She put her hand out and rested it across Mabruke’s. “You are in danger. Your cover is at risk of being exposed. We cannot afford to lose you from the guild!”
Mabruke was silent, his face too calm, as if he were debating inwardly. “Of course, madam, thank you.”
“You have read Brugsch’s account?”
Mabruke seemed surprised at her change of topic. “Not the edition you have, madam. I read the original reports, as they were sent to the Pharaoh.”
“It is a pity that Lepsius did not survive the adventure. There is a great deal here that makes that Dark Continent seem a most fascinating place.”
“Deadly, as well.”
“I suppose. Do you know of the extent of their use of aeroships for logging along the Orinoco River, or the volume of traffic through the Zotzlotl Aerodrome in centralMexicalli?”
“I learned considerably more than is in the book as released to the public, madam. The Pharaoh insisted that information about the aeroship industry was too important to international defense to be made public.”
“Yes—Dozey is afraid that if the Quetzals catch on, then the roads will deteriorate.” She regarded this thought with a slight frown.
“I have reassured him often, madam, that such a shift in economics was not likely in his lifetime.” Mabruke could be very reassuring, simply with tone of voice. “After all, they have already been in Africa and Europe for a century and more, yet the roads endure.”
The Queen glanced up at him. “Have you ever thought about traveling to Tawantinsuyu or Maya Land?”
“That is quite a change in topic, madam. Is Pharaoh planning to invade?”
“Invade? I hardly think so.” Sashetah Irene was amused. “I have received disturbing reports about something going on in Tawantinsuyu, the Empire of the Four Quarters, high up in the Andes mountains. They have made a secret alliance with Maya Land, in pursuit of an astonishing goal.”
“Any kind of alliance between those two would be astonishing,” Mabruke said calmly.
“The alliance appears to be directed by the temples and not by the palace. Somehow that alarms me more. I want you to find out what’s going on.”
“What kind of alliance, madam?” Oken said.
“They plan to send a man to the Moon.” Queen Sashetah Irene poured herself a cup of tea, while Oken and Mabruke looked at her in astonishment.
“A man to the Moon, madam? Indeed?” Mabruke set his cup back down on the table, staring at it as though expecting a signal from it.
Oken was, almost involuntarily, seeing flashes of the maps and diagrams he had just memorized. He shrugged. “They do know a lot about flying.”
“It is time for us to get involved,” the Queen said. “This comes under the heading of ‘so impossible, it just might work.’ ”
“To the Moon, madam?”
“You could learn a lot along the way.” Oken had not yet consciously assimilated the mass of material he had scanned. He spoke from an unconscious instinct in response to the imagery. The idea appealed to him.
“We could.” The Queen sipped at her tea, gathering her thoughts before she spoke again. “The alchemist who created radiance technology, a thousand years ago, discovered the material for the suncatchers because he was looking for a sacred Grail that could absorb light, then reflect it back in the dark, just as the Moon reflects back the light of day. We know that he began with a silly notion, but examine the results of that silly notion.”
She gestured to the dome overhead. “The panels in that dome are made from the first generation of suncatchers, and to this day they produce the power for everything in the palace. Our spinglass technology was first developed in the twelfth century by an Andalusian mystic who had a vision that he could dissolve light in water and store it there, if he could only create the correctly shaped glass vessel. Today, we light our homes and streets with spunglass lamps. We can see, close up, the stony face of the Moon and the raging face of the Sun because of the farscope technology that grew from these fantastic visions. Who knows what technology they will create while they are trying to fly to the Moon? We cannot afford to be left behind in this.”
“Am I going as an ambassador or as a spy, madam?” Mabruke’s face was impassive. Oken heard the trace of excitement in his tone of voice.
“First, as a spy.” She sipped her tea again. “I need to know if this idea has a real chance, or if it is just a spiritual vision that we should encourage, even if only out of politeness.”
“If there really is something to it, then I become an ambassador, is that the idea?”
