Nebwa spent the rest of the day in Buhen, talking with the garrison officers and their sergeants, planning ways in which to dazzle the eye of the vizier. Bak talked to his Medjays, who dropped in on various scribes and craftsmen they had come to know during their months in the fortress, and he visited Nofery’s house of pleasure. Thuty spoke to his wife, whose servants’ hasty visits to one dwelling and another, inviting, borrowing, seeking help, spread word of her party throughout the city. By the time the barque of Re sank beneath the western horizon, leaving behind a slab of moon amid a thick sprinkling of stars, the vizier’s surprise inspection was the most widespread secret in Buhen.
“I’ll not spend another day in this room. I’ve grown accustomed to our friend here…” Imsiba tapped the coffin with his knuckles. “…but I’m not about to keep him company through eternity.”
“We’ll soon be rid of him,” Bak said, glancing up from the scroll spread across his lap. “Ramose promised to haul him north when next he sets sail.”
Imsiba walked to the bench and, with a clatter of metal and wood, bundled together more than a dozen spears, forming what looked like an immense, rigid sheaf of hay.
Their sharp bronze points glittered like gold, bringing a smile to Bak’s face. These were not the first the big sergeant had polished. For a man who had spent the previous day resting-and in truth he no longer appeared wan and drawn-he had accomplished a lot.
With the spears cradled on his uninjured arm, Imsiba strode into the entry hall, where he stopped briefly to chat with the Medjays on duty. One of the pair was rolling up their sleeping pallets, while the second tossed empty beer jars and bowls into a basket. Imsiba walked on, passing through a rear door. Beyond lay the police arsenal, where the spears he held and others equally splendid would be set aside until the vizier’s official inspection.
Bak went back to the scroll, a report from the commander of Semna on desert tribesmen crossing the frontier at that southern outpost. Usually he enjoyed the earliest hours of the morning, when the guardhouse was quiet and he could catch up on the mundane clerical duties required of his office, but now his thoughts wandered. He wanted nothing more than to solve the murders and stop the smuggling before the vizier set foot in Buhen, but how could he do so in so short a time? If he was right, if the same man slew Mahu and Intef and injured Imsiba, if that man was covering his tracks as a smuggler, he had one vile criminal to look for instead of several. But was he right? He had tied the various crimes together in a nice neat package, but how much of his theory was hope and how much reality?
Hori burst into the room with Psuro in tow. Both men carried cowhide shields, curved rectangles slightly wider at the arched top than at the bottom, reaching from knee to shoulder. The youth carried two, one a creamy white and the other light brown, while those the stocky Medjay brought were reddish, red and white spotted, black, and black and white spotted. They were so new they still gave off the slightly acrid smell of recently tanned hides.
Grateful for the distraction, Bak rolled up the report, tossed it into a basket with several others, and scrambled to his feet.
“Let’s see them,” he said, taking the shields from Hori and leaning them against the coffin.
Psuro added his four, forming a bright cowhide wall in front of the man-shaped chest. The stocky Medjay modeled 168 / Lauren Haney them one by one, holding shield and spear at rigid attention as he would during the vizier’s inspection. Bak stood before him, trying to decide which would make the most dramatic appearance.
“You look a dutiful man, Lieutenant.”
Bak glanced toward the door. “Userhet! What brings you to my humble place of business?” He smiled, softening the words lest they be taken as flippant.
“I thought to find you at the quay, but I see you’ve found a more peaceful occupation than searching a few fishing vessels.”
Bak kept his smile in place, ignoring the sarcasm. “Peaceful, yes, and less offensive to the nose.”
Crossing the threshold, the handsome overseer glanced pointedly at Hori and Psuro. “I’ve come on a matter of some importance, Lieutenant.”
The vizier’s visit, Bak guessed. “My men can be trusted to hold their tongues.”
“Nevertheless…”
Bak lifted the brown shield, baring the foot of the coffin, and handed it to Psuro. “You must either tell me of your errand now, or go on about your business and come back another time. As you may’ve heard, a man of note is journeying upriver, and I wish my Medjays to make a good impression.”
Userhet’s mouth tightened at the rebuff, but he held his ground. “The commandant’s wife sent a servant to my quarters, inviting me to her party.” He gave Hori and Psuro a quick look, as if Bak’s oblique reference to the vizier had left him confused as to whether or not they had been told the identity of the man soon to arrive. “To have so lofty an individual in Buhen will be a memorable experience, but it could easily turn disastrous.”
