Post by landisfarne on Nov 18, 2005 18:05:36 GMT -5
Raquim al-Bint watched as the Frenchman passed through the gate below. From his vantage point he could see not only the gate and the street, but the harbor beyond. There, a single mast rose, tall, against the night sky. His own.
The human passed beneath the curtain of the overhang and Raquim turned away, back to his desk. A letter sat there, half-finished; he had already torn apart three previous attempts and now it seemed the fourth would prove equally frustrating. His replies to this sire seemed inadequate and frail. It was why, in the end, he chose to bring the news to him in person, dangerous though the trip would undoubtedly prove.
The Setite clenched his jaw, moving with ease to the countertop where his pet, a large, ghouled asp, reclined in the warmth of the torch nearby. He took up the serpent and allowed it to slither along his arm and up to his neck, where it draped itself over him. He also lifted the offending letter from his sire, holding it as though it were more dangerous than the asp around his neck. He did not need to reread it. He had already memorized it, word for word. Nevertheless, he peered down at it as though he might glean some new piece of information from the parchment. It was written in hieroglyphs, a language that had not been spoken by living tongues in over a thousand years.
He replaced the parchment gently, returning to the window.
He felt ill.
His first response had been anger: How could his sire, so far away in a land dominated by another people, hope to understand his situation? Why did he not journey to Marseilles and prove how simple success could be? Why did he not find a vessel willing to take him to the lands of the Franj?
That had given way to fear. His sire would destroy him. He would find a way to strike all the way from Khem, to destroy him in his daily rest. Or worse, to stake him and return him to the clan elder for judgement. The thought of that still caused him to shake.
Then had come a willingness to grovel: for more time, for help, for guidance, for anything. But that would have gotten him nowhere and, in the end, he had torn apart that letter as he had all the others. The most recent attempt, still on the desk behind him, encouraged his sire to be more understanding, to give him time: he had succeeded in small ways; Marseilles had been a den of iniquity even before his arrival, and so his successes had been all but invisible in the greater scheme of things. But they were present. And yet even now he understood that the ancient would not be understanding. Not without something more than ‘there have been minor successes.’ He was not an understanding individual.
There was a knock on the door behind him, and he turned as it squeaked open on rusting hinges. “Charloi, good.” He motioned for the Franj to enter, which he did, then shut the door. “You have been a good servant.” He smiled slightly. “A skilled servant.”
The man nodded his thanks, but otherwise remained wordless. Charloi l’Maquereau – Charles the Pimp – had been nothing more than street scum when al-Bint had discovered him. But he had recognized a certain intelligence in the young man’s eyes, a careful, calculating mind that had caused him to begin training the Franj in the ways of Sutekh. He had been right in this: Charloi had risen through the underworld ranks, even without Sutekh’s blood, and become a master manipulator. There had been times when he had required some assistance from Raquim, but on the whole he had managed to make do with his own resources – once given more than a few silvers, of course.
That had left Raquim himself free to deal with the Ventrue who had been master of the streets until he had arrived. The silent war that had been raging through the streets for the past seven years had been a result of their feud. But now… “Moreover,” he said, his French nearly perfect after seven years, “you have learned much of the dark god.” He nodded his head, bobbing it in a manner reminiscent of a serpent. “I am proud to say,” he added.
Turning back to the window Raquim frowned out at the dark night. “For seven years we have worked together. I have taught you, and you have strived to learn. When the times were difficult, we overcame them. When they were dangerous we weathered them.” He glanced over his shoulder. “Your successes became my own; my successes became yours.” He returned to studying the ocean, invisible in the distance.
“You learned long ago that I am not mortal,” he said carefully. “In the seven years I have been here I have aged not a day.” He sighed. “Some days that is a blessing; others, a curse.” He turned, walking back to his desk. Once there he lifted the letter gently. Before he spoke again he folded it and handed it to the mortal. “Burn it.”
Charloi looked at the letter, then at Raquim, then shrugged and held it up to the flames of the torch near the door. The paper burned quickly and Charloi cursed, letting it fall into the flames to be burned to ash. When it had done so the Serpent smiled. “There is much to be gained in undeath,” he said. “There is also much that is lost.” He motioned out to the night sky. “The morning was beautiful was it not?”
Charloi shrugged noncommittally. “I try to avoid mornings whenever possible. The sunlight hurts your eyes when you drink the night away.” He grinned.
The Setite smiled vaguely as well. “I wouldn’t know,” he admitted. “I have not seen the morning sun in over a century.” Moving around the table, he shrugged. “And tell me – what of the Temple?”
