Prologue

"Next, the priests read to me from a written record the names of three hundred and thirty monarchs, in the same number of generations, all of them Egyptian except eighteen, and one other, who was an Egyptian woman. This last had the same name - Nitocris - as the queen of Babylon. The story was that she ensnared to their deaths hundreds of Egyptians in revenge for the king her brother, whom his subjects had murdered and forced her to succeed; this she did by constructing an immense underground chamber, in which, under the pretense of opening it by an inaugural ceremony, she invited to a banquet all of the Egyptians whom she knew to be chiefly responsible for her brother's death; then, when the banquet was in full swing, she let the river in on them through a large concealed conduit-pipe. The only other thing I was told about her was that after this fearful revenge she flung herself into a room full of ashes, to escape her punishment."

Herodotus, Histories, Book II

"Then we saw the vast pyramids at the end of the avenue, ghoulish with a dim avatistical menace which I had not seemed to notice in the daytime. Even the smallest of them held a hint of the ghastly - for was it not in this that they had buried Queen Nitocris alive in the Sixth Dynasty; subtle Queen Nitocris, who once invited all her enemies to a feast in a temple below the Nile, and drowned them by opening the water-gates? I recalled that the Arabs whisper things about Nitocris, and shun the Third Pyramid at certain phases of the moon."

H.P. Lovecraft, Imprisoned with the Pharaohs

"... braver than all the men of her time, the most beautiful of all the women."

Manetho of Sebennytos, Aegyptiaca

 
 
Port Alexandria, 1935

Pulvis et umbra sumus (We are dust and a shadow)

