The last cool breeze brought on by the setting of the sun whipped Kysen's hair back from his face as he watched the supply train plod toward them. A boy ran from the village to hand Thesh his scribe's kit.›
The scribe swung the kit by its string. "Useramun told me that Hormin suddenly commissioned a coffin from Ramose and Hesire. Formerly he'd complained of the cost of their work. But then, he complained of everything."
' Kysen felt locked inside pain, as though he existed somehow apart from the white valley, the noisy chatter of children around him as they spilled out of the village. He couldn't refuse to meet his brothers, not after Thesh's statement. Why was he afraid to do so? They hadn't recognized him before; they wouldn't now. And Pawero was still off at his lair, lurking there like some wrinkled old spider.
He and Thesh walked out to meet the supply train, and as they halted, one of his brothers separated from the line and came toward him. Odd to think that he wouldn't have known which was which without Thesh's guidance. The man stumbled, over nothing it seemed, righted himself, and then resumed his course. His steps were distorted, as though he were pulling his feet from
Nile mud, and he navigated like an overloaded freight boat with a torn sail.
Creasing his brow, Kysen said nothing as Hesire dropped anchor in front of him. The breeze carried gusts of beer fumes so strong they almost burned his nose. Ramose had followed his brother immediately, and joined them as Hesire drifted from side to side before Kysen on his drink-slackened tether. He raised an arm and pointed at Kysen.
"You," he said, sending a fresh puff of beer fumes wafting at Kysen. "I know you."
One of the first lessons he'd learned from Meren was never to give way to fear and spew forth ungoverned speech when confronted. Although his gut filled with molten bronze, he confined himself to two words.
"You do?"
Hesire, a man of lesser height whose jutting teeth and flabby muscles made him resemble a plucked duck, nodded and hiccuped. "Do. They say you're the servant of the Eyes and Ears of Pharaoh come to see about that bastard Hormin."
He jolted out of his fugue, although he pretended calm, and surveyed the line of hills behind his brothers. "You disliked Hormin."
" 'Course," Hesire said.
He set his legs apart to keep from drifting into his brother, folded his arms over his chest, and beamed at Kysen. Evidently he thought he'd made himself clear.
"Life and health to you," Ramose said, shouldering in front of Hesire. "I fear my brother has imbibed too early this morning."
Thesh glanced up from his place beneath the pavil ion. "This morning and every morning."
Ramose scowled at the scribe, but continued. "Hesire is furious with Hormin for getting killed before we could begin work on his coffin."
"Why? Surely you of all carpenters don't lack for commissions?"
Ramose glanced at Thesh, then fixed his gaze on his fingernails. "True, but Hormin commissioned a most complete and elegant coffin, and we prefer to make those. Three nested coffins, entirely illustrated with sacred texts and scenes from The Book of What Is in the Underworld. More challenging."
"I see."
He did see. It was as he'd suspected. Thesh was running a side business in funerary equipage, which was customary, but he and the artisans were keeping profits unknown to the royal authorities. No doubt many commissions such as Hormin's went unreported to the vizier's office.
Hesire belched and rubbed his hands on his wrinkled and dirty kilt. "And of course there was the sarcophagus."
"What sarcophagus?"
Kysen's skin prickled as Thesh froze in the act of re cording grain supplies and Ramose tried to kill his brother with a mere gaze.
"What sarcophagus?"
"Why, that red granite one he's got in his cursed tomb."
"Hesire, you're drunk again," Ramose said.
He shoved his brother, who stumbled backward into a donkey and plummeted to the ground. Throwing up his hands in exasperation, Ramose hauled his brother upright and half carried him toward the village. Kysen watched them go. He didn't know whether he was unhappy or grateful that they hadn't recognized him. Glancing down, he found Thesh staring at him. He rubbed his chin with a forefinger, then shrugged, as though the significance of a red granite sarcophagus had eluded him.
