The Shepherd Kings (44 page)

No, Iry would not let her thoughts take such a path. The
lesser women, the servants, the women of rank or family who attended Sarai,
were entirely caught up in it. One of them—Barukha, that was her name—crept out
most nights when she thought no one was watching, and crept back toward morning,
tousled and heavy-lidded and smelling of something a little rank and a little
wild, and to Iry’s nose, a little repellent. It was not like a cat in heat, at
all, but the feel of it was the same.

Barukha was a lord’s daughter. Such things were forbidden
her, Iry had thought; certainly in daylight she acted as if that were so.

They were not forbidden the Mare’s servant. Iry had
asked—seeking an answer of Maryam, who was the most inclined to give clear
answers to odd questions. The Mare’s servant could do whatever she pleased.
That was her privilege, as it was the Mare’s. She could marry or not marry,
love a man or many men or no men at all—even love a woman, if she so desired.

Iry did not want to love a woman. A man . . .
she had never wanted that, either. Not when all the men she could have were
bearded Retenu, or Retenu slaves.

It was so strange, this thing that she had become, on the
whim of a white Mare. She was still herself. She was still Iry. But there was
so much inside of her now. So many words in that language she hated, and in the
beginnings of another language, an older language, that of the Mare’s people.
So many things to remember. So many secrets; so many mysteries. All entrusted
to her because of the Mare.

They reckoned themselves masters of intrigue, and yet they
trusted her, Egyptian born, with knowledge that no Egyptian had ever had.
Knowledge that, if she wished, could turn against them—could betray them. She
knew the names of their gods, and the powers that were given them. There were
rites and magics that could sway all these people—and she was learning them.
She had little enough yet, but given time, she could wield it as she chose,
against whom she chose.

She turned her hands palm up on her bare brown thighs. So
much power. She had been born to be lady of a holding. Then she had been made a
slave. Now, she was—why, she was as powerful as a queen.

Her fists clenched. No. Not that. Not yet. She was too young
still. She knew too little. All she had was the beginning of an understanding.
If she lived long enough, she would be a woman of great power and wisdom. But
now, she was but a child, with a child’s strength.

A shadow fell across her. She looked up, not particularly
alarmed. She had heard the scrabbling, and the sound of toes and fingers
finding purchase on the wall. Silly. There was a small gate only a few dozen
paces away, which the guards never troubled to watch.

She said so. The shadow against the sun, which was Egyptian,
male, and somewhat unsteady on its feet, said rather crossly, “It was barred on
the inside.”

She narrowed her eyes against the glare. The voice reminded
her of something, or someone. She could not think who it might be. The face . . .

The world tilted, then righted itself. She could not
breathe, suddenly; then, with equal suddenness, she could. “You died,” she
said. “I saw your body. I saw your face.”

His face. There had been no face, not on that one of the
bodies that came back from Avaris. Horses’ hooves had shattered it beyond the
embalmers’ power to restore.

Then maybe—then surely—the man they had buried with all due
rites had not been Kemni at all. She did not trust her feet, but she had to get
up, to see him better. To look into that face which she had thought destroyed.

Yes. It was Kemni. He was older, of course. Taller; broader.
Much darkened with wind and sun, unshaven and not particularly clean, and very
much alive.

“You grew,” he said, which she was thinking, too. But he
would be more startled than she: he had been a man already, if very young, when
he went away—she thought, to die; and she had been a child, her breasts not
even budded yet.

He frowned. “It is you. Isn’t it? Iry?”

She nodded. “Kemni,” she said. “Cousin. How—”

“I was with your father and your brothers. I saw them die. I
would have died, too, but one of the princes saved me and carried me away. They
must have found someone else near your father and taken him for me. There was
such confusion: battle, retreat, bitterness and anger. I never came to myself
till we were well south of Memphis. By then your kin were long gone, sent back
to this place, and I was safe—so they told me—in the Upper Kingdom. I thought
you all must have been killed, since your father was a rebel. The Retenu were
in no forgiving mood when we left them.”

“My mother wouldn’t stand for that,” Iry said. She was calm
again, she thought, until she started to sway. He caught her before she could
fall. His hands were warm and strong. He was alive.

