Eater of souls

by Lynda S. Robinson

He’d observed the look from his oldest, Tefnut, who lived far away and would soon give birth to her first child. Closing his eyes, Meren summoned a memory. Tefnut herding her younger sisters into the central hall to greet the guests attending one of his feasts. She had spent hours drilling Bener and Isis in manners. All of them had behaved well, and Tefnut had gathered the girls at the proper time and taken them out of the hall to bed. When she came back she had given him that look, but she’d never said anything.

  That look. Meren opened his eyes. Expectation, that’s what it had been. Expectation, excitement, unspoken pride at a task accomplished. And eagerness. A shy eagerness, hunger. For praise. For an acknowledgment from him. A tiny sign that he had noticed, that she was worthy of his attention.

  “Meren, son of Amosis,” he whispered. “You have the perception of a block of limestone. Callous bastard.”

  Bener had given him that look tonight, and again he had ignored it, as he would the glance of a slave or the panting of his favorite hunting dog. Ashamed, Meren set aside these thoughts with a vow to correct himself. But now sleep would escape him completely. Standing, he removed the stone weights and picked up the description of Mugallu’s death. Reading it wouldn’t invite sleep. He would think about the white feathers.

  He set the sheet aside and went to a chest the size of a sarcophagus that had been set beside the master’s dais. Sit-Hathor and he had collected old writings, copies of texts passed down for centuries. Sometimes he had a use for them. There was one old document, a record composed by the chief royal fowler of the pharaoh Senusret I, who ruled more than six hundred years before Meren had been born.

  The house had grown quiet. All the servants had gone to bed, except those few on night duty such as the porter. One of the lamps sputtered and went out, but Meren paid no attention. Lifting the lid on the chest, he pulled out a case of documents. He read the label inscribed in black ink, put it back, and picked up another case.

  “I’m sure it’s in this chest,” he muttered. Searching through the other cases, he came upon one resting beneath several others. “I knew it.”

  Meren pulled the container out of the chest and carried it to his chair. He sat, opened the case, and began removing the valuable papyri one by one. “Birds, birds, birds. It is an entire book.”

  When he was halfway through the documents, his hand wrapped around a thick bundle. He set the case aside, removed the twine binding the roll of nested sheets, and unwound them. As he read, a gust of wind whistled through the window grilles. It sent the lamplight into a silent dance. Meren listened to the flutelike whistling and glanced at the cavorting shadows. Then his gaze fell back to the papyrus, and he began to read again.

  When Kysen entered Ese’s tavern, he wasn’t alone. Narrowing his eyes against the thick fog of perfume, beer fumes, smoke from cooking fires, and the press of bodies, he looked over his shoulder at Abu.

  “Cursed nursemaid,” he muttered.

  Abu, who had left behind the whip and scimitar that identified him as a charioteer, met his gaze without mercy. “The lord’s orders. He said if you objected I was to tell you this is what you deserve for sending me to sniff at his heels like a hound on the scent of an escaped slave.”

  “It was for his own protection.”

  There was no reply from Abu, whose expression told Kysen he’d just proved his father’s point.

  “Oh, never mind.”

  Kysen shouldered his way through a crowd that had gathered to watch a team of naked Greek acrobats. One girl, her dark hair streaming down her back in tight curls, did back flips around the central hearth. Another bounced across the floor and leaped onto the shoulders of a young man. Kysen was working his way toward the stairs behind which lay the door to Ese’s garden court when a young woman in sparkling eye paint and a beaded girdle darted out of the crowd and grabbed his arm.

  “There you are!” she exclaimed in a trumpeting voice. “You’ve kept me waiting, and I’ve lost two customers because of it. And you’ve brought a friend. I hope you also brought gold, because you’re going to need it.”

  Kysen gaped at her, his eyes wide and his lips slightly parted. The young woman shook his arm.

  “Come along, both of you.”

  Without waiting for his consent, the girl hauled him upstairs. Abu trailed them, and Kysen tossed him a look that disclaimed any acquaintance with her. The second floor consisted of suites of rooms bordering the square landing that overlooked the hall. His escort passed a series of closed doors, hauling him behind her. Kysen heard noises behind several of them, noises of which he could easily imagine the origin.

