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he is the All-Seer. He asks what you mean by
Perú
.”
    â€œTell him that Indian traders I questioned some years ago said they came from a place called Peru. A land of gold and camels, likethose over there”—Pizarro points to a llama train being unloaded on the jetty—“and great sands without trees, as I see beyond the city.”
    Waman does as he is told. The All-Seer taps an earspool, looks around, points with his chin to the south as he replies.
    â€œHe says he knows a town and valley called Wiru, a port down the coast about three hundred miles. He says the seafarers you speak of might have come from there. It’s a place of small importance.”
    â€œThen what is this land?”
    â€œIt’s the World.”
    â€œDon’t answer me yourself, boy! I know you don’t know. Ask him.”
    The All-Seer weighs the question. His duty is to watch, to listen. Not to reveal. The breeze has died. Again he becomes aware of the barbarian ship’s foul smell. Like death. And the barbarians themselves look like men on the way to death. He knows of their piracy some months ago. He has also heard reports of their hardships and losses up the coast beyond the Empire. The people there called them vagabonds, thieves, and
wiraqocha
—scum of the sea. A fair assessment. Yet where is the harm in answering this question?
    â€œHe says the World is called Tawantinsuyu.”
    â€œA mouthful, boy. Is it just a name, like Spain? Or does it mean something?”
    â€œIt means . . . the World, sir.” Waman flinches, afraid Pizarro will hit him, as he has many times. “The World in four parts, as all things are . . . East and West, North and South. Four in one. J-joined together . . .” He hears himself stammer. “You could say the Four Quarters or . . . the United Quarters of the World.”
    Pilot Ruiz returns with a sheet of paper written closely on both sides. He hands it to Pizarro, knowing Pizarro can’t read. Let him be shamed, Ruiz tells himself with pleasure. He may have to obey theCommander, but he’s not obliged to like the man. He thinks again of Pizarro’s shabby role in the death of Balboa.
    The Commander hands the document back without looking at Pilot or paper. His face has reddened. He nods stiffly.
    The All-Seer watches this exchange. “What is that leaf?” he asks the boy. “A gift? An offering?”
    â€œThey have something to say. Those black marks serve them as the knots serve us.”
    â€œWhy don’t they just say it, then? Are their memories so weak?”
    The Pilot begins to read aloud, a tremble in his voice. Pizarro tells the interpreter to hold his tongue.
    I, Commander Francisco Pizarro, vassal and envoy of the high and mighty Kings of Castile and León, conquerors of barbarous nations, hereby inform you that God Our Lord, One and Eternal, created Heaven and Earth and a man and a woman from whom you and I and all the world’s people are descended. And God set one called Saint Peter in the holy city of Rome to reign over the Earth as High Priest and Pope, to govern and judge all peoples.
    And the heir of Saint Peter, who is, as I have said, the Papa, the High Priest of the Earth, has given all these lands to the Catholic Kings of Castile.
    And so I request and require you to recognize God’s Holy Church as Mistress and Governess of the whole world, and in Her name to obey His Majesty King Charles as your Ruler and Lord King. You must allow the Fathers of the Church to instruct and preach to you. And if you do this, all will be well. And His Majesty—and I in his name—will welcome you with love and charity. But if you do not do this—
    â€œStop there, Ruiz!” Pizarro cuts in. “If he hears the rest we’ll all be dead by sunset.” He raises a whiskery eyebrow to the warships, the crowd at the waterside. “If that lot turn against us,