“Where are you from?” Atossa asked.

  “What’s that?” Heshtat asked, askance. It had taken them an age to navigate the twisted alleys and narrow streets of Underbridge to meet with Neferu’s contact, and then another byzantine journey to reach the tavern they currently sat within to meet Cleosiris’ chosen crew.

  Across a short, poorly carved table from Heshtat and his companions was a grizzled boat-captain. Atossa was dark-haired, dark-eyed, and dark of disposition. He had a man and a woman with him, both mirrors of one another and with worrying smirks. The way the woman eyed him in particular set Heshtat’s jaw to clenching. Something hungry in her gaze, like he was a mark that would be easily conned.

  “Your accent. It’s not Amansi, I know that much,” growled Atossa, cleaning his fingernails with a sharp dagger—almost a mini shamshir with its jewelled hilt and the slight curve of its blade. “So, where are you from? Originally.”

  Heshtat sighed, hearing Maatkare snicker behind him at the action. “Here and there,” he said, taking a leaf from Neferu’s book to divert the man, before leaning forwards. “I want to talk about securing us passage up the Nikea with your crew.”

  “Aye, an’ I wouldn’t mind if the twins here would focus their lascivious attentions on me every once in a while, but we don’t all get what we want,” the captain said with a laugh. His two companions didn’t so much as flinch at the words, their unnerving attention still locked on Heshtat. “They do have an eye for the exotic, though, so tell us where you’re from, and perhaps you’ll be their next lucky victim.”

  The man on his right grinned, and the woman ran a tongue across her teeth suggestively. Heshtat’s skin itched. The twin’s combined attention felt not all that dissimilar from Tentamun’s; burning across his face and setting his blood to pounding. This was of a slightly different flavour, true, but it was just as unwelcome.

  His companions jostled behind him, and Heshtat hurried to speak before any of them could interject. “We’re on a tight schedule. When are you leaving?”

  Atossa’s languid grin slipped away as he leaned forward himself, pressing the point of his dagger into the scarred wood of the table. The motion wasn’t fast, but the point still penetrated a couple of inches and was left quivering in the wood as he released it.

  “That’s as maybe, but I don’t let people on my ship that I can’t trust, and knowing a man’s heritage is the first step.”

  “Very well,” Heshtat said. “I hail from the Badlands of Sardis, near the border.”

  “Interesting,” the man said. “You don’t sound like a typical Sasskanid. Not quite like one of us, aye?”

  “I worked hard to lose the accent,” Heshtat replied coolly.

  “And yet,” the man countered, equally cool. “I’ve met a lot of men and women in my travels, believe me, and there’s not many that I’ve failed to place once they open their mouths.”

  Heshtat shrugged. “I’ve answered. May we now proceed to more important matters?”

  “It’s a step,” Atossa replied. “Tell me though, why are you here?”

  Heshtat’s face hardened. “Our duty is ours alone, captain. You’ll know no more of it than is required to earn your coin, and all that you need for that is to ferry us up the river.”

  “How far?”

  “Past the upper nomes. An island near Abydos.”

  The man smiled and leaned back. “Interesting, and something we can accommodate. But that is not my question.”

  Heshtat raised an eyebrow, attempting to look unbothered as the captain levelled an uncompromising look his way. The twins on either side of him continued to stare, and Heshtat felt as if he was being judged by a trio of sphinxes.

  “Why are you here, Sabsi?” The Sasskanid honorific caught Heshtat off guard, and he frowned. “Not today, and not in this marvel of a city,” the captain continued, gesturing with his curved knife rather carelessly. “But on this side of the border. Ma mithwanium shama raa najat dahim agar bah komak niyaz darid, Sabsi.”

  He hadn’t heard the language of his homeland spoken fluently for many a year, and despite his attempt at a stoney facade, Heshtat found himself taken aback. ‘We can get you home if you need, Sabsi’, the captain had said. Not a brute then, not a common criminal. This man was a true believer in the God-Queen’s mission and held a fervent loyalty to the Sasskanid Empire that clearly extended to its wayward sons and daughters, too.

