The evil west wind whipped through the valley. Kysen listened over Nento’s labored breathing to the hollow wail of a trumpet signaling the approach of some unseen, ghostly army. Nento darted glances around the temple. The back wall was cracked, allowing the wind to whip around the interior and toss the draperies over Akhenaten’s coffin. Nento’s head jerked in that direction, and he gasped as the coffin appeared to disturb the cloth that covered it. His agitation was beginning to make Kysen uneasy.
“I’m going outside,” he said.
Nento was on his heels. “I’m coming with you.”
The wind blew grit in their faces as they emerged from the temple. Kysen paused as a particularly fierce gust brought with it a long, hollow groan that soared through the valley. Everyone knew that lost souls roamed the deserts—those whose descendants had ceased to provide nourishment in their eternal houses. They fed on hapless ones foolish enough to venture near their abandoned tombs. What if there were such eternal houses buried beneath the temple?
Excellent, Kysen thought. You’re going to end up like Nento if you don’t take care. Have patience. The new tombs will be ready soon, so you won’t have to endure the temple or Nento much longer.
He surveyed the valley in the silver glow cast by the moon, then went over to a spray of boulders at the base of the north slope of the valley. Nento trotted after him. Iry was sitting between two of the largest rocks scanning the top of the incline.
“All seems quiet as usual, lord,” said Iry.
“Good. If things continue this way, I’ll return to the house. I’m not sure what Lord Meren will do now that—” He paused as the screech of a falcon echoed down from the slope before them.
The figure of a charioteer shot up from behind the ridge and pointed toward a rock at the top of the slope shaped vaguely like a reclining bull. Then the man sprinted for the rock. As he ran, another figure catapulted from hiding behind the bull rock, ran a few steps, and plummeted down the opposite side of the slope. Kysen let out another falcon call and sprang up the slope with Iry. At the same time Nento yelped, spun around, and ran away, legs churning beneath his melon belly.
Kysen had no time to worry about Nento. He scrambled up the side of the valley, feet slipping on loose gravel and stone. Half the guards in the valley, along with Iry, climbed with him, while the other half remained on alert at the temple. Kysen reached the summit, stopped to find his bearings, and saw the charioteer who had signaled sliding to the base of the incline. Then he set off after a man who was but a darker spot in a nearly black landscape.
They were headed east, toward the river. If the invader reached a boat, he might escape. Kysen plunged down the slope along with his men. Once at the base, he set out at a run, heedless of sharp rocks and sudden dips in the ground. Whoever the spy was, he was fast. Kysen’s chest heaved, and pain accompanied every breath as he sprinted across the desert toward the fields that bordered the Nile.
Kysen and Iry ran side by side. Behind him a guard stumbled and fell with a cry. Neither Kysen nor Iry looked back. They reached the dormant, baked fields. The ground suddenly flattened and became softer. Kysen realized he’d run onto a bank of one of the small canals that brought water to outlying fields. He had to watch his footing now, or he’d fall into a channel.
His progress slowed; he watched the lead charioteer cross the fields at an angle that told him their quarry had turned south. He put on a burst of speed, springing across a narrow canal, and headed for the riverbank. Soon he was at the water’s edge, scrambling around palms, stumbling into water where the bank had collapsed, shoving his way through reeds with Iry still a step behind him. Abruptly he heard a cry, then burst through a stand of reeds to come upon the charioteer they’d been following. He was lying against the stump of an old palm, holding his leg.
Running up to him, Kysen asked breathlessly, “Which way?”
The man pointed back to the west. “He suddenly turned back, lord.”
Swearing, Kysen ran out into the fields again and stopped. Iry came running up to him, followed by the rest of the men.
Kysen was scanning the fields to the west. “He doubled back. Three of you go north. The rest of you follow me.” He set off at an angle to the river that brought him to the bank just ahead of the injured charioteer. As he reached the bank he heard a cry, then a terrified scream and a watery thrashing. There was a great splash, and more screams as Kysen bolted toward the noise.
The screams stopped as suddenly as they had risen. Beside him Iry cried out and pointed. Not far ahead, in a fan of moonlit water, a long, dully gleaming body rolled in the water. A crocodile. And it had something in its jaws.
