"Do you question the might of Egypt, highness?" Meren asked softly. "I don't think your master is quite ready to challenge a pharaoh at the moment, even a young one."
Standing, Mugallu gave him a smile that recalled the yawn of a sated hippo. The Hittite gazed across the deck and nodded at the crowd surrounding one of the professional singers.
"At home we waste little time singing of the pleasures of life. It makes a warrior soft. Instead, we sing of battle and victory."
"We sing of such things as well," Meren said.
"And we tell tales of great battles."
"Like those of Thutmose the Conqueror, who spread the empire to the verge of the Hittite lands?" Meren was exaggerating, but Mugallu was beginning to irritate him.
The prince didn't answer. Turning his back on the revelers, he took a step closer to Meren and lowered his voice.
"I remember a tale, a favorite of the great king, concerning one of his royal ancestors. This king of the Hittites had an enemy, the prince of a rich and powerful city with a great army. This prince looted and destroyed several Hittite villages and refused to return the people he'd taken from them. Of course, the great king had to retaliate. Do you know what he did first, to weaken the prince?"
"You will tell me, won't you?"
Mugallu threw back his head and laughed so loudly that heads turned toward them.
"Yes, I'll tell you."
Mugallu leaned closer to Meren, who still had his back against a column and couldn't move away. The Hittite was so close Meren could smell the spice bread he'd eaten and the stale wine on his breath.
"To weaken the prince," Mugallu said, "the great king struck not at the enemy himself but at the friend of his heart, his most trusted adviser and confidant."
Meren breathed a comment. "Ah." And he surveyed Mugallu with tranquil composure.
"With his friend dead, the prince was beset with grief, distraught, unable to trust his own decisions without the approval of the beloved friend. He grew weak in battle."
Mugallu stepped back but kept his gaze fixed on Meren. "Naturally the great king defeated the prince, cut his head off, and stuck it on the end of a spear, which he mounted on the royal chariot when he returned home, triumphant."
"A good tale," Meren said in a bored tone.
"I thought you would value it."
Meren lifted himself up and perched on the pavilion railing. "Not one an Egyptian would tell, though."
"Oh?"
"No. You see, highness, Egypt is ruled by a living god, not a mere king. As the son of the great god Amun, pharaoh is wise beyond his years. We who serve him do his bidding. Never has a servant substituted his will for pharaoh's, and the living god relies on the guidance of Amun, king of the gods. So you see, your tale is entertaining, but hardly fitting for Egypt."
The Hittite scowled at Meren. "Perhaps I'll recall another before I return home, but I think this one fits, no matter the divine heritage of King Tutankhamun."
"Would you like more wine, highness?"
Mugallu lifted a hand in protest. "I've had enough, and I'm weary. Don't escort me off the ship, Lord Meren. I've had sufficient ceremony for one day."
"May your sleep be peaceful, highness."
"I always sleep peacefully," Mugallu said as he left. "I only hope I haven't given you black dreams with my tale of the death of the prince's friend."
On the second night after the feast on Joy of the Nile, Kysen walked down the Street of Foreigners, feeling more at ease in his heart than he had in weeks. Meren had embarked on his journey to find Queen Nefertiti's favorite cook, but Abu was following him. If anyone could protect his father, it was Abu. Still, a dagger of uneasiness pricked at him as he dodged two drunk Cypriot sailors.
After the family had gone home from the feast, Meren had been different. No longer distracted and anxious, his father had been furious. The Eyes of Pharaoh rarely showed anger, not unless by design. Mugallu had said something to Meren in the golden ship's pavilion, something that had so provoked his father's wrath that he'd been unable to conceal it in the seclusion of his home.
Bener had whispered to Kysen about the change in his mood when Meren had spoken sharply to a porter at the front door. Even Isis had noticed Meren's rage, between lyrics of praise for Lord Reshep. True, the reason she'd noticed was that Meren snapped at her to leave off bleating about a lord who thought he was prettier than she was. But she'd noticed.
"Some new intrigue of Mugallu's has irritated him."
Kysen muttered to himself. "May the gods curse all Hittites."
He abandoned his musings when he reached the intersection of the Street of Foreigners with the Avenue of the Ibis. He was still near the docks and could hear the calls of water birds and an occasional hippo's roar and feel the moisture of the Nile in the air. But the place he sought was at the edge of the dock district, near the area where Mycenaean Greek traders, ship captains, and sailors lived. If he kept walking and turned down any of the side streets toward the docks, he'd immediately step into a realm few ordinary citizens braved at night.
Everyone called it the Caverns, after the Caverns of Duat in the netherworld. There ferocious god-fiends guarded the afterlife, ready to destroy an unprepared soul. Their names-Breaker of Bones, Eater of Intestines, He-Whose-Two-Eyes-Are-on-Fire-described horrors every Egyptian feared. In the Caverns of Memphis, thieves, receivers of smuggled luxuries, and evildoers from Egypt's far-flung possessions and her own cities lived and pursued strange and distasteful occupations.
As a boy Kysen had been outraged when he discovered the existence of the Caverns. But Meren had shrugged and said that there had always been chaos in the midst of harmony, and that Egypt was fortunate that the god of disorder, Set, ruled over so small a kingdom within the imperial capital. Besides, where else could common men go for entertainment?
Kysen had grown up since asking that question, and now he frequented the Caverns for his own purposes. Nowhere could one hear fresher rumors of corruption, bribery, abuse, and murder. Gossip in the Caverns was more efficient and sometimes more accurate than a royal messenger. Kysen smiled as he approached the tavern and rest house called the Divine Lotus. Its owner, the woman Ese, was the font of all gossip, rumor, and scandal. If she was in a tolerant mood this evening, he might persuade her to make inquiries about the former intimate servants of Nefertiti.
Here in the shadowed world of thieves, dishonest government underlings, whores, and murderers, he went by another name, Nen. Nen was supposed to be the sixth son of the assistant to the steward of a minor noble. As one of eight children, he had little wealth but a taste for luxuries he'd seen at the household where his father worked, no matter how they were obtained. In the Caverns he was known as a clever and easygoing lover of idleness. Everyone knew Nen's time was spent designing clever schemes by which he would profit with as little labor as possible. Outlaws, cheaters, and the corrupt felt at ease with him.
As he set his foot on the step before the threshold of the Divine Lotus, a dirty, sweat-stained body hurtled into him. Kysen fell back against the wall beside the door, the wind knocked out of him. He gulped in air, and with it whiffs of a sickly sweet odor that spoke of months without bathing. Few men smelled like a wet oxhide that had been covered with tallow and baked under a hot sky; the whining shriek that assailed his ears confirmed the figure's identity.
"Tcha, get off me!"
The thief uttered a hyena's yelp, missed his footing on the steps, and fell on his ass in the street. Kysen would have left him there, but Tcha squeezed his eyes shut, covered his head with his arms, and burst out with a spell.