*
Gratefully, with a nod of thanks, Ardeth Bey accepted a glass of hot tea from a wizened elderly woman. The hot, strong brew was red brown in colour, taken without milk and as much sugar as the drinker desired. Looping a finger through the metal handle, he settled back on a low cushioned stool before the fire and listened to the sounds of the encampment around him. After the incessant noise of Cairo, it was a welcome relief to listen to the night wind, the occasional murmur of conversation or laughter from nearby tents and the soothing crackle of the fire.
Arranged in loose circles, each containing a small fire at the centre, the Med-Jai camp sprawled across a plateau a short distance from an all-important oasis. The tents were of simple but sturdy design, the canvas made from woven camel hair and vegetable fibres, dyed black to reflect the heat. Descended from the holy warriors who guarded the pharaoh, who was himself the living embodiment of Horus, the Med-Jai had retained their Egyptian bloodline. Finer featured than other Bedouin tribes, they possessed the aquiline profiles, high cheekbones and dusky skin of their ancestors. Their true numbers remained a mystery to outsiders and often the most anyone saw of them was groups as small as two or three. Not many knew there were twelve Med-Jai tribes.
Bey smiled slightly as the irritable deep bray of a camel came from the darkness, accompanied by a vehement curse in an unbroken boy's voice. An indignant yelp followed seconds later as the boy's father cuffed him about the head for swearing in front of his sisters.
"You look weary, sayadi," the old woman creaked, stooping to peer at him with rheumy eyes. "An early night would benefit you. Your mother, Allah rest her, would have something to say could she see you. You are no use if you are so tired you can barely sit on your horse."
Ardeth drained his glass and reflected that grown men were reluctant to address him so frankly. He frowned and lifted his chin to regard her sternly. Unperturbed, she looked back at him, leaning on her elaborately carved stick. Laughing inwardly, he dipped his head in mock defeat.
"And you would be right, Aunt," he said gravely, using a respectful term of address for his late mother's dearest friend.
"Well," the old lady grumbled, throwing the dregs from the teapot onto the fire. "Nobody else sees fit to tell you."
"Everyone else pays heed to my authority, Aziza," Ardeth reminded gently, rising to his feet to place an affectionate kiss on her wrinkled brow.
She waved a gnarled hand dismissively and clicked her tongue against her teeth, but softened enough to pat his bearded cheek.
"I remember you as a squalling baby," she countered. "Ay! And here you are, grown into a fine man, still bribing me with kisses like you did as a child! You should have a wife for your kisses, sayadi, then perhaps you would not sit late around the fire, brooding."
"Aziza," Ardeth began warningly.
"I only say what your mother would think," she stated, uncowed. "A man needs family, heirs, a son to take his place when he is old. See, your brother has two fine sons."
"And he is an excellent father," Bey agreed. "And I a dutiful uncle – my family will not be without heirs. But with respect, my brother does not lead the Med-Jai… Goodnight, Aunt."
Shaking her head as she watched him stalk away towards his tent, Aziza pressed a hand to the small of her back, wincing as her arthritic bones protested. The cold seemed to seep in and stay of late. He would forget his anger with the rising sun over the curve of the dunes. Straightening, she glanced up into the starry dome of peacock blue sky as she had done every night for as long as she could recall. Blinking as she spotted a small, unusually isolated dust storm on the crest of a nearby dune, she muttered to herself and hobbled away to the warmth of her bed. The twister moved with purpose, against the prevailing direction of the wind, and abruptly vanished.
*
Shedding his djellaba, Ardeth sat on his low, comfortably padded pallet and pulled off his boots, emptying out the tiny quantity of sand that managed to find its way in during the day. Though able to sleep just about anywhere in the most adverse conditions, a knack acquired by all Med-Jai at an early age, his own bed was a welcome luxury. Stripping down to his pants, he methodically washed in cool water from a stopped pitcher before changing into a loose tan coloured robe. Placing his Browning beneath the gold-tasselled cushion pillow and his scimitar within easy reach, he knelt on the prayer mat at the far end of the tent, facing Mecca.
"What makes you so sure He's listening?" a female voice asked close by his ear, so close he could feel the warm tickle of breath.
Taken completely unawares, Bey jumped, diving to one side to grab his scimitar. Rolling once, he was up and armed in a moment, elbow coming back to wind his uninvited visitor. Swung off balance when the defensive move met empty air, he staggered. Instantly regaining his equilibrium, blade poised before him, he looked around. She was not immediately before him, as her voice had suggested, but stood by the tent flap. Green eyes jewel bright and amused above a gauzy, silver-threaded royal purple hijab, a gold and ebony Isis knot at her throat, she had no need to introduce herself. Regarding him with mock severity, she wagged a finger reproachfully.
"Is that any way to greet a guest, sayadi?" she asked, again speaking faultless Arabic. "Or do you prefer 'Mawlana', as is traditional?"
