by Lauren Haney
“If Amonked’s as determined to do our sovereign’s bid ding as we think he is,” Nebwa said, “he’ll send a letter of his own to the royal house.”
Thuty shifted his stool to escape the sun’s glare. “A cour ier sailing a fast skiff, traveling night and day, can usually reach Ma’am in two days. The voyage to the capital is more than four times longer, with a lot more distance in which to run into difficulties. By the time fresh orders can be issued by Maatkare Hatshepsut, you…” Baring his teeth in a nasty grin, he pointed at Bak. “… will have laid hands on the slayer.”
Thuty was actually enjoying himself, Bak could see, now that he had an excuse to grab the offensive. “Sixteen or more days coming and going.” He scratched the neck of a fuzzy black puppy that had strayed from its siblings. Un willing to make too rash a commitment, he said, “That might be enough time-if Amonked and his party will an swer my questions with a frank and open tongue. If not…
Well, each day that goes by lessens the chance of success.”
“You’ve never yet failed. You won’t this time.” Thuty delivered the statement like a proclamation, a feat accom plished rather than a difficult task still to be performed.
Nebwa winked at Bak. This was not the first time the commandant had issued such an edict, and as always, such certainty of success troubled him. One day he might fall short of so high an expectation. What would Thuty do then?
“I’ll take Imsiba along,” he said. “He won’t be happy, parting from his wife and her son, but he has the wit to ask the right questions and to see through misleading answers.”
“No. I don’t think so.” Thuty spoke slowly, his brows drawn together in thought, then his expression cleared and he stated, “No, Lieutenant, you cannot take Imsiba with you.”
“But, sir!” Frightened by the sudden sharpness in Bak’s voice, the puppy scurried away.
“He’s the best man for the task,” Nebwa said.
“No.” Thuty’s gaze settled on the husky officer, and a wicked gleam entered his eye. “You, Troop Captain, are the best for the task. You’ve the rank and authority to over ride any man in that caravan except Amonked himself.”
Bak groaned deep down inside himself. He loved Nebwa like a brother, but feared his quick temper and rash tongue.
“Sir!” Nebwa stared at the commandant, appalled. He disliked leaving his wife and child as much as Imsiba did.
“I’ve fresh troops to train, desert patrols to inspect, repairs to the outer wall to supervise, new construction to…”
“The matter has been decided.” Thuty glared at Nebwa, forcing him to abandon the protest, and at Bak to ensure he got no additional complaint. “You’ll depart for Kor im mediately. I wish you to join Amonked’s party before nightfall, and to set out with the caravan at first light to morrow when it begins the long trek south.” He bounded to his feet and headed toward the stairs leading to the first floor. “While you make ready, I’ll dictate a letter to Amon ked, painting a vivid picture of your talents as an investi gator, Bak, and of you, Nebwa, as a man of long experience
with raiding tribesmen. He’s taking too many valuable ob jects not to make himself a target, and I’ll point that out.”
Thuty’s intentions were well meant, Bak knew, but he wanted more than a few fine words on a scroll. Plunging down the stairs at the commandant’s heels, he said, “I’d like to take along a unit of archers or spearmen. They’ll give us added authority and, should we need personal pro tection for any reason, we’ll have them.”
“An excellent idea.” Thuty stopped abruptly at the bot tom of the stairs, swung around, queried Nebwa with a glance. The troop captain knew more of the day-to-day workings of the garrison than the commandant himself, and knew which men could be removed from duty, causing the least disruption.
Nebwa pulled up short to avoid bumping into the pair below. “I’ve twenty archers awaiting reassignment. They can be ready within the hour.”
The trio hastened on down the hall, Thuty to fetch a scribe and dictate his letters, his subordinates to prepare to join a caravan and a party of travelers who would, at best, resent their presence. Bak prayed the commandant’s deci sion to send Nebwa would not prove a mistake. He con soled himself with the thought that Imsiba could conduct a parallel investigation in Buhen, thereby satisfying Amon ked that all was being done that should be-and responding to a tiny nagging fear within himself that he might be wrong in assuming the slayer was one who had dwelt within the house.
