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not even God can save us Christians. Keep it for next time.” The Old One has a faraway look in his eyes, which stray from those beside him to the channel and the sea beyond. “Next time, Pilot Ruiz,” he repeats, with a sly pout of his lips. “When we come back with an army big enough to take this land.”
    Ruiz is used to hearing blasphemy from Pizarro, and he knows that the Requirement—often read without translation—is a farce. Still, the form must be followed. The Commander has no right to send them all to Hell.
    â€œIn the name of God and His Majesty let me finish, Don Francisco. The Indian hasn’t a word of Spanish. How much the boy renders to him is for you and your conscience to decide. But as master of this ship and chaplain—there being no priest aboard—it’s my duty to read out every word of this writ as the King commands.” He resumes before Pizarro can reply.
    If you do not do this, with the help of God I shall come mightily against you, and I shall make war on you. I shall bend you to the yoke and obedience of the Church and His Majesty; and I shall seize your women and children and make them slaves, to sell and dispose as His Majesty commands; and I shall do all the evil and damage to you that I can. And I insist that the death and destruction will be your own fault.
    â€œIt is too much at once, sir,” Waman says nervously. “Please ask Pilot Ruiz to repeat it slowly, in bits . . . little by little.”
    â€œNo need for that, Felipillo. Tell the Indian no more than what I said at the beginning—about our King, our friendship, and OurLord. Keep it short, or I’ll rip that pink tongue from your dusky head.”
    Waman turns to the All-Seer, nerves failing him. The Emperor’s man may not understand a word of Castilian, yet he can surely tell a short speech from a long one. The boy feels giddy, on the edge of tears.
    â€œMy lord All-Seer. The bearded ones say they worship a god who made everything in the world, our forebears and theirs. This god has a high priest . . . somewhere in the land they come from. The priest’s name is the Papa . . . and this Papa . . .” Suddenly the boy feels laughter rising inside him like vomit, for in the Empire’s language
papa
means potato. He stares at his feet, fighting to keep a straight face. If he catches his countryman’s eye he will be done for. “This . . . this priest has given the whole world to their king called Carlos, who they say is the greatest ruler on Earth. And this king sends the Old One here to tell your lordship of his love and friendship, and to bring news of their god. That is all I could follow, my lord.”
    The official stands perfectly still, his face unreadable. It is Pizarro who breaks the silence, beckoning to Ruiz, grinning at the visitor.
    â€œHand it to him, Pilot. Let the Indian keep the Requirement.” A mocking laugh. “Let him study it.”
    The All-Seer accepts the paper and folds it carefully like a kerchief, putting it in a vicuña bag that hangs at his belt. He turns to hail his boatman on the raft.
    â€œTell him not to leave yet,” Pizarro says quickly, smiling at the All-Seer. “He must dine with us before he goes.”
    The Emperor’s man accepts.
    â€”
    â€œExtraordinary! Quite extraordinary.” The All-Seer releases Tomás’s arm. The African continues round the cabin table with the wine flask. He has grown used to such inspections in the Indies.
    â€œIt won’t rub off, my lord,” Waman explains. “The colour is natural to them.” Though still uneasy at speaking with the lofty official, he feels emboldened by his standing as his captors’
lengua
, their lone interpreter. Indispensable; therefore safe. At least until others learn. For now, nobody will break the
chaka
, the bridge between worlds.
    â€œApparently so,” the