by Lauren Haney
Nebwa’s expression turned stormy-as the adviser had intended, Bak felt sure. Horhotep had early on taken the troop captain’s measure, he guessed, and decided he could prod and poke until the senior officer grew so angry he would perform some imprudent act. An act the adviser could use later to discredit Nebwa and use to his own ad vantage.
“Lieutenant Horhotep!” Bak said in the same brusque voice the adviser had used. “I’ve been told you knew Prince
Baket-Amon.” A falsehood, but a likely guess.
Horhotep gave him a caustic look. “You mean to ques tion me about the man’s death?”
“You were in the dwelling where and when he was slain.” Bak surreptitiously signaled Nebwa and Merymose to slip away. “Why would I think you any less a suspect than Amonked and the others who were there?”
“Amonked?” Horhotep looked incredulous. “He’s our sovereign’s cousin!”
“Did you ever go hunting with Baket-Amon?” Bak asked, careful not to look at the two officers hurrying away.
“I did.” Horhotep sniffed. “Why our sovereign thought he should be invited, I’ll never know. A minor prince of
Wawat, a tributary land of no worth.”
If the land is so worthless, Bak thought, why are you here? “They say he was skilled with weapons above all others.”
“Bah! A tale once told to make him seem special, and told again and again by men who never saw him with a spear in his hand or an arrow on the fly.”
“I see,” Bak said, and he did. The adviser reeked of envy.
Horhotep suddenly noticed that Nebwa and Merymose had gone. He glared at their backs, far up the line of don keys.
“Were you ever with the prince when he sought sexual comfort?” Bak asked.
The adviser tore his eyes from the fleeing pair and gave
Bak a scathing look. “Come now, Lieutenant. I’m far more selective than he was. I prefer refinement to the coarseness of a harbor-side house of pleasure.”
Bak had had about all he could take, but stubbornness and necessity kept him going. He walked slowly toward the caravan. “I’m not talking about the young women who toil in places of business in the capital. I’m speaking of the women made available on hunting trips organized on behalf of our sovereign.”
“I took no part in that,” Horhotep said stiffly.
“Then you must’ve been invited along as some lofty of ficial’s aide.”
Color flooded Horhotep’s face and he sputtered, “You…
You…” Taking hold of himself, he snarled, “You’re wast ing your time questioning me or anyone else in Amonked’s party. When you return to Buhen, you’ll find the slayer already caught, someone who came into our quarters to steal.”
Giving Bak no time to answer, he stepped through the line of donkeys, placing the animals between them, and hastened toward the front of the column.
“Neatly done, Lieutenant,” said Captain Minkheper, who had been walking behind them unseen. “He may never for give you for seeing through his facade of self-importance.”
“So be it.” Bak shrugged off his irritation and smiled.
“With luck, I’ll discover he’s the man who slew Baket Amon.”
Minkheper knelt beside a foal to scratch its muzzle. “I don’t see how anyone could slay a man with so many peo ple living in such close confines, whether he spent the night there or sneaked in from outside.”
“No one sneaked in,” Bak said with certainty. “The slayer was already in the house.”
“For a man to take such a risk, he’d have to’ve had a most compelling reason.”
“Agreed, but what it was I’ve no idea. Not yet, at any rate. Other than the lovely Nefret, none has shown itself, and looking at her is like looking at one grain of sand in a desert. From what I’ve heard, Baket-Amon took his plea sure at any time or any place, especially in the capital where a man of wealth can satisfy the most demanding of tastes.”
Nonetheless, he must look closer at Amonked. As reluc tant as he was to think of the inspector as a murderer-to face the consequences if Maatkare Hatshepsut’s cousin should prove to be guilty-he could not turn his back on the possibility. As slight as it seemed at present, no other likely suspects had presented themselves.
Distant barking drew Bak’s attention. An archer walking apart from the caravan stopped to look up a long, broad sandy valley that came out of the western desert between rugged clumps of craggy hills. A half-dozen feral dogs were racing down the valley, veering to left and right, nipping at the heels of a yellow cur. No, they were nipping at some thing dragging behind the cur.
