Three Princes

by Ramona Wheeler

  The ship’s staff were from the Andes in Tawantinsuyu, “The Empire of the Four Quarters.” They wore beaded and embroidered cotton vests and trousers and feathered armbands, and walked silently through the ship barefoot. Each had the same traditionally braided black hair and golden skin of the Cinnamon Twins, Jaia and poisonous Jaianna, in Casablanca. There were, however, no native women. Oken had wondered about that since noting it in the crew manifest.

  Most passengers thought the crewmen looked alike and addressed them simply as “lad.” When Oken introduced himself, he pleased them immediately by knowing their individual names and duties, skimmed from the manifest. After that, they had endless fun teaching him the correct pronunciation of their native names, which was returned by his fanciful translations of those names into Trade.

  This daily walk around the open ring was his reward for these efforts. The staff were so delighted by his unusual enchantment with the experience of flying that they had given him the freedom of the entire Quetzal. Even the brilliantly colored macaws welcomed him when he appeared on the bridge. Each pilot had his own such bird as assistant, to act as liaison with the albatross outrunners, the true navigators.

  The intention to secure the secrets of their Quetzal technology had led to the curious convention of keeping the bridge and engine room completely separate from the passenger section. The only exit from the passenger section of the vessel suspended in the nets at the center of the winged-rings was through a hatch at the very tip of the aeroship’s tail, the passenger entrance when the aeroship was moored. The wing-sails, sleekly folded down in full flight, created a streamlined covering around the ring, protecting the catwalk. Stepping out to the flotation ring itself was a brief, albeit breathtaking, climb up three bamboo steps, holding on to a hemp lead line. The only entrance to the bridge and engine room of the Quetzal was halfway around the ring at the fore, via a daredevil slide down a double rope with a harness around his waist clipped as a security line. The crew did this barefoot. Oken quickly learned to use the heels of his fancy, pointed boots to keep himself in place.

  Once through the opened hatch, bamboo ladder rungs led down into the bridge and engine room. Drummers and pipe players sat in a small alcove overlooking the bridge, setting the rhythm of the cyclers as they worked, as well as entertaining the crew.

  In a sunken recess across the bridge, the engines were situated. Seven young men were riding atop dual-wheeled cycles, pedaling in place to rhythms played out by the drums and pipes. Intricatly interlaced gears set to whirring furiously by the young men. These, in turn, operated complex pumps and bellows painted with giant, grotesque faces that alternately grimaced and grinned as they worked. They made a rhythmic breathing noise, slow andpowerful.

  Another group of young men lounged on woven mats, resting for their turn at the wheels, laughing and joking among themselves. Bowls of shredded coca leaves were passed among them, and everyone was chewing them. Some were singing along with the music, in a language startlingly similar to the words in Verdi’s opera. The whirring noise of the many gears was a steady, happy hum droning through the music. Seven more slept in hammock-slung rugs around the perimeter of the bridge.

  “Tawantinsuyu is a well-organized state,” Brugsch had written.

  Lacking the draft animals whose loyalty and strong backs powered the earliest civilizations of the Old World, the civilizations of the New World devised a multitude of ingenious ways of harnessing human power. This practice led to a greatly enhanced appreciation of the individual’s contribution to the smooth working of the empire as a whole, an ethic that echoes that of Egypt. This shared sensibility has helped greatly in smoothing the initial contacts between Egypt and these distant peoples.

  The queen had marked that passage with a carefully inked-in line of stars, making it stand out in his emotional response to the material. He saw the living enactment of it here, which pleased him. He would be able to report this observation when he returned to Memphis.

  The cyclers waved at Oken in greeting. He saluted them in return. Two of the macaws who were not actively engaged in navigation work fluttered up from their perches and settled, one on each shoulder.

  “Hoy, Oken!” the bird on his left shoulder tilted his head to regard Oken with both eyes.

