"Could you distinguish the perfume?"
"No, lord. But it contained scents I've smelled before-like scent-cone smell."
Kysen nodded. Scent cones were a common luxury. Placed on top of a person's wig, a shaped cone of ox tallow bearing herbs and spices melted, giving the wearer relief to sun-tortured skin and filling the nostrils with pleasurable scents. One of the most common was that which blended thyme and sweet marjoram. If the intruder had used a scent cone, some of the oil could still be on his skin.
"So," Kysen said. "This clumsy thief is tall and can afford oil or scent cones and labors not in the sun."
"And I know he wasn't a metalworker."
Kysen stared at Nebera, who rushed on. "Those who work over crucibles full of liquid copper or gold, their hands and body catch the bitter smell of the metals."
"Can you remember aught else? What of his hands?"
Rubbing his chin, Nebera lapsed into silence for a few moments.
"I don't know, lord. He was gone too quickly. Not a common thief, nor a practiced one. And now that I think upon it, perhaps not a thief at all. He must have been looking for something particular, although I don't know what."
"And you can think of no reason why anyone would have cause to secretly search Unas's house?"
"No, lord. Unas was so unremarkable, and of no great importance. He had no riches, no secrets, no power of any magnitude. He worked diligently. He was devoted to Ipwet, but in truth, he was more fascinated with sacred writings and dusty old texts than anything else."
When it was apparent that Nebera had nothing more to tell him, Kysen rose and inspected the rest of the house. The cellar, kitchen, and roof seemed untouched. He even studied the oven where he'd found the pottery shards, all to no avail.
Nebera accompanied him, but remained silent. His remarks had solidified Kysen's opinion that Unas had been a man of honest tedium. And any man who thought that his diligence and store of mythical tales could rival the devotion of a strong young buck like Nebera was a fool. Or had Unas known about his wife and Nebera all along? If he had, would the knowledge have driven him to throw himself off the scaffolding?
He would sooner believe that Nebera had decided to eliminate the inconvenient husband. It was unfortunate that Nebera's innocence had been attested to by a dozen royal artisans, for although Unas hadn't been wealthy, Ipwet would no doubt inherit the house and its contents. Since Nebera had yet to establish his own household apart from his parents, such a windfall would save him years of labor. A sufficient reason for murder to some.
Nebera was familiar with Unas's habits. He might have lain in wait for the priest on the scaffolding and pushed him off it, then gone to his labors in the royal workshops. Nebera would have expected the death to be seen as an accident. Such misfortunes happened all across the Two Lands, where work on monuments to the gods and to kings comprised much of the labor of the empire.
How troublesome that the man couldn't have been a murderer. Nebera, however, seemed an honest man. His reputation among his neighbors and fellow artisans was good. He was a skilled worker, easy of nature, content with his lot. Kysen had formed a like opinion in his dealings with him.
Nebera was like many young men he'd known, satisfied to be born into a station at the behest of the gods, who placed men in ranks from birth so that the kingdom functioned in perfect balance. Few rose above their birth, and when they did, it was according to the will of the divine ones. However, sometimes people grew to resent their fate.
He had to consider other possibilities regarding Unas's death. There was the demeanor of Ebana and Qenamun. Had they merely been taking advantage of the priest's death to kick a hornet's nest into Meren's face? Or were they hiding a greater secret?
When Unas's house had been invaded, where were Ebana and Qenamun? Futile to ask them-they would no doubt produce a gaggle of priests to attest to then-presence elsewhere. Too bad he couldn't send a swarm of men to question their friends, neighbors, fellow priests-but that would provoke a political furor.
Kysen left Nebera to close the house and stepped out into the street. The last coolness of night had vanished while he'd been inside. For a brief moment he was alone. He lifted his face to the rays of the sun god, his eyes closed, and watched the red glow on the backs of his eyelids. Then he turned and began the trip back to the quay, where he'd take a ferry across the river.
He hadn't gone more than a few steps when he was forced to avoid a steaming pile of donkey droppings. He slowed, then darted to the side, his shoulder brushing the wall of a house. Unfortunately, he hadn't seen the second pile. He cursed and leaped forward over the noxious hillock. As he landed, he heard a loud thud and turned to find a chunk of masonry the size of his head embedded in the dung.
Kysen whirled, backpedaled into the open street, and gazed up at the roof from which the masonry had fallen. The only other occupant of the street was an old woman asleep on her doorstep. Furious, he was about to charge into the house when reason intervened. He was alone.
Anyone, any number of men, could be waiting inside that house.
Launching into a run, he swept down the street, around an intersection, and down an alley that bordered the house. He shoved past a gaudily dressed Syrian merchant and his retainers while a man pulling a cart of wood scurried out of his way. The alley ended in a sharp turn that gave out onto the street he'd come from. Kysen searched the length of the alley and all the roofs. He was rewarded with the sight of a mother hanging out washing while screeching at several children, but little else.
The man with the wood was turning into Unas's street. Kysen stopped him.
"Have you seen a stranger rush from that house?" he asked, pointing to the one from which the masonry had come.
"Only yourself, good master."
Kysen nodded, dismissing the man, and fell to inspecting the house again. It was an old one, as were most in the neighborhood, and its mud brick was crumbling in many places. In a few years the owner might be forced to tear down the walls, level off the foundation, and build again.
He fought the urge to go inside alone. Tempting as it was, he'd been warned about such impetuous behavior by Meren and Abu. And he'd done something like it before and almost been killed. That had been at a deserted temple that served as a refuge for Libyan bandits. He'd nearly lost an ear, and his life.
He should have listened to Meren and brought charioteers with him. Now he'd hear about his recklessness from every captain, aide, and groom under Meren. He thought about not revealing the incident, but knew he couldn't conceal the truth. The falling masonry might have been an accident, but it might also have been an attempt on his life. Which meant that he shouldn't be standing in this alley by himself.
Kysen made his way west toward the riverbank and soon found himself in a market near the quay. He joined crowds of customers, vendors, and foreign merchants moving in small rivulets between stalls laden with Egyptian and imported goods. In the shade of a building a barber shaved and cut hair. A Nubian stacked elephant tusks in front of a stall along with small incense trees. Under awnings vendors hawked bread, fish, melons, onions. Kysen edged between the booth of a woman selling beer and a group of her customers, huddled around a common jar from which protruded clay drinking straws.
In the distance he could see one of the great royal trading ships coming to dock with a load of timber from Byblos. He worked his way between the beer vendor and her customers, his gaze fixed on the royal ship, his thoughts on that block of masonry. He shouldered his way through a group of shoppers, only to have one of them reach out and grab his arm. Kysen whipped around, yanked himself free-and came face to face with his adopted cousin, the priest Qenamun, and a bevy of lesser pure ones. They surrounded him, forming a wall of white kilts and bald heads.