"I don't know." Coatl sounded distinctly weary now. "I've seen too many of those cases to tell them apart. The merchant was one of the advance spies, bringing us word of the situation in Metztitlan and of its weak points. He'd barely come into the encampment when Eptli came along and started insulting him."
"Was he hot-tempered?" I asked.
"Eptli?" Coatl hesitated – deciding how much untruth he could get away with. "No," he said, regretfully. "He was a cool-headed man."
Hmm. Either Eptli hated all merchants, or there was something particular about this one, something that had caused him to lose his calm. I added this to the growing list of problems to tackle.
"Where can I find Chipahua?" I asked. The warrior who had vied with Eptli for the prisoner looked like the most likely person to arrange a fatal accident. "At the feast?"
Coatl shook his head. "His rank isn't high enough for him to attend the feast in the palace. You'll find him at his house." He gave me an address in Cuepopan, one of the four districts of Tenochtitlan.
As I left, I could feel his eyes on the back of my neck. He was a singular man – few people had the courage to stand up to an increasingly erratic Tizoc-tzin. I liked him, and I knew I shouldn't have, for in all he had said to me, it had become clear he hadn't cared much for Eptli, and perhaps even resented him for taking away the glory of another, more worthy warrior. He had insisted on obtaining justice – but could he have done otherwise, if he hoped to pretend innocence?
I took a boat from the temple's dock to get to Chipahua's house. Like most of our crafts, it was a small, sleek assemblage of reeds, with a simple frieze of spiders running along the prow. The priest who was polling it through the canals was someone I didn't know: a young man barely into adolescence – probably a novice who had recently entered the clergy. He wielded the pole with the ease of someone born on the lake, effortlessly inserting us into the dense traffic of the crowded canals and navigating between ornate barges three times our size without a second thought.
I sat at the back, wishing I'd thought to change out of my High Priest regalia. It would undoubtedly impress a warrior more than a simple cloak, but the sun was high in the sky and the whole cloth of the embroidered cape was already uncomfortably hot. Sweat ran down my cheeks in rivulets, and the skull-mask wedged on my face kept being dislodged by the jolts of the boat as it turned into yet another canal.
Most boats were going the opposite way, their oars and poles splashing into the water with the familiar rhythm of rowing. On the land adjoining the canal, a crowd walked in companionable silence: women with baskets of poultry and vegetables, and men bent forward against the band on their forehead which supported the burden on their backs.
Chipahua's house wasn't far from the centre of the city, on the edge of the noblemen's quarter. The buildings here were lower, not having the two storeys that only high-ranking noblemen were allowed, but they were brightly-painted adobe, not wattle and daub, and what they lacked in height, they made up with sheer scale. Every house we passed seemed to sprawl interminably, their gates open to display their outer courtyards, every one more magnificent than the last: a mass of high trees and vibrant frescoes, every building vying with its neighbours with tasteful decoration reminding the viewer of their owner's wealth.
At length, we stopped before a house that seemed almost shabby compared to its neighbours: the outside frieze was a simple portrait of Tezcatlipoca, the Smoking Mirror, god of war and fate, and the single slave at the entrance wore a white loincloth with no insignia or adornment.
He took me to his master without demur, leading me through a courtyard with a well and two pine trees, in which slave women wove cloth, keeping a wary eye on the children, who were playing with dolls and wooden chariots. The rhythmic sound of their looms against the mortars followed us inside – though not the heat, thankfully.
The reception room was supported by columns painted with ochre, and a single quetzal-feather fan seemed to be the only concession to the wealth and status of its owner.
Three warriors and three women were sitting at the far end, gathered around the remains of a meal. When the entrance-curtain tinkled, the warrior in the centre looked up, straight at me, and gestured for the slave to bring me closer.
I'd expected him to remain seated, but to my surprise he rose and bowed to me. "Acatl-tzin. Do join us."
He knew my name, too, which was surprising. Warriors and priests seldom mingled, unless at court, but he wasn't high enough in the hierarchy to be at court on a regular basis. I threw a glance at his companions, who appeared to have swallowed a live ember. Well, at least their reception wasn't unexpected. "Chipahua, I presume?"
He smiled. Like Eptli, he wasn't a young man, and battles had left their mark on him, not only in the long scar that slashed his face from right cheek to temple, but also in the wariness with which he held himself. But the smile, spreading to every feature, made him seem almost boyish. "Honoured to meet you, Acatl-tzin." He pointed at the food, spread out on the mat before him. "Do eat with us."
Most of the food was already gone, though the maize cakes and the fish in lime and spiced sauce smelled delicious – not fit for the meal of the Revered Speaker, but simple, robust fare such as I ate every day. "I already ate," I said, regretfully.
"A pity. I'd expected to have more time to idly chat," Chipahua said. "But I very much doubt you came all this way for my sake."
I studied him, but his weathered face gave nothing away. He had to know about Eptli, didn't he?
"You know what happened."
Chipahua's gaze didn't waver. "Yes. Someone fainted during the ceremony."
"Not fainted. Died."
"I see." His lips tightened. "And once again we're not informed."
I felt obscurely embarrassed, even though none of it was my fault. Chipahua smiled – but it was a smile tinged with anger. "What did you do with the body?"
"It's still being examined in the palace. Why?"
"Because he was one of us. He should be given a proper funeral."
"He'll have one." A wake, a pyre and a dog's sacrifice, and the hymns for the Dead – no more, no less than what any man was entitled to.
"I don't think you understand," Chipahua said. His gaze was still amused – but it was tinged with the contempt of warriors for priests. "He was one of us. We will be at his funeral, and it will be done properly."
I acquiesced, rather than let myself be drawn into a loaded discussion. "You haven't asked me which warrior it was."
Something passed in his gaze, too fast for me to grasp. "No. It doesn't matter who he was."
A lie. A good one, but still a lie. "The warrior was Eptli of the Atempan clan."
One of the other warriors sniggered. "Got what was coming to him."
"Zacayaman!" Chipahua said, sharply. "Be silent. The dead are owed respect." But he didn't sound as outraged as he ought to have been.
"I've seen sadder reactions," I said.
Chipahua picked up a maize cake, and looked at it as if it were a lump of jade. "If you're here, you know what happened. I can't exactly be sad."
"But you're also the one with the strongest motive."