"Good," Tizoc-tzin said. He turned, taking us all in. "Dismissed. We'll reconvene after the sorcerers have been questioned."
As he swept out of the room with his escort, I chanced to catch a glimpse of a dignitary – a short man, almost dwarfed by the weight of his quail-feather headdress. His face was set in a scowl and he was staring at Tizoc-tzin's retreating back with withering anger – as if expressing all the contempt the She-Snake had felt, but not dared to make public.
"Who is that man?" I asked Nezahual-tzin, who was closest to me.
He frowned. "The one with the greenstone and snail shell necklace, who looks as though he's swallowed something bad?"
"That one, yes."
"I'm not that familiar with Mexica politics…" Nezahual-tzin's voice trailed off. "Itamatl, if I'm not mistaken. Deputy for the Master of the Bowl of Fatigue."
The fourth member of the war council, then: one of the cornerstones of the army, the one who guided the men through the fire and blood of battle. And he hated Tizoc-tzin that much? I wondered who he had supported in last year's power struggle. For all I knew, he had never expected Tizoc-tzin to become Revered Speaker. And yet… that he should show it openly, at a time like this? This was bad, very bad.
The room was empty of dignitaries now: the slaves were creeping back, and a few women – Pochtic's wives? – looking away from us. Nezahual-tzin threw them his most charming smile, but it seemed to make them even more frightened.
"Teomitl–" I started, but Nezahual-tzin was standing as still as a jaguar on the prowl, looking down at Teomitl.
My student hadn't said anything during the whole confrontation – which was uncharacteristic. Slowly, carefully, he gathered his rings from Pochtic's side – and slid them, one by one, back onto his fingers. His face was the exact double of the She-Snake's – that smooth lack of expression which hid inner turmoil.
His hands, as they manipulated the rings, were steady, but I knew him well enough to see the slight tremor, the almost imperceptible curving of the fingers – the trembling aura of magic around him, hinting at tossing waves, at stormy seas.
I'd seen him angry, in spurts of scalding wrath that never lasted – but this was something else. This was cold, deliberate rage, and I wasn't sure it would ever be extinguished.
It was dark when we came out, with a scattering of stars overhead – the eyes of demons over the Fifth World, contained only by the power of the Southern Hummingbird.
Tlaloc's magic. And the sacred courtesan served Xochiquetzal, who was as close to Tlaloc as goddesses went.
I didn't like this, not at all. I turned to Nezahual-tzin, and asked, "The sacred courtesan. Xiloxoch."
"Yes?" His eyes were on the stars. Could he discern his protector god among them – Quetzalcoatl the Feathered Serpent, Lord of the Morning Star?
"Can you find her?"
"Now?"
There was an itch in my shoulder blades, the hint of a lament in my ears. And, in spite of the precautions we'd taken, I wasn't altogether sure we'd done the right thing – were Teomitl and I immune to the sickness, or merely spreading it throughout the city? "As soon as you can."
"I'll talk to the leader of the prisoners again," Teomitl said, brusquely. "And send word if Pochtic wakes up."
"And Tizoc-tzin?" I asked, carefully.
"Tizoc does what he wants." Teomitl wouldn't look at me. What was going on? It wasn't shame; that was an emotion he barely knew the meaning of.
"Teomitl–"
He made a quick, stabbing gesture with his hands. "I'm Master of the House of Darts. Member of his war-council. His heir. If I don't make sure he follows the right path, who will?"
"Leave that to the She-Snake," Nezahual-tzin said, distractedly. "You can't afford to be among those he distrusts."
Teomitl snorted, but said nothing. He worried me. "Don't do anything rash, please."
"I won't." And, under his breath, "not unless he gives me a reason to."
"Teomitl!" I said.
He pressed his lips together. "You're not my master, Acatl-tzin." And he was gone, wrapping his cloak around him, before I could react.
It wasn't the first time he'd done that, but before, he had been bewildered, or lost – or unsure of Tizoc-tzin. I knew him enough to tell by the set of his jaw and of his eyes that he'd come to some great decision, one that he didn't want me to be privy to.
And, given his anger at Tizoc-tzin's acts, I could guess at the decision. After all, his brother was unpopular with the army, whereas Teomitl's smoke and mist was spreading, his mark on the Fifth World becoming larger and larger. He was Master of the House of Darts, controlling the great arsenals of Tenochtitlan and therefore access to all the causeways that linked us to the mainland – and why shouldn't he see to it that the Turquoise and Gold Crown was held by someone who deserved it, and never mind what the disasters this would cause for the balance of power?
No. He wouldn't. He was more intelligent than that. He had to have absorbed some of what I'd taught him about magic – about the Fifth World being held by a thread until Tizoc-tzin was confirmed.
Surely he wouldn't…
"He's a clever man," Nezahual-tzin said, thoughtfully – as if he had read the tenor of my thoughts. When he saw my face, he smiled. "I didn't use magic, Acatl. You're an easy man to read."
"I don't dissemble," I said, curtly. My relationship with Teomitl might not be wholly private – because of our respective positions – but the Revered Speaker of Texcoco certainly had no business prying into it to satisfy his thrice-accursed curiosity.
Nezahual-tzin ventured nothing. At length, when I didn't speak, he shrugged – a falsely careless gesture, and went downstairs. "I'll see you around, Acatl."
I remained for a while – not because I found the view beautiful, but because I wanted to be sure that he was gone. We'd only had two deaths – a tragedy by some standards, insignificant in the larger frame – and already the fabric of the imperial palace was unravelling.
As if I'd needed further proof that we remained fragile, as the Empire slowly rebuilt itself from the mess of the year before… This wasn't the most auspicious of times for a sorcerer to move against us. I would have prayed for this to bring us together against a common enemy, but deep down I already knew it wouldn't.
I walked to my house alone, amidst the looming shapes of the temples. Even at this late hour, the Sacred Precinct was busy: priests sang hymns and made penances, and circled the Serpent Wall, offering their blood at regular intervals. From within the temples came a grinding sound, as novice priests ground the pigments which would be used on the following day to paint faces and arms for religious ceremonies.
My temple was still lit; I entered briefly, to reassure myself that all was well, and to second a few examinations. Ichtaca had made no progress on tracking down information about the merchant Yayauhqui; hardly surprising, since I'd only asked him a handful of hours ago.