Meren stopped walking, and the crowd surged around them. 'Your Pure One serves under Ebana?'
'Aye, my lord, for the past three weeks.'
Meren began to walk again. The Pure One who had received Hormin the day before he died served under Ebana.
'And the qeresl' Meren asked.
'Hormin delivered tax-concession documents to the Pure One at the treasury workroom behind the vaults. The Pure One says that he didn't notice what Hormin did afterward because he was busy reviewing the documents. All he remembers is that Hormin wandered into the vaults and was thrown out by the guards before he could go three steps.'
'He's certain Hormin got no farther, not anywhere near the vault containing the qeresl'
'We visited the one where the unguent is housed. None is missing, although one of the jars is half empty. They use it in the Rite of the House of the Morning when the god is fed and dressed.'
'And my cousin is a Servant of the God, who may perform this rite.'
Abu said nothing as they approached the chariot.
Meren glanced back at the temple complex. The set ting sun turned painted and gold-covered surfaces into yellow fire. He knew that the brightness without con trasted with the cool blackness inside the sanctuary. The temple still bore scars where Akhenaten's soldiers and heretic priests had gouged out the names of Amun and any other god but the Aten.
Ebana wasn't the only priest who couldn't forgive. The High Priest and his allies, they could be behind the queen's latest treason. If it could be proved that she'd tried to bring the detested Hittites to the throne, the king would suffer, perhaps lose power to the priesthood of Amun.
As they drove toward the riverbank, Meren examined the possibility that somehow Hormin had been linked to the priests and to the queen. Yet however much he dis-1 liked the coincidence of the unguent, he couldn't bring himself to believe that so lowly an official as Hormin could be of use to either the queen or Ebana. He would have to learn more to be certain.
By the time he returned home, he was weary. He'd spent the day searching for details, had obtained them, and yet felt no nearer a solution to this murder. He felt as if he'd dropped a faience vessel and tried to put it back together, only to discover none of the pieces fit.
He discussed the reassignment of the queen's servants with Abu. Then Remi insisted upon a game of hunt- the-lion, so it was dark by the time he'd sent the boy to bed and had his own evening meal. Meren summoned his body servants and tried to take his thoughts from the murder by indulging in a shower. As a woman poured water over his shoulders in the bathing chamber, he deliberately thought of the letter from his eldest daughter, Tefnut, that had cheered him. It had been waiting for him when he came home.
She expected a child in the winter. At last. A child of his oldest child. Perhaps now Tefnut wouldn't resent Kysen so much. He'd tried to explain to her about sons, but she'd been so young when he'd brought Kysen home. Now Bener, the middle one, she had liked Kysen at once, for he climbed palm trees with her and stole dates and pomegranates for her. And the youngest, Isis, had never felt threatened by a son, for she assumed that everyone loved her, and they usually did.
He donned a kilt and robe and went to his office to receive a report from the men watching Imsety and his mother. One of the men on duty still hadn't reported, although he'd been due to arrive since sunset. Annoyed at the delay, Meren sent a messenger before settling down to some serious juggling. He bolted the door to his office and rummaged in a cedar and ivory box set in a niche in the wall. He withdrew four balls of stuffed leather decorated with gold and silver gilding-his newest set.
If he didn't juggle, he wouldn't be able to allow his mind to rest. The only way he was going to solve this mystery was to permit his thoughts to germinate like barley seeds. Trying to juggle with four balls instead of three would require the concentration of his entire heart. He'd consulted with the royal jugglers in secret, and knew he had to keep two balls juggled in only one hand. He grasped a pair in each hand.
Sending the balls in his right hand bouncing, he tossed and caught, tossed and caught. Then he began all over again with his left. After a while he tried it with both hands at once, and dropped all of them. Then he remembered to stagger his starts as the jugglers had instructed, and began again. He'd just managed to juggle two balls in each hand without dropping them when he heard someone running outside.
A gilded ball bounced off his nose. 'Curse it.'
He grabbed the balls and threw them into the cedar
Murder in the Place of Anubis 181 ' casket. As the steps neared his door, he opened it. Abu saluted carelessly and gulped in a deep breath.
'Lord, they're gone.'
'Imsety and the woman?' Meren barely noticed Abu's confirmation. Wrath snaked into his belly. 'How!'
'I'm not sure, lord, but the guards are-they're-'
'Say it, damn you.' Meren braced himself for what he might hear.
'They're sleeping.'
He stared at Abu. 'My charioteers are asleep?'
'Some sleeping potion, lord. In beer, we think.'
It was one of the few times in his life that he bellowed. The household burst into action at the sound. Meren strode around his office, unable to keep still in his fury. The captain of charioteers rushed in, wiping the crumbs of his evening meal from his mouth.
Meren barked out orders for a search, directed the physician to attend the drugged men, and generally made sure his men would never take beer from a suspected murderer again. When he was finished, everyone but Abu retreated, thankful that they still possessed their skins and their heads.
'Abu, set a watch on the river in the direction of the artisans' village.'
'But lord, surely even Imsety wouldn't be foolish enough to sail by night. The sandbars, the hippos-'
'A while ago I was sure my charioteers wouldn't allow themselves to be put to sleep by a possible murderer.'
'Aye, lord.'
'If they've gone to the village and they find Kysen-'
Meren lapsed into silence. He wrapped a hand around the back of his ebony chair and squeezed until it appeared as if the bones of his knuckles would push through the skin of his hand. 'If they find Kysen-'
15
The only confessions Kysen forced out of Thesh that af ternoon were hundreds of minor transgressions involving tomb paintings, coffins, and statues for unreported customers. To his surprise, once Thesh admitted one sin, he burst forth with the others as a breached dike leaked water. Unfortunately, the scribe seemed to consider the wrath of the vizier a greater threat than Kysen had anticipated. When he threatened to reveal the villagers' dealings if Thesh didn't confess to the murder, the poor scribe burst into tears but remained stubbornly silent, and Kysen withdrew the threat before Thesh fainted.
So now here he was, back at his perch on the roof of Thesh's house, sitting up all night hugging his newfound views on the villagers in hopes of spying some illicit activity. He still suspected Thesh-and would until he proved who'd done the murder-but his view of the situation had changed after he'd overheard that conversation with Useramun.
Laying his head on the wall top, he closed his eyes for a moment. He'd been watching since the village had quieted for the night. No one stirred, and he was weary of looking at blank walls and listening to the screeches of the village cats. He heard a creak and lifted his head. Below, someone left the shelter of a doorway and glided around a house, Useramun's house, to the side stairs. That walk, that rolling glide. It was the painter.
Useramun crept upstairs to the roof and walked to the back of the house, which rested against the village wall. Kysen strained to see what the man was doing, but moonlight only aided his vision so far. Then he saw movement.
Useramun vanished over the wall. Kysen burst into quiet flight. In moments he was on Useramun's roof,
