Ihhuipapalotl waved to the crowd, and— to Oken’s complete and amazed delight— Zaydane and Blestyak appeared at the signal. Zaydane and Mabruke greeted each other with a tight hug, their foreheads touching. Blestyak stood back, avoiding Oken’s eyes.
“We have horses waiting,” Zaydane said, pointing toward the eastern entrance to the plaza, on the far side of the sunken viewing court. “This way!”
The weariness and dismay of their days of imprisonment faded in the sunlight and the astonishing reality of the rescue team— even Blestyak. Oken’s worldview cleared. Natyra had come to rescue him.
Then the music fell silent, one instrument at a time, replaced by screams of fear and pain mixed with angry shouting, breaking over them from the sunken viewing court. Pachacuti’s elite squad surged up the steps from the gardens, pouring in from every side. More appeared, climbing out of the viewing court. There were scuffles and mêlées as the villagers and musicians, dancers and singers perceived the danger and scattered in every direction.
Zaydane’s escape plan was now blocked by a wall of Pachacuti’s warriors, maces and shields held at the ready as they advanced.
From the atop the pyramid, Pachacuti spied the escapees and shouted his hatred at Viracocha, brandishing an obsidian axe in one hand and a jade staff in the other—the emblems of imperial authority. He kept shouting, vile and powerful curses, his painted features distorted by passion, inside his fierce mask.
Viracocha ran across the plaza toward the stair, climbing back up to the pink stone chapel atop the pyramid, with the Attic of the Sun—straight toward Pachacuti.
Oken dashed after Viracocha, his immediate thought being to intercept him, to pull him away to safety, then, from the corner of his eye, he caught sight of a gleam, high in the clear, blue sky—the same gleam that had caught Viracocha’s eagle eye first. Oken pointed it out to Mabruke, who in turn shouted to Zaydane and the rest, ordering them to follow Viracocha.
They quickly reached the middle terrace, where the beautiful little Aklya Kuno dancers, the Virgins of the Sun, were looking about in confusion because the music had stopped so abruptly. The brilliance was a spotlight for the tall woman dancing in their midst. She was barefoot, and wore a garment of silk scarves, the colors of the rainbow, of earth and stones and water, swirling around her as she moved. Her headdress was a wild crown of improbable feathers and fantastic blossoms, which coiled about her bare skull and her long, graceful neck.
Oken almost stumbled into Viracocha, who was standing frozen in place before the dancers, his entire being enthralled by Natyra.
“Scott!” she cried, stopping herself so abruptly that the swirling scarves wrapped themselves, serpentlike, around her before falling still. She stamped her foot at him, hands on hips. “You must escape, you idiot! You must run away—Run!”
The other dancers, as if this were their cue, dashed away, disappearing down the steps, squealing in fear as they met Pachacuti’s soldiers on the plaza below.
Then Natyra caught sight of Viracocha.
Oken allowed himself to enjoy the sizzle that fired around the pair as they met eye to eye. “Natyra,” Oken said calmly, “may I present Prince Viracocha of Tawantinsuyu?”
“Your Highness.” She was smiling, her eyes alight.
Zaydane caught up with them. “My lady,” he said to Natyra, “Our plans have changed.” He pointed to Viracocha. “We must follow this gentleman.”
Viracocha leaned back to look up at his brother, raging in the sky above them, a golden puma at the top of the pyramid, screaming in thesky; then Viracocha pointed up, directly at Pachacuti. “There,” he said, and he ran, climbing swiftly. Natyra followed, scarves fluttering around her like Quetzal wings.
They reached the top of the pyramid before Pachacuti’s soldiers realized where the escapees were, directed by Pachacuti’s angry shouting. His troops swarmed up the nearly vertical stair after the three princes. Their legs and lungs were well suited to the effort, and the gap closed at an alarming pace.
A gleaming shadow fell over the Qurikancha as Mixcomitl filled the sky. His many wings twitched and tilted, using his jets and the winds of the valley to descend directly toward the chapel. Viracocha’s own loyal warriors, in red and gold, stood in the opened hatchways, armed and ready to defend their prince. Oken could just make out Usqhullu and Runa standing beside Hanaq Pacha in Mixcomitl’s giant eyes.
