“I just hope they find that gorilla and give her a good life. Who cares about the woman? Anyone that stupid deserves to die.”

—Quote from the “Save Alisette” facebook page

I arrived in Sceptre with a fairy, a pumpkin, and a prince. Throw in a glass slipper and I had this zone in the bag.

Not that I could put any of that luggage in said bag. Fearing holding bag paradox errors, the occupied pumpkin was currently wedged obtrusively under my arm. Needless to say, I was already regretting choosing such a bulky vegetable.

For the same living-things-might-die-inside reason, the fairy was riding on my shoulder. A position that Gerdy seemed to think was only her due. Assistants apparently had more upward mobility on the dungeon corporate ladder than mob bosses, giving her the self-determined authority to treat me as her own personal steed. I didn’t mind carrying her from a physical standpoint—I could barely feel her weight and it made logical sense to both keep together and not exhaust her—but it still rankled.

The city itself was awe-inspiring, created in massive scale with columns and plinths supporting doorways that could have accommodated giants. Instead, street traders dominated the streets; camped up against walls, shouting from windows, and pushing into our path to demand that we come over, see the very best wares in Egypt, buy, buy, buy. And peeking through their possessions were even more works of art—smaller statues of anthromorphised lions that were being used as tables and storage receptacles. As I watched, a nose slid off one of them, prompting the realisation that the programmer of this region was not without a sense of humour.

I was dying to have a closer looky-loo but Humanacepts was powering through the crowd in his elevated house, obviously intent on his destination. His guards were more alert than I would have expected, too, considering that we had left the majority of our portion of the tax goods at the port in the care of the government officials that apparently took care of such things. So why the extra alertness?

If they’re coming home, why are they so tense?

Humanacept’s medjay bodyguard, walking beside the palanquin, even had one hand placed lightly on his charge’s hip, ready to shove him out of the palanquin if any danger presented. Considering I hadn’t seen any physical contact between the two before, I could only surmise that this made Sceptres the greatest threat the train had faced since I joined it.

Beside me, Amun cleared his throat, making me realise that I had stopped in the middle of the street to stare. He made a vague shooing gesture with his hands. No hands-on protection for me. Mind you, I doubt such a move would have been for my benefit. More likely to be motivated by anger or an intention to restrain, rather than defence.

My moment of reflection gave Anhut the time to catch up, and her arm provided the forward momentum I needed to break the potential stand-off. I had stupidly been considering committing a Ghandi by sitting down and refusing to move. There is something so annoying about being shooed. Along with shushing and being summoned by a whistle like somebody’s pet.

“What are you thinking?” Anhut whispered. “Don’t you know how dangerous it is in Sceptres at the moment?”

“Actually…no.”

“How—? Oh. I suppose you do come from someplace out of touch with important events.”

There was an edge of pity in her voice, as if I was a child who had been locked in a basement their whole life. It made me want to both smile, and sputter an indignant defence of modern society. But both responses were inappropriate to the situation. Best to play the dumb hick and get the information the game was clearly hinting I needed.

“Tell me.”

——

“What was that?” the CEO demanded of Peter, his second in command. “I thought we’d located her? You assured me that we had a match.”

“It seems that Ms. Johnson didn’t inform us of her change of address. From what we have been able to discover, the woman that is living in her registered apartment only recently moved in. And she is proving…uncooperative.”

“She’s proving to be a damn nuisance,” Daphne, the company’s financial advisor, corrected. “She’s sold her story to NewsHound and is playing up the emotional angle for all it’s worth. Literally. She claims the breech of privacy has affected her ability to get a job or make friends.”

“To be fair, I have some sympathy for her,” Abhud countered. Brought in as legal counsel, he was a rare addition to their meetings. “I wouldn’t want the world looking through my house, either. Especially if it was in that state.”

“I’d furnish her more respect if she wasn’t implying that money will buy her friends.”

