Three Princes (17 page)

This she apparently understood at once, for the confusion on her face cleared. She nodded promptly. “This kind of bodyguard is good.” She beamed at them. “My uncle guards me against such demons.” She made it sound important, at least to her. “You are ready for your luggage, if these quarters are suitable?”

“Please,ma de moiselle,” Oken said.

She bowed gracefully, then sprang away as if dancing to the music of the engines. When the door closed behind her, the volume of the music dropped, becoming only a soothing murmur in the background.

“Definitely an improvement,” Mabruke said as he crossed over to the bed farthest from the entry and stretched out on it. “This does seem a most pleasant turn of events. I think I am going to enjoy this. As you said, a fine vacation, most diverting.”

“A working vacation,” Oken said. “I hope this is not too diverting.”

“Nonsense. This is an ideal development— Prince Viracocha will, quite literally, carry us over many of the initial obstacles to this assignment.”

“How is that? The Queen said it was a temple conspiracy, not in the government.”

“We just learned that flight is not allowed over the very temple complex that is most implicated in the Moon project, the Temple of the Moon in Lake Titikaka—the sacred lake. Do you really think the gods are afraid of spies?”

“None that I know of.”said.

“I have the feeling that Prince Viracocha may well be a most useful contact,” Mabruke said thoughtfully, gazing upward, almost speaking to himself. “In more ways than one.”

“Agreed,” Oken said. “This is, at the very least, a most pleasant way to travel.”

“Oh, more than that. I think it is likely this prince travels in the kind of circles where ladies wear orchids in their hair.”

“Fair warning,” Oken said, nodding approval. “By the way, the vanilla was a nice touch. What made you think of that?”

“The vanilla would have produced a telltale scent if there were anything in the choclatl besides cacao and vodka. I did research on that before we left.”

Oken nodded gravely, remembering Mabruke’s chagrin that he had been fooled by the drink in a Wild East bar. “Will you be more comfortable here?”

“Yes.”

Oken did not speak.

Then Mabruke raised himself up on one elbow, turning to look fully at Oken. “As I told you, I was sleeping poorly. I am better rested now.”

Oken considered this. He could see in Mabruke’s face that there was more to be said. “What is it?” he said quietly.

Mabruke looked up, distress clear in his eyes. “I am disappointed in myself. There is no question that—” His words stopped as though his mouth had suddenly gone dry. He licked his lips and closed his eyes, turning his face away from Oken. “I find as a result of my recent captivity that I experience an uncontrollable dismay in confined quarters. I have let my training address this as best I can, but fear rides upon Sobak’s crocodile tail I am the ape upon his back, and out of my depth.”

“You discovered this on board the Quetzal?”

“I would never have undertaken this journey if I had known!” He sighed heavily. “And now I face the journey home. I had thought it was the flight itself, which I had originally anticipated with such pleasure. Our stay at Wat’a Mona, however, convinced me that it was the size of the cabin on board the Quetzal.”

Oken turned on his heel slowly, taking in the measure of the cabin. “Is this space adequate?”

Mabruke nodded. “Indeed, and I find hope returning that I will, in fact, come to enjoy flight, perhaps even as much as I had originally imagined it.” He smiled, leaving Oken aware of the strain.

“Mixcomitl is the beast who can best Sobak, my friend,” Oken said to him. He stood, looking at Mabruke as he considered a plan. “Take a nap,” he said. “I’ll wake you for dinner.”

Oken went to speak to Viracocha.

“I GOT
used to walking the upper ring of the Quetzal on the flight here,” Oken said to the prince. “The best part of the journey, I thought. Just sky and ocean out to the horizon. I miss that.”

“I have just the thing,” Viracocha said at once. “Follow me.” Viracocha called to the captain, “The viewing platform, Hanaq Pacha! My friend and I are going up to the sky.”

Better than expected, Oken thought to himself.

The captain called out brisk orders to the cyclers, the Quechua syllables ringing with pride. Hanaq Pacha seemed to appreciate Oken’s enthusiasm for Mixcomitl. Viracocha stood, hands on his hips, looking up.

