City of the Snakes

1: aftermath

I push my bike to its utmost limits and chew up the streets at ninety miles an hour, a hundred, faster. I defy red lights and one-way streets, take bends without braking, challenging the city to blast my wheels from under me and send me crunching to my death.

The police are soon after me, sirens wailing. They set up roadblocks that I dodge automatically, brain ticking over mechanically, analyzing the routes ahead, anticipating the blocks, detouring before I come upon them. Part of me wants to ride into an ambush and go down in a hail of gunfire like a Wild West outlaw, but another part resists and pleads with me to cling to life. While the two halves wrestle with one another, I fly one step ahead of death, ready to stop, turn and greet it with open arms if my darker desires win out.

Thoughts of Bill whistle between the spokes of my wheels. They’re faster than my bike — faster than anything — but they don’t overtake me, content to tag along, tickling the back of my neck, whispering, “No escape, not even in death.”

I turn into a long open stretch and spot a burning barricade. This is an entry point to the east, blocked off by the locals. Nobody’s manning it this early in the morning. As soon as I see the flames, my decision is made. With a suicidal grin I aim for the center of the mound of old tires, tables, wardrobes and chairs, and hit the gas.

I’m doing eighty-seven when I hit. I close my eyes as I plow through the molten mess of rubber, wire and wood. Splinters strike my hands and cheeks. Something hot singes my left ear. The air is thick and unbreathable.

I burst free of the barricade, still alive. Irate, I brush glowing embers from my face and scalp, then probe the damage with my fingertips. Lots of cuts and nicks. A small chunk gone from the lobe of my left ear. Otherwise unharmed. Cursing the inadequacies of the fools who built the barricade, I push on, picking up speed again, cutting corners tighter than ever. I’ve lost the cops — they won’t venture this far east. Now it’s just me and death in a straight-up contest.

I snake and snarl through the streets, so fast that the houses, shops and signs blur. If I’m to die, this is as good a place as any. I’m glad it’s early and that the riots have confined most people to their homes. There’s almost nobody on the streets, so when I crash, I’ll hopefully not harm anyone else.

Finally, as I’m beginning to think that my bike’s conspiring against me, I hit a dead dog as I scream around a corner. My wheels choke, the bike coughs and suddenly I’m flying. My bike spins lengthwise through the air, back wheel over front, shattering the iron grille and window of a shop, continuing into the store, cutting a destructive swath through the display. I pitch along next to it, but smash into what’s left of the grille and bounce back to the pavement. Air whumps out of me, my head whips backward and I snap into blackness. Yes!

No.

My bike’s finished, but I’m not. I return to consciousness within minutes and struggle into a sitting position, groaning with agony, hating this world for clinging to me. As an alarm blares uselessly — no police will answer — I assess the damage. Grazed elbows and knees — the material of my jacket and pants cut to shreds around the bloody protuberances — and a deep gash across my forehead, from which blood runs thickly. My back feels as if a sumo wrestler used me as a trampoline, but incredibly I can’t feel any broken bones.

I stand, and though I’m light-headed and wobbly on my feet, I don’t fall. I let the gash in my head bleed, hoping I’ll lose too much blood and collapse, but when I lift a hand and test it, I feel it scabbing over and I know I’m going to live.

What the hell does a guy have to do to die around here?

With a wry chuckle, I accept the world’s refusal to acknowledge my death wish. As much as I long to embrace the eternal darkness, it’s clear that some higher force in this universe thinks I should hang on for a while yet, and who am I to argue with a power like that?

I stumble through the wreckage of the shop and check my bike. It’s a write-off. The frame’s buckled, the handlebars lie somewhere under a mound of leather jackets and gloves, the tank’s busted, wires hang exposed, engine parts bleed pitifully. I find a pen and paper on a counter and scribble a note, promising to pay for the damages. I pin it to the wall with a knife, then hobble out and start the long, painful walk home.

A shower. Caked blood rinses away, turning the water at my feet a dark reddish brown. Hot becomes cold. I stay where I am, head propped against the wall, letting the chill of the spray numb the worst of the pain.

Eventually I turn off the water and crawl, dripping wet, to bed. I can’t lie on my back — too painful — so I turn facedown and shut my eyes. Sleep isn’t on the agenda, but it’s easier to lie peacefully than to sit or stand.

I remain prostrate for most of the day. It’s cloudy outside, and it rains lightly in the early afternoon, the first shower since April. The planned Tuesday raid by Stuart Jordan’s forces fails to materialize — maybe the rain put him off — and it turns into a damp squib of a day. People mop up the worst of the carnage, shop in stores on the outskirts that have escaped the riots, and grumble about the rain.

My cell rings. It’s the third time someone’s called. I ignored it before, but now I reach over and answer. “Hello?” I croak.

“I phoned earlier but I guess you were out.” Ama.

“I was here. Didn’t feel like talking.”

“Are you OK?”

“Not really. I’m tired. Of everything. Would you do me a favor?”

“What?”

“Hire someone to kill me.”

There’s a long pause. “Is this a joke?”

“No.”

Another pause, then, “I’m coming to see you.”

“No, don’t…” I stop. She’s already hung up. Groaning softly, I drop the phone and wonder whether or not to let Ama in when she arrives.

Some time later I’ve just about decided not to admit Ama, when she knocks and calls my name. My legs swing over the edge of the bed and next thing I know, I’m creeping to the door to open it.

“Jesus!” she gasps at the sight of me.

“No,” I chuckle hoarsely. “Just me.”

“What happened?” she asks, pushing in and turning on the light, standing on her toes to examine the cut on my forehead.

“Came off my bike.”

“You crashed? When? Are you hurt? Have you seen a doctor?”

“I’m fine,” I scowl. “There’s nothing broken. I’m bruised and winded, but with a bit more rest I’ll be good as ever, worse luck.”

I retreat to my bedroom, where I sit tenderly on the bed and prod glumly at my wounds. Ama follows slowly, frowning. “What do you mean, ‘worse luck’?”

“I’m sick of living. I wanted to crash. I wish my neck were broken. My spine. My skull. I want to be dead, Ama. I can’t take this life any longer.”

“Al,” she says quietly, crouching. “What’s wrong?”

“For ten years I’ve hated and hunted — for nothing. He was pitiful, not evil. I thought I’d imagined the worst, but the truth was worse than anything I dreamed. I understand him now, and that’s the most god-awful feeling in the world.”

Ama takes my hands. “You’re not making sense, Al.”

“That’s the trouble,” I moan. “It does make sense. For ten years it didn’t. I was able to hide in madness, thinking it my friend. Now I see clearly, but I don’t want to. Better to perish and not see at all.”

“Al!” She squeezes my fingers. “Tell me what happened. Explain. I want to help but I can’t if you won’t tell me what’s wrong.”

I look into her eyes, calm and pure, and realize that I want to tell her. I thought it was a story I’d take to my grave

(sooner rather than later)

but now I find myself desperate to share. “You remember my ex-wife, Ellen?”

“Vaguely. We were friends. She was killed in the Skylight. You came to see me about her. It’s how we first met.”

“She was murdered by a woman who was working for Bill Casey. Bill was my best friend, the closest thing I had to a loving father.” I take a breath, put my thoughts in order, then start over. “I guess it began, for me, with a fishing trip…”

I tell Ama the whole story, leaving nothing out — Bill, Paucar Wami, everything. I even tell her of the offer the priests made, for me to share this city with Capac Raimi, and how I turned them down. It takes hours, and I’m still going long after midnight, but I bring her bang up to date, finishing with Bill’s revelation and crashing my bike. She’s silent for a long time, holding my hands, staring dead ahead, thoughtful. I wait for her to make a comment.

Finally, without glancing at me, she asks, “How did you feel when you killed him?”

I crack a ghastly smile. “I didn’t.”

Her head shoots around. “You didn’t kill him?”

“I couldn’t. Not after what he told me. I tried. I’ve spent ten years hating him, killing in an attempt to lure him out of hiding, with the sole purpose of executing him. But when I looked into his eyes and saw the insanity, the terror, the pain… He begged me to kill him — followed me out of the shack, weeping, pleading — but my hands wouldn’t lift against him.”

Ama starts to cry, but she’s smiling through the tears. “You took pity on him!” she exclaims, hugging me tight.

“No,” I wince, pushing her away. “He’s suffering more than any man I’ve seen. Execution would have been a mercy. It’s crueler to let him go on, tormented by dreams of snakes, wondering why he destroyed me, hating himself. I let him live because it’s worse than killing him, not because I pity the bastard.”

She shakes her head. “Tell yourself that if you want — you might even believe it — but I see the truth in your eyes. You understand why he did it, that he was tied to his course, just as you’ve been to yours for ten years, and you forgave him.”

“No!” I shout. “He killed Nicola Hornyak. One of his servants butchered Ellen. He brought me to my knees, took away everything I valued. I hate him. I let him live to punish him. I…” My throat tightens. My shoulders shake and my eyes fill with tears. “What have I done? What have I become? Ten years hunting a broken old man who raped and murdered his own sister while trying to save her. Ten years of killing, madness, hate…”

“But it’s over,” she murmurs. “You can rest, get out, start clean. It’s taken ten years, but you’re free, Al. You’re free!”

I stare at her, then bawl like a child, a scream that’s been building inside me for a decade, a howl of rage, despair and loss. Clutching Ama to me like a life buoy, I bury my head in her lap and roar into the folds of her dress. Within seconds it’s dark with tears and crumpled from where my teeth close and open, but Ama doesn’t push me away. Instead she hugs me and whispers, telling me it’s OK to yell and cry. And I do, losing myself in grief, cutting out the world and its hurt, giving myself over to the waves and rhythm of release, until, in the early hours of the morning, my head still in her lap, her arms wrapped tight around me, I can cry no more, and fall into a dark, dreamless, demonless sleep.

When I wake, the nightmare’s over. For ten years I’ve lived it, each day a new installment of terror, fear, hatred. That dreadful driving force is gone. There’s pain, regret, longing — I wish I could have those wasted years back — but no thirst for vengeance. As I lie facedown in the gray gloom of the morning, I mutter into the pillow, “I am Paucar Wami,” but the words are meaningless. That part of me died during the night and evaporated in the light of the dawn. I need never again stalk the streets or kill as my father. I don’t know if I can be the person I was before the madness, but I’m no longer a monster.

I stretch and groan, muscles aching, joints stiff, head on fire. I sit up and the sheets fall away. Ama enters. “I thought you were going to sleep all day,” she says, setting down a cup of tea and coming over to examine my scar. She’s taken off her dress and only wears a long shirt over her underwear. “How do you feel?”

“Shaken. Sore. Small and weak. But alive.” I grin at her and she must see the realization of freedom in my eyes, because she returns the smile and kisses my forehead, just beneath my scar and above my eyebrows.

“Glad you didn’t die in the crash?” she asks softly.

“Yes.” I take her hands and kiss them. “Thank you.”

“For what — being here?”

“And listening. And understanding. And helping me to understand.”

“Don’t get sappy on me, Al,” she chuckles.

“Without you, I might never have known that I was free.”

“You would,” she replies. “It just might have taken you a bit longer to figure it out. So, what do you want to do on your first day of freedom?”

“So many things,” I sigh. “Put right the wrongs of the last decade. Bring back to life the people I killed. Say sorry to those I terrorized. Get rid of these horrible fucking snakes.” I stroke my tattoos, then my scalp. “Grow my hair back.”

Ama laughs. “You can’t do all that in a day.” Her smile fades. “Some of it you’ll never be able to do.”

I nod soberly, thinking of the dead.

“But let’s not waste time worrying about that,” she snorts. “What’s it to be — a walk in the park? A swim? Maybe you’d like to stand naked in the center of Swiss Square and roar your delight?”

“I think not.” Scratching my thigh, it suddenly strikes me that I’m naked. Ama must have undressed me. My hands start to pull up the covers, then stop. “Know what I really want?”

“What?”

“To make love.” Her face darkens. “I know you love Raimi. I won’t embarrass you by pleading. But for ten years there’s been no love in my life. I need to hold and make love to a woman, and I need to do it now. If I have to, I’ll go hire a hooker. But I’d prefer it to be you. If you won’t, I understand.”

Ama looks away. “My heart is Capac’s. I don’t want it to be, but it is.”

“I know. And I won’t try and win it, though I wish I could. All I’m asking is that you share this morning with me. If you can bring yourself to lie down with me, just once… if you don’t think I’m too grotesque… if you can forget all the awful things I’ve done…”

She looks at me, eyes soft. “It’s been a long time for me too. And though my heart beats for Capac, I hate him. I want to… but…” Her jaw firms. “What the hell. Let’s do it. But on the understanding that it’s only sex, nothing more.”

Ama pulls her shirt off, then slips off her underwear and stands before me naked, unsmiling. “I don’t know if I can enjoy this,” she warns.

“If you can’t, we’ll stop,” I promise, then peel back the sheets and invite her into bed. After a moment’s hesitation she joins me, and I toss the sheets over us, covering us, hiding us, bringing us together in the gloom.

Our lovemaking is slow and gentle. We’re clumsy to begin with, but that makes us laugh, taking the tension out of the act, and soon we’re moving as one, lips and bodies locked. It lasts a long time, filled with many stops and starts, and by the end we’re sweating and panting, despite the leisurely pace of the joining.

Lying on my back, holding her, I kiss her gently. “Was it OK?”

“Best lay I’ve had in ten years,” she smirks.

“You know what I mean. Did you enjoy it?”

She nods thoughtfully. “I feel guilty, but glad at the same time.”

“Has it freed you? Can you forget Raimi and make a new life for yourself?”

She nips my nose and grins. “You weren’t that good! I realize I’m not tied as tightly to Capac as I thought, but I’m his by destiny, and even though it’s a manufactured destiny, it’s not a bond I can break. He’ll always be here”—she taps her heart—“whether I want him to be or not.”

“It isn’t fair,” I mutter sourly.

“Life wasn’t designed to be fair, Al. You know that better than most.”

Ama rises and stretches. She’s beautiful naked. I wish I could win her over. I think of reaching for her, loving her again, loving her continuously until I grind away her feelings for Raimi. But I don’t have the right to make demands of her, so I let my hand stay where it is, resting on my chest.

“How are the ribs?” Ama asks, slipping on her shirt.

“Tender. Head’s worse. Think you could get some painkillers for me?”

“Sure. Any particular brand?”

“I’m easy.”

“Tell me something I don’t know!”

I shower while she’s gone, water as hot as it gets. My knees and elbows have scabbed over. There’ll be scars when the scabs clear, on my forehead as well. More to add to the collection.

I swallow a handful of pills when Ama returns, washing them down with water. Then she makes me lie on the bed and massages my back. She’s not very skilled at it, but she’s dogged. After an hour I’m feeling much more limber than I was.

“What’s next on the agenda?” Ama asks, rolling off.

“Sleep,” I groan, eyes shut, relaxed.

“I mean tomorrow. Next week. Next year. You’ve been given your life back. What do you plan to do with it?”

My smile turns to a frown and my eyes flutter open. I tilt my head so her face comes into view. “What do you think I should do?”

“Get out,” she says immediately. “Catch the first bus, train or plane and take off. It doesn’t matter where. Just get away, where nobody knows you, where none of the shit of this city can touch you. Worry about the future later. First you need to escape, from the villacs, your father, the riots, everything.”

“You make it sound easy.”

“It is,” she hisses, digging her nails into the flesh of my bicep. “You’re human, Al. I’m not. I don’t have a choice. I was made to love Capac and stay by him. I can’t leave. But the priests have no hold over you. Get out and don’t look back.”

I’m tempted. My mind runs with the idea. Pack a bag, use the credit card Tasso supplied me with to buy tickets and withdraw piles of cash, run until I can’t be found, leave this city, its gangsters and Incan priests to go screw themselves.

I limp to the window and gaze at the shaded stretch of street beneath. A few kids are circling posts set in the concrete on newly acquired bikes, shouting, laughing, unaffected by the riots and the threat hanging over them all. I mean nothing to Ford Tasso or Eugene Davern — useful at the moment, but thoroughly dispensable. And although the villacs have a vested interest in me, my disappearance wouldn’t throw them too much either. They’d wash their hands of me and turn to another of their fall guys. But the kids, their parents, my half brothers and sisters in the Snakes…

Who’ll look out for them if I quit? I don’t owe them anything — I didn’t start the riots, or recruit the Snakes — but I feel responsible. I don’t control their destinies, but I can maybe influence them for the better. If I stay.

“I can’t leave,” I tell Ama, sensing the outline of a new destiny forming around me. “I’ve unfinished business to attend to.”

“Such as?” she snaps.

Answers click into place swiftly as I reel them out. “The villacs. The Snakes. The riots. The Kluxers. My father.”

Definitely my father, if only for what he did to Bill. I always knew he was a monster, but terrorizing a kid into raping and killing his sister goes beyond the bounds even of monstrosity. He could do it all again if the priests free him.

“That’s a lot of business,” Ama says skeptically. “Think you can handle it all?”

“I don’t know,” I answer honestly. “I can confront my father — though I don’t care for my chances — and I think I can put an end to the riots by playing ball with the priests. After that… we’ll see.”

“It’s not your place to cure this city of all its ills,” Ama says.

“Of course it isn’t. But if I can stop the riots, free my relatives and the local kids from the Snakes, settle matters with my father, spit in the blind eyes of the villacs… That wouldn’t be a bad legacy. And I need to leave a legacy other than one of terror and bloodshed. I couldn’t live with myself the way things stand. I’d always be looking back.”

Ama gazes at me silently for long, probing seconds, then sighs. “You’re crazy, but I see you’re set on this.” She licks her lips. “What about Capac? Your bargain with Tasso’s off, now that you found Bill. Will you leave Capac to the priests?”

I could. Tasso no longer has a hold over me. I’m free to tell him what he can do with his deal. But Raimi’s important to the villacs, and they’re the key to the Snakes and the riots. If I quit, I’d risk isolating myself. I’m focal as long as the priests need me. Outside the loop of their creation, I’m as powerless as any other pawn in the city.

“I’d happily leave him to rot,” I grunt, “but I need to restore Raimi to his throne to put an end to the unrest. I also want the villacs to think I’m still playing by their rules. The search for The Cardinal continues.”

“Then I’m sticking with you,” Ama says, and she doesn’t leave room for me to argue. “Where do you start and what can I do to help?”

“First,” I yawn, “I catch more sleep. When I feel ready, I want you to lead me to the villacs. I have a proposal to put to them.”

“What is it?” Ama asks.