“But I heard,” he said, “that a foreign lord had taken this
place.”

“One did,” Iry said. “One took it when he died.”

“And your mother? The Lady Nefertem?”

“Alive,” Iry said. “And well.”

His eyes closed for a moment. He looked as she felt: as if
he dared not let go of himself, or he would howl like a dog. When his eyes
opened again, he said the thing he must most have dreaded to say: “My kin? My
father?”

Iry answered him baldly, because there was no way to soften
the blow, not really. “They died. No, no one killed them. Your father took ill
of a wasting sickness. Your mother lingered long enough to see him to his tomb;
then she went to it herself. There was no one to take the Golden Ibis then; so
the foreign lord took it. He has a steward there now, a cousin to our Teti.
It’s well enough looked after, all things considered.”

Kemni sank down on the raked sand. “I was going to go there
first. But I couldn’t. I couldn’t bring myself to—”

“No.” Now that he was not looming over her, Iry could see
him more clearly. He had a rangy look, as if he had been walking far and long,
but he was strong, and well enough fed. Except for the dirt and dust and the
scurf of beard, he looked as if he had been prospering. The sight of him was
peculiarly terrifying, and strangely exhilarating. As if the dead could walk,
or what was gone could live again.

But this man was patently not dead, and no spirit walking,
either. “You’ve not been living in the Red Land,” she said.

He was glad to change the subject, she could see. “Thebes,”
he said. “I’ve lived in Thebes.”

“Ah,” said Iry.

“And you?” he asked.

“I’ve lived here.”

“Are you well? Are you—?”

“I’m well,” she said. “I suppose I know why you’re here. Who
sent you? The Great House?”

He nodded.

She had meant it for mockery, somewhat. But he was not
laughing. “Really? The king himself?”

“The king himself.” Kemni drew himself up a little. “I’m
battle-brother to one of his sons. I serve . . . one of the
queens.”

“You’re raising a rebellion.” She did not know why he should
stare. It was obvious. “If anyone catches you here, you’ll hang from the wall
by a hook.”

“Why? I’m just another slave.”

“Slaves in this house,” she said, “are clean.”

He glanced down at himself, as if he had not even noticed
his condition. “Well then; I’ve been laboring in the fields.”

“That’s farmer’s work,” she said. “House-slaves don’t stoop
to it.”

He glowered at her. “You were always difficult. Couldn’t you
have changed even a little?”

“No,” she said. And that was a lie so blatant, she wondered
that he did not rise up and strike her with his fist.

He
had not changed
at all, except to grow taller and wider and more full of himself. He had been a
cocky young thing when he ran wild between his father’s house and his uncle’s.
He was still cocky, and not so very old, either. “Tell me where I can find a
bath,” he said, “and a razor that’s not too blunt.”

“You’re staying here?”

“For a while.”

“That’s not wise. At all.”

“Probably not,” he agreed. His brows quirked. “Bath? Razor?”

She should have sent him on his way—back over the wall for
choice, or to one of the few people in this house that she trusted. But she
could not bring herself to let him go. He was a memory from years past, a name
and face that she had made herself forget, except when it was time to remember
the dead. Now he was alive again, warm and solid and rather redolent.

It was mad, what he was doing. If one of the Retenu caught
him, he was dead, as she had warned him. And yet he quite likely had the right
of it. Retenu could not tell one Egyptian from another. Bathe this one, shave
him, make him fit for decent company, and he would vanish among the rest of his
numerous and unregarded kind.

But first she had to get him to that bath and that razor.
She took him on roundabout ways, down passages that she hoped were little used,
through the chains of courts and houses to a room that most in the house had
forgotten.

There, as she had hoped, was Huy the scribe, aged and blind
but still keen of wit—and by the gods’ grace, Pepi the master of the stable was
with him, sharing a jar of beer for old times’ sake. Iry hesitated before she
passed that door. She had not been there since she was taken away to be the
Mare’s priestess. If they looked on her with hatred, or worse, with contempt,
she did not know if she could bear it.

But Pepi greeted her with a broad gaptoothed smile, and
Huy’s face lit like a lamp, even blind as he was. “Little one!” the old scribe
cried. “Oh, child, we’ve missed you.”

