“Very well said, Miss Hanley,” Mendoza said. He gave Bess a considering look.
Too late Bess realized she had drawn attention to herself. That last sentence might apply to Mendoza just as well as to the Incas. She needed to distract them. Casually, she rose and said, “I believe I will retire, gentlemen.”
She took three steps away, feeling all their eyes upon her like daggers in her back, but every step was that much closer to freedom. Four steps. Five.
“One moment, Miss Hanley,” Mendoza said.
She stopped, but did not turn. Footsteps approached her. She smelled the sickening sweetness of blackberries. Despairing, she thought about running—she still did not know how long each dose lasted, but if she was at the end of it, even a few minutes of freedom might make the difference. But Mendoza took her by the arm and turned her to face him.
“You are very clever,” he said, handing her the cup. “I am almost tempted to forgo the drug, because I am curious about what you might do. But not tempted enough to risk this venture. Drink. And sleep well.”
Bess sipped the cup slowly. It had not occurred to her until that moment that the reason she had found no supply of blackberry drink on Orellana was that Mendoza was the one who carried it. She examined him closely, looking for a flask at his hip, or ruining the line of his coat, but saw nothing. She finished the drink and thrust the cup back at him. “You should be grateful I am not free,” she snarled, and turned on her heel and stalked away, hoping she would not trip and fall in the darkness.
Once in her bedroll, she wiped away angry tears and considered what she knew. The drug was not on Orellana’s person, nor did Mendoza have it. That meant it was either on one of their horses or in the supply train, which followed their line of soldiers every day. She did not know how she was to search the supply train without drawing attention to herself, but she would find a way.
She looked up at the blurry moon and considered her little speech. What had possessed her? She was English, not Spanish, not Incan, and her sympathies ought to be with her own people or, failing that, with other Europeans. And she had been kidnapped by the Incas, who would have killed her had not Amaya intervened.
But Bess had seen the British in India changing in response to the land they controlled. It seemed terribly wrong that the Incas and the Spanish could not do the same—but then, perhaps that was impossible when one of the nations involved had so thoroughly destroyed the other. Was that how the Saxons had felt when William the Conqueror had swept across Britain? Or was there no comparison? She fell asleep feeling dissatisfied with all her conclusions.
On the following day, the mountains, which had grown gradually as they proceeded eastward, loomed over them, promising a much harder journey. Bess was gnawing at her cheese, which had grown increasingly stale, when a soldier ran up from the ranks to talk to Mendoza in a low, urgent voice. Mendoza called a halt while he listened to the man, then said a few words in response that sent the man running away. “Is anything wrong?” Bess asked, grateful for the interruption to the monotony.
“He says they have seen a beast,” Mendoza said, flicking his reins and making his horse step out once more. “I have given him permission to take two others and hunt it.”
“A beast? What kind of beast?”
“With luck, something we can eat,” Mendoza said with a smile. “He says it was following us and now it is not, but he does not wish to risk it coming upon us in the night.”
“Very intelligent,” Bess agreed. She took another bite of cheese and made a face. “Are we so low on supplies?” She had yet to see the soldiers hunt for food, and everything she ate had come from the supply train.
“Tomorrow we will set up the Bounding chamber, and Teniente Espina and his Bounder corps will bring fresh supplies. You are not tired of cheese already, I hope?”
Bess bit a rather large mouthful and chewed vigorously to the sound of Mendoza’s laughter.
She did not see the soldiers return, but that evening as they sat around the campfire, after Bess had unwillingly drunk her draught, Mendoza said, “The men did not find the beast, and I believe it chose not to pursue us when it discovered we are not an easy target.”
Orellana said something in Spanish that made the other officers laugh. “He says he is nearly ready to eat my horse,” Mendoza told Bess, and replied in Spanish so the officers laughed more loudly. “I have reminded him that my horse is worth more than he is,” Mendoza continued.
“I do not believe I could eat horse, however hungry I became,” Bess said.
