Meren dropped into his chair, holding the necklace. His gaze traveled from it to the unguent jar.
Qeres,
the rare salve so valuable that only king and queen now possessed it. Once
qeres
had been the prized unguent of princes and nobles. A luxury coveted by lost generations.
His fist wrapped around the necklace and squeezed. Lost generations. Long ago,
qeres
would have been used during a prince's life—and taken with him to his eternal house for his pleasure in the next. And the amulet. Nebi had said that this amulet was made to be placed on a body, a wealthy body, in a tomb. This heart amulet belonged in a tomb; no doubt there was much
qeres
in old tombs.
Something was pinching his hand. Meren looked down to find himself strangling the broad collar, with its bands of color stiffened with spacer beads. Djaper had told Imsety that the necklace had been damaged and needed repair—its finials were missing—but the pinlike bars of gold at the unfinished ends bore no scratches, as one would expect if its falcon-head or lotus finials had once been attached. The surface of the pins was smooth, untouched, as if it had been intended to remain so.
Something niggled at him. Some recent memory. When he'd been with Nebi, the amulet maker had been certain that the
ib
had been intended for a body. He'd known by the way it was finished. The necklace, too, was finished peculiarly. It wasn't really broken. Perhaps it had never possessed end pieces or a counterpoise. If so, then it couldn't have been worn. Neither could the heart amulet—unless both the necklace and the amulet had been intended for someone who didn't need the completed jewelry.
The only person who doesn't need complete jewelry is a dead one—a jeweler makes incomplete pieces only when they are intended for the tomb.
Meren rose from his chair with the necklace dangling from his fingers. He stared vacantly at the obsidian embalming knife. And what of the place where Hormin had been killed? Was it not in the place of the dead? Tomb robbery. What better place to plot tomb robbery with one's fellow thieves than in the embalming sheds at night? And if Beltis knew of the looting, and if Beltis was in the tomb-makers' village, she either killed Hormin or knew who did.
Dropping the necklace on his worktable, Meren deliberately made himself go slowly. Hormin hadn't been taking bribes to gather his wealth, or hoarding the revenue from his farm. He'd been robbing tombs. Sacrilege. Perhaps the greatest of all crimes—desecration of the dead. One who committed such a transgression risked the curses of the gods and vengeance from the grave. But greed conquered most fears, in Meren's experience.
The risk, however, was so great that only rich tombs were worth it. Therefore the stakes were high, and the danger greater. The cemeteries were guarded day and night and robbery attempts rare, or so everyone thought. Yet Hormin had found a way to rob a tomb, most likely while at the tomb-makers' village. And it had gotten him killed.
It was time to go to the tomb-makers' village. The sun would rise in an hour or two; only then would it be safe to cross the river. Meren gripped the edge of the worktable and closed his eyes. Kysen slept in a village that contained a murderer, most likely more than one murderer.
It had been his own idea to send him there. Now he regretted his decision. The tomb robbers had killed three men already; he was certain they wouldn't stop at a fourth.
He descended upon the tomb-makers' village like a lion upon a herd of oryx. Storming down the path into the valley, his charioteers banged on the gates with their spears while he cursed the delay caused by the necessity of traveling by foot through the hills and cliffs. Someone opened the gates, and his charioteers thrust them back. Meren charged through them and stalked up to a man standing at the front of a crowd of villagers, who had dropped to their knees upon seeing his bronze and gold armor and weapons.
"I am the Eyes of Pharaoh. Where is my servant?"
The man bowed to him. "I know not, lord."
"Find him at once."
A search of the entire village failed to produce Kysen. Furious, Meren rounded on the man to whom he'd first spoken.
"Who else is missing? Quickly, fool."
"Th-the woman Beltis, a painter called Useramun, the sons of the coffin maker Pawero, the draftsman Woser. Others are in the Great Place for their shift."
Meren gripped the hilt of his dagger and spoke through his teeth. "Damn you, where have these people gone?"
"I know not, lord. Your servant retired as we all did. I thought he was asleep until you came."
"Who are you?"
"Thesh, lord, scribe of the village."
Abu emerged from a crowd of villagers pushing a man in front of him. This man supported another, who stumbled and whined as he walked.
"Ramose and Hesire, sons of Pawero, lord. I've questioned them and others. None of them knows where your servant is."
