Face Turned Backward lb-2

by Lauren Haney

  He wondered if they had grown weary of inactivity and taken these tasks upon themselves or if Userhet had descended upon them on Sitamon’s behalf, urging them to toil doubly hard for their new mistress.

  “How many crewmen does Wensu have on board?”

  “Only six. Men from far to the south.”

  “Did you or your mates get to know any of them?”

  The pilot shook his head. “None speak our tongue.”

  Bak nodded his understanding. He could think of no easier way to keep a secret than to surround himself with men unable to speak the tongue of the land in which they toiled. “You told my sergeant that Mahu always posted guards when the ship was laden with cargo.”

  “He did.” The pilot’s eyes darted toward Bak’s and slid away. “Much of what we carried belonged to other men, and his reputation rested on delivering each and every object. He wanted no one coming aboard who might pilfer or destroy.”

  Bak’s voice turned hard, biting. “But, unknown to him, the guards sometimes left their post at night, slipping into the deckhouse to nap or onto another ship to wager over throwsticks or knucklebones.”

  The pilot’s nose shot into the air, his voice turned indignant. “Oh, no, sir! We always did as Captain Mahu bade us! We never…Never!..failed in our duty.”

  The pilot’s eyes darted hither and yon, searching for a way out. Certain the guards had left their post the night the tusk had been hidden belowdecks, Bak dropped off the aftercastle, shouldered him aside, and strode to the gangplank.

  Bak hurried off the quay, eager to share his findings with Imsiba. He had two men: the Kushite Wensu, whose task it was to bring contraband from far upriver and down the Belly of Stones, and an unknown man of Kemet, no doubt the one who slew Mahu, who could write out a false manifest and pass it on with the items to be smuggled north. In a word, the headless man. If the gods chose to smile on them, their journey south the following day would answer their remaining questions and lead them down the path to their quarry.

  Better yet and easier by far, they would find Wensu at Kor, snare him before he could flee, and set his tongue to wagging.

  He went first to the guardhouse, but the big Medjay had not been seen since midday. At the police barracks, he was told the sergeant had come around midafternoon, changed into a fresh kilt, and gone on about his business. Hoping a change of clothing meant a visit to Sitamon, Bak crossed the city to her house, following lanes congested with soldiers hurrying to their barracks or home to their families after toiling all day at their posts. The last thing he wanted was to disturb the pair if they were together, but he need not have worried; the house was empty. According to a neighbor, Imsiba had come and gone some time ago. Sitamon and her son had left with him.

  Bak walked away, pleased for his friend, yet uneasy. Imsiba had promised not to warn Sitamon that Userhet, a man she trusted, was a suspect in the slaying of her brother, and the promises he made, he kept. But if the overseer was indeed a murderer, one who had slain two men to silence them, would he hesitate to take another life if he feared he might lose a woman he desired?

  Turning down the lane that ran along the base of the citadel wall, Bak shook off the thought as fanciful. As far as he could see, Userhet’s foremost passion was himself.

  He walked close to the wall, letting a stream of soldiers pass in the opposite direction. They stank of sweat; rivulets of moisture stained dusty bodies and limbs. The narrow, confined lane was stifling, untouched by the breeze stirring the air atop the buildings. The heat and the stench drove him through the northernmost gate to the terrace overlooking the harbor.

  On the upper level, shaded so late in the day by the fortress wall, the breeze was strong and soothing, carrying the smell of the river and its occupants. The sky was pale blue tinted with a pink that would deepen and spread as the sun closed on the western horizon.

  The sentry standing at the base of the gate grinned. “I see Sergeant Imsiba’s found himself a lady, sir.”

  “You’ve seen him today?”

  The man nodded toward the smooth stretch of river downstream from the harbor. “Out there, sir, in the skiff with the red sail.”

  Bak looked out across the minuscule swells rising and falling on the river’s surface, catching the pink of the sky and losing it time after time. Sure enough, there in the boat he saw Imsiba’s large dark form, the slender figure of a woman wearing a white sheath, Sitamon, and the small, pale child leaning over the hull, dangling a leafy tamarisk branch into the water.

