Disclaimer: I do not own Yugioh or the Yugioh characters present in this fic.

Author notes: In Sumeria, the priest class handled affairs of land distribution, record-keeping and agricultural practices. They were highly respected and had important roles in city-state decrees and descisions. Just for clarification! Here's another update :)

The River of Thought

Bakura awoke to the rooster's crow at dawn, pulling on his robe in defence of the early morning chill and the cloth over his hair, slipping out of the tiny hut and into the streets. Even at this hour, traders were setting up their stalls, arranging their wares and directing the erection of the shaded canopies under which they operated during the day. Nobody paid any attention to him as he searched for an apothecary.

Bakura had resolved to remain in Sumer, possibly visiting the cities of Ur, Lagash and Kish, while he searched for ways to restore his Ka monster's strength. He had a sizeable hoard stashed away at various locations in Upper Egypt, all inaccessible to him now. But there were ways of gathering wealth here. Possibly, Diabound had been temporarily subjected to entrapment within his soul and required some simple practise with the local tombs to regain his power. Bakura knew that he certainly did. The confinement in the palace dungeons and the regular beatings, although short-lived, had certainly taken their toll on his health. I will bring you back he silently vowed to the watcher in his mind, You shall be as magnificent as you always were, my Diabound. We shall overcome together. Do not fail me.

He found an apothecary and purchased bandages, since washing those he already possessed was out of the question, terribly worn as they were. He also obtained a soothing salve for the various cuts and slight infections to help him sleep less fitfully. Passing through the town, Bakura smiled under his shora, ready to practise his considerable talents once more.

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Seth paused in the doorway to his room and sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose. The change in environment meant he hadn't slept well that night. Ibbin-adad's warning had not helped matters. He had initially resolved to track down the merchant, Sin-nasir and question him with regard to Bakura's supposed stowing away on board his ship, but what Ibbin-adad had told him the previous night was playing on his mind. Perhaps clarification was best. Seth made his way though the halls, empty at this early hour, and inquired after the infirmary. He received directions to a separate building, a sprawling four level structure forming part of the ruling family's estate.

Upon reaching the entrance, he bade his bodyguard to wait outside. A young, yellow-robed man, obviously one of the healers-in-training scuttled forward.

"How may I assist you, Lordship?"

"I'm looking for the Ambassador, Ibbin-adad. I was given intelligence that he might be found here."

Another swift bow was his answer as the young healer led him up the broad staircases to the uppermost level of the bulding. A heavily bolted door confronted them and their guide knocked twice. A sliding panel in the door was pushed aside and a pair of eyes appeared, taking them all in. Muffled instruction was heard from within. The sound of many bolts being shot back reached their ears and the reinforced door swung slowly open. Seth stepped in, the immediate smell of illness and deterioration assailing his nostrils. A long, low-vaulted room greeted his eyes as his vision adjusted to the gloom. The air was thick with incense made from healing herbs and each sleeping pallet was occupied by the forms of men, lying at various angles beneath their linen sheets. Lowering his head (his height made it difficult for him to stand upright in the low room) he made his way across to where he spotted Ibbin-adad crouching near one of the reclining shapes.

"Ambassador," he greeted.

Ibbin-adad looked up, and Seth saw that he seemed neither surprised nor disappointed to see him there. "High Priest. I am glad that you decided to grace the infirmary with your presence."

Two stools were provided by the young healer attending them and Seth lowered himself to sit beside his companion.

"See the effects of this strange phenomenon," said Ibbin-adad, gesturing to the man lying on his back before them. Seth glanced at the unmoving form. It was an elderly man, his thick, black hair streaked with grey. His features had obviously held nobility and pride at one stage, and Seth observed the high cheekbones and strong, curved nose, now sunken and yellow as parchment, the imperious, commanding eye that now held a strange, feverish, manic brightness.

"Who is he?" he asked in a low voice.

"This is Inim-shara, once the landlord of a large tract of highly arrable land just outside the walls of Ur. I'm sure you are familiar with the role of the landowner-priests in our society."

Seth nodded.

"A few weeks ago, just as the first cases of the madness were being reported, Inim-shara'a wife begged audience with me, since I am the one controlling the publicity of these attacks on the priest class. She indicated that her husband had left twelve nights ago to gather the production reports of all neighbouring farms under his district. This is a biannual affair and occurs before and after the harvest. Her husband's trip generally lasted a week and he had been overdue for four days. She had heard about the attacks and was worried. I agreed to send out a search party for Inim-shara." He paused and glanced up at Seth. "We found his travelling retinue first, slaughtered to a man. Their bodies were left out for the jakkals with no attempt at concealment. There was no sign of the priest. We searched the surrounding area for days, with still no indication of where Inim-shara had vanished. Our trackers had drawn dead ends at every clue. And then he was returned."

"Returned?" said Seth sharply.

"Yes. It had to have been those who took him. He was incapable of movement of any kind, let alone walking. He talked a lot at first. Strange ramblings that went on all day and all night. All we could conclude from the things he said was that he had been captured and made to 'seek enlightenment'. This truth or enlightenment he spoke about featured in almost every sentence. And then he stopped speaking altogether. He cannot eat or sleep. He has no conscious mind as far as his symptoms go."

