Eater of souls lm-4 Read online

  Chapter 9

  Sokar was in an even more foul mood than usual. The idiot Min had roused him from sleep, and if this was another instance of the watchman trying to make himself look important by inflating the significance of his discovery, he would miss his rations for two whole months. Stomach swaying, sandals flapping, the chief of watchmen followed his underling to an alley near the area inhabited by foreigners.

  Rounding a corner, Sokar marched into darkness lit only by Min's sputtering torch. To his consternation, two men were already there standing in the shadows near the body. Sokar's face reddened. His stomach and chest inflated, and he barked, "Here! What are you doing? Robbing a corpse, no doubt. Min, arrest these two."

  As he spoke, the two turned to face Sokar. He could hardly make out their features or anything else about them until one stepped into the torchlight. He was big, this one. Sokar was suddenly grateful Min was with him. Furious that this man had intimidated him, Sokar poked a finger in his direction.

  "You, who are you, and what do you here? There will be no robbery of corpses or gawking. Another useless one has been killed in the city. He's probably some country farmer stumbling into a thief, like the others. Min, this foolishness isn't worth my attention. Get rid of the body."

  Sokar glared at Min, but then he looked again at the quiet stranger beside the watchman, caught sight of his scimitar, the horse whip stuck in a bronze and turquoise-beaded belt. A charioteer!

  "Officer," Sokar purred, his stomach deflating. "I didn't know. This is a paltry matter. Please allow me to remove this offal from the street. I beg you, don't let this miserable discovery annoy you." He heard an unknown voice speak quietly.

  "What others?"

  The question had come from the other man still in the shadows, and it irritated Sokar again.

  "Who demands answers of the chief of watchmen? Show yourself."

  The stranger stepped into the torchlight. Sokar's eyes caught the glint of a gold broad collar, wide-shouldered height, cloud-fine linen. Curse his ill luck. This was a nobleman. Wrinkling the skin on his forehead, Sokar noted the obsidian black of the man's hair, brows, and lashes. Their darkness made his skin, a tawny brown, seem lighter than it was.

  He'd seen this man before. Envied those straight brows and that charioteer's frame. As Sokar struggled with his memory, he noted the man's gleaming eyes, the color of fine cedar polished with beeswax. Hollows beneath prominent cheekbones, angular lines to the face, the personal dignity of a pharaoh.

  "Lord Meren!" He'd been gawping at the Eyes of Pharaoh like a baffled donkey. He snarled at Min. "On your knees before the great lord and Friend of the King."

  Sokar grunted as he struggled to the ground and lowered his forehead. "O great lord, forgive this humble servant. I didn't know it was you in the darkness."

  "Tell me, chief of watchmen, do you always make such pronouncements without having seen the victim?"

  Speaking to the ground, Sokar launched into denial, only to be silenced when the Friend of the King stalked over to him.

  "You said this was another useless one killed in the city." The words were said slowly, pronounced clearly, each like the sting of a scorpion. "What others? "

  Sokar stopped breathing. He sensed danger, to himself. If there was one thing at which he was accomplished, it was sensing and wriggling out of danger. He shoved himself upright and sat on the backs of his heels. Then he gave Lord Meren a round-eyed yet humble look.

  "Others, great lord?" Sokar wiped sweat from his upper lip. "Oh, the others. Foolish country visitors who sailed into the wake of thieves. I beg my lord not to disturb himself over such unimportant things. My reports-"

  "Said nothing of murder, said nothing of more than one, and certainly nothing of several that were alike."

  Sokar smiled and bowed even as he shook his head. "Alike, O great one? No, no. Not alike."

  Min lifted his head, his mouth open, but Sokar glared at him, and he quickly put his forehead to the ground. Sokar's smile returned as he again faced Lord Meren, but the nobleman wasn't looking at him. He was watching Min with an intense fierceness Sokar had seen in the eyes of a kestrel as it hovered, heaving into the wind, looking for prey. Sokar heard the voice of his heart grow louder, so that it seemed to inhabit his ears. His stomach began to burn, and the longer Lord Meren studied Min's prostrate figure, the hotter his belly burned.

  Sokar tried to maintain his look of innocence, but Meren wasn't watching him. The great one glanced at his charioteer without saying a word. At that look, the warrior strode over to Sokar, grabbed a pudgy arm, and hauled him to his feet. Sokar was already panting. Now he gasped and quacked.

