Author's note: [chapter revised in 2019] Hello, everybody! Hope you're all right, it's been a little while! So this chapter's title comes from a song of Duke Ellington's; there are great covers by Ella Fitzgerald and Dr John, if you're interested. In this chapter, Jonathan's enduring (endearing?) relationship with camels, a little delving into Evy's past life, and a course on party-crashing by our favourite black-clad desert tribe :o)

Disclaimer: Stephen Sommers owns and developed The Mummy and The Mummy Returns; the characters, places, some situations are his creation. Some things I did make up, but every character here is fictitious, and doesn't have anything to do with any person, living, dead, or in-between. Who knows.

FAIRY TALES AND HOKUM

Chapter 12: Caravan

"I hate camels."

"You've been whining about them long enough for me to pick that up."

"Always did, for that matter."

"And I've heard you complain about them since I met you, give or take. Give the beast a break, why don't you?"

Jonathan huffed and made a disgusted face.

"If at least the stroppy blighter would behave decently, but no – I think it's got something to do with the whole species, you know? I've never, ever seen a camel that could be labelled as 'pleasant'."

Rick rolled his eyes.

"Don't know why we even bother with those smelly buggers – why couldn't we ride something civilised such as… Such as horses? Horses are civilised."

"Jonathan, do me a favour, will ya? Shut up."

This earned Rick a dark glare, before his brother-in-law returned to staring at the endless dunes in front of him.

"No, really, I mean it – don't you th—"

"Jonathan!"

"All right, all right, no need to shout, now, is there?"

Rick wiped the sweat off his brow with the cloth he wore on his head and looked at the Englishman in the eye.

"One, camels are more used to the desert than horses, so it's safer to ride them. Two, horses too can be a pain in the ass when they have a mind to, and three – it's almost noon, the sun's right up beating down on our heads and it's too damn scorching around here for you to keep complaining like that!"

Jonathan's steady glare surprised Rick, who wasn't used to getting this kind of reaction from him. Usually he would just shrug dejectedly and mutter under his breath for a while until he had something else to say and the previous conversation was forgotten. Then again, Rick reflected, Jonathan had seemed to change more in the past two days than the past ten months. Or maybe he'd simply been paying attention.

After Rick had thrown himself on the lousy mattress on the floor of the truck, he had slept soundly until he had been woken up both by the heat rising in the truck and somebody shaking him. Beside him, Jonathan had also sat up, bleary-eyed and his short curly hair sticking up in every possible direction. As it seemed, it would be growing too hot in the truck for them to stay in there during the day, so they were to ride camels until nightfall.

And it was the sixth time that Jonathan had stated his disgust of camels since morning dawned.

It was true that his own mount must have been one of the most foul-tempered animals Rick had ever seen. It seemed to hate Jonathan as much as Jonathan hated it, and never lost an occasion to show it. When it wasn't trying to shake off its rider and make him taste a mouthful of sand, it was straying from the trail and wandering off, despite Jonathan repeatedly pulling on the reins to make it get back in line.

So yes, maybe he did have grounds for complaining.

But that didn't mean he had to do it all the time.

Rick had absolutely no intention to swap; his camel was a strong, steady old beast and he had taken something of a liking to it. He sure as hell wasn't giving it away in exchange for some damn crazy animal that didn't like the thought of a human sitting on the hump on its back.

"I say, Rick?" The American turned back to Jonathan, who looked normal again, if a little pissed on the side about the camel. "Do you think they'd mind giving us a drop to drink?"

"Don't tell me you've run out already?"

"Mmh, actually, yes, I have. But I'll have you know that the water-skin was already half empty when they gave it to me."

"I'd say it was half full, Jonathan," Rick said, grinning. For his part, Jonathan looked for a second as though he was about to stick out his tongue at him. Then he cracked a small smile.

"You and your humour. Happy to be back in the desert, are you?"

"Not really, but for the moment we don't really have a choice. Anyway, about that water – want some of mine?"

Jonathan seemed to consider, but shook his head. "Actually, I was thinking about something stronger. Along the lines of brandy, or gin or something."

Rick couldn't help stealing a glance at his brother-in-law, frowning. He almost had a mind to ask Jonathan if he was all right; but as the Englishman appeared perfectly normal, Rick hid a smile and said, quite seriously, "Well, you can always ask 'em."

