The girl squealed and darted to one side. Heron gasped, squirmed again, and fell onto the floor in a tangle of limbs and soiled cloth.

  I smiled at the girl. “I'm Yaotl. His great-uncle told me to find out what had happened."

  She stared at me through big, moist eyes. “I don't understand."

  "Did you tell anyone about the trick with the tube?"

  "She must have done!” the young man protested, heaving himself back onto his seat. “How else did they know to put the mushrooms in that jar?"

  "Oh, shut up,” I told him. I looked at the girl.

  She did not lower her eyes. “No,” she replied firmly. “I didn't, and I will eat earth.” She bowed down and touched the ground with a fingertip, then put it to her mouth, in the gesture that was an Aztec's most sacred oath.

  The young man was sitting up now, with his knees slightly apart, and seemed to be watching something fascinating on the ground between them. “It can't have been Huitztic,” he said indistinctly. “He's my pal. Keeps my great-uncle off my back—covers up for me when I'm out late. When the old man's gone and I get my share of his lands, there'll be something in it for old Huitztic—he knows that."

  "So he expects to profit from your advancement?"

  "That's it,” the youngster said eagerly. He looked up. “The old man told me you were a priest, so you know what winning that contest would mean, especially now that I've taken my first captive.” I wondered whether that had been arranged for him too. “Why would Huitztic want to screw it up for both of us?"

  It made sense, I realized. I realized something else, too: My master was too shrewd not to know what was going on between his steward and his great-nephew. That was why I had been told to look into it with Huitztic. Old Black Feathers had not been able to think of any explanation for what had happened that did not implicate the steward, but he had not been able to work out what Huitztic's motive for humiliating his great-nephew might have been either.

  "So who else did you tell, apart from Precious Flower here?"

  "I didn't! And I'll eat earth too, if you want!"

  "Don't bother. Just tell me about those two you mentioned—Owl and Firstborn Son. Who are they, young toughs like you?"

  "That's right. Thought they were my friends, too, but Owl in particular...” He shot a venomous look at the girl.

  "What was I supposed to do?” she cried out, colouring. “He asked for me. I'm a pleasure girl, Heron, I'm not allowed to save myself for you, you know that!” And then, suddenly, she burst into tears. “It wasn't me, really it wasn't. I wouldn't tell anyone, even though I was angry with you. And I was only angry because you kept boasting about what you were going to do!"

  As she went to embrace him, and he allowed her to, I decided it was time to withdraw. I had learned all I was going to here, and I had seen enough of Heron's smirking, winking face.

  I decided it was time I paid a visit to the temple of the god of sacred wine.

  * * * *

  To my surprise, the temple was deserted. As I approached its precinct I had to shoulder my way through the city's usual evening crowd—traders taking unsold goods back from the marketplaces, youngsters going home from the Houses of Youth, labourers returning from the fields—but as soon as I was within the walls, all the bustle and noise was gone, replaced by a strange, echoing silence. The sudden change gave the place a forlorn air, added to by the way it had been left. Normally the flagstones would have been carefully swept, but not today. It did not appear to have been touched since the chaotic events of the previous afternoon. The large pottery jars stood where they had been put out for the dancers, mostly empty now but still filling the air around them with a stale, sour smell. On the ground around them were scattered the reeds, apparently lying where they had been dropped. Some were slightly flattened, probably squashed by the young men as they squabbled over them. Here and there a scrap of torn cloth or a severed sandal strap showed where a fight had broken out.

  I had been hoping to find the head priest, Two Rabbit, here, but he was clearly not coming back today. I noticed that the brazier in front of the temple, which ought to have been permanently lit, had gone out. I wondered whether after what had happened, the priest was afraid that the gods might have withdrawn their favour. Maybe he thought the place was now unlucky. I remembered that Lord Feathered in Black had sent his serfs to taste the sacred wine that had been left in the pots, but presumably he did not care what curses he might bring down on their heads.

