Of all of the souls she'd eaten, the father had tasted best. His flesh had been aged in the finest mortal wines. His bones had been brittle; they snapped loudly when she brought her mighty jaws together. She liked crunchy bones. But aside from the pleasure of eating, devouring the father had ended the exquisite torment of the favored one. Devouring the father was one of her most worthy acts.
When the father ended, the condemnation ended, bringing relief to the favored one. No more ceaseless disapproval, no more drunken shouting. The father had been vile carrion fouling the palace of the favored one's soul. Eater of Souls still heard echoes of the bile he spewed at the chosen one of the gods-witless, ugly, clumsy, more lackwitted than a pig, lazy, dirty, womanish, thoughtless, lack-mannered. Every mean little word slurred and carried on a stinking breath.
Eater of Souls growled, clawed the air, and wished she could devour the father again. This time she would do it slowly, so that the creature felt each snap of a bone, endured the agony of her teeth piercing the meat of his stomach, his arms, his chest. Then the favored one's pain would become his pain and bring relief. It was unfortunate that devouring other transgressors against the favored one was but a pale shadow of this first great annihilation.
Tentamun waited for his employer in the shade of a date palm. He had sailed the short distance south to this sprawling estate in order to report Satet's removal to Memphis. This was the kind of event for which he'd been told to be on guard, but his parents had kept him busy repairing the main canal that fed the village fields. Only today had he been able to claim his duty to visit the man everyone else knew only as his patron.
Leaning against the rough trunk, Tentamun gazed up at the leaves of the palm tree, one of many that formed this date field. Foliage shot out of a central point to form graceful, drooping fans. In a few months stalks heavy with dates would appear, ready for picking. Children and trained monkeys would climb high into the air to retrieve the fruit. Great baskets would be filled. Then more laborers would spread the dates out in a carpet to ripen. As fruit of different ages ripened, the field would become a dazzling sheet of color, from darkest brown to bright orange and yellow.
He became uncomfortable with the spikes of the palm trunk digging into his back. The solar orb had reached its pinnacle and was descending toward the netherworld, but the heat that had been building all day remained. He sweated even in the shade. If it weren't for the generosity of his employer, he would have avoided traveling in the last harsh weeks of Drought.
Something moved beyond the mud-and-straw wall that formed a protective barrier around the date field. Through the shadows of the sycamores and acacias that sheltered the estate strode the owner of the dates, the palms, and everything else within sight. As he approached, Tentamun could see his green-and-yellow robe much more easily than he could his features.
Odd that Tentamun couldn't find anyone who knew exactly who his people were. All he'd been able to discover was that the man had an Asiatic father and an Egyptian mother, which accounted for his fluency in Egyptian. Zulaya entered the date field and came toward him, dressed in the manner of his people. His long robe covered him from neck to ankles, hanging in diagonal folds that fit close to his body. The thin, soft wool was patterned in checks, diamonds, and swirls. A headband of the same material kept his long hair pulled back from his face.
In keeping with his foreign ancestry, he wore a beard that he kept clean and arranged in a profusion of tight coils. It concealed his face from nose to chin. The only features exposed were dark rose lips. As Zulaya stalked toward him, Tentamun felt his skin turn cold despite the kiln-heat of the afternoon. It wasn't Zulaya's foreignness that chilled his flesh and robbed his mouth of moisture. But as hard as he pondered, he couldn't identify the exact source of his fear.
Zulaya stepped into the shade of Tentamun's palm. His feet were bare, but his ankles were encased in gold bands. Tentamun considered him aged, for his dark brown hair was streaked with silver. But age had refused to mark Zulaya in other ways. His step was light, his eyes quick and exact. And he bore few lines, although Tentamun guessed that he must have at least four decades.
What was it that made him so uneasy around this man? Could it be the numbers of strange people Zulaya employed? Tentamun had never seen so many come and go from a great man's house. A few were ordinary field laborers or tenant farmers. Others, in spite of their Egyptian dress, seemed rough, some with the manners of bandits, some with scars of old knife and scimitar wounds. Many were foreigners who addressed Zulaya in the language of the Asiatics, or in Babylonian, or other obscure tongues from regions Tentamun had never heard of. Or perhaps Tentamun was uncomfortable because Zulaya seemed to enjoy traveling to foreign places. No good Egyptian liked alien lands. Egypt was a paradise blessed by the gods. Other places were exile.
