The Mazes of Magic (Conjurer of Rhodes Book 1)

by Jack Massa

  Approaching the precinct of the high priests’ apartments, he crouched behind a corner of the garden path. Ahead, two sentries stood before an arched gate. Moonlight gleamed on the points of their spears.

  Eyes shut, Korax envisioned himself walking past the sentries without their notice. Simultaneously, he whispered his charm:

  The word of Ptah is on my lips

  I pass as a whisper passes on the wind

  I walk unseen among my foes

  I come and I go wheresoever I wish

  Quiet as a cat, he stood and walked toward the gate. As he approached, one of the guards shifted, frowning, as if disturbed by a nagging thought. But neither man looked at him as Korax brushed quickly past their spears.

  He crossed the inner garden and raced up the flights of steps. He stalked along the high gallery toward Harnouphis’ door. No sentries patrolled here, but as he expected Korax found the door locked. Casting a quick look around, he sat down in the shadow of the balustrade and folded his legs.

  He took long breaths to quiet his mind, then cast his thoughts through the door and into the apartment. He had walked that way many times, when summoned to scry for Harnouphis, so he could picture the foyer and paneled corridor with ease.

  In the anteroom to the high priest’s study he discovered Baufre, lying asleep on a couch. In his vision, Korax leaned over and whispered in the boy’s ear.

  Baufre. Wake up. It is time to leave now.

  The young scribe moaned quietly, but did not move. Korax pressed harder, calling again and mentally closing his fingers to tug on Baufre’s ear.

  “What?” Baufre sat up, awake and confused.

  Korax poured his voice into the boy’s mind. Get up, Baufre. You are in danger. Come to the front door.

  “Seshsetem? I cannot see you.”

  Hear my words and trust them. I speak as your friend. Rise and walk to the door.

  Sluggishly, Baufre got up and tied on his kilt.

  Nevermind your sandals, Korax told him. Hurry.

  The boy shuffled sleepily down the corridor and across the foyer.

  On the terrace, Korax opened his eyes and leaped up. He reached the door just as it started to open. Baufre blinked at him in puzzlement. Korax pushed the door wider and grabbed the boy’s arm.

  “Hurry.”

  But Baufre resisted, pulling back. “No! I cannot leave.”

  “Yes, you can. You must.” Korax tugged harder. He dragged Baufre half-way across the threshold.

  The door flew open. Strong hands seized Korax by the arm and neck. A lamp appeared inside the apartment. Baufre was shoved aside and another set of hands grabbed Korax. Struggling, he was yanked across the foyer and flung to the floor. Scrambling to his feet, he faced his attackers: dark and sinewy men, the two Bedouin tribesmen. He remembered them from that afternoon in the necropolis.

  The chamber was flooded with light now, as Mehen and two servants had appeared, all carrying lamps. Behind them stood Harnouphis, holding a serpent-headed staff.

  Surrounded, Korax gave up any hope of fighting. He stood with shoulders slack.

  “Bind him,” Harnouphis commanded his henchmen. “Don’t harm him, unless he resists.”

  The desert men tugged Korax’s arms behind his back and tied his wrists with leather cord. They shoved him down on his belly and bound his legs at the ankles and knees. Finally, they bent up his knees and used more cord to connect the bonds of his wrists and ankles.

  Standing against the foyer wall, Baufre watched with a dull, confused expression.

  “Return to sleep, my son.” Harnouphis ushered him across the room. “To you, this is only a strange dream. You’ll forget it all by morning.”

  The high priest dispatched one of his servants to see Baufre to bed. He turned his attention back to Korax.

  “You made a remarkable attempt, Seshsetem. Your abilities are far advanced over what I expected. But it was preposterous arrogance to believe you could overmatch my power.”

  “Arrogance indeed, your Excellency.” Mehen handed him Korax’s stick, which had been dropped in the struggle. “He deems himself worthy to bear the Wand of Thoth.”

  Harnouphis examined the stick with a scornful smile, then broke it over his knee.

