Face Turned Backward lb-2

by Lauren Haney

  “How a man whose occupation kept him inside and inactive day after day manages to maintain so hard and fast a pace, I can’t imagine.” Imsiba forced the words out between breaths. “His nighttime excursions as the headless man must’ve hardened his muscles as well as his resolve.”

  “The fate that awaits him-impalement, for a certainty-would surely add wings to any man’s feet.”

  They ran on in silence, wasting no more breath. Bak’s calves ached, his legs felt heavy and wooden, his mouth dry and his chest raspy. The sledge was like a toothache, a nag-ging reminder of how sure Userhet was that he would elude them. If he feared capture, he most certainly would abandon it. Bak’s sole consolation was the breeze, which was cooler as evening drew near, chilling the sweat pouring from his body.

  Evenly matched with the man they chased, but un-burdened, Bak and Imsiba slowly, gradually, shrank the distance separating them. About three hundred paces from the river, Userhet swerved, taking a diagonal path across the sands toward a curving row of trees. A break in the foliage allowed a glimpse of water and a thick stand of reeds.

  “Spawn of Apep!” Bak cursed. Userhet was practically within their grasp. He could not slip away now.

  Without warning, a nearly naked man stepped out from among the trees to stand on the sandy verge. He carried a sickle, its sharp flint blade sparkling in the long rays of the setting sun. A woman dressed in a colorful ankle-length sheath came forth from the trees a half dozen paces downstream. In her hand she held a long-bladed knife. A second man emerged a few paces upstream, and a third and fourth spread equal distances apart. Each carried a sickle, an axe, or a mallet. Common farm tools. Weapons in the hands of men who chose to use them as such.

  Bak and Imsiba slowed to a walk. They stared dumbfoun-ded.

  “Have they come to help him?” Bak asked.

  Userhet, less than fifty paces from the trees, slowed as his pursuers had done. Instead of waving and smiling and hurrying toward men he knew were friends, he looked back and forward as if trying to decide what to do, how best to pass them by and reach the river.

  Bak offered a silent prayer of thanks to Amon and to any other god who happened to be listening.

  Two men stepped forward, both armed with sickles. A youth carrying a knife. Another holding a spear. A woman and man, each carrying axes. A boy with a sickle. Others appeared farther along the line of trees. A wall of humanity, ominously silent, between Userhet and the reedy backwater.

  The overseer broke into a trot, running parallel to the double row of men and trees, dragging the sledge behind him, searching for a way through.

  “By the beard of Amon!” Imsiba exclaimed. “Where did so many people come from? What brought them forth?”

  “There!” Bak pointed. Mery stood midway along the line of defense, holding a reddish shield that came close to hiding his small frame and carrying a long spear that towered well above his head. “He must’ve come by skiff-the breeze is right-and summoned all he met along the way.”

  “A most resourceful child,” Imsiba grinned.

  Spurred on by the boy’s ingenuity, Bak forgot his aching muscles and heaving chest. He ran full tilt, Imsiba by his side. Hearing their pounding feet, Userhet glanced around and saw how close they were. He dropped the rope, grabbed a bow and quiver lying on top of the load he had been pulling, and ran, abandoning the sledge.

  Imsiba pulled an arrow from his quiver and armed his bow. But he hesitated to shoot, fearing he would miss the man they chased and strike one of the farmers along the arc of trees.

  Bak veered around the sledge, glimpsing as he passed sealed jars and lumpy bags-and no uncut elephant tusk.

  He sped on, too occupied by the chase to dwell on the knowledge. Userhet put on a burst of speed, following a course roughly parallel to the water’s edge. He constantly looked to his left, studying the human barricade in search of a weak spot. The farmers held their places, watching, waiting.

  Userhet swerved suddenly, striking off toward the desert.

  The people closest to him looked at each other, nodded their satisfaction, let down their guard. Abruptly he swung back and darted toward a girl holding a knife. He struck her hard with his shoulder, sending her flying, and ducked in among the trees.