“And I you,” she said a little thickly. “Are you well?”

“Very well,” Huy said, “now you’re here again. Pepi, move
your creaking old bones, we have a guest.”

“Two guests,” Pepi said, eyeing Kemni narrowly. Iry could
not tell if he recognized her cousin, until he said, “Well. Well and well. So
the dead do walk. Where’ve you been, boy? Lying in a furrow for the birds to
peck at?”

“Close enough,” Kemni said with a hint of laughter. “Your
lady brought me here, I think, to make me fit for human company.”

“I’m sure,” Pepi said dryly. “Here, boy. We’ll see to that.”

Iry could leave then; should have left long since. But now
she had come this far, she could not go. Huy was so glad to see her, so
transparently happy, that she lingered. She had a sip or two of beer from the
jar. She heard one of his stories. He did not ask her to tell him one in
return, asked nothing of what she had been or done. He was simply content that
she was there, in that hour, keeping him company.

When Kemni came back, he was much altered, and much for the
better. He was clean, shaved, and visibly content. Iry was a little startled
then, to realize that he was good to look at. Rather more than good, if truth
were told. He had been pleasant enough as a boy. The man had beauty, and no
little share of it, either.

Surely he knew it. Equally surely, he did not let it go to
his head. He sat where Pepi showed him, took the cup he was given, and tore
into the loaf of barley bread with controlled ferocity. As strong as he was
under the lingering marks of wind and weather, he had not been on short commons
for long; but he must have eaten poorly for the past day or two or three.

When he had eaten a third of the loaf and drunk half the cup
of beer—wise man; he knew not to gorge a starving stomach—he sat back and
belched politely, and said, “Ah. Now I feel a proper man again.”

“You do look it,” Iry said. “Now tell me true. You really
are gathering forces for a rebellion?”

He glanced at the two old men. Huy sat in his wonted blind
serenity. Pepi was deep in a fresh jar of beer. Iry knew better than to
underestimate either of them, but they did look vastly harmless.

Kemni tilted his head a fraction. He said, “Swear for all of
you, cousin. Swear that you will say nothing of this to any Retenu.”

Iry’s brows rose. So: he was not such a fool as he seemed.
“No Retenu will know of this,” she said.

“Good,” said Kemni. He paused. Then he said, “I’m not
raising rebellion yet. But I’m testing the waters.”

“And what are you finding?” she asked.

“Discontent,” he answered. “Anger. A great deal of laziness
and no little cowardice; but people would be glad to be free of the conqueror.”

“Even the laborers in the fields?”

“They say,” he said, “that one king is as bad as another,
but if they must have one, they prefer one who doesn’t pasture his blasted
donkeys in their best barley fields.”

Pepi snorted, coughed and choked on a mouthful of beer.
While Huy pounded his back, Iry said, “It’s horses here. This lord is a
horseman.”

“So I’d heard,” Kemni said. “He’s not as badly disliked as
most. Because he’s new, I suppose. And soft.”

Iry agreed that Khayan could be perceived as a soft man. He
had put no one to death yet, nor hung anyone from a hook to feed the vultures.
But she did not make the mistake of thinking him weak. “He’s strong enough,”
she said.

“You know him, then,” said Kemni.

Pepi looked as if he would say something to that, but Iry’s
glance silenced him. “Everybody knows the lord in this house.”

“And you?” said Kemni. “What are you to him? Has he—”

“He’s never laid a hand on me,” Iry said. And that was true;
and she surprised herself by almost—almost—minding it. “He has women of his
own, and he seems content with them. His mother comes from a tribe far to the
east, a tribe of warriors who are women, and who ride horses. He grew up among
them. He’d never touch a woman against her will.”

“Even a slave?”

“Any woman,” Iry said. “Women are holy. Men are born to
serve them. That’s the law he learned at his mother’s breast.”

“Astonishing,” Kemni said as if to himself. “And the
horses—has he many?”

“Hundreds,” Pepi said before Iry could answer that. “You can
be a stable-lad if you like, and if your stomach will stand it. Then you’ll get
your fill of them.”