  “My ally foresaw your coming here,” he told Korax. “And my loyal Mehen has warned me often that you are treacherous. He did well to have an informer keep close watch on your activities. Yes, your little dancer. She tried to conceal what she had guessed of your intentions. But her shallow mind was easy for Mehen to read. Based on what he discerned, Mehen searched your residence yesterday. He found scrolls far too advanced for a neophyte. Those, and a cache of coins, which I suspect you stole from the treasury. Mehen wanted to arrest you at once, but Set assured me we could avoid the disturbance if we only waited. And so, you have come to us.”

  “You think you know all my secrets,” Korax said venomously. “But I also know some of yours. I remember how you made me to murder the priest in the desert. And I know how you intend to murder Baufre. What has turned you into such a monster, Harnouphis?”

  The high priest paused, seriously pondering the question. “Desire,” he replied. “And will.” He turned abruptly to the Bedouins. “One of you keep watch over him tonight. And make sure you stay awake.”

  The taller of the tribesmen frowned. “Wouldn’t it be simpler just to cut his throat?”

  “Simple, but unwise,” Harnouphis said. “Awkward to have to remove a corpse from my residence.” He leaned over and brushed Korax’s brow. “Besides, Seshsetem is a useful tool—only one whose care I have neglected. With a little grinding and polishing, I will make him useful again.”

  Korax glared his defiance. “Perhaps the tool will cut off your fingers.”

  “Put a gag in his mouth.” Harnouphis straightened. “And make sure it’s tight. Make sure he cannot speak.”

  * * * * *

  Knotted firmly around his skull, the gag filled his mouth and pulled the flesh painfully against his teeth. Korax lay with his chin on the tile floor, staring up at the Bedouin. The man sat on a stool, long legs and arms crossed, watching him impassively.

  Korax could move his arms and feet a little, roll over from his side to his belly, nothing more. Soon he gave up struggling. Toward dawn, despite the cramped position enforced by the bonds, he fell asleep from exhaustion.

  He woke later as the two Bedouins carried him down the corridor. They dumped him on the floor of the antechamber, just as Harnouphis was emerging from his study. The high priest was dressed for traveling, in a plain tunic and head-scarf. He gave Korax a perfunctory glance as he crossed the chamber.

  Korax rolled over so he could see the corridor. He watched as the Bedouins moved back and forth, carrying gear toward the foyer. He saw Mehen walk past, with Baufre following dutifully behind. A while later Harnouphis returned, leading a spearman who wore the collar and headdress of the treasury guard.

  “Here is the prisoner. Watch him well. Do not remove his gag under any circumstances. Another man will relieve you at sundown.”

  “Of course, Excellency.” The guard peered dubiously at Korax. “But, wouldn’t it be better to confine him in the jail?”

  “No,” Harnouphis snapped. “I want him here, so I can interrogate him when I return. Do not question my orders, sergeant, obey them.”

  “Yes, Excellency. Your pardon.”

  The guard bowed low as Harnouphis swept brusquely past him. He frowned at Korax, then set his spear on the floor and assumed the erect posture of attention.

  Korax heard Harnouphis issuing final instructions to a servant, then the footsteps of the party leaving the apartment: Harnouphis, Mehen, the two tribesmen, and Baufre, bound for the necropolis and the ruined Temple of Set.

  Korax closed his eyes, sickened by hopelessness and grief. Not only had he failed to save Baufre, he had gambled his chance at freedom and lost. Grunting, he tugged at the bonds, but it was pointless. His spine and shoulders only burned with ne
w pain, before fading back into numbness.

  Where was his ally? He called Thoth to his mind. His tongue moved against the gag, silently uttering the words of summons.

  No answer.

  Too tense. He calmed himself, breathed deliberately. Gradually, he drifted into a half-sleep. There, amid the gently shimmering colors of dream, the ibis head appeared.

  “Awake! You have work to do.”

  How? I am helpless.

  “Not completely. You can still use your will.”

  How?

  The god instructed him, formed the ideas in his mind. He must reach out with his will to the guard, bend all his mental powers on the man, touch his mind, surround it, envision the five components of his soul, and one by one overpower them. Then he could take control of the body.

  The idea sounded impossible.

  But Korax had nothing else to occupy his time.

