“I thank the lord Amon that we’ll soon reach Iken.” Pash enuro, whom Bak had just told about the sandals, glanced eastward, where a distant row of trees marked the course of the river, and toward the long escarpment that barred their view of the western desert. If any people watched the caravan, whether farmers or desert raiders, they were too far away to see. “I have no desire to march a couple of hours into the night.”
“All who dwell along this segment of the river are far more afraid of the denizens of darkness than you are,” Bak said. “I doubt they’ll stray far from their homes on a night as black as this one promises to be, with the lord Khonsu hiding much of his face, leaving only the stars for light. As for Hor-pen-Deshret’s men, I suspect we’ve seen-or not seen, as the case may be-the last of them until we travel on south of Iken.”
Pashenuro gave his superior a good-natured smile. “I was thinking of the donkeys, sir. The pace Seshu set and the long march across the barren sands has worn them out and me, too, if the truth be told. If we’re to set out at daybreak tomorrow-and he says we are-we’ll need a full night’s rest.”
Bak eyed the line of animals plodding ahead of them across the sandy plain north of Iken, a broad flat area lying between the rapid-strewn river and the escarpment. A dozen or so donkeys filled the space between Pashenuro’s string and the three carrying chairs. Nefret occupied one chair,
Thaneny another, the third was empty. Rather than ride in comfort as was their due, Amonked and Sennefer were walking with the remainder of their party. The Medjay was well positioned: close enough to see all that occurred and to rush to their aid if need be, but far enough away to remain anonymous.
“Has anything of note occurred in Amonked’s party?”
“Not that I’ve seen. If Seshu didn’t need my help each time we set up or break camp, I’d be more useful helping
Dedu train those oafs who call themselves guards.”
“They learned fast enough to build a proper fire and set up their camp in an orderly manner. If they’re as quick to master the arts of war, you’ll be of more use as a drover.”
Bak glanced toward the west, where the barque of Re hov ered above the escarpment, streaking the sky red. “I saw
Pawah walking with you an hour or so ago.”
“Yes, sir. The boy’s early childhood here in Wawat was one of need and hunger, yet he’s curious about his home land. He asks a multitude of questions, wishing to recall all he’s forgotten.”
“He said nothing about Baket-Amon?”
“Not a word.”
With a resigned sigh, Bak walked on lest he draw atten tion to the Medjay. Spotting Captain Minkheper off to the right, examining the slipway along which ships were dragged past the most formidable of the rapids below Iken, he struck off across the sand to join him.
He knew what he was doing: procrastinating. He feared
Amonked might be the man he sought, the one who slew
Baket-Amon, and he dreaded the thought. He had twice drawn Maatkare Hatshepsut’s attention, both times with mixed results. Once he had lost his rank of lieutenant and had been exiled to Buhen, a blessing in disguise though her intent had been to punish. He had regained his rank the second time and had been rewarded, but grudgingly. Then and three times more he had earned the gold of valor, but had never been awarded the prize. Her memory was long, her unwillingness to forgive legendary. He could well imagine her reaction should he reveal that her cousin was a slayer.
Minkheper greeted Bak with a smile. “I’m forever amazed at the ingenuity of man and the effort he’ll make to get what he wants. In this case, the rare and exotic prod ucts of lands far to the south.”
The slipway stretched farther than the eye could see across the sandy desert flat, a route paved with logs slightly curved to form a cradle, lying side by side along a bed of dry and cracking silt. The concave surface would support a ship’s gently rounded hull, holding it steady. When mois tened with water, the silt would grow slick, easing the ves sel’s overland journey.
“I not long ago saw the barque of Amon dragged along here,” Bak said, “not the great vessel used during the fes tival of Opet, but one of sufficient size to impress a Kushite king. It was a sight I shall never forget.”
“I’ve never seen a slipway used,” the captain admitted.
“My days have been spent on the water, not sailing the arid sands.”
“It’s a task not taken lightly. Nebwa set an entire com pany of spearmen to tow the barque. A larger vessel, even with its cargo off-loaded, would be far heavier and more difficult to manage.”
