Pahure was not at Pentu’s dwelling but, thanks to yet another servant, Bak learned he had gone to a nearby market. As he walked along a narrow lane that would take him to the river’s edge and the place where fishermen and farmers tied up their small vessels, he thought of the ease with which he had obtained the steward’s location. Servants normally were not so helpful to an outsider, especially one prying into the lives of those to whom they owed their daily bread. Did that particular servant hold a grudge against Pahure, or was there a general discontent in the household? The latter seemed to be the case, since a different servant had as easily helped him find Sitepehu and another had directed him to Neter mose the day before.
He walked out of the mouth of the lane and swerved aside, making way for several women laden with fresh fish and string bags and baskets filled with the bounty of the fields. He was always amazed, when so much of the land lay beneath the floodwaters, to see fresh fruit and vegetables in the markets, yet he should not have been. He had grown to manhood in this valley and knew the ways of the land and its tenants. Farmers whose fields lay higher than most, those who suffered dearly in times of a stingy flood, reaped an abundant harvest when the flood was normal, while their fel lows waited for the lord Hapi to withdraw his gift of water.
He walked along the river’s edge, eyeing the fish laid out on the grass; crisp lettuce, radishes, and melons; ducks and geese slaughtered and dressed for use or caged to be sold alive; fresh bread; jars of honey, local wine, and beer; flow ers. Along with the many mistresses of the house and female servants doing their daily shopping, a few well-appointed men were walking along as he was, looking at the produce, comparing one offering with another, haggling for the best price. Most had servants in tow. They were like Pahure, Bak assumed, men responsible for provisioning the households of provincial noblemen come to Waset for the festival.
He spotted Pahure standing before a fisherman whose years in the sun had burned his skin to the texture of leather.
The old man squatted on the grass behind a display of sil very fish, most the size of a hand, but one a perch as long as
Bak’s arm. A younger man identical in size and shape and with similar features sat in the small, unpainted fishing boat drawn up against the riverbank, mending a net while his fa ther sold the day’s catch.
A plump, ruddy-faced female servant knelt before the dis play, examining the perch. The creature’s scales glistened in the sunlight; it smelled as fresh as the water from which it had been pulled. Two youths stood beside Pahure, one carry ing a string bag bulging with produce, the other holding an empty basket.
“That fish has been lying in the sun a long time,” Pahure said, acknowledging Bak’s presence with a nod. “I’ll give you…” He made an offer, slightly below the customary half of the initial asking price.
The old man’s expression darkened. “I pulled it from the water at dawn, sir.”
The steward raised his offer slightly and the fisherman lowered his demand by a similar amount. And so the hag gling went until buyer and seller were close.
“I can offer no more.” Pahure rested a well-groomed hand on the slight bulge of his stomach. “That’s all the perch is worth to me.”
“I can’t give away so fine a catch. I’ve a family to feed.”
Pahure shrugged. “The morning’s almost over. Soon this market will close. Do you wish to return home with a fish this size?”
The old man looked at Bak. “This fish is fresh, sir, I swear by the lord Hapi. Surely you can see this man’s not offering fair value.”
Bak, well aware that the offer was equitable, creased his brow as if giving the matter serious thought. “The perch is indeed a worthy creature, a thing of exceptional beauty, but by nightfall its value will drop to nothing and by tomorrow you’ll have to bury it to escape the smell. Are you willing to lose everything in a vain effort to gain an insignificant amount?”
Pahure’s mouth twitched slightly. “How many other fish are you taking home, old man? Will they go bad along with this one because of your greed?” Before the fisherman could answer, he signaled his servants that they should leave. The young woman rose to her feet and turned away, as did the youths.
The old man adopted a look of utter dejection. “All right, sir. All right. You can have the fish for the pittance you’ve of fered. I can only hope my children…”
The steward gave him a sharp look, silencing what was no doubt a pathetic lie, and handed over several small items in exchange for the fish. The youth with the string bag took the creature in his arms and hurried off in the direction of
Pentu’s house. Pahure, with Bak at his side, walked slowly along the riverbank, keeping pace with the two remaining servants, who stopped at irregular intervals to inspect an item they might wish to purchase.
