Inside lay trinkets from the men-faience ear studs and a kohl tube of the same dark blue material, a small oval bottle of scented oil for the skin, and a set of copper tweezers, a hair curler, and a tiny spatula for mixing eye paint.
The scented oil was the most valuable gift, for it was oil of lilies scented with myrrh, cardamom, crocus, and cinnamon. She remembered the one who had given it. A splayfooted, sweaty old priest of Ptah who chafed at the requirement of his profession that when on duty, one practice celibacy.
Anat replaced the bundle inside the grain sack, picked it up, and resumed her walk to the village. It had indeed been a good night, but a hard one. She had entertained three scribes, a coppersmith, a physician's apprentice, a brewer, a goldsmith and an incense roaster, the priest, and two of his fellows who served the goddess Sekhmet. Then there had been a scribe from the mortuary temple of one of the dead pharaohs, with his friend the stonemason. And she couldn't forget that hot-bellied woman who had burst into the tavern looking for her husband.
It had been Anat's ill luck that he'd been the second priest of Sekhmet. The wife, whose arms and legs might have belonged on the body of a quarryman, had chased Anat and the priest out of the upstairs chamber, wielding a stave longer and thicker than a warrior's javelin. Dodging that stave had wearied Anat. She'd left early, much to the annoyance of her next customer, a man of fine clothing but not so fine manners. And the tavern keeper, he'd been furious. Anat didn't care if he was angry. There had been plenty of customers, noble ones and prosperous merchants, to whom he could serve his watered beer.
Her mother's house stood on a patch of level ground at the outskirts of the village. It was a simple, flat- topped rectangle with a small front court. The court was used for everything from grain storage to cooking. The gate in the front wall of the court hung slightly askew. Its latch had fallen off, and Anat hadn't had the time to repair it.
She shoved the door open. The end slat touched the ground and slid along the dusty groove it had worn into the packed earth. Anat sighed and called to her pet cat. He was a foul-tempered menace, but he waited for her on top of the court wall each night. No sleek black body leaped down and came padding toward her. She called again, listening for his irritated yowl.
Then something sailed through the air past her shoulder to land at her feet. Anat bent down to scold the cat, squinting in the light of the full moon. She touched something wet, smelled blood and fur. Gasping, she jumped up and backed away from the lacerated carcass of her pet until she hit the rickety door. The panel rammed into her back with so much force she was propelled forward.
She stumbled and fell to her knees beside the cat's body. As she fell, Anat heard a deep-throated snarl. Terrified, she pushed herself to her feet and whipped around to face her attacker. She still had her grain sack. Grabbing the top in both hands as she spun, Anat drew her arms back, ready to swing the bag in a blow that would stun. Then she saw what was in the courtyard with her.
Anat hesitated, her mouth opening in a wordless scream. There was a blurred movement of razor claws. Anat's mouth worked. She dropped the grain sack, spilling and shattering its contents. She remained on her feet, poised between life and the unknown, staring at the thing that had waited for her. Then she plummeted to her knees again. Her eyes were sightless when the blood-drenched claws descended.
The chief of watchmen was ensconced in his cushioned chair, rush pen poised over a sheet of papyrus as he listened to the summaries given by the night's watch leaders. He wiggled his sagging belly until it fit beneath the fragile writing table. His wig was already askew because he'd stuck a stubby finger beneath it to scratch his sweating scalp.
The last of the watch leaders withdrew. The first of the private citizens with complaints entered. A silver- haired old one wearing more wrinkles than a thrice-worn kilt hurried in. To Sokar's annoyance, the old one didn't wait for him to bark questions. He launched into a babbled tale of the death of some woman from one of the outlying villages.
Sokar pounded on the table, producing a loud crack. 'Peace, old one!'
The villager started and fell silent to gape at Sokar. Mollified by the old one's fright, Sokar smoothed his sheet of papyrus. Carefully and with time-consuming leisure, he swirled his rush pen in the black inkwell of his scribe's palette. With the pen poised over the sheet, Sokar grunted his satisfaction.
'You may continue, aged one. Begin with who this woman was.'
'Anat, master.'
'And who is this woman Anat?'
'She-she was employed at the beer tavern called Mansion of Joy. She came home late, in the middle of the night.'
The old one stopped when Sokar glared at him and held up a hand.
'Wait.' Sokar drew his thick oily brows together and snarled, 'Are you speaking of some tavern woman? Some unknown woman who prances about the streets alone at night? Do you know how many petty tavern brawls erupt every night in this city?'
'But she's dead!'
'In her village, you said. It's not the concern of the city watch.'
'But there is a feather, and her chest-'
'By the gods!' Sokar leaned toward the old one, and his belly shoved the table as he moved. 'Aide!' he bellowed, causing the old one to jump and retreat. Sokar's assistant appeared. The chief of the city watch had turned the color of raw beef. 'Throw this fool out, and see that he doesn't return.'
The aide grabbed the visitor by the arm and thrust him from the office. Sokar pulled his writing table back. Wiping his face with a scrap of linen he used to clean his pens, he grumbled to himself, 'Bothering a great man like me with such vulture's dung. Must be more than a hundred taverns, countless tavern women, all making trouble, disturbing the order of the city, making me write reports.'
Commiserating with himself for his burdens, Sokar picked up a water jar and drank from it in big gulps. Water dribbled down his thick neck. Breathing hard, he set down the jar, wiped his face and neck. A drop spilled on the papyrus.
Sokar carefully blotted the water, took up his pen again, and made an entry in the section for deaths. 'A tavern woman, not of the city.'
Eater of Souls had fed, and now she slept. But the gods had bestowed upon her a link to the favored one, and this connection brought wisps of memory, like tendrils of smoke fed by damp wood.
There is a mother. She is like a newborn bird, ravenous, demanding, never filled. The favored one tries to satisfy the hunger. The hunger doesn't ebb; it grows and grows. The bird clamors for more,
Chapter 4
Kysen was on the loggia that sheltered the entry to Golden House, waiting to escort his sisters to the family's private quay. Meren was holding a banquet on his pleasure yacht to become better acquainted with the newcomer, Lord Reshep. In the drive not far away, a groom held the reins of Kysen's restless thoroughbred team, which was harnessed to a chariot decorated with scenes of a desert hunt. In the deep golden light, the acacias and sycamores that surrounded the house cast long shadows on the horses and vehicle. Evening was almost here, and Bener and Isis were late.
He was about to send a servant to fetch them when Reia, one of the company of charioteers that served Meren, hurried around the corner of the house, raced up the stairs, and saluted Kysen.
'Lord, Abu has arrived from Thebes. He wanted to see you at once.'
'Yes. I'll come now.'
