Anthony Horowitz - Evil Star

“And they want to help us.”

“That’s right. You’ve got the Incas on the one hand, and then there’s Diego Salamanda on the other. At least this time we know who the bad guy is.”

“Why can’t they stop him?” This was something Matt didn’t understand. “They know who he is. They know where to find him…”

“What do you want them to do, Matt? Murder him?”

Matt shrugged. “It doesn’t seem like a bad idea.”

“They’d have to get to him first and he’s well protected.”

“They could go to the police.”

“He owns the police. Diego Salamanda is one of the most powerful men in Peru. What does he call his company? Salamanda News International. He should call it Salamanda International News because that would spell SIN, which sounds right to me. Salamanda’s worth millions and if he went out of business, half the country would go down with him. News, telecommunications, software… only last week he sent a fifty-million-dollar satellite into space, paid for out of his own pocket. He plays chess with the president. They do it over the telephone and Salamanda is the one who put in the phone lines.”

“If Salamanda is so rich and so successful, why does he want to open the gate? What’s in it for him?”

“I don’t know, Matt. Maybe the Old Ones can shrink his head back for him. Maybe they can give him eternal life. Why did the last lot want to open Raven’s Gate? If you ask me, they’re all mad.”

Richard fell silent. Someone had begun to play the panpipes outside the house. The notes hovered eerily in the air. Matt looked out of the window, across the canyon. He had forgotten how high up they were. The ground fell away for ever.

“You said the Incas were waiting for us,” he said. “How did they know we were coming?”

“I asked Atoc about that. I wish I could tell you that they read about it in the newspapers, but it’s a bit more complicated. The Incas know more or less everything that’s happening in Peru. They’ve got people everywhere. But there’s something else. They use magic.”

“Magic…?”

“They have these people. They call them amautas. They’re like, sort of, sorcerers… a bit like dear old Miss Ashwood. They know about the Old Ones. And they know about you. You may meet one of them later. He’s an elderly chap. I’ve spent a bit of time with him. I think he’s about a hundred and twelve.”

It took Matt a moment to absorb all this. “They knew I was coming,” he said. “But so did Salamanda. Who do you think told him?”

“I’ve been thinking about that. I’m afraid it looks as if it was someone in the Nexus.”

“That would make sense. I rang Mr Fabian but the police arrived before he did.”

“Well, I don’t have any real idea, but if it was anyone, Tarrant’s the one I’d most suspect. Do you remember him? He was the policeman who gave us the false passports. That’s what caused half the trouble. Having fake passports turned us into criminals… and they were his idea.”

“So what happens now?”

Richard thought for a moment. “We have to put our trust in these people. We can’t get in touch with the Nexus again, that’s for sure,” he said.

Matt nodded and then yawned, suddenly tired.

“You’d better get some sleep,” Richard said. “You must be exhausted. Then you can wash and change those clothes. I have to say, I hardly recognized you when I saw you just now. You look ridiculous.”

“Thanks.”

“Then you can introduce me to your friend Pedro. And we’ve all got to be in the main square at sunset.” Richard smiled. “The Incas are having a party and we’re invited!”

Matt slept until the middle of the afternoon. When he woke up, Richard took him to the bath house – a series of wooden cubicles in a stone building with a jet of water pouring through a hole in the wall in a non-stop stream. The water was ice cold but sparkling clean. It couldn’t wash off the dye and Matt felt he came out looking much as he had done when he went in. But he was certainly refreshed.

He had been given new clothes to wear. The Indians who lived in Vilcabamba wore clothes that were a strange mix of the ancient and the modern, with the brightly coloured hats and ponchos above and jeans and trainers below. When he came out of the bath house, he was given a new poncho – a deep red colour with a green diamond pattern around the border. The strange thing was, he didn’t feel self-conscious wearing it. Perhaps he had changed so much in the last few weeks that he no longer had any idea who he really was.

Then he and Richard were taken to a grand building, twice the size of any of the others, at the very heart of the city. All around them there were Indians preparing the feast to come – setting up wooden tables, building fires, carrying out trays of food and drink. The sun had turned red and was sinking fast behind the mountains below them. It was a new experience for Matt to see the sun this way. Normally he would look up at it. Now he seemed to be above it and could actually see it slipping over the edge of the world.

The building they were entering was a palace. Matt knew it without being told. There was a guard, barelegged, ceremonially dressed in a tunic and carrying a golden spear, on each side of the door. More guards lined the passageway inside. And there, in front of them, was a throne mounted on a platform, and on it a man wearing a long robe, with a headdress and golden discs attached to his ears. He probably wasn’t much older than Richard but there was a sense of confidence and seriousness about him that made him look somehow ageless. Matt stopped and bowed. The Incas, it seemed, had a prince.

“You are welcome, Matteo,” the man said, speaking in perfect English. He had the same accent as Atoc: foreign, but not Spanish. In fact his first language was Quechua, the language his people had spoken before the Spanish arrived. “My name is Huascar and I am very glad to meet you at last. I have been waiting for you a long time. My people have been waiting even longer. Please, sit down.”

There were four low stools set out in front of the throne. Richard and Matt sat down. A moment later, Pedro and Atoc entered through a side door. Pedro had also been given fresh clothes. His poncho was a soft blue. He bowed to the Inca prince and took his place beside Matt. Atoc sat on the fourth stool.

“You are also welcome, Pedro,” Huascar continued. He was still speaking in English for the benefit of Richard and Matt, but Atoc whispered quietly in Pedro’s ear, translating. “We have very little time remaining to us and there is a great deal to discuss.”

He raised a hand and servants stepped forward carrying four golden goblets of red wine, which they set down on the floor in front of the guests. The Inca drank nothing himself.

“Five hundred years ago,” he began, “one of the mightiest empires ever built fell and died. With the coming of Francisco Pizarro and the conquistadors from Spain, everything my people had created was destroyed. Our cities were burned down, our gold looted, our temples desecrated, my ancestors ruthlessly killed. So began for us the time of the great darkness.

“Today, the glory of the Inca world is almost forgotten. Our cities are ruins, the broken pieces laid bare for tourists. Our art is locked away in museums. Only this place, Vilcabamba, remains undiscovered. Only here can we live as we once did. We are the last of the Incas.”

He fell silent. Atoc whispered for a few seconds more, then stopped. Pedro nodded.

“But we haven’t lost our strength.” The Inca prince looked Matt in the eyes. “You have seen only a small part of our secret world, a fraction of the gold we hid from the Spaniards. We do not live here all the time. We cannot hide from modern life. But we have come here from all over Peru and South America to show ourselves to you. Because, when the final struggle comes, you must know that you can call on us.