while he'd been inside. For a brief moment he was alone. He lifted his face to the rays of the sun god, his eyes closed, and watched the red glow on the backs of his eyelids. Then he turned and began the trip back to the quay, where he'd take a ferry across the river.
He hadn't gone more than a few steps when he was forced to avoid a steaming pile of donkey droppings. He slowed, then darted to the side, his shoulder brushing the wall of a house. Unfortunately, he hadn't seen the second pile. He cursed and leaped forward over the noxious hillock. As he landed, he heard a loud thud and turned to find a chunk of masonry the size of his head embedded in the dung.
Kysen whirled, backpedaled into the open street, and gazed up at the roof from which the masonry had fallen. The only other occupant of the street was an old woman asleep on her doorstep. Furious, he was about to charge into the house when reason intervened. He was alone.
Anyone, any number of men, could be waiting inside that house.
Launching into a run, he swept down the street, around an intersection, and down an alley that bordered the house. He shoved past a gaudily dressed Syrian merchant and his retainers while a man pulling a cart of wood scurried out of his way. The alley ended in a sharp turn that gave out onto the street he'd come from. Kysen searched the length of the alley and all the roofs. He was rewarded with the sight of a mother hanging out washing while screeching at several children, but little else.
The man with the wood was turning into Unas's street. Kysen stopped him.
'Have you seen a stranger rush from that house?' he asked, pointing to the one from which the masonry had come.
'Only yourself, good master.'
Kysen nodded, dismissing the man, and fell to inspecting the house again. It was an old one, as were most in the neighborhood, and its mud brick was crumbling in many places. In a few years the owner might be forced to tear down the walls, level off the foundation, and build again.
He fought the urge to go inside alone. Tempting as it was, he'd been warned about such impetuous behavior by Meren and Abu. And he'd done something like it before and almost been killed. That had been at a deserted temple that served as a refuge for Libyan bandits. He'd nearly lost an ear, and his life.
He should have listened to Meren and brought charioteers with him. Now he'd hear about his recklessness from every captain, aide, and groom under Meren. He thought about not revealing the incident, but knew he couldn't conceal the truth. The falling masonry might have been an accident, but it might also have been an attempt on his life. Which meant that he shouldn't be standing in this alley by himself.
Kysen made his way west toward the riverbank and soon found himself in a market near the quay. He joined crowds of customers, vendors, and foreign merchants moving in small rivulets between stalls laden with Egyptian and imported goods. In the shade of a building a barber shaved and cut hair. A Nubian stacked elephant tusks in front of a stall along with small incense trees. Under awnings vendors hawked bread, fish, melons, onions. Kysen edged between the booth of a woman selling beer and a group of her customers, huddled around a common jar from which protruded clay drinking straws.
In the distance he could see one of the great royal trading ships coming to dock with a load of timber from Byblos. He worked his way between the beer vendor and her customers, his gaze fixed on the royal ship, his thoughts on that block of masonry. He shouldered his way through a group of shoppers, only to have one of them reach out and grab his arm. Kysen whipped around, yanked himself free-and came face to face with his adopted cousin, the priest Qenamun, and a bevy of lesser pure ones. They surrounded him, forming a wall of white kilts and bald heads.
'My noble cousin. How fortunate is this humble cupbearer of the god to find you here.'
Kysen wondered how was it possible to grow cold under the heat of the Egyptian sun. The hair on his arms almost stood up as he glanced around the circle of priests.
'I missed you as well, Ebana,' Kysen said.
Ebana's raptorlike smile looked artificial. He drew nearer, coming within an arm's length while the priests tightened their circle.
'One would think,' Ebana said, 'that one of the Eyes and Ears of Pharaoh would be too occupied with royal business to go shopping in the markets on this side of the Nile.'
Kysen glanced around the circle of bald heads. There were five pure ones, none of whom looked as if they spent much time in scholarship. Thick necks, chests as wide as barges-they could have passed for mercenaries. They stood still in the middle of the market and formed an island before which waves of citizens parted. He knew better than to let them see his uneasiness. He'd been right in not chasing after whoever had dropped that masonry.
'How long have you been here?' he asked. It was a demand. Ebana's false smile vanished.
'Watch your tongue, boy.'
'Someone just tried to drop part of a house on me.'
'So you fled to the east bank?'
'It happened here,' Kysen said. 'After I left the house of your pure one, Unas.'
He kept his gaze fixed on Ebana's face, but all he perceived was a brief squint of his eyes, quickly gone. Then Ebana smiled a smile of true pleasure and spoke in tones of spice and sweet wine.
'What say you, Qenamun? Is my cousin not unfortunate? You should perform a divination for him or study his birth day. After all, he should be warned of approaching dangers so that he can stay home and avoid them.'
Qenamun fingered a pleat in his kilt. 'It would do me honor to serve the son of Lord Meren.'
The last thing he desired was a magician priest of Amun delving into his fate and fortune, performing spells about him, divining the future of his ka. A man like Qenamun could do great harm with his knowledge of the mysteries of the gods.
'I don't need magic,' he said. 'I need truth.'
Ebana lost his smile again. 'Are you accusing-'
'There you are. I found her. Taste these and tell me I'm right. I have the best palate in Egypt, and these are the best honey cakes in Thebes.' Rahotep pushed his way into the circle around Kysen, his arms full of round loaves covered with honey glaze.
'Kysen,' Rahotep said. 'What luck to meet you. Now you can settle a wager. I say Ebana should hire the baker of these honey cakes, for they're fit for the good god.' He shoved a cake into Ebana's hands.
As the circle of priests loosened, then broke and dissolved, Kysen took one as well. To cover his relief, he bit into the cake.
'You've been in the market with Ebana?' Kysen said.
'Yes. You know me, always hungry, and these cakes come to me in my dreams. If Ebana doesn't hire her, I will.' Rahotep tried to stuff an entire cake in his mouth.
'How long have you been with him?'
'How long?' Rahotep gave him a curious glance. 'A goodly time, I suppose. What do you mean?'
'Oh, naught, my friend. It's just that I didn't know you and my cousin were such comrades.'
'Ebana is going to sell me two foals from his black thoroughbred. You know I'm the best judge of horses in the Two Lands. They'll make a wondrous pair for my war chariot. We've agreed on a price, goods worth one hundred deben of silver.'
Kysen had been watching Ebana while Rahotep boasted and swaggered, but the man revealed nothing. He stood with a honey cake in his hand and stared back at Kysen with his lips quirked in a half smile, unruffled as the golden Horus falcon, cool as the waters of the Nile at night. Taking up the challenge, Kysen listened to Rahotep, his gaze never wavering from Ebana's, and ate every bite of his honey cake. At last Ebana's voice cut across Rahotep's narrative.
'Perhaps you've had a warning from the gods, cousin. It may be that you should remain on the west bank. I would be grieved to find one day that you truly had gone into the west, to the land from which no man returns.'
Kysen turned on his heel and walked away. 'Fear not. If I do die, I promise to come back as the winged ba bird of the soul and take you with me.'
