Author's disclaimer: I do not own Ardeth Bay, or Loch Na. Stephen Sommers and the guys at Universal do, for which they have my utmost respect and no copyright infringement is intended. Melleha, Lamis and other assorted original characters are my own creation, if you want to use any of them please talk to me first. Original material presented here is © Eirian Phillips 2001.
I can be reached by email address as seen on my profile - it won't add it here. Feedback is always welcome and emails are usually answered.
Story is rated R, (for the most part, specific chapters may require a shift in the rating), due to violence, sex and occasional language.
Characters and events are purely fictitious, and any similarity to anyone living, dead or otherwise downright evil, is purely coincidental.
Forbidden Chapter One – Dominoes
Melleha sighed and went to stand beside the open shutters to peer down into the gathering gloom of the street, and pulled the hairbrush through her long brown hair one more time, before she leaned against the window frame and casually tossed the brush backward onto the bed. The light breeze gave slight relief from the almost overwhelming heat of the day that was left trapped within the house, caged like a wild animal and clawing and biting at all the occupants, leaving them hot and miserable.
She wished she could go out, even into the garden, but it was too late for that and if she were caught she would be beaten, as she always was when she disobeyed the commands of her guardian. She huffed as she thought of him… owner more like… and she little better than a piece of property. It was a long story, but shortened it ran that her parents borrowed a large amount of money from Adham al-Mahdi to finance a venture that had gone horribly wrong. Unable to repay the debt, her father had offered anything for al-Mahdi to spare his life. Al-Mahdi was not a patient man, (this she had learned personally, much to her own chagrin), and had wanted her father's head in return for the unpaid debt, and after much consideration it was decided that she would be given to the disgusting little man, to be raised as his own. She was eleven at the time. She was permitted one visit every six months with her family, and was allowed to stay with them for three days – the rest of the time she could only write or they could pay her short visits at the house, she snorted again… prison more like. They never did visit, she supposed, because her parents must be fearful that al-Mahdi would take a liking to one of her other sisters and order her brought here also.
Tears came unbidden to her eyes. They always did when she thought of her family. She missed them dreadfully, her mother and sisters especially, whom she had seen for only twenty-four days in the last nine years. She missed her mother's stories… her older sister's constant scalding… the way her youngest sister would always get her into trouble for anything and everything…
The sound of horses hooves on the hard packed earth of the back streets brought her out of her contemplation and she leaned forward almost as though this was what she had been waiting for and then they were there, pulling the horses to a stop and sliding gracefully to the ground as though they truly were mere shadows as their appearance led her to believe. Entirely in black, hard to distinguish in the poor light of dusk, a small band of men – perhaps only five or six led their horses toward the rear of a large building that she knew to be the Museum. One of them, taller than the others she thought, turned and the wind chose that moment to carry his voice up to her window, as it had never done before, rich and authoritative and deep. "Khali balk men el hesena," he said to one of the others. Take care of the horses. She understood some Arabic – not enough, according to her guardian – but refused to make the effort to learn any more, as a matter of principal… a defiant stand against a man that beat her for everything else, she let him believe that she was simply not capable of learning it.
"What do you think you are doing!" Her servant pushed her away from the window and grabbing the shutters, slammed them closed. "When will you learn to behave like a proper lady?"
"Who are those men?" she asked, ignoring the veiled woman's exasperated words.
"You cannot go standing in the window in nothing at all!"
"I'm wearing my nightgown, Firyal. Who are those men?" She repeated her question, and allowing herself to be led back to the side of her bed added, "I see them so often, coming to the Museum, and sometimes other places too, always lurking in the shadows. They look so fascinating. Who are they?"
"You need not concern yourself with them," Firyal answered just a little too quickly to make it sound casual. "They are no one… nomads from the desert." She had obviously tried to make it sound as though she didn't really know who they were, but Melleha knew without a shadow of a doubt that she was lying.
"If they are just nomads, why do they visit the museum so often?" she challenged.
"I don't know," Firyal pulled down the bedclothes and gestured to the bed, "Now stop asking questions and get into bed before Mr al-Mahdi finds you still awake and beats us both!"
With a deep sigh, and a final look toward the shutters, as though she could see through them to the men outside in the street, Melleha obeyed, sliding her feet into the bed and snuggling down when Firyal pulled up the covers.
"Melleha…" Firyal began stroking her hair, as she always did to soothe her to sleep. "It's such a beautiful name," she added in a sing song voice. "And so unusual for someone like you."
"For a white woman you mean?" Melleha asked with a hint of pique.
"Why-ever did your mother name you like that?" Firyal asked nodding her head to confirm that was what she meant.
"She used to tell me the story every day." Tears returned to her eyes as Melleha remembered. "When she was still pregnant with me one day in the market an old woman came up to her and said to her that she would have a girl child. Mother hoped or thought I would be a son – for my father's sake – and so she told the woman this. The old woman laughed a gentle laugh and said to her that if she were wrong and my mother had a boy child she would be surprised, and would bring to my mother something that he would need as he got older… but that if I was a girl, as she believed, she should call me Melleha…" she stopped, overcome with tears as the rest of the tale. And you should watch over her as you would over a precious jewel – for one day she will carry the beauty and peace of the starry night in her very soul and do something so important that even the sand in the desert will cry out for her touch. As it had turned out, her mother had been completely unable to protect her from her father's deals.
