THE KEENING OF THE APPROACHING PROCESSION PIERCESthe stale air of Duat, an unending, grating wail of false grief as paid mourners shriek and gesticulate and shed tears behind a white-wrapped body. I lean against the pale stone of the small second-story window, watching as it wends its way along chalky streets toward the distant, gold-lit Temple of Ka. First the jackal-masked priest, head shaven, walking solemnly, burning incense in one hand and spilling milk on the ground with the other. Then the bier borne by six iunctii, all but their eyes covered in the same white cloth as the man they carry. Then friends and family carrying the dead man’s most valued belongings, the possessions they will send with him over the bridge to Neter-khertet. And then, finally, the dozen women whose harsh ululating forces all but the most important conversations nearby to still.
“They believe that the more Ka hears mourning, the more likely he is to allow them into the afterlife,” says Netiqret from behind me.
I straighten from my observation. “You don’t?”
“No.” The elegant grey-haired woman stares down the street for a moment longer, then offers me some bread, which I take with no pretence to hesitation. The novelty of doing more than just subsisting has not yet worn off.
I turn my attention to the assassin whose house Ahmose and I have been hiding in since our arrival in the east. Careful not to show it, but relieved she’s back this morning. We’ve seen relatively little of her these past two days, perhaps an hour or two out of each since she guided us through the tunnels beneath Duat and we emerged into an empty alley, only a few short paces from her doorstep. I’m not sure whether her constant unexplained absences since have been due to her distasteful work, or if she has been out trying to gather information to verify my story. Or, simply, if she’s trying to keep us on edge in an attempt to make us more biddable. Perhaps all three.
“It was someone important?” I lean my head toward the window. These funerary processions often echo across the water to Neter-khertet, but I don’t think they’re usually of this magnitude.
“Someone wealthy, at least.” Netiqret moves over to the table and pourssome of the syrupy, sweet beer that is apparently a staple for everyone on this side of the river. Better than the water, but not by much. She takes a few delicate sips—every motion of hers is refined, deliberate—and watches me over the cup.
I ignore her observation. The slightly raised eyebrow, the curl of her carefully painted lips. I know what it means. Our rare interactions have revealed a strange, detached kind of impasse. She senses that I am desperate to act, to have her assistance in getting out into the city, though she has no idea why. And allshewants is to know how I controlled the Overseer.
Neither of us trusts the other enough, or is yet desperate enough, to be first in giving up our advantage.
I gaze back out over Duat’s vast expanse. The house is on a slight rise, has an impressive view down to the west; white streets and buildings nestle between black towers and bridges, then the sullen black and green of both the Infernis and Neter-khertet glowers beyond. In contrast, the clean yellow emanating from the Pyramid of Ka suggests it’s mid-morning.
This has been my best and only vantage of it all, thus far. Iunctii in the east are meant to travel with their masters; one alone in the streets isn’t unheard of, but is far more likely to attract unwanted attention. And while the Overseers aren’t specifically looking for me, I’ve never had to travel uncovered before. Caeror once claimed they knew the faces of every person living, or otherwise, in Duat. How easily will they register that I don’t belong? Which are the best ways to avoid them? Ahmose has his guesses, but Netiqret, surely, will actually know.
I can’t wait forever but I can’t just give her everything she wants, either. I’ve seen enough of her to realise that an explanation of what I can do will lead to her insisting that I use it for her purposes. She’s aloof, unflappable and focused. The sort of person to whom you can never risk giving anything of value for free.
“What are the funerals like outside, Siamun?” Long fingers strum the table. She has, over the past couple of days, seemed more and more inclined to believe what Ahmose and I told her. At least to the extent that she now constantly probes, calmly prods at any potential new piece of information.
“Quick.” I don’t actually know, having never seen one. But Caeror has mentioned them. “The bodies are dissolved in water from the Infernis, so that Ka cannot possibly revive anyone.”
“Ah.” She nods. I’m not sure if the gesture means the information makes sense to her, or if she somehow already knew. Or if she doesn’t believe me at all.“You do not turn them into iunctii? Surely you would find them useful.” She gestures absently at Ahmose, and I have to restrain myself from wincing as I sense his glower. We’ve had to endure many, many little jabs like this in the few hours she’s been around. Constantly implying that Ahmose is more property than friend. That I am inevitably controlling him, whether he knows it or not.
I’ve reassured him again and again, but the constant needling has to be threading more doubt into his mind.
I stretch, ignoring the question that tries to scrape much more at my knowledge of iunctus creation than it does the practices of Qabr. Feign just as much disinterest as Netiqret is, and peer out the window at the retreating procession. “Ahmose says the Crossing to the West is quite a ceremony.”
At the edge of my vision, I see Netiqret open her mouth as if to respond, then instead stop her strumming. She turns to the stairs leading to the upper floor. “Kiya!”
A few moments later the young girl appears, descending in her usual vaguely lost, mechanical manner and coming to stand beside Netiqret. Head down, carefully braided hair hanging over her shoulders. No doubt she’s a iunctus, but Netiqret’s call was question more than command, and the older woman is gentle as she leans forward and whispers something in her ear.
I watch curiously as Kiya listens, then makes a hand gesture that seems to be some sort of signal. I still haven’t been able to determine what sheis, exactly. There hasn’t been a chance to find out either way. Ahmose and I have both been expressly forbidden by Netiqret to go anywhere near the girl—on pain of, literally, a very final death—and Netiqret herself has been firm in her determination to say nothing about her.
Netiqret considers, then squeezes Kiya on the shoulder and stands. “If you are interested, I can show you.”
I look at her blankly. Sure I’ve misunderstood, even if it was half the reason I mentioned it. “Now?”
“Now is best. A big funeral like today’s will mean that the outer courtyard of the temple is open to all. Follow me, do as I say, and you will be fine. Just you, though. That one’s nerves will give us away before we reach the end of the street.” She glances disdainfully at Ahmose, then walks over to a dresser and beckons me over. “But first, come. You cannot go out looking like that.” She picks up a small pot and wooden stick, spitting in it and stirring. The rod emerges coated in black.
I baulk. “The Overseers don’t know me. Wouldn’t it be better to pretend to be your iunctus?”
She squints her surprise. “You would wrap your face?” I nod, though I think the question’s rhetorical, and she confirms it by waving away my response. “It will not work. Iunctus are purposeful; they do not go to observe funerals or linger in the temple.”
“She’s right.” Ahmose’s confirmation is reluctant but certain.
I frown but accept it. The next half hour consists largely of Netiqret applying the dark lines of kohl to my eyes and her own, as well as bedecking herself in a tasteful array of gold jewellery and a woven shawl. At one point Kiya vanishes for several minutes and then reappears with a pile of neatly folded clothing, which she places on the table between me and her. A pleated skirt of fine linen, a wig, and a neck collar of gold with a large lapis lazuli inset. It must be worth a fortune.
“If you are to travel with me, you must look like you belong with me,” is all Netiqret says, pushing it toward me.
We talk only in brief spurts as we prepare, mostly advice from Netiqret on how to wear my clothing; I use the spaces between to guess at Netiqret’s motives for her sudden invitation, but I simply don’t have enough information. By the time we leave, I’m unrecognisable in the reflection of the beaten brass mirror hanging on the wall. We head down to the ground floor. Netiqret swings the door wide.
And then for the first time in months, I am among people again.
