The Right Hand of Amon lb-1

by Lauren Haney

  A chill crept up Bak's spine. Most violent deaths were crimes of passion, as easily resolved as Commander Woser had told Imsiba this would be. If Woser erred, if Puemre's slayer had struck with care, bent on hiding the truth, even the most diligent investigation might not reveal his name. If that should happen, Nihisy would draw the queen's attention to Wawat. Heads would roll, figuratively if not literally, all the way along the Belly of Stones, beginning with the man who failed to catch the slayer.

  "I'd like to break Woser's neck!" Thuty paced across his reception room to the courtyard door, swung around, and glared at Bak and Kenamon as if they were as much at fault as Woser.

  "He had no way of knowing Nihisy would be named our new chancellor." Kenamon shifted in Thuty's armchair to set his drinking bowl on the low table at his elbow. "A messenger was never sent south from the capital. I was asked to spread the word as I travel up the river."

  Bak, leaning against the jamb of the open stairwell door, sipped from his drinking bowl. The wine was pungent and heady, the best to be had in the whole of Wawat. The scent of onions, lentils* and roasting beef filtering through the courtyard door promised a feast worthy of a god, a feast he had been asked to share. Yet he could savor neither taste nor smell. He could think only of the decision the commandant was sure to make and the weight that would rest on his shoulders once the decision was aired.

  "Woser should've drawn my attention months ago to Puemre's noble birth, yet he made no mention in his reports. And now…" Thuty's voice hardened. "Now the wretch has been slain and still he blinds me with silence."

  Again Kenamon tried to mediate. "He may have believed Puemre had registered here, as he was supposed to, and assumed your chief scribe told you of his presence."

  "Even if true, it doesn't explain why he made no report when the wretch turned up missing." Thuty beat another path across the room, pivoted, scowled at Bak. "Nor does it explain his failure to send back with Imsiba a written account of the whole matter."

  Bak was too anxious to hear Thuty's final decision to spend time on useless speculation. "Do you wish me to go to Iken, sir?"

  Kenamon gave him a look of worry mingled with pride. He had made his feelings clear during their walk from the house of death to the commandant's residence. He feared for his young friend's future, but was proud of his nobleness of purpose.

  "No, Bak, I don't!" Thuty glared. "I wish you to travel to Semna with the lord Amon. But that imbecile Woser has made that impossible. Go! Go to Iken. Get this matter over and done with."

  "I'll do my best, sir. That I promise."

  Thuty scooped his baton of office off a nearby stool and sat down in its place. "I'll send a courier to Iken tonight with a letter giving you authority over Woser as far as Puemre's death is concerned. He'll not like it, but I'll leave him no choice."

  What if my best isn't good enough? Bak wondered. What if this time I fail? He had already asked Kenamon to speak with the lord Amon on his behalf, but perhaps he should make an offering to the god as well. A plump goose. Maybe more than one.

  Chapter Five

  "Take care, my friend." Imsiba's eyes were clouded with worry. "I fear danger will greet you at the gates of Iken." Bak clapped the big Medjay on the shoulder. "I wish you could come, too, but you must stay behind with our men, make sure they're well prepared for the journey upriver. And you must arrange with Nebwa to divide the duties throughout the trek. And offer the physician Kenamon any aid he may need. And…"

  Imsiba staved off the spate of words with raised hands and a stingy smile. "I've tasks without number, I know, but I'll worry nonetheless."

  "You've told me many times our company is the finest in the realm, and I'm taking two of our best men with me." Bak nodded toward Kasaya and Pashenuro, kneeling at the water's edge. "Are they not sufficient to lay your worries to rest?"

  Imsiba eyed the two Medjays, who were watching some aquatic creature invisible to their superiors. The youngest of the pair, Kasaya, was the biggest and strongest man in their company, not greatly endowed with intelligence but good-natured and likable. Pashenuro was shorter, thicker in build, clever as well as brave, next in line behind Imsiba. Both men carried spotted black-and-white cowhide shields and bronze spears longer than they were tall. Each wore a dagger at the waist of his kilt and carried a sling. A cloth bag filled with personal items lay at their feet.

  "I could not have chosen better," Imsiba admitted, "but they can't stand at your side every moment."

