by Lauren Haney
"Don't talk like that, sir!" Kasaya, standing at the base of the sycamore tree, trying to lure the black monkey with a chunk of bread, threw him a worried look.- "Some malevolent genie might hear and turn your words around, bringing upon you the very misfortune you speak of."
"Oh?" Bak asked, eyebrow raised.
The young Medjay flushed. "I know you wish us to seek common everyday reasons for things that happen before we look to malign spirits as the cause. But here in Abu, with so many people slain ... Well. . ."
"The man who took those lives has a reason, one that may never make sense to us but is most compelling to him." "Who do you think used the sling, sir?" Psuro asked. "The archer? Did he survive the rapids after all?"
"I don't know." Bak leaned back against a boulder. "Its use puzzles me. It's not subtle, like those unwanted gifts, nor is it as direct as a bow and arrows."
Psuro gave him a wry grin. "I'd not call a bowl of scorpions subtle, sir."
Bak's laugh was quick, humorless. "Ingenious, then. I wasn't sure the insects were meant to kill, but I'm certain I was supposed to die in the water gauge." He stared at nothing, brows drawn together in thought. "If we leave out the archer's attempt to slay me with the bow, what do we have? A steady escalation from a small, harmless message to a serious attempt at murder."
"Another pattern," Psuro said. "What kind of man toys with his victims this way?"
Kasaya, lost by so complicated a thought, tore the soft white center out of the bread and began to press it into a ball. "Maybe the archer broke an arm when his skiff overturned. One arm's enough to use a sling."
"A possibility, I suppose. Or maybe my death in the water gauge was meant to resemble that of Sergeant Min-if the rumor Kames heard is based on fact." Bak watched the monkey working its way along a limb above the-young Medjay. "Psuro, you must go again to the garrison. See if you can find anyone who remembers Min. Look to those who would've remained behind, supplying the troops or serving their needs. Qhartermaster, armorers, and so on."
"Yes, sir."
"In the meantime, I want another look at the garrison daybooks. I glanced through them when first we came to Abu, and nothing struck me as being of importance. Perhaps today, with a more educated eye, I'll have better luck. And it occurred to me that the governor might also keep daybooks.
Djehuty was garrison commander, as was his father before him. As such, both were obliged to make daily entries. A habit once learned is not easy to set aside."
Kasaya, munching on the bread ball, patted his flat stomach and smiled. "A few more days in the governor's villa and..."
The monkey dropped out of the tree. It landed on his arm and grabbed for the hollow crust. The Medjay yelped, startled, and caught the creature by the neck. It squealed, terrified. Its little hands reached out for the bread, greed taking precedence over freedom. Laughing, Kasaya broke off a bit of crust and offered it. The monkey snatched it away and stuffed it into its mouth.
Psuro gave man and beast a disgusted look, then leaned back against the wall to study the landscape from which the rock must have been slung: the small walled mansion of the lady Satet, the much larger enclosed precinct of the lord Khnum, and houses crammed together in the space between, their walls pierced by a few windows too high and narrow for a sling to be used. Near the mansion of the lord Khnum, a lane opened onto the terrace, offering the women of Abu easy access to the public well.
Bak guessed what the Medjay was thinking.' "The whole time I was hanging from that vine, I expected my assailant to appear and finish what he'd started. If I'd given any thought to this area, I'd've known better. Standing at the lane, where he could see anyone coming and going, he could risk using the sling a time .or two, but he dared not approach the water gauge, where he'd draw attention to himself as well as to me."
"Whoever he is," Psuro said, impressed-in spite of himself, "he has the nerve of a god and the luck to go with it." Striding through the entry portal, Bak nodded to the neat and alert guard who manned the gatehouse. He was happy to see that the previous day's effort had made enough of an impression to last at least overnight. He walked on toward the governor's house, reluctant to go inside. The morning was pleasant, the intense heat of the inundation season dissipating as the season of planting began. He longed to go hunting in the desert or fowling in the marshes or sailing on the open river. Anything other than facing another day of this seemingly futile search. Seven days had passed since Hatnofer's death. He had to admit he had learned a great deal since then, yet he had no more idea now who the slayer was than he had had at the beginning. With only three days remaining, he needed divine intervention.
