I know, it's been forever – I've been extremely busy, but in recompense here's a super-long chapter…17 pages on Word! I worked insanely hard on this, so I hope you like it.
This is where we meet the thieves…they are kind of OCs and kind of not…they were in the series but didn't have any personalities. I like to think I own their souls but not their bodies. Also, Malik is around 18 in this story.
Also, before anyone says anything, yes I know Malik means "king" in Arabic, not Egyptian (and no, they are not the same languages). And, for that matter, it's pronounced ma-leek, not ma-lik. I'm trying to keep the story as accurate as possible, but dammit Kazuki Takahashi, you could have done your research!
Disclaimer: Don't own Yu-Gi-Oh or any of its characters. I kind of own the thieves though.
Warning: This chapter contains gore, slight silliness, and substance abuse. Be prepared!
ʘ
With almost inhuman speed, the outlaws were drawing closer. They had to have covered miles in the last few minutes. He could see the black horses now, their hooves a blur, and the shadowy forms of the men astride them.
Malik closed his eyes.
A moment later, the cool desert air was filled with the noise of shouts and greetings, and the heavy panting of the exhausted horses as the thieves reined in their steeds, came to a stop and began to dismount.
A few of the men seemed shaky on their feet, leaning on their imposing black horses and trying to stomp the feeling back into their legs. They must have been riding a long time, Malik realized, probably crossing hundreds of miles of desert with little to no sleep. The horses, too, backs heaving, had been pushed almost to breaking point – in addition to the men astride them, they had had to carry heavy loads of stolen goods, packed into chests which the thieves were just beginning to unstrap and take down. One man, who wore a black scarf tied around his head, made a melodramatic show of fainting into a taller one's arms. He failed to amuse, however, and was promptly shoved back onto his feet. Another thief, with curly hair and a full beard, had barely dismounted when his legs gave out under him and he had to cling onto his horse to keep from falling.
But one thief stood tall and majestic as ever. His back was to the young noble as he stroked his fatigued stallion outside the cave, but Malik recognized the slightly disheveled crimson robe that billowed around his feet and the wind-blown hair, moon colored and as wild and untamable as lunacy itself. The deep voice was booming out orders, strong and clear as a bell. The shadows of his form blended with the deepening shades of evening, so it was difficult to tell where the man ended and the sand and rock began. Without knowing why, Malik retreated behind Zazamoukh back into the cave.
"Three days! I think you beat your last record," Zazamoukh called out happily.
The Thief King turned, lithe and graceful as a panther. Malik's stomach did a strange flip at the sight of the man – dreaded and awaited for what seemed a short eternity. It was obvious he had been riding long; he had deep shadows under his eyes from lack of sleep and he looked exhausted. At the sight of Zazamoukh however, not a smirk but a real smile, rare and brilliant, appeared on his face.
"You think? You mean you weren't timing us?" Zazamoukh didn't have time to reply to this before the Thief King had caught him up in a tight embrace.
"I was so bored," the black-haired thief said after Akefia had let him go, "I thought I was going to die."
"I can't leave you alone for three days…"
"There was nobody to talk to!" Zazamoukh jerked a thumb behind him, in Malik's general direction. "This one was out like a light until about two hours ago."
The Thief King laughed and slung an arm around his shoulders, and they and the rest of the band began to make their way into the cave, where most of the men instantly migrated to the fireside. Malik was still standing by the side of the archway, unobserved, willing himself to melt back into the shadows. The flickering flames drew his gaze, and mesmerized, he found himself watching the rippling of the thieves' muscles under battle-scarred skin, and their sharp daggers that gleamed in the firelight.
Someone spoke in front of him, jolting him out of his reverie.
"Well, hello again, Majesty," said the deep voice. "Did you miss me?" Malik looked up to see the Thief King standing before him, looking down at him, arms crossed over his chest. That familiar teasing smile played across his face, the white canines gleaming in the firelight. The jagged triple scar below his right eye was almost white against his skin. He tilted his head slightly as he gazed down at Malik, as if the other were some kind of rare bird that amused him endlessly, caught in a cage and his to do with as he pleased. The other thieves had noticed him by now, muttering and looking around at him curiously. Malik was on unfamiliar ground. His heart was pounding, and his throat suddenly felt dry. He felt like he was in the middle of a foreign land where he didn't speak the language, caught in a game to which no-one had told him the rules.
But before Malik could force himself to say something in reply, the Thief King had suddenly fallen silent, a troubled look on his face. His gaze had moved somewhere beyond Malik, out of the mouth of the cave. Grateful for the distraction, Malik turned to see what it was he was looking at.
"GET DOWN!" Akefia shouted, and flung himself on top of Malik, pinning him to the ground. A shout went up, and the rest of the thieves hit the floor just as a volley of arrows sailed overhead.
