Eater of souls by Lynda S. Robinson

The lid was weighted with and concealed by dirt. Tcha had made sure that the spot would be left alone by digging an imitation of a cobra's nest into the mud-brick corner.
    Tcha cast a quick glance around, then dropped to his knees and scrabbled through the dirt. He found the wicker lid and pulled it off. His hand reached inside and touched rough sacking. He grunted and pulled out one of the packages. Fingers clumsy, sweating with agitation, he unknotted the twine that bound the package. Out spilled the spoils of last night, the bronze bowl and faience plate, and even the gold ear studs and amethyst scarab bracelet.
    "By the gods," Tcha murmured. If the valuables were here, then Pawah was here. Somewhere.
    Tcha hurriedly replaced the package in the shard-lined hold, put the wicker lid back, and shoved dirt on top. Rubbing his hands on his kilt—it was never clean—he turned in his squatting position to examine the side of the great mound. It rose above him like the soaring ramparts of pharaoh's fortress-palace. Tcha wrinkled his nose; the mountain of filth stank like a row of crocodiles on a mud bank when the sky was hot.
    He turned back to the hiding place and heard something that caused his flesh to dimple and torn cold—the eerie call of a jackal. More frightening even than the howl of a hyena, it was the scream of a ka burning in a lake of fire in the netherworld. Tcha took a step backward, then went still with fear as he glimpsed movement behind his hiding place.
    His mouth popped open to emit a scream that never cleared his throat. Numerous slender, doglike forms crouched over something. One lifted its head to reveal a long nose and upright, pointed ears, then ducked again. Working together, they dragged their prize away from the corner toward the gap in the city wall, ignoring Tcha. The distant call erupted again. This time one of the creatures lifted its head and howled an answer. Jackals.
    Afraid to move, Tcha watched them haul something out into the silver light of the moon. It had to be a carcass; that was the only thing for which a jackal would risk approaching the city. One grabbed something long and thin and pulled. Tcha gave a strangled cry as the dim light revealed the gnawed face of Pawah.
    Still tethered by his fear, Tcha tried to swallow with a mouth as dry as a desert quarry. His jaws worked, then fell open when another effort by the jackals pulled his friend's torso into view. Tcha sucked in his breath along with a great draft of foul-smelling air. He gagged, then whirled and fled the refuse field at a stumbling run.
    This time he ran hard, his sandals flapping. Not caring if he made noise, Tcha hurtled through the streets, seeking the least shadowed, the broadest, the most direct. He didn't stop until he reached the three-story edifice where he worked. Staggering around to the back, he hoisted himself over the wall and into Mistress Ese's domain. He crept into the servants' block and dropped onto his pallet in one of the storage rooms. Drawing his knees up to his chest, Tcha wrapped his arms around them and rocked back and forth, staring into nothing, and whimpering.
     
    With ceremonial graciousness, Meren took his youngest daughter's arm, drew her to his side, and favored Lord Reshep with a smile. His lips curved up, but the smile was fastened onto his face like the gold roundels sewn to pharaoh's robe.
    "Lord Reshep, this is the littlest of my children, Isis." Meren felt her stiffen at being named a little child.
    Reshep bowed low, and as he rose, he continued to stare at Isis. "I am blessed by the gods to be allowed acquaintance with such a handmaiden of Hathor, goddess of love and merriment."
    "Thank you, Lord Reshep." Isis inclined her head.
    When she failed to say anything else, Reshep gave her another compliment. As he listened, Meren tried to understand why he was so furious with Isis. Certainly she had attracted attention before, and the guests had gone back to their eating, music, and