Order of the Air Omnibus: Books 1-3 (141 page)

King Senefru was young. He might have seen twenty years, and he was slender. Between the eunuchs, if it hadn't been for the golden headpiece he wore, he might have been mistaken for a boy. His brow was creased by a frown, and his steps were hurried. He also wore makeup, more elaborate than that of the boys. His hair was clipped to the length of his shoulders and he wore an amulet of lapis lazuli at his throat.

"I hope that you are right," he said peevishly, turning back to Tchatcha-em-ânkh before stepping into the boat. "I have not felt right since rising this morning."

"You will see, your Highness," the old man replied. "A day on the lake, with such beauty surrounding you," Tchatcha-em-ânkh waved his arm to indicate the maidens at the oars, and the beautifully laid out seat awaiting the king, "will do wonders for your spirit. There are many beautiful sights along the banks, and we will see them at our leisure."

Senefru nodded, and turned. One of the eunuchs helped him down into the boat, and he made his way slowly forward. As he passed he gazed at each of the maidens in turn. He did not touch them – they were all virgins – but he examined them carefully, checking for any blemish. It was as if he was determined the day would not improve, and wanted any excuse to validate his mood.

When he reached Rebecca, he stopped and turned fully to face her. She kept her eyes respectfully on the boat's plank floor. She felt the heat of the sun beating down on her shoulders through the netting and was suddenly very aware of his eyes, and the fact that she was nearly naked in his presence. He lingered, stepping to one side, and then the other.

"What is it, sire?" Tchatcha-em-ânkh asked. "Does something displease you?"

"No," the king replied, distracted. "I do not know what it is. There is something…"

He shook his head and turned toward the front of the boat. Without further hesitation he made his way to the pillowed seat and arranged himself carefully. Two of the eunuchs took up the palm fronds and began to fan him gently.

"Cast off," Tchatcha-em-ânkh called.

The boat rocked gently and slid out onto the brilliant blue water. Sun rippled on the waves. A short man with a shaven head, paced to the center of the boat, standing between the rows of maidens. He held a small tambour, which he began, slowly, to tap. It made a susurrus rattling sound. Rebecca and the others took up the oars, dipped them into the water, and within a few beats, they had matched the pace of their strokes to his rhythm.

Rebecca concentrated on the motion. She had rowed before, but never a single oar, and never in unison with others. She didn't want to draw any attention to herself, and it was both easier, and harder work than she'd anticipated. As she relaxed, the light drumming of the oar-master seeped into her consciousness, and her body – under her control, but not truly her own – responded. The boat rode light and easy, and the oars, dipping at a leisurely pace, drawing back and rising again, brought them to a measured, but deceptive pace that ate up the distance with surprising rapidity.

They turned to the left and cruised along the bank. There were groves of trees, and banks of reeds. In the sunlight the distant desert glittered like a sheet of diamonds. It was beautiful, and peaceful, and the king, for all his ire upon their departure, quickly grew calm. He spoke with Tchatcha-em-ânkh, who told him stories, pointed out landmarks, and generally filled in the last elements of a perfect afternoon. Rebecca listened carefully, but heard nothing of importance. She tucked away the names of places and kings, and the anecdotal tales that filled the otherwise silent journey, but she knew she had entered this time – this place – for a reason, and she remained watchful.

Now and then, the old sorcerer turned and glanced at her. She kept her eyes down on these occasions, avoiding direct contact, but she felt his attention like tendrils of spider silk brushing over her skin. More than once a slight shiver threatened to break the perfection of her rowing, and she was certain that – if the old man didn't notice, he at least sensed her discomfort.

When they'd seen the sights of the left shore, Tchatcha-em-ânkh directed the oar-master to turn them toward the center of the lake. He said that there were some things he'd like to show the king on the far bank, and wanted to cross as quickly as possible. The squat oar-master changed his cadence to a series of sharp raps. He called out to the maidens on the right hand side to hold tight as those on the left continued their strokes. When the bow was nearly pointed in the direction they needed to go, he shifted back to the steady rhythm with a shimmering rattle of the tambour. Rebecca resumed her steady rowing, and as they progressed toward the lake's center, the beat increased in tempo until they fairly raced across the placid surface of the water.

