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.
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."
Meren set the bird papyrus down and placed polished stone weights on it to keep his place. He hurried to another of the great chests in which the documents and texts were kept. This one was set apart from the others and made of precious ebony inlaid with ivory. Scenes on its sides depicted the ruler of the netherworld, Osiris, and his companions, Anubis, Toth, and Horus, son of Osiris, and his wife Isis. Stopping beside the chest in which sacred writings were stored, Meren whispered a prayer of praise as he pulled out a thick roll. Opening the Book of the Dead, he began to skim the chapters of spells.
He skipped over the hymns to Osiris and Ra, the chapters devoted to restoring the dead, not letting one's soul be taken from him, the ones that opened the tomb and allowed the dead man to go out into the living world. More hymns, a spell for being changed into a falcon of gold.
"Here it is."
Meren held the papyrus closer to a lamp mounted on a column. This was a new copy of the Book of the Dead, and the papyrus from which it had been made was thin, yet strong, and of so fine a quality that his father had refused to let Meren touch it until he had completed his education as a scribe. The scene of the Hall of Judgment stood out in brilliant colors-red for men's skin, yellow for women, pure white clothing. Registers of sacred black hieroglyphs bordered a painting of a balance scale. Anubis knelt under one arm of the scale. In one pan lay the heart of the dead person. In the other, the Feather of Truth, its shape resembling that of an ostrich feather.
"But the killer hasn't used ostrich feathers." He started to roll up the papyrus, but his hands went still when he saw the beast crouching behind Toth, the recorder of verdicts in the Hall of Judgment. "Ammut, the Devouress."
A fantastic monster was Eater of Souls. She was composed of the three most deadly animals-the crocodile, in whose jaws so many Egyptians perished; the lion, whose claws ripped flesh as if it were melon pulp; the hippopotamus, giant terror of the waters, who could crush a victim flatter than a papyrus sheet with one stomp. This demon lurked by the balance scales, ready to devour all who were not judged true of voice.
Closing his eyes, Meren imagined Eater of Souls. Wet yellow teeth, stinking breath. He knew the pain of a lion's strike and still remembered the lacerations across his ribs. Faint, ragged white lines in his skin reminded him of the agony he felt when those claws ripped through his flesh. As they cut, his skin and muscle tugged. Then they were dragged along with the claw as it moved, making him feel as if he were being peeled.
The papyrus snapped closed. Meren blinked and looked down to find that he'd been rolling up the book while deep in the memory of the lion attack. He replaced the book and went back to the bird text. While he read, he muttered to himself.
"The evil one has no ostrich feathers. Too poor to get them, or too clever of heart to reveal that he has such a luxury? White-feathered birds, white feathers. Heron, egret." He'd seen egrets following a farmer's plow and eating insects turned out of the soil by the blade.
He moved a weight stone and revealed a drawing of the sacred ibis, beloved of Toth. The bird had a pure white body, black neck, bill, legs, and wing tips. Black and white; good and evil.
"An appropriate choice," Meren said.
There were more white birds. The spoonbill, which was used as a decoy in fowling, and the Egyptian vulture. This was a disgusting bird with a bare-skinned head and hooked bill. It lurked in rubbish piles and fed on the excrement dumped there.
Meren let the papyrus roll closed. This was a useless study. Egypt teemed with birds, especially when foreign places of the north turned cold. They flew to the land of the Nile seeking refuge, and anyone could collect feathers, anyone who could hunt or who could purchase a freshly killed fowl in a market.
Feathers were used to adorn dresses and to make fans, as stuffing for cushions to cover chairs and stools, as pallets and mattresses for beds. Birds of all kinds were kept in walled yards, pens, and cages, fattened, and then slaughtered. Birds inhabited the desert, the Nile, the swamps and marshes. The royal menagerie was full of birds, as were those of many nobles. All over the kingdom they were collected and sacrificed as offerings to the gods. Unfortunately, white-feathered birds were almost as numerous as flies.
"I'm becalmed, adrift without oarsmen or helmsman," Meren whispered to himself. He would ask Bener which of his own fowlers might be able to discern more about the feathers.
