Drinker Of Blood (11 page)

"Yamen," he said. "Have I not heard of an officer of the army called Yamen? Yes, a recipient of the Gold of Valor."

"The lord Kysen does me honor to remember," Yamen said.

The man wasn't what Kysen had anticipated. He had expected a man of his father's years, an oily, ingratiating serpent and place seeker. Yamen appeared much older than Meren, whose sharp features bore few of the lines of age. Perhaps it was that Yamen's hair had deserted him except for a thin fringe of closely cropped hair that circled his skull. The dome of his head was well-shaped, no ugly scars or protrusions, and he had a sharp little nose that balanced the dome.

Yamen was short, like a peasant whose farm yields enough grain to survive but not enough to thrive. But the lack of height was deceiving. His body was slight but wide of shoulder and obviously blessed with sinewy strength. Kysen decided that the man ought to be able to handle a pair of stallions with ease. Indeed, Yamen appeared to be everything Meren's inquiries had revealed he was not—a brave and experienced warrior.

"Have no fear, Lord Kysen."

Surprised, Kysen could only repeat the word. "Fear?"

"I know how I appear to the world," Yamen said with a wry smile. He spread his hands and chuckled. "A little man dwarfed by the horses and by his companions. I'm not the image of a hero one beholds on the walls of great tombs and monuments. But I've killed a few lions, and none can best me in a chariot race."

In spite of himself, Kysen had to return Yamen's grin. He'd never have supposed that this corrupt officer would have the grace to laugh at his own shortcomings. Now that he thought of it, Kysen had met few of noble birth blessed with this quality. His father had it, but Meren was different from most highborn and pampered courtiers. Something had happened to his father—Kysen suspected at the heretic's hands—that had burnt to ashes any false sense of magnificence.

"Then we'll be the first in the hunt," Kysen said.

Yamen slapped one of his white stallions lightly on the shoulder. "I can promise it. We'll be driving the best team in Memphis."

Kysen took his bow from a servant while Yamen hopped into the chariot with practiced ease. He joined the officer in the vehicle. Checking the spear case and quiver mounted on the side of the vehicle, Kysen heard the clatter of hooves all around them as the party set out. Already dust rose from the chariot wheels and wafted into his face.

Djoser drove through the moving vehicles to their side and shouted, "The chief huntsman says the gazelles are headed for the next valley. We'll wait for them to enter it before giving chase."

Kysen surveyed the desert terrain while they drove. Limestone cliffs rose in the distance to the north and south. Once the air grew hot, hawks would appear, coasting on invisible waves, watching for the slightest movement. The chariots slowed as the chief huntsman pointed at the gazelle herd, disappearing into the valley ahead. Barely visible in the dawn light, the animals picked their way across the rocks.

Kysen glanced at the hunting party. Many were charioteers, highborn, trained in the hard traditions of the imperial military and proud of their skill. He could hear them teasing Djoser for proposing to use nets to trap their quarry.

Yamen raised his voice over the clatter of the chariots as they drove alongside Djoser's vehicle. "Come, Djoser. Our friends are right. Using nets and dogs isn't sport. Let us test our skill."

"You'd give chase without the dogs?" Kysen asked as he braced his feet on the floor of the chariot.

"Is such a hunt beyond your skill?" Yamen asked with a challenging grin.

Kysen touched the dagger of bronze and gold thrust into his belt. "Not if it isn't beyond yours."

They approached the valley entrance slowly. Rock cliffs closed in on either side of them. They jutted up to the sky, sheer as the walls of a pyramid. The howl of a jackal echoed down the valley from them. One of the noblemen uttered a charm of appeasement to Anubis, jackal god of the underworld.

The gazelles were still well ahead, and there was much discussion as to who would lead this netless chase. Finally Yamen spoke loudly.

"I wager my new foal that Kysen and I can bring down the first animal."

Silence fell among the men, who glanced at each other in surprise at the value of the wager. Kysen met his father's stare with a slight smile. He could tell that the officer's obtrusive manner and arrogance were beginning to annoy Meren. His father started to speak.

"Why should there be a wager—"

"A wager it is!"

Kysen looked over his shoulder at the speaker, Lord Tharwas. He should have known Tharwas would match the wager. He was a friend, but Kysen wasn't blind to his rashness.

