The first calendar priest we found directed us to his superior – who directed us to his superior in turn, until we found ourselves facing the head of the order, a portly man with a stern face, who looked as displeased by our request as by the prospect of being disturbed at his lunch.
"Acatl-tzin." He managed to radiate disapproval even over his utterance of my name. "I'm told you're looking for a calendar priest."
I nodded, and wasn't surprised when he launched into a speech on confession. "As you're well aware, the priest is but the vessel through which confessions are made to the Eater of Filth. He may not repeat the words, for they haven't been spoken in the Fifth World…"
I used the pause in the discourse to insert a few words of my own. "I know that, and I don't want to know the contents of the confession. I just want to speak to the priest who received it."
That stopped him. "Why?"
"The words are out of the Fifth World; the offence, too. But there are other things I might learn."
His eyes narrowed. "Thus going around the interdict. I thought you a more devout man, Acatl-tzin."
One could say I had elevated our survival to a devotion. I bit back a sharp retort, and said only, "Most men who call on the Eater of Filth don't commit suicide afterwards."
He clicked his tongue in a falsely compassionate way. "I see your problem. However, I don't think I can be of help."
The calendar priest who had referred us to him – their equivalent of a fire priest – hadn't left; he was standing by the entrance-curtain, his face set in the peculiar expression of people working hard at concealing their thoughts. "I see," I said, rising from the mat. "My apologies for taking up your time."
I let the other calendar priest escort us out – sounds of mastication behind us, coupled with the strong smell of spices and grilled maize, made it clear the head of the order had gone back to his delayed lunch.
"It sounds like serious business," the calendar priest said. He sounded wistful. "Most of us just get called for adultery, or some other petty offence. You'd think a oncein-a-lifetime confession would be more exciting."
"But it's not," Palli said. "Like most dead bodies turn out to have died from natural causes." He sighed. "And sometimes, of course, it all goes wrong like a dash of cold water, and you wish it could all be normal again."
"I guess." The priest sounded sceptical. "Still… as you say, not every day you have a suicide."
"The Master of the House of Darkness, no less," I said, sombrely. "In the wake of threats against the Mexica Empire."
His face lit up. "Really. And you need to speak to a calendar priest for that?"
I felt dishonest. Likely, it would come to nothing, and we'd have stoked his wrong ideas about the priesthood. But still… given the stakes…
I was going to regret this. "The calendar priest who saw Pochtic-tzin would be useful, yes. He'd probably have a good idea of what's going on." Better than mine, possibly.
"Look…" The calendar priest wavered. I gave him an encouraging smile that felt false from beginning to end. "I didn't tell you this, all right?"
Palli shook his head. "Nothing gets out. Our word on it."
"Quauhtli was called for a reading at the house of some nobleman." The calendar priest frowned.
"That's odd, isn't it? A reading at noon?" Not everyone had lunch, but most people preferred to wait until the heat of the day had dissipated before getting on with serious business like divination.
"Happens," the priest said. He sounded less and less certain. "I think. Most people don't ask for a particular calendar priest, though – and they don't send warriors to escort him to the house."
Warriors. Why? "Where did he go?"
Something of the worry in my voice must have reached him; he was wavering, wondering if he hadn't made a mistake in talking to us. "He might be in more danger than you think," I said. I kept my voice slow and quiet, despite what it cost me. "But if we act now, we might be able to get him out."
"Er… south edge of the Sacred Precinct, I think." He gave us a quick description of canals, which I did my best to commit to memory – as well as a brief description of Quauhtli, though it was generic enough to be pretty much useless. "Thank you," I said.
We walked through the crowds to the southern edge of the Sacred Precinct, passing by the bone-rack, on which priests were adding a fresh row of bleached skulls from human sacrifices – someone had obviously failed to clean the skulls properly, judging by the rank smell of rotting flesh which rose from between the wooden posts. Palli grimaced; I looked on, preoccupied by other things.
The calendar priest had spoken of a house on the south-eastern edge of the Sacred Precinct – in the district of Zoquipan, the same location Nezahual-tzin had been investigating before someone had cast a spell on him.
It could have been coincidence, but there had been precious few of those lately.
Outside the Serpent Wall, the rows of noblemen's houses started up again, each encased within high, stuccoed walls – with steambaths, from which wafted the white vapour, and the smell of spices. Everything seemed silent. We trod our way past deserted canals, where boats bobbed at their anchors under the withering gaze of the Fifth Sun, following the priest's instructions until we stood in a street that seemed much the same as the others. The walls were blank, or decorated with frescoes, and nothing called to mind our missing calendar priest.
Palli looked at me questioningly. He was about to be disappointed – what good could a crippled High Priest do? Unless…
I put the cane on the ground, hand-spans away from the canal, and withdrew a knife from my belt. Then, quickly, I spoke a hymn to Lord Death.
