“It burns like fire,” Imsiba admitted, “but I can use it if I must.”
Bak, standing in the doorway of his office, noted the drawn look on the Medjay’s face and eyed the bulky bandage wrapped around his upper arm, tied with a large untidy knot.
An oily green salve with the sharp smell of fleabane oozed from beneath the edges of the linen. Experience had given the garrison physician an unsurpassed skill with wounds, but his bandaging technique left much to be desired. “Stay quiet today, as the physician ordered. With Hori moved and the bench now usable, I can think of no better place than here.”
“Ten!” yelled one of the men on duty, and the knucklebones clattered across the entry hall floor. The man leaned over to look, banged his fist on the hard-packed earth, and snarled a curse. His companion chortled.
Imsiba grinned. “Quiet, you say?”
“While you stay here, out of harm’s way, I’ll cross the river to see Nehi.” Bak flashed a smile matching that of the sergeant. “Yesterday, if you recall, you tore me from my purpose, taking an arrow in the arm.”
“Sir!” Hori called, bursting through the door.
Bak tensed, expecting he knew not what. For close on a week, each time the youth had hailed him like that he had brought word of death or destruction.
“I’ve been out on the quay.” Hori shoved a fishing pole against the wall and dropped a musty-smelling basket on the floor. Water trickled from the loosely woven container, half full of small silvery fish. “A man just came from across the river, one of the farmer Penhet’s servants. He brought a message for you, sir, from mistress Nehi. She wishes to see you at her farm, to talk with you.”
Imsiba threw Bak a congratulatory smile. “Your suggestion to Penhet, it seems, has borne fruit.”
“Are you sure this man’s who he says he is, Hori?” After the previous day’s ambush, Bak thought it prudent to be cautious.
Imsiba stood up, concern erasing the smile. “I’ll go with you to the quay, my friend. I spent time with Penhet’s servants the day Rennefer tried to slay him. I know them all.”
“When Penhet summoned me, I knew not what to think.”
Nehi gave Bak a shy smile. “I knew who he was. I’d walked the path through his fields many times-each time I went to the village.” She smiled again, this at herself. “I’d envied him his lush crops and healthy animals, his abundance. Never did I dream he’d invite me to live there.”
Bak tried not to stare. With much of the worry lifted from her shoulders, Nehi looked a different woman. She would never be thought beautiful, but in her own thin way she was attractive, seductive even. “Do you like him?”
“He’s a kind man. Gentle and warm. And so cheerful!
How he can laugh with his life turned upside down, I don’t know.”
After housing Rennefer in the guardhouse for close on a week, Bak could well imagine the freedom Penhet must feel.
A more dour woman he had never met. “Does he often summon your children?”
“They’re with him always.” Her smile broadened. “He’s given them toys and taught them games. If his wounds weren’t troubling him, he’d get down on the floor and play with them.”
Bak eyed her swelling breasts and stomach. “When he’s healed, he’ll want a woman in his bed, and then a child who’s truly his own.”
She looked at the unpainted house, the fields so hard-won from the desert, the neat rows of small brave melon plants.
“Compared to this poor patch of land, his farm is like the Field of Reeds.” She was referring to the ideal land inhabited by the justified dead, those whose deeds had proven worthy.
“I’ll gladly give him whatever he wants.”
They stood under the lean-to in the shade of the ancient vine. The structure was empty, the fowl and animals moved to Penhet’s farm. Two men, Netermose’s field hands, toiled at the far end of the melon field. The house, Bak assumed, would soon be occupied by one of the hands. Nehi had inherited the property from her husband. Rather than sell it or abandon it to the encroaching desert, she had made an agreement with Netermose similar to the one he had with Penhet: he would tend the land and she would share its meager profits.
“You summoned me here for a purpose,” Bak reminded her.
The pleasure vanished from her face; she twisted the ring with the greenish stone. “I…I’m not sure…” Words failed her, and she stared at the ground by his feet.
