Obsidian & Blood

FOUR

Brother and Sister

First, we needed to make it out of the palace – preferably without running into Acamapichtli and his absurd notions of quarantine again.

Luckily, the priest who'd brought us into the prisoners' quarters had vanished, and his replacement at Zoquitl's door was more interested in doing his job as a guard than checking on our departure.

"We'll run into priests," I said as we exited the prisoners' quarters. "The palace was overrun by those sons of a dog."

Teomitl shook his head. "Not if we take the least-travelled paths. Come on, Acatl-tzin!"

Of course, he had all but grown up there in the early years of his brother's reign and he knew the place like the back of his hand. He took a turn left, and then a dizzying succession of turns through ornate courtyards where slaves brought chocolate to reclining nobles – until the crowds thinned, the frescoes faded into paleness and the courtyards became dusty, deserted squares, with their vibrant mosaics eaten away by years of winds.

"The quarters of Chilmapopoca," Teomitl said, laconically. "My brother Axayacatl's favourite son. He died of a wasting sickness when he was barely seven years old."

It smelled of death and neglect, and of a sadness deeper than I could express in words. I shivered and walked faster, hoping to leave the place soon.

And then we were walking past the women's quarters: highpitched voices and the familiar clacking sound of weaving looms echoed past us – the guard in the She-Snake's uniform gave Teomitl a brief nod, and waved us on.

"Are you sure?"

Teomitl's face was lit in a mischievous smile. "Remember three months ago, when that concubine blasted her way out of the palace?"

The scar on the back of my hand ached. The previous year, in the chaos that had followed the previous Revered Speaker's death, we'd uncovered a sorcerer working for foreigners. In his deaththroes, he had opened up a passageway, allowing his employer to escape into the city.

"It was supposed to be sealed up."

"It was," Teomitl said. "But I got them to make me a key."

The women looked away as we walked past, though not all of them. Some were smiling at Teomitl – whether because he was an attractive youth or because his uniform marked him as Master of the House of Darts, I didn't know. But Teomitl, lost in his current task, didn't even appear to notice them.

As for me… I'd been sworn to the gods since I was old enough to walk; and the women didn't even raise the ghost of a desire in me. A goddess had once accused me of being less than human, but she'd been wrong. I saw them as people – not for what they could bring me in bed, or the status they symbolised, but merely as the other half of the duality that kept the balance of the world.

At length, we reached another courtyard, which was entirely deserted. Teomitl breathed a sigh. "Good. I hate throwing women out of here. They always make such a fuss."

The building at the back of the courtyard was a low, one-storey structure, an incongruity in a palace that almost always had the coveted two floors. Columns supported its roof, creating a pleasant patio for summertime, though we were barely out of winter and most trees were bare.

In the centre was a patch of clearer adobe, clear of all frescoes: Teomitl reached out for it, and I felt more than saw the discharge of magic leap to his hand, the jade-green glow characteristic of his goddess. The adobe lit up from within, as if exhaling radiance – and then it seemed to sink back onto itself, receding until it revealed a darker entrance. The air smelled of that peculiar sharp smell before the rain.

"It's not the same passageway, is it?" I asked. The one I remembered all too well had torn through the neighbouring quarters: looking through it had merely revealed a succession of courtyards and quarters.

Teomitl grimaced. "I… used an opening in the wards, to keep it simple. Come on, Acatl-tzin."

He laid his hand on my shoulder as I entered, and a tingle went up my arm – like a mild sting by an insect, moments before it started itching.

That feeling, too, I knew – not the exact same one, but close enough. "Your shortcut is through Tlalocan." Tlalocan, the land of the Blessed Drowned; the territory of Tlaloc and his wife Chalchiuhtlicue, Jade Skirt, Teomitl's patron goddess. A land anathema to me, the power of which ate away at my body and my magical ability.

"Yes." Teomitl said.

"Do you have any idea–"

"–how dangerous it is? Please, Acatl-tzin, I don't need a lecture."