"And when you were born a girl, she remembered and honoured the old woman's memory in calling you Melleha." Firyal finished the story. "Do not cry, my sweet, you will see them soon enough. I know that you miss them."
"Sometimes I am so afraid that I'll never see them again," Melleha sobbed into her pillow, unable to hold back the tears any longer.
Ardeth sighed, almost with relief and patted the side of his horse's neck before he slid gracefully from the saddle to land poised on his feet. He handed the reins to a boy nearby, not such a boy, he noted… almost a man now, and turned to greet an older Medjai striding toward him.
"Peace, my friend," he said with a slight bow of respect. The man was, after all, the leader of this particular one of the twelve tribes.
"And to you also, my Lord." He cringed inwardly at the title. He would have been just as happy with Ardeth. Sometimes, on a day like today had been, the weight of responsibility on his reasonably young shoulders was heavy indeed. "You and your warriors are always welcome guests in our camp."
"Thank you, Marzuq." Ardeth signalled his men and they too climbed down from their horses, the formal invitation and acceptance of hospitality having been exchanged. To some it might have seemed a tired old ritual, but to Ardeth it was a comfort. It provided him a sense of stability in a life that could otherwise have been too transient and changeable. He had a home, but was so rarely there, was always out in the open desert fulfilling his duties and obligations to keep Hamunaptra undisturbed once more, and Imhotep in his grave. And so close to Cairo, this tribe's oasis sometimes seemed more like home than did his own.
"So was your visit to Cairo a success?" Marzuq led him further into the Medjai settlement with an arm pressed companionably across his back, his hand on the opposite shoulder.
"No," Ardeth shook his head. "The Artefact had not yet arrived at the Museum, and apparently the one in possession of the ring will not meet with me if there is more than just me present at the meeting. I will need to return in two days."
"Well then you must stay with us until you need to return. It would take you longer to get back to your own settlement anyway."
"You are very kind, Marzuq." Ardeth felt a close bond with Marzuq. Both of them shared the same philosophies, the same humility in their position… unlike some. "Is there any news of your son and his wife?"
Marzuq's face split into a huge grin, and he almost danced on the spot as they stopped outside his tent. "She bore him a son, late yesterday. Can you believe – I am a grandfather!"
Ardeth smiled too, a genuine smile. "It is a great blessing you have received," he said.
"It would be a greater blessing to us all if you were the one to accept the child into the tribe." Marzuq said hopefully.
"It would be my honour to do so, my friend." He inclined his head once more in a slight bow of acknowledgement. As leader of his particular tribe, it was the older man's right to recognise the child, in giving up that right in favour of Ardeth he was accepting in the younger man the right of leadership over all of the twelve tribes, a recognition of his own humility, in spite of his seniority with regard to age.
"Good then," Marzuq said, and clapped Ardeth on the back, becoming light hearted once more. "You must rest, and later we will eat."
"I don't care how much it will cost," Adham snapped, "I want that man out of the way – permanently. He and his ragged bunch have been the thorn in my side for years. How will I ever convince my clients that all is prepared if merchandise is still guarded by that rabble!" Spittle flew into the space between him and men he had chosen as his assassins.
"Very well," one of the two men answered. "You give us half now, and half when the job is completed." His voice was like metal rasping across gravel. "When will he return?"
"The day after tomorrow."
"And he will be alone?" In complete contrast, the taller of the two assassins had a voice like silk passed in a gentle caress across skin. It made him sound all the more menacing.
"He was told that the owner of the item he seeks will not meet with him if he is not alone." Adham glanced at the wiry man and then quickly away. He knew the man was good, it was one of the reasons why he'd chosen him, but the man was not known for being the most indulgent of hired killers, even with his employer and he had no intention of falling foul of the little weasel.
"And you are sure that killing him will break their spirit?" He could almost see the cogs turning around in the assassin's head, the possibilities for making extra money out of the deal once their mark was dead.
"With him dead there will be chaos while they debate who will lead. He has no heir, and all of the treasure of Egypt will be unguarded, and there for the taking of the man, or men that are ready to move when the time is right," he answered. He reached to the table, took hold of a little bell and rang it. A servant entered swiftly and he spoke to the man in hushed undertones. "Your fee will be available directly gentlemen," he said. "In the meanwhile, perhaps we can take a drink."
Night was his time. He enjoyed the night, which was probably a good thing since he seemed to see an awful lot of it. Sitting on a dune, behind one of the tents furthest away from the central fire he contemplated the evening's events.
The look on his friend's face had been priceless when he had lifted the tiny baby into his arms from its mother's lap and spoken the ritual words of acceptance of the child into the scared brotherhood of the Medjai – to be consecrated a warrior at manhood, and as a member of the ninth tribe. He would face a hundred treasure seekers to be able to see that expression over and over again. But having a child so young in his arms, even for so short a time had set him thinking… about his future… about the future of the Medjai and ensuring that it had strong leadership.
"You are avoiding me, Ardeth," He looked up, and then jumped to his feet as the woman approached where he was sitting. He came quickly down the side of the dune to hook her arm and draw her out of sight of the village, into the shadow of the tent. As he took her arm she pulled down the veil from her face and smiled up at him.
"Lamis, what do you think you are doing?" he hissed as though he feared being overheard. "A woman should not come out here unescorted, it is not safe."
