prisoner." Coatl didn't look happy. "Ask other warriors of the unit to see if you can trace the troop movements and see who is more likely to have been there at the crucial point." He didn't sound altogether pleased.

  "You don't like doing this?"

  He grimaced. "Discipline I can deal with. Warriors should set a higher example than commoners, and if they go so far as to forget themselves, and steal or betray, or retreat in battle, they only deserve what happens to them. This…? The stakes are high, we're not sure, and everything depends on our decision."

  "When you say 'we'?"

  "The war-council handles all criminal matters connected to warriors while we're out on a campaign." I caught the implication: whoever the guilty party was, they would likely be tried by the tribunal in the palace, thus relieving him of his responsibilities.

  I could have asked him if he thought he'd taken the right decision, but there would have been no point. What we needed wasn't the truth of what had happened on this battlefield, but evidence of someone being a strong enough grudge to cast a curse on Eptli. "The other warrior who claimed the prisoner–" I started.

  "Chipahua? He wasn't happy. Not at all." Coatl seemed to realise the import of what he'd said. "Not that he'd do anything. I'd be very much surprised. Chipahua has always abided by the rules."

  Clearly, he'd defend his warriors to the death, and I wasn't sure I blamed him. Were our situations reversed, I'd have done the same for my priests. "What kind of a warrior was he?"

  "What do you want to know?"

  "Young or old?" I asked.

  "Middle-aged." Chipahua grimaced again.

  "But he'd already taken a captive before."

  "Four."

  "Like Eptli." And, like Eptli, he'd have stood on the verge of admittance into the Jaguar or Eagle Knights. Two warriors, vying for further status and prestige, and only one prisoner. It could definitely get ugly fast.

  "Look," Coatl said, "as I said, I don't like doing this. Accusing people without proof."

  I drew myself to my full height, letting him see my oak-embroidered cloak, the polished skull-mask on my face: the paraphernalia of a High Priest for the Dead, one who patrolled the invisible boundaries, one who defended against magical incursions. "It's a serious matter. Magical spells are one thing; spells cast under the Revered Speaker's nose, so to speak…" I had no doubt Tizoc-tzin was going to hold Acamapichtli and I accountable for all of it. The Southern Hummingbird knew he needed little excuse, those days.

  Still, I stood by what I'd said a year ago. Our Revered Speaker might be a poor warrior with too much ambition, and didn't have the stature to wear the Turquoise and Gold Crown. But when the alternative was star-demons loose in the palace – as we'd had during the drawn-out change of Revered Speaker – I knew where I stood. I would preserve the balance and learn to live with my rancour.

  Coatl's face was expressionless. "As I said, you'll want to talk to the commander of his unit."

  "I don't think so," I said, slowly. "There is something more you're not telling me, isn't there?" I knew the signs, had seen them too often. Coatl was far from the first uncooperative witness I had questioned. In fact, for a member of the war-council, one of the highest authorities in the army, he was surprisingly amiable. Then again… then again, he wasn't a nobleman by birth – from his build and numerous scars, he had risen through the ranks to attain his current position. His parents, just like mine, would have been peasants.

  Coatl's face twisted, becoming distant, expressionless, as if he were being careful not to display a strong emotion – hatred? I very much doubted it was affection. "Eptli could be… difficult to get on with."

  "I see. Anyone in particular he didn't get on with? Apart from Chipahua, I presume."

  Coatl didn't rise to the bait. "He got into a quarrel with a merchant, three days out from Tenochtitlan."

  Merchants and warriors got on about as well as warriors and priests – very seldom. "About the usual things, I presume?" Though not as highly considered as warriors, merchants were often more prosperous, and tended to displays of wealth the warriors found obscene and undeserved. More than one merchant had been beaten to death after returning from a trading expedition with a few too many quetzal feathers, cacao pods or jewels.

  "I don't know." Coatl sounded distinctly weary now. "I've seen too many of those cases to tell them apart. The merchant was one of the advance spies, bringing us word of the situation in Metztitlan and of its weak points. He'd barely come into the encampment when Eptli came along and started insulting him."

  "Was he hot-tempered?" I asked.

  "Eptli?" Coatl hesitated – deciding how much untruth he could get away with. "No," he said, regretfully. "He was a cool-headed man."

  Hmm. Either Eptli hated all merchants, or there was something particular about this one, something that had caused him to lose his calm. I added this to the growing list of problems to tackle.

  "Where can I find Chipahua?" I asked. The warrior who had vied with Eptli for the prisoner looked like the most likely person to arrange a fatal accident. "At the feast?"

  Coatl shook his head. "His rank isn't high enough for him to attend the feast in the palace. You'll find him at his house." He gave me an address in Cuepopan, one of the four districts of Tenochtitlan.

  As I left, I could feel his eyes on the back of my neck. He was a singular man – few people had the courage to stand up to an increasingly erratic Tizoc-tzin. I liked him, and I knew I shouldn't have, for in all he had said to me, it had become clear he hadn't cared much for Eptli, and perhaps even resented him for taking away the glory of another, more worthy warrior. He had insisted on obtaining justice – but could he have done otherwise, if he hoped to pretend innocence?

  I took a boat from the temple's dock to get to Chipahua's house. Like most of our crafts, it was a small, sleek assemblage of reeds, with a simple frieze of spiders running along the prow. The priest who was polling it through the canals was someone I didn't know: a young man barely into adolescence – probably a novice who had recently entered the clergy. He wielded the pole with the ease of someone born on the lake, effortlessly inserting us into the dense traffic of the crowded canals and navigating between ornate barges three times our size without a second thought.

  I sat at the back, wishing I'd thought to change out of my High Priest regalia. It would undoubtedly impress a warrior more than a simple cloak, but the sun was high in the sky and the cloth of the embroidered cape was already uncomfortably hot. Sweat ran down my cheeks in rivulets, and the skull-mask wedged on my face kept being dislodged by the jolts of the boat as it turned into yet another canal.

  Most boats were going the opposite way, their oars and poles splashing into the water with the familiar rhythm of rowing. On the land adjoining the canal, a crowd walked in companionable silence: women with baskets of poultry and vegetables, and men bent forward against the band on their forehead which supported the burden on their backs.

  Chipahua's house wasn't far from the centre of the city, on the edge of the noblemen's quarter. The buildings here were lower, not having the two storeys that only highranking noblemen were allowed, but they were brightly-painted adobe, not wattle and daub, and what they lacked in height, they made up with sheer scale. Every house we passed seemed
to sprawl interminably, their gates open to display their outer courtyards, every one more magnificent than the last: a mass of high trees and vibrant frescoes, every building vying with its neighbours with tasteful decoration reminding the viewer of their owner's wealth.

  At length, we stopped before a house that seemed almost shabby compared to its neighbours: the outside frieze was a simple portrait of Tezcatlipoca, the Smoking Mirror, god of war and fate, and the single slave at the entrance wore a white loincloth with no insignia or adornment.

  He took me to his master without demur, leading me through a courtyard with a well and two pine trees, in which slave women wove cloth, keeping a wary eye on the children, who were playing with dolls and wooden chariots. The rhythmic sound of their looms against the mortars followed us inside – though not the heat, thankfully.