“Have you come to help us with our marketing, Lieu tenant, or do you have a more sinister purpose?”
Bak smiled at what he chose to take as a jest. “Do you usually accompany the servants when they select food for your household?”
The steward laughed, perhaps at Bak’s evasion. Or maybe his own: “This morning I wished to get some fresh air.”
Bak thought back to his visit to Pentu’s dwelling, the ser vants scurrying here and there, the governor in a foul humor.
“I spoke with Pentu earlier. He’s not a happy man.”
“The Beautiful Feast of Opet is meant to be a time of re newal and rejoicing, Lieutenant. Instead, for those of us who dwell in that household…” Pahure shook his head, suggest ing emotions he could not begin to describe. “You’ve been probing an unhealed wound. Your constant presence, your endless questions have upset everyone.”
“Therefore your decision to come to the market.”
“This isn’t a frivolous errand, I assure you.” Pahure nod ded toward the plump female servant, who had stopped to look at two large mounds of onions and cucumbers. “Benbu is new to our household. I thought today a good day to teach her to pick out the best of the available foods and to negoti ate to our household’s advantage. To let her know my expec tations. Upon our return to Tjeny, she must market alone, and I don’t wish her to disappoint me.”
Bak noted how seriously the steward took himself and a task most men in his position would hand off to someone else. Any man or woman who toiled in the kitchen could train this woman as well as he. “Your task must be easier on
Pentu’s country estate, where life seldom varies and the ser vants can do what they must with a minimum of guidance.”
Kneeling before a man seated on the ground behind a half-dozen large bowls, Pahure summoned Benbu. He pulled aside the cloth covering one of the containers and ex amined the white goat cheese inside, impressing upon her what to look for if she wished to please him. The young woman did not understand. With forced patience, he showed her again what he expected and a third time to be sure she understood.
Standing up, he muttered through gritted teeth. “You’d think her a woman of the city for all she knows, not one who grew to womanhood in a country village.”
“She probably knows no more than the cheese her mother made and her mother’s mother before her.”
Pahure snorted his contempt. “One day, if the gods choose to smile upon me, I’ll dwell here in Waset-or in the north ern capital of Mennufer. I’ll have a multitude of bright and willing servants and a steward of my own, one who’ll train those servants for me.”
Bak squelched the urge to raise an eyebrow. The steward had taken upon himself a task he had no need to do; now he was complaining. Or was today’s schooling a means of looking after his own interests? “It can’t be easy to live up to mistress Taharet’s high standards.”
Pahure said nothing, nor did his face betray his thoughts.
A good steward never discussed his master and mistress, and
Bak felt certain that this man performed his duties in an ex emplary manner.
While the steward showed Benbu the finer points of se lecting a plump duck, Bak wondered how the man intended to make so great a leap in status. Was he so filled with ambi tion that he believed he could reach whatever goal he set himself? Or had he merely been airing a distant dream?
The thought was still fresh when two dressed ducks, cov ered with leaves to keep away the flies, were safely stowed away in the basket. “As steward to an envoy in Hattusa, you must’ve been considered a man of influence.”
“No more so than in Tjeny.” Pahure chuckled. “There
Pentu can be likened to a minor king and I to his vizier.”
Bak acknowledged the jest with a smile. “Did you like the land of Hatti?”
“Not at all.” The steward’s face took on a look of distaste.
“It’s a foul land. Cold in the winter, hot in the summer, peo pled with men and women thick of body and slow in thought.”
An impression of the people at odds with those of Site pehu and Netermose, Bak noted. “How’d you happen to contact Captain Antef when you were looking for a suitable ship on which to return to Kemet?”
