Master of the House of Darts

by Aliette de Bodard

  MASTER OF THE HOUSE OF DARTS

  "Part murder mystery, part well-researched historical novel and part fantasy… The fantasy element blends neatly with the other parts. 4****."

  SFX Magazine

  "From page one I was drawn into Acatl's world… a remarkable historically-based fantasy, using the myths and legends of the Aztec people as a background to a twisting murder mystery."

  Speculative Book Review

  "A gripping mystery steeped in blood and ancient Aztec magic. I was enthralled."

  Sean Williams

  "I haven't enjoyed a proper detective story this much in ages, and the rich setting, monsters and magic just added an extra layer of delight."

  David Deveraux

  "Both involving and well written. Acatl deserves to become as well known as that other priestly investigator, Cadfael."

  Strange Horizons

  By the same author

  Servant of the Underworld

  Harbinger of the Storm

  ALIETTE DE BODARD

  Master of the House of Darts

  OBSIDIAN AND BLOOD VOL. III

  A Brief Pronunciation Guide to Nahuatl

  The present pronunciation guide comes from a phonetic transcription of the Nahuatl language made in the 16th century by the Spanish friars.

  Nahuatl words usually have no accent mark, and bear the stress on the penultimate syllable.

  Vowels

  The vowels are pronounced as in modern Spanish:

  a is pronounced "ah", as in "ash" or "park"

  e is pronounced "eh", as in "tennis"

  i is pronounced "ee", as in "seek"

  o is pronounced "oh", as in "old"

  u is pronounced "oo" as in "wood"

  Consonants

  All consonants save ll and x are pronounced the same as in Spanish, and therefore the same as in English, except for these notable exceptions:

  c is pronounced "s" when it comes before e or i

  cu is pronounced "kw" as in "query"

  c is pronounced "k" when it comes before any other vowel

  h is pronounced "w" as in "wild"

  ll is pronounced like a long English "l" as in "fully"

  que is pronounced "kay" as in "case"

  qui is pronounced "kee" as in "keep"

  tl is pronounced as a unit like the "tl" in "battle"

  tz is pronounced as in "pretzel"

  x is pronounced "sh" as in "shell"

  z is pronounced a hissy, soft "c", halfway between "zap" and "cite"

  ONE

  The Army's Return

  The day dawned clear and bright on the city: as the Fifth Sun emerged from His night journey, He was welcomed by the drumrolls and conch-blasts of His priests – a noise that reverberated in my small house until it seemed to fill my lungs. I rolled to my feet from my sleeping mat, and made my daily offerings of blood – both to Tonatiuth the Fifth Sun, and to my patron Lord Death, the Fleshless One, ruler of the underworld.

  This done, I put on a simple grey cloak, and headed to my temple – more for the sake of form, for I suspected I wouldn't remain there long, not if the army were indeed coming back today.

  As I walked, I felt the slight resistance to the air, the familiar nausea in my gut – a feeling that everything wasn't quite right, that there was a gaping hole beneath the layers of reality that undercut the Fifth World. I'd been living with it for over three months, ever since the previous Revered Speaker had died. His successor, Tizoctzin, had been crowned leader of the Mexica Empire; but a Revered Speaker wasn't confirmed in the sight of the gods until his successful coronation war.

  Today, I guessed, was the day I found out if the hole would ever close.

  The Sacred Precinct, the religious heart of Tenochtitlan, was already bustling even at this early hour: groups of novice priests were sweeping the courtyards of the temple complexes; pilgrims, from noblemen in magnificent cloaks to peasants in loincloths, brought offerings of incense and blood-stained grass-balls; and the murmur of the crowd, from dozens of low-voiced conversations, enfolded me like a mother's arms. But there was something more in the air – a tautness in the faces of the pilgrims, a palpable atmosphere of expectation shared by the cottondraped matrons and the priests with blood-matted hair.

  The Temple for the Dead was but a short distance from my house, at the northern end of the Sacred Precinct. It was a low, sprawling complex with a pyramid shrine at its centre, from which the smoke of copal incense was already rising like a prayer to the Heavens. I wasn't surprised to find my second-in-command, Ichtaca, in deep conversation with another man in a light-blue cloak embroidered with seashells and frogs, and a headdress of heron feathers: Acamapichtli, High Priest of the Storm Lord. Together with Quenami, High Priest of the Mexica patron god Southern Hummingbird, we formed the religious head of the Empire. I didn't get on with Quenami, who was arrogant and condescending – and as to Acamapichtli… Not that I liked him any more than Quenami, but we'd reached an uneasy understanding the year before.

  "Acatl." Acamapichtli looked amused, but then he always did. His gaze went up and down, taking in my simple grey tunic.

  He didn't need to say anything, really. I could hardly welcome back the Revered Speaker of the Empire dressed like a low-ranking priest. "I'll change," I said, curtly. "I presume you're not here to enquire after my health."

