Eater of souls lm-4 Read online

  While he and the prince exchanged formal salutations, Meren summoned every skill he'd ever used to survive the crocodile trap that was the Egyptian court. Mugallu wasn't simply an emissary. Judging from his behavior so far, he was a trial, a challenge, a probing stick sent to jab at pharaoh's suspected weaknesses. And worse. Mugallu could be in Memphis to search for an ally, someone willing to betray Egypt, for a price.

  At this thought Meren's lips curled in disgust, but he forced them into a smile of tranquil welcome. "Shall we sit and talk, highness? You must be weary after spending all day conferring with the Divine Father Ay."

  "Indeed," Mugallu said as he surveyed the men behind Meren. His gaze settled on Reshep, who bore it with an aplomb worthy of pharaoh.

  Reshep stepped forward, lifting his hands in greeting as he spoke. "I am Lord Reshep-"

  "By the storm god, Meren, do all your nobles dress like women and oil themselves like catamites?" Mugallu asked. He left Reshep standing alone, his mouth hanging open, and walked toward the aft steering castle.

  Meren heard a growl and thrust his arm out in time to stop Prince Rahotep from hurling himself on top of the Hittite.

  "Get out of my way!" Rahotep snarled. "He insulted us all, not just Reshep."

  Shoving his body against the straining prince, Meren hissed, "Cease at once. He wants you to take offense, you fool."

  Reshep had recovered from the insult and grabbed one of Prince Rahotep's arms.

  "Temper the heat in your belly, my friend. There are other ways to avenge oneself."

  "Listen to him," Meren said as Rahotep refused to give up the struggle.

  Djoser grabbed Rahotep's other arm while Kysen intervened to try to calm his friend. With Rahotep tethered, Meren left the group and quickly followed Mugallu aft. There, where the ship began to curve up out of the water, lay a gilded pavilion. A curved roof supported by slender columns with lotus capitals provided shelter. Openwork carving formed walls around three sides and showed Hapu, god of the Nile. Mugallu stood beneath the gold-painted roof and contemplated one of the two massive steering oars, now immobile and untended with the ship docked.

  "Such a calm river," Mugallu said as Meren joined him in looking across the black water. "The Nile spoils you Egyptians. You're complacent, pampered by its abundance." Mugallu glanced at Meren. "Soft."

  Meren leaned against one of the columns and held Mugallu's gaze. "Walk along the bank, highness, and you'll find that this tranquillity hides danger. One careless move, and you're meat for crocodiles."

  "I've spoken to Ay; rather, Ay has tried for hours to placate me," Mugallu said. He resumed his contemplation of the Nile. "Ay is wise and possesses a honeyed tongue, but your child-king ruined all his work by refusing to see me again when Ay asked to be received."

  Meren felt his skin prickle, and his hearing seemed to grow more acute. Mugallu's belligerent expression had vanished. His brows arched, and he was trying not to smirk.

  "The divine one rarely sees emissaries twice. He consents to allow negotiations, but ordinary business is not for the living god."

  The Hittite's smirk contorted. "I'm not ordinary business! By the storm god, I hate coming to this land, with its arrogance, its lazy preoccupation with itself. You"- Mugallu paused to run his gaze over Meren's immaculate figure, the jeweled belt, the transparent linen that revealed long legs-"you… nobles. You're pampered, oiled toys of pharaoh, and yet you're stuffed with pride. Every son of a jackal bitch is certain that Egypt is the chosen kingdom of the gods. I know what you call the rest of us. Barbarians, wretched Asiatics."

  "And what do you call us?" Meren asked as he studied Mugallu beneath half-closed eyelids.

  The Hittite didn't respond. His fingers curled until he'd made fists, and Meren watched him struggle with his temper. Finally the wrath distorting his features dwindled.

  "Don't you think King Suppiluliumas knows about your dead heretic king and the misery he caused? Egypt is weak, ridden with old hatreds that have set brother against brother." Mugallu paused. "Cousin against cousin."

  Meren stared straight into the Hittite's watchful eyes. "Are you trying to say something about me and my cousin Ebana, highness?"

