Meren leaned back in his chair and stared at the ceil ing. "Where was the young one?"
"The young one?"
"Djaper." Meren sat up and eyed Iry-nufer. "Where was Djaper?"
"He never appeared. Used to such commotion, I sup pose. I left when I saw that no one was going to be killed."
Meren said, "I want to know where Djaper was when his brother was fighting with Bakwerner. And I'll speak to you later about this incident, Iry-nufer."
"Anything else?" said Kysen.
"No, lord. The man assigned to Bakwemer arrived and followed him back to the office of records and tithes. It was getting late, so when my replacement arrived, I came to report."
Iry-nufer bowed and left. Meren watched Kysen crush ashes from the burned papyrus beneath his sandal. Neither said anything. Long silences often accompanied the reception of such news. He would be busy tomorrow, what with the problems at court and the murder inquiry. As for Kysen, when the sun came up he would go to the tomb-makers' village because he wanted to please Meren.
The door burst open and Meren's hand jumped to his dagger. Iry-nufer charged into the office followed by a youth, one of the apprentice charioteers. The youth was panting and leaned against the door.
"Lord," Iry-nufer said. "It's Bakwerner."
Meren and Kysen looked at each other. Meren's voice snapped with impatience.
"He's dead, isn't he?"
"Someone smashed his face in with an ostracon."
"The criminal?" Meren asked.
The youth had caught his breath and answered. "Gone, escaped over a wall hidden by the pile of os-traca behind the office of records and tithes. Reia was watching him from the corner of the building, but he disappeared behind the ostraca and never came out. By the time Reia decided something was wrong, it was too late."
"Very well," Meren said. "We'll come at once."
Kysen fell into step with him, and Meren glanced his way.
"I had a feeling the evil would spread," Kysen said. "Whoever killed in the Place of Anubis is terrified."
"Or possessed of more audacity than a thousand Lib yan bandits. Bakwerner saw something, of course. I could have dragged him here and threatened him, but I was waiting for him to panic."
"You were right. He did panic." Kysen took note of his father's frown. "Even the high priest of Amun couldn't have foretold what would happen."
"I can only pray that we catch the evil one before he strikes again," Meren said. He shook his head as they reached the front door. "You know how it is when a beast tastes human blood, what happens to a man when he learns how easy it is to murder."
"The ancients say one becomes a butcher whose joy is slaughter," said Kysen.
"And the butcher is loose among us."
7
The God Ra burst into life in the east, bringing light and life, as Kysen boarded the supply skiff headed for the tomb-makers' village. The boat's owner followed, and they glided out into the channel headed west. The canal was one of many cut into the earth to bring water to fields on either side of the Nile. In the distance peasants bent over another canal bank and emptied baskets of soil into its collapsed side. If the canals weren't kept in good repair, life-giving water receded. Without such irrigation the lush green fields would vanish, replaced by the creamy desolation of the desert.
Kysen glanced down at the plain kilt wrapped around his hips. Last night he had decided that he would return to the tomb-makers' village as one of his father's minions rather than as his son. Meren had said that it was unlikely that he'd be recognized, even by his fatherafter all, he'd been a child when he last saw the village. Thus he'd left behind his belts of turquoise and gold, his fine leather sandals, his broad collars of malachite and electrum.
He shifted uneasily on the plank that was his seat. His leg brushed a bag of grain, grain meant for the tomb-makers' village. Most of the village supplies were shipped in from temple and royal storehouses; unlike most villagers, the artisans lived not at the edge or in the midst of cultivation, but in a bare, rocky desert valley south of the Valley of the Queens. Kysen remem bered his father's grudges against the foremen and scribes, for they received a great ration of Pharaoh's grain.
His father. Would Pawero recognize him? Would his brothers? If not, Kysen decided not to reveal himself. One of his first lessons under Meren had been in how not to reveal what he knew. The gazelle does not seek the lion in the midst of the herd. It looks outward, and ignores the animal at its side. Thus it would be with the artisans. They would guard secrets from Meren's agent, but fail to conceal from him things he couldn't be expected to know.
There was another advantage. From the protection of his facade as a royal servant, he would be safe from Pawero. Kysen rubbed his upper arms and stared into the ripples of water caused by the skiff. What had possessed him to think such a thought?
Pawero was almost ten years older than Meren-an old man by now. An old man no longer strong enough to backhand his son, especially a son grown tall and trained as a warrior. Slick, oily rage curled a black trail through Kysen's body and snaked around his heart. He shook his head and drew in a sharp breath. With the scimitar of his will, he cut through the tendrils of wrath.
Rage had no place in the work he was to do. His at tention jolted back to his surroundings as the skiff bumped against a small dock. Clambering ashore, Kysen pulled the strap of the bag that held his possessions over his shoulder. A line of donkeys and their handlers huddled nearby, waiting for the grain. He could have gone ahead along the trail that climbed bald hills and descended into the valley that held the village, but he wasn't supposed to know the way.
Soon he was walking beside a donkey, leaning forward as the trail slanted up and darted into the heart of the lifeless rock that soon would glow with the day's killing heat. Somehow the journey was too short. In much less than an hour he topped the summit of a hill and gazed out into the rubble-strewn valley. He forgot to breathe. A high whitewashed wall surrounded the village, and he could see the flat roofs of the houses that flanked either side of the one main sfreet. Kysen almost stumbled as a donkey jostled him. He'd forgotten how enclosed the village was. There was only one entrance in the wall, only one way in or out.
In spite of the rapidly growing heat, his skin grew cold. Vague memories crowded upon him-the death of his mother when he was small, his brothers, an older boy called Useramun, already a brilliant painter, the old scribe of the village who was now dead. But he couldn't remember their faces.
Once Meren had taken him home, he'd made a delib erate decision to wipe from his thoughts all trace of his old life. He'd stuffed old memories, good and bad, into a sarcophagus of black diorite and dropped the lid. Now it was difficult to lift that heavy lid and release the memories. He seemed to recall things better than people. The village looked so much smaller than he remembered.
One of the supply men elbowed his companion and pointed to another trail, a white scar in the rocks of the hills farther west and north.
"He fell where the path takes a sharp turn and skirts the Cliff of the Hyenas. Broke his neck. You can still see the blood on the rocks at the foot of the cliff."
Suddenly alert, Kysen spoke up. "Someone fell from a cliff?"
"Yes, master." It was the owner of the donkeys who
"A quarryman. Last week. It happens sometimes, may the revered Osiris protect us. A man grows careless after years of climbing these hills. He missteps, puts his foot on a loose rock too near the edge." The man slapped his palms together. "Smashes onto a valley floor and breaks like a melon."