"Well then all will be well, because I am not unescorted." She pouted at him. "Tell me that you are not avoiding me, and come back with me Ardeth – they are missing you."
Ardeth sighed. "You are missing me, you mean," he said softly. "Lamis, my avoidance is for your own good." She wrapped her arms around herself as he spoke and in the dim light from the waning moon he saw her lips begin to tremble. To try and soften what he was saying he reached out to caress her upper arms, as if she were cold and he were trying to warm her, his long fingered hands sliding up and down. "I am sorry, truly, but we have been through this. There is never going to be a 'we' beyond the friendship that we have and you need to understand that." He hated that he was hurting her, even though his words were as gentle as he could make them he knew that he was. It wasn't that he didn't like her, he cared about her a great deal, but he didn't love her… not in the way that he needed if she were to be the woman he was to marry and not as she wanted him to either.
"I saw you with that baby tonight," she said, moving away from his light caress and turning to face him.
"Most of the tribe saw me with that child," he answered, refusing to be drawn. "Lamis, stop this, please."
"Ardeth…"
"No!" he said, more forcefully than he intended. He took a step forward to try and take back his annoyance, but she backed up a step and almost tripped on the hem of her dress. His warrior reflexes had him catch her arm to stop the near fall. She resisted his help for a second before throwing herself forward against his chest.
"Ardeth, please…" She turned her head and pressed it against his chest.
"Listen to me," he tried to prise her away from him, but she wrapped her arms around his waist. "Lamis, let go. Stop this!"
"I love you!" she started to shake, and he realised that she must be crying.
This time he used his strength to gently pull her back to arm's length. When she would not look at him he cupped her chin in his hand and brought her eyes up to meet his. "And I care about you, but this cannot be."
"But why?" her voice wavered on the edge of fresh tears.
Why indeed… Ardeth sighed. "Because I was born on a twelfth year."
"Wh… what?" she stuttered, seeming shocked, as though it was the last thing she expected him to say. He could understand that. Over the years he had hidden behind his duty… his position… everything – but he had rarely admitted the truth, that the male children born in every twelfth year were to choose brides from outside of the twelve tribes, to help maintain their number and keep the danger of inbreeding down to a minimum.
"The woman I am to marry cannot be from any of the twelve tribes." He finally let himself say the words aloud. "The woman I marry will not be of the Medjai."
"Ardeth…" she broke down then, sobbed his name until he feared she might make herself ill. He drew her closer and enfolded her in his arms.
"Hush, Lamis," he soothed gently, "It is all right. You will always have a place in my heart, little sister."
"But I don't want to be your little sister…" she wept. "You could take a second wife, Ardeth please."
He laid his cheek on the top of her head and, rocking her from side to side, made his words as gentle and kind as he could. "Lamis, you know that's not who I am. You know me better than any other woman in the twelve tribes, because you are your father's daughter, and so you know that when I marry, it will be for love."
"But how will you find that love, if with a woman you have never met before – never even seen?" She asked, still crying hard into the front of his robe.
"I do not know," he sighed, "But I have faith that our questions will be answered." He gently eased her out of his arms once more and trying to harden his heart a little said firmly, "No more tears. You must forget about me and look to your future with a husband that loves you and will always be there for you."
Another sigh rose in him as he looked into her eyes awash with the tears that she was trying hard to hold back. It was true, what he had said, she was like a sister to him and as Marzuq's youngest daughter she did know more of him than any other person, certainly any other woman, because she had so often overheard his conversations with her father. Shaking his head slightly, he lifted his hands to up her face and brushed away the teardrops from her cheeks. He knew what he must do and he hated himself for it. His stomach began turning in knots as he tried to prepare himself.
"Will you at least say goodbye with a kiss?" she whispered, looking directly into his eyes.
He shook his head. "It would not be right or proper," he said and with dextrous fingers he picked up the veil, to fix it back into place and summoning more strength than he had ever needed before continued, "And if you cannot accept me as your brother then I must behave as any other warrior and expect that you keep yourself covered in future. Go back to the fire Lamis." He turned his face away from the crushed look that he knew would be in her eyes and heard a new sob burst from her as she turned and fled.
It took him a long time to compose himself and settle the torrent of feeling that knotted his stomach and when he opened his eyes again it was to find Marzuq standing close by, keeping silent vigil over him.
"You told her then?" he said.
"You were listening?" Ardeth's voice was low and sad.
Marzuq shook his head, "I saw her returning to our tent and thought she was weeping. I guessed she had come from you and came to find you."
"Marzuq, I know she is your daughter, and you want to protect her but…"
"You did the right thing, Ardeth my boy." The old man put a hand on his shoulder. "I didn't come here to scald you. She's young, she will recover."
Ardeth wasn't so sure, but didn't voice his concerns. Instead he asked, "Then why did you come."
"I knew you also would be upset." The answer finally unlocked Ardeth's heart.
Everything inside her screamed as her every sensibility was assaulted. Her hand became a claw on the back of the chair as she fought to keep herself standing, Adham's last words still echoing through her suddenly aching head. I have found a husband for you my sweet child.
"He is very well connected with many of the desert tribes unofficially answering to him, so I have no doubt you will be well provided for," he continued.
"I…" she couldn't go on. She felt sick.
"No need to thank me, child." Adham came to stand beside her then, and put a podgy arm around her shoulders.
