A Vile Justice lb-3

by Lauren Haney

Smiling her gratitude, the old woman entered her tiny house. Bak sidled past several homeward-bound archers and led the way down the narrow lane. A slick-haired black dog trotting at the soldiers' heels swung around to follow the food.

  "When during the day was Senmut slain?" he asked. "He was found early in the morning, so sometime the night before. The men who came for him from the house of death guessed he had lain there for several hours." "Good," Bal said, well contented with the news. "Now two men are freed of guilt: Antef and Simut."

  They reached an intersecting street wider than most running through Abu and turned north toward the governor's villa. A unit of twenty or so spearmen marching four abreast toward the garrison forced them into the open doorway of a sandalmaker's shop. The man glanced up from his work and gave them a quick smile, never missing a beat in the steady tap-tap-tap of his mallet. The rank smell of leather tanning in urine assailed their nostrils.

  Bak reached down to scratch the dog's head. "Earlier today, mistress Khawet said something in all innocence that — set me thinking. These are her words: `The one who was thrown into the river and battered by the rapids.' Who do you think she meant?"

  "You were carried through the rapids, sir. And you were hurt. Upriver at Iken. How did she know about that?" Psuro, noting Bak's censorious expression, paused for further thought. His eyes widened. "The archer? She was speaking of him?"

  "She was talking about Nenu, a guard in the governor's compound. And, until a day or two ago, at Nebmose's villa." "I recall seeing him there when first we came to Abu. A young man who needed a comeuppance, I thought." The Medjay's eyes dewed toward Bak, the look on his face skeptical. "Why would he wish to slay you?"

  The last of the spearmen marched by and they strode on down the street, the dog at their heels.

  "I bumped into Nenu the day after the archer was thrown into the rapids," Bak said. "He was battered and bruised and, when I asked what happened, he spoke of a fight. He's an ill-natured sort, so I took him at his word." He scowled at the memory. "Never did I think of him as being the archer, but now…? We'd best learn the truth-and soon."

  "Was he not the one who helped you search Nebmose's villa when first the archer struck?"

  "Don't remind me," Bak groaned. "The perfect defense is offense, and his performance that day proves it. I dropped over the gate in front of the villa and there he was, spear in hand, challenging my presence."

  "No wonder you never found the bow and quiver! Each time you came close, he steered you in another direction." "Laughing all the while, no doubt," Bak said bitterly.

  Psuro's expression again turned dubious. "I'd never have taken him as so quick-witted a man."

  "I suspect he isn't under normal circumstances, but when his well-being is threatened, he's cunning like a jackal." Bak's mouth tightened. "Maybe we can outsmart him."

  "You asked for me, sir?" Nenu stood at attention, his eyes on Bak, his expression wary.

  "There you are. Good."

  Bak, resting his uninjured shoulder against a column in the audience hall, eyed the guard long and hard, hoping to unsettle him. The young man's appearance had not improved, although his injuries were on the mend. His abrasions had scabbed over, and his bruises were a mottled purple and yellow. His lower lip was dry and swollen, the cut red with recently clotted blood. He stood stiff as a palm, breathing loud through his nose.

  Bak had to admire his control. "My Medjay and I…" He nodded toward Psuro, standing near the dais. "… were on our way to our evening meal when the chief scribe Simut summoned me. As you can see.." He nodded toward the baskets of food and laundry and the bowl of stew. Psuro had added a net bag containing a half dozen beer jars and another basket filled with clusters of deep purple grapes and a couple of striped green melons. "We've too much here for one man to carry, so you must help him take them to our quarters in Swenet."

  "Yes, sir." Nenu visibly relaxed. "Is that all, sir?"

  Bak smiled, further easing his suspicions. "When you finish, you're free to go."

  "Shall I reheat the stew?" Psuro asked. "I can borrow a brazier from Prahared's wife and set it on the roof outside our quarters, where the fire will be shielded from the breeze."

  "I doubt I'll be long, but…" Bak smothered a smile. The Medjay was as artful as the most accomplished performer in an enactment of the sacred drama of the lord Osiris's victory over his rival Set. "Perhaps you'd better. Cold fish stew is an abomination."

  "If Nenu is the archer," Psuro said, "he should come soon."

