Three Princes (27 page)

“The players no longer believe?”

Viracocha shrugged. “To each his own. Kuchillu believes.”

Mabruke seemed ready to debate this. “But if he believes, doesn’t he risk sending us to the court of Inty in the high heavens, if he sacrifices us this way?”

Viracocha’s laugh at this was a short, bitter sound. “You try to put logic before madness, my friend. He believes whatever suits his purpose of the moment, and his purposes are dark, terrible things.”

Mabruke mused. “He must be a lonely man.”

Viracocha was surprised by this. “You pity him?”

“Loneliness is the root of evil,” Mabruke said. “It can lead a person into their own blackest depths.”

“It was his own evil heart that drove everyone away from him,” Viracocha said in protest. “His evil made him lonely!”

“Only his ba, his own experience of his life, can know which came first,” Mabruke said. “Only in his inner world is that time line registered.”

Oken could not pull himself away from a fascination with the bloody mural shining against the stone. “How long before the games?”

“Two days.” Viracocha shook his head in dismay. “My brother is afraid.”

WHEN THEY
peered through the openings in the wall, they could see workmen hauling potted trees to various places on the lower plaza, as well as long trays filled with blooming plants to line the walkways and entries. Viewing platforms and bandstands were being assembled. Young men, wearing only blue and yellow kilts, were washing down the brilliantly painted walls of the Tlachtli court, immense murals of kings playing against monstrous gods and demons of the underworld. The brilliant bloodreds shoneif freshly flowing, and the eyes of the demons were round white seashells that gleamed with life.

On the top plaza, just below them, an altar was being dragged out of the temple building, an elegant, nobly carved warrior, lying on his back, head and knees raised, meeting his fate with calm face and open eyes.

Viracocha quietly called it to Oken’s attention. “Another sign of Kuchillu’s insanity—that altar is a relic from the days when Tawantinsuyu and the Aztec nation were separate. The Aztec used it to sacrifice prisoners, in horrendous numbers, to feed their bloodyminded Sun.”

“How did it get here?”

“A gift, a symbol of the union of our two nations. It sat in the foyer of the main chapel for four hundred years.” Viracochasaid. “My brothers and I used to dare each other to climb it and plant a kiss on his forehead.”His face was grim. “When we were small.”

“The Aztec were a separate nation once?” Oken said. The history of this Dark Continent had many pages he had never read.

“These days they are mostly members of the Inca’s guard,” Viracocha said. “They say dying for the ruler of an empire is better than dying for a king.”

“Dying seems a popular theme,” Mabruke said. “Aztec poetry I’ve read doesn’t get far from it.”

Viracocha nodded. “A romantic lot, I must say. My own guardsmen tell me the truth is that women of the empire were so beautiful that dying for them was romanticHespoke fondly. “Hopeless romantics.”

“The priests must be very afraid if they let him move that altar.”

“Why is everyone so afraid of him?” Oken said, “I mean, other than the being insane part?”

Viracocha laughed, a short and bitter sound. “He is the Inheritor. He has been named. The old Inca is dead, and Pachacuti is the Firstborn of the Inca, so he owns Tawantinsuyu. He owns us all.”

“Even if he’s insane?”

“Is it otherwise in Egypt?”

Oken shrugged, gazing down at that grim and ancient altar. “No. Egypt had an insane leader once, three thousand years ago. He ruled for twenty years, and nearly destroyed Egypt. His daughter even tried to put a Hittite prince on the throne. That pharaoh is still called the Heretic. He is the only madman in our history, though. Insanity comes in many forms, even in Egypt. We do try these days to spot it in leaders before they become omnipotent, though.”

“You can do that?”

Oken nodded. “You knew your brother had lost his mind a long time ago, didn’t you?”

“I have always known. I watched it happen.”

“In Egypt, your opinion of him would have been taken into account.”

Mabruke sat up, surprising Oken because he was sure the man had been soundly asleep. “Aren’t these games held in Qusqo?”

“The national games, yes,” Viracocha said. “This ball court is for games played before the Inca. The national teams practice here, for the Inca’s amusement. Kuchillu cannot sacrifice us in Qusqo—that would start a civil war. He will hide this the way he hid Urco’s murder.”

