[Stargate SG-1 02] - The Price You Pay

by Ashley McConnell - (ebook by Undead)

  No, wait. Of course they did. There was Ra, who was Apophis’ rival. Jackson didn’t think the Goa’uld had adopted the name by accident. Apophis might swear vengeance against Earth for destroying Ra, but that didn’t mean he wouldn’t have done it himself if he’d had the chance. Then there was Nekhmet, subordinate to Apophis. Hierarchies. Rivalries. Jealousies?

  Apophis. Sighing, he pressed the heels of his hands against his eyes, unable to press away the cold worm of hatred at the thought of that name. He was unable, too, to press away the inevitable thought that accompanied it.

  Where Apophis was, Sha’re would be. His love, his joy, his life. His stolen wife, implanted with a mature Goa’uld. Somewhere on this world was Sha’re, and chance had given him one more tantalizing opportunity to find her.

  O’Neill rolled over, snuffling into the hard pillow, and Jackson smiled fleetingly. The colonel hated to admit not being at his absolute best at all times, but he’d headed for that cot as if it were a long-lost friend. It was a good thing the Council of M’kwethet wasn’t a better judge of character; they’d picked the wrong captive to torture. Although, O’Neill had remarked, it did present an interesting variation—good prisoner/bad prisoner—it just showed that the M’kwethet grasp of the whole “ruthless brutality” concept was a bit slippery.

  There were worse attributes to be known for.

  Jackson sighed. No matter how much he tried to empty his mind, to free himself from the underlying panic and hatred that ate at him, the image of Apophis and Sha’re would not go away.

  All right, then; what could he do about it?

  O’Neill’s goal was to reunite the team and get them home. In order to do that, they had to locate the bracelet Nekhmet used, or one just like it; figure out how to use it; retrieve the two left on M’kwethet; and get home again, all without alerting the Guards or the Goa’uld.

  What if he could find Sha’re and bring her back too? Of course, there was always the little problem of the Goa’uld parasite, but they could deal with that somehow.

  That they were prisoners under the supervision of Ahmose and Nekhmet was another irrelevant detail.

  Surely he could convince O’Neill that they could combine the necessary search for the Gate with his own search for Sha’re? And if they found her, they’d probably find Skaara too.

  At this point Jackson took a deep breath and shook his head. He knew Jack O’Neill. The colonel would be tempted, even sympathetic, but he wouldn’t buy the argument for one minute, not if it threatened his primary objective, to save his team. If Jackson was going to try this, he’d have to do it on his own.

  Mumbling came from the bed across the room.

  Through a little square window high up on the wall, he could see the sky fading to purple and rose as the sun set. Giving up on the meditation idea, he got up and looked around the room for lamps, candles, some source of light. Nothing was immediately apparent.

  The Goa’uld had their own mysterious methods of lighting.

  Then again, they might not waste those methods on mere cattle.

  “Going somewhere?” came a voice from the bed.

  “Uh…” Jackson stammered. “I was looking for some light.”

  “Mmmph.” O’Neill sat up, a little less smoothly than was his wont, and groaned. “Oh, man.” He rotated his head, slowly, and Jackson could hear his spine cracking from across the room. “I’d guess it’s after curfew anyway.”

  “The sun just set.”

  “Whatever.” The colonel got up, slapped imaginary dust off his pants, and stretched. The white robe of the Chosen was a discarded heap upon the floor. “I don’t suppose there’s facilities around here?”

  “Over there.” Hygiene seemed to have followed the model on M’kwethet, or more likely vice-versa. In any case, there was a screen at one end of the room. O’Neill disappeared behind it for a few minutes and then came out again, drying his hands on the white robe from the floor.

  “Food?”

  Jackson shook his head.

  “I don’t suppose we could raid the kitchen?”

  Jackson shrugged. “I don’t know if there is a kitchen.”

  “Think positive.” O’Neill looked down at the robe in his hands and dropped it on the floor again, went to his belt and pulled out a white T-shirt. Even in the fading light Jackson could see the bruises on the other man’s ribs and jaw. “Well, what are you waiting for? Let’s go scout up some breakfast. Or dinner. Or something.”