Melleha was thankful in the moment for the veil she wore, it hid the way her jaw tightened and her lips trembled. A husband was bad enough, but one out in the middle of nowhere? She couldn't marry, wasn't ready to marry – she was only twenty for goodness sake! And what about her family? The thought of her family gave her the strength to move and she threw off his arm. Before she knew what she was doing, words were bursting from her lips.
"Marry? Are you out of your mind?" she turned, ignoring the way firyal tried to catch her eye, to silence her. "I'm not going to marry!"
"You will do as I see fit young lady," Adham reached out and grabbed the front of her dress, beside the shoulder to pull her closer and shook her roughly. "And I say you will marry!" He all but threw her into a nearby chair and the look he gave her told her that she had made a huge mistake in standing up for herself. She shrank back into the chair, her bravery momentarily quelled. "Your future husband will be here later in the day, and when I present you to him, you WILL cooperate, you ungrateful little harlot! Your father has already given his consent."
"My father would never…" she spat, afraid, but still defiant.
"Your father is not the man you think him to be, Melleha, and given the choice between giving you, or you sister, Alison…"
"You bastard!" Melleha fought to get out of the chair, only to find him mere inches away from her face and once more grasping the front of her dress. She fought the impulse to push him away as the smell of his bad breath assaulted her delicate senses.
"It's a pity," he said almost mildly, ignoring her insult. "I was rather hoping to have you for myself. Still – can't be helped."
"Let go of me you…" His stinging slap across the side of her face, hardly cushioned at all by her veil cut off what she had been about to say.
"You, girl!" he addressed Firyal. "Take her back to her room, and see that she presents herself suitably dressed for afternoon tea!" He hauled Melleha out of the chair, and if not for Firyal catching her, she would have fallen. But she was determined that she would not let out the angry tears that were burning in her eyes… or even acknowledge the edge of panic that was growing in her heart and stomach. Stiffly she allowed Firyal to lead her from the room and back to her own chambers.
"Melleha…"
"Don't you… don't you even DARE," she ripped off the veil and threw it at Firyal, "try to tell me that it's for the best… that it won't be so bad." She began to pace back and forth, her feet hitting the tiles so hard that jolts ran up her legs with each step she took.
"But perhaps…"
"I've never even MET the man, how am I supposed to be expected to love someone I've never even met?" She turned and started pacing in the other direction, Firyal darting this way and that to keep up with her and catch the pieces of clothing that she was tearing off her body. "No forget that… I'm not even READY to marry. I won't go through with it."
Firyal stepped into her path and she didn't see her, so collided with the woman and came to an abrupt halt. "Melleha, for the love of Allah, please listen to me. I know this is not what you wanted, what you expected, but really, what are the alternatives? A lifetime with Adham? You heard what he said; he wanted you for himself. Would you agree to that instead?"
At her gentle words, all the fight went out of Melleha as her anger dissipated, allowing the fear and sadness to take hold. She almost fell forward into her servant's arms, accepting Firyal's gentle hug of support.
"But I can't marry… I'd hate it…"
"You don't know that." Firyal said gently. "He might turn out to be quite a gentleman… handsome and strong…"
"Firyal please stop…" she pulled herself from Firyal's arms and sat down on the bed, sobbing openly now. "We both know that's not true… not if he's a friend of Adham's."
"Stop this now, you will make yourself ill," the other woman said quietly, sitting down beside her and stroking her back gently. "You know in your heart that it will go badly for you if you fight him…"
"I don't intend to fight," she answered, sitting up and wiping her reddened eyes with the back of her hand. "I'll just go. I'll run away."
"Melleha no!" Firyal's panic was clearly visible on her face, and for a moment Melleha almost lost her nerve. "If he catches you, it will be all the worse for you…"
"I can't stay here." She caught Firyal's hand in hers and squeezed it. "Come with me."
"I cannot."
"You can… we can both get away…"
"And where would we go Melleha? Hmmm? You are not thinking with your head, you are letting your fear rule you and the only place it will lead you pain and sorrow." Firyal pulled her hand away. "I won't be a part of that."
When she stood up, Melleha panicked. "Please, Firyal, don't tell him… I'll do anything…"
"Then at least give yourself time to think. Meet the man and see if he is all that disagreeable before you go making decisions that could be the end of you."
"All right… I promise." Melleha sighed. Deep down she knew that Firyal was right; there was nowhere she could go even if she did run. She couldn't go back to her family, Adham would only punish them – perhaps even take her back AND her sisters. She had no other friends in Cairo – and if she ran off into the streets she would probably end up very quickly in the very position she didn't want to be… as the possession of some awful man she didn't even know and wouldn't want to know even if she did! She lay down on the bed and cried herself into exhaustion.
He was known and feared as "Whisper." He allowed himself a self-satisfied smile as he strolled through the gardens of the nobleman's home. It was a name and a reputation he had earned. His smile faded as he remembered the other man hired by Al-Mahdi to go after the same mark. He had never been doubted in that way before, and he did not like the bitter taste it left in his mouth. And when he didn't like something…
"Why are you here, Wahid?" The voice, addressing him by his given name, startled him out of his angry contemplation. Sloppy he berated himself, and stopped a mere breath away from walking into the tree of a man standing in the doorway. He was tall, a fact accentuated by the large turban like hat he wore. His black skin, darkened by the Egyptian sun, shone with the oils with which he had been anointed – no doubt by a woman of the nobleman's harem. The red cloth that draped his body did nothing to hide the very well formed muscles and through his wide leather belt many weapons hung, all read for use. His face was impassive, or perhaps a little amused, as his dark brown eyes bore into Whisper's own.
