At dusk, Manku draws the interpreter aside to a smaller room. “Let’s chew,” he says. He calls for lamps and makes up quids as before. There follows a companionable silence of working jaws, the leaves numbing the mouth, quickening the mind.
“The Qoya has ordered inquiries,” the Inca says. “They may take a little while. But if your cousin is still a Chosen, she will be found.”
Waman launches into fulsome thanks, expressing his burning wish to be someday in a position to requite, in his humble way, such kingly kindness.
Manku lifts a hand to stop the flow. “You can repay me now by considering a proposition. You needn’t answer right away—take a few days to think it over. You’re free to say yes or no.” He looks Waman in the eye. “Why not stay with us in Willkapampa? Your cousin too when we find her. I will give you a good house, helpers, everything you need. What better place to further the search for your family? From here you can go anywhere you wish in Antisuyu. I also have many lands beyond this suyu. Among them Huanuco Province, which is held by General Illa Tupa. He will help you when you go there. That’s the likeliest place, isn’t it, from what you said?”
“I believe so, Sapa Inka. I was planning to go there as soon as my business in Cusco is—”
“Why go to Cusco? Why put yourself back in Spanish hands? Perhaps in Spanish irons. Your helpers can take my answer to the Vicar-General. Write him a letter. Tell him you’re ill and can’t travel. Not ill enough for him to send a friar, though.” Manku chuckles. “You could even say I’m keeping you . . . detained.”
Maybe that is what he’s doing, Waman thinks.
“I’ve seen,” the Inca goes on, “that my eldest has taken to you. Titu Kusi has a lively mind. He needs a tutor. So will the others in a few years. We have good teachers here—scholars from the House of Learning. I know you taught there yourself for a while. But they are elderly. They know little of the world beyond Tawantinsuyu.
“Also, the time is coming when I shall need a secretary. My sons certainly will. Someone who can read and write, both Quechua and Castilian. When we retake Cusco this need will be urgent. The state archives all went up in flames. Every year more knotkeepers die. Beyond my borders no new ones are being trained.
“That’s all, Waman. Think well.”
At the door Manku calls for Titu Kusi. When that fails he bellows the boy’s full name with mock formality: “Titu Kusi Yupanki!”
The youth arrives a little dishevelled, as if he has been in bed and not alone.
“Bid good night to our guest, now. Say it in Castilian.”
“Winas nuchis,” Titu Kusi manages, holding out his hand.
“Buenas noches, señor mío,” Waman replies, grasping it.
—
Waman has slept little, the Inca’s offer burning in his mind. Why not take it? Especially if Tika can be found. A new life for the two of them, when they seemed to have lost everything. But what if the Spaniards overrun Willkapampa? He is being asked to foresee the future.
He is delighted to hear Molina at his door, bringing breakfast from the palace. The only person he can turn to for advice. Whatever else his stepfather may be, Molina is shrewd and canny. The older man listens, sipping coca tea.
“I’ll say this for it, Waman—you’ve won Manku’s trust, and you can trust him. He will treat you as he’s promised. He’s treated me well enough. Even those Almagrist rogues.” With that Molina falls silent, a deep frown creasing his tattoos. Waman wonders what’s wrong, why the hesitation. Molina is usually so forthright, so talkative. Is he jealous? Does he wish he’d mastered the alphabet and been offered this himself?
“Have some more tea, Waman. It’ll help us think.” He fills their cups slowly, adjusting the level in each one as if playing for time. “I’ve heard something. And I don’t like it. It could affect your decision.”
“What?”
“The Almagrists: Méndez, Barba . . .”
Molina drops his voice so low that Waman must strain to hear him above the sounds of the town: dogs and children, roosters, horses nickering on the lawn. “Don’t forget I’m still a Spaniard under these clothes. Enough to know those men. I was just like them once. I pick up things. Glances, gestures.”
He pauses, takes a bite of bread and honey.
“For some time now I’ve suspected they’re up to something. It’s looking worse since you got here, since the Inca received you that day at the usnu. What he said about ‘bearded ones’ rattled them, even though his words were just for show.”
