Yayauhqui spread his hands, in what seemed like a peaceful gesture, but I wasn't fooled. "Eptli was a conceited fool. I despised him, but I wouldn't have killed him."
"Even when he captured his prisoner?" I asked. "That would have elevated him higher than his father – into the Jaguars and Eagle Knights."
Yayauhqui shook his head. "Eptli wasn't smart enough to see that there is more to life than riches and honour, and the consideration of warriors."
He sounded sincere – but then, he was a merchant, and he would have been a skilled liar. Not only for negotiation with customers, but also because if he was indeed with the army, it meant he was no harmless merchant, no trader obsessed with his own profit. It meant that he was a spy, ranging ahead of the army to gather information on the country we were about to fight. "You quarrelled with Eptli on this campaign," I said. "In quite a visible fashion."
Yayauhqui looked mildly irritated. "I let the young fool goad me past endurance. I was coming back from a thirteen-day gruelling mission into Metztitlan, and here he was, laughing with his cohorts on how merchants were all useless bags of flesh."
I bit my lip. I liked what I heard of Eptli less and less – I could understand his behaviour, but that didn't mean I condoned it.
On the other hand, if he had been well-liked, he probably wouldn't have died in such a horrific fashion. "So you shouted at him."
"We both shouted, to some extent." Yayauhqui appeared peeved – more, I suspected, because he'd lost his calm than out of any sympathy for Eptli.
I looked at him again – something was still bothering me. "I was given the impression that it was far more than an ordinary quarrel. That Eptli was a calm man with no reason for provoking people, and that you'd both been noticed by the whole encampment."
"I don't see what you mean."
"I think you do," I said. I had nothing more than that, and he likely knew it; but I could bring more pressure to bear, and he also knew that. "Or shall we take that up with the war council?"
Yayauhqui's lips pinched into an unamused smile. "As you very well know, as a merchant, I am subject only to the elders of my clan." He looked as if he might add something, but didn't.
"But the elders of your clan are subject to the Mexica Emperor," I said.
His features shifted again – he was too canny to show naked hatred, but I could catch some of it, in the folds of his eyes, in the tightening of his lips. "I haven't forgotten that," Yayauhqui said. His voice could have broken obsidian.
He hadn't liked the question. And I, in turn, couldn't quite understand why. "What did Eptli say?"
It was a stab in the dark, but it worked. "He insulted Tlatelolca. Said we were all cowards, and it was no wonder we'd been thrown into the mud."
"Did you fight in the war?" I asked. Seven years wasn't such a long time, and Yayauhqui looked old enough to have been a hot-headed youth at the time – assuming he'd ever been hot-headed, which wasn't that likely. A man raised by merchants, just like one raised by priests, would learn the value of calm and decorum early in life.
Yayauhqui hesitated. Trying to decide whether to lie to me, or to twist the truth? "We were merchants. Not fighters. And the invasion was unjustified."
I had been much younger then, cloistered in my temple in the small city of Coyoacan, and paying little attention to the affairs of the great. But I remembered some things of how the war had started. The Revered Speaker of Tlatelolco, Moquihuix, had been married to a Mexica wife – elder sister to Tizoc-tzin and Teomitl. When she grew old, he mocked her, set her aside and, crucial to the war, denied her the finery and luxurious apartments which had been her right.
Our previous Revered Speaker, who had long itched for an excuse to invade our sister city, had leapt at the chance and called to arms the whole valley of Anahuac to avenge the insult to his family.
And, of course, we both knew how the war had ended. "Wars aren't just," I said, finally. "Just necessary."
Yayauhqui shook his head. "Still the old lies? That our destiny is to triumph for the Fifth Sun's sake."
I looked at him, aghast. "What do you mean, lies?"
Yayauhqui spread his hands. "It seems to me the gods aren't choosy about who spills the blood."
His words terrified me. "You fought in the war, didn't you? What did you see?"
"A god, abandoning us." Yayauhqui's voice was bitter. "He had chosen me, elevated me – promised me a destiny of glory. But, in the end, when your warriors stormed the temples, took His idols, and set fire to the altars, I saw Him. I saw Him laugh, and turn away. They feed on blood and fear and pain, and it doesn't matter whose…"
"You can't say things like that," I said. Of course the gods weren't fair – of course They expected our offerings and our devotion. But it was right; it was the order of the world. Mortals had no right to expect anything from gods. "The gods can't be judged by your standards."
"Why not?" Yayauhqui shrugged. "The warriors of Tenochtitlan then took my wives, priest. Pierced a hole through their nostrils, and threaded rope through to tie them to the other slaves, and they led everyone away into Tenochtitlan, to serve your hearth-fires. And the god didn't lift a finger to help us. So yes, I judge."
Warriors were killed; women taken as slaves. It was the way of the world – and, had Tlatelolco defeated us, we would have suffered the same fate.
He terrified me. It was as if he had weighed everything that held us together, all the rules and the morality that bound the Fifth World and judged them not worthy to be followed – discarded them as easily as a worn-out cloak.
