“The truth is I didn’t kill him. Shin Li.” White ringed his eyes. “We played chess. We played chess every week. Gerard, they’re going to give me to the Chinese.” His voice rose. “Do you know what they’ll do to me?”
“Stop.” I took him by the arm, my fingers denting his flesh. “Help me, Avery. I need to know every detail of what happened if I’m going to save you. Don’t leave anything out. How did you get to be friends with the consul’s son?”
“I met him in the Garden of Small Trees, east of the central market. I was playing chess with a friend of mine there, and he challenged me to a game. I had met him before, at one of the palace functions--Mai... The Quetzal’s daughter had invited me to read my poetry. I’m... not invited to the palace.”
I nodded. The Quetzal had no use for any poet who was not Nahuatl.
“Shin Li was a strong player and we played weekly.” Avery gave me a crooked smile. “A much better player than you, Gerard.”
“That’s hardly high praise.” I rolled my eyes.
“That night... last night... I went to his room to play. I had started going there because he liked to talk and the Garden of Small Trees was too public.”
“Did you notice anything different?”
“No.” Avery,frowned. “Well, maybe. He... shared something with me. We had been talking politics--he thought his father was too ‘old school,’ unwilling to deal with the Three Peoples as equals. He wanted to abolish some of the trade restrictions. He told me his father was in line for a court appointment and he had talked about leaving Li in charge when he returned to Beijing. To prove his theories correct, he said.”
Suddenly The Quetzal’s interest in this case made more sense.
“So you played chess. Then what happened?”
“We... we finished the game. It was a stalemate.” Avery swallowed. “We drank some of their god-awful rice brandy and talked. Li told me that the Chinese compound used to be a brothel--for high-ranking ministers and diplomats. It offended his father that The Quetzal had housed them there. Don’t look at me like that.” Avery grimaced. “I wasn’t drunk.”
“I’m glad to hear that,” I said rather dryly. “Who saw you leave?”
“The watchman did.” He shrugged. “He sits on a stool by the courtyard entrance. Shin Li was alive then.”
“Where did you go afterward?”
“Home.” Avery didn’t meet my eyes. “To bed. It was late.”
He was a lousy liar. I stood. “I’m going to go look at the murder scene and talk to the watchman.”
“Are you going to help me, Gerard?” Kneeling on the thin mat, Avery clutched at my knee. “You can prove that I didn’t do it, can’t you?”
“I can try.” It bothered me that he hadn’t told me the truth. I didn’t try to sound very hopeful. Let him stew for a while and think about how much he wanted to hide from me.
The Quetzal’s slave waited outside and I told him that I wanted to visit the room where the consul’s son had died.
This turned out to be a bit more difficult than visiting the Hall of Justice. The watchman at the gate of the compound ushered us into the interior garden but there we were stalled while a Chinese servant or slave hurried off to fetch someone with more rank and he fetched his boss and so on until finally a young man in blue, brocaded silk stitched with gold arrived. The consul’s younger son. I recognized him from some court function or other and couldn’t remember his name.
“I have sent a message to The Quetzal.” He barely inclined his head. “I see no reason for this disturbance of our grief, or the guard at my elder brother’s room. The circumstances of my brother’s foul murder are clear as well water.”
I have seen some very muddy well water in my time. I merely bowed and enjoyed the shade beneath the carefully pruned and shaped tree that decorated this courtyard.
The sun stood straight overhead by the time the Chinese messenger returned from the palace to bow and hand the consul’s younger son a small scroll. The contents made him scowl and he crumpled the fine agave-fiber paper gracelessly. “All right.” He jerked his chin at the watchman. “Show them what they want. You are responsible for them.” He turned on his heel and disappeared through a silk-hung doorway.
Rude. The Quetzal’s slave looked down his arched nose after the young man. People were not rude here. Not even when they killed you. “Were you the man who was here last night?” I asked him.
“Yes.” A stocky man in his middle years with the shaved forehead of a warrior, he nodded. “I was told that someone would speak with me. About last night.”