"I am here to see Amir," he answered calmly. Even with the man's strength and intimidating appearance, Whisper thought he could probably take him.
"I do not believe so." The tree answered, folding his arms across his chest and setting himself further in the doorway. "When Whisper comes calling on my master, I am sure he brings only trouble."
He smiled. It was a cold and humourless smile. "I bring him information."
"Then give the message to me and I will see that he gets it."
"I do not believe so," he answered, mocking the man's own words. "When I come to call on my brother, I am sure that he would wish to receive me in person."
"He is engaged."
"Then I'll wait." Whisper stepped forward, only to find the other man moving into his path and placing an outstretched hand against his chest. He let out a long slow sigh and almost breathed his next sentence. "You try my patience Loch-nah. I am here to see my brother. Get out of my way."
The two men stood for a moment, physical strength silently battling strength of will, before Loch-nah finally lowered his hand from Whisper's chest. "As you wish," he said as he stood aside. "He is with the lady Yasmin."
Whisper swept past his brother's bodyguard into the palatial house. As he got within the shade of the hallway he stopped and turned. "And Loch-nah," he fixed the man that was, after all, little better than one of his brother's servants with a deadly gaze as the man merely raised his eyebrow in recognition that he had spoken to him. "Never touch me again."
He turned away again and continued on his way into the house, climbing the stairs and bursting in on the couple engaged in their own private "battle of wills." The woman, Yasmin, screamed and dragged herself away from where she straddled Amir, grabbing the sheet to cover her nakedness, and sending the scent of sexual musk and rose petals travelling in Whisper's direction. He tensed, but did not move from the spot at which he had come to a halt at the foot of the large bed.
"Really Wahid," Amir reached beside the bed to grab his pants and pull them on to cover his own now withering nakedness. "You should learn how to knock, you know." He turned to the woman and waved a hand toward the door. "Enough Go!"
"I'm sorry, my brother," Whisper said with a mocking bow, not meaning a single word of the apology. "This couldn't wait."
"All right, all right." Amir gestured toward a nearby chair. "Sit… speak."
"I'd prefer to go somewhere less… aromatic," Whisper answered in disgust. "It smells like a brothel in here!"
His brother laughed, and threw a sweat stained arm around his shoulder, "As you wish, Wahid. Give me a moment to bathe and change, I will be down directly."
"No!" Whisper threw off his brother's arm. Amir shrugged and began to walk toward the seat he had waved at a moment ago. "Al-Mahdi moves against the Medjai."
Amir's good humoured smile evaporated and he turned whipped his head round to face his brother. "You know this how?"
"I know this because he has engaged my particular skills in removing his problem."
"Who?"
"Bay."
"Absolutely not!" Amir jumped up from the seat and kicked the nearby wooden table across the room. It splintered against the wall. Whisper had to cover his mouth to hide his amusement at his brother's reaction.
"I would have thought you would be pleased, my brother." His eyes held a predatory gleam. "Strike the head off a snake and his poison can no longer seep into your veins."
"I said no, and I mean it!" Amir raised his voice and then his hand to his brother and grabbed at the front of his tunic.
He reacted without thinking; his knife cleared the sheath and pressed against his brother's stomach to draw a bead of blood that trickled down to stain the front of his cream coloured pants. "You know better than that, brother," he hissed against Amir's cheek. "I choose the jobs I accept – and I choose to accept this because I won't so easily forget what he did to our sister."
"The man was not himself. He was drugged."
"The man," he sneered the word, "is supposed to be Medjai… a warrior for God!"
"He makes amends…"
"You forgive?" He released his brother in shock and watched as he pressed his hands against the small wound on his stomach.
"You cut me!" Amir snapped, looking at his hands, and then at his brother in what Whisper thought might have been anger, or maybe hatred. "The Medjai are all that stand between us and the Farhaseed. Kill Bay and they will be all over this region likes scarabs after flesh."
"You forgive this man?" Whisper repeated, dangerously low, gripping the handle of the knife that had now tasted his brother's blood more firmly in his hand and shifting his centre of balance imperceptibly slowly, prepared to strike out against his own brother if he gave the wrong answer in the next moment.
"Make no mistake, Wahid, my brother. Ardeth Bay will pay for what he has done to us – for the way he broke our sacred trust… but it will be at a time of my choosing." Whisper saw his brother's eyes turn colder than he had ever seen them before. "Stay your hand, my assassin, perhaps even warn the Medjai charlatan of what is to come… but we need his people for just a little longer…"
Melleha stood trembling as Firyal fussed around her, arranging her dress and her veils so that they hung in just the right way. She had a very bad feeling about the meeting about to take place.
"See your eyes are a mess!" Firyal made her sit one more time and applied yet more kohl to her already sore eyes. "Crying the whole of the day… I told you, it will not be so bad."
"It's already worse than it could ever be!" She felt thoroughly miserable and bit her lip to keep from crying again.
"Don't be so foolish, Melleha." It hurt her even more to know that Firyal was losing patience with her. "He's just a man, not a beast."
