“You must ask the lady herself.”
OKEN AND Mabruke ventured down the spiral stair to the bridge. Hanaq Pacha was at his command seat in front of the front windows, with little Runa perched on the edge of a pilot’s seat, close beside him. They were whispering to each other. When Runa saw them step off the spiral stair, she leaped to her feet and ran over, to throw her arms around each of the men in a hug. Oken found he much preferred that to having her bow to him.
Mabruke rested his hands on her shoulders and kissed the top of her head. “My Lady Runa,” he said solemnly, “I will tell you again how relieved I am to know that you have been safe here these last days. I trust your son is well?”
Runa nodded happily. “He is helping in the galley, sir. I hope you will meet him soon.”
“I will meet him now,” Mabruke said. “His bravery in standing by you in these dangerous times should be acknowledged.”
“Mik’s hoping for a nosh along the way,” Oken said to Runa.
She laughed merrily and took Mabruke’s hand. “I have just the nosh for you!”
“Where is Princess Usqhullu?” Oken said to her. He had hoped to find her on the bridge, to thank her properly.
“She is tending wounds of that yellow giant who climbed up the ladders with you.” With this mysterious answer, she and Mabruke disappeared behind the tapestry.
“ ‘That yellow giant,’ ” Oken echoed. That had been his first impression of Blestyak, too.
Then he strolled over to Hanaq Pacha. The rearview glass was up. He stood without speakinggazing out at the view spread below, magnificent isolation, with tall mountains on the horizon.
Hanaq Pacha said, “Xochicacahuatl, at Quillabamba.”
Oken took that to mean their next destination. “Excellent news, Captain—I long for another feast at Mama Kusay’s table.”
Hanaq Pacha nodded“I have been away too long myself, sir.”
“Ah, that’s true. You did not get to linger there as we did that last trip.”
The captain twisted around in his seat to look up at Oken. “What happened, if I dare to ask?”
“Ah, so sorry, Captain, of course.”
The captain motioned to the musicians to lower the volume, so that he could speak with Oken without leaving his post.
Oken decided how far back to begin, then told Hanaq Pacha of his adventures with Mabruke and Prince Viracocha in leisurely detail.
As he wrapped up, complimenting the captain for arriving in good time to whisk them away, Oken realized that Zaydane had been standing silently behind him for a good part of his narration.
“Thank you,” Zaydane said. “That was an excellent report.”
Oken and Zaydane watched the landscape slide past below. They were at an altitude that showed the little valleys cradled in the mountains’ arms, each a miniature Egypt around a toy Nile, held up close to the sky.
Oken said to Hanaq Pacha. “What brought you here, Captain? Prince Viracocha told us that Quetzals are not allowed over Ollantaytambo.”
“The sacred space has not been violated since the first Quetzal took wing.” Captain Hanaq Pacha seemed quite pleased to be able to say this. His Third Eye almost twinkled. “We can only wait to see how the gods will punish us for that.” He spoke with such a serene smile that Oken had to laugh.
“Princess Usqhullu and Runa,” Captain Hanaq Pachaadded. “They made an excellent suggestion.”
“It’s good to be back in the sky,” Oken said with a nod.
“I was also grateful to see this airship appear,” Zaydane said. “I do not yet know how Prince Pachacuti got wind of our plan.” He sounded less than thrilled with his planning. “I pray they did not harm the horses. They were fine beasts. We are most fortunate that Princess Usqhullu and Captain Hanaq Pacha had their own plans. Since we did not know Mixcomitl was coming, the informant could not warn the Inheritor.”
Zaydane frowned, making his scar look even more sinister. “I have just sent a bird to Ambassador LeBrun, informing him. A number of people were involved in the cover story that got us onto the Qurikancha grounds. The investigation will have to be thorough.” Then he added thoughtfully, “Having Bismarck turn up in the middle of this . . .” He sighed. “I was certain I would find him hiding in the Atlas Mountains. You and Mik have proved I must broaden my view.”
“As broad as the Moon.”
“Yes. I want to see this place where you found him.”
