Jewel Of The Nile

Chapter Thirty-Five

It was a real, bloodcurdling shriek, quickly cut off and followed in short succession by masculine cursing, a sharp slap, and Itmana’s choked cry … from the sound of things, she’d bitten his hand and gotten backhanded for her trouble. Skidding to a halt, Hermione wheeled and raced back in the direction from which she’d come, wand in hand, praying that she’d reach them before Malfoy took it into his head to Apparate.

Two things stopped her in her tracks, fifty feet away.

First of all, the man holding the kicking, cursing Itmana wasn’t Lucius Malfoy, the man in the white galabeyya, or anyone even remotely resembling either of them. Whoever this guy was, he was swarthy and muscle-bound, with an aroma of day-old camel about him that Hermione could smell even from half a block away. And she’d never seen him before in her life.

Secondly, and more importantly, he was obviously a Muggle.

Hermione had just a second to ponder the ethics thereof, and the African Ministry’s hypothetical position upon, the casting of Stupefy on non-wizards. And then the issue became moot, as a second Muggle – even sturdier than the first, looking like Bluto in a dirty bedsheet – came up behind her and took her wand out of her hand.

Oh, fuck. She hadn’t even seen him.

"Husan," called Bluto in working-class Arabic, "look at this, would you?" He captured the stunned Hermione’s wrist in one massive paw and and grinned down at her with blackened teeth. "What were you going to do, layla, poke him to death? I’ve picked my teeth with bigger sticks than this."

"I think," panted Hermione, whose arms had somehow ended up pinioned behind her back, and whose efforts to make violent contact with Bluto’s genitalia weren’t finding the degree of success she had hoped, "that says less about my, um, stick, than it does about your teeth."

She could also have commented upon his breath (fetid), his manicure (suspect), and his general level of hygiene (as far as she could tell, nonexistent – he, too, appeared to have been recently friendly with a camel) … but Muggles or no Muggles, she was starting not to like this situation. Damn it, he had her wand – how stupid could she be, to have let that happen?

And then matters went from bad to catastrophic, as at Husan’s terse order – "Let her go, Abu; she’s the wrong one" – the ever-compliant Bluto turned her loose, stared for a moment at the shiny polished twig he was holding, shrugged, then snapped it in one beefy mitt and casually dropped the pieces in the gutter.

Oh, that asswipe, thought Hermione furiously, having to check herself not to make a grab for the splinters at her feet. And then, in the same breath: okay, this is bad. But more so yet for Itmana, who was still pinned and helpless and white to the lips with fright, one cheekbone beginning to purple where Husan had struck her.

Broken wand or no, Hermione decided, she couldn’t just stand there and do nothing. She didn’t know how Lucius Malfoy had managed to get this pair of oafs to do his dirty work for him, but damned if she was going to let someone else take the fall for her.

"You have the wrong girl," she said, stepping forward into what remained of the light. "It’s me you want, not her."

Husan looked surprised.

"But you’re not the one in the picture," he said, a bit blankly. Hermione blinked, taken aback at this, then persisted.

"Are you sure?"

Looking her suspiciously up and down, he tightened his grip on Itmana and nodded to Abu—who dug in the pockets of his robes for a moment and finally produced a small black-and-white snapshot and held it out to her. It was inexpertly taken, and blurred with a combination of bad exposure and a layer of grime, but it was Itmana, half in profile, crossing the street in front of the university.

Okay, Hermione thought, momentarily flummoxed. Maybe they did have the right girl – or maybe Malfoy had just snapped the wrong picture by accident. Still, even a witch without a wand was better off than a Muggle, right? And she had the Priestess – Itmana had nothing. She squared her shoulders.

"That’s a picture of me," she said in her best Minerva-McGonagall aren’t-you-foolish tones—from the photo’s quality, it might have been almost any girl in Cairo, and except for their hair, which was covered by their scarves anyway, and half a shade’s difference in the colour of their skin, they did look a bit alike.

And in any case, these two weren’t headed for a Mensa banquet anytime soon. If she was ballsy enough about it, it just might work.

Itmana’s eyes went wide and round. Husan scowled.

"It is?"

Hermione sniffed. "I ought to know, oughtn’t I?"

"Kazab," gasped Itmana, looking scared but determined. "She’s lying – it’s not true." The two thugs exchanged exasperated glances.

"Look here," snapped Husan. "Which one of you irritating little binti is Princess Fatima of Jordan?

Princess? Hermione’s eyes shot, startled, to Itmana’s, and saw in their dark depths only tired resignation. Well, what do you know.

"I am," she said firmly.

"No, I am," insisted Itmana.

Silence. By now, the narrow alley they were standing in was almost completely dark. A man hurrying past on the next street paused and looked at them enquiringly – then, at Abu’s cheery wave, grinned and hurried on. Apparently, the good citizens of Cairo didn’t look askance at a little friendly manhandling in the streets, Hermione thought, and felt her already-low spirits sink a little farther into her feet.

