River of the Dead

Author's Note: Sethos was voted out of AP Survivor last week. I'm miserable.

Telpelote: You haven't read the Golden One yet (actually you're reading now while I update, but never mind) so I forgive you for that comment.

Dream Descends: I often wish (guiltily) that Amelia had been with Sethos – but that's blasphemy, because I can never bear to see Amelia and Emerson apart. Blasphemy. I think I'm the only one who really didn't like the scene in Lion. Thank you of course, dear.

Reicheru: Don't you dare go fangirlish on me, darlin'. Nefret's a lovely one, non? Ha. I knew you'd fall for Sethos's trap. I didn't really like Margaret at first, of course – but you'll get used to her. She kinda grows on you.

Angel: Fifteen roses means you're sorry – and I'm sorry I haven't replied to your letter for so long. I'm getting lazy with correspondence.

Manveri Mirkiel: Did you really guess? Reicheru didn't. Ah well. Of course you knew Sethos was the MC. How many times have I sung it in your ear? Margaret explains herself in this chapter. She's an intrepid journalist – that's all you need to know.

Sapphire Dragon: Thank you oh-so-much! I'd like to be able to order books like you, but I have limited credit. Maybe if I force Rukuelle to let me tutor her in Science for ten dollars an hour…

Durga Maat 666: I haven't read Serpent, which is a matter of great chagrin to me. The bloody bookstore won't sell it. They won't sell Guardian either. You've read it, haven't you? Oh, I'm so jealous. Thanks for the website – though I haven't gone to it yet. My computer has a funny sound system that needs fixing.

Some short explanation: It has always irked me that MPM never fully explored the development of Sethos's relationship with Margaret Minton. I thought it was an interesting relationship. If they went from daoing the other to dating each other in two books' time, something must have happened in between. I intend to document that something for myself.

I own naught. MPM and Gods own. Abbreviation. Fullstop.

3. An Unexpected Interruption

Manuscript Collection M

Three months ago, I would have died to be here.

Three months from then – now, I was bored.

I had once laboured under the impression that France was a war zone. Once in France, I had realised that only specific regions were war zones. Paris was not one of these. Paris was where I was stationed.

What's the point of being a war correspondent if the only thing you can do is interview shellshocked civilians?

I did not want to interview shellshocked civilians. I wanted to be on the frontlines, interviewing soldiers fresh from the trenches. I might even get to have a close brush with death-by-a-grenade. I'm sure my readers would love that.

The reason why I couldn't do that, which I had found out indirectly from my superiors at the war department, was because I was a woman.

"But it's not like I'm going to do any fighting," I argued.

The person in charge there, whose eminently forgettable name I have forgotten, hummed and hawed. "Miss Minton, you must understand that the frontlines are dangerous."

"I don't care!" I exclaimed. "I'm perfectly fine with danger. It makes for good reviews."

"Miss Minton…you must understand that we, well, erm, cannot allow, erm, well, a…"

"Oh," I said. "I see. It's because I'm a woman, isn't it? War correspondents have to be male. Well, I'm sorry I didn't see that, and that I've been taking up so much of your time unconsciously imposing my feminist views upon your person. Good day to you, Mr…well, good day."

I went back to my apartment in a fine temper. I had to use up the last of my tea ration to calm myself down. I owed my editor across the channel an article, which I had vowed to finish by today. Even though it wasn't a very sensational article – just an 'insight on rationing schedules'. I sat, sipping my tea and typing away, while my mind kept attempting to escape the confines of rationing by brainstorming irrational ideas on how I could smuggle myself onto the frontlines. I could obtain a uniform without much difficulty (I have my sources) and try to see how far I could go in disguise as a soldier. Not very far, I'd warrant. Or maybe I could disguise myself as a Red Cross volunteer.

I dragged my mind back to my article. My last method of getting out there was to prove myself a tireless, competent and consistent reporter – which meant finishing this article by this evening so that I could send it over next morning.

It was too late. Thinking about disguise had led me to start thinking about him.

I hoped that the Emersons weren't still under the impression that we had run away together. Technically we had, but that was because I had no idea how to get to the train station by myself in the dark.

