was all too easy to guess why: because Montezuma and my brother had been right. The man who had died this evening had been one of the Emperorâs escaped sorcerers and my master had been behind it all. âI donât know,â I added wretchedly.
It must be more complicated than that, I realized. Whatever my masterâs involvement may have been in the sorcerersâ disappearance, it could not explain how one of them had come to throw himself off the Great Pyramid, or account for the anger and distress old Black Feathers felt on account of his death. Whatever plans my master may or may not have made for the sorcerers, something had clearly happened to frustrate them.
âWhere do you think the merchant got his victim from?â my master demanded.
âThe market at Azcapotzalco?â
âDonât be stupid! You know perfectly well he was never anywhere near a slave market!â
âThen ⦠my Lord, you do know where he came from!â
âKnow?â Old Black Feathersâ sudden laughter was a dry, mirthless cackle. âOf course I know! That young man used him to make a fool out of me. No doubt it suited him to have the man raving like a lunatic
just before he died, with my own slave in attendance to make sure every word was passed on to me. No doubt he thinks heâll get away with it, keeping them all from me, just to make sure I keep dancing to his tune, but he wonât.â
âYou mean the merchant has the sorcerers?â Simple astonishment made me blurt the words out even as I realized they were a mistake.
I was still prostrated before my master, with my hands stretched out flat on the floor in front of me. Suddenly something was squeezing each of them: the rough sole of a sandal. I heard a creak as my master leaned forward in his chair, and felt his breath on the back of my neck as he bent down to speak once again in that deadly whisper.
âI may be old, but I can still break every finger in both your hands before you can even screamâand thatâs before I give you to my steward to play with. You understand that, donât you?â
âYes,â I gasped.
âNow I know Montezuma didnât summon you just so that you could tell him about a botched sacrifice. He told you about the sorcerers and ordered you to spy on me. What else did he say to you? Donât lie or leave anything out. You know what I will do to you if you do.â
I found myself stumbling through the events of the evening since I had met my brother, as helpless as a man staggering through a nightmare, with the thought of frail bones cracking driving me on like a demon at my back.
As I neared the end of the tale I felt the pressure on my hands relax. I flexed my fingers automatically. Long moments of silence passed before I summoned the courage to look up.
My master had raised his head to look at the branches spreading above him. They were bare now, stripped by frost.
âMy fatherâs tree.â He sighed. Abruptly his manner had changed: it became abstracted, almost wistful, as his fingers began caressing a naked branch. âAll I ever wanted was something that wasnât his: some renown of my own. See this tree? My father, Lord Tlacaelel, planted it before I was bornâthe best part of two bundles of years ago. It will still be growing here when Iâm dead.â Suddenly he seized a twig, twisted it violently until it snapped off, and hurled it out of sight into a corner of the patio. The rest of the tree shook and rattled. âAnd they will still talk about him then, wonât they? The great Tlacaelel!
The man four emperors looked up to, the Chief Minister who turned down the throne because he was king enough already! What do you suppose theyâll say about his son?â
I was too afraid to answer. The question was not really addressed to me anyway.
âI dance attendance on my young cousin, Montezuma, and amuse myself sitting in the
It must be more complicated than that, I realized. Whatever my masterâs involvement may have been in the sorcerersâ disappearance, it could not explain how one of them had come to throw himself off the Great Pyramid, or account for the anger and distress old Black Feathers felt on account of his death. Whatever plans my master may or may not have made for the sorcerers, something had clearly happened to frustrate them.
âWhere do you think the merchant got his victim from?â my master demanded.
âThe market at Azcapotzalco?â
âDonât be stupid! You know perfectly well he was never anywhere near a slave market!â
âThen ⦠my Lord, you do know where he came from!â
âKnow?â Old Black Feathersâ sudden laughter was a dry, mirthless cackle. âOf course I know! That young man used him to make a fool out of me. No doubt it suited him to have the man raving like a lunatic
just before he died, with my own slave in attendance to make sure every word was passed on to me. No doubt he thinks heâll get away with it, keeping them all from me, just to make sure I keep dancing to his tune, but he wonât.â
âYou mean the merchant has the sorcerers?â Simple astonishment made me blurt the words out even as I realized they were a mistake.
I was still prostrated before my master, with my hands stretched out flat on the floor in front of me. Suddenly something was squeezing each of them: the rough sole of a sandal. I heard a creak as my master leaned forward in his chair, and felt his breath on the back of my neck as he bent down to speak once again in that deadly whisper.
âI may be old, but I can still break every finger in both your hands before you can even screamâand thatâs before I give you to my steward to play with. You understand that, donât you?â
âYes,â I gasped.
âNow I know Montezuma didnât summon you just so that you could tell him about a botched sacrifice. He told you about the sorcerers and ordered you to spy on me. What else did he say to you? Donât lie or leave anything out. You know what I will do to you if you do.â
I found myself stumbling through the events of the evening since I had met my brother, as helpless as a man staggering through a nightmare, with the thought of frail bones cracking driving me on like a demon at my back.
As I neared the end of the tale I felt the pressure on my hands relax. I flexed my fingers automatically. Long moments of silence passed before I summoned the courage to look up.
My master had raised his head to look at the branches spreading above him. They were bare now, stripped by frost.
âMy fatherâs tree.â He sighed. Abruptly his manner had changed: it became abstracted, almost wistful, as his fingers began caressing a naked branch. âAll I ever wanted was something that wasnât his: some renown of my own. See this tree? My father, Lord Tlacaelel, planted it before I was bornâthe best part of two bundles of years ago. It will still be growing here when Iâm dead.â Suddenly he seized a twig, twisted it violently until it snapped off, and hurled it out of sight into a corner of the patio. The rest of the tree shook and rattled. âAnd they will still talk about him then, wonât they? The great Tlacaelel!
The man four emperors looked up to, the Chief Minister who turned down the throne because he was king enough already! What do you suppose theyâll say about his son?â
I was too afraid to answer. The question was not really addressed to me anyway.
âI dance attendance on my young cousin, Montezuma, and amuse myself sitting in the
Similar Books
