Chapter 5

 

In the early years of the Sun Empire, while the military orders and the theocracy were flushed with the warm glow of recent slaughter and success, long before the Lake City had grown into the sprawling ant colony she had always known, Xitlan might have had little choice but to have spent the last fifty-five years in respectable domestic obscurity. The traditional values of her ancestors, at all events, were very particular on the matter of appropriate callings for plebeian women, and apt to take a dim view of those who, for example, preferred to remain at school long after their brothers had been drafted into national service, and to comfort their anxious fathers by showing a (purely casual, of course) interest in their trade. Then, maybe, chat about it with their guild colleagues, should they drop by, and in the course of things set up a small but regular pitch in the Merchants’ Precinct to trade their own modest efforts. Should these hypothetical women, in the fullness of time, amass embarrassingly vast quantities of goods and assets, the view was not so much ‘dim’ as ‘pitch black.’

        Not that Xitlan was remotely embarrassed at the progress of her pocket empire, which prospered under the unassuming title of Xitlan’s Accessories: Jewellery and feather-craft for all castes and occasions (established in the year 10 reed). This did not take into account most of her assets, including the reclaimed plantations which she had generously relieved Eagle-General Netzhual of, following his unfortunate ‘investment’ in a certain holy-day ball-game (although had he known that she was the co-owner of that unusually rotten team, he might have had second thoughts about both dealings).

        On the other hand, it did not pay to make oneself too conspicuous even in these decadent days. One of the best things about the imperial expansion, she had always felt, was the apathy and indolence it had encouraged in the ruling classes that might otherwise have found the enthusiasm to take an interest in minor matters, such as her increasingly untraditional position. Nevertheless, even ex-military aristocrats whose girth had long since outstripped their body-armour could still get seriously bored every now and again, to say nothing of their ambitious up-and-coming minions, and she rarely got through a day in the Lake City without offering some description of bribe. It was a minor concern that she could easily live with, since it had never let her down, although she made a point of noting the attitudes with which street patrols, district officials, and the occasional priest or pochteca (who were officially unknown to all except their imperial spymasters, but a few pains and quite a lot of greased palms had bought her an extensive list of names and faces) received her gratuities. Of late, there had been a noted falling-off in courtesy, and rather too many sneers, which was a source of very troubling reflections. Trying larger bribes had not done a great deal to cure the matter, so there was no putting it down to inflation. She would have relocated by now, except that all the lake towns were very much the same, and further afield there were only the enemies of the Empire, whom was inclined to doubt would treat her with any greater courtesy. After twenty years and more of fine clothes, travelling in litters and personal riverboats, having one of the most exclusive seats at the ball-games, and even attending the occasional state banquet, she was certainly not ready for a life of roots, berries, and abject solitude.

        The news that Pochteca Tenga had delivered had not improved her mood in the slightest, although there was probably some slight encouragement to be drawn from it, and the merchandise he had brought for her scrutiny was particularly amusing. As she scanned her trained jeweller’s eyes over the small green stones, he continued to babble on excitedly about his encounter, to which she accorded far more attention than she did to the stones themselves, which merited very little:

        “You should have seen the map they had,” he declared, with various uncoordinated gestures. “I had no idea what it was at first, then I recognised the mountain ranges, and the line of the coast. But there was so much of it! Miles and miles of it – uncharted territory farther than you could imagine! I mean, you could have put the Empire in there four times, and there’d still be room to spare!”

        “I think I could imagine that,” muttered Xitlan, idly shifting the stones around the table with a languid finger.

        “But that wasn’t all: you should have seen their horrible faces! Deathly pale, they were! And the smell! I thought I should die from it!”

        “That bad?”

        “Bad? It was a veritable charnel stench, madam! Their breath would have graced the foulest devil from the pits of Mictlan, if that wasn’t what they were!”

        No toothbrushes in hell then, she thought, which is a damned shame, no pun intended, as I’m fairly sure I shan’t be going to any of the heavens. Leaving this reflection aside, she answered him:

        “And you told them, if I understood you correctly, the location of a silver mine. Can you tell me why devils, if indeed they are, would be interested in silver?”

        “Actually, they seemed to be after cobalt.”

        “Cobalt? That’s just rubbish. Waste rock. Are you quite sure?”

        “Rubbish or not, I know it when I see it. And if they want to barter their jade for useless debris, I can’t say I mind whether they’re gods or devils.”

        “Or outlanders with appalling personal hygiene, perhaps?” Antagonising a pochteca – particularly with anything that might be construed as a declaration of atheism – was by no means wise, but she suspected that given his recent performance, Tenga would not be in the job for very long. In fact, he did not seem very much offended. No doubt because he was fully anticipating making a sale, blissfully unaware of the cruel disappointment in the offing.

