by Lauren Haney
Bak was jolted by the tale and annoyed with Inyotef's silence. He could understand the shame the pilot might feel, but he was too irked to sympathize. If he had known of the incident earlier, he would have saved many steps on the long path to discovering who might wish Amon-Psaro dead. Huy owed his life to the Kushite king. The likelihood that he would wish to slay him was close to nil.
Something cool tickled his foot, jerking his thoughts from speculation to reality. He glanced at the hull where his sandals rested. An elongated puddle was sloshing back and forth along the keelboard, its source a thin stream of water pouring through a crack between two boards higher up the hull. He cursed softly to himself, suddenly very much aware of Huy's fear, acutely conscious of the officer's potential to panic.
The branch still clung to the skiff, he noticed, close to the seam that was leaking, as if a cluster of leaves was caught on a rough spot below the waterline. Yet the outer surface of the hull should have been smooth the length of the vessel. Working hard to keep his face expressionless, his motions unhurried lest Huy notice, he reached into the water and explored the hull with his fingers. The branch broke free. Where it had been, he felt a ragged edge of broken wood and, probing deeper, a rounded hole that paralleled the surface of the hull instead of breaking through the wood. For an instant he was puzzled as to its purpose, but the answer was not long coming: the hole should have contained the dowel that pinned the two boards together.
With a growing sense of urgency, he leaned farther out, reached deeper, and ran his hand over the wood. He soon found a second hole, one seam lower than the missing dowel and triangular. His stomach lurched. A butterflyshaped wooden cramp had been knocked out of the opposite edge of the board from which the dowel was missing. At the first hint of pressure, that section of board would pop away from its mates, leaving a hole in the hull as big as his lower arm.
He glanced around, searching for a safe haven. They had passed the upstream end of the long island and Huy was leaning into tTie rudder, swinging the craft across the current that would carry them downstream to the landing of the island fortress. Bak doubted the skiff would stay afloat that distance.
Opening to their right was the channel that formed the back side of the island where the fortress stood, its course split at first by two small islands, rocky outcrops too low and craggy to support more than a few scraggly bushes. Beyond the larger of the two flowed a single channel, its waters boiling and angry, tumbling over and through and down a fresh set of rapids.
"Swing us in close to those islands." Bak kept his voice cool and calm, soothing he hoped.
"Is something wrong?" Huy demanded. "We've a small leak. I'd like to . . ."
A sharp crack of breaking wood cut him short. The stanchion holding the rudder collapsed. The rudder twisted in Huy's hand, breaking the notch holding it against the stern. The boat took on a life of its own, swinging sideways is the channel, out of control. Huy stared appalled at the useless rudder, the color draining from his face.
Staving off his own terror, Bak tore the oars from the officer's hands and dipped them in the water, trying to right the vessel before the added strain on the hull tore the damaged joints apart. He was too late. With an eerie groan, the loosened board pulled away from its mates and water flooded into the skiff. Bak lunged toward Huy, offering him the oars, thinking they might help keep him buoyant.
"No!" Huy screamed, flailing out with his arms.
The vessel dropped away from their feet, spilling them into the river. Bak glimpsed Huy, mouth open, eyes wide with terror, sinking beneath the surface. The tamarisk branch entangled an oar, and at the same time the current caught Bak's body and swept him downstream. An instant later, his head went under.
Chapter Sixteen
Through the murk, Bak saw, close overhead, the broken stanchion and loose rudder clinging to the stern by a few turns of a torn rope. He saw the oar he held, entangled among the leaves and spindly branches of the tamarisk bough. He saw a school of tiny fish and a broken chunk of pottery. He saw Huy, his arms and legs thrashing, his wideopen eyes and mouth magnified by the water, his terror out of control. He felt the current carrying them downstream, rushing them toward the maelstrom at the north end of the island fortress.
