Nebula Awards Showcase 2012

And that’s the problem, Xochitl thinks. It will always be the problem. Tecipiani does what she believes in; but you’re never sure what she’s truly thinking.

The cell was worryingly easy to enter, once Onalli had dealt with the two guards at the entrance—who, even though they were Jaguar Specialists barely a step above novices, really should have known better. She had gone for the windpipe of the first, and left a syringe stuck in the shoulder of the second, who was out in less time than it took her to open the door.

Inside, it was dark, and stifling. A rank smell, like the mortuary of a hospital, rose as she walked.

“Xochitl?” she whispered.

There was no noise. But against the furthest wall was a dark lump—and, as she walked closer, it resolved into a slumped human shape.

Black One, no. Please watch over her, watch over us all . . .

Straps and chains held Xochitl against the wall, and thin tubes snaked upward, into a machine that thrummed like a beating heart.

Teonanácatl , and peyotl , and truth-serum, and the gods knew what else. . . .

It was only instinct that kept her going forward: a horrified, debased part of her that wouldn’t stop, which had to analyze the situation no matter what. She found the IVs by touch—feeling the hard skin where the syringes had rubbed—the bruises on the face, the broken nose—the eyes that opened, not seeing her.

“Xochitl. Xochitl. It’s all right. I’m here. Everything is going to be all right. I promise.”

But the body was limp; the face distorted in a grimace of terror; and there was, indeed, nothing left of the picture she’d held on to for so long.

“Come on, come on,” she whispered, fiddling with the straps—her sharpened nails catching on the leather, fumbling around the knots.

The cold, detached part of her finally took control; and, forcing herself not to think of what she was doing, she cut through the straps, one by one—pulled out the IVs, and gently disengaged the body, catching its full weight on her arms.

Xochitl shuddered, a spasm like that of a dying woman. “Tecipiani,” she whispered. “No. . . .”

“She’s not here,” Onalli said. Gently, carefully, she rose with Xochitl in her arms, cradling her close, like a hurt child.

Black One take you, Tecipiani. Oblivion’s too good for the likes of you. I hope you burn in the Christian Hell, with the sinners and the blasphemers and the traitors. I hope you burn. . . .

She was halfway out of the House, trudging through the last courtyard before the novices’ quarters, when she became aware she wasn’t alone.

Too late.

The lights came on, blinding, unforgiving.

“I always knew you’d come back, Onalli,” a voice said. “No matter how hard I tried to send you away.”

Black One take her for a fool. Too easy. It had been too easy, from beginning to end: just another of her sick games.

“Black One screw you,” Onalli spat into the brightness. “That’s all you deserve, isn’t it, Tecipiani?”

The commander was just a silhouette—standing, by the sound of her, only a few paces away. But Xochitl lay in Onalli’s arms, a limp weight she couldn’t toss aside, even to strike.

Tecipiani didn’t speak; but of course she’d remain silent, talking only when it suited her.

“You sold us all,” Onalli whispered. To the yellow-livered dogs and their master, to the cudgels and the syringes. . . . “Did she mean so little to you?”

“As little or as much as the rest,” Tecipiani said.

Onalli’s eyes were slowly accustoming themselves to the light, enough to see that Tecipiani’s arms were down, as if holding something. A new weapon—or just a means to call on her troops?

And then, with a feeling like a blade of ice slid through her ribs, Onalli saw that it wasn’t the case. She saw what Tecipiani was carrying: a body, just like her: the limp shape of the boy she’d downed in the courtyard.

“You—” she whispered.

Tecipiani shifted. Her face, slowly coming into focus, could have been that of an Asian statue—the eyes dry and unreadable, the mouth thinned to a darker line against her skin. “Ezpetlatl, of the Atempan calpulli clan. Given into our keeping fifteen years ago.”

Shame warred with rage, and lost. “I don’t care. You think it’s going to atone for everything else you did?”

“Perhaps,” Tecipiani said. “Perhaps not.” Her voice shook, slightly—a bare hint of emotion, not enough, never enough. “And you think rescuing Xochitl was worth his life?”

Onalli scanned the darkness, trying to see how many guards were there—how many of Tecipiani’s bloodless sycophants. She couldn’t take them all—fire and blood, she wasn’t even sure she could take Tecipiani. But the lights were set all around the courtyard—on the roofs of the buildings, no doubt—and she couldn’t make out anything but the commander herself.

As, no doubt, Tecipiani had meant all along. Bitch.

“You’re stalling, aren’t you?” Onalli asked. “This isn’t about me. It has never been about me.” About you, Tecipiani; about the House and the priests and Xochitl. . . .

“No,” Tecipiani agreed, gravely. “Finally, something we can agree on.”

“Then why Xochitl?” A cold certainty was coalescing in her belly, like a snake of ice. “You wanted us both, didn’t you?”

“Oh, Onalli.” Tecipiani’s voice was sad. “I though you’d understood. This isn’t about you, or Xochitl. It’s about the House.”

How could she say this? “You’ve killed the House,” Onalli spat.

“You never could see into the future,” Tecipiani said. “Even two years ago, when you came back.”

“When you warned us about betrayal? You’re the one who couldn’t see the Revered Speaker was insane, you’re the one who—”

“Onalli.” Tecipiani’s voice held the edge of a knife. “The House is still standing.”

“Because you sold it.”

“Because I compromised,” Tecipiani said.

“You—” Onalli choked on all the words she was trying to say. “You poisoned it to the guts and the brain, and you’re telling me about compromise?”

“Yes. Something neither you or Xochitl ever understood, unfortunately.”

That was too much—irreparable. Without thought, Onalli shifted Xochitl onto her shoulder, and moved, her knife swinging free of its sheath—going for Tecipiani’s throat. If she wouldn’t move, wouldn’t release her so-called precious life, too bad—it would be the last mistake she’d ever make—

She’d half-expected Tecipiani to parry by raising the body in her arms—to sacrifice him, as she’d sacrificed so many of them—but the commander, as quick as a snake, knelt on the ground, laying the unconscious boy at her feet—and Onalli’s first swing went wide, cutting only through air. By the time she’d recovered, Tecipiani was up on her feet again, a blade in her left hand.

Onalli shifted, and pressed her again. Tecipiani parried; and again, and again.

Neither of them should have the upper hand. They were both Jaguar Knights; Tecipiani might have been a little less fit, away from the field for so long—but Onalli was hampered by Xochitl’s body, whom she had to keep cradled against her.

Still—

Still, Tecipiani’s gestures were not as fast as they should have been. Another one of her games?

Onalli didn’t care, not anymore. In one of Tecipiani’s over-wide gestures, she saw her opening—and took it. Her blade snaked through; connected, sinking deep above the wrist.

Tecipiani jumped backward—her left hand dangled uselessly, but she’d shifted her knife to the right—and, like many left-handers, she was ambidextrous.