E. Hoffmann Price's Exotic Adventures

by E. Hoffmann Price

  Then he understood Irene’s frantic cry. Her pistol—the tiny automatic her brassiere held in place. He made a dive for it. The vicious little slugs cleared the deck. The last of Hong Wu’s men collapsed in a doorway opening to a side street.

  The arrival of a bearded Sikh policeman prevented a counterattack. Hartley ran back into the house.

  “I had to give Hong Wu those things I took from you,” Dolores coughed as he knelt beside her. “So he would not suspect me. Then I could help you. But I didn’t expect this—trouble—tonight—no one else—ever was—nice to me—and maybe she—will forgive you—if you—kiss me to death…”

  And when Hartley rose, wiping that red kiss from his lips, he knew that Irene had forgiven him.

  “But I’ll love you at least half that much,” she whispered. “Now let’s see the Warden of Mines. I’m staying in Malaya.”

  TWO AGAINST THE GODS

  Originally published in Golden Fleece, December 1938.

  The slanting light that reached into the little room brought golden glints from Oello’s tawny skin and brought a cool green glitter from the emerald collar that circled her slender throat. Her face remained lovely and untroubled as she turned from the narrow window, but all the splendor that Felipe’s kisses had coaxed to her dark eyes was gone.

  “Ten more llamas,” she sighed, “and loaded until they can hardly walk.”

  Francisco Pizarro’s interpreter somberly regarded the caravan that was adding to Atahuallpa’s ransom. In another few days, Oello and all the other wives of the captive Inca would go with him to freedom.

  “Suppose Pizarro does turn him loose?” Felipe challenged. “You and I can go to the coast. Atahuallpa can’t reach us, there.”

  Oello did not answer. Felipe caught her arms and drew her from the sill. He repeated, “Pizarro and the Inca can do without us!”

  He was an Indian from Tumbez, but only his crisp black hair and swarthy skin marked him apart from the Spanish invaders whom he served; he wore a purple doublet and hose, none the worse for having been discarded by Ferdinand de Soto, who was second in command. A sword and a wine colored cape hung across the foot of the low couch.

  The Inca’s wife regarded her lover with widening eyes. He was about the age of Atahuallpa, and though his features lacked the fine modeling of the sacred Inca clan, he had a strong face and resolute mouth. His chin thrust out as he sensed Oello’s blend of dismay and horror.

  Felipe answered her unspoken exclamation: “He may be the Child of the Sun to you people of the mountains. But in Tumbez, Atahuallpa’s a conqueror who sends Inca nobles to tell us what to wear, what to think, what crops to raise.”

  She was young and shapely. Beneath her flowing mantle of silk-soft vicuna fleece she wore a skirt and blouse of fragile cotton. The embroidery that enriched the frail fabric was heavier than the garments themselves. And though the heartbeat of her close pressed body whipped his own pulse, Oello’s beauty could not distract him from his wrath.

  The heightened color of her olive tinted cheeks, the misting of her long lashed eyes confirmed his resolution. As their lips parted, he said, “Atahuallpa’s an upstart. Huascar’s the lawful Inca. You know that.”

  Oello smoothed her rumpled blouse, then flung back her heavy black braids. Stolen kisses were in themselves a high crime against the Inca; but somehow, outright desertion seemed even more sacrilegious.

  Outside, a trumpet drowned the wrangling and gambling of the Spanish soldiers. Felipe picked up his cloak and sword and said to Oello, “There’s a way of doing this. I’ll tell you more tonight. Now, you’d better go back. The officers will be meeting Pizarro.”

  * * * *

  Ferdinand De Soto, the only one of that hard bitten lot who had any pity for Atahuallpa, spent each afternoon rolling dice and playing chess with the captive Inca. But now that the trumpet summoned Pizarro’s officers. Atahuallpa would turn to the wives who had accompanied him in captivity. It was time for Oello to leave.

  Felipe watched her slip stealthily down a shadowy passageway. If Atahuallpa died before he won his freedom, Oello would have no further qualms.

  Later, the interpreter saw his chance. There are more ways than one to kill a captive king. But neither tall Pizarro nor his assembled captains knew what a stake Felipe had in this deadly game of gold and kingdoms.

