Three Princes

by Ramona Wheeler

  “That is more than I can tell her, sir!” Runa put her hands to her face in alarm.

  Mabruke looked at her with the serious consideration of a teacher challenging a favorite student. “Is that a matter of her language skills or yours?” His voice was kinder than his words. “I ask this only to know how to rephrase my question.”

  “She is property of the imperial family, sir!” Runa dropped her voice almost to a whisper. “No one has ever spoken to her as you have. I do not know what to tell her.” She clasped her hands under her chin. “I do not know how to ask your question!”

  “Then just ask it,” Mabruke said gently. “Let Mama Kusay decide.”

  The entire kitchen staff hung on Runa’s words as she translated this to Mama Kusay. Some of the women gasped.

  Mama Kusay took a deep breath then, breathed out a sigh of contentment. She stood to her full height before Mabruke, looking up at him as he gazed down at her. He bent over to her, and she raised her hands and patted his cheeks as one might a small child, even though she had to rise up on her toes to do so. She stepped back and put her hands to her own cheeks, smiling up at him. The two bowed to each other.

  Mabruke said to Runa. “We must let Mama Kusay return to her important work. If you would extend our thanks?” He gestured then to Oken,and strode out of Mama Kusay’s kitchen kingdom. Oken bowed to Mama Kusay and followed them.

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  VIRACOCHA HELD out the quipu for his father the Inca to see. “Papa, I have found proof that Pachacutisent an assassin to kill a royal prince of Egypt.”

  The Inca flicked impatient fingers at the slaves waiting patiently at his feet. “Go!” His hands looked old, and he no longer filled the golden chair.

  The many girls gathered around him leaped up, scattering the cushions, and vanished into the several doorways of the sunroom.

  Once they were alone, Viracocha tried again, almost speaking calmly. “Pachacuti tried to blow up Mixcomitl, Papa. He would have killed me as well.”

  “Quetzals are death,” the Inca said to him. “You spend too much time in the sky.”

  Viracocha held the quipu closer to the old man’s eyes. “These assassins work for my brother, Papa. This is the record of the payments he has given them—look! It has the Inheritor’s seal on the handle!”

  “Your brother has no quarrel with this prince of Egypt,” the Inca said with sharp dismissal. He clutched his robe closer to his chest. “Why would he do such a thing?”

  Viracocha looked around helplessly at the familiar opulence of his father’s private sunroom—red marble and redder gold, looking out over the imperial gardens. Lush ferns softened the window ledges, and cooling mist drifted from a fountain in the center of an exquisite little pool. This place had once been the heart of family warmth, bathed in light, while his father’s favorite women sang the ancient stories of heroes who battled demons and gods in the dark dimension of the Afterworld. In Viracocha’s imagination, his father had played the hero who made the Sun rise— and his fierce, demented brother Pachacutiwas every vicious monster in the dark.

  He had never understood Pachacuti mind when a child, and time had only increased the distance between their hearts. Viracocha struggled to find words large and simple enough to make his father understand. “Papa, if we ask him, he will lie.” He tried to speak forcefully. Despite his manly bulk, he never felt full- grown in the presence of this man.

  The Inca shrugged thin, bony shoulders, age pressing against him. “I know he lies,” he said with resignation. “He has lied to me his entire life. I know.” He put his hand out to Viracocha, meeting his eyes with a kindlier expression. “Your brother is the Inheritor, and he must make himself ready to take the throne of our world. But you are my Best Boy, Viracocha. My Best Boy! He cannot take that from you—do not try to take his throne.”

  Viracocha flinched ever so slightly, then caught himself. “I do not want his throne, Papa. Not if he gave it to me.”

  “Liar!”

  Pachacutistepped through a doorway from the shadows where he had stood, listening. Behind him, in the half light of the corridor, a pool of blood was slowly spreading, and there were no guards. The Inheritor was narrow to his brother’s width, wiry rather than strong or agile. He bore the puma-face of the imperial family tattooed on his high, narrow brow. His hazel eyes were narrow under the thin lines of his eyebrows, matching the thin line of his sneer.

