Mara, Daughter of the Nile (17 page)

Sheftu examined his wine cup with great interest.

“—and then, as the image of the god neared its sanctuary, behold! it turned aside, stopped before the young prince, and led him through the curtain into the Holy of Holies itself. They say he walked like one spellbound when he came forth, half fainting, to tell that Amon had named him pharaoh … Was that the way of it, Sashai?”

“Aye,” he answered solemnly. “The ways of Amon are mysterious.”

There was a little pause. “And most convenient,” added Mara.

Sheftu put down his cup and turned to face her. His eyes were full of laughter. “Can it be you are skeptical, little one? Surely not! It was a fine miracle—and took only a little help from the priests who carried the image.”

I thought as much! Mara said to herself. And still you have told me nothing I did not guess already. By the Feather, you can’t elude the net forever, my wily fish! “So after all,” she said deliberately, “your Son of the Sun is naught but a clever politician.”

The effect was instantaneous. Sheftu’s smile vanished without a trace. “Watch thy tongue, girl! He is no politician, but a conqueror, fit to rule Egypt and the world!”

“But if he relies on mere tricks—”

“Listen, my pretty skeptic.” Sheftu leaned toward her, his eyes intense, his voice low and rapid. Here it came at last; he had forgotten his caution. Mara tensed herself to listen to every word. “Think you the prince was idle, those years in the temple? He spent them forging the whole priesthood into his weapon. They are ready to rise—today, tomorrow—they need only the signal. As for the miracle, it failed to set him on the throne, but he scarce expected it to. Hepusonbe, the high priest, is Hatshepsut’s tool, and besides, it takes more than a miracle to move that woman! Nevertheless, our ‘trick’ was far from wasted!”

“But if no one believed—”

“The people believed! And they remember. Look around you.” Sheftu waved a hand toward the crowded room. “These are all rebels, loyal to the king. More than that, it forced Her High and Mightiness into the pretense of the regency. She waited a little too long to take Senmut’s counsel and arrange for the prince to die of some ‘mysterious’ ailment—after the miracle she didn’t dare. Instead she summoned him back to the palace and made a royal prisoner of him. Too late, by Amon! While she piles honors on that architect and his cutthroats, she fails to notice that many of the younger nobles are growing uneasy over the state of the Empire.” A slow smile curved Sheftu’s mouth as he settled back and reached for his cup. “I have seen to it,” he added lightly, “that their uneasiness increases—and that they, too, remember that miracle.”

I’ll wager you have! thought Mara. So that was the story—it all but took her breath away. This was no palace intrigue, but a revolution, involving priesthood, nobility, and the populace—no doubt the Army as well. And the whole complex affair was cupped in the palm of this prince of schemers beside her. She studied him, half in fear, half in admiration, as he drank his wine. Hatshepsut held Thutmose fast prisoner—but no one stood higher in her trust
than the smooth-tongued Lord Sheftu, the most dangerous man to her in all Egypt. How had he accomplished it? Shrewd foresight, patience, deceit so sustained and perfect it was a work of art. Aye, a masterpiece, thought Mara, remembering his airy disregard of court etiquette yesterday, his lounging arrogance.

Yet there was a far different Sheftu—the dark and lonely figure she had seen silhouetted against the flaming sky one evening on the
Beetle
. She felt close to him suddenly. For all his insouciance, for all his gold, he lived a life as precarious as her own. And if he obeyed those terrible instructions she must give him tonight—

As he set down his cup, she turned away, pushing the thought hastily from her mind. No need to think of those instructions yet. No need to think of them at all! Remember, Mara, he is your enemy—and have you not bested him at his own game tonight? Take heart, though he conceals it better, he’s no more immune to you than Reshed …

His first words served to verify her confidence. “What is it about thee, maid, that loosens my tongue at both ends? By the beard of Ptah, I’ve done more talking tonight than …”

“Do you not talk to others so?”

“Nay, I do not!” He sounded annoyed, to her mischievous delight.

She quoted blandly from an ancient proverb: “ ‘Be not arrogant because of thy knowledge. Goodly discourse is more hidden than the precious green stone, and yet it is found with slave girls over the millstones.’ ”

“ ‘Silence,’ ” he quoted back at her drily, “ ‘is more valuable than the
teftef
plant.’ See that you watch your own tongue. Scarce a handful even know who I am, and it is better they do not. Oh, a few know the plans, of course—Nefer the goldsmith, the priest I was talking to when you arrived, Ashor, a few nobles, Nekonkh—”

“And I,” reminded Mara.