It appeared they would make a swift, unhindered passage, but it was not to be. A girl near the front of the boat, just to the right and behind the king, faltered. A large horsefly had landed on her hair, threatening to bite. Frightened, she released her oar with one hand and swiped at the offending insect. It buzzed off over the water, but the damage was done. Her oar went dead in the water, and it disrupted the rhythm of the others. The boat lurched, and spun slightly to the side. The oar-master caught the disruption quickly, slowed his rhythm and called out to the all of them to slow, and then stop. Their smooth progress ceased, and the boat shuddered, unsettling the king on his seat, and nearly tumbling one of the eunuchs into the water.

The girl who'd caused the problem gave a soft cry. There was a clink of metal, and Rebecca saw something strike the side of the boat. The girl reached for it, but her net tangled on the end of her oar, and the glittering object dropped past her grasping hand and splashed into the water beside the boat. The girl brought her hand to her throat and gasped, and though the oar-master called out to them all to resume their efforts, she made no move to return to her oar.

The king, distracted, turned and stared at the maiden, who sat very still.

"What is wrong?" he asked her. "Why have you stopped rowing?"

The girl did not raise her eyes, but neither did she seem cowed by his presence, or his attention.

"My amulet," she said. "It was a gift from my mother, and belonged to her mother before her. It has fallen in the water."

"Then it is gone," the king said. "You must take up your oar so that we may continue."

The girl made no move to comply. Instead, she leaned closer to the side of the boat and peered over the side into the depths below.

Rebecca watched her closely. She also watched the King, and the old sorcerer. Most of her knowledge of the ancients came from scrolls and books, manuscripts so old they crumbled to dust if handled incorrectly. She did not know how the king might react – what sort of punishment might be forthcoming. She steeled herself for the worst, but it never came. Apparently the standing of a maiden in the king's court came with certain benefits not recorded in the annals of history.

The king turned to Tchatcha-em-ânkh.

"You were very wise," he said "to advise me to come on this trip. I am feeling well, and enjoying the beauty, but now there is a problem. This maiden has lost an amulet that is important to her, and she will not row."

The old sorcerer met the king's gaze.

"It is a problem," he said. "Without an even number of oars on both sides, we will not move smoothly, and how would we fairly choose one from the opposite side to excuse from her duties?"

The king smiled.

"I know that you are a very powerful man," he said. "I believe that you can find a way to return this maiden's amulet and restore my tranquility."

Rebecca frowned. The banter back and forth between the king and the old man seemed stilted and formal. It was like a planned script, or something they'd been through again, and again. She concentrated on their words, while willing herself not to turn and stare. She still did not know what would happen if she met the sorcerer's gaze. She was fairly certain that he knew she was not the maiden she appeared to be. She did not want to confront him, or force him to reveal this knowledge to the others. If he did, she did not know how they would react, or what the sorcerer might do.

"If it is your wish," Tchatcha-em-ânkh said, "then I will use what small influence I have with the powers of the lake to assist, if I am able."

The king turned to watch, not the old man, but the lake. The girl who had lost the ornament, despite her apparent desire to sulk, clanked over as well. All of the girls turned, so Rebecca felt, at last, it was safe to surreptitiously observe

Tchatcha-em-ânkh moved to the side of the boat and stood between the first girl, and the bench seat where the king had turned to observe. From beneath his white robe, the old man pulled free a golden scarab pendant that dangled from a strong chain. Beneath that pendant, a long, slender metal tube dangled. It shone in the sunlight, and appeared to be the case for a scroll, or a printed spell. Rebecca saw a glitter of red from the scarab, but could not see any details, as the man's back was to her.

She heard a rattle of sound she was certain had come from the old man's throat, but it wasn't loud enough to hear clearly, or controlled enough to be words. She had heard of exercises used to train vocal cords to operate beyond normal capabilities – and she wondered if she'd just witnessed proof that such a practice had existed in Ancient Egypt.

Then Tchatcha-em-ânkh began to speak, and the world shifted so quickly and completely that Rebecca nearly cried aloud in shock.

