The jackal trotted to the steps of the throne and changed back into Anubis.
“Welcome,” he said, “to the last room you will ever see.”
Carter looked around in awe. “The Hall of Judgment.” He focused on the hippodoodle and frowned. “Is that…”
“Ammit the Devourer,” Anubis said. “Look upon him and tremble.”
Ammit apparently heard his name in his sleep. He made a yipping sound and turned on his back. His lion and hippo legs twitched. I wondered if netherworld monsters dreamed of chasing rabbits.
“I always pictured him…bigger,” Carter admitted.
Anubis gave Carter a harsh look. “Ammit only has to be big enough to eat the hearts of the wicked. Trust me, he does his job well. Or…he
did
it well, anyway.”
Up on the scales, Khufu grunted. He almost lost his balance on the central beam, and the dented saucer clanged against the floor.
“Why are the scales broken?” I asked.
Anubis frowned. “Ma’at is weakening. I’ve tried to fix them, but…” He spread his hands helplessly.
I pointed to the ghostly rows of tombs. “Is that why the, ah, graveyard is butting in?”
Carter looked at me strangely. “What graveyard?”
“The tombs,” I said. “The trees.”
“What are you talking about?”
“He can’t see them,” Anubis said. “But you, Sadie—you’re perceptive. What do you hear?”
At first I didn’t know what he meant. All I heard was the blood rushing through my ears, and the distant rumble and crackle of the Lake of Fire. (And Khufu scratching himself and grunting, but that was nothing new.)
Then I closed my eyes, and I heard another distant sound—music that triggered my earliest memories, my father smiling as he danced me round our house in Los Angeles.
“Jazz,” I said.
I opened my eyes, and the Hall of Judgment was gone. Or not
gone,
but faded. I could still see the broken scales and the empty throne. But no black columns, no roar of fire. Even Carter, Khufu, and Ammit had disappeared.
The cemetery was
very
real. Cracked paving stones wobbled under my feet. The humid night air smelled of spices and fish stew and old mildewed places. I might’ve been back in England—a churchyard in some corner of London, perhaps—but the writing on the graves was in French, and the air was much too mild for an English winter. The trees hung low and lush, covered with Spanish moss.
And there was music. Just outside the cemetery’s fence, a jazz band paraded down the street in somber black suits and brightly colored party hats. Saxophonists bobbed up and down. Cornets and clarinets wailed. Drummers grinned and swayed, their sticks flashing. And behind them, carrying flowers and torches, a crowd of revelers in funeral clothes danced round an old-fashioned black hearse as it drove along.
“Where
are
we?” I said, marveling.
Anubis jumped from the top of a tomb and landed next to me. He breathed in the graveyard air, and his features relaxed. I found myself studying his mouth, the curve of his lower lip.
“New Orleans,” he said.
“Sorry?”
“The Drowned City,” he said. “In the French Quarter, on the west side of the river—the shore of the dead. I love it here. That’s why the Hall of Judgment often connects to this part of the mortal world.”
The jazz procession made its way down the street, drawing more onlookers into the party.
“What are they celebrating?”
“A funeral,” Anubis said. “They’ve just put the deceased in his tomb. Now they’re ‘cutting the body loose.’ The mourners celebrate the dead one’s life with song and dance as they escort the empty hearse away from the cemetery. Very Egyptian, this ritual.”
“How do you know so much?”
“I’m the god of funerals. I know every death custom in the world—how to die properly, how to prepare the body and soul for the afterlife. I live for death.”
“You must be fun at parties,” I said. “Why have you brought me here?”
“To talk.” He spread his hands, and the nearest tomb rumbled. A long white ribbon shot out of a crack in the wall. The ribbon just kept coming, weaving itself into some kind of shape next to Anubis, and my first thought was,
My god, he’s got a magic roll of toilet paper.
Then I realized it was cloth, a length of white linen wrappings—
mummy
wrappings. The cloth twisted itself into the form of a bench, and Anubis sat down.
“I don’t like Horus.” He gestured for me to join him. “He’s loud and arrogant and thinks he’s better than me. But Isis always treated me like a son.”
I crossed my arms. “You’re
not
my son. And I told you I’m
not
Isis.”
Anubis tilted his head. “No. You don’t act like a godling. You remind me of your mother.”