  "Before nightfall," Bak said, nodding agreement. "He'll want sufficient light to see his target and at the same time enough darkness to hide his identity and allow him to steal away unseen."

  Looking down from the rooftop outside their quarters, he studied the dark and empty doorways in the block of buildings across the lane. The narrow thoroughfare lay deep in shadow as the sun dropped beyond the western horizon. The black dog, which had crossed the river in the skiff with Psuro and Nenu, lay on the threshold of an empty dwelling, looking upward, patiently awaiting a handout. Kasaya was on a roof near the northern end of the lane, hidden from view. Loud and raucous voices issued from an open expanse of sand to the south, where a half dozen or so of Pahared's sailors and a growing crowd of onlookers were betting on a wrestling match soon to begin.

  Bak's eyes leveled on the still-lit rooftops across the lane, where several families sat, enjoying the gentle northerly breeze while they consumed their evening meal. With no other buildings close by, the archer would have to strike from there. Bak had thought of sending the people away, but their absence would have proclaimed a trap. With luck, they were not so close they would be endangered

  "I don't like this," Psuro grumbled. "We need more men."

  "We have plenty. It's their quality I'm worried about, not their numbers."

  When Bak had asked for help, Pahared had volunteered crewmen from his ship. They were the best brawlers along the river, the trader had bragged, but did they have the patience to await the signal to act and, once set in motion, would they do as they were told? Or, preoccupied by the match, caught up in the excitement of the noisy crowd, would they respond at all?

  Psuro nested the bowl of stew on the unfired charcoal in the brazier, perfecting a picture of two men readying their evening meal. "We should've waited until tomorrow, after you'd had a chance to talk to Troop Captain Antef. He'd've been glad to lend all the men we need. Good, trustworthy men."

  "Must I remind you, Psuro, that our time is running out? I doubt the archer-Nenu, I'm convinced-had anything to do with the five deaths in the governor's household. If we can eliminate him and whatever vile acts he's committed, we're that much closer to the truth. If he used the bow at the orders of another, which 'I think he did, our path should grow shorter still."

  A man yelled a wager, his voice raised above the general clamor. Another bested him and a third went higher yet. Excited laughter rippled through the crowd at stakes higher than expected.

  "Who would have him slay you? One who wants the governor dead?"

  Bak gave the Medjay a wry smile. "You speak of almost everyone in the province. I hope to shorten our list of suspects, not lengthen it."

  A spot of light darted across his chest and the outer wall of their quarters, grabbing his attention. Bak looked toward Kasaya's hidingplace. The Medjay, crouched behind a rooftop parapet, repeated the signal, catching the sun on a bright square of polished bronze. Bak scratched his head, letting him know he had seen. Another signal, a series of short, bright flashes, and Kasaya ducked out of sight.

  "Nenu's at the quay and he's armed." Bak walked away from the wall and knelt beside the brazier, facing the lane at an angle. If he made too easy a target, he would rouse Nenu's suspicions. Or be slain. He would never forget the first ambush he had set up soon after his arrival in Buhen. Thanks to his lack of foresight, one of his Medjays had lost his life. "So now we wait," Psuro said.

  "Not for long, I suspect."

  They pretended t
o converse, pretended an offhand interest in the loud exchanges of the bettors, grinned at each other when the voices heated up with excitement. The time dragged. The sun vanished below the horizon, leaving a sky bright in its afterglow. The lord Re, clinging to the world of the living, was reluctant to submit to twelve hours in the netherworld. The glow faded rapidly, leaving behind a darkening sky speckled with stars. Torches were lit at the southern end of the lane, illuminating the sandy arena and the men awaiting the bout. Bats shot through the air, hunting insects drawn to the light. The shrill call of a nightbird-Kasaya's signal-rose above the rumble of the expectant crowd. "Nenu's come," Bak said.

  In the lane below, the dog began to bark. It broke off abruptly in a sharp cry of pain. Muttering a curse, Psuro reached for his spear. Bak slipped his hand through the grip of a shield lying close on the rooftop, and offered a silent prayer to the lord Amon that Nenu's first arrow would fly far from its mark. The guard's skill was modest, he knew, but bad luck could kill as quickly as a well-aimed missile. "There!" he hissed.