Pahure queried Bak with a glance, as if wondering where that question had come from. “I saw his vessel in the port of
Ugarit. It was large enough for our needs, so I asked him to speak with Pentu. A wasted effort, it turned out. He’d al ready made arrangements to take on another man’s goods and hadn’t sufficient room for all of us, the animals we wished to bring back, and our household belongings.”
“He failed to tell you when first you spoke with him?”
The steward scowled. “I think he felt Pentu might be of use to him, so he saved the truth until after they’d met.”
“Has Pentu been of help to him?”
Pahure flashed Bak a satisfied and none too kind smile.
“Pentu forgot he existed the moment he left the reception hall.”
Unable to think of further questions, Bak left Pahure to his task and hurried to Ipet-resyt for a much belated midday meal. The outer court teemed with pleasure seekers, men, women, and children indulging themselves with food and drink and the multitude of entertainments. Music and laugh ter filled the air. The heady aromas of flowers and perfumes competed with the equally tantalizing odors of cooked meats and fresh breads. The long arms of the lord Re reached into the court, filling it with intense light and en veloping everyone in heat. Sweat ran freely down men’s and children’s naked backs and legs, while women’s shifts were stained and damp.
Each day the multitude of booths, the acrobats and singers and musicians, the various processions that ended at Ipet resyt, drew larger crowds at an earlier hour. The merrymak ing daily grew louder and more raucous, the nights of revelry longer. As if everyone wished to make the most of a festival shortly to end.
While standing with a dozen other people before one of the many crowded food stalls, waiting for the vendor to serve him, Bak evaluated what he had learned through the morning. Nothing, as far as he could see.
He accepted a round loaf of crusty bread, its center cavity filled with fresh braised lamb, and found a shady place on the surrounding wall where he could sit and eat. The thought nagged: Had he been wasting time much better spent in the sacred precinct? Or should he see Antef imprisoned and the cudgel applied? Would the captain know the name of the man stealing from the lord Amon? If not and if the seaman’s arrest set Zuwapi to flight-providing, of course, that the merchant was in Waset, as Bak believed-he would have completely severed his link to the thief. No, better to wait. Better to see what Hori and Thanuny would discover. Better to go back again to Pentu’s dwelling and question mistress Meret. The very thought sent his spirits plummeting.
“Did I not tell you my sister is ill?”
Bak formed a smile that was none too genial. “A servant told me she’s quite well. I understand she spent the morning on this terrace, overseeing women who were dyeing thread to be used to embroider designs on clothing and bright pil lows.”
Taharet had the grace to blush; nonetheless, she flung her head high, added a chill to her voice. “If you wish to see her as a policeman, Lieutenant, she can’t help you. If you’ve come to court her, you’re wasting your time. You have noth ing to offer a woman of refinement.”
Untouched by her attempt to demean him, he shifted to a more relaxed stance and eyed her speculatively. The same servant who had betrayed her lie had directed him to the por tico atop the extension to Pentu’s dwelling. There he had found her by herself. Two stemmed drinking bowls partially filled with a deep red wine stood on a low table between the stool on which she sat and another stool, telling him she had not been alone for long.
Her open dislike was a total reversal from her warmth of a few days earlier. Why had her attitude changed so com pletely? Why was she so reluctant to let him speak to mis tress Meret? She must have known of his background from the beginning: the son of a physician, neither a man of means nor impoverished. She would, without doubt, have asked before setting in motion any kind of matchmaking, and Amonked would not have painted an untrue picture.
“I’ve heard that you and your sister, daughters of a mer chant, grew to womanhood in Sile.” He did not mean to infer that she was no better than he-although such was the case, he felt sure-but he could see by the fresh spots of red on her cheeks that she thought he did.
“Just because Sile is on the frontier, you mustn’t assume it offers no culture or knowledge. My sister is far more accom plished than many women who dwell in this city.”
“I’m not in the habit of underestimating anyone.”