“Then you have never been truly hungry,” Mendoza said. “But tomorrow we will have fresh beef, and no one will look at my horse as if it is a meal on legs.” He stretched and looked around into the gathering gloom. “I do not suppose you know how much farther we have to go.”
“I believe the mountains mark the halfway point, and we will enter them tomorrow. But as I have said, we travel more slowly than I did when I made my escape, so I cannot be certain. However, the route from here is simple to follow—eastward, over the mountains.”
“I hope you do not mean that you wish to be returned home. We are so fond of your company,” Mendoza said with a smile. One of the officers laughed. Bess stood and pretended she was not unsettled by the turn of conversation.
“You will have to do without me for the rest of the evening,” she said, “for I intend to turn in now. Good evening, gentlemen.”
But sleep eluded her. It was not the rocky ground, she decided after moving her bedroll twice, and it was not the moon, past full but still very bright. Finally, she decided she was simply restless and rose, folding her blanket neatly and setting it at the foot of her bedroll. The campfires still burned low, not yet banked for the night, but no longer employed in cooking their plain meal, and soldiers huddled around each. Bess walked wide around the camp, feeling her way with her feet in their increasingly tattered slippers, not passing too close to the sentries who were silent when she approached. She had made one attempt to slip free through a gap in their circuit a few days before and been politely but firmly escorted back to the fire by a soldier her poor vision had not even seen.
She idly listened to the conversations, though she understood few of them; the soldiers spoke a dialect of Spanish she found difficult to understand unless they enunciated their words as if speaking to a child. Since what little she understood concerned the merits of various women they were entirely too familiar with, she cherished her ignorance.
She passed near where the officers’ horses were picketed and slowed her steps, straining to see. She did not perceive anyone nearby, could hear no one closer than the nearest campfire, which she knew to be several yards distant. Swiftly she felt her way between the drowsing horses, using her fingers and her feet to guide her. Now she would find Orellana’s supply of the drug.
Orellana’s horse was distinctive even to her because it was the only piebald horse among the officers’ mounts. She sidled up to it and stroked its mane, hoping she would not disturb it, then stroked her hand down its neck and across its shoulders. She found nothing, no saddle, no saddlebags, no suspicious flasks. Disappointment and frustration warred within her. Of course it would not be here. They did not leave the horses saddled overnight. If the flask had been here, Orellana or Mendoza had taken it elsewhere.
Movement caught her attention, and the sound of footsteps. Bess froze, crouching where she hoped she could not be seen. On the far side of the horses, she heard Mendoza say something, of which she caught only, “cinco o seis días.” Five or six days.
Orellana replied in the same conversational tones. A light gust of wind carried some of his words toward her…something about planning their strategy now.
She listened hard for Mendoza’s next words, but he sounded as if he were facing away from her. She heard “saltadores,” Bounders, and “podemos rodearlos, quemar los edificios.” That meant…surround something, and edificios was “buildings,” and quemar… Bess shivered. Quemar meant “t
o burn.” Burn the Inca city?
She had concentrated so hard on interpreting Mendoza’s words that she missed what Orellana said next, but Mendoza’s reply came clearly, as if he had turned in her direction. He spoke so rapidly she could barely follow. Ciudad, “city”; purgada, that was close to “purge.” Tesoro, “treasure”…something about retrieving the treasure, and no hay sobrevivientes. That meant…Bess sucked in a breath. It meant “no survivors.”
Everything fell into place. Mendoza did not mean to defeat the Inca warriors. He did not care about protecting the Spanish villages the Incas might destroy. He would not, as he claimed, spare the women and children. She had been right; Mendoza meant to kill everyone in the city and loot the treasure once there was no one left to challenge him.
