Obsidian & Blood

SEVEN

The Summoning of Spirits

I'd summoned ghosts from Mictlan many times and they always appeared the same: faint silhouettes, with shadows playing over their features until they hardly seemed human anymore. But the ghost that Acamapichtli had called up wasn't like that: I could see the light of its teyolia soul, a scorching radiance in his chest that I could almost feel. Like Acamapichtli himself, his skin was mottled, halfway between a jaguar's pelt and human skin.

Other than that, he looked much as he had alive. He no longer wore any finery, but the face bore familiar features – save that his lips were congealed purple, and deep pouches lay under his eyes. When he raised a hand to touch his chin, I saw that the base of his nails too were purple, and the tips of his fingers wrinkled, as if he had remained too long in warm water.

"I–" he whispered. "Where–"

Acamapichtli's smile was the jaguar's, before it found its prey. "I summoned you, Eptli of the Pochtlan clan, warrior of the Mexica."

Eptli's gaze swung between Acamapichtli and I. I had no idea what he saw; I very much doubted that I still looked the same. "I don't understand." He hugged himself, as if he were cold. His eyes were two pits of darkness. "I was–"

"Dead," Acamapichtli said, curtly. "My – colleague here is convinced you know something about that."

"I remember–" Eptli shivered. "So cold. I was so cold when we

entered the Anahuac valley. I barely even saw Tlacopan. But I was strong. I hid it, and no one guessed. No one guessed." He laughed – it started low, and climbed to a high-pitched, insane trill.

"For how long were you cold?" Acamapichtli asked.

Eptli shuddered, and the mist seemed to quiver in turn. "I don't know. Three, four days perhaps. I don't remember…"

Great. Much as it pained me to admit it, Eptli was going to be useless. Some people kept their coherence after death, but he clearly wasn't one of them.

"Three, four days." Acamapichtli nodded. "Then we have a little more time. What happened before? How did you catch this?"

"I don't know."

"The disease would take time to become visible," I said.

Acamapichtli made a stabbing gesture with his hands. "No. Remember, Coatl and the physician took barely a few hours to show symptoms. Did anyone die at the camp, Eptli?"

"Die?" He shivered again. The purple was spreading from his lips to his cheeks, marbling them like the skin of a corpse. "So many people died – the wounded and the weak, they all died for the glory of the Empire. It is right, it is proper." He turned the emptiness of his eyes towards me, almost pleading. "It is right…"

Acamapichtli snorted. "See, Acatl? Useless."

I wasn't prepared to admit defeat so soon. "Let's see." I came closer to the man – his face was turning darker and darker, and his eyes were drawing inwards, sinking towards the back of his skull. I focused on what mattered – there was nothing I could do for him. "What do you remember about your prisoner?"

Something lit up in his eyes. "Prisoner? My fourth. I earned him, earned him…"

I resisted the urge to strike him; he was a ghost, and it wouldn't help. "Eptli," I said, gently but firmly. "Your prisoner, Zoquitl. He was ill, too, wasn't he?"

"I don't remember." He shook his head. "I–" His face twisted, and he fell to the ground, with a cry of pain. The warmth in his chest blazed.

This wasn't normal. "Acamapichtli," I said. I could have cast a spell of true sight, but I had no idea what would happen if I did so inside another's ritual.

Acamapichtli was watching Eptli, his fangs closed over his lower lips, his eyes dilated in the mist. "A spell of forgetfulness," he said.

"Something strong enough to endure after death?"

A drop of blood rolled off one of Acamapichtli's canines. "Evidently." He knelt, and took Eptli's face between his hands. "Very strong," he said, with a hint of admiration. "I'm not sure it can be removed, not without dispelling him."

"Then you're useless," I said, not without malice.

"Tsk tsk," Acamapichtli said. "So little faith. I notice you're not leaping to my rescue either."

"You seem to be doing just fine."

He made a sucking noise between his fangs – and, lightning fast, brought his hands together, as if to crush Eptli's head. The radiance at Eptli's heart wavered, and then began to dim; the warrior began writhing as if in the throes of some great pain. Acamapichtli took a step backward, his face dispassionate. I realised with a shock that I'd taken a step forward – as if anything could help the man, when he was dead and gone already.