  The girl stopped, knocked on one of the doors, and pushed it open. Silently she pushed Kysen inside an empty room and shut him in before Abu could follow. As he stumbled into the room, he heard her confront Abu.

  “Stay here, mountain of muscle.”

  Then Kysen heard a squawk and a thud. The door opened to reveal his imperious escort sitting on the floor spewing epithets at Abu. The charioteer stepped inside, slammed the door on the girl, and gave Kysen an inquiring glance.

  “I think Ese will be along soon,” Kysen said.

  “We wait a few moments,” Abu replied as he searched the room. “Then we leave.” He walked into the chamber beyond the first room and returned. “Another door leading to a back stair. We will not remain in this box trap for long.”

  “Why have you brought a stranger?”

  It was Ese. She stood in the short passage between the two rooms. Her skin appeared gilded and shone in the lamplight. Kysen tried not to stare, but even at court he’d never seen a woman whose body had been rubbed with scented oil into which gold dust had been strewn. Ese had abandoned her Greek garb for the transparent mist of Egyptian linen so fine it must have come from royal workshops.

  Kysen forced himself to display only the slightest of reactions, bowed in homage to the woman, and said, “Ese, this is a friend, Abu.”

  “He isn’t my friend. Tell him to get out.”

  She hadn’t stopped staring at the charioteer since she’d appeared. Abu returned her stare and remained where he was. Kysen cleared his throat to draw their attention.

  “He won’t leave, Ese, and I can’t make him.”

  Ese gave him a smile that hinted at anticipation. “I can.”

  Abu remained silent and oblivious to the threat. Kysen shook his head.

  “Please don’t do that. Abu looks upon me as a—a son, and I trust him with my life.”

  “This does not interest me,” Ese said.

  “But I think you’re interested in my assurance that, should you summon your men, this room would soon hold many corpses you would have to explain to the city police.”

  Ese adjusted a fold of misty linen that draped across her arm. “Very well. At least he’s not a hippo’s ass of a nobleman. What do you want?”

  “I’ve come about the list,” Kysen said.

  Ese turned away. “It’s too soon. Come back in a few weeks.”

  Sighing, Kysen watched her go, then gestured to Abu. The charioteer walked swiftly to the chamber into which Ese had vanished. Kysen heard a scuffle, a shriek, and a door slam. It wasn’t long before Ese swept back into the room, her body quivering, her sweet face disfigured by resentment and rage. She didn’t stop when she got inside the room; she reached Kysen, lunged, and struck him across the face. Unprepared, Kysen took the full force of the blow. Abu, who had followed Ese, grabbed her and tossed her to the floor. Ese landed on her side. Instead of screaming, as Kysen had expected, she slipped her hand inside the ties of her robe and withdrew a knife. Kysen tried to warn her.

  “Don’t draw a weapon!”

  Abu was already moving. He ran two steps, then struck with his foot, kicking her hand. Ese cried out as the knife flew across the room to bounce off a wall. While Ese clutched her injured hand, Abu pounced on her. She was wearing several necklaces, and he snagged them and pulled them tight at the back of her neck.

  Dragging Ese to her feet, A
bu shoved her over to Kysen, pushed her to her knees, and held her while she sputtered and tried to breathe. Her fingers worked between her neck and the jewelry in an attempt to relieve the pressure. Abu simply pulled up on the necklace chains. When her face had turned the color of a ripe melon, Kysen nodded to Abu. Without warning, the charioteer released his grip.

  Ese dropped to the floor on her hands and knees. Swaying unsteadily, she gulped in air, coughed, and made gurgling noises. Kysen retrieved the room’s single chair and sat down in front of Ese. The red in her face had faded to pink when she jerked herself upright, yanked at her gown to untangle it from her legs, all the while spitting curses at Kysen.

  “Please, Ese, you will make me turn as red as you did if you keep up this deluge of soldiers’ profanity.”

  “Get out!” Ese winced and coughed at the strain on her bruised throat. She went on in a lower tone but with just as much virulence. “No man rules here, and no man treats Ese like a common slave. I’ll see your gut split and your entrails curled about your neck while you still live. I’ll have my men cut the skin from your living body. I’ll cut out your eyes and—”

  “Woman,” Abu said quietly. “Disavow your threats, or I’m going to kill you at once.”