He muttered an oath. What more must he do to earn her trust? “If you’ve something to tell me, anything that will help find your husband’s slayer, I beg you to speak up.”
“No, I…” She spread a hand over her stomach as if to shield her unborn child. “I shouldn’t have asked you to come.”
“Mistress Nehi!” He forced himself to be patient, to coax rather than demand. “If I thought to punish you for your husband’s faults, would I have suggested Penhet take you into his household?”
Anguish filled her face, her voice. “I thank you with all my heart, yet how can I break a promise to a man no longer living?”
“How can you not speak up when the man who slew him still walks the streets of Buhen? Only yesterday he lay in ambush, bow and arrow at the ready, and he wounded my sergeant while trying to slay me. I thank the lord Amon we’re not both laid out in the house of death, sharing prayers to the dead with your husband.”
The words had come unbidden, prompted by instinct rather than proof that the man who slew Intef had also ambushed him and Imsiba, and that Intef’s death and Mahu’s were somehow connected.
She stared. “Why slay you?”
“Why did he slay your husband?” he countered. “For the few trinkets I found on his donkey?”
She stood mute, twisting the ring, deciding. At last she said, “My children have never known play. Now they do.
For that alone, I owe you the truth. Come.”
Bak offered a silent prayer of thanks to the lord Amon and, hard on its heels, an entreaty. A plea for good, solid knowledge that would at last set him on a true and right path.
Nehi led him into the house, one long, narrow room stripped of possessions. A space at the back, roofed with spindly palm trunks covered loosely with straw through which smoke could escape, served as a kitchen. Bright rectangles of light fell from high, narrow windows. The sleeping platform was bare, the prayer niche empty, the round mudbrick oven cool to the touch. A rickety ladder rose to an opening in the roof, and two gaping holes in the floor revealed the presence of pottery storage jars, now empty.
“Here,” she said, kneeling at the end of the platform. She lifted a trapdoor, swung her feet onto a rough-cut stairway, and climbed down into the darkness. “You mustn’t follow.
The cellar’s too small.”
Bak knelt to peer down. Most such storage areas provided a hiding place for valuables. With luck-and if the lord Amon chose to look upon him with favor-this would be no exception.
As his eyes grew accustomed to the dark, he saw two large gray-brown storage jars-for grain, he thought-stoppered to keep out mice and insects, and two smaller, rounder jars, both plugged, usually used to hold dried fish. He could not begin to guess the contents of four good-sized reddish jars, also plugged to protect the contents. Nehi, half hunched over 154 / Lauren Haney beneath the low ceiling, filled the remaining space.
“I told a falsehood when you came before. This ring…”
She raised her hand so he could see. “…is old, as you guessed, possibly as old as Buhen itself. Intef found it in a tomb far out in the desert, a chamber robbed long ago, he told me, but a gold mine nonetheless.”
The words slipped out with such ease Bak was slow to absorb their promise. He had early on guessed that Intef had found a tomb in the desert, and he was not surprised to hear that robbers had long ago plundered it, overlooking a few small objects. But a gold mine? Did the tomb contain a second burial chamber, one untouched by robbers? Or something else? “Where’s this tomb located?” he asked, keeping his voice level and hope at arm’s length.
“South of Kor, Intef told me, but I know not where.” With some effort, she shifted aside one of the grain jars and pulled a stone out of the wall behind it, revealing a hole the size of a man’s head. “Even with landmarks to follow, he said I’d lose my way. I’ve never been in the desert, you see, and he told me one place looks much like another to the untrained eye.”
Picturing the lonely spot where Intef had been slain and the vast expanse of desert, Bak swore softly to himself. The tomb could be anywhere, a place more likely to be found by chance than by design. “Along with the jewelry, your husband had a chunk of ivory wrapped in a torn bit of scroll. Part of a ship’s manifest dated not long ago. Where might he’ve laid hands on that?”