Taharet gave him a look that would have silenced a herald trumpeting the call to battle. “She has all the skills required of a mistress of the house and is accomplished in other areas as well. She can direct a servant to cook to perfection, and can make sure a house is cared for in a superlative fashion.
She can spin and weave and sew. She can play the lute and the harp, and she’s served as a chantress to the lady Hathor.
She speaks several tongues common to the lands north of
Kemet, and she often helped my father in his business by translating the words of passing traders. Does that surprise you, Lieutenant?”
“Not at all.” He reached uninvited for a date in a bowl on the table beside her, earning a frown for his impertinence.
She had done nothing to encourage him to remain, neither inviting him to sit nor asking him to share the fruit. “I’ve known children on the southern frontier who can understand the tongues of every village along the Belly of Stones and every tribe in the surrounding desert. I would assume those who dwell in Sile, on a busy trade route joining Kemet with lands farther north, would be equally adept.”
“What of you? Can you talk to people whose tongues are different from those of Kemet?”
Bak chose to ignore a question he would have had to an swer in the negative. “Do you share in equal measure your sister’s attributes, mistress Taharet?”
“Certainly.” She lifted a drinking bowl from the table and sipped the last of the wine from it. “The sole advantage I have over her is that I have a greater determination than she does. She sometimes allows people to use her.” She gave him a pointed look across the rim of the bowl, as if he, too, would make use of her sister.
Concealing his irritation, he asked, “Do you and Mistress
Meret speak the tongue of Hatti?”
“Of course.”
The words held an undercurrent of bitterness, and Bak suspected he knew why. “Did either of you serve as inter preters for your husband while he served in Hattusa?”
Her nostrils flared with contained anger. “At times, yes.”
“Sitepehu said he sometimes accompanied Pentu to af fairs of state. He admitted his knowledge of the tongue of
Hatti was faulty, but he said he knew enough to ensure that the translators were honest. Did you help your husband in equally weighty matters?”
She let out a most unseemly snort. “You know nothing of the Hittites, lieutenant, or you wouldn’t have asked so ridiculous a question. Both my sister and I speak the tongue far better than Sitepehu, but my husband refused to let either of us interpret for him when he most needed a good transla tion. He said our ability to speak the Hittite tongue when he himself had no such knowledge would make him look small in the eyes of the king.”
“Was that not the truth?”
“Unfortunately, yes.”
Bak reached for another date and nibbled the soft, sweet meat from the seed. He could see that the slight, though not intentional, still grated after all this time. Had she been so embittered by being left behind, dealing with trivial house hold matters while her husband spoke to a king of important state affairs, that she had chosen to stir the ingredient of dis cord into the politics of Hatti?
By speaking the language, she-and her sister-would have been able to associate with many Hittites. Not at such a lofty level as Pentu and Sitepehu, but definitely at occasions where noblemen were present. No one was more likely to cause dissension with the goal of overthrowing the king than members of the nobility. Would she, would anyone, be so petty as to foment trouble for so small a reason?
“Good afternoon, Lieutenant,” a soft, musical voice said.
Bak’s eyes leaped toward the doorway. Meret stood on the threshold, a jar of wine and a stemmed bowl in one hand, a flattish bowl of sweetcakes in the other. The smile she di rected his way was tentative, as if she was not quite sure how he would receive her. A sharp indrawn breath drew his atten tion to Taharet, whose scowl of disapproval would have set a servant to sobbing.
Meret was not a servant.
Smiling, she walked out onto the terrace. Setting the wine and bowl of cakes on the table, she gestured toward a nearby stool. “Please join us, sir. We’ve plenty of food and drink, and the remainder of the day in which to enjoy it.” Ig noring her sister’s thin-lipped glare, she shifted the stool that was close to the table, making room for another. “I un derstand you’ve been asking questions about Pentu’s recall from Hattusa.”
“I’m trying to lay the matter to rest, yes.” He pulled close the proffered stool and sat down.
