Metjen strolled down an alley lined with recumbent lion-headed sphinxes. They looked distinctly grumpy, thus matching his mood to perfection. Not for one moment did he expect the upcoming meeting to turn out well. In fact, it was more likely to go pear-shaped the moment it started. What could the old fool be after? He was putty in the hands of his so-called deputy.
Metjen mind-nudged himself into using more appropriate language when thinking about the first prophet of Ra. One never knew who was listening in. In that respect the Kemet civilisation, or at least those of its inhabitants with noteworthy magical skills and inclinations, were worse than the combined secret services in the world he had left behind.
Iseret, his ex-boss at the shrine of Ra, had decreed mind-reading without consent to be the epitome of rudeness. Mind-talking, of course, had been a different beast entirely. In his new habitat, these precautions made sense-as did a few others of her seemingly inane regulations. He wished he could talk to her one last time. Maybe even thank her.
However, Iseret was no longer with them and procrastinating would get him nowhere. He still could not get his head round this unexpected summons. Why would the high priest of Ra want to talk to him again when he had informed Metjen only this morning his face did not fit. Of course, his wisdom's choice of language had been far less polite.
Metjen entered the shade thrown by the last set of colossal pylons looming left and right of the temple entrance. Their majestic impression was marred only slightly by the cane scaffolding crawling with workmen.
His superior, lacking a significant amount of the acumen his august title sought to imply, had seen fit to adjust the inscriptions. Apparently, they were not singing his praise in a suitably exuberant fashion-.
Shouts of alarm from above were followed by a loud splat as if a monster-sized watermelon had burst right behind him. He whisked around.
A sack of plaster had fallen into the space Metjen had just vacated. Metjen craned his neck and beheld a group of terrified workmen halfway up the pylon.
'Forgive us, oh Golden One. It was not our intent.... .' The fat foreman bit his lip.He would know only too well that endangering a high-ranking priest could result in more than the customary whipping. Even more so, if said priest happened to belong to one of the leading families.
Capital offences tended to entail dramatic punishments involving encounters with hungry predators and worse. Metjen did not at all agree with the prevailing definition of what constituted a capital offence. He sighed. As much as he enjoyed living in a world full of magically inclined people, he did have issues with some of their customs. Quite a few actually, come to think of it.
'Watch what you're doing, or there will be hell to pay,' he shouted at the workers, reaping a wide array of astonished expressions. 'Forget it, just a saying they use in the demon world,' he said.
The workmen bowed, as deep as the wobbly scaffolding would allow. One of them would have toppled over, had his co-worker not grabbed him by the belt supporting a grimy shendyt barely more than a rag. Metjen tried to recall what his father had told him about local wages when an agitated priest of the third rank bustled towards him. Another one of Ptahmes', the second prophet's minions, no doubt.
'Where have you been, his wisdom is waiting!' The priest wheezed like an overstrained bellows.
'I was told to come two hours into the second half of the day,' Metjen said. 'We are not there yet.'
'It is customary to come an hour earlier and wait,' the other priest spat.
'I don't care for you any more than I appreciate these silly rules,' Metjen responded with vehemence. 'Let's go and get this over and done with.'
'But you cannot see the first prophet now. His Wisdom will expect you to wait, and then it is the hour for his prayers... .'
Metjen thrust his face at the other priest who backtracked a couple of steps as if facing a rabid dog. 'Stop this shit. Ass dung I mean. Either the first prophet wishes to speak to me or he doesn't. In that case, I have more important things to do.'
'And what would those be?' An unguent voice dripped venom from the direction of the temple courtyard, just as Ptahmes, the high priest's hatchet man, shimmered into visibility in front of the nearest column. Metjen ground his teeth and inclined his head.
The second prophet waved at his inferior who had thrown himself to the floor. 'Go brother, I will ensure that this one does his duty.' With a determined wheeze, the third ranker picked himself off the floor and scurried towards the pillars.
Ptahmes faced Metjen with an inscrutable expression on his face. 'You might find your ways are not appreciated here.'
'I share your concern. Does his wisdom want me now or not?'
'You go, Golden One. Our first prophet awaits you in his audience chamber. He will not wait much longer.' A smirk briefly marred Ptahmes' impassive features, before he went invisible again.
Metjen hated it when they did that, as it gave him no chance for a comeback. There was an additional problem. Despite his contempt for the guy, he still was a prophet. One, who had just vanished on a less than optimistic remark.
Once more, he thought of Iseret. At one point, she too had been decidedly concerned about his long-term prospects in terms of health and prosperity. Since then, his chances had apparently not improved by much.
Metjen straightened and crossed the oversized portal. He made his way through holy half-light, passing more pillars and a maze of walls covered in hieroglyphs until he reached the tower with the flying bridges. Having willed one of the airborne platforms towards him, he stepped on the slatted dark wood, drew on his sun-flow and pushed his hands down his sides. The bridge slowly tilted downwards, in the process unfolding a set of treads which he descended. His mobile staircase landed next to one of the many apertures giving the tower a honeycomb structure like empty kernels on a corncob.
Metjen disembarked, mind-called the next platform and repeated the process a couple of times until he reached the last opening perched straight above the golden glow that protected the bowels of the temple.
Not from people with his skills.
Metjen jangled the amulets customs forced him to wear. Most other priests sought safety by even carrying divine power stored in their charms; he, however, felt like a magical hedgehog, spiked with spells as he was. So much easier to contain the power in one's body. Assuming one was capable of doing that and most of his fellow servants were not.
