Murder in the Place of Anubis (13 page)

"Aye, my lord. It was a pleasing sight."

 After dismissing Abu and the charioteer, Meren went  to the house in search of food, though his appetite had waned. He knew the cause. Beltis had gone to the village of the tomb makers. Beltis was a dangerous woman, possibly a murderer, and like a spider she'd scrambled and scurried away from a place of exposure to make a nest and cast her web—much too near his son.

 Kysen stood on the roof of Thesh's house watching the  horizon turn a deep turquoise, then ignite with a soft, creamy orange. Behind him stood several beds used by the household on hot nights. The one behind the wicker, screen was his. Voices of women and their laughter came to him from open doorways and the street below as they worked to prepare the evening meal. He took a long sip of beer from a glazed cup. His first day in the tomb-makers' village was almost over, and he had yet to speak with the draftsman Woser. The beer turned sour in his stomach as he remembered going to Woser's house with Thesh.

 The scribe had warned him of Woser's illness, which  had been growing upon him for over a week and had worsened during the previous two days. Thesh attributed Woser's inability to keep food in his belly to his dissatisfaction with being a draftsman. Woser longed to become a sculptor, to the amusement of the whole village. Woser sculpted as if he were blind.

 Kysen had insisted upon seeing Woser, but when  Thesh conducted him down the main street past curious servants and artisans' wives, they could hear retching sounds from a house near the end of the road. Kysen exchanged glances with the scribe as they paused on the threshold of Woser's residence. Like most of the houses in the village, it consisted of four rectangular rooms  running one behind the other.

 Thesh stuck his head in the doorway. Beyond him  Kysen could see a family common room strewn with cushions along one wall. High, narrow windows close to the ceiling let in little light, but he noticed a block of limestone in one corner around which were littered a sculptor's tools. Near the door lay a table, ink pots, pens, and sketches of a tomb shaft. He heard Thesh suck in his breath. The scribe drew back from the doorway abruptly, grimacing. Kysen glanced at him in surmise, only to clamp a hand over his nose and join Thesh in withdrawing several paces from the door.

"Hathor's tits," Thesh mumbled through the hands that covered his mouth and nose.

 Kysen lowered his own hands, took a cautious sniff,  and moved several steps farther away from the house. "Woser's sickness isn't only of the belly, it seems."

 "I forgot," Thesh said. "His wife mentioned he hadn't  been able to go far from his chamber stool yesterday. She had me check the calendar to see if it was an unlucky day, but I could find no evil signs. She says he's run afoul of a demon."

 Kysen cocked his head to the side and listened to the  renewed sounds of gagging and moaning issuing from Woser's house. Clearing his throat, he said to Thesh, "Perhaps if we wait until this evening, he will feel better."

 "Yes, yes." Thesh nodded violently. "I expect a physician from the city this morning who will attend him. By this evening, yes."

 They had quit the vicinity of Woser's house immediately. After that, Thesh had informed him that several of the artisans who dealt with Hormin were on duty in the Great Place, the Valley of the Kings, restoring the walls and interior of an old tomb of the last dynasty. And so it was that Kysen found himself in the resting place of Pharaohs, where the dead kings mediated between the forces of chaos and order.

 Thesh brought him to the Great Place by the workmen's route over the cliffs that bordered western Thebes. The path arced into the royal valley down three stone steps bounded by a wall on one side and a guardpost on the other. Past the steps he entered the realm of the dead, guarded by the royal necropolis police, the
medjay,
and by the gods themselves. The valley held hundreds of royal tombs, but also, at its center, living huts and warehouses containing supplies for the workers such as food, pigments, copper chisels, and the oil and wicks used to light the interior of the tombs.

 Once on the valley floor, Kysen beheld an array of V-shaped channels filled in part with flints and debris from the slopes above. Into the sides of these channels were cut entrance shafts to tombs. None of them were for the living god, Tutankhamun; the king was young and there was plenty of time in which to plan his house of eternity.

 Kysen had spent the remainder of the day talking with four men who had dealt with Hormin in the making of his tomb, only to find that they had been in the Great Place on the night of the murder. The artisans worked in shifts, eating and sleeping in the huts in the center of the valley, guarded by the
medjay.
Of those who knew Hormin, only Thesh, Useramun, and Woser had been in the village two nights ago.

