Sleek Comes the Night

by S E Holmes

Every zinging molecule shouted Mira’s location in the pool-house, but when he arrived she was nowhere to be seen. His skin crawled with the suspicion of prying eyes. A survey revealed only trees and the muted glee of party-goers. Maybe paranoia got the better of him. Sasha’s lack of attendance gave the impression he’d been warned off.

  Nic pushed an ajar door, heavy wood grating the floor to stick firm and forcing a sidelong squeeze via a slim gap. Once inside, the hall was as grand and stately as the rest of the manor, sandstone blocks forming high pillars between large floor-to-ceiling arched windows, a tangle of vines winning the battle to claim available surfaces. His sight slowly adjusted in the gloom.

  The place resembled an underwater grotto, moist and shadowy, the Olympic pool forming an empty blue void at its centre. At its furthest deep end, an ice-bucket and picnic blanket were highlighted in the ambient glow of a single candle.

  “Mira?”

  “Up here!”

  His focus travelled up a diving tower several stories tall. Wearing only shorts and a singlet, Mira teetered at the very edge of the board jutting from the topmost platform, springing on tip-toe.

  “Hey!” Nic shouted. “Stop!” Panic surged; without water it was surely a plummet to death.

  She grinned, gave him a little wave and arced into an elegant head-first spear. He vaulted across the expanse, racing passed rowed deck-chairs and potted ferns, knowing full well there was no time to prevent a fatal collision. Just as he reached the pool’s perimeter and coiled to launch off the side, emergency first-aid flashing consciousness, she performed a tumble mid-air to land on her feet. She flung her hands out, reminiscent of a gymnast, and executed a bow.

  Nic could only gape, anger and fear simmering. “Are you absolutely insane?” he yelled.

  “Hmm.” She smirked. “Do I look the worse for wear?”

  “But...” He shook his head. “How? You trumped terminal velocity. You breached the laws of Physics. How is that possible?”

  She made her way over to the blanket and proceeded to pour two glasses of Champagne, seating herself on the rug, feet tucked beneath her. “Please, Nic. Come and sit so we can have a civilised conversation.” She offered him a bubbling flute.

  “Civilised!” He might just lose it.

  “There’s something you need to see. I hope afterwards, you’ll understand.” Mira’s expression was concerned, eyes kind. “At least a little.”

  Nic contemplated turning heel, but knew it was an idle threat. He negotiated the ladder on shaky legs. His mind whirred through various explanations and came up blank: he simply could not fathom how she’d cheated death, or at least serious injury. She patted a spot facing her and handed him the drink. He sunk to knees to accept it, gulping the lot in one swallow.

  “Are you an acrobat?” he frowned. It was lame, but no alternative seemed better.

  She took his glass and refilled it. “Just endowed with feline grace.”

  Nic rolled his eyes in frustration and guzzled the second drink. “All right, I’ll play along. Hit me with this truth everyone keeps harping about.”

  A pleasant buzz infused his body. Mira scooted closer to remove the flute. When she gripped his hands in both of hers a jolt of pleasure energised his flesh. Nic suppressed a gasp, wondering at the visceral impact she had. It was almost violent. Did Mira feel it too?

  “Just relax,” she soothed. Her proximity made it especially challenging, lips a lustrous gold shining by candle-flame, and he fought the desperate urge to steal a kiss. With extreme control, he centred on her dazzling face, denying the temptation to linger on her luscious body barely concealed by thin cotton. “Remember Kafele and Sanura.”

  And just like that, Nic was yanked to a stone-bound, square chamber where the caught lovers were imprisoned awaiting their sentence. Only, this time he was a detached observer.

  The two were strapped spread-eagled to opposite walls by the crimson-tinged light of braziers. Kafele had been beaten savagely, one eye puffed shut, angry red welts criss-crossing his torso. His head lolled, tears splashing to the marble slab. Sanura’s ceremonial costume hung in shreds, modesty compromised, absent her gold and gems. Aside from a vague aura of shame, she seemed none the worse for wear.

  “I am sorry, my love,” he whispered.

  She lifted her chin defiantly. “Look at me, Kafele.” He slowly raised his head, eyes anchored to hers. “I am not. I gladly suffer the fire-ant torture a thousand times, for the moments we have shared. I love you, truly and forever.”