“Do you think he’s still there?” Oken said. The thought was most unpleasant.
“That would be too much to hope for.”
“Scott?”
Oken turned at her voice. Natyra came down the spiral stair, her feathered headdress replaced by a single green scarf around her bare skull. She stood, regarding him with a stern expression. Oken felt the same electric surge she always inspired in him.
Zaydane acknowledged Natyra with a polite bow, then went to stand beside the captain. The lower volume of the hara’wi enclosed them in privacy.
“Talk with me,” Natyra said to Oken, walking over to the lounge chairs. She sat down on the divan, motioning for him to sit beside her.
That pleasing warmth of being so close to her spread through Oken. The wild, mad ordeal he had lived through, dragging him through darkness and pain, nonetheless, had set him down here, close enough to touch her hand, to feel the fire.
She just looked at him, deciding something about him. Finally she spoke, her voice low and restrained. “When you turned up in Marrakech, I was terribly disappointed in you. I did not think you would reduce yourself to following me around Europe.”
“So you went to Tawantinsuyu?” This was the woman he was sure of, the woman he admired—always, and entirely, her own self.
“I spent months rehearsing that opera, and I made friends with so many of the artistes, and that sweet little costume designer— they all lived in Qusqo. They talked so much about the beauties of their world. When Marietta said you were on your way to Andalusia, I decided to see the New World for myself, to run to the other side of the world—to get away from you. The opera went on to Paris, and I took the first flight out of Casablanca— but you were here!”
Natyra hugged herself, refusing to meet his eyes. “Your Nubian prince was all they could talk about.” She turned her full glare on him. “They said you were his lover.”
Oken did not let himself smile. “He wishes I were.”
“You should be. He is a most beautiful man.”
“Are you jealous?”
She stood up so that she could stamp her foot at him imperiously. “I have never been jealous of anyone in my life!”
“I can believe that,” Oken said quietly, with sincerity. “Why did you agree to help Zaydane with our rescue?”
“I was bored. This country has so few places for the dance—and Zaydane offered me such an audience! To dance before the emperor? I could not refuse.”
“I was glad to see you again,” he said.
Natyra stood there, arms folded, regarding him with regal dismay; then she relented and lowered her chin, her gaze dropping for just a moment. “I missed you.” She tilted her head to the side as she looked at him. “You are trouble, and that is so much more exciting.”
“More exciting than what?”
She sat down again, this time gently touching his fingers. “Never mind. I did not come here to scold you, even though you deserve it. I lied to you, a great lie, the same great lie I have used since I left my village. I was twelve years old, yet I danced like a grown woman, so no one believed that. They thought I lied when I told the truth.”
Oken was heartened to see her expression as she remembered the moment of that first triumph. “So you told them you were twentyfive,” he said softly. “Of course.” He was amused with himself that he had believed her lie so passionately. “Logical.”
Natyra smiled with dazzling openness. “When I was a child, they treat me as an adult. Now I am an adult, they marvel how I look so young for my year
s. I am not forty-eight. I am only twenty-eight.”
“You are magnificent at any age, Natyra.” Somewhere inside himself, Oken laughed merrily. They were the same age.
“Thank you. I tell you this because I told Viracocha my true age.”
“A husband should know such things.”
“You know?”
“I was there the first time he saw you, when we were prisoners in the Attic of the Sun, about to die.”
“He told me of this moment.”
“He told the truth.” Oken then described the scene for her, the honesty of Viracocha’s passion, how his vision of her had transformed him, had revived them. Oken knew how to tell her, how to give her the moment the way a man felt it, less with words than with the eloquence of eyes and voice, ardor measured in breaths held and sighs restrained.
She listened with equal eloquence, her eyes and her whole being focused on him.
“For such a woman he would live. He would conquer.” Oken remembered Viracocha’s hushed voice and awed intensity. “He will also accept a throne he does not want,” he said, “sacrificing his greatest pleasure in life for you.”
“What is that?”
“Flying. He will let the throne clip his golden wings.”
“Why?”
