All at once they came into an antechamber crowded with more guards, then a room filled with shelves bearing clay tablets, papyrus, and flat pieces of stone and shards of pottery. Almost every tablet, papyrus roll, stone, and shard had writing on it—the wedge-shaped script of the Asiatics, the odd scratchlike characters of the Mycenaeans, and copper tablets covered with a script he’d never seen. A good proportion of this varied collection of documents bore signs of violence, either burning, damage from weapons, or both.
The center of the room was clear of shelves and held several low tables. Scribes sat on the floor or on stools surrounded by tablets, shards, and papyrus. Kysen could see only two men without a stylus or rush pen. One was the odorous Tcha. The man in leggings, sandals, and a blue tunic cinched with a gold belt was Othrys.
Silver Hair approached with silent delicacy, hovering behind his master. Othrys paid no attention to his servant or to Kysen. He was a well-built man of middle years, his arms, legs, and chest thick with hillocks of muscle. Puckered scars interfered with the smooth expanse of skin a shade or two lighter than cedar. In spite of the scars, his skin had the tautness of a youth, not a battle-weary barbarian pirate.
Kysen watched Othrys carefully, trying to discern his intentions. He gained nothing from staring at eyes the color of the sky at midday. He wasn’t used to sky eyes. They seemed cold and pale compared to the warm shades of brown and black so much more common in Egypt. However, they did go with hair the color of old honey and streaked with gold from the sun. He was still assessing Othrys when Tcha’s whine rose above the whispers of the scribes.
“I tell you he’s dead! The jackals dragged him away, and I swear upon my own ka, I can’t find our—” Tcha glanced at Kysen. “I can’t find our belongings.”
“By the Earth Mother, he’s run off with the spoils,” Othrys said.
Tcha had been squatting on the floor, but he had never been able to stay in one place for long. The thief jumped to his feet and darted in one direction, then another as he rattled on. “Not run off, killed. There was a hole hacked in his chest. A hole, I tell you!”
“Who is dead?” Kysen asked. He brushed by Silver Hair and confronted Tcha. “Who is dead?”
Tcha slid a narrow look at Kysen, then at Othrys.
“My cat.”
Folding his arms, Kysen said, “You don’t have a cat. No cat would keep company with one as filthy and ill-mannered as you.”
“Be at ease,” Othrys said in a light purring tone that encouraged neither ease nor further conversation.
“Most worshiped prince,” Silver Hair murmured. “I have brought the one called Nen to you, from Mistress Ese.”
The servant retreated. Kysen turned his attention back to his host to find that Othrys had been surveying him calmly, rather like a mongoose contemplating a cobra. Othrys had the most unwavering stare he’d seen, other than pharaoh’s. But the golden one’s stare was that of a living god contemplating an invisible horizon between mortality and divinity. Othrys’s stare was a javelin piercing a man’s ka. Kysen always felt that the barbarian’s sky-hued gaze masked the fact that he was debating whether he would kill his guest now, or later.
“Thunderbolts and quakes, Nen, be seated while I deal with this fluttered fool.”
“It’s to be later, then,” Kysen said to himself.
“What?”
“Nothing,” Kysen replied.
Tcha’s relentless movements brought him back to Othrys. “I tell you, great master, there be a fiend abroad in Memphis.”
“There are always demons who torment the living,” Othrys said.
Flapping his arms in agitation, Tcha burst into a tirade. “He had no heart! And there was a feather. Heart and feather, feather and heart. Do you know what that means, great master?”
Othrys rolled his eyes and shook his head.
“Judgment,” Kysen said. He was growing vaguely uneasy, no doubt because Tcha wouldn’t keep still and chattered absurdities.
Othrys threw up his hands. “What judgment?”
Tcha licked his lips, but couldn’t make his voice work. Kysen answered for him.
“He seems to think the missing heart and the feather— was it a white one? Ah. He seems to think the missing heart and the white feather are signs of a different kind of creature. Which causes me to fear for the health of old Tcha’s wits.”
“By the Great Earth, cease this cloudy talk. What creature does he fear?”