"Do you have records of what he spoke of?"

Ibbin-adad shifted and stared at Seth for a minute, unspeaking.

"Ambassador?"

"Are you sure about this, High Priest? Is this something you want to be involved in? You have an outlaw to capture, and from what I hear, he is a wily and formidable foe."

Seth looked away from him, his gazing settling on the prostrate man on the pallet. "What you say is true. Bakura's recapture is my priority. But in the course of my search, if I come across anything . . ."

"You will inform me," Ibbin-adad completed his sentence for him. "I know. Thank you, High Priest. I will show you the journals we kept of Inim-shara's delirium."

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Bakura hissed in frustration as the drunken man lurched against him, spilling a good portion of his beer over the tomb-robber's knee. "S-Sorry my good men," slurred the inebriate, his gaze fastening on a point some distance over Bakura's left shoulder. Resisting the urge to spill the idiot's guts, Bakura dried the drink on his legs with a portion of his cloak and returned his focus to the cup between his palms. He had ordered a single round, as he always did when scouting out the neighbouring taverns for interesting information and the latest gossip, anything that might be profitable to him. So far nothing had captured his attention. He let his gaze drift across to the other end of the room where it was suddenly arrested and he smirked. Aha.

Above the noise in the main room, the sounds of a sitar and the melodious tinkle of dancing girl's anklets sounded from one of the private entertainment chambers behind a curtained alcove. Sometimes, the sons of rich merchants and their young friends would pay for these chambers so that raucous celebrations could be held within the privacy of the tavern. Many young, drunken men loaded with gold to throw away on the twirling dancing girls and the many bottles of fine, imported Greek wine. Perfect.

Slipping from his seat in the corner, Bakura made his way along the wall until he reached the concealed niche. Unnoticed, he pushed the curtain aside gently, picking up a cask of wine from the laden table and snatching a white linen table cloth from the folded pile beside the entrance. The slaves serving the party of happily shouting and dancing young men were all wrapped in white robes.

In a shady corner, behind the decorated screens erected around the room, Bakura shrugged off his calasiri, folded the material into a small square and stuffed it into the waistband of his pants against his stomach. Wrapping the linen table cloth around himself in imitation of the other serving slaves, he stepped out of his place of concealment and proceeded seamlessly to the side of the young patron who seemed to have arranged this festivity, replenishing his cup. Although his clothes were a crude representation of the other slave's attire, he passed notice for now as the merrymaking was at its peak. Stooping, he caught sight of a laden purse attached to the merchant's belt by a thin, but strongly cast iron chain. Pouring with one hand, the Thief King gently slipped the fastenings on his victim's belt with experienced fingers. The pouch was safely transferred to the concealment of his voluminous, makeshift robe.

Almost smiling at how easy this was, Bakura made his way around the room, filling a cup here, replacing a fruit bowl there, the satisfying chink of coins growing within his disguise. His stature was easily hidden by hunching over within the table-cloth and nobody paid him any attention.

" . . .it was last week the old man went. Mushtal said nothing about it, but everyone heard his mother wailing at the burial ceremony. About how Mushtal's father lost his mind and died because he forgot how to eat and wipe himself."

A raucous laugh greeted this drunken pronouncement. "He went mad?"

"Yes, they found him in the sewage lagoon near Lagash."

This statement caused another round of laughter.

"The old man left him good pickings though. Mushtal's got no reason to sulk."

The storyteller snorted. "Good pickings? With his shrew of a mother? She probably buried most of it with him. Enlil knows, it's safer there than in Mushtal's leaky hands!"

Bakura's ears pricked even further. Now here was something beneficial. A little further eavesdropping and it was revealed that the the unfortunate family that had lost its patriarch were of the landowner-priest class and lived in the upper quarter of Ur. The house would be easy for him to find. The mourning markers outside and the attire of all within would give away where the death had occurred.

Bakura lifted his eyes to where one of the young revellers had begun to search for his purse, a frown building slowly above his bloodshot stare. It's time to take my leave, my generous friends.

Diabound's weakened essence filtered out of his mind as he wound his way skilfully to the middle of the room. The candles began to flicker slightly as he penetrated the circle of dancing girls, pausing directly at the centre of the revelry. And then pitch darkness descended on the room as all light was extinguished in a single, unfelt gust of phantom breeze. Screams and shouts of confusion echoed from all around him as they stumbled over each other, thumps and curses sounding as feet were trampled and bodies tumbled to the floor. Someone crashed into him, clutching at his garment to regain their balance. He reached out and delivered a practised blow to the base of the neck with the serving tray he held. The sharp edge pierced flesh and a body tumbled to the ground at his feet. Slipping off the table cloth, Bakura let it pool on the unconscious form, artfully arranging the tray atop it with a sprig of lavender he had sneaked from a garland and a single coin from the laden purchases at his belt. This is a fashionable crowd. Might as well try to fit in.

Grinning wildly, the Thief King made his exit just as the lights flickered back into dim life, relishing the screams and loud swearing that echoed from the chamber as the blood on the floor and the missing purses were discovered. You've been had, my sweet patrons. Wait until papa finds out.