The servants knew more than the masters, but that’s the city for you. “Tell me what you saw,” I said.
“I record all visitors.” He reached into a small alcove behind the carved wooden stool where he sat, retrieved a bundle of reeds. “I record everyone who enters and leaves. See?” He extracted a long reed and waved it at me. “This one is yesterday. At the first hour after dawn, three bearers bringing fresh produce from the market and the water merchant’s bearers, refilling the cistern.” His blunt nail pointed out the marks, one by one. “A servant from the palace, a masseuse for the consul...” I frowned as that thumbnail ticked off the many visitors to the bustling consulate.
“The poet--this is him.” The watchman dug his nail into that mark. And see? Here he leaves.”
“When did you find the body?”
“Oh, much later.” The nail moved on. “The consul had a late dinner and five people arrived for that. Then a servant came to the rooms of both sons. They were supposed to attend the dinner. She woke the younger son and then went to the older one’s room. She screeched.” The watchman shrugged. “I went to see what was wrong and he was there, lying dead on the floor behind the chess board where the poet had killed him. He still had a chess piece in his hand.” The watchman nodded. “The poet seems very soft, but he knew right where to put the blade to pierce the heart.”
He sounded approving. I sighed. “What then?”
The watchman shrugged. “The girl had run off to tell everyone. I went to see if he still lived, although you could tell from where the blade went in that he must have died.”
“Did you move him?”
“I lifted his hand. That’s when I saw he was holding the chess piece. It rolled onto the floor.”
I frowned. “How so? Wasn’t his hand stiff?”
“No.” The watchman shrugged. “No more stiff than when you sleep.”
My heart leaped. “You will swear to that on the steps of the Sun Temple?”
“Of course.” He blinked at me, then his eyes narrowed. “Ah. It was a long time after the poet left. I did not think of that.” He frowned. “No one else went into that room. I can see the doorway from where I sit. I never left my stool.”
I could suggest that someone might have slipped through the shadows of the courtyard and into that room as the watchmen greeted one of the arriving guests, but the guests would be staring right at him. “I wish to see the room,” I told my informant.
He took me, eager now.
It was an elegant room if not overly large, but that was not surprising if this had once been a brothel as Avery had said. I reflected briefly on The Quetzal’s subtlety here. He was aware of the current consul’s attitude toward the Three Peoples. He thought they were savages. Brocaded hangings crawled with gilded dragons and mother of pearl inlays gleamed on the intricately carved wooden furniture, including a wide bed thick with silken cushions. Imported rugs from the Byzantine warmed the tile floor and a carved wooden screen set into a tall, narrow window allowed the blossom-scented breath of a garden to cool the room. I pushed on the screen but it was set firmly in place, not designed to open. No other doorway opened into the room. I lifted the lid of one of the carved chests, eyed the pile of folded silk garments. A small rusty stain, no larger than the nail of my little finger marked one of the ivory colored tiles in front of the chest. I closed the lid and studied the chessboard. One piece was missing. Th
at would be the piece the dead Shin Li had been clutching. The inlaid wooden chair lay on its side and flies buzzed about the dark bloodstain in the small but richly woven rug that the chair must have stood upon. Apparently the son of the consul did not like to chill his feet on the bare tiles as he played.
It was hot as I walked back to the Hall of Justice. The streets were empty, even the sweepers were resting in the shade, waiting for the cool of early evening. The market had shut down for the day and the stragglers were making their way home with remnants of unsold goods or were resting in the shade of their canopied stalls. In the dim, cool cell, Avery scrambled to his feet as the door opened.
“What did you find out?”
“That you didn’t kill Shin Li.”
“I told you that.” Some color had come back into Avery’s face. “Are they going to let me out?”
“I need to know where you were. After you left Shin Li.”
“Home. In bed.”
“You weren’t.” I kept my voice conversational. “You need to prove that you were somewhere else when the murder was committed, Avery. You need an alibi. So tell me where you were and who can swear on the Sun Temple steps that you were there.”
