“Seven days. But I believe we traveled more quickly than you.” Sitting was not much better than walking, but the pain in her legs eased somewhat.
“Oh? How is that possible, if you had no mounts?”
Bess realized she had once again talked herself into a perilous position. “There was an Extraordinary Shaper among the Incas who Shaped my body to endure such a trip,” she said, “and to permit me to breathe more easily in the mountain heights.”
“Why would anyone do such a thing? He must have known he was giving you the means to escape.”
Bess shrugged and hoped her agitation was not visible. “I was quite weak when I…arrived. I believe they simply took pity on me,” she lied. “At any rate, my rescuer and I ran for most of the day and slept at night, when I truly could not see.”
“Then…your rescuer was a Shaper, if she could run as rapidly as you with your altered body.”
Bess wished she did not feel so much like a traitor. It was not the Incas she owed anything to, but Amaya, and every word felt like betraying her friend’s secrets. “She was.”
“One of those strange warriors?” Mendoza was very intent on her now.
“Yes.”
“Tell me of them. The soldiers claimed they were not human, but I knew that for superstition. Far more likely they are human Shapers who chose a Shape that makes them better fighters, yes?”
“That is correct,” Bess said. “The Incas honor the jaguar, and their elite warriors are capable of Shaping their bodies to emulate its characteristics. They elongate their jaws, shave their heads, create sharp claws that retract…there are likely more traits, but I did not observe them.”
“So they have warriors who are not of the elite?”
Mendoza’s tone of voice was that of someone conversing politely on the weather. It left Bess with an odd, dissociated feeling. “I believe so. I saw men bearing spears who did not look like the jaguar warriors, but they might have been honorary guards rather than warriors. I also believe every Shaper born to the Incas becomes a jaguar warrior, for they were female as well as male.”
“Obviously, if your rescuer was one of them,” Mendoza agreed.
The smell of hot salt pork began to overwhelm the less pervasive scent of the sea. She looked in the direction of the nearest fire, where soldiers had set a pot to boil and dumped in chunks of dried meat to soften. Bess, who had eaten nothing but a round of cheese all day, actually found herself longing for the crude meal. She tried again to Speak to Mr. Quinn, but stopped before she could injure herself. There was no change in the black emptiness, no faint Speech, but it had been many hours since the last draught, and Mendoza did not look as if he remembered the need for it. It might be wearing off. Hope sprang up in her heart.
Just then, Orellana appeared at her side with a familiar cup. She made a face, but drank down the draught as Mendoza and Orellana laughed. Their laughter made her wish she dared throw it in their faces. She had no way of knowing the exact time that had elapsed since the last blackberry-scented cup, but it was at least ten hours that they had traveled. So if she could avoid drinking it for more than ten hours, or if she could do something to the supply…but she did not know where Orellana kept it, and if it was somewhere on his person, the chances of her getting it off the tall, muscular Shaper were slim. She would search for it nonetheless.
Orellana took the empty cup from her, then took her hand gently enough that at first she thought he intended some tenderness, and she tried to pull away from him. His grip tightened, and he laughed. Before Bess could fight back, warmth spread over her legs and hips like a hot bath, soothing to her tortured muscles. The pain her day’s ride had inflicted faded and then vanished.
Relief warred with her hatred of the Shaper and won long enough for Bess to manage a grudging, “Thank you.” That made her feel complicit in her own kidnapping, and she wrenched her hand away and added, “Do not put yourself to any trouble over me in future, unless you intend to stop drugging me.”
Orellana laughed and turned away. Bess reflexively attempted to blast him with Speech and felt even angrier when it simply sent pain shooting through her own head.
She ate chunks of boiled pork in salty broth and drank enough water to make her stomach protest. By the time she was finished, it was full dark, and her eyes had reverted to their usual state. She put on her spectacles and rose from her stool, intending to find a place where she might relieve herself in relative privacy.
“Do not stray far, Miss Hanley,” Mendoza said. “You will be in danger.”
“I know, Señor Mendoza. I hope you will not insult me by suggesting I have a minder? It is not as if I can go anywhere in the dark.”
