From the docks, it was but a short walk to the Duality House; but this left me so exhausted I was thankful to Mihmatini for insisting I take a boat back to the Sacred Precinct.
The Duality House was still bustling at this hour of the night, and Ixtli still wasn't sleeping. Did he ever sleep? He listened to my account, cocking his head from time to time. "Very well," he said when I was done. "I'll take some men and go to the Floating Garden. But–"
"I know," I said. The trail was old by now, and it was mundane, not magical. Whoever had come for Eleuia – whoever had instigated the whole affair – had had the intelligence never to handle magic themselves. Even if they did find a trail, I wouldn't have results by the next afternoon. "Do what you can," I said.
I was about to leave the house when I saw a familiar figure ahead of me: Yaotl, Ceyaxochitl's messenger. He was striding ahead, not looking at me; but he did turn back when I called his name.
"Acatl," he said. "What a surprise. How goes your investigation?"
"As well as I can be," I said, tartly. "Where are you off to so fast?"
Yaotl shook his head, wryly amused. "To an interesting place, no doubt."
Huitzilpochtli blind him. He was as unhelpful as ever. "Let me guess," I said, more angrily than I'd intended. "The Imperial Palace."
He grew thoughtful. "I might. But it doesn't concern you, does it?"
"It might," I said. "I'm planning to attend an Imperial Audience tomorrow."
"For your investigation?" Yaotl looked at me for a moment. Finally, he laid a hand on my shoulder, in a mock-brotherly gesture that made me uncomfortable. "I don't think there will be one."
My heart sank. "The Emperor is that ill?"
"I can't tell you more. But don't expect the Audience."
"What happens to the cases he was reviewing?" I asked, my heart sinking.
Yaotl shrugged. "Justice still has to move forward, doesn't it? I assume the High Priests will take care of them."
The High Priests. The twin powers at the head of the Empire's religious structure. The High Priest of Huitzilpochtli was theoretically the most important one; but Ocelocueitl was an old man, tired by decades of overseeing the worship of the God of War.
Which left the other one: Acamapichtli, High Priest of Tlaloc: the same man who had been in such a hurry to have Neutemoc convicted.
TWELVE
The Imperial Audience
I returned to my house, lay down on my reed-mat, and fell asleep almost immediately.
My sleep was short, and disturbed: in my dreams, I stood in the boat of reeds with deep cuts in my arms and chest. Behind me was the dark shape of the ahuizotl – and I rowed and rowed, despite the pain that every gesture aroused in me. I had only to reach the end of the canal; to reach the temple of Chalchiutlicue, where Huei was waiting for me, and everything would be made right.
But, no matter how hard I rowed, the boat never moved; and the yellow eyes of the ahuizotl broke the surface of the water; and it spoke, and its voice was that of the Wind of Knives.
There are higher powers, Acatl. Fool.
I woke up with a start. Outside, the sun had just reached its zenith. It hung, swollen, just over my courtyard. I felt as if I hadn't slept at all. Not the best state of mind to enter an Imperial Audience.
I covered myself in a clean cloak, trying to ignore the insistent pain from my wounds, and went into my courtyard. It was a modest affair, a patch of marigolds, a pine tree and a small, covered welclass="underline" nothing like Xochiquetzal's house, or even Neutemoc's. I sat cross-legged in the dirt before the well, thinking of what Yaotl had told me.
No Imperial Audience. That must mean that the Revered Speaker must be hovering at Mictlan's gates. The political infighting would now start in earnest. That was my only chance: that the High Priest of Tlaloc would be too busy plotting against his peers to worry over much about Neutemoc's fate.
I doubted it would be that easy.
I went back to my temple. In the courtyard, two priests were busy sweeping the ground, preparing for the afternoon's offerings; a further group were in one of the worship-rooms, in vigil for a dead woman.
I went into the shrine, where I dressed in my full regalia: the ivory skull-mask askew on my forehead, and the cloak of rich cotton, embroidered with owls, carefully tied around my shoulders.
Then I went down again, and settled into one of the furthest rooms: the same one where I'd given life to the jade heart, an eternity ago. I sat on the ground with maguey paper spread across my knees, dangling Eleuia's blackened jade pendant in front of my face.
What did I have?
Evidence that underworld magic had been behind all of this, and that someone as yet unidentified had summoned the nahual magic to cover Huei's tracks.
Mihmatini's testimony, as well as those of the slaves, would establish that the Wind of Knives had come for Huei, marking her as the summoner of the beast. If I was lucky, Mihmatini would also have a description of the two men who had come to see Huei in the afternoon.
Best not to rely on luck. Seven Serpent hadn't seemed to be on my side lately.
"Acatl-tzin?" Ichtaca's voice asked.
Startled, I raised my eyes. Ichtaca was standing in the doorway, lit by the midday sun. "Yes?" I asked. "I'm busy."
His gaze held mine, inscrutable. "So I see."
As usual, he made me feel like a child caught sneaking out of the house. "Yes," I said, testily. "Now if you don't mind, I have an audience to prepare for."
I'd expected him to go away; but he didn't move. "The Imperial Audience?"
"How did you know?"
He shrugged. "Rumours. Your brother was under question yesterday and the day before."
"Yes," I said, irritated. "And I intend to make sure he doesn't endure another day of this." Although the High Priest would want to do the exact opposite.
Ichtaca shrugged again, but said nothing.
"Acatl-tzin?" the offering priest, Palli, asked from behind Ichtaca. "Your sister is here."
I got up, wrapping the string of Eleuia's jade pendant around my wrist, and went out, bypassing Ichtaca without a word.
In the courtyard, Mihmatini was waiting for me, along with the burly slave who had stood guard at the gate when I'd arrived last night.
"This is Quechomitl," Mihmatini said.
He and I looked at each other, warily. This time, I was welldressed. But from his stiff stance, Quechomitl hadn't forgotten the drunkard he'd almost thrown out on the previous evening.
"He saw the men you wanted," Mihmatini said. "But they covered their heads with the hood of their cloaks."
"Hooded cloaks?" I asked. Those were rare; but, as Mihmatini had said, it made sense that the men would cover their tracks. I asked Quechomitl, "What did they look like?"