  "Is aught wrong, O great one? What have I done? I am a man of duty. An honest chief. My lord? Ouch! You're hurting my arm, you great elephant! Oh, did I say elephant? Not elephant, you're a great lion. Please, let me go. I must defend myself to the great one."

  Sokar kept looking over his shoulder as the charioteer dragged him down the alley. Before he was hauled away,

  Sokar glimpsed the two men left behind. To his amazement, Lord Meren bent down on one knee in the dirt and spoke to the wretched Min. Min sat up, his gaze fixed on the ground, until the Eyes of Pharaoh said something. Min's head shot up, his mouth rounded in an exclamation. He directed an astonished and amused look at Sokar. Lord Meren said something else, and Min began to grin. In that grin, Sokar glimpsed his own ruin.

  Dawn brought silver light pouring into the streets like mist on the Nile. After getting rid of Lord Reshep, Kysen had summoned charioteers to accompany him to the alley Tcha said held the dead man, the Hittite royal emissary. Meren was pacing beside the body while Abu took down notes on this evening's events. Charioteers blocked access to the alley while others questioned the inhabitants of the homes along it.

  He didn't want to think about the consequences of Mugallu's death. Better to ask why a prince would be abroad so late in a foreign city, especially the capital of his master's greatest enemy. Better to ask why no one, as far as the charioteers could discover, had heard the attack. Better to ask Tcha why it had been he who had stumbled upon the grisly display.

  Tcha squatted in a corner, trying to be inconspicuous. Kysen kept an eye on him while he scoured the alley for any sign or mark left by the killer. It was a passage formed by the back and side walls of five houses. Four of the five had several floors that rose high above Kysen's head like blank-faced cliffs. The fifth, at the intersection of the alley and a street, had only three floors. None of the walls had windows. It would be difficult to hear any noise coming from the alley unless it was a scream.

  It was an alley like thousands in Memphis-a narrow walk formed by accident when citizens added on to their houses generation after generation. And like those others that led nowhere, it had been used as a dumping place. Pieces of dried fish, broken pottery, goat dung, shreds of old baskets, littered the ground. Certain ripe piles announced by their scent that this was a favorite place to throw the contents of chamber pots, which sat beneath seats with holes in them. Kysen avoided one such pile, only to be forced to hop over cat dung.

  As he landed, he noticed an imprint in earth made moist by the liquid from a chamber pot-a sandal. Trying to breathe through his mouth, Kysen squatted to examine the print. It was a long impression, longer than his own foot, and narrow, like a messenger's ship. And there was something peculiar about it. Kysen studied the foot-shaped imprint for a few moments before he realized he couldn't see the parallel striations of reed or the impressions of palm fiber. This sandal had been made of leather.

  Rising, Kysen glanced at Mugallu's body, which was being lifted onto a litter. The man was barefoot. The soles of his feet were caked with filth. He looked at the imprint again. Most ordinary Egyptians couldn't afford leather sandals, and those who could didn't usually wear them in the streets. They or a servant might carry them to a destination before they would be put to use. If they were worn in the streets and one stepped in messes such as the one at Kysen's feet, s
andals fell apart. He signaled to Turobay, called Turo, one of the charioteers who was also trained in drawing.

  "Make a drawing of this impression." He didn't have to give any other instruction. Turo would copy the imprint using measurements and capturing every detail.

  Mugallu's body was carried past, on its way to the house pharaoh had assigned for the prince's use while he was in Memphis. A linen sheet covered the body and concealed the dried cavern of flesh where the Hittite's heart had been. The feather Meren had found sticking out of the wound was hidden in a wicker box sitting beside Abu.

  Kysen joined his father as Meren finished his notes and fell silent, staring at the litter and its defiled occupant as it left the alley. Although he appeared as calm as usual, Kysen detected a slight pallor in the delicate, finely lined skin above the eyelids. No one else would have seen it, nor would anyone have understood why Meren had removed a bracelet to rub his inner wrist.

  Meren caught him staring, and Kysen looked away, at the place where Mugallu had lain. "He didn't fight much, for a Hittite. The blood is mostly in one area."

  "The attacker struck his head first," Meren replied, but he seemed to be thinking of something else. "It was like a battle injury."

  Kysen nodded. "You mean the chest wound. Not from a knife or a dagger."