Pinching the bridge of his nose, Meren listened to the wind. The severe blasts had died down for the moment. He rolled his shoulders. They ached, and he was weary of trying to make sense of crimes that appeared to have been done for no reason. Never had he been faced with evil devoid of purpose. Evil born of chaos lodged within a mortal-such a man was surely demented.
What kind of man chopped out the hearts of strangers? For the victims hadn't been of the same family, village, or city. And there couldn't be more than one criminal at work. That several could be responsible for such horror was surely unlikely. Apart from Mugallu, none of the dead ones had mortal enemies. According to what his charioteers and the watchman Min had been able to learn, each had been unremarkable, passing through life without either creating great disturbances or performing great accomplishments. These people weren't worth killing, so why do it?
Nothing he knew seemed to give a sign of who or what Eater of Souls was. Perhaps this was one of those instances where ordinary investigation wouldn't suffice. He always tried to use orderly reasoning in his inquiries, but if he was dealing with the anger of the gods, would orderly reasoning be of use?
He felt the rise of irritation. Confusion always sparked a fire in his chest and made him want to drive his fist through one of the mud-brick walls of his office. He had to get out of the house. On a table beside his chair lay his scribe's palette, a stack of blank papyri, and a box no one but he ever touched. It was of stained cedar and decorated with his name in gilded hieroglyphs. Snatching it up along with a lamp, Meren strode out of the room, downstairs, and out of the house.
The grounds were quiet except for an occasional whinny from the stables, lowing from the cattle pens, and the rustle of palm and sycamore leaves in the wind. The breeze whipped his long, transparent robe around his legs. He'd taken off his wig and much of the heavy jewelry with which his body servant, Zar, had burdened him that morning, but Zar had replaced them after Meren had bathed this evening. He'd been too preoccupied with the heart thefts to notice. When he had, he'd removed some.
His wig was somewhere in his office along with at least two electrum-and-amethyst armbands and three rings. He'd kept only his seal ring. He strode down a path lined with small pomegranate trees, a recent addition ordered by Isis and Bener, both of whom intended to learn the mysteries of making wine flavored with the fruit. Meren suspected they were interested only because they were learning from his childhood playmate, Lady Bentanta. His daughters liked Bentanta. They hinted that she would make an excellent wife. They didn't know Bentanta like he did.
Meren reached his private garden, where he dismissed the porter whose task it was to patrol this area of the estate. He didn't want the man walking in on him when he opened the gilded cedar box. Once inside the refuge, he placed the lamp and the box on a table beneath a wooden awning supported by four painted poles beside the largest reflection pool. Glancing around, he saw no one.
The garden was his attempt to capture the beauty and teeming life of the Nile and bring closure to his life. This way he could renew himself, drawing strength from pleasure in the water, the animals and plants. The moon sprayed silver light across the water. Undulating dark shapes were barely discernible in the depths, but he caught a glimpse of a talapia, a fish that hatched its eggs in its mouth, a symbol of rebirth.
A heron with a smooth, ornamental crest behind its head goggled at him from the water, then stalked away on its measuring-rod legs. Several Egyptian geese paddled by. The trees and pools in his garden, along with the reeds and lotus plants, were the haunt of pintails, rock pigeons, doves, and pied kingfishers.
Satisfied that he was alone, Meren lifted the hinged lid of the box. Within lay another hinged lid that swung open to reveal four paneled compartments. Each contained an orb that gave off a golden luster in the lamplight. Meren took three of them, two in one hand, one in the other. He tossed the single orb in the air and caught it, then repeated the action, establishing a steady cadence. Quickly he threw the second and third into the air so that they spun above his head.
Then, his juggling rhythm established, he walked slowly down the paved path that bordered the reflection pool. He moved toward the shorter end nearest the gate in the wall. The orbs made a satisfying pat as they hit his hands briefly before he tossed them again. Pat pat pat, pat pat pat.
A breeze arose suddenly, making the limbs of the sycamores and acacias scrape against each other, thousands of leaves breathing hissing murmurs. Swaying flowers and shrubs accompanied them with the whisper of their leaves and petals. Seeking to empty his heart of agitation, Meren continued to juggle while listening to the refrain.
