Nebwa came up beside Bak, looking grim. “So it’s begun.”
The men on shore strode down a narrow cut in the mud bank a few paces downstream from the skiffs and formed a ragged line near the river’s edge. Every eye was locked on the approaching ferry. Bak recognized about half, men who farmed small plots of land along the river or on the islands above Kor. They sometimes came to Buhen to the market or to air complaints.
Sennefer hurried to the prow. “Men who till the fields in the province of Sheresy, where my country estate lies, seem never to have the leisure to gather together for no good reason. Am I to assume the same is true here?”
“Should we expect trouble?” Minkheper asked, joining them.
Nebwa looked to Bak for an answer. Though reared in
Wawat and wed to a local woman, he spent most of his time in the garrison and considered himself out of touch.
Untrue, but so he believed.
Bak shrugged. “I can make no promises, but I doubt they’ll harm us. I suspect they’ve come to create unease in our hearts.”
“To threaten,” Amonked said, coming up behind them.
The ferryman dropped the sail, slowing the vessel, and set a course for the beached skiffs. The waiting men stood grim-faced and unmoving, silent, watchful. Unnerving.
Amonked rested his hands on the rail and scowled to ward the men across the water. “Will these people continue this… this silent confrontation throughout our journey to
Semna?”
“I’d not count on them remaining silent,” Nebwa said.
“This is abominable! Demeaning to our sovereign!” Hor hotep, standing behind Amonked, slapped his leg with his baton of office. “A good beating here and now would put a stop to this outrage once and for all.”
Nebwa swung around, eyes smoldering. “You’ll lay your baton on no man or woman in Wawat, Lieutenant. You hear me?”
“You’ve no right…!”
The ferry swung suddenly toward the waiting men and swept into the shallows, throwing muddy water to either side and splattering the men on deck. Without warning, the prow dug into the soft bottom. The vessel stopped as if it had struck a solid wall. Bak stumbled against the rail and at the same time grabbed Nebwa’s arm to keep him from falling. Amonked held on tight. Horhotep, who dared not grab the inspector, was thrown off his feet and skidded across the deck. Minkheper, flung backward, grabbed an upright supporting the canvas roof, threatening to topple the shelter. Sennefer fell to his knees. The men on shore, though they must have been surprised-and delighted maintained their stony silence.
Bak glimpsed a look of exultation on the ferryman’s face. The impact had been deliberate, prompted by Hor hotep’s cruel threat.
“I fear you’ll have to wade ashore, Troop Captain,” the ferryman said. “We’re too far out to use the gangplank.”
Nebwa gave the man a fierce look, then noticed Horhotep lifting himself off the deck and searching for splinters.
Shaken by silent laughter, he handed over the token the ferryman would present to the garrison quartermaster for payment for services. “I trust next time you’ll be more care ful,” he said with mock severity.
The ferryman tried not to smile, failed. “Yes, sir!”
Bak was the first to drop off the vessel. He sank into the muck up to his ankles, and thick, black water swirled around his lower legs. He waded to dry ground and stopped midway along the line of men. Feeling a bit ridiculous with grime to the knees and his sandals oozing mud, he bade them a good afternoon, his expression uncritical but stern.
He called those he knew by name so they would have no doubt he could identify them later if trouble arose.
The line held firm; the men clung to their silence and their grim demeanor. He stood where he was, his stance as firm as theirs, letting his eyes travel from one man to the next, settling briefly on each in turn. He heard Nebwa be hind him and Amonked drop into the water with a loud splash. Three further splashes told him the remainder of the party had left the ferry.
He walked forward, displaying a confidence he did not entirely feel. The line of men parted, slowly, reluctantly, and allowed him through. Resisting the urge to look back, to make sure Nebwa and the others remained unmolested, he walked to the cut in the mudbank and climbed partway to the top. Only then did he turn around.
Nebwa stood knee-deep in the water with Amonked’s small party around him. He was speaking low but with vehemence-giving orders, Bak assumed. With a hasty smile, Amonked broke away from the group and strode after Bak. Walking relaxed and easy, his expression benign, he passed through the break in the line of men. Minkheper followed close behind, talking of the coolness of the eve ning. Sennefer passed through with the aplomb of a wealthy landowner accustomed to dealing with the poor. Horhotep, looking furious, marched out of the water with Nebwa so close he might have been guarding him. Maybe he was.
Never missing a step, Nebwa clapped the nearest farmer on the shoulder, asked another how his eldest son was, waved to a third and called him by name. Within moments he was walking up the cut in the wake of his charges.
