XL

THE KEENING OF THE APPROACHING procession pierces the stale air of Duat, an unending, grating wail of false grief as paid mourners shriek and gesticulate and shed tears behind a white-wrapped body. I lean against the pale stone of the small second-story window, watching as it wends its way along chalky streets toward the distant, gold-lit Temple of Ka. First the jackal-masked priest, head shaven, walking solemnly, burning incense in one hand and spilling milk on the ground with the other. Then the bier borne by six iunctii, all but their eyes covered in the same white cloth as the man they carry. Then friends and family carrying the dead man’s most valued belongings, the possessions they will send with him over the bridge to Neter-khertet. And then, finally, the dozen women whose harsh ululating forces all but the most important conversations nearby to still.

“They believe that the more Ka hears mourning, the more likely he is to allow them into the afterlife,” says Netiqret from behind me.

I straighten from my observation. “You don’t?”

“No.” The elegant grey-haired woman stares down the street for a moment longer, then offers me some bread, which I take with no pretence to hesitation. The novelty of doing more than just subsisting has not yet worn off.

I turn my attention to the assassin whose house Ahmose and I have been hiding in since our arrival in the east. Careful not to show it, but relieved she’s back this morning. We’ve seen relatively little of her these past two days, perhaps an hour or two out of each since she guided us through the tunnels beneath Duat and we emerged into an empty alley, only a few short paces from her doorstep. I’m not sure whether her constant unexplained absences since have been due to her distasteful work, or if she has been out trying to gather information to verify my story. Or, simply, if she’s trying to keep us on edge in an attempt to make us more biddable. Perhaps all three.

“It was someone important?” I lean my head toward the window. These funerary processions often echo across the water to Neter-khertet, but I don’t think they’re usually of this magnitude.

“Someone wealthy, at least.” Netiqret moves over to the table and pours some of the syrupy, sweet beer that is apparently a staple for everyone on this side of the river. Better than the water, but not by much. She takes a few delicate sips—every motion of hers is refined, deliberate—and watches me over the cup.

I ignore her observation. The slightly raised eyebrow, the curl of her carefully painted lips. I know what it means. Our rare interactions have revealed a strange, detached kind of impasse. She senses that I am desperate to act, to have her assistance in getting out into the city, though she has no idea why. And all she wants is to know how I controlled the Overseer.

Neither of us trusts the other enough, or is yet desperate enough, to be first in giving up our advantage.

I gaze back out over Duat’s vast expanse. The house is on a slight rise, has an impressive view down to the west; white streets and buildings nestle between black towers and bridges, then the sullen black and green of both the Infernis and Neter-khertet glowers beyond. In contrast, the clean yellow emanating from the Pyramid of Ka suggests it’s mid-morning.

This has been my best and only vantage of it all, thus far. Iunctii in the east are meant to travel with their masters; one alone in the streets isn’t unheard of, but is far more likely to attract unwanted attention. And while the Overseers aren’t specifically looking for me, I’ve never had to travel uncovered before. Caeror once claimed they knew the faces of every person living, or otherwise, in Duat. How easily will they register that I don’t belong? Which are the best ways to avoid them? Ahmose has his guesses, but Netiqret, surely, will actually know.

I can’t wait forever but I can’t just give her everything she wants, either. I’ve seen enough of her to realise that an explanation of what I can do will lead to her insisting that I use it for her purposes. She’s aloof, unflappable and focused. The sort of person to whom you can never risk giving anything of value for free.

“What are the funerals like outside, Siamun?” Long fingers strum the table. She has, over the past couple of days, seemed more and more inclined to believe what Ahmose and I told her. At least to the extent that she now constantly probes, calmly prods at any potential new piece of information.

“Quick.” I don’t actually know, having never seen one. But Caeror has mentioned them. “The bodies are dissolved in water from the Infernis, so that Ka cannot possibly revive anyone.”

“Ah.” She nods. I’m not sure if the gesture means the information makes sense to her, or if she somehow already knew. Or if she doesn’t believe me at all. “You do not turn them into iunctii? Surely you would find them useful.” She gestures absently at Ahmose, and I have to restrain myself from wincing as I sense his glower. We’ve had to endure many, many little jabs like this in the few hours she’s been around. Constantly implying that Ahmose is more property than friend. That I am inevitably controlling him, whether he knows it or not.

