The First Heroes

by Harry Turtledove

  I will not lose you as Inka Yawar Wakaq lost his sons, Wiraqocha would say when Orqo protested. Six young men, murdered or killed in battle. Any one of them—

  Would have made a fine Inka, Orqo would finish. But had they lived, he would add, the council of chiefs would not have elected you Inka, Father, and I would not be dying of boredom! The first time he said that, his father had struck him. The second time, Wiraqocha only said mildly, When you are Inka, you will understand.

  But it was Wiraqocha who had not understood, Orqo thought. He had not seen how Orqo’s confinement isolated him from the people he was to rule and made them distrust him. Or how Kusi, happy little Kusi, used his freedom to run about the city befriending every artisan and merchant, warrior and beggar, farmer and priest, winning the hearts of all, high and low.

  Again Orqo’s feet scraped against rocks, but this time he kicked himself toward a deeper channel. The current dragged his mace toward the bottom, and he held its shaft tightly.

  No, Wiraqocha hadn’t understood. He had only said, Be kind to your brother; befriend him now and you may not have to kill him later. So Orqo had allowed Kusi to follow him like a skinny little dog, devoted and cheerful. Annoyingly cheerful.

  And then one day they had argued about their mothers.

  That was where the trouble between them had begun. With their mothers—

  Qori Chullpa stepped into the courtyard where Orqo and Kusi crouched on the dirt rolling dice. A gameboard dotted with colored beans sat between the two boys.

  “Come in soon, Orqo,” she called. “Your father wishes to see you before the evening meal.” Her shiny black hair spilled over her lliklla, which was fastened in front with a long golden pin. Both her outer mantle and the dress under it hung in soft, finely decorated folds. Qori Chullpa had woven them herself; Orqo had watched her. He felt a surge of pride. Her cloth was worthy of the gods.

  “Yes, Mother,” he said.

  “One more game, please?” Kusi pleaded.

  Orqo opened his mouth to refuse, but Qori Chullpa silenced him with a brilliant smile. “Of course, Kusi, he has time for one more game.”

  Kusi’s face lit up. “I’ve already won four!”

  Orqo rolled his eyes and pretended he didn’t care.

  “Your brother has taught you well, then,” she said, and she winked at Orqo. He studied the dirt. “Don’t forget, Orqo. Your father.” And she stepped back into the palace.

  Orqo gathered the beans into two piles and handed Kusi the dice. Kusi beat him quickly, ending the game with a delighted laugh. Orqo tried not to look angry. It was getting harder and harder to beat Kusi. Orqo was glad to be entering the Yachay Wasi soon, to earn the golden earplugs of a noble Inka warrior. Kusi could not follow him to school, not until he, too, came of age.

  But Kusi seemed to read his thoughts. “Will you come play with me even when you study to be a warrior?”

  Orqo stood up, and stamped his feet to shake off the dust. “No, Kusi, the amauta-kuna will keep me very busy.” Truthfully, he was not eager to come under the tutelage of the Yachay Wasi’s famously zealous teachers, but if they would keep Kusi from him, perhaps school would be worth the trouble.

  “Don’t go, Orqo. Let’s spin our tops again.”

  Kusi looked at him with big, eager-puppy eyes. Suddenly Orqo could bear him no longer, his victories, his unrelenting cheerfulness, his constant presence.

  “No, Kusi. My father is waiting.”

  “Our father.” For the first time that day, Kusi sounded annoyed.

  Orqo tried not to smile. “All right. Our father. But he’s waiting with my mother.”

  “Yes. So?”

  “She’s very beautiful, isn’t she?” Orqo allowed himself to gloat a little.

  “So?” Kusi said again, sounding even more irritated.

  Orqo pressed his advantage. “I’ve never even seen your mother.”

  Kusi stabbed at the dirt with his top. “She’s the Qoya. She doesn’t have to see anyone she doesn’t want to see.”

  “So why does she hide in her rooms? She ought to be running our father’s household. Why does my mother have to do all the work?” Now I have him, Orqo thought, as he watched Kusi’s face darken like a thundercloud. Suddenly he wanted to hurt Kusi, hurt him so that he would not forget.

  “Maybe she’s not just lazy,” Orqo went on. “Could it be she’s ugly? Maybe she’s a dwarf or a hunchback like her servants.”

