Outside the thatched hut where he lodged, Bao wrapped me in his arms, and I clung to him. “We could flee this place, couldn’t we, Moirin?” he whispered against my hair. “You and me, alone, tonight.”
“Aye,” I whispered back. “But that would mean breaking my oath to Raphael, and the loss of my diadh-anam. It would resolve nothing.”
“I know.” His arms loosened, one hand dropping to touch the hilt of the bronze knife shoved into his waistband, a reminder of what was to come. “So we will do what we must instead, huh?”
I nodded.
Bao kissed my lips. “Later?”
“Later,” I agreed. “We will speak further as matters develop. Come Qusqu, we will make a plan.”
Once again, I made the long journey back to the palace, where I found Machasu half dozing in our quarters. She roused and blinked sleepily as I released the twilight, shuddering a little at my sudden reappearance.
“Is all well, lady?” she asked.
“Aye.” I yawned, a profound wave of exhaustion overcoming me. My legs felt leaden and my eyes were raw for lack of sleep. “As well as it can be. Do me a kindness, and let me sleep until noon.”
“Yes, lady.”
The deep abyss of sleep claimed me almost the instant I laid my head down, and I slept without dreaming. All too soon, I awoke to sunlight and commotion, the sound of Machasu’s voice pleading in Quechua, and men’s deeper voices answering her in the negative. I shook myself awake, rubbing my hands over my face.
“What is it?” I called.
Machasu entered the bedchamber, bobbing an apology. “Lord Pachacuti has sent for you. His guards are waiting.”
“All right.” I dressed wearily and found Temilotzin and two other guards awaiting me in the antechamber.
Temilotzin scowled at me. “Why so tired, little warrior?” he asked in Nahuatl. “Are you ill?”
“No. What passes?”
His scowl deepened. “Your men were fighting in the fields this morning. Lord Pachacuti is displeased.”
“What does that have to do with me?” I asked tiredly.
“I suspect Lord Pachacuti wishes to ask you that very thing,” Temilotzin replied.
In the throne-room, the disgruntled Lord Pachacuti had summoned six of our men: Bao, Balthasar and Septimus, Prince Thierry and two of his companions I didn’t know by name. All save Bao were scraped and bruised, and Thierry sported a swollen knot on one cheek. It was obvious that they had been fighting, and obvious that their camp had divided into two factions since yesterday.
I suspected they hadn’t taken Bao’s news well. Catching my eye, he gave me a somber nod.
“Moirin!” Raphael greeted me, a hectic gleam in his eyes. “I’m so pleased you could bestir yourself to join us.” He gestured at the six men. “Would you care to tell me what this is all about? They don’t seem inclined to.”
“I haven’t the faintest idea, my lord,” I said.
He drummed his fingers on the arms of his throne. “Are you sure?” Reaching into his ever-present basket, he tossed a few leaves to the skirling eddy of ants at his feet. “I can resort to more… persuasive… methods.”
“Do it, then, Raphael!” Thierry shouted unexpectedly, his fists clenching at his sides. “Gods! You keep us alive only to torment us!”
“Is that what you think?” Raphael shook his head slowly from side to side. “You wound me, Thierry. I saved your life in the jungle, didn’t I? Were it not for the guidance and aid of my little friends, our company surely would have perished before we reached Vilcabamba.”
“Mayhap it would have been better if we had,” one of the others muttered.
Raphael gestured carelessly, and one of the Quechua guards promptly drew his sword and laid its edge against the man’s throat. “Is that your wish, Michel?” Raphael inquired. “I’m willing to grant you a clean death if it is. After all, I am not without mercy.”
The fellow’s throat worked. “No.”
Another gesture, and the blade was lowered. “Let’s try this again,” Raphael said in a conversational tone, circling one finger. Ants poured across the floor, scaling Bao’s legs, turning the lower half of his body into a writhing mass of blackness. A few essayed higher, crawling over his face. “Messire… Bao, is it? Moirin tells me I do not accord you your due, but see what respect I have for your courage. Few men could abide such a torment once, let alone twice. Will you not tell me why you and Thierry fought?”
