Title: Avatar Of The Gods: Fax Facis
Author: The Duchess Of The Dark
Teaser: Post 'The Mummy Returns'. Ardeth Bey & Rhiannon Ward return to Egypt to retrieve the Throne Of Isis & prevent Runihura opening the gates to the Underworld.
Rating: PG 13
Disclaimer: All recognisable characters belong to Universal Pictures.
Genre: Action/adventure and hints of more to come. For more fiction (not fanfic) visit my page at Illona's Place Vampires
Archive: Yes, but ask me first, please.
Notes: This is the sequel to
*
Cairo
The sky darkened towards dusk, daytime blue washed burnt tangerine by the setting sun. Shortly, the Imam would begin calling the faithful to final prayers. As the approaching night stole away the heat and light, people headed for the mosques, or home to their families. Hands thrust into the sleeves of his blue shalwar kameez, the gali gali man contemplated packing up his rickety table and assorted gimmicky magic tricks. Stroking his beard, he glanced around the small square of shops, listening to the click and rattle of the beaded curtains and faded window shutters, paint blistered by the relentless sun. Peering past a gnarled, somewhat withered potted palm to 'Antiquities and Curiosities', he shuddered and muttered a quick prayer. Apparently recovered from his grief at loosing his brother, Abdul-Wahid Fahrer had rushed from Luxor to take over his business interests.
The gali gali man shook his head. He had been present when the authorities had removed Azim Fahrer's corpse, an anonymous face in a morbidly curious crowd. He had found his appetite for lunch was quite diminished. Just thinking about it made him vaguely nauseous. A tall, fleet shadow passed across the wide entrance to the square, followed moments later by a figure robed in black. At first glance, the gali gali man mistook the spindly man for Med-Jai, the black robes and poor light contributing to the deductive jump of the forebrain. He realised there was something fundamentally wrong with the way the robed man was moving. He walked with an unnatural posture of multi-jointed stiffness, as if he was a much larger creature awkwardly crammed into a skin suit.
Shaking off a sudden feeling of unease, the street magician forced himself to see the strange, lanky man as just another source of income. Performing a quick, extravagant salaam, the he waved and beckoned the stranger over.
"The peace of Allah upon you, sir!" he called. "See here, I shall astound you with wonders! Watch the ball disappear beneath your very eyes! Pick the right cup, sir, and the money shall be yours!"
Displaying a small crimson ball with a flourish, held between thumb and forefinger, he popped it beneath one of three decorated steel cups and began moving them around. Slowly, the thin man turned and strode over, features hidden in shadow. A single bright coin dropped onto the rusted fold-up table.
"Keep your eye on the ball, sir!" the magician urged, the cups moving in a blurring flash. "Now! Which is it under? Hmmm?"
The gali gali man looked up, hands fluttering to outline the three cups. Silence. His professional grin froze in place, smooth patter drying on his tongue. Pinned in place by the flat metallic grey of the stranger's eyes, he swallowed, sure he could hear a faint, almost inaudible hissing sound from inside his robes. An impossibly long hand reached out and settled on a glinting steel cup, the correct cup, and lifted it up to reveal the ball. The gali gali man gasped aloud. Nobody had ever picked the right cup in twenty years as a street entertainer. Head bobbing gently from side to side, mamba-like, the stranger lifted his hand towards the magician's throat.
"Sebak."
At the new voice, the attenuated man jerked around, instantly assuming a bow-headed attitude of submissiveness. The gali gali man found he had pressed himself back against the discoloured whitewash wall behind him. He watched with burgeoning terror as a second cloaked man entered the square. Powerfully built, shoulders broad beneath his robes, he carried himself with the self-assurance of a pharaoh. Features concealed by an expressionless beaten silver mask, he seemed to carry darkness with him, a shroud of black hate and chaos.
"Do you wish to share the fate of your predecessor?" The voice was a satin-sheathed blade, fiercest violence contained by a veneer of civility. "There are always replacements."
