Eater of souls (7 page)

Having never heard such an argument, Kysen only stared at his sister. She gave a little snort, turned sharply, and left them.

Kysen muttered a curse while glaring at the door through which Bener had vanished. "I must go, Abu. Father will be waiting for us. We must play host to this country lord who seeks a place at court. Lord Meren leaves for the cook's house tomorrow morning. Be careful."

"He won't know he has a second shadow."

Feeling much relieved now that Abu was alerted, Kysen joined Bener in his chariot. He wasn't surprised that Isis was late and would follow separately; she possessed a fragile, slender-necked beauty similar to that of Queen Nefertiti, and the work she did to enhance it consumed many hours. He and Bener arrived at the family's quay as Meren was greeting the first guests.

The pleasure yacht
Joy of the Nile
hadn't the sleek, spare menace of Meren's
Wings of Horus
. She was much wider and longer than that black-and-gold cruiser.
Joy
had a low, curved prow and high stern ending in a carved lotus flower, with a painted gold castle at either end and a long deckhouse set amidship.

The sides of the ship were painted with bands of lotus designs in white and green. But what made the ship burst into reflected flames in the lowering sun were the sheet gold that encrusted the prow and stern and the alternating bands of gilt paint that separated the lotus patterns. A frieze of Nile-blue faience tiles repeated the lotus design on the deckhouse, set off by borders of more gilt paint.

Guests were walking up the gangplank, which was draped with garlands of lotus, poppies, and cornflowers. Meren awaited them at the end of the walk in festival costume. Kysen imagined that moments ago his father's gaunt face had been tainted by a scowl. Unlike many courtiers, Meren preferred a simple kilt and sandals to the complex finery his position required him to wear. Now he stood on the deck of his opulent ship wearing a short kilt covered by a robe rich with thousands of pleats and cinched by a wide belt of gold and red jasper beads. More gold, jasper, and lapis lazuli glittered from his wrists, shoulders, and the band that encircled his heavy wig.

Kysen remembered the first time he'd seen his father in full court dress. He'd fallen to his knees, certain that Meren had turned into a god. The only thing he'd seen as magnificent had been the statue of the god Amun on the feast of Opet. His reverie was cut short by an elbow jabbed into his side.

"I'm not going to stand here all night while you gawk," Bener said. She hopped down from the chariot, straightened her necklace and wig, and glided away.

Hastening after her, Kysen joined Bener and Meren in offering greetings to the guests. This was an ordeal for him; surrounded by so many clean, perfumed, and bedecked people, he felt conspicuous. He was the only one who had grown up with nothing but a loincloth to wear, whose hair hadn't been properly cut until he was eight, whose only bathing facility had been the Nile.

"Cease," Meren whispered to him between arrivals.

"What?"

"Forget what you came from, Ky. It's what you are now that matters."

"The dirt and the beatings are part of what I am."

Meren suddenly changed. One moment he was Kysen's scolding father, the next he changed into a nobleman whose spectacular smile and personal dignity turned the most jaded court lady into an open-mouthed stutterer. Kysen scanned the approaching group and located the person who had provoked this display.

Princess Tio came toward them, her gown swaying in response to her rhythmic, long-legged walk. Going against custom, she wore her hair loose and unencumbered by a wig. She had wrapped strands of tiny electrum beads around lengths of that black river of hair.

Tio was the daughter of one of Akhenaten's Nubian concubines. Unlike pure Egyptian women, who were light-boned and often small, the princess possessed a body taut with long tendons and muscles and a height that enabled her to look down on quite a few men, including Kysen. She had warm brown skin touched with gold, a lithe frame, and eyes so large they nearly distracted attention from her lush, protruding lips. Luckily for Tio, she had inherited her mother's features. A girl-child cursed with those of Akhenaten might well have been mistaken for a flabby horse.

Tio accepted Meren's welcome, her gaze passing over Kysen without pause. Kysen took this slight with equanimity. Tio was cup bearer to the Great Royal Wife, Ankhesenamun. The queen's close friend, she took her mistress's part in the ongoing quarrel between the queen and pharaoh. Ankhesenamun disagreed with Tutankhamun's return to orthodoxy. She blamed him for abandoning her heretic father's precepts, and for leaving his isolated new city, Horizon of Aten, for the ancient and fabled capital of Memphis. And now she blamed her husband for the stealthy attack on the tomb and bodies of her father and mother.

