Scroll Of Saqqara Part 25

"Penbuy!" she cried out "Of course! How could I have been so blind! It was his pen case. He had several, and I suppose I must have seen them all at one time or another but not directly, just out of the corner of my eye, unremarked. Penbuy ..."

"She put a death curse on him so that he would not bring back bad news from Koptos," Hori whispered. "Sheritra, read these. Read them now." Several scrolls appeared and he pa.s.sed them to her. The shaking in his hands was so p.r.o.nounced that it was communicated to her as she took the papyrus. His skin, as she brushed his fingers, was hot and dry. She wanted to throw the scrolls aside, to call for her father in his capacity as physician, to rouse the servants and have him put to bed, but she sensed the desperation behind his request and honoured it, giving all her attention to the scrolls.

She had just begun to read when Bakmut returned with wine and slices of cold roast goose and melon. "Bring more light," she ordered absently, but by the time the girl was placing larger lamps on the holders about the room she was oblivious, all her attention fixed on what she was reading. Hori sat quietly, swaying sometimes, occasionally lifting a flask to his mouth. What is that?" she asked once, her eyes still on the scroll under her hands, and he answered, "Poppy, Little Sun." She had nodded and gone back to her reading.

At last she allowed the final scroll to roll up with a polite rustle. Hori turned to her and they regarded one another in silence.

"Impossible," she hissed. "Never." There was a cold anger in her.

"No," he insisted. "Think, Sheritra. Let us examine the evidence rationally."

"What you are suggesting is not rational, Hori," she said, and he jerked away, his whole body quivering uncontrollably with the gesture.

"I know," he said. "But I was in that tomb, Sheritra. The body had gone. The librarian was horrified and mystified. The water depicted on the walls ..." He stopped himself with an obvious effort. "May I try and convince you?"

Sheritra's dream came back to her, alien and frightening. "Very well. But you should not be trying to talk. You are very sick. I think she has poisoned you, and if so you need Father and an antidote."

He laughed breathlessly, painfully. "He can't help me. She murdered Penbuy by a death curse and she is doing the same to me. Is that too difficult to understand?"

"I am sorry, Hori. Continue." Privately she sent a quick glance into the room for Bakmut. If she could send the girl for her father Hori might be saved, but she did not want to drain her brother's strength with argument. "At least eat something first," she suggested, and at that Hori turned on her, his lips drawn back in a fevered snarl.

"Antef fed me soup until I could no longer keep it down," he said, and with a chill of real fear Sheritra heard the terror in his voice. "I have no time to eat, you little fool. Wake up! I am dying! Let me try to convince you!" She recoiled, then took his hand.

"Yes," she quavered.

"Will you first try to believe that Father has done this? That he unleashed something perverse when he spoke the words on the scroll without knowing what he said?"

"I will try."

"Good. Let me lie down, Sheritra. Give me that pillow. Thank you. First accept that Tbubui killed Penbuy by magic and she is killing me. Penbuy she murdered because Father would have listened to any evidence he brought back from Koptos. He was respected, and Father knew his intelligence. Even if Penbuy's story had sounded insane it would have planted a seed of doubt in Father's mind. As for me ..." He lifted one shoulder in a frail shrug. "I am already thoroughly discredited in Father's eyes. I think she is simply tasting power and finding it sweet. She knows I would never harm her. She does not need to get rid of me, she merely wants to. If there is another motive I cannot find it."

He fell silent. Sheritra saw sweat break out on his forehead and knew that he had stopped talking in order to marshal his strength. She waited while he wiped his face on her bunched sheets. His next words took her by surprise.

"Sheritra," he began, "what do Tbubui's servants remind you of? Think carefully."

Dark, totally silent, immediately obedient-she shook her head, puzzled. "They are strange," she replied, "but they don't remind me of anything."

"Well perhaps you have not been in as many tombs as I have with Father," Hori said grimly. "Aren't they like shawabtis, Sheritra?"

Shawabtis, she thought. The wooden slaves buried with the n.o.bility to be brought to life at the magic word of their owner. Dumb bearers of wine and food, obedient weavers of linen and makers of bread, dark, unerring hands to fasten a necklace, smooth kohl around tired eyes, dip the fine henna brush into the pot so delicately, so exactly, and always with the blank, expressionless faces of the wood from which they were carved. Sheritra's scalp p.r.i.c.kled. "Shawabtis?" she said. "Ridiculous, Hori!"