Bak wove a path through piles of equipment and sup plies, listening to men’s voices and the sounds of animals settling down for the night. A faint odor of burning fuel hung in the air and the scent of onions and fish clung to empty bowls and the breaths of the men he passed. The feral dogs were nosing around in their endless quest for sustenance. Peace and contentment reigned, a peace he prayed would continue.
He thought of the falcon left atop the wall at Kor. Of how easily the man had entered the fortress, breaching its defenses, and climbed undetected to the battlements. Dur ing the light of day, no man could infiltrate the caravan, but the moon was waning, each night darker than the one before.
He walked past Amonked’s guards’ encampment. The men, divided into two units, were seated around makeshift hearths, basking in the warmth after consuming their eve ning meal. Their camp had long ago been set up-thanks to Sergeant Dedu. They spoke quietly to one another, con tent with a task well learned, no longer argumentative as before.
Earlier, Nebwa had taken aside Sergeant Roy, telling him in no uncertain terms what he expected of him: full and unquestioning cooperation. Dedu would provide the train ing Roy had been unwilling or unable to give, and Mery mose would take his rightful place at the head of the guards.
Roy had grumbled, but the threat of having him reassigned to Horhotep had shut him up fast enough.
Bak circled Amonked’s pavilion, which smelled faintly of oil lamps and Nefret’s perfume. The light inside made the fabric walls glow, and vague shadows darted back and forth. Beyond, he found the row of tents occupied by the remainder of the inspection party. The one he sought was the sole shelter not yet erected, that of Thaneny, who had had to aid Amonked in preparing his report on the island fortress. Pawah, who shared the flimsy structure, had been pressed into service to run errands and serve as the inspec tor’s personal servant. Now here they were, later than everyone else, preparing to raise their shelter.
“Do we have to sleep in a tent?” Pawah asked. “I’d much rather lie in the open-like the drovers do.”
“Not another word.” Thaneny bent at the waist to straighten the heavy linen. “Have you forgotten already how cold you were last night?”
“I’ll sleep with my head outside,” the youth said defi antly.
“Grab a pole,” Thaneny commanded.
Pawah made a face for Bak’s benefit, but obeyed. Tha neny proved to be surprisingly agile for one so crippled, and soon the center of the canvas was raised on waist-high poles, the sides pinned down with rocks. A simple but ideal shelter for two men-except in a high wind.
Thanks to the gods, the breeze had died and the night was clear, with pinpoints of light glittering strong and bright overhead. Such clarity meant the night would be cool. Bak shivered at the thought. He, like everyone outside of Amonked’s immediate party, had to sleep beneath the stars.
Thaneny slipped into a tunic to ward off the chill and sat on the ground in front of the tent. Bak dropped down beside him. Pawah picked up a handful of sand and let it trickle down the sloping side of the shelter.
“How did you manage the trek today?” Bak asked the scribe.
“He traveled in utmost comfort,” Pawah said, “like a great nobleman.”
The scribe cuffed the youth on the rear. “Go away, waif.”
Grinning, Pawah ducked out of his reach.
Thaneny smiled at Bak. “I must admit, the child is right.
Amonked gave me leave to use his carrying chair, saying he wished me to watch over mistress Nefret while he was away inspecting the island fortress. Throughout the morn 112
Lauren Haney ing I felt presumptuous, but by day’s end, I reveled in the luxury.”
Bak laughed. “You’ll rapidly become spoiled. Your mas ter has another inspection tomorrow.”
The scribe’s good humor faded. “Will the local men show themselves again, hoping to intimidate him as they tried to do today?”
“They don’t give up easily.”
Pawah plopped down on the sand facing Bak. “Sennefer said you were very brave today, sir.”
Bak rolled his eyes skyward. “A gross exaggeration.”
“Still…” The boy leaned toward him, eyes wide, will ing him to admit to a courage Bak felt unwarranted under the circumstances.
Mindful of the pavilion a few paces away and its flimsy linen walls, he took care how he answered. “The men who faced us today saw Nebwa and me with Amonked. They surely concluded that I, a man they know as fair and com passionate, have come to look into Prince Baket-Amon’s murder. They can also be sure Nebwa, a man highly re spected in Wawat for his rough honesty, his integrity, will see that no harm comes to the caravan or to any who dwell along the river. They had far more to gain by allowing us to pass than by attacking us.”
“Do you and the troop captain hold so much power?” the scribe asked.
