Oken and Mabruke ate in silence. Oken let his gaze drift around the room, storing up memories of the vivid, enigmatic artwork on the walls.
ONCE THEY had settled into their suite, Mabruke pulled out the brochures and spread them on the bed. “We are currently off the northeast coast of the southern continent,” he said, unfolding the map. “Our ultimate destination is Qusqo, so let us find a suitable meander, a leisurely pathway for two carefree gentlemen tasting the sights and sounds of this wild place.”
Oken stretched his lean self out on his bed. He folded his hands under his head and closed his eyes, calling up in memory the pages of the brochure Mabruke was reviewing. “ ‘Qusqo, the center of the Cosmos and the source of all creation,’ ” he recited from it, then interrupted himself. “I always thought that was Memphis.”
“It is,” Mabruke said absently, examining the fine lines of the map.
“Ah, of course. All faiths are true.”
“We are on the far side of the world. Tawantinsuyu and Egypt are civilizations growing up behind each other’s back. Qusqo may well be the center here.”
“Then we shall treat it as such,” Oken said agreeably.
“Tomorrow, you and I will board an Egyptian-owned ship, Moss Rose,” Mabruke said, “for a pleasant sail across the Carib Sea to the northern coast of Tawantinsuyu. From there we shall eventually catch a Quetzal to Qusqo directly.”
“Eventually,” Oken echoed. “Perhaps by then you will be rested enough to enjoy the flight.”
“Oh, I am quite prepared for that. I told you it was lack of sleep.”
“Good.”
Before setting out from Memphis on this mission, the Queen had shown Oken a second book about their destination, a who’s who of the imperial courts of Tawantinsuyu and Maya Land. A great many of the royal descendants, especially in the recent generations, had the same names as their ancestors, separated only by numbers, as in Quyllur Misi III and IV, or Wankakanka XII and XXI, Viracocha Inca Yupanqui XII, Inca of Tawantinsuyu, and to Satiltzoj II, President of Maya Land.
The two most important names after the aging Emperor Inca Viracocha Yupanqui XII himself were the Inheritor and next in line, Pachacuti Yupanqui IV and his brother, Viracocha XIII, the only surviving adult princes. The only princess, Usqhullu, was very popular. She had been widowed at a young age, and spent her time traveling around her father’s empire, indulging in the “de cadence” of Egyptian embassies and European trade centers. Usqhullu was older than Oken, but not by much, and he was learning to appreciate women with some experience in life—their conversation made the time pass so pleasantly.
With that happy thought as inspiration, he compared pages in his memory with the active list from the brochures. There was much to be learned.
THE PSS Moss Rose was a medium- size cruise ship, with more spacious accommodations than the Quetzal, yet Oken felt strangely constricted. He missed the sky. The crew were mostly Portuguese, and under orders not to talk to the passengers. “This ship is a little piece of Egypt in a strange land,” the captain had said as he ushered them on board. “You will find my crew are well disciplined.” Oken rather suspected that everyone was showing off for the visiting noblemen. Mabruke took it with his usual grace. He was often to be found at the fore of the ship, leaning on the rail, coattails flapping around him, gazing in solemn contemplation at the new continent appearing before them. Oken preferred the view from the comfort of the observation deck, out of the wind.
Late on the last night before the scheduled docking, Mabruke spoke up a few minutes after Oken had put out the lamp over his bunk. “Your breathing tells me that you are also still awake. A favor, then, would you? Read back to me from the brochure on the embassy at Zulia. Something nags at me, suggesting I have forgotten an important detail.”
Oken was also feeling the restlessness of the limited activity on shipboard. He rolled over to face Mabruke in his bunk. The images flashed across his mind’s eye clearly enough to be seen in the dark. He resettled the blanket over his shoulders. Once comfortable, he began to recite: “ ‘Situated at the northernmost tip of the southern continent, the Egyptian embassy complex in the district of Zulia is the first landing on many travelers’ tour of the Empire.’ ” He stopped himself as a thought struck him. “Mik, does that mean we draw less attention by going there first?”
“That was the plan.”