  Bak, impatient to be on his way, looked beyond Buhen toward the long sandy ridge that paralleled the river, where ribbons of orange spread across the sky from the rising sun Khepre, a sliver of flame burning the horizon. "I've more concern about Commander Woser than the man who slew Puemre. If he chooses to lay boulders in my path-and from what you say, he will-my task will be ten times ten more difficult than it should be."

  Imsiba followed his glance, remembered his own trek south in the heat, and backed off. "You know where to find me should you need me. If no word comes sooner, I'll see you in four or five days' time."

  Bak swallowed a final unnecessary order, smiled a goodbye, and turned away. Following the vague footprints Kasaya and Pashenuro had left in the sand, he strode down the slope to the river's edge. The trip to Iken, though only a half day's journey for men unburdened by donkeys and trade goods, would be hot, thirsty, and uncomfortable. Best to get on with it.

  Bak and his companions were more familiar with the stretch of shoreline between Buhen and Kor during the cooler months when the river was low. Then, they had fished in the shade of hardy acacias and tamarisks, had cast off skiffs for lazy days of hunting birds in patches of reeds along the shore, had dived into the river from boulders laid bare through the, years by swift-flowing floodwaters. But now, with the lord Re burning his hottest, their favored spots were inundated, covered by a river no longer benign. Trees and boulders stood in the silt-laden water; reeds and grassy inlets were vague images beneath the ripples. Vertical banks, undercut by the hungry river, were crumbling, and golden dunes molded by the winds sweeping across the western desert trickled away at the water's edge.

  They stopped briefly at Kor, where they spoke with a trader who had arrived that morning, leading a caravan from the south.

  "We spent three days at Iken," said the tall, angular man, his skin burned to leather by the sun. "This season's been wicked, hotter than any I can remember in the ten years I've been trading upriver. I had to rest the pack animals. And myself, too, if the truth be told."

  "You left when?" Bak asked.

  "Yesterday. Late afternoon. My men are well armed and the desert's reasonably safe around here, so we traveled through the night."

  "Did you hear anything of a missing officer?" "Whispers," the trader admitted. "Nothing factual, merely rumors. But I took no note of them. How does one lose an officer in a fortress as large and well run as Men?" A good question, Bak thought.

  Bak was bartering with a local farmer for dried fowl and fresh vegetables for a midday snack when Pashenuro hurried up with two soldiers who had just been relieved from several days of watch duty, their post a tall, conical hill a brief walk to the south. Their task was to watch the surrounding landscape for intruders, and to relay with mirrors in the daytime or fire at night any critical messages being sent up or downriver. Bak knew of the place, for the stoneand-mudbrick lean-to that sheltered the men from the sun stood among ancient carvings scratched on the rocks. The hill was not quite a shrine, but a place to visit and stand in awe of the long-ago past.

  "Doubt if we'd spot a body coming downriver," said the older of the two, a grizzled veteran forty or so years of age.

  ' `He was caught in the roots of a palm tree," Kasaya said.

  The younger soldier, as bald as a melon, laughed. "One tree looks much like another from our post. And a dead man would look little different than a dead bullock."

  The older man, noting the doubt on Kasaya's face, hastened to explain. "We're too far from the river
to see much. And anyway, our task is to guard the desert trail."

  Bak, though he had faith in Meru's guess that Puemre had gone into the water near Iken, stepped in to describe the dead man. "Did anyone answering to that description pass by your post?"

  "No, sir," the bald soldier said. "We saw no officers at all, nor any soldiers we didn't know. The only strangers were traders, men with caravans."

  "Did you happen to see…" Bak described Seneb's caravan in detail, the men and children and animals.

  "Sure we did." The older man spat on the ground to show his contempt. "It was all we could do to make ourselves- stay at our post. But since our sergeant would've served up our heads to Troop Captain Nebwa if we so much as set one foot off that hill, we had to content ourselves with a signal to Kor. Hope it did some good."

  "You did well." Bak smiled. "I was summoned from Buhen, and now the trader Seneb is locked away, awaiting his turn to stand before Commandant Thuty." His smile faded. "Now tell me, did he or anyone else in his party ever leave the caravan?"

