Murder in the Place of Anubis (16 page)

 Eventually the two emerged. Thesh looked as flustered as a virgin, while Beltis resembled a sated cat. While the scribe returned to his own home, the concubine waited for him to close his door. When he was gone, she sauntered down the street. Kysen had been surprised when she stopped at Woser's house and mounted the stairs to the roof. Did the woman never sleep? And Woser ill. His thoughts upon Hormin's busy concubine, Kysen watched the women moving about the childbirth arbor, his hip resting on the wall top.

"You're awake."

 Kysen spun around to face the object of his reverie.  Beltis came toward him looking as rested as if she'd spent the night asleep, which he doubted. For the first time he regretted being unclothed before a woman. He should have slept in a kilt, or at least a loincloth.

"Does Yem know you're here?" he asked.

Beltis smirked. "I came up the outside stairs, and anyway, most of the women are busy with the labor."

She floated over to him and stood so close he could feel the heat of her body.

"You aren't like your master," she said.

He only stared at her.

"Have you caught the one who murdered Hormin?"

"Would I waste time here if we had?"

 He quickly appraised his situation as she moved  closer to him. She must have a low opinion of the intelligence of men to approach him so. Useramun, Thesh, Woser, Hormin. What was she about? He needed to know, and to find out he would have to refrain from spurning her. Kysen allowed himself to forget for a moment that she might be a murderer and let his gaze drift from her oiled and painted mouth down to her breasts, her thighs. The appraisal signaled an invitation to Beltis—and she accepted it.

 The solar orb had risen by the time she left him. Exhausted, he dozed for a few moments while the village  came fully to life. Soon Yem roused him for a meal of fresh bread and roasted fish. It was eaten in silence; Yem refused to speak to Thesh, who refused to speak to Yem. Kysen broke the stalemate by asking Thesh to conduct him once more to the house of the draftsman Woser.

 Woser wasn't at home. Cursing himself for his slackness, Kysen interrogated the draftsman's mother and father only to find that Woser had improved miraculously upon receiving a visit from Beltis last night. Thanking the pair abruptly, he made for Beltis's home with Thesh in tow.

"Is there one man Beltis hasn't had?" Kysen snapped.

Thesh quickened his step to keep up with his guest.

 "There are fewer who have received her favor than you  think. Useramun, myself, Horrain, and—Woser…" The scribe frowned over this last name, then continued. "In this village at least, there are no more. By the gods, do you think she would have time for others?"

"Perhaps not."

 Kysen added himself to Thesh's list as he strode toward Beltis's house. Someone called to them. Running  down the street was a messenger clutching a folded papyrus. Kysen halted as the man reached him, accepted the letter, and noted the man's urgent gaze. Turning to Thesh, he smiled.

 "I must consult with my master's man, if you would pardon me."

 Thesh bowed and Kysen led the messenger down the street, through the gate, and beneath the scribe's pavilion. Under its shelter he received the news of Djaper's death.

"When?"

 "Some time after the moon had set, lord. As I was  leaving, the physician told the master that there was much essence of poppy in his beer."

"And no sign of who poisoned the beer."

 Kysen sighed and removed a letter to his father from  the waistband of his kilt. Entrusting it to the messenger, he dismissed the man. His father's letter had closed with a warning of danger. Given the constant comings and goings in the tomb-makers' village, one of the artisans could be responsible for Djaper's death. Even Thesh could have gone to Hormin's house in the middle of the night.

The object of his speculation emerged from the village and came to stand beside him. Kysen was contemplating sending for more men to question all the villagers at once when the scribe began to speak  glumly.

"You have had news." Kysen nodded, but refused to enlighten Thesh, who went on. "Yem is furious. She says she will divorce me."

"I would," Kysen said.

 Casting him a surprised glance, Thesh sighed. "I  can't help myself. Beltis has such appetite. Her violence is like a fire in my body." Thesh groaned. "Yem will take all her property with her, and I owe her many copper
deben
from our marriage contract."

 "Perhaps she will relent," Kysen said, laying a hand  on the suffering man's shoulder. "Come, we must find Woser."

 Thesh pointed in the direction of the path to the nobles' cemetery. "He is there."