While he watched Thesh record the distribution of supplies to the artisans' wives and take delivery on new chisels, hammers, awls, and reed brushes, he thought about how best to approach the scribe about the sarcophagus and the secret commissions. As he did so, Woser emerged from the village carrying a sack and a bottle.
The western hill beside the village was already beginning to bake in the unforgiving sun. Woser, a brown crane stalking up the slope, headed for one of the chapels cut into the hill. Beneath the chapels lay the tombs of the village ancestors. Kysen forgot Thesh. Surely Woser had fallen behind in his work after being sick. What was he doing traipsing off to his family chapel?
He waited for the draftsman to climb the staircase hewn out of the limestone. Low and wide, it had a central slide upon which funeral sledges were pushed up to the chapels. Woser turned right and stalked along a row of entrances until he came to the last one on the second level. Set into the hillside, it was constructed of mud brick in the shape of a steep-sided miniature pyramid.
Kysen watched the draftsman vanish inside before setting out to follow him. After climbing the stairs, he walked quietly to the tomb entrance and paused outside the open double doors. The chapel bricks, painted white, reflected heat at him. At first he could only see shadows. As his vision adjusted to the reduced light, he saw painted walls bearing scenes of deceased villagers receiving offerings from family members, of patron deities of the artisans. He slipped inside and placed his back to a wall.
The chapel had a short entrance hall that ended in
Murder in the Place of Anu'bis 165 steps descending to the cramped devotional chamber below. He could hear Woser muttering there, and light from a lamp filtered up as well. Kysen walked halfway down the steps, paused, then descended until he could see the draftsman. Woser stood before an offering table. He was mumbling a prayer and holding bread and dried fish up in both hands. Then he placed the food on the altar, poured beer into a cup, and placed that on the altar.
Kysen was about to leave when he heard a snuffle.
He paused, then turned back to stare at the drafts man. Woser wiped his generous nose on the back of his hand. He fumbled at the waistband of his kilt and drew forth a folded papyrus sheet.›
Opening it, he began to read aloud. "O demon who hath tortured me for many days, I propitiate thee. Take this bread, this fish, this beer for thy sustenance."
Woser stuttered and sobbed. He wiped his face with the papyrus, then covered his eyes with the sheet and wailed incomprehensibly. He sank to his knees, rocked back and forth, and muttered into the papyrus.
Kysen drew nearer, hoping to make out what the draftsman was saying, but Woser suddenly coughed. Then he choked, grabbed the cup of beer, and downed it. Sighing, he folded the sheet and placed it on the offering table along with the food.
"O Ptah, O Hathor, O Amun, I beseech thee, make this demon fly from me. I mean no harm to anyone, not to the living or-or to th-the dead." Woser broke off to moan and rock again. When he regained some calm, he continued. "Make me skilled in drafting and in learning to sculpt, and intercede for me with Osiris and the gods of the underworld. I promise entire devotion. I never meant harm. I never meant evil. I beg to be delivered from sin, from this demon."
Kysen leaned against the chapel wall, disconcerted at the fearfulness in Woser's voice. Of course, if he'd been beset with such an evil illness for days on end, he might be fearful too. He thought Woser had finished, but he was wrong. The man stood, a papyrus reed with a nose, and began what Kysen recognized as a ritual exorcism. No doubt the physician from Thebes had recommended one as a part of Woser's recovery.
The draftsman produced a carved amulet, the Eye of Horus. Of limestone painted to resemble a stylized eye, it signified health. Woser lay the amulet on the offering table. Next he produced a pouch, took a pinch of the dust within, and sprinkled it over the flame of the oil lamp on the table. Light flamed, and Kysen sniffed the bitter smell of burnt herbs.
"Out, O demon. I call upon Horus and Seth, Amun and Mut, Isis and Hathor. Aid me. Depart, O demon. I have done no wrong. I have not killed; I have not spoken lies; I have not stolen. I am blameless of sin. Depart, O demon."