        “Whatever they were, madam,” he continued, officiously, “you and I both stand to do very well out of their business. Since this fine little haul cost me so little, I’m certainly willing to cut you a good deal, if you’ll only be obliging. Now, what are you offering for thirty pieces of quality jade? I wouldn’t say no to a couple of those fine feather-trimmed shields I noticed in your display.”

        “Wouldn’t you, now? But on the subject of weapons, may I borrow your macana for a second?” Bemused, but unwilling to displease, Tenga handed her his obsidian-edged sword. She weighed it in her hand, then swung it down upon the green beads, reducing the ones that fell directly beneath the wooden flat into glittering shards and fine white dust. Tenga reacted at first with horror, then met her smile – which was desperately feigning sympathy whilst communicating mockery – finally grasped the realities, and turned on his heel while vociferating:

        “The bastards! The cheating scum! I’ll do for them, so help me!”

        “Tenga: you forgot your macana,” declared Xitlan, and watched with great amusement as his savage expression, upon a moment’s reflection, settled into the depths of embarrassment and conscious cowardice. He retrieved the weapon, doing his utmost not to notice her excessively compassionate gaze, but notwithstanding her enjoyment of his mortification, she thought best to encourage him a little, if only to get him on his merry way all the quicker:

        “Look on the bright side, lad: you haven’t lost much. On the other hand,” she added, tentatively, wondering whether even under these circumstances such self-betrayal was warranted, “you might want to think twice before reporting this to the general.”

        “To the gen–? How in the name of the Lord of Mictlan did you know?”

        Oh Tenga, Tenga, you are so bad at this she thought, smiling slightly, and continued: “You’re new to the job, my boy. You have big expectations. Only natural. If you bring this up, the subject of your failure is hardly likely to be avoided. How long do you think you’ll last with that hanging over you? Of course, I appreciate that you must cover your losses, if you are to conceal this matter. How much would that take? Perhaps one of those shields you mentioned? Maybe that, and say, five gold medallions? Make it ten? Would that cover them?”

        “Err... yes... I believe it might.”

        “Excellent. Then we can forget all about this awkward little matter, I expect.”

        “Yes... yes, I guess we can. I’m sure we can.”

        As bribes went, it was frankly exorbitant, but this was no time to be taking half-measures or risks of any description. She settled with Tenga, and after she had seen the little wretch well on his way, ordered her litter to be prepared. The rain was pouring down in sheets, and she knew full well that it was a holy day of some description – and not one of the more exciting ones – but delay was unthinkable. She ordered a waterproof canopy to be drawn over the litter and ascended it in the best state she could manage at such short notice. Even so, her fine linen dress, exquisite quetzal-feather fan, and small arsenal of finely-worked jade and turquoise jewellery were quite strictly illegal articles for any non-aristocratic lady to be displaying in public, but she was always ready to rely upon the laziness and corruptibility of the city militia. Not that there seemed to be many of them about about. The Merchant’s Precinct was generally thronged with all manner of hawkers, hagglers, beggars, shop-lifters, and various human wildlife, but today, the city was doing a passable imitation of a waterlogged grave. With a word of command to her four bearers, she set off at a brisk pace through the silent courts.

 

The Ritual Precinct, though certainly quiet, was not uninhabited: on the temple platform of one of the smaller pyramids, dedicated to goodness knows which deity – though Xitlan certainly did not – there was a little group. About half a dozen, as far as she could make out, counting the one who was presently being carried between two other figures – probably knights of the jaguar order or, less likely, werewolves, to judge from their vaguely inhuman silhouettes – to the head of the pyramid stairway. Having borne their motionless burden thus far, they saved themselves any further labour by flinging the passenger upon the stairs, whereupon he descended with speed, if not with grace. As this grim little spectacle was underway, another figure – a tall man in robes, with long, straggling hair – approached the edge of the platform, and with various droning incantations raised his hands to the cloud-choked, rain-swept heavens. The poor visibility aside, Xitlan knew instantly the objects that these hands bore. She had seen them often enough: the obsidian knife and the stone chalice, and she knew full well what the chalice contained. Indeed, she knew that if she chose to glance at the mangled corpse now lying at the foot of the stairway, she would see the ragged rent in its chest from whence the object in question had just been removed.

        Temple sacrifices were far from unheard of – especially while the Empire was conducting one of its seemingly incessant wars – but on a day of general abstinence, as this one certainly seemed to be, it was a matter of considerable interest to her, although not very much in itself. Indeed, her only present thought was to vacate the scene, to obviate the suspicion of the worshippers as much as her impending nausea.