The CEO slapped his hands on the table. Only Drake and Abhud jumped. The others were so used to the action that it might as well have been the gentle tinkle of a fork against a wine glass. “Focus. Do we know where this woman has gone? Surely there’s some kind of digital trail.’

“Unfortunately, her name is not on any rental agreement, so she wasn’t required to provide any ID,” Peter replied. “From what our investigator has learned from neighbours, she moved in with a tenant called Chu Ling sometime after Miss Ling had already moved in. There is some speculation that that arrangement was somewhat…informal.”

“Cash under the table?”

“Likely. The landlord at least seemed unfamiliar with her name.”

“What about the flatmate—Chu Ling? Does she know where this woman went?”

“It seems she was a foreign student. She may have remained in New Zealand, but Chinese students in particular commonly return to their home country after completing their education.”

“And finding a Chu Ling in a country the size of China is the very definition of a needle in a haystack.” Daphne sounded resigned.

“Particularly with our authority so limited. Even the New Zealand government is balking at checking their census records. The worldwide fear of identity fraud has become a plague for modern researchers. Mind you, I also don’t think the police were too happy about the false alarm in this instance. Embarrassing for everyone concerned.”

“So what’s next?”

“We’re back to relying on Gus.”

——

It seemed we were in the middle of a civil war. And not just a little peaceful protest with the occasional violent nutter; a real, actual war with armies, kings, and ninja assassins.

From what I could gather, it all started twenty-odd years ago when the son of the Pharaoh, Prince Takelot (heh, that had to be some kind of programming word-play), got pissy about not inheriting the throne soon enough. By then Daddy was well on his way to outliving his son through simple longevity, via good luck and good genes. After an attempted coup, Takelot was exiled, retreating to some city farther up the Nile, where, not being one to wallow in defeat, he promptly declared himself king, not only of his household, but of most of the country. The Pharaoh, presumably not wanting the trauma of killing his only son, let him, keeping only the most fertile delta lands for himself.

Which is when the City of Sceptres, powerful in its own right, had objected to the change of management, rising up in a rebellion that was put down by Takelot’s son Osorkon. Bloodied, but not yet beaten, Sceptres subsequently rose again when the prince left to deal with other revolts, this time with a man called Pedubast in charge, who had since expanded his influence throughout Upper Egypt.

Which explained why the tax man had been able to collect from cities farther up the Nile. It was with the cooperation of their citizens. The only snatching and grabbing had been of the innocent foreigner wandering around their neighbourhood.

As we walked farther along the wide main street, I could sense that the feeling of impending violence was getting worse. If AoD had indulged in sound cues, a violin would have been playing a symphony of its lowest notes. Even the hawkers had pulled back from us, whispering behind their hands and averting their eyes.

Amun, unfazed, appeared to recognise one of these people, and abruptly veered off to speak with him. An informant, maybe. I doubted he was a friend. The man he spoke to wore rags and practiced poor dental hygiene. A direct contrast to Amun, who kept himself immaculate.

He power-walked back to us, passing Anhut and I on his way to Humanacepts. The requisite bow, a muttered conversation—and a look of concern came over the tax collector. When he dismissed Amun, he immediately leaned down slightly to talk to the medjay.

Intriguing.

Shortly afterward, the bodyguard turned to the rest of the train and made some kind of symbol in the air. Almost like something stolen from the SAS. But regardless of where it might have originated, it had an immediate effect on the soldiers around me. Our speed increased from a brisk walk to a quick march that had me and Anhut trotting to keep up. Some of the older servants were left behind to follow at their own speed. I hoped they’d be okay.

“What’s going on?” I asked Amun. A valid question, I thought, since he seemed to be the source of the increased concern.

“Keep moving.” He actually sounded worried, not snarky at all. So I kept moving.

Within minutes, we reached a more affluent part of town and the soldiers relaxed a little. Our speed also—thankfully—eased to a level more consistent with a person late for work than someone intending to break the Olympic power-walking record. Normality was restored. I was able to focus on more than where to put my next step.

