Disclaimer: I do not own Yugioh, or any Yugioh character portrayed in this fic!
A/N: This fic has been re-posted due to some technical problems when Sirensbane transferred this to my account, as followers of the story might have read in her profile. Due to Sirensbane's deleting of her fanfiction account (due to personal reasons), I will now be taking over the writing aspect. It must be noted that although this is posted under my account, the story is a fully collaborated effort, with all ideas and excerpts done by both the excellent writer Sirensbane and myself. I hope I can do this story justice! Reviews and feedback appreciated :)
Primacy
Chapter 2
Seth was young.
In the end, that was probably the main reason that Shabataka underestimated him. It was also probable that in normal circumstances, the mage's slightly drunken demand for a Shadow Game would have been ignored.
But Seth, to whom the challenge was addressed, was in a foul mood.
"Be careful what you wish for, shadowman. It might come true."
It was incredibly and uncharacteristically rude. Shadowmen were considered little better than rank amateurs in the art of Shadowmancy, not worthy of the full title of Shadowmancer. Though it was doubtful that Shabataka was familiar with the Egyptian slang- a fact that kept the whole thing from immediately deteriorating into an international incident- the insult implicit in Seth's words was enough to make Shabataka's ruddy face go even darker with anger.
To Seth's credit, he immediately realized his mistake. "I apologize deeply for my rudeness, Shabataka," he said respectfully. "My mind was elsewhere, and that comment was severely out of line. I will, of course, make any recompense…"
But Shabataka would have none of it. "You think you can beat me, boy? Your tender years can hardly indicate any real mastery of Shadowmancy."
"Mage," the Pharaoh said, "the High Priest has apologized for his wayward tongue. Believe me," he added, glaring at Seth, "I will chastise him. Do not let this incident escalate into something that would not be beneficial to both our countries."
"Don't try and protect your precious priest from this, Pharaoh," Shabataka spat. "I will have a Shadow Game from him, one way or another."
Seth's heart sank. What is wrong with me? Am I destined to disappoint my king in every possible way? "I will play a Shadow Game with you, Shabataka," he said in his most conciliatory tone. "But give me your word not to let our private quarrel affect our countries and our kings."
Again the man hesitated. "This will remain a private matter," he said reluctantly after a moment. "Of that you have my word."
The Pharaoh bowed his head. "Then so be it," he said heavily.
The entire court turned out to watch the match. Seth took up his position on one side of the palace courtyard, thinking hard about what to do. Beating the mage would be child's play, but should he win? If he threw the match, would it repair some of the damage done by his careless words?
But no. Egypt could not afford to look weak, not with its relationship with Nubia in such a state. He had challenged Shabataka with implications of power, and now he had to show that power. He looked up. The Pharaoh's violet eyes met his. To anyone who did not know him, he was expressionless. But to Seth, who knew his king better than anyone else and, incidentally, could see the Shadows swirling madly around his king, could read his anxiety.
And I have to prove myself to the Pharaoh. I have disappointed him enough.
It would take no more than a minor monster to deal with this fool.
"Are you ready yet?" sneered Shabataka. "You can hardly expect to beat me if you stand there motionless."
Seth turned to him, and his blue eyes blazed with such force that Shabataka took a step back. "I am ready."
Then, without more warning, he called upon his magic.
Across from him, Shabataka's mouth gaped like a fish, and sweat beaded on his brow.
With a roar, Seth's cliff dragon erupted onto the field, its scaly hide impenetrable, its teeth easily the length of a man's hand. Seth reveled in the power of it, the Shadows that he had brought into this world and were doing his bidding. But there was something wrong…something off…something he could but lightly sense, a disturbance…
But there was no time to think on it now. Shabataka had finally managed to summon a monster, some kind of doglike creature that paled in comparison to Seth's dragon. It was almost a pity to destroy it.
Almost.
Shabataka screamed and sank to his knees, one hand clutching his heart. Seth's dragon reared back, ready for another attack, but there was no need. The dog thing had been utterly consumed.
"You blocked me!" Shabataka shrieked, pointing a shaking finger at Seth. "You prevented me from accessing my power!"
Seth was saved from replying by the Pharaoh, who had risen to his feet, his violet eyes blazing. "Enough!" he said. "You demanded this Shadow Game, Shabataka. You have no right to complain when you have lost." He turned to Seth, his voice once again neutral. "High Priest, you are entitled to choose his penalty."
