“He could have hired workmen to do the task while he was away,” Khaemwaset replied sullenly. “I have not visited the site since … since …”
“You are more distressed than you would have us believe, aren’t you, Father?” Sheritra said. “Some part of you is terrified that Hori may be right. In fact, that part of you believes more strongly than I do. Go to Koptos yourself. Talk to the librarian.”
Khaemwaset shook his head vigorously, but his voice, when it came, was weak and thready. “I cannot,” he whispered. “She is everything to me, and I will do whatever is necessary to keep her. You are wrong, Little Sun. No sane person could believe that my darling is anything other than a beautiful, accomplished, desirable woman. But I do think that perhaps her lineage is not pure. It may even be non-existent.”
“Hori would not hurt her,” Sheritra said. Her head was throbbing and her whole body cried out for rest, for oblivion, but she sensed something more behind her father’s arrest of Hori. It was as though he had eagerly and too rapidly embraced the opportunity to confine him, to place him under his thumb. She came up to him and they faced one another soberly in the grey, pitiless first light of Ra filtering between the shutters. “The last thing Hori wants to do is cause Tbubui harm. He loves her as much as you do. He hates himself for it, not her, and certainly not you. Father, are there spells to lift a death curse?”
He blinked. “Yes.”
“May I see them?”
Again that expression of bestial cunning came and went on his face. “No, you may not. They are volatile, dangerous things, best left to magicians with the power and authority to use them.”
“Then will you conjure one for Hori?”
“No. To do so without the certainty that he is indeed under a death curse would only do him harm.”
“Gods,” she said softly, backing away. “You want him to die, don’t you? You have become a horror, Father. Shall I kill myself now and save you the trouble of doing it later when Tbubui decides her life will be simpler without me?” He did not answer. He went on standing there, the cruel dawn light revealing every crevice in his aging face. Sheritra gave one sob of disappointment and anguish and fled.
I must go back to his office before he has finished being bathed and dressed, she thought desperately as she hurried away. Before the guard is changed as well. Oh, I am frightened! But I must not involve Antef anymore. Anything to be done I must do myself. I wish Harmin were here. She almost cannoned into two servants with brooms and rags in their hands, and they shrank back against the wall, bowing their apologies.
The house was stirring. Soon the parade of musicians and body servants would begin on their way to waken and minister to the family. The stewards would be knocking politely and approaching the couches on a wave of gentle harping, the morning refreshments balanced on silver trays. But not to Mother’s suite, Sheritra thought despondently. Those rooms are dismally empty. I have not had time to miss her, yet surely with her gone the heart of this house has begun to decay. Tbubui will try and fill her place, but more stridently, more loosely. Sheritra wrenched her mind away from the future and slowed, greeting the sleepy guard on her door and going into her ante-room. To her surprise, Bakmut was sitting on a chair, awake and alert, a scroll in her hands. As Sheritra approached she rose and bowed.
“Good morning, Bakmut,” Sheritra said. “I see that you have not slept much either.”
The girl came close and held out the scroll. It was sealed with Ramses’ imperial imprint. Fingering it, Sheritra also saw that it was addressed to Hori. “How did you come by this?” she asked sharply.
“I intercepted it,” Bakmut said forthrightly. “A Royal Herald arrived with it yesterday and fortunately his search for the Prince brought him to your door. If he had gone further into the house, or lost his way and wandered closer to the concubines’ house, his burden might have been removed from him by another. I had concealed it, and forgot to pass it on last night when your brother came to your door.”
“Just what are you saying?” Sheritra frowned.
“I am saying that I trust no one in this madhouse anymore,” Bakmut replied flatly.
Sheritra looked at the scroll thoughtfully. “My brother has been arrested,” she said. “Should I open this, or try to get it to him? It must be the answer to his plea for help.” The girl remained silent. “You did well, Bakmut,” Sheritra told her, handing back the papyrus. “Keep it safe for a little longer. I do not have the time to open it now. I must go. If anyone comes to my door, tell them I have gone back to bed and do not wish to be disturbed.” Bakmut nodded mutely, lips compressed. Sheritra gave her a smile and went out again.