"Why would a man use a bow and arrow at midday and go back to a more insidious threat that same evening?" Bak, his forearms resting on either side of the prow, scanned the unfamiliar waters ahead of the skiff, searching for rocks lying beneath the surface, awaiting a lapse of attention. "I don't understand."
Psuro sat farther back, manning the sail. "Are you sure he meant to slay you, sir? His arrows never once came close, you said."
"I'm not certain of anything," Bak grumbled. He was firmly convinced someone had set out to slay him, but to argue the matter with Psuro was futile. The stocky Medjay was a good man, but he was not Imsiba. Bak needed the sergeant's ear, his common sense arguments that sent Bak's thoughts down untraveled paths.
"There's the island where we're to meet User," Psuro said, pointing. "The place of inscriptions."
Bak eyed the patch of land rising from the river some distance ahead, an outcrop of granite larger than Abu and as stubbornly resistant to erosion. Acacias and tamarisks lined the water's edge, while mounded boulders, their surfaces blackened by time, rose above a blanket of yellow sand too sterile to support much life. He was not impressed.
Rising to his feet, he turned around to study the river behind them, as he often had since their departure from Abu. Among the many islands through which they had threaded their way, bits and pieces of ships darted into and out of sight, as if playing the child's game of hide-and-seek. He glimpsed mastheads, portions of sails, sometimes a fully rigged craft that vanished in the blink of an eye behind islands crowned with vegetation or massive clumps of boulders devoid of foliage. Distance shrunk the vessels, light and heat waves distorted them, preventing him from identifying any one boat that might have remained behind them all along. He did not think anyone was following, but he could not be sure.
"According to Pahared," Psuro said, "we'll find a multitude of writings left on the rocks from ancient times." "Rapids to the right," Bak warned, spotting a stretch of foaming water.
A minute adjustment of the braces eased the vessel left. The stiff breeze sped them southward, making light of the northbound current. With their sail fully ballooned, the water whispering beneath the hull, they sped past the eddy and through an irregular row of islets guarding their approach to the island: a channel separating the rocky barrier from the east bank of the river. Patches of froth warned of hidden hazards. The chill of night had passed, and the warm breath of the lord Khepre, the morning sun, had lifted the mist from the water. Birds wheeled overhead, riding the air currents in lazy circles, ready to dive at any fish foolhardy enough to rise to the surface.
"The patterns I spotted the day we arrived in Abu point to a solitary slayer having a single reason for his actions," Bak said, thinking aloud. "If I weren't so sure of that, I'd suspect a second man fired those arrows yesterday."
"Anything's possible, I suppose," Psuro said doubtfully. Bak scowled at the channel ahead. Imsiba, too, would have doubts, he thought, but he would have alternate suggestions as well.
They raced up the channel, following a small, stout cargo vessel riding low beneath a heavy load of plump sacks he assumed were filled with grain. To their right, a tall, steep ridge strewn with boulders rose from the island. On the east bank, a mudbrick village nestled beside a small bay edged with sycamores, palms, and acacias. Spindly lean-tos shaded a thriving market along the shore. The vessel ahead swung into the bay to merge with a fleet of skiffs whose masters had brought produce for trade. Psuro adjusted the sail, veering in the opposite direction toward the island.
"What rank did User hold when his unit was besieged by the storm?" Bak asked, his eyes on the approaching shore. "Spearman." Psuro spilled air from the sail, cutting their speed "He was a raw recruit, a youth not long off the farm, having no experience in warfare."
"That looks a good place to land." Bak pointed toward a stretch of sandy beach near the southern end of the ridge. "We're to meet him at the shrine of the lady Anket." The goddess, along with the lord Khnum and the lady Satet, served as a guardian of the source of the great river on which they sailed. "He came close to walking with the gods, he told me. He was the last to come back from the desert, and if he hadn't been found by a boy searching for a stray goat, he'd have died less than an hour's walk from the river." They neared the shore and Psuro let the upper yard fall. Bak leaped overboard before the current could drag them backward and towed the vessel into shallow water. Psuro scrambled out, and together they pulled the boat onto the beach. The island looked peaceful enough, deserted even, and they both wore sheathed daggers at their waists, but with an intruder leaving threatening gifts in their quarters and an archer lurking about, they opted to arm themselves with the spears and shields they had brought from Abu.