“Was that the missing detail?”
Mabruke considered . “No.”
Oken continued, “ ‘The traveler’s first sight upon docking is the imposing stone architecture of the Port Authority building, where officials of the Egyptian embassy are available to provide guidance for further travels within the Tawantinsuyu Empire and Maya Land. From there, our well-trained staff will transport you and your luggage along the statue-lined thoroughfare to the Gate of Isis, and into the lobby of the embassy hotel. Along the way, the traveler is treated to magnificently ornamented murals on every surface, relief sculptures of the native builders at work, showing how they lifted the forty-two columns of the façade into place, as well as the pair of obelisks facing the ocean. Each workman’s image is an actual portrait. The earnings these workers brought to their families, villages, and temples were the foundation of the trading port city in the more hospitable region just south of the embassy—Coro, known to the locals as “Sky City.’ ”
Oken heard the breathy sound of Mabruke’s light snoring. He turned on his side and waited for sleep, walking the Quetzal’s catwalk in his mind.
SLEEP WOULD not visit him, however. As the air began to lighten, he drifted into the half sleep of deep relaxation, and almost missed the sound of the lock mechanism clicking. The captain did, indeed, run a tight ship. No one would have dared to enter their cabin without knocking and speaking first. Instinct and training acted for Oken. He leaped off the bed, springing silently across the cabin to stand behind the door. The attacker stealthily opened the door and took one step inside, leaning forward. His arm was raised. In the light from the corridor, Oken saw the glint of a blade poised to throw.
Oken slammed the door hard against the would-be assassin, hitting him squarely in the face. Oken heard the blade clatter to the deck as the man staggered back.
“Mik!” Oken called loudly as he yanked open the door.
This was no crewman. He was a native from the deep rain forest, wearing only red ochre paint and a smear of black across his eyes. He was lunging for the dropped dagger.
Mabruke turned on his lamp and leaped out of bed, shouting “Steward!” loudly.
With a single, well-placed kick to the attacker’s head, Oken knocked the painted man unconscious. Then he went back into the cabin, picked up his silk morning coat, and put it on, slowly shaking his head.
The night steward came rushing up, lamp in hand. “What is this? What is this?” he cried, shining the lamp over them.
“Get the captain!” Mabruke snapped.
“We’ll need rope to bind him before he comes to,” Oken said, returning to the corridor. He put one foot on the neck of the unconscious man, just in case.
The steward hurriedly ran down the corridor, snagged a coil of rope, and ran back. He gave the rope to Oken, then rushed off for the captain, calling loudly as he ran.
While Oken tied the unconscious native’s hands behind his back and bound his feet, Mabruke crouched beside him, carefully examining the man’s paint and the beadwork knotted into his hair. “Roll him over,” he said once Oken had finished the knots. “I want you to see his face.”
“You think I should recognize him for some reason?”
“Just in case we should see him again—or perhaps we have seen him before.” Mabruke leaned close to and sniffed lightly at the paint on his face, then at his lips. “Hmmm . . .” He stood up, gazing down at the man. “It is native ochre, but it has been applied using olive oil. A rather cheap grade of it, too, I should say.” He put his hands on his hips and frowned at the man. “There’s no scent of brine on him. He did not
swim here. He’s been drugged. Laudanum and coca.”
The steward returned, running ahead of the captain. Two of the night watchmen ran behind them, weapons drawn. The captain stared around at the scene before him. “Who is this person?” he said, pointing to the man tied up on the deck. “How did he get on board?”
Oken tied the silk belt of his morning coat, leaning back against the doorframe. “He tried to get in here. He was armed.” He nudged the dagger lying on the deck with his toe.
The steward reached out to pick up the dagger, but Mabruke put out his arm to stop him. “There is poison on the blade—touch only the handle.”
The man on the floor came to and writhed desperately toward the dagger, making a sudden snatch at it with his teeth. Before they could stop him, he had managed to stab the poisoned tip into his cheek, killing himself before he could close his eyes. His painted, naked body went limp in its rope bonds.
The captain shouted wordlessly in shock.
