LORD OKEN
used a farscope borrowed from Zaydane to observe Bismarck’s rocket base in its little valley. The familiar black pall of soot covering the buildings and grounds seemed doubly ominous in the hard sunlight, layered with memories of pain and dismay. It was too easy to remember the way they had been marched from there to Quillabamba, and the nightmare boat ride after—a nightmare that had gone on for days.
Sunshine on his back was a pleasant sensation, and he made himself focus on that.
Viracocha’s warriors were slowly creeping toward the walls of the compound, shielded by pine trees and the scrubby bushes. Oken was impressed by their grace and stealth. Without knowing they were there, he might have overlooked them.
Mabruke and Zaydane were watching silently. Oken saw the captain’s signal. He returned the farscope to Zaydane and motioned for them to follow him.
They reached the front gate of the compound and found it standing open, a black silence hanging heavily over the courtyard and the gantry. Zaydane, Mabruke, and Oken followed closely as Viracocha’s warriors went in.
Empty.
“Not unexpected,” Zaydane said. “Let’s see what they left behind.”
The command room was as they had last seen it, the deadly red circle around Memphis on the wall map as alarming now as when first seen. There were the black leather chairs with hard arms, heavy and solid as stone, and cushions that never offered comfort. The low ceiling was oppressive, the light harsh. Dishes from a last meal were left on the table, the brown bottles of beer unfinished. The three men spread around the room, taking in the details. Captain Wayta and his men stood by the outer entrance, awaiting further orders.
Mabruke picked up one of the beer bottles and sniffed at the contents. “Yesterday, I would say.”
Zaydane stood in front of the map, considering that red circle. “We should take this with us. It’s not much, but it is persuasive.”
“Stay positive,” Mabruke said to him. “This is bound to be Bismarck’s undoing, one way or the other.”
“Madam does not tolerate failure,” Oken said.
“We stopped this project,” Mabruke said cheerfully. “I will not ask for more than that.”
“I will,” Oken said. “I have a personal score to settle.”
“I’m the one with the scars!” Mabruke said.
“I’m the one who has to look at them.” Oken went to the door that he knew would lead to the stairs down to the workroom.
Mabruke did not reply. He hurried to Oken’s side, sniffing audibly, and put an arm out to stop him from going down those stairs. He shook his head then with a seriously unhappy look. “Out. Everybody out. Now.” However calmly he spoke, there was no questioning the command in his voice. He slammed the door shut with abrupt finality. Zaydane gestured to Captain Wayta to round up his men.
“Now! Quickly!” Mabruke said more urgently, sprinting ahead of them through the coatroom, and out the main door.
Zaydane stopped in the courtyard to speak. Mabruke waved him silent, leading them out the front gate. They had barely cleared the steel line of the gate, when an explosion behind them knocked them off their feet, flinging them into the pine trees. Clouds of black dust surged around and into the sky. Oken managed to protect his face with his gloved hands, but spiky branches scraped across his skull. When he sat up, coughing at the dust and shaking his head to clear the buzzing, drops of blood splattered around him.
“Mik!” he shouted, pulling himself to his feet.
Many had landed tangled together. Those closest to the gate were unconscious. Everyone was covered with a layer of soot. Mabruke was helping Zaydane to stand. Wayta sat up, shouting to his men. One by one, they called in response, coughing and wiping their eyes.
Oken went over to his friend, and Mabruke anticipated the question on Oken’s face. “I smelled the fuse burning,” he said. “It ignited when you opened that door.” Then he frowned at Oken. “You’re as black as me!” He shook his head. “And you’re bleeding.”
Oken put his hand up, gingerly feeling the damage. “A scratch. Are you hurt?”
Mabruke said no.
Oken turned to Zaydane. “And you, sir?”
“Unharmed, thanks to Mik and his marvelous nose.”
Mabruke tapped the mentioned organ with a fingertip, and the two men grinned at each other.
They heard then the crackle of flames from within the compound, and Mabruke said loudly, “We can’t let the evidence in that place burn!” He called to Captain Wayta, who was helping one of his men to his feet. “We have to stop those fires!”
The captain nodded, and gave orders to his men. Those able to move ran back into the compound. The building front was destroyed, blocks tumbled. The explosion had been centered beneath the main room, which was gone, everything flung to the sides. The map wall was shattered. Steel cabinets from the workroom below had been blown upward, and lay among the ruins, their contents spilled. Papers were drifting about, some smoldering. Ledger books with green covers were scattered everywhere. The men leaped to these in one motion.
“Wayta!” Mabruke shouted. “Papers—everything—we need this evidence!” As he spoke, he was tying a kerchief around his head to cover his mouth and nose against the soot and smoke. Oken and Zaydane did the same.