Sebak bowed almost double, snake eyes nailed to the dusty paving at his feet. His master proceeded soundlessly across the square, moving like his feet bore oiled wheels. The silver mask flashed in the gloom as he perused the surrounding area. Desperately trying to stop shaking, wondering why he was so afraid, the gali gali man fought for sufficient courage to peel himself away from the wall and flee.
"We must retrace all Her steps," the masked man announced, ignoring the trembling magician. "No clue to the Throne's whereabouts must be missed. She will soon return, if She has not already."
He broke off, appearing to become immersed in thought, head slightly lowered. Shoulders bunching beneath his voluminous robes, he looked up at the cobalt frowse of the sky.
"I shall not be thwarted by Her, not again. She will pay." His gloved hand drifted up to touch the burnished silver cheek of his mask. "And so will the Med-Jai."
Turning, he glided towards the antiques shop. Slices of warm light appeared at the doorway as an oil lamp was lit. Silently, the thin man followed in his wake, keeping a respectful distance. The gali gali man heaved a great sigh, clutching at his racing heart. Rubbing at his throat, trying to dispel the burning cold where the stiff-limbed stranger's fingertips had brushed, he coughed. Eyes watering, he coughed again and spat something out into his hand. Blinking, he realised it was a small red ball. Windpipe spasming, he hacked and choked, bringing up another two. Then three. Then four, all coated in frothy white mucus. Gagging, eyes bulging, he clawed at his chest and throat, mouth gaping wide. Struggling for breath, he collapsed, face contorted and blue-purple as countless balls filled his trachea and lungs, spilling out onto the floor. Twitching once, he expired.
*
The National Railway Line, Between Alexandria & Cairo
Leaning his forearm against the padded window ledge, Ardeth Bey gazed out into the rushing night, watching as lush delta and the dark navy blue ribbon of the Nile sped past. The regular tempo of the express train, steel wheels clacking over worn tracks, was soothing, but he could not sleep. To Rhiannon's restrained irritation, there was only a single berth compartment left on the overnight train by the time they arrived. When he had questioned their means of transport, wondering why she did not use her deity powers, or travel by paddle steamer, Ward had pointed to the swollen Nile.
"Runihura can track me, as I can Him, if we use a great deal of magic," she had patiently explained. "If I stick to teensy magic, the minds of all these people will hide me. The river is out of the question – remember how Imhotep half drowned you with his splendid little tidal wave trick?"
Bey had been forced to agree, albeit he found the long hours confined in a carriage testing. He considered himself a patient man, but the threat to his people played upon his mind. Hearing a heavy, muffled thud above his head, he glanced up, hand snaking to the butt of his Browning. When he looked back at the window, a long, plumed tail dangled down outside. Layla's aristocratic sphinx-like features appeared, whiskers crumpling to flash her great teeth at the Bedouin. With a dismissive flick of her feline tail, she was gone, off fulfilling whatever errand her mistress had set.
Allah above! The djinn are sulking like children, he thought, shaking his head.
Shifting position in the comfortably-upholstered seat, his gaze roamed the first-class compartment. A single leather suitcase, 'RW' monogrammed in gold above the handle, sat next to his meager knapsack on the parcel shelf. It seemed odd that a goddess would need a suitcase, and suddenly quite amusing. But the goddess was also human, subject to many of the resultant frailties and basic material needs. Amusement fading, Ardeth looked over to the small bunk and the sleeping occupant. Rhiannon lay on her side on top of the covers, knees drawn up, one slender hand curled beneath her chin. A wing of tousled dark hair had fallen over her cheek, stirring gently as she breathed. Her narrow leather boots lay discarded on the floor, their shine diminished by a thin layer of latté brown Alexandria mud.