        “Seen all I need to here, I think. Step on it, boys!” she called to her bearers. “The seminary, block six, double quick! Carry me there in less than ten minutes, and there’ll be gold all round!”

 

The seminary was unusually quiet, which, Xitlan reflected, was probably for the best, as it was almost invariably crawling with all manner of political creatures who would cheerfully sell their own mothers down the temple steps for a shot at the big time. Deacon Itzco, however, sat in the porch of his cell, which looked out upon an otherwise uninhabited quadrangle, poring over a scroll of astrological figures. It was a sensible, priestly thing to be seen doing, should one be inclined to sit out in the rain and nurse one’s troubled thoughts. At least, Xitlan hoped that was the case, as it would certainly favour her business with him.

        She ordered her bearers to a halt before the deacon’s cell and dismounted, fixing him with the most radiant smile she could contrive, in her present frame of mind. In truth, it was not a bad effort by half, and certainly deserved a better return than the weak, sickly, facade of a smile that Itzco managed. Not that any expression could have done much to improve the overall effect of his ferociously scarred face, courtesy of many dedicated years worth of penance (typically involving cactus spines), but if his present aspect was not a sure sign of troubled thoughts, Xitlan had never seen one. She had her suspicions, and was determined to probe them:

        “My dear deacon,” she greeted him, advancing to the porch.

        “Madam Xitlan,” he answered, rising and making a slight obeisance. “I am honoured to receive you. Although I am fairly certain that the daughters of plebeians are not, strictly speaking, supposed to make private visits to clerics in their cells.”

        “I assure you, that I intend nothing dishonourable.”

        “Ah. Pity. Well, if you’re quite sure, only don’t be too solicitous on my account. I’ve put all my novices on solitary penance for the day, and what with it being a day of ill omen, I don’t suppose anyone’s going to be dropping by. Come to that, you shouldn’t be out and about yourself, and I certainly shouldn’t be encouraging you, but now that we’ve started flouting convention, we may as well make a good job of it. Well, you might at least come in for a gourd of cocoa, and we can take things from there.”

        This was spoken in a friendly air, thoroughly undercut with suppressed anxiety, and she had no idea whether or not it was seriously intended. Not that there was anything unpleasant to her in the idea. In spite of his distasteful profession and scratched-up countenance, Itzco was a well-formed and probably once very handsome man, about ten years her junior, and furthermore she had a sneaking suspicion that he was an atheist. Unfortunately, much as she would have liked the opportunity to encourage this inclination, among others, it was not a good time, as she told him with a casual air, which did not reflect her feelings on the matter. Again, he smiled wanly, which may or may not have been the result of hurt feelings, so she added encouragingly, “Maybe if you were to wash the blood out of your hair, from time to time.”

        “Well, you can blame those wretched Marascan soldiers for that,” he replied. “If only they’d stop letting our boys capture them, then we wouldn’t have to be sacrificing them day in, day out.”

        “You know; I’m not altogether sure they do it on purpose.”

        “Well of course they do, madam. They know they’ll win no honours in this war, so they’re all in a rush to get to the Heaven of the Sun before it’s fully booked. I’ve had my work cut out all week, processing their applications. The only reason I’m not doing any today is because it’s a day of ill omen, though frankly, I can’t see much ill about it from where I’m standing.”

        “Has anyone bothered to tell your friend, the archdeacon? Only I saw him, ‘hard at work,’ you might say, on some temple platform as I passed through town.”

        “Curse him! The sycophantic little bastard!” hissed Itzco, forcing Xitlan to suppress a smile: not that she enjoyed his all-too-obvious distress, but she was infinitely grateful to be finally getting at its root, and confirmation that she had found an ally was most welcome. Noting, however, his clear embarrassment at such an unguarded outburst, she thought best to get straight to the point of the matter:

        “Itzco; I must have your help. I’m in great trouble.”

        “Well, cocoa or no, I think you’d better come in anyway,” he muttered gravely. Having paid and dismissed her bearers, Xitlan entered the deacon’s cell. It was a sparsely furnished affair, with whitewashed walls, earthenware storage vessels, and a few thin reed mats offering the only concession to comfort. Once they had settled as well as they could upon a pair of these, Itzco resumed the conversation:

        “Well? How did you find out? About the strangers, I mean?”

        “I heard it from Tenga. He’s a new pochteca in the employ of Eagle-General Netzual. From what I gather, he’s been trading silver with the Marascans, and spying on them, of course. Although,” she reflected, scornfully, “why they haven’t found him out and killed him yet, I’ve no idea. And you?”