It had been very thoughtful of him to include me in the invitation, though.

I recalled the night after the Christmas dinner. I was lying in bed, trying to think of how I could leave the Castle without seeming rude to Mrs. Vandergelt, or to Amelia, when I heard the rattle of gravel on my window.

I jumped up. Journalists are always on the lookout for this sort of thing – it generally leads to a good story.

He was standing outside innocuously, in one of the less conspicuous disguises, bundle in hand. "Sorry for disturbing your rest, Margaret, but I happen to be running away. Care to join me?"

It was rather sudden. I pride myself on being practical at that point in time. "Where are you going?"

"The train station. Where are you going?"

He had already assumed I was running away too. I might as well, I decided with a sigh. It would solve a lot of small problems.

I threw my things into a couple of bags and went back to the window. He was still there, half-shadowed in the darkness. "Throw your things down," he called, "and then jump yourself."

"I suppose you'll be catching me," I responded doubtfully as I tossed a bag down.

He grinned and caught it deftly, putting it down to receive the next one. "No guarantees."

"No guarantees," I laughed, and let go of the windowsill.

To my surprise, when we came around the corner, the Professor was waiting there for us. He had two of the Arabs saddled and ready.

"You know where to leave them," he said.

His brother nodded. He had already strapped the bundle to the saddle and mounted the horse in one fluid leap. He was almost as good as Ramses, I noted. I had to use the mounting block.

My companion directed the horse towards the open gate. He turned back to face Emerson. "Thank you for this, brother," he said quietly. "I left Nefret a little present. À bientot."

"I should hope not," muttered Emerson, and locked the gate behind us.

I followed his horse to the railroad track, where we left both animals and walked to the train station. Once we were in the midnight crowd, he turned to me and said, "You have enough money for a ticket to Cairo, I hope."

"How do you know I'm going to Cairo?"

He gave me another of those supercilious grins of his, the ones that make me want to slap him. "It's my business to know things. The Master hears all and sees all, remember. Well, goodbye, Margaret. I don't think I'll see you again. For your sake, I hope not."

He was gone before I could ask him what that meant, diffusing into the ever-present station crowd. I didn't follow. I knew that it would be in vain to try catching him, ever.

I fell back into reality with a start. The tea had gone cold to the dregs. I cursed my daydreaming propensity and went back to work with a vengeance.

I had been working for ten minutes when the next distraction came, in the form of the doorbell ringing, and promptly derailed my train of thought.

I swore. It wasn't very ladylike, but I was at the end of my tether. The concierge was simply obsessed with room service. I had tried telling her countless times that I can take care of my own apartment, to no avail. I slid the sheet back into the typewriter with such vigor that it ripped, stamped my foot and marched out in a blazing rage. I flung open the door, all ready to give that concierge a piece of my mind.

"I said, I don't want room service! I want to finish this manuscript by today, and I can't do it if you keep coming up and insisting on cleaning……"

I froze. My mind went blank. It was him.

Sethos was leaning in the doorway – posing in the doorway, damn him – with his trademark supercilious smile spreading across his face. Seeing him, of all people, here, right on my very doorstep, was electrifying. Or perhaps the word would be electrocuting.

I don't remember what I spouted then. I assume it was fairly daft.

Sethos's smile did not twitch one jot. "Hello, Margaret. Don't mind if we come in?"

My hand instantly itched to slap him for his audacity. I fought it back fiercely. Slapping people is a bad habit, as Amelia had once told me.

Sethos took advantage of my internal skirmish to flow fluidly past my arm and into my flat. I have never seen anyone break and enter like that man – which is saying a lot, because breaking and entering is a journalist's business. Aggravation is necessary if you want an interview.

As a matter of fact, it was under those circumstances that I had encountered him. I had marched into an Arab chieftain's palace demanding an interview; he had climbed in through the window to – well, I still wasn't entirely clear why he had gone there in the first place. Whatever his reason, he had jeopardised his own mission to save me from my immoral interviewee. That was the good thing. The bad thing was that after that, I had fallen in love with him.