The sound of gears shifting in the complex mechanism of the ship’s engines was an eager growl of anticipation. Viracocha turned his head and nodded to Oken, then gestured skyward. A circular section of the hull overhead separated, descending in a gentle and controlled spiral that opened out into a bamboo stair. When it reached the deck, the section of the hull that formed the base of the spiral stair buzzed softly as clawed clamps unfolded, curving themselves downward into rings set in the rug.

Gears sang again as the overhead hatch irised open. The brilliant blue sky became visible at the top of the spiral stair, and the rush of wind was loud.

Oken was delighted. “Mik will want to see this when he wakes up.”

“What will I see when I wake up?” Mabruke said, emerging from the arched entry. The beaded curtain swirled around him with a tinkle like laughter.

“I’ve wanted to show you this since we left Madeira,” Oken said.

Mabruke joined them, craning his neck to look at the blue sky in the opening. “I heard the engines change pitch, and wondered if something was wrong.”

“Follow me,” Viracocha said as he stepped onto the spiral stair. The two men followed, looking at the sky.

The hatchway opened to a circular viewing platform on the forehead of the condor. A waist-high railing of woven bamboo strips was just locking into place, complete with safety lines hanging in coils on the uprights. The hatch irised closed once they were clear.

“You must anchor yourself to the platform,” Viracocha said, pointing to the coils of rope fastened to the railing posts around the platform. The rope was braided of fine leather, supple and strong. Viracocha demonstrated by taking the closest one from its hook and looping the belted end around his waist. The line was thicker and more densely woven than the others, the buckle shaped as a puma’s paw with claws extended.

Mabruke buckled his in place and tugged at the line, testing it.

The Quetzal had slowed enough that there was only a stiff breeze. The sky was clear blue, with a scattering of white clouds on either hand, dappled with sunlight like sheep grazing the sky. The horizon ahead of them rose steadily—jagged, raw mountain peaks capped with white. In the purple distance these were majestic, sleeping giants of transparent blue, shadowed in violet and crowned with ice, sacred beings from the beginning of the world.

“Mixcomitl,” Viracocha said proudly. “It means ‘Cloud Vessel.’ Here, we are one with the heavens.”

The view from this vantage, a third eye above the window-eyes, was far grander in impact than Oken had anticipated. His attention, however, was on his friend. Mabruke had, during the first seconds, clung tightly to the railing with both hands as he gazed around. Oken could see, however, that Mabruke was feeling the same changes within himself that Oken had experienced when he first saw such an expanse from such a height.

Viracocha was also focused on Mabruke. When Mabruke looked away from the sky and smiled happily at him, the prince said, “What do you think, my friend?” He spoke with casual volume, accustomed to shouting against the wind.

Mabruke glanced at Oken before answering, eyes sparkling. “Celestial!” he said to Viracocha.

Viracocha touched controls on one of the posts, and a farscope on a viewing stand unfolded from the hull, cleverly assembled from polished bamboo, rising to a comfortable viewing height.

Oken leaned over to the farscope, examining the mechanism that housed and presented the scope.

“It does improve the view,” Viracocha said.

Mixcomitl’s speed had settled to a slow drift at a lower altitude, making speech more comfortable and the view more entrancing and detailed. Oken surveyed the landscape passing below, terraced fields and shining lines of irrigation channels reflecting the sky. Cities in the larger valleys were laid out in orderly grid patterns, with cattle herds covering the high plateaus, it seemed, in their millions. Villages spread like spilled toy boxes along the narrow shores of rivers, and temples set on hilltops were sacred Andean glyphs set out for the sky to read. The great Andes Range, from this height, was a sea of stone, waves and swells of stone frozen in place, icy foam on their crests, holding green islands up close to the sky, to Inty, Father Sun. Oken could understand Viracocha’s easy confidence. Standing here on the brow of the golden condor, he himself felt like a king or a divine being, floating over the world.

After a time, Oken turned the farscope over to Mabruke. Oken watched him as he bent over the view piece, then relaxed. Immersion in the sky had overwhelmed the reptilian influence of Sobak. Mabruke was recovered. He was once again the eager traveler, thrilled by the journey itself.

Viracocha knew the name of every piece of the landscape below them, speaking as fondly as a man describing his many children and noble ancestors. He leaned his elbows on the railing, pointing from time to time to direct Oken or Mabruke to aim the farscope here or there, telling them stories of what they were seeing.