He hurried to the archer’s side and they stood together, watching the pack draw close. The nearest drovers, plod ding with their donkeys past the wadi mouth, stopped to look. The yellow dog ran as if for its very life, either afraid of its burden or the dogs who chased it. Its frightened yelps were almost lost among the excited barking of the others.
The pack veered around Bak and the archer, passing so close he recognized the large, muscular yellow-gold mutt in the lead. The thing dragging along behind, bumping and bouncing over the sandy surface, was a bound package the length of his arm from elbow to closed fist. It was tied to the dog by a rope wrapped around the creature’s neck.
“Stop that dog!” he yelled as the pack swerved to run alongside the caravan.
A drover, standing close to his lead donkey, grabbed a rope from a basket on its back, made a hasty loop, and swung. The luck of the gods was with him. The loop settled around the yellow cur’s neck, he jerked it tight, and dropped the creature in its tracks. Snapping his short whip to scare the other dogs off, he hurried to the downed ani mal, which was baring its teeth and snarling.
Bak and the archer ran to his aid, as did several drovers.
Nebwa sped up the line of donkeys to see what the problem was. While the newcomers chased away the rest of the pack, the drover who had caught the yellow dog quickly wrapped his rope around the animal’s legs and muzzle so it could not run away or bite.
Bak knelt to study the bundle. At first glance, it looked like the wrapped body of a tiny child, but he saw right away that it was not. The linen wrapping, discolored and dirty, was all wrong. The narrow bands of fabric, ragged and torn from the hard journey across the sand, were wound around the bundle in a random fashion that in no way re sembled the careful binding done in the house of death.
“In the name of the lord Amon,” Nebwa said, kneeling beside him, “I feared for a moment the dog had burrowed into a tomb.”
Bak looked at the cord that bound the bundle to the cur.
It was dark and worn, unlike the lighter, newer rope the drover had used. Examining the end around the struggling animal’s neck, he found a knot securely tied by a man, not the casual knot formed by accident. If the rope had caught on a protruding rock, the dog would surely have been stran gled.
With his dagger, he cut the rope from around the dog’s neck so the drover could release the mongrel. As it raced away, Bak cut the strips of linen that held the package together and unrolled the broader piece in which the con tents were wrapped. Out fell seven pairs of sandals.
Both men burst into laughter. Until they saw among the sandals a long gray feather plucked from the tail of a falcon.
And grasped the fact that the footwear had been taken in the dark of night. Taken by a man who had crept into the encampment and walked undetected among the twenty sleeping archers.
Nebwa glared off in the direction of the desert, no longer able to deny that Hor-pen-Deshret had returned. “We’d best keep our suspicions to ourselves, telling no one but our own men. Let the rest enjoy our one night in Iken.”
Chapter Ten
“I thank the lord Amon that we’ll soon reach Iken.” Pash enuro, whom Bak had just told about the sandals, glanced eastward, where a distant row of trees marked the course of the river, and toward the long escarpment that barred their view of the western desert. If any people watched the caravan, whether farmers or desert
raiders, they were too far away to see. “I have no desire to march a couple of hours into the night.”
“All who dwell along this segment of the river are far more afraid of the denizens of darkness than you are,” Bak said. “I doubt they’ll stray far from their homes on a night as black as this one promises to be, with the lord Khonsu hiding much of his face, leaving only the stars for light. As for Hor-pen-Deshret’s men, I suspect we’ve seen-or not seen, as the case may be-the last of them until we travel on south of Iken.”
Pashenuro gave his superior a good-natured smile. “I was thinking of the donkeys, sir. The pace Seshu set and the long march across the barren sands has worn them out and me, too, if the truth be told. If we’re to set out at daybreak tomorrow-and he says we are-we’ll need a full night’s rest.”
Bak eyed the line of animals plodding ahead of them across the sandy plain north of Iken, a broad flat area lying between the rapid-strewn river and the escarpment. A dozen or so donkeys filled the space between Pashenuro’s string and the three carrying chairs. Nefret occupied one chair,
Thaneny another, the third was empty. Rather than ride in comfort as was their due, Amonked and Sennefer were walking with the remainder of their party. The Medjay was well positioned: close enough to see all that occurred and to rush to their aid if need be, but far enough away to remain anonymous.
