Harbinger of the Storm

by Aliette de Bodard

  "I don't think I'm obliged to say that to you."

  "It might demonstrate goodwill," I said, a little sarcastically.

  His eyes narrowed. "I'll admit I was wrong to leave yesterday. But I didn't have to answer those questions, especially not in the way your student asked them."

  His admission was bald, made without a trace of shame, and it was like a blow to the solar plexus. Out of all the people I'd expected an apology from, he was the last.

  Since I remained silent, he went on, "I'm not trying to overthrow the Fifth World. I never was."

  "You act oddly for someone who isn't."

  "Allow me a little mystery." His voice was sarcastic.

  "This isn't the time for that."

  "What do you want to know?" He drew himself up, wrapping his blue cloak around him. "That I'm ambitious and do things for my own benefit? That is true. That I don't approve of Tizoc-tzin or the She-Snake?" The way he spat the words left little doubt as to what he thought of them.

  "I can't take your words on this," I said.

  "Then take my acts."

  "Fine," I said. "Then tell me about the envoys."

  He smiled, and bowed, a little ironically. "Perhaps you could call them mine. I wouldn't swear to anything before any god or any human court, of course."

  I fought to keep my fists from clenching. "Suppose they were yours. Why would they come back so regularly?"

  "He was a man who needed watching."

  "Even if he wasn't yours?"

  "Especially if he wasn't mine," Acamapichtli said. "You seem to overestimate the council, Acatl. They might have responsibilities and grand-sounding names, but in the end, they're nothing more than men too old to go to war."

  "Tizoc-tzin isn't old," I said. And Teomitl, if he became Master of the House of Darts, wouldn't be either.

  He tapped his head with a finger. "Not old in body. Old where it matters. They don't like risks anymore. They don't throw the bean and wager on the outcome. They want safety, at any cost. One way or another, they were all like Ocome, and they knew it. They all watched him, to determine what they should do." His voice was far too bitter for a simple statement, as if he'd gone against them, and found them lacking. What had happened?

  "They weren't anxious for whatever gamble you had in mind?" I asked, not bothering to disguise my hostility.

  "My own business," Acamapichtli said, a tad acidly. "But it doesn't have anything to do with his death. I'll swear it on any god you want."

  "You're easy with your promises. For all I know–"

  "For all you know, even Tizoc-tzin might be implicated." His voice was mocking.

  "And you don't think he is?" That surprised me.

  "Tizoc-tzin is a weak fool, but he's too much like you. He wants stability under the blessing of the Southern Hummingbird, with magic kept to the world of the gods. He would never summon any creatures, or anything that might look like a spell." He spat on the ground. "Fool. As if others wouldn't feel free to use magic."

  I decided not to react to the obvious insult, to focus on the information he had just given me. "You seem very sure."

  Acamapichtli laughed, a wholly unpleasant sound. "Remember last year, Acatl. Remember how much he hated the lot of us, standing before him. That's how much trust he puts in magic."

  A year ago, I had appeared before Tizoc-tzin to bargain for my brother's life, and I had almost failed to walk out of the Imperial Courts. What Acamapichtli wasn't saying was that he had been the one trying to convict my brother; and that Tizoctzin, seeing this as a quarrel between High Priests, had taken hours of convincing that either of us was saying anything of value. "That was a year ago," I said, slowly. "People change."

  "That's Tizoc-tzin's failure." Acamapichtli's lips compressed to a thin line. "He can't change."

  "I can't just take your word," I said. But in truth, he was so obviously hostile to Tizoc-tzin I couldn't see why he would lie to me about this.

  "Think about it. You're a smart man." His voice made it clear he didn't believe a word of it. But still…

  He'd been walking back to the council rooms; I'd followed him through several courtyards, half-fascinated, half-horrified by his spiteful allegations. The palace was preparing for the night. The magistrates were heading out of the courts, back to their own houses; the warriors were in finery, ready to attend feasts.

  "I don't think you quite understand what the Fifth World is, either you or him." Acamapichtli's voice was quieter. "You think of it like Mictlan, a static universe where change would be deadly. But we change every day, and we endure. Worshippers shed their blood, and the Southern Hummingbird wraps us in His embrace. We will endure."

  I wished I could be so convinced. "Last year…"

  Acamapichtli shrugged. "Tlaloc attempted to wrest power from Huitzilpochtli. One more wave in a storm-tossed lake. It's not because of that boats will sink."

  "And you truly think the situation is the same here?" I couldn't quite keep the anger from my voice. "People have died–"

  "One, so far."

  I cut him. "There was another murder attempt."

  He looked so genuinely surprised it was hard to believe it an act. "The Guardian Ceyaxochitl was poisoned."

  His face did not move, but I could have sworn his skin was slightly paler. "I see. It still doesn't prove anything. People have died in successions before, Acatl. You may not like it, but it's the way things work."

