The Gold Eaters (39 page)

Now Waman
is often invited to keep company with Manku and the Inca's inner circle. He stands in the front row at war games. He tries his hand at tossing horseshoes. And he watches the archery—squads of bowmen from the forest who shoot at stuffed targets shaped like men. Men with pink faces and black beards.

“When those are
real
Spaniards,” a young voice at his shoulder says one day, “they'll use real arrows. Poison tipped. They paralyse in the time it takes to fry an egg.” It is Titu Kusi, the Inca's eldest son.

“I didn't know you cooked, my lord,” says Waman. He has met the prince several times at the horseshoe pitch. The boy never tires of the interpreter's tales—his capture at sea, his voyages on both oceans, above all his time in Spain. At thirteen, Titu Kusi carries himself like a man. An outgoing nature makes him older. As does his figure: he has the body of one who will grow stout. He jokes with his father and Molina, fences well with a dulled sword, is a good rider and arquebus shot. Already Titu Kusi drinks beer and has a pair of concubines.

The boy reminds Waman of himself at the same age, of his own unruly spirit and thirst for a wider world. Titu Kusi, too, has been a captive of the invaders—taken when he was five, along with the first Qoya. For several years he was kept in Cusco at the house of a Spaniard, apparently a kind man, who taught him a bit of Castilian and urged him to be baptised.

And were you? Waman once asked. It was the wrong thing to say. The prince snapped that he didn't remember, in both languages:
no recuerdo
;
mana yuyanichu
. But surely he would remember? He was nearly eight when Manku freed him and brought him to Vitcos. Of course—Manku has sworn to oust the Christians and their faith. No son of his can admit any contact with it. Especially after Pawllu's treason and conversion. Not that Titu Kusi seems religious at all, avoiding routine observances of any kind, preferring to stalk deer in the hills or disappear on picnics with his girls.

—

It is November now and the highland rains have begun. Great thunderheads boil up from the jungle, borne aloft on sultry winds to crash against the glaciers, spending themselves each night in epic lightning storms. Rivers are swollen, red with the gore of landslides. Rocks and trees career down canyons, branches plucking at the bridges.

One afternoon Waman and Molina are invited to the Inca's palace for a meal, to the main hall ringed by a row of niches and the usual dark band at eye level. A red cloth and gold service cover the dining board. The Qoya Kusi Warqay is there, welcoming the guests. On her back, in a shawl, she carries a baby girl, also called Kusi Warqay; at her side is the youngest boy, Tupa Amaru, peeking shyly from behind the Queen's flared skirt. The same reserve seems to affect Manku's middle son, ten-year-old Sayri Tupa, whose mother was
seized by Gonzalo Pizarro and burnt by Francisco. Waman wonders what the boy might have seen.

Titu Kusi comes in last—only when his stepmother yells
K'usillu!
at the door. Waman smiles at the nickname: Monkey. To judge from his peeved look, the boy feels he has outgrown it. Hence its effectiveness.

There is fish and meat and jungle fruit, and plenty of young beer, which has a light fizziness Waman likes. Helpers move silently behind the diners. It is a family affair, no other guests, no hurry in the conversation.

At dusk, Manku draws the interpreter aside to a smaller room. “Let's chew,” he says. He calls for lamps and makes up quids as before. There follows a companionable silence of working jaws, the leaves numbing the mouth, quickening the mind.

“The Qoya has ordered inquiries,” the Inca says. “They may take a little while. But if your cousin is still a Chosen, she will be found.”

Waman launches into fulsome thanks, expressing his burning wish to be someday in a position to requite, in his humble way, such kingly kindness.

Manku lifts a hand to stop the flow. “You can repay me now by considering a proposition. You needn't answer right away—take a few days to think it over. You're free to say yes or no.” He looks Waman in the eye. “Why not stay with us in Willkapampa? Your cousin too when we find her. I will give you a good house, helpers, everything you need. What better place to further the search for your family? From here you can go anywhere you wish in Antisuyu. I also have many lands beyond this
suyu
. Among them Huanuco Province, which is held by General Illa Tupa. He will help you when you go there. That's the likeliest place, isn't it, from what you said?”

“I believe so, Sapa Inka. I was planning to go there as soon as my business in Cusco is—”

“Why go to Cusco? Why put yourself back in Spanish hands? Perhaps in Spanish irons. Your helpers can take my answer to the Vicar-General. Write him a letter. Tell him you're ill and can't travel. Not ill enough for him to send a friar, though.” Manku chuckles. “You could even say I'm keeping you . . . detained.”

Maybe that
is
what he's doing, Waman thinks.

“I've seen,” the Inca goes on, “that my eldest has taken to you. Titu Kusi has a lively mind. He needs a tutor. So will the others in a few years. We have good teachers here—scholars from the House of Learning. I know you taught there yourself for a while. But they are elderly. They know little of the world beyond Tawantinsuyu.

“Also, the time is coming when I shall need a secretary. My sons certainly will. Someone who can read and write, both Quechua and Castilian. When we retake Cusco this need will be urgent. The state archives all went up in flames. Every year more knotkeepers die. Beyond my borders no new ones are being trained.

“That's all, Waman. Think well.”

At the door Manku calls for Titu Kusi. When that fails he bellows the boy's full name with mock formality: “Titu Kusi Yupanki!”

The youth arrives a little dishevelled, as if he has been in bed and not alone.

“Bid good night to our guest, now. Say it in Castilian.”

“Winas nuchis,”
Titu Kusi manages, holding out his hand.

“Buenas noches, señor mío,”
Waman replies, grasping it.

—

Waman has slept little, the Inca's offer burning in his mind. Why not take it? Especially if Tika can be found. A new life for the two of them, when they seemed to have lost everything. But what if the Spaniards overrun Willkapampa? He is being asked to foresee the future.

