by Jackie Ivie
For Richer
by Jackie Ivie
A Vampire Assassin League Novella
“We Kill for Profit”
24th in series
Copyright 2015, Jackie Ivie
This book is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. All rights reserved, including the right to reproduce this book, or portion thereof, in any form. This book may not be resold or uploaded for distribution to others.
This is a work of fiction. Any references to historical events, real people, or real locales are used fictitiously. Other names, characters, places and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination, and any resemblance to actual events, locales or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
CHAPTER ONE
Six different marketplaces this week, and nobody had heard of a khipu.
That was disheartening. Rebecca fished the rolled up bundle of string that was called a khipu from her backpack. Fingered the knots. Wondered if it was worth her while to ask again. She was beginning to look, and act like, a spoiled North American tourist. But she didn’t want a hand-loomed alpaca wool sweater. Or tablecloth. Or floor covering. Or gloves. Or shawl. Or hat. Or an assembly-line pan pipe. She didn’t even want a hand-hewn one.
It was so disappointing.
Becky lived, ate, and breathed South American cultures. This was her third trip to this part of the world. Several professors had tagged her obsession a life-calling. That was probably apt. The teacher at Harvard had been especially vivid. He was an expert on the knotted strings called khipu. His class had been unbelievably informative. It had whetted her desire for this mission. And she wasn’t just looking for a khipu. What she’d really love to find was an expert at creating and reading them, the people known as khipucamayuq.
So. Here she was; in an area off the beaten path - the heart of the Andean world. And she couldn’t even locate anyone who knew what she spoke of? She knew the Spanish colonial regime had done its utmost to obliterate Andean culture...especially after the Council of Lima in the sixteenth century. But she’d hoped to find one person. Just one. Who might know what she was talking about.
“Excuse me. Senorita?”
Rebecca turned around at the tug on her backpack. And then she had to look down. And then she struggled against showing any expression. Becky was five foot, six. She didn’t consider herself tall. Or short. Maybe average. But in this part of the country - in any setting outside of a tourist venue - she might as well be from a circus.
The gent who’d spoken was really diminutive, though, even for this locale. He was dark-tanned. Lean. It was impossible to determine his age. He wasn’t young. If she had to, she’d guess him at a really well-preserved fifty. Or a badly-aging forty. He was an obvious native, from the frayed straw hat atop his head to the well-worn sandals on his feet. He wore loosely woven burlap-looking trousers and a large poncho atop his shoulders. The cape wasn’t in the vivid colors she’d come to associate with the Andes. His was in muted shades of olive green and brown, but as she looked closely, she noted there was a thin light blue stripe woven into the fibers.
If he hadn’t tugged on her backpack, she’d have never noticed him.
“Si. Si. You.” He nodded.
“I’m sorry. I didn’t bring any money with me,” she told him. She added in a shake of her head, and an open palm, exactly as she’d done to every shopkeeper in the open air market. It was a fib. She had money. She even carried small coins called soles. They were for her fare back, in the event she missed the tour bus. Or to pay for a toilet. Or, in the event, she actually found a khipu, even a fake one, and the shopkeeper only accepted local coin.
He pointed to her other hand. “Khipu?” he asked.
He said it in a strange manner - ‘Key-paw-u’ - but she recognized the word. Finally! Becky smiled. “You know what this is?”
He nodded and grinned. “Si. Si. Khipu. Pre-Incan writing.”
Oh, man. Oh, man. He’d said writing.
“You do know.” Becky tried to keep the excitement out of her voice. She wasn’t quite successful. His grin got even wider.
“Si. I have many of them.”
“You...have more?”
“As many as I want.”
Was he dealing in grave goods? Maybe he knew of some mummy bundles heretofore undiscovered? It wasn’t far-fetched. She was in the area of the Chachapoya nation, where the mummies wrapped with khipus had been discovered.
“How...is that possible?” she asked.
“I know of a khipucamayuq.”