  Heshtat found himself reevaluating the man, and only then realised that the itching across his face had stopped. The twins’ gazes were no longer focused on him, but his companions behind. Particularly Harsiese and Ahhotep. Did they think him a captive? A slave? And to be willing to face down senior adepts over a single man with unknown ties… it spoke a great deal to the type of people these sailors were, despite appearances.

  “Mutshakirmi, doust Ain zaruri nist,” he replied after a few moments, his tongue feeling sluggish and ungainly trying to parse the unfamiliar sounds. ‘Thank you, brother. That won’t be necessary’. He could feel his companions shifting behind him and knew without turning that Maatkare would be leaning forwards, impatiently awaiting an explanation.

  The captain grinned. “Always good to meet a fellow Sasskanid, in any case. The children of Amin-Ra have a habit of assuming the world revolves around them, do they not?”

  Heshtat allowed himself a smile then. “True enough. But I was not dissembling earlier. We truly are on a tight schedule. I understand my queen has had dealings with you in the past?”

  “Yes, we have done more than one favour for the Arbiter of Idib province. She has been good to us. Rumour is she is good to many of Amansi’s enemies…”

  Heshtat felt a tongue of flame coil within his chest at the accusation, but he was ready for it this time. Atossa was a wily man and was clearly digging for information. He mastered himself, keeping his face blank and his manner relaxed as he reached out an arm to stop Harsiese. The big man had tensed at the words, and made to lean forwards, no doubt a suitably blunt threat in mind.

  “Do not let rumour bend your ear, captain, else your heart become a home of untruths,” Heshtat said, raising a surprised chuckle from the river captain at his use of the old Sasskanian expression. “Can we rely on your discretion and haste?”

  Atossa sighed and leaned back, looking to the twins that flanked him. “Aye, we can do that. We’ll leave tonight, from Westleg, upriver. Meet us there as the sun sets with a healthy bag of coin, and we’ll see you to your doom.”

  Heshtat only raised an eyebrow.

  “I know this island you speak of, Sabsi,” the man said, running a hand through an oiled beard glinting with silver woven through it. “You’ll find naught but death there as you are, even with those two adepts.” Atossa gave a careless jerk of his head towards Ahhotep and Harsiese.

  “That’s as may be,” he replied, turning to look at his companions. “But we have all faced doom before. We shall meet it with open arms and sharpened blades, and hope the gods don’t take pity on our enemies.”

  ***

  They spent most of the evening apart after their meeting with the river captain. Ostensibly it was to gather information, and so Heshtat sent each of his companions into the city to find out all they could.

  Neferu stayed in Underbridge, bending the ear of any who would speak to her and soaking up the rumours that circulated in a place of many people. She was a haven for gossip and had a way of pulling secrets from people like a pickpocket cuts purse strings—unnoticed by all but the most aware. Probably because she could relate to anyone, having worked in so many different fields and having expertise in everything from dungeon-delving to weaving, even spending a very brief but notable stint as a priestess-in-training.

  Unauthorized duplication: this tale has been taken without consent. Report sightings.

  Ahhotep headed up into the city proper. A marvel of civil engineering this bridge city might have been, but it was still the capital of one of the twelve provinces of Amansi, which meant it had more temples than the gaunt priest could shake his staff at. Ahhotep would avoid most of the major ones—every city was likely to have a sanctified temple to each member of the Ennead, and while nominally independent, the priesthood of the nine major cults of Amansi were riven with politics. Other than the temple of Sebek, in which he would be welcomed with open arms and given whatever aid possible, he would be more likely to provide useful information to their enemies than gain any himself.

  So, he would stick to the smaller temples and halls of the many minor gods that the locals worshipped. Hapi—the fertility goddess of the Nikean floods—was well represented in the city, alongside the water gods Nu and Wadj-wer, though none of the three rivalled the popularity of Waset. She was a minor war goddess who would doubtless have been lost to obscurity if it wasn’t for Men-nefer’s great Pharaoh mandating her worship. She was one of his earliest channels, and it was her domain that allowed him to carve out a chunk of Amansi for himself and protect it from his more war-like contemporaries.

