Aztlan: The Courts of Heaven by Michael Jan Friedman

a developer—not one of the more established ones, because even the most opportunistic of them wouldn’t have touched a project in that neighborhood—had torn down a pyramid there. He was supposed to have begun construction on a new one before the end of the cycle, but he never came through on his promise.
    He couldn’t. He was found drowned in the River of Stars, just upstream of the point where it entered Aztlan. It took weeks for us to find his killer—an employee the developer had fired for making a pass at the developer’s mate.
    In any case, the guy never finished his demolition work, much less the construction that was to follow.
    Which was why I found myself wandering among the remains of the pyramid that had once stood there. What was its name? I couldn’t recall. Not that it mattered. When something was gone, it was gone.
    What was still very much in evidence was the neighborhood around it, which was even less savory than I remembered.
    The question was why Calli had asked to meet me here. What could she possibly have found appealing about that place? Its remoteness? Its feeling of danger?
    Then I smelled it . . . as dusky and rich as if I’d had a soft, thick morsel of it melting on my tongue.
    Chocolate .
    I looked around to find the source. A block away, half-obscured by a piece of old pyramid, there was a squared-off building with a faded picture of an ocelot on it. The ocelot was the symbol of the Ocelotl family, who held the exclusive contract for making chocolate in the Empire.
    They had a factory in District Seven—I had known that. But I hadn’t known there was one in District Two as well.
    The smell wafting on the breeze it was intoxicating. I closed my mouth and inhaled through my nostrils, losing myself in what seemed like it should be a forbidden aroma.
    But there were no laws against smelling chocolate.
    I had to hand it to Calli. I didn’t know how she had known about this place, but I was sure the wind didn’t always bring the scent of the factory that way. She had to have researched the necessary conditions, and then made sure the wind would be accommodating her before she called me.
    Now I knew why she had been so insistent on having me meet her there exactly at noon. But where was she? I took out my chronometer and noted the time.
    Two minutes late . I wouldn’t have found that observation quite so worrisome if I weren’t in the worst part of District Two, and if Calli hadn’t told me she was never late.
    Two more minutes went by. And two more. I invoked the gods beneath my breath and pulled my radio out of my pouch.
    At the same time, I heard something. A scraping sound—the kind a shoe might make in the dirt.
    As I turned, hoping it was Calli, I saw something out of the corner of my eye. I got a vague impression of a mask, a knife—and not much more. But that was enough.
    I’d always had good reflexes. They’d been an asset in the ball court, keeping me one step ahead of the other team. I was even more grateful for them now.
    Instead of taking a knife in the gut, I slid sideways and let the blade cut empty air. Then I grabbed my assailant’s wrist with one hand and chopped down on it with the other.
    He cried out as his wrist bones cracked, forcing him to drop his knife. But he still had one good hand, which he used to sock me in the face.
    I reeled, but only for a second. As he came at me again, I kicked him in the belly. He doubled over, and I made use of the opening to deal him an uppercut.
    He staggered back a few steps and bounced off the hunk of wall behind him. Still, I got the impression he wasn’t done. I thought for sure he was going to put his head down and rush me.
    But he didn’t. He just crumpled to the ground.
    I was ready to congratulate myself—until I realized the guy might have attacked Calli before he attacked me . I had begun to call her name, my hand already dipping into my pouch for my hand stick, when I felt a stab of fire in my back.
    It told me