“He now and again found items lost from caravans.” She dropped the stone, reached into the hole, and pulled out a dusty linen pouch. “And sometimes a dead or straying donkey laden with trade goods.”
“He kept what he found?”
Her voice took on a defensive note. “As would any man who had no knowledge of the rightful owner. My husband was not a thief.”
“I’ve heard nothing to his discredit,” Bak assured her. “All who knew him liked and respected him, and I’ve no desire to blacken his name.” He reached down to help her out of the cellar. “But I must have the truth.”
She shoved the cloth bag into his hand and turned away, her back straight, taut. Bak had an idea she was crying.
He broke the cord around the neck of the pouch and poured the contents onto the floor. Beads and small amulets of gold, lapis lazuli, turquoise, and carnelian cascaded out like colorful drops of water. Mixed among them were six identical unadorned gold bangles and an ancient necklace, four strands of tightly strung gold disc beads fastened together to lie flat on the breast.
Bak whistled. “Beautiful! Very distinctive!” He eyed her back, tried not to see the tremor of her shoulders. “How did your husband, a man of no worldly experience, ever hope to dispose of these objects without drawing the attention of authority?”
“He knew a man who sailed to Abu, and he thought someday to go with him.” Her voice was husky, thick with tears. “He hoped there to lose himself in the crowd, to be one man among many trading precious objects from the south.”
Ramose, Bak thought. Did the captain know of this small treasure, or was he merely to be a means to an end? “These were taken from a tomb. What did he glean from passing caravans?”
She whirled around, eyes aglitter with tears and anger.
“Will you take from me all he left behind, even my memories of him?”
Allowing him no answer, she scooped up the stone and swung it at the shoulder of a large storage jar. The baked clay shattered, letting the contents tumble to the floor, releasing the scents of innumerable herbs and spices and exotic perfumes from individual packets of various sizes, each distinguished from the rest by a drawing of the bush or tree from which its contents came.
She dropped to her knees and sobbed aloud, terrified of the fate she feared awaited her. Like the headman Pahuro in the village north of Buhen, she fully expected to suffer the anger of the gods and the wrath of Kemet. Irrational, Bak 156 / Lauren Haney thought, in light of his promise not to punish her, but under-standable. To fear the mighty and the distant was often easier than facing the surrounding world with its visible pit-falls. She had been invited to share Penhet’s abundance, but had no faith in her good fortune.
He reached out to draw her from the cellar. She came without a word, her resistance broken. Letting himself down in her place, he inspected the remainder of the jars. One he had thought held fish contained exactly that, the second held bright and exotic feathers from far to the south. One reddish jar held salt, another oil for cooking, a third the strings for Intef’s bow. The last contained three ostrich eggs. The walls, floor, and ceiling contained no further hiding places.
Returning to the room above, he scooped up a handful of beads and amulets. He hesitated, letting the certainty grow in his heart that what he meant to do was right. When no doubt remained, he slit a small hole in a palm-sized bag of cinnamon and forced inside more than a dozen of the gold and blue and red trinkets. “These, mistress, are yours,” he said, thrusting the bag into her hand. “The rest belong to our sovereign, Maatkare Hatshepsut.”
“Shall I summon mistress Rennefer from her cell?” Commandant Thuty demanded, his voice dripping sarcasm. “I’ve no great desire to judge her. Perhaps you’d like to do it for me.”
“No, sir.” Bak resisted the urge to shift from one foot to the other, to clear his throat. He had reported his interview with Nehi, as was right and proper, but instead of showing pleasure with the information he had gained and the items he had recovered, Thuty had focused on what should have been, to Bak’s way of thinking, an act of minor significance.
“If you’d seen that poor farm, those small toiling children, and the fear in mistress Nehi’s heart that she might have to go back…Well, allowing her to keep a few baubles seemed a right and proper thing to do.”
Thuty’s voice grew harsh, cutting. “Tell me, Lieutenant, do you mean to step into my footsteps, or have you set your sights higher? Is it the lord Amon you hope to displace?”