  “Liar!”

  He flung the word at his brother with an icy friendliness that made Viracocha cold. Pachacuti’s voice had knives in it.

  Pachacuti strolled up to his father and rested a hand on his shoulder. “My brothers have all wanted my throne, Papa. You and I know that.”

  Yupanqui Inca looked up at his firstborn, smiling the sad, involuntary smile of a parent uncertain of what success he could expect from the next generation. “Your brother is moxie,” he said to him. “You are my Inheritor, Pachacuti. He will not have your throne.”

  “Viracocha—a traitor who consorts with foreign demons—” Pachacuti’s grip on his father’s shoulder tightened to a claw, pinning the old man to the golden chair. The Inca whimpered. Pachacuti leaned close to his ear and whispered, “The things I have done for you, Papa? The things I have done in your name—yet Viracocha is your Best Boy? Your Best Boy!”

  In the bright light of the room, his pupils were pinpoints, and a searing rage Viracocha had never seen looked out. “Both of you think to take my throne! I see now, Papa. You led these conspiracies against me—you from the beginning!”

  “No!” Viracocha stumbled back a pace, appalled to see his mother’s mindless fury reflected in his brother’s face.

  “You are my Inheritor!” The Inca gently caressed Pachacuti’s hand, gripping his shoulder. “You are firstborn of my flesh—nothing can change that. You are the energy of my youth, and my throne will be yours when I die!”

  “You are Papa’s Best Boy.” Pachacuti hurled the words at Viracocha, his breathing loud in his throat. “You are his blade. You are the knife in my back!”

  He sneered, his glare focusing on his brother. “You think you and your Egyptian spies fooled me?”

  “They are not spies.” Viracocha could barely force the words out. Memories from a childhood chained by constant fear of his elder brother, of “Slasher” surged through him, locking his bones in place.

  “My empire is greater than Egypt,” the Inca said, irritation at his sons sharp in his voice. “And you are my Inheritor.” He tried to pry Pachacuti’s fingers loose.

  “Egypt will learn to fear Tawantinsuyu,” Pachacuti cried out. “I will rain down fire upon them, fire from the Moon.”

  “No!” the old man groaned, reaching up to his son to protest.

  Pachacuti leaned forward, seeming to stroke his father’s throat with a loving caress. Blood welled out through his fingers. Pachacuti released the Inca with a moan of triumph, leaping away so swiftly that the gore barely touched his silken robe. He threw away the dagger, giggling hysterically.

  Viracocha sprang to his father as the old man slumped out of his seat. Blood spilled across the sleeves of the prince’s jacket, across his feathered collar. “Papa!” he cried. He put his hand over the flowing wound, trying to stanch the blood with this fingers. “Papa!”

  The old man peered up at Viracocha, struggling to speak past the gurgle in his throat. His eyes stilled.

  Viracocha held him tenderly to his chest as he knelt there. Then he looked at Pachacuti, his eyes suddenly cold, eagle-sharp. “What have you done?”

  The mask of Pachacuti’s face was white, with spots of hot blood mottling his skin, and he drew himself up to his full height. “Little brother, you think you are a god up there in the sky, with your golden demon-wings? Pachacuti—me—I am the god! I am the Inca, Son of the Sun! Life and death are mine to give— and to take!”

  He slid his bloodied hands into the wide cuffs of his silk robe to hide them. “Guards!” His eyes were locked with Viracocha’s,
the light of triumph harsh in them. “Guards! Assassin! Assassin!”

  Viracocha looked down at the face of his father, flecked with blood, staring into eternity. He closed those eyes, to conceal the dismay and remorse frozen there. He rested his cheek against his father’s brow, keening a prayer for the dead he had sung too many times.

  He barely heard the loud command as his brother ordered the guards to arrest him, to take him to the Tower for the assassination of the Inca. A half dozen guards were needed, and more than one was injured, before they could safely wrest the old man’s body from Viracocha’s grasp and drag the weeping prince away.

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  “I INQUIRED of Mr. Qusmi as to why we were assigned to this particular suite in the guest wing of the manor.” Oken sank down into the cushions of the parlor chair and put his feet up.