"Hurts," Eptli hissed. "How dare you–" His voice was low; I could barely make out the words. When he raised his head, I saw that his skin had gone completely purple, and that his hair had taken on greenish reflections, like algae.

"What do you remember?" Acamapichtli asked. "Quick, there isn't much time."

It was, to an extent, his ritual, and I was just a spectator – however, Acamapichtli had a number of disadvantages, not least of which was that he had no context about Eptli. "Was Zoquitl sick, Eptli?"

"No," Eptli whispered. "Strong and young, he was – a strong offering, a man fit enough to hold the glory of the god. But I was – cold. I'd put on all the amulets, all the magical protections I could, but it wasn't enough…"

So Eptli had been the first one. "When was this?"

"I don't know." Eptli shivered. He was growing – darker, more distant. The smell of algae was stronger, and the mist was eating away at the radiance. "I don't know. I shouldn't have–" He shivered again. "I shouldn't have–"

"Shouldn't have what?"

But he was going away from us – subsumed into the mist. "Shouldn't have insulted Yayauhqui?" I asked. "Shouldn't have quarrelled with your comrades? Shouldn't have won against Chipahua?" It wasn't as if the questions lacked, after all. "Eptli!" His voice came back, floating through the mist. "I shouldn't have taken it – I should have known… said it was for safekeeping, but I should have known… It was so cold when I touched it…"

And then another word, which could have been "Father", which could have been something else entirely. And then nothing.

Acamapichtli reached out, and plucked the worship thorns out of the jaguar's body; and the mist receded and died away, leaving us standing in a darkened courtyard, with the familiar surroundings of the palace. A host of priests in blue and white stood on the edge of the circle, all watching us intently.

"Let's go inside," he said, brusquely. "This isn't fit for all ears."

Inside, he didn't seem much changed, but something in the way he paced by the carved columns suggested otherwise. "He suspected something."

"Yes," I said. "You heard it. Someone gave him something – for safekeeping, he said."

"So not something usual." Acamapichtli bit his lips. "Or else whoever did this wouldn't have needed the excuse. A piece of jewellery?"

"You're the expert on amulets," I said, more sharply than I'd intended.

He nodded, as arrogantly as ever. "I am, but you can put so many things into an amulet…"

"Can't you summon him again?"

Acamapichtli grimaced. "Not until the protective deities change – which doesn't happen for another thirteen days."

By which time it would be too late.

"Do you still think it was Tlaloc?" I asked.

"Possible," Acamapichtli admitted, grudgingly, "but unlikely, given the circumstances. Someone – a human being – gave Eptli something that made him feel cold. It's beginning to sound more and more like a spell directed at him." His eyes were hard.

Eptli had taken the proffered object, and fallen sick. And Zoquitl, who was in regular contact with Eptli, had caught the sickness as well. But why Zoquitl, and none of the other warriors? Did Zoquitl have some weakness we were unaware of – some lack of protection because he was Mextitlan, and not Mexica?

And why Eptli?

Acamapichtli's eyes were hard. "Now I know where I've seen that magic before – but it doesn't look quite the same. Once, I had to arrest a man who'd hired a sorcerer to cast a spell of leprosy onto a rival. A marvel of ingeniousness – it called up the sickness from Tlalocan itself."

Tlalocan, the land of the Blessed Drowned – where the sacrifices to Tlaloc lived in eternal bliss, reaping maize from ever-fertile fields, and listening to the whistle of the wind through the floating gardens. "That's why it kept disintegrating?" I asked. Magic from Tlalocan – raw magic from a god's territory – couldn't be called forth into the Fifth World: it would endure for a short while before the mundane began to assert itself once more. "Because it didn't come from the Fifth World."

Acamapichtli nodded. He sounded distracted. "Yes. Someone called up Tlaloc's raw magic into the world – a spell bound up in death and drownings, if you will. You ought to know that." It was a jibe at me as High Priest for the Dead – but weak and deprived of bite.

