The scientist turned to speak, softly, to Queen Isis, who sat just behind him; the admirable posteriors of the female warriors were perched, as on pillows, on soft bags that might have contained flour but did not. The tarp concealed the supine Balthazar, his harem outfit gone, traded for a cloak under which was leather armor; the Nubian king was not about to go into battle femininely attired. Isis's warrior women had discarded their sheer veils and, though still underclad, their breasts and loins were garbed in the dark leathers that accompanied them into combat.
Philos said to Isis, "That's it—over there."
He was pointing to a large metal grate on the street, not far from the royal guards. The scientist had played a large role in their preparations for this invasion by the small raiding party—as Memnon's former court magician, Philos had knowledge of the palace that had proved invaluable.
The queen and her warrior women jumped down from the cart, and one of the red-turbaned guards— his attention already caught—strode over, calling, "You there! You wenches!"
Isis turned and regarded him with a steely stare; the guard drew his sword as he approached. Resting the tip of the weapon to the queen's slender throat, the guard growled, "And what are you up to, you women?"
"Remove your sword from my neck," the queen commanded.
He frowned. "No female tells me what to do!"
She leaned forward, causing the point of the sword to dimple her own flesh, her eyes flashing as she said, "There's always a first time."
Then she leaned away from the blade and, in a move as swift as it was graceful, a blur in the startled guard's eyes, Isis swung around her right leg and her foot caught the man's wrist, sending his sword flying end over end into the air.
And when the weapon came down, the queen snatched it into her grasp, as easy as picking a grape off a bunch, the pommel making a nice fit in her hand. The guard barely had time for any of this to register, before Isis returned his sword to him—driving it deep into his chest.
She regarded his startled expression, and the wide empty eyes, in the guard's face; then she said, "A first time, and a last," and pushed him to the ground.
The other guards regarded this with amazement for a few moments, then belatedly drew their swords and rushed over, as the warrior women—lithe and graceful as any harem-girl dancers—drew their own blades, dispatching the sentries quickly, all but silently. Blood tan and glistened in the moonlight, as Philos—shaken by such butchery, however noble its cause—helped Arpid unload the cart of the sacks the women had been seated upon ...
... sacks of black powder, that formula from China the scientist had finally mastered.
In the meantime, the cloaked Balthazar was gripping that metal grate in the street with both powerful hands, pulling it free with a creak, nothing more. For all that had happened in these fast minutes, the sounds had been minimal; their presence remained undetected ... by anyone still alive, at least.
Torch in hand, Arpid scrambled up beside the Nubian and they exchanged glances. Then the little man hopped down into the cavity provided by Balthazar's removal of that grating. He used his torch to get his bearings down there, then found a place to prop the flaming light. His face, reflected orange, looked up from beneath the street.
"All right," he said to Balthazar. "Let's go."
The broad-shouldered king directed the women warriors to pass along the bags of powder, one to the other from the cart. Arpid took the first of these bags, which was leaking the black substance. The thief took a pinch and flicked it at the torch, which flared brightly, delighting Arpid.
"Did you see that?" he asked.
Philos, nearer the cart, said, "Yes, wonderful... Keep lighting that powder for fun, and see if you can't kill us all, why don't you?"
Isis was handing down another bag of powder to the little thief, who responded with a pout, mumbling, "Just an experiment. .. Where would that fool be without experiments?"
But Philos didn't hear this remark. At the big Nubian's side, the scientist—frowning in concern— asked, "Do you think Mathayus will rescue her in time?"
Even as they spoke, the albino camel, Hanna, was standing next to a far wall of the palace, her head tilted to watch her master, a hundred feet above, climbing the stones of the palace, an impossible task a spider might envy.
"That depends on what unexpected dangers he may face," the Nubian replied. "And it depends, too, on the Akkadian's skills ... which are considerable. I speak from experience."
"Well, they best be 'considerable' indeed, or he'll be trapped inside, and he and his woman will ride the explosion to the next world."
Balthazar's eyes tightened in the scarred battle mask of his face. "That black dust is that powerful?"
Philos smiled. "With a wallop enough to shake the gates of Gomorrah—and create a confusion to cover our stealing the sorceress away."
Balthazar's eyes hardened. "And you, little magician—you are prepared for your mission?"
"In most battles, brawn like yours is a good thing. But, my friend, only pipsqueaks like Arpid and myself can sneak through those rat holes into Memnon's palace."
And soon the Nubian was helping lower the scientist into the grating passage; eight bags of powder had been handed down there. The two little men, their faces smudged, looked up at the brute king of the bandits, who nodded at them reassuringly.
"The Akkadian has an adage," the Nubian said. Isis was at his side, looking down at the two brave sewer rats. "Live free ..."
Isis completed the rituaclass="underline" "Die well."
"If you don't mind," Arpid said, snatching his torch from its perch, "I'll work a little harder on the first part."
And then the two scrawny, unlikely heroes disappeared into the darkness below the street... and below the palace. Memnon sat on his throne, regarding his sorceress with searching eyes, as she sat at her table. Moments before, a servant had entered, whispered to his lord, and exited.
Fingers tented, smiling enigmatically, the Great Teacher said, "So . .. tomorrow my victory will be complete."
Cassandra did not meet his gaze, merely said, "As I have told you—that is what I saw."
"That is your ... vision."
Now she turned toward him. "Yes, my lord. I have seen it."
He studied her face. "Have you?"
Their eyes locked—both of these strong people gave nothing away in their expressions, sharing only blank visages with each other.
"And yet," Memnon said gently, "I sense a change in you. You seem, somehow .. . how should I put it? ... Diminished."
"I assure you, my lord... I am myself. Untainted. Unspoiled."
"How very pleased I am to hear it. Then a small demonstration should be no trouble for you."
The warlord stepped down from the throne and walked to a side wall, where a curtain concealed an alcove. He drew back the drape, and displayed another round table, much larger than the one at which she sat.
On the table were six substantial stone urns, each one lidded.
Memnon clapped once, a loud crack of a clap, and two copper-skinned slaves in square cloth headdresses entered, heavily leathered, bearing a big wicker cage within which wriggled and thrashed a host of deadly serpents—cobras, asps, vipers—slithering sinuously over each other, in a boiling deadly pile.
Using a stick with a small rope looped at its end, one of the slaves expertly reached in and plucked out a huge king cobra, who hissed its displeasure, its hood extended. The other slave removed the lid from one of the half-dozen identical urns, and the snake handler dropped the twisting, spitting reptile down into the pot, the other slave quickly slamming the lid on.