Such a man would have no compunction on summoning an epidemic to deal with an enemy. He might even relish it – especially if the epidemic worked against Tenochtitlan.
"And so you decided to do something about it. You cast a spell on Eptli." My voice was low and calm – every word dragged from a faraway place. I hadn't thought I'd meet someone like this, I hadn't thought the Fifth World could even hold such beliefs…
Yayauhqui snorted, gently amused. "Look at me, priest. Look at me."
I didn't understand. But he was still standing with the tamale in his hands, thin and harsh, moulded by war and by years of travelling into strange lands, serving the men who had led his people into slavery – helping them to conquer more lands.
I took up the obsidian knife at my belt, and slashed my earlobes.
"We all must die
We all must go down into darkness…"
A grey veil crept over everything: the canal water became insignificant, distant glimmers and the blue sky receded, opening up to reveal the darkness of tar. The wind over the city faded into the lament of dead souls, and the cold of the grave rose up, like thousands of corpses' hands stroking the inside of my arms and legs. I shivered.
Through the remnants of the adobe walls, I could feel the bustle of the marketplace: thousands of souls bartering and trading, the animals and the slaves, the magical amulets and charms – everything combining into a rush of life I could feel, even from the remove of Mictlan. It burned like a fire, shimmering and twisting out of shape, endlessly tearing itself apart, endlessly renewed.
It took me some time, therefore, to tear my sight from the large radiance of Tlatelolco, and to look at Yayauhqui.
But when I did, I forgot all about the marketplace.
Human beings usually shone in the true sight – the three souls, the tonalli in the head, the teyolia in the heart and the ihiyotl in the liver combining into a swirling mass of radiance. So, to a lesser degree, did the souls of living beings like animals, or summoned creatures.
Yayauhqui, however, was dark – not merely faded and colourless, like the water or the adobe walls, but completely opaque, as if something had reached out and snuffed everything out of him.
Not something, I thought, chilled. Someone.
"The god," I said, slowly.
His voice was mocking. "As I said. They feed on pain."
He had no souls – he might as well have been dead, save
that even in death, some semblance of life would remain in the body, some scattered pieces of soul. He was – cut off from everything in the Fifth World. Was he even able to taste the tamale in his hand, could he even feel the wind on his skin? For him, everything had to have been receding into a numinous, uniformly grey background.
"You should have gone to see a priest," I said. Not one of my order – for we parted the souls from the body for the final time, helping them slip into the underworld. But a priest of Patecatl, God of Medicine, or of Quetzalcoatl, the Feathered Serpent of Wisdom – they would have known what to do.
Yayauhqui's smile was bitter. "I have seen one. Several, in fact. They tried to convince me I was an abomination, and should retire from public life. After that – well, I didn't feel so keen to go back to them. Perhaps the Revered Speaker might be able to do something, but…"
And, of course, he wouldn't present himself to the man who had destroyed his city – even if Tizoc-tzin had been willing to help him. "It was Huitzilpochtli, then, who did this to you?"
Yayauhqui shook his head. "Let me keep secrets, priest. They're of no use to anyone save an old man like myself."
He didn't look old – but then again, without souls, how would he age? How would the Fifth World leave any kind of mark?
"So, you see," Yayauhqui said. "I couldn't care less about spells."
He was dead, or worse. The blood in his veins would have no energy; the teyolia in his heart wouldn't dissipate into the underworld, or into the Fifth Sun's Heaven. Magic, such as it was, would be anathema to him. "You could have hired someone," I said. Or used someone's blood, though it would have been a dangerous venture.
"Of course. There's always that," Yayauhqui agreed, gravely.
There was something about him I couldn't pin down. "Why serve as a merchant-spy, then?"
His lips stretched. It would have been amusement with anyone else, but with him it was just a shadow of what it could have been. That was what had been bothering me about him: everything was subdued, lacking the inner fire of the living, or even the weaker radiance of the dead. "I fear you still don't understand, Acatl-tzin. Now that we are one city, the glory of Tenochtitlan is also that of Tlalelolco. My relatives prosper on your coats of feathers, your cacao beans, your precious stones and your war-takings. Why should I wish to upset the established order? We'd be left with nothing."
His speech had the intensity of truth – and for a bare moment, he seemed to shine with the souls he had lost, though it was only an illusion. "You could destabilise us, and hope for Tlatelolco to secede."
Yayauhqui snorted. "And I could expect the Fifth Sun to tumble down. I'm no fool. I've seen what happens when you cross the gods, and you have the gods' protection."
And if we didn't have it anymore, he'd be the first to trample us into the ground. But, all the same – lying, especially in such an impassioned speech, would have cost him a great deal of energy, enough for the strain of it to be visible. Perhaps he was telling the truth, as much as I disliked the possibility.
"You'll want to stay in Tlatelolco," I said, finally. "It's not over yet."
Yayauhqui's lips stretched again in that smile that wasn't quite one. "Of course. It's never over."
SIX
Between High Priests
The afternoon was well advanced by the time I walked back into the Sacred Precinct; the incense smoke rising up from the dozens of temples made the orange mass of the sun waver and shimmer, as if through a heat haze.
