"I hold audience but once a month," Nefertiti said.
Sebek bowed as he walked. "I am thankful, majesty."
"You don't sound like it. Are you weary of serving the great royal wife, Sebek?"
Sebek gave a hooting laugh. "Not when thy majesty insists upon roaming the streets of the city in common dress and without her attendants. My men and I are as agitated as scorpions in a basket."
Nefertiti smiled at the warrior. She'd grown to depend on his humor. As the years passed she had witnessed the results of her husband's religious intolerance and neglect of the empire. During that time pity for and loyalty to Akhenaten warred with her compassion for those who suffered under his rule.
"Thy majesty is troubled."
Nefertiti nodded but said nothing. Lately she had the feeling of foreboding. Akhenaten's intolerance was growing, and the more she tried to convince him of his error, the less he listened. He still loved her, but for how long?
In the distance she could see the river. A fishing boat rowed by two sun-browned boys and an old man glided toward the docks.
"If you fail," she muttered to herself as she watched the old man and the boys, "if you fail, who will speak for them?"
Near Memphis, reign of Tutankhamun
There was an unreal quality to the light that burst over the horizon, or perhaps it was only his perception. Meren felt as if he were seeing everything through chilled honey. His thoughts were thick and slow. Surrounded by disbelieving and hostile men, he could only stare in confusion at the king.
"Well?" The king's voice was shaky but demanding.
When Meren didn't answer, Tutankhamun turned away and held out his hand. A bodyguard gave him a bloody dagger. The king thrust the sullied blade at Meren. Meren found himself staring at his own weapon, which he'd left in his tent. He knew it because it was one of a scarce few in Egypt made of iron. The flat of the blade shone dully—where it wasn't smeared with blood. Lifting his gaze to pharaoh's, Meren shook his head in silence, knowing that any words he spoke would be as feathers swept away in a Nile current.
"I gave it to you," Tutankhamun said in an unsteady voice, "and you tried to kill me with it!"
Meren found his voice at last. "No, majesty, I—"
The king's legs buckled under him. The crowd of soldiers made a sound of dismay as the royal bodyguards caught and lifted the boy. Horemheb shouted orders for the king to be returned to his tent. Then he whirled on Meren and pointed.
"Lord Meren, I arrest you for treason."
Horemheb reached up and clamped a hand on Meren's arm. Without thinking, Meren snatched the sword from his friend's hand and jabbed him in the chest with his foot. Horemheb flew back into the men behind him as Meren hauled on Wind's harness and let out a shrill whistle. At once Star reared, snorting and pawing the air. Infantry and charioteers alike scuttled out of the way.
While Star reared, Meren charged through the crowd. Men scattered, and he aimed for the pickets. Cantering directly at the line of horses, he leaned down and slashed the tethering ropes as he passed. As he cut the tethers, he gave another ear-piercing whistle and slapped several rumps with the flat of his blade. It was enough to stampede the animals, and in an instant horses were racing through camp and jumping the palisades. Arrows buzzed past Meren's head as he galloped after the frightened animals. He whistled to Star when a charioteer rushed at him, his scimitar ready. Swerving to avoid the man, he hugged Wind with his knees, and the stallion sailed over the palisade with Star close behind them.
With the fiery boat of Ra cresting the horizon, Meren raced down the desert road that ran north to the delta and the border of Egypt. He rode hard until he'd left the camp far behind and the sun was fully above the skyline. Then he slowed to a walk to allow Wind to cool down. There was no time to try to make sense of this disaster. Horemheb would come after him, and he had to decide where he was going. If he were an escaped slave or criminal, he would attempt to gain one of the oases to the west or cross the delta and perhaps join the crew of a merchant ship. There was another alternative. From the times of the great ones who had built the pyramids, rebellious subjects and defeated invaders had traversed the roads from the delta border to Palestine and beyond. Horemheb would expect Meren to do the same.
But he wasn't a slave, and he wasn't a criminal or traitor, and his life was here in Egypt. Meren stopped and jumped to the ground. Wind was lathered but still in good shape, and Star even better. The two stood by patiently while Meren walked away from the road to gather handfuls of desert grass. He brushed the ground as he returned, causing his faint footprints to vanish. Then he led the horses off the road, erasing all traces of their passage. The going was slow, but at last he was far enough from the road that he wouldn't be seen when riding his horses. By the time he turned back the way he'd come, heading for Memphis, the day was warm, and the white light of Ra seared his eyes.