He looked away from me and I watched a muscle jump in his jaw.
“If I can’t solve this, The Quetzal will give you to the Chinese.” I said it harshly, watched him go pale. But he shook his head. “I was at home. In bed.”
And that was all I could get out of him. Well, maybe he deserved the Chinese. I went home, followed by The Quetzal’s slave because I didn’t yet know what other doors I might need to have him open. Ten Reed was working in the small garden although what he found to do when he never allowed a leaf to be out of place, I couldn’t tell. I sent him to give The Quetzal’s slave food and something to drink and a mat so he could rest and I seated myself in the shade on a thick petlatl that Ten Reed disapproved of as too comfortable, to listen to the birds in the big garden beyond the wall.
When Ten Reed returned with a tray of golden maize tlaxcalli, turkey seethed with chilis, and melon, I gestured to him to join me. Of course the tray held two bowls. Ten Reed reads me more accurately than anyone I have ever known. “Do you believe in ghosts?” I asked him as I scooped up turkey with a golden disk of tlaxcalli. “Ghosts that are strong enough to stab someone with a knife?”
Ten Reed chewed, frowning slightly. Swallowed. “I have never encountered a ghost that did damage directly. Someone else always saw it.” He raised one eyebrow. “Perhaps the ghost possessed a mortal hand?”
“Perhaps indeed.” I reached for another tlaxcalli. “But the mortal hand is not as adept as a ghost at slipping through solid walls.”
“The appearance is not always the reality.”
“Very profound.” I smiled at Ten Reed. “So what is the gossip about the murder in the Chinese quarters?”
Ten Reed pulled at the sparse hairs growing on his chin, his broad face thoughtful. “That it was the Drunken Poet.” He shrugged. “He was seen leaving, after the killing. He tried to flee.” Ten Reed shrugged. “What can you expect of a drunk?” His tone was disapproving.
Yes, in many ways, Avery was the perfect suspect for this. Every resident of Tenochtitlan would expect the worst. He was a drunk. What, after all, can you expect from a drunk? I steepled my fingers and listened to one of the big red and blue Hot Land birds shriek. “Tell me about the compound where the Chinese consul lives.”
Ten Reed pursed his lips. “It was built only four hands of years ago, for the son of the previous Quetzal. He was... notorious. When he finally chose to become a sacrifice it was rumored that he had had no choice. Everybody knew about his parties.” Ten Reed shook his head. “My mother’s cousin was the builder. He designed many houses for the nobles.” Ten Reed smiled. “My uncle took me through it as he laid out the rooms. It was very challenging. The son of The Quetzal had many requests.”
So it wasn’t quite the brothel Avery had said. “What kinds of requests?”
Ten Reed shrugged. “The son of the previous Quetzal had... many appetites. And he wished to satisfy them privately. My uncle still talks about that building.” Ten Reed chuckled. “He was very proud of how he solved all the challenges set for him by the son.” He gave me a sideways look. “I found it interesting that The Quetzal gave the compound to the Chinese as a gift.”
“A piece of cracked jade?”
“The Chinese do not forget that they brought us gunpowder and helped us defeat the Europeans when they first came looking for gold,” Ten Reed said thoughtfully. “Sometimes it seems as if they have not noticed that we are no longer those same people.”
“The Chinese are very sure of their place in the world. I would like to talk to your uncle.” I bit into a slice of melon, suddenly very hungry.
“He has retired from building.” Ten Reed was looking at me very closely. “He has a small plot of land west of the city in Aztacalco, where he grows flowers for his amusement. We could visit him in the morning, if you wish.”
“I wish,” I told him and ate a last slice of melon. “I am going for a stroll. I will eat dinner in one of the eating-houses. No need to fix anything for me tonight.
“And The Quetzal’s slave?”
“I will need him tomorrow. This afternoon, he can take a message to The Quetzal’s daughter, Malinal, that I will have to miss our morning tutoring session.” I went to my room to fetch a roll of paper, an ink-stone, and a brush. Then I headed out into the late afternoon heat.
