by Lauren Haney
"May the gods smile on you," Bak said, moving on. Twenty or so-men straggled out of the house, each displaying hope, patience, dismay, anger, or disappointment according to his temperament. By the time Bak entered the audience hall, the last of the petitioners had gone, as had the scribes who assisted the governor and his aide. Troop Captain Antef and Lieutenant Amonhotep stood at the foot of the empty dais. Their raised voices resonated through the high-ceilinged room. Bak stopped near the door, not wanting to intrude.
Antef glared at Amonhotep. "If he's not available to make decisions, what am I to do? Make them myself and face his wrath later?"
"You're assuming your decisions will differ from his," the aide said.
"They always do."
Amonhotep stood stiff and silent, his face troubled, strained. At last he gave the more senior officer a tight smile. "Ahight, I'll speak for him." He closed his eyes, drew in a breath, commanded, "Pull your troops out of the quarry. Give them a few days' rest. I'll. send a courier to Waset saying the next Osiris figure will arrive late. I'll give as the reason our shortage of professional stonecutters, and I'll ask for additional experienced men."
Bak guessed this was the first time the aide had made so important a decision without Djehuty's nod of agreement. In this case, a decision Djehuty would not condone.
Antef clapped the young officer on the shoulder. "Your talents are wasted, Lieutenant, on this thankless task you have."
Khawet came through the door near the dais. Smiling, she walked toward the two men. Bak, preferring not to be thought an eavesdropper, strode in among the columns, heading their way.
She spotted him. Her eyes widened and she gasped. "Lieutenant Bak!"
The two officers swung around, stared.
"By the lord Khnum!" Antef exclaimed. "What happened to you?"
Bak considered passing off his injuries as the result of an accident, but decided the time had come to be candid. "I was standing at the top of the water gauge when I was struck in the back by a hard-flung stone. Fortunately, the lord Amon smiled on me, and I managed not to fall down the stairway."
Amonhotep muttered an oath. "Who would do such a thing?"
"The slayer." Antef's eyes narrowed. "Are you so close on his heels?"
Khawet's eyes were wide, horrified. "You didn't see anyone?"
"I assume the slayer struck, yes." Bak's eyes darted from Antef to Khawet. "And I saw no one."
"So you're to be the next to die while Djehuty lives on." Though seeming to joke, Antef looked none too happy at the prospect.
"Would the man you seek disrupt the pattern you found in the other slayings?" Looking chagrined at himself, Amonhotep answered his own question. "Of course he would, if threatened."
Antef gave Bak a cynical smile. "I'd better lend you a few spearmen as personal guards. Think of the impression you'll make. Lieutenant Bak and his retinue, marching through the streets of Abu and Swenet." The door near the dais opened, drawing the officer's eyes to Ineni, who stood on the threshold. For the newcomer's benefit, Antef added, "A dozen or more men marching down the halls of this villa and across the fields of Djehuty's estate in Nubt."
Ineni's eyes flashed anger, but instead of taking the bait, he backed up and let the door close between them. Bak hurried around the dais and followed him through the door. Ineni was some distance ahead, his hands balled into fists, walking rapidly toward the rear of the house.
Bak caught up with him outside, at the gate leading to the kitchen area. "Ineni, we must talk."
The farmer swung around, prepared to lash out in anger, but the bandages subdued him. "What happened to you?" His tone was grudging, like that of a man obliged to be civil.
Bak told him, then blurted, "Are your horses safe and well?"
The question was unexpected-to Bak as well as Ineni. Their eyes met in mutual understanding. They exchanged a conspiratorial smile.
"They are." Ineni glanced toward the house. The windows of the upper story were too high for a man inside to look through, but he grimaced, as if he thought Djehuty was watching. "Let's leave this place. Nebmose's villa should offer privacy."
Bak closed the gate behind them and they walked side-by-side across the barren sand in front of the kitchen. "When I saw you'd returned from Nubt, I thought maybe you and your father had reconciled your differences."
Ineni's voice grew caustic. "I went up to his rooms, but he wouldn't let me near him."
