Turtledove, Harry - Anthology 07 - New Tales Of The Bronze Age - The First Heroes (with Doyle, Noreen)

by The First Heroes (anth. ) (lit)

  "Maybe she's not just lazy," Orqo went on. "Could it be she's ugly? Maybe she's a dwarf or a

  hunchback like her servants."

  Kusi leaped to his feet, his hands in fists. Orqo felt a thrill of pleasure.

  Kusi's eyes narrowed. "Is not! She's beautiful, just like your mother! And—and—she's not just beautifu l. She talks to the gods! Can your mother do that?"

  Orqo reveled in his newfound power. "Prove it."

  Kusi stood for a moment with his shoulders hunched and his fists like knots on his legs. Then he

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  grabbed Orqo by the wrist and pulled him across the courtyard, through one room and another, through another courtyard, then another, through an alley, and into a part of the palace Orqo had never seen. Orqo was vaguely aware of people pausing and turning their heads, but no one tried to stop them. Finally, two tall men jumped aside to let them through a doorway, and two more men no taller than Orqo's waist shouted greetings to Kusi and likewise made way. Kusi pulled Orqo past them into a dark chamber.

  Orqo found himself face-to-face with the palest woman he had ever seen. No wonder they called her Mama Runtu, Mother Egg. Her face glowed like the moon in the darkness, and her jaw moved constantly. At first Orqo thought she was trying to speak, then realized she must be chewing kuka leaves. He had heard that she slept with them in her mouth. At her elbow sat a plate bearing a whole qowi, untouched. The scent of the roasted guinea pig filled the air and made Orqo ravenous.

  The Qoya betrayed not the least surprise, but merely nodded toward a pile of blankets, much like that on which she herself reclined. Then she waved at a shadowy figure in the corner who was playing a flute. The music stopped, and the woman who had been playing limped painfully from the room, nearly doubled over by the hump on her back. Orqo felt ill.

  "Welcome, Orqo." Mama Runtu's voice was light and musical. "Please sit. Are you hungry?" She offered him the qowi.

  He shook his head and groped for the blankets. "You know me?" he stammered.

  "I watch," she said simply. "Or they watch for me." She glanced to her left, and Orqo saw that their meeting was being observed by a crowd of some eight or ten attendants, none of them the size or shape of a healthy adult person.

  "No need to stare," the Qoya added. "We are all injured by the gods. In some of us, the wounds are visible. In others, they are not."

  Orqo flushed, and looked at the floor in front of Mama Runtu. She was stranger than he had imagined, though she did have an odd beauty, with her pale skin wreathed in wild black hair. Her lliklla looked plain of fabric but glittered with many jewels.

  The Qoya patted the blanket next to her, and Kusi sat down, his chin lifted with pride. They did not touch, but Orqo felt something strong between them, something that frightened him. He wondered what his father would think if he could see them all there together. Orqo knew that Wiraqocha spent little time with Mama Runtu. Enough to make sons, but no more.

  "I am glad to have a good look at you," she said smoothly. "The next Inka. I am honored. I think your father would remind us all to remove our shoes." She smiled and slipped her sandals from her feet with one hand. Her attendants did the same. The gesture made Orqo nervous. He wanted to go, but he couldn't give Kusi the pleasure of watching him run. Perhaps he could find a way to leave with his pride intact.

  "My father is expecting me," he said. "No doubt." The Qoya leaned back. Her eyes studied him closely, with such intensity that he had to look away again. "Give me your hands," she said suddenly. Orqo stood to approach her. He felt like a giant. When he reached her, he sat on the floor and held out his hands. He wished they wouldn't tremble.

  "Ah." Mama Runtu pressed his hands together, then held them to her face. Gently she rubbed his palms against her cheeks. He had never felt skin that soft, not even—he felt a traitor to think this—his mother's.

  The Qoya released his hands and looked at him with motherly concern. "Take care, Orqo. Your hands hold your brother's fate. The wanka-kuna told me. Whatever Kusi will become, or not become, is up to you."

  Orqo tried to shrug off her words. Why would the sacred stones talk to Mama Runtu? And why would they talk about him?

  She sighed. The brightness of her face dimmed, as if a thin cloud had passed over the moon. "Your father must be waiting," she said. "Kusi, show him the way." Kusi looked once at Orqo, a glance of pride and triumph that Orqo did not understand. Hadn't Mama Runtu just said that he held Kusi's fate in his hands?

