The words had been said in a flat, dull voice, and yet Kysen felt the eagerness with which she awaited the answer. This woman longed for the death of Beltis the concubine. Kysen immediately glanced at Thesh, who had paused in the middle of the act of presenting a cup to Kysen. His hand remained suspended, and Kysen could see his fingers tighten around the rim until the flesh turned white.
"What woman?" Kysen asked.
'The whore."
"Yem!"
"Mean you the concubine?" Kysen asked, taking the cup from Thesh.
Again Yem nodded.
"Only Hormin has been murdered. Do you know anything pertaining to Horrnin and his doings, mistress?"
Yem darted a look at her husband. Thesh was trying not to glare at her. He snatched a loaf of bread from the tray and ripped it in half. The violence with which he did so betrayed him, and he seemed to realize it. He dropped the bread and waved at Yem in dismissal. As she rose, Kysen lifted his hand.
"A moment, mistress, to answer my question."
"I know naught but that she came here to see her par ents yesterday, and then he came for her and they fought. The whole village knew this. It is a game she plays. Beltis plays many-games. I saw him rushing down the main street carrying a small wicker box under his arm, a bribe, no doubt, to get her home. They had one of their donkey-braying arguments. She could make the pillars of a temple go deaf. The fighting stopped, and I never saw them again, for I had bread to bake and spinning to complete."
"My thanks, mistress."
Yem bowed and left them, slogging her way toward the houses as if she waded through a sea of mud. Kysen settled himself more comfortably, leaning part of his weight on his arm, picked up a chunk of bread, and lifted a brow at Thesh. The scribe took a sip of his beer, but when Kysen merely took a bite of his bread rather than launching into accusations, he sighed.
"I told you Beltis considered herself an artisan."
Kysen's gaze never faltered, and Thesh cleared his throat.
"Yem is a good woman, but we haven't been blessed by the gods with children, and Yem is unhappy. We're both unhappy. Beltis is all laughter and fire and-"
"Did you have her yesterday?"
Thesh shook his head. "He came, just as Yem said. I could tell when she arrived that this was one of those times when she had other matters to attend to. He followed her here and they fought, as Yem said. After they reconciled, Hormin came to see me to have payments recorded to the account of the painter Useramun and to one of the sculptors. Then they went with Woser to see his tomb. I never saw them after that."
"And who were those among you who dealt with Hormin?"
"Beltis's parents of course, and the men who de signed and built his tomb. Woser the draftsman and Useramun the master painter saw him the most."
"And did they deal well together?"
"Hormin never dealt well with anyone. He tormented poor Woser, who would rather be a dung carrier than a draftsman, and of course he hated Useramun."
Thesh stopped, flushed, and directed his gaze at the cliffs. — "Why?"
The scribe shook his head. "This is a question for the painter."
"It is a question for you, and 1 do not ask it to exercise my lips."
The snap in Kysen's voice caused Thesh to glance at him in surprise. Their gazes locked, and although Thesh was the older man, he looked away first.
"Useramun is not only a master painter. He is a man of pleasing appearance, one who does not mind risking his hide if his pleasure is furthered."
"Are you telling me that the concubine deliberately came here to drive Hormin into a fit wondering if she was with you or Useramun?"
"I am still well, and so is Useramun. If he had more than suspicions, no doubt he would have ruined both of us. I have always believed Hormin thought Beltis was teasing him. He didn't have respect for her, for any woman, and never would have thought her clever enough to deceive him. Hormin was a fool."
"Perhaps," Kysen said.
He placed his cup on the tray and rose. Thesh did as well.
"I must remain here at least one night so that I may question all those you have mentioned."
"I am honored to offer my house for your comfort," Thesh said. "But surely we are not suspected of this villainy."
Kysen had his usual reply ready, but before he could speak, three people emerged from the village gate. His eye caught the movement, and he looked over Thesh's shoulder. A youth and two men. One old, two young. The old man moved slowly, his joints swollen, his progress aided by a walking stick. The sun gleamed off his bald head, and as he neared the pavilion Kysen could see the gray bristles of an unshaven beard.
The younger man next to him glanced at Thesh and Kysen curiously, and Kysen caught his breath. The face of his father stared back at him. Almond-shaped eyes with the shine of marble, plinthlike chin, unsmiling mouth. It was his brother Ramose. Who else could it be? Which meant that the other was Hesire and the unkempt old relic at his side was… Pawero.
Kysen jerked as Thesh touched his arm. "What? What say you?"
"Do you wish to speak with them? Talking to Pawero will be of little help. His health is bad, and he does little work now. Ramose and his brother Hesire are taking him to his farm south of the city. I can stop them."
"No." Kysen stopped, for he'd answered too quickly and too sharply. "No doubt they will return before I leave. Unless they had intimate dealings with Hormin, I will wait."
"No, they barely knew him, I think."
"Then, if you will conduct me to the man called Woser, I will see him next."
Thesh murmured his assent, and they left the shade of the pavilion. Before they reached the village gate, Kysen turned and glanced at his family. They hadn't recognized him. He was uncertain how he felt about that. The rest of his thoughts were confused, for the man who had loomed in his nightmares as a netherworld fiend was, in truth, a wrinkled, bent old wreck.
8
Meren jumped from his chariot, snapped an order to his driver to remain in the shade of a palm at the edge of the market, and began to thread his way toward the Street of the Ibex. His fury at Bakwerner's murder had cooled somewhat. He had no doubt that the scribe had been killed because of some secret knowledge. And he had little doubt that someone had been threatened by that knowledge, most likely someone in Hormin's family. But perhaps not; perhaps the visit to Hormin's family had been happenstance.
Meren's lips tightened as he remembered how little they'd learned from searching the area around the pile of ostraca. The packed earth yard had yielded no trace of the passage of Bakwerner or his murderer. The killer had left no signs at all when he vanished into the evening crowds.
Two murders. A killer who murdered swiftly, who dared the vengeance of the gods and the king. A killer who must be stopped before someone else died.
He saw the Street of the Ibex ahead, its intersection marked by an obelisk so old that the raised edges of its hieroglyphs were blurring. At a corner, in the shade of a broad stall, lounged one of his servants. The man saw him, glanced at the open door of a tavern, and came to meet him.
"Lord, the large brother is in the tavern. He came di rectly from the house."
"Did he see you? No, never mind getting offended. He didn't see you." Meren forced his sour temper away and gave the servant a smile and nod. "Well done. You may go home and rest."
"But, lord, I should accompany-"
"Gods, man! I need no nursemaid."
"Aye, lord, but-"
"Belabor me no longer," Meren said. "Have my charioteer follow. At a distance, mind you. That should satisfy your duty."
The man's furrowed brow smoothed and he retreated, bowing.
Meren had already forgotten the servant before he left. Perhaps Imsety was having a midday meal. If he didn't come out of the tavern soon, he would go in. He'd worn a simple headcloth and leather belt and no armbands to mark him as a noble or warrior. In the jostling crowds they wouldn't notice him.