Rick Riordan - The Throne of Fire

The Chief Lector focused on an Asian man in blue robes. “Kwai, isn’t it?”

The man nodded.

“As I recall,” Desjardins said, “you were exiled to the Three-Hundredth Nome in North Korea for murdering a fellow magician. And you, Sarah Jacobi”—he pointed to a woman with white robes and spiky black hair—“you were sent to Antarctica for causing the tsunami in the Indian Ocean.”

Menshikov cleared his throat. “My lord, many of these magicians have had issues in the past, but—”

“They are ruthless murderers and thieves,” Desjardins said. “The worst of our House.”

“But they are anxious to prove their loyalty,” Menshikov assured him. “They are happy to do it!”

He grinned at his minions, as if encouraging them to look happy. None of them did.

“Besides, my lord,” Menshikov continued quickly, “if you want Brooklyn House destroyed, we must be ruthless. It is for the good of Ma’at.”

Desjardins frowned. “And you, Vladimir? Will you lead them?”

“No, my lord. I have full confidence that this, ah, fine group can deal with Brooklyn on their own. They will attack at sunset. As for me, I will follow the Kanes into the Duat and deal with them personally. You, my lord, should stay here and rest. I will send a scryer to your quarters so you may observe our progress.”

“‘Stay here,’” Desjardins quoted bitterly. “‘And observe.’”

Menshikov bowed. “We will save the House of Life. I swear it. The Kanes will be destroyed, the gods put back into exile. Ma’at will be restored.”

I hoped Desjardins would come to his senses and call off the attack. Instead, his shoulders slumped. He turned his back on Menshikov and stared at the empty throne of the pharaoh.

“Go,” he said wearily. “Get those creatures out of my sight.”

Menshikov smiled. “My lord.”

He turned and marched down the Hall of Ages with his personal army in tow.

Once they were gone, Desjardins held up his hand. An orb of light fluttered from the ceiling and rested on his palm.

“Bring me the Book of Overcoming Apophis,” Desjardins told the light. “I must consult it.”

The magic orb dipped as if bowing, then raced off.

Desjardins turned toward the purple curtain of light—the image of two figures fighting over a throne of fire.

“I will ‘observe,’ Vladimir,” he murmured to himself. “But I will not ‘stay and rest.’”

The scene faded, and my ba returned to my body.

FOR THE SECOND TIME THAT WEEK, I woke on a sofa in a hotel room with no idea how I’d gotten there.

The room wasn’t nearly as nice as the Four Seasons Alexandria. The walls were cracked plaster. Exposed beams sagged along the ceiling. A portable fan hummed on the coffee table, but the air was as hot as a blast furnace. Afternoon light streamed through the open windows. From below came the sounds of cars honking and merchants hawking their wares in Arabic. The breeze smelled of exhaust, animal manure, and apple sisha —the fruity molasses scent of water-pipe smoke. In other words, I knew we must be in Cairo.

At the window, Sadie, Bes, Walt, and Zia were sitting around a table, playing a board game like old friends. The scene was so bizarre, I thought I must still be dreaming.

Then Sadie noticed I was awake. “Well, well. Next time you take an extended ba trip, Carter, do let us know in advance. It’s not fun carrying you up three flights of stairs.”

I rubbed my throbbing head. “How long was I out?”

“Longer than me,” Zia said.

She looked amazing—calm and rested. Her freshly washed hair was swept behind her ears, and she wore a new white sleeveless dress that made her bronze skin glow.

I guess I was staring at her pretty hard, because she dropped her gaze. Her throat turned red.

“It’s three in the afternoon,” she said. “I’ve been up since ten this morning.”

“You look—”

“Better?” She raised her eyebrows, like she was challenging me to deny it. “You missed the excitement. I tried to fight. I tried to escape. This is our third hotel room.”

“The first one caught fire,” Bes said.

“The second one exploded,” Walt said.

“I said I was sorry.” Zia frowned. “At any rate, your sister finally calmed me down.”

“Which took several hours,” Sadie said, “and all my diplomatic skill.”

“You have diplomatic skill?” I asked.

Sadie rolled her eyes. “As if you’d notice, Carter!”

“Your sister is quite intelligent,” Zia said. “She convinced me to reserve judgment on your plans until you woke up and we could talk. She’s quite persuasive.”

“Thank you,” Sadie said smugly.

I stared at them both, and a feeling of terror set in. “You’re getting along? You can’t get along! You and Sadie can’t stand each other.”

“That was a shabti, Carter,” Zia said, though her neck was still bright red. “I find Sadie…admirable.”

“You see?” Sadie said. “I’m admirable!”

“This is a nightmare.” I sat up and the blankets fell away. I looked down and found I was wearing Pokémon pajamas.

“Sadie,” I said, “I’m going to kill you.”

She batted her eyes innocently. “But the street merchant gave us a very good deal on those. Walt said they would fit you.”

Walt raised his hands. “Don’t blame me, man. I tried to stick up for you.”

Bes snorted, then did a pretty good imitation of Walt’s voice: “‘At least get the extra-large ones with Pikachu.’ Carter, your stuff’s in the bathroom. Now, are we playing senet, or not?”

I stumbled into the bathroom and was relieved to find a set of normal clothes waiting for me—fresh underwear, jeans, and a T-shirt that did not feature Pikachu. The shower made a sound like a dying elephant when I tried to turn it on, but I managed to run some rusty-smelling water in the sink and wash up as best I could.

When I came out again, I didn’t exactly feel good as new, but at least I didn’t smell like dead fish and goat meat.

My four companions were still playing senet. I’d heard of the game—supposedly one of the oldest in the world—but I’d never seen it played. The board was a rectangle with blue-and-white-checkered squares, three rows of ten spaces each. The game pieces were white and blue circles. Instead of dice, you threw four strips of ivory like Popsicle sticks, blank on one side and marked with hieroglyphs on the other.

“I thought the rules of this game were lost,” I said.

Bes raised an eyebrow. “Maybe to you mortals. The gods never forgot.”

“It’s quite easy,” Sadie said. “You make an S around the board. First team to get all their pieces to the end wins.”

“Ha!” Bes said. “There’s much more to it than that. It takes years to master.”

“Is that so, dwarf god?” Zia tossed the four sticks, and all of them came up marked. “Master that!”

Sadie and Zia gave each other a high five. Apparently, they were a team. Sadie moved a blue piece and bumped a white piece back to start.

“Walt,” Bes grumbled, “I told you not to move that piece!”

“It isn’t my fault!”

Sadie smiled at me. “It’s girls versus boys. We’re playing for Vlad Menshikov’s sunglasses.”

She held up the broken white shades that Set had given her in St. Petersburg.

“The world is about to end,” I said, “and you’re gambling over sunglasses?”

“Hey, man,” Walt said. “We’re totally multitasking. We’ve been talking for like, six hours, but we had to wait for you to wake up to make any decisions, right?”