“I don’t know,” I grin. “But hopefully I’ll have thought of one by the time I wake.”

Wednesday, late, the tunnels. My back’s killing me but I couldn’t put this off until tomorrow. Stuart Jordan launched his counterattack earlier, taking everyone by surprise for once. He hit the headquarters of the Lobes, one of the larger gangs in the east. Eliminated them swiftly and efficiently. Spreading wide his mixed force of cops and soldiers, he moved on the next four gang strongholds and looked likely to make a clean sweep, when his men were attacked by ghostlike, deadly warriors in dark T-shirts and jeans, with shaven heads and serpents tattooed on their cheeks. The Snakes made short work of Jordan’s men — reports put the death toll between fifty and seventy — and forced him to sound a full retreat.

Relief at seeing Jordan’s forces repelled was short-lived. The Snakes, having routed the enemy, attacked the gangs that Jordan had targeted, scattering those they didn’t kill. The Snakes disappeared back underground, but the gang members are still active, scouring the streets, clashing with each other, hungry for a fight.

Once I became aware of what was happening, I had to intervene, regardless of my condition. Ama helped bandage my ribs. She also disguised the scar on my forehead (I don’t want to appear vulnerable). Then she came with me to the underworld entrance, and led me down into the darkness.

I try keeping track of our direction, for fear something should happen to Ama, but it’s impossible in the twisting tunnels. If we were going slowly, and I were carefully marking my path, it would be different, but we need to move swiftly. The longer we take, the more lives will be lost.

We encounter nobody until we enter a short tunnel, lit by a torch at the far end, and come face-to-face with a blind priest. He stretches his arms wide and chants.

“Is this who we’re looking for?” I ask as we approach.

“No,” Ama says. “I don’t think he speaks English. He’s only here to greet us.”

“In that case…” I stick out my right arm and poleax him. I could break his neck, but settle for dumping him on his ass and leaving him to splutter in the dust.

Four turns later we enter a large, bare room, where the villac I spoke with before is waiting, seated on a high stool. “Welcome, Flesh of Dreams,” he intones.

“Cut the shit,” I snap. “I want to discuss terms. Can I do that with you, or is there some other prick I have to go to?”

“I am prick enough,” he says, gesturing to a couple of chairs set by the wall to his left. Once we’re seated, he smooths the folds of his robes. “You are ready to pledge yourself to us?”

“In a manner of speaking,” I reply shortly.

“You will do as we bid? Lead the Snakes? Assist Blood of Dreams?”

“Yes. But I have conditions.” He smiles and nods for me to continue. “I want to end the riots. There’s been enough bloodshed.”

“We can grant that wish. We will have to strike hard to secure peace and exert control. More must perish. But within a couple of days the fighting will cease.”

“What about the Troops and Kluxers? You think they’ll sit back and let the Snakes annex the east?”

“You need not worry about them. Shortly after peace has been restored, we will return Blood of Dreams to his rightful position — assuming he cooperates — and he will see that your authority is not undermined.”

I glance at Ama and catch her relieved smile at the news that her lover is due to return. “And my father?” I ask.

The villac shrugs. “He is of no interest to us now. He will be released, since we gave our word that we would set him free, but he must go elsewhere to kill. He would be an irritant if he stayed.”

I could make it part of our bargain that they terminate Paucar Wami — I doubt the priest would object too strenuously — but I want him for myself. His fate should be mine to decide, not theirs.

I’m getting most of what I wish for, an end to the riots, the city at peace, the freedom to move against my father. I’d like to see the priests come to grief as well, but I can’t have everything. There is, however, one final point. “When it’s over, I want the Snakes disbanded. Send them back to their homes with orders to get on with their lives.”

The priest shakes his head. “The Snakes are essential. Without them you would stand alone in the corridors of power. They are your bargaining chip when dealing with Blood of Dreams and the others. You need them.”

“I don’t want them,” I snap. “Set them free or it’s no deal.”

“Then it’s no deal. You are important, Flesh of Dreams, but so are the Snakes. For centuries we worked without an army. We see now that we were mistaken. We need a force of our own, for when political machinations are not enough.”

“But—”

“This is not open to debate,” he interrupts curtly.

I curse beneath my breath, but I know when I’m beaten.

I have nothing to offer the villacs except myself. If that’s not enough to sway them, I have no other card to play.

“OK,” I sigh, glaring at the white-eyed priest. “I’ll lead them for you. I’ll work with you. But if you try and screw me over…”

“Flesh of Dreams,” the villac chuckles, “would we do that? Come. We have much to do if we are to realize our plans. Let us begin.” He offers a hand. I stare at the pale fingers a moment — I hate these bastards, but what choice do I have? — then take them and let him lead me through the tunnels, ever deeper beneath the earth, to embrace the destiny of their making that I was for so long so determined to avoid.

2: the snakes unleashed

We stream from the tunnels at dawn, 378 Snakes, seven Cobras and me, their Sapa Inca, Paucar Wami. In a wave we break across the east, the members of each phalanx slotting into his or her designated position, their orders clear, the Cobras of all seven triumvirates in constant communication with their underlings and me. The villacs spent the past several hours preparing me for the role of field commander, talking me through maps, schedules, statistics, lines of assault and defense. This is their battle — they’ve primed the Snakes, set the targets, issued instructions — but once we’re out of the tunnels, I’m in command. I have to accept responsibility in the field, react to turns in the fighting as I see fit, lead by example. The Cobras will be on hand to advise me but the priests will remain underground.

Ama’s by my side, as are the sixteen men and two women of the first phalanx of the first triumvirate — my personal bodyguard. They’ve been trained to serve the Sapa Inca and they take their job very seriously. Apparently it’s a great honor and only the cream of the crop are elected to the first of the first.

The primary targets are the gangs who’ve been roaming freely, falling on anyone who gets in their way. The phalanxes move on the weary members and put them out of action, wounding or frightening off when they can, killing only when necessary.

We set up in a van outside an abandoned police station and await word from our troops on the streets. Early reports are positive — most gangs break under attack. A few strike back but are swiftly crushed. Within an hour the streets have been cleared of predators. Time for phase two.

Nine of the phalanxes group into their triumvirates and link up, forming a core force of 158 Snakes (four died in the fighting) and three Cobras. They congregate in Cockerel Square, the heart of the east. Several gangs have used the Square prior to our takeover, so it’s stocked with supplies and weapons. The Snakes set about barricading the entrances and booby-trapping the surrounding buildings. The Square will provide pissed-off enemies with a fortress to target and storm. We’ll let them exhaust themselves on it. Those inside will repel as many as they can, for as long as they can, while a fourth triumvirate lies low outside, waiting for word to move in and break up assailants from the rear.

The eight remaining phalanxes go wherever the action takes them, patrolling, breaking up fights, quelling riots, guarding shops and banks, cracking down on looters. They have orders to be kind to women and children, keep the peace, stop the destruction of property, use force sparingly. Most are local kids, eager to protect their friends and loved ones. They’ll become the public face of the Snakes — four of my aides are busy contacting news crews to arrange interviews. We’ll make it clear we’re not to be taken lightly, but we’ll also insist that the innocent have nothing to fear. We’re here to help, not conquer. We’re the solution, not the problem. At least that’s the media line.

As word reaches me that Cockerel Square has been successfully taken, and that the first reporters are being shepherded through the blockades, I pass control of the van to one of my bodyguards and step outside to clear my head and prepare for the long day ahead. Ama follows. “Think you’ll cope?” she asks.

“It’ll be a miracle if I do,” I laugh. “I’m not cut out to be a general.”

“You’re doing fine.” She leads me aside, out of earshot of three young Snakes standing guard. “Have you thought this through? You’re getting in deep.”

“This is the only way I can stop the riots.”

“Maybe you should let them run their course. Do you think things will be better with these guys in charge? They’re imposing martial law. What happens when order is restored? The Snakes plan to control everything, who comes and goes, who owns what and whom. You’re handing them the east.”

“That’s one way of looking at it. I prefer to think I’m saving lives.”

“Perhaps you are,” she mutters. “I just wish there was some other way. I don’t want to see this city under the thumb of the villacs.”

“That won’t happen,” I promise.

“You can stop it?” she challenges me.

“Somehow, some way… yes. I haven’t figured it out, but I’m working on it. In the meantime I’ll do their bidding and let them think they’ve whipped me. It’ll all come out OK in the end.” Trying to sound like I mean it, not just to convince Ama, but myself as well.

By Friday evening the east is ours. The expected siege on Cockerel Square never materialized, and although a few ragged bands made hit-and-run attacks, they were easily repelled, without the loss of a single life. Two of the triumvirates pulled out last night and joined the others on patrol, leaving three phalanxes to hold the Square and propagate the myth that it’s our official base.

To my surprise, people have accepted us, freely offering support and assistance. I suppose any relief from the riots is welcome, and after all, many of the Snakes are known to them — friends, neighbors, relatives. They believe we’re their own. They don’t know about the scheming villacs. Maybe they wouldn’t care if they did. A drowning man rarely stops to query one who extends a saving hand.

Even more surprising is the eagerness of the gangs to flock to our cause. For decades the east has been a mishmash of divided loyalties, gangs resisting the temptation to merge. Even Ferdinand Dorak was unable to bond them. The gangs here feared and respected him, and paid their dues, but they never united behind him. He could crush any gang he liked, but another would always spring up in its place, and he was never able to bring the disparate bands together.

That time-honored standard, which has dictated the way of life here for sixty or seventy years, changed overnight. As soon as the Snakes set about spreading the word — that we’re powerful, that we plan to be to the east what the Troops are to the rest of the city, that we’ll fight off the likes of Eugene Davern and his Kluxers — gangs made a beeline for Cockerel Square to offer their allegiance. Ama thinks it’s rooted in fear of the Kluxers, the Troops and Stuart Jordan’s forces. The east is under threat and she believes the gangs have decided it’s time to fight as one, at least until the threat has passed.

I suspect the villacs have more to do with the mood swing. I remember Dorak boasting to Capac Raimi about how he created Ayuamarcan leaders and sent them among his foes with orders to bend them to his will. Maybe fresh Ayuamarcans are at work in the east, and some of the gang leaders have only recently come into being with the sole purpose of persuading their followers to heed the call of Paucar Wami and his Snakes.

Whatever their motivation, I welcome the new arrivals warmly, dropping in on the Snakes in Cockerel Square every few hours to make speeches (hesitant at first, but I get the hang of it quickly), promising a new future where those of the east stand among the city’s elite. They cheer wildly, keeping any worries they may harbor to themselves.

I’ve become a highly visible figure, putting myself about, touching base with all the phalanxes, handing out essentials to the needy at food and clothes stations, scowling at the cameras (Paucar Wami doesn’t smile), vowing to build from the roots up and lead the east into a new, glorious era. I haven’t given any interviews, but eventually I will, making the final transition from mythical killer to public man of the people.

It felt surreal at first, but it’s amazing how swiftly you can adapt. I’ve been head of the Snakes for less than forty-eight hours but feel like I’ve been doing this for years. I should be alarmed at how naturally I’ve settled into the role of leader, and how that plays into the villacs’ hands, but I don’t have time. Being in command leaves you with little opportunity to brood about problems of your own. You have to put your head down and get on with it, and somewhere in the middle of all the decision-making you lose your desire and ability to think about yourself — which may be exactly what the blind priests planned.

A spokesman for Stuart Jordan calls at eight, hoping to arrange a meeting, and after that it’s nonstop, one flunky after another, promising the world if the leader of the Snakes will meet with the police commissioner in an attempt to put an end to the violence. What Jordan really wants is to jump on the bandwagon and take credit for the cease-fire. We stall him diplomatically and promise to get back to him soon. In fact we’ve no intention of having anything to do with Jordan. His days are numbered — someone must be held accountable for the riots, and Jordan’s as suitable a patsy as any — so we’re holding out for the new man.

While desperate officials jam the lines, I take to the streets for the carnival that is gearing into life. Now that it’s relatively safe, people want to celebrate. They’ve survived the worst outbreak of violence in forty years and witnessed the birth of a new era, where those of the east boast an armed force of their own and need no longer walk in fear of the Troops or any other force. Party time!

The street parties burn far into the night, and it seems as if everyone in the east is dancing in the middle of the roads, lighting bonfires in open squares — carefully supervised, unlike the wild fires of the riots — setting off fireworks, drinking and eating too much, making love in cars and on rooftops. The Snakes blend in with the revelers, accepting their thanks with polite smiles, refusing alcohol, drugs and other gifts, alert to the threat of a sneak raid by the Troops, Kluxers or police.

Ama slips away as the festivities are hitting full swing, to be with her “father.” She promises to return in the morning but I tell her not to bother. “Tired of me already, Sapa Inca?” she asks, eyes twinkling.

“The great and mighty Paucar Wami has no time for pleasures of the flesh,” I grunt pompously, then grin. “Come if you want, but there isn’t much you can do. If you’d rather spend time with Cafran, I’ll understand.”

She nods. “I’d like that. It’s hard work running an army. If you’re sure you can stumble along without me…”

“I’ll manage somehow.”

She kisses me quickly. I want to make something more of the kiss, but keep my hands by my sides. “Take care, Al,” she says. “The coup’s gone like a dream but you’re bound to hit a glitch somewhere. Don’t trust any of these bastards.”

“I won’t.”

“Keep me in touch with what’s going on, and call when you need me.”

“You think I can’t get by on my own?”

“You’re a man,” she chuckles. “Of course you can’t.”

I laugh, watching her go, wishing I could keep her.

I run into the glitch quicker than Ama could have anticipated. In the early hours of Saturday I grab some much-needed sleep. I’m stiff when I wake and spend twenty minutes exercising on the floor beside my bed, limbering up. After checking with my Cobras — all’s well — I indulge in a leisurely breakfast. After that I take to the streets with my bodyguards. Many who left at the height of the riots are returning and I ensure they don’t feel threatened. I also arrange meetings with some of the looters who’ve been stripping shops and apartments bare, and ask them to return the goods they stole. I don’t come down heavy — I have to keep these people on my side — merely ask that they consider the long-term profits over short-term, and vow to bear it in mind if they do me this favor. Most cooperate, and by afternoon news cameras are focusing on the incredible sight of thieves returning their plunder to its rightful owners.

It’s evening when the glitch hits. I’m watching a news program, enjoying the positive coverage, when the anchorman cuts in with a report of violence in the center of the city. Although it hasn’t been confirmed, it appears that several of the Snakes attacked a group of diners leaving a restaurant, killing eight people. At least three of the eight were Kluxers.

As my brain races, a radio reporter makes an excited announcement — the lobby of Party Central has been firebombed by the Snakes. The death toll hasn’t been established, but several Troops perished, along with a number of civilians.

“Sard!” I bellow, startling the Snakes in the van. Sard’s a Cobra. Although they’re not supposed to reveal their names, I made them tell me, so I could address them directly without having to remember and repeat their triumvirate numbers all the time. Sard responds to my call immediately, poking his head into the van. “What the fuck are the Snakes doing at Party Central?” I roar.

“Sapa Inca?” he frowns.

“I just heard on the radio that we’ve attacked Party Central. And there was a report on TV that we’re killing Kluxers too.”

“But Sapa Inca, you authorized the strikes.”

My eyes narrow. “Get out,” I snarl at the Snakes. They obey without question, clearing the way for Sard. I tell him to close the door, then grab him by the lapels of his leather jacket and jerk him forward. “When did I tell you?”

“Early this morning, before dawn.”

While I was sleeping. The priests must have sent the real Paucar Wami to issue fresh orders to the Cobras. Those sons of…

“What did I say?” I growl.

“You sent the phalanxes of the fourth triumvirate to take the battle to our enemies,” Sard answers proudly. “I’m not sure what their targets were — only the Cobra of the fourth knows that — but you said we’d hit fast and hard, where it hurt, and warned us to be ready for a backlash.”

“Did anybody question the logic of attacking the two most powerful forces in the city at the same time?” I bark. “We haven’t even consolidated our position here!”

The Cobra shrugs. “You’re the Sapa Inca. We don’t question your orders.”

“Brainless fucking…” I mutter vile curses beneath my breath, but they won’t change anything, so I snap out of my rage and consider this mess from a cold, unemotional standpoint. “Recall them,” I tell Sard. “I was mistaken. The thrill of victory rushed to my head. I want them back before they do more damage.”

“I can’t,” Sard says, staring at me oddly. “You told them to leave their radios and phones behind. They’re incommunicado.”

“Fuck!” I kick a stand stacked high with TV sets, then kick it again, smashing the glass of the set lowest down. “Find them. Send your men and…”

I stop when I see him shaking his head. “I don’t know where they are. We could search, but those of the fourth have been trained to lie low and cover their tracks, the same as the rest of us. The odds—”

“Screw the odds. Take a phalanx, split it into pairs, and hunt them down. Look everywhere. Don’t stop to draw breath. When your men flag, replace them.”

“As you wish, Sapa Inca,” he says, bowing his head.

“Sard!” I shout as he backs toward the exit. “Will you do me a favor?”

“Of course, Sapa Inca.”

“Start using your brain.” He blinks uncomprehendingly. “I’m not a god. I’m prone to error like everyone else. The next time I issue an order that makes no sense, that strikes you as the dumbest fucking thing you’ve ever heard, tell me.”

“But we’ve been taught that to question the Sapa Inca is to invite death.”

“Are you afraid of death?” I ask quietly.

The Cobra snaps erect. “No, Sapa Inca!”

“Then use your initiative in future. Tell the other Cobras to do the same. I need people to challenge me when I make a bad call. Are you prepared to risk my wrath, even at the cost of your life?”

He nods solidly. “I am.”

I smile fleetingly, then point to the door. “Now go find those fools and pray they haven’t fucked everything up for the rest of us.”

As evening turns to night, reports of attacks by the Snakes increase. The three phalanxes are covering a lot of ground, hitting Tasso’s and Davern’s forces at random. Suddenly the news crews don’t care about thieves returning stolen goods. They want to know why the Snakes have overshot their boundaries, where we’ll hit next. In the space of a few hours we’ve gone from being saviors of the east to would-be conquerors of the north, south and west. And nobody likes it.

I tell my media-friendly front men to issue blanket denials — we know nothing of the attacks, they’re the work of a splinter organization, we don’t condone them — then get busy trying to prevent the catastrophe poised to engulf us.

I send messengers to track down the villacs, so that I can talk about this with them, but the few who speak English can’t be located and the others merely babble meaninglessly in response to my call for answers.

