that he'd be recognized, even by his fatherafter all, he'd been a child when he last saw the village. Thus he'd left behind his belts of turquoise and gold, his fine leather sandals, his broad collars of malachite and electrum.
He shifted uneasily on the plank that was his seat. His leg brushed a bag of grain, grain meant for the tomb-makers' village. Most of the village supplies were shipped in from temple and royal storehouses; unlike most villagers, the artisans lived not at the edge or in the midst of cultivation, but in a bare, rocky desert valley south of the Valley of the Queens. Kysen remem bered his father's grudges against the foremen and scribes, for they received a great ration of Pharaoh's grain.
His father. Would Pawero recognize him? Would his brothers? If not, Kysen decided not to reveal himself. One of his first lessons under Meren had been in how not to reveal what he knew. The gazelle does not seek the lion in the midst of the herd. It looks outward, and ignores the animal at its side. Thus it would be with the artisans. They would guard secrets from Meren's agent, but fail to conceal from him things he couldn't be expected to know.
There was another advantage. From the protection of his facade as a royal servant, he would be safe from Pawero. Kysen rubbed his upper arms and stared into the ripples of water caused by the skiff. What had possessed him to think such a thought?
Pawero was almost ten years older than Meren-an old man by now. An old man no longer strong enough to backhand his son, especially a son grown tall and trained as a warrior. Slick, oily rage curled a black trail through Kysen's body and snaked around his heart. He shook his head and drew in a sharp breath. With the scimitar of his will, he cut through the tendrils of wrath.
Rage had no place in the work he was to do. His at tention jolted back to his surroundings as the skiff bumped against a small dock. Clambering ashore, Kysen pulled the strap of the bag that held his possessions over his shoulder. A line of donkeys and their handlers huddled nearby, waiting for the grain. He could have gone ahead along the trail that climbed bald hills and descended into the valley that held the village, but he wasn't supposed to know the way.
Soon he was walking beside a donkey, leaning forward as the trail slanted up and darted into the heart of the lifeless rock that soon would glow with the day's killing heat. Somehow the journey was too short. In much less than an hour he topped the summit of a hill and gazed out into the rubble-strewn valley. He forgot to breathe. A high whitewashed wall surrounded the village, and he could see the flat roofs of the houses that flanked either side of the one main sfreet. Kysen almost stumbled as a donkey jostled him. He'd forgotten how enclosed the village was. There was only one entrance in the wall, only one way in or out.
In spite of the rapidly growing heat, his skin grew cold. Vague memories crowded upon him-the death of his mother when he was small, his brothers, an older boy called Useramun, already a brilliant painter, the old scribe of the village who was now dead. But he couldn't remember their faces.
Once Meren had taken him home, he'd made a delib erate decision to wipe from his thoughts all trace of his old life. He'd stuffed old memories, good and bad, into a sarcophagus of black diorite and dropped the lid. Now it was difficult to lift that heavy lid and release the memories. He seemed to recall things better than people. The village looked so much smaller than he remembered.
One of the supply men elbowed his companion and pointed to another trail, a white scar in the rocks of the hills farther west and north.
'He fell where the path takes a sharp turn and skirts the Cliff of the Hyenas. Broke his neck. You can still see the blood on the rocks at the foot of the cliff.'
Suddenly alert, Kysen spoke up. 'Someone fell from a cliff?'
'Yes, master.' It was the owner of the donkeys who
'A quarryman. Last week. It happens sometimes, may the revered Osiris protect us. A man grows careless after years of climbing these hills. He missteps, puts his foot on a loose rock too near the edge.' The man slapped his palms together. 'Smashes onto a valley floor and breaks like a melon.'
'Ah yes. I heard in the dock market that a quarryman was killed. Was anyone with him?'
'No, master, else they would have told the fool not to go so near the edge.'
