“Did Montu often stay late?”
“He was usually the first to leave, so we’ve been told, and he always went to his home in Waset or to his estate a half hour’s walk upriver. He evidently enjoyed his comfort.
Those workmen’s huts are simple affairs, and the food is plain and monotonous.”
Ptahhotep added a pinch of ground willow branch to the bowl. “If he learned a man was causing the accidents, he’d have no reason to fear a malign spirit.”
“Would he not have greater reason to fear that man than a nonexistent being created to take advantage of men’s superstitions?”
They both knew that any man who had brought about so much death and destruction, especially at a place as important as their sovereign’s memorial temple, would be certain to face a horrible death by impalement. He would kill and kill again to keep his secret.
“Montu might’ve stumbled upon the men who’ve been rifling the old tombs,” Bak said, giving Ptahhotep no time to return to the subject of his own safety. “I’ve not explored the hillsides that enclose the valley nor have I searched the valley floor, but where kings are buried, the tombs of the nobility are close by-as the construction of our sovereign’s new temple has proven.”
“The confusion of a large project would provide good cover,” Ptahhotep said thoughtfully.
“Yes, but there’d be many extra eyes to spot an open tomb or furtive act.” Bak waved to Kasaya and Hori to let them know he had seen them, ducked beneath the lean-to to pick up his sheathed dagger, and tied it to his belt. “Of course, a malign spirit would discourage prying.”
“Do you suppose Lieutenant Menna has considered the possibility?”
“I don’t know. He’s not very forthcoming. He fears I’ll tread on his toes.” Bak scooped up his baton of office. “One thing I do know: a man who creates a malign spirit is not superstitious-which eliminates most of the men who toil at Djeser Djeseru. And the average tomb robber, too. At least the local men Menna believes are involved.”
“Where do you go today, my son?” The worry returned to Ptahhotep’s face. “Back to that valley of death?”
“I’ll go first to Montu’s home in Waset. If the lord Amon smiles upon me, he’ll have left behind the reason he remained at Djeser Djeseru the night he was slain.”
“Will you not wait until my poultice is warmed? That abrasion on your thigh looks dreadful.”
“Later, Father. Tonight when I’ve more time.” Bak flashed his parent a teasing smile. “Besides, I don’t wish to walk the streets of Waset wearing a bandage from hip to knee.”
Ptahhotep scowled, but did not press the point. “I must go to Waset after midday, to the house of life. If you remain in the city until an hour or so before nightfall, you can sail back with me.”
“I’ll not forget.” Bak walked to the interior stairway, paused. “Don’t expect me, but don’t be surprised to see me there, either. I wish to give the workmen time to hear the rumor I started, to let it seep into their hearts.” He walked partway down the stairs, turned back, grinned. “I’ll send Hori and Kasaya in my stead, Hori to follow the rumor’s progress and make sure it travels a true path and Kasaya to guard his back.”
Ptahhotep glowered at his son’s flippancy. “A true path?”
“With luck and the help of the gods, and with Ramose’s knowledge of the men and Hori’s deft tongue, their fear will turn to anger that one no different than they has toyed with their fear of the unknown.”
Montu’s dwelling-brought to him through marriage, Bak recalled-was located in a highly respectable neighborhood a short walk from the mansion of the lord Amon, one among many structures that had been handed down from parent to child for innumerable generations. Long blocks of houses lined both sides of a narrow street that seldom saw sunlight and, as a result, smelled stale and a bit rancid.
Standing side by side, most were three stories high, with a lower floor that provided shelter and a place of work for the servants, and two upper floors for family use. On the roofs, Bak glimpsed cone-shaped granaries, pigeon cotes, and lean-tos for additional storage and work space.
The entrance to the home he sought was three steps above the street and set off by a low balustrade lined with potted poppies. Two young sycamores, also in pots, stood like sentinels on either side of the door. Bak was impressed.
He had not expected the architect to live in so sumptuous a house.
