Three Princes (4 page)

Mabruke lay his head back on the pillow, and fell instantly asleep.

“I knew you’d be impressed.” Oken dimmed the lamp and went out.

OKEN SLOWLY
climbed the spiral stair to Mabruke’s apartments at the top of the Professors’ Hall West, feeling, at last, the weariness of the journey and the desperate nature of his journey’s end. Arriving in Memphis had carried him through such a variety of changing emotions that he felt empty, a weariness beyond sleep. In the hallway at the top of the stair he stood quietly, breathing in the silence, the sweet, familiar scents of incense, coffee, and meals lingering from the day.

Before he could reach into his vest pocket for the key to his own suite of rooms on the top floor, the door was flung open. Here stood old Yadir, Mabruke’s maternal grandfather. Mabruke’s mother had been a dancer in the temples when discovered by the King of Nubia. Her parents were much loved in the court. Yadir seemed smaller than Oken remembered; perhaps memory had been made grander by Oken’s regard for the old man. Yadir had once been as tall as his grandson. Age had curved his spine. Yadir and his surviving wife, a faded Teutonic beauty named Helga, had visited Mabruke years earlier, and stayed as unofficial butler and enthusiastic cook to take care of Mabruke, and to manage the staff. Mabruke preferred to keep his loved ones close at hand, and Oken could not imagine the place without the elderly couple.

He was glad to see Yadir, even though he wished he could have simply settled into his own bed undiscovered. Yadir would insist on conversation about Oken’s travels and Mabruke’s travails, even in the darkness of this predawn hour. Oken knew that the old couple must have suffered great anxiety over Mabruke’s disappearance. The news had not reached Oken on his journey, so he had been spared the many hours of worry they had surely experienced. He made himself smile as the old man peered out at him.

Yadir showed him a weary, relieved smile in return. The news of his grandson’s rescue must have arrived ahead of Oken. “There you are!” Yadir said amiably, putting a gnarled hand on Oken’s sleeve to draw him into the apartment foyer. “You’ve been gone a long time, haven’t you? You’ve been away? Rusland, that’s where you’ve been. Out chasing secrets, weren’t you,” Yadir went on as he helped Oken out of his jacket. “Weren’t you, now?”

He noted the bloodstains with a disapproving cluck of the tongue. “That wasn’t my Mik’s blood, was it?” There was a fierce look in the old, yellowed eyes. “That wasn’t my Mik there been bleeding on your coat?”

Oken put his arms around the old man’s shrunken frame and hugged him tightly. “Mik is fine. He was tired and dried out, but when I left him with Sakhmet, he was sleeping fine, and getting what he needs. He’ll be back here in just a day or two, for certain.”

Yadir patted Oken’s shoulder, nodding and clucking to himself. “Of course he’s fine. I knew he was fine, but the old woman, she frets. You know how she frets, don’t you?” He folded the jacket carefully, then draped it over the railing of the narrow stairway leading up to Oken’s private rooms. Oken could see how the old man’s hands trembled. “She’s been fretting something fierce, now, hasn’t she.”

Yadir peered at Oken, searching his face, then touched his cheek at the line of scar. “What’s that you’ve got there? A new scar, that’s what you got there, is it? You got yourself a new scar, didn’t you.”

Oken smiled. “Mik noticed that right off, too. I didn’t know it showed so plainly.”

“Mik noticed that right off, did he? Did he notice that, too? That’s Mik, isn’t it. Isn’t that just like Mik!” He tapped Oken’s cheek again with one long, bony finger. “Of course Mik saw that right off. Of course he did! He’s sharp, our Mik. He’s sharp, he is.”

“He is, sir. He most certainly is.”

OKEN AWOKE
to the soft glow of dawn through bedroom windows that looked out, at last, over a familiar view. Waking in his own bed gave the past months a shimmering ambiance of dream: unfamiliar bedrooms and exotic mornings. A childhood prayer his mother taught him, to be spoken after waking from a nightmare, came unbidden to his mind. “I thank ye, Ra, for waking me and giving me another day. I am the Horus of my day and to Sutekh I do say, ‘My Shadow stands behind me!’ ”

The silence of the apartment brought back the nightmare sheen of the battle at Ibis Gate. Mabruke always woke before him, always had coffee brewing and incense lit in the rooms below Oken’s suite. Apparently, the elderly couple, having sat for days in vigil, were sleeping in.