I thought about Eptli as I walked, chewing on a tamale – I'd yielded to temptation, and purchased one from the old woman seller. The taste of chillies and spiced meat was a welcoming heat in my stomach.
He hadn't been liked. Possibly, he hadn't ever fitted in: to the warriors, he would be the merchant's son, and to the merchants, the man who mocked them relentlessly. In his pursuit for glory, he seemed to have made enemies – many of them, from his rival, Chipahua, to the merchant Yayauhqui.
The merchant worried me, for all his sincerity. His defence – that he wouldn't seek to damage the Triple Alliance, for it would be sealing his own doom – rang true, and yet…
And yet, a man like that would have no scruples. The kind of man who could disguise themselves and pass as a foreigner – gossiping and trading, all the while hiding that they were advance observers for the approaching army – why stop the game, when they got home?
Out of principle… but Yayauhqui hadn't looked as if he had much of that.
Still in a thoughtful mood, I walked through the northern gate into the hubbub of the religious centre, and went straight to my temple, which was but a short distance from the gate.
I'd expected a normal day – a dead body carried through the gates, grieving families talking to priests, examinations in quiet rooms… But instead, it was chaos: the temple's small courtyard was flooded with supplicants – from peasants in loincloths carrying baskets of ripe corn kernels, to officials with jewellery and caged animals. The combined noise was overpowering, and I only caught fragments as I elbowed my way through the crowd – about reassurances, and dreams, and portents which seemed to herald the end of the Mexica Empire.
I remembered, grimly, what Neutemoc had told me – that no matter how well Tizoc-tzin hid the warrior's death, news of it would travel through the city like wildfire. He had no idea it would be that bad.
At the foot of the stairs leading up to Lord Death's shrine, I found Ichtaca waiting for me – while two harried offering priests made efforts to channel the flow of supplicants into separate rooms, where they could deal with them one by one.
Ichtaca wasn't alone, though. Beside him stood two priests in blue and white cloaks, the hems embroidered with a border of frogs and seashells.
Of course. I'd known what I was getting into, walking back to the temple, but then again, I couldn't run forever.
The leftmost priest, a pudgy man with a blue-streaked face, was mildly familiar: his name was Tapalcayotl, and he was Acamapichtli's second-in-command. "Acatl-tzin," he said, bowing to me. "Acamapichtli-tzin has requested your presence at the palace."
It was couched politely, but the meaning was unmistakable. "I see," I said. "I'll consult with my priests first."
Tapalcayotl looked as if he might protest, and then obviously thought better of it. Like his master, he was acutely aware of social divisions.
I drew Ichtaca apart, careful to stand at a distance, since we still didn't know how the illness was passed on. "What is going on?"
"I don't know yet," Ichtaca said. He grimaced. "Your sister took half the priests and went to do a ritual to protect us against sickness. It's a good idea–"
"But it leaves us short," I said.
"It's just a bad time," Ichtaca said. "The disastrous coronation war and the death of a warrior…" He sighed, not looking altogether reassured. "We'll weather it, I'm sure. We have the Southern Hummingbird's favour."
We might have; after all, Huitzilpochtli was the one who had given us the right to bring Tizoc-tzin from the dead. But He was a capricious god, and he only favoured the successful in war. I grimaced. "We'll see how things work out. Can you–"
He made a dismissive gesture. "Don't worry. We've had to deal with worse during the great famine. This is nothing."
I hesitated – but I needed to ask, all the same. I couldn't manage an investigation on my own. "I need you to find out one thing for me."
His face didn't move. "Of course. What is it?"
"There is a merchant named Yayauhqui in Tlatelolco. He used to serve a god in his youth. Can you find out which one?"
"Consider it done, Acatl-tzin," Ichtaca nodded. "And–"
"And you hold up here," I said, bleakly. "Acamapichtli, Mihmatini and I will see what we can do about the epidemic."
Ichtaca looked reassured by the idea of so many highranking priests taking care of the problem. I hoped he was right; on my side, I felt as though I was making frustratingly little progress.
We walked back the way
I had come, the two priests of Tlaloc on either side of me, looking for all the world like an escort – or an arrest squad, I thought, bleakly. Acamapichtli, among other things, was vindictive, and he wouldn't have appreciated our little escapade.
We climbed the steps into the palace, and headed straight to what I now thought of as Acamapichtli's wing. And he'd certainly made sure we knew it: the priests of Tlaloc the Storm Lord positively swarmed over the various courtyards. The black cloaks of the SheSnake's guards seemed almost invisible compared with the onslaught of blue and white. The air smelled of copal incense, mixed with the acridity of rubber: I wouldn't have been surprised to find out Acamapichtli had replaced all the entrance-curtains with the dark-blue ones of Tlaloc's temple.
In the largest courtyard, a shimmering lattice of magic spread from building to building – there was a slight resistance when we crossed under the influence of the wards, and then this was replaced with a familiar tightness in my chest. The place had been consecrated to the Storm Lord – it wasn't quite the Land of the Blessed Drowned yet, but it was close to its antechamber.
Master of the House of Darts Page 8