Travellers in Magic (19 page)

Francis Molyneux unsheathed his dagger and put it at the throat of the man who had laughed. “Not one step closer,” he said. He twisted the man's arm behind him for emphasis.

“Nor will we choose among you for men to lie with,” the queen said. She had not dropped her bow, or taken her eyes off the man she aimed at. “We choose only strong men, so that our daughters will be strong.”

Angry now, Walter nearly made a retort he would regret later. Why should these foul harridans think he would lie with them? He searched for a neutral reply and finally said, “What do you do with the sons?”

“We send them to their fathers.”

“Ah,” he said. “My lady, we hope not to inconvenience you further. We are looking for El Dorado, the city of gold, and beg leave to ride through your country.”

“Very well,” the woman said. She returned the arrow to her quiver and mounted her horse. “Our country extends a half a day's walk in that direction. You must not kill any of our animals for food, or eat from any of our trees, or cut down our trees for your fires. If you do we will know it, and we will hunt you down and kill you.”

“Have you seen El Dorado?” he asked.

“We have heard stories, no more.”

He didn't believe her. Where had they gotten the gold he saw on their arms and in their hair? If it came to that, though, he didn't believe the Ewaipanoma either. No one could live so close to the city of gold and remain in ignorance of it. But he bowed courteously and led his men away.

His spirits began to rise soon after they left the Amazons, and he strode quickly over the stony ground. Sun glittered over the chips of gold. The men behind him panted as they walked, and he grinned harshly; he was twice as old as they were and could still outpace any of them.

He looked back at the company and laughed. Aye, the Amazons had done well to refuse this sorry crew. And why had he thought they would want him, old and gray and nearly lame? Bess, he thought, you never had worse cause to fear for my loyalty.

Francis Molyneux pushed ahead of the rest of the company and walked beside him. He frowned. Something about the man's behavior with the Amazons had been wrong; he had acted just a moment too late, after the women had already aimed their bows. Or had he thought the Amazons would not be able to defend themselves?

“Nearly there, sir,” Francis said. “Have you noticed the way the ground shines with the stones?”

“Aye,” Walter said. Nay, why should he suspect this man, the only one who had acted while the others had stood like sheep? Only Francis seemed to understand what this voyage meant to him, only Francis had shown excitement at the prospect of discovering El Dorado. The others were merely interested in the gold; he had seen them collecting pebbles when they thought his attention was elsewhere.

“What will you do with the riches you find?” Francis asked.

“The riches belong to the king, of course. If we are strong enough we will take El Dorado in his name. If not I will return later with an army, if the king grants me leave.”

“But surely the king will allow you to keep some of the gold.”

“I hope so, Francis. And you hope the same for yourself, I'm sure.”

Francis fell silent. Walter saw that he had embarrassed him in some way. But why else had he come, if not for riches? Perhaps he had come for the thrill of discovery. Perhaps Walter had misjudged the man.

He looked ahead to the granite plains before him. The walls of his prison returned to hem him in, but by an effort of will he forced them outward, widened them to take in more of the plain. No man in history, he thought, had gone so quickly from such a little room to such infinite riches.

The sun began to set. The men complained of hunger but he forbade them to eat anything; he had no doubt that the Amazons would do as they had threatened. He looked to the west and saw a shining path stretching back the way he had come: the sun illuminating the gold on the ground.

The sky grew darker. Now the men wanted to stop for the night, but he pushed them onward, anxious to reach his goal. In a few moments he was rewarded. He topped a rise and in front of him, lit by the last rays of the setting sun, he saw the golden towers of El Dorado.

The men came up behind him and stood without speaking. The city shone like a beacon. At the feet of the proud towers lay the lake he had heard of, Manoa. In the glow of setting sun the lake seemed on fire.

The men needed no encouragement now to press on. They came to the lake and found boats lying at the docks, as if they were expected. Did these people fear no one, then? The city would be easier to take than he had thought: he could do it with the few men he had.

The company divided into two parts and rowed toward the towers. Francis had followed him onto his boat. Suddenly he understood Francis's behavior: the boy worshiped him as a hero. He had seen this from men he had commanded before, but it had been so long ago he had forgotten.

The boats rowed smoothly toward the towers. In the sky the sun began to set, taking the color from the lake. He heard no sound but the creak and splash of oars.

Docks waited for them on the other side too. Walter disembarked first. He stood and rubbed his bad leg, which had stiffened in the chill from the water. Then he said, “I claim this, the city of El Dorado, in the name of James, king of England by grace of God.”

Someone placed cold steel at his throat. He tried to turn but the man held him deftly. “Did you think the king would allow you to get this far?” Francis said. His breath was hot in Walter's ear. “He knows your plans, how you would set yourself up as king of El Dorado and return with your wealth to challenge his throne.”

“I—” Walter said.

“Do not speak, traitor. He cautioned me against your honeyed words, told me you could make a man swear black was white if suited your purposes. He said I was to thank you for your services, and then make certain you died once we reached El Dorado.”

Walter twisted but could not get away. Francis was in his twenties, young and strong. Walter had only his cunning to get himself free, and it had not served him well so far.

The company stood by the boats, unmoving. He had chosen them poorly indeed: these men were the scum of the earth. Then, to his great surprise, he felt the arm holding the dagger grow lax. Francis slumped to the ground.

He turned and saw a man as tall as himself move softly out of the shadows. The man held a blow-tube of the kind he had seen before among the native tribes. “Welcome to El Dorado, Sir Walter Raleigh,” he said in perfect English. “We were expecting you. Do not be alarmed—he is not dead. Come—we have planned a great feast.”

Moving as if in a dream, he followed the man away from the lake. Other men came out of the shadows, lifted Francis and carried him away. Behind him he could hear his company arguing fiercely among themselves but he did not look back; he could not bring himself to care if they came or stayed. Finally the arguments stopped and he heard them follow.

