Okay, so, funny story. I had to divide this chapter into two parts, because my first version was over 30 pages (and nobody wants to read chapters that long…) (Also, why do these chapters keep getting longer and longer? Seriously.) So, anyway, here is the first part, and I'll put up the second half of the chapter sometime next week.

I realize chapter 5 raised a lot of questions – and they won't necessarily be answered soon. Meanwhile, enjoy the semi-normalcy! Also, if you guys have any critique of this chapter, let me know (it'll probably help make the next one better!) Warning: this chapter and the next will have a lot of face time with the thieves, so if you don't like them, I apologize. Also, if you're having trouble keeping them straight, I've put a guide to the OCs on my profile if ya need it.

And, as always, I send much affection and gratitude to those who reviewed last time. I genuinely never expected to get so many reviews for this story – let me just say I'm honored. Thank you so much – Angael, Mittelan, BlueFox of the Moon, Jaims17, Fiver, ltkk022, RemainSilent1, Alug-Andaaz-Hai, Slave to my Pen, ChocolateLizz, Ryou VeRua, Calm Envy, mystralwind, haku fan1, Chibi-Roy-Chan, LadyBlackwell, MokoBunChan, agent lunar, BlackxCinderella, MyraHellsing, Rahuratna, ChaosRocket, Niamy Tak, Holy Metal Muffin of Death, Almond Luver, and Spyncr. You guys rock my AU world!

Also, to clear up any well-founded uncertainty, it is my regret to inform you that I am not, in fact, the owner of YGO. Enjoy!

ʘ

It was early morning, and the streets of the city were still quiet. Curfew was over, and the citizens were just starting their days. The guard on patrol walked quietly through the district – it was one of the poorer neighborhoods in the city. Many of the mud-brick houses were in disrepair – roofs let in the wind, and rats roamed the alleys. There were always rats about at this hour; they were fat from garbage and arrogant enough not to run when he walked by. They would just sit up on their flea-ridden haunches and watch him with their beady eyes as he passed. He could hear people walking around, pottery clanking as wives prepared breakfast. A girl sang off-key in a room somewhere, and the notes floated out her window into the still air.

The sentry wasn't sure anymore how much time had passed; he guessed he'd been at his post for about forty-five hours. Every twelve hours he was assigned to a new neighborhood; they rotated the guard like that, to prevent them getting careless. Normally, he knew, he would be weak, unable to stand anymore, but the commanding officer had given each of the sentries an herb concoction to drink and it helped. Even though his eyes still burned when he closed them, the blood was buzzing through his veins and his mind was alert. He could probably keep going for another day now.

He turned a corner. A thin man in a turban left a house through a side door with a heavy load of grain on his back, and passed the guard by without looking at him. Citizens tended to avoid eye contact, and of course they almost never spoke to him. Sometimes this struck the guard as a little unfair, seeing as how he was doing his job to protect them, but he understood why they were wary.

The man who would have usually replaced him, Tefibi, was no longer present to take over his shift. Of course, the higher-ups hadn't told any of the sentries where Tefibi had gone, but there were rumors going around the barracks that the man had been placed in solitary confinement. The sentry shuddered to think of this. They didn't always remember to feed you in solitary confinement. Sometimes it was just a pretty name for execution - they'd forget all about you until the cell was needed for somebody else. Maybe it was on purpose, and maybe not. Tefibi must have screwed something up bad.

The guard shifted his spear to his other shoulder, eyes automatically scanning the street. People thought all sorts of things about what Tefibi had done. Some thought he'd blatantly disrespected the chief of police. Tefibi was a conscripted prisoner of war, so it wasn't all that implausible, but the sentry, for one, didn't believe it. Tefibi had been only nineteen years old, but he was already a broken man. He was too meek to voice his dissatisfaction. The sentry had heard, in a hushed conversation, that Tefibi had been assigned patrol duty that ill-fated night when the Thief King had returned the kidnapped priestess. Not only had he let the man escape, but according to the infantryman who'd told him, he'd been frozen by fear, and hadn't even tried to attack him. If it was true, it was a grievous dereliction of duty, and the sentry would probably never see him again. He could only feel sorry for Tefibi, and take up his shifts in his absence until his superiors got around to finding somebody else.

The city was in semi-lockdown; nobody was allowed on the streets after midnight, or before six in the morning. Scores of civilians had already been arrested. The Thief King was a looming threat; ever since the old Pharaoh had died and Atemu had taken over the throne, he'd seemed to sense a weakness in the Kingdom of Egypt, and like a shark that smelled blood in the water, he was circling closer and closer to the source. Additionally, the Pharaoh's advisors wanted to take precautions against possible attacks from the South; alliances everywhere were growing shaky (anybody could see that; even an unschooled soldier like him) and to make matters worse, just last week a priest had been murdered. The suspect was still at large in the city, hiding somewhere, he was told - but nobody had found him yet. Commanding officers were getting nervous, and when they got nervous, they got brutal. Meanwhile the guards, like him, were stuck waiting – waiting and watching. The situation couldn't go on like this indefinitely; something was going to have to break. The sentry tried to hold off dread, but it was like a dog that followed you home; every time you gave it a kick it would disappear for a while until before you realized it, it had returned, closer than before, while you'd been looking away.

