The helmsmen, for their parts, controlled the arrays of fanfold sails placed around the ring with the lever-system before them, making constant but slight adjustments back and forth across the board according to the positions of each albatross in the grid. During most of the flight, the great expanse of sails was folded close. Even though their gazes remained fixed on the birds, the pilots chattered rapidly back and forth in their native tongue.
Watching the teamwork and coordination required to fly the Quetzal was endless fascination for Oken. Here he found one of the rare instances in his life in which a perfect memory was little help to understanding. The subtleties of wing and sail would not unravel into any sense or structure he could grasp. They hardly needed their strict security measures to keep the secrets of the Quetzals. The single concept he was able to unravel with any surety was that each lever controlled a single hemp line. Lifetimes were needed to encompass this incomprehensible performance.
The change in the music announced the shift change. Space in the bridge was limited, so the shift change was done as a lively, ritualized dance. Oken had learned he could only get in the way. The captain helped him into the harness that held him safe as he climbed the rope steps back up to the catwalk. After unbuckling the harness and steadying himself on the railing, he worked his way back to the aft and the ladder down the tail of the aeroship. Before descending inside, he stood watching sunset over the distant horizon. Eve ning and starlight appeared with startling swiftness. The stars were lost as the ship’s lights flickered on, outlining the ring, the ship, and the masts with a bright, blue glow. Oken climbed down the bamboo rungs to the passengers section, welcomed by the spicy fragrance of yet another exotic dinner.
“I FIND
it curious that the crew allow you such freedom of the ship’s works when their entire nation guards those very secrets with laws and treaties.”
Oken shrugged. “They think me to be something of a buffoon, playing with the birds and spending my time fascinated by watching the cyclers at their work. I am hardly dangerous. I believe, though, that the truth is in something that the captain said in a casual moment. He commented that the heart of their technology was not gears and wings, but rather the substance of the ship’s frame, the alloys of the engines that compress air to run the jets, the fabric of the sails. I have also witnessed the interaction of the helmsmen and their avian navigators. The training of those birds seems considerably advanced upon the teaching of Thoth’s beast -men in Memphis.”
“That does explain a great deal, I suppose.” Mabruke did sound strangely relieved. “Earlier descriptions seemed rather lacking in credulity as being adequate to keep this contraption in the air.”
Oken feigned dismay and clasped his hand over his heart. “You wound me! Viracocha is hardly a contraption! He’s the flagship of the Atlantic fleet.”
Mabruke laughed gently at the shared jest. “I think you have discovered the navigation we will use once we reach the mainland of Tawantinsuyu.”
“A little bird will tell us?” Oken was smiling.
“I shall be keeping a sharp eye and nose for evidence of their materials technology.”
“More fun than sniffing out orchids.”
Mabruke nodded, regarding the younger man with gentle surprise. “You did well,” he said finally. “Even Brugsch had little to say about the configuration of a Quetzal’s bridge compared to what you have described. I think Dzoser George and the Queen will be enthralled by your report.”
Oken gave a slight bow in return. “This does make their Moon scheme more believable, although getting an albatross to lead them to the Moon . . .” He shrugged. “I want to meet the Cloud Talker who can talk sense to that bird!”
OKEN STOOD
close to the main window at the observation dome on the roof of the island aerodrome, watching twilight fall across the brilliant tropical greens of the island below, and the deep blue of the Atlantic around them. The station was built in the style of native temples of the Sun and of the Moon, a pyramid with a broad staircase leading down the middle of each face. The steps ended in the dense green sea of treetops surrounding the station, flowing, uninterrupted, to the stony beach where ocean waves prowled. Just visible overhead, three Quetzals floated serenely at their moorings, glowing blue along the ring and masts.
The lights in the room came slowly on and Oken’s reflection emerged on the glass, backed by the sudden night and the stars. He could also see the reflections of their fellow passengers seated in the lounge chairs, sipping hot chocolatl from painted ceramic cups.