Smiling at the thought, at so unlikely an occurrence, he paused before the family shrine to look inside. No fresh flowers here, he noted, only an incense bowl long ago burned out, setting at the base of a red-painted statue similar to the one at Nebmose's villa. If no one bothered here, who was tending the shrine there?
Three men nearing their middle years came out of the governor's house, traders from the look of their sun-darkened skin, practical clothing, and mix of jewelry from Kemet and the lands to the south.
One, taller than his companions, raised a hand in greeting. "If you've come with a petition, sir, your luck's run out. Governor Djehuty's ailing today, unable to conduct an audience."
Not ailing, Bak thought, but malingering. Too fearful to show himself. "Did anyone say what the trouble was?" "He can't leave his bed, we were told. Other than that, nothing. I pray he feels better tomorrow. We've a contract dispute with a man from Swenet and need a decision before we set sail for the Belly of Stones."
"May the gods smile on you," Bak said, moving on. Twenty or so-men straggled out of the house, each displaying hope, patience, dismay, anger, or disappointment according to his temperament. By the time Bak entered the audience hall, the last of the petitioners had gone, as had the scribes who assisted the governor and his aide. Troop Captain Antef and Lieutenant Amonhotep stood at the foot of the empty dais. Their raised voices resonated through the high-ceilinged room. Bak stopped near the door, not wanting to intrude.
Antef glared at Amonhotep. "If he's not available to make decisions, what am I to do? Make them myself and face his wrath later?"
"You're assuming your decisions will differ from his," the aide said.
"They always do."
Amonhotep stood stiff and silent, his face troubled, strained. At last he gave the more senior officer a tight smile. "Ahight, I'll speak for him." He closed his eyes, drew in a breath, commanded, "Pull your troops out of the quarry. Give them a few days' rest. I'll .send a courier to Waset saying the next Osiris figure will arrive late. I'll give as the reason our shortage of professional stonecutters, and I'll ask for additional experienced men."
Bak guessed this was the first time the aide had made so important a decision without Djehuty's nod of agreement. In this case, a decision Djehuty would not condone.
Antef clapped the young officer on the shoulder. "Your talents are wasted, Lieutenant, on this thankless task you have."
Khawet came through the door near the dais. Smiling, she walked toward the two men. Bak, preferring not to be thought an eavesdropper, strode in among the columns, heading their way.
She spotted him. Her eyes widened and she gasped. "Lieutenant Bak!"
The two officers swung around, stared.
"By the lord Khnum!" Antef exclaimed. "What happened to you?"
Bak considered passing off his injuries as the result of an accident, but decided the time had come to be candid. "I was standing at the top of the water gauge when I was struck in the back by a hard-flung stone. Fortunately, the lord Amon smiled on me, and I managed not to fall down the stairway."
Amonhotep muttered an oath. "Who would do such a thing?"
"The slayer." Antef's eyes narrowed. "Are you so close on his heels?"
Khawet's eyes were wide, horrified. "You didn't see anyone?"
"I assume the slayer struck, yes." Bak's eyes d
arted from Antef to Khawet. "And I saw no one."
"So you're to be the next to die while Djehuty lives on." Though seeming to joke, Antef looked none too happy at the prospect.
"Would the man you seek disrupt the pattern you found in the other slayings?" Looking chagrined at himself, Amonhotep answered his own question. "Of course he would, if threatened."
Antef gave Bak a cynical smile. "I'd better lend you a few spearmen as personal guards. Think of the impression you'll make. Lieutenant Bak and his retinue, marching through the streets of Abu and Swenet." The door near the dais opened, drawing the officer's eyes to Ineni, who stood on the threshold. For the newcomer's benefit, Antef added, "A dozen or more men marching down the halls of this villa and across the fields of Djehuty's estate in Nubt."
Ineni's eyes flashed anger, but instead of taking the bait, he backed up and let the door close between them. Bak hurried around the dais and followed him through the door. Ineni was some distance ahead, his hands balled into fists, walking rapidly toward the rear of the house.