The sentry stopped and leaned against a wall, letting his eyes close momentarily. This street was still empty for now; nobody would see him. His eyes were on fire; he was half afraid that when he opened them the pain would have burned away his sight. But no; his eyes just watered up instead. The sentry let the tears spill down his unshaven cheeks. They were tears of weariness, not of sorrow. There was no place for sorrow anymore. He started walking again. Somewhere, his wife was waiting for him to come back home, and so he would sweat it out, and hopefully when leave time came he would be able to see her and his son, who must have grown quite a bit since he'd been gone. If he thought about his sleepless nights, if he thought about the herbs they now had to drink, if he thought about Tefibi, if he thought about his son's vanishing childhood, he would get angry. He might get angry at the wrong people, and that would never do. Save your anger for the enemy, he told himself. Once we kill the enemy, we can all go home.

ʘ

Morning brought with it a clear, beautiful emptiness. He opened his eyes, and even though there were no windows in the chamber, Malik knew it was the start of a new day. The air was lighter somehow, quiet and still, and in the slumberous hush he could hear everything – the wind that gently stirred the curtain, the sputter of the hot oil in the still-burning lamps, the soft respirations on the other side of the room.

There was a light aflame in the corner, and it cast a tremulous shadow through the strings of the harp that fell in stripes across the body of the sleeping thief. He was sprawled on his back, head comfortably cushioned against his arm, a tangle of white hair hiding part of his face. The lines of light and darkness moved with him as he breathed – shade pooling in the hollows of his throat, brilliance flickering across the planes of his chest. He looked invulnerable, arrogant even in sleep. Briefly, Malik wondered what it would be like to sleep like that – unafraid, as if nothing and no one could hurt him, even in the night. Was it even possible to hurt the man? From the way he carried himself, it seemed it would be easier to throw stones at Ra.

But the scar on his face seemed to suggest otherwise. There were thick, knotted scars on Aminadav's back – it was all too easy to guess where those had come from – and there was a thin, pale line across Nefermaat's throat that told its own story. Every one of the thieves was marked in some way, a testament to the life he led. But the Thief King's scar alone was a mystery. Who could have come close enough to inflict it? Who would have dared?

The last misty vestiges of slumber still clung to Malik's mind as he gazed at the other man. Akefia, he thought suddenly, the memory bright as a burst of sparks. He said I could call him Akefia.

Without warning, something else came to mind. Malik was almost afraid to, but he looked, and there it was on the floor beside him – the bottle from last night.

Just like that, the scene in the desert rushed back to the forefront of his consciousness – startling in its clarity. The dizzying feeling was fresh in his memory – how he hadn't been sure for a moment where he was standing, or if the horizon was right side up. The stinging in his eyes, the searing in his lungs, the camel before him, buzzing with decay in the moonlight. He stared at the bottle. It had all really happened. He remembered somehow that afterward he had been close to tears – or maybe he had actually even wept. A surge of such vehement self-disgust rose in him that it was all he could do to keep from cursing himself aloud. Oh, and Akefia…Akefia would remember it all, he was sure of that.

Malik, under the right circumstances, was capable of being an extremely lazy person. If no immediate circumstances prevented him from doing so, he was generally perfectly happy remaining in bed for as long as an hour after he woke up, absently observing his thoughts the way a child watches minnows in still water. But this time, for once, he didn't want to be alone with his reflections. With the Thief King asleep, no distractions were forthcoming, and besides, Malik wasn't sure he was capable of facing him again right away after the strange night that had just passed. Quietly, he got to his feet. He turned, and headed out of the chamber, hoping to find something else to occupy his thought – or would have, had not a nearby hand suddenly shot out and closed around his ankle.

With a noise of surprise (for the sake of his precarious self-esteem, Malik told himself it had definitely been a dignified noise) he spun around, only just managing to regain his balance, and stared in shock down at the interference.

The interference stared back somewhat critically, sharp-eyed considering the fact that he had (to external appearances) been sleeping soundly not a moment ago. "Leaving again so soon?" he asked.

Malik just blinked.

"And without even so much as a good morning," the Thief King continued dolefully. "Do I really mean so little to you, Majesty?"

It was a good thing Akefia could keep a straight face when he wanted to; otherwise he would have burst out laughing at the indignant look that appeared on the noble's face.

