“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 mom
ent.”
“Who else?” Kysen asked.
“An Egyptian called Yamen, an officer and scribe in the Re division.”
“An officer?” Kysen asked. “What kind of officer?”
Othrys chuckled. “The kind that serves generals and sometimes is sent to foreign lands as an envoy, which gives him opportunities to meet generous people who seem to give him many gifts. Many, many gifts. And these gifts Yamen generously bestows upon his numerous friends, some of whom I would not trust should my other choice be your demon Eater of Souls.”
“I’ve met worse.”
“I won’t try to convince you,” the pirate said. “You’ll believe me soon.”
“And the last?”
“The last is Zulaya, a Babylonian who lives in Egypt and trades in horses, wool, copper, spices, many things. But what he is known for among my people is his unrivaled supply of the secret doings of princes, chiefs, and kings.”
“If these men are so evil—”
“These men,” Othrys snapped. “They have a few similarities. Their influence is felt in many lands. Each has secret friends among the great ones of Egypt. And most important, their enemies have a habit of ending up in evil plights. The high numbers of deaths among their rivals keeps most from interfering in their affairs.”
“But it’s strange that I haven’t heard of them.”
“Gods! You will be my undoing. I have almost decided to abandon you to the malice of this evil power.”
Othrys stomped out of the darkness, leaving Kysen to follow. He joined the pirate, who was listening to Naram-Sin softly mention the late hour.
“A pity,” Naram-Sin said as Kysen appeared. “But then, Egyptians always think they’re somehow invincible simply because they’re Egyptian.”
Kysen ignored the Babylonian. “Othrys, I’ll tell my father what you’ve said. But I have to warn you. Don’t expect this talk of a master of evil to deter him. If he had to, Meren would hunt this criminal down into the caverns of the netherworld.”
“Would he?” Naram-Sin asked with a smirk.
“Do you know Maat?” Kysen countered.
The Babylonian shook his head.
“Maat is the divine order of existence, which was brought into being upon the creation. Maat governs the seasons, the stars, the relationship between mortals and the gods, and above all, rightness and justice. Pharaoh rules through the authority of the goddess Maat.”
Kysen tossed his headcloth at Naram-Sin’s feet and surveyed the two foreigners. “This is what you don’t understand. Egypt is governed by Maat. Pharaoh guards against lawlessness and chaos. He preserves the divine order, and Eyes of Pharaoh exist to aid pharaoh. Evil is chaos, and chaos is evil, which threatens Egypt’s destruction. And Egypt, her pharaoh, her peaceful seasons and endless stars, these are the substance of my father’s ka. If he must, he will bring the stars down to the earth and the earth to the sky to preserve Maat.”
Turning to go, Kysen lightened his tone. “In any case, both your shadow criminal and this murderer who steals hearts must be stopped. Eyes of Pharaoh has decreed it, and what he ordains always comes about, I promise you. Have a safe journey home, Othrys. And may the protection of Amun be with you.”
Chapter 13
A great ship was moored at the temple quay, its dark hull hardly visible above the night-black waters of the Nile. So long and wide that it dwarfed even the largest of pharaoh’s warships. It had no deckhouse. Unlike other ships, its prow didn’t curve up. Instead it looked cut off, and thick lines could be seen running from it to the quay.
This was the royal barge Tutankhamun Is Divine. An overseer of the treasury had brought it to port just before nightfall. The arrival of Tutankhamun Is Divine had been a marvel. On the last leg of the voyage from the southern quarries at Aswan, it had appeared over the horizon like some vast floating plain. Long before it docked, rhythmic chants and the drumming of oars from thirty towing boats signaled its advance. The sun boat of Ra had set fire to the pink granite of two needlelike obelisks resting side by side on the barge.
These elegant, tapering monoliths were meant to stand before the pylons of the temple of Ptah. Their pyrimidion tops would be covered with sheet gold to reflect the sun’s rays. As he had promised, pharaoh was restoring the temples of the old gods, replenishing their looted coffers, in reparation for the destruction wrought by his heretic brother.
No guards patrolled Tutankhamun Is Divine or her cargo. There was no fear that thieves could shift stones weighing as much as several pyramid blocks and measuring four times the height of the tallest house. The hot western wind whistled through the streets of Memphis and burst into the open at the quay to hurl sand across the water. Smaller boats bobbed and dipped. The royal barge remained almost immobile.
One of the towing boats bumped against another. At the muffled smack of wood against wood, a long mud-green snout rose behind the first obelisk. Eater of Souls peered out at the quay.
