Djoser downed half a goblet of beer, then wiped his mouth. Even this much drink couldn't seem to quell his agitation. His eyes darted from side to side, and he appeared to shrivel inside his skin as he spoke.
"You didn't puke on the battlefield. You didn't drop your own scimitar. You didn't lose governance of your horses and have to be rescued from your own chariot."
Djoser gulped down the rest of his beer and slurred his words. "I have to prove my worth. Everyone is laughing at me, but I'll kick their laughter back in their throats. No one should laugh at a prince…"
Meren exchanged glances with Rahotep.
"I'll see that he's taken home," Rahotep said.
Meren nodded. "Has your humor restored itself?"
Rahotep began to store the senet tokens in compartments inside their box. "Ahiram wouldn't have dared put his hands on me if I had full royal blood."
"His temper will be his downfall," Meren said. "I've seen him so maddened that I thought he'd touch pharaoh himself."
He could see that Rahotep didn't believe him. He'd known these men for most of his life, but Rahotep was the only one who bore common blood, and was the only one who constantly remembered it. His mother had been a peasant who caught the eye of pharaoh. And with every breath he drew, Rahotep regretted that she'd never been anything more than a concubine. He even hated his appearance, for he'd inherited his mother's wide, flat face and spreading nose, which he deemed to be peasant traits. Kysen had often remarked that Rahotep would appear far more princely if he weren't constantly digging his little finger in his ear.
Meren listened to Rahotep discounting the concerns of Djoser, consigning them to insignificance beside his own burdens, and knew that he'd been right to invite his friends home. There was much fuel here to heat the cauldron of strife that was the court. To keep it from bubbling over, he needed to listen to howls of discontent, to keep his ear alert for the sounds of hounds metamorphosing into jackals and hyenas.
Chapter 7
North of Thebes, at the edge of the eastern city, the waters of the Nile had cut deep into the bank, causing eddies and slowing the current of the river. Here lay a small marsh, between the river and the beginning of cultivation. Ebana guided his chariot carefully along a road made of the back dirt produced by digging canals.
The going was slow, for it was late, and only the moon's light illuminated his way. Finally he pulled up and dismounted. He removed a spear from the case attached to the chariot and walked down a dike to the marsh, where a papyrus-stalk skiff awaited him.
Stepping into the boat, he shoved off, using the oar that lay within the vessel. Water rippled around him, obsidian-black and cool. His entry disturbed a hen-bird, who scrambled out of the water to the cries of her nestlings. Ebana glided between the tall papyrus fronds, taking care not to go too near the thick stands. The way his fortune had been going, he might disturb a crocodile or nudge a hippo.
The skiff slowed, then stopped. He sat quietly, listening to frogs and insects and the slap of water against the boat. He tightened his grip on his spear. If the need for secrecy hadn't been so great, he would never have risked crocodiles and drowning, not for the man he was to meet here.
A hazy dash of pink caught his eye-a rose lotus.
Moments went by, and as they did, it felt as if rats were doing a feast dance inside his gut. A curse wafted to ward him over the water. Backstroking with his oar, he turned the skiff to meet another, sliding into the marsh from the river. The two craft drew alongside each other.
The newcomer spoke without preamble. "He knows!"
"Absurd," Ebana said. "Don't let him drive you like a frightened ox, or you'll betray yourself and us."
"I was with him today, and I tell you Meren knows something. Why is he so vigilant? He doesn't dabble in every accident and abrupt demise that comes to his notice."
"Because he can smell intrigue as a hound scents the oryx. It's his way, and I have prepared for it."
"He hasn't smelled me," the other said, his voice rising. "I swear it. The fault isn't mine."
"What are you speaking of?"
"Naught, naught. By the wrath of Set, I hate marshes. Too many creatures of the night."
Ebana studied the newcomer, whose head jerked from side to side as if he expected to be swallowed by a hippo at any moment. The fool was losing what mettle he possessed, and for so little reason-unless he had something to conceal.
"Hark you," Ebana said in a quiet, precise voice, "if your fear-blind haste has exposed us, I'll kill you myself."
That swiveling head twisted back to face him.
"No, no. No. Don't disturb yourself. I'll deal with the matter."
"Just keep yourself haltered, you fool. We were counting on the king and the others being distracted by this Hittite quandary, but with Meren sniffing the air, the high one thinks we should bide a while."
"Too late."
"Why?"
A hand came out to grip the side of Ebana's skiff.
'Too late. I got word early this morning. The work has begun."
"Curse it."
"Now do you see? By the time I could reach them, the acts will already have been committed. I expect shipments within a few weeks."
Ebana glanced down at the hand strangling the bundles of papyrus stalk that comprised the edge of the skiff. He could feel the tautness in the other's arm through the fabric of the boat. Infusing his voice with calm, he leaned over and unfastened the hand from his craft.
"Nothing has changed. Go about your affairs as is your habit. That's all you must do. And don't let my cousin's machinations make you flinch. He knows nothing. Nothing at all. Now go. We're in greater danger from the river than from Meren."
Ebana watched his ally disappear through a screen of reeds. Something was wrong. Something more than just the inconvenient death of a priest. Whatever it was, he was beginning to think that this particular ally must be dealt with-but not until after he'd accomplished the task to which he'd been set.
They had climbed out of the wide ribbon of green that was the Nile Valley, high onto the desert floor, and then into a valley formed by steep limestone cliffs. Meren climbed down from his chariot and handed the reins to Abu, who led the team away to be watered. Behind him came Kysen and Tanefer, Djoser, Rahotep, and several others.
The morning had been spent downing ibex, ostriches, and deer. Tanefer had found this deep valley where enough moisture gathered to favor the growth of vegetation around a minute pool. By the end of harvest, the water would evaporate. Tanefer's hunters had erected a net at one end of the valley, and the hounds had driven the game in from the other end.
Meren took refuge beneath a portable sunshade. A body servant came forward with a water bottle. He poured some over his face, which was covered with a layer of fine sand grains and dust, before drinking. He wiped his mouth and watched Kysen and Tanefer direct a hunter who was lashing a gazelle to a carrying pole.
Tanefer had organized this hunt, and Meren was grateful for the distraction; he'd managed to extract a period of grace from the king. A fortnight to decide whether to risk allowing pharaoh to fight the Hittites. Had it been so long since the day the priest had been discovered at the foot of the statue at the god's gate? Meren gulped down more water as Kysen left his host and joined him.
Tanefer was busy directing servants, hunters, and hounds. Kysen took a water bottle from a servant, dismissed him, and dropped down on a reed mat at Meren's feet. They swigged water and watched the preparations for the return to the city. Not far off, other men retreated to the shade of canopies, joking and laughing.