        “Something similar: couple of scouts on the coast saw their sea-boat come in last trecena, on the day of five vulture, I believe it was. Well, that’s what it comes down to, though what they said they saw was actually a ‘great winged water serpent,’ from which I think we are supposed to infer a carved prow and large sails. Am I the last man alive who thinks that life might be a little less complicated and dangerous if people would only speak the plain truth?”

        “Probably,” she mused, her mind on other matters. “Fourteen days ago. Sounds about right. ‘Great serpent.’ That I don’t care for. And Tenga told me that he traded with their leader: a fair-haired man.”

        “Like the Great King who sailed into the east, one thousand years ago? Whose heavenly form is, or was, the Great Plumed Serpent.”

        “Don’t miss out the terrifying part: And he shall one day return to lay waste his enemies, reclaim his temple, and restore to the folk the ancient ways, or some such appalling claptrap. The favourite demon of the rabble. The Demogorgon.”

        “But these strangers? You don’t actually believe- ?”

        “I don’t, and I’d sincerely recommend you not to, but then again, what we think is rather irrelevant.”

        “Yes, I see what you mean. Should this ‘leader’ take up with our enemies, for example. You know what that old myth means to them: the total destruction of the Empire. If he should unite them against us–”

        “They could exterminate us, yes, but only if that’s what he actually intends to do. He doesn’t, though. This ‘Demogorgon’ is nothing more than some itinerant swindler. Don’t looked so shocked, dear Itzco. Tenga told me as much: he cheated the poor fool with some worthless minerals he was passing off as jade. Quite frankly, your ‘demon’ is a fellow after my own heart, and I’m only sorry that we’re going to have to kill him off.” This declaration did not, in fact, cure the deacon’s expression of shock. Quite the contrary. Xitlan sighed at the poor fellow’s persistent credulity, not to mention uptake (or lack of), and continued: “Think, Itzco. If he enters the city on his crass little venture, probably in total ignorance of the legends, all it will take is one ambitious firebrand to set the whole place ablaze. Your archdeacon, for example. What’s he been up to?”

        “That bloodsucker? Casting fortunes for the Emperor! Yes; I’m very much afraid His Imperial Majesty knows all about your ‘swindler,’ or at least he knows all that most of us know, and that parasitic little crawler’s been hanging around the palace, persuading His Majesty to take it as a good omen! He’s persuaded him to double the offerings, and not just prisoners of war, I’m sorry to say. As far as I can gather, they’re practically pulling folk off the street, and onto the slab! He’s promising the Emperor a resounding victory against the Marascans, and except in the very unlikely event that we lose, no doubt the sycophant’s going to earn himself the archbishopric, and then we can all look out for the worst.”

        “I hate to appear unsympathetic, but you stand to lose a good deal less in that particular scenario than I, or indeed most women of the city stand to lose. Indeed, if this fiasco continues unsuppressed, my life won’t be worth a cocoa bean. Whichever fanatic can produce our ‘Demogorgon,’ the result will be the same: war in the territories or on the streets of the city, on a scale that would bring a tear to our forefathers’ eyes. If it leads to a vast increase in the power of priests, or the power of soldiers, or the power of revolutionaries, it all amounts to much the same from where I’m standing: all the power back in the hands of big, strong, heavily-armed men, just like it was in the ‘good old days’ before anyone ever dreamt of sending their daughter to school, and I don’t suppose they’ll bother in the aftermath. No real point, if the priests and the generals decide to hammer the plebs back into the ground, or if the plebs themselves catch this ‘divine inspiration’ to burn their way through all the government institutions and their guardians. I mean, why put up with taxes when your daughter can grow up in slavish ignorance and bear ten children for nothing, and all your son needs to do is look tough and wield a macana?”

        “I’m sure you exaggerate–”

        “And I’m sure that whoever starts the trouble will do so out of crazed, ill-considered zeal, or ruthless, well-considered reaction. At any rate, not out of an ardent concern for smooth social progress. And judging from the filthy looks I’ve been getting of late, from watchmen to pochtecas, I’m damned sure that whichever side emerges victorious will immediately assume that I was ardently supporting the other. We middling folk have no natural allies, deacon.”

        “I am your ally, Xitlan. You may rely on it,” he replied, though with resignation rather than enthusiasm. “Even if there is no alternative to... well, what you have suggested.”

        “Your hands, Itzco, if I may venture, are hardly bloodless.”

        “All warriors, Xitlan! All expecting to die, and many welcoming it. When I think of murdering some wretched pedlar, out in the wilderness–”

        “And yet it must be. We must find these strangers, and make certain that we are the only ones to find them. And we must conceal the bodies. Then, with luck, this will all blow over and be forgotten. There is nothing else to be done.”