  Harsiese headed to the market, aiming to outfit the group with further weapons, armour and supplies. Maatkare and Neferu had given him a list of equipment to look out for, and the man had left with a heavy frown, muttering the list under his breath to help him remember. Heshtat could well understand why though, having been completely overwhelmed as his friends had reeled off a barrage of dozens of items—some so obscure that Heshtat had no clue to what they even referred.

  Maatkare wasn’t shopping himself though, for Heshtat had a use for him. The same reason he’d sent the others away—he needed advice. They wondered through the undercity, letting the murmur of civilisation flow over them before finding a quiet tavern hidden out of the way near the edge of the bridge. They nursed tankards of weak mead—all the way from the honeycomb city of Xiexic—before finally his friend spoke up.

  “I know why I am here, my friend. Speak your mind and let Maatkare share your burden.”

  Heshtat smiled and rolled his eyes at the man, catching an answering smirk as he looked up. He returned his gaze to the view of the Nikea winding away into the distance below him and sighed.

  “I am worried.”

  “You are always worried,” Maatkare replied easily. “That is why you were our leader.”

  Heshtat didn’t reply, gaze lost somewhere over the horizon, and after perhaps half a minute Maatkare spoke again. His voice was softer now, some of the usual good humour dropping away.

  “You are worried of failure?”

  Another sigh. Gods, he really needed to work on that. “I am always worried of failure,” he replied. “It haunts my steps and nips at my heels. I will never be free of it. But no, it is not failure that so concerns me now.”

  “Then what? Heshtat, my friend, you may be the only person I know of who is worried by the thought of success.”

  Heshtat heard the smile in his companion’s voice but couldn’t share in the joke. He winced, then said aloud what he’d been dreading for days on end now. “What if we can’t trust her?”

  Silence. He chanced a look over and saw Maatkare taking a long draught of his mead. He gulped and sighed, giving the tankard an appreciative glance before levelling a calm look at Heshtat.

  “This is not you, my friend.”

  “Hmm?”

  “I have seen how you reacted to that captain’s words. Do not forget, I know you. I am your oldest friend in this world now, save one, and I do not believe that you would doubt her without reason.” He paused, narrowing his eyes. “The priest has been whispering poison in your ears, has he not?”

  Heshtat blinked, surprised at his friend’s keen observation.

  “His shadow,” he admitted. “But that is not all. I…” He blew out a heavy breath. Not a sigh, he reassured himself, just a breath. “I am missing something. There are shadows gathering; the legion has left Idib and the provinces are on the brink of war. Now with the temple of Amin-Ra rising? And gods forbid anyone does fucking anything about the Desolate…” he trailed off. “Cleo—she mentioned things. About her father.”

  Maatkare kept his silence, uncharacteristically serious.

  “I don’t know how to piece everything together, but I saw a rage there in her eyes that night. She hates him, Maatkare.” Heshtat looked into his friend’s eyes, willing him to understand. “She’s changed. She bore the general a son and then sent him away to a distant land, she conspires with priests of Sebek and representatives of the Sasskanid Empire…”

  “… And you don’t know if you trust her anymore,” his friend finished for him.

  Heshtat nodded. “What if it isn’t a question of power and timing and delicate politics? I know difficult decisions had to be made, and each perceived treachery likely has a suitable explanation… but what if they are simply excuses? What if it is as it seems on the surface, and she has sold Idib to the highest bidder?”

  They were both silent for a long while, and Heshtat returned to his contemplation of the great river. It wended its way through a near endless desert, providing life to all of Amansi’s citizen’s. And yet he didn’t understand it. He’d never seen its source, and he didn’t know how it would change each season. More than a million souls relied on its life-giving waters, and yet they didn’t know when it would next flood. They just took it on faith. For the first time in his life, he suddenly realised how strange that was.

  What if it never did? Everyone assumed it would flood again soon and bring the rush of minerals and sediment back to the fertile crescent that all Amansi relied on. What if they were wrong?