“In what way?” Bak took the brown shield from Psuro’s hand and replaced it with the black one, exposing the coffin at knee level.
“You’re an intelligent man, Lieutenant. You know as well as I that the garrisons of Wawat owe their existence to trade, yet neither cargo vessels nor caravans have been allowed to move for the past five days.”
“This is by far the best,” Bak said to Psuro. “Take the others back to the garrison arsenal and draw new black shields for the inspection.”
“Yes, sir.”
Bak stepped aside, giving Psuro and Hori room to obey.
From his new position, he saw that Imsiba had returned to the entry hall and had stopped again to speak with the men on duty. Bak beckoned, but the big Medjay grimaced and shook his head, refusing to enter while a man he disliked remained. Hori walked along the row of shields, picking up one and then another and stacking them on Psuro’s out-stretched arms.
“You’re not the first to voice concern,” Bak said. “I believe the commandant is even now reevaluating his stance on the movement of traffic.”
“I thank the lord Amon!” Userhet glanced toward the pair collecting the shields. “As you can well imagine, I harbor in my heart a deep concern for Buhen, but I must admit I’ve a secondary interest as well.”
“Oh?”
Userhet’s eyes widened, darted toward Bak. “By the beard of Osiris! That’s a coffin!”
Hori and Psuro exchanged a furtive look and came close to laughing. The men on duty in the entry hall covered their mouths to stifle mirth. Imsiba hid a smile in a frown of disapproval. Bak glanced from one to another, trying to understand. Then it came to him: the men had somehow found a way of using the coffin as the focal point for making bets, probably wagering on each new viewer’s likely reaction.
He was not averse to gambling, but the men were getting carried away. The time had come, he decided, to restrict their bets to knucklebones. “We could find no better place to put it, so here it sits.”
Userhet walked close to read the deceased’s name.
“Hmmm. A man of no special worth, I see. A scribe probably.”
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Hori and Psuro, shaking with silent laughter, hurried out to the street with their burden. Someone in the entry hall sputtered. Bak shot a warning glance their way. Userhet was not a man to take lightly a joke at his own expense. “You spoke of a second reason for wanting traffic to move.”
“I must know how much longer Mahu’s ship will be held in Buhen.” Userhet turned his back on the coffin and gave Bak a self-satisfied smile. A smug smile, Imsiba would have called it. “Mistress Sitamon has turned to me for advice about her brother’s affairs. Letting so large a vessel lie idle is not good business.”
Bak stole a look at Imsiba, remembering the pleasure his friend had shown when the lovely young widow had come with the broth. He hoped the Medjay had failed to hear, but no. Imsiba stared at the overseer, the hurt plain to see on his face.
“She told me she asked him for advice.” Imsiba prowled the room, distraught. “She didn’t say she’d placed her affairs in his hands.”
“I doubt she has,” Bak said, hoping to calm his friend.
“You heard him say as much yourself.”
“Today perhaps, but what of tomorrow? You know how persuasive he can be.”
“No, I don’t.” Bak dropped onto the coffin and eyed Imsiba with a blend of impatience and sympathy. “You appear to know him far better than I. Since you can’t bear to stand in the same room with him, how have you gained so vast a knowledge?”
The Medjay walked to the door and stared unseeing into the entry hall, where two men, potters if the grayish flecks of dried mud on their arms told true, had come to report a theft of charcoal, silencing the knucklebones. He whirled suddenly, his face stormy. “Userhet’s one of your suspects, my friend. If he proves to be a slayer of men, Sitamon’s life could be in danger.”
“He’s one of five suspects. A man more apt to be innocent than guilty.”
“Are you still gnawing that bone, Lieutenant?” Hapuseneb strode into the room with an assurance only wealth can give.
“I suggest you cast your net wider. It’s true that those of us unfortunate enough to have played knucklebones with Mahu are each and every one involved in trade, but many others along the river have both the means and the wit to smuggle contraband.”
“You’ll find my scribe Hori in a room at the back of this building,” Bak said in a wry voice. “If you’ve names to offer, we’ll search the men out and apply the cudgel.”
Hapuseneb burst into laughter. Glancing around, he located a stool against the wall, drew it forward, and sat down.