 Two people walked down the path from the nobles' cemetery—Beltis and a man. Beltis clung to the man's  arm as if she was afraid to slip on the gravel. She and Woser drew nearer, and Kysen was able to see him more clearly.

 The draftsman was one of those whose face was  dominated by his nose. It jutted forth from his brow like the prow of one of Pharaoh's seagoing ships. Widening quickly, it became a brown, fleshy knob that almost obscured his mouth and chin. Shallow of chest, Woser was nonetheless tall, with stringy muscles kept toned by his use of sculptor's tools. His hair was chopped short and cut in a straight line across his forehead, which gave him a youthful appearance. Yet Kysen knew the draftsman was at least ten years older than himself.

 To Kysen's amusement, the pair slowed as they recognized him. He was sure they would have avoided him if he hadn't beckoned to them as they came toward the gate. When they'd gained the pavilion, Beltis dropped Woser's arm and smiled at Kysen and Thesh. No blush, no downcast eyes. Kysen frowned at the woman, who  seemed amused at encountering three of her men at once. He could see no cause for mirth, and for the first time he glimpsed some of the humiliation many women endured as one of a collection of amusing objects. Kysen dragged his attention back to the pair in front of him as Thesh introduced him to Woser.

 "You seem to have recovered quickly from your illness," Kysen said.

 "Beltis brought a soothing potion from the city,"  Woser replied. "I am much improved."

 "And I'm told you were cast down by this illness for many nights previously."

 Woser's mouth drew down at the corners. There were lines about it, making it apparent that he often wore an expression of discontent.

 "You're asking where I was when the scribe was  killed. I was sick at home. Thesh will tell you how it is with me. No doubt my troubles are due to working in the Great Place on an unlucky day. I found out last week when Thesh showed me his calendar. I'm sure I was beset by a demon of the netherworld. After that day, I began to have trouble in my bowels. The demon was so powerful that none of the village cures worked. I prayed to Isis and Amun, to Bes, and even to Ptah."

 Kysen jumped in before Woser could catch his breath and begin again. "Yes, yes. I've heard of your sufferings, but what took you to the nobles' cemetery so quickly after you regained your heath?"

 "It was I." Beltis oozed over to stand beside him and gaze up into his eyes. "After my cure worked, I was anxious to see that the preparations for my lord's tomb were proceeding. I don't trust Djaper or Imsety to carry out their duty, despite Hormin's will." She smiled sweetly at Woser. "But to my surprise, the wall surfaces are complete. Everything will be ready by the time my lord is reawakened."

 "And last night, both of you were here." Kysen's  voice faded.

 He hadn't really asked a question, for he already  knew the answer. No doubt he'd find that Djaper had died after Beltis had arrived in the village and while Woser was still on his sickbed. He wouldn't reveal the death yet, for he still had to inquire into the movements of his other suspects.

 As he dismissed the two, Thesh touched his arm.  Glancing at the scribe, he followed the direction of his gaze to the point where the river path descended into the valley of the tomb makers. The daily supply train was winding its way down the path, and in its wake walked two men. Even at this distance he knew them. His brothers had returned.

 Meren paced in his office. Swerving past a column in  the shape of a papyrus bundle, he swept past the ebony chair on which his juggling balls lay and whirled when he reached the wall painted with a mural of his three daughters. The messenger had brought Kysen's report, reassurance that his son was safe. Still, Meren worried.

 On his trip back past the ebony chair he scooped up  his juggling balls. Tossing them in a circular pattern, he sent them high into the air, catching them and tossing them again in a furious burst of activity. When he'd first bought Kysen, he'd thought he wouldn't worry so much over a son as he had his daughters. Fool.

Hormin, Bakwerner, Djaper. Was there but one killer? If so, then Bakwerner and Djaper had been killed for what they knew—or what they pretended to know— about Hormin's death. Everything was connected to that first death. Hormin had been a creature of mediocre  wits aided by sly dishonesty. According to old Ahmose, Hormin's talents hadn't measured up to the position he'd been chosen to fill. No doubt he had recognized his own mediocrity.

