City of the Snakes (20 page)

“What is this shit?” I gasp.

The
villac
smiles. The sacrifice didn’t impress me but this did. The priest can’t hide a gloating snicker.

“It’s an illusion,” I moan. “This room’s full of mirrors. You simply…”
I trail off, knowing it has to be trickery, yet sensing in my heart that it isn’t. The priests wouldn’t waste their time on cheap conjuring feats.

As my brain reels, the
villac
turns, walks to the far end of the platform and jumps down. I click back into action and race around the huge stone, determined to catch the priest and force answers out of him. The priest faces me with his white, expressionless eyes. I drop my makeshift club and prepare to go to work with the knives. Before I can, a mirror drops from the ceiling and slots into place in a groove in the floor, blocking my path.

I curse at my reflection and smash my right elbow into the mirror, meaning to force my way through. But the glass is shatterproof. I grit my teeth against the impact of the blow and clutch my arm to my chest, squeezing the flesh above the elbow to combat the pain. I flex my arm a few times, then retrace my steps, coming at the priest from the opposite direction. It’s a waste of time—another mirror will drop, I’m sure—but I have to try.

I notice several mirrors around the edges of the room lifting to reveal hidden compartments. In each rests a mummified corpse, strapped to a chair. I ignore them and focus on the
villac
. His arms are outstretched and he’s muttering. I glimpse another mirror descending. I throw myself forward, hoping to beat it to the punch, but it slots into place and I bounce backward.

Hissing with fury, I rest on the floor a moment, considering my next move. As I lie there like a wounded dog, another mirror drops into place behind me, trapping me. I don’t react immediately, but get my breath back, then stand and appraise the situation. I’m surrounded on three sides by mirrors, on the other by the charged
inti watana
. There doesn’t seem to be a way out, though I’m sure one will present itself. The
villacs
didn’t lure me here simply to strand me.

As if somebody’s reading my thoughts, the mirror in the wall slides up, revealing one of the hidden compartments. I start toward it, then stop, confused. There’s no corpse in this one, just another mirror that casts my bald, tattooed reflection back at me. That doesn’t make sense. There must be a way out. Perhaps a panel in the floor or…

I stoop to check the floor, then freeze. My reflection hasn’t moved. It stands the same as before, grinning. But I haven’t grinned since I saw Ama Situwa in the crematorium.

Straightening, I study the figure, noting the bald head, green eyes and tattooed snakes on its cheeks. A highly accurate representation of me in my Paucar Wami guise. The thing is, I’m currently masquerading as Al Jeery, snakes painted over, wig in place, contact lenses removed. This isn’t a reflection. It’s a life-size replica. But why put it here? What do they hope to—

The right arm of the
replica
shoots up. Its fingers grip my throat and tighten. Its face comes alive. Its green eyes fix on mine and its lips lift in a mocking sneer.

I punch at the hand and kick at the legs of my assailant, but he takes no notice. Instead, leaning forward, he smirks in a way I remember only too well and says in a voice I’ve heard many times in my nightmares, “Long time no see, Al m’boy.”

A blast of inhuman fear numbs me and I stop struggling. This isn’t a replica—it’s the real Paucar Wami!

As my senses dissolve, Wami’s fingers flex and the supply of blood is cut off. I slip to the floor. Dark waves wash over me, obscuring all. The last thing I see is the evil grin of my long-dead father. Then nothing, except for shadowy, slithering, nightmarish snakes.

I
’ve been lying awake, eyes open, for several minutes before I realize it. The darkness is so absolute that I mistook it for the darkness of my dreams. Groaning, I sit up and massage the swollen flesh around my throat. I’ve throttled men unconscious before, but this is my first time on the receiving end.

Swallowing stings, but I force myself to dry-swallow mechanically, and after a while the pain recedes and I’m able to breathe naturally, with only a minimum of discomfort. What I wouldn’t give for a glass of water.

Getting to my feet, I turn in a slow circle, arms outstretched, probing with my fingers—nothing. Bending, I pat the floor, getting a feel for where I am. Hard earth, damp, musky. I fan out with my hands but the area’s clear. I check for my belt of knives but they’ve been taken from me. The walking stick too.

