Slayer of Gods (11 page)

“All we know is that a scribe from the garrison at Byblos wrote to announce his death from an ague. He joined a caravan heading
in the direction of his new estate, but the caravan was attacked and returned to Byblos. I suppose he was entombed there.”

“What of these?” Bener asked, pointing to a list of names.

“Two were in Nubia during the relevant time, one is dead. I’m more concerned with Prince Usermontu. He was a captain of troops
and overseer of the horses of the queen. The queen disliked him because he beat his wife. She ordered him to cease, and when
he didn’t she arranged for the poor woman to obtain a divorce. Nefertiti ordered Usermontu to pay one third of his estate to
his wife, and he never forgot it. He greatly enriched himself under Akhenaten. Father thinks he must have gained half a dozen
new estates.”

Bener raised her eyebrows. “A man with much to lose.”

“Indeed.”

“So,” Bener said, “these are the men still alive who were present in Horizon of the Aten and who had a reason to kill the
queen—Dilalu, Pendua, and Usermontu. What of Zulaya?”

Kysen shrugged. “Father is interested in him because Othrys suggested he had the power to cause the kind of trouble we’ve been
having. But if he’s involved, it must be indirectly, since he had no contact with the queen.”

“Perhaps I can find out more,” Bener said. She set the papyri aside and rose. “Dilalu and Zulaya may be secretive, but they’re
rich men. They employ servants, and servants talk, and it will be easy to find out about Prince Usermontu and Lord Pendua.”

Kysen jumped to his feet and shook a finger at her. “No. I forbid it.”

Bener merely raised an eyebrow.

“Father has forbidden you to interfere! If you get yourself in trouble he’ll blame me.”

“I’ll tell him it wasn’t your fault, but I’m not going to get into trouble.”

Groaning, Kysen said, “I’ll have you followed.”

“Oh, very well. If you must be difficult about this, I’ll come to you with anything I devise, and you can carry out my plan.”

Kysen bit his lip, pondering the likelihood of any of Bener’s schemes being any good. He smiled. “We have an agreement.”

“Excellent, then you’d better be on your way.”

“On my way? Where?”

Bener paused as she opened the office door. “Oh, did I forget to tell you? The king sent word that he wishes to bestow a gift
upon Father for saving his life. You’re to go to the workshop of the royal jeweler Basa.”

“Damnation, Bener, why didn’t you tell me sooner?”

“You have time,” she replied calmly. “It’s hours before sunset.”

Grumbling under his breath, Kysen left word of his destination with a charioteer and set out for the jeweler’s. Basa, like
many of the finest master craftsmen, had been well rewarded for his talents. He lived near the temple of Ptah in a large house
that also contained his workshop. Kysen took the long avenue that led to the temple, skirted the boundary wall, and hurried
down the Street of the Twin Moons. Giving his name to the porter at the gate, he was led down a short path, past a shrine
to Ptah, and into the house itself. The anteroom was crowded with customers, each being attended to by an assistant. Above
their conversation Kysen could hear the pounding of dozens of hammers, the grating of saws, and the whoosh of bellows coming
from the workshops behind the house.

A porter immediately led Kysen into the reception hall and to the lustration area where he could wash away the grime of the
streets. Two men conferred over a papyrus on a table beside the master’s dais. When he was ready, the porter preceded him
to the table.

As he approached, the men turned. One was the master jeweler, Basa. The other was an Asiatic dressed in a long robe that stretched
from his neck to his ankles. Diagonal folds of the finest blue wool hugged his body, and appliqués in geometric forms glittered
from the fabric. A headband of the same design bound his long hair. He wore a beard arranged in a profusion of tight coils
that concealed his face from nose to chin, except for dark lips that had pressed together as Kysen approached. His feet were
encased in gilded sandals, and thick electrum bands encircled his ankles.

The jeweler bowed to him. “Ah, great one, you honor my poor house. May the blessings of Amun shower you.”

“Greetings, Basa.”