Tentamun bowed low, but Zulaya had turned to survey the canal that ran past his estate, through the fields close to the river and into the Nile. "Did you know, dear youth, that none of the waters near Byblos or those of the mighty Euphrates rival the dark night blue of the Nile?"
"No, lord." Perhaps he feared Zulaya because he never seemed to approach any goal directly.
Zulaya lifted his arm and pointed across the river, indicating the desert. Swirls of sand formed dunes with knife-edged tops.
"That, Tentamun, is the reason for Egypt's happy nature. A great and terrible barrier against the ambitions and might of quarrelsome Asiatics. They snarl and claw at each other unceasingly, shed blood over scraps of coastline, over rich cities, over mountains covered with cedar. All the while Egypt remains fruitful and at peace behind her rock and sand ramparts. The envy of every monarch, every herder in search of pasture, every barbarian looking for plunder."
Now Zulaya wasn't frightening; he was tiresome. Tentamun waited until his employer transferred his attention from the desert to him. It was the only signal Zulaya would give that he was ready to listen.
"Someone came to visit Satet, my lord. You said you wished to know at once should this happen. He came a few days ago, a scribe in search of servants for his master."
"And did you know this scribe?"
"No, my lord. Now that I think, he never even gave his name."
Zulaya's eyes seemed to catch the sunlight, and he became more attentive. "Tell me everything, from the beginning."
Tentamun complied, but the tale took a long time to repeat, for his master frequently stopped him with questions.
"What do you mean, he took her away?" Zulaya demanded quietly. "Why would he employ that feather-witted old pestilence?"
"He said his master had cooks in need of training in the royal manner."
Zulaya's questions came more quickly now. He had tugged on his headband until the ribbon of cloth came loose. He was threading it between his fingers and pulling it free over and over again.
"Where did he go?"
"I think to Memphis, lord."
"Describe this man again."
"A face all of angles, lord. Black hair cut short."
"His age?"
"Oh, a great age. He could be my father, only he's much less aged than mine. I suppose it's because he's a scribe, but he wasn't weak looking, like those who spend their days inside bent over papyrus."
At this comment, Zulaya drew nearer. His questions became sharp and impatient as he grilled Tentamun on the scribe's appearance. Finally Zulaya once more lifted his gaze from Tentamun to the Nile waters.
"A scribe who doesn't look as if he spends his days bent over papyrus. A man of well-fed appearance. Your description is at odds with itself, dear youth. Was there nothing individual about this man? His speech, perhaps, or the way he walked?"
Tentamun rubbed his brow and thought hard. "No, my lord. He seemed very much like any other man." Then he remembered something. "There was a scar."
"What scar? Where?"
"It was on his inner wrist. I didn't see it clearly. The house was dark except for one lamp, and he wore a leather wristband."
"A scribe who wears a leather wristband," Zulaya said as he rested his bearded chin on a fist and studied the ground.
"The band pulled up on his arm a bit, and I saw part of a white scar. I remember because it was so clearly defined, not like a wound at all, and it seemed to be half of a circle."
His remarks elicited nothing from Zulaya. He turned his back to Tentamun and gazed at the canal, where a group of laborers was dumping loads of earth onto a collapsed section of the bank. As he awaited his employer's next command, Tentamun noticed that Zulaya had questioned him so long that the sun had moved, and he no longer stood in the shade. He stepped sideways, slowly and carefully, so as not to attract attention. He should have known better. Zulaya's fingers intertwined with the green-and-yellow headband, then grasped the ends and yanked the ribbon tight with a snap that made Tentamun jump.
"Some say I'm too suspicious and expect only the worst, but I'm vindicated by your news."
"Yes, my lord."
What could he say? He had no idea who would dare criticize Zulaya. He wasn't only a man of wealth. He was mayor of the town near his estate and friends with the great men of the district, who valued his trading contacts among the Asiatics, the Hittites, the Mycenaeans, and the Babylonians. But there was something ruthless and secretive about Zulaya. It caused Tentamun to doubt that even a great man would dare insult him.
Zulaya turned back to Tentamun, his speech resuming its customary soft tones and embroidered language. "Dear youth, you have done well, and I call upon the gods and my ancestors to look with favor upon you. Ishtar, Marduk, Gula, and Ninurta, the great ones of Ur and Susa and Ugarit."
