Three Princes

by Ramona Wheeler

  Viracocha took the left, striding more swiftly as though eager for the final destination. Oken and Mabruke lengthened their strides to keep pace with him, as did the retinue following quietly behind.

  At a doorway third from the end, Viracocha stopped and it swung inward. A fragrance of incense, fresh straw, and flowers poured over them as they followed him inside.

  They found themselves at the bottom of a spiral staircase. The steps were jade, carved with a wave pattern. The railing was a serpent beaded with multicolored crystals, held up at every turn of the spiral by a golden serpent-staff, the railing in his mouth and his tail resting on a jade step.

  Another double row of servants waited at the top of this stair, kneeling, heads bowed.

  “Runa will take care of your luggage,” Viracocha said to Mabruke and Oken. He sighed, shaking his head unhappily. “I must speak with the Queen Mother.” He sighed again and strode away, down the darkened corridor on the other side of the stairs. The guards and servants rose up and hurried after him.

  Runa was waiting for them in the foyer to the guest quarters, standing as calmly as if she had had the entire day to prepare for their arrival. A dozen or more maids were behind her, wearing only small red skirts and paint of the imperial seal on their tawny skin. They were kneeling, heads bowed, their loose black tresses falling in simple waves over bare shoulders.

  Runa gestured toward a narrow entry with a curtain of crystal beads. Oken lifted the curtain aside so Mabruke, then Runa and her attendants could enter their quarters. He followed last, letting the beaded curtain fall back into place with an excited trill of crystal laughter.

  Their guest apartments were magnificent. There was no other term. Even Mabruke was gazing around in surprise. Their royal suite at Marrakech were servants’ quarters by comparison, and this was just the parlor. The floor and walls were green tile. The ceiling was lapis with golden stars. The furnishings were carved from a pale and luminescent green stone, piled with cushions in shades of yellow. The daybed was a long leaf shape, held up by stone lizards. The side tables and footstools were turtles with flattened shells. The chairs were seashells resting on the backs of arching fish. The animals had mother-of-pearl eyes that stared at them as they came in.

  “You should be comfortable here, sirs,” Runa said, gesturing around. She pointed to the right-hand side, and an arched entry with a beaded curtain of blue and purple crystal. “That is your suite, Prince Mabruke.”

  She pointed to the opposite side. The beaded curtain was in green and blue. “That is for you, Lord Oken. Is this satisfactory? Or do you wish to be together, as you were before?”

  Oken looked at Mabruke for instructions. Mabruke shrugged. “I am likely safe enough from the demons of my dreams here on solid ground, ma de moiselle. Perhaps Scott will find occasion to enjoy some solitude after such a long journey in my company.”

  Oken also knew that his friend was giving him the freedom to share his bed with one of these nude lovelies if he wished. Oken considered this as he nodded at Mabruke.

  “Your luggage will be here quickly,” Runa said. “Do you wish for us to unpack for you?”

  “Mademoiselle, I am certain that you have much to attend to yourself,” Mabruke said. “Scott and I will fend for ourselves quite well.”

  “Very well, sirs.” Runa seemed reluctant to leave, and stood looking around the room for inspiration. Then she bowed to them and clapped for the girls to follow her. They sprang to their feet and stood behind her.

  She clapped again, more loudly, and a more maids came hurrying out of the side rooms, slipping so skillfully between the strings of the bead curtain that they made barely a rustle, despite their clear haste.

  Once the last patter of bare feet had faded into silence, Mabruke spread his hands wide, gesturing around. “Quite something, isn’t it.” He sounded pleased.

  Oken agreed. He went through the bead curtain to his side, and found himself equally astonished by the beauty and opulence here. The tiles were a soft pearl gray, the furnishings were creamy soapstone, carved as women in elegant repose or curled up provocatively, each lovingly rendered. The bed rested on a pair of oversized beauties stretched out on their sides as if sleeping there, their hands gracefully folded under their heads. Shelves of soapstone, carved as curling waves, lined one wall, with two women kneeling, foreheads resting on their knees, and their hair falling forward over their hands. These proved to be trunks, the tops sliding to one side at a gentle touch. The women’s eyes were closed, less intrusive than the staring eyes of the animals in the parlor.