"You've seen him then have you!" Melleha raised her voice, fighting off the tears by embracing her anger. "From what Adham said, it wouldn't surprise me to find that he's some kind of glorified camel herder from the middle of nowhere."
"You must not talk that way… he is to be your hus…"
"He's to be NOTHING I don't want him to be!" Melleha screamed in Firyal's startled face. At her servant's reaction, she shrank back, dropped her gaze to the floor and mumbled an apology. Firyal's face softened into a sad smile and she moved forward to stroke Melleha's back.
"I do understand," she said. "It is a big step to be taking, becoming a wife… there is bound to be fear and… unknown things… but I assure you…"
"Stop, please…" Melleha cut her off. "I'm not ready to marry. I won't marry and I certainly don't intend to let any man have mastery of my body."
"Is that so?" She froze at the sound of his voice from the doorway… and couldn't help wondering how much Adham had heard. "You will be punished later for you insolence. Bring her."
Melleha barely had time to slip her tiny feet into her silk slippers before she was bustled out of the door and down the stairs, after her guardian. He took her into the drawing room, and there she froze.
Her heart leaped up into her throat and for a second she couldn't breathe. The room was literally full with men and the stench of sweat and hot sand. She swallowed hard, both to keep from bolting from fear and embarrassing herself by retching. She wasn't even aware that she started backing up until she felt Firyal's hand in the middle of her back, pushing her forward again. She looked from one to the other of the men, all dressed in tan robes that swaddled them and hid their form, and probably she thought was responsible for the god-awful smell! She tried very hard not to cover her nose with her hand. They looked like the desert people she had seen on her rare trips to the market, or as she was conveyed between her prison and her home. She noticed also that they were all armed from head to foot with knives and guns. They looked most unwelcoming.
A deep but cruel sounding voice came from the centre of the pack, where she couldn't see. He spoke in Arabic… rapid Arabic that she hadn't a chance of ever being able to translate. Adham answered, his Arabic equally as swift, and swept his arm in her direction.
"Ehderha lee hona!" The command came more slowly, but still she couldn't get her suddenly frozen brain to comprehend. Not until she felt two of the tan clad brutes take hold of her arms and start to pull her forward did she realise that he wanted her brought closer. She whimpered, and hated herself for the weakness in it, but something like dread had settled into her stomach and leadened her feet.
The sea of tan bodies parted affording her the first view of the man within as he stood up from the chair in which he had been sitting. He was almost as wide as he was tall, with hawk like features that accented the cruel looking scars on his cheeks. His dark eyes were cold and in no way softened by the shoulder length black hair that was pushed backward from his forehead with the sweep of a gold encrusted hand. She felt naked as he passed his eyes over her from head to foot and almost screamed as the hand shot out to snatch the veil from her face which he then gripped in fingers more accustomed to holding a gun or a sword that the delicate face of a woman. He turned her head from side to side and she bit her lip to keep it from trembling. The hand under her nose smelled of leather and something else, an almost metallic scent. And then as suddenly as he had grasped her face, he let her go and barked a command at her in Arabic.
"Cover yourself woman!" This one she understood, having heard it so often, and her fingers shook as she pulled the veil back up into place. He waved her away, and released by men that supported her still, she staggered. She was glad when the backs of her legs found a nearby chair.
"May I sit, sir?" she asked Adham, her voice trembling, unshed tears clogging up her throat. So this was the man he was giving her too.
"What? Yes, yes… sit!" he instructed, and then rattled off another string of rapid Arabic. She cursed herself for refusing to learn to speak the language proficiently. Not understanding what was going on around her made her feel like a child. She sank into the chair and dropped her gaze to her hands as they twisted the fabric of the dress she wore, shaking even while doing that. In the exchange that followed she thought she caught a name, Farhas, but little else she understood.
"You hef been crrryink, why?"
It took her far too long to realise that he was speaking to her. Not until Adham barked at her to answer her betrothed did she stammer, "I… erm… please…"
"She is a little overwrought," Adham said smoothly. "As, no doubt, my lord Farhas can see."
Farhas snapped something in an angry fashion at Adham and for a moment Melleha felt elated that there was someone in Egypt that was not afraid of him, but then turned his attention back to her. "So, I weel sent forrr you in three days."
"No!" She cringed even as she said the word, and saw Farhas's head snap round to throw an incredulous look in Adham's direction.
"I BEG your pardon!" He strode across the room and towered over her. She shrank even further back into the chair, and turned her face away – closing her eyes to await the blow that she knew must be coming.
"I meant no disrespect," she said. "Just that I cannot go then, it… I…"
"Darabha alashan kelet adabha!" Farhas snapped the words at Adham. These also Melleha understood, and had heard countless times before; as if her behaviour in her chambers was not bad enough, she had now earned herself another beating, and she knew that it would be a serious one.
"Get out!" Adham snapped over his shoulder, and she was more than happy to comply. As she fled from the room she heard the rapid exchange in Arabic start up again, and caught the words, "three days," as she finally reached the door.
Something wasn't right.
It was nothing that he could put his finger on, just a multitude of senses all screaming at him to stop. He dropped his hand to the hilt of his scimitar and felt a number of those senses settle. He paused for a moment before pushing open the rear door to the museum and tucking the key back into his pouch.
He didn't turn on the light, he didn't need it. The darkness was his friend. Darkness… that was it. There should be lights… this was supposed to be a meeting. He stopped abruptly, and his scimitar came into his hand… already too late.
