by Lauren Haney
"Will you talk to Lieutenant Amonhotep for me, telling him Nenu lied?" The guard stared at his clasped hands, pretending nonchalance.
Bak wanted t take him by the neck and shake him. This was blackmail, plain and simple. "I have a feeling the lieutenant's already suspicious of the tale. Why else has he said nothing to you? If that's the case, it's best I remain apart and you go on with your task in as diligent a manner as you know how."
"But sir!"
Bak raised a hand, demanding silence. "If you find yourself in trouble, send for me. I'll do what I can-but only if you help me here and now."
Trying to look suitably chastened, but with a smirk slipping through, Kames leaned close and lowered his voice to a murmur. "The man who spoke, one I'd never seen before and have never seen since, said he knew for a fact that the governor panicked during the storm and Min saved him from himself. I heard later, from men whispering in the barracks, that they came back from the desert far ahead of the other survivors: Min, the governor, and a donkey carrying food and water. They were burned by the sun and tired, but neither man was hungry or thirsty."
"I wonder how great an effort they made to find others who might've survived?" Bak spoke more to himself than to the guard.
Kames gave him a knowing look, a nod of agreement. "They say Min was sent away so he couldn't make trouble in the garrison, but as a man of questionable character, would he not demand wealth or a lofty position in exchange for silence?"
Bak thought of Hatnofer, a woman reputed to be close to Min. Did he leave her behind as unwanted baggage and travel to Mennufer alone? Or did someone slay him to keep him quiet, leaving her to await a summons he could never give?
The wiry guard leaned so close their shoulders touched, and Bak could feel his warm breath on his ear. "Some say Min sailed north to a lofty position in a garrison far away. Others say he never set foot on board that ship. He was slain here, pushed down the water gauge, where the level of the floodwaters is measured."
Bak stared at the barred gate in front of the garden, trying to fit this new information into the old. As he had already concluded, Djehuty held within his heart a secret related to the sandstorm, one so shameful he would rather die than admit to it. Assuming Karnes's tale was true, he had behaved in a craven manner. If he would die rather than confess to cowardice, would he not also kill to protect his secret? He might well have taken Min's life or, more likely, have had someone else commit the foul deed for him.
What of the five recent deaths? The patterns of the slayings pointed to Djehuty as the ultimate victim, not the slayerunless he had become so afraid his secret would be divulged that his wits were addled. Unlikely, but a possibility nonetheless.
Thinking of Kames's nap and the sleeping guard he had surprised at the gatehouse a few days earlier, Bak made a quick tour of the governor's compound. He was forced to conclude that security was irresponsibly lax. One would have expected the violent death of'the sergeant of the guard, Senmut, to bring about a strict adherence to good practices, but the reverse had happened. Or, more likely, Senmut had been as negligent as they, demanding nothing more than their present behavior. The problem now lay with Amonhotep, but he was too preoccupied by Djehuty's demands to come down with a firm hand, or even to notice.
Though convinced the slayer had come from within the compound rather than outside the grounds, Bak decided he would be equally lax if he failed to make a quick and, hopefully, intimidating inspection. After warning Amonhotep of his intent, he summoned Psuro and Kasaya. For the remainder of the day, the trio went from one guard to another, demanding cleanliness of individuals and weapons, improving stance, instilling proper procedures. Planting fear in their hearts, not only of the slayer but of the hard-nosed policemen from Buhen.
Finished witl~. the inspection, Bak sent Psuro and Kasaya into Abu to pick up their evening meal from the old woman who cooked for them. They had found the food in Pahared's wife's house of pleasure filling but singularly lacking in taste and appeal, so they had retained her services. While awaiting the pair's return, he would look at the water gauge, the place where Sergeant Min was rumored to have been slain.
After observing the gatehouse from a discreet distance, he strode out the front gate of the governor's compound, confident the guard-wide awake and vigilant-would have spotted anyone occupying the nearby walls or rooftops. If the archer still lived, he would not be lying in ambush close by. He hurried along the terrace overlooking the river. The sun hung low over the western escarpment, sending shafts of gold into a pallid sky, reflected on the smooth surface of the water.