Bak caught up with him outside, at the gate leading to the kitchen area. "Ineni, we must talk."
The farmer swung around, prepared to lash out in anger, but the bandages subdued him. "What happened to you?" His tone was grudging, like that of a man obliged to be civil.
Bak told him, then blurted, "Are your horses safe and well?"
The question was unexpected-to Bak as well as Ineni. Their eyes met in mutual understanding. They exchanged a conspiratorial smile.
"They are." Ineni glanced toward the house. The windows of the upper story were too high for a man inside to look through, but he grimaced, as if he thought Djehuty was watching. "Let's leave this place. Nebmose's villa should offer privacy."
Bak closed the gate behind them and they walked side-by-side across the barren sand in front of the kitchen. "When I saw you'd returned from Nubt, I thought maybe you and your father had reconciled your differences."
Ineni's voice grew caustic. "I went up to his rooms, but he wouldn't let me near him."
"He's banned everyone: the servants and guards, his staff, all except Amonhotep and Khawet. I saw him yesterday, but would he allow me close today?" Bak shrugged, instantly regretting the sudden movement. "Who knows?"
"He's never behaved well in a crisis, but this time. . ." Ineni snorted. "I ofttimes think we'd all have been better off if you'd never come to Abu, if you'd never pointed out that wretched pattern in the earlier slayings and the obvious goal at the end."
"The slayer's intent was to frighten him before striking in earnest. If I hadn't noticed the pattern, he'd have found another way to make your father see it." Not an easy task, Bak thought, considering Djehuty's proficiency in closing his heart to any truth he would rather not see.
They passed through the gateway to Nebmose's villa and sat on a mudbrick bench shaded by the stable. A flock of pigeons had settled on the sunny roof. The throaty cooing of mating birds softened the silence of the empty building.
Bak leaned back against the wall and stretched out his legs. "I've heard Djehuty plans to disinherit you-or has he already?"
"He'll let no one near him. Remember?" Ineni's smile dripped irony. "Before they were banned from his rooms, Amethu and Simut repeatedly told him he dared not drive me from the --state in Nubt, for it needs my guiding hand. Amonhotep has denied all knowledge of procedures he knows as well or better than anyone in the province. As for Khawet ... Well, she's too busy playing mistress of the villa to concern herself with mundane matters like her husband's loss of his life's work."
"The daybooks." Simut pointed to several rows of shelves on which lay dozens of storage jars, most of them plugged and sealed. "You've been here before and know your way around, so I'll leave you to seek out what you want. I must finish that wretched inventory. My scribes are needed elsewhere."
Bak felt honored. Never before had a chief scribe trusted him to go through his precious records alone and unwatched. "I'll return each document to its proper place, never fear."
"I suggest you do," Simut said, hurrying from the room. Bak did not know whether to take the words as a threat or a jest. Best assume both, he thought, lifting the lamp off the tripod. Holding the light close, he moved along, the ranks of jars, reading labels inked on their shoulders. He soon found the container he wanted, labeled year five of the reign of Maatkare Hatshepsut, harvest season. Returning the lamp to the tripod; he broke the plug on the jar, found the daybook whose entries should include the deadly storm and, holding it near the light, began to unroll the scroll and read.
The storm had arisen in the desert, missing Abu and Swenet altogether, so no mention was made until the survivors began straggling in, first Troop Captain Djehuty and Sergeant Min and then the rest, one or two at a time. No mention was made of Sergeant Min leaving Abu. Not surprising. A soldier's departure for a new post would be entered in the garrison daybooks, not necessarily this one.
He read on, day after day, paying particular attention to the governor's audiences. The entries were clean and neat,. with no one porting a finger at Djehuty or anyone else for the loss of so many men. The governor was, of course, Djehuty's father.
Slightly more than a month after the storm, the old man's death was noted and Djehuty himself sat on the dais. A week or so later, a brief note referred to the death at some earlier date of a nobleman named Nebmose. No kin had laid claim to his property, so Djehuty had confiscated for the royal house the adjoining villa and a good-sized plot of farmland at the north end of the island of Abu. Property of considerable value, Bak realized. Another, later entry mentioned Ineni's adoption contract and the marriage contract between him and Khawet.
