by Andre Norton
Kheti snickered. "A duck waddles poolward, Lord. Have we now your permission to go elsewhere?" He accented the deference to Rahotep.
The young captain laughed shortly. "Since I am no longer your officer, it would follow that you no longer need my permission for any act." He flexed his empty hand. It felt odd. To leave his baton in Hamset's holding would have been right and proper. To be so summarily deprived of his command by Unis aroused a smoldering anger he was not soon to forget.
"It takes more than a fancy stick in your hand to make an officer, Lord. And it takes other than the Lord Unis to break one," the Nubian replied calmly.
"You are also son to the Lord Ptahhotep?" It was the Lord Nereb from the north who broke in eagerly.
"This is the Lord Rahotep, son to Ptahhotep and to the Lady Tuya, heiress of the Striking Hawk Nome," Methen began, but Rahotep would have none of that.
"I am Rahotep, but beyond that nothing now, not even a captain of Scouts."
"Yon remain the son of Ptahhotep," persisted the officer. "Are you of a like mind with your brother, that Pharaoh does not rule in Nubia now?"
"If there is again a Pharaoh— Is rumor true then, has a prince of Thebes taken the double crown and would move against the Hyksos?"
"It is true. He has sent forth his messengers to summon an army. But here I find only a dead man to answer—"
"Your message has been rightfully delivered to Ptahhotep, in whose name it was sealed." They had forgotten Pen-Seti, but the priest's glare went from the royal messenger to Rahotep. "Anubis guards His own." He pulled his shawl about his bony shoulders and strode off.
"There was authority for raising troops in the name of Pharaoh in that message?" asked Methen.
"To my belief, aye."
Rahotep smoothed the fur between the cub's ears. The little one gave a muted purr. Rahotep was beginning to think, to form the shadow of a wild plan. A shadow plan to serve a shadow lord. But dare he attempt it? He smiled at the Lord Nereb.
"Within these walls my hospitality is limited, Lord. But still have I some claim on shelter. Will you be my guest this night?"
Chapter 3
INTO THE JACKAL'S JAWS
There were four of them in that small, windowless room, and outside its single door lounged two of the archers who had accompanied Rahotep from Kah-hi. An elderly man in the dress of a scribe sat on the one stool, his back against the wall, his tired face very sober. Hentre, who had faithfully followed his nomarch's fortunes to the end, who had remained in a foreign land to serve his lady and her son afterwards, was realizing in that moment the slowness of age just when he wished to give his best.
"The message roll was sealed into a jar—"
"And placed within the tomb chamber itself?" Rahotep demanded impatiently. If that had been done, there was no hope at all for his sketchiest of plans.
But Hentre and the Lord Nereb shook their heads in a duet of negation.
"I arrived too late," the royal messenger said. "The Lord Ptahhotep's inner tomb chamber had already been sealed."
"So the jar was set in the mortuary chapel before the eye window of the Watcher." Hentre took up the report once more.
"In the mortuary chapel—" Rahotep moved on his pile of mats, his eyes closed as he tried to pull from the depths of memory a vision of a place he had only visited once and then so worn with grief that he had had little attention for his surroundings.
The local tombs of noble families were cut in the cliffs on the western wall of the river valley. There was a settlement there of those whose lives were spent in serving the dead, the embalmers, the coffin makers, the professional mourners, the priests of Anubis, the guards who warded off tomb robbers.
Ptahhotep's tomb was a fine one, with separate chambers for members of his immediate household, and a maze of passageways, most with dead ends, designed to thwart robbers. But flat against the cliff, blocking off the sealed and concealed entrance, was the mortuary chapel where sacrifices would continue to be offered in the names of those who slept within.
"It must be done tonight." The captain opened his eyes.
Hentre stirred and held up a protesting hand. "They will be alert for such a move, Lord. It will but give them the excuse they seek to pull you down—"
Rahotep got to his feet. "I go as a son to visit his father's tomb. I go alone—what evil can they possibly impute to that?"
Methen nodded, but Hentre still shook his old head doubtfully.
"If you go alone, Lord, they can and will impute any manner of evil to you—and who may bear witness on your behalf? Let me—"
"Not so!" Kheti, too, arose and stretched wide his arms. "I am my lord's shield bearer in battle, and this is in a manner a battle. Do you go now, brother?"
"I go alone," the captain repeated stubbornly. "Ptahhotep's son am I. If I take what has been sealed unto him, the Watcher may understand. If we come in a body to steal— then we are in a measure what they would term us—despoilers of a tomb."
l ie threw that squarely at Kheti. The Nubian gave lip service to Amon-Re, but as a Nubian he called upon the god of his race—Dcdun—in moments of stress. His customs, save where they were overlaid by the uses of the army with its Egyptian influences, were not basically those of the Two Lands. But he could understand the belief in the Watcher, who dwelt within the tomb but looked out upon the world through a chapel window. Rahotep thought that what he intended to do, though it would be close to sacrilege and could so be claimed against him, might be condoned by that Watcher within—just as he was also certain that this was his task alone, a duty that could not be shared.