More chanting, more herbs. Then Woser produced another, smaller Eye of Horus amulet strung on a beaded chain, slipped it around his neck, and prayed. Kysen shook his head and stepped out into the open as Woser rose to leave. The draftsman started and gave a little cry.
"You cut short the ritual confession," Kysen said.
Woser's mouth worked open and closed.
"You left out quite a few sins." Kysen listed them on his fingers. "You have to say you haven't robbed the poor, caused pain, caused tears, made anyone suffer, damaged the offerings in temples, stolen the cakes of the dead or the loaves of the gods, cheated in the fields. There's lots more."
"What? Whatwhatwhatwhat?" Woser added for clarity, "What?"
"And you forgot lying with a strange woman."
Woser swallowed and gawked at Kysen.
"Tell me," Kysen said when it was apparent that Woser wasn't going to say anything, "has Beltis said anything to you about Hormin's death or his family?"
"Sh-she said his sons killed him."
"Many people could have killed him, including Beltis."
"I w-was sick."
"Yes, you appear to have been ill at the most convenient time."
"Thesh will tell you I-"
"I know, I know." Kysen turned toward the stairs. "Just remember. The Eyes and Ears of Pharaoh know much and discover all, eventually. If you know something about Beltis, you'd better tell me before I discover it myself and find out you knew all along. I don't like it when people withhold knowledge. Not at all. And my displeasure will make your demon's seem like rapture."
He left Woser then, knowing that a few hours of anticipating what might happen to him at Kysen's hands would work on the man's fantasy-ridden heart. When he emerged into sunlight, he saw that the supply party had dispersed. Thesh was leaving the pavilion with his arms loaded with packages and ostraca.
Kysen followed the scribe at a distance as he disap peared behind the village walls. He reached the gate as Thesh ducked inside his house. The man reappeared abruptly without his burdens. Kysen stepped quickly into the shadow of an unoccupied doorway and allowed several women to pass him.
Thesh dodged two girls playing ball in the street and walked directly into the house of Useramun. Instead of following, Kysen went to the side stairs that scaled to the roof of the painter's house. Climbing them, he slunk across the roof to the top-floor entrance and descended the ladder. He came out in the kitchen, where he encountered an old woman servant carrying bread in a basket. His hand went to his lips, signaling silence. She regarded him without much curiosity before quitting the house through the rear door. He crept toward the front room, lured by the sound of Useramun's voice.
"I tell you it means nothing," the painter was saying.
He was sitting before a grinding stone and spooning crushed red ocher into a pot. Thesh walked back and forth in front of him tugging at a length of black hair.
"You didn't see Seth's face when Hesire confronted him. He went pale. I'm sure he understood. He's got a most clever heart, that one."
"Aye," Useramun purred. "Most clever, and a fit body too. Perfect to the canon of proportions."
"Are you listening? He knows!"
"Shoulders broader than the length from elbow to fingertip," the painter murmured as he allowed ocher to spill from his spoon.
"If Ramose hadn't stopped him, he'd have mentioned the payments."
"Nose not too long. Lips soft, yet firm."
"And now he's following Woser," Thesh said. "Woser, with his demons and his sickness. Who can tell what Woser will say?"
"He has legs of the most precise musculature."
Thesh stopped before the painter, chest heaving. "Useramun, shut up and help me think. What if Seth reports what he's learned about us to the Eyes and Ears of Pharaoh?"
The painter expelled an irritated sigh and laid his spoon aside.
Murder in the Place of Anubis 167
"Listen to me. Seth is a royal servant. We are royal servants. Royal servants know about side commissions and private arrangements that ease the conduct of royal business."
"You mean bribes," Thesh said as he raked his hands through his hair.
The painter cocked his head to the side. "Don't you think our Seth indulges in bribes?"
"No."
"Well, you're wrong."
"How would you know?" Thesh snapped.