“Aye, and now you.” He had leaned forward, his profile half-hidden from her by the bulk of his shoulder, and he was toying with one of his reed pens, turning it over and over in his long brown fingers. “I’ll wager I live to regret that,” he added.

Mara pressed close to him. “Sashai! Do you not trust me?”

He turned, with a half-smile and a glance from his long eyes that made her heart beat faster. “My lovely Mara,” he said softly. “I don’t trust you as far as tomorrow.”

She jerked away, her confidence suddenly in tatters. “Aye! So you have said before! If it is true, you have great faith in the gods!”

“Nay, I have great faith in your reluctance to go back to loaf snatching!”

He was laughing at her now. All in an instant he had retreated behind that façade of charming banter, where neither thrusts nor wiles could reach him. Furious, she struggled for a manner as careless. How had she ever imagined she felt close to this enigma? He had only made a fool of her. Or had he really opened his mind to her, in a moment of earnestness, and then regretted it? One thing was certain—he wished to remind her, and perhaps himself, of their precise relationship. Loaf snatching! Guttersnipe! Very well. So be it.

She had herself in hand by the time he spoke again. “Never mind that. Let us say you are one of the gambles I’ve dared to take. So far it’s naught but exhilarating … Now tell me, how did you swindle your way through those gates tonight?”

She shrugged. “With a languishing glance and a few tears. There’s a young sentry who thinks I’m smitten with him. A
handsome
young sentry,” she added.

“Indeed! How pleasant for you. But did tears alone convince him he should let you through the gate?”

“He would much rather have kissed me. But I consented to a bargain …”

“Oh, very good! And you will dangle this bargain like a sweetmeat until the fellow has served his purpose. Excellent! It might last for months.”

“And again, it mightn’t!” retorted Mara sharply. The conversation was not going as she wished. “Even a sentry’s patience may be tried too far, you know. This one’s young and ardent. What if his patience ends?”

Sheftu eased one elbow onto the table, rested his cheek in his hand, and regarded her blandly. His long eyes were brimming with amusement. “You’ll think of something,” he said.

The devil take you! thought Mara. Aloud, she snapped, “Or perhaps I shall simply keep the bargain.”

There was a little silence. Sheftu straightened, took a sip of his wine and set the mug down with care. “Not,” he said, “unless you wish me to feed him to the crocodiles—bit by bit.”

Mara’s mouth dropped open. But before she could speak, another voice, soft and persuasive as the flute’s tone, slid between them.

“A lover’s quarrel, friend Sashai?”

It was the juggler, standing in the entrance to their cubicle. He had a crooked shoulder, Mara noticed, and a smile of curious charm in a twisted, ugly face. His glittering balls were momentarily at rest in the curve of his arm, save for three which traced a shining, stealthy little circle above his right hand, as if they had a life of their own.

“Nay, Sahure,” answered Sheftu easily. “We never quarrel, nor are we in love.”

The first was a lie, thought Mara. But the second? She was still tingling with surprise over the remark about Reshed and the crocodiles. Glancing impatiently at Sahure, she found her gaze caught and held by a pair of dark, cynical
eyes, profoundly old, profoundly weary, as if they had long ago seen everything, and found value in nothing.

“And may I know this enchanting stranger, whom you claim you do not love?” went on the juggler. “If you speak truth, friend Sashai, then your heart must be a mysterious thing, no more flesh and blood than one of my gilded balls here. Is it not so, Blue-Eyed One?”

“I know not, juggler,” murmured Mara. She was half attracted, half repelled by this Sahure with his young, beguiling voice and his old, old eyes.

“Nay, call me not juggler, but friend. My heart is no gilded plaything.” The balls rose in a golden fountain above his hand, then resumed their steady circling, but his gaze never left Mara’s face. “Have you orders for me, master?”

“Not tonight.”

“I am desolate. Would there were cause for me to linger in the light of this little one’s countenance—where did you say you discovered her?”

“I failed to say,” answered Sheftu drily.