  "I don't know what they did farther upstream, but from the time we first laid eyes on them until they walked into Kor, not a man among them set foot off the trail."

  South of Kor, they found the river obstructed by islands, some large enopugh for habitation, others mere boulders, black granite glistening wet from the frothy waters roiling around them. On one of the bigger chunks of land, men as industrious and plentiful as ants climbed among new mudbrick walls rising above the rocks and trees and brush. A fortress was taking shape, replacing a mudbrick fort built in the distant past and long ago fallen to ruin.

  They plodded on, deeper into the Belly of Stones. There they found the river wild and angry, as different as night from day to the smooth, sedate flow that passed Buhen. Clusters of rocky islets, many bleak and bare, some green with vegetation, formed a labyrinth of narrow, swift channels and tumbling rapids. Where the channel was clear, the reddish brown water flowed smooth and strong, but across much of the width of the great river, it leaped over boulders and tumbled down falls and whirled in circles around unseen obstacles, whipped into a colorless froth. At times, it collected in quiet pools or rippled through narrow passages or cascaded down steps of glittering black stone. All the while, it whispered and murmured and sang like a living creature, a siren.

  Bak was awed by its raw power and its beauty and at the same time he was appalled. A fleeting vision of himself in a skiff, riding these tumultuous waters, sent a chill down his back. He dismissed the thought as fanciful. No sane man would take a boat into bedlam.

  Away from the water, a world of golden sand and black rocks stretched out to the west, disappearing in a pinkish haze that blended land and sky. The opposite shore, less encumbered by sand, looked bleak and desolate in the distance, a tortured world of rock eroded by sun and wind, abraded by blowing sand. The rising- sun Khepre slowly climbed the vault of heaven, drawing the moisture from their bodies, burning their flesh, searing the barren land. Their feet, shod in reed sandals, burned with every step. They stopped often to dunk themselves in a pool of still water and drink their fill or merely to look at a river gone mad.

  Life went on, even amidst the desolation. Crocodiles sunned themselves on a sandy bank; birds chattered in acacias clinging to tiny pockets of earth; waterfowl paddled among the reeds growing in sheltered coves or skimmed the water in search of an easy meal. They saw no people or houses, but each time they came upon a protected inlet, they found neat rows of onions or melons or lentils and sometimes even a patch of grain.

  The stony ridge that paralleled the river gradually drew closer, terminating abruptly in a tall, sheer precipice facing the water. Four soldiers, their long spears close at hand, sat on the rocks atop the formation, watching Bak and his Medjays approach. They were watchmen assigned to the signal station located on that highest point in the region.

  Leaving his men at the water's edge beside a tranquil pool, Bak climbed a steep skirt of windblown sand rising up the formation. His feet sank deep in the soft slope; the sand clutched his ankles, making his legs feel heavy. It was a relief to reach the naked rock above the drift, to climb the cracked and broken pinnacle of stone. Three spearmen and a sergeant met him at the top, high above the rapids. Bak read curiosity on their faces and the caution inherent to their task.

  The sergeant, a short, powerful man close in age to Bak's twenty-four years, examined his traveling pass, then gave him a long, speculative look. "Not many men choose to climb this pinnacle to pass the time of day. And you an officer, too."

  "I've a purpose," Bak assured him with a genial smile. The sergeant remained stern. "And that is?"

  The man's duty required him to be suspicious, Bak reminded himself. "I'm in search of information. And since you sit here day after day, high above the river and the desert sands, perhaps you can help me."

  The sergeant eyes darted toward the base of the cliff and the two Medjays lazing in the water. "You must be the police officer from Buhen. The one who's come to find the man who slew Lieutenant Puemre."

  Bak stiffened, surprised. "You've heard of my errand already?"

  "We saw your Medjay sergeant come and go yesterday, and a courier from Commandant Thuty passed by last night.

  Then this morning, when our supplies were dropped off by the desert patrol, we learned of your purpose, for word has spread through Iken like the grains of sand blown in on a storm."

  Bak frowned. The fact that Commander Woser had repeated the message was interesting, for he had essentially admitted publicly that he had failed to satisfy Thuty, his superior officer. But if the admission carried any subtle meaning, it eluded him.

