“There,” Zulaya said with quiet satisfaction. “A scene of peace and beauty. I never fail to gain pleasure from watching the life of the Nile.” He cocked his head to the side and smiled at Tentamun. “And of course, it pleases me that we’re rid of that annoying spy you brought me.”
“Rid of him, master?”
Zulaya wasn’t paying much attention. His gaze had returned to the caravan. “Yes. The desert will swallow what we no longer have use for. It was fortunate one of my parties was about to set out.”
A lump formed in Tentamun’s throat as he darted a look at the last donkey plodding along, its tail flicking back and forth, the panniers on its back bobbing gently as it walked. Was Zulaya referring to the cargo loaded on that donkey? Tentamun couldn’t make himself ask. He might get an answer he didn’t want.
Zulaya closed his eyes, took a deep breath, and let it out slowly. “When my affairs become too pressing or I find myself growing annoyed or weary, I come here. Gazing upon the Nile is like a small rebirth.” Zulaya glanced down at Tentamun, his smile fading only slightly. “And now that I’ve renewed myself, we will talk. We’ve never done that, have we?”
“No, master.”
“Come, then. You may sit on that stool. Don’t concern yourself with Nebra. He too enjoys the scene from my window, and he’s most interested in what you have to say.”
“But I know nothing more than what I’ve told you, master.”
“Oh, I’m not talking about that spy you brought. He was persuaded to confess the nature of his interest in your village. Forget him.”
Tentamun lowered himself to the stool, glad that he wouldn’t have to keep his knees from folding but more alarmed than ever. A master did not allow an underling to sit in his presence, especially not on a stool. Zulaya sat in a chair fitted with cushions of the softest leather and placed his feet on a padded rest. His robe, long, loose, and decorated with borders of electrum roundels in the shape of rampant bulls, settled around his legs. The material made a hushed, rustling sound that increased Tentamun’s tension.
“Now, my dear youth, are you quite comfortable?”
“Yes, master.” He was going to die, and Zulaya was playing with him for amusement. What master asked after the comfort of a hired man?
Zulaya picked up a faience cup from a tray beside his chair. “You may have water, but no beer. I want your heart alert.”
Tentamun’s palms were damp as he took the cup and sipped. All his thoughts seemed to falter, then stop, although Zulaya remained gracious and seemed unconcerned.
“Are you hungry?”
Tentamun wished the man would simply kill him. “No, master.”
“Good.”
Zulaya arranged the folds of his robe, then rested his hands on the arms of his chair. His fingers spread over the gleaming cedar. Each of them was encircled with a ring. The rings all consisted of a tinted red-gold hoop threaded through an engraved bezel of lapis lazuli, malachite, or amethyst. Tentamun watched the splayed fingers slowly curl around the chair arm, then open, then close again. When the movement ceased and the hands went limp, Tentamun lifted his gaze.
His master leaned forward and spoke in a confiding tone. “Now, dear youth, we will begin again. I want you to search your heart. Think carefully, with precision and clarity, back to that day when the scribe came seeking the former royal cook. I am going to listen to your tale again and again. And you, my dear youth, are going to repeat all you know until you can describe this unknown scribe in a much more accurate manner than you have previously.”
“But I have described him, master.”
“Not well,” Zulaya said, his smile recalling delightful childhood games. “I want you to do it well, in the manner of harpists who compose songs and epics of the gods.”
“But—”
“And if you find yourself unable to comply, I’m sure Nebra will be happy to help you find the words that will give me a most vivid image of this mysterious scribe.”
As Tentamun rubbed his damp palms on his thighs, he glanced over his shoulder in the direction of Zulaya’s gaze. He met the colored-glass stare of Nebra, who gave him a smile that was the mirror of Zulaya’s.
“I find that Nebra’s presence somehow inspires people to great descriptive feats,” Zulaya said while Tentamun remained trapped in that lifeless stare. “I’m sure he will do the same for you, dear youth.”