He felt the press of the dagger the small of his back… right over his kidney, and an arm clamped around his neck, another blade against his jugular. He cursed himself for the fool that he was.
"If it were my wish, Medjai, you would die before even one word of the Shahadah passed your lips." The words were a mere breath against his cheek. "Drop the blade!"
"Wahid, wait…" Ardeth's answer was cut off as Whisper pulled back with his arm. It pressed against his throat, half choking him.
"Only my family call me by that name!" The voice beside his ear was louder now, and coloured with anger. "And whatever you might think – after my sister, Medjai that does not include you!"
"Whisper, do not think…"
"Do not SPEAK to me Medjai swine! Listen, and drop the blade!"
Ardeth bristled, being caught of guard was bad enough, but the insults to his heritage, to his people. Imperceptibly he started to shift his weight from his heels, back to the balls of his feet. Slowly he started to lower the arm that held his scimitar, as though he was going to do as he had been told and drop it. His timing had to be perfect, he had to be ready. "I am listening."
"I did not come here to kill you… though nothing would give me greater pleasure…"
As he spoke Whisper released the pressure on his neck slightly and Ardeth exploded into action. As swiftly as he could he slid his left hand up against his neck and pushed the blade away, hissing in pain as the razor sharp edge sliced the side of his hand. At the same time he twirled the scimitar backward, hoping to find the man's leg, but the scimitar sliced through empty air as Whisper dodged aside, pushing against Ardeth so that he had to move forward or lose his balance. Knowing that having a man like Whisper at his back was more than dangerous, he spun on the spot and brought his scimitar up in time to turn aside a rapid knife blow aimed for his chest. Whisper came in with the second blade, a longer knife, the one he had held at his back and Ardeth was forced to give ground as he struggled with an injured hand to draw his own second blade and meet the man on equal terms.
"As you wish, Medjai!" Whisper snarled, and came forward in a blurring attack that kept Ardeth moving back, back out into the alley at the back of the museum and toward the open street. "I prefer it this way anyway!"
Lying on her stomach, awake and still sobbing from the pain in her back where she had been whipped for her insolence on the previous day, Melleha heard a distant noise that sounded like the ringing of a bell. It was coming from outside.
Earlier, she had heard just a single horse arriving and had so wanted to go to the window, but the burning in her back had kept her from moving. She wondered what it was she heard, this new sound. It felt wrong to her, and in her head she heard a silent command for her to get up, to go to the window…
Moaning aloud, she rolled onto her side and then swung her legs around to sit up. "Aha!" she cried as the cool cloths fell away from her back. Her night dress was hanging over the bottom of her bed, and moving as slowly as she could, she pulled it on, and winced as it settled over her barely healed lacerations.
Each step she took woke new fire in her back, but she had to see what was happening. She couldn't explain to herself why it was so important for her to get to the window, but it felt to her as if the world were about to end and only by seeing what was happening could she possibly hope to stop that from happening.
When she got to the window she truly felt that her belief was true as she forgot to breathe. In the street below two men, both dressed in black, but one in the unmistakable robes of the desert people she had seen before were dancing a whirling dance… and in the moonlight she caught the flash of blades, reflecting its pale silver light.
Mesmerised.
He'd quite simply never seen any man move as gracefully as these two did. Catlike, agile but strong in their movement, the fight went back and forth, first one gaining ground, landing a strike, and then the other. For a few seconds he forgot that he too was there for a reason; the very same reason that the man was fighting in the street below; to kill Ardeth Bay.
Slowly he raised the first of three crossbows. He didn't expect to miss, but he wanted to be sure. He wanted to collect his fee… and as much of the buried wealth of the Pharaohs of Egypt as he could carry out of Hamunaptra.
Carefully he lined up the fighting Medjai in the crossbow sights…
Slick with blood from his injured hand, Ardeth's scimitar slipped in his grasp as he tried to parry a particularly strong blow from the wiry man in front of him. Seconds later it flew from his grasp as he reversed the direction of the sweep in his blade and in desperation he blocked the incoming knife with his forearm, following through, in spite of the pain, to punch the assassin square in the face, though without any real force. The scimitar in his right hand, however, swept upward and bit into the man's side, before it was torn free and pushed away by the rush of the other man's blade.
From the corner of his eye he saw the knife come in at him from the other side, so used the momentum of Whisper's late parry to spin himself around and catch the incoming knife with the flat of the blade. The impact sent it spinning into the dark street and the men were once more on an even footing.
Spinning again in the opposite direction, his robes flew up enough to obscure a low thrust aimed at Whisper's thigh, the assassin turned into the strike and stepped forward, catching the hilt of Ardeth's scimitar on his hip and deflecting what could have been a very bad wound. He closed his hand around the bracer on Ardeth's wrist, and Ardeth struggled to hold onto his blade as his hand was brought repeatedly down against the other man's hip bone, whilst trying to fend off the knife which the assassin had flicked to the other hand. His head was starting to swim from the tiredness and viciousness of the fight, and from the many wounds that he hadn't really noticed before. He was just starting to gain the upper hand, just about to pull away from the deadly clinch when the tide turned completely.
He thought at first that a second assailant had joined the fight, come up behind him to avoid his blades, and had punched him, hard in the back. Then he felt the burning pain that penetrated right into his lung. The sudden impact threw him forward, back toward Whisper and his waiting blade. He tried to turn, to avoid the knife and lost his balance as a second quarrel took him low down, on the right. His legs folded under him and he fell heavily to the ground.