"We all must die,
We all must go down into darkness…"
The familiar veil descended over the world, throwing everything into insignificance – the adobe becoming the colour of yellowed bone, the water in the canal darkening to the colour of a corpse's blotched skin, the smells of maize and steam receding to become the familiar ones of rotting meat and flesh.
This deep within the streets inhabited by noblemen, magic was everywhere, the various trails crisscrossing in the air, shimmering in the water like spilled cooking oil. Huitzilpochtli the Southern Hummingbird, Tezcatlipoca the Smoking Mirror, Xochiquetzal the Quetzal Flower, Tlaloc the Storm Lord, everything merging like a hundred drumbeats on the night of a festival. I stood still, and didn't move – waiting for the discordant beat, the colour slightly out of place.
There was a faint trail alongside the canal – a smell of algae, of churned mud; a sensation of quiet, muffled sound in a universe where everything was at peace forever. I teased it out, followed it. It wove between houses, in and out of the steambaths, dipping into canals like a girl testing the waters, twisting in the mud at our feet like a snake.
The scent died at the gates of a mansion much like any other – blank-faced, drawn back on itself with no hint of what lay inside. But the smell in the air was familiar, quivering on the edge of recognition.
"Acatl-tzin…" Palli said, behind me.
I realised that I stood defenceless – a cane and a bloodied obsidian knife my only weapons.
Never mind.
The warrior by the gate was a veteran with the whitish scars of sword-strikes on his legs: he displayed them proudly, not bothering to hide them beneath a cloak. "Yes?" he asked, making it clear we were wasting his time.
I smiled as brightly as I could. "We're looking for a calendar priest."
That, if nothing else, threw him. He hadn't expected brutal honesty. "Not here. Now go away."
"That's hardly polite," I said. Behind him, from within the house, another three warriors were emerging – not the friendly-looking kind either, but beefy thugs that wouldn't have been out of place at a pillaging.
"What's all the fuss?" the leader of the warriors asked.
"They say they're looking for a priest."
"Are they." His gaze narrowed, focused on me – appraising my worth. "The High P
riest for the Dead." He jerked a thumb in the general direction of the inner courtyard. "What a happy coincidence. As it turns out, you're expected in here."
In here? Three of the burly warriors had deployed in the courtyard, looming over us, and their leader was grinning like someone who held all the weapons, and knew it. "Fine," I said. "I might as well not keep your master waiting."
They laughed at that, as if I'd said something witty – which I'd clearly not done.
I felt as if something had changed when we entered the house – something indefinable, which tightened the air and made it harder to breathe. The courtyard was sunny, and as we passed through two more it seemed like a nobleman's house – with slaves grinding maize into flour, women weaving maguey fibres with the familiar clack of their looms. Except… except that there were warriors everywhere, casually leaning against pillars – hefting their macuahitl swords with wistful smiles, and watching us like turkeys among jaguars and eagles.
Palli had gone rigid – I focused on my breath, coming in and out of my lungs; on the faint touch of Lord Death on my skin, a wind that raised goosebumps on my arms. I was High Priest for the Dead, and they couldn't touch me – they wouldn't dare.
At last, we reached the centre of the house. A small flight of steps led to a grander room, wide and airy with rich frescoes. At the back of the room, seated on a lowbacked chair, was the owner of the house.
She was a woman – and old enough to be my own grandmother, with bent limbs and hundreds of wrinkles on her round face. But the gaze she directed towards us was sharp, and, when she moved, she exuded enough magic to choke the life out of us.
I knelt on the mat before her – couldn't help noticing the stains of blood, scrubbed but never removed. Was this where Nezahual-tzin's missing warriors had died? The air seemed to shimmer with the heaviness of the grave – the magic of Grandmother Earth, who had birthed us and would receive us all.
"So you're the priest." Her voice was mildly curious – kind, almost, save that her tone was firm, and obsidian lay beneath every word, sharp and cutting.
"We're looking for a priest," I said, slowly.
"And with no more idea of the stakes than a child breaking maize stalks before the harvest."
That stung. "You're the one who sent Nezahual-tzin back, weren't you? 'He's coming.' He said what you told him to say."
"A warning you'd do well enough to heed." She rose – I could feel her more than see her, but she moved with a grace and fluidity uncanny for her age. Her shadow fell over me, and she seemed so much larger than she ought to have been – the room smelled of dry earth, of rotten leaves, and the hand she laid on my shoulder was curved claws, pricking my skin to the blood. "You have little idea of what you're playing with, priest." I heard a sound, a breath coming in rapid gasps – and it was mine, it had always been mine…
Far, far away, someone pulled an entrance-curtain, the tinkle of bells a muffled sound that could not impinge on her presence, on the five fingers laid on my shoulder, each a sharp, painful touch on my exposed skin.
"He's mine."
"Yours?" The hand withdrew; the presence, too. My heart thudded against my chest, begging to be let out of its cage of ribs.
"Of course. Aren't you, Acatl-tzin?"
