"Look–" I started, but didn't go further. The Wind of Knives was in our district now, floating over the canals – reaching Neutemoc's house, passing under the gate, shadows trailing after Him.
I didn't stop to think. "Get out!" I screamed at both Huei and Mihmatini, and I ran outside, to face the Wind of Knives.
In the courtyard, the torches' flames had died down, blown out by the Wind's presence. The slaves, too, had scattered, gone back into their quarters, no doubt. And I couldn't blame them. The Wind's approach would have been heralded by darkness and the growing cold; perhaps by a few ghosts, flitting around the courtyard. Enough to make any sane man run away.
I supposed that I didn't count as sane, in any sense of the word.
The Wind of Knives stood under the tallest pine tree of the garden: a tall, humanoid shape made of obsidian shards, glimmering in the moonlight. In my ears was the keening of the wind, bringing to me the lament of dead souls, and the sharp, sickening smell of decaying flesh. Wherever the Wind went, He brought Mictlan with Him.
I didn't go to Him; I stood before the entrance-curtain to the reception room, feeling the cold work its way into the marrow of my bones.
"Acatl," He said. His presence in my mind was strong: it would have driven the uninitiated to insanity. But I was used to it – if one ever got used to the pressure in one's mind, the sense of standing on the brink of a vast chasm. "I have come."
"I know," I said, bowing to Him.
He shifted. Obsidian shards glittered, sharp, cutting, hungering for human blood. "Then let Me pass."
"I cannot."
He made a sound which might have been laughter, although I had never seen Him amused. "You are High Priest for the Dead. You keep the balance."
"I know," I said, but still I didn't move from my place.
He asked, "Would you break that compact? It is a dangerous game you play."
"I'm not playing a game," I said, thinking of Huei, thinking of my brother's radiant face when he'd announced his marriage. "I'm not playing."
"No," the Wind of Knives said. He moved, to stand in front of me. His hand reached out, stopped inches from my chest. Every finger was made of slivers of obsidian, as pointed as the end of a knife. My chest ached at the mere thought of another wound. "It's not a game, Acatl."
"She is my brother's wife," I said, slowly, not knowing what else I could offer Him.
"Should that make a difference?" the Wind of Knives asked.
"I don't know," I said, and it was the truth. Ceyaxochitl had been wrong. I couldn't be in charge of this investigation. I couldn't watch as the underworld tore my brother's family apart; as it tore my own fragile illusions apart.
His hand rested on my chest, inches above the heart, just as the fingers of my good hand closed around the first of my obsidian knives. Power pulsed within me: the familiar emptiness of Mictlan, rising to fill my soul.
The Wind of Knives made that half-amused, halfangry sound again. "You'd fight Me?"
"She had reasons–" I started, knowing how thin was the ground I stood on, knowing that He could not be swayed.
"There are no reasons," the Wind of Knives said. His hand closed. I recoiled, but His fingers only touched my bandages, cutting them away with the precision of an army healer. The bandages fell in a swish of cloth. Cold air ran over the wounds on my chest: a sting that made me hiss.
"This is what comes of dealing with the beasts of Mictlan," the Wind of Knives said. "Think on it, Acatl."
"Yes," I said. "But I still need to understand–" I needed to know who had given Huei the tools for her summoning; and if Priestess Eleuia was still alive.
"There is nothing to understand," the Wind of Knives said. "A transgression was made. Justice must be dealt."
Though He had been human once – a long, long time ago, before He swore himself to Lord Death and became the Wind – He didn't think like us any more. An eternity of watching over the passage of souls and of dealing with transgressors had moulded His mind into something else. Pity, or even reason, was alien to Him.
"There are other lives at stake," I said, raising my good hand in the air, as if to ward Him off. "I need to know who she was working with."
He watched me, unmoving. Moonlight outlined the shape of His head: huge and pointed, more akin to that of a beast of shadows than that of a human. "I do not investigate," He said.
"But I do," I said, and groped for arguments that He could accept. "She wasn't the only transgressor. There are others still at large."
He was silent for a while. At last, He said, "I end all transgressions. She was the only one to open the gate."
"But what of those who gave her the magic?" I asked, sensing an opening I could wedge myself into. "Aren't they as guilty as she?"
"Guilt is irrelevant," the Wind of Knives said.
"So, if I gave people the means to summon a beast, you would never kill me? That doesn't seem just."
He looked at me, lowering His head in a shimmer of blades. "I am justice," He said. "But not, I think, your justice."
"I can't accept–" I started.
"Acatl." His voice stopped me. "Do not lie to Me."
"I'm not lying." I still stood in the entrance; and He still did not strike me down, although it was only a matter of time before He grew bored with me.
"You are protecting her," the Wind of Knives said, "because she is of your blood."