Oken spent the long morning and afternoon in Mabruke’s spacious office, writing his report to Pharaoh Zoser George, detailing what he had learned of Bismarck’s network in Novgorod. Bright sunlight shining through crystal prism shapes in the windows scattered rainbows around the room, keeping track of the Sun. The walls, the ceiling, and the rug were Nile blue, as though the room wereunderwater.

The lovely Natyra had not been Oken’s only contact. Blestyak was not his only revelation of Bismarck’s determination to unite the Turkish kingdoms with Albert and Victoria’s Oesterreich Militia in a civil war against the Egyptian Empire. The details took up many pages in Oken’s fine, even handwriting. He was not willing to risk working with a secretary. The fewer eyes who saw this information, the better for Egypt. The late- afternoon sunlight shining through the large windows found him copying the report over for Mabruke’s office. He worried, just a little, that no word had come from Mik.

Then a courier from the sakhmetical station arrived with a handwritten note.

Oken took the note card eagerly, telling the courier to wait for a reply.

The simple message heartened Oken considerably:

We have been summoned to the Queen’s apartment. Meet me at the Palace Promenade at 8. Send my uniform over. ~ M.

Oken felt a rush of gratitude for Egyptian sakhmetical wisdom. Clearly, Prince Mabruke had recovered himself.

“Thank you, Sakhmet and Thoth. Thank you, Isis,” he whispered reverently. “You did well.”

The “uniform” that Oken selected from his friend’s extensive walk-in closet was, to the average viewer, the traditional for royalty: a linen kilt and waistcoat over a silk tunic, with a white top hat and white ostrich plume. No proper gentleman’s suit, however, would have allowed so many pockets hidden in the lining, nor so many useful things distributed everywhere, hidden behind strategic seams, braid, embroidery, and jewels. Oken added a pair of newly cleaned sandals, and appropriate wristbands and collars, careful to pick out ones he knew Mabruke favored. He had to hunt about in drawers and trunks for a few minutes to find a traveling makeup case. Once that was found, he packed everything carefully into a valise and a hatbox, and sent these off with the courier.

Oken settled back to finishing the copied report, noting, with some regret, the warm colors of the sunset over the Temple of Ptah Sokar. He lit incense on Mabruke’s altar, whispering a prayer for the fallen Mathias.

OKEN’S OWN
suit was eccentric for his social status. He had no problem with other men wearing kilts. There had just been too many awkward childhood moments during public ceremonies wearing the woolen versions of the native Britannic formal suits to be comfortable in one himself. Being the youngest of the four Oken brothers, he’d endured an endless run of pranks, mishaps, and embarrassing fraternal exchanges. The only advantage he found in the Egyptian version was the linen fabric. He was allergic to wool, which produced a rash that gave his brothers no end of delight at his expense. Oken’s personal alternatives in clothing styles were further limited by his social status and the conventions of royalty. The simple cuts of cotton trousers and shirts he could wear in private were unacceptable in public, or so his mother, the formidable Spate-Archet Eileen MacDur had made clear. While on his first assignment with Mabruke, Oken had adopted the Parisian standard for gentlemen, not just because Paris was the capital of Europe. He felt that he truly cut a fine figure in the tailored, three-piece silk suit with waistcoat and tails. The European suit, however, had too many layers to be comfortable in the climate of Egypt. His Memphis wardrobe was based on an oriental model: a high-collared long-coat of embroidered silk, open at the throat, worn with tightly fitted silk trousers. Sandals were the accepted norm; instead, Oken wore heeled boots, most often of ostrich leather. He had never learned to live with sand between his toes as “true” Egyptians could. His jewelry was simple, forgoing the usual array of enameled gold collars and jeweled neckbands. He wore only his silver Horus- torque, a silver ring with the family crest, and a single snake-link chain of silver with the family crest as an amulet, and a pair of moonstone wristbands, also set in silver. He had inherited the moonstones from his sister, Brenda, born between himself and the eldest brothers. Brenda had died unexpectedly at the age of twenty- four in childbirth, while Oken was away in school. Oken had never met her young man and had only learned of her death in a letter, handwritten by the indomitable Eileen. The child had died with Brenda; all that remained to Oken of those tender members of his Mercia family was a matched set of polished moonstones that glowed a pale and ghostly blue white in their silver links.