  Shuffled footsteps echoed the chamber, followed by a bent figure swathed in a cowled robe elaborately gilded with the pharaoh’s royal insignia. Kafele narrowed. “Father?”

  He threw back the hood, a gaunt man with a long wisp of greying beard. “Hush, son. We must move quickly, if you are to make it safely outside the city.”

  Confusion flitted Kafele’s features, replaced by fear. “No, father! They will kill you for this.”

  “Kafele. I am an old man.” He dropped a sack and rifled its contents while explaining, pulling out a curved dagger and the plain garments of a palace slave. “I have had my fill of this life. I wish to earn a place of honour beyond death, beside your cherished mother. If the gods have willed this love, I shall not oppose it. Bast has chosen.”

  “But you will be stripped of honour, years of dedicated service stolen --” By his actions, Senenet had deprived himself the right to a ritual burial, the only way to send his spirit on its proper journey in the afterlife.

  “Son!” his voice commanded. “I have not been a good father to you. Allow me this one gift, to make up for my absence.” He bowed respectfully before Sanura, slitting the leather ties at her hands and feet. “Priestess, forgive the attire. It provides the best camouflage until the alarm is sounded.”

  “I no longer hold that title. Call me Sanura. And I thank you from the deepest well of gratitude, Senenet.” She dropped to the ground and hastily dressed, dragging her long hair into a knot.

  Senenet ran to his son and repeated the process. Kafele slumped without the support of his bonds. “Can you stand? You must flee as fast as you can, Kafele.”

  Doubt clouded the old man’s face, as he struggled under the girth of his muscular only child. Together, he and Sanura helped Kafele upright to don the disguise. Senenet then pulled out two amulets on leather from the folds of his robe, placing them over the younger pair’s heads: gilt ankhs with the jewelled visage of a lioness engraved within the loop.

  “It saddens me that I shall not attend your wedding, nor bounce grandchildren upon my knee. Please, accept these in advance. May you be fertile always and live in the joy of Bast’s good favour. Be sure to tuck them away.”

  Kafele clasped his father, desperation evident. “Come with us!”

  The old man shook his head. “I will only slow you. I beg, delay no longer or all I have arranged is for nought.”

  His son rallied, squaring shoulders. “We honour your sacrifice, father, and will not fail. Thank you.”

  “The East gate. I have a man there with horses. I ask only one thing. No killing.”

  The lovers exchanged a glance: their escape had just become impossible. They looked back at Senenet and nodded in unison, before sprinting up the long, low passage that lead from the dungeons. The frenzied chipping of a chisel against stone echoed their rear. There was no chance for grief or regret.

  The upper jailhouse halls were empty of guards, which shouted the generosity of Senenet’s bribe, and the two were swift. Kafele’s strength ebbed back, hope urging them onward. They pelted out into the warren of narrow adobe alleyways, hands clasped and sweat on their brows. A cold sprinkle of stars witnessed these insignificant human plots with infinite detachment.

  Neither voiced the uncertainty: would their horses still be at the meet point? Who would risk themselves against the might of the Pharaoh’s wrath for a mere purse of gold? Better to accept the treasure, thieve the animals, and run far from the taint of blame. In the distanc
e, an avalanche of heavy sandstone blocks announced Senenet had succeeded in collapsing the chamber upon himself. A gong rang the alert, accompanied by shouts and the jogging of many sandaled feet. Kafele faltered and Sanura tugged him by the hand.

  “I am sorry it had to be this way. Your father was a brave man. Let us not waste his gift.”

  Almost at the town square, they slowed to peek from the corner of a low-slung hut. Guards swarmed to block the gate by the light of many lanterns, which left no-where to hide. High walls either side funnelled those departing into a canyon of rowed soldiers, scimitars and daggers at the ready.

  “It is impossible. How shall we get through?” Kafele grimaced.

  Sanura surveyed the area briefly. “Not through, over.” She gazed at him, resting a palm against his cheek. “Trust your body to know what to do, Kafele. You have trained for this. Follow my lead.”

  “Wait! You haven’t trained for battle.”

  “I am a dancer of the Temple of Bast. It is almost the same thing.”

