A Stranger in the Pharaoh's Court - 2

You burst through the door to Shem’s home. The young Anubis had left you for dead, if by dead you mean having your mortal soul threatened with proactive marriage by a powerful queen. She leapt from her chair, Aya snorting, “I told you so.”

“Shut up! Why are you back?”

You shrugged, “What? Did you expect her to marry me on the spot Shem?” Shem’s ears flopped down, she was expecting exactly that. You took a seat in the living room and sighed, “I need to find something to occupy myself with.”

Aya pulled you back kicking and screaming, “Hold on a sec, what did the Pharaoh say to you?”

“Huh?”

Her bovine eyes were filled with a familiar curiosity, “It’s rare for her to decide on a private audience with… anyone! What did you say that interested her so?”

“I mentioned the Ryu.”

“The Ryu? Ah! I’ve heard tales of their beauty and grace!” Shem recounts dreamily, “I hope I can meet one for myself one day.” Her fantasies were shattered as she realized what had happened, “Wait! You’re married to a Ryu?!”

You sigh, “I never said I was married to her Shem, pay attention, will you?”

“Sorry. But, how did you meet a Ryu?”

“If you’re in the East it isn’t a difficult task, they’re well revered amongst the people and help bring the rains during the farming seasons. You can find them by visiting one of many shrines.”

“And one of these wonderful, heavenly maidens taught you to love?”

You roll your eyes, “She taught me something alright…”

“What was that?”

“Nothing. No, they didn’t teach me to love. I’m more than capable of such a feat without instruction. That is beside the point. It seems that my mentioning them has inflamed the Pharaoh’s competitive spirit. She was outraged that there was a woman I considered more attractive than her. It was a declaration of war.”

“See, they’re practically married already,” Aya chuckled. “There’s no way this doesn’t end with her riding you until your hips shatter.”

You cover your eyes with a forearm, “I’ve broken bones before, but not like that.” There are dozens of little breaches and scars that run up and down the skin there. Each one tells a story about your time in Zipangu.

“With that said, we need to find a wedding gift fit for a pharaoh. What would you like?” Aya asks, taking no small amount of joy from the situation.

“What does she do with all of the things people give her?” you ask.

Shem explains, “Those tributes? It’s an open secret that she donates many of those less sentimental gifts to the lower ward of the city. Nobles will not curry any favour with her by dispatching chests of gold – she is the richest woman in the city! She is a kind and noble ruler.”

Shem sure enjoys her speeches talking up the pharaoh. Aya yawns and stretches out, “I don’t know about you, but I feel like relaxing for a while after all of that work.” You look down to your poor, battered feet and feel inclined to agree.

“Where can I find a place to sleep?” You pull out your purse and count through the paltry coinage that remains. This isn’t going to go very far. You’ll have to hunt down some work to eat well while you’re here.

Shem seemed offended, “Don’t be foolish, you’re our guest! We have a spare bedroom that you may use at your leisure.”

“What about your mother?”

“She is rarely home - and she would not mind having a guest over for a few days. Greater strangers have moved in before.”

“Then I shall take you up on that offer.”

Shem led you through the corridors of her rather large abode until you came upon an open plan room with a large, velvet covered bed atop a raised platform. There was little in the way of privacy here. The nights could be sweltering or freezing depending on the season. It was easier to wrap up in a well-weaved blanket than to cool yourself down. Sometimes you envy the men who are married to women of an icy disposition. You strip yourself of the clothes Shem provided, which is an easy feat given how bare-bones they are, and collapse onto the bed with a sigh.

---
When you awake the next morning. You find a new set of more practical clothes outside your bedroom. A simple shawl that reaches down to your knees, a colourful plaid headwrap, and some shorts. You quickly dress yourself before either of the women can see you in the nude. You stroll back into the front room of the manor and find Shem and Aya lounging around.

“Good morning.”

Aya claps her hands together, “Do you want to go see the city? I have a few chores to do.”

You look the Shem, “Are you coming?”

“No, I have to go to work. Mother was quick to assign me a new job when I returned.”

Strange. You haven’t seen her. Aya slaps you on the back and leads you out through the door and onto the streets. The city is lively. It makes a nice change from the serene and overly people-conscious villages that you visited in Zipangu. “What kind of errands are we doing?”

“I do odd-jobs for anyone looking for some muscle. Construction work, moving things at the market, that kind of thing. Since I’m back, I need to get in touch with my regulars and see if they have anything for me.” Aya leads you to the market square. There are dozens and dozens of stalls of all shapes and sizes running up and down the marble slate. It’s well kept, which is unusual. Most town markets are muddy free-for-alls with no planning or thought behind them. That’s what a population of schedule obsessed canines can do for you.