“So much for learning who sent him,” Mabruke said regretfully.
“This is horrendous!” the captain said loudly. “This is not possible! This ship is embassy property, embassy territory!”
“A little piece of Egypt in a strange land.” Oken spoke quietly. “Just like home.”
“You didn’t kill him,” Mabruke said to him. “He would have killed us.”
“This is an assassin?” the captain cried out in even greater dismay and shock.
“A paid assassin by the look of him,” Mabruke said. “I doubt the Red Hand League is capable of pursuing us across the Atlantic, however.”
“Red Hand?” the captain said angrily. “What Red Hand? He is red all over!”
“They will want to examine the body at the embassy when we arrive,” Mabruke said. “Secure him in the hold until then.”
The night watchmen obeyed without even glancing at their captain for confirmation of Mabruke’s orders. They were very careful not to touch the dagger as they picked up the body by Oken’s knots and carried it away. The night steward followed them out. The captain looked helplessly at Mabruke, stuttering an apology.
Mabruke dismissed this with a casual wave of his hand. “I am quite certain that you and your crew are not involved in this, have no fear, Captain. Investigators at the embassy will deal with this well enough.”
The captain was very grateful and rushed away, shaking his head and calling to the watchmen to prepare a bird for a message to send ahead.
Oken sat on his bed, staring blankly at the memory of a dead man’s eyes. “ ‘Protect the living and honor the dead,’ ” he said, thinking out loud. “That’s what I’ve been taught all my life.”
Mabruke stood before him, arms folded across his chest. “I know that look,” he said to him quietly. “You did not kill him—you saved our lives.”
Oken blinked, forcing the image away, then nodded, grateful.
“Don’t give in to guilt. You protected the living, and you have my gratitude for that.”
Oken tried to smile.
Mabruke spoke more emphatically. “Yes, a life was lost. The only guilt is the dead man’s—you saved our lives.”
“I know. Remind me.”
“THIS IS a serious and most unfortunate circumstance,” Ambassador Mario Castillo said unhappily. He snapped his fan shut and tapped it rapidly on the back of his hand. The ambassador was a short man, and seemed unable or unwilling to look up at the towering noblemen who had arrived at his office. “When His Highness, the prince, hears of this attempt upon your persons, he will be incensed!”
“What prince might this be?” Mabruke said in polite inquiry.
CHAPTER TEN
THE ONLY other human being whom Oken had ever seen who was quite as big as Prince Viracocha was that golden bear from Novgorod, General Blestyak. Oken would have had to put them side by side to see who was actually the larger. Prince Viracocha was built wide, broad of forehead, broad of face, shoulder, and chest, with thighs like tree trunks. The extraordinary quality and fit of his sky blue European suit pleasantly emphasized every muscle. Unlike Blestyak, however, this man had a look of intense intelligence about him, with piercing black eyes that missed nothing, an eagle assessing his prey. A royal collar was draped around his shoulders and across his powerful chest. Designs in green, red, and black feathers were his name and rank in the sacred glyphs of Tawantinsuyu, “Prince Viracocha XIII, Seventh Son of Emperor Viracocha Yupanqui XII, Favored of Heaven.” A golden circlet on his brow bore a stylized puma flashing hot, ruby eyes. The prince’s skin was the same cinnamon color as the beautiful ladies Jaia and Jaianna, his long hair as shining black as Princess Ravenwind’s.
Oken was inclined to like him.
Prince Mabruke and Prince Viracocha bowed politely to each other in equal measure, royal sons of similar status, sons of thrones. Oken bowed just slightly lower, and was last to straighten up. Ambassador Castillo, having completed his duty by introducing them with their names and titles in the correct order, stood to the side, nervously fingering the gold filigree on his cuffs.
Mabruke reached up and flicked the white ostrich plume on his top hat. “Your Highness is most kind to have journeyed so far from the palace just to greet strangers.”
Prince Viracocha smiled. “Your Highness is most kind not to condemn us for the inhospitality of your greeting, an assassin sent by strangers.” His Trade was barely accented, with the deep, throaty tone of controlled power Oken had come to recognize as a trait of the native peoples.