She broke the plug from the wine jar, filled his glass and
Taharet’s, and added more to the third one. “I can assure you that he’s completely innocent of any charge that might’ve been made against him. He has far too much integrity to speak to a king with a smile on his face one day and try to overthrow him that night.”
She spoke softly, her tone gentle yet firm. Bak could not help but compare her with her sharp-tongued sister. “Pentu was never seriously suspected of duplicity. A member of his household was thought to be the guilty party.”
“The servants are all talking…”
“Meret!” Taharet spoke sharply, her anger held on a tight rein. “What our servants speak of is of no concern to the lieutenant. They chatter like sparrows, gossiping about any thing and everything, saying nothing of consequence.”
Meret squeezed her sister’s hand, smiled at Bak. “They’re saying you’re seeking the slayer of three men, two who died in the sacred precinct. Search as I might within my heart, I can see no link between our household and the deaths of two servants of the lord Amon.”
“The third man who was slain was a merchant named
Maruwa, a Hittite, the one who initially reported the traitor in your household. Did you ever meet him?”
“He was a merchant?” Meret looked at her sister. “We now and again accompanied our servants to the market in
Hattusa, but I don’t recall…” Her eyes opened wide. She turned to Bak and smiled. “Oh, you speak of the merchants who came to our residence, hoping to obtain travel passes to
Kemet. Sitepehu dealt with those people. Taharet and I might’ve seen them in passing, but would have no reason to remember any specific individual.”
“Maruwa spoke more often to Netermose, so I under stand.”
“He, too, dealt frequently with men of Hatti. Pentu could in no way receive the large numbers of men who sought his favor or that of our sovereign. Netermose was most effective in sifting out those unworthy of an audience.”
Bak pressed no further. In a busy residence such as that of an envoy, men came and went in large numbers. One would have to stand out above all others to attract notice.
He took a sip of the tart red wine, smiled his appreciation.
Meret’s answers and demeanor were calm and sensible. Un like Taharet, so intent on keeping her sister away from him that she made no pretense at the most basic of courtesies.
“Your sister was telling me that the two of you came from
Sile. Don’t you miss the excitement of dwelling in a border city, one situated on a major trade route?” The question was prompted more by his own sorrow over leaving Buhen than by his quest to find a slayer.
“Waset has far more to offer than that wretched town,”
Taharet snapped.
“You’ve a fine dwelling here in the capital,” Bak said,
“but you spend much of the year on a country estate near
Tjeny. A far quieter place than Sile, I’d think.”
Meret smiled at her sister, silencing what looked to be an angry retort. “I miss Sile, yes. I miss the many opportunities to speak with people from other lands, to see the beautiful objects they bring to trade in the land of Kemet, to get to know…”
“Mistress Meret.” Pahure’s voice.
Both sisters started. Their heads snapped around, their eyes leaped toward the doorway.
“Pahure!” Meret flung an angry look his way. “Must you skulk around like a common thief?”
Pahure crossed the threshold and walked along the row of colorful blooming potted plants lining the terrace. His mouth was tight with annoyance. “You must come immedi ately, mistress. Two of the servants have quarreled. One has been hurt. Your presence is required in the kitchen.” He paused, added emphatically, “Right away, mistress.”
An odd look passed over her face, and with visible reluc tance she rose to her feet. “Very well.” Forming a smile for Bak’s benefit, adding warmth to the chill in her voice, she said, “I’m delighted you came, Lieutenant. I hope you’ll visit us here again before we return to Tjeny.”
“I must go, too.” Taharet stood up, smiled at Bak with an insincerity born of dislike. “I assume you can find your way out. You’ve been here often enough.”
Leaving the dwelling, Bak hurried along the processional way toward the sacred precinct of Ipet-isut, hoping to catch
Hori and Thanuny before they left the storehouse archives.
Meret’s invitation was uppermost in his thoughts. He liked her, appreciated her candor, her quiet and straightforward manner, a total absence of the anger boiling within her sister.
