City of the Dead

them.
    ‘My own people tell me Horemheb is angry.’
    ‘Yes?’
    ‘Kenamun is dead. Horemheb thinks Ay’s agents did it. Something about a body downriver, which a fisherman noticed as the matet boat rose in the sky. But the crocodiles dragged it under.’
    ‘I need your help.’
    ‘Yes?’
    ‘To leave here, we must travel by the river.’
    ‘Of course.’
    ‘I cannot organise a boat alone. We must leave discreetly. Please understand the need for this.’ It was beyond Huy to explain why, but he still hoped to leave behind them convincing proof of the queen’s death.
    He had expected Ankhsenpaamun to be disagreeable; but her mood had changed, and she entered into the conspiracy with enthusiasm.
    ‘You must ask Taheb,’ he suggested.
    ‘Why don’t you?’
    ‘I cannot.’
    ‘Why not? You knew her well once.’
    ‘Once!’
    ‘Do you think she cannot be trusted?’
    ‘I do not think that. But no approach from me would be fitting.’
    ‘Why not?’ repeated the queen.
    Huy fought with his pride. But there was a more important reason: Taheb would not argue if the request came from the queen herself. ‘Because we do not know each other as we once did. But was she not a friend of the court? I saw her at Nezemmut’s wedding to Horemheb.’
    The queen considered. ‘Where are we going?’
    ‘Firstly, to Napata.’
    ‘That is to the south!’
    ‘They are loyal. There is nothing to the north but greater danger. And you cannot stay here.’
    ‘So you have told me.’
    She remained silent for a long time. Then, ‘Did you say ask?’ she said frostily.
    ‘Tell,’ suggested Huy, fighting exhaustion.
    ‘Command.’
    Huy was silent.
    ‘Taheb will help,’ said the queen slyly. ‘Why do you think my little intelligence network is the only part of the royal palace that remains even halfway efficient and loyal?’ She paused, looking sad. ‘But now it is crumbling too. Of course I recognise the need to depart.’

    When Huy returned to his house he hardly recognised it. Nothing was missing, but nothing was out of place either. Everything, even the scrolls on the shelves, was meticulously ordered, and the images of Bes and Horus which presided over his central room were free of dust and sand for the first time in years. The yard was swept and the bathroom so tidy and clean it seemed inconceivable that two nights ago it had witnessed a bloody and fatal battle.
    He walked through the rooms which he would soon have to leave forever. Into whose keeping could he place this building, whose arms had encircled his battered body and protected it at the end of so many lonely, desperate days? There would be no time. He would lock up and leave, and that would be all. No doubt later some little official would come snuffling round, because the house did not conform to accepted principles of ownership. There would come a time perhaps when the guardians of conformity would control all life.
    He found the note hidden carefully under the statue of Bes. A scrap of paper bearing Ay’s cartouche. Remaining only long enough to wash, shave, apply fresh make-up, and change, Huy set off again to see the pharaoh-elect.
    He noticed that there were twice as many soldiers in Ay’s livery on guard, and he recognised several former members of Horemheb’s Black Medjays among them; but Ay was expecting him, and he was admitted quickly. The old man received him in a crowded room through which a number of body servants and scribes passed. At two tables, secretaries were issuing written orders. Huy might have expected to see Ineny playing a prominent part in the preparation for Ay’s new status, but decided not to ask what had become of him.
    Ay looked younger than Huy had ever seen him, and stood erect, like a youth. His hair was freshly dyed, and his skin shone with oil. He wore a blue-and-gold headdress and a full-length cream tunic, with a pleated kilt that reached to below the knee. His sandals were polished leather, with gold fittings in the shape of snakes and scarabs. He was heavily scented with seshen, and his make-up was fashionably pale. His heavy collar matched his headdress, and the balancing mankhet which hung down his back was of gold, in the shape of the tjet amulet.
    He was a king already.
    ‘Huy.’
    ‘Lord.’
    Ay smiled broadly. ‘I have good news for you.’
    ‘What is it?’
    ‘The means to make your scheme succeed. The gods have sent us a gift.’
    ‘What?’
    Ay’s face became graver. ‘Of course what falls