by Lauren Haney
“He didn’t bring his wife or as many servants as I’d have expected.” Nebwa’s tone grew wry. “Maybe he thinks he’s sacrificed enough in the name of common sense.”
Bak spotted Amonked and Lieutenant Horhotep walking along the base of the far wall, escorted by the young lieu tenant who commanded the post. “The inspection should be finished soon.”
“Amonked will have heard we’re here. We’d better go see him.”
They walked to the towered gate, where zigzagging lad ders would take them to ground level. There they stopped for one last look from on high.
“Seshu must be tearing out his hair,” Nebwa said.
“Can you blame him?”
Nebwa grinned at his friend. “You grew to manhood near
Waset. I’d think you’d be accustomed to the flaunting of wealth and power.”
What Bak was accustomed to was Nebwa’s teasing, which in this case he chose to ignore. “There’s a critical difference between the frontier and the capital, a difference
Amonked has failed to see. No risk is involved in the land of Kemet. No danger. No desert tribesmen who’ll be tempted by what, to them, are vast riches.”
Bak and Nebwa wove a path through the half-erected tents, their goal Amonked, who stood with Horhotep out side the pavilion, watching the officer in charge of Kor hurry toward the barracks like a man escaping some dire fate. Red and white pennants fluttered in the breeze from atop the center post, and a tall, leggy white dog, a breed used by the nobility for racing and hunting, lay stretched out in the sun near the entrance. Neither the inspector nor his military adviser noticed the approaching officers.
“This fortress is an abomination,” they heard Horhotep say, “an insult to our sovereign. Peasants could make better use of it, crushing the bricks and spreading them across their fields as fertilizer.”
“The gods made a poor choice,” Bak murmured, “taking
Baket-Amon’s life and sparing this one.”
“A large number of caravans seek shelter here each year.” Amonked glanced around, as if trying to imagine the space during normal usage. “I must look at the fortresses upriver before making a firm decision, but Kor may have some value. If another quay were added, for instance…”
“No.”
Amonked gave his military adviser a sharp look, dis pleased, Bak suspected, by so curt a rejection of his thought.
Unaware, Horhotep looked toward the desert-facing gate, openly disdainful. “To be fully functional, the walls would have to be rebuilt from the ground up, as would the build ings. Since Kor is used for shelter, not defense, the gain wouldn’t be worth the cost.” He swung around, saw Bak and Nebwa, frowned. “What’re you two doing here? Did not Amonked make it clear he wants no interference from
Buhen?”
Nebwa’s countenance darkened, he looked about to spit out a barbed retort-at the very least.
Bak, no less angry at the affront, squeezed his friend’s shoulder, curbing him, and stepped forward. He spoke to
Amonked, paying no heed to the military adviser. “We’ve come on an urgent errand, sir.” He displayed the scroll
Thuty had prepared. “We must speak with you.”
The inspector could not miss the gravity on Bak’s face.
He swung around and raised the cloth that covered the pa vilion’s entryway. “Very well. You may come in.”
Bak gave Horhotep a pointed look. “I see no reason to trouble the lieutenant at the moment.”
If Amonked noticed the flush of anger on his adviser’s face, he chose to overlook it. “Go to our ship, Horhotep.
See that the vessel’s been cleared of our possessions and send it back to Buhen.”
Horhotep flung Bak a look of impotent fury, pivoted on his heel, and strode away. Bak could understand the advi ser’s anger; he would be equally upset if Thuty sent him on so menial an errand. He wasted no time on sympathy, thinking instead of the abrupt dismissal, which offered un expected reassurance. So far, it seemed, Amonked was holding his adviser at sufficient distance that the man’s in fluence might be contained within reasonable bounds. Or was the inspector simply retaliating for the earlier rejection of his thought?
