Thesh was pouring beer into cups without looking at the woman. "Seth, servant of Count Meren, this is my wife, Yemyemwah, called Yem."
Kysen nodded to Yem, who ducked her head at him.
"Yem, Hormin has been murdered, and Seth has come to divine his movements yesterday."
Yem's fleshy lips pressed together. "And the woman?"
The words had been said in a flat, dull voice, and yet Kysen felt the eagerness with which she awaited the answer. This woman longed for the death of Beltis the concubine. Kysen immediately glanced at Thesh, who had paused in the middle of the act of presenting a cup to Kysen. His hand remained suspended, and Kysen could see his fingers tighten around the rim until the flesh turned white.
"What woman?" Kysen asked.
'The whore."
"Yem!"
"Mean you the concubine?" Kysen asked, taking the cup from Thesh.
Again Yem nodded.
"Only Hormin has been murdered. Do you know anything pertaining to Horrnin and his doings, mistress?"
Yem darted a look at her husband. Thesh was trying not to glare at her. He snatched a loaf of bread from the tray and ripped it in half. The violence with which he did so betrayed him, and he seemed to realize it. He dropped the bread and waved at Yem in dismissal. As she rose, Kysen lifted his hand.
"A moment, mistress, to answer my question."
"I know naught but that she came here to see her parents yesterday, and then he came for her and they fought. The whole village knew this. It is a game she plays. Beltis plays many—games. I saw him rushing down the main street carrying a small wicker box under his arm, a bribe, no doubt, to get her home. They had one of their donkey-braying arguments. She could make the pillars of a temple go deaf. The fighting stopped, and I never saw them again, for I had bread to bake and spinning to complete."
"My thanks, mistress."
Yem bowed and left them, slogging her way toward the houses as if she waded through a sea of mud. Kysen settled himself more comfortably, leaning part of his weight on his arm, picked up a chunk of bread, and lifted a brow at Thesh. The scribe took a sip of his beer, but when Kysen merely took a bite of his bread rather than launching into accusations, he sighed.
"I told you Beltis considered herself an artisan."
Kysen's gaze never faltered, and Thesh cleared his throat.
"Yem is a good woman, but we haven't been blessed by the gods with children, and Yem is unhappy. We're both unhappy. Beltis is all laughter and fire and—"
"Did you have her yesterday?"
Thesh shook his head. "He came, just as Yem said. I could tell when she arrived that this was one of those times when she had other matters to attend to. He followed her here and they fought, as Yem said. After they reconciled, Hormin came to see me to have payments recorded to the account of the painter Useramun and to one of the sculptors. Then they went with Woser to see his tomb. I never saw them after that."
"And who were those among you who dealt with Hormin?"
"Beltis's parents of course, and the men who designed and built his tomb. Woser the draftsman and Useramun the master painter saw him the most."
"And did they deal well together?"
"Hormin never dealt well with anyone. He tormented poor Woser, who would rather be a dung carrier than a draftsman, and of course he hated Useramun."
Thesh stopped, flushed, and directed his gaze at the cliffs. "Why?"
The scribe shook his head. "This is a question for the painter."
"It is a question for you, and I do not ask it to exercise my lips."
The snap in Kysen's voice caused Thesh to glance at him in surprise. Their gazes locked, and although Thesh was the older man, he looked away first.
"Useramun is not only a master painter. He is a man of pleasing appearance, one who does not mind risking his hide if his pleasure is furthered."
"Are you telling me that the concubine deliberately came here to drive Hormin into a fit wondering if she was with you or Useramun?"
"I am still well, and so is Useramun. If he had more than suspicions, no doubt he would have ruined both of us. I have always believed Hormin thought Beltis was teasing him. He didn't have respect for her, for any woman, and never would have thought her clever enough to deceive him. Hormin was a fool."
"Perhaps," Kysen said.
He placed his cup on the tray and rose. Thesh did as well.
"I must remain here at least one night so that I may question all those you have mentioned."
"I am honored to offer my house for your comfort," Thesh said. "But surely we are not suspected of this villainy."