“Lord Kysen, this is Zulaya, who has presented me with a commission from the temple of Amun.”

Taken unaware, Kysen managed to conceal his surprise at this unexpected encounter. Zulaya’s reaction was hidden, for he’d
swept down into a bow the moment the jeweler began speaking. He straightened to reveal an expression with all the impassivity
of a lizard. Kysen studied him closely. Zulaya exuded the confidence one might expect from a wealthy man, but there was something
more. Kysen sensed power, watchfulness, and a burning intensity. Most, however, would detect only the man’s air of cosmopolitan
polish, and Kysen almost began to feel he was imagining Zulaya’s controlled wariness.

Basa was rattling on. “Zulaya trades throughout the world and brings rare treasures to Egypt, Lord Kysen. Should you require
timber or fine wines, anything, he can provide it.”

Zulaya bowed again. “You flatter me, Basa. I’m sure the son of the Eyes and Ears of Pharaoh has his own traders. May I inquire
after the health of the great Lord Meren?”

“He has been ill, but he’s recovering,” Kysen said.

“One of my ships has brought health-enhancing herbs from Cyprus. I will send some.”

“My thanks, Zulaya, but Lord Meren is away from Memphis at the moment.”

Zulaya inclined his head. “They will be sent so that his physician may use them upon his return.”

The garrulous Basa interrupted. “Zulaya plies his trade all over the Great Green. I swear he must have a hundred ships.”

“You exaggerate,” Zulaya said smoothly. “I have a few poor vessels, and they pale beside the great Byblos ships of pharaoh.”

Kysen was thinking quickly. He should express interest in some commodity and have Zulaya come to Golden House for an exchange
agreement. It would be the perfect excuse to find out more about him, especially since Meren was away. Not long ago Zulaya
had accidentally met Meren at the Divine Lotus. His father had been in disguise; he’d been accused of trying to kill pharaoh.
But Zulaya shouldn’t be allowed to see him and connect Lord Meren with the man from the tavern. There was no way to predict
what the merchant might make of the famous Lord Meren haunting the disreputable tavern in the guise of a Greek pirate.

“Zulaya, I do have a request,” he said, as if suddenly remembering. “My sister Tefnut, who will give birth shortly, requires
fine cedar for new chairs and tables. Also, I would like to purchase oil and wine for my father’s stores in his houses at
Thebes, Memphis, and in the delta. This is an urgent requirement. Perhaps I could see you tomorrow.”

“Unfortunately—”

“Don’t be hasty,” Basa said. “I know you were to deliver that lapis lazuli to me, but I can wait one more day. It would be
my honor to be of service to Lord Meren.”

Something flickered behind Zulaya’s eyes. There was a slight pause, almost imperceptible, and then the merchant bowed again.

“Ishtar has smiled upon me this day,” he said. “I will present myself at Golden House tomorrow, Lord Kysen.”

Kysen gave him a smile as smooth and seamless as a block of granite from the quarries at Syene. “Better still, I can receive
you now, as soon as I am finished here.”

“Ah, but fate does not smile upon hasty arrangements, Lord Kysen.”

It took all his will to remember he wasn’t a common son of a tomb worker. He met Zulaya’s intense gaze with one that assumed
a natural right to command. “I won’t be long. You may wait for me in the reception room.”

Zulaya’s gaze flattened. He bowed his head. “As the lord commands.”

With a quick nod to Basa, Zulaya backed away from Kysen, turned, and walked swiftly out of the room. As he began to discuss
the king’s gift with Basa, Kysen wondered if he’d made a dangerous mistake.

Meren lay on his back across the mats that had served as the table for their midday meal, and as their bed. His forearm shielded
his eyes, and he listened to the noise Anath was making in her search of one last room. Every muscle ached with that special
weariness peculiar to intimate release, and for once the clamor of thoughts in his heart had quieted.

