City of the Snakes (32 page)

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.

W
e 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…”