"Ah yes. I heard in the dock market that a quarryman was killed. Was anyone with him?"
"No, master, else they would have told the fool not to go so near the edge."
Kysen heard the disguised contempt in the man's voice. It was obvious he was considered one of the soft, pampered city officials who knew little of real work. No doubt the whole village would take the same attitude. Many of those who worked in the vast royal and temple bureaucracies were corrupt. Scandals often arose about functionaries who took bribes and cheated honest folk. A few had ended up on Meren's list of murder victims in the office at home.
Refraining from comment, Kysen accompanied the grain supplies down to the village. He dropped back behind the last man as they approached the village temples, small replicas of the great stone structures on the east bank. He glanced at the hillsides to his right and left. Pierced with tomb shafts, they contained the resting places of the artisans' ancestors, his ancestors. To the southwest he could just make out the white-painted chapel that stood before the tomb of his family.
Laughter distracted him. A group of people emerged from the shadows of the main street. This road was so narrow one could touch the houses on either side of it. At the head of the crowd walked a man. He stepped past the gate in the wall, talking rapidly all the while. The two women who flanked him burst into renewed mirth while the man lapsed into a silent smile.
Murder in the Place of Anubis 87
Kysen noted the scribe's kit dangling from his right hand, the roll of papyrus in his left. This was Thesh, scribe of the Great Place. Scribe-one of the most noble of all professions. Scribe-the profession that opened its arms to any boy, peasant or noble, who possessed a heart clever enough to memorize over seven hundred hieroglyphs, their corresponding cursive script, and their use.
Kysen himself could read and write. He wasn't fool enough to think the ability made him a scribe, for scribes managed accounts, commanded laborers, surveyed an entire kingdom, preserved the sacred texts of the gods. As a scribe, Thesh would handle matters of law and religion, economy and labor.
Thesh and his train of followers reached the long, open pavilion in front of the village entrance. The scribe called a greeting to the supply men before seating himself on a reed mat. The women gathered behind him while the grain was unloaded and set before Thesh. Kysen remained behind a donkey, watching. As scribe, Thesh equaled in importance the two foremen of the artisans, and was probably the most influential man in the village. He would have dealt with Hormin.
Having unstrung his scribe's kit from its knotted cord, Thesh was instructing a boy in the mixing of ink as the last of the grain was unloaded. Now that the supply men had stopped moving about, several of the women noticed him and gave him curious looks. Kysen held back. Thesh looked up from the papyrus he'd been studying, and his gaze fastened on Kysen at once.
He expected to be beckoned peremptorily to stand before the scribe. Instead, Thesh allowed the papyrus to snap closed. Setting it aside, he held Kysen's gaze, furrowed his brow, then rose and walked over to this newcomer. Kysen felt a stab of apprehension. Thesh couldn't know him. Thesh was new to the village. He'd taken up residence years after Kysen had been sold.
"May the gods protect thee," Thesh said.
Kysen nodded, surprised. Thesh had greeted him as one greets a superior. What had given him away?
The scribe's lips twitched, but he didn't smile. Kysen suspected the man knew he was discomfited.
"I am Seth, servant of the Eyes and Ears of Pharaoh, Friend of the King, the Count Meren."
It seemed the rock cliffs echoed with Kysen's father's name; silence dropped over the crowd beneath the pavilion, shroudlike and startling. He scanned the faces of Thesh and his companions but perceived no fear or guilt, only open surprise. His glance settled on Thesh.
The man had the look of a scribe. His skin wasn't so dark as those who labored continually in the sun. His hands were smooth and uncallused. Eyes bright black with intelligence, he resembled a sleek raven. His nose was straight as the side of a pyramid, as was his back. Kysen noted no slackness of belly or limb, and a certain artistry of face that told him Thesh was accustomed to having a train of women at his back.
Thesh inclined his head, respect to an equal, and Kysen breathed more easily. He had been taken for a servant, the servant of a great man, but a servant. He couldn't delay an explanation any longer.
"The scribe Hormin has been murdered. He was known to have visited this village yesterday, and I have come to inquire about his business and his movements."
Thesh's eyes widened at the news. The women behind him drew closer.
"Murdered?" the scribe asked.
Surprise, but no dismay. Kysen nodded. "In the Place of Anubis." Saving Kysen the trouble, Thesh flicked his hand at the women. They receded, along with the sup Murder in the Place of Anubis 89 ply men, back into the shadows of the village where they could be heard whispering together in the main street. His brow furrowed, Thesh led Kysen to the reed mat. They settled upon it, facing each other.
"Who would do murder in the Place of Anubis?" Thesh asked quietly. "What unnatural carrion would offend the gods in such a manner?"
"You do not ask who would want to kill Hormin."
"One of his family?"
Kysen leaned back, placed his palms flat on the mat, and surveyed Thesh. "What makes you say this?"
"Naught of importance." Thesh's face resumed its humorous lines. "I bethought me that of all the persons who might wish to do him harm, those who were under his hand the most would be the most tempted."
He wouldn't smile, despite the temptation. The clev erness of the answer aroused Kysen's respect.
'Tell me of Hormin and his dealings with the artisans of the Great Place."
"Hormin had permission to build his tomb near the nobles' cemetery, and he'd commissioned work from us."
"And it was about these commissions that he came yesterday?"
Thesh failed to answer at once. He picked up a water pot and poured into the inkwells on his palette. Stirring with a stick to mix the ink, he went on.
"Yesterday was Hormin's day for chasing his concu bine, as you no doubt know."
Kysen said nothing while the scribe placidly stirred black ink, then progressed to the red. Thesh lifted bis head then, and quirked a smile.
"Beltis considers herself to be as great an artisan as the Kaha family or Useramun, the master painter. In the practice of her art, she sometimes visits her parents. In
90 Lynda 5. Robinson order to drive Hormin mad with fear that one of us will catch her eye, or worse, some nobleman. Hormin is- was-a jealous man."
Kysen was about to ask how Thesh knew of this jeal ousy when, over the scribe's shoulder, he saw a woman coming toward them from the houses. She was carrying a tray of food, but moving slowly, as if her legs were filled with sand. She reached the pavilion, knelt, and set the tray between Thesh and Kysen.
Her slow movements had deceived him. She wasn't an old woman, but then neither was she young. She had the wide face of the south, with full lips and a vanishing chin. An unremarkable face set atop a slim body and strong legs. If he had seen her from the back and then from the front, he would have been disillusioned, for the body promised and the face disappointed.
Thesh was pouring beer into cups without looking at the woman. "Seth, servant of Count Meren, this is my wife, Yemyemwah, called Yem."
Kysen nodded to Yem, who ducked her head at him.
"Yem, Hormin has been murdered, and Seth has come to divine his movements yesterday."
Yem's fleshy lips pressed together. "And the woman?"