Now Hori’s eyes had narrowed to a heightened interest. The wine stood forgotten on the table, though his fingers caressed the stem of the cup. “Speak,” he ordered.
Ptah-Seankh gulped and held up the scroll. “This is Prince Khaemwaset’s will. This morning he ordered me to alter it. You and your sister the Princess Sheritra are to be removed as beneficiaries, and the lady Tbubui’s unborn child is to be put in your place.”
The prince’s fingers were suddenly stilled. His eyes had gone as hard as agates. “Tbubui is pregnant?” he whispered. “You are sure?”
“His Highness said so,” Ptah-Seankh explained, “and the changes he has commanded for his will confirm it. Oh forgive me, Prince Hori, forgive me! I could not remain silent! You have been disinherited! I do not know what to do!”
Hori fell silent. Then he unfolded himself slowly. His legs went out and crossed at the ankles. He slumped in the chair. His hand found the cup again and his fingers stroked it sensually, up and down, up and down, until Ptah-Seankh felt mesmerized by that compelling movement.
“Disinherited,” he said musingly. “I should have expected as much. My father is completely besotted. He has become blind, deaf and insane.” He laughed harshly, and Ptah-Seankh heard more than the pain of betrayal in the sound. “As for you, scribe,” Hori went on, “if you were in my service I would dismiss you on the spot. You are unprincipled and untrustworthy.”
“Highness,” Ptah-Seankh began, though his throat was well-nigh closed and he did not think that he could find his voice, “if it were just a matter of my master’s will I would have held my counsel and done as I was bid. But there is more.” He swallowed, and found himself sinking to his knees. “I have committed a terrible sin.”
Now Hori was leaning forward, genuine concern in his face. Holding out the wine, he made the scribe drink. The cup chattered against Ptah-Seankh’s teeth but the violet liquid made him feel braver. “I think you had better tell me everything,” the Prince advised, and Ptah-Seankh did so. It was like lancing a boil.
“The day before I was due to leave for Koptos, he said, “the lady Tbubui came to me. She dictated a letter to me for your father to read. It contained everything I was to discover about her lineage during my research, the same research my father was engaged in when he died. It was all lies, Prince! All lies! I protested, but she threatened to have me discredited and then dismissed if I did not do as she said.” He at last had the courage to raise his eyes to Hori, who was regarding him intently. “My father worked for the Prince for many years,” he went on. “He would have been believed, or at least his words would have been considered. But I am a new scribe, untried, unproved. I did what she wanted.”
The Prince’s face came closer. With a pang of fear, Ptah-Seankh saw that his lips were drawn back in a rictus of extreme emotion and his gaze was almost inhuman. “Do you mean to tell me,” he said in a strangled voice, “that Tbubui dictated your research for you? That she told you what to write for my father to read when you returned from Koptos?” Ptah-Seankh nodded miserably. “You did no work in the libraries there at all? You simply waited out your time and came home?”
“Yes. I am so ashamed, Highness, but I was very afraid. I had hoped that it would not matter. Your father is very attached to the lady …”
Hori silenced him with a savage gesture. He did not move. His face remained so close to Ptah-Seankh’s that his breath brushed the other’s mouth with a rhythmic, quick warmth. Gradually the animal savagery of his expression relaxed into a tight mixture of pain and speculation. “Why?” he breathed. “Why, why, why? If she is not a noblewoman with an ancient lineage, then who is she? No peasant woman or common whore or even a dancer could acquire the education and the social skills she has. What is she hiding?” Suddenly he sat back, drained his wine with one swallow, and then rose. “Come, Ptah-Seankh,” he said. “We are going to my father.” He snatched the scroll out of the scribe’s hand.
Ptah-Seankh exploded in protest as he too came to his feet. “Highness, no! Please! I came to you in confidence, to unburden myself, to seek your advice! The Prince will banish me immediately when he knows what I have done!”
“You will have to take that chance,” Hori retorted grimly. “Repeat your story to him now, and throw yourself on his mercy. I will not be silent and allow my birthright and Sheritra’s dowry to be thrown away. Besides,” he added, “will you not feel better telling him the truth?” He strode to the door, and with a sinking heart Ptah-Seankh followed.