Free The Demon of the Air by Simon Levack

mind,” I mumbled. “Go back to sleep.”
    â€œI can’t,” he said petulantly, “not since you woke me up. Now the floor under this mat is as hard as stone, and it’s not as if I can toss and turn until I get to sleep, so you’ll just have to keep talking to me, won’t you? Or have you forgotten what you owe me?”
    â€œNo.” I sighed. “I haven’t forgotten.”
    What I owed this crippled old man was nothing less than my life. When I had come into our master’s household—after the Chief Minister had snapped me up as a bargain in the marketplace—I had been helplessly in the grip of the Four Hundred Rabbits, the gods of the sacred wine. The twenty cloaks my master had paid me for my liberty had gone on the roughest, sourest and cheapest drink I could
get. When the money had run out and I had given myself up to servitude, in accordance with the bargain my master and I had struck, I still had no thought beyond the next gourd. It was Costly who had seen me through it, whose wasted, bony arms had held me as I had shivered and struggled and cried out for just a drop, just a taste of fermented maguey sap on my tongue.
    I could never forget what he had done for me. He would never let me.
    I told him of everything I had seen and heard that evening. It took a long time, but the old man was still awake at the end.
    â€œSo old Black Feathers was banging on about his father again? You amaze me. I’ve known our beloved Chief Minister a lot longer than you have, young man, and if I had a bag of cocoa beans for every time I’ve heard one of those jealous tirades about his father, I could have bought my freedom years ago.”
    â€œBut Lord Tlacaelel’s been dead nearly forty years.”
    â€œYes, and his son’s never moved out of his shadow. Not surprising, is it? Four emperors deferred to Tlacaelel. He was their equal. Montezuma treats his son like a servant—even though one of his wives is old Black Feathers’ daughter! How often do you suppose our master has to listen to tales of his father’s exploits in war—or even worse, gets asked to tell them himself? And every time he visits that great big palace next to the Heart of the World he must tell himself: ‘If only my father hadn’t turned down the throne, all this would be mine!’”
    â€œOur master’s jealousy isn’t really my problem,” I reminded Costly as I squirmed into a less uncomfortable position under my cloak. “It’s the sorcerers I have to worry about.”
    â€œDon’t you think there’s a connection? What was it he told you—he wanted something that wasn’t his father’s?”
    â€œTrue, but he also said the Emperor was afraid of him.”
    â€œWhy? He’s too old to be any threat. If Montezuma died tomorrow the throne would go to his brother, Cuitlahuac. Our Chief Minister and our Emperor both know that.” The old slave sucked noisily on his bare gums. “I’d lay odds old Black Feathers was lying to you.”
    â€œHe would,” I said dryly. “I’m meant to be spying on him, remember?”
    The old slave persisted as I rolled over on my mat. “Whatever’s
happened to these sorcerers, it’s not just because of some feud between old Black Feathers and Montezuma. It’s got to do with something our master wants—something his father never had. Now what might that be, I wonder?”

1
    I did not want to go to the prison, but since I seemed to have no choice, I steeled myself to visit it.
    Rainwater had pooled on the flat roof and dripped into the wooden cages that lined the walls. The rushes strewn on the floor had absorbed all the moisture they could and now floated uselessly in shallow puddles. The floor was crisscrossed by thin streams of liquid stained with filth from the overflowing pots the prisoners were given to relieve themselves in. The only light