  "You?" Mugallu leaned on the pavilion railing and shook his head. "Why should I say anything about you, the Eyes and Ears of Pharaoh? Even in Hatti we know the power and influence of the King's Friend, Lord Meren. Tell me, do you think, even with all your skill at spying and plotting, that you and General Horemheb and the rest can hold Egypt together long enough for your boy-king to grow up?"

  "Do you question the might of Egypt, highness?" Meren asked softly. "I don't think your master is quite ready to challenge a pharaoh at the moment, even a young one."

  Standing, Mugallu gave him a smile that recalled the yawn of a sated hippo. The Hittite gazed across the deck and nodded at the crowd surrounding one of the professional singers.

  "At home we waste little time singing of the pleasures of life. It makes a warrior soft. Instead, we sing of battle and victory."

  "We sing of such things as well," Meren said.

  "And we tell tales of great battles."

  "Like those of Thutmose the Conqueror, who spread the empire to the verge of the Hittite lands?" Meren was exaggerating, but Mugallu was beginning to irritate him.

  The prince didn't answer. Turning his back on the revelers, he took a step closer to Meren and lowered his voice.

  "I remember a tale, a favorite of the great king, concerning one of his royal ancestors. This king of the Hittites had an enemy, the prince of a rich and powerful city with a great army. This prince looted and destroyed several Hittite villages and refused to return the people he'd taken from them. Of course, the great king had to retaliate. Do you know what he did first, to weaken the prince?"

  "You will tell me, won't you?"

  Mugallu threw back his head and laughed so loudly that heads turned toward them.

  "Yes, I'll tell you."

  Mugallu leaned closer to Meren, who still had his back against a column and couldn't move away. The Hittite was so close Meren could smell the spice bread he'd eaten and the stale wine on his breath.

  "To weaken the prince," Mugallu said, "the great king struck not at the enemy himself but at the friend of his heart, his most trusted adviser and confidant."

  Meren breathed a comment. "Ah." And he surveyed Mugallu with tranquil composure.

  "With his friend dead, the prince was beset with grief, distraught, unable to trust his own decisions without the approval of the beloved friend. He grew weak in battle."

  Mugallu stepped back but kept his gaze fixed on Meren. "Naturally the great king defeated the prince, cut his head off, and stuck it on the end of a spear, which he mounted on the royal chariot when he returned home, triumphant."

  "A good tale," Meren said in a bored tone.

  "I thought you would value it."

  Meren lifted himself up and perched on the pavilion railing. "Not one an Egyptian would tell, though."

  "Oh?"

  "No. You see, highness, Egypt is ruled by a living god, not a mere king. As the son of the great god Amun, pharaoh is wise beyond his years. We who serve him do his bidding. Never has a servant substituted his will for pharaoh's, and the living god relies on the guidance of Amun, king of the gods. So you see, your tale is entertaining, but hardly fitting for Egypt."

  The Hittite scowled at Meren. "Perhaps I'll recall another before I return home, but I think this one fits, no matter the divine heritage of King Tutankhamun."

  "Would you like more wine, highness?"

  Mugallu lifted a hand in protest. "I've had enough, and I'm weary. Don't escort me off the ship, Lord Meren. I've had sufficient ceremony for one day."

  "May your sleep be peaceful, highness."

  "I always sleep peacefully," Mugallu said as he left. "I only hope I haven't given you black dreams with my tale of the death of the prince's friend."

  On the second night after the feast on Joy of the Nile, Ky
sen walked down the Street of Foreigners, feeling more at ease in his heart than he had in weeks. Meren had embarked on his journey to find Queen Nefertiti's favorite cook, but Abu was following him. If anyone could protect his father, it was Abu. Still, a dagger of uneasiness pricked at him as he dodged two drunk Cypriot sailors.

  After the family had gone home from the feast, Meren had been different. No longer distracted and anxious, his father had been furious. The Eyes of Pharaoh rarely showed anger, not unless by design. Mugallu had said something to Meren in the golden ship's pavilion, something that had so provoked his father's wrath that he'd been unable to conceal it in the seclusion of his home.

  Bener had whispered to Kysen about the change in his mood when Meren had spoken sharply to a porter at the front door. Even Isis had noticed Meren's rage, between lyrics of praise for Lord Reshep. True, the reason she'd noticed was that Meren snapped at her to leave off bleating about a lord who thought he was prettier than she was. But she'd noticed.

  "Some new intrigue of Mugallu's has irritated him."