Bronze claws scraped pink stone while protruding eyes studied the docks, the other boats, the storage buildings, and deserted streets. She had been slithering along in the shadows, on her way to yet another execution, when that large overseer of the city watch had appeared. Marching toward her with that officious, waddling gait, the creature had actually barked at the two men preceding him. Mortals didn’t bark at Eater of Souls; usually they screamed, if they got the chance.
Intrigued by the overseer’s officious manner and flabby bulk, she had wondered what it would feel like to sink her ax into that thick chest. While she speculated, she had waited almost too late before she faded into the black shelter next to a staircase running up the side of a bouse. The creature waddled nearer, moved past her, then stumbled. Catching its balance, the mortal turned, slowly, as if afraid to look. Eater of Souls gripped her ax. Her claws scraped against each other. The creature gasped, its eyes bulging, and whimpered like a sick piglet. Before she had even decided to attack, the overseer whirled around, leaped into a sprint, his flesh jiggling, and vanished down the street.
Eater of Souls chased after the mortals but lost them near the docks. When a drunken gaggle of priests staggered across the quay, she plunged aboard the royal barge to avoid them. Too many encounters would keep her from the most important task she’d performed so far on behalf of the favored one.
Her mane brushed a wooden beam as she lifted her snout. The west wind escalated. Howling out of the land of the dead, it screamed with the voices of countless dead and damned souls. Eater of Souls could hear their fury. These she had not devoured; deprived of tombs or ancestors to feed their spirits, they wandered the desert without sustenance, condemned to eternal starvation.
Eater of Souls lifted herself onto the obelisk. She crouched on her haunches and tasted the wind with her snout. The stench of the living was gone. Leaping across beams and then to the quay, she slithered back into the street shadows.
Time to find the evil one. This transgressor caused terrible hurt to the favored one by its very existence. This one sinned in a thousand ways. First, there was the sin of beauty; the outward visage flaunted its perfection before the favored one. Second came a rank so high that it brought unequaled magnificence and wealth and made the favored one seem a beggar. These transgressions paled beside the third—for the evil one possessed power, godlike authority, a majesty of ka that taunted the favored one into black misery.
All admired the evil one. The fiend walked a golden path surrounded by precious jewels, countless slaves, servants, admirers. Where the fiend went, awe, praise, and fascination followed. The creature existed in a silvery mist of splendor and eminence that was slowly poisoning the Favorite.
Eater of Souls paused in her journey into the city as the pain of the favored one reached her. She backed against a wall, scraping hide and fur. From her fanged jaws issued a rhythmic grunting that ended in a hollow moan. The emptiness and desolation enveloped her, deeper than the abyss of the netherworld, more horrible than Eater of Souls herself.
&nb
sp; Then she snuffled into silence, listening to the west wind howl. A message from the pantheon soared on the scouring blast, entered her nostrils and curled its way to her heart. Now, at last, she understood the great quest that had drawn her to the land of the living. Above all, she must destroy the one who was a lethal Nile cataract, a granite barrier concealed in churning, frothy white water that reflected the brilliance of the sun. Because it captured the rewards, glory, and worship that belonged to the favored one, this creature was the most dangerous. Every moment it existed, the fiend ripped from the favored one’s ka the treasure to which only the Chosen was entitled. Each robbery, each stolen bit of praise, pierced the Favorite like a javelin, and the emptiness swelled.
Terror lurked in this emptiness. Terror and perpetual agony. She had to destroy the cause of this desolation before it obliterated the favored one. As the desolation churned like a sea storm in her gut, Eater of Souls pointed her snout to the stars, howled, and bounded down the deserted street toward the place of the transgressor.
Meren still couldn’t sleep. He dropped a pile of reports beside his chair, rose, and went to the table bearing Sit-Hathor’s alabaster lamp. Beside it lay the tray holding the two feathers and the text about birds. The feathers were quite ordinary looking, neither longer than one-third the length from his fingertip to his elbow. To him they looked like those of a goose or swan.
He unfurled the bird papyrus. It was a long text with painted illustrations, their colors still bright. Although the papyrus had darkened, it was still strong. It had been written by a royal scribe, who stated that he was setting down the words of the overseer of pharaoh’s bird keepers, Snefru, twelfth day of Inundation, Year One of Seqenenre Tao. Seqenenre Tao had ruled over two hundred years ago. He must have liked fowling.
“Now,” he said to himself, “which birds have white feathers? Owls, but the white ones aren’t long enough. Not ostrich feathers, although if this murderer truly does weigh the heart against the feather of truth… hmm, the feather of truth.”
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