“No problems, if that’s what you’re worried about.” Charloi flicked his fingers as though cleaning them of water. “The German hasn’t figured it out yet. His people are too busy following yours.” He let out a soft laugh. “And the statue was moved yesterday afternoon.”
Raquim nodded. “Good. Excellent, in fact. What of your oblations?”
Charloi made a face that indicated annoyance. “You don’t have to worry about my faith; Set has given me more than enough these past seven years.”
Again the Follower of Set nodded. “Excellent. You will make an excellent childe.”
Charloi blinked, wordless. Raquim smiled tightly. “Yes; I have decided to Embrace you into the night.” He turned away from the Franj and returned to the window. “This afternoon was the last you will see.”
“But I thought…” Charloi sounded stunned. Raquim hid a smile: it was to be expected. Embracing outside the ranks of natives of Khem was almost unheard-of. Embracing one who did not have the red hair favored by Sutekh was even more rare. Indeed, Raquim was unsure whether it had ever been done before; he would not had been surprised, of course, but neither would be have been surprised if this was the first time the tradition had ever been broken. If Charloi rose from death, then Sutekh blessed him. If he remained in the underworld…
If he died, Raquim would pray that his soul passed swiftly beyond Maat’s grasp, that Set would grant him at least that much.
“I thought,” Charloi finally managed to say, “that only Saracens – Egyptians, that is – could be … Embraced.” He used the word uncomfortably.
“You have learned much in these seven years,” Raquim said approvingly. “I will be proud to be your sire. You will…” Be more successful than I, no doubt. “You will prove a most capable servant of the dark god. Do you agree?”
Charloi nodded, perhaps too quickly. “Good.” Raquim stood, still as a statue. “Because I intent to leave all I have made – all of Marseilles – in your hands. You will be my eyes and ears, my hands.”
“You- you’re returning to Egypt?”
“I am returning to Khem,” he confirmed with a nod. “My sire has summoned me,” he lied.
“I- am… I am honored.” Charloi’s voice quavered nervously as well. He was afraid. That was good: death was something to fear. There was no guarantee that Set would accept him as a true follower. If he did not, then Maat would judge him harshly, and his soul would be consumed by Ammut, the crocodile-headed devourer. “When?”
Raquim turned. “Now.”
Check
The human passed beneath the curtain of the overhang and Raquim turned away, back to his desk. A letter sat there, half-finished; he had already torn apart three previous attempts and now it seemed the fourth would prove equally frustrating. His replies to this sire seemed inadequate and frail. It was why, in the end, he chose to bring the news to him in person, dangerous though the trip would undoubtedly prove.
The Setite clenched his jaw, moving with ease to the countertop where his pet, a large, ghouled asp, reclined in the warmth of the torch nearby. He took up the serpent and allowed it to slither along his arm and up to his neck, where it draped itself over him. He also lifted the offending letter from his sire, holding it as though it were more dangerous than the asp around his neck. He did not need to reread it. He had already memorized it, word for word. Nevertheless, he peered down at it as though he might glean some new piece of information from the parchment. It was written in hieroglyphs, a language that had not been spoken by living tongues in over a thousand years.
My childe,
I hope this missive finds you well. It does not find me in the most pleasant mood as I write it. I Embraced you with the understanding that you would please Sutekh with your works. Thus far I have seen only failures. I understood your first, failed, attempts. The success of the Franj in overcoming the Arabians came as a surprise to us all. We were impressed with your forethought in following the so-called Crusaders back to their homelands. Since then, however, your successes have proven most insufficient. Why is this, my childe? Why must I repeatedly come before my elders to explain away your failures?
-S
He replaced the parchment gently, returning to the window.
He felt ill.
His first response had been anger: How could his sire, so far away in a land dominated by another people, hope to understand his situation? Why did he not journey to Marseilles and prove how simple success could be? Why did he not find a vessel willing to take him to the lands of the Franj?
That had given way to fear. His sire would destroy him. He would find a way to strike all the way from Khem, to destroy him in his daily rest. Or worse, to stake him and return him to the clan elder for judgement. The thought of that still caused him to shake.
Then had come a willingness to grovel: for more time, for help, for guidance, for anything. But that would have gotten him nowhere and, in the end, he had torn apart that letter as he had all the others. The most recent attempt, still on the desk behind him, encouraged his sire to be more understanding, to give him time: he had succeeded in small ways; Marseilles had been a den of iniquity even before his arrival, and so his successes had been all but invisible in the greater scheme of things. But they were present. And yet even now he understood that the ancient would not be understanding. Not without something more than ‘there have been minor successes.’ He was not an understanding individual.
