The Revered Speaker's chambers were in a large courtyard, on the first floor of a building which also hosted the war council, the council of officials that had elected him and that oversaw most of the daily life of Tenochtitlan, from religious worship to problems of architecture and city layout. On the first floor, three entrancecurtains marked the rooms of the Revered Speakers of Tlacopan, Texcoco and Tenochtitlan. The platform was overcrowded by warriors, and the general atmosphere was tense – none of the She-Snake's black-clad guards could be seen anywhere, and the warriors appeared to be arguing among themselves. In the courtyard, the crowd seemed to be dispatched in small groups, talking among themselves in hushed voices, throwing us harsh glances as we passed them by. The atmosphere was tense, as taut as a rope about to fray.
We made our way upstairs without being challenged. Nezahualtzin drew a few passing glances, but no one seemed to know his face well enough, or at least they considered him not important enough. His gaze kept roaming – caught by the jade-coloured cloak of a veteran warrior, by the darkening blue of the sky above us, the smoke of copal incense hanging in the air, almost intense enough to be frightening.
There were two warriors on guard at the entrance-curtain of Nezahual-tzin's rooms; they only took a look at us and waved us through.
Inside, the chambers were as I remembered them: colourful frescoes of Quetzalcoatl the Feathered Serpent, depicting His descent into the underworld, the founding of His city of Tollan, and His departure onto the Eastern Sea on a raft of snakes – everything obscured by the potent haze of copal incense mixed with herbs and spices, a mixture that always made my head spin. I suspected Nezahual-tzin used it for entering divine trances, and wouldn't have been surprised to learn it had teonanacatl and peyotl mixed in – two hallucinogenic widely used by most priesthoods, but frowned upon by my own. One did not need trances or dreams to be reminded of the reality of death.
The low-backed chair – Nezahual-tzin's throne – was empty, the jaguar pelts on the dais meticulously cleaned by the slaves, who scattered away from us as we went deeper into the room.
Nezahual-tzin's breath had quickened; around him, something glimmered – the shadow of a great snake, slowly unfolding through my and Ezamahual's body, maw wide open, the feathers of its collar slowly gaining substance as we got nearer to the throne. The air was as thick as tar – tense, not with human intrigue, but with the growing presence of a god in the Fifth World.
Nezahual-tzin had gone completely limp, his eyes closed, lolling in our grip, much heavier than I'd thought possible. The snake came streaming out of his mouth, rearing its head through Nezahual-tzin's boyish face – the scales mingling with the skin, the feathers becoming the feather headdress at his nape, yet somehow larger and more defined. The only sound we could hear was Nezahual-tzin's quickening breath – far too fast for anything mortal.
The god Quetzalcoatl was trying to help his agent somehow; the one thing I did know was that we couldn't afford to be there when it happened. The Feathered Serpent might be the most compassionate of all the gods, but he was still a god – disinclined to take mortal frailty into account, especially when in a rush to dispel another god's interference.
I gestured for Ezamahual to hurry – we crossed the last few steps to the dais in what seemed an eternity, and dropped more than deposited Nezahual-tzin in his chair. Then we withdrew as fast as possible.
For a few moments, it seemed as though nothing would happen. The snake continued to solidify, somewhat haphazardly – lidless eyes taking the place of Nezahual-tzin's grey ones; fangs appearing within the maw, as white as pearls fished from the depths. And then it reared up – not leaving the confines of Nezahual-tzin's body as I'd thought it would, but instead jerking the body upwards like a children's doll – there was a distinct crunch made by bones cracking, and Nezahual-tzin's head bent backwards at an angle that should have been impossible to maintain for a live human being. His eyes opened – and they were white, opalescent as a distant star, and his mouth was peppered with fangs, glistening with venom, the feathers of his headdress flaring outwards like a flower blossoming. He screamed, arms flailing and then falling down abruptly, released from the pressure that had held them – and then he crumpled like a rag on the dais, the snake fading away to nothingness.
I let out a breath I hadn't even been aware of holding. "My Lord?"
His breath again, loud, ragged. Gently, slowly, he pulled himself upright, his face paler than usual, but regaining colour with every passing moment until it was once more the dark of cacao beans. His eyes narrowed, the vulnerability gone in a moment, dispelled by a supreme effort of will. "Acatl. I see."
I didn't think he did. Ezamahual and I had both witnessed his weakness, and no amount of pretence would remove that fact. "Can you tell us what happened?"
Nezahual-tzin grimaced. "Not in so many words, no."
"You were in trance in front of a fountain," I pointed out. I glanced at Ezamahual; he had thrown himself facedown on the ground. Oh, gods, I should have remembered – Ezamahual was peasant through and through, and he'd walked with enough reticence through the palace. "Ezamahual, get up," I said.
"He's Revered Speaker…"
"And you're a priest of the Mexica. You don't answer to him."
"Not quite, but as a ruler of the Triple Alliance, I do appreciate the respect," Nezahual-tzin said. I threw him a warning glance strong enough to sear the feathers of his headdress, and he smiled back at me. "But Acatl is right. We can't possibly have any kind of conversation with you lying flat on the floor. Also, you did carry me from the fountain." He paused on "fountain", looking at me again, expecting further explanation.
I shrugged. "I don't have much to add. I met you earlier in the palace and you wanted to track down the user of Toci's magic."
"I remember that." Nezahual-tzin's voice was considered. "Not senile yet, you know. Quite the reverse, in fact."
As befitted a devotee of the Feathered Serpent, god of Wisdom and Knowledge. I doubted he'd ever have many memory problems. But, if another goddess had interfered…
"You lost two warriors," I said. "I suspect they were sacrificed to put the spell on you."
"I see." He raised his hands, looked at them in the light. His face had gone hard. "And what are you doing in the palace?"
"Looking for Xiloxoch," I said, as bluntly as he'd asked. "And for Teomitl."
"You'll have gathered there are better places to be, in the current context."
I would have pointed out that he'd stayed within – but of course he was Quetzalcoatl's agent, and probably immune to the plague altogether. "My sister told me Xiloxoch would be in the palace, but I couldn't find her."
"I'm not surprised." Nezahual-tzin's voice was curt. "I can enquire after her."
I shook my head. I'd already stumbled up the stairs of Tizoc-tzin's private chambers with the Revered Speaker of Texcoco – a man I'd been accused of collusion with a few months before. The last thing I needed in this time of paranoia was more fuel for that particular accusation to surface again.
Though it might be too late for that. "Don't bother," I said. "We'll find her ourselves, if she's in the palace."