by Lauren Haney
"Did your duties ever take you to the court of Amon-Psaro?"
Senu's eyes darted toward the departing sailor. "Wait!" he called. "I must go!" he told Bak. "The men assigned to the evening watch could even now be awaiting me."
He swung away, loped to the gate, and rushed outside. Bak followed as far as the empty portal and watched him hurry down the path toward the soon-to-depart vessel. Another supply boat, the last of the day, was moored a short distance upstream, waiting to take its place at the landing, where it could more easily be unloaded. Bak turned away and went back inside. He had no doubt Senu had to inspect the watch, but he had a feeling duty had very little to do with the hasty retreat.
Chapter Thirteen
After a final discussion with Pashenuro over additional supplies and rations needed for the following day, Bak hurried out the gate, eager to be on his way before darkness fell. . He had no wish to sail those treacherous waters in the fading light of dusk, and to make the attempt in the dark would be suicidal.
He stopped short at the top of the path. His skiff was gone, no longer tied to the post. Muttering a curse, he glanced upstream, thinking someone had borrowed it. He saw the supply boat, rounding the southern tip of the long island on its way to lken. Other than that, the channel was empty. He swung around, looking downstream. There he saw the skiff, fifty or so paces away, about halfway between the landing and the tumbling rapids. The empty vessel bobbed on the water, its prow aimed upstream, its stern bumping the rocky shore. The mooring rope was snagged on something below the surface, the boat anchored in place, but with the current so strong it was only a matter of time before the vessel broke free.
Bak snarled an oath and plunged down the path. How could that accursed boat have broken loose? At the river's edge, he ran north through the sparse brush, following a line of trees whose roots were washed by the rising waters, risking a twisted ankle on the rough stony terrain. A sparrow darted from limb to limb, scolding him, but its voice was lost in the thunder of the rapids. He drew even with the small craft and, giving no thought to possible hazards such as sharp rocks or old, discarded spearpoints, he stepped into ankle-deep water and reached for the hull. The aft end swung away, tugged out of his grasp by a whim of the current. Or the perversity of the gods.
He took another step into the river, knee-deep now with the current pushing his legs, trying to shove him downstream. Another step, thigh-deep and chilly, the pressure of the current more insistent. He reached for the skiff. It ducked away, darting downstream at least two paces and edging farther from the island, then jerked to a halt. Its anchor, a rock most likely, was shifting on the bottom. He had no time to waste. The rope could break free at any moment and the vessel be carried into the rapids.
Still he hesitated, thinking of the boys he had seen emerge from the rapids that morning, wishing he had one of their goatskins to help him stay buoyant. Erasing so useless a thought from his heart, he gritted his teeth and dived into the water with a mighty shove of his feet. The current caught him, and at the same time his momentum carried him to the skiff. He grabbed the prow. His added weight tore the rope free and the vessel began to swing around, moving swiftly toward the boiling waters, sweeping away any vague idea he might have had about climbing aboard. With a renewed sense of urgency, he caught the rope and, summoning forth his most powerful strokes, propelled himself toward the shore. The skiff seemed to come alive, trying to jerk out of his grasp, but he was a strong swimmer and the distance was short.
As he clod on the row of trees, he found the bottom and stood up. He had been swept so close to the rapids, he could feel the mist carried on the northerly breeze. He waded to dry ground, his knees shaking from effort and tension. The skiff was like a fractious colt, tugging and bucking behind him. Wiping the water from his face, he pulled the vessel close against the shore, where the current was not so strong, and sat on an outcropping rock. He needed to catch his breath-and to offer thanks to the lord Hapi for allowing him and the skiff to reach dry land and safety.
"Lieutenant!" A shout muffled by the rapids.
Bak glanced around, thinking for an instant he had imagined the call. Pashenuro was scrambling down the steep slope behind him. Three other men, one carrying a coiled rope on his shoulder, were hurrying after the Medjay through the brush and water-torn rocks clinging to the incline below the fortress wall. A rescue mission.
"Are you alright, sir?" "How did you know... ?"
Even as he formed the question, his eyes traveled up the tall mudbrick wall towering behind them and came to rest on the broken corner where most of the men were working. At least half the crew was perched on the scaffolding and parapet, yelling and clapping, though no sound reached him over the booming rapids. He had to laugh. He had been too intent on rescuing the skiff to notice he had an audience.