  “Wouldn’t the door be—”

  As Jackson spoke, the unlocked door swung open at O’Neill’s push. “It’s a barracks, not a prison,” he said. “They’ve probably got guards all over the place, sensors, the whole works, but they don’t need to lock us up. Where would we go?”

  Good question, Jackson thought grimly, as he trailed the other man down the plain stuccoed hallway. The passage was lighted, though he couldn’t find the source of the illumination.

  Sure enough, as soon as they came to a corner they saw one of the Jaffa standing guard. He was engaged in bantering conversation with a dark-haired young woman who balanced a basket on one hip. Both conversants looked up as the two men approached.

  “Hi,” O’Neill said cheerfully. “We’re new around here. Is there someplace we can get something to eat?”

  The Jaffa straightened, frowning, but the woman laughed. She had shockingly bright blue eyes, vivid against a Mediterranean complexion. Jackson blinked; laughter wasn’t a sound he had ever associated with a Goa’uld world. Nor was that particular eye color. And she had no cartouche mark on her forehead.

  “You must be part of that shipment that came in earlier today,” she said. “Ahrhose said that some of you would be sent to your quarters right away, but I don’t think he meant to starve you! The evening meal is done, but come with me. I’ll see that you get something.”

  The Jaffa opened his mouth, perhaps to protest.

  “Ah, be still,” the woman rebuked him. “No one goes hungry in my house. I am Mafret,” she added to the two team members. “I am the housekeeper for my lord Ahmose. Come with me to the kitchens.”

  “I’m Jack,” O’Neill smiled down at her. She barely came to his shoulder. Her hair was a glossy blue-black, and she wore a thin, unbleached linen tunic that came to her ankles and tied over one shoulder. “He’s Daniel. He’s shy.”

  Jackson glared at him. O’Neill smiled beatifically.

  Mafret raised the basket and settled it on her head, steadying it with one graceful hand, and led the way, hips swaying. O’Neill gave Jackson a wide-eyed Well, what would you do? look and followed, leaving a discomfited Jaffa guard behind.

  The housekeeper led them down the hall and around the corner, down a series of steps and down another hall. Jackson was beginning to get thoroughly lost. It was a larger building than he had thought, easily large enough to house two or three hundred people. If Mafret was the housekeeper in charge of all this, plus the staff it would take to keep that many people fed, clothed, and clean, she had a great deal of responsibility indeed.

  As they walked, they passed a number of people, all of whom recognized Mafret and acknowledged her, either by nods or bows or, in the case of the many carrying burdens on their heads, by a casting down of the eyes. She returned every greeting, often by name, but didn’t introduce her two charges.

  Eventually they came to a large kitchen. At least, Jackson assumed it was a kitchen; he couldn’t see a fireplace or a stove anywhere. But there were huge clay jars stained about the rims with oil, and baskets big enough to hide a man if they hadn’t been filled to overflowing with grain; loosely woven wicker and wire baskets hanging from bare rafters held vegetables, some of which he recognized as onions, potatoes, jicama. The walls were lined with doors.

  Besides, the place smelled like a kitchen, like baking and stew and pastries. Two girls, dressed in the same kind of sheer linen tunic, scrubbed flour dust off a broad stone table. Mafret swayed over to one wall and set her burden down on the floor, sha
king her head briskly.

  “Well, then,” she said. “I suppose my lord gave you no instruction at all about your life here and what is expected of you?”

  “No, ma’am.” O’Neill was laying it on a bit too thick, Jackson thought disapprovingly. That ingratiating grin was beginning to get on his nerves. “Maybe you could help us out?”

  The girls giggled. Apparently they thought so too.

  Mafret seemed to share their opinion. She gave O’Neill a long, comprehensive look. “What I can do is feed you and clothe you properly.” She snapped orders to the girls in a quick, fluid dialect that Jackson didn’t follow, and the two scurried away, still looking over their shoulders and giggling. As soon as they were gone, the housekeeper set about assembling a meal, opening doors and collecting utensils, plates, drinking mugs, and finally, from a door that looked exactly like the rest, a heavy bowl of stew and several small loaves of steaming, warm bread.