  "You're right," I said. "I don't like it." I'd almost preferred him when he was hostile, and not trying to reason with me. Every one of his words made me feel soiled.

  We walked the rest of the way to the council rooms in silence. It was empty now; but Quenami was still in the courtyard, his head cocked as he stared at the sky.

  He turned when he heard us. "What a coincidence."

  I no longer believed in his "coincidences", which came too conveniently for him. Either he was good at turning the situation whichever way he wanted, or his spy network was much, much better than I had thought. Either way, not a pleasant thought.

  "I have been to see the Guardian," he said. "You were right." His tone said, subtly, that he had not quite believed me before.

  "And?" I asked, more acidly than I'd have wanted. "Any thoughts you'd care to share?"

  Even without a spell of true sight on me, I could feel the strength of his wards, the slight heat that emanated from him.

  "Poison," he said.

  "What a feat of observation," I said, echoing Yaotl's muted sarcasm of the day before. "And what else?"

  His face shifted, halfway to an awkwardness I'd never seen in him. He had been brash before, always in control; now it looked as though he was staring at some profoundly unpalatable meal. "I'm no maker of miracles."

  "You are–" High Priest of Huitzilpochtli, the strongest among us, the one for feats of valour, and turning the impossible commonplace.

  "I know what I am." His voice was as cutting as obsidian shards.

  "Representative of the sun, of the light within us," I said, not without bitterness. "Of what keeps us all alive."

  "He's powerless." Acamapichtli's voice was filled with malicious amusement.

  "He can't be–" I started, and then saw Quenami's face, and it was as if someone had sunk a knife into my gut.

  "The sun is strong at its zenith, but at dawn and at dusk its light is all but useless. So it is with Huitzilpochtli." Quenami sounded as if he were giving a lecture, save that the smugness had been scoured from his voice. "Now is dusk, the time of coyotes and jaguars."

  The time of Tezcatlipoca the Smoking Mirror, of Coyolxauhqui of the Silver Bells. "I still don't see how the god can be powerless," I said. "We see evidence of His presence every day above us."

  "Tonatiuh the Fifth Sun is still here," Quenami said. "But Huitzilpochtli has retreated to the heart of his strength, bracing Himself for our defence."

  He sounded as though he only believed half of it, and that was more frightening than His previous arrogance
had been. What would we do, if the Southern Hummingbird could not protect us against His sister.

  "The heart of his strength," Acamapichtli said, thoughtfully. "The heartland."

  Quenami grimaced. "Yes."

  The heartland. Aztlan, the White Place, where our seven ancestors had emerged from their caves into the burning light of day, and where the Southern Hummingbird had promised them they would crush the world under their sandaled feet if they followed Him. Our place of birth, our place of origin.

  "Why the curiosity?" I asked.

  "Nothing." Acamapichtli made a dismissive gesture. "Just making sure what help we could expect."

  For all His reassurances, I didn't like Acamapichtli's probing: the heartland was also where Huitzilpochtli was, diminished and less powerful than his usual.

  The perfect time to put an end to the reign of a god.

  Quenami made a dismissive gesture. "The Southern Hummingbird will be here when He is needed, Acamapichtli, you can be sure of it."

  Acamapichtli bowed, but his gaze was mocking. "As you wish. Meanwhile–"

  "Meanwhile, we keep this palace warded." Quenami's voice was firm. "We make sure everyone is safe."

  "Safe?" I all but choked on the word. "This is the second murder, Quenami. I'd say it proves beyond a doubt that we can't keep ourselves safe."

  "Not so fast, Acatl. The first murder was a star-demon, but the second attempt… I grieve for Ceyaxochitl-tzin, believe me, but this was purely mundane."

  Mundane – this was how he would dismiss her? "She had found a devotee of the Silver Bells," I snapped.

  "Still mundane." Acamapichtli sounded angry, as if he couldn't believe my foolishness. But I wasn't able to let him cow me into silence.

  "Heavily linked to the first," I said. "Enough to make it necessary to hunt down whoever is summoning the star-demons."

  "And we will," Quenami said.

  "I've already said it, you put far little trust in our resilience,"

  Acamapichtli said. "We have always endured. We will this time, too."

  Quenami said, smoothly, "But your investigation is important too, Acatl."

  Another way of saying he had no intention of helping. "Quenami."

  "Acatl." Quenami's voice was firm. "We have reached a decision."

  "You have," I said.

  "No, we," Quenami said. "Do you forget? We are the High Priests. We make the decisions as a group."

  Only when it suited him. But I couldn't say that. Teomitl might have, in my stead, but I was just a peasant ascended into the priesthood, with no influence or powerful relatives to shelter me. With Tizoc-tzin and Acamapichtli against me, I could not afford to gainsay Quenami. I clenched my hands. "Fine," I said. "Now if you will excuse me, I have a body to prepare for a funeral."

  They could not contradict me on this, and let me walk away without another word.

