Harbinger of the Storm - By Aliette De Bodard Page 0,4
just embarrassed themselves in front of him.
I thought of the stars overhead, growing larger with every passing moment. It would probably only be a few star-demons prowling the city, but even a few was too many. “If they wanted to dither, they should have done it before the Revered Speaker’s death. It’s too late now. Every passing day, the stardemons draw closer to us.” There would be remnants of Huitzilpochtli’s protection, tattered pieces, so easy to grind down to nothingness. There would be wards, such as the ones in my temples, drawn by devotees of other gods – the Flower Prince, the Feathered Serpent, the Smoking Mirror… But nothing like the impregnable wall that had been in place during Axayacatl-tzin’s reign.
”Nonsense,” Quenami said. “In the chronicles, they sometimes took entire weeks to decide on a new Revered Speaker. It never seemed to harm anyone.”
”This is not a good time,” I said. “The moon grows closer to the sun. The calendar priests have been warning about an eclipse for some time. We stand in its shadow, and this means that star-demons will be able to breach the boundaries.” As the moon loomed closer to the sun, eating into its radiance, She of the Silver Bells, the moon goddess, grew stronger; and her brother, Huitzilpochtli, our protector, weaker. “In previous reigns, perhaps we were made of stronger stuff,” I said, a slight jab at Acamapichtli and Quenami, who didn’t react. “But today we are weak and defenceless. I have seen stars tonight, bearing down upon us. They are already coming to us. Have you ever seen a star-demon, my lords? You wouldn’t laugh, believe me.”
They were all looking at me with mild interest, as if I were trying to sell them a mine of celestial turquoise or a quarry of underworld jade. They didn’t care. They thought it was an acceptable risk, so long as the end result allowed them to rise to greater power and influence.
They disgusted me more than I could express in words.
”My lords,” I said, bowing. “I will attend to the body, and leave you to the mundane matters–”
I never finished the sentence. The entrance-curtain was cast aside in a discordant sound of bells slammed together, and someone strode into the room. “Acatl-tzin!”
”Teomitl?” My student, who also happened to be Axayacatltzin’s and Tizoc-tzin’s brother, wore more finery than I’d ever seen on him, a gold-embroidered tunic, a quetzal-feather headdress, and black and yellow stripes across his face. He clinked as he moved, from the sheer weight of jade and precious stones on his body.
Both the High Priests and the She-Snake bowed to him, deep. Tizoc-tzin had many brothers, but, should he attain the Turquoise-and-Gold Crown, Teomitl was likely to be anointed Master of the House of Darts in his stead, heir apparent to the Mexica Empire. Ignoring him would have been a mistake.
Teomitl made a dismissive gesture. “There’s no time for pomp. Acatl-tzin, you have to come. Someone just killed a councilman. In the palace.”
TWO
The Moon Hungers to Outshine the Sun
The murdered man did not live in the Imperial Chambers, or in those of the high nobility: his rooms were as far down the palace hierarchy as they could be without it being an outright insult. They were on the ground floor, opening up onto a small courtyard away from the bustle of palace activity with a very simple fountain to make up the garden. The walls were decorated with rich frescoes, but without the outright ostentation that marked the imperial family.
Somehow “killed” seemed a deeply inaccurate description of what had been done to the councilman. To say that he had been torn apart would also have been an understatement. There was no body left, not as such, just an elongated, glistening mass of bloody flesh with bits and pieces of organs spread all over the stone floor. Something which might have been an arm lay outstretched on one of the wicker chests; something else coiled around the braziers, and on the reed mat, lay the two globes of the eyeballs and an elongated shape that had to be the rippedout tongue, somehow the most uncomfortable detail in the whole mess. A small obsidian knife lay near an out-flung hand, preceded by a trail of red.
Blood stained the room, stains of various sizes, all the way down to small drops marring the frescoes. It had not been quick, or easy.
Ordinarily I would have knelt, closed the body’s eyes and said the death rites; this time, it seemed like