At his feet dead grass blades and leaves danced as he reached the corner of the pool. Then he hesitated, juggling in place while he frowned. Catching the balls as they fell, he held them and listened. Beneath the gentle creaking of limbs and the mesmerizing strain of leaf and petal he had heard something else. Something faint, but as discordant as a snapped harp string. It hadn't been a bird. Holding still, Meren concentrated, keeping his breathing shallow to eliminate any distracting sound.
Still nothing. He turned, looking around the garden at the secluded arbors, the tree-shrouded pavilion, the small orchard filled with more pomegranate as well as persea and nabk-berry trees. He searched arbors heavy with grapevines, stands of palms, and smaller pools with their lotus and papyrus thickets, ducks, egrets, and geese.
"You fool," he whispered aloud. "You're imagining demons and spirits where there are only fish and birds."
He turned and flung the first golden ball in the air. Without warning the wind surged, sending a furious blast across the garden. With it soared the biting desert grit. The west wind howled through the desert escarpments, soared through steep valleys created by the stylized mountain ranges that were the pyramids and cemeteries of Memphis. And under the howl came a noise like an animal's grunt. Meren heard it, caught the orbs again, and turned to the west.
Had he heard the rasp of metal, or was it simply branches scraping together? The air smelled of water, dust, and some animal odor. Perhaps it was wet duck or decaying water plants. The garden was alive with movement, but the west wind subsided. Trees and reeds settled down. After a few moments, Meren decided the only thing he'd heard was the wind and resumed his walking and ball tossing.
After one circuit of the reflection pool, the wind picked up again, but not enough to stop him from juggling. He had to pursue this interest in secret, for great nobles did not perform feats of entertainment like commoners. Meren wasn't certain what pharaoh would think if he learned that his Eyes and Ears tossed brightly colored balls like the troupe in the royal palace.
And Zar disapproved. He acquired a look like a bilious toad and said things like, "Great lords do not toss balls like naked children" and "One so noble of lineage cannot sustain his dignity while chasing after toys as the baboon chases cats." Zar had served royalty and understood the importance of decorum, splendor, and reserve in supporting a great one's power.
But Meren needed this pastime. It forced him to concentrate on balance and rhythm while it relieved his heart of burdens, fears, and confusion, if only for a brief time. So he juggled when he was alone.
Unfortunately, this time he couldn't distract his heart from the deaths, the missing hearts, the feathers. If he tried, he ended up trying to make sense of old Satet's demented opinions about where her sister could be. Every time he pressed the old woman for answers, she gave answers that were increasingly absurd. He dared not press her too hard for fear of permanently confusing her wits.
He'd been forced to take the men assigned to searching Memphis for her sister and divert them to the hunt for Eater of Souls. Unsnarling the tangle of Nefertiti's death was going to take a long time. Every day that passed in which he sent out requests for information, asked friends about old memories, and culled old records of the household of the Great Royal Wife increased the chance that the wrong person would discover that Meren was interested in a queen long dead.
"Cease!" Meren hissed to himself. "You're to think of balance and speed, not killings."
He turned a corner of the pool and started down the long side of the rectangle. Moving slowly, he approached the next corner. There an artificial papyrus marsh had been constructed on a base of Nile mud. Rising to double Meren's height, the thicket of triangular reeds with their frothy, tufted crowns bowed and bobbed in an isolated gust of wind. Meren reached out to catch a ball that had been blown slightly off its course and tossed it up just in time to catch the one that followed.
As he neared the papyrus marsh, his foot came down on something soft, wet, and cold. He cried out, withdrew his foot, and staggered sideways. The golden orbs bounced in all directions. He heard a plop as he regained his footing and watched one of the balls sink into the water. As the wind ceased, a giant toad croaked at him. It scrambled to the edge of the pool and jumped in.
"Cursed water monster." Meren rubbed his ankle. His foot was wet from the toad, so he went to the pool and dipped his foot in the water.