The potters hurried out of the building, looking no happier than when they had arrived. The entry hall remained silent, the knucklebones stilled for a more entertaining game of chance.
“I’ve come fishing,” Hapuseneb admitted. “I’ve heard whispers of a visit from the vizier, and I’ve been invited to a party worthy of the great man himself. He is coming, isn’t he?”
“I, too, have heard tales-and the promise of a surprise inspection.” Bak gave the trader a bland smile. “As I think it unwise to dismiss rumors so important to our well-being, I’ve ordered my men to ready their clothing and equipment.”
“Inspection, my right buttock! It’s trade the vizier’s interested in, not the army. That’s why I’ve come to you.”
Hapuseneb stood up abruptly, glowered first at Imsiba and then Bak. “Thuty can’t possibly go on this way, holding traffic in Buhen and Kor. He must, for his own sake, release all caravans and ships. If he doesn’t, the vizier will strip him of his rank and throw him to the jackals.”
“He knows the risk he takes, and so do I.” Bak tried to look worried, to pretend he did not already know Thuty’s decision to allow trade to flow as before. “But you surely understand that when traffic begins to move, most of my suspects will set sail and my search for Mahu’s slayer will falter.”
Looming over him, Hapuseneb struck the coffin with the flat of his hand. “No!” He backed off and laughed-at himself, Bak could see. “Until the vizier leaves Buhen, not a man among us will sail away. Especially with Thuty’s wife giving a party, giving to one and all the chance to draw attention to themselves and petition him for position or power.” His eyes flickered toward Imsiba and back. “If I’m wrong, if any man sails who has more to gain by staying, I’ll go after him myself and drag him back.”
Surprised, Bak rose to his feet. Did so brazen an offer mean Hapuseneb held no guilt in his heart? Or was it meant to cloud the eyes, stifling rational thought? Imsiba looked equally startled-and just as confused.
Hapuseneb took a step toward the door, changed his mind, and swung back to the coffin. His eyes ran down the yellow stripe from collar to feet and he read aloud, “Amonemopet, web priest in front of the lord Khnum.” Looking up, he grinned.” A relative of yours, Lieutenant?”
Bak dared not look at the men in the entry hall, whose muffled laughter he could well imagine if not hear.
Hapuseneb raised a hand in farewell and strode out of the office. As he turned toward the street door, Nebamon entered. The older trader clapped the younger on the shoulder. “Hapuseneb! I see you’ve come ahead of me.”
“Did you go to the commandant, as promised?”
“He refused to see me, pleading the press of duties. I learned nothing of his intentions, nor did I have the opportunity to convince him we really must return to business as usual.”
Hapuseneb glanced toward Bak’s office, his eyes alive with good humor. “I, too, came up empty-handed. Bak’s as close-mouthed as a wooden doll. If Thuty means to let traffic flow, the lieutenant’s not about to whisper the news before the official announcement.”
Bak walked to the door, crossed his arms over his breast, and eyed the pair with a sardonic smile. That they had been talking for his benefit, he had no doubt. “Who else have you
asked to plead your case? Userhet was here before you. Will Ramose come next? Or Kay?”
“You’re singularly lacking in subtlety, Lieutenant,”
Hapuseneb said, laughing heartily.
Nebamon gave Bak a disapproving look. “You make light of our worries, Lieutenant, but if you were a man of business rather than a soldier, a policeman, you’d know that every travel day lost is a day that leads us closer to poverty.”
Bak could not resist casting a skeptical eye at Hapuseneb, one of the most successful traders in Wawat and Kush. The tall, slender man shrugged, denying responsibility for his colleague’s careless statement.
“Don’t get me wrong.” Nebamon, unaware, ran his fingers through his short white hair. “I’d rather be safe than be found one day with an arrow in my back. But so far I’ve seen no sign that bringing traffic to a standstill has contributed in any way to finding Mahu’s slayer. Frankly, I’d feel safer in Ma’am, or faroff Abu.”
Hapuseneb turned his head so only Bak could see and rolled his eyes skyward. “I must go. I’ve a ship tied up at Kor, a solid and worthy vessel but not of outstanding beauty.
With luck and the help of the gods, I can have it repainted before Thuty allows us to sail.”
He left the guardhouse and Imsiba followed, his expression glum. Bak hoped his friend would go see Sitamon. At best, he would learn she had not yet entrusted Userhet with her affairs. If she had, he would have to accept her decision and find a way to compete on his own terms.