  Bak raced through the crumbling wall of people, who were too stunned to react to Userhet’s swift passage, and plunged through a patch of dying foliage downstream of the point where the overseer had vanished. Clearing the spindly branches, he found himself ankle-deep in floodwater, with a lush stand of reeds rising from the depths three or four paces farther out, marking the normal shoreline during low water. About fifteen paces to his left, he glimpsed a small skiff half-hidden by reeds. The sound of splashing drew his attention to Userhet, wading knee-deep along the reed bed twenty or so paces to the right. He spotted Bak, jerked an arrow from the quiver, and raised the bow. Angling the weapon to keep it dry, he seated the missile and drew the string taut.

  Bak swung his shield up and ducked sideways. The arrow struck the wooden frame and dropped into the water.

  Glimpsing Userhet seating a second missile, he dived in among the reeds. Dirt swirled up from the bottom, clouding water that reached to his waist. The long, tough stems grabbed his spear and shield, entangling them. He freed the spear, though the weapon was close to useless in the thick tangle of vegetation.

  A man with a scythe peered out from among the trees. Userhet swung the bow toward the new target, and the farmer slipped out of sight. The overseer swung back and released the arrow, which thunked into the shield, piercing the cowhide half a hand’s breadth from the grip. Bak jerked his hand away and ducked lower. A third arrow and a fourth struck within moments of each other, forcing the shield deeper into the thicket.

  With Userhet’s attention diverted to the shield, Bak decided the time had come to even the odds a bit. The spear would hamper his mission, so he found a suitable spot an arm’s length from where he stood and rammed the point into the mud, letting the shaft rise among the tall reeds. Visible to him, invisible to anyone unaware of its presence. Near enough to the shallows that he could reach it should he need it.

  Crouching low, he struck off for deeper water, slipping through the reeds, trying not to set their crowns to waving any more than normal in the breeze. The mud squished up between his toes, a root caught at an ankle, tiny water creatures tickled his legs. He edged past the last of the reeds, the bottom fell away, and he was in open water. An arrow sped past his head so close he heard its whisper. He dived beneath the surface.

  A dozen swift strokes propelled him to Userhet’s skiff.

  Taking care to keep his head down, he waded in among the reeds and alongside to the prow. An arrow sped over him, slicing through the vegetation and into the water. He crouched lower. A second missile thudded into the skiff, a hairsbreadth from his face. He ducked beneath the prow and came up on the far side, placing the skiff between himself and Userhet. Pulling his dagger free, he sawed through the rope holding the boat in place. He hated to release it-it looked to be a fine vessel-but he dared not leave it for Userhet. Clinging to the skiff, using it as a shield, he walked it out to deep water. A final hard shove sent the boat into the current, its prow swung around, and it floated downstream.

  “Spawn of Set!” Userhet bellowed, and he fired off an arrow that sped across the water’s surface an arm’s length from Bak’s head.

  Bak spotted Imsiba standing in the shallows some distance beyond Userhet, bow in hand. Men, women, and children, half-hidden among the branches, stood all along the shore, watching the contest. They barred the overseer from the open desert, but they also prevented Imsiba from using his weapon.

  “Give up, Userhet!” Bak called.

  “Never!”

  With a defiant sneer, the overseer waded downstream, 264 / Lauren Haney keeping close to the reeds and far enough from the farmers to evade a sudden attack. His golden flesh gleamed in the last rays of the setting sun. It took Bak a moment to realize he was hea
ding toward the shield-and the spear he must have spotted among the reeds.

  Bak drew in air, dived underwater, and sped upriver. He surfaced to look for the path he had made on his outbound journey through the thicket. Userhet fired off another arrow.

  The missile sliced through the flesh of Bak’s lower arm. The blood flowing from the shallow wound washed away when he dived once again. His feet struck bottom and he plunged headlong into the vague line of bent and broken reeds already falling back into place.

  Userhet saw him coming and dived toward the shield.

  Jerking it free, he slapped at the surrounding reeds, searching for the spear. Bak reached out, grabbed. He felt the cool, wet flesh of an arm, but lost it an instant later. Userhet ducked away and splashed back toward shallow water. Bak reached out a second time, and stumbled. His hand closed on Userhet’s bow. The overseer tried to hold onto the weapon, but Bak wrenched it away. Regaining his balance, he flung the bow, useless without arrows, toward the water beyond the reeds.

