“You interrupted me,” he said.
“You weren’t doing anything.”
Kysen’s frown turned to a scowl. “I was thinking.”
“About the queen’s killer?”
“Shhh!”
“Don’t hiss at me,” Bener said. “We’re alone and there’s no chance we’ll be overheard.”
“Father was furious with you the last time you interfered.”
“Why are you rubbing your head?”
Kysen searched his sister’s face, noted the concern, and sighed again. “Reading all these records has made it ache.”
“You should talk instead. Rest your eyes.”
“I can’t discuss this with you.”
“Yes you can. I won’t tell anyone. I never reveal Father’s secrets.”
It was true. Bener knew some of Meren’s most dangerous secrets and remained silent. Kysen massaged his temples and relented.
“I’ve managed to lose the merchant Dilalu.”
“I know.”
Kysen gave her an irritated look and continued. “I’ve got men looking for him. Then there’s Zulaya. Father sent a man to find him at his country estate, but he wasn’t there. Evidently he spends little time there. His mother was Egyptian, but his father was Babylonian, and he moves about according to the demands of trade.”
“Zulaya is one of the men Othrys said might be involved in the queen’s death?”
“Yes,” Kysen said. “He’s a wealthy merchant who deals with the temples, Asiatic princes, the kings of Assyria, Babylon, and of course the Hittite king. He trades Egyptian grain, linen, and natron for timber from Byblos, copper from Cyprus, oil and wine from Syria, olive oil from the Greeks. The temple of Amun sometimes uses his services as a trader to exchange gold for unguents, resin, aromatic woods, whatever they require.”
“Then he shouldn’t be hard to find.”
“Except that he has many agents who work for him and seldom needs to come to Memphis himself. He may be here now, but his affairs take him to the delta, to Nubia, to many places. But we’ll find him, although I doubt he’ll be of much help. He only began trading in Egypt about ten years ago when he purchased an estate here.”
“And before that?”
“I don’t know. It’s not important, Bener. He must have made his fortune among the Asiatics and decided to try his luck among his mother’s people. Othrys seems to think Zulaya is dangerous, a dealer in secret power, and capable of causing us the kind of trouble we’ve been having since we began to search for this evil one.”
Bener set aside the documents she’d been reviewing. “Othrys doesn’t spend his time at court. That’s where you should look for the person who ordered her death.”
“Obviously,” Kysen snapped. He hated it when Bener pointed out to him things he already knew. “But until we told pharaoh what we were doing, questioning great men wasn’t possible. Even Father can’t haul Prince Usermontu into this office and demand an accounting of his time during Nefertiti’s illness without pharaoh’s permission.”
“And now?”
“And now Father will do that once he returns from Syene. I can’t do it.”
“Of course not.”
They lapsed into silence.
Bener picked up a rush pen that Kysen had set on the scribe’s palette he’d been using. “Usermontu and Lord Pendua. Hmm.” She pointed the pen at Meren’s notes. “What about these other names.”
“Lady Takemet was known to have been jealous of Nefertiti’s power and beauty, but she’s dead.”
“Princess Sitamun?” Bener gave him a look of astonishment.
Kysen nodded. “I know. What are we going to do? She’s the daughter of Amunhotep the Magnificent and Queen Tiye, the sister of the pharaoh. Father says she blamed Nefertiti for failing to stop Akhenaten’s excesses.”
“But she’s a royal princess!”
“You think princesses aren’t capable of having someone killed?”
“But why?” Bener protested. “She would gain nothing from Nefertiti’s death.”
“Nothing we can discern at the moment,” Kysen said. “But Father thinks it’s more likely to be someone else. Nefertiti’s chief Aten priest, Thanuro, for example. Evidently he was a serpent, always spying on her, one of the fanatics who excelled at looting the old temples. But he retired not long before Akhenaten died. And he’s dead too.”