So it was at this point that I registered the odd feeling of absence. Which in turn made me realise that sometime during the march Gerdy had disappeared. I looked around but couldn’t see her anywhere.

She can’t have gotten far, I thought irritably. The flighty little monster should have at least let me know when she left to go sight-seeing. Unless…

My search suddenly included the ground. If she’d fallen amongst the soldiers without her magic shield-ball she could well be a red smear on the stone, or cemented like bubble-gum to the footwear of unsuspecting pedestrians. Fairy road-kill.

Bert?

Hmm?

Do you know where Gerdy’s gone?

Bert sounded irritated. You know I cannot detect her. I have been pondering why ever since she arrived.

Oh, yeah. I forgot.

Is she missing? Better yet, are you concerned about her? She has resources far beyond what her physical appearance would suggest, you do realise. She is hardly helpless.

I know. She’s just so…little. And somehow it already felt wrong not to have her on my shoulder. Like a cat suddenly deciding to jump off your lap on a cold winter night—minus the claws.

My rising anxiety was terminated before it could truly reach the level of Worry. A golden glow had caught my eye as it flitted up high and bounced on the cloth top of the palanquin not too far in front of me. I felt a brief pang of relief—the veriest speck, really—before annoyance returned.

As I watched, Gerdy launched herself up again and let herself fall. Then she repeated the action, over and over. She was using the palanquin’s roof as a trampoline, giggling every time the cloth sent her into the air.

I don’t know why Humanacept’s Curtain Guy hadn’t been sent to determine why the roof was moving so oddly. Maybe they thought it was a beetle struggling to free itself from the cloth. Regardless, if she kept it up it wouldn’t be long before investigations were made.

I rejected the idea of going in and grabbing her off the roof myself. It was too high to reach, and the bearers would probably object to being climbed like tree. And alternately, me yelling ‘Get the fuck down from there!” would probably result in the startlement of many jumpy soldiers carrying pointy things. (At the very least, they could hurt themselves. At the very most, they could skewer me. Making yelling not the best solution, either.)

Passive coercion was my only real option.

Get. Back. Here. Squinting menacingly, I made eye contact with the happy fairy. Not an easy proposition when the recipient is tiny and constantly moving, but I managed. You’re going to be noticed.

She stopped bouncing and stuck out her jaw. She might not have been able to talk to me via mind-voice—the link was one way—but I could predict what she would say.

If you're thinking that it doesn't matter, that they'll dismiss you as an insect, then you haven't thought it through. Humans like to squish bugs. You want to see what they think of one with a force-shield? Or how much that shield can take before you run out of mana? There’s a whole lot of trained soldiers that would help you with that.

What could have been guilt but probably wasn’t, immediately replaced all signs of happiness, causing her wings to dip slightly. A whole new avenue of body language, those wings.

Slowly, she climbed down, using the ornate flap covering one of the corners as a rope, before reaching a bearer. Then, using his hat as a launching pad, she leap-frogged from one unsuspecting cranium to the next, leaving people scratching and flailing as they felt her weight. It was probably mostly to conserve energy—Gerdy didn’t seem to be the voluntarily active type—but I also suspect it was to annoy the humans. Not exactly commendable, but I guess it was kinda her job. Or at least her job as she defined it.

When she finally arrived at my shoulder, she gave me the silent treatment, unresponsive to sensible inquiries such as “What the hell do you think you were playing at?”

She turned to Bert instead. “Please tell your servant that I am outside her chain of command. I only answer to you.”

Bert responded reluctantly, a person caught between two competing women. The AI was probably glad it was inside a pumpkin. Though it probably wished for something more solid—like a concrete bunker.

I am inclined to believe that, for the sake of safety and efficiency, I must indeed place one of you in command of the other.

Gerdy looked excited, before Bert added:

Therefore, as the most senior of my lieutenants, Arline is my choice.

