"No, but someone may make a mistake."
Later that evening Meren made polite conversation with Lady Bentanta at the banquet, all the while watching Kysen laughingly scatter the story of his discovery among the guests. He stood beside a column, a full wine cup in his hand, cursing his ill luck. Bentanta had run him to ground before he could vanish into another room.
"You're worried."
His attention swerved to the woman in front of him. She was lithe and tall, like a papyrus reed, and she teased him. No other woman had the temerity. She'd been widowed several years, had youth and wealth and several sons and daughters to keep her company. What was worse, she was as clever and perceptive as ever old Queen Tiye had been. He'd known her at a distance since childhood, but he had been betrothed young, at fifteen, and she was already married at thirteen. Meren regarded her with wariness. What had she noticed, and how?
"You imagine it, lady."
Bentanta made a disgusted sound, which irritated Meren even more.
"I've known you since you wore the sidelock of boyhood, Meren."
She drifted closer, and he smelled myrrh.
"Your eyes," she said in a whisper. "I've known you long enough to read your eyes when the rest of your face is a mask. Does the contention among pharaoh's councillors weigh upon you?"
He backed up until he hit the column. "You should know, since it's written in my eyes like the glyphs on a temple wall."
"Why, Meren, my warrior, prince, and Friend of the King, you're afraid of me."
He opened his mouth, scowling, but Bentanta chuckled softly. She left him then, allowing her arm to brush his as she floated away in a mist of sheer linen and perfume. He glared after her, but soon rearranged his features into a more pleasant guise and slipped deeper into the shadows beyond the reach of the lamps scattered about Sahure's great hall. Musicians struck up a tune, and a line of dancers snaked its way into the room.
Meren grabbed a spice cake from a pile on a table and tore it in half, wishing it were Bentanta's neck. The woman was too clever to be borne. She reminded him of Qenamun. Both had a way of discomfiting, of sliding between bones and tendons with words that should have been innocuous. Qenamun's motives, however, were even more unfathomable than Bentanta's.
He remembered his interview with the man the previous day. He'd sent for the priest because neither Kysen nor Abu had made progress in the matter of Unas's death. In retelling the story of the discovery of the body, Qenamun had been urbane, forthcoming, and open. He'd given no cause for complaint of a lack of cooperation, and aroused in Meren a deep suspicion of his motives. No priest of rank in the temple of Amun was so agreeable without good reason.
Qenamun had been born to his position; his father and his grandfather had been priests in a line stretching back almost to the time of the Hyksos invasions. A distinguished family, moderately wealthy, full of men who managed to survive wars, famines, political havoc. Of them all, Qenamun appeared the most successful. His detractors seemed prey to misfortune, his friends wary of thwarting him. Ebana said Parenefer was considering advancing him to the position of Servant of the God. This was Ebana's rank, and he wasn't pleased.
Qenamun had stood during the whole interview, hands folded in front of him, looking ingenuous in his fragile elegance, his luminous, dark eyes suffused with tranquility.
"I regret not speaking to you sooner," Meren said. "But matters of great weight interfered."
"The Lord Meren is gracious to concern himself with so small a matter."
"A death at the foot of the king's statue is more than a small matter."
Qenamun inclined his head. He resembled a gazelle bending down to take water.
"As you say, lord. But I have performed rites of purification all around the temple. Forgive me, but my experience has been that the evil aroused by sudden death can be expunged most effectively. There are several spells of great power for the purpose."
"Your reputation comes before you," Meren said. "I hear from many sources that your skill at magic and divination is a boon to the good god."
Actually, Qenamun had as great a reputation for instilling fear of his power as for doing good. His rise to prominence at the temple had a great deal to do with his skill at ruining the reputations of those in his way.
"My gift comes from Amun," Qenamun said, "and I have sought to use it in this matter that so concerns you, lord. For Amun is great of will, terrible and mighty of power. He guards his flock and casts into the lake of fire those that would oppose him."
Qenamun cocked his head to the side. His gaze melted over Meren like warm honey. Under that stare, Meren felt as if the distance between them somehow closed and the air he breathed grew hot. His lungs seemed to burn.
The priest was still speaking to him in a low voice. "Beware ye of Amun, king of the gods. His wrath is terrible against his enemies."
The closeness and heat alerted him to what Qenamun was doing. Anger spurted through his body like molten copper.
Tempted to find his whip and lash the priest for his effrontery, he lifted one brow and gave a soft chuckle. "As you say."
Qenanum lowered his lashes, breaking the lock of their eyes. Meren turned away from the priest to summon his aide.
"I thank Parenefer for allowing you to attend me. It appears that the pure one's death was indeed a simple accident."
"The lord is wise."
"You may go."
Qenamun bowed, lifted his hands. "May Amun-Ra, greatest of heaven, lord of truth, father of the gods, bless thee, my lord. And should the need occur, I would beg you to allow me to offer my skills for your service."
"I'll remember your offer."
A dancer twirled by him, tapping on a drum. The noise roused Meren from his reverie, and he looked down to find the spice cake still in his hand. The priest had disturbed him. Lector priests were scholars and magicians, but this one-this one was more. Seldom had Meren met one who could project power with his gaze in such a manner. The attempt to dominate had been subtle, wordless, and he detested the man for it.
Feeling guilt at abandoning Kysen didn't stop Meren from skulking out of the hall and returning home. He'd had enough of pleasantries, drinking, and the attentions of the amused Bentanta. Besides, the king was expected, and he didn't want to be questioned about his stance on the military campaign in the middle of a feast. Near dawn the next morning he indulged himself by playing with Kysen's son, Remi, before he was due at court for an audience. He would rather have gone with Kysen to Unas's house or, better yet, avoided his duties and cavorted with the child. The boy spent his mornings playing in the courtyard by the reflection pool outside Meren's bedchamber. He was a top-heavy little devil of three, the scourge of his nurse and all the servants. At the moment he was hurling a leather ball into the pool despite Meren's scolding.
Meren scooped the boy up before he could jump into the water. Straightening, he settled Remi on one hip and found Abu coming toward him, leading a royal servant. The man stared past him at a point somewhere over Meren's shoulder.
"Lord Meren is commanded to the palace." Meren sighed and stood Remi on his feet. "I'll come at once."
The man left, and Meren went to his chamber to finish dressing. As he donned elaborate court dress, Abu handed him a ceremonial dagger. Only he and Kysen knew that its edge was as sharp as a battle sword, or that the gold of its blade covered a functional bronze core.
"I suppose you'd better come too," he said to Abu. "It seems my respite is at an end, and I must throw myself into a crocodile pit this morning."
Chapter 8
Thebes was awake, and the sun beginning to set the top of the town wall aglow, as Kysen walked down an avenue that would take him to Unas's house. Since the priest's death, nothing had been uncovered that would lead them to the truth. What disturbed him most was the fact that they still hadn't found a reason for someone to kill Unas, if he'd been murdered. But the behavior of the priests of Amun…