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of any women they saw, and they saw quite a few.
    But in Itzcoatl’s case, it wasn’t just his eyes or his bearing or the shape of his skull. There was something more to him. I couldn’t pin it down exactly, and pinning such things down was part of my job.
    Whatever the reason, he seemed to radiate the peace of Quetzalcoatl as he stood there in his long, white robe, his head glinting with sunlight, his feet encased in thread-of-gold sandals.
    In ancient days, priests had worn black to symbolize death. But that custom was buried in the past. Priests didn’t terrify the people any longer. They comforted them.
    And when the priests themselves needed a source of comfort, they turned to Itzcoatl.
    “Colhua,” said the High Priest in his chocolate-smooth voice.
    I inclined my head. “High Priest.”
    He gestured to his attendants, who were dressed in white robes as well. They departed without a word, leaving us alone in Itzcoatl’s sanctum.
    “It was good of you to come,” said the High Priest, his eyes crinkling at the corners. Thanks to the acoustics, his voice seemed to surround us.
    “It was no trouble,” I assured him. “I imagine you’re concerned about the murder at Centeotl.”
    He nodded. “ Very concerned. I’m told that you’re in charge of the investigation.”
    “That’s true.”
    “Have you made any progress in identifying the parties responsible?”
    “Not very much,” I had to confess.
    The High Priest frowned ever so slightly. “I am sorry to hear that. It is important that this matter be resolved before the Fire Renewal. The people are agitated enough about the End of Days as it is. With an incident such as this one stirring the pot, with its echoes of ancient rituals. . .it has the potential to turn agitation into the kind of turmoil Aztlan hasn’t seen since the Rebellion.”
    “I understand,” I said.
    He nodded his shaven head. “I knew you would. I have heard good things about you, Colhua.”
    Surprised by the remark, I felt the blood rush to my face. “Have you?”
    “I have indeed.”
    I recalled the first time my father praised my footwork in the ball court. I was six cycles old. I could have died happy then and there, basking in my father’s approval.
    Standing there before Itzcoatl, I had the same feeling.
    “I speak with the First Chief of Investigators every so often,” he said. “More frequently, of course, when the police and the priesthood share an interest in a case, as they do in this one.”
    That made sense.
    “Which,” Itzcoatl continued, “was why I requested that you be placed in charge of this investigation.”
    At first, I thought I had heard him wrong. Then it sank in: The High Priest of Aztlan had requested my services.
    I was at a loss for words.
    “I know you were torn away from your holiday dinner,” said Itzcoatl. “That was unfortunate. However, when the First Chief buzzed me to tell me what had happened, I knew who I wanted to handle the case. And he approved my choice without reservation.”
    Finally, I managed to speak up: “It’s kind of you to say so, High Priest.”
    “Kindness has nothing to do with it, Investigator. Given the magnitude of what we’re dealing with, I wanted the best man for the job. I trust you will justify my faith in you.”
    I was feeling good about myself, feeling proud, so I brought up a question I never thought I’d have a chance to ask. “I wonder,” I said, “if you remember my father? Ohtli Colhua?”
    His forehead puckered. “Your father? Perhaps if you were to refresh my memory . . . ?”
    “During the last Fire Renewal, there was an incident. He saved your life.”
    Itzcoatl looked at me for a moment, then shook his head a little sadly. “Forgive me, I have no recollection of such an incident.”

    My heart sank in my chest.
    “However,” the High Priest continued, “it sounds like your father was a most courageous man.”
    That made me feel a little better.
    “Please stay in touch with me,”