“But—“

No. If you are truly my creature, you will obey my wishes. Now…leave me be for a while. Bert sounded frazzled. Seconds later he mumbled, I hate it when women fight over me.

Gerdy looked at me, and I looked at her, and then she looked away, visibly deflated.

And the winner is… I tried very hard to remember that smugness is not an attractive trait and concentrated on putting one foot in front of the other. Returning my focus to sightseeing.

Look, another statue. And a pretty fountain. And more hieroglyphs. The trifecta of tourism porn. Thousands of years of rulers determined to place their stamp on an already crowded cityscape.

By contrast, the palace that we were eventually led into seemed more fixer-upper than completed project. Workmen were everywhere repairing the statuary and columns around us, some bearing suspicious slash marks and stains that indicated a recent attack. Noises in other wings hinted at more substantial renovations. Additions perhaps. If Sceptres hadn’t previously had a Pharaoh, then this building had probably been some wealthy schmuck’s pride and joy, taken over during the rebellion. It made sense that it would need to be remodelled to accommodate royalty and the bureaucracy that rode around on its coattails.

Humanacepts, having divested himself of his palanquin and excess guards at the gates, was now in front again, directing us. He was obviously very familiar with the palace’s set up, showing no confusion amongst the bustle of activity, and headed purposefully to a desk that looked surprisingly European. It had been carved so excessively that it looked like a beaver had made a meal of it, with thin legs and curved top that was all one piece. A present from a foreign dignitary, perhaps. (Or another example of lazy concept artists adding random shit.)

Within seconds of meeting the functionary behind the desk, we were led to a smaller waiting room. It was grandiose, with pillars sporting fresh paint and floors shining so brightly that I immediately feared I would slip.

Unfortunately, it lacked the one thing that waiting rooms are most known for: Chairs. It contained only a few pot plants surrounding statues on tall plinths. The bare essentials of Egyptian feng shui.

It was lucky we weren’t kept there very long before being moved. I was seriously considering dumping out the contents of a pot and turning it over to create my own seat. Or offending a roomful of the faithful by parking myself in the lap of one of their gods. Weariness is not conducive to polite behaviour.

We were gradually passed up the bureaucratic hierarchy until we reached the head cheese, Vizier Something-or-other-Hat. I was too far back to catch his full name.

But even from my less than great vantage point I could sense there was something hinky going on between him and Humanacepts. Something that smelled of fear and defiance. Coming, not from his subordinate, but from the vizier himself. And Humanacepts was certainly doing nothing to promote it. He remained blank faced and soft-spoken, just as I would have expected of a minor official. Even the slight tensing of his back could be attributed to a healthy respect for his superior.

I edged closer to the two men, and their conversation finally became clear.

“—ask whether His Royal Majesty will condescend to speak with you. He is currently meeting with High Priest Hariesese and His son, Prince Shoshenq.”

“We will of course wait,” Humanacepts said respectfully.

“ReaIly?” Gerdy whispered. “Haven’t we waited long enough?”

I cleared my throat warningly, prompting the vizier to redirect his attention.

“Who is this?”

“Someone that His Majesty may be interested in.”

That prompted another look, this time containing shock. “She is Hyksos,” he said in a tone of dawning realisation.

“Hence his interest.”

“You are bringing someone that may be dangerous into His presence?”

“I do not believe her to be violent,” Humanacepts declared confidently. It was a surprising about-face for a man that on our first meeting had ordered a strip-search and threatened to cut out my tongue. “As a precaution, she will be guarded by Captain Amun and my own bodyguard, Sekhet. You remember Sekhet, do you not…ah, sir?”

Hat-guy eyed the guard with reluctant respect. “I am aware of him and his former position as Commander of the Medjay.”

“Who by your own personal order, you sent to protect me during the collection season. Surely, we are both privileged by your attentions.”

Heh. Bingo. One piece of Anhut’s puzzle of why these two are together. I now have the who, I just need to find out the why.