"Is it? Well never mind. Consider this." He pulled a small pouch from his belt and with trembling fingers forced it open. The earring lay on his sticky palm, glowing faintly in the dim light. "Take it. Weigh it in your hand. Feel it. Imagine the one you lifted out of Tbubui's jewel chest. You had your doubts, didn't you, Sheritra? A copy of something so ancient can be a clever approximation if it is made by a master craftsman, but there will be tiny clues to its true age. The gold perhaps not so clearly striated in purple or so mellow with use, the stone with that freshly set look to it, the rear stopper unsullied by years of being pressed against human skin. Your first reaction to it was the fear that it was the original. Well you were right. Tbubui had one. She lost the other crawling out of the tunnel."

Sheritra had been turning the earring over in her fingers. Now she pushed it back at him. "Stop it, Hori," she cried out. "You are frightening me!"

"Good!" he said briskly. "Now I will frighten you some more. I will try to be coherent, to put all this in its proper order. Have you water here?"

Without comment she leaned over and poured some for him. He drank rapidly, then fumbled the poppy flask to his lips and took a long swallow.

"You will kill yourself with that," she remonstrated, then realized what she had said. He wiped his mouth with the back of one hand and gave her a glance.

"Already my body is becoming inured to it," he said. "I need more and more to keep the pain under control, but I do not think I will need it much longer." She opened her mouth to protest but he forestalled her. "No lies, Little Sun. Let me proceed. I have much to say and little strength with which to say it."

She subsided and watched him, her heart aching. Shadows lay sombrely over half his face and tinged the rest with melancholy. He is right, she thought suddenly. He is going to die. Panic shot through her, but her voice was quiet. "Go on, dearest."

"Father woke them by stealing the Scroll, theirs by right, and babbling the spell in ignorant foolishness," he began. "The lids of the coffins were missing in the inner chamber, remember? I would wager that they ordered open coffins in the hope that at some time someone would break into the tomb, find the Scroll sewn to the hand of a servant, and be intrigued enough to read it aloud, without knowing, of course, that Nenefer-ka-Ptah and the Princess Ahura, their real names, were lying behind a false wall in the same burial place. They struggle into Memphis and look for somewhere to hide, perhaps to recover. Sheritra?"

She answered his concern with a forced smile. Something in her was answering his arguments with a terrified but sure affirmative, yet there was Harmin, her own, her love, and she dared not believe for fear her life should tumble into ruin. It seemed to her that the room was becoming colder and she shrugged the sheet higher on her shoulders, trying to hear Hori's words without engaging her imagination. She did not want to see in her mind those ancient, desiccated bodies tottering about the inner chamber in the Stygian blackness, gaining suppleness and strength, pushing their stiff limbs along the tunnel.

"It is a delicious ghost story," she said firmly, "and nothing more. You say they struggle into Memphis, leaving the tomb by way of the tunnel, I presume. But the tunnel was blocked by a rock, and surely sand would have sifted over it as the hentis went by. How did they free themselves? By magic?"

"Perhaps. Or by some evil power. They had the tunnel dug in the first place, I am sure, so that they could escape in the event of the Scroll being read. They might even have left tools in it, close to the entrance. How do I know?" He moved pettishly against the pillow. "In any case, they find a vacant estate that closely resembles the home they once occupied hundreds of years ago in Koptos. Isolated, quiet, simple, perhaps it soothes their bewilderment and homesickness. Think of that house, Sheritra, the peculiar silence, the echoes in the palm grove, the feeling that you are leaving the world behind as you walk that soft, winding path. And inside, pure history. Furniture that is spa.r.s.e and stark, something out of an age long gone ..." His voice cracked to a whisper and he paused, waiting, recovering. Then he continued. "They speak the words and animate the shawabtis, who must have stood with them in the inner chamber, and they begin to repair the house. Then they seek the man who has stolen their scroll. The tomb is open. Workmen swarm over it. A few judicious inquiries bring them the information they want and they begin to plot a revenge."

"But why revenge?" Sheritra interrupted, caught up in his tale and forgetting that he was speaking of Sisenet and Tbubui. "All they had to do was contrive to steal it back and then go on living un.o.btrusively where they were. Why become deliberately involved with ..." She faltered.