They trudged up a short incline blanketed with sand and walked alongside the ridge, a steep jumble of boulders streaked with bird droppings. Bak's eyes strayed to the inscriptions, and his footsteps slowed. He glimpsed messages of kings returning victorious from battles fought far to the south, reminders of proud noblemen leading caravans laden with exotic and priceless trade goods, and records of accomplishments of a more practical nature, such as the digging of a well on a remote desert track.
"Did User say how he managed to survive the storm?" "He was in too great a hurry to leave Abu." Psuro. glanced around, searching for the man they had come to see. "He did say he was so happy to see the river he wanted forevermore to surround himself with water. Now he lives on an island where he can get a drink or go for a swim at any time, day or night."
"If his island is anything like this, he's made a bargain with the lord Set."
Set was a god representing evil and violence, patron of deserts and foreign lands. The sun was indeed ferocious, beating down unrelieved, making the sand so hot it burned their feet. The breeze did nothing to relieve the heat, merely set their teeth on edge as it passed among the boulders, whispering a soft and lonely refrain.
They plodded around the southern end of the ridge, between it and a second, smaller mound. Near the upstream tip of the island, drawn well out of the water and half hidden in a "clump of wispy tamarisks, they spotted an empty skiff. User's vessel, they assumed. Walking on, they found on the west side of the ridge a modest sandstone shrine surrounded by a decrepit mudbrick wall. The building looked across a swath of sand toward a fairly broad channel down which a canal had been cut through the rapids many generations earlier, a great feat for its time but now blocked with boulders and impossible to use.
Thinking to find User inside the shrine, they walked through the open gate and crossed the sand to the building. The door stood open, admitting light to a transverse chamber with three small, dark rooms at the back. Except for the one in the center, which contained a red granite pedestal which would support the wooden shrine of the lady Anket when she traveled upstream from Abu to greet. the rising floodwaters, the building was empty.
Leaving the sacred precinct, they looked around, seeking User, a priest, some sign of life in this lifeless place.
A short, sharp whistle broke the silence.
"Up there." Bak pointed toward the top of the ridge, where a man stood among the boulders, his head shaded by what looked from a distance like an overturned basket. "Is that User?"
"He's been watching us all along," the Medjay grumbled. "Why couldn't he show himself sooner?"
User remained where he was, well shielded by boulders, looking out at the water, examining the landscape on the far side of the ridge. A cautious man, Bak thought. A man either afraid of his own shadow or fearful for good reason. A reason not to be found in Abu, but here.
"Something's wrong," he said, darting toward the mound. Still the man they had come to see hesitated. After a final long look at the channel beyond the ridge, where their skiff lay, he began to move. As agile as a cat, he worked his way down to meet them, sidling between boulders, climbing around broken chunks of granite, swinging across spaces separating one from another. Never did he show himself fully. "I'm Lieutenant Bak," Bak called. "What troubles you?" User stopped not far above and hunkered down in the shelter of an overhanging chunk of rock. He was a stocky man of medium height, wearing a white tunic with loose sleeves that covered his arms and a kilt that fell below his knees. The fabric was heavy and coarse, the garb unusual, restricting freedom of movement for working in the fields or sailing a skiff. What had looked like an upside-down basket from a distance was, in fact, an odd woven reed headdress with a wide brim that kept his face in shadow.
"Do you know you were followed to this place?" he demanded. "A man alone in a skiff, carrying a bow and a quiver full of arrows."
Bak snarled a curse. "Where is he now?"
