Inside, he didn't seem much changed, but something in the way he paced by the carved columns suggested otherwise. "He suspected something."
"Yes," I said. "You heard it. Someone gave him something – for safekeeping, he said."
"So not something usual." Acamapichtli bit his lips. "Or else whoever did this wouldn't have needed the excuse. A piece of jewellery?"
"You're the expert on amulets," I said, more sharply than I'd intended.
He nodded, as arrogantly as ever. "I am, but you can put so many things into an amulet…"
"Can't you summon him again?"
Acamapichtli grimaced. "Not until the protective deities change – which doesn't happen for another thirteen days."
By which time it would be too late.
"Do you still think it was Tlaloc?" I asked.
"Possible," Acamapichtli admitted, grudgingly, "but unlikely, given the circumstances. Someone – a human being – gave Eptli something that made him feel cold. It's beginning to sound more and more like a spell directed at him." His eyes were hard.
Eptli had taken the proffered object, and fallen sick. And Zoquitl, who was in regular contact with Eptli, had caught the sickness as well. But why Zoquitl, and none of the other warriors? Did Zoquitl have some weakness we were unaware of – some lack of protection because he was Mextitlan, and not Mexica?
And why Eptli?
Acamapichtli's eyes were hard. "Now I know where I've seen that magic before – but it doesn't look quite the same. Once, I had to arrest a man who'd hired a sorcerer to cast a spell of leprosy onto a rival. A marvel of ingeniousness – it called up the sickness from Tlalocan itself."
Tlalocan, the land of the Blessed Drowned – where the sacrifices to Tlaloc lived in eternal bliss, reaping maize from ever-fertile fields, and listening to the whistle of the wind through the floating gardens. "That's why it kept disintegrating?" I asked. Magic from Tlalocan – raw magic from a god's territory – couldn't be called forth into the Fifth World: it would endure for a short while before the mundane began to assert itself once more. "Because it didn't come from the Fifth World."
Acamapichtli nodded. He sounded distracted. "Yes. Someone called up Tlaloc's raw magic into the world – a spell bound up in death and drownings, if you will. You ought to know that." It was a jibe at me as High Priest for the Dead – but weak and deprived of bite.
"And how powerful do you have to be to cast that kind of spell?"
"Not powerful. Ingenious, as I said. Whoever is behind this has great knowledge of Tlalocan, and of Tlaloc's magic."
"Your clergy?" The words were out of my mouth before I could take them back.
His eyes narrowed. "Of course not. Don't be a fool. My clergy is all above suspicion – and in any case, what motive would they have for killing a warrior they've never seen?" Priests of Tlaloc – the Storm Lord, the god of peasants and fishermen – seldom if ever went to war, for their blessings were reserved for the fields and the harvest.
"I don't know," I said, darkly. "I've seen many things. What about the spell on Eptli's soul?"
"Part of the same curse, I'd say. And tied to the teyolia soul, so that it persisted even in death. Again – we're dealing with a smart, resourceful sorcerer."
"But do you know who?" I insisted. "We need facts, not speculation."
Acamapichtli brushed his hands, carefully. Blood still clung to the lines of his palm, but he appeared oblivious. I had no idea how much of it was an act. "I can enquire," he said. "About that, and the sickness. We have priests specialised in diseases at the temple."
"Then why haven't you done so before?"
His gaze, when he raised it, could have bored through stone. "I've dealt with my own affairs. Deal with yours, Acatl."
He was the fool if he thought he could convince me to back down. "As you said earlier – we're in this together. All of the Fifth World."
Acamapichtli snorted. "Fine. Do it your way, if that's what you want."
As if he always did things for the sake of necessity – rather than for his own sake and on his own terms. "I'll keep you apprised," I said, walking towards the entrance-curtain.
"Likewise," Acamapichtli said, but we both knew he was lying.
I was about to take my leave, when the entrance-curtain tinkled and a flustered-looking Tapalcayotl came in. "My Lord, I'm sorry, but–"
He was followed by Mihmatini and her personal slave, Yaotl – and by a delegation of grey-cloaked priests from my order. "Out of my way," she said. Her voice was grim.
Acamapichtli looked from Mihmatini to me – a suspicious expression spreading on his narrow face. "What jest is this?"
Mihmatini shook her head. "You're the one in charge of the confinement?"
Acamapichtli nodded. "I can assure you that no one with the sickness has come out of this palace." He threw a murderous glance at me – he still hadn't forgiven what he saw as imprudence on my part. "But none of that need concern you. I'm sure you have more pressing concerns." His tone was condescending: he was going by appearances only, not even bothering to check. I didn't have the true sight on me, which prevented from seeing the magical trails in the room, but I was sure that the strong magic which had just entered the room – a strong reassuring rhythm like a heartbeat – could only be Mihmatini's wards.
Mihmatini smiled. "You forget. I am Guardian for the Sacred Precinct, keeper of the invisible boundaries, and agent of the Duality in this world."
Acamapichtli raised an eyebrow. "You have the courage of eagles, girl, but it's useless if you can't follow through with actions."
"Acamapichtli!" I snapped. "Show some respect."
Mihmatini shook her head. "It doesn't matter, Acatl." She smiled, and it was slow and terrifying and desperate. "I'll tell him what he needs to know. What he does with it" she spread her hands, as if scattering seeds into the bosom of Grandmother Earth "is his own business."
"Fine," Acamapichtli said. "Have your say, and leave. We're busy enough as it is."
"You won't laugh," Mihmatini warned him. "With the help of the clergy of Mictlantecuhtli, I have beseeched the Duality to smile down upon us, and keep us standing tall, warded against the shackles of disease."
"And you've failed." Acamapichtli's voice was mocking.
From the grim expression on Mihmatini's face, I'd already suspected it hadn't worked, but unlike Acamapichtli, I had more faith in her abilities.
"Why did it fail?" I asked.
"It hasn't worked. But not because of anything in the ritual."
"You're young and unblooded–" Acamapichtli started, but my sister cut him, as savagely as a warrior in a fight to the death.
"I'm old enough to do what I'm doing. The reason it hasn't worked is because someone has sent up their own entreaties into the Heavens."
Surely she didn't mean… "Mihmatini–"
"I told you that you wouldn't like it." Her voice was flat, emotionless. "Someone is deliberately blocking any attempts at containing this. Someone wants this to become a full-blown epidemic."