  The dark silhouette of a man raced across the roof of the empty house across the lane. He knelt several paces behind the parapet and raised a bow with an arrow already seated. Details of space and body were hidden in the gloom, but the archer was definitely Nenu.

  Chapter Fifteen

  An arrow sped toward Bak, its bronze tip and white feathers ghost images in the dwindling light. He ducked low and swung his shield up. The sudden movement wrenched the torn muscle in his shoulder, catching him short, slowing him. The shield's heavy wooden frame deflected the missile, saving him from a mortal wound, but the point sliced through the bandage wrapped tightly around his upper torso and tore across his ribcage under his left arm. A hasty glance showed blood beading up along the edge of the slit linen.

  Shouts burst out in the open area south of the building block. Whistles. Applause. The wrestlers entering the arena, the match about to begin.

  Kasaya burst from his hidingplace and raced across the rooftops, zigzagging around families, leaping over braziers and pets and pottery stacked for cleaning. Raised voices followed in his wake. Adults and children craned their necks, anxious to see what provoked such haste. Nenu, seating another arrow, must have heard the alarm in their voices, the curiosity. He swung around, spotted the large dark figure racing toward him like a creature risen from the netherworld, spearpoint glinting eerily in the failing light. He raised his bow toward the new target, released the missile. A cry rang out and a woman crumpled into her husband's arms. A man yelled, angry voices rose in the air: the family and friends of the injured woman. Nenu froze, evidently realizing what he had done.

  Spitting out a curse, Bak grabbed his spear from the rooftop, ran to the parapet, and flung it hard at the archer on the opposite roof. The weapon flew past, missing its target by a hair's breadth. Nenu pivoted, startled by the near miss. He fumbled with an arrow, obviously panicked by the heated voices and Kasaya pounding toward him. Finally seating the missile, he took a wild shot at Bak and dashed for the southern end of the block. There an outside stairway led down to the street and the open space where the wrestlers would compete. Where Pahared's sailors waited.

  "Psuro, now!" Bak yelled.

  The Medjay was already on the move. Lifting a long board from the shadows, he darted to the edge of the roof, planted a foot on the parapet and leaned forward, and dropped the plank over the span, bridging the lane.

  Not sure he could be heard over the shouting spectators, Bak whistled the long, loud signal meant to alert Pahared's sailors. Still carrying his own shield, ignoring the drag of its weight on his sore shoulder, he scooped up Psuro's spear and shield, shoved them at him, and leaped onto the board to race across. As he knelt to retrieve the spear he had thrown, he noticed again his torn and blood-smeared bandage. The cut merely stung, indicating a surface wound, with no harm to the rib. He offered a silent prayer of thanks to the lord Amon.

  Psuro leaped off the bridge and Kasaya dashed past. Bak glanced at the woman lying amid a circle of family and neighbors. Confident she would be cared for-if still she lived-he raced with Psuro after Kasaya and the fleeing man. He heard thudding feet behind, a small party of men who knew the fallen woman, seeking vengeance.

  Nenu set a straight course for the stairway, making clear his knowledge of the area. He paused on the top step to look down at the wrestlers and their audience, whose shouts had gained in volume and enthusiasm as the match began. A quick glance back at the men in pursuit and he plunged down the stairs. Kasaya raced after him a dozen paces behind. Bak whistled another signal. The yells of the spectators never faltered.

  Like Nenu before him, Bak paused atop the stairway to look down. Sailors, soldiers, traders, townsmen, five or six women at most, stood in the fluttery light of four flaming torches mounted high on buildings around the open square. Their attention was focused on two well-oiled and sweating wrestlers locked together in combat; the raised voices goaded them on. A judge hovered close, keeping the pair honest. The spectators formed a loose circle, staying well back and out of the way, filling much of the squarish expanse of sand enclosed by housing blocks whose walls were unbroken by windows or doors. Somewhere down there were Pahared's crewmen. Families who lived within the surrounding dwellings looked down from the rooftops.

  Nenu was shouldering his way through a clamorous crowd indifferent to everything but the match, with Kasaya a few strides behind. Stepping aside so Psuro could go on ahead, Bak whistled again. One man looked up, saw the short, stocky Medjay racing down and the officer from Kemet above. He grabbed the shoulder of another man, who shook off the offending hand, made a horn of his own hands, and yelled at the wrestlers, demanding greater effort.