"With our family?" Hori finished for her. "I don't know. But I feel there is a reason and it cannot be a pleasant one. I do not have the ability to discuss that, Sheritra. This d.a.m.nable pain." His voice had risen. Sheritra heard the hysteria he was struggling to hide and stroked his arm. He was burning hot. "I learned that the Prince and his wife, and a few days later their son, had died by drowning," he went on. "Remember Tbubui's exaggerated horror when she believed she was going to fall from the ramp that day? Has Harmin ever been swimming with you, even in the hottest afternoons?"

"No, she whispered, her voice no more than a sibilant rush of air. "But why do you bring Harmin into this, Hori? There were only two coffins in that tomb. You cannot be speaking of the same family."

"You are not hearing hearing me!" Hori pressed desperately. "You read the scrolls. We are dealing with the darkest magic, Sheritra. We are not in the world of the decent, the rational, anymore. Let reason go! Merhu, your Harmin, drowned in Koptos and was buried there. I was in his tomb. Again there was no coffin lid, and something had dug its way out, breaking the seal. Father woke him also, and he made his way back to his parents in Memphis." me!" Hori pressed desperately. "You read the scrolls. We are dealing with the darkest magic, Sheritra. We are not in the world of the decent, the rational, anymore. Let reason go! Merhu, your Harmin, drowned in Koptos and was buried there. I was in his tomb. Again there was no coffin lid, and something had dug its way out, breaking the seal. Father woke him also, and he made his way back to his parents in Memphis."

"No, no," she interrupted, shaking her head vigorously. "Sisenet is Harmin's uncle. Tbubui said so."

Hori stared at her helplessly. The corners of his mouth were black from the poppy and his pupils were so dilated that no irises remained. "Tbubui and Sisenet are husband and wife," he said slowly, emphasizing each word as though he were addressing a child. "Harmin is their son. Their son, Sheritra. I know how terrifying this is, but please try to face it."

Sheritra jerked away. "Don't do this to me, Hori!" she begged. "Harmin is innocent, I know he is! He was so wounded and angry when I tried to talk to him about his mother. He ..."

"He is a brilliant, unscrupulous actor, like the ghoulish thing who calls herself his mother," Hori tried to shout, but the words came out a broken whistle. "Their flesh is mummified, cold. How many times have you touched Harmin and been puzzled at how cold he felt? Not lately, perhaps, for I believe that they are adjusting more each day to their second life. Tbubui loves the heat, remember? But the tomb, Little Sun ... the Scroll was devised by Thoth in the beginning, and the family's devotion to that G.o.d is evident everywhere, The baboons, animals of Thoth. The moons, his symbol."

"Hori," Sheritra cut in determinedly. "I believe none of this. It has just occurred to me that Tbubui has cursed you for the same reason she persuaded Father to remove us from the will. She is convinced that the life of her unborn child is in danger from you if you go on living. Once it is born, all you need to do is kill it to be once again Father's heir."

He began to laugh, then bent suddenly over his abdomen. "There is no child in her womb," he choked. "She is dead, remember? The dead cannot give life, but they can take it. Perhaps she fabricated a child to force some kind of a decision on Father. It seems to me that he has been backing slowly but surely into a corner from which there is no escape, that she has been pushing him with lies, with seduction, breaking him up inside, Sheritra, weakening his soul, sullying his honour until there is no integrity left. Her aim seems to be to destroy him spiritually. But why? A punishment for stealing the Scroll is not reason enough."

Sheritra pushed herself from the couch, and dipping a square of linen in the water jug she drew it carefully over her brother's face, his hands, his neck. The actions brought her relief. She did not have to think while her fingers busied themselves. "We must find the wax doll Tbubui used to cause this suffering," she said determinedly, "and pull out the pins. We must also break into Father's chest and find an incantation that will undo the damage to you. Removing the pins will allow you to live but your health must be restored." He sat submissively while she worked. She could tell that he would not be able to do anything for himself, that searching Tbubui's quarters would be up to her. Quickly flinging cushions onto the couch she gently forced him to lie down. "Sleep," she said. "I will see what I can do. Will you be all right here by yourself?"

He had already closed his eyes. "Antef is outside," he murmured. "Send him in. Thank you, Little Sun." She kissed him on his damp forehead. His breath smelled of poppy and something else, a sweetish sourness that made her bite her lip in anxiety. He had already fallen into a restless doze when she stole out the door.

20.