That hit me like a bucket of cold water (and sadly, I knew exactly what
that
felt like, thanks to Zia). “You’ve met my mother?”
Anubis blinked, as if realizing he’d done something wrong. “I—I know all the dead, but each spirit’s path is secret. I should not have spoken.”
“You can’t just say something like that and then clam up! Is she in the Egyptian afterlife? Did she pass your little Hall of Judgment?”
Anubis glanced uneasily at the golden scales, which shimmered like a mirage in the graveyard. “It is not
my
hall. I merely oversee it until Lord Osiris returns. I’m sorry if I upset you, but I can’t say anything more. I don’t know why I said anything at all. It’s just…your soul has a similar glow. A strong glow.”
“How flattering,” I grumbled. “My soul glows.”
“I’m sorry,” he said again. “Please, sit.”
I had no interest in letting the matter drop, or sitting with him on a bunch of mummy wrappings, but my direct approach to information gathering didn’t seem to be working. I plopped down on the bench and tried to look as annoyed as possible.
“So.” I gave him a sulky glare. “What’s
that
form, then? Are you a godling?”
He frowned and put his hand to his chest. “You mean, am I inhabiting a human body? No, I can inhabit any graveyard, any place of death or mourning. This is my natural appearance.”
“Oh.” Part of me had hoped there was an actual boy sitting next to me—someone who just happened to be hosting a god. But I should’ve known that was too good to be true. I felt disappointed. Then I felt angry with myself for feeling disappointed.
It’s not like there was any potential, Sadie,
I chided myself.
He’s the bloody god of funerals. He’s like five thousand years old.
“So,” I said, “if you can’t tell me anything useful, at least help me. We need a feather of truth.”
He shook his head. “You don’t know what you’re asking. The feather of truth is too dangerous. Giving it to a mortal would be against the rules of Osiris.”
“But Osiris isn’t here.” I pointed at the empty throne. “That’s his seat, isn’t it? Do you see Osiris?”
Anubis eyed the throne. He ran his fingers along his gold chain as if it were getting tighter. “It’s true that I’ve waited here for ages, keeping my station. I was not imprisoned like the rest. I don’t know why…but I did the best I could. When I heard the five had been released, I hoped Lord Osiris would return, but…” He shook his head dejectedly. “Why would he neglect his duties?”
“Probably because he’s trapped inside my dad.”
Anubis stared at me. “The baboon did not explain this.”
“Well, I can’t explain as well as a baboon. But basically my dad wanted to release some gods for reasons I don’t quite… Maybe he thought,
I’ll just pop down to the British Museum and blow up the Rosetta Stone!
And he released Osiris, but he also got Set and the rest of that lot.”
“So Set imprisoned your father while he was hosting Osiris,” Anubis said, “which means Osiris has also been trapped by my—” He stopped himself. “By Set.”
Interesting,
I thought.
“You understand, then,” I said. “You’ve got to help us.”
Anubis hesitated, then shook his head. “I can’t. I’ll get in trouble.”
I just stared at him and laughed. I couldn’t help it, he sounded so ridiculous. “You’ll get in
trouble
? How old are you, sixteen? You’re a god!”
It was hard to tell in the dark, but I could swear he blushed. “You don’t understand. The feather cannot abide the smallest lie. If I gave it to you, and you spoke a single untruth while you carried it, or acted in a way that was not truthful, you would burn to ashes.”
“You’re assuming I’m a liar.”
He blinked. “No, I simply—”
“You’ve never told a lie? What were you about to say just now—about Set? He’s your father, I’m guessing. Is that it?”
Anubis closed his mouth, then opened it again. He looked as if he wanted to get angry but couldn’t quite remember how. “Are you always this infuriating?”
“Usually more,” I admitted.
“Why hasn’t your family married you off to someone far, far away?”
He asked as if it were an honest question, and now it was my turn to be flabbergasted. “Excuse me, death boy! But I’m twelve! Well…almost thirteen, and a very mature almost thirteen, but that’s
not
the point. We don’t ‘marry off’ girls in my family, and you may know everything about funerals, but apparently you aren’t very up to speed on courtship rituals!”
Anubis looked mystified. “Apparently not.”
“Right! Wait—what were we talking about? Oh, thought you could distract me, eh? I remember. Set’s your father, yes? Tell the truth.”
Anubis gazed across the graveyard. The sound of the jazz funeral was fading into the streets of the French Quarter.