I’ve reassured him again and again, but the constant needling has to be threading more doubt into his mind.

I stretch, ignoring the question that tries to scrape much more at my knowledge of iunctus creation than it does the practices of Qabr. Feign just as much disinterest as Netiqret is, and peer out the window at the retreating procession. “Ahmose says the Crossing to the West is quite a ceremony.”

At the edge of my vision, I see Netiqret open her mouth as if to respond, then instead stop her strumming. She turns to the stairs leading to the upper floor. “Kiya!”

A few moments later the young girl appears, descending in her usual vaguely lost, mechanical manner and coming to stand beside Netiqret. Head down, carefully braided hair hanging over her shoulders. No doubt she’s a iunctus, but Netiqret’s call was question more than command, and the older woman is gentle as she leans forward and whispers something in her ear.

I watch curiously as Kiya listens, then makes a hand gesture that seems to be some sort of signal. I still haven’t been able to determine what she is, exactly. There hasn’t been a chance to find out either way. Ahmose and I have both been expressly forbidden by Netiqret to go anywhere near the girl—on pain of, literally, a very final death—and Netiqret herself has been firm in her determination to say nothing about her.

Netiqret considers, then squeezes Kiya on the shoulder and stands. “If you are interested, I can show you.”

I look at her blankly. Sure I’ve misunderstood, even if it was half the reason I mentioned it. “Now?”

“Now is best. A big funeral like today’s will mean that the outer courtyard of the temple is open to all. Follow me, do as I say, and you will be fine. Just you, though. That one’s nerves will give us away before we reach the end of the street.” She glances disdainfully at Ahmose, then walks over to a dresser and beckons me over. “But first, come. You cannot go out looking like that.” She picks up a small pot and wooden stick, spitting in it and stirring. The rod emerges coated in black.

I baulk. “The Overseers don’t know me. Wouldn’t it be better to pretend to be your iunctus?”

She squints her surprise. “You would wrap your face?” I nod, though I think the question’s rhetorical, and she confirms it by waving away my response. “It will not work. Iunctus are purposeful; they do not go to observe funerals or linger in the temple.”

“She’s right.” Ahmose’s confirmation is reluctant but certain.

I frown but accept it. The next half hour consists largely of Netiqret applying the dark lines of kohl to my eyes and her own, as well as bedecking herself in a tasteful array of gold jewellery and a woven shawl. At one point Kiya vanishes for several minutes and then reappears with a pile of neatly folded clothing, which she places on the table between me and her. A pleated skirt of fine linen, a wig, and a neck collar of gold with a large lapis lazuli inset. It must be worth a fortune.

“If you are to travel with me, you must look like you belong with me,” is all Netiqret says, pushing it toward me.

We talk only in brief spurts as we prepare, mostly advice from Netiqret on how to wear my clothing; I use the spaces between to guess at Netiqret’s motives for her sudden invitation, but I simply don’t have enough information. By the time we leave, I’m unrecognisable in the reflection of the beaten brass mirror hanging on the wall. We head down to the ground floor. Netiqret swings the door wide.

And then for the first time in months, I am among people again.

DUAT—THE EASTERN, LIVING SIDE OF duat—is, to my vague surprise, far more alike Caten than I expected.

There are the immediate surface similarities in its crushes of people, its loud noises and fetid smells, the general chaos of a city that immediately threatens to overwhelm me as I step out onto the street. Not that the black mirrored sky or the thickly eyelined people lit by the constant glow of Ka’s pyramid could ever leave me confused as to where I am. But deeper, it is an even closer anchor. No Octavii here, but only because they have not yet been swathed in white. In the distance, I spot the motionless black form of an Overseer. People laugh and stroll around it, no different to if it were a Praetorian on guard in Caten. Ignoring the echo of their future slavery.

Coming from Neter-khertet it is at once bustling and grim, an uncomfortable juxtaposition of life and death. They are somehow both freer and more bound than the people back home. It is a different kind of servitude, I suppose. A different system to hide the same prisons, the same powers, the same wrongs.

“Shouldn’t we take the tunnel? It can get us fairly close to the temple,” I observe to Netiqret as we start walking, trying not to sound uneasy.

“The tunnels are for emergencies. I would be fascinated to hear how you know about them, though.”

I ignore the pointed observation. “So my being out here is safe?”