“Seriously?”
“Si.”
“You are one?”
He shook his head. “Sadly, no.”
Becky considered him for a moment. He knew what a khipu was. He said he could get them...and he knew one of the natives who tied the knots? The ones with the almost unpronounceable name: key-pu-kah-my-uk? What were the odds? Becky would dearly love to find proof that the knotted strings weren’t just a numerical system. She believed they were a real writing system. The oldest one on the planet.
“But...he makes them?”
“And he reads them.”
Oh. Wow.
“He...reads them?”
He nodded vigorously and then waved for her to follow him. They were starting to create notice. He didn’t seem to want that. She considered that for a moment. It could be a shady proposition. She might be in danger. That’s why she’d taken the self-defense courses last year, and honed her body into the best shape of her life. She wasn’t an easy target.
Then again...if he did know a real khipucamayuq, the last thing he’d do was publicize it. The stigma might still be ingrained. Thanks to the Spaniards and their cultural cleansing. The Council of Lima had made certain that all khipus they could get their hands on were burned as pagan items. Khipucamayuqs were put to death, probably in the same manner.
“Come. Come.”
He was gesturing from a shadowed area alongside one of their buildings. Becky followed, but stayed in the sunlight. This was really stupid.
“I can take you to him.”
“Is it far?”
“Pretty far. Long hike. Three hours.”
Three hours was a leisurely jaunt. It wasn’t even noon yet. If they started right now, she could get there, see what there was to see, and still be back before sundown. It was very tempting.
“Into the mountains?”
He nodded.
“How much? I don’t have many soles,” she told him.
“No need. He handles that.”
“A khipucamayuq with a bank account? I...don’t know.”
“No. No. If you buy any of his khipus, he will pay me. You see?”
Her brows rose. How badly did she want this?
Pretty bad.
She’d love to be the one who cracked the Andean khipu code. It meant instant fame, probable fortune, and lots of prestige. If she were a man, she wouldn’t be hesitating a second. And hadn’t she’d saved money for two years, worked out for months, and planned this entire trip just for this kind of opportunity?
“Three hours?” she asked.
She did a mental evaluation. She wore khakis. Hiking boots with thick, water-absorbent socks. Button-up cotton shirt. Expensive sport bra and briefs. Her watch kept not only time in twenty-four time zones, but it was water-tight to 50 feet, and equipped with a compass, weather and distance barometers, and elevation gauge. A wind-resistant jacket was wrapped about her waist at the moment. So far. Pretty good.
The backpack contained two full bottles of water. Two meal-replacement snack bars. Three regular ones. A six-inch switchblade. A can of pepper spray with a 3% CRC rating o
f pain and protection, the highest she could buy legally. Toothbrush. A pack of dental tape...that stuff had a lot more uses than people thought. One of them was tying all kinds of things. She also had a rain poncho that was folded to a two inch square. 100% DEET liquid roller. Tube of sunscreen. A 200 lumens headlamp. And a spare pair of socks.
In her trouser pockets, she had a tube of lip balm. Two hundred soles - in coin and paper. A comb. A pre-loaded credit card was secured with her passport in one lower leg pocket. An American twenty dollar bill and cell phone were in the opposing pocket, other leg. The cell was country specific with limited range. She’d paid for one at the airport.
Hmm.
Even if she stayed a little long with this khipucamayuq, and had to hail a ride tonight, she had enough for a day trip into the Andes. It was almost like she’d planned this. Fate was calling. This was a once-in-a-lifetime chance. She wasn’t turning her nose up at it. He seemed to know the exact moment she came to the conclusion. His face lit up with a smile.
“You ready?”
She nodded. He spun and started walking.