As the airwaves fill with the news that a highly ranked Troop was butchered at home, along with his wife, three kids and visiting mother-in-law (comics will have a field day with that in the coming weeks), I dial Ford Tasso’s number and hope that he’s still in Party Central, not on his way over in a retaliatory strike.

The phone clicks and Tasso snarls before I have a chance to say anything. “You better have a great fucking explanation for this, Algiers.”

“It isn’t my doing.”

“You lead the Snakes, don’t you?”

“They’re following Paucar Wami’s instructions, not mine. The first I knew of this was when the story broke on TV. I’m doing all I can to call them off.”

“What do you expect me to do in the meantime? Sit here, twiddle my thumbs and wait for you to sort this shit out? Do you know how many people I have urging me to stamp you out like the arrogant little upstart you are?”

“I can imagine,” I chuckle humorlessly.

“I’ve held them off because I wanted to check with you first, make sure you weren’t being set up by some sneaky bastards disguised as Snakes.”

“I’m definitely being set up,” I groan, “but by sneaky bastards on the inside. The priests are behind this. I don’t know what they’re up to, but they seem to want you and Davern to attack the east — which should be reason enough not to.”

He sighs heavily. “You’re asking a lot.”

“I know. But if you send the Troops in, you’ll play into the villacs’ hands. Stall your men. Give me time. Please.”

He’s silent for five seconds. Ten. Fifteen. Finally, “I want to send someone to discuss this with you.”

“Who?”

“Frank.”

“When can he be here?”

“He’s in the field. It’ll be midnight before he’s back. By the time I brief him… How does three a.m. sound?”

“Perfect. Send him in by Blesster Street. I’ll have an escort waiting.”

“You’d better,” he growls, hanging up.

I dial the number Eugene Davern gave me. He answers on the second ring with a curt “Yeah?”

“It’s Al Jeery. I want to talk.”

“The time for talking’s past. You had your chance. I’ve got nothing to say except see you on the street, nigger.”

“Don’t be a fuckhead!” I snap. “Negotiate with me now and we might walk away from this stronger than ever. Cut me off and we’re both going down.”

He pauses suspiciously. “What are you talking about?”

“All I want is to make my home turf safe. I have no wish to go to war with you or the Troops. Even if I did, would I start one while I’m still trying to secure the east?”

“You might,” he mutters. “Nobody was expecting an attack.”

“Because it’s suicide. The bastards behind this only want chaos. They don’t give a fuck about any of us. I’m meeting a representative of Ford Tasso’s at three a.m. Send one of your men along. I’ll have him met at Blesster Street. Hear what I have to say. Hold your forces in check until then.”

“I don’t know…”

“A few hours, Davern, that’s all I’m asking.”

He considers. Davern’s new to this game, not as seasoned as Tasso. He’s smart but itchy, afraid of being made the fall guy. He could swing either way.

“OK,” he says abruptly. “I’ll send Wornton — if you can win him around, you’ll earn a fucking cease-fire. Otherwise…”

I hang up before he can change his mind, dial Sard’s number and discover he’s had no luck tracking down the rogue Snakes. I tell him to keep trying and suggest detailing another two phalanxes to the search. He advises against it — the fewer people we send, the less conspicuous they’ll be. I bow to his assessment — a leader has to trust his aides — then sit back and chew my fingernails, counting off the seconds of the most nerve-racking hours of my life.

Hyde Wornton arrives first, wearing his trademark white fur coat, blond hair as immaculately combed as before. He casts an eye around the deserted police station I’ve appropriated for the meeting, taking in the charred rafters and gaping holes in the roof. “Don’t think much of your choice of HQ,” he sneers.

“It’s as good a place as any.” I nod to one of three chairs I’ve laid out in a triangle. He ignores me and eyes the exposed rafters suspiciously.

“You’re sure we’re safe?” he asks.

“You’ve no enemies here,” I tell him — a ludicrous lie that brings a smile to his lips.

“I should live to see the day,” he chortles, but relaxes and takes a chair. “Who are we waiting for?” he asks, digging out a knife to pare his nails.

“Frank Weld.”

He whistles. “Should be interesting.” Checks his watch. “I left two of my men at Blesster Street. If they haven’t heard from me by five, they’ll call Eugene and—”

“All I’m waiting for is Frank. It wouldn’t be polite to start without him.”

Wornton lapses into silence and concentrates on his nails. He’s less nervous than I am, which irritates me, but I can’t help it. I’m playing a new game, in which maybe hundreds of lives are at stake. Wornton cares only about himself, as I used to. I’ve let myself start to worry about others, which is a weakness I must hide from Wornton and Frank. They seize on weaknesses, like sharks.

Frank turns up at 03:21, drawn and ill-tempered. He stops in the doorway when he spies Hyde Wornton. “What the fuck’s he doing here?” he bellows.

“The Snakes attacked Davern’s men too,” I explain. “I need to clear the air with him as well.”

Frank glares at Wornton, who smiles back innocently, then levels his gaze on me. “I thought this was supposed to be one on one. I have no intention of discussing private affairs in front of that son of a bitch.”

“Watch your mouth,” Wornton snarls. “It’s not just niggers we string up.”

Frank laughs monotonously. “That’s the sort of scum you hope to strike a deal with?”

“I don’t like it, but I’d rather talk with him than fight him. If you want, I can see you one at a time, but I’ve got the same thing to say to both of you. It’d be a lot quicker if I took you together.”

Frank hovers uncertainly.

“For fuck’s sake, sit!” Wornton snaps. “The nigger’s right — if we don’t talk today, we’ll be at war tomorrow. I’ll face that if I have to, but I’d rather not.”

“OK.” Frank takes the third chair, moving it a couple of feet farther away from Wornton. “Impress me, Al.”

“First I want to make one thing clear.” I gaze steadily at Hyde Wornton. “Call me a nigger again and I’ll gut you, regardless of the consequences.”

Wornton opens his mouth to jeer, sees the real intent in my eyes, and closes it. “Touchy, aren’t you?” he pouts.

I face Frank. “Fifty-five Snakes are responsible for the attacks. They’ve been sent on a hit-and-run mission by the real Paucar Wami. I’m assuming he was put up to it by—”

“Hold on,” Wornton interrupts. “What do you mean, the real Paucar Wami?”

“You know I borrowed the name, that there was a serial killer before me?”

“I heard stories but I never believed them.”

“Believe. Paucar Wami was real and is real again. The villacs used him to lead the Snakes. I stepped in on the understanding that I was to replace him, but he’s still hanging around. He’s to blame for this mess. I had nothing to do with it.”

“This is bullshit,” Wornton growls. “How can this other fucker give orders if you’re in charge?”

“I’m not in charge,” I sigh. “Paucar Wami is. The Snakes rally to the image of the assassin. I’ve assumed his image, so to that extent I control them, but since the real Wami looks just like me, he can obviously step in when I’m not around and issue conflicting orders.”

Wornton raises an eyebrow at Frank. “You buying any of this shit?”

Frank nods slowly. “Ford explained some of the situation to me before sending me over. I can’t say I understand it all, but he’s telling the truth about Wami.”

“So why isn’t the other guy here?” Wornton asks. “If he’s the real leader, why aren’t we talking to him instead of this pretender?”

“Paucar Wami doesn’t talk,” I answer softly. “He kills. To most intents and purposes, I control the Snakes. I’m the one who can get us out of this mess. Strike a deal with me and I’ll do all in my power to call off the renegades. But if you charge in, I’ll be helpless. You’ll give the villacs what they want — a war — and regardless of who wins, we’ll all suffer.”

Frank clears his throat. “What guarantee can you make? If we hold off, how do we know the priests won’t use the real Paucar Wami to send more Snakes to attack us?”

“I can’t make any guarantees,” I tell them honestly. “I’ll do all I can to curtail the Snakes but I could fail. If I do, the city goes to war and it will be horrendous. But if I’m not given a chance, we’re definitely screwed. It will be a war of the villacs’ choosing and they’re the only ones who’ll profit in the end.”

Frank lets out a long, uneasy breath and shakes his head thoughtfully. Wornton eyes him, smirking, then studies his nails as if they’re of far more importance to him than this meeting.

“The longer we wait,” Frank says, “the stronger the Snakes will get. If we’re to attack, it should be now.”

“The Snakes shouldn’t have hit you until they’d established a stronghold in the east,” I counter. “The normal rules don’t apply here.”

“What do you think?” Frank growls at Wornton. “Or do you plan to sit there all night, paring your nails?”

Wornton puts his knife away. “I never trusted a colored man before, but this one’s different. He wants to keep the blacks in the east, which is what we want too. Our reasons are different, but as long as our aims are the same, that’s what matters. Eugene has final say, but I’ll advise him to leave things be, at least for a couple of days. If Jeery can prove he’s in control, fine. If not…”

“Frank?” I ask.

“I don’t want to wait,” he mutters, then sighs. “But if the Kluxers are willing to hold back, I’ll discuss it with Ford. I can’t make any promises, but I think he’ll grant you a stay of execution.”

I let my head fall back and smile at the sky through the holes in the roof. I’ve done it! I’m not out of the woods — the Snakes have to be recalled, and I have to think of a way to stop others from obeying the orders of my father — but I have time to play with. I can go on from here and…

The self-congratulation dies prematurely as I spy a shadowy figure on the rafters. It’s too dark to be sure, but my gut tells me instantly who it is, and I guess what he’s here for.

“No!” I scream, leaping to my feet and whipping out my.45. Before I can target him, he drops and knocks the gun from my hand. He rolls away from me and rises smoothly. Turns and grins, his luminous green eyes sparkling with twisted delight. I dive after him as Frank and Wornton struggle to their feet. He waits for me to close and throws a lazy punch. I ignore the fist — not enough power to harm me — but then his fingers fly apart and dirt sprays from his hand, into my eyes.

While I’m momentarily blinded, the real Paucar Wami kicks me in the stomach and I crash backward. I’m up again a mere four or five seconds later, but that’s an eternity to a killer of my father’s caliber.

He takes Wornton first. The Kluxer has slipped out his knife and jabs at the assassin, keeping his cool, using his free hand to grab his chair by a leg, using it as a shield. Wami kicks the chair from Wornton’s hand, leaving himself open to attack on his left. Wornton seizes the bait and drives his knife at Wami’s heart. Wami shimmies, grabs Wornton’s forearm and rams an elbow into the Kluxer’s jaw, thrusting his head back, snapping his neck, dropping him to the floor, where he groans, alive but helpless.

Frank has drawn a gun, which he fires several times in quick succession, opting for volume over accuracy. Wami rolls across the floor, inches ahead of the bullets. Frank carries on shooting, getting closer each time. I wipe dirt from my eyes and start forward, scrabbling after my.45. Then Frank stops firing. I assume he’s out of ammunition, until his arm drops to his side and his pistol falls to the floor.

“Frank?” I pause, eyes flicking between my friend and my father, who’s come to a rest. “Frank, are you…?”

He turns slowly and the handle of the knife sticking out of his chest comes into view. “Al?” he says dully. “I think the fucker’s killed me.”

I stare at him, appalled. The fingers that were holding the gun rise and clasp the knife. He starts to pull it out, grimaces, drops to his knees. “Killed me,” he whispers, then collapses — dead.

I stumble across the room, ease Frank’s fingers off the knife and press them to my chest, as though I can extend my heartbeat to his and bring him back to life. “Sorry, Frank,” I mumble. “I didn’t mean for it to end like this.”

I’m dimly aware of Wami working on Hyde Wornton, finishing him off. Out of the corner of my eye I see him rip out the Kluxer’s tongue with his bare fingers. Wearily I turn away.

I don’t think about revenge. It’d be pointless. Even on the off chance that I got the better of my father, what good would it achieve? Weld and Wornton are dead. Any hopes of a peaceful outcome have been shattered. This means war, bitter and bloody, and neither Tasso nor Eugene Davern will stop until all the Snakes — me included — are dead.

Wami concludes his business with Wornton and stands, wiping his hands clean. “I would have liked to work on him longer,” he says, “but time is of the essence.”

“You bastard,” I hiss, not looking at him. “Frank was my friend.”

“That is why I killed him quickly. I am always thinking of you, Al m’boy.”

I close Frank’s eyes, extract the knife and lay his hands over the hole in his chest, covering it discreetly. “You’ve pushed me too far this time. What makes you think I won’t fight to the death?”

“Actually, I think you might,” he answers. “Part of me thrills at the prospect. It has been many years since I tested myself against a worthy opponent. But the priests would surely destroy me if I won, and I am not ready for my final demise. So many countries to visit, so many people to kill. I hope you have enough sense not to force the issue, but if you attack, I will meet your challenge fairly.”

“Tell me why you did it.” My fingers are tight on the handle of the knife.

“The villacs told me to. The final part of our bargain. I am free now, to leave and torment the good people of the world as I please.”

“But why? What’s in this for them? They want to control the city. How can they if chaos is raging and their Snakes are annihilated?”

“The Snakes will not be harmed,” Wami chuckles. “You are clever, Al m’boy, but not clued in. The priests wish to run the whole of the city, not just the east. They must create an army greater than the Troops and the Kluxers. That could not happen if the Snakes remained in the east — it would merely lead to a three-way standoff. Now that their lieutenants have been slaughtered, Tasso and Davern will send in their forces for revenge, but the Snakes will disappear. The priests will lead them underground, leaving only the common folk for the invaders to attack.”

“They’ll take it out on them,” I mutter, seeing it now. “They’ll kill hundreds of gang members and any others who get in their way. But that won’t be enough, so they’ll wage war on each other.”

Wami nods smugly. “The titans will meet on the field of battle and fight to the death. The Troops will probably win, but their losses will be great. As they try to recover—”

“—The Snakes will reemerge,” I cut in. “Recruit new members from among the embittered survivors of the east. Maybe forge alliances with allies of Davern, men prepared to go to any lengths to get even with the Troops.”

Wami smiles. “You take a while to catch on but move quickly once you do.”

“Those whoresons,” I growl, thinking of the villacs. “They don’t care about all the people who’ll die.”

“Of course not,” Wami laughs. “Nor should you. Life is a game, and humans are the pieces on the board. That has always been your failing — you were never able to separate yourself from the common cattle. It holds you back, Al m’boy.”

Wami claps loudly, startling me. “I would love to stay and shoot the breeze, but the world calls. I do not know what the priests plan for you, but I imagine they are not finished. You might want to consider hitting the road with your dear ol’ pappy. In the unlikely event that the villacs do not ruin you, there will be many eager to string you up.”

“I’ll take my chances.”

“As you wish.”

My father crouches, leaps, grabs hold of a low-hanging rafter and pulls himself up. “Wait!” I call before he vanishes forever into the night. There’s an itching at the back of my skull. I don’t know what it means, but I’ve got a feeling this isn’t as done-and-dusted as Wami believes. “Why are you in such a rush to leave?”

“The priests do not want me hanging around. They were clear on that point.”

“All the more reason to stay.”

“I do not want to anger them,” he mutters.

“But what if you could hurt them as they’ve hurt you?”

There’s a long pause. “You think you can turn the tables on the villacs?” he asks eagerly. He’s played along with them because he had to, but I know he hates the blind priests and would love to find a way to thwart them.

“I don’t have a plan yet, but I’ll work on one. Stick around a few days and I’ll cut you in on the action.”

“And if I do not want cutting in?”

I shrug. “If you don’t like the look of things, you can leave.”

Wami’s silent a few seconds. Then he reaches for the roof. My heart sinks, but lifts a moment later when he looks down again. “I will stay for three days. If you search for me, I will be found. But do not waste my time.”

With that he slips away, leaving me with the two corpses, on the brink of a total disaster, but with the slightest glimmer of hope at the back of my mind. Pushing regrets for Frank and fears for the future from my thoughts, I retreat to one of the small holding cells, immerse myself in darkness, and cast around desperately for a way out of this mess before the walls collapse and the vengeful hordes crash in around me.

3: deals with devils

My thoughts keep wandering back to Frank. I’ve spent the last decade living with death. I know all its moves and moods. But with a friend it’s different. I want to keep Frank’s corpse company, arrange for a safe escort to his family so he can be properly mourned. But this is a pivotal moment. I can surrender to self-pity and waste time on the dead, or focus on the living and maybe prevent the waves of bloody destruction from breaking over this city.

With an effort I fade Frank out and concentrate on the task at hand. I don’t see what I can do to counter the carefully laid plans of the blind priests — it’s insanely egotistical of me to presume I can outwit them — but a rage burns in my chest, filling me with self-belief. I agreed to assist them. For the sake of my friends and neighbors, I pledged myself to the villacs’ warped cause. As my reward, they set about wrecking that which we were meant to save.

Thinking ahead, I can imagine the conversation they have planned for me when the Troops and Kluxers invade. “This is bad, but it will be worse if we don’t intervene. We misled you, Flesh of Dreams, but you must stay true to us or chaos will rule completely.”

And the bastards will be right. If it gets that far, they’ll be the only ones who can quell the riots. If I don’t play along, they’ll hold the Snakes in reserve and let Tasso’s and Davern’s men do as they please. I shouldn’t have agreed to lead the Troops. That proved that I truly cared for these people. Now that the villacs have exposed my weakness, they’ll exploit it, do as they like and expect me to dance to their tune.

Maybe that’s what I can use against them.

My eyes grow cold in the gloom of the cell. Sending Wami to kill Frank and Wornton while they were in discussion with me was an act of contempt, an open admission that the priests believe they can use me any way they wish. Even if that’s true, they shouldn’t have let me know. The villacs are masters at masking their thoughts and feelings. This time they miscalculated and showed their hand. Maybe that one slip is enough.

I find myself focusing on the brace of corpses. On some level I think that I can use them, but I’m not sure how. When Wami dropped from the rafters and killed Frank and Wornton, I thought that was the end. Tasso’s and Davern’s right-hand men were slaughtered on my turf, in my company, while under my protection. Their bosses would have no choice but to come gunning for me and all who stood in the way. Invasion still seems inescapable. Except…

I scowl impatiently, then smile as the tumblers click into place. It was my turf. I invited them to the meeting. As their supposed protector, I’m the prime target.

That’s the flaw in the priests’ plan. By setting me up as leader of the Snakes, they’ve made me look more powerful than I am. As far as everyone else is concerned, the Snakes are mine and I’m using them to seize control. What if I could convince Tasso and Davern that there was no profit in this for me, if I could show them that I’m as vulnerable as they are?