The Queen nodded. “We keep our radiance technology as secret as humanly possible—they keep their aeroship technology secret. We sell them spunglass lamps and radiance products. We just don’t tell them how we manufacture them. We can build our own aerodromes and mooring towers, but we cannot buy Quetzals from them. We can only lease them. Building and repairing them, and the crew to fly them, are a New World exclusive, as well.”
“I see,” Mabruke said. “If this Moon venture is genuine, then we are going to negotiate a treaty to be involved, in return for agreeing to help them with our technology. Is that it?”
“As usual, you think these things through quickly. I am counting on you to gather the details. You went to school with the ambassadors, the LeBrun brothers. They should prove invaluable once you are there.”
“I have considerable work to do here, madam,” Mabruke said in mild protest. “Exploring the Red Hand network and directing the analysis of the tunnel infrastructure alone will take months.”
“You were the only one capable of rooting out the secret of those tunnels, even if only by accident. The follow-up can be done by lesser minds than yours, perhaps not so brilliantly, nor so swiftly, yet well enough to serve. There is no one else in our employ whom Dozey and I can trust for this mission. You are the only mind and eye whom we would dare to send into that dark place. You are the only one who will recognize what you are seeing. You will know what is harmless mysticism, and what is genuinescience.”
She leaned forward slightly, clasping her hands in her lap in a formal gesture that told both men this was not a matter of debate.
“There are fewer than ten thousand Egyptian citizens in the New World at any given time. What has become clear is that royalty and one’s rank in the nobility are vital issues in Tawantinsuyu. You will find that your position in the Nubian Royal Court opens doors for you, and silences protest at your requests. You also happen to be most suited to this, at this particular moment, precisely because of the curious coincidence of your rather public adventures with the Red Hand. The headmaster of your college has been sent a letter from your personal sakhmetician. In this letter, it is suggested that Professor Mabruke, although fully recovered and sound of body, nonetheless, should be encouraged to take a lengthy rest leave. His nerves have been seriously stressed by the events of his ordeal.”
“I see, madam. Not so far from the truth of it, actually.”
Sashetah Irene continued, reciting from memory. “ProfessorPrince Mikel Mabruke, the eminent skin- alchemist and Head of the Department of Perfumes, Salves, and Unguents at the College of Alchemy, will be taking a leave of rest from his classes, traveling to far corners of Andalusia in search of new perfumes, oils, and spices for his research. He hopes to return with many exotic samples to share with his students.”
She let that sink in. “That is what the official notice in the Campus News will say. It will not say that you will be heading west, across the Atlantic Ocean to the New World.”
Sashetah Irene turned her focus on Scott Oken, touching his wrist with that same fond touch. “You are going with him, my child. You are going along because you are the only one whom I can trust to keep Mikel alive on this journey, to keep him safe in that dark kingdom. A boatful of Dozey’s soldiers could not protect him as well as you.”
*** AS THEY walked back down the many steps to the promenade level, Oken said to his friend, “The Queen
said I have to take good care of you. Mik. Let’s start by getting a meal into you.”
“The Blue Ostrich,” Mabruke said absently. It was clear his thoughts were thousands of leagues away. Then he glanced over at Oken, as if startled to see him. “I could eat the whole bird.” He reached up to flick the white plume in his top hat.
“It was nice tea, though,” Oken said with amusement. “You’ve got to admit that. A royal tea, you might say.”
“I could still eat the whole bird.”
CHAPTER FOUR
A SNARLY little wind came up, raising chaotic gusts filled with dusty sand that obscured the road surface and billowed upward to hide the stars. Mabruke sat hunched over the control panel of the little vehicle rented for the journey to Marrakech. He was focused intently on the line of glowing light that marked out the middle of the dark highway rolling out in front of them. Oken was relaxing in the passenger seat with his arms folded, half-dozing as he watched the landscape surge past. The Shoulders of Atlas were vast, dark shapes against the dark horizon on their right, and the broad Sahara was an immense presence of emptiness in the night.