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  But Kusi did not seem at all disturbed by her announcement. With a light step—but without speaking—he raced Orqo back to his own part of the palace.

  The chill of the water ate into Orqo's bones. But he knew he had to endure the river's cold for as long as he could, to swim as far as possible from Kusi's reach. He squinted at the mountains. Had he passed Tampu yet? Kusi must have soldiers at Tampu. If he could swim far enough below Tampu he might have a chance to escape and regroup his forces. Wiraqocha still commanded some loyalty.

  Mama Runtu was mad, he thought. I don't hold Kusi's fate in my hands; he holds mine in his.

  But mad or not, the Qoya, like Kusi, had won the hearts of Qosqo's people, while they maligned the faithful Qori Chullpa. Orqo found it hard to understand. Mama Runtu never showed her face outside her palace, never attended a feast or a ceremony. The people never even saw her. And yet they said of the Qoya, What a fine mother! And so kind to her poor servants! No wonder Kusi is thoughtful and generous. Look how gently he speaks to the crippled beggars—just like his mother does. And a skilled young warrior, too! The amauta-kuna never cease in their praises. Then they would whisper, Ah, what an Inka he would make! Why is Wiraqocha so blind?

  But of Orqo's own mother, who faithfully managed her husband's household and who actually spent more time with Kusi than did Mama Runtu—of her, Orqo had never heard a kind word spoken. He had lain awake at night, seething with anger at the whispers he had overheard. Qori Chullpa never bathed Orqo in cold water; no wonder he looks sickly. She picked him up and held him whenever he cried; no wonder he whines and insists on his own way. She gave him toys and indulged his every whim; no wonder he spends his days eating and drinking and dressing himself in fine things. Qori Chullpa ruined Orqo—and now Wiraqocha asks us to accept him as our lord?

  Orqo swam hard again, his anger renewed. Yes, it was true that he had spent much time in feasting and merrymaking—what else would his father allow him to do? And he wore the best cloth, the finest sandals and pins and earplugs. His father insisted.

  The people, they didn't understand. Let them try to live his life. Let them live the life of the heir and favorite son of Wiraqocha. In any case, when he, Orqo, was Inka, the gossip would stop. Anyone who spoke ill of Qori Chullpa would die. And he would expose Mama Runtu's madness to the world. Hear the wanka-kuna? He might as well claim that he heard them himself!

  The current slammed him into a rock before he had time to swim around it, and his shoulder burned. Damn you, Mama Runtu, he thought. But Kusi, now, that was another question. His mother was right about Kusi—he was different. Did he hear the wanka-kuna? Did the gods and the stones and the ancestors speak to him? Kusi had tried to show him, once—

  "Ssst! Orqo!"

  Orqo awoke to a voice no louder than the buzz of a fly.

  "They're all asleep," Kusi whispered. "Let's go!"

  Orqo rose from his bed, leaving his sandals. Qori Chullpa lay at the other end of the room, and a few younger siblings sprawled in the space between. Even the qowi-kuna, the guinea pigs, slept huddled in a corner, instead of running about and disturbing people's sleep.

  Kusi was already at the doorway. The men who sat on either side, facing the courtyard, had indeed nodded off; this was a rare opportunity. Orqo tiptoed between them, then ran after Kusi toward the garden. His heart thudded, making it difficult for him to listen for others who might be up and about, and report an errant prince to Wiraqocha. But they reached the small grove of qewna trees without
seeing anyone. The front entrance of the palace, Orqo knew, was flanked by guards who would not fall asleep, but Kusi had assured him that the trees offered a way over the wall.

  "Watch me." Kusi mouthed the command and then swung himself up on a branch. The tree looked barely strong enough to hold his weight, but with his feet halfway up the trunk, he could lean over and just catch the top of the stone wall with his hands. He pulled himself up and

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  scrambled over the top.

  Orqo, conscious of his greater size and clumsiness, climbed as high as he dared. The peeling bark scratched his bare legs and arms. But he could not turn back. He leaned for the wall and managed to put his arms across the top. For a moment his legs swung wildly, but he found a crevice with his toes, and finally he was over.

  How would they get back in? he wondered. But Kusi tugged at his hand, and they ran through the streets of Qosqo lit only by the stars— Mama-Killa, the moon, lay hidden that night. They met only the occasional late-night traveler, too hurried or too drunk to care about a pair of mischievous boys. When the last house lay behind them, Kusi ducked behind a rock. Orqo crouched next to him, panting.