Mendoza shrugged and turned away. Bess walked inland, away from the fires, and discovered the soldiers had pitched a number of small white tents that glowed like fungus blotches under the full moon. She walked until she was well away from the tents, crouched and did her business with her skirt spread wide around her, and then stood and looked up at the bright fuzzy splotch that was the moon. The sky must be clear, because the moon was as bright as she had ever seen it, and it made her heart ache with longing.
Her stomach was uncomfortably full, which gave her an idea. She continued to walk away from the camp a few steps and knelt with her back toward the tents. Opening her mouth wide, she reached in with one finger, jabbing quickly at the back of her throat. She gagged, her stomach revolting, but did not vomit. Bracing herself, she tried again, but succeeded only in making her stomach hurt.
A hand descended on her shoulder. “Clever,” Mendoza said. “I see I will have to watch you more closely.”
Bess wiped her hand on the scrub grass and stood, not facing Mendoza so he would not see the angry tears leaking from her eyes and believe he had frightened her. “Did you think I would be content to stay your captive?”
“I thought you more sensible than to try to escape,” Mendoza said. “You would be helpless in the wilderness. Your only hope for survival is with us.”
A dozen retorts sprang to Bess’s lips, and she suppressed them. Too much defiance would only make Mendoza’s promised scrutiny worse, and she wanted him to be complacent.
She walked back to the campfire with him slowly, testing the ground beneath her feet. She was still wearing her dancing slippers because Mendoza had not provided other, sturdier footwear. He really wanted to make sure of her, did he not? The soft undergrowth was springy and smelled of those tiny white flowers she crushed as she stepped.
“I would like to sleep now,” she said when they reached the campfire.
“Of course. Joaquin, show Miss Hanley to her tent,” Mendoza said.
Bess did not like to go anywhere with the hulking Shaper—a handsome face was all very well, but it was no guarantee of a handsome spirit—but she obediently followed Orellana to a tent set off somewhat from the others. It was pitch black inside, as there were no lanterns and no lights but the camp fires, but Bess felt around and discovered a bedroll and a scratchy wool blanket filling most of the tiny space. “Gracias,” she said, and unfastened the tent flap to fall between them.
Instantly she realized her mistake. The tiny tent closed in around her, the walls shrinking and the slanted roof brushing her head. Bess scrambled out of the tent, her heart pounding, and crouched with her head between her knees until her breathing slowed. Orellana had already moved on, and no one seemed to have noticed her distress, sitting around the fires as they were. She did not care if they did. She could not sleep in that low, claustrophobic thing, not when it was likely to collapse on her and suffocate her in her sleep.
She dragged the bedroll and blanket out of the tent, staying as far from the lowering roof as she could, and spread it out behind the tent, putting the thing between herself and the rest of the camp. Then she lay down and pulled the blanket over her, tucking it under her chin. It was a balmy night, but the blanket was a comfort, even as scratchy as it was. Nearby, she heard the rustle of footsteps as the sentry passe
d. She could not have escaped even if she were capable of surviving in the wilderness alone. She was too weary to weep.
Her eyes once more strayed to the moon. It was hard to imagine what it might look like, aside from being smaller than her eyes perceived it. Of course, she had seen drawings of it, and could barely remember seeing it as a child, but that was not the same as seeing it clearly with one’s own eyes. She wondered if those soldiers appreciated the beauty of a full moon. She imagined they took it for granted as everyone with normal vision seemed to, though the sentries were no doubt grateful for its light on such a journey as this.
She closed her eyes again. Perhaps, if she woke early enough, she might make another escape attempt, foolish as that was. Or she might find the drug had worn off, and she might Speak to someone before being dosed again. But she was too agitated for sleep. Her mind insisted on churning over memories of the day, of Mendoza’s mocking voice and Orellana’s laughter, of the sun sinking over the ocean and the taste of blackberries.