Seth was wise enough to read the subtext. Don't kill him. He reached out with the Shadows towards the quivering mage, molding them to his purpose. The Shadows responded willingly enough, but there was still that trace of other, a trace of wrongness in the magic that he could not quite put his finger on. But he ignored it; losing focus now could have devastating consequences.
When the spell was over, Shabataka was whimpering on the ground, his face as pale as chalk. Conscious of every eye upon him, Seth walked over and stood over the fallen body of his opponent.
"If you ever prove yourself worthy of it," he said quietly. "I will undo what I have done."
Then, not looking at anyone, he turned and went back to the palace.
Behind him, Shabataka's shriek of denial rose into the air.
A servant who considered himself above others of his own station simply because his duties included scrubbing the master's favourite tunic was always a subject of focus for Bakura's intense . . . dislike. There were those he hated and those he was indifferent to, nothing more, nothing less. And the specimen seated a few paces away from him in the rank darkness of the gambling den was rapidly talking his way into the former category. A heavy scowl formed on the thief's brow, concealed in the shadows cast by the heavy, hooded cloak. Oblivious to the animosity caused by his loud, obnoxious voice, the assistant to the priest Karim's manservant continued in this vanity-laden strain. The drink was taking its toll. Bakura could see several men eyeing the man's poorly-concealed money pouch at his belt.
He turned his broad-shouldered frame as much as possible without attracting attention in the cramped quarters. Smoke curled from grimy, black-encrusted hookahs extending from yellow-lipped mouths, winding in varying, sinuous trails to the darkened, smudged ceiling above. The table he rested his elbows on was nothing more than a glorified pine trunk, splinters scraping his elbows with every small movement. A ragged, filthy curtain, once dark blue, now smeared with unmentionable things and worn thin to papyrus consistency, hung over a lop-sided opening in the right wall facing the entrance. The curve of a massive bicep was just visible when the curtain shifted slightly, giving away the presence of the hired body-slave standing to attention. His presence was more than accounted for by the heavy clink and chime of the coins that were being counted, collected and stored in the heavily guarded room beyond. Shadowy figures in varying states of intoxication and drug-induced torpor were sprawled gracelessly across long, low benches erected against the periphery of the room. The card tables were set out centrally, whores and serving girls wending their way through the noisy, stinking throng, receiving a lascivious pinch or hefty smack now and then.
Concentrating on his target once again, Bakura gradually tuned out the raucous shouts from the rabble, and onto the voice of the brash young man. The servant's audience consisted of a single, feral-looking man with protuberant eyes, who seemed to affect a strange nobility in his manner of speech and bearing despite the poor quality of his clothes. Humble Husseini. A con-man of some repute, renowned for his skill in swindling unsuspecting young nobles into false investments and travel opportunities. From what Bakura had heard, most of these young men ended up as fodder for the lions in some arena or other and Husseini made a killing in shady profit. And here he was, chatting up a manservant's assistant. Times must be hard indeed.
"The Pharaoh was furious. I overheard Karim saying so in the chambers, when we were serving wine." He held up three fingers, already shaking from the effects of alcohol, "Three cups of wine. I poured them for him, three, the finest quality brewed from here to . . . well from here to there, anyway. And he smiled when I poured. Great man, Priest Karim. He pays well and we get good square meals too. Just the other morning, he gave my master some stuffed dates and qu . . .qua . . . well some fat bird's eggs. Good man, Karim."
Oh, get on with it, imbecile, thought Bakura, somewhat admiring how Humble Husseini managed to keep such a submissive and attentive façade. The con-man in question nodded rapidly, flicking his fingers delicately free of his robe and plying the young man with more wine. This affectation of good manners was somehow negated by the deadly look he shot at the fingers inching towards the servant's money pouch on the right. The fingers were withdrawn. Humble Husseini was also Handy-with-a-knife Husseini, after all.
"The Pharaoh was so angry. That snob . . . that son of a jackal, High Priest. He was the one that got them all up in a stir. You should see him, striding through the halls. Thinks he's a Sphinx come to life, that one. Doesn't give you the time of day. The girls in the kitchen say he is very cour . . . te . . .ous, but I don't buy it. They probably take one look at his uniform and worship him. Huh."
The irony of this statement was not lost on Bakura. But he was now listening ever-so-closely.