"I didn't even know you were awake!" Malik complained in his own defense.

"I'm always awake," the thief replied smoothly. "Even when I'm asleep."

"I'll keep that in mind…" Malik eyed him with suspicion. It didn't seem possible for a human being to wake up that quickly. The logical conclusion to be drawn, of course, was that he had only been pretending...but to what end? It was possible, he supposed, that the man never really slept at all, but this was a rather troubling thought.

Akefia chuckled, a deep bass rumble that started somewhere in his chest. "Relax, Majesty. You'll kill yourself if you don't lighten up once in a while. Now sit down, I want to talk to you."

At those simple words, Malik's face went in a second from mildly distressed to guarded. It was like a wall had gone up somewhere behind his eyes. Unconsciously, the noble glanced towards the entrance of the chamber, as if judging whether it might be worthwhile to make a run for it. This evasive glance was not lost on the thief.

Interesting, thought Akefia. He had been debating whether to tell Malik the details of what had gone on the previous night – he'd been hoping to shed some illumination on the mystery, but didn't want to risk causing Malik unnecessary stress. However, in the space of a moment, he decided against it. Last night his new charge had seemed so vulnerable…still was, no doubt, but now Akefia wondered. Did he really remember nothing? Let's wait and see…

Meanwhile, Malik had obediently taken a seat on the edge of the divan and was now watching Akefia, eyes wide, as if ready to run at the first sign of danger. The thief thought, with some amusement, that he looked rather like a nervous gazelle.

"Would you stop fidgeting with that thing?"

Malik dropped the hem of his tunic sleeve with some reluctance.

"Now," said the Thief King. "How are you?"

The words were simple, straightforward at first, but Malik didn't miss the shrewd tone of voice, the unspoken message. He knew Akefia wanted an explanation, but he didn't have one. How pathetic he must seem to the Thief King now, how strange, how weak...

"I'm fine," the younger man said, trying to sound nonchalant. But his voice came out unsure, even to himself.

Malik got the uncanny sense he was being sized up. Akefia's attention was so focused it was almost piercing, and his grey eyes were cold, scrutinizing him carefully, as if Malik was a complicated trap he was trying to disable.

"If you say so, Majesty," was all he said in reply.

What Akefia really wanted to know was what had happened with the priest, but it was clear he wasn't likely to get a straight story out of Malik at this point. He'd get his information later, he knew. He'd make sure of that. And he didn't mind waiting.

He knew, too, that things often took on a phantom significance in the middle of the night that disappeared with morning. People were stranger by the light of the moon. Perhaps the incident in the desert was inconsequential, and maybe not. Only time would tell. If he's covering something up, the stress will break him down sooner or later, and if not, the Thief King thought to himself, well, no harm done.

Malik leaned back against the wall and dropped his eyes to the floor. Suspicious minds seemed to follow him wherever he went, and it was making him tired. It was not the weariness that could be eased by sleep; it went deeper than that.

"Strange things happen all the time," he said quietly. "It didn't mean anything."

And it was the truth, wasn't it? He'd killed somebody, started life in exile, had some kind of nightmare – not ideally where he'd envisioned his life ending up, but there it was. All he wanted to do was to clear the air between him and Akefia, and hopefully not ever have to bring it up again.

So anxious to convince me, aren't you, Majesty?

"Very well." Akefia said it so lightly that Malik looked up at him again suddenly and frowned, confused at the change in tone.

"What?"

The Thief King leaned on his elbow and raised an eyebrow at Malik. "Why do you look so surprised? I believe you."

Malik knew what belief looked like, and it was nowhere in the Thief King's eyes. There was no earthly reason he could think of for why he should feel betrayed by this, but he did.

"That's a lie," he accused Akefia.

"Isn't that what you wanted to hear?" A smile appeared on the Thief King's face, quick and pitiless as the flash of a whip. "Eye for an eye, Majesty. First you told me you weren't afraid, and then you told me you were fine." He drawled the last word mockingly.

A reply was ready on Malik's tongue – he was just about to argue that those hadn't been lies; he had not lied once, in fact, the whole time he'd been there – but suddenly he found himself wondering, why did it matter so much after all? Damn Akefia if he didn't want to believe him. It wasn't Malik's problem.

"Tooth for a tooth then," he returned caustically, before he thought better of it. "In that case I suppose you think you owe me another lie."

Akefia didn't seem fazed. "What makes you think I haven't already settled our account?"

"So how do you expect me to believe anything you say?"

"Should you anyway?"

He had a point.

"You, however, still owe me." Akefia yawned and stretched, looking like nothing so much as a big cat. "So what do you say, Majesty? Ready for your first day as my new lackey?"

ʘ

The task that lay before him was so simple.

