Slayer of Gods (22 page)

Deep in thought, Kysen reached the meeting place, a refuse heap behind a warehouse in the Caverns. He leaned against a wall
and studied the cracks that marred its plaster surface. He wasn’t going to solve this new mystery right away, and if he didn’t
pay attention to what he was doing he could get into trouble. Ugly things happened to those foolish enough to become distracted
in the Caverns.

A slave trudged out of a house across the street and hurled the contents of a scrap pot onto the festering pile. Waves of
transparent heat floated from its surface along with a sickly sweet odor that had driven Kysen to take his position upwind.
He’d been watching this noxious mountain for a good reason. The thief and informant called Tcha made a habit of checking waste
mounds for castoffs that might be worth something, and they’d arranged a meeting.

His father was still at home conspicuously doing nothing other than routine business, which was why Kysen was prowling again.
He had to find Dilalu, and Tcha had been asking about the merchant among his low but numerous acquaintances. Kysen straightened
as a scrawny little figure with greasy hair and more scars than skin shuffled into view. Tcha skulked around the refuse heap,
acquiring a cloak of flies as he went, and joined Kysen. He scuttled into a shadow, darting uneasy glances around the area.

“No one’s here, Tcha. Reia is down that alley watching, and that’s the only way in.”

“Didn’t see no charioteer, master.”

“You weren’t supposed to see him. Now what have you learned?”

“It be hard work, finding things out, master. I’ve trudged from one end of the city to the other.” Tcha pointed to Kysen’s
feet. “Never had no fine leather sandals to protect my feet. Never had no protector to watch out for me. Life is hard, master.”

“You’re not getting more than I agreed to pay, so quit complaining,” Kysen said.

Tcha opened his mouth, but a rattling cough issued from his throat. He put the whole force of his lungs behind the cough,
bent over and groaned, then leaned weakly against the wall.

“The wind blew a terrible amount of dust into me, master. I’m sure it blew a desert fiend in too, and it cursed me and that’s
why I got this rattle in my chest. Got nothing to pay a magician or doctor. Just going to waste away, me.”

Kysen lifted an eyebrow, but said nothing. Tcha sank against the wall with dramatic effect, and gave a high-pitched moan.
Kysen’s foot swept around and knocked the thief’s legs from under him. Tcha hit the ground with a screech, but Kysen grabbed
a handful of sticky hair and hauled him to his feet, shaking him with each word.

“Tell me what you’ve found out.” He released Tcha.

“Ow! Broke my neck, I’m certain of it.” When Kysen moved toward him again he backed away. “All right, all right, master. I
heard of a man who might know where the merchant’s got to.” Tcha rubbed his neck and put some distance between himself and
Kysen. “He used to work for Dilalu as a trader’s assistant, but he was dismissed because he drank too much.”

“Where is he?” Kysen asked.

“Probably at a place called the Heart Scarab. It’s near that old wrecked shrine to the god Shu. He goes there because the
beer is cheaper than at the Divine Lotus.”

Kysen eyed the thief, who had suddenly become more fidgety than usual. “What’s wrong with you?”

“Naught, master.”

Kysen studied Tcha, but decided the little man simply wasn’t used to anyone taking notice of him for any length of time. “Does
this drunkard have a name?”

“O’ course, master. Name’s Marduk something. Impossible to say these foreign names. He’s known as Marduk.”

“Well done,” Kysen said as he rubbed the palm that had touched Tcha’s hair against his kilt. It felt sticky.

He handed the thief several bronze beads on a string, leftovers from a necklace his sister Isis had broken. Tcha’s eyes grew
big, and he clutched the beads to his chest.

“Thank you, master.” He bobbed up and down in gratitude.

Tcha had expected to be cheated, Kysen was sure. It was a realistic expectation given the people with whom he usually consorted.
Still clutching his treasure, Tcha began to sneak away, but he hesitated. Casting wary glances all around, he sidled up to
Kysen, wet his lips, and spoke in a voice so low Kysen had to bend down to hear it.

“You be careful at the Heart Scarab, master.”

“Why?”