"No!" Melleha let out a high pitched but quiet scream, but in the still Cairo night it sounded to her ears as though it had carried to the four corners of the Earth. It must have at least carried to the man in the street, poised with his dagger raised. She could see it glinting in the moonlight. And faintly she heard the clatter of wood against the stone of a wall, as she watched the knife wielding man melted away into the shadows. She strained her ears to listen for movement, and hearing nothing, knew she had to get to the fallen man.
Never one to truly believe or put her faith in a God of any kind, after all how could God allow such terrible things to happen to her, she couldn't believe her luck when she found the house silent, and empty. Her cries had woken no one in the house.
By the time she reached the door she felt as though every single wound on her back had opened. She could barely see though her pain, but none of that mattered. Only one thought going through her head over and over again kept her putting one foot in front of the other. She had to help him.
Her heart sank as she reached his side. A small pool of blood stained the packed earth of the street. She knelt at his side, and for a moment couldn't decide where best to put her hands. She had to get him in, but where? And how could she hope to lift him? Lying there he seemed almost twice her size. Gingerly she pressed her hand close to the wound in his side, trying to stem the flow of blood. He let out a small cry of pain.
"Oh God, oh God, I'm sorry…" She snatched her hands away.
Weakly and obviously in a lot of pain, he spoke to her in broken Arabic. "Akhrej… al sahem"
"What? I'm sorry… I don't… Please tell me how to help you!"
"You must… take… out… the arrow," the voice that gasped the English words at her made her almost scream in shock.
Take out the arrow… that couldn't be too hard, could it? Almost closing her eyes she reached out for the shaft of the arrow she could see. She tried to pull.
"La!" He cried, "No… stop! Kkeff!"
"What? What did I do wrong?" She felt tears prickling at the back of her eyes.
"Break…" He had to stop, fighting for breath as he was. She saw him moisten his lips, and panicked more about the way he was breathing. Irregular gasping breaths. "You must… break the arrow, and push it through."
"I… I can't." She felt sick at the thought of it.
"You must," he said. "It… is… only way!"
Shaking… she had never shaken so much in her life, she reached out again and grasped the arrow as firmly as she could. He hissed and she could see him fighting not to express the pain as she struggled to break the wooden shaft. Just when, moaning in frustration and barely contained tears, she thought she would fail the arrow snapped, and she was able to push it through. She was not able to ignore his cry of pain.
"I'm sorry… I…. Oh dear God, there's another one." She leaned down closer to his face. "I can't do this."
"Please…" he gasped. "Just… break off the flight."
"Oh God, no, you can't…" Suddenly realising what he was going to do after she had broken off the flights from the arrow she almost shook him to try and gather his senses.
"I will… die if… I do not." His voice was barely a whisper, and for a second he met her eyes. It was too dark to see clearly the colour or anything other than his fear, his pain… and then saw it all lift away as the acceptance of his fate rushed in to take its place. "So… be it," he said. "Laa ilaaha…" he began, quietly.
"Oh no you don't!" Melleha recognised the words, and wasn't about to let him die. "If Allah wanted you, he would have taken you before I bloody well got here!" With all the strength she could find, and fighting to ignore the searing pain in her back she bent over him to grasp the arrow and to break off the flight. She was about to roll him backwards, to push the arrow the rest of the way through when once more he roused himself from his near unconsciousness.
"Wait!" he gasped. "Take… cartridge… gunpowder…"
"What… what do I do?" She leaned closer to hear what he was saying.
"Spark…" He paused to try and catch his breath. "There is… flint… steel…" his hand waved weakly in the direction of his belt pouch.
Gunpowder? Spark? Suddenly it dawned on her what he was trying to tell her. She nodded and pulled one of the cartridges from his bandoleer, and took the flint and steel from his pouch. It took her a while and several fingernails to open the cartridge, and she had to try really hard not to spill the gunpowder. Setting everything onto the ground beside her she pulled his robe open.
"All right. I'm ready." She told him, not knowing if he heard or not. And clenching almost every muscle she had, she rolled him swiftly backwards, onto what was left of the arrow, and when it came through the front of his chest she grasped the barbed tip and pulled it the rest of the way through. Blood flowed freely from the wound, and for a moment all she could do was press against him to stem the flow. And then she tipped a small amount of gunpowder onto the front of the wound, and quickly stuck the flint and steel close by.
Sparks caught against the gunpowder, carried by gravity and blood through the wound in his body… and the powder fizzed a trail searing the wound, if not closed, then at least enough to keep him out of danger – for now. But where to go? Where could she take him? The house would be too dangerous… he would be found and Adham would probably finish what had begun out on the street. A sudden thought entered her head, the old stable block! It was relatively clean and no one ever went there. But how would she move him?
Trying to stand reminded her of the punishment her back had already taken, and she had to stop for a moment, to keep from crying out. She leaned down and hooked her arms under his shoulders, trying not to disturb the wounds too much, and biting on her own lip until it was bloodied to keep from crying out her own pain, she half lifted, half dragged the semi conscious man into the Al-Mahdi complex, and into the stable block. She barely managed to get him onto a low pile of tapestries before it all became too much for her, and she collapsed in exhaustion across his chest.