The man stumbled backward, one arm windmilling as he tried to keep his footing, clutching desperately at his throat with his other hand. The whip clacked to the floor.
Mildred didn’t wait to see if he fell or not. Her fingers clawed frantically at the buckles and straps of the cuff encircling her left wrist. Behind her, she heard liquid, slurping gasps.
Her wrist free, Mildred whirled. Crimsons strings dripping from his open mouth, Mimses groped clumsily for the handle of the whip. She sprang forward, kicking out with her right leg. The sole of her foot slammed against the side of the man’s head, knocking him sideways. He fetched up in a half-prone position against the bench in the corner.
Mildred snatched up the whip and looped the thongs around Mimses’s neck, planting a knee between his shoulder blades. She heaved back with all her weight and the strength in her arms.
Hot tears spilled down her cheeks, and she heard herself chanting, “Die, you goddamn pervert, die, you diseased son of a bitch, die—”
Nearly a minute passed before she realized Mimses had accommodated her. He hung limply in the garroting embrace of the leather thongs, tongue protruding, glassy eyes bulging, limbs slack and motionless. Only his left foot moved, in a postmortem twitch. His bladder and bowels had let go, filling with the room with a stench.
Mildred let go of the whip, and Mimses dropped forward on his face with a mushy thud. Shuddering and shaking, she swallowed down the acidic bile that rose in a burning column up her throat. Her tear-blinded eyes glared with unregenerate, unforgiving hatred at the corpse lying at her feet.
In Deathlands, torture and torment were daily happenings, but she had never grown accustomed to it or accepted it. She never would.
Mildred eyed her torn clothing with loathing, then picked up the robe Mimses had discarded, slipping it over her head, ignoring the flare of pain ignited by the contact of the fabric with the raw abrasions on her back. The ankh rested in an inner breast pocket.
She forced herself to uncoil the whip from around Mimses’s throat, stowing it in a voluminous bell sleeve. It wasn’t much of a weapon, but under the circumstances, she had no intention of being choosy.
BY NOON, all of Aten roared with lusty life. Trumpets blared, the throng cheered, shouted and danced and children scattered flower petals in the plaza. The flowing wine was benign, the food sumptuous and savory.
Even in her chambers, Krysty heard the joyous clamor. She listened to it with a face as immobile as if it had been carved of stone. Dressed in a flowing white gown with gold-threaded darts, cut low in the front and high in the leg, she stood and listened and waited. A heavy collar of beaten gold, worked with ivory inlays, encircled the base of her neck, most of the weight distributed on her upper shoulders. She hadn’t moved since she put it on. She kept her eyes on the double doors.
And waited.
Finally, the right-hand door opened. Nefron stepped in, saw Krysty and froze for an instant in midstride. Her smile faltered, then came back, toothy and dazzling.
Hurrying forward, she said, “You look beautiful, Krysty. A true queen. A goddess. But you should have waited for me to help you dress.”
Krysty nodded.
Nefron walked around her, examining her ensemble with an approving eye. “Yes, like a goddess. The people will love you like Pharaoh and I love you. You are not nervous, are you?”
“Should I be?”
Nefron smiled wanly. “A little apprehension is understandable. By sunset, all the anxiety will be over.”
“Yes,” Krysty said softly. “All over.”
She drew back with her right arm and punched Nefron on the point of her chin. The girl spun almost completely around, stumbled, tried to catch herself on the table and dragged it down with her to the floor.
Krysty walked gracefully to her, hand stabbing down and grasping her by the hair. She jerked Nefron erect. The girl opened her mouth to scream in pain, but Krysty drove it back into her throat with a fist to the jaw, splitting her lip.