Malik just had time to notice how interesting the faint whining noise they made was as they passed, before what was happening had sunk in and a sickening, fainting feeling went through him. Above him, he could hear Akefia's breaths, heavy and harsh, anger tinted with the color of fear.
The arrows struck the back of the cave wall and clattered to the ground harmlessly. None had found their targets. There was an anxiety-loaded silence.
"The Pharaoh's men?" one of the thieves dared to ask.
Akefia nodded and swore furiously. He was still glaring in the same direction, his grey eyes flashing with rage. Malik shivered, petrified, hardly daring to breathe for fear he might make some sound. He didn't know which he was more terrified of – the dangerous man on top of him, or the Pharaoh's approaching henchmen.
Malik could not have moved if he tried; Akefia had pinned him down. His arms enclosed Malik on either side, forming a cage, and the warmth of his body caused the younger man to move slightly closer, unconsciously, due less to the coldness of the evening and more to the panic that threatened to seize hold of him. He noticed he could feel the thud of Akefia's heartbeat, and realized he felt lightheaded with something very close to terror.
In the heavy silence, the crunch of the intruders' advancing footsteps and their hushed voices seemed very loud. In spite of himself, Malik let out a faint gasp.
"Do not make a sound," Akefia suddenly bent and whispered in his ear. His breath was warm, and his voice was deadly serious. "They want your head as well as ours. Do you understand?" Their eyes met briefly, their faces inches apart, and Malik felt goosebumps run down his spine. He nodded quickly to show he understood.
Akefia gave a low two-note whistle, his eyes fixed on the approaching enemies. One of the thieves stole up to the arch on the other side. His skin was much darker than the rest, a rich mahogany brown, and his hair hung in long braids down his back. He crouched by the entryway silently, amber eyes fixed on Akefia, awaiting directions. After a tense moment, Akefia met the other thief's gaze and gave a slight nod.
As silently as the stars coming out, the thief unsheathed his dagger. He rose to his feet gracefully and with one fluid motion, had raised his arm and thrown the blade at an unseen target. Malik heard the dull thwuck of a knife burying itself in flesh, a strangled, gurgling cry, and a moment later, the muffled sound of a body falling heavily on sand. Malik flinched and bit his lip to keep from crying out.
In the blink of an eye, two more knives had been thrown; two more bodies had fallen, and the Pharaoh's men had been forever silenced.
Malik did not realize he had been clutching onto Akefia's shoulders the whole time until the Thief King looked down at him again, eyebrows raised.
"Want to release me anytime soon, Majesty?"
Malik felt his face grow hot and forced himself to let go of Akefia, purposely looking away.
The Thief King rose to his feet and approached the entryway. Though he drank in the sight with a smile of satisfaction, his eyes still contained a hard glint of fury.
"Well done, Nefermaat," he muttered.
The knife-thrower grinned, revealing a flash of white teeth. "Nothing but the best." His soft voice was slightly accented.
Malik scrambled to his feet and drew near to the entryway cautiously, curious to see what had transpired.
On the sand before them, a good hundred yards away, three bodies lay, still as statues. The sand below them was darkened with what could only be blood. The daggers had hit two in the throat, and one in the heart. Their hair was matted with gore, their faces frozen in a ghastly rictus of death. The starry night sky reflected in their sightless eyes.
Suddenly feeling sick, Malik turned away.
Behind him, the bearded thief had picked up one of the fallen arrows from the floor. Studying it, he put the tip in his mouth cautiously. "Poisoned."
Akefia spat viciously on the ground and turned back into the cave. "Teti-En!"
The thief with the black bandana joined Akefia's side. "Yes?"
"See if they've got anything worthwhile on them."
Teti-En glanced at the bloody scene. "What about the bodies?"
"Just get them out of the way," Akefia said, sounding bored. "The sand will cover them soon enough."
ʘ
Ishizu watched the shadows on the wall grow, lengthening into strange and unfamiliar shapes as the sun outside her window went down. The darkening sky was heavy with clouds that the wind dispersed every now and then to reveal a crescent-shaped moon, a thin sliver that was almost invisible.
A cold breeze blew in through the window and lifted her hair. Ishizu lay in her bed, willing sleep to come. She had been secluded in her chambers for the past few days.
The guards had rushed her to the infirmary as soon as the Thief King was gone. She scoffed inwardly, recalling the over-fastidious way the attendants had brushed off her garments and inspected her bruises, as if it was impossible for a delicate noblewoman such as herself to survive a slight fall without lasting damage. She knew they only fussed over her for appearance's sake.
And it was for appearance's sake that she had invented various maladies, imbalances of the humor, aches and pains and fatigue – for Ishizu knew that should she come out unscathed from her ordeal with the Thief King, unwelcome questions would be sure to follow. She had been advised to take several days to rest and recover before resuming her duties.
