The Age of Ra

7. Zafirah

It was another kind of caravan, albeit a modern one consisting of a motley assortment of jeeps and other four-wheel drives, the majority of them converted to carry heavy-calibre machine guns and RPG launchers. They filed across the desert in a ragged line, travelling mostly at night. By day the vehicles would be parked in the lee of a rock formation or the shade of a palm oasis and have camouflage netting pulled over them. Their occupants would then sleep, or play cards, or roll cigarettes and aromatic joints and drink endless glasses of sweet mint tea, which David would share with them even though to him it tasted like liquid chewing gum.

After days of walking followed by weeks on camel back, David was finding it a relief simply to be in motorised transport. A bench seat in the rear of a canvas-topped Luaz ZT off-roader was the plushest armchair imaginable. The rumble of a Ukrainian-built engine was a lullaby. For a large portion of each journey he slept soundly, head angled against the canvas awning, feet perched on a case of grenades.

Zafirah, the group's leader, seemed amused by this.

''Stiff?'' she asked him one morning as he stood beside the car massaging a crick out of his neck. ''Perhaps I could arrange to get you a pillow.''

''Sheets and blankets too, if you don't mind,'' David replied.

She didn't quite laugh but the skin around her lustrous green-and-brown eyes did crinkle slightly.

''You don't behave like a captive at all,'' she said. ''You seem so calm.''

''Am I a captive, Zafirah?''

''That depends. Maybe.''

''Only, I've been taken prisoner twice in the past month or so, so I'm getting to be something of an expert. And this doesn't feel like captivity to me. You've even given me a change of clothes.'' His uniform was gone, replaced by a borrowed shirt and jeans.

''So if this isn't captivity, what does it feel like?''

David frowned. ''Hard to put into words. It's more like you're letting me come along for the ride, rather than forcing me to. Besides, Freegyptian guerrillas aren't renowned for kidnapping foreigners, as far as I'm aware.''

''Perhaps not. But we are always looking for ways to fund our efforts. What if we're taking you somewhere in order to ransom you back to the British army?''

''Then,'' said David, ''I say go right ahead, and I hope you get a decent sum for me.''

They were members of the Liberators of Luxor, one of the dozen or more rogue paramilitary factions at large within Freegypt. Ostensibly the country was under the rule of the Secular People's Front, the dominant political party in the government, but it and Prime Minister Bayoumi controlled little more than a swathe of the north-east. South of Cairo all the way down to Abu Simbel, everything became a broiling free-for-all, particularly along the Nile's fertile banks. Up in Lower Freegypt, around the Nile Delta, they were welcome to fiddle about with democracy if they liked. They could do as they pleased there in the north, with their industry and their urbanisation and their trading ports. But down south, in the Upper part of the country, where poverty was rife and most people lived at subsistence level, democracy remained a notional concept at best, a nice idea but as unaffordable as silk. There was either lawlessness or there were warlords imposing their own regional dominion, which amounted to the same thing.

A land without gods is a land without order. This was the collective international consensus on Freegypt, and most Freegyptians would admit that their nation was not without its chaotic elements.

But look at the rest of the world, they would reply. Look at the divine power blocs and their constant warring. Look at the death and madness that ravages the entire globe. And then tell us that lands with gods are doing any better.

Zafirah had no surname that David knew of — none that she would tell him, at any rate. She seemed fascinated by his surname, however. She would use it at almost every opportunity. ''Westweenter,'' laying marvellous, elongating emphasis on the middle syllable. He liked to watch her closely when she said it. Her lips would purse, then part in a shape that could be as equally a smile as a sneer, before coming together again at the end as if to kiss. Her soft accent made the fusty Englishness of the name exotic. In her mouth it became weird, unfamiliar, a kind of incantation. It seemed to mean something to her that it didn't to anyone else.

He also liked to watch Zafirah closely when she wasn't saying his name, or even talking to him. When she was ordering her men around, for instance. She would stand and issue rapid-fire instructions, her hand cocked on her hip, her head raised at an angle — jauntiness and haughtiness combined, a perfect blend of opposites. The men scurried when she spoke. They feared her but, more than that, they were besotted with her.

David could see why. It was the same reason he liked watching her so much. Zafirah had long sleek black hair, a figure made for the tight khaki shirts and chinos she liked to wear, and squarish features which offset one another nicely, the straight nose complementing the full lips, the full lips complementing the firm chin, and so on. Above all she had those eyes, the green starring the brown of their irises, jade on topaz. She didn't surround them thickly with kohl, as all the fashionable women in England did. She left them bare, unframed, open, and their paleness contrasted hauntingly with the dark tawniness of her complexion.

No, he didn't feel like her captive. Not in the conventional sense.

But in another sense he did.

She caught him one afternoon studying the strongboxes which the Liberators had stolen from the Bedouin. It was five days since the raid on the camp, and the strongboxes hadn't yet been broached. They were stacked in the back of one of the cars, padlocks still in place.

''Curious?''

David jumped. He wasn't a nervy sort but she could move stealthily, could Zafirah.

''You lost men to get hold of these,'' he said. ''Whatever's in them is clearly worth a great deal. I hope it is, at any rate.''

She pointed to the markings. ''Do you not read hieroglyph? Or did you stare out of the window all the time you were supposed to be learning it at school?''