His name was some unpronounceable combination of vowels and consonants. He gave it to her twice before saying she could call him ‘Joe’. Joe was in spectacular shape. The hike was steep, muscle-straining. Breath-taking. The trail was nonexistent in places, leading her to surmise that if Joe did know a khipucamayuq, they weren’t close buddies. They stopped after the first hour. For a water break. A snack bar. A slathering of sunscreen and insect repellent. A check of her compass. She offered Joe one of her snack bars. He declined. He had a pack of supplies at his waist. Beneath his poncho. He munched on something that looked like fried bread smeared with bean paste. It actually looked pretty tasty.
The trail got steeper the second hour. Joe carried a small machete beneath that poncho of his, too. He had to use it often to hack at vegetation. It didn’t slow him down much. It was actually the reason Becky managed to keep up. They went deeper into dense trees. Decay and dirt-smell filled the air. And then it started threatening rain.
They stopped the second hour for another water break. Time to don her rain poncho. A check on their direction. She told herself that she’d give it the three hours. And then, she’d tell Joe the party was over. Time to start back. She wasn’t worried about getting lost. The trail shouldn’t be that hard to replicate. It was newly hacked in places and they’d been going in a basic line, climbing steadily uphill. Always east.
The last hour was the worst. The rain became a downpour. Mud made every step hazardous, the air hard to breathe, and Joe became a dynamo of physical energy. He had to help her more than once. Becky doubted her sanity. And then, just as she was getting ready to pull the plug on this, Joe stopped. Pulled out his machete, and scraped off a stone.
A stone step.
Becky looked up. It was a staircase. The steps were overgrown toward the bottom. Completely hidden from a casual observer. Her eyes followed the zigzag line along the cliff ahead. Now that she knew what they looked like, she could see an entire series of steps that disappeared around a bend before reappearing higher up. Those steps were narrow. Steep. Carved along the side of a cliff. Without one bit of railing. That staircase was really going to be hell to climb. That’s when Joe gave her the final rest stop. Becky chewed slowly through a meal replacement bar. Downed the last of one bottle of water. Collapsed the plastic and stored it back in her bag. Excused herself for a bit in the forest. She checked compass direction and elevation. Four thousand feet. They’d climbed that far?
And then the real work began.
The rain quit before they reached the top. It got replaced by a white layer of mist that concealed and chilled. Becky didn’t know where the sun had gone. The going was rough. Tree roots jutted out at awkward moments, sometimes creating a stumbling block. Sometimes, creating a much-needed hand-hold. It took every bit of concentration to stay on the narrow steps. It was dim. And it was quiet. She could barely hear Joe’s movements in front of her.
The steps became easier to navigate. As if someone kept this section cleared. Or maybe they were above the tree-line, where stone was immune to jungle growth. A ripple of unease went up her spine. Made her scalp tingle.
“Uh. Joe?”
Her voice sounded exactly like she felt. Scared. Joe didn’t answer with words. He pointed up and over her shoulder. Becky leaned back against the rock wall for stability, swiped a hand across her eyes for clarity, and looked at what he pointed out. And her jaw dropped.
CHAPTER TWO
They were bringing him a sacrifice?
Interesting.
Mikhal watched the duo approach. They hadn’t brought a sacrifice in enough years it qualified as decades. Perhaps a half-century. Time held no value in Mikhal’s existence. One year goes by. A dozen. A century. What did the passing of years matter? But it was the Twenty-First Century now. A sacrificial offering in this day and age intrigued him. He didn’t think there was anyone left in the highlands that remembered their gods. And none who followed the old ways.
He’d risen at the first sounds of approach. They’d been in the trees, heading towards his steps, with but one possible objective. Reaching his hidden fortress. Their arrival was hampered time and again by human frailties against both exertion, and encroaching plant growth, and the elements. The time gave him an opportunity to select things for the biggest impact.
He had options on apparel. Positioning. Stance. Vocabulary.