"Not far upstream from where you beached your vessel. He's in his boat, waiting. I feared this would happen. With so many who survived the storm already dead…" User let out a harsh laugh, leaving the rest to the imagination.
"I doubt he's come for you. It's me he wants to slay." "You?" User asked, skeptical.
Psuro hefted his spear. "Shall I go after him, sir?"
"I wouldn't," User cut in before Bak could answer. "He's sheltered within a clump of trees and surrounded by open space. No man can get close without being seen."
"Did you get a good look at him?" Bak asked. "He's too far away."
Bak stood, hands on hips, thinking. He had taken every precaution he could and still he had been followed. Maybe the lord Amon had handed him a gift in spite of himself. "Show me where he is. We must decide how best to lay hands on him."
"I'm glad you agreed to help," Bak said.
User, who had had no choice in the matter, gave him a rueful grin. "As you pointed out, Lieutenant, it's my neck, too."
Bak poled the skiff into deeper water, then settled down in the stern. He wished they were sailing his own swift vessel instead of the blocky, work-a-day craft of the island farmer. And he wished for a weapon with a longer range than a spear. He shook off the thought. The beached skiff was unreachable, useful as bait and nothing more, the object that held the archer where he was, the sole reason he had not stalked Bak and Psuro across the island as soon as he arrived.
User dipped the oars deep, sending the vessel across a patch of bubbling water and down a cascade that took Bak's breath away. "The currents are in our favor, so it shouldn't take long to get to him. The problem, as I see it, will be that list stretch of open water."
"With luck and the help of the gods, Psuro will distract him." Bak prayed he was right. The Medjay had a strong arm, but could he hurl rocks far enough and fast e- fough to hold the archer's attention? "You met us on this island to speak of the sandstorm. I can think of no better time than now."
"I'll be frank with you, Lieutenant. I don't like to talk about it or even think about it. The storm. Those many days in the desert…" User raised a shoulder and wiped his sweaty face on his tunic. His voice dropped to a low croak. "I'll never know what kept me alive."
Bak felt compassion, sympathy, but he had to know what drove the slayer on. "I'd like nothing more than to walk away and leave you in peace, but I can't."
"The man you seek will be within our grasp in less than an hour. Let him speak for himself."
Bak eyed him long and hard. "How many men survived that storm, User?" Getting nothing in return but a stubborn scowl, he snapped, "Surely you can answer so simple a question!"
User veered closer to shore, avoiding the stronger current farther out. "Eleven," he muttered.
"Eleven men who've remained mute for five long years." Bak kept his voice hard, cold. "Why? Why hold a time of mutual suffering so close within the heart? Would it not be natural to talk, to share so horrible an experience with all who wish to listen? To lessen the load through repetition?" "You don't understand!"
"I suspect Djehuty ordered all who survived to remain quiet, but I, too, have lived in a garrison. I know a commander's orders won't silence whispers."
User stared at him, his face wracked with pain. Without warning, he leaned hard on an oar, turning the skiff, and rammed its prow into a stand of thick, spiky grass. Bak, taken unawares, slid off the wooden brace he occupied and landed hard on the centerboard amid a clutter of fishing poles and farm tools.
"We're ashamed!" User cried. "Some of us for one reason, I suspect, and some for another. But we all have reason for shame."
Bak rocked forward, brushed off the back of his kilt, and sat again on tha, brace. He eyed the former spearman with a mix of sympathy, tolerance, and blame. User read the look and a flush spread across his face. He clutched the oars and, pushing hard against the grass, freed the skiff.
Back on course, he said, "With so many of us so recently slain.. " He paused, rubbed his forehead as if to ease the pain. "The tale must be told, I know."
"The wind came up and the skies blackened," Bak said, thinking to lead him into his story.
User's expression lightened; he grabbed at the words like a drowning man grabbing at a lifeline. "You know the tale already?"
"I've seen an approaching storm, that's all."