Jonathan gave a firm nod, apparently unaware that Rick was enjoying himself perhaps a little too much. He somehow managed to get his camel to slow down to come near the guy behind them, one of Hamilton's anonymous agents. The guy looked mostly unaffected by the heat despite his suit, and supremely ignored the two of them.

"Erm, excuse me?" Few things could deter Jonathan from a quest for halfway decent booze. A sweating spook with a scowl and a gun was not one of them. "Would you by chance be in possession of something to drink? Preferably something with alcohol in it, if it's all the same to you."

The guy stared at him for a full minute, long enough to make Rick wonder if the sun hadn't fried his brains. Then something flashed in his eyes, and he spoke coldly but politely:

"Why, no problem at all, sir. How would you like some whiskey?"

"I have to say that a G&T would be a bit more refreshing, but if that's the best you've got…" Jonathan replied, looking a bit dumbfounded.

Rick began to shake with silent laughter. He found it even more difficult to suppress his mirth when their 'guard' switched expressions and snapped, "Of course not! There's water if you're thirsty. And you'd be less thirsty if you didn't keep talking all the time."

From the corner of his eye, Rick saw Jonathan open his mouth, then glare at the guard. "Just asking."

The guy shrugged, and slowed his camel to fall back behind the two without another word. It was only then that Jonathan seemed to realise that Rick, who could barely suppress his laughter, was in fact making fun of him just a little.

"Well, that's nice!" he said indignantly as Rick finally burst out laughing. "Not very supportive of you. To think you're family."

"Oh, c'mon. Don't say you didn't see it coming!"

"As a matter of fact, no, I didn't. I was just asking something politely."

Rick shook his head, still grinning. "Trust an Englishman to be polite to the guys who kidnapped him. You're weird."

Jonathan threw him a sideways glance. "You know, Rick, sometimes I really do wonder whether years of living in England somehow improved your behaviour in civilised society."

"Well? Did it, in your opinion?"

"Not at all." It was Jonathan's turn to grin as he added, as an afterthought, "But I found out a while ago that it's perfectly fine as is."

Silence settled for a little while. It was comfortable enough, though all-encompassing as it can only get in the middle of the desert, with just the cloudless, endless sky above your head, and the equally endless sand of the dunes beneath your feet. It didn't really help either that the only other human beings with them were guys who let themselves be led by someone hell-bent on mass destruction.

That last part aside, Rick was beginning to re-adjust to his surroundings: the scorching heat, the suffocating dust, the blinding white light reverberated by the dunes all around them. Spending three or four years as part of the Cairo garrison of the French Foreign Legion meant spending a lot of time patrolling the desert, fighting everything that resembled desert tribes striving for independence from either the French or the English, and, basically, biting a lot of sand all day – and night – long. Niggling conscience aside, it quickly became rather dull.

Life had immediately gained some spice since the first time he had laid eyes on Evelyn. Not exactly from the very first moment, because the next, he'd been dangling from the end of a rope; he had only come to understand how much 'dull' was to be banned from his vocabulary when he had looked up, still trying to recover the breath he had been deprived of, into the fine-featured, lovely, and quite smug face of Evelyn Carnahan. Ever since that moment, there never had been a single dull moment in his life. Little moments of peace and quiet didn't count: Evy and he had managed to keep those, even when Alex had barely been a bundle of sheets who kicked, screamed, and needed looking after almost every single minute of every day.

But dull? Never. Not with Evy, nor Alex.

And, judging from the sudden yelp on his left that made Rick start, nor with Jonathan either. Or maybe the camel was to blame, as he saw it canter across the desert without, seemingly, any agreement from his rider, who was struggling to remain on the saddle, pulling at the reins with all his might and screaming bloody murder.

Rick shook his head with a grin he couldn't hold back, and set off at top speed to catch the escaping camel before one of Hamilton's cronies decided to get his gun and shoot the beast… or the rider.

Izzy's new dirigible was definitely cosier than his old one, Evelyn reflected as she gazed down at the silent, yellow-white dunes flattened by the afternoon sun. There were cushions tied on the seats, the fancy paint made everything shiny and new. The deck was longer, as well, though not long enough to lose sight of Alex, who had apparently decided to explore every nook and cranny of it. Even the tea somehow tasted better.