“Yes,” he said. “At least, that’s what the legends say. I’ve never met him. My mother, Nephthys, gave me to Osiris when I was a child.”
“She…gave you away?”
“She said she didn’t want me to know my father. But in truth, I’m not sure she knew what to do with me. I wasn’t like my cousin Horus. I wasn’t a warrior. I was a…
different
child.”
He sounded so bitter, I didn’t know what to say. I mean, I’d asked for the truth, but usually you don’t actually
get
it, especially from guys. I also knew something about being the different child—and feeling like my parents had given me away.
“Maybe your mum was trying to protect you,” I said. “Your dad being Lord of Evil, and all.”
“Maybe,” he said halfheartedly. “Osiris took me under his wing. He made me the Lord of Funerals, the Keeper of the Ways of Death. It’s a good job, but…you asked how old I am. The truth is I don’t know. Years don’t pass in the Land of the Dead. I still feel quite young, but the world has gotten old around me. And Osiris has been gone so long… He’s the only family I had.”
Looking at Anubis in the dim light of the graveyard, I saw a lonely teenage guy. I tried to remind myself that he was a god, thousands of years old, probably able to control vast powers
well
beyond magic toilet paper, but I still felt sorry for him.
“Help us rescue my dad,” I said. “We’ll send Set back to the Duat, and Osiris will be free. We’ll all be happy.”
Anubis shook his head again. “I told you—”
“Your scales are broken,” I noticed. “That’s because Osiris isn’t here, I’m guessing. What happens to all the souls that come for judgment?”
I knew I’d hit a nerve. Anubis shifted uncomfortably on the bench. “It increases chaos. The souls become confused. Some cannot go to the afterlife. Some manage, but they must find other ways. I try to help, but…the Hall of Judgment is also called the Hall of Ma’at. It is meant to be the center of order, a stable foundation. Without Osiris, it is falling into disrepair, crumbling.”
“Then what are you waiting for? Give us the feather. Unless you’re afraid your dad will ground you.”
His eyes flashed with irritation. For a moment I thought he was planning
my
funeral, but he simply sighed in exasperation. “I do a ceremony called the opening of the mouth. It lets the soul of the dead person come forth. For you, Sadie Kane, I would invent a new ceremony: the closing of the mouth.”
“Ha, ha. Are you going to give me the feather or not?”
He opened his hand. There was a burst of light, and a glowing feather floated above his palm—a snowy plume like a writing quill. “For Osiris’s sake—but I will insist on several conditions. First, only you may handle it.”
“Well, of course. You don’t think I’d let Carter—”
“Also, you must listen to my mother, Nephthys. Khufu told me you were looking for her. If you manage to find her, listen to her.”
“Easy,” I said, though the request did leave me strangely uncomfortable. Why would Anubis ask something like that?
“And before you go,” Anubis continued, “you must answer three questions for me as you hold the feather of truth, to prove that you are honest.”
My mouth suddenly felt dry. “Um…what sort of questions?”
“Any that I want. And remember, the slightest lie will destroy you.”
“Give me the bloody feather.”
As he handed it to me, the feather stopped glowing, but it felt warmer and heavier than a feather should.
“It’s the tail feather from a
bennu
,” Anubis explained, “what you’d call a phoenix. It weighs exactly the same as a human soul. Are you ready?”
“No,” I said, which must’ve been truthful, as I didn’t burn up. “Does that count as one question?”
Anubis actually smiled, which was quite dazzling. “I suppose it does. You bargain like a Phoenician sea trader, Sadie Kane. Second question, then: Would you give your life for your brother?”
“Yes,” I said immediately.
(I know. It surprised me too. But holding the feather forced me to be truthful. Obviously it didn’t make me any wiser.)
Anubis nodded, apparently not surprised. “Final question: If it means saving the world, are you prepared to lose your father?”
“That’s not a fair question!”
“Answer it honestly.”
How could I answer something like that? It wasn’t a simple yes/no.
Of course I knew the “right” answer. The heroine is supposed to refuse to sacrifice her father. Then she boldly goes off and saves her dad
and
the world, right? But what if it really
was
one or the other? The whole world was an awfully large place: Gran and Gramps, Carter, Uncle Amos, Bast, Khufu, Liz and Emma, everyone I’d ever known. What would my dad say if I chose him instead?