Dancer of the Nile (Gods of Egypt) (10 page)

“Let me go,” she said, jerking her arm free and elbowing her new oppressor sharply in the ribs. “What have you done with my companion?”

“Don’t worry, he’ll be here in a moment, lovely one,” said a deep, melodic voice.
 

Angry, she turned, raising her line of sight a foot to take in the owner of the sensual voice—a tall man waiting behind her, hands on hips, legs akimbo. Good-looking in a rough-hewn fashion, long black hair tied back with a leather thong, he had ritual scars dotted on both cheeks. Dressed in dusty blue and brown robes and odd leggings tucked into his boots, he wore an elaborate collar of hammered gold beads. An unfamiliar circular emblem in the center matched the scars. Bowing, he thumped one fist over his heart and threw out his other arm expansively. “Caravan Master Ptahnetamun, at your service. And you are?”

“Nima. I didn’t ask to be your guest,” she said, straightening her dress as best she could.

“No, but I give my hospitality anyway,” he answered with a flash of white teeth. “We don’t often encounter travelers in this stretch of the desert. You’re a blessing from the gods.”

“A blessing?”
I don’t like the sound of that.
Frowning, Nima took an instinctive step away from the caravan master.

Ptahnetamun bowed his head, grinning even more widely. “Your arrival represents something new to relieve the boredom of our travel.”

Said the cat to the mouse.
Not much liking the tone of the conversation so far, she racked her brain for some way out of the mousetrap. Hearing horses behind her, Nima turned, relieved to see Kamin jump down from the mount on which he’d been forced to ride double. His sword was missing, which wasn’t an encouraging sign about the truth of their situation as guests.

“Of course you’ll
be in my debt,” said their titular host, walking over to a small table and lifting a wineskin. He glanced over his shoulder.
 

Ignoring the assembled caravan members, shoving his way through the crowd, Kamin strode over to her. “Are you all right?”

Managing a smile, Nima nodded. “I’m fine. This is Ptahnetamun, the caravan master.”

Arm around her waist, Kamin ignored the horn cup the man was now holding out to him. “All we want is to continue on our way.”

“Spoken like one accustomed to command,” Ptahnetamun said, raising his eyebrows as he lifted the cup to drink deep. Wiping his mouth on one flowing sleeve, he handed the cup to a servant girl standing behind his seat. “But I command here.”

Leaning slightly into Kamin for reassurance, Nima asked, “What do you want of us?”
 

“I told you—diversion, amusement.” His wide smile returning, the caravan master waved the now refilled cup his servant had just handed him. Half the contents sloshed onto the rugs covering the tent floor. “Profit perhaps.” He drank what remained in one gulp.

“We don’t wish to travel north, and we’ve no gold to pay for provisions or shelter. You’ll realize no profit from us,” Kamin said.

Ptahnetamun eyed him for a minute. “By the look of you, you’re fugitives. Escaped slaves maybe?” He waited, but neither Kamin nor Nima spoke. Idly scratching at one of his facial scars, he turned to the man who’d led the group that took them prisoner. “There might be profit in having these two as my—guests, eh? Whoever is looking for them might appreciate our help.” Rubbing two fingers together in the universal sign for coin, he guffawed, the rest of the audience in the tent joining in raucous laughter.

He knows something about us. Maybe the Hyksos have put out word they’re searching for us.
Realizing Kamin’s abilities as a fighter weren’t going to save them this time, a sketchy idea taking shape in her mind, Nima took a deep breath to soothe her nerves. “You can’t have it both ways, sir,” she said when the laughter quieted, laying one hand on Kamin’s arm as a calming gesture.
Please
,
Great Ones, let him follow my lead now
. “Either we’re going to be your guests or your prisoners.”

“Good point.” Ptahnetamun poured himself another round of the wine before sitting down. “It seems we’re on the horns of a dilemma.”

He likes toying with us.
Hoping she’d found a way out of the situation, Nima took a chance. “Are you a gambling man?” She pointed at the object taking up most of the table beside him. “Do I see a senet board?”

He rubbed his hand across the game board inlaid atop the gleaming container. “Indeed it is. You play?”