As the two men continued to make passive aggressive comments, I noticed one of the guards standing to either side of the throne room door sigh and shift a little. He had evidently been present for many, many conversations of this nature. He gave me a slight smile as he saw me watching him, as if to share his amusement.

He seemed a friendly guy. I returned the smile, and turned it expectantly on his friend on the left. Nothing but blank stoicism. This guy had not just a stick up his ass, but a whole section of the fence line.

Great abs, though.

“That one doesn’t need any dungeon training,” Gerdy whispered approvingly, her eyes following mine. I had to agree with her. He looked as if he could break me in half in two seconds flat.

When the vizier finally left, he returned surprisingly rapidly. A relief, really. I had already resigned myself to another foot-numbing wait.

“King Pedubast,” he announced, “First of that Name, Beloved of Amun, God of the Sun itself, has deemed Himself willing to hear the account of His cousin, Humanacepts, official Tax Collection Officer of the Second Year of His reign.”

Cousin? This went deeper than I thought. No wonder the vizier was shaking in his sandals if he’d sent a relative of his liege into danger.

“Thank you, cousin,” Humanacepts replied.

What? Was cousin some kind of honorific like ‘comrade’ in Russia? Or had I stumbled upon a juicy royal scandal? Or maybe they were just a family that took their nepotism duties very seriously. Logistically, the whole many women for one man ratio had to make finding jobs for the resulting children a tricky prospect.

Regardless, we were shown into the throne room soon after. It was a bit smaller than I was expecting, most of the centre of the room being taken up by wide, elaborately painted pillars that formed an avenue leading to a high-backed chair. Nothing terribly unusual about it; in fact the pieces that I could see—arm rest, top, legs—looked similar to my own dining room set at home. I would have had no hesitation in using it in the ill-equipped waiting room.

It was what was on top of it that caught the eye. He was a man probably a few years younger than me, with prematurely leathered skin, an ornate hat, and a beautifully patterned piece of shiny material layered across his chest. And just in case the throne, crown and…(is that a lion’s tail hanging from his belt?)…fanning attendants weren’t enough to indicate his position, in his lap was a bulky blue and gold whip with three tubular strips, and a matching striped crook that would have been more suited to a Christmas tree than catching sheep.

The very image of a Pharaoh at court.

Which currently consisted of our party and two other important-looking individuals who I deduced must be the Prince and the High Priest. They were standing on either side of the Pharaoh’s throne.

The one on the left was slim and seemingly delicate. For someone armed to the teeth. He sported an array of weapons that in modern times would have made any nation’s secret service hustle him off to an interrogation room. So the fact that the Pharaoh’s guards remained out of takedown-mode had to mean that this was the Prince. There was something off about him, though. As though the art department had gotten something subtly wrong. (Though, credit due, they’d made a beautiful job of the intricate scale details of his leather armour.)

By elimination, that meant the guy with the leopard skin wrap was the High Priest, Harry-esquire. I didn’t like the look of him. Hated him on sight, in fact. But that probably had more to do with what he was wearing than any extra-sensory perception. I only suppressed the desire to rip off his offensive trophy by reminding myself that it was all pixels; no endangered animal had been harmed in the making of this vid game. It didn’t help that he’d been created minus eyebrows. Don’t know what that was all about.

The Pharaoh rose from his chair and held out his hands. “Humanacepts! My brother!”

Oh, now this is just getting confusing. Either Egypt’s script writer had been equally confused or his intention was to befuddle the players.

(Or the royal family bred like bunnies, the salacious part of my brain suggested contrarily.)

Humanacepts strode over to his…brother?…and bowed deeply, but the Pharaoh rejected the obeisance by pulling him up and slapping him on the shoulder familiarly. The whip and crook slid to the floor unnoticed as Pedubast stood. “Good to see you back. We’ve missed you.” He gave his bro an investigative squeeze. “Have you lost weight?”

“A prerequisite of camp life, I’m afraid.”

“And running yourself ragged I daresay. Speaking of, what news from the nomes of the south?”