If she could not sleep, perhaps she could stay awake all night and not risk sleeping later than Orellana and Mendoza. The idea captivated her, but as if making the decision had sent a message to her body, she immediately began to doze off. She pinched herself every time her eyes drifted shut, but weariness caught up to her, and she had just had the muddled thought that she might rise and pace the limits of the camp when she finally fell into a restless slumber.
Chapter 31
In which an old acquaintance makes an appearance, none too soon
Bess woke at dawn to someone shaking her shoulder roughly. The smell of blackberries roused her fully, like a jab from a needle. She pretended to be still dozy and swiftly reached out to Speak to Clarissa. Nothing. The bleak emptiness stretched out before her as if she had never been a Speaker. She let out a frustrated breath, and Orellana laughed as if he knew what she had attempted. A hot, angry flush spread across her cheeks.
Orellana handed her the little cup and altered her eyes while she drank. He said nothing about finding her outside her tent, damp with morning dew, just waited for her to drink before taking the cup back. Bess examined him while she drank. She saw no flask or bottle that might be the source of the drug. Frustrated, she resolved to look at his horse the next chance she got. She would likely not be permitted near it, but she needed to do something that would keep her from going mad with helplessness.
Breakfast was leftover pork and cheese and more of the flat-tasting beer. No one spoke to Bess while they all ate, but when Mendoza helped her mount, he said, “Is the tent not to your liking?”
“It is very small and I felt stifled,” Bess said, not meeting his eyes. “I grew accustomed to sleeping in the open the last time I made this journey, and I find it comfortable.”
“Very well,” Mendoza said, and that was the end of the conversation.
They turned eastward at the rocky landmark and proceeded inland. The day was exactly as the one before: cheese at noon, boring landscape for miles in every direction, sea birds winging past high above, calling to each other in hoarse, shrill voices that echoed in the stillness. Bess spotted another landmark she recognized, a river cutting across the dry ground headed for the sea, and they followed that until nightfall. This time, when the meal was over, Mendoza showed her to her bedroll and blanket, set up some distance from the tents. “You will be less comfortable,” he warned her.
“Pray do not trouble yourself, I will be very well as I am,” Bess said haughtily, and Mendoza laughed and left her to her sleep.
The days blurred into one long round of traveling and eating and sleeping and, twice daily, the blackberry drink. After the second night, Bess gave up trying to stay awake all night and instead went to her bedroll early, hoping to wake before Orellana. On the fourth morning, she succeeded, and lay awake straining against her mental fetters until she swam out of unconsciousness to find Orellana there with his little cup. She never saw him filling it and was not allowed near the horses, as if someone feared, against reason, that she might steal one and ride away. Even with her improved vision, that would be foolish.
She spent her days riding and watching the landscape. Seeing clearly had not become a commonplace, and she wished with all her heart she could be here under other circumstances, because Peru was beautiful in a spare, angular way. But she could not stop remembering that at the end of this journey lay death, for the soldiers, for the Inca warriors, and possibly for innocent women and children as well.
She desperately wished she could speak to her reticulum, and not only because she wished for their support and advice; loneliness, and the aching silence, came close to driving her mad in the moments when she forgot herself and tried to Speak to Eleanora, or Mrs. Kearsley, or Mr. Quinn. She had never realized how much she depended on being able to Speak to anyone she chose, whenever she wished.
On the fourth night, Mendoza was in a talkative mood. “These stools we use are standard military issue,” he told Bess, “but did you know that when Pizarro first met Atahualpa, the Sapa Inca, he—Atahualpa—sat on a stool very like these? The conquistadores did not know what to make of him. And he would not speak to them.” Mendoza laughed. “I can imagine how uncomfortable a meeting that would be. Staring down a man who was surrounded by thousands of warriors, believing at any moment he might order those warriors to kill…Pizarro was a brave man.”
“The Sapa Inca still maintains those traditions,” Bess said. “He is quite powerful.”
“Of course, you have met him,” Mendoza said. “Tell me of him. I am fascinated by power.”
Bess almost responded with a scathing remark about how she was his captive, not his friend, when it occurred to her that a story might be enough of a distraction that he would forget the drug. “He is held in reverence by his people,” she said. “I never saw one of them touch him, and I was afraid to Speak to him directly. I believe they would do anything he told them to do, without hesitation.”