Bener picked up Meren’s notes again. “It says here that Father tried to trace him. Ten years ago when he retired he received a gift from pharaoh, an estate near Byblos, and he died on his way to take possession of it. That was the year after the queen was murdered. Imagine dying away from Egypt in some Canaanite wasteland where there are no embalmer priests.”
“All we know is that a scribe from the garrison at Byblos wrote to announce his death from an ague. He joined a caravan heading in the direction of his new estate, but the caravan was attacked and returned to Byblos. I suppose he was entombed there.”
“What of these?” Bener asked, pointing to a list of names.
“Two were in Nubia during the relevant time, one is dead. I’m more concerned with Prince Usermontu. He was a captain of troops and overseer of the horses of the queen. The queen disliked him because he beat his wife. She ordered him to cease, and when he didn’t she arranged for the poor woman to obtain a divorce. Nefertiti ordered Usermontu to pay one third of his estate to his wife, and he never forgot it. He greatly enriched himself under Akhenaten. Father thinks he must have gained half a dozen new estates.”
Bener raised her eyebrows. “A man with much to lose.”
“Indeed.”
“So,” Bener said, “these are the men still alive who were present in Horizon of the Aten and who had a reason to kill the queen—Dilalu, Pendua, and Usermontu. What of Zulaya?”
Kysen shrugged. “Father is interested in him because Othrys suggested he had the power to cause the kind of trouble we’ve been having. But if he’s involved, it must be indirectly, since he had no contact with the queen.”
“Perhaps I can find out more,” Bener said. She set the papyri aside and rose. “Dilalu and Zulaya may be secretive, but they’re rich men. They employ servants, and servants talk, and it will be easy to find out about Prince Usermontu and Lord Pendua.”
Kysen jumped to his feet and shook a finger at her. “No. I forbid it.”
Bener merely raised an eyebrow.
“Father has forbidden you to interfere! If you get yourself in trouble he’ll blame me.”
“I’ll tell him it wasn’t your fault, but I’m not going to get into trouble.”
Groaning, Kysen said, “I’ll have you followed.”
“Oh, very well. If you must be difficult about this, I’ll come to you with anything I devise, and you can carry out my plan.”
Kysen bit his lip, pondering the likelihood of any of Bener’s schemes being any good. He smiled. “We have an agreement.”
“Excellent, then you’d better be on your way.”
“On my way? Where?”
Bener paused as she opened the office door. “Oh, did I forget to tell you? The king sent word that he wishes to bestow a gift upon Father for saving his life. You’re to go to the workshop of the royal jeweler Basa.”
“Damnation, Bener, why didn’t you tell me sooner?”
“You have time,” she replied calmly. “It’s hours before sunset.”
Grumbling under his breath, Kysen left word of his destination with a charioteer and set out for the jeweler’s. Basa, like many of the finest master craftsmen, had been well rewarded for his talents. He lived near the temple of Ptah in a large house that also contained his workshop. Kysen took the long avenue that led to the temple, skirted the boundary wall, and hurried down the Street of the Twin Moons. Giving his name to the porter at the gate, he was led down a short path, past a shrine to Ptah, and into the house itself. The anteroom was crowded with customers, each being attended to by an assistant. Above their conversation Kysen could hear
the pounding of dozens of hammers, the grating of saws, and the whoosh of bellows coming from the workshops behind the house.
A porter immediately led Kysen into the reception hall and to the lustration area where he could wash away the grime of the streets. Two men conferred over a papyrus on a table beside the master’s dais. When he was ready, the porter preceded him to the table.
As he approached, the men turned. One was the master jeweler, Basa. The other was an Asiatic dressed in a long robe that stretched from his neck to his ankles. Diagonal folds of the finest blue wool hugged his body, and appliqués in geometric forms glittered from the fabric. A headband of the same design bound his long hair. He wore a beard arranged in a profusion of tight coils that concealed his face from nose to chin, except for dark lips that had pressed together as Kysen approached. His feet were encased in gilded sandals, and thick electrum bands encircled his ankles.
The jeweler bowed to him. “Ah, great one, you honor my poor house. May the blessings of Amun shower you.”