Deflated, User eased the skiff between two boulders. The task seemed to calm him, to resign him. "With the storm upon us, blinding us, the men did what any sensible men would do. They started to bunch up and huddle down with the donkeys. Commander Djehuty ordered us to stay in line and march on." He gave a harsh, cynical snort. "As if any man could keep going in such a tempest!"
Bak recalled Lieutenant Amonhotep saying he had heard contradictory orders. Had the young aide told the truth as he remembered it? Or had he thought it best to show Djehuty in a better light?
"Even I, as green as I was, knew the order was foolish," User said. "With no one able to see his hand in front of his face, the line broke apart and most men lost their way, I among them. By chance, I stumbled upon my sergeant, Senmut, a lieutenant named Ptahmose, and a few other men and donkeys, all crowded together, trying to save themselves."
"Was Montu among them? Or the child Nakht's father?" "I don't know. I was new to the garrison. Most of the men were strangers to me."
Staying close to the island, User let the current carry the skiff over a stepped series of falls that jarred the spine each time it dropped.
"The storm was fierce," the farmer went on. "The lieutenant ordered us to hold hands, saying all who let go would die, and he told us to hang onto our donkeys' lead ropes. It wasn't easy, let me tell you. The wind blew with such force, we stumbled along before it, all of us together. My donkey soon jerked free, and I guess others did, too."
User shipped his oars, letting the skiff drift around the bend. Bak saw in the distance the small bay on the east bank and the village beside it. He prayed the archer was a patient man, still awaiting them in his skiff. He had no fear for Psuro; the Medjay had the patience of a log.
"How long we staggered on, I don't know." User, well into his tale, needed no further prompting. "Made senseless by the battering we were getting, we fell into a long-dry watercourse. There we lost several men and all that remained of our donkeys except one. Lieutenant Ptahmose, wiser than the rest, had tied its lead rope to his arm. The wind pinned us against the wadi wall, and I was sure we would die there. We didn't. The donkey turned his back on the gale and let it blow him along the wall, taking us with him. And then, thanks to all the gods in the ennead, the creature found shelter-a small cave."
Raising his arm, he wiped his troubled face on his sleeve. "We crowded inside and-may the gods forgive us all-we pushed the poor dumb beast back out into the storm. To keep him out, we shoved a boulder, long ago fallen from the ceiling, in front of the opening. It broke the wind and we had more room. The donkey stood there for a long time, head down, tail between its legs. At last, it drifted off, taking a half full jar of water with it. We were too afraid for ourselves to notice-until too late."
User rowed the skiff close under the trees lining the water's edge, where he and Bak had to duck the lower limbs. "The rest is a dream I try nightly to forget. The wind, the heat, the air filled with sand and dust. The thirst, the stench of fear."
Bak gave him a thoughtful look. "Other than the donkey, I see no reason for shame thus far."
"You don't understand." User's mouth twisted into a parody of a smile. "We not only pushed the donkey out to diethe creature, lhat saved our lives-but men came to our cave, men who begged us to let them inside. Men who shared our quarters in the garrison, our good times and bad. We turned them all away."
"But didn't you say…?" Bak stared, jolted by what he was thinking. "You said you pushed the donkey out to make more room."
User bowed his head, letting the skiff drift. "We had space for four or five more men, yet we turned away all who begged for refuge."
Appalled, Bak caught an overhead branch to stop the vessel's downstream flight. The tale was incredible. No wonder someone harbored a grudge against the survivors! But how had the slayer learned the truth? One of those who came back alive must have been unable to keep quiet. "You made no mention of Djehuty. Was he among you?"
User shook his head. "He was somewhere else, his life saved, I was told, by a sergeant named Min." He frowned, thinking back. "After the storm ended, I wandered up the wadi, looking for the donkey and anyone who might've survived. A witless thing to do, I know. The other men, anxious to save themselves, left without me." He paused, drew in a ragged breath. "I was the last to reach the river, crazed from so many days of wandering alone, burned by the sun, thirsty, starving. When finally I was able to listen and talk, Min had already sailed north, reassigned to another garrison, I heard. As far as I know, he never came back to Abu."
