“What of you? Can you talk to people whose tongues are different from those of Kemet?”
Bak chose to ignore a question he would have had to an swer in the negative. “Do you share in equal measure your sister’s attributes, mistress Taharet?”
“Certainly.” She lifted a drinking bowl from the table and sipped the last of the wine from it. “The sole advantage I have over her is that I have a greater determination than she does. She sometimes allows people to use her.” She gave him a pointed look across the rim of the bowl, as if he, too, would make use of her sister.
Concealing his irritation, he asked, “Do you and Mistress
Meret speak the tongue of Hatti?”
“Of course.”
The words held an undercurrent of bitterness, and Bak suspected he knew why. “Did either of you serve as inter preters for your husband while he served in Hattusa?”
Her nostrils flared with contained anger. “At times, yes.”
“Sitepehu said he sometimes accompanied Pentu to af fairs of state. He admitted his knowledge of the tongue of
Hatti was faulty, but he said he knew enough to ensure that the translators were honest. Did you help your husband in equally weighty matters?”
She let out a most unseemly snort. “You know nothing of the Hittites, lieutenant, or you wouldn’t have asked so ridiculous a question. Both my sister and I speak the tongue far better than Sitepehu, but my husband refused to let either of us interpret for him when he most needed a good transla tion. He said our ability to speak the Hittite tongue when he himself had no such knowledge would make him look small in the eyes of the king.”
“Was that not the truth?”
“Unfortunately, yes.”
Bak reached for another date and nibbled the soft, sweet meat from the seed. He could see that the slight, though not intentional, still grated after all this time. Had she been so embittered by being left behind, dealing with trivial house hold matters while her husband spoke to a king of important state affairs, that she had chosen to stir the ingredient of dis cord into the politics of Hatti?
By speaking the language, she-and her sister-would have been able to associate with many Hittites. Not at such a lofty level as Pentu and Sitepehu, but definitely at occasions where noblemen were present. No one was more likely to cause dissension with the goal of overthrowing the king than members of the nobility. Would she, would anyone, be so petty as to foment trouble for so small a reason?
“Good afternoon, Lieutenant,” a soft, musical voice said.
Bak’s eyes leaped toward the doorway. Meret stood on the threshold, a jar of wine and a stemmed bowl in one hand, a flattish bowl of sweetcakes in the other. The smile she di rected his way was tentative, as if she was not quite sure how he would receive her. A sharp indrawn breath drew his atten tion to Taharet, whose scowl of disapproval would have set a servant to sobbing.
Meret was not a servant.
Smiling, she walked out onto the terrace. Setting the wine and bowl of cakes on the table, she gestured toward a nearby stool. “Please join us, sir. We’ve plenty of food and drink, and the remainder of the day in which to enjoy it.” Ig noring her sister’s thin-lipped glare, she shifted the stool that was close to the table, making room for another. “I un derstand you’ve been asking questions about Pentu’s recall from Hattusa.”
“I’m trying to lay the matter to rest, yes.” He pulled close the proffered stool and sat down.
She broke the plug from the wine jar, filled his glass and
Taharet’s, and added more to the third one. “I can assure you that he’s completely innocent of any charge that might’ve been made against him. He has far too much integrity to speak to a king with a smile on his face one day and try to overthrow him that night.”
She spoke softly, her tone gentle yet firm. Bak could not help but compare her with her sharp-tongued sister. “Pentu was never seriously suspected of duplicity. A member of his household was thought to be the guilty party.”
“The servants are all talking…”
“Meret!” Taharet spoke sharply, her anger held on a tight rein. “What our servants speak of is of no concern to the lieutenant. They chatter like sparrows, gossiping about any thing and everything, saying nothing of consequence.”
Meret squeezed her sister’s hand, smiled at Bak. “They’re saying you’re seeking the slayer of three men, two who died in the sacred precinct. Search as I might within my heart, I can see no link between our household and the deaths of two servants of the lord Amon.”
“The third man who was slain was a merchant named
Maruwa, a Hittite, the one who initially reported the traitor in your household. Did you ever meet him?”
“He was a merchant?” Meret looked at her sister. “We now and again accompanied our servants to the market in
Hattusa, but I don’t recall…” Her eyes opened wide. She turned to Bak and smiled. “Oh, you speak of the merchants who came to our residence, hoping to obtain travel passes to
Kemet. Sitepehu dealt with those people. Taharet and I might’ve seen them in passing, but would have no reason to remember any specific individual.”
“Maruwa spoke more often to Netermose, so I under stand.”
“He, too, dealt frequently with men of Hatti. Pentu could in no way receive the large numbers of men who sought his favor or that of our sovereign. Netermose was most effective in sifting out those unworthy of an audience.”
Bak pressed no further. In a busy residence such as that of an envoy, men came and went in large numbers. One would have to stand out above all others to attract notice.
He took a sip of the tart red wine, smiled his appreciation.
Meret’s answers and demeanor were calm and sensible. Un like Taharet, so intent on keeping her sister away from him that she made no pretense at the most basic of courtesies.
“Your sister was telling me that the two of you came from
Sile. Don’t you miss the excitement of dwelling in a border city, one situated on a major trade route?” The question was prompted more by his own sorrow over leaving Buhen than by his quest to find a slayer.
“Waset has far more to offer than that wretched town,”
Taharet snapped.
“You’ve a fine dwelling here in the capital,” Bak said,
“but you spend much of the year on a country estate near
Tjeny. A far quieter place than Sile, I’d think.”
Meret smiled at her sister, silencing what looked to be an angry retort. “I miss Sile, yes. I miss the many opportunities to speak with people from other lands, to see the beautiful objects they bring to trade in the land of Kemet, to get to know…”
“Mistress Meret.” Pahure’s voice.
Both sisters started. Their heads snapped around, their eyes leaped toward the doorway.
“Pahure!” Meret flung an angry look his way. “Must you skulk around like a common thief?”
Pahure crossed the threshold and walked along the row of colorful blooming potted plants lining the terrace. His mouth was tight with annoyance. “You must come immedi ately, mistress. Two of the servants have quarreled. One has been hurt. Your presence is required in the kitchen.” He paused, added emphatically, “Right away, mistress.”
An odd look passed over her face, and with visible reluc tance she rose to her feet. “Very well.” Forming a smile for Bak’s benefit, adding warmth to the chill in her voice, she said, “I’m delighted you came, Lieutenant. I hope you’ll visit us here again before we return to Tjeny.”
“I must go, too.” Taharet stood up, smiled at Bak with an insincerity born of dislike. “I assume you can find your way out. You’ve been here often enough.”
Leaving the dwelling, Bak hurried along the processional way toward the sacred precinct of Ipet-isut, hoping to catch
Hori and Thanuny before they left the storehouse archives.
Meret’s invitation was uppermost in his thoughts. He liked her, appreciated her candor, her quiet and straightforward manner, a total absence of the anger boiling within her sister.