“Montu lied to me at times, yes, and he had an eye for a pretty woman, but he treated us as well as could be expected.” Mutnefret, Montu’s widow, sat on a low stool in a rather stiff and formal room used for greeting guests. Her husband’s chair sat empty on the dais behind her. “I’d brought a daughter to the marriage, as you know, and he very much wanted a son.”
“The property you possessed must’ve eased his disappointment,” Bak said in a wry voice. “This house is most impressive, and I’m told you have a substantial country estate across the river.”
“We lived well, to be sure.” She was comfortably plump and, to Bak’s eye, looked every cubit a motherly figure, but the smile on her face was strangely contented for one whose husband had so recently been slain.
Seated on a stool similar to hers, he faced her across a low table, sipping a tangy red wine and nibbling sweet cakes and honeyed dates. Two columns carved and painted to look like lilies supported the ceiling, two large pottery water jars stood on a stone lustration slab, and niches in the wall contained paintings of the divine triad: the lord Amon, his spouse the lady Mut, and their son the lord Khonsu. Beside the dais stood a large wide-mouthed bowl of sweet-scented white lilies floating on water. A hint of a breeze wafted through high windows, barely stirring the warm air. He found the formality of the room and even Mutnefret’s hospi-tality distancing, not conducive to easy talk, putting him at a disadvantage.
“I’ve been told he shirked his duty, not only at Djeser Djeseru, but at your country estate. That you and your daughter toil alongside your servants, and his sole task was to issue orders.”
“You’ve been listening to gossip, Lieutenant.” Her eyes darted toward a side door, drawn by the sudden appearance of a slender and quite pretty young woman of fourteen or so years. “He had his faults, I know, and didn’t always get along with his colleagues, but he meant well.”
“Mother!” The girl stalked across the room to stand before her parent, hands on hips, fire in her eyes. “Montu was lazy. His sole preoccupation was to do as little as possible.”
Mutnefret looked hurt. “He was a good father to you, Sitre.”
“My father, the man who gave me life, was kind and gentle, one who toiled from dawn to dusk.” Sitre pulled a stool close and plopped onto it. “That wretched Montu could in no way replace him.”
Bak, startled by the young woman’s outspoken behavior, eyed her surreptitiously. The simple white sheath she wore hardly concealed her shapely figure; rather, it enhanced it.
Her long, glossy black hair, her dark eyes, and her vivid mouth were most attractive. Why was she not yet wed? he wondered. Certainly her sincerity, her spirit, would not appeal to every young man.
“Children!” Mutnefret shook her head at the unfairness of it all. “When first I wed Montu, I prayed to the lady Hathor that I’d give birth time and time again, but now-”
“All you wanted were sons!” Sitre tossed her head, flinging her hair across her shoulders. “Boys to satisfy his desire to reproduce himself.”
Her mother ignored her. “Now I thank the goddess that I had just the one and that she’s of an age to wed.”
“Then what will you do?” the young woman asked, her tone scathing. “Go find another man like Montu who has a worthy position but no wealth to speak of?”
“Sitre!” Mutnefret glared at her daughter. “Have you never heard the ancient maxim: ‘Do not give your mother cause to blame you lest she raise her hands to god and he hears her cries’?”
Bak was beginning to feel uncomfortable. It was one thing to listen to people divulge secrets that might lead him to a slayer or thief, quite another to hear them continue an argument that had most likely been going on from the day Mutnefret wed Montu. Of course, the argument might have led to the architect’s death, but if so, why was he slain at the memorial temple instead of closer to home? “Did he ever speak of Djeser Djeseru, of the many accidents that have occurred there?”
“He mentioned the accidents, yes,” Mutnefret said.
Her daughter snickered. “And the malign spirit that’s been causing them.”
Bak eyed the young woman with an interest that had nothing to do with her appearance. “He believed in the malign spirit?”
“He didn’t,” Mutnefret said, giving her daughter an overly generous smile, “but it pleased him to tell Sitre he