  Kysen muttered to himself. "May the gods curse all Hittites."

  He abandoned his musings when he reached the intersection of the Street of Foreigners with the Avenue of the Ibis. He was still near the docks and could hear the calls of water birds and an occasional hippo's roar and feel the moisture of the Nile in the air. But the place he sought was at the edge of the dock district, near the area where Mycenaean Greek traders, ship captains, and sailors lived. If he kept walking and turned down any of the side streets toward the docks, he'd immediately step into a realm few ordinary citizens braved at night.

  Everyone called it the Caverns, after the Caverns of Duat in the netherworld. There ferocious god-fiends guarded the afterlife, ready to destroy an unprepared soul. Their names-Breaker of Bones, Eater of Intestines, He-Whose-Two-Eyes-Are-on-Fire-described horrors every Egyptian feared. In the Caverns of Memphis, thieves, receivers of smuggled luxuries, and evildoers from Egypt's far-flung possessions and her own cities lived and pursued strange and distasteful occupations.

  As a boy Kysen had been outraged when he discovered the existence of the Caverns. But Meren had shrugged and said that there had always been chaos in the midst of harmony, and that Egypt was fortunate that the god of disorder, Set, ruled over so small a kingdom within the imperial capital. Besides, where else could common men go for entertainment?

  Kysen had grown up since asking that question, and now he frequented the Caverns for his own purposes. Nowhere could one hear fresher rumors of corruption, bribery, abuse, and murder. Gossip in the Caverns was more efficient and sometimes more accurate than a royal messenger. Kysen smiled as he approached the tavern and rest house called the Divine Lotus. Its owner, the woman Ese, was the font of all gossip, rumor, and scandal. If she was in a tolerant mood this evening, he might persuade her to make inquiries about the former intimate servants of Nefertiti.

  Here in the shadowed world of thieves, dishonest government underlings, whores, and murderers, he went by another name, Nen. Nen was supposed to be the sixth son of the assistant to the steward of a minor noble. As one of eight children, he had little wealth but a taste for luxuries he'd seen at the household where his father worked, no matter how they were obtained. In the Caverns he was known as a clever and easygoing lover of idleness. Everyone knew Nen's time was spent designing clever schemes by which he would profit with as little labor as possible. Outlaws, cheaters, and the corrupt felt at ease with him.

  As he set his foot on the step before the threshold of the Divine Lotus, a dirty, sweat-stained body hurtled into him. Kysen fell back against the wall beside the door, the wind knocked out of him. He gulped in air, and with it whiffs of a sickly sweet odor that spoke of months without bathing. Few men smelled like a wet oxhide that had been covered with tallow and baked under a hot sky; the whining shriek that assailed his ears confirmed the figure's identity.

  "Tcha, get off me!"

  The thief uttered a hyena's yelp, missed his footing on the steps, and fell on his ass in the street. Kysen would have left him there, but Tcha squeezed his eyes shut, covered his head with his arms, and burst out with a spell.

  "I am the chosen one, I am the chosen one whose name is unknown! If a creature of the water open his mouth to strike, I speak my name. I speak my name, and the water boils. Evil is destroyed, evil is destroyed!"

  "By my ka," Kysen said. "Are you cursing me, you sniveling teller of tales?"

  Tcha lifted his head so that two slanted eyes like wet nabk berries peered over his arm. "Master! It is you." Tcha untied the knot he'd made of his body and scrambled to his feet. Glancing over his shoulder every few moments, he hurried over to Kysen, bowing and bobbing.

  "You've stolen something valuable, haven't you?" Kysen said.

  Tcha was Kysen's oldest, and one of his most useful, acquaintances in the Caverns, and the only one who knew who Kysen really was. Almost a year ago he'd fished the thief out of a work gang to which he'd been condemned and arranged for his crimes to be forgiven in exchange for guidance into life here. Now they saw each other infrequently, but Tcha knew that Kysen could find him. He also knew what would happen to him should he reveal what he knew of his benefactor to anyone.

  "Tcha never steals, O great master. Everyone thinks I'm a miserable thief, just because I never had no fine house, no fertile fields, no good bread nor beer nor linen robes nor-"

  "Tcha, close your mouth."