Evelyn put her cup in her saucer, careful not to send it flying down into the desert, and shifted her gaze to the Nile, far below the airship. An eerie, uncomfortable feeling of déjà vu had crept over her as the dirigible flew away from Fort Brydon and Cairo into the desert. She was hauntingly reminded of the last time she had seen the Pyramids of Giza from this height, as the sun set over Egypt, while she worried herself sick over the kidnapping of her son. At least, at the time, Rick's strong, loving embrace had been around her, as if to keep the fear at bay. She missed him, right now, so much that something tightened painfully in her chest and her stomach. The heat was crushing, the sun implacable, but she couldn't help shivering slightly, as if a cold wind brushed past her.

Two years ago, on a similar dirigible, she had remembered – or had been reminded of – her past life as Nefertiri, daughter of Seti the 1st, the Pharaoh Imhotep and Anck-su-namun had murdered. As the otherworldly mist had hit the ship, she had ceased to be Evelyn O'Connell, wife of Rick O'Connell, daughter of Salwa and John Carnahan; she had re-lived the events of the night, three thousand years ago, when a girl's life had been shattered as her father was assassinated before her eyes.

It had taken an almost-tumble over the railings for her to come back to herself. She remembered little of what had happened between the moment when she had all but thrown herself overboard and when she had recovered all her senses; Rick's warm arms, the fabric of his shirt and his reassuring smell, Jonathan asserting, with an odd quiver in his voice, that their father died years and years ago in a plane crash, the bright eyes in the middle of the dark blur that was all she could see of Ardeth Bay, Izzy's gangly figure here and there to bring a tea tray with four steaming cups…

Since then, the events of Ahm Shere, plus some explaining from Ardeth and some researching on her part had clarified a lot of it. But she had had other dreams. At first she had dismissed them, thinking it only natural that she should have nightmares about dying at Ahm Shere; but there was something about those dreams that felt… foreign. She remembered a strange ring on her finger that bore a cartouche she couldn't quite decipher; she remembered her husband's frantic, desperate eyes above her, but those eyes were jet-black, not blue as Rick's were. Alex and Jonathan were nowhere in sight. And what was more, neither were Imhotep nor Anck-su-namun.

Instead, at the other end of the dagger she sometimes still felt sinking lethally into her stomach at night, was a man's tanned face, with ice-cold black eyes lined with kohl, a black Egyptian-style wig, and a thin mouth twisted in a cruel grin. The face always seemed to shine with triumph. It never failed to haunt her for a few minutes after waking up in the middle of the night, drenched with sweat, her heart pounding, feeling lost and scared and furious at the same time. Usually, it was then that she noticed again her husband's steady, deep rumble of a breathing beside her, and she snuggled against him, seeking a little peace.

The beat of Evelyn's heart quickened at the mere memory of those false nightmares. False, because she had a feeling, deep inside, that she was reliving something different from her murder two years ago. Those 'dreams' had the same feeling about them as the visions she had begun to have at the beginning of the last Year of the Scorpion. And right now, on this dirigible, there was only one man who could give her any answers.

She glanced at Alex, who was busy bombarding Izzy with questions about 'Dee', and turned to Ardeth, who had finished tying a small paper to the foot of the honey-brown falcon he had called Neith.

"Ardeth…" she said in a low voice after a sharp intake of breath. "Do you know how Nefertiri died?"

Ardeth looked up from the bird and up at her in surprise. "I know what the Elders were willing to tell," he said carefully. "Why do you ask?"

"Why do you answer a question by a question?" said Evy, smiling a little. Her smile must have been a bit unsteady, because he let the falcon fly away and turned to her, frowning.

"You've had other dreams."

It wasn't a question. Evelyn nodded. "Yes, I've dreamt of Ahm Shere every now and then. But there's something confusing about those dreams, because things aren't quite the same. I know Rick is there, but he's the only one I recognise. And it's not Anck-su-namun who is stabbing me, but a man I don't know at all. What do you make of it?"