“How would they know what was said? Did they ask?”
“I’m sure they did. Their women. And one or two of them may understand the language better than we think.”
Molina springs up and draws a corner of the door aside. Satisfied no one is eavesdropping, he comes back to his breakfast, voice muffled by chewing.
“Barba’s woman told my Sallqa that she’s noticed a change. She has only a few words of Spanish, but a sharp nose. She says the Almagrists joke around like always when someone’s watching, but they’re not joking amongst themselves. They’re whispering. She thinks they’re plotting an escape.”
“But they’ve been here for years. Where would they go? They can’t go to Gonzalo—he’d kill them on the spot.”
“Oh, they won’t go to Gonzalo. That would be suicide. But they may think—even if it’s only wishful thinking—that if they inform on the Inca somehow they will be welcomed in Lima, taken back by their own people. The Viceroy is holding out an olive branch. Manku may not be the only one to clutch at it.”
“They can’t know about that. How do you know that?”
“Manku told me himself. I had a word with him late last night, to warn him. He’s vulnerable right now—with Pumasupa and the best fighting men not here. But Méndez and Barba could have guessed it anyway. They know there’s more to your presence than that letter you read out. They may even have been approached.”
“How could they?”
“What about those two helpers who came with you?”
“They’re simple fellows. Lakers. They only speak Aymara.”
“You sure of that?”
Waman’s spirits, brittle at best, shatter in remorse. What Molina suspects is all too likely. “I’ve been a fool! I should have sent all of them back to Cusco at the bridge. When I had the chance.”
Molina pats him on the knee. “Only guesswork. Like I say, the signs go back before that anyway. Don’t ride yourself so hard. I never do.”
“How did Manku take your warning?”
“Like you did. He thinks they’ve got too much to lose, beginning with their lives. Where can they go? he says. Where can they live better?”
“What did you say to that?”
“I said Spaniards always think they can live better.”
Waman takes two days to give the Inca his decision. He accepts, but asks if he may do so provisionally—until he knows the whereabouts of Tika and his mother. He should consult with them on longer plans. The Inca agrees curtly. Manku is not used to subordinates who dither. Yet he did promise the man a free choice.
That afternoon the sun breaks through a charcoal sky, burnishing the plaza lawn, steaming the town’s heavy thatches and the coats of llamas and horses. The Almagrists gather by the usnu for a game of horseshoes. The Inca and Titu Kusi stroll over to join them. Few onlookers turn out. Manku’s best men are still away, and most of the townsfolk are indoors. It’s already late in the day; a smell of cooking hangs in the streets.
Waman and Molina are there. Sallqa, Molina’s woman, arrives with Sisa, the girl who brings the interpreter his meals. The women talk gaily between themselves, offering the men guavas and tamales, a dish which has caught on in Vitcos since the “Mexican” introduced it.
“She’s soft on you, lad,” Molina whispers, with a sidelong glance at Sisa. “Your type, I reckon. Time
you made a move. A single man’s always a boy in Peru, no matter how old he grows. Why haven’t you got a wife by now anyway?”
The women settle on cushions near the pitch, spreading their skirts around them.
“You know very well.”
“Ah, yes. Your cousin. You like to keep it in the family. Cousins, sisters—if you ask me, the Incas don’t set the best example. Mind you, I doubt they’re as inbred as the Habsburgs. I hear King Charles is one of the lucky ones. Some of his cousins can’t even wipe their own arses.”
The two have not been paying attention to the game, which ends in scattered applause. An Almagrist win. Waman’s ear is plucked by a lovely sound, a lute’s arpeggio, reeling him back to the Moorish alleys of Seville. The tones fan out in the thin air, each note the heart of a ripple, as if from coins dropped in a pool. The lute player is the bearded one called Beard—Francisco Barba. A brash, disagreeable man. A master on the strings.