"And how powerful do you have to be to cast that kind of spell?"

"Not powerful. Ingenious, as I said. Whoever is behind this has great knowledge of Tlalocan, and of Tlaloc's magic."

"Your clergy?" The words were out of my mouth before I could take them back.

His eyes narrowed. "Of course not. Don't be a fool. My clergy is all above suspicion – and in any case, what motive would they have for killing a warrior they've never seen?" Priests of Tlaloc – the Storm Lord, the god of peasants and fishermen – seldom if ever went to war, for their blessings were reserved for the fields and the harvest.

"I don't know," I said, darkly. "I've seen many things. What about the spell on Eptli's soul?"

"Part of the same curse, I'd say. And tied to the teyolia soul, so that it persisted even in death. Again – we're dealing with a smart, resourceful sorcerer."

"But do you know who?" I insisted. "We need facts, not speculation."

Acamapichtli brushed his hands, carefully. Blood still clung to the lines of his palm, but he appeared oblivious. I had no idea how much of it was an act. "I can enquire," he said. "About that, and the sickness. We have priests specialised in diseases at the temple."

"Then why haven't you done so before?"

His gaze, when he raised it, could have bored through stone. "I've dealt with my own affairs. Deal with yours, Acatl."

He was the fool if he thought he could convince me to back down. "As you said earlier – we're in this together. All of the Fifth World."

Acamapichtli snorted. "Fine. Do it your way, if that's what you want."

As if he always did things for the sake of necessity – rather than for his own sake and on his own terms. "I'll keep you apprised," I said, walking towards the entrance-curtain.

"Likewise," Acamapichtli said, but we both knew he was lying.

I was about to take my leave, when the entrance-curtain tinkled and a flustered-looking Tapalcayotl came in. "My Lord, I'm sorry, but–"

He was followed by Mihmatini and her personal slave, Yaotl – and by a delegation of grey-cloaked priests from my order. "Out of my way," she said. Her voice was grim.

Acamapichtli looked from Mihmatini to me – a suspicious expression spreading on his narrow face. "What jest is this?"

Mihmatini shook her head. "You're the one in charge of the confinement?"

Acamapichtli nodded. "I can assure you that no one with the sickness has come out of this palace." He threw a murderous glance at me – he still hadn't forgiven what he saw as imprudence on my part. "But none of that need concern you. I'm sure you have more pressing concerns." His tone was condescending: he was going by appearances only, not even bothering to check. I didn't have the true sight on me, which prevented from seeing the magical trails in the room, but I was sure that the strong magic which had just entered the room – a strong reassuring rhythm like a heartbeat – could only be Mihmatini's wards.

Mihmatini smiled. "You forget. I am Guardian for the Sacred Precinct, keeper of the invisible boundaries, and agent of the Duality in this world."

Acamapichtli raised an eyebrow. "You have the courage of eagles, girl, but it's useless if you can't follow through with actions."

"Acamapichtli!" I snapped. "Show some respect."

Mihmatini shook her head. "It doesn't matter, Acatl." She smiled, and it was slow and terrifying and desperate. "I'll tell him what he needs to know. What he does with it" she spread her hands, as if scattering seeds into the bosom of Grandmother Earth "is his own business."

"Fine," Acamapichtli said. "Have your say, and leave. We're busy enough as it is."

"You won't laugh," Mihmatini warned him. "With the help of the clergy of Mictlantecuhtli, I have beseeched the Duality to smile down upon us, and keep us standing tall, warded against the shackles of disease."

"And you've failed." Acamapichtli's voice was mocking.

From the grim expression on Mihmatini's face, I'd already suspected it hadn't worked, but unlike Acamapichtli, I had more faith in her abilities.

"Why did it fail?" I asked.

"It hasn't worked. But not because of anything in the ritual."

"You're young and unblooded–" Acamapichtli started, but my sister cut him, as savagely as a warrior in a fight to the death.

"I'm old enough to do what I'm doing. The reason it hasn't worked is because someone has sent up their own entreaties into the Heavens."

