Labarnas whirled around to stare as well. Standing on top of the wall, shoulder to shoulder, bows drawn and spears held ready to throw, Meren’s charioteers waited quietly. The gate creaked, and the old porter shuffled into view, bowed to Meren, and gave the Hittites a contemptuous scowl before he hobbled back the way he’d come.
In a blur of movement, Labarnas was suddenly at Meren’s side. Grabbing his arm, the general pointed his blade at Meren’s heart.
“Tell your charioteers to go away, Egyptian.”
Meren refrained from showing his irritation and spoke more calmly than he felt. “Please don’t move again, general.”
“Ha!”
“Do you see that young man holding the bow trimmed with sheet gold? Not a plain warrior’s weapon, is it? His name is Reia. He’s a lieutenant of chariots. How many prizes for accuracy have you won, Reia?”
Reia responded without shifting his stance. “In year four I won three, lord. This year I have won two, so far.”
“Hollow boasting,” Labarnas growled. “I’ve won dozens.”
Shaking his head, Meren replied softly. “Here in Egypt, there are only three.”
The Hittite’s eyes slid sideways to examine Meren’s expression. Meren lifted an eyebrow.
“I’ve seen Reia hit a crow sitting on the nose of the sphinx, from a moving chariot.”
Breathing hard, Labarnas tightened his grip on Meren’s arm. “Pray to the gods, then, Eyes of Pharaoh, for we both die.”
“Why?” Meren asked quickly.
The general’s face was lit by burning arrow shafts. He looked like a desert nomad suddenly faced with the task of sailing across the Great Sea.
“I swear by the wrath of your storm god,” Meren said wearily, “all I want you to do is go back to the visitors’ palace and let me find Prince Mugallu’s killer.”
Labarnas tightened his grip on Meren’s arm. “I know what I’d do if someone took me prisoner in my own house.”
“True, but as you Hittites never weary of repeating, we Egyptians are more courtier than warrior.”
“You’re lying,” Labarnas said with a glance up at Reia.
Meren laughed softly. “So, you have learned from your sojourn into the Black Land.” His mouth drew down at the corners. “As foolish as it may seem, you’re going to have to trust me. If I had killed your prince, would I have sent my own son into the midst of your warriors to tell you Prince Mugallu was dead?”
Shifting his weight from one foot to the other, Labarnas was silent for a moment. At last he grunted, lowered his sword, and released Meren’s arm. His men sheathed their own weapons. Meren inclined his head to the general, then nodded to Reia. There was a loud smack as spears were turned point up and their hafts rammed into the top of the wall. Bowstrings were allowed to loosen as bows were lowered so that nocked arrows pointed at the ground.
“Reia will escort you home,” Meren said.
Labarnas glared at him. “Will I reach it alive?”
“Of course. Do you think I want pharaoh to blame me for the death of a great Hittite general? The Son of the Sun would send me to explain to your king, and that I wouldn’t like to do.”
“I’m going,” Labarnas said. “But if you have no good explanation by a week’s end, I’m leaving if I have to fight pharaoh’s infantry, chariotry, and archers all at once. Then you’ll find yourself explaining my death to the great king while he sits on Egypt’s throne.”
Meren turned away from Labarnas. “Oh, go away, general. I’m trying to catch a killer who feasts on hearts, and I have no patience with your threats.”
Labarnas growled something in his own language, but didn’t object when he and the other Hittites were ushered away. Meren refused to allow Reia to surround him with guards. Reia protested, but finally left to escort Labarnas when Meren remained adamant. Finally Meren was left alone in the garden again. The flaming arrows had been removed. The lamp he’d brought was burning low, and Meren had subsided wearily into a chair beneath the awning by the reflection pool.
He had propped his elbows on his knees and lowered his head to his hands and was grumbling to himself. “Wretched Hittite vandals, invading a man’s private garden. My heart will never regain enough peace to make sense of either the heart thefts or the queen’s…”
Meren had been staring through his fingers at the mat that covered the earth beneath the awning. Now there was a small foot encased in a blue sandal on the mat. Meren didn’t even move.
