The argument stopped abruptly when Kysen appeared. Labarnas, a man with an imposing military reputation and the usual ill-concealed Hittite arrogance, turned on Kysen and shouted.
'What have you done to Prince Mugallu!'
Kysen paused in midstride, then closed the gap between himself and the general before replying smoothly. 'I know that his highness is missing, and I have brought news, general.'
They didn't know. He and Meren had assumed word from the streets would have reached the Hittites. He'd expected outrage, the usual Hittite accusations and demands, but these men looked like they expected to engage in battle at once. The general and his officers were dressed in bronze armor and boar's-tusk helmets. They bristled with swords, daggers, and spears.
'You Egyptians!' Labarnas snarled. 'You beguile with your polished manners and sweet words, lure a warrior into taking his ease, and then, like cowards, strike when a man is most vulnerable. Prince Mugallu is dead, isn't he? Don't bother to spew whatever tale of accident and woe you've created.' Behind him, the Hittite officers muttered to each other and gripped their straight swords.
'General, I come with no tale.'
Labarnas stalked close to Kysen, causing the charioteers to close ranks. Labarnas ignored them and stuck his face close to Kysen's.
'Very well, son of the Eyes of Pharaoh. Tell me what has happened so that I can return to Hattusha and repeat the lies to my king.'
He should never have come without a royal minister and a larger escort. Kysen looked down at Labarnas. Odd how a Hittite could seem as big as a colossus when he was at least three finger-widths less in height. It must be the relentlessly hostile temperament.
Kysen took a moment to marshal his wits. He drew in long breaths and released them without drawing attention to what he was doing. As he breathed, he called up scenes of Meren in the royal throne room sparring with a Babylonian prince, of his father facing down the poisonous old scorpion of a high priest of Amun in his own temple. He wasn't the son of a common artisan; he was the son of the Eyes and Ears of Pharaoh.
When he felt the muscles in his face loosen, the tension fade from behind his eyes, Kysen gave Labarnas a stare he hoped was as regal as his father's. Labarnas had been embellishing on his opinion of Egyptian corruption and treachery, but he sputtered into silence as Kysen refused to respond and assumed an expression of haughty distaste. To Kysen's amusement, Labarnas reddened and spat out an order.
'Speak, Egyptian.'
'I have the unhappy responsibility to tell you, general, that Prince Mugallu has been killed.'
'I knew it!'
Kysen went on as if the Hittite hadn't spoken. 'Apparently he was pursued by some evildoer through the streets, cornered, and attacked.'
'Where is the killer?' Labarnas growled.
'We don't know, but the Eyes of Pharaoh seeks the criminal as we speak. No evil deed escapes the inquiry of the Eyes and Ears of the King. The city will be closed off: the docks sealed, the desert routes patrolled. No one can escape.'
'Not even me,' Labarnas said.
'An unfortunate consequence of my father's vigilance in searching for your prince's murderer, nothing else.'
The general pounded the bronze plate strapped to his chest. 'I won't be slaughtered like a sacrificial goat.'
'Had pharaoh decided to kill you,' Kysen said gently, 'you'd be dead, and your body cavities filling with desert sand, general. You would not be standing here shrieking insults at me like a hysterical tavern woman.'
Labarnas blinked at him, then snorted to cover the grudging respect that came into his eyes.
'General, there is more.'
Respect vanished in the face of wary distrust. 'What more?'
Feeling like he was trying to converse with a bull whose bowels were blocked, Kysen described where Mugallu had died, the white feather. 'He died of… of a wound to the chest.'
When he finished, every Hittite was still and silent, even the general. Kysen forced himself to wait, to remain undisturbed beneath the hostile stares, to observe with calm the straining of muscles that told of the Hittite desire to attack and kill. Finally Labarnas spoke.
'Demon or man, the prince was slain by Egyptian device. The wrath of the great king of the Hittites will thunder across the sky, shake the foundations of pharaoh's palace, making him cower beneath his throne. It will rend the ears of his subjects and make them fall to their knees to beg for my king's mercy.'
'In Egypt we have an ancient teaching that says a wise leader holds his judgment until all is known. If he doesn't, he risks appearing careless, partial-or worse, a fool-if his decision turns out to be wrong.'
'We Hittites have our own saying, boy. It is better to strike first than to end up with your head impaled on a spear.' Labarnas stepped back and examined Kysen from head to sandal. 'This Eater of Souls, this tale of a demon rampant among the living who happened to find my prince instead of another worthless citizen, it's elaborate, full of misdirection. I should have expected a stratagem like this from Egypt. The world knows that behind all this, this magnificence-the gold-covered temples, the perfumed linen, those elegant Egyptian manners-lies a nature full of artifice, craft, and guile.'
Kysen inclined his head to Labarnas. 'I didn't know Hittites were so prone to compliments.'
'You haven't distracted me, Egyptian. You were saying this so-called demon stabbed Prince Mugallu.'
'We don't think the weapon was a dagger or sword,' Kysen said.
'What, then?'
'Perhaps an ax.' Kysen expected Labarnas to erupt into fury. Instead, the Hittite exchanged looks with his officers and gave Kysen a nod of satisfaction.
'Your tale makes more sense now.'
'It does?' Kysen said faintly.
'It would take a war ax to subdue even an unarmed Hittite warrior.'
What could he say to such reasoning? With so few men in his party, he wasn't foolish enough to describe Mugallu's death in greater detail. He glanced at the body in the linen sheet.
'The evil one killed this slave too? Then the killer was here.'
'We found her in the garden,' said one of the Hittite officers. 'She was stabbed in the back.'
'General,' Kysen said. 'I must see the place in the garden where she was found.'
'You should be hunting the killer, not wasting time in gardens.'
'I am hunting the killer,' Kysen replied. 'I won't need long, and I should be gone by the time the prince's body arrives.'
'Get on with your hunt, then, Egyptian. I give you two days to bring me the killer. After that, I go back to the great king to tell him what pharaoh has done to his favorite and emissary.'
Not far from the lake in the royal garden rose an ancient fig tree. It had grown so tall it could be seen over the garden walls. Broad, deeply lobed leaves furnished abundant shade. Meren favored this tree above all others in the royal garden because its thick, rough leaves seemed to block out more heat. His tale of the death of Prince Mugallu had just come to an end. He was kneeling beside the seated king. As Meren fell silent, Tutankhamun jumped to his feet to pace over the woven Syrian mat that had been laid under the tree.
Tutankhamun stared across the hand-watered foreign blooms that formed long red-and-blue borders around the lake. He appeared to be fascinated by the blue sheet of water and the birds that floated on it. A line of green- winged teal paddled toward a lily pad in the water, each uttering that low, continuous quack that seemed to be their fanfare. Several pairs of swans floated in the opposite direction, scattering a flotilla of pintails.
When the king abruptly turned back to Meren, his skin had lost the flush the Great Royal Wife had provoked. Meren had seen that look of bewildered fear when he'd broken the news of the desecration of Akhenaten's tomb, and when Tutankhamun had learned of the treachery of one of his dearest friends. Few others had witnessed the transformation of pharaoh into a frightened youth. He heard the king's ragged whisper.
'No heart? Someone hacked out his heart? When Suppiluliumas hears of this, he'll declare war upon me. I haven't even been on a raid yet! How can I go to war?'