The journey took him all day and most of the night, and he hoped never to repeat it. Sweat stung his eyes. He could feel the heat of the solar orb sucking the moisture from his body, and his heart was filled with weariness and confusion. But he dared not stop. The horses needed water, and he had no doubt that Horemheb would eventually realize he wasn't trying to flee Egypt.
When he could no longer delay returning to water, Meren turned east and headed for the Nile. He wouldn't have to go to the river, for it was Inundation, and the flood stretched far beyond the riverbanks. Near dawn, he reached water and rested beside a small, outlying canal. The respite was short, however. He couldn't afford to be seen by some peasant from a nearby village. Before light he headed west again and made for a line of cliffs in the distance.
The sun was high when he dragged the reluctant Wind and Star up steep, sand-covered slopes and jagged rock faces to duck inside a cave. Relief from the heat came immediately. Meren dropped the horses' leads, swaying on his feet at the difference in temperature. Bracing his legs apart to steady himself, he wiped his face on a length of cloak. Then he returned to the cave entrance to gaze across the vastness of the desert to the distant city. For the second time in his life, a pharaoh wanted to kill him, only this time he was a fugitive.
At least he was free, for the moment. But pharaoh's power was unlimited, his grasp long. Leaning against the side of the cave, Meren smiled bitterly. He was in a race now. A race with Horemheb. Could he prove himself innocent before his old friend captured him? And there was a third runner in the race—the one who had arranged this trap that had ruined him. If he lost the race to his hidden enemy, Meren was certain that the result would be his death.
Late that night Meren stood in the black emptiness of an alley in the foreign quarter of Memphis and surveyed the busy street, upon which lay a grand house. A trio of drunken Babylonian sailors swerved past. Meren shrank back into the alley, flattening his back to a wall. Raucous laughter and the sounds of a fight came from a tavern down the street. A vendor trudged past, his goods packed in wicker panniers on the back of a donkey. A cat stalked in their wake. Meren eyed it suspiciously, but it was far too lean to be Dilalu's pampered pet.
Finally the traffic ebbed. Meren walked swiftly to the gate of the enormous house and spoke to the porter.
"I bring a message for Othrys from my master, Nen." The porter looked down his nose at Meren. He hadn't brought his horses or his weapon. Either would have marked him as someone of rank. Ordinary subjects of pharaoh had neither. Police, soldiers, and nobles bore weapons, and only wealthy charioteers and aristocrats had horses. The porter was staring at Meren's dirty, rumpled kilt and stained cloak.
"Give me the message."
Meren was prepared. "I am to repeat the message to no one but Othrys."
"The master is busy. Come back tomorrow."
For this, he was not prepared. Never in his life had he been discounted or dismissed. Blinking rapidly, he stood his ground.
"If I have to come back tomorrow, it will be too late, and your master will miss out on a matter of great profit. Will you take the blame for it? Say so, and I'll go. It matters not to me if you're thrown to the jackals."
Now he had the porter's attention. The man stepped aside and allowed Meren to enter the forecourt. In the light of torches affixed with wall sconces he could see a great house composed of several blocks rising three and four stories. Light wells brought air and sunlight to the various blocks, while stairs in each well served corridors leading to the various chambers on each level. The blocks were arranged around a central courtyard. Meren faced a colonnade of red wooden columns, and as he entered the forecourt, two sentries flanked him.
He was conducted through a labyrinth of corridors and linked rooms. The way was confusing and involved climbing and descending three separate staircases. By the time they stopped outside a door almost double his height, Meren was lost. No doubt that was the intent.
One of his guards went inside, returning in a few moments to hold the door open. Meren was shoved through the threshold, and he stumbled into a guarded antechamber. He went through several more rooms, each more secluded than the last, until the guards stopped him at another door. This one was as thick as those of the royal palace and had bronze fittings. It opened to reveal a silver-haired man in a long, tiered robe. Meren was given a final shove, and the door slammed behind him.