Pashenuro waved, signaling them to get back to work. "We tried to reach you sooner, sir, thinking we might help, but you were too fast for us."
The mooring rope tugged at Bak's hand, reminding him that his task was not yet over. The breeze blowing across his wet shoulders urged him not to tarry; night would soon be upon them.
He hastened to thank them for coming to his aid, added, "I'm too close to the rapids to attempt to raise the sail. I'll need this man's help... " He nodded at the man with the coiled rope, a lanky spearman named User. ". . . to walk the skiff up the channel as far as the landing. The rest of you can go back to your tasks. You're needed more inside the fortress than here."
Pashenuro and his companions hurried away. User secured his rope to the skiff and splashed knee-deep into the river. With Bak beside him, they waded upstream, boat in tow, stepping with care, probing the depths for hidden rocks or roots or cavities. They stumbled and slipped and once User would have fallen headlong if Bak had not caught him. The boat snagged on flooded bushes and rocks. A snake swam by. A pair of brownish geese skimmed the water's surface.
How many times Bak glanced at the rope in his hand, he had no idea, but suddenly he stopped, giving it all his attention. Much of the end was smooth and even, not frayed and ragged as it would have been if it had worn through. The chill that radiated from his spine had nothing to do with the fact that he was et from head to toe. Someone had cut part way through the rope, releasing the skiff. For what purpose he could not imagine. To keep him on the island? Or had a mistake been made? Had the knife been too sharp, cutting deeper into the fibers than intended? Had someone meant him to climb into the skiff and, before he had time to raise the sail, the rope would snap and he would be carried to his death in the rapids?
He plodded on, saying nothing to his companion. He saw no need to plant worry and fear in User's thoughts and therefore in the whole of Pashenuro's work crew, nor did he want word to spread far and wide that someone was trying to slay him. First, he thought, the warning had been issued: the man with the sling. Next a definite attempt on his life: the snake in his bed. And now this. Puemre's slayer had come a long way in only three days.
At the landing, Bak spotted a short length of rope hanging from the post where he had moored the skiff. He thanked User and sent him on his way, untied the bit of rope, and thr'hw it into the vessel. Before climbing in, he checked the boat thoroughly, looking for signs of tampering. The halyard, he discovered, was snagged in the block at the masthead, making the sail impossible to raise until the tangle was cleared. The rope could have snarled on its own, but he was too suspicious now even to consider the possibility. Finding nothing else amiss, he cast off, raised the sail, and headed back toward Iken, every sense alert for trouble. Not until he had passed the southern tip of the long island did he relax enough to give his full attention to the bit of rope he had thrown on board. As he expected, the end was smooth and even, with a clump of frayed fibers looking like the whiskers of a cat poking out of one strand.
He adjusted the sail, filling it with air, and settled down beside the rudder to think. The skiff had been tied to the post when the next-to-last supply boat was being
unloaded. He remembered seeing it there. No one would have cut the rope then. The landing had been like an anthill, with dozens of men on deck and on the path to the fortress gate. The last supply boat of the day had been anchored upstream, waiting for a mooring closer to the path. The rope must have been cut as the first boat was sailing away and the second moved into its place. Both crews had been busy then, preoccupied with their tasks and less apt to notice.
As for who had cut the rope, only one of his suspects had been on the island: Senu.
No, Bak thought, too obvious. Senu was too intelligent a man to point a finger at himself. Or had he deliberately made himself look guilty, hoping Bak would suspect everyone but him?
As Bak adjusted the sail and shifted the rudder, aiming the skiff toward the calm waters between the two quays, the lord Re bade his final good-bye to the world of the living and sank into the netherworld for the twelve hours of night. Red and orange streaks rose upward, lighting the sky, darkening the long shadow of the escarpment that cloaked the lower city. The burst of light brightened the vessels moored in the harbor, turning the cedar hull of a sleek traveling ship a rich red-brown and bringing to life the gaily painted forecastles and cabins of three cargo vessels.