Beyond the willows, whose graceful limbs waved gently in the breeze, he reached the entrance to the thigh-high mudbrick wall built close around the rectangular mouth of the — water gauge. An ancient grapevine, its trunk thick and knobby, its vines laden with clusters of ripening grapes shaded by a profusion of leaves, draped over the left-hand wall, covering much of its inner and outer surface. A stately sycamore towered overhead. Its rustling leaves sheltered a tiny black monkey that swung from limb to limb, squeaking.
Bak stepped through the open gateway and knelt at the top of an enclosed, steeply graded, rock-hewn staircase that plunged to the river. The steps served as the gauge by which priests from the nearby mansion of the lady Satet measured annual flood levels. In the gloom below, he could see the last of the year's deluge washing the lower stairs. A pale glimmer shone through the water, either a trick of the light shining from above or the opening to the river through which floodwaters entered and retreated. The hole through which a man would be pulled by the current should he fall, or be thrown, down the steps.
He eyed the well-like structure, trying to imagine a man pushed headlong down the steep stairway, tumbling out of control; head, shoulders, back, arms, and legs pounded by the hard stone steps; broken body swallowed by the waters below. After so long a time, with at least four floods to wash away any sign of violence, he did not expect to find confirmation of Min's death. But his first glance told him how easily a man could be slain here.
He rose to his feet. With his eyes on the water gauge, his thoughts on Min, he stepped back to the opening in the wall. The monkey's chattering increased in volume and rapidity; leaves rained down as it scrambled higher into the sycamore. Bak glanced up, wondering what had frightened it.
Just as he glimpsed the creature, something struck him hard on the back, forcing the air from his lungs, making him stumble forward. His foot hit the edge of the uppermost step and he lost his balance. He reached out, trying to save himself. His right hand slid over the rim of the open shaft and down the rough stone wall, scraping away a layer of skin. Leaves rushed through the fingers of his left hand, something hard scratched his wrist, the grapevine, and he grabbed. The vine dipped beneath his, weight. A long section tore away from the mudbrick wall above and flung him out over the depths of the water gauge. The far end held tight to the bricks, pulling him up short. He slammed face-forward into the rough-cut stone wall.
Shaking his head to clear it, he glanced up at the top of the stairs. He saw no one. He had not been pushed. He had been struck by
… What? A good-sized rock thrown from a sling, inflicting a stunning blow on his back. A soldier's weapon. A weapon used by most children in Kemet. A skill learned early in life to slay birds or small game. As long as he clung there, hanging in the open shaft high above the stairway, he was no safer than a duck or a hare caught in a hunter's net, awaiting execution.
He shifted his glance to the mass of vines above him, seeking a second secure handhold. Leaves, grape clusters, shadows cluttered his view. He could see wrist-thick stems and tendrils as thin as thread, but not the vine he clung to, or any other close enough to grasp and sturdy enough to support his weight.
Offering a tardy prayer of gratitude to the lord Amon, adding a quick plea for additional help, he shot his right hand upward. Tendrils snapped and the vine he clung to dropped further. His heart leaped upward, clogging his throat. Again the far en
d held and stopped him with a jolt. Pain flared in his left shoulder, taking his breath away. He gritted his teeth to keep from crying out, stretched his right arm high, and felt around among the leaves and tendrils. His fingertips touched rough bark. He stretched higher, sharpening the pain. A torn muscle, he suspected. He found a good-sized vine. His fingers curled around it, but he could not reach high enough to grasp it. Sweat popped out on his forehead, his upper lip. The agony was intense, his fear of falling worse.
Desperate to relieve the weight on his left arm, his back prickling with vulnerability, he shook off his sandals and probed for a foothold. The added movement kindled the fire in his shoulder, making it blaze. Just as he was certain he could hang on no longer, he located a crack between the rocks. Shifting much of his weight to the one foot, he managed to raise himself high enough to catch the vine with his free right hand.