She chuckles. Even her laugh refined. “Your being with me is safe, so long as you listen. Pay attention, stay close, and do everything you can to naturally match my step.” We keep walking, and Netiqret immediately varies our pace, scanning the way ahead even as she seems entirely relaxed. Our path meanders, but never noticeably. We pass just behind one group. To the left of another as they focus in on something on the right. “I understand the desire to keep out of sight, but it’s an inflexible approach. Get caught hiding, and you are caught; there are few, if any, ways to talk your way out of the situation. You are noticed and you are remembered. Plus, sometimes there simply are no tunnels. No shadows to hide in. Foster a reliance on the environment, and you lean on luck.”

She spots something in the distance and changes our trajectory slightly. It’s all smooth and effortless, just a noblewoman going for a stroll. Her pace is neither fast nor slow. We’re never crowded, but nor are we ever walking noticeably alone.

“The Overseers are simple enough to avoid,” Netiqret continues genially, as if discussing what we’ll be eating for dinner. “Believe me when I tell you that they are slaves to their instructions. Perfectly predictable in their behaviour. The only danger in being around them is if something unexpected draws their attention in your direction. So you have to keep watch. Do you know why I just nudged us left?”

“No.”

“Because we would be walking too close to those two. Between them and the next Overseer.” She nods very slightly off to the right, where two women are standing by a stall, deep in conversation. Their voices are low, but as I observe them I can see a tension in the set of their shoulders, catch a furrowed brow and a slight, sharp gesture from one toward the other. I watch surreptitiously, then look back at Netiqret.

“They’re arguing. You think they’re going to make a scene.”

She doesn’t reply; we keep walking, and I resist the urge to crane my neck and look back around. There’s nothing, though. No rising voices, no commotion.

“Nothing happened.”

“But there was the possibility. More of one than anything on this side of the street. You have to play the odds and—”

There’s suddenly a sharp screech from behind us, somewhat distant now, and I glance over my shoulder to see one of the two women with her finger in the other’s face. Very much drawing attention, now, including from the Overseer.

I turn back to see Netiqret still looking ahead, but smiling an unmistakeably smug smile.

“Sometimes things go wrong. Someone will eventually find something interesting in your features, or notice you because some fool has smashed a jar next to you, or done something else stupid over which you have no control. If that happens, look people in the eye. Nod back if you’re nodded to, but never frown or smile. People remember if you seem like you’re friendly or unfriendly, interested or displeased. Just look through them. Like you’re thinking of something else. We all tend to imagine that everyone who looks at us will remember us, but to most people we’re just bricks in a wall. Anonymity isn’t about being invisible. It’s about being forgotten.” She glances at me, briefly assessing. “In time, we might have to pad out that physique of yours. Thicken up that beard. Teach you to walk with a touch more slouch. I doubt you’re going to be burning your face into the minds of any passing young women, but it won’t hurt to make sure.”

“Inspirational. Thanks.”

Netiqret ignores me. “The less predictable something is, the more it should be avoided. Move away from young children. They have a tendency to be interested in everything around them, cause accidents, shout or cry, and sometimes try and speak with passing strangers.” Her face shows what she thinks of that. “Not to mention that their parents are often more aware of their surroundings than other adults.”

She goes on like that for a while. Attractive or wealthy men and women, she suggests being near but not next to. Musicians—whom she seems to despise—she says to skirt completely. Though from the way she says it, I wonder whether she really simply hates music.

“And you’re certain the Overseers will always react in the manner you expect,” I half query eventually. Her observations have proven true, thus far, but it seems like it would only take one exception for disaster to strike.

“They’re different from the iunctii. Better to think of them as tools. A kind of flexible machinery, set in motion by Ka and then left to do their work. He tells them how they should react to their environment and then they will always, always do that. The same way, every time.”

We’ve almost caught up to the slow-moving funeral procession, wails gradually louder in our ears, green-glowing water of the Infernis visible now as the march nears its destination. I’ve seen the outer walls of the temple from over the other side of the river many times. Thirty feet high, glassy obsidian encompassing not only the Pyramid of Ka, but its vast surrounds. Acres of intricate structures. The barrier stretches for thousands of feet, a hard shell around the glittering, golden heart of Duat.

It’s broken only by the entrance. Three massive statues stand almost as high as the walls, elaborately carved in white stone as they guard the two obsidian gates between them. Representations of Ka, I assume. Identical visages of a stern, regal man, adorned in headdress and the long false beard that seems to be popular among noblemen here.

