Another New Memphis morning ('New' in case some Ka-rotted Hyksos mistakes our metropolis of land-steamers and carrier pigeons for that mummified pit back in old Khem). Ra's divine rays painted the condos, factories, sphinxes, and Royal pyramids the color of a thirty-sebeks-a-night Macedonian's lips.How could I tell? How could Ahmenet-nefr-ra, Professional Mourner, disgraced Scribe (but that's another story), and all around swell guy know what happens before zenith? Especially after a night of losing sebeks at the senet table and swilling Meshika beer on board the Djed of Osiris, the Western Nile's hottest party steamer? I'd like to say the sacred baboons, brought over on Pharaoh Khepheren XXXII's ironclads (Khepheren has to have ironclads - those tombless Danelanders steal anything not weighted with a granite obelisk) woke me. I can't. What dragged me from my hickory couch (better than a marble sarcophagus, worse than the ivory-inlaid resting place of Khepheren's thirty-eighth wife, really another story) was less good-looking than half those red-butted sacred apes. "Master, you must arise." The gritty Meshika voice echoed in my wax-plugged ears. I rolled over, silently swearing about missing the honeyed dream of Khepheren's copper-haired thirty-sixth wife. The voice belonged to my (in theory, anyway) slave, Quitltlan. I had won Quitltlan from an agave-soaked Meshika hummingbird-priest five floodings ago. Then, I thought it was a sucker bet (as if there was any doubt about me hitting that silly stone hoop!). Now, I question the sucker's identity. "I manumit you." I pulled my cotton sheet over my sleep- crusted eyes with all the hopeless optimism of a pot-bound pail of Western Nile lobsters. "Now let me sleep." "I choose to remain." Of course. Why should my two-hundredth attempt at freeing him (read: freeing me from him) be any different from the other hundred ninety-nine? Horus knows the food here isn't the Divine Bread of Eternity, but it beats the crocodile dung out of the standard Meshika amaranth-and-algae-goo diet. Quitltlan went into a typical Meshika imitation of Khemic formality. "I have prepared my Master's kilt. I have crushed kohl for my Master's eyes. I have sharpened the razor that shaves my Master's head." I gave keeping my comfortable couch one last shot. "I need my rest. Three funerals today. One of them Galil." I tried stiffening my lie with the only thing besides 'honesty' liable to frighten Quitltlan. After all, everyone knows of the Galil Elders' mastery of the noxious herbs of death. Not to mention their long memories, and how poorly the Meshika hummingbird-priests welcomed the Western Lands' first Galils. "My Master does not read the Galil script." He had me there. Galils do nothing without their sacred scrolls, and who can comprehend their language? "Even if my Master knew their script, Galils are ignorant savages." Quitltlan's voice bristled with a pride of Khemic glories that only the non-Khemic feel. "They mourn their dead unassisted." You could almost hear his lip curl. "They even prohibit embalming." Eyes still closed, I grimaced. I admit that the Galils' lonely storm god, with his bizarre 'thou shalt not' list, verges on barbaric. But I've met Galils worth their weight in lesser gold. Particularly the daughter of the owner of a particular tavern on the Wide Island's southern shore. But that's another story... "Now, Master, you must rise." Quitltlan didn't (or chose not to) acknowledge my scowl. It was then that I noticed a carrier pigeon's cooing. My eyes opened. A bird, as well fed as Quitltlan would probably be on pigeon-and-cucumber pie, the minute he finished perfuming my fake beard, rested in my slave's grubby grip. I sat up. A bird like that means a client with spare sebeks. I could use a client after hemorrhaging coins on board the Djed of Osiris. I took a stab at the deceased's identity. "One of the Royal Proxies?" After all, Fa-athpi, Khepheren's voice in the Western Lands, has been dropping flesh like a Nubian Plague sufferer. Quitltlan shook his head. "A royal architect? A rich merchant?" Quitltlan glanced at the message the bird had brought and flung open the window. The music of a hundred portable speaker-boxes sounded from below. Quitltlan looked into the bird's beady eyes. "All the City's Mourners have been summoned to the Land of Grace." I shot up like a lightning bolt. A thousand possibilities - the aged parents, a beloved servant, even a favorite cat - flashed through my mind. As they came, I discarded them. The music left no doubt. Bres-li al'Vis, the Unquestioned King of speaker-box music, was dead. And New Memphis, his home since emerging from the Western Nile's delta, would never be the same.