"He's banned everyone: the servants and guards, his staff, all except Amonhotep and Khawet. I saw him yesterday, but would he allow me close today?" Bak shrugged, instantly regretting the sudden movement. "Who knows?"
"He's never behaved well in a crisis, but this time…" Ineni snorted. "I ofttimes think we'd all have been better off if you'd never come to Abu, if you'd never pointed out that wretched pattern in the earlier slayings and the obvious goal at the end."
"The slayer's intent was to frighten him before striking in earnest. If I hadn't noticed the pattern, he'd have found another way to make your father see it." Not an easy task, Bak thought, considering Djehuty's proficiency in closing his heart to any truth he would rather not see.
They passed through the gateway to Nebmose's villa and sat on a mudbrick bench shaded by the stable. A flock of pigeons had settled on the sunny roof. The throaty cooing of mating birds softened the silence of the empty building.
Bak leaned back against the wall and stretched out his legs. "I've heard Djehuty plans to disinherit you-or has he already?"
"He'll let no one near him. Remember?" Ineni's smile dripped irony. "Before they were banned from his rooms, Amethu and Simut repeatedly told him he dared not drive me from the — state in Nubt, for it needs my guiding hand. Amonhotep has denied all knowledge of procedures he knows as well or better than anyone in the province. As for Khawet… Well, she's too busy playing mistress of the villa to concern herself with mundane matters like her husband's loss of his life's work."
"The daybooks." Simut pointed to several rows of shelves on which lay dozens of storage jars, most of them plugged and sealed. "You've been here before and know your way around, so I'll leave you to seek out what you want. I must finish that wretched inventory. My scribes are needed elsewhere."
Bak felt honored. Never before had a chief scribe trusted him to go through his precious records alone and unwatched. "I'll return each document to its proper place, never fear."
"I suggest you do," Simut said, hurrying from the room. Bak did not know whether to take the words as a threat or a jest. Best assume both, he thought, lifting the lamp off the tripod. Holding the light close, he moved along, the ranks of jars, reading labels inked on their shoulders. He soon found the container he wanted, labeled year five of the reign of Maatkare Hatshepsut, harvest season. Returning the lamp to the tripod; he broke the plug on the jar, found the daybook whose entries should include the deadly storm and, holding it near the light, began to unroll the scroll and read.
The storm had arisen in the desert, missing Abu and Swenet altogether, so no mention was made until the survivors began straggling in, first Troop Captain Djehuty and Sergeant Min and then the rest, one or two at a time. No mention was made of Sergeant Min leaving Abu. Not surprising. A soldier's departure for a new post would be entered in the garrison daybooks, not necessarily this one.
He read on, day after day, paying particular attention to the governor's audiences. The entries were clean and neat, with no one porting a finger at Djehuty or anyone else for the loss of so many men. The governor was, of course, Djehuty's father.
Slightly more than a month after the storm, the old man's death was noted and Djehuty himself sat on the dais. A week or so later, a brief note referred to the death at some earlier date of a nobleman named Nebmose. No kin had laid claim to his property, so Djehuty had confiscated for the royal house the adjoining villa and a good-sized plot of farmland at the north end of the island of Abu. Property of considerable value, Bak realized. Another, later entry mentioned Ineni's adopti
on contract and the marriage contract between him and Khawet.
Replacing the document in the proper container, he carried the lamp to another shelf and more recent daybooks. The jars here had not yet been sealed, making the scrolls more accessible. "Year ten of the reign of Maatkare Hatshepsut," he murmured, glancing at the dates, seeking first the daybook in which the murder of the child Nakht would be noted. "Here it is: fourth month of the inundation season."
He found mention of the boy's death, which was dismissed as an accident. So was Montu's death the following week. Senmut was slain plain and simple, and so it had been noted, the blame laid at the feet of a wandering band of desert tribesmen out to steal what they could find. Four days later, a tax inspector and several scribes had arrived from the capital. Djehuty had greeted them with appropriate ceremony and had entertained them in his home that evening. Early the following morning, the chief scribe Simut had accompanied the inspector north. Their mission was to estimate the size of the coming year's crop based on the amount of land that could be placed under cultivation after the floodwaters receded.
