Harbinger of the Storm - By Aliette De Bodard Page 0,24

will see both of you.”

”It’s evening now,” Teomitl pointed out. “Surely my brother can wait–”

Quenami shook his head. “Now, Teomitl-tzin.”

Given the unhealthy joy that danced in Quenami’s eyes, I was certain that Tizoc-tzin would not congratulate us. In fact, I might be happy to get out of there with my rank intact. With Axayacatl-tzin’s demise, both he, as Master of the House of Darts, and the She-Snake received the right to name High Priests. While the She-Snake would keep me around for the sake of appearances, Tizoc-tzin, who hated anything to do with the clergy, would leap at the first chance to dismiss me.

FIVE

Imperial Blood

Tizoc-tzin’s quarters were in a courtyard on the same layout as the Imperial Chambers: a wide terrace over two state rooms where his followers sat, gorging themselves on amaranth seeds, and cooked fowls. It was… not exactly indecent, I guessed, not exactly forbidden, but still unseemly, with the palace in mourning.

Upstairs massed mostly warriors – Eagle Knights in their cloaks of feathers, and Jaguar Knights in full regalia, with their helmets in the shape of a jaguar’s head. They watched Quenami and I pass by with predators’ smiles. The division between priests and warriors ran deep. They saw us as uptight fools, we saw them as arrogant men obsessed with appearances. Even Teomitl, who paid less attention to this than other warriors, proudly bore the orange scorpion cloak and the shaved head that denoted him as a Leading Youth.

The entrance-curtain was wide open, even though the evening was colder than usual. Inside, bare-chested warriors lounged on mats, picking frogs, fish and other delicacies from bowls set in front of them.

Quenami wove his way through the crowd with supreme ease, stopping here and there to greet a particular table, ignoring their gazes of frank contempt. Teomitl’s face was frozen in ill-concealed anger, and he walked with the haughty pride of a sacrifice victim.

At the back of the room, five windows opened on another courtyard, a garden from which came the chatter of birds. The wind, blowing through the apertures, brought in the smell of the distant jungle, strong enough to overwhelm the aroma of copal incense.

Tizoc-tzin was seated on a mat behind a wooden screen so polished it shone with yellow reflections. Beside me I felt Teomitl stiffen. “Does he wear turquoise too?” he whispered angrily.

As it turned out, Tizoc-tzin – a middle-aged man with sallow skin – did not wear turquoise, but a deep blue that was uncomfortably close to the imperial colour. I couldn’t help but notice that several of the warriors we’d passed had also removed their sandals out of reverence.

”Ah, our High Priest for the Dead. What a pleasure,” he said. He dismissed Quenami with a wave of his long fingers, and then turned his attention back to me.

He had never made me comfortable, but in a very different way than the She-Snake. I could trust the She-Snake to act in his own interests; but with Tizoc-tzin I never knew if he was going to do something just out of caprice.

His eyes were two small, black beads that pierced me like a spear. He considered me for a moment with growing anger. “I’ve always known that priests couldn’t be trusted. You have just exceeded my expectations.”

”The star-demons –”

”Save your breath.” His voice had an aura of command: cutting, merciless. “I know all about the star-demons, Acatl.”

”Then you’ll know this isn’t the time for quarrels.”

”On the contrary.” Tizoc-tzin smiled, an expression that didn’t reach his eyes. “This is a time of flux. What better opportunity for change?”

Oh gods, what a fool. But a scrap of self-preservation prevented me from saying that aloud. “My Lord–”

”I know everything there is to know about you, and you have gone too far.”

”Too far?” I asked. I might have, with Acamapichtli, but there was no way he could know about that, not unless Quenami could communicate by thought alone.

Tizoc-tin’s gaze moved to Teomitl. “Don’t act so innocently, Acatl. Did you think I would never realise? A prince will marry a noblewoman or a princess, never the daughter of peasants.”

So that was what it was all about. How dare he? “If you refer to my sister,” I said, coolly, “she is no longer the daughter of peasants. She is the sister of a Jaguar Knight, and of the High Priest for the Dead.”

Teomitl’s face had gone pale. I had to admit we did not have much to stand on. Mihmatini would have made a wonderful concubine, but to reach any