''Mine's pretty rusty. I see the ideograms for 'god' and 'servant' joined together, meaning 'priest', so I'm assuming there's something ba-blessed inside. But as for the rest of it… Those are the names of the gods, aren't they? And the sign of a necklace can stand for any number of things — strength, happiness, gold. I can't put it all together in a way that makes sense.''

''It's a puzzle for you, then. A challenge. You strike me as a man who likes challenges.''

You're a challenge and I like you, David thought.

Then, to his shock, he realised he had actually said it out loud.

Zafirah blinked slowly, a deprivation of treasures.

''I don't think that's…'' she began.

''Appropriate? Relevant? Proper? You're right, you're so right, absolutely. I didn't say it. It never happened.''

Stupid, stupid, stupid…

David hated how easily embarrassed he could sometimes be. He knew he didn't lack courage, but in certain awkward situations he would always retreat in a hurry, taking refuge behind a barricade of diffidence or dry humour. Better to do that than press on with an attack that might leave him exposed, vulnerable.

''Well,'' said Zafirah. ''Yes, then. Good.''

To her relief, and David's, one of her men shouted for her attention.

''I must go,'' she said, turning away. ''Something about the weather.''

She paused, then turned back.

''You ran into that Bedouin camp, under heavy fire, to save people,'' she said. ''People who'd been going to sell you to the Nephthysians.''

''Yes. And?''

''Nothing. But as we're talking about challenges — why?''

''Seemed like the right thing to do. Seemed worth it.''

She gazed at him. ''Most challenges are,'' she said finally, and walked away.

''Something about the weather'' turned out to be a sandstorm blowing in from the east. But rather than batten down the hatches and stay put, the Liberators leapt into their cars and hared off in convoy.

The sky dimmed in an eerie twilight, the air browning as though burnt. David peeked through the rear flap of the ZT's awning to see a wall of dust approaching, like hills on the move. It filled the horizon, rising higher as it swept closer. It was coming fast, faster than the cars could go, and it gave off a monstrous moan, which David could hear even above the off-roader's roar.

The sandstorm engulfed the tail end of the convoy. One after another, vehicles were swallowed into its billowing mass, disappearing from sight. When it reached the ZT there was a whump that rocked the car on its shock absorbers. The awning clenched like a startled heart. Ahead and behind, visibility was reduced to a few yards. Sand swarmed and scratched all around, hissing like a million emery boards. The wind slammed itself in from every side, knocking the off-roader about. David clung onto the roll bars for support, while the driver and passenger up front, securely seatbelted, chortled and whooped. Their radio transceiver jabbered constantly, members of the group keeping one another updated on their whereabouts and making wild jokes about the driving conditions. As long as each car remained in view of the next in line, nobody would get lost.

They pressed on for hours through the seething storm. The ZT's windscreen wipers worked tirelessly, clumping the sand at the edges of the glass, until all at once they were no longer needed. The sky, like a miracle, cleared. The sandstorm had blown itself out.

The Liberators regrouped. Zafirah came over to the ZT just as a jolted and dazed David climbed out.

''Bet you didn't sleep through that,'' she said.

David clapped dust off his hair and clothing. The awning had been anything but airtight. ''You lot have a strange sense of fun.''

''Fun? You think that's why we did what we just did?''

''Looked that way to me.''

''The sandstorm was cover. We travel at night for the same reason. So we won't be seen.''

''By who? The Nephs? The Setics? Us? But Freegypt's a no-fly zone. There are no spotter planes here, no Saqqara Birds, none of that. It's not allowed.''

''That's where you're wrong. We believe the Nephthysians are keeping an eye on us all the time. And not only them. We have to be incredibly careful.''

''Paranoia. This is the only place on earth the major powers aren't interested in. The gods couldn't agree among themselves who should own the land where their worship first sprang up, so they decided it was best if none of them had it. Meaning none of the divine power blocs can lay claim to it. Even spying on Freegypt is against international law. Not just that, it's tantamount to heresy.''

''Freegypt, the Unholy Land,'' said Zafirah with a trace of sarcasm. ''The world's blind spot.''

''Yes!'' said David. He looked at her. ''Or… no?''

She shook her head. ''Not any more.''

''What's happened?''

''More like what's happening. Have you not heard of Al Ashraqa? The Lightbringer?''

''The who?''

''Evidently not. I suspect the Hegemony governments know about him, even if they haven't shared that knowledge with the public. The Nephthysians have certainly heard of him, the Setics too. They've heard of him and they're very, very scared of him.''

''The Lightbringer. Who is he?''

''A man.''

''Does he have another name? A proper one?''

''He does, but very few people know it.''

''What is he then, some local warlord with ambitions? He wants to take over all of Freegypt, and the Nephs are scared he'll destabilise the country even further and trouble will spill over the borders into their territory?''

''No.''

''Could you be any more enigmatic?''

''Does it annoy you?''

''Frankly, yes.''

''Then I will try to be as enigmatic as I can possibly be,'' Zafirah said, and for the very first time he heard her laugh. It was taunting laughter but he liked it nonetheless.

''So you've massaged my curiosity and now you're going to leave me dangling, so to speak,'' David said.

''Yes.''

''You could at least give me some clue about him.''

''Why? You'll find out all you need to know soon enough.''

''Eh?''

''Where do you think we are headed, David Westweenter? We are headed for the Valley of the Kings, and there we are going to meet the Lightbringer.''