The observation lounge was too public for any conversation beyond a polite and neutral exchange. Mabruke was relaxing on a chair facing the windows, immersed in one of the many travel brochures set out appealingly on the side tables. Their eyes met in the reflection, and Oken turned, walking back to him. He stretched out his long legs, crossed his ankles, and stared at his boot tips.
“It is the hour for serving wine downstairs,” Mabruke said quietly. “Shall we?”
Oken stood up by way of answer.
Mabruke picked up a pair of brochures he had set aside, slipping them into an inner jacket pocket as he stood.
Oken followed Mabruke down the stairway into the interior of the station building and the dining room for the embassy guest quarters. He noted, as they turned the corner of the first landing, that the other passengers were following them. He was amused. During the voyage, curiosity about the professor-prince who refused to leave his stateroom had rippled through the passengers on the swift wings of rumor, disguised by concerned remarks about the gentleman’s change in appetite as Oken returned the dinner tray, or offers to lend this or that book, “for the good prince to pass the hours in flight more amiably.” None of the books, however, contained messages in green wax. Mabruke was as disappointed as Oken; however, they both read the books. Each was returned with suitable inscriptions regarding the gentlemen’s enjoyment of the text, yet without a glimpse of the prince himself.
The aerodrome’s dining room was furnished with pieces built of the same rock as the building itself. Paintings in vivid colors covered every surface with mad contortions of human, plant, and animal shapes linked together by crimson flames, beautifully unfurling and writhing around them. Cushions of polished cloth, scattered in comfortable piles for guests to choose from, were of simple, solid colors in contrast to the intricate art. Egyptian lanterns hanging down in rows from the corbeled ceiling shed a soft yellow glow, warmer than candles.
Plump brown lads filled cups with a hot wine poured from ceramic bottles shaped like crouching monkeys and bats. They passed the cups around with encouraging smiles as the guests settled down on the benches. The other guests were rich businessmen and their wives, exporters on purchasing runs and embassy officials returning from family visits in Egypt. Their tables were part of the walls, with stone benches covered by beautiful rugs and cushions. The chatter was lively, covering furtive glances at Oken and Mabruke.
Oken himself was a prince of Britannia, fourth from the throne. He had earned the rank of Lord in the Egyptian court through acts of gallantry for the Queen. He counted that the more valuable title. As a prince of Nubia, Mabruke outranked almost every European or Egyptian he might encounter on this side of the Atlantic, except perhaps the ambassadors themselves. Nubia, “the Land of Gold,” had been Egypt’s closest neighbor long before the days of Caesar. Nubian blood coursed through the veins of Caesar’s children as hotly as Caesar’s own. Oken might sit closer to the throne of his own father’s spate in Mercia, but Nubia sat closer to Egypt’s heart.
As “Captain-Prince Mabruke,” master of the PSI Guild, he outranked even the ambassadors—but only when it was worth risking his cover.
Oken sipped at the hot wine. He was growing accustomed to the peppery burn that sang through the New World cuisine. He thought it struck a particularly eloquent harmony with the wine, although he could not identify a single flavor. The mystery delighted him.
He was about to speak of that, but stopped himself. Mabruke had spread the brochures out on the table between them. “Scott,” he said, tapping the one closest to Oken, “I have discovered these to be the most friendly little items. They list the best hotels in the country, the embassies, and the Quetzal stations. It has a map, see?” He was speaking with relaxed calm, a casual remark to a friend. “I feel certain that we can find a destination to suit our fancy.”
Oken picked them up one by one, reviewing each as though deeply interested, slowly tilting his head this way and that as he scanned the pages. Red and black line drawings and terse text in Trade hinted at exotic foods, wines, and women in dramatic and bizarre landscapes, unlike anywhere else on Earth. These hints were sparingly phrased, so that much could be read into them. Across the top of each brochure was printed: Please do not remove from the Wat’a Mona Aerodrome, thank you, courtesy of the management.
