“You should not have promised so much.” Imsiba stood ankle-deep in coarse wind-blown sand, looking back across the cove and the channel of fast and turbulent water toward the island they had just left. “Commandant Thuty will not be pleased.”
“What would you have me do?” Bak demanded. “Give the old man nothing?”
“Where will you get these servants you promised? With Thuty already complaining that you seek to usurp his powers, he’ll not command the chief steward to search them out and hand them over.”
Imsiba meant well, Bak knew, but the promise was made.
“That farm will only thrive with much hard work. Should Ahmose break a bone or become too sick to toil, it’ll revert to the wild in a single season and he and the old woman will starve.”
Turning away, closing his heart to further criticism, he climbed to the top of the long, narrow spine of weathered rock whose lower end formed the ledge where Wensu and Roy had moored their ships. He glimpsed Ahmose on the summit of the island, staring across the water toward him and Imsiba, too curious to go on about his business. A patch of white among the brush lower down could have been the old woman, also watching.
The big Medjay climbed up to join him. “It looks a lonely life to us, but when all is said and done, Ahmose and Kefia are close neighbors.”
“Close, yes, but separated by endless toil. I doubt they see each other from one week to another.” Struck by a new thought, Bak chuckled. “Unless they’ve gossip to pass on.”
Imsiba had to smile. As old Ahmose had reminded them, rumors moved faster up and down the river than messages carried by official couriers.
In silence they walked side by side up the rocky spine. The surface was cracked and broken, sharp-edged and treacherous where it lay half buried in sand. A light breeze stirred the air, carrying to them the chirping of hundreds of sparrows massed in the tamarisks near the cove. Ahead, the sun hung close above the western horizon, tinting the sky gold.
The formation carried them up the shallow sand-swept incline, ending abruptly about halfway to the north-south ridge. To either side, the sand showed a few tracks of small animals-dogs or jackals in search of prey and the delicate prints of birds. No human footprints marked the surface.
Imsiba muttered a curse in his own tongue. “Why must the gods forever hold out a promise they fail to keep?”
Bak, too, was disappointed to find the trail had ended so abruptly. “I pray they’re not giving the headless man and Wensu an extra day or two to flee.”
“The thought is abhorrent.”
Bak studied the sweeping landscape and the long shadows of evening. A multitude of colors, gradations from the palest gold to the deepest amber, formed a map of dips and rises invisible in the harsh light of midday. The stony ridge that formed the horizon was the sole natural barrier, other than a few isolated mounds, of any significance along this stretch of the river. If one wished to remain hidden and at peace through eternity, he could think of no more isolated a place, though why any man would wish to spend eternity in this wretched land, he could not imagine.
“We’ll come again tomorrow,” he said, glancing toward the setting sun, “and then we’ll go into the desert.”
The Medjay eyed the vast expanse of sand with disapproval. “Our time would be better spent, my friend, if we summoned our suspects one by one and turned them over to a man with a stout cudgel.”
“Need I remind you that all are men of high repute?”
“To search the desert for a tomb when no tracks remain will be like looking for a boat at night on the great green sea.
We could come within arm’s length and miss it altogether.”
“How long do you think it would take them to run to the vizier with tales of unwarranted beatings and policemen no better than the men they hunt?” Bak gave a hard, sharp laugh. “I fear we’d both spend many months far from home, guarding the prisoners who toil in the desert mines.”
A cynical smile broke through Imsiba’s gloom. “It might be worth a year or two if only to see Userhet bent low beneath the stick.”
Bak eyed his friend intently. “You must truly care for mistress Sitamon.”
“What have I to offer a woman like her?” Imsiba scooped up a small, sharp stone and flung it hard across the unmarked sand.
“Few men walk as tall as you, my brother, in every sense of the word.”
With a bleak laugh, the Medjay brushed his hands together, ridding them of sand, and firmly closed the subject. “If we’re to search this wasteland, we must establish bounds.”
Bak squeezed his shoulder, showing him he understood.
“Look at that ridge, Imsiba, and tell me what you see.”