The Med-Jai chieftain found himself listening to the measured, peaceful sound of her breathing, realising he had not considered she may need to sleep, just like any other human being. Unlike the undead Imhotep, to whom he had initially compared her, she needed rest and sustenance. Again dressed in functional Bedouin black; slim-fitting khaliji and jilbab, she had not uttered a word in English since their arrival, using Arabic with occasional lapses into Coptic or Berber. Slumber had skimmed her alabaster features of animation, leaving them soft and deceptively passive. She jumped suddenly, brow pleating with distress, and muttered incomprehensibly under her breath.
She's having a nightmare, Ardeth deduced. What have you seen in your life, White Lady, that disturbs your sleep? What does the avatar of Isis dream of? Of heaven left for a cage of flesh and blood? Of ancient enemies and lovers long dead…?
A polite, hesitant knock at the compartment door drew his attention. Starched white shirt gleaming in the half-light of the carriage corridor, a steward slid the door open a few inches.
"I saw you were awake, sir – can I get you anything? Some tea for the English lady, perhaps?" he asked, keeping his voice low.
There was barely veiled curiosity in his neutral expression and subservient clasped hands, gaze tracking over Bey's glyph tattoos and the newly sharpened scimitar that lay on the seat within easy reach.
"No, thank you," Ardeth replied, seeing the steward's slight nod and furtive backward glance as he left.
The Med-Jai chieftain neither knew nor cared what the steward thought – though he could make an educated guess. Rumours abounded whenever they were spotted outside the desert, and they were content to allow tongues to wag. Generations of misinformation had kept the Med-Jai the stuff of legend and discouraged most treasure hunters. Most sophisticated city-dwellers thought them little more than savage Bedouin camel herders, and the fact one travelled in first class with a foreign lady was bound to provide the steward with several weeks worth of gossip. Ardeth frowned, knowing that a flurry of gossip had the potential to leave a breadcrumb trail.
"Don't worry about him, I've cast a glamour – nobody will remember us once we leave."
Opening her agate green eyes, Rhiannon sat up and tucked her loose inky hair behind her left ear, a pink pillow crease etched into her cheek. She stretched, spine elongating like a sleepy cat, and planted her stocking feet onto the wooden floor.
"Your camp is two day's hard ride from Cairo," she said, the utterance a statement, not a question.
"We have moved since your last visit, lady," Bey revealed, rubbing the bridge of his nose. "I am unsure where, it was scheduled for a week ago, when I was in England. I will find out when we reach Cairo."
Ward's lips quirked into a tiny moue of feigned awe, winging eyebrows elevating.
"Ah, I sense the dreaded hand of the Elders," she observed irreverently.
"They are wiser than I," Ardeth retorted stiffly.
"Undoubtedly," she agreed jovially. "Am I to be presented to the grey beards? I promise to mind my P's and Q's."
Bearing her teasing with his usual equanimity, the Med-Jai chieftain's chin lifted a degree or two. Seeing the twinkle in the Englishwoman's emerald eyes, he sighed and looked momentarily heavenwards. Rhiannon grinned and swung her crossed ankles. Humour seeping away, she glanced out of the window for long moments, eyes temporarily unfocussing. Ardeth had learnt to associate this with communication with her djinn. She blinked once, long jet lashes sweeping her pale cheek, and looked at him.
"I will need to consult with your scholars," she informed him coolly, once more regal and distant. "My previous avatar was a sloppy housekeeper, and things do tend to go missing over the millennia."
She spoke as if she had misplaced a moderately valuable ornament or piece of jewellery, projecting interest, but no especial concern.
"You don't know where the Throne is?" Ardeth exclaimed with disbelief.
The goddess speared him with a pointed glare, eyes winking sunflash, hands in her lap in an attitude of royal serenity. All she lacked was the ankh key and flail of the pharaoh, a brief flicker of light describing twin silvered cow horns above the crown of her head. Already dim, the overhead compartment lamp hissed and died.
"Not exactly," she admitted sheepishly. "But I have more of an idea than Runihura… You look tired, Ardeth – get some sleep."
Lifting her hand, fingers splayed, she gestured. Bey's last cognisant thought before slumber claimed him was of annoyance.
I wish she would stop doing that…
*