Eater of souls lm-4

by Lynda S. Robinson

  Tcha scrambled over and around a group of aged and crumbling tombs. These clustered in rows, rectangular with sloped sides, plain but once filled with riches. Many still sealed within their underground shafts the princes, ministers, and their wives and families who once served the god-kings. These old ones lived so long ago that no one remembered their names.

  A blur of movement raced across Kysen's path. He and Abu both crouched and drew daggers. A black silhouette leaped on an overturned statue and hissed at them. They waited, not daring to move. A black cat. Was it someone's prowling pet, or a disguised spirit of the netherworld? The cat hissed again and fled.

  Kysen let out a long breath while Abu growled his irritation. They kept their weapons unsheathed. Tcha appeared around the corner of a tomb.

  "Come, lord. We're almost there."

  "We'd better be," Kysen replied. "And I'm not staying long."

  He climbed over a pile of rocks left from long-dead robbers' invasion of a tomb and followed the thief. Tcha scurried across one of the few clear areas between the nobles' tombs and the bastion wall of the step pyramid. As they walked, Kysen could discern the top of the steep-sided pyramid to the south. In daylight, if he stood on some vantage point, he would be able to see farther, to distant pyramids up- and downriver, even to the greatest of them all on a plateau guarded by the sphinx of Khafre.

  Abu stumbled, and Kysen turned to see the charioteer pick up something. He went closer and barely made out the remains of a boning rod, one of a pair of wooden pegs tied with string. Masons used them to make blocks of stone perfectly smooth by resting the pegs on the stone, stretching the string tight, and chiseling away any imperfections. It had probably been here for centuries.

  Abu tossed the peg at Tcha's head as it appeared out of the ground several paces away. "This way, lord."

  Kysen walked over to the thief and looked down the slanting ramp upon which Tcha stood. The walkway pierced the ground between piles of rubble that looked recent, and then plunged beneath the ground to disappear into complete blackness.

  "I'm not going in there," Kysen said.

  Tcha knelt and fumbled with something on the ground. "I have a lamp-" Tcha stopped when Abu suddenly loomed over him. "O great master," he added with a gape at the charioteer.

  Abu snarled at him. "The lord will not go down into a hole to be trapped and slaughtered. Where is Othrys, you sniveling little carp?"

  "I am here."

  All three of them whipped around as vague light appeared at the bottom of the shaft. A man came up the ramp holding a torch, and, looking like the men in old wall paintings of Greek bull leapers, Othrys followed him. The Greek wore a cloak of some dark Asiatic design over a plain kilt. The torchlight revealed the pirate's sky-colored eyes and honey-and-sunlight hair. The man at the barbarian's side was also dressed simply. He was a stranger.

  "Come along," Othrys said without any greeting or ceremony. "There isn't much time."

  Kysen stayed where he was and pointed at the torch bearer. "Who is he?"

  "My scribe. Come now, I haven't much time."

  "This scribe wasn't with you the last time we met," Kysen said. He signaled to Abu.

  The charioteer stalked down the ramp to glare at the stranger. The scribe was slight, his bones small, but strong in the way that the acrobats at Ese's tavern had been. Long, wind-tossed hair fell to his shoulders. He shoved a brown length of it back from his face and met Abu's challenging glare with a spark of humor in his eyes. Kysen immediately became intrigued. He'd never seen anyone react to Abu the way this man had. He'd seen men regard the warrior with fear or admiration, and some great ones, usually those of royal blood, ignored Abu. Never had anyone looked at Abu with indulgence, as if he were a boy of four playing a game of war.

  Even more curious-the stranger only observed Abu for a moment before swinging around to Kysen. The torch in his left hand dipped and highlighted his face. Kysen found himself subjected to a scrutiny so intense it was as if he were a minute piece of lapis lazuli being examined by a royal jeweler. He could even imagine this man's heart assessing the most strategic point at which to break the stone, or himself.

  Intensity, brooding severity, and menace soared at him from the torch bearer. The impact was as startling as it was unexpected. This man was no ordinary scribe; his features and manner were too refined. He had a sculpted nose, fine brows, and a mouth curved like the open bud of a lotus. Yet he wore a plain kilt, no jewels, no sandals,

  "Leave off," Othrys said. "By the Earth Goddess, neither of you is going to ravish the other's soul while I wait like a slave."