He held on tight with both hands, swallowed hard, kept as much weight off his left arm and shoulder as possible. He looked up again at the mouth of the water gauge. As before, no one was there. His assailant must believe him dead-or was biding his time.
Aware of how exposed he was to attack, how shaky, how fast pain could further sap his strength, he knew he had to move. He had to shift his body toward the mouth of the water gauge, moving to his left a little at a time. He had to move now.
Praying the vine would continue to support his weight, praying that if it broke he would somehow survive, he loosened his grip, inched his left hand along the rough bark, caught hold. He found a new foothold with no trouble. Shifting the right hand was torture, the burning in his shoulder dreadful with much of his weight hanging from his left hand. When he once again settled into place, both hands firm around the vine, he figured he had moved at least two palm widths closer to safety. How much farther did he have to go? He estimated the distance, considered his height, judged where he had to be before he could drop onto the steps. Slightly more than three cubits, he concluded, twenty-one or — two palm widths. Not far at all, yet an alarming distance.
He forced himself to move on, inching across the rough wall, his shoulder aflame, skinned arm stinging, hands slippery with sweat. His concentration was total. Move one hand, find a fresh toehold, move the other hand. He forgot the man who had assaulted him, the stairs beneath him, the darkening wedge of sky above him. He ignored his weariness and thirst. He tolerated his aching muscles and scraped knuckles. He endured the fire in his shoulder.
After endless torment, his lead foot brushed something cold and hard He looked down, startled. A step. In his trance-like state, he had gone farther than he had to. With soaring spirits, he planted both feet on the stone and let go of the vine. His arms were so numb he could hardly feel them. Weak from effort and tension, wobbly from exhaustion, he dragged himself on hands and knees up the steep stairway.
At the top, he peered over the edge. The monkey sat on the wall, holding a bunch of grapes, eating the ripe fruit and flinging away the green. It skittered well out of his reach and scolded him, but showed no special terror. Nor did it show any interest in the surrounding landscape. Fairly certain they were alone, Bak hauled himself on up and sat, his back to the wall, inside the enclosure near the opening. He lowered his face into his dirty, scratched hands and offered a silent prayer of thanks to the lord Amon.
Chapter Thirteen
"You were truly blessed by the lord Amon, sir." Psuro, standing at the top of the water gauge, eyed the thick vine draped over the wall and the steep flight of stairs below. "If you'd fallen to the bottom…" His voice tailed off and he shook his head in consternation.
Bak turned his back on a place he preferred to forget and walked outside the enclosure. He moved with care, trying not to ignite the dull ache in his shoulder. The bandage the physician in Swenet had wrapped tight around his upper torso helped some, but any wrong move seemed to tear the muscle more. Compared to the shoulder, he barely felt his skinned arm, which was covered from wrist to elbow with a second bandage stained brown by a salve whose odor was overwhelmed by the strong smell of the poultice the physician had daubed on his shoulder.
"I wish we were as close to laying hands on the slayer as he evidently thinks we are," he said. "Another exercise like this, and I might not survive."
"Don't talk like that, sir!" Kasaya, standing at the base of the sycamore tree, trying to lure the black monkey with a chunk of bread, threw him a worried look. — "Some malevolent genie might hear and turn your words around, bringing upon you the very misfortune you speak of."
"Oh?" Bak asked, eyebrow raised.
The young Medjay flushed. "I know you wish us to seek common everyday reasons for things that happen before we look to malign spirits as the cause. But here in Abu, with so many people slain… Well…"
"The man who took those lives has a reason, one that may never make sense to us but is most compelling to him." "Who do you think used the sling, sir?" Psuro asked. "The archer? Did he survive the rapids after all?"
"I don't know." Bak leaned back against a boulder. "Its use puzzles me. It's not subtle, like those unwanted gifts, nor is it as direct as a bow and arrows."
Psuro gave him a wry grin. "I'd not call a bowl of scorpions subtle, sir."