The Sun set in fiery splendor, rivaled by the wild display of stars as the sky darkened. The Milky Way grew as clear as diamond dust. The Moon rose, pouring silver light over the land below. Mabruke at last pulled his jacket tighter around himself and said to Viracocha. “I’m ready for dinner. What do you say?”

AS PROMISED,
the cuisine onboard Mixcomitl was superior even to the meals at Wat’a Mona Aerodrome. Viracocha was relaxed and jovial, and he spoke gently to Runa. She was the only one permitted to come to the table while the prince dined with his guests. The other servants, each painted to match Runa’s current design, prepared individual plates from dishes on wheeled carts, bowing to Runa as they held each one out for her to carry over to the table, first to the prince, then to Mabruke and to Oken. The other women, working over the steaming dishes on the carts, stood with their backs to the men. Their hair was worn loose, like the musicians, as a black cape spread over bare shoulders.

The musicians had withdrawn to meals in the crew quarters. Mixcomitl floated in serene quiet through the night air, enfolding them in their conversation, the clink of dinnerware, and Runa’s laughter as Mabruke teased and complimented her. He spoke with her as she served them, addressing her always as, “ma de moiselle,” which seemed to please her.

Oken noted over the course of the evening that Runa’s use of Trade changed subtly, becoming more fluid in use and less awkwardly composed. Her vocabulary expanded to include words used by the men in their conversation. Oken also noted the familiar authority with which she managed the women. They responded to her quick commands with practiced ease.

Near the end of the meal, Oken said to her, “Mademoiselle, do you enjoy being so high up in the sky? Do you enjoy flying?”

Runa nodded contentedly as she placed their emptied cups on her tray. “Yes, sir. I am quite at home here.”

Viracocha looked at her thoughtfully. “Are you, my child?” “Yes, Uncle.” Her smile was serene.

“Why is that, ma de moiselle?” Mabruke said.

She turned her serene smile to her uncle, then to Mabruke. “I feel so very safe up here, sir.” She hurried away then with the tray, put it on one of the carts, and sent the women off to the galley, following behind them.

Mabruke watched her leave, then turned back to the table. “You know,” he said to them, “I have to agree with the young woman.”

“DO YOU
trust our Prince Lucky?”

“How can we know in so short a time?” Mabruke said with a shrug. He sat down on his bed and took off his sandals. “I do intend, however, to make the most of our acquaintance while we can.” “The Mixcomitl speaks well of his taste, if nothing else,” Oken said.

“I am also impressed by his fondness for his niece.” “Runa’s name, however, does not speak well of her father.” “Runa is a lovely name. She’s a lovely woman.”

“A slave-princess. Her name in Quechua means ‘person.’ Her father is the Inheritor of an empire, yet his daughter is handed off as a servant.”

“This is the other side of the world. Perhaps being acknowledged as a person is more than the daughter of a slave would ordinarily have here.”

“Slavery,” Oken said quietly, almost under his breath. “She is a lovely woman,” Mabruke repeated firmly. “And she is fortunate to be in the care of her uncle rather than her father. We must leave it at that.”

“I shall remind myself of where I am.”

“And of who you are,” Mabruke said, his voice and eyes serious.

“Treat her as the princess she is, but never forget that a slave can work for two masters. Whatever the truth about duplicity to her father, she has his ear. What she tells him could be the death of us.” “Yes. A princess and a lady.”

“But shake out your boots if she cleans them for you.” Oken chuckled softly. Mabruke had said that so many times in class, a constant reminder that trust is treacherous in their line of work. “I won’t forget.”

Before turning out the lights in their cabin, Oken rechecked the lock on the entry door. A bell in their cabin chimed when it was unlocked, from either side, and a comfortably audible click sounded when it locked. Oken did not let himself fall asleep until he heard the gentle, relaxed sound of Mabruke snoring.

Good, Oken thought to himself. He fell asleep walking through sky-pastures, with golden condors and the golden puma of the Sun.

A MACAW
soared in through the birds’ entrance, announced itself with a loud call, then fluttered down to Hanaq Pacha, landing neatly on the backrest of the captain’s seat.