Only pieces of the journey to the Land of Grace, al'Vis' private palace, stuck in my memory. What were those? Quitltlan trying to leave as soon as he fired the land-steamer. Me ordering him into the driver's seat. (To avoid exposing my best Mourners' Kilt to flying cinders? To spare the pigeon its kitchen appointment? The Divine Neith alone knows, and she keeps her council.) That was one memory. Quitltlan steering the land-steamer between the legs of the statue of Anpu-ankh-horet that stands over New Memphis' main thoroughfare. I wouldn't have gone that route - memorizing old Anpu-ankh's 'Inspiration of the Troops' speech in Scribal school was enough, without going between the old boy's feet. Still, if Anpu-ankh hadn't kicked that Alexander-brat back to Macedonia (after he obliged us by kicking out the Persians, of course) who knows what might have befallen Khem? That was another memory that stuck. The one that adhered like Western Nile mud was the size of the crowds - by the Spear of Reshpu, how the word had spread! - before the Land of Grace's gilded gates. The songs of al'Vis emerged from a score of scores of tinny-throated speaker-boxes. Black-clad Galils, chanting in their odd, sing-song way, filled the streets. Who would have guessed that so many Galils appreciated the King's delta lapis lazuli music? Calling the marble halls of the Land of Grace 'chaotic' would be as charitable as calling the Danelanders 'civilized'. A coterie of Professional (to use the word loosely) Mourners howled like temple cats swarming the Opener of the Cans. Menau and Beshtpa, the poor peasants that their lapis lazuli-singing son raised to wealth, prostrated themselves with grief. Ashtepet, al'Vis' only surviving wife, did the same. (Yeah, right. If there's one thing I know, it's artificial bereavement. Between tears, Ashtepet inventoried al'Vis' belongings.) A blank-eyed Merekitti, the daughter of al'Vis' youngest wife, stared out the window at her father's tomb in mind-numbed fascination. Rep-ka-menser, the bear-like, red-hatted Theban who raised al'Vis from cotton field obscurity, shouted orders like a Royal Proxy. (I have news for you, Rep-ka. A Luxor promoter is a Luxor promoter...even if his mishandling of al'Vis' career has brought him a personal pyramid of greater gold). Quitltlan nudged me. "Master? Where are the Embalmers?" He nodded toward the King's waiting mastaba. "Surely the body must be prepared." I looked around. Sure enough, I didn't see one Embalmer's tonsure. Mummification isn't half the done deal in the Western Lands as in tradition-bound Khem. Still, everyone above the rank of offal-collector expects evisceration, even if they don't spring for full mummification. After all, lugging Canopic Jars into the afterworld is better than meeting Anubis with entrails dragging. Before I had time to tell Quitltlan that, yes, the absence of Embalmers was about as strange as a Daneland used land-steamer merchant cheerfully refunding your sebeks, Rep-ka-menser came barreling down on me. Giving Quitltlan a river-horse's glare, Rep-ka-menser dropped a pouch of sebeks into my hand (not that I'm complaining). "You there, Mourner!" He adjusted his crimson hat, dangerously close to Lower Khem's Red Crown. "Bres-li's memory is shamed by the lack of grief." His voice resembled a Pharaoh's voice of command. "Pour forth sorrow for the Hallowed Dead." Like a wave on the Western Nile, he vanished into the crowd. Quitltlan edged closer. "It was as if my noticing the lack of Embalmers summoned him." "I don't care if the Golden Barge of the Hyksos brought him." I listened to the pouch's metallic jangling, more musical than any frame-harp. "Nothing will stop Ahmenet-nefr-ra from giving the most dolorous performance since the Armenian War." I filled my lungs (al'Vis sang better than he chose incenses) and began a wail of true desolation (unlike the obviously phoney lamentations of my so-called brethren). With Quitltlan sticking to me like my own Ba, I headed for al'Vis' chamber. Had times been less of a whirlwind above the Waters of Nun, I wouldn't have gotten within a surveyor's chain of the King's chambers. Certainly not before he went into the West to become Osiris. Not with Bres-li al'Vis' devotion to privacy. As things stood, my masterful lamentations carried me past the King's entourage. A pale Daneland slave, cultured enough to be overcome by my exquisite mourning, even volunteered to lead us to his master's private chambers. Everyone knows of al'Vis' fondness for honeyed Anatolian sweets. Anyone who didn't would have learned from the pile of sweets on the greater gold platter in al'Vis' cold, stiff fingers. Everyone knows that, over the last few floodings, that fondness had bested the King. In fact, it had so bested him that al'Vis had swollen to river-horse proportions. What sprawled on the King's couch was no mere river-horse. The body, lips and tongue blue as a thirty-sebeks-a-night Macedonian's nipples, could only be described as a beached leviathan, ready to feed the gulls. Recounting the deceased's flaws is not my responsibility. Mourning is. I began a standard (although top-notch) performance. Then the appropriate tribute to the King hit me. I fell to my knees, rending my false beard. I began a wail surpassing the cries for the entombment of a Pharaoh as the Western Nile betters an irrigation ditch. Tears smearing my kohl, I pounded my breast. In short, my performance was a masterpiece. I had barely gotten going when the voice behind me