A Vile Justice

by Lauren Haney

  Bak slipped his dagger from its sheath, took a deep but quiet breath, and sidled through the passage, keeping his back to the wall. At the end, he peeked into a rectangular chamber, its ceiling supported by six square columns. Nothing stirred in the near-dark hall. A few silent steps took him to a handsome granite offering table laden with a braised pigeon, onions, cucumbers, and dates, along with a bouquet of white lilies and a pottery bowl holding the burning incense. The perfumed smoke was cloying, overwhelming the sweeter odor of the flowers and the tantalizing scent of the bird.

  The vague light drew him up a low flight of steps at the rear of the hall and into a corridor where six niches, three on either side, framed rock-cut, painted figures of the deceased as one with Osiris, the lord of the netherworld. In the gloom, deep shadows hovered around the dark, shrouded figures. They and the heavy smell of incense made the corridor seem a passageway to death. Bak crept along on silent feet, chilled by the thought.

  He paused at the end of the corridor, where the light was brighter. In the chamber ahead, he heard the faint whisper of a burning torch and sensed the presence of another individual. Khawet, he felt sure. Dagger in hand, he held the shield before him and took a cautious step forward. He found himself in a room too small for the four square columns that provided surfaces for drawings of the deceased, figures illuminated by the leaping flame of a torch. Khawet stepped into view at the rear, holding the light aloft, her back to a niche containing lightly carved paintings of a man and his family, her ancestors Bak assumed.

  "Stay where you are, Lieutenant. I'll not let you lay hands on me." The long-handled torch, the kind carried by town guards assigned to night patrol, burned close to the ceiling. The angle of light turned the planes of her face hard and unyielding, matching her voice.

  "You can't escape, mistress Khawet."

  "I've done nothing worthy of condemnation. I've simply been a tool of the lady Maat, balancing the scales of justice." Her smile turned smug, irritating. "As you are."

  "I've not spent the past days tracking you down only to let you slip through my fingers."

  "You've earned a reward of sorts, that I concede." Her eyes flashed determination. "But you'll not have it at my expense."

  He stepped forward, between the first pair of columns. She swung the torch down, pointing the flame along the central aisle, holding him off. He had to overpower her, but how? The chamber was so small and the columns were so large, there was not much room to maneuver. Even his spear would have been impossible to use in so confined a space.

  "Nor will you reach your goal," he said, taunting her. "Your father still lives." Maybe.

  She blinked, taken aback, but not for long. "I gave him twice the amount of poison needed to slay a man. He'll not survive the day."

  He took a short and careful step forward. She thrust the flame toward him, forcing him back.

  "What did he do to make you hate him so?" he asked. "Why slay all the others as well?"

  "Oh, come now, Lieutenant! You spent all morning questioning Amethu and Simut. Don't try to convince me you don't know Nebmose was my beloved, my betrothed. The one man who touched me as no other will."

  The torch, as long as Khawet's arm, could not be easy to hold, thrust out the way it was. She was a strong womanher use of the sling had proven that-but how long could she continue to grasp the thing at such an ungainly angle?

  "I know of your feelings for him, yes, and I know he was one of the many who failed to return from that deadly sandstorm five years ago."

  "Do you also know that some men survived at the expense of others? They found a safe haven and turned away all who wished to share their good fortune."

  "I heard a tale, yes." Bak spoke with care, refusing to admit a man still lived who had sheltered in that haven. Khawet had followed her pattern slavishly-until today. He had no wish to sacrifice User should she somehow manage to escape and go after the one man she had missed in her reign of vengeance.

  "They turned Nebmose away," she said bitterly, "forcing him to go on in the face of the storm."

  Bak stepped forward once more. As before, she thrust the torch toward him, forcing him back. If she had been holding him at bay with any ordinary weapon, a spear, for example,

  he would have grabbed it and twisted it from her hand, but not this fiery standard.

  "How do you know this?" he demanded. "Did Sergeant Senmut tell Sergeant Min, who confided in mistress Hatnofer?"

  She bowed her head, acknowledging the guess. "Senmut was born a braggart, and Min could keep nothing from Hatnofer."

