House of Illusions (10 page)

Scrubbed clean, oiled, perfumed and in my best white linen, I approached the Seer’s pylon as the light was beginning to change, his scroll in my hand and the dagger under my arm. I did not want to stop here. I wanted to hurry on to somewhere safer, for I knew that soon the thin evening shadows would lengthen and by the time I left the Seer his garden would be drowned in darkness, but I forced myself to step between the square stone columns. As I did so a form uncurled from behind one of them and barred my way. An ancient face peered up at me from bowed shoulders, its eyes sharp and unfriendly. The voice, when it came was reedy but strong.

“Oh it’s you,” it said pettishly. “Kamen, Officer of the King. Give me that.” A gnarled hand shot out and snatched the scroll. I watched bemused as the old man unrolled it and scanned it quickly. “I’ve seen you come and go,” he went on, glancing up. “You work for Paiis and pay court to Nesiamun’s haughty daughter. I knew you’d be stopping at the Master’s gate sooner or later. Everyone wants to. Few get this far.” He slammed the scroll against my chest. “Go forward.” The words fell on my ears like a part of some formal ritual so that I found myself bowing to the waspish old man, but I was bending to emptiness. He had shuffled back to his lair.

The path ran only a short way before dividing. One fork plunged to the right and appeared to end a long way away at a high wall I could barely glimpse through the dense foliage crowding the strip of beaten earth. The same thick tangle of trees, smooth palm boles and spreading shrubs gathered beside the fork that ran straight ahead. It obviously led to the house and I took it, striding swiftly to give myself confidence. But before long I found myself crossing an open space in the centre of which was a fountain spewing water into a large basin. Stone seats flanked it, and at the other end the path divided again. I went left but had to retrace my steps for the way only led to a fishpond choked with lily and lotus pads. A large sycamore, its branches tortuously knotted, leaned over the water. Taking what I now presumed to be the central path, I walked between thorn hedges, passing a much larger pool on my right that was surely intended for swimming. A small hut stood at one end of it. Further on I skirted a shrine. Behind the offering table stood a startlingly lifelike statue of Thoth, God of Wisdom and Writing. His long ibis beak cast a curved shadow over the small altar and his round black eyes followed me as I did him a courtesy and moved on.

Suddenly the trees fell back and I was pushing through a gate set into the low wall of a paved courtyard. The house stood before me, its entrance pillars white but now tinged with pink, painted brightly with birds flying towards the roof and vines tendrilling upward. Gingerly I approached it. No one seemed to be about, and there was no sound but the slap of my sandals against the paving. Before the gaping entrance I paused, briefly overcome by the same shrinking I had felt as I stepped under the pylon, but even as I drew a deep breath and pushed myself forward, a servant materialized from behind the nearest pillar, held up a hand, smiled, and disappeared within. I waited, my back to the courtyard, my eyes on the dimness where the servant had vanished.

Then the space was almost completely filled by the largest man I had ever seen. He reminded me immediately of the sacred Apis Bull, for his massive shoulders and the thick neck holding up his wide head exuded an animal power. His stomach cascaded over his calf-length kilt in an exuberant display of excess. If I had clasped him around his chest my fingertips could not have touched. Not that I wanted to do such a disrespectful thing. Just the thought of it gave me an inward shiver, for he could have broken my arms without blinking. Yet he was not a young man. His jowls were deeply grooved, his temples and full mouth lined. I felt sure that the starched linen helmet he wore hid a shaved skull, for there was no discernable hair on his body. He inclined his head.

“Good evening, Officer Kamen,” he rumbled. “I am Harshira, the Master’s Steward. You are expected. Follow me.” His black eyes, nested in folds of flesh, appraised me coolly before he turned and gilded away, his step almost silent and his great body moving with surprising agility. I did as I was told.