  Both Kysen and Ese lifted their gazes. Abu was standing behind the tavern owner. He had drawn his dagger, a double-edged blade of bronze. Kysen had seen him slit the throat of a Libyan tribesman in less time than it took to blink. But what alarmed him was that Abu had that peculiar air of his, the one that meant he’d made a decision from which there would be no appeal, not even from Kysen.

  Drawing in a quick breath, Kysen spoke softly, never looking away from Abu. “Ese, don’t move.”

  Something in his voice must have communicated the gravity of her situation, for Ese swallowed hard. “Make him stop.”

  “I can’t,” Kysen said. “If you don’t swear by Amun not to harm me, he’s going to kill you. Right now. And there’s nothing I can do to stop him.”

  “Her oath is worthless,” Abu said as he turned the dagger so that the flat of the blade was parallel with the floor.

  “Not to me,” Kysen said. “She didn’t understand, Abu. And she didn’t mean anything she said.”

  Abu lifted his gaze from Ese for the first time and shook his head. “You’re wrong. This woman has done all the things she threatened to do to you. To men. This I have seen for myself.”

  “They deserved it!” Some of Ese’s hostility had returned, but she darted a look at Abu and softened her tone. “You know they deserved it, after what they did to me, and to my friend, and to my sister.”

  “Your sister?” Kysen asked.

  “She’s dead.”

  It was a blunt answer, and Kysen could see Ese would rather face Abu’s dagger than give him more details.

  “I’m sorry your sister has gone west. I have three sisters, and if someone killed one of them, I would act as you have.”

  Ese studied him in silence. Then she sank back on her heels. “I don’t believe you, at least not entirely, but I’m willing to admit I lost my temper. It’s these murders, and the talk of demons. I can taste the fear in the air.” She rubbed her throat. “I’ve lost dozens of customers. They’re too afraid to walk the streets at night.”

  “Murders? Word has spread quickly.”

  “What do you expect in Memphis?” Ese lifted her hands, palms up, her voice harsh from maltreatment. “I give my oath by the king of the gods, Amun. I didn’t mean those threats. I was on edge and worried. That’s why I lost control.”

  Kysen nodded. “Abu?”

  The charioteer scowled at Ese, but sheathed his dagger and stepped back. Kysen released a sigh.

  “By the staff of Ptah,” Ese snapped, her anger threatening to erupt again even as she voiced her curiosity. “You were more worried than I.”

  Kysen stood and helped the woman to her feet. Then he guided her to the chair. Rubbing her throat, she sat down with a groan. Her hands began tugging at the folds and pleats of her gown.

  Studying her red flesh, Kysen asked, “Are you well?”

  “Don’t insult me with your concern.” Her voice broke, but she cleared her throat. “You’re like too many other men—pretty but with a ka more suited to a crocodile.”

  He protested, but Ese’s indifference showed in the way she stared at the opposite wall and rubbed her neck without responding.

  “Oh, very well,” Kysen said. “I can see you treasure your ill opinion too much to accept any amendment to it.”

  Ese turned to smile slyly at him and incline her head in assent. “You wanted to know about the list you gave me. I really have little to say at the moment. There were sixteen names, and I haven’t received word on most of them. It was quickest to find out about the dead ones.”

  “What dead ones?”

  Ese was removing her necklaces now, with grimaces and sharp little intakes of breath. “The queen had many, many attendants. So far, one of the three personal maids is dead, as is one of the five dressers. One of the privy door openers and a sandal bearer, these two have gone west as well.”

  Kysen asked, “How did they die?”

  Dropping the necklaces in her lap, Ese began to massage her neck. “Let me think, let me think. The privy door opener was filling a water jar at the river and a crocodile got him. All too common a fate, I’m afraid.”

  “What of the dresser?”

  “She died of old age.”

  “And the personal maid?”

  Ese wrinkled her brow while her fingers intertwined with a beaded necklace. “Oh, yes. An ailment of the gut. A pity. She wasn’t that old. I think she had twenty years. And the sandal bearer was even younger, but he died of a putrid scorpion sting.”