Finally—

"Fine," Husan said wearily. The look on his face made it clear that nothing in his Evil Henchman training manual had covered this sort of situation; nevertheless, he was going to make the best of it. "We’ll just take both of you, then."

Resourceful of him, Hermione thought—just before something heavy collided with her temple. From the all-pervasive smell of camel, she deduced that it was probably Abu’s fist.

Oh, shit, wailed the Voice of Caution. We’re in for it now … and for once, the Daredevil kept her mouth shut.

And then Hermione couldn’t keep her eyes open any longer.

**

Bill, chin-deep in the expense vouchers he’d been doing his best to ignore for going on two months now, glanced up at the wall clock in his office and groaned.

Pleasure before business, sure – that was his credo, nine days out of ten. And he’d been thinking about his upcoming lagoon-date with Hermione ever since he’d woken up that morning.

But on the other hand, if he didn’t finish these bloody expense reports before he left for the day, Linchpin was going to have him on toast points for a snack. And what’s more, he might not get paid.

There was no help for it; he was going to have to work late.

"Here, Satchmo," he muttered, and drew a lopsided little rose next to his signature before tying the note he’d scribbled to the owl’s leg. "See if you can catch her before she heads up to the roof, okay?"

Bloody hell, he hated paperwork. He was going to be here all night.

**

She was conscious first of splitting pain in her head, and then of gratitude for the dark in which she was lying. Slowly she stirred, feeling aches spring to life in other places – a bruise high on her hip; an uncomfortable pull at her shoulders, tipping her off to the fact that her hands were tied behind her.

Ankles, too. And that darkness wasn’t night, it was a blindfold. Well, they were thorough, at least.

It was cold, but there was no wind … she must be inside. No sound from the Keystone Kops, nor did their distinctive aroma linger in the air – they were either elsewhere or sleeping, then. There was a noise nearby like great beating wings, an engine noise. Hermione frowned under her blindfold and listened. It sounded like an airplane’s idle, but it couldn’t be a commercial jet … even if she was inside, she was lying on sand – she could feel it sifting grittily into her clothes. And chilly sand, at that.

They weren’t in Cairo anymore.

A desert landing field, then, and a private jet … how Kristin Scott Thomas was that? But to transport a runaway princess, it sort of made sense.

And speaking of princesses ….

"Hermione?" Itmana, awake now for God-knows-how-long and whispering through dry lips.

"Yes."

"You shouldn’t have lied," Itmana murmured. "You shouldn’t be here."

Hermione shifted closer to the sound of her voice and felt the Priestess brush the side of her breast, underneath her robes. Thank goodness for small favours.

"I figured I had less to lose." She snorted softly. "Not that you’re exactly qualified to give lectures on honesty."

"I’m sorry." Itmana sounded tired. "It was too big a secret to give away. I didn’t like having to lie … not to you."

"’S okay." When it came right down to it, Hermione figured she’d been slightly less than forthcoming, herself. "Does it make it worse for you that I’m here?"

Itmana hesitated. "No. I’m glad."

"Well, then." Hermione tried vainly to find a more comfortable position on the ground, and stopped when it became obvious that all she was doing was getting more sand in her clothes. She flexed her fingers behind her, vaguely alarmed when she couldn’t feel them for a moment, and tried not to think about snakes. "Don’t worry about it."

"I’m afraid that’s impossible," Itmana said grimly. "If you knew Khaled like I do, you’d be worried too. It won’t matter to him that you have nothing to do with this; it’s enough that you’re a Westerner, and that you’re my friend."

"Khaled," Hermione repeated. "Is he the man in the white robes who’s been following us around for the last two weeks?"

"I think so." Itmana made a soft sound of self-derision in her throat. "I never got a good look at his face, so I can’t be certain. But from his height and complexion, it seems about right – and this"—here, she thumped the sandy ground awkwardly with her bound feet—"checks out, too. He has a private plane and a landing strip just west of the Kharga Oasis. That’s probably where we are right now. He’s going to be in here any minute; I can hear the plane. I don’t know what’s keeping him, but it can’t be good."

"Who is he?" Hermione wanted to know. "Your fiancé?Your, um … "—she paused as a new thought hit her—"Itmana, you aren’t married, are you?"

That got a laugh out of her. "Married? Praise Heaven, no. And never to him, insh’Allah."

"Well—who, then?"

A long pause. A soft sigh.

"He’s my half-brother," Itmana said finally, so softly that Hermione could barely hear her. "And I think he’s gone a bit mad."

Hermione had a million questions hovering on the tip of her tongue, but now didn’t seem the time to ask them. Biting back her curiosity, she rolled over again and settled down to wait.

Whoever this Khaled was, she had the feeling she was going to find out soon enough.

**