O that I could turn my face to the north wind on the bank of the river and could cry out to it to cool the pain in my heart!

THE NIGHT WAS STALE THE NIGHT WAS STALE and the odour of the rising river teased her nostrils, a brackish vegetable smell, as Sheritra slipped across the garden, skirted the wall of the compound and approached the concubines' house. Tbubui was due to move into her own apartments in four days, where the tighter security of the main house would envelop her, and as Sheritra picked her way cautiously through the shrubs screening the entrance, she was able to be grateful for this small advantage. and the odour of the rising river teased her nostrils, a brackish vegetable smell, as Sheritra slipped across the garden, skirted the wall of the compound and approached the concubines' house. Tbubui was due to move into her own apartments in four days, where the tighter security of the main house would envelop her, and as Sheritra picked her way cautiously through the shrubs screening the entrance, she was able to be grateful for this small advantage.

Turning over in her mind just how she would be able to enter the house, she was startled by soft rustlings and low voices. She halted, heart pounding, until she realized that she was hearing the women who had climbed onto the roof to escape the worst of the heat and were pa.s.sing the night hours in sleep or gaming or intermittent gossip. Is Tbubui up there? Sheritra wondered anxiously. If all the women elected to have their bedding carried out, the guards will be watching the one stair on the other side and all I have to worry about is the Keeper.

She crept between the pillars and slipped through the entrance, then paused to listen. There was no sound but a distant, low snoring from the Keeper's room. In trepidation, Sheritra went on. If Tbubui was asleep in her quarters there would be a servant at the door. Cautiously, Sheritra peered around the corner to the pa.s.sage running past the woman's domain. It was empty, and lit only by a shaft of thin moonlight falling through a clerestory window between the ceiling and wall.

A spirit of reckless haste took hold of Sheritra then. She did not know how long Tbubui would stay on the roof but it certainly would not be beyond sunrise. Hori was dying and the night was almost over. Running to Tbubui's door she inched it open. Silence reigned within. Greatly daring, she pushed it wide and stepped inside. The same moonlight lit the stuffy ante-room and showed it vacant, the shapes of the few pieces of furniture humping grey around her. Dim though it was, there was enough light to see by.

Hurriedly Sheritra began to search, lifting cushions, pulling aside discarded linen, flicking through vases of flowers, even opening Tbubui's golden shrine to Thoth and, with a murmured prayer of apology, feeling behind the statue of the G.o.d. She did not expect to find anything in this room and was not surprised to come up empty-handed.

Noiselessly she proceeded into the inner chamber. Its door was open and the couch vacant. Tbubui's perfume smote her immediately, the myrrh, heavy and jaded, imbuing everything with an aura of incense and love-making. Though the s.p.a.ce was limited, the careful placing of the furniture gave Sheritra an impression of quiet vastness in keeping with the woman's need for simplicity. She began her search anew, this time being careful to leave no corner unexplored. She patted the mattress and ran a hand along the fragrant cedar frame of the couch. She lifted the lids of the tiring chests, the cosmetic boxes, the jewellery chests, her fingers thorough but frantic, but found nothing. She stood for a moment, thinking furiously. If I were Tbubui, where would I hide such a d.a.m.ning thing? she wondered. Then she began to smile. Of course! In the new suite, even now furnished and waiting for blessing and occupancy. No one has been in there for a week, except the servants to sweep it out. Sheritra spun on her heel and ran out of the house.

But her more leisurely hunt proved just as fruitless, and she flung herself into one of Tbubui's inlaid ebony chairs, biting her lip in frustration. She knew that the doll would not be disposed of until the victim was dead, and the pins themselves would never be pulled out. She could have a thousand secret hiding places, Sheritra thought in despair. A pit in the garden, a hole in the floor, even something sunk in the river by the watersteps.

The watersteps. With a shiver of excitement the girl came to her feet. Tbubui would not dare leave the doll on Khaemwaset's property, but Sisenet was living in the house she had once occupied, and no one but he was likely to discover it. Sheritra knew in her bones that she was correct. Leaving the suite as quietly as she had come, she made her way to her own apartments. Bakmut admitted her, a finger to her lips, and Antef rose from the stool beside her couch.

"How is he?" she whispered, coming close and peering down at Hori. He looked already dead. His face was pallid, his closed eyes sunken, and he was breathing in shallow, rapid spurts. He must have sensed her presence, for he stirred, then his eyes opened and slowly focused on her. With a worried glance at Antef, she bent near him.