“You and Nebwa are going upriver with Amonked?” No fery laughed. “If I didn’t know better, I’d think the com mandant slew Baket-Amon just to have an excuse to send men along with the inspection party.”
Bak placed a finger to his lips. “Silence, old woman.
Should a rumor like that spread along the river, reaching the ears of Baket-Amon’s subjects and allies, Thuty would be forced to leave Buhen.”
“What of Amonked? Will the people dare threaten a man of royal blood? One sent to Wawat by Maatkare Hatshepsut herself?”
“Suffice it to say, those twenty archers we’re taking along may prove a godsend.” Settling back on his stool, he raised his drinking bowl, inhaled the tangy aroma of the deep red wine it contained, and drank. “Delicious. I wish I could tarry, but I’m to meet Nebwa at the quay within the hour.”
Nofery’s house of pleasure was quiet, most of its occu pants resting after a busy night. The old man who cleaned was wielding a rush broom in a rear room, sending dust drifting across slender shafts of light falling through the courtyard’s lean-to roof. Bak had found the obese old woman seated on a low stool, examining the many objects she had received during the past few evenings in exchange for the pleasures provided. Spread out on the bench before her were jewelry of small value, items of clothing, woven reed sandals and baskets and mats, fresh and dried fruits and vegetables, pottery dishes and ornaments, several mea sures of grain, and a few small weapons: two daggers, a mace, and a scimitar. The lion lay in a patch of sun across the court, gnawing on a bone, growling softly at times in contentment.
Bak removed the weapons from the bench and laid them on the floor beside his stool. The troops were forbidden to trade away army issue equipment.
Nofery gave him a black look, but she knew the rules as well as he did and could not complain. She had succumbed to greed and lost.
“The prince said, when I saw him yesterday at the quay, that his past had come back to taunt him. Do you have any idea what he meant?”
“His past?” She gave an exaggerated shrug, letting him know how indifferent she was to his questions, how much she resented the loss of the weapons. “He was a mere child when I left the capital, one hostage among many who lived and studied in the royal house, rubbing shoulders with the sons of the nobility. I had no way of knowing him.”
“You counted princes among those who loved you.
Don’t deny what I know for a fact.”
Her smile was fleeting, grudgingly given. “They were young, yes, but they were men. This one was a child of six or seven years, a duckling who never strayed from the poul try yard. I never knew of his existence until I came to
Buhen.”
“Too bad. He grew into quite a man.”
“That he did.”
Bak sipped from his bowl, studying her across the rim.
He always thought of Nofery as the least sensuous of women, but something in her voice made him wonder if she, like the young women who toiled in her place of busi ness, had shared Baket-Amon’s passion. Her face gave away no secrets.
“When did you last see him?”
“Two nights ago, when you were here.” With a dramatic sigh, she gave the weapons a final, rueful look, turned to face the bench, and picked up a copper bangle to study it for value. “He left at daybreak, fully sated.”
“He didn’t come back last night? Before he was slain?
He told me he meant to.”
She laid down the bangle and picked up a bronze ring with a m
ounting of yellowish stone. “I expected him-he seldom missed a night when he was in Buhen-but no, he never returned.”
“I can’t believe he’s dead.” The captain of Baket-Amon’s ship, a tall, bony man of middle years, slammed the palm of his hand against the frame of the brightly painted deck house, as if to punish the structure for the prince’s death.
“He was so much a man, so strong and virile, so well-liked by one and all.”
Bak glanced across the quay, where Nebwa and the arch ers who would accompany them upriver were boarding the traveling ship that would transport them south to Kor. They all carried baskets and bundles containing rations, extra clothing and weapons, and whatever else they would need on the long trek south past the Belly of Stones.
“Did he have any enemies that you know of?”
“None.” The captain walked forward, passing the empty stalls, and sat on the edge of the forecastle, head down, hands between his knees. The cattle had been led away to the animal paddocks, where they would remain until the ship was allowed to sail. “Could the one who took his life have erred, slaying the wrong man?”