  “There was no hint of any of these deaths being more than accidents or illness or old age?”

  “No. The only remarkable thing about them was that they all happened within a few weeks of their mistress’s death.”

  “All within a few weeks.”

  “It will take more time to find out about the rest,” Ese said. “But I can’t until I’m paid.”

  Abu spoke up. “Don’t worry, woman. You’ll get your wages upon the morrow.”

  “Don’t talk to me of wages as if I were a stone breaker, you son of a—”

  “Please, Ese,” Kysen said as he stepped between the two. “I’ve already saved your life once tonight.”

  Ese rose and sent a flaming look at him. “Just don’t send him with my fee. And don’t bring him with you ever again.”

  “I won’t send him with the fee, but I don’t think I can prevent him from coming with me.”

  Coming close, Ese lowered her voice so that only Kysen could hear. “I accept mishandling from no one. Do you understand? How do you think I survive among men like Othrys?” Her voice gained in force from the rage she held in check. “By being even more vicious than they are. Ask anyone on the docks or in the streets who they would rather face. They’ll all choose anyone but me.”

  “I believe you,” Kysen said. “But you can’t—”

  He stopped; Ese had already turned her back and vanished into the second room. He heard a door slam. He was thinking about Ese when Abu interrupted.

  “The hour is late, lord. We should go home.”

  “Do you fear encountering Eater of Souls?”

  Abu opened the door to the landing and stood to one side so that Kysen could pass. “The hour is late.”

  “Very well,” Kysen said. “But even with Ese after us, it’s bound to be safer in here than in the streets with a demon.”

  Chapter 12

  Once Kysen left Ese’s tavern, Abu insisted upon going ahead of him.

  Knowing it was useless to protest, Kysen said, “Go, then. Perhaps you have a good idea. This way I can watch your back.”

  Abu hesitated, to Kysen’s amusement, but evidently could think of no objection. They set out, and Kysen kept a set distance from Abu until they entered an older section inhab
ited by Syrian traders. Here the streets deteriorated into mere tracks made treacherous with dried-up gullies from previous high floods and troughs dug by those in need of mud for bricks and too lazy to go to the river.

  This was the portion of the trip Kysen disliked, for the tracks reversed on themselves, then suddenly twisted at a right angle, then reversed again, causing him to confuse his location. His could navigate well during the day, but night seemed to increase distance and stretch time as though he had been cast into a dreamworld. And the night was black, the color of the netherworld, and of death.

  Kysen hopped across a gully and tried to remind himself that black was also the color of the fertile soil, life of Egypt, that gave to her the name Black Land. A name so old it was lost beyond the time before the delta and Upper Egypt became one kingdom. But not older than the gods, or their servant, Eater of Souls. Kysen darted glances into doorways, over awnings, down alleys, and up stairways to roofs.

  “Take heart,” he muttered to himself. “You might only meet one of the others, like Blood Drinker, who comes from the slaughterhouse, or Backward-facing One, who comes from the abyss.”

  Abu took another track, one in which they nearly had to turn sideways to make progress. Feeling penned, Kysen closed the gap between them and hurried after the charioteer as the older man veered suddenly at an angle between an old drying rack and the half-demolished garden wall of a deserted house. Kysen plunged down the new track, but as he passed by the wall, stepping over chunks of mud brick, he stopped. Then he quietly moved away from the wall, putting his back to the side of a house. His hand slipped to his side, and he drew his dagger.

  Trying not to make a sound, he hardly breathed in his effort to see. Something was wrong. He scoured the area, noting the high, blank walls that crowded in on him. He couldn’t see the moon, but his eyes had become accustomed to the dark. It was possible to distinguish shapes.

  Whatever had caught his attention was in the old garden. The west wind had calmed, but he could still perceive the movement of the date palms within. He forced himself to remain as still as any of the dead shrubs and flowers behind the crumbling wall. Surely if someone were stalking him, Kysen would hear him step on dried leaves. Then he heard a footfall on loose dirt. Whirling aside, Kysen ducked and pointed his dagger.