Macihuin grimaced. "I had no idea you knew her."

I shrugged. "I met her a long time ago. I don't know whether she will remember me. But part of her role is watching over the religious sects a in case one of them upsets the balance of the world and she has to step in and restore order."

Macihuin pondered this for a moment before saying, "But she is only accountable to the other Guardians in the Empire. If there has been no transgression, she may not want to waste time with a murder investigation."

"No," I said. "She may not. But it is worth a try."

I left Macihuin to his own devices. He was going to interview the last survivor, and I was going to find out all I could about this sect, and why its members had died.

Unfortunately, that might involve going straight to the person who was killing them. For Ceyaxochitl was known over Colhuacan for another thing than her role as Guardian: many years ago, she had dispatched the members of a harmless sect, coldly going after them and opening their chests with obsidian blades.

She had said they were a possible danger to the Empire, and the matter had been hushed.

She had called it justice.

I called it murder.

Ceyaxochitl lived in the district of Teopan a the Place of the Gods. Her house stood only a few paces from the Great Temple. Every day she must have seen the great pyramid rising to the heavens with the shrine to the Sun at the summit, heard the cries of sacrifices as their blood flowed on the altar. But I doubted she had ever worshipped the gods in their heavens. A Guardian acknowledged the gods' existence, but served none of them.

The gods do not maintain order. To us humans falls the task of averting the end of the world. By our constant offerings of blood, we maintain the sun in the sky, and by their constant watch over the world the Guardians know when the gods falter.

Ceyaxochitl's slaves were courteous but cold; I could sense I was not welcome. I sat down in the courtyard, under a pine tree, and calmly waited.

At length a slave took me to the audience chamber. The walls of the room bore frescoes depicting Tonatiuh, the Fifth Sun, rising from the flames of His pyre into the sky, the world blossoming under His warmth. Tezcatlipoca watched from behind, His hands already reaching out as if to end the Age before it had begun.

Ceyaxochitl was older than I remembered: time had sprinkled white into her black hair, and some wrinkles had crept onto her face. But she sat very straight on her dais, and her eyes saw everything.

Behind her was a low table, on which lay the materials for some ritual unknown to me: three obsidian knives, and the fleshy leaves of a maguey cactus.

"Acatl," she said. "What a surprise."

She did not sound surprised. I waited until I was seated next to her before speaking. "You know why I came here."

Her eyebrow rose. "How could I know?"

"I need information about a sect," I said.

"I give nothing without a good reason," Ceyaxochitl said.

"I will give you a reason. Three men have died. Huitxic, Itlani, Pochta. Do the names mean anything to you?"

"Calm yourself," Ceyaxochitl said. "Yes, I know those names. What does it change?"

"They died with obsidian shards in their hearts."

Ceyaxochitl sighed. "I know nothing of it." But her voice quavered perhaps more than it ought to have.

"You do."

"Are you accusing me?" she asked, her hands tightening on the cloth of her skirt.

"It would not be the first time you killed the members of a sect without reason."

Her eyes flared with anger so cold I regretted having taunted her. "It was many years ago. And they would have been a danger to us, in time."

"So you said. And the city believed you."

"Why not?" she asked, scathing. "I am not the only one to have dead bodies on her conscience. Your studenta"

"You will not speak of Payaxin here."

"You think you can control me, Acatl? In my own house? Your student couldn't even close his circle of protection. You should have taught him better."

"Youa" I said, fighting an urge to strike at her. I remembered finding Payaxin's body, thrown backwards with such force his neck had broken. He had died instantly, of course: the obsidian shard embedded in his heart had seen to that. I had knelt, collected the scattered materials for the ritual he would never complete, said the prayers for his soul. I had not wept. Tears would have been useless. But I had not forgiven the Wind of Knives.