Without addressing him, Silver Hair spun on his heel and walked through the room. To Meren it seemed as if he'd plunged into the water. From floor to ceiling the chamber bore frescoes of the sea—dolphins frolicking in blue-green waters, surrounded by fish and octopi. In the light of fragile alabaster lamps he could see tables laden with gold and silver drinking vessels and wine flagons. An Egyptian-style bed rested on a dais inside a frame draped with sheers. Meren surveyed the room, which appeared deserted until Silver Hair went to an archway hung with more gauzelike curtains. He spoke in a whisper, and a shadow appeared on the curtains.
Through them stepped a man whose appearance marked him as a foreigner. The most foreign of his features were his eyes. Kysen had called them sky eyes, and they were indeed the color of the sky when the light of Ra has burned the deep blue of early morning to the white-blue of a summer afternoon. Othrys also had hair the color of aged honey streaked with the sun's rays, and a body laden with sailor's muscles. His skin was pale compared to Meren's and marked with scars that should have made him seem old. The tautness of his skin, however, revealed him to be a man of middle years, perhaps not much older than Meren.
Silver Hair oozed his way out of the room as Othrys crossed to a table and poured wine into a shallow gold cup engraved with a bull-leaping cycle. "What message from my friend Nen?" the pirate asked as he sipped his wine.
"Nen is Kysen, and Kysen is my son," Meren said quietly.
The gold cup paused halfway to the pirates lips. Othrys swiveled on his heel; his stare could have pinned Meren to the wall.
"It's a mistake not to look at messengers, servants, and sentries," Meren said. "A stranger can winnow his way into the heart of your camp in such a humble capacity."
Othrys set the cup down and walked over to Meren. He stopped a couple of paces away and surveyed him from head to ankle.
"By the Earth Mother," he muttered. "Lord Meren, Friend of the King, Eyes and Ears of Pharaoh. What do you here, mighty lord?"
"You'll discover why anyway, so I'll tell you."
Meren told the pirate the story of the attack on the king and his flight. During the recounting Othrys didn't move. His gaze stabbed into Meren's, searching for the smallest deception or the least hint that Meren was withholding vital facts. When the tale was done, the pirate returned to the table, poured a second cup of wine, and handed it to Meren.
"And so you're a marked man, Egyptian. A traitor."
"Falsely accused," Meren said as he took the wine.
"Brought to your undoing by the malice of some evil power."
Meren said nothing. He was assessing Othrys. He'd taken a grave risk in coming to the pirate, who could easily kill him or hand him over to pharaoh. Behind those sky eyes Meren could see the rapid calculations of a man who existed on the edge of lawfulness, stepping over the boundary into transgression whenever it suited his purpose.
"My son has told me of your friendship," Meren said quietly. "Therefore I have come seeking refuge."
A breeze lifted the transparent sheers, and they brushed Othrys's leg. He swept them aside, revealing a balcony.
"Come. You've traveled far and must be weary."
They sat on the ledge of the balcony facing each other over the delicate golden wine cups.
Othrys gave Meren a casual glance. "It seems to me, Egyptian, that I could save myself a seaful of trouble by killing you and giving your body to pharaoh."
"That would anger pharaoh," Meren replied with smooth unconcern. "He wants me alive to question, and killing me would earn you the everlasting enmity of my son."
"I do not fear Kysen."
"And my charioteers."
"Ha!"
"And Ay."
"Ah, the vizier. I forgot about him." Othrys rubbed his smooth-shaven chin. "That would be most inconvenient, having the evil will of pharaoh's highest minister. It could interfere with… trade."
"At least."
"You're in evil plight, Egyptian, and you've brought it upon me by coming here."
"If you help me, you'll have the friendship and gratitude of the Eyes and Ears of Pharaoh."
"At the moment, it isn't worth much."
"It will be."
Othrys ran a finger around the lip of his cup and mused, "But if I get rid of you, I earn the gratitude of the one who planned your disgrace and wants you dead." Eyes the color of chilled water suddenly met Meren's. "I told Kysen not to interfere with Yamen, Dilalu, or Zulaya. Which of them plots your end?"
"I don't know. I've seen the merchant and Yamen, but not Zulaya."