Kysen had his usual reply ready, but before he could speak, three people emerged from the village gate. His eye caught the movement, and he looked over Thesh's shoulder. A youth and two men. One old, two young. The old man moved slowly, his joints swollen, his progress aided by a walking stick. The sun gleamed off his bald head, and as he neared the pavilion Kysen could see the gray bristles of an unshaven beard.
The younger man next to him glanced at Thesh and Kysen curiously, and Kysen caught his breath. The face of his father stared back at him. Almond-shaped eyes with the shine of marble, plinthlike chin, unsmiling mouth. It was his brother Ramose. Who else could it be? Which meant that the other was Hesire and the unkempt old relic at his side was… Pawero.
Kysen jerked as Thesh touched his arm. "What? What say you?"
"Do you wish to speak with them? Talking to Pawero will be of little help. His health is bad, and he does little work now. Ramose and his brother Hesire are taking him to his farm south of the city. I can stop them."
"No." Kysen stopped, for he'd answered too quickly and too sharply. "No doubt they will return before I leave. Unless they had intimate dealings with Hormin, I will wait."
"No, they barely knew him, I think."
"Then, if you will conduct me to the man called Woser, I will see him next."
Thesh murmured his assent, and they left the shade of the pavilion. Before they reached the village gate, Kysen turned and glanced at his family. They hadn't recognized him. He was uncertain how he felt about that. The rest of his thoughts were confused, for the man who had loomed in his nightmares as a netherworld fiend was, in truth, a wrinkled, bent old wreck.
Meren jumped from his chariot, snapped an order to his driver to remain in the shade of a palm at the edge of the market, and began to thread his way toward the Street of the Ibex. His fury at Bakwerner's murder had cooled somewhat. He had no doubt that the scribe had been killed because of some secret knowledge. And he had little doubt that someone had been threatened by that knowledge, most likely someone in Hormin's family. But perhaps not; perhaps the visit to Hormin's family had been happenstance.
Meren's lips tightened as he remembered how little they'd learned from searching the area around the pile of ostraca. The packed earth yard had yielded no trace of the passage of Bakwerner or his murderer. The killer had left no signs at all when he vanished into the evening crowds.
Two murders. A killer who murdered swiftly, who dared the vengeance of the gods and the king. A killer who must be stopped before someone else died.
He saw the Street of the Ibex ahead, its intersection marked by an obelisk so old that the raised edges of its hieroglyphs were blurring. At a corner, in the shade of a broad stall, lounged one of his servants. The man saw him, glanced at the open door of a tavern, and came to meet him.
"Lord, the large brother is in the tavern. He came directly from the house."
"Did he see you? No, never mind getting offended. He didn't see you." Meren forced his sour temper away and gave the servant a smile and nod. "Well done. You may go home and rest."
"But, lord, I should accompany—"
"Gods, man! I need no nursemaid."
"Aye, lord, but—"
"Belabor me no longer," Meren said. "Have my charioteer follow. At a distance, mind you. That should satisfy your duty."
The man's furrowed brow smoothed and he retreated, bowing.
Meren had already forgotten the servant before he left. Perhaps Imsety was having a midday meal. If he didn't come out of the tavern soon, he would go in. He'd worn a simple headcloth and leather belt and no armbands to mark him as a noble or warrior. In the jostling crowds they wouldn't notice him.
He winced at the sound of a screeching monkey. A baboon leaped from the roof of a fruit seller's stall and scrambled after a boy clutching a melon. The fruit seller shouted and pointed at the boy, who laughed and tossed a basket over the monkey before vanishing. A few minutes passed, during which Meren saw his charioteer take up a position near a vendor of nuts. He nodded at the man, who gave him an almost imperceptible salute. It was one of the more irritating aspects of his station never to be allowed to venture out alone without causing his men and his servants both consternation and anxiety.
A cart rattled by, loaded with tall wine jars sealed with clay. Meren watched it pass the tavern as the hulking form of Imsety levered its way out the door. Meren turned his head to the side, moving back into the shadow of an awning.
