Page 26

We withdrew to Hassani’s personal chambers, to speak in private. And, despite his reputation, they were definitely the rooms of a scholar more than a warrior. The outer section was clearly an office, with a simple wooden desk at the far end and several chairs. But it was large enough and stuffed with enough antiquities to qualify as a small museum.

There were two large glass display cases with numerous shelves in the middle of the space, which acted as a sort of room divider. Hassani picked up a blue faience item from one of them and handed it to me. It was a shawabti, one of the thousands of small, human-shaped figurines that used to be buried with the pharaohs to serve as servants in the afterlife. I’d seen plenty of them in the Cairo Museum when we’d visited the day after our arrival.

But none so fine as these.

I found them fascinating, or I would have, if I hadn’t been so anxious to hear what the consul had to say about Dorina. But I knew old vamps, and pushing them rarely resulted in anything good. I had about a thousand questions for Hassani, but ironically, the fastest way to get them answered was to bite my tongue and smile.

It wasn’t as hard as it might have been, because the figurines really were interesting, and not only for the artistry that went into them. But because they reminded me of some modern-day versions I’d seen at Aswan. The market there had had tiny clay statues of vegetable sellers, basket weavers, potters, spice vendors and fishermen, with some clearly modelled on local residents. One little guy had even had one of the famous crocodiles draped over his shoulders, the beast gazing smugly at potential buyers as if to say, “Why yes, this is my due.”

That one had been my favorite, but they were all exquisitely detailed, and painted in bright, happy colors. The tomatoes in front of one vendor were a cheerful red, the leaves in another’s basket were a brilliant green, and the spices another was hawking were a delicious-looking saffron yellow. But other than for the vivid hues and modern clothes of the Aswan figures, the two groups might have been made by the same craftsman.

Different artists, thousands of years apart, but they’d both captured perfectly a slice of Egyptian life. The ancient version had tiny bakers rolling out dough; tiny cow herders leading their spotted charges; and tiny beer brewers leaning over pots half as big as they were, checking on the quality of the item that was so vital to the Egyptian diet that it was often used in place of currency. There were a surprising number of women depicted, too, with one playing a lute that didn’t look so different from the oud player upstairs, and another with a harp. There was even a female artisan painting a figurine of a goddess.

“Women played an important part in ancient Egyptian life,” Hassani informed me, seeing the direction of my gaze. He indicated the figurine he’d just given me. It was of a weaver at her loom, with a smaller figure, perhaps her daughter, kneeling beside her, as if helping or learning.

“Yeah, doing the hard work,” I pointed out cynically.

He smiled. “Yes, but most work was hard then, and they were well compensated. They wove the linen, you see.” He took me over to a wall, where a piece of ancient fabric resided under a slab of glass.

It had yellowed slightly over the years and, by modern standards, was a little clunky, with some of the strands slightly wider than the others. But it was also very sheer, surprisingly so. I’d have easily been able to see my hand through it had I been able to touch it. As it was, I could see the pattern of the wood on the shelf below.

“The ancients described this type of fabric as royal linen,” Hassani informed me. “The very finest kind. Well, other than that made for the pharaoh himself, which would have had gold threads woven through it.”

“It’s. . . very nice,” I said, trying to think of something to say about a piece of old fabric.

But, of course, that only encouraged him.

“Fine linen was a luxury item that brought huge prices, both inside and outside of Egypt,” he continued. “In fact, it sold for so much, that the women weavers sometimes out earned their husbands.”

“That must have been awkward.”

“Not at all. Their earning potential was valued, and made Egyptian women powerful. Alone among the ancient civilizations, women in Egypt were considered equal to men under the law. They owned their own property, could conduct business the same as any man, could testify in court, could even sue for divorce if they wished, advantages that women in the West would not have until the last several hundred years. Some noble women were even educated and held important government positions, becoming viziers or priests. Did you know, the first female physician in recorded history was an Egyptian?”

I shook my head.

“It is true. Lady Peseshets, who lived in 2500 B.C. Egypt understood the power of women, all those years ago. Ironic when you consider that the modern world still often overlooks it. If I wanted to hide a weapon . . .”

“What?” I asked, because he just trailed off.

But Hassani only smiled.

I’d have liked to look through the whole collection, which took up both of the mid-room display units. Or to have examined the beautiful painted pottery, much of it intact instead of in shards like in the museums, that was scattered around. Or the gorgeous gold and carnelian jewelry on several plinths, as well as an entire overdress made out of delicate beading that a model was wearing.

But we weren’t here for that.

Fortunately, Louis-Cesare changed the subject.

“You managed to recapture the artifacts,” he said, from the other side of the room.

I carefully returned the shawabti to its place and Hassani and I walked over to some shelving along a wall, where the fey items we’d brought had been displayed. Well, most of them. One large basket-like thing was on the ground, with a strange blue light shining from under the lid that I didn’t remember having been there before.

Considering what had happened the last time a fey artifact lit up, I gave it a wide berth.