Slowly, carefully, I rose – for I knew the voice, as well as my own, all too well…
Teomitl stood framed in the doorway, his feather headdress of quetzal plumes, his cloak a deep, almost turquoise blue, and with jewellery shining at his throat and wrists. Clothes fit for a Revered Speaker; the old, thoughtless arrogance transfigured, too, into deliberate authority.
"You–"
He waved a dismissive hand, and the air seemed to tighten with each sweep of his fingers. "Not here, Acatltzin. Come. We need to talk."
Did we indeed. I brushed dirt and dried blood from my cloak, stood as straight as I could – not shaking, not shouting, standing with a calmness I didn't feel, not one bit…
"Teomitl-tzin…" There was someone else behind him – a calendar priest, judging by his garb. Our missing priest, Quauhtli. And something about him…
Teomitl shook his head. "I've got all I need. Thank you."
Quauhtli's face lit up, far too fast and too strongly to be a natural feeling. "It was my duty, Teomitl-tzin." His eyes were open slightly too wide; his gestures, as he moved into the room, were those of a drunken man, and I didn't need true sight to see Jade Skirt's magic etched in every limb and every muscle.
"You–" I started, but Teomitl shook his head.
"I told you. Not here. Let's go out."
I thought we'd be alone, but two warriors followed us at some distance – close enough to hear everything. Teomitl made no remark, merely accepted their presence with the same ease Nezahual-tzin accepted his own bodyguards. He looked – leaner, somehow, more dangerous than he had, as if something had broken irremediably within him.
"We've been looking for you," I said. It seemed like such an inadequate way to express the turmoil within me.
He shrugged. "I had things to do. To safeguard the Empire."
"Such as suborning calendar priests?" I shouldn't have antagonised him this early in the discussion, but I couldn't help it.
Teomitl's face set in a grimace. "We've already had this talk, Acatl-tzin. I'll do whatever is necessary to protect the Mexica."
Go on, I thought. Say it. Teomitl was, if nothing else, scrupulously honest; these… evasions ill-suited him. "And you think you know better than your brother?"
He grimaced again. "Tizoc? We can dance around like warriors at the gladiator-stone, and it won't change the truth. My brother is a sick man."
"Unfit to rule," I said, slowly, softly. "Is that what you think, Teomitl?" I knew it was; I just hadn't thought he would voice it, much less act on it.
"Isn't that what you think?" His voice was fierce, as cutting as obsidian shards. "Don't look so surprised. I've seen you, Acatl-tzin. You brood like a jaguar mother over a lame cub. You wonder if you were right to bring him back."
"No," I said. "I brought him back with the Southern Hummingbird's sanction, with the blessing of Izpapalotl, the Obsidian Butterfly. You can't change the truth, Teomitl. I'm a priest, and when the gods speak, I obey."
"They're not your gods."
"They're the gods of the Mexica Empire." Didn't he understand anything? "The ones who protect us, who bring us victory after victory, who gather in all the tributes from the hot lands and the deserts. What I think of them doesn't intrude. It shouldn't intrude."
"Then you're a fool."
Was I? "If I am, it's no place of yours to tell me."
"Because I'm your student? No longer."
I thought of the calendar priest's vacant gaze; of Teomitl's voice, a lifetime ago. Do you think me wise, Acatltzin? Wise enough to handle Chalchiuhtlicue's magic?
"No," I said. "I should think you've made it abundantly clear." I raised a hand to forestall his objection, and miraculously, he stopped. "Listen to me – as a parting gift, if nothing else. The Empire dances on a knife's edge, with a Revered Speaker half-back from the land of the dead. And you – you'd think to replace him, as easily as you spend breath. Except you can't. You just can't. We've barely recovered from one disaster already, and to depose the Revered Speaker will cause an upheaval we're not equipped to deal with."
"Still the same." Teomitl's lips were two narrow lines, as pale as those of a drowned man. "You're too cautious, Acatl-tzin. Moments should be seized; opportunities should be wrestled into fruition. I'll not wait in my brother's shadow for years on end, wondering when he'll have the decency to complete his journey into the world beyond. I will act now."
One Revered Speaker deposing another was bad enough – "And what – kill him?"
His gaze didn't waver. "As you said: he's already halfway there."
To kill his own brother… But then I remembered that they'd never been close; that Tizoc-tzin's persistent mocking of Mihmatini had driven the final wedge between those two.<
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"You're mad."
"Desperate," Teomitl said. "It's not the same."
"Fine." I said it more acidly than I meant it. "But you can't count on me."
His gesture was dismissive – as if he'd never counted on me at all. How dare he?
"I have all I need here."
"You have a wife." Again, more acidly than I meant to. "Do you think she would approve?"
For the first time, I saw doubt in his face – swiftly quashed. "She's Guardian. She knows that I only act in the best interests of the balance."
"If you say so. Do tell her that – because I most certainly won't." And I could guess how Mihmatini would react – enough to make sure I was some distance away when she got the news.
Master of the House of Darts: Obsidian and Blood Book 3 Page 29