The only one left standing, Reiver raised both hands and shouted, "Don't kill me!"
In the ghostly moonlight, wrapped nose to toe in black, the bandits looked flat as shadows, but their weapons glinted like mercury.
The female nomad snarled, "Surrender or suffer!"
"We surrender," Reiver's voice rasped as if he gargled gravel. "Just, please, may I spare a drink? I'm dry as a hyena's hind end."
Not waiting for permission, Reiver looped a cord over his head, and made to drink from his camel-hide water-skin. His power of suggestion had taken root, and the female bandit snatched the waterskin away.
"You can do without!"
"Take care, please, don't spill it," Reiver whined. "The bag has a hole, and we've so little-"
"Bide your tongue."
The nomad jerked aside her headscarf and drank while her companion guarded the prisoners with his crossbow.
Lying at Reiver's feet, Amber touched the thief's leg gently, signaling: "I'm ready to move." The thief pressed her with a knee that said, "Stay put, wait."
The female passed the waterskin to her partner. He drank it dry and pitched it into the street.
"Holed," he said. "It's fit for nothing. Same as you'll be once the White Flame kisses you with fire. Now get-"
"I feel…" the woman gagged and choked. "The water-poisoned."
"Flea bait! Dung beetle!" Tilting his crossbow at Amber, the nomad whipped out a curved jambiya and aimed for Reiver. "I'll carve-carve-oo-ugh."
Reiver leaped clear as the two nomads doubled over and heaved. Amber recoiled from the hot stench, scuttling backward with her heels. Reiver dragged the groggy Hakiim to his feet and shoved him stumbling. Helpless, on their knees, the bandits retched painfully and long. Amber clambered to her feet, and despite a throbbing thigh, slunk away with the slow-moving Hakiim into a wide alley that promised to branch into a maze. In a moment, Reiver caught up, a crossbow, quiver, and scimitar under his arm.
Trotting, they rounded two corners, then hunkered to catch their breath. This time they watched in both directions while Hakiim rubbed his sore head and shoulder and Amber bound a bleeding wrist.
"Where did you get-" panted Amber. "The manscorpion's stinger speared your waterskin!"
"The barb slammed me like a sling ball," chuckled Reiver, "but I never felt a sting. I found a hole in my bota and stuck my finger in it."
"How did you know the poison was still potent? It must be as ancient as the manscorpion itself."
Reiver held up a finger in the dim moonlight. "My finger burned like a bee-sting," he said, "and now those kind bandits have tested it for us."
"Stupid and clumsy of us to blunder into them," muttered Amber. "We should know better by now. We're not smart enough to go adventuring."
Reiver smirked and said, "Some of us are…"
By and by, creeping in half-steps and clinging to shadows as the moon set, the three companions neared the city center. Not far from the dry palace moat, the street dropped into a yawning pit. After a quick consult, the searchers decided to risk entry.
Holding onto Amber's capture noose, Reiver slithered down broken paving stones as silently as a snake. With the crossbow nocked, but eschewing a torch, he probed the darkness on hands and knees, hunting traps. Amber hunched just below street level on rubble, watching till she saw spots, listening until her ears rang. Hakiim nursed a sore head, still dizzy.
Other than the distant gobble of a hyena, Cursrah seemed to sleep-above ground. Down below must be a different story. Any number of monsters could have awakened, and at the bottom dwelled the mummy.
Crouching in the darkness, thoughts whirling in her head, Amber wondered at her dogged pursuit; the irrepressible desire to know what the mummy wanted, why it singled her out for its murky message, its identity…
Even at the risk of life and limb, Amber couldn't leave Cursrah without knowing the final fate of Amenstar, her ancient incarnation and spiritual sister. Curiosity was her curse, Amber thought, and might get her killed like the fabled cat. Her friends, whom she could never thank enough for sticking by her-
A scuffing sounded just up the street, then a musical murmur. Squeezing Hakiim's shoulder for silence, Amber hooked back her headscarf and cupped an ear with her hand.
Silhouetted by stars, four or five nomads talked at an intersection. Two bulky raiders hung back, awaiting orders. They were mongrelmen, shunned even by their comrades, guessed Amber. A nomad waved in her direction, and she ducked instinctively. Peeking, Amber saw three bandits walking, or one shambling, toward her hiding place. Gently she urged Hakiim to slide down the paving blocks. Amber skittered after.
Lingering at the hole where Reiver had disappeared, Amber heard more mumbling. A tentative sandal scuffed up at the pit's edge. As sure as summer sun, they're coming down here, thought the daughter of pirates. The only good news was that the raiders didn't know the Memnonites were also down there.
Shooing Hakiim into the dark tunnel, Amber listened behind-
— and nearly jumped out of her skin when Reiver touched her arm.
Gasping, trying not to curse, Amber grabbed back hard. The thief shook off her grip and tapped her temple. Leaning past Reiver and Hakiim, Amber listened. Down the tunnel, where Reiver had explored, flickered a yellow glow: torches, and the gutter and rumble of nomadic voices.
They were trapped between two hunting parties with no place to go.
14
The 383rd Anniversary of the Great Arrival
"Father, Mother, I beg you to forgive me! I was wrong- strong-headed-I know that now. Please, grant me another chance."
Sentenced to death, or a "fate worse than death," whatever that might be, Amenstar fell to her knees before her hard-faced parents.
Clasping her hands, tears streaming down her cheeks, she beseeched them, "On the grasslands I was captured by Samir Pallaton's cavalry. I saw Oxonsis block the Agis and cut off our water, and then I knew you were right. I realized how serious this world is, and that Cursrah was indeed endangered, so I returned of my own free will to help-"
No one listened. The sama nodded past Amenstar's head and ordered, "Gag her!"
Cold, chemical-stained hands pinned Star's arms. Her assailants were vizars, for no one else in the kingdom could touch a royal person. Seized by her cornrowed hair so her tiara twisted, Star was held against the musty robes of two acolytes. The vizar-in-waiting-shaven, with a branded head, in robes the color of dried blood-ordered Star's mouth wedged open with a metal spatula. Jaw cracking, Star's lips and then teeth were pried open.
From a jar, the vizar took a putrid-looking glop made of chopped roots, grass, and vinegar. While Star struggled against offending metal and iron hands, this disgusting poultice was jammed into her mouth.
Wanting to scream, gagging and choking, Amenstar was held, helpless, while the concoction took effect. The rancid herbs burned her palette and tongue like fire ants, made her eyes and nose water, seared her throat like acid. Just as the princess thought she'd vomit or strangle, the hands pulled away. Hacking, Star spat the stinking green mess onto her parent's expensive rugs. She couldn't even spit properly, but rather she drooled.
Refusing to cry, furious, Amenstar made to scream against this unheard-of abuse, yet only uttered a faint gurgle. Her tongue was numb and swollen so it crammed her mouth. Her lips felt as fat as sausages and just as insensitive.