  "Then who is he?" Kysen demanded.

  A voice like the trill of a dove, a strummed harp, the cool north wind, answered before Othrys could. " I am Naram-Sin."

  Kysen frowned, took a step closer, and examined the stranger carefully. "You're Babylonian."

  All he got was a slow, almost wicked smile, but he hardly noticed because his memory was coming alive. And something was bothering him. Several years ago, when he was still being tutored, Father had given him copies of ancient texts, part of an old family collection passed down for generations. The papyrus had turned yellow and brown, fragile. His task had been to reproduce it.

  "Naram-Sin," Kysen said. "I know that name."

  The torch bearer raised an eyebrow but said nothing.

  The papyrus had been a translation of a record from the ancient times of a kingdom called Akkad in the region near Babylon in the land of the Tigris and Euphrates rivers. It told of a mighty king who had conquered so many lands and cities that Kysen couldn't remember all of them. He'd conquered cities in the land of Sumer and spread his domain as far as the Great Sea and to the mountains of the land of the Hittites. He made great Elam a vassal state. He even fought with Egypt. But his downfall was the sack of Nippur, the great city of the god Enlil on the Euphrates.

  Naram-Sin, drunk with his own glory, had performed vile acts of desecration and defiled the sanctuary of Enlil. In revenge, Enlil had called down upon Naram-Sin and his capital, Agade, barbaric hordes from the mountains, ruthless and utterly destructive. When the invaders were finished, Enlil and other gods of the two rivers laid a curse upon the city-that it remain forever desolate and uninhabited. Now nothing remained of it but an eroding mountain of mud brick and broken pottery.

  "Naram-Sin," Kysen repeated. "You have an ancient and famous name. I might even say it's notorious."

  The torch bearer's smile hardly faltered as he turned to lead the way down the ramp. "I could say the same of yours, son of the Falcon."

  Kysen exchanged looks with Abu. Falcon was the nickname Maya, the royal treasurer, had given Meren when they were youths. Only Meren's closest friends used it.

  "I am continually astonished at Othrys's intimate knowledge, and how high it extends," Kysen murmured to the charioteer.

  Abu grunted. "I like it not, nor do I like the Babylonian. He reminds me of the mandrake plant, lush, perhaps pleasing to the senses, but full of death."

  "You're overwrought, Abu."

  "He smiled at me."

  "A great transgression, I know, but you must endure it."

  "I'll bury my fist in that delicate little nose," Abu grumbled under his breath as they followed their hosts down the ramp. He scowled at Naram-Sin's back. "A foreigner's nose, that is. No strength to it."

  They descended west toward the step pyramid at a steep angle beneath the ground. One of Othrys's bodyguards waited at the point where the shaft widened. Several lamps had been set in wall sconces of archaic design, and beyond the opening in the walls, the shaft continued, no longer sinking but maintaining a level grade. Kysen glanced down the shaft, then looked again.

  Beyond the opening the shaft became a finished corridor. Someone had smoothed the stone walls, ceiling, and floor and covered them with fine, hard plaster. An outline draftsman had begun his work. A grid of faint red lines marked out the proportions of a register, and within the grid had been drawn the beginnings of a scene.
He could see the figure of a man holding a cup to his lips, seated before a table laden with food. The scene was unfinished and hadn't been painted. Perhaps the man featured in the scene had changed his mind about it, or he may have died and been hastily buried before this portion of his eternal house had been completed.

  "Planning a bit of tomb robbery?" Kysen asked as he rounded on Othrys.

  Othrys barely glanced at the corridor. "Don't pretend to be a fool. This shaft is almost as old as the one it intercepts. Your own people did whatever looting has been done long ago."

  Abruptly, before Kysen could reply, Othrys took his arm and thrust his own out to forestall Abu. Pulling Kysen away from the others, he stopped beside the unfinished drawing. For the first time Kysen realized that there was something different about the pirate. Lines had appeared on his face that hadn't been there before. One ran across his forehead parallel to his hairline, and a spray of fine lines issued from the corners of his eyes. But what alarmed Kysen more was that Othrys had lost his air of cheerful deadliness.