“Not power. Trust.” Bak rubbed his arms, wishing he had thought to don a tunic before leaving the archers’ hearth. “To retain that trust, I must lay hands on Baket Amon’s slayer and Nebwa must see that no man suffers loss of life or property.”
“If you don’t?”
Bak shrugged, unable to answer.
“Has it never occurred to you that the prince might’ve been slain by someone wishing to take his place as leader of his people?” Thaneny asked.
The question was valid, but Bak suspected it was prompted more by hope than conviction that the slayer would be found outside of Amonked’s party. “The succes sion has never been an issue. He had a young son, whose mother will serve as regent, and other, younger sons of the same woman.”
“He was very loyal to Kemet, I’ve been told. Would anyone have wished him dead in order to tear this part of
Wawat out of our sovereign’s grasp?”
“Certainly not the kings of Kush who dwell beyond our southern frontier. Many years ago, the powerful kingdom centered in Kerma was crushed by Ahkheperkare Thut mose, and it’s now fragmented into a number of smaller, weaker kingdoms. Each thrives on the trade passing be tween Kemet and the lands farther south. Who would jeop ardize that? As for the people who dwell here in Wawat, they need us just as we need them.”
Unable to offer another option, Thaneny fell silent. His expression was glum, as was Pawah’s, neither wanting to believe the prince had been slain by someone close to them.
“Have you been with Amonked for long?” Bak asked.
“Four years.” Thaneny, looking relieved at the change of subject, shifted position. He had trouble bending the dam aged knee. “Since I was hurt in an accident at our sover eign’s new memorial temple across the river from the capital. A weakened rope, a stone sliding out of control…”
His voice tailed off, leaving the rest to the imagination.
Bak nodded his understanding. He had grown to man hood near the southern capital of Waset, where men toiled year after year on the mansions of the gods and the tombs and memorial temples of royalty. Raised by his physician father, he had grown accustomed to seeing men crippled and maimed or hearing of men killed by heavy stones fall ing while being lifted into place or scaffolds collapsing or mounds of sand or rocks sliding out of control. “And the lord Amon chose to smile upon you.”
“The god, yes, and Amonked.” Thaneny flashed a grate ful look toward the pavilion. “He’d come to the temple that day to see how the work progressed. He saw the stone lifted off me and the way my leg was crushed, and he had me carried to a royal physician. Later, while I lay drugged and senseless, he took me to his home where his servants could care for me. I came close to death, they tell me, and I spent many days unable to get off my sleeping pallet.”
No wonder he’s so devoted to Amonked, Bak thought.
Few men with so serious an injury would have survived.
Only constant and dutiful care could have kept him alive and a bright, clean house instead of a hovel.
“My debt to Amonked grew each day.” The scribe glanced again toward the pavilion and the shadows flitting across the lighted walls. “I couldn’t walk, but I could read and write. As soon as I could sit erect, he allowed me to read to his children and to teach them. When I learned to walk on crutches, he took me into his office.”
“There you’ve been ever since?”
Thaneny’s voice pulsed with emotion. “I can never repay him. Never. He gave me my life.”
“Must you dwell on the past, Thaneny?” Amonked stood at the corner of the pavilion, baton of office in hand, mouth pursed in disapproval. “You’ve long since repaid me with your competence, your honesty, your loyalty. You offend me by thinking otherwise.”
The scribe bowed his head. “Yes, sir.”
A frustrated sigh burst from Amonked’s lips. He greeted
Bak with a nod and beckoned Pawah. “Come. I wish to speak with the caravan master.”
The boy’s eyes lit up and he leaped to his feet.
When they were well out of hearing distance, Bak re turned to the purpose for which he had come. “Did you see
Baket-Amon the morning he was slain?”
“No, sir.” The answer came fast and firm, with no hes itation betraying doubt.
Bak gave him a sharp look. “You knew him, I see.”
“I did, yes.” Thaneny noticed Bak’s heightened interest and his voice turned wry. “We were far from intimate, Lieutenant. I’m a servant and he was a man of substance.”
Bak doubted the scribe spent much time in the royal house. Other than errands, Amonked would have no need to send him there. He would be more useful in his master’s home in Waset or on his country estate-or estates. “How did you meet him? Where?”
The scribe hesitated, his reluctance to answer apparent.
“I’ll learn the truth, Thaneny, with or without your help.”
The scribe took a long time answering. “Two years ago, or was it three? He took a liking to mistress Nefret. He…
Well, I don’t know if you, who dwell here in his homeland, ever heard tales of his exploits in Waset. But he was a man who loved women. Many women.”
“Wawat was also his playground,” Bak assured him.
