Now the Akkadian moved forward, to the nearest of the fetish poles, and reached up and deftly hooked the hook over the top of the shaft.
'You beast,' she snapped. 'What in the name of the gods are you doing?'
'Nothing, in the name of the gods.' Mathayus gave her the slightest smile. 'Just marking the way for your lord and master.'
She reared back, almond eyes narrowed, chin crinkled in contempt. 'No man is my master.'
'Perhaps not,' he said, as he slung himself up behind her, onto the generous nomadic saddle, 'but your view is unimportant... How Memnon sees you is all I care about.'
And the Akkadian jogged his camel into motion, heading down into the desolate valley. Rough as the ride was, it was not as blistering—literally —as the desert they soon found themselves in, where the sand blazed under the sun, and the skeletons of those who had tried to come this way before them had left their remains as grotesque sun- bleached markers.
Cassandra stiffened as she saw a scorpion crawl from the eye socket of one human skull, and Mathayus asked, amused, 'Afraid of a little bug?'
She said nothing; and certainly did not reveal that a flash, a shard of a vision, had knifed through her consciousness. The man behind her was somehow tied to that scorpion; but she knew not how. ...
From time to time, Mathayus relented and walked as the thief rode. The little man had come this far; that much the Akkadian had to hand him. That Arpid would face the vast empty desert with them, trudge along at their side, rarely complaining, had made him one of them. Even the woman was no trouble. Only the sun, that burning sun, seemed his enemy.
Thorak and his band of a dozen good men were several hours behind the little party. A forward tracker reached the ridge of fetish poles by sunset, and he snatched the sorceress's golden hoop from the skull atop one pole, and rode back to the line of red-turbaned men to deliver it to his commander.
The scar on Thorak's face stood out whitely in his flushed face, as rage crawled through him like an invader, the warrior well aware the Akkadian was baiting him, taunting him. ...
Normally they would have made camp now, but Thorak pushed his troops onward; they would ride until the sun was a memory
In the cool night blueness of the desert dunes, under a sky glittering with more jewels than any warlord could secure, the Akkadian, the thief, the woman and the camel slept. Or at least the thief slept, on his side of the fire, his deafening snoring making slumber more difficult for the others.
Still, Mathayus managed to sleep—his scimitar crossed on his chest, ready for any attack—and so did Cassandra, at least until a particularly loud snort from the snoozing thief popped her eyes open.
Wide-awake, suddenly, she glanced over at Mathayus, who—despite the logs Arpid was noisily sawing in his sleep—did not stir. She rose as silent and graceful as a gentle wind, watching the Akkadian all the while, seeing that sleep continued....
At first she walked, looking back at the fire and the camp, the sand brushing her feet lightly; then she began to run. She knew Memnon would send his men looking for her; if she could get as far away as possible from the assassin, before daybreak, perhaps ...
... perhaps fifteen feet from camp, she fell face first into the sand, a silk line tied around her left ankle having pulled taut.
She turned over, breathing hard, and pulled at that line, as if a big fish might be at the other end; and she was right: Mathayus materialized out of the night, standing in front of her, the other end of the silk cord tied around his own left ankle.
'Where are you headed,