“Has anything of note occurred in Amonked’s party?”
“Not that I’ve seen. If Seshu didn’t need my help each time we set up or break camp, I’d be more useful helping
Dedu train those oafs who call themselves guards.”
“They learned fast enough to build a proper fire and set up their camp in an orderly manner. If they’re as quick to master the arts of war, you’ll be of more use as a drover.”
Bak glanced toward the west, where the barque of Re hov ered above the escarpment, streaking the sky red. “I saw
Pawah walking with you an hour or so ago.”
“Yes, sir. The boy’s early childhood here in Wawat was one of need and hunger, yet he’s curious about his home land. He asks a multitude of questions, wishing to recall all he’s forgotten.”
“He said nothing about Baket-Amon?”
“Not a word.”
With a resigned sigh, Bak walked on lest he draw atten tion to the Medjay. Spotting Captain Minkheper off to the right, examining the slipway along which ships were dragged past the most formidable of the rapids below Iken, he struck off across the sand to join him.
He knew what he was doing: procrastinating. He feared
Amonked might be the man he sought, the one who slew
Baket-Amon, and he dreaded the thought. He had twice drawn Maatkare Hatshepsut’s attention, both times with mixed results. Once he had lost his rank of lieutenant and had been exiled to Buhen, a blessing in disguise though her intent had been to punish. He had regained his rank the second time and had been rewarded, but grudgingly. Then and three times more he had earned the gold of valor, but had never been awarded the prize. Her memory was long, her unwillingness to forgive legendary. He could well imagine her reaction should he reveal that her cousin was a slayer.
Minkheper greeted Bak with a smile. “I’m forever amazed at the ingenuity of man and the effort he’ll make to get what he wants. In this case, the rare and exotic prod ucts of lands far to the south.”
The slipway stretched farther than the eye could see across the sandy desert flat, a route paved with logs slightly curved to form a cradle, lying side by side along a bed of dry and cracking silt. The concave surface would support a ship’s gently rounded hull, holding it steady. When mois tened with water, the silt would grow slick, easing the ves sel’s overland journey.
“I not long ago saw the barque of Amon dragged along here,” Bak said, “not the great vessel used during the fes tival of Opet, but one of sufficient size to impress a Kushite king. It was a sight I shall never forget.”
“I’ve never seen a slipway used,” the captain admitted.
“My days have been spent on the water, not sailing the arid sands.”
“It’s a task not taken lightly. Nebwa set an entire com pany of spearmen to tow the barque. A larger vessel, even with its cargo off-loaded, would be far heavier and more difficult to manage.”
“Did not our sovereign’s father take a large fleet of war ships up the Belly of Stones and bring them back downriver many months later?”
“During times of high water,” Bak pointed out. “And he had the might of an army to tow the vessels.”
Minkheper looked back along the slipway to where it vanished in the distance. “I’ll make no firm decision until
I’ve seen the rapids through the whole of the Belly of Stones, but I’ve already begun to question the advisability of cutting a canal through here.”
Bak offered a cautious prayer of thanks to the lord Amon that the captain was a sensible and rational man.
Turning south, they walked along the slipway, well out of the dust drifting up from the caravan. Two feral dogs trotted across the plain to join them, exploring the smells left by those who had last trod a similar path.
“As a man who wishes to be appointed admiral,” Bak said, “you must’ve approached this expedition to Wawat with a certain amount of caution.”
The captain flashed a smile. “You’d do well in the cap ital, Lieutenant. You’re more aware than most of the haz ards one must face when climbing to the airy heights of our bureaucracy.”
Bak laughed. “I doubt I have the tact.”
Minkheper’s expression darkened. “You never know how far you’ll go until you must.”
Bak was not sure how to interpret the statement, the sud den gloom. Did Minkheper feel he was stooping too low in his quest for a position of status? “What did you learn of Amonked before you accepted the task?”