“Greetings, Basa.”
“Lord Kysen, this is Zulaya, who has presented me with a commission from the temple of Amun.”
Taken unaware, Kysen managed to conceal his surprise at this unexpected encounter. Zulaya’s reaction was hidden, for he’d swept down into a bow the moment the jeweler began speaking. He straightened to reveal an expression with all the impassivity of a lizard. Kysen studied him closely. Zulaya exuded the confidence one might expect from a wealthy man, but there was something more. Kysen sensed power, watchfulness, and a burning intensity. Most, however, would detect only the man’s air of cosmopolitan polish, and Kysen almost began to feel he was imagining Zulaya’s controlled wariness.
Basa was rattling on. “Zulaya trades throughout the world and brings rare treasures to Egypt, Lord Kysen. Should you require timber or fine wines, anything, he can provide it.”
Zulaya bowed again. “You flatter me, Basa. I’m sure the son of the Eyes and Ears of Pharaoh has his own traders. May I inquire after the health of the great Lord Meren?”
“He has been ill, but he’s recovering,” Kysen said.
“One of my ships has brought health-enhancing herbs from Cyprus. I will send some.”
“My thanks, Zulaya, but Lord Meren is away from Memphis at the moment.”
Zulaya inclined his head. “They will be sent so that his physician may use them upon his return.”
The garrulous Basa interrupted. “Zulaya plies his trade all over the Great Green. I swear he must have a hundred ships.”
“You exaggerate,” Zulaya said smoothly. “I have a few poor vessels, and they pale beside the great Byblos ships of pharaoh.”
Kysen was thinking quickly. He should express interest in some commodity and have Zulaya come to Golden House for an exchange agreement. It would be the perfect excuse to find out more about him, especially since Meren was away. Not long ago Zulaya had accidentally met Meren at the Divine Lotus. His father had been in disguise; he’d been accused of trying to kill pharaoh. But Zulaya shouldn’t be allowed to see him and connect Lord Meren with the man from the tavern. There was no way to predict what the merchant might make of the famous Lord Meren haunting the disreputable tavern in the guise of a Greek pirate.
“Zulaya, I do have a request,” he said, as if suddenly remembering. “My sister Tefnut, who will give birth shortly, requires fine cedar for new chairs and tables. Also, I would like to purchase oil and wine for my father’s stores in his houses at Thebes, Memphis, and in the delta. This is an urgent requirement. Perhaps I could see you tomorrow.”
“Unfortunately—”
“Don’t be hasty,” Basa said. “I know you were to deliver that lapis lazuli to me, but I can wait one more day. It would be my honor to be of service to Lord Meren.”
Something flickered behind Zulaya’s eyes. There was a slight pause, almost imperceptible, and then the merchant bowed again.
“Ishtar has smiled upon me this day,” he said. “I will present myself at Golden House tomorrow, Lord Kysen.”
Kysen gave him a smile as smooth and seamless as a block of granite from the quarries at Syene. “Better still, I can receive you now, as soon as I am finished here.”
“Ah, but fate does not smile upon hasty arrangements, Lord Kysen.”
It took all his will to remember he wasn’t a common son of a tomb worker. He met Zulaya’s intense gaze with one that assumed a natural right to command. “I won’t be long. You may wait for me in the reception room.”
Zulaya’s gaze flattened. He bowed his head. “As the lord commands.”
With a quick nod to Basa, Zulaya backed away from Kysen, turned, and walked swiftly out of the room. As he began to discuss the king’s gift with Basa, Kysen wondered if he’d made a dangerous mistake.
Chapter 7
Meren lay on his back across the mats that had served as the table for their midday meal, and as their bed. His forearm shielded his eyes, and he listened to the noise Anath was making in her search of one last room. Every muscle ached with that special weariness peculiar to intimate release, and for once the clamor of thoughts in his heart had quieted.
