Heshtat frowned, once more surprised by the turn the day had taken.

  “Once again, I am here on business for Queen Cleosiris.”

  “’Once again’?” the old priest asked, sounding pleasantly confused. “Had we arranged something recently? I am afraid I can be a little scatterbrained about my schedule these days. Age has a way of dulling the faculties, it must be said.”

  “You did not send your shadow to discuss with me during your ritual?”

  “Oh dear.”

  The priest’s kindly face pinched, and Heshtat began to worry. Had the shadow not been the priest’s own? For something from the Other to breach a sanctified temple of one of the Ennead was a grim tiding indeed. But before his worry could sprout legs and run away in earnest, the priest continued.

  “You must have met my other half. He can be a cantankerous old goat,” the old man said with a self-deprecating chuckle. “We’ve all darkness inside ourselves though, so I shan’t be too self-effacing. No doubt your demons could fill a moat, am I right?”

  Heshtat raised an eyebrow. “Tell me of this shadow,” he asked, not quite a demand. Not yet.

  “Do not worry yourself overmuch,” the old priest said, reaching out to the tea set and selecting for himself a small mug. His bone white hand gleamed against his brown robes. “Nothing more than a side effect of a ritual gone awry some years back. He’s quite harmless.”

  He took a tentative sip, smacking his lips together and smiling over the rim at Heshtat. “Relatively speaking, of course.”

  Heshtat decided to file that away in the ‘questions to ask later’ pile and moved on to his true purpose. “You are the high priest of this temple?” he asked.

  “That I am, dear boy,” the priest replied with a kind smile and a slight incline of his head.

  “Queen Cleosiris believes you owe her a favour,” Heshtat said as he handed over a letter. “She would like to call it in.”

  “You are quite blunt, aren’t you?”

  “A man is as he is.”

  “Well then,” the priest said, taking another careful sip of his karcade. His eyes glinted over the rim as steam curled upwards in a lazy swirl. “You will find me rather tiresome, I expect, as brevity and I are old nemeses.”

  Heshtat grunted a laugh and gestured for the old man to read the letter. There was a series of clicks as the priest placed the mug on the table once more, bone clacking against hardened clay.

  “I remember what I owe the queen, young man, and don’t think me ungrateful. But the nature of a favour is not absolute, and my power is not unlimited. What does Cleosiris ask of this humble priest?”

  As the priest raised the letter close to his eyes, Heshtat caught a flash of wrist bone shrouded within the voluminous sleeves and he wondered just how much of the man’s body had been flensed of flesh. To the elbow? The shoulder? For a worrying moment, Heshtat was forced to consider that the priest before him could be almost entirely bone, with only a single hand and a head left unmarked.

  Those strange glowing eyes caught his, and as the priest’s smile drew up into a smirk, he was forced to wonder if his thoughts were safe within his own skull. He pushed the fear back with practised ease.

  “You would accompany me and my companions into the lands of Khaemwaset,” Hehstat said calmly. “We would retrieve an artifact, then return to Idib. A round trip of a few weeks.”

  “A few weeks, is it? Who would protect this temple in my absence?”

  “Perhaps the three-hundred-foot statue of Sebek will be enough to deter would-be thieves,” Heshtat replied sardonically.

  The priest laughed. “You might be right there. But who would administer the temple in my absence?”

  “Perhaps your shadow can take over your less pressing duties?”

  “Another great suggestion, young man! He follows me, unfortunately. Dogged as the hounds of Anubian, and vicious as them, too.”

  Heshtat raised an eyebrow. “But still harmless?”

  “Relatively speaking, of course,” the priest demurred.

  A supreme effort of will was all that kept Heshtat from sighing. Gods save him from priests and scribes. “I would have your answer now, priest,” he said, instead.

  “Careful, young man. There is blunt and there is rude. One I can accept.”

  The priest once more gripped his mug, the clack-clack-clack of knucklebones sliding over textured clay setting Heshtat’s teeth on edge. The room felt suddenly darker. It had always been gloomy—lit by flickering torches ensconced in the wall, but now the shadows in the corners seemed to writhe.

  “Do not forget where you stand, boy,” came the harsh voice of the shadow he had spoken with earlier. “This is Sebek’s own house, and the Maw ever hungers. Mortal and god alike have mingled in the abyss. Do not think your patronage protects you from consequence.”

  “Silence!” the priest hissed, shocking Heshtat with his intensity. The priest’s voice filled the room and green fire curled from the tip of his staff. His still-human hand fixed on the tome it clutched and the shadows flickered and retreated.

