'I am here.'
All three of them whipped around as vague light appeared at the bottom of the shaft. A man came up the ramp holding a torch, and, looking like the men in old wall paintings of Greek bull leapers, Othrys followed him. The Greek wore a cloak of some dark Asiatic design over a plain kilt. The torchlight revealed the pirate's sky-colored eyes and honey-and-sunlight hair. The man at the barbarian's side was also dressed simply. He was a stranger.
'Come along,' Othrys said without any greeting or ceremony. 'There isn't much time.'
Kysen stayed where he was and pointed at the torch bearer. 'Who is he?'
'My scribe. Come now, I haven't much time.'
'This scribe wasn't with you the last time we met,' Kysen said. He signaled to Abu.
The charioteer stalked down the ramp to glare at the stranger. The scribe was slight, his bones small, but strong in the way that the acrobats at Ese's tavern had been. Long, wind-tossed hair fell to his shoulders. He shoved a brown length of it back from his face and met Abu's challenging glare with a spark of humor in his eyes. Kysen immediately became intrigued. He'd never seen anyone react to Abu the way this man had. He'd seen men regard the warrior with fear or admiration, and some great ones, usually those of royal blood, ignored Abu. Never had anyone looked at Abu with indulgence, as if he were a boy of four playing a game of war.
Even more curious-the stranger only observed Abu for a moment before swinging around to Kysen. The torch in his left hand dipped and highlighted his face. Kysen found himself subjected to a scrutiny so intense it was as if he were a minute piece of lapis lazuli being examined by a royal jeweler. He could even imagine this man's heart assessing the most strategic point at which to break the stone, or himself.
Intensity, brooding severity, and menace soared at him from the torch bearer. The impact was as startling as it was unexpected. This man was no ordinary scribe; his features and manner were too refined. He had a sculpted nose, fine brows, and a mouth curved like the open bud of a lotus. Yet he wore a plain kilt, no jewels, no sandals,
'Leave off,' Othrys said. 'By the Earth Goddess, neither of you is going to ravish the other's soul while I wait like a slave.'
'Then who is he?' Kysen demanded.
A voice like the trill of a dove, a strummed harp, the cool north wind, answered before Othrys could. ' I am Naram-Sin.'
Kysen frowned, took a step closer, and examined the stranger carefully. 'You're Babylonian.'
All he got was a slow, almost wicked smile, but he hardly noticed because his memory was coming alive. And something was bothering him. Several years ago, when he was still being tutored, Father had given him copies of ancient texts, part of an old family collection passed down for generations. The papyrus had turned yellow and brown, fragile. His task had been to reproduce it.
'Naram-Sin,' Kysen said. 'I know that name.'
The torch bearer raised an eyebrow but said nothing.
The papyrus had been a translation of a record from the ancient times of a kingdom called Akkad in the region near Babylon in the land of the Tigris and Euphrates rivers. It told of a mighty king who had conquered so many lands and cities that Kysen couldn't remember all of them. He'd conquered cities in the land of Sumer and spread his domain as far as the Great Sea and to the mountains of the land of the Hittites. He made great Elam a vassal state. He even fought with Egypt. But his downfall was the sack of Nippur, the great city of the god Enlil on the Euphrates.
Naram-Sin, drunk with his own glory, had performed vile acts of desecration and defiled the sanctuary of Enlil. In revenge, Enlil had called down upon Naram-Sin and his capital, Agade, barbaric hordes from the mountains, ruthless and utterly destructive. When the invaders were finished, Enlil and other gods of the two rivers laid a curse upon the city-that it remain forever desolate and uninhabited. Now nothing remained of it but an eroding mountain of mud brick and broken pottery.
'Naram-Sin,' Kysen repeated. 'You have an ancient and famous name. I might even say it's notorious.'
The torch bearer's smile hardly faltered as he turned to lead the way down the ramp. 'I could say the same of yours, son of the Falcon.'
Kysen exchanged looks with Abu. Falcon was the nickname Maya, the royal treasurer, had given Meren when they were youths. Only Meren's closest friends used it.
'I am continually astonished at Othrys's intimate knowledge, and how high it extends,' Kysen murmured to the charioteer.
Abu grunted. 'I like it not, nor do I like the Babylonian. He reminds me of the mandrake plant, lush, perhaps pleasing to the senses, but full of death.'
'You're overwrought, Abu.'
'He smiled at me.'
'A great transgression, I know, but you must endure it.'
'I'll bury my fist in that delicate little nose,' Abu grumbled under his breath as they followed their hosts down the ramp. He scowled at Naram-Sin's back. 'A foreigner's nose, that is. No strength to it.'
They descended west toward the step pyramid at a steep angle beneath the ground. One of Othrys's bodyguards waited at the point where the shaft widened. Several lamps had been set in wall sconces of archaic design, and beyond the opening in the walls, the shaft continued, no longer sinking but maintaining a level grade. Kysen glanced down the shaft, then looked again.
Beyond the opening the shaft became a finished corridor. Someone had smoothed the stone walls, ceiling, and floor and covered them with fine, hard plaster. An outline draftsman had begun his work. A grid of faint red lines marked out the proportions of a register, and within the grid had been drawn the beginnings of a scene. He could see the figure of a man holding a cup to his lips, seated before a table laden with food. The scene was unfinished and hadn't been painted. Perhaps the man featured in the scene had changed his mind about it, or he may have died and been hastily buried before this portion of his eternal house had been completed.
'Planning a bit of tomb robbery?' Kysen asked as he rounded on Othrys.
Othrys barely glanced at the corridor. 'Don't pretend to be a fool. This shaft is almost as old as the one it intercepts. Your own people did whatever looting has been done long ago.'
Abruptly, before Kysen could reply, Othrys took his arm and thrust his own out to forestall Abu. Pulling Kysen away from the others, he stopped beside the unfinished drawing. For the first time Kysen realized that there was something different about the pirate. Lines had appeared on his face that hadn't been there before. One ran across his forehead parallel to his hairline, and a spray of fine lines issued from the corners of his eyes. But what alarmed Kysen more was that Othrys had lost his air of cheerful deadliness.
'By the curse of Tantalus, what pit of vipers have you cast me into?'
'Why are you so disturbed?'
Othrys clamped a hand around Kysen's neck, yanked him close, and hissed into his ear. 'Because I sent three searchers to begin your inquiries. Only one returned, and he didn't live long after he reached me. These are
The men who serve Othrys ranked among the most skilled and deadly. He'd seen even a Hittite avoid a confrontation with them.
Shoving Othrys away, Kysen fought his own increasing dread. 'One man dead and two vanished. Where did you send them?'
'It doesn't matter,' Othrys said. 'But I remembered what you said about the woman Satet and her sister the favored cook, so I sent another man to the village to speak with the youth Tentamun.' Othrys leaned against the outline of the tomb owner and stared past Kysen's shoulder with such intensity that his eyes narrowed to slits. 'Both have disappeared. Those I sent after them haven't even found bodies. And the village is full of dolts with the wits of sheep. No one even saw Tentamun and my man leave the place.'
'They can't have vanished without any sign.'
The pirate hardly glanced at him. 'You're not that innocent. Of course they could.' Othrys beckoned to Naram-Sin, who joined them as if it was his right. 'Tell my friend about the man who returned to us last night.'
Naram-Sin seemed not to have caught Othrys's dread. He put his back against the grid wall and crossed his legs at the ankles. Folding his arms, he cocked his head to the side and began as if he were a bard telling a tale at