“Yes,” Hassani agreed, gazing at the shelves. “Most of the attempted thieves were apprehended on site, and the rest were tracked down shortly afterward.” He reached up and took down a small object. “We also recovered this from the location of your attack.”

I hadn’t seen what it was, because it had been sitting behind something else. He handed it to me, but this time, it wasn’t a cute little statue. This time—

“Shit!” I dropped the wicked thing, which still reminded me of a stone hockey puck: small, round and flat, with a crusty, whitish gray color and strange cracks scrawling across the surface.

“What is it?” Louis-Cesare asked, pulling me back slightly.

“That thing! That fucking thing—”

I started to kick it away, but Hassani moved faster, scooping it up.

“My apologies,” he said, and he sounded genuinely disturbed. “I had not thought—but of course, it would be traumatic for you.”

“What is it?” Louis-Cesare demanded, and this time, there was no courtesy in his tone.

“The thing that separated Dorina and me,” I said, panting slightly. The damned thing was just lying there in Hassani’s hand, but it was about to give me a panic attack. “You should have destroyed it!”

“That is, of course, up to you,” the consul said, looking grave. “However, I would caution against rash action. You may need it, after all.”

“Need it? For what?”

He cocked his head. “Why, to put you two back together again.”

I stared at him, still half panicked, with my pulse fluttering in my throat. But after a moment, I realized that he was right. I didn’t know what had happened to me in that alley, and the only people who did were probably fey, who weren’t likely to tell me.

Even if I found Dorina, it wouldn’t do much good if I couldn’t put us back together.

“Thank you,” I said roughly. “For retrieving it.”

Hassani inclined his head graciously. “It is yours, of course. I only wish I could tell you how it functions. I had my people examine it, but even my best mages had no idea.”

“Our senate has additional resources,” Louis-Cesare said, taking the horrible thing so I didn’t have to touch it. “An entire research department has been set up to study fey artifacts taken in the war. We’ll have them look at it.”

“I wish you success,” Hassani said, bowing slightly. And I guessed he decided that we’d seen enough exhibits for one day, because led us through the mini museum into a finely appointed sitting room that branched off to the right.

It was down three steps, like a sunken living room, and had the usual tan and cream color scheme that I had come to associate with Hassani’s court. It also had some more of the expansive windows. These were long and curved, to follow the rounded wall of the medieval tower that comprised part of his suite. But outside wasn’t the night view of the city that I’d been expecting, or even a glimpse of the ongoing party. For a moment, I didn’t know what I was seeing.

“The sound and light show, at the pyramids,” Hassani explained, as we sat down on a large, half-moon sofa positioned so as to take in the view. “We couldn’t have fireworks inside the city, but we thought it would do to bring some color to the festivities.”

I guess, I thought, remembering how close his shields had made the pyramids look once before. He settled onto a small sofa opposite us, leaving him silhouetted against all that vivid color—electric blue and green, bright pink and purple, brilliant yellow and blazing white, that flowed across the ancient monuments. I assumed there was a story that went along with the visuals, because occasionally a diagram or a pharaoh’s head appeared, including one that was superimposed over the sphinx briefly. But I couldn’t hear anything.

I couldn’t even hear the sound of the party, still going on above. It didn’t surprise me that Hassani’s chambers were soundproofed: when you lived among hundreds of beings with supernatural hearing, it was probably a requirement. But it made for a faintly eerie ambiance: the dim, almost dark room, allowing us to appreciate the spectacle outside; the vivid colors flowing over the furniture and splashing our faces; the dark silhouette of the consul, his back to the light show, his face in shadow.

A strange ripple went across my skin, like a moving wave of goosebumps. I suddenly wasn’t sure that I wanted to hear what he had to say, after all. But it was too late; he’d already begun to speak.

“I have become a bit of a history buff, as you see,” he said, gesturing back at the outer room. “It was always an interest, but it became something of an obsession over the years as I searched to find some chink in my former master’s armor.”

“Your master? You mean—” I paused wondering how to phrase it politely. I gave up. “That thing downstairs made you, too?”

“No.” He shook his head, a brief jerky movement unlike his usual elegance. It wasn’t quite a shudder, but it told me how much he liked that idea. “It’s ironic, in fact. His blood flows through the veins of every consul on Earth save two: the Chinese Empress and me.”

“Yet you called him master,” Louis-Cesare pointed out.

Hassani nodded. “It was an unusual situation, I admit. The consul before me was a despicable man who started life as a Canaanite mercenary in the Amarna period by the name of Dalilu. He ingratiated himself with Setep-en-Ra by his willingness to do literally anything his pharaoh asked. I will . . . spare you the details.”

“Thank you,” I said fervently.

“I hated him for his depredations, his dissolute behavior, and the harshness of his rule. It was only once I took his place that I realized: he had never really ruled at all.”

“Setep-en-Ra did,” Louis-Cesare guessed.