Kysen met Othrys’s impatient gaze with a frown. “What creature? The one who crouches beneath the balance scales of judgment on which souls are weighed against the feather of truth and rightness.” Kysen’s frown deepened. “She is called many names, but the Book of the Dead calls her Ammut, the Devouress… Eater of Souls.”
The whispering of the scribes vanished. Even Othrys was silent, while Tcha grabbed a handful of the amulets strung about his body. His lips moved in a silent recitation of a protective spell. Then Othrys managed a question in a faint tone.
“I assume the Devouress eats—”
“The dead found unworthy of the afterlife,” Kysen replied. He continued reluctantly. “She eats the living soul, the body, all. One dies again, for all time. One ceases to exist.”
“Does one, by the Earth Mother? Eaten alive, so to speak.”
Kysen was suddenly angry with himself. What was he doing, taking seriously the ravings of an ignorant teller of tales like Tcha? The man sold the crimes of his friends to the city police. The only reason he was still alive was that he possessed just enough sense not to try his tricks on Othrys.
Smiling, Kysen broke the fearful silence. “Tcha makes sense. Where else would Eater of Souls be drawn than to the Caverns in mighty Memphis, a place stuffed to the ramparts with thieves, ruffians, corruption, and evildoers of every description? So many to devour in such a small space.”
“Ha!” Othrys threw back his head and guffawed. The scribes exchanged rueful glances and laughed along with their master.
Tcha stared at them, shaking with indignation so that his amulets clacked.
“I knew it,” Othrys crowed. “He tells this tale to conceal his own deeds. Tcha, you killed Pawah, and now you spin this lying yarn to hide behind the Eater of Souls. An original notion, I admit.”
All mirth fled Othrys’s visage. “But you still owe me my tithe. Pay it, or by the time I’m done with you, you’ll welcome the Eater of Souls.”
“I spin no yarns!” Tcha squawked. The two guards who had escorted Kysen grabbed the thief by the arms and lifted him off his feet. Tcha’s legs whirled in the air. The last that was heard of him was a high whine. “Everyone thinks I’m offal, goat’s dung, hippo muck. Everyone despises me. I’m surrounded by malice and disgust!”
Othrys poured wine into a bull’s-head rhyton. “Now, that is a man who knows the truth of himself.”
Kysen couldn’t restrain a grin.
The Greek gave him a tolerant smile. “So, my friend. I didn’t frighten you away the last time we saw each other. I’ve never met a young man who would give himself over in the house of a man who had held a blade to his throat.”
“I assumed the blade was your accustomed greeting for those who win games of senet and five deben of copper from you.”
Othrys handed him the rhyton. It was silver with a gold rim. “You have the facile tongue of a bard, Nen, but your character is shrouded by perpetual mist.”
Kysen’s heart did a somersault in his chest. He looked over his shoulder at the scribes. They had resumed their work, but Othrys clapped his hands once, and they left.
“I’m what Ese told you I was,” Kysen said as he turned back to his host.
Othrys lifted a double-handled drinking cup, drank some wine, and said, “Facile of tongue, dauntless of heart, swift of wit. Being all these things, you should know I would find out who you really were.” The cup slammed down on a tray. Wine sprayed out, splattering Othrys’s tunic and Kysen’s kilt.
“Tell me, Lord Kysen. Why should
I not eviscerate you and stuff your body beneath the floor of my bedchamber?”
This was one of those moments for which Father had trained him. Kysen sighed and brushed drops of red wine from his kilt with leisurely strokes. “I suppose because you know that my father would impale you on his spear, taking care not to kill you, then hang you from the prow of Wings of Horus. Just above the water, where crocodiles could take turns snapping chunks of flesh from your face and body. At least, that’s what he did to the last pirate he caught. Perhaps he would be a bit more angry should you kill me.”
“As I said, my lord. You’re dauntless of heart and swift of wit.” Othrys picked up a cloth and wiped wine from his arm.
“Then shall we discuss my need for information, and your need to keep silent about it and me?”
