"What is this place?"
I started. I hadn't heard Neutemoc for so long that I'd almost forgotten that he was there. He stood by the pool, looking ill at ease. Neither his slave, Tepalotl, nor my two priests were anywhere to be seen.
"You should know," I said, more angrily than I'd intended to. "You took Eleuia here."
"No," Neutemoc said. He sounded angry as well. "I waited outside. I've never set foot in here."
"Well," I said sombrely, "the one thing we can be sure is that this isn't a shrine to the Duality." I held my torch up to the frescoes again, hoping for a clue, for anything that would allow us to get out of here and leave behind that great, sickening presence. But the glyphs were too smudged by the incessant fall of water, and the details of the frescoes similarly erased.
I walked away from the pool, fighting an urge to scratch myself to the blood.
The frescoes on the furthest wall were also badly damaged, but some details had survived better. One character appeared constantly in the vignettes: a being with dark skin, brandishing various objects: a fisherman's net, a rattle, and several bowls holding offerings.
I knelt by the oldest of the frescoes, peered at the details. The eyes were dark, accentuated by black marks, and a plume of heron feathers protruded from His head.
Tlaloc! Eleuia had given birth in a shrine to Tlaloc, God of Rain.
We met Palli, Ezamahual and Tepalotl halfway out: they had been unable to push past the sense of uneasiness. Tepalotl, being a slave, didn't look as though he cared much one way or the other; but my two priests were sheepish.
"We could have followed you, Acatl-tzin," Palli pointed out, once we were safely outside.
Ezamahual said nothing. He was clenching and unclenching his hand around his obsidian knife, frowning. "I scarcely feel anything," he said.
"The magic is here," I said, finally, not knowing what else I could tell him. "It takes some practise to open to it, that's all."
Ezamahual looked doubtful. "I suppose," he said.
"Acatl-tzin would know," Palli said, looking at his companion severely.
Ezamahual said nothing. I could tell he wasn't completely convinced. He should have had confidence in me, but I hadn't been capable of proving my abilities to him.
Huitzilpochtli curse me.
"It doesn't matter," I said. "We have what we need."
"We do?" Neutemoc asked, behind me. "I, for one, haven't understood anything."
I didn't react to his sarcasm. I weighed the baby's bones in my hands, thoughtfully. After the shrine, the small feeling of wrongness was almost restful. "Neither have I." But one thing was sure: the Storm Lord wasn't a god of childbirth. There had been no reason for Eleuia to go into that shrine to give birth unless something else was going on. "But I don't think Eleuia's true allegiance was to the Quetzal Flower."
"And that solves the matter for you?"
I shrugged. "If she was to become Consort of Xochiquetzal's husband, she couldn't afford the worship of another god." Hence the need to silence Neutemoc, who might remember the child; who might remember this place and cause someone else to realise what Eleuia had done.
Neutemoc said nothing, but he didn't look convinced. That wasn't what bothered me. The bones that I held in my hand, however… What kind of child had Eleuia given birth to?
It's dead, my conscience pointed out, reasonably. Whatever happened, she didn't carry it to term. But that wasn't enough to dispel my growing feeling I'd missed something.
SEVENTEEN
Confrontations
We came back to Tenochtitlan two days later, well after midday. Fog hung heavily over the canals and the streets, clinging in wisps to the houses even this late. The air was humid and sweltering. Overhead, there were no clouds, but the rain would not be long in coming.
I sent Palli and Ezamahual back to the temple; Neutemoc, his slave Tepalotl and I went back to Neutemoc's house.
Mihmatini was waiting for us in the courtyard, wearing a creased dress of cotton, embroidered with butterflies. Her face was as wan as the moon, and dark circles underlined her eyes. I had never seen her so tired.
"You shouldn't be up so early," I said.
She shook her head. "If I sleep, they'll eat the wards." She glanced at Neutemoc. "And your protection is almost gone. I need to renew that for you."
"I thought you and Ceyaxochitl had everything under control when we left?" I asked, slowly, afraid of what she would answer me.
Mihmatini gave me a tired smile. "They're either more powerful, or more numerous. Either way, I'm losing this battle."
"You can't stay here," I said to Neutemoc.
He shook his head, angrily. "And whose fault is that?"
"Neutemoc," Mihmatini said.
I bit back on a wounding retort. "Can we argue about responsibilities later? I need to get you and your household to–"
I contemplated the possibilities. Most temples weren't warded, except perhaps for the Great Temple. But half of that belonged to Tlaloc. And, given what we now knew of Eleuia's ties with that god, I wasn't eager to find refuge there.
"We'll go to the Duality House," I said, at last. "That's large enough to hold us all." At least, while I worked out what I did next. I'd have to go back to the Jaguar House, and ask Mahuizoh about Eleuia's ambitions.
"The Duality House?" Neutemoc asked, incredulous. "My whole household? Acatl, it's one thing to take me on a fruitless journey–"
I cut him off, with no effort to be civil. "That wasn't fruitless, unless you want to deny what happened in that so-called shrine to the Duality. And I'm not taking risks."
He stared at me: weary, cynical, angry. "Priests hide and run away. Warriors don't."
Warriors and priests. Why in the Fifth World did it always have to come to the same thing?
I'd had enough of that. I said, sharply, "You can stay here if that satisfies your pride. I'm not seeing Mihmatini and your children die like Quechomitl."
"He died because you involved him in this," Neutemoc snapped.
I shook my head. "He died because he defended you. That's all."
"He would have had no need to defend me if you hadn't interfered."
Interfered? I'd risked my career to prove him innocent, and that was all he could find to say to me? I said, "I wasn't the one who drove Huei against you. You did that yourself."
This, as I had expected, wounded him. His eyes narrowed; his muscles tensed, readying for a leap in my direction. I laid a hand on one of my obsidian knives, feeling the emptiness of Mictlan well up.
Mihmatini gave a snort of disgust, and stepped between both of us. "Enough. A pity Mother isn't here any more. You're behaving like children, both of you."
"Neutemoc," she said, firmly.
He turned to her. It must have been something in her voice, so reminiscent of Mother's flat, deadly tones. "Yes?"