Quilla
When Isaura saw how many of Quilla’s inhabitants were armed, she had two familiar reactions: Is this worth the delay? and I wish Amadi was here.
The answer to the question was almost always No, it’s not worth stopping for. Keep going. Haru had pushed back more in their early days together, but she rarely objected now. Detouring to help Chasca and her family had been a rare exception. Yet if Isaura’s reckoning was right—and it could well be off by a few days; she’d been knocked unconscious for extended periods far too often these last six months—then Da’s appointed meeting date was less than a week away.
Wasting time wasn’t an option.
Her response to missing Amadi was never as definitive. Because what could she do now? She’d already squandered her time with him, as she almost had with Shoteka’s father, held back by the paralyzing legacy of what had happened to her in LaFlorida. And now all she had were questions: Had Amadi recovered from the fight in Bayano? Why did Da want him? Had he escaped? Did he miss her?
All unknowable, at least until she reached Huancavelica. Yet another reason to press on.
Haru pointed through the scraggly mountain bushes they’d crouched behind. “Quilla’s right there,” she said, no doubt anticipating Isaura’s change of heart. “It’s worth trying. We have to pass through it anyway, and Chasca said they could help.”
“They could hurt too,” Isaura noted, making a quick tally of the spears she could see. Almost every villager carried one, and there were several bundles of extras.
Haru took out the knotted cord Chasca had given them. “They won’t if they see this. Hold it up as we walk in and ask for that Huitaca woman, like Chasca said to. Easy enough.”
Isaura considered the Nippon. It still felt strange to trust her. But she did. Mostly. Haru had proven a reliable companion, and she’d happily described everything she knew about Da, Jie, and their fiendish powers.
But lately Isaura had been troubled anew by the nagging suspicion that Haru was a plant, another of Da’s devious gambits. Was the star ward on the Nippon’s hand even real? Was “sacrificing” her powers to maintain her free will just a ruse? What if she thought the ward was real, but Da had in fact copied it while maintaining his puppet mastery? When they reached Huancavelica, would she yank off her mask and—
Stop it. You asked Haru to accompany you, not the other way around. She’s been nothing but helpful and conciliatory.
“All right,” Isaura said as she accepted the cord. “But we do this quickly, or not at all.”
Haru grinned. “Agreed. I like fast, remember?”
“Unless you’re eating. Then you’re the slowest person I’ve ever met.”
The Nippon mock-snorted. “Food should be savored. How’s your head?”
“It’s fine.” It wasn’t. It ached, as it often did since Bayano. But not enough to slow her down. So after drawing a deep breath, Isaura raised Chasca’s cord and stepped out from behind the bush.
* * *
Huitaca wasn’t easy to find.
She was well known. That was clear when Isaura approached the first Quilla villager who saw her, held up the knotted cord, and said, “Huitaca.” His eyes widened beneath his four-cornered cap, and after hesitating briefly, he motioned for her and Haru to follow him.
But he didn’t speak Espan. Neither did anyone at the large stone building—a meeting house?—the villager led them to, and Huitaca didn’t seem to be there. Nor did anyone present seem particularly happy to have two foreigners in their midst.
“This is taking too long,” Isaura murmured as she counted spears again: at least thirty in the house, many featuring large, star-shaped heads. Three of the men who looked most mistrustful also had bolas dangling from their belts, and barrels of arrows lined the walls.
Haru shrugged, her shoulders making the rolling motion that often meant Be patient. She wasn’t oblivious to the weapons, though. “I guess the Inkas are rearming,” the Nippon noted after doing her own survey of what was looking less like a meeting house and more like an arsenal.
“We’re not Inkas,” an old woman said in Espan as she strode into the building behind the villager Isaura had first approached. “We’re Huanca. The Inkas ruled us once, but the Espans have taken their place.” From her tone, it sounded like she hoped the latter would go the way of the former.
“You’re Huitaca?” Isaura asked.