“The Inca is not allowed to fly. It is considered too risky.” Oken was thrilled then by the way the lift in her eyebrows declared that this would change. She was already thinking like an empress.
“Thank you.” Natyra’s smile was solemn and she sat forward to speak seriously. “It is important to me that I know this. You are good to share this with me.”
Her green eyes made his heart jump, and he hoped that would always be true.
After she left, returning to Viracocha’s quarters, Oken sat there for some time, remembering.
CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE
LORD OKEN used a farscope borrowed from Zaydane to observe Bismarck’s rocket base in its little valley. The familiar black pall of soot covering the buildings and grounds seemed doubly ominous in the hard sunlight, layered with memories of pain and dismay. It was too easy to remember the way they had been marched from there to Quillabamba, and the nightmare boat ride after—a nightmare that had gone on for days.
Sunshine on his back was a pleasant sensation, and he made himself focus on that.
Viracocha’s warriors were slowly creeping toward the walls of the compound, shielded by pine trees and the scrubby bushes. Oken was impressed by their grace and stealth. Without knowing they were there, he might have overlooked them.
Mabruke and Zaydane were watching silently. Oken saw the captain’s signal. He returned the farscope to Zaydane and motioned for them to follow him.
They reached the front gate of the compound and found it standing open, a black silence hanging heavily over the courtyard and the gantry. Zaydane, Mabruke, and Oken followed closely as Viracocha’s warriors went in.
Empty.
“Not unexpected,” Zaydane said. “Let’s see what they left behind.”
The command room was as they had last seen it, the deadly red circle around Memphis on the wall map as alarming now as when first seen. There were the black leather chairs with hard arms, heavy and solid as stone, and cushions that never offered comfort. The low ceiling was oppressive, the light harsh. Dishes from a last meal were left on the table, the brown bottles of beer unfinished. The three men spread around the room, taking in the details. Captain Wayta and his men stood by the outer entrance, awaiting further orders.
Mabruke picked up one of the beer bottles and sniffed at the contents. “Yesterday, I would say.”
Zaydane stood in front of the map, considering that red circle. “We should take this with us. It’s not much, but it is persuasive.”
“Stay positive,” Mabruke said to him. “This is bound to be Bismarck’s undoing, one way or the other.”
“Madam does not tolerate failure,” Oken said.
“We stopped this project,” Mabruke said cheerfully. “I will not ask for more than that.”
“I will,” Oken said. “I have a personal score to settle.”
“I’m the one with the scars!” Mabruke said.
“I’m the one who has to look at them.” Oken went to the door that he knew would lead to the stairs down to the workroom.
Mabruke did not reply. He hurried to Oken’s side, sniffing audibly, and put an arm out to stop him from going down those stairs. He shook his head then with a seriously unhappy look. “Out. Everybody out. Now.” However calmly he spoke, there was no questioning the command in his voice. He slammed the door shut with abrupt finality. Zaydane gestured to Captain Wayta to round up his men.
“Now! Quickly!” Mabruke said more urgently, sprinting ahead of them through the coatroom, and out the main door.
Zaydane stopped in the courtyard to speak. Mabruke waved him silent, leading them out the front gate. They had barely cleared the steel line of the gate, when an explosion behind them knocked them off their feet, flinging them into the pine trees. Clouds of black dust surged around and into the sky. Oken managed to protect his face with his gloved hands, but spiky branches scraped across his skull. When he sat up, coughing at the dust and shaking his head to clear the buzzing, drops of blood splattered around him.
“Mik!” he shouted, pulling himself to his feet.
Many had landed tangled together. Those closest to the gate were unconscious. Everyone was covered with a layer of soot. Mabruke was helping Zaydane to stand. Wayta sat up, shouting to his men. One by one, they called in response, coughing and wiping their eyes.
Oken went over to his friend, and Mabruke anticipated the question on Oken’s face. “I smelled the fuse burning,” he said. “It ignited when you opened that door.” Then he frowned at Oken. “You’re as black as me!” He shook his head. “And you’re bleeding.”
Oken put his hand up, gingerly feeling the damage. “A scratch. Are you hurt?”