  Heshtat stood, locking eyes with the priest who leaned back once more, mug in hand. He didn’t understand what was happening here, but he didn’t come to be toyed with. This priest had a duty, and no matter what tricks and foul magics he employed, Heshtat would remind of that.

  “I am not here for threats, priest, from you or your shadow. You owe my queen a debt, and I am here to collect it. If you need time to organise your affairs, I can give you a day. If you need payment or tithes, I can negotiate on my queen’s behalf. If you need assurances of your safety, I can offer the protection of my companions and I.”

  He leaned forward over the table, staring deep into those emerald eyes. They glinted, like shells beneath the ocean. “But if you intend to renege on your promises to my queen, you will receive only my blade.”

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  The priest raised bushy eyebrow. “That is a bold proclamation, dear boy. Especially so in a holy site such as this.”

  “Sebek will have my soul before I foreswear my duty.”

  “He may just, at that,” the priest muttered, but waved Heshtat back into his seat a moment later. “But not on my account, young man. Apologies for my shadow—please ignore him. I am merely trying to get the facts in order. A journey of a few weeks is a trying endeavour for one of my advanced age, I assure you. Crossing the sands is never an easy task, but you wouldn’t believe the dehydration when one must empty their bladder six times a night!”

  The old priest leaned on his staff, levering himself up from the chair and flashing a grandfatherly smile Heshtat’s way.

  “Come, tell me of our shared purpose. I’ll soon be knocking on the Final Door, so I would do well to have as many debts paid before the Lord of the Dead weighs my heart, not to mention our queen is a dearest benefactor. What was your name then?”

  Heshtat returned the smile, following along as the man limped out of the room, book and staff still in hand. Watching the old man totter forwards, he too wondered how they would cross the Endless Desert.

  “Heshtat.”

  “A pleasure to meet you, young man. You may call me Ahhotep.”

  “And your shadow?” Heshtat asked.

  “Don’t call him anything. He’ll not warm to you, regardless, the old boot. Better to put his existence—and his words—far from your mind.”

  ***

  “What a strange man,” Neferu remarked after Ahhotep had left that evening, following a short dinner with them all.

  “You don’t know the half of it,” Heshtat said, leaning back against the stuffed divan in the well-appointed room they’d been given beside the temple proper.

  It was laid out like a barracks, though clearly built to house staff rather than soldiers. Much of the outfitting was similar between both roles; armoires and heavy trunks for the storage of clothes and personal effects, a small alter in the corner dedicated to Wusis, of all gods—though Heshtat supposed that any who wished to worship Sebek could do so more directly in the temple next door. A sistrum and tambourine leaned against one corner opposite a broom in the other.

  Small details, but they ran counter to the eery emptiness he had witnessed so far, having met only the high priest and the young servant. Someone had prepared their food though, and it hadn’t been the priest.

  “I like him,” Maatkare said, snacking on a vine of shockingly purple grapes, looking for all the world like some pampered Sasskanid prince as he lounged on a bench opposite Heshtat.

  “Of course you do. He’s near as loquacious as you.”

  “And what fun our journey shall prove to be, my friend, now that you have two worthy conversationalists by your side! Perhaps we can tempt Great Amin-Ra to give up his Eye through words alone?”

  “If anyone could manage it,” Neferu snorted, and Maatkare flashed her a grin.

  “If the god of gods could hear you, I suspect he would cleave the realms anew just to keep you further away,” Heshtat said with a smile.

  Harsiese chuckled from nearby, tentatively joining the conversation like a nervous kitten. “Perhaps that is how the world came to be? In his infinite wisdom, Great Amin-Ra foresaw Maatkare’s coming and erected a veil between the gods and mortals to drown out the noise.”

  “Ha!” Heshtat laughed, even as Maatkare appeared scandalised, throwing a grape at the powerful Tomb Guard. Neferu fussed over the dribble of juice it left on the man’s chest, and if her hands lingered a touch too long, Heshtat decided not to mention it. They were adults, and he was not their father.

  “I must admit, I didn’t expect him to be so…” Neferu said, rolling her hand in the air as she trailed off.

  “Affable?” Harsiese supplied. “I agree. He was far from what I expected of a high priest of the dread god.”

  Ahhotep had spent an hour or so conversing with Heshtat and his companions over a lavish dinner, the remains of which Maatkare was so carelessly enjoying even now. He’d presented himself as simply an old holy man, self-deprecating and of good humour. Heshtat remembered his eyes at their final confrontation, though. That gleam that spoke to true power, and a willingness to use it.

  “You have not met his shadow,” Heshtat said with a shake of his head. “Don’t let the guise fool you—he is shrewd and has his own designs.”