"Did you find it?" he whispered.

"Hori, I am sorry," she replied. "I think she must have hidden it in the house on the east bank. I will go and look immediately." In truth, she was terrified of such a task. She was in awe of Sisenet, did not want to encounter Harmin after their last painful meeting, and, though the house itself had been a very pleasant place in which to stay, she did not fancy drifting through it in the dark. It had a certain unnerving atmosphere when the people inhabiting it fell silent.

"There is not enough time," he objected with agitation. "It could be anywhere. Instead we must see what Father's scrolls of spells hold. Help me up."

"No," she hissed. "I can do it, Hori. Stay here!"

"My dear," he replied as Antef's arms went about him and he sat up awkwardly, "I do not know much about magic but I at least know what to look for. You do not. Please stop fussing over me."

Chastened and alarmed, she helped Antef to take his weight, and together they left Sheritra's suite. Night still hung in the corridors and brooded in the corners. Slowly, too burdened for any attempt at concealment, they made their way to Khaemwaset's office. The guards they pa.s.sed looked at them curiously, but recognizing Hori and Sheritra they held their challenges. Only at the door to the office were they halted. Khaemwaset was particular in protecting his medical supplies.

"As you can see," Sheritra told the soldier patiently, "my brother is very ill. The Prince has given us permission to retrieve certain herbs from his box."

The soldier bowed diffidently. "Princess, may I see the permission?" he asked.

Sheritra clucked, annoyed. "We are his children," she objected. "He does not think it necessary to treat us so formally. I expect he forgot that you would be here doing your duty so zealously."

The man continued to regard them suspiciously and they continued to stand, Antef and she, with Hori swaying between them. Finally the guard stood aside.

"I do not think the Prince had his own family in mind when he set up this watch," he said gruffly. "You may pa.s.s, Highnesses."

He opened the door for them and they shuffled past him. Sheritra's arm was screaming with Hori's weight. I think it is time Father dismissed his guard and hired Shardanas," she muttered. "These men have become very lax."

"Just as well for us," Antef breathed. They were now at the door to the inner office. Sheritra tried the latch.

"It is locked," she said in dismay.

"Break it down," Hori said promptly.

Antef needed no further encouragement Relinquishing Hori's full weight to Sheritra, he placed his foot on the lock and pushed. It gave with a grind of protest, and the door swung open. Inside there was total darkness.

"Antef," Sheritra called. Light the lamp on the desk and bring it. Quickly. I cannot hold him for much longer."

Antef did as he was bid, bringing the lamp and setting it on a shelf behind the door. Its light filled the tiny room, warm and indifferently comforting. Antef pulled a chair towards the chests ranged against the far wall, and he and Sheritra lowered Hori onto it. He sat limply, hands hanging, but his head came up and he tried to smile at them.

"It is that one," he pointed. "The small one. The others are full of herbs and other physics. It will also be locked. Antef, have you a knife?"

For answer the young man produced a slim blade. He knelt before the chest and began to work at the lock. Sheritra squatted beside him.

"Antef, you will be banished from this house for tonight's work, you realize that, don't you?" she said. "It will all come out, and then Father will order you to leave."

He glanced at her briefly, his hands and his attention on the stubborn chest. "I know," he said simply, "but I no longer feel at home here anyway, Highness. Hori will die and my reason for being here will be gone. The Prince may do as he sees fit. I do not care." The lock gave suddenly and he lifted the lid, looking up at Hori.

"Sheritra, hand me three or four," Hori ordered. "You and Antef take the same number. I want a spell of undoing and reversing, and if we cannot find that I want a spell of protection to prevent any further damage to me. His tone was businesslike, noncommittal, and Sheritra had a moment of unqualified admiration for his courage. He did not think of himself as brave, she knew, but his unselfconscious fort.i.tude in the face of almost certain death surely gave him an anonymous place with the heroes of Egypt. He was already unrolling a scroll, his hands unsure, his breath harsh and uneven. She pushed away her overwhelming concern and turned to the task at hand.

For some time there was silence. Sheritra sat cross-legged on the floor, trying to make sense of the things she was reading. Not every scroll was t.i.tled, and it seemed to her that the language of magic was often deliberately esoteric, requiring a careful translation. Antef was faring better, his pleasant, open face down over his work. Occasionally he would grunt with disappointment and toss the delicate papyrus back into the chest.