The Troops and Kluxers fear and distrust me because they believe I’m in this for gain. Convincing them that I’m not couldn’t be easier. All I have to do is prove how little power means to me by revealing my true limitations. A sacrifice should suffice. I’ll offer them the head they most thirst for—mine.

The Snakes outside the police station are startled when I emerge lugging the corpse of Hyde Wornton, but say nothing as I dump him on the front steps and go looking for my motorcycle, a newly acquired model, same design as my original. When I return and strap Wornton to the back of the bike, the stand-in Cobra (Sard’s still trying to find the renegade Snakes) clears his throat. “Sapa Inca? Are you going somewhere?”

“Taking my sweetheart for a ride,” I grunt.

“Maybe some of us should accompany you. I can—”

“I go alone.”

“But I’m not supposed to—”

“Soldier,” I say softly, “I am giving you an order. Do you acknowledge a higher authority than mine?”

“Well, no, sir, but—”

“That is all there is to say.” I finish with Wornton, tug on him a few times to make sure he’s tied securely, then nod toward the station. “Remain on guard and allow no one in. Not even Sard if he returns. Absolutely not the priests. With luck, I will return in a few hours to make another pickup.”

“I don’t understand, Sapa Inca,” the Snake mutters.

“You are not here to understand. You are here to obey. Yes?”

He snaps to attention. “Yes, sir!”

I head west, taking the quieter streets. Bypassing the barricades isn’t a problem but the armed forces beyond pose more of a threat. Several times I’m sighted and ordered to pull over. Each time I accelerate and take unexpected corners, losing my pursuers, before tracking back on course.

With the diversions, it’s an hour before I pull up outside the Kool Kats Klub. Dawn hasn’t broken, but the restaurant’s swarming with anxious-looking Kluxers. I spot a platoon of Davern’s soldiers unloading rifles from the back of a truck. Unleashing the body of their champion, I hold him lengthwise in my arms, like a groom carrying his bride, and stride up to the entrance of the KKK. Remarkably, nobody notices me until I’m almost at the door. Then a Kluxer spots my dark features and the body I’m cradling, and roars disbelievingly, “What the fuck!”

All eyes snap on me. Guns rise automatically and fingers tighten on triggers. Only one thing gives them pause — they’re not sure that Wornton is dead, and don’t want to risk wounding him if he isn’t.

“I’m here to speak with Davern,” I shout, nudging Wornton’s face closer to my chest, hiding his blank expression from his supporters. “Tell him Paucar Wami requests the pleasure of his company.”

“You’ve got to be shitting me,” the soldier says, but bolts inside the building, yelling for Davern. The Kluxers around me snarl and spit, muttering murder.

Eugene Davern emerges, looking fragile and stretched. I bet this was never how he planned it when he plotted his takeover. Davern surged up the ranks too quickly and landed far out of his depth. I’m also willing to bet he didn’t surge alone. I’ve been doing a lot of thinking during the ride over, and this all plays too neatly into the villacs’ hands to be coincidence. I’m sure the priests have been using the leader of the Kluxers, just as they’ve used me, to undermine the power of the Troops and open the city to a force of their choosing. If it weren’t for the innocents Davern would take with him, I’d be tempted to leave him to the mess of his greedy making and let him lead his men to defeat against the Troops.

Davern walks straight up to me, ignoring the warnings of his guards, and stares at the pale face of his second-in-command, noting the red marks around his lips where my father ripped his tongue out. “Is he dead?” he asks dully.

“Yes.” I drop the body with calculated disregard. It hits hard and rolls onto its back. There’s an angry, collective gasp from the crowd but I ignore it, focusing on Davern, the only one I have to worry about.

“What happened?” Davern asks quietly.

“Does it matter? He came in answer to my invitation. I guaranteed his safety. I was sure I could control the situation. As you can see”—I nudge the corpse with a foot, provoking a flurry of angry shouts—“I was wrong. He was killed under my protection. I accept full responsibility. You don’t need to send your men east to exact revenge. You have the culprit here.”

Davern shoots a glance at me, then his gaze returns to the face of his friend. “I don’t understand. Why have you come?”

“To afford you satisfaction. Wornton’s murder can’t go unpunished — so punish me. You don’t need to target anyone else.”

“But…” Davern scratches his head, bewildered. “Why kill him and then offer yourself? That doesn’t make sense.”

Exactly the reaction I hoped for.

“You sent Wornton to talk peace. Ford Tasso sent Frank Weld. He’s dead too. They were butchered while negotiating a deal with me.”

“Weld’s dead?”

“Yes. I’m sure Tasso’s gathering his forces even as we speak, just like you are, readying them for war.” I step over Wornton’s body and get as close to Davern as I dare. “I want peace, just like you and Tasso.” I pause to let that sink in, then hit him with the stinger. “But it’s not what the men who control the Snakes want.”

Davern’s eyes narrow. “I thought you…”

I shake my head, then gamble. “No more than you control the Kluxers.”

He stiffens. “What the fuck do you mean?”

“People assume you came to power because you’re a smart operator making the most of the breaks, but I don’t think you’re flying solo. You had secret backing, didn’t you?” His lips pinch together, confirming what I suspected. “Did you know it was the priests or did they hide behind others?”

“They hid,” he sighs. “I guessed it was them but I never knew for sure. I’m still not certain.”

“You are now,” I smile. “The priests used you, just as they used me. But you’ve served your purpose, so they’re finished with you. They want to take you out. Thus a war in the east with the Troops.”

“With the Snakes,” he corrects me.

I shake my head. “You won’t find any Snakes when you invade. They’ll have slithered away. You’ll only encounter Tasso’s Troops. They’ll be looking for the Snakes too, but who do you think they’ll lay into when they can’t find any?”

Davern doesn’t answer but I know his brain is turning and I anticipate his next question before he asks it.

“Are the priests finished with me?” I shrug. “No, but I’m done with them. I’ve had enough of being their stooge. One way or another, I’m ending it. Death can be my escape if you choose to kill me. Or we can make an alliance and fuck them up that way.” I lean in close and whisper. “We can beat the villacs at their own game. Trust me, plot with me, and we can profit from this.”

Davern stares at me emotionlessly. I can’t tell what he’s thinking. Then he steps aside and nods at a couple of his men. “Take Hyde in, clean him up, then call his mother and ask her to come over. Don’t tell her he’s dead — I’ll break that news myself.” He starts back into the restaurant. Pauses and looks over his shoulder at me. “Well? You coming or not?”

Grinning sickly, I tip an imaginary hat to the stunned Kluxers, then follow their leader into the sacrosanct halls of the Kool Kats Klub.

We talk fast and truthfully, laying our cards clean on the table. I learn things about Eugene Davern and his rise to the top that nobody else knows, and in return I tell him about my past and why the villacs are so interested in me. I don’t have time to explain it all — wouldn’t, even if I had, as I don’t want him thinking I’m crazy — but I cover the basics and outline my plan. It’s not a great plan but it’s better than any he can think of. He’s not convinced it will work, and dislikes the idea of my proposed partnership, but by the end of our talk he agrees to follow my lead “to the bitter end.” We shake hands on the deal — for whatever the gesture’s worth — then Davern goes to explain to his people why they have to trust a black assassin who brought the dead body of Hyde Wornton to the Kool Kats Klub on his motorcycle.

While Davern does all in his power to win over his supporters — if he fails, it’s curtains for everyone — I hightail it across the city to collect the body of Frank Weld. Sard hasn’t returned and the Snakes are on guard outside the station, alert as ever. Once I have Frank strapped to the back of my bike, I tell them to get some rest. They depart, yawning and stretching. I watch them go, hoping they make it through the next few turbulent days — hoping we all make it — then set out for Party Central and my second do-or-die meeting of the infant day.

There’s an angry skirmish on the border of the east at Stroud Square, between the Snakes and the police. A bank on the west side was broken into and the culprits made a run east. The police tried to follow but the Snakes had other ideas. A fight ensued and is quickly gathering pace. Another time, I’d stop and sort it out, but the confusion aids my purpose and I slip by the battling crowds unnoticed.

After an uneventful journey I park outside the main doors of Party Central — which hang in scraps in the wake of the bomb attack — unstrap Frank and walk in past the wary Troops on duty. Marching straight through reception, I lay Frank on top of a counter — the receptionists behind it scatter, shrieking — and wait for a braver soul to come see what I want. Finally a seasoned secretary edges toward me. “May I help you… sir?” she asks.

“Tell Mr. Tasso that Paucar Wami and Frank Weld are here to see him.”

“Is he expecting you?” she asks, studying my tattooed face, shaved scalp and green eyes.

“No, but he’ll see me.”

She hesitates, then picks up a phone and dials. I hear her murmur, “He says he’s Paucar Wami,” and “I think he’s dead.” Then she nods and hangs up. “You can go up now, and you’re to take Mr. Weld with you.”

I lug Frank’s body to the elevator — Jerry Falstaff’s buddy, Mike Kones, is on duty again, but he doesn’t recognize me — and rise in silence to the fifteenth floor. I make the long walk to Tasso’s office, past dozens of ogling Troops, secretaries and execs, all anxious to see if the quickly spreading rumors are true.

Mags is waiting for me at the door to the office. She steps forward to check on Frank, takes his pulse, rolls up his eyelids, then sighs. “He was a good man.”

“Yes. He was.”

“You knew him?” Like Mike Kones, she doesn’t take me for Al Jeery.

“He was my friend.”

She stares at me, then returns to her desk. “Mr. Tasso will see you now. Be advised, the room is under armed surveillance and you will be targeted without warning if you make any threatening moves.”

Letting out a deep breath, I clear my head, turn the handle, push the door open with Frank’s legs and enter.

Tasso’s waiting for me in his chair, massaging his dead right arm, face even stonier than normal. He says nothing as I clear a space on the long desk and lay Frank on it. When I step away, he shuffles over to examine his dead colleague. After a few seconds he mutters, “I always thought he’d outlive me. He had the luck of the devil.” He returns to his chair and trains his Cyclopean gaze on me. “This means war, Algiers.”

“I know.”

“Who killed him?”

“My father. He killed Hyde Wornton too.”

“So it’s not all bad news.” He chuckles drily. “Much as I like you, I can’t let this slide. We have to hit now. There’s no other way.”

“Again, I know.”

“So why’d you come? To beg forgiveness? Plead for your life?” I don’t answer. He’s not expecting me to. “I can’t let you walk away. People believe you’re head of the Snakes. I know that’s bullshit but I’ve got to play to the public on this one.”

“You’ve never played to the public,” I demur, “and unless it suits your purpose, you won’t play to them now. You’ll kill me because it’s what you want, not because it’s what others expect.”

His lips spread in a granite-cold smile. “We know one another too well. Next to impossible for either of us to surprise the other.” He frowns. “But you surprised me by turning up today. What gives, Algiers?”

“I can return Capac Raimi to you.”

His frown deepens. “That won’t save you. It’s too late for—”

“It’s never too late,” I cut in. “You’ve got to go to war, but be careful who you go to war with. The Snakes aren’t the enemy, but they can be. Attack them now and you’ll not only condemn Raimi to more suffering, but you’ll create a military monster which in time will eclipse your own.

“On the other hand, if you hear me out, I can promise you Raimi’s return and more power and freedom than you’ve ever enjoyed. You’ll have to share, but it’ll be infinitely better than what you’ve got going now.”

“You’re not making sense,” he growls.

“I will if you give me a chance.”

He stares at me warily, his left eye glittering with doubt. Then he glances at Frank’s dead face and nods. “You’ve got ten minutes. Make it good.”

“I need twenty,” I tell him. “And I won’t make it good — I’ll make it great.”

Tasso’s harder to win over than Davern. He’s spent longer kowtowing to the blind priests, and the superstitious fear the two Cardinals had of them has rubbed off on him. Because the villacs were like gods to Dorak and Raimi, Tasso never thought to chance rebellion.

“Capac wouldn’t like this,” he keeps muttering, and I have to press home the point that Raimi’s a creation of theirs, tied to them in ways that ordinary humans aren’t. If we can eliminate them, we’ll give this city back its free will.

“But could Capac survive without them?” Tasso asks.

“I’ve no idea,” I answer honestly. “But he’ll never return on his own terms as long as they’re running the show. We might have to sacrifice Raimi, but if that’s the price of this city’s freedom, don’t you think it’s worth it?”

“Dorak wouldn’t have agreed,” Tasso grumbles. “He wanted an heir who could run his company indefinitely.”

“But he thought Raimi would be able to work independently of the priests. Do you think he’d approve if he saw how they can do as they please? This isn’t Raimi’s city — it’s theirs. If my way works, at best we’ll hand it back to him and he can proceed as Dorak planned. At worst we’ll lose him, but we’ll rid this city of the priests, and I think Dorak would rather that than how things currently stand.”

Eventually he agrees to consider my proposal. He makes no promises, but says he’ll hold his forces in check while he mulls it over. He also lets me go and issues orders that I’m not to be harmed — for the time being. He says I won’t hear from him when he makes his decision. I’ll find out along with the rest of the city tomorrow. I have to settle for that. In truth, it’s more than I had any right to hope for.

I’m hungry and weary, so I visit a nearby café and fill up with sandwiches and coffee. Then I make one last call, to the shack of the Harpies and their minder. I make quick time on the quiet Sunday roads. I’m not sure why I’m including Bill in this — I could get all I need elsewhere — but gut instinct draws me to him, and I’m not about to start ignoring my instincts at this critical stage of the game.

One of the Harpies is digging in a small garden outside the house, crooning as she fusses over weeds as if they were prize plants. She gurgles happily when she see me pulling up — the Harpies associate me with feeding time. I park and enter by the unlocked front door.

Bill’s downstairs in the living room, reading to the other two women. I stand in the doorway unseen for a few minutes. I recognize the text after a couple of lines. Mark Twain, either Tom Sawyer or Huck Finn.

Pausing at the end of a chapter, he glances up and spies me. A startled look shoots across his face

(He’s come to kill me!)

then he relaxes. “Hello, Al,” he smiles. “I didn’t expect to see you again.” Closing the book, he tells the ladies to run along. He remains seated, eyeing me silently. When he hears them in the yard, he asks quietly, “Come to finish the job?”

“If I wanted to kill you, I’d have done it last week.”

“Why didn’t you? You meant to when you arrived. What changed your mind?”

I don’t answer, but cross the room and stare through a crack in the boarded-over window. I can’t see the Harpies from here, just industrial wasteland, gray and infertile. “Still having the nightmares?”

His shiver is audible. “Yes.”

“You know how to stop them, don’t you?”

“Kill myself?” He laughs shortly.

“No.” I face him. “Atonement. Put right some of the wrongs of the past. Build where you demolished.”

He frowns. “I don’t understand.”

“I need your help, Bill.”

His face creases with astonishment. “You’re asking me for help? After all I did to you?”

I nod, hiding a wry smile. “I’m going into battle with some very dangerous men — your foes as well as mine — and I need to tool up. I can go elsewhere, but I thought I’d give you the chance to—”

“Yes!” he interrupts, pulling himself to his feet, wincing at the pain in his old bones. “I’d be glad to help. Overwhelmed! Tell me what I can do, Al.”

“You said you had bombs and bugs in the cellar, from the old days?” He nods eagerly, eyes bright, and I step away from the window. “Show me.”

4: war

Ama’s bemused when I call and ask if she’d like to dine with me tonight. “I thought you’d have more important matters on your mind.”

I smile down the phone. “The important stuff can wait. Tomorrow’s a big day for me. I’d like to unwind before I face it.”

“What’s going on, Al?” she asks, perplexed.

“Tell you later. Want to go somewhere fancy or will we snack in Cafran’s?”

“Cafran’s is fine.”

“Eight-thirty?”

“Sure. Take care, Al.”

“I’ll try.”

I hit the shower, then towel myself dry. I begin applying face paint in front of my TV sets, keeping an eye on the latest news. My cell rings — Sard, with mixed news. He’s located most of the rogue Snakes, but six are still on the loose. I tell him not to bother with the final half-dozen. “Take the rest of the night off. Relax. Go bowling. Make love.”

“Sapa Inca?” he replies, startled.

“There’s a derelict office block on Romily Street,” I tell him, having chosen the location at random earlier. “Meet me there at midday tomorrow on the top floor with a dozen of your most trusted Snakes. I have a special mission for you. It may prove the most vital of the entire campaign.”

“I won’t let you down,” he vows.

I finish applying the paint, check that the tattoos can’t be seen, then slip on the wig and clean clothes. I pedal across the city on my bike as plain Al Jeery, whistling as I go, as if I hadn’t a care in the world.

Cafran’s is busy but Ama has reserved a table near the back of the restaurant and we sit, shielded from the crowd by tall plastic plants.

“How’s Cafran?” I ask.

“Blooming. He’s off scouting for premises — thinking of opening a new joint. He could have done it long ago but never bothered. He said he didn’t consider it worth the effort, until now.”

“Because of you.” She smiles shyly. “Think you’ll stay here long-term?”

“I’d like to, if I have a choice.” A waitress materializes. Ama orders for me. While we’re waiting she opens a bottle of wine and pours. I fill her in on what’s been happening, the plan I’m hatching to pull the city back from the brink of all-out war. She listens intently, venturing little in the way of comment until I finish shortly after the first course has arrived.

“You really believe it will work?” she asks neutrally.

“Can’t hurt to try.”

“I don’t know about that. If the villacs find out what you’re up to, they might turn on you. Capac was their golden boy but it didn’t stop them slapping him down when he refused to bow to their wishes.”

“It’s worth the risk.”

She chews in silence, then says, “I want to help.”

“I figured you would. You know it’s dangerous, that we might have to sacrifice ourselves? My aim is to stop the priests. If I walk away alive, that’s a bonus.”

“I don’t care. I’m not going to let you go alone.”

I cough discreetly and wipe around my mouth with a napkin. “I won’t be quite alone. I plan to take along my father.”

She blinks. “The killer?”

“He’s a useful addition. Fast. Deadly. Unstoppable. Besides, if I don’t include him, he’ll leave, and I don’t want that, not until…” I shrug, not entirely sure what I intend to do about Paucar Wami if everything works out with the priests.

“Can we trust him?” Ama asks.

“In this matter, yes. He hates the villacs even more than I do.”

Ama pushes her plate away, frowning. “What if Ford Tasso and Eugene Davern don’t come through?”

“I’ll push ahead anyway. I’ve come too far to back out now. I can’t finish off the priests without Tasso and Davern, but I’ll do what I can to hurt them.”

Ama sighs. “We must be crazy to think we can pull this off.”

“Yeah,” I grin.