"And Djehuty left the army for good, as did you."
"I'd had enough, yes, and what remained of the garrison had had enough of me. As long as I stayed, not a man or woman in Abu could forget the many good men lost in the storm." Noticing Bak's puzzled look, he gave him another of his twisted grins. "The lord Re made me pay dearly for my survival."
With both hands, he tore off the headdress, caught his tunic by the hem, and pulled it over his head, stripping it from his body. His near-bald head, forehead, and cheeks, his shoulders, back, and arms were mottled red, white, and brown, scars left by a terrible burn. Sunburn.
"Row us into the current so we can cut him off if he starts to flee. I'll tend to the sail should we need it." Bak selected a fishing pole from among several lying in the hull, unwound the line a few cubits, and dropped the weight into the water. He prepared a second pole for User. "If I hunch over, he shouldn't recognize me. With luck, he'll think we're two local farmers, come out in search of our evening meal." "And if he's as wary as he should be?" User asked. "He'd be wise to set sail, and we'd be wise to keep our heads down. He's sure to use the bow."
"And us with only a spear."
Bak smiled. He liked this man, who went straight to the heart of a problem. "Ready?"
User, fully clad once again to protect his sensitive skin, paddled the skiff out from beneath the trees, setting a diagonal course into the current. Bak shoved aside the clutter in the hull and sat down, back bent and fishing pole in hand. When User deemed them, far enough from shore, he let the current carry them northward.
Bak eyed the clump of trees concealing the archer. The situation looked as bleak from here as it had from the mound. Tidy beaches lay to the north and south and an open stretch of sand separated the grove from the mound where Psuro waited. An ideal position for an archer to defend; a terrible place to attack-armed or unarmed.
He gave a series of quick, sharp whistles, imitating a bird, a signal to Psuro. A long, bloodcurdling yell followed, and the Medjay's dark figure popped up from behind a rock at the lower edge of the mound. He raised his arm, snapped it forward. A sharp crack sounded, a rock striking something solid. The skiff? The sturdy trunk of a tree? A boulder hidden by leaves? Bak had no way of knowing. The Medjay vanished from sight. If the archer fired off an arrow, it was too far away to see.
User swung the prow toward the archer's lair, dipped the oars deep, and shoved the vessel forward with skill and speed. AnotHtr yell and Psuro sprang up in a new position to hurl a second stone. Light glinted for a moment on the bronze tip of an arrow speeding his way, but he had already ducked behind his granite shield. No sound betrayed the rock's landingplace.
User paddled like a madman. The closer they came to the trees, the lower he and Bak crouched. A third and fourth yell, each louder and longer and more fearsome than the one before, carried across the river, frightening off a flock of ducks in flight. User thought he heard a rock splash into the water; Bak imagined he saw another arrow flying toward Psuro. How much longer, he wondered, before the man hidden among the trees realized he should watch his back?
As if the archer had read his thoughts, a spot of white showed through the trees and an arrow sped across the water. The missile struck the prow of their skiff with a thud; the shaft shattered and dropped into the river. Muttering a curse, User ducked so low Bak doubted he could see over the rail, but he continued to paddle, his course as straight as before. Another arrow followed and a second in quick succession, both flying over the vessel to fall in its wake.
Abruptly, a skiff shot out from among the trees. It was long and slender, similar to those used for sport by the officers at Buhen. Bak's heart sank. User knew his vessel and he knew the river, but could he cut off a boat so easy to maneuver and so fast?
"We have the advantage," the farmer said, his teeth clenched tight with determination and effort. "We're in the current; he's too close to shore."
"Can you keep him there?" "I can try."
