At the code name “Black Orchid,” Bismarck’s eyes narrowed, and he drew up straighter, his hand straying to the hilt of the military sword at his side. “Nein,” he said, with less bluster.
“Can he meet your hounds, then?” Oken smiled down at Bismarck. “He’s keen on hounds. You have a handsome brace of them, there, don’t you, sir. A handsome brace!”
Breathless seconds passed while Bismarck stared up at him, the calculation in his gaze as powerful as Mabruke’s fierce attraction. Then Bismarck barked a command to the hounds, and they backed away from the tree. Oken told Mabruke in a patois of Swahili and Nubian that they were invited down to meet this gentleman and his beautiful hounds, and he waited until Mabruke had begun an awkward descent. Once Mabruke safely reached the ground, Oken made himself turn his back on Bismarck and climb down as well. He swung down from the last branch, getting a swift glance at the men behind Bismarck.
There were six of them, six of Oesterreich’s special guard, in neatly tailored uniforms, leather, wool, and brass. Oken smiled casually around once he had landed on his feet, showing his gloved hands with a rueful smile. “Another fine pair of gloves ruined by pitch—but then he will insist on climbing!”
The hounds came forward and sniffed enthusiastically at their boots. Bismarck let them.
Mabruke went down on one knee, his face alight, a genuine smile gleaming in his dark face. He held his hands out to the hounds, palms up, his long fingers relaxed, and crooned at them soft and low. He had used the same sound and tune when introducing Oken to the security hounds of Ibis Road in Memphis, on the other side of the world. Oken had been just a youth, having only just gotten “hair on his balls,” as Usqhullu said. On such a connection, those hounds had died for him.
Oken stood unmoving, smiling down with fake indulgence, insincere innocence, deliberately ignoring Bismarck and his men with the same confidence as Mabruke.
The hounds whined in the back of their throats, straining against training and instinct. Instinct won. They crowded close to Mabruke, tails wagging, clipped ears forward, and tongues showing in open canine smiles.
Bismarck watched with clear fascination.
Mabruke held his hands out to each animal, speaking to them with skillfully modulated tones. They licked his palms, his wrists, his face, and then each other in their growing delight. He rubbed their handsome heads, tugged at their ears, roughly combed the dense fur along their throats with his fingertips. They raised their heads in delight as his fingers moved down their necks. Hind feet began to thump. Tail wagging made their entire bodies sway.
Mabruke, with perfect timing, looked up at Bismarck, and poured out a question in Nubian.
When Bismarck turned to Oken with the automatic expectation of a translation, Oken felt a dangerous thrill. “The professor here, he wonders if you would introduce him to these fine beasts?” His easy expression said that this was not an unusual request from his employer.
Oken was surprised by how surprised he was that Bismarck, the most dangerous man in the world, went down on one knee among his hounds and introduced them, beginning with the female in the middle.
“Brunhilda,” Bismarck said with pride. “She is the mother-bitch of my best trackers.” When he touched her, she turned her head to grin at him, tongue lolling.
Bismarck tugged at the ear of the hound to Brunhilda’s left. “This one, he is her firstborn dog, Schwarzkopf.” He patted the third hound. “This is her youngest bitch, Gutrune.”
Gutrune spun around, licking Bismarck’s face with puppylike happiness, then turned back to Mabruke.
Mabruke snapped his fingers in front of Brunhilda’s chest, tilting his head as he met her eyes. She put her paw up, and he took it in his hand as he would a new friend. “Brunhilda,” he said soothingly. She keened in the back of her throat and licked his fingers.
He released her, and Schwarzkopf immediately offered his paw. Mabruke repeated the greeting, then again with Gutrune.
Bismarck stood up, briskly brushing dirt from his knee. Oken and Mabruke also stood casually, waiting for Bismarck to speak.
“It is good my hounds have found you,” Bismarck said. The downturned lines of his eyebrows said otherwise. “These hills are dangerous, especially at night. You would do well to join me. I have quarters close by. You will join me for dinner.”
“Splendid!” Oken said enthusiastically. “It would be a pleasure!” He turned to Mabruke and repeated the offer in High Nubian.
Mabruke smiled broadly at Bismarck.