Sitting again, I allow my thoughts to wander back to my encounter with the past in the Manco Capac statue, and try convincing myself that what I saw wasn’t—couldn’t be—real. Paucar Wami’s lost to the mists of time and reality. It must have been a look-alike. There’s no other logical answer.

But what about the Ama Situwa double? And the others Capac Raimi said he saw in the weeks leading up to his disappearance? Finding one person who looks similar to another is difficult. Finding a host of them, for a
group of people… I don’t even begin calculating the odds. Something’s going on, something I can’t account for, and the best way to deal with it is to let it slide. First things first. I have to find my way out of here, wherever
here
is.

Rising, I sniff the air for any scent of a draft. “Hello?” I croak, grimacing at the flare-up in my throat. “Hello!” I shout, voice almost breaking—it feels as if I’m vomiting glass. Ignoring the pain, I listen for echoes. They come, faintly, from my left. Facing that way, I shout again, a wordless grunt this time, and the echoes are clearer. I hear nothing when I roar in the other directions, so I head left, hands stretched out in front. I count my steps silently, in case I need to retrace them. Five… eight… fourteen…

On my thirty-fourth step my hand strikes a brick wall, wet with condensation. I examine it with my fingers, then test the ground for puddles. I find several and—having dipped a finger in and tested the water, which tastes bitter but otherwise OK—I lean down and sip from one of the larger pools, quenching my thirst.

Refreshed, I stand, wipe my lips, choose a direction at random, lay my palm against the wall and walk, brushing the brick lightly with my fingertips, feeling for gaps or cracks. I think of nothing but the wall, pushing all other thoughts from my mind, as hard as that is.

I have no idea how long I was out or what the time is—my watch has been taken from my wrist and my cell’s gone too. Instead of worrying about it, or where I’ve been taken, I count my paces, making my world consist of nothing but the wall, the darkness and footsteps.

Forty-seven steps into my count, I run into another wall and come to the end of my path. I make a ninety-degree turn and continue walking and counting.

One hundred and seventeen steps later, my hand slides into space. I turn and take two steps forward. I stick my right hand out—wall. Stretching forth my left, I shuffle that way… a bit more… wall. I’m in a passage.

Standing in the middle, I can touch both walls. Keeping to the center, I start walking, feeling for openings on either side. After 659 steps the walls give way to emptiness. Exploring, I discover a four-way junction. I focus on each tunnel in turn, listening closely, peering through the darkness
for the slightest flicker of light. There isn’t any. No sounds either, apart from the dripping of water. Then, as I’m examining the passages a second time, an extremely faint noise—perhaps a human cry, maybe only a rat squeaking—carries to my ears from one of the tunnels.

My choice made for me, I start ahead cautiously. This passage is the same width as the last. I’m progressing as before, hands outstretched, when the ground ends and I drop. Stifling a yell, I grab for the bricks of the walls. Then my feet hit and I relax. It was a short fall. Drawing in my hands, I stoop and feel the ground—concrete. I run my fingers forward into air, then down to more concrete. I’m on a step, the first, I suspect, of a set of stairs. Standing, I slide onto the next step, feel for the edge with my toes, find it and carry on down, deeper under the earth, in search of the origin of that elusive sound.

Fifty steps… a hundred… one-fifty… I’m only four shy of the two hundred mark when they finally run out and I hit level ground. I’m in a tunnel with an arched roof. I can tell because it’s lit by the most welcome torch I’ve ever seen, burning faintly ahead of me. The desire to rush to the light is strong, but I fight it and study the terrain. The tunnel runs in both directions, seemingly without end, but this is the only torch. Turning right, I walk to the torch. It’s set in stone, the head a replaceable wick, which runs down into an encased container. No way to remove it. I’ll have to continue without it and hope there are other torches ahead to light my way.