Bak read on, alert for Simut's return. Lieutenant Dedi's death was noted, another accident, so the daybook said. Two days later, Simut came back alone, his assistance no longer needed as the inspector had moved on to the next province. Hiding a smile, Bak glanced over the edge of the scroll at the short, rotund man sitting before the scribes who toiled at his behest. Unless the slayer was two men instead of onewhich he firmly doubted-Simut had slain no one. He had been somewhbre north of Abu with the tax inspector when Dedi was slain. Delighted by the discovery, he thanked the lord Amon-not only for the chief scribe's sake, but for his own: he could finally strike one man from his list of suspects.
Bak had found in the past that seeking out people's whereabouts during a crime was time-consuming and as often as not unsatisfactory, but he had clearly been proven wrong in this case. With luck, the garrison daybooks would be equally enlightening. At the very least, they should tell him where Antef had been during the murders.
Bak walked out the rear door of the villa, deep in thought. "Out!" The voice was Khawet's, loud and angry. "Take that creature and go! And don't come back!"
Wondering what the fuss was, eager to help if he could, Bak ran along the line of granaries. He paused at the gate, seeing no one, and looked across the bare patch of sand toward the kitchen. The woven mat covering the door flew up and Kasaya burst out. He cradled the whimpering monkey close in his arms as if sheltering it from assault. A whitish powder was sprinkled down the Medjay's chest and legs. The animal's black fur was matted with some sticky substance clotted in places with white.
Kasaya spotted Bak, gave him a look of naked relief. Khawet plunged through the door behind him, holding her skirt high for greater freedom of movement and clutching a long, slim pot as a man would brandish a club. Her cheeks were pink, her hair disheveled, her voice shaking with anger. "You're nothing but trouble, Kasaya, flirting shamelessly, causing dissension among the women of my household. Now you bring that monkey into our kitchen! How could you?" The Medjay looked wildly over his shoulder at his pursuer. "Sir! I didn't mean any harm! I didn't!"
"Lieutenant!" Khawet slowed, let her skirt fall, and lowered the jar. "For close on a week I've let this… This imbecile!.. spend his days in my household, prying into our affairs, getting underfoot when my servants are busy, stuffing himself with our food. Even using my female servants as a sexual diversion. Now he's gone too far. I want him out. I want him out now!"
"What did he do?" Bak demanded, trying not to look at Kasaya, trying not to laugh.
Kasaya threw him a pleading look. "I was just…"
"He brought that creature into my kitchen!" Khawet shook her finger at the monkey and glared. "While he dallied with the women who toil there, he let it gorge itself on honey and melon and swcetcakes. If that wasn't bad enough, he let it play in our fresh-ground flour and our dried beans and peas. We'll never get the mess cleaned up!"
"I tied him to a stool." Kasaya looked at Bak, and his voice turned from defensive to pleading. "How did I know he could untie knots?"
Swallowing laughter, hoping he looked suitably stem, Bak swung the gate open and beckoned him through. "Go to the river and wash yourself." The furry delinquent, he saw, was clinging to Kasaya's thumb like a baby to its mother's finger. He had not the heart to order it back into the sycamore tree. "Clean up the monkey, too. I'll see you both in our quarters later today."
With a look of pure gratitude, Kasaya hurried away.
Bak passed through the gate in the opposite direction, clinging to his serious mien. Khawet clearly could see no humor in the situation. "I'm truly sorry, mistress. After you've both calmed down, I'll send him back to clean up the mess they made."
"You'll do no such thing!" She must have realized how harsh she sounded, for her voice softened to a more reasonable level. "You sent him here for a purpose, that I understand. But I've had enough of him, of his endless prying and continual flirting. More than enough. I won't have him back."
"His greatest value is not to pry, but to protect you and yours."
"No." Her mouth was set in a thin, determined line, the resemblance to her father uncanny. "I know you mean well. Lieutenant, but I've neither the time nor the inclination to look after that overgrown babe and his hairy friend."
He could see she would not reverse her decision. He was certain she would be more reasonable if she had less to think about, but worry for her father, whether really ill or pretending, and the responsibility for managing so large a household was enough to distress anyone.