  Jackson was hungrier than he thought. He barely waited for the arched-eyebrow permission to start digging in, and then had to stop almost immediately—the bowl that the woman had handled with her bare hands was filled with excruciatingly hot food. O’Neill, watching him, took it a little slower, but even he was surprised.

  The vegetables might not be corn, beans, and squash, but they tasted good and were filling. They finished their servings and asked for more.

  Mafret watched them eat with considerable satisfaction. As they started on second helpings, the two girls came in with armfuls of clothing. Mafret directed them to set the clothing on one of the tables and then chased them away.

  “This is terrific,” O’Neill said at last. “Thank you.”

  Mafret gave him a puzzled smile. “Why do you thank me? This is my purpose.”

  O’Neill let go a resigned breath. “Then you fulfill your purpose very, very well, ma’am. We do appreciate your taking the trouble to feed us.”

  “Absolutely,” Jackson chimed in belatedly. He was still having trouble chewing around the burns in his mouth, but somehow he managed.

  O’Neill watched as Mafret refilled his mug for the fourth time, and then picked idly at the remains of the third loaf of bread. “Mafret,” he said abruptly, “where are we?”

  She looked at him sharply, then at Jackson, and seated herself across the table from the two of them. “You do not know?”

  “We know we were on M’kwethet,” O’Neill said. “And we went through a Gate and found ourselves in a big room with a blue tile floor and paintings on the walls. And then suddenly we were in a meadow. And now we’re here. Where is here?”

  “Saqqara, of course.”

  Jackson was unable to stifle a laugh, and regretted it immediately as Mafret focused a hurt blue gaze on him. O’Neill waited for enlightenment.

  “Saqqara’s the site of some of the first known Egyptian tombs,” he explained. “Like Abydos.”

  “So this place belonged to Ra as well?”

  Mafret immediately became agitated. “You must not speak the name of the Great One who is gone,” she said, glancing over her shoulder. “The Goa’uld will punish you.”

  “Ra is dead,” O’Neill said deliberately. “How can he hurt us?”

  “There are other Great Ones.”

  “Like Apophis.”

  Mafret went white. “Be still. Have you no sense? There are Jaffa everywhere.”

  The pretense of flirting evaporated. “You aren’t Jaffa,” O’Neill said, leaning across the table to her.

  She shuddered. “That is not my fate, and I thank the gods for it. I am a servant and beneath their notice, and would stay so.”

  O’Neill nodded. “All right, then. Tell us about this house. What is it?”

  She swallowed and sat back. “This is the servant house of the lord Ahmose, who serves Nekhmet, who serves the Great One. We are privileged to provide food and body servants to the court of the Great One.”

  “How many people you got here?” The loaf of bread was no more than a pile of crumbs now.

  Mafret paused a moment, her lips moving silently. “Three hundred and sixty-six souls sleep in the servant house of my lord,” she said at last. “Including you.”

  “Three hundred and sixty-six?” Daniel repeated, shocked. “How many Goa’—I mean, how many Great Ones are there?”

  Mafret shrugged. “I don’t know. This house serves the house of the one Great One.”

  “Apophis.” O’Neill supplied the name for her. She flinched, but nodded silent, emphatic agreement.

  “Are there servant houses for each of the Great Ones?” Daniel asked, his mind reeling at the idea. Three hundred and sixty-six… Don’t be ridiculous, he scolded himself. Any of the European courts had more servants than that on their worst day.

  But the European courts didn’t invade their servants, destroy their minds and personalities…

  You sure about that?

  At that point Daniel decided his inner voice had been hanging out with O’Neill too long.

  Mafret, oblivious to the inner dialogue, was shaking her head again. “I don’t know. My duty is this house and no other.”

  O’Neill sighed, then caught his breath as a rib jabbed. Mafret got up immediately and went over to another of the featureless doors, rummaged behind it for a few moments, and came out again with a folded packet of powder about the size of a tea bag. She poured the contents into O’Neill’s cup and presented it to him. “Drink.”

  “Uh—what is that?”