“I am.” The old woman, who seemed lean and sharp enough to be a spear herself, gestured for the knotted cord. “Is Chasca well?” Huitaca said after studying the knots.
“Not particularly. Her husband and oldest son are azagado, and she and her daughter have tremors of their own.”
“La Mina de la Muerte,” Huitaca muttered, shaking her head. “And why did she give you this?” The old woman let the cord dangle from her fingers.
“Because I helped her family, and I need to save my own from Huancavelica. My son is being taken there.” Isaura grimaced, remembering Haru mentioning that Shoteka had been talking by the time they reached Bayano—talking in Han. Not Espan. “He was kidnapped. He’s barely a year old.”
“I see.” Huitaca chewed this over for a moment. Literally. There was something in her mouth. “You are Nippon?” she said, turning to Haru.
“Yes.”
“Samurai?”
“Onna-bugeisha,” Haru said, a hint of surprise in her voice. “At least, I try to be.”
“But you fight like a samurai?”
“More or less,” Haru conceded.
Huitaca nodded, motioned to three of the onlooking men—the ones with bolas and star-pointed spears—and clapped.
At which point the designated men leveled their spears and attacked.
“Prove yourself,” Huitaca called as Haru whipped Amadi’s bone-spear off her back and parried the first blow.
Isaura sidestepped towards one of the bundles of spears, but the old woman put a hand on her shoulder. “Let it happen,” Huitaca said, watching approvingly as Haru turned aside a second strike and knocked off the third man’s cap.
The Nippon certainly didn’t seem to need help. She was smiling as she danced around the next jabs of the star-pointed spears, humming and laughing as she evaded her assailants’ increasingly agitated swings. She’d practiced with the bone-spear every day since Isaura had given it to her, but this was her first opportunity to use it against an opponent.
Was she faster than she should have been? Did the humming still accelerate her to an unnatural velocity? Or was it just her way of focusing now, as she’d claimed when Isaura had asked several weeks ago?
Huitaca clapped again when the last man fell, gasping for air and clutching his stomach where Haru had rammed it with the bone-spear’s butt. No one else stepped up to challenge her.
“You’re good,” Huitaca observed as the three humiliated men collected their spears and withdrew. “Almost as good as the last Nippon to pass through Quilla.”
Haru raised the bone-spear so it rested on her shoulder. Her eyes were alight, but she seemed otherwise unaffected by the sparring. She probably could have taken on another three men—and enjoyed it. “And who was this samurai you think was better than me?”
“Kita Yuu.”
“Ah.” Haru nodded respectfully.
“You know him?”
“Of him. There aren’t many of us stranded here by Sakoku. My sensei knew Kita-san. She said he was a master of the katana.”
“He was that.” Huitaca smiled in a way that made Isaura think this Kita Yuu had been a master of other things as well.
But they weren’t here to reminisce over past loves like moonstruck girls, or waste more time fighting pointless combat trials. “Chasca said you could help get my son back. If that’s true, we’ll help you destroy La Mina de la Muerte.”
The old woman chewed this over—again, quite literally. Then she spat a green ball into her hand and tossed the mushy wad into a small container in the corner of the house. “Coca leaves,” she ex
plained when Isaura raised her eyebrows. “Good for energy.”
“I see.”
Huitaca gestured at Haru. “This one can help us. She’s demonstrated that.” The old woman turned to Isaura. “I don’t see a weapon on your back.”
The expression that crossed her face wasn’t a sneer, but it was close. If she were being forced to prove herself too, then she would do so. And the evidence would be indisputable.
The obvious choice was a watery version of Haru’s bone-spear (her bone-naginata?). Or maybe one of the Huancas’ star-pointed spears. Yet the image that took shape in Isaura’s mind was of something she’d lost in Bayano: her pistol. It had been a simple thing, more functional than elegant. Yet functional was all she’d needed. She’d dissuaded more than one man merely by tapping its metal barrel.
