burn, and the longer Lord Meren studied Min's prostrate figure, the hotter his belly burned.
Sokar tried to maintain his look of innocence, but Meren wasn't watching him. The great one glanced at his charioteer without saying a word. At that look, the warrior strode over to Sokar, grabbed a pudgy arm, and hauled him to his feet. Sokar was already panting. Now he gasped and quacked.
'Is aught wrong, O great one? What have I done? I am a man of duty. An honest chief. My lord? Ouch! You're hurting my arm, you great elephant! Oh, did I say elephant? Not elephant, you're a great lion. Please, let me go. I must defend myself to the great one.'
Sokar kept looking over his shoulder as the charioteer dragged him down the alley. Before he was hauled away,
Sokar glimpsed the two men left behind. To his amazement, Lord Meren bent down on one knee in the dirt and spoke to the wretched Min. Min sat up, his gaze fixed on the ground, until the Eyes of Pharaoh said something. Min's head shot up, his mouth rounded in an exclamation. He directed an astonished and amused look at Sokar. Lord Meren said something else, and Min began to grin. In that grin, Sokar glimpsed his own ruin.
Dawn brought silver light pouring into the streets like mist on the Nile. After getting rid of Lord Reshep, Kysen had summoned charioteers to accompany him to the alley Tcha said held the dead man, the Hittite royal emissary. Meren was pacing beside the body while Abu took down notes on this evening's events. Charioteers blocked access to the alley while others questioned the inhabitants of the homes along it.
He didn't want to think about the consequences of Mugallu's death. Better to ask why a prince would be abroad so late in a foreign city, especially the capital of his master's greatest enemy. Better to ask why no one, as far as the charioteers could discover, had heard the attack. Better to ask Tcha why it had been he who had stumbled upon the grisly display.
Tcha squatted in a corner, trying to be inconspicuous. Kysen kept an eye on him while he scoured the alley for any sign or mark left by the killer. It was a passage formed by the back and side walls of five houses. Four of the five had several floors that rose high above Kysen's head like blank-faced cliffs. The fifth, at the intersection of the alley and a street, had only three floors. None of the walls had windows. It would be difficult to hear any noise coming from the alley unless it was a scream.
It was an alley like thousands in Memphis-a narrow walk formed by accident when citizens added on to their houses generation after generation. And like those others that led nowhere, it had been used as a dumping place. Pieces of dried fish, broken pottery, goat dung, shreds of old baskets, littered the ground. Certain ripe piles announced by their scent that this was a favorite place to throw the contents of chamber pots, which sat beneath seats with holes in them. Kysen avoided one such pile, only to be forced to hop over cat dung.
As he landed, he noticed an imprint in earth made moist by the liquid from a chamber pot-a sandal. Trying to breathe through his mouth, Kysen squatted to examine the print. It was a long impression, longer than his own foot, and narrow, like a messenger's ship. And there was something peculiar about it. Kysen studied the foot- shaped imprint for a few moments before he realized he couldn't see the parallel striations of reed or the impressions of palm fiber. This sandal had been made of leather.
Rising, Kysen glanced at Mugallu's body, which was being lifted onto a litter. The man was barefoot. The soles of his feet were caked with filth. He looked at the imprint again. Most ordinary Egyptians couldn't afford leather sandals, and those who could didn't usually wear them in the streets. They or a servant might carry them to a destination before they would be put to use. If they were worn in the streets and one stepped in messes such as the one at Kysen's feet, sandals fell apart. He signaled to Turobay, called Turo, one of the charioteers who was also trained in drawing.
'Make a drawing of this impression.' He didn't have to give any other instruction. Turo would copy the imprint using measurements and capturing every detail.
Mugallu's body was carried past, on its way to the house pharaoh had assigned for the prince's use while he was in Memphis. A linen sheet covered the body and concealed the dried cavern of flesh where the Hittite's heart had been. The feather Meren had found sticking out of the wound was hidden in a wicker box sitting beside Abu.
Kysen joined his father as Meren finished his notes and fell silent, staring at the litter and its defiled occupant as it left the alley. Although he appeared as calm as usual, Kysen detected a slight pallor in the delicate, finely lined skin above the eyelids. No one else would have seen it, nor would anyone have understood why Meren had removed a bracelet to rub his inner wrist.
Meren caught him staring, and Kysen looked away, at the place where Mugallu had lain. 'He didn't fight much, for a Hittite. The blood is mostly in one area.'
'The attacker struck his head first,' Meren replied, but he seemed to be thinking of something else. 'It was like a battle injury.'
Kysen nodded. 'You mean the chest wound. Not from a knife or a dagger.'
'Hacked, like blows from a war ax, only done after Mugallu had been stunned or knocked senseless.'
They fell silent as each recalled the wound and its white ornament, and what had been missing. Was poor Tcha right? Had Eater of Souls come from the netherworld to deliver judgment to the living instead of the dead? Kysen was suddenly glad daylight had come.
'What are we going to do?' he asked. 'You say this is only one of several like murders.'
'Yes, according to the watchman, Min.'
'Remember what Tcha said?'
Meren turned to face him and gripped his shoulder. 'I haven't forgotten, but I must go to pharaoh. The divine one must be told of Mugallu's murder. You will have to send someone to the office of the watch to question Sokar, find whatever records he may have kept, find the victims if possible. Use every man, Ky. We have to find this evil one quickly, before the king of the Hittites decides to use this murder as an excuse for war.'
'But what if the killer isn't a man?' Kysen whispered.
'Whom can we trust?' Meren countered. 'Such evil needs a powerful magician and lector priest. Magicians aren't known for keeping their mouths shut, and the city is already uneasy.'
'What about Nebamun?' Kysen asked.
'More physician than magician.'
Kysen said, 'The chief lector priest at the temple of Ptah is a rattle-mouth.'
'I don't trust the ones with great skill, not those in the city. Not even the priests of Anubis.' Meren sighed and frowned at the bracelet that covered the scar on his wrist. 'No one… no one except…'
'Who?'
'Ebana.'
'Ebana!'
'Shhh!'
Meren grabbed Kysen's arm and pulled him nearer. 'He was a lector priest and magician before he was appointed to serve with the high priest of Amun.'
'By the soul of Isis, Father. Ebana hates you.'
'He's my cousin. He saved my life.'
'He has promised to make you pay for the killing of his family, and you had nothing to do with it.'
'He thinks I could have stopped Akhenaten from sending those assassins. No, Ky, you don't understand Ebana. He hates me because he hates himself for not being there to protect his wife and son.'
'That makes no sense,' Kysen snapped. 'Please, don't send for him. He'll only try to hurt you in some way.'
'He and the other priests of Amun have promised a truce with the king. That extends to Friends of the King.'
'And of course, you trust their word.' Watching his father closely, he saw Meren's shoulders slump.
'You're right, Ky.' Meren gave him a rueful smile. 'This is no time to try to deal with Ebana.'
'Good. I was beginning to think you'd send for Bentanta too.'
'That isn't amusing.'
Lady Bentanta was a childhood friend of Meren's, a woman who seemed to be able to create vast discomfort in his father. After seeing her a few weeks ago at his country house, Meren was avoiding her.
'If you've left off baiting me, my son?'