Bak's laugh was quick, humorless. "Ingenious, then. I wasn't sure the insects were meant to kill, but I'm certain I was supposed to die in the water gauge." He stared at nothing, brows drawn together in thought. "If we leave out the archer's attempt to slay me with the bow, what do we have? A steady escalation from a small, harmless message to a serious attempt at murder."
"Another pattern," Psuro said. "What kind of man toys with his victims this way?"
Kasaya, lost by so complicated a thought, tore the soft white center out of the bread and began to press it into a ball. "Maybe the archer broke an arm when his skiff overturned. One arm's enough to use a sling."
"A possibility, I suppose. Or maybe my death in the water gauge was meant to resemble that of Sergeant Min-if the rumor Kames heard is based on fact." Bak watched the monkey working its way along a limb above the-young Medjay. "Psuro, you must go again to the garrison. See if you can find anyone who remembers Min. Look to those who would've remained behind, supplying the troops or serving their needs. Qhartermaster, armorers, and so on."
"Yes, sir."
"In the meantime, I want another look at the garrison daybooks. I glanced through them when first we came to Abu, and nothing struck me as being of importance. Perhaps today, with a more educated eye, I'll have better luck. And it occurred to me that the governor might also keep daybooks.
Djehuty was garrison commander, as was his father before him. As such, both were obliged to make daily entries. A habit once learned is not easy to set aside."
Kasaya, munching on the bread ball, patted his flat stomach and smiled. "A few more days in the governor's villa and…"
The monkey dropped out of the tree. It landed on his arm and grabbed for the hollow crust. The Medjay yelped, startled, and caught the creature by the neck. It squealed, terrified. Its little hands reached out for the bread, greed taking precedence over freedom. Laughing, Kasaya broke off a bit of crust and offered it. The monkey snatched it away and stuffed it into its mouth.
Psuro gave man and beast a disgusted look, then leaned back against the wall to study the landscape from which the rock must have been slung: the small walled mansion of the lady Satet, the much larger enclosed precinct of the lord Khnum, and houses crammed together in the space between, their walls pierced by a few windows too high and narrow for a sling to be used. Near the mansion of the lord Khnum, a lane opened onto the terrace, offering the women of Abu easy access to the public well.
Bak guessed what the Medjay was thinking.' "The whole time I was hanging from that vine, I expected my assailant to appear and finish what he'd started. If I'd given any thought to this area, I'd've known better. Standing at the lane, where he could see anyone coming and going, he could risk using the sling a time. or two, but he dared not approach th
e water gauge, where he'd draw attention to himself as well as to me."
"Whoever he is," Psuro said, impressed-in spite of himself, "he has the nerve of a god and the luck to go with it." Striding through the entry portal, Bak nodded to the neat and alert guard who manned the gatehouse. He was happy to see that the previous day's effort had made enough of an impression to last at least overnight. He walked on toward the governor's house, reluctant to go inside. The morning was pleasant, the intense heat of the inundation season dissipating as the season of planting began. He longed to go hunting in the desert or fowling in the marshes or sailing on the open river. Anything other than facing another day of this seemingly futile search. Seven days had passed since Hatnofer's death. He had to admit he had learned a great deal since then, yet he had no more idea now who the slayer was than he had had at the beginning. With only three days remaining, he needed divine intervention.
Smiling at the thought, at so unlikely an occurrence, he paused before the family shrine to look inside. No fresh flowers here, he noted, only an incense bowl long ago burned out, setting at the base of a red-painted statue similar to the one at Nebmose's villa. If no one bothered here, who was tending the shrine there?
Three men nearing their middle years came out of the governor's house, traders from the look of their sun-darkened skin, practical clothing, and mix of jewelry from Kemet and the lands to the south.
One, taller than his companions, raised a hand in greeting. "If you've come with a petition, sir, your luck's run out. Governor Djehuty's ailing today, unable to conduct an audience."
Not ailing, Bak thought, but malingering. Too fearful to show himself. "Did anyone say what the trouble was?" "He can't leave his bed, we were told. Other than that, nothing. I pray he feels better tomorrow. We've a contract dispute with a man from Swenet and need a decision before we set sail for the Belly of Stones."