Bess held perfectly still until Mendoza and Orellana moved on. Then she fumbled her way back to her bedroll and lay down, still too agitated to sleep, but shaking too badly to stand. It was not her fault that Mendoza was bringing death to Quispe and Inkasisa and all those ordinary Incas who simply wanted to go on living their lives in peace, but she could not help feeling that her failure to escape made her complicit. She squeezed her eyes shut against images of death and blood and fire. Fault was irrelevant. She had to stop Mendoza, but how?
She covered her mouth with both hands so no one would hear her weep. With all her heart, she wished herself back in England, wished Mendoza to the Hell he so clearly deserved, wished she had the use of her talent so she could talk to someone, anyone, who might give her guidance and support. She had never felt so alone and helpless.
Eventually her tears wound down, and she wiped her face dry and let out a shuddering breath. Crying would not solve anything. She would sleep, and in the morning she would consider again what she might do. If only she could warn the Incas somehow!
Exhausted and emotionally overwrought, she finally felt herself drifting off. I will not give up, she told herself, and curled up under her blanket and slept.
She awoke to someone shaking her gently. It was such a surprise that she jerked awake and said, “What is it?”
Except no sound escaped her lips. Her throat ached and felt tight, like a violin wound near to the breaking point. She sucked in a startled breath, heard nothing but the faint whistle of air, and let out a horrified scream. It, too, was silent.
The hand on her shoulder gripped her more tightly, and a head pressed close against hers. “Is Amaya,” a voice whispered in her ear. “No can speak.”
Bess grabbed Amaya’s arm and pulled herself to a sitting position. “What,” she said, forming the word with her lips and not bothering to put any wind behind it.
The hand released her, and someone crouched in front of her. The moon had set, and the woman’s face was all but invisible, but she looked nothing like the Amaya Bess remembered. Her face was strongly sculpted, with well-defined cheekbones and a rounded jaw, not thrust forward like a cat’s. The woman’s long, light brown hair was pulled sharply back from her face and caught up in a tail at the back of her head. But her eyes—Bess looked into the woman’s eyes, which were grey with pupils dilated to take advantage of the dim light, and finally recognized her friend.
“Come,” Amaya whispered, extending her hand to help Bess rise. Bess stepped away from the bedroll and let out a squeak—or what would have been a squeak if her vocal cords worked—as Amaya picked her up and ran. She threw her arms around Amaya’s neck and tried not to be an awkward bundle. Amaya skirted a lump on the ground that Bess barely recognized as a dead soldier, one of the pickets, before they left the camp behind.
They ran without stopping until the mountains ahead were a dark outline against a lightening sky, and Amaya put Bess down and squatted, breathing heavily. She waved away Bess’s concern and said, “Is no tired. Is fast.” She wore a blouse similar to Bess’s, though with a wider neck, and instead of a skirt wore short cotton trousers that ended just below her knee.
“Thank you,” Bess whispered before remembering she could not speak. She shook Amaya’s shoulder and, when the woman looked up, pointed at her throat. Amaya nodded and rose. She laid a hand flat against Bess’s throat, which began to tingle pleasantly, as if she were drinking something carbonated. The tight feeling vanished. Bess worked her jaw a couple of times, then repeated, “Thank you.”
Amaya nodded. “I follow, they see, I hide. But you no español. Why with them?” she asked in her strange Spanish accent.
Bess haltingly explained the circumstances that had led to her needing rescue yet again. “They will…oh, I cannot explain…Amaya, matar todos.”
Amaya’s eyes narrowed. “¿Todos los Incas? They kill?”
Bess nodded. “They cannot—I will not let them. Will you help? ¿Ayudar me?”
Amaya looked off toward the rising sun. She took a few paces in that direction, turned, and walked back to Bess. In the dimness, Bess could barely see her expression, but Amaya looked like someone caught in the grip of a dilemma. She began speaking, rapidly and with great feeling. “You will…no, they will kill you if you return,” Bess translated. “But it is not honor…honorable to let them die. Amaya, is there some way we can warn them—oh!” Bess grabbed Amaya’s hand and forced her to stop her pacing. “In a few hours, I will be able to tell Achik what is coming, and he can warn the others! There is no need for us to return.”