“Did not our sovereign’s father take a large fleet of war ships up the Belly of Stones and bring them back downriver many months later?”
“During times of high water,” Bak pointed out. “And he had the might of an army to tow the vessels.”
Minkheper looked back along the slipway to where it vanished in the distance. “I’ll make no firm decision until
I’ve seen the rapids through the whole of the Belly of Stones, but I’ve already begun to question the advisability of cutting a canal through here.”
Bak offered a cautious prayer of thanks to the lord Amon that the captain was a sensible and rational man.
Turning south, they walked along the slipway, well out of the dust drifting up from the caravan. Two feral dogs trotted across the plain to join them, exploring the smells left by those who had last trod a similar path.
“As a man who wishes to be appointed admiral,” Bak said, “you must’ve approached this expedition to Wawat with a certain amount of caution.”
The captain flashed a smile. “You’d do well in the cap ital, Lieutenant. You’re more aware than most of the haz ards one must face when climbing to the airy heights of our bureaucracy.”
Bak laughed. “I doubt I have the tact.”
Minkheper’s expression darkened. “You never know how far you’ll go until you must.”
Bak was not sure how to interpret the statement, the sud den gloom. Did Minkheper feel he was stooping too low in his quest for a position of status? “What did you learn of Amonked before you accepted the task?”
“An interesting question.” The officer gave Bak a curious look. “Are you asking to further your investigation into
Baket-Amon’s death? Or are you seeking a character flaw in the hope of aiding Commandant Thuty and all those whose lives will be disrupted should Amonked tear the army from this frontier?”
“My goal is to find the man who slew the prince.” Bak hated himself for sounding so righteous.
Minkheper’s lips twitched with a suppressed smile. “I learned nothing about him to his discredit. He’s often ac cused of bowing too readily to our sovereign’s wishes, but is also considered a man of integrity. As I’m to give my conclusions to her rather than to him and he’ll take no part in my decision, I thought this journey to be to my advantage.”
“Even if you recommend she give up her plan to cut a canal through the rapids?”
“If Amonked is as honorable as he’s reputed to be, he’ll respect my conclusions and tell her so.” Minkheper scooped up a shattered length of wood lying at the side of the slip way. He called out to the dogs and threw it hard, but they refused to chase it. No one had taught them to play as puppies. “He’s neither blind nor stupid, Lieutenant. He’s seen the same rapids I have and he knows the toll so dif ficult a task can take on human life. Should he by chance forget, he has merely to look at Thaneny to remind him of the dangers of working with hard stone.”
Bak wondered if Minkheper truly believed in Amonked’s integrity. Could a man of principles kowtow, in all good conscience, to Maatkare Hatshepsut’s every whim? “I’ve been told he acts on our sovereign’s behalf, taking guests to Sennefer’s estate in Sheresy so they may hunt and fish and enjoy the good things of life.”
“So I hear.”
“You’ve not been invited?” Bak asked, surprised.
“I’ve been too much on board my ship, sailing far away from the capital.” Minkheper’s smile carried a touch of cyn icism. “Perhaps when I’m an admiral, I’ll be so rewarded.”
No invitation to hunt; therefore, no opportunity to see
Baket-Amon at play. At least not with an official party.
“Why, I wonder, does he take them to Sennefer’s estate rather than his own?”
The captain’s smile broadened. “You’ve made a common error, I fear. Most men assume, because he’s our sover eign’s cousin, that he’s a man of wealth. He isn’t.”
“He has an estate, does he not?”
“A small one, yes, near Mennufer. Too far away from the river to hunt birds in the marshes or to fish and too far from the desert. The house is modest, they tell me, not large enough to entertain exalted guests. His dwelling in Waset where he received me-is rather grand, befitting his status as a courtier and his relationship to the royal house. That property, I believe, came to him when he wed Sennefer’s sister.”
“Is the marriage a good one?”
“Your questions are excellent, Lieutenant, but misguided.
He adores his wife.” Minkheper’s quick smile faded.
“Much to his dismay, the gods have forbade that she give him children.”