As if she had all the time in the world, Nima walked to the game box, deliberately making her stride slow and sensuous, like the opening steps of a dance. Bending to give him a good view of her shapely bottom outlined by the dress pulled tight as she leaned over, Nima opened the bottom drawer of the case and plucked a shiny black pawn at random from inside. With an elegant gesture, she turned and extended her hand to the caravan master, the pawn sitting on her flat palm. “I challenge you to a game.”

He stroked his bearded chin, leaned back as he braced one foot on a trunk and made a show of considering. “For what stakes?”

“If I win, you give us shelter for the night, and we go our separate ways in the morning.” She set the pawn on the board in the starting square. “If you win, we’re yours to do with as you please.”

“Nima—” Kamin’s protest was instant and angry. In two steps he was at her side, yanking her to face him. “What are you—”

Wrenching herself loose, she ignored him, facing Ptahnetamun again. “I’ve lived in border towns all my life, so I’ve heard of the honor code governing caravan masters. I want your word you’ll abide by the outcome of the game.” She held up one hand before he could speak. “No, I want your blood oath on it.”

Jaw dropping, Ptahnetamun stared at her while his men muttered and even the serving girl looked impressed by Nima’s boldness.

“Well? Do you agree to my terms or don’t you?” Nima drew herself to her full height and tried to feel impressive, despite her dusty clothes and tired body.
He can’t back down from this challenge in front of his crew. I hope.
Since he hesitated, she taunted him, paraphrasing a saying she’d often heard in the taverns where she danced.
“
Be aware I’ll pass you by as one who sails with the breeze, blessed by the Sun. I’ll be entering the House of Repeating Life while you, my opponent,
will
be stopped
.”

Next minute, Ptahnetamun threw back his head, roaring with laughter. “Spoken like a true gambler. I like your spirit, woman.” He pointed at Kamin. “Does your warrior agree to what you propose? The deal must include you both.”

“Will you give us a moment?” Pulling Kamin aside, Nima turned so the gawking caravan crew couldn’t see their faces. Kamin’s cheeks were red, and his frown was truly impressive.

Putting both hands on her shoulders, he gave her a little shake. “What in the seven hells are you doing?”

She laid her hand gently over his mouth, leaning close as she whispered, “Trust me, please, Kamin? If he swears me a blood oath—”

Shoving her hand away, he rolled his eyes. “And
if
you win,” he said furiously. “The throwing sticks are bound to be false-weighted somehow. It won’t be a fair game, not some friendly match in the tavern for mugs of beer.”

“I’m hoping the sticks
are
false.” She smiled mischievously, letting her smile fade as he continued to glare at her. “Please? I know the stakes are high, but we’re not getting out of here otherwise. You’re one man surrounded by dozens, and he sees profit in selling us. This is the only way we stand a chance of escaping.”

“You’re asking me to risk the success of my mission for Pharaoh, for
Egypt,
on how well you can cheat a cheater?” He closed his eyes for a moment, rubbing his brow.

“Blood oath?” Ptahnetamun asked from his position next to the game board.

Going on tiptoe to look over Kamin’s shoulder, Nima said magnanimously, “Nothing less. I’ll swear as well,” drawing a quickly smothered laugh from the ever-increasing crowd at her back.

“She’s set the stakes.” The man who’d taken Nima on his horse came forward to offer the caravan master his dagger. “Challenge has been made.”

“And accepted!” Ptahnetamun slammed his cup on the table so forcefully the base cracked. Rolling back his sleeve, he extended his thick wrist. “I swear by the twin gods of the caravan road to abide by the outcome of this senet game. She and her man go free in the morning if she wins.” He leered at Nima. “But she’ll be on her back in my bed by dawn if I win.” The crowd roared with amusement at this sally. Gesturing at Kamin, he finished his boasting. “Be sure I’ll sell his carcass for a tidy profit.”

Nima said nothing, but laid her wrist across his. After searing the tip of his blade in a candle’s flame, the caravan worker nicked each of them in turn with his dagger. Their blood dripped onto the candle, which blazed up in a purple and red explosion of sparks for a second. “Oaths accepted,” the man declared.