The pavilion was a haven of comfort in the midst of frontier austerity. A gentle breeze ruffled the cloth at the entrance and filtered light seeped through the linen roof and walls. Embroidered linen hangings divided the space, al lowing for privacy at the back. Thick mats covered the floor, soft linen pallets and portable stools provided seating, and small tables and woven reed chests offered surfaces for game pieces, drinking bowls, and scrolls. A god’s shrine stood against one wall, draped with a cloth to give privacy to the deity inside-the lord Amon, Bak assumed. Furniture and hangings were far more abundant and elegant than any available to the officers of Buhen. Small wonder that Seshu was upset. How many donkeys would be required to trans port the pavilion and its accouterments?
“Prince Baket-Amon dead.” Amonked, dropping onto a stool, looked taken aback. “Slain in the house where we spent the night.”
“Yes, sir.” Nebwa sat down on another stool. Horhotep’s demeaning errand had cheered him considerably. “He en tered the building at daybreak, we believe, and was stabbed a short time after.”
“I’m appalled, as any man would be,” Amonked said,
“but I can’t help wondering why you’ve come to me.”
Bak, standing near the entryway, thought he heard a woman quietly sobbing beyond the hangings that divided the pavilion. The concubine, he guessed. “As you know, sir, my Medjays were watching the dwelling. They saw no one enter or leave.”
“If I’m not mistaken, young man, your Medjays left their posts to ward off an attack on the sailors who were carrying my furnishings to our ship.”
Bak hoped the warm feeling in his cheeks was not a telltale flush. “The house stood unwatched for only a few moments.”
“I appreciate the aid they gave my men-a brawl would’ve been most unseemly-and the uncommon speed at which they dealt with the difficulty.” Amonked’s voice sharpened. “But you can’t ignore the fact that not a man among them remained behind to keep watch on our quar ters.”
“Baket-Amon had to’ve entered the house at that time,”
Bak said, steering the discussion back to the murder, away from the inescapable fact that his men had erred.
“And the slayer with him.”
“No one other than a god could’ve gone inside with him-or followed him-and still have had the time to slay him, hide his body, and leave unseen.” Bak spoke with certainty, his demeanor set, allowing for no rebuttal.
“I see. You’re determined to lay blame on a member of my party.” Amonked laughed, a sound flat, hard, cynical.
Loud enough to stifle the sobbing behind the hanging.
“How convenient, Lieutenant. For you and for Comman dant Thuty.”
Bak bristled. “I mean to lay hands on the guilty man, and on no one else. If he’s one who came with you from the capital, so be it.”
“You can’t change the facts, sir,” Nebwa stated. “Baket Amon was slain in the house where you were staying, and the odds greatly favor a man inside as the slayer.”
“This inspection will be difficult enough, with every man’s hand set against me merely because I’m doing my duty. I’ll not let you add an accusation of murder, giving further excuse for failure to cooperate.”
Amonked was speaking primarily of the military, Bak suspected, giving little thought to the people of Wawat, who might choose to be equally obstructive.
He stepped forward and handed the inspector the scroll
Thuty had prepared. Tamping down his irritation, he said,
“As you’ll see when you read this document, Commandant
Thuty has no intention of interfering with your task. You may return to Buhen if you wish. If not, Troop Captain
Nebwa and I will travel upriver with you, taking no part in your inspection. The slayer of Prince Baket-Amon must b
e snared, and this is the place to search for him.”
“I’ll not return to Buhen.” Amonked eyed the scroll with distaste. “It’s you who should go back. You’re far more apt to find the killer among the prince’s friends and ac quaintances-men there at the scene of the crime-than here with us.”
“My sergeant, Imsiba, who remained behind, will leave no field unplowed. If the slayer’s in Buhen, he’ll find him.
In the meantime, we’ve come to search what I believe is the more fertile field.”
Amonked’s mouth tightened, locking inside further com ment. He ran a thumbnail under the seal, snapping it apart, and untied the string around the scroll. Unrolling the doc ument, he began to read. As his eyes traveled down the several columns, his scowl deepened.
“This is an intrusion I greatly resent.” He tossed the scroll onto a low table, where it rolled off the edge and fell to the ground. “I have the authority of our sovereign, Maat kare Hatshepsut, and I have her complete confidence. I can and I should send the pair of you back to Buhen.”
