The City of Refuge: Book 1 of The Memphis Cycle

by Diana Wilder

  “I am sorry to hear Your Reverence say so,” Nebamun said with an ironic bow. “But I repeat it: I won't be in any danger. You'll see.' His smile eased a little. “Send word to the stable-master: I want the sorrel team harnessed to my chariot at once.”

  ** ** **

  “I certainly will see that he isn't in danger!” Khonsu said through his teeth to Karoya later. “It's beyond me how such an intelligent and sensible man can step into a dangerous situation like this without turning a hair! And after he chewed out General Seti and me so thoroughly yesterday!”

  Karoya watched him string his bow and then shake out his quiver full of arrows and frown at them. “He said clearly that he wants to go alone,” he reminded Khonsu. “We both saw a sample of his temper when he dealt with that idiot priest Seneb. I don't think I'd want to chance crossing him!”

  “Don't worry,” Khonsu said, removing two flawed arrows from his quiver and replacing the rest. “I'll stay out of his sight! But I'm going to make certain no intruders go anywhere near him, ghost or not!”

  “His Grace was specific in his orders,” Karoya said doubtfully. “I suspect he could make himself unpleasant if he knew you had disobeyed him. I hope you won't regret it.”

  “So do I,” said Khonsu. “But I'd regret it more if His Grace were harmed in any way!”

  “We'll see,” said Karoya. “I just hope you come out of this with your hide in one piece!”

  Khonsu lifted an ironic eyebrow at him.

  Karoya added, “Oh, by the way, Commander, this message came to you from Khemnu.' He offered the folded and sealed sheet of papyrus. “I suspect it's like the last one. I hope it's good news. It seems to be a regular thing now. Why don't you see about sending a reply?”

  XXI Along The Northern Track

  The night was strangely restless, the heavy air murmured with the hint of a rising wind, as though a storm were approaching. The sigh of the breeze through the cracks and hollows of the surrounding cliffs seemed to bring the sound of distant voices. Khonsu had the eerie notion that if he only leaned forward and listened, he would hear what was said, and he was suddenly convinced that if he looked over his shoulder he would see Horus and Set towering above the earth, battling out the eternal conflict between loyalty and destruction.

  He peered upward along the track.

  Blackwing, the tall, white-footed stallion that had been trained to carry riders on his back, snorted and sidled for a moment before lowering his head to snuff at the path. He was a strong horse, as Neb-Iry had said; they had been circling north of the city for some time, crossing and recrossing the rough, rocky terrain, and he was showing no signs of fatigue yet, though he, too, seemed on edge.

  It had been a mistake to come, Khonsu thought. He had no place in this unsettled, shifting night. No place, and yet he could not turn back, for he had to protect Lord Nebamun against whatever threatened. He settled himself more deeply in his saddle, took a steadying breath, and looked toward the bend in the path that overlooked the Nile. Khonsu had often paused to watch the river in the moonlight. But this night it was almost as though the Nile were actually made of silver, hard, gleaming and flat, strangely altered from the landmark he had loved all his life.

  Khonsu began to shiver. He felt as though he were trying to swim in a murky river. It frightened him. Pressure seemed to be building at his temples and in his chest, making it difficult to breathe or to think. The murmurs grew into a roaring in his ears, too strange for him to bear. He should never have intruded. And Nebamun was alone in this.

  The tension eased a little: he had someone to protect. Khonsu found he could breathe and hear again, and he was alone beneath a black sky blazing with stars, listening to the sound of approaching hooves. He turned Blackwing with the pressure of his knees and rode quietly behind an outcropping of rock, where he dismounted and hobbled the horse, his heart pounding.

  The hoofbeats were slow and quiet in the nighttime stillness, underscored by the creak of leather harness. The sound approached Khonsu's hiding place, passed him, and continued toward the bend in the track that skirted the edge of the cliffs, where they came to a halt.

