Curse of Silence lb-4

by Lauren Haney

  The inspector just might be a good man. A man he might come to like, might even learn to respect. For the first time, Bak found himself hoping Amonked innocent of Baket Amon’s murder for a reason other than his kinship with Maatkare Hatshepsut.

  “I’m surprised to find you alone, mistress.” Bak looked up at Nefret, seated on a thick pillow on the carrying chair, her face and voluptuous body shadowed by the canopy above her. She had substituted perfume for a bath, and its too-sweet strength tainted the air. “Your most avid admirer is neglecting you.”

  He had seen Thaneny walking with Amonked. The scribe’s absence had offered an ideal opportunity to probe deeper into the young woman’s life-and the inspector’s.

  If she was the key to Baket-Amon’s death, her guilelessness might lead to the slayer.

  “Horhotep?” Nefret laughed. “He only talks to me be cause he fears Amonked has ceased to listen to him and he hopes I’ll use my influence to improve his position.” She laughed again, this time with a strong touch of cynicism.

  “He doesn’t seem to realize that I, too, have lost favor.”

  Poor Thaneny, Bak thought, the invisible man as far as she was concerned. “Has Amonked not told you he’s trou bled by your many complaints, your failure to accept this journey as fact and adapt as best you can?”

  The porters exchanged a surprised look, unaccustomed to such blunt speech from anyone other than Amonked.

  “I thought this trip would… Well…” Nefret fussed with her dress, smoothing it across her thigh. “I thought we’d be together more. From the day he took me into his household, he… He’s seldom spent time with me. Only at night. And then we don’t talk much.”

  “I see,” Bak said, stealing the noncommittal demeanor and words from the inspector himself.

  The porters exchanged another look, this one a smirk.

  Amonked had, Bak realized, brought this beautiful young woman on this most arduous journey without really know 194

  Lauren Haney ing her. A woman he had taken into his household… How many years ago? Four? Five? Possibly longer. It was one thing to enjoy the pleasures of the body and leave the bed chamber as the sun rose, quite another to share all the hours of every day and night out on the barren desert, with a minimum of comfort and a lurking threat of attack.

  “I miss Waset! I long to return!” She flung a fearful look at a yellow dog trotting past. “To sleep in a house, with no insects or reptiles or animals to fear. To bathe each morning in a placid pool. To spend my days in the shade of a syc amore tree, breathing the sweet scent of flowers. To be waited upon by servants who leap to obey my slightest command. To gossip with Sithathor, Amonked’s wife, and his sister and his mother.”

  “While you enjoy the pleasures of life, what does he do?”

  Bak asked, silently thanking her for opening the door into their lives.

  “When he’s home, you mean? What do noblemen usually do? He swims, plays board games, receives guests. Mostly, he fusses with the household accounts and manages his estate and that of Sithathor.” She wrinkled her nose as if so common a task was distasteful to her. “She tells me he’s multiplied her holdings three times over since the day he took her as his wife.”

  Bak was surprised. Few men could accomplish such a feat. He had learned long ago not to take people at face value, but he had allowed Amonked’s commonplace ap pearance and Nofery’s old and outdated recollection of the past to influence him into thinking the inspector a shadow of a man. He had erred.

  “As storekeeper of the lord Amon, he must now and again toil in the service of the god.”

  She rolled her eyes skyward. “He spends hours upon hours in the warehouses, going through records, checking quantities, doing innumerable tasks I suspect could be done by lesser men. He comes home smelling of dusty documents and sometimes of onions or the granary or the animal paddocks.”

  Bak had assumed the task a sinecure, Amonked nothing more than a figurehead. Another error, it seemed. “As a favorite of our sovereign, she must often summon him to the royal house.”

  “Not so much anymore.” Nefret looked thoughtful. “I don’t know why. Probably because he has too many other tasks.”

  “Among them would be to provide masculine entertain ment for lofty friends of the court, such as the hunting and fishing trips you told me about before.”

  She waved away a fly. “Also chariot races, wrestling matches, games of skill or chance. Activities all men enjoy,

  I’ve been told. Most of the time, anyway.”