Ardeth stared at her for a second, then his sharp features relaxed ever so slightly. "What makes you think I have the answer to everything?" Evelyn waited, knowing that something was still to come. The next moment, his face was sombre again. "Well," he began slowly, "it is said that Princess Nefertiri died at Ahm Shere."

Evy, who was more or less expecting something along those lines, couldn't help a pang, as of fear. "What happened?" she asked in a whisper. Ardeth lowered his voice.

"You certainly know that Nefertiri, after Seti's death, had become the guardian of the Bracelet of Anubis. Two years ago, those memories led you to the temple where you found the Bracelet. Nefertiri was a very good guardian, it seemed; she was clever, a cunning strategist, but three years after Seti's death, there was treason among the guards and the Bracelet was stolen.

"The man who stole the Bracelet called himself Narmer, which, as you probably know, is the name of the first Pharaoh of the First Dynasty, the successor of the Scorpion King. It seemed he intended to bring the Bracelet to Ahm Shere, and waken the Scorpion King. Nefertiri, hearing of the theft, rushed after him, leaving the Pharaoh – her much younger brother Rameses – behind in Thebes and taking only her personal escort with her. They were fifty strong men, but only one came back to Thebes a few months after.

"His name was Semerheb, and his twin brother Semerkhet was also among Nefertiri's personal escort."

Evelyn's heart raced at this point of the tale. Semerkhet… She was almost certain that she had already heard the name somewhere. It felt so familiar…

"He told of a race across the desert, in the hopes to catch Narmer before he reached Ahm Shere, if indeed he knew where to find it, and take the Bracelet from him. They managed to cross the cursed oasis around the Pyramid with heavy losses to Nefertiri's escort, but they arrived at the foot of the Pyramid before him. It was a trap, as they soon discovered, for Narmer was hidden and sprang upon Nefertiri with a knife. Semerheb then told how his brother Semerkhet was devastated by this murder, and killed Narmer with his own hands before he even reached the entrance of the pyramid.

"The rest of the escort brought back the body of the princess and the Bracelet of Anubis through the oasis, but when they finally reached the open desert, only one remained alive. Semerheb had lived to see his brother die saving his life from the creatures that dwelt in the oasis, and he vowed he would at least fulfil his duty to his princess. Fortunately, it happened that a troop of the Pharaoh's army passed soon after, and collected the body of Nefertiri and Semerheb, who barely drew breath. He recovered, and lived to eventually found the Second Tribe of the Medjai."

Images from her visions rushed in front of Evy's eyes, following Ardeth's words. Suddenly it all seemed to make sense: the ring with her father's cartouche that she now remembered clearly, looking into her murderer's eyes as he twisted the dagger into her stomach… And something deeper, the absolute certitude that the desperate black eyes above her as she lay dying, pleading, begging her not to die belonged to Rick, and none other. She lifted her eyes to meet Ardeth's.

"What kind of relationship did Nefertiri and Semerkhet share?"

"Do you have memories of this too?" Ardeth asked after a short silence.

Evelyn felt herself blushing. "Not quite," she said, feeling self-conscious. "In fact, it's more like impressions, feelings – nothing certain."

Ardeth stared at her. Something in his unblinking black eyes seemed to dance with quiet amusement. It felt funny to think that those same eyes had looked so deadly serious a few seconds ago.

After a minute, she gave in. "All right, all right," she said, the tips of her ears quite hot. "I have serious reason to think that Rick might be a reincarnation of Semerkhet. But if my memory's right, you once said that Rick is a Medjai – you're saying now he might also have been one in a previous life?"

Ardeth took his time to answer, and when he did, he looked serious again, though not so grave as he was a few minutes ago. "Think about it, Evelyn. Semerkhet was a Medjai, and Nefertiri's personal escort was composed only of trusted Medjai who guarded her in Thebes. If indeed O'Connell is a reincarnation of Semerkhet, then he was protecting you in your past life, just as O'Connell does now."

The thought that Rick and her could be a sort of 'match made in Heaven', as they say, certainly sounded very romantic, but Evelyn couldn't help narrowing her eyes slightly at Ardeth. "So everything's already written and History just likes to repeat itself?"

Ardeth gave a slight shrug. "I don't know – maybe it's entirely a matter of belief. But there are some things that find an echo in the history of the world, and I personally do not quite believe in coincidences."