  Userhet looked around frantically for a weapon. He located Bak’s spear and jerked it from the mud where it stood. Bak ran at him, caught the weapon a hand’s breadth from the point. Userhet held the spear in both hands, twisting, jerking, trying to pull it free, while Bak held on with only a single hand. The wooden shaft was slick and muddy, hard to hang onto. Bak’s fingers slid along the wood; he could feel the sharpened edge of the blade against his wrist. He was close to losing the weapon and he knew it. He lunged forward and caught the shaft with his free hand.

  The two men stood facing each other, ankle deep in muck and tangled roots, holding the shaft vertically between them, the sharp blade at head level. They pulled and twisted and shoved. The long shaft caught among the roots, became entangled in reeds, making it hard to move in any useful way-almost as if it had taken on a life of its own.

  Userhet shoved the blade toward Bak’s face. Cursing the overseer, the weapon, the muck, Bak ducked backward and twisted the shaft. Userhet, his face grim and determined, his neck muscles taut with strain, forced the blade back toward his opponent’s face. Again Bak ducked backward. He could feel himself tiring, the muscles in his arms and legs aching, a reminder of the effort expended in digging open the tomb.

  He knew he must soon free the spear or Userhet’s greater store of strength would win the battle.

  Userhet must have sensed his opponent’s weakness. A stiff, mean smile touched his lips and abruptly he shoved the spear at Bak. Bak stumbled back, tripping on a root. Userhet pressed harder. Bak dropped to a knee, regaining his balance, and at the same time pulled the spear over his head-in the same direction Userhet was pushing. Stumbling forward, the overseer reached out to catch himself. Bak jerked the weapon away and scrambled backwards, giving himself room. Userhet, eyes blazing with fury charged. Bak struggled to his feet and, holding the weapon much too close to the blade, swung it up and around.

  The sharp spearpoint sliced across Userhet’s neck. He stood for a moment, spewing blood, then his knees buckled and he dropped. Bak, stunned by so quick an end to the chase, stared open-mouthed as Userhet’s life drained into the muck.

  Imsiba came splashing along the line of trees, followed close behind by several husky, young farmers. Collecting his wits, Bak knelt beside the body of a man he knew was lifeless.

  None could live with a neck severed so deeply, with only the spine and a bit of skin holding the head onto the body.

  The farmers sucked in their breaths, gaped.

  “The headless man,” Imsiba said in a hushed voice.

  Chapter Seventeen

  Outside the door of Thuty’s private reception room, the long shadows of early morning fell across the courtyard. A gray cat lay sprawled in the sun, tail whipping, eyes on a sparrow hopping among the branches of a potted acacia. Other than a man whistling in a distant room, the building was unusually quiet. The commandant’s concubine and children had moved to another house, making room for the vizier and viceroy and their aides. Half the servants had gone downstairs with Tiya to prepare the audience hall for the evening’s party, while the rest hovered nearby, ready to jump and fetch for their master’s illustrious guests.

  “The vizier has expressed great pleasure at Userhet’s death and the end of so large a smuggling operation.” Commandant Thuty leaned back in his armchair, a broad smile on his face, and looked up at the man standing before him. “I needn’t tell you how delighted I was to receive his praise.”

  “No, sir.” Recognition from on high was a rare commodity on the frontier, and Bak could well understand the commandant’s joy.

  “It’s a pity you found no elephant tusk. I’d like to know for a fact who was responsible for the one our envoy saw in Tyre. Was it Userhet? Or someone else? A man we’ve still to snare?”

  Bak could only shrug. “I believe Userhet guilty, but as yet I’ve found no proof.”

  “Need I remind you that as long as doubt remains, your men and Nebwa’s must continue to search all ships and caravans crossing the frontier?”

  “You can rest assured, sir, that I’ll leave no field unplowed in my quest for the truth.”

  Thuty must have heard the stiffness in his voice, for he studied the younger officer over pyramided fingers. “Believe it or not, Lieutenant, I don’t enjoy the task any more than you. Each time you detain a vessel, I get a multitude of complaints.”

