"You're an insolent pup."
"Who can bribe or coerce what I need to know out of any servant in that temple."
Ebana studied him, allowing his hostility to show in his gaze, but he finally spoke.
"Qenamun is one of our most talented lector priests. He's learned in magic, a man of power whose spells have aided many in need of help. For a price."
"You don't like him, do you, Ebana."
"The man is a scorpion," Ebana snapped. "I detest him because he creates discord, lovingly, as a spider spins a web. One of my underlings befriended him a few years ago when we were repairing the damage done to the temple by the heretic. They worked together. Then one day I was talking to Qenamun and he mentioned that my underling was repeating heated words about me to others. I was furious and exiled the man to a temple estate in Nubia. Later I found out from a friend that Qenamun had repeated the same story about one of his underlings."
"But why?"
"To eliminate rivals, those who could stand in his way. The usual reasons."
Kysen felt the throbbing in his head increase, and heat rose up at him from the flagstones. "Gods, I hate aristocrats."
He swore silently at himself as Ebana turned to smile at him.
"Go home, Ky," he said. "There is nothing here but dried blood and the death of a careless fool. You're not going to blunder into the temple and dare to question those of high station and noble blood. Remember, the high priest of Amun comes from the same lineage as pharaoh; his Servants of the God are princes and nobles as well. You don't belong in there. Go home."
"Unas didn't work among princes and nobles. Oh, don't get a heated belly, I'm going."
Kysen turned on his heel and stalked away from his father's cousin. Shouldering his way through the crowds streaming in and out of the temple, he looked back only once. Ebana was still standing where Kysen had left him, but he was looking down, his features set and still as he examined the dark patch of blood at the foot of the image of the living god.
Chapter 5
Ebana watched Kysen vanish into the throng before the gate of the god. Had he succeeded? He didn't know.
Nothing had gone as he'd anticipated in his dealings with Meren today. Knowing Unas's death certainly would attract Meren's attention, he had tried to distract and confuse by launching an attack that would put his cousin in the wrong. He'd never expected Meren to set the boy Kysen the task of inquiring into the death of the pure one. Turning, he made his way back into the temple, through the great pillared halls and to the House of Life.
As he went, Ebana cursed Meren's ability to twist words against himself into condemnation of his accuser. The stratagem had been to throw Meren off guard; it may have failed.
And then there was that peasant's spawn, Kysen. The boy had grown from a cowering, awkward whelp into an aristocratic warrior. With his wide jaw, rounded chin, and half-moon eyes, he didn't look like his adopted father, except in the straight, severe line of his mouth. In that feature father and son resembled statues of the great king Khafre.
He'd lost count of the time spent wondering why Meren refused to take another wife and get himself a son. Many women died during childbirth. Sit-Hathor had died in labor, and so had her infant son.
That had been many years ago, long after the girl had finally fallen in love with her husband. He remembered how he'd thought her a fool not to admire Meren when she first married him. That was long ago, before the heretic brought chaos and death to their family.
The memory of his own wife, her face streaming with blood, gnawed at him. Pressing his lips together, he forced his thoughts away from the past and stepped over the threshold of the House of Life. He hadn't realized how great the heat of the sun already was until he entered the semidarkness of the building. Glancing around, he took a moment to drink in the peace offered by this place of knowledge, history, and learning.
Alabaster lamps gave off cool yellow light in pools where scholar priests studied ancient records. Row after row of columns stood like a forest before him, and beneath them stood chests filled with papyri. Near the door sat a carved basin with a spout at its base through which flowed a trickle of water. Notches in the wall of the basin allowed the telling of time as the water level dropped. He remembered how bloated with pride he'd felt as a boy upon learning how to interpret the markings.
He nodded at several priests as he made his way past a row of columns, through an open door, and down a corridor to another portal. Two priests flanked the threshold. They'd stirred to alertness upon seeing him, but as he drew nearer, they relaxed their tense stance. He entered the room without speaking to them. The door shut.
There were many such rooms in the House of Life. It was a small, windowless chamber lined from floor to ceiling with cupboards. In those cupboards lay bundles of papyri stored in leather cases. Ebana loved this room, for it contained some of the oldest chronicles in the kingdom, dating from the time of the great ones who built the pyramids.
As he entered, he heard a sibilant whispering, as of wind stirring sand grains across the floor of a rock desert. Only one man could hiss like that-Qenamun.
The lector priest bent gracefully to address an old man in a pleated robe spangled with gold roundels. He glanced up as Ebana came forward, and closed his mouth. Kneeling, Ebana felt Parenefer's hand on his shoulder. The high priest squinted at him, shoving his head forward in a movement that so resembled that of a vulture.
"Rise, my friend," said Parenefer. "Qenamun was just telling me how ably you fended off the Eyes and Ears of Pharaoh."
Ebana cast a sidelong glance at Qenamun as he rose from the floor. "Was he?"
Parenefer's mobile features settled into a scowl. He was one of those men whose appearance benefitted from the ritual requirement of shaving. His skull was well-shaped, with no deforming bulges or dents, and his pronounced bones lent strong definition to his face.
Ebana knew the man to be much older than himself, and yet age seemed only to give him strength. Perhaps it was the splendor and power of his office, or of his lineage: Parenefer's family had held priestly office since before the time of Thutmose the Conqueror.
Or it could be, like himself, Parenefer defied time through the remembrance of old wrongs. The old high priest had been cast out of his sacred office by Akhenaten and had almost died in exile, of grief, fury, and lack of food.
There were times, when recounting the tale of his humiliation, that Parenefer seemed to lose himself in the past. Once, late at night, he'd listened to the story from Parenefer's wine-slick lips seven times. Each telling grew more malignant than the last. Aye, one could live long on the fatted meat of such rancor.
"You don't agree with Qenamun."
"Unfortunately," Ebana said, "Meren twisted the whole matter around on its head. He said that he talked to many priests, which is true. And that all of them couldn't be spies, which is also true. He's harder to surprise than a Syrian bandit. I told you he'd be suspicious no matter how we handled the matter."
"So long as his suspicions continue to sail on the wrong course, I'm content. Qenamun has warned our friends at court. They've taken heed."
Ebana went to a cupboard and touched the strap on a document case. "You don't know Meren as well as I do, holy one. It's enough that this accident has directed his attention to the temple. Now we must advance with perfect craft. One misstep, the wrong intonation in my voice, an unguarded look from Qenamun, and we're destroyed."
"That's why you're handling this cursed pure one's death," Parenefer said as he rose from his chair. "We need someone to act as intermediary between the temple and the court. What ill luck that this fool had to stumble off the king's statue at this of all times. I hope the Devourer eats his soul in the netherworld. Tripping in the dark like that. Who told him to be so diligent and arrive early?"