to the point where the river path descended into the valley of the tomb makers. The daily supply train was winding its way down the path, and in its wake walked two men. Even at this distance he knew them. His brothers had returned.
Meren paced in his office. Swerving past a column in the shape of a papyrus bundle, he swept past the ebony chair on which his juggling balls lay and whirled when he reached the wall painted with a mural of his three daughters. The messenger had brought Kysen's report, reassurance that his son was safe. Still, Meren worried.
On his trip back past the ebony chair he scooped up his juggling balls. Tossing them in a circular pattern, he sent them high into the air, catching them and tossing them again in a furious burst of activity. When he'd first bought Kysen, he'd thought he wouldn't worry so much over a son as he had his daughters. Fool.
Hormin, Bakwerner, Djaper. Was there but one killer? If so, then Bakwerner and Djaper had been killed for what they knew-or what they pretended to know- about Hormin's death. Everything was connected to first death. Hormin had been a creature of mediocre wits aided by sly dishonesty. According to old Ahmose, Hormin's talents hadn't measured up to the position he'd been chosen to fill. No doubt he had recognized his own mediocrity.
As his gaze traced the path of the flying balls, Meren realized that Hormin had suffered secret humiliation at the lack of an intelligent heart and had punished those around him for his disappointments and shortcomings. He resented his wife for hanging on to him when he no longer wanted her. He hated Bakwerner for rising in his profession when he was obviously even less able than Hormin himself. He begrudged his eldest son the farm he cared for so well and hated even more the younger for the intelligence and talent the gods had denied his father. The only person Hormin hadn't hated was Beltis, whose sexual skills were his as long as he provided well for her.
Meren slowed the pace of his juggling as he ordered his thoughts. Perhaps he would go to the Place of Anu- bis again. He also would confer once more with his physician about the poison used on Djaper. Then he would most likely summon the artisans mentioned by Kysen as well as Imsety and his mother and Beltis. He couldn't afford to wait any longer and risk another murder. The beatings would have to begin soon, if only to placate the powerful high priest of Anubis.
A knock caused him to grab his juggling balls as they fell and thrust them beneath one of the cushions piled in the corner of the room. He hurried to his ebony chair, seated himself in a negligent yet aristocratic manner, and called out his permission to enter.
To his surprise, Raneb the lector priest was ushered into the chamber. Marching up to Meren, Raneb glanced about the room curiously as he bowed.
'Most high and revered master, Eyes and Ears of Pharaoh, may the guardian of eternity, the lord of mysteries, the god Anubis protect you and guide your ka.'
'He sent you to spy upon my progress, didn't he?'
Raneb was a thin, quick man whose narrow eyes and even narrower lips fostered his resemblance to a sand viper. Those narrow eyes popped open and rounded.
'No, Lord Meren, no. The Controller of the Mysteries knows nothing of my visit. No, I've come because you asked me to think upon the perfume that stained the dead man's kilt, and upon the heart amulet.'
'Ah, then you're most welcome,' Meren said as he inclined his head, giving Raneb permission to continue.
'I've thought and thought, lord. And I must say it's been hard since the sacrilege. The bandagers and the keepers of natron have been so skittish, chattering among themselves, whispering about evil spirits and the wrath of Anubis.'
'Your point, priest.'
'Oh, yes, um, the point. Yes, well, there is no point.' Raneb hurried on when Meren scowled at him. 'No point to the heart amulet, that is. It looks like all the rest we keep to place between the layers of bandages. No doubt it was spilled in the fight that killed this pestilence of a scribe.'
Meren rose. 'I've no time for self-importance, priest. You say the amulets are kept in a storeroom, not among the embalming tables. That amulet shouldn't have been in the shed. If you sought to call yourself to my attention in this way, you have, and you'll suffer for it.'
'No!' Raneb skittered around to face Meren as he turned away. 'No, lord, forgive me. I have never been in a murder before, and I've lost my wits. Perhaps one of us left the amulet in the shed by mistake. Not everyone is as careful as I, but I'm so troubled by this sacrilege. Perhaps that's why it took me so long to remember the unguent.'
Meren leaned over the priest and snapped, 'Unguent? The perfume on Hormin's kilt was unguent? Quickly.'
'I'm an old man, lord, which is probably why I failed to remember the smell of this unguent. There are so many cosmetic salves, cheap and dear. Yet this one, this one is rare indeed.'
Meren studied Ranch's bright eyes. 'Rare or not, ev eryone uses unguents.'
'Not this one, my lord. This is no common salve for peasants. Qeres is an unguent made of sweet resins and myrrh from a formula once known only by Pharaoh's perfume makers in the days of the pyramid builders. The recipe was handed down for hundreds of years. Its value would be beyond the reach of any but princes and great ones such as yourself.'
'Curse it,' Meren said. 'There was nothing like it in Hormin's treasury hoard. Yet he got into some between the time he slept with the concubine and the moment he died.'
'Yes, lord, but qeres is too valuable for one such as Hormin. One finds it only in the palace of Pharaoh, or the manor of a prince, or the temple of a god. I haven't seen qeres in many years. It was rare in my youth, for the instructions for making it were lost long ago and stores of the salve depleted. Even the wealthiest are no longer buried with a supply of it, as we of the Place of Anubis no longer possess any.'
Meren nodded absently. Wandering back to his chair, he thanked the priest and lapsed into silence. Raneb bowed himself out of the room.
A rare unguent, a heart amulet, a scribe wealthier than he should have been. Had Hormin been a thief? Had he taken bribes hi return for falsifying tax records?
He would send Abu to make inquiries. But the unguent- that inquiry he would pursue himself. If he wanted to know about cosmetic salves and perfumes, he could do no better than to seek the wisdom of the king's perfume makers in the royal workshops near the palace. His trip to the Place of Anubis and other plans would have to be delayed.
The Place of Anubis. What a bizarre place to frequent in the darkness. Few went to the Place of Anubis in daylight voluntarily. It was crowded with dead souls waiting for restoration to their bodies. It reeked of decay. The living deserted the Place of Anubis at night. Therefore, if Hormin went there, he must have had a reason of preeminence, a life-threatening reason or one that promised such reward that fear was a small price to pay.
In either instance, Hormin went in such haste that he hadn't bothered to change a kilt soiled by a rare unguent. The unguent, it was a sign, a mysterious one, as was the heart amulet and the broad collar. Like the connections between Hormin and his family and acquaintances, they were signs to be read. Like those wedge- shaped jottings the Babylonians used, they seemed indecipherable.
The unguent. He would need permission from the king to visit the royal workshops and question the chief perfume maker. He went to his bedchamber, readied himself for a call on the palace, and was at the doors to the king's audience chamber in less than an hour. He approached the royal guards in their bronze and leather corselets, only to pause. He'd been so preoccupied with the puzzle of the unguent that he hadn't paid attention to his surroundings. Abu and three of his charioteers had escorted him, but had fallen back as he neared the royal audience hall. Now he glanced about and noted the crowds of courtiers milling near the doors.
'Meren, you harem raider, you.'
'General of the King's Armies, Horemheb,' Meren said as he inclined his head at the armed warrior who emerged from a cluster of officials.
'I'll stomach no titles and piss-sweet courtesies from you. I've had a belly full of them today.'
Meren studied Horemheb's scarred face and lowered his voice. 'What's wrong?'
'I know not.' Horemheb talked through a pained smile that wouldn't deceive a nursling. 'We were listening to the delegation of the Mycenaean Sea Peoples when one of the king's personal servants sidled into the hall and peeked at his majesty from around a column. The king suddenly dismissed everyone, including the vizier, who is
