stepped in white grit at the base of the wall behind the sarcophagus.
Chunks and flakes of plaster lay scattered at the base of a hole in the wall. He'd found what he was looking for. He remembered that Hormin had decided to enlarge his tomb many days ago, only to abruptly change his mind again. Now he knew why; the hole, wide enough to admit a kneeling man, had been knocked into what should have been virgin rock. Instead, it cut into a cavity.
Kysen grasped one of the lamps, knelt before the hole, and eased it inside. The light touched metal and blazed. Kysen winced, squinted, and gasped. He breathed in a whiff of old ak, dust, and the faint smell of wood and resin. He backed up, sat on his heels, and stared.
'Osiris protect me.'
He shivered, licked his lips, and gathered his courage. Bending to prop himself on all fours, he stuck his head into the hole again and held the lamp out in front of his body. Gold shone back at him-a wall of gold. No, it was the side of a tall, gilded shrine of archaic design, one used to house coffins of royalty.
Kysen swallowed and leaned out. The hole had pierced the wall of an old tomb. The floor of the chamber lay several feet below, and Kysen levered himself inside to stand in front of the shrine. Around the chamber lay stacks of boxes that would contain food and clothing. He spotted a disassembled chariot. A bed stood nearby, its lion's- head finials grimacing at him. He saw stacks of weapons-spears, lances, bows, arrows. A man's tomb. He returned his gaze to the shrine.
The seal on the shrine had been broken and its doors stood ajar. Holding the lamp high, Kysen approached them. Within lay a sarcophagus of wood covered entirely in engraved sheet gold. Twisted and broken debris lay around its base. Its lid lay askew, exposing a nested set of coffins with the lids removed.
Kysen hovered in the threshold of the shrine and looked over the edge of the sarcophagus. He sucked in his breath as his gaze fastened on torn garlands, a blackened shroud. Beneath the torn shroud he glimpsed, inside the innermost of three coffins, an arm. A bandaged arm, torn from its crossed position over the breast, coated in solidified unguent.
His breathing had grown shallow and rapid, and as his glance flicked to the end of the arm, he backed up, for the hand had been partially torn from the wrist. He knew why. In a burial so rich, the most portable and valuable objects lay on the body itself-rings, bracelets, necklaces, amulets. Kysen shook his head, his stomach roiling at the sight of the desecrated body.
As he retreated in horror from the shrine, he felt a rush of air at his back. He turned, — but not in time. Pain burst in his skull. For a moment he felt suspended in chaos. He dropped to his knees, fighting to remain conscious. His last sight was of the gold sarcophagus as he fell at its base.
Meren stood over the cowering figures on the floor of his office.
'May the gods curse your names,' he said. 'How far did you think t «get in a skiff?'
He listened to Selket babble for a moment, then signaled to Abu to fetch a whip. Meren's patience had run out, and Imsety had yet to speak except to plead for mercy. Abu returned with a chariot whip and handed it to Meren.
Letting the lash uncurl to the floor, Meren gave it a preliminary flick. The leather snaked out, almost touching Selket. The air cracked.
Selket shrieked. 'No!' She turned on her son. 'This is your fault. If you hadn't been caught with that necklace-'
'But Djaper said the necklace was the answer to everything,' Imsety whined.
Meren went still and snapped, 'Why?'
Imsety ducked his head, stared at the ground, and said, 'I don't know, lord. Because of its value? Please, I beg of you, believe me.'
'Those were his very words? He said that the neck lace was the answer?'
Imsety nodded and moaned.
'Be quiet.'
Meren strode to his worktable, where he'd laid out the obsidian knife, the amulet, the empty qeres unguent jar, and the necklace.
He glanced up at his prisoners, who were still whim pering. 'Take them to a cell.'
Abu left with Imsety and Selket. Meren picked up the necklace and let the rows of beads trail from his fingers.
Red jasper, gold, lapis lazuli- a rich prize. Now that he'd found Imsety and his mother, he could take the time to have a royal jeweler examine it. The rows of beads alternated in bands of red, gold, and blue to form a collar that would fasten in the back. From the missing end pieces would hang a counterweight to balance the necklace and hold it in place.
Djaper had valued this necklace for more than the wealth it represented. He'd told Imsety it was the answer. The answer. Yet Beltis claimed that the necklace was hers.
Of course, the woman had lied about not awakening when Hormin had left her. Imsety had babbled about seeing her take leave of her master that night. No doubt Beltis also knew where Hormin was going the night he died. And she'd fled to the village of the tomb makers. Both she and Hormin had been at the village the day of his death. They'd visited his tomb.
Meren dropped into his chair, holding the necklace. His gaze traveled from it to the unguent jar. Qeres, the rare salve so valuable that only king and queen now possessed it. Once qeres had been the prized unguent of princes and nobles. A luxury coveted by lost generations.
His fist wrapped around the necklace and squeezed. Lost generations. Long ago, qeres would have been used during a prince's life-and taken with him to his eternal house for his pleasure in the next. And the amulet. Nebi had said mat this amulet was made to be placed on a body, a wealthy body, in a tomb. This heart amulet belonged in a tomb; no doubt there was much qeres in old tombs.
Something was pinching his hand. Meren looked down to find himself strangling the broad collar, with its bands of color stiffened with spacer beads. Djaper had told Imsety that the necklace had been damaged and needed repair-its finials were missing-but the pinlike bars of gold at the unfinished ends bore no scratches, as one would expect if its falcon-head or lotus finials had once been attached. The surface of the pins was smooth, untouched, as if it had been intended to remain so.
Something niggled at him. Some recent memory. When he'd been with Nebi, the amulet maker had been certain that the ib had been intended for a body. He'd known by the way it was finished. The necklace, too, was finished peculiarly. It wasn't really broken. Perhaps it had never possessed end pieces or a counterpoise. If so, then it couldn't have been worn. Neither could the heart amulet-unless both the necklace and the amulet had been intended for someone who didn't need the completed jewelry.
The only person who doesn't need complete jewelry is a dead one-a jeweler makes incomplete pieces only when they are intended for the tomb.
Meren rose from his chair with the necklace dangling from his fingers. He stared vacantly at the obsidian em balming knife. And what of the place where Hormin had been killed? Was it not in the place of the dead? Tomb robbery. What better place to plot tomb robbery with one's fellow thieves than in the embalming sheds at night? And if Beltis knew of the looting, and if Beltis was in the tomb-makers' village, she either killed Hormin or knew who did.
Dropping the necklace on his worktable, Meren delib erately made himself go slowly. Hormin hadn't been taking bribes to gather his wealth, or hoarding the revenue from his farm. He'd been robbing tombs. Sacrilege. Perhaps the greatest of all crimes-desecration of the dead. One who committed such a transgression
194 Lynda 5. Robinson risked the curses of the gods and vengeance from the grave. But greed conquered most fears, in Meren's ex perience.
The risk, however, was so great that only rich tombs were worth it. Therefore the stakes were high, and the danger greater. The cemeteries were guarded day and night and robbery attempts rare, or so everyone thought. Yet Hormin had found a way to rob a tomb, most likely while at the tomb-makers' village. And it had gotten him killed.
It was time to go to the tomb-makers' village. The sun would rise in an hour or two; only then would it be safe to cross the river. Meren gripped the edge of the worktable and closed his eyes. Kysen slept in a village that contained a murderer, most likely more than one murderer.
It had been his own idea to send him there. Now he regretted his decision. The tomb robbers had killed three