"I prefer visitors to announce themselves, lady," Ardeth replied carefully, pointedly not lowering his scimitar.
She chuckled softly, as she had done in the Cairo alleyway, voice a rich contralto that had more ethereal resonance than was entirely natural. As he looked at her, Bey was obliged to blink several times as her image shifted, alternating between supernatural clarity of hue and an almost imperceptible watercolour hazing. The functional, austere Bedouin black was replaced by aubergine silk palazzo pants, bound mid way down her calf to accentuate slender ankles. Her feet were bare, dusted with the merest sheen of sand. Fringed with tiny gold disks that jingled quietly as she breathed, her bodice left her pale midriff bare save for a cabochon emerald at her navel. Over this, she wore a sheer, filmy robe that matched her veil, shimmering with fine spider-silk silver. Too real, and yet seeming narcotically illusory, her presence filled the tent with an almost tangible power.
"Indeed, forgive my rudeness, but I am not fond of being shot at." She quirked an eyebrow towards his scimitar. "Or slashed to pieces… Put down your weapon, Med-Jai – it would not save you if I decided to kill you. And I would rather not have to bend or shatter the thing, the workmanship is exquisite."
The scimitar blade did not move. Ignoring the developing ache in his arm caused by holding the heavy weapon at arm's length for so long, Ardeth covered his surprise. She had made no lengthy preamble, invoking dead gods or ancient prophecies, nor had she threatened a slow, agonising death for interfering in her plans. As she spoke, he had detected the slight accent to her Arabic that pointed to English as her first language.
"Who are you?" he demanded evenly, lowering the scimitar to his side, but keeping it ready. "And why do you seek relics from the City of the Dead?"
Her head tipped and she regarded him for long moments, a thoughtful moue dimpling her lips behind her veil. She spread her hands expressively and gave an elegant shrug, sending blue ripples travelling through her unbound jet hair.
"I am of and from the goddess," she stated. "I am she, and she is my power. The 'relics' have always belonged to Isis."
Ardeth frowned at the cryptic response, dark eyes skipping to the tent flap as he estimated how long it would take the camp guards to arrive if he bellowed for assistance. He was beginning to feel somewhat intoxicated, as if he had smoked the strong, deadly sweet opium sold for use in water pipes. A strangely pleasurable tingling had begun in his extremities and was steadily moving through his limbs.
"They would not make it in time, sayadi," she murmured, with a sudden sun-flash of her eyes. "You seem oddly convinced I'm here to kill you… amusing as it is that you think yourself worth the bother. I come to ask you to stop interfering. My business doesn't concern the Med-Jai – everything I search for is mine by divine right. I don't plan to wake Imhotep, nor summon any other cursed creature. Leave me and mine be."
She took several steps forward, bare feet soundless on the thick, ornately patterned rug that served as a groundsheet in Bedouin tents. Kissing with faint metallic chimes, the minute gold disks on her clothing winked in the lamp light, creating a shivering border of shadow against her creamy skin.
"We won't become enemies by my hand, in fact, I would rather part as friends."
Ardeth felt his throat tighten, resisting the burgeoning, rapidly increasing need to touch her and run his fingers through her midnight hair. He could almost feel her in his arms. Telling himself he was the victim of an enchantment, he took a step back, mindful of his Browning beneath his pillow. An incalculable, primeval female force radiated from her and when she gave a brief, enigmatic smile, his self-control wavered.
"You will not bewitch me," he warned, though to his own ears it sounded painfully like a feeble protest.
She laughed, but her eyes darkened to the glassy green of turbulent Nile waters. For the first time, genuine anger showed in her expression, making the air thrum like the inclement sky before a desert storm. As she stepped closer, Bey caught a subtle whiff of perfumed skin, of blended floral oils not used for millennia.
"If I wanted you, arrogant man," she breathed, chin lifting so their eyes met. "You would be at my feet begging to be allowed to kiss the ground I walk on."
For an instant that stretched out like a lyre string held in tension, liable to snap without warning, she imprisoned his gaze. He was unable to look away. Raised by a strict patriarchy, he had not encountered her like. Hair and robes stirring in an unfelt wind, opal pale features sculpted by lamp shadow, she took a step back and deigned to release him.
"Leave me and mine be, Med-Jai – this is your only warning."
Shattering into motes of burning emerald light, she dematerialised, leaving a lingering note of spicy fragrance. Ardeth sat heavily on the side of his pallet bed, realising he had been holding his breath. Letting it out in a long, noisy exhalation, he refilled his lungs and contemplated ordering his people to break camp. He decided against it, reasoning she could find them again with little difficulty. In his lifetime, nobody had ever found a Med-Jai encampment without assistance.
I think I preferred dealing with the Creature, he decided ruefully. At least I knew I was supposed to fight, and how. With her, the white lady, I am not so sure…
*