The exit to the Marrakech Road had dropped them to the south and west, taking a route around the Atlas Mountain Range rather than through them. The Grand Sahara Highway was behind them, soaring over the desert sands on ancient aqueduct structures, a straight line of stonework arches from Memphis to the Atlas Hills. Oken and Mabruke were at ground level for the first time on the trip. The drive west from Memphis had been peaceful, high above the desert sands spread out to the horizon in a gesture of infinity. The Exit Inns along the highway served a satisfying variety of cuisines from all over Africa, and the views from their suites were breathtaking.
The highway also had windscreens to keep back the endless sands. At ground level, the winds were free to have their way with them. The low-slung vehicle was designed to slip among the winds, and to grip the road through sand. At times, however, the wind- blown dust reduced visibility, forcing Mabruke to reduce speed.
The line of lighting in the road vanished. Mabruke let the vehicle roll to stop. Oken sat up, waking abruptly from his half doze.
“There’s something ahead of us,” Mabruke said. “I think there are some animals crossing the road or else sand has covered the lights.”
“Where are we?” Oken said in a sleepy voice.
“Marrakech Exit, east of the Atlas.”
“Do you want to know what the Horus Scope is for today?” Oken spoke somewhat testily. He did not like riding in this little vehicle, through a barely visible world. He had wanted to stop at the last Way Out Inn up on the highway. Mabruke, however, had insisted that they continue on.
“You’ve told me already, twice, in fact.” Mabruke peered through the swirling gusts of sand to see the road lights.
“Don’t go out after dark.” Oken was needling the man and he knew it. “That’s what it says.”
“So you said before.” Mabruke was clearly amused. “But we’ve traveled west from Memphis. Are you really sure what day it is?”
Oken looked out at the darkness ahead. “Is it safe to stop if it’s blowing like this?”
“I was considering that.” Mabruke inched the vehicle forward, then braked abruptly as a gray and white goose flew out of the night, just missing their windshield, flapping frantically away.
“Anything about geese in the Horus Scope?”
“Not until next week. What’s that bird doing out this time of night?”
The wind vanished with the abruptness of the goose’s flight, leaving them sitting in the clear night. They were surrounded, however, by several dozen men on camels. The camels were black, and the men were covered head to toe in black desert robes. Man and beast were nearly invisible in the night, a solid mass blocking them in on all sides.
“Camels.” Oken turned to Mabruke with a puzzled look. “Tall ones, too.”
“Indeed. Tall camels.”
Before they could reach any conclusion to that thought, they saw the camels drop to their knees and the men closest to the vehicle slide down from their saddles. The vehicle doors were simultaneously wrenched open. With dismaying swiftness and strength, the men grabbed Oken and Mabruke, fixing masks over their faces even as they dragged them out of their seats. The masks cut off sight and muffled their voices.
Oken tried to struggle. The men were implacable, almost casual, in their strength and the way they held him. He could not see. He felt his wrists being bound in front of him. He was handed up to one of the camel riders and roughly settled onto the saddle in front of him.
The camel lurched to its feet, turned, and ran over the sand at top camel speed. Oken could hear the wind, the unhappy grunts of the animal, and the padded thud as it ran. He could not hear anything that sounded like Captain-Prince Mabruke.
OKEN WAS annoyed when he awoke, annoyed to realize that he could fall asleep in the midst of such dire circumstances. Somewhere during the long, monotonous ride through the Saharan night he had fallen asleep, slumped against the chest of the rider who held him in place. Mabruke often told his espionage cadets that maintaining inner reserves was crucial when in the field. Hunger, fatigue, and, worst of all, dehydration could weaken reflexes and blunt thinking. Grabbing a nap, a drink, or a meal in a moment of relative safety could make the difference in response time when danger struck. Nonetheless, Oken was disappointed in himself.
He tried to sit forward, only to find himself gripped with that same iron strength. They were at an angle, as though the beasts were running uphill. Faint light filtered through the mask, and the chill of night was giving way to the warmth of the African Sun. Even as he noted this, the ride was over.