 Shoving away from the wall on which he leaned,  Kysen turned to find Thesh staring at him. In that fleeting moment he perceived apprehension, which enhanced the faint laugh lines at the corners of the scribe's eyes. Then the lines smoothed and Thesh smiled at him.

 "Have you rested from the journey? The trip to the  Great Place is arduous for those not accustomed to desert travel."

 Kysen set his beer cup on the top of the wall and re turned Thesh's smile. "Much rested, I thank you. And now I would see this master painter, Useramun."

 "Before we go, I must tell you that Beltis has come  back."

 Concealing his surprise, Kysen glanced over his  shoulder to the street below. He could see two serving women carrying a water jar between them, and several men returning to their homes for the evening. No Beltis.

 "She came while you were washing," Thesh said. "If  you hadn't been inside, you would have seen her procession. Beltis enters the village as if she were a princess appearing on a feast day."

 "I will speak to her as well." Kysen passed Thesh on  his way to the stairs that led from the roof to the street along the outside of the house.

 Thesh followed him. "Do not be surprised if she  finds you before you come to her."

"Why?" Kysen paused at the top of the stairs.

 Cocking his head to the side, Thesh pursed his lips in  the first sign of ill humor Kysen had seen in him.

 "Beltis never allows a possible admirer to languish in  the depravation of her presence."

 A typical scribe's answer—delicate, circuitous, and  nasty. Kysen grinned at Thesh.

"You would set me on my guard."

 Thesh merely lifted a brow. It was all the answer Kysen was going to receive, so he turned and descended the stairs, stepping into the blackening shadows of the street. A long line of open doorways stretched before him. Wavering light from oil lamps offered some relief from the darkness. Thesh stepped to his side and gestured to a house opposite his own.

A few steps brought them into the bright glow issuing from the house. Kysen remembered little of Useramun except his brilliance as a painter. The older boy had always seemed to have his nose nudging the tip of a reed brush. The glow from the house increased as they approached. Kysen blinked and realized that Useramun had to have lit dozens of lamps to create such radiance. Thesh opened his mouth to call out a greeting, but Kysen put a hand on his forearm, silencing him. A querulous voice was speaking.

 "You sent him away on purpose." The voice was  young, and cracked with the strain of adolescence.

 A second voice, lilting and low, answered. "Abjure  me not, you petulant colt. The master painter of the temple of Ptah offered him a place. Was I to deny him the opportunity to work in so high a station?"

"You sent him away because he was my friend!"

The second voice chided softly. "By Hathor's tits, Geb, you've grown into a nagging bitch."

 Kysen waited, but there was no retort. He glanced at  Thesh and noted with amusement that the scribe's face had reddened. He released his hold, and Thesh called out a greeting. They were bidden to enter.

 Stepping into the common room, Kysen squinted at  the dazzling light. Whitewashed walls reflected brilliance, and on every one of them glowing scenes of wildlife and the countryside that turned the room into a fantasy. Kysen glimpsed a vignette of a reflection pool with the fish darting through azure waters. To his left waterfowl sprang from a marsh, startled into flight by a hunter armed with a throw stick. Every feather, every line was executed with vibrant mastery. Suddenly Kysen knew, without doubt, that he was in the presence of unparalleled skill. Now he remembered more of Useramun—even the master painters had held him in awe.

 A youth bowed to them and scuttled out of their way to reveal a man who rose from a cushion set between two of the myriad tall lampstands that cast daylike brightness on the room. The man came forward, stopping in front of Kysen, and chuckled. Goose bumps formed on Kysen's arms. He'd heard such a laugh before—one filled with concupiscent anticipation. He'd heard it at court, among noblemen about whom his father took care to warn him. At once wary and intrigued, Kysen felt a tension within his body he usually only felt in the royal palace or in the manors of certain princes. That chuckle came again, and before Thesh could speak the man before Kysen stepped closer.

 "The servant of the Eyes and Ears of Pharaoh, life,  prosperity, and health to thee." Useramun's gaze trailed viscously over Kysen. "Especially health."

"Useramun!" Thesh hissed at his neighbor.