The Medjay stared. Slowly his frown dissolved and he nodded. “I see a wall of rock, unlike the rocky shelf containing the old cemetery in Buhen, and at the same time similar.”
“Exactly.” Speaking slowly, thinking out a plan as he did, Bak said, “We know where Intef was slain-on the back side of the ridge about a half hour’s walk north of here-and we know the headless man leads the ox into the desert from the cove behind us. I think it safe to begin our search 216 / Lauren Haney here, using as our southern boundary this spine of rock.
We’ll work our way north along the ridge, passing if we must the place where Intef was slain and going on as far as the place where we found his donkeys.”
“The task will be onerous, my friend.”
“But not impossible to complete.”
“And if we find nothing?”
Bak refused to dwell on the possibility of failure. “I wonder how Intef found the tomb. Did he come this far south to hunt? Did he follow the headless man from here, or did he find it another way?”
“The hunter Intef?” Ahmose looked first at Bak and then Imsiba, the wrinkles across his brow deepened by perplexity.
“Of course I knew him. He came every month or so. Camped downriver in a patch of wild grasses, a place where his donkeys could graze without troubling nearby farmers.”
“Did you ever talk with him?” Bak asked.
“Now and again.” Ahmose gave him a sharp look. “Why?
What did you find when you walked out on the desert that brought you back to me a second time?”
The old man, driven by curiosity, had hurried down the path to meet them. He squatted now on the bank near his skiff, looking down on the pair in the boat. Swallows scolded from a nearby acacia. A gray duck led her fuzzy, cheeping brood through the reeds, swimming in fits and starts, harvesting insects.
“Did you not watch us from the summit of this island?”
Imsiba asked, his voice wry. “Surely you saw that we came up empty-handed.”
Ahmose raised his chin high, indignant. “Life here is lonely, Sergeant, and one of endless toil. Am I not entitled to a time of rest?”
“The sergeant meant no offense,” Bak said, smothering a smile, the better to smooth the old man’s ruffled feathers.
“You’ve every right to take some ease. Would I have vowed to find you a servant if I didn’t think you worthy?”
Ahmose opened his mouth and closed it, the reminder sapping his resentment.
A breath of air touched Bak’s cheek, not the hot caress of daytime, but the cooler kiss of evening. They could linger no longer. To attempt to reach Kor in the dark, sailing through these hazardous waters, would be foolhardy. “Did you ever speak to Intef of the headless man?” he asked Ahmose.
“I warned him to take care, to stay far away from the cove and close his eyes and ears to any ships he might see or hear.”
“Sealing his lips like those of all who live and toil along this stretch of the river.” Imsiba’s voice was flat, his demeanor critical.
Ahmose gave the Medjay a disdainful glance. “We don’t farm this land because we’re brave men, sergeant. We stay because this was the land of our fathers and their fathers before them. We’ve no other place to go and no other way to earn our bread.”
Bak shot a warning glance at the Medjay, urging silence.
“Did Intef heed your words of caution, old man?”
“I never saw him at the cove when the headless man met the ships, but I once saw him there the following day.” Ahmose waved off a fly. “He must’ve heard a vessel come and go, and voices in the night, and decided to see what he could see. I climbed into my skiff and rowed across to the cove, where I warned him a second time to take care.”
“Did he ever follow the headless man into the desert?”
Ahmose snorted. “He was a hunter. Would such a man follow a trail when he feared his own tracks might be followed?”
Bak smiled to himself. For one whose life was so limited, the old man missed almost nothing. “Did you ever see him far out on the desert? Possibly leading his donkeys along the ridge that separates this valley from the endless sands to the west?”
“He always came down from the desert.” Ahmose’s eyes narrowed. “The ridge, you say?”
“I know you’ve much to do and have precious few moments to stand idle,” Bak said, grinning, “but if you happened to be in need of rest, and if you happened to look toward the western desert, did you by chance ever see Intef exploring the ridge with more care than you thought necessary?”