  "Hacked, like blows from a war ax, only done after Mugallu had been stunned or knocked senseless."

  They fell silent as each recalled the wound and its white ornament, and what had been missing. Was poor Tcha right? Had Eater of Souls come from the netherworld to deliver judgment to the living instead of the dead? Kysen was suddenly glad daylight had come.

  "What are we going to do?" he asked. "You say this is only one of several like murders."

  "Yes, according to the watchman, Min."

  "Remember what Tcha said?"

  Meren turned to face him and gripped his shoulder. "I haven't forgotten, but I must go to pharaoh. The divine one must be told of Mugallu's murder. You will have to send someone to the office of the watch to question Sokar, find whatever records he may have kept, find the victims if possible. Use every man, Ky. We have to find this evil one quickly, before the king of the Hittites decides to use this murder as an excuse for war."

  "But what if the killer isn't a man?" Kysen whispered.

  "Whom can we trust?" Meren countered. "Such evil needs a powerful magician and lector priest. Magicians aren't known for keeping their mouths shut, and the city is already uneasy."

  "What about Nebamun?" Kysen asked.

  "More physician than magician."

  Kysen said, "The chief lector priest at the temple of Ptah is a rattle-mouth."

  "I don't trust the ones with great skill, not those in the city. Not even the priests of Anubis." Meren sighed and frowned at the bracelet that covered the scar on his wrist. "No one… no one except…"

  "Who?"

  "Ebana."

  "Ebana!"

  "Shhh!"

  Meren grabbed Kysen's arm and pulled him nearer. "He was a lector priest and magician before he was appointed to serve with the high priest of Amun."

  "By the soul of Isis, Father. Ebana hates you."

  "He's my cousin. He saved my life."

  "He has promised to make you pay for the killing of his family, and you had nothing to do with it."

  "He thinks I could have stopped Akhenaten from sending those assassins. No, Ky, you don't understand Ebana. He hates me because he hates himself for not being there to protect his wife and son."

  "That makes no sense," Kysen snapped. "Please, don't send for him. He'll only try to hurt you in some way."

  "He and the other priests of Amun have promised a truce with the king. That extends to Friends of the King."

  "And of course, you trust their word." Watching his father closely, he saw Meren's shoulders slump.

  "You're right, Ky." Meren gave him a rueful smile. "This is no time to try to deal with Ebana."

  "Good. I was beginning to think you'd send for Bentanta too."

  "That isn't amusing."

  Lady Bentanta was a childhood friend of Meren's, a woman who seemed to be able to create vast discomfort in his father. After seeing her a few weeks ago at his country house, Meren was avoiding her.

  "If you've left off baiting me, my son?"

  "Yes, Father."

  "I'll think of someone to purge this place of evil before I go to the palace. You'll have to attend Mugallu's escort, General Labarnas, and then trace what is known of these other murders.

  "And Ky-" Meren was looking at Tcha, who was still crouched in his corner looking dirty and miserable.

  "Yes, Father?"

  "Go home first and put on your amulets of protection."

  The overseer of the Audience Hall controlled access to pharaoh. His lineage was said to extend back to the rulers of the delta before the Two Lands became one. Called Userhet, he was of an age to be pharaoh's grandfather, steeped in dignity and knowledge of protocol, and impossible to coerce. He had been at court since the years in which pharaoh's father had earned the name Amunhotep the Magnificent. Thick, furry eyebrows dominated his face in spite of his wedge of a nose. A mane of silver hair was receding toward the crown of his head except at the spot over the middle of his forehead. This pattern made his forehead seem higher than it was.

  Userhet wore sandals with specially padded soles so that the hours he spent standing in front of doors that gave access to the king wouldn't ruin his feet. Known for his aversion to children, youths, and young maidens, he had the habit of keeping dried chickpeas in a beaded pouch suspended from his belt. If a noble child became too boisterous, he would pelt the offender with a chickpea. Despite his years, the overseer retained much of his strength. It was put to use occasionally when a rowdy courtier disturbed the serenity of the palace or when Userhet was called upon to eject some unfortunate who incurred pharaoh's wrath. Courtiers and government officials alike feared him.

  At the same time, they sought his goodwill, assuming that he could-if he pleased-get them past whatever closed door barred their way and into the sacred presence of the king. Userhet had never denied the truth of this assumption; neither had he affirmed it. He simply let the assumption remain and the rumors of his influence sail around the court.