She mirrors my smile. “So I guess we’d better make the most of the good life while we can.” She tops up our glasses. “Cheers!”

We eat slowly, padding out the meal with lots of conversation. Some of it concerns the villacs and the troubles, but mostly it’s about ourselves, our pasts (what little Ama can remember of hers) and what we’d like to do if we had the freedom to choose our futures. Ama wants to stay here, help Cafran, take over when he retires, squeeze in some travel during her vacations. I remind her of her limitations as an Ayuamarcan — she can only exist for a few days at a time away from the city — but she dismisses that. “We’re talking about dreams, not reality. I’ll dream what I like, thank you very much.”

Cafran Reed returns. He looks much brisker than the last time I saw him. He kisses Ama’s cheeks, draws up a chair and tells us about his day. He hasn’t found anywhere he loves, but has heard about a dockside café that sounds promising. We discuss property and rental prices as the restaurant empties around us.

As we drain the final bottle of the night, I bid Cafran and Ama farewell. Ama rises to see me out, but I tell her not to. Win or lose, she might never again sit with the man who was once her father. These minutes are precious and shouldn’t be wasted on a bum like me. “See you later,” I mutter, and she echoes the adieu, slipping me a pointed look to confirm our arrangement while Cafran smiles and sips his wine.

On the street I stand by my bike, savoring the night, putting off the time when I have to shed the disguise and become Paucar Wami again. People rarely realize how well off they are. A fine meal, a good bottle of wine, charming company… who needs anything more? I’d happily trade the Snakes — hell, the whole city — for Cafran Reed’s restaurant and peace of mind.

Monday. Day of decisions. Day of destiny.

Sard and his dozen arrive precisely at midday. I greet them as their Sapa Inca in a tiny office — they only just squeeze in — and treat them to an abbreviated version of my plan. They’re confused and uneasy, but I impress on them the importance of their mission, how our future depends on it.

“It’s time to choose. Either you serve your people or you serve the villacs. You can’t have it both ways. I know they recruited and trained you, but they did so in order to use you. If you trust me, I’ll try to grant you the power you seek, as well as the freedom to enjoy it.”

Eventually I talk them around. The priests did too good a job of building me up. The Snakes think I’m infallible. They pledged their hearts and souls to Paucar Wami. They’ll do as I command, paradoxical as it seems to them.

I dismiss the Snakes with orders to carry on as usual if the day doesn’t go as planned, then return to my post at the burned-out police station where various Cobras await my instructions. It’s difficult to act as if this is a day like any other, but I focus on their reports and send them about their duties, marshaling them as they expect, taking a few minutes to “commend” the Snakes who carried out the attacks on the rest of the city.

It’s minutes shy of 16:00 when I learn of Ford Tasso’s decision. I’m in the van when a Snake on the border of our territory makes the call. “We’re under attack!” he shouts, the sound of heavy gunfire muffling his words. “It’s the Troops, repeat, the Troops! The bastards are invading!”

All eyes snap to me. I keep my face impassive, masking my emotions.

“Sapa Inca?” a Snake asks. “Should I tell the others in that area to move against the enemy?”

“No,” I sigh. “Sound a retreat. Tell them to back off slowly, to make the Troops fight for every block, but not to make a stand. And they’re to advise civilians to seek shelter. I don’t want innocents getting caught in the cross fire.”

The Snake nods obediently and sets about alerting the Cobras. I spend the time it takes to spread the word in silent contemplation, considering the attack, what it means, where it might lead.

As the afternoon progresses, it becomes evident that the Troops have divided into four platoons and are marching on us from the west and south. They haven’t been sighted in the north and east. My Cobras think they’re lying in wait there, in case we make a break for freedom.

As the four platoons of Troops advance on Cockerel Square — their target was apparent early on, but I haven’t withdrawn the Snakes who are there — word breaks that Eugene Davern’s Kluxers have smashed through in the north.

“Are you certain?” I bark at the scout who reports over the crackle of a cheap cell phone.

“Fuck yes!” he yells. “There’s maybe a hundred of the fuckers, shooting everything in their path, leaving a trail of burning buildings and cars behind them.”

“Get out,” I snap. “Head for Cockerel Square.”

“Don’t you want us to fight them?”

“Negative. Rendezvous with the others in the Square and await further orders.”

I meet the worried gazes of those in the van and muster a smile. “Heads up. We aren’t beaten yet. Bring me every Cobra that you can. And send a couple of runners to the villacs—I’d love to hear what they have to say about this.”

As I wait for the Cobras and priests, another band of Kluxers is reported, moving parallel to the first. They’re leaving a trail of fiery devastation, and right about now I’d imagine most people are more concerned about Davern’s forces than Tasso’s. But the Troops will be at Cockerel Square first. They can dig in and set themselves up as the leading force in the east. I assign two phalanxes the task of slowing the Troops, then break to meet with the first of the arriving Cobras.

It’s almost 20:00 before all the Cobras and three representatives of the villacs are sitting or standing in the room where Hyde Wornton and Frank Weld met their end. I cast a quick glance around as I enter. The seven Cobras are anxious, but regard me trustingly, banking on me to figure a way out of this mess.

“Seems to me we have three options,” I begin bluntly. “We focus on either the Troops or the Kluxers and throw everything we have against one of them, then worry about the other lot later. We divide our forces and fight a war on two fronts. Or we stick our heads down and get the fuck out of here.”

The Cobras chuckle — they think I’m joking — but the laughter dies when a priest who speaks English nods and says, “We would advise a retreat, Sapa Inca.”

“Are you crazy?” a Cobra called Peddar roars. “Give ground to those bastards? I’d rather kill myself!”

The others nod and agree, except Sard, who gazes darkly at me but holds his tongue. I let them express their feelings, then clear my throat for silence. “Let us hear him out. I want to know why he is so eager to fold.”

“A withdrawal is not surrender,” the villac says, smiling blindly. “The invaders come to fight. They won’t leave until they shed blood. If we are not here, they will clash with each other. We wait until that battle is over, then strike at the weary survivors.”

“And if they don’t pause?” I ask. “If they track us down the tunnels?”

“They will not find us,” the priest says confidently. “The tunnels are ours. We will repel them.”

“This is bullshit,” Peddar shouts, looking pleadingly to his fellow Cobras. “If we pull back now, they’ll massacre our people. I didn’t get into this to make promises to my friends and family, then leave them in the shit when—”

“Soldier,” I interrupt quietly, “you are relieved of command. Find your second, tell him he has been promoted, and ask him to join us. You will return to your phalanx and await further orders.”

Peddar stares at me hatefully, his whole body trembling. Then he remembers who I am and the pledge he made to obey me. He turns to leave, angry tears in his eyes. “Peddar,” I stop him. “We do this for the community. We all got into this because we cared. We won’t leave them high and dry. You have my word.”

He smiles weakly. “Thank you, Sapa Inca.”

When he’s gone, I face the villac. “They expect resistance in Cockerel Square. We should leave a couple of phalanxes to put up a fight. They need not battle to the death, just hold the Troops for half an hour, then ‘quit’ when the pressure gets too much. The Troops will hopefully stop to draw breath and secure the Square. Next thing they know, the Kluxers will be upon them. The two of them can fight all they want after that.”

“Agreed,” the villac says. “In the meantime you can lead the retreat.”

“Not me. I’ll be in Cockerel Square with my men.”

“Is that wise?” he frowns.

“The Troops will expect me. The leader of the Snakes wouldn’t desert his men at a time like this. I’ll put in an appearance, make it look genuine. Don’t worry, I have no intention of letting the Troops take me. I plan to be around when we move back in to pick up the pieces. I’ve a score or two to settle with Ford Tasso.”

“Very well,” the priest says. “We will arrange the retreat.”

“Sard,” I bark, heading for the door, “choose two of your phalanxes and join me. Make sure your soldiers are prepared for death. We want to make this look as real as possible. Some of us will have to die.”

“We’ll do what is required, Sapa Inca,” he vows, and follows me out into the night, leaving the other agitated Cobras to break the news to their Snakes.

It’s after midnight when the Troops hit Cockerel Square. Apart from myself, Sard and his phalanxes, approximately sixty gang members are here to greet them. I tried to deter the others — told them this was a smoke screen, that we would retreat, that they should disband — but although most heeded my warnings, these sixty-odd refused to give ground. They’re determined to hold off the Troops for as long as possible and inflict as much damage as they can. Cockerel Square is theirs and they’d rather die than concede it. I tell them they will die, that we’ll quit before the Troops take us, but their hearts are set on a glorious confrontation with a vastly superior foe. You can’t save those who don’t want saving.

Watching the Troops maneuver into position is a sobering sight. Three of the four platoons converge on the Square — they must be holding the fourth in reserve — blocking it off on all sides, throwing up a net of death from which there can be no escape. Their commanders deploy them expertly, covering every exit.

“We were crazy to think we could take these fuckers,” Sard says beside me. “Even if they suffered heavy losses in the fight with Davern, they’d still be too much for us.”

“Not if we hit them as guerrillas,” I disagree. “Picking at them from the sides, surprising a squadron in the dark, booby-trapping roads and buildings… we could demoralize them to the point where they’d have to strike a deal. That’s the villacs’ plan. They don’t want to replace the Troops, merely complement them.”

Without warning, someone fires a bazooka or something similarly heavyweight. Those of us at the walls scatter as the shell hits. Some aren’t quick enough and the screams of dying men are added to the shrieks of more shells and the exploding thuds of bricks and plaster.

They focus on the exterior of the Square for five long minutes, demolishing the barricades and most of the walls. They don’t lob shells into the center — they want to keep the interior intact, to use once they’ve driven us out — so that’s where we group, a hundred or so men and women, waiting for the bombs to stop and the one-on-one combat to commence.

There’s a pause when silence descends, while the forces outside mass around the new openings, awaiting the order to advance. We hurry to what’s left of the walls and prepare our defense, laying mines, picking targets, stacking rifles and pistols by our sides. I look for the commander in chief of the Troops (not to take a shot, just curious to know who Tasso replaced Frank with) and spot the distant figure of Jerry Falstaff, running the show with admirable coolness.

A minute passes. Two. The tension should be mounting but it isn’t. The Snakes are safe in the knowledge that we’ll slip away before the finish, while the others have resigned themselves to a bloody finale. Looking around, I see only warriors smiling grimly in anticipation of battle, eager for it to begin, not fearful of the deaths to come.

No trumpets or whistles sound the attack. One moment the Troops are standing to attention, the next they’re surging forward, firing as they run. We hold off the first wave, forcing them to break and retreat, but a second wave forms immediately and they rush us. We’ve no choice but to fall back, although a few sturdier — dumber — souls hold their position. They succumb to the Troops within seconds, but take a hefty number of the enemy with them.

As the Troops mount the rubble, they hit the mines we planted. The air fills with bloody, fleshy scraps of human meat and bone. They lose twenty or thirty men in the charge, but push on regardless. Seconds later the first of them clear the mines and tackle those waiting within the boundaries of the Square.

The fighting is brutal and merciless. Three or four Troops fall for every one of ours, but their commanders have allowed for that and the soldiers press on without slowing. They could have arranged a clinical takeover, subjected us to sniper fire and short, concentrated jabs, but they’re after a quick victory, perhaps motivated by the threat of the Kluxers — they’d rather not face Davern’s forces in the open.

I remain close to Sard and the Snakes, guarding the access to the underground tunnels we’ve carved out over the last few days, the holes in the net through which we’ll wriggle free. I take little part in the bloodshed. I fire off a few rounds, felling at least one soldier, but my heart isn’t in this. I have no wish to kill any of the Troops, many of whom I once served with.

I decide we’ve had enough — I’ve just seen two of my men obliterated by a grenade — and signal the retreat. Sixty seconds later, not one Snake stands in the Square, apart from myself, last to leave. I catch the eye of a surviving gangster — there can’t be more than twenty left — and bellow at him. “You can come with us if you’ve changed your mind!”

“Nah,” he laughs, waving me away. “The party’s just warming up.”

I salute him, spare the others one last glance — they’re surrounded by Troops, damned for sure — then slip down the hole. I crawl at a sharp angle until I come to a larger tunnel where I can stand. Sard is waiting for me. Once I’m clear, he sets the timer on the explosives we strung up earlier — all the entrances to the underworld are primed to blow — and we hurry to join the others.

Five minutes later we’re standing in a small room deep under Cockerel Square. The last of the bombs has detonated. We’ve staged a successful escape. I count heads — twenty-three, including myself and Sard, though two are critically injured and may not live to see the dawn. It could have been far worse.

“How many of the dozen you picked for the mission made it through?” I ask Sard quietly.

“All of them,” he answers. “I didn’t use them in the Square. I left them with orders to meet me later.”

“Good thinking. When are you meeting them?”

He checks his watch. “They should be in place already. It’ll take me half an hour to get there.”

“Everything’s set? You’ve run tests on the equipment?”

“Yes, Sapa Inca.”

I take his right hand and squeeze hard. “Luck to you, Cobra.”

“Luck,” he replies and slips away to do his reluctant duty.

I disperse the rest of the Snakes, with orders to tell the villacs that I’m waiting here in case any survivors make it through. They go without question, spirits low, not because of the battering we’ve endured, but because they had to run. I hope I live to see those spirits raised again, though I doubt I will.

Alone in the darkness, I wait a while, listening to the faint sounds of the Troops overhead as they consolidate their stronghold in the Square. Then I set off through the series of tunnels I mapped out earlier, moving swiftly, encountering no one, a ghost in the machine.

The area around the police station is deserted. It’s 02:12, the Snakes have slipped away and the locals are wisely keeping a low profile. I’ve been striding around the rooftops for twenty minutes in search of my father. No sign so far. I’ll give him until half past, then leave without him if I have to.

When my deadline expires, I head down to the street. I’m disappointed he isn’t coming but I won’t cry about it. For ten years I did a damn fine job of pretending to be Paucar Wami. I can masquerade as him for a few hours more.

As my feet touch ground, a voice speaks from the shadows. “Leaving your poor ol’ pappy behind, Al m’boy?”

I smile at the wall, then replace the smile with a scowl and spin to face him. “How long have you been following me?”

“A while. I was waiting to see if you would spot me. You are not as alert as you should be. Perhaps the Troops and Kluxers unnerved you.”

“I’ve had a lot on my mind,” I admit, “but they’re not first in my thoughts. I’m ready to take the fight to the priests. Are you in?”

“You have a plan?” he asks eagerly, stepping out of the shadows. The front of his T-shirt’s flecked with blood — looks like he’s been enjoying himself.

“I decided to keep things simple. We find a priest who talks English — a few can — and get him to lead us to Capac Raimi. We grab Raimi, bust through anyone who gets in our way, and escape.”

He frowns. “That is not much of a plan.”

“There’s more,” I grin. “I’ll tell you the rest later. Ama’s waiting for us.”

“The lady you met in Cafran’s?”

“You’ve been keeping a close eye on me,” I note sourly.

“Only because I care about you,” he smirks. “Where does she fit in with this?”

“I’ll explain as we go. Where’s your jacket?”

“In an apartment I’ve been using.”

“Then we’ll pick up another on our way.”

“I need one?”

“Yeah.”

“May I ask why?”

“To hide the bulge of your vest.”

In response to his raised eyebrow, I fill him in on the finer details as we pad the several blocks to where Ama’s waiting with all we’ll hopefully need to give us a fighting chance against the accursed villacs.

5: the cleansing

Ama and my father both know their way around the upper levels of the tunnels, so we make quick time, avoiding the milling Snakes and villacs, circling around them through smaller, seldom-used passages. Usually these tunnels would be guarded at some point along the line, but in all the confusion they’ve been left unprotected.

The temperature drops as we descend and torches become scarce. Often we have to navigate through pitch-blackness, linking hands, Ama or Wami leading the way, relying on instinct and memory. When I ask during a pause if they’re sure of our direction, they insist they are, though neither knows how. I ask how much farther they can take us, but they can’t say. They can only look ahead to the end of any given tunnel.

As we progress, Ama comes more into command, her knowledge of the tunnels sharper than Wami’s. We move steadily lower, down countless sets of stairs and steeply angled corridors. The priests must have been working on this system for hundreds of years. I’m stunned the city hasn’t collapsed in on itself, built on such riddled soil. They must be incredible architects to carve out and maintain all this.

After a long period of blackness we come to a cavern lit by several torches. Five tunnels branch off it. We examine them in turn, Ama and Wami venturing a little down the maw of each, waiting for the click of recognition that has guided them this far. But it doesn’t come. The tunnels are alien to both. Neither knows which way to go.

We squat in the middle of the cavern, debating our next move. Ama loosens the straps of the vest she’s wearing and slips in a hand to massage her back. The vests are lined with explosives, a gift from Bill. The detonators are strapped to our wrists, a pair for each of us. Small bands of hard plastic with a button in the center. They have to be pressed in turn, first the left, then the right within three seconds, to set off the charges. The explosion of each vest will destroy everything within a fifty-foot radius on open ground. Down here in the confinement of the tunnels they should be even more effective.

The vests are both our safeguard and our last resort, to be used to threaten our way out of a tight situation or take our enemies down. My father wears his reluctantly and says he’ll use it only as a bluff, but I think, if pushed, he’d rather detonate it and kill a few priests than succumb to their rule again.

I won’t hesitate to set off the charges. I’ve come here to die. I haven’t really considered the possibility that I might get out alive. It’s destroy-as-much-as-I-can time, consequences be damned.

“What now?” I ask, checking my watch—06:08. It’ll be dawn soon in the world above. I wonder idly what sort of a day it will be, and how the various participants are faring in the war to control the east.

“We have markers,” Wami says, jingling his stash of poker chips. We’re each carrying a large packet of chips. Even though we’ve been dropping them along the way, the bags are still more than half full. “We take the tunnels in turn, marking our path so we can find the way back, and see where they lead.”

“That could take forever,” I grunt. “The villacs will note my absence soon and wonder about it. They might figure out what we’re up to.”

Wami shrugs. “We knew the plan was makeshift, that we would have to rely on luck. Personally I am surprised we made it this far. The fates have been kind to us. We should not insult them by complaining.”

“We don’t have to go forward,” I note. “We could backtrack. There might be a way around this cavern.”

“I doubt it,” Wami says. “All paths lead here. I do not know why I think that, but I do.”

“Then I guess there’s nothing else for it.” I extract my bag of poker chips and move to the mouth of the nearest tunnel. “Shall we try this one first?”

