Cat Tales (17 page)

She found them in Wahankh's bedroom. Ruia sat on the edge of the sleeping mat, hands clutched together as she rocked back and forth. Her tears had smeared her eye make-up, tracing black river-beds of kohl down her round cheeks. Her hair — her real hair, since the razor terrified her — hung in ragged tangles.

“His death is a natural thing,” Jarha was saying. “Wahankh's life was a long one, and it was time for him to leave us.”

Jarha looked perfect, as always. Kohl shadowed his eyes in precise symmetry, untouched by tears. His black wig shone in the light. When he moved, the light danced across clinking gold jewelry.

Wahankh's jewelry
, Peshet thought bitterly. Already Jarha took Wahankh's place as master of this home.

He placed a manicured hand on Ruia's shoulder and squeezed gently. “I share your pain.”

“I miss Peshet, too.” Ruia bit her lip and turned away.

“Your father would have wanted Peshet with him. He deserved the company of his loyal scribe. Peshet was right when she chose to stay with him.” He moved closer and wrapped his arms around her.

When I
chose
to stay?
Peshet wanted to scream.
Can't you see what he's doing?
But of course, Ruia couldn't. Though older than Peshet, the girl had the mentality of a small child. An accident when she was younger had cracked her skull and injured her brain. She lacked the cynicism to see through this snake as he tightened his coils around her.

But Peshet could see.
You can kill me,
she said soundlessly.
You will not have her.

In this form, freed from the flesh, it was easier to draw upon the power of her
ka
. She traced the hieroglyph for death, drawing the sarcophagus again and again over Jarha's chest. The power grew within her, fighting for release. She would reach into him and squeeze his heart until it burst, destroying him from the inside.

He would make Ruia his wife, then his slave. He would flaunt his infidelities and twist her mind until she blamed herself for his dalliances. He might even kill her once he had no further need for her.

The pressure grew, fighting to be free. Her vision sparked as she tried to control it. She had never attempted this sort of magic. It writhed and lashed like an asp struggling for release. She tried to focus it on Jarha, but her grasp was too weak. Her hand began to shake, disrupting the hieroglyphs.

“No,” she cried. She tried to regain control. Like the asp, the power twisted in her grip and turned on her. Death poured through her
ka
, and she screamed in silence as the house disappeared into darkness.

S
HE AND RUIA had stood together, watching as Wahankh's embalmed body was placed into the first of several wooden boxes that would go into the ornate stone sarcophagus.

“He took me into his home,” Peshet whispered. “He gave me a family.”

Ruia offered her a cup of dark wine. “To make you feel better.”

“Thank you,” Peshet said. Normally, she avoided the foreign drink, but today the bitter taste was a welcome thing.

The girl smiled. “Jarha told me it would help you,” she said with satisfaction. “He said to drink as much as you like, and that it would make your troubles pass more swiftly.”

Peshet was still staring in horror at the cup in her hands when Jarha walked into the room. He handed her a black, double-handled clay jug. “The wine was imported from Knossos at great cost, for your palate alone,” he said. “I suggest you take it with you, to hasten your journey.”

It was too late to do anything. Peshet knew, even without seeing the smug gleam in his eyes, that the wine was poisoned. It was a perfect trap. She was already dead, and if she told Ruia what he had done, it would destroy her too. She would blame herself for giving Peshet the poisoned drink. Knowing Ruia, the guilt could drive her to take her own life.

Peshet had been helpless as the seizures ripped Wahankh's life from his body. She would not be responsible for Ruia's death as well.

“Come, Ruia,” Jarha said. “Let us leave the scribe to her thoughts.”

They walked out of the room, leaving Peshet alone with the embalmers. She placed a hand on the smooth, bleached wood and whispered, “At least I will be with you soon.”

S
OMETHING scraped her face. She opened her eyes and stared into Bast-ta-sherit's long, narrow face. The cat licked her left eyelid, apparently enjoying the grease in the kohl.

She started to sit up, and a thousand blacksmiths hammered her skull. She groaned. The cat leapt away, fur bristling. She tried to speak, but her throat was dry as the sand.