Sahure’s smile curved beneath his ancient eyes. “Aye, so you did. But she is not of Thebes, for I have seen high and low, princesses and slaves, and who could forget her? She was not among them. Mother Nile has borne her to us from another shore, no doubt, as she bears the gift of mud which makes Egypt great. Will you permit my poor efforts to entertain you, Face of the Lily?”

Sheftu shook his head. “Begone, Sahure. Others crave your talents.”

“While you crave to mend the quarrel which was not a quarrel, with this Lovely One who is not beloved …” The three balls leaped up, dazzling, and with a subtle twist of his body Sahure brought all the others into play. “In that case I shall leave you, Flower of Grace, though not forever. May thy
ka
endure and thy shadow seek the light …”

The soft voice trailed away as he turned, letting his
gaze slide off Mara at last. The golden cataract of balls switched suddenly to a triangle, then to a pattern of brilliant intricacy before resolving once more into a circle. In a frame of moving light the juggler glided away across the floor.

“Mother of the gods!” breathed Mara. “Is he man or
kheft
?”

Sheftu laughed. “Sahure dwells in a dark land, I grant you. But there’s no harm in him. I’ve found him very useful.”

“You mean you trust him with your secrets? Great Amon, he’d betray his own
ka
, I believe!”

“Nay, he’s loyal. In any case, he knows little—not even who I am. I admit he tries his best to find out. It’s just curiosity.”

“Perhaps,” muttered Mara. She frowned. This talk of loyalty and betrayal had made her aware of much she had forgotten, and would rather have gone on forgetting.

She twirled her wine mug, watching the play of golden balls on the other side of the room. Why had the juggler tried so hard to discover where she came from and who she was? Already, in his poetic babblings of Mother Nile, he had arrived at one answer, very shrewdly. And his cynical eyes had never moved from her. He would know her next time they met, that was certain. Where would it be? Perhaps in the presence of Lord Nahereh?

She shivered, and took a sip of the wine, trying to dismiss the notion as impossible. But her thoughts were restless now, leaping back to that message she had yet to deliver. It was warm and pleasant here, with the good smell of meat and the torchlight flooding the room with smoky gold. But outside the night was waning. There was still the river to cross, the dark alleys and the silent streets to find her way through, the stealthy taps on Reshed’s gate …

She set down her cup and spoke in a low voice. “It grows late, Sashai. I must leave. And before that—”

“Before that you must tell me what I must know. Aye, it
is time, maid. But not here,” he added, with a glance at the trio of Libyan traders noisily taking possession of the next cubicle. “Come.”

He rose and drew her to her feet. Picking up her cloak, she followed him out across the room. We are really enemies, she reminded herself. I care naught for what happens to him …

Nekonkh stood up as they passed by him, detached himself from his companions and drifted toward the door. Otherwise no notice was taken of them. The two old men were setting up their board for another game of hounds and jackals, Ashor was hurrying toward the priest’s table with a steaming platter, the dancing girl was passing her tambourine among a group of hilarious artisans in the corner. As they reached the fire pan, where the innkeeper’s wife was dishing up more meat, Sheftu paused and spoke quietly.

“Miphtahyah.”

She straightened. Sheftu handed her a few
deben
, like any man paying for his wine. “This maid is one of us,” he murmured. “She is free to come and go here, at any time.”

The old woman’s eyes moved to Mara. She nodded grudgingly, then slipped the coins onto her money ring and turned back to the fire. In another moment Sheftu was holding open the tavern’s outer door.

The moon had risen now, a faded sliver in the vast, dark sky, and the night had grown chill. Mara wrapped her cloak around her as she followed Sheftu into the darkest corner of the courtyard. Yonder by the gate was a dim hulk which must be Nekonkh.

“Now. Tell me.” Sheftu had lowered his voice almost to nothing. “Was my pharaoh well?”

“Aye.”

“You gave him my message?”

“Aye, I gave it.”

“Well, go on. What did he say?”

She roused herself, trying to shake off a feeling of oppression.
“He seemed overjoyed. He said you must be the Great Magician himself.”

She could feel Sheftu’s deep pleasure. “The gods were with me on that venture. I’ve not been idle since. When you see him next, say to him that two of the uncertain ones—he of the fan and he of the feather—have come into our house. Do you have that clear?”

“He of the fan and he of the feather,” echoed Mara mechanically. “Aye, I have it.”