  "Your father found shelter somewhere else," he pointed out, "not with Senmut and the others."

  "He and Min did, yes. And they found a donkey laden with food and water." She paused, added with a sneer, "Enough to sustain three men with ease."

  "Nebmose came upon them," Bak guessed, "and did they also turn him away?"

  "The shelter they'd found was- small, an overhanging boulder with a ridge of sand in front, forming an alcove. Min refused to put the donkey out, refused to make space for Nebmose. According to Hatnofer, he laughed, saying a dumb beast was of more value than a lieutenant. They fought. Min, much the stronger of the two, felled Nebmose and. . ." Her voice wavered. "And my father thrust a knife in his back."

  Bak was not surprised by the gravity of Djehuty's offense, only by its pointlessness. A man afraid to die, slaying one who was already down. And him a nobleman. No wonder the governor had refused to divulge his secret. The tale showed him up for what he was: a coward and a murderer, unworthy to sit in a seat of power. One who should have been taken before the vizier and been made to account for his crime. Or crimes.

  No wonder he had closed Nebmose's house to all but temporary guests. No wonder he had ordered Ineni to move the horses to the estate in Nubt. Both dwelling and animals must have mocked him, reminding hire always of his weak and despicable behavior. The house, he had made into a lifeless shell. The horses, long out of sight and deliberately forgotten, he had ordered traded away when Bak began asking questions.

  "Min vanished from Abu five years ago," he said. "Hatnofer surely knew all along what he and your father did. Why did you wait until now to seek retribution?"

  "She'd vowed not to say a word, and she didn't. Even when Min failed to summon her to his new post, breaking her heart, she kept her word." A humorless smile touched her lips. "Until one day, about two months ago." The smile grew to a soft, cynical laugh. "That's. when she and my father quarreled. He burst out with the truth, taunting her, admitting he and Min had argued and the sergeant had fallen into the water gauge, where he cracked his head open and died"

  "What really happened? Did Min demand a reward for his silence, and Djehuty could see no end to the levy?" "So Hatnofer believed." Khawet raised the heavy torch, bending her arm at the elbow for relief. "She was convinced he slew Min to get him out of the way for good, and she was too angry to remain silent. So she came to me with the tale. I could've slain my father then and there-I wanted to-but I wanted more to make him suffer. So I thought of a way, the patterns you were so quick to see."

  Bak noted the sign of weariness. He took a quick step forward, forcing her again to thrust out the torch. As she expected him to, he backed off, but less than half the distance he had shifted forward. "What if Djehuty had failed to see your purpose?"

  "My father's not a stupid man, Lieutenant. He saw." She sneered. "He pretended he didn't, but he did."

  "Why slay Hatnofer?" He inched forward, stopped. "Was she not your ally?"

  "Was I to place myself in her hands as my father had put himself in Min's?" Her laugh was sharp, hard. "No. Nor did I initially intend to slay her. She'd served my family well, and I was rather fond of her. But she guessed what I was up to, and she had to die. Fortunately, the timing was good and her death fitted into the pattern."

  He took a slow, careful step forward "If you hadn't slain

  her, who would've died in her place? Lieutenant Amonhotep?"

 
"He did no wrong." She spoke as if she could hardly credit Bak with so ridiculous a question. "He, too, would've been turned away to die in the storm if he'd followed Nebmose's path." She formed a cruel smile. "No. I planned to slay my father next."

  Bak gave her a surprised look. "You would've taken his life the day I arrived?"

  "Why not? You were new to Abu, a frontier policeman. A man praised by the vizier for stumbling upon a smuggling operation. One of limited imagination and skill." She gave an ironic laugh. "Or so I thought."

  "That's why you left those unwanted gifts on my doorstep?"

  "By then, you'd spotted the patterns to the slayings and I no longer underestimated you." A smile flitted across her face. "I wasn't sure I could frighten you off, but I thought it worth a try. And I wished also to tease you."

  He thought her arm trembled, but so slightly he could not be sure. He took another slow step forward. "You must've been disappointed when we moved to Swenet. Or had you delivered all your messages?"

  "I thought one more after my father's death, his baton of office perhaps." Her voice turned cool, no longer playful. "Now you've forced my hand a day early, making me act out of necessity, not according to plan."

