Human beings usually shone in the true sight – the three souls, the tonalli in the head, the teyolia in the heart and the ihiyotl in the liver combining into a swirling mass of radiance. So, to a lesser degree, did the souls of living beings like animals, or summoned creatures.
Yayauhqui, however, was dark – not merely faded and colourless, like the water or the adobe walls, but completely opaque, as if something had reached out and snuffed everything out of him.
Not something, I thought, chilled. Someone.
"The god," I said, slowly.
His voice was mocking. "As I said. They feed on pain."
He had no souls – he might as well have been dead, save that even in death, some semblance of life would remain into the body, some scattered pieces of soul. He was – cut off from everything in the Fifth World. Was he even able to taste the tamale in his hand, could he even feel the wind on his skin? For him, everything had to have been receding into a numinous, uniformly grey background.
"You should have gone to see a priest," I said. Not one of my order – for we parted the souls from the body for the final time, helping them slip into the underworld. But a priest of Patecatl, God of Medicine, or of Quetzalcoatl, the Feathered Serpent of Wisdom – they would have known what to do.
Yayauhqui's smile was bitter. "I have seen one. Several, in fact. They tried to convince me I was an abomination, and should retire from public life. After that – well, I didn't feel so keen to go back to them. Perhaps the Revered Speaker might be able to do something, but…"
And, of course, he wouldn't present himself to the man who had destroyed his city – even if Tizoc-tzin had been willing to help him. "It was Huitzilpochtli, then, who did this to you?"
Yayauhqui shook his head. "Let me keep secrets, priest. They're of no use to anyone save an old man like myself."
He didn't look old – but then again, without souls, how would he age? How would the Fifth World leave any kind of mark?
"So, you see," Yayauhqui said. "I couldn't care less about spells."
He was dead, or worse. The blood in his veins would have no energy; the teyolia in his heart wouldn't dissipate into the underworld, or into the Fifth Sun's Heaven. Magic, such as it was, would be anathema to him. "You could have hired someone," I said. Or used someone's blood, though it would have been a dangerous venture.
"Of course. There's always that," Yayauhqui agreed, gravely.
There was something about him I couldn't pin down. "Why serve as a merchant-spy, then?"
His lips stretched. It would have been amusement with anyone else, but with him it was just a shadow of what it could have been. That was what had been bothering me about him: everything was subdued, lacking the inner fire of the living, or even the weaker radiance of the dead. "I fear you still don't understand, Acatl-tzin. Now that we are one city, the glory of Tenochtitlan is also that of Tlalelolco. My relatives prosper on your coats of feathers, your cacao beans, your precious stones and your war-takings. Why should I wish to upset the established order? We'd be left with nothing."
His speech had the intensity of truth – and for a bare moment, he seemed to shine with the souls he had lost, though it was only an illusion. "You could destabilise us, and hope for Tlatelolco to secede."
Yayauhqui snorted. "And I could expect the Fifth Sun to tumble down. I'm no fool. I've seen what happens when you cross the gods, and you have the gods' protection."
And if we didn't have it anymore, he'd be the first to trample us into the ground. But, all the same – lying, especially in such an impassioned speech, would have cost him a great deal of energy, enough for the strain of it to be visible. Perhaps he was telling the truth, as much as I disliked the possibility.
"You'll want to stay in Tlatelolco," I said, finally. "It's not over yet."
Yayauhqui's lips stretched again in that smile that wasn't quite one. "Of course. It's never over."
SIX
Between High Priests
The afternoon was well advanced by the time I walked back into the Sacred Precinct; the incense smoke rising up from the dozens of temple made the orange mass of the sun waver and shimmer, as if through a heat haze.
I thought about Eptli as I walked, chewing on a tamale – I'd yielded to temptation, and purchased one from the old woman seller. The taste of chillies and spiced meat was a welcoming heat in my stomach.
He hadn't been liked. Possibly, he hadn't ever fitted in: to the warriors, he would be the merchant's son, and to the merchants, the man who mocked them relentlessly. In his pursuit for glory, he seemed to have made enemies – many of them, from his rival, Chipahua, to the merchant Yayauhqui.
The merchant worried me, for all his sincerity. His defence – that he wouldn't seek to damage the Triple Alliance, for it would be sealing his own doom – rang true, and yet…
And yet, a man like that would have no scruples. The kind of man who could disguise themselves and pass as a foreigner – gossiping and trading, all the while hiding that they were advance observers for the approaching army – why stop the game, when they got home?
Out of principle… but Yayauhqui hadn't looked as if he had much of that.
Still in a thoughtful mood, I walked through the northern gate into the hubbub of the religious centre, and went straight to my temple, which was but a short distance from the gate.
I'd expected a normal day – a dead body carried through the gates, grieving families talking to priests, examinations in quiet rooms… But instead, it was chaos: the temple's small courtyard was flooded with supplicants – from peasants in loincloths carrying baskets of ripe corn kernels, to officials with jewellery and caged animals. The combined noise was overpowering, and I only caught fragments as I elbowed my way through the crowd – about reassurances, and dreams, and portents which seemed to herald the end of the Mexica Empire.
I remembered, grimly, what Neutemoc had told me – that no matter how well Tizoc-tzin hid the warrior's death, news of it would travel through the city like wildfire. He had no idea it would be that bad.
At the foot of the stairs leading up to Lord Death's shrine, I found Ichtaca waiting for me – while two harried offering priests made efforts to channel the flow of supplicants into separate rooms, where they could deal with them one by one.
Ichtaca wasn't alone, though. Beside him stood two priests in blue and white cloaks, the hems embroidered with a border of frogs and seashells.
Of course. I'd known what I was getting into, walking back to the temple, but then again, I couldn't run forever.
The leftmost priest, a pudgy man with a blue-streaked face, was mildly familiar: his name was Tapalcayotl, and he was Acamapichtli's second-in-command. "Acatl-tzin," he said, bowing to me. "Acamapichtli-tzin has requested your presence at the palace."
It was couched politely, but the meaning was unmistakable. "I see," I said. "I'll consult with my priests first."
Tapalcayotl looked as if he might protest, and then obviously thought better of it. Like his master, he was acutely aware of social divisions.