Being European and a Britannic nobleman, Oken did not shave his head. He had tried it, briefly, when he first came to Memphis. He found it terribly distracting. Letting someone scrape his skull with a blade made him feel naked and compromised. Creams that dissolved stubble away in a swish gave him a worse rash than wool. Then he discovered that women were fascinated by his rich Celtic curls. The white jacket showed the bronze color of his tanned skin to best advantage. His long black lashes emphasized the startling storm cloud gray of his eyes. He was long-jawed and long-boned, with strong hands and wrists. Strangers often thought he must be a musician. Many who emigrated from the Britannic Isles were musicians. Oken could not play an instrument, and had no interest in singing, except during temple services, when his voice was lost in the crowd.

Oken checked himself one last time in the array of mirrors in his dressing room; then he picked up the slim briefcase containing Pharaoh’s copy of his written report and set out to meet Mabruke at the royal palace.

THE MAGNIFICENT
façade of the royal palace stood three stories tall, with ornamented pylons and cedarwood doors inlaid with ebony and gold. Classic Egyptian portraits of Caesar and Cleopatra filled the pylons, each holding their left hands up in gestures of blessings bestowed upon their descendants. Their right hands clasped the combined staffs of the power, inheritance, and divine authority by which their descendants ruled the empire.

Vividly painted lotus and papyrus columns alternated with sphinxes as big as real lions along the promenade, from the pylon gate to the broad staircase and viewing stand at the public entrance to the palace. Banners of golden brocade were draped on either side of the staircase, with the formal Five Names of the ruling family embroidered in high hieroglyphics, in Trade and in a dozen other forms of writing, each representing a kingdom that was part of Caesar’s Pharoman Empire.

Public gardens on either side were carefully groomed mazes of shrubs, sycamores, cypress, flowering fruit trees, date palms, and garden beds. Mossy pathways wound around fountain-fed pools, shady alcoves, and glorious little meadows set with benches and hanging lanterns. Music from cithara and harp drifted among the trees. These gardens were a favored spot for courting couples. People strolled along the paths in the twilight. Soft laughter was heard now and then.

Oken reached the curb just as a vehicle bearing the official seal of Thoth’s Manor pulled up. Mabruke stepped out, settling his top hat on his newly shaven head as he straightened up. Oken noticed that, although restored to his usual gracefulness, the man moved slowly, a little too carefully. Mabruke was extraordinarily slender, but his carefully tailored clothes and fitted gold collar were loose.

As he hugged Mabruke, Oken thought the man seemed fragile. “Have you eaten?”

“Only everything I could get my hands on.”

Oken stepped back to examine his friend. “Perhaps the Queen will set a table?”

“If not, we’re going to the Blue Ostrich after this for a decent meal.”

“I think the food at Dolphin Street is better.”

“Yes, but the service is just too slow.”

“The Blue Ostrich it is, then. Even if she does feed us.”

They strolled down the promenade, casually ignoring stares from tourists admiring the glorious royal domicile. Guards at the top of the entrance stairway recognized Mabruke and opened an inner, private panel of the huge doors to the main entrance of the palace— the Grand Atrium.

During working hours, officials, tourists, and citizens on royal business hurried back and forth through the nine- sided atrium, to side corridors lined with palace offices and waiting rooms. At this hour, the Atrium was hushed. The musicians had packed up their instruments, leaving the golden music stands in place on the stage. Householdstaff were cleaning for the next day. Palace guards nodded politely to Mabruke and Oken as they walked past. Lights had been dimmed, and the twilight sky was visible through the glass ceiling that curved high overhead, ribbed with steel bands. At their feet, the Nile River ran the length of the Atrium, in a rug woven of vivid hues and time-honored designs. They walked the Nile from the public entrance to the cedar doors directly across. Four royal guardsmen stood in front, purple plumes in their helmets and polished armor with the seal of the Royal House of Caesar embossed in gold.