  At the moment the overseer had taken up his position before a door in the massive walls surrounding one of the royal pleasure gardens behind the palace. Outside the walls, courtiers walked up and down paths lined with incense trees, palms, and sycamores. The royal bodyguard lined the entire perimeter of the garden. Userhet leaned on his staff of office and patiently listened to Prince Djoser and Lord Reshep.

  Djoser had been born into a family famed for its warrior pharaohs, but having failed as a warrior, he had acquired a desire to insert himself into pharaoh's most intimate circle. Obtaining royal access for Reshep was but his latest step toward his goal of being seen as a man of power. How Reshep would further Djoser's aspirations was a mystery to Userhet. Perhaps the prince expected the man to use his fabled charm on pharaoh for Djoser's benefit.

  Userhet was good at listening to noble outrage and entreaty; he could do it for hours. Such endurance wasn't usually necessary, but in Djoser's case, Userhet's stamina was being severely tested. His patience was failing; the prince was making the mistake of whining. Userhet detested whiners.

  "Why, why why?" Djoser moaned. "I was to be allowed into the presence of the divine one at this very hour."

  "Thine is the voice of truth, O prince," the overseer said without moving away from the door he blocked.

  Lord Reshep sighed. "Tell him who I am."

  "I know who you are, Lord Reshep. No one may enter."

  Lord Reshep engaged in a staring battle with Userhet. Userhet won when Reshep turned away to whisper something to Djoser. Djoser squinted at the older man.

  "Has anyone bribed you to keep me from the king?"

  Userhet had been resting most of his weight on his staff; now he drew himself up as
straight as this sign of office and turned his back on the two men. Walking to the double doors of the garden wall, he placed his back to the sheet gold covering them and banged the staff three times against the ground.

  "All here present harken to the words of The Living Horus: Strong Bull, Arisen in truth; Gold-Horus: Great of strength, Smiter of Asiatics, the King of Upper and Lower Egypt: Nebkheprure Tutankhamun; the Son of Ra, Tutankhamun, Lord of Thebes, beloved of Amun. It pleases my heart to hold no audiences for the remainder of the morning." Userhet pounded the staff again. "Thus saith the living Horus, Nebkheprure Tutankhamun, beloved of Ptah, beloved of Amun, given life forever and ever."

  Djoser reddened, and he muttered something.

  "Forgive my aged lack of hearing, O mighty prince," said the overseer. "Did you address me?"

  Fists clenched, Djoser walked up to Userhet. "I'll tell you what I said."

  Lord Reshep, who had gone pale rather than red, grabbed Djoser's arm and pulled him away. They hovered nearby, brushing against a rare incense tree and causing some of its branches to break. Userhet watched them hiss and whisper to each other while he fingered the chickpeas in the pouch on his belt.

  The overseer was debating the consequences of pelting Prince Djoser and Lord Reshep when the stream of promenading courtiers before him on the path began to undulate to the left and right. Someone was coming, someone whose progress made even generals and ministers give way.

  Moments later Userhet saw a gleaming black wig surrounding the harsh features of Lord Meren, Eyes and Ears of Pharaoh, Friend of the King. Meren paused to speak to General Nakhtmin, then proceeded on his way.

  His progress was halted by Djoser. Reshep was nowhere to be seen. Userhet stared straight ahead, but he directed his attention to the two and tried his best to hear what they were saying. Djoser was standing in Meren's way.

  "Why have you refused Reshep for your daughter?" Prince Djoser demanded.

  For a brief moment Lord Meren's composure slipped, and Userhet witnessed astonished outrage quickly mastered. Meren stared at the prince with indignation of such majesty that had Userhet been its recipient, he would have skulked away and hidden for a century. Evidently Djoser lacked Userhet's sensitive qualities, for he repeated his question. By now a few courtiers had paused to listen, and even more were directing their steps in circles that kept them within hearing distance. Meren resolved the confrontation in his characteristic way. He drew close to the prince and began whispering to him. As he spoke, Djoser went pale. Sweat broke out on his forehead and dribbled into his eye paint. The muscles of his neck writhed as he tried to swallow. Meren drew back, gave the prince a sweet, endearing smile, and continued on his way. Djoser was left standing alone looking sick, staring at Meren's back, his arms limp at his sides.