"My lord is kind," Tentamun said as he fell to his knees and touched his forehead to the earth. He straightened, but kept his head down when he felt Zulaya's hand come to rest on his hair. "My lord?" He hated this. All he could see was dirt and Zulaya's manicured toes. All he could hear was the man's soft voice made harsh by the guttural tones of his accent.
"You don't like coming here, I know. You fear my servants, those with whom I trade, my friends." There was a pause during which Tentamun guessed Zulaya gazed out at the river again. "I will tell you a thing that may help you, dear youth. I have known kings and criminals. I prefer criminals. They cheat, steal, and betray, but at least you don't have to worship them while they do it."
The emptiness clawed at her belly, the gnawing of rats' teeth inside her gut. In the darkness her metal claws scraped the bark of a tree. She rubbed the shining thongs that bound the ax head to its handle and rasped her claws over the engraving on the flat of the blade, but the emptiness remained. The hollow void was growing, spreading, replacing the essence of the Devouress. Others had put it there-the undeserving great one, the pretend god, the foreigner.
Their callousness toward the favored one battered at her belly, causing a crack that spread throughout her gut, spreading slivers of nothingness that grew into holes and then into this horrifying abyss. If she didn't stop them, they would continue to abuse the favored one. Then the emptiness would press outward, through her hide, and envelop her whole. She would cease altogether. She would become emptiness.
There was no moon. The chasm had swallowed it, but she saw with yellow-eyed clarity, inspired by the pain. The task of penetrating the garden had been a simple one. Scale a wall. Kill the sleeping creature who guards the enclosure. Slink into the darkest of shadows. And wait.
A young woman entered the garden. She hummed to herself and stooped to sniff a flower with wrinkled red petals. Eater of Souls wrapped her claws around a knife. This one was of no importance, hardly worth the effort to strike. The Devouress waited until the young woman took the gravel path that would bring her near the tree. Tossing her bushy mane over her shoulder, she raised the knife high and drove it down. When all was over, she lifted the young woman and arranged her on a bench beside the reflection pool. The foreigner would think the girl was pretending sleep to entertain him.
As she pulled a length of transparent linen over the hole in the girl's back, she heard the gate creak. A quiet leap to concealment. A snout raised to sniff the air currents. The scent of a transgressor.
The foreigner crept into the garden and closed the gate slowly, as though trying to keep it from creaking. Eater of Souls lifted her snout, tested the air, caught the stench of a foreign soul. Not appetizing, but begging for judgment. This one had insulted the favored one and caused sorrow. She could hear the favored one's piteous lament-"Life is so terrible. Everyone is so cruel, especially that evil foreigner. I've done nothing wrong. He was in the wrong. He should suffer for it."
It was then that the emptiness began. A familiar feeling, the harbinger of misery, of feeling powerless. The descent into gloom was always quick, like falling from a desert cliff and never reaching the ground. But the Devouress knew that the anger would come to save her and the favored one as well. Healing rage was growing in her belly now. It burned the emptiness away, directing the blame to the proper culprit. All she had to do to banish the emptiness and regain her power was destroy the evildoer, the true sinner, the cause of the favored one's pain.
The foreigner reached the girl lying on the bench. He bent over her and touched her shoulder. "My little lotus, have you fallen asl-"
The man sucked in his breath. Eater of Souls was already moving. She lifted her ax high to deliver a stunning blow. But the foreigner wasn't like the others. As he realized the young woman was dead, he backed away from her, and his eyes darted around the garden. He saw her move and jumped out of the path of the reversed ax.
The Devouress hissed, whirled in place, and struck again. The foreigner dodged the second blow but didn't stay for the next. His eyes as large as figs, he uttered a ragged shriek and bolted. She sprang after him, but he reached a door in the garden wall and was out in the street before she could catch up.
Undeterred, she hurtled after him. The pounding of his footsteps kept her on his path through deserted streets, crooked alleys and paths. The foreigner seemed to be running without purpose, blindly, as if propelled by witless fear. So much the better. Eater of Souls sprang up a flight of stairs that led to the roof of a storage building. Once on top, she saw her prey turning down an alley that led to a dead end.
Grunting with satisfaction, she darted across the roof, lunged over the gap between it and the next building, and ran to the wall that intersected another that barricaded the alley. Long, leaping strides took her to the open end of the trap as the foreigner entered it. He ran into the wall that formed the dead end, smacking into mud brick and bouncing off again. He stumbled, shook his head, and took several running steps back the way he'd come.