  Bak muttered a curse. From where he stood, he could see the mouths of six or eight dark, narrow lanes, any of which Nenu could enter. If the guard knew the rest of Swenet as well as he did this area, he would lose his pursuers with ease. They needed help, men who knew their way around, even in the dark. How could he attract the attention of Pahared's crewmen?

  Feeling the weight of the weapon in his hand, he had an idea. He had first hurled a spear as a small boy and, given sufficient time and care, was reasonably skilled in its use. He studied the scene, chose as his target a clear patch of sand near the combatants, and launched the weapon. The blade buried itself deep in the earth. The long shaft stood tall and rigid, vibrating from the force of the thrust.

  Silence descended over the crowd. The wrestlers grappled and grunted and groaned, unaware. The judge stepped back, gave the spear a startled look, hissed a warning. The pair continued to fight.

  Bak whistled again, the — sound loud and clear, impossible to ignore. To a man, the spectators looked upward, as did Nenu and Kasaya. Psuro leaped off the bottom step, too intent on his goal to be distracted. Six or seven men, Pahared's sailors, headed toward the stairs from several different directions.

  "There!" Bak yelled, pointing emphatically at Nenu, who was elbowing his way through the crowd, angering the people he passed and drawing attention to himself. As the seamen altered course, Bak called out to the rest, "Get on with the match!" and raced down the steps.

  The wrestlers paused, looked around, saw their audience's attention turned elsewhere. Bewildered, they broke their hold and drew apart. The judge repeated Bak's order. Like everyone else in the makeshift arena, the pair ignored the command and watched with rapt attention the fleeing man and his pursuers.

  Nenu burst free of the crowd and slipped into the nearest lane, its mouth dark and forbidding. Kasaya darted into the blackness a few paces behind him. Bak flung his shield aside for better mobility and leaped off the steps. He glimpsed Psuro and Pahared's crewmen shouldering paths through the spectators, trying to catch the younger Medjay and his quarry.

  Questions broke the hush of the crowd: What's happening? Who're these men? Why are they chasing the man in the lead?

  Bak's identity and word of his quest spread through the crowd. Suddenly the mood ch
anged. Excitement crackled in the air. The spectators turned their backs on the match and, with voices raised in a frenzy of purpose, moved as a single unit in the direction Nenu and Kasaya had gone, lured by the promise of livelier entertainment.

  Entangled in the flow of men, helpless to stop them, and thoroughly disgusted by this unforeseen turn of events, Bak clamped his hands together, forming a battering ram, and' thrust his body forward. Those he struck ducked aside, muttering curses and glaring resentment. He caught up with Psuro, who was pushing forward behind spear and shield, opening a path for the few crewmen who had caught up with him. Ahead lay the lane that had swallowed Nenu and Kasaya.

  The narrow thoroughfare was as black as a nobleman's tomb closed and sealed for eternity. An invitation to an ambush. The more timid onlookers dropped back, unwilling to face whatever terrors the dark might hold, but most surged forward, caught up in excitement and the flow of humanity. Bak prayed Kasaya was close on Nenu's heels, prayed he would not allow himself to be waylaid in the dark, prayed he would lay hands on the guard before this mob, in its very zeal to witness Nenu's downfall, provided a setting in which the guard could escape.

  He pointed toward a torch protruding from the neck of a large pottery jar on the roof of the corner dwelling. "We need that light," he shouted to Psuro.

  Sailors in tow, they veered toward the building and forced their way to the wall. With no prompting, Pahared's burly pilot locked his hands together, forming a step, and lifted Bak high. Bak pulled the torch free and dropped back to earth. Several more sailors trickled out of the crowd, the remainder of Pahared's crew taking advantage of the detour to catch up.

  Moments later, they merged with the stream of men crowding into the lane, jostling for space, shoulders brushing shoulders, elbows digging ribs, toes prodding heels, voices pulsing with the thrill of the chase. Cursing the crowd beneath his breath, Bak held the torch high and pressed forward through what looked in the flickering light like a river of heads flowing along a curving streambed. Bronze spearpoints glinted among them, carried by soldiers from the garrison who had come across the river to watch the match. Faces looked down from the rooftops, men, women, and children drawn by the tumult.