In the reflected light, which gave the water's surface a golden glow, Bak spotted a dark figure swimming near the end of the quay. An arm emerged and waved. He waved back, though he had no idea of the swimmer's identity. Spotting an opening between Inyotef's skiff and a fishing boat, he went about the business of docking his own small vessel.
By the time the skiff was secure for the night, the sun had set and the sky was turning gray, revealing a pale crescent moon amid dim specks of light. He prayed Kasaya had thought to bring food to their quarters from Kenamon's kitchen. The youthful Medjay had no talent for cooking; even a simple stew was beyond his ability. After the strenuous and stressful day, Bak had no desire to cook for himself or to search out something to eat, yet he yearned for a large and sumptuous meal.
Inyotef's head popped up from the water between the skiffs. "You've had a long day, Bak. Didn't I see you at dawn, sailing out of the harbor with Huy?"
Bak grinned. "So you're the one who waved a greeting from the watery depths, making me think the lord Hapi had sprouted arms."
Inyotef laughed. "You were sailing as if born to these waters, a joy to watch."
"Coming from you, that's a real compliment." Bak knelt and offered his hand. "Are you ready to come out? I've beer at my quarters and, with luck, there'll be food as well."
"And questions, I assume?" Inyotef swam close to the quay and raised his hand for the proffered help. "Woser tells me I'm high on your list of suspects."
Bak grabbed the hand and heaved. Inyotef was heavier than he looked, his muscles dense and compact. As he scrambled to his feet, Bak wondered if he could have swum to the island and cut the skiff free of its mooring. The distance was not impossibly far, with the long island breaking the journey into two laps, and a strong swimmer who knew the river well could use the currents to his advantage. No! Guilt flooded Bak's heart. The idea was absurd! Inyotef had a weak leg. "I suspect everyone." He smiled, turning it into a joke. "But some people more than others." Inyotef studied him in the fading light, and finally gave an odd little laugh. "I've done nothing I'm ashamed of. Ask anything you like."
"I feel better now." With a contented smile, Bak set his empty bowl on the rooftop and picked up a fresh jar of beer. Breaking the dried-mud plug, throwing the pieces aside, he filled his drinking bowl and tasted the brew with caution. Since the beer sold at Iken was as likely to be made by men who came from far to the south as by those from the north, the quality varied drastically from one jar to the next.
"A feast fit for Maatkare Hatshepsut herself." Inyotef gnawed a healthy bite from the end of a thick leg bone. "I've not often tasted a chunk of beef this tender."
"We have the lord Amon to thank, no doubt. The steer was probably an offering divided among the priests and my Medjays after the god's evening meal."
Kasaya had been nowhere in evidence when they reached the house, but they had found three stools stacked one on top of another, supporting a basket laden with food and drink. The precaution had been wise. They had surprised a mouse, darting in and around the stubby legs of the lower stool, searching for a way to reach the basket.
They had carried the food up to the roof and watched the night fall, while they ate. The stars were glittering specks in a sky as dense and black as obsidian. The air was cooled by the northerly breeze, chilling the sweat on Bak's breast and ruffling the hairs on his arms. A jackal howling , in the distance raised a chorus of barking, yowling dogs. Now and then, he could hear the skittering of tiny claws, rats waiting in the shadows for a scrap of food. The sweet scent of some fragrant wood, perhaps cinnamon, souvenir of a past offering to the god, wafted from the basket, competing with the fading smells of the city: animal dung, burnt cooking oil, food, and sweat.
"I understand you once battled in Kush, winning the gold of valor," Bak said, easing his way into his questions. "That was long ago," Inyotef smiled. "In the carefree days of my youth when the living was all-important and life itself taken for granted as eternal."
Bak remembered Huy saying something similar, or had the speaker been Senu? "Most men shout their successes far and wide," he said, forming a smile as genial as the pilot's, "yet I was surprised to learn of the award. You didn't say a word through those many long hours of talk while we sailed north to Mennufer."
"Nor did I speak of a second golden fly I earned during a voyage to the land of the Keftiu." Inyotef's smile cooled, and his voice took on a sharp edge. "I'm no braggart, my young friend."
Feeling his face grow warm, Bak busied himself with selecting a thick slab of meat and wrapping it in bread. "You faced Amon-Psaro's father on the field of battle?"