  "How far is it?" he whispered.

  "Not far."

  "Do you know who it is?"

  Kusi shook his head. "I've never heard anyone speak of it. It is very old. Perhaps one of the first."

  "First what?"

  "Inkas."

  Orqo fell silent, suddenly oppressed by the enormity of what they were about to do—visit an ancestor, alone, in the darkness. Then Kusi sighed. "I didn't tell you," he whispered. "What?" Orqo trembled. "What, Kusi?" Kusi's thin fingers closed around Orqo's arm. " It spoke to me. No one else was there. But I heard it."

  Orqo stared at the rock. So this was why Kusi was so eager to sneak out and risk Wiraqocha's fury.

  "What did it say?" Orqo asked.

  For a long moment, Kusi did not answer. What terrible thing had he heard? Orqo wondered. An omen of doom? Again Kusi sighed, and he looked up at the brilliant stars. "It called me Inka." He shook his head and turned to Orqo. "But I'm not to be Inka. You are."

  A cold chill gripped Orqo. "I think you should not tell me this."

  "Who else am I to tell? Father? My mother?"

  Orqo remembered the pale face of Mama Runtu, and Kusi's pride in her—and that she claimed to hear the gods and spirits. "Why not your mother?"

  Kusi stared silently at the ground, but Orqo heard his breathing, labored and slow as if he gathered strength, or courage. "I am afraid of what she would do. I don't want to cause trouble. I don't want to be Inka." Then he looked at Orqo with luminous eyes. "But if anything happened to you, Orqo—to you and Father—I would work hard to be a good Inka. I would protect our people."

  Orqo's stomach knotted. "Kusi, don't—"

  Kusi let go of Orqo and jumped up. "Come. You must hear, too."

  Orqo followed him into the darkness, inwardly cursing the stones that jabbed at his feet. He always wore sandals—Wiraqocha insisted— and his feet were not as tough as Kusi's. But Kusi must never suspect weakness. So he bit his tongue.

  Orqo was limping by the time they reached the mouth of the cave. Tucked behind a boulder, and visible only as a sliver of shadow in the starlight, it would have been nearly impossible to find even in the day, Orqo thought. Indeed, when he squeezed in after Kusi, he had to let out all his breath, and still the rock raked his back like a puma's claws. He sighed. Any chance their adventure would go undetected had just vanished.

  Inside it was so dark and silent he felt he must have fallen into Pakariytampu, the cave from

  which the four Inka ancestors and their sister-wives had emerged onto the earth. Kusi's sudden

  whisper made him jump.

  "Here, Orqo. Touch it." A hand bumped into him, felt its way down his arm, grabbed his wrist. Orqo had to lean over as Kusi pulled his left hand down, down toward the cave floor. At about the height of his knee, his palm met something dry and dusty-feeling—cloth, Orqo realized, the ancestor's clothing.

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  "Your other hand, too."

  Reluctantly Orqo knelt and lifted his right hand, inching it into place next to his left. Something stringy brushed his fingers, and he suppressed a scream. This hand rested not on cloth but on something dry and wrinkled, like a maize husk. Skin, he realized, and the strings were hair. He must be holding the mummy's shoulder. His own skin trembled as if ants crawled all over his body.

  "Are you touching it?" Kusi asked.

  Orqo nodded, then realized the gesture was useless in the darkness. "Yes," he whispered. The mummy's skin felt warm under his hand, and the darkness was so complete he wondered if he would go blind. Kusi said no more, and the silence became unbearable. Orqo tried to think of an excuse to leave.

  "Shouldn't we offer it a sacrifice?" he said.

  "I brought one."

  For a terrible moment Orqo wondered if Kusi meant him—then he felt a bit of fur against his arm, and a soft plop as it fell to the ground. "Qpwi," said Kusi. "Is it enough?" "Last time I brought nothing." Nothing? Surely that settled it, Orqo thought. No ancestor or god or stone would talk to someone who brought nothing.

  He heard Kusi settle himself on the floor. The warmth of Kusi's body radiated across the space between them, though they were not touching. "What do we do?" Orqo whispered. "Wait." So Orqo waited. He continued to shake, and he hoped Kusi could not feel his tremors. Coldness

  seeped from the floor of the cave into his legs. He could see nothing, and hear nothing save his own breathing and Kusi's.

