Free Aztlan: The Last Sun by Michael Jan Friedman Page B

him as Aunt Xoco and I remembered him—as a hero. And I was even gladder that it was the High Priest of Aztlan.
    I would tell my father about it the first chance I got. Tomorrow, I thought. It would be the last of the Unlucky Days, the one on which we were supposed to visit our ancestors.
    Tomorrow .
    I had barely concluded the resolution when Necalli came by my desk. He looked happy for a change.
    “Something good?” I asked.
    “Very good. One of the cultists just turned himself in.”
    It was a surprise, to say the least. “Which one?”
    Necalli told me. I couldn’t match the name with the face. After all, there were forty-three of them.
    “The one with the funny ear,” Necalli said. “Does that help?”
    It did. One of the cultists was missing the lower half of his ear. I remembered thinking that a dog must have bitten it off.
    “He’s confessed?”

    “To both murders. We’re checking out his story now, but I’ve got a feeling we have our man.”
    “That would be a relief,” I said.
    Certainly, Itzcoatl would be happy to hear it. Molpilia too.
    Eren would be on the other side of the fence. In the public eye, one guilty cultist would make all the cultists look guilty.
    But that wasn’t my problem.
    Except for his mangled ear, Eyahue Quimichetl had no distinguishing characteristics. He was of average height, average build, even average intelligence according to his file.
    “So you killed those two men,” I began.
    It was just the two of us in the lowest floor of the Interrogation Center. After the crowds of cultists over the last few nights, the place seemed empty.

    “Yes,” said Quimichetl. His voice was steady and without inflection, his eyes fixed unflinchingly on mine.
    “Alone? Or with help?”
    “Alone.”
    “Do your fellow cultists know you’re here?”
    “No,” he said. “But they will, of course.”
    “Of course. So why did you do it?”
    “The gods demand sacrifices, especially at a holy time like this one. I gave them what they want.”
    “I see,” I said. “Was there anything special about these victims? I mean, why these two in particular?”
    He shrugged. “They were available.”
    “Just that?”
    “Yes.”
    “Don’t the gods prefer victims who are young and strong?” I knew my history as well as anyone.
    “They do,” he conceded. “However, I had to be circumspect or I would have gotten caught.”
    He had gotten caught anyway, but I didn’t see any need to point that out. I placed pictures of the victims on the table. He had no reaction. I pointed to the pyramids in the background.
    “These buildings were de-sanctified as a result of your sacrifices,” I said. “Do you know who developed them?”
    “No.”
    “That had nothing to do with it? The de-sanctification part, I mean.”
    “Correct.”
    “I see. And which gods did you say you were honoring with your sacrifices?”
    “I didn’t say. But I can tell you that my first victim was a sacrifice to Itztlacoliuhqui-Ixquimilli.”
    “Our god of punishment and misery,” I noted.
    “Our god of justice ,” he said.
    “That’s another way of looking at it. And your second sacrifice?”
    “Was given to Tezcatlipoca.”
    “Our god of change.”
    “Change through conflict .”
    “I’ll take your word for it,” I said. “And how many other sacrifices did you intend to carry out?”
    He looked the slightest bit uncomfortable. “There are many gods.”
    “How many specifically ?”
    “Different people recognize different pantheons,” said Quimichetl, his voice rising slightly in pitch.

    “What pantheon do you worship?” I pressed.
    “I . . .” He swallowed. “I worship the gods my father worshiped, and his father before him.”
    “But you don’t recall exactly which ones. Outside of Itztlacoliuhqui-Ixquimilli and Tezcatlipoca, I mean.”
    He didn’t say anything in response.
    “I hope,” I added, “that you were going to figure that out before you carried out any more sacrifices.