Bismarck signaled his men. They turned with clean precision and stood aside in two rows of three to let Bismarck and his guests pass between them. The hounds leaped up and ran ahead, their tails wagging happily.
Bismarck gestured for Oken and Mabruke to precede him. They did so without hesitation. Bismarck stepped in behind Mabruke; then Bismarck’s men lined up behind him. Once they returned to the wider path, Bismarck caught up with Oken and walked beside him. “Where does your professor teach?” he said.
“He does a few classes in Memphis—perfumes and makeup for royals. He prefers Barcelona— have you ever been there? The most fascinating young architect was discovered there recently, Antoni Gaudi. Do you know the name?”
Bismarck regretted that he did not.
“My professor, he’s on a rest leave—at least, that’s what he tells me!” Oken made a scoffing noise. “I’ve done more walking up and down mountainsides and tree-climbing in the last few weeks than in my whole life!”
Bismarck was listening closely, his head tilted toward Oken. He smiled at those words. Oken was sure he saw a look cross Bismarck’s face, for just an instant, suggesting Oken had been dismissed as a useless dandy, perhaps even assumed harmless by the evaluation.
“Has he been ill, your professor?” Bismarck said.
“He was brutally attacked by a criminal gang— almost sold into slavery, he was!”
“I see.” Bismarck frowned at Mabruke walking ahead of him. “Schrecklich.”
Oken shook his head in apparent dismay. “He’d have done just as well in Andalusia, if you ask me. This is a strange land, full of strange people!” He held out his gloved hands. “How do I find a new pair of these in such a place!” He made an unhappy, “Tsk, tsk,” as he peeled them off and folded them away in a pocket.
Bismarck was brushing the left wing of his waxed-down mustache with a serious gesture. Oken wondered if translating from Trade was awkward for him. After that, Oken just walked, smiling with the giddy disbelief of one who has momentarily escaped the gallows.
A quick glance at Mabruke saw a similar expression. Mabruke met his inquiring gaze and winked lazily, just enough to let Oken know that this was going well.
The march back to the compound was a casual affair. Oken kept his hands in his pants pockets and grinned with idiotic delight at the scenery around, listening harder than he had ever before in his life.
The hounds were led away by one of Bismarck’s lieutenants, when they reached the towering outer wall of the compound. The steel barricade was opened for them, and once they were inside, it clanged shut behind them with a disturbingly final sound. The courtyard reeked of burnt smells, denser than the exploding powder of Chinggis Khan. Mabruke wrinkled his nose as if displeased. Oken could see, however, a look of intense excitement in his eyes. This was the kind of fieldwork dearest to Mabruke’s mind and heart.
Oken would have preferred a slightly different outcome—at least they were still alive.
Bismarck did not speak as he led them along the inner wall of the compound to the door of the first building. The raised path had beencleaned, yet clouds of black puffed up at every step. A soldier stood at attention, holding the door open for them. They entered a small foyer room, with stone benches around the walls, and hooks and shelves for coats and hats. A washstand next to one bench held a pile of clean towels and a pitcher and basin. A corporal stood at attention beside this.
“Gentlemen.” Bismarck indicated the washstand. “Soot in the cou
rtyard is insidious. Hintermann will clean your boots for you while we have tea.”
Corporal Hintermann saluted smartly, then held out a basket with colorfully embroidered silk slippers. Oken and Mabruke slipped off their backpacks and piled them on one of the shelves, then sat down to remove their boots. Bismarck also sat down, and the corporal sprang over to wipe his boots. Bismarck did not take them off.
Oken’s and Mabruke’s hands were blackened by the time they had their boots off. They put on the slippers and washed their hands in the basin. The water turned gray.
The interior of the building was spacious, more “a little piece of Egypt in a strange land” than the Moss Rose had been. Egyptian spunglass sconces provided light, despite the lack of windows. Lush rugs covered the floor. Ebony chairs upholstered with dark leather were grouped around a wall map of the world at one end of the chamber, and a curiously shaped control panel at the other. Oken was reminded at once of the control panel on Mixcomitl. He did not look at it, but strolled over to one of the chairs before the map and sat down with an exaggerated sigh of relief. “Much kinder to the arse, sir,” he said. “Much kinder.”