Ama looks at me, frowning. “I’ve been here before. And I’ve been beyond. I remember a huge cavern, pillars rising from floor to ceiling, a raised circular stone like the inti watana, and…” She stops, shaking her head.

“Do you know how to get to it?” I ask eagerly.

“No, but…” Her frown deepens. “We should stay here. I have a feeling that if we wait long enough, we’ll be shown the way.”

I share a glance with my father. “I do not like it,” he says. “We will be targets if we stay. I would rather keep on the move.”

“She’s led us this far,” I remind him. “You ran out of ideas several levels up.”

Wami scowls, then nods curtly. “Very well. We will wait. But if a way does not present itself within the next few hours, I will search for it myself or abandon this crazy quest. I do not intend to grow old down here in the dark.”

A strained silence embraces us, interrupted only by the occasional sputter or spit of the torches. I sit by Ama but she’s distracted, sniffing the air, studying the walls and tunnels, waiting for something but not sure what.

An hour passes. Two. My father hasn’t moved. He sits with inhuman poise, eyes closed, head bowed, breathing lightly. I try to mimic his appearance but I’m too edgy. My eyes keep flicking to Ama, Wami, the tunnels, my watch.

As the third hour draws to its close, Ama stands and moves to the mouth of one of the tunnels. My father’s eyes open slowly and he gazes at her. When she turns, she’s smiling. “They come.”

“Who?” I ask, hurrying to where she’s standing.

“You can’t hear them yet. But they’re coming.”

“Who?” I ask again.

“I don’t know. But they’ll lead us where we wish to go.”

My eyes scan the cavern in search of a hiding place, although I know from the last three hours that there isn’t one. “Will we hide in a tunnel?”

“We do not know which they will choose,” Wami notes.

“If we pick the one they take, we run on ahead. With luck they won’t—”

“No,” Ama says softly. “We stay and present ourselves. This is where we were always meant to come when we were ready.”

“I will not surrender myself to the priests,” Wami says stiffly. “You may greet them if you wish. I will move on ahead, hide and follow later.”

“No,” Ama disagrees. “Stay or be excluded. Only the invited may progress. They’ll know you’ve been here. If you don’t offer yourself…” She smiles tightly. “We both know what they can do to Ayuamarcans when we displease them.”

Wami growls a curse but makes no move for the tunnels.

“Another thing,” Ama says, sliding out the pair of knives I fitted her with at the start of our trek. “We must disarm ourselves. They won’t accept us otherwise.”

“Does that include our vests?” I hiss.

She pauses. “I’m not sure. We can’t take knives or guns. By rights we should leave the vests too, but… No. Let’s chance it. If they frisk us, we’ll have to take them off, but I don’t think they’ll expect such weapons. We might be able to sneak them in.”

I lay my knives and pistol on the floor. “Are you doing this or not?” I ask my father, who’s standing unhappily in the middle of the cavern.

“Only a fool voluntarily abandons his weapons,” he says.

“We still have these,” I grin, flexing my fingers. “I’ve never seen an armed villac. If you can’t take care of them with your bare hands…”

He smiles and disarms. “Very well, Al m’boy. Hand to hand it shall be.”

With all our weapons on the floor, laid out in neat rows, we squat and wait for the guides promised by Ama to appear.

Forty minutes later they come. Judging by the echoes of their footsteps, there are three of them. “You two take the left,” Wami hisses, moving to the right of the tunnel entrance and pressing close to the wall.

“No,” Ama says calmly. “We’ll wait for them in the open. They must believe that we pose no threat.”

Wami grits his teeth but he does as Ama says, deliberately positioning himself to my side, giving Ama the cold shoulder. I’m as unsure about this as he is — the plan was to grab a priest and torture Raimi’s location out of him, not give ourselves up — but I trust Ama. I just hope that trust isn’t misplaced, that she’s not a pawn of the priests sent to betray us from within.

A few minutes later a trio of villacs enters the cavern. I’m pleased to note that the middle priest is the English-speaking one who introduced me to this subworld the day I first met my reincarnated father. “Pleased” because it means we can make him talk in our language if we have to resort to torture.

The villacs stop when they sense us and the hand of one streaks to a pouch tied to his waist. Then they recognize us by our scent or our auras and their faces relax.

“Welcome, Flesh of Dreams,” the middle priest says, bowing. “And welcome, Dreams Made Flesh.” He nods at Ama and Paucar Wami in turn. “It is good that you found your way here. We have waited a long time for this.”

“We’ve laid aside our weapons,” Ama says. “We offer ourselves freely and ask to be guided to”—she hesitates, then concludes weakly—“wherever we’re supposed to go.”

The priest smirks. “Your memories are incomplete, as they were meant to be.” He faces me and his smile fades. “Are you prepared to accept your destiny, Flesh of Dreams?”

“Yes.”

He frowns. “You sound uncertain. Perhaps this is not the right time. Maybe you should return to the surface and come again when—”

“It’s now or never,” I cut in. “The city’s yours, or soon will be. If you’re to divide it up as you wish, this is the time to do it. Take me to Capac Raimi. Let me talk to him and see if we can reach an agreement.”

One of the other villacs says something in their own language. The middle priest replies, then addresses me again. “We would rather you had come to us in the cave of the inti watana, where our brothers could have borne witness to your pledge. But the most important thing is that you have come. We’ll lead you, and introduce you to the one who will look into your heart and judge your true intentions.” His blind eyes fall on my father and his features darken. “This one is not desired. The woman was your guide and is welcome, but the killer was meant to have departed this realm. Send him away.”

“No,” I shoot back. “He comes with me. I promised him answers.”

“He is untrustworthy,” the priest warns. “He will turn on you.”

“Maybe. But he’s my father and I’m taking him.”

The villac cocks his head at his brothers, inviting comment. When they say nothing, he sniffs. “So be it. He is your charge. You will answer for any of his indiscretions.”

The priest walks to the second tunnel from the right. We start to follow but he stops us and enters the tunnel alone. A few minutes later he returns with three sets of white robes. “Undress and put these on. You can only be presented to the Coya in the attire of her chosen.”

“What’s a Coya?” I ask suspiciously.

“You will see once you have donned the robes.” He holds them out to us.

I stall, thinking of the explosives-laden vests. Then Ama presses against me and whispers, “They can’t see. Take off your clothes but leave on the vest.”

Smiling — it’s easy to forget that the priests are blind — I do as Ama says, and so does my father. I have a few uneasy moments when I take off my T-shirt — I keep expecting the priest to burst out with a sudden, “What the hell is that?”—but the vests go undetected and moments later we’re in the robes. I grab my packet of chips, slip the bug from the collar of my jacket — we’re all wearing miniature units — and attach it to my new garment. Wami and Ama do likewise.

“If you’re quite finished…,” the priest says, bemused by the delay.

“Ready and waiting, Captain,” I laugh buoyantly.

He moves to the tunnel on the far left and leads the way into a long stretch of darkness. Ama, Wami and I follow, the other priests bringing up the rear.

For half an hour we wind through twisting, unlit tunnels, our eyes as useless as the villacs’. As we turn yet another bend, I glimpse a dim light far ahead of us. I also fix on a dull thundering sound. I’ve been aware of it for several minutes but I only now realize what it is.

“That’s a waterfall,” I mutter, the first words anyone’s uttered since we left the cave with the torches.

“All must be cleansed before communion with the Coya,” the lead villac says. “You have nothing to fear. It is merely part of the ritual.”

A short while later we’re standing on a platform above a stream, facing the waterfall. It falls from a cleft high above us and gurgles away through a gully in the floor below the platform. A narrow wooden bridge runs to a ledge on the other side, passing beneath the falling water. There are torches on either side. I wonder why the blind priests bother with lights. I mean to ask, but before I can, the villac speaks.

“Do as I do,” the priest says, walking into the spray and spreading his arms. He turns in a slow circle, the water soaking him, drenching his hair and robes. Stepping out, he continues to the far side of the bridge and faces us. “Come.”

My father steps up beside me. “Will the explosives be affected by the water?”

“No. But the microphones will.” I raise my voice, addressing the priest. “How much further is it?”

“Why?”

“I don’t like the idea of marching through these cold tunnels soaked like a water rat. Can’t we skip this part?”

“The cleansing is essential,” he snaps. “Besides, you won’t have to walk far, and you are required to rest in a room of steam before progressing to the hall of the Coya. That will warm you.”

“Wonderful,” I mutter, dropping a couple of poker chips by the side of the path. Then I shout, “I’d rather be anywhere but here right now!” That’s the signal to Sard.

Once it’s been given, I walk into the spray and immerse myself. I hear the crackle and hiss of the bug as the water hits. If there was a problem with the signal when I spoke, or if Sard was distracted, we’re finished. All we can do from this point on is cross our fingers, play for time… and pray.

When we’re together again, dripping and shivering, the two villacs at the rear move to the front and join their companion. They set off, chanting. Although they don’t tell us to follow, we’re obviously meant to. Sharing a wary glance, we wring out the wet folds of our robes, then hurry after the priests, to cover the last leg of the subterranean march.

We arrive at a pair of doors twelve feet high, carved out of dark wood, adorned with gold-lined murals of mountains, rivers and warped human figures. At the top, spread across the two doors, are representations of the sun and moon, a face visible at the heart of each, a man’s in the sun, a woman’s in the moon. The symbols must have been daubed with luminescent paint because they glow softly in the gloom.

The English-speaking villac steps forward, hammers twice on either door, then kneels, lowers his head and covers it with his hands. The other priests stay on their feet, so we do too. After a lengthy wait the doors swing inward. Thick clouds of steam bubble out. At first I can’t see anybody, but as I peer intently I realize someone is standing just inside the doors. It’s a woman.

The woman addresses the priest on the ground. He replies in his arcane tongue. She responds sharply, her gaze directed at my father. The priest speaks again. There’s a pause when he finishes, then the woman steps forward out of the steam and into the glow of the sun and moon.

The first thing I notice is that, apart from a pair of loose sandals, she’s naked. Once I recover from that brief shock — the last thing I expected to be greeted with was a nudist — I swiftly note her characteristics. Short, stocky, a flat face, broad nose, painfully white skin, hair tied back, curved fingernails at least three inches long, her pubic hair shaved away except for a small circular mound that has been dyed bright orange — a tribute to the sun, I guess. And she isn’t blind. Her eyes are large and brown.

The woman bows and makes a snakelike sign in the air with her left hand. I glance at Ama and my father, then smile shakily and half-wave. “Pleased to meet you too,” I chuckle edgily. The woman frowns and holds up a hand, instructing us to stay, and retreats into the shadows.

Minutes pass without the priests moving or talking, or the woman returning. I want to ask about her, these doors and what lies beyond, but I sense this isn’t the moment for questions. Instead I pick at my robes, readjusting them around my vest, trying to hide the bulges of the explosives. Ama and my father do likewise.

Finally the woman reappears, flanked by eight others, who march in pairs, all as naked as she is, similar in height, build and looks. As they come through the door the women branch out, encircling Ama, Wami and me. They pivot around us, lips moving faintly as they chant softly. My father studies their naked bodies openly, turning as they turn. Ama stands stiffly, ignoring them. I focus on their eyes, trying to hold their gaze so they don’t notice the shapes beneath my robes.

Wami reaches out to touch one of the naked women. She flinches and subjects him to an angry barrage of Incan gibberish. When she stops, the priest on the floor says, “It is not permitted to make contact with the mamaconas. No male hand may maul their sacred flesh, except in the time of mating. If you attempt to touch her again, you will be disposed of. That goes for you too, Flesh of Dreams. As much as you mean to us, certain taboos cannot be broken.”

“You must let me know when it is ‘mating time,’ ” my father murmurs.

“Who are the mamaconas?” Ama asks.

“The priestesses of our Coya,” the villac says. “Hand-servants of the queen. They see to her needs and assist her in the time of creation. They are her daughters and sisters, her ever-constant companions, our wives and mothers.”

“It sounds deliciously incestuous,” Wami smirks.

The priest takes his hands off his head, stands and faces us. “It is almost time to meet the Coya. She is old and wise. She does not speak your language, but will know if you are belittling her, and will react without humor if slighted. Do not test her, Dreams Made Flesh, if you value your life, for she endowed you with it and she can just as surely rid you of it again.”

Wami smiles, but I sense the tension behind his grin. The naked women come to a standstill and lower their chins to their chests, resting their long fingernails on the pale flesh of their stomachs. The three villacs form a file in front of us and chant. The air smells of incense, but that might be psychosomatic — I feel as if I’m in church, so perhaps I’m imagining the sickly scent.

The priests move forward. The heads of the mamaconas lift and they nod at us. I share a worried glance with Ama and my father, then start ahead. Ama, Paucar Wami and the mamaconas follow. When we’re all inside, the doors close, plunging us into steam-ridden darkness and mystery.

6: mama ocllo

We stumble forward blindly until the English-speaking villac snaps, “Stop!” The clouds of steam intensify, warming my damp robes. “We remain here until the cleansing is complete. It may be some time. Keep still and do not speak. Any interruption will necessitate an even longer delay.”

We stand close by one another while the steam envelops us and the mamaconas slither around, whispering, occasionally breathing in our faces or scratching us teasingly with their nails. I don’t like this. It’s surreal. I imagine all sorts of monstrosities circling us. I want to break free of the steam, shove the priestesses away and run. But I hold myself in check and remind myself that every minute wasted is a bonus, as long as they don’t keep us here too long.

Eventually the mamaconas withdraw and the priest says, “Advance.” We stagger through a set of heavy drapes into a candlelit tunnel a hundred feet long, blocked at the far end by more drapes. I pause nervously at the second set of drapes, then rotate my neck left and right, working the tension out of it. When I’m calm, I part the drapes and step through.

I find myself in a cavern with a low roof — no more than seven feet high in places — supported by dozens of thick wooden pillars. The room is lit by many candles, set in the floor, casting their light upward. Women crowd the area close to the entrance, spread in a semicircle, naked like our guides, eyes bright. When they see me, they squeal like groupies at a rock concert and point excitedly with long, curved nails.

“You seem to be a hit with the ladies,” my father grins.

“But do they want to screw me or sacrifice me?”

“Possibly both. But if you are lucky, they will fuck you first.”

Ama moves up beside us and eyes the women critically. “I don’t think it would kill them to buy some clothes.”

The English-speaking villac sniffs. “The mamaconas have been blessed by the goddess of the moon. They are pure, and must exist in a state of purity. They cover the soles of their feet because this earth is not worthy to receive their touch, but otherwise parade as nature intended.” He sighs. “It is because of their purity that we surrender the use of our eyes. We are not fit to gaze upon them.”

“You let yourselves be blinded so you can’t look at your priestesses?” I blink slowly. “Didn’t you ever think of blindfolds?”

“One does not blind oneself to heavenly beauty with a strip of cloth,” he retorts. “It is an honor to give one’s eyes in the service of the mamaconas.”

Ama moves ahead of us and studies the women. They don’t attempt to shield their nakedness. Some pick at her clothes, frowning, as if they’ve never seen such garments. “These are servants of the moon goddess?” Ama asks the priest.

“Yes.”

“I thought you worshipped the sun god, Inti.”

“The creator of all things was Viracocha. When he created the first people, Manco Capac and Mama Ocllo, he split himself in two, becoming the sun and the moon. Our men worship the male form of the god, our women the female. But you will learn more of this soon. Come — the Coya awaits.”

The priest claps and the women part. As I walk, I whisper out of the side of my mouth to my father. “Do you think the pillars support the roof or are they just for show?”

“They look like they are integral,” he replies.

“If we set off our explosives here…”

He smiles bleakly. “If not for the fact that it would mean my destruction too, I would love to bring the house down. But it is better if we wait. Do not be in a hurry to embrace death, Al m’boy.”

I spy a massive red sheet hanging from the roof. It’s maybe sixty feet wide and the hem touches the floor. As I get closer, I see that two more run at ninety-degree angles to it at either end, and I guess they’re connected by a fourth at the back to form a square.

The villacs stop at the red sheet of cloth and the mamaconas drop to their hands and knees. They’re crooning softly. The priests wait until the tune stops, then the English-speaking one faces us. “It is time to meet our Coya. This is a great honor. As I said earlier, you must treat her with respect or suffer the consequences.” This is addressed to Paucar Wami, who adopts as innocent an expression as he can muster. “By rights, I should present only Flesh of Dreams to her, but I assume you wish for your allies to accompany you?”

“Yes,” I answer promptly.

“Very well. But you alone have the privilege of addressing her. The others must speak to her through you or me, and they should do so only if they feel it is imperative. This is not a time for idle questions. One last point.” He pauses, and now his white eyes settle on Ama. “There must be no emotional outbursts. Control yourself, no matter how difficult it may prove.”

“I’m not a child,” Ama huffs.

The priest catches hold of the sheet and lifts. I bend low to pass under it, as do Ama and Paucar Wami. The priest follows us, but his companions remain on the other side of the sheet, along with the mamaconas.

I stand inside the veiled room and allow my eyes to adjust to the light, which is much dimmer here. As objects swim into focus, I realize that much of the room is taken up by an enormous bed — no mattress, just a base — on which rests the largest, most gruesome-looking hag I’ve ever seen. She’s lying on her side, thighs obscured by the hanging folds of her sagging stomach. It’s hard to guess her height, but I’d put it at ten or eleven feet. Layers of fat encircle her like boa constrictors. Her face is double the normal size, her skin grey and mottled, her teeth sharp and uneven, her eyes a dull red color. The nails of her fingers and toes are all but invisible — the flesh of the appendages bulges out over them — and her breasts hang to her pubic mound, her nipples huge and black, leaking a dark liquid. She’s naked, but there’s nothing remotely appealing about her.

The Coya casts an eye over us, then puts a question to the priest, who’s holding his hands up by the sides of his face, lightly touching his temples with his fingers. He answers with a grunt. She looks at me and smiles. Moves her left hand in under the layers of fat to her vagina. Wets the fingers, lifts them to her nose, then speaks to me in words I can’t understand.

“She senses loneliness in you,” the villac translates as I gaze distastefully at the creature on the bed. “She offers to use her juices to create a mate for you, one who will be all that you wish.”

“No thanks,” I mutter, stomach churning at the thought of having anything to do with this foul monster’s juices.

“Al,” Ama says tightly. Her face is rigid and I can see that she’s struggling to hold herself together. “On the floor, near her feet.”

I look down — I haven’t had eyes for anything but the Coya until now — and notice a mass of chains and locks. As I stare, something moves beneath the chains and a face swims into view. It’s a man. His features are bruised and bloodied, and his ears and nose have been cut off, but I place him instantly — Capac Raimi. He looks fit for nothing but death.

