Harbinger of the Storm - By Aliette De Bodard Page 0,127
Something was going to have to yield, and I wasn’t altogether sure my mind wouldn’t go first. It had, after all, already done so once in this land, back when Quenami had imprisoned me.
The lake grew larger, reflecting the sky above which had darkened to the grey of a storm with the sun at its centre like a malevolent eye. Its depths would be cool, away from the burning sensation that seemed to have filled me up from the inside – fire in my lungs, in my belly, in my manhood…
”Acatl!”
Quenami was coming back from the huts, and I could not remember having seen him depart. “You have to see this.”
• • • •
The huts were little more than awnings of wattle-and-daub over beaten earth – a shelter against sunlight, and nothing more. There were seven of them, arrayed in a circle around a focal point, and, where the centre should have been, a group of men sat, engrossed in an animated conversation.
”The flowers come from the heart of heaven…”
”That is accessory. What good are they, if they wilt and perish…”
”All the more reason to enjoy the vast earth…”
”They are–” Quenami whispered.
Carefully I set Acamapichtli on the ground, wincing as the weight left me. I stretched, ignoring the fiery pain that flared up my body again, and hobbled to the circle.
They were familiar faces: Manatzpa, Echichilli, all the members of the council I’d interviewed. One gave me pause, it was Pezotic. The last time I had seen him had been in Teotihuacan, under the guard of Nezahual-tzin’s warriors. It seemed that the last inrush of star-demons into the world, which had taken both the council and Tizoc-tzin, hadn’t spared him.
They all sat as if nothing were wrong, discussing minor points of philosophy like matters of life and death. But their faces were different, their skins stretched over the pale shape of their skulls, their eyes sunk deep into their orbits.
And Tizoc-tzin wasn’t among them.
”Excuse me,” I said, pitching my voice to carry. “We’re looking for Tizoc-tzin.”
”The Revered Speaker,” Quenami interjected.
Manatzpa’s face rose towards us for a brief moment, but then he turned back to his neighbour. “As Nezahualcoyotl said, we are nothing more than feathers and jade…”
”I should think we’re more than that…”
”Echichilli!” Quenami said. “We need your help. Surely you know what’s happening.” He grasped the old councilman by the shoulders, and forced him to look his way. “Surely–” He stared into Echichilli’s eyes for a while, transfixed, before releasing him, horror slowly stealing across his features. “Let’s go, Acatl.
It’s not here we’ll find the answers.”
”I–” I said, and then I caught Manatzpa’s gaze. A film seemed to have covered his eyes. His pupils were dull, like those of a fish dead for days, and nothing remained of the fiery, driven man he had been in life, the one who had killed Ceyaxochitl, the one who had almost killed me. Husks, that was all they were, what was left after the corn had been harvested – nothing of value, nothing that was real.
Shivering, I hoisted Acamapichtli on my shoulders again, and followed Quenami down to the lake.
He was pushing a reed boat into the water; when I arrived he looked up at me, all arrogance and impatience. “Well? Help me.”
”You’re something,” I said. “I’ve been carrying Acamapichtli all the while, and you’re the one complaining.” I didn’t mention the fact that every moment we spent there weakened me, because he’d find a way to use it against me.
Quenami snorted. “You could have left him behind.”
”And I could have left you behind.” I wasn’t quite sure why I’d been carrying Acamapichtli along all the while. We might have needed him at the end; even unconscious and wounded, he might have had some use. But–
The Duality take me, I’d had a debt to him, and never mind that it was being repaid to more than its value.
”Help me with the boat, will you?” Quenami insisted. Not for the first time, I fought the urge to shake some sense into him.
”Ask politely, and perhaps I’ll consider it.” I put Acamapichtli into the craft, and moved to push with Quenami.
”It’s for our survival, Acatl. If you can’t see past that…”
If you can’t make an effort, I thought, but didn’t say. There was enough with one of us being petty.
Of course, I rowed. Quenami probably hadn’t lifted an oar since the day he’d entered the priesthood; the way he wrinkled his face made it clear even the fate of the world wasn’t enough for