“So long as you understand me,” Othrys said. “I reverence not the Eyes and Ears of Pharaoh. See that helmet on the shelf? It is made of the tusks of more than thirty boars. I killed each of them with my sword. Not a spear, a sword.”
Kysen inclined his head. “Then I think it is you who are dauntless of heart.”
The pirate held Kysen’s gaze for a long moment before grunting and bidding his guest state his request. It took little time to make Othrys understand what was needed. The Greek was accustomed to doing such delicate tasks for his customers of the distant cities from Hattusha to the Aegean Sea, the spice lands of Punt, and down into wild Nubia. They arranged to meet again in a few days, by which time Othrys hoped to know something of the fate of Nefertiti’s household. Kysen was taking his leave when Othrys put a hand on his arm. Surprised, he withdrew from the grasp.
“I’ve been thinking about Tcha,” Othrys said as he allowed Kysen to escape his hold. “I would forget his ranting if it weren’t for the rumors.”
“What rumors?”
“Of late the streets have been full of rumors of a demon who strikes at night. Some say it isn’t a demon but an animal, a monster. The whole of the Caverns is ripe with talk of evil. I’ve seen magicians warding off evil from three different houses in two days. And my men are more and more reluctant to venture forth after sunset.”
“I suppose Tcha isn’t the only one to suddenly begin wearing a multitude of amulets?”
“You’re right.” Othrys pulled on a leather cord beneath the neck of his tunic. From it was suspended a figurine of the Earth Goddess carved of ivory. “I started wearing this a few days ago, on the night all the animals in my stables and pens tried to escape in fright at the same time. The same night one of my best hunting hounds disappeared.”
An inward shiver rippled up Kysen’s body, leaving him cold. “Perhaps you should send Tcha to me.”
“I will, if I can find him.”
“And be careful,” Kysen said. “You’re in Egypt, where men are judged after death according to their deeds in life. If you die, you may meet the Swallower of the Dead, Eater of Souls.”
“I’m swift of foot. She won’t catch me.”
“Perhaps, but Eater of Souls isn’t even a god. Unfortunately the condemned face an abundance of punishments should the Devouress fail. I would hate to think of you being slaughtered with knives, dismembered, and your blood drained away, or cooked like a heron, or burned in a fiery pit.”
Othrys’s hand closed around the Earth Goddess figurine. Something primitive flashed in his eyes, but he managed a smile. “I bow to your courage, my lord. And your ability to recover from a stumble. The Eyes of Pharaoh has a worthy successor.”
Kysen nodded and turned away. “Then I wish you a peaceful and safe evening.”
Chapter 8
Of all of the souls she’d eaten, the father had tasted best. His flesh had been aged in the finest mortal wines. His bones had been brittle; they snapped loudly when she brought her mighty jaws together. She liked crunchy bones. But aside from the pleasure of eating, devouring the father had ended the exquisite torment of the favored one. Devouring the father was one of her most worthy acts.
When the father ended, the condemnation ended, bringing relief to the favored one. No more ceaseless disapproval, no more drunken shouting. The father had been vile carrion fouling the palace of the favored one’s soul. Eater of Souls still heard echoes of the bile he spewed at the chosen one of the gods—witless, ugly, clumsy, more lackwitted than a pig, lazy, dirty, womanish, thoughtless, lack-mannered. Every mean little word slurred and carried on a stinking breath.
Eater of Souls growled, clawed the air, and wished she could devour the father again. This time she would do it slowly, so that the creature felt each snap of a bone, endured the agony of her teeth piercing the meat of his stomach, his arms, his chest. Then the favored one’s pain would become his pain and bring relief. It was unfortunate that devouring other transgressors against the favored one was but a pale shadow of this first great annihilation.
Tentamun waited for his employer in the shade of a date palm. He had sailed the short distance south to this sprawling estate in order to report Satet’s removal to Memphis. This was the kind of event for which he’d been told to be on guard, but his parents had kept him busy repairing the main canal that fed the village fields. Only today had he been able to claim his duty to visit the man everyone else knew only as his patron.