Ahmose blinked a couple of times, absorbing the jest, then slapped his knee and burst into laughter. “You’ve a fine tongue in your head, Lieutenant! A way with words I truly enjoy.”
Imsiba lowered his head as if in prayer, hiding his face.
Bak gave the old man a fleeting smile, but remained silent, waiting.
Ahmose contained himself with difficulty. “The time I spoke with Intef at the cove, he went on about his business, traveling north along the river toward Kor to deliver the game his donkeys carried. Sometime later-a month, maybe longer-he came back. I saw him at the river one evening and the next day out by the ridge.” The last trace of humor faded from the old man’s face. “He was taking his time, tracking, I thought. I hurried into my house and knelt before the shrine. And I prayed he wasn’t tracking the headless man.”
“I sent two boats into the Belly of Stones and a like number of patrols along the water’s edge. They both came back empty-handed.” Nebwa ran his fingers through his unruly hair and stared sightlessly across the harbor of Kor. “If Wensu’s in there, he’s hidden his ship in a spot not easily found, and not a farmer along the river is willing to give him away.”
“They’re afraid,” Bak said, weariness creeping into his voice. “Of the authority you and I represent. Of Wensu, and rightly so. Not Captain Roy, for they must know by now that he drowned in the storm. And they fear the headless man.”
Nebwa planted his backside on a mooring post. “You saw for yourself how vulnerable they are. Can you blame them for being skittish?”
“Not at all.”
The two men sat in silence, mulling over the day’s minor successes and major failures. The lord Re lay on the distant horizon, a red-orange ball flattened against the outer gate of the netherworld. Not a breath of air stirred.
Except for a man whistling a bright and cheerful tune, the harbor was quiet, with many of the smaller vessels departed.
The larger ships remained, their masters unable to get mooring space at Buhen with the vizier’s fleet soon to arrive.
The five great warships plus the vessels already there would fill the harbor to bursting. To move a ship from Kor to Buhen and then have to move it back was not worth the effort.
“You’ll send soldiers upriver to look after Kefia’s farm and old Ahmose, as I promised?” Bak asked.
“How long must they stay?”
Bak gave a sharp, humorless laugh. “I’ve vowed to end this nightmare before the vizier arrives. That gives me one day, two at most.”
“I’ve bent my knees today before every shrine in Kor,”
Nebwa said with a resigned smile. “Something tells me I’d better go around again.”
Bak awoke the following morning long before daybreak.
He lay on his sleeping pallet, listening to Hori’s soft breathing in the next room and an occasional whimper from the large and good-natured dog the youth had brought into their lives as a puppy. Bak’s tangled sheets smelled of perfume, souvenir of the pretty young woman who had come to him in the night, sent by Nofery to put him in her debt. The old woman, whose curiosity knew no bounds, wanted to be sure he would tell her of his quest for the man who slew Mahu and Intef-and, no doubt of greater interest to her, the ancient tomb he sought and the riches it might contain.
He lay still and quiet, reviewing his list of suspects, trying to decide which of the five was the most likely to be the man he sought. Two, Ramose and Nebamon, he thought far less likely than Hapuseneb, Userhet, or Kay, but certainty continued to elude him. He did, however, have an idea how to give the headless man a face.
As soon as the high, narrow window admitted enough light to see by, he got up and dressed, roused Hori from his sleep, and issued orders. Leaving the boy reeling from the onslaught, he hurried outside and down the street to the Medjay barracks and Imsiba. He prayed the day would be long enough for all he hoped to achieve.
“Here you are, sir.” Hori laid four levers, a couple of mallets, an axe, several wedges and chisels, and a half dozen wooden rollers on the floor of Bak’s office. His dark eyes were alive with excitement, his voice tinged with self-importance. “As you suggested, I asked also to see the sledges, but came away empty-handed, saying your skiff is small and the low runners and crosspieces would make them difficult to stow. I told them I must first find out how great is the load you need to transport.”
“You talked with Userhet himself?” Bak asked.
“Not at first, but he was there throughout my stay, and he made no secret of his interest.”