  The chandelier was Egyptian spunglass. A woman’s torso emerged from the ceiling with a shining globe in her outstretched hands.

  Oken was impressed. “Not much like home,” he said to the stone ladies. “Not like home at all.”

  There were no windows as such. Round holes pierced the outer wall in a spiral pattern, letting in afternoon sunshine and breezes. The holes were only a couple of inches across. Oken counted fortytwo. Velvet drapes, the color of ivory, were held back by a pair of waist-high ladies. He did not think he would miss having a view. He liked the security of limited access.

  The bathroom was similarly designed. Ladies coiled around the rim of the bathing pool and supported the basins. The fittings were of gold. The walls were mirrored, reflecting multitudes of women. Oken smiled at his many selves among the stone beauties, and went out.

  Mabruke was not in the parlor. Oken went into his room and found him stretched out comfortably on the bed. The room was similarly fitted to Oken’s, different in that the stone was black basalt and obsidian, and the figures were men. The openings in the outer wall spiraled in the opposite direction.

  “I could definitely get used to living in this kind of style,” Mabruke said.

  “If this is just the Queen Mother’s estate, I can’t imagine what the palace must be like!”

  Mabruke raised himself up on one elbow. “Once I have changed clothes, I want to see more of this magnificent place.”

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  “YOU BRING alien demons into my house and you expect me to greet them!” The Queen Mother hurled these words at Viracocha as soon as he entered her room.

  “They are not demons, Mama,” the prince said patiently. “They are sons of kings.”

  She waved away the maids who were rubbing oil onto her bare skin, sending them scurrying off.

  “Demons have kings.” She spat the words out, rage clear in her aged face.

  The Queen Mother had been beautiful once, an Andean beauty of the first order, with broad hips for childbearing and large, full breasts to nourish them. Twelve pregnancies and the ravages of time had not been kind to her. Her gray hair was braided with gold thread and coiled to cover the thinning spots. The lines and folds of her face exaggerated her every expression, turning her into a final caricature of herself. Thick gold necklaces covered her neck, forearms, and ankles, with skin bulging out around them.

  Viracocha loved her with proper devotion, even now. Her disapproval hurt him. It did not, however, alter his belief that Tawantinsuyu was of the world, neither apart from nor above it. His birthright was the freedom to explore and to learn. He knew, also, that she had seen too many of her children slain in the name of the civilization that had made heran empress. Clinging to the glorious past was the only solace she had.

  “My friends are not demons, Mama.They are good men. We will not disturb you.”

  “They are here,” she said, her anger hot. The Queen Mother was known to maintain a rage for days and days without relenting. “That disturbs me.”

  “I had to bring them here, Mama. They are here under the protection of Tawantinsuyu, and twice now attempts have been made on their lives.”

  Through hooded eyes, she glared at him.

  “They will be safe here,” Viracocha continued despite the churning he felt inside at the rage radiating from his mother. “When I find who is behind this, I will come back and take them away from here.” />
  “Hurry,” she said sharply.

  “The second attempt would have destroyed Mixcomitl and me along with them, Mama!” He fought the urge to shout at her. “Would you have me dead just to be rid of strangers?”

  She had no answer, but turned her heated gaze from him. “Do what you must. They will be safe here in my house.”

  “Thank you, Mama.” He bent and kissed her forehead, then turned and marched himself out. He wanted to smash something, but he just walked fast and hard through the echoing stone corridors to his private office. He thrust the beaded curtain aside so violently that it smashed against the doorframe with an outraged noise of breaking crystals.

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  OKEN AND Mabruke were just emerging from their rooms when Viracocha returned. His manner was intense, and dismay made his lips tight. “I will have to leave you here for a few days, my friends. I hope that is not inconvenient.”

  Oken looked over at Mabruke. Mabruke shrugged. “We should be quite comfortable here. What is the problem?”

