Her hands, slick with sweat, slid out of a crack. For one impossibly long moment she felt herself fall into the darkness—caught herself with a gasp, even as chunks of rock fell downward in a clatter of noise.
Had anyone heard that? The other side of the wall seemed silent—
There was only darkness, enclosing her like the embrace of Grandmother Earth. Onalli gritted her teeth, and pushed upward, groping for further handholds.
Commander Tecipiani’s investiture speech is subdued, and uncharacteristically bleak. Her predecessor, Commander Malinalli, had delivered grandiloquent boasts about the House and its place in the world, as if everything was due to them, in this Age and the next.
But Tecipiani says none of that. Instead, she speaks of dark times ahead, and the need to be strong, and the need to endure.
She doesn’t say the words “civil war,” but everyone can hear them, all the same.
Xochitl and Onalli stand near the back. Because Onalli arrived late and Xochitl waited for her, the only place they could find was near the novices: callow boys and girls, uneasily settling into their cotton uniforms and fur cloaks, still too young to feel their childhood locks as burdens—still so young and innocent it almost hurts, to think of them in the times ahead.
After the ceremony, everyone drifts back to their companies, or to the mess halls. The mistress of the novices has organized a mock battle in the courtyard, and Onalli is watching with the same rapt fascination she might have for a formal ball game.
Xochitl is watching Tecipiani: the Commander has finished shaking hands with her company leaders, and, dismissing her bodyguards, is heading straight toward them. Her gaze catches Xochitl’s—holds it for a while, almost pleading.
“Onalli,” Xochitl says, urgently.
Onalli barely looks up. “I know. It had to happen at some point, anyway.”
Tecipiani catches up with them, greets them both with a curt nod. She’s still wearing the full regalia of the Commander: a cloak of jaguar-fur, and breeches of emerald-green quetzal feathers. Her helmet is in the shape of a jaguar’s head, and her face pokes out from between the jaws of the animal, as if she were being consumed alive.
“Walk with me, will you?” she asks. Except that she’s not asking, not anymore, because she speaks with the voice of the Black One, and even her slightest suggestion is a command.
They don’t speak, for a while—walking through courtyards where Knights haggle over patolli gameboards, where novices dare each other to leap over the fountains: the familiar, comforting hubbub of life within the House.
“I wasn’t expecting you so soon, Onalli—though I’m glad to see you have returned,” Tecipiani says. Her words are warm; her voice isn’t. “I trust everything went well?”
Onalli spreads her hands in a gesture of uncertainty. “I have the documents,” she says. “Williamsburg Tech was making a new prototype of computer, with more complexity. A step away from consciousness, perhaps.”
Xochitl wonders what kind of intelligence computers will develop, when they finally breach the gap between automated tasks and genuine sentience—all that research done in military units north of the border, eyeing the enemy to the south.
They’ll be like us, she thinks. They’ll reach for their equivalent of clubs or knives, claiming it’s just to protect themselves; and it won’t be long until they sink it into somebody’s chest.
Just like us.
“The Americans have advanced their technology, then,” Tecipiani says, gravely. It’s the House’s job, after alclass="underline" watching science in the other countries of the Fifth World, and making sure that none of them ever equals Greater Mexica’s lead in electronics—using whatever it takes, theft, bribery, assassination.
Onalli shakes her head impatiently. “This isn’t something we should worry about.”
“Perhaps more than you think.” Tecipiani’s voice is slightly annoyed. “The war won’t always last, and we must look ahead to the future.”
Onalli says, “The war, yes. You made an interesting speech.”
Tecipiani’s smile doesn’t stretch all the way to her eyes. “Appropriate, I felt. Sometimes, we have to be reminded of what happens out there.”
Onalli says, “I’ve seen what’s out there. It’s getting ugly.”
“Ugly?” Xochitl asks.
Onalli’s eyes drift away. “I saw him at court, Xochitl. Revered Speaker Ixtli. He’s—” her hands clench, “—a maddened dog. It’s in his eyes, and in his bearing. It won’t be long before the power goes to his head. It’s already started. The war—”
Tecipiani shakes her head. “Don’t you dare make such a statement.” Her voice is curt, as cutting as an obsidian blade. “We are Jaguar Knights. We serve the Mexica Empire and its Revered Speaker. We’re nothing more than that. Never.”
“But—” Xochitl starts.
“We’re nothing more than that,” Tecipiani says, again.
No, that’s not true. They’re Jaguar Knights; they’ve learnt to judge people on a word or a gesture—because, when you’re out on a mission, it marks the line between life and death. They know . . .
“You’re mad,” Onalli says. “Back when Commander Malinalli was still alive, all the Houses, all the Knights spoke against Ixtli—including ours. What do you think the Revered Speaker will do to us, once he’s asserted his power?”
“I’m your Commander,” Tecipiani says, her voice slightly rising. “That, too, is something you must remember, Jaguar Lieutenant. I speak for the House.”
“I’ll remember.” Onalli’s voice is low and dangerous. And Xochitl knows that here, now, they’ve reached the real parting of the ways—not when Tecipiani was appointed company leader or commander, not when she was the one who started assigning missions to her old friends—but this, here, now, this ultimate profession of cowardice.
“Good,” Tecipiani says. She seems oblivious to the undercurrents, the gazes passing between Onalli and Xochitl. But then, she’s never been good with details. “You’ll come to my office later, Onalli. I’ll have another mission for you.”
And that, too, is cowardice: what she cannot control, Tecipiani will get rid of. Xochitl looks at Onalli—and back at her Commander, who still hasn’t moved—and she feels the first stirrings of defiance flutter in her belly.
Onalli dropped the last few handspans into the courtyard, and immediately flattened herself against the wall—a bad reflex. There was a security camera not a few handspans from her, but all it would see in the darkness was another blur: her skin-suit was made of insulating materials, which wouldn’t show up on infrared, and she’d taken nanos to lower her skin temperature. There’d be fire and blood to pay later, but she didn’t really care anymore.
Everything was silent, too much so. Where were the guards and the security—where was Tecipiani’s iron handhold on the House? She’d felt the fear from outside—the wide, empty space in front of the entrance; the haunted eyes of the Jaguar Captain she’d pumped for information on the maglev; all the horror stories she’d heard on her way into Tenochtitlan.
And yet . . .
The back of her scalp prickled. A trap. They’d known she was coming. They were expecting her.
But she’d gone too far to give up; and the wall had been a bitch to climb, anyway.
She drew the first of her throwing knives, and, warily, progressed deeper into the House. Still nothing—the hungry silence of the stars—the warm breath of Grandmother Earth underfoot—the numinous presence of Xolotl, god of Death, walking in her footsteps. . . .
A shadow moved across the entrance to the courtyard, under the vague shapes of the pillars. Onalli’s hand tightened around the haft of the knife. Staying motionless would be her demise. She had to move fast, to silence them before they could raise the alarm.