  He poured his will into the task, saw his mental force flowing like a stream of light across the space between him and the guard. He envisioned the guard’s nerve centers, pulsing, radiant spheres at his brain, throat, and heart. Korax thrust his mind into those centers, piercing them, slowly filling them.

  An hour passed.

  Korax directed his will against the guard’s will, like water dripping on a wall of sand, gradually making it crumble.

  The guard’s name was Kahmose. He was thirty years old. He loved beer and flute music.

  Korax kept his eyes closed, his brow beaded with sweat.

  Another hour.

  Kahmose lived with his aged mother, a toothless, embittered woman. Kahmose’s wife found the old woman intolerable and complained vehemently. Kahmose longed for a tranquil home; he felt very tired. Korax pulled the threads of that weariness, binding them to his purpose.

  Near noon, the guard snuck out to relieve himself and drink a little water. He returned refreshed and stood more erect.

  Korax had to start again.

  But the power flowed more readily now. Korax had gained practice, and Kahmose’s resistance had weakened.

  Two more hours came and went.

  Kahmose decided he could risk sitting down. He pulled a low stool against the wall.

  Another hour, and he leaned his head back, feeling more and more drowsy.

  The sweat had dried on Korax’s face, his throat now unbearably dry. He strove to ignore the varied agonies of his body, to focus instead on squeezing away the last of Kahmose’s will.

  Suddenly it was gone, like a candle flicking out.

  Looking up, Korax saw the sentry slumped against the wall, deep asleep. Swiftly, he shut his eyes and concentrated on the next task. Again, he envisioned the stream of light flowing from him to Kahmose. But now he thrust himself into that stream, like a man rushing across a falling bridge.

  He opened his eyes. He was in Kahmose’s body.

  This was magic indeed!

  “Don’t hesitate,” Thoth warned him. “Act while the power holds.”

  Korax struggled out of the seat, reaching for the sword at the guard’s hip. He fell to the floor, crawled to where his own body lay.

  The short sword was designed for thrusting, not cutting. Its iron edge was woefully dull. Korax sawed desperately at the leather cords binding his wrists, then picked at the knots with the sword point. Finally, he tore them lose, then started sawing the cords at his knees.

  “No,” Thoth told him. “You can free yourself now. Return to your own body. Lie down on the floor. Make sure you leave the man asleep.”

  Korax laid the sentry on his back beside his own motionless body. He draped Kahmose’s arm over Korax’s back. Then he relaxed, loosening his hold on the guard’s muscles and will. He used Kahmose’s arm as a bridge to pour himself back into his own resting body.

  He awoke to glittering pain, his nerves screaming. He sat up and furiously rubbed the life back into his shoulders and wrists.

  Beside him, Kahmose began to snore.

  Korax freed himself from the gag. With the sword he cut and tore the cords from his legs. Quickly, he used the same cords to bind Kahmose’s wrists and ankles. The guard groaned a little as Korax gagged him, then returned to his restful slumber. Korax slid the man’s sword into the sash of his tunic and picked up the heavy spear.

  He staggered across the antechamber and into Harnouphis’ study. He found a jug of water and quenched his desperate thirst.

  Some instinct drew his attention to the wall shrine with its dark, cedarwood cabinet.

  “Open it,” Thoth urged.

  Korax tested the lock with his hands, then used the spear point to pry the latch. The iron lock wouldn’t give. Korax hung his whole weight on the spear haft, and the door tore off its hinges, clattering as it struck the floor.

  Inside stood a statue of Set, tall as a man’s forearm. The image made Korax shudder.

  “Destroy it,” Thoth told him. “That will weaken Set’s hold on the priest.”

  Korax swept the statue from the shelf with the spear, then stamped it into the floor, grinding it to pieces under his heels.

  Chapter Twenty-Nine

  Outside, the afternoon shone bright and quiet. Harnouphis would not begin his ritual before moonrise. Korax still had time to save Baufre.

  He slipped through the antechamber and glanced down the corridor. Kahmose lay deep asleep, and Harnouphis’ servants were nowhere in sight. Korax left the apartment through the front door and hastened along the gallery.

  Swiftly, he made his way back to his rooms. He packed his magic scrolls in the satchel, along with his cache of money and the small wax figure of Thoth. One way or the other, he had no intention of returning to the Mansion of Ptah.