“Thus the lovely Nefret.”
Minkheper nodded.
A shadow flitted across the sand, drawing Bak’s eyes toward the setting sun and a falcon soaring low over the escarpment, seeking its evening meal. He wondered if it was missing a tail feather. “How long has she been a part of his household?”
“Too long to have remained childless, and too long to act like a child when she must know by now that he wants a woman.”
“Would he have slain Baket-Amon to keep her as his alone?”
Minkheper raised an eyebrow. “If he’s your best suspect,
Lieutenant, I fear we’ll be plagued forever more by the local farmers.”
So the captain believes Amonked innocent, Bak thought.
He prayed fervently that such was the case. If only he could find a new reason for Baket-Amon’s death, another suspect.
The sun had vanished behind the escarpment, leaving a pinkish afterglow, when Amonked displayed their traveling pass and the foremost donkey plodded through the northern gate of the fortress of Iken. Commander Woser and his senior staff greeted the inspector and Nebwa at the gate.
Leaving an officer behind to guide the caravan to its camp ing place, they hurried off to the citadel, which stood atop the escarpment, overlooking a river dotted with islands and partly submerged rocks and offering a broad view of the western desert. Close in size to Buhen, the white towered walls loomed tall and impressive over the lower city through which the caravan marched.
Still mulling over Minkheper’s words, Bak walked along the long train of donkeys, which followed a well-trod path across a stretch of barren, windblown sand. Sensing night fall, fodder, and rest, the animals had quickened their pace.
The drovers joked and laughed, secure within the fortress walls. He, too, was glad to be there, no longer menaced by the silent men and women along the water’s edge or the unseen enemy in the desert.
The path narrowed to pass between blocks of ruined houses. The stone and mudbrick dwellings, many partially collapsed, some showing signs of burning, all buried in sand to varying depths, were reminders of a time when the land of Kemet had abandoned Wawat to Kushite kings and, many years later, of a war waged to retake the fortresses along the Belly of Stones. Flimsy lean-tos and mud-daubed reed mats had been tacked onto broken walls and collapsing roofs to shelter the many people who came from far upriver or out of the desert to do business. Iken was an important trading and manufacturing center, a place Bak assumed
Amonked would view with favor.
The drovers’ good spirits were quickly quenched. The bright-garbed men and women who dwelt among the ruins abandoned their smoky hearths and evening meals to stand along the lane, their voices mute, their backs turned as the inspection party passed by. An action that spoke more truly than words of their feeling about Amonked’s mission. Bak allowed himself a secret smile. Even these people, residents of faraway lands, preferred that the army remain.
He found Thaneny and Pawah near Pashenuro’s string of donkeys. The scribe was utterly devoted to Nefret and would do anything for her. He was equally devoted to
Amonked, the man to whom he owed his life. Would he have slain Baket-Amon to eliminate the prince from both their lives?
“Why are you not riding in comfort?” Bak asked.
“Amonked’s carrying chair is empty.”
“After several hours,” Thaneny said, “I feel a need to walk, to give new life to my backside.”
Bak laughed. Although they were valued by the nobility, he, too, found the chairs uncomfortable.
“Sometimes I fear he’ll think me ungrateful,” Thaneny went on, “but thus far he’s offered no comment.”
“Amonked’s a most understanding man,” Pawah assured him.
“I doubt those people would agree with you,” Bak said sweeping his arm wide.
The scribe looked with regret at the many backs turned their way. “They don’t know him as we do. The decision he’ll make will be fair, taking their needs into consideration as well as those of the army and all others concerned.”
“Will it?” Bak prodded. “From what I hear, he’s a tool of our sovereign, quick to do her bidding no matter how imprudent her command.”
“He’s not!” Pawah glared. “He does what he thinks best, not what she or anyone else urges him to do.”
Thaneny stepped to the side of the lane. A dark gray donkey brayed as if thanking him for clearing its path.
“Why have you searched us out, Lieutenant? Have you con cluded that your purpose would best be served if you point a finger at Amonked as the one who slew Baket-Amon?
