Kysen raised his head and met his father's smiling gaze. "I want to hurt Pawero as he hurt me."
"Perhaps when you go to the tomb-makers' village you'll see that the good god has cast judgment on your behalf already." Meren stood up and led Kysen to the door. "It's time you abandoned this undeserved guilt and-"
Shock wiped all expression from Meren's face. Eyes focused on something Kysen couldn't see, his mouth opened, and air hissed between his lips as he drew in a breath.
"Listen to me," Meren said. "Ordering you to abandon guilt when I …"
"Father?"
"Leave me, Ky."
"But-"
"Now."
Kysen slipped away, leaving Meren standing in the doorway transfixed by thoughts he wouldn't share.
In the wharf market of Thebes, lines of booths covered with cloths flashed bright colors in the afternoon sun like the scales of fish glistening in a reflection pool. One stall boasted fresh waterfowl trussed up and dangling from square frames. The naked bodies of two pintails parted to reveal the sweaty nose of a man. The owner of the nose remained behind the strings of birds
with only it and his eyes showing, and he darted glances about the crowded street.
The charioteer had been following him since he'd left the office of records and tithes. Bakwerner's mouth was dry, and he licked his cracked lips. Wiping a drop of sweat from his nose, he realized that evil had stalked him since he'd left those records on Hormin's shelf. Nothing he'd done since had warded off the unlucky events of the past day and night.
He had to escape the notice of the charioteer. Count Meren knew more than he had revealed. Why else would he set a watcher upon an innocent scribe? There! That was the man who followed him. Bakwerner shrank back behind the duck bodies. The owner of the stall cast a wary glance at him, so he pretended to examine a basket of pigeons. When he looked again, the charioteer's back was turned. Bakwerner dropped the basket, sidled past a booth filled with nuts and melons, and broke into a run.
Dodging a cart filled with dried dung and skirting a flower seller, he gained the shadows of an alley and worked his way into the city. Every tall man, every figure wearing bronze made him jump or dart into a doorway. With each false scare, his fear increased. The more he feared, the more he sweated. Rivulets of perspiration tickled their way from beneath his wig, down his face, and over his shoulders. His kilt was damp.
Since he took no time to wipe away the sweat, he first saw the house of Hormin through a blur of salty perspiration. The sight of the house burst the last of his restraint and he darted across the street and into the reception hall. Babbling at servants, he soon found himself in the presence of the wife.
"What are you doing here? What do you want?"
"Shhhh, mistress, we might be watched."
Hormin's wife scowled at him. "You mean someone's watching you?"
"The lord's man."
"They think you're guilty." The woman opened her brown lips and screeched.
Bakwerner ducked his head, covering his ears. "Please! Don't. I want to see your sons. Where are they?"
The wife of Hormin paid no attention to him. She kept screeching, this time calling for Imsety. Bakwerner waved his hands in front of her face in a desperate attempt to shut the woman up.
"Don't touch me, you worm." Selket rushed to a water jar that rested in a corner, lifted it, and hurled it 'at Bakwerner.
Bakwerner hopped aside as the jar flew at him. It crashed against the wall behind him and water sprayed both him and Selket. Hormin's wife let out a noise that combined a growl and a scream. Serving maids poked their heads around a door.
Footsteps pounded behind Bakwerner. He was caught by the shoulder and slung around. A giant loomed over him. Imsety.
"He's guilty and he's come to murder us all," Hormin's wife cried.
"I only want to talk," Bakwerner said. "You'll be sorry if you don't listen to me."
Imsety shoved Bakwerner. "Get out."
"I know things, and you'll be sorry. Fetch that brother of yours. He thinks he's so brilliant, favored of Toth. Well, he's not going to take the favor of the master from me. Bring him in here, because I know things."
Like his mother, Imsety didn't listen. He pulled back a fist that would have made two of Bakwerner's and jabbed it into the scribe's belly. Bakwerner grunted, doubling over. Imsety kicked his exposed buttocks, and Bakwerner stumbled. The giant lifted his fist again, but Bakwerner scrambled out of the way. With a staggering trot he managed to gain the street before Imsety decided to chase him.
Concerned only with keeping his body intact, Bakwerner dashed through the streets and alleys of Thebes. Reaching the wharf again, he took the ferry back across the river. As the boat skimmed over the water, Bakwerner straightened his wig and searched the faces of the other passengers. Here and there he thought he caught someone looking at him, but all were strangers and could have no interest in him. Still, as he hopped to land on the west bank, he shivered. Possibly it was because the breeze had skimmed over his damp skin. Bakwerner turned about suddenly to try to catch-someone looking at him. The crowd of passengers surged around him, paying him no heed.
Hands twitching, gooseflesh forming on his arms, Bakwerner made his way back to the office of records and tithes. All the senior scribes were gone for the day. He hadn't realized how late it was, but the sun, the boat of Ra, was hurling rays at the gold and electrum on the temples and obelisks across the river. Shadows were long, distorted fiends dancing on the baked walls of the office.
Bakwerner pretended to be busy while apprentices and young student scribes set the rooms in order, packing away records, ink pigments, reed pens. With the sound of the first cricket they were gone, and Bakwerner was left in peace to think of what to do next. He stood on the loggia worrying his lower lip with his teeth. He had to talk to that little scorpion Djaper. He wasn't going to lose place because of a youth with the charm of a dancing girl. The only reason he was being considered for the post of chief was because no one wanted Hormin in it. But everyone liked Djaper, and the young man was far too brilliant. Before, Hormin would have had to be elevated for Djaper to rise. Now Hormin was gone, and Djaper had to be stopped. But how was he going to do it?
As Bakwemer pondered, lines of men and youths em ployed in the offices of the vizier streamed past the log gia. Students with their bundles of scribal equipment raced by, threading their way between the slower adults.
Here and there a bare-bodied urchin lurked in search of a susceptible target for begging. One of them darted up in front of the loggia and planted himself before
Bakwerner.›
"Be off with you," Bakwerner said.
"Got a message." A toe dug in the dirt of the street. The boy lifted his eyes to the sky as if searching for the right words. "Someone you want to see is out back. Behind the pile of ostraca."
"Who? Wait!"
The boy disappeared in the flocks of workers. Bakwerner stared after him, then searched the ebbing and flowing numbers before him. No one was paying any attention to him.
Djaper. It had to be Djaper. The young fool had finally realized they had to talk. Bakwerner walked around the office to the back courtyard where deliveries of records were made. At the rear of the court was the pile of discarded limestone flakes, temporary records used to compile the permanent tax rolls and lists of exempt temple lands and citizens. It had grown taller than the height of two men since the beginning of the year.
Bakwerner approached the pile, but hesitated when he found no one visible.
"Who's there?"
There was no answer. The wind picked up, blowing his kilt against his legs, and he heard the cries of urchins as they played in the street. In the distance he could hear the bawling of sheep.