A huge room unfolded beyond the entrance, its gleaming tiled floor broken by several more white pillars. Cedar chairs inlaid with gold and ivory stood about haphazardly, together with low blue and green faience-topped tables. A servant was moving to light the lamps that stood about on tall pediments, and as he did so the scenes of feasting and hunting on the walls leaped into life. I would have liked to examine them, but Harshira was already passing through double doors on the other side of the hall into a much smaller antechamber and I hurried to keep up with him. Here I was confronted with a set of stairs on my left, running up into darkness. Straight ahead a passage led right through the house to a row of pillars and more garden beyond, now suffused with the red glow of Ra’s setting. To my right, several closed doors were set into the wall. The Steward approached one of them and knocked. A voice answered.

“You may go in,” Harshira said, opening the door and standing aside. I walked through and the door closed softly behind me.

The first thing that struck me was the odour, a blend of sweet herbs and spices. There was a faint whiff of cinnamon that brought Takhuru’s face vividly to mind, myrrh and coriander, and other scents I could not identify, but the fragrance overriding them all was jasmine. The second impression I received was one of extreme orderliness. Shelves filled the room from floor to ceiling and the shelves were crowded with boxes but they were stacked neatly and each bore a papyrus label. To my right and almost hidden by the jutting shelves was a small door. Another door faced it on the opposite wall. Directly ahead of me was a window, but between it and where I was gathering myself for an obeisance a large desk sat. The scrolls on it were lined up with a military precision. A scribe’s palette rested beside a plain but finely wrought alabaster lamp in which a new flame burned. Everything shone with cleanliness. I absorbed these details swiftly, my glance travelling the room with great rapidity, before I bowed to the man sitting behind the desk.

Or at least, I presumed it was a man. He was muffled entirely in white linen from the enveloping hood that covered his masked face to the wraps on his feet. The hands folded on the surface of the desk were encased in white gloves. Nowhere could I see any exposed skin, and as I fought to control my shock, I was devoutly glad. Whatever horror lay under all those swathings, I did not want to see it. Yet though I could see nothing of his face, the Seer’s eyes were on me. He had not missed my quick scrutiny, for he chuckled—a dry, harsh sound.

“Does my humble workplace meet with your approval, Officer Kamen?” he asked mockingly. “With your expectations also? I doubt it. The young who consult me appear to be disappointed. They want dimness and mystery, flickering lamps and a haze of incense smoke, spells and whispers. I must confess that I take an altogether unworthy delight in their disappointment.” I wanted to clear my throat but forbade the nervous impulse.

“I had no such expectations, Master,” I replied, amazed at the steadiness of my own voice. “Your gift of Seeing allies you to the gods. What do the trappings matter?” He sat back, his spotless wrappings rustling gently.

“Well said, Officer Kamen,” he said. “Bright and conscientious, my brother Paiis called you, and you are cautious and tactful also. Oh? You did not know that Paiis was my brother? But of course you didn’t. You are an honest young man and a good officer, trained to ask no questions of your superiors and to kill without reflection. Can you kill without reflection, young Kamen? How old are you?” I felt his eyes. I knew his attention had not wavered from me for a moment and my scalp prickled. Once again I had to repress a strong urge, this time to put a hand to the back of my neck.

“I am sixteen,” I answered. “I do not know if I can kill, for the necessity has not yet arisen. I do my best to be a good soldier.” I did not like his patronizing tone and something in my voice or stance must have betrayed me. He folded his arms.

“All the same, there is a tiny seed of mutiny in you, waiting for the water of insult or injustice to sprout,” he remarked. “I sense it. You are not the man you think you are, Kamen. Not at all. You interest me, standing there all earnestness and hidden affront. Light will penetrate the Underworld before you retreat an inch, though you give an impression of polite pliancy. Paiis said I would find you entertaining. What do you want of me?”

“How did the General know I was coming to consult you, Master?” I asked. There was a small movement under the mask. He was smiling.

“I told him, of course. He dines here often and we talk of many things. When there are no more engrossing subjects, we discuss our own lives. I thought he would like to be told that one of the officers of his guard was coming to see me.” He stirred. “Would you like to see me, Kamen?” A pang of fear shot through me.

“You are playing with me,” I said. “If you choose to reveal yourself, I would be honoured. If not, I am content.” Now he laughed aloud, the sound choked off by his mask.