I reach out a hand to steady Ama, afraid she’ll disobey the priest’s warning and bring the wrath of this monster down upon us. “I’m OK,” she says, then looks at the Coya and gulps. “Will you ask her if I can go to him?” I raise an eyebrow at the priest. He speaks to his queen, who snorts but waves a hand magnanimously. Ama dashes forward to check on the welfare of the man she was created to love.

“Capac?” she moans, shoving the chains away from his face. He stares at her with his right eye — his left has been poked out and dangles down his cheek, making him look like a waxwork dummy on a ghost train. “Capac?” she says again, the word breaking into a sob on her lips.

The Cardinal’s eye widens. “Ama?” he croaks, and as his mouth opens I see that most of his teeth have been extracted. He raises a hand, stops, lets it drop away. “No,” he groans. “Just a vision. A trap. Can’t be. You’re dead.”

“No, Capac, it’s me!” she cries, grasping his hand and kissing the bloody fingers. “They brought me back. They used me to tempt you down here, but they’re not using me now. We’ve come to—”

“Ama,” I interrupt hastily. “You’d better leave him. Talking can’t be easy in his condition.”

“It’s easier than it was a couple of weeks ago,” the villac laughs. “We cut out his tongue. It has only recently grown back.” The priest walks over to where Ama is weeping and gazes cynically at the battered Cardinal. “He thought he was more powerful than us. He assumed, since he could not be killed, that we could not harm him.” He stoops, grabs a chain and tugs. Raimi grunts with pain and his single eye snaps shut. “He was wrong.”

“Leave him alone!” Ama screams, thrusting her nails at the priest’s face. But he anticipates the move and slaps her hands aside, then releases the chain.

“He forgot that if he’s taken to the verge of death, but not beyond, his body will heal, even to the extent of regenerating parts that have been removed.” The priest faces me proudly. “We have kept him here since abducting him, subjecting him to torture and mutilation. We focus on a different part of the body each day. After a while, when that part has healed, we return to it and start over.”

“Mother… fuckers,” Raimi wheezes, glaring at his tormentor.

“Be careful, Blood of Dreams,” the priest retorts. “We can take your right eye as simply as we took your left.”

“I’ll kill you,” Ama hisses, pointing at the priest with a shaking finger.

“Please,” he yawns, “let us dispense with threats. We did what had to be done. He needed to learn the price of disobedience. If he doesn’t do as we command, we can keep him here forever. There is no escape unless we grant it.”

“I killed myself… a couple of times,” Raimi sighs. “They were waiting for me on… the train. Took me before… consciousness returned. Drugged and brought… me back. Made me watch as they… castrated me.”

“The cruellest cut of all,” Wami murmurs, stepping forward to study the work of the priests. Raimi’s eye fills with fear at sight of the killer, but he doesn’t cringe from his touch. “A professional job. I could do better, but my standards are higher than anyone’s.” There’s an almost melancholic gleam to his green eyes. “A victim with self-healing powers, who lives forever… What a time I could have with him! If there is an afterlife, and I am to be rewarded in it by a god or devil, I can think of no greater treasure than this.”

“You’re real, aren’t you?” Raimi says, glancing from my father to me and back again. “The other’s Al Jeery. But you’re the real Paucar Wami.”

“The original and best,” my father grins.

“Have you come to make good on your promise?”

Wami frowns. “What promise?”

“You swore, if you survived… Dorak’s passing, you’d see me suffer… for making him jump.”

The assassin shrugs. “I never thought I would hear myself say this, but I think you have suffered enough. Besides, I have new enemies. You are nothing next to them.”

“Where are the keys?” Ama asks, sifting through the locks.

“He will not be freed until he agrees to work with Flesh of Dreams,” the villac says. “When he is ready to commit himself to our cause, we will cast the chains aside and all shall be as it was. If he persists in defying us…”

“Go fuck yourself,” Raimi splutters. “I can take as much of this… as you can dish out.”

“Perhaps,” the priest sneers. “But can you take more from my son? And his? Our line is endless, Blood of Dreams, as your suffering will be if—”

He’s interrupted by the Coya, who says something while waving at the captive on the floor. The priest frowns and replies uncertainly. She repeats herself, sharply this time. He nods and fiddles with the chains, unlocking them with a set of keys that he’s been carrying in a pouch.

“Our Coya says that there is no further need for violence,” he says, freeing the wary-looking Cardinal. “Your closest mortal ally, Flesh of Dreams, has come of his own free will, bringing the woman you loved and lost ten years ago, who has now been restored — by us. Once you talk with your companions, and dwell upon this in the safety of Party Central, you will see that it does not benefit you to defy us. We want the same thing — a peaceful, strong, independent city. Why not work together to build it?”

“Fuck you,” Raimi growls, hobbling to his feet, wincing, pausing to snap his loose eye free of the strands attaching it to its socket. He throws it away with a curse, then faces the Coya, ignoring the blood dripping down his left cheek. “One thing kept me going these long years.” I don’t correct him — this isn’t the time to tell him he’s only been down here a matter of weeks. “The thought of wrapping my hands around your filthy fucking throat and throttling you. Now that I’m free, I’m going to…” He’s about to mount the bed when he stops and squints at the grinning Coya and priest.

“Blood of Dreams,” the villac laughs, “do you really think I would have freed you if there was the slightest chance that you could harm our queen? You may attempt it if you wish, but in your present state I would not advise it. Her sleeping place is sacred, as the inti watana is, and you would be repelled the instant you made contact.”

“Bullshit,” he snarls.

“It’s true,” I tell him. His head turns slowly. “I don’t know about the bed, but the inti watana stone is charged with some kind of magic. You can’t set foot on it unless you’ve been cleared. The jolt’s savage at the best of times.”

Raimi holds my gaze until I look away — I don’t like staring into the bloody maw where his nose should be — then takes a step back. “What brings you here, Jeery?” he asks, brushing some of the dried blood from his cheeks. “I thought you knew better than to get into bed with these fuckers.”

“The city’s gone to hell since you were taken. This is the only way to restore order.”

“You’re a fool. This city’s all they have. They won’t irreparably damage it.”

“Maybe not, but they’ve killed plenty of my neighbors and friends.”

Raimi shakes his head and spits blood onto the bed, splattering the Coya’s legs. She only grins. “I always suspected you had a soft side. Even when you killed, you only went for scum, never the babes or innocents.”

“You and my father have an advantage over me,” I respond. “You’re inhuman. I have a conscience.”

“I used to think I had one too,” Raimi sighs, scratching the spot where his right ear should be. He looks around the sheeted room at the Coya, Ama, Paucar Wami, me, the villac. “What now? We all go home, play happy families and jump when you say?”

“More or less,” the priest smiles. “I would hold you here if it were up to me, but our queen thinks differently. She says you will come around to our way of thinking when you have time to weigh up the pros and cons. If you do not, we will haul you down here again. It’s not like you can flee the city and hide from us, is it?”

Raimi mutters something dark and terrible, but he knows he’s beaten. I don’t think for a second that he means to take his defeat lying down — as soon as he’s back in Party Central, his thoughts will turn to revenge — but for the moment he’s prepared to throw in the towel.

Not me. This is the only chance I’ll get to hit back at the villacs. If all is going as it should, the first blows have already been struck. Now I have to play for time to ensure the queen and her mamaconas don’t slip away to hatch fresh schemes and renew their grip on the city.

“We’re going nowhere until our questions have been answered,” I say, grasping Raimi’s elbow and forcing him to sit. “We’re not as lost as we seem,” I hiss in his ear cavity. “We need to keep them talking.” The Cardinal shows no sign of having heard, but lets me lower him to the floor, where he starts to shake and moan.

“Capac!” Ama reacts instantly, rushing to his side.

“It would be easier to kill him,” the priest says. “That way he can re-form on the train, physically whole. Otherwise he faces a slow, painful recovery.”

“Later,” I say. “He’s got a right to the answers too. Give us a few minutes to clean his wounds.”

The priest looks to his queen, who shrugs lazily. “Very well. But be quick. I wish to take word of this momentous occasion to my brothers. We have waited so long for the bloodlines to merge. There will be much celebrating tonight.”

“We’ll do the best we can,” I lie blithely, and step aside to let Ama tend to her lover’s wounds. She works slowly, wiping away blood with her robes, fetching water from a barrel near the foot of the bed. There’s not much she can do about his nose and ears, but she fusses over the gaps, stretching out the minutes, as aware as I am of the need to procrastinate.

“We need to stitch these,” Ama says, examining gashes on his skull and chest.

“That won’t be necessary,” the priest replies. “We have wasted enough time.”

“But it will only take—”

“No,” he snaps. “Our Coya is tiring of your company. Put your questions to her now or take them with you.”

I can’t think of an excuse to delay further, so I settle into my role of inquisitor. “Let’s start with the Ayuamarcans. As I understand it, Ferdinand Dorak created them with your assistance, and when he died, they died as well. So how come this lot”—I wave at my back-from-the-dead companions—“are up and walking?”

The Coya answers slowly, the priest translating as she speaks.

“There was much Ferdinand Dorak didn’t know about our powers. He saw what we wished him to see, no more. Where there were gaps, he overlooked them or filled them in with logic of his own. We never corrected him when he was wrong. We never even spoke to him in words he could comprehend — we had not bothered at that time to learn the language of your people.

“The generation of the Ayuamarcans was not as straightforward as he believed. When he wished to create a person, he chose a face from his dreams, then came to our villacs. Having shared his dream, they had constructed a doll in advance, which they daubed with their blood and his, then cast a spell on. He thought that was the end of the process.”

The Coya shakes her head and chuckles. “It was not so simple. Every act of creation requires a mother and a father. That was why Viracocha split himself in two when he wished to create the first humans. As a single entity he could only replicate himself. Divided, he was able to give life to new creatures, to Inti Maimi and Mama Ocllo.”

“Wait a minute,” I interrupt. “You’re not trying to tell us that thing on the bed is the same Mama Ocllo of your legends, are you?”

“No,” the priest answers directly, “but she is a direct descendant. Each of our Coyas lives for more than a hundred years, giving birth to thirty or more children. When her body withers, her spirit finds a home in one of her children and lives again, carrying on with only the briefest of interruptions.”

“These children,” Paucar Wami says to the queen, then stops and addresses his question to me. “Do they breed with one another, or with outside stock?”

“The villacs and mamaconas are of pure blood,” the priest replies huffily. “Our Incan followers — those who helped escort us here — bred with the Indians who were indigenous to this region, and later with the Europeans, but we have always remained apart.”

“That explains a lot,” Wami murmurs. “The pale skin, the thin hair, the various genetic oddities.”

“Don’t mock us,” the priest growls. “We are not cursed with the weaknesses of inbreeding. Our people long ago discovered ways to combat such defects. We are as strong of constitution as any race.”

“Let’s get back to the creating business,” Raimi mutters. “I want to know what they held back from Dorak.”

The Coya recommences. “Creation requires a man and a woman. Our Watanas have traditionally served the function of the father. Our priests could have adopted that role, but we chose to include members of the communities which we ruled, partly to strengthen the ties between us, mostly to prevent internal conflict — a villac who possessed the powers of a Watana would have been a threat.

“Ferdinand Dorak was the last Watana. With your creation”—she points to Raimi—“we abandoned the practice. This world has changed faster than our forefathers ever imagined. We needed a new breed of representative to face it. Thus we had our Watana create an immortal being, one with the power of—”

“We know this part,” Raimi snarls. “Get back to how we were created and how you reanimated Ama and Paucar Wami.”

The priest glares at Raimi, then looks to his queen. She ponders the request, then nods. Walking to one of the hanging sheets, he parts the folds and calls to the mamaconas. There’s a scuffling sound, then two naked priestesses enter with wooden trays, upon which lie a number of dolls. They lay the trays on the bed, bow low to the Coya and depart.

We study the dolls in silence. A doll of my father is there, and one of Ama. There are others I recognize — Conchita Kubekik and Inti Maimi.

“Leonora Shankar,” Wami murmurs, pointing to the doll of the once-famous restaurateur.

“And Adrian Arne,” Raimi adds, reaching for the doll of a young man, stopping before he touches it, slowly withdrawing his hand. He glances at the Coya but speaks to me. “Ask her if these have been stolen from Party Central.”

“No,” comes the answer. “What Dorak didn’t know was that there were two of each doll. There had to be, just as you need a sperm and an egg to make a baby. The blood he gave to his doll was combined with the blood our Coya gave to hers, and the pair were used to produce the Ayuamarcans.”

The Coya picks up a doll — Ama’s — and runs a cracked nail over the top of its head. Ama shivers violently, then steels herself and stares impassively at the queen of the underworld Incas.

“When Dorak destroyed a doll by piercing its heart,” the Coya continues, “he eliminated its body but not its spirit. For that to happen, the other doll’s heartbeat also needed to be stopped. Until it was, the spirit of the dream person remained at our disposal, to be recalled any time we wish.”

I frown. “But you said a male and female were needed. If Dorak was the last of the Watanas, how can you bring the Ayuamarcans back to life?”

“Restoring life is not the same as creating it,” the Coya says. “We cannot create new beings without the Watana, but we can restore the essence of those who have walked before. Thus we brought back Paucar Wami when we needed a figurehead to front the Snakes. And Ama Situwa when we needed to lure Capac Raimi to us.”

“Care to tell us how you pull that trick off?” Raimi asks sourly.

“Good magicians never reveal their secrets,” the priest chuckles without asking his queen. “And we are the very best magicians.”

“It makes sense,” Raimi mutters, “in its own crazy way. It explains why Dorak always had to wait a day or so for his Ayuamarcans to appear — the Coya had to weave her magic over the other doll. And it accounts for you being here”—this to Ama and Wami—“in your original forms. Your dolls never aged, and since they used those to restore you, you look the same the second or twentieth time around.”

“Couldn’t they have had one doll instead of two?” Ama asks. “I understand that both the blood of the Watana and Coya were needed, but I don’t see the need for the duplicate dolls.”

“We could have used a single doll,” the priest says. “Indeed, we did with Capac Raimi, which is why you don’t see a doll of him on the trays. But by creating twins, we gave our Watanas a degree of control over their creations.”

“You let them think they were running the show,” Raimi says, “while all the time you were really pulling the strings.”

“Of course,” the villac smiles.

“There is another thing I have difficulty understanding,” Paucar Wami says. “Any time I disobeyed your orders, you took my body apart with magic. Did you do that by piercing the heart of my doll?”

“No. There are other ways to disassemble an Ayuamarcan. By removing a doll’s head, we render the human inert. Once the head has been reattached and the proper procedures followed, life can be restored. The heart of the doll continues beating until pierced. As long as it does, the Ayuamarcan may be recalled. Once pierced, that is the end, the spirit can never be summoned again.”

My father stares at his doll, eyes narrowing. I know what he’s thinking — if he gets ahold of it, the priests have no further claim on him. He’d be free to do as he pleased. Unfortunately for him, the Coya has also read his thoughts.

She picks up the doll and holds it close to her grotesque breasts, stroking its bare chest with a sharp nail.

“The removal of the doll’s head also explains how we keep our creations bound to this city,” the villac says smugly. “Dorak thought his Ayuamarcans could not survive beyond these boundaries, but with the exception of Capac Raimi, they can. The reason most never did is that we unpicked the flesh of their bodies every time they left. It was our way of keeping them in check.”

Ama stares at the priest. “You mean I can leave? My body won’t disintegrate?”

“Only Raimi is bound. We knew we could not kill him once Dorak was dead, so we took steps to ensure we could control him by tying him physically to the city. The rest of you were always free to wander if we’d let you.”

While Ama and Raimi mull that over — my father isn’t bothered, having been able to come and go anyway — the villac consults with his queen, then says, “You now know how you came to be and why.” He turns to Raimi. “You also have a further reason to pledge your cause to ours, so we expect no more trouble from you after this.”

“How’s that?” The Cardinal replies skeptically.

“Your woman.” The priest waves at Ama. “You sacrificed her once, when you thought it was necessary. But by uniting with us, you can keep her, and not just for this life. When she reaches the end of her mortal days, we can resurrect her. She will not last unto eternity — her doll will eventually crumble, and her essence with it — but we can promise you a millennium together, maybe longer.”

Raimi’s eye softens and he looks to Ama for her response, which comes more quickly than he anticipated. “If you have any feelings for me at all, you won’t do that.”

“You’d say no to a thousand years of life?” Raimi asks, surprised.

“Don’t subject me to the misery you endure, Capac. I don’t want to come back time and time again. One life’s enough. I don’t crave another.”

“How about you?” Raimi asks my father. “Would you accept their offer?”

“If I could accept it and be free, I would,” Wami answers thoughtfully. “But to be a slave for ten centuries…” He shakes his head. “I could never tire of killing, but I would know I was at their beck and call, and that would sour life for me.”

Raimi faces the villac and grins. “We all agree — go fuck yourselves.”

The villac’s face darkens. “It seems you have not yet learned your lesson, Blood of Dreams. We will have to tie you down again and…” He stops at the sound of commotion. Voices have been raised and the alarmed cries of mamaconas ring around the cavern. In the distance there are the dull thuds of gunfire. The priest strides to the sheet and swipes it aside. Through the parting I see naked priestesses gathered around a small group of shaken villacs.

“What’s going on?” Raimi whispers as the priest hurries to his companions to determine the meaning of the interruption. The Coya is peering over our heads.

“A little surprise Al cooked up,” Ama grins, kissing The Cardinal’s bloody forehead. “Just sit back and enjoy the show. We’ll explain later.”

The English-speaking villac consults with his harried brothers, impatiently at first, then fearfully. He races to the door of the cavern and is almost knocked down by several priests as they surge through. He makes it to the entrance, stands there listening, then pushes ahead out of view. A minute later he returns at full speed, face warped with terror. He cuts through the villacs and mamaconas, ignoring their plaintive cries, and screams at the Coya before he’s even halfway to her bed-cum-throne.

The massive queen bolts upright and snaps something in reply. He falls over a shrieking priestess, rises, kicks her out of his way and answers. The Coya’s gaze settles on me and the hatred in her eyes would floor a lesser man. She points a finger at me, Ama and my father, then roars to the approaching villac. He grabs two of the priests closest to him and barks an order. The three draw daggers and move on me, while the Coya grasps the dolls of Paucar Wami and Ama Situwa and prepares to drive her nails through their hearts.