Surely she didn't mean… "Mihmatini–"

"I told you that you wouldn't like it." Her voice was flat, emotionless. "Someone is deliberately blocking any attempts at containing this. Someone wants this to become a full-blown epidemic."

There was silence, in the wake of her words. "You can't mean…" I started, and then stopped. My sister might be young, might be slightly untrained, and not as well-versed in the subtleties of the Duality's magic as her predecessor had been. But her own magic was strong, and she wouldn't advance such a monstrous hypothesis unless she was sure of it.

"Mistress Mihmatini isn't mistaken," Yaotl said in the silence.

"Then…" I spoke the words as they came to me, desperately trying to piece them into some kind of coherence. "Then this isn't about Eptli as a man. This isn't about personal revenge." Gods, I had been wrong; I had expected this to be small and personal. But it wasn't. It had never been.

One of my priests, Ezamahual, a tall, dour son of peasants, spoke up. "This is about the warrior," he said. For once, he wasn't stammering, or ill at ease, but, like my sister, utterly certain of the truth of his words. "This is about the man who was distinguished in the coronation war, and the sacrifice that should have been made to Huitzilpochtli. This is about making us weak."

I left Mihmatini deep in conversation with Acamapichtli and my clergy – they were discussing the technicalities of the ritual, unpacking everything they had done in order to convince Acamapichtli. I went out into the courtyard, breathing in the cold air of the night, hoping it might steady me.

It didn't.

A deliberate epidemic. This was bad. It had been bad enough when it had just been a side-effect of a spell gone wrong, but if someone was actively opposing us…

No, not us.

As Neutemoc had said, this was all about Tizoc-tzin – his coronation war, his confirmation as Revered Speaker. Someone, somewhere, didn't want this to happen. It could have been a foreigner – and the gods knew there would be enough of those in the city, because of the upcoming confirmation. It could be Yayauhqui – his protestations had rung true, but perhaps he was a better liar than I'd thought.

Or it could be someone in the palace. Tizoc-tzin was hardly popular, and he had ascended to the Revered Speaker's mat over many rivals. Some of those were now dead, but some were still here: the She-Snake, who professed to believe in order; the noblemen and officials who had supported another candidate…

Gods, more politics. I really didn't want to have to deal with this.

But, in the end, it didn't change much. It was my duty – the one the previous Guardian had given me over my protestations – what I had always done, what I always do. Keep the boundaries, protect the Fifth World and the Mexica Empire – what kind of a man would I be, if I let the epidemic rage within the city?

We had to find out how it had started – what the spell was – in order to counter it.

I stared at the stars – the distant, reassuring patterns fixed in their courses, the demons that couldn't fall into the Fifth World anymore – until they seemed to become the only thing in the world.

A tinkle of bells, and my sister came to stand by my side. "Obstinate man," she said.

"Did he believe you?"

"For now, I guess." She looked tired. "We'll go back and cast one of the lesser spells of protection. It won't work as well–"

"–but it will buy us a little more time?"

She nodded. "Acamapichtli said he'd look into the precise nature of the sickness, which should help us guard against it. But you–"

I spread my hands. "I know, I know. I need to find out who is behind this, and how they're doing it."

Mihmatini grimaced. "It might still be someone with a grudge against Eptli – they might be plucking two limes in one swoop: causing the disease, and getting back at him."

I bit my lip. "It might. But Ezamahual was right: it might simply be that he was a successful warrior, part of Tizoc-tzin's successes."

"All I'm saying is that you shouldn't discount the possibility out of hand." I must have looked dubious, for she laughed, and made as if to punch me. "Don't be so serious, Acatl!"

"This is serious."

"Oh, Acatl, for the gods' sake. We've already had this talk. Better laugh, and smile at the flowers and jade. Life is too short to be spent grieving. You, of all people, should know this."

I shook my head. It wasn't about enjoying life, but rather about my responsibilities, and what I needed to do.

And needed to do fast. For, if the primary motive wasn't Eptli's death, but the epidemic – if someone wanted deaths, many deaths, then what prevented them from directly contaminating someone else? It could all go fast – very fast – with us defenceless against it.