  Mabruke tilted his head to one side, smiling indulgently at the younger man. “I am sure that his report was most informative.”

  “It would seem that this is a suite designed for husband and wife, hence the differences in the bedroom décor.”

  Mabruke broke out into a hearty laugh, genuine amusement bubbling through and shining in his eyes. “Well, tell me. Were you the newly married guest, which room would you choose for making love to your bride?”

  Oken had to smile. “Any place my lady pleases. Ever and always.”

  “Spoken like an Egyptian.”

  “To the core.”

  “Have you noticed that the women here seem particularly vulnerable to the simplest of gentlemanly behaviors?”

  Oken felt a stab of wordless guilt. He put his feet down on the floor and sat forward to reach for the ceramic jug, shaped like a puma coiled to strike. The vodka it held was carefully distilled and quite powerful. He poured a considerable portion into Mabruke’s choclatl mug and then added a smaller portion to his own.

  Mabruke took the mug and sipped from it, held it up as a salute to Oken, then took a long drink.

  Oken picked up his mug and leaned back into his chair. The light from the spunglass chandelier was as warm as candlelight. Night breezes blowing into the spirals wafted through the rooms with the exquisite perfumes of Quillabamba’s many gardens.

  “I have noticed. You know that I have. I keep reviewing my own moral soundings, to keep my feet under me.”

  “Women as suppressed as these Andean lovelies are surely the weak point of their civilization.”

  “Women and the Moon have a long association.”

  “Well, I do have to defer to your superior knowledge of the sex. You will have to be my navigator in these foreign waters.”

  Oken had already determined that. It eased his conscience to know that Mabruke was also aware.

  Oken recalled Runa’s warning that the Queen Mother had spies everywhere. He signaled Mabruke by cupping his hand behind his ear. “Care for a walk?”

  “Indeed.” Mabruke stood, brushing down the hem of his kilt. “Let me get my sandals. I do feel inclined to take an evening stroll.”

  “Good,” Oken said, standing as well. “Let me get my gloves.”

  Mr. Qusmi met them at the bottom of the spiral staircase. He carried a silver tray with a choclatl pitcher wrapped in a red towel. He showed his weary smile. “I was just bringing you a refresher for your drinks, sires.”

  “Help yourself to it, Mr. Qusmi,” Mabruke said lightly. “Scott and I are going out for a stroll, to take in the night air.”

  At the suggestion that he might drink the hot choclatl intended for noblemen, Qusmi blanched and almost let go of the tray. “Sir! I would never!”

  “Oh, please, be my guest,” Mabruke said. “If you fear someone may see, then you may go up and sit in our parlor.”

  The old man turned pleading eyes to him. “I would not dare. The Queen Mother would have me flayed alive!”

  “Seriously?” Oken said. “It is very good choclatl, but I doubt they would kill you over it.”

  Mr. Qusmi could only nod, his eyes big.

  “We can’t have that,” Mabruke said. “Why don’t you just set it on the stair, then. We’ll have it when we return.”

  “Thank you, sir. That is most kind of you.” Qusmi set the tray on the step with trembling hands. He bowed to them. “The best view for eve ning walks would be this way, sirs. If you would follow me?”

  He led them to the wide receiving hall. The glass doors were closed for the night. A side door let them out into the open air and a long driveway down to the river. Paved with crushed seashells, it gleamed in the lights from the manor. The air was sweet and fresh.

  “Guards along the walls will protect you,” Qusmi said. “The doors will be left open for your return.” He bowed and went inside.

  They strolled for a few minutes over the crunching shells. Oken was glad of the gloves and long sleeves of his silk jacket. The evening breezes had grown cool under the brilliant stars.

  Mabruke pointed skyward. “The Milky Way has astonishing clarity at this altitude.”

  Oken looked at the long turn of diamond dust in the night. “The river of fire in the sky.”

  “What’s that?” Mabruke said.

  “The Milky Way is their Nile. They cross it to the Next Life. The other side of the world.”