"She isn't of my blood," I said. But as I said it, I realised that all I had given Him, all my reasons for His not killing Huei, were indeed just convenient lies. If I dug deep enough, the real reason didn't have anything to do with the investigation: it was that I couldn't face the thought of Huei's death. It wasn't just. There could be no exceptions. But I could not let Him pass. I could not let Him kill Huei. It went beyond reason.
I stood as tall as I could; and I raised the knife that Mictlantecuhtli had blessed, feeling the power of the underworld seep into my flesh. "I cannot let you pass," I whispered.
He came, again, to stand in front of me. Once more the wind keened into my ears; once more, I heard an endless lament for the dead, echoing in my mind.
"This knife?" He said. He reached out, plucked it from my fingers, and snapped it in two. "You're not Mictlantecuhtli's agent, Acatl. You have scraps of His power, but not enough to stop Me. And it is as it should be."
Before I could break out of my shocked stupor, He'd reached out again and enfolded me into His embrace. The obsidian shards dug into my flesh, each a source of fiery pain that spread outwards. I gritted my teeth not to scream and bit my tongue, so hard that blood flowed into my mouth.
He lifted me upwards effortlessly, gaining speed as He did so. In a brief, panicked moment, as I spun under the pitiless gaze of the stars, I saw what He was going to do: throw me out of His way like a sack of useless refuse.
I tried to grope for a hold, anything I could use to slow Him down. But my good hand closed only on cold, cutting shards, which I couldn't hold. His hands opened, releasing me. I fell, the lament of Mictlan's souls rising in my ears as the ground got closer and closer.
I had time to think on how thoughtless I had been, seconds before the Wind's hands closed again, catching me a hand-span from the ground. Pain blossomed everywhere He touched me, in my left leg, in my left hand, rising to meld with that coming from my chest.
Almost gently, the Wind of Knives laid me on the ground. "You serve well. But do not presume to interfere," He said, even as He walked away into the house.
I lay on the ground, amidst the discarded bandages. The smell of pulque rose to fill my nostrils. I struggled to get up. Blood ran down my chest: the beast's wounds had re-opened. Teomitl would be angry, I thought, with a short, wry laugh. But even that slight contraction of my abdominal muscles hurt. Every movement I made was constrained by pain. After one or two attempts, I gave up, and fell back onto the ground. I lay there, feeling pain rise within me like the steady beat of drums at the sacrifices.
He was in the house
now, killing Huei. Things were as they should be, as He had said. I thought of Neutemoc in his cage – and of Huei's proud, bitter face as she told me about her family's future – and a different pain took hold in my chest.
What a fool I had been. The underworld's justice could not be swayed, or even delayed. In my mind, the familiar pressure of the Wind of Knives receded: giving way before the pain, I thought, dizzily.
"Acatl?" A familiar voice: my sister's, I realised. My head turned towards her, instinctively. Pain shot up my neck, but it was almost muted compared to the pain in my chest.
All I could see of Mihmatini were her sandals, and then her deer-embroidered skirt, as she knelt on the ground. "You're hurt."
"Tell me something else," I whispered.
She snorted. "Men! Why must you always be heroes?"
"I didn't–" My reasons were too much work to articulate.
"It looks like you did try," she said, then: "Can you bring some maguey sap?" I presumed she was speaking to a slave.
"What happened?" I asked. "The Wind–"
"He's gone, Acatl."
Gone? Then that was the real reason why the pressure in my mind had lessened.
Mihmatini's fingers ran over my chest, slowly, with the efficiency of a healer: gestures she'd probably learnt in school. For all that, I still couldn't help sucking in my breath as she probed the beast's claw-marks.
"Sorry," she said. "I'll go more carefully. Where in the Fifth World did you get those?"
"The beast of shadows," I said, curtly. "Huei."
"She's gone, too," Mihmatini said. "While you were outside temporising with the Wind, she left by the back door. The Wind is chasing her. She's slightly ahead of him; but she cast some kind of spell before leaving. It certainly seemed to slow Him down." She sounded halfway between horror and admiration. Her hands held me, effortlessly, as I struggled to rise. "Don't be a fool. You're leaking blood all over the courtyard. You won't go far."
"I need to–"
"You need some bandages, and rest." She sighed. "Knowing you, I'll settle for the bandages. Don't worry. We'll get you healed." More feet in my field of view: naked this time, with calluses. Slaves.
"Here," Mihmatini said.
That was all the advance warning I got: for the second time this night, maguey sap was poured onto my wounds, and the pain that spread from the contact points was almost worse than before. Tears filled my eyes by the time they were finished applying the lotion.
"Here," Mihmatini said at last, and hands lifted me, propped me upright. "Don't move."
I wasn't planning on that.
She was silent as the slaves dressed my wounds and splinted my arm again: Teomitl's makeshift device had got broken in my aborted fall.
When they were finished, the slaves left. I was feeling more and more like a funeral bundle: bandages tightened around my whole chest, and spread downwards on my left leg. But at least I could move – not much, the bandages constrained me tightly – and I was ready to leave. Mihmatini helped me to my feet.