Do you think by baiting us we’ll blurt out some truth that’ll ease your path?”
Bak was irritated, as the scribe meant him to be. “I’ve no desire to accuse the wrong man, but I must lay hands on the prince’s slayer.” He pointed toward the people stand ing alongside the lane. “You can see for yourself the im portance of my quest.”
Pawah directed an impish grin, barely visible in the rap idly fading light, toward Thaneny. “Lieutenant Horhotep claims Commandant Thuty set those apprentices against our sailors, and he says the people who’ve been watching us along the way are curious, not threatening.”
The scribe scowled at his young friend. “The man’s every thought is addled. To quote him is to turn the truth upside down.”
“Can you not prove Horhotep the slayer?” Pawah asked
Bak, not altogether in jest.
“Would that I could,” Bak said ruefully, “but so far I’ve found nothing that speaks against him except his envy of the prince.” Noticing Thaneny shifting his weight, he sig naled that they move on. The scribe had to be exhausted after so long a day. “What can you tell me of him?”
With his master no longer the focus of Bak’s questions, the scribe answered more readily. “Horhotep never crossed
Amonked’s path, or ours, until two weeks before we left the capital. He’d served as an aide, one among many, with nothing to distinguish him from his fellows, to first one officer and then another in the royal house. The chancellor heard of our mission and recommended him to our sover eign.”
“He’s the son of a provincial governor,” Pawah said, making a face.
Bak offered a silent prayer to the lord Amon that the land of Kemet would survive in spite of the many decisions made based on a man’s birth rather than his competence.
“Does Amonked realize he’s been given an adviser who has neither ability nor knowledge?”
“He’s said nothing…” Thaneny glanced at Pawah, who shook his head. “… but he’s far more astute than most men believe.”
They walked past a sentry holding aloft a flaming torch to light an intersecting street down which the caravan was turning. The buildings here were intact, blocks of intercon nected houses inhabited by families who looked down from their rooftops, grim-faced and silent. The smells of cooking oil and fish hung in the air, along with a resentment Bak could almost touch.
He drew the pair into a side lane deeply shadowed in the twilight. “One thing I must know and I’ll trouble you no more.”
Thaneny stiffened. “I’ll not point a finger at my master.”
“You told me you doubted Nefret noticed Baket-Amon’s attentions, but she told me herself she was troubled enough to voice a protest to Amonked. You must’ve known of her complaint, yet you failed to tell me. Now how did he re act?”
“I… I don’t know.”
Bak hardened his voice. “Your lie seems a confirmation of your master’s guilt.”
“No.”
“Must I take you to the garrison and use the cudgel?”
Bak had little faith in the use of a stick, but the promise to do so more often than not produced the truth.
“Please, Thaneny!” Pawah cried.
“No.”
The boy wrung his hands, agonizing over his friend’s stubborn silence. At last, he blurted, “Before Amonked could act, Baket-Amon came to our house and…”
“Silence, child!” Thaneny commanded.
“Mesutu told me that he pushed his way into our mas ter’s private reception room,” the youth said, paying no heed. “They argued over Nefret, their exact words no one could hear. The prince stormed out and later Amonked merely laughed, making light of the quarrel.” He looked at
Bak, his eyes large and worried. “So you see, it was noth ing. Of no importance. Not worthy of a second thought.”
“How long ago was this?” Bak asked.
“I don’t know exactly. Almost two years ago, I think.”
“Did Baket-Amon ever come again?”
“No, sir.”
Bak ruffled the boy’s hair. “I value the truth, Pawah, and
I’ll not use it to Amonked’s disadvantage.”
He prayed, not for their sake alone but also for his own, that he could live up to the vow, that the inspector would prove to be the man they clearly thought he was.
“Our storage magazines are full to overflowing with trade goods, items awaiting shipment when the river floods.”
Commander Woser stood behind his armchair on the dais, his hands resting on one of the finest giraffe skins Bak had ever seen. The hide was draped over the back of the chair in a careful display designed to dazzle the eye. The light of the torch mounted by the door made the hairs glisten.