Hanaq Pacha listened intently to the bird’s rapid-fire delivery. Mixcomitl’s macaws turned to listen as well. The bird fell silent, bobbing his head, and held one foot out to stretch his claws open. He was holding the handle of a talking-knot as small as a cushion tassel. Hanaq Pacha took the talking-knot, bowed to the messenger, and strode over to Viracocha.

Viracocha sat forward in his seat as the captain approached. Hanaq Pacha bowed, showed him the talking-knot, then gave him a softly spoken translation of the avian patois. Viracocha read the talking-knot with a serious expression, seemed satisfied with it, and stood up from his lounge chair. Hanaq Pacha sprang back to the bridge. At his signal, the hara’wi changed, gradually slowing down. The pilots signaled the macaws, who took wing and soared up and out through their private exits.

The pilots then made a series of rapid changes in the multiple levers controlling the lines to the sails. Oken found the dance of their hands over the control panel entrancing because he could not comprehend the pattern. He had spent nights going over and over in memory a single moment of their workings, yet the pattern eluded him.

Hanaq Pacha spoke briefly to the messenger perched on the backrest as he returned the talking-knot. The messenger was gone in a flash of color.

Cloud wisps passing by the windows showed that Mixcomitl was slowing.

Viracocha remained standing. “A Mayan patrol Quetzal has requested my attention, gentlemen.”

“Is that something unusual?” Mabruke said.

“They patrol their forests regularly against tree-pirates. I have been of help from time to time. It is good for border relations, and we, too, must protect our trees.”

“Especially the ones with money growing on them,” Mabruke said.

Viracochaliked that. . “Especially those.”

Oken settled himself into focused attention, scanning the view outside with slow deliberation, marking the way the pilots so intently watched the birds in flight before them. Seen from high above, the forests were a sea of green to the far horizon, unbroken save by the gleam of wide, sluggish rivers looping through.

“If I could have your indulgence, gentlemen,” Viracocha said. “I would prefer that the Mayan crew remain unaware of your presence.”

Oken and Mabruke rose from the lounge chairs. “Quite understandable,” Mabruke said. “We will withdraw at once.”

“If you simply stand to either side of the windows, you can see and hear, yet remain unnoticed. You may find this exchange interesting, perhaps even amusing.”

Oken and Mabruke strolled over to the assigned spots. The pilots ignored them, intent on the view outside.

The Mayan Quetzal emerged just below and to their starboard, trailing cloud wisps. He was close to invisible until he had risen fully clear of the cloud bank. Oken immediately thought of Zaydane and his disappearing tents. The Quetzal was painted to look like a bit of cloud himself, difficult to see directly despite his remarkably complex sails, themselves of a mirrored fabric that reflected the sky. The out-flying navigation birds had settled in cubbies along the underside of the aeroship, and Oken could not discern the breed.

The macaws returned, settling onto their perches and craning their necks to see the albatrosses loop around to return to their own entrances in Mixcomitl’s hull.

“Won’t their bird tell the Mayans that we’re onboard?” Oken said to the prince.

Viracocha replied without turning his gaze from the approaching vessel. “We must take that chance. He had a message, and may not have noticed you. I have many servants on board.”

Mabruke flashed Oken a knowing smile.

Mixcomitl drifted slowly toward the cloudlike Quetzal, while it rose steadily to match their altitude. Oken could discern finally that the aeroship in its nets was dolphin-shaped, with lines of nozzles where a dolphin would show teeth in his smile.

Prince Viracocha folded his arms across his chest, standing at ease as he watched the Mayan vessel maneuver until they floated at rest a mere hundred cubits or less apart, nose to nose with Mixcomitl, as if these two were also engaged in some private, animal form of communication.

“Any closer and we risk tangling lines,” Viracocha said quietly. “You should be able to see them well enough, however.”

“Yes,” Mabruke said.

Oken saw that his friend was devouring the Mayan Quetzal with his eyes, his dark face alight with a child’s delight at a brand-new toy. At this close range, the captain and pilots were visible in the bridge windows. They stood looking back at Viracocha with equal intensity. Their outfits were alike enough to be uniforms, although the captain had a headdress of feathers, as well as jade bands on his wrists and forearms. The captain’s tattoos were less flamboyant than Hanaq Pacha’s.

“What is he named, this one?” Oken said quietly to Viracocha. “The Quetzal.”