Given the chance, could Meret fill the void in his heart left by the woman he had thought never to forget?
Thanks to the lord Amon, Bak found the scribe and audi tor where he had hoped they would be. A young apprentice ushered him into the main room of the storehouse archives, vacated so late in the day by the men who normally toiled there. The room was long and narrow, its ceiling supported by tall columns, with high windows lighting a space large enough to accommodate at least twenty seated scribes.
The two Medjays welcomed Bak with the broad smiles of men expecting an early release from an onerous task. He guessed they wanted very much to join the hordes of merry makers filling the city.
“You were right, sir.” Hori scrambled to his feet and stretched his weary muscles. “With two of us searching the records, one far wiser than the other in the ways of vile crim inals…” He grinned at Thanuny, seated cross-legged on the linen pallet normally occupied by the chief scribe. “… it didn’t take long to find a discrepancy.”
Thanuny swished a writing brush around in a small bowl of water, cleaning red ink from it, and slipped it into the slot in his scribal pallet. A reflected shaft of late evening sunlight brightened the water to the color of blood. “It took over a half hour, Lieutenant, but once we found that initial discrep ancy, it told us what to look for. After that, the rest leaped out like gazelles startled by a pack of hunting dogs.”
“They weren’t that obvious,” Hori said. “If they had been,
Woserhet and Tati would’ve found them.”
“I’d bet my wife’s best cooking bowl that Woserhet hadn’t yet inspected the records we looked through today.” Tha nuny eyed the twenty or more baskets scattered around him, each containing a half-dozen reddish storage jars filled with scrolls. “He was too competent and thorough a man to have missed all we found. And surely he’d have told his scribe if he’d verified his suspicions.”
Taking in the large number of jars, Bak’s expression turned grim. “Exactly how serious is this crime which has been perpetrated against the lord Amon?”
“Very serious indeed.” The auditor’s expression was grave. “I know theft is commonplace in the markets and the fields, on shipboard and on caravans. Even within the royal house, men steal. Who can resist taking some small object should the opportunity arise? But here in the sacred precinct? Stealing from the lord Amon himself? On such a large scale?” Thanuny shook his head as if unable to believe such greed, such audacity.
Bak dropped onto the woven reed mat beside the auditor.
“Tell me what you found.”
Thanuny withdrew a scroll protruding from the mouth of one of the storage jars. “We’ve marked the documents that contain erroneous entries,” he said, pointing to a conspicu ous red dot near the edge. “They’ll have to be corrected, or a note made on each of which items have vanished. Have been stolen,” he added sadly.
As he untied the knot in the cord binding the scroll, Hori sat down on the floor beside him. The two Medjays ex changed a dejected look and hunkered against the wall to wait.
“We began by picking out a few specific examples of val 218
Lauren Haney uable items commonly used during the sacred rituals,” Tha nuny said. “Aromatic oils, incense, lustration vessels and censers, amulets, and the like. We tracked them on the ap propriate documents from the time they were received in
Waset and stored in the sacred precinct until they were either consumed or were sent to another of the god’s holdings or to the storehouses of our sovereign.”
“You’ll never believe what first drew our attention.”
Hori’s eyes danced with excitement. “An amulet. A simple stone scarab. Dark green, mounted on gold.”
Bak whistled. “Not at all simple, I’d think.”
Thanuny smiled at his young colleague. “Fortunately for us, it was offered to the lord Amon far enough in the past that all the records had been turned into the archives. It should have been recorded on a continuous string of docu ments from arrival to disposal.”
“But it wasn’t,” Hori broke in. “According to the records, it was delivered by ship from Mennufer, dropped off at the harbor here in Waset, and sent on its way to the storehouse where Woserhet was slain. However, the record of the store house contents failed to mention it. It either vanished some where between the harbor and the sacred precinct, or was never recorded when it arrived at the storehouse, or was stolen from there and the record altered.”