The camel dropped to its knees. Oken was half-carried, half- dragged to someplace inside. He could not determine what kind of inside. The whispery, wide-open sounds vanished, replaced by a sudden hush and the cool of a large interior scented with coffee, incense, sweat, cheese, and hashish. Low voices in quiet conversation murmured somewhere to his right.
Oken was stood up on his feet. The mask and wrist-binding were removed in the same gesture.
He found himself in an large, luxurious tent with magnificent rugs covering every surface, and brassware fittings for the supports and fans. Elaborate glass lamps shed a warm, amber-colored glow. Men in layered burnooses and brimless hats sat on cushions, talking quietly, or were standing around the perimeter on casual guard. Everyone was armed with swords and knives carried in embroidered sheaths hung across their backs.
Oken stood taking in his surroundings while rubbing his wrists to restore circulation. The men who had brought him made no further move to hold him. They simply walked away to side tables, where carafes of water and trays of bread and cheese waited.
A group of people near the center of the tent parted, revealing Mikel Mabruke sitting back comfortably on a heap of leather cushions in front of a low table spread with an array of dishes, stacks of flatbreads, and wheels of cheese. Tall urns of engraved silver stood on heating stands, with cups hanging on hooks around the rim.
Mabruke looked up and their eyes met. “There you are!” Mabruke called to Oken, gesturing to the pile of cushions beside him. “Come! Sit! Have a bite to eat. You must be famished.”
Oken made a careful review of his friend and the men with him. Nothing in Mabruke’s gesture or face suggested anything but a man relaxing among friends. Oken strode over, rubbing his wrists and watchful of Mabruke’s expression.
The man seated across from Mabruke gestured toward Oken’s feet with his knife tip. He was an old man with a stern, dark-brown face, thick brows, and carefully braided beard and side-locks. Silver rings covered his fingers, rings with finely cut black stones and shining pearls, matched by thick wristbands. A single earring dangled, a silver ram’s horn spiral. The scar marring the narrow ridge of his nose ran from the corner of his right eye to the rim of the left nostril. A second scar lifted the corner of his mouth into a permanent smile. The look in his black eyes
was guarded and the knife tip pointed with unwavering aim.
Mabruke pointed to his own bare feet. “The rugs are much more comfortable on bare feet, you know.” Then he patted the pile of cushions again. “Sit!”
Oken took off his boots and dropped them to the rug, then slowly lowered himself onto the cushions.
Mabruke leaned forward, gesturing with his silver cup. “Master Zaydane, allow me to present Lord Scott Oken, top graduate of the academy, and memoryman on this assignment.”
He turned to grin at Oken’s sullen look. “Master Moulay Zaydane—he was dean of the academy when I was but a raw, young recruit, stumbling over my own feet.” He leaned back again, sipping at his coffee. “We became good friends, as things went by.”
Zaydane reached up to stroke his beard, repressing a smile. “Once you had learned to keep your great long legs out of everyone else’s way.”
“He calls me his giraffe calf.” Mabruke smiled across at the older man.
Oken recognized the name Moulay Zaydane at once. Zaydane’s Trade, though flawless, was accented with a strong flavor of the Atlas Mountains. “Your reputation at the academy survives, Master Zaydane,” he said. “It’s an honor to meet you in person, although I don’t know that being kidnapped was quite the introduction I had in mind.”
Zaydane dismissed this with a wave of his hand, rings flashing. “Have some coffee, Lord Oken. You have had a long and dusty ride.”
“I smell like a camel, as well.” Oken wondered why he was not in on the joke that these two shared.
“That can be dealt with later.” Zaydane took a silver cup from the urn nearest him, held it to the spout, and filled the cup with steaming, aromatic brew, then handed it to Oken.
“He takes honey.” Mabruke selected a honey dish from his table and held it out.
Oken took the dipper and swirled the golden brown honey into the cup, all the while eyeing the two men and waiting for them to break into laughter. “If I’d known I was being invited to a coffee klatch, I would have worn my other suit. The one with the fancy cuffs and buttons.”
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