The youth raised his upper body, but kept his eyes downcast as was proper. He wasn’t much younger than Kysen. His face was wide from forehead to chin. He was short, and thin from too little food and too much work. His bottom lip had been chewed raw in the time since Kysen had last seen him. It wasn’t surprising, since the poor water carrier was the only one at the Place of Anubis who had recognized Hormin.
“Your name is Sedi?”
Sedi’s nose burrowed into the dirt again.
“Don’t do that!” Kysen bit back a curse as Sedi’s body went stiff and then trembled. “By the phallus of Ra, they’ve been filling your head with silly tales of being carried off to a cell and beaten. Well, you can cast such fear from your heart. I don’t beat innocent children.”
Sedi’s mouth opened in astonishment, and Kysen grinned at him. He lapsed into the slang of his childhood.
“Steady your skiff, brother.”
“Oh.”
Kysen dropped to one knee beside Sedi. “Oh? You sound like a washer maid whose lover has thrown her down among the reeds at the riverbank. Surely you heard my origin in my speech.” Kysen held out his right hand, palm up. “Do you think I got these scars from such light work as hefting a sword? And stop chewing your lip. It’s bleeding.”
“Yes, lord.”
“You may speak freely to me. I give you permission, Sedi.”
“I did nothing! There was a crowd around the body, and I came to look. It’s not my fault. I did nothing.”
Kysen put a hand on Sedi’s shoulder, and the youth jumped.
“I asked you to speak freely, but I do expect you to make sense. You’re beginning to sound like Raneb.”
Sedi made a choking sound and then lost the battle not to laugh. Through the hand that rested on the water carrier’s shoulder, Kysen could feel tense muscles relax.
“Brother, don’t you think I know the courage it took for you to come forward with your knowledge? Everyone knows it’s best to leave the affairs of the great alone. If you speak before great men you are as a reed before pylons, no?”
“Yes, lord.” Sedi wet his lips and swallowed. “But Raneb has been good to me, and I couldn’t let evil flourish in the Place of Anubis.”
Kysen eased his body down to sit beside Sedi, and eased into his question as well. “Then you understand that it’s important for me to know how you recognized Hormin.”
“I’ve seen him perhaps three times.”
“Here?”
“No, lord, in the village of the tomb makers of Pharaoh.”
Kysen felt the strength drain from his arms and legs, and he was glad that he was sitting down. ‘Tell me.”
“We came to Thebes last Drought in search of work and found it at the tomb-makers’ village. My father is servant to the painter Useramun. Raneb has allowed me to visit him on feast days, and I saw Hormin there. I think he was paying the servants of the Great Place to decorate his tomb. You know they take on extra work to be done after their service to Pharaoh is done each day.”
“I know,” Kysen said. “So you’ve only been at the village a short time. How often did Hormin go there?”
“I don’t know, Lord Kysen. I only saw him briefly, and by chance.”
“What was he doing?”
“Once he was yelling at the chief scribe, once he was yelling at a draftsman, and another time he was walking down the path to the landing at the river.”
“Hormin yelled a lot.”
Sedi nodded.
“But you know nothing else of his business at the village?”
“No, Lord Kysen. I am but a water carrier, son of a humble cup bearer, but…”
Kysen watched Sedi chew on his lip. “You won’t suffer for your honesty.”
“I don’t think anyone in the tomb-makers’ village liked Hormin.”
“How do you know?”
“I’m not sure, lord.” Sedi squinted and stared out into the white heat of the afternoon. “I think it came to me because whenever I saw Hormin, I noticed that everyone else seemed anxious to find something to do elsewhere. He must have been an unpleasant man.”
Kysen smiled. “Someone found him unpleasant indeed. You’ve done well, Sedi.”
Rising to his feet, Kysen motioned for Sedi to get up. Over the youth’s shoulder he saw the approach of his men. They’d finished their examination of the Place of Anubis. He glanced at Sedi, and found the water carrier watching him anxiously. Kysen knew what it meant to feel helpless in the face of happenings one didn’t understand. Before his men came within hearing distance Kysen whispered to the youth, “If you remember something else, come to the house of my father in the Street of the Falcon near the palace. And listen, brother. Should you need help, or if you lose place because of this evil, come to me.”