His heart leaped into his throat, choking him. He panicked, opened his mouth for air, sucked in water instead, gagged. The grit, the fishy taste, the water he swallowed, kicked in his sense of self-preservation. He let go of the entangled oar, shoving it and the branch away so the tough, springy shoots could not ensnare him. His other hand was empty, he realized, the second oar lost. Raising his arms, he kicked out, pushing himself to the surface, to clean, fresh air.
Coughing, breathing, he glanced around, trying to orient himself. Then he remembered Huy. Terrified. Panicked. Drowning. Twisting his body, he dove beneath the surface. If he didn't locate the older officer soon, while they were close together and-he hoped-at a safe distance upriver from the pounding rapids, he might never find him-or find him too late.
With no sense of where he was or in what direction he had last seen Huy, he turned slowly around, searching the murky depths for the tall, slender figure. Close by and higher in the water, he spotted the dark shadow of the skiff, held upside down by its mast and waterlogged sail. Unburdened by its human cargo, the vessel was rising slowly upward. A good-sized perch flitted past, its scales an iridescent silver. Something that looked like the hindquarters of a donkey drifted downstream, the target of a ravenous school of fish. He imagined he could taste death in the water he had swallowed.
Unable to spot Huy, he swam toward the skiff, where he had last seen him. With luck, the officer would not have drifted far. He tried not to think of the current, which was flowing faster and stronger than when he went overboard, or the crocodiles he had seen in the calmer waters on the opposite side of the long island, or how he would manage a panicked Huy. He refused to think he might not find the older man. The dappled light above tempted him to surface for air, but he resisted the urge. The longer he stayed under, the more likely he was to remain in Huy's proximity.
The skiff bucked like a playful colt. Bak glimpsed a patch of white and what he thought was a thrashing leg. He lunged toward the vessel. The distance was short, two or three paces at most, but far more of an effort than he expected. He needed a good, deep breath of air.
His head broke the surface and at the same time the prow popped up to reveal Huy scrabbling at the hull, trying frantically to cling to the overturned vessel but unable to grasp the smooth boards. Bak saw terror on his face-and desperation.
Drawing in air, he swam toward the older officer and reached for his arm. Huy flung himself upward, too terrified by the unexpected touch to notice its source, and tried again to scramble onto the skiff. Whether he knew his weight was pushing it down or, in his panic, thought it was fully afloat, Bak could not tell. Bak ducked beneath the surface and again swam to the other man, meaning to catch the flailing legs. Huy stepped on his head and pushed himself upward, grabbing for the prow, shoving Bak deeper underwater.
With a silent but heartfelt curse, Bak ducked away. His chest hurt, and he needed to cough. His legs and body felt heavy and ungainly, too awkward to battle the ever-swifter flow of the current. He swam toward the light, aware his time was running out. Yet he was too near his quarry to give up without another try. He angled his ascent to close again on the officer.
Huy saw him that time and identified him. He swung away from the hull and dove toward him, wrapping his arms around Bak, pinning Bak's arms to his sides. Together, they began to sink. Conscious of the fire in his lungs and his rapidly waning stamina, Bak struggled to free himself. Huy clung with a strength born of utter terror. With growing desperation, Bak tore his lower body away from Buy's and kneed the older man in the privates. The water cushioned the blow, but it was solid enough to hurt. Huy jerked back and doubled up with pain. Bak caught him by an arm and, forcing his weary muscles to one last effort, propelled himself upward.
Huy was like an anchor. Bak's arms and legs were leaden, the temptation to breathe almost beyond resistance. He felt sure they were both going to drown.
And then his head broke the surface.
He raised the older officer's head out of the river, gulped air, coughed, teok in more air. The water he had swallowed rose into his throat, threatening to erupt. Half-sick and bone-weary, Bak felt the strong pull of the current and heard the roar of rapids. He glanced around, saw they were racing toward a narrow churning waterway below two small islands, little more than outcropping rocks. The side channel, he thought, south of the island fortress. The rapid ahead was smaller than the one below the fortress but equally dangerous. As tired as he was, as unable to fight the maelstrom, they would both be pounded to death if they were sucked into its swirling waters.