sounded. "You there!" It was an Investigation Slave. Only the property of the City of New Memphis could sound so arrogant without being Royal. "What are you doing?" I opened my eyes. The Investigation Slave (the folds of his kilt and his red cudgel would have identified him, even had he remained silent) pointed an accusing finger at Quitltlan. The ever-reliable (you can count on his untrustworthiness) Quitltlan was slipping the last of the sweets into his pouch. My wail dried up like a Professional Praiser's accolades when the sebeks run low. I ground my teeth. Quitltlan's thievery I could tolerate (the choices were 'tolerate it' or 'drive myself to premature mummification'). Now, this...this...most minor of minor officials had interrupted the performance of my life. I sprang to my feet. "What is the meaning of this? The Bres-li al'Vis estate has appointed me Chief Mourner." So I exaggerated. Sail to New Thebes and file suit. "On whose authority do you block me?" A hawk-nosed shadow appeared. I recognized the profile (and the gag-a-jackal shaving balm) before hearing a single, nasal, self-important word. It was Aouph-ba-tutankh, Chief City Overseer. "On mine." His croaking was as vulturine as his nose was hawkish. "The building will be cleared, except for the Priests of Seker whom I have summoned." "But my Lord!" The Investigation Slave pointed toward Quitltlan. Aouph-ba-tutankh shot the Investigation Slave a glare that could peel marble off a pyramid. Come the Dog Star's rising, said slave would probably be guarding City Latrines. If not getting perforated in some border skirmish with the Danelanders. Fast as a cemetery-raiding jackal, Aouph-ba managed to bury his scowl in a smug smile. "Only the Priests of Seker shall remain until Ra sinks and returns." Quitltlan's eyes widened in horror. "Seker's Priests only visit a death to remove self-killing's taint." Aouph-ba-tutankh's nasty little laugh sounded like a Pharaoh commanding a minor nobleman to lick donkey dung from the Royal Sandals. "This man's sagacity astounds me. New Memphis rules Bres-li al'Vis' death self-inflicted. The chambers must be purified." His long, knotty fingers moved in a dismissive gesture. "Now, everyone out." His gaze transfixed me. "Especially Professional Mourners."
Normally, wandering New Memphis' dark streets without an armed escort is an invitation to some river ruffian to relieve you of your sebeks. If not to send you sailing on the Boat of Millions of Years. Tonight, the King's first night in that same Boat, the crowds about the Land of Grace changed the rules. I stood near the crowd's flanks, a cowl obscuring my features. The Priests of Seker, chanting in a Khemic so archaic not even the Priests understood, echoed from within the walls. The jangle of a hundred systrums completed the din. Between the Priests and the speaker-boxes, no one would have noticed a Hebrid pipe and drum band. "Master!" Quitltlan tugged at my sleeve. "Are you certain your plans are wise?" Moving deliberately as a farmer doing his annual service to the Pharaoh, I moved toward the crowd's edge. "Wise? Certainly not." Quitltlan looked almost as relieved as when he discovered I had survived my fall from the Minor Sphinx (of course then he thought that slaves accompanied their Khemic masters into the afterworld). "Then your plan was a passing fancy." "Passing? Hardly." Quitltlan's face fell. Probably because I had dragged him from the crowd's safety. "I have taken Rep-ka-menser's sebeks." My face twisted like a Ligurian gourmet tasting crocodile dung. "Not grieving would make me no better than those charlatans to whom a Mourner's License is little more than an advertising papyrus on a land-steamer's screen." "And the true reason?" I sighed. Quitltlan knew me too well. "If a builder begins his finest facade and leaves it uncompleted, what is he?" "But...but...you simply cannot enter the Land of Grace." He gestured toward the two grim-visaged Investigation Slaves guarding the estate's rear walls. "Aouph-ba-tutankh has decreed that two Investigation Slaves be caned for every trespass that occurs." "That declaration is my pass inside." I stopped to listen to the Priests. Knowing their rubric almost as well as they (another of the winners they make student scribes memorize), I recognized the point they had reached. There would be a dozen heartbeats of silence, followed by a resumption of cacophony. Only adding trumpets and gongs, making an even more Ka-rending racket. It was the moment I had awaited. Waving my arms, I ran in front of the Investigation Slaves. Summoning non-existent companions, I shouted at the top of my voice. "Resht-tepu! Banp-hu!" What better names than two so common that the Investigation Slaves could search until Khepheren's pyramid crumbled without finding all the Resht-tepus and Banp-hus? "The gates have fallen! The Land of Grace lies open!" Then I vanished into the darkness. The Investigation Slaves traded suspicious glances. They weren't buying. Not yet, anyway. The Priests' howling resumed. They banged gongs and single-headed drums. In short, they made pretty much the racket a gate-rushing crowd would have. The Investigation Slaves' thoughts became as clear as if carved in limestone. As one, they dashed away. "They'll return soon." Quitltlan peered nervously over his shoulder. "And I shall be inside." I clambered over the wall with the help of a cottonwood tree. I pulled Quitltlan after me. A leap onto the manicured shrubbery put me within the courtyard.
