Harbinger of the Storm - By Aliette De Bodard Page 0,5

the body was scattered over the whole room. So I just stood there, and said the prayers I always did.

“We live on Earth, in the Fifth World

Not forever, but a little while

As jade breaks, as gold is crushed

We wither away, like feathers we crumble

Not forever on Earth, but a little while…”

Teomitl waited until I had finished before he spoke up.

“What do you think killed him?”

Given the remains, it was unlikely to be anything human. “Whatever you choose,” I said, angrily. I hadn’t expected the evening to go wrong, so fast. “Anything could have done it. With your brother dead, we’re wide open to whoever feels like summoning creatures.”

”Acatl-tzin,” Teomitl said, with an impatient shake of his head. “I’m on your side, remember?”

I sighed. “Yes. I know.”

The She-Snake had left after only a cursory glance inside; apparently he was going to interrogate the guards to know how such a thing could have happened. I’d sent Palli back to the temple to bring back priests and supplies, and begin the rituals over the Emperor’s corpse.

The two other High Priests were outside trying hard to hide their nausea. Ironic, considering that they’d officiated at so many sacrifices. But the offerings to the Southern Hummingbird simply had their hearts removed and those to the Storm Lord were drowned. There was blood, but not that kind of butchery.

My order, on the other hand, dissected dead bodies to know how they died. This much frenzied bloodletting was unfamiliar; but the contents of a human body were almost like old friends.

And this particular one…

I knelt by the side of the largest mass, staring at it for a while with my priest-senses. “Tell me about him,” I said. “The dead man.”

Teomitl spread his hands, a little more defensively than I’d have expected. “Ocome. A minor member of the imperial family, perhaps descended from a Revered Speaker three, four generations ago. The blood ran thin.”

”That’s not really helping,” I said, not looking away from the scattered flesh. Magic still clung to the room, the memory of a memory, faint and almost colourless, as if something had washed it away. “Any family?”

”Distant, I think. Ocome’s wife died a while ago, and his marriage had not been fruitful. He’d be by far the most unsuccessful member of his family.”

Aside, of course, from the position on the council.

So, probably not personal. I didn’t feel any of the hatred which accompanied summonings done for vengeance. “Anything else?” I asked.

”Ocome was always trying to work out which side would win, so he could join them and be elevated still further.” Teomitl spat on the ground. “No face, no heart.”

”And lately?”

”He’d been supporting Tizoc,” Teomitl admitted grudgingly. “Though it hadn’t been for long.”

Great. A professional waverer. His death was a message, but it could easily have been to Tizoc’s side as to any of the other factions. Continually shifting allegiances meant Ocome must have made many enemies – not much to be gleaned from here, not until I had a better idea of the sides involved.

”Hmm,” I said. I fingered a spot of blood on the ground thoughtfully. Outwardly, everything seemed recent, except for the magical traces, which had faded much faster than they should have. “How long ago would you say he died?”

Teomitl had been standing by the entrance to the courtyard, looking away as if lost in thought. He turned towards the room, quietly taking in the scene, utterly unfazed by the gore. But then, he was a warrior who had already seen two full campaigns. He, too, had seen his share of mutilated bodies.

”They’re clean wounds, and the blood is still pretty fresh. Two, three hours ago?”

The man had died in battle, no matter how unequal it had been. As such, his soul was not bound for the oblivion of the underworld but into the Heavens to join the dead warriors and the women lost in childbirth.

However, something bothered me about the body. The magic should not have been so weak. There could have been some interference from the wards, but the way it read seemed to indicate that the body had barely been alive in the first place – as if he’d come here wounded or already dying.

I supposed he could have been torn apart after his death; and, given the state of his body, we’d never know if he’d died before or afterwards. But most supernatural creatures didn’t mutilate dead bodies. They found their thrills in the fear of the hunted, their power in the suffering of the tormented. Dead