Captain Wayta gave orders for his men spread around the ruins, collecting papers and books as they went, beating out flames with their shields.
Oken began stamping out flames with his booted feet, trying to see as many of the crisping pages as possible, for later review. Then, in the midst of the fire, a familiar shape grabbed his attention—a leather scroll-case. He reached down through the flames to snatch it out, beating it against his sleeve. The seal on the outside was scorched but unmistakable, the arms of the Habsburg House of Oesterreich, Albert and Victoria’s seal. The rest of the pages before him were forgotten as he opened that case, praying to Sashetah that the scroll inside was unharmed.
In the back of his mind, he wondered if that iron-hard man, Bismarck, had felt the same thrill at a message from his Queen that Oken had felt in Novgorod. It was an unsettling thought. It was, at least, a fair thought. Then he scoffed at himself. If Bismarck had felt anything close to Oken’s emotion, he would never have left that precious scroll behind.
The wax seal was melted, but the scroll was safe. He unrolled it carefully, feeling a peculiar excitement. He recognized at once the ornamental border on the page from Victoria’s palace. Victoria’s signature, alas, was the only legible word on the page. The rebel princess was noted for her inscrutable hand.
With an internal curse, he took the scroll over to Mabruke, who was gathering ledger books with the happy intensity of a child at a holiday egg hunt. “Look at this,” Oken said tersely.
Mabruke leaned over his armful of ledgers to look at the page. His face brightened. He called to Zaydane. “He’s more familiar with her hand.”
Zaydane took the scroll with a solemn look, and stood squinting at the handwriting for so long that Oken wanted to shout, then realized he was holding his breath.
“We’ve got him.” Zaydane spoke so quietly and evenly that it rang louder than a shout.
He read from the letter, “ ‘Your blitzkrieg on Memphis cannot happen too soon. I want to hear the explosions here in Vienna.’ ”
“Weapons violations,” Mabruke said, an eager tenseness edging his words. “Bismarck can be legally arrested.”
“That’s a prize the Pharaoh will thank us for,” Oken said. Bruises, blood, and blackened faces were forgotten. Here was a victory sweeter and more immediate than the Moon.
MAMA KUSAY’S
generously filled backpacks were among the missing. Wayta said that was good news. “The leather bears the imperial mark— recognized everywhere. That mark will be reported to the temple.”
Zaydane laughed out loud at this. “So we will track Bismarck by the crumbs from Mama Kusay’s kitchen!”
Wayta and his warriors remained at the compound, putting out fires and retrieving any and everything retrievable. Oken, Mabruke and Zaydane returned to the manor, walking along that too familiar path beaten into the mountainside. Oken saved his questions for later. Mabruke and Zaydane were engaged in an intense, tersely worded discussion about coordinating protocol procedures between the Atlas, Memphis, and Interpol security agencies in the arrest of Bismarck. Oken listened closely. They would both want written accounts of their dialogue. The hunt was on for real.
AMBROSE LEBRUN
was pressing his signet ring into the wax seals on the last message scrolls as Clarence helped him into his jacket.
“Your travel kit is already on board, sir. You can refresh your makeup once in flight.”
“Of course, our makeup must be perfect in the face of disaster.”
“We are Egyptians, sir.”
LeBrun smoothed his collar and buttoned the jacket. “We are, Clarence.” He put the seal into its pouch and slipped that into an inner pocket. “No word from Cornelius?”
“No.”
“Let us hope he survived the battle at Ollantaytambo.”
Clarence gathered up the scrolls, piling them carefully on the silver tray. “Fly high, sir,” he said quietly as LeBrun picked up his walking stick and gloves from the desk.
LeBrun strode away, pulling on his gloves.
Clarence took a deep breath to steady his hands, then hurried out to the aviary. Golden censers looked surprised without their veil of sacred smoke, and the silence in the empty halls filled him with dismay.
Oken noted the marked change in her appearance, a simple cotton dress with the house hold emblem on sky blue. She looked as magnificent as ever, but something in her was different, calmer.
Usqhullu explained that General Blestyak was resting from the wounds he sustained in the battle at the Qurikancha. “He is a remarkable warrior.”
Natyra laughed fondly. “He is also as thickheaded as a stone wall!”
Usqhullu looked at Natyra with a mysterious smile. “He is. Has he always been so?”
Natyra shrugged eloquently, and the two women smiled at one another.
“How severely was he wounded?” Viracocha was once more sleekly attired in a silk suit, his hair oiled and sleek, his makeup impeccable. The deprivations of the last days showed only in the looser fit of his elegant clothes. His posture, his stance, showed he had accepted and understood the role thrust upon him.
“Not so much as he would wish to brag about,” His sister said.
Her quietly spoken words to her brother revealed much: “My husband-to-be has a request of you, a request of the Inca, actually.”