Tcha’s glance slid away, and he muttered, “Always should take care around here.” He shuffled off, talking to himself. “Never
had no beads like these before. Never had no jewels, nor good sandals, nor nice, soft kilt. Never. Never, never, never.”

Kysen eyed Tcha’s stunted figure and contemplated calling him back to demand the significance of his last warning, but then
he shook his head. He just wasn’t used to Tcha’s gratitude, and there wasn’t much time. He didn’t want to remain in the Caverns
too long. There was always the chance that someone in the employ of Nefertiti’s murderer might see him and recognize Lord
Kysen, the son of Meren. Kysen walked back down the alley to where Reia waited and headed for the ruined shrine of the god
Shu.

The Heart Scarab turned out to be a gathering hole for the dregs of the city—derelict servants, leather workers smelling of
curing salts and urine, street thieves, embalmer’s assistants, and drunks. The place was named for the beetle-shaped amulet
placed in the wrappings of a mummy in order to prevent the deceased’s heart from testifying against him in the netherworld.
If the heart revealed evil deeds during the soul’s judgment, the dead person was cast into oblivion. An apt name considering
the patrons of the place.

With Reia behind him, Kysen walked across a packed earth floor littered with food scraps and spilt, sour beer. Inert bodies
lay in poses of destitution and stupor from one end of the tavern’s single room to the other. The proprietor had pointed out
a slumped, fleshy man in a corner when Kysen inquired after Marduk.

Standing over the man, Kysen noted his curling beard, the ringlets in his hair, his dirty nails, and soiled wool robe. He
was dozing on a stool with a beer jar clutched in both hands.

“Marduk?”

There wasn’t a response. He exchanged glances with Reia, who was watching the rest of the tavern’s patrons.

“Marduk,” Kysen repeated. When the man didn’t stir, he nudged him with his toe. The man snorted and came awake.

“Wha—”

“You are the Asiatic called Marduk?”

“Go away.” Marduk turned his shoulder and snuggled into his corner.

Kysen pulled the stool from under Marduk, and the Asiatic hit the floor hard.

“Aargh! May Baal curse your children’s children. What do you want, Egyptian?”

“It is said you might know the whereabouts of a certain Asiatic called Dilalu.”

Marduk scowled at Kysen. “Who be you to ask me anything?”

Kysen knelt beside the man and produced a bronze ring with a turquoise bezel. “I’m the man who’s willing to pay to be able
to ask you anything.”

Marduk’s scowl vanished. He laughed so loud Kysen winced, and he clapped his benefactor on the back.

“Help me up, my friend. Come share a jar of beer. I have two. Where’s that other one?” Marduk snatched a jar that stood on
the floor near his corner and thrust it into Kysen’s hands. He waved his own jar so that the beer sloshed out, and laughed
again. “Let us drink in honor of friendship.”

“I don’t want a drink.”

Marduk’s joviality disappeared instantly. “You don’t want to drink with me? Why not? Marduk is good enough to drink with fine
lords and great men. I don’t answer the questions of men who refuse a friendly jar of beer.”

Casting a rueful glance at Reia, Kysen took the cup Marduk offered and poured beer through the straining holes in the jar.
He took a sip and grimaced at the acrid taste. The stuff was poorly made and flavored with some cheap spice that failed to
hide the flatness of the brew. Marduk must have thought it as fine as Syrian wine, however, for he insisted that Kysen drink
most of the jar before he began answering questions.

“That old cheat Dilalu? He cast me off near a week ago. I heard he’d gone into hiding. Only Baal knows why. He’s wealthy enough
to buy his way out of trouble.”

“Do you know where he might be found?” Kysen asked as he took another painful sip of beer.

Marduk drained his cup, slapped it down on the table, and pretended to consider carefully, his eyes raised to the ceiling
in thought. “Well, young one, as I remember, when Dilalu ran into evil-wishers he didn’t trust to leave him be, he went to
ground at his harlot’s place.”

“Where is that?”

“The dwelling of Mistress Henut, third house from the corner in the Street of the Locusts, beside the sandal maker’s house.”

“I’m unfamiliar with this Street of the Locusts,” Kysen said. The beer was causing a faint buzzing noise in his head. “If
you’ll take me there, I’ll stand the cost of two jars of beer.”