  “Of course, my friend,” Maatkare echoed. “Any of sufficient cultivation should be watched with caution, none of us contest that. He must be… what? An adept in at least one field, as high priest, yes?”

  Heshtat grunted. “Shuyet and Sekham is my bet. At the least. We are not so long from the days that a high priest could not be appointed to a temple of any of the Ennead without mastering a soul art, let alone proving themselves adept in its wielding. He is dangerous and should not be underestimated.” He sighed and leaned forwards, clearing a couple of fine goblets from the raised table in the centre of the room. “But that is why we have recruited him. He has already opened doors for us.”

  The others perked up at that, gathering around the table as Heshtat pulled out a map and unrolled it across the table.

  “We made good time yesterday, despite the emergence. It is likely a week from here until we reach Men-nefer by foot, and then several days at most up the river.”

  “Days?” Maatkare asked in surprise. “It’s five hundred miles!” He reached out to jab at the small squiggle marked on the map near the edge of Amansi’s upper nomes—the area where Cleosiris suspected the Temple of Amin-Ra to have emerged.

  Heshtat opened his mouth to reply, but it was Harsiese who answered. “You’d be surprised the speed the larger craft can achieve on water with a proper crew. Many with a channel to Tufnet, Wu, or Wadj-wer can make many a deben coaxing the waters on behalf of merchant vessels.”

  “Any that aren’t snapped up by Iset’s burgeoning navy, anyway,” Neferu interjected. “Many of the river-bound professions are dying now—all the young men and women are moving down to Burning City for the opportunity.”

  “Oh?” Harsiese asked. “How did you hear about that?”

  “I’ve spent some time on the rolling deck myself,” Neferu said with a faint hint of euphemism about it, though it seemed to pass beneath the Tomb Gurd’s notice. “Worked a stint with the gator-wranglers below Men-nefer. Some of the men were tempted by the greater coin on offer for less danger.”

  “Joining the navy of a True Throne to fight against the Helexians on the open waters is less dangerous than wrangling gators?” Harsiese asked with surprise.

  “You’ve not seen some of the gators,” Neferu replied with a smirk.

  “Anyway,” Heshtat said, bringing them back to the topic back to hand. “It is not the river journey I am concerned with but rather how we infiltrate Men-nefer.”

  Maatkare raised a hand in a sardonic wave. “Far be it from me to keep interrupting—”

  “Never stopped you before,” Neferu muttered, and the man batted at her lazily.

  “…but,” he continued, “why would we need to infiltrate Men-nefer? The Bridge City is immense, and surely the Pharaoh will not be paying personal attention to all that enter his capital.”

  “It will not be the Pharaoh’s attention that we need to avoid, impossible as such a task would be if he were watching himself,” Heshtat answered. “No, it is the gaggle of spies, assassins, advisors, merchants, information brokers…” he trailed off after he’d made his point.

  “Scoundrels, in short,” Harsiese said with a grin, and Heshtat favoured him with a nod.

  “…So how do we intend to get past such a gaggle of ne’er-do-wells?” asked Maatkare with an arched eyebrow. “It will be harder with the priest.”

  “Was he not supposed to open doors for us?” Harsiese asked, perplexed.

  “His use will become evident soon,” Heshtat confirmed. “Once we arrive at the Temple.”

  Harsiese accepted the cryptic answer without complaint. He was Tomb Guard first and foremost and was clearly used to not having all the information. Heshtat preferred to share what he could with his team as a default position, but they were in the middle of a different discussion currently, and he didn’t want to derail them. There would be plenty of time over the next week of travel to discuss in detail their future plans.

  “So getting into Men-nefer?” Maatkare repeated in a surprisingly helpful manner.

  “Right. Yes, the priest will make it more difficult to avoid the various informants, as will Harsiese—it is a question of power,” Heshtat said, looking to the Tomb Guard in reassurance before turning back to the others. “But we have our own scoundrel.”

  All eyes turned to Neferu, and she harumphed.

  “Of course!” Maatkare crooned. “Our dearest Neferu has her fingers in many a pie—how could I have let that slip my mind.”

  “I better not hear that line repeated in any other context,” she groused. “But yes, I can ferry us in. You’ll need to give me time to make contact with some old connections in the Underbridge, but it shouldn’t be difficult, provided you have the right grease for all the moving parts?”

  “We have plenty of gold,” Heshtat confirmed.

  Neferu grinned. “Then it seems we shall be leaving a trail of Idib’s wealth all across Amansi!”

  Heshtat sighed.

  “You’re doing it again, my friend,” Maatkare reminded him.

  He sighed again.