- Horace

decided that the two armed watchmen who so assiduously patrolled the environs of the warehouse could most conveniently be assiduous elsewhere. The fabric of the Shadow obliged me, and I heard their footsteps fade away into the Alexandrine night. I emerged from the darkened alley along which I had been taking my evening constitutional, and wandered over to the doorway. A single heavy padlock barred my way. This was easily remedied, and I slid into the Stygian interior of the low, wooden building. The day's heat had been trapped inside, and the warm, desiccated air smelt of fresh sawdust and aeon-old decay. I lit a lantern and began a quick inventory of the warehouse's contents. Stelae from Tel el-Amarna, bound for the University in Stuttgard; fragments of a Coptic mosaic bound for a private collector in Rome; papyri packaged neatly for the Curator of Antiquities at the Fitzwilliam in Cambridge; a statue of Anuat, Anubis' terrible predecessor, the Psychopomp, also known as Wepwawet, the Opener of the Way ... I paused at this one. Age and a power that age could not extinguish seeped from the bland timbers of the crate, a heady aroma of ancient sorceries and nameless dread. I was briefly tempted by this prize, its potency hinting darkly of powers that had been ancient even when this Shadow was young. However, it was not what I had come for. And in any case, others had wrestled this idol from the desert sands, and I was content to leave to them the fruits - and the undoubtedly unfortunate consequences - of their labours. I am a collector, not a thief. And when needs be, a hunter. What I sought was not of this Shadow, and might not reside here long. I resumed my inventory. Tomb inscriptions from the Valley of the Kings; votive figurines from Karnak; a pile of crates intriguingly labeled "Fragments of Unidentified Anular Stele Excavated at Giza Plateau"; seventeen mummified cats ... I checked inside - they all had alert, hopeful little faces painted on the bandages. Some things never change, no matter which Shadow of Egypt one finds oneself in. Next, a sarcophagus of Ptolemaic vintage - this was a little more promising, although my disposition was beginning to admit of a mild soupçon of pessimism. I should have sensed something of my quarry's aura by now. What else did we have? More inscriptions; a collection of canopi; a dismantled obelisk; five cases of pottery fragments from the Second Intermediate Period; an irate colonial waving a bullwhip. "Where is it, Mortlake?" he demanded. I sighed. The wretched man dogs my footsteps in practically every Shadow Earth I visit. And he always seems to know me. I really ought to inquire of Tristan if there is some way of using the Pattern to avoid casting Shadows of oneself. Nevertheless, I made an effort to greet him civilly. "Dr Jones," I said, "How are you on this fine Egyptian evening? And to what, sir, might you be referring?" "The Case," he growled, investing the word with a significant capital and quite audible italics, "I know you're after it. It belongs in a museum." I heartily concurred with this sentiment, although I suspected that we may have had rather separate institutions in mind. "Please," I said, gesturing around the dimly lit warehouse. I was by this stage confident that the artefact had gone. It had been here once, and recently, but it had slipped between the veils of Shadow yet again. At best we would find a bland simulacrum, an echo of its passing. I considered offering him a small wager, to the effect that he would find nothing, but it seemed rather unfair. I settled down beside the case of resinous felines, yielding the floor. My fellow antiquarian muttered something I didn't make out, and began peering into crates and boxes. A number of them he insisted on opening, mistrusting the various seals, stamps and labels that adorned them. I observed as he approached the crate containing the statue of Anuat, crowbar in hand. "I wouldn't," I murmured. I could feel the thing's malevolence from halfway across the warehouse. Naturally, he took this to signify that I was attempting to conceal something from him. This was not wholly unreasonable, I suppose. The box was the height of a man, and might easily contain a mummy case. I glanced away as wood splintered. This man was a respected academic, and he thought I was the willful desecrator of the past. Jones grunted as he uncovered the Psychopomp's sand-scarred eidolon, and for a moment he stood frowning at it, fingers rasping on his chin, as if willing it to turn into the inner sarcophagus of the legendary queen. Then he seemed to shiver, and looked away. "I'll find it," he told me. I murmured something agreeable to him to keep his spirits up, but I was already on my feet and reaching for the lantern. My gaze had been drawn to a shape that languished in the darkness beyond. People leave a lot of things in warehouses, but usually they don't leave disembodied legs. Leastwise, they do not leave disembodied legs of recent vintage. The leg in question transpired to be less disembodied than had appeared at first glance, being attached to an elderly fellow lying just out of sight. I recognised him at once, despite the twisted features and the clawed hands that obscured them, as if frozen in the process of fending off some unspeakable doom. Douglas Murray had not died well. Beside me, Jones grimaced. "Looks like the poor son of a bitch had a heart attack," he commented, not unsympathetically. However, always the scientist, his attention was quickly drawn to the open crate beside the body. Within was the distinct outline of a mummy case. I heard his sharp intake of breath as he grabbed at the lantern. I grabbed it back. It wouldn't be