Bak’s heart chilled. Did Thuty really believe him so covetous of power? Unless his tight-lipped glare deceived, he did.
Bak strode forward, crossing the commandant’s private reception room in three steps, and whipped his baton of office from under his arm. Holding it flat in both hands, he offered it to the seated officer. “If you so mistrust my motives, sir, I must resign my office.”
Thuty recoiled from the proffered object. Tearing his eyes from the baton, he gave Bak a long, hard look. “You’d go back to Kemet in disgrace rather than admit your error?”
“You’ve a large family, sir. What would you have done in my place?”
Thuty sat quite still, staring. Bak feared he had gone too far. The commandant’s disposition was often erratic, but not usually so volatile.
Thuty’s expression softened. He barked a short, not un-friendly laugh. “Impertinent young pup!”
“Yes, sir.” Bak’s bones turned to water, weak with relief.
“A word of advice, Lieutenant.” Thuty, stood up, forcing Bak backward, and tapped the baton in his hands. “You must look to your baton of office as an object hard won, one not lightly sacrificed on the altar of good intentions.”
“Yes, sir.”
Thuty strode to the courtyard door, stepping over balls and pull toys and game pieces strewn across the floor, and looked outside. The commandant’s quarters were unusually placid, with his children tucked away for their afternoon naps and the women weaving or cooking or grinding grain or performing a multitude of other tasks required in the busy household. The odor of baking bread wafted through the door on a light breeze that tempered the heat of the day. A woman’s soft laughter now and again rose above the low, rhythmic thunk of a loom.
Bak had come to the building only to find himself already summoned and Nebwa expected momentarily. He had not thought to find Thuty so quick to anger, his temper storm-ridden and unstable.
“Where’s Nebwa?” Thuty growled. “I summoned him midmorning. He’s had plenty of time to get here.”
“I imagine something delayed him at Kor, sir.”
Thuty gave the younger officer a cool look. “He sailed into Buhen an hour ago and went straight to his home and wife.
Now I suppose he can’t drag himself from her side.” He paced the length of the room, stopped at the table beside his chair, and scowled at a partially unrolled scroll spread across its surface. “The two of you are much alike,” he growled.
“Good, competent officers, but each with a will of his own, a streak of independence that will one day turn my hair gray.”
“Nonsense.” Nebwa burst into the room, clapped Bak on the shoulder, flashed a smile at the commandant. “I can think of no more worthy an asset than independence. It sets apart a man of ability, making him truly great at all he seeks to accomplish.”
Stifling a laugh, Bak nudged his friend with an elbow, hoping to silence him.
The commandant gave Nebwa a long, exasperated look, but the burst of temper Bak expected failed to materialize.
Instead, Thuty clamped his mouth shut, walked around the table to sit in his armchair, and motioned vaguely toward a couple of stools across the room. When the younger officers were seated before him, he reached for the scroll on the table.
As he pulled it from beneath the stones holding it open, its leading edge curled into place, forming a tight roll. Its contents, Bak decided, must be the reason for the commandant’s irascibility.
“I received a message this morning from the viceroy.” Thuty spoke in a ponderous voice, as if the news he had to tell was of great import, a burden both heavy and difficult to bear.
“The vizier of the southern lands is on his way upriver, conducting a surprise inspection of the garrisons of Wawat. An armada of our sovereign’s warships, five vessels in all, will arrive in four days’ time should the breeze remain fair.”
“The vizier here?” Bak blurted. “So far from the corridors of power?” No wonder Thuty was so temperamental.
“Five ships!” Nebwa’s eyes narrowed. “Has he deprived our sovereign of every scribe and minor nobleman who kisses the floor at her feet?”
“I can’t believe he’s taken a sudden interest in Wawat-or in the well-being of our troops. Unless…” Bak sat up straighter. “Has Maatkare Hatshepsut decided to move once and for all against her nephew? Is this her way of wresting the army from his grasp and dislodging him from the throne in name as well as fact?”