Mabruke also smiled. “Were they, indeed, strangers, Your Highness?”
“Death is no stranger in this world, Prince Mabruke. He prowls as he pleases. He takes whom he will.”
“Yet he did not take us.”
Viracocha’s smile was suddenly genuine. “I thank the sky for that! I have been eager to share our world with you since I first heard that you would be coming here.”
Oken’s attention focused on that. Viracocha turned his eagle gaze on Oken. “You are the memoryman?”
Oken met that intense gaze and held it, then nodded. “We came here in a Quetzal named after you, Your Highness. I enjoyed it immensely.”
Prince Viracocha looked at Oken, then said, “Actually, that was named for my mother’s ancestor. I just happened to be born on the same day of the k’atun as he.”
“I am also named for my mother’s ancestors,” Oken said, “but only because my mother is sentimental.”
Viracocha laughed, a generous sound. “Your world fascinates me, gentlemen. When I heard that men of your quality would be traveling here, I determined that I should be your guide and companion, sharing with you the beauties of my empire, while you regale me with stories of yours.”
Mabruke beamed. “Excellent, Your Highness. Excellent.”
“First, however,” Viracocha said, “this matter of the assassin.” He folded his big arms over his broad chest. “I do not like this. Tawantinsuyu has no quarrel with Egypt.”
“Tawantinsuyu is not the whole world, Your Highness,” Mabruke said in gentle reply. “There are those who quarrel with Egypt wherever they want.”
“I shall put my best lieutenants upon it, Your Highness,” Viracocha said. “And only those whom I trust.”
“Indeed,” Mabruke said, his eyebrows rising. “You think this might have come from the palace?”
“I want to know, no matter the source.”
Mabruke’s smile relaxed. “Your Highness, we have much to talk about, you and I.”
“THIS PERSON is yunka runa,” Prince Viracocha said. “That is, he is a jungle person from Maya Land.” He was pacing slowly around the examination table on which the corpse of their would-be assassin lay. “At least, the clan markings on his face and hair are from the Yanomamo. Something about it does not seem quite right. The Yanomamo are not assassins. They’re good salesmen, not killers.”
“Do the Yanomamo use olive oil in their body paint?” Oken said.
“Olive oil?” the prince said, puzzled
. He looked at Oken for further explanation.
Mabruke spoke up. “The red ochre was mixed with olive oil, a rather poor grade, and almost rancid.”
Prince Viracocha turned to the embassy’s examiners standing to the side of the table. “Is this true?”
One shrugged; the other shook his head.
“Smell it,” Mabruke said to them, gesturing to the corpse.
The younger of the two leaned over the body and sniffed at the paint on the skin. He straightened up, eyebrows raised. “Olive oil,” he said, sounding surprised. “And rancid.”
“Was there any evidence that he swam to the ship?” the prince said.
Mabruke shook his head. “There was no brine.”
The prince folded his arms across his chest, staring down at the dead man’s face. “That suggests he stowed on board at the aerodrome on the island. The oil would have gone rancid while he waited in hiding.”
Mabruke nodded. “That is suggested.”
“We will have the ship searched, Your Highness,” the embassy’s man said.
“I will send troops to search the island as well,” Prince Viracocha said to him. “Find a photographer, and get him up here. I want close-ups of this face, both with and without the paint. Knowing who he is will lead us to who sent him.”
“Whoever it is, Your Highness,” Oken said to the prince, “you will likely find that there are orchids involved.”
“Orchids?” Viracocha drew his brows together. “What have orchids to do with this?”
“A very dangerous, exotic flower, Your Highness,” Mabruke said.
“Indeed, Prince Mabruke, we have much to talk about.” Viracocha motioned to the captain of his personal guard standing protectively behind him. “We will go on board,” Viracocha said to him. “Have Hanaq Pacha prepare for launch.”
“ MIXCOMITLIS the fastest Quetzal in the world, gentlemen.” Prince Viracocha waved grandly at the brilliantly blue heavens. “I can sail from the top to the tip of the empire in just seven days.”
Three Princes Page 14