  Torchlight gleamed on their full armor. Ever since that fatal half hour in which Atahuallpa had become a prisoner, Pizarro’s small force had slept under arms, lest sudden revolt catch them off guard.

  “The Inca,” said Pizarro, “says we ought to turn him loose.”

  He spoke slowly, weighing every word. His thin face was strengthened by a long, straight nose; a slow, patient man, immovable and remorseless as the Andes. Though born a swineherd, and for all his sixty years unable to write his own name, Francisco Pizarro commanded the respect of hidalgo and ruffian alike.

  “Turn him loose? Por dios! You’re crazy if you don’t kill him!”

  A short, one eyed man waddled forward a pace. Diego Almagro had spoken it all in a breath. Standing beside the handsome Ferdinand de Soto, Almagro seemed more toad than man. His broad shoulders and stocky legs made him appear shorter than he actually was. A twisted nose, somewhat the worse for having been broken and crudely set, combined with his one protruding eye to make him the ugliest man of the army.

  “Blood of God!” seconded several others. “Almagro’s right! The quicker you kill him, the sooner we can go to Cuzco.”

  Pizarro gravely stroked his beard. De Soto’s generous mouth hardened. Felipe’s eyes brightened. Thank God for Almagro!

  Finally de Soto found a lull. He said, “Don Francisco, the Inca has paid for his freedom. He has done us no harm, only favors. You can’t kill him, after accepting the biggest ransom ever offered by any king.”

  “Caballeros,” resumed Pizarro, “when reinforcements arrive from Panama, we can march to Cuzco. And safely release the Inca. Right now, we can’t risk it with our small army, going so far inland.”

  “Sangre de Cristo!” Almagro raised a warty fist. “You’ve hogged all the first loot, just because my men weren’t here when you blundered into Cajamalca to grab the Inca, mainly by fool luck! Listen, Don Francisco! I’ve got two hundred men—good ones, and more than you have. We’re marching to Cuzco, whether you do or not. How do you like that?”

  Pizarro’s face did not change, yet his presence abashed all but the volatile Almagro. “That is foolish, Diego. If we divide our force—even if we went together, through those dangerous mountain passes, the Indios could ambush us to the last man, and rescue the Inca.”

  “That’s why,” stormed Almagro, “you’ve got to kill him!” He turned to his own captains. “What do you say?”

  “Por dios, you have already said it, Don Diego!” Then Felipe’s smile faded. Ferdinand de Soto took the floor. Though not yet thirty, he was grave and lordly; even self-sufficient Pizarro respected the young lieutenant-general.

  “This is a crime you plan! Worse, it is needless. God gave us the right to capture a pagan king, but murdering him is something else. Now, listen to this, Caballeros y muy señores!

  “Huascar, the lawful ruler, is locked up in a fortress somewhat north of here. Atahuallpa is very much hated in some parts, being an usurper. Thus we can deal with Huascar, who is now the captive of a captive.”

  “What do you mean?” grumbled Almagro. “That’s a bun for a loaf!”

  De Soto’s slow smile made Almagro redden and stutter. “Don Diego, perhaps I can make this clear. If we liberate Huascar, he will pledge allegiance to the King of Spain. He will be bound to us by gratitude. Huascar will make things easy for us. Half of Peru hates Atahuallpa; all Peru will obey Huascar!”

  “Santiago!” Pizarro’s somber eyes gleamed. “Don Ferdinand, you have spared me an unpleasant necessity. How did you hit upon that idea?”

/>   De Soto gracefully declined his chief’s compliment. “It was simple enough, playing chess with the prisoner, to piece together enough casual remarks to learn where Huascar is kept under guard.”

  * * * *

  From that moment, Felipe hated the man whose rich garments he wore. Atahuallpa, though deposed, would go free with all his wives.

  He came forward, saying, “Don Francisco, there is more to this than Señor de Soto realizes. With all respect, he does not as well understand the Quichua language as a native would. Atahuallpa and the nobles who wait on him are plotting revolt. An army is gathering in Huamachuco, making the most of the sixty days you gave Atahuallpa to collect the ransom.”

  “Por dios, I told you!” Almagro cut in.