He is delighted to hear Molina at his door, bringing breakfast from the palace. The only person he can turn to for advice. Whatever else his stepfather may be, Molina is shrewd and canny. The older man listens, sipping coca tea.

“I'll say this for it, Waman—you've won Manku's trust, and you can trust him. He will treat you as he's promised. He's treated me well enough. Even those Almagrist rogues.” With that Molina falls silent, a deep frown creasing his tattoos. Waman wonders what's wrong, why the hesitation. Molina is usually so forthright, so talkative. Is he jealous? Does he wish he'd mastered the alphabet and been offered this himself?

“Have some more tea, Waman. It'll help us think.” He fills their cups slowly, adjusting the level in each one as if playing for time. “I've heard something. And I don't like it. It could affect your decision.”

“What?”

“The Almagrists: Méndez, Barba . . .”

Molina drops his voice so low that Waman must strain to hear him above the sounds of the town: dogs and children, roosters, horses nickering on the lawn. “Don't forget I'm still a Spaniard under these clothes. Enough to know those men. I was just like them once. I pick up things. Glances, gestures.”

He pauses, takes a bite of bread and honey.

“For some time now I've suspected they're up to something. It's looking worse since you got here, since the Inca received you that day at the usnu. What he said about ‘bearded ones' rattled them, even though his words were just for show.”

“How would they know what was said? Did they ask?”

“I'm sure they did. Their women. And one or two of them may understand the language better than we think.”

Molina springs up and draws a corner of the door aside. Satisfied
no one is eavesdropping, he comes back to his breakfast, voice muffled by chewing.

“Barba's woman told my Sallqa that she's noticed a change. She has only a few words of Spanish, but a sharp nose. She says the Almagrists joke around like always when someone's watching, but they're not joking amongst themselves. They're whispering. She thinks they're plotting an escape.”

“But they've been here for years. Where would they go? They can't go to Gonzalo—he'd kill them on the spot.”

“Oh, they won't go to Gonzalo. That would be suicide. But they may think—even if it's only wishful thinking—that if they inform on the Inca somehow they will be welcomed in Lima, taken back by their own people. The Viceroy is holding out an olive branch. Manku may not be the only one to clutch at it.”

“They can't know about that. How do
you
know that?”

“Manku told me himself. I had a word with him late last night, to warn him. He's vulnerable right now—with Pumasupa and the best fighting men not here. But Méndez and Barba could have guessed it anyway. They know there's more to your presence than that letter you read out. They may even have been approached.”

“How could they?”

“What about those two helpers who came with you?”

“They're simple fellows. Lakers. They only speak Aymara.”

“You sure of that?”

Waman's spirits, brittle at best, shatter in remorse. What Molina suspects is all too likely. “I've been a fool! I should have sent all of them back to Cusco at the bridge. When I had the chance.”

Molina pats him on the knee. “Only guesswork. Like I say, the signs go back before that anyway. Don't ride yourself so hard. I never do.”

“How did Manku take your warning?”

“Like you did. He thinks they've got too much to lose, beginning with their lives. Where can they go? he says. Where can they live better?”

“What did you say to that?”

“I said Spaniards always think they can live better.”

Waman takes two days
to give the Inca his decision. He accepts, but asks if he may do so provisionally—until he knows the whereabouts of Tika and his mother. He should consult with them on longer plans. The Inca agrees curtly. Manku is not used to subordinates who dither. Yet he did promise the man a free choice.

That afternoon the sun breaks through a charcoal sky, burnishing the plaza lawn, steaming the town's heavy thatches and the coats of llamas and horses. The Almagrists gather by the usnu for a game of horseshoes. The Inca and Titu Kusi stroll over to join them. Few onlookers turn out. Manku's best men are still away, and most of the townsfolk are indoors. It's already late in the day; a smell of cooking hangs in the streets.

Waman and Molina are there. Sallqa, Molina's woman, arrives with Sisa, the girl who brings the interpreter his meals. The women talk gaily between themselves, offering the men guavas and tamales, a dish which has caught on in Vitcos since the “Mexican” introduced it.

“She's soft on you, lad,” Molina whispers, with a sidelong glance at Sisa. “Your type, I reckon. Time you made a move. A single man's always a boy in Peru, no matter how old he grows. Why haven't you got a wife by now anyway?”

The women settle on cushions near the pitch, spreading their skirts around them.

“You know very well.”

“Ah, yes. Your cousin. You like to keep it in the family. Cousins, sisters—if you ask me, the Incas don't set the best example. Mind you, I doubt they're as inbred as the Habsburgs. I hear King Charles is one of the lucky ones. Some of his cousins can't even wipe their own arses.”

The two have not been paying attention to the game, which ends in scattered applause. An Almagrist win. Waman's ear is plucked by a lovely sound, a lute's arpeggio, reeling him back to the Moorish alleys of Seville. The tones fan out in the thin air, each note the heart of a ripple, as if from coins dropped in a pool. The lute player is the bearded one called Beard—Francisco Barba. A brash, disagreeable man. A master on the strings.

Méndez and the others crowd around Barba admiringly, hiding player and instrument from view. Manku, eager for another game to wipe out his loss, is walking up the pitch, gathering horseshoes, bending to right the hob—little tasks he enjoys.

They are on him so fast that nobody, not even Molina, understands what is happening until the Inca slumps over the hob with three or four stilettoes in his back. Then they are gone like cats—before the onlookers' shock turns to panic, to fury, and the women let out a fearful wail. Only Titu Kusi matches their speed, snatching up his father's lance and hurling it at Méndez. The lance misses narrowly, ploughs the turf. The assassin uproots it, hurls it back, cutting the boy's thigh.