'How fortunate for you,' Ese said. She indicated a door in the wall surrounding the garden court.
Struggling to maintain his air of unconcern, Kysen bowed to Ese. Of all the results of this encounter, he'd least expected to be dragged to a meeting with a barbarian who slit throats as skillfully as butchers slaughtered pigs. He could still feel the pirate's cold razor blade cutting into the flesh above the hollow in his throat, feel his own blood trickle down his neck in hot, tingling little rivulets. Even as he withdrew from the memory, a voice from his ka sounded in his head.
Chapter 7
Meren had beached his small sailing boat upriver of the cook's village at dusk. He'd roasted a pigeon he'd shot with his bow and eaten it with the bread and dried figs from home. The journey to the cook's village hadn't taken a full day, but he'd enjoyed the escape from his life of responsibility and ceremony.
At home he dressed in the garb required by his rank. His court robes were elaborate, although made of the finest linen. They confined his movements, often making him feel trapped. The heavy gold and electrum broad collars weighed down his shoulders and chest and reminded him of the invisible burdens he carried. Thick bracelets laden with lapis, malachite, and carnelian added to the feeling that he was carrying a pyramid stone. When he stood in the sun, the metals on his body heated, calling up the old nightmare sensation of Akhenaten's cursed sun disk brand searing his flesh.
Now, as he picked his way down a newly restored canal bank, he reveled in the freedom of a simple kilt, loincloth, and papyrus sandals-and no jewels. Most of his friends thought he was odd. Every Egyptian dreamed of having such wealth and rank. Meren dreamed of a life free of guilt, obligations, and serpentine machinations. And above all else, he longed for a time when he wouldn't fear for his family.
Since Akhenaten had ordered his father killed and his cousin Ebana's wife and son had been murdered, Meren had lived with the certainty that annihilation could strike his loved ones no matter how great his power became. He had only to offend one prince foolish enough to risk the king's fury. So many ways to invite death-a slip of the tongue at court, interfering with some official's scheme of corruption, standing between the priests of Amun and pharaoh once too often. After months spent immersed in a sea of peril, he welcomed being able to walk alone in the approaching darkness.
The charioteer he'd sent to find Nefertiti's favorite cook had given him a description of the old woman's house. It was a little removed from the village, to the south and farther toward the desert than any other. Meren left the fertile fields that took up almost all the land fed by the river's Inundation. He met a few farmers on their way home. They carried digging tools used to repair canals and shore up dikes. Inundation was coming, and Egypt must be ready for it.
A group of men and boys saluted him in the manner of a peasant to a superior, but Meren wasn't alarmed. His skin wasn't as dark as that of a man who worked in the fields. His kilt was clean and his body free of grime. They would mistake him for a scribe.
The land rose as he walked across the higher, less desirable tracts where Inundation didn't always deposit its yearly supply of fertile soil. The solar orb turned carnelian as it vanished behind the distant desert cliffs. It was growing late, and he encountered no more villagers. From a field riddled with cracks caused by relentless Drought season heat, he could see a solitary farmhouse of an old design. The sun was vanishing behind it, taking most of the light.
His foot hit sand. He had reached the desert margin. The cook's house was on a rise that would keep it above water during Inundation. Meren climbed up a few steps, then turned to survey the valley. He skipped quickly over the deserted fields and scoured the tree-lined banks of the Nile. Anyone following him would be forced to keep to the taller vegetation near the water's edge. He didn't think he'd been followed, but if he was wrong, his pursuer was no doubt cursing him for delaying and thus forcing him to remain near the bank in easy reach of crocodiles.
Finally Meren put his back to the river and approached the house. In the fading light he could discern no fire, no lamp. He sensed movement and stopped suddenly, only to see a vulture crouched just beyond the house launch its ungainly body into the air. Meren contemplated the flapping wings. The corners of his mouth descended to form a frown, but he resumed his walk.
He paused again only a few steps from the cook's abode. Like countless others from the delta to Nubia, this house was a two-story mud-brick building. Half of the upper level overhung the lower, and the overhang was supported by two columns. The walls extended from the house in two low arms to form a yard sealed by a third cross-wall. A wooden half-gate allowed entry to the yard, where Meren could see two domed granaries. Against the left front corner, the owners had built a conical oven with a hole in the top for venting. Exterior stairs went to the living quarters on the second floor; the lower level provided storage and shelter for animals.
Through the high windows dim lamplight was visible, but Meren couldn't see or hear anyone. Geese wandered around the yard and in the ruins of a garden beside the house. More geese snapped at insects there and trod on the dried and half-devoured remains of onions, beans, and yellow peas.
Meren almost jumped as a goose stuck its head around the gate and fussed at him. It had a white underside, dark plumage on its back, and two black bars on the light wing coverts.
'Cursed fowl,' he whispered.
Frightening the bird away with a gentle kick, Meren pulled on the gate. Its hinges needed repair. A quick survey of the yard, stable, and storage area revealed an empty stall for a donkey, a broken granite quern, and fragments of spindle whorls. There was nothing in jars that should have held dried fruit, grain, oil. Other things were missing as well-goats, farming tools, nets and hooks for fishing, sickles, and winnowing fans.
Leaving the storage area, Meren walked between the two columns and mounted the stairs to the upper floor. The door was ajar. Inside he found a deserted living chamber with mats, worn cushions, and a cold brazier. A few pieces of furniture were scattered around, all of old, inferior wood, probably sycamore. The chamber was dark except for a diffuse glow from a ceramic lamp on the floor near an entryway that probably led to the kitchen. Movement in the shadows caught Meren's eye. He backed up a step, then stopped as he recognized yet another goose. It was perched on a stone quern in the corner, devouring grain.
Meren thought about hailing the cook and her husband, but decided not to. He hadn't expected to find the woman in such a neglected place. He had assumed that the cook, Hunero, had been given provision from the royal estates when she left, or that she had taken a position with a noble household. Favored royal servants were symbols of rank and prerogative. Hunero should never have lacked for a place. And surely Akhenaten, heretic though he had been, would have provided for his beloved queen's loyal and trusted cook.
Yet this farm had been neglected for a long time. No one had replastered the walls, repaired the gate, or kept adequate provisions. How had its owners survived? Sustenance must have come from elsewhere. He was always suspicious of those who seemed not to toil and yet prospered-if living in this half-ruined old place could be called prospering. What was going on?
Already wary, Meren grew more uneasy as he looked around the living chamber. In a niche built into the wall sat a double statue of the heretic and his queen, Nefertiti. A foolish display, even for a former royal servant. The heretic was anathema. It would only take some officious tax collector or priest's report to invite persecution. Even dead Akhenaten still threatened those he touched, as he had threatened Meren.
He walked over to the niche, which was bathed in the dim lamplight, and stared at it. Seldom since his death had Meren looked upon the visage of Akhenaten. This cheap limestone version had been painted so that the king wore bright trappings. More talented than the sculptor, the artist had painted the eyes so accurately that they held a reflection of the black fire of Akhenaten's gaze. Meren quickly looked away from it to examine Nefertiti's fragile figure. His fascination with the contrast between the two must have been the reason he was caught off guard by the crash behind him.
Whirling around, Meren drew the dagger in his belt and cocked his arm over his shoulder, ready to throw. As he sank into a crouch that would offer a smaller target for an attacker, he spotted a tiny woman in the threshold