Méndez and the others crowd around Barba admiringly, hiding player and instrument from view. Manku, eager for another game to wipe out his loss, is walking up the pitch, gathering horseshoes, bending to right the hob—little tasks he enjoys.
They are on him so fast that nobody, not even Molina, understands what is happening until the Inca slumps over the hob with three or four stilettoes in his back. Then they are gone like cats—before the onlookers’ shock turns to panic, to fury, and the women let out a fearful wail. Only Titu Kusi matches their speed, snatching up his father’s lance and hurling it at Méndez. The lance misses narrowly, ploughs the turf. The assassin uproots it, hurls it back, cutting the boy’s thigh.
“Get the boy!” Méndez yells at Barba. “Finish the boy. I’ll hold your horse.”
The lutenist, dagger in hand, runs after the wounded prince. Though limping and bloody, Titu Kusi reaches the square’s open side and plunges down terracing into bushes below. By this time Waman and Molina have armed themselves, Molina with the lance, the interpreter with stones. They throw them at the fleeing Almagrists. No hits, but at least they stop the hunt for Titu Kusi.
The assassins are soon away, galloping bareback down the step-road, clinging like ticks to their horses’ necks.
Manku is on his side, the daggers left in his back for a healer to remove. His eyes are glassy. There is much blood on the ground and his clothing. He dressed in Inca cloth today. If only he had worn his armour, Waman thinks. But doubtless they’d have found a way. Most likely they’d have slit his throat.
“My son . . .” the Inca’s voice is faint. Pink foam appears at a corner of his mouth. “Titu Kusi . . .”
“Safe, Only King,” Waman answers. “We saw him get away. The Mexican has gone to find him.”
Manku looks up at the interpreter unsteadily. His head slumps. A gasp from all who see. More wails from the women. At that moment the healer arrives. He plucks out the daggers one by one, applies dressings. He leans in and listens to the Inca’s chest through a silver tube. The old man’s competent manner reassures the crowd. Sapa Inka kawsanmi, is all he says. The Inca lives.
Against a wall is Barba’s lute, its belly crushed to matchwood. The signal for attack. The weapons’ hiding place.
As soon as Titu Kusi limped out of the bush, the royal buildings were sealed. Nobody has entered or left the Inca’s household for two days. There are rumours: that he is dead but a successor is not yet agreed; that he is sleeping in the Sun’s House beside the mummy of Wayna Qhapaq, so that both his heavenly and earthly fathers heal him; that he has already left Vitcos, flying like a condor in pursuit of his assailants.
On the third day, at mid-morning, conches sound and the gate of the compound is thrown open. Runners go down streets, calling people to the square. Three palanquins emerge. Side by side in the first sit the Inca and Qoya with their baby girl. The second holds Titu Kusi. The other princes, Sayri Tupa and Tupa Amaru, ride together in the last. All are carried gently up the usnu, where Manku is lifted out and seated in the great stone chair beneath a feather sunshade and a banner of the Empire. The Queen is beside him, her face drawn. The two small boys sit on stools to the right. Titu Kusi stays in his litter on the left, smiling and waving at the crowd, evidently much restored, though his thigh is tightly bandaged.
Manku is still. So still that Waman fears he may be dead, a fact easily hidden by a little makeup and the kingly fringe.
“All hear,” the herald calls. “Our Only King Manku Qhapaq Yupanki lives. He will address you himself in a few days.” Manku raises his right hand slowly, face taut with pain and determination. He does not look like a man who will be well enough to make a speech in a few days.
The herald continues with news. The bearded ones who attacked the Inca with such treachery have all been killed. Runners were sent over the secret passes to Pumasupa. The general turned from his march and intercepted the attackers. Two were dragged from their horses, others tried to barricade themselves inside a house. The house was set alight. Those who fled the blaze were shot as they emerged. The rest died in the flames.
A great shout of vengeance greets this news. Manku manages a shaky salute to the Sun with outstretched hand. The family is borne back into the palace.
—
On the evening of the fourth day Molina takes Waman to the Inca’s bedside, telling him to bring pen and paper.