  One man with too much confidence in his wards, and another who kept insisting that the Fifth World would resist anything, as if he still wanted to find out how to break it once and for all. That was what we had, for High Priests, Duality curse me.

  Should another star-demon come down, they would be useless.

  I, on the other hand, was determined not to be.

  EIGHT

  On Mictlan's Threshold

  I entered the Imperial Chambers with more reluctance than the last time, remembering the unpleasantness of my previous visit.

  I passed them with a deep bow, and divested myself of my sandals in the antechamber. Everything was silent; not the hostile, pregnant atmosphere everywhere else in the palace, but a final silence I knew all too well, one that could not be appealed against or dissipated.

  My six priests had withdrawn against the wall as I entered. Palli bowed to me, the blood on his pierced earlobes glistening in the dim light. "It is done, Acatl-tzin."

  The body of the Revered Speaker lay on the reed mat, dressed in multi-coloured garb, the knees folded up until they touched the chin. A golden mask with a protruding tongue, symbolising Tonatiuh the Fifth Sun, covered his face, and his body had been painted red, the colour of the setting sun. A jade bead pierced his lips. When I touched it, it pulsed with magic.

  As befitted that part of the rites, they had brought a cage containing a yellow dog. It lay curled on the ground, its shortcropped fur completely still save for the slight rise of its breathing, its large head nestled between its paws in a strange pose of resignation.

  A faint odour of rot wafted from the body, sour and sickly – nothing I couldn't handle. I knelt in preparation for the ritual, and was about to open the cage, when I saw the traces. There had been other rituals before mine, spots of black and grey peppered the ground, along with scratches like the traces of a knife blade. Whatever it was, it had been cleaned, but not well enough. I drew one of my obsidian blades from its sheath, and scratched at it in turn. It was hard, not like congealed blood or sloughed-off flesh, but more like solidified stone, and it wouldn't yield. I managed to take only a small scrap of it, which lay cold and inert in my hand. Tar? Why would anyone want to use tar?

  "Palli?" I asked.

  He and the other priests had been quietly leaving the room, for this was a moment for the High Priest alone. When I spoke, he turned around. "Do you know what this is?" I asked.

  He walked back, carefully navigating around the accumulated traces of magic in the room. "Tar?" he said.

  "That's what I think, but–"

  "We didn't use tar," Palli said. "It must have been here before. But it's odd."

  Decidedly odd. Tar was an uncommon ingredient to use in a ritual, save for very specific gods; and why use it in the imperial chambers themselves?

  "Do you want me to look into it?" Palli asked.

  "Yes," I said. "Later, though." Whatever ritual had been accomplished, it was old. I couldn't detect any traces of magic, and the spots of tar didn't look as though they would interfere with the spell I was about to cast. "Now isn't the time."

  I waited until Palli had left the room to open the cage. I held the dog by the neck and, with the ease of practise, brought the blade up to slice its throat. It gave a little sigh, like a spent hiss, as it died. Blood ran down my hands, warm and beating with power, staining the blade and the stones of the floor.

  I used the knife to draw the shape of a quincunx around us: the five-point cross, the shape that symbolised the structure of the world from the Heavens down to Mictlan.

  I sang as I did so, the beginning of a litany for the Dead.

  "We leave this earth, we leave this world

  Into the darkness we must descend

  Leaving behind the precious jade, the precious feathers,

  The marigolds and the cedar trees…"

  The familiar green light of the underworld seeped into the room, hanging over the stone floor like fog. Shadows moved within, singing a wordless lament that twisted in my guts like a knife-stab.

  "Past the river, the waters of life

  Past the mountains that crush, the mountains that bind

  Past the breath of the wind, the breath of His knives…"

  The frescoes and the limestone receded, to become the walls of a deep cenote, at the bottom of which shimmered the dark waters of a lake that had never seen, and would never see, the light of day. Small figures moved over the water, growing fainter and fainter the further they went – first they had faces and features that looked almost human, and then they were mere silhouettes, and finally they seemed as small and insignificant as insects, vanishing into the darkness at the far end.

  Cold crept up my spine, like the fingers of a corpse or a skeleton. The air became saturated with a dry, musty smell, like old codices left for too long, or the cool ashes of a funeral pyre.

  And, abruptly, I was no longer alone.

  It was a faint feeling at first, that of eyes on the nape of my neck, and then it grew layer by layer, until, turning, I saw the faint silhouette of a man by my side, shimmering in the darkness like a mirage. Thou
gh I could barely see his face, I could guess the outline of a quetzal-feather headdress, spread in a circle around his head and hear the swish of fine cotton cloth as he moved.

  "Priest?" he whispered. His voice seemed spent, as if it had

  crossed whole countries to reach me.

  I bowed, as low as I could. "Revered Speaker."

  "I feel so cold," Axayacatl-tzin whispered. "Cold…"

  I reached with my hands, spreading a little of the blood on him. He rippled, as if I'd drawn the flat of my palm across a reflection in the water. "Priest…"