The muscles of her right hand were cramped. She managed to bring it to her face without too much pain, and found herself looking into the eye of Sitma-at, the badge she had left to anchor herself to this place. The badge had left its imprint in the lines of her palm. A shudder tore through her as she realized how close she had come to losing her
ka
forever.

The cat reached out to paw the gold badge.

Without warning, her body spasmed as the poison sent blades of pain through her gut and chest. The cat hissed and jumped back again, watching warily until her muscles unlocked and she managed to breathe again.

“I'm sorry to startle you.”

Bast-ta-sherit's tail lashed furiously, and he continued to glare.

“I failed him,” she whispered. “He brought me into his home, treated me like a second daughter, and I failed him.”

The cat walked over to rub his head against her knee. Somehow, his presence dulled the edge of her grief and fear. If she was to die, she would not die alone.

The pain of her spell gradually faded, though the burning of the poison remained. Peshet forced herself to sit upright. Her shoulders scraped the limestone wall. Bast-ta-sherit nudged her hand.

“I'm dying, and you want your ears scratched,” she grumbled. The cat shoved her again, unrepenting.

She began to stroke the wiry fur behind his ears. “For so long, I was jealous of Ruia.
I
wanted to be the daughter of Wahankh. I was so much smarter than her, yet fate put me second for his affections.

“He made me work hours at a time, copying old scrolls and books while Ruia ran and played like a child half her age. It disgusted me. Once, I even went so far as to hit her.”

Wahankh had come running the instant he heard Ruia's cries. “What happened?” he demanded in a voice that set Peshet's insides quivering.

Ruia stared at them both with wide, confused eyes.

“Nothing, father.” A moment later, she fled to her room, leaving Peshet to face him alone.

“Go with her,” he said gruffly. “I have no time for this.”

Walking into Ruia's room was a harsher punishment than anything else Wahankh could have done. The girl sat with her knees clutched to her chest. She said nothing as Peshet stormed in, furious at the world and at herself.

“Well? Are you hurt?”

Ruia shook her head. “I didn't mean to get you in trouble,” she said softly.

Peshet blinked in disbelief. “It's not your fault,” she heard herself say. For the first time, she saw the admiration, the love shining up from Ruia's eyes.

As she continued to pet the cat, she whispered, “Can you understand what it was like, Bast-ta-sherit? All that time, she had looked up to me like an older sister. Like
family.
I started to cry. It took more than an hour to convince her my tears weren't her fault.

“The next day, I confessed to Wahankh. I told him my actions were unforgivable, and I would accept whatever punishment he thought fitting.

“Wahankh smiled. ‘Responsibility is the keystone of wisdom,' he said. He said he was proud of the way I had made up to Ruia.

“That was the day he began to teach me magic.”

T
HE FAINT LIGHT from the
ka
tunnels had turned blood red as Ra's light vanished for the night, and the oil in the lamp was almost gone. Soon the tomb would plunge into blackness. Once that happened, Peshet would never see the light again.

She was growing weaker. Her hands trembled constantly now, and her muscles felt like water.

“You must look after her,” she told the cat, hoping Bast would hear.

Bast-ta-sherit chewed at his paw, ignoring her.

“I failed. I couldn't protect her.”

The cat still refused to look at her.

“Jarha had only been with us for a few months,” she said. “He was the son of a nobleman, and claimed kinship with the Priest of Yinepu, so Wahankh could not turn him away. Jarha's sister would be the one to inherit his family's wealth, so he was searching for a way to build his own fortune. Wahankh was well-off and widely respected. More importantly, he had a daughter who could be easily wooed.”

The memories refocused her anger. Jarha had lurked about town, plying the gossips with money and drink until he learned of Wahankh's sickness. His sickness, and the pliability of his daughter.

Bast-ta-sherit glared with a sternness that matched Wahankh's as Peshet crawled back to the circle. “I have to try again.”

The cat walked up to her, and tiny sickle-claws sliced her forearm before she could begin.

She jerked back as parallel lines of blood began to flow. “What else can I do?” she pleaded. Deep down, she knew the cat was correct. If she tried this, it would destroy her. But what choice did she have? She would rather have her
ka
scattered to the desert than face Wahankh after failing to protect his daughter.

