Читать книгу Enslaved By The Desert Trader - Greta Gilbert - Страница 15

Chapter Eight

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 hand finally closing upon a loose stone.

The demon bent down and placed his large hand over her fist. His thick voice was at her ear. ‘Do you really wish to bite the hand that feeds you, Little Asp?’ He lifted her fingers, one by one, from the stone, then tossed it aside. ‘Do not try to fight now,’ he said gravely, ‘for you will most certainly lose.’

He wrapped one arm around her shoulders and threaded the other under her knees. Without effort, he lifted her body. She could smell his scent—something rich, earthy and unmistakably male. He carried her across the cave to the wall farthest from the entrance. There, he gently set her down in a sitting position.

He remained in shadow, but as he walked back towards the mouth of the cave the light hit him and she could discern a loincloth wrapped neatly around his lower body. Below the cloth his legs bulged outward, as if the Gods had decided to allot him the strength of two men instead of one. Above the loincloth the great swathe of his back seemed to bloom from his round buttocks in an array of taut muscles.

The demon was well-made.

He was also enormous.

Kiya glanced at her own scrawny, swaddled figure and concluded that he had wrapped his own clothing around her many times.

‘You were very hot for a time, then very cold,’ he explained as he reached the mouth of the cave and bent to retrieve a water bag. ‘You endured a terrible fever. The oasis water you drank was dirty and should not have been consumed.’ He returned to her side, held the water bag out to her and paused. ‘Please don’t make this like the last time.’

‘The last time?’

‘You don’t remember that either?’

Ah, but she did remember. It came all at once, in a flood of images: how she had punched the water bag from his hands; how she had tried—futilely—to outmanoeuvre him; how the blade had plunged through the water and through her arm. She touched the inside of her thigh and for a moment could feel the asp’s sharp fangs puncturing her skin once again.

She remembered all of it—even the feel of his hands as he’d picked her up and hoisted her onto his strange beast. Even...even the pool. She felt a flush of heat in her cheeks. Those hands. They had been so confident upon her waist. It had been as if her body were a dune of sand they might traverse expertly, if only given the chance.

‘Nay, I do not remember,’ she lied.

She reached for the water bag and tilted it to her mouth. The water was cool and fresh, and she drank until she had drained the entire bag.

‘Don’t be shy,’ he said, flashing a shadowy smile. He lifted the empty bag from her grasp. ‘Since you do not remember, I will have you know that you are my captive. I took you in a grain raid. I saved you from Libu raiders and nursed your wounds. I am Tahar, and you are mine.’

He put the water bag down and held up a bowl full of rich-smelling game.

‘This is addax. I caught it last night in the wash below the cliffs. The meat is tender—like oryx, but lighter in flavour. I have cured it with smoke, so that we may consume it over the next few days. You may eat as much as you like, but first you must say my name.’

Kiya stared into the bowl of meat. Meat? How long had it been since she’d eaten meat? She could hardly remember. She reached for a piece of addax.

‘Not so fast, my little imposter,’ he said, pulling the bowl away. ‘What is my name?’

‘Tahar.’

‘And what is your name?’

Her name? Was this a cave, or some earthly Hall of Judgement? His eyes were in shadow, but she could feel them studying her. Ah... She knew exactly what this was. This was her first lesson in submission.

‘I’m sorry. I do not remember my name.’

‘That’s unlikely.’

‘Please, Tahar, I do not remember,’ she lied. She blinked her eyes and was able to produce several fine, false tears. Oh, handsome trader, from beyond the Big Green, you are overmatched.

Annoyed, he thrust the bowl out to her. She placed a piece of the fresh smoked addax into her mouth and every part of her body awakened to the act. The meat was so rich—almost sweet—as if the beast had lived a life of luxury and not scratched its lean existence from the desert sands.

She ate another piece, feeling the animal’s spirit pass into hers, feeling strength return, feeling...gratitude.

She thought of the traditional Khemetian proverb: If I shall die, I shall die in thanks, having tasted all of life.

She stopped her chewing. ‘It appears that I am in your debt.’

Tahar was as still as the shadows that concealed him. ‘Indeed you are...’

She could not see his expression, but he seemed to be thinking.

‘And you shall pay that debt soon.’

In a few brisk strides he had returned to the mouth of the cave, where he bent with his knife and began scraping what appeared to be the addax’s hide.

‘How? How will I pay that debt?’

‘I shall sell you into marriage to the richest man I can find.’

His words burned through the last bit of fog that lingered in Kiya’s mind and a familiar rage began to smoulder in her heart. ‘You misunderstand me. I said that it appears that I am in your debt, but in fact I am not.’ She had his attention now. ‘For I would be halfway to Abydos by now if it weren’t for you.’

‘Is that where your family lives? Abydos?’

‘Family—?’ She stopped herself. The demon had almost caught her in her lie. ‘Aye, it is where my family lives. Though I wouldn’t call it living, for there is no food, and now I have been captured and cannot aid them, and they will continue to starve unless I am released, and—’ Kiya stopped when she discovered that she was talking to the walls.

Tahar had apparently exited the cave.