Diana Pho - Steampunk World

She stopped pacing.

The llama outfitters had tools. Good ones. Possibly better than hers. She hurried toward the nearest runner stand and hailed a cart.

Fading light accompanied Ilyapa back from her failed errand. She hadn’t eaten since morning, and her stomach snarled as ferociously as she would if she ever got her hands on Khuno. He had beaten her to the llama outfitters, too, and claimed every piece of equipment she could hope to use for her project, as well as the ones she might turn to in desperation. She snapped her fingers at the lightbringer as she passed the fire pit, and the girl followed with a torch to light the ones set in mountings on the walls in her workshop. Ilyapa hated working after sunset, as her eyes didn’t focus well in low, flickering light at her age, but she had no choice.

In the near-darkness of the unlit room, Anahuarque sat in the farthest corner from the Emperor, with her arms wrapped around her knees, wide-eyed and tear-streaked.

“Oh, gods," Ilyapa said. “I forgot that I left you here. Are you all right?”

Anahuarque shook her head.

Ilyapa forced her crankiness down. “I am sorry. I’m sure that the Sapa Inca must appreciate your loyalty, though. Please, go home. Rest and eat.”

Anahuarque fled.

When she was alone again, Ilyapa reexamined the damaged gear. It was amazing: the bend amounted to the minimum damage that could possibly break the device. Exactly the minimum. The crimp didn’t look like damage from use and wear; with her suspicions sharpening her thoughts, the bend’s even line suggested the edge of a tool. At minimum, Khuno was working against her, and she wondered if others were involved. Had the Coya really ordered any of it, or was that a ruse of Khuno's, who knew how hard it would be to ask the Coya for verification? Khuno had always been jealous of her position, but what would motivate the Coya to destroy the power of Viracocha’s Land?

“Khuno thinks I won’t ask the Coya, Sapa Inca, but I will.”

She was glad she had chosen to live in the workshop instead of being assigned to a household elsewhere in the city. The tiny adjacent room intended for storage suited her for its convenience and privacy. She wouldn’t have to go somewhere else to change clothes before the visit. To show respect she would discard her usual simple attire and wear her most colorful ascu , long and made of alpaca wool, with her best bracelets and sandals. She would still look relatively shabby compared to the Coya, but that would be appreciated.

Preparing to leave, Ilyapa gave a final look around the workshop and nearly choked when she saw the Emperor in the corner. Despite her odd habit of talking to him, she hadn’t really thought about the fact that he was still there. She couldn’t leave him unguarded and she had already dismissed Anahuarque, so she had to find someone else. Who can I trust ? she thought. Just outside her door, she surveyed the people at work. Someone solid and calm, unlikely to argue… “Supay!” she called.

He was at a nearby work station, kneeling as he made adjustments to a project that couldn’t possibly be as important as hers. She waved him over, explained, and rushed out. “I'll be back soon," she said for the second time that day. “I promise!”

Outside, smoke from the walkway’s torches kept the mosquitoes back, mostly, but Ilyapa could sense thousands of them just above in a buzzing, whining chorus, and she hoped the bats were feasting. Cockroaches skittered away from her feet with every step she took along the path. At least she wasn’t the only one out by night, as frenzied work continued, but walking in the dark made her nervous. As she approached the main street, someone called her name and she twitched, startled.

It was a man she didn’t recognize. “You are Ilyapa, the First Deviser?” he said.

“Yes. Who are you?”

“I’m directing the procession. I’m so glad I didn’t miss you out here. I was on my way to find you," he said, gesturing toward the building she had just left.

“Oh. Well, I’m sure my assistant can help you. He’s still inside," Ilyapa said, turning to leave.

“No, he can’t. This is about the procession . I obviously can’t replace you with your assistant!” the man snapped.

“What procession? What are you talking about?”

“The Emperor’s wives! You're to be shown to the visitors. It was the Coya’s idea. You should have been told already.”

“The visitors won’t be here until tomorrow. I will be there for whatever is required, but I have urgent work to do. For the Emperor himself.”

“You don’t understand. You and all of the other wives are to spend the night in fasting and preparation for the procession. This is mandatory. The Coya Pachama has ordered it.”

“I’m just on my way to see her about my work. I’m sure she'll understand that her husband must be in his best condition before the visitors arrive.”

“You may send her a message if you like, once you're where you're supposed to be," the man said, “but you're late already and everyone else is waiting for you, so you will come with us right now.” He beckoned, and two guards emerged from nearby shadows.

On either side of her, holding her elbows, the guards marched her toward a waiting cart, big enough to hold two people and a driver, one of the rare ones with a team of two llamas. A second large cart and team sat behind the first. The guards split, one to each vehicle, with Ilyapa in the first and the procession director in the second. It was an ostentatious display of wealth and force.

The Coya doesn’t want the Sapa Inca to be fixed , Ilyapa thought. But why not?

The wives were sequestered in possibly the most austere building Ilyapa had ever seen. It was certainly modern, with the high ceilings and echoing spaces of the newest buildings in Cuyochitampu. It was so new that it lacked furnishings, decorations, and all forms of charm. The wives were to sleep on the cold stone floors, naked, exposing themselves to the gods for judgment. Ilyapa began to perceive a calculating, punishing hatred in the Coya’s design for the night’s activities.

But before the sleep, there would be intensive bathing, grooming, and rituals. After the first ritual, Ilyapa was assigned to a group of twenty-five women. “Go through that passage to the baths," their leader told them. “Leave your clothes in the dressing room, and make sure to submerge yourselves completely and cross to the other side of the pool.”

They filed through, entering the water one at a time. Not a single one of the women failed to gasp at its temperature. The man-made waterfall filling it drew from an icy spring: refreshing if wanted, intolerable if not. Painful cold shocked Ilyapa’s skin and sank into her bones as she sloshed through the pool, moving as quickly as she could against the chest-height water’s resistance and saving full immersion for the moment before she could climb out on the other side.

They were ushered into a cool underground room where they sat, shivering, and waited as a few women at a time had their hair twisted into hundreds of tiny braids, so that they would all look as similar as possible.

The intensive schedule of activities went on late into the night, including a long practice for the morning’s procession, and all the while Ilyapa’s stomach burned and raged with hunger. Finally, they were arranged in rows to rest for a few hours, but she couldn’t allow herself to sleep.

It didn’t matter why the Coya wanted her to fail. She simply refused to do so.

The cold, hard floor worked in her favor, but Ilyapa still had to dig her fingernails into her palms and bite the insides of her cheeks to stay awake. She had not slept well for the past several nights due to the stress of her job. Exhaustion fought with rage over her ill-treatment. She had never felt any ambition to marry a dead body, but after being forced into this bizarre position, she was now kept from her work and tortured, for what? The Coya’s jealousy? The unfairness tore at her, adding to her array of discomforts.