  For a moment, I thought he was going to play one of his little games with me again – but then his lips tightened, and he simply said, "A messenger arrived two days ago at the palace, and was welcomed with all due form by the She-Snake."

  "You know this–"

  "Through Quenami, of course. How else?" Acamapichtli's voice was sardonic. After the events of the previous year, we were both… in disgrace, I guessed. Not that I'd ever been in much of a state of grace, but I'd spoken out against the election of the current Revered Speaker, and Acamapichtli had plotted against him with foreigners, making us both outcasts at the current court. The SheSnake, who deputised for the Revered Speaker, wouldn't have wanted to countermand his master.

  "And?" I asked. I wouldn't have been surprised if Quenami had given us only part of the information, to keep us as much in the dark as the pilgrims milling in the Sacred Precinct.

  "Other messengers went out yesterday morning," Acamapichtli said. "With drums and trumpets, and incense-burners."

  I let out a breath I hadn't been conscious of holding. "It's a victory, then."

  Acamapichtli's face was a careful blank. "Or considered as such."

  What did he know that he wasn't telling me? It would be just like him: serving his own interests best, playing a game of handing out and withholding information like the master he was.

  "You know it's not a game."

  Acamapichtli stared at me for a while, as if mulling over some withering response. "And you take everything far too seriously, Acatl. As I said: the Fifth World can survive."

  I had my doubts, especially given that the death of the previous Revered Speaker had resulted in city-wide chaos – which we'd survived only by a hair's breadth. "What else did Quenami tell you?"

  Acamapichtli grimaced. "Quenami didn't tell me anything. But I have… other sources. They're saying we only won the coronation war because the Revered Speaker called it a victory."

  I fought the growing nausea in my gut. A coronation war was proof of the Revered Speaker's valour, proving him worthy of the Southern Hummingbird's favour, and bringing enough sacrifices and treasures for the coronation ceremony itself. The gods wouldn't be pleased by Tizoc-tzin's sleight of hand, and I very much doubted they'd make their displeasure felt merely through angry words. "And prisoners?"

  "Forty or so," Acamapichtli said.<
br />
  It was pitiful. Without enough human sacrifices, how were we going to appease the Fifth Sun, or Grandmother Earth? How were we to have light, and maize in fertile fields? "I hope it suffices," I said.

  "I said it before: you worry too much. Come, now. Let's welcome them home."

  I pressed my lips together to fight the nausea, and stole a glance at the sky above us: it was the clear, impossible blue of turquoise, with no clouds in sight. Calm Heavens, and no ill-omens. Perhaps Acamapichtli was right.

  And perhaps I was going to grow fangs and turn into a coyote, too.

  • • • •

  Sometime later, the Sacred Precinct was transformed – packed with a throng of people in their best clothes, a riot of colours – of cotton, of cactus fibres and feathers, with circular feather insignias bobbing up and down as if stirred by an unseen breath.

  Everyone was there: the officials who kept the city running, accompanied by their wood-collared slaves; the matrons with their hair brought up in two horns, in the fashion of married women, carrying children on their shoulders; the peasants too old to go to war, bare-chested and tanned by the sun, wearing a single ornament of gold on their chests; the noblemen, resplendent in their cotton clothes and standing with the ease and arrogance of those used to ceremony.

  I stood with the She-Snake, Quenami and Acamapichtli at the foot of the Great Temple, surrounded by an entourage of noblemen and priests. Everyone's earlobes still dripped with blood, and the combined shimmer of magical protections was making my eyes hurt. I stole another glance at the sky – which remained stubbornly blue.

  "There they are," Quenami said.

  I could barely see over the heads of the crowd, but Quenami was taller. A cry went up from the assembled throng, a litany repeated over and over until the words merged with each other.

  "O Mexica,

  O Texcocans

  O Tepanecs,

  People of the Eagle, People of the Jaguar,

  Our sons have come back as men!"

  And then the crowd parted, and Tizoc-tzin was standing in front of us.

  He wasn't a tall man either, though he held himself with the casual arrogance of warriors. His hawkish face could not have been called handsome, even if he'd been in good health. As it was, his usually sallow skin was so taut it was almost transparent, and the shape of a skull glistened beneath his cheeks.

  So the war hadn't improved him – I hid a grimace. We'd made the decision to heal him three months ago, as High Priests; but clearly some things couldn't be healed.

  Behind him was his war-council: two deputies, his Master of the House of Darkness, and his Master of the House of Darts – Teomitl, imperial prince and my student.

  "She-Snake," Tizoc-tzin said. "Priests." He said the last with a growl: he'd never been fond of the clergy, but lately his opposition had become palpable. "Tonatiuh the Fifth Sun has taken us up, shown us the way to glory. Tezcatlipoca the Smoking Mirror has smiled upon us, enfolded us in His hands."

