'Of course, majesty. But-'
Tutankhamun held up his hand. Meren shut his mouth and trained a severe look on his king. Few would dare give such a look to the living god, but Meren had served the king since he was a child.
'None of this is why I summoned you,' the king was saying. 'I have heard a rumor, Meren. One concerning you.'
'There are many such, majesty. They outnumber the grain in the royal storehouses.'
'This one is different. It is said that you tried to seduce Yia.'
Meren stopped, his jaw coming unhinged. 'Who, majesty?'
'Princess Yia, wife of Prince Hunefer.'
'How can I have seduced her, golden one? I don't even remember her.'
A mischievous smile flitted across the king's face. 'Prince Hunefer complained of it to me last night. He says they were at the feast of welcome you held for Tefnut and Sunero, and during an acrobatic performance, she vanished and so did you.'
'Hunefer has the wits of a gnat,' Meren said with a snort. 'He lives in constant fear that his wife will betray him. And I know why.'
'Why?'
Ignoring the king's smirk, Meren said, 'Because Hunefer has no chin and very little forehead. He looks like a green monkey in a kilt, and he knows it.'
No longer able to control himself, Tutankhamun burst into laughter. Karoya, who was ahead of them, turned his head briefly in surprise, and Meren glimpsed the curl of his lip. Even the stone-faced Nubian was laughing at him! Fuming, Meren crumpled the papyri he was holding and trudged beside the king toward the chariot workshop.
'Don't scowl so,' the king continued. 'You're the one who is always admonishing me for my gravity.'
Relenting, Meren gave the king a smile he usually reserved for his children. It disappeared with Tutankhamun's next question.
'What have you discovered about the death of my old guard in the menagerie?'
'The guard?'
The king halted and stared at him. 'You forgot?'
Blinking, Meren shook his head. 'The guard. Yes, the guard. I've entrusted the inquiry to my aide Abu, majesty. No doubt he has already gone to the embalmers to inspect the body.'
'I remember Abu,' Tutankhamun said slowly while he fixed a steady gaze on Meren.
'If thy majesty desires, I will go myself.'
'No, no. I trust Abu.' The king began to walk again. 'Then you will have something to report soon.'
'Yes, majesty.'
'You won't forget? You've been distracted lately, Meren.'
'One does not forget the commands of the living god, majesty.'
'Platitudes, Meren. You really are not yourself. Are you overburdened?'
'No, majesty.'
'Then what ails you?'
'Naught, golden one. Perhaps I am a little concerned with my youngest daughter.'
'Isis,' the king said with a nod. 'I know.'
Meren said nothing. No discussion was necessary, for the king was privy to all that had occurred the night Meren almost lost his life to Eater of Souls due to Isis's carelessness. He preferred that the golden one assume that his distraction was due to family problems; he didn't want to reveal his suspicions about Queen Nefertiti's death. Pharaoh had far too many burdens for a youth, the burdens of a vast empire, an intrigue-ridden court, and a kingdom still in turmoil in the aftermath of heresy. He didn't need the unhappiness of suspected murder added to the load he carried.
Looking down at the crumpled papyrus roll in his hands, Meren remembered Yamen. He would contrive a meeting with the officer at once. Even if the man had nothing to do with the queen's murder, he was worth watching. As Meren was the Eyes and Ears of Pharaoh, it was his responsibility to ferret out such sources of corruption.
They were making their way back through the workshop complex in the wake of Karoya's majestic progress when a royal messenger came running up to the king and threw himself at pharaoh's feet. He presented a folded message.
Opening the papyrus, Tutankhamun read swiftly and looked up at Meren with a grin. 'At last! Bandits are reported north of the great pyramids. They're raiding villages, and I should have word of their movements in a few days.'
'No doubt they've already fled the area, majesty.'
'No. These bandits are bold. They raid several villages on successive nights before running away. Be ready to leave at any time, Meren.' Yes, majesty.
It had come. He had run out of excuses to delay the boy, and now he must fulfill his promise. Meren rubbed his head, which was beginning to ache. He didn't want to think of the possibilities, but in his imagination, he could see himself returning from the raid with the king's lifeless body in his arms. There was no heir, and Tutankhamun was adored. The kingdom would be plunged into chaos.
'Be of good cheer,' the king said. 'How dangerous can a passel of barbarian thieves be?'
Chapter 7
Several days after his expedition to Dilalu's house with the pungent Tcha, Kysen was in a desert wadi along with a dozen other noblemen. He breathed the cool morning air in deeply. Around him teams of horses snorted and pawed the rocky ground where the hunting party had gathered.
He, his father, and many of their friends had come to this barren place in the eastern desert of Memphis at Prince Djoser's request, to join in his gazelle hunt. Meren had almost refused to go and witness yet another of Djoser's awkward attempts to prove himself skilled at killing. Then Kysen had suggested that the hunting party would afford the excuse to meet Yamen for which they'd been searching. It was better than contriving a visit to General Nakhtmin's headquarters, for Meren seldom paid such calls. His own duties kept him far too busy.
Kysen caught his father's eye. Meren was talking quietly with Prince Djoser, and as he finished, the prince called to a man holding the reins of a team of white stallions. Meren turned away and began a conversation with the head groom while Djoser brought the stranger and his chariot over to Kysen.
'Kysen, may the blessings of Amun be with you, and many thanks for joining my party.'
'I'm always honored by your invitation, Djoser.'
'I present Yamen to you, Kysen. He has hunted with me before, but never when you have been along. He's known for his driving skill, and I thought to give you an advantage by making him your driver.'
Kysen inclined his head in regal acceptance of the compliment. It had taken him years to learn the attitude appropriate to the son of the hereditary prince and Friend of the King, Lord Meren. In the thoughts of his heart he was still a bruised and dirty little boy running in the streets of the tomb makers' village in Thebes and trying to forget his father's latest beating.
'Yamen,' he said. 'Have I not heard of an officer of the army called Yamen? Yes, a recipient of the Gold of Valor.'
'The lord Kysen does me honor to remember,' Yamen said.
The man wasn't what Kysen had anticipated. He had expected a man of his father's years, an oily, ingratiating serpent and place seeker. Yamen appeared much older than Meren, whose sharp features bore few of the lines of age. Perhaps it was that Yamen's hair had deserted him except for a thin fringe of closely cropped hair that circled his skull. The dome of his head was well-shaped, no ugly scars or protrusions, and he had a sharp little nose that balanced the dome.
Yamen was short, like a peasant whose farm yields enough grain to survive but not enough to thrive. But the