  He strode on along the terrace, smiling to himself, forgetting for a while that two men lay dead at the hands of another and the vizier would soon arrive, asking many questions he had yet to answer.

  Chapter Thirteen

  Bak and Imsiba sailed south to Kor at first light. The Medjay was in good spirits, his self-esteem restored by his evening with Sitamon. He spoke little of her, but when Bak commented upon the fresh, neat bandage on his arm, he admitted in a voice vibrant with both pride and pleasure that she had medicated and rewrapped the wound.

  The river was placid and the breeze fair, driving them upstream at a brisk pace. In less than half the time it would have taken to walk the distance, they lowered their sail and beached their skiff not far below the crowded harbor on a stretch of riverbank still soggy from the retreating floodwaters. Imsiba headed downstream toward a row of fishing boats lining the water’s edge, where the men were gathering in nets they had spread out to dry overnight.

  Bak walked to the harbor, where vessels of all sizes were tied up two- and sometimes three-deep along a quay overlooked by decaying mudbrick battlements. The announcement of Thuty’s release of caravan and river traffic, made too late to sail the previous day, had added lightness to the footsteps of the men who toiled there and music to their voices. Their joy was infectious, creating an optimism he prayed would be rewarded.

  The larger ships rode the swells much as they had for nearly a week, their decks piled high with trade goods, their crews idling away the hours. Their captains stood in clusters on the shore, chatting animatedly. From talk Bak overheard, they were speaking mostly of Commandant Thuty’s party and, as he had hoped, making no effort to depart.

  On the smaller vessels, nearly naked sailors scurried around the decks, preparing to set sail. Their masters, men of meager means impatient to go on about their business, practically danced with joy as they shouted out orders. These boats, nautical beasts of burden, hauled local products up and down the river, stopping at villages to take on board or deliver the necessities of life. No party for their captains, no rubbing shoulders with men of high station who knew only luxury, not endless toil.

  Bak spotted a bald, spindly-legged man he recognized, one whose sturdy ship plied the waters between Buhen and Ma’am. “I’m looking for Wensu, the Kushite. Master of a small trading ship he brings down the Belly of Stones. Do you know him?”

  “I know of him.” The man scratched his head, frowned.

  “I’m afraid you’re out of luck, Lieutenant. He set sail close on a week ago. Haven’t seen him since.”

  Bak’s good humor seeped away and he bit back a curse.

  He should have learned long ago never to look blindly to the gods for favors. “Do you know where he went?”

  “He was here one sunset and gone the next daybreak.

  That’s all I can tell you.”

  “Wensu.” Nebwa spat over a broken section of battlemented wall, accenting the contempt in his voice. “The wild man from Kush.”

  Bak stood with the coarse-featured officer atop the fortress wall, looking out at the waterfront. Beyond flowed a river of burnished gold, a rippled mirror of the eastern sky made brilliant by the rising sun Khepre.

  “We hoped we’d find him here in Kor, his ship held like all the others, but now I find he’s been gone for close on a week.” Bak had no wish to alienate his friend, but try as he might he could not keep the accusation from his voice, the blame.

  Nebwa gave him a long,
irritated look. “If you think back, Lieutenant, you’ll remember that we began searching every ship and caravan several days before Mahu’s death and Thuty’s decision to stop all traffic. I spotted Wensu talking with Mahu the first day I came to Kor and I haven’t seen him since. And I’m not surprised. Wensu, like any intelligent smuggler, slipped away the moment he realized how thorough our inspections were. I’d bet a jar of the finest wine of northern Kemet that he’s even now sailing the waters south of Semna, free and clear.”

  Nebwa’s sarcasm rankled, as did the truth of his words.

  Bak gave him the best smile he could manage. “I spoke from disappointment, my brother, not from malice.”

  The term of affection brought a crooked smile to Nebwa’s face. “And I from frustration,” he admitted. “I long to return to Buhen, to my wife and child. To smiling faces, not men who turn away, fearing I’ll find further reason to hold them in this wretched place.”