 Never had Kysen been so grateful for Meren's schooling in the ways of the imperial court. He mastered the impulse to draw his dagger. He wasn't wearing it anyway. Instead, he regarded the painter solemnly. Though Useramun moved closer, so close that he could feel the heat of the man's body, he remained where he was. At the last moment, just as Kysen was losing the battle with his control, Useramun veered around him, circled, and came to rest in front of him again.

 He was still far too close. Finally Kysen allowed himself to react. He lifted his brows and widened his eyes in an expression of disbelieving astonishment at this trespass. He heard another soft laugh, and Useramun stepped back out of striking range.

Kysen's voice cut through the sound. "I give you leave to address me by name. I am Seth."

 "Seth," Useramun murmured, "god of chaos and turbulence. Has the name given you restlessness? Are you of a perturbed and dissolute spirit, like your namesake?"

"Goat's dung!" Thesh loomed at the painter's side, spitting his words. "Curb that lewd tongue of yours before you invite the cane and the whip. This is a royal servant, not some guileless apprentice."

 Useramun gave the scribe not a glance, but continued  to examine Kysen as he would a sacrificial bull. Kysen stared back at the man, who was of an even height with him. The painter was one of those men whom the gods had filled to the brim with sensuality. High cheekbones, drew one's gaze to his eyes, which burned like molten obsidian. His lower lip was fuller than the upper, giving his face an expression of readiness, of utter willingness.

 Kysen fought the urge to curl his fingers into fists.  The fool had deliberately taunted him, secure in the knowledge that his person was as beautiful as his paintings. He'd risked a beating, at the least. Perhaps he was as enamored of risk and danger as he was of attempted seduction.

 Thesh was chattering to him. "And he isn't usually so insolent." The scribe glared at the painter, who was still  staring at Kysen. "Beltis's arrival has discomposed him."

 He'd had enough. Without preamble he snapped at  the painter, "What were your doings of the last week? Begin with the five previous days."

Useramun's smile faltered, then, to Kysen's annoyance, appreciation of a different sort entered his gaze. The painter gestured to the cushions ranged behind him and called to his apprentice for beer. Kysen cut him off.

 "Your answer." He dropped onto a red cushion opposite the painter while Thesh took one beside him.

"Five days," Useramun mused. "Five days. Hmmm. But I was in the Great Place five days ago, and then in the nobles'—" The painter stopped abruptly and glanced at Thesh. "There is much work to do on the tomb of the Great Father, the king's vizier Ay, and on the walls of the tomb of the old king, which is being restored even now. And then there is the tomb of the Princess Isis. The foreman of the gangs on these tombs will testify that I was with them."

 He'd remembered that the artisans worked for  wealthy patrons in addition to their regular work. However, the longer he was in the village, the more he realized that Thesh and his fellow artisans worked more for themselves than for the king. How could he have missed the significance?

The king was a strong youth who gave little thought as yet to his house of eternity. He had given his permission to a few of royal blood to commission tombs in the Valley of the Queens, where princes and royal women were buried. The artisans had much free time, and Thesh had filled it with lucrative commissions from the nobility that would surely displease the vizier were he to hear of them. And Hormin most likely had known this. Had the man threatened Thesh?

 Private commissions obviously supplied the artisans  with luxuries; Useramun's house was filled with soft and costly cushions, his beer excellent and served in faience drinking vessels of Egyptian blue. Kysen glanced at the painter's hands. They bore no telltale jewels, but he wore an armband of bronze inlaid with turquoise. He glanced from the armband to Useramun's now-wary face.

"And two days ago?"

 "Ah, by then I was free from my shift and back here  at home." Useramun gestured toward the piles of sketches strewn around the room. "As you can see, there is much work to be done before a scene is painted on a tomb wall. I could have done more work, but that sheep Woser is ill. His bowels, you know. And fighting with that wretch Hormin did him no good."

"So you were working here two days ago."

 Useramun smiled and said gently, "Yes, servant of  the Eyes of Pharaoh. Thesh has no doubt told you I was here when Hormin came the last time. As everyone else, I heard his battle with the concubine, our succulent Beltis, as I worked on a draft of a scene from
The Book  of the Dead.
Geb was here as well, and another who has since gone. Later Hormin came to me to discuss work to be done once his tomb had been completely excavated."