  “Hoy, Chocolate Roll.” Oken stroked the animal’s head with one finger as they greeted each other. Oken reached into his pocket and fished out a cacao bean. Chocolate Roll took the bean and winked at Oken as he spun it around in his beak with a dexterous flip, then quickly chewed up and swallowed the precious cacao. His eyes closed and he demonstrated his name, Chocolate Roll. The pleasure of the bean made him roll his head around, eyes close, wings akimbo.

  The bird on Oken’s other shoulder laughed, shaking out his wings like a dancer on display. Chocolate Roll thanked Oken, pressing his brilliantly green head against Oken’s cheek before lifting off in a flurry of wings to return to his human partner.

  The bird on Oken’s left shoulder winked at him, bobbing his head once. “Hoy, pretty-man, Oken!”

  “Hoy, pretty-bird, Duster,” Oken said, giving the bird a tickle in the rich feathers of his neck.

  Duster held out his clawed foot, waiting for his bean. He snapped it up, then fluttered his wing tips swiftly over Oken’s face, laughing, his head pointed skyward.

  “All yours,” Oken said to Duster, leaning his head toward the bird.

  Duster nuzzled through Oken’s rich, dark curls then carefully, with due deliberation, selected just a single strand and plucked it out. He walked down to Oken’s wrist before fluttering off to his perch. The strand of hair was placed in a pullout drawer at the base of his perch. When Duster first asked Oken for hair, the captain had explained that Duster’s mate, Chochoc, was nest-building. Oken felt the strands were an excellent contribution, since he suspected that his easy ac ceptance of the bird’s request had marked him as the proper kind of reasonable—trusting him.

  Oken strolled over to the helmsmen on their dais, seated before a broad panel of color-coded levers. Oken kept his hands casually in his pockets and did not speak to them. Their concentration was focused on the view through the glass windows that gave the aeroship its lifelike appearance when seen from afar. Just visible ahead was the flock of albatross that flew in careful formation in advance of the Quetzal, guiding the helmsmen. A fine gridline was etched onto the inner surface of the windows, creating reference points for the relationships of bird, sail, and wing. These crewmen were “Wind Walkers.” Their counterparts, the albatross, were “Wind Riders.” “Cloud Talkers,” the macaws, flew back and forth between the pilots and the albatross as messengers, bridging the gap between human and avian minds.

  The helmsmen, for their parts, controlled the arrays of fanfold sails placed around the ring with the lever-system before them, making constant but slight adjustments back and forth across the board according to the positions of each albatross in the grid. During most of the flight, the great expanse of sails was folded close. Even though their gazes remained fixed on the birds, the pilots chattered rapidly back and forth in their native tongue.

  Watching the teamwork and coordination required to fly the Quetzal was endless fascination for Oken. Here he found one of the rare instances in his life in which a perfect memory was little help to understanding. The subtleties of wing and sail would not unravel into any sense or structure he could grasp. They hardly needed their strict security measures to keep the secrets of the Quetzals. The single concept he was able to unravel with any surety was that each lever controlled a single hemp line. Lifetimes were needed to encompass this incomprehensible performance.

  The change in the music announced the shift change. Space in the bridge was limited, so the shift change was done as a lively, ritualized dance. Oken had learned he could only get in the way. The captain helped him into the harness that held him safe as he climbed the rope steps back up to the catwalk. After unbuckling the harness and steadying himself on the railing, he worked his way ba
ck to the aft and the ladder down the tail of the aeroship. Before descending inside, he stood watching sunset over the distant horizon. Eve ning and starlight appeared with startling swiftness. The stars were lost as the ship’s lights flickered on, outlining the ring, the ship, and the masts with a bright, blue glow. Oken climbed down the bamboo rungs to the passengers section, welcomed by the spicy fragrance of yet another exotic dinner.

  “I FIND it curious that the crew allow you such freedom of the ship’s works when their entire nation guards those very secrets with laws and treaties.”

  Oken shrugged. “They think me to be something of a buffoon, playing with the birds and spending my time fascinated by watching the cyclers at their work. I am hardly dangerous. I believe, though, that the truth is in something that the captain said in a casual moment. He commented that the heart of their technology was not gears and wings, but rather the substance of the ship’s frame, the alloys of the engines that compress air to run the jets, the fabric of the sails. I have also witnessed the interaction of the helmsmen and their avian navigators. The training of those birds seems considerably advanced upon the teaching of Thoth’s beast -men in Memphis.”