“Egypt can be very per sis tent about uncovering the murder of royal princes,” Mabruke said. “You can be certain about that.”

“It will mean war,” Viracocha said sadly.

Mabruke shook his head. “Egypt does not believe in war. Battles, yes. Espionage and subterfuge, yes. But not war.”

“I make a good living on that belief,” Oken said.

Viracocha frowned, with a puzzled expression. “What do your gods demand of you, your Naytures of Egypt?”

Oken thought about that, deciding where to start. “That I learn to be a decent, civilized human being.”

“That is all?”

Oken smiled, shaking his head. “That’s quite a lot. I’m still learning.”

“Your faith is strong?”

Oken did not know how to answer that at first. He had simply never thought about it that way. His faith was unquestioned, as natural as breathing. “I’m still learning,” he repeated finally. “All I can say is that it has never let me down.”

Mabruke spoke up, “What is that sunken courtyard?”

“The people’s ceremonial viewing court. The Qurikancha is a model of reality, of the cosmos. That courtyard enclosure is Pachamama, the here and now, the place in time where we stand together. The upper rim is the horizon, the dividing line between time and eternity. When they are here for the great ceremonies, the people stand on Pachamama, and they see the Temple of the Sun high above them in the levels of heaven, so that they witness ceremonies in the dimension of Hanaq Pacha, the upper seas of heaven encircling them, high above their horizon, above the moment now, outside of time.”

“Most effective,” Mabruke said. “The temples of Egypt serve a similar function—however, what you accomplish by building upwards, we accomplish by building inwards, interiors inside of interiors.”

“The skull-sized gods?” Viracocha said. “Is that the secret of Egypt’s power—that you carry your gods around with you in your minds?”

“What do your gods expect of you, Lucky?” Mabruke said, echoing Viracocha’s earlier question to Oken.

“Our blood,” Viracocha answered promptly. “Our blood feeds the ceremonies. The duty of the Inca and of the Inca’s family is to keep the ceremonies moving through the cycles of the year, to guide the people in their daily lives.”

“How literally is that taken?” Mabruke said.

Viracocha pushed up his left sleeve, revealing scars on the underside of his forearm. Color rubbed into the cuts had made the scars into slashed tattoos. “However, cutting out hearts is no longer the common practice, if that’s what you mean. My brother revived that one on his own.”

THE IMPERIAL
Palace was in a small valley jutting off from the larger valley of Ollantaytambo, the fabled “Resort Palace of Ollantay,” the imperial residence for the last four centuries. Steep mountain sides provided natural protection for the family’s private quarters. A single gap between these was the only way into the palace grounds, and this gap was sealed off by the imposing multistory Qurikancha, Temple of the Sun, on a raised plaza. The first level was painted red, and shone like freshly flowing blood. The second level, set within its own plaza of white marble, was painted the green of newly grown plants, and the third was the blue of the sky. Wide staircases led up the front, each step covered with sacred hieroglyphs that told the story of creation, from the bottom level to the top, where a splendid pink stone chapel stood. The peaked roof was openwork art, a phantasm of sacred animals and sacred designs, representing the Milky Way.

The imperial family entered and exited from the palace through the Qurikancha for public ceremonies, so that the Inca, the emperor, appeared from the temple as though he had descended from the sky and would return there. The palace stood on sacred ground, guarded by Inty, and by the mountain gods enfolding it. Ordinary mortals like priests and servants used a side tunnel, cut through the solid rock of the mountain wall that backed the temple. The tunnel was lit by Egyptian crystals set in glowing patterns in the walls. Statues of the werecat infant held censers that burned the sacred copal day and night. Ihhuipapalotl hurried through, his insides tightening every time he thought about the dangers of having to deliver this particular message—and the number of lives that hung on Pachacuti’s response to it.

“Glorious One, the rumor has surfaced that the Inca is dead.” Ihhuipapalotl spoke calmly, despite his racing heart.

“My father is dead,” Pachacuti said in a too-calm voice. “My brother killed him. He cut his throat.”

“Yes, Glorious One, true. However—” High Priest Ihhuipapalotl drew back slightly, taking a calming breath. “—we must keep secret the death of your parents . . . and the arrest—until after the games, or else Viracocha’s men—”

Pachacuti cut him off with a glare. “Viracocha’s men will have their hearts cut out,” he said. “And soon.”

