Through the high windows dim lamplight was visible, but Meren couldn't see or hear anyone. Geese wandered around the yard and in the ruins of a garden beside the house. More geese snapped at insects there and trod on the dried and half-devoured remains of onions, beans, and yellow peas.
"Kek-kek!"
Meren almost jumped as a goose stuck its head around the gate and fussed at him. It had a white underside, dark plumage on its back, and two black bars on the light wing coverts.
"Cursed fowl," he whispered.
Frightening the bird away with a gentle kick, Meren pulled on the gate. Its hinges needed repair. A quick survey of the yard, stable, and storage area revealed an empty stall for a donkey, a broken granite quern, and fragments of spindle whorls. There was nothing in jars that should have held dried fruit, grain, oil. Other things were missing as well-goats, farming tools, nets and hooks for fishing, sickles, and winnowing fans.
Leaving the storage area, Meren walked between the two columns and mounted the stairs to the upper floor. The door was ajar. Inside he found a deserted living chamber with mats, worn cushions, and a cold brazier. A few pieces of furniture were scattered around, all of old, inferior wood, probably sycamore. The chamber was dark except for a diffuse glow from a ceramic lamp on the floor near an entryway that probably led to the kitchen. Movement in the shadows caught Meren's eye. He backed up a step, then stopped as he recognized yet another goose. It was perched on a stone quern in the corner, devouring grain.
Meren thought about hailing the cook and her husband, but decided not to. He hadn't expected to find the woman in such a neglected place. He had assumed that the cook, Hunero, had been given provision from the royal estates when she left, or that she had taken a position with a noble household. Favored royal servants were symbols of rank and prerogative. Hunero should never have lacked for a place. And surely Akhenaten, heretic though he had been, would have provided for his beloved queen's loyal and trusted cook.
Yet this farm had been neglected for a long time. No one had replastered the walls, repaired the gate, or kept adequate provisions. How had its owners survived? Sustenance must have come from elsewhere. He was always suspicious of those who seemed not to toil and yet prospered-if living in this half-ruined old place could be called prospering. What was going on?
Already wary, Meren grew more uneasy as he looked around the living chamber. In a niche built into the wall sat a double statue of the heretic and his queen, Nefertiti. A foolish display, even for a former royal servant. The heretic was anathema. It would only take some officious tax collector or priest's report to invite persecution. Even dead Akhenaten still threatened those he touched, as he had threatened Meren.
He walked over to the niche, which was bathed in the dim lamplight, and stared at it. Seldom since his death had Meren looked upon the visage of Akhenaten. This cheap limestone version had been painted so that the king wore bright trappings. More talented than the sculptor, the artist had painted the eyes so accurately that they held a reflection of the black fire of Akhenaten's gaze. Meren quickly looked away from it to examine Nefertiti's fragile figure. His fascination with the contrast between the two must have been the reason he was caught off guard by the crash behind him.
Whirling around, Meren drew the dagger in his belt and cocked his arm over his shoulder, ready to throw. As he sank into a crouch that would offer a smaller target for an attacker, he spotted a tiny woman in the threshold between the kitchen and the living chamber. She had dropped a bowl of water.
"Thief, thief, thief, thief, thief!" the lady screeched.
Meren winced at the shrill trumpeting sound of her voice. He was sure Egyptian women developed blaring voices that could be heard across a battlefield from keeping order among their children. The shrill voice rose higher; the goose honked and hissed. Meren thrust his dagger into his belt and covered his ears.
"Peace, old woman! Do I look like a thief?"
The woman's mouth snapped shut. Her jaws pressed together and spread out as they do when back teeth have been lost.
"What are you doing here, boy?"
Startled at being addressed in so familiar a manner, Meren blinked, then said, "I'm searching for a woman called Hunero, who was favorite cook to the Great Royal Wife, Nefertiti, the justified, and I seek her husband, Bay, also."
"Hunero is down in the yard milking the donkey, young one." The old woman vanished back into the kitchen without another word. Meren was about to follow when she reappeared, carrying another bowl of water, which she set near the goose.
"There, Beauty. Drink deep, my sweet, my little gosling. She's a little treasure. She's a little daub of honey, she's a-"
"Did you say Hunero was in the yard milking a donkey?"
"A goat, fool. Milk a donkey, what a mad thought."
"Aged one, there is no one in the yard."
"My name is Satet, boy. You should know that if you're a friend of my sister's."
Satet seated herself on a stool and stroked the goose named Beauty with a trembling hand. Meren guessed that she had six or seven decades, a great age seldom achieved by those of humble rank. Like many who attain a revered age, Satet had shrunk as her years increased until she was the size of a twelve-year-old boy.
Unfortunately, her skin hadn't shrunk as her bones did, and now she looked like a huge bag into which had been tossed a collection of children's bones. Her neck was pleated with more wrinkles than a courtier's robe. Wobbly blue veins protruded from her skin like earthworms. Her hair had been shorn in a haphazard manner so that it hung in thin, irregular lengths.
However, her age and frailty didn't concern Meren. He was disturbed by the slight but constant nodding of her head, her strange conversation, and the fact that she had stuck at least a dozen wooden combs in her hair at different angles.
"Satet," Meren said, "where did you say Hunero and Bay have gone?"
"Oh, them? They're not here."
"I know, but where have they gone?"
"They left, all of a sudden, like nomads in a drought.
One day Hunero came to me and said they were leaving, going to the city to seek fortune. A lot of folly, that is."
"Did Hunero say which city?"
Satet was stroking Beauty again. The goose shifted her weight from one foot to the other, marching in place as she rubbed her back.
"Aged one, about Hunero."
"Oh, she'll be back soon. She just went to fetch honey from the hives out back."
Suppressing a sigh of exasperation, Meren drew near the seated woman. "Do you live here alone?"
"Of course, young one. Do you see anyone else here? That lazy Bay convinced Hunero they'd be safer in the city, among lots of people."
"Safer, why safer?" Meren squatted so that his head was level with Satet's and caught her gaze. "Please, aged one, tell me why they felt safer in the city."
A voice came at him from behind. "No one knows why they left."
Meren's hand went to his dagger again. Looking over his shoulder he watched a youth come toward him. Unarmed, he carried a sagging basket in both hands, which he set beside Satet.
"I have brought your food and supplies, good grandmother."
Meren's hand dropped from his dagger hilt. This boy was no danger. He bore no weapon except for a small flint knife stuck in the waistband of his kilt. He was tall, but thin as youths are before they attain the musculature of manhood. Satet patted his head and trailed her wrinkled fingers through smooth, soft hair that gleamed as though it had been recently washed.
"Your name?" Meren asked.