“And he controls the warriors. The jaguar warriors.”
“No, that is a man named Uturunku. Uturunku is himself a Shaper and he sees the jaguar warriors as his sons and daughters. It is my opinion that the Incas’ plan to use European weapons against the villages is his.”
“Interesting. I would not have thought the Sapa Inca would give up such power.”
Bess considered this. “I would not call it giving up power. He utterly controls Uturunku, and that means he controls the jaguar warriors, just at a remove.”
Mendoza laughed, just one short hah. “It is fortunate the Incas did not have our weaponry when Pizarro came to Peru, or you and I would likely not be here. Tell me, Miss Hanley—how many men do you suppose Pizarro brought with him to accomplish the Conquest?”
“I don’t know. Perhaps…ten thousand?”
Mendoza smiled, a vulpine expression in the flickering firelight. “In 1532, there were exactly one hundred and sixty-eight Spaniards in Peru. Against tens of thousands of Incas. They were not all soldiers, either—the conquistadores were primarily men who dreamed of a better life, ordinary men, merchants and traders. And they destroyed the Inca Empire in a matter of years.”
Bess found she was holding her breath. “But…that seems impossible. I have seen the Inca warriors—they are not weak, and they are well-trained—”
“They stood no chance against mounted warriors armed and armored with steel,” Mendoza said. “And they were weakened by disease and political infighting. Which is why I call it fortunate that the Spanish were not evenly matched, because the Incas were, and are, the most formidable of foes. This is why we bring with us many guns, and powder and shot for an army. I do not underestimate my opponent, and they have guns of their own. Which makes me wonder how they got them.” He eyed Bess as if suspecting her of collusion.
“Uturunku speaks Spanish,” she said, “and I do not know why or how he learned it. But a few thefts, here and there, of weaponry and gunpowder…and Shapers who can make themselves appear Spanish to infiltrate—�
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“That is a supposition you should keep to yourself,” Mendoza said, though as he spoke in a normal voice, with the officers sitting nearby, Bess believed he was simply making a rhetorical point. “No one wishes to believe in native Shapers who can pretend to be anyone they like. Most of those in power would like to believe the Spanish are so superior to the native Peruvians there is no way a native Shaper could impersonate a Spaniard.”
“But you are not a fool.”
“I am not. We will defeat the Incas, Miss Hanley, because we know they are dangerous, and we will take no chances.” Mendoza smiled again. “And the Inca reign will finally be at an end.”
“That saddens me,” Bess said.
A murmur went up among the officers, most of whom Bess had not realized could speak English. “Why is that?” Mendoza asked.
“What is past is past,” Bess said, groping to express the nameless sorrow she felt at the thought of the Incas’ defeat, “and I believe the natives benefit from what our civilization has brought them. But the Incas…they have art, and history, and they have a civilization of their own, and while I do not want them to murder innocents in the name of reconquering Peru, I think it will be a tragedy to lose those things that make them peculiarly themselves.”
One of the officers said something in Spanish that Bess did not understand. Mendoza cut him off with a word and a gesture. “The Incas might have lived secretly in peace for years had they not decided to attack us,” he said. “Do you suggest we have no right to fight back?”
“No, and I believe it is far too late to simply wind back the clock. The Spanish, and the natives who intermingled with the original Spanish settlers, are as much of Peru as are the Incas now.” Bess sighed. “Perhaps it is simply that I have spent three and a half years among the Hindoos and the Moslems, both of whom have beautiful cultures I would hate to see disappear, and my sympathies are not what they ought to be. And perhaps I would feel differently had Pizarro come upon an empire with military might equal to his, because there is something so very wrong with the idea of one hundred and sixty-eight men defeating an empire, even if disease and politics were their allies. But do not fear, Señor Mendoza, I will help you because there is something just as wrong with the idea of anyone, however justified they believe themselves to be, slaughtering the helpless in the name of empire.”
Whispering Twilight Page 32