Hassani inclined his head. “Of course. As he always had. He had followed the trade routes west to Rome, and taken the consulate there, as well. But to him, that wasn’t abdicating a throne, but simply adding another land to the ranks of his worshippers. The “consul” he left behind was merely his deputy, ruling in his stead while he was away. He considered himself to be the rightful ruler of the world, you see; he simply hadn’t officially claimed the more far flung lands as yet.”

“Some of those lands might have had something to say about that,” Louis-Cesare said dryly.

“Indeed.” Hassani looked thoughtful. “Although whether they would have triumphed, had it come to a contest, is an open question. I think he was a bit mad, even then, but madmen often succeed. They take chances that saner ones will not.”

“They get themselves assassinated, too,” I pointed out.

I should know; I’d killed a few.

“Sometimes,” Hassani agreed, “although it was not so easy, in his case. Many tried before anyone succeeded, and even then, had he been in his right mind, had he not underestimated his opponents, had your father not been there, to assist at just the right moment . . . he might rule still.”

“But he doesn’t. So, what were you saying about Dorina?”

Hassani glanced sharply at me, probably because that had been less than diplomatic. But I couldn’t wait anymore. I didn’t see what any of this had to do with her, and it had been almost a day since she was taken. I wanted to chase something; I wanted to kill something. Not sit here looking at pretty colors and talking ancient history!

Fortunately, he was too well mannered to point out my rudeness.

“Do you know of my master’s power?” he said instead.

“No,” I lied. Most vamps liked to keep that kind of thing under wraps, in case they needed to use it in a duel, and that was especially true of consuls.

He smiled slightly, as if he knew I was lying. “I see truly,” he said, “and clearer than most. As with many masters, I can also see through the eyes of my Children—and share it.”

And I guessed my impatience might have annoyed him, after all. Because that was all the warning I received before I was suddenly back there, dumped abruptly into the crazy streets of the Khan-el-Khalili, with multicolored lamps swinging, people screaming, and shops exploding. Only this time, I was watching myself from afar. And jumping over the gap in between buildings, trying to catch up with a crazed cartoon carpet and the two mad types riding it.

“Get her!” I heard myself yell.

It was in Arabic, but I somehow understood, maybe because I was borrowing someone else’s brain.

Another vamp looked at me, his eyes wild. “You get her! I can barely keep up!”

My vampire—one of Hassani’s men, I assumed, since I was seeing through his eyes—cursed, and then cursed again as a jackal-headed fey sprang from a higher rooftop, right down on top of us. But the new arrival didn’t attack. He was too busy throwing himself off the roof at Dorina, who was zipping past down below.

And, damn. I knew what had happened, of course; I’d been there. But it looked a little different from this angle. She was standing, perfectly balanced, on a tiny scrap of carpet, despite the fact that Ray was slinging it all over the damned street. And while one of her hands was clenched white knuckled around the graffiti gun, the other was slicing and dicing fey almost casually—

And there were a lot of fey.

I remembered maybe half a dozen or so jumping at us, which were the only ones who’d gotten close enough to snag my vision. But there were so many others that I hadn’t seen. And while the handful of Hassani’s people following us had taken out a few, the vast majority—maybe three or four dozen fey warriors in all—had been dealt with—

By Dorina.

I blinked, but no, I wasn’t seeing things. Or, rather, I was, and through the eyes of a vamp as nonplussed as me. It was all happening so fast, and he was busy leaping and occasionally fighting his way through it, so he might have missed something. But what he saw was plenty good enough.

In short succession, Dorina grabbed a passing line of bare light bulbs, held it long enough to stretch it out, then released it to spring back and knock a trio of fey off our backs; shoved another fey away hard enough to impale him on a piece of wood sticking off a roofline; then grabbed a poster advertising a museum exhibit on Nefertiti and—shit.

“Did you see that?” I asked Hassani, because she’d just created the world’s worst paper cut, slitting a fey’s throat with a poster.

“I saw,” he said, his voice drifting across the scene. He courteously didn’t remind me that of course he’d seen it, or I wouldn’t be able to. But I didn’t care about details right now.

Dorina had just hit her groove.

She performed a double decapitation with the sword, ducked under the two arcs of blood, and threw her scimitar ahead of her, piercing a falling fey partway through his jump. She grabbed a passing pole or a long piece of wood off a shop—I didn’t have time to see which—and a second later, it had two fey impaled on it. Then she pulled her scimitar out of the still falling fey, gutted another attacker, dodged his spilling entrails and used the tip of the sword to pluck a brass platter off a display. Which she then slammed into yet another fey’s face hard enough to leave an impression of his features in the metal.

And she did it all one handed.

But while that was as impressive as hell, it was nothing compared to the second act.

I couldn’t see anything of my actual surroundings, or feel except for a vague impression of Louis-Cesare’s body beside mine. But I sat up anyway at what my vamp was now seeing. “What the—”

“You did not know she had this power?” Hassani’s voice asked, as a great black specter rose out of Dorina, the cheerful lights of the marketplace still visible through the ends of its tattered form, but the eyes—

Were solid red and burning.