As I crossed into the courtyard that had been the centrepiece of Acamapichtli's power – albeit temporarily – I couldn't help but brace myself against protection spells, as if some kind of veil would still remain across the threshold. But nothing happened; I crossed easily, as if nothing were there. We found the room where Acamapichtli had confined his sick men without much trouble: it was wide, swept clean of any furniture save three sleeping mats – and two of those mats were still occupied by groaning bodies. A slave was crouching by the second one – wiping the forehead with a wet cloth; he looked up as we entered, and then bent back to his task. "They're still here," Teomitl said. Both Coatl and the priest of Patecatl lay on the ground – their skins as pale as muddy water, their eyes sunken deep into the oval of their faces – and a familiar blue tinge around the lips, like the touch of a drowned man. I knelt by Coatl, careful not to touch the body.