Bak glimpsed Psuro racing across the sand toward their own skiff. Doubting the Medjay would catch up in time to help, he focused on the vessel they chased, at least seventy paces to their left but not far ahead. The man inside, too indistinct to identify, had abandoned his weapon to take up the oars, propelling his boat toward deeper water. User altered course to intercept him. They swept down the channel, not quite side-by-side, toward the end of the island and the turbulent waters guarding the northern approach.
Sweat poured down User's face and his soaked tunic stuck to his back. Bak longed to raise the sail, but knew it would do no good as long as they remained in the channel. Forcing himself to be patient, he pulled in the fishing lines, dangling useless in the water, and laid the poles in the hull where he had found them. Spear and shield close to hand, he knelt on the centerboard, ready to leap into action the instant they caught up with their quarry. He refused to admit the wider channel and more generous breeze would give a distinct advantage to the sleeker vessel, speeding the archer on his way, leaving them far behind lolling in his wake.
The channel ahead began to broaden, revealing a wide swath of rippling silver, water washing over boulders not far beneath the surface after flowing around both sides of the island. The archer, whose view was obstructed by proximity, failed to spot the hazard until he was almost upon it. He swung his skiff hard around, trying to keep out of harm's way. User pressed his vessel closer.
The archer hesitated, then turned back toward the turbulence. The skiff sliced through the ripples, flinging water to right and left. The river ahead turned violent, white with roiling foam. Suddenly the prow rose into the air, the man inside was flung out, and the lovely little boat fell on its side and burst apart on the rocks.
"I can't believe it's over. It happened so fast and now…" Bak, standing on the quay at Swenet, spread his hands wide and shook his head. "No slayer. No answers. Nothing."
"I thank the lord Amon he's gone! Now we can go home to Buhen." Psuro, delighted by the abrupt turn of events, tossed the mooring rope to Bak. "When will you tell Governor Djehuty?"
Bak snugged the skiff tight against the stonework and glanced at the sky, where a deep golden sun hovered above the western horizon. They had thought the archer drownedfew men could survive those raging waters-but they could not be sure. Bak had been swept through a worse maelstrom in the not too distant past. So they had spent several hours in a fruitless search of the many islands below the point where the man had vanished. Their failure to find him was not conclusive, but pointed strongly to his death.
"Tomorrow will be soon enough. Another anxious night won't hurt him.",,"He deserves far worse, if you ask me. If he'd let his troops settle down among the donkeys, he mightn't have lost a single man or beast. Why was he never called to account, I wonder?"
I "I'm convinced he coerced the survivors into remaining mute." Bak scowled his disgust. "And he has friends in high places. We wouldn't be here if the vizier hadn't interceded."
Psuro joined him on the quay and they climbed the short slope to the village of Swenet. Huge old trees towered over the water's edge, and birdsong filled the air. Women chatted in a small square, awaiting their turn at the public well or sitting in the shade on mudbrick benches, enjoying the breeze and an end-of-day chat. A yellow dog lapped water from a puddle, while her three puppies chased grasshoppers across a patch of newly sprouted clover.
"Someone didn't keep his mouth locked tight," Psuro said. "That's why those who survived are now being slain. But why wait five years? And why Djehuty? He wasn't in that cave."
Bak turned down the lane leading to Pahared's wife's house of pleasure. A bowl or two of beer would be in order, maybe more. Enough to chase away the feeling of a task unfinished. "We'll never know now, will we?"
"I guess you no longer care about Hatnofer." Kasaya, seated on the floor on a pillow stuffed with straw, gave Bak a bleary-eyed look. "After all, our task is done and we'll soon sail south, this ugly place forgotten."
Psuro, not half as unsteady as the man beside him, broke the plug from a fresh jar of beer, flung the pieces into a basket used for the purpose, and splashed the pungent golden liquid into their bowls. "This town is alright. It's the govenor who's ugly."
Kasaya bumped his elbow, spilling beer on the floor. "And the man who died in the rapids today."