The official story that Ishizu had recounted on her return, was that she had been alone in the temple, praying to Isis for guidance, when a man had come up behind her and stifled her cries for help. It had turned out to be the Thief King, and he had stolen her away outside of the city walls where he had robbed her of all her jewelry and money. He had been about to kill her, but when Ishizu pleaded for her life, he had relented on the condition that she offer a sacrifice to Anubis in his name. He had then returned her to the city, shoving her into the hands of the guards before disappearing into thin air like so much smoke. The first question on everyone's lips when they heard the story, of course, was whether he had left her honor intact. Ishizu had drawn herself to her full height and assured them, deadly serious, that he had not, she would have taken her own life rather than return to the Pharaoh's city.
It was a good story, and Ishizu was proud of it. She was almost sure Atemu would believe it. High Priest Seth, with his tendency to think the worst of people, would almost certainly assume the thief's request for a sacrifice was a mockery of some sort, and become outraged. The suspicious eye of the law would move away from her, and Malik would be kept safe. With luck, they would not realize until much later that he was, in fact, no longer hiding within the city walls.
She had not fallen ill at all, in truth, and as a result, the past three days of being isolated in her room had had bad results. Ishizu was not a woman who was used to boredom, and the overwhelming tedium and worry of recent days had gnawed at her mind. Bad dreams plagued her every night, and during the day her mind seemed to race, looping in on itself with unfamiliar questions and nagging self-doubts. The solicitous servants that came every so often bearing food and medicine just made it worse, with their soft and soothing voices and their quiet, timid footsteps. Ishizu had always clung to her honesty, and the fact she had a secret to keep now was eating away at her – like everything else. She watched herself now from the outside, as if in a dream.
There was a faint noise at the door. Ishizu closed her eyes and feigned sleep. Soft footsteps drew nearer, as a cautious maid entered her chamber, left a full pitcher of water by her bedside, and then withdrew.
Eventually, Ishizu knew, she would have to stand before Atemu and explain everything that had happened. She would have to claim she didn't know where Malik was. She would have to bow to Atemu, and tell him loyally that if she did know, she would not hesitate to betray her own brother to the Pharaoh's justice. She would say, sounding sure of herself, that Malik's eternal soul was damned for what he had done. She would have to still her furiously beating heart, banish the tears from her eyes, and lie through gritted teeth. She did not look forward to that day. Until then, she would remain here, slowly recovering and watching the shadows on the walls.
But the palace foundations could crumble around her, and she wouldn't care, for in her heart of hearts, somehow she knew that her brother was safe. And so Ishizu lay where she was, and waited for sleep to come.
ʘ
It was later that night, and all the thieves had gathered around the fire. With a celebration in mind, Zazamoukh had slaughtered a camel, which was now roasting over the flames. It had had to be eviscerated, and cut up in pieces, since it was too large. Zazamoukh had offered to show Malik how this was done, but five minutes into the butchering process he had grown nauseous and excused himself, much to the thief's amusement. Nobody else had thus far taken much notice of him, beyond the occasional curious glance. He was not inclined to complain. He found it somewhat difficult to believe he was still alive, after the most recent threat. Akefia, Malik knew, had saved his life. The thieves all seemed sure the henchmen had found their hideout due to sheer dumb luck. They would have known if they had been followed.
Malik was now seated next to Zazamoukh. The other seven had arranged themselves in a ring around the fire, and were now passing around date-wine quite liberally. Stories were spun and jokes were told all around him, but Malik found himself unable to concentrate; his gaze always fell back to the camel, or rather, whatever part of it Zazamoukh had hacked off. Although he had eaten nothing but a date or two all day, he found himself without an appetite. In the palace, food had always arrived prepared. One didn't need to think about where it had come from, or who had had the grisly job of killing it. Whenever he looked at the meat now, an unbidden image would come to mind of Zazamoukh elbow-deep in gore. In some corner of his mind, Malik was aware he needed desperately to acclimate to this unwanted change; otherwise he would soon starve to death.
Akefia, across from Malik, was busy recounting an elaborate tale which had Zazamoukh's full attention. It was something to do with a prostitute on a rooftop who had tried to steal something only to have it stolen back from her and had somehow, by the manipulation of various ropes, ended up hanging by her feet in front of a tavern door. The mechanics of the whole thing sounded somewhat implausible, but then again, it was not a situation in which Malik had a great deal of personal experience.
"She was lucky to have escaped with her life," Akefia told them offhandedly. "For all I know she's still there. If I ever see her again, she'll have the wits not to try to steal something from the Thief King a second time."
"If she doesn't go running in the opposite direction," observed Zazamoukh.
"I tie them up for a reason, you know," Akefia replied mildly, and took a drink.
Zazamoukh rolled his eyes as the rest of the group exploded with laughter. Malik was faintly troubled by the idea that nobody had rescued the unlucky prostitute, but reassured himself that Akefia had been exaggerating. Probably.