This time Kysen didn’t object when Sedi fell to his knees. When his men reached them, he had assumed the proper attitude of a lord receiving the obeisance of an inferior. Without looking at the water carrier on the ground beside him, Kysen walked out of the drying shed and stepped into his chariot.
On the way back to the palace district he tried not to think of the possibility that he would have to go to the tomb-makers’ village. He hadn’t been back there since his real father had dragged him from it ten years ago. The village lay a short distance north and west of the offices of the government of Pharaoh, yet Kysen managed never to see it even if he happened to look in that direction. The good god Amun had given him new life on the day his father sold him to Meren. The old life was as dead as the ancient ones in their pyramids.
As he approached the great walled house that had sheltered the count’s family for generations, Kysen’s spirit lifted. Perhaps Remi would be awake from his nap. Leaving his team in the hands of a groom, he forsook the ovenlike day for the darkness of the entryway. The difference in temperature was so great that he shivered. A maid came forward with cool water to drink and wet cloths to bathe his face, hands, and feet.
Kysen was bending over to slip on a sandal when he heard the clatter of metal wheels. A miniature bronze chariot raced across the tiled floor. Kysen snatched up his sandal and hopped over the vehicle before it rammed his toes.
“Father, I slay you!”
Small feet planted apart, body turned sideways in imitation of an archer’s stance, Remi let fly a blunt-tipped arrow that hit the floor in front of Kysen. Kysen groaned, clutched his chest, and crumpled to the floor on his back. Remi gave a loud whoop and flew at his father. A three-year-old sandbag landed on his chest, making Kysen grunt.
“Sweetmeats, Father. Nurse won’t give me sweetmeats. You give them to me.”
“I can’t,” Kysen said with his eyes closed. “I’m dead.”
Remi bounced on his father’s chest with each of his words. “No, you’re not. I unkill you. Now the sweetmeats.”
From the courtyard a shrill voice with the force of a hyena’s call said Remi’s name, and Kysen’s eyes popped open. He groaned.
“Why didn’t you tell me your mother had come to visit?”
Remi scooted off his father and dived for his toy chariot. “I forgot.”
“Kysen, what are you doing?”
Rolling over on his stomach, Kysen rested his forehead on the cold tile. “I’m dead. Remi killed me.”
“Nonsense. Quit wallowing on the floor.”
Kysen turned his head and looked at the woman in the doorway. She was still lovely in spite of her indulgence in wine and potions mixed by her magician priests. She had the largest eyes and widest lips of any woman he’d ever met, and she was dressed as usual in a complicated court robe, gold and carnelian broad collar, and long wig. Her oiled lips were twisted in distaste.
“Has it been a month already, Taweret?”
“You know it has, and Remi and I have been playing.”
“You? You and Remi have been playing?” Kysen propped himself up on his forearms and stared at his former wife. Behind him Remi trundled his chariot around in a circle.
�
��Mother watches me shoot Nurse.”
“You should include your mother in the game, Remi.Shoot her.”
Remi stopped pushing his chariot and looked around for his bow and arrow.
“I will not be shot,” Taweret said. She clasped her hands together in front of her body, straightened her shoulders, and turned on her heel.
Kysen sighed and got up to follow her. She’d come to look at her tainted son and his low father, to remind herself once again of her misfortune and the wisdom of her divorce. He’d stand her presence as long as he could and then take refuge in the workshop where the physician would be examining Hormin’s body. Once again he thanked the good god that he’d never really loved Taweret.
She had stretched out on a couch under a stand of palms in the courtyard. Two of her servants fanned her with ostrich-feather fans. She watched him come toward her, eyeing him with that critical wariness that never left her when he was present.
Kysen dropped down to sit by the edge of the artificial pool. He scooped water into his hand and drank, and was rewarded with a sneer at his common behavior. He considered shedding his armor and kilt to bathe in the pool, but he didn’t want to lengthen Taweret’s visit.
“Only peasants drink from their hands.”