They’d brought him a woman. Mikhal wasn’t picky about that. He didn’t care about gender. He wasn’t thirsty. He’d fed less than a week ago on some Amazonian tribesmen who’d probably gone to their shaman over weakness the next morning. But sustenance was sustenance. She wasn’t young, though. That was a shame. He liked them young. She didn’t look like a beauty, either. She had dark hair of an indeterminate length. It was damp, and stuck to the shoulders of her cape in chunks. She was in a rain poncho, and didn’t appear to have many curves to her. If she did, they were hidden beneath her dark-colored cape. She definitely didn’t carry any excess weight, either. That was another point of disfavor. He liked his victims plump. Their blood lush and thick and tasty. She was definitely a foreigner. Australian maybe. Perhaps Russian? English? American? She could be from any European country. She was definitely not Mediterranean, Middle Eastern, or Asian. Nor was she African, South American or even Meso-American. Mikhal pondered language options he might try just before he drained her. Of course, he could always use his native Chachapoya language that nobody spoke. And be completely misunderstood.
It depended mainly on her.
The closer they came, the less Mikhal liked this. His upper lip lifted in a sneer. She probably had insipid brown eyes to go with her nondescript brown hair. If the humans thought to placate the gods with a sacrifice, they’d picked a poor one. They must not expect a great favor. They were supposed to send their best. Not...
Words failed him.
She looked up at his home, her face blocked from view by her hand. Mikhal barely had time to duck beneath an archway. And then she started speaking. He could hear her voice carried on the mist. It grated on his ear. He couldn’t decipher words. She was questioning the man? Perhaps...even arguing? That was even less pleasant.
What was this? They were bringing him a shriveled-looking, pale-skinned, argumentative spinster? What kind of nonsense was this? Mikhal’s displeasure grew larger. They were really pressing their luck. She was probably a vegetarian on top of everything else. If her blood tasted anything like he suspected, he was tempted to wrap her in a mummy bundle, haul her to a summit, and let the elements freeze-dry her. And then he’d take a foray into the valley and make certain the villagers knew of his displeasure.
They’d reached the lower plateau of his mountain home. Both winded. Her cry carried a bit of awe. He assumed it came from looking over the fitted stone buildings, terraces, and staircases of the site. That muted his discontentment slightly. Mikhal slid around to the back of a pillar an
d watched the man bring her up the stairs to the royal plateau before pointing to a stone-shaped bench. The woman pulled her cape over her head, folded it dry-side out, and placed it atop the stone. They had their backs to Mikhal. They were very near the throne. Mikhal tensed involuntarily. Had the bearer of this gift directed her to sit on the throne, he wouldn’t have been allowed to speak a bit more to her, and then walk away unscathed.
Such sacrilegious behavior netted consequences. Putting that woman on the throne, where only a king was allowed to sit, meant instant death for the man who’d brought her. Mikhal would have obliged, and probably found pleasure in it.
The man darted through an archway farther along the royal terrace, slinked behind a few rocks, shimmied down a bit of the cliff face, dislodging small rocks and a stream of dirt, and then reappeared back onto the path below, where he’d been earlier. He didn’t appear hesitant as he raced back down the steps, leaving the woman behind.
And that was the end of Mikhal’s interest in him.
He turned his attention back to the offering. And narrowed his eyes. There was something odd about her. He didn’t know what it was. She wasn’t much to look at, although she appeared to possess a nice-sized bosom, very small waist, and extremely long legs. Her hair had lightened, too. It looked to be dark blond, and hung in coils to her shoulders.
She was sitting atop her cape, her legs crossed with the upper one swinging occasionally. She checked her wristwatch. Moved the dial a bit. Concentrated. Clicked her tongue. Straightened her legs. Pulled her pack from her back and fished through it before slinging it back over her shoulder. She got out a small aerosol can. That was interesting. He wondered if it was hairspray, and why she’d bother. He watched her pat the bulging pockets on her trousers at her lower legs next.
“Joe?”
She turned her head in the direction her guide had disappeared. Her voice wasn’t the grating sound he’d heard earlier. It was young-sounding. Hesitant. And had a lilting quality. The mist must have altered it.
“Okay, Becky. Give it three minutes.”