Surreptitiously, Malik looked around at the men, grouped in a circle around the fire. They had struck terror into his heart that night. He vividly remembered how they had surrounded him and Ishizu, cloaked in black, unspeaking, ethereal and menacing as phantoms. Up close, illuminated by firelight, they were revealed as the human beings they were, no longer creatures of the night, but flesh and blood.
The one with the headscarf, eyes half-lidded, was sitting next to Akefia, legs crossed. He was smoking what appeared to be opium out of a pipe, blowing intricate smoke rings that linked with each other in impossibly complex patterns, and then dissolved into the air. A tall one, his hair pulled back in a ponytail, took a drink and grimaced. Next to him was the thief with the beard, who appeared to be tinkering with the crossbows that had been retrieved from the bodies. They were somewhat alarming pieces of newfangled weaponry, able to hold five arrows at a time. Malik and Zazamoukh sat side by side, the latter's eyes dancing as he listened to the stories of the adventure he'd missed out on. Next to him was one thief who seemed to be smaller than the rest. His chin was on his hand, and he appeared to have fallen asleep sitting up. Malik saw by the movements of his eyes beneath their lids that he was dreaming. Next to the dreamer sat a man who was somewhat older, with sharp features and lank hair, who was writing something down on a papyrus. Every so often he would covertly glance around at the rest. And on Akefia's other side sat the knife thrower, his hands occupied with some kind of carving. He was now continuing the story, barely looking at what his hands were doing, eyes dancing with remembered excitement as he described how they'd gotten past the guards in Edfu.
Yet, even when he was silent, one man was in command. Like a magnet, he was the unconscious center of energy, inspiring respect and dread wherever he went. He was the single voice that rose above the others, the loner in the crowd, the enigma, the consuming fire. It was in the curl of his lips and the angle of his jaw, his deliberate movements and his lazy smile, how he moved in the world as if he possessed it, down to the last grain of sand. Before him, one was as hypnotized and as helpless as a gazelle before the killing blow, paralyzed with awe. The Thief King carried himself with an imperial composure even the Pharaoh could not muster. His grey eyes, somehow both haughty and impassive, brought to mind the amaranthine gaze of the Great Sphinx at Giza. Where Malik tiptoed apologetically, the Thief King strode tall, proud and defiant. And when he laughed, he laughed as if he'd put a joke over on the entire universe.
Saddened for a reason he could not name, Malik let his gaze drift back to the fire. The white-hot tongues of flame licked the air, casting quivering shadows on the cave walls and on the faces of the men who sat talking. Their voices seemed muffled. Smoke diffused into the heavy air, fracturing the dim light.
A vision, begotten of memory, came to mind - the ceremonial fires at the palace burning sandalwood, releasing a sweet, perfumed fog into the twilit air of the wide-open courtyards. Malik knew he would never see those fires, those courtyards, those evenings again, and some part of his soul cried out like a wounded animal. Someone threw a ragged cloth into the fire which was quickly consumed by the blaze, blackening and finally disappearing in a burst of sparks.
"You, Majesty!" And Malik returned to reality.
Akefia grinned at him on the other side of the fire and leaned forward. "Lost in dreamland?"
Malik shook his head, hoping to avoid attracting any extra attention. Akefia, it seemed, had exactly the opposite intentions. The rest of the band had fallen silent by this time.
"I realize this place must be quite a shock, coming from the Palace. I regret that I don't have any feather pillows or slave girls to offer you," Akefia continued, "but I trust that otherwise, you have found my hospitality satisfactory?"
What was Malik supposed to say? Still watching him, the Thief King raised an eyebrow. The young man had been put on a very uncomfortable spot. He had no doubt the outlaws considered his background privileged and sheltered. No matter what he said now, he'd be playing into the Thief King's joke. It was just as well; Malik found that his tongue seemed to cleave to the roof of his mouth. When Akefia stared at him like that, he felt like an ant transfixed by the gaze of the hot sun, unable to take a breath for fear.
The silence dragged on. Finally, Akefia gave a despairing sigh and glanced around the circle.
"Will someone please teach the boy how to talk?"
A collective snicker rose from the group. Malik felt a reply suddenly spring unbidden to mind and bit his lip – knowing that anything he said right now would not reflect well on him. The noble was better schooled than most at holding his tongue.
The boy seemed to shiver slightly, and it occurred to Akefia that he might be hungry. The Thief King wrenched a still-bloody leg off the camel and offered it to Malik.
"Come on, have some. It's delicious."
"Killed it myself," Zazamoukh volunteered proudly, as if this would enhance the flavor.
Malik politely shook his head. The Thief King regarded him disparagingly, then shrugged and took a ravenous bite out of the camel leg. Still chewing, he contemplated it thoughtfully before turning his gaze back to Malik. Next to his thieves, who by and large were tall and muscular, strengthened by countless hours of riding and hard labour, the noble's body looked practically like a child's. It would never do.
"Eat something, would you?" Akefia muttered. "You're too small."
And Malik's restrained irritation boiled over.
