City of the Dead by T. L. Higley

shoulders, crept up her throat and disappeared under the mask. I steadied myself to examine her neck, expecting the gash I had seen on Mentu. But only bruises marked her skin.
    Had she been choked to death? And if so, what did it mean that her killer had not used a knife this time? Was it the same man who killed Mentu?
    I rocked back on my heels for a moment, pondered the evidence, and found I had only more questions. I looked over my shoulder, feeling the stares of Axum and the slave boy and the weight of the desert solitude pressing in on me.
    Whoever she was, she had died far from anyone who cared. The light of the palace was like a distant star on the horizon, and even torches in the workmen’s village seemed to belong to the night sky. The desolate harbor, with only the pyramid watching over it, was a lonely place to die.
    I ran a finger along the fine details of the mask. It was very similar to Mentu’s, with lapis lazuli eyes painted with kohl and a mouth shaped into a peaceful smile that seemed grotesque in such a place. The gold was hammered smooth, and in the gray shadows it seemed to glow with fire.
    I could put it off no longer. I curled my fingertips under each side of the mask, just above the poor woman’s ears. The gold piece was not attached in any way. It simply lay upon her face, and I noted that it had to have been placed there after death.
    I lifted the death mask slowly, like the god Anubis inviting this nameless woman to live again and join the gods. But I knew as I lifted it that I’d find no life underneath.
    A distant cloud chased across the face of the moon, darkening the sky.
    I set the mask aside. I leaned over the woman’s face. Axum brought the torch closer.
    And then the memories washed over me again. Only this time the nightmare had become truth, and the desert and harbor and pyramid tilted crazily at the edge of my vision and threatened to topple over.
    No, it was not Amunet who lay dead beside me.
    It was Merit.

SEVEN
    Grand Vizier?”
    The darkness around me shifted.
    “My lord?”
    I looked up from Merit’s body through blurred eyes. “My lord,” Axum said, “is that—is she—”
    I returned my gaze to her face. “It is the Great Wife. Yes.”
    Axum placed a heavy hand on my shoulder in silent sympathy. “I will send the boy with a message for Pharaoh.”
    “No!” I grabbed his wrist. “Not yet. I—I will send word myself. When I am ready.”
    “As you wish.”
    Logic only. No emotion. The words mocked me.
    “My lord—”
    “Leave us!” I turned to the Nubian and the boy beside him. “Leave us,” I said again. “I will bring her body to the temple shortly.”
    The older man frowned but dipped his head and backed away, pulling the boy by the shoulder. And then we were alone.
    I reached an arm under her body, lifted her from the mud, and cradled her on my lap. I felt an intense pressure in my head and body, as though my ka was turning to stone. I breathed through the pain, eyes closed and lips parted.
    I must look at her. The boy had left the torch speared into the sand nearby, and its light played across her features.
    There was something in her mouth.
    I leaned over her and nudged her lips open with the tip of my finger. A papyrus plume? I pulled the grass from her mouth, and found that a pink-petaled lotus flower had also been pushed in. I checked my instinct to thrust the offensive plants from me, and instead laid them in the sand at my side.
    Merit. Oh, Merit.
    With one arm I clutched her against my chest, and with the other hand I brushed the wet hair from her face. The moon emerged from behind the wispy clouds, lightening her pale features. I found I was rocking her, a gentle movement to soothe a crying child. I tried to stop the slow movement but could not.
    All these years of striving to be an honorable man.
    A jackal howled at the newly appeared moon, and I threw back my head and yelled into the night sky as well, a feeble attempt to release the rage. And I