‘And the grain?’
‘It is all gone—stolen by the Libu filth.’
The King cast an awestruck gaze at Imhoter, then sat back.
Imhoter could not believe the guardsman’s words. The grain tent had contained the last of the royal grain stores. Now the tomb workers would have nothing to help them see their families through the drought.
‘The lady of serpents,’ muttered the King vacantly.
‘Your Majesty?’ said the guardsman.
‘A woman wearing golden serpents upon her wrists,’ the King said, ‘did you see her?’
‘No, My King, I am sorry. There were no women at the raid.’
The King sank back into his cushions and it appeared to Imhoter as if he had shrunk to half his size. ‘And Hapi, our magnificent flood?’ the King muttered, the colour draining from his face. ‘When will it arrive? When?’
There was and there was not. That was how Kiya began all her tales. It was the traditional way, the way of the entertainer. It was the way her mother had taught her, for concubines were expected to provide diversions for kings, and stories were one of them.
Kiya remembered few details from her mother’s tales, but she remembered how her heart had swelled as her mother had described worlds beyond Kiya’s wildest dreams—worlds in which animals talked and people did magic and everything came in threes, including wishes.
After she’d lost her mother and gone to live on the streets of Memphis, Kiya had often loitered outside the taverns, where men told tales for money and fame. Her aim had not merely been diversion: there had often been food to be had, as well. Kiya would huddle undetected under the kitchen windows behind the taverns, hoping to filch a half-eaten honey cake to fill her stomach and catch a story to sustain her.
There was and there was not, the storytellers would begin, and she would strain to hear their fantastic falsehoods—stories of giant crocodiles and shipwrecked sailors and men who lived for hundreds of years. The storytellers’ words would transport her to places far beyond the dusty streets of Memphis, and for a short time she’d feel worldly. Not an orphan, but a traveller. Not a street beggar, but a princess. The storytellers carried harps and, for the right amount of beer they would sing and play. Kiya always smiled when they sang her favorite song, ‘The Laundry Woman’s Choice,’ about a poor laundry woman who must choose between two suitors. ‘I will wear the shirt I love best, no matter how it fits’ went the chorus, and Kiya would quietly sing along.
She was fascinated by the bond the storytellers called love. She longed to feel it. She had searched the faces of the young men in the marketplaces, and as her womanhood had begun to bloom they had searched her face in return. But they had always looked away.
Slowly, Kiya had begun to realise that she was not desirable to young men. And why should she be? She had no family or property—not even a proper tunic or wig. She clad herself in rags and grew her own hair, which hung in tangled ropes that smelled vaguely of the docks.
One day Kiya had been digging for clams in the shallows of the Great River when an old man had approached her. His gait had been crooked, and Kiya had been able to smell the sour, vinegary aroma of wine upon his breath.
He’d grabbed her by the arm. ‘You are mine now, little mouse,’ he had slurred.
He had already torn away most of her ragged wrap by the time her teeth sank into his flesh.
She’d bitten down hard, unaware that it would be the first of many such bites. As she’d run away she had remembered her mother’s words: Stay away from men, Kiya! They only mean to possess you, to enslave you.
How right her mother had been. As she’d got older the menace of men had only grown. She’d needed protection, and had been confronted with the choice all street girls faced: to sell herself into servitude or to sell her body in a House of Women.
Kiya had not wanted to choose. Each time she’d considered the options she had felt her ka begin to wither. She had meandered through the marketplace and splashed in the Great River, desperately clinging to her old life. She had lingered outside the taverns, listening to the storytellers’ tales, remembering the urgency of her mother’s words and trying to conceive of another way.
Finally, she had: shaving her head, concealing her curves and covering herself in rags, just like a character in a story.
Kiya had became Koi.
There was and there was not.
* * *
‘Awake!’ a deep, familiar voice commanded.
But when she opened her eyes darkness enveloped her still.
‘I have arrived in the Underworld?’ she stuttered.
There was a menacing chuckle. ‘If you consider a cave in the banks of an ancient river the Underworld, then, yes, indeed. You have arrived.’
Kiya’s head throbbed. ‘I am...alive?’
‘Yes, you are alive—though you have been sleeping the sleep of the dead for many days.’
The air around her was cool and still, and her eyes could discern nothing in the inky darkness. Layers of cloth swaddled her, but beneath them was a hard surface. She attempted to sit up, but a searing pain shot through her inner thigh and she collapsed back onto the ground with a curse.
‘Don’t forget that you have been bitten by a deadly asp,’ said the voice from somewhere close. ‘And pierced by a Libu blade.’
She touched the tender wound on her arm. Where had that come from? A confounding fog stifled Kiya’s thoughts. Where was she? And what menace stalked her now? She needed to find a weapon—a stone, even a handful of dirt would suffice. A desperate thirst seized her and she coughed.
‘Nor should you forget that you drank from an oasis pool,’ the voice added. ‘You have been vomiting for two days.’
‘And still I am not dead?’
‘Your Gods apparently wish you alive.’
‘Nay. I am certain they wish me dead.’
‘Well, you are fortunate to know me, then, for I have saved you from their will.’
‘And who are you who would thwart the Gods?’
‘You do not remember?’
‘I scarcely remember who I am,’ Kiya moaned, for she was no longer Koi, the stealthy street orphan, nor was she Mute Boy from Gang Twelve of the Haulers. She was someone else entirely—someone positively new. But who?
‘In your fever you raved of serpents,’ said the voice.
Kiya heard the sound of stones being placed upon the ground.
‘Three serpents would try to take your life, you said. One would succeed, unless you become like...’
‘Like what?’ Kiya asked.
‘That was all you said.’
‘I heard a voice in the desert,’ she remembered. ‘A prophesy.’
‘If you heard such a voice in the desert, then it was no prophesy. It was an illusion—a waking dream. Illusions occur in the Red Land when a person lingers too long in the sun.’ A ray of sunlight flooded into the cavernous space. ‘Now, let there be light.’
Kiya blinked and a large figure stepped into her view. The light was behind him, keeping his body in shadow, and she imagined him a demon. His dark silhouette towered above her, the expanse of his chest terminating in long, well-muscled arms that appeared strong enough to break her in two. She groped about desperately, her