Replacing the document in the proper container, he carried the lamp to another shelf and more recent daybooks. The jars here had not yet been sealed, making the scrolls more accessible. "Year ten of the reign of Maatkare Hatshepsut," he murmured, glancing at the dates, seeking first the daybook in which the murder of the child Nakht would be noted. "Here it is: fourth month of the inundation season."
He found mention of the boy's death, which was dismissed as an accident. So was Montu's death the following week. Senmut was slain plain and simple, and so it had been noted, the blame laid at the feet of a wandering band of desert tribesmen out to steal what they could find. Four days later, a tax inspector and several scribes had arrived from the capital. Djehuty had greeted them with appropriate ceremony and had entertained them in his home that evening. Early the following morning, the chief scribe Simut had accompanied the inspector north. Their mission was to estimate the size of the coming year's crop based on the amount of land that could be placed under cultivation after the floodwaters receded.
Bak read on, alert for Simut's return. Lieutenant Dedi's death was noted, another accident, so the daybook said. Two days later, Simut came back alone, his assistance no longer needed as the inspector had moved on to the next province. Hiding a smile, Bak glanced over the edge of the scroll at the short, rotund man sitting before the scribes who toiled at his behest. Unless the slayer was two men instead of onewhich he firmly doubted-Simut had slain no one. He had been somewhbre north of Abu with the tax inspector when Dedi was slain. Delighted by the discovery, he thanked the lord Amon-not only for the chief scribe's sake, but for his own: he could finally strike one man from his list of suspects.
Bak had found in the past that seeking out people's whereabouts during a crime was time-consuming and as often as not unsatisfactory, but he had clearly been proven wrong in this case. With luck, the garrison daybooks would be equally enlightening. At the very least, they should tell him where Antef had been during the murders.
Bak walked out the rear door of the villa, deep in thought. "Out!" The voice was Khawet's, loud and angry. "Take that creature and go! And don't come back!"
Wondering what the fuss was, eager to help if he could, Bak ran along the line of granaries. He paused at the gate, seeing no one, and looked across the bare patch of sand toward the ki
tchen. The woven mat covering the door flew up and Kasaya burst out. He cradled the whimpering monkey close in his arms as if sheltering it from assault. A whitish powder was sprinkled down the Medjay's chest and legs. The animal's black fur was matted with some sticky substance clotted in places with white.
Kasaya spotted Bak, gave him a look of naked relief. Khawet plunged through the door behind him, holding her skirt high for greater freedom of movement and clutching a long, slim pot as a man would brandish a club. Her cheeks were pink, her hair disheveled, her voice shaking with anger. "You're nothing but trouble, Kasaya, flirting shamelessly, causing dissension among the women of my household. Now you bring that monkey into our kitchen! How could you?" The Medjay looked wildly over his shoulder at his pursuer. "Sir! I didn't mean any harm! I didn't!"
"Lieutenant!" Khawet slowed, let her skirt fall, and lowered the jar. "For close on a week I've let this ... This imbecile! ... spend his days in my household, prying into our affairs, getting underfoot when my servants are busy, stuffing himself with our food. Even using my female servants as a sexual diversion. Now he's gone too far. I want him out. I want him out now!"
"What did he do?" Bak demanded, trying not to look at Kasaya, trying not to laugh.
Kasaya threw him a pleading look. "I was just..."
"He brought that creature into my kitchen!" Khawet shook her finger at the monkey and glared. "While he dallied with the women who toil there, he let it gorge itself on honey and melon and swcetcakes. If that wasn't bad enough, he let it play in our fresh-ground flour and our dried beans and peas. We'll never get the mess cleaned up!"
"I tied him to a stool." Kasaya looked at Bak, and his voice turned from defensive to pleading. "How did I know he could untie knots?"
Swallowing laughter, hoping he looked suitably stem, Bak swung the gate open and beckoned him through. "Go to the river and wash yourself." The furry delinquent, he saw, was clinging to Kasaya's thumb like a baby to its mother's finger. He had not the heart to order it back into the sycamore tree. "Clean up the monkey, too. I'll see you both in our quarters later today."