“An interesting question.” The officer gave Bak a curious look. “Are you asking to further your investigation into
Baket-Amon’s death? Or are you seeking a character flaw in the hope of aiding Commandant Thuty and all those whose lives will be disrupted should Amonked tear the army from this frontier?”
“My goal is to find the man who slew the prince.” Bak hated himself for sounding so righteous.
Minkheper’s lips twitched with a suppressed smile. “I learned nothing about him to his discredit. He’s often ac cused of bowing too readily to our sovereign’s wishes, but is also considered a man of integrity. As I’m to give my conclusions to her rather than to him and he’ll take no part in my decision, I thought this journey to be to my advantage.”
“Even if you recommend she give up her plan to cut a canal through the rapids?”
“If Amonked is as honorable as he’s reputed to be, he’ll respect my conclusions and tell her so.” Minkheper scooped up a shattered length of wood lying at the side of the slip way. He called out to the dogs and threw it hard, but they refused to chase it. No one had taught them to play as puppies. “He’s neither blind nor stupid, Lieutenant. He’s seen the same rapids I have and he knows the toll so dif ficult a task can take on human life. Should he by chance forget, he has merely to look at Thaneny to remind him of the dangers of working with hard stone.”
Bak wondered if Minkheper truly believed in Amonked’s integrity. Could a man of principles kowtow, in all good conscience, to Maatkare Hatshepsut’s every whim? “I’ve been told he acts on our sovereign’s behalf, taking guests to Sennefer’s estate in Sheresy so they may hunt and fish and enjoy the good things of life.”
“So I hear.”
“You’ve not been invited?” Bak asked, surprised.
“I’ve been too much on board my ship, sailing far away from the capital.” Minkheper’s smile carried a touch of cyn icism. “Perhaps when I’m an admiral, I’ll be so rewarded.”
No invitation to hunt; therefore, no opportunity to see
Baket-Amon at play. At least not with an official party.
“Why, I wonder, does he take them
to Sennefer’s estate rather than his own?”
The captain’s smile broadened. “You’ve made a common error, I fear. Most men assume, because he’s our sover eign’s cousin, that he’s a man of wealth. He isn’t.”
“He has an estate, does he not?”
“A small one, yes, near Mennufer. Too far away from the river to hunt birds in the marshes or to fish and too far from the desert. The house is modest, they tell me, not large enough to entertain exalted guests. His dwelling in Waset where he received me-is rather grand, befitting his status as a courtier and his relationship to the royal house. That property, I believe, came to him when he wed Sennefer’s sister.”
“Is the marriage a good one?”
“Your questions are excellent, Lieutenant, but misguided.
He adores his wife.” Minkheper’s quick smile faded.
“Much to his dismay, the gods have forbade that she give him children.”
“Thus the lovely Nefret.”
Minkheper nodded.
A shadow flitted across the sand, drawing Bak’s eyes toward the setting sun and a falcon soaring low over the escarpment, seeking its evening meal. He wondered if it was missing a tail feather. “How long has she been a part of his household?”
“Too long to have remained childless, and too long to act like a child when she must know by now that he wants a woman.”
“Would he have slain Baket-Amon to keep her as his alone?”
Minkheper raised an eyebrow. “If he’s your best suspect,
Lieutenant, I fear we’ll be plagued forever more by the local farmers.”
So the captain believes Amonked innocent, Bak thought.
He prayed fervently that such was the case. If only he could find a new reason for Baket-Amon’s death, another suspect.
The sun had vanished behind the escarpment, leaving a pinkish afterglow, when Amonked displayed their traveling pass and the foremost donkey plodded through the northern gate of the fortress of Iken. Commander Woser and his senior staff greeted the inspector and Nebwa at the gate.
Leaving an officer behind to guide the caravan to its camp ing place, they hurried off to the citadel, which stood atop the escarpment, overlooking a river dotted with islands and partly submerged rocks and offering a broad view of the western desert. Close in size to Buhen, the white towered walls loomed tall and impressive over the lower city through which the caravan marched.