“You’ll have noticed I said nothing to Amonked. He’ll see for himself tomorrow and no doubt be impressed. I fear so large a quantity will convince him that Iken is already more a storehouse than a garrison, reinforcing the idea that only a token force remain here.”
“Tell him you await the flood and also that you’ve had reports of tribesmen lurking near the desert trail.” Nebwa stood in the center of the room, resting a shoulder against the single red column that supported the deep blue ceiling.
“Say you held back shipment until you could verify or dis prove their presence.”
“There have, in fact, been rumors that that wretched ban dit Hor-pen-Deshret has returned, but our desert patrols have seen no sign of him, nor have they come upon any unexpected gatherings of men.”
“The rumors may be true,” Nebwa said and went on to tell of the falcon at Kor and the stolen sandals. “We’ve not yet told Amonked lest we err. We don’t want Horhotep to turn an honest mistake against us.”
Woser’s mouth tightened. “Whatever we do, then, must not only convince the inspector that the army is necessary along the Belly of Stones, but we must truly protect our selves in case Hor-pen-Deshret chooses to attack.” The commander, a medium-sized man in his early forties with a slight paunch and thick, graying hair, eyed Bak. “Any suggestions, Lieutenant? I seem to recall you as a most creative man.”
Bak, who had dragged a stool into the room as soon as
Amonked departed, lifted his drinking bowl off the floor and sipped the wine, a heady red creation with a faint floral bouquet. He had come to know Woser several months ear lier, and liked him.
“I’d post guards in conspicuous places and double the number of sentries on the outer wall. At some appropriate time, I’d say additional men have been added to discourage robbery from within and attacks from without.”
Woser nodded. “Direct enough to make him think, not so forthright he’ll disbelieve.”
“Take care that that swine he calls his adviser can’t ac cuse the army of stealing.” Nebwa tossed down the remains of his wine and set the bowl on the dais. “It’s getting late and I must go to the garrison. The desert trail to the south is long and empty, and I assured Seshu I’d talk to the pa trols, learning all I can of what we might face. Are you coming, Bak?”
“I’ve a slayer to snare and…” Bak queried Woser with a glance. “… I’ve been told that Baket-Amon’s chief wife grew to womanhood near here.” His expectations were small-the prince and his family had dwelt in Ma’am for at least ten years-but a minute step forward was better than no progress at all.
Woser nodded. “In the lower city, where her parents still live.”
Nebwa bade them good-bye and hastened away.
“She’s a child of Iken?” Bak asked, surprised. “I know the prince was a man of Kemet deep down in his heart, but
I’d’ve thought he’d wed a woman of Wawat, one who shared his noble blood.”
“So she does.” Woser slipped around his chair, removed the giraffe skin, and rolled it carefully. Sitting down, he laid it across his lap. “She was his cousin, the daughter of his father’s brother. Her father is headman of a local tribe that long ago moved into the lower city, during the time the Kushites ruled. When the Kushite army fled, they chose to remain, and our sovereign at the time saw no reason to throw them from homes safe within the fortress walls.”
Bak smiled, appreciative of the prince’s political acumen.
“She must’ve seemed an ideal match to Baket-Amon. A cousin and at the same time a woman who knew well the people of Kemet and our customs.”
“So he may have believed at the beginning, but her father is an old-fashioned man, one who retains the traditions of his people. For my part, I’ve come to appreciate his un bending honesty, his forthrightness. But Baket-Amon could scarcely go through the motions. His heart lay in the mod ern world, not the past.”
“I knew he kept his family in Ma’am. He preferred, I suppose, that they fall under the viceroy’s influence, not that of his wife’s father.”
“The instant they wed, he took her away. The old man wasn’t happy, but what could he do?”
What indeed? Bak sipped from his bowl, thinking of a woman torn from her family and her home, thinking of
Seshu’s talk of her irrationality. “What kind of woman is she?”