  Khonsu heard the chime of the harness ornaments and the sound of one of the horses snorting and drawing its hoof slowly through the rocks and dust of the path. He peered cautiously around the rocks at the newcomer. A chariot stood just out of reach. Khonsu could see the driver clearly when he turned to look back along the track. He was a young man wearing the garments that a soldier would have worn twenty-five years before. A gold-mounted bronze plaque hung about his neck. Khonsu saw the names of King Tutankhamun molded on it. And the four-spoked chariot wheels were outdated, as well. These and a dozen other incongruous details grated on Khonsu's mind, bringing the strangeness crowding back upon him like a wall of smoke, making his shoulders stiffen as he wondered if he had tumbled into a dream.

  A chariot from twenty-five years before-driven by a man who gave ample proof of his mortality by suddenly sneezing as a swirl of wind spun dust into the air, and gave off the faint and mortal scent of healthy horseflesh.

  Khonsu felt his shoulders relax. He drew a slow, eased breath. He had been right: there was no ghost. Living people were behind the “haunting', pursuing their own ends, probably smuggling or grave-robbing. It was all part of a plot that could be stopped. Khonsu's fingers eased on the reins and he watched the man. He carried no bow that Khonsu could see, and the only visible weapon was a knife at his belt. He debated in his mind whether he should speak now, or try to follow the man.

  And then the hair at the back of his neck rose and his heart began to thud in his ears as he felt, without even a hint of doubt, the imprint of a new presence upon the night.

  Why are you driving my chariot?

  The voice seemed to roll through the cliffs with a note of thunder, though it was scarcely louder than the rising wind. Low and clear as a trumpet, soft as the sound of the wind, at once near and distant and terribly detached.

  Blackwing snorted and shied. The sound sent the startled horses clattering sideways. The slap of leather mingled with hissed curses as their driver struggled to control them.

  Khonsu spun around, trying to see who had spoken, but the rocky surroundings were as empty as the sky above him.

  “Who's there?” the driver demanded. His face was pinched and white in the moonlight.

  Why are you wearing my armor and my badge of rank?

  “Who are you?” the driver demanded. His voice had risen slightly.

  It was you who summoned me, the voice said. Don't you know me?

  “I tell you, I don't know who you are!”

  Then look at me and learn! the voice commanded.

  Khonsu's eyes flew up to the cliff that overhung the path and the figure that stood there, motionless in the wind that whipped about it.

  Its form was that of a young man, as archaically armed and garbed as the driver. The moonlight picked out the gleam of gold at wrists and upper arms, shimmered along the finely pleated folds of a military kilt of royal linen, flashed from an archer's gold-mounted copper bracer and glinted from the bronze tips of a great, curving bow. The man's face was still and expressionless, the eyes pools of blackness set beneath straight, frowning brows.

  The driver dragged in a loud, rough gasp that sounded as though it tore his chest. His hands tightened on the reins, sending his horses backing frantically toward the cliff. “Who are you?” he demanded.

  I am the one whose tomb you rifled, the other said. The one whose name you caused to ring in infamy through these hills and throughout this land.

  “Neb-Aten!” the driver breathed.

  That is my name, and here I am. Now explain to me what you meant by calling me!

  “W-we meant no harm by it!”

  Then tell me what you did mean! The wind had heightened, straining the other's hair straight back from his face, whipping his kilt about his knees.

  “It was just a prank!” the driver said.

  Do you
call it a prank to dishonor the dead? To lie and cheat and steal and murder?

  “That was none of my doing!”

  The question came back cold and harsh. Wasn't it?

  Khonsu, watching, felt his fear begin to fade even as his sense of strangeness grew. The threat was not directed at him: it was as though he were listening to a voice he had known long ago, or hearing a song that he had once sung, half-forgotten but somehow familiar.

  The driver tried to gather the reins in his shaking hands.