Bak could well imagine Thuty’s anger should they re turn. All who stood before him would suffer, especially the two officers who had failed to stand up to Amonked. His thoughts raced. How could they forestall banishment from the caravan?
He said, “When a man is slain outside of Buhen and I’m called upon to seek the one who took his life, I usually travel with two Medjays. Yet this time Troop Captain
Nebwa came and we brought with us a unit of archers.
Have you not asked yourself why?”
“To make a show of strength, I would assume.”
“For whose benefit?”
The inspector, too shrewd to walk into a verbal trap, stared hard at the officers, offering no answer.
Bak scooped Thuty’s letter off the ground and laid it on the table. “Baket-Amon was a prince much liked by the people who dwell along the Belly of Stones. Whether or not he was slain by a member of your party-and I’m con vinced he was-blame will be laid at your feet. Without a strong military presence from Buhen and an active inves tigation into the prince’s death, the inspection party might well be attacked and vanish forever.” He was exaggerating.
At least, he thought so. Nebwa must have agreed, for he looked straight ahead, carefully avoiding Bak’s glance.
Amonked, looking thoughtful, picked up Thuty’s letter and read through it a second time. Unconvinced, or only partially so, he said, “All right, you may stay. Both of you.
But I must warn you: the least interference in my inspection and you’ll return to Buhen.”
Bak breathed an imperceptible sigh of relief. “A decision you’ll not regret, sir. If the local people believe you’re sup porting our investigation, you’ll be far more apt to win their confidence.”
Nebwa stood up. “Now that that’s settled, I must go speak to Seshu. He’ll need to know of Baket-Amon’s death and of the twenty-two additional men who’ll be traveling south with the caravan.”
“I’ll be frank with you, sir,” Bak said, watching Nebwa hurry toward the animal enclosure.
Amonked knelt outside the pavilion entryway to scratch his dog’s head. “More forthright than before? I find that hard to believe.” His voice was as dry as dust.
Was the man teasing? Bak wondered. Could he possibly have a sense of humor? “Two days ago, I pleaded with
Baket-Amon to go see you, to explain how important the presence of the army is to the land of Wawat. He refused.
Then I saw him yesterday and asked him a second time.
Again, he refused. I believed that to be his final word, but when I found him lifeless in the dwelling you occupied, I couldn’t help but think he reversed his decision.”
“And you feel responsible for his death.” Amonked stood erect; a humorless smile flitted across his face. “I can assure you, you’ve no need. He didn’t come to see me.”
“How can you be sure?”
“I never left the house until we departed for the harbor.
I spent much of the time in the room next to the one where he was slain. Mistress Nefret, my concubine, was unhappy, begging to return to Waset. Anyone who entered the build ing would’ve heard her-and probably me.” Amonked grimaced his distaste. “Between her tantrum and a confu sion among the sailors as to the order in which to take the furnishings and to which ship they should be delivered, I found it impossible to remain calm and soft-spoken.”
Though Amonked seemed always to keep himself under tight control, the explanation made sense. The inspection party was not cared for as well as one would expect, with a minimum of servants and inefficiency and ineptitude on the part of sailors and guards. The latter, in fact, had not yet managed to set up camp and the lord Re was rapidly approaching the western horizon. Even now, Bak could hear them squabbling as to the best way to ward off snakes: incantation as opposed to laying a rope on the ground around each man’s sleeping mat in the belief that the rep tiles would not cross the low barrier.
“How well did you know Baket-Amon?” he asked.
A pack of feral dogs raced across the campsite, barking at a cat speeding just out of harm’s way. Amonked’s dog shot to its feet. The inspector grabbed its collar before it, too, could give chase. The animal whined and struggled to get away, but he held on tight. “He was an envoy to the royal house. I saw him when he came to pay his respects to our sovereign or when he reported to the vizier. We were by no means friendly.”
Bak thought he heard a faint harshness in the inspector’s voice, a tension, but his face revealed nothing. “He spoke of his past coming back to taunt him. Do you have any idea what he might’ve been talking about?”