Bao stood very still, his face unnaturally calm. “No.”
“I wonder that you can abide the sight, Moirin,” Raphael remarked to me. “Claiming to love him as you do.” He flicked his fingers, and the tide of ants climbed higher. “Shall I bid them to bite?”
A faint sound of protest escaped me.
“For the love of Elua, enough!” Balthasar Shahrizai took a deep, shaking breath. “We quarreled over a plot to escape, Raphael.”
Sparks flickered in his eyes. “And how in the world did you think to accomplish such a thing, my lord Shahrizai?”
Balthasar was silent.
“Ah.” Understanding dawning in Raphael’s expression. “You sought to find a way to kill me, didn’t you?”
“Do you blame us?” Balthasar asked. “My lord de Mereliot, we are desperate. And yet I know you do not keep us alive to torment us.”
“Oh?”
“No.” Balthasar shook his head, his face pale beneath the sun’s tan. “You’re sick, Raphael. Sick with madness. And the healer within you knows it. It’s what stays your hand, and keeps you from slaying your countrymen.” His voice was filled with terrible compassion. “Raphael, I beg you, listen to me. It’s not too late to turn away from this path. Pray to Blessed Elua for forgiveness, to Kushiel for mercy, and to Eisheth for healing.”
“Gods bedamned! Do you not understand that the gods failed me!” Raphael shouted at him. “Over and over!”
“Did they?” Balthasar asked steadily. “Or did you fail them?”
Raphael gritted his teeth. “Kill him,” he said to his guards. “You heard him, he has confessed to an attempt on my life.”
“No!”
The outcry arose from multiple throats, mine included. But it was Thierry de la Courcel’s that rang the loudest. “Neither Balthasar nor Bao nor Captain Rousse argued for attempting to kill you, Raphael,” he said. “I did.”
Raphael’s fingers drummed restlessly. “Did Moirin not warn you that should anything happen to me, all your lives are forfeit?”
Thierry met his gaze. “She did. I thought it a risk worth taking. I thought the Quechua might have more respect than you reckon for a man able to kill a god, and acknowledge me their new leader.”
“You know, that’s not badly reasoned,” Raphael commented. “You’re wrong, of course, but it wasn’t a bad notion.” He leaned forward, propping his chin on one fist. “Tell me, how did you plan to do it? You’re hardly in a position to plot an assassination.”
“Does it matter?” Thierry asked.
Raphael shrugged. “Indulge me for Messire Bao’s sake, won’t you?”
Thierry glanced at Bao. “You’ll call off your ants if I do?”
“I will.”
“Very well.” He looked back at Raphael. “I meant to seek an audience with you under the pretense of offering to fight in the coming battle in exchange for our freedom. I don’t expect you would have trusted me enough to accept the offer, but you would have granted the audience for the pleasure of rejecting it to my face. You would have let me get close to you.”
Raphael raised his brows. “Did you then intend to kill me with your bare hands?”
“No.” Thierry hesitated only slightly. “A digging-stick hardened in the fire and sharpened to a point.”
Or a bronze dagger, I thought, suspecting it might have been what gave him the idea.
“Ingenious.” Raphael leaned back in his throne. “You’ve fire in you after all, Thierry de la Courcel. I thought whatever spark of lingering greatness your House once possessed was extinguished when this adventure went so very awry, but it seems I was mistaken. What fanned its flames? The arrival of Moirin and her lot?” He laughed. “It’s ironic that they should raise your hopes, then dash them.”
Thierry was silent.
“Why did you oppose his plan?” Raphael asked Bao. “Oh, right, forgive me.” He gestured, and the ants retreated. Bao eased marginally, his dark eyes watchful. “Well? Did you lack the nerve? It doesn’t seem so.” He laughed again. “Did you lack faith in Thierry and his digging-stick?”
“I believe your threat is a valid one,” Bao said in a low voice. “I do not fear risking my life. But I was not willing to risk Moirin’s.”
“How touching.”
Bao shrugged. “You asked.”