  Kusi leaped to his feet, his hands in fists. Orqo felt a thrill of pleasure.

  Kusi’s eyes narrowed. “Is not! She’s beautiful, just like your mother! And—and—she’s not just beautiful. She talks to the gods! Can your mother do that?”

  Orqo reveled in his newfound power. “Prove it.”

  Kusi stood for a moment with his shoulders hunched and his fists like knots on his legs. Then he grabbed Orqo by the wrist and pulled him across the courtyard, through one room and another, through another courtyard, then another, through an alley, and into a part of the palace Orqo had never seen. Orqo was vaguely aware of people pausing and turning their heads, but no one tried to stop them. Finally, two tall men jumped aside to let them through a doorway, and two more men no taller than Orqo’s waist shouted greetings to Kusi and likewise made way. Kusi pulled Orqo past them into a dark chamber.

  Orqo found himself face-to-face with the palest woman he had ever seen. No wonder they called her Mama Runtu, Mother Egg. Her face glowed like the moon in the darkness, and her jaw moved constantly. At first Orqo thought she was trying to speak, then realized she must be chewing kuka leaves. He had heard that she slept with them in her mouth. At her elbow sat a plate bearing a whole qowi, untouched. The scent of the roasted guinea pig filled the air and made Orqo ravenous.

  The Qoya betrayed not the least surprise, but merely nodded toward a pile of blankets, much like that on which she herself reclined. Then she waved at a shadowy figure in the corner who was playing a flute. The music stopped, and the woman who had been playing limped painfully from the room, nearly doubled over by the hump on her back. Orqo felt ill.

  “Welcome, Orqo.” Mama Runtu’s voice was light and musical. “Please sit. Are you hungry?” She offered him the qowi.

  He shook his head and groped for the blankets. “You know me?” he stammered.

  “I watch,” she said simply. “Or they watch for me.” She glanced to her left, and Orqo saw that their meeting was being observed by a crowd of some eight or ten attendants, none of them the size or shape of a healthy adult person.

  “No need to stare,” the Qoya added. “We are all injured by the gods. In some of us, the wounds are visible. In others, they are not.”

  Orqo flushed, and looked at the floor in front of Mama Runtu. She was stranger than he had imagined, though she did have an odd beauty, with her pale skin wreathed in wild black hair. Her lliklla looked plain of fabric but glittered with many jewels.

  The Qoya patted the blanket next to her, and Kusi sat down, his chin lifted with pride. They did not touch, but Orqo felt something strong between them, something that frightened him. He wondered what his father would think if he could see them all there together. Orqo knew that Wiraqocha spent little time with Mama Runtu. Enough to make sons, but no more.

  “I am glad to have a good look at you,” she said smoothly. “The next Inka. I am honored. I think your father would remind us all to remove our shoes.” She smiled and slipped her sandals from her feet with one hand. Her attendants did the same. The gesture made Orqo nervous. He wanted to go, but he couldn’t give Kusi the pleasure of watching him run. Perhaps he could find a way to leave with his pride intact.

  “My father is expecting me,” he said.

  “No doubt.” The Qoya leaned back. Her eyes studied him closely, with such intensity that he had to look away again.

  “Give me your hands,” she said suddenly. Orqo stood to approach her. He felt like a giant. When he reached her, he sat on the floor and held out his hands. He wished they wouldn’t trem
ble.

  “Ah.” Mama Runtu pressed his hands together, then held them to her face. Gently she rubbed his palms against her cheeks. He had never felt skin that soft, not even—he felt a traitor to think this—his mother’s.

  The Qoya released his hands and looked at him with motherly concern. “Take care, Orqo. Your hands hold your brother’s fate. The wankakuna told me. Whatever Kusi will become, or not become, is up to you.”

  Orqo tried to shrug off her words. Why would the sacred stones talk to Mama Runtu? And why would they talk about him?

  She sighed. The brightness of her face dimmed, as if a thin cloud had passed over the moon. “Your father must be waiting,” she said. “Kusi, show him the way.”

  Kusi looked once at Orqo, a glance of pride and triumph that Orqo did not understand. Hadn’t Mama Runtu just said that he held Kusi’s fate in his hands?

  But Kusi did not seem at all disturbed by her announcement. With a light step—but without speaking—he raced Orqo back to his own part of the palace.