  “I suggest you get down on your knees before all the shrines in Kor and seek the deities’ favor.” Bak’s smile was tenuous, unable to hide how serious he was. “If Imsiba and I can locate the tomb Intef found, with luck it’ll not only be filled with smuggled items, but will offer a place to lay in wait for the headless man. Not until we’ve snared him will we see an end to this unforgiving task.”

  “I’ll do more than pray,” Nebwa said, clapping him on the shoulder. “I’ll send patrols up the trail along the Belly of Stones with orders to look for Wensu. If he’s as smart as I think he is, he’s out of our reach in the land of Kush, but we can’t afford to take the chance. We might hide a small problem from the vizier, but not one so large all the world knows.”

  Bak preferred not to dwell on the consequence of failure.

  “What’s this man Wensu like?”

  “He’s a sailor without peer, they say. A man reared on the desert, but more at home on the water than on land.” Nebwa noted Bak’s weary look, smiled. “I know. That much you’ve heard before.” He rubbed his chin, raspy with the previous day’s growth of beard, and looked deeper within 198 / Lauren Haney himself. “He’s a small, dark version of Captain Roy, if the truth be told, befriending none but the men in his crew and confiding in no one.”

  “The headless man, I assume, is one of my suspects and Wensu, I feel sure, is his tool. Yet twice you’ve called him smart.”

  “Sly would be a more apt description. He’s not a man of subtle or complicated thought.”

  “Could he have slain Mahu and Intef, do you think?

  Kushite men are reputed to be greatly talented with the bow.”

  Nebwa bristled. “No more so than men of Kemet.” He smiled, realizing how he had sounded, but quickly sobered.

  “Wensu least of all. His left arm is a pale shadow of the right.

  It’s thin and weak, the hand drawn and cramped. Memento of a childhood accident, so I’ve heard.”

  “That arm should make him easy enough to recognize.”

  Imsiba ducked out of the way of a man carrying two large water jars suspended from a yoke across his shoulders. “And his ship, so the fishermen say, should be equally easy to spot.”

  Bak stepped aside, allowing a man to pass who carried a wriggling, bleating lamb in his arms. “They’re certain Wensu’s not traveled south?”

  Imsiba shook his head, not because he had no answer but because conversation was impossible. They strode on, saying nothing, following the path along the edge of the harbor, jostled by men walking with a purpose, whistling, singing, shouting, excited by the prospect of showing their backs to Kor. Soon they cleared the waterfront, leaving behind the hustle and bustle, exchanging the odors of sweat and animals and exotic spices for the musty smell of the river and the tangy odor of rich black earth saturated by floodwaters.

  “With Commandant Thuty stopping all traffic on the river,”

  Imsiba said, “the men who pull the ships upstream through the rapids have laid down their ropes and set their backs again to farming. They fear the wrath of mighty Kemet, it seems.”

  Bak snorted. “You know as well as I that they’d close their hearts to the lord Amon himself, given a generous enough reward and a better than even chance that they could get away with it.”

  Imsiba laughed. “The fishermen swear he’s not gone south, and I could find no reason for a lie.”

  “We’d better let Nebwa know.” Spotting two small boys with fishing poles walking side-by-side along the path, bumping shoulders, giggling, Bak beckoned them. He stated his message, asked them to repeat it until he was sure they had it right, and sent them on their way.

  “Do any of the fishermen know of the landing place where Captain Roy met the headless man?”

  “If so, they’re not speaking.” Imsiba’s expression turned grim. “Two brothers forced by circumstance to stay out one night long after dark came close to being run down by a ship carrying a silent and furtive crew and no lighted torch on deck. The next morning, they found a hole in the bow of their skiff, one that took close on a week to repair, leaving their wives and children hungry.”

  “That sounds like Wensu’s work, not Roy’s.” Bak’s mouth tightened. The Kushite must be stopped at once, before his vicious use of the axe caused a ship to sink and all on board to drown. “If they’re as afraid as Ramose, I’m surprised they spoke at all.”

