Harbinger of the Storm - By Aliette De Bodard Page 0,67

of the Precious Twin was a costly protective spell that put the holder under the personal gaze of the god. Along with the Southern Hummingbird’s protection, it was one of the most effective wards a man could barter for. I was wary of using it. Mictlan’s magic was not compatible with Southern Hummingbird’s spells, and while the Feathered Serpent might be one of the most benevolent deities, there was something inherently disturbing about having His eye permanently on me.

I hadn’t seen it, but then he’d have taken precautions so it wasn’t obvious. He had been a canny man – save, I guessed, when he’d started to resort to murder to have his way.

Mind you, the protective spell had not helped him much. The Obsidian Butterfly Itzpapalotl had sheared through it as though it barely existed and taken his soul with Her as easily as a man might take a basket of herbs.

The priest’s name at the top of the paper was the same one Xahuia had given me. His title was given as Fire Priest, the second-in-command of the Wind Tower.

I turned the paper over thoughtfully. Ten Flower. Seven days ago. And the spell had not come cheap, either. Even for a man as rich as Manatzpa, the price was a fortune. Even before Echichilli’s death Manatzpa had already been looking for protection, as if he had already known that something was going to happen. How had he known?

What in the Fifth World was this secret that star-demons killed for?

Behind us, the bells tinkled: one of the slaves, wearing the elegant collar of the palace servants around his neck. “Master, there is someone who wishes to see you.”

”Us?” Teomitl stepped in.

The slave shook his head. “He asked for the High Priest for the Dead.”

Someone I didn’t know, then, not any of the players still remaining, who would have summoned me instead of coming here. But why me?

The youth who strode into the courtyard was a sight. It was not that he was richly dressed, with an elaborately embroidered cotton tunic, a plume of heron feathers at his belt and another set of feathers bending from the back of his head towards his neck. Rather, it was the state of the regalia – the feathers were torn, their white tarnished with blood, and dark splotches stained the tunic all around the collar line. He held his macuahitl sword a little too casually, as if daring an invisible watcher to attack him, and the shards shone a sickly greygreen in the sunlight.

Behind him were two Jaguar Knights in full regalia, the costume made of a jaguar’s pelt and the helmet shaped like the jaguar’s face, their heads protruding from between the jaws of the animal. They looked a little better, though their hands shook and their skin was the colour of muddy milk.

The youth looked at me. His eyes were an uncanny colour, a shade between grey and green. His gaze was piercing, not hostile, but stripping me of all pretences, like a spear breaking the skin and burying itself in my heart. “Acatl-tzin,” he said thoughtfully. “High Priest for the Dead in Tenochtitlan. I have come to you for an accounting.”

”An accounting?” Teomitl shifted, to stand between me and the youth. His hand had gone to the hilt of his macuahitl sword; and the planes of his face had started to harden.

The youth bowed, slightly ironically. “I am Nezahual, Revered Speaker of Texcoco. Where is my sister, Acatl-tzin?” His voice was harsh.

He couldn’t be. I looked again, but he stood alone in the courtyard, with only two Jaguar Knights as an escort, casual and undisturbed, his dignity no less than it would have been had he sat in his own audience room. “Revered Speaker–”

”There is no point in dissembling. I know you were the one who ordered the arrest.” Nezahual-tzin’s face was harsh, unforgiving.

Teomitl shifted. “This is the High Priest for the Dead, one of the three who keep the balance of the Fifth World. You will show him respect.”

Nezahual-tzin’s gaze scoured him. A smile creased the corners of his broad lips. “A pup with a bite, I see.” Sunlight fell over him in swathes, highlighting the blood on his clothes and on the obsidian studs of his macuahitl sword, and became a white, searing light strong enough to blind.

I remembered what Xahuia had said, that her brother was favoured by Quetzalcoatl, god of Creation and Wisdom. I had taken it as a grand boast, but quite obviously Nezahual-tzin had been