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The cook, who loved no
one, disliked Kemni less than most.
    After an endless while, Ptahmose and his men removed
themselves from the ship. Naukrates went with them, or close behind them. There
was no urgency in it, that Kemni could hear or sense.
    He was sweltering in the dim box of the cabin, but he did
not leave it just then. He lay on the bunk. Perhaps he slept. He might have
dreamed; but he did not choose to remember.
    ~~~
    When he sat up with a start, the heat had abated a little.
The cabin was dimmer than ever. Dancer was as quiet as she could be, a sunset quiet.
    He came out carefully, keeping to shadows. The deck was all
but deserted. Most of the crew had gone ashore. Those who remained were quietly
watchful. No ordinary sailors, those. Kemni knew the look of fighting men.
    Naukrates might seem unconcerned, but he was well on guard.
Kemni eased a little, seeing that.
    His frequent place on the deck had altered. Some of its
familiar boxes and bales were gone. Others had taken their place. Kemni found a
shadow to rest in, with even a whisper of breeze, and no more stinging flies
than strictly necessary. It was almost pleasant.
    As he lay there, quiet but alert, like the watch, some few
of the crew came back—early, from the greetings they received. He could
understand a little of it, not every word but enough. They had met a friend, or
an ally, or someone equally well disposed toward them. They were bringing that
one to the ship. And indeed there was a stranger among them, a figure as
shadowy as Kemni tried to be. It was wrapped in a mantle even on such a night
as this, its movements almost soundless, slipping through the kilted or naked
crewmen. They gave way as it passed, as men would to one of greater rank than
they.
    For a while Kemni wondered if Naukrates had come back, for
some reason in disguise. But this was a smaller figure, lighter on its feet,
and quicker, too. Before he was fully aware of its intent, it was standing over
him, a shrouded shadow, and deep within the darkness, a gleam of eyes.
    He hoped the stranger could see more of him than he could
of—her?
    Yes, her. It was not anything he saw, but his skin knew, and
the marrow of his bones. She did not move like a woman, nor stand like one; she
had a man’s sure step and his arrogant carriage. But he could not, once he
knew, mistake her for anything but a woman.
    She spoke in the Cretans’ language. Her voice was low, but
it was clear. “This is the one?”
    The captain of the watch had come up behind her. “Yes,” he
said.
    “He looks harmless enough,” she said. “Tell him he will dine
with me.”
    “I will dine with you,” Kemni said. His tongue was not as
quick as his ears, yet, but he could say that much, and even be understood.
“But first, tell me who you are, and why I should do what you tell me.”
    “Because I tell you,” she said.
    Kemni’s brows rose. Egypt had its fair share of imperious
women, but he had never seen one quite as imperious as this.
    No one else seemed startled or even amused. The sailors conducted
themselves as if this were only as it should be; and in Crete, who was to say
that it was not?
    Kemni, who was a guest in this place, determined to conduct
himself as a guest should do. This woman, whoever she was, did not dine below
as the captain did. For her they raised a canopy on the deck, and lit it with
lamps, then closed it in with hangings of fine Egyptian linen, covered over
with plainer, duller stuff to deceive any eyes that might see. And when all was
ready, they let Kemni in.
    He entered a space that though small, seemed as wide as a
palace. The linen hangings, the lamps hung or set with cunning intent, balanced
light and shadow in ways that were almost magical. There were two couches set
facing one another, spread with the faded splendor that Kemni had seen often in
the captain’s cabin, and a low table between.
    She reclined on the couch farthest from the entrance. He did
not know why he had expected a