As Imsety walked down the Street of the Ibex, Meren shoved away from the awning and merged with the shoppers and merchants. After a space, the charioteer followed Meren. Imsety moved leisurely, never glancing over his shoulder or to the side, and paused at a house fronted by a low mud-brick wall forming a small court. In the court under an awning sat a man at a table laden with jewelry. Behind the man lay a stoked furnace attended by two apprentices. With wooden tongs they lifted a vessel filled with molten metal and poured it into a mold.
Meren stopped near the wall and pretended interest in the woolen cloths of a Bedouin family. Imsety swung back the gate in the wall and approached the jeweler. Looming over the stall, he produced a glittering, beaded object. Meren held up a length of red cloth and peered over it as Imsety spread his possession before the jeweler: cylindrical beads in alternating rows of gold, red jasper, and lapis lazuli—Hormin's stolen prize. The merchant picked up the necklace and peered at the finials at each end, then muttered at Imsety.
Narrowing his eyes, Meren watched as the two appeared to haggle over a price. Finally the merchant scribbled a few words on a scrap of papyrus. Both he and Imsety put their names on it. Then Imsety placed the receipt in the waistband of his kilt and walked out of the courtyard. Meren turned his back as his quarry passed, retracing his steps down the Street of the Ibex.
Darting quickly into the jeweler's court, Meren grabbed the man's hand as it swept up the necklace from the table in front of him.
"What?" the man squawked. "Whatwhatwhat?"
"The necklace—what was your dealing with that young man about the necklace?"
"Only a small repair, good master. The finials need refinishing. Who are you? I like not your—"
The jeweler's mouth dropped open. His jaw hung slackly as Meren's charioteer appeared. His gaze darted from the whip and dagger at the warrior's belt to the leather and gold wristbands and neck guard.
"There is trouble, lord?"
Meren was already hurrying after the brother. He called over his shoulder, "Get the lapis and red jasper necklace and meet me at the chariot." As he left he heard the charioteer questioning the jeweler.
"Has the young man Imsety ever been to you before?"
"N-no, good master. He is a stranger."
Leaving the merchant still gaping at him, Meren hurried down the street in Imsety's wake. As he wove through the crowds he tried to spot Imsety's broad shoulders and head above the others in the street. He zigzagged around peddlers, children, and women laden with baskets; the delay at the jeweler's had given his quarry a head start. He plunged around a stack of pottery jars taller than himself, only to dodge behind them again upon seeing Imsety. He'd purchased a honey cake at a baker's stall and was devouring it whole.
Meren waited, then followed as Imsety turned a corner into one of the narrow side streets that intersected the main road. He approached the corner warily; beyond it the street, little more than an alley, zigged and zagged into darkness. Awnings stretched from rooftop to rooftop on many such pathways to protect travelers from the sun.
He edged around the corner, keeping close to the 'wall. The darkness caused his sight to blur for a moment before he could make out a stretch of emptiness. The buildings on either side crowded close, leaving room for no more than two people to walk abreast, and then only shoulder to shoulder. The lane turned sharply to the right about thirty paces from the corner. Imsety had already disappeared.
Meren slipped into the shadows and hurried to the next corner. Sliding around it, he found another short stretch ending in a turn to the left. He would have to increase his pace if he wasn't to lose Hormin's son in this maze. He paused briefly at the next corner, then plunged down the lane. By now the buildings were so close, the awnings so thick that it was hard to see. He neared the next turn, slowed.
Something grabbed him as he passed a doorway. A pair of sweaty hands fastened on his throat and squeezed. Meren felt blood rash to his head, surge, and nearly burst from his eyes. He was lifted off his feet as he clawed at the hands on his throat, twisting and writhing to no avail. Meren raised his arms, planting one fist against another. His strength ebbing, he rammed his elbow into the chest of the man behind him.
The hold on his throat loosened slightly. He had only moments before it tightened again for the last time. Going limp, Meren heard a grunt of satisfaction. His feet touched the ground as his attacker began to release him. He quickly made fists. Jabbing backward with his thumbs, he gouged at the man's eyes. He heard a yelp, and suddenly he was free.
Whirling around, Meren kicked a massive, bare stomach. The attacker grunted, buckled, and sank to his knees. He was about to punch the man when he slumped to the ground. Whipping around, Meren glanced about the darkened passage for further danger.