There was a knock on the door behind him, and he turned as it squeaked open on rusting hinges. “Charloi, good.” He motioned for the Franj to enter, which he did, then shut the door. “You have been a good servant.” He smiled slightly. “A skilled servant.”
The man nodded his thanks, but otherwise remained wordless. Charloi l’Maquereau – Charles the Pimp – had been nothing more than street scum when al-Bint had discovered him. But he had recognized a certain intelligence in the young man’s eyes, a careful, calculating mind that had caused him to begin training the Franj in the ways of Sutekh. He had been right in this: Charloi had risen through the underworld ranks, even without Sutekh’s blood, and become a master manipulator. There had been times when he had required some assistance from Raquim, but on the whole he had managed to make do with his own resources – once given more than a few silvers, of course.
That had left Raquim himself free to deal with the Ventrue who had been master of the streets until he had arrived. The silent war that had been raging through the streets for the past seven years had been a result of their feud. But now… “Moreover,” he said, his French nearly perfect after seven years, “you have learned much of the dark god.” He nodded his head, bobbing it in a manner reminiscent of a serpent. “I am proud to say,” he added.
Turning back to the window Raquim frowned out at the dark night. “For seven years we have worked together. I have taught you, and you have strived to learn. When the times were difficult, we overcame them. When they were dangerous we weathered them.” He glanced over his shoulder. “Your successes became my own; my successes became yours.” He returned to studying the ocean, invisible in the distance.
“You learned long ago that I am not mortal,” he said carefully. “In the seven years I have been here I have aged not a day.” He sighed. “Some days that is a blessing; others, a curse.” He turned, walking back to his desk. Once there he lifted the letter gently. Before he spoke again he folded it and handed it to the mortal. “Burn it.”
Charloi looked at the letter, then at Raquim, then shrugged and held it up to the flames of the torch near the door. The paper burned quickly and Charloi cursed, letting it fall into the flames to be burned to ash. When it had done so the Serpent smiled. “There is much to be gained in undeath,” he said. “There is also much that is lost.” He motioned out to the night sky. “The morning was beautiful was it not?”
Charloi shrugged noncommittally. “I try to avoid mornings whenever possible. The sunlight hurts your eyes when you drink the night away.” He grinned.
The Setite smiled vaguely as well. “I wouldn’t know,” he admitted. “I have not seen the morning sun in over a century.” Moving around the table, he shrugged. “And tell me – what of the Temple?”
“No problems, if that’s what you’re worried about.” Charloi flicked his fingers as though cleaning them of water. “The German hasn’t figured it out yet. His people are too busy following yours.” He let out a soft laugh. “And the statue was moved yesterday afternoon.”
Raquim nodded. “Good. Excellent, in fact. What of your oblations?”
Charloi made a face that indicated annoyance. “You don’t have to worry about my faith; Set has given me more than enough these past seven years.”
Again the Follower of Set nodded. “Excellent. You will make an excellent childe.”
Charloi blinked, wordless. Raquim smiled tightly. “Yes; I have decided to Embrace you into the night.” He turned away from the Franj and returned to the window. “This afternoon was the last you will see.”
“But I thought…” Charloi sounded stunned. Raquim hid a smile: it was to be expected. Embracing outside the ranks of natives of Khem was almost unheard-of. Embracing one who did not have the red hair favored by Sutekh was even more rare. Indeed, Raquim was unsure whether it had ever been done before; he would not had been surprised, of course, but neither would be have been surprised if this was the first time the tradition had ever been broken. If Charloi rose from death, then Sutekh blessed him. If he remained in the underworld…
If he died, Raquim would pray that his soul passed swiftly beyond Maat’s grasp, that Set would grant him at least that much.
“I thought,” Charloi finally managed to say, “that only Saracens – Egyptians, that is – could be … Embraced.” He used the word uncomfortably.
“You have learned much in these seven years,” Raquim said approvingly. “I will be proud to be your sire. You will…” Be more successful than I, no doubt. “You will prove a most capable servant of the dark god. Do you agree?”
Charloi nodded, perhaps too quickly. “Good.” Raquim stood, still as a statue. “Because I intent to leave all I have made – all of Marseilles – in your hands. You will be my eyes and ears, my hands.”
“You- you’re returning to Egypt?”
“I am returning to Khem,” he confirmed with a nod. “My sire has summoned me,” he lied.
“I- am… I am honored.” Charloi’s voice quavered nervously as well. He was afraid. That was good: death was something to fear. There was no guarantee that Set would accept him as a true follower. If he did not, then Maat would judge him harshly, and his soul would be consumed by Ammut, the crocodile-headed devourer. “When?”
Raquim turned. “Now.”
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