“In Trade he is named Snatcher.”

“How do they stop the tree-pirates when they snatch them?”

“Fire.”

They watched in silence as the messenger macaw flew toward them from Snatcher. The bird emerged onto the bridge, returning to his perch on the captain’s seat. His message to Hanaq Pacha was more involved this time, including a number of sudden head rolls.

Apparently Viracocha also understood the bird’s message. He gave clipped orders in Quechua. Hanaq Pacha spoke to the messenger, who then flung himself into the air, soared up to the exit, and was gone. They watched him return to Snatcher, emerge onto the bridge, and flutter down to the captain, who listened closely, then looked directly out at Viracocha. He signaled with both fists touching the eye on his forehead; then he returned to his command seat.

Viracocha unfolded his arms and strolled back to the lounge.

Oken watched as Snatcher returned to his pirate hunt, melting down into the clouds.

“Most interesting!” Mabruke said. “Most interesting, indeed.”

“The captain lost his prey in the cloud cover,” Viracocha said. “He wanted to know if we had seen them. We may see them yet. I have told Hanaq Pacha to take us farther from the Mayan borderlands. I do not care to deal with pirates on this trip.”

“Do they catch many pirates?” Oken said, settling back into his chair. He picked up his choclatl cup and sipped at it.

“More every year. The market for Mayan wood grows faster than the trees.”

“Tawantinsuyu is smart to grow money on their trees instead of selling them as lumber,” Mabruke said amiably.

Viracocha saluted Mabruke with his choclatl cup.

OKEN AWOKE
to the surging throb of Mixcomitl’s engines running at a burst of full speed. He sat up and saw Mabruke sitting on the edge of his bed, robe and slippers on. He was freshly shaved, his makeup in place.

“Good morning,” Mabruke said pleasantly. “That was only a change in the engines.”

“Actually, it was the music.” Oken stretched luxuriously, then reached for his robe and pulled it on. “It got louder. You are up and dressed early.”

“I promised myself that today I would watch the Sun as he clears the horizon from this vantage point. I have been awake for some time.”

“HOY, GENTLEMEN!”
Viracocha was standing behind the captain’s seat, arms folded over his chest. His suit was moss green, with a simple geometric embroidered in gold thread. The pattern gleamed in the morning sunshine, emphasizing his superb physique even more than the impeccable fit. He did not change his stance, looking out at the skies ahead as he spoke. “Runa will bring your breakfast if you wish.”

Oken went over to stand beside the prince. “Quite a view, isn’t it? I never get tired of it myself.”

Oken noticed then that a panel in the hull between the nose windows had been pulled aside, revealing what had seemed, at first glance, to be another window. The view, however, was different. The clouds were thicker and something oddly angular moved among them. Oken realized all at once what he was seeing. “Is thatSnatcher following us?” he said to Viracocha.

“No. The birds say he will not name himself.”

“Is that unusual?” Oken said.

“This is Mixcomitl. Everyone talks to Mixcomitl. We can lie to each other—birds cannot.”

“Pirates?”

“Pirates paint themselves to be invisible among the treetops. Border patrols are the only fleet allowed to use sky paint. A patrol ship would have identified himself to Mixcomitl at once. A Mayan patrol ship would never follow me this far into Tawantinsuyu territory.”

Mabruke had come over to join them. He stood listening, looking more at their faces than at the mirror-view.

The macaw to Hanaq Pacha’s left rolled his head around and looked at the captain from this upside-down view, then muttered at him. He straightened with a shake of his feathers, ruffling his neck up and smoothing it down.

Hanaq Pacha turned and spoke in rapid Quechua to the prince.

Viracocha’s brow drew down in consternation. “That is curious.” He put his hands on his hips, tilting his head as he looked at the mirror. “Senga has just asked why the Quetzal behind us stinks like a swamp-brew.”

Mabruke gave a terrible start and put his hand on Viracocha’s shoulder, leaning close to his face. The restrained calm as he spoke was more alarming than his words. “Tell the captain to get Mixcomitl as far away from that Quetzal as he can—quickly! Quickly! We may already be too late!”

The urgency in Mabruke’s command was clear.

