It was Penbuy’s duty to say those things, but Khaemwaset was angry nonetheless. I do not care, he thought savagely. I will have her in the face of any opposition, my father’s included. “Merenptah would be delighted to see my name removed from that list,” he said, forcing a chuckle. “As to the lady’s blood-line, I want you to go to Koptos and research her claims. Add a last clause to the contract to the effect that she may sign it but it only becomes valid subject to confirmation of her noble status. That releases me from any legal pressures in the event that she has lied to me or my father refuses me the marriage.” But it means nothing, he had thought privately. All of this, it means nothing. It is only a way in which I may lure her here, under my hands and eyes, forever.
Penbuy smiled faintly. “Koptos,” he said with resignation. “Koptos in the summer.”
Khaemwaset rose. “A disagreeable assignment, I know,” he acknowledged, “but I trust no one else to perform the task as thoroughly as you, old friend. Have the document ready to sign tomorrow, and, Penbuy …” The scribe looked at him questioningly. There was a small pause while Khaemwaset, outwardly in control, fought to form the next words. “Nubnofret knows nothing of this. Nor do Hori or Sheritra. Keep your counsel. You will leave for Koptos tomorrow afternoon.”
Penbuy had nodded, risen and bowed himself out, leaving Khaemwaset feeling strangely dirty. I do not care what my servant thinks of my deeds, he told himself firmly, for what is he but a tool, an instrument for my use? Yet Penbuy had been his advisor for many years and Khaemwaset had had to choke back the desire to ask the man for his opinion. He had not wanted to hear it.
Now he sat bowed by the heat, the completed papyrus before him covered in Penbuy’s neat, faultless script. He had read it and sealed it, and it waited now for Tbubui’s approval.
Beside it lay another scroll, the sight of which filled Khaemwaset with distaste and reminded him of the night of panic that had sent him hurrying to a spell of protection he himself had so soon negated. I cannot look at it now, he thought, his fingers tapping anxiously over the notes he had made then. Penbuy has gone to Koptos, and while he is away I must talk to Nubnofret. But what is the point of upsetting her before Penbuy returns with the results of his investigation? another voice objected. The last clause releases you if necessary, so take the document to Tbubui, obtain her seal, see what Penbuy discovers and then talk to Nubnofret. There is no hurry. Work on this mysterious piece of history you have been avoiding. Call in Sisenet, then scour your mind of it and put it behind you. Once Nubnofret has accepted the situation with Tbubui the future will be richer, lusher, more satisfying than you ever dreamed possible. Lay this scroll to rest first. Overcome your cowardice and begin now.
With a dragging reluctance he rolled up the contract, pushed it to one side and set the ancient writing and his notes in its place. Calling the servant who stood stolidly in the corner he asked for beer, recognized his own delaying tactic, and with a grimace began to work. Tomorrow I will visit Sheritra, give Tbubui the contract to study and invite Sisenet to assist me, he decided. It is time to return to reality. But the briskness of his decision did nothing to lift the cloud of insubstantiality that dogged him. He felt as though months ago he had somehow become detached from himself, that his being, his time, had been bifurcated and his other self, more heavy with blood and life, with sanity and substance, was even now living out his correct reality, while this shadowy self had been nudged onto a pathway that might or might not bring him back in the end to a reunion with that other self. The thought gave him a moment of sick dizziness, but it passed, and he bent with an unconscious moan to the riddle of the dead man’s treasure.
He spent the following morning impatiently listening to his steward’s report on the progress of his crops and the health of his animals. In two months the harvest would begin, and all prayed that the reaping might be accomplished without disease or blight developing on the grain. Khaemwaset’s cattle were fat and healthy, his fields fully mature, tall and green.
After curtly thanking his managers, he read a message from the palace. His mother was very ill and her Chief Steward had taken it upon himself to inquire of Khaemwaset whether he could make the journey to the Delta to treat her. The polite, subtle request threw him into a fever. She knows she is dying, he thought furiously. She knows that I can do nothing more for her. It is her staff, her stupid cow-like retainers, who still believe that I can somehow magic her back to health. She has her husband to comfort her, and whatever faults great Pharaoh has, he loves her and does not neglect to visit her. Surely in dying she wants her husband, not a son she rarely sees, by her side? Tersely he dictated a letter to the steward telling him that he would come to Pi-Ramses at his earliest convenience, which would not be for some time, and that Pharaoh’s physicians were as competent and reliable as he.