Bismarck served them Jägermeister in pewter mugs with hunting scenes in deep relief, stags with mighty antler spreads. He was generous in the servings, pouring it himself despite the aide standing at his shoulder. After a few rounds, more aides brought in bowls of hot soup, dark and aromatic, with fat dollops of sour cream, as well as platters of roast goose and venison, with crackling glazes and thick gravies. Loaves of black bread, still warm, with white butter and sliced radishes, were brought out, as well as boiled white asparagus, onions, and wedges of yellow cheese. Glass bottles of dark brown beer were generously handed around. Oken wondered who the Mama Kusay of Bismarck’s kitchens might be.
Bismarck asked about the search for orchids and perfumes, although the questions seemed automatic, as though he did not seem to care about the answers. He looked hard at Mabruke’s face as he talked, tapping the rim of his pewter mug on his mustache.
All he would say about his own presence in the Andes was that he was doing research.
“I do not understand why these plagued mountains attract people with research, Herr Graf, if you will forgive my saying!”
“Not at all, not at all. What led you and your professor up here?”
“We were having a lovely stay in Qusqo. Beautiful city, just beautiful. Gold everywhere you look. The professor here, he meets up with some fancy horticulturists.”
Oken interrupted himself to sip the Jägermeister. “Some beautiful women in those horticultural societies, Herr Graf, some very beautiful women!” The two men raised their mugs in salute to beautiful women.
Mabruke looked up from his plate, tilting his head as though curious about this. Oken repeated himself in Swahili. Mabruke nodded, lifted his mug, and sipped. Then he went back to his food.
Oken continued with this fantasy. “Next thing I know, I find myself riding on a sorry nag into the dreariest country. We started out with a native guide, fella by the name of Qusmi.” Oken leaned forward on his elbow, giving Bismarck the classic look of sharing an inebriated confidence. “Everyone says, Qusmi, this lad’s the best guide in Tawantinsuyu, they tell us. If anybody can find whatever weird botanicals my professor wants, this is our man. His name, Qusmi, it means ‘smoke,’ Herr Graf, did you know that? That’s the way he disappeared, in a puff of smoke!”
He made a gesture with his hands to back the word, and Mabruke, with a grin, echoed the gesture and went back to eating.
Oken laughed and picked up the story again. “Just the other night, don’t you know! Scared off by fireworks from some festival or something. Left us high and dry in the hills. Took those scrawny horses with him, too.” Oken gestured to Mabruke, who was busily spreading sweet, white butter on his eighth slice of black bread. “This one, he says to me—we don’t need a guide, my lad! We just follow our noses!”
Oken shook his head, warming to his imaginary tale. “I should have up and followed the smoke! He ran so fast, ain’t even asked for his pay. I knew trouble was coming.”
“These people are unreliable in many ways,” Bismarck said with a slight sneer. The alcohol had brought out his accent, although his gaze was as intense. “I do not know how they created such an empire in this difficult place.”
“You be wise to have your own lads about you, Herr Graf,” Oken said, raising his own mug in salute. “I will sleep soundly for the first night in too many, under your protection!”
Mabruke smiled amiably when the men raised their glasses to each other in salute, and picked up his own to join them.
Oken told him in swift Swahili slang to phrase a credible question about the conversation.
Mabruke asked in Nubian if the mention of Qusmi’s name meant that the graf knew of him?
“My professor, he wonders if you might know of this Qusmi fella?”
Bismarck shook his head. “I do not like these people, these Andeans.” His accent was thicker than before. “I am here only to be away from interference.” A curiously sly look touched his gray face. “My wife does not approve of my research. Here, no one complains of the noise.”
Oken raised his mug again to Bismarck. “Here’s to freedom from the complaints of women!”
Bismarck’s laughter was drunken yet genuine. Oken tapped the pewter mug once against his forehead before drinking to his own toast.
CHAPTER TWENTY
“AMBROSE! WHAT am I going to do? They’ve all gone insane!” Princess Usqhullu flung herself against the tall, solid frame of Steven Ambrose LeBrun. LeBrun put his arms around her in an automatic gesture. Dawn pierced the windows of his bedroom with a soft, urgent light.