 As his gaze traced the path of the flying balls, Meren realized that Hormin had suffered secret humiliation at the lack of an intelligent heart and had punished those around him for his disappointments and shortcomings. He resented his wife for hanging on to him when he no longer wanted her. He hated Bakwerner for rising in his profession when he was obviously even less able than Hormin himself. He begrudged his eldest son the farm he cared for so well and hated even more the younger for the intelligence and talent the gods had denied his father. The only person Hormin hadn't hated was Beltis, whose sexual skills were his as long as he provided well for her.

Meren slowed the pace of his juggling as he ordered his thoughts. Perhaps he would go to the Place of Anubis again. He also would confer once more with his physician about the poison used on Djaper. Then he would most likely summon the artisans mentioned by Kysen as well as Imsety and his mother and Beltis. He couldn't afford to wait any longer and risk another murder. The beatings would have to begin soon, if only to placate the powerful high priest of Anubis.

 A knock caused him to grab his juggling balls as they fell and thrust them beneath one of the cushions piled in  the corner of the room. He hurried to his ebony chair, seated himself in a negligent yet aristocratic manner, and called out his permission to enter.

To his surprise, Raneb the lector priest was ushered into the chamber. Marching up to Meren, Raneb glanced about the room curiously as he bowed.

"Most high and revered master, Eyes and Ears of Pharaoh, may the guardian of eternity, the lord of mysteries, the god Anubis protect you and guide your
ka."

"He sent you to spy upon my progress, didn't he?"

 Raneb was a thin, quick man whose narrow eyes and even narrower lips fostered his resemblance to a sand viper. Those narrow eyes popped open and rounded.

"No, Lord Meren, no. The Controller of the Mysteries knows nothing of my visit. No, I've come because you asked me to think upon the perfume that stained the dead man's kilt, and upon the heart amulet."

 "Ah, then you're most welcome," Meren said as he  inclined his head, giving Raneb permission to continue.

"I've thought and thought, lord. And I must say it's been hard since the sacrilege. The bandagers and the keepers of natron have been so skittish, chattering among themselves, whispering about evil spirits and the wrath of Anubis."

"Your point, priest."

 "Oh, yes, um, the point. Yes, well, there is no point."  Raneb hurried on when Meren scowled at him. "No point to the heart amulet, that is. It looks like all the rest we keep to place between the layers of bandages. No doubt it was spilled in the fight that killed this pestilence of a scribe."

 Meren rose. "I've no time for self-importance, priest.  You say the amulets are kept in a storeroom, not among the embalming tables. That amulet shouldn't have been in the shed. If you sought to call yourself to my attention in this way, you have, and you'll suffer for it."

"No!" Raneb skittered around to face Meren as he turned away. "No, lord, forgive me. I have never been in a murder before, and I've lost my wits. Perhaps one of us left the amulet in the shed by mistake. Not everyone is as careful as I, but I'm so troubled by this sacrilege. Perhaps that's why it took me so long to  remember the unguent."

 Meren leaned over the priest and snapped, "Unguent?  The perfume on Hormin's kilt was unguent? Quickly."

 "I'm an old man, lord, which is probably why I failed  to remember the smell of this unguent. There are so many cosmetic salves, cheap and dear. Yet this one, this one is rare indeed."

 Meren studied Ranch's bright eyes. "Rare or not, everyone uses unguents."

 "Not this one, my lord. This is no common salve for  peasants.
Qeres
is an unguent made of sweet resins and myrrh from a formula once known only by Pharaoh's perfume makers in the days of the pyramid builders. The recipe was handed down for hundreds of years. Its value would be beyond the reach of any but princes and great ones such as yourself."

 "Curse it," Meren said. "There was nothing like it in  Hormin's treasury hoard. Yet he got into some between the time he slept with the concubine and the moment he died."

 "Yes, lord, but
qeres
is too valuable for one such as  Hormin. One finds it only in the palace of Pharaoh, or the manor of a prince, or the temple of a god. I haven't seen
qeres
in many years. It was rare in my youth, for the instructions for making it were lost long ago and stores of the salve depleted. Even the wealthiest are no longer buried with a supply of it, as we of the Place of Anubis no longer possess any."

 Meren nodded absently. Wandering back to his chair,  he thanked the priest and lapsed into silence. Raneb bowed himself out of the room.

 A rare unguent, a heart amulet, a scribe wealthier  than he should have been. Had Hormin been a thief? Had he taken bribes hi return for falsifying tax records?