*
"I trust you feel better now, sayadi?" Rhiannon Ward asked solicitously, examining a rapier from the rack on the panelled wall of the large ballroom. Experimentally, she swished the weapon with the ease of practise, found it lacking and selected another. "A hearty breakfast does wonders for the constitution."
"I am quite well, lady," Bey returned gravely, gaze tracking around the room, taking in the floor-to-ceiling leadlit windows, sprung, beeswax polished wooden floor and square pillars.
Another exceptionally beautiful Tiraz hanging dominated the wall to his back, and he could not resist stepping up for a closer look. His silver-trimmed tunic had been returned to him not long after breakfast, freshly laundered and mysteriously lacking any signs of damage. To his surprise, he had discovered he did indeed feel rested and fully restored. At some point during the morning, Ward had changed from her flowing Bedouin thobe into rusty brown tailored trousers and a fitted, cap-sleeved cream blouse, hair fashionably pinned up at her neck. Ardeth found the change remarkable, only the occasional flash of her tattooed wrist and propensity to rattle off instructions in Coptic indicating she was anything other than a well to-do professional woman.
Do I believe her? he asked himself, turning from the Tiraz hanging to watch her test the balance of a rapier. Lower lip held between her teeth, she squinted down the blade and gave a minimal nod of satisfaction when it proved to her liking. Do I commit myself and my people to helping her? Isis was the most beloved goddess, worshipped long after other gods fell from favour… but is this woman really Her?
Glancing around the ballroom for signs of the twin feline djinn, whose watchful silence was distinctly unnerving, he found they were almost alone. Something warm and furry brushed against his left ankle. Ghost purred loudly and placed a small velvet paw on the toe of his boot.
"Do you fence, by any chance?"
Ardeth looked up to find the avatar standing less than five foot away, tapping the rapier against her calf with an air of nonchalance. Lifting the slender weapon, she took hold of the tip and flexed it, then slashed the air left to right with an audible snapping.
"I'm not familiar with that weapon, no," he answered.
"Pity," Rhiannon sniffed, reverting to English. "It's been months since I've had a decent sparring match… I tend to scare all the chaps off. I'm afraid they don't like getting beaten. Male ego, etcetera."
Balancing the rapier tip first on her index finger, she flipped it and it transformed into a dazzling damask steel scimitar with a carved ivory hilt. Catching the hilt with ease, she brought the blade close to her face, reflection magnified and distorted, eyes gold in the blue white steel, and looked to the Med-Jai.
"No hocus-pocus," she promised. "Just natural ability… that is of course if you know how to use that clunky great sword?"
Bey's jaw tightened, fingers twitching towards his sword hilt as his Bedouin pride rose in response to the implied lack of skill. Jonathan Carnahan had once ill advisedly asked the same question and found the blade at his throat milliseconds after the last syllable left his lips. As Mawlana of the Med-Jai, his skill with a blade had saved lives on many occasions, not least of all his own. Dampening the flare of temper, realising he was being tested, Ardeth inclined his head and gave a minimal, elegant shrug.
"I have some small skill," he declared, drawing his scimitar from his sash. "And I believe it is time you lost a match, lady."
"Excellent," she exclaimed, with relish. Touching her brow to the flat of the blade, a respectful gesture to a worthy opponent, she twirled the weapon with a flick of her wrist. "En garde!"
As Ardeth had expected, Ward did not wait for him to make the first aggressive move, she drove straight in. Clashing between them at waist height, the sharp blades skittered and parted as they moved back, circling. Scimitar held out defensively, protecting the vulnerable chest and abdomen, Bey leapt forward. Dancing frenetically back and forth, the blades shrieked, thrust, parry and counterstrike. Dropping down to a squat, razor metal whistling scant inches above her head, Rhiannon rolled over and onto her feet as the blade clanged against the wooden floor.
"Why, that's not very sporting!" she cried, feigning shock as she struck back, forcing Bey's blade close to his shoulder.
"Am I not losing easily enough?" he retorted, shifting the angle of his blade to thrust her away.
"On the contrary," she laughed, staggering as the momentum nearly knocked her over. "I haven't had so much fun in ages. This goddess stuff is all well and good, but a girl doesn't get much chance to let her hair down."
Feinting towards his left flank, she suddenly slashed for his right thigh, a move that if performed in earnest would incapacitate an enemy. Blocking the blow, Ardeth retaliated by striking hard at the middle of her blade. She grimaced as the force travelled through the hilt and up her arm, loosening her grip. A sheen of perspiration gleamed on her pale brow, stray strands of inky hair escaping from the neatly-pinned style to fall over her eyes. As she blew them away, Ardeth realised that she had kept her word. She was strong and undeniably skilful, but not unnaturally so. Her physical strength came from toned, regularly exercised muscles, not sorcery. The calluses on her hands were from hours of practise with a rapier. Even without her deity powers, she was a formidable swordswoman.
"You know, you really ought to smile more," she commented, almost thoughtfully, blade arcing up to block the next attack. "One day you'll frown, the wind will change, and poof! You'll be stuck like that."
Upper body listing from the hips to avoid downswipes, snapping left to right, she ploughed forward, the cacophony of ringing metal intensifying.