  Stay where you are! the other commanded. If you are to play my part, you must be prepared to feel what I felt and receive the payment that I received. You must feel the anguish of waiting day after day in vain hope. You must be torn between the fear of discovery and the determination to go ahead no matter what the cost, even if it be your honor and your life. You must be racked with the terror of flight, drown in the dread of a hunted thing hemmed in on all sides, seeking shelter. And you must see your friends revealed as enemies who sold you for gold. You must know the sudden, metallic taste of your own blood at the back of your throat as the hard, sharp, cold blade slides in beside your breastbone and brings you down into silence-

  “No!”

  -where you open your eyes to the final nightmare of the place where there are no lies, where your heart and your soul are weighed and judged before the unblinking gaze of the terrible ones cloaked in lightning and crowned with flame-

  Khonsu could hear the rasp of the driver's breath above the wind. “I tell you, no!”

  -and you watch in helpless terror as your heart is balanced against truth and courage and honor, and the forfeit is the very life of your soul. If you can feel that horror and that grief as you patrol these paths and lie in wait for the fearful, gullible ones, then you can take my part and I can rest in peace. If not-

  The driver's voice came rough and distorted. “What do you want with me?” he demanded.

  Khonsu, listening, realized that the young man had reached the point where fear gives way to defiance.

  You called me and I came, the other said. And now you and your fellow conspirators must deal with me. The murderer cannot escape retribution. Soon or late, in this world or another, the Avenger of Blood will always exact the blood-price. And Huni knows this.

  “I don't believe in you!” the driver said with growing force. His horses sidled and stamped. “You're a fraud!”

  Khonsu, eyeing the track, decided that the driver was probably weighing his chances of escape.

  It is you who are the fraud, the other said. His voice was still calm and imperious. And the time has come to end it. Remove my plaque and drop it on the roadway. Then step out of my chariot and begone. The voice paused as the night seemed to grow colder. Or be prepared to pay the price.

  The words were suddenly obscured by the clang of bronze upon rock, the crack of a whip and the rattle of chariot wheels upon rough road.

  Halt! the voice thundered.

  The only sound was the diminishing clatter of the wheels upon the road. The musical twang of a bowstring was followed almost at once by a thud and a scream. Khonsu heard another twang followed by a horse's shriek that faded into the distance.

  All was silent for a moment. Khonsu, gazing anxiously up at the man standing motionless on the rock, could feel the shadowed eyes turning toward him. His heart hammered at the back of his throat.

  “And now it is your turn, O Watcher in the Shadows,” the man said. The ring of menace was gone from his voice; Khonsu could catch the hint of a smile. “Come where I can get a look at you. And bring that badge of rank with you.”

  Khonsu took Blackwing's reins and obeyed. He paused to kneel and retrieve the plaque from where the driver had dropped it.

  Footsteps approached him. When he straightened, he faced Lord Nebamun.

  The illusion of youth was gone, but Nebamun was smiling as he unstrung and shouldered his bow. “I was wondering when you'd show up, Commander,” he said. “Since you're here now, you had best wait out the night with me. We can follow that fellow's tracks tomorrow and see what we find. Now come along and have some supper.”

  XXII

  “How beautiful art thou,

  Walker of the heavens!

  Rising in the morning without ceasing,

  Thy rays illumine all the world.

  Beside thy splendid beams

  The finest gold is lusterless.

  Who can gaze upon thy face?

  Behold, even the pure of heart

  Cast their eyes down in confusion before

  thy glory,

  O thou splendid one!

  How beautiful art thou,

  Healer of hurts!

  Thy rays, piercing the darkness,

  Bring a new dawn

  To those grieving in the night.

  Compassion is in thy touch,

  And beneath thy gaze we are renewed,

  O thou splendid one!”

  The words and the melody moved quietly into Khonsu's dreams, bringing images of warmth and the half-forgotten happiness of the time when Sithathor still loved him and Sherit had been unbrushed by the passing wing of death.

  Healer of Hurts...

  The slow warmth penetrated his memory of Sithathor, transformed the image of Sherit lying wasted and feverish upon her bed and crying for her mother. For the first time in months the memory did not bring him rearing upright with the sweat streaming down his face.