  "By the curse of Tantalus, what pit of vipers have you cast me into?"

  "Why are you so disturbed?"

  Othrys clamped a hand around Kysen's neck, yanked him close, and hissed into his ear. "Because I sent three searchers to begin your inquiries. Only one returned, and he didn't live long after he reached me. These are my men, not simple servants. Do you know what it takes to destroy even one of them?"

  The men who serve Othrys ranked among the most skilled and deadly. He'd seen even a Hittite avoid a confrontation with them.

  Shoving Othrys away, Kysen fought his own increasing dread. "One man dead and two vanished. Where did you send them?"

  "It doesn't matter," Othrys said. "But I remembered what you said about the woman Satet and her sister the favored cook, so I sent another man to the village to speak with the youth Tentamun." Othrys leaned against the outline of the tomb owner and stared past Kysen's shoulder with such intensity that his eyes narrowed to slits. "Both have disappeared. Those I sent after them haven't even found bodies. And the village is full of dolts with the wits of sheep. No one even saw Tentamun and my man leave the place."

  "They can't have vanished without any sign."

  The pirate hardly glanced at him. "You're not that innocent. Of course they could." Othrys beckoned to Naram-Sin, who joined them as if it was his right. "Tell my friend about the man who returned to us last night."

  Naram-Sin seemed not to have caught Othrys's dread. He put his back against the grid wall and crossed his legs at the ankles. Folding his arms, he cocked his head to the side and began as if he were a bard telling a tale at a feast.

  "He crawled to the back gate, where the porter called for help. Guards dragged him inside, but left him in the kitchen yard because of his state."

  "What do you mean?" Kysen asked.

  "He was bleeding from all his body openings, and even from small cuts that should have healed. There was a torrent of blood."

  His voice faint, Kysen stared at Naram-Sin. "So he died soon after he reached you."

  "Yes." Naram-Sin's lazy smile provoked the suspicion that he enjoyed Kysen's uneasiness.

  Kysen refused to respond to that smile and barked one word. "Plague?"

  "Oh, no," came the purring response. Naram-Sin tossed his head to make a shining lock of hair fall away from his face. "No, he had fits and blood in his piss. No, this wasn't a plague. It was poisoning."

  "I find your manner of drawing out your tale un-amusing, Naram-Sin. Get on with it."

  The Babylonian glanced at Othrys and chuckled. "You were right, my friend. He is more noble than peasant. He has barely outgrown the sidelock of youth, yet he treats me like some common musician who plays a tune too slowly."

  Othrys scowled at the scribe. "This isn't the time, Naram-Sin. Play your games later."

  "Very well." Naram-Sin stretched his arms and yawned before resuming. "The man complained of burning in the mouth. He vomited along with his other miseries. All together these are signs of poisoning by the fruit of the castor oil plant."

  Kysen began dusting off his arms and legs while he considered the meaning of this new murder. "How do you know this? Are you a physician?"

  Again he was subjected to that hot-oil smile that made him want to backhand the scribe.

  "No, not a physician. An old woman whom I knew from infancy taught me about medicine and plants and their uses."

  "Fruit of the castor oil plant is used for pains of the head and illness of the belly," Kysen said. Bener had given one of the slaves some for an ache in the head not long ago.

  "And it eases afflictions of the skin," Naram-Sin said with a look of patient endurance. "But six fruits ground up and mixed in food that has already been cooked, such as a stew or soup, will bring on illness within hours." The scribe shoved himself away from the wall and turned to examine the drawings. "I would say that our man ate the poison no more than a day or two ago."

  "I will find out who has done this to my men," Othrys said.

  "I have no doubt," Kysen replied, "nor would I wish to be present when you find the evil one, but heed me, Othrys, I also must know who does not wish inquiries made about the people we discussed."

  To Kysen's annoyance, Othrys didn't seem to be listening. He was engaged in some wordless communion with Naram-Sin, to which the Babylonian replied with a slight shake of his head. The pirate's gravity increased, and he faced Kysen.

  "Leave this matter. You don't understand it, and the ones behind it are beyond your power."

  "My father won't abandon his search," Kysen said, "and no one is beyond his power."

  Naram-Sin wasn't smiling anymore. "If you refuse, you endanger yourselves and us as well."