  “Name me the nobles who discussed this with the Inca,” de Soto demanded.

  Felipe met de Soto’s stern challenge, and readily: “My lord, even I do not pretend to know the names of all the Inca’s officers.” Then, to Pizarro, “When I hear more, I will report.”

  He was glad enough to be dismissed by his chief. Felipe did not like de Soto’s unspoken questions, and the suspicion that clouded his eyes.

  On his way from the officers’ conference, Felipe took heart. Almagro and the two hundred men who had not shared the initial loot would overwhelm de Soto’s pleas for the captive emperor…

  That night, Felipe slipped back to the cubicle where he and Oello had exchanged so many stolen kisses. Finally, when moonlight crept across the three cornered plaza, and reached in through the narrow window, he heard the soft tinkle of her anklets.

  Felipe caught her in his arms, and his kiss cut short her murmur of endearment. Then, suddenly, she broke from his embrace.

  “I shouldn’t have met you again. We can’t see each other anymore.”

  He laughed softly. “I’ve found a way to free you.”

  She sat bolt upright. “But—why—that’s impossible!”

  “It isn’t. They’re going to depose Atahuallpa, and put the Huascar on the throne. He’ll wear the sacred red borla, and so Atahuallpa won’t be Child of the Sun. It won’t be sacrilege if you leave him then!”

  That was plausible, particularly in these troubled times. Before the civil war which had reached its gory conclusion some months before Pizarro arrived, such logic would have been impossible; but now, many tribes did mutter against Atahuallpa, calling him an usurper. Moreover, if the Gods had not forsaken Atahuallpa, Pizarro could not have seized him. Oello wavered; being one of many wives, she had never until now known one man’s undivided love.

  Felipe, moreover, though not of the lordly Inca clan, was a friend of the conquering Spaniards who could lay violent hands on the Child of the Sun and yet not be blasted by divine vengeance.

  “But how can we stay in the clear till we’re out of reach of Atahuallpa?”

  Having made up her mind, she was practical.

  No Indian had ever dared form a plan like Felipe’s. He had learned from Pizarro’s daring and grim purpose. He said, “It’s easy. You can get clothing for me, so I can go as one of the Inca’s personal couriers. No one will dare question us.”

  “I’ll have all that by tomorrow night.” Oello’s voice trembled from the enormity of the venture. “Now I’d better go.”

  But Felipe detained her. He sensed that she would weaken. As he drew her toward him, he said, “No one’ll miss you tonight.”

  “No,” she said, trying to break from his embrace. “I’m afraid. I’ve been afraid, these last few days—” But she could not overcome his insistence…

  * * * *

  The moon patch had not quite shifted from Oello’s golden beauty when the lovers realized how sound her qualms had been. There was a sudden metallic sound, and a glare of torchlight from the low doorway. Had Oello’s Indian nerves retained their usual steadiness, all might have been well; but dismay brought a cry from her lips as she bounded to her feet, wrapping her vicuna mantle about her.

  Ferdinand de Soto and one of his soldiers blocked the way. He recognized Oello’s high rank; her jewels and the fine fabric that only an Inca was allowed to wear betrayed her.

  That one cry of dismay echoed down the dark hallway. Then de Soto said, “So this is how you learn Atahuallpa’s secrets? You misbegotten dog, a king is a king, even if he is a captive!”

  Felipe said, “All you fine lords have women of your own! I warned Pizarro of an insurrection. See if he condemns me!”

  Oello stood there, lovely and motionless. Her one cry was beyond recall. As de Soto groped for words, sandaled feet made soft, slapping sounds in the hall.

  Yupanqui, one of the Inca’s officers, had arrived on the run. Another dignitary was on his heels. When they were able to believe what they saw before them, Yupanqui said in broken Spanish, “Kill him. Kill her.”

  De Soto interposed. The unarmed officers, knowing him as the Inca’s friend and seeing his wrath, made no move to pass him. They bowed, then retired; but what they said in their own language made Felipe’s mouth tighten.

  De Soto said to his orderly, “Get Don Francisco’s orders at once.” Then, to Felipe: “Maybe you can save yourself by giving all the details of that revolt. When you came forward to contribute your bit to my plan, I smelled a native perfume on you, and I began to understand. No common woman uses such a scent.”