So simple, and yet so daunting.

Go tell that lot of bums out there to make themselves useful, had been Akefia's exact words. He made it sound so easy, Malik thought with no small measure of resentment. The problem with that was that all of the thieves were still asleep, and clearly it was going to be Malik's job to change that state of affairs. Akefia wasn't up himself – the Thief King sleeps as long as he damn well pleases, he'd declared, before dozing off again. In Malik's opinion, this was more than slightly hypocritical, but he kept his mouth shut. He considered trying to stall for time, but in the end steeled himself to the task at hand. The sooner he got it over with, the better.

Luck was on his side, however.

"Oh hello," said Zazamoukh. He'd woken as soon as Malik stepped into his chamber and was now sitting up in a pile of blankets, rubbing his eyes. His curly hair was sticking up every which way. "Up bright and early, I see."

Zazamoukh's own store of treasure was scattered in haphazard piles around his room, which was rather bare and nondescript compared to the opulence of the Thief King's chamber. The exception to this, Malik noticed, was a bust of some long-dead queen that stood against the opposite wall. Zazamoukh apparently had taken to using it as a receptacle for all his nicest jewelry; as a result the chipped statue was laden with necklaces and numerous headdresses so precariously stacked they looked as if they might fall over any minute.

"Who's she?"

Zaza shrugged. "I forgot. I just call her Nubiti."

The golden lady. Well, that made sense.

Malik cleared his throat. "Akefia told me to tell you - "

"I know, I know," Zaza broke in with a smile. "Look sharp, get busy. Right?" He got to his feet and yawned, muttering something about breakfast as he left the chamber.

The task of waking the rest of the men, when he got right down to it, wasn't actually too bad. Kawab was next; unfortunately he was suffering an evil hangover as a souvenir of the previous night. His room was pitch-black and when Malik pulled aside the curtain he gave an inarticulate bellow and buried his face in his blankets.

"Time to get up," Malik said, as encouragingly as he could.

"Five more minutes," came the muffled reply. After the fourth entreaty, however, Malik was beginning to get exasperated and suggested as gently as he could that the Thief King might be getting up soon. This had an immediate effect; although Kawab grumbled and groused mightily, he stumbled to his feet and (with a hand clamped firmly over his eyes) left the room.

Siamun, however, rose to greet the day uncomplainingly, and Aminadav even graced him with a 'good morning'.

Teti-En proved slightly more difficult. He required a good deal of prodding, and when he was finally at a point where he was half-awake, sat up and began swearing at Malik - calling him a crocodile-headed son of a bitch and informing him belligerently that he had hidden his offspring throughout the fertile valley, and also in his pockets.

"But if I know my offspring are in your pockets," Malik pointed out reasonably, "they're not hidden anymore, are they?"

This practical observation seemed to bring the green-eyed thief back to reality. After a moment, he seemed to remember who Malik was and apologized profusely. Malik accepted the apology without complaint. The thief was about to leave when he appeared to think of something and turned back.

"I don't suppose you've seen any griffins around this morning?"

"No, sorry."

Teti-En nodded as if he'd been expecting this. "Bastards tend to be invisible these days," he explained in conspiratorial tones, before sleepily padding away.

At last, there was only one more thief left to rouse. Malik hesitated for a moment before pushing aside the curtain and stepping into Nefermaat's chamber.

At first, he didn't see any treasure lying around, which struck him as odd – until he realized why. Nefermaat was on top of it.

He had arranged his loot into one heap, decadently covered with cushions and blankets and leopard skins. This was where the sleeping thief was now sprawled in luxurious fashion – face down, braids scattered every which way. Malik wasn't sure whether this unorthodox sleeping arrangement was meant to safeguard his ill-gotten bounty, or whether it was intended as a monument to the man's debauchery. Possibly it was both.

"Go away," Nefermaat mumbled languorously, without looking up.

"But you have to get up." Malik's attempt at sounding stern was somewhat lamentable.

Nefermaat looked up at the sound of his voice. "Oh, hello cutie," he said with a winning smile. "Why didn't you say it was you?"

Malik blinked. "What did you just call me?" He wasn't sure whether to be confused or affronted, but confusion seemed to be winning out.

This only earned a laugh from Nefermaat. "My apologies, Majesty. Do you like that better?"

Truth be told, Malik had gotten somewhat used to the Thief King's nickname (by no means did he approve of it) but coming from Nefermaat it sounded completely…wrong, and somehow inappropriate.

He frowned. "I like my name better."

"Remind me."

"It's Malik."

"Malik, Malik, Maliky Malik," Nefermaat singsonged. "Doesn't exactly roll off the tongue, does it? I'll have to think of a better name for you."

