Lynda Robinson - Murder at the God's Gate

"Look about the house," Kysen whispered to Abu, "but be discreet. We can't justify acting as if this death were other than an accident."

Abu barely nodded his head. "The wife is in the bedchamber." The charioteer pointed toward the back of the house.

Kysen found the chamber empty except for two low wooden beds and a few furnishings. A portable lavatory sat in one corner. Against a wall sat a chest filled with clothing. Another, smaller box contained cosmetics. The floor was covered with woven rush mats. Beneath one of the beds, partially concealed by a cover that hung over the side, sat a wicker box.

Stooping, he retrieved the box and opened it. Empty except for a few buff-colored flecks of pottery. He closed the box and replaced it under the bed. Where was the wife?

He left the chamber, glanced at the common room, and then headed for the kitchen. As he approached, he heard a sob. A woman's voice floated out to him.

"Poor Unas. Poor, poor Unas."

Unas's wife was in her kitchen, but she wasn't alone. Kysen paused just to the side of the doorway to watch a young man drop to his knees beside the woman called Ipwet. Gathering the sobbing woman into his arms, he muttered soft words into her hair. Kysen remained still and quiet.

The young man couldn't be much older than himself. Where Unas had been hollow of shoulder, with a splayed belly and pronounced knees, this man could have been a royal archer. Nor would he lack for admirers among women. The clean lines of his body and his obvious vitality must have intimidated a skittish and aging man like poor Unas. Poor Unas indeed. Kysen entered the kitchen.

At his appearance, the young man looked up. His eyes, under straight brows, widened, taking in Kysen's rich garb. Ipwet stirred, then gasped as she beheld him. For a moment Kysen felt a twinge of guilt. Once, he had been one of those who started with fear at the appearance of a great one. He knew what it was to dread the wrath of those whose mere birth had placed them in control of his very life.

"I am Kysen, agent of the Eyes and Ears of Pharaoh. I've come to inquire into the circumstances of the death of the pure one called Unas. I offer condolences to the wife of Unas." He glanced suddenly at the man. "Who are you?"

Blinking rapidly, the young man hesitated before answering. "I am Nebera. I–I am, was, a friend of Unas. I live next door."

"What are you?" Kysen asked quickly. "And how did you spend this morning?"

Nebera opened his mouth, but Ipwet spoke for the first time.

"Nebera is a worker of metals and jewelry, an apprentice to a master in the royal workshops. He heard of Unas's death when word was brought by the stonemasons there, and he came to offer comfort."

"I must return to work soon," Nebera added.

What was it about these two? It wasn't just that they clung to each other with the intimacy of lovers. It was their habit of speech. Their conversation was like a tune sung by professional singers. First one sang, and then the other, in easy exchange, as if each knew his part and that of the other as well. These two reminded him of his oldest sister and her husband-twin souls in harmony. Ipwet spoke for Nebera, and Nebera for Ipwet.

Kysen murmured his assent, and Nebera turned to Ipwet.

"I'll return as soon as the day's work has ended."

Ipwet nodded, shaking the gleaming curtain of dark brown that was her hair. She lowered her gaze to the floor as Nebera left. Her hand toyed with the deep blue beads of her faience necklace. In the dim light of the one oil lamp, Kysen could barely perceive the slight flush on her cheeks. The kohl on her eyes had run when she wept, and her hair was mussed.

In spite of her disheveled appearance, Kysen could see why Nebera was so anxious to return to her. Ipwet had great doe's eyes, plump lips, and lean arms and legs that spoke of limber strength and invited a man to imagine to what interesting uses she could put them. She also had an Egyptian woman's frank way of meeting a man's gaze with a look that spoke of fearlessness and pride. Kysen would have wagered that no husband of this woman would dare stray or mistreat her. If she was this formidable so young, what would she be like as a grandmother?

"Lord, why have you come? My poor Unas fell from the scaffolding of the statue of the living god, may he forever have life, health, and strength."

"Formidable indeed," Kysen muttered.

"Lord?"

"It's naught. The Eyes and Ears of Pharaoh often in-quire into sudden deaths that involve persons connected with the affairs of the living god, no matter how slight the association may be. How was your husband this morning?"

"The same as usual, lord. Agitated over his new responsibilities in the treasury of the god, perhaps. But Unas often grew excited about his work. He dreamed of rising in the service of Amun until one day-ah, but such dreams are of no consequence."

"And you have noticed nothing odd about his manner in the last few days?"

"No, lord. He was the same. Diligent, remaining at his duties long after everyone else. The other day I scolded him for being out after dark. I was already cooking the evening meal by the time he came home." Ipwet smiled, but tears quickly welled up in her eyes. "I scolded him for nearly ruining my fire."

She turned and wiped her eyes. Her fingers came away black with kohl. Stooping, she picked up a rag beside the oven and wiped her face.

"Was he worried about some matter at the temple, that he would ruin your fire?" Kysen asked.

"I know not," Ipwet said. "I was busy making bread, and he came in. To watch, I thought, but instead he threw broken pottery into my fire. Unas could be so irritating, always trying to please, so anxious, always hovering."

Kysen furrowed his brow. "He threw shards into the fire? Why?"

"He said he was just discarding them. He was only trying to capture my attention, I think."

Kysen said nothing. Meren had always taught him to look out for practices that were out of the ordinary, signs of inconsistency or lack of logic. Although Unas seemed to have been an excitable, jittery man, even one in fear of losing a much younger wife wouldn't throw shards into a fire for no reason.

Or would he? Ipwet might have quarreled with him. If a vessel had been broken during the quarrel, some of the remains might have been tossed into the oven. It could be that Ipwet shrank from revealing the quarrel to a stranger. Then Kysen remembered the flakes of pottery he'd found in the box in Unas's bedchamber. The priest might have kept these shards in it. Such elaborate preservation of such humble objects-extraordinary indeed.

Kneeling before the oven, Kysen took a pair of wooden tongs and stirred the ashes. At first all he found were coals. Then, with Ipwet holding the lamp close, he scraped out several small, blackened shards. He was about to give up when his gaze caught a spot of buff and blue at the edge of the oven floor, away from the ashes. He fished it out.

It appeared to be a piece from the rim of a bowl, and it bore portions of a hieroglyphic inscription. Kysen lifted the fragment closer to the lamp flame. Two lines curved side by side like twin throwing sticks. Beneath the one on the left was a tick mark shaped like the tip of an arrow. Beneath the right one was another curved line like the one above it, only more rounded.

A common piece, this buff pottery. There were thousands upon thousands of such clay vessels in Egypt. Nevertheless, Kysen dropped the fragment onto Ipwet's rag along with the blackened shards and folded the cloth, tucking it into his belt.

"Can you tell me why your husband went to the temple so early?"

"A boy came with word from the master sculptor asking to meet early at the statue."

"Did you know this boy?"

"No, lord. I thought he came from the sculptor."