Fortunately that problem was solved on our second meeting. As Amelia would say, there is nothing like close proximity to destroy any romance. I instantly fell out of love with him. Severe disillusionment. And now our relationship was, at the very best, exceedingly tenuous.

I see I have gotten out of point again. It seems to be an increasingly bad habit. Back to my narrative.

Sethos wandered in and sat down in the nearest armchair as if he owned the place. I opened my mouth to say something biting, when I saw Ramses and Nefret as well. I distinctly remembered that they had been in Egypt the last time I saw them – and, unlike certain persons, had stayed there.

"Oh, dear," I said despondently.

"It was his decision to come here," pointed out Ramses unhelpfully.

Just like men, always pushing the blame. "You may as well come in," I sighed, standing back to let them pass. I turned to follow them, and got the second shock of the day.

There was another individual seated in my sitting room – and I was fairly sure I wasn't acquainted with this one. She was dressed in a leopard-skin and had the dark skin of a Middle-Eastern. I was also fairly sure I hadn't seen her come in.

Seeing my open-mouthed gaze, she rose and clapped her hands to her heart in a strange gesture. "I am Seshat of the Nedjer, Patron Goddess of Writing. I greet you." She inclined her head, and then looked up again. "You are the Woman who Seeks Secrets, are you not?"

"I suppose," I said dazedly. "If you want tea, then that's too bad, because I've just finished my last tea ration. What do you want here?"

"We are In Need," replied Sethos, emphasising the last two words, "of a place where we can talk safely and freely. Your place was the only one I could think of at that moment. Like the roses?"

I looked down. Somehow in the last minute or so, a bunch of roses had appeared in my hands. They stared wiltingly up at me.

"If we're interrupting whatever you were doing," went on Sethos dismissively, "you can go on with it, we won't bother you. We just want to use the sitting room."

"You know I can't get on with it now," I snapped, and marched off into my tiny kitchen to put the roses in the sink.

When I came back, Seshat the so-called goddess was talking. "……and the priest trapped us in the Void."

"The who?" asked Nefret.

"Imhotep, the priest," explained Seshat patiently. "As I was saying, he trapped us in the Void. He did it with utmost cunning, so that somehow the only time we could reach outside the Void was the time before he was first resurrected."

"And why did he go to so much trouble to do that?" drawled Ramses. I could see he wasn't utterly convinced.

"Because of Rick O'Connell," said Seshat. "He knew that if he didn't escape into the past before he was resurrected, we would call on Rick O'Connell to destroy him again. Since we cannot call on him now, we called on you instead."

"So we're a secondary choice."

Seshat gave Ramses an indignant glance. "I should not put it that way," she exclaimed. "We need you, we truly do! Brother of Demons, you were the first name Horus called. Please help us!"

"What's this about?" I asked, seating myself between Sethos and Nefret.

"Some divine call, I believe," said Ramses. "Seshat here is asking us to go to the Underworld and save the gods of Egypt. You know, technically I'm a Catholic."

Seshat turned to Sethos imploringly. "You will come at least, will you not? Set told me you would."

"He's right," admitted Sethos grudgingly. "I have no choice on that."

"Why?" inquired Nefret. "You haven't explained to us yet about that business with the cartouche."

"Long story. I'd really rather not elaborate."

Nefret gave him a piercing look. From what I'd seen last year, Sethos's niece was probably one of the only women in the world who could force him into a confession. Her interrogation techniques included torture with hypodermic needles.

Sethos sighed theatrically. "Oh, very well. As dear little Nefret wishes. Set and I have an agreement."

Ramses's eyebrows tilted at crazy angles. "You've met Set before? Set the god?"

Sethos nodded reluctantly.

"How?" demanded both Ramses and Nefret.

"It was quite a long time ago," began Sethos by way of explanation. "Let's see…sixteen years? Seventeen? Anyway, we met under strange circumstances. He had the power to give me something I really needed. I swore mortal service to him if he would return it to me."

"And what was that something?" asked Nefret sweetly.

Sethos opened his mouth to reply, and then his hand abruptly shot out and neatly tore out the page of my notebook that I had been scribbling on. I hadn't even noticed myself. Another bad habit of mine.

