Harmin slipped away at once. Khaemwaset sipped his wine, enjoying the excellent vintage. He commented on it to Tbubui and she smiled.
“Your Highness has a discriminating palate,” she observed. “It is Good Wine of the Western River, year five.”
“Of my father’s reign?”
She hesitated. “Indeed.”
That made the wine twenty-eight years old. It must have cost Tbubui or her brother a small fortune in gold, unless they had had it stored somewhere since Ramses’ fifth year. That was the more likely explanation. Good Wine was still the best and most popular among the nobles, even, he supposed, in faraway Koptos. He savoured it carefully.
Before long Harmin returned. With him was a short, spare man, thin of face and with his sister’s grace of movement. Unlike his nephew, Sisenet’s head had been shaved and he wore a simple wig trailing one white ribbon.
Khaemwaset, sitting waiting for the man’s reverence, had the distinct impression that they had met before somewhere. It was not that he and Tbubui shared the same shape to their dark eyes or the same pleasing quirk to their mouths. Khaemwaset, watching Sisenet approach with body bent and arms outstretched in the traditional gesture of submission and respect, thought that the feeling of recognition came from some entirely different occasion, then dismissed it. He bade the man straighten, and met his cautious gaze. His whole mien, though welcoming, projected a mildly suspicious reserve that Khaemwaset believed he must carry with him at all times. Khaemwaset spoke first, as was customary given his higher rank.
“I am pleased to meet you, Sisenet. I admire your house very much, and envy you its singular calm. Please sit.”
The man sank into a cross-legged position facing him and Tbubui. He smiled slowly. “Thank you, Highness. We prefer our privacy to the excitement of the city, though we sometimes take the skiff across the river. May I ask how my sister’s injury is progressing?”
They talked for a while until Khaemwaset had finished the wine, then he rose to leave. Sisenet immediately came to his feet. “I shall expect all of you at dinner in two weeks,” Khaemwaset repeated, “but before then I shall return and check on your wound, Tbubui. Thank you for your hospitality.” Harmin showed him out, walking beside him through the now dusky palms to the watersteps and bidding him an affable good night.
He was shocked to see how much time had gone by since he had climbed this same stair. The sun had already set behind Memphis and was limning the pyramids that crowded the high plain of Saqqara in blade-sharp relief. The Nile’s surface had lost depth and now reflected a dark blue, almost black sky. Dinner would already be under way at home. “Have the sailors light the torches,” he ordered Amek, and stood leaning against the deck rails as the barge cleared the watersteps and beaded for the western bank. He was all at once very tired in mind as well as body. He felt as though he had run a dozen miles under a hot sun in the cloying sand of the desert, or had spent the afternoon reading a long and particularly difficult scroll.
I have found her, he told himself, but he was too fatigued to conjure the triumph that should have accompanied the thought. She is no disappointment. She is not loud-mouthed and common, or arrogant and cold, but an intelligent and polite noblewoman. In some ways she reminds me of Sheritra. The sound of his daughter’s voice came back to him, plaintive and appealing, but now it seemed to embody a curious wildness, as though, while she sang gently, Sheritra had been gyrating and writhing in a courtesan’s dance. Khaemwaset leaned more heavily against the gilded handrail and wanted to go to sleep.
He strode into his dining room full of apologies, but Nubnofret waved him to his table with an imperious gesture. The three of them had finished two courses and were beginning the third, while Khaemwaset’s harpist played. His wife put down the fish she had been raising to her mouth and swirled her fingers in the waterbowl.
“Don’t be silly, dearest,” she expostulated. “Ib told me that you had been called out to see a patient. You look terribly tired. Sit down and eat.” Suddenly he was ravenous. Swiftly he pulled his table against his knees, pushed aside the wreath of blooms waiting for him to wear and signalled for food.
“Well?” Nubnofret prompted as he began to pull his salad apart. “Was the case interesting?”
“They seldom are anymore, are they, Father?” Hori broke in. “I think you have examined every disease and variety of accident possible in Egypt.”
“That’s true,” Khaemwaset admitted. “No, Nubnofret, the case was not interesting, a wounded foot, but the people were.” He concentrated on the food, chewing it and manipulating his bowl so that he had an excuse not to look at her. “The man, his sister and her son have recently moved here from Koptos of all places. They are obviously of noble birth; in fact they trace their line beyond the time of Osiris Hatshepsut. The sister has an interest in history and I have invited them to dine with us in a couple of weeks.” All at once he realized that Tbubui had chatted to him and her brother without the slightest indication of the pain she must have been in following the surgery. She had smiled, even laughed, her foot motionless on the stool and swathed in fresh linen. She either felt little, as she had told him, or she was able to hide it extremely well, knowing that good manners dictated the full entertainment of a guest of his lineage. You fool, he told himself, contrite. You should have taken your leave immediately, not stayed to slurp wine, however fine, and make polite conversation. It was up to you to walk away, not them to dismiss you.