“Then you know he wasn’t one to give up easily.”
“I’ve heard no tales of Baket-Amon pursuing a woman who offered no encouragement.”
“Mistress Nefret gave him none. I swear she didn’t.” The protest was made with the intensity of a zealot. “Nonethe less, he came often to Amonked’s house, thinking to attract her attention.”
Nefret was lovely, Bak granted, but would beauty alone have been sufficient to draw the prince away from more fruitful pursuits? “Did he catch her eye?”
“She’s a good girl, honest and loyal, and she knows she owes Amonked everything. At times she isn’t happy, and now and again they quarrel, but her father-a minor no bleman with no wealth to speak of-committed her to him, and she vowed to live up to their agreement. Since she’s shared his bed, many young men have paraded before her.
She’s looked at none of them.”
A strong avowal of unwavering fidelity. Enough to make
Bak weary-and arouse suspicion. “Did she ever acknowl edge the prince’s pursuit?”
“I doubt she even noticed him.”
Bak bestowed upon the scribe a long, skeptical look.
Thaneny did not so much as flinch. His admiration for the woman, his adoration, was unshakable. “Did Amonked know of Baket-Amon’s interest in mistress Nefret and of his many visits?”
“No, sir!” Thaneny eyed Bak furtively, realized another answer had come too fast, and hastened to explain. “When we’re in residence in Waset, he goes each day to the royal house and continues on to the warehouses of the lord
Amon. He returns in the late afternoon, when he summons me to his private reception room to discuss the business of the day. The women are alone much of the time, left to their own resources.”
The lord Amon spare me, Bak thought. Amonked may have been away much of the time, but the servants were there. Men and women who would keep their master in formed. And a wife who might resent the lovely young concubine and wish her harm. Amonked most certainly knew the prince had come too often to the house, his intent not entirely honorable.
As Bak walked past the far side of the pavilion, retracing his earlier footsteps, he heard a woman’s quiet sobbing.
Nefret. Other than her servant, she was probably alone.
What better time to ask her of what Thaneny had unwit tingly hinted?
He walked to the entry portal, lifted the cloth, and peered inside. The maid Mesutu huddled close to a lighted brazier, hugging herself, staring at the burning fuel. She was a pic ture of abject misery. Listening to the sobbing woman be yond the flimsy wall would certainly not help to improve her outlook.
“I’ve come to see your mistress,” Bak said.
The girl looked up, startled. Recognition touched her face and she scrambled to her feet. She hurried to the hang ings dividing the space, patted the linen until she found a place where two edges of fabric came together, and slipped through. The sobbing stopped, replaced by soft murmurs.
Mesutu came back. “She’ll see you. Please seat your self.”
After sitting outside with Thaneny, he thought the pa vilion warm and cozy, the pillow on which he sat luxurious.
The girl brought him a jar of beer and a stemmed bowl from which to drink the brew. She set a shallow bowl of dates and sweetcakes on a low table beside him. With a shy smile, she returned to her mistress.
Bak sipped, he nibbled, he waited. And waited. He si lently cursed the woman. What could she be doing? Hiding the ravages of her unhappiness beneath a thick coat of makeup? He preferred to speak with her alone, but soon
Amonked would return. The inspector would not be pleased at finding him with the concubine at such a late hour.
“Lieutenant Bak,” Nefret said, holding back the fabric to either side, letting it drape gracefully around her.
He recognized a pose when he saw one. “Mistress Nefret,
I know you must be tired after a long day’s trek, but I fear
I must speak with you.”
“I knew you’d come. Perhaps not tonight, but I doubted you’d wait for long.” She let the fabric fall free and walked to the brazier, followed closely by her maid. Placing an arm around the child’s shoulders, she raised her voice so her words would carry to Thaneny’s tent. “Mesutu heard you with Thaneny.”
“He told me nothing I couldn’t have learned elsewhere.”
Her eyes, puffy from sobbing and heavily made up, glit tered with anger. Again, she raised her voice. “Why that accursed scribe can’t mind his own business I’ll never un derstand!”
“He’s fond of you.”
“Fond!” Releasing Mesutu, she plopped down on a loose stack of pillows, and dropped her voice to a normal level.
“If he cared so much, he’d convince Amonked to let me return to Kemet.” She reached for a date, bit into it, frowned. “I hate this horrible desert, this empty land. I want to go home!”
“Would Amonked listen to a scribe’s pleas?”
“He listens to him in matters of business.” Nefret noticed
Mesutu standing off to the side, shivering. She patted the pillow beside her, inviting the child near the heat. “You’re right, though. He’s too angry with me, too stubborn, to listen to Thaneny now.”
