Harbinger of the Storm - By Aliette De Bodard Page 0,46

wouldn’t close, an unwelcome reminder of how anchorless the Fifth World had become with the death of the Revered Speaker.

Manatzpa had been waiting politely for me at the entrance to the courtyard. He bent his head towards the sky, where the sun was climbing into its apex, a graceful way of suggesting we needed to hurry without actually saying the words.

We walked out again, and attempted to locate the youths of imperial blood.

I found them lounging at the exit of steam-baths, lazing in courtyards over patolli games, listening to slaves playing rattles and drums. None of those I questioned – smooth-faced and careless, with the easy eyes of people who had never had to wonder about their next meal – could tell me where Teomitl was. And time, through it all, kept steadily passing, each moment bringing me closer to Yaotl’s deadline.

At length, a fist of ice closing around my heart, I headed back towards the entrance, Manatzpa in tow.

As I passed the House of Animals, I caught a glimpse of orange in the darkness.

I slid inside, unsure whether I had truly seen anything. The House of Animals spread over several gigantic courtyards, cages of woven reeds held rare or beautiful animals, from emerald-green quetzal birds to the graceful, lethal jaguars; from web-footed capybaras munching on palm leaves to huge, slumbering armadillos curled against the bars.

The flash of orange came again, in the direction of the aviary, where the Revered Speaker kept the birds with precious plumage that could be turned into feather regalia. I crossed the arcades of a gallery, and found myself facing a couple of quetzal birds and, through the bars of their cage, Teomitl, who stood watching them with the intentness of a warrior on a reconnaissance mission.

”Acatl-tzin?” He sounded shocked and not altogether pleased. But our grievances could wait.

I raised a hand to forestall him. “I need your help,” I said. “To prevent Yaotl from getting into trouble.”

”Trouble?” Teomitl’s face focused again on the present.

”Arresting a sorcerer,” I said, curtly.

”But surely Ceyaxochitl–”

”Ceyaxochitl is dying,” I said. This time, my voice did not quiver. I felt terrible, as if uttering the words to him finally made them reality.

Teomitl’s gaze hardened. “Who? The sorcerer?”

I nodded.

He wrapped his cloak around his shoulders, casting a last, regretful glance at the birds. “I’m coming.”

When we reached the entrance neither Yaotl nor the Duality warriors were there.

”Acatl-tzin?” Teomitl’s voice was slightly resentful, as if he expected me to apologise for the disturbance.

The Storm Lord strike me if I gave in, though. This was not a time for indulging his pride. “They’re inside,” I said. “If we hurry…”

But, even as we ran towards the women’s quarters, the sounds of battle cut through the courtyard. We were going to be too late.

NINE

Fire and Blood

Teomitl, Manatzpa and I took the courtyards at a run, heedless of the hissing noblemen who barely made an effort to move out of our way. The sound of fighting got closer all the while – obsidian striking wood, obsidian striking obsidian, the familiar cries of the wounded and of the dying.

By the wall that marked the boundaries of the women’s quarter, a guard in the She-Snake’s black uniform lay choking in his own blood. Teomitl knelt by his side, assessing the wounds with an expert gaze. He shook his head. His face was still, strangely frozen in a moment between human and divine, half brown skin, the colour of cacao, half the harshness of jade, hovering on the verge of taking over.

”…by surprise…” the guard whispered. Froth bubbled up from between his lips. His gaze rose towards Tonatiuh the Fifth Sun who hung over the courtyard, swollen with the red of evening light.

”Spare your effort.” Teomitl’s voice was curt, an order that could not be refused. “Acatl-tzin?”

I shrugged. “We go in.” I reached up, and fingered the wounds in my earlobes. The scabs easily came off, and my fingers came with blood pooling at their tips.

I knelt by the dying man, and drew the glyph for a dog on his forehead, whispering the first words of a litany for the Dead, to ease his passage into the underworld.

“As grass becomes green in spring

Our hearts open and give forth buds

And then they wither

This is the truth

Down into the darkness we must go…”

Teomitl watched me in silence, though his whole stance was that of a snake coiled to strike, eager to draw blood.

”Let’s go,” I said, with a curt nod.

Inside, every courtyard was deserted, the entrance-curtains drawn. From time to time