“You deserve to be a courtier,” he declared. “And you are right. I am playing with you. I apologize. Now I repeat. What do you want of me? You may sit.” One white-gloved hand indicated the chair in front of the desk. I bowed again and lowered myself into it, placing the ebony box on the desk. Now that the moment had come I was at a loss for the right words.

“I am an orphan,” I began haltingly. “My parents adopted me when I was only a few months old …” He set an elbow on the desk and held up his palm.

“Let us not waste time. Your father is Men. Like you, he is an honest man who has amassed a considerable fortune through his sense of adventure and an astute nose for business. He is my most reliable source for rare herbs and physics. Your mother is Shesira, a good Egyptian wife who requires nothing more than a peaceful household. You have an older sister, Mutemheb, and a younger, Tamit. There is nothing extraordinary about your family. Now why are you in distress?” The rules of polite conversation obviously meant nothing to this man. He was capable of piercing to the heart, combining his gift with a keen ability to observe. No doubt in the aristocratic social circles he frequented he could be as smooth as scraped papyrus while he coldly assessed those into whose eyes he looked, but here with his petitioners there was no pretence.

“Very well,” I said. “I have been happy with my life, lacking for nothing, until a few weeks ago when I began to dream …” Carefully I described my night visitor, the hennaed hand, the voice that came with it, and my growing belief that I was seeing and hearing my real mother. “I know nothing about her or about my real father,” I finished. “My adoptive father knows nothing either …” He pounced on my hesitation.

“You think that your father knows more than he is telling,” he stated flatly. “Had you questioned him about your origins before you began to dream?”

“No. It was the dream that prompted my questions.” I found myself almost babbling then, pouring out the interview with my father, Takhuru’s perceptive comments and her plan to find our betrothal contract, my own suspicions, and all the time he sat there unmoving, his exceptional concentration fixed on me like a beam of noon sunlight.

“Describe the rings on the hand. Describe the voice,” he broke in. “Tell me about the lines of the palm if you can. I must have a clear vision of what you see if I am to help you.” I did so and then fell silent.

He crossed his legs, placed his hands in his lap, and I could feel him withdraw into himself. I waited, my gaze wandering the room. Outside the sun had now set and the last of Ra’s glow diffused through the window. To my right I could see, without actually turning my head, the small door beside the laden shelves. There was something odd about it, something disturbing, but before I could decide what it was, the Master stirred and sighed.

“So you do not want to see your future,” he said. “You want to know who your mother was, and perhaps your father too. Where they came from. What they were like. You have set me a difficult task, Officer Kamen.” I interpreted this as an indirect query regarding payment and I leaned forward, lifting the lid of the ebony box.

“I have brought you something very precious to me,” I said, “but your gift is worth the sacrifice. My father purchased it in Libu.” He did not even glance at it.

“Keep your trinket,” he said, rising and coming around the desk, shrugging the white robes higher on his shoulders as he did so. “I do not ask for payment from you. You have already done me a great service though of course you are not aware of it.” I rose also and backed away as he passed me. I did not want to be too close to him. “Follow me,” he commanded and I did so, turning right along the passage that led out into the rear garden where only the tops of the trees were tinged with scarlet. Their trunks and the ground around them were drowned in shadow.

Just beyond the exit there was a small paved space in the centre of which stood a simple stone pedestal. On it was a vase, a large flagon and a stoppered pot. The Seer approached the pedestal, and lifting the flagon he briskly poured water into the vase. “Stand here beside me but not too close,” he ordered. “Do not move or speak except to answer any question I may put to you.” I did as I was bid, inhaling a rush of jasmine as he took the pot and removed the stopper. The perfume in the office that overrode all the other odours must have been from his body. I watched him carefully tip a small quantity of oil on top of the water, wait a moment, presumably for the oil to settle, glance at the sky which was rapidly paling to the purest of blues, and then bend over the vase. His hood fell forward. His gloved hands grasped the sides of the pedestal. “Praise to Thoth,” I heard him murmur. “The Vizier who gives judgement, who vanquishes crime, who recalls all that is forgotten. The remembrancer of time and eternity, whose words abide for ever. Now, Kamen. Slowly and with every detail. Your dreams from the beginning. Omit nothing. See them as you speak.”