Thesh brought him to the Great Place by the work men's route over the cliffs that bordered western Thebes. The path arced into the royal valley down three stone steps bounded by a wall on one side and a guardpost on the other. Past the steps he entered the realm of the dead, guarded by the royal necropolis police, the medjay, and by the gods themselves. The valley held hundreds of royal tombs, but also, at its center, living huts and warehouses containing supplies for the workers such as food, pigments, copper chisels, and the oil and wicks used to light the interior of the tombs.
Once on the valley floor, Kysen beheld an array of V-shaped channels filled in part with flints and debris from the slopes above. Into the sides of these channels were cut entrance shafts to tombs. None of them were for the living god, Tutankhamun; the king was young and there was plenty of time in which to plan his house of eternity.
Kysen had spent the remainder of the day talking with four men who had dealt with Hormin in the making of his tomb, only to find that they had been in the Great Place on the night of the murder. The artisans worked in shifts, eating and sleeping in the huts in the center of the valley, guarded by the medjay. Of those who knew Hormin, only Thesh, Useramun, and Woser had been in the village two nights ago.
Shoving away from the wall on which he leaned, Kysen turned to find Thesh staring at him. In that fleeting moment he perceived apprehension, which enhanced the faint laugh lines at the corners of the scribe's eyes. Then the lines smoothed and Thesh smiled at him.
"Have you rested from the journey? The trip to the Great Place is arduous for those not accustomed to desert travel."
Kysen set his beer cup on the top of the wall and re turned Thesh's smile. "Much rested, I thank you. And now I would see this master painter, Useramun."
"Before we go, I must tell you that Beltis has come back."
Concealing his surprise, Kysen glanced over his shoulder to the street below. He could see two serving women carrying a water jar between them, and several men returning to their homes for the evening. No Beltis.
"She came while you were washing," Thesh said. "If you hadn't been inside, you would have seen her procession. Beltis enters the village as if she were a princess appearing on a feast day."
"I will speak to her as well." Kysen passed Thesh on his way to the stairs that led from the roof to the street along the outside of the house.
Thesh followed him. "Do not be surprised if she finds you before you come to her."
"Why?" Kysen paused at the top of the stairs.
Cocking his head to the side, Thesh pursed his lips in the first sign of ill humor Kysen had seen in him.
"Beltis never allows a possible admirer to languish in the depravation of her presence."
A typical scribe's answer-delicate, circuitous, and nasty. Kysen grinned at Thesh.
"You would set me on my guard."
Thesh merely lifted a brow. It was all the answer Kysen was going to receive, so he turned and descended the stairs, stepping into the blackening shadows of the street. A long line of open doorways stretched before him. Wavering light from oil lamps offered some relief from the darkness. Thesh stepped to his side and ges tured to a house opposite his own.
A few steps brought them into the bright glow issuing from the house. Kysen remembered little of Useramun except his brilliance as a painter. The older boy had always seemed to have his nose nudging the tip of a reed brush. The glow from the house increased as they approached. Kysen blinked and realized that Useramun had to have lit dozens of lamps to create such radiance. Thesh opened his mouth to call out a greeting, but Kysen put a hand on his forearm, silencing him. A querulous voice was speaking.
"You sent him away on purpose." The voice was young, and cracked with the strain of adolescence.
A second voice, lilting and low, answered. "Abjure me not, you petulant colt. The master painter of the temple of Ptah offered him a place. Was I to deny him the opportunity to work in so high a station?"
"You sent him away because he was my friend!"
The second voice chided softly. "By Hathor's tits, Geb, you've grown into a nagging bitch."
Kysen waited, but there was no retort. He glanced at Thesh and noted with amusement that the scribe's face had reddened. He released his hold, and Thesh called out a greeting. They were bidden to enter.
Stepping into the common room, Kysen squinted at the dazzling light. Whitewashed walls reflected brilliance, and on every one of them glowing scenes of wildlife and the countryside that turned the room into a fantasy. Kysen glimpsed a vignette of a reflection pool with the fish darting through azure waters. To his left waterfowl sprang from a marsh, startled into flight by a hunter armed with a throw stick. Every feather, every line was executed with vibrant mastery. Suddenly Kysen knew, without doubt, that he was in the presence of unparalleled skill. Now he remembered more of Useramun-even the master painters had held him in awe.
A youth bowed to them and scuttled out of their way to reveal a man who rose from a cushion set between two of the myriad tall lampstands that cast daylike brightness on the room. The man came forward, stopping in front of Kysen, and chuckled. Goose bumps formed on Kysen's arms. He'd heard such a laugh before-one filled with concupiscent anticipation. He'd heard it at court, among noblemen about whom his father took care to warn him. At once wary and intrigued, Kysen felt a tension within his body he usually only felt in the royal palace or in the manors of certain princes. That chuckle came again, and before Thesh could speak the man before Kysen stepped closer.
"The servant of the Eyes and Ears of Pharaoh, life, prosperity, and health to thee." Useramun's gaze trailed viscously over Kysen. "Especially health."
"Useramun!" Thesh hissed at his neighbor.
Never had Kysen been so grateful for Meren's schooling in the ways of the imperial court. He mastered the impulse to draw his dagger. He wasn't wearing it anyway. Instead, he regarded the painter solemnly. Though Useramun moved closer, so close that he could feel the heat of the man's body, he remained where he was. At the last moment, just as Kysen was losing the battle with his control, Useramun veered around him, circled, and came to rest in front of him again.
He was still far too close. Finally Kysen allowed himself to react. He lifted his brows and widened his eyes in an expression of disbelieving astonishment at this trespass. He heard another soft laugh, and Useramun stepped back out of striking range.
Kysen's voice cut through the sound. "I give you leave to address me by name. I am Seth."
"Seth," Useramun murmured, "god of chaos and tur bulence. Has the name given you restlessness? Are you of a perturbed and dissolute spirit, like your namesake?"
"Goat's dung!" Thesh loomed at the painter's side, spitting his words. "Curb that lewd tongue of yours before you invite the cane and the whip. This is a royal servant, not some guileless apprentice."
Useramun gave the scribe not a glance, but continued to examine Kysen as he would a sacrificial bull. Kysen stared back at the man, who was of an even height with him. The painter was one of those men whom the gods had filled to the brim with sensuality. High cheekbones, drew one's gaze to his eyes, which burned like molten obsidian. His lower lip was fuller than the upper, giving his face an expression of readiness, of utter willingness.
Kysen fought the urge to curl his fingers into fists. The fool had deliberately taunted him, secure in the knowledge that his person was as beautiful as his paintings. He'd risked a beating, at the least. Perhaps he was as enamored of risk and danger as he was of attempted seduction.
Thesh was chattering to him. "And he isn't usually so insolent." The scribe glared at the painter, who was still staring at Kysen. "Beltis's arrival has discomposed him."