Sokar paced around his office. His was an irregular route because of the chests and wicker boxes strewn across the, floor. A plague of charioteers had descended upon him after he’d fallen into disfavor with the Eyes of Pharaoh. They’d taken every note and document from the last six months and left without telling him his fate.
He was so disturbed that he’d been imagining monsters in the dark. Of course, he’d been drinking to assuage his sorrow at being so unjustly treated. That was why the shadows had jumped at him in ghastly forms. That was why.
But his men had seen the monster too. They said it was the demon that was preying in the city. Should he tell anyone? No. They would think he was telling a tale to get himself noticed after incurring the wrath of Lord Meren.
“Min is to blame for this. Oh, misfortune and ruin. I’m undone, and all because of a few lowborns.”
Sokar wiped sweat from his upper lip and dried his hands on his kilt. He tried sitting on his stool, but that only brought him a better view of the wreckage of his office. He got up and hurried to a table where his aide had left food for him, including a fresh date cake. Breaking the loaf in half, Sokar took a bite and lapsed into the thoughtless haze that often accompanied his eating. More comfortable, he wandered back to his stool and sat down again. He shouldn’t become so upset over a scare in the night.
He was almost through with the cake when he glimpsed a small pile of ostraca, the pottery shards and flakes of limestone upon which notes were often taken. On top of the pile lay a large shard from a water jar. It was covered with notes, notes he’d forgotten. The remains of the cake dropped from his fingers. He licked crumbs from his lips. Wiping his mouth with the back of his hand, Sokar maneuvered himself to his feet and picked up the shard.
“The two old dead ones from the house.”
He had refused to go when one of his men reported these deaths. He’d had enough to do without dragging himself across the city to look at corpses of two old fools who’d gotten themselves killed, probably by a thief. What if this incident was like those others! Sokar scanned the notes. No, the old ones had been stabbed. Sokar sighed and tossed the shard back on the pile.
“Amun be praised. I’m safe. Or am I?”
He thought hard. Had he remembered to include this case in his report? Yes, yes, he had, and he’d even inquired if the couple had family in the city. They didn’t, so he’d ordered them given burials in the cemetery reserved for the poor. Certainly they wouldn’t get embalmed. There would be no elaborate rituals performed by funerary priests, but that was the fate of the poor and the unknown. It wasn’t his fault. Nobody could say it was his fault.
Sokar’s body slumped as he sighed again and went to his food table. He reached for a water bottle. Downing most of its contents, he picked up the remaining half of the date cake, a jar of beer, several spice buns, and some figs. Piling these on a tray, he added fish cakes, a honey loaf, and a melon. He picked up the tray and went back to his stool, where he placed it on the table next to him and began eating.
He’d been so worried after having offended Lord Meren that he hadn’t eaten very much. But time had passed, and no demand that he be replaced had come.
Either Lord Meren had forgotten him, or the Eyes of Pharaoh had decided that Sokar’s offense wasn’t so very great.
“After all,” he said to himself with his mouth full of fish cake, “who were they but common laborers? And a cursed barbarian Hittite.”
He would go about his business, perform his duties as usual. He couldn’t be blamed for anything. Sokar gulped down some beer and yelled for his aide.
“Get in here and clean up. How can I work in this refuse heap?”
Kysen strode out of the house with Bener and Isis close behind him. On the loggia Abu waited with a chariot and a squad of men.
Bener spoke before he could. “You found Father. Where is he?”
“The lord is in his sailing boat, lady.”
Isis let out a sigh, and Bener turned to Kysen with a smile of relief. “I told you he wasn’t in danger. He’s weary of being surrounded by guards. You know how he craves solitude.”
“On the river?” Kysen asked. His father had eluded the men guarding him not long after the banishing ceremony performed by pharaoh.
“He could have told us what he intended instead of vanishing in the middle of the city,” Isis said. Her eyebrows climbed her forehead as they did when she was vexed. “Father never thinks of us, only of himself.”
Her siblings turned on her.