  Moments dragged. The guard came, and marched the two prisoners into the Inca’s reception room. There Atahuallpa sat, and Pizarro with him.

  The Inca’s eyes blazed from beneath the long red fringed borla that reached to his lashes. He was tall for his race, and somewhat swarthy. This was the first time within the memory of man that anyone had dared look at a woman of an Inca’s seraglio; yet his face was placid. Being a god in human form, he did not display emotion as men did.

  “You saw this, Don Ferdinand?” he calmly asked. When the indignant officer assented, the Inca turned to the nobles who knelt, barefooted, before the chair on the dais. “Yupanqui? Sinchi?”

  “We could not believe this thing,” they answered, “without seeing. We beg pardon for having seen.”

  Atahuallpa brushed aside the red fringe of his borla and turned to Pizarro. “They should both die.”

  “The interpreter,” Pizarro said, mustering up his command of Quichua, “is mine. The girl is yours to do with as you please.”

  “Sanctissima madre!” de Soto’s courtesy reached its limit. “You take that dog’s part? You deny the Inca his just vengeance?”

  “Felipe,” was the deliberate answer, “is my man.”

  The captive king understood enough to know that one of the lovers would escape him. He said to his officers, “Take her out, and do what is fitting.”

  Oello knew well what that meant: having offended the Sun, she would be buried alive, so that his rays could no longer bless her. Being one of the sacred Inca clan, her blood could not be shed. She cast one glance at Felipe: this was farewell, without any hope.

  The interpreter bounded forward. “Don Francisco!,” he demanded, “this woman is mine! She has become a Christian. I have converted her to your faith and mine. The Inca has no more claim on her!”

  He had said that in Spanish. He turned to Oello and demanded in Quichua, “Is that true? Haven’t you denied the Inca? Make this sign as I do—”

  Scarcely understanding, she imitated him as he crossed himself.

  Pizarro raised an imperative hand and said, “Father Valverde will be glad to hear of a new convert.”

  That settled the matter. When Felipe turned to face the Inca, Atahuallpa looked the other way.

  * * * *

  The following day, Felipe’s plans went all awry. True, he had saved Oello from the Inca’s vengeance. But Ferdinand de Soto had gone out with a picked troop to reconnoiter in the vicinity of Huamachuco and determine whether there was or was not a concentration of troops awaiting
the word to swoop down on Cajamalca to annihilate the Spaniards. Worse than that, a courier was on the way with a message from Atahuallpa to the officers who guarded Huascar; the captive was to be brought to Cajamalca so that Pizarro could judge between him and the usurping Inca.

  “Cristo del Grao!” Felipe sat hunched and frowning, studying it out. Oello watched him, sensing that this was no time for kisses. She did not know that he was thinking, “Almagro and Pizarro have snapped at the idea of putting Huascar on the throne and using him as a dummy. But de Soto will be back, saying there’s not a sign of revolt anywhere. Atahuallpa’s going to live through this.”

  Felipe was not afraid of any immediate peril. Yet he knew that, sooner or later, Atahuallpa’s loyal retainers would stealthily seek him and Oello; the officials who had seen the affront put on their lord would not rest until they reported the death of the offenders.

  To protect Oello and himself, Felipe had condemned Atahuallpa to death.

  But to execute that sentence was another matter. Finally he looked up and smiled. “We still have to leave. Being Christians will not save us from secret vengeance. Get the clothes we need.”

  Although she did not understand his plan, she realized her peril and his. “While you’re attending to your part,” she answered, “I’ll attend to mine. But I’m terribly afraid of horses.”

  He thrust out his chest. “I understand them. I rode de Soto’s, once.”

  That evening, Felipe went to Pizarro’s quarters and respectfully saluted him, “The holy saints alone know what Señor de Soto will learn about this revolt. It is possible that Atahuallpa will secretly send fast couriers to have the Inca soldiers leave Huamachuco, to deceive us.

  “But the worst is this—”

  Diego Almagro raised his ugly face from a flagon of wine and cut in, “Por dios, what could be worse? Sending de Soto away from here!”

  “Don Ferdinand,” Pizarro slowly said, “is usually well advised.”