That wasn't what I'd wanted to say. If he'd cast the spell and the Fifth World had still failed to collapse on us, then he'd got the tunnel contained. And he hadn't breached any boundaries – strictly speaking, the breach had been made by the original creator of the passageway. Sophistry, but the gods that guarded the boundaries, such as the Wind of Knives and the Curved Obsidian Blade, thrived on such rules.

"You have a passageway into the palace," I said, following him through the tunnel. It was dark and damp, and reminded me of too many unpleasant things – I knew too well the tightening in my chest, the growing dizziness, the gradually blurring field of vision. "Do you have any idea what Tizoc-tzin would do if he found out?"

I guessed more than saw him grin in the darkness. "Unpleasant things," he said. "My brother's paranoia hasn't improved." He sounded cold. His relations with his brother had always been as complex as mine with my own brother, but they hadn't been good for a while.

The pressure against my chest grew worse as we went deeper – the tunnel was dark and murky, as if we were at the very bottom of Lake Texcoco, and there were things moving in the darkness, shadows that would vanish as soon as I focused on them. The air smelled of mould and mud, and greenish light played on the back of my hands and on Teomitl's clothes, washing everything into monochrome insignificance.

Ahead was a thin beam of light, which didn't seem to grow any closer – and I was finding it hard to breathe, struggling to put one foot after the other; it was if I were moving through thick sludge, as if I breathed in only mud…

"Acatl-tzin!"

I trudged on. Teomitl's silhouette wavered and danced within my field of vision, and – just when I thought I couldn't take it any longer, that I would have to sit down and recover some of my strength – the light abruptly flared, and grew larger – and I stumbled out, into a world washed orange by the late afternoon sun.

We were in a street I didn't recognise: the back of the palace; not the Sacred Precinct, just an expanse of dirt with a canal running alongside it. It was deserted, both the canal and the streets, with not a boat or a pedestrian to be seen.

"Let's – not – tarry – here," I said. Each word hurt like a burning coal in my throat.

"Get your breath back." Teomitl was scanning the street. "Curses. I was hoping there'd be a boatman."

"So you could commandeer it?" I asked. "That would be hardly discreet."

"If we're going to your brother's, it's quite likely Acamapichtli will figure it out sooner or later."

"I'd rather it were later," I said. "It would give me time to ask questions." I'd forgotten, in the months when the army was gone, Teomitl's tendency to rush in first and ask questions later. It was all well and good for the battlefield, but elsewhere it tended to be a little less efficient, and a little more likely to hinder us, or make us enemies.

Teomitl sighed. "As you wish. We can walk."

• • • •

Since neither I nor Teomitl had changed out of our regalia, we made an imposing sight on the way: about half the people we crossed stopped, unsure whether to bow. As we went deeper into Moyotlan, one of the four districts of Tenochtitlan, I reflected somewhat sadly that for once he'd been right. Acamapichtli would likely find out where we'd gone in a heartbeat.

However… it was approaching evening, the streets slowly growing darker and the first parties of night-visitors coming out with lit pine-torches, going to a banquet, or a celebration of a birth, of a wedding, or even a party for the return of the warriors. The first snatches of flute music filled our ears, along with voices raised in speeches, and the distant beating of temple gongs in the clan-wards. With the sun gone, the weather was markedly colder and I was glad for the thick cloak of my High Priest's regalia. Teomitl, of course, barely seemed to notice anything so trivial as the change in temperature.

Neutemoc's house was brightly lit, the leaping jaguars on its façade seeming almost alive. But there were no more torches than usual: no visitors, then. I wasn't altogether surprised. Neutemoc's reputation had been badly damaged a year before, when he'd been accused of murder and had lost his wife in a matter of days. Neutemoc himself hadn't been the same – less given to boisterous parties, or even to participating in the clan's daily life. He might have regained some of that on the march, but the damage went too deep to be removed at one stroke.

The burly slave at the entrance knew both Teomitl and I, and gestured for us to go inside.

The reception room was more sober than it had been the year before: gone were the feather fans, and the silver and jade ornaments had been put away, presumably in the wicker chests against the wall. The only things that hadn't changed were the huge frescoes of Huiztilpochtli, the Southern Hummingbird and the Mexica protector god, trampling bound enemies underfoot.