“Hey Boss, I’m back!” she declares to an older man. He adjusts his clothes and shakes her hand.

“Oh, Aya! I was just wondering what had happened to you.”

“Shem dragged me off on one of her little adventures.”

“I see. I hope you had a nice journey,” he turns to regard you, “And who is your friend?”

“I’m just passing through,” you explain, “Aya and Shem met me on the road.”

“He’s paying for room and board, so do you have any work for us?”

“As a matter of fact, I do,” he smiles, “I just received a new delivery of goods. I need a few pairs of hands to move them.”

“Same spot as always?”

“Yes, yes. Come back when you’re done.”

Aya leads you around the back of the row of shops. Out back is another small side road. Like the back of a stage, this is where the magic happens. Carts and shop owners hustle to move crates of food, clothing and jewellery. A cart is parked behind the stall – stacked to the limit with boxes of fruit and vegetables.

Aya doesn’t wait. She hoists one of the crates from the cart and carries it over into the back of the stall. You stretch out your arms and follow suit. The two of you work in tandem to carry the supplies into the back of the stall. “So how does this work?” you ask. “This doesn’t seem like a secure place to keep your stock.”

“They have an eye for this,” Aya responds, “They know how much they’ll sell in one day. There are warehouses that provide this service to the market. If they think they aren’t going to sell the lot, they close early and go home.”

Not the most efficient way to use your time. With two people working hard, the task was done within half-an-hour. You go back through the curtain; the stall owner is surprised to see you back so soon.

“Already?”

“My friend here was helping out.”

He looks at you with a sceptical eye. “I can’t complain I suppose.” He searches through his pocket and throws a small beige bag into Aya’s hand, “The usual. I think Hassan is looking for assistance too.”

“Thanks for the tip.”

The pleasantries are interrupted by the sound of a commotion breaking out on the main avenue. You and Aya walk out to see a gang of what you can only describe as pretend gangsters. They are skinny and their stance betrays their lack of experience in combat, yet here they are, trying to intimidate a local merchant and lording over his cart.

“Ah, this scum again.”

There are seven of them in total. Some of them are armed with crude blunt weapons made from wood and iron. Such belligerence in public! They push the merchant to the ground and begin to rife through his belongings like a pack of jackals. You step towards them with intent, “Hey, wait a second! Where are you going!?”

The punks come to a stop when they see you standing in the middle of the road. The leader of the band hops down from the cart and approaches you, “You got a problem? This man owes us money.” He has terrible breath and even worse teeth. Even the most desperate monster girl would be liable to avoid a man like this.

“I doubt that.”

Your height advantage over the man does not deter his misplaced aggression. “What are you going to do about it?”

“If you don’t stop? You’ll all be waking up in a cell.” The other men laugh at your proclamation, but the leader of the gang doesn’t find your prediction quite so funny. He raises his arm, club held up high. Ready to come down on your head and split your skull in two.
Too slow.

The breath leaves his lungs. He collapses to the floor clutching his stomach. The other men stop laughing. “What the – he got the boss!” The men hop off the ransacked cart and charge at you with their own crude weapons. One clumsily swings at you from a distance, you sidestep him like a flowing river and trip him over using your leg in the process. The next manages to keep his footing until he is met with your knuckles shattering his nose.

One of the sticks hits your forearm, you close in on the attacker and grab him by the shoulder, you hit him once, twice, before throwing him over you in a hip-toss that puts much of the impact on his hips and bottom. He yowls in pain, unable to decide on which injury hurts the worst.

Two of them attack you simultaneously. You leap into the air and strike out with your left arm, striking one of them with a flesh-bruising blow, your right leg, using the momentum of that movement, swipes the other man across the skull and sends him tumbling onto the sidewalk. The two collapse like a house of cards.

While you’re landing and regaining your balance, the last man standing tries to take advantage and take you down. You swivel on the ball of your foot like a trained ballerina and slap him down with a brutal backhand blow. You balance on one leg, arms outstretched like a bird.

The boss finally comes to, only to find his backup dispatched by a complete stranger. He yells in anger and charges at you again. You springboard yourself up into the air and strike him clean under the chin with a crane-kick. His eyes turn glassy as he is finally knocked unconscious.

You dust yourself off and turn back to the minotaur, “See, no problem.”

Aya is catching flies, her mouth is open wide.

“Aya?”

“W-What in the Pharaoh’s name was that!?” Several heavily armoured guards round the corner at the behest of a concerned onlooker, but they themselves are shocked to see that all of the attackers have been dealt with. You don’t see what the big deal is, anyone with your level of training could deal with this much.

You scratch your head, “Didn’t I already tell you? That Ryu. She taught me how to fight.”