Pachacuti’s puma headpiece obscured his view of the sky. He could not yet see Mixcomitl, or the promise of escape carried on his wings. Pachacuti saw only his own victory—his hated brother rushing to meet death at his hands. His laughter was worse than his curses, dark and vile.
CHAPTER TWENTY- NINE
THEN A new sound, a new voice rose from the plaza below, the voice of the mountain singing. The people were shouting Viracocha’s name, urging him on, cheering for him. His name was a battle cry that rose in strength and volume.
“Viracocha! Viracocha!”
From the vantage of this higher level, Oken could see that people were streaming up the Qurikancha steps, coming in from every direction. They carried farming tools, hoes, and scythes, hammers, and wooden clubs, held to the ready as weapons, every one of them chanting Viracocha’s name. The ballplayers were among them, members now of a greater team. The fans had risen, their rivalry in the ball game forgotten in their sudden participation in a game of national significance.
“Viracocha!”
The people wore no armor, just traditional garb—rainbowcolored skirts atop petticoats, tunics, and jackets, and woolen pants, and black hats with narrow brims, decorated with flowers of every kind. Children were joining them, chanting along with the adults.
“Viracocha!”
More and more of them climbed the steps, watching the drama unfold on their sacred Qurikancha, shouting in unison, “Viracocha! Viracocha!”
Pachacuti’s men hesitated on the steps, looking back and forth at the Inheritor ranting down at them, the royal Quetzal Mixcomitl impossibly overhead, and the people pouring in and filling the plaza below, charging up the steps to challenge them.
Villagers grabbed at the heels of the warriors, risking their own balance to send them plummeting down, screaming, to smash against the steps. Each conquest was met with cheers from the people, their voices growing louder and more strident.
“Viracocha!”
Fights broke out among Pachacuti’s men as more of them defected, joining the people, surrendering their weapons, ripping off their armor and throwing it down.
Oken pushed his weary legs and burning lungs to climb faster, after Natyra and Viracocha. Zaydane ran climbed beside him, with Blestyak pounding after.
The voices of the people got louder as they scrambled up the sides of Qurikancha, following their prince.
“Viracocha!”
Oken caught up with Viracocha as they reached the terrace at the top, a narrow expanse of paving where the pink chapel with its ornate attic stood.
Pachacuti waited in front of the chapel with his back to the stone altar. The warrior’s calm and solemn face gazed into eternity, ignoring Pachacuti’s ranting. Hatred distorted Pachacuti’s features, terrible to see, and the hard sunlight flashing on his golden armor made him difficult to look at directly, no longer the son of the Sun, no longer quite human. He waved the axe over his head and thrust it about at invisible enemies, snarling and cursing.
His last loyal man, Captain Hukuchasatil, ran up to him, arms out to drag him to safety. He snatched a handful of golden armor and pulled his leader around, but Pachacuti used the momentum to spin on his heel, swinging the axe-blade in a vicious arc that sliced through Hukuchasatil’s throat so deeply, he almost severed the spine.
Pachacuti faced Viracocha in battle stance, feet planted, weapons at the ready. The ruby eyes in his headpiece cried bloody tears, and Hukuchasatil’s blood dripped from the golden teeth.
Mabruke, Oken, Zaydane, and Blestyak spread out to surround Pachacuti and Viracocha. Viracocha circled
, out of reach of his swinging weapons. Natyra kept up with him, slightly behind so as not to tangle his feet, defiant, Sakhmet in her fierceness, a lioness ready to pounce.
Oken kept glancing skyward.
“I just want to leave,” Viracocha said to Pachacuti. “Keep your cursed throne! I don’t want to rule Tawantinsuyu. I never did. I’m taking Mixcomitl to Memphis. This empire is yours!”
“Liar!” Pachacuti swung wildly, snarling in rage as he slashed at his brother.
Viracocha sidestepped, dodging the obsidian blade. Natyra matched his movements, staying carefully out of reach.
“I’m not a god up there in the sky,” Viracocha said. “I’m just a man, and that’s all I want.”
“Liar! King of Liars! I will be free of you. I am the god. I am Inty the Sun—I erase you and your precious Memphis! I erase you from my world!”