“We’ve no need to worry on that score-I thank the lord Amon. No impossible decisions to make, no good men to die in a land divided, no wasteful battles…” Thuty shook his head, throwing off a subject painful to all who carried arms.
“No, if that were so, the viceroy would have warned me.”
“He’s the queen’s man,” Nebwa reminded him.
“First and foremost, he’s a man of Kemet,” Thuty growled.
“And he’s a trusted friend.”
“If the army hasn’t brought the vizier to Wawat, trade must’ve drawn him,” Bak said, cutting off further argument.
With a grunt of assent, Thuty rested his elbows on the arms of his chair. Using the scroll to accent his words, he explained. “As you know, and I know, and as does every man assigned to the garrisons south of Abu, our sovereign’s sole interest in Wawat is the wealth we send north to Kemet.
Now, with her building programs so costly, she’s sent the vizier to remind us of our duty. I’ve no doubt he’ll impress upon us the need to hasten northward the products of the desert mines and the exotic items that come from far to the south. And of course he’ll urge upon us scrupulous inspections and a zealous collection of tolls.”
“In other words,” Nebwa snorted, “he’ll tell us to do what we’ve always done: make sure the coffers of the royal house never cease to be full to bursting.”
Bak was equally cynical. “A secret journey, you say? Surprise inspections? And he’s traveling with five warships?”
“I see no mystery there,” Nebwa laughed. “All politi-160 / Lauren Haney cians think of themselves as walking with the gods. How would we ordinary mortals know we’re supposed to bow and scrape if we weren’t told ahead of time the name of the man who’ll soon stand before us?”
Thuty scowled, annoyed as always by Nebwa’s lack of respect for the political necessities. “Take this as a given: The viceroy told me of the vizier’s coming in strictest confidence.
Now I’m passing my secret to you and within the hour I’ll send a courier south to the commanders of the garrisons along the Belly of Stones.” He aimed the scroll at Nebwa, his second-in-command. “You must whisper the word to your fellow officers. Tell them to ready themselves and their troops. As the vizier has never been a military man, I suspect a neat formation of men with spotless kilts and well-polished spears will please him far more than a demonstration of the arts of war. Above all, we want to make a good impression.”
Without waiting for Nebwa’s nod, the commandant pointed the scroll at Bak. “I doubt I need remind you, Lieutenant, of what you must do before the vizier arrives.”
“No, sir.” Bak cringed inside. How many days do I have? he thought. Only four? “I must bring Rennefer before you, charged with trying to slay her husband. I must snare the man or men who slew Mahu and Intef and wounded Imsiba, making safe the desert trails and the streets of this city. I, with Nebwa beside me, must learn the name of the man whose ship supplied Captain Roy with contraband. We must also discover how elephant tusks are smuggled downriver undetected.”
“Summed up like that,” Nebwa murmured, “I fear for our future. Do you think Amon-Psaro would have us?” Amon-Psaro was a powerful tribal king who lived far to the south in the land of Kush.
“If you’ve something to offer, Troop Captain, I’d like to hear it,” Thuty snapped.
“No, sir.”
Thuty glared, but failed to press the issue. “I’ve allowed no movement of ships or caravans for…How many days, Lieutenant? Four? Five? And so far, you’ve come up with nothing. This can’t continue, especially with the vizier taking so keen an interest in trade. I plan to release every ship and caravan we’ve been holding at Buhen and Kor as soon as I hear he’s a day’s journey to the north. We must have business as usual while he’s here, not draw attention to a few minor incidents.”
Bak gave a silent curse. A few minor incidents indeed!
“That might not be a bad idea,” Nebwa said thoughtfully.
“We can’t lay hands on smugglers without giving them the opportunity to move illicit cargo, and they can’t haul cargo with no traffic moving up or down the river.”