Never had a boy been so happy to hit puberty as Malik Ishtar. His entire childhood, he had been undersized and sickly. None of the other palace kids wanted to play with him, as their games usually involved running around outside, as well as various random and unprovoked acts of violence. Malik was skilled at none of these things. Ishizu, sensing that he felt left out, had attempted to make him feel better by forbidding him to play with them anyway. She had assumed this would instill in him a sense of superiority.
Needless to say, it hadn't worked.
So it was that Malik spent a somewhat lonely childhood, mostly indoors, accompanied by books. Once he was about thirteen, he noticed (to his delight) that he was growing taller at an alarming rate, not to mention stronger. His voice, alas, had not gotten much deeper. To anyone but him, it was obvious he had remained on the scrawny side, but as this was a sensitive topic, anyone who knew Malik well knew enough to avoid saying anything on the matter.
The Thief King did not know Malik well.
"I am not too small." The noble's voice rose dangerously. Seven heads turned. Interested, the Thief King raised his eyebrows. Well, well. It seems I've discovered a touchy subject. What fun.
"For your information," Malik continued, his voice sharp, "I am a very normal height for my age and anyone who says otherwise is simply wrong. Furthermore, I have a name. Not 'Majesty'." So far he had managed to keep from yelling.
"And," he finished, chest heaving, "I don't need to be taught how to speak, because I already can." He folded his arms angrily. "Egyptian, Phoenician and Greek."
There was another silence, even more uncomfortable than the first. Almost as soon as he'd finished talking, Malik regretted ever having opened his mouth. Every single thief in the cave was staring at him incredulously. Every single thief, that was, except for the Thief King himself. If he was surprised at all, it didn't show. He was beaming at Malik approvingly, as if the noble was a pet that had successfully learned a new trick.
"Thank you for finally coming to your own defense, Majesty." Akefia chuckled. "I would be honored if you would grace us with your dulcet tones more often. Although I must warn you in the future to be careful when you contradict me." So it happened the boy was quite the little spitfire after all. Not bad. This was turning out to be more intriguing than he'd thought.
"You speak Greek?" asked one of the thieves, sounding impressed in spite of himself.
The boy was blushing now, looking away and seemed to be thoroughly determined not to say anything more. The Thief King nodded to Malik, and raised a jewel-studded goblet of wine.
"Filotêsi'an propi'nô, anax," he said with a wink, and tipped it back.
A couple of the thieves looked to each other, confused. Malik blinked, wondering if he'd heard the man right. Where on earth would the Thief King have picked up Greek?
The Thief King threw the camel bone on the fire, cleared his throat and looked around, commanding the attention of his men.
"I would like to extend to you a warm welcome on behalf of myself and all those gathered here," he said. Malik suspected it would have felt warmer if not for the somewhat wolfish look in Akefia's eyes.
"It seems I have been remiss in my duties as a host," the Thief King continued. "For this, I hope you will forgive me, Majesty." He inclined his head towards Malik. "I have neglected the introductions, but that will soon be remedied."
Akefia indicated the thief with the headscarf to his left, who was absentmindedly blowing another smoke ring. "This is Teti-En, our resident magician."
"That's me," Teti-En replied. He was in his mid-twenties, a somewhat peculiar looking man with unusually light green eyes and a lopsided smile. He wore a single earring, in the shape of an ankh. "Just wish on a camel bone and I'll make your wildest dreams come true. Hell, I can even throw in a pair of sandals if you want." He nodded to Malik. "Looks like you could use a pair."
Malik was lost. The man made no sense at all. Was it a cryptic message in some kind of code? Was he really a magician? After a moment of hesitation, he replied. "Pleased to meet you."
"Well, you two will have loads to talk about, won't you?" the Thief King interjected jovially. "After all, you're both members of the priest class. Although, I daresay you wound up here due to rather different circumstances, eh?"
Astounded, Malik did a double take. Could it be true? The man didn't seem like a noble, but appearances were often deceptive. He had assumed that all the thieves would naturally be commoners, but the thought that there might be another person here from a similar background was profoundly reassuring. Malik waited for Akefia to explain what he meant by 'different circumstances', but he didn't. Instead, he turned his attention to the thief next to Teti-En.
"This is Kawab. He's from Lower Egypt," Akefia informed Malik, "but as far as Northerners go, he's a decent enough fellow."
Kawab shook his head and grinned. He was young, only a few years older than Malik, by the looks of it, with an open, friendly face and dark hair pulled back into a ponytail. He was handsome in a burly, masculine way – the kind of man Malik knew women went crazy over. He waved to Malik, who waved back.
"Despite his young age," the Thief King went on, "this man has been on quite a few adventures. He was even in the Pharaoh's barracks school for a while, if you can believe that."
Kawab flushed and muttered something about how that was a long time ago.
"Well, lucky for you they kicked you out, eh? Otherwise I probably would have killed you by now."