Sheritra had finished her sixth scroll, a spell to be said over a patient with pain in his back, to be used in conjunction with a salve, the ingredients of which she did not bother to decipher. With a sigh she reached into the chest and drew out another bundle. The first scroll she raised was stained. A brown, irregular patch of what looked like rust had spread over one corner, and she fingered it with distaste. It seemed very old. "Hori, look at this," she said, handing it to him. "What has made this mark?"

He took it absently, his own eyes still engaged on the scroll he was reading, but then he gave a startled exclamation and almost dropped it. Retrieving it gingerly from his lap he examined it closely. Sheritra saw any colour that was left in his face drain away. Alarmingly, he was coming to his feet, his whole body tense with agitation. "No," he whispered. Antef turned. Sheritra got up and went to him.

"Hori, what is it?" she asked, alarmed, and her consternation grew as he suddenly began to laugh, a weak, high-pitched sound. The scroll shook in his grip Then his laughter tuned into tears. He sat down clumsily, the scroll held before him like a grotesque weapon.

"No," he breathed. "No. Now I know that we are all doomed."

"Hori, please stop it," she begged. "You are frightening me."

For answer he took her hand and forced it onto the scroll. "Feel," he said. "Look. Can you see them?"

Sheritra looked, but all her attention was on him. "I see tiny marks, like pinp.r.i.c.ks," she said mystified, "and isn't that a piece of thread hanging from the papyrus?"

"A needle made those marks," he said dully. "I was there when the papyrus was punctured. The stain is Father's blood. He p.r.i.c.ked his finger when he was sewing this thing onto the hand from which he had torn it. It is the Scroll of Thoth."

'You are being fanciful," Sheritra snapped, more sharply than she had intended. Suddenly she did not want to touch the scroll, and withdrew her hand. Hori stroked it in an ecstasy of fascinated horror.

"No I am not," he said. "I recognize it without a doubt. Father's blood, the needle marks, the thread. He ordered the lids placed on the coffins, and then the tomb was closed and sealed and the stairway piled with rubble. Yet it is here. Here Here." Antef was watching, motionless, balancing on one knee, his face to his friend. Sheritra did not want to see the expression on Hori's face, but she too could not look away. She had never seen such raw fear mingled with resignation. "No human hand could have done this," Hori said, "not even a dead one. Thoth himself took the Scroll from the tomb and placed it here. His divine curse is on Father, and my own pales into insignificance beside the judgment of a G.o.d." He began to laugh again, helplessly and weakly, the Scroll clutched tight to his chest. "He doesn't even know! Not yet. He doesn't know!"

"Hori," Sheritra began, not sure what she should do, but he rallied and gave her a smile.

"Close the chest," he said. "We must find Father at once and show him this Scroll together with the ones Antef copied in Koptos. He must listen!"

"But what of you?"

He stroked her hair, one long, tender gesture. "I am finished," he said simply, "but now I do not care. The G.o.d has spoken, and Father's fate will be more terrible than mine. Death is clean compared to that. Go and bring the scrolls, Sheritra. Antef and I will wait for you. Then we will go to Father."

Even in his physical extremity there was no denying him. Sheritra acceded to his authority and went out. The guard bowed as she rushed by him but she hardly noticed. The scrolls were as she left them, lying in a disordered heap on her couch. Bakmut had gone back to sleep and was breathing deeply on her mat by the door. Quickly Sheritra scooped up the armful of papyrus, aware as she did so that the darkness was thinning; both inside the house and out, the profound hush before the dawn had fallen. Hurrying back to Hori she found Antef standing over him. Hori had fallen asleep, the Scroll hugged to his breast, his head resting against his friend.

"He should not be doing this!" she said fiercely. "He should be on his couch, dying with dignity! All this is madness, Antef, and we are encouraging him."

At the sound of her voice Hori stirred and pulled himself up on Antef's arm. "Do you think Father is with Tbubui?" he slurred.

"No," Sheritra answered as they shambled out of the room and into the pa.s.sage. "Tbubui is sleeping on the roof of the concubines' house. Father will be on his couch." She was dreading this meeting, to her a proof of Hori's increasing madness, but such was her loyalty that she was determined to support him to the end. She prayed, as they lurched along, that Khaemwaset would understand and be indulgent.