  She kissed him hard on the lips, and then leaped out into the teeming courtyard. With the element of surprise, Sanura seized a spear, spinning to knock its owner to the ground with one end. She planted the tip and levered to kick several more before they’d had a chance to acknowledge her presence. Kafele watched from the shadows, amazed as Sanura worked her way in whirling dervish towards the freedom of the desert. She was simply too agile and swift for the slow-moving men. And they didn’t expect the offensive from a woman.

  After clearing a path, she took a run and used the spear to pivot up over the enemies’ heads and run horizontally along the wall, so fast she very nearly made the gate. Gasps of shock travelled with her, until those in front united to form an impenetrable barrier. With a startled cry, darkness swallowed her.

  At the thought of Sanura in jeopardy, Kafele finally mobilised. Roaring his rage, he barged into their midst, hurling away any who hampered progress as easily as straw-toys. Using their own weapons against them, several dropped by the thick butt of a sword to the forehead, others a blade across the knees or a staff to the neck. True to Senenet’s request, none were more than temporarily incapacitated. Lacking Sanura’s agility, Kafele scrambled over shoulders sheep-dog style, jumping high to swing across by jutting beams, which supported the edifice. He repelled any challengers with skilful use of his feet and eventually reached the front. Sanura waited, chest heaving, face determined, men toppled about her. A trickle of blood smeared her chin.

  “I cannot get it open,” she said, back pressed against heavy doors. “It is barred and locked.”

  Kafele peered overhead at the arch above the barrier. He linked fingers and made a sling. “I will throw you. Then, you find something to anchor me so I can climb up.”

  She calmly placed her foot to the groans and shuffling of soldiers rousing. “I don’t need to say it, but please hurry.”

  Jettisoned in an elegant loop, Sanura landed on the narrow ledge. She scrambled to locate a make-shift ladder in a deluge of arrows. Kafele crouched in a ball, miraculously spared while his attackers inadvertently fell. It was as if fate favoured the lovers.

  “There is nothing!” she called, panic-tinged.

  He rustled amongst the fallen for knives. A bloodied fist grasped Kafele’s forearm and he stared into the wide eyes of a boy no older than himself. An arrow extended from a sucking wound in his rib-cage.

  “I do not wish to hurt you.” Kafele unclenched the boy’s hand and showed him how to staunch the bleeding by compression. “Hold fast and the healers will help you. Do not remove the arrow.”

  “Kafele!” Sanura appeared over the edge, but she said nothing further on sighting the injured boy.

  The boy whispered, “Gods bless you both.”

  Satisfied with the sturdiness of the weapons, Kafele leaped to embed one in splintered timber, writhing to punch the second higher on the gate and drag himself up, extracting the first and repeating the process. Battalions poured into the square, tossing spears only to curse mulishly feeble aim. Channelling brute strength and desperation, Kafele ascended as arrows rained, eventually hauling next to Sanura. Without pause, they plummeted to the other side, tearing for a shadowy copse of palms at a short length. But its obviousness made for a meagre refuge.

  “What if --” Kafele panted.

  “Do not say it. We’ve come this far...”

  Gates creaked slowly at the rear, and the night echoed with the impatient snort and stamp of the Guard’s horses preparing to charge. Sanura stumbled in the sand, and Kafele swept passed, hoisting her one-armed and continuing until they reached the outer perimeter of brush. They thrust deeper into the trees.

  “Do not slow!” A muffled voice urged. “Tortoises shame your lazy pace.”

  Kafele narrowed as a figure materialised from the gloom, leading four laden camels. “Kiki?”

  “Show your gratitude later. Get on, quickly!”

  They mounted and lumbered out into the desert. “It is no good. The moon is too bright and their horses too rapid. How I wish for a sand-storm,” Kafele said.

  Hooves thundered, growing nearer. Kiki gave a short whistle and two decoy horses, complete with identically clothed effigies burst forth in the opposite direction. Concealed by the crest of a dune, the trio watched the Royal Guard veer off in pursuit.

  “The ruse will not last long.” Kiki nudged his camel into a trot.

  “Where are we going?” Sanura asked.

  Kiki looked over his shoulder and grinned, wrapping his turban. It made his head seem unbalanced on his slim form.

  “While your man was tossing his staff in the sparring ring, some of us were using our brains to map the surrounding water-holes. I know of an oasis few traders use, but it is very remote and we will need to take advantage of the shifting sands to cover our tracks. We have a long ride ahead.”

  ***

  Chapter Twenty-Nine