Concentrating solely on finding a way out, ignoring thoughts of my father, Ama Situwa and the
villacs,
I proceed, hand no longer on the wall, navigating by the glow of the torch, which gets fainter the farther I progress. I’m almost surrounded by total gloom again when I hear sounds from somewhere ahead. This time the noise is definitely human—men arguing loudly. Hurrying, I come to the mouth of another tunnel. There are no torches in this one, but fresh air wafts through it, and the sounds of the men are stronger than ever.

The tunnel’s long—I quit counting steps now that I’m no longer scouting blind—and the voices dwindle as I close in on them. By the time I reach the end the argument has come to a halt, but there are grunting, scuffling sounds. I pause, listening intently. I thought there were only two
men, but by the varying noises I revise that figure upward. Then, since there’s nothing else to do, I step forward to face whatever awaits.

I find myself in a large, man-made cavern, ninety feet wide, maybe a hundred and fifty long, with a high ceiling. The walls are bare, save for candles. The floor’s covered by a thick, green, padded mat.

There are fifteen men and three women inside the chamber. All are young—the youngest looks thirteen or fourteen, the oldest no more than twenty-five—and most are black. Their heads are shaved and down the cheeks of each run tattooed snakes similar to mine, but monochromatic—plain blue, red, green, et cetera. All eighteen are clad in jeans and dark T-shirts. They’re barefoot.

I believe I’ve found the Snakes.

The young men and women are sparring in pairs or threes.

They punch, kick and twist with remarkable agility. Their fists and feet are unprotected and leave cuts and bruises where they connect too sharply, but nobody takes any notice of the wounds, getting up when knocked down, fighting on, pausing only to wipe blood away when it gets bothersome. They say nothing as they spar, although every so often one of the older members chastises a younger participant for making a mistake. The girls and boys contest equally, taking and meting out their fair share of the punishment, no allowances made.

I watch in silence, unseen, for several minutes. Finally I’m spotted by a young woman who steps aside to remove her ripped T-shirt. She pulls it off over her head, baring her breasts—none of the men bat an eyelid—then turns back toward her partner to continue—and sights me. She stops, hands dropping by her sides, and stares at me expressionlessly. Her partner turns to see what she’s looking at and soon everyone is facing me, silent, impossible to read.

Stepping forward, I come to a halt five feet short of the nearest member of the group, a tall, lithe, dark-skinned man in his early twenties. I croak, “Where am I?”

The man says nothing, just raises a hand and strokes the red snakes on his face, eyeing me suspiciously.

“Do you have a name?” I’m finding it hard to speak.

In response the man walks around me, sizing me up, noting the marks
on my throat. He’s rippling with muscles but there’s an air of uncertainty about him—he’s trying too hard to act cool—and I sense from the way he moves that he’s untested in real combat.

The man stops behind me. I feel his breath on the back of my neck but I don’t turn to face him. The woman with the bare breasts steps forward, her left hand going to my groin, hard brown eyes staring directly into mine, watching closely to see if her nudity or the contact unsettles me. They don’t and I stare back calmly, unaroused, waiting for her to quit with the games.

“How did you get here?” she asks, removing her hand.

“I walked.”

“Who are you?”

“I asked for your name first.”

The girl raises her right hand and makes a signal with her thumb and middle finger. In reply, eight of the group fan out behind her, four to her left, four to her right. They surround me, dangerous intent in their expressions.

“Your name,” the woman says.

I consider lying, but see no reason not to tell them. “Al Jeery.”

The woman relaxes, as do those around her. “You’re expected,” she says and turns her back on me, looking for her sparring partner. They resume their contest. Within moments the other sixteen have also returned to their original positions and training continues as before.

I stare at the men and women, mildly astonished. “Who’s expecting me?” I ask. No answer. I grab one of the younger men and whirl him around. “Who the hell—”

He flicks his left hand towards my face, fingers stiff. I have to move swiftly to avoid being blinded. Slapping his hand away, I snap out of range. As I steel myself for a counterattack, he recommences sparring. I feel like drawing him out and laying him flat, but that would be pointless. There are no answers here. Best move on and seek them farther ahead.