It’s all oddly familiar and repulsive at the same time, a living remnant of another time. “Revivalists,” Xochitl says, aloud.
Which means—
She turns, scanning the marketplace for a running man: the unwilling sacrifice victim, the only one who had a reason to break and run.
What Xochitl sees, instead, is Tecipiani, walking determinedly into a side aisle of the marketplace as if she were looking for a specific stall.
The revivalists are gathering, harangued by a blue-clad priest who is organizing search parties.
“Idiots,” Onalli curses under her breath. She’s always believed more in penance than in human sacrifice; and the Revivalists have always rubbed her the wrong way. Xochitl isn’t particularly religious, and has no opinion either way.
“Come on,” she says.
They find Tecipiani near the back of the animals section—and, kneeling before her, is a hunched man, still wearing the remnants of the elaborate costume that marked him as the sacrifice victim. He’s shivering; his face contorts as he speaks words that Xochitl can’t make out amidst the noises of the chattering parrots and screaming monkeys in their metal cages.
As they come closer, Tecipiani makes a dismissive gesture; and the man springs to life, running away deeper into the marketplace.
“The search party is coming this way,” Onalli says.
Tecipiani doesn’t answer for a while: she’s looking at the man—and, as she turns back toward her friends, Xochitl sees burning hope and pity in her gaze.
“They won’t catch him,” she says. “He’s strong, and fast. He’ll make it.”
Onalli looks as though she might protest, but doesn’t say anything.
“We should head back,” Tecipiani says, finally. Her voice is toneless again; her eyes dry and emotionless.
On their way back, they meet the main body of the search party: the fevered eyes of the priest rest on them for a while, as if judging their fitness as replacements.
Tecipiani moves, slightly, to stand in the priest’s way, her smile dazzling and threatening. She shakes her head, once, twice. “We’re not easy prey,” she says, aloud.
The priest focuses on her; and, after a long, long while, his gaze moves away. Too much to chew. Tecipiani is right: they won’t be bested so easily.
They walk on, through the back streets by the marketplace, heading back to the House to find some shade.
Nevertheless, Xochitl feels as though the sunlight has been blotted out. She shivers. “They’re sick people.”
“Just mad,” Onalli says. “Don’t think about them anymore. They’re not worth your time.”
She’d like to—but she knows that the priest’s eyes will haunt her nightmares for the months to come. And it’s not so much the madness; it’s just that it doesn’t make sense at all, this frenzy to spread unwilling, tainted blood.
Tecipiani waits until they’re almost back to the House to speak. “They’re not mad, you know.”
“Yeah, sure,” Onalli says.
Tecipiani’s gaze is distant. “There’s a logic to it. Spreading unwilling blood is a sin, but Tonatiuh needs blood to continue shining down on us. Grandmother Earth needs blood to put forth maize and cotton and nanomachines.”
“It’s still a fucking sin, no matter which way you take it.” Onalli seems to take the argument as a challenge.
Tecipiani says nothing for a while. “I suppose so. But still, they’re only doing what they think is good.”
“And they’re wrong,” Xochitl says, with a vehemence that surprises her.
“Perhaps,” Tecipiani says. “And perhaps not. Would you rather take the risk of the world ending?” She looks up, into the sky. “Of all the stars falling down upon us, monsters eager to tear us apart?”
There’s silence, then. Xochitl tries to think of something, of anything to counter Tecipiani, but she can’t. She’s been too crafty. She always is.
“If you believe that,” Onalli says, with a scowl, “why did you let him go?”
Tecipiani shakes her head, and in her eyes is a shadow of what Xochitl saw, back in the marketplace—pity and hope. “I said I understood. Not that I approved. I wouldn’t do anything I didn’t believe in whole-heartedly. I never do.”
And that’s the problem, Xochitl thinks. It will always be the problem. Tecipiani does what she believes in; but you’re never sure what she’s truly thinking.
The cell was worryingly easy to enter, once Onalli had dealt with the two guards at the entrance—who, even though they were Jaguar Specialists barely a step above novices, really should have known better. She had gone for the windpipe of the first, and left a syringe stuck in the shoulder of the second, who was out in less time than it took her to open the door.
Inside, it was dark, and stifling. A rank smell, like the mortuary of a hospital, rose as she walked.
“Xochitl?” she whispered.
There was no noise. But against the furthest wall was a dark lump—and, as she walked closer, it resolved into a slumped human shape.
Black One, no. Please watch over her, watch over us all . . .
Straps and chains held Xochitl against the wall, and thin tubes snaked upward, into a machine that thrummed like a beating heart.
Teonanácatl, and peyotl, and truth-serum, and the gods knew what else. . . .
It was only instinct that kept her going forward: a horrified, debased part of her that wouldn’t stop, which had to analyze the situation no matter what. She found the IVs by touch—feeling the hard skin where the syringes had rubbed—the bruises on the face, the broken nose—the eyes that opened, not seeing her.
“Xochitl. Xochitl. It’s all right. I’m here. Everything is going to be all right. I promise.”
But the body was limp; the face distorted in a grimace of terror; and there was, indeed, nothing left of the picture she’d held on to for so long.
“Come on, come on,” she whispered, fiddling with the straps—her sharpened nails catching on the leather, fumbling around the knots.
The cold, detached part of her finally took control; and, forcing herself not to think of what she was doing, she cut through the straps, one by one—pulled out the IVs, and gently disengaged the body, catching its full weight on her arms.
Xochitl shuddered, a spasm like that of a dying woman. “Tecipiani,” she whispered. “No. . . .”
“She’s not here,” Onalli said. Gently, carefully, she rose with Xochitl in her arms, cradling her close, like a hurt child.
Black One take you, Tecipiani. Oblivion’s too good for the likes of you. I hope you burn in the Christian Hell, with the sinners and the blasphemers and the traitors. I hope you burn. . . .
She was halfway out of the House, trudging through the last courtyard before the novices’ quarters, when she became aware she wasn’t alone.
Too late.
The lights came on, blinding, unforgiving.
“I always knew you’d come back, Onalli,” a voice said. “No matter how hard I tried to send you away.”
Black One take her for a fool. Too easy. It had been too easy, from beginning to end: just another of her sick games.
“Black One screw you,” Onalli spat into the brightness. “That’s all you deserve, isn’t it, Tecipiani?”
The commander was just a silhouette—standing, by the sound of her, only a few paces away. But Xochitl lay in Onalli’s arms, a limp weight she couldn’t toss aside, even to strike.
Tecipiani didn’t speak; but of course she’d remain silent, talking only when it suited her.
“You sold us all,” Onalli whispered. To the yellow-livered dogs and their master, to the cudgels and the syringes. . . . “Did she mean so little to you?”
“As little or as much as the rest,” Tecipiani said.
Onalli’s eyes were slowly accustoming themselves to the light, enough to see that Tecipiani’s arms were down, as if holding something. A new weapon—or just a means to call on her troops?