  Then Kusi's stopped. Orqo held his own breath to listen for his brother's, and just as he thought he might faint, Kusi moaned, then screamed. He fell onto Orqo, Orqo yelled, and they both scrambled for the way out of the cave. Kusi found it first, and Orqo pressed after him. For a moment he felt stuck, and he thought perhaps the mountain would squeeze him to death in punishment for trespassing on sacred ground. Then Kusi pulled on him with both hands, and he stumbled into fresh air.

  Kusi ran. Orqo followed his shadow, tripping and stumbling all the way back to Qosqo. Finally the walls of the city loomed before them. "Stop!" Orqo called. "Wait, Kusi!" His ribs hurt, and his feet felt torn to shreds; but also he knew that once they returned to the palace it would be hard to talk.

  Kusi paused and turned. His eyes glinted. But even in the starlight, Orqo could see his expression, and it was one he had never seen before. Kusi was afraid—but not of the mummy. He was afraid of Orqo. Indeed, he kept moving his eyes so that he would not have to look Orqo in the face.

  "What did you hear?" Orqo asked.

  Kusi shook his head.

  "I heard nothing," Orqo insisted. "What is it?"

  The fear on Kusi's face turned to sadness, a horrible sadness. "You did not hear?"

  "No."

  Kusi fell to the dirt with his head in his hands. He moaned. Orqo waited.

  Kusi finally whispered, "It isn't just the mummy, Orqo. Stones. Water. The gods in the temples. They all speak to me." Orqo's mouth felt dry. "What do they say?" "The same. Pachakuteq Inka Yupanki, they call me." "So that's what the mummy said?" "Not this time. This time it said—it said, beware of Orqo. Beware. He is no brother to you." Kusi

  looked up imploringly. "Would you hurt me, Orqo? Are you not my brother?" Orqo felt as if his feet had grown one with the ground. He could not move, and when he tried to speak reassuringly, the words stuck in his throat. He reached toward Kusi, and Kusi flinched.

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  Finally he mumbled the only words he could muster: "I don't know."

  At that, Kusi leaped up and ran again, and Orqo chased after him. When they neared the palace they found that sneaking in undetected would have been impossible, after all, for they were scooped up by Wiraqocha' s guards and carried bodily into the palace. Qori Chullpa tended their scrapes and bruises while Wiraqocha lectured them on the danger of the next Inka running around unguarded at night like a stray dog.

  Th
eir skin wounds healed soon enough. But as the days passed Orqo knew that Kusi would never

  look at him with brotherly trust again. Not because of what the unknown mummy had said—but

  because of what Orqo had not been able to say.

  Orqo felt he had been swimming forever, when he glimpsed ahead a bridge swinging high over the Willkamayu. Tampu—he must be approaching Tampu. If he floated under the bridge, he thought, he would surely be seen. He swam to the riverbank to continue his journey on foot. His wet sandals still clung to his feet, but they slipped so treacherously on the stones that he finally took them off and flung them into the current. If they were seen, he might be presumed dead, and so much the better. The sandals bobbed on the ripples. "For you, Mayu-Mama," he said to the river spirit, half in jest.

  "A sacrifice."

  A sacrifice.

  Orqo froze. What was that? Had a god deigned to speak to him? Or were his ears playing tricks?

  He licked his lips. What did one say in return? He looked into the water, not knowing whether he appeared reverent or absurd. "Did you speak to me?"

  But the river ran on, absorbed in its own thoughts. Orqo shook off the moment. The last thing he needed was to be distracted by imaginary voices from the gods. He had to get past Tampu. He jammed his mace into his belt. He saw that his knife and sling still hung there as well, and he felt encouraged. At least he had his weapons.

  Orqo climbed quickly into the rocks at the river's edge. He kept one eye on the bridge as he crept along, and though he saw no one pass, he tried to stay well hidden. With the bridge behind him, however, he returned to the river. Travel by foot was devastatingly slow. He had a better chance of escape if he let the Willkamayu carry him.

  The brief walk had warmed him, and the icy water took his breath away. He kicked to keep himself afloat, and wondered about the voice he thought had spoken to him. Was that the sort of voice Kusi had heard? Quiet, almost breathless, seeming to come more from within than without?

  If he made another sacrifice, would Mayu-Mama speak again?