Bak nodded, in full agreement, and yet, “I asked that traffic be stopped so the man who slew Mahu would have no chance to slip away. That’s as true now as it was before.”
Nebwa gave Thuty a wide-eyed, innocent smile. “What do you suggest, sir? That we concentrate on the flow of illicit goods across the frontier or work to lay hands on a killer?”
He seemed never to get his fill of baiting his superior officer.
“We must find a way to do both.” Bak stood up and walked to the door, giving himself time to think. The courtyard was quiet, with the sole creatures stirring a gray cat and her brood, four tiny bundles of fur tumbling over her belly and legs. “Traffic must move before the vizier comes. With that, I agree. We want no caravan masters or ships’ captains standing before him, airing their grievances. But we must also keep my five suspects in Buhen.” He swung around to look at Thuty. “Can we not tell them of his arrival, sir, and offer them a prize to stay?”
A smile spread across Nebwa’s face. “Good idea! What can we give them?”
Thuty clasped his hands above his head and leaned back in his chair, tilting it up on its rear legs. He stared at nothing, mulling over the suggestion. “A party, I think.” He thought some more, nodded, smiled. “Yes. My wife is a fine hostess and longs to entertain in the style she once knew in Kemet.
A party should please the vizier, satisfy her for months to come, and lure every man of substance along the Belly of Stones, including your five suspects, Lieutenant.”
“I don’t know about Captain Ramose,” Imsiba laughed,
“but Hapuseneb and Nebamon would never miss so grand a party, nor would Userhet. Nor, I suspect, would Lieutenant Roy, though I’m not so well acquainted with him.”
Wriggling back against the wall, Bak pulled his feet up onto the white coffin, wrapped his arms around his knees, and eyed the man seated on the mudbrick bench. Several sharply honed spears and daggers told him how much rest the Medjay had allowed himself. “Nebwa urged the release of all traffic today, but the commandant insisted on waiting.”
“Of what use can we make of one or two more days?”
Imsiba asked, unimpressed.
Bak’s voice turned wry. “He’s hoping the gods will smile on us, handing out miracles without number.”
Imsiba muttered a few words in his own tongue, an oath most likely. “We don’t even know which path to follow, which direction to turn.”
A sullen mumble, the stench of rancid beer and vomit, drew Bak’s eyes to the door. A heavily built Medjay held a thin youth by the scruff of the neck, marching him through the entry hall to a door leading to the cells. The men on duty looked up from their game to jeer at a boy they housed often.
“I agree, but someone fears us nonetheless,” Bak said. “I have a feeling our questions about Mahu led to yesterday’s attack. Or maybe our examination of the tombs. Or both, if Intef and Mahu were slain by the same man.”
Imsiba frowned. “Other than similar murder weapons, we’ve found no connection between the two.”
“No obvious connection.”
The Medjay leaned forward, his interest quickening.
“You’ve seen a link I’ve missed?”
Hori walked into the entry hall from the street, so over-burdened that sweat poured from his brow. In one hand, he carried a basket piled high with bread and beer jars and in the other a deep bowl of fish and onion stew, if the odor wafting from its mouth told true. Dangling from one shoulder were two quivers with a few arrows in each. A pair of bows hung from the other shoulder, chafing his ankle with each step.
The Medjays on duty looked up from their game. Their faces lit up at the sight of the food and they called out a greeting. One man scrambled to his feet to meet Hori midway across the room and relieve him of basket and bowl. Carrying the containers back to his partner, he placed the food between them and they scooted close to eat. The smell of fresh bread and the odor of the stew banished the lingering smell of beer.
Bak dropped off the coffin and hurried out to take the weapons.
“I’ve just come from the armory, sir.” Freed of his load, the scribe bent to rub his ankle. “I know the task took too long, but I went a second time, taking also the bow and quiver dropped by the man who waylaid you and Imsiba.”