Hanaq Pacha had brought Mixcomitl as close to the mountainside as he dared. Multiple rope ladders were dropped from the hatches, and Viracocha’s loyal guardsmen swarmed down them to the chapel.
Pachacuti shrieked in desperate denial, swinging the axe. Viracocha dodged, and Natyra pirouetted away, leaped behind Pachacuti, and sharply kicked the back of his knee. He staggered sideways and fell, howling, dragged down by the weight of his golden armor. Momentum rolled him over and over, and he only caught himself at the edge of the terrace, scattering his golden fingertips. The jade staff broke as it struck the stone.
Zaydane stepped in, grabbed the obsidian axe away from Pachacuti, and jumped back out of reach.
Pachacuti struggled to regain his feet, hampered by his armor. He was alone, caught between Viracocha’s loyal men and the equally loyal and valiant villagers, who filled the steps and terraces, the living and the dead.
“Viracocha!” they chanted.
Once he was on his feet, Pachacuti shouted at the crowd, calling them traitors, and worse. “I am Inca!”
The people met his words with the same, victorious cry, “Viracocha!”
Pachacuti howled, throwing himself at Viracocha.
The two men fell, tangled together. Pachacuti had his hands around Viracocha’s throat, and spat into his face. Viracocha flipped them both around, pinning his brother to the ground beneath his weight. He pressed down on the puma headpiece so that the lower jaw dug into Pachacuti’s throat, holding him there. Both men were breathing heavily.
“Kill me,” Pachacuti croaked, forcing the words out past the pressure on his throat. “You’ve taken everything else from me. Are you too weak to kill—Best Boy? Will you make your foreign demons do it for you?”
Their eyes locked for long, tense seconds; then Oken called quietly to Viracocha, “Lucky?”
Viracocha released Pachacuti and stood up and away from him. “Decent, civilized men do not kill their brothers,” he said.
Viracocha shouted those words to the crowd in Quechua, making the syllables ring. He pointed to Pachacuti, who was struggling to his knees, and told them that the Inheritor had slain his father, that the Inca was dead.
Then he motioned for the others to follow him, and they ran for Mixcomitl’s ladders. Pachacuti pulled himself up to scramble after them. Mabruke, Oken, and Zaydane were already climbing, Mabruke in the lead. Blestyak was last, blood dripping steadily.
Viracocha and Natyra reached the ladder, and he made her go ahead of him; then he grabbed a rung and began climbing, signaling the winch-man to draw them up.
Pachacuti made one final, tremendous effort and hurled himself at the ladder, caught it, and swung up to grab the next rung, and the next, climbing after Viracocha with mad determination. Blood smeared his face, and his breath came in short gasps. He grabbed Viracocha’s leg, attempting to pull him free. When this failed, he let go of the rung to use both hands. Viracocha tried to shake free, but Pachacuti clung to him.
Natyra climbed down Viracocha as agilely as if he were a ladder. She held on to him tightly and, using all the power of those wild Cossack thighs, smashed Pachacuti in the face with her feet, forcing him to lose his grip. Natyra smacked his face again, and Pachacuti fell away.
Around that flash of blood and ancient stone, time struck a balance with death and paused for Oken’s panoramic view— a golden puma suspended above the splendid colors and ancient stone of Qurikancha, above the Attic of the Sun where he had imprisoned them, above the fields and the gardens, above the villagers who had fought for Viracocha, above those who were dead because they loved their prince.
Pachacuti crashed to the altar with a dreadful and final noise, broken and wrapped in gold.
THIS LONG, stunned moment held; then Viracocha signaled the winch-man to lower them back to the ground. When he and Natyra stepped onto the terrace before the chapel, the people shouted, “Viracocha Inca!” over and over.
Viracocha went to the altar and the golden corpse. His sharp eyes missed nothing. His rough condition, the damaged, dirty suit, could not diminish him. He was Inca. The people had spoken.
Ihhuipapalotl appeared out of the chapel building, having fled the battle through secret passages. The magnificence of his priestly robes and headdress doubled the intensity of the voices acclaiming their new Inca, happy voices of joy and release. He picked up the largest surviving piece of the jade staff, and Zaydane gave him the obsidian axe he had taken from Pachacuti.
