Cursed Times - Only Yesterday! Sequel to Wattys 2015 winner!

Chapter 7 - Metjen: Dripping

Metjen strolled down an alley lined with recumbent lion-headed sphinxes. They looked distinctly grumpy, thus matching his mood to perfection. Not for one moment did he expect the upcoming meeting to turn out well. In fact, it was more likely to go pear-shaped the moment it started. What could the old fool be after? He was putty in the hands of his so-called deputy.

Metjen mind-nudged himself into using more appropriate language when thinking about the first prophet of Ra. One never knew who was listening in. In that respect the Kemet civilisation, or at least those of its inhabitants with noteworthy magical skills and inclinations, were worse than the combined secret services in the world he had left behind.

Iseret, his ex-boss at the shrine of Ra, had decreed mind-reading without consent to be the epitome of rudeness. Mind-talking, of course, had been a different beast entirely. In his new habitat, these precautions made sense-as did a few others of her seemingly inane regulations. He wished he could talk to her one last time. Maybe even thank her.

However, Iseret was no longer with them and procrastinating would get him nowhere. He still could not get his head round this unexpected summons. Why would the high priest of Ra want to talk to him again when he had informed Metjen only this morning his face did not fit. Of course, his wisdom's choice of language had been far less polite.

Metjen entered the shade thrown by the last set of colossal pylons looming left and right of the temple entrance. Their majestic impression was marred only slightly by the cane scaffolding crawling with workmen.

His superior, lacking a significant amount of the acumen his august title sought to imply, had seen fit to adjust the inscriptions. Apparently, they were not singing his praise in a suitably exuberant fashion-.

Shouts of alarm from above were followed by a loud splat as if a monster-sized watermelon had burst right behind him. He whisked around.

A sack of plaster had fallen into the space Metjen had just vacated. Metjen craned his neck and beheld a group of terrified workmen halfway up the pylon.

'Forgive us, oh Golden One. It was not our intent.... .' The fat foreman bit his lip.He would know only too well that endangering a high-ranking priest could result in more than the customary whipping. Even more so, if said priest happened to belong to one of the leading families.

Capital offences tended to entail dramatic punishments involving encounters with hungry predators and worse. Metjen did not at all agree with the prevailing definition of what constituted a capital offence. He sighed. As much as he enjoyed living in a world full of magically inclined people, he did have issues with some of their customs. Quite a few actually, come to think of it.

'Watch what you're doing, or there will be hell to pay,' he shouted at the workers, reaping a wide array of astonished expressions. 'Forget it, just a saying they use in the demon world,' he said.

The workmen bowed, as deep as the wobbly scaffolding would allow. One of them would have toppled over, had his co-worker not grabbed him by the belt supporting a grimy shendyt barely more than a rag. Metjen tried to recall what his father had told him about local wages when an agitated priest of the third rank bustled towards him. Another one of Ptahmes', the second prophet's minions, no doubt.

'Where have you been, his wisdom is waiting!' The priest wheezed like an overstrained bellows.

'I was told to come two hours into the second half of the day,' Metjen said. 'We are not there yet.'

'It is customary to come an hour earlier and wait,' the other priest spat.

'I don't care for you any more than I appreciate these silly rules,' Metjen responded with vehemence. 'Let's go and get this over and done with.'