by Darren Shan
“What do I do?” I ask nervously—I was never comfortable speaking in public.
“Walk to the inti watana. Examine your troops. Be Paucar Wami.”
The priests withdraw. I’m alone, hidden by shadows. There’s an exit close by. I could make a break for freedom. But where would I run to? The answers are here.
Steeling myself, I head for the huge circular stone. I’m spotted immediately. There are excited gasps, then the sound of heels snapping together. I tread softly, glancing only briefly left and right as I converge on the young soldiers and pass through their ranks. Each of the Snakes lifts his or her head a couple of inches when I pass, saluting me. The Cobras, standing out from their charges, drop to one knee and rest their palms flat on the floor, heads bowed. I search for the Cobra of the second triumvirate, the one who guided me to my father’s room, but they all look the same when viewed crown-on.
As I near the platform, the villac on it lifts his head and walks to the edge to greet me. “Spread your arms wide,” a voice whispers in my ear, and this time it’s the voice of the priest who led me to the cavern. “Let him press his fingertips to yours and kiss the place on your chin where the heads of your tattoos meet.”
Spreading my arms as ordered, I stop at the platform and lean forward as the blind priest touches his fingers to mine. Muttering something unintelligible, he puts his lips to the spot below my lower lip and kisses the heads of my tattooed snakes. There’s a soft hissing sound and when he draws away his tongue flicks out at me—it’s forked.
I almost draw back from his serpentine tongue, but Paucar Wami never flinches, so I hold myself steady. Then the priest opens his mouth to chant some more and his tongue is normal again. Maybe it always was and I just imagined the fork.
The villac drones on for several minutes. I stand without moving, arms outstretched, awaiting further instructions.
Finally he stops and walks to the three buckets, which he transfers to the edge of the platform.
“Face the Snakes,” comes the voice. “Say what I tell you.”
I turn and repeat the words of the villac as they’re fed to me. If I was doing this as Al Jeery, I’m sure I’d stumble and stutter. But as Paucar Wami I’m fearless and eloquent, a natural orator.
“Our time is almost at hand. For long years we have existed anonymously. That is soon to change. Those who matter in the city have heard of us and grow anxious. Soon all will tremble at the sound of our name.”
My voice echoes around the cavern and is absorbed by eager ears. Many of the young men and women are grinning. A few even nudge their companions and wink.
“But we must be patient a while longer,” I caution them. “Our enemies turn on one another like dogs, but we must wait until they are fully engaged before we act, lest they sense our threat and unite against us.”
“Face the villac on the inti watana,” the voice whispers. I do as instructed, then continue.
“In preparation for your rise, you will now be blooded. You have come through much, but there is much still to endure. Let this be a reminder of what you have sacrificed, and a promise of what you will enjoy.”
The buckets are filled with blood. It could be the blood of animals, but I’m sure it isn’t. “Vegetarians should leave the building,” I mutter, unprompted, and there are ghoulish giggles.
“This is the blood of the conquered,” the voice says, and I repeat the words obediently. “The blood of the weak and impure. To cleanse this city, you must first taste of its foulness. Hold the blood down when you drink. Those who cannot stomach it have no place here and will be cast out.”
Three villacs march from the side of the cavern, chanting as they walk. They accept the buckets from their colleague on the platform, then weave through the ranks, offering the blood to each Snake in turn, not moving on until the soldier has drunk and kept down the thick red liquid. I speak as they administer the blood.
“Take a mouthful, no more, no less. Those who cannot drink of this city are not wanted, but nor are those who would drink too much. Only those who can drink in moderation are desired.”
I wait for more instructions, but there are none, so I stand and watch as the Snakes complete the bloody ritual, lips red, faces impassive. Nobody rejects or vomits up the blood. Maybe they’ve tried it before. I’m prepared to accept an offering if it’s made, but the buckets aren’t presented to me.
When the last of the Snakes has drunk, the buckets are returned to the platform and the villac stacks them behind the thrones. I’m told to mingle with the troops, making comments or asking questions. “But none about us,” I’m warned.