  “I might not know the reasons behind each of her decisions, but I believe her purpose remains true.” Maatkare spoke slowly, thoughtfully, as if chewing on the words before speaking them into the world. “She is not her father. You always looked up to him, but I am older than you, my friend, and I saw things that you perhaps chose not to. He was a great man in many ways, but no different than all great men. He had a harem, do you recall?”

  Maatkare took a leaf from Heshtat’s book and turned to survey the view. “What kind of a man has a bevy of young girls to service him, hmm? Great men. They are the ones who take. They command armies, decimate neighbourhoods, destroy their enemies. They have great appetites, and treat with great powers, and care not a whit for the little people they trample in the process.”

  Heshtat knew his friend’s history. He didn’t often talk like this, but he knew it was always there beneath the surface. That is why he loved him so, despite his often-crass humour.

  “Queen Cleosiris is not like that. She never was. Tell me truly, my friend… do you think her the type to hand over Idib and all its citizens to some foreign power to play with? To another great man to despoil?”

  Heshtat couldn’t answer for a time. “Did she not already do that?”

  Maatkare hissed through his teeth. “Now you are letting bitterness cloud you. You are not so petty, nor so blind, and I would not hear my friend fall prey to such unbecoming thoughts.”

  Heshtat sighed again, appropriately chastised. “You are right.”

  “’The only way out is through,’” Maatkare quoted. “You once told me that.”

  “I remember. That was near Kom Ombo, the first time we faced the Desolate together, was it not?”

  “Aye,” Maatkare confirmed, a slight smile on his face. “And you remember how it ended.”

  “I do. You are saying I should take the risk, that Cleosiris is worthy of the gamble?”

  His friend simply looked at him, a sad smile on his face. “I am sorry, my friend. I did not realise how these last few years have changed you, and I was not there for you as I should have been. The man I once knew would never have to ask that question.”

  Heshtat grunted. “The man you once knew was blind to a great many things. He failed in his duty and rotted in the depths of despair for years. The man you once knew is long dead now, my friend.”

  “All the better, for he was a moody bastard at the best of times,” Maatkare said with a smile, raising his tankard. “Let us see what new men we can become, hey? Look out there,” he said, gesturing to the glittering water weaving towards the dimming horizon. “There’s beauty out there, and we shall find it. Trust in your queen and let her worry with the politics. The Sandstorm was never feared for his political acumen, eh?”

  Heshtat snorted, taking a reluctant drag of his tankard. It was sweet and cold—refreshing in the desert evening. He had never visited Xiexic but had always wanted to. Cleo and he had spoken long into the nights about their future travels, back when they’d both been young and her father still ruled. They would see the famed hanging gardens, would visit the shrine of the unknown thief that had convinced the Pharaoh Thutmose to open his private palace to all and to pass peacefully through the Final Door. They would make love in the shade of a mnuka tree, and drink the golden sap of the life-giver lotus. So many plans, now little but dust and ash.

  He sighed and finished the drink in one last quaff.

  “Come. Let us see what the others have found.”

  Ignoring the knowing look from his friend, he rose and headed to the proprietor to pay, his bag of silver chips feeling upsettingly light afterwards. Leaving the tavern, he nearly walked into his friend, who had backed up through the door and turned to slam it shut in a whirl.

  Heshtat frowned, opening his mouth to speak until he saw the look on the man’s face. His eyebrow had barely climbed an inch on his forehead before Maatkare spoke, shouting a single word that set his heart to racing.

  “Medjay!”

  Heshtat knew what that heralded and knew what their only response could be. A moment later, as the door splintered inwards under the force of a soul-empowered blow and two armed and armoured men leapt through the breach, he turned and ran, following Maatkare through the back of the tavern, knocking a spluttering proprietor on his ass with a hastily shouted apology over his shoulder. Then he was out through the door to the kitchens.

  The pounding of sandals on floorboards from behind told him that they were being pursued, and the speed of the footsteps told him those pursuers would soon catch up. He knew that it wouldn’t be pretty if they did. One does not run from the Medjay within the lands of Khaemwaset—after all, the Pharaoh’s personal guard were sacrosanct in their duty, especially so in Men-nefer.

  And now they were after Heshtat and his fool of a friend.