Pyramid Scheme by Dave Freer and Eric Flint

Jerry cleared his throat. “I think you did it yourself, Mac. You said to Isis that you were trained in ‘First Aid.’ If you try and translate that, it could come out as knowing the rituals of healing. That was the province of priests. And they were shaved bald.”

“You look like a boot, Mac,” said Cruz with a grin.

Lamont nodded and chuckled. “But that strip of linen does things for you.”

“Seriously,” said Jerry, trying to cool things off, “it’s a good thing Mac got rid of his hair. It could help us a lot.”

McKenna was not mollified. “I don’t know anything about being a priest!”

“No, it’s your hair and skin color,” explained the mythographer. “Set was supposed to be white-skinned and red-haired. Rough and rude, too. That was one reason Isis was so upset when she saw us with the dismembered pieces of her hubby.”

Lamont grinned. “Well, Mac could get a job as a stand-in. Wasn’t he supposed to have ears like an ass too?”

Jerry shook his head. “Shut up, Lamont. You’re stirring things up just because you were the only one besides Liz who could stand that vile beer.”

“Real African beer has lumps in it. Not thin clear stuff like cats wee.” Liz was grinning broadly.

Jerry pulled a face. “We were all expecting . . . beer. It was vile, Liz. I don’t know how you and Lamont could drink the stuff. But Mac’ll be useful as a ‘priest.’ I’ll teach him a few chants. Hmm. We could use some upgrading of our status. If you’ve seen the numbers of soldiers around here, fighters won’t impress them, but an extra sorceress might.”

“Medea’s learning too damn fast,” grunted Cruz. She responded by tickling him.

Jerry grinned at Lamont. “Actually, I was thinking that what we really need is the most powerful and feared of sorceresses. The ones that came from Nubia—or, as it was otherwise known, Cush. Black people.”

Lamont blinked. “Me? Aren’t you forgetting something?”

“Like what?” asked Jerry, innocently.

Lamont shook his head. “Like I’m the wrong sex.”

Jerry clucked his tongue. “Nothing to it, Lamont! Cross-dressing has a well-established precedent in ancient Egypt. Queen Hasheput who was regent for Thutmose III dressed herself as a man.” Jerry’s grin got more wicked still. “All we need to do is shave your head and put you in a dress. You’ll be a winner.”

“You’re not going to do that to me?” said Lamont, with disbelief.

“Oh yes, we are!” said Mac fiendishly. “If I’ve got to suffer for a good cause, so do you!”

“There was the wig they tried to give me . . . ” said Liz. “And another dress that was way too big.”

“The topless one?” asked Medea, getting in on the spirit of things. “And there is much makeup.” She looked at Lamont. “Fortunately.”

Liz snorted. “I don’t think he’s gynecomastic enough for the topless one. And he’s probably got hairy boobs.”

“I’m not going to do this!” protested Lamont.

“It’s all right, Lamont,” murmured Medea sweetly. “We’ll do it for you.”

Jerry managed to wipe off the grin. “Lamont . . . Seriously, Nubian sorceresses were big-time power. And I’ve got a feeling we may need that desperately. And what do you care what you look like, if it can get us all home?”

“I’m not going to do this.” But Lamont sounded less sure about it. His companions arose and advanced upon him.

“Not going to . . . ” Mumble, mumble.

* * *

By the time the ship arrived to transport them, Lamont had been made into a strapping lass, if not a pretty one. And a very sulky lass, he was.

The vessel was a far cry from the papyrus-bundle boat that they’d used to bear Osiris’ remains to the island. The ship was at least a hundred and fifty feet long. It was made of curved cedar wood, with a high pointed prow and stern. It was canopied with spotless linen, with a team of rowers sweating at the long spear-bladed paddles. A harpist played melodiously from under the shaded canopy. “I think we have elevated our status in the world. Now if only they have more of that tilapia scented with cumin and fenugreek . . . ” said Henri happily. “And perhaps something to drink other than that terrible beer.”