As Kysen reached the bank, the creature twisted and rolled again, over and over and over. A portion of its prize tore away, and the crocodile tossed a dark shape, caught it in the back of its jaws, and gulped. Kysen looked out into the river and vaguely discerned arrowshaped patterns in the water that signaled the approach of more predators.
He, Iry, and their men waded into the water, slashing with their scimitars. One man plied a whip. The lash wrapped around a dark bulk. The crocodile slithered toward them. Kysen gave a cry and helped the man pull on the whip while they sprang for shore. Iry sliced at the water in front of the animal’s jaws. It uttered a grunting bark, snapped at the blade, and then back-pedaled. Twisting its body, the creature sank beneath the surface and disappeared.
Chest heaving, sweating and bruised, Kysen helped the charioteer pull the dark mass onto the bank. Men crowded around them, then separated, making the sign against evil. Kysen stood up and looked down at the mangled body of a man. An arm had been torn off at the shoulder. Large puncture wounds dotted the chest, neck, and head.
Kysen was glad it was dark and wished the moon wasn’t so bright; it highlighted bloody, wet chunks of flesh. They’d reached the crocodile before it had had time to drag the remains of its booty underwater. Any longer, and more predators would have arrived to tear the body to pieces. Still, Kysen didn’t count himself lucky, for he’d wanted the spy alive and able to answer questions.
One of the charioteers was trying to light a handful of field stubble. Kysen studied the dead man, swore softly, and exchanged rueful glances with Iry. Then he heard snuffling. To a man they all spun around to behold Nento creeping toward them through the tall water plants, bawling at the same time.
“Help, help, help, help! Help?”
Kysen sighed, stooped down, and hauled Nento up by one arm. “Shut up.”
“He just appeared, out of nothing.” Nento held his head in both hands and moaned. “We knocked heads, and he fell off the bank into the shallows.”
“This is your fault?” Kysen asked. He jerked on Nento’s arm. “Did he say anything?”
“I’ve cracked my skull. Can’t you see I’m bleeding? I need help. Get me a healer. Get me a physician. I’m dying.”
Knocking Nento’s hands from his face, Kysen growled, “Stop babbling or I’ll throw you to that crocodile. Now tell me, did that spy say anything to you?”
“I can’t remember. Ohhh, I’m bleeding.” Kysen drew back his arm as if to backhand him, and Nento rushed on. “Say anything? Let me think, let me think. No. We cracked heads, he stumbled backward and fell into the water. There was no time.”
“Curse it.”
Kysen turned back to the charioteers around the body. Suddenly the dry stubble flared, and a guard held it close to the dead man’s face.
“Lord,” Iry said. “This is one of the men from Lord Paser’s yacht.”
“Paser? You’re certain?”
“Aye, lord. I remember him because he was always on lookout at the bow, and one of his eyebrows was higher than the other.” Iry glanced at the disfigured face. “Of course, you can’t see it now.”
Kysen climbed back up the bank to stand on the edge of a field. Iry followed and joined him in looking up- and downriver.
“You haven’t seen Paser, have you?” Kysen asked.
“No, lord,
not since we reached Baht.”
Peering in the direction of the house, Kysen said, “If he’s returned and found out about the haunted temple, we’re in a bit of trouble.”
“No one has seen his yacht, lord.”
“He might have suddenly acquired a clever heart and left the yacht behind,” Kysen said. “But at his cleverest, Paser is barely intelligent. He’ll be lurking somewhere close, but not close enough for us to see him.”
His gaze met Iry’s, and they said together, “Green Palm.”
“You take the men there at once,” Kysen said. “I’m going to the ship. We may need it if Paser has already missed his spy and decided to run.”
Having been awakened by the messenger from Kysen, Meren hurried out of the front gate of his villa. He’d just sent most of the men on duty at the house to the temple on the chance that there had been more than the one spy lurking around the valley. His features grim, he headed for the dock.
“Meren, Meren you wait right there!”
Grimacing, he turned around as his sister flew toward him. “Not now, Idut.” He headed for the dock again, but Idut was at his side, matching her steps with his and chastising as they went.