And so in the end he managed to break down Kheti's resistance, though the Nubian insisted upon escorting him as far as the outposts of the necropolis, the place of the dead.
There were flickering lamps in some of the village houses. But the cliffs, with their awesome array of tombs and chapels, were a black line across the sky, merging one darkness with another.
"The patrol drinks deep tonight of the funeral wines, as is their due," Kheti said. "The Lord Unis may have treated the Lord Ptahhotep with unseemly haste in escorting him so swifdy to his other home, but he did not skimp on the feasting. And there may come other things out of the desert to seek the bounty of the offerings. Loosen your dagger, brother, and look twice at any shadow—"
Rahotep clung to the shadows, but he did not slink. Should he be discovered by a priest of the patrol, he determined to demand an escort to the chapel. Such ill fortune would prevent his plan from working, but it might save his life.
The necropolis was as barren as the desert. No wind whispered in a palm crown or rustled through grass. The shadows of rocks lay as long black fingers and threatening fists across his path. A jackal bayed the rising moon. Rahotep's right hand rested above his heart, pressing painfully into the flesh the hawk amulet he wore on a chain about his neck. Anubis, the Seeker, the Jackal, who guarded the doors of the West, this was Llis domain. But Horus, the Hawk, flew over the desert lands, where the Jackal must pad in the dust. And tonight Rahotep believed he had more to fear from the malice of men than the displeasure of any Great One.
His sandal soles scuffed as he come upon stone pavement, the road leading up to the chapel. The scent of incense, of dying flowers, hung here, growing more noticeable as he advanced. Ahead was the gleam of a lamp, one of the small saucer type for the table of sacrifice. He hesitated for a long moment, listening. So small a lamp must be refilled often, which meant an attendent priest—unless such a guardian had shortly left. And there was no way of entering the chapel save by the road he was on—no hiding place from which he could spy. Rahotep kicked off his sandals, not only for reasons of reverence; bare skin on stone and sand was noiseless.
The captain stood now between the two slabs of red granite forming the door sides. The smell of the offerings was almost fetid in the airless interior. And the morsel of light played upon the painted walls, giving life and color to a face here and there or meaning to an inscription
. But he could see no priest on duty.
Slowly Rahotep faced the west wall, his eyes in the restricted light searching for the square opening that must be there. His mouth was suddenly dry and parched. He rubbed his damp hands over the kilt on his thighs. So had he felt upon the occasion of his first assault of a Kush village. But he moved forward.
And his change of position showed him a glint of reflection from within that window. Because he had to, Rahotep raised the lamp from within a nest of withered garlands and held it high enough to see those stern features of a well- known face.
The sculptor Ikudidi was a true artist. He had wrought in stone not only the outward form of the Lord Ptahhotep as he had been in the prime of his vigorous manhood, but had also caught the quality of the man himself. Rahotep's breath caught in his throat. This—this was his father! Then, in a flick of the wavering lamp light, that moment of recognition was past. He saw nothing but an outstanding work of art; the man was gone.
The inlaid eyes gleamed in the light; the lips were set in a serene thread of half-smile. Ptahhotep, as he had been, watched those who came to pay him remembrance. But Rahotep, shivering, put back the lamp, noting only half-consciously that it was close to winking out entirely. He would always believe that more than just the graven Watcher had greeted him for that revealing instant.
To the stone face he gave a warrior's salute to his commander. Then he looked about him for what he had come to seek. Hentre had described it—an urn taken hastily from the stock of a dealer in canopic jars. It would have a jackal's head for a stopper. There it was, between two wine beakers on the altar. His hand had fallen upon it when he was startled by a shout of outrage and anger from behind.
Reflexes trained to hair-trigger alertness by his border life saved Rahotep in that instant. He sensed rather than saw that figure springing at him from the doorway. And he had just time enough to counter that rush with a wrestling trick taught him in archers' exercises. Linen, a priest's shawl or long skirt, tore with a loud sound. And in the moment the lamp went out.
Rahotep exerted his full strength and hurled the other from him. He groped on the altar, spilling from it in his haste the offerings, his fingers dabbling in foodstuffs and dead garlands. Then he had the jackal's head under his palm, and a second later the jar was tight in the circle of his arm.
But his assailant had been quick of thought, too, for his voice, raised in a call for help, rang out from the door of the chapel. That would bring the guard, and Rahotep would have no defense against evidence of the despoiled altar.
The captain threw himself at the door, guided by a shaft of moonlight. But the priest was valiant, strong in his righteous anger. He was waiting, and hampered by the jar, Rahotep could only chop with the edge of his flat hand at the other's neck, a barbarian trick, one Kehti had learned from a river sailor and that he swore might be fatal.
A sharp pain scored Rahotep's shoulder. But the priest had gone down, his dagger clattering from his hand on the pavement. And, before the tomb guardian could stagger up again, the captain was running, heading away from the road of the dead toward the open country with only the vaguest idea of the territory ahead.
