He replayed Danielson’s words in his mind: When you’re in the presence of Pharaoh, you end up loving him eventually.
He touched the blood-crusted welt on the side of his head and thought of the man who had inflicted it. “No love lost here,” he whispered. “Bastard has to pay.”
A sound floated down the corridor, a woman’s faraway voice and a man’s gruff response. It was followed a moment later by a burst of bawdy laughter from Baldys One and Two. Doc awoke with a snorting start and pulled himself to his feet by the barred door.
A young woman came hurrying into the cell blocks, carrying a basket full of dark loaves of bread. As one, Doc, J.B. and Ryan stepped back from the bars, unconsciously covering themselves. She swept her gray gaze over the men, then rested it on Ryan. She stepped forward, thrusting a long loaf between the bars.
“My name is Kela,” she said in a brisk, no-nonsense whisper. “I bring you word of your missing friends.”
They listened quietly as she told them of the whereabouts of Jak, Mildred and Krysty. Anticipating more questions from Ryan, she added, “She is all right. She is a guest in the palace, under the personal protection of Pharaoh.”
Ryan stepped back to the bars, forgetting his nudity in his anger. Gripping the bars, he snarled, “What the hell do you mean?”
The corners of Kela’s pink lips twitched. “She is your woman, isn’t she? You have no need to worry, yet. Krysty is prepared for his probes.”
“What?” The word exploded from his lips.
The woman tapped her forehead. “Psychic probes, Ryan Cawdor. Yes, I know your name.” She glanced over at J.B. and Doc. “I know all of your names and I and others intend to help you.”
Doc cleared his throat. “Why are you befriending us at such great personal risk?”
Kela made a dismissive gesture with one hand. “That is a long story. But keep in mind that forces are at work to free you. In the meantime, you are scheduled to be released from your cells shortly. That should give you some comfort. But you must not try to leave the city, and you must cooperate with everyone who deals with you. If you do not, every one of you will be killed.”
With a swirl of her hair, she turned and left the cell block.
Doc looked after her, commenting wryly, “Now, who in this den of holiness would care about heretics such as ourselves?”
J.B. tore off a mouthful of the coarse-grained bread. “Think we should believe her?”
Ryan sighed and sat on the cot. “Wait and see. That’s all we can do. At least we know Jak and Krysty are alive. That’s something.”
Within the hour, the turnkeys strode in, tossing folded squares of linen into the cells. “Put these on,” one ordered. “You’re moving to new accommodations.”
It took them a couple of minutes to figure out the proper way to wear the kilts. When Doc pointed out they were like oversize diapers, they adjusted them accordingly.
After they were dressed, the cell doors were unlocked and they walked out under the scrutiny of the turnkeys. They appeared unarmed. J.B. shot Ryan an up-from-under questioning glance, but the one-eyed man shook his head. Starting a fight in such closed quarters wouldn’t gain them anything.
They followed Baldy One down the corridor while Baldy Two dogged their heels. They walked out into the cold sunlight of dawn, marching across a walled-in compound. Interest temporarily displaced Ryan’s other concerns. In the center of the yard was an array of very large, open-topped, wheeled metal cubes, resting on a double-railed track. Men wearing apronlike garments fed fires beneath the cubes, and other men stood over them, using long-handled paddles to stir the contents. An odd smell, like lime combined with acid, bit into his nostrils. The men wielding the paddles wore strips of cloth over nose and mouth, and coughed frequently.
A line of men formed a bucket brigade, passing containers full of rock chips to other men, who dumped their contents into the metal cubes. To the accompaniment of a rhythmic chant containing no words Ryan recognized, several other laborers poured the contents of sacks into the gooey, putty-like mix.