As he did, Eater of Souls sprang off the roof and into his path. She landed on her feet, her hide rippling. Drawing herself up, she spread her arms wide and showed her claws. She pointed her snout at the foreigner and sucked in his scent through her long, armored nose. Then she drew the ax from between her teeth.
Her prey had staggered backward when she jumped into his path. Now he was staring at her fangs as he tried to back into the darker shadows of the alley. Even in his terror, he sought to escape. The others had never lived so long. It was time for this one to die.
Briefly she wondered what it was like for the transgressor when she snarled, spitting saliva at him, and at the same time sprang at him so quickly he had no time to scream. Eater of Souls smelled a sweet foreign scent mixed with the odor of terror as the reversed blade bashed into the skull of the offender. Raised claws opened. As they brushed together, she heard the hiss of sharp edges sliding against each other.
Then came the first swipe. The impaling. The drag of skin and flesh against incising metal. A dog entered the alley, his nose sweeping back and forth in the air. The animal stopped as she whirled around and raised her claws. Without making a sound, the dog turned and trotted away, tail curled down, head lowered between his shoulders. Eater of Souls let fall the feather of truth and watched it drift down to rest in a bloody valley hacked into flesh.
Eater of Souls took a deep breath and let it out in a long, groaning sigh. Her joints and muscles began to ache, but she welcomed the hurt, the sign of a task completed. Claws stroked the lion's mane. Weariness crept into her bones. And relief. Again the favored one had been avenged, the cause of suffering destroyed. And the emptiness was gone-for now.
On this moonless night, quiet reigned in Lord Meren's household. Meren was in his office, slumped down in a chair, legs stretched out and crossed at the ankles. His chin rested on the broad collar of turquoise, lapis lazuli, and electrum that covered his upper chest, and he was scowling at the tip of a gilded leather sandal. Kysen sat cross-legged on the floor in the midst of a pile of reports from the mayor of Memphis, from agents at the Hittite court and in Babylonia, numerous vassal princes and a wide range of useful acquaintances. Meren felt a tiny muscle in his jaw twitch.
He'd been back two days, and he was still annoyed at the foolishness of his arrival at the house. Satet had refused to come inside through the front door and protested in a loud, annoyingly high voice that had attracted most of the servants, his daughters, and Kysen to the portico. He'd been forced to argue with the old woman in front of everyone. Luckily, Bener had introduced herself and persuaded Satet to come inside with her to inspect the kitchen.
"Sending Abu after me was deliberate disobedience," Meren said.
Kysen looked up from a city police report and said quickly, "Has Satet remembered anything else about where her sister went?"
"Isn't it enough that she remembered Hunero told her she was going to hide in Memphis?"
"You're angry because you know she's just making things up to impress you."
Pulling himself upright, Meren leaned forward, rested his elbows on his knees, and put his head in his hands. From behind a screen of fingers, he said, "Now she says she's going to look for Hunero herself. I told her no, but-"
"She does seem to get her way regardless of our precautions."
Meren groaned. "I'm still suffering from the spices she used to poison that roast goose." He pounded the arm of his chair. "Damnation of the gods, she's useless. It's going to take weeks for the men I sent to search the towns south of their farm and return."
"I've heard nothing from Ese or Othrys," Kysen said as he tried to stack city police reports into a pile. "Have you read these? Old Sokar must be exhausted. One of these lists of disturbances and crimes took up an entire half page."
Rubbing his forehead, Meren sighed. "I should have known the killer's death would cause the rats to scatter. I should have pursued the cook immediately."
"You can't be sure of the reason they left."
When Meren didn't answer, Kysen tossed a bundle of documents at him. Meren caught them and threw them back at his son's head. Kysen dodged it and grinned.
"What were those words of great prudence you spoke to me not long ago? Ah, yes. You said that I shouldn't vex my heart over things that can't be changed." Kysen waggled his eyebrows. "You said it makes a man intemperate."
Meren sat up straight and pounded the chair arm again. "Am I intemperate? Am I not known for my calm, my lack of ire?"
"Then you're not disturbed by the knowledge that our new friend Lord Reshep is coming to take dinner with us tomorrow for the third time this week?"
Meren shoved himself to his feet so quickly his chair nearly tipped over. He caught it and shoved it out of his way.