The Land of Grace's twisting halls surpass anything the Mycenaeans ever envisioned. Which is to say that, within moments, I was as lost as a kale-eating Hebrid trying to comprehend Khemish court etiquette. Bres-li al'Vis' taste (or lack thereof) is legendary. So should it be. Avoiding the Priests, I passed through chambers ostentatious enough to shame the Meshika's gold-and-feathered Emperor. Through rooms of leopard-skinned Nubian splendor, complete with waterfall and a solarium that would inflame the Anatolian god-king's envy. Through wolf-furred chambers ornamented in the Daneland twining-beast style, although lit by enclosed lanterns. When I finally reached a plain chamber, bare save for a simple three-legged Cycas-wood stool, unornamented hangings covering the walk-in closets, and dimly sputtering animal-fat lamps, I was ready for a break. Having lived at Khepheren XXXII's court only prepares one for so much glitter. I was almost ready to sit when I noticed Quitltlan's expression slide from 'worry' to 'sheer terror'. Before I could ask questions, Quitltlan darted like a Dog of the Prairies into the nearest closet. Deciding that explanations could wait, I followed. I had barely closed the door when two figures, robed and wearing priestly crocodile masks, entered. They removed their masks. Their faces were as recognizable as Pharaoh Mer-neb-ptah on a three-sebek coin. It was Aouph-ba-tutankh, the City Overseer, and Rep-ka-menser, the King's promoter. "Master," Quitltlan whispered. "Have they joined the priesthood?" I silenced him. In New Memphis, disguises are all too likely to mean underhanded dealings. Rep-ka nervously wiped his brow. "Where are the papyri?" He seemed anxious enough to have expected a squad of Armenian Silent Killers. "I have given all I promised. Your part of the bargain remains incomplete." Aouph-ba's teeth glittered like jackals' fangs. "Street vendors already sell images of Bres-li al'Vis alongside Isis and Khnemu's. You, unlike a poor City Overseer, will never want for anything. Unless...." His voice trailed off, unspoken words dangling like the jaws of the demons Sebau and Nak. Gritting his teeth, Reb-ka clenched and unclenched his fists. "You would not. Should the secret remain, al'Vis will be a god. The Land of Grace will become a place of pilgrimage, swelling New Memphis' coffers. And your own." He folded his arms defiantly. "You will not imperil that." Aouph-ba shrugged. "Perhaps. Perhaps not." His avaricious eyes flashed. "Quite a risk for the sebeks in your pouch." "Here!" Reb-ka's hand vanished into his robes and emerged with a leather pouch. "Take it and be done." Smiling, Aouph-ba deposited the coins inside his robes, producing a roll of papyri in their place. He handed the papyri to Reb-ka. All but the last few. Reb-ka's face reddened. "Our deal was for all." "Have no fear. Those I hold remain concealed." He slipped his mask back on, walking toward the door. "Unless you decide otherwise," he called as he vanished into the hallway. Snarling, Rep-ka examined the papyri. He donned the mask. "Not one more sebek!" He crumpled the papyri and stuffed them loosely into his robes. Taking the angry strides of an Anatolian grenadier, he, too, disappeared. Not before losing one papyrus. After a moment, I emerged from the closet. "What is happening?" Quitltlan whispered. "Aouph-ba-tutankh is blackmailing Rep-ka-menser." I reached for the lost papyrus. "Over what, I shall soon know." I raised the papyrus to the light. Ink swirled in cryptic symbols, indecipherable despite my Scribal training. "Or maybe not."