Anath had given him this gift. Unlike Bentanta, who treated him like a youth in need of lessons in manners, Anath asked him for his strength and gave hers in return. She gave without demanding answers or promises or trying to force him to reveal more than he wished. Easy, light of heart, she had come to him, shared herself, and let him go, gently, but with the understanding that neither of them required feverish revelations or expressions of romantic attachment.
Since his wife died he’d been with many women. Most of them had been ladies who expressed interest and had no other attachment; he never dallied with innocents. Sometimes one of the household maids would try to catch his attention, but he’d learned long ago that such encounters encouraged the recipient to make unsuitable demands and caused jealousy in the household. Jealousy interfered with the smooth running of Golden House and risked disruption of routine or worse.
Anath was different. She came to him freely and with no other thought than pleasure and solace. She had confided in him her weariness of living abroad, but the next moment she regaled him with tales of grasping Babylonian merchants and the ridiculous rivalries of petty princes. Then she admitted that if she came home she would miss watching the continuous folly of the Asiatics.
Meren remembered her description of Burnaburiash, the king of Babylon. His majesty was aging and hated the idea so much that he tinted his hair to cover the gray. He also refused to admit he wasn’t as agile as he’d once been. Rather than refrain from activities beyond his endurance he insisted upon sword practice and exercise with the army. Inevitably he pulled a muscle or strained his back and had to be carried back to his palace where he lay moaning and complaining for weeks. Instead of learning from this experience, once he recovered he would trot right back out to the practice fields where he would fall over his own sword or break the axle of his chariot. Anath said that if Burnaburiash weren’t so adept at turning his enemies against each other, he’d have been deposed years ago. What had impressed Meren most about her tale was that Anath, so experienced in intrigue and deception as the Eyes of Babylon, retained a lightness of spirit that charmed everyone who came near her.
When he listened to Anath’s stories Meren had less time to dwell upon the dark thoughts that seemed to consume him so often. He was still smiling at the memory of Burnaburiash when something heavy landed on his stomach. He grunted and lowered his arm to stare into the scarred and furry face of Khufu. Meren growled at the cat, but Khufu merely twitched an ear and settled down for a wash.
“Get off me, you foul creature,” Meren muttered as he shoved the cat away.
“Are you still lying down?” Anath came in dusting her hands. “I’ve searched the last room and found nothing of interest. It’s time to go.”
“I was just coming for you,” Meren said with a last glare at Khufu.
Anath came over to lean ag
ainst him and slap his flat stomach. “Be kind to poor Khufu. He likes you.”
“That animal likes no one but you. It’s obvious from his appearance that he lives to do battle.” Khufu stuck his misshapen nose in the air and stalked out of the room.
Arguing lightly, Meren and Anath went outside to the dilapidated shelter under which they’d tethered the horses. The animals had been fed and watered, and Meren walked around the chariot and stepped into the vehicle. As he moved, a paw shot out across the floorboards. Meren’s foot caught it, and he stumbled, nearly falling on his face. Dust and grit flew in at him as Khufu scrambled away to sit innocently in the shade, purring, while Meren cursed and untangled himself. A musical tumble of laughter let him know that Anath had seen the whole incident.
“It’s not amusing,” he snapped as he got to his feet.
Anath jumped into the chariot beside him. “Yes it is, when you consider how graceful and stately the great Lord Meren is. To see him fall on his face is a great amusement.”
“One day that cat will come to an evil end,” Meren muttered, but he refrained from further comment because Anath was still laughing at him.
By the time they’d left the palace battlements Meren was laughing as well. They drove back along the Royal Road and past the small North Palace, the jewel-like retreat in which Nefertiti had died. For a long time Meren’s memories of Horizon of the Aten hadn’t been clear. He’d deliberately shrouded them in a haze as thick as the one that hung over the eastern horizon and turned the dying solar orb into a diffuse lake of carnelian flame. It had taken many weeks of effort, much reading over records and discussion with those who had been present to restore his memory. At last he thought he had an accurate picture of the queen’s final days. He hadn’t realized he’d stopped the chariot until Anath spoke.
Slayer of Gods Page 8