The knucklebones rattled across the floor, the roll shorter than usual, the noise more muted. The men making a pretense at play while they waited for Nebamon to spot the coffin. Bak was sorely tempted to take his visitor elsewhere but, remembering how astute Nebamon was, how quick to see beyond the obvious, he preferred the privacy of his office.
“I can’t tell you what rests in Commandant Thuty’s heart,” he said, ushering the trader inside and waving him toward the stool. “I know he’s thinking on the problem, and 174 / Lauren Haney
I doubt he’ll wait long to air his decision. Before nightfall, I’d guess.”
“He must release our goods.” Nebamon’s tone was fervent, a prayer almost.
Resting a shoulder on the doorjamb, Bak gave him a long, speculative look. “Are you so much in need?”
“No.” Nebamon slumped onto the stool, flushed. “Well…”
He hesitated, waffled. “Not in need exactly, but I can’t tarry much longer.” He fussed with the bracelet on his wrist, his face aflame. “You see, I overextended myself in Kerma, trading every item I brought south from Kemet, allowing myself no cushion in case of trouble or delay. Now, with the trade goods I brought back to Wawat stored here in Buhen, awaiting shipment to Abu, and with fees to pay in addition to tolls…” Again he hesitated, finally said, “To be perfectly honest, Lieutenant, my profits dwindle daily.”
Bak could see how costly the admission had been to Nebamon’s pride. Beneath the patrician facade lay a man of meager means. Unless he was a superb actor, one hiding wealth behind a screen of poverty, he could not be smuggling goods in any but the smallest of quantities. Certainly nothing as valuable as an elephant tusk.
“What do you know of the ivory trade?”
“Not much.” Nebamon relaxed, patently relieved by the change of subject. “I seldom travel far enough south to pick up the best pieces.”
“You go to Kerma.”
“The city’s a backwater, a shadow of what it was before the armies of Akheperkare Tuthmose struck down its kings once and for all and regained the land for mighty Kemet.”
Bak heard a noise behind him, a low hiss. He glanced back. Five Medjays were now hunkered around the knucklebones, watching him with rapt attention. One signaled with a hand, urging him to move. They wanted him to sit down, he realized, to draw Nebamon’s attention to the coffin so they could get a reaction.
He threw them a warning glance, demanding they not go too far, and walked into the office. Settling down in his usual place near the painted head, he said, “I neglected to ask when last we spoke, but did you know Captain Roy?”
Nebamon nodded. “In days gone by. I now and again moored my ship near his when still he sailed above the Belly of Stones. We sometimes talked, but seldom for long. He kept to himself.”
“Did you ever see him with men reputed to be smugglers of contraband?”
“There was one…” Nebamon clasped his hands between his knees and stared at the coffin. “I several times saw them together in a house of pleasure in Kerma. A Kushite, he was.
A man with an unsavory reputation.”
“Did rumor link Roy with illicit cargo?”
“If so, I don’t remember.” Noting Bak’s raised eyebrow, he laughed. “Rumors fly thick and fast south of the Belly of Stones. Even more so than here. Most so farfetched as to be mythical.”
Bak’s smile turned ironic. “Have you heard any tales where the gods play no part?”
Nebamon gave the officer an uncertain look. “I heard one last night, but…Well, I fear it involves a headless man.”
Normally Bak had no time for wild and imaginative tales, but the trader was no fool. He would not have mentioned this story if he thought it of no merit. “I feel a need to be entertained.”
“My Kushite servant, a man who wishes to help himself by helping his master, passed on this tale he heard in the house of pleasure of a one-time spearman, Tati.” Nebamon glanced at Bak, making certain he understood the rumor’s provenance. “The place is small, he said, and it was filled with farmers besotted by beer. The story was told by one who had come to Buhen with goats to trade, an old man from upriver.
“He told a tale of a headless man meeting a ship in the dead of night at some secret spot south of Kor. He talked of objects passing back and forth, some leaving the vessel and others being taken on board.”
“A headless man.” Bak gave the trader a skeptical look.
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“A man with his head covered more likely, or his face blackened.”
“So I thought, but you know how superstitious these local farmers are.”