Footsteps outside drew near and passed on, reminding
Bak of Amonked’s imminent arrival. How could he distract
Nefret from herself? “You’re fortunate you’re not wed to a soldier, one who would bring you here to live for many long months.”
She took another date, nibbled. “Thaneny could speak for me to Sennefer. Amonked would listen to his wife’s brother.”
“Sennefer seems easy enough to talk to. Why don’t you speak with him yourself?”
“He’s always so cold toward me.” She bit her lip, swal lowed what Bak feared would be more sobs. “I understand he must protect his sister’s interests, and Amonked is her greatest interest. She adores him, shelters him from do mestic troubles, prays I’ll give him the son she never could.” Tears spilled over and she whimpered, “I don’t want his child. I want Sennef…”
With a sharp little groan, the child Mesutu grabbed her mistress’s arm and dug her nails in, cutting short the indis cretion.
Nefret clapped a hand over her mouth. “Oh! Oh, please,
Lieutenant…”
Startled by the disclosure, but not so badly that his thoughts were hampered, he placed a finger before his lips and pointed in the general direction of the row of tents.
Speaking softly, he said, “You have my pledge. I’ll say nothing.”
“I’ll be forever in your debt,” she murmured.
“Did you see Prince Baket-Amon in Buhen?” he asked, raising his voice to a normal level, taking advantage of the need to distract both her and Thaneny-if the scribe was listening. Or anyone in that row of tents.
She threw him a quick look of gratitude. “How could I see him or anyone else? Amonked insisted I stay inside all the while we were there.”
“You didn’t see him the morning he came to the dwell ing?”
“Of course not,” she said, indignant. “Did I not just tell you I didn’t see him in Buhen?”
He had to smile. She was either a superb actress or her powers of recovery were uncommonly fast. “You met him in Waset, Thaneny told me.”
“Waset!” she said scornfully. “If that witless goose knew half as much as he thinks he does, he’d be toiling for Maat kare Hatshepsut herself, not her cousin.” She tossed her head, making her thick dark hair swing across her shoul ders. “I met him in Sheresy. My father has a farm adjoining
Sennefer’s estate, which is very large and teems with wild creatures. Amonked sometimes took guests there, and they hunted in the marshes or out on the desert. That’s how I met him, and that’s how I met the prince.”
Bak eyed her sharply. “Are you saying Amonked took the prince to Sennefer’s estate to hunt?”
“He might’ve, or perhaps someone else did.” She took a sweetcake from the bowl and broke it in half. “Our sov ereign may wear the trappings of a king, but she long ago gave up any pretense of performing the manly arts. Now, when she wants to impress foreign dignitaries or reward with sport the nobility of Kemet, she has Amonked and other trusted advisers invite them on her behalf to hunt or fish or partake of some other form of active diversion. As the marshes of Sheresy and the nearby desert have an abun dance of wildlife, Amonked takes them to Sennefer’s estate rather than to his own more modest holding near Mennufer.
As do a few close friends of Sennefer.”
Bak could not remember Amonked’s exact words, but he had led him to believe he barely knew the prince. Yet the best way to get to know a man, other than on the field of battle, was to share the excitement and danger of a hunt.
“I never would’ve thought Amonked a man of action.”
“He does what he must.”
“Did Baket-Amon desire you then, as he did later in
Waset?”
She laughed derisively. “When first I met the prince, I wore the sidelock of youth. He failed to notice me.” She was speaking of the braided hairstyle children of the wealthy often wore before they reached maturity. “When I became a woman, Amonked took me as his own and I left my father’s dwelling in Sheresy. Not until later did I meet the prince again, in Waset.”
“What did you think of him?”
“Baket-Amon?” She scowled. “He made me feel uncom fortable. Staring at me with those great cow eyes of his. I finally told Amonked I wanted him sent away.”
Bak’s spirits plummeted. The odds were good that
Amonked had hunted with Baket-Amon. They were even better that he had confronted the prince about the concu bine, warning him away from her. And he a man who claimed he barely knew the dead man.
Amonked. Maatkare Hatshepsut’s cousin. The only man in the inspection party Bak had found thus far who had a reason to slay Baket-Amon. A reason but not a strong rea son.
He wished he could talk to Imsiba, compare what the two of them had learned over the past two days. Had the
Medjay discovered some key fact that pointed to a slayer far outside of Amonked’s party? Surely not. A courier would have brought news of such import. Rumor would have spread the word.