“What have they done now, my little princess?” he said kindly.
The fragrance of her hair, mingled with the sharp intoxication of sun-dried sweat and lingering perfume, woke him more keenly to the moment.
“Kuchillu has killed Father, and put Lucky in the Tower for it!”
Usqhullu quivered with rage and disbelief, then threw her head back and looked up into LeBrun’s face. “You know Lucky. You watched him grow up! You know he would never do that!” The adrenaline of shock woke LeBrun with a cold wash of reality. “The Inca has been killed?” He held tightly to the princess. “How is that possible!”
It was Usqhullu’s turn to draw back and look at him in surprise.
“You do not know?”
LeBrun released her and stood back a pace, his hands on her shoulders, looking seriously into her tearstained face. “Usqhullu, what has happened?”
Usqhullu was struck dumb with surprise, and the two of them gawked at each other. LeBrun recovered himself quickly and drew her against his chest once again. “Come. Sit down, my dear. You have clearly had a terrible shock. Calm yourself, then you can tell me what has happened.”
He guided her gently to his bed and sat down beside her. He took both her hands in one of his, and with the other brushed aside dark curls clinging to the tears on her face. “Let me get you a drink,”
he whispered. “It will calm you.”
She shook her head, taking his hand and pressing it to her cheek.
She inhaled deeply, drawing strength from his Egyptian calm, then smiled weakly at him. “Ambrose, you are the top Egyptian ambassador in this entire, bloody madhouse of an empire! If you have not been told, then—could it be that it is not true?”
“What is not true?”
“That Pachacuti killed father, and blamed it on Lucky!” “The Inca is dead?”
“Oh, I don’t know what to believe!” Usqhullu flung his hand away and stood with a swift, feral motion, pacing around the room with feline edginess. She began to wring her hands, then stopped with a deliberate shake, only to run her fingers anxiously through the masses of curls fallen loosely about her face.
“Talk to me. Tell me slowly,” LeBrun said to her evenly, patting the bed beside him. “Come sit here, and talk to me.”
&nbs
p; Usqhullu stared at him from across the bedroom, her hands caught in her curls, astonishment making her dark eyes wide and round. “Ambrose! I was two days on horse back getting here. The Inca of Tawantinsuyu was assassinated three days ago, and you don’t know about it!”
Hysteria brought a cold and sudden stillness to her. “You don’t know about it.” Her voice had sunk to a whisper. She made the sign of the Holy Mother Tree, then sat beside him on the bed. Her beautiful hands lay helplessly in her lap.
He took her hands in his and pressed her fingers to his cheek.
“Your hands are like ice, my dear Wildcat,” he said. “I know how hot your blood runs. Only the truth could chill you so terribly.” He put his arms around her, drew her close to rock her back and forth, ever so gently, as he had when she was a little girl, crying over her brother’s cruelty. “Talk to me, my princess,” he whispered. The story tumbled out of her in frantic sentences, words piling up and interrupting themselves. She stopped herself, took a deep breath, and said, in one fast, steady rush, “Then two nights ago Pachacuti’s private guard stormed the manor, searching for the two Egyptian princes. Qusmi and I stalled the guardsmen as long as we could, while Runa got them safely off the grounds.” Tears spilled again as she went on. “When Mama was told why the troops were there, she screamed!”
Usqhullu squeezed her eyes shut and put her hands over her ears, as though to shut out the memory. “Oh, Ambrose. It was so horrible. Mama screamed and screamed, until her heart burst, her soul just flew out of her— and she dropped dead right there! His guardsmen took her body away. I could not make them tell me where they were taking her.”
LeBrun ran his hand once through his own thick, graying hair, shaking his head in disbelief. “Mikel Mabruke?”
She opened her eyes and lowered her hands. “He is such a beautiful man, Ambrose. The most wonderfully dark skin I ever saw on a human being.” She let her head drop back to his shoulder. “I was told Prince Mabruke would be traveling in Tawantinsuyu on rest leave.” LeBrun realized that the news brought to him by the princess had to be true. Pachacuti, the Inheritor, had apparently grown impatient waiting for his father to die of old age. Evaluations circulating secretly among the embassies recently had projected this as a possible scenario.
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