  He opened his eyes to clear light and the lingering touch of the night's coolness. The sun was just above the horizon, flooding the land with light so pure and so strong that it almost seemed liquid. He felt as though he were somehow bathed in a fathomless ocean of light that washed away the memory of the murk and blackness of the past night.

  He raised his head and looked around. He could still hear the song, though the words were sung so softly that he could barely make them out.

  “How beautiful art thou,

  Bringer of joy!

  Beneath thy touch the earth sings for gladness

  The beasts of the wilderness

  And the cattle of thy countless hills

  Skip for joy.

  And in their hearts the children of man

  Sing thy praise,

  O thou gladsome one!”

  The voice was close by. Khonsu rubbed the sleep from his eyes and looked toward the sound. Lord Nebamun was standing on the outcropping of rock that had been his perch the night before. It was his voice that Khonsu had heard in his sleep. His eyes were fixed upon the bright disk of the sun as it soared above the horizon. His hands stretched out toward it as though he were seeking to reach and touch it and draw its warmth into himself.

  He lowered his arms, turned and smiled as Khonsu sat up. “Oh, so you're awake now, are you?” he said. “You sleep like the dead!”

  Khonsu ran an experimental hand over his hair and found it hopelessly tousled. “I'm sorry, Your Grace,” he said, trying to smooth his hair into some semblance of order.

  Nebamun's mouth, quivering on the edge of a grin, was sternly disciplined into a straight line. “Breakfast is waiting over there by the fire,” he said. “Not much, I fear, but as a soldier you'll have had much worse.”

  Khonsu returned Nebamun's smile and ran his fingers through his hair one last time. He got up after a moment and made his way to the fire.

  Several small loaves of bread had been placed on a flat stone to one side. Beside them, wrapped in a length of cloth, were onions and figs and a small leather flagon of honeyed wine. It was just enough to feed one hungry man.

  Khonsu eyed the provisions and turned to Nebamun. “Have you eaten yet, Your Grace?” he asked.

  “Yes, I have,” said Nebamun. “I was up and about long before sunrise. It would have been the courteous thing to delay my breakfast, but I had some things to do that are best not done on an empty stomach.”

  “Your Grace should have awakened me,” Khonsu said. “I should have accompanied you. I'm sorry: I'm not generally lazy.
I can't think why I slept so long.”

  “It could have been because you badly needed the sleep,” Nebamun suggested, sitting down beside Khonsu and drawing up one knee. He wore his archer's garments of the night before. He seemed to have shed twenty years in one night. “There was no need to wake you,” he said. “And you'd worn yourself out last night.”

  Khonsu broke a loaf of bread and then looked up at Nebamun. “Your Grace is being far more generous than I merit,” he said. “I did little to justify any supposed exhaustion.”

  Nebamun smiled and shook his head. “We must be content to disagree, Commander,” he said. “I have found that fear and uncertainty are often more strenuous than hard riding and fighting. You went out into what you expected to be a perilous night in order to rescue me from what you half-feared was a ghost, and what you certainly knew was a dangerous intruder. It took courage, and I am in your debt.”

  “Your Grace needed no rescuing,” Khonsu pointed out.

  “You didn't know that at the time,” Nebamun said.

  Khonsu lowered his eyes. “Has Your Grace forgotten that I disobeyed your orders in following you?”

  Nebamun eyed the pile of bread, lifted a small loaf and broke off the tip. He selected the smallest of the onions beside it, brushed it off against his kilt, and then popped it and the bread into his mouth.

  His eyes rested thoughtfully on Khonsu while he chewed the bread and onion together and then took a drink from the flask of water beside him. “You puzzle me, Commander,” he said when he had finished swallowing. “When I thank you for your assistance, you tell me that it's worthless. In return for my praise of your courage and initiative, you point out that your actions verged on mutiny. Do you want me to read you a lecture or order a punishment? I can do so if that's what you want. Whether you'll enjoy it when I do is another question. They say I am good at it.”

  Khonsu looked across at him, startled.

  Nebamun selected another onion and bit into it with a bland smile.