  Bak asked further questions about these gatherings, but without success. The woman knew nothing about the manly pursuits, nor did she show any interest. Her life clearly revolved around the domestic. “I gather you get on well with Amonked’s wife.”

  “Sithathor is wonderful.” Nefret’s face glowed. “She’s kind and gentle and she bears no jealousy toward me, as other wives sometimes do for their husbands’ concubines.”

  Her features clouded over, banishing the smile. “My failure to give Amonked the children he wants has been a great disappointment to her.”

  “Is she not barren?”

  “That’s why he took me into his household.” Nefret’s eyes dropped to her hands; she bit her lip. “I’ve failed them both.”

  Bak’s physician father would have suggested that with two women childless, the fault might lay with Amonked, but as no man wanted to think of himself as incomplete, the thought was better left unsaid.

  “Sithathor isn’t beautiful or youthful like I am,” Nefret said, “but she has a presence that draws everyone to her.

  She’s very well-connected also. Well, you know she’s Sen 196

  Lauren Haney nefer’s sister.” The concubine paused, awaiting his nod.

  “She can talk to our sovereign with ease, I’ve been told, and is equally comfortable with all the nobility. She gives wonderful parties. She’s…” The young woman stopped, laughed softly. “I guess you can see that I adore her.”

  A quick glance toward the sun told Bak he must draw this conversation to a close. Pashenuro would be awaiting him. “Amonked admitted he quarreled with Baket-Amon because of you.”

  “So he said.” Nefret looked down at her dress, again smoothing it across her thigh. “Sithathor was angry with me then. She said, and I saw for myself, that the confron tation shamed him.” Her chin shot up and she gave Bak a defiant look. “Baket-Amon was a man with two faces: charming and handsome, but self-indulgent. He wanted me but I didn’t want him. I vowed to die rather than go with him, and Amonked knew I spoke the truth.”

  Bak did not believe for an instant that she would take her own life. She was much too fond of herself. “Would you have slain the prince rather than share his bed?”

  “No. Only myself.”

  “That’s the formation you must slip behind.” Seshu looked toward a black flat-topped hill with steeply sloping sides that rose above the desert sands not far ahead. “The dune on the far side goes all the way to the river. Unless tribesmen have been posted behind it, they’ll never know you’ve gone.”

  The lead donkeys were already walking along the base of the formation, as were the members of Amonked’s party.

  Bak and Pashenuro, carrying long spears and shields, were fifty or so paces behind, two soldiers among many. A yell cut the silence, drawing every eye toward the rear of the caravan. A drover and a guard, spouting curses, exchanged blows. Men abandoned their positions and ran toward the confrontation. Some donkeys plodded on without their drovers, others stopped in their tracks, a confusion of ani mals, a further distraction.

  “May the lord Amon go with you,” Seshu said and has tened off to break up the sham fight. Nebwa sped past a short time later, giving them the briefest of glances and a wink.

  Bak and Pashenuro strolled away from the caravan. Two of the feral dogs, one brindled and one gray, trotted after them. Soon men and dogs were hidden from the tribesmen by the formation and the high, seemingly endless dune that had formed on the
hill’s downwind side.

  The trek across the desert was uneventful, allowing Bak and Pashenuro to reach the river long before dark. A farmer weeding a melon field told them where they would find the hamlet in which the headman Rona lived. The lengthy floodplain, with its heavy black soil squared off into fields and dotted with groves of date palms, was richer in re sources than any other location between Buhen and Semna.

  Along much of the oasis and beyond the reach of all but the highest flood, an equally wide but more irregular strip provided enough natural vegetation to offer limited grazing.

  The area’s greater wealth and population accounted in large part for the old man’s influence.

  As the lord Re slid toward the horizon, turning the sky a flame red shot through with gold, Bak and the Medjay crossed a series of small fields lush with vegetables, fodder, and grain on the brink of harvest. Beyond, they climbed a low bluff to Rona’s village, twenty or so dry-stone and mudbrick houses set among a scattering of spiny acacias.