Everyone around the fire laughed, even though it was clear that the Thief King was only half joking. Akefia grinned and offered Kawab a bottle of wine, which he accepted. Despite his show of good humor, however, a flash of irritation on Kawab's part was obvious. It was evident to Malik that he did not appreciate the Thief King bringing up his past.
Akefia had moved on to the next man, who was sitting between Kawab and Malik. He had temporarily given up on the crossbows, which lay by his feet.
"This is Aminadav," the Thief King told Malik. "I wonder if you've run into each other before."
The man sitting next to Malik didn't look familiar. He was perhaps thirty, with a beard and longish curly hair. His eyes were dark and kind, and unlike the rest of the thieves, he wore no jewelry, save a small silver ring on a chain around his neck.
"I'm from your city," Aminadav explained. His voice was low and quiet. Malik realized after a moment that the man spoke with a Hebrew accent.
Akefia saw the knowledge dawn in Malik's eyes. The thieves den was different from the palace in countless respects, but one distinction stood out. Akefia made damn sure there were none of the hierarchies and mindless caste divisions that were taken for granted among the nobles. Under Akefia's command, each man was treated equally and judged according to his skills – nothing more and nothing less. Akefia didn't know if his new charge would acclimate to this or not, but as far as he was concerned, Malik didn't really have a choice.
"He used to be one of the Pharaoh's slaves," Akefia went on. "I doubt you would have seen him around the palace, though. He worked in the limestone quarries, hacking out blocks to make our illustrious Pharaoh's tomb." There was a hard edge of anger in his voice.
Aminadav took the bottle from Kawab, and as he turned slightly, Malik caught a glimpse of his back. It was heavy with scars, accumulated over the course of many lashings. Some were so deep Malik realized the man had probably been in danger of bleeding to death. A weight of guilt seemed to settle on Malik's chest, even though, he knew, his own family had never owned a bondservant. Of course, in some corner of his mind he'd been aware of the situation with the Hebrew slaves. But how often had he let it bother him? Had he ever even exchanged words with one before? He couldn't remember.
Aminadav turned back to Malik and smiled reassuringly. A lump rose in the noble's throat.
"Can I ask why you left?" he found himself asking. The sound of his own voice surprised him.
Aminadav met Akefia's eyes briefly. It seemed that he had been expecting the question.
"That is a story for another day, I think," he told Malik, with a sad smile.
Malik realized he had probably overstepped his bounds. "I'm sorry," he murmured.
"Don't apologize, my friend," Aminadav told him. "For now, let us drink and be merry."
"Hear, hear," said Teti-En.
Malik looked up to see Akefia studying him, and got the strange feeling he had just passed some kind of test.
A horse neighed outside. The knife-thrower must have recognized it as his, for he shook the braids back from his face and rose to his feet. He muttered something to Akefia, then turned and left the mouth of the cave, presumably to check on his steed.
"Don't I get an introduction?" Zazamoukh asked, tactfully changing the subject.
"No," replied Akefia, without blinking an eye.
"Why not?" Zaza sounded offended, but Malik could tell he was hiding a smile.
"He already knows who you are, doesn't he? I have no time to waste."
"So everyone gets a fancy introduction but me?" Zaza frowned. "That's not fair."
The Thief King shrugged, nonchalant. "Life's not fair."
"You do realize that in the time we've been arguing about this, you could have - "
Akefia cleared his throat, effectively cutting off the other thief. "Dear Majesty," he began, addressing Malik, "please meet Zazamoukh. He talks enough for five men with little to no prompting. You can just sit there and he'll provide hours of entertainment. I'm sure you two will be fast friends."
Despite Akefia's flippant tone, Malik could hear the affection in his voice. A strange mixture of comfort, longing and sadness rose in his chest, akin to watching a wedding between two strangers. The men that surrounded him were turning out to be quite different than he'd expected. Yet, as always, he felt a wall separating him from the others, a wall he doubted he would ever break out from. Although his presence was acknowledged, it only made the discomfort of being the outsider even more excruciating. Not for the first time, Malik reflected on how much more enjoyable life would be if he could become invisible – sparing others his presence, and able to observe unwatched.
Akefia had turned his attention to the man at Zazamoukh's side, who had woken at some point during the introductions and was looking around groggily.
"Good evening, Siamun," said Akefia. "Did you have a nice dream?"
Siamun nodded, and yawned hugely. He was around the same size as Malik, and possibly even an inch or so shorter, but it was hard to tell sitting down. He had close-cropped dark hair, and wide-set , liquid eyes that were uncannily large and deeply shadowed, giving him the appearance of a chronic insomniac. When he met Malik's eyes, the noble had the eerie sense that Siamun could see through him, somehow reading his mind. It was impossible to tell how old he was.
"Excellent. Majesty, this is Siamun, our scout. I'm sure you'll get on famously. He's an even better conversationalist than you, I daresay." At this, most of the men burst out laughing.
Akefia frowned and counted off something on his fingers. "I think he's said about four words this week so far. Am I right?"