"It's arranged, then," said Djoser. "Kysen and Yamen will lead."

Yamen drew in his reins while Kysen shook his head ruefully and knocked his bow. The rest of the party dropped back. Kysen braced his feet. One hand gripped his weapon; the other held on to the chariot rail.

He waited, relishing the cool silence, the threatening quiet of the desert his people called the Red Land. He put his hand over the eye-of-Horus amulet at his neck and prayed for strength and skill, clasped the chariot rail again, and nodded to Yamen.

The officer slapped the reins; the vehicle lurched forward and gained speed. Kysen could hear the pound of hooves as the team broke into a gallop. He narrowed his eyes against the wind and sand and set his legs as he felt Yamen's body lean to guide the horses around a boulder. Surprised, he realized that the two of them had the ability to speak to each other without words that was essential between driver and bowman. He hadn't thought to find himself attuned to this corrupt man.

Ahead the gazelles flew with speed born of terror. Beside him Yamen moved a leg so that Kysen was between it and the chariot wall. With this mute warning Kysen had time to cling to the rail with both hands. The chariot jolted and spanned a crevice in the valley floor, then regained speed so quickly that Kysen gave a shout of joy. The swiftness and the excitement of the chase sent fire racing through his veins.

Yamen laughed and plied his whip. They drew closer to a young straggler. Together he and Yamen took up the shooting stance, Yamen using his body to brace Kysen as he let go of the chariot to draw back an arrow. Careful to draw all the way even with his ear, Kysen steadied himself in the chariot, waited for the animal to take a long leap, and let the arrow fly. It hit the gazelle, and the creature plunged to the ground with the arrow embedded in its abdomen. Kysen drew another arrow from the quiver mounted on the side of the chariot while Yamen aimed their vehicle at another target.

Suddenly the gazelles veered right. Delicate hooves scrambled across the rock and sand. The herd leaped across the path of the chariot, and Yamen hauled at the reins. The stallions screamed, and the chariot bucked. Clutching the railing, Kysen swore and glanced around the desert. Prey never ran toward predator.

Heart thudding in his chest, he scanned the rocks to their left while Yamen struggled to control the rearing horses. On a ledge above them there was a blur of yellow and brown. Kysen turned toward it without thinking and raised his bow. At the same time he let out a war cry. The tawny mass came hurtling at him. He released his arrow, but the thing kept coming. It landed on him, taking the chariot with them in a crash to the ground. The horses screamed, and Yamen shouted.

Somehow Kysen managed to draw his dagger while flying to the ground. He landed on his back, and the air rushed from his lungs as he was buried beneath fur and muscle. He stabbed with the dagger, even though he knew it was useless. Expecting to be torn apart by teeth and claws, he felt a jolt that shook the body on top of him. A bony foreleg smashed into his head, and he lost control of his body. He breathed in the smell of blood before darkness claimed him.

Kysen.

Kysen tried to ignore the voice that pestered him. He was asleep, and it was too much effort to wake up. The voice raised in command.

"Kysen, listen to me. Breathe deeply."

Someone was shaking him and splashing water in his face, and people were making a great noise all around him. For long moments his thoughts seemed like sleepy crocodiles paddling through muddy water in the heat of the day.

Then he remembered. "The lion!"

His eyes popped open as he tried to rise. His arms flew up to protect his face. Meren grabbed his jaw and made Kysen look at him.

"The lion is dead, Ky."

Chest heaving, his face damp more from a cold sweat than from the water his father had splashed on him, Kysen nodded. Meren's hand left his face. Kysen managed a smile to reassure his father, whose own features were graver than an embalmer priest's.

Yamen pushed between Djoser and Tharwas to beam at him. "Well done. We killed the beast together."

Kysen sat with his forearms on his knees and closed his eyes against the morning sun. When he opened them, he was surrounded by hunters. A few wore anxious expressions. Most grinned at him. Yamen straightened and let out a shout that was taken up by the men waiting with the horses. Kysen felt a chill run through him, a chill of pleasure. These men were saluting him. With a jolt he realized that they no longer thought of him as Meren's low-born adopted son. When had that happened, and why hadn't he noticed until now?

Yamen was still grinning at him. "Behold, Kysen."