Quilla’s mountain air was dry, but there was enough moisture for her to pull into a hovering recreation of her gun, beginning with a small representation and then expanding the shimmering outline to near-cannon size. As the men in the meeting house murmured and gasped, Isaura “fired” the pistol in slow motion, sending a bluish orb spinning lazily toward Huitaca.
The old woman watched it come until the giant water bullet was only a few inches from her chest. Then she pulled a second knotted cord from her pocket, gripped the cord’s ends, and pulled.
As the central knot unwound, the air popped, Isaura’s water weapon exploded into mist, and Huitaca laughed with delight.
* * *
“Certain hands can bind power into a knot,” the old woman explained after she’d shooed the men out of the meeting house and led Isaura and Haru into a smaller room. “And when those knots are undone …”
“The power is released,” Isaura finished, still marveling at how many ropes and strings filled this room. Cords of all sizes and colors hung from each wall, and the central table was piled high with additional lengths, as were several baskets on the floor.
“Chasca was right to give you her weaver’s mark,” Huitaca said approvingly.
“But this isn’t how I do it—I don’t tie knots. I … paint pictures. In my head.”
“It isn’t how you think you do it, but you’re spinning threads all the same.”
“Maybe.” Isaura noted how many of the room’s strings and ropes had been bent into various shapes. “So these are spells that have been cast, but not yet enacted?”
Huitaca’s smile was all teeth. “They’re for Huancavelica.”
Haru grunted. “Then this is the real arsenal.”
“Yes.” The old woman picked up an unknotted string and began contorting it in increasingly complex ways around a small rock. “But we weren’t strong enough to wield such weapons until recently.”
“Because of the quicksilver?”
“Partly. But mostly because of the plagues. We were dying of disease, more every year.”
Understanding dawned on Isaura. “But then the Red Wraith healed you.”
Huitaca frowned. “Who?”
“A powerful shaman,” she said quickly, wondering whether she should mention her involvement. “From the north. He sent the cure to all the original people.”
The old woman stopped manipulating her cord, studying Isaura so piercingly that she nearly looked to Haru for help.
“We didn’t think of it as a ‘cure’ at first,” Huitaca said eventually. “Not while all of Quilla was thrashing on the ground, screaming in agony and leaking darkness. Many of our azagados died on the spot.”
Isaura winced. Hearing firsthand accounts of the Day of Black Pus never got easier.
“But most of us survived, and no one has been sick since.” Huitaca returned to her cord, snaking it through its own loops a few more times before wrapping it in a final knot.
“And now you know you’re strong,” Haru added.
“Yes,” Huitaca agreed. “Now we know we can fight.” She tossed the completed cord onto the table and pointed to an intricately threaded rug pegged to the far wall. “That’s a map of Huancavelica. We attack in three days. If you help us, we’ll help you get your boy back.”
Out of the corner of her eye, Isaura could see Haru looking at her hopefully. She still wasn’t quite ready to trust the old woman. But the Huancas’ timeline aligned with theirs, and the more warriors and magic users on their side, the better. “Done.”
Haru positively beamed. “Great. So what does that cord do—the one you just tied around the stone? Could someone without your gift use it?”
“You can throw well?” Huitaca asked.
“Better than most.”
“Try it and see.”
Haru only hesitated for a second before gingerly picking up the cord.
“You’re aiming for that hoop there,” Huitaca directed, pointing at a basket coiled with rope in the far corner. “Pull the cord and toss it in.”
Haru gauged the distance. “And if I miss?”
“Don’t.”
“Right.” Haru looked from the cord to the basket one more time, tugged the cord—which unraveled far more easily than its interlaced appearance would have suggested—and made the throw.
One, two, three. Nothing.
Haru wrinkled her nose. “How long—”
A concussive blast rocked the basket, sending flames darting out and then back in, as if some invisible force had yanked them down.
“The basket is shielded,” Huitaca confirmed. “If it weren’t …”
Isaura felt woozy. But not from fear. She was weak-kneed with relief. She may or may not find Amadi in Huancavelica—although she would find the noble Afrii eventually; there was no question of that. But she had other allies now. Powerful ones.