The light from the sun, already bright, turned golden. The air, clear and heavy with a hint of the lake's moisture, thickened. It had a taste, but Rebecca could not place it. She turned her head and found the motion uncharacteristically difficult. Tchatcha-em-ânkh had turned as well, and he regarded her with interest.

"Come to me," he said.

Rebecca looked up and down the boat. All the others sat as still as stone, as if they were nothing more than a gallery of statues, and only she – and the old sorcerer – existed. With no other clear choice, she rose. Again, this was more difficult than she expected, the motion slower than it should have been. She crossed the boat, trying not to think of the fact she wore nothing but fishing nets. She met the old man's gaze.

"Who are you?" he asked.

"Rebecca," she said, without hesitation. "I am a seeker."

He nodded, as if her words did not surprise him. He nodded toward the lake.

"It is no small thing that the king has asked," he said. "To retrieve an item from the bottom of a deep lake – twelve cubits, if memory serves – would seem impossible."

Rebecca held his gaze, and finally, he smiled.

"Observe," he said. "And listen. I do not know you, but I sense your power. Listen, learn…do not forget a detail, because any lost word loses everything. I have long sensed that my secrets will be stolen, and corrupted. In you, I see clarity of thought. You must remember."

Rebecca nodded.

"Return to your seat," he said. "They must not know we have spoken."

Tchatcha-em-ânkh turned away from her, and Rebecca hurried, as best she could in the thick, cloying air, to her seat. She gripped her oar, and as she did, the world tilted back. It was like the rush she'd felt on the downward slope of a roller coaster, and this time she did gasp, but none turned to see why. All eyes were fixed on Tchatcha-em-ânkh as he began to speak.

Rebecca understood some of the words, but not all. She concentrated on inflection, and pronunciation. She memorized every tone, every sound and click of the tongue. Translation could come later. In magic, particular ritual magic, the vibration was the key. She concentrated so hard on getting it right, that she paid no attention to what was going on around her. It was only when the girl beside her dropped her oar and covered her mouth to suppress a scream that she glanced up. In that second, her mind nearly blanked.

The water beside the boat had separated. One section, a perfect rectangle, had lifted to a height of at least ten feet above the surface, a thick wet column, and continued to rise as she watched. She could see fish within that segment of water, and the reflection of Tchatcha-em-ânkh and his amulet, glittering in the sunlight. Though the water rose, nothing dripped or poured from its surface. It might have been formed of panes of glass, or a massive chunk of crystal.

Tchatcha-em-ânkh continued to speak, and Rebecca frantically repeated each intonation, each syllable. She had been trained to incredible feats of memory, but the power and energy crackling through the air stole her concentration.

The slice of lake finally rose to a point where it's bottom edge cleared the surface. The sorcerer raised it yet another foot, and then, as if sliding it onto a shelf, he pushed it aside. Rebecca couldn't help herself; she half-rose from her seat and peered over the opposite edge of the boat. At the far end of the impossible slit in the water, she saw the bottom of the lake. It appeared dry as bone. Sand actually caught in the breeze, and swirled up to dance in the air.

The king turned, saw her on her feet, and beckoned to one of the eunuchs.

"Bring her to me. We will lower her down to fetch the bauble, and be on our way."

He showed no awe, or even surprise, at Tchatcha-em-ânkh's magic. If anything, he was amused, and seeing the flicker of panic Rebecca had to fight down and control, his smile widened. She wondered if this entire spectacle had been engineered for no more important purpose than to entertain this slender, willful king.

"There is nothing to fear," Senefru said. "You will be down, and then back in the boat within moments. You would not deny the will of your king?"

Rebecca lowered her eyes, crossed the boat, and stood quietly at the old sorcerer's side. Tchatcha-em-ânkh did not glance at her, or at anyone. He seemed in a trance. His lips still moved, but no sound emerged that she could hear. Automatically, she ran through the sounds and intonations of his chant in her mind, once, twice, a third time, and she would have done so a fourth, except that the eunuch gripped her by her arm and shook her gently. She realized the king had spoken again.