Ihhuipapalotl knelt before Viracocha and offered these imperial emblems to him. “The throne of Tawantinsuyu stands empty, Glorious One.” His voice was clear, and joy shone around him. “Your people beg you to take your place as their new Inca, Glorious One. You have freed us from the tyranny of Yupanqui Inca, and the madness of the Inheritor Pachacuti.”
Viracocha stepped back a pace. “I did not kill my father!” “The Inheritor killed the Inca, Glorious One. That is known.” Ihhuipapalotl offered the symbols of power again. “Your father and your brother ruled with fear and cruelty, Glorious One. The temples stand with you, to a man.”
Natyra slipped her hands around Viracocha’s forearm, and whispered in his ear.
Oken, watching from the open hatch on Mixcomitl, strained to hear. He did not catch her words, but he could guess the meaning from the way they gazed into each other’s eyes. She had chosen him, just as the people had. Viracocha’s expression eased. He took the axe and the piece of the broken staff from the priest.
“I accept.” He spoke with the voice he had learned from shouting into the wind atop Mixcomitl, repeating his ac ceptance in Quechua, and a cheer rose from below. “Viracocha Inca!”
Viracocha walked the perimeter of the terrace slowly and steadily, holding the imperial emblems high, so the people below could see, those who were proved this day to be his most loyal followers. Their cheers and cries of “Viracocha Inca!” rose up to the mountains that held Qurikancha and the palace in their arms.
CHAPTER THIRTY
BEING IN the sky restored much of Oken’s sense of himself. The ordeal was over, and he looked around at the survivors. He wanted to laugh, but his mouth was too dry. They were in the hold, in the lower belly of Mixcomitl, amid bamboo crates with the imperial seal. The crew were drawing up ladders and closing hatches, and he could hear overhead the growl of the engines revving.
Runa dashed about, beaming happily, distributing cold water and hot broth, large mugs of demon’s piss from Mama Kusay’s kitchen. Mabruke and Zaydane were already deep in conversation, seated on a crate. Natyra and Viracocha went up the spiral stair to the bridge, and Blestyak was carried away to have his wounds tended elsewhere.
Oken wanted to talk to Princess Usqhullu, but then the thought of being clean struck him as the better part of valor. “Runa,” he called to her. “Same room, upper deck?”
“Yes, yes! I will take you.” She handed her tray to one of the little maids following her about, and took his hand.
Hot water, soap, clean towels, and an endless supply of tasty dishes restored Oken’s sense of physical well-being, despite the scrapes, bruises, and aching muscles. He dressed in the ov
ersized morning coat, borrowed from Viracocha’s closet, that Runa had set out for him. Flying pumas in golden thread chased after black-faced goddesses with streaming hair, on a sky as red as blood. Oken felt it a fitting image for the imperial family.
Mabruke came in, bathed and shaved, and wrapped in a similar robe. Even without makeup, the professor looked more himself than he had in some days. He said nothing, but stood reviewing the damage to his face in the mirror.
Oken came up behind him, roughly drying his hair with a heated towel. “Zaydane like your new look?”
“Indeed.”
Mabruke met Oken’s eyes in the glass. “I will recover,” he said calmly. “Mama Kusay’s poultice is a miracle of the mountains.”
“ ‘Miracle of the mountains,’ ” Oken mused. “We got a mountainful of miracles today, didn’t we.”
“Speaking of miracles,” Mabruke said, “what was Natyra doing here? She did not seem the type to follow a man around the world— not even you.”
“I said it before. Her reasons are entirely her own.” Oken could only smile. “She was here to rescue us.” He grinned at Mabruke. “As striking as finding Master Zaydane in the Andes, wouldn’t you say?”
Mabruke acknowledged the tease. “Zaydane was following Natyra and Blestyak, as it turns out—which was your suggestion, by the way. Blestyak’s connections with the Black Orchid group made him curious. He tells me that Ambrose LeBrun contacted him though the embassy in Urubamba, asking him to help find us. Zaydane is also responsible for bringing Natyra into the rescue plan.”
“As a diversion.” Okensaid.
“I do think Viracocha found her diverting.”
Oken had to agree with that. “Which brings us back to the question of why Natyra is here.”
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