  “They think they can fly over the Milky Way to get to the Moon? Is that what we are here to find out?”

  The two men were silent, taking in the dazzle of the sky. The mountains enfolding Quillabamba and the imperial estate were dark shapes, the shoulders and arms of gods enfolding the human community in their protecting circle, holding them close to heaven. The song of the river was as constant as breathing, the sighing of the night and the sky.

  “Mik, something tells me that your natural attraction has worked its usual magic. We are in the place we need to be.”

  “Your instincts are good.”

  “I do my best.”

  “Even the Queen could ask no more.”

  “She will not like this story,” Oken said. “I can assure you of that.”

  “She did not send us here to change the ways of their civilization. Just to find a way to join in their endeavor.”

  “Speaking of stories, Mik, Runa told me a story today that should interest you.”

  “Indeed?”

  “Evidently their gods battle with demons on the other side of the mountain across the river. The fire from their battles lights the sky, she tells me.”

  “Indeed?”

  “She saw the fires herself.”

  “The Queen did say that this research project has existed for some years.”

  Oken nodded. “According to Runa, these demons battle only when Prince Viracocha is away.”

  “Perhaps we really are in the right place.”

  They stood for a time in silence, struck by the beauty and strangeness of the place, transformed by the blanket of darkness and the closeness of the sky. Even the Duat stars in Verdi’s opera had not evoked the simple awe of this celestial display. The sighing of the river was a swift song in the night.

  After a half hour or so, there was a low rumble that seemed to come from the ground and grew to a roar. A long, black arrow shape like some monstrous fireworks rocket leaped up from the dark horizon, balanced precariously on a tail of white-hot fire.

  It did not climb far, however. The tail of fire split into two and sputtered. Smoke trailed behind as it spiraled upward crazily, exploding finally with a series of booms that rang through the night and echoed off the stony mountainsides. The glowing pieces sprayed around with sizzling sounds.

  The echoes of the explosion faded, and the night’s breathing was quiet again.

  Oken shook his head. “What those people need are some albatross for navigation!”

  Mabruke spoke quietly. “Indeed, we are in the right place. The Queen will definitely be interested in this.”

  “Listen!” Oken said, reacting to a sense of alarm. There was a growing noise of voices from guardhouses along the river. “We are defin
itely not in the right place just this minute.”

  They turned at once and went back toward the stone and glass entry to the Queen Mother’s manor house, the white shells crunching under their heels sounding loud in the darkness. The yellow glow of lamps in the courtyards and corridors made the façade look like a warm place, ancient and complex, shining in the dark.

  The mountains around them had become black shapes blocking the stars.

  The voices behind were louder, calls and sharp commands.

  The doorway, despite Mr. Qusmi’s assurance, was locked. Oken gestured for Mabruke to follow, and headed to the side of the manor. The bamboo gate was locked, but that was only the work of kicking the cross latch, snapping it in half. They went through, and Mabruke closed the gate behind them.

  Mabruke let Oken lead. The library window was closed. Oken jumped lightly over the stone ditch, catching himself on the ledge. Mabruke crossed the ditch simply by taking a long step over it, catching the ledge as Oken had. Oken demonstrated silently that they were to push inward at the same time.

  The heavy pane swung inward on its silent hinges, lifted by a counterbalance system. Oken had experimented with it earlier in the afternoon, attempting to puzzle out the unusual mechanism. He had also placed a carefully folded wad of paper blocking the lock.

  Oken liked being a man who knew how to plan ahead.

  He and Mabruke leaped up onto the window ledge and inside. Oken closed the window, careful to retrieve the paper and pocket it. “This way,” he said softly. He threaded through the tables and chairs by memory in the dark. He opened the library door, and the two men slipped out.

  The hallway outside the library was lit, but empty. Oken reviewed his internal map of the manor and smiled at Mabruke. “Two gentlemen out on an eve ning’s stroll who got lost in the manor.”

  Mabruke set off down the hallway, taking the first door on the right. Mr. Qusmi was standing just on the other side, smiling his weary smile. “Good eve ning, sirs,” he said. “I hope you enjoyed your stroll?”