Evelyn's stomach did a very unpleasant flip. "An echo… Ardeth, do you mean I should have died at Ahm Shere and shared the same fate as Nefertiri?"

"Evelyn, history repeating itself or not, it all comes down to choices in the end, and the people who make them. It might be that, if it had been just you and O'Connell in that pyramid against Imhotep and Anck-su-namun, you would not have come out of there alive."

Of course… She had only come out of there alive because Alex had read from the Book of the Dead to resurrect her while Jonathan drew Anck-su-namun's attention from him. So the presence of her son and her brother, and, in a way, the presence of the two mummies – who carried the Book of the Dead – had triggered something that had altered the story and changed her fate.

"Alex and Jonathan…" she muttered, smiling a little. "They made the difference. I didn't see the two of them in any of my visions because they just weren't there, but they were two years ago…"

"And this is why you are here as well." Ardeth smiled in turn. "It takes very little to change fate."

Evelyn eased herself on the seat, thinking about many things at once. Then she looked again at Ardeth, and gave a genuine grin.

"And this is what the Elders told you? You must have a very good memory!"

Ardeth stared at her for a second, then his teeth bared in a similar grin. "The Elders are very good story-tellers. And I must admit I have a fondness for good story-telling."

Evelyn's smile broadened. Ardeth rose with an apology, then crossed over to the pilot. Izzy was talking animatedly to Alex, and from the words Evelyn could gather from where she sat, it was some sort of strange story about the Nile, a boat, and a herd of half-wild camels.

"I must meet my fellow Medjai at this precise spot," Ardeth was saying when Evelyn walked closer to the small group. "Do you think we can reach it by nightfall?"

Izzy frowned down at Ardeth's tattooed finger on the map. "Dunno… sounds pretty far out from where we are now. I guess if I could get that boiler hot enough, with our weight, it'd take us a coupla hours. Bit after nightfall."

If Ardeth was disappointed by this bit of news, he didn't let anything show on this face. He only nodded, and left Izzy with a short but polite, "Do your best. This meeting is important."

"I bet he's going to wait for that falcon now," said Alex, looking briefly at his mother before returning to Izzy for the end of the story.

Evelyn wondered exactly why this meeting was so important. She did have an inkling, but deep down, she hoped she was wrong.

The sun was setting on the desert where Hamilton's men had settled for the night. The most beautiful part was over, and now the huge sky hanging over everybody's head was turning a very deep blue that made Jonathan feel small looking at it. He always preferred the first part, the one where the sun sent a different kind of light into every direction, lighting up the shreds of clouds before the night engulfed them and turned everything dark.

His favourite moment of the day had always been dawn anyway.

Maybe it was the immensity of the sky, or night settling over the camp, or the slight wind turning cold, or perhaps it was the fact that everyone around him seemed busy doing all sorts of things you do in a camp – except the couple of agents who were just sitting a few feet away with their revolvers in their hands, watching him – but Jonathan was beginning to feel a touch melancholic, and possibly a little bit lonely. There was nothing he could do but sit there, watching the blokes in front of him watch him with the grim expression that seemed to be the only one they knew, and gaze around him at the others pitching tents and carrying sleeping bags all over the place. Rick had gone off in search for some food for his camel and all that Jonathan knew about his own camel was that it had been fed; it was now sleeping a few feet away, its big hump rising and falling with the rhythm of its breath. Useless bugger.

"I hear he's been givin' you trouble all day long, eh?"

Jonathan started slightly and glanced up to his left to see Tommy standing there, his hands in his pockets. The wind ruffled his blond mop, making his fringe fall into his eyes, and for a second, he looked like the round-faced boy whose main goals in life were getting three meals a day, having fun, and putting a smile on the face of every pretty girl he saw.

Jonathan felt very tired all of a sudden.

"Yeah," he muttered. "Just my luck. They've given me the only beast who just enjoys making people suffer. Or maybe it simply hates me, I don't know." He paused for a second, and added with a shrug, "And I don't give a damn, either."

Tom didn't say anything for a few seconds, and the silence between them was filled with the various noises of people bustling about around them. Jonathan looked at them for a while, not sure if he wanted to meet Tom's eyes.

The silence grew uncomfortable.