  He ran to the House of Records and marched into the scriptorium. Row on row, the scribes stopped their work and stared at him in bewilderment and wonder. What was Seshsetem doing with sword and spear? Ignoring them, Korax found Katep and signaled him to come outside. The corpulent scribe climbed to his feet and hurried after Korax. The two men stopped to talk on the portico.

  “What news? What has happened?” Katep demanded.

  “I am going to rescue Baufre.”

  “He is in danger? Where?”

  “Listen and do as I say. After work, leave the city by the Saqqarah gate. Go to the crossroads just before the bridge that leads to the necropolis. Wait for me there. I will bring him to you during the night.”

  Katep’s face contorted with anguish. “Do you go alone? No! I am no warrior, but if my son is in peril, I will go with you.”

  Korax shook his head emphatically. “You would hold me back. Trust me, and do as I say. I will bring your son, I promise it on my life.”

  He squeezed Katep’s arm, then whirled and hurried away.

  Crossing the outer precincts of the temple, Korax departed through a postern gate. He ran along the avenue, drawing curious glances from passers-by. The sun blazed in the western quarter of the sky: still at least two hours till sunset. Breathless, Korax slowed his pace. He had eaten nothing since yesterday, and his strength was failing.

  He made his way to the caravansary. As arranged, his donkey was packed and ready for travel. Korax paid the proprietor and led the beast out into the courtyard. He put on his new boots and the light, hooded cloak. He discarded the guard’s sword and replaced it with the iron short sword he had purchased. He unpacked some dry bread and munched it as he led the donkey along the streets.

  He passed through the Saqqarah gate and headed up the road. The sun hovered cool and orange, slipping toward the horizon. Korax yanked the reins to force the donkey to a trot. Mehen brayed in complaint but obeyed.

  He left the donkey tethered behind a mortuary temple a short distance inside the necropolis. The beast was slowing him down. Besides, he would need to approach his foes in silence.

  Hefting the spear, Korax trotted along the sandy streets of the city of the dead. He had journeyed this way only once, and that memory had been sponged away by Harnouphis. But he knew the route with certa
inty. All his memories had returned and besides, Thoth guided him.

  Thoth, and another.

  Words from one of the scrolls ran through his mind: I am Horus of the Horizon, Horus the avenger.

  The hawk-headed son of Isis and Osiris—the mighty warrior god. In the myth, Horus battled Set for nine days and nights before vanquishing him, thus avenging the murder of his father. Korax sensed the strength of Horus coursing in his blood. The god had come to him, sent by Isis, for the purpose of battling Set once again, in this time, this world. Korax felt no fear, no anger, only a grim, irresistible purpose.

  The sun settled on the red horizon. In the fading light, Korax approached the ruined Temple of Set. Torches stuck in the sand blazed before the black colonnade. The two Bedouins stood guard at the entrance, a pair of donkeys tethered nearby. Korax whispered a quick prayer to the gods of Greece and Egypt. He lowered his spear and advanced across the courtyard.

  He came within a few yards before the henchmen noticed him. One of the Bedouins pointed his spear; the other drew his sword. Korax stepped closer and the men shifted, ready to attack.

  “Stop!” Korax ordered, in the voice Thoth had taught him. “You see who I am. You thought I was vanquished, but you were wrong. I have stronger magic than your master. Thoth and Isis and Horus himself fight on my side. I am going to kill Harnouphis and Mehen. I can kill you as well, or you can take the donkeys and whatever is on them, and leave this place. The choice is yours.”

  Brows high, the two men glanced at each other.

  “Choose quickly!” Korax commanded.

  “No reprisals,” the taller henchman said. “No curses. We go in peace?”

  Korax nodded. “Leave one of the torches.”

  The Bedouins put away their weapons. They bowed their heads and touched fists to their lips. They moved from Korax’s path and scurried over to unhitch the donkeys.

  Korax watched until the men had started across the courtyard. Then he plucked the torch from the ground. He trudged over the drifted sand and through the portal.

  Holding the torch and spear before him, he traversed the ancient hall with its squat black columns. He passed the broken statue of the god and approached the secret door.