Mabruke said no.
Oken turned to Zaydane. “And you, sir?”
“Unharmed, thanks to Mik and his marvelous nose.”
Mabruke tapped the mentioned organ with a fingertip, and the two men grinned at each other.
They heard then the crackle of flames from within the compound, and Mabruke said loudly, “We can’t let the evidence in that place burn!” He called to Captain Wayta, who was helping one of his men to his feet. “We have to stop those fires!”
The captain nodded, and gave orders to his men. Those able to move ran back into the compound. The building front was destroyed, blocks tumbled. The explosion had been centered beneath the main room, which was gone, everything flung to the sides. The map wall was shattered. Steel cabinets from the workroom below had been blown upward, and lay among the ruins, their contents spilled. Papers were drifting about, some smoldering. Ledger books with green covers were scattered everywhere. The men leaped to these in one motion.
“Wayta!” Mabruke shouted. “Papers—everything—we need this evidence!” As he spoke, he was tying a kerchief around his head to cover his mouth and nose against the soot and smoke. Oken and Zaydane did the same.
Captain Wayta gave orders for his men spread around the ruins, collecting papers and books as they went, beating out flames with their shields.
Oken began stamping out flames with his booted feet, trying to see as many of the crisping pages as possible, for later review. Then, in the midst of the fire, a familiar shape grabbed his attention—a leather scroll-case. He reached down through the flames to snatch it out, beating it against his sleeve. The seal on the outside was scorched but unmistakable, the arms of the Habsburg House of Oesterreich, Albert and Victoria’s seal. The rest of the pages before him were forgotten as he opened that case, praying to Sashetah that the scroll inside was unharmed.
In the back of his mind, he wondered if that iron-hard man, Bismarck, had felt the same thrill at a message from his Queen that Oken had felt in Novgorod. It was an unsettling thought. It was, at least, a fair
thought. Then he scoffed at himself. If Bismarck had felt anything close to Oken’s emotion, he would never have left that precious scroll behind.
The wax seal was melted, but the scroll was safe. He unrolled it carefully, feeling a peculiar excitement. He recognized at once the ornamental border on the page from Victoria’s palace. Victoria’s signature, alas, was the only legible word on the page. The rebel princess was noted for her inscrutable hand.
With an internal curse, he took the scroll over to Mabruke, who was gathering ledger books with the happy intensity of a child at a holiday egg hunt. “Look at this,” Oken said tersely.
Mabruke leaned over his armful of ledgers to look at the page. His face brightened. He called to Zaydane. “He’s more familiar with her hand.”
Zaydane took the scroll with a solemn look, and stood squinting at the handwriting for so long that Oken wanted to shout, then realized he was holding his breath.
“We’ve got him.” Zaydane spoke so quietly and evenly that it rang louder than a shout.
He read from the letter, “ ‘Your blitzkrieg on Memphis cannot happen too soon. I want to hear the explosions here in Vienna.’ ”
“Weapons violations,” Mabruke said, an eager tenseness edging his words. “Bismarck can be legally arrested.”
“That’s a prize the Pharaoh will thank us for,” Oken said. Bruises, blood, and blackened faces were forgotten. Here was a victory sweeter and more immediate than the Moon.
MAMA KUSAY’S generously filled backpacks were among the missing. Wayta said that was good news. “The leather bears the imperial mark— recognized everywhere. That mark will be reported to the temple.”
Zaydane laughed out loud at this. “So we will track Bismarck by the crumbs from Mama Kusay’s kitchen!”
Wayta and his warriors remained at the compound, putting out fires and retrieving any and everything retrievable. Oken, Mabruke and Zaydane returned to the manor, walking along that too familiar path beaten into the mountainside. Oken saved his questions for later. Mabruke and Zaydane were engaged in an intense, tersely worded discussion about coordinating protocol procedures between the Atlas, Memphis, and Interpol security agencies in the arrest of Bismarck. Oken listened closely. They would both want written accounts of their dialogue. The hunt was on for real.
Three Princes Page 30