"Look, Jon…"

Jonathan looked up again to see Tom, definitely uneasy, trying to find his words. It didn't seem to work very well, as he gave a sort of wince and finished with something like defeat in his tone, "You're not gonna hit me again if I just sit there, are you?"

A bitter sort of chuckle was stuck in Jonathan's throat, but he gestured to his old friend to sit in a manner he hoped looked casual. After Tom had settled himself on the ground, Jonathan asked in a low voice, "Did it really hurt that much?"

"Still does," Tom replied with the shadow of a grin. Up close, his jaw did look a little green and yellow in patches. "I had no idea you could hit that hard."

"Neither did I."

"Been practising then?"

"Not really. I guess you just tend to bring that out in people."

"I beg to differ. Last time I checked, you were the best."

"The best at what, punching?"

Tom's teeth showed white in the growing dark. "Nah, gettin' punched."

That did it. Corny as hell, but it did it. Jonathan felt a fit of irresistible giggles break through whatever was stuck in his throat, and the next second, he burst into an uncontrollable fit of laughter, making Tom jump a foot in the air and stare at him with a very startled expression in his brown eyes.

"What? Am I that funny?" he asked, looking dumbfounded, as though wondering whether Jonathan had finally lost his last marbles.

Jonathan couldn't really blame him. "Don't worry, you're not," he gasped when he finally managed to take in a long, deep breath. Calming down, he proceeded to wipe the tears of laughter from his eyes while Tom cracked a small smile and waited.

"I'm still mad at you," he reminded Tom firmly when he trusted his voice to sound serious enough. "Don't you forget that."

Tom gave a shrug, and his eyes wandered to the tents in front of them. "Not likely."

For a brief moment, he looked just as tired and cold and lonely as Jonathan felt. Still not looking directly at his old friend, he muttered in a very low voice, barely moving his lips, "Jon… What if I said that these Medjai you told me about knew Hamilton's intentions and where he intends to go?"

This was so unexpected that for a moment, Jonathan couldn't say anything. His breath caught in his throat, and a million thoughts began to spin in his mind.

This was very good news. Very good news. He had tried to think of an escape plan all day long, and he was pretty sure that Rick had had the same line of thought. But what was the point of trying to escape in the middle of the desert with no directions and no help?

On the other hand, it wasn't that reassuring. While Jonathan knew perfectly well that Ardeth would never put Rick's and his lives at risk on purpose, he was also very much aware that the Medjai did everything they could to keep people like that Hamilton from dangerous places. And even if the pyramid and the oasis were both buried so deep in the sand of the desert that Jonathan could never be able to tell where all of this had happened, Ahm Shere was a dangerous place. And Hamilton was just as dangerous.

"When d'you think they'll come?" he breathed, peering at the horizon for the familiar black-clad figures.

"I dunno," replied Tom's equally low voice beside him. "Only thing I did was to go to the right guy and pass the word. I've never even seen one of them. What are they like?"

Jonathan couldn't help a snigger. "Don't you think you should have asked that before inviting them to the party?"

"Yeah, well, maybe I –" Tom stopped abruptly, and lowered his head, frowning. "Did you hear that?"

"Hear what?"

"Don't know, it sounded like… hooves or something."

It was Jonathan's turn to frown. Tom's sharp ears had saved them many troubles back in the day, but the sound of hooves in a camp filled with camels was not entirely out-of-place. Besides, he couldn't hear anything of the sort.

"Are you sure?"

"Of course I'm not sure, otherwise I wouldn't be asking you! Sounded like horses trampling the sand. Can't you hear it?"

To Jonathan, the air was still filled with the same talking, shouting, occasional camel roaring, neighing, and possibly the crackling of the fire a few feet away. And the snores of his own bloody-minded camel. But apart from that –

Wait. Something didn't sound quite right. Camels didn't neigh… horses did.

"Tom?"

"Yeah?"

Something very odd twisted Jonathan's stomach. He had found himself on the wrong side of a Medjai 'warning' or two before, and it had resulted in blood every time. His brain yelled at him to do something intelligent, like run or hide, but a tiny voice in the back of his mind told him that he didn't need to hide… but Tom did.

"Can you still run for your life as quickly as we used to?"