Bali had assumed Antef would have gone directly to the quarry to relieve his men of their onerous task. Instead, he found the troop captain at garrison headquarters, seated on a stool in the room he used as an office, dictating to a scribe who sat cross-legged on the floor, writing faster than any man Bak had ever seen. The room was small and sparsely furnished, with a woven reed chest filled with scrolls shoved against one wall, weapons and quarry tools stacked against the rear wall, and two stools near the door. Antef waved him toward a stool and continued without pause. The document, Bak realized, was a list of craftsmen and laborers needed in the quarries to replace the soldiers.
"That should be sufficient," Antef said at the end. "If we ask for too many men, we might get none."
"Yes, sir." Smiling, the scribe collected his writing implements and left the room.
Bak eyed the officer with interest. "The last I heard, Amonhotep intended to write that letter."
Antef grinned. "If you want a task done right, do it yourself-and this I wanted done right. Amonhotep has vowed to send off whatever I give him." Sobering, he added, "I've no objection to having my men move rough-sculpted works from the quarry to the river. Soldiers have always helped out in that way, and the time it takes is slight. I do object to their doing the work of craftsmen, spending all their days toiling on the stone when they should be practicing the arts of war."
"What will Djehuty do when he realizes you've usurped his authority?",
"He hates to be made to look the fool, especially before his lofty friends in Waset. He'll let the matter stand." Antef grinned again. "Of course, I dare not turn my back for a while. He's certain to retaliate."
They both spoke, Bak noticed, as if Djehuty would live on into the future, as if no threat clouded his existence.
"Commandant Thuty isn't perfect," he said, "but I thank the lord Amon he's as good a man as he is."
"You've been blessed by the gods." Antef glanced around the room. "What'd I do with my baton of office?" He pivoted on his stool to search through the clutter against the rear wall. Locating the baton among a sheaf of spears, he stood up. "I must deliver the good news to the men at the quarry. Why have you come?"
"I'd like another look at the garrison daybooks."
Antef grabbed a tunic off a small upended sledge that had a broken runner and slipped the garment over his head. "Why?"
While Bak expl
ained, the troop captain pulled his broad collar out from beneath the fabric. When it would not immediately lie flat, he fumbled with the clasp, undid the collar, and tossed it onto a stool. As soon as he had heard enough, he strode to the door without a word, shouted a name, and his scribe came running.
A short time later, Bak sat on the floor of a tiny courtyard shaded by palm fronds spread loosely across two sturdy reed beams. Lying along a mudbrick bench in order of their dates were the dozen or more scrolls the scribe had brought from the records office.
Once again he unrolled the copy of the official report of the sandstorm. This time he knew better what to look for, more specific information based on the additional knowledge he had gained over the past few days. As was to be expected, with Djehuty the author of the document, no mention was made of his irrational order to keep the men moving in the face of disaster, or of men who had found shelter but had turned away their fellows. To be fair, Djehuty might never have been told of the latter offense, but a good commander would have dug the truth from the survivors.
A third, unexpected omission proved far more interesting. The report included no recommendation that Min receive the Gold of Honor, contrary to the statement in the sergeant's personal file. Had Djehuty failed to make the request because he knew Min was no longer among the living?
With nothing further to be gleaned, Bak set the report aside. Picking up the daybook that included entries about the storm, he searched this time for mention of Min. Exactly a week after he and Djehuty returned from the desert, a brief entry indicated that a Sergeant Min had departed from the garrison. No further information was given. Bak glanced back through the daybook and forward. Entries were often slipshod, omitting a detail or two, but they never failed to provide the reason why a man left the garrison, his destination, and usually the name of the ship on which he sailed. Min had never left Abu, Bak felt sure.
He moved on to the more recent daybooks, looking specifically for information about Antef's comings and goings when the first four murders occurred. On the surface, the troop captain's fife appeared full to the brim with interesting and challenging tasks. In reality, his days were all much alike, his duties unremarkable. He spent a few hours each day at the quarry and the rest of his time in Abu, overseeing the routine activities of the garrison. Each night he slept in his residence, whether alone or not the daybook made no mention.