  "With us so close behind, why did you take the time to come here?"

  "I wanted to make one last offering to Sarenput, to seek his aid should I live or die."

  "Why take so,great a risk? I see by the inscriptions that he's not the ancestor your father so greatly values, that he lived a generation or so later."

  "During the reign of Nubkaure Amonemhet," she said with a nod. "This man and his wife were Nebmose's ancestors as well as mine. My betrothed and I were of the same blood, you see, destined to be together through eternity."

  Bak realized she did not care if she lived or died. If she could get away free and clear, she would do so, but death was equally acceptable. "You surely don't expect to join your beloved in the Field of Reeds after all you've done to tilt the scales of justice."

  Her eyes flashed anger. "I've punished where punishment was due, Lieutenant, balancing the scales, not tilting them." Seeing her distracted, he leaped forward, swinging his shield, thrusting aside the torch. Her hand struck the pillar to her right, the fiery staff sent sparks racing up the painted figure of Sarenput. Fire licked the cowhide shield, singeing the hair, giving off an odor sharper than the incense. Bak lunged at her, going in low, thinking to shove her into the niche at the back of the chamber, where she would have no space to move. As agile as a cat, she freed the torch, ducked away from the niche, and slipped behind the nearest column.

  "Leave me in peace, Lieutenant. I've slain no one who didn't deserve to die. What purpose will it serve to stand me before. . ." She gave him an ironic smile. "Before who? My father metes out justice in this province, and he's a dead man.

  Bak had had enough. Her conviction that she had done no wrong was an abomination. "Did the child Nakht deserve death? Or Lieutenant Dedi?" He snorted, making his contempt clear, hoping to goad her into a rash act. "Both were innocent of Nebmose's death, probably had no idea how he died. You slew the boy because he was easy prey, the officer because you didn't have to stand up to him. The horse took his life for you."

  Incensed by his disparagement, she leaped out from behind the pillar, raised the torch high, and swung it at his head. Fire spewed. He parried the blow with the shield and lunged at her. She ducked around the next column and darted into the niche-lined corridor. Sparks flew behind her racing figure, tiny stars pricking the swathed images of Osiris. Bak chased after her, dagger in hand. He had never used a weapon to fell a woman and was not sure he could bring himself to do so. A weakness he had no intention of letting her know.

  He caught up in the larger columned court. As he was about to grab her, she swung around, the flame traveling with her in an arc. He ducked back, narrowly missed being scorched, the heat so close he felt it pass his face. She stood in the central aisle, her back to the exit, holding the torch toward him as before, keeping him at a distance. Her breathing was quick, harsh, her smile tight. He stood facing her, close enough to pose a threat, far enough to leap away, his body shielded, dagger poised for use. His weapon was the more deadly of the two, but hers allowed a longer reach. If only he had his spear! It would make all the difference.

  They stood there for some time, catching their breath, each seeking an edge over the other, neither able to find a breach in the enemy's defense.

  Determined to break the stalemate, Bak displayed the dagger, letting the light play on its blade, and took a step toward her. She thrust the flame his way. Teeth clenched tight with determination, he took another step forward. Feinting a thrust at his head, she lunged off to the side, slipped the torch past the shield, and brought it down hard on his hand. He ducked too late. Fire seared his fingers. The dagger flew into the shadows.

  Driven by a sudden look of exultation on Khawet's face, Bak leaped at her, swinging the shield to shove the torch aside, and grabbed the arm holding the fiery brand. They struggled for possession. She clung as if her life depended on it-as it did. He squeezed her wrist, felt her fingers give, and jerked the torch away. He swung her around with her back to him, meaning to shove her arm high up between her shoulder blades. She twisted free and ran.

  He raced after her, no more than two steps behind. She cleared the last pair of pillars and darted into the entrance passage. He grabbed for her, felt her linen shift beneath his fingers, but she was too far ahead to catch. She darted out onto the sunlit terrace. He followed her through the passage, raced into the light, lost much of his vision. Flinging the

  shield to his left, the torch to his right, he leaped at her in a flying tackle. His arms went around her waist, his momentum carried them forward. He glimpsed something passing beneath them, the low wall along the terrace. Khawet screamed, and they fell forward.