“Of course, soon, Glorious One,” Ihhuipapalotl said. “This will not be popular.”

“My brother’s popularity is irrelevant, Priest. The old Inca is dead.

I am Inca. I am the son of the Sun.”

“True, Glorious One, true.” Somewhere inside, beneath his official layers of jade and feathers, beneath the anxiety and uncertainty, Ihhuipapalotl knew a terrible sadness waited. His Inca was dead, murdered.

A group of servants emerged from the Doorway of the Wives, balancing large bundles on their heads. From the rooms behind them came the sound of women crying.

Pachacuti whirled on his heel and shouted for them to shut the door. He took a step toward them, drawing breath to shout again.

The high priest put a hand out on his arm, and said soothingly, “Your father’s women will be moved out of here by eve ning, Glorious One, I promise you. Our business would be better done—” “Our business is done, Priest,” Pachacuti said, shaking Ihhuipapalotl’s hand from his sleeve with a fierce gesture. He strode away, to stand in front of the window looking down on the Garden of the Maidens.

“Make certain my bed is brought in time for my afternoon meditations, Priest.” Pachacuti called loudly.

Ihhuipapalotl stopped in his tracks, took a deep breath, then said, “Workers have been busy at that since you gave the instructions this morning, Glorious One. It must be moved slowly to preserve the stonework. You would not wish to damage such a precious thing, Glorious One.”

“No, it must not be damaged.”

“As you say, Glorious One.” Ihhuipapalotl looked over at Pachacuti, outlined by the light from the window—tall, straight, rigid. Ihhuipapalotl shook himself, and hurried away. The situation was slipping out of his hands. If he did not hear from his agents soon . . . he had to think!

“NO, I
am sorry, Exalted One.” The secretary was twisting his hands together nervously as he scanned the people rushing back and forth through the tunnel. They stood between gilded werecats, veiled in plumes of incense. “There have been no birds since this morning.”

“Go, and sit outside the aviary. Do not waste a minute sending my bird with the message when it comes!”

“At once, Exalted One, at once.” The secretary bowed his way out and ran down the tunnel.

“What do I do now!” Ihhuipapalotl chanted under his breath as he dashed away in the opposite direction, frantic plans chasing themselves unhappily through his unhappy brain.

“HOW DID
the Glorious One take the news about Bismarck?”

Ihhuipapalotl glared at his secretary Taripay, then passed a hand in front of his eyes, rubbing his forehead wearily. His fingertips brushed the jade rim of his headdress, focusing his scattered attention. He sighed, sinking down cross-legged on the cushion in front of his desk. “The Glorious One does not care about Bismarck. We can save that news until after the games. Let Victoria deal with Bismarck. Let Egypt deal with Bismarck!” He sighed heavily. “I have to deal with the lightning,” he muttered to himself. “Let Egypt deal with the thunder!”

The entry chime to his office rang, announcing the temple receptionist. Ihhuipapalotl waved for Taripay to deal with this.

“There are gentlemen here to see you about the Tlachtli games at the Qurikancha,” Taripay announced. He sounded impressed. “Foreigners.”

The men came in, a pair of Europeans, one tall and dark, the other a larger, wider man sporting a considerable blond mustache. Both men had very solemn faces, but Ihhuipapalotl felt his dark mood vanish in a blaze of hope.

“Oh, please—come in! Come in!” Ihhuipapalotl sprang up as he spoke. “Taripay!” he called to his secretary. “Have choclatl brought for these guests— and chairs!”

“I am Ihhuipapalotl,” he said to the men. “You are an answer to my prayers!”

Taripay hurriedly dragged a pair of chairs over to the high priest’s viewing platform and arranged them in front of it; then he ran out, making certain that the door closed silently behind him.

HIGH PRIEST
Ihhuipapalotl released the pigeon, watching as it flew swiftly up to the ridge above the temple walls and disappeared in the brilliant blue sky. Then he leaned one hip against the stone railing of his balcony and unrolled the little scroll the bird had brought him. He read it, then took a lens from a pocket and held it so that it focused a sharp beam of sunlight onto the paper. He waited patiently until smoke spiraled up from the paper, and a flame flickered into life; then he held the paper by one corner as it burned until flames licked at his fingers. He dropped the ember to the floor and let the last bit burn; then he smeared the ashes with his foot, until nothing but a gray smudge was left.

