secluded than the last, until the guards stopped him at another door. This one was as thick as those of the royal palace and had bronze fittings. It opened to reveal a silver-haired man in a long, tiered robe. Meren was given a final shove, and the door slammed behind him.
Without addressing him, Silver Hair spun on his heel and walked through the room. To Meren it seemed as if he'd plunged into the water. From floor to ceiling the chamber bore frescoes of the sea-dolphins frolicking in blue- green waters, surrounded by fish and octopi. In the light of fragile alabaster lamps he could see tables laden with gold and silver drinking vessels and wine flagons. An Egyptian-style bed rested on a dais inside a frame draped with sheers. Meren surveyed the room, which appeared deserted until Silver Hair went to an archway hung with more gauzelike curtains. He spoke in a whisper, and a shadow appeared on the curtains.
Through them stepped a man whose appearance marked him as a foreigner. The most foreign of his features were his eyes. Kysen had called them sky eyes, and they were indeed the color of the sky when the light of Ra has burned the deep blue of early morning to the white-blue of a summer afternoon. Othrys also had hair the color of aged honey streaked with the sun's rays, and a body laden with sailor's muscles. His skin was pale compared to Meren's and marked with scars that should have made him seem old. The tautness of his skin, however, revealed him to be a man of middle years, perhaps not much older than Meren.
Silver Hair oozed his way out of the room as Othrys crossed to a table and poured wine into a shallow gold cup engraved with a bull-leaping cycle. 'What message from my friend Nen?' the pirate asked as he sipped his wine.
'Nen is Kysen, and Kysen is my son,' Meren said quietly.
The gold cup paused halfway to the pirates lips. Othrys swiveled on his heel; his stare could have pinned Meren to the wall.
'It's a mistake not to look at messengers, servants, and sentries,' Meren said. 'A stranger can winnow his way into the heart of your camp in such a humble capacity.'
Othrys set the cup down and walked over to Meren. He stopped a couple of paces away and surveyed him from head to ankle.
'By the Earth Mother,' he muttered. 'Lord Meren, Friend of the King, Eyes and Ears of Pharaoh. What do you here, mighty lord?'
'You'll discover why anyway, so I'll tell you.'
Meren told the pirate the story of the attack on the king and his flight. During the recounting Othrys didn't move. His gaze stabbed into Meren's, searching for the smallest deception or the least hint that Meren was withholding vital facts. When the tale was done, the pirate returned to the table, poured a second cup of wine, and handed it to Meren.
'And so you're a marked man, Egyptian. A traitor.'
'Falsely accused,' Meren said as he took the wine.
'Brought to your undoing by the malice of some evil power.'
Meren said nothing. He was assessing Othrys. He'd taken a grave risk in coming to the pirate, who could easily kill him or hand him over to pharaoh. Behind those sky eyes Meren could see the rapid calculations of a man who existed on the edge of lawfulness, stepping over the boundary into transgression whenever it suited his purpose.
'My son has told me of your friendship,' Meren said quietly. 'Therefore I have come seeking refuge.'
A breeze lifted the transparent sheers, and they brushed Othrys's leg. He swept them aside, revealing a balcony.
'Come. You've traveled far and must be weary.'
They sat on the ledge of the balcony facing each other over the delicate golden wine cups.
Othrys gave Meren a casual glance. 'It seems to me, Egyptian, that I could save myself a seaful of trouble by killing you and giving your body to pharaoh.'
'That would anger pharaoh,' Meren replied with smooth unconcern. 'He wants me alive to question, and killing me would earn you the everlasting enmity of my son.'
'I do not fear Kysen.'
'And my charioteers.'
'Ha!'
'And Ay.'
'Ah, the vizier. I forgot about him.' Othrys rubbed his smooth-shaven chin. 'That would be most inconvenient, having the evil will of pharaoh's highest minister. It could interfere with… trade.'
'At least.'
'You're in evil plight, Egyptian, and you've brought it upon me by coming here.'
'If you help me, you'll have the friendship and gratitude of the Eyes and Ears of Pharaoh.'
'At the moment, it isn't worth much.'
'It will be.'
Othrys ran a finger around the lip of his cup and mused, 'But if I get rid of you, I earn the gratitude of the one who planned your disgrace and wants you dead.' Eyes the color of chilled water suddenly met Meren's. 'I told Kysen not to interfere with Yamen, Dilalu, or Zulaya. Which of them plots your end?'
'I don't know. I've seen the merchant and Yamen, but not Zulaya.'
'It matters not,' Othrys said with a sigh. 'If I kill you, news of it will come to the right ears.'
Meren felt the chill of the embalming knife at his throat but smiled his most tranquil smile. 'You're absolutely right, pirate.'
For the first time he saw Othrys jolted from his airy confidence. Meren swirled the wine in his cup and continued to look amused.
'Of course, from the pattern of events so far, the most likely outcome of your killing me would be your own death.'
'What?'
Setting his cup down on the balcony floor, Meren rose, folded his arms over his chest, and regarded Othrys. 'The evil one will assume that you forced me to tell all I know of his transgressions before you killed me. Once he makes that conclusion, you'll join me in the netherworld.'
'He can't reach me.'
Meren held the pirate's gaze as his lips twisted into an ironic grimace. 'If he can ruin me, he can catch you in his net.' He didn't move as the pirate went still with contemplation. The breeze played with the curtains and danced in Meren's hair.
Suddenly Othrys grinned, slapped Meren's back, and said, 'Welcome to my house, Egyptian. You're under my protection, and if you bring this evil one down on me, he won't have to kill you. I'll do it myself.'
Chapter 13
Nefertiti woke before sunrise. She turned onto her side and beheld a servant creeping about, lighting lamps. Her eye caught a scene from a wall mural of her and the children in a reed skiff. The boat floated in a marsh brimming with wildfowl. In the image heron and ducks fluttered above her head as she drew back a throw stick and took aim. Akhenaten had offered to have the scene repainted to omit Meketaten, but she'd refused. Her little girl was gone, and all she had left were things-clothing, toys, and paintings of the child like this one.
Meketaten had been her second-born, a little bundle of endearing glee who'd found gravity and decorum almost beyond her nature. After she died, Nefertiti hadn't wanted to live. Only the thought of leaving her five remaining daughters had kept her tethered to this world. Sometimes she went to the playroom in the queen's palace, where the girls were allowed to draw, and studied the dabs and streaks of red, yellow, and green that Meketaten had splashed on the floor and walls. No one had approved of her allowing the children such freedom. Royal princesses should be brought up mannered and well groomed and not given the freedom to spatter paint around an entire room. Nefertiti had ignored such advice, and Akhenaten, who had suffered from a royal upbringing, had sided with her.