My father reads the queen’s intentions and hurls himself at her. He gets no farther than the base of the bed. As soon as his foot touches it, he’s propelled backward and he crashes through the red sheets, falling heavily on a circle of candles. The Coya roars maliciously and holds his doll above her head.

“Wait!” I bellow as the priests close in. Grabbing the hem of my robes, I hoist them over my chest, exposing my body to the bloated queen — along with the vest of explosives.

The Coya doesn’t know what the vest means — I imagine she understands little of the world above — but she knows I’m not flashing for the fun of it. She screeches a command to the priests, who stop within striking distance of me. I turn to the one who speaks English. “Come here,” I growl. “Feel what I’m wearing.”

He lowers his knife and stretches out a hand. He frowns when his fingers touch the material of the vest. Then his fingers explore further and his face collapses.

“Make any further moves on me or the others and I’ll blow you all to hell,” I tell him sweetly.

“You would perish too,” he moans.

I laugh. “I came here to die. If you think I’m bluffing, try me. Now, tell her to give me the dolls or I’ll bring this roof down on the whole lot of us.”

The villac gulps, then speaks to his queen. Her flabby jowls quiver indignantly and she starts to berate him. He snaps at her irately, and even though I don’t speak their language, I know what they’re saying. He tells her about the explosives and my demand of her, she questions my sincerity — would I truly take my own life? — and he puts her straight in no uncertain terms.

The Coya snarls at me, but then the sound of gunfire fills the cavern — the invaders must be almost to the doors — and she realizes she has no time for a duel. She hurls the dolls at me, then rattles off a list of orders to the villac. Reacting with admirable coolness, he summons several priests, along with a dozen or more mamaconas, and issues instructions. They obey without question, hurrying to the side of the cavern and returning with two long poles that they slide into grooves along the sides of the Coya’s bed. The Incas group around each of the four protruding handles, then lift at the Coya’s command. Facing the back of the cavern, they set off with surprising speed.

The English-speaking villac squares up to me, his white eyes tinted orange by the flickering lights of the candles. “This is not the end,” he snarls. “We’ve had to flee before and build anew. We shall do so again. This city is ours and we will reclaim it as surely as the sun will rise in the morning.”

I smile and hit him with a sly, stinging retort. “In your dreams.”

The priest’s upper lip curls, but he can think of no suitable comeback, so he races after his Coya and her retinue, quickly disappearing from sight.

“Shouldn’t we go after them?” Ama asks.

“There’s no rush.” Tucking the dolls of Ama and Paucar Wami between my vest and chest, I lower my robes and wink at her, nodding toward the remaining villacs and mamaconas as they face the barbarians spilling into the cavern. “Let’s enjoy the grand finale. I’ve been waiting a long time to see these blind bastards take a good beating. I wouldn’t miss this for the world.”

7: pizarro mk ii

The Incas mount a surprisingly stout defense, the naked priestesses and blind priests hurling themselves at their assailants, brandishing fingernails and knives with lethal expertise. But they’re outnumbered and their opponents pack guns, so it’s no real contest. Within five or six minutes the last of the howling mamaconas is being put down like a rabid dog — the soldiers have orders to kill all they find — and a beaming Eugene Davern strides toward me through the mixed ranks of Troops, Kluxers and Snakes.

“You’re alive!” he laughs, throwing his arms around me. I’m sure he’ll wince when he recalls this later, but for the moment he’s been carried away by the swiftness and ease of the crushing victory.

“So it seems,” I grunt.

He stands back and studies my robes. “Don’t think much of your getup. We could have shot you in gear like that.”

“I didn’t have much choice. We had to bow to their whims to delay them.”

Behind Davern, Sard enters the cavern and hurries over. “Sapa Inca!” he shouts proudly, wiping blood — not his — from his face. “The hour is ours!”

“You did well, soldier.” Looking around, I see that the Snakes in the cavern are from various phalanxes, not just Sard’s. “Did you have any trouble convincing the others to unite against the villacs?”

“None,” he grins. “They knew I wouldn’t invent such an order by myself.”

“They did not question my motives?”

“You’re the Sapa Inca,” he replies simply. On the floor, my father groans and sits up, regaining consciousness. Sard’s eyes widen when he spots the second Paucar Wami and he takes a step backward. “Sapa Inca?” he asks uncertainly, right hand going to the knife on his belt.

“We needed to confuse the priests, so I had this man disguised to look like me.”

“A decoy?” Sard frowns.

“Yes.” Stooping, I grab Wami by the elbows and hoist him up. His eyes are cloudy but otherwise he appears unharmed. “Are you OK?”

“I feel like I’ve been kicked by a horse,” he growls, rubbing his neck. Gazing at the soldiers and dead Incas in the cavern, he smiles. Then he realizes the bed’s no longer where it was and his smile vanishes. “The fat bitch — where is she?”

“Some of her subjects spirited her away. Don’t worry, I can’t see them getting very far. We’ll set after them shortly and finish them off.”

“My doll! If she pierces its heart…”

I start to tell him I’ve retrieved the doll, then stop, fixing on an image of Bill Casey weeping as he told me about his sister. I think for a moment, then mutter, “She’s too frantic to reason clearly. You’ve nothing to fear. We will track her down presently.”

While my father fidgets, Raimi hobbles forward and confronts Eugene Davern. The leader of the Kluxers flinches when he spots the bloody, barely recognizable figure stumbling toward him, then realizes who it is and smiles shakily. “Capac,” he greets him nervously.

Raimi runs his eye over Davern, then looks to me. “What the hell’s going on?”

“An alliance,” I explain, nodding at the Troops, Kluxers and Snakes, who are gazing uneasily at one another, branching off into their respective groups now that the fighting’s over. “The villacs pushed your Troops and Davern’s Kluxers to the brink of war, using the Snakes — the guys with the bald heads and tattoos — to spark it off. I cut a deal with Tasso and Davern. They staged an invasion of the east, giving the priests the idea that they were going to battle for real. To avoid the chaos, the villacs retreated underground. Once I gave the word, the Troops and Kluxers linked up and surged down the tunnels with the Snakes. The three forces cut all the priests they could find to ribbons, while a combined spearhead raced here, tracking a trail of poker chips we left for them to follow.”

Raimi thinks that over, his battered face creased with doubt. “Tasso and Davern working together? The Kluxers in league with a gang of blacks? A lot’s changed while I’ve been away.”

“It was time for change. The villacs had arranged it. I simply stepped in and readjusted their plans, turning the new deal to our advantage instead of theirs.”

“And what exactly does this ‘new deal’ entail?” Raimi asks.

“The finer details haven’t been thrashed out yet. You can take care of that when you’re back in charge. The way I sold it to Tasso and Davern, the Troops, Kluxers and Snakes get to carve up the city between them. There’s enough to go around, especially now that the priests have been taken care of. The final say is yours, of course, but I think you’d be crazy not to take advantage of the peace now that it’s been established.”

Raimi nods thoughtfully, then cocks an eyebrow at Davern. “I thought you wanted to run me out of town and take over the show.”

“I did,” Davern smiles, “but that was then, this is now. Our dark-skinned friend has shown me the light. I’ll settle for a third of the city — if it’s the right third.”

Raimi laughs hollowly. “There’s a lot of negotiating to be done. But we can do that another time. There are a few loose strings I want to see to first.”

“Leave that to us,” I tell him. “You’re in no fit shape to go chasing after—”

“I’ll slit the throat of any man who tries to stop me,” he vows.

“We won’t go slow on your account,” I warn him.

“I’ll keep up, even if it kills me.” He grins. “Which it probably will.”

Nodding, I ask Davern to fetch arms for us. “There are more of the bastards?” he asks.

“A couple dozen or so. They’re ours. Don’t follow. Finish your job here, scour the tunnels above in case you missed any priests, then return to the surface with your men and wait for The Cardinal to contact you.” I face Sard. “I’m placing you in temporary control of the Snakes. If I don’t make it back, the promotion’s permanent. Work with Davern and Raimi. Make sure they cut us a good deal. Use your power to build and improve.”

“Why this talk of not coming back?” Sard frowns. “You’re the Sapa Inca — you always come back.”

“Maybe not this time. Be prepared if I don’t, and deal with it. That’s an order, soldier.”

His heels click together and he salutes. “Yes, sir!”

Sard and Eugene Davern stare suspiciously at each other, but don’t draw guns. It’s a start, not of a beautiful friendship, but hopefully a working relationship.

I face Capac Raimi, my father and Ama. All have armed themselves and Raimi has borrowed a dead villac’s robes. They’re ready for action.

“Let’s go finish this,” I snap, and we set off in pursuit of the fleeing Coya and her consorts.

There are several tunnels leading out of the cavern, but only one is large enough to accommodate the Coya’s bed. There are no lights, but we take torches from the floor. The tunnel runs straight for three hundred feet, then divides in two, each passage the same height and width. We pause at the junction, searching for signs of our quarry, but they’ve left none.

“We will split into pairs,” Wami decides. “Ama and her beau can take—”

“No,” Raimi interrupts, stepping forward. His left leg drags, but he’s kept the pace so far, running on sheer determination and hatred. “They went left.”

“You are certain?” my father asks.

Raimi nods. “I’ve spent my time here chained to that foul bitch. I could sniff her out from the other side of the city. Left.”

Wami looks to me for confirmation and I shrug. “I’m happy to go with his call.”

“Very well.” The killer sets off down the tunnel. I hurry after him, Ama and Raimi not far behind.

We come to a number of subsequent junctions, and each time Raimi chooses the way. If he’s wrong about this we’ve lost them, probably forever.

We scramble over several small cave-ins as we progress, the first time we’ve encountered structural flaws. I mention them to my father and ask what he thinks. Raimi answers before he can. “The other tunnels and caves are kept up, but they haven’t bothered with these. They’ve grown arrogant and lazy. This path was laid many decades ago in case they needed to retreat, but they came to believe they were invulnerable, especially with Dorak and me affording them so much leeway.” He shakes his head, disgusted. “If I’d known they would be this easy to defeat, I’d have come after them years ago.”

“You wouldn’t have found them,” I tell him. “They’d have slipped away into the shadows and struck back at you when you weren’t expecting it. We’ve only rumbled them now because they were so close to victory that they couldn’t see the ruin on the flip side of the coin.”

Finally, as we turn into one of the narrower tunnels — there are marks on a wall where the edges of the bed scratched it, proof we’re on the right track — we hear the sound of voices and digging up ahead. “They must have hit a more serious cave-in,” my father grins, drawing a knife and testing its blade. “They are ours.”

“Wait,” Raimi says, tugging at the assassin’s robes. “I want to do this alone.”

“You are in no fit state to take them on,” Wami snorts.

“I wasn’t planning on a duel,” Raimi smiles, his face twisted with pain and exhaustion — but also triumph. “Lend me your vest.”

“Ah,” Wami purrs. “I see. But I would rather dispose of them the old-fashioned way if it’s all the same to you.”

“It isn’t,” Raimi growls. “I don’t care about the priests and priestesses — you can have them if any escape — but the queen is mine. Don’t push me on this.”

My father cocks an eyebrow. “Be careful whom you threaten, little man. You rule the roost up in Party Central, but down here you are nothing more than a mess of flesh and bones.”

“Can’t we do this together?” I ask. “We’ve come this far as a team. Why not—”

“You’ll all die if you challenge them,” Raimi says softly. “I sense death in the air. I’m as sure of this as I was of how to track the Coya.”

“Nonsense,” Wami snorts. “Al is almost as good a fighter as his pappy. We will make short work of them, hmm, Al m’boy?”

I don’t reply. Raimi’s right. Death lies waiting for me—if I go to meet it.

“I’m not afraid of dying,” I mutter. “And I won’t regret it, not if I take that lot with me.”

“I believe you,” Raimi smiles. “But you don’t have to. I can do this alone. You can live, Mr. Jeery, or you can sacrifice yourself. Choose.”

“His choice is irrelevant,” Wami snarls. I will not step down under any—”

“Your doll,” Ama interrupts, and he glances at her sharply. “If you attack them, the Coya will destroy your doll.”

“Not if I cut her fucking head off first,” he barks.

“Do you want to run such a risk?” Ama asks. “This world’s full of people for you to kill. Are these few worth risking everything for?”

He stares at her, then chuckles grimly. “When you put it that way… Very well, Cardinal, the coup de grâce is yours. Enjoy.”

“I will,” Raimi beams, then turns to Ama. “See you in a few days?” The hope in his eye is pathetic.

“I guess,” she sniffs.

He looks at me and winks. “It’s been fun knowing you, blood brother.”

“Same here,” I grin.

“Visit me when I return. We have important issues to settle.”

“I’ll come,” I promise. I start to undo the straps of my vest, remember the dolls stashed there, and fake a groan. “Give him yours,” I tell my father. “I pulled a muscle earlier. My shoulder’s killing me.”

Wami wriggles out of his vest, straps it over Raimi’s robes and shows him how to detonate the charges. The Cardinal waves to us, then hobbles down the tunnel after the Coya, leaving the rest of us to withdraw and strike for the lights of the world above.

I’m in agony that no ordinary man could endure, but that’s nothing new. I’ve spent the last few months exploring all the stars, planets and moons in a universe of pain. The villacs put me through every kind of torture imaginable, while that she bitch looked on and laughed. And then they put me through it again. And again. What’s different now is that I’m a free agent. I could stop, sit, rest. Any small measure of relief would be a blessing. But if I pause, I won’t be able to rise. I’ll just lie there until I die.

Dragging my left leg behind me, gritting the few teeth I have left, I march onward, enduring the pain, welcoming it — the worse I feel, the sweeter it’ll be when I send those bastards to hell. I gave my flashlight to Jeery, so I’m operating in darkness. That doesn’t worry me. I don’t need to be able to see to find that cow. I could zero in on her if I were deaf, dumb and blind.

I’m not sure what will happen to me when I kill the Coya. I was created to last through eternity, immune to death, but that power came from the queen and her priests. Perhaps, when they are no more, I’ll cease to exist as well. If so, so be it. I’ve spent ten years training myself to accept a life without end, but immortality hasn’t been easy to adapt to. Genuine death isn’t an altogether unwelcome prospect.

I’d miss Ama though. Seeing her again almost made all the pain and humiliation worthwhile. I thought the woman the priests sent to lure me underground was an illusion. I’d dismissed her from my thoughts during my long days and nights of suffering. I hadn’t dared believe she could be real.

Now that I know she is, I long to spend time with her, tell her what she meant to me, how much it pained me to sacrifice her. I want to explain that I had no choice, I was a puppet incapable of severing its strings. I want to touch her, even if it’s just one last time, hold her, kiss her, whisper words in her ear that I can whisper to no other because I can love none but her.

But I’m afraid. What if she rejects me? What if she hates me for what I did to her? I’d rather die the one true death than have her spurn me. She fussed over me in the cavern of the Coya, but that might have been a sympathetic reaction. Perhaps it will be for the best if my spirit’s set free by the destruction of the Incas.

I’m close now, a turn or two away. Their voices are loud and clear, as are the sounds of their fingers and knives on the rubble they’re frantically trying to burrow through. The flickering lights of torches make the tunnel seem warm and homey. The priestesses can’t navigate as capably in the dark as the villacs, even though they’ve spent their lives out of sight of the moon they worship.

I was supposed to bring them to that moon. If I’d accepted the priests as masters, and worked with Jeery and the other sons of Paucar Wami, they’d have risen from the depths. With the Manco Capac statue dominating the city, the Coya would have established herself as queen, the mamaconas would have been the most sought-after women, and the villacs would have been the most powerful of men. They’d have ruled supreme. That dream kept them going in the miserable gloom. It was all they had to live for. A nobler man might feel pity for them — they were born to their lot, they didn’t ask for it — but I’m a savage son of a bitch and I feel nothing but hateful glee at the thought of wrecking their carefully laid plans.

I’m almost upon them. A brief pause to draw breath and flex my fingers, careful not to touch the buttons nestled in my palms. Then I plaster a smile in place, force a weak whistle, and stumble around the final turn, into view.

The tunnel is narrower than the others, only just wide enough for the bed, with a low ceiling. The cave-in isn’t impassable — the Incas could wriggle through if not for their oversized queen — but it’s a tricky one to clear. All the priests and priestesses are working on it, but as they scoop rocks and pebbles away, fresh stony trickles cascade from the sides and overhead. If they’re not careful, the roof will collapse. It’s a delicate operation, requiring finesse and time, which they don’t have anymore.

“Having fun?” I bellow, and two dozen alarmed faces shoot around. The Coya is closest to me and she hisses with fear, making a sign with her huge, fleshy hands, as if that could ward me off. Her priests and handmaidens race from the rocks and line up in front of her. I grin at them. “Heard you were throwing a party. Thought I’d drop in.”

“Where are the others?” snarls the English-speaking villac from earlier.

“Gone.”

“Dead?” he asks, surprised.

“No, you fucking moron. They’ve returned to the city.”

He frowns. “You have come alone?”

“Shut up, you asshole,” I sigh, stepping forward for a better view of the Coya. “It’s the queen bee I’m interested in, not her drones.”

The priest starts to launch a retort but the Coya silences him with a bark. Drawing herself upright on the bed, she glares at me, then studies the vest I’m wearing over my robes. “You have come to destroy me,” she sneers in the ancient tongue that is as natural to me as my own.

“Sure as shit,” I laugh in her language.

“This is foolish. We are your parents, Blood of Dreams, your destiny. We have amazing plans for you. We can keep you intrigued through the long, interminable millennia. Alone, you would have only humans for amusement, and they will cease to amuse you far more quickly than you imagine.”

“I’ve already lost interest in them,” I sigh. “But you don’t interest me either. I don’t care about your plans. I have my own. The mistake you made in letting The Cardinal create me was thinking I’d feel a bond with your kind. You mean nothing to me, you fat, ugly, Incan cunt.” I’ve never relished anything as much as the delivery of that insult. If I survive, I’ll play that moment over and over, possibly until the very end of time.

The Coya snarls savagely at me, then shouts at her underlings. “Get him!” A ridiculous choice of final words, but there’s no time for her to reconsider and add a fitting coda. The villacs and mamaconas rush me. I have no more than four or five seconds.

Closing the fingers of my left hand, I press the slim button at the heart of my palm. A brief pause, then I press the button on my right. There’s no click and no poised moment of heightened tension. The vest explodes instantly, a ferocious blast, obliterating me and the nearest of the Incas, knocking the rest off their feet, bringing the roof down on a screeching, hateful Coya and her clan.

The end.