Natyra said nothing, smiling around at the men as she took in their surprised looks.
“Really, Hulla,” Viracocha said. “So quickly?”
The merriment shining in the princess’s eyes told much of the story. Usqhullu smiled at her brother without answering, then shrugged. “I am no less impetuous than you.”
Viracocha stood up from the table put his arms out to her, and brother and sister hugged. He kissed her forehead fondly and said, “What does your next husband request of Inca?”
“Sanctuary.”
“Sanctuary? From whom?”
“Victoria.”
“This queen has much to answer for. Why does he need sanctuary from her?”
“He has been loyal to her and a spy for her most of his life. I told him he had to choose between her and me.” Pride and happiness glowed in her face. “I won.”
She and Natyra looked at one another with the eternal understanding of women, as Usqhullu said to Viracocha, “It is important to him that he ask you in person.”
“Of course.”
She turned to the rest of the men. “I think having you gentlemen as witness will reassure him.”
The men agreed.
Usqhullu thanked her brother with a quick kiss and went out, returning a few minutes later with Blestyak, who was wrapped in one of Prince Viracocha’s crimson robes. Without his uniform, he was quite changed, as though he had shaped himself within its confines and was only just released. His great bulk was the same, but the stolid, untouchable uprightness of the man had crumbled. He leaned against Usqhullu like an old man. The paleness of his face made his blond hair and mustache as bright as gold. He lookedat the floor, , unable to meet anyone’s eye.
Usqhullu led him to Viracocha, who spoke first. “I am in your debt, my friend. You were wounded in our defense. I thank you from my heart for keeping my lady safe.”
Blestyak was taken aback by this, and he glanced around anxiously at the other men, then at Viracocha, and at last found his courage to speak. “Glorious One, I beg sanctuary of you, that I might remain here within the safety of your empire.” His voice was breathy and weak.
Viracocha’s voice was genuine, enfolding the man in front of him with his warmth. “My friend, on one condition—my future brother-in-law must never again call me ‘Glorious One’! You are welcome here.”
As though this had taken his last strength, Blestyak sagged against Usqhullu. “Thank you!” he whispered; then he coughed, gasping.
“Back to bed, my love,” Usqhullu said to him. “Now.”
Oken was too fascinated by this turn of events to pass up the opportunity to observe more, so he stepped forward and gently took Blestyak’s other arm, to help support him. The man looked at him with bleak dismay.
Oken said, “Let me help, General Blestyak.”
Blestyak nodded, and they took him back to his room. His room was Usqhullu’s room, her bed, his bed. The sleek opulence of the suite spoke eloquently of her style and sensibility. It also made clear her love of horses. How fitting, Oken thought, for now she had an officer of the Czar’s stables.
Blestyak sat down on the bed and thanked them with breathy words.
Oken stood back, observing the gentle way that Usqhullu held a glass of water out for him, watching him while he drank it, then helped him to settle back against the pillows. She smoothed his hair with her palm, smiling down at him. He took her hands in his and kissed her fingers and her palms, then lay back with a sigh and closed his eyes. She kissed his forehead. “Sleep now, my love. The healer will check on you in a moment.”
Usqhullu took Oken’s hand and led him out. Once in the corridor, she said, “He was struck in the chest by a spear. His lung was damaged, but not punctured. He will recover with rest.”
“Not so much as he would brag about,” Oken said, repeating her words. “The general is a very lucky man.”
“He is a most beautiful creature!” Usqhullu whispered happily, “And he is all the more beautiful to me for being a wounded creature. I will have much more fun with him than I did with my first husband.” She winked at Oken. “Someday I’ll tell you that story!”
“I look forward to it, my lady.”
Usqhullu considered him with that clear-eyed expression of intense regard he had seen on several women’s faces in the New World. “The general told me about how he met you.” She touched the scar on Oken’s cheek with a warm fingertip. “This is from him?”
Oken nodded.
“Natyra came here to follow you?”
Oken shook his head, a smile touching his lips. “To run away from me,” he said solemnly. “I am trouble, or so she told me.”
Usqhullu nodded, also smiling. “You are, the finest kind. Did you know that I shall be Natyra’s lady-in-waiting, when Lucky is Inca. Isn’t that wonderful? I know all the names—and all the secrets!”
Oken was surprised by the delight with which she announced this. “You are the daughter of Inca, my lady Wildcat!” he said in protest. “Surely, lady-in-waiting is too simple a title for you?”
The expression on her warm, lovely face was one of those great rewards for Oken’s gift of memory, an expression to keep and to savor. “Oh, my!” she said merrily. “There will be nothing simple about the way I play that game!” She sighed happily and took his arm, leading him back to the dinner around the table of the moss agate landscape. She was humming softly to herself, a tune of hoofbeats and wings.