They marked out the main attractions and locations that, for his and Mabruke’s purposes, were best avoided. Also listed were the names and titles of the most recently appointed Egyptian officials, butlers, protocol officers, and musicians among embassy and hotel staffs. Maps and native hieroglyphs for cities and embassy compounds were printed in red, as though meant to be vague. Trade names in black overwhelmed them.
“Here is a particularly friendly warning,” Oken said, smiling at Mabruke. He leaned forward over the table and read aloud: “ ‘The Europe an traveler will quickly discover that their accommodations, wherever they may be, will be situated much like the facilities here at Wat’a Mona Aerodrome. This is to say, quarters, as well as furnishings therein, are constructed of stone of one kind or another, making practical the swift removal of mold or fungal growths, which remain a constant nuisance in this moist and vibrant landscape. It is good practice to report to staff the slightest hint of mold.’ ”
“Friendly advice, indeed,” Mabruke said. He tilted his head, eyes unfocused in thought, and took a long swallow of his wine. He tapped the tip of his nose. “I wonder if an anti- fungal and mold— formula might do well in the market here?” He looked pleased with the idea. “I might design one.” He tapped his nose again.
Oken agreed and went back to scanning the brochure, focusing on the maps. He put them aside when the steward brought in the first course of the eve ning meal: bowls with orange cubes of fruit heaped atop a thick, creamy custard. Cocoa powders were sprinkled over. This was served along with refills of the hot, spicy wine.
There was a course of small potatoes of different colors served in hot broth and seasoned with chopped green herbs and red peppers. After this came roast fowl covered with a rich chocolate sauce, stuffed with peanuts, peppers, and round, white edible pearls. The birds were small, no bigger than squab, with a wild and tender taste. When one roast was consumed, another was quickly served up in its place. Mabruke ate three, one after the other, with calm deliberation. Oken was more interested in lingering over the sauce.
The pleasant murmur of conversation grew stronger as people relaxed, exclaiming over the dishes, the delicacy of the spices, the novelty of the seasonings. “Better than in-flight meals,” was heard going around the group. “Nice to have fresh fruit again.”
Oken and Mabruke ate in silence. Oken let his gaze drift around the room, storing up memories of the vivid, enigmatic artwork on the walls.
ONCE THEY
had settled into their suite, Mabruke pulled out the brochures and spread them on the bed. “We are currently off the northeast coast of the southern continent,” he said, unfolding the map. “Our ultimate destination is Qusqo, so let us find a suitable meander, a leisurely pathway for two carefree gentlemen tasting the sights and sounds of this wild place.”
Oken stretched his lean self out on his bed. He folded his hands under his head and closed his eyes, calling up in memory the pages of the brochure Mabruke was reviewing. “ ‘Qusqo, the center of the Cosmos and the source of all creation,’ ” he recited from it, then interrupted himself. “I always thought that was Memphis.”
“It is,” Mabruke said absently, examining the fine lines of the map.
“Ah, of course. All faiths are true.”
“We are on the far side of the world. Tawantinsuyu and Egypt are civilizations growing up behind each other’s back. Qusqo may well be the center here.”
“Then we shall treat it as such,” Oken said agreeably.
“Tomorrow, you and I will board an Egyptian-owned ship, Moss Rose,” Mabruke said, “for a pleasant sail across the Carib Sea to the northern coast of Tawantinsuyu. From there we shall eventually catch a Quetzal to Qusqo directly.”
“Eventually,” Oken echoed. “Perhaps by then you will be rested enough to enjoy the flight.”
“Oh, I am quite prepared for that. I told you it was lack of sleep.”
“Good.”
Before setting out from Memphis on this mission, the Queen had shown Oken a second book about their destination, a who’s who of the imperial courts of Tawantinsuyu and Maya Land. A great many of the royal descendants, especially in the recent generations, had the same names as their ancestors, separated only by numbers, as in Quyllur Misi III and IV, or Wankakanka XII and XXI, Viracocha Inca Yupanqui XII, Inca of Tawantinsuyu, and to Satiltzoj II, President of Maya Land.