Bak, not at all drunk, beckoned a skinny, scraggly-haired female servant to clean up the mess. He had come to this house of pleasure to celebrate, yet had found himself in no mood to do so. Too many questions remained; questions Djehuty would never answer, and he had no one else to query. User had rattled off the names of the survivors, which matched the list Simut had provided. Other than him, Amonhotep, and the governor, all were dead or had gone far away from Abu.
A scuffle broke out in the corner, a disagreement over a game of knucklebones. One man cursed another. Stools skidded across the floor. Pottery crashed. Pahared's wife strode across the room, carrying a baton Bak suspected she had taken from some visiting official-perhaps by force. She held it firmly, her expression making clear that she was prepared to smash a head or two. The men slunk back, thoroughly cowed.
Bak had to give credit where credit was due: Pahared had wed quite a woman. "Tell me of Hatnofer," he said to Kasaya. "Did you discover her connection to the sandstorm?"
The young Medjay scooted sideways, making room for the servant to pour dry sand on the wet floor. Beer sloshed from his bowl, spilling down her leg. The girl's mouth tightened; her eyes flashed anger. He turned to Bak, unaware. "When she was a babe, a guard found her on the doorstep, and Djehuty's father took her in. She grew to womanhood as a servant. Arguments abound among the household staff as to whether or not Djehuty took her to bed. Half say her jealousy knew no bounds, so he must've. The others swear no man would touch a woman so sour."
Psuro snorted. "What kind of woman would crawl in with a man so small in his every thought and deed?"
"They wete close to each other in age," Kasaya said, as if that explained everything. "A couple of the servants, both men, hinted that Djehuty wasn't a youth to overlook any tender young morsel, especially one who earned her daily bread in his own household."
"Admirable," Psuro said, looking scornful.
Kasaya's eyes drifted to a slim young dancer who had red ribbons woven into the long black braid hanging down her naked back. The servant, finished with her task, dribbled sand onto his pillow, across his leg, and down his spine. He yelped, swung around, glared. She turned away, triumph lighting her face.
Bak bit back a smile. "Get on with your tale, Kasaya!" The young Medjay threw a pained look at Psuro; whose face was stiff with smothered laughter. "When Hatnofer reached an age to wed, another servant, one who toiled in the gardens, took her as his wife. She had two stillborn children, the second near the time mistress Khawet was born, thus she became her wet nurse. Her husband died, and she conceived no more."
"A convenient marriage," Bak said.
"Djehuty's father arranged the match, so I was told." Kasaya grinned. "About the time Djehuty wed Khawet's mother, I suspect."
"He may've set her aside for a noblewoman," Psuro said grudgingly, "but he did well enough by her in the end. Not many foundlings rise to the lofty position of housekeeper in a governor's villa."
"So she must've thought." Kasaya drank from his bowl, licked the foam from his lips. "They seldom quarreled, though from what I've been told, he often gave her reason to burn with anger."
Bak raised an eyebrow. "Someone, I don't recall who, mentioned an argument not long ago."
"Oh, they sometimes argued. Not often; she wouldn't let him bait her. But you're right: a couple of months ago, they had a good one."
"Tell me," Bak said.
Psuro gave him a surprised look. "You don't think Djehuty slew her, do you, sir?"
Bak waved off the suggestion as unlikely. "Well, Kasaya?"
"Let's see. Around two months ago, it was. In Nebmose's villa." The young Medjay gave his drinking bowl an exaggerated frown, as if forcing himself to think. "The door was closed and no one could hear what they said, but their voices were heated and Djehuty came away with the red mark of Hatnofer's hand on his cheek."
"Good for her!" Psuro chuckled. "Can't think of a man more deserving."
"That's it?" Bak demanded, deflated. "Words led to a blow, and you can tell me no more?"
Kasaya shook his head. "No, sir."
"She didn't confide in anyone, telling what happened or giving a reason for the quarrel?"
"She was so angry no one dared ask, ever."