  The chill of the water ate into Orqo’s bones. But he knew he had to endure the river’s cold for as long as he could, to swim as far as possible from Kusi’s reach. He squinted at the mountains. Had he passed Tampu yet? Kusi must have soldiers at Tampu. If he could swim far enough below Tampu he might have a chance to escape and regroup his forces. Wiraqocha still commanded some loyalty.

  Mama Runtu was mad, he thought. I don’t hold Kusi’s fate in my hands; he holds mine in his.

  But mad or not, the Qoya, like Kusi, had won the hearts of Qosqo’s people, while they maligned the faithful Qori Chullpa. Orqo found it hard to understand. Mama Runtu never showed her face outside her palace, never attended a feast or a ceremony. The people never even saw her. And yet they said of the Qoya, What a fine mother! And so kind to her poor servants! No wonder Kusi is thoughtful and generous. Look how gently he speaks to the crippled beggars—just like his mother does. And a skilled young warrior, too! The amauta-kuna never cease in their praises. Then they would whisper, Ah, what an Inka he would make! Why is Wiraqocha so blind?

  But of Orqo’s own mother, who faithfully managed her husband’s household and who actually spent more time with Kusi than did Mama Runtu—of her, Orqo had never heard a kind word spoken. He had lain awake at night, seething with anger at the whispers he had overheard. Qori Chullpa never bathed Orqo in cold water; no wonder he looks sickly. She picked him up and held him whenever he cried; no wonder he whines and insists on his own way. She gave him toys and indulged his every whim; no wonder he spends his days eating and drinking and dressing himself in fine things. Qori Chullpa ruined Orqo—and now Wiraqocha asks us to accept him as our lord?

  Orqo swam hard again, his anger renewed. Yes, it was true that he had spent much time in feasting and merrymaking—what else would his father allow him to do? And he wore the best cloth, the finest sandals and pins and earplugs. His father insisted.

  The people, they didn’t understand. Let them try to live his life. Let them live the life of the heir and favorite son of Wiraqocha.

  In any case, when he, Orqo, was Inka, the gossip would stop. Anyone who spoke ill of Qori Chullpa would die. And he would expose Mama Runtu’s madness to the world. Hear the wanka-kuna? He might as well claim that he heard them himself!

  The current slammed him into a rock before he had time to swim around it, and his shoulder burned. Damn you, Mama Runtu, he thought.

  But Kusi, now, that was another question. His mother was right about Kusi—he was different. Did he hear the wanka-kuna? Did the gods and the stones and the ancestors speak to him?

  Kusi had tried to show him, once—

  “Ssst! Orqo!”

  Orqo awoke to a voice no louder than the buzz of a fly.

  “They’re all asleep,” Kusi whispered. “Let’s go!”

  Orqo rose from his bed, leaving his sandals. Qori Chullpa lay at the other end of the room, and a few younger siblings sprawled in the space between. Even the qowi-kuna, the guinea pigs, slept huddled in a corner, instead of running about and disturbing people’s sleep.

  Kusi was already at the doorway. The men who sat on either side, facing the courtyard, had indeed nodded off; this was a rare opportunity. Orqo tiptoed between them, then ran after Kusi toward the garden. His heart thudded, making it difficult for him to listen for others who might be up and about, and report an errant prince to Wiraqocha. But they reached the small grove of qewña trees without seeing anyone. The front entrance of the palace, Orqo knew, was flanked by guards who would not fall asleep, but Kusi had assured him that the trees offered a way over the wall.

  “Watch me.” Kusi mouthed the command and then swung himself up on a branch. The tree looked barely strong enough to hold his weight, but with his feet halfway up the trunk, he could lean over and just catch the top of the stone wall with his hands. He pulled himself up and scrambled over the top.

  Orqo, conscious of his greater size and clumsiness, climbed as high as he dared. The peeling bark scratched his bare legs and arms. But he could not turn back. He leaned for the wall and managed to put his arms across the top. For a moment his legs swung wildly, but he found a crevice with his toes, and finally he was over.

  How would they get back in? he wondered. But Kusi tugged at his hand, and they ran through the streets of Qosqo lit only by the stars—Mama-Killa, the moon, lay hidden that night. They met only the occasional late-night traveler, too hurried or too drunk to care about a pair of mischievous boys. When the last house lay behind them, Kusi ducked behind a rock. Orqo crouched next to him, panting.