"What did you say? No, I heard. I can't endure this much longer. To Reshep, people are but mirrors of his own perfection. I don't understand why Isis encourages him."
"Bener says it's because she's never met anyone more magnificent than herself. She's in awe of him, and entertained by the new experience. I think she likes him because he's so much like her."
"She is not. Isis may be a bit vain, but she has good sense and a kind soul. In some ways she's much more practical than Bener."
Kysen looked doubtful.
"I suppose it's too late to claim the press of royal business," Meren said.
Kysen nodded. "Yes, because I think I hear his self-impressed voice. He must be in the great hall."
"But it's not even morning!"
They both turned to face the door as Abu knocked and opened it. His face expressionless, the charioteer announced that Lord Reshep was in the great hall seeking speech with Meren.
"Tell him I'm sick," Meren said.
"Oh, Father."
Abu didn't leave; he simply fixed his gaze on Meren and waited.
"Father, the king asked you to become acquainted with Reshep."
"I have, and I don't like him. He thinks he's prettier than my daughter. Every time we meet I get the feeling he expects me to fall to my knees and touch my forehead to the floor. Reshep is worse than Prince Rahotep. At least Rahotep's pride and conceit are mere varnish to cover his fears of unworthiness. Reshep really believes in his own perfection, his right to the best place, his unparalleled beauty. He makes me want to vomit."
"This is what you'll tell the golden one?" Kysen asked.
Meren's brows knitted together, and his chin jutted forward. "Yes. That's what I'll tell pharaoh, may he live forever in health and prosperity."
Kysen exchanged glances with Abu, who spoke quietly.
"Lord, are you certain you want to make an enemy of this man?"
"He's of no consequence."
"If the lord will allow me?"
"Speak, Abu. You will anyway."
"The lord would be wise to remember his daughter. Making an enemy of this man might make an enemy of her."
"She'll forget him."
"As the lord's oldest daughter forgot her suitor."
Meren glared at Abu. Tefnut had married the suitor he'd been certain she would scorn and forget.
"Very well, you interfering, presumptuous-"
"Your guest is waiting in the great hall, my lord."
Kysen grinned again, provoking a stream of curses from Meren as he stomped out of the office. With Kysen trailing behind him, Meren walked into the great hall. The chamber was shrouded in shadows that obscured the lotus-flower tops of the columns. Alabaster lamps rested at the four corners of the master's dais, and a servant stirred a breeze with an ostrich feather fan. The breeze caused the lamplight to waver. Shadows danced across the plastered and painted floor of the dais, and over the face of Lord Reshep. Meren strode across the hall and stopped abruptly. His lower jaw came unmoored. Reshep lounged in the gold-and-ebony master's chair, looking as if he were its owner. Meren resisted the urge to haul the intruder out of his chair-a great feat, since Reshep was admiring the hall as if he owned that too. Then Meren saw Isis.
His daughter was perched on a cushion at Reshep's feet, and she was murmuring something in a near-whisper.
Meren quietly moved nearer while he signaled Kysen to make no sound. He heard bits of a song, something about love mixed throughout her body. That tune ended, luckily, but then he heard another begin. She was singing that her heart chases his love.
Meren quickened his steps and said loudly, "A late visit, Reshep."
To his consternation, Reshep didn't get up. His wide, thin lips spread out in a smile Meren preferred to call a smirk. As Meren came up the dais steps with Kysen right behind him, Reshep held out his hand. Isis placed a delicate gold wine cup in it.
"I'm so pleased you're still awake, Meren."
He'd been about to tell the young man to get his ass out of the master's chair, but being addressed without his title robbed Meren of speech. He planted himself in front of Reshep and gaped.
Kysen wasn't so aghast. "You forget your manners. Rise and address my father as you should, Reshep."
"I have been doing that," Reshep said with an even wider smile.
Meren watched the corners of his mouth reach the edge of his face. "Why do you smile at me as if you're about to disclose some amazingly pleasurable revelation? Isis, you should be asleep."
"We knew the best time to find you alone would be late at night," Isis said, without concern for Meren's irritation.
Meren looked at his daughter with suspicion. Only yesterday she'd explained how her aunt, Idut, had given her the secret to making a friend, or ensnaring a lover. "Aunt Idut says that a man loves nothing better than talking about himself. He charms himself with such talk the way a snake charms a mouse."