“On the surface, she’s shy and retiring. Underneath she’s as hard as granite and as unyielding.” The patter of sandals drew Woser’s eyes to the door, but whoever was outside walked on by. “I believe the people you’ve seen standing along the river, watching your caravan, are there to register disapproval of Amonked’s mission. But her thoughts may travel a different path, one meant to avenge her husband’s death. If so, she’ll take advantage of her people’s unsettling vigil, using their actions to serve her own purpose. And she’ll not relent until she gets her way.”
“Until Baket-Amon’s slayer is snared and punished.”
Feeling entangled by necessity, Bak stood up and paced the length of the room. “The local people need the army.
They’ve nothing to gain by totally alienating Amonked.
How far, do you think, are they willing to go to satisfy a woman’s quest for revenge?”
“I can’t say.” Woser lifted his drinking bowl, swirled the deep red liquid around inside. “I suggest you contact the old headman Rona, who lives in a village not far downriver from the fortress of Askut. He’s a man of great good sense, one who has much influence all along the river between here and Askut.”
“I’ll do so.” Bak returned to his stool but could not bear to sit. “Baket-Amon was known in Buhen, in Waset, and elsewhere as a man with a strong appetite for the delights of the flesh.”
“The tales of his behavior have not escaped my atten tion,” Woser said in a wry voice. “And no, he did not flaunt his desires here. His father-in-law demanded he show re spect, and he did. Each time he came, he displayed unpar alleled virtue. The reason he seldom blessed us with his presence, I suspect.”
The torch sputtered, barely drawing Bak’s glance. “Like you, others must’ve heard of his carousing. How were the stories received?” He could guess the answer and Woser proved him right.
“He was admired exceedingly.”
“Have you heard any guesses about the reason for his death?”
“All who dwell here lay the blame at Amonked’s feet.
Other reasons have long since been lost to the one they wish to believe.”
Bak strode through the south gate, bidding good night to the sentry posted there. As the heavy wooden doors thud ded shut behind him, he hurried along the sandy lane at the base of the outer wall. The air was still and cool. The moon was a sliver and the stars stingy with their light, making the night dark and uninviting. He wished he had thought to get a torch from the sentry. At least he had had the good sense to borrow a tunic and a long cloak that he had secured with a bronze pin and wrapped tightly around himself. With only his right arm bared below the elbow, he felt rather like a man wrapped for eternity.
The lane, well-traveled in the daytime, was deserted at so late an hour. Some creature of the night, a rat most likely, dashed across Bak’s path, and he heard the flapping wings and eerie hoot of an owl. A cough high above marked the location of a sentry on the battlements, but when he looked up the high, towered wall, turned an ashy gray by the feeble light, he saw no one.
He hastened on, thinking of his talk with Woser and of how little he had gleaned of Baket-Amon. His reunion with the commander and the other officers who had peeked in to greet him had in part made up for the paucity of infor mation.
Ahead, a patch of black marked the place where the cliff face fell away, forming the steep cut through the escarp ment that would take him down to the lower city. If only he could find a satisfactory reason for the prince’s death.
Look to the woman, he had been told when first he had been assigned to stand at the head of the Medjay police, and Nefret was a most desirable woman. Yet he was not entirely satisfied that she was sufficient cause for murder.
Perhaps, he admitted to himself, because accepting her as a reason made Amonked the most likely slayer.
He entered the cut and headed downward. Each step he took stole away more of the meager light, forcing him to slow his pace and concentrate on where he placed his feet.
As the walls closed around him, the darkness was nearly complete, leaving smudges of black in a world of lesser black.
A few paces ahead, something dislodged a rock. Bak’s senses sharpened, but his step did not falter. He had no reason to fear; Iken was as safe as Buhen. Few men knew him here, none who carried a grudge. And though he hated to admit it, no one in Amonked’s party had reason to wish him injury. He was much too far from learning the truth about Baket-Amon’s death. Nonetheless, he freed his right arm to the shoulder and patted his side, reassured by the feel of his dagger inside the cloak.
A stone clattered. A large, solid object, the body of a man, struck him hard from the side, tearing away his sense of well-being. He lost his balance. Struggling to loosen the cloak and free his left arm, fumbling for the pin that held the garment together, he went down, hitting the ground with a solid thump. The man fell on top of him, knocking the breath from him, and struck him hard in the side with a fist. Bak lay quite still, stunned by the blow and by the realization that he was under attack.