“If I were you, Mistress Run-away,” Bener said, “I wouldn’t accuse others of faults that weigh down my own heart. Especially not Father.”
Kysen made a rude noise. “You know her. She thinks if she sulks and berates Father with cruel remarks he’ll relent. I am amazed at her ability to ignore a lifetime’s experience to the contrary.”
“Go quickly,” Bener replied with a glare at her sister.
“I can send someone to you if there’s news of the demon hunt.”
Kysen jumped into the waiting chariot along with Abu. They drove to the canal nearest the house, where a boat carried them to the river. It was late in the day, only a couple of hours before dark. Fishing boats, pleasure craft, and freighters alike swarmed in the waters, and Kysen was forced to wait impatiently while the sailors of his own craft wove through the traffic upstream. Finally they sailed far enough from the docks to leave the crowds behind.
The waters were rising with the approaching flood, making the Nile wider. On this blue pool a craft about the size of a fishing boat floated toward him, its sail furled. In it sat Meren, his hand on a steering oar. Kysen’s boat surged forward with the breeze and cut across the river to meet Meren’s craft in the midstream. Meren guided his boat alongside the larger one, and Kysen joined him. Before anyone else could get in, Meren shoved the two vessels apart with his oar. Abu gripped the mast and stared after them, then settled down to follow at a distance.
Kysen sat facing his father, who resumed his placid, zigzag course downstream. Meren began as if Kysen had been in the boat all along.
“We haven’t found Tcha again, have we?”
“No. He isn’t at Ese’s, and she has searched for him too.”
“He might have seen something, perhaps even Eater of Souls. If he’s still alive, he might be able to tell us where to find her.”
“I should have kept hold of him when I met Othrys, but he disappeared while I was dealing with him and his supposed scribe. I think Tcha would have told us if he knew where the creature dwells, though, in order to protect himself.”
“Perhaps.” Meren turned the boat toward the east bank.
Kysen could no longer contain his impatience. “You should not have gone out alone. The demon could have attacked, and you would have had no aid.”
“Look around, Ky. How could anyone approach without me seeing them?”
Kysen glanced over the flat expanse of the river. Several skiffs hugged the steep banks, but here there were no great papyrus swamps or thickets of reeds as there were farther north.
“That dead farmer,” Meren said. “Min said that the only remarkable thing that happened to him was nearly getting run down by a chariot. That was why he was drinking at the tavern, to recover from the fright.”
“I knew it!” Kysen exclaimed. “You’ve discovered something. I told Bener and Isis you wouldn’t have vanished if you hadn’t learned something important.”
He waited, but Meren avoided his gaze and turned the boat toward the west bank. “The tavern woman entertained many customers the night she was killed. We’re tracing them through the tavern keeper, but some he knew only by the goods they used to pay him.” A distant look appeared on Meren’s face. “The tavern keeper said Anat left before her work was done. He was furious, because her next customer was a man of good appearance who could have paid well. But when Anat refused him, he left much offended.”
“And Tcha’s partner in thievery had just tried to rob a nobleman’s house,” Kysen added.
“I need to question Tcha. I want to know which nobleman he and his partner visited that night.”
Kysen stared at his father, who was calmly surveying the course downriver. “You’ve discovered something.”
“I don’t know,” Meren said. “There seems to be nothing that would relate the dead ones, and yet… I keep thinking about them—a careless farmer, a negligent tavern woman who leaves her work early, a thief who dies after committing a robbery. And then there’s Mugallu, who was killed after nearly provoking pharaoh into a war.”
“And you,” Kysen said quietly.
“And me.” Meren shifted his weight and pulled the steering oar toward him. “Eater of Souls attacked me, but why?”
“Because you are searching for her.”
“Would a demon care?”
“If you interfered in her work, yes.”
Furrows appeared between Meren’s brows. “You find nothing remarkable about this group?”
“Father, their hearts were stolen.”
“Then perhaps I’m wrong,” Meren said to himself.