  "You must be dry after so long a walk," the sergeant said, more amiable now. "How about a jar of beer?" Accepting with a nod, Bak followed him to a reed lean-to built against a crude mudbrick hut. The shelter stood just below the summit among the fallen walls of several older ruined buildings. Beyond, on the desert side of the ridge, he glimpsed additional watchmen. Four large porous water amphorae leaned against a shaded wall, and a dozen smaller jars hung from the frame of the lean-to. They swung gently back and forth in a light breeze that drifted across the ridge, providing a breath of air.

  The sergeant untied two jars, twisted out the rock-hard earthen plugs, and handed one to his guest.

  Bak took a long drink of the warm, thick liquid. Raising the jar to his companion, he smiled. "An excellent brew, Sergeant."

  The soldier took a long pull, wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. "You have questions, sir?"

  Nothing like a jar of beer to turn strangers into friends, Bak thought. "How long ago did you hear of Lieutenant Puemre's death?"

  "We heard he was missing three, maybe four days ago. We didn't know his ka had fled his earthly body until the patrol passed by this morning."

  "I came upon him floating past Buhen four days ago. Did you or your men see anything in the river that day or the day before? Anything that might've been his body?" The sergeant laughed, swept his arm in an arc embracing the great river below. "Could you spot a body out there?" To the north and south, as far as the eye could see, spread an awesome panorama of cluttered boulders small and large, some fringed with reeds, some tufted with mimosa or crowned with acacia or palm, all with tendrils of water writhing around them or waves leaping over them or falls cascading among them. What might have been a piece of driftwood or a crocodile or a figment of Bak's imagination appeared in a quiet pool, then drifted into a fast-moving stream, dropped over a watery ledge, and was sucked into a vortex of foam.

  Bak's eyes darted upward, where he saw a half dozen black specks wheeling in a loose circle high overhead. "Wouldn't a corpse attract vultures?"

  "Oh, I've no doubt they spot any likely meal in the water, but as they prefer dining on dry land, they'll look for something that's already washed ashore."

  Bak felt like a man banging his head against a stone pillar. "Did you see…" Doggedly he described Seneb's caravan for the second time
that morning.

  "We no doubt saw it," the sergeant said, "but from this distance, one caravan looks much like another. As long as they keep to the trail and behave themselves, we mind our own business. Only if we spot marauding tribesmen or someone in trouble do we signal the patrol. It's their job to keep order on the desert track."

  Leaving the lean-to, they walked toward the watchmen hunkered down at the edge of the precipice, looking out over the river.

  Bak hated to go with no more knowledge than when he had come. Perhaps if he went on a fishing expedition… "How long have you been posted here without a break?"

  "Nine days. Tomorrow will end our time on duty, and we'll be relieved by other men until our next stint." "Do you have much contact with Iken?"

  "The patrol comes by each morning to deliver fresh food and drink."

  "And garrison gossip as well?" Bak grinned.

  "We're no good to anyone if we don't know what's going on around us." The sergeant spoke with a solemn face and a twinkle in his eye.

  "I've often found gossip useful," Bak agreed, "but only when filtered through a fine sieve."

  "That goes without saying." The humor fled from the sergeant's face, and he grew thoughtful. His eyes darted toward his fellow watchmen; he seemed about to speak but unsure of the ground on which he trod.

  "Could it be that you've stumbled onto a chunk of granite which might contain a grain of gold?" Bak prompted. The sergeant nodded, to himself rather than Bak, and walked on toward the precipice. "One of my men was told a tale two nights ago. It's probably of no merit, for it was based on the ramblings of one too besotted by beer to speak his own thoughts. What you'll make of it, I know not, but I feel you should hear it."

  "I'll measure its worth with care," Bak assured him. The sergeant knelt among his men, and Bak seated himself on a rocky knob beside them. The former spoke to the oldest of the three spearmen, a tall, gaunt man with thick white hair. "This is Meryre. He walked to Iken two nights ago to see his wife. She's young and soon to bear him a child, so he worries needlessly. Since I'm as soft-hearted as he is soft-headed, I let him go some nights to see her." The older man flushed like a boy talking of his first love. "Tell this officer the tale you heard in the house of pleasure of Sennufer," the sergeant said.