“Do you know what a scandal you’re creating?”
“It’s not my fault Sennefer accidentally killed his wife. Now go away. I’ve business to attend.”
Idut quickened her pace when he did. “Oh no, Meren. You’re not running away this time. Why can’t you see that Sennefer killed himself because of remorse at Anhai’s death? Why must you keep the family and Wah like prisoners? All the intrigue at court has twisted your wits. Everyone wants to go home. Nebetta and Hepu wish to be free to mourn their son, and Wah grows more anxious with each hour that passes.”
As they neared the dock, Meren lengthened his stride, but Idut only walked faster. “Sennefer didn’t kill himself, Idut. Only you would think of such a tale, because only you, and possibly his parents, are capable of ignoring how little Sennefer cared for Anhai. He wasn’t greatly disturbed because she was dead, he was disturbed because he’d been the unwitting cause.”
“Then it must have been Bentanta who poisoned him,” Idut said as they stepped onto the dock, “but you’re too delighted at having an excuse to blame Ra to admit it.”
Meren stopped suddenly and stared at his sister. “You believe that I—” Idut wasn’t looking at him. She gazed over his shoulder, her mouth falling open, and pointed.
“By the mercy of Amun, what is happening?” she asked.
Coming toward them with the current, a small freighter zig-zagged back and forth on an erratic course that threatened the early traffic on the river. Fishing boats and skiffs scattered before the careening vessel. On its deck, a bald-headed man screeched at the two men manning the oars. As he did so, he gripped the steering oar and dragged it with him as he danced across the deck in his agitation.
Meren cursed as he heard a low, steady thud accompanied by the watery slap of many oars cutting through the water. Wings of Horus rounded a bend in the river and aimed at the freighter. The steersman on the smaller craft looked over his shoulder at the sleek black vessel and screamed. He jumped and scurried back and forth in his fright, then lost his grip on the steering oar. The boat spun around, then settled sideways in the current as Wings of Horus gained on it. A sailor at the bow of Meren’s craft yelled a warning. Long lines of oars lifted up out of the water.
Standing on the dock beside Meren, Idut cried out as well. “Look, it’s Paser! Paser, make way, make way!”
Paser was too busy scrambling about the deck of his freighter in terror. Kysen appeared at the bow of Wings of Horus to shout at Paser, to no avail. Meren watched in irritation as the prow of his ship smacked into the freighter amidship. There was a loud crack of wood against wood, and the sound of bodies hitting the water as men dove for their lives.
“If he’s damaged my ship, I’ll take payment out of his hide,” Meren said.
“What is Paser doing on a freighter?” Idut asked as they watched Kysen’s men throw ropes to those in the water. “And why was he trying to sail it himself?”
Rolling his eyes, Meren said, “Go home, Idut.”
“And where has Kysen been this early in the morning?”
“He said he was going to Green Palm. Now will you go home while I see what’s happened to that fool Paser?”
“You’re not making sense, Meren. Kysen wouldn’t take Wings of Horus for so short a sail.”
“Damnation, Idut! Perhaps he wanted to impress a woman. I know not, and it isn’t important. Are you going to go home, or do I have to take you there myself?”
“I’m going, I’m going. But don’t think I’ll let you get away with this high-handedness much longer. The whole family is going to revolt against you if you don’t release them from this half-imprisonment.” Idut glanced at the men pulling Paser on board Wings of Horus. “Bring Paser to the house. I’ll find some clothes for him.”
Meren’s head was beginning to ache, and he rubbed his neck. “Just go home, Idut.”
Once his sister was out of sight and his ship docked, Meren walked across a plank and hopped onto the deck of Wings of Horus beside Kysen, his face set, his jaw tense. “Where is he?”
“In the deckhouse. I shoved him in there to contemplate what we might do to him.”
“Good.” Meren walked toward the deckhouse and paused under its awning. He glanced over his shoulder. The pomegranate colors of sunrise lit the horizon. “I don’t want to bring him to the house. You saw Idut, and she’s already curious. The whole family is furious with me, except for your sisters.”
Kysen nodded in the direction of a group of men squatting around a brazier full of coals. “I thought you wouldn’t want any delay in getting the truth out of our simple-witted spy.” One of the men held a long bronze rod, the end of which was embedded in the white embers.