the one. I could tell without looking. I was more interested in determining how Murray had met his death. It never hurts to be able to fine-tune one's warding spells just a little bit more. Jones produced one of those clunky cigarette lighters so beloved of Americans, and began studying the cartouches engraved on the lid. "Eighteenth Dynasty," he muttered, his elation starting to fade, "just some priestess of Amun-Ra." He glowered at me as if I'd assayed some devious substitution behind his back. "It's not the mummy case of Nitocris at all." "Of course not," I agreed, peering at the terror-racked features of the corpse, "The mummy case of Nitocris doesn't exist. It never has. Because Nitocris herself is merely a myth." Which was true enough, in this Shadow at least. Well, it was true now. A gentleman never lies. And certainly not when a statement of the literal truth has the potential to circumvent more convoluted explanations. The object of my scrutiny was clutching something, a thin strip of cloth by the look of things, which I accordingly prised from his stiff, dead fingers. I was now holding a torn scrap of finest linen, dyed the colour of lapis lazuli. As I watched, it faded and crumbled, as if the millennia had only now deigned to take notice of it. I inhaled a dying scent of nocturnal blossoms, then the arid aroma of natron and bitumen, and then I was brushing dust from my fingertips. Murray had died recently, I noted, certainly within the past couple of hours. I had been a lot closer than I had thought, but regardless of this minor satisfaction, I was still going to have to begin my search all over again, because yet again I had been left with no discernible trail. Jones sat back, his mien one of dissatisfaction intermingled with scepticism. "So I've wasted an entire semester chasing a goddamn myth?" he snorted. Maybe the literal truth wasn't going to suffice after all. I opened my mouth to address a suitable rejoinder, when the door to the warehouse crashed open, and booted feet crunched on sand-strewn stone. I doused the lantern and peered round the corner, where I observed a number of grey uniformed individuals of Prussian demeanour fanning out amidst the crates. They were carrying sub-machine guns. I suspected that they were not the good professors of Wurttemberg come to check their stelae. Beside me, Jones had produced a large revolver. "Nazis," he groaned, "I hate those guys." This was entirely unsurprising and wholly predictable. In every Shadow where I encounter a Dr Jones, sooner or later a contingent of gun-wielding Nordic-supremacists will turn up and try and kill him. I imagine that he finds it almost as tedious as I do. I slid to my left between the piled crates and the wall, drawing and cocking Wilkes as I did so. Dashwood I had left at the hotel, since the wearing of a duelling sabre tends to attract adverse comment in 1930s Alexandria. However, now that I needed a blade, I found the self-same sabre leaning against the back of a travelling trunk. Soldiers bearing lanterns of their own were peering into shadows as I buckled on the scabbard. One of them spotted Jones, who had just assayed a rather futile attempt to break to the right towards the back of the warehouse. Why did he suppose I'd gone left? The man can be remarkably contrary at times. In short order a rather uneven gunfight had developed. Bullets splintered packing cases and chipped fragments from priceless antiquities. I pursed my lips. Normally I do not involve myself in the private wars of others, especially those of a gadfly like Jones, but around me were the fruits of half a dozen expeditions, the culmination of the work of twice that many real scholars and explorers. A few feet away from me the crate of mummified cats was hit by a burst of automatic fire, and one of Bast's diminutive companions toppled out, leaking a dark bituminous powder. The crudely painted face grinned up at me with imbecilic trust. Well, I had my excuse now. Few things ignite an Englishman's ire more than cruelty to animals. I stepped out from my place of concealment, skewered the nearest Prussian with one languid thrust, shot another, and kicked a third headlong into the nearest packing crate. Withdrawing Dashwood from the bloody grip of the first man's chest cavity, I opened the throat of a fourth with a back-swing, and side-stepped the resulting exsanguinary spray as I cocked Wilkes again, thereby also avoiding a rattle of machine gun fire from the main doorway. There had been about a dozen of them to begin with; now most of them were trapped between Jones and myself, apart from the one man left on guard, the one who had just taken exception to my intervention. I shot him through the head so that he wouldn't feel left out, and turned back to the others. The good Doctor, hitherto pinned down amidst the stelae and tomb paintings, had taken advantage of my appearance to gun down two soldiers who had turned to meet my attack. Another burst of gunfire sent him scurrying ignominiously for cover again. The surviving Nazis were also taking refuge amongst the sundry spoils of the archaeologist's art, except for the one I had kicked aside earlier, who was staggering towards me whilst making unpleasant gurgling sounds. His throat had been ripped out. He collapsed at my feet, and behind him I could see Anuat looking smug in the darkened recesses of his crate. His stone jaws seemed to be dripping wetly. I saluted the not wholly dead god's idol, and shot a Nazi who had had the temerity to emerge from hiding. From the far side of the warehouse came the sound of a breaking window. Jones was making good his escape. I had little reason to tarry any further. I strolled to the entrance, only