"I asked Beltis," Useramun said. "The little bitch is already busy ingratiating herself with the servant of the Eyes of Pharaoh. She ingratiated herself only a few hours ago. Several times."
Kysen swore at Useramun silently while Thesh swore at him aloud.
"No use blaming me," the painter said as he took up his spoon again.
"But he's sure to suspect you and me now!"
"Why?"
"Because of Beltis, you fool. She's trying to bribe him with her body, and he's going to think she murdered Hormin and that we helped, or that we did it for her, or that we urged her to do it for us, or-what if she tells him we did it?"
"Gods, Thesh, you're babbling like a runaway slave under torture. Next you'll be soiling your kilt. He hasn't done anything yet. Nor has he said anything. Wait."
Thesh groaned. "But I didn't kill Hormin."
"I didn't either. And I don't think Beltis did, for I'm sure she wouldn't risk her oiled and perfumed hide to do it. Therefore we've nothing to worry about."
"No? What if they don't find the killer?"
Useramun shrugged and began to pour resin into the pot of ocher.
"What if they don't find the killer? What if the vizier becomes impatient? What if he applies pressure to the Eyes of Pharaoh? What if they decide to find the killer by torturing us? What if they decide to find someone to blame even if they're not sure Pm guilty? I could be cast out into the desert to die."
Thesh began to pace up and down again, this time working his fists open and closed. Useramun glanced up after he'd finished. Kysen noted the first sign of interest from the painter. Useramun chewed on the end of his spoon.
"Perhaps you're right." He chewed thoughtfully while Thesh paced. "Perhaps there is reason to take a hand in this investigation ourselves."
"How?"
"I don't know right now. I shall think upon it. After all, Beltis says Hormin's sons killed him. They say she did it. There seems to be an abundance of persons upon whom the authorities may place blame. It may be in our interest to see that they place it upon the right person."
"And quickly," Thesh said.
Useramun chuckled. "You mean before you deterio rate into a quivering mud cake?"
"No, before Seth confronts me about our commissions and the vizier comes down upon us with his wrath."
"Don't be an ass," the painter said.
"If I'm discovered, — 1 won't endure punishment alone."
Useramun rose and traced Thesh's chin with the end of the spoon. "Then we'll have to find a killer for Seth, won't we? That should take his thoughts from secret
Murder in the Place of Anubis 169 commissions and bribes and other such inconvenient things."
Thesh jerked his head out of range of the spoon and went to the front door. "We haven't much time."
"Give me a day," the painter said.
"Only if Seth says nothing."
Useramun nodded.
"If he confronts me, I must throw myself on his mercy and beg his discretion, for all of us."
The painter had returned to his mixing, and he glanced up from the pot. "I'm sure you're very good at begging. But I think you'll be surprised at how unimportant our little doings are in the view of a servant of a great one. No doubt he's seen much bigger thieves than us."
Kysen nearly laughed. He had indeed. Thesh left vowing to confess all if cornered, and Useramun continued with his paint mixing. Kysen left the way he'd come. He managed to creep downstairs without anyone seeing him except for a plump little boy who could barely walk. The young one had wobbled down the alley between Useramun's house and his neighbor's and had set his bare bottom on the lowest step in the staircase. He was playing with a rattle.
Poor Thesh. All his charm and pleasing looks meant naught when he was confronted with-. Kysen stopped on the middle step and gazed at the boy below without seeing him. Useramun and Beltis; Woser and Bel-tis; Hormin and Beltis. And, of course, himself and Beltis.
He spoke aloud to himself. "Thesh and Beltis."
He took another step down as he mused. He nearly stumbled as enlightenment burst upon him. He stood still, pondering. Could he be right? How could he be sure? He considered the possibilities as he resumed his descent.
Kysen picked the little boy up as he reached the bottom step. "Aren't you Yem's nephew, little one? Come along. Let's see if we can't cheer your Uncle Thesh. He's got quite a lot of heavy burdens on his heart today."