I laid a hand on one of my obsidian knives, felt the power of Mictlan pulse deep within the blade. The emptiness that filled me took away my fear; took away everything but my anger. "Go to Moyotlan, to the Floating Gardens," I said, softly, "and see the three peasants with their hearts missing. Ask them if the beast was real."
Acamapichtli wasn't about to give up so easily. "Words," he said. "Easy, cheap things, Acatl."
"No more than those you used to convict my brother," I snapped. "Do you want evidence? I can summon the Wind of Knives here, in this chamber, to give it to you. Will you accuse Him of being my accomplice?"
"You won't frighten me," Acamapichtli said, his face white with anger.
"Enough," Tizoc-tzin said. He was lounging on the dais, rubbing his fingers on Eleuia's jade pendant, an amused smile on his face. "It's unseemly for priests to argue."
An easy accusation: priests were supposed to be dignified at all times – a feat neither of us had mastered.
"You will go to be examined by a priest of Patecatl," Tizoc-tzin said. "He will ascertain the nature of your wounds. And we'll arrest the real summoner."
"Huei wasn't the only one involved," I said. "She only executed orders. Someone else gave her the knowledge, and that someone else is now holding Priestess Eleuia."
Tizoc-tzin did not move. "Who?"
"I do not know," I said, cautiously. Neutemoc's face had turned whiter.
"We'll interrogate the woman, Huei, and find out."
"I'm afraid," I said, carefully stepping away from Neutemoc, "that this isn't going to be possible."
Tizoc-tzin's face darkened. "You're telling me what I can or cannot do?"
I mentally reviewed several ways of speaking the next sentence. But I could find none that would spare me Neutemoc's anger. "She gave herself up as a sacrifice to Chalchiutlicue."
Tizoc-tzin said nothing. His anger at being thwarted by the gods was palpable. But not so palpable as Neutemoc's towards me.
"You let her?" Neutemoc growled. "Acatl? You let her do – this folly?"
Although it cost me much, I refrained from pointing out that Huei's little games had almost ended his life.
Tizoc-tzin watched us, again with that lightly interested expression, as if we were a spectacle to be enjoyed. "I see," he said, finally. "How convenient for her. Acamapichtli!"
"Yes, my lord?" the High Priest of Tlaloc asked with false meekness.
"Chalchiutlicue is your god's wife, isn't She? I'm sure you can arrange matters."
Acamapichtli shook his head with malicious glee. "Alas," he said, "the Storm Lord and His wife are separate. I have no influence over Her."
Tizoc-tzin snorted, sceptically. "Attempt something, will you?" He turned to me. "I will await the results of your examination before I rule on this case."
I bowed, inwardly relieved that Neutemoc would have some time to calm down before we met again.
• • • •
It took time, more time than I had thought. After the priest of Patecatl was done with me, we had to wait until Tizoc-tzin's men came back with the bodies of the three dead peasants. Then the priest had to make a long, convoluted report to Tizoc-tzin.
Finally, after the priest was done, Tizoc-tzin pronounced himself satisfied. "Your story is consistent," he admitted. "But still no trace of the priestess."
Acamapichtli threw me a murderous glance from the dais. "No, my lord," he said.
Tizoc-tzin waved a jewelled hand. "Free the Jaguar Knight. The charges against him are obviously unsubstantiated."
If looks could kill, Acamapichtli's gaze would have already sent me into Mictlan. But it didn't matter. Neutemoc was free; his life was no longer in danger.
Unaware of this – or perhaps very much aware, and deriving secret amusement from it – Tizoc-tzin said to me, "The investigation will continue. Make sure you find her." It was half an order, half a threat. All I could do was bow down before him.
"Yes, my lord," I said. I took my leave, pausing on my way out of the palace to thank Pinahui-tzin for his help.
The old magistrate smiled, a wholly unexpected expression that seemed to light up his face. "Never could stand that arrogant priest," he said. "Good for you, knocking him down a peg, young man."
Neutemoc didn't say a word as we exited the Imperial Palace. He kept Mihmatini between himself and me – whether consciously or not, I couldn't say. I didn't complain in any case. His clenched hands and white face were ample testimony to how much restraint he was currently exercising.
We walked back towards the Atempan calpulli and Neutemoc's house in silence. It was late afternoon, but the air was still stiflingly hot: most people were inside, sheltering from the heat. The streets were deserted, and only a few boats bypassed us on the canals.
Neutemoc walked bent, with slow steps, like an old man – so unlike the Jaguar Knight who had been my parents' pride that something fluttered in my chest.
When we were within two or three streets of Neutemoc's house, I felt the air turn to tar.
What? I span, my good hand on my obsidian knife. Neutemoc had felt it, too. His head snapped up and his muscles tightened. So it wasn't an illusion, or something I'd imagined.
The street was utterly empty, or had become so in the past few minutes. So were the canals. But the air pulsed with magic: a rhythm that was the rush of blood in my heart, the air exhaled from my lungs.
Something moved, at the corner of my eye, shimmering over the water of the canal. I couldn't get a hold of it no matter how I cocked my head.
But Neutemoc grunted and fell, a fresh wound blossoming on his thigh.
The slave Quechomitl rushed to guard his master, and whatever had felled Neutemoc also wounded him: marks appeared on Quechomitl's chest out of thin air, as if claws were being drawn across his skin.
Mihmatini screamed for help, but soon fell silent. It was quite obvious that no help would be coming. But what in the Fifth World was attacking us?
I closed my eyes, extending my priest-senses, and saw them, quivering at the edge of my vision: three shapeless beings with clawed hands, cackling as they crowded around Neutemoc. Their bodies were completely transparent, and only the glint of sunlight as they moved had betrayed them.
Keeping my eyes closed, I unsheathed one of my obsidian knives and, still one-handed, threw it. A good thing that my right hand wasn't the one in the sling.
The blade flew towards the nearest assailant but, somehow, the thing wasn't there when the knife struck. It cackled contemptuously, a sound like hundreds of insects skittering on a stone floor, and went again towards Neutemoc.
The Duality curse them and all their kind!
Mihmatini was kneeling on the ground, drawing a circle in the dirt with the knife in her belt. She was chanting as she did so. I couldn't make out all the words, but it sounded like a hymn to Huitzilpochtli, the Southern Hummingbird, in His incarnation as the Sun – a request for divine protection.
So far, Quechomitl was acting as a shield for Neutemoc. But Quechomitl was bleeding from a dozen wounds, and I didn't know how long he could hold on.