Bak pictured a vessel bringing contraband down the Belly of Stones. He had heard there were places below the worst of the rapids hidden from the eyes of those who manned the watchtowers. And he remembered Ramose talking about Captain Roy, saying he sometimes took longer than necessary to sail from one place to another. He leaned forward, elbows on knees, not bothering to hide his interest. “Only the one boat, or more?”
Nebamon smiled. “I asked my servant that same question, and he said every man there pressed the farmer with a like query. The old man could give no answer-or he wouldn’t.
Each time the headless man came, he swore, the nights were dark, with the stars on fire but no moon.”
Bak probed for detail, but could get nothing more. “Have you mentioned this tale to anyone else, Nebamon?”
“No, I wanted no one making light of me, thinking me gullible.” The trader laughed sheepishly. “Nor did I want a man, headless or not, coming to me in the dark of night, thinking to silence me through eternity.”
“A wise precaution.” Bak stood up and took a turn across the floor, his legs propelled by a surge of excitement. Could this be the breakthrough he had been searching for? “Speak no more of this tale to anyone, and caution your servant to remain mute. The fewer who know, the better for both of us. You’ll be safer, and I’ll be free to track down unhampered the headless man.”
Looking as if a load had been lifted from his shoulders, Nebamon rose to his feet. Bak escorted him to the door and watched him walk down the street, close to certain he was free of guilt. Or had he set a clever trap, designed to lure an unwary police officer to his death?
He turned around to a silent entry hall and five men staring at him, their expressions a blend of disappointment and perplexity. Nebamon had failed to react to the coffin. For a moment, he was as puzzled as his men, then he remembered bumping into the trader a few days earlier, Nebamon coming out of the guardhouse, Bak entering. The trader had surely seen the coffin then.
“An old tomb south of Kor, Intef’s wife told you, and now Nebamon mentions a secret spot south of Kor.” Imsiba eyed Bak, his expression thoughtful. “Perhaps we should explore the river above Kor.”
“We’ll leave at daybreak tomorrow.” Bak looked out across the harbor, which was quieter than he had ever seen it, with river craft large and small snug against the quays, their crews chatting, fishing, dozing in patches of shade untouched by the midday sun. “Go talk to the fisherman Meru and tell him what we want: a boat small and sleek, one easily maneuvered among the many small islands and through shallow waters overgrown with reeds. And collect sufficient weapons. We’ll not go empty-handed and unprotected.”
Imsiba gave him a sharp look. “You think the tale a trap?”
“I think it best to take no chances.” Leaning against the terrace wall, Bak eyed three small, scantily clad girls squatting by the river’s edge, forming handfuls of mud into loaves of bread and cakes. “While you prepare for our journey, I must talk again with Ramose-and to the men who sailed with Captain Roy. Maybe now they’ll speak up.”
“They’re beginning to think they’ve been forgotten, so say the men who’re guarding them.” Normally the Medjay would have smiled at the sailors’ plight, but he remained glum.
Bak could easily guess the reason. “When you’ve finished your task, you must go to mistress Sitamon. She’s had time to think since last we spoke of her brother’s death. Maybe she’s remembered some small item important to us but not to her.”
Imsiba glanced at him, suspicious of his motive, but chose not to press the issue. Because it suited his purpose, most likely.
“Intef was planning to join my crew?” Captain Ramose gave Bak a surprised look. “He said nothing to me.”
“Never?” Bak asked.
“He made no secret of the fact that he’d like to see more of the river, to wander far and wide, but he had a family to care for, a farm.” Ramose shook his head. “No, it must’ve been talk, nothing but talk.”
So, Bak thought, Intef had not yet thought the time right to journey north with his small treasure. Had he expected to find more?
“I’ve been in these waters far longer than need demands, Lieutenant, and I’d like to set sail.” Ramose stood on the bow of his ship in his customary stance: legs spread wide and hands on hips. “I went out of my way to help, reporting the shipwreck and staying with it, making two journeys where one would serve. The least you can do is plead my case to Commandant Thuty.”
A flock of ducks flew low overhead, honking, searching for a patch of reeds in which to feed. A yellow cur wandered up the quay, following an invisible trail with its nose. A fish leaped out of the mirror-smooth river and fell back with a plop, waking a naked sailor, his back propped against a mooring post, his raised knees supporting a fishing pole.
The smell of burning onions wafted across the harbor from a brazier on another vessel.