Viracocha responded at once, barking out an order. Hanaq Pacha whistled sharply, clapped his hands, then waved them upward. The macaws disappeared in a flash of color, reappearing outside in swift flight toward the albatrosses ahead.

The musicians changed the hara’wi to a fierce and driving beat, and the cyclers leaned into their task. The whirr of the gears growled and rose in a song of power. The pilots’ hands were a near-blur on the controls, resetting the sails.

“Can Mixcomitl outrun alchemy?” Mabruke said. He was nearly shouting. “Our lives are the prize for winning or losing this race!”

“When I inherited him, my great-uncle told me that Mixcomitl could outrun anything but lightning and hate— and I have doubled his speed since then.”

The macaws returned, fluttering down to their perches. They shifted their feet from side to side, clicking their beaks at the captain. He gave orders to the pilots, and a moment later, they could feel Mixcomitl bank to starboard.

Mabruke was watching the rearview mirror as intently as Viracocha. After long minutes had passed and the image continued to fade into the clouds, more difficult to discern, he said, “How far behind would you estimate him to be?”

Viracocha repeated the question to Hanaq Pacha in Quechua. The captain answered with calm certainty.

“A quarter-league, and falling behind.”

“Then likely we are safe,” Mabruke said. “At this range, wind dispersal would make them as vulnerable as we.”

Even Hanaq Pacha looked at Mabruke, curious.

“Kaebshon,” Mabruke said matter-of-factly, expecting this to explain.

“Farts?” Oken translated the Egyptian. “You mean methane?”

Mabruke nodded. “Thank you. Just at that moment I could not recall the Trade term.”

Viracocha did not look amused.

“Explaining will take some talking,” Mabruke said to the prince. “When it’s quieter.”

Viracocha shook his head. He gave lengthy instructions to Hanaq Pacha, then gestured for Mabruke and Oken to follow him. He led them to the spiral stair opposite their guest quarters. The entry was covered with a curtain of faceted crystal beads on golden chains. Viracocha held this aside for them, letting them enter ahead of him.

The parlor was big, fitted comfortably for conversation and bright with morning sunshine from a pair of large portholes. “Make yourselves comfortable, gentlemen.” Viracocha strode past them to a desk between the windows. He pulled a series of small levers set in the bamboo trim above the desk, and a door of solid bamboo panels slid across the entry, immediately cutting the sound from the bridge.

Oken let Mabruke settle first, on a lounge chair similar to the ones below. Viracocha’s chair was larger, more sturdily built, and embossed with the imperial seal of Tawantinsuyu.

Oken chose a seat that let him see both men’s faces, Mabruke and Viracocha.

“Explain,” Viracocha said as he sat down. “How did you recognize that Quetzal, and what is methane?”

“I did not recognize the Quetzal,” Mabruke said.

“Then how did you know they were a threat?”

“The bird said he smelled like a swamp-brew. You said the Mayan patrols fight with fire. That could only have been methane, which is produced in vats called ‘swamp-brew.’ ”

Oken heard the professor in Mabruke’s voice. He settled back to watch.

Viracocha said nothing, waiting for more.

“Ah,” Mabruke said thoughtfully. “Let me retrace my thoughts for you. The patrol fights pirates with fire, is that correct?”

The prince nodded.

“Do Mayans power their Quetzals with methane?”

“No. I don’t know. I have never heard of methane. Quetzals fly with Tlaocene.”

“Indeed,” Mabruke said. He sat forward. “Methane is related to Tlaocene, which is named ‘hydrogen’ in Trade. Methane, however, is far more volatile.”

“Tlalocene will explode if not treated with proper respect,” Viracocha said.

Oken was amused to see these two transform so completely into happy teacher and eager student. He was getting an interesting impression of this foreign prince.

“Indeed, but Tlalocene honors your respect more resolutely than methane,” Mabruke said.

“You are saying that the patrol uses methane to destroy pirate Quetzals?” the prince said.

“There is only one reason a Quetzal would reek of methane at this altitude. It is the source of their fire-attack.”

“A patrol Quetzal would also stink of methane.”

“If they were preparing to attack, yes. Methane is too volatile in storage. They would generate it as needed in the same fashion that Tlalocene is produced for flotation, but only during the final stage of preparing that fire for attack—swamp- brew.”