  A heavy blanket of sand crept over the surrounding hills, threatening to smother the dwellings. A serpentine wall, looking small and fragile against so enormous a peril, held back the encroaching desert.

  The village dogs, spotting intruders on their territory, be gan to bark, drawing men, women, and children from their homes. The people stood in silence, watching the armed strangers with wary faces and mistrustful eyes.

  “I’m Lieutenant Bak, head of the Medjay police in Bu hen. I must speak with your headman, Rona.” Amonked’s ring hung heavy on a leather thong around his neck, a gift of mutual regard, not a bargaining tool.

  A stooped old man, using a long staff to help him along, hobbled forward. “I am the man you seek.”

  Stopping at a mudbrick bench that overlooked the fields, he sat down with a stiffness that told of worn and aged joints. He pointed toward his feet, indicating Bak should sit on the ground in front of him. Bak preferred to stand, feeling that height gave him an advantage, but prudence dictated he accommodate the old man. Seated cross-legged, spear and shield beside him, Pashenuro kneeling behind with the two dogs, he began the customary ritual, asking about the state of Rona’s health. Proceeding along a time honored path, they discussed the past year’s flood, the promise of an abundant harvest and the flood soon to en velop thirsty fields. The villagers slipped away a few at a time, only to reappear on the rooftops, preparing their eve ning meal while watching and, if close enough, listening.

  Courtesies complete, Bak said, “I speak for Troop Cap tain Nebwa, who in turn speaks for Commandant Thuty of

  Buhen.”

  The old man’s expression hardened. “Don’t try to mis lead me, young man. You speak for Amonked, inspector of the fortresses of Wawat, newly come from the land of

  Kemet.”

  “I don’t.” Bak thought of the ring hanging at his breast, which made a falsehood of the denial. “Perhaps I do, but not from choice. If I had my way, he’d have traveled no farther south than Ma’am, and there the viceroy would’ve convinced him he came on a fool’s errand.”

  Rona looked long and hard at the man seated before him.

  “I’ve heard of you, Lieutenant Bak. Since you’ve come to the Belly of Stones, you’ve proven to be a friend of my people. A man of honor.”

  “Commander Woser told me of you. He called you not only honorable and wise but a man of influence.”

  The old man ignored the compliment-and the impli cation that he had the prestige to assist, should he so desire.

  “Tell me of this man Amonked. Will he see our need for the army? Or will he return to your capital and your sov ereign with a message of destruction?”

  “I don’t know,” Bak admitted. “At first I thought he’d say whatever she wishes to hear, giving no thought to the consequences. I’ve since come to know him better, and I think he’ll recommend what he truly believes to be the best possible action.” Noting a glimmer of hope on the old man’s face, he raised a hand to still the thought. “What he thinks of as best may differ from what you and I believe to be best.”

  The old man nodded, slowly, thoughtfully. “I appreciate your candor. Now what do you want of me?”

  Bak reached out to the brindle dog, which had inched forward to sit beside him, but it ducked away from his hand. “You know Hor-pen-Deshret has returned.”

  “A nightmare come true.”

  “His men have been watching the caravan. We believe he wants the rich trappings Amonked has brought south and the weapons we carry and our many donkeys. He’s not yet interested in the farms and villages along the river.”

  “Not yet, for a fact.” Rona leaned forward, the weight of his upper body supported by his staff. “If the army is torn from the Belly of Stones, he’ll take what he wants and lay waste to the rest, destroying all we’ve built up during his absence.”

  Bak refused to go down the same path twice. “We’ve seen Hor-pen-Deshret once-two days ago-and he left be hind six men to watch us. We feel certain he means to attack, but we don’t know when or where or the size of the force he’ll bring against us.”

  “You’re a man of arms, Lieutenant, as is Troop Captain

  Nebwa. Why have you not sent out spies?”

  Bak longed to stand up, to tower over the old man.

  “We’ve seen men march off into the desert and never re turn, and we’ve no desire to lose the few skilled fighting men we have.” He flashed Rona his most disarming smile.

