Meren paused. 'Well, man, speak quickly.'
'If-if you find more qeres, and happen to come upon the recipe-that is-the queen-'
Meren hadn't been paying much heed to the per fumer. His gaze darted to the man's face, and he curled his lips into a sweet, benevolent smile.
'Yes, master perfumer, what is thy wish?'
'The queen sent word several months ago that she would like some qeres. I had forgotten, and the recipe is lost, you see.'
'Did the Great Royal Wife say anything more of this unguent?'
'No, lord, only that a small amount came in some tribute from Byblos and was used up.'
'I will see, perfumer.'
Bakef stuttered his thanks as Meren walked away. The gratitude went unheard as Meren considered the meaning of this new connection between the murder of a common scribe and the Great Royal Wife. Was it a connection, or simply a happenstance? If the qeres on Hormin's kilt had come from the treasury of the god Amun, the unguent could still be that from the tribute of Byblos, for tribute was distributed among the temples of the gods as well as the royal household and favorites. Both the queen and Hormin might have gotten the qeres from the Byblos tribute. And Byblos was a known haven for the Syrian bandits who served the Hittite emperor.
Meren shook his head as he stood in the street before the perfumer's workshop. No, it could not be. As suspicious as he was, he couldn't imagine the low bureaucrat Hormin catching the interest of a Hittite spy, or the Great Royal Wife. But perhaps he'd been suborned by the priesthood of Amun. Though for what purpose, even Meren was at a loss to understand.
And now he must make inquiries of the royal amulet maker and at the treasury of the god Amun. The business would distract him from the problem of Ankhese-namun. He would have to meet with the king and Ay, but he must do so in secret, after dark. There was just time after seeing the amulet maker to cross the river to the great temple complex of Amun before the evening meal. Then, when the city slept, he would go to the palace again.
13
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
