Khaemwaset spared Tbubui’s body one more look as his guard bent and gingerly began to raise her, then he grabbed for Kasa’s shoulder and, leaning on him, made his way to his apartments. On the way he passed the new entrance that led to Tbubui’s beautiful north suite, and he averted his eyes.
Once inside the safety of his own rooms he told Kasa to go away and rest, and he himself approached the couch. The cup from which she had drunk such a short time ago still sat on the table. He picked it up and the dregs oozed like oil. The couch still bore the imprint of her body and the pillow was dented where her head had lain. Khaemwaset sat down heavily and pulled the pillow into his arms. He remained there, rocking and weeping, while the light around him strengthened and warmed and birds began to twitter and fight in the trees beyond the window.
Three hours later Amek sought admittance, and Khaemwaset, in a daze of mental fatigue, laid the pillow aside and went out to meet the captain. “It is done,” Amek said. “The bodies were there as you said. The man Sisenet was slumped over the table in his room and, Highness, he had a cursing doll in one hand and the husk of a scorpion in the other. The boy Harmin had died on his couch.” Khaemwaset nodded, but Amek had not finished. “Highness,” he went on hesitantly, “I have seen many dead bodies in my career as a soldier. These people did not seem freshly dead They are swollen and they stink, yet their limbs are rigid. I do not understand it.”
“I do,” Khaemwaset said. “They died a very long time ago, Amek. Put them on the pyre. Try not to touch them over-much.”
‘But Highness,” Amek protested, shocked. “If you burn them, if you do not let them be beautified, the gods will not be able to find them. Only their names will ensure their immortality, and names are a slender clue for the Divine Ones to follow.”
“They are indeed,” Khaemwaset agreed, wanting both to laugh and weep. “But trust me, Amek. What I have asked you to do is a matter of magic. Do not be concerned.”
Amek made a silent gesture of obeisance and left to carry out his orders. Khaemwaset made his way to Sheritra’s rooms. This time he did not seek permission to enter. Pushing past Bakmut he strode through the ante-room and straight into Sheritra’s sleeping quarters. She was awake but not yet up. The shutters had not been raised and she blinked at him through the dimness, then she jerked upright.
“You are not welcome here, Father,” she began icily, then he saw her eyes travel him more slowly. He knew what she saw. He was covered in oil, his neck smudged with the natron he had placed behind his ears, his naked chest smeared with grey unguent, his palms gritty, and the whole made worse by his copious sweat. Warily she swung her feet to the floor.
“You have been conjuring,” she said. “Oh Father, what is it?”
“Hori is dead,” he replied, a lump in his throat, and she nodded.
“I know. Why are you so surprised?” Then her face closed. “I will not speak to you about it anymore. I will go into mourning. I at least loved him.” Her voice shook. “If that bitch pretends to a sorrow I know she does not feel, I shall kill her myself.”
For answer he held out her cloak. “Put this on, Sheritra,” he said. “This is a command, and if you refuse I shall carry you outside myself. I promise you that this is the last time, apart from Hori’s funeral, that you will have to see my face.”
She regarded him suspiciously for a moment, then, tearing the cloak from his hand, she pulled it about herself.
He walked her out into the garden, now filled with a mellow early light. He knew what she would see but he did not spare her, stepping aside as she passed between the pillars so that her view would not be impeded. For a while she obviously could not grasp the sight. Khaemwaset simply let his gaze play over the pile of dry, twisted wood in the middle of grass, topped by three stiff, distorted bodies. Sheritra drew in her breath and moved towards them like a sleep-walker. Khaemwaset followed. Twice she stalked around the pyre, pausing only to peer into Merhu’s yellowing, empty face, then she planted herself before her father.
“You did this,” she said.
“I did,” he said. “Hori was right all the time. I order you to stay and watch them burn.”
Her expression had not changed. It was hard and indifferent. “Well it is too late for Hori,” she retorted. “If you had believed him and conjured on his behalf he would still be alive.”
“If I had believed him, if I had not broken into that tomb, if I had not stolen the thing to which I had no right, if I had not pursued the mysterious Tbubui …” He signalled to Amek. “Fire them,” he said.