I drew Ichtaca apart, careful to stand at a distance, since we still didn't know how the illness was passed on. "What is going on?"
"I don't know yet," Ichtaca said. He grimaced. "Your sister took half the priests and went to do a ritual to protect us against sickness. It's a good idea–"
"But it leaves us short," I said.
"It's just a bad time," Ichtaca said. "The disastrous coronation war and the death of a warrior…" He sighed, not looking altogether reassured. "We'll weather it, I'm sure. We have the Southern Hummingbird's favour."
We might have; after all, Huitzilpochtli was the one who had given us the right to bring Tizoc-tzin from the dead. But He was a capricious god, and he only favoured the successful in war. I grimaced. "We'll see how things work out. Can you–"
He made a dismissive gesture. "Don't worry. We've had to deal with worse during the great famine. This is nothing."
I hesitated – but I needed to ask, all the same. I couldn't manage an investigation on my own. "I need you to find out one thing for me."
His face didn't move. "Of course. What is it?"
"There is a merchant named Yayauhqui in Tlatelolco. He used to serve a god in his youth. Can you find out which one?"
"Consider it done, Acatl-tzin," Ichtaca nodded. "And–"
"And you hold up here," I said, bleakly. "Acamapichtli, Mihmatini and I will see what we can do about the epidemic."
Ichtaca looked reassured by the idea of so many high-ranking priests taking care of the problem. I hoped he was right; on my side, I felt as though I was making frustratingly little progress.
We walked back the way I had come, the two priests of Tlaloc on either side of me, looking for all the world like an escort – or an arrest squad, I thought, bleakly. Acamapichtli, among other things, was vindictive, and he wouldn't have appreciated our little escapade.
We climbed the steps into the palace, and headed straight to what I now thought of as Acamapichtli's wing. And he'd certainly made sure we knew it: the priests of Tlaloc the Storm Lord positively swarmed over the various courtyards. The black cloaks of the SheSnake's guards seemed almost invisible compared with the onslaught of blue and white. The air smelled of copal incense, mixed with the acridity of rubber: I wouldn't have been surprised to find out Acamapichtli had replaced all the entrance-curtains with the dark-blue ones of Tlaloc's temple.
In the largest courtyard, a shimmering lattice of magic spread from building to building – there was a slight resistance when we crossed under the influence of the wards, and then this was replaced with a familiar tightness in my chest. The place had been consecrated to the Storm Lord – it wasn't quite the Land of the Blessed Drowned yet, but it was close to its antechamber.
Acamapichtli was in a large room on the second floor, reclining on a mat as if he were the Revered Speaker himself. He wore his customary heron-plumes, and his face was painted with the darkblue streaks of his god – impassive under the makeup. As we came nearer, though, I saw the thin lines of fear at the corners of his eyes; and the slight quivering in his hands – and felt the stronger circle drawn around him.
"Ah, Acatl," he said when I arrived. "Do be seated."
"I'd rather remain standing," I said, curtly. "Do you have a better idea of what's going on?"
"Not much better than you." Acamapichtli smiled, a thoroughly unpleasant expression. "Thanks to you and your protégé, this thing might already be loose in the populace."
I disliked "populace", which he made sound like an insult. "The two warriors who carried the corpse would have passed it on anyway."
"Not if we found them fast enough – we did catch up with one, if nothing else. He's sick, Acatl, perhaps worse than Coatl or the priest of Patecatl. But I fear that's not the point. The point is that when I give orders, you follow them."
"Since when are you my master?"
"Since the epidemic started." It would have been better if he'd looked insufferably smug, the way he usually did, but he didn't. He merely stated a fact.
"And what about Quenami?"
"Quenami is a fool. Nothing new under the Fifth Sun. I expected better of you." Of course, he hadn't.
"May I remind you I have an investigation to run?" I asked. "Someone cursed Eptli. And, furthermore, containing the sickness is all well and good, but we need to find a cure for it."
"And for all we know, this is the will of the gods."
This time, he'd goaded me too far. "Fine," I said. "You know one way of solving this?"
Acamapichtli's eyebrows went up.
"Summon the dead man," I said.
It was a crazy undertaking – chancy at best, even for Acamapichtli. I could never have attempted it: Eptli had died of a contagious disease, which made him the property of Tlaloc, and I didn't worship the Storm Lord. I could go into Tlalocan, the land of the Blessed Drowned, to see if his soul would respond to my call, but it was a risk. I would be at Tlaloc's mercy, and I had a suspicion the god was as vindictive as Acamapichtli. He wouldn't have forgotten that I'd thwarted His attempt to take over the Fifth World, a year or so before.
Acamapichtli looked at me – I could see his face twisting, his lips preparing words of contempt, deriding my knowledge as a priest.
"You know it's the only way," I said.
"You're a fool," Acamapichtli said. "Most dead men don't know who killed them. Summoning him will be useless."
"He might remember what contaminated him in the first place," I said. "Which is more information that you have."
Acamapichtli shrugged. "I don't need to know what contaminated him. Containing this is good enough for me."
"Not for me," I said. "And if you're so certain it's Tlaloc's will, you can ask Him what He wants." More likely, if it was Him – and I didn't believe that, not with such an odd magical signature to the disease – He didn't want anything. Tlaloc sent epidemics as He sent rain; He sometimes rewarded prayers, sometimes punished, and most of the time did so for reasons we weren't entitled to know.
Acamapichtli grimaced. He didn't like giving in.
"You'll have me under your eye," I pointed out.
"I'm not sure whether to be pleased, or to wonder what you're up to."
"I'm not up to anything. You're much better at plotting and conspiring."
He smiled. You'd have thought I'd just complimented him. "Yes, you're still as hopeless at diplomacy as you ever were. Do you seriously expect me to agree?"
"It's not about diplomacy," I said. Time to be blunt, anyway. "We have a hundred thousand people in Tenochtitlan, tightly packed. If the epidemic gets out, it'll be worse than the Great Famine. We'll lose thousands of people. And while you might think those are acceptable losses for the Fifth World, I for one don't intend giving in to the machinations of a mortal."
"You forget. It might be the machinations of a god." Acamapichtli's voice was malicious.
"Then I'll bow down my head to the inevitable. It wouldn't be the first time." I'd been there, during the whole ceremony that consecrated Tizoc-tzin as our Revered Speaker – wearing my High Priest regalia, watching as Tizoc-tzin ascended the steps of the Great Temple, feigning weakness, as our ally, the ruler of Texcoco, dressed him according to his new station, inserting an emerald into his nose, putting dangling gold bells on his ankles. I'd watched as he made his offerings, as the gathered nations of the Anahuac Valley cheered him on. And not once had I let on what I truly thought – that the man was unfit to wear the Turquoise and Gold Crown, that he would only lead us to further disasters.