The Demon of the Air by Simon Levack

interest in our conversation. He raised his voice deliberately. “Forget it! To begin with your accomplice would have to get in past my guards—and I’ve told you, they were doubled up that night. He’d have to find the right cage, open it and let you out, and do all this
without being spotted. What’s more, he’d need help shifting that stone. Then he and his mate would have to sneak you out, again past my guards, who wouldn’t have missed them going in in the first place! There’s only one way in or out of here, you know, and you’ve seen how small the windows are. Oh, and on this occasion, he’d have had to do the same trick five times.” He looked about him smugly, as though he had forgotten that in spite of everything a number of his prisoners had managed to slip away. “I tell you, it couldn’t be done!”
    â€œWho’s allowed in here, besides your guards?”
    â€œNobody! Apart from the judges, of course, if they want to question the prisoners—and the work details who come in to clean up when it’s their parish’s turn at the job.”
    I could not help grimacing. Forced labor was a part of the common man’s lot and most would cheerfully tackle dredging a canal or hauling stone to the site of a new public building, but for a people who liked to keep themselves clean, mucking out the prison would be a different matter. “I suppose you’re going to tell me they’re always escorted?”
    â€œAll the time! We count them in, we watch them and we count them out again. Face it, there are only three ways out of here. The rats eat you, the judges let you out, or …” He lowered his voice again. “Or you use sorcery! That’s what we told the Emperor, and he believes us!”
    I asked the majordomo whether I could question his guards.
    â€œGo ahead,” he said indifferently. “It’s the same shift we had on duty when the prisoners went missing, but they won’t be able to tell you anything I haven’t.”
    Each of the guards had been handpicked for two qualities: being able to wield a huge cudgel and being able to tolerate enough boredom to crush the mind of anybody that had one to crush. I could not credit any of them with great powers of observation, but I could not imagine any of them falling asleep on the job either. Each of our conversations was a repeat of the last, with me staring up into a slack-jowled, thick-jawed, heavy-lidded face that bore all the expression of one of the masks of human skin worn at the Festival of the Flaying of Men. It would go something like this:
    â€œWhat did you see the day the prisoners went missing?”
    â€œWhat prisoners?”

    â€œThe sorcerers.”
    â€œThe sorcerers?”
    â€œYes, the sorcerers—the ones the majordomo says turned themselves into birds.”
    â€œOh, the sorcerers!”
    There would be a pause.
    â€œWell, what did you see?”
    The guard I was questioning would turn to one of his colleagues—preferably the one I had last spoken to.
    â€œDid you see anything, mate?”
    â€œWhen?”
    â€œWhen those sorcerers went missing.”
    â€œSorcerers?”
    â€œYes—you know.”
    â€œNo.”
    â€œNo what?”
    â€œNo, I don’t know.”
    â€œThe sorcerers—the men who got out. When that happened, what did you see?”
    There would be another pause.
    â€œI didn’t see anything.”
    The guard I was questioning would turn to me in triumph.
    â€œSee? He didn’t see anything either. I reckon they must have flown away, like bloody birds!”
    After three attempts at this I gave up. I had found out as much as I was going to here.

2
    I stood outside the prison, savoring the midday sunshine, which had dried up the last of the rain, the clean air and the newly swept earth under my feet.
    I watched the Aztecs around me, the men and women strolling or hurrying