Гарри Тертлдав - The First Heroes

Then he fell toward Qosqo again, where an old man stepped into the plaza, to the cheers of the people. Pachakuteq Inka Yupanki! Pachakuteq Inka Yupanki!Kusi.

Orqo's heart hardened within him. The scene vanished, then opened again. He still hovered over Qosqo, but this Qosqo was smaller, dirtier, unfinished. The wind dropped him nearer, and he saw his own people scurrying fearfully through the streets, while walking among them, slow and arrogant, went many Chanka men with their thin mustaches and finely braided hair.

Then that scene, too, disappeared, and Orqo found himself returned to the stone in the river's heart.

He opened his eyes to assure himself he was alive. A condor drifted overhead. Orqo lay still, wishing he could pretend that he had seen nothing, for the river's meaning seemed clear. If he lived, the Chankas won. If Kusi triumphed—

No, he would make the river say it.

He sat up, too quickly. His head spun and he thought he would faint. But the world righted itself, and he looked out over the river. "Tell me what this means."

You know.

"Tell me."

Water rushed by in a huge sigh. Swim to Chupalluska. Kusi's men find and kill you. Kusi becomes Inka and builds a great empire, an empire that astonishes peoples whom you do not know and of whom you have not dreamed. But pass Chupalluska, and the war continues. Kusi dies in battle. You rule Qosqofor a time, but the Chankas challenge your descendants. The Inka people disappear from the earth.

The water's voice dwindled to murmurs. Orqo held his head in his hands. He felt stabbed to theheart.

He groaned, and then raged, "This is no choice!"

But the water flowed mutely by.

Again he shouted, "How do I know this is true?"

Mayu-Mama offered no answer.

Orqo howled and leaped to his feet. "I will do it! I will build the empire!"

A wave lapped over the rock and washed blood into the river. It is not in you, Orqo.

"I will! I will!" He jumped into the waves, embracing the water that stung his self-inflicted cuts, and swam desperately. But when he passed the rough water, and let his tired and blood-drained body float and rest, a certain knowledge surfaced from deep within him. Mayu-Mama was right. It was not in him to build an empire. He would have work enough just ruling a distrustful Qosqo.

Besides, he had seen the fire in Kusi's eyes and, just as formidable, the confidence—indeed, the worship—in the eyes of Kusi's followers. The river spoke the truth. Only Kusi could build an empire. Only Kusi could save the Inka people who so despised Orqo.

For the first time in the whole wretched, bloody campaign, Orqo wept.

It was mid-afternoon when Wiraqocha's scouts finally sighted Kusi and his army entering the valley below Hakihawana. Orqo hurried to array himself in the finery commanded by Wiraqocha: his best tunic and mantle, arm bands of gold, new fine sandals made of leather from the neck of a llama, a feathered headdress, his golden earplugs, and a disk of engraved silver around his neck. This last he tried to cover with his mantle, for it signified bravery in battle, and Orqo knew that it would draw only scorn from Kusi. But Wiraqocha had told him to wear it, and he must.

His head ached from all the aqha he had drunk since the news of Kusi's victory had arrived from Qosqo. Wiraqocha continued to insist that Kusi could not have defeated the Chankas, but Orqo was not so sure, and he was not ready to face the truth with a clear head. He fumbled with the knot on his mantle. An attendant straightened his headdress. Then his bearers helped him into his litter—his father had insisted on that, too, even though they were traveling no further than the fortress gate—and he rode to join Wiraqocha, to await the defenders of Qosqo.

The Inka sat at the gate with Qori Chullpa in their own resplendent litter. Its gold and silver adornments sparkled in the sunlight, and the curtains were pulled back so they could watch for Kusi. Wiraqocha wore finery similar to Orqo's, except that he had donned his own battle helmet and the maskapaycha, the red royal fringe that hung across his forehead and marked him as ruling Inka. Age had shrunk him, Orqo knew, but he looked a king in blood and bone, still in command of himself and his people. Orqo relaxed slightly. Even Kusi could not fail to respect their father. In his younger days, as a warrior, Wiraqocha had more than earned the gold and silver disks that glittered at his own neck.

Orqo watched with growing unease as Kusi's troops flowed like a river through the hills below the fortress. At the head of that river of soldiers someone rode in a royal litter. Orqo swallowed his sudden anger. Riding in a litter as if he were already Inka—had Kusi's arrogance no end?

Wiraqocha's army stood silently both within and without the gate, but the noise of Kusi's procession rose to their ears. Music, joyous shouts, the rattling of weapons—Orqo saw Wiraqocha set his jaw stubbornly and shake his head. "We shall see," he said.

"You still do not believe Kusi won?" Orqo asked.

"When the Chankas lie at my feet."

The din of voices and instruments approached, becoming merely loud, then deafening. Finally the curtained litter halted but a few steps from the place where Orqo and Wiraqocha waited. Someone flung open the curtains from within. Without even waiting for the bearers to lower him, Kusi leaped to the ground and stood before Wiraqocha, his face solemn but his eyes sparkling. His clothes were blood-stained, his silver earplugs small—and he barely old enough to stretch his earlobes for them—but he stood proudly, and behind him, a troupe of musicians played flutes, beat drums, and sang loudly of the great victory.

Kusi turned to his followers and lifted his arms. Someone blew a conch shell. At the loud blast, the shouts and the music ceased. Kusi turned back to Wiraqocha, removed his sandals, and bowed. "Lord and Father," he said, loudly enough for those behind him to hear. "I bring you the Chankas."

The musicians parted, and between them the warriors dragged one after another of the painted and mustached Chanka soldiers, shoving them to the ground in front of Wiraqocha. Yet other Inkamen came, bearing armloads of weapons, and finally a group of eight with a large, costumed lump on a litter. Orqo's stomach lurched, and not only because of the aqha he had drunk.

The mummy of Osqo Willka, the Chanka ancestor—the shrunken figure could be no other, unless Kusi had somehow stolen a mummy to fabricate the victory. Orqo glimpsed dry, dead skin where the rich clothing did not quite cover it, and his fingers felt again the shoulder of the unknown mummy who had spoken to Kusi.

What would Wiraqocha do, he wondered, now that proof of the victory lay before him?

The wrinkles in his father's face seemed turned to stone. Kusi, likewise, did not move. Then the soldiers began to shout and to cheer, and their cheers became as a single voice, "Pachakuteq! Pachakuteq! Pachakuteq!"

Earth-Shaker.

Orqo stared at his brother. The litter was one thing—presumptuous but perhaps excusable, since Kusi had ridden occasionally as a member of the royal entourage. But had he also dared to take a new name? Surely he had not claimed the rest of what the go ds had called him— Inka Yupanki—as if Wiraqocha had already abdicated. No, not even Kusi would be that bold. But perhaps there was now no limit to his audacity.

Still Wiraqocha sat motionless. Then he moved his hand, and an attendant was immediately at his side. Orqo barely heard his whisper. "Bring the Chanka envoy. Immediately."

So, thought Orqo. Still he is not satisfied.

Waman Waraka arrived almost before Orqo finished the thought. He must have waited nearby, Orqo surmised, to learn the fate of his people. The envoy stood in front of Orqo and Wiraqocha for just a moment before his face crumpled and he fell to the ground, shrieking. The Inka people's shouts intensified. Wiraqocha's shoulders sagged, briefly. Then he held up his chin.