Bak scowled at the young Medjay. He had a good idea how a fish felt when a man dangled a worm in front of it and then jerked it away. No wonder the poor creature grabbed the hook the moment the man let it drop again. "What of the storm? Did you find any connection between her and the tempest?"
"No, sir." Kasaya wiggled around, twisting his torso, and ran his fingers under the waistband at the back of his kilt. Evidently sand had trickled inside. "Oh, she knew some of the men who died. After all, she toiled in the governor's villa for a long time, and he headed the garrison. And Abu's not all that big. But… Well, if she was close to one, no one will speak out."
Bak set his drinking bowl on the floor, leaned back against the wall, and closed his eyes. In this, too, the gods had failed him.
Bak stumbled on a rough spot in the lane, lurching forward. Kasaya swayed toward him, resting much of his weight on Bak's shoulder. "We should've left you in Swenet," he growled at toe besotted Medjay.
Psuro, who had dunked his head in a water trough to clear away the haze, tugged at the arm across his shoulders, trying to shift some of Kasaya's weight onto himself. "I doubt he can hear you, sir."
They maneuvered their shuffling, stumbling load around the corner and into the lane leading to their quarters. Bak peered into the blackness, imagining he could see a darker rectangle near the far end. Their door seemed a long way off.
"I fear I'm getting old, Psuro. This is the second man I've half carried to his quarters in less than a week. Both times I've reached my sleeping pallet as sober as a priest, a feat unheard of in my younger days."
"I shouldn't have reminded him of Djehuty's cook's daughter. That's what set him off." Psuro hesitated, added, "You may have to hustle him onto a ship, sir, and smuggle him out of town."
"I know nothing about this latest fling, nor do I want to. It's time he solved his own problems."
"You, sir, are a hard man," Kasaya mumbled.
Bak would have kicked the young drunk if he had thought the effort worthwhile, but the punishment, he suspected, would fade from Kasaya's memory faster than a flame from a lamp burned empty of oil.
"Here we are," Psuro said, pausing before the gaping doorway.
"I thank the lord Amon!" Bak helped maneuver their burden across the threshold and into their quarters. The room was as black as a scribe's ink, blinding him. "Where's his sleeping pallet?"
"Does it matter? We could leave him in the lane, and he wouldn't know the difference."
"How right you are," Bak laughed.
They let their besotted companion crumple and stretched him out as best they could. Bak went outside to search for a house showing a light, while Psuro fumbled around near the door for the lamp he had left there. Not a creature stirred all along the lane, and every fire had been extinguished. The Medjay came out, lamp in hand, and went off to find a night patrol with a torch. Bak's wait was probably not long, but it seemed so.
When Psuro returned, he held the lamp in the doorway so his superior officer could enter first. As Bak stepped across the threshold, Kasaya let out a yell that must have awakened the dead. He rolled, crashed into the woven reed storage chest, and scrambled to his knees. He gave Bak and Psuro a wild-eyed look, tried to talk, could not, and pointed. The light was dim, the flame unstable, making the shadows deep and impenetrable, setting them aquiver like wraiths from the netherworld. A fitting habitat for the object they saw.
Propped against a folded sleeping pallet close to where Kasaya's head had been, the first thing he must have seen when he opened his eyes, was an egg-shaped green-andwhite striped melon about the size of a human head. Drawn in black ink were huge eyes, a long nose, and a mouth twisted as if in agony. The top and one side of the obscene head were crushed, showing the reddish interior. Sticking out of the wound was the foreleg of an animal, a goat, Bak thought.
Another unwanted gift, this representing the fourth death, that of Lieutenant Dedi trampled by a horse.
He hurried to Kasaya, squeezed his shoulder to calm him, and knelt beside the disgusting object. The foreleg was dry and bloodless, the creature from which it had come long dead. The meat inside the melon had begun to dry on the surface, but was glistening wet beneath. The ghastly thing had been left some time after midday, he guessed, after the archer had disappeared in the rapids. Even if the man had somehow managed to survive, he could not have left this awful gift.