He called another bridge and descended through the glitter until he hit rock bottom. Or rather-an alabaster corridor flanked by the private apartments of the resident high priest. Why the guy would want to hunker down here was beyond Metjen's understanding given the distance between these underground apartments and the divinity of light their occupant was supposed to be serving. Maybe the prophet sought closeness to the holiest of the holies, the statues of their god, which happened to be down here as well.
Whatever his high priest's motivation-that shrine of Ra Metjen had started his career in had made him weary of underground spaces. He strode towards the shining bronze door at the other end, then hesitated. Normally, this place would be guarded better than Fort Knox.
This time the corridor was devoid of anybody capable of weaving a spell on behalf of the good prophet. Or even waving a spear in his general direction. Was it possible that Ptahmes was playing a practical joke on him?
Whatever he did would be wrong, so Metjen knocked on the door. No response.
'Your Wisdom?'Still no response. This was not good. Metjen considered withdrawal. Not good either. If he were expected after all, he would be in even more trouble. What to do?
He knocked again, this time with more vehemence. The door swung open on silent hinges.
'Your Wisdom, you requested my presence. I am here.' Still, there was no response.
Every nerve inside him was beating retreat while his heart was hammering out a wild tattoo.
It seemed like today was the day for déjà-vu.Once before, he had been guilty of trespassing another first prophet's chamber. But Iseret had wanted him to be there, had left little clues to sent him on his quest.
What was this high priest up to? It could not be good.
Metjen stuck his head round the door and gave the room a quick mind-scan. Gold sheeted walls displayed the bark of Ra on his journey, soaring through the skies at day, travelling through the underworld at night. Tapers and braziers threw uncanny flickers on the finely crafted images, bringing them to stuttering life as if he was watching an old film. Yet this was real.
Baskets lined the wall, like in that other chamber he had violated a lifetime away. This time, he noticed no obnoxious smells. Instead, a hint of sandalwood floated on the still air, contributing to the impression of orchestrated opulence.
So far down under the temple, no sounds could be heard-apart from a sporadic drip somewhere at the other end of the room.
A drip?
Metjen inched his way around the low meeting table, a marvel of finely crafted palm wood inlaid with mother-of-pearl and framed by a gaudy array of cushions. The bugger had taste-and the coffers of the temple of Ra at his disposal. Behind the table, on a raised dais, was one of the thrones his wisdom had scattered all over the place. To be able to lord it above all the others must give this midget the kicks, Metjen thought.
Drip.
The sound came from a doorway behind the dais. Was His Wisdom taking a bath? He listened. The irregular dripping continued.
Drip.
'Your Wisdom, are you in there?'
No, reply. Another drip instead.
Metjen circumvented the dais and peered into the room behind the opening. He had been right about the bathroom scenario. He could not have been more wrong about the bath: The first prophet was draped backwards over the towel rack like a yellow-robed puppet, arms dangling in the air. His throat had been slashed open with so much violence, the white of bones showed in the grinning wound. Blood still dropped from its ragged edges, onto the dagger lying in the pool that was spreading on the ground.
Drip.
Metjen stood motionless for what felt like an eternity.
Drip.
The underground space closed in on him, concealing all sorts of unspoken terrors within its fragrant confines. There was nothing he could do here; he needed to get help. He whizzed around and rushed out of the audience chamber, into the corridor, back towards the tower-and collided with an invisible wall.The obstacle might have been incorporeal, yet the impact still made him stagger.
Coldness spread from the air in front of him and he felt icy spiders crawling through his thoughts.
Who is there? He mind-called the unseen presence messing with his brain. No response. At least he heard no more dripping.
Cease playing tricks on me, whoever you are- his wisdom is dead, we need to find out what happened!
You will do nothing of the sort. An all too familiar voice intruded his mind and with a whooshing noise the second prophet appeared right in front of Metjen.
I found his wisdom dead. And before you get any ideas-I 've got nothing to do with his demise.
''Why would I say such a thing?' Ptahmes asked.
'He has been murdered.'
'Given the circumstances, what else could have happened?' Ptahmes said, still in the reasonable tone he had assumed for the occasion.
'I presume you beheld what I saw in my memories,' Metjen said. He wondered what else the man had found when rifling through his grey matter.
Ptahmes smiled widely. 'Such a vivid imagination.'
'What you are doing is forbidden, you know this.'
'What in the name of the Lord Ra makes you think I would care?' Ptahmes casually waved two of his beringed fingers. 'Go, you truly are a harbinger of doom. We shall cleanse the temple from a death most suspicious, and then the Search must begin for a new first prophet. Contributing your meagre skills to this endeavour, as is your duty, shall give you something meaningful to do. But not now.'
'Somebody murdered his wisdom!'
'He is dead, yes. None of this is your concern. Go, before you can do more harm.' Once more, Ptahmes dissolved.
Metjen took a deep breath, inhaling a faint whiff of sandalwood together with the metallic scent of the second prophet's magic. As well as something else, something that wasn't the lifeblood of the dead priest either. His agitation made it impossible to establish what exactly had bothered him.
There was only one thing left for Metjen to do; he had to find Imhotep. Fast.
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This chapter is dedicated to coolelf who is no elf, but his novel 'Reaper School' is certainly cool! Make sure to theck it out.
Image is from DeviantArt copyright Joganelken.