  Mafret wasn’t used to having her authority questioned, at least not on housekeeping issues. Physical pain was evidently a housekeeping issue. “Drink!” she snapped.

  O’Neill shrugged, winced again, and drank obediently, making a face as he did so. “All right. Yeech.” Noticing Mafret’s stern expression, he made an apologetic gesture.

  “The Gate we came through,” he continued, pushing the mug to one side. “Where is that?”

  Mafret checked to make sure the mug was empty. “It is in the House of the Great One, of course.”

  “So they took us to his house and then bounced us out of town?” Daniel asked. “Why?”

  “To show you their power,” she said matter-of-factly. Since they were finished eating, she gathered up the utensils and took them over to place them in a drawer, pressing one corner as she shut it. Daniel thought he heard a hum coming from the drawer. “They do not do so often, but sometimes those who come here are very foolish.”

  “Really?” O’Neill said with a wolflike grin. “How foolish are they?”

  She looked down at him, a slender waiflike figure with old, old eyes. Cleopatra, Daniel realized abruptly. She reminded him of a younger version of Elizabeth Taylor as Cleopatra, with those enormous violet eyes and the glossy black hair.

  “Sometimes,” she said deliberately, “there are those who think that they can use the Gate to escape the Great Ones. Or they think the Great Ones can be harmed. Those who think this are very foolish, and they always die. They take a very long time dying.”

  “But others come and always try, don’t they?” O’Neill said softly, the look of the wolf still in his eyes.

  “Yes,” Mafret admitted reluctantly. “But only because they don’t know how useless it is. There are the ones who have not been told, and then there are the stupid ones who have been told and don’t believe.”

  O’Neill smiled, acknowledging. “So only an ignorant or a stupid man could ever succeed.”

  Her lips curved as she smiled back despite herself. “Even so.” Her hair swept back and forth as she shook her head abruptly, as if shaking off a spell. “If you try you will fail. No one succeeds.

  “Besides,” she went on, as another thought occurred to her, “are you not sacrifices from M’kwethet? Those from M’kwethet come willingly. Why would you want to leave, now that you’re here?”

  The sublime logic of this was unanswerable. O’Neill tried—at least, his jaw dropped—but he was unable to come up with a response.

  “Mafret,” D
aniel stepped in, “have you ever wanted to be possessed by a Goa’uld?”

  The look of loathing she gave him was answer enough.

  “Well,” he said, “we feel the same way. And don’t tell anybody, but we’re not really from M’kwethet. We’d like to get back home, in fact, but we have a couple of things we have to do first. So you see it’s important for us to know some things.

  “Like that bracelet of Nekhmet’s. It can open a Gate, can’t it? We need to find it. Soon.”

  “As soon as possible, in fact,” O’Neill put in.

  Mafret stared from one to the other. “I see,” she said slowly. “You want me to help you find a Jaffa’s Key and escape from Saqqara.”

  “Exactly,” O’Neill said, with a winning smile.

  Daniel’s heart sank.

  Sure enough, Mafret laughed at them.

  Rising from the table, she shook her head. “Go back to your room and sleep,” she said with a kind of fondness. “Tomorrow you’ll be called out by Ahmose and given your first duties in service of the Great Ones. You need to be rested for it.”

  “You’re not going to help us,” O’Neill clarified.

  “Of course I’m not going to help you,” she snapped, finally letting exasperation show. “Am I a fool? No. I am the housekeeper of the servant house. If you wish to find a Key, or to leave this world, you will do it without help from me.”

  O’Neill studied her for a long moment. “And without hindrance?” he asked softly.

  She stared back, for a long, silent moment. Then, finally, she said, “I keep this house. What occurs outside of it is not my concern.”

  “Good enough,” the colonel replied. He paused once more. “So you never go out of this house? How long have you served the Goa’uld, Mafret?”

  She raised her head with pride, the indirect lighting glistening in her hair. “I have served Ahmose since my birth,” she said. “He is my father. It is right that I should do so.”

  “You serve the Goa’uld,” O’Neill said flatly. “Whether you say so or not. And you know what they are.”