  I shivered. I felt suddenly sick, not with fear but from the smell of all that sacred wine. Some of the old craving had returned, and I was glad the pots were empty, because my body had started telling me that what I needed at that moment was a drink.

  "I'm wasting my time,” I muttered, kicking at the straws scattered at my feet. “I got nothing out of Heron and his girl, and there's nothing here either. I still don't even know how they managed to get the poison into that jar, never mind who did it.” For a few moments I pretended to look for clues, although I had no idea what I hoped to find: something that looked like powdered mushrooms, perhaps. I soon gave up in disgust.

  "Nothing here,” I repeated. “Just fifty-two empty pots and two hundred and sixty straws no one could drink out of.” I thought about that. “No, two hundred and fifty-nine, of course."

  Then I thought about it again.

  I looked at the straws scattered around me, now looking pale as bones in the gathering dusk. I whispered a curse, and then set to gathering them, scooping them up in handfuls and carrying them to a corner.

  After I had taken a last look around to ensure that none had rolled away unnoticed, I began to count them.

  * * * *

  By the time I had finished my task, sorting the reeds into thirteen neat piles, the light in the plaza was too poor to see by, and I was working by touch, stooping to put the last few straws in place. I finished the job in haste. Night and the things that haunted it frightened me less than they did most Aztecs—my priest's training helped with that—but there was something about this place that unnerved me, making me feel as though I were being watched. I wanted to be done as soon as I could.

  By the time I had finished, however, I knew how the chief minister's great-nephew had been poisoned, and I could make a good guess at who might have done it. I had to smile as I thought about the trick: It was clever and somehow fitting.

  I could feel my smile fading as I contemplated the report I would have to give my master. I remembered the vain young man I had seen arguing with the pleasure girl, Precious Flower, and wondered whether the person who had decided to teach him a lesson truly deserved whatever brutal punishment Lord Feathered in Black had in mind. But I could not see what I could do to prevent it without bringing the old man's wrath down on my own head.

  There was no sound in the courtyard that I could hear. Nonetheless the sensation that I was not alone would not go away. I could feel it as a tingling at the nape of my neck and a coldness beyond the chill of the evening air.

  I turned to go, expecting to feel my way out of the plaza. However, I had not taken three steps before I bumped into something large and hard.

  "Hey...!"

  The thing moved. Suddenly I was lifted off my feet, the breath squeezed out of me in a bear hug. I heared a man's voice, very low but clear: “So the priest told you, did he?"

  I struggled, lashing out with my feet but kicking only empty air. I wanted to shout but had no breath to do it with.

  "Where is it?” the man holding me hissed. “You found it, didn't you? What have you done with it?"

  All I could manage by way of reply was a strangled gasp. My assailant's grip slackened a little when he realised that I could not answer his questions unless he stopped trying to suffocate me.

  I thought quickly. “It's all right,” I croaked, using up the little air he allowed me. “I know what happened. It was Huitztic, the steward! He put the poison in—I've got the proof!"

  It did not work. The powerful arms gripped me tighter than ever. I felt dizzy. Coloured lights began to dance before my eyes.

  Then another man spoke, from somewhere in the shadows. I knew the voice instantly.

  "Who's that? Yaotl? What's going on?"

  The man holding me dropped me on the ground.

  As I fell, crashing backwards onto the flagstones, my lungs filled up and I was able to yell: “Huitztic, stop him!"

  The steward did not understand. “There you are!” he bellowed triumphantly. “I know your game. You thought you'd hide from me until you'd made up a pack of lies to tell to Lord Feathered in Black. I'll see you dead before you pin this thing on me!"

  I groaned aloud. “No—you idiot!—quick, stop that bastard before he runs away!"

  A foot flew out of the night and slammed into my shoulder. I gasped in pain. I drew breath to call out again but then I heard the sound of running feet, moving away.

  Huitztic yelled: “Got you, you miserable slave—wait, who are you?"

  His words turned into a cry of pain as the young man who had assaulted me hit him.

  After that there was a long silence, broken only by the steward's painful whimpering.