Isis had gone on to say that she'd found that an admirer's attention remained on her much longer if she asked him about his life, his titles, his family. Reshep was the only man who hadn't needed encouragement to propound on such subjects.
Suspicious, Meren asked, "Why would you need to find me alone? And I'm not alone." He exchanged mystified glances with Kysen.
"Kysen doesn't count," Isis replied as she placed her hand on Reshep's arm.
Even at this late hour Reshep was freshly bathed and dressed in a kilt that looked as if it had only been worn for a few moments. Meren felt dirty and disheveled standing in front of him.
"What do you want?" Meren asked without bothering to conceal his impatience.
"I want to give you most fortunate news," Reshep said. His smile spread farther and threatened to climb to his ears. "I have consented to allow Isis to be my wife."
Folding his arms over his chest, Meren buried his fury in humor and laughed lightly. "I think not."
"Naturally it took Isis a while to persuade me, but after she told me of the greatness of your family-what?"
Reshep paled and appeared to sink inward. He looked lost for a moment, disbelieving, then bewildered.
"You refuse me? You refuse me." The young man said it over and over, as if to force himself to believe the impossible.
Meren had controlled his anger at the man who presumed to court his daughter and nearly make her commit herself to a worthless alliance. Now he began to feel sorry for Reshep. The fool genuinely believed he'd been bestowing a great prize upon Isis and her father.
"I could wish you hadn't placed yourself in a situation where I was forced to refuse you before others," Meren said. "But you anger me with your presumption. Few men would try to ally themselves with a Friend of the King upon such short acquaintance. Indeed, I know little of your family, your home, your accomplishments and future plans, but-"
"Father!" Isis jumped to her feet, glaring and breathing hard. Then she burst into imprecations and accusations. "You think I'm still a child. You treat me as if I were younger than Kysen's little boy. You've shamed me beyond bearing!"
Meren turned on her so quickly she started and shut her mouth with a snap. Kysen put a hand on her arm, or she might have backed up. Saying nothing, Meren lifted a brow and directed a soul-freezing look at his youngest daughter. No one moved.
Finally Meren spoke in a quiet, implacable tone. "It grows quite late, daughter. I'm certain Lord Reshep doesn't mean to keep you from your rest. May the goddess for whom you are named give you peaceful sleep."
Kysen took his sister's arm again and pulled her down the dais steps while he muttered, "Come along, before he gets any calmer."
Meren turned back to Reshep in time to catch the young man looking at him. In a brief, almost imperceptible moment, he glimpsed a cauldron of flaming oil. Then it was gone.
"You propose an alliance too soon," Meren said.
Reshep merely looked at him.
"What ails you, man?" He was growing annoyed at the way Reshep kept staring at him in silence, but before he could ask him to leave, Kysen returned.
"Father, we have another visitor."
"Tell him to go away."
Kysen whispered in his ear. "This one you might want to see. It's Tcha, the one I told you about."
"Oh. Reshep, leave my house, and don't return until-"
He heard a great clacking and clattering. It was coming closer. Then the noise was among them, and it smelled. Meren watched what appeared to be a tent of amulets with hair scurry into the hall and propel itself to the foot of the dais.
Everyone backed up as a wave of honeyed putrefaction roiled up at them.
"I sawit! I sawit, I sawit, I sawit! It was huge, and then it vanished. The demon, the creature." Tcha lifted a dirty arm and pointed at Kysen. "You think I'm stupid, you think I lie, but now you'll see. Tcha never gets no praise for his good deeds, never gets enough payment. And now you couldn't give me enough gold to go back there. No, not Tcha!"
Meren, Kysen, and Reshep all stared at the trembling mass of fear that babbled at them. Reshep sniffed, then got up from the master's chair to put it between him and Tcha. Meren found this to be the only value of having his house invaded by the thief.
"Kysen, is this, this… Is he saying he's seen a demon? Get him out of here."
Kysen began flapping his hands at Tcha to drive him out of the hall.
"Wait, great lord! I can't go out there. It-she is out there."
"Go away, Tcha," Kysen said. He gave the thief a light shove with the tip of one finger.
"No, wait, wait, wait."
Kysen poked him each time he said "wait."
At last Tcha scrambled out of his reach and exclaimed, "You don't understand. This time Eater of Souls has killed the Hittite emissary!"