  He released her, giving them both the freedom to save themselves, and tumbled into the sand beyond the wall. He struck with a good solid thump that jarred his shoulder. The steep slope grabbed him; the loose, slippery sand carried him down. Face forward, chest in the sand, he slid out of control toward the base of the hill. Like a sledge, he thought, broken loose and hurtling unrestrained

  He remembered the boulders below, pictured himself ending his flight against one, bones broken, body battered. Keeping mouth and eyes tightly shut, he flailed out with his arms and legs, trying to slow himself and turn over. The bandages peeled off his torso and arm, the sand dislodged the fresh scab from the wound on his side, his skin burned. Grit collected in his hair and burrowed beneath his kilt. With a mighty heave, he rolled over onto his back and swung his body around, feet formost. He half sat up, saw a boulder not far ahead, dug in his elbows and heels. His speed began to drop.

  He smashed into the boulder feetfirst. One knee came up hard under his chin, making his head spin, his world turn dark.

  "Lieutenant Bak! Sir! Are you ahight?"

  He came to his senses flat on his back, his legs buckled up between him and the boulder. Opening scratchy eyes, he looked in the direction from which the voice had come. Kasaya was half running, half sliding diagonally down the slope. The tracks he left behind came from midway up the staircase Bak had climbed, betraying the Medjay's failure to obey orders.

  Bak's thoughts flew to the terrace, the plunge over the parapet, the prisoner he had caught and released. Khawet! Where was she? Slowly, carefully, straightening his legs one at a time, checking for breaks and finding none, he pushed himself away from the boulder and hauled himself into a sitting position. She lay a few paces to his right, partly on her side, facing away, unmoving. She must have struck a boulder even harder than he.

  "Sir!" With barely a glance at Khawet, Kasaya dropped shield and weapons in the sand and knelt beside Bak. He stared at the bedraggled bandage, the newly reopened and bleeding wound, the burned hand, the skin scraped red and raw. His face clouded over. "Do you think ... Can you stand up, sir? Can you walk?"

  Bak formed
a crooked smile. "It's not as bad as it looks, Kasaya. Help me up and let's see to mistress Khawet." The big Medjay offered an arm and, as gentle as if he held a new-hatched duckling, lifted his superior to his feet. Bak stood- quite still, letting a wave of dizziness pass, while Kasaya picked up the shield and two spears.

  He offered one of the weapons to Bak. "Your spear, sir." Bak stared, taken aback. "This is the reason you climbed the stairs?"

  "I know you told me not to go up there, sir, but..." Kasaya shifted his feet, flushed. "I thought you might need it."

  Bak bit back a laugh. Of all the understatements he had heard, that was the best, or worst.

  They walked to the woman crumpled on the sand and knelt beside her. Bak knew the instant he saw the pallor of her face that she was badly injured. He took her shoulder, damp from exertion and gritty from the tumble downhill, and rolled her onto her back, taking care not to hurt her further. Her body was limp, her head lying at an impossible angle. He felt for the pulse of life, found none. She was dead, her neck broken.

  Chapter Eighteen

  What a waste, Bak thought, his eyes on the prone form lying in the bottom of the skiff. The body was covered with a length of rough linen the farmer had given them in exchange for a spear. Who shoulders more blame? he wondered. Djehutyfor stealing away all she held dear? Or Khawet because she would not accept Ineni and leave her father's house for a new life, as was right and proper?

  "Do you think the governor still lives?" Psuro asked Bak shrugged. "The physician said he stood on the brink of the netherworld." He glanced to the west, where the lord Re was clinging to the day, his golden orb hovering above the row of tawny, sand-draped hills that overlooked Abu, including the hill that had taken Khawet's life. "By now, the gods will surely have decided his fate."

  Kasaya adjusted the braces, spilling much of the breeze from the sail, slowing the vessel's approach to the landingplace below the governor's villa "I'd not like to go home to Buhen thinking we failed in our mission and let him die, but would it not be easier than taking him to Waset to stand before the vizier and seeing him die anyway, accused as a slayer?"