Leaning against the rough trunk, Tentamun gazed up at the leaves of the palm tree, one of many that formed this date field. Foliage shot out of a central point to form graceful, drooping fans. In a few months stalks heavy with dates would appear, ready for picking. Children and trained monkeys would climb high into the air to retrieve the fruit. Great baskets would be filled. Then more laborers would spread the dates out in a carpet to ripen. As fruit of different ages ripened, the field would become a dazzling sheet of color, from darkest brown to bright orange and yellow.
He became uncomfortable with the spikes of the palm trunk digging into his back. The solar orb had reached its pinnacle and was descending toward the netherworld, but the heat that had been building all day remained. He sweated even in the shade. If it weren’t for the generosity of his employer, he would have avoided traveling in the last harsh weeks of Drought.
Something moved beyond the mud-and-straw wall that formed a protective barrier around the date field. Through the shadows of the sycamores and acacias that sheltered the estate strode the owner of the dates, the palms, and everything else within sight. As he approached, Tentamun could see his green-and-yellow robe much more easily than he could his features.
Odd that Tentamun couldn’t find anyone who knew exactly who his people were. All he’d been able to discover was that the man had an Asiatic father and an Egyptian mother, which accounted for his fluency in Egyptian. Zulaya entered the date field and came toward him, dressed in the manner of his people. His long robe covered him from neck to ankles, hanging in diagonal folds that fit close to his body. The thin, soft wool was patterned in checks, diamonds, and swirls. A headband of the same material kept his long hair pulled back from his face.
In keeping with his foreign ancestry, he wore a beard that he kept clean and arranged in a profusion of tight coils. It concealed his face from nose to chin. The only features exposed were dark rose lips. As Zulaya stalked toward him, Tentamun felt his skin turn cold despite the kiln-heat of the afternoon. It wasn’t Zulaya’s foreignness that chilled his flesh and robbed his mouth of moisture. But as hard as he pondered, he couldn’t identify the exact source of his fear.
Zulaya stepped into the shade of Tentamun’s palm. His feet were bare, but his ankles were encased in gold bands. Tentamun considered him aged, for his dark brown hair was streaked with silver. But age had refused to mark Zulaya in other ways. His step was light, his eyes quick and exact. And he bore few lines, although Tentamun guessed that he must have at least four decades.
What was it that made him so uneasy around this man? Could it be the numbers of strange people Zulaya employed? Tentamun had never seen so many come and go from a great man’s house. A few were ordinary field laborers or tenant farmers
. Others, in spite of their Egyptian dress, seemed rough, some with the manners of bandits, some with scars of old knife and scimitar wounds. Many were foreigners who addressed Zulaya in the language of the Asiatics, or in Babylonian, or other obscure tongues from regions Tentamun had never heard of. Or perhaps Tentamun was uncomfortable because Zulaya seemed to enjoy traveling to foreign places. No good Egyptian liked alien lands. Egypt was a paradise blessed by the gods. Other places were exile.
Tentamun bowed low, but Zulaya had turned to survey the canal that ran past his estate, through the fields close to the river and into the Nile. “Did you know, dear youth, that none of the waters near Byblos or those of the mighty Euphrates rival the dark night blue of the Nile?”
“No, lord.” Perhaps he feared Zulaya because he never seemed to approach any goal directly.
Zulaya lifted his arm and pointed across the river, indicating the desert. Swirls of sand formed dunes with knife-edged tops.
“That, Tentamun, is the reason for Egypt’s happy nature. A great and terrible barrier against the ambitions and might of quarrelsome Asiatics. They snarl and claw at each other unceasingly, shed blood over scraps of coastline, over rich cities, over mountains covered with cedar. All the while Egypt remains fruitful and at peace behind her rock and sand ramparts. The envy of every monarch, every herder in search of pasture, every barbarian looking for plunder.”
Now Zulaya wasn’t frightening; he was tiresome. Tentamun waited until his employer transferred his attention from the desert to him. It was the only signal Zulaya would give that he was ready to listen.
“Someone came to visit Satet, my lord. You said you wished to know at once should this happen. He came a few days ago, a scribe in search of servants for his master.”
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