  "Yes, O great master, giver of bounty, gracious of heart, divine of beauty-"

  "I said no more!" Kysen again turned to enter the tavern, but Tcha started to follow him, bringing the thief close enough for him to get another noseful of his incomparable odor. "Gods deliver me from your foul smell, Tcha. It's worse than usual." Sniffing, Kysen lifted his brows. "Do I smell honey amidst your other disgusting humors?"

  His eyes shifting to the side, Tcha mumbled something inaudible. He edged away from Kysen. As he moved, he clicked, and his movement brought him into the light of a taper in a sconce beside the door.

  Kysen descended the steps and planted himself opposite the thief. "What in the name of Amun have you done to yourself?"

  Tcha had never been presentable. He was as emaciated as a body fresh from the embalming table, short because of bowed legs, and scarred from beatings that were the rewards of unsuccessful thievery. Although no more than six years older than Kysen, he looked older than Meren. His skin had the cracked, baked appearance of a field at the end of the season of Drought, and three of his upper front teeth were missing. Their absence caused a lisp in his speech. Brittle, dried-reed hair formed greasy plates that issued from the crown of his head and snaked over his ears and forehead and down to the back of his dirty neck.

  Indeed, Tcha had always been painful to the eye and to the nose, but he'd never emitted anything resembling a pleasant odor. And he'd never covered himself in more magical amulets than a pharaoh's corpse. Nor had he painted his grimy body with expensive honey. Yet here Tcha stood, his arms, legs, neck, waist, and head encircled with old string, twine, and narrow papyrus rope from which he'd strung countless amulets. And he was evidently reluctant to speak of his strange appearance.

  "Tcha, I asked you what you'd done to yourself."

  "Precautions, O great master," Tcha muttered. He stuck his arms behind his back as if this action would hide all the amulets.

  "Precautions against what?" Kysen asked.

  Tcha's eyes darted from shadow to shadow, corner to corner. "Against evil, lord. There be great evil abroad."

  "Blessed Toth and Anubis," Kysen said with an increasing grin. "You've thought of a way to protect yourself against the city police. That spell you screeched at me was for use against crocodiles, you know, not men. And if you wear all those amulets while skulking around some artisan's house, you'll clatter like a sistrum."

  "The master is wise," Tcha mumbled as he snaked a glance up and down the Street of Foreigners.

  "In truth, Tcha, many of those amu
lets are only for funerary use. Look at this. You have Djed-columns, the girdle amulet, the four sons of Horus, the amulet of the headrest, heart scarabs. Are you planning a journey through the netherworld soon? Don't tell me you plan to rob Osiris and the other gods."

  Tcha started, then laughed with a sound like a throw stick scraping polished granite. "Thy jest is most humorous, great master."

  "You only need a few amulets to protect yourself from harm," Kysen said as he tried not to smile. He noted that most of the amulets were cheap faience, but a few were of more expensive but damaged stones. He saw a green jasper turtle, a double lion in carnelian, and an amethyst falcon. "I recommend wearing one Eye of Horus, one scarab, and perhaps the ankh, sign of life, so that you will continue in this existence. But why in the name of Amun have you coated yourself with honey?"

  "Mistress Ese give it to me. She says that which is sweet to the living is foul to demons."

  Shaking his head, Kysen went to the tavern door and opened it. "True, but if you insist on creeping about your business in that condition, you'll end up fodder for crocodiles no matter how many spells you chant. Keep your distance from me, Tcha. The next time I see you, you will have bathed in the Nile. At least five times. With soap paste."

  He left Tcha and entered the Divine Lotus, still shaking his head. He forgot the thief with his first glimpse of the tavern interior. He'd heard that Ese had expanded the place and refurbished it. She was known for changing the tavern's appearance so that her patrons were continually surprised and delighted. But this time Ese had surpassed her own reputation for the exotic. She had turned the Divine Lotus into a Mycenaean Greek villa.

  Kysen stepped into a megaron, a Greek great hall nearly the size of the one in his own home. The walls shone with brightly painted frescoes of women in Mycenaean dresses with tight bodices that bared the breasts, flounced skirts, and gold rosette earrings. Some of their hair was pulled up and knotted at the crown, while a ribbon bound a long coil of it that hung down the back. Designs of running spirals, zigzags, and stripes bordered the frescoes and the ceiling.