'He's new to the village,' Kysen said. He let his gaze roam about the room, touching stacks of papyri, a water jar. 'His father serves the painter Useramun. I remember Useramun. His hips wiggled when he walked, and he was always throwing tantrums if the plaster on tomb walls wasn't smooth enough for his paint.'
'Any evil that touches the servants of the Great Place is important to Pharaoh. They're probably not involved, but I must make sure.'
Rounding the worktable, Kysen took a stool near his father. 'We can send for the chief scribe in the morning.'
'You know that's not what I want to do.'
'You want to go to the village?' Kysen flushed when his father lifted one of his straight brows. Meren could make him feel foolish more easily with a lift of those eloquent brows than by using a thousand words.
'I don't want to go,' Kysen said.
'I can't do this, Ky. Word would be all over Thebes in minutes if I went there. Half the court would dog my
Murder In the Place of Anubis 69 steps out of curiosity or to make sure I didn't interfere with the work on their tombs. And how much do you think I'll get out of the scribes and artisans?'
'Little,' said Kysen. 'Oh, you don't have to tell me. I know. I'm the one who speaks their language. I'm the one who knows them-at least, I did know them. It's been ten years.'
'Perhaps it will do you good to go back.'
Kysen shot to his feet so quickly that his stool toppled. Ignoring it, he glared at his father, turned away, and placed both hands flat on the worktable.
'The fire pits of the netherworld, that's what that place was to me,' Kysen said. 'It's taken all this time for me to restore my ka, and you want me to go back there. You know what it was like. You saw me when Father tried to sell me in the streets of Thebes-the welts, the bruises so black I'd have been invisible on a moonlit night.'
Rising, Meren went to Kysen. Kysen started when his father put a hand on his.
'You haven't seen your blood father since that day. Ky, I think facing him has become a great fear in your heart, and it grows larger the longer you ignore it. Hate makes festering sores in your ka.'
'Gods!' Kysen shook off Meren's hand. 'Shouldn't I hate him? You said it wasn't my fault that he beat me, though he never touched my brothers. It took you three years to convince me of my innocence, but I tell you, if I go back there, he'll make me see the ugliness within my heart.'
'There is no ugliness in your heart. It's in Pawero's heart. Face him, Ky. You're no longer an eight-year-old child and helpless. Ah, you didn't think I knew your greatest fear. Go back to the village. You need to face Pawero, if only to make him admit his guilt.'
'And while I'm chastising my monster of a father, I'm to spy on the villagers.'
'Like a dutiful son,' Meren said.
'This dutiful son remembers setting fire to the bed of your oldest daughter.'
'And does he also remember copying chapters from The Book of the Dead for three months afterward?'
Kysen had been leaning against the worktable. He snorted and bent to right the fallen stool. When he was finished, he found his father standing beside him, studying him with that compassionate yet determined expression that had become so familiar. Meren had decided what was best for him, and nothing Kysen could say would change his heart.
'When do I go?'
'Tomorrow morning,' Meren said. 'I'll send word to the lector priest not to let the water carrier go home for a while. It may take a few days to question everyone without revealing what you're about.'
'What if they know who I am-to you?'
Meren said, 'They don't.'
'What do you mean?'
Resuming his seat in the ebony chair, Meren gri maced. 'I hadn't meant to tell you, but I've kept watch over the doings of your father and brothers. And I told him not to reveal who bought you. No one knows who you are now.'
Kysen walked away from Meren to stand with his back against a wall. Hugging himself, he studied the man to whom he owed so much.
'I could kill him.'
'You won't,' Meren said calmly.
Making fists with both hands, Kysen forced himself to go on. 'Sometimes, when Remi tries my patience to the breaking point, sometimes I almost-sometimes I
Murder in the Place of Anubis 71 want to-something happens to me. A demon takes possession of my ka, and I almost raise my hand to him.' Kysen waited for condemnation with his head bowed.
'But you don't. You've never hit Remi, and you won't. Not until he is old enough to understand such punishment, and then you'll be fair and kind, for that is your nature.'
Kysen raised his head and met his father's smiling gaze. 'I want to hurt Pawero as he hurt me.'
'Perhaps when you go to the tomb-makers' village you'll see that the good god has cast judgment on your behalf already.' Meren stood up and led Kysen to the door. 'It's time you abandoned this undeserved guilt and-'
Shock wiped all expression from Meren's face. Eyes focused on something Kysen couldn't see, his mouth opened, and air hissed between his lips as he drew in a breath.
'Listen to me,' Meren said. 'Ordering you to abandon guilt when I …'
'Father?'
'Leave me, Ky.'
'But-'
'Now.'
Kysen slipped away, leaving Meren standing in the doorway transfixed by thoughts he wouldn't share.
In the wharf market of Thebes, lines of booths covered with cloths flashed bright colors in the afternoon sun like the scales of fish glistening in a reflection pool. One stall boasted fresh waterfowl trussed up and dangling from square frames. The naked bodies of two pintails parted to reveal the sweaty nose of a man. The owner of the nose remained behind the strings of birds
with only it and his eyes showing, and he darted glances about the crowded street.
The charioteer had been following him since he'd left the office of records and tithes. Bakwerner's mouth was dry, and he licked his cracked lips. Wiping a drop of sweat from his nose, he realized that evil had stalked him since he'd left those records on Hormin's shelf. Nothing he'd done since had warded off the unlucky events of the past day and night.
He had to escape the notice of the charioteer. Count Meren knew more than he had revealed. Why else would he set a watcher upon an innocent scribe? There! That was the man who followed him. Bakwerner shrank back behind the duck bodies. The owner of the stall cast a wary glance at him, so he pretended to examine a basket of pigeons. When he looked again, the charioteer's back was turned. Bakwerner dropped the basket, sidled past a booth filled with nuts and melons, and broke into a run.
Dodging a cart filled with dried dung and skirting a flower seller, he gained the shadows of an alley and worked his way into the city. Every tall man, every figure wearing bronze made him jump or dart into a doorway. With each false scare, his fear increased. The more he feared, the more he sweated. Rivulets of perspiration tickled their way from beneath his wig, down his face, and over his shoulders. His kilt was damp.
Since he took no time to wipe away the sweat, he first saw the house of Hormin through a blur of salty perspiration. The sight of the house burst the last of his restraint and he darted across the street and into the reception hall. Babbling at servants, he soon found himself in the presence of the wife.
'What are you doing here? What do you want?'
'Shhhh, mistress, we might be watched.'
Hormin's wife scowled at him. 'You mean someone's watching you?'
'The lord's man.'
'They think you're guilty.' The woman opened her brown lips and screeched.
Bakwerner ducked his head, covering his ears. 'Please! Don't. I want to see your sons. Where are they?'
The wife of Hormin paid no attention to him. She kept screeching, this time calling for Imsety. Bakwerner waved his hands in front of her face in a desperate attempt to shut the woman up.