Tom turned to him, visibly peeved. "I'm only six months older than you, old man."

"Then run, you idiot!"

Just as Jonathan shouted, a black-clad figure riding a horse that looked unnaturally tall in the twilight burst in through the small space between the two tents in front of them. Tom stared round-eyed at the horse, its rider, and the long, pale scimitar he was wielding. He opened his mouth, closed it, and ran in the opposite direction while Jonathan just remained standing there for a short moment, shaken. Trusting the ever-resourceful Liverpudlian to take care of himself, he turned on his heels and hurried back to the camp, hoping he could find Rick or Ardeth in this noisy mess.

And a mess it was. Sand was flying everywhere under the hooves of both horses and camels in the red light of the few fires burning here and there, left unattended. The agents certainly had a lot on their hands, trying to dodge the Medjai's gunfire while looking for their own weapons. A lot of people were running everywhere among the tents, shouting orders or yelling for help – or simply screaming their heads off.

Jonathan stopped near the remains of a tent in tatters to take a look at the camp. Some Medjai were on foot now, stopping some Englishmen from grabbing their guns, knocking others with one solid punch on the head or in the stomach; the grim fierceness of the desert warriors seemed strengthened by the few black-clad unmoving bodies on the ground, mirroring some that wore dark Westerner suits.

A movement behind him made him turn around; in a flash, he saw an agent running directly towards him, his face twisted by either fury or terror. Jonathan didn't wait to find out. He left hastily his relative shelter and scurried away without even looking in front of him, yelling the first thing that crossed his mind: "Rick! Where are you?"

When he finally focused on something, it was the long barrel of a very black, very shiny, and very scary-looking pistol pointed right at the spot between his eyes. Right behind it were the equally black, shining, scary-looking eyes of the agent Hamilton had called Baine, who was grinning broadly as he cocked the gun and muttered, "Gotcha!"

Jonathan skidded to a halt but, carried away by his own momentum, bumped hard into the dark suit behind the gun and knocked the both of them to the ground. Baine didn't get back up immediately, so Jonathan reached and picked up his gun. Still a little bit dazed, he shook his head, spit out a mouthful of sand and, looking up, saw that the man still running behind him was very close… too close. His pursuer backpedalled to avoid them but failed and fell flat on Jonathan's back. The shock drove Jonathan's breath from his lungs; his head hit the ground again and he swallowed another mouthful of sand. It seemed he even had some in his ears, because suddenly the incoming sounds seemed muffled.

"Bugger," he muttered, spitting sand and brushing dirt out of his eyes. "Do I hate Mondays."

Somehow he managed to totter back to his feet, his hand still grasping Baine's gun; chaos still raged around him, and there was nobody in sight he recognised. A sort of growl made him look down to the two agents sprawled in the dust: Baine was slowly raising his head, his mouth and his eyes half-open. Jonathan quickly sent him back to sleep with an enthusiastic punch in the face.

"You – you stay here," he stammered as if Baine could hear him, shaking slightly and his legs wobbling from both fright and excitement from this small victory. Taking a deep breath, he continued his search for Rick or Ardeth.

He found both. Problem was, they weren't alone.

Inside a small circle of tents in the middle of which a fire was glowing very red, Rick was kneeling, fury burning in his face, his jaws clenched, a trickle of blood running down a side of his head, with a gun resting on the back of his neck. Jonathan fell back against a tent, aghast; his eyes went up the gun to the arm holding it firmly to the shoulder to the grim but triumphant-looking pale face of Hamilton. A few feet away, Ardeth stood straight, very tall, and very still, scimitar in hand, while the fire made shadows dance everywhere.

Chaos still raged, but time seemed to have stopped for the four of them. Jonathan held his breath, huddled in his flimsy shelter and jostled from time to time by people who didn't notice him. As far as he could tell, he was one of only a handful of witnesses.

"Now, since we understand each other," Hamilton was saying, his low voice sending shudders up Jonathan's spine, "you will back up and do exactly as I say. If, by chance, you care in the slightest about this man or the other, you will swear you won't approach us again, or I will shoot him without an ounce of remorse. They are valuable, but not so much that I cannot dispense with them if I wish. I'll leave the decision to you."