Though the evening was well-advanced, I headed straight to Teomitl's quarters hoping to catch my wayward student before he went to bed, and apprise him of events. If there was something going on against his brother and the empire he was heir to, I felt he ought to know sooner rather than later.

And I wanted to see him, too: with the campaign, he'd been absent for four months, and I couldn't help but feel he was drawing away from me – a thought that pinched my heart. He'd grown up immeasurably since becoming my student, but he wasn't an adult yet – too impulsive, too careless to take his place as Revered Speaker.

His quarters were on the ground floor near Tizoc-tzin's own private quarters: his elevation to Master of the House of Darts had, it seemed, changed little. The entrance-curtain fluttering in the evening's balmy breeze had gone from orange to red and white with a huge butterfly – the colour and pattern reserved for warriors who had captured three or more enemies.

"Teomitl?" I pushed open the entrance-curtain – the bells sewn into it tinkled, a familiar, high-pitched sound – and stepped inside.

The room was as bare as it had always been, the only concession to wealth being the frescoes representing our ancestors in Aztlan, the mythical heartland of Huitzilpochtli the Southern Hummingbird.

I'd expected to catch Teomitl; what I hadn't expected was to find him with someone else.

"Acatl," the visitor said, rising. "What a pleasant surprise."

I found myself wishing I'd removed my sandals, after all. "My Lord," I said, bowing as low as I could.

Nezahual-tzin, Revered Speaker of our ally Texcoco, was a youth of barely sixteen years of age, with a smooth face that could have belonged to a child. The easy, graceful way he wore his feather re galia and turquoise cape, however, served as a useful reminder: Nezahual-tzin was a canny player of politics, who had grown up fighting for his Turquoise and Gold Crown, and he was blessed with the wisdom of Quetzalcoatl the Feathered Serpent. A dangerous opponent, should he ever set himself against us…

A horrible thought crossed my mind. What if he was the one behind it all? The gods knew he didn't like Tizoc-tzin; the man had all but accused Nezahual-tzin of wanting to break the Triple Alliance, four months past. And Nezahual-tzin certainly had the knowledge and the craft to make any spell he wished to – even one calling on the power of Tlalocan, though Tlaloc wasn't his preferred god to call upon.

But no; he was a smart and canny man, and, like me, he had seen the heavy cost we had paid during the change of Revered Speaker. He might have disliked Tizoc-tzin, but he had helped us crown him all the same. No, it couldn't possibly be him.

Teomitl wouldn't meet my gaze. "Nezahual-tzin came to inquire about the dead warrior. We were planning to look for you."

Eventually, I guessed. No – I looked at Teomitl again, seeing the impatience ill-hidden on his features. Those two still had no love for each other, and I guessed Teomitl had been trying to get rid of the unwanted guest for a while.

"I didn't know you had the best interests of warriors at heart," I said to Nezahual-tzin.

He smiled, uncovering teeth of a dazzling white. "Warriors, no. Magical epidemics, most probably."

"I see," I said. "You weren't with the army."

"No." Nezahual shook his head, briefly. "The coronation war is Tizoc-tzin's only. The Triple Alliance won't interfere when he proves his valour." He sounded vaguely amused: he had no illusions about Tizoc-tzin's valour.

"Don't mock my brother," Teomitl said. "I haven't seen you much on the battlefield, either."

Nezahual-tzin rolled his eyes upwards. "To each their own." I'd expected him to elaborate, but he didn't.

I looked at Teomitl, who was fidgeting. "I need to talk with Teomitl. Alone."

Teomitl nodded. Yes. There is plenty to do."

I could see that he wanted to remove Nezahual-tzin from his presence – and Nezahual-tzin saw it as well, because a slightly mocking smile was playing on his broad features.

I didn't know how much I could trust him with any of the details on the epidemic, and in any case, it was better to be prudent. I took the first excuse that came to mind. "If you'll excuse us," I said to Nezahual-tzin. "We have to look for a woman."

"Women tend to be elusive," Nezahual-tzin said, gravely. I remembered, too late, that he might be sixteen years old, and have the wisdom and grace of someone far older, but he didn't disdain the pleasures of the flesh, and his women's quarters already held dozens of concubines.

