The awareness of her fingers burned Samlor through the cooling moisture. He reached toward the woman, but she intercepted him with the cloth and wiped his scarred fingers. "Why, we scarcely know each other," she chided with a lilt that ended in a giggle as she whisked away the cloth and herself.
Across the table, Khamwas tried to embrace Tabubu. She nestled closer to him, then twisted lithely away to hand the bowl and cloth back to a servant. One nipple had left a streak of rouge on Khamwas' cheek. "I told your man," she said mildly, "that I'm not a prostitute."
"I know that, I know that," Khamwas said, the words coming out in a series of gasps as though he had been punched in the stomach. "I'll marry you."
"Kh-" Samlor said, starting from his couch. No more of the word came out because Pre seated herself on the cushion so that her hips nestled against the angle of his groin.
"You must be thirsty," she said as she held a cup of wine to Samlor.
He shivered at the contact and touched his lips to the rim. Pre tilted the cup without spilling the rich, undiluted vintage, seemingly unaware of the way Samlor's arm encircled her beneath the crocodile skin and cupped her breast.
Tabubu slipped onto Khamwas' couch in a motion which mirrored that of her maid. Servants passed to and from the screened end of the room carrying dishes, but they were as silent as the breeze and almost as little noticed by the men at the table.
"You'd marry me indeed," said Tabubu with a mixture of scorn and caress in her tone. Carbuncles below the rim of her cup glinted as she held the wine to Khamwas. "And then what, pray tell? As soon as I marry, my father's estate reverts to the Temple of Mnevis and I have nothing."
"But what does that matter?" asked Khamwas dismis-sively. His arms encircled her, and he added as he nuzzled toward her breast, "I can take care of you. I have everything…"
Tabubu moved only slightly, but her guest's lips touched her pendant instead of her nipple as he intended. "You can," she said. "You have, no doubt. Well, before you take your pleasure with me, noble prince, you'll have to make over all your property to me in a deed of maintenance."
For a moment her breast lay on Khamwas' cheek. Then, when his arms tightened and relaxed spasmodically, she was on her feet again and slipping away from him.
"Yes, yes, I'll sign the deed!" Khamwas cried hoarsely. He seemed to be trying to get up from the couch, but his legs were tangled. "We'll go to a scribe, we'll go today. But first-"
"More wine," said Pre, ordered Pre, as Samlor started to speak.
It was a heady vintage, but it did not affect him the way the woman's presence did. He tried to grope between her legs but found his hand caught in the many filmy layers of her skirt.
Pre urged her vulva against his touch, through the soft fabric. "Not in front of the mistress," she teased in a whisper. "At least-not until they…"
Her voice dissolved into a giggle as she spun gracefully to her feet, holding the empty wine cup out to the servant waiting to exchange it for a full one.
Tabubu was standing, a statue limned in the fire of her garments. She clapped her hands sharply.
A servant scampered up the stairs, bobbing his head to his mistress.
"Show up the scribe and the witnesses," she ordered.
"Witnesses?" Samlor muttered. He shook his head, trying to clear it of the wine fumes. Pre swayed near the couch, smiling down at him. He started to rise, but it looked as though the maid were going to seat herself beside him again.
The servant returned. Beside him was a man who mounted the stairs with a sprightliness which belied the age which had reduced his hair to a white fringe. He carried a small writing desk folded and a wicker satchel with rolled paper, brushes, and an inkpot. From his chest on a necklace of turquoise hung a roller seal.
"You summoned a scribe?" he said, seating himself on the floor with brusque assurance. He unfolded his writing desk and set it over his crossed legs. "I am Aper. What is the document I am to draft?
Shuffling up the stairs more slowly, their faces set in expressions of disapproval bordering on fury, were Khamwas' three brothers.
"Prince Khamwas will assign all his property to me," said Tabubu imperiously. "His brothers are here to witness the contract."
The scribe nodded, unrolled a length of well-made paper on his desk, and began writing with quick, practiced brush strokes.
"Khamwas, what can you be thinking of?" demanded Osorkon, halting two paces into the room. He swung his head and glared at Samlor as he added, "And you-you're supposed to be his friend, aren't you? How can you let him commit such nonsense?"
"I-" said Samlor.
Pre eased herself down against him, offering wine and the warmth of her body. "Only a fool involves himself in another's family affairs," she whispered.
The softness of her hips reinforced the obvious truth of the statement. Samlor drank as his hand reached under the crocodile skin.
"Brother, we brought your children with us and they're below now," said Patjenfi. "Surely you can't intend to leave Pemu and little Serpot destitute for-" Words failed, so he flicked his hand through the air in the direction of Tabubu, a gesture as scornful as it was angry.
"Pemu?" Khamwas repeated, his head jerking as if his brother had slapped his face. "Yes, th-"
Tabubu smiled down at him and thrust her groin forward suggestively.
"Do you think you can threaten meT Khamwas snarled at Patjenfi. His hand clasped his sash where it bulged over the crystal book. "I'm a god, do you realize? You will do as I command, or-"
He paused. Instead of leaving the threat unspoken, he added in a voice as quiet and cruel as leprosy, "I will blast you as if you never existed, Patjenfi." His gaze swept his brothers. "I will blast you all."
"I didn't-" said Patjenfi.
Pentweret silenced him in a chopping gesture. "You have the right to dispose of your property, my brother," he said in a voice tremulous with emotions and his attempt to control them. "But for^your sake as much as for your children, think about what you're doing."
"The document is complete, lady," said the scribe. He held it up to Tabubu along with the ink-charged brush.
Samlor could not recall ever having seen a smile as cruel as that with which Tabubu gave the deed and pen to Khamwas.
Khamwas tried to smile back, but the expression was not successful and the man's hands were quivering so badly that he could scarcely hold the paper he was to sign.
Tabubu leaned over so that her pendant and full breasts wobbled in front of Khamwas. Her fingers rested on his hands, not so much to guide them as to still their trembling.
Khamwas touched the brush to the document and drew his name with the sure strokes of an accomplished scholar. His face had no expression and his eyes did not appear to be focused.
Beneath Samlor's fingers, Pre's breast was as densely fluid as molten lava.
Patjenfi was muttering unintelligibly to himself; Osorkon's broad jaw was set in grim silence; and the curse Pentweret spoke was fully audible.
The scribe rose, holding his desk open with the ink palette upon it. Crushed stone clung in blue shadows on the back of his thighs. His face was professionally bland and perhaps genuinely bored.
Tabubu dropped the executed deed onto the desk and waved the scribe negligently toward Khamwas' brothers. "The witnesses must sign," she said.
Nodding, the scribe held the desk out for Osorkon to use the brush waiting in the hollow of vermilion ink.