to be confronted by a heavily perspiring round-faced gentleman in a long black leather trenchcoat, who was levelling a pistol in my direction. At the same time I heard footsteps behind me. I twisted to one side, allowing the man behind me to take the bullet intended for myself, and then ran the new arrival through. "Heil Hitler," he said as he died. I stepped over him and out into the cool night air, making a few slight alterations to the Shadow as I did so. The survivors, I decided, would most likely depart in the opposite direction. I cleaned Dashwood and sheathed it, and slid Wilkes into the hidden holster. Then I went for a walk. Jones was lurking in the alleyway, attempting to get his breath back. "I owe you one," he greeted me, a little grudgingly. I nodded noncommittally, aware that the next time we met it would probably be in a different Shadow, where the preceding events would never have happened. I offered him my hip flask just to make his obligation complete. "Who were your friends?" I asked. I wasn't especially interested, but I decided I might as well make conversation whilst I considered my next move. "Ahnenerbe, probably" said Jones, mispronouncing it as 'Annan-urb'. "Some military research institute," he continued, "Bunch of crackpots. I've run into them in Peru, Tibet, all over the place. They're big on collecting relics. Trying to prove old legends, that sort of thing. And they don't like rivals." This, coming from a man whose competitiveness had made him enemies throughout the academic world, struck me as a bit rich, but I didn't want to interrupt this unaccustomed bout of loquaciousness. I encouraged him to speak on. I might well encounter them again, and next time I might be the unwanted rival. "They probably thought the mummy case had some occult powers," he sneered. I smiled politely. Such an absurd notion. We strolled away from the dock area, back towards the lights and bars of modern Alexandria. Jones offered to buy me a drink. I reluctantly declined. I'd decided to return to Amber. I needed to think. "Well," said Jones, "I guess I'll see you around." I didn't think so, not in this Shadow anyway. However, I was feeling generous. I dipped into my pocket, and produced the map I'd acquired from the fever-ridden Frenchman in Napoleonic Cairo, three weeks and two Shadows ago. "Something to make up for your wasted semester," I said grandly, presenting it with a flourish. He peered at it suspiciously, and then his mouth dropped open. "Is this for real?" he asked. "Of course," I said. I had no idea how accurate it was in this Shadow, but it had certainly been genuine in the Shadow of its origin. A gentleman never lies. "The tomb of Alexander?" he demanded incredulously. "The one and only," I told him, another Shadow-dependent truth, "Go and make yourself a reputation." As a real archaeologist, I refrained from adding. His gratitude was tinged with a noticeable wariness. Academics are such suspicious buggers. Do them a favour, and they start looking for the catch. They're as bad as Amberites. Nevertheless, the map was now in Jones's pocket. I knew he'd be wiring his University for funds first thing in the morning, and would have an expedition put together within a week. Maybe he'd find the tomb, maybe he wouldn't. It would have made an interesting wager. If I hadn't been engaged in a more intriguing project, I might have offered to race him to the site. In fact, even with said prior commitment, the idea was really rather tempting ... Jones suddenly looked round, peering into the darkness behind us. "Did you hear that?" he asked. I shook my head. I hadn't heard anything, just the murmurs of the slumbering city and the occasional cries of its night-life. He shrugged, and allowed himself a faint grin of embarrassment. "Probably just a stray dog," he said, and then started again. "Or a jackal," he amended. "They do sometimes wander in from the desert at night," I agreed. I still hadn't heard anything. Then a thought occurred to me. "Did you touch the statue of Anuat at all?" I inquired casually. Jones frowned. "Maybe," he said, "Why?" Ah. A race to the tomb of Alexander suddenly seemed less of a challenge. He turned round for a third time, and then shook his head as if to clear it. "I need another drink," he said, "Sure you won't join me?" This time I decided to accept. Far be it from me to refuse a doomed man a last request. We found a seedy bar inhabited by expatriate Europeans and importuning locals. Dashwood, still slung on my hip, discouraged both fraternities from disturbing us. I let Jones talk. He was suggesting a joint expedition to the tomb. Whether he was trying to make up for his earlier surliness or whether he just wanted to have me where he could keep an eye on me, I neither knew nor cared. I turned him down - Alexander was a distraction, and I had much bigger fish to fry. We discussed expedition logistics for a while. Every so often he cocked his head, as if listening, and after a while I started agreeing with him that yes, maybe I could make out the faint, sobbing howl of the desert scavenger. It seemed the kindest thing to do. Eventually we parted, and he staggered off, full of alcohol and optimism. I watched him go as I shuffled out my Trumps. It could have been a trick of the light, but for a moment I though I could make out a second shadow gliding behind him, a long snout yawning. Anuatis pabulum, I thought. Food for Anuat. Alexander's final resting place would remain undisturbed for a while yet. No matter. I had exhausted this Shadow's attractions. And pace the great Macedonian general, there were still plenty of other worlds to conquer.

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