Meren's hand worked open and closed over his dagger hilt. He thought furiously. All of the missing villagers had had dealings with Hormin in making his tomb. The tomb. Tomb robbing. Apprehension turned to dread. His heart pounded against his ribs as he realized what must have happened. Kysen had found the murderer—or the murderer had found him.
'Thesh," he barked. "You will show me the way to Hormin's tomb at once."
They sped over the hills and across valleys of shale and limestone like shadows of wind-driven clouds. Each second, each moment when Thesh hesitated to take his bearings, stretched his control near to breaking. They raced down yet another hill into a valley sheltering the ruins of a temple.
Something moved behind a broken column, and Abu shouted. Drawing his sword, he thrust his body between Meren and the column as charioteers rushed past them. Charioteers pounced on a man leaning on the column and dragged him from behind it. Half-conscious, he slumped between two guards.
"Useramun?" Thesh stepped forward and shook the man's shoulder. "He's been hurt, lord."
As Thesh spoke, the painter slumped forward. The guards lowered him to the ground. Swearing, Meren directed them to take the painter back to the village. Without further delay he raced after Thesh, who clambered up another hill, only to drop to his knees at its summit. Meren joined him.
The scribe pointed. Dawn approached; with the sky lightening, he could make out a small cliff into which had been cut the entrance to a tomb. It appeared deserted.
Every moment he delayed risked Kysen's life, yet he couldn't rush down there with his men and warn his quarry. He would go himself. But what if no one was there? Shoving aside his fear, Meren signaled to Abu that he and the others should wait. He could see that Abu thought he should allow one of his men to explore, but he couldn't sit on this hill while his son was in danger.
Quietly, taking care not to dislodge rocks and pebbles, he worked down the hill and sped to the base of the cliff. Rushing the last few steps, he flattened himself against the side of the entrance. Torchlight flickered, and Meren said a prayer of thanks to the gods.
Drawing his dagger, he slithered inside. At the base of a set of stairs that led to a ramp, he paused, listening. Solid rock blocked off sounds from the outside, and he could hear nothing from the burial chambers below. A sputtering torch turned the limestone walls gold and the ceiling black. He put his foot on the ramp, and heard a woman shout.
"I told you to kill him, you fool!"
Then she screamed. Meren launched himself down the ramp. Running hard, he careened into an antechamber. The woman Beltis hurled herself out of the coffin chamber at the same time, and they crashed into each other. Meren grabbed her and hurled her aside as he heard a distant commotion.
He rushed into the coffin chamber. Nothing. He stood in front of a red granite sarcophagus, confused and desperate. As he looked wildly around the chamber, he heard the sounds of a fight again and then silence. Rounding the sarcophagus, he found a hole. He knelt and peered inside at rich destruction. A golden shrine lay before him, along with burial furniture, a chariot, wine jars, scattered jewelry, broken spears, and baskets.
To the left of the shrine was a gilded couch, which was occupied. Kysen! Kysen lay as if he'd fallen on the couch, his hands bound before him and his head bleeding from a wound at the back.
Wary, Meren waited, hardly daring to breathe, as he searched the lamplit chamber. He heard someone moving behind the shrine. Meren silently dropped down into the chamber and hugged the wall of the shrine. Edging toward the corner, he looked around it just as a man walked from behind it toward Kysen carrying an alabaster wine jar. His shoulder and arm muscles rippled as he raised the vessel above his head and aimed for Kysen.
Meren moved out from the shrine and cocked his dagger arm back, but the man turned suddenly and heaved the jar at him. Meren caught a brief glimpse of his face before the jar hit him. Woser! The vessel hit Meren's arms as he threw them up to protect his face. The blow sent Meren staggering backward, stunned, to land on the floor by the shrine.
He sat up and shook his head. Across the room, the draftsman sprang at Kysen, who dodged aside and tripped the man. Falling, Woser lashed out and gripped Kysen's ankle as he tried to flee. Kysen fell, but rolled and kicked Woser in the stomach. The draftsman grunted, curling in on himself for a moment, while Kysen turned and crawled toward Meren.
Meren had managed to grip one of the doors of the shrine to lever himself upright. As he did so, Woser pounced on Kysen. Meren watched his son fall halfway between the couch and the shrine.