The sand surrounding the lake gave way to grass. The tall man—the chief, Walter supposed—led them onto a small winding path. Trees grew on both sides of them. Night had fallen, and he could see very little, but he smelled lemon and some kind of perfumed flower. The air around them was still warm.

The path broadened, became smoother. He wondered if it was paved with silver or gold, as in the stories. Certainly it felt more level than the London streets he knew.

Towers rose up above them: in the night he felt their bulk rather than saw them. Light spilled from windows directly in front of him. The chief led them inside.

They passed through several rooms. Fires burned in the hearths, and by their lights he could see intricate tapestries, vases of colored glass, golden figurines. Men and women passing through looked up from their tasks and nodded to them graciously. Finally they came to a room which held nothing but benches and a long table. Each of his men was led to a place set with silver plates and goblets of fragile colored glass. He heard the men murmuring among themselves, exclaiming softly over the finery.

Six men and women brought out a huge platter, nearly staggering under the weight of it. “The peccary—you would call it a small boar,” the chief said, sitting beside Walter. “I hope you enjoy it.”

He did. They hadn't eaten anything in the Amazons' territory, and he saw his men fall on the food as if they had been starving for weeks. More courses appeared after the peccary: fish and birds and fruit, each more delicious than the last. Servants came and poured wine in the goblets, filling each glass before it became empty.

The men grew quiet, sated. Even the wine failed to rouse them. For the first time Walter considered poison, and cursed himself for a fool. These people had proven they knew how to manufacture sleeping draughts. What had been in the potion that had felled Francis Molyneux?

Walter turned and studied the chief carefully. He was an old man, but time had sharpened rather than dulled his features, so that his face looked carved out of stone. He wore a long flowing skirt and nothing else; the skin of his chest and arms and face seemed to glow with rich health. Was that how the rumors of the Golden One had started?

“Are you enjoying our hospitality, Sir Walter?”

“I don't know,” Walter said. “The food, at least, is excellent. But does your hospitality extend to answering a few questions?”

The chief laughed. “Of course.”

“Well, then, how do you know my name? What did you mean when you said that you were expecting me? Are you the chief of these people?”

“I am the king, yes. My name is Tuala. I—”

“Where is Francis? What have you done with the rest of my men?”

“I'll explain everything, I promise you. But first I have to tell you a story. Will you listen?”

Walter nodded grudgingly.

“We are an old people,” Tuala said. “Many, many years ago we travelled the world and saw strange sights, as strange as anything you have seen here. After we had mapped the globe we realized that nowhere in the world had we come across anything as fair as the country you see around you. We had found nothing so fertile, so rich, so pleasant. And so we made the decision, which some have criticized, to turn inward, to contemplate philosophy. We have not gone travelling in a very long time.”

Walter stirred impatiently. His bad leg hurt from the walking he had done that day.

“One of the places we saw on our journeys was London,” Tuala said. “But it was a London you would not recognize, a collection of huts by the river. Many years later we heard rumors of you, Sir Walter, and of the inquiries you made about us, and we remembered the tiny village on the banks of the Thames. We were amazed that you had come so far in so short a time.”

Was he being patronized? Angrily he said, “I don't see what—”

The chief continued as though Walter had said nothing. His voice was low, sonorous, and he spoke English well, though with a slight musical accent. “We knew then that nothing would stop your people, the English, that you would not rest until you found us. And we felt certain that it would be you, Sir Walter, who would return and make the discovery. We were only surprised that it took you so long to do it.”

He seemed to be waiting for an answer. “I was in prison,” Walter said. “For twelve years.”

A look of disgust passed over the chief's face. “Ah,” he said. For a moment it seemed he could not go on. He gazed at Walter with something like pity. “Well,” he said, “we planned for your return. We learned all we could about your people. We found a Spaniard who would teach us English.”

That was the slight accent he heard, then—not the chief's own language but Spanish. “Did you wonder, Sir Walter,” Tuala said, “why it was so easy for you to find us? Why the Spanish, who have been here for decades, have never conquered us?”

Suddenly Walter understood. It had been a trap—they would kill him here. They had already killed Francis, probably, and poisoned his other men. He had been a fool, he had allowed these men to gull him with their fine food and wine. He rose from the bench. “What—”

“Sit, Sir Walter, please. We have done nothing to your men, you have my word on that. Would you be surprised if I told you that many people have found us, that we have played host to dozens, perhaps hundreds, of Spaniards?”

“No more riddles, please. Tell me what you plan to do with me.”

“You are our guest—tell me first what you planned to do with us.”

“We wanted to—to trade with you.”

“Nay, it does not become you to lie. I have been honest with you in all things so far, and I hope you will do the same for me. We heard you claim our city for your king.”

“Very well. We intended to conquer you.” It sounded foolish, a child's boast. “We did not understand—I did not know what you were like. We thought you were barbarians.”

“Ah. So you have given over your plans of conquest?”

Walter nodded.

“Can I believe that? It was just a moment before that you lied to me. Or should I believe that you will return to your King James and lead his army to our city?”

Walter said nothing. He could not lie to this man—he knew that now. But the chief did not know about the bargain he had made with James. He could not return without the location of the mine.

“You see that we cannot allow you to leave,” Tuala said.

“Ah. And so I am to be your prisoner.”

The chief's look of distaste returned. “We do not like to imprison people. There is another way. We can make you forget everything you have seen here. You will leave without ever knowing you have discovered the city you sought.”

“Nay—”

“Aye. How else do you think we have kept our location a secret for so long? We made the Spaniard who taught us English forget. And the Amazons we trade with, and the Ewaipanoma.”

“And if I refuse to forget?”