At the speed they were traveling downstream, they would reach the first of the eddies within moments.
Huy moaned, coughed up water, and glanced around bleary-eyed. His body tensed, and he grabbed Bak, his terror renewed by the roar of the rapids and the speeding water. Too exhausted for a long, drawn-out fight and closing on the turbulence, Bak hit him on the jaw. Huy's head snapped back, his eyes closed, and he went limp.
Across the channel to the north lay the large island on which the fortress stood. The structure, built on the higher ground at the far end, was hidden from view by protruding rocks and brush. It was too far away and the rapids too loud for its occupants to hear a shout for help, too far away for an exhausted man to swim, especially one burdened by a senseless man. Feeling the pull of friendly faces and hot food, Bak turned with reluctance toward the tiny barren island to the south. He took another deep breath of air, more for moral support than from need, and began to swim, towing Huy behind him. Bits of foam, washed toward them, beckoning. Spray filled the air.
He was so tired he did not realize they had reached the island until he stumbled onto solid rock. He struggled to his feet, dragged Huy to safety, and collapsed on his knees. Bowing his head to the ground, he offered a silent prayer of gratitude to the lord Amon.
"I owe you my life." Huy, his face pale, greenish almost, sat with his back against a large rough boulder not far from the river's edge, letting the sun dry his clothing and heal his abused body. "If I had a daughter, she'd be yours. But I've no daughter, and nothing less would be of sufficient value to repay you."
"In a way, you have repaid me. I know now for a fact you're not the man I've been seeking."
Bak sat on a jagged chunk of rock, the highest point on the island, keeping an eye on the channel the boats traveled when going back and forth between Iken and the island fortress. He was tired and bruised, his knees abraded. His arms and legs were weak and shaky. His kilt was filthy and torn from hem to waist. The hour was late, the sun close to setting, but with luck and the lord Amon's favor, another boat would make the trip before darkness fell. He had no wish to spend the night on this rocky outcrop, an irregular mass of jagged, water-worn stone.
Huy managed a wan smile. "I tried to drown you. How can you be sure my terror wasn't pretense?"
"I doubt the lord Amon himself could turn a man into so accomplished an actor," Bak said in a wry voice, "but I've a more substantial reason as well."
They both spoke louder than normal to make themselves heard above the tumbling waters.
"And that is ... ?" Huy asked.
"When we reached the harbor, we found my skiff holed for what seemed like no good reason. So instead of my vessel, we used yours. It, too, had been damaged, though in such a way we wouldn't notice until too late. You'd never have set foot on it if you'd done the dirty work yourself."
If possible, Huy's face turned paler than before. "My skiff was damaged deliberately?"
Bak described the damage to the hull, the missing dowel and butterfly cramp. "And from the way the stanchion broke, it must also have been weakened."
Huy's face turned grim as the truth began to dawn. "We were meant to die together."
"Exactly." Bak rubbed the back of his neck, trying to banish the soreness from his muscles. "I might've taken my boat out alone, but with a hole in its hull, I couldn't. You were busy through much of the day, watching your officers and their men practice the drills they'll perform for Amon-Psaro, so you couldn't take your skiff out until they'd finished."
Huy muttered a savage oath. "I worked the men like oxen, making no secret of the fact that I wanted to quit early because we planned to sail to the island."
"Many things could've gone wrong." Bak's voice was as grim as Huy's face. "For example, I could've taken a barge to the island, though I've never done so before, and waited for you there. But I didn't. Everything fell into place for our would-be slayer, just as it was meant to."
Huy eyed a heron wading in a shallow backwater across the channel and scowled. "1 can understand Puemre's murderer wishing you dead, especially if you're treading close on his heels. But why slay me?"