Bak gave Imsiba, seated on a stool near the door, a quick smile of satisfaction. “How’d he react?”
“I paid special attention, as you asked me to.” Hori’s voice, his demeanor grew serious, the policeman he longed to be reporting to his superior. “If Userhet’s the headless man, he gave no sign. He had many questions, but so did the scribe who walked from basket to basket, collecting the tools I wanted. I, in turn, gave few answers, saying only that you sailed south yesterday and planned to go again today. Maybe you were taking the tools to Nebwa, or perhaps you intended to use them for some task unknown to me.”
“I can think of no more intriguing a response.” With a broad smile, Bak sat down on the coffin. “You’ve done well, Hori. You’ve planted a seed; now let’s see if it germinates.”
Basking in praise, the youth had trouble looking as serious as he thought he should. “I’ll go now to see Captain Ramose.”
“Don’t forget, we want a rope strong enough to support a man’s weight, yet not so thick we can’t easily work with it.”
Hori nodded and hurried away. The guardhouse was quiet, with the back rooms closed off and the men in the entry hall giving the knucklebones a rest while they ate their morning meal. Men strode past the street door, their sandals scuffing the pavement and their weapons clanking, hastening to their duty stations.
Bak scooted back on the coffin, rested his head and shoulders against the wall, and eyed Imsiba. “I pray we’re not playing this game for nothing.”
The Medjay’s expression held equal amounts of affection and skepticism. “We’re wasting much of the day, one better spent, I suspect, on the desert south of Kor.”
“Oh?” Bak’s eyes twinkled. “Did I not hear you say yesterday that to search the desert would be an endless and hopeless task?”
Imsiba scowled at the pile of objects the scribe had left behind. “I know you intended Hori to make his point with Userhet, but did he really need to bring so many tools from the warehouse?”
“If we find the tomb we seek, we may need them.”
“We’ll find an open entryway, a few steps down, and a room or two, that’s all.”
“I spent my youth in Waset,” Bak reminded him. “The tombs there are deep, the burial chambers not easy to reach.
What if the one Intef found is such a place, a house of eternity prepared by a man who longed for his home in faroff Kemet?”
“How many tombs have we seen over the past few days, my friend? Each and every one was shallow, dug within a hill or ridge, and none had secret chambers deep beneath them.”
“Have I come at a bad time?”
Sitamon stood at the door, wide-eyed and timid, looking as if she might at any instant turn around and flee. “Are you too busy to…?”
“Not at all!” Imsiba leaped to his feet, rushed to the portal to usher her inside, and offered her his stool.
Bak stood up, preparing to leave yet not sure he should go. He could not imagine what had brought her at such an early hour-or why she had come to the guardhouse, for that matter. Unless she had a purpose other than her friendship with Imsiba. Mahu’s death perhaps?
She raised a hand, palm forward, signaling they should remain where they were. “I can’t stay. I’ve left my son in the commandant’s palace, where he’s playing with Tiya’s children, and I must go next to the market.”
“Is something wrong?” Imsiba asked, his voice and manner solicitous.
“No, I…” She threw a glance at Bak that begged him to leave and gave Imsiba an uncertain smile. “I shouldn’t have come.”
Bak slipped around her and out the door, giving the pair a chance to talk. He joined the men on duty in the entry hall, took a crusty roll from a basket, and tore it apart. The dates inside were rich and succulent, the bread sweet and firm.
While he nibbled, he listened unashamed to Imsiba and Sitamon, his curiosity piqued by concern for his friend.
“You must tell me what’s wrong,” Imsiba said.
“Nothing. It’s just that…” She hesitated, wrung her hands.
“Well, I thought…”
“What?” Imsiba took her hands in his, stilling them, and smiled. “You thought what?”
“Userhet wishes to take me as his wife,” she blurted. “I…I haven’t given him an answer. I thought to wait a while until…Oh, I shouldn’t have come!” She jerked her hands free and swung around, racing out of Bak’s office and through the street door, so blinded by emotion she bumped into a soldier on his way in, sending him spinning.