“The commandant will soon come to a decision. I can do nothing to sway him.” Bak had grown weary of the promise, the denial, the pretense of a secret where none existed.
“Aren’t you looking forward to the party Thuty’s wife is planning for the vizier?”
Thrusting out his bulging, sweaty belly, Ramose snorted.
“Do I look the type to rub shoulders with the nobility?”
Bak laughed. “I spent my youth in the capital, where men of noble birth are thicker on the ground than weeds. Believe me, you’re no less of a man than they are.”
Ramose grinned, flattered yet unmoved. “I’ll wave to the vizier as I pass his flotilla somewhere between here and Ma’am. And while you’re rubbing shoulders with the great ones, sipping thin wine and nibbling stale cakes, I’ll be lounging on deck with my men, drinking the best beer brewed in Wawat.”
The captain was not joking, Bak realized. He would leave Buhen the instant Thuty gave the word unless something could be done to stop him. “You’d let one half-naked desert tribesman frighten you so badly that you’d miss the grandest party ever given in this land of Wawat?”
Ramose’s good humor vanished; he turned hostile. “What did I tell you before? My ship was not attacked. We ran aground.”
Bak scowled at him, disgusted. He could understand the local people’s reluctance to trust authority, but a respectable seaman from the land of Kemet should show more confidence. “How can I hope to protect you and yours if you won’t help me lay hands on the man who threatened you?”
“I’m perfectly capable of taking care of myself.”
“Captain Ramose! Two men have been slain so large quantities of trade goods can be smuggled downriver. If you run away, saving yourself, others will die, of that I’ve no doubt.”
“No!” Shaking his head like an angry bull, Ramose backed away. He bumped into the forecastle with a thud, cursed, glared hard at his inquisitor. Words erupted as if torn from his throat. “All right!” He stepped forward, away from the forecastle, seething. “The bow was axed the night after I refused to haul contraband. No warning could’ve been more clear. So I kept my mouth shut, fearing I’d lose not just my ship, but my life and the lives of my crew.” His expression hardened, his voice pulsed with fury. “Now I’ve put us all at risk. Are you content?”
“I’ll send men aboard to guard you. You’ll be safe as long as you stay in Buhen.”
Ramose snorted. “As safe as Mahu was?”
Bak cringed inside, but let no hint reach the surface. “Tell me of the man who threatened you.”
“I know nothing for a fact, not even his name. He’s a 180 / Lauren Haney shadow among men.” Ramose, speaking grudgingly, collapsed on a bundle of cowhides. Dust rose in a cloud around him, making Bak sneeze. “He came north from Kush, of that I’ve no doubt, and from his wild and unruly appearance, I suspect he was spawned in the desert. Now he’s abandoned the sandy wastes for a life on the river-and it suits him well.”
Bak recalled Nebwa mentioning a boatman from the south, a man he wouldn’t trust with his rattiest pair of sandals, the man he saw whispering in Mahu’s ear at Kor. “He has his own boat?”
“A traveling ship, small and sleek, the kind of vessel a nobleman’s son might sail from one estate to another in the land of Kemet. How a man of the desert, a wild Kushite tribesman, came to have so gracious a ship is a puzzle oft discussed among boatmen and never resolved.”
Bak tried to picture such a man, but could not. “Why have I never seen this man?”
“He’s a shadow, I tell you. Some say he comes downriver from far to the south and when the water is high, he rides the rapids from Semna to Kor more for excitement than for gain. Others say he most often sails the smoother waters of the Belly of Stones, carrying cargo from one village to another, from one garrison to the next. When the river drops so low no ships are safe, he finds a hidden harbor among the islands and vanishes from sight.”
Bak had trouble tamping down his excitement. The pieces of his puzzle were falling into place at last. Where before he had nothing but a theory that a ship brought the contraband down the Belly of Stones, now he had a man with a ship. A shadow with no definition, no name, but a man he could track down and snare. “He’s never sailed into Buhen?”
“If he had, you’d remember. His ship’s a thing of beauty.”
Ramose came close to a smile, and at the same time his voice hardened. “…not a toy to play with in the rapids.”
“Then why do you fear him here and now?”
“His vessel was not moored at Kor the night my ship was axed. He sneaked in another way, either by small boat or on foot, and not a man on the quay saw him.” Ramose glared at Bak, challenging him. “Can you protect me and mine from a shadow?”