Manku is much worse, his breathing shallow and fast. His knees are drawn up to ease his belly, hideously swollen under the bedclothes. He is shivering, yet his face is dewy with sweat. The Qoya Kusi Warqay bends over him, fanning her husband with a goose wing. Behind the bed a priest holds up a silver staff topped by a golden sunburst. A knotkeeper sits beside the Inca on a stool.
The royal children and a small group of lords and ladies stand around the walls. General Pumasupa—just back from catching the attackers—comes up to Waman, grasping his arm, guiding him to a seat beside the knotkeeper. He hands him a board on which to rest his papers.
“The Inca wishes you to write his words,” he whispers. “You are to take them with you when you leave.”
“Take them to whom?” Waman asks, but the general hushes him.
“My children,” Manku begins. His voice is weak, with an odd clicking sound after each breath and a gurgling deep within. The Qoya protests. Her husband must rest, not speak. Others in the room murmur agreement. Some are weeping. The Inca silences them with a small wag of his head.
“My children. Brothers and sisters. All listen. I do not believe I shall escape from this. You see me in this state because, for the second time in my life, I trusted men from Spain. First the Old One and his brothers, with whom I made an alliance. And who betrayed me. Then those who murdered him. The same ones who have now struck me.
“Do not weep. If anyone weeps it should be me. For having brought this end upon myself and all of you. Now note what I command. Never again have dealings of any kind with the bearded ones. Never again let them into this realm, no matter who they are. Or how sweet their words . . .” Manku’s voice fades. The healer brings water to his lips.
The Sapa Inka struggles on. “I commend the people to your care. Never forget how they have followed us, helped us, stood by us in these dreadful times. It rests with you always to be fair, to be just and generous. That is the foundation of our power.
“I name Sayri Tupa my heir. General Pumasupa will rule through a council of regents until Sayri Tupa is of age. Titu Kusi shall sit on this council, and all lords present.
“That is all.”
Epilogue
Three people on a raft of logs on water red with silt. They are in the jungle lowlands now. The swollen river has slackened and widened like a sea, its shores indistinct: a green smudge far off where the water meets the sky. Nothing can touch them here but sun and rain and hunger. They have a little deckhouse of palm leaves, a fishing net, some food; an oar and a moon to steer by.
—
&nb
sp; As soon as he had blotted Manku’s words, Waman was sent back to his quarters with Molina. “Wait there. Be ready to leave at once,” Pumasupa told them. “If the Inca dies, the people will go mad with grief. No outsider will be safe.”
Molina paced the room for hours, opening the door, scanning the stars, listening. Neither slept.
After midnight a soldier came, bringing two teams of bearers with travelling hammocks slung from poles.
Waman asked where they were going. No reply. Only the jolt and tilt of the hammocks, and no way to see anything till dawn, when they were borne over a snowy pass and down step-roads into clouds and trees. About noon on the second day they came to the bank of a river in spate. The bearers, still unwilling to talk, began building a raft from logs kept in a shed.
Shortly before the raft was done, a third hammock arrived. In it was Tika.
She climbed out and stood still for a moment, blinking in the hard light of the clearing, lovely in the sky-blue dress of a Chosen. “Waman!” she called, seeing him running towards her from the shade.
They held each other until they felt the stares of the others upon them.
He introduced her to Molina. She was shy with him, even cool. Waman guessed she hadn’t seen a man in years, except her bearers. She wouldn’t say much until the three of them were aboard and the water was carrying them away between the forest walls.
“The Inca Manku has died,” Tika said then.
“Did you see him?”
“They didn’t take me into Vitcos. But I knew. I could hear from the road. I’ve never heard such grief.”
“Where have you been living all these years?” Waman asked. “Can you say?”
“No. Not even if I knew. But I don’t. There’s a hidden city, in the clouds, between two mountains. They took us there from Cusco. All women. We travelled at night. Many nights. They said we’d be safe there forever, that they’d torn up the road behind. You would never have found me, Waman. Not without the Qoya’s help.”
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