Ahead, our guide stops in the discreet shadows of a colonnade and waits for Netiqret to join her. “Him.” She gives the barest of motions to a young man enjoying the attentions of several giggling women. A Ka-shabti no older than me, muscled and handsome, a standout even among the young and beautiful on display here.
Netiqret examines him. “Very well. You can go.”
The woman hurries off, looking relieved.
Netiqret and I stand in the darkness a few moments longer. I watch the man that was pointed out. “What are you going to do?”
“You know the answer.”
“Don’t.” I turn, search her face for something. Some sign that she’s hesitant. “There has to be another way.”
“You know there is not.” Neither shame nor pride in the statement. “Betrest has money. Influence. Admiration. Iunctii to serve her. The problem isthat none of it moves her, anymore. None of it excites or even pleases her. She is risking her own death and afterlife in helping us. Only the lure of more could persuade her to do that. Only the lust for that which she cannot own.” She shrugs. “No way to control the hearts of others until they no longer beat, unfortunately.”
I feel a rising frustration. “You knew I’d object.”
“Which is why you were not consulted.” She studies me. Expression light and unassuming, as if we were talking about the weather. “You know what I do, and yet here we are. So I already know your distaste has practical limits. Let this one pass, Siamun. Now isn’t the time.”
She leads on. I take a lingering last look at the young man in the centre of the courtyard, hate that she’s right, and follow.
“You will need to be quick, once you’re inside the sanctum,” Netiqret says in a low voice as we navigate a maze of corridors which she’s either memorized, or is somehow familiar with. Smooth, assured movements, no hesitation. It’s busy, but no one even glances at us. “Keep clear of the Ka-shabti. Especially the older ones. If you’re alone and catch someone’s eye, they may decide to take you off to a dark corner, no matter your responsibilities.”
“Oh.” I shudder. “I take it politely saying no won’t be an option.”
“It will not.”
I exhale softly. “But there won’t be any Overseers once we’re in?”
“No. Tonight, for the Ka-shabti, the eyes of Ka are turned away.” She glances around. A darting, anxious motion, the first outward sign of nerves from her I’ve seen. “Security this deep will be as lax as it ever is.” She nods to a door in the distance up ahead. A lone Overseer stands implacably in front of it. “This is it.”
I glance around. There are fewer iunctii around than I expected, but enough; one is hurrying along on some task not ten feet away. I step to the side, touch her arm and imbue her with the majority of my Will before commanding her to stop. It’s as easy as breathing, now.
“Alright.” The Overseer will actively be checking faces; neither Netiqret nor I could get close to it without raising an alarm. But Netiqret’s attack on Ahmose when we first met was not entirely without reward, even if I’d never admit it. “See you inside.”
Netiqret glances from the iunctus to me, then nods. “See you inside.”
THE STATELY WOMAN WITH THICK MAKEUP AND WIG IMpatiently stalks the line of dancers. A dozen of us, eight girls. I am one of the few who could be counted as even vaguely clothed. I am probably also the oldest.
I keep my chin up and eyes straight, even as I try to look relaxed. Confident. The makeup Netiqret applied, and the long-haired wig she carefully fitted, means I don’t stand out much among this group. They are all built differently from me, though. Slimmer. Still athletic, but more acrobats than fighters.
“I am Zai. If you wish to dance in the Sanctum of Ka, you must first dance for me. You.” She stops in front of a girl with long, tightly bound brown hair. “Show me the Water and the Moon.”
The girl steps forward obediently. Lithe and light on her feet. She doesn’t hesitate as she launches into a running, spinning leap, her hands flickering in fluid mimicry of a stream as Zai starts snapping out a beat.
I watch. As entranced as I am assessing. There’s nothing artificial or forced about her movements. Energy and youthful joy and naked athleticism. A freedom I’m not sure I could ever replicate. I would appreciate the artistry even if I hadn’t spent the past two months trying to capture what she seems to do so effortlessly.
She finishes, flushed. Sees me watching and smiles pointedly. I feel myself flushing too. Perhaps my staring was a little too enthusiastic.
“Good.” Zai jerks her thumb to the side, and the girl skips over against the wall. Then the woman points at a younger-looking boy a few places down from me. “You. The Battle of Amun-Tol.”
The boy is good too, if not quite as much beauty to his movements as the first. More athletic. Higher leaps and spins, a flawless somersault to finish in place of the more simple flourish I’ve been taught. He’s sent to stand next to the girl.
Four more are called before me. I maintain my façade, massaging the oddly aching ring finger on my right hand. Nerves jangling at every choice. Three are directed to stand with the first two. The other is dismissed after faltering mid-dance, apparently forgetting some of the steps. She begs to begin again, says it is one of the few she does not know well. I can believe it; she was otherwise as talented as the first girl. But Zai is firm.
“You. The Crocodile Hunts.”
Vek.
I step forward. I’m lucky; The Crocodile Hunts is probably my best dance, mainly because it’s one of the simplest. Lots of violent and jerky movements, only spurts of the fluidity that Ahmose insists I lack.