"Where did Huei go?" I asked. I realised I didn't need to ask the question. I closed my eyes, and felt, beyond the pain that filled my body, the familiar pressure of the Wind's mind. He was once again moving through the streets of the Moyotlan district, though He appeared bewildered for some reason. Huei's spell, surely. What had she cast? How had she known all that magic? "She's still in Moyotlan. He hasn't caught her."
Mihmatini squeezed my hand, briefly, and withdrew. "There's a boat outside in the canal. Oyohuaca will row for you. She's a competent girl," she said. "Go."
"I don't need–" I started, stubbornly.
Mihmatini shook her head, more amused than angry. "Help? Can't you accept, for once in your life, that you can't do it on your own?"
A groundless accusation: I had taken Teomitl's help. And then I thought, uneasily, of the way I'd summarily sent him home, getting rid of him before the climax.
Mihmatini watched me, silent – not judging, she'd never judged me. For her, I'd always be the brother who helped her climb trees, and brought her treats from the festivals. No, not quite; for the priestesses at the calmecac had changed her, moulded her into this coolly competent girl whom I hardly recognised.
"I'll take the boat," I said, finally.
Her face relaxed, a minute sag of her skin that made her less alien. "Go," she said.
"With not even a warning?" I asked.
"You know them all, Acatl. And you'll still ignore them. Go."
But, as I left the garden, she still called after me, "Try to come back standing on your feet, will you?"
Feeling even more broken than before, I limped out, bent on finding the Wind before he found Huei.
Given my present state, it was a hopeless undertaking, but I had to try. For Huei's sake, and also for my own.
ELEVEN
Servant of the Gods
In the canal before Neutemoc's house, Oyohuaca, a slave-girl clad in a rough maguey-fibre shift, was waiting for me in a long, pointed reed boat. I climbed in, wincing as my bandages shifted.
"Where to?" Oyohuaca asked, straightening up the lantern at the boat's bow.
I closed my eyes, feeling for the Wind's presence. He was a few streets away from us. He had slowed down, oddly enough, and was going in a slow, wide circle towards the south-western edge of the Moyotlan district.
"Left," I said.
She rowed in silence, with the easy mastery of one who had lived all her life at the water's edge. With each gesture, she whispered the same words, over and over like a litany for the dead. It took me a while to realise that the words were those of a prayer asking for the blessing of Tlaloc, the Storm Lord, God of Rain, and of His wife Chalchiutlicue, the Jade Skirt, Goddess of Lakes and Streams.
"O Lord, Our Lord,
The people, the subjects – the led, the guided, the governed,
Their flesh and bones are stricken with want and privation
They are worn, spent and in torment–"
There was something eerie about the sound of Oyohuaca's voice, floating over the canals in counterpoint to the splash of her oars. As we moved into deserted canal after deserted canal, it seemed to call up the mist, to trail after us. And something else trailed too, something dark and quiet that swam after the boat, biding its time.
Under the splash of the oars – in, out of the water, in, out – was its song: a quiet, hypnotic air that wove itself within my mind, melding with Oyohuaca's prayers until I no longer knew what belonged to whom.
"In Tlalocan, the verdant house, The Blessed Land of the Drowned
The dead men play at balls, they cast the reeds Go forth, go forth to the place of many clouds To where the thick mists mark the Blessed Land The verdant house, the house of Tlaloc and Chalchiutlicue"
For too long, it had bided its time at night, quieting its hunger with fish, with newts, with algae: the sustenance of the poor, the abandoned. But now it smelled blood: a living heart, so tantalisingly close. Soon, it would feast until satiation…
"Let the people be blessed with fullness and abundance
Let them behold, let them enjoy the jade and the turquoise – the precious vegetation
The flesh of Your servants, the Providers, the Gods of Rain
Let the plants and animals be blessed with fullness and abundance–"
The song stopped; the oars fell against the boat's frame with a dull sound that resonated in my bones. "Acatl-tzin," Oyohuaca said, urgently.
With some difficulty, I tore myself from my reverie. "What?"
"Don't," Oyohuaca said. The slave-girl sounded frightened.
"I don't understand." The Wind was moving again, picking up speed, straight towards the edge of Tenochtitlan.
"An ahuizotl," I said, aloud. A hundred memories came welling up from my childhood. The water-beasts were Chalchiutlicue's creatures; they lived in the depths of Lake Texcoco, and would drag a man to the bottom, feasting on his eyes and fingernails.
Oyohuaca's face
in the moonlight was drained of all colours. "Don't listen to its song."
"I didn't know they sang."
Oyohuaca shook her head. "They don't. Not unless they truly want you. Don't listen," she said, picking up her oars again.
I thought of Huei's spell, which had so bewildered the Wind. It certainly was possible she'd summoned the beast to cover her tracks, in case some more mundane agency attempted to follow her.
How in the Fifth World had she become proficient enough to know all of this?
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