Ten Reed woke me before the first birds chirped, and by the time the wooden gong and the conch shell blasts woke the city, we were beyond the west gate. I like the city suburbs with their dusty roads and sleepy little whitewashed houses, each with its central garden full of turkeys and playing children. Houseboats floated in a sea of reed-mat gardens planted to market produce or floating among the tall green spears of Chinese rice in the mud-fenced paddies.
Ten Reed’s uncle occupied one of the small, whitewashed houses and we sat in his little garden beneath a fig tree that had been a gift from the previous Quetzal, eating the sticky fruits and drinking Chinese tea. He showed us his gardens, neatly planted to the bright, colorful flowers like the ones that filled the Street of Flowers stalls in the central market. One by one he pointed out each variety and described how he had obtained it. Ten Reed looked on with a fond resignation, but I found the old man’s knowledge of botany to be quite up to date. Sure enough, when we entered the main room of his house to escape the heat of the day, I spied a heavy volume of Systema Naturae by the Swede, Carolus Linnaeus. Botany was clearly his passion these days and it took me some time to finally turn the conversation to building and the Chinese consul’s building in particular. But my time was rewarded because Ten Reed had been right. The old man was still quite proud of his accomplishments there and the drawing I had made of Shin Li’s room and that section of the complex turned out to be very useful.
“So,” Ten Reed asked me as we walked home through the golden evening light. “Did you find your ghost?”
“I found the hand,” I told him.
The next morning, I asked The Quetzal’s slave to bring me to him. He led me quickly through the maze of tiled streets, dwellings, and gardens to The Quetzal’s private ball court. A game was in progress and I caught a glimpse of the bronze, oiled figures as they raced across the court after the hard ball.
The Aztecs were crazy about their ball games. The whole city turned out for the big, public games. Sure enough, The Quetzal was seated beneath a fine-woven cotton canopy with a group of guests, intent on the game. I assumed from the dress that these were the Palenque visitors and perhaps some local dignitaries. The slave scurried up the steps to bow and speak to one of the servants standing around the group and a moment later, The Quetzal nodded in my direction. He excused himself from his guests, strolled over to the strip of shade cast by the whitewashed wall, and gestured me over.
“You are swift with your truth.” He glanced a
t the ball court as the crowd cheered.
“The truth was not hard to guess. Finding proof for all eyes was more difficult.” I watched as a small, wiry youth caught the ball on his padded hip, sent it arrowing across the stone-flagged court to his teammate.
“And your truth is?” The Quetzal kept his face turned to the court, but I could see that he was no longer paying attention to the game.
“I would... prefer to show you.” I bowed. “At the Chinese consulate. In the room where the consul’s son was murdered. Perhaps your daughter, Malinal, would care to join you there? It will be instructive.” I kept my face still as he bent his dark gaze on me.
“I will invite her.” He started to turn away. “I will send a runner to the consul about our arrival.”
“I would not do that.”
He gave me one quick glance and I saw a brief flicker of satisfaction there. Or perhaps I imagined it.
We made our way to the Chinese complex in the hot time of day. Slaves carried a blue canopy on long poles as we walked through the palace gate and across the square to the Street of Nobles and the Chinese consul’s residence. The watchman there bowed us through, the same man who had found Shin Li’s body. The consul hurried out, of course, his sandals shushing on the tiles of the courtyard in his haste to greet The Quetzal.
The Quetzal brushed aside his offers of hospitality. “This man will tell you who has killed your son and how it could happen, here in my city.” He jerked his chin at me.
The consul gave me a cold look that made me glad to have The Quetzal as a protector. We all marched together across the spacious courtyard and a small icy snake curled in my gut. If I was wrong...
I tried not to think about that. Malinal was giving me wary glances that made me think I was not wrong. The Quetzal’s guard still stood at the door, eagle-eyed, his atlatl at his side. He saluted and stood aside for The Quetzal to enter first.
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