The City of Refuge: Book 1 of The Memphis Cycle by Diana Wilder Page B

down. “She's doing better now, I think. She rode with me to the quay and saw me off. But still... I asked my sister to send word as soon as she can.”
    Karoya nodded. “It's hard, I'm sure.” He gestured at the beautifully painted rooms, the spare, elegant furniture that had was still in place. “I thought to house His Grace here,” he said in a different tone of voice. “He should be happy at the choice. He'll certainly be able to sleep here: the walls are stone and thick!”
    “These seem to be the choicest quarters in the city,” Khonsu agreed. “A king's private home!” He shook of the thought of his daughter, summoned a smile and said, “Dinner's probably ready by now. I'll find His Grace and escort him back.”
    **   **   **
    Khonsu went out to the arcaded courtyard that lay outside the king's bedchambers, and found the entry to the covered footbridge across the royal road. He hurried over the bridge, pausing in the middle to gaze through the carved stone grille opening on to the street, wondering whether the heretic Pharaoh stood there to greet his ambassadors?.
    He emerged into the remains of a once splendid garden, now, a brittle tangle of dusty grass clustering about what had once been a pool of water. Beyond it, private apartments opened to the north from a cloistered courtyard once edged with colossal statues, now lying tumbled and broken.
    He found what he thought were private apartments and paused at the threshold, held by a sense of strangeness. “Your Grace?” he called.
    Silence. He stepped into the rooms, and moved through the still, quiet air with the effort of one walking through tideless waters. It felt as though a host of listeners was thronging the shadows that edged the doorways, gazing at him and whispering.
    He held his breath and almost caught the end of a sentence-
    “Your Grace!” The words broke and vanished against the stone-clad walls. Silence flowed back around him. He seemed to catch the quiver of shadows in the open doorways, the half-sensed gaze of unseen eyes.
    He cursed and shook himself free of the feeling with the vehemence of a man fanning smoke away from his face. He drew a shaking breath and shouted, “Your Grace? It's Khonsu! Your Grace? Where are you?”
    “Over here, Commander.” Lord Nebamun's answer was so quiet that Khonsu almost missed it, but it seemed to hold a smile. The sense of eddying shadows faded.
    Khonsu crossed a pillared reception hall and moved through a succession of smaller rooms adorned with paintings of running antelopes and soaring birds, the sort of bright, lively decorations that he would have expected to find in a nursery.
    He thought for a confused moment, Why, they are only the shadows of children! He paused to gaze, thinking how Sherit would like to live in so pretty a place.
    He was certain of another's presence as he stepped into the room. It was warmer, brighter... He rejected the thought of a ghost with a contemptuous snort. Lord Nebamun was settled on his knees before a low shelf, gazing at the wall beneath it. The sight of him, quiet and self-possessed, undeniably mortal and smiling to himself, made Khonsu draw a breath of relief.
    Nebamun sat back on his heels with a sigh of satisfaction. His features stiffened for a moment when he saw Khonsu, but he relaxed. “Is it you, then, Commander? Come and see what I've found.”
    “Why are you on the floor?” Khonsu demanded, the din of his heart in his ears causing him to forget the deference owed the Second Prophet of Ptah.
    Nebamun smiled up at him. “Come and see for yourself,” he said.
    Khonsu stared, collected himself, and dropped to his knees to peer beneath the shelf.
    Nebamun was smiling at a painting of a battle. A soldier, driving a chariot drawn by a pair of prancing horses, was drawing his bow and aiming at an enemy. Against all conventions, the enemy was the same size as the archer, and was as richly armed and horsed. The sketch was awkward in places, but the