“Well done, Hori.” Bak ushered the youth into the office, leaned the weapons in a corner, and went back to his seat on the coffin. “Now tell us what you learned.”
“The arrows are all alike, sir, standard issue with no marks to distinguish one from another. Nor are the bows and quivers any different than those in the garrison arsenal, those handed out to our archers.”
Bak was disappointed but not surprised. “Can a man lay hands on bow, quiver, and arrows with the ease I fear?”
“No, sir.” Hori blew away a drop of sweat hanging from the tip of his nose. “The scribe responsible for archery equipment is a diligent man. He treats a lost or broken arrow as an offense to the gods. When I told him how you came upon these weapons, where you found them, his face reddened and he sputtered like a drowning man. Not until he regained his breath was he able to search his records for lost items.”
Hori paused, adding drama to his tale. Bak sneaked a glance at Imsiba, who rolled his eyes skyward.
“Bows disappear, sometimes broken or lost in the desert, 164 / Lauren Haney but it’s not easy to lose a quiver,” the boy said. “According to the most recent inventory, taken only last month, none has gone missing for a year or more.”
“Then where did these two come from?”
Hori shrugged. “From another garrison, he suspects, or an arsenal in faraway Kemet.”
Bak released a long, disgusted breath. “With each of our suspects involved in one way or another with trade, each could’ve laid hands on those weapons.”
A heavy silence descended upon the room, broken at length by Imsiba. “You were about to tell me, my friend, why you think Intef and Mahu were slain by the same hand.”
Hori’s eyes widened. “Is it possible, sir?”
Bak pointed to a stool. As the youth settled down, he said,
“We know someone approached Mahu, asking him to smugle contraband, and Intef told his wife he’d found an old tomb, long ago robbed but a gold mine nonetheless. We also know that illicit objects are usually smuggled across the frontier in small quantities, primarily because they’re difficult to hide on the donkey caravans that bypass the Belly of Stones, and they’re easily found by our inspectors. Yet Captain Roy’s deck was piled from stem to stern with contraband.”
Imsiba frowned. “His cargo was off-loaded from a ship, not a caravan. The crew saw the vessel sailing away in the dark.”
“I’d wager a month’s rations that that ship came down the Belly of Stones during high water. And I’d bet my newest kilt that it carried contraband belowdecks as ballast.”
Imsiba eyed his friend thoughtfully. “A ship of modest size, with its hull filled from one end to the other, would hold a lot of illegal cargo.”
“If filled with care,” Bak added, “it would look and feel natural to those who earn their bread standing on dry land, ropes in hand, hauling vessels up and down the rapids.”
“But once below the Belly of Stones, he must face our inspectors. How…?” Imsiba’s puzzled expression vanished; he snapped his fingers. “Of course! He’d unload his cargo upstream from Kor and stow it away in some secret place. An old, long-forgotten tomb perhaps.”
Bak nodded. “Intef’s gold mine.”
“Lieutenant Bak?” Sitamon stood in the entry hall just inside the street door. Her little boy, half hidden by her leg, clung to her long white sheath. She carried in both hands a large reddish pot with a long, slim loaf of bread laying across the top. The escaping steam carried the odor of pigeon smothered in herbs.
“I’m looking for…” She stepped hesitantly toward the office, spotted Imsiba at the back, smiled. “Oh, there you are, Sergeant! I heard you were wounded and I thought…” She glanced at Bak and Hori, blushed. “Well, I thought you might like a thick and soothing broth, but I see you’re busy.”
Imsiba shot to his feet, smiled. “No. No, I’m not busy.
We’ve been talking, that’s all.”
Bak noted how flustered his friend was, how pleased to see the woman. Smothering a smile, he dropped off the coffin and brushed the dust from the back of his kilt. The young scribe, he noticed, was staring at the bowl in her hand with open longing.
“Hori and I have not yet had our midday meal, and it awaits us in the barracks. We were just getting ready to leave.” He gave the youth a pointed look. “Weren’t we, Hori?”