  "So which one was that?” I wondered out loud, while I nursed my bruised throat. “Was it Owl or Firstborn Son, do you think?"

  There was no answer.

  "I think we'd better go and see old Black Feathers now,” I continued, “and if you don't say anything about how both you and that young fool tried to silence me, then I won't."

  * * * *

  My master received me alone, seated in his favourite place, under the magnolia on the roof of his palace. We left the steward in the courtyard below to fret and pace about nervously. He still thought I was going to accuse him, but I knew that would not do for the old man. He wanted proof.

  I showed him what I had brought from the temple. It was, I had guessed, the thing the young man who had attacked me had been after: the one reed out of the two hundred and sixty I had found that had seemed lighter than the rest. As he held it up to peer at the Moon through it, I told him what had happened.

  "There were four hundred dancers, two hundred and sixty straws, and fifty-two jars,” I began.

  "Yes, yes, I know,” he replied absently, still squinting through the tube.

  What I said next got his full attention, however. “Wrong! There were two hundred and sixty-one straws—and two of them were bored through. The one your great-nephew had, and this one."

  "No, that doesn't make sense. If two of them had cheated, one of the others would have become intoxicated—or worse, if he'd drunk from the same jar as Heron."

  "He was at the same jar as Heron, my Lord. He didn't drink, though. He must have smuggled that tube in just as Heron did, but he never intended to suck through it. He blew."

  My master's sharp eyes glittered as he stared at me.

  "That ceremony always turns into a riot. There's no time for anyone to check whether the tube they've got is hollow or not, if they're lucky enough to be able to lay hands on one at all. So you'll always get several young men sucking away at each jar, most of them due to be disappointed. The one who poisoned your great nephew knew that and took advantage of it. He stuck close to Heron with a hollow reed full of powdered mushrooms, knowing nobody would think anything of it if he dipped his reed in the same jar. He blew the poison in just as Heron was slurping the stuff up."

  Lord Feathered in Black looked at the tube with distaste. “Clever,” he conceded. “But if what you say is right, then how do we know which of them it was?"

  "I don't think we ever will,” I replied carefully. I was sure it had been either Owl or Firstborn Son who had attacked me, but I did not blame him. He must have been terrified when he found out how hard the chief minister had taken his prank.

  "Well, at least we know where he got the straw from,” the chief minister said.

  "We do?"

  "Two Rabbit. He vanished yesterday, just after you saw him at the prison. Collected a few things from his lodging at the temple and hasn't been seen since. I don't suppose he ever will be again, at least not in Mexico."

  * * * *

  I found Fire Snake looking none the worse for his brief stay in the prison.

  "You did it! Well done, Yaotl—thank you, old friend, thank you! I shan't forget this...."

  "I wish you would,” I said shortly.

  "If there's ever anything I can do..."

  I looked at his eager face, the grin white against the pitch he used to stain it, and felt disgusted. The gods had been affronted, but all that mattered to Fire Snake was that he had got away with it. “Just tell me something,” I said quietly. “How did Two Rabbit know what you and Heron had done?"

  The effusion of words abruptly halted. He hesitated before saying: “But we talked about that. Didn't he learn it from someone Heron had been bragging to? What about that girl?"

  "Precious Flower didn't talk. I've met them both. She didn't like what Heron had done but there's no way she'd betray him. That young fool doesn't deserve her."

  "Well, then..."

  "In fact,” I went on, “it seems to me there's only one person who could or would have told him, expecting him to do exactly what he did. His assistant, the one he thought was too ambitious. You knew how this was likely to turn out, didn't you? When that young man attacked me—I still don't know who it was, by the way, and I don't want to—he said he thought the priest had told me what happened. At first I thought he meant you, but he was talking about Two Rabbit. Your chief gave one of Heron's rivals a tube full of sacred mushrooms, but he only did it because he knew what Heron was going to do. And he can only have learned of that from you."

  "That's absurd!” Fire Snake protested, but I could hear the tremor in his voice.

