“Lady of Slaughter, please hear me, and grant my prayers for revenge.”



The shine to Sekhmet was located in a cave in western Sais, nestled into the side of a mountain. Travelers regularly stopped there and paid their devotions, leaving behind offerings of food and perfumes at the base of a large obsidian statue. It had the body of a tall, statuesque woman, but with the head of a lioness: large eyes, a big snout extending past the lower jaw, and pronounced whiskers upon her cheeks. She also wore a majestic headdress, atop which stood the fierce eye of the sun god Ra. Her face was blank, utterly without expression, and yet there was also a supernatural aura about the sculpture.



“When Ra was displeased with the wickedness of men, he sent you, the Eye of Ra, to punish humanity. So great was your fury that you could not be stopped in your festival of massacres. The Sun God had to pour beer dyed with pomegranate juice in your way. Thinking it was blood, your lust for murder was finally sated. Mighty one, instill me with your rage! Guide my hands as they kill those who have wronged me and my family.”



Qen closed his eyes, hands clasped tight, pressed against his forehead. The cool rock chilled his knees and calves as they pressed against the ground. He wore only a kilt-like garment around his waist. It was made from simple linen and had clearly seen better days. The man himself, however, was in fine physical condition, his lithe body like one rippling muscle. His head and face were freshly shaved, although his body was lined with scars and his eyes with black kohl. Within arm’s reach were his weapons: a khopesh sword, a composite bow, and a quiver stuffed with arrows. Farther off stood the boy.



Mahu watched his father with his usual quiet reverence. As Qen beseeched a deity for her aid in the demeanor of humility, so did Qen’s son gaze upon the man as if he were a god on earth. He listened to the prayer as if they were meant for his ears. He was supposed to be on the lookout, to be monitoring the entrance to the shrine, but he could not be deterred from staring at his father, watching him always, as near as he could be.



He did not hear the footsteps. But Qen did.



The former roadwarden stood quickly, one hand grabbing his bow, the other drawing an arrow. He was in the process of nocking it when he paused, considering the new arrival. The stranger was a middle-aged man, balding, with a considerable paunch. He was no warrior, no threat. He lowered the bow and returned the arrow to the quiver.



Mahu shuddered. His father did not need to utter a word of reprimand. He knew that he had failed in the simple charge that was his task. He did not fear punishment; Qen took no pleasure in disciplining his only surviving child. Instead, Mahu felt real remorse because, as his father had explained to him, their very lives were at stake. The men who had tried to kill their entire family were still a threat, and in this harsh wilderness there was no shortage of bandits and rogues that even strong men had to be watchful for.



The soft balding man was no bandit. He had the smooth, oiled skin of a person of means along with a fine tunic and skirt far more expensive than the rags Qen and Mahu wore. He wore a necklace of polished animal teeth and fine jewelry on his fingers. For all his fine appearance, he looked incredibly out-of-place and awkward in the cave and shrine. This was certainly not his natural environment, which was the point. Here, no one who knew the balding man would see him and recognize him as a famous merchant of Sais.



“Senankh,” Qen said with the slightest nod.



The merchant approached, completely ignoring Mahu, eyes fixed on Qen. His expression was calm, but he wore no smile. He held up a hand, inside which was a pouch stuffed to bursting with coin. “I have your fee, Qen of Sais, as we agreed.” With no ceremony he tossed the bag on the ground at Qen’s feet. “Count it, if you would like.”



With the side of his foot Qen kicked the sack of coins aside.



Senankh shrugged. “As you like.” He gestured at Mahu. “Would you have me discuss business in front of the boy?”



Qen nodded. “You may.”



With another roll of the shoulders, Senankh went on, eyes locked on Qen. “My uncle Yapahu has accumulated a great amount of status and influence in my family. While our trade routes are more prosperous than ever, my father will soon pass on, and Yapahu seeks to make my older brother, Hori, the next patriarch. Hori is a fine man, but simple and too trusting. Yapahu is corrupt and will manipulate him. Yapahu has hired several bodyguards as of late, as he has become paranoid someone will murder him.”