I prowl the ranks arrogantly, as my father would, studying the soldiers, trying to spot relatives. They stand three abreast, six deep, a gap between each phalanx, a larger space between each triumvirate. At the rear stand eleven separated members, rawer than the rest. New recruits, the beginnings of the eighth triumvirate.
I recall how the sergeants in the Troops treated me when I first joined. I stop at the back of one of the phalanxes and tap a burly teenager on the shoulder. He turns his head inquisitively and I punch his jaw hard, knocking him to the floor. “Did I tell you to look around?” I roar.
“No, sir,” he responds, face flushed, almost grinning through the pain—it’s an honor to be singled out by their leader, even for punishment.
“Get to your feet.” He stands. Medium height, heavy build, a wide, open face. Slightly foggy eyes. “What’s your name, boy?”
“Leonard, sir, first phalanx, sixth triumvirate.”
“Been with us long, Leonard?”
“Three years, two months, six days, sir.”
“An impressive memory.”
“I keep track on a calendar.”
I lean in close. “Tonight, take that calendar, tear it up and burn it.”
He hesitates. “But… sir… it belongs to—”
I club the back of his head. “I didn’t ask for a debate. I gave an order.”
“Yes, sir!” he shouts.
I swivel away from him and address the others. “That goes for the rest of you. Focus on the present. Embrace it. Breathe it. Become it. Cut yourself off from the world of time. If you do not, you belong to that world, and that means you don’t belong to me.”
By the shine of their faces I see that I’ve made an impression, and I feel the ridiculous stirrings of pride in my chest. I quickly quash it. These are pawns of the villacs, thus my potential enemies. I should cut the Patton shit. Get the inspection over with quickly and…
I’m hurrying past the eleven newcomers at the rear when one catches my eye. I move up close, making sure I’m not mistaken, and he takes a worried step back. “Drake? What the fuck are you doing here?” Flo’s boy gawps, astonished to be addressed by the legendary Paucar Wami. “Answer me!”
“I… I’m a Snake… sir.”
“How long have you been here?”
“A couple of weeks. I sneak back home every few days, but—”
“Does your mother know about this?”
“Of course not.” His spirit rises and he faces up to me squarely.
I start to ask what he thinks Flo would say if she knew, then remember who I’m meant to be. I step back from Drake. “Tell me why you’re here, boy. What brought you to this notorious den of thieves… this disreputable pit of snakes?” There are amused laughs. But Drake is deathly serious.
“I want to protect my mother, sir.”
“How?”
“By learning to fight. The city’s about to blow, but we’ve got nobody to fight for us, to stand up to the Troops or the fucking Kluxers.”
“Fucking Kluxers” is echoed by several Snakes. I silence the murmurs with a wave of a hand.
“Go on,” I tell Drake. “Say it so that everyone can hear.” Making it sound as if it’s for the crowd’s benefit, not mine.
“The Snakes will protect their people in the east,” Drake says seriously. “We’ll push back the Troops and Kluxers, and anybody e
lse who threatens those we love. We’ll control the gangs. We’ll see peace and order restored. We’ll kick the ass of anyone who fucks with us!”
He shouts the last line and is greeted with cheers. I wait for them to die down before whispering harshly, so it’s only just audible, “And then?”
Drake pauses. “Sir?”
“What will you do when the streets are yours? Will you return to your mother or retreat back here to the depths?”
“That’s enough,” the villac hisses in my ear.
I ignore him. “Tell me what happens next.”
“I don’t know, sir. No one said.”
“Who will tell this boy?” I roar. “Who knows? Who has thought this through?”
“Jeery!” the villac screeches. “If you don’t quit right now, I’ll—”
A young woman raises a trembling hand. “Yes?” I ask her, tuning out the priest.
“We control, sir,” she says confidently.
“You win the streets, then keep them?”
“Yes.”
“How do you think your relatives and friends will react to that?”
She frowns.
