Harbinger of the Storm - By Aliette De Bodard Page 0,60

my skin.

”Yes,” Yaotl said. “But nothing tied to the summoning of star-demons.”

”I think that was Manatzpa,” I said, feeling less and less convinced the more I thought about it. “You need to find her.”

”I’m looking for her.” Yaotl could barely hide his exasperation. “It’s a big city, as you no doubt know.”

I suddenly realised how we looked – two men meant to be allies, tearing at each other, no better or no worse than the rest of the Court. “Forgive me,” I said. “It’s been a long couple of days.”

”For both of us.” Yaotl smiled, a pale shadow of the terrible, mocking expressions he’d throw at me. There was no joy in it whatsoever.

Then again, I guessed I didn’t look much better.

The heavy silence was broken by the jarring sound of bells struck together. Teomitl had lifted the entrance-curtain with his usual forcefulness, and was striding back into the room. He was followed by the servant I’d sent for a meal, who appeared much less eager.

”Acatl-tzin,” Teomitl said.

I rose, gingerly, leaning on the wall for support. “I take it you were able to speak to him.”

Behind him, the servant moved, to lay his tray of food on one of the reed mats. He bowed, and was gone.

Teomitl barely noticed any of this. “I spoke to Manatzpa, yes.” He looked a fraction less assured, a fraction less angry. The arrogance I’d seen over the past few days had almost faded away, leaving only the impatient adolescent, as if whatever Manatzpa had told him had shattered Tizoc-tzin’s influence.

”And?” Yaotl asked, shaking his head impatiently. “Did he confess?”

Teomitl looked at him blankly.

”The murder of Guardian Ceyaxochitl,” I prompted him.

”Oh.” He did not look more enlightened. “We didn’t talk about that.”

”Then what about?” Yaotl was fuming by now.

”About the star-demons.” Teomitl’s face was hard again, on the verge of becoming jade. “He’s said that he’ll only talk to you, Acatl-tzin.”

I briefly woke Mihmatini to let her know where we were going. She made a face of disapproval I knew all too well, a mirror image of Mother’s when my brother or I had broken a dish or muddied a loincloth. “You haven’t eaten anything.”

I pointed to the tray the servant had left. “I had maize soup. And a whole newt with yellow peppers.”

Her gaze made it clear she wasn’t fooled. “Acatl, you’re in no state to walk.”

”I feel much better.” And it was true; utterly drained, but much better. The pain was gone, leaving only the dull feeling that nothing would ever be right again.

Mihmatini made a face that told me she didn’t believe me. “I should come with you,” she said.

Teomitl put a hand on her arm gently. “No. Not now.”

”But–”

”Out of the question,” I said. My judgment might be a little shaky now – a little pale and empty like the veins in my body – but there was no way I would let her walk into Tizoctzin’s chambers.

”Acatl-tzin is right,” Teomitl said. “My brother won’t be happy to see you, and this isn’t the time for this.”

”Teomitl…”

He shook his head again. “No.”

And that effectively ended the conversation, though Mihmatini glowered like a jaguar deprived of its prey. “I’ll be waiting for you,” she said, and the way she spoke made it doubtful she’d hand out hugs or flowers.

I could feel Yaotl’s amused gaze on my back all the way to Tizoc-tzin’s chambers; but he said nothing.

I wondered what Manatzpa could have to tell me. How he could not hate me, when I had been the one who had brought him down? Most likely he would taunt me. I doubted that he would bend. In that way, he was very much like his nephews Tizoc-tzin and Teomitl. But there might be something to be gleaned, information that would help us. For if my gut feeling was right and he was not the summoner of star-demons, then we still had someone out there, busily plotting our ruin.

I’d expected some silence in Tizoc-tzin’s courtyard; or at any rate, some mark that something was wrong with the palace, but it seemed like nothing had changed. Warriors gathered on the platform, laughing among themselves. Noise floated from Tizoc-tzin’s rooms, the singsong intonations of poets reciting compositions, the laughter of warriors, the deep rhythm of beaten drums. But underneath, in the wider courtyard, were other warriors, dressed far more soberly, their long cloaks barely masking the whitish scars on their limbs. They talked amongst themselves, casting dark glances at the finery on the platform; the other part