  “I have to find out who was in that Quetzal, and why they were preparing to fire on us. I have to find out who sent that assassin to Zulia. I have to go to the palace to do this, so I cannot take you with me. You will be safer here, anyway. The security that guards the Queen Mother will protect you well. Runa will stay close and see that you are cared for.”

  “I am sure Ma demoi selle Runa will be a most charming hostess in your absence,” Mabruke said, his voice serious. “You are on an important mission, but watch your back, my friend. These people have proved that they will kill you as well if you get in their way.”

  “Then they have taken on one enemy too many,” Viracocha said. “When I find them, they will learn that.”

  He turned and strode away, his private guard hurrying to keep up.

  “Sirs, if you would care to come with me?” A soft voice behind them made both men start and turn around.

  An elderly Andean stood there, having appeared as if from the air. He was graying at the temples, and slightly stooped. The imperial seal tattooed on his forehead had begun to run at the edges, and his face was lined. He stood with simple dignity, clad only in the household kilt and sandals. “I am Qusmi, madam’s household manager. I am instructed to make you as comfortable as possible.” The lines of his face showed that he had smiled often in his life, and that he laughed easily.

  “A pleasure, Mr. Qusmi,” Mabruke said. “Just being here is comfortable. We put ourselves happily in your charge.”

  Qusmi bowed. “It is easy to become lost here. There are many doors and many rooms. May I show you the way to the dining hall?”

  “Indeed, Mr. Qusmi!” Mabruke said. “You have quite read my mind!”

  “That is my job, sir,” Qusmi said.. “I am very good at my job, sir, if I may be permitted to say so.”

  “Indeed, sir. Indeed,” Mabruke said. “Lead on, my good man. Lead on!”

  Qusmi bowed, and turned to lead them down the corridor.

  “Qusmi means ‘smoke,’ ” Oken said quietly to Mabruke.

  “I should have been able to guess that one.”

  OKEN PUSHED his chair back from the desk and turned in his seat to survey the library. The windows looked out at blue mountains kissing the blue sky. His glance through the open window caught Runa entering the courtyard garden, heading toward the kitchens. Her paint was different today, a spray of Incan Venus- hieroglyphs over bare skin.

  Her concession to leaving the privacy of the prince’s aeroship was a simple wraparound skirt of purple, belted with a chain of reddish gold links. Tiny bells announced her every move with a pleasing sound. It was a lovely ornament, yet Oken felt a twinge of annoyance. It was gold. It was also a chain around her. She was a princess, belled like a prowling cat, controlled, restrained—chained. It rankled his Egyptian sensibilities. It was more than the immorality of slavery. He had been raised in a world where women were sacred, valued as more than just vessels of pleasure and of life.

  Oken stood, returning his pen to his jacket pocket. He left his letter to Yadir on the table. The ever-efficient Mr. Qusmi would see to its delivery to the embassy. Oken went over to the window and rested one hip on the ledge. He leaned out and called, “Mademoiselle! A lovely new flower blooms in the library garden.”

  Runa gave him the same startled look she always did when he broke her concentration. She went about the estate with an expression of deep thought concerning her destination.

  Oken thought it charming. “Where might you be headed, ma demoiselle?”

  “I must tell Mama Kusay that the Queen Mother has changed her mind yet again about her sunset meal.”

  “May I accompany you? I could do with a nosh.”

  She smiled and bowed slightly to him. Oken noted, with some pleasure, that she no longer bowed quite so deeply before him as she had when they first met. He hoped perhaps that meant she was relaxing around him.

  Trusting him.

  She said, “I would be glad of your company, sir. This is the third time today the Queen Mother has changed her mind. Mama Kusay will not be happy.”

  Oken swung his legs around and leaped off the window ledge, neatly clearing the stone-lined ditch around the base of the building. Regularly spaced holes in the bottom let the rain seep through to underground cisterns. Snails crawled along the inner edges, clearing algae as they made their slow way. Oken stepped carefully over the border of ancient moss and joined her on the path, bowing to her.

