Harbinger of the Storm - By Aliette De Bodard Page 0,103

“Some, however…”

”I know.” Teomitl made an impatient gesture. “Not everyone is a warrior. But, really, what else could he be?”

Growing up in the imperial family, being goaded to take his place in the Southern Hummingbird’s dominion? No, not many paths open to a man whose father and brother had both become Revered Speakers. “He made his choices,” I said. “You can understand him, but you can’t change that.”

”I suppose not.” Teomitl shook himself, in a gesture eerily reminiscent of an ahuizotl. “Not that it matters, now. I wish…”

That things were different. I knew, and I knew nothing I could say would change anything. But still… “Teomitl–”

I was cut off by the sound of sandals in the courtyard, Nezahual-tzin, followed by a cluster of warriors, striding with his characteristic, thoughtless ease. “Taking some air?”

”As you see,” I said. “What’s going on, Nezahual-tzin? Why are we here?”

Teomitl had pulled himself upwards with preternatural speed. He stood watching Nezahual-tzin as a vulture might watch a dying animal, waiting for a moment of weakness to swoop down and finish it off.

”Good, good,” Nezahual-tzin said, eluding my question altogether. “I had some preparations to make.”

”What preparations?” I asked. “For a ritual?”

He smiled. “So impatient, Acatl.”

I rolled my eyes upwards, towards the stars shining in the blue sky. “There are pressing matters, and not only of politics.” Acamapichtli had said two days. They’d still be gathering the councilmen, fighting for influence. They would surely elect Tizoc-tzin, and start the weighty rituals that went into investing a Revered Speaker with the authority of Huitzilpochtli. The Storm Lord’s lightning strike me, there had to be a chance, no matter how minuscule, that we would survive this…

”Of course.” Nezahual-tzin bowed his head. “Come with me. There is something you must see.”

”I don’t play games,” Teomitl said haughtily.

Nezahual-tzin’s smile was starting to become annoying. “This isn’t a game,” he said, slow, sure of himself. “Merely an invitation, as your host. A proffered hand.”

The last person to talk of proffered hands had been Quenami, and I had no wish for a repetition of what had happened afterwards. “And if we refuse?”

”You do as you wish. It would be a shame, but I have no doubt all of us would recover.” Nezahual-tzin started to move away. The warriors followed, one of them holding a large fan to keep his master refreshed.

”Who does he think he is?” Teomitl whispered.

Revered Speaker, sadly, and, secure in the familiar setting of his power a radically different man than the one who had chatted with me on the boat. One more disappointment. I was getting used to those. “Let’s indulge him,” I said in a low voice. “I don’t want to sample the Texcocan cages.”

Nezahual-tzin must have had keener hearing than I’d assumed, for he turned, and smiled at me, sweet and innocent like a young warrior just released from the House of Youth.

I was not fooled. Whatever he thought we should see would be to his own advantage. If we were lucky, we would glean useful scraps, but nothing more.

If that was political acumen, then I was glad Teomitl was incapable of learning it.

• • • •

We went down the mountain, following the flow of the water. It shimmered to my priest senses, a reminder of who the palace complex was dedicated to. It made me slightly uneasy. The last time I’d dealt with the Storm Lord, He had been trying to overthrow the Fifth Sun. But still, the mark on my hand, an itch that grew strong the closer we went to the water, was a reminder that things were no longer quite the same.

In the canals floated garlands of flowers and wood carvings of frogs and seashells; and everywhere were small reed islands, scattered in the shape of quincunxes, reminders of the harmony of the Fifth World. Power hung over the water, shimmering like mist. I breathed it in with every step, a liquid constriction in my lungs, a heaviness in my throat.

We had been going for a while when Nezahual-tzin stepped into a courtyard, which seemed no different from all the others – save that the adobe walls surrounding it formed a circle, and that reeds had been carved all around the circumference. Dark stains marred the ground – living blood, a maze of power that thrummed in my chest, not the sharp, oppressive beat of Tlaloc’s magic, but rather that of another god.

Reeds, and a circle. A circle for the unbroken breath of the wind, and reeds for One Reed: Topiltzin, Our