  The She-Snake bowed, holding the position slightly longer than necessary – he was a canny man, and knew how susceptible to flattery Tizoc-tzin was. "Be welcome, my Lord. You have graciously approached your water, your high place of Tenochtitlan, you have come to your mat, your throne, which I have briefly kept for you. The roads have been swept clean, the mats have been spread out; come, enter into your palace, rest your weary limbs."

  Tizoc-tzin's face darkened, but he stuck to ritual, starting a lengthy hymn to the glory of the Southern Hummingbird.

  I'd have been listening, even though I wasn't particularly fond of the Southern Hummingbird – a warrior god who had little time for the non-combatant clergy – but something caught my attention on the edge of the crowd. A movement, in those massed colours? No, that wasn't it. Something else…

  The nausea in my gut flared again. Gently, carefully, I reached out to my earlobes, and rubbed the scabs of my blood-offerings until they came loose. Blood spurted on my hands, warm with the promise of magic.

  My movements hadn't been lost on everyone: my student Teomitl was staring at me intently under his quetzal-feather headdress. He made a small, stabbing gesture with his hand, as if bringing down a macuahitl sword, and mouthed a question.

  I shook my head. The spell I had in mind required a quincunx traced on the ground – hardly appropriate, given the circumstances. I rubbed the blood on my hands and said the prayers nevertheless:

  "We all must die

  We all must go down into darkness

  Leaving behind the marigolds and the cedar trees

  Nothing is hidden from Your gaze."

  The air seemed to grow thinner, and my nausea got worse – but nothing else happened. The spell wasn't working. I should have guessed. I'd made a fool of myself for nothing.

  Tizoc-tzin had finished speaking; now he took a step backwards, and said, "Welcome back your children made men, O Mexica."

  The war-council stepped aside as well, to reveal three rows of warriors in quilted cotton armour and colourful cloaks, the feather insignia over their heads bobbing in the wind.

  There were so few of them – so few warriors who had taken prisoners. It looked like Acamapichtli's sources were right: there couldn't be more than forty of them before us, and many of them were injured, their cloaks and quilted armour torn and bloody. Many of them were veterans, with the characteristic black cloaks with a border of yellow eyes; many held themselves upright with a visible effort, the knuckles of their hands white, the muscles of their legs quivering. Here and there, a younger face with a childhood-lock broke the monotony of the line.

  "Beloved fathers, you have come at last, you have returned

  To the place of high waters, the place where the serpent is crushed

  Possessors of a heart, possessors of a face,

  Sons of jaguars and eagles…"

  There was something… My gaze went left and right, and finally settled on a warrior in the front row, near the end of the line – not among the youngest, but not grizzled either. He wore the orange and black cloak of a four-captive warrior and the obsidian shards on his sword were chipped, some of them cleanly broken off at the base. His face was paler than his neighbours, and his hands shook.

  But it wasn't that which had caught my attention: rather, it was the faint, pulsing aura around him, the dark shadows gathered over his face.

  Magic. A curse – or something else?

  The warrior was swaying, his face twisted in pain. It wouldn't be long until–

  "My Lord," I said, urgently, my voice cutting through Tizoc-tzin's speech.

  Tizoc-tzin threw me a murderous glance. He looked as though he were going to go back to what he was saying before. "My Lord," I said. "We need to–"

  The shadows grew deeper, and something seemed to leap from the air into the warrior's face – his skin darkened for a bare moment, and his eyes opened wide, as if he had seen something utterly terrifying. And then they went expressionless and blank – a blankness I knew all too well.

  He collapsed like a felled cactus: legs first, and then the torso, and finally the head, coming to rest on the ground with a dull thud.

  Teomitl moved fastest, heading towards the line and flipping the body over onto its back – but even before I saw the slack muscles and empty eyes, I knew that the man was dead.

  I made to move, but a hand on my shoulder restrained me: Quenami, looking grimly serious. "Let go," I whispered, but he shook his head.

  Ahead of us, two warriors were pulling the body of their comrade out of the crowd. Teomitl stood, uncertainly, eyeing Tizoc-tzin – who pulled himself up with a quick shake of his head, and went on as if nothing were wrong.

  Something crossed Teomitl's face – anger, contempt? – but it was gone too fast – and, in any case, Tizoc-tzin was moving, his elaborate cape and feather headdress hiding my student from sight.

  "To the place where the eagle slays the serpent

  O Mexica, O Texcocans, O Tepanecs…"

  Surely
he couldn't mean to…

  Behind me, Quenami was taking up the chant again, his lean face suffused with his customary arrogance and a hint of contempt, as if I'd been utterly unable to understand the stakes.

  The other officials and the warriors had looked dubious at first, but who could not be swayed by the will of the Revered Speaker, and of the leader of High Priests? They took up the hymn, hesitantly at first, then more fiercely.

  "To the place of the waters, the island of the seven caves

  You come back, o beloved sons, o beloved fathers…"

  "A man is dead," I whispered as the hymn wound to a close, and Tizoc-tzin approached the warriors, bestowing on them, one by one, the ornate mantles appropriate to their new status. "Do you think this is a joke?"