  “How far is it?” he whispered.

  “Not far.”

  “Do you know who it is?”

  Kusi shook his head. “I’ve never heard anyone speak of it. It is very old. Perhaps one of the first.”

  “First what?”

  “Inkas.”

  Orqo fell silent, suddenly oppressed by the enormity of what they were about to do—visit an ancestor, alone, in the darkness.

  Then Kusi sighed. “I didn’t tell you,” he whispered.

  “What?” Orqo trembled. “What, Kusi?”

  Kusi’s thin fingers closed around Orqo’s arm. “It spoke to me. No one else was there. But I heard it.”

  Orqo stared at the rock. So this was why Kusi was so eager to sneak out and risk Wiraqocha’s fury.

  “What did it say?” Orqo asked.

  For a long moment, Kusi did not answer. What terrible thing had he heard? Orqo wondered. An omen of doom?

  Again Kusi sighed, and he looked up at the brilliant stars. “It called me Inka.” He shook his head and turned to Orqo. “But I’m not to be Inka. You are.”

  A cold chill gripped Orqo. “I think you should not tell me this.”

  “Who else am I to tell? Father? My mother?”

  Orqo remembered the pale face of Mama Runtu, and Kusi’s pride in her—and that she claimed to hear the gods and spirits. “Why not your mother?”

  Kusi stared silently at the ground, but Orqo heard his breathing, labored and slow as if he gathered strength, or courage. “I am afraid of what she would do. I don’t want to cause trouble. I don’t want to be Inka.” Then he looked at Orqo with luminous eyes. “But if anything happened to you, Orqo—to you and Father—I would work hard to be a good Inka. I would protect our people.”

  Orqo’s stomach knotted. “Kusi, don’t—”

  Kusi let go of Orqo and jumped up. “Come. You must hear, too.”

  Orqo followed him into the darkness, inwardly cursing the stones that jabbed at his feet. He always wore sandals—Wiraqocha insisted—and his feet were not as tough as Kusi’s. But Kusi must never suspect weakness. So he bit his tongue.

  Orqo was limping by the time they reached the mouth of the cave. Tucked behind a boulder, and visible only as a sliver of shadow in the starlight, it would have been nearly impossible to find even in the day, Orqo thought. Indeed, when he squeezed in after Kusi, he had to let out all his breath, and still the rock raked
his back like a puma’s claws. He sighed. Any chance their adventure would go undetected had just vanished.

  Inside it was so dark and silent he felt he must have fallen into Pakariytampu, the cave from which the four Inka ancestors and their sister-wives had emerged onto the earth. Kusi’s sudden whisper made him jump.

  “Here, Orqo. Touch it.” A hand bumped into him, felt its way down his arm, grabbed his wrist. Orqo had to lean over as Kusi pulled his left hand down, down toward the cave floor. At about the height of his knee, his palm met something dry and dusty-feeling—cloth, Orqo realized, the ancestor’s clothing.

  “Your other hand, too.”

  Reluctantly Orqo knelt and lifted his right hand, inching it into place next to his left. Something stringy brushed his fingers, and he suppressed a scream. This hand rested not on cloth but on something dry and wrinkled, like a maize husk. Skin, he realized, and the strings were hair. He must be holding the mummy’s shoulder. His own skin trembled as if ants crawled all over his body.

  “Are you touching it?” Kusi asked.

  Orqo nodded, then realized the gesture was useless in the darkness. “Yes,” he whispered. The mummy’s skin felt warm under his hand, and the darkness was so complete he wondered if he would go blind. Kusi said no more, and the silence became unbearable. Orqo tried to think of an excuse to leave.

  “Shouldn’t we offer it a sacrifice?” he said.

  “I brought one.”

  For a terrible moment Orqo wondered if Kusi meant him—then he felt a bit of fur against his arm, and a soft plop as it fell to the ground.

  “Qowi,” said Kusi.

  “Is it enough?”

  “Last time I brought nothing.”

  Nothing? Surely that settled it, Orqo thought. No ancestor or god or stone would talk to someone who brought nothing.

  He heard Kusi settle himself on the floor. The warmth of Kusi’s body radiated across the space between them, though they were not touching. “What do we do?” Orqo whispered.