Siamun smirked and held up two fingers.
Zazamoukh gasped. "Another record broken!"
"Impossible," Akefia replied, unfazed. "I never overestimate anything."
"Hang on," said Kawab. "If I remember right, he said 'goodbye' to Zazamoukh before we left…"
Siamun nodded.
"…and the first night in Edfu he said 'guards' when he'd spotted them up ahead."
Another nod, the smirk growing.
"And then he said 'guards' again twice the next night, because we almost ran into them again, and then we did run into them at the Temple of Horus," Kawab finished, sounding proud of himself.
"So he said two words, four times," Zazamoukh summarized.
"In that case, the record remains unbroken," Aminadav ventured. Malik was following the argument, with some effort.
Akefia glanced at the man to Siamun's left, who was still absorbed with his notes. "What do you think, Mekhu?"
Mekhu looked up from where he was writing on his papyrus and smiled politely. Malik noticed that the smile didn't quite reach his eyes. He was lean, with a hungry look about him. While most of the other thieves were wearing simple kilts, Mekhu was dressed in a tunic. He looked to be somewhere in his thirties. His mustache was neatly groomed, and his keen-featured face betrayed a detached sophistication.
"It really depends on how you define a word, I suppose," he returned, after a moment's pause. "Whether you take it to mean a discrete part of speech, in which case two is the correct answer, or whether it is an individual utterance, in which case it would be four."
"Meet our treasurer, Majesty," said Akefia. "A top-notch logician, and undoubtedly the finest mind for numbers in all Egypt."
"You honor me," replied Mekhu, "but many are possessed of skills far superior to mine." His voice was articulate and even, betraying no emotion.
"He's modest too! Mekhu has the distinction of being the only family man here," Akefia informed Malik. "As such, he is frequently away on personal business. So don't get too attached to him, he'll only break your heart."
Mekhu laughed a little uncomfortably.
"Put away those papers for once and have a drink," the Thief King urged. "Or would the little woman disapprove?"
A guarded look passed over Mekhu's face like a cloud, and then was gone. "Not at all," he returned, thanking Zazamoukh who passed him a bottle. Malik vaguely wondered if the wine was ever going to run out. Somehow he doubted it.
"So, Malik," Mekhu said conversationally. "Now you've been filled in on the vital details where we're concerned. But we still don't know anything about you." He regarded Malik with slight disdain, as if he suspected information were being purposely withheld. Malik didn't like the way his name sounded on Mekhu's lips, as if it were an alias. A murmur rose around the fire, and any flicker of comfort Malik may have felt was promptly extinguished.
"What do you want to know?" he replied, steeling himself.
"Well, since we're being direct," Mekhu replied, steepling his fingers and leaning forward, "I think we'd all like to know exactly what it is that brings you here." The murmur subsided, and then vanished. "I'm aware of your…altercation with the priest. However, I remain ignorant as to why and how it came about. We have no secrets here."
Malik could feel expectant eyes watching him, waiting for his reply. His throat felt dry. What was he going to say? His mind was suddenly empty of words.
Akefia noticed the all-too-familiar way Malik's eyes suddenly dilated in fear, how his thin shoulders trembled almost imperceptibly, how he sat up a little straighter, the knuckles of his hands white with tension.
"I…" Malik began, and then broke off. He couldn't even bring himself to think about that night. How would he begin to explain himself? "I…I didn't…"
"I suspect this is something else better left for another day." Malik looked up sharply when Akefia spoke, his tone suddenly cool. The smile had vanished.
"Akefia, do not be rash," Mekhu protested, his irritation obvious. "We have no way of knowing - "
"Do not challenge me. Leave it alone." Akefia's voice was dangerously soft.
As if on cue, the cacophony rose as the rest of the thieves resumed their conversations as if nothing had happened. Teti-En lost his flint; Aminadav carved off a piece of camel.
Under the din of voices, Malik was just able to make out Akefia's words, voice lowered to a venomous hiss.
"Next time, dear friend, I would thank you to remember who takes orders from whom."
In one moment, spiteful ire rose in Mekhu's eyes, and in the next his face had become a mask again, calm and flat as a stagnant pool.
"As you wish, Akefia."
Mekhu took up his stylus and papyrus, and rose to his feet. He turned to Malik.
"I must ride now. I offer my apologies if I have in any way offended your sensibilities," he said levelly. The corner of his mouth twisted in a smile as he looked down at the noble; both he and Malik knew the apology was insincere. "I realize I do not know your full name."
Briefly, Malik wondered why this would matter. "Malik Ishtar," he told him. After a moment, he extended his hand.
Mekhu grasped his hand for a fleeting second, and then let it go. Despite the fact he had been sitting by the fire, his hand was cold. "Until we meet again, Malik Ishtar."