"Teomitl! Acatl!" My sister Mihmatini rose from where she was sitting. She wore the simple garb of a priestess: an embroidered tunic over a skirt, with the fused-lovers symbol of the Duality set over her heart. She positively glowed – not all of it was my imagination, or my pride as her brother. A faint, radiant thread snaked from her feet to Teomitl – who stood, smiling at her.

"You're not at the palace anymore?"

Technically, they were married: Tizoc-tzin himself had set up the betrothal banquet, and had brought the stone axe to the priests – the axe which signified Teomitl's release from the education owed a youth, and his entrance into adult life. The wedding itself had been a grand, lavish ceremony, performed just before the army had left for the coronation war. Mihmatini herself had a room in the women's quarters, but of a common accord, she and Teomitl had moved into the Duality House, where Mihmatini continued her training as Guardian. I wondered how much of this was due to Tizoc-tzin's presence.

Mihmatini grimaced. "I've had enough of the palace. The atmosphere is so tense I'd rather be out, honestly. And banquets are all well and good, but they won't protect the Fifth World."

Teomitl shrugged, though he looked unhappy.

"I know it's hard, but things will sort themselves out. Don't let that get to you." "I know, but…"

"Come here."

I left the two lovers locked in an embrace and turned to face my brother.

Neutemoc looked better than before the army had left: a little less gaunt, a little more smiling, his broad face almost back to its boyish look, though his eyes would always give the lie to that. He'd gone through too much to pretend everything was fine. "Acatl."

The children had risen, and were waiting, warily, for the adults to finish greeting one another: Necalli, the only one of Neutemoc's children to be educated in the House of Youth, was calm and dignified, almost more like a priest-in-training than a boisterous warrior, and he'd obviously passed on some of that attitude to his younger sister, Mazatl, who stood quivering with impatience but not moving. I couldn't see Ollin, Neutemoc's youngest son, but I presumed he'd be sleeping with the female slave who nursed him.

"You look better," I said.

"I'd be surprised." Neutemoc gestured towards the mat, on which was spread the evening meal: white fish with red pepper, and sweet potatoes baked in honey. "You, on the other hand, look–"

"–regal. I know." I made a brief, stabbing gesture. "I didn't think up the regalia."

Neutemoc's lips twitched into a smile. "You look like a proper High Priest, is what I wanted to say. Come on, sit down."

I hugged the children first. Mazatl was all but leaping up and down. "Uncle Acatl, Uncle Acatl! Can I try on the mask?"

I shook my head. "It's the god's face. I don't think He meant it to be a toy."

Mazatl's face fell. "Can I touch it?" she asked and squealed when her hand met the smooth surface of bone.

"You're such a kid," Necalli said, but Mazatl didn't react to his jibe.

"Children," Neutemoc said, firmly. "Your uncle, your aunt and I have to talk. Be quiet, please."

They fell silent instantly. Neutemoc's authority had always been strong, and with his wife gone, it had grown stronger. Mihmatini and I had both urged him to take another spouse – it wasn't healthy, to have a household run only by a man – but he wouldn't hear of it.

Teomitl, who'd finished embracing Mihmatini, sat down, and removed his feather headdress – casually putting it down on the ground, within reach of the children. He glanced at Mazatl with a smile and a nod – she extended a trembling hand, and touched the feathers as if they might bite. I wasn't altogether sure she needed the encouragement: she was wilder than Mihmatini at her age, and undisciplined girls would have a hard time later on in school.

"I presume this isn't a courtesy visit?" Mihmatini asked.

I grimaced. "Partly. I was intending to visit Neutemoc anyway to have news from the war, but I wasn't intending things to turn out quite the way they have."

Mihmatini nodded. "Teomitl told me earlier."

"Earlier?"

Teomitl looked sheepish – a rare enough occurrence. "I went and apprised her of the situation while you were out in the city."

"You could have told me," I said. I understood: she was his wife, and he hadn't had intimacy with her for months – and, for a bare moment, the endless cycle of rituals and ceremonies that made up his life had been torn apart, leaving him free to move as he wished. But still… she was my sister, too.