Ptahnetamun and Nima turned to Kamin.

“My word as a warrior of Pharaoh, I’ll accept the outcome.” Kamin’s oath was given through clenched teeth.

“Done!” Ptahnetamun wrapped a scrap of black cloth around his wrist as Nima pressed hers against her side to stop the blood flow. “We’ll play this monumental game later, in the evening after the work of setting up camp and caring for the animals is done. Take these two away until then.”

The guards hustled the pair to a small tent close by, shoving them rudely inside. The enclosure was empty, although after a few minutes the serving girl brought a small water skin and a bowl of dried fruit. Having finished efficiently binding the small cut on her wrist with a strip torn from the side seam of her cloak, Nima sank cross-legged on the floor, munching a fig. Kamin paced restlessly. She patted the bare earth next to her. “Come sit, conserve your energy.”

He paused for a second, eyeing her with a frown. “I’m strongly tempted to escape right now, while they’re preoccupied setting up their camp.”

“Leaving me behind?” Nima offered him a fig. “I swore a blood oath, remember? There’s no debt between us, soldier. If you think you’ll do better on your own, then don’t fret over me. For your information, I do intend to win the game, gods willing.”

“I gave my word too.” He took the fruit, chewing slowly. “Of course I wouldn’t abandon you. But to have everything balancing on a game of senet—”

“What is life itself but a game of senet?” she said philosophically. “He wasn’t going to let us go. I think he knows we’re worth something to the enemy, so I took the only chance I saw.”

“He should abide by his blood oath,” Kamin agreed. “If you win.” He brought her the water and sat, pulling Nima to lean against him. “You did maneuver him quite cleverly, I’ll grant you that.”

She grinned, taking another fig. “Now if I can do the same on the senet board.”

***

After sunset, the guards escorted Nima and Kamin to the main campfire, around which the majority of the caravan crew and paying passengers had gathered. Ptahnetamun sat on a blue and gold-striped cushion atop a lion-footed stool in the center of the crowd, with the senet board open on a low table in front of him. Rising at their approach, he gestured to the matching stool across from him. “Will you be seated, Lady Nima?”

As she sank onto the slightly padded seat, the servant girl came forward from the rear of the tent, carrying a wine decanter and mugs on a wooden tray. With a flourish, their host poured. “I’ve broken out some of the finest wine from my cargo, the special stock rated as three-times-good, in honor of our high-stakes wager. What the tax collectors don’t know, won’t trouble them. Can’t tax what doesn’t exist, eh?” With a wink, he handed her a mug brimming with wine. “A toast, to our mutual enjoyment of the game.”

Nima tapped his mug with hers and drank deeply. Kamin took a place behind her, wishing for the thousandth time that he could have devised another way out of this situation for them both.
I hope she realizes he’s trying to get her drunk, no matter how prized a vintage this wine may be.
His heart sank as he remembered her stating on the first night of freedom that she’d no head for wine.

“We’ll throw to see who goes first,” Ptahnetamun announced. “Each white side showing counts as one point.”

“Plus, the extra point if all four sides come up white.” Nima nodded, taking one of the four painted throwing sticks in her hand, turning it as if admiring the intricate floral paintings enameled on the glossy black side. Kamin hoped she was actually gauging the weight. Gathering the other three sticks now, rubbing them together against her palms a few times, she cast them on the table.

Three black sides, one white.
Kamin heard furious wagering going on in the crowd around them, steep odds against Nima winning. Hardly encouraging.

Ptahnetamun cast three white sides, one black, winning the honor of going first since he’d scored three points to her one. Selecting the taller black pawns, he set them on the first five squares.
 

Kamin looked at the board, stark obsidian and iridescent mother of pearl set into ebony wood, the colors alternating, gleaming in the firelight. Hieroglyphics and symbols had been etched in gold on certain especially significant squares. Thirty squares in three long rows, five pawns for each player. Had his life ever rested on such a flimsy hope? At least in battle he was master of his own fate, wielding sword and shield, his brother soldiers to each side. Here he was relying, yet again, on Nima—a dancer, not a warrior.
Why did I allow myself to be placed in this position, like one of the pawns in front of me?