“Shall I show you why Master Lo Feng’s esteemed apprentice is correct?” Raphael asked Thierry. Without bothering to wait for a reply, he gestured to his handmaids, who pulled back the feather tapestry behind the throne to reveal an alcove in which the odious Prince Manco had concealed himself. He strode forth with a satisfied grin, armor rattling, and bowed to Raphael.
Our men looked bewildered.
“Oh, of course!” Raphael said in mock sympathy. “You’ve no idea who this is. But Moirin does, don’t you? This is Prince Manco, who will rule in my stead one day. She tried in vain to suborn his loyalty.” He turned to the Quechua prince. “You’re looking very fierce in your armor, highness! Tell me, would you pledge your loyalty to a man unwilling to use such fine weapons to conquer Tawantinsuyo?”
The prince glared. “Never!”
“In the unlikely event that their plot had succeeded, what would you have done?” Raphael asked him.
Manco laid one hand on the hilt of his sword, and the other guards followed suit. “Put them to death,” he said promptly. “All of them.”
Raphael smiled. “There you have it,” he said to Thierry. “My threat is indeed a valid one. You have nothing to offer the Quechua. I do. If you think to act against me in any way, they will retaliate. Is that understood?”
Thierry’s eyes blazed with fury, but he restrained himself. “It is.”
“Excellent.” Raphael dipped into his basket, shoved a few leaves into his mouth, and chewed in a meditative fashion. “I’ll have need of all hands to transport goods on the journey to Qusqu. I need to know you’ll remain compliant. Will you?”
A muscle in his jaw twitched. “For the sake of my people, yes.”
“Kneel and swear it,” Raphael ordered him. “Swear on the honor of House Courcel that you will not raise a hand against me.”
Thierry hesitated.
“Do it or I put them all to death, guilty or no!” Raphael shouted. “Every last man of you!”
Dropping to one knee, Thierry bowed his head. “On the honor of House Courcel, I do so swear.”
“Good.” Relaxing, Raphael rose from his throne and placed an approving hand on Thierry’s bowed head in an eerie echo of the blessing that Cusi had bestowed on Bao in the Temple of the Sun… last night? Gods, it was only last night. “That wasn’t so hard, was it? I fear it’s the next part that will be.”
Thierry glanced up at him.
“You didn’t imagine this attempt could go unpunished, did you?” Raphael inquired. “You, my friend, I will spare, because… well, technically, you’re the rightful King of Terre d’Ange until that title is accorded to me, and I’d rather not commit regicide unless it’s absolutely necessary. But I fear you must be taught a lesson on the repercussions of ruling unwisely. So…” He nodded to Prince Manco. “You, I think, have earned the opportunity to see how sharply your sword cuts.”
“Raphael…” I murmured helplessly.
“Be quiet, Moirin!” Lightning flashed in his eyes. “Be glad I have need of you, else I’d have you slain for meddling! My tolerance has its limits.”
I fell silent.
“This one is yours,” Raphael said to Prince Manco, indicating the fellow he’d addressed as Michel. “And for the other…” He tapped his lips, beckoning to Temilotzin. “I do believe I’d like to use this opportunity to garner proof of your loyalty, Nahuatl.” He indicated the second of Thierry’s companions. “This one, you will kill for me. Do you understand?” At Temilotzin’s blank gaze, he repeated the words slowly in Quechua, slicing his hand across his throat and pointing to the fellow. “Do you understand?”
Temilotzin nodded impassively.
Raphael returned to his throne, raising one careless hand. “Do it.”
The Jaguar Knight struck without hesitation, his sword rasping clear of its scabbard. Pivoting on one foot, he leveled his blade in a hard, flat swing, beheading Thierry’s comrade with the same remorseless efficiency with which he had dispatched the traitor Pochotl, gouts of blood spraying everywhere, the poor fellow’s head rolling as his body slumped.
As horrible as it was, Prince Manco’s inept effort was worse.
He wielded his sword like a club, hacking frantically at his victim, who fell to his knees, keening, raising his hands in a futile effort to defend himself, his palms and forearms slashed and bleeding.
I clenched my own wounded hand into a fist. “Temilotzin, please!” I begged in Nahuatl. “Make an end to it, won’t you?”