"That's fine, really," said Malik (thinking his name rolled off the tongue just fine). "Well, now you're up, I'll just leave you alone…"

A bejeweled hand shot out and grabbed his wrist. "I have a better idea," the thief said silkily. "Why don't we get to know each other a little better? Get to be friends, eh?"

Malik studied the Nubian carefully. He didn't trust the man's intentions, that was certain. Yet he didn't want to react too abruptly. It would never do to start his second day with the thieves having already made a mortal enemy, would it? Besides, he had no idea how Nefermaat might react should he do or say something rash. Right now the thief was putting on a show of mock sincerity – his voice was deceptively soft, and that smile made him look as harmless as a lion with its claws sheathed. In other words, not harmless at all. His hands were bony but his grip was strong. It was morning, and Malik wasn't alone, which made for a measure of reassurance, but he was still careful. Malik didn't allow the man to draw him any nearer, but neither did he try to pull away.

"Why don't we get to be friends outside," he suggested warily.

Nefermaat grinned. "Sharp, aren't you? Just the type of quality I like in a friend…"

Now the thief was pulling him closer. Malik had the brief, ridiculous feeling that he was caught in a twisted game of tug of war. He felt rather sorry for himself. First that less-than-pleasant exchange with the Thief King that morning, and now this? He'd woken up in such a good mood, too…

"You don't have to be so skittish, you know," the thief was saying. "I'm a nice guy."

"Look," Malik interjected nervously. "Akefia just said to tell you to get busy. Other than that I have no - "

Nefermaat rolled his eyes. "Akefia, Akefia, Akefia," he repeated dismally. "Can we not talk about Akefia for one goddamn minute? King of Thieves, Scourge of Egypt, Terror of the Upper World, Fury of the Desert, Devastator of Women, yadda yadda. I'm sick of hearing about it. Forget about him for a while."

Malik blinked. "I'm pretty sure he just heard you. He's standing right outside."

In an instant Nefermaat's honey-colored eyes widened alarmingly. The blood drained from his face.

"What?" he faltered. In his shock his grip on Malik's wrist had loosened, and the noble seized the opportunity to nimbly slip away. Before the Nubian could react, Malik had already disappeared out of reach to the other side of the curtain.

Malik had retreated to a safe distance before Nefermaat stuck his head out of his chamber. He scanned the area, and after ascertaining that Akefia was, in fact, nowhere to be found, his eyes alighted on Malik and narrowed.

"You'll pay for that," he said ominously, before retreating again.

He suspected he should be filled with dread, but despite logic, Malik was having an awfully hard time not breaking out in laughter.

"Care to tell me what that was all about?" Zaza had approached him from behind.

"Oh, nothing." Malik had a rather goofy smirk on his face.

Zaza eyed him inquisitively. "Why were you in there anyway?"

"Had to wake him up."

Zaza pondered this. "You know, I'd be careful in there if I were you. He'll proposition anything with a heartbeat."

Thanks for the heads-up, Malik thought. For some reason this thought made him feel like laughing again.

ʘ

Breakfast was dates and beer with honey. Together it was almost unbearably sweet, but Malik was starving and wolfed it down so fast he barely noticed. He hadn't eaten in quite a long time, but despite his hunger he was full before he wanted to be. He was parched, so he ended up drinking more than he usually did. The beer wasn't strong, but Malik had always had a weak head for alcohol and so this resulted in a rather warm, happy feeling which, if he was going to be honest, he didn't mind at all.

The desert in the morning was even more beautiful than Malik had expected it to be, but it was also a little frightening. The stars were still visible overhead, but with the growing light they had been reduced to dim pinpricks of light, like dying embers in a fire. The vaulted skies were churning blue and lavender and orange, unfathomably deep. The last traces of nighttime chill still lingered in the ground and in the rocks, but it would be gone in a few hours. The sun seemed so close he felt he could practically reach out and touch it – suspended there like an ornament, a flat disc the sodden color of blood. The wind had blown the sand smooth as a baby's forehead. The dunes he remembered from last night were no longer there; new ones had appeared in other places. The air was crisp, and he could see for miles and miles into the distance to the point where the feverish light of the young sun blended the horizon with the sky.

Gone was the menace that seemed to creep up when night fell – by the light of the glaring sun, the mystery of the desert seemed less immediate, more profound and difficult to grasp, like halfway formed shapes at the edge of your vision that fled when you turned your head to look. The shadows of night had fled; in the limpid morning everything was visible. This only seemed to make what was not visible more concealed, like a secret hidden behind a smile.

Looking out of the cave entrance, Malik saw beyond a ridge of sand something glimmering far off in the distance. It was a body of water, surrounded by sand, yet so vast it seemed almost unreal. It was far larger than any of the artificial ponds he had seen in the city; it had to be a lake (something he had never seen but had read about in accounts of foreign travels). The new sunlight gleamed off the surface of the water, shattering into a million diamond scintillations that winked at him from afar, elusive and bright as a promise.

