Free Aztlan: The Courts of Heaven by Michael Jan Friedman Page A

been a nickname. If so, we wouldn’t have any record of it.
    Too bad, I thought.
    Next, I scanned the Mirror for pet dealers. They wouldn’t be open so early in the day, but some of them—especially the ones who carried something as desirable as a ghost dog—would have been in the habit of placing advertisements.
    As I made my list, Izel said, “Look at that.”
    “What?” asked Quetzalli.
    Izel pointed to his monitor with his tea cup, then glanced in my direction. “Betting on the games has gone up by half.”
    “Really?” said Quetzalli.
    Izel shrugged. “Look for yourself. People are in denial. They think if they bet harder, the Eagles will play harder.”
    “They can play as hard as they want,” said Takun. “Without Coyotl, they’re helpless.”
    “I don’t know about that,” said Quetzalli, looking anything but amused.
    Izel chuckled. “Talk about denial.”
    “Watch your tongue,” she said.
    “You know,” said Takun, “I’ve got some beans put away. I think I’ll take them to a betting parlor after work.”
    “And do what with them?” Quetzalli demanded.
    “Hey,” said Takun, “you’ve seen the odds they’re giving. This is an opportunity if ever there was one.”
    “To bet against the Eagles ?” Quetzalli asked. “Is that what you’re talking about?”
    “Well,” said Izel, “the way they’re losing—”
    “It doesn’t matter,” Quetzalli insisted. “They’re still the Eagles. They’re still Aztlan .”
    Takun chuckled. “Suit yourself. I’ll call you from my place in District Fourteen to tell you about the view.”
    “Turd,” muttered Quetzalli, returning her attention to her monitor. “No one ever got rich betting against the Eagles.”
    Not true, strictly speaking. But it was something Aztlan fans liked to say. After all, we had won more championships than any two other teams combined.
    Quetzalli glanced my way. “Work harder, Maxtla. I can’t tolerate much more of this crap.”
    I said I would do that.
    But it had been days since Coyotl disappeared. The chances of his playing for Aztlan again were fading like Tonatiuh over the Western Ocean.
     
    Most pet stores in Aztlan smelled like dirty baby diapers. Not this one. More like a bath house, humid and well-perfumed. By that characteristic alone, I knew it catered mostly to nobles.
    Also, most pet stores simply offered water salamanders, guinea pigs, parrots, turkeys, mice, and a few different kinds of fish. A handful of them carried dogs as well.
    This one had three breeds of dog in its polished metal cages—the Hairless, the Chihuahua, and—all the way in the back of the shop, occupying a place of prominence—the ghost dog.
    There were four cages full of them. They were big and white, with long snouts and short hair.
    I walked over and stuck a knuckle through the mesh. The dogs climbed over each other to get a lick in.
    The guy behind the counter was short and small-boned, with one of those fake smiles you see sometimes in shop people. I disliked him before he even opened his mouth.
    “What can I do for you?” he asked in a voice too deep for someone of his frame. He glanced at my wrist. “Investigator?”
    “I’m looking for someone who bought a ghost dog from you about eleven moons ago.” I gave him the date. “It would be a noblewoman.”
    His smile faltered ever so slightly. “I wish I could help you, but we like to keep our transactions here a private matter—between us and our customers. I’m sure you understand.”
    “I’m an Investigator,” I said.
    “So I see.”
    “I’d like to see your records regarding that date. The rest of them you can keep private.”
    “I’m sorry,” he said, “but that’s not possible.”
    “You understand that there are laws against impeding an Investigation? Laws that carry substantial penalties?”
    “I’ll be protected,” he said. There wasn’t a hint of doubt in his voice.
    “By whom?” I asked.
    “By the person you’re looking for.”
    I