However, both Ankhesenamun and Tio blamed Ay, General Horemheb, and Meren as much as the king. Older than her husband by five years, the queen knew the influence wielded by these three men—and she resented Meren's power the most. Kysen wasn't sure why she should save her greatest antipathy for his father, but Tio had been infected with the queen's prejudice. If the princess was attending one of Meren's gatherings, it was a signal of some sort—an opening move in a new game in which Ankhesenamun exercised lethal power.

As Tio moved away from them, Meren whispered to Kysen again. "Be at ease. She's only curious about this new Lord Reshep, who has attracted the interest of one of the royal princesses. No doubt the queen sent her to inspect the man and give a report." A slave brought wine in fluted bronze goblets. Meren picked up two and handed one to Kysen.

"Quickly," he said. "Before anyone else arrives. Tell me why you have sent for my aide without my knowledge."

Kysen hesitated in mid-sip, swallowed hard, and gazed out across the flat rooftops of the city, past the electrum-encrusted temples to the jagged horizon of desert tombs and pyramids.

"It appears I haven't sent for him without your knowledge."

"Don't spar, explain."

Only pharaoh could speak with more quiet mastery. When Meren's voice took on that relentless certainty, no one disobeyed. Kysen had been waiting for this demand, having considered the prospect that keeping a secret from Meren might be impossible.

"You forgot to send for him, so I did. You always leave Abu in charge of the charioteers in Memphis."

He met his father's raking gaze calmly. He'd learned from Meren how to dissemble and had to trust that his lessons had been well learned. Meren held his gaze for what seemed like centuries, then raised his eyes to look toward the quay.

That elusive, charmed smile appeared again even as Meren spoke in a low voice. "I approve."

Kysen let out a breath he hadn't been aware of holding.

"So long as Abu remains in Memphis," Meren continued. "You do understand my meaning."

"Of course, Father."

"I thought you would, my clever young jackal. Now replace that frown with a smile and help me with the greetings. Ah, this superb creature with the fawning retinue must be Lord Reshep."

Toward them came a stately procession. It was headed by a young man of kingly height wearing linen even finer than Meren's. He walked beneath a wig thick with curled and plaited tresses that hung in heavy sections over his back and shoulders. Kysen looked at the man who wore this gleaming black elegance, then exchanged quizzical glances with Meren.

Whispering as he smiled at Reshep, Meren said, "To me he has always resembled a starved frog, but then I don't look at him through a woman's eyes." Meren moved forward to salute his guest and raised his voice. "May Amun provide you with countless blessings, Lord Reshep. Welcome to
Joy of the Nile
."

Kysen was left to battle a threatening smirk. Meren had noted Reshep's elongated arms and legs, his bony knees and elbows. Together with a low forehead, a wide, thin-lipped mouth, and prominent brown eyes, these features would indeed prompt his father's comparison. Kysen found it necessary to force away the image of Reshep squatting on a round lotus leaf floating in a reflection pool. Meren had been conversing steadily with Reshep. He turned and drew Kysen into the group that surrounded the newcomer.

"You weren't at Djoser's banquet, Ky. I met Lord Reshep there. His mother was an intimate of the Great Royal Wife Tiye long ago, before the king was born, may he have life, health, and strength."

Saying nothing, Reshep bowed low. When he straightened, Kysen met a gaze that arced out of Reshep's eyes to pierce through manners and decorum. It sliced past the formal friendliness Kysen offered and stabbed into the depths of his most secret ka. There it carved through and penetrated small but painful weaknesses, pettiness kept hidden from the world, and old grudges. Through this gaze Reshep seemed to expose all the little slights Kysen remembered from being a lowborn among the noble. Then this stranger seemed to delve into his pain—the pain he hoarded like a landowner accumulates rents, the pain he'd come to treat as a familiar and cherished friend.

Heavy black lashes drifted down, then lifted, releasing Kysen and leaving him with an urge to look at himself to see if he was as bare and exposed as he felt. The encounter had happened in the space of a heartbeat. He was disconcerted to find that no one else had noticed it. Kysen had to force himself not to look away from this man, to present the facade of civility and tranquillity Meren had taught him to wear. Reshep spoke at last, although to Kysen the pause in conversation had lasted far too long.