Bak gave the older officer a speculative look. "What do you know of Puemre's death that you've failed to tell me?" "Why would I hold anything back?" Huy snapped. "Puemre was a swine, true, and I've no reason to grieve for him, but his death-any death-is an offense to the lady Maat. A lie only magnifies that offense."
"You must know something," Bak insisted.
Huy scrambled to his knees-not for the first time-and leaned out over the river. He wretched once and again and again, vomiting water yellow with bile, his body, racked with pain and exhaustion. When he finished, he leaned back against the boulder and closed his eyes. Bak allowed him to rest. Huy was a strong and determined man, but no longer young. He had spent the heat of the day standing beneath the blazing sun and had come close to drowning. He had earned Bak's respect, and he had earned the right to be left in peace while he collected himself.
"I know Puemre's father is the chancellor," Huy said, his eyes still closed, "a favorite of Maatkare Hatshepsut herself, and laying hands on his slayer would naturally be important to you. But you seem driven by the task."
"I'd forgotten Nihisy," Bak admitted, laughing softly at
himself. "I've been too worried for Amon-Psaro."
Huy's eyes snapped open. "Amon-Psaro? What are you talking about? Have you been holding secrets within your heart that bear on the workings of this garrison?"
Bak hastened to tell him all he knew. "So you see now why I dared not trust you," he concluded, "and why I've asked the questions I have."
"Woser told us he was certain a trader slew Puemre. I took him at his word." Huy snorted. "Because it was easier, I guess, to look to a stranger than to a friend."
"The commander was laying a false trail. He feared Nebseny slew Puemre, and he even worried that mistress Aset might've done it."
"Woser loves Aset above all others. After her mother died, he made her his sole reason for living." Huy rubbed his eyes, red-rimmed from the water. "Maybe now that you've cleared the air between them and between her and Nebseny, he can enlarge his life, perhaps wed Sithathor, the widow he's been visiting since he took command of Iken."
A pair of crows swooped down, landing on a rock protruding from the river a few paces above the rapids. One bird, its wings fluttering for balance, hopped down to the water to pluck out the sodden carcass of a rat. Its mate squawked, calling to a third crow perched on an acacia on another small island.
"As for me," Huy went on, "I disliked Puemre for blaming me for the lives he lost during the first skirmish he fought, but as all the world knew his accusation had no substance, I carried no burden of anger, no wish for revenge."
"You came too close to drowning for me to suspect you any longer," Bak reminded him. "If my thinking is right, the man I seek is either Inyotef or Senu."
"I can't believe either man an assassin."
"I'm convinced I'm right," Bak said, his tone as unyielding as that of the older officer.
"And if you err?"
"I'll have no choice but to look at every man in this garrison, far too ma
ny for the few short hours until the Kushites march into Iken. The thought is intolerable."
"We can and will surround Amon-Psaro with guards, every man in the garrison if need be." The certainty evaporated from Huy's voice. "But if one of those two happens to be the guilty man . . ."
Bak had no wish to go again through the various options available to protect the king, each and every one faulted. Fruitless speculation gave birth to frustration and depression, two feelings that could only get in the way of clear thinking. "Will you tell me of Senu and Inyotef, sir?"
A tiny smile flitted across Huy's face, probably because of the formality from a man who had not long ago kneed him in the groin and knocked him senseless. "Senu made a mistake when young, as many inexperienced men do. He saw his company winning a battle, and he urged them to charge forward, forgetting to notice the men to left and right, the way the front line wavered, the numbers of wounded falling. Carried away with success, he urged his men well ahead of the others, allowing them to be trapped in a dry watercourse. Puemre never let him forget his error."
"Puemre made a costly mistake of his own."
"He blamed everyone but himself for that, while Senu has spent a lifetime blaming himself for his error."
A flock of swallows plunged from the sky, small winged missiles chattering with excitement. Wheeling in midair, they darted back and forth across the water, feasting on a cloud of insects too small for the human eye to see.
"Inyotef told me Puemre constantly reminded him of his age and his crippled leg," Bak said.