  “I shall be your steadfast defender against Mama Kusay and all her minions, my lady—especially if there is a bit of a nosh in it!”

  Runa laughed merrily, and continued on. “Yes, sir. I will surely find you a bit of a nosh.”

  They walked through a gate into a busy servants’ garden between the kitchens and the stables. Several dozen children of various ages were playing in groups in a side yard, with the littlest ones tended by older girls. The pavement was strewn with straw padding, and leather hoops stuck out along the walls. The children were bronzed and fit looking, laughing and tumbling about in happy abandon, tossing balls of woven grass at the hoops and at each other. Their voices were a chorus of Quechua birdsong.

  Oken stopped at the gate to watch the ball game. The professional version of the sport, Tlachtli, was terribly popular throughout this hemisphere, and played a major role in maintaining peace between Tawantinsuyu and Maya Land. National pride and national aggression were ritually activated and appeased by the violence on the field. European enthusiasts were creating their own variations, with their own rituals. Oken was not a student of the sport, preferring games that involved cards and dice and pleasant drawing rooms. Mabruke had shown interest, however, so Oken made a mental note to mention the children’s games to him. Seeing innocents at play while learning the rules themselves, he thought, would help to put the spiritual metaphor into perspective. Their gods played the game with the heads of heroes as their toys. This substitute of woven grass that the children thrashed about in their play had a story of its own.

  “That one is mine,” Runa said, pointing to a slender, handsome boy of about six, perhaps a little older, playing close by the gate. He was taller than his playmates, and had a sharp, intelligent look to him, alert. Oken told her he was a fine- looking lad. “You must be proud of him.”

  Runa shrugged. “His father is the Inheritor.”

  The boy saw his mother, and left the ball game to come over to her. The others played on without him.

  They bowed to each other politely. “Rimaykullayki, Mama,” the boy said. His speech was clear and confident.

  “Rimaykullayki, Wawa.” Runa gestured to Oken and said to the boy, “Warmi Irqi, this is my friend, Lord Oken. He is a friend of Uncle.”

  “Rimaykullayki,” the boy said, bowing to Oken as he had to his mother.

  She smiled at Oken. “Lord Oken, this is Warmi Irqi, my firstborn.”

  “A pleasure to meet you, Warmi Irqi, firstborn of Lady Runa.” Oken bowed to the
boy. “Your mother has been of great help to us in our travels here.”

  The boy bowed to him again. Oken could see he was trying to hide his smile.

  “Ripuy, Wawa!” Runa said to him sternly. The boy turned away and ran back to his companions.

  She looked up at Oken, her face serene once more. “He has been instructed not to use foreign languages in the presence of others.”

  She continued walking toward the kitchen.

  Just as Oken was considering the safest way to phrase the question, Runa answered, speaking softly enough that only he could hear her. “The Queen Mother has many spies, even among the children. She does not approve of alien languages.”

  “She seems to tolerate you well enough.”

  “Father needs a spy who can understand Trade Speak.”

  Mabruke had once said something very similar, on the other side of the world and years ago, about his own childhood and the course his father decided for him.

  “Does the Queen Mother speak often with Warmi Irqi?”

  Runa stopped to look up at his face, perhaps to determine if he jested in kindness or in ignorance. She blinked solemnly, then said, “Why would she? He has never misbehaved.”

  “I am sure he is most well behaved. He is the son of a prince and a princess. I merely wondered if his grandmother were fond of him.” He saw something raw and unhappy flash for an instant in her eyes, then she turned and continued walking.

  When he had caught up with her again, she said, “The Queen Mother does not know, sir. Father wishes it.”

  Oken reviewed his lexicon of Quechua, coming up with the dismaying realization that Warmi Irqi meant simply: “Boy Child.” He kept his dark thoughts to himself, but could not help doing the math. Runa was perhaps nineteen. Oken knew he was not going to like the Inheritor if he ever met him. He walked in silence for a time, letting the beauty of the gardens calm him; then he said to Runa, as casually as he could, “Will Warmi Irqi join you on Mixcomitl someday?”