He went through his quarters to his office, to wait for the courier whose arrival had been announced by the message.

He did not wait long. The woman was slight of build, as most embassy couriers were, and covered with dust and sweat, smelling strongly of horse. Her four- league ride from Urubamba had been hard run. She showed him the ring she wore, signet of the one who sent her, then gave him the file case. She bowed, and stood waiting patiently for further instructions.

Ihhuipapalotl pressed his fingertip against the lock, waiting for the metal surface to register his fingerprint. The lock clicked open, and he pulled out the folder, returning the case to the courier as he read the note atop the file.

“You may refresh yourself, ma de moiselle,” he said to her without looking up from the page. “A memo by bird will suffice as answer to this. Return at your own convenience.”

She bowed and thanked him, then left, humming quietly to herself the tune of hooves beating time against the road.

WHEN HE
had seen the material in the file, he told Taripay that he was going to report to the palace.

Ihhuipapalotl did not hurry as he walked, reviewing the matter presented by the file he carried and considering various methods of presen tation.The death of the Inca had left the Inheritor in a moody, violent state of mind, and his responses to the usual manipulations were no longer predictable. Preparations for his coronation and ascension to the throne of Tawantinsuyu were consuming Pachacuti’s attention, yet he was obviously troubled by something deeper. Ihhuipapalotl was keenly aware of the Glorious One’s secret guilt, and he was shaken to the core by the situation in which this knowledge placed him. He had to make the best of it that he could.

In the bright sunlight of the courtyard before the Palace entry, Ihhuipapalotl was met by General Hukuchasatil, head of the Inheritor’s elite private guard. He was coming down the steps of the palace, his face clouded with thought. They greeted one another, then the General stopped, and put his hand out on Ihhuipapalotl’s shoulder. “Bring only good news, Priest. For your own safety.”

Ihhuipapalotl nodded, giving the general a quick smile, and watched as the man hurried down the steps. The priest’s manner was brisk as he went inside. The guards at the entrance to the palace saluted him as he walked past, but he hardly noticed.

“GLORIOUS ONE,
I have excellent news. A very famous European dancer has arrived to honor the throne of Tawantinsuyu, and your good relations with Queen Victoria. She is the choreographer for the Black Orchid Dancers, Glorious One. I am told that she is splendid, just the thing for your Tlachtli games.”

Ihhuipapalotl held out a large, gilt-edged program book, opened to the central page. The woman in the photographs was startlingly beautiful. Seeing the spark of interest in Pachacuti’s eyes, he continued. “The Ruslander who is her personal bodyguard has been loyal to Victoria his entire life, Glorious One.”

Pachacuti continued to stare at the photograph. “And this woman? Where does her loyalty lie?”

Ihhuipapalotl spoke solemnly. “To herself, Glorious One. She spends more than she is worth.”

At this casual insult to the woman, Pachacuti turned that sharp gaze to the priest’s face. “Why are they so conveniently available?”

“Tlachtli is popular in Europe,” Ihhuipapalotl said smoothly. “The woman in question is a tourist, Glorious One. Apparently, a great artist is creating an opera on the sacred story of Manco Capac, and this woman came here to study our dances. She asks the honor of dancing for the Inca at the Tlachtli.”

Pachacuti’s eyes narrowed. “Do my priests allow this?”

“Much of Europe remains ignorant of the might of your empire, Glorious One,” Ihhuipapalotl said. “Such a performance would make better known the divine nature of your throne.”

When Pachacuti did not immediately challenge this, Ihhuipapalotl was heartened, and he added, “This artist recently had great success with the opera about that Anasazi matter. Tawantinsuyu was actually depicted as the hero, rescuing the peoples of the pueblos.”

Pachacuti had regarded the priest’s face with sleepy eyes while listening. He looked back to the photograph. “Who brought this to you, who in the embassy?”

“Cornelius, Glorious One—an assistant to an assistant of the ambassador.”

A sneer curled the corner of Pachacuti’s thin mouth. “Let her dance.”