There were torches moving in the tomb servants' village. Rahotep listened to the shouting of the guards contemptuously. Had he been in command back there, there would be far less noise and more speed in spreading out a net of men to snare a fugitive. But he should thank Horus that they were such bunglers.
For several minutes Rahotep ran lightly, the impetus of his initial good fortune carrying him on. Then he was aware of blood flowing down his side, a sticky flood over his crooked arm and the jar he cradled. His bare foot came down upon a sharp stone, and the pain made him flinch, twisting his ankle awkwardly so that his smooth lope was reduced to a hobble.
All about him were tempting hiding places, but he did not know the ground as well as those who pursued him did. He might well take shelter in a trap. It was better to keep moving, even at his hampered pace. His path took him away from the cliffs, angling toward the river. Now he caught a glimpse of torches bobbing before him there. Would they uncover Kheti? He doubted whether any tomb guard could match the Nubian Scout in trail lore, especially at night. But he was also certain that Kheti would not leave the vicinity of the necropolis until he was sure of his captain's fate.
Meanwhile, Rahotep leaned against a rock outcrop and forced himself to logical thinking. He dared not return to
Semna in his present state. And to approach any of the villas of the nobles on the outskirts of the fort-city was to ask for arrest. As far as he knew, only Methen and Hentre within the territory would give him aid or shelter, and neither could protect a fugitive against the power of Unis.
His progress was in a broken zigzag as he made his way from one projecting bit of stone to the next. And the intervals in which he paused to steady himself against each outcrop grew longer in spite of his determination to keep going. That line of torches along the river reached now almost to the outer gates of Semna. In a few moments that refuge would be closed against him. Rahotep flogged his memory of the great fort, of the outlying villas, of all that lay before him in the general northern direction. And his uncertainty grew. If he kept on, he would be herded away from the river, backed into the scrub land that bordered the desert proper. Then they could track him down at their leisure.
He pressed his right hand tightly against the throbbing slash on his shoulder, trying to stem that steady flow of blood. The priest had not killed, but he had struck better than he knew. Now when Rahotep watched those torches, they seemed to swing and circle like awakened birds in the air, and his lungs labored with the effort he made. But still tight against him he held the sealed jar.
As he wedged himself in an angle between two blocks of stone, using their strength to remain on his feet, he heard something new—the angry chattering of a baboon warning against invasion of its hunting lands. Rahotep shook his head —a baboon? The haziness that had first attacked his sight now jumbled his thoughts. A baboon—that had some meaning.
Then he fought his weakness, the fuzziness that wreathed him in. Kheti! Kheti's warning from the time they were lads evading Rahotep's scribe-tutor. And he hissed softly in return, a warm relief flooding through him. A shadow that had more breadth and strength than any real shadow flowed up to him, and the firm grip of strong hands closed about him. He flinched from the touch on his shoulder.
"Be easy, they have marked my hide somewhat," he said, half laughing in sheer relief.
Kheti's answering comment in Dedun's name was more curse than petition.
"Do you know where we are?" Rahotep asked.
"Near to the shrine of Amon-Re, brother. But they are between us and Semna or the river."
"Amon-Re!" Rahotep straightened. A hope, small and weak, but still a hope, came to life.
Amon-Re was the patron of Thebes, and the priests of His shrine had had, in the past, strong ties with the northern city that had been the capital of Egypt. Would they not favor a Pharaoh ruling there now?
Anubis was strong, but Amon-Re had greater power. It would depend upon the high priest—a timid man, or one who did not wish to dispute Unis and Pen-Seti, would be of no service. On the other hand, a Voice of Amon who was jealous of his own might welcome a chance to stand up to Pen-Seti. It was a gamble to be sure, but this whole venture was a throw of Senet sticks in the sight of the Great Ones.
"We shall go to the shrine—" Rahotep pushed himself away from the stones. He reached for a hold on Kheti's shoulder to steady himself, and then urged the other to move. Who was the Voice of Amon now? So much rested upon that single question. In the five years since he had left the Viceroy's court there could have been many changes.
The shrine light in the temple was larger and brighter than the lamp of the mortuary chapel. But the shadowy interior seemed as deserted to Rahotep as he staggered up the steps with Kheti's support, to waver over the pavement of the main aisle.
In the chapel he fro
nted the graven image of the Watcher. Here he faced a more than life-size crowned king, the Double Crown on His head, the staff with the sun disc in His hand. And to that representation the captain made homage wealdy, his knees on the cold stone, pushing the jar before him into the full beam of the light from the altar.
"Who are you who bring gifts with bloody hands into the sacred places of the Great One?" What Rahotep had taken for a second statue moved forward with a slow sway of priest's shoulder shawl.
"Khephren!" He identified the priest almost stupidly.
"Aye, Khephren. And you, who steal through the night secretly, what do you here?"
Rahotep answered with the sullenness of complete despair. He had made his cast and the sticks had fallen against him. The Voice of Amon was Khephren, a man of austerity, of great and noted learning, but also one who of old had divorced himself from all connection with the rule of Nubia, who visited the Viceroy's court only upon the demands of ceremony, and who had never been known to take a hand in any internal dispute.
