"So now I'm left with this paltry command in the Division of Amun," Rahotep was saying.
Ebana rolled his eyes. Rahotep seemed oblivious of the insult to the good god and to Ebana, but then, Rahotep had never been sympathetic to the feelings of others.
"Your burdens are indeed great," Ebana said with solemnity. "But come."
Qenamun had resumed his progress between the rows of columns. They followed him and turned down a corridor that led to the priest's workroom. Ebana disliked going into this chamber, where he would be at close quarters with so many magical implements. Qenamun's workroom tables groaned with the weight of grinding stones used to crush bones, herbs, stones, and other, less identifiable materials. Every corner was cluttered with jars and bowls filled with roots, wax, pigments, and pastes. One bowl seemed to be dedicated to growing a noxious mold Ebana suspected of being poisonous.
He allowed Rahotep to precede him. The priest went to a wall of shelves to the left and pulled out the casket containing his scribal equipment and his current commissions. The box was made of polished cedar edged with ebony so that the red wood stood out against the black. The gabled lid and side panels were all bordered with ebony inscribed with hieroglyphs. Carved in shallow relief on the cedar was the figure of Qenamun making offerings to the god of learning, Toth.
"I have but to inscribe the book with your name and titles, Prince Rahotep," Qenamun said.
Ebana paused at the threshold while Rahotep wandered to the first worktable and touched a wax figurine. Qenamun glanced at him as he set the casket on a work surface that projected from the middle of the shelves.
"The First Prophet has given me the task of cursing the rebellious Nubians who attacked that fort last month," the priest said.
Ebana pursed his lips. Qenamun was exactly the kind of man he would have forbidden to specialize in magic. How could Parenefer favor him so? True, the man could interpret dreams better than anyone, but so devious a heart should be kept from the power of great knowledge.
But he mustn't allow his thoughts to drive him, or they would show in his features. Ebana forced himself to give the lector priest a half smile as he watched him lift the cedar-and-ebony lid and reach inside the casket. He heard a hiss, then silence.
In the space of a breath, Qenamun's face went blank, then contorted as he screamed. His hand came out of the casket bearing dark, writhing tentacles. The priest's screams bounced off the stone walls as he threw the dark, wriggling mass away from his body.
Ebana saw the flare of a hood, horizontal stripes. Cobras! Ebana shouted at Rahotep, who was already running past him. Qenamun had jumped onto the nearest worktable, moaning and clutching his arm. Ebana darted out of the path of a fleeing snake and yelled at a group of priests who had come running at the noise. They turned as a body and fled back down the corridor as Ebana called to them to fetch a guard. He ran out of the room, turned, and clutched the edge of the open door. He searched the floor for cobras, but most of them had fled to dark corners underneath furniture and shelves.
Qenamun was still on the table amid vials, wax figures, and herb jars. He had curled into himself, still gripping his arm, which bore at least five strike marks. Ebana called to him, but he received only a moan in answer. He moved closer, but shrank back from the door when a long, narrow body rose up from behind a jar, hood flaring.
Down the corridor a guard arrived with spear in hand and was poking it into shadows as he inspected room after room. As the moments passed, he could hear Qenamun's breathing increase until it sounded like the pant of a dog. The guard reached him, and Ebana pointed to the cobra behind the jar.
"I think there are four others, maybe more."
The guard swallowed, then drew a knife from his belt, took aim, and threw. The knife hit the jar, and the cobra slithered behind a basket under the table where Qenamun lay. Ebana halted the man when he would have thrown his spear.
"Look." He pointed at Qenamun.
The priest's body had begun to jerk. His foot hit a jar and kicked it off the table. The crash sent the cobra slithering between two tall oil jars. They watched in horrified captivation while Qenamun's body twitched with violent spasms. Two more guards joined them with knives and spears while a servant came bearing three of Parenefer's hunting cats.
Ebana ordered the hunting cats released into the workroom, and everyone watched and waited while the creatures calmly set about stalking the cobras. There was no hurry now, for everyone could see the number of strike marks on Qenamun's body. A man might survive one, but not seven.
As the cats stalked and pounced, the priest lapsed into a stupor. By the time they were finished, so was the life of Qenamun.
Chapter 10
Meren leaned back in his chair and gazed up at a column shaped like a bundle of lotus flowers. Beyond the loggia where they were finishing the afternoon meal, real flowers, the blue and rose lotus, floated on Maya's pleasure pond in the glare of sunlight. He had arrived a short time earlier after watching the king at archery practice.
While he, Tanefer, and Horemheb had watched the king, Prince Djoser joined them and immediately mentioned the pottery shard story Kysen had begun to foster. While Tanefer and Djoser speculated on Meren's odd interest in pottery, Ahiram appeared, boisterous and in determined good spirits.
He'd been watching the wrestlers and now put forth the opinion that Meren saw plots and conspiracies in every shadow and whisper. The fool priest had probably tripped over his own kilt when he fell off the king's statue. Meren did his best to appear as if he knew more than he was telling and then turned his attention back to the king.
Tutankhamun had chosen a heavier bow than usual, and the practice hadn't gone well. With every miss, the boy's mouth had settled into a tighter line until it resembled the seam between two pyramid blocks. The tighter the line, the more quiet grew the warriors and officials around the king.
Ahiram had made things worse. At the last miss, he'd spoken up to say that the fault lay in whoever gave his majesty that bow, which was far too heavy for one so young. Tutankhamun had reddened and snapped the bowstring past his wristguard, causing a nasty burn. That ended archery practice. The priest of Montu had rescued everyone by divining in the remains of his sacrifice that today was not a good day for the bow and arrow.
With the king's young pride assuaged, Meren left the court. He'd noticed that the priest had offered his explanation after Tanefer had strolled over to have a quiet word with him. Meren decided to speak with Ay about Tanefer's diplomatic abilities. They could be of use in a position of greater authority, if the prince could be persuaded to accept the responsibility.
Now Meren lifted his silver cup to a servant, who hefted a wine jar out of its stand and poured dark, sweet liquid into it. He was stuffed with mutton and fresh bread, which meant that at any moment Maya would abandon inconsequential chatter about his family. He thrived more on the discussion of people's problems than on food, and had a habit of plying his confidants with rich victuals on the supposition that a full stomach encouraged a loose tongue.
Maya knew this strategy didn't work on Meren, but he tried anyway. He'd been trying for years. His latest interest appeared to be Meren's lack of a wife.
"It's been too many years, my Falcon. Sit-Hathor lives in the netherworld, and you're still here."
Maya glanced at him sideways with heavy-lidded, tilted eyes.
"Lady Bentanta, now, there's a woman worth marrying. As beautiful as the Nile."