Kysen let a handful of water dribble down his bent knee to his ankle. “Some are bom to be peasants. Some the gods ordain to become beer brewers, goldsmiths, architects. Do you know what the gods made you, Taweret? A sufferer. That’s why you married me. So you could suffer. Was it worth it, that exquisite pain and the virtue of bearing it?” Kysen smiled at his wife’s glare. “Obviously not, or you wouldn’t have divorced me.”
“I am henemmet—”
“I know. Your mother’s father’s mother’s mother was the spawn of a harem woman and Pharaoh. A thin strain of divinity, it seems to me. Though once I was willing to kneel before you for it. But then my knees got sore, and I decided I had enough gods and goddesses to worship, and that one living god was enough for me.”
Taweret jumped off the couch, sending cushions flying. She picked one up and threw it at Kysen on her way out.
“I was right to divorce you! You’re lower than a dog’s belly. All my friends say so. All of them, do you hear?” Taweret’s voice rose as she got farther away, and then cut off when she neared the approach to the street. The fan bearers scurried after her.
Kysen heard a door slam, and Remi appeared, chariot dragging along behind him by a length of twine.
“She’s gone,” he said with a smile. “Now may I have a sweetmeat?”
Pleased with himself for having got rid of Taweret so easily, Kysen picked up a pillow and went to the couch.
“You may have two sweetmeats. Tell Nurse I gave permission.” As Remi pattered away, Kysen went on. “And remember what happened the last time you lied and told her I said you could have five.”
Fluffing the pillows in his hands, Kysen lay on his back and stuffed the cushion beneath his head. He stared up through the palm leaves at the sky. Soon the servants would bring food. They always knew when he was ready to dine; he’d yet to figure out how.
The physician attached to his father’s staff would have Hormin’s body by now. Great care would be taken to ascertain if magic had been used to cause the man’s death. Kysen didn’t expect to find such signs of tampering. He’d been assisting his father since he was a youth, and what Meren had told him from the beginning was true. Those who employed magic almost always helped the supernatural along by use of ordinary weapons, poisons, or other violence. He was contemplating what the physician would have to say about Hormin’s body when someone began chanting over him. Something hit his ear, and Kysen yelped. He scrambled to his feet to face his son’s nurse.
“I adjure thee,” Mutemwia said, “by the holy names, render up the murderer who has carried away this Hormin—Khalkhak, Khalkoum, Khiam, Khar, Khroum, Zbar, Beri, Zbarkom—and by the terrible names— Balltek, Apep, Seba.”
Kysen rubbed his ear and cursed the girl. She reached out with a small wooden hammer and tapped him on the other ear. Yowling, Kysen scuttled backward.
“Render up the murderer who has carried off this Hormin. As long as I strike the ear with this hammer, let the eye of the murderer be smitten and inflamed until it betrays him.”
Nurse lifted the hammer again, but Kysen snatched it from her hand.
“By the phallus of Ra! Are you mad?” Kysen threw the little hammer into the pond and rounded on the girl. His ears stung, and now his head hurt as well. “Hathor gave you much beauty and no wits.”
Nurse Mutemwia crossed her arms over her chest and scowled at Kysen. “It is a spell to protect you and find the evil one, lord. Do you wear your Eye of Horus amulet?”
“Beaten by my son’s nurse. Curse you, Mutemwia, I don’t care if your family has served Meren’s for generations, you shouldn’t hit my ears.” Kysen rubbed the injured organs. “Did you break the skin?”
Mutemwia shook her head. A clap of her hands summoned servants bearing food. “This servant humbly begs pardon. She only has thy welfare before her eyes.”
Kysen cast a suspicious glance at the girl. When Mutemwia was humble, he grew wary.
“Nebamun is the physician and priest in this household. There’s no need for you to do his work for him.”
“I got the spell from him,” Mutemwia said as she set a table before the couch. She dismissed the servants and began dishing out roast oryx. “I practiced the words of power while Lady Taweret was here.”
“Ha!”
Mutemwia ignored Kysen and poured wine into a goblet, her expression as calm as it had been since she entered the courtyard.