Anath had given him this gift. Unlike Bentanta, who treated him like a youth in need of lessons in manners, Anath asked him
for his strength and gave hers in return. She gave without demanding answers or promises or trying to force him to reveal
more than he wished. Easy, light of heart, she had come to him, shared herself, and let him go, gently, but with the understanding
that neither of them required feverish revelations or expressions of romantic attachment.

Since his wife died he’d been with many women. Most of them had been ladies who expressed interest and had no other attachment;
he never dallied with innocents. Sometimes one of the household maids would try to catch his attention, but he’d learned long
ago that such encounters encouraged the recipient to make unsuitable demands and caused jealousy in the household. Jealousy
interfered with the smooth running of Golden House and risked disruption of routine or worse.

Anath was different. She came to him freely and with no other thought than pleasure and solace. She had confided in him her
weariness of living abroad, but the next moment she regaled him with tales of grasping Babylonian merchants and the ridiculous
rivalries of petty princes. Then she admitted that if she came home she would miss watching the continuous folly of the Asiatics.

Meren remembered her description of Burnaburiash, the king of Babylon. His majesty was aging and hated the idea so much that
he tinted his hair to cover the gray. He also refused to admit he wasn’t as agile as he’d once been. Rather than refrain from
activities beyond his endurance he insisted upon sword practice and exercise with the army. Inevitably he pulled a muscle
or strained his back and had to be carried back to his palace where he lay moaning and complaining for weeks. Instead of learning
from this experience, once he recovered he would trot right back out to the practice fields where he would fall over his own
sword or break the axle of his chariot. Anath said that if Burnaburiash weren’t so adept at turning his enemies against each
other, he’d have been deposed years ago. What had impressed Meren most about her tale was that Anath, so experienced in intrigue
and deception as the Eyes of Babylon, retained a lightness of spirit that charmed everyone who came near her.

When he listened to Anath’s stories Meren had less time to dwell upon the dark thoughts that seemed to consume him so often.
He was still smiling at the memory of Burnaburiash when something heavy landed on his stomach. He grunted and lowered his
arm to stare into the scarred and furry face of Khufu. Meren growled at the cat, but Khufu merely twitched an ear and settled
down for a wash.

“Get off me, you foul creature,” Meren muttered as he shoved the cat away.

“Are you still lying down?” Anath came in dusting her hands. “I’ve searched the last room and found nothing of interest. It’s
time to go.”

“I was just coming for you,” Meren said with a last glare at Khufu.

Anath came over to lean against him and slap his flat stomach. “Be kind to poor Khufu. He likes you.”

“That animal likes no one but you. It’s obvious from his appearance that he lives to do battle.” Khufu stuck his misshapen nose
in the air and stalked out of the room.

Arguing lightly, Meren and Anath went outside to the dilapidated shelter under which they’d tethered the horses. The animals
had been fed and watered, and Meren walked around the chariot and stepped into the vehicle. As he moved, a paw shot out across
the floorboards. Meren’s foot caught it, and he stumbled, nearly falling on his face. Dust and grit flew in at him as Khufu scrambled
away to sit innocently in the shade, purring, while Meren cursed and untangled himself. A musical tumble of laughter let him
know that Anath had seen the whole incident.

“It’s not amusing,” he snapped as he got to his feet.

Anath jumped into the chariot beside him. “Yes it is, when you consider how graceful and stately the great Lord Meren is. To
see him fall on his face is a great amusement.”

“One day that cat will come to an evil end,” Meren muttered, but he refrained from further comment because Anath was still
laughing at him.

By the time they’d left the palace battlements Meren was laughing as well. They drove back along the Royal Road and past the
small North Palace, the jewel-like retreat in which Nefertiti had died. For a long time Meren’s memories of Horizon of the
Aten hadn’t been clear. He’d deliberately shrouded them in a haze as thick as the one that hung over the eastern horizon and
turned the dying solar orb into a diffuse lake of carnelian flame. It had taken many weeks of effort, much reading over records
and discussion with those who had been present to restore his memory. At last he thought he had an accurate picture of the
queen’s final days. He hadn’t realized he’d stopped the chariot until Anath spoke.