Clodia’s hand gripped Mardina’s tighter.
Ruminavi laughed. “Oh, don’t be afraid. Lowlanders are often startled by the first nobles they encounter. But you should recall this from your first arrival at Yupanquisuyu. Do you remember the axis warriors, bred for the lack of weight? This is my wife. Her name is Cura—that’s easy to remember, isn’t it? She’s one of the highborn—she comes from one of the first ayllus, the dozen clans here in Cuzco that can prove lineal descent from the earliest of the Incas. So she is a useful ally for you, you see. And her half brother Villac is a colcacamayoc, a keeper of the storehouses—just as senior in the government as Inguill, but with rather different responsibilities. Villac’s responsibility is to collect the mit’a tributes and distribute the stores as necessary; Inguill’s is to count it all, across the empire. And it is Villac who will assist your comrades to get to their ship. Isn’t that marvelous?”
“But first we have to get you to the palace compound,” Cura said. She cupped Clodia’s cheek in a hand that looked to Mardina as if it was crippled with arthritis, so swollen were the joints. Clodia was clearly forcing herself not to shrink back again. Cura said, “The ceremony of the Great Ripening is not far away; many of the other blessed ones have been preparing already for many days. You are late.” She gazed into Clodia’s blue eyes, caressed her fair skin. “But there have been rumors of your beauty, child, ever since you arrived at the habitat, and then from every mit’a assessor who visited your home ayllu. They were not wrong. You are perfect. Now come, follow me. I know you are used to traveling in space, so you will find the lack of weight no problem.”
She turned and swam away, slipping gracefully through the mesh of cables, heading deeper into the city.
Mardina and Clodia followed Cura easily, as they passed along a broad avenue lined with huge buildings. Glancing back, Mardina saw that Ruminavi was following them too, with four bony axis warriors bringing up the rear of the party. Though this was the periphery of the city, people hurried everywhere, scrambling through the cobweb, mostly dressed in bright, colorful fabrics, some clutching bundles of quipus. This was a capital city, Mardina reminded herself, the administrative center of an empire the size of a continent, as well as a solar system full of mines and colonies too; many of these tremendous buildings must be hives of offices every bit as busy as the Navy headquarters at Dumnona.
Clodia was staring, wide-eyed. Mardina remembered she’d had little experience of city life.
Mardina squeezed Clodia’s hand. “You’re doing well.”
“I know. Considering I know what it is Cura thinks I’m ‘perfect’ for.”
“It won’t come to that. The plan, remember… But you’re brave, even so.”
Clodia snorted. “I’m the daughter of Titus Valerius. Of course I’m brave.”
They passed one particularly ornate building, a kind of flat-topped pyramid on top of which a figure sat on a throne—a statue, Mardina supposed, decked with fine clothes and jewelry. Two axis warriors hovered over the statue, like protective angels.
The girls slowed, distracted by the sight.
Cura said, “Look at that stonework! Hand cut, and each stone fits its neighbor as well as two palms pressed together.”
“Is this the palace?” blurted Clodia.
Cura smiled. “Well, it’s a palace. It is the home of Huayna Capac, one of the greatest of the Incas.”
Mardina frowned. “The Sapa Inca—I thought his name was Quisquis.”
“So it is, the latest Inca—distant descendant of Huayna Capac, of course, separated by seven or eight centuries… My chronology is poor.”
“I don’t understand,” Mardina admitted.
“I think I do,” Clodia said. “I heard of this. When the Sapa Inca dies—”
“The Sapa Inca does not die,” Cura said firmly. “He lives on in his palace, he has a household of servants, and he is reunited with his ancestors and descendants on feast days.”
Clodia stared at the figure in the throne. “How many palaces like this are there?”
Ruminavi knew the answer to that. “Thirty-eight.”
“Thirty-nine Incas, then. Thirty-nine emperors since Yupanqui.”
Mardina stared into the mummy’s painted face. Here was a tough warrior who had built an empire with tools of stone and bronze, and long after his death had been lifted into a realm he could never have imagined.
“This is my future,” Clodia said. “To become like this.”
Ruminavi smiled. “A malqui, stuffed and preserved? Not if the plan works out.”
Once again Clodia slid her hand into Mardina’s.
53
The Roman century came to the ocean coast at a beach, not far from the delta of a great river.
Quintus Fabius ordered his men to stay in the cover of the forest rather than move out into the open. Grumbling, they complied, and began the daily process of establishing camp—for the twenty-first time on this march, they had fallen just a day behind the schedule the centurion had set for them.
Quintus himself, ordering Chu Yuen with Collius to accompany him, walked out into the light, onto the sandy beach. They were close to the marshy plain of the delta, where tremendous salt-loving trees plunged deep roots into the mud. The river was a mighty one, draining a swath of this half-cylinder continent, the antisuyu, and when Quintus looked ahead he could see the discoloration of the freshwater pushing far out into the ocean brine.
And when he looked up to left and right, in wonder, he saw how the ocean rose up beyond what ought to have been the horizon, splashed with swirls of cloud, tinged here and there by the outflow of more huge rivers—and merging at last in the mists of the air with the other half of this world sea, which hung like a steel rainbow above his head.
Inguill, with a couple of Inca soldiers, was waiting for him here, as Quintus knew she would be. “You’re late.”
He shrugged. “Within our contingency. There’s plenty of time left before—”
“Before time runs out for Clodia Valeria?”
Tall, thin, pale, intent, she looked out of place on the beach, in this raw natural environment. She belonged in an office, Quintus thought, her fingers wrapped in those bundles of string she read. But she was in command.
She turned now and pointed. “Down there are your transports over the ocean.”
Quintus saw a series of craft drawn up on the sand, flat wooden frames with sails furled up on masts. “Rafts?”
“They are adequate. They are built by the Chincha, who are a people who once lived on the western coast of the continent you call Valhalla Inferior. Now they live here. Their rafts are of balsa and cotton. They were the best sailors in our world, until the Xin came calling on our shores in their mighty treasure ships. The Chincha craft will suffice to carry you over to the cuntisuyu if the weather over the ocean stays fine—as it is programed to do.” She glanced up at a sky empty of Condors. “And of course you will be less conspicuous than in any other form of transport. On the far side you will be escorted to a capac nan station. There are freight wagons sufficiently roomy to hide your men, all the way to the hub. It won’t be comfortable, but you will be safe enough and will not be betrayed.”
“Well, we’ve trusted you this far.”