Eater of souls by Lynda S. Robinson Page B

feet. Glancing over his shoulder every few moments, he hurried over to Kysen, bowing and bobbing.
    "You've stolen something valuable, haven't you?" Kysen said.
    Tcha was Kysen's oldest, and one of his most useful, acquaintances in the Caverns, and the only one who knew who Kysen really was. Almost a year ago he'd fished the thief out of a work gang to which he'd been condemned and arranged for his crimes to be forgiven in exchange for guidance into life here. Now they saw each other infrequently, but Tcha knew that Kysen could find him. He also knew what would happen to him should he reveal what he knew of his benefactor to anyone.
    "Tcha never steals, O great master. Everyone thinks I'm a miserable thief, just because I never had no fine house, no fertile fields, no good bread nor beer nor linen robes nor—"
    "Tcha, close your mouth."
    "Yes, O great master, giver of bounty, gracious of heart, divine of beauty—"
    "I said no more!" Kysen again turned to enter the tavern, but Tcha started to follow him, bringing the thief close enough for him to get another noseful of his incomparable odor. "Gods deliver me from your foul smell, Tcha. It's worse than usual." Sniffing, Kysen lifted his brows. "Do I smell honey amidst your other disgusting humors?"
    His eyes shifting to the side, Tcha mumbled something inaudible. He edged away from Kysen. As he moved, he clicked, and his movement brought him into the light of a taper in a sconce beside the door.
    Kysen descended the steps and planted himself opposite the thief. "What in the name of Amun have you done to yourself?"
    Tcha had never been presentable. He was as emaciated as a body fresh from the embalming table, short because of bowed legs, and scarred from beatings that were the rewards of unsuccessful thievery. Although no more than six years older than Kysen, he looked older than Meren. His skin had the cracked, baked appearance of a field at the end of the season of Drought, and three of his upper front teeth were missing. Their absence caused a lisp in his speech. Brittle, dried-reed hair formed greasy plates that issued from the crown of his head and snaked over his ears and forehead and down to the back of his dirty neck.
    Indeed, Tcha had always been painful to the eye and to the nose, but he'd never emitted anything resembling a pleasant odor. And he'd never covered himself in more magical amulets than a pharaoh's corpse. Nor had he painted his grimy body with expensive honey. Yet here Tcha stood, his arms, legs, neck, waist, and head encircled with old string, twine, and narrow papyrus rope from which he'd strung countless amulets. And he was evidently reluctant to speak of his strange appearance.
    "Tcha, I asked you what you'd done to yourself."
    "Precautions, O great master," Tcha muttered. He stuck his arms behind his back as if this action would hide all the amulets.
    "Precautions against what?" Kysen asked.
    Tcha's eyes darted from shadow to shadow, corner to corner. "Against evil, lord. There be great evil abroad."
    "Blessed Toth and Anubis," Kysen said with an increasing grin. "You've thought of a way to protect yourself against the city police. That spell you screeched at me was for use against crocodiles, you know, not men. And if you wear all those amulets while skulking around some artisan's house, you'll clatter like a sistrum."
    "The master is wise," Tcha mumbled as he snaked a glance up and down the Street of Foreigners.
    "In truth, Tcha, many of those amulets are only for funerary use. Look at this. You have Djed-columns, the girdle amulet, the four sons of Horus, the amulet of the headrest, heart scarabs. Are you planning a journey through the netherworld soon? Don't tell me you plan to rob Osiris and the other gods."
    Tcha started, then laughed with a sound like a throw stick scraping polished granite. "Thy jest is most humorous, great master."
    "You only need a few amulets to protect yourself from harm," Kysen said as he tried not to smile. He noted that