Teomitl glared at Nezahual-tzin. "You don't know what you're talking about."

His desire to oust Nezahual-tzin from his quarters was palpable, and at length Nezahual-tzin nodded. "I see," he said in a swish of feathers. "I will leave you to your affairs while I attend to mine."

I waited until he had left to look at Teomitl. "We have a problem," I said.

"A problem?"

Quickly, I outlined what Mihmatini had told me. Teomitl's face did not change during the recitation, save that it went paler and paler – and that a green light, like jade, like underwater algae, started playing on his features. "Deliberate?"

"Insofar as I know, yes."

"Then who?" The room was bathed in green shadows now; if the culprit had been there, he would have been blasted straight into Mictlan.

"I don't know."

Teomitl grimaced. He looked disappointed – an expression which sent an odd pang through my chest, making me wish I'd been capable of removing it – but he soon rallied. "So we're looking for enemies of the Mexica?"

I shook my head. "Not only that. Enemies of your brother, quite possibly. Remember last year. Someone could well be a Mexica and love the Empire, and yet still want to depose Tizoc-tzin for personal gain."

Teomitl snorted. "You don't remove a Revered Speaker. You kill him." I'd expected him to be outraged, or angry; but he was merely stating a fact all too well-known to him, as if he'd already brooded over this many times.

"Teomitl–" I said, suddenly frightened.

He grinned – careless, boyish again. "Don't worry about me, Acatl-tzin. I'm not a fool. But the fact remains: what does our sorcerer hope to gain with this?"

"Weaken us," I said, darkly. "Perhaps even encourage a civil war." We'd always stood united, but then again, all our Revered Speakers had had the favour of the Southern Hummingbird – their coronation wars a success, bodies piling at the foot of the Great Temple until the steps ran slick with blood.

Teomitl's face darkened – and, for a moment, he looked far too much like his brother. "You go too far."

I shook my head, ignoring the faint stirrings of unease. "You've seen the banquet. We are divided. With enough panic, and enough fear… the gods only know what a sorcerer can achieve."

And there was Tizoc-tzin – who had been dead, and who we had brought back to life. What kind of magical protection could a dead man afford us?

Teomitl said nothing.

"You must know the court. You must see the atmosphere."

His hands were steady – almost too much – his face carefully guileless. "I can look," he said, finally. "Does that mean we stop enquiring about Eptli's enemies?"

I thought of what Mihmatini had told me. "Not necessarily. Whoever the culprit is, they must have hated Eptli – or what he represented."

Teomitl grimaced. "I did have some information, but…"

"What information?"

"The head of prisoners sent word," Teomitl said. "He said that a woman dressed like a sacred courtesan walked into their quarters, not long before the uproar of Eptli's death. She all but barged her way into Zoquitl's quarters, and they had a lengthy conversation."

A courtesan? "You don't know which kind?"

"Fairly high-up in their hierarchy, I should imagine, from what Cuixtli said. Why?"

"Xochiquetzal," I said, curtly.

"Oh."

Xochiquetzal, Goddess of Lust and Childbirth, had until recently been a resident of Tenochtitlan, granted asylum by the grace of the Duality – and of the previous Guardian, Ceyaxochitl. However, in the wake of Tizoc-tzin's ascent to power, She had been exiled from the city, partly in retaliation for her plot against the Southern Hummingbird a year before, and partly because Tizoc-tzin's paranoia wouldn't allow a scheming goddess to be within a stone's throw of him.

I hadn't approved. Like all gods – except Lord Death and the Feathered Serpent, who took no part in the intrigues of the Fifth World – Xochiquetzal was ruthless, and always plotting something. But risking Her anger and resentment wasn't wise.

"Does he know who she was?"

"He didn't remember her name. He thought it was something to do with flowers–" which didn't help, since half the women's names included precious stones or flowers "and something else. Some kind of food – amaranth, maize?"

"I don't see–" I started, but the tinkle of the bells on the entrancecurtain cut me short.