“The public might back us against the Troops and Kluxers, but what happens when they want to return to normal, only to find—”
The English-speaking villac rushes into the cave. “Sapa Inca!” he shouts. “You must come with me. There is trouble. We need you elsewhere.”
“I am addressing my troops,” I growl. “I don’t like being interrupted when—”
“The Kluxers have attacked one of our posts. You must come.”
The Snakes mutter angrily at the mention of the Kluxers, and I know the villac has me. If I don’t accompany him, it will seem like I care more about talking big in front of my supporters than protecting them from their enemies.
“OK,” I mutter irritably, then raise my voice one last time. “But think on what I have said. Obedience is essential if you are to serve me, but a keen mind is just as important. My followers must be able to reason as well as obey.”
Turning my back on them, I trail after the priest, who hurries to an exit in the side of the cavern, where the darkness of the tunnels awaits. I don’t look back at the Snakes—Paucar Wami never looks back.
Once out of sight and earshot of the young soldiers, the villac relaxes.
“What does ‘Sapa Inca’ mean?” I ask.
“That is how we refer to Paucar Wami. It is the name we used long ago for our war leaders.” His lips crease in a sneer. “Speaking as you did was foolish. I warned you not to cross us.”
“You told me to behave as Paucar Wami would,” I counter.
“The performance was admirable,” the priest agrees, then adds cuttingly, “to a point. But prompting them to question their long-term goals was inflammatory. As soldiers it is their place to jump when we tell them, not ponder.”
“That’s where you and I differ. I think they’ve a right to know what they’re getting into, what may come of it.”
“When the Snakes are yours,” the priest sniffs, “you may treat them as you wish. But until that time, I would ask that you respect—”
“What do you mean, when the Snakes are mine?” I cut in.
“The Snakes have been recruited to serve Paucar Wami,” the priest says. “He acts as a figurehead, a symbol they can unite behind. But surely you do not think we would place such power in the hands of a psychopathic killer.”
“Listen,” I begin sharply, “if you think I’m going to lead your army, you—”
The villac raises a small pipe to his lips, blows hard and sends a cloud of pink dust flying into my face. As I cough and splutter, motes fill my lungs and my head goes light. My legs give way and the walls dissolve. “Bastard!” I shout, but the word is a whisper. I try to hit the priest but my fist blurs and my fingers turn to steam. I have a sense of unbecoming, of floating… then no sense of anything at all.
When I come to, someone’s holding my hand, leading me through a narrow tunnel. The drug’s still in my blood and my head throbs. Stopping, I wrench my hand from my guide’s and fall to my knees. I beat the floor with my fists, gritting my teeth, and that helps clear my head. The villacs drugged me before, and that time it was a long-lasting trip. But this drug isn’t as strong, and though the world around me shimmers at the edges, I’m able to recognize reality and cling to it.
“Are you all right?” my guide asks, bending to help. A woman’s voice. I slap her hands away and force my eyes to focus.
“Who are you?” I gasp.
“A friend. I’m taking you to the surface. We’re going home.”
I’m too weak to fight. Allowing the woman to grasp my elbows, I let her haul me to my feet, then lean on her for support. As we start forward, I examine her face and recognize it. “Ama Situwa,” I murmur, wondering if I’m really able to tell the difference between fantasy and reality after all.
“Yes,” she replies.
“Are you real or a vision?”
She doesn’t answer immediately. We come to a set of stairs. She pauses at the first step, looks sideways at me and says softly, “I’m not sure.”
We smile shakily at each other. I squeeze her hand for comfort and she squeezes mine. Then we climb.
4
conversations with the dead
Wednesday, just after midnight, my apartment. Ama’s in the kitchen, making sandwiches. I told her I could do it, but my legs are still weak and she insisted I sit and rest.
It was Monday when I encountered my father in the Manco Capac statue. When I came to, found the chef and asked the time, he told me it was afternoon. Which it was—but Tuesday, not Monday. I was out of commission an entire day.