He didn't notice that Akefia had walked up behind him until he felt a hand settle itself on his shoulder and a voice spoke from his side.

"Enjoying the view, Majesty?"

He didn't jump as he normally would have (he attributed this to the happy beer feeling and wondered vaguely if maybe he should start drinking more).

"How long does it take to get there?" he asked. He didn't need to specify where 'there' was; Akefia had already followed his line of sight and was now gazing at the lake in the distance, where it hid behind the uneven mountains of sand.

"Quite a while, I'm afraid," the Thief King replied, a smile curving his lips. "It's not real."

Malik squinted at the vision to see it better. It didn't seem possible, it was right there…

"Just a mirage," the man went on to explain dispassionately. "A trick of the light. It's there most mornings, but it's always gone by noon."

"I've never seen anything like that before," Malik said, partly to himself. Try as he might to convince his mind it was an illusion, some part of his brain refused to believe it. Especially when the wind seemed to ripple the surface like that… "It's beautiful."

"That it might be," said the Thief King with a shrug. "But in the end it's just more bloody sand. Now." He gave Malik's shoulder a squeeze and turned back into the cave. "Follow me. I've got something more useful you can do with your time."

ʘ

Malik stared at the pile of treasure in front of him.

The pile was roughly the same height he was (and that was standing, not sitting). It consisted of the spoils brought back from the raid in Edfu; the thieves had unloaded it all the previous night and stacked it in a communal heap towards the back of the cave where it now waited, a gleaming hoard, like some lustrous sleeping beast. It was huge, it was shiny, it was expensive, it was…

"Your project for the next few hours," said the Thief King, before leaving him alone with the treasure.

Back to staring at the thing. Akefia had instructed him to separate everything according to content. One heap for coins and gold, one for jewelry and gems, and one for everything else (the "everything else" ranged from small statues to incense to clothing to weapons to artifacts Malik couldn't even begin to guess at).

All right. He could do this. This was easy. He was no stranger to menial tasks (although organizing the stolen bounty of tomb robbers wasn't quite what he'd call menial). It would probably take him a while, but he was grateful to have something to occupy himself with.

The first hour went well. He came up with the bright idea of separating the coins and jewelry into some of the empty chests that the thieves had tossed to the side (and congratulated himself on his systematization). The coins were of every different metal, copper and silver and gold, and at first Malik considered separating them by country of origin until it occurred to him that if he did that he'd probably be working into tomorrow. His hands worked busily, and as the minutes passed he felt himself gradually regaining a sense of normalcy. Around the cave, the thieves were busy too – Nefermaat still hadn't gotten up (Akefia must have noticed but he hadn't said anything so far). However, Aminadav and Siamun were outside feeding the horses, and Teti-En was sitting nearby with a bucket of water, humming to himself contentedly and cleaning what appeared to be dried blood from the weapons the thieves had brought back from the journey. Akefia and Kawab were outside as well, chopping wood from what he could hear. The sorting of treasure was thirstier work than he'd expected it to be, but Zazamoukh thoughtfully stopped by with some beer after a while (thereby prolonging the happy mood).

The treasure gave off a warm, golden glow, but it was cold in his hands. There were riches galore in the palace, of course, but there was something particularly striking about seeing everything piled up in one place like this, and something wondrous, too, about feeling the weight of gold in his hands, seeing the hard brilliance of emerald, the honeyed fire of carnelian, the clear blue shadows of lapis lazuli. Had it all come from the Edfu temple, or had they raided tombs as well? He'd heard rumors aplenty, and knew that the thieves sometimes robbed the homes of the aristocracy; perhaps at this very moment some distraught noblewoman was missing this malachite necklace he had in his hand right now. It was green banded with black, dark as the plants that grew in the shade. Or maybe they had stolen it from one who was already dead.

Malik had grown up with stories and legends about the Thief King and other bands of robbers that roamed the land of Egypt; grown up terrified of them. Long before he'd been old enough to understand anything, he'd heard people talking about the Thief King – from the priests to the servants to the merchants in the bazaar. Stories abounded of his bloodthirsty ways - the terrible things he'd done, the people he'd killed, and the dead he'd robbed of eternal life. Their voices, speaking of him, would be as awed and as solemn as those left in the wake of a typhoon.

The Kingdom of Egypt was mighty – it was the footprint of God in the lonely desert, unequalled in all the world. Its strength was in its ingenuity and its organization, and how could it be so except by being rigid? Society was structured down to the last detail, from the Pharaoh on down to the slaves, and sometimes, in his teenage years, Malik had been overwhelmed by the nagging sense that his life had been predetermined by his circumstances before he was born. There was a structure, and your place in it was certain and defined as the cell in a bee's honeycomb. How was it that these men he'd grown up hearing of had managed to break free?