“Five jars.”

“Three,” Kysen said.

Marduk slapped his thigh. “Done! Let us hurry, my friend, so that we may start drinking those jars all the sooner.”

Kysen followed Marduk outside to find that dusk was rapidly turning to night. That buzzing sound seemed to be louder outside,
and his eyes were beginning to hurt. With difficulty he tracked Marduk’s progress through the crooked streets, dodging street
vendors, donkeys, women with water jars or baskets on their heads. Once he glanced over his shoulder to see Reia loping steadily
after him, but he had to hurry to catch up with Marduk.

He shoved his way through a crowd around a baker selling fresh loaves to find Marduk was far ahead of him. He worked his way
through the crowds headed away from one of the city’s many markets, but each step became more difficult, as if stone weights
had been tied to his ankles. His chest heaved with the effort to catch his breath, and the fading day seemed as hot as the
hour when Ra reached his highest point.

Finally he saw Marduk ahead. He shoved a young woman aside, almost ran into the stall of a cloth vendor, and stopped. His
mouth dry, he shouted for Marduk to wait. The man turned and stared at him. Why was he staring? Kysen blinked sweat out of
his eyes as he met Marduk’s gaze. Suddenly the Asiatic dashed into the crowd. Kysen tried to run after him, but he couldn’t
lift his legs. He concentrated hard, in spite of the heat, the sweat, the pressing crowd.

Someone was shouting at him. He turned to find Reia approaching, but the charioteer seemed to be running with a strangely
slow gait, as if he were wading. Kysen finally got one foot to move. He took a step toward Reia and laughed. Reia broke through
the thick air Kysen had been fighting and came up to him.

“Lord!”

Kysen laughed again, but the market seemed to tilt and spin, and he clutched a post of one of the vendor stalls. Reia said
his name again. Now everything he heard seemed muted the way one perceived sounds when underwater.

“Marduk ran away,” Kysen said.

This was the most amusing thing that had ever happened to him, so he laughed again, only this time he couldn’t stop. He laughed
until his stomach hurt.

“Lord, you must come with me at once,” Reia said, grabbing Kysen.

Kysen snatched his arm free. “I can walk. Watch me.”

He took a step, and his bones turned to water. He hurtled toward the ground, but Reia caught him. Kysen flung his arm over
the charioteer’s shoulder.

“I think you’d better take me home.” He looked into Reia’s fear-filled eyes and smiled. “I can’t seem to keep my eyes open.
Funny, I didn’t think I drank that much.”

With a soft chuckle Kysen leaned heavily against Reia. As darkness enveloped him he grinned. At least his legs didn’t feel
like granite anymore.

Meren strode around the reception hall dictating orders and letters, business long neglected during his disgrace and illness.
Bener had accompanied Anath home to gather a few belongings for her stay at Golden House. With great effort he concentrated
on reports from vassal cities like Joppa, Megiddo, Jericho, and Hazor, trying to sift through rumor and fact. Close scrutiny
was essential in these tumultuous times in order to catch the first hint of conspiracy before it led to open rebellion.

Because of Akhenaten’s neglect, some of the petty princes had forgotten how far pharaoh’s arm might stretch in defense of
his caravans and military outposts. The key to Tutankhamun’s policy was to maintain the empire without having to intervene
with troops unless absolutely necessary. This meant using alternatives to the military, one of which was gathering intelligence
and using it against the king’s enemies. Even more worrying was the threat the Hittites posed to the northernmost regions
of the empire.

Meren read a dispatch and sighed. “Answer to the captain of the garrison at Tyre. I have received your report and will intercede
on your behalf with General Nakhtmin. Until the rations due your men can be delivered I authorize you to purchase bolts of
cloth and other necessary provisions.” He glanced at Bek, who was sitting cross-legged on the floor and writing. “Remind me
to send a message to the general so that he can send linen on the next supply ship, and write to the nearest agent. Have him
investigate the supply situation at Tyre. Something
is
wrong, and I’m willing to wager that someone’s diverting ration goods before they’re unloaded at the dock. Also make inquiries
at the delta port where the ships are loaded.”