"Don't do that, Margaret." His eyebrows drew close together in annoyance. "I know where that's going to end up."

"I would never publish anything – " I began hotly.

"You would. I don't doubt your scruples." Suddenly he leapt up, looking horrified. "Damn! I'd forgotten all about the War Office!"

"War Office?" I said alertly.

Sethos clapped his hand over his mouth, shooting Ramses an alarmed look. "Where's the nearest telegraph office?" he asked instead.

"Just down the street," I answered. "What were you saying about the War Office?"

"What you don't know won't kill you," muttered Sethos, disappearing out of the door. It slammed after him.

"What was that about?" I ventured, in the silence that followed.

Ramses shifted his weight uneasily. "What you don't know…"

"…won't kill me," I finished for him. "Don't worry, I'll try dragging it out of him when he comes back."

"If he does," muttered Ramses under the breath.

I was beginning to get the feeling that I didn't understand quite a lot of what was going on. I didn't like that. Journalists prefer being in the know.

Seshat decided to renew her attack on Ramses. "Tell me why you will not take up this quest," she persisted.

"It sounds like the War Office all over again, with divine implications."

Seshat didn't understand that any more than I did. Nefret elucidated for him. "He's sick and tired of having to take risks for other people, who won't do it themselves and who won't show him the proper appreciation."

"We will appreciate it!" argued Seshat. "You will both be honoured beyond the dreams of any mortal…"

"Correct that," amended Nefret hastily. "He's sick and tired of having to take risks, end of sentence."

"Is he afraid?" asked Seshat softly.

Ramses sat up straight, but it was Nefret who leapt to her feet, fists clenched, eyes blazing. "How dare you use such an approach! I'll…I'll…"

"Sit down, darling." Ramses laid a hand on her arm. Nefret allowed herself to be pulled back down, but she threw Seshat a glare that, if looks could kill, would have dissected the goddess horribly.

"I am sorry I said that," admitted Seshat. "I did not mean it to sound so…so insulting. What I suggest is that you and your distinguished family follow me down to the Duat. I shall be able, perhaps, to draw a seeing pool for you – then you may speak with my lord Amun-Re and the others. They will show you how important this mission is – not only to us, but to the balance of the entire world. After that, perhaps you will be able to choose better."

I held my breath and watched Ramses's impassive face. I felt like a spectator at a ball game, watching the ball suspended in mid-air and wondering whether it would be better for the player to catch it, or for it to fall instead and strike the ground.

"Don't," whispered Nefret.

Ramses's mouth cracked open. "It won't hurt to take a look around."

"Please," entreated Nefret. Two crystalline tears appeared in synchrony at the corners of her cornflower eyes and rolled with tangible grief down her flushed cheeks.

Ramses sat up, alarmed. "Nefret, don't you dare try that on me!"

"I don't want to play fair," sobbed Nefret. "Ramses, promise me you won't give in."

Ramses gave a long, loud sigh, and turned back to Seshat. "Very well. The final decision will rest with my parents. If they forbid me to go, I won't."

Seshat looked doubtful, but nodded reluctantly. Nefret seemed to prefer that; she wiped away her tears and gave her husband a watery smile. He responded by stroking her red-gold head tenderly.

It was a touching scene, and I was loath to interrupt; but I did anyway. "I'd like to ask a favour," I began, leaning forward.

Seshat turned to me quizzically. "They don't seem very keen to go," I went on, "but I am."

"Why?" asked Seshat.

I shrugged. "It sounds interesting."

"It is not," stated Ramses, "a journalist venture. I'm sure the gods will come down quite hard on illegal publications."

"I said, I'm not going to publish – "

There was a loud explosion outside.

The very foundations of the building shook. I found myself thrown flat upon the ground. Raising my head, I smashed it on the table edge and cursed violently. Ramses and Nefret had also been thrown from their seats. They were now fighting vehemently to shield the other. Seshat alone remained seated, though she was clutching the upholstery in sheer terror.