“I suppose the noise woke you,” he said.
“Aye, Father,” said Bener. “A Hittite invasion does disturb one’s dreams.”
Placing a tray on the table beside him, Bener yawned and ran her fingers through her long hair. “That was a good lie, that story about Reia hitting a crow.”
“He almost hit it.”
“True. Are you ever going to rest?”
Meren straightened, then slumped and stretched his legs. “Can’t.”
“What queens?”
“What?” Meren echoed, abruptly alert.
“Just now, you were complaining about not being able to make sense of the queens.”
“Who can make sense of the Great Royal Wife or the lesser ones?”
Bener fixed her great dark eyes on him without saying a word.
“Tell me,” Meren said. “Can you?”
“If you refuse to confide in me, I can’t be prepared for murderous invasions of the house, Father. What if they had gotten hold of Remi or Isis? And where is Kysen?”
“Visiting Ese’s tavern.”
“I’ve heard of her.”
Meren sat up. “How have you heard of this woman?”
“I don’t spend my whole day in the house directing servants. I have friends whose fathers and brothers and cousins seem to feel a great need to frequent the place, although why carousing with strange women holds more attraction than giving amusement to a lady is a puzzlement to me. Why is it so, Father?”
He hadn’t been so bereft of thought since—he’d never been so bereft of thought. His heart wouldn’t produce words. Meren stared at his skeptical, sensible daughter, stunned at the way her heart pursued matters to their reasonable end.
“Never mind,” Bener went on. “You look weary, and it’s going to take you some time to think of a good excuse for that one.” She yawned again and said, “I’d better tell you now. Isis is planning to take herself and her possessions to Prince Djoser’s house, where Reshep is staying.”
A demon was pounding a mallet against his skull. Meren groaned and pressed his fingertips to his temples. A woman married a man by bringing her possessions to his house. Girls seldom did this without elaborate arrangements between the two sets of parents, negotiation of a marriage contract, feasting and celebration. But some were fearless, or foolish, or—as in the case of Isis—both.
Bener dropped to a stool and picked up a cup of wine from the tray she’d brought. “I think it was his idea. I bribed Isis’s hairdresser to tell me anything serious. She says Isis thinks you’ll have to agree to give her a marriage portion and contract if she goes to his house.”
“Isis should know what I’ll do to Reshep. There isn’t going to be any contract or portion. He’ll be fortunate to escape with his—”
Nodding, Bener said, “That’s why I’m sure this is Reshep’s interpretation. He has dazzled her heart, or she wouldn’t have misjudged you.”
“When pharaoh asked me to inquire about him, I sent men to Reshep’s country estate. They should return soon, and I’ll know more about this presumptuous suitor. Meanwhile, Isis is going to visit Tefnut, escorted by a squadron of charioteers, half a dozen foot soldiers, and my old nurse.”
“What are you going to do to Lord Reshep?”
“I would like to feed him to this killer who haunts the city, but I can’t be sure the evil one would do the work.” Meren rubbed his chin. “I suppose pharaoh would be annoyed if I pulled his spine out through his throat. I shall have to ponder the matter.”
This was one of those times. Meren felt her apprehension as she regarded him with that look of expectation. He nodded gravely so that she wouldn’t suspect him of indulging her.
At Meren’s nod, Bener took a sip of wine. “You still don’t know why these killings have been done. But obviously they’ve been done by someone who can prowl the city at night. This person is someone who can go to the foreign quarters and the docks without being conspicuous, or word would have reached you.”
“You’re correct so far,” Meren said.
“The evil one always kills in concealed places, at night, taking the victims by surprise.”
“So this criminal is good at stalking,” Meren said, following Bener’s reasoning. “He’s a hunter. Like pharaoh’s huntsmen and fowlers, like fishermen. But not like unguent makers, scribes of the treasury, slaves.”
Bener peered at him over her wine cup. “Noblemen hunt. They have time to do it.”
“I know, but anyone can use the night to do evil.”
“Therefore, there’s no mark or sign connected with the killer,” Bener concluded.