Neutemoc picked a frog from the plate in front of him, and ate it in a single gulp, as if not paying attention. "The story is making the rounds of all the regiments by now, in any case. There weren't many warriors singled out for promotions this year, and for one of them to die… You won't keep it a secret."

No, but Tizoc-tzin would try, all the same.

Beside me, Teomitl turned his head to stare at Neutemoc with a particular intensity. "My brother will do as he wishes."

"I have no doubt," Neutemoc said, soberly. He didn't sound pleased, either. Was he among those who had lost trust in Tizoctzin? How far did the division in the army go?

"Anyway," Neutemoc said. "If you'll permit me this–" Teomitl nodded, curtly, as one equal to another, "you do know none of this is about you. You're not your brother."

Teomitl looked, for a moment, as if he'd swallowed something sour – but only for a moment, and then the familiar, dazzling smile was back on his face. "Let's focus on the matter at hand," he said. "About Eptli–"

"He was just a warrior," Mihmatini interjected. "Aren't you two supposed to have better things to do with your time than investigate every single thing that goes wrong in the palace?"

"It's not small," I said, slowly. "And it might concern you, as well. Eptli's death has started an epidemic."

"Epidemic." Her face had gone flat. "And exactly when was your little cabal planning to inform me of this insignificant fact?"

She was going too far. She was right in that I should have informed her, but I'd barely found out about the epidemic myself. "Look. I was expecting to spend the entire day dealing with the politics of the confirmation ceremony, which would have been more restful than this mess. I can't be expected to send messengers all over Tenochtitlan to anyone who might happen to have a stake in this. Besides, Acamapichtli is the one handling the situation at the moment," I said, with a touch of malice. Acamapichtli hadn't had to deal with Mihmatini since she'd become Guardian.

"Right." Mihmatini had a dangerous gleam in her eyes, one I recognised from our childhood – when she'd rowed the boat to the Floating Gardens on her own, after Neutemoc and I had both refused to accompany her. "I'll go see Acamapichtli, then. Don't think this absolves you of responsibility."

I forced myself to drag the conversation onto more neutral ground: better have the investigation-related questions solved first, and then we could move on to a more relaxed dinner. "Neutemoc – did you know anything about Eptli?"

Neutemoc shrugged. He sipped at his cup of cactus juice, thoughtfully. "Not our clan. But still, rumours can fly far, the encampment." He wrinkled his eyes, as if considering a particularly knotty problem. "Eptli. Eptli's father was of the Pochtlan calpulli clan."

"The Pochtlan clan? But that's…"

"Merchants and messengers. Yes." Neutemoc said. "Hence Eptli's tendency to lord it over merchants."

"That's unusual," I said, finally. "A merchant, becoming a warrior." Merchants, like artisans, were a world apart. Unlike warriors, who could come from any strata of the society, the occupation of merchant was hereditary, a merchant's trade being taken up by his sons or close relatives upon his death. The merchants were tightknit to the point of obsession, holding their lavish feasts within their blank-faced compounds and seldom mingling with the rest of the populace.

"It happens," Neutemoc said. "But, yes, it's unusual."

"He had a hard time, in his training?"

"I don't know," Neutemoc said. His eyes looked away from me – almost ashamed. "Warriors aren't gentle."

And they would have mocked him, for not following the path of his family; for the blood he couldn't deny or purge from his veins. What a lovely little family the army was.

I knew a little of how things worked – and I could guess how it would have turned out. Eptli would have sought to outdo the warriors in arrogance and fanaticism, and leapt at any chance to mock his shameful heritage. "That's why he got into the shouting match with the Tlatelolco merchant?"

"I wasn't present at the time," Neutemoc said, "so I can't help you there. But I wouldn't be surprised. Eptli was proud to be a warrior and working for the greater good of the army; he couldn't see that it's more than warriors who ensure the success of the Triple Alliance." He said this without irony, although less than a year ago he'd thought warriors were the beginning and the end of the Fifth World.