It was alluring, no doubt, and sometimes his imagination would run wild. And yet, he remembered always being afraid of them. Once, when he was a child, he'd been tagging along with a group of sometime friends – palace kids, who were generally bored witless and always looking for something troublesome to do. Tired of the city, they'd taken it into their heads to go exploring in the desert, a forbidden realm. Yet when they'd pleaded with the guard at the gate to let them go exploring (within eyesight, of course) he'd just shaken his head with a smile.

Silly kids, he'd said, don't you know the thieves will get you? Eyes wide, they shook their heads, hoping to hear more.

They ride around out in the desert, looking for victims. If they caught you out there, the guard said, pointing at one of the boys, they'd cut off your head with one swipe. And if they came across you, he added, indicating a girl, they'd steal you away and nobody would ever hear from you again.

But why? Malik remembered asking. We're just kids.

They're evil, the guard said, suddenly serious. Don't try to understand people who are evil. You can't do it. Run along home now.

After that, the children tended to stay away from the gate.

He would never know what this malachite necklace had been through to get here, he realized. Whose heart had been broken, whose blood had been spilled. And then he realized he'd been holding the same necklace for the last five minutes. With a sigh, he reminded himself to stop his mind from wandering, and continued with his work.

By the second hour, he was starting to feel a little antsy. He'd been working relentlessly, but could perceive only a discouragingly slight dent in the pile of riches. His legs were starting to cramp from sitting in the same position for so long, so he moved. Akefia stopped by to see how he was doing, and seemed pleased with his progress.

"Having fun, Majesty?"

Malik acceded with a nod of his head. Actually, he was quite glad he'd been entrusted with some degree of responsibility, however slight. He'd been starting to feel useless, and it was good to be earning his keep – or working towards it, anyway.

"Splendid," said Akefia, rubbing his chin thoughtfully. "I think I'll have you count everything tomorrow."

Maybe he shouldn't have said he was having fun.

By the third hour, Malik was definitely bored. Zazamoukh had come by to talk to him, and that had temporarily alleviated the tedium, but after the thief left, Malik thought he could almost feel his mind falling asleep from disuse, in the same way his legs were now feeling tingly from remaining motionless for so long. He'd filled up multiple chests at this point, but still the pile was diminishing at an alarmingly slow rate.

Mekhu, the thin-faced treasurer, had returned at some point in the intervening time, looking rather road-weary and dusty from traveling. His eyes lighted on Malik almost as soon as he stepped into the cave.

"What's he doing?" he asked sharply, indicating the noble with a motion of his head.

"Saving you a lot of work," the Thief King replied congenially.

He could almost hear the gears clicking in Mekhu's head. "Hm. I suppose I should thank him."

"You should thank me. You think he's doing it by choice?"

Mekhu smirked at that. The Thief King shot Malik a wink.

The fourth hour was hell. He'd ceased any sort of conscious acknowledgement of the treasure, and indeed barely looked at it as he worked. Akefia didn't miss the effect the growing tedium was having on Malik. From time to time his eyes would glaze over in boredom as he continued to sort the treasure semi-automatically. Then something would happen – Teti-En would throw another polished sword on the pile with a clank, or Zaza would knock something over, and he'd give a start and look up again, suddenly alert, trying not to seem like he'd just been zoning out. It was all very amusing as far as Akefia was concerned.

The Thief King was seated with Mekhu and Aminadav around the fire pit, and they were already making plans for the next raid. It was to be some time in the future, but in Akefia's opinion, nothing bad ever came from planning in advance. The three men were conferring over some architectural blueprints and floor plans, drawing up a plan step by step and hashing out their strategies. All his thieves were astute in different ways; Aminadav had a particular knack for helping come up with a solid course of action, and Mekhu could be counted upon to immediately spot any potential problems with the proposed strategy. Akefia attributed this to the man's natural pessimism. It served him well.

From time to time, he would catch Malik glancing jealously over in their direction – curious as to what they were discussing and no doubt longing to bear witness to some piece of the action. He was still too shy to ask what they were talking about, even though he obviously wanted to. Akefia thought this was rather funny as well. He knew the boy wouldn't be able to follow a word of what they were saying. As soon as he'd left the city walls, all his instruction, all his book knowledge, all his Phoenician and his Greek had been rendered instantly useless. A different kind of knowledge was needed to survive here, and Malik would have to start to relearn everything he'd ever known.