“I’m coming, Shen Da,” she whispered as Haru eyed the stack of knotted cords on the table. “Pray to whatever god you worship, because Shoteka’s mamá is coming.”
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Huaca of the Mine
Jie tried not to cough, but it wasn’t easy. Bloody phlegm always seemed to clog her lungs these days, and this close to Huancavelica, the mountainous air had grown thin. Thin and cold.
She shivered as Chase opened the cart’s front flat flap and slid inside. Bolin was sleeping and she wanted to snuggle him, but her bamboo body brace kept getting in the way.
“Will you help me take this off?” she asked, gently setting Bolin to the side and wrapping him with the blanket they’d been sharing.
Chase blinked. “Take what off?”
“My braces.”
“Umm … If you’d like.”
Jie knew it was an awkward request, but she’d weakened to the point that donning or removing her braces by herself was no easy task. It was like wearing armor now. She needed a second set of hands to adjust it. And Da was busy steering the cart up the series of narrow switchbacks leading to Huancavelica.
She also didn’t mind having Chase so close.
He’d been kind to her for months now, and if she’d been healthier … But they were rarely alone.
Still, Jie didn’t mind when Chase’s fingers brushed her side while he undid one of the brace’s straps. He seemed mortified, which just made her laugh and like him all the more. But he didn’t initiate any further contact. Somehow, he managed to undo the rest of the straps and slip the bamboo supports over her warmest blouse without additional touching, intentional or otherwise.
“There you go,” he said gruffly, his face even ruddier than usual.
Jie settled back into her corner, eased Bolin against her chest, and smiled as Chase rearranged the blanket. “Thank you.”
The Anglo bobbed his head, then busied himself cleaning the gun he’d acquired in Lima for that idiotic duel. He hadn’t fired it conventionally since, but his fingers looked fidgety, in need of something to do. Had she made him that nervous?
“How close are we?” she asked.
“Maybe an hour or two. Mateo’s been here before. He’s showing Da the way.”
Jie nodded. Despite the ridiculous wooden nose Da had graf
ted onto the Espan’s face, Mateo was as near as the Lima mercenaries had to a leader. Da had forbidden him from fighting more with Chase—little as either of them liked it—and Mateo had proven to be a knowledgeable guide.
The Anglo jerked a finger at Bolin. “Has Captain Messy Bottom attracted any more animal friends?”
She frowned at the nickname. “Not since the alpaca a few days ago.” After Bayano, there had been a seemingly endless string of furry interlopers. None of them had stolen Bolin like that first monkey had, but they’d all tried to mother him in their own way.
Jie wasn’t sure why. What did he need that she couldn’t provide? She knew he was reaching out to them through some power she had yet to identify (or mirror). Sometimes it felt like he was calling to her too—silently, using something other than his adorable little voice—but that might be wishful thinking.
“I’m glad we’re nearly there,” she murmured.
Chase grunted. “It’s almost at an end.”
“Hopefully.” She paused to enjoy Bolin’s heat. He radiated it like a bian stone fresh from the fire. “Do you think Da will be able to heal me?”
“Your brother can do things I’ve never seen before.”
“I know, but … It’s funny. The closer we come, the more I feel like this won’t work. Da said I had a vision, but I don’t remember it. And now there’s just this … wrongness. Like we’re wading upstream against the Tao. Except how can what we’re doing be wrong?”
Chase winced. “I’m sure you’ll be fine if Da finds what he’s looking for. Have you been able to map Amadi and Isaura?”
Jie shook her head. Their locations, along with every other wu’s, had been veiled in purple haze of late. She’d hoped Bayano had represented a turning point, but control continued to elude her. Now her mapping appeared to be going the way of her mirroring: random and unreliable. Worthless.
Chase winced again. Was her frustration that obvious? Or was it because the Anglo was responsible for the Black Resurrection’s escape? Da had hinted at this, but no one had told her the details.
The Black Resurrection Page 22
