Lynda Robinson - Slayer of Gods

“Why don’t you beat him into meeting your price?”

Meren almost smiled. “You don’t protest being sold?”

The boy started and whirled around to face him. After a few moments of startled contemplation, he shook his head.

“Tried that, master. Just got hit for it.”

“I don’t understand,” Meren said. “A man’s son is his staff of old age.”

Kysen regarded him with solemn, dark eyes. “I have two older brothers, master.” His gaze faltered. “I’m not needed or…”

“Wanted?”

The dust-covered head lowered, and the boy said nothing.

“Here! What are you doing bothering a great one?” Pawero swooped at Kysen and punched him in the stomach.

Something snapped inside Meren. He swept around the well, grabbed Pawero by the hair, and dragged him away from the boy. Howling, the man staggered as Meren released him.

“Oh, shut your muzzle,” Meren said. “How much for the boy?” He couldn’t believe his mouth had uttered the words.

Pawero stopped whining, and his whole being lit with an almost magical glow as he appeared to calculate Meren’s wealth. He studied the gold, turquoise, and carnelian broad collar, the beaded belt and bronze dagger.

“Oh, slaves is expensive, great one, especially a boy. Long years of service ahead for him, you know.”

Meren raised an eyebrow, removed a gold ring with a bezel of lapis lazuli from his finger and held it up.

“Agreed,” Pawero said quickly.

“The boy comes with me now, and you will go to the temple of Amun tomorrow morning and execute a bill of sale before witnesses.”

Pawero was bowing over and over. “Yes, great one. Of course, of course. And what name shall I give for the buyer?”

“Meren.”

The man stopped bowing and stared. Meren ignored him and continued. “Mark what I say, Pawero. From this day you have nothing to do with this boy. Do not come to my house seeking to trade on your shared blood. I have no wish to see you again.” Without waiting for Pawero’s reply, Meren motioned to Kysen.

“Come with me, child.”

The boy followed him back across the square, but faltered as they were about to turn a corner. He stood watching his father, and Meren waited. Pawero’s attention was fixed on the gold ring. He rubbed it, held it up so that it caught the sun’s rays, brought it close to see the design on the bezel. Then, without a glance at his son, he hurried away. Kysen’s eyes filled with tears, but he didn’t cry. His gaze remained on the spot where his father disappeared, and he blinked rapidly. Meren reached out to put his hand on the boy’s shoulder, but Kysen jumped, twisted around to face him, braced for a blow. Meren lowered his hand.

“I won’t strike you.”

Kysen merely looked at him.

“There will be time enough for you to learn the truth of my words.”

When the boy remained in his defensive stance, Meren stepped back from him to show his benign intentions. After a while Kysen straightened. Meren began to walk again.

“Come, Kysen. The gods have put you in my way. You’re my responsibility now, and my first duty is to see that you get a bath.”

“Bath! Rather get a beating.”

He could still hear that outraged response all these years later. Meren felt a spasm of pain as he studied Kysen’s motionless body and recalled his childhood aversion to bathing. What a battle it had been to convince him that he wouldn’t drown if a servant poured water over him in the shower stall.

“Meren, you’re not listening.”

He looked up to find Anath and Bener watching him. Kysen hadn’t moved.

“Yes?”

“Bener asked what all the commotion was,” Anath said.

“I arrested the pirate Othrys. He gave Kysen wine to drink just before he fell ill. If he doesn’t wake soon, I will use more severe persuasion to make him tell me what was in the wine.”

Anath rose and joined him at the foot of the bed. “Then you suspect him?”

“I must,” Meren said. “He may have been lying from the first, but he did say something that made me think he might be innocent. He claimed he could have killed me when I sought refuge with him when I was suspected of trying to kill pharaoh.”

“But he couldn’t be sure you hadn’t told your family where you were,” Anath said. “If you had, and he killed you, he would have been suspected. Had I been faced with the situation, I would have waited to make certain your death couldn’t be traced to me.”

“And by the time he was certain, I’d already contacted my charioteers. I see what you mean.”

Anath put her palm against his cheek. “You look terrible, my love.”

Meren turned and kissed her palm, suddenly weary. He couldn’t remember how long it had been since he slept.

“I can’t rest.”

“I know a sleeping potion that will help,” Anath said. “I learned it from a Babylonian witch.”

“A witch? That doesn’t sound good. Besides, I must remain awake for Kysen.”

“Nonsense,” she said as she left the room. “Bener and I will watch over him and wake you at the first sign of a change in his condition. I’ll prepare the mixture at once.”

Meren was too exhausted to argue. His thoughts were sluggish, his heart weary from the agony of the last few days. He sat beside Bener, and they studied Kysen’s features together.

“Father, I have to talk to you.”

Pressing his fingertips to his temples, Meren said, “I won’t argue with you anymore.”

“I don’t want to argue, I just want to ask you about Anath.”

“Not now,” he said.

“No, not about you and Anath. About her wealth.”

“What about it?”

“Didn’t you say you went to her house? You saw it, and her possessions. She has as much furniture and more jewels than we do.”

Meren touched Kysen’s forehead. It felt cool. “Anath is the Eyes of Babylon. The position requires wealth and accrues wealth.”

“Oh,” Bener said with a frown. “It’s just that you always say you’re suspicious when those of moderate means become suddenly wealthy.”

Meren transferred his gaze to his daughter, noted her calculating expression, and sighed. “You’re doing it again, working out puzzles. Leave it be. You’re to confine your thoughts to appropriate matters, and Anath’s prosperity isn’t your concern.”

“But, Father, you always say-”

“No!”

Bener jumped and gave him a hurt look.

“Forgive me, child, but I have no patience left after your abduction… and this.” He swept his arm toward Kysen. “Speak to me about your concerns when Kysen… if he…” He couldn’t finish.

Anath appeared holding a glazed blue bottle and dragged him from the room. Meren allowed her to lead him to his bedchamber because he was too exhausted to argue. He lay down, but refused to drink the concoction she poured into a cup of wine.

“I don’t want to be insensible while Kysen is ill.”

“Very well.” Anath set the cup on the floor and climbed into the bed with him. She picked it up again. “A small sip will help you sleep without making you groggy.”

He took one sip to please her, then settled back in her arms. He turned his face so that he could smell her perfumed body, but even that exotic scent failed to penetrate the numbness that had settled over him. Anath watched him for a while before summoning a servant, who appeared with her lute. She moved to a cushion beside the bed and strummed the strings of the instrument. It was an old one she’d had for years, made of the shell of a large tortoise.

Meren lay with his eyes open, staring at the ceiling and listening to her play. Slowly, against his will, his eyes closed. He should be questioning Othrys, hunting down the missing Dilalu, anything to avoid having to think of losing Kysen as he almost lost Bener. The last thing he remembered before he slept was Anath’s voice murmuring, quiet as the north breeze.