  “Besides, Commander Woser assured us that nothing oc curs between Iken and Askut without your knowledge.”

  “I’ve been told you’ve begun to train men to fight, men who set out from Kor knowing nothing of combat.”

  Bak’s smile broadened. “You are indeed a man of vast knowledge.”

  A hint of a smile touched Rona’s face. He rocked back, glanced toward a nearby rooftop from which the scent of onions drifted, and raised a hand to make a signal Bak could not interpret. “You will share my evening meal, you and your Medjay.” The smile waned and he stared out across the oasis, saying nothing, until Bak feared old age had stolen his thoughts. “Hor-pen-Deshret will slay every living creature in this village if he hears I’ve helped you.

  And he will hear, I have no doubt.”

  “If we slay him or send him to Kemet a prisoner, he can no longer take anyone’s life or property.”

  Neither Bak nor Rona felt a need to mention the death and destruction that would result all along the frontier if the caravan was taken by the tribesmen and Hor-pen Deshret deemed himself invincible.

  “He’s forming a coalition of desert tribes,” Rona said.

  A coalition? Bak prayed the reality was not as ominous as the word.

  “While the women and children, the elderly and infirm, remain behind to tend their flocks, the fighting men are gathering in the desert south of Askut, not far from the old island fortress of Shelfak, presently unoccupied, as you know. When he deems he’s amassed sufficient forces, they’ll attack your caravan.”

  Rona raised a hand, holding off the many questions risen in Bak’s throat. “He planned at first to strike today, when the caravan was far from the river and the animals spread out along the trail. He thought the men traveling with you to be poorly armed and with no talent to fight back. When word reached him of your training efforts and the new weapons you’ve acquired, he decided to postpone the attack until he has a larger force.”

  Bak had to laugh. He and Nebwa had underestimated the tribal chieftain, thinking he would plan his attack based on numbers alone. “How many men have gathered?”

  “The last I heard, close to a hundred and sixty. Addi tional men come each day.”

  Bak tried not to show how staggered he was by the news.

  One and a half times the number of men the caravan con tained and more on the way. “It would be to your advantage and to the advantage of all who dwell along the river if your young men came to our aid.”

  “We’ll do nothing to help you until the death of Princ
e

  Baket-Amon is avenged.” Rona’s voice was firm and flat, a statement of unalterable fact. “You must snare his slayer and see that he’s punished.”

  “Are you speaking for yourself, or has so rigid an order come from elsewhere? Ma’am, I’d wager.”

  Rona bowed his head in acknowledgment. “I speak for the mother of his firstborn son.”

  As we suspected, Bak thought. A woman dwelling in the safety of a distant fortress, deep in mourning and yearning for revenge, has issued an order that might well destroy the people who would one day look to her son as their leader in name if not in fact.

  “Your people, though far from helpless, always suffer at the hands of rampaging tribesmen. Does she have no pity?”

  Rona clamped his mouth tight, refusing to commit.

  Bak rose to his feet, his face grim. “I’ll lay hands on the man who slew Baket-Amon-if I survive the attack Hor pen-Deshret plans.”

  The old man gripped his staff, preparing to stand. “You will stay here through the night.” He gave Bak a humorless smile. “I’ll not have you slain by those wretched tribesmen before the battle begins.”

  Bak pulled the leather thong from around his neck, un tied the knot, and held out the ring. “When I told Amonked

  I wished to give you a gift, he offered this symbol of his esteem.”

  Rona took the ring, studied it, and for a moment Bak feared he had forgotten to breathe. “I’ve seen nothing so magnificent in all my many years. Nothing.” His eyes nar rowed. “Does he hope, with this ring, to make me indebted to him? To oblige me to tell my people they must fight for you and then smile at the loss of the army along the Belly of Stones?”

  “The ring is a sign of his regard, that’s all. He hoped you’d show him a mutual respect, and you have. You’ve warned us of the multitude we must face and you’ve told us where we can find them. I’d hoped for more, but the lord Dedun has conspired against me, it seems.”