The two most important names after the aging Emperor Inca Viracocha Yupanqui XII himself were the Inheritor and next in line, Pachacuti Yupanqui IV and his brother, Viracocha XIII, the only surviving adult princes. The only princess, Usqhullu, was very popular. She had been widowed at a young age, and spent her time traveling around her father’s empire, indulging in the “de cadence” of Egyptian embassies and European trade centers. Usqhullu was older than Oken, but not by much, and he was learning to appreciate women with some experience in life—their conversation made the time pass so pleasantly.
With that happy thought as inspiration, he compared pages in his memory with the active list from the brochures. There was much to be learned.
THE PSS
Moss Rose was a medium- size cruise ship, with more spacious accommodations than the Quetzal, yet Oken felt strangely constricted. He missed the sky. The crew were mostly Portuguese, and under orders not to talk to the passengers. “This ship is a little piece of Egypt in a strange land,” the captain had said as he ushered them on board. “You will find my crew are well disciplined.” Oken rather suspected that everyone was showing off for the visiting noblemen. Mabruke took it with his usual grace. He was often to be found at the fore of the ship, leaning on the rail, coattails flapping around him, gazing in solemn contemplation at the new continent appearing before them. Oken preferred the view from the comfort of the observation deck, out of the wind.
Late on the last night before the scheduled docking, Mabruke spoke up a few minutes after Oken had put out the lamp over his bunk. “Your breathing tells me that you are also still awake. A favor, then, would you? Read back to me from the brochure on the embassy at Zulia. Something nags at me, suggesting I have forgotten an important detail.”
Oken was also feeling the restlessness of the limited activity on shipboard. He rolled over to face Mabruke in his bunk. The images flashed across his mind’s eye clearly enough to be seen in the dark. He resettled the blanket over his shoulders. Once comfortable, he began to recite: “ ‘Situated at the northernmost tip of the southern continent, the Egyptian embassy complex in the district of Zulia is the first landing on many travelers’ tour of the Empire.’ ” He stopped himself as a thought struck him. “Mik, does that mean we draw less attention by going there first?”
“That was the plan.”
“Was that the missing detail?”
Mabruke considered . “No.”
Oken continued, “ ‘The traveler’s first sight upon docking is the imposing stone architecture of the Port Authority building, where officials of the Egyptian embassy are available to provide guidance for further travels within the Tawantinsuyu Empire and Maya Land. From there, our well-trained staff will transport you and your luggage along the statue-lined thoroughfare to the Gate of Isis, and into the lobby of the embassy hotel. Along the way, the traveler is treated to magnificently ornamented murals on every surface, relief sculptures of the native builders at work, showing how they lifted the forty-two columns of the façade into place, as well as the pair of obelisks facing the ocean. Each workman’s image is an actual portrait. The earnings these workers brought to their families, villages, and temples were the foundation of the trading port city in the more hospitable region just south of the embassy—Coro, known to the locals as “Sky City.’ ”
Oken heard the breathy sound of Mabruke’s light snoring. He turned on his side and waited for sleep, walking the Quetzal’s catwalk in his mind.
SLEEP WOULD
not visit him, however. As the air began to lighten, he drifted into the half sleep of deep relaxation, and almost missed the sound of the lock mechanism clicking. The captain did, indeed, run a tight ship. No one would have dared to enter their cabin without knocking and speaking first. Instinct and training acted for Oken. He leaped off the bed, springing silently across the cabin to stand behind the door. The attacker stealthily opened the door and took one step inside, leaning forward. His arm was raised. In the light from the corridor, Oken saw the glint of a blade poised to throw.
Oken slammed the door hard against the would-be assassin, hitting him squarely in the face. Oken heard the blade clatter to the deck as the man staggered back.
“Mik!” Oken called loudly as he yanked open the door.
This was no crewman. He was a native from the deep rain forest, wearing only red ochre paint and a smear of black across his eyes. He was lunging for the dropped dagger.