'The Lord Meren is gracious to concern himself with so small a matter.'
'A death at the foot of the king's statue is more than a small matter.'
Qenamun inclined his head. He resembled a gazelle bending down to take water.
'As you say, lord. But I have performed rites of purification all around the temple. Forgive me, but my experience has been that the evil aroused by sudden death can be expunged most effectively. There are several spells of great power for the purpose.'
'Your reputation comes before you,' Meren said. 'I hear from many sources that your skill at magic and divination is a boon to the good god.'
Actually, Qenamun had as great a reputation for instilling fear of his power as for doing good. His rise to prominence at the temple had a great deal to do with his skill at ruining the reputations of those in his way.
'My gift comes from Amun,' Qenamun said, 'and I have sought to use it in this matter that so concerns you, lord. For Amun is great of will, terrible and mighty of power. He guards his flock and casts into the lake of fire those that would oppose him.'
Qenamun cocked his head to the side. His gaze melted over Meren like warm honey. Under that stare, Meren felt as if the distance between them somehow closed and the air he breathed grew hot. His lungs seemed to burn.
The priest was still speaking to him in a low voice. 'Beware ye of Amun, king of the gods. His wrath is terrible against his enemies.'
The closeness and heat alerted him to what Qenamun was doing. Anger spurted through his body like molten copper.
Tempted to find his whip and lash the priest for his effrontery, he lifted one brow and gave a soft chuckle. 'As you say.'
Qenanum lowered his lashes, breaking the lock of their eyes. Meren turned away from the priest to summon his aide.
'I thank Parenefer for allowing you to attend me. It appears that the pure one's death was indeed a simple accident.'
'The lord is wise.'
'You may go.'
Qenamun bowed, lifted his hands. 'May Amun-Ra, greatest of heaven, lord of truth, father of the gods, bless thee, my lord. And should the need occur, I would beg you to allow me to offer my skills for your service.'
'I'll remember your offer.'
A dancer twirled by him, tapping on a drum. The noise roused Meren from his reverie, and he looked down to find the spice cake still in his hand. The priest had disturbed him. Lector priests were scholars and magicians, but this one-this one was more. Seldom had Meren met one who could project power with his gaze in such a manner. The attempt to dominate had been subtle, wordless, and he detested the man for it.
Feeling guilt at abandoning Kysen didn't stop Meren from skulking out of the hall and returning home. He'd had enough of pleasantries, drinking, and the attentions of the amused Bentanta. Besides, the king was expected, and he didn't want to be questioned about his stance on the military campaign in the middle of a feast. Near dawn the next morning he indulged himself by playing with Kysen's son, Remi, before he was due at court for an audience. He would rather have gone with Kysen to Unas's house or, better yet, avoided his duties and cavorted with the child. The boy spent his mornings playing in the courtyard by the reflection pool outside Meren's bedchamber. He was a top-heavy little devil of three, the scourge of his nurse and all the servants. At the moment he was hurling a leather ball into the pool despite Meren's scolding.
Meren scooped the boy up before he could jump into the water. Straightening, he settled Remi on one hip and found Abu coming toward him, leading a royal servant. The man stared past him at a point somewhere over Meren's shoulder.
'Lord Meren is commanded to the palace.' Meren sighed and stood Remi on his feet. 'I'll come at once.'
The man left, and Meren went to his chamber to finish dressing. As he donned elaborate court dress, Abu handed him a ceremonial dagger. Only he and Kysen knew that its edge was as sharp as a battle sword, or that the gold of its blade covered a functional bronze core.
'I suppose you'd better come too,' he said to Abu. 'It seems my respite is at an end, and I must throw myself into a crocodile pit this morning.'
Chapter 8
Thebes was awake, and the sun beginning to set the top of the town wall aglow, as Kysen walked down an avenue that would take him to Unas's house. Since the priest's death, nothing had been uncovered that would lead them to the truth. What disturbed him most was the fact that they still hadn't found a reason for someone to kill Unas, if he'd been murdered. But the behavior of the priests of Amun…
Kysen felt that Meren had relegated the incident to a place of lesser importance while he struggled with far more weighty problems, especially that of the king's first military campaign. Of some concern were the bandit raids on small villages at the edge of the eastern desert half a day's sail from Thebes.
Then there were those letters from the family. One of the advantages of being adopted was that he could look upon the relationships between the members of the family without becoming embroiled in their complexity. In the last few years, he'd come to realize how great was Meren's burden as the oldest son.
Nakht, whom Meren called Ra, and one of Meren's stewards were fighting again. Although Meren had been persuaded to allow his younger brother to govern Baht, the family's great estate in the Thinite nome, Nakht's laziness assured the steward of the bulk of the responsibility. It had taken Kysen less than a day in Nakht's company to realize what governed his adopted uncle's life. He resented Meren.
As far as Kysen could see, Nakht wanted all of the privileges and prestige of Meren's position, but none of the responsibilities and hard work that came with it. And Meren indulged him because Nakht always managed to make his brother feel guilty for having inherited so much more than either him or their sister, as if he were responsible for having been born first.
Then there was poor Aunt Idut, who couldn't understand why Meren didn't advance her son to high office even though the boy was but fourteen and still in school. Idut cared more for pushing her son into great achievements before his time than for tending to her own affairs. Luckily Idut was busy training Kysen's sisters in the country at Baht.
He for one didn't envy either Bener or Isis. The complexities of beer brewing, the management of estate servants and farmers, the keeping of accounts, the mysteries of crops and weaving, all of these fell under their control.
It was from Idut that Kysen had learned of Meren's parents. The father, Amosis, had been a child of the god Set, evil-tempered, brilliant, a tyrant, who demanded that Meren excel at every skill, from those of a scribe to those of a warrior. He had punished Meren's slightest lapse, yet tolerated Nakht's indolence.
Idut he ignored except when he terrorized her along with her mother, Neith. Neith, a great beauty from whom Meren had inherited sculpted cheekbones and lithe height, never tried to curb her husband's rampaging temper. Instead she had devoted her life to forcing her children to accommodate it, cater to it, take the blame for it. As a result, Meren alternated between feeling responsible for the misbehavior and failings of his siblings and everyone else and furious resentment at his burdens.
With the embers of such old hurts and grudges perpetually smoldering in the family, Meren grew tense and distant with the arrival of letters from them. Once, Kysen had conceived of the idea of intercepting the letters and burning them, but he soon realized that if the letters weren't answered, the family would descend upon them, quacking and whining.
No wonder Meren avoided his brother and sister. The only family member who tended her own concerns was Meren's maternal grandmother, the ancient Wa'bet, whose guile and wisdom were as great as the green sea into which the Nile flowed. But Wa'bet lived to the north, near Memphis, and rarely traveled or tolerated visits from her family.
Kysen passed two laborers drawing a cart loaded with sun-dried mud bricks, a donkey laden with bags of