"He challenged a foreign what-you-call-it. You know, the man that comes and shuts himself up with the Pharaoh and the Priests for hours. From a foreign country?" He peered blearily at Husseini for some verbal assistance.
"I believe the word you are looking for is Ambassador, young master. Here, more wine."
"Yes. Yes, thank you, you're too kind. You're a good man too. I like you. Anyway, that foreign big-shot came. Named Shagataba or something like that. He challenged the High Priest to a Shadow duel, can you believe? And this Seth, he goes and accepts! He even provoked the . . . Shatagataba."
"Indeed? How interesting. Here, move away from that beggar. Can't he see we're trying to drink?"
"Of course. Silly beggar, don't come where you don't belong. Don't come between me and my friend here. Anyway," and here the drunk lowered his voice conspiratorially and edged towards Husseini, "I think he was trying to make up for the other day. The day the Thief attacked the palace. You heard about that day? My master was watching from the balcony. He said the Thief was so powerful, not even the Pharaoh and the Priests could stop him. He said he got stronger. He said his hair grew longer too, maybe that's his secret. I would like to have enchanted hair, it must be nice." A reflective pause ensued during which Husseini poured more wine and Bakura oscillated between a desire to strangle the idiot or laugh at the ridiculous fancies the average mind came up with to explain his strength.
"The Thief crushed the High Priest. And here's the funny part. The Priest crushed Shabagata! But that foreign big-shot, he wouldn't stand for that. No. He insulted Seth. Said he cheated and made him weaker, or something like that. The battle of two sore losers. Hah. What a sight! But was the Pharaoh angry! My master walked near the royal chambers. They let him in and out. See how trusted my master is? And he heard them. The Pharaoh was letting the High Priest have it. Imagine his face!"
Much to Bakura's consternation, Husseini poured the inebriated servant another cup which proved to be his last. With a belch worthy of a camel's hindquarters, he tipped over, cracked his head on the side of the bench and stirred no more. Naturally, Husseini made no move to cushion his fall. Bakura was tempted to bargain with the con-man for the servant. No doubt valuable information on the palace goings-on could be gained. But Bakura doubted the accuracy of the young man's account, with the exception of the battles. His young mind was too clouded by self-importance and spite to provide an accurate description of the motives and emotions of those around him. And besides, thieves' code dictated that it was bad manners to encroach on the profit of another. Normally, Bakura followed no rules. The code wasn't meant for the King of Thieves anyway. Husseini was a respectable swindler in Bakura's book, however. He had subtlety and skill, a rare gift.
As he had learnt all he could here, he rose unobtrusively. Husseini gave a dismissive hand gesture and a burly, scarred man, obviously deaf, as his summoner continued to communicate in complex hand signals, slung the lifeless body of the servant over his shoulder and left the room. Outside, the night was humid and lifeless, the air hanging like a pall on the uneven rooftops, the curtain of silence now and again parting to admit a raucous shout or jeer from the shady dens that were the only places active at this time. The unsteady shape of the man with a body on his shoulder made its way further down the street, unaccosted. A shadow slipped down a narrow alley. In the gambling house, Husseini tossed the money-pouch once into the air and caught it deftly, satisfaction clear in his glittering eyes.
"Is this how you would serve my kingdom? By playing the fool and threatening it with ruin?"
"Pharaoh, I…"
"Do you have any understanding of what you've done? Do you realize how close you've brought me to war?"
"…"
"What, now you are silent?"
"There is no excuse for my actions, Pharaoh. I will accept my punishment."
"No. I will not allow you the coward's way out. You will offer me an explanation. You are not a man who is ruled by his emotions, Seth."
"I cannot explain."
Sigh. "Seth, this will not escape public attention. The entire court was witness to it."
"Pharaoh, I . . .I shall take whatever penance you deem fit as punishment for my folly. The people's awareness makes no difference, I shall make amends . . ."
"Their awareness makes no difference? Do you think that they will not attach their own significance to this? Do you think they will not remember that just a few days ago we were attacked by . . ."
"That had NOTHING to do with this!"
Silence.
"My Pharaoh, I apologize. I . . ."
"That is enough. When you are capable of rational thought and can place your duty over your pride, return to me."
"Pharaoh, I . . . very well. I shall leave you."
"Seth."
"My king?"
"The thief is our enemy. And a formidable one. We do not need any more, neither do we need to make foes out of our allies . . . and friends. Do not disappoint me again."
"Yes. Yes, my Pharaoh."
"Go."