“Parsimonious as ever. Trumach had a rodent infestation that devastated his grain supply, and a small fire was set in a papyrus business overseen by Thedbast, but they’re otherwise fine. Despite their complaints to the contrary.”

“Good, good. And yourself?—beyond your appalling eating habits.”

“There were the usual bumps and adventures along the way; nothing to be too concerned about. But what about you? I hear that there may be trouble from our northern neighbours.”

Pedubast looked concerned. “Not any more than usual. At least, not that I am aware. What do you know?”

Humanacepts made direct eye contact and waited a few seconds for maximum impact. “There are rumours in the marketplace that Takelot is dead.”

The Pharaoh’s legs gave a little and he had to be helped to his ‘chair’. He seemed stunned. “Takelot…after all these years…dead? Has this been confirmed?”

“No, though I am assured that the source is usually reliable. He also claims that Prince Osorkon has vowed to refrain from taking up the mantle of Pharaoh until Sceptres is once again under his control.”

“That is troubling,” Prince Shoshenq interrupted, nodding apologetically to his father. “Sire, with his father’s less than perfect reputation no longer impeding him, Osorkon suddenly becomes a very attractive prospect in the eyes of our people. And beyond for that matter. My namesake already regards his grandson with favour. Only last month he was welcomed in Tanis. And as you know, should the delta king choose to provide troops for Osorkon we could be severely outnumbered.”

“My informant also says that he has declared himself High Priest of Amun.” Humanacepts’ eyes strayed to Harry.

“Predictable,” the priest said calmly. “Anyone that wants to gain control of Sceptres must have some standing within the Temple. It’s why he has connected himself to Amun in every city he’s ever conquered. To provide legitimacy.”

“And we already know he is claiming the title of Generalissimo,” Prince Shoshenq said bitterly. “If he didn’t also want the position of Pharaoh, I’d let him have it. The job is an endless nightmare.”

I looked at the prince in surprise. He was a General? It hardly seemed possible. General’s were hulking blokes with facial scars and crewc— And, yes, my movie-based prejudices were shining through. Though… I tried to pinpoint the oddity about this wom— ?

That was it. A lightbulb went off in my brain. The lithe body, the lack of an Adam’s Apple, the slight suggestion of breasts. Even the high voice that sounded pre-pubescent. The prince was not a prince, but a princess. For some unexplained reason she was pretending to be male.

And the others are all pretending with her, I realised as I looked between them. No way could they have been unaware of her sex. Overlooking the absence of a penis seemed like a pretty fundamental error to me. Unless there was a very good political reason for making a her into a him; one that went beyond an individual’s desire to alter their sexual identity.

There hasn’t been any mention of a brother. Maybe they just wanted to secure the succession. Though god knows how they expected to do that. Not only would her bride get a nasty shock on their wedding night, but the union would also bear no metaphorical fruit.

Or would it? I reconsidered as I intercepted a look between Sekhet and the ‘prince’ before they both turned away self-consciously. A look of longing and heat.

Yet another puzzle piece slid into place. Sekhet, ex-commander of what I deduced to be the local law enforcement, would have been required to visit the palace many times in the past few years. Ample opportunity for the two to develop an infatuation; which, considering both her position and her publicly declared sex, would have been regarded as taboo to her father and anyone else in on it. No wonder he’d been stripped of his position and sent off on a mission far from the palace precincts. He was lucky not to have contracted a terminal accident.

So that solved the first half of Anhut’s quest, though it was a revelation that it looked like she’d already figured out herself. Her eyes were round with amazement. Had I been harbouring any popcorn I would have shared it with her. Nothing like a few salty kernels to munch on while watching a good period drama.

Although my mouth and throat would disagree with me in this instance. They were so dry that my tongue felt swollen. Salty kernels would only make it worse.

“But enough speculation, Cepts! Tell us about your adventures. Most particularly, who this lovely lady is with the most unusual veget—“

And that’s when all hell broke loose.