  “That does explain a great deal, I suppose.” Mabruke did sound strangely relieved. “Earlier descriptions seemed rather lacking in credulity as being adequate to keep this contraption in the air.”

  Oken feigned dismay and clasped his hand over his heart. “You wound me! Viracocha is hardly a contraption! He’s the flagship of the Atlantic fleet.”

  Mabruke laughed gently at the shared jest. “I think you have discovered the navigation we will use once we reach the mainland of Tawantinsuyu.”

  “A little bird will tell us?” Oken was smiling.

  “I shall be keeping a sharp eye and nose for evidence of their materials technology.”

  “More fun than sniffing out orchids.”

  Mabruke nodded, regarding the younger man with gentle surprise. “You did well,” he said finally. “Even Brugsch had little to say about the configuration of a Quetzal’s bridge compared to what you have described. I think Dzoser George and the Queen will be enthralled by your report.”

  Oken gave a slight bow in return. “This does make their Moon scheme more believable, although getting an albatross to lead them to the Moon . . .” He shrugged. “I want to meet the Cloud Talker who can talk sense to that bird!”

  CHAPTER NINE

  OKEN STOOD close to the main window at the observation dome on the roof of the island aerodrome, watching twilight fall across the brilliant tropical greens of the island below, and the deep blue of the Atlantic around them. The station was built in the style of native temples of the Sun and of the Moon, a pyramid with a broad staircase leading down the middle of each face. The steps ended in the dense green sea of treetops surrounding the station, flowing, uninterrupted, to the stony beach where ocean waves prowled. Just visible overhead, three Quetzals floated serenely at their moorings, glowing blue along the ring and masts.

  The lights in the room came slowly on and Oken’s reflection emerged on the glass, backed by the sudden night and the stars. He could also see the reflections of their fellow passengers seated in the lounge chairs, sipping hot chocolatl from painted ceramic cups.

  The observation lounge was too public for any conversation beyond a polite and neutral exchange. Mabruke was relaxing on a chair facing the windows, immersed in one of the many travel brochures set out appealingly on the side tables. Their eyes met in the reflection, and Oken turned, walking back to him. He stretched out his long legs, crossed his ankles, and stared at his boot tips.

  “It is the hour for serving wine downstairs,” Mabruke said quietly. “Shall we?”

  Oken stood up by way of answer.

  Mabruke picked up a pair of brochures he had set aside, slipping them into an inner jacket pocket as he stood.

  Oken followed Mabruke down the stairway into the interior of the station building and the dining room for the embassy guest quarters. He noted, as they turned the corner of the first landing, that the other passengers were following them. He was amused. During the voyage, curiosity about the professor-prince who refused to leave his stateroom had rippled through the passengers on the swift wings of rumor, disguised by concerned remarks about the gentleman’s change in appetite as Oken returned the dinner tray, or offers to lend this or that book, “for the good prince to pass the hours in flight more amiably.” None of the books, however, contained messages in green wax. Mabruke was as disappointed as Oken; however, they both read the books. Each was returned with suitable inscriptions regarding the gentlemen’s enjoyment of the text, yet without a glimpse of the prince himself.

  The aerodrome’s dining room was furnished with pieces built of the same rock as the building itself. Paintings in vivid colors covered every surface with mad contortions of human, plant, and animal shapes linked together by crimson flames, beautifully unfurling and writhing around them. Cushions of polished cloth, scattered in comfortable piles for guests to choose from, were of simple, solid colors in contrast to the intricate art. Egyptian lanterns hanging down in rows from the corbeled ceiling shed a soft yellow glow, warmer than candles.

  Plump brown lads filled cups with a hot wine poured from ceramic bottles shaped like crouching monkeys and bats. They passed the cups around with encouraging smiles as the guests settled down on the benches. The other guests were rich businessmen and their wives, exporters on purchasing runs and embassy officials returning from family visits in Egypt. Their tables were part of the walls, with stone benches covered by beautiful rugs and cushions. The chatter was lively, covering furtive glances at Oken and Mabruke.