Amaya looked at their joined hands, then at Bess. She said, “You Speak Achik?”
“Yes, I will tell him everything.”
Amaya shook her head and spoke rapidly in Spanish. “Achik bad. No trust,” she added, in case Bess had not understood.
“But he—” Bess recalled the images she had read from his mind, his desire to be the Sapa Inca, and knew Amaya was right. “I could Speak to the Sapa Inca.”
Amaya’s eyes widened. “He not hear—not listen,” she corrected herself. She went off into a long sentence in Spanish that Bess understood to essentially mean that even if the Sapa Inca understood Bess’s Speaking in a language not his own, he would not take seriously the words of a stranger and a woman. Bess decided it was worth an attempt regardless. She did not suggest Speaking to Uturunku. That would be worse than useless.
“But I cannot simply Speak to the Sapa Inca; I must know he has acted on my message,” she said. “You do not—tu no vas tambien. I will go alone.”
Amaya laughed. Bess had never heard her laugh before and was delighted despite her worries at how rich and lovely a sound it was. “You no alone,” she said. “I go. I not kill—no, I not die.”
“But—” Bess felt she should argue Amaya out of going potentially to her death, but she felt so relieved at no longer being alone she was reluctant to do so. And she was not at all certain she could find the Inca city on her own, let alone convince anyone there that they needed to prepare for an attack by sending the women and children away. “Very well. We can outrun the Spaniards, I am certain, but we should move quickly nonetheless.”
Amaya nodded. She took Bess’s hand in hers and closed her eyes. Bess felt the tingle begin again, but instead of being confined to her throat, it filled her whole body with effervescence. Her legs ached a little, as if the muscles were being kneaded by an expert, and she drew in a breath and felt air suffuse her chest and heart, invigorating them.
“Sit,” Amaya said, and Bess sat while Amaya took each of her bare feet in her hands and rubbed them gently. Bess bit her lip against the terrible, painful itch, but hope rose up in her. She had left her tattered dancing slippers beside her bedroll as she always did at night, and she wondered what Mendoza would make of them—what he would make of her disappearance entirely. Her lips curved in a satisfied smile. She hoped her absence frightened him.
She flexed her feet, touched the newly roughened soles, and stood. “Let’s run,” she said, and they did.
Chapter 32
In which Bess regains her talent
They seemed to travel even more fleetly this time than they had on their first flight. Perhaps that was because
Bess felt a greater sense of urgency now. Before, they had run for their lives; now, they ran to save the lives of others. Bess had never felt so grateful for the slower pace of the Spaniards, imposed by the soldiers on foot. But…they had Orellana, who was capable of altering their bodies to give them the same stamina Bess now had. She and Amaya could not dawdle.
She tried once again to Speak to someone and found herself incapable of doing so while she ran; the emptiness blinded her and tangled her feet. When she had fallen twice, she decided to wait until they paused for a rest, though she was so impatient to be free of the drug she almost asked Amaya to postpone their journey until she was recovered. But they could not afford any delay.
They ran over the low foothills, ascending so gradually Bess could not tell they had climbed at all. She did not recognize the path they took, saw no familiar landmarks, and she asked Amaya if they were taking a different route. “Sí,” Amaya said, “is short. Is fast.”
“How fast?”
Amaya held up three fingers. “Is three?” she said.
“Yes. Three.”
“Three days.” Amaya nodded. “We run.”
They ran on through the monotonous landscape until Bess’s mind was numb with exhaustion and fear. All she could do was run, and hope they would not be too late—
A Voice thundered through her head. Miss Hanley, Speak if you can hear me.
Bess shrieked and stumbled to a halt, tripping and rolling headlong down a short hill and ending in a tangled heap. Mr. Quinn! I did not—they drugged me, and I could not Speak, and I did not know when the effect would end. Oh, I am so glad to hear from you!
Whispering Twilight Page 33