"Have we not risked enough?" Quitltlan jumped at every rattle or roll. With the Priests in full swing, there were enough rattles and rolls to jerk him about like a Meshika tremble-bean. "Why must we continue wandering these halls?" "Because proper mourning should occur near the deceased. Bres-li al'Vis' chamber was easier to find with the Daneland guide." As I spoke, I recognized the next corridor. Signaling for Quitltlan, I turned a familiar corner. Soon, I stood face to face with the door of al'Vis' private chambers. Only a finger- joint of wood and a dozen footsteps separated me from the King's scandalously unembalmed corpse. From the door's other side came a tremulous wail, alternating between two notes. Off-key and in no formal mourning pattern the cry might have been. As I know forced bereavement, I know the real thing. What was beyond the door was pure, although untrained, sorrow. I opened the door. Merekitti (of course al'Vis' daughter knew ways in unguarded by the Investigation Slaves!) knelt by her father. Wearing black Galil robes, she wept her heart out. All became as clear as if Ra stood at zenith. Hearing my footsteps, she turned, face blending shock and sorrow. "Do not be afraid." It was hard to sound calming while shouting above the Priests' din. "I mean no harm." I turned to the King, seeing his corpse with new eyes. "I know the secret." Merekitti furiously shook her head. "Rep-ka will not trap me so easily." "I serve neither Rep-ka-menser or Aouph-ba-tutankh. If I did, would I give you this?" I handed her the enigmatic papyrus. Barely restraining her tears, she read the marks that I now recognized as Galil script. Finishing, she dropped the papyrus. "My father had wearied of pretense. He privately spoke of letting the world know that Bres-li al'Vis, King of lapis lazuli, was Galil." "This papyrus confirms it." I scooped up the scrap, giving it the once over as though I could read it. "Even more strongly than the legal documents that I'm guessing al'Vis filed requiring that his body remain unembalmed." Merekitti nodded. "Rep-ka-menser knew the revelation would scar my father's name. He would have done anything to preserve the secret." Her eyes fell. "Preserve it he did. Rep-ka- menser killed my father." Merekitti moved the platter and lovingly stroked the cold dead features. "Only I have no proof that the Investigation Slaves would accept." "Nor could such proof exist." Memories of Reb-ka-menser passing sebeks to Aouph-ba-tutankh, who rules the Investigation Slaves, filled my head. "Justice is denied." It was then, may all the Ogdoad bless his greedy little Ab, that Quitltlan decided to dig the Anatolian sweet from his pouch. An instant before he could pop it in his mouth, my hand gripped his wrist. "Master?" Quitltlan's eyes widened. I took the sweet. Holding to my nostrils, I breathed deeply. At first, there was only honey and incense. I breathed deeper, seeking scent within scent. Suddenly, like a falcon on the horizon, there it was a whiff of Wepwawet's-bane, the blue flower whose taste means death. I turned to Merekitti. "The Galils of New Memphis knew al'Vis as one of their own?" She nodded. "Even my father's parents accepted the charade." I wrapped the sweet in the papyrus. The package, though no heavier than a pebble, weighed on my hand like a granite block. If I told Aouph-ba-tutankh what I had (but not where I had hidden it - I'm not that stupid), I could live the rest of my life in comfort. If. With a deep sigh, I gave Merekitti the package. "Take this to New Memphis' Galil leaders. Tell them what you have told me, and that this was the King's last meal. They will know what to do." Merekitti nodded. Then she knelt by her father and resumed weeping. I knelt beside her. With only a Galil girl and a Meshika slave as witness, I gave a performance of which most Mourners only dream. That's more or less all there is. Merekitti hid me until morning. I exited with the next day's crowds, and no one knew of my adventures. Did Merekitti take the poisoned sweet to the Galil Elders? I honestly don't know. Only that, four days after the King's entombment, Rep-ka-menser boarded a river steamer and sailed away, a hunted look in his eyes. Memories of the purported self-killing proved short. As predicted, al'Vis ascended to near-godhood. People from throughout Khem's vast empire crowd New Memphis to tour the Land of Grace, and to visit al'Vis' tomb. Aouph-ba-tutankh, a hand in every pouch, is rolling in sebeks. Sometimes justice isn't as clear as the priests teach... Me? I never equaled my performance at al'Vis' side, never saw Merekitti again, and still haven't managed to sucker Quitltlan into believing that he would be happier free. But whenever I hear Bres-li al'Vis on a speaker-box, I smile. After all, what's keeping the secret of the King's being a Galil compared to keeping the secret of Khepheren XXXII's true parentage? But that's another story...
Lawrence Barker lives in Lilburn, Georgia. Among other places, his work can be found in the currently-available White Wolf anthology Dark Tyrants. He is currently working on a fantasy novel set in post-Civil War Georgia. |