Ama and I didn’t talk much during our climb. We emerged behind a garbage dump, where my motorcycle and Ama’s scooter were waiting. I asked Ama how they got there but she didn’t know. She wasn’t even sure how she knew the way up—she claimed to be navigating by instinct.
She slides in from the kitchen, tray of sandwiches in one hand, bag of cookies in the other. “These are stale,” she says, “but they’ll be OK if you dunk them.”
“There’s a twenty-four-hour store on the next block. I could—”
“Don’t bother. These will be fine.”
I sip the coffee she brewed earlier and chew on the sandwiches. Ama nibbles at a cookie but doesn’t touch her drink. Her eyes are serious and dark.
“Do you remember the statue?” I ask delicately.
She nods. “The priests made me lure you there, then offer myself as a sacrifice. I had no control over what I was doing. Sometimes when they bring me back, I’m a zombie and they can…” She trails off into silence and frowns. “Do you know what I’m talking about?”
“Yes. I met my… Paucar Wami down there.” No point telling her he’s my father if she doesn’t know. “He explained how the villacs bring him back from the dead and force him to do their bidding.”
“It sounds crazy said like that,” she smiles. “I was hysterical the first few times. Now I pretend I’m like anybody else, and when they tell me I have to die, I act like it’s no big deal, just falling asleep.”
“How many times…?” I wince. I’ve a splitting headache.
“You need rest,” Ama says. “We can talk about this in the morning.”
“I’d rather—”
“Morning,” she says firmly.
“Yes, nurse,” I grin, then get to my feet and hobble to bed, aided by Ama. I sit on the edge, breathing deeply, eyes shut against the pain.
“Who are the pair in the photo?” Ama asks, referring to the shot of Bill and a young Priscilla Perdue that hangs over my bed.
“Old friends,” I sigh without opening my eyes.
A pause as she takes in the rest of the room. “There’s a finger on your dressing table.”
“I know.”
Ama slips off my shoes and helps me out of my T-shirt. Her breath catches when she sees the scars on my chest and back—most fr
om the explosion a decade ago—but she doesn’t ask about them. Her hands are on the buttons of my jeans when I stop her. “I’m not wearing shorts.”
“I doubt you’ve anything I haven’t seen before,” she says, but turns her back while I wriggle out of the jeans and slide beneath the covers.
“I don’t have a sleeping bag,” I tell her as she faces me again. “You’ll have to make do with the couch. Of course, if you’d rather, I could—”
“No. You need a good night’s sleep.” She starts to leave. Stops and looks at me. “Was I naked in the statue?”
“I think so,” I mutter.
She smiles. “Bashful, Mr. Jeery?”
“You were naked.”
“So I definitely don’t have anything you haven’t seen before.” Her smile fades. “You’ve no idea how lonely it is. They keep me locked in a room when I’m alive. I dread the isolation. I don’t want to sleep alone tonight.” I raise an eyebrow. “I’m not talking about that! I just want someone to cuddle up to. It’s been a long time since I had anybody to cling to in the dark.”
“I understand,” I answer softly. “It’s been a long time for me too.” I throw back the covers.
She undresses quickly, turns off the light and gets into bed beside me. We lie facing each other but not touching for a few seconds. Then she drapes an arm around me. I lay one over her. And we fall asleep, foreheads pressed together, clinging, dreaming… one.
Ama’s gone when I awake, though the shape of her body is clear in the lines of the sheets. Lurching out of bed, ignoring the pain in my head, I rush through the rest of the apartment. Not here. I stand in the living room, panting, trying to figure out if she disappeared in a cloud of green fog, was abducted, or…
The front door opens and Ama walks in, dressed in the same shirt and beige pants as last night, carrying a brown paper bag from the twenty-four-hour shop on the next block. She stares at me, standing naked in the middle of the room, then laughs. “You shouldn’t have been so shy when undressing—you’ve nothing to be modest about.”
My hands dart to cover my nakedness, then I hop back into the bedroom and pull on a pair of jeans before trailing her into the kitchen.