Kysen would have pursued this discussion, but he felt the boat suddenly change direction to veer away from the riverbank. Meren nodded toward a spot where the bank sloped gradually and water lapped at the soil. The waters churned. The black mud suddenly rose up and grew jaws and teeth. Spine-backed crocodiles snapped at something beneath the water. One rolled over and over between the writhing bodies of its fellows. Kysen knew what that twisting wallow meant. Lacking the ability to tear with its jaws, the crocodile used this method to rend its victim’s flesh into manageable chunks.
“About these three men of whom your pirate is so afraid,” Meren said.
Kysen dragged his gaze from the crocodiles. If Meren wasn’t worried, the victim must have been an animal.
“Dilalu the weapons merchant, Zulaya the Babylonian, and the Egyptian officer called Yamen.” There hadn’t yet been time to deal with the knowledge Othrys had given him.
“Yes,” Meren said. “Dilalu and Yamen are in Memphis, but Zulaya is not. I have heard of Yamen, but not the other two. But none of these men had positions at court during Akhenaten’s reign. One of them may know something about Nefertiti’s death, but his role must have been indirect. Once Eater of Souls has been caught, or ceases to prey among the living, we will discuss methods by which we will explore the activities of these three.”
“None of them is important,” Kysen said. “Not to me. What is important is keeping you safe. Will you come home now?”
“Am I not sailing back to the city?”
“Don’t pretend surprise, Father. And I’m not going to be distracted. You’ve had the look of a man who has seen the lakes of fire in the netherworld ever since Eater of Souls attacked you. You’re not a coward, but I saw your face when Parenefer accused you of sin that provoked an attack by Eater of Souls. What is wrong?”
Meren shoved the steering oar against the current, and the boat turned slowly. Kysen waited, knowing he dared press no harder for an answer. There were some secrets Meren told no one. Some he guarded with his very life. Abu’s boat was drawing nearer, and as it approached, Kysen gave up hope of a response.
“What has changed in Memphis that would draw the attention of the gods and Eater of Souls?” Meren asked in a harsh whisper.
“Nothing has changed.”
Meren leaned forward to hiss at Kysen. “Something has changed, my son. Search your heart, your intelligent heart. What has changed is this—you and I seek the murderer of a queen.”
“I don’t understand.�
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Meren leaned back and worked the oar. “Nor do I. But I do understand that the queen’s death was part of an intricate game of power, a game that isn’t over. Someone is still playing, Ky, and I can’t tell which action is a move in that game and which is not.”
“Then what are we going to do?”
“At the moment,” Meren said as he guided the boat toward Abu, “we’re going to try to stay alive.”
Kysen grinned. “I always try.”
“An admirable goal,” Meren said with a slight smile. His gaze drifted ahead to a trading vessel loaded with ivory tusks, ebony logs, and cages of birds with iridescent blue and orange feathers.
Kysen noted that look of vague reverie. “You’re still troubled, and not about the nature of the demon’s victims.”
“I’m sure I’ve missed something, but I’ve gone over everything—the white feathers, that sandal print, the places where the murders were done. No sign or object leads to any particular person. Assuming that Eater of Souls is a person, that is.”
Kysen rubbed his chin. “I think you’re angry with yourself, Father.”
“And I think you’re impudent,” Meren said mildly.
“You’re angry because you didn’t defeat Eater of Souls when you fought; you weren’t even able to see her clearly.”
Meren pounded on the steering oar. “Can you see across the garden by the light of a few distant torches?”
“No.”
“I’ll tell you what I saw,” Meren snapped. “I saw a leathery snout filled with jagged teeth, a lion’s mane, and those evil bronze claws.” He glanced at the cuts on his arm before going on. “I saw a yellow eye with a slit of a pupil. That’s what I saw. Otherwise, all I saw was a cursed ax blade so honed and polished it gleamed in what little light there was. You’ve been in battle, Ky. You know the things you remember. I can remember those teeth, those lifeless animal eyes, and those bladelike claws as if they were before me at this—”
Eater of souls Page 24