"Besides," she added conversationally, between deafening clashes. "The brooding mystery man image does get a tad boring, though I suppose you're used to it doing the trick with the ladies. And please don't get all haughty – priests, warriors and accountants, they've all been saying they're too busy since Allah decided he'd claim the credit for the cosmos. And they're all fibbing… they're men, after all. By your air of exasperation, my dear Mr Bey, I'd bet you've got a mother or an aunt telling you to marry and produce heirs. Male heirs, naturally."
She gave an irritated little snort, nose wrinkling disdainfully as she tried and failed to whip out Ardeth's legs. Jumping aside, knees bent to absorb the impact, Bey wondered if she was attempting to provoke him or just analysing his character. Logical reasoning did not always apply to the fusion of woman and goddess, the amalgamation of twentieth century western ideals and millennia of female empowerment.
"The concept irks you, lady?" he asked, deciding that deciphering her motives was probably beyond him at the present time.
"Patriarchy irks me," she responded crisply.
Sharp edges juddering against each other, the blades unexpectedly locked at the hilts, each combatant automatically bringing their weight to bear. Planting her feet firmly, Rhiannon's knuckles whitened as she resisted Ardeth's larger mass.
"And you would rather the world be run by women?" he questioned with faint incredulity, waiting for her to tire and break the deadlock.
Ward's lips twitched upwards at the corners and she lifted her free shoulder in a small shrug, legs and back braced, gaze set with concentration.
"I can think of worse things."
Unexpectedly, Bey's dark eyes sparkled with humour and he smiled, teeth healthy white against his dusky skin. The change of expression, from guarded and serious, to wryly amused, seemed to strip years from him. In that instant he shucked the responsibility and duty he wore like a second, invisible djellaba. Suddenly, he threw his weight forward at an angle, jarring Rhiannon off balance. With a dismayed gasp, she toppled backwards and fell flat on her back, arms flung out above her head. Her weapon bounced noisily, hilt first, on the sprung wooden floor and away out of reach. Flipping his scimitar, Ardeth dropped to one knee and brought the point to rest at the hollow of her throat, dimpling the skin.
"Do you yield?" he asked, unable to resist applying a little more pressure to the blade.
Propping herself up on her elbows, features animated with exertion, green eyes dancing merrily, she chuckled softly.
"Never," she announced pleasantly. "Though I have lost the match… and if you move too quickly at this precise moment, I fear you may lose your head. Layla, don't bite the guests – it's rude."
A hot puff of breath on his neck caused Bey to look around, a huge golden paw appearing in his peripheral vision. The djinn was directly behind him, cleaning her great canines with a long, sloppy pink tongue. Whiskers lifting as she growled, tail describing slow figures of eight in the air, her steel claws popped with an audible click.
"I don't recall that being allowed in a fencing match," Ardeth commented levelly, aware the creature was itching to tear him open like a ripe melon.
"Quite," Ward agreed, not in the least put out. "Though I think you'll find moving your sword from my throat will make her more amenable."
Gaze tracking over his shoulder to the djinn, she spoke quietly to her in Coptic, the tone placating and somewhat affectionate. Carefully, making a show of holding up his free hand and turning the point away, Bey placed his scimitar on the floor beside him. Layla contented herself with cuffing him about the head lightly and padded moodily away, disappearing at the door. Rising to his feet, he obligingly reached down and pulled Rhiannon upright. Warm and slightly moist from the match, her grip was firm and felt reassuringly earthly except for an indistinct sensation of neutral difference. Wondering if the tenuous feeling was due to his prior knowledge of her powers, or something that occurred anyway when she touched another human being, Ardeth inclined his head.
"Do I pass your test, lady?" he asked, bending to retrieve his scimitar.
"What makes you think you were being tested?" she said with a raised eyebrow and a half smile. "I simply fancied a fencing match."
Pointing at her fallen weapon, she sent it zipping through the air to the wooden sword rack on the wall. As it reached its destination, it blurred and reverted back to a willow-thin rapier.
"I have a feeling things are never so simple where you are concerned," Bey observed dryly.
"I shall take that as a compliment," she returned with mock gravity.
Despite his better judgement, Ardeth found he was warming to Rhiannon Ward, becoming accustomed to her intellectual dexterity and banter. He could easily see how she had earned the epithet 'frighteningly intelligent'. He had no way of knowing how much of her demeanour was a front designed to put him at ease, but perceived no falseness, no malign intent.
"Some tea, I think," she announced. "Then down to business. All pleasant diversions aside, sayadi, we have a lot to discuss. It's only a matter of time before Runihura discovers I know of his survival, then things are going to get a little hairy. And I'd much rather that didn't happen in a densely populated city like London. He has scant regard for life."
Nodding agreement, recalling the devastation wrought in Cairo by Imhotep on his first awakening, Bey went to follow Ward as she strode towards the ballroom exit. Unlike other British and American women he had met, she did not expect doors to be held open for her. Without warning, she spun about, the polished wood beneath her boot heels squeaking.
"How dare He!" she hissed, and her hands came up, blazing wheels of scorching white light exploding from the palms.
The bay window shattered as something leapt through it, shards of razor glass glinting as they sowed the floor with sharpness. Unfurling constrictive muscle, serpentine coils and scraping reflective scales rustle-scraping, the air filled with an enraged hissing.
*