They shared a comfortable silence. Meren reflected upon how easily he explored possibilities of great evil with this amazing daughter.
Bener finished her wine and set her cup on the tray. Turning to him, she furrowed her brow. “We don’t know enough, do we, Father?”
“No, my dear, we don’t. Not yet.” Something Bener had said bothered him, but he wasn’t sure what. He felt faintly uneasy that he might have missed something, but Bener slipped her hand into his.
“Are we safe?” she asked. “General Labarnas was able to steal into the house.”
“I sent most of the charioteers with him. He’s not coming back. He’s a Hittite general, Bener. This killer isn’t. Of that I’m certain. And the evil one prowls another part of the city.”
“Reia’s going to increase the night guards?”
“Of course, when he returns.”
“Then I can sleep. Will you?”
“Not at once. The voice of my heart is still loud.”
Bener picked up another wine cup and handed it to him. “I put one of Aunt Idut’s sleep remedies in this. It’s too mild to rob you of consciousness, but it soothes frenzied thoughts.”
When Bener had gone, Meren set his wine cup aside. He detested potions. The trouble was that his sister Idut had taught his daughters the wisdom of herbs and medicines passed down by the women in the family for generations. Both were developing great skill, but Bener had taken to practicing on the household, especially him. She grew quite excited talking about herb harvesting and drying. Tinctures, infusions, and decoctions fascinated her. He was afraid she was more interested in them than in the young men who tried to attract her attention by driving their chariots back and forth in front of the house.
However, she was right about sleep. He needed it, and he wasn’t going to get it if he allowed his heart’s thoughts to wander from worry to worry. Having sent everyone to bed, and with Reia away escorting the Hittites, he might be able to seek the peace he usually found in his garden.
Meren retrieved his juggling balls. The one ruined by the water he tossed in one hand. Each time it hit his palm, it made a splat instead of a pat. Shaking his head, Meren began walking toward a grove of sycamores. He could hear the toad he’d nearly squashed serenading the reflection pool with hollow, watery croaks. An owl soared into the garden, landed on a sycamore branch, and whirred an accompaniment. Leaving behind the smell of water and reeds, he came to the pavilion where a couch was always ready for his use.
Meren sank down on the linen-covered mattress.
Sighing, he removed his jewels. Nearly being eviscerated by a Hittite had exhausted him. Zar would be annoyed that he hadn’t come in for bathing, but his eyelids felt as heavy as altar stones. He didn’t even bother to pull down the reed shades to keep out the west wind. He lay down and realized he had picked up the wet juggling ball again. He dropped it and his dagger beside the couch and closed his eyes.
Soon he was drifting in a world of peaceful darkness and enveloped in night sounds that always brought tranquillity. Breathing deeply, he tried to inhale the sounds of the owl and the toad, the lapping of water against the sides of the pool, the rising wind that caused tree limbs to undulate and their leaves to shiver.
But underneath this euphony he heard something else. It was another toad, one encouraged to join its fellow by the absence of people. Meren turned on his side to face away from the pavilion steps and the pool, his thoughts growing fuzzy. One toad was soothing, a group could wake an embalmed one. When he was settled and drifting in his tranquil world of sound, he nearly fell asleep. He could feel his busy thoughts fade, his cares sail away on clouds of familiar, comforting sounds. He was drifting in a mist of peace, like the ba bird, the form of one’s ka that had a bird body but a human head. But something was wrong. One of the toads seemed to have hopped onto the top rail of the balustrade and was blaring its call into Meren’s face.
Without opening his eyes, he frowned. Odd conduct for a toad, and this one’s croak wasn’t soothing. It sounded like a grunt.
A wave of comprehension rushed over Meren so that he was wrenched into vigilance. The speed of the change brought pain, which in turn jolted him into battle wariness. He tried not to alter his breathing, even when the breeze brought an incomprehensible scent, a mixture of decaying hide, sweat, half-dried blood, and… something else. Something sweet that when mixed with the other smells made him want to vomit. Lying still yet tensed to repel an attack, Meren tried to make sense of the sweetness. Not decaying reeds, not rotting animal flesh, not even rotting human flesh. No, something that had once been pleasant, like perfume.