  Thanks to Nebwa, Bak had sailed into Buhen late the previous day, standing on the deck of Wensu’s ship. The troop captain had commandeered a carpenter to repair the vessel’s rudder and sailors to row it to out of the Belly of Stones and downriver to Buhen. Finding the harbor filled to capacity with the vizier’s flotilla, they had moored the ship against the shore a short distance upriver. There they had offloaded the bodies of Userhet and Wensu and turned the Kushite sailors over to a contingent of Medjays. Imsiba had rushed off to see Sitamon. Mery had gone home. Bak and Nebwa had reported to the commandant. Now here he was again, filling in details. Or at least trying to.

  Thuty waved him onto a stool and ordered a passing servant, a pretty young woman who was sure to please the noble visitors, to bring them each a jar of beer. “You said the farmers came to your aid because Mery summoned them.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  Thuty eyed him critically. “He’s but a child, unknown outside the walls of this city. Why did they hasten from their homes to help him?”

  Bak shifted his weight on the stool, not sure how best to answer. The last thing he wanted was to remind Thuty of a subject that never failed to anger him. “Well, sir…”

  “I’ll talk to the boy. He’s earned my praise and more. But first I would hear the tale from you.”

  “You know how fast news spreads along the river.”

  Thuty gave him a sour look. “Spare me the facts of life, Lieutenant.”

  Bak felt the heat rush into his face. “The people living along that stretch of the river had no love for Wensu. He oft times demanded food and drink when they had barely enough to survive, and when the urge struck, he and his men took a wife or daughter as their own. As for the headless man…The people feared him, plain and simple.” Staring straight ahead, he went on doggedly, “On the other hand, they’d heard how lenient I was with Pahuro and the people of his village, and they’d heard of my kindness to the hunter Intef’s widow. I’d also made a promise to an old farmer in the area, Ahmose he’s called, but that I’ve yet to keep.”

  Thuty wove his fingers together across his hard, flat stomach and eyed Bak from beneath lowered brows. “I’ll not withdraw what I’ve said before, Lieutenant. I’m responsible for this garrison; therefore, I’m the man who must sit in judgment on all who err along this sector of the river.”

  Bak braced himself, expecting the worst.

  “That’s not to say my officers can’t now and again use their own discretion.” Thuty paused, added in a dry voice,

  “As you’ve done in the past, and will no doubt continue to do in days to come.”

 
Bowing his head, hiding a relieved smile, Bak murmured,

  “I’ll not abuse the privilege, that I promise.”

  “Humph!”

  Bak was still trying to decide how best to interpret so en-igmatic a sound when the servant returned. She handed each man an unplugged jar of beer and a drinking bowl and hastily departed, as if expecting at any time a summons from on high.

  Thuty filled his bowl, took a deep drink, and nodded his appreciation. “The vizier means to sit in my place in the audience hall tomorrow morning, listening to those who wish to make a supplication or air a complaint or ask for a judgment between one man and another.” Setting the jar on the small table by his elbow, he added in a voice as smooth as the finest linen, “I wish mistress Rennefer to go before him. Are you prepared to stand at her side and accuse her of attempted murder?”

  Bak gaped. “Yes, sir, but…”

  “As you know, Lieutenant, I’ve few duties as disagreeable as judging a woman like her. One who failed in her purpose, but clearly intended to upset the balance of right and order by taking her husband’s life.”

  Bak, who could practically see the commandant brushing his hands together, wiping away an unpleasant smear, smothered a smile. “Thirteen days have passed since I brought her to Buhen. Will the vizier not question your wisdom in waiting so long to judge her?”

  “He knows you’ve been busy, tracking that wretched Userhet.” Thuty peered at Bak over his drinking bowl. “You are nearly finished with him, aren’t you?”

  “My Medjays are even now searching his house, and an army of scribes is comparing the contents of each warehouse to the written inventory. I early on documented mistress Rennefer’s tale, so the effort will in no way hamper our appearance before the vizier.”

  “You’re a thorough man, Lieutenant.”

  “Userhet left his skiff with the officers’ skiffs, hiding it among its kind. I feel sure we’ll find contraband in one of the warehouses, laid out for all the world to see.” And if the gods smile on us, he thought, we’ll find in some secret place an uncut elephant tusk.