Meren touched the wristguard over the sun-disk scar. Three deaths. Three deaths on what was to have been a respite from murder and treachery. “You’re certain you’ve captured everyone on that freighter?”
“I still have men out searching, but the villagers said there were only three in the crew, and we have them all if you count the dead one.”
“I don’t like this, Ky. I know Sennefer’s killing Anhai had nothing to do with our sacred charge across the river, but still, I don’t like it that these deaths have happened so close together. Oh, I know what you’re going to say. My ka is riddled with distrust from being raised at court. I’m trying to control my suspicions. Let’s get on with it.”
Kysen picked up an alabaster lamp that had been resting near another brazier and preceded Meren. Inside, Paser sat hunched on a stool between two charioteers. He blinked at them as lamplight filled the antechamber. The charioteers saluted Meren, and Paser, who had been staring at Kysen, widened his eyes. Meren walked over to him and surveyed his shaven skull and face.
“What were you doing spying on my men?”
“Spying? Spying?” Paser croaked. “I know naught of spying. I was but taking a pleasure sail in my new boat when your son pounced on me as if I were some nomad bandit.”
Kysen set the alabaster lamp on a stand. Meren picked up the stand and placed it nearer Paser.
“I’m not going to spar with you,” Meren said. “That was a freighter you were on, Paser, not a yacht. And you’ve shaved your face and head. Tell me what you were doing.”
Paser tried to stand up, but the charioteers shoved him back down on the stool. “My friends at court will hear of this abomination. I’m a free man. I may sail the Nile as any nobleman might.”
Listening to Paser’s ranting for a few moments, Meren abruptly picked up the lamp and tipped it. A thin stream of oil poured down on Paser’s head. Paser yelped and jumped from the stool. The charioteers moved with him, but stayed at a distance while he howled and rubbed his head.
“Curse you, Meren, that was hot!”
Meren set the lamp down and folded his arms.
“I shall explain your situation only once. One of your men was found skulking around a deserted temple that happens to be near my ancestors’ tombs. There have been two murders at my house, and I find you sneaking around. I want to know why. You’re in trouble, Paser.”
“Murders!” Paser was still rubbing his red scalp. “I know nothing of murder.”
“You’ve been following me for days,” Meren said. “Why?”
Paser gave him a sly, sidelong glance. “I was traveling in the same direction as you, not following.”
“I’ve no patience for your clumsy lies,” Meren said. “Kysen, tell them to bring in the brand.”
As he finished speaking, Paser’s eyes grew round. He gave a squeak, sprang past Meren, and was outside before his guards could move. Kysen ran after him, and Meren was close behind. As he left the deckhouse, Paser sprinted across the deck. He saw the men around the brazier, swerved, and ran for the railing. He might have jumped overboard if his foot hadn’t tangled in a coiled rope. Paser tripped, fell forward, and banged his head on the railing.
At the sight, Meren slowed to a trot and joined his son in kneeling over Paser. They turned him over. He was bleeding from a gash on his forehead. One of the charioteers pressed a wad of cloth to the wound.
“Knocked senseless,” Meren said with a frustrated smile as they stood. “I wonder which god I’ve offended to be so cursed with ill luck.” His smile faded. “This isn’t good, Ky.”
“Depend upon it, Father. Paser knows nothing. We discovered his man before he could tell what he knew.”
“But he might have been spying at the temple before last night.”
“Do you think even Paser would be foolish enough to remain if he’d discovered what was in the temple?”
“Perhaps not.” Meren began to walk back across the deck. “I sent more men to the temple before dawn, but that meant there were but two to stand guard over the family. I had to use doorkeepers to watch Bentanta and Ra. Send for me when that fool wakes. I’m going back to the house.”
By the time he reached Baht, the household was stirring. He could hear the bray of donkeys in the granary court and the steady grinding sound of the querns. Hurrying to his office, he dismissed Reia and sat down with a pile of reports from the interviews his men had conducted with the household. He tried to fix his attention on them, but visions of Djet and Bentanta kept distracting him.
Murder at the Feast of Rejoicing Page 19