Balanos oil, that was it. Balanos oil and myrrh? Decaying hide, blood—and perfume oil? His stomach twisted even as Meren heard that grunt again. This time it didn’t stop. It repeated itself, growing faster and louder until it was one long, groaning roar. When the sound moved, Meren opened his eyes and rolled across the bed at the same time.
He hit the pavilion floor as something leaped at him and landed on the couch. All he saw was a crouched, deformed shape and a fanged maw. He kept his gaze on the thing above him and grabbed for his dagger. The shape rose from a squatting position as Meren’s hand hit the wet leather ball.
His ears filled with the creature’s bawling roar when it sprang at him. He caught a glimpse of an ax and curved, razorlike claws. Meren hurled himself into another roll. The ax missed his head and bit into the floorboards. He tumbled over the floor and hit the balustrade. The thing followed, reaching him as he jumped to his feet.
His back to a support post, Meren straightened in time to dodge a slash from those claws. He turned his head to get a look at his attacker’s other arm, only to spring backward to avoid another cutting swipe. His foot caught on the pavilion steps. He flew over the stairs to land on his back. His head hit a buried rock.
Meren cried out, but forced his eyes open. He shouldn’t have, for the face of a crocodile filled his vision. The reversed end of the ax hurtled at him at the same time that bronze claws clamped onto his arm and began to incise his flesh.
Chapter 14
Eater of Souls hesitated, confused by the rapid movements of her quarry. This one was harder to kill than the others. First the foreigners had intruded, forcing her to wait until they were gone. Then the wait had brought back the pleasures of the Hall of Judgment. There the unjust quivered before her, and she found that anticipating the satisfaction of appetite rivaled the pleasure itself. This creature was the font of the favored one’s pain. Killing it would bring more pleasure, more relief from the emptiness, than any of the others.
She should have resisted the urge to savor the moment before the kill. She’d tasted it too long, and the evil one had awakened. The mortal hadn’t been a
sleep at all. It was clever, and it moved with scorpion speed. Scorpions could be caught, though.
Eater of Souls launched herself after it as the mortal fell out of the pavilion. She raised the reversed ax over her flat, mud-green head as she clamped an arm. As had happened countless times, her victim was caught between pain and horror at the sight of the Devouress, frightened into stillness. In that motionless instant, she tasted the grandeur, the beauty and power, embodied in this transgressor. Destroy this mortal, and all that it had gathered to itself would flow to the favored one.
Eater of Souls felt a demon howl build in her gut. It rumbled up her throat as she brought the ax down—on bare earth. The evil one had twisted like a crocodile suffocating its prey, wrenching from her grasp. Eater of Souls lashed out with blood-painted claws and missed yet again. She bellowed her fury at being robbed of the kill.
The blow had to be delivered, or the evil one would get to its feet. The bronze ax head soared back and up, high over her mane, as she uttered the bellow that always turned her victims’ legs to marsh mud. At the same time, a terrible noise assaulted her. High, piercing, like the shriek of a thousand burning cats, the sound stabbed into her head.
Eater of Souls spun around on a grunt and drew her head down between her shoulders. There, near the reflection pool, stood the daughter who had brought wine. The girl’s mouth formed a black cave of noise. The screams rose several notes and drove hot spikes of agony behind her eyes. Eater of Souls tried to ignore the pain. She turned back to her victim, but the evil one had vanished.
No, there it was, at the pavilion. And it had a dagger. Eater of Souls cringed under a renewed barrage of shrieks and snarled at the daughter as the girl threw a volley of rocks. At the same time, Eater of Souls heard men shouting.
More mortals approached. The Devouress launched herself at the evil one, claws spread, ax blade biting the air. At the last moment, as the victim braced for her attack, she swerved and hurtled past it into the grove of trees. Leaving the mortals stunned, the Devouress clawed her way up a tree and leaped over the garden wall. On the other side she darted quickly into the shadows and pounded through the streets, rage building with each stride.
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