The hunters parted to reveal the carcass of a young male lion. He could see his arrow protruding from the animal's chest. A javelin was sunk deep in its back. Meren offered his hand. Kysen grasped it and rose, and together they walked over to the body. Yamen joined them and pointed at several gashes in the lion's fur. They were black with old blood. A part of the animal's muzzle had been ripped away, exposing the bone.

Yamen grasped the blood-flecked mane. "He must have lost a battle with another male."

"Such injuries would drive him mad with pain," Meren said. "I don't think he would have charged otherwise."

Kysen tried not to think of those gaping jaws and curved, yellow teeth.

Yamen slapped him on the back. "You don't look well. You should sit down. He landed on you hard enough to flatten you like a papyrus sheet."

Kysen sat on a rock. Meren brought an earthenware canteen and made him drink. About them the hunters busied themselves checking reins and examining horses for injuries. Glad not to be the object of everyone's attention, Kysen watched Yamen direct several men in binding the carcass for transport back to Memphis. Then he heard Meren whisper.

"I should kill him at once."

Startled, Kysen glanced up at the lean, elegant figure of his father. "Why?"

Meren's gaze—hard as pyramid stone and cold as obsidian—was fixed on Yamen. Without taking his eyes from the officer, he handed Kysen his dagger. It was stained with the lion's blood.

"He couldn't have known the lion would be there," Kysen said.

Meren shot a severe look at Kysen. "You defend him?"

"There's nothing to defend. It was chance that the lion hunted the same quarry that we did."

"I like it not that the first time we seek out this corrupt army officer, he nearly gets you killed."

Kysen began rubbing his dagger with sand. "If he'd wanted to kill me, he would have let the lion have me."

There was silence while Meren continued to shred Yamen with a razorlike gaze. "There is another possibility." Yes?

"He deliberately sought danger in order to impress us."

At Kysen's skeptical look, Meren went on. "Think for a moment. The man is a place seeker and a purveyor of corruption, and this is the first time he has been invited to hunt in a party of great men, in a group of which I'm a part."

"You think he wanted to catch your attention."

Meren nodded almost imperceptibly. Then he smiled. It was a smile that had seen rivers of blood on the battlefields of the empire, a smile that lurked in dark alleys and behind sacrificial altars.

"And if he has put himself to so much trouble, we should reward him," Meren said.

"We should?" Kysen wiped the dagger on his kilt and sheathed it.

Meren didn't answer. He raised his voice and called to Yamen. By the time the officer was with them, Meren's features had assumed one of the countless masks Kysen had come to recognize. A twinge of pity caught him by surprise as he watched Meren turn upon his victim that disarming and gracious smile that had been the downfall of greater men than Yamen.

"I haven't yet thanked you for saving my son's life, Yamen."

The officer made a low bow. "I but assisted Kysen, lord."

"Without your javelin, I'd be dead," Kysen said.

Meren nodded. "And without your skill with the chariot, you'd both be lion's meat." Hauling Kysen to his feet, he grasped the arms of both men, held them high, and shouted to the hunting party. "Lion killer!"

The men gave an answering shout. "Lion killer!" The nobles matched the shout with a salute of dagger and spear.

Meren released them and turned to the officer. "Come, Yamen, ride back with me. I would know more about the man to whom I owe so much."

Left to himself, Kysen went over to the team of white stallions, which had been examined by the grooms and pronounced fit. Had Yamen seen the lion and aimed the chariot for it? A shiver rippled through his body. From his record, Kysen had assumed the officer to be cowardly and corrupt, but what kind of madman risked being savaged by such an animal? What ambitions demanded so perverse an impulse? Or so desperate a distraction.

He got into the chariot and drove it over to Meren's. Yamen stood beside his father, smiling. Kysen had seen that same look of glutted satisfaction. Where? Ah, on Isis's pretty face. He'd seen her smile like that when she'd attracted the attention of yet another handsome courtier.

Just then his father laughed at some comment Yamen made. It was an easy, musical laugh that sent warning trumpets blaring in Kysen's ears. Such ease of manner, such charm and courtliness. With that remarkable ability of his, Meren had sensed danger. The laugh, the manner, told Kysen that Yamen's fate had been decided. Deserved as that fate might be, he found himself pitying the man who had just saved his life.