  “Another man whispered in my ear, hoping to send me on my way, fearing my continued presence would draw further wrath, this time on all the fishermen of Kor.”

  “They were quick to connect Wensu with the threat.”

  “They probably recognized his ship, even in the dark of night. There’s not a man among them who wouldn’t exchange his wife and children, given the chance to lay hands on that vessel.”

  Bak looked downstream, his eyes on the dozen or so fishing boats drawing away from the shore, their red and yellow and multicolored sails rising up the masts, catching the 200 / Lauren Haney breeze, ballooning. “They’re sailing, I see. I guess your questions scared them away.”

  Imsiba scowled. “If the gods don’t soon smile upon us, my friend, we’ll have made this journey for no good reason.”

  Bak pictured the landscape above Kor, rocky and desolate, stingy with life, but a place inhabited nonetheless. A place where there was no such thing as a secret spot. If one looked close enough, one could find a hovel, a garden plot, a bit of grass for grazing. Like the fishermen, the people might play deaf and dumb and blind, but someone would have eyes to see and a tongue to tell the tale.

  “Wensu’s ship, I’ve heard described many times. So often my thoughts were dulled by repetition, driving away a question I should long ago have asked.” Bak stood forward in the skiff, poling the vessel through a patch of reeds growing in a shallow backwater. “Has he made it his own in any way?”

  “Like many men of Kush, he worships the long-horned cattle.” Imsiba used an oar to push away a rotting palm trunk.

  “The head of the divine cow is painted on the bow. The drawing is a single color, red, and the horns have been lengthened and twisted in keeping with his beliefs.”

  The skiff slid through the last of the reeds. The swifter water beyond grabbed the vessel, flinging it toward a jagged outcrop of rocks. Close to losing his balance, Bak dropped to a crouch, swung the pole around, and held the vessel off, avoiding certain collision. Imsiba nudged the rudder with an elbow and at the same time adjusted the sail to carry them into deeper water. At least, they hoped the water was deeper.

  They had been on the river for hours, working their way south far into the mouth of the Belly of Stones. The water was swift, its path funneled through a channel narrower than that at Buhen and obstructed by islands, a few large, most small, many no bigger than boulders. Stretches of boiling rapids now and again interrupted the flow and a rippled surface sometimes hinted at rocks hidden by the flood.

  Bak wished with all his heart that they had brought along a fisherman from Kor. Even a reluctant guide would have been better than none. With
the water running so high, covering the natural banks of the river as often as not, and neither he nor Imsiba familiar with the area, they had no idea which of the many rocky outcrops reached far enough into the river to provide a mooring place for a ship the size of Captain Roy’s, nor did they know which channel offered safe passage.

  Nor had they met with any success in the few tiny hamlets and farms they had found nestled among the rocks. The people-isolated, impoverished, mistrustful-had shrunk back, looking to the headman or the eldest male of the household to speak for them. To a man, they denied knowledge of a ship loading or unloading cargo in the night. None would look Bak in the eye, but whether they lied from fear of the smugglers’ retribution or were merely afraid of the authority he represented, he had no idea.

  To the west, a solitary spine of black granite rose above what looked like an endless slope of golden sand falling from the long north-south ridge where Intef’s body had been found. Just ahead, the lower end of the spine, washed by the swollen river, had long ago collapsed, forming a mound of boulders, broken and battered by sun and wind and water.

  White froth warned off the wary boatman, hinting at rocks lurking beneath the river’s surface.

  Imsiba eyed the boiling water with distaste. “I doubt a ship the size of Captain Roy’s could sail this deep into the Belly of Stones during much of the year.”

  “I didn’t ask the crew how often they came,” Bak admitted.

  “Seldom, I’d guess. Probably only during high water when Wensu could take advantage of the flood to come down the Belly of Stones, bringing a load of contraband to the headless man. Roy, in turn, would sail up here, load as much as he dared carry at one time, and travel back to Abu under a false manifest.”