“He was a man not easily mistaken for another,” Bak reminded him. The mildness of his manner belied his im patience to be gone.
“Yes. Yes, of course.” The captain looked up, a puzzled frown on his face. “He was big, bigger than most, and as strong as an ox. Was he slain from behind?”
Bak thought it best to be frank. The captain would resent anything less. “He was stabbed in the breast. By someone he knew, I’d wager, someone he trusted who caught him unaware.” He leaned back against the nearest stall. The smell of fresh fodder tickled his nostrils. “Did he stay on board last night?”
“Yes, sir.” The captain cleared a roughness from his throat. “Most of the night he was here, but I can’t say he slept. Oh, maybe an hour or two, but he spent much of the time pacing. Sometimes here on deck, sometimes on the quay where he had more room.”
“Did he tell you what troubled him?” The question was crucial and both men knew it.
“Would that he had.” The captain spoke with genuine regret. “He wasn’t a man to confide in anyone. Not those of us who knew him well, at any rate.” He cleared his throat again, blinked hard. “I’ve heard he talked freely to the women he played with. Have you spoken with any of the girls at Nofery’s place of business?”
“He said nothing to them.” Bak glanced toward Nebwa, busy with the men stowing their gear. “He hinted, when last I saw him, of some unpleasant secret in his past. Do you know anything about his younger days?”
“I’ve been with him barely three years.”
“Long enough to have heard many tales.”
The captain managed a crooked smile. “I know he was a wild one when he was young. And even now…” The hint of humor vanished. “Well, his wives are fine women and his children are as good as can be, especially his first born son. I thank the gods they seldom traveled to Waset with him-or anywhere else, for that matter-so the chil dren were spared the knowledge that he spent his nights engaging in the diversions of the flesh.”
“You disapprove.”
The captain shrugged. “A man’s a man, and I can find no fault with that. He was well-liked by his people and, if anything, his sexual prowess increased his popularity. But enough’s enough, if you know what I mean.”
“He made Ma’am his home?”
“He kept his family there, yes.” A hint of a smile touched the captain’s lips. “Close to the seat of power, he always said, where his sons could be brothers to the viceroy’s chil dren and at the same time learn the ways of Kemet.”
“His oldest son is his heir, he told me. I assume he’ll succeed him.”
“He will, but Baket-Amon’s chief wife will wield the power. The boy’s not yet eight years of age. If he should die before he reaches his majority, she’s borne other sons to take his place.” Again the captain smiled, this more over tly cynical. “She’s a strong woman, and a determined one.
She wants no blood but her own-and that of Baket Amon-in the line of descent.”
In other words, Bak thought, the odds were good that
Baket-Amon had not been slain by someone who wished to take his place as a prince of Wawat. “I pray she shares her husband’s love for the land of Kemet.”
The captain stared at his hands, locked between his bare knees, as if uncertain what he should say. “She’s a wife and mother first and foremost. Now, with her husband dead, she’ll protect her sons and their interests with all the feroc ity of a lioness with her cubs.”
“Could she have slain Baket-Amon, fearing he’d bring into his household a woman he preferred over her?”
“That wouldn’t have been in her best interest, or that of her sons.”
Chapter Six
“Is it true?” Sergeant Pashenuro called, hurrying along the riverbank toward the ship. “Has Baket-Amon been slain?”
“By the beard of Amon!” Bak stopped midway down the gangplank that spanned the space between the vessel and the bank against which the craft was moored. He stared aghast at the Medjay. “Has word spread already?”
“It’s true then.” Pashenuro, a short, broad man whose intelligence and bravery came close to equaling Imsiba’s, shook his head in consternation. “The people of this land will not take the news lightly.”
Realizing he was barring the sole path off the ship, Bak hurried on down the narrow board, leaped a patch of mud, and hustled the sergeant off to the side, out of the way.
“Has Amonked heard?”
“I’ve seen no sign that he has.”
