Tentamun bowed low, but Zulaya had turned to survey the canal that ran past his estate, through the fields close to the river and into the Nile. "Did you know, dear youth, that none of the waters near Byblos or those of the mighty Euphrates rival the dark night blue of the Nile?"
"No, lord." Perhaps he feared Zulaya because he never seemed to approach any goal directly.
Zulaya lifted his arm and pointed across the river, indicating the desert. Swirls of sand formed dunes with knife-edged tops.
"That, Tentamun, is the reason for Egypt's happy nature. A great and terrible barrier against the ambitions and might of quarrelsome Asiatics. They snarl and claw at each other unceasingly, shed blood over scraps of coastline, over rich cities, over mountains covered with cedar. All the while Egypt remains fruitful and at peace behind her rock and sand ramparts. The envy of every monarch, every herder in search of pasture, every barbarian looking for plunder."
Now Zulaya wasn't frightening; he was tiresome. Tentamun waited until his employer transferred his attention from the desert to him. It was the only signal Zulaya would give that he was ready to listen.
"Someone came to visit Satet, my lord. You said you wished to know at once should this happen. He came a few days ago, a scribe in search of servants for his master."
"And did you know this scribe?"
"No, my lord. Now that I think, he never even gave his name."
Zulaya's eyes seemed to catch the sunlight, and he became more attentive. "Tell me everything, from the beginning."
Tentamun complied, but the tale took a long time to repeat, for his master frequently stopped him with questions.
"What do you mean, he took her away?" Zulaya demanded quietly. "Why would he employ that feather-witted old pestilence?"
"He said his master had cooks in need of training in the royal manner."
Zulaya's questions came more quickly now. He had tugged on his headband until the ribbon of cloth came loose. He was threading it between his fingers and pulling it free over and over again.
"Where did he go?"
"I think to Memphis, lord."
"Describe this man again."
"A face all of angles, lord. Black hair cut short."
"His age?"
"Oh, a great age. He could be my father, only he's much less aged than mine. I suppose it's because he's a scribe, but he wasn't weak looking, like those who spend their days inside bent over papyrus."
At this comment, Zulaya drew nearer. His questions became sharp and impatient as he grilled Tentamun on the scribe's appearance. Finally Zulaya once more lifted his gaze from Tentamun to the Nile waters.
"A scribe who doesn't look as if he spends his days bent over papyrus. A man of well-fed appearance. Your description is at odds with itself, dear youth. Was there nothing individual about this man? His speech, perhaps, or the way he walked?"
Tentamun rubbed his brow and thought hard. "No, my lord. He seemed very much like any other man." Then he remembered something. "There was a scar."
"What scar? Where?"
"It was on his inner wrist. I didn't see it clearly. The house was dark except for one lamp, and he wore a leather wristband."
"A scribe who wears a leather wristband," Zulaya said as he rested his bearded chin on a fist and studied the ground.
"The band pulled up on his arm a bit, and I saw part of a white scar. I remember because it was so clearly defined, not like a wound at all, and it seemed to be half of a circle."
His remarks elicited nothing from Zulaya. He turned his back to Tentamun and gazed at the canal, where a group of laborers was dumping loads of earth onto a collapsed section of the bank. As he awaited his employer's next command, Tentamun noticed that Zulaya had questioned him so long that the sun had moved, and he no longer stood in the shade. He stepped sideways, slowly and carefully, so as not to attract attention. He should have known better. Zulaya's fingers intertwined with the green-and-yellow headband, then grasped the ends and yanked the ribbon tight with a snap that made Tentamun jump.
"Some say I'm too suspicious and expect only the worst, but I'm vindicated by your news."
"Yes, my lord."
What could he say? He had no idea who would dare criticize Zulaya. He wasn't only a man of wealth. He was mayor of the town near his estate and friends with the great men of the district, who valued his trading contacts among the Asiatics, the Hittites, the Mycenaeans, and the Babylonians. But there was something ruthless and secretive about Zulaya. It caused Tentamun to doubt that even a great man would dare insult him.
Zulaya turned back to Tentamun, his speech resuming its customary soft tones and embroidered language. "Dear youth, you have done well, and I call upon the gods and my ancestors to look with favor upon you. Ishtar, Marduk, Gula, and Ninurta, the great ones of Ur and Susa and Ugarit."
"My lord is kind," Tentamun said as he fell to his knees and touched his forehead to the earth. He straightened, but kept his head down when he felt Zulaya's hand come to rest on his hair. "My lord?" He hated this. All he could see was dirt and Zulaya's manicured toes. All he could hear was the man's soft voice made harsh by the guttural tones of his accent.
"You don't like coming here, I know. You fear my servants, those with whom I trade, my friends." There was a pause during which Tentamun guessed Zulaya gazed out at the river again. "I will tell you a thing that may help you, dear youth. I have known kings and criminals. I prefer criminals. They cheat, steal, and betray, but at least you don't have to worship them while they do it."
The emptiness clawed at her belly, the gnawing of rats' teeth inside her gut. In the darkness her metal claws scraped the bark of a tree. She rubbed the shining thongs that bound the ax head to its handle and rasped her claws over the engraving on the flat of the blade, but the emptiness remained. The hollow void was growing, spreading, replacing the essence of the Devouress. Others had put it there-the undeserving great one, the pretend god, the foreigner.
Their callousness toward the favored one battered at her belly, causing a crack that spread throughout her gut, spreading slivers of nothingness that grew into holes and then into this horrifying abyss. If she didn't stop them, they would continue to abuse the favored one. Then the emptiness would press outward, through her hide, and envelop her whole. She would cease altogether. She would become emptiness.
There was no moon. The chasm had swallowed it, but she saw with yellow-eyed clarity, inspired by the pain. The task of penetrating the garden had been a simple one. Scale a wall. Kill the sleeping creature who guards the enclosure. Slink into the darkest of shadows. And wait.
A young woman entered the garden. She hummed to herself and stooped to sniff a flower with wrinkled red petals. Eater of Souls wrapped her claws around a knife. This one was of no importance, hardly worth the effort to strike. The Devouress waited until the young woman took the gravel path that would bring her near the tree. Tossing her bushy mane over her shoulder, she raised the knife high and drove it down. When all was over, she lifted the young woman and arranged her on a bench beside the reflection pool. The foreigner would think the girl was pretending sleep to entertain him.
As she pulled a length of transparent linen over the hole in the girl's back, she heard the gate creak. A quiet leap to concealment. A snout raised to sniff the air currents. The scent of a transgressor.
The foreigner crept into the garden and closed the gate slowly, as though trying to keep it from creaking. Eater of Souls lifted her snout, tested the air, caught the stench of a foreign soul. Not appetizing, but begging for judgment. This one had insulted the favored one and caused sorrow. She could hear the favored one's piteous lament-"Life is so terrible. Everyone is so cruel, especially that evil foreigner. I've done nothing wrong. He was in the wrong. He should suffer for it."