I study it all silently as we approach. The black walls are sheer and smooth and impenetrable: no climbing them, and no grapple that could possibly secure itself anywhere on their surface. If there was even anywhere inconspicuous to try, which I’m not convinced there would be.

And that’s only to get into the outer section of the temple compound. I have no idea what security will lie between there and the pyramid itself—but faintly, very faintly, I can hear its last line. The barely audible thrum that fizzes in the air, makes the hair stand up on the back of my neck.

“Shall we go in?”

I baulk. Just as she said earlier, the gates stand open, and a steady flow of people trickles between the looming statues. But there are Overseers at the entrance. “They look like they’re checking people’s faces.”

“They won’t be. Too many people, not enough reason. It would be a waste of Nomarch resources.”

“Nomarch?” I don’t know the word.

She hesitates, then nods off to the edge of the street, out of the crush. We take a seat on a low wall. “You see that symbol on the gate?”

I nod. Had noticed it almost as soon as it came in sight. Three filigreed lines branching downward from a central point, glittering against the black.

Even here, even now knowing it appropriated the image, it is impossible to escape the Hierarchy’s shadow.

“It’s a representation of Ka’s rule. Ka is at the top, and he controls the Nomarchs, who are special groups of iunctii he has acting together as single, controlling minds for each of his cities. Subordinate to him but completely separate from one another. Then, imagine a Nomarch is at the top, but governing its Overseers in the same way.”

I consider the symbol. Caeror, Ahmose, and Netiqret have all mentioned other cities like this one, though none of them seemed to know the exact number Ka rules. Interconnected by Channels, supposedly, like the one through which Caeror brought me to Qabr. Netiqret even intimated that there is some limited trade between them, apparently giving the priests and Ka-shabti access to meat and other livestock produce. “And all this means I don’t have to worry about my face being seen, because…”

“Think of the Overseers less as people, and more as limbs to the Nomarch’s mind. Appendages, rather than agents themselves.” Netiqret holds out a hand in front of her, palm out. Flexes her long fingers. “Our hands can convey to us the texture of a thing, but if we know what it should feel like, we usually don’t bother checking. To do otherwise would just be wasting time. Focusing on extra, mostly irrelevant information. Yes?”

I consider the analogy. “So you’re saying the Overseers aren’t the ones who know everyone in Duat—it’s these central iunctii, this ‘Nomarch,’ who do,” I say slowly. “They’re the mind. The ones in charge. And the Overseers will only convey information to it if the Nomarch first tells them there’s a reason to?”

“Exactly.” Netiqret’s nod is approving. “If an alarm were already raised, the Nomarch might instruct the Overseers to check everyone in the area. Dedicate more of its focus to verifying identities. But otherwise, it only screens people where it has to. It is always purposeful, never wasteful.” She stands, offering me a hand. “So are you coming?”

I don’t reply as I contemplate the black-clad figures in the distance. I knew they were less than human, at least partly. Was aware of their utter predictability. This still paints them in a new, somehow more horrifying light.

More importantly right now, though, I’m fairly sure Netiqret hasn’t told me this simply to be helpful.

The ululating screech of the paid mourners finally dies as we pass through the obsidian gates unchallenged and into a massive courtyard, twice the size of the Quadrum back at the Academy. Unlike much of the rest of the city’s east, every surface in here is polished-smooth obsidian reflecting golden light. Spare and beautiful in equal measure. A dozen different exits lead deeper into the complex, each with a different symbol on its door. Each one closed, and manned by Overseers.

At the far end of the courtyard, above the heads of a gathered crowd pungent with the smell of beer and unwashed sweat, I can see the shaven-headed priest and the rest of the procession standing in front of the bridge. Another massive obsidian double gate, also closed, shining scarab symbols filigreed into each side. The priest is intoning the rites behind the bier. The iunctii who carried it stand mute and straight behind him.

“You want me to get to Duat’s Nomarch.” The crowd around us is not so tightly packed or attentive that we cannot speak privately. When Netiqret arches an eyebrow at me, I shrug. “You know what I can do. You must know where it is. And you must have a way in,” I continue, extrapolating quietly.

The tall, grey-haired woman just smiles, keeps her eyes ahead. Body language natural. She’s been at this a long time, I suspect. “How many Overseers do you count?”