Ardeth had his back on Jonathan, who couldn't see his face and did not know what to make of what he did see. His heart thumping so loudly in his chest he was surprised nobody else seemed to hear it, he kept staring at the scene among the tents, where sound seemed to have been turned off as you do a wireless. As his eyes settled on Rick, the American caught his gaze, and in a flash, took in the gun he was still holding.

"Shoot him, now!" he mouthed, his round blue eyes flashing for a second to Hamilton standing next to him. "Come on, shoot!"

Jonathan felt his mouth dry abruptly. Suddenly very aware of his cold, clammy hands, and, rather absurdly, of the hungry rumbling of his stomach – he hadn't eaten since lunch – he stood there, petrified.

He could do it, he knew he could. He had both the marksmanship and the experience. In fact he had taken more hazardous shots before, if only in that bloody jungle a couple of years ago, standing on that ledge with Evy to cover Rick's, Alex's, and Ardeth's backs. Afterwards, of course, the only thing that prevented him from saying goodbye to everything he'd eaten in the last three days had been the pressing need to run like hell, but he hadn't done too badly at the moment. You didn't become Fox and Hounds' Grand Champion three times in a row without a keen eye and a steady hand, and Jonathan knew he could occasionally count on having both. Shooting at clay pigeons had frankly been a relief after almost two years spent shooting at people.

Right now, though, he couldn't tear his eyes off the gun snug against Rick's neck. Hamilton, imprudent fool he was, had his finger on the trigger. It would only take a sudden movement, a trifle, nothing at all for him to press it and send a bullet into Rick's throat.

If Jonathan missed, even by a speck…

If he didn't, but Hamilton's finger gave the slightest twitch…

The mental picture went through his brain like a flash. It left him drenched in sweat, his heart pounding in his throat, feeling as though he had completely lost feeling in his forearms.

All he could do was stare back at Rick's blinking eyes, round as saucers.

Rick was not somebody something like this could frighten, not when it happened to him instead of people he cared about. His fear had two settings: supreme calm and righteous anger.

"What the hell are you waiting for!?" he mouthed, probably none too happy with the sensation of the gun against his neck.

Swallowing hard, Jonathan shook his head ever so slightly, and Rick opened his mouth in utter disbelief. At the same moment, Ardeth re-sheathed his scimitar and took one step back. The scraping sound of the slender piece of steel resounded around the camp, echoing a few sighs of relief on the part of the small number of agents who had gathered around the scene. One didn't let out a sound, though. Unbeknownst to Jonathan, Tom had spotted him, and was currently staring at him with wide brown eyes.

Ardeth and Rick shared a brief but intense look. Ardeth backed away without breaking eye contact with Hamilton, who didn't move his gun, but who now wore a smug expression on his face, illuminated by the glowing fire. The Medjai Commander mounted his horse, called his men to him in Arabic, and set off with a last strange look at the chief agent.

After the dust had settled in the devastated camp, Hamilton stepped back from Rick and put his gun back in his belt, within easy reach. Rick stumbled up. An agent made the mistake of walking by a little too close to him; the American grabbed him by the collar and decked him in one fantastic blow that sent the guy flying a few feet away. He then strode across the camp to where Jonathan was and didn't even look at him when he stormed by, his face set. Jonathan did not look at Rick either, still staring at the spot he and Hamilton had been seconds ago.

Jon didn't move at all for the next fifteen minutes, after which Tom finally gathered enough nerve to come closer and open his mouth to say something, even the first thing that would come to his mind, to break the tension.

"Don't – say – anything."

There was something metallic in Jon's voice that made Tom back up in spite of himself. Not knowing what to do, he made to put a hand on his old friend's shoulder, but thought better of it and walked away.

Before turning round a corner, he risked a last glance at the pale figure, unmoving and stiff as a board, who still had his back on him.

Jon didn't look back.

Notes:

[2019] The scene between Hamilton, Ardeth, Rick, and Jonathan was probably second only to the exposition in chapter 9 in the list of things that I'd been wanting to rework for years. Hopefully it's clearer and flows better now.

When I wrote "the Cairo garrison" of the French Foreign Legion – The FFL did not actually have a garrison in Cairo, because Egypt was not a French territory or colony. I'm taking liberties again.