Kysen heard the disguised contempt in the man's voice. It was obvious he was considered one of the soft, pampered city officials who knew little of real work. No doubt the whole village would take the same attitude. Many of those who worked in the vast royal and temple bureaucracies were corrupt. Scandals often arose about functionaries who took bribes and cheated honest folk. A few had ended up on Meren's list of murder victims in the office at home.
Refraining from comment, Kysen accompanied the grain supplies down to the village. He dropped back behind the last man as they approached the village temples, small replicas of the great stone structures on the east bank. He glanced at the hillsides to his right and left. Pierced with tomb shafts, they contained the resting places of the artisans' ancestors, his ancestors. To the southwest he could just make out the white-painted chapel that stood before the tomb of his family.
Laughter distracted him. A group of people emerged from the shadows of the main street. This road was so narrow one could touch the houses on either side of it. At the head of the crowd walked a man. He stepped past the gate in the wall, talking rapidly all the while. The two women who flanked him burst into renewed mirth while the man lapsed into a silent smile.
Murder in the Place of Anubis 87
Kysen noted the scribe's kit dangling from his right hand, the roll of papyrus in his left. This was Thesh, scribe of the Great Place. Scribe-one of the most noble of all professions. Scribe-the profession that opened its arms to any boy, peasant or noble, who possessed a heart clever enough to memorize over seven hundred hieroglyphs, their corresponding cursive script, and their use.
Kysen himself could read and write. He wasn't fool enough to think the ability made him a scribe, for scribes managed accounts, commanded laborers, surveyed an entire kingdom, preserved the sacred texts of the gods. As a scribe, Thesh would handle matters of law and religion, economy and labor.
Thesh and his train of followers reached the long, open pavilion in front of the village entrance. The scribe called a greeting to the supply men before seating himself on a reed mat. The women gathered behind him while the grain was unloaded and set before Thesh. Kysen remained behind a donkey, watching. As scribe, Thesh equaled in importance the two foremen of the artisans, and was probably the most influential man in the village. He would have dealt with Hormin.
Having unstrung his scribe's kit from its knotted cord, Thesh was instructing a boy in the mixing of ink as the last of the grain was unloaded. Now that the supply men had stopped moving about, several of the women noticed him and gave him curious looks. Kysen held back. Thesh looked up from the papyrus he'd been studying, and his gaze fastened on Kysen at once.
He expected to be beckoned peremptorily to stand before the scribe. Instead, Thesh allowed the papyrus to snap closed. Setting it aside, he held Kysen's gaze, furrowed his brow, then rose and walked over to this newcomer. Kysen felt a stab of apprehension. Thesh couldn't know him. Thesh was new to the village. He'd taken up residence years after Kysen had been sold.
'May the gods protect thee,' Thesh said.
Kysen nodded, surprised. Thesh had greeted him as one greets a superior. What had given him away?
The scribe's lips twitched, but he didn't smile. Kysen suspected the man knew he was discomfited.
'I am Seth, servant of the Eyes and Ears of Pharaoh, Friend of the King, the Count Meren.'
It seemed the rock cliffs echoed with Kysen's father's name; silence dropped over the crowd beneath the pavilion, shroudlike and startling. He scanned the faces of Thesh and his companions but perceived no fear or guilt, only open surprise. His glance settled on Thesh.
The man had the look of a scribe. His skin wasn't so dark as those who labored continually in the sun. His hands were smooth and uncallused. Eyes bright black with intelligence, he resembled a sleek raven. His nose was straight as the side of a pyramid, as was his back. Kysen noted no slackness of belly or limb, and a certain artistry of face that told him Thesh was accustomed to having a train of women at his back.
Thesh inclined his head, respect to an equal, and Kysen breathed more easily. He had been taken for a servant, the servant of a great man, but a servant. He couldn't delay an explanation any longer.
'The scribe Hormin has been murdered. He was known to have visited this village yesterday, and I have come to inquire about his business and his movements.'
Thesh's eyes widened at the news. The women behind him drew closer.
'Murdered?' the scribe asked.