  "Why do you think I must pursue this?" Kysen snapped at Othrys. "Is this the same pirate who showed me his boar's-tooth helmet and boasted of slaughtering thirty beasts with naught but a sword?"

  Othrys's eyes became slits the color of faded cornflowers. "Have a care for your irreverence, my lord."

  He turned his back on Kysen and walked down the plastered corridor. Pausing where the light failed, he lowered his head and remained still for some moments. Then his head came up, and he turned on his heel. Stalking back to Kysen, he spoke once more in a strong whisper.

  "You must heed me well, for I fear you will be allowed but one chance to grasp the danger that approaches." Othrys pressed his lips together as if he wasn't certain he could find the words he needed. "There are certain ones among us-not many-who are without sorrow of heart. I have shared bread with men so vile that they would couple with a fiend if the result was to their gain. Among these are a very few who move among the shadows of the world, who love the crooked trail, the hidden path that conceals their direction. Such ones feed themselves by spreading corruption and evil wherever they go, contaminating whatever they touch. A man like this nourishes himself on the power that secret corruption gives. He thrives by sullying the pure, corrupting the innocent, destroying the strong."

  Othrys's voice grew quieter as his description continued. "A man like this increases his power by using others while he remains undetected. He sits in darkness growing strong on sin, flourishing on the strength of those he destroys. The more puissant his victim, the more power he steals for himself and the greater his pleasure in victory." The pirate's words were almost inaudible now.

  "And if you intend to do battle with one such as this, I can promise you that the Nile will flow with fear. You will find that your heart's friends plot your destruction, and your name will be cursed by those who once praised it. The taste of life will turn to bitter vetch, my young friend, and not even the Earth Mother will come to the aid of the Eyes of Pharaoh and his son."

  Kysen felt the skin over his skull stretch tighter than a hogging truss. The pirate's words gave him a glimpse of a life spent wading in eddies of horror, of swimming against a current of putrid evil. How was he going to make his father understand such danger? He shook his head and caught
Naram-Sin looking at him. There was that expression of wicked amusement again, but this time it was tempered with pity. Kysen felt his cheeks grow hot and clamped down on his unruly emotions.

  "Othrys, how do you know that one of these monsters is concerned?"

  "Such a devastation of my men is beyond the power of most of my-rivals. And it happened so quickly and in such a skilled manner that I knew immediately that there could be only a few who might be responsible."

  "Among your acquaintances, perhaps." Kysen brushed grit and dust from the folds of his kilt. Removing his headcloth, he folded it so that the inner side faced out, drew his dagger, and wiped the blade on the cloth. As he drew the edge along the cloth, the fibers split. "However, it is clear that you've never lived at court. There such men are as numerous as flies on a slaughtered oryx."

  The blade sliced another path through the cloth. Then Kysen tossed it in the air. Catching the weapon by the hilt, he slipped it into his belt.

  "You're a fool," Othrys said.

  Naram-Sin's soft laughter echoed down off the plaster and stone. "But a brave fool."

  "The names of the criminals, Othrys. I'm not going to waste more time listening to menacing tales."

  The pirate suddenly dropped his air of apprehension to smile nastily at Kysen. "By the blessed gods, you need subduing. I almost wish I could be there to see it. Follow me."

  Othrys walked into the darkness once again. Kysen went after him, stopping before all light faded. He waited, growing more irritated as the moments passed. Then a hand shot out and pulled him into blackness.

  "Curse it, Othrys, you're not performing a festival play. Give me the names and be done with it."

  "Keep your voice down, boy." The words came out of the obsidian void, sharp, like cobra's fangs.

  Kysen held his tongue, and Othrys continued in a whisper. "If you reveal that it was I who gave you these names-"

  "I already know what you're capable of."

  "Then remember it."

  Kysen felt Othrys's breath near his ear.

  "Three names. These are the ones with the mighty grasp, the will, and the appetite. There is one called Dilalu. If you wish to acquire large numbers of weapons, he can find them. Dilalu is never in one place for more than a few months-in Alalakh, Ugarit, Kadesh, and of course, in Memphis. I think he played a part in the Hittite destruction of the Mitanni, but of course, I can't be sure. And he's in Memphis at the moment."