Bast-ta-sherit raised his chin and waited, unblinking, like a disappointed father.

She had to destroy Jarha. The man was a crocodile who preyed on human flesh. Ruia would never be able to protect herself from him.

The cat mewed softly.

Slowly, her muddled mind began to understand.

Ruia was unable to protect herself from
anyone
. Destroying Jarha would only leave her alone, and there was nothing she feared more. It would kill her as effectively as Jarha's poisoned wine.

“What do you want me to do?”

The lamp-light reflected greenly from the cat's eyes as he gazed patiently at her. Wahankh had once told her that cats captured the sun's light in their eyes, and that was how they could see through the darkness. They were creatures of Bast, bringing light and darkness together in those keen eyes.

“Light and darkness,” Peshet whispered. And suddenly she knew what she must do.

“Q
UICKLY, before the lamp dies.”

The spell of binding was to be performed at midday, under the gaze of Ra. With the sun already set, it might not work. But if Bast-ta-sherit truly carried the light of the sun in his eyes. . . .

Finding one of Ruia's belongings was easy. The girl had placed several small, decorated vases in the tomb to accompany her father. Peshet selected one with a gold rim and an image of Isis glazed into the side. She set this in the center of the new circle. Broken bits of wax were all that remained of her earlier spell. This would be a far simpler magic, a single hieroglyph imbued with the power of her
ka
.

But first, she needed something of Jarha's. He had placed gifts into the tomb, of course. Jarha never failed to observe proper etiquette. But his gifts had come from Wahankh's own household. She recognized everything he had placed in the corner of the tomb.

She refused to believe that his selfishness would save him. The world could not be so cruel. But without something of his, the spell would fail. A trinket, a piece of jewelry, anything.

The cat meowed softly. Peshet glanced up, following his gaze. And for the first time in days, she laughed.

The jug of poisoned wine joined Ruia's vase in the center of the circle. When she was ready, Bast-ta-sherit took his place at the head of the circle and waited, eyes wide.

Sunfire gleamed in the cat's eyes, almost as bright as the dying oil lamp as she began the spell. The candles had long since burned out, but she arranged the scraps of wax around the jug and the vase. Two vertical lines, and the hieroglyph of a twined rope. Her hands shook as she spread the wax, nudging the white specks into place.

She touched the vase with one finger and caught the impression of innocence, tinged with pain. “Ruia,” she whispered, smiling as she touched her sister. She stretched out her other hand.

Touching the jug was like grabbing white-hot coals. Anger and desperation seared through her. There was also something else, something hidden. Eventually, she identified fear.

Jarha was afraid of her
. That was why he had been so desperate to be rid of her. He feared she would force him from Wahankh's home, leaving him poor and alone.

“You have no more cause for fear,” Peshet whispered as she began the spell, whispering a prayer to Hathor, the Netjert of love. The spell was little more than the blessing spoken at every marriage celebration. The words came easily to Peshet's dry lips.

Jarha would soon persuade Ruia to marry him. But after this spell, they would be joined under Hathor, a joining witnessed by Ra himself. Any harm done to one would be shared by the other. Ruia's pain, physical or emotional, would be Jarha's own. His self-centered nature would lead him to protect Ruia at every turn, simply to insure his own safety.

Peshet smiled. She would set one crocodile to guard Ruia from the rest. It was even possible that, some day, he might truly come to care for her.

But as the power grew, all Peshet knew was that she would soon be able to rejoin her mentor.

H
OURS LATER, a sleek tomcat emerged from the top of a recently constructed tomb. He stretched, bathing in the silver moonlight and the cool night air. Then he leapt gracefully onto the grassy sands below and vanished into the darkness.

Jim C. Hines' second fantasy novel,
Goblin Hero,
was
released in May of 2007. The third goblin book will
be out . . . well, that depends on when he finishes revisions. He lives in Michigan with his wife and two
children. They share their home with 2.75 cats, one of
which has recently begun losing his fur. Jim sympathizes.