I look around casually. “Twenty?”

“Twenty-three that I can see. And those are just the ones in the open.” She sounds unconcerned. Like she’s discussing the weather. “This is the most protected structure in all of Duat. Tricky, if you want to get further in.”

“I never said I did.”

“You do if you want to reach the Nomarch.” She looks at me, now. Unflappable and certain. “I don’t know what you want, Siamun, but it doesn’t matter. With what you can do? Get in there, and the city is yours for the taking.”

I watch the proceedings at the bridge. Men unshaven. Women with black streaks running down their cheeks, their clothes torn. Some of the grief is real, I’m sure. “And of course, you’ll be needing something for yourself.” If there really is a group of iunctii acting as a guiding mind for the Overseers—and the Gleaners as well, I imagine—then it makes sense that they’re in the most secure area of Duat.

I’m fairly sure Ka is in there, too. But this might give me the chance to be certain. And to actually be prepared for whatever I am to face in that massive pyramid of his.

“We will get to that,” Netiqret concedes smoothly. “But first, I need to understand how you control the iunctii.”

“No.”

In the distance, the priest finishes his final threefold invocation and the massive obsidian gates swing slowly open. This is the closest I’ve been to the bridge. Thin, polished black stone underfoot. Fifty-foot statues towering on either side, looming over any who walk it. As is usual, it is completely empty. The dead alone are allowed to travel its length—the only time they are supposed to remove their face coverings in public. It is a parade of white in the early morning and late evening as iunctii travel from west to east and then back again. Silent and still at almost all other times of the day.

I look at those around us and am struck, not for the first time, at how breathlessly they watch the proceedings. How uncomfortably fervent the light is behind their eyes. A different, far more intense kind of belief compared to the staid rituals and recitations that I’m used to from Caten’s adherents. One, if I am being honest, that makes me uneasy to be so thickly surrounded by.

The ululating begins again and the iunctii raise the bier. Commence solemnly carrying the corpse into the green-tinted gauntlet of sullen statues. I squint at the white stone archway they’re moving beneath; I hadn’t spotted it before but there’s something inscribed on it. Vetusian, I realise with a start, not written in the glyphs I’ve become accustomed to here.

Death is the door to life.

I frown, distracted. An old Vetusian quote. The first writing of any kind I’ve seen here that is familiar. An echo of home.

Gods, I wish Caeror was here to talk to.

Netiqret hasn’t reacted to my refusal, watching as well. As the gates slowly shut again, concealing the dead man’s journey to the west, she sighs. Beckons, and we join the gradually increasing flow of people exiting the courtyard.

Once we’re outside the temple again, Netiqret leads us along the river. “Tell me about ‘Ahmose.’ ” She says the name as if I’ve made it up, for some reason.

“Ahmose?” I look at her blankly.

“Short? Nervous all the time?”

“You know all there is to know, I think. He was a craftsman until about a decade ago, when he died suddenly. Spent most of the past ten years working the upper level. Then one day he woke up, and the all-loving Ka was trying to replace his arms with swords.” I smile tightly.

The crowds are thinning; the air near the Infernis is faintly corrosive and most avoid this route. Soon we find ourselves in relative isolation. Netiqret seats herself on a low wall and pats the spot next to her. “Are you the one who brought him back?”

I snort as I sit. “Of course not. Only the priests—”

“Fine. Fine.” She looks relaxed. “How much do you want for him?”

I stare at her. Don’t really understand for a long few seconds. “He’s my friend.”

“Friend? You two don’t seem to have much in common.”

“That’s not how friends work, Netiqret.” I say it irritably. “Gods’ graves. He’s a good man. Trying to be better. Trying to come to terms with the fact that he lived his entire life believing a lie. In easier circumstances, we might not have had much to do with each other. But we do, and I respect him.”

She purses her lips at that. Leans forward, watching the pulsing lines of light running along the river. “Remember that he is also only a iunctus, Siamun. Most in Duat would tell you that Ka always protects the ones who should reach Aaru and that any he does not, have simply failed their trials. And that their loss has already been properly mourned.”

A long silence as my heart drops. The golden light of Ka’s pyramid subtly brightens. The marker of the changing of the hour, heading into afternoon. “What do you mean?”

I know what she means.

“I am sorry, Siamun,” she says quietly. “But the Nomarch is looking for him. He is just too much a risk.”