“You’re jealous,” Kysen said.
“A humble nurse is too far below a descendant of a living god to dare to be jealous of her.”
Kysen scowled at her again, sent pillows flying from the couch with a swipe of his arm, and sat down. He bit into a joint of oryx. He chewed and glared at the same time. Bowing, Mutemwia picked up a tray and vanished in the direction of the kitchen. Kysen nearly bit the inside of his cheek, so violent was his chewing. As she vanished, his scowl turned to a grin. He’d have his own revenge tonight.
Chapter 5
In the house of Hormin, Meren approached the chamber assigned to Djaper. A charioteer stood at the closed door. Meren had left Beltis intent upon examining Hormin’s younger son, who’d nearly delivered a mutilating blow to the concubine earlier. He paused beside the charioteer before entering the bedchamber.
“What is he doing, Iry-nufer?”
“Reading, lord.”
“Reading?”
Iry-nufer nodded. Meren folded his arms and studied the tip of his sandals. Djaper felt comfortable enough to read in this hour of evil and death.
“The watch has been arranged?” Meren asked.
“Yes, lord.”
“One man should be enough. But I want him to stay out of sight. Find a rooftop across the street if you have to.”
Meren opened the door a crack and gazed into Djaper’s room. The young man was propped up on a couch with a papyrus roll stretched in his hands. He clamped his teeth around a reed pen and frowned at the sheet in front of him. Meren slipped into the room. As he approached, Djaper looked up and released the papyrus roll, which furled into one hand. Removing the pen from his mouth, he dropped it on the scribe’s palette on the floor beside him and knelt. The papyrus roll was held at his side behind the folds of his kilt.
Meren inclined his head at Djaper as he walked past the couch to stand in front of a wall lined with shelves. Most were filled with papyrus rolls, old letters, freshly ground ink, sealing clay, and the other accoutrements of a scribe’s profession.
Meren returned to the couch and sat down. Djaper was standing with his eyes on the floor in the proper attitude of respect. Meren held out his hand, and Djaper’s head jerked up. He slowly held out the roll, waiting in silence as Meren perused it.
“This is an estimate of harvest. I u
nderstood that it was your brother who attended to your father’s farm.”
Djaper’s eyes widened, and he smiled. “Yes, Lord Meren. Imsety plants things, plows things, herds things, but sometimes he’s too busy to keep all the records. Like now. Harvest is almost upon us.”
“What do you know of your father’s death?”
Keeping his gaze on his hands, Djaper rolled the papyrus into a smaller tube. “Nothing, lord.”
“You fought with him.”
“The lord refers to the small argument about Imsety owning the farm.” Djaper sighed and let the papyrus roll fall to the floor. “It’s true. Father never wanted to give up any of his possessions, but Imsety is the only one who really cares about the farm. Father kept most of the wealth gained by it. Imsety got barely enough to keep himself, and neither of us has enough for a separate household. Father hated farming, and Imsety would have given him whatever share he wanted. So I spoke for my brother two days ago. You see, Imsety can grow anything, but he’s no better than a monkey at speaking for himself.”
Meren nodded and waved his hand to signal that Djaper could relax his formal posture. The young man sat back on his heels with his hands folded in his lap.
“All my eloquence went for naught. As I said, Father was furious. I counseled Imsety to wait until after Harvest, to give Father time to get used to the idea. But now—”
“Now you and your brother will inherit.”
“Of course, lord. A man’s sons care for his eternal house. It is we who will see that prayers are said for his soul, that his ka is supplied with meat and drink. It’s the proper way. Any dutiful son would do the same.”
Meren leaned back and placed his elbow on a pile of pillows. “And what about Beltis?”
An apologetic grin spread across Djaper’s face. “I beg forgiveness. The woman attacked poor Imsety, and I couldn’t let her hurt him again. You see, lord, Imsety looked after me when I was small and weak. He put up with my tagging along with him, taught me how to shave and throw a dagger. And anyway, that woman has been stealing from us since she came. Last night she got careless and didn’t bother to conceal her theft.”
Murder in the Place of Anubis Page 5