“I’ve never been good at guessing what lies in another man’s heart, Lieutenant.” Amonked swept aside the cloth covering the entryway and stepped inside, half choking the struggling dog. “I must dictate the results of our inspection of this fortress while my impressions are fresh.”
Bak held his ground. “If I’m to lay hands on Baket Amon’s slayer, I’ll need the cooperation of every member of your party. Will you see that they help me, sir?”
“I’ll tell them of your mission, yes, and I’ll suggest they cooperate. How willing they’ll be, I have no idea. That, I suspect, will be up to you.” Amonked dropped the cloth behind him, leaving Bak standing by himself in the sun shine.
Quashing an urge to shake the inspector until his teeth rattled, Bak strode toward the commanding officer’s quar ters. He had to send a message to Thuty, reporting that he and Nebwa had Amonked’s reluctant permission to remain with the caravan and investigate the murder. As for the inspector himself, what could he report? The man was like a boulder, solid and difficult to move. That he and Baket Amon had crossed paths in the past, Bak was certain, and neither man had come away content. Could their differ ences have been so serious that Amonked-cousin to Maat kare Hatshepsut herself-had slain the prince? Bak shuddered at the possibility.
“I hate this place! This wild and unruly land of Wawat!”
Nefret, Amonked’s concubine, blinked back angry tears.
“Amonked is a good and gentle man. One who’d never knowingly hurt anyone. I can’t think why he wished me to come.”
Bak had trouble holding back a smile. He had a good idea why the inspector had brought the young woman along. About twenty years of age, she was one of the most sensuous creatures he had seen since coming to Wawat close on two years earlier. Her firm breasts, narrow waist, and rounded hips, covered but not concealed by a white linen sheath, vied in beauty with those of the lady Hathor.
Large black eyes, long thick lashes, and wide, seductive lips adorned an oval face framed by a mass of black hair that cascaded around her shoulders. He prayed she’d stay inside the pavilion. Should the troops assigned to Kor see her, he feared a riot. Aware Amonked was sharing his eve ning meal with the commander of Kor, he had decided he must meet the other members of the inspector’s traveling household, especially the woman. The sobbing he had heard earlier h
inted at discontent, and discontent often led to a failure to guard one’s tongue.
“His traveling ship is a prison. A benevolent prison, to be sure, but, oh, so confining!” She drew her legs beneath her, fluffed up the mound of pillows at her back, and re clined against them. “He equipped the vessel with every comfort, but to sail up the river day after day, with no diversions except a few ugly fortresses and a multitude of villages too small and poor and filthy to visit was an abom ination. I thought, once we reached the viceroy’s residence in Ma’am, that I could at least talk to a few women and maybe visit a decent market.” Her laugh was bitter, close to a whimper. “How wrong I was.”
“Mistress, please…” The maid, a girl of twelve or so years whose youthful form had just begun to blossom, hov ered at Nefret’s side, a mirror in one hand, an ivory comb in the other. A small wooden chest containing cosmetics and hair ornaments stood open on the mat at her feet.
“Go away, Mesutu.” Nefret frowned at the girl. “Go fetch us some wine. Some honey cakes, too.”
The girl threw a helpless look at the scribe seated on the floor at the opposite end of the pavilion, laid mirror and comb beside the box, and hastened through the wall of fab ric that separated the sleeping quarters from the more public area.
“The viceroy’s wife was not there. She’d sailed north to the fortress of Kubban to assist her daughter in childbirth.”
Nefret picked up the mirror, glanced at her image, and screwed up her nose in distaste. “The women who were there talked of nothing but their dreary lives in that dreary fortress.” She laid the mirror on the floor mat, sniffed back tears. “As for Buhen… Well, it was no better. I had to remain in that dreadful house.” She flashed a bitter look at the scribe. “And now, I must stay here. Where it’s safe, they tell me.”
The scribe stared unhappily at the scroll spread across his lap.
“After his meeting with Commandant Thuty,” Nefret went on, “Amonked issued an order that we not socialize with the officers and their families while he inspects the fortresses along the Belly of Stones.” Her voice rang with frustration. “I can’t imagine what prompted him. Did they quarrel?”
