Harbinger of the Storm - By Aliette De Bodard Page 0,39
the world of the gods. He would never summon any creatures, or anything that might look like a spell.” He spat on the ground. “Fool. As if others wouldn’t feel free to use magic.”
I decided not to react to the obvious insult, to focus on the information he had just given me. “You seem very sure.”
Acamapichtli laughed, a wholly unpleasant sound. “Remember last year, Acatl. Remember how much he hated the lot of us, standing before him. That’s how much trust he puts in magic.”
A year ago, I had appeared before Tizoc-tzin to bargain for my brother’s life, and I had almost failed to walk out of the Imperial Courts. What Acamapichtli wasn’t saying was that he had been the one trying to convict my brother; and that Tizoctzin, seeing this as a quarrel between High Priests, had taken hours of convincing that either of us was saying anything of value. “That was a year ago,” I said, slowly. “People change.”
”That’s Tizoc-tzin’s failure.” Acamapichtli’s lips compressed to a thin line. “He can’t change.”
”I can’t just take your word,” I said. But in truth, he was so obviously hostile to Tizoc-tzin I couldn’t see why he would lie to me about this.
”Think about it. You’re a smart man.” His voice made it clear he didn’t believe a word of it. But still…
He’d been walking back to the council rooms; I’d followed him through several courtyards, half-fascinated, half-horrified by his spiteful allegations. The palace was preparing for the night. The magistrates were heading out of the courts, back to their own houses; the warriors were in finery, ready to attend feasts.
”I don’t think you quite understand what the Fifth World is, either you or him.” Acamapichtli’s voice was quieter. “You think of it like Mictlan, a static universe where change would be deadly. But we change every day, and we endure. Worshippers shed their blood, and the Southern Hummingbird wraps us in His embrace. We will endure.”
I wished I could be so convinced. “Last year…”
Acamapichtli shrugged. “Tlaloc attempted to wrest power from Huitzilpochtli. One more wave in a storm-tossed lake. It’s not because of that boats will sink.”
”And you truly think the situation is the same here?” I couldn’t quite keep the anger from my voice. “People have died–”
”One, so far.”
I cut him. “There was another murder attempt.”
He looked so genuinely surprised it was hard to believe it an act. “The Guardian Ceyaxochitl was poisoned.”
His face did not move, but I could have sworn his skin was slightly paler. “I see. It still doesn’t prove anything. People have died in successions before, Acatl. You may not like it, but it’s the way things work.”
”You’re right,” I said. “I don’t like it.” I’d almost preferred him when he was hostile, and not trying to reason with me. Every one of his words made me feel soiled.
We walked the rest of the way to the council rooms in silence. It was empty now; but Quenami was still in the courtyard, his head cocked as he stared at the sky.
He turned when he heard us. “What a coincidence.”
I no longer believed in his “coincidences”, which came too conveniently for him. Either he was good at turning the situation whichever way he wanted, or his spy network was much, much better than I had thought. Either way, not a pleasant thought.
”I have been to see the Guardian,” he said. “You were right.” His tone said, subtly, that he had not quite believed me before.
”And?” I asked, more acidly than I’d have wanted. “Any thoughts you’d care to share?”
Even without a spell of true sight on me, I could feel the strength of his wards, the slight heat that emanated from him.
”Poison,” he said.
”What a feat of observation,” I said, echoing Yaotl’s muted sarcasm of the day before. “And what else?”
His face shifted, halfway to an awkwardness I’d never seen in him. He had been brash before, always in control; now it looked as though he was staring at some profoundly unpalatable meal. “I’m no maker of miracles.”
”You are–” High Priest of Huitzilpochtli, the strongest among us, the one for feats of valour, and turning the impossible commonplace.
”I know what I am.” His voice was as cutting as obsidian shards.
”Representative of the sun, of the light within us,” I said, not without bitterness. “Of what keeps us all alive.”
”He’s powerless.” Acamapichtli’s voice was filled with malicious amusement.
”He can’t be–” I started, and then saw Quenami’s face, and it was as if someone had sunk a knife into