“Altogether, thirty amulets were listed as having been brought from Mennufer at the same time.” Thanuny pulled a brush from his writing pallet and, using the top end, reached around to scratch his back. “We found that four others of somewhat lesser value had also vanished-on papyrus at any rate. We sent that young apprentice who brought you to us out to the storehouse to look for the missing items. He didn’t find them, of course.”
“What other types of items have vanished?” Bak asked.
“Anything of value,” Hori said.
“I fear our young friend isn’t exaggerating,” Thanuny said. “Several methods were used to conceal the thefts, depending upon the items taken and how they were recorded.
The shorter records were copied, we believe, omitting what ever was taken. As for the longer lists too time-consuming to copy, we found signs of erasure, with other objects inserted in the spaces.”
“I must see some specific cases. Amonked will wish to know.”
A long-suffering sigh burst forth from one of the Med jays. Bak ignored the hint. Their task as guards would be over by sunset, when the inside of the building grew too dark to read. The men would have plenty of time to play af ter escorting Thanuny home. Hori, he assumed, would re main with them.
Bak, having decided to spend the night across the river with his father, bade good-bye to the two scribes and their
Medjay guards and left the storehouse archives with his head reeling. So many numbers, so much of value stolen over the past two years. And for how many years before?
Passing through the gate that took him outside the sacred precinct, he looked to right and left to be sure no one lay in wait, thinking to attack him. The lord Re had passed over the western horizon, leaving behind a reddish glow in the sky and deep shadows in the narrow lane, making it hard to see.
He heard sounds of revelry to the west, where merrymakers would be seeking out food, drink, and entertainment along the broader, lighter streets closer to the river, but the lane was empty, the block of interconnected houses quiet. He turned to the right and hurried along the base of the wall en closing the sacred precinct, choosing the shortest path to the busier streets and the ferry that would carry him to western
Waset.
Again he turned his thoughts to the stolen items. Someone was rapidly becoming a man of vast wealth, but who? Not a man or woman among his suspects displayed an affluence beyond his or her station. For that matter, Meryamon, the man most likely to have stolen the objects, had given no in dication of having had any wealth at all. With his daily bread supplied by the lord Amon, he had most assuredly not lived a life of want, but neither had he given any sign of prosper ity. True, Pahure had set high goals for himself, but he gave no more sign of being a man of wealth than did Netermose or Sitepehu.
As he neared the corner of the housing block, two men suddenly stepped into the lane ahead of him. In the dim light, he could see that one carried a mace, the other a dag ger. He muttered a curse, swung around to run back the way he had come. Three men, all brandishing weapons, raced out of the gate that pierced the wall of the sacred precinct. He snapped out another oath. These had to be the same men who had tried to slay him before. If he had had the time, he would have cursed himself roundly. He could not believe he had walked into a trap almost identical to the one he had ear lier evaded.
Very much aware that his options were limited, he pivoted and raced toward the two men at the end of the housing block. The warren of lanes offered his sole chance of escape.
If he could overcome the pair, he could slip into the lane they had come out of and vanish in the gathering darkness.
He closed on the two men, aiming toward the one with the mace. At the last moment, he veered toward the other man, grabbed the hand wielding the scimitar, and shoved it hard against the wall of the sacred precinct. The man yelped and dropped the weapon. Bak kicked him high between the legs, immobilizing him, and turned to face the man with the mace. The running footsteps of the trio behind drew closer.
He grappled for the mace, with he and his opponent doing an odd little dance while they struggled for possession.
A man leaped on his back, knocking him to the ground. In an instant, they were all upon him, holding him face-down with the weight of numbers.
“We’ve got him this time,” the man with the gravelly voice said with a satisfied laugh.
Bak managed to raise his head, to take a look at the men who had caught him. One bent double, clutching his man hood; three other hard-faced men held him against the dirt.
Standing over him, mace raised to strike, he glimpsed the swarthy man he thought was Zuwapi.
The man’s arm came down and he saw no more.