Collecting his wits, he flailed his legs and twisted his body, hoping to throw off his assailant. The man struck him again, the blow grazing his shoulder, and at the same time struggled to remain on top. The cloak, wrapped so close around him, hampered Bak’s attempts to free himself, confining him to a few ineffectual blows, but also hindered the other man’s efforts to hold on to him, to strike a telling blow.
They began to roll, the steep slope carrying them down ward, with one man on top and then the other. While his assailant tried with limited success to pummel him and to stop their downward plunge, Bak fought the cloak, franti cally trying to rid himself of the wretched thing. His dagger was within easy reach-he felt it each time he rolled over it-but he could not get to it.
They struck with a solid thud a boulder at the side of the path, knocking the air from Bak’s lungs and releasing the man’s grip on a fold of fabric. Bak tried to scramble up, but his ungainly wrap confined his legs. Frustrated, angry, he gave up on the cloak and swung his free fist at his assailant. Unable to see in the impenetrable darkness, the blow struck at an angle, losing its power. His attacker rose to his knees, indistinct, slightly less dark than the night.
Bak fleetingly glimpsed a shard of light-metal, he thought, or glass-and rolled. He felt across the top of his left shoulder the sudden warmth of his own blood.
Startled, suddenly afraid, knowing he could not ade quately defend himself while wrapped in the accursed cloak, he rolled downhill, all the while desperately trying to find the pin that held together what he feared would be his shroud. Try as he might, he could not locate it. The garment had shifted in the struggle, hiding the pin within its folds.
He heard a noise. Footsteps on sand. Slow. Cautious. The man coming after him, prepared no doubt to finish the task he had begun.
Bak stopped his downhill roll and sat up. He grabbed hold of the fabric close to his neck, felt the warm stickiness of blood, gritted his teeth, and jerked as hard as he could.
The cloth ripped with a shriek that to him sounded loud enough to awaken the dead. The footsteps paused. He jerked the linen again, tearing a long slit that released his left arm. Patting himself frantically around the chest, the neck, he located the pin. Tearing it free and throwing it aside, he let the tunic fall, wrenched his dagger from its sheath, and scrambled to his feet. His assailant lunged to ward him. As dark as it was, Bak somehow managed to parry the blow. He heard the clank of metal against metal, his dagger against a similar weapon. With a muffled curse, the man swung around and ran. A vague figure in the dark, an image with no face, no identity.
Snapping out an oath, Bak raced down the slope after him. His shoulder was beginning to ache, to burn, and he guessed it was still bleeding. He ignored the wound as in significant.
The man ahead was fast, but Bak gradually closed the distance between them. He reached the bottom of the cut a dozen paces back. The man sped on, racing along the broad street that continued to the harbor, with lanes branching off on both sides. The light was better, but all Bak could see was the naked back of a man wearing a thigh-length kilt.
The figure darted left into an intersecting lane. Bak found himself following a dark, narrow path with many abrupt twists and turns, many adjoining lanes. This was a district of warehouses, places of business and workshops, dwell ings, some of the buildings occupied and in good repair, others empty and crumbling. An earlier visit to Iken made it vaguely familiar, but not familiar enough. Within mo ments, the man he chased had vanished.
As Bak hurried through the dark, empty streets on his way to the caravan encampment, he puzzled over the iden tity of his assailant, a man he had barely glimpsed. Had he come from Hor-pen-Deshret, or was he the man who had slain Baket-Amon? Or was he a simple thief, a transient unable to resist the temptation offered by a lone man in the dark?
He had worn a kilt made of some light-colored fabric.
White, Bak thought, probably linen. His arms and chest had been bare; he had worn no jewelry. White linen would most likely be worn by a man of Kemet-but not necessarily. A lack of jewelry could simply mean the man had feared los ing or breaking something of value or trinkets he especially liked. Or had he worn no jewelry because he feared it would betray his identity?