Mekhu nodded briefly to Akefia, then turned and silently departed from the cave. A few of the thieves called out farewells, but Mekhu made no sign that he heard them. Akefia watched him leave, following him with his eyes until he disappeared outside into the night.
At that moment, the knife-thrower chose to return, passing Mekhu as he left the cave. He glanced after the older man curiously, then made his way back to the fire.
"What's wrong with Camel Face now?" he asked, indicating the cave entrance. "He looks like somebody just pissed all over his homework."
The tense mood was broken, and everyone burst out laughing. Even Malik couldn't suppress a smile.
"His Highness's feathers got ruffled," Teti-En commented sarcastically.
"Ooh, sorry I missed it," said the knife-thrower. He made himself comfortable in the spot Mekhu had just vacated and took up his carving once more. "Remember that time his horse got poisoned and he had to ride that broken-down nag all the way from Memphis?"
The thief began to recount the tale. Malik realized he still didn't know the man's name.
"Who's he?" Malik whispered to get Zazamoukh's attention. He indicated the knife-thrower, next to Akefia. The man was gesturing animatedly with his carving knife, amber eyes flashing as he continued the tale of Mekhu's offended dignity.
"Him? That's Nefermaat," Zazamoukh replied, and lowered his voice, leaning in closer to Malik. "He was an assassin in Nubia. The best man in Africa with a blade, if the tales I've heard are true."
"He's from Nubia?" That would explain his exotic appearance. Despite all the stories Malik had heard of the land to the south of Egypt, he had never actually met anyone from there. "What is he doing here, then?"
Zaza gave a short laugh, as if the story was one that never failed to amaze him. "He took a contract on the Crown Prince of Nubia a few years ago. He carried out his end of the bargain, but the vizier who hired him ratted him out almost immediately. The entire Sudan was thrown into chaos, and he had to leave the country. The price on his head keeps going up. And as far as I know, there's still a civil war going on down there. I'll let him tell you that whole story sometime."
Zazamoukh fell into an introspective silence. Malik considered this. Vaguely, he remembered once overhearing Atem and Seth talking about the 'situation' in Nubia, but until now, he had never known exactly what had been going on.
He yawned, and realized, with no small amazement, that he was growing sleepy again. Malik looked around the circle to see if the gathering showed any signs of dying down, and with a jolt, realized that Nefermaat was staring straight at him. He held Malik's gaze and did not look away. Malik's first, panicked thought was that somehow Nefermaat had overheard his conversation with Zazamoukh. He was sure the man would be angry, possibly even furious – but then, unexpectedly, he smiled.
Slowly, the thief's obvious gaze travelled down over Malik's body, roaming over his exposed chest and narrow hips, lingering on his outstretched legs. Malik hurriedly crossed them. Nefermaat raised his eyes to meet Malik's once more and, as if he had all the time in the world, tilted his head knowingly, as if asking a question he already was sure of the answer to.
Malik's lavender eyes widened, and he looked away, nervous, his heart pounding. Thoroughly unsettled, he crossed his arms over his chest, feeling exposed and suddenly self-conscious. When he dared to look back at Nefermaat, the man was, to his relief, involved in a discussion with Kawab and Akefia. Malik resolved to avoid him in the future. He was so tense he jumped slightly when Zazamoukh nudged his shoulder.
"You look cold," Zazamoukh observed. "Put this on."
Malik realized he was holding a tunic, made of once-white linen that had been lying under the bench. Surprised, he stuttered his thanks and hurriedly put it on.
"That thing's huge on you," Zazamoukh said critically, more to himself than to Malik. Indeed, the sleeves extended well past Malik's hands, and the hem reached slightly below his knees. The neckline was also too big, and kept falling off one shoulder. He looked like a child, floundering about in its parents' oversized clothing. Nevertheless, Malik was very pleased with the tunic.
"This is great," he told Zazamoukh simply. For the first time that evening, a wide smile found its way to Malik's face.
There was no way he could have known of the resulting surge of affection in Zazamoukh's heart at the sight of the smile, or how from that day onward, he resolved to look out for Malik and protect him like the little brother he'd never had.
There was also no way he could have known how, on the other side of the fire, Nefermaat was silently laughing to himself. The boy's face was an open book of emotion. First had come curiosity, then surprise as their eyes met, fear, bewilderment, followed by indignation as the gaze had roamed south…then came anxiety and self-consciousness as he had met the boy's eyes again. The boy had looked away then, hoping to dismiss the entire thing, but there was no missing the way he visibly relaxed after donning the outsized garment. Only a temporary obstruction, Nefermaat thought to himself before turning his attention to more immediate matters.
And there was no way Malik could have guessed that yet someone else was thinking of him at that moment too. More specifically, thinking about how enchantingly pretty that smile was. But this thought was only there for a moment, before the thinker banished it and began wondering how to steal that smile, how to lock it away like a butterfly in a jar, and keep it only for himself.
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Any guesses as to what Akefia says in Greek?
Happy New Year! Please please please review?
