Lynda Robinson: Murder at the Feast of Rejoicing

Sighing, he walked back to the scribe and lowered himself to a camp stool beside the man. "Very well, we can begin."

He'd already accomplished the frightening task of actually addressing a letter to pharaoh. Writing to Meren would be easy. That is, it would be easy if he didn't have to disguise the real contents of the message.

"The usual salutation," Kysen said.

He paused while the scribe wrote "Tjerkerma," the name Kysen had adopted for this journey, Meren's name and titles, then "year five" followed by the month and the day in the waning season of Drought.

He cleared his throat. "Tjerkerma greets his lord, Meren, in life, prosperity, and health, in the favor of Amun, King of the Gods, of Ptah, of Toth, and all the gods and goddesses. May they bestow upon you love, cleverness, and favor." It had taken him years to master the formal letter-writing style.

"See! I am about to embark from the place, Refuge of Maat, upon the morn with good speed. All is in readiness. The cargo is disposed as you ordered. The traders sail to their appointed destinations."

In this prearranged phraseology, he let his father know that the royal family and their burial furniture would embark in the morning. With raised sails they would float south from Horizon of Aten in the direction of Thebes, and the journey would be a slow one. On this journey they would have to pass Thinis, ancient seat of his father's family, and Abydos, sacred city of the god Osiris. As he continued to dictate the letter, his guts began to twist like cobras in a basket.

He hated Meren's plan. Oh, not all of it. Only the part that risked his father's life, for that was what the effect of this design would be. Not three weeks earlier Meren had almost been killed. He wasn't fully recovered either from wounds received while thwarting the rebellion of one of his closest friends or grief at the friend's death. Yet in a few days he was going to do something that might place him in as great a danger as any he'd faced while tracking down that traitor.

His father was supposed to be resting in the country. Upon hearing of Meren's plan to go to the family seat, the estate of Baht, Kysen had tried to dissuade him. He knew Meren's family; visiting them wasn't the way to gain peace and solace, especially while dealing with this new, added burden. It exasperated Kysen that Meren still thought he would be able to rest when his plans came to fruition. No doubt he would continue to think so until the demons of chaos struck, as they were sure to do when he was dealing with the secrets of god kings.

Dawn had long given way to the furnace of early morning by the time Meren finished his correspondence. He left the cool shelter of the palace at the royal way station to brave the sun and the west wind that scoured its way across the valley. There were many such mooring places along the Nile, kept in readiness for times when pharaoh, his family, or favored friends might need to seek refuge during the long journey up- or downriver. This one was half a day's sail from his country home.

Followed by a pair of charioteers, Meren walked up the long ramp beside the palace. It led to a high brick platform on which his traveling household had set up their tents. A flight of stairs brought him to the walk on top of the defensive wall. Few sentries stood guard. He was going home to rest and wasn't on official duty. The walls had swarmed with guards a few days ago, when pharaoh passed on his way to Memphis.

As he gazed out at his ship, Wings of Horus, Meren furrowed his brow and rubbed the sun-disk scar on his inner wrist. Pharaoh had promised to confine himself to military exercises in the practice grounds near the Sphinx. Meren could only pray to the gods that no bandits chose to raid any nearby villages while the king was in the capital. If only the golden one hadn't asked Kysen to be his unofficial witness to the arrangements at Horizon of Aten. Meren had counted on his son's presence among the king's war band to distract Tutankhamun from his obsession with acquiring real battle experience.

Shaking his head, he drew his gaze back to the long, sleek lines of his ship. Painted black, with lines of red and gold, it outsailed every other craft on the river. Only a few ships in the king's fleet could match it. Not long ago, Wings of Horus had sped him on his way in pursuit of a traitor. Soon it would take him home. Already most of his household had removed there, including Nebamun, his physician, and Remi, Kysen's son. His aide, Abu, was in charge at his house in Thebes. As Meren indulged in a moment's admiration of his ship, another slid past it going north with the current, in the direction of Memphis.

Meren squinted at the vessel and motioned to the charioteers behind him. "Reia, Iry, isn't that Lord Paser's yacht?"

The two young charioteers joined him in peering at the slow-moving craft.

"Yellow with a green deck," Reia said.

Iry nodded. "Aye, lord, it's the same one we saw yesterday."

"And the day before," Meren said. He folded his arms over his chest. "Hmmm."

Paser was one of a faction at court that was growing around Prince Hunefer. Hunefer fancied himself better fit to advise pharaoh than the vizier Ay, who was the craftiest of statesmen. Although Hunefer's heart was far from clever, dissatisfied place-seekers had flocked to him in hopes of using the prince to topple Ay.

The question was, why would Paser follow Meren? He was only going home to rest and give the shoulder wounds Tanefer had given him a chance to heal. Everyone knew that. Everyone should know that.

Meren was considering the unlikely possibility that either Paser or Hunefer was more clever than he'd thought when Reia gave a startled exclamation and pointed to the canal that ran beside the royal mooring place.

"Look, lord!"

A skiff floated up to the bank and unloaded three figures, a man and two girls. The girls hopped ashore and started running. They vanished inside the way-station gates before their companion could tie off the skiff.

"What-why-?" Meren glanced at Reia, then at Iry.

Both men appeared expressionless, but he could see the corners of Reia's eyes crinkle in amusement.

Pressing his lips together, Meren composed himself. He would remain where he was and let his two youngest daughters find him. He wanted an explanation. They were supposed to be at home, waiting for him, not sailing on their own with but one servant to accompany them. He hadn't long to wait before the two came racing toward him across the platform, long tresses flying behind them.

The older girl, Bener, slowed as she approached, but Isis flew past her and flung herself into his arms.

"Father, Father, I knew we'd find you! Aren't I clever? I said you'd be delayed, and here you are. Bener thinks she's the chosen one of Toth, with her writing and her ciphering, but I'm the one who found you. It was my idea, and she thinks she's so quick-witted."

Meren hugged his youngest child, and as her words streamed over him, he forgot his resolution to be stern. He'd spent months maneuvering through vicious intrigues, guarding his every word for fear of betraying his king, keeping his senses alert for danger. Until now he hadn't known how great the strain had been.

Kysen and Tutankhamun had both warned him of his weariness. He hadn't listened. But as Isis babbled to him in her golden voice, the muscles in his neck and shoulders loosened. He'd lived with them twisted as tight as the rope of a wine press. The demons that jabbed spikes in his temples vanished.

Isis squeezed his neck. "I missed you, Father."

"And I you, my little goddess." He loosened his grip on Isis and looked over the top of her head at Bener, who had walked up to them sedately. She was standing with her arms at her sides, radiating composure. Was this his little girl, the one who climbed palms and stole pomegranates from the kitchen? She was almost as tall as Kysen.