Bak disliked surprising anyone with bad news, but per haps it would be to his advantage to approach the inspector unaware. “How did you get word?”
“A trader came from Buhen an hour ago, setting men to whispering. Speculating. He knew nothing substantial, but with you turning up, and Nebwa and the men, they’ll guess the tale is true.”
Bak accepted the inevitable. What other choice did he have? “Does Amonked believe you and Dedu to be Seshu’s drovers?”
“Yes, sir. If he’s noticed us at all.” The sergeant raised a hand in salute to Nebwa, striding down the gangplank.
“The caravan is large. A man can easily get lost among its members.”
The archers followed the troop captain, each man carry ing his long bow, heavy leather quiver, and supplies. Their loads ill-balanced, they rushed one by one down the board, teetering, laughing with the good humor of men released from the tedium of garrison duty.
“Have you managed to befriend anyone in the inspection party?” Bak asked.
“Pawah, Amonked’s herald. A boy of twelve or so years.” Pashenuro smiled. “He likes animals so he comes often to see the donkeys. And as I’m a Medjay from the eastern desert and he a nomad from the western sands, he thinks of me as kin.”
Waving good-bye to the ship’s master, Bak and the ser geant fell in beside Nebwa and strode up a path that ran along the riverbank. The archers straggled after them. They passed two local trading ships evicted from the quay in favor of Amonked’s flotilla. Few men remained on board, their crews no doubt at the harbor, gawking at the lofty arrivals. The fishing fleet could be seen far out on the river, seining.
Bak looked ahead at the mudbrick walls of Kor. Subsid iary to Buhen, the fortress was used as a staging post for caravans and as a place where military units traveling through the area could camp out and rest in safety. He came often to Kor, summoned by scribes charged with collecting tolls or soldiers who maintained order. Never before had he noticed how shabby the structure looked. The towered walls had reverted to the natural deep brown of the mud bricks, mottled by patches of white plaster in spots shel tered from the wind and blowing sand. The battlements were eroded, with time softening their once crisp, sharp edges. Several of the projecting towers had been rebuilt, but many were cracked and a few leaned at odd angles.
Kor was ideal for its purpose but what, Bak wondered, would Amonked thin
k of it? What would a man fresh from the capital, with its well-maintained and brightly painted buildings, think of this dilapidated old fortress?
“The lord Amon must be watching from afar, made speechless by his storekeeper’s excess!” This from Nebwa, looking down from the battlements, watching a long line of sailors file into the harbor-side gate, burdened with sleep ing pallets, portable furniture, and innumerable woven reed chests.
Hands on the parapet, weight resting on his arms, Bak looked down upon the fortress’s interior. He felt awe and disgust in equal measure. Royal envoys often traveled south with showy gifts for Kushite royalty, but nothing like this.
“Could Amonked not leave anything behind?”
Nebwa crossed the walkway to stand beside him. He made no comment. The scene below spoke for itself. The space within the walled rectangle, usually quiet and scantly occupied, teemed with life. Donkeys milled around an area fenced off at the far end, braying, raising a cloud of dust.
Vast piles of fodder and sacks and baskets and jars stood in and among buildings whose roofs had long ago fallen and whose walls had collapsed. Additional supplies were being piled with the rest by men unloading the last string of donkeys to arrive from Buhen.
A white linen pavilion stood in the center of an open stretch of sand normally used for the formation or disband ing of caravans, and several of Amonked’s guards were erecting small tents beside the larger structure for the in spector’s party. The remaining guards were setting up nearby a more casual camp for themselves, scurrying around like ants but not as well organized. Nebwa’s arch ers, more efficient by far, had settled down near a cluster of intact buildings, their preparations for the night com plete. The barracks and four houses, all remodeled over the past few years to shelter the scribes and troops posted at Kor, provided an oasis of quiet among the bustle.
Bak eyed the pavilion, exasperated. “Did he not talk to any of our sovereign’s envoys before he left the capital?
They surely would’ve told him that less is best when trav eling through this barren land.”