The door burst open, and Sethos staggered in. Some sort of small missiles had struck his face: there were several thin lines along his forehead, dripping blood. He must have changed disguises before going into the telegraph office – the fair-haired wig and the spectacles on his long nose were askew.

"That wasn't you, was it?" asked Nefret tentatively from ground level.

"It's very unkind of you to attribute every disturbance in the vicinity to my doing," retorted Sethos, clinging to the doorpost to keep his balance. "Although I can't deny you have good reason to. No, it wasn't me. It was the Germans."

"How do you know?" inquired Ramses, rising and helping his wife to her feet.

"I know a German shell when it blows up the row of houses directly in front of me," elucidated Sethos. "They're coming this way. Thought I might warn you."

I scrambled up and dashed to the window. Framed by the sill was a sight that chilled my heart – four silver zeppelins, glinting in the afternoon sun, hovering across the scenic view of Paris – not so scenic now, what with the clouds of ugly smoke billowing up from various streets and the shrill screams ripping through the arid air. Sethos was right; the pretty silver balloons were floating in the direction of the window.

Another explosion rocked the apartment. I clung to the windowsill desperately to avoid falling a second time.

"Where's the nearest bomb shelter?" yelled Ramses.

"Three streets away," I gasped. "We'll never make it."

The shells were now coming in thick droves. Yet another explosion made the furniture shudder. Sethos replied with a few well-chosen unprintables that would have made his brother envious.

Nefret seemed to be rational under the circumstances. She walked over to the trembling Seshat. "Seshat," she asked, "do you think you could help us get out of here?"

"Yes," fortified Ramses, "you brought us here, you can get us away."

Seshat looked scared stiff, but she nodded bravely and spread out her hands. Nefret took hold of one, and held on to Ramses with her other hand. The next explosion was even closer, but she managed to keep her balance.

Sethos took Seshat's other hand. He held out a hand to me. Wordlessly I left the window and took it, as an explosion rattled the surroundings and flung the world into jitters. His hand was callused and warm, and seemed like the only solid thing in the middle of a world of explosions and panic.

Seshat's mouth was moving. Then she let out a thin gasp and cried: "I can't do it!"

"You can," Nefret assured her, and her voice was a comfort to hear in the wild panic. Seshat felt it too. She swallowed, straightened, and said the words again.

I felt the ground being yanked from beneath my feet. For a moment I thought it was another explosion; and then I realised that we were travelling, through the walls and the explosions and the war, through time and space. I could see the faint ghosts of ibis birds wreathing about our feet. I couldn't seem to breathe, for we were moving too fast. I felt Sethos's fingers tighten around mine with an iron force that would have made me gasp, if I had had any air to gasp with.

We landed in a sand dune.

Sand is one of the most unpleasant things you can have in your mouth. At the moment I had quite a lot of it. I choked violently and spat it out.

"I know you don't like sand in your mouth," said a familiarly exasperating voice calmly, "but you could try spitting in some other direction. That was my face."

"Sorry," I muttered, scrambling up and trying to swat the sand off Sethos's tightly shut eyelids.

"You're getting more of it in," snapped Sethos irritably. "Go away."

I glared at him and stood up, brushing sand off my clothes. The bright Egyptian sky blazed overhead. Ramses and Nefret were lying sprawled side by side at the foot of the dune. An outstretched hand with a seven-pointed star wand in it denoted the position of Seshat.

"Well," remarked Ramses, who seemed to have been spared a mouthful of sand. "If that hasn't convinced us that you are a goddess, I don't know what will."

"Thanks be to thou," came a pallid murmur from the other side of the dune.

Sethos stood up as well, picking grains of sand off his shirt with fastidious distaste. "Good old Egypt again, I see. What shall we do now?"

Ramses sighed from his prostrate position. "We had better be getting back to the house. We're late for dinner, and I dread what Mother will do to us when we get back."

"Of course," said Sethos. "Dear Amelia. How could I forget?"

End of Chapter

Next chapter coming…Subjects over Supper

In which we meet the formidable Mr. and Mrs. Emerson at long last, Emerson bawls at almost everyone and Seshat deals with baked beans and mashed potato.