"I've always served the royal house from the deck of a ship." The chill left the pilot's voice and a wry smile touched his lips. "You've not pried into my-past as much as I thought. If you had, you'd know me as well as I know myself. My successes, my failures. My wealth, my habits, how often I defecate and where."
Bak recalled from the past how adept the pilot was at putting a man in his place, how quickly he could grab the offensive and control the conversation. His mouth tightened; he would not be manipulated. "I must earn my bread, Inyotef, an&so must you. When I report back to Buhen, Commandant Thuty will listen avidly to each word I say, each reason I give if I never learn the truth."
The implied threat hung in the air between them, unseen but potent.
Inyotef broke the silence with a quick, hard laugh. "Your exile in Wawat has made you hard and intractable, Bak,
like this and and empty land. But I suspect you're a better man for it, a better officer."
Bak smiled at what he chose to take as a compliment. "You sailed on a warship plying the waters above Semna twenty-seven years ago?"
"A cargo ship. I was an ordinary seaman then. The vessel was heavy with weapons and food bound for our army in the land of Kush." Inyotef stopped, gnawed on his bone, forcing Bak to probe where probing should not have been necessary.
Bak did not bother to hide his impatience with the ploy. "How did you win the gold of valor?"
Inyotef's expression was lost in the dark, but his tone was suspiciously like that of a man enjoying a small victory. "Our vessel went aground on a sandbar. A troop of Kushite soldiers, seeing us trapped and unable to free ourselves and greedy for our cargo, came racing out of the sandy wastes, firing flaming arrows. Our sail burned like a torch and we lost our mast. We had few men to spare to hold off the enemy; it was all we could do to smother the many small fires blazing from prow to stern. I and three others who could swim slipped into the river and dug away the sand, working beneath the water until our vessel broke free."
"Admirable," Bak said, picturing the scene, imagining the desperation of men trapped on a burning ship. "You earned the golden fly and more."
"A p
ath was cleared for me, and I soon became an officer." Inyotef's voice again turned wry. "You didn't draw me to your quarters to speak of my youthful adventures. What do you really wish to know."
"I see an irony here, a situation that interests me greatly." Bak took a bite of bread and meat, chewed, and swallowed, washing it down with beer, making the pilot's ploy his own. "Not only you, but Huy and Senu and Woser fought bravely against the Kushite army. Now the four of you are together, officers assigned to this fortress of Iken.
And Amon-Psaro, a great tribal king in, present-day Kush, will soon arrive with the future king. The son and grandson of the man you faced in battle."
"Irony?" Inyotef snorted. "It's the reality of empire, Bak, where a shared interest in trade wipes out years of mistrust and mutual enmity.".
Bak had no intention of allowing himself to enter a debate on that well-worn subject. "Huy told me he was one of the men who escorted the hostage child Amon-Psaro to Kemet after our victory in Kush."
"He was, and so was I."
"You sailed downriver with them?" Bak gaped. Inyotef laughed softly. "Funny, I'd forgotten that journey. But I'm not surprised Huy remembered; it was a far from happy experience for him."
Bak's eyes darted toward the pilot. "He told me he enjoyed the journey, befriending Amon-Psaro, playing games with him, fishing and hunting."
"Like most mortal men, he prefers to remember the good rather than the bad." Inyotef examined the bone, searching for a fragment of meat he might have missed. "He's a poor sailor, terrified of rapids and rough waters."
"So he told me."
"Then you can imagine his reaction when our ship rode the floodwaters downriver through the Belly of Stones. I've never seen a man so frightened."
"I, too, would be afraid," Bak admitted. "It's hard to believe the water could rise so high it would cover those crags and boulders enough to cushion the hull of a great warship."
"In many daces, it won't. But there are paths of greater depth through the rapids. When the flood is at its highest and with the ship controlled by men with ropes standing on the taller islands, it's . . ." Inyotef laughed. "It's an exciting journey, but reasonably safe. Amon-Psaro thought the voyage as much of an adventure as I did, but Huy. . ." He let his voice tail off, shook his head. "Last year I saw Huy standing alone, facing four armed men. Smugglers, they were. Desperate and vicious killers. He never showed a moment's fear. But his feet were planted firmly on the sand. Put him on a boat, let the craft rock on the swells, and he turns pale with terror."