"Lord Kysen, may the favor of the gods be yours." His voice gentle, his smile beneficent, Reshep tilted his head to the side, his eyes lit with amusement he seemed to wish Kysen to share. "Since I arrived in glorious Memphis I have heard much of the clever and brave son of the Eyes of Pharaoh. It is said that none can challenge his bow, and that no young warrior has ever rivaled him in his capacity for tavern beer."

Meren said calmly, "I told you not to race about the city with that herd of ungovernable colts from the king's war band."

"I didn't know I'd earned such renown," Kysen replied. He was conscious of relief and gratitude to Reshep. For what he wasn't certain. Perhaps for having been allowed to keep hidden the humiliating secrets Reshep seemed to have discovered, accepted, and forgiven in their fleeting exchange. Reshep's laughing friends crowded around them, exchanging jests and calling for wine. Kysen's confusion faded as he met old companions.

"So," said a young man in gilded leather sandals, "you didn't know you had a name in the city. I could have told you. Your name is much better than mine. Everyone knows Meren's war training succeeded with you, while they laugh that it failed with me."

Kysen shoved a wine goblet at Prince Djoser. "Not this complaint again."

"No-no-no," Djoser said with a laugh. "Knowing Reshep has made me realize how bowed down with distress I've been. He says many great men—like Amunhotep, son of Hapu, and Imhotep, the powerful sage and magician—haven't been warriors."

Staring at Djoser, Kysen said, "But not long ago you wouldn't listen to Rahotep when he said the same thing."

"That was when I was afraid everyone was laughing at me for puking on the battlefield, and losing governance of my horses, and having to be rescued from my own chariot. Now I realize these are but paltry incidents to a great prince."

Kysen's jaw nearly dropped to the deck. "Is this the man who returned from the expedition to the Syrian vassals all pale and haunted by war demons?" He suddenly glanced from Djoser to Reshep, who had been encircled by a new group of guests. "Djoser, don't set up an altar for someone you've known but a few weeks."

"I worship at the feet of none but pharaoh!" Djoser drew himself up and frowned at Kysen. "I merely choose to become enlightened by good example. Perhaps you're jealous of Reshep already."

"Jealous?" Kysen glanced at Reshep again, noting the elbows and knees, each sharp as the point of an obelisk. "You're fevered."

"And your heart is envious," Djoser said. "Speak to me no more of altars and fevers when I have five more years than you, common-blooded meddler."

Djoser stalked away in his gilded sandals to rejoin his new friend. A woman in front of Reshep moved aside, and Kysen glimpsed him from head to foot, especially foot. Reshep wore gilded leather sandals like Djoser's, but the straps of his were wrapped in sheet gold and encrusted with amethysts. Djoser had encountered someone who shared his taste for splendor.

Kysen had always known Djoser felt unworthy because his mother had been a mere noblewoman who captured the eye of Tutankhamun's father. A scholarly man who longed to be what he was not—a great warrior—Djoser had allowed his failures to slowly curdle his spirit until he threatened to become a snarled ball composed of threads of resentment and bitterness.

Kysen was distracted from contemplating Djoser's unexpected transformation by the deck's movement beneath his feet. The ship swayed, then began to drift. Meren's crew had cast off from the quay.
Joy of the Nile
, a slim reed of illuminated color, glided into the darkening blue of the river. Their guests would watch the fiery pomegranate sun descend into the west, the netherworld, while bathing in the cool north breezes.

Slaves lit torches fitted to the sides of the ship; others lit precious candles and alabaster lamps carved in the fluted form of the lotus. The harpist struck up a feasting tune, accompanied by flutes, double pipes, and lyres. These were joined by drums, tambourines, and the sistrum, a handled, bent metal strip between the ends of which ran wires strung with metal disks. When shaken gently, the sistrum made Kysen's favorite sound, a murmuring chime that soothed his ka.

Meren appeared at his side, his gaze drifting over the milling company. Perfumed and coiffed nobles moved among tables decorated with lotus flowers and burdened with food. The belly-tempting smell of roast fowl revealed the enticement of duck, egret, crane, and prized red-breasted goose. Kysen was about to summon a slave and order a plate prepared for himself and Meren when he heard someone bark his name.