Meanwhile, Malik was growing slightly resentful about the station he'd been reduced to. He'd been trying to overhear what Akefia was talking about with the others, but the conversation was taking place just below the threshold of hearing. This annoyed Malik to no end. There was something interesting going on, and here he was, stuck sorting treasure of all things. The novelty had long since worn off, regrettably. At first he'd been happy to do something useful, but there were so much more useful things he could be doing.

Malik was so caught up in mulling over this indignity that he didn't bother to look at what he was doing. His hand landed on something cold and yielding and almost clammy – something that definitely wasn't treasure. Surprised, he looked down at it.

Mekhu and Aminadav had started to argue about something, but just then, an anguished cry sounded from Malik's direction.

When Akefia came over to investigate, the noble's eyes were wide and he looked as if he might be quite close to being physically ill. He said nothing, but simply pointed to the pile of treasure. Or, more specifically, to something on the pile of treasure.

"Oh, hello," Akefia said, sounding pleased. He picked up the severed hand. "I was wondering where this thing had gotten to."

Malik was temporarily speechless. Akefia was touching the unholy thing, actually holding it in his bare hands, examining the gummed-over wound at the wrist.

"Sword needed sharpening," he muttered begrudgingly.

Malik shuddered, revolted and at the same time unable to look away. "What on earth was it doing in there?" he asked, finally finding his voice.

Akefia showed him the hand up close. He recoiled at first but then he noticed a ring glittering on the dead grey finger. It was in the shape of a scarab beetle, meticulously carved of milky green chalcedony, and set in gold. Some jeweler must have taken weeks, if not months, to make it. The beetle was only carved of stone, but some trick of the light made it look as if life flared within its opalescent depths.

"Nice, eh?" Akefia inspected it again. "Not exactly the kind of trinket you'd expect to find on the hand of a common guard. Must have had friends in high places." He chuckled to himself and wrenched the ring off the finger. Malik heard a crack and winced. "Not that it helped him much in the end."

Zazamoukh wandered by, noticed the ring, and let out a low, impressed whistle. "Can I have that?" he asked, with a hopeful grin.

"You can have this," the Thief King replied, offering him the hand instead.

"No, thanks."

"Deal of a lifetime."

"I'll pass."

Akefia frowned at the hand, as if trying to divine what should be done with it. He should probably get rid of it, but for some reason he was reluctant to let it go. You never knew what could be useful. All at once a brilliant idea struck him.

Malik looked on, befuddled, as Akefia approached the chamber where Nefermaat was (miraculously) still asleep. Quiet as air, he seemed almost to melt inside. A moment passed, then two, and he reemerged, looking pleased with himself. As if nothing had happened, he rejoined the strategy conference and took up the discussion with Aminadav and Mekhu once again. Aminadav glanced at Nefermaat's chamber and Malik saw him whisper a question to Akefia, but it went unanswered.

Gingerly, Malik picked up the scarab ring from the pile. He fervently hoped the Thief King had made off with the hand after he'd killed the guard, rather than before. Putting it out of his mind, he went back to sorting the treasure. What else was there to do?

Not long after that, the Thief King got astride his black stallion and rode away without bidding anyone farewell. It was around noon by then, the ground so hot it sent up wavy fissures in the air, like ripples of water. Nearby, Zazamoukh was watching him leave. The expression on his face made him look older somehow.

"Where's he going?"

Zaza looked around suddenly at the sound of his voice, as if he'd forgotten Malik was there, and then he gave a short laugh. "Could be the other side of the world, for all I know."

Malik watched his form, receding into the distance. It was getting harder and harder to make him out. His head felt heavy.

"He's coming back, right?" It might have been a foolish thing to ask, but Malik was wary of taking anything for granted these days.

Zaza nodded. "Yes. It might be a couple of hours, it might be a couple of days. Might even be a couple of weeks, that's happened before. But he'll be back." The thief gave him a smile that was meant to be encouraging, but the muted sorrow Malik had seen in his eyes the previous day was there again. Maybe it had never really left.

They had lunch, and then Malik went back to the mind-numbing task at hand. Zaza sat cross-legged nearby, carving strips of leather out of an animal hide. After a while he started humming to himself quietly, gazing out into the desert. After a while Malik recognized the melody – although where he'd heard it before, he couldn't remember. The tune was gentle and hazy, rising and falling with a mesmerizing cadence. Something about it was sweetly haunting, and it awoke something deep in Malik's consciousness. It was an old song about a sick man, remembering his sister, who had gone away. When she spoke, the sound of her voice gave him strength, said the man in the song. And when she took him in her arms, she drove evil away.

ʘ

From time to time Malik or somebody else refers to "God" instead of "Gods" – this is because the Ancient Egyptians thought that everything (including other gods) emanated from one god to begin with. This was probably a conception that was confined to people educated in theology – priests, etc. – rather than one that was familiar to the population at large.

And Nefermaat made half those nicknames up. =)

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