Max Allan Collins

into battle femininely attired. Isis's warrior women had discarded their sheer veils and, though still underclad, their breasts and loins were garbed in the dark leathers that accompanied them into combat.

Philos said to Isis, 'That's it—over there.'

He was pointing to a large metal grate on the street, not far from the royal guards. The scientist had played a large role in their preparations for this invasion by the small raiding party—as Memnon's former court magician, Philos had knowledge of the palace that had proved invaluable.

The queen and her warrior women jumped down from the cart, and one of the red-turbaned guards— his attention already caught—strode over, calling, 'You there! You wenches!'

Isis turned and regarded him with a steely stare; the guard drew his sword as he approached. Resting the tip of the weapon to the queen's slender throat, the guard growled, 'And what are you up to, you women?'

'Remove your sword from my neck,' the queen commanded.

He frowned. 'No female tells me what to do!'

She leaned forward, causing the point of the sword to dimple her own flesh, her eyes flashing as she said, 'There's always a first time.'

Then she leaned away from the blade and, in a move as swift as it was graceful, a blur in the star­tled guard's eyes, Isis swung around her right leg and her foot caught the man's wrist, sending his sword flying end over end into the air.

And when the weapon came down, the queen snatched it into her grasp, as easy as picking a grape off a bunch, the pommel making a nice fit in her hand. The guard barely had time for any of this to register, before Isis returned his sword to him—driv­ing it deep into his chest.

She regarded his startled expression, and the wide empty eyes, in the guard's face; then she said, 'A first time, and a last,' and pushed him to the ground.

The other guards regarded this with amazement for a few moments, then belatedly drew their swords and rushed over, as the warrior women—lithe and graceful as any harem-girl dancers—drew their own blades, dispatching the sentries quickly, all but si­lently. Blood tan and glistened in the moonlight, as Philos—shaken by such butchery, however noble its cause—helped Arpid unload the cart of the sacks the women had been seated upon ...

... sacks of black powder, that formula from China the scientist had finally mastered.

In the meantime, the cloaked Balthazar was grip­ping that metal grate in the street with both powerful hands, pulling it free with a creak, nothing more. For all that had happened in these fast minutes, the sounds had been minimal; their presence remained undetected ... by anyone still alive, at least.

Torch in hand, Arpid scrambled up beside the Nubian and they exchanged glances. Then the little man hopped down into the cavity provided by Balthazar's removal of that grating. He used his torch to get his bearings down there, then found a place to prop the flaming light. His face, reflected orange, looked up from beneath the street.

'All right,' he said to Balthazar. 'Let's go.'

The broad-shouldered king directed the women warriors to pass along the bags of powder, one to the other from the cart. Arpid took the first of these bags, which was leaking the black substance. The thief took a pinch and flicked it at the torch, which flared brightly, delighting Arpid.

'Did you see that?' he asked.

Philos, nearer the cart, said, 'Yes, wonderful... Keep lighting that powder for fun, and see if you can't kill us all, why don't you?'

Isis was handing down another bag of powder to the little thief, who responded with a pout, mum­bling, 'Just an experiment. .. Where would that fool be without experiments?'