  Oken himself was a prince of Britannia, fourth from the throne. He had earned the rank of Lord in the Egyptian court through acts of gallantry for the Queen. He counted that the more valuable title. As a prince of Nubia, Mabruke outranked almost every European or Egyptian he might encounter on this side of the Atlantic, except perhaps the ambassadors themselves. Nubia, “the Land of Gold,” had been Egypt’s closest neighbor long before the days of Caesar. Nubian blood coursed through the veins of Caesar’s children as hotly as Caesar’s own. Oken might sit closer to the throne of his own father’s spate in Mercia, but Nubia sat closer to Egypt’s heart.

  As “Captain-Prince Mabruke,” master of the PSI Guild, he outranked even the ambassadors—but only when it was worth risking his cover.

  Oken sipped at the hot wine. He was growing accustomed to the peppery burn that sang through the New World cuisine. He thought it struck a particularly eloquent harmony with the wine, although he could not identify a single flavor. The mystery delighted him.

  He was about to speak of that, but stopped himself. Mabruke had spread the brochures out on the table between them. “Scott,” he said, tapping the one closest to Oken, “I have discovered these to be the most friendly little items. They list the best hotels in the country, the embassies, and the Quetzal stations. It has a map, see?” He was speaking with relaxed calm, a casual remark to a friend. “I feel certain that we can find a destination to suit our fancy.”

  Oken picked them up one by one, reviewing each as though deeply interested, slowly tilting his head this way and that as he scanned the pages. Red and black line drawings and terse text in Trade hinted at exotic foods, wines, and women in dramatic and bizarre landscapes, unlike anywhere else on Earth. These hints were sparingly phrased, so that much could be read into them. Across the top of each brochure was printed: Please do not remove from the Wat’a Mona Aerodrome, thank you, courtesy of the management.

  They marked out the main attractions and locations that, for his and Mabruke’s purposes, were best avoided. Also listed were the names and titles of the most recently appointed Egyptian officials, butlers, protocol officers, and musicians among embassy and hotel staffs. Maps and native hieroglyphs for cities and embassy compounds were printed in red, as though meant to be vague. Trade names in black overwhelmed them.

  “Here i
s a particularly friendly warning,” Oken said, smiling at Mabruke. He leaned forward over the table and read aloud: “ ‘The Europe an traveler will quickly discover that their accommodations, wherever they may be, will be situated much like the facilities here at Wat’a Mona Aerodrome. This is to say, quarters, as well as furnishings therein, are constructed of stone of one kind or another, making practical the swift removal of mold or fungal growths, which remain a constant nuisance in this moist and vibrant landscape. It is good practice to report to staff the slightest hint of mold.’ ”

  “Friendly advice, indeed,” Mabruke said. He tilted his head, eyes unfocused in thought, and took a long swallow of his wine. He tapped the tip of his nose. “I wonder if an anti- fungal and mold— formula might do well in the market here?” He looked pleased with the idea. “I might design one.” He tapped his nose again.

  Oken agreed and went back to scanning the brochure, focusing on the maps. He put them aside when the steward brought in the first course of the eve ning meal: bowls with orange cubes of fruit heaped atop a thick, creamy custard. Cocoa powders were sprinkled over. This was served along with refills of the hot, spicy wine.

  There was a course of small potatoes of different colors served in hot broth and seasoned with chopped green herbs and red peppers. After this came roast fowl covered with a rich chocolate sauce, stuffed with peanuts, peppers, and round, white edible pearls. The birds were small, no bigger than squab, with a wild and tender taste. When one roast was consumed, another was quickly served up in its place. Mabruke ate three, one after the other, with calm deliberation. Oken was more interested in lingering over the sauce.

  The pleasant murmur of conversation grew stronger as people relaxed, exclaiming over the dishes, the delicacy of the spices, the novelty of the seasonings. “Better than in-flight meals,” was heard going around the group. “Nice to have fresh fruit again.”