"He wasn't liked, then," I said.

"No." Teomitl's voice was dry. "Some arrogance is expected, but Eptli took it too far."

"It was justified, to some extent," Neutemoc said. "He captured one prisoner in each campaign he took part in."

I recalled the warrior's face – not that of a youth, barely out of training. "He entered the ranks old, then."

Neutemoc grimaced. "I think there were some – issues with his family. His father wasn't in favour of his becoming a warrior."

"Not surprising. But why did he want to become a warrior?" That was the real question – why turn his back on his father's trade, why run the risk of ridicule? Warriors had status and prestige, but so did merchants, in their fashion.

"I don't know," Neutemoc said. "As I said – Eptli was acidic, and not pleasant to be around. I can find better company."

Could he, I wondered. Could he turn back time and get back to the easy camaraderie he'd shared with his companions before his disgrace? "I see. Anything else?"

"People he had quarrels with?" Teomitl suggested. "Other than Chipahua." He tugged at his feather headdress, absent-mindedly. Mazatl tugged back with an impish grin on her face.

"Hmm. The merchant, but you know that already. And Chipahua – they never liked each other, those two…" Neutemoc pursed his lips, looking uncannily like a younger version of Father. "I can't think of anyone else. You'll find most warriors knew Eptli, and disliked him, but I don't think anyone would be crazy enough to start an epidemic just to kill him."

Mihmatini had been fidgeting for a while. At last she spoke up. "I don't think you have the right set of priorities, Acatl. Finding out who killed him is important, yes, but we need something else first. We need to know when and how he was contaminated, in order to stop the epidemic."

"You think it's deliberate?" I said. I had a hard time believing that.

"No. It looks like an accident. Not everyone is fluent with magic, especially not large spells like those. Anything that touches the integrity of the three souls needs to be powerful, and power can easily overstep the mark."

"It's a costly accident," I said.

"Precisely. That's why we need to find out what spell was used, and how it was cast. You can solve the murder afterwards. We need to prevent deaths."

"I can do both," I said. "If we find who was responsible…"

Mihmatini's gaze could have cut obsidian. "You don't understand. You need to flip your way of thinking. The contagion first, the culprit last. Otherwise…"

"I know." Gods, when had my sister turned into Ceyaxochitl, her predecessor as Guardian? She had the same natural authority, and the tendency to want everyone to fall in line – too much hanging around Ceyaxochitl's former acquaintances, I guessed. "Fine," I said with a sigh. "Go see Ichtaca – he and my clergy will give you help with this."

Mihmatini shook her head a fraction – placated, but not enough, I guessed. "You look healthy," she said, grudgingly. She closed her eyes, and I felt a spike of power enter the room: the soft, reassuring radiance of the Duality. "I can't see any sickness clinging to you or Teomitl. But all the same – you need to be more careful of what you do."

"We weren't the only ones around the dead warrior," Teomitl said.

"No, but that doesn't mean you can afford to ignore your protections. Epidemics are propagated by people who feel fine – who don't imagine for a minute that they could be carrying the sickness."

"You don't know what the vector is," I said. "It might not even be people."

"No, but I'd rather be careful."

Neutemoc cleared his throat. "If you children are done with preening…"

"You–" Mihmatini said, shaking her head in the pretence of being angry. But we all knew she wasn't – at least, not seriously.

Afterwards, Teomitl and I sat in the courtyard, watching Metzli the moon pass overheard. The night was winding to a close, though the raucous sounds of banquets still made their way to our ears: flutes and drums, and the steady drone of elders' speeches – and the smell of fried maize, of amaranth and chillies, a distant memory of what we'd consumed.

"What now?" Teomitl asked.

"Get some sleep, I guess." Neutemoc had agreed to lend us a room for the night, though he hadn't been happy.

Teomitl leaned further against the lone pine tree, watching the stars glittering overhead. "Acamapichtli–"

"If we get an early start tomorrow, he probably won't have time to catch up." I didn't mention my other fear: that the reason he hadn't caught up with us yet was that he was busy with the epidemic – and that something else might have come up, in the hours we'd been away.