“He has reason to be suspicious,” Qen observed flatly.



Senankh responded with only a grunt. “So, do you accept?”



Qen gave a short nod.



“If you fail or are discovered, I had nothing to do with this.”



“I won’t fail. I won’t be discovered.”



“You seem very confident.”



Qen was already gathering his things, patting away the dust and dirt from his clothes and skin. Mahu, mechanically, started to collect the rest of their traveling inventory, their blankets and food and water, placing them in a cart small enough even the body could push it with little difficulty. Senankh seemed to have second thoughts about his hire, but he did not give them voice. Instead he left as quietly as when he arrived. The bright light emanating from the mouth of the cave soon swallowed up his silhouette as he walked out of the shadows and into the warmth of the outside world, the living world.



After the man had departed, Mahu turned to his father with bright, eager eyes.



“You will remain here, in the cave,” Qen said, his eyes on the Lady of Slaughter.



Mahu started to protest, the refusal forming in his mouth, but he choked it down. If he simply tried to negate his father’s will, he would fail. Instead, he tried to understand why it was he was being denied. “But why, father?”



“I know this Yapahu and where he can be found, and where he can be found is not appropriate for children such as yourself.” He glanced at the boy and saw he was not appeased. “Besides, a lookout won’t be needed. His guard will be down.”



Mahu grimaced.



Qen laughed. This shocked Mahu, who held on to his scowl. “Come, you can help me hunt. I will kill us some dinner. In that, at least, you can be my scout. Hurry, though. We don’t have many hours of daylight left.”

Qen’s eyes were locked on the blanket of cheap cotton hanging over a body less perceptible than a shadow, and from which appeared only a foot half-turned in sleep. The solitary light came from the adjacent building, another temple of lust. A block of light marked the bed just underneath the foot as if to emphasize its solidity and life. The target, lying on his back, was dressed in just a pair of short drawers, but his ribs were not perceptible under the skin. Qen had to take the nipples as reference points. He attempted holding the dagger with the blade up. But the left breast was the one furthest from him: he would have to hit at arm’s length through the blanket. He altered the position of the dagger, this time blade downward. To touch this immobile body was as problematic as stabbing a dead body, perhaps for the same reason.



With a stroke that would have cracked a slab of timber Qen slashed through the blanket. Conscious of even the tip of the dagger, he noticed the body snap back towards him. He hardened his grasp heatedly to hold it down; like cut severed pieces drawn to each other, the legs leapt together in the direction of the chest, but then they jerked out, straight and rigid. Qen should have struck again—but how was he to remove the dagger? The body was unstable, and instead of being thankful of the spasm which had shaken it, Qen had the feeling of pinning it to the bed with this blade on which his whole weight rested.



Through the great gash in the blanket, he could see very clearly. The eyelids were open and the eyeballs white. Blood was beginning to stream around the dagger. He opened his hand and the body drooped slightly, face down. A murky blemish began to grow on the sheet and, near it, appeared also the shadow of two large, pointed ears.



The shadow loomed from the balcony. Qen froze, then jumped at sudden mewing. Relieved, he dared to look, and saw that it was a cat. Its eyes riveted on him, it stalked through the window on noiseless paws. The Lady of Slaughter had sent an agent of her approval to oversee his work. Qen gave a nod of respect but did not linger. He set about escaping through the same winding path that had taken him to this place. Crouching, he moved with grace and agility to inspire envy in any feline rival.



When he returned to the cave, he found Mahu waiting for him, their meager belongings packed and ready for travel. The boy said nothing, still humbled by his shaming earlier. Qen, however, failed to notice. He was disassociating from what he had just done, the reality of the deed he was guilty of. The blood he spilled would keep he and his son alive for a few more weeks, perhaps months with sacrifices and rationing. This was the mundane, however, the trivial; the mere amount needed for sustenance. There were other goals, other memories that needed to be faced. In time, they would be.