As he bent his knee, the papyrus reeds stirred, producing a rattlelike sound. There was no breeze! Meren pulled his foot out of the water and reached for his dagger, but he was too late. Several dark figures erupted from the marsh and rounded the corner of the pool. As Meren drew his weapon, a fist hit his arm. He dropped the dagger, but three swords jabbed him.
Expecting to feel metal pierce his flesh, Meren froze. When the sword points remained embedded in his robe, he pulled himself up, dropped his arms to his sides, and turned to face a man who stepped closer.
He looked like a mastaba, one of the short, wide tombs of ancient nobles that resembled benches. His eyes bore an expression that said he understood his own importance in the world, and that it was greater than that of anyone he'd met so far. Bronze armor was wrapped around his torso. It covered his lower legs and encrusted his helmet, but his body seemed hard enough that the metal protection might prove unnecessary.
"General Labarnas," Meren said. "I wouldn't have expected you to be so foolish as to attack one of pharaoh's servants in the middle of his city."
The Hittite threw back his head and laughed once. Then his smile vanished. "Perhaps, Egyptian, I've come to avenge Prince Mugallu, whom you slaughtered like one of your sacred bulls."
"Have you ever heard of the Eyes and Ears of Pharaoh attacking anyone like a hyena after a carcass?"
Labarnas was only a silhouette of lighter darkness in the night. Meren watched him twitch his head to the side as an eagle does when scouting for prey. He heard him slide his sword into its sheath.
"I didn't come out in the evil breath of this desert wind to listen to the poison and lies of an arrogant Egyptian prince."
"I cannot understand why you're here at all," Meren said. "My son told you we were doing everything we could to find the one who killed Prince Mugallu."
Labarnas darted toward Meren, shoving aside one of his men. "My father died at the hands of an Egyptian dog at Kadesh."
"Neither he nor any Hittite should have been in Kadesh," Meren said. "Kadesh belongs to pharaoh."
"Miserable perfumed catamite!"
Meren smiled his indifference and touched one of the Hittite sword blades. "Enough of this useless and petty debate. What do you want?"
Labarnas said something in his own language to one of Meren's guards. The man dashed behind the papyrus thicket and returned with a basket large enough to hold half a bull's carcass. He set it down near the general and removed the lid. Labarnas swept his arm toward the container.
"O perfected prince, true of voice, beautiful of aspect, great Eyes of Pharaoh, get into the basket."
It took Meren a moment to understand, as no one had ever dared to insult him in this manner.
"Are you possessed by a mad spirit?" he asked.
"I'm leaving this cursed city, Egyptian, and you're my letter of safe passage. My men and the rest of the delegation are waiting for us, and once I have you back at the royal visitors' house, pharaoh will have no choice but to allow me to leave."
"How do you know he won't hurl a dozen companies of infantry at you?"
Labarnas planted his fists on his belt. "Why is it that you Egyptians think all Hittites are dense of wit? The great king, Suppiluliumas, knows the secrets of his brother. Not that pharaoh's affection for you is a secret."
"Perhaps," Meren said lightly. "But I know the living god far better than your king, and I can promise you that trying to compel him to do anything, much less to bend to your will, is a mistake. One does not order a god-king. Not unless one is prepared to suffer-possibly I should say-divinely."
"I weary of talk. Egypt has lost the will and the fire needed for conquest, wasted it on dalliance, perfume, and jewels. Get in the basket, curse you, before I order you bound and silenced."
"I suppose you've killed all the men on guard," Meren said as if carrying on a pleasant conversation with a banquet guest.
"Not all of them. Some will live."
At last Meren allowed himself to look away from Labarnas to the walls surrounding the garden. "By the great Amun, general, you're right."
Fire rained down on the group by the pool. Meren remained still while flame-tipped arrows stabbed into the ground in a circle around them. The soldiers holding Meren at sword point stepped back, then stopped, fearing to move. Their blades dipped toward the ground as they searched the top of the wall.
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."
"Then I'm going to sleep late tomorrow and avoid the furor when you confront Isis. But before I go, shall I tell you what I've been thinking?"
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.