In front of these guards, waiting with charming impatience, was a beautiful young girl of eighteen or so, dressed in a white sheath in the current style, with bare shoulders and long fringes in a slash hem falling from just below her hip on the left to her knee on the right. She wore full makeup that enhanced the golden hazel of her eyes and a wig of chestnut curls, with lapis lazuli and gold beads. Her jewelry and collar were of djed and ankh amulets interwoven with the royal seal. Diamonds glittered on her sandals. She was tall, despite her youth, with a line of curve at her waist that, together with the width of her shoulders, suggested that womanhood promised much for her.

At that thought, Oken finally recognized her as Princess Astrid Janeen, youngest child of the Pharaoh and his Queen. He had not seen her since she left for School. Womanhood had lengthened her bones and glorified her features. She had been a graceful child, quiet, with eyes only for the pharaoh, her father. Oken himself had been younger then, too.

She hurried forward, catching Mabruke’s hands in hers and beaming up at his face. “Prince Mabruke!” She was clearly pleased. “Mum has been so worried about you. She will be delighted to find you looking so well after your ordeal.”

“Thank you, Your Highness. It is a pleasure to see you returned to the palace.”

Mabruke turned to Oken. “I am sure Your Highness remembers Lord Scott Oken?”

“You are quite as dashing as I remembered you.” She put her hand out to him as he bowed to her. “You danced with me at my tenth nativity gala.” She wore heavy armbands in gold and triple rings on each finger. He gently kissed the royal seal on the largest ring while a cloud of lotus and ginger perfume enfolded him.

“I remember you well, my lady,” Oken managed to say. “You are . . . taller and even more lovely.” Oken’s recollection of a shy, wide-eyed child was difficult to connect with this radiant creature before him. “We spoke of your summer trip to Paris, as I recall. You thought it more exciting than Memphis.”

She laughed merrily, her fingers resting in his. “I am sure you do, Lord Oken. Mother says you are quite the best memoryman in the academy’s history.”

Oken remained caught in her eyes. “I am sure Madam must have meant the best looking.”

“I am sure she did, Lord Oken.”

“Have you since returned to Paris, my lady?” Mabruke said.

“No, but I am open to invitations.”

“I shall keep that thought happily in mind, my lady,” Oken said.

“Meanwhile, the Queen awaits us,” Mabruke said. Amusement on his face was clear, and he smiled fondly at the princess.

She waved a signal to the guards, then slipped a hand around Mabruke’s arm. The guards bowed to the princess, saluted Mabruke and Oken. The palace doors silently swung inward.

No one crossed the Queen’s Bridge without family as escort. That had always been the rule. Oken was delighted that this time their escort was not the Duchess Neith Susanna, the Queen’s aunt. He had no objection to the duchess, only to her continual comments on why he should marry one of her many daughters.

They descended the steps down to the foyer of the private quarters of the royal family, with Princess Astrid Janeen between the two men, her arms looped casually around theirs. The guards standing in front of the main entrance to the royal family’s private quarters had already opened the doors. The princess trilled a familiar, “Hoy!” to them as she passed by.

The entryway was a wide balcony, overlooking the central courtyard of the royal family’s private quarters. The balcony floor was of marble tile in red and black, the walls in Imhotep blue faience. Obsidian columns supported scalloped archways above a railing of openwork designs. Honeysuckle and night-blooming jasmine wound around the columns and peeked through the railing, filling the air with heavy, sweet perfume.

The garden below was ancient, groomed to complete and casual perfection. At its heart was a pool. Lotus blossoms had closed for the eve ning, blue and white flame-points shining in dark water. Nightingales were singing, and lanterns marked the pathways.

High overhead was the glass-paneled dome that was visible from the outside as a shiny egg resting within the marble nest of the Pharaoh’s Palace. Seen from inside, the dome was a curving, crystalline sky. The struts that supported it were fused into its substance, a radial web of shiny steel streaks. They gleamed in the light of the newly risen Moon.