"Xiloxoch," Nezahual-tzin said, not even bothering with an apology or an introduction. "xoch" was for flower; and "xiloch" was tender maize.

"You were spying on us?" Teomitl asked, indignantly. "You–" He stopped himself with an effort, remembering that he spoke to a superior and an ally. "That's not honourable."

"Honour will see us all dead," Nezahual-tzin said, with that particular, distant serenity that was his hallmark. "Let's be practical."

"How much did you hear?" I asked.

He didn't answer, but by his mocking glance, I could guess he had been outside all the while, listening.

"Don't you dare make this public," I said. I could have asked him not to act on it, but it would have been in vain.

Nezahual-tzin snorted. "Secrets are of value. Why would I reveal something like that?"

"For your own gain," Teomitl snapped.

"Of course I wouldn't." He smiled, with practised innocence – not that we were fooled.

"You'd better not."

I decided to interpose myself, before the conversation degenerated: those two would come to blows easily enough, and it wouldn't help the stability of the Triple Alliance if the heir-apparent to the Mexica Empire and the Revered Speaker of Texcoco fought among themselves. "You said the courtesan's name was Xiloxoch. How do you know, Nezahual-tzin?" And realised, too late, that there was only one possible answer to the question.

A faint, sarcastic smile appeared on Nezahual-tzin's lips for a bare moment, before his face was once more smooth and expressionless. "You know how I know," he said, curtly. "She's a delightful woman, Xiloxoch. Not as young as she used to be, but a treasure-trove of inventions. A pleasure to be with. Almost makes staying in Tenochtitlan worthwhile."

Teomitl's face went crimson. I was less fazed than him – both because I'd expected something like that, and because what women did in the privacy of their chambers had long since ceased to matter for me. "I don't think your prowess as a man is the question here."

Nezahual-tzin's eyes rolled up, revealing corneas of opalescent white. "Of course. You don't feel concerned."

Less than Teomitl, obviously. Ah – might as well question him, and find out what he knew. "As I said earlier, let's focus. What do you know about Xiloxoch that would be relevant?" I stressed the word "relevant."

For a moment, I thought Nezahual-tzin was going to launch into a recitation of Xiloxoch's virtues on the reed-mat – but he must have perceived the shadows of jade playing on Teomitl's face, a sure sign that my student was losing hold of his divine powers. "You forget. I have no idea what you want with her."

"You know. You were listening."

"I see," Nezahual-tzin said. "Well, I don't know much more than what's already known at the House of Joy." He smiled disarmingly, but neither of us were fooled. "She chooses her mat-partners carefully, and she'll not bend for anyone."

"And would she say she was a devoted follower of Xochiquetzal?"

Nezahual-tzin's eyes rolled upwards again, revealing corneas as opalescent as mother-of-pearl. He was silent, for a while. He was – had always been – a good judge of character. "Her? She has her pick of Jaguar Knights and Eagle Knights, and even of Otomi shock troops. She should lack for nothing – but her chambers are simply decorated, and I've never seen anyone so bored with precious stones. So yes, I would think so. She's a priestess, not a greedy woman. She sees herself infused with the essence of the Quetzal Flower – invested with the mission to inflame lust in others."

I had feared so. "Do you know–" I started, but didn't get any further.

The entrance-curtain was slammed against the wall with such force that one of its bells flew off – and landed at Teomitl's feet with a discordant sound.

The She-Snake, the keeper of the palace order, stood framed in the entrance, his black-streaked face almost flush against the darkness. By his side was a group of guards dressed in black – even in the dark, I could see their shaking hands, their pale faces. Something was wrong, and every single one of them reeked of magic, an odour that slipped within my lungs like smoke, thick and acrid.

"Acatl," the She-Snake said. "Teomitl." He bowed a fraction, from equal to equal. "You have to come now."

"There's been another death?" I asked, my heart sinking. But why would everyone look in such disarray, if it was just one of the sick people who had died. "Tizoc-tzin?" I asked.

The She-Snake shook his head. "No. The war-council, Acatl. Someone has just made an attempt on the life of the Master of the House of Darkness."