  "No, I think it's quite clever. You didn't actually poison young Heron but you found a way to bring it about. The possibility of implicating poor old Two Rabbit must have made it even sweeter for you. Of course, it went a bit wrong when you were arrested—you didn't expect that, I'd guess—but it all turned out well in the end, didn't it? Will they make you chief priest now, I wonder?"

  He clutched anxiously at the hem of my cloak as I turned away from him, but I did not want to hear any more claims on an old friendship that had never existed.

  As I walked out, though, I called over my shoulder: “But don't worry. I won't tell old Black Feathers. I don't really care who made a fool of his great-nephew, or why. It probably served him right."

  (c)2008 by Simon Levack

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  Reviews: BLOG BYTES by Bill Crider

  Well, it's happened again. A blog I touted here has gone into hibernation. This time it's Steve Lewis's excellent resource, Mystery*File (mysteryfile.com/blog). The good news is that the archives are still available and that Steve will continue work on a couple of projects: Al Hubin's Addenda to his Revised Crime Fiction IV (www.crimefictioniv.com), a bibliographic necessity, and Murder at 3 Cents a Day (www.lendinglibmystery.com), a site to which Steve and Bill Pronzini will be adding even more cover images. If you haven't taken a look at the covers of all those great lending-library volumes, wait no longer.

  The name of SJ Rozan should be familiar to readers of this magazine, since she's won just about every award for mystery writing that there is, including the Edgar for best novel. Her blog (www.journalscape.com/sjrozan) is a bit different, as it includes original poetry along with other observations, such as commentary on what it was like to teach a writing class in the Alaskan bush. You might also want to click on SJ's site called Six Word Stories (www.journalscape.com/six-word).SixWord Stories is exactly what it says, a place where six-word stories are published. You can read the stories that are posted on the site, and you might even be inspired to try your hand at writing one. There's no payment, and the editorial criteria are as simple as the concept: “Stories SJ finds appealing for whatever idiosyncratic reason will be posted...."

  If you're interested in writing something longer than six words, a novel, for example, JA Konrath has some advice for you at A Newbie's Guide to Publishing (jakonrath.blogspot.com). Konrath is the author of the Lt. Jacqueline “Jack” Daniels series and numerous articles and stories, and while you might not agree with everything he has to say (don't worry; nobody does), you're sure to find it interesting. Whether he's discussing “The Art of the Soft Sell” or whether a writer should charge for appearances, Konrath keeps things lively.

  Writers don't always use their blogs to write about writing. Some use their experiences to comment on other kinds of things. A good example is Barry Eisler, who writes a series about professional assassin John Rain. Eisler's blog is The Heart of the Matter (www.barryeisler.com/blog.html), where Eisler talks about what's going on in the world, like the possibility of war with Iran, the ethics of torture, or what's happening in Iraq. Eisler's experiences (he once held a covert position with the CIA's Directorate of Operations, for example) give him a unique perspective.

  For Bill Crider's own blog visit billcrider.blogspot.com.

  Copyright (c) 2008 Bill Crider

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  Fiction: POOR OLD FRANKIE by Barbara Nadel

  Barbara Nadel is a celebrated author in her native Britain, having won the CWA's Silver Dagger in 2005 for Deadly Web, an entry in her contemporary police procedural series set in Turkey, starring Inspector Cetin Ikmen. Her latest Ikmen novel, A Passion for Killing, came out in the U.K. in 2007. “Poor Old Frankie” was inspired by Ms. Nadel's own experience: she once worked in a psychiatric hospital.

  Father forgive me for I have sinned...

  For a time, Frankie made shifts at the Run-fold Psychiatric Hospital worth-while, and I let him down. When you work for a nursing agency you don't usually get close to the patients. But Frankie Driscoll was different. He was still in there. What do I mean by that exactly? I mean that he hadn't turned into a shuddering vegetable like so many of them do on the long-term chronic wards. Frankie Driscoll was a far greater person than just his diagnosis or even the medication that coshes most of his kind to the ground.