Woser wrapped his arms around Kysen, and they rolled across the floor over fragments of broken jars and furniture. Meren took a step toward them and staggered against the shrine again, dizzy. When he regained his balance, he saw Woser straddling his son.
The draftsman had the end of a broken spear in his hands. Kysen gripped Woser's wrists in both hands and was holding off a death blow with fading strength. Wiping the blood from his eyes, Meren spied his dagger lying on the threshold of the shrine.
He dove for it, stood, and hurled it at Woser. There was a loud thud as the point embedded itself in Woser's bare back. The draftsman jerked, then froze; the spear in his hands quivered. Then Kysen shoved hard, and he toppled sideways. Meren stumbled over to Kysen, who lay on his back half-pinned by Woser's body. Shoving the dead man aside, Meren lifted Kysen into his arms.
"You're all right?" Meren asked.
Kysen's voice was weak. "He was going to shut me up in here."
Behind them Abu dropped from the hole into the burial chamber and rushed to them. Kneeling, he peered from Meren to Kysen.
"No lectures," Meren said. "I shouldn't have come without you."
"Aye, lord. We have the woman."
"Then help us out of here, man. I've had enough of—damn."
Kysen slumped in his arms. Meren laid him on the floor, and Abu probed the wound at the back of his head.
"He's weak from loss of blood, lord, but he will recover. You know how head wounds bleed."
"If he dies, I'll flay that woman alive, with a flint knife."
"Yes, lord, but he's not going to die."
"Good, because I've already killed this night, and I've no stomach for more."
Refusing to leave Kysen in the care of Thesh and his wife, Meren sailed downriver with him to the royal precincts. From the dock he summoned a litter, and soon he had deposited his son in bed, Beltis in a cell, and himself in his own chamber. He left orders for Hormin's wife and son to be held until he could assure himself that they, too, hadn't been involved in the looting of the rich tomb.
Having left men to guard it, he could afford a few hours' sleep after receiving assurance from his physician that Kysen's wound wasn't serious. Like the dregs of old beer, echoes of fear for Kysen disturbed his sleep. He awoke bleary-eyed and apprehensive. Only a visit to his sleeping son's room dispelled his anxiety.
His first act was to dispatch runners to the palace and the Place of Anubis announcing the capture and death of the murderer of Hormin, for he had no doubt that Woser had been the killer. A full explanation would have to be extracted from Beltis, however. He didn't look forward to the ordeal. Talking to Beltis left him feeling soiled.
It was also urgent that he find out whether, by some curious happenstance, Hormin and the others had been involved with the queen's treason. The possibility was remote, but real. As he dined on shat cakes and roast duck followed by figs and grapes, he was preparing to send for Beltis when Kysen walked in, carefully, trailed by Remi's nurse, Mutemwia. She waved an ostrich-feather fan at Kysen and shook a sistrum.
"Out, out, demons of the dead."
Kysen winced as the little cymbals mounted on the sistrum chimed. He cast a glance of appeal at Meren, who clapped his hands for silence. Mutemwia subsided, but muttered charms under her breath.
"I'm sure Kysen values your concern and care for him, Mut, but you're hurting his head."
"Better a sore head than one possessed by a dead spirit."
"Mut, you may conduct your spells and charms in Kysen's bedchamber, but not in his face."
Mut bowed. "As you wish, lord."
After she left, Meren dragged his ebony chair to rest before the worktable, found a cushion for it, and pointed. Kysen sat, grimacing as he lowered his body. Meren leaned on the worktable and surveyed his son. Kysen was pale, and his eyes had violet smudges beneath them, but he appeared strong.
"How are you?" Meren asked.
"A thousand fiends of the underworld are dancing on drums in my head."
"You are supposed to be in bed."
"I know you must have the truth from Beltis, and I know part of it, perhaps enough to shake her."
"Don't you think all these hours spent alone in a cell will have intimidated her?"
"In truth, Father, I suspect she's used the time to think up lies to save herself. But I may be able to rout her."
"Very well." Meren sent for Beltis and returned to Kysen. "I'm doing this because you won't rest easily until we have the whole truth, and because I must know for certain that this
qeres
unguent came from that tomb and isn't a royal or sacred supply." He quickly told Kysen about the queen's treason and the unguent.