“She loves you, I tell you. Do you think she’d have come so early in the day if she didn’t?”
Imsiba sat on the bench at the back of the room, arms crossed over his breast, his expression stony. “She’s a good, kind woman. She saw that I cared for her, and she wished to break the news herself, before I could hear it from someone else.”
Bak wanted to shake his friend. He hated seeing him so unhappy, so quick to give up. “She wants you to step in, to stand up and be counted as a suitor.”
“I’m a sergeant in the Medjay police, my friend, one who owns nothing but the clothing I wear and the weapons I carry. Now, because of Mahu’s death, she’s the mistress of a grand cargo ship, a woman of wealth and status.”
“Barely more than a week ago, she was a lonely widow with a child, a woman in need of a home with her brother.”
Imsiba closed his ears to reason. “Userhet has much to offer, while I have nothing. He can read and write and he knows the ways of ships and trading. He can see advantage when it arises and make opportunities for further advantage.
I know nothing but what I do-I’d not be able to write my name if you hadn’t taught me-nor would I enjoy a change.”
“Sir!” Hori stood in the doorway, looking from one to the other, puzzled by their intensity. He carried a heavy coil of rope on his shoulder.
Bak tore his thoughts from Imsiba’s plight, formed a smile.
“Your mission was successful, I see. What did Ramose have to say?”
“He heard me out and handed over the rope without argument, but…” The boy’s voice tailed off, he frowned. “His thoughts were elsewhere, sir. I’m not sure he took in all I had to say.”
“How could he not?” Imsiba demanded. “He’s surely heard the rumors that Nebwa’s men have gone out in search of Wensu. Was he not happy to be rid of the one he fears?”
“He was, yes.” Hori crossed the room to the lower end of the coffin. He bent over, letting the rope slide off his shoulder and the coils settle with a whisper around the projecting feet.
“But Commandant Thuty had newly come and gone, and Captain Ramose was too elated by his visit to give the Kushite more than a passing thought.”
Bak eyed the wooden toes projecting above the rope. The coffin was becoming altogether too familiar an object. It had to go-and soon. “Make your point, Hori. You’ve three more men to see.”
Hori’s cheeks flamed. “The commandant visited the captain specifically to invite him to his party for the vizier, saying he wished to praise him to one and all for the effort he took to salvage the wrecked ship and the merchandise on board.
Captain Ramose can think of nothing but what he’ll wear and how he’ll stand among some of the highest men in the land of Kemet.”
Bak raised an eyebrow. “I recall Ramose only two days ago sneering at the thought of attending the party.”
Hori, still smarting, allowed himself a faint smile. “I told him of your journey south, saying nothing but hinting at much, as I did with Userhet. He practically shoved the rope into my arms and pulled a tattered wig out of a chest, asking if I thought it too out of style to wear.” He glanced at Imsiba as if seeking an ally, and spoke again to Bak. “He wasn’t joking or putting me off. I think he’s as free of guilt as you are, sir.”
“I agree.” Bak stood up, took a turn across the room, and stopped at the door. “But if we err and he’s not the man he seems, the hints you dropped should make him act.” He laid a hand on the youth’s shoulder. “Go now and search out Hapuseneb and Nebamon, one after the other. According to Nebwa, they both have many donkeys standing idle at Kor.”
“Yes, sir.”
The boy hurried away and Bak turned to the big Medjay.
After spending the previous day upriver, the bandage on Imsiba’s arm was none too clean and needed to be changed.
He could think of no better time to get it wet. “Come, Imsiba.
Let’s go for a swim. You’re in need of cheering.”
Long, powerful strokes took Bak up the river and away from Imsiba, who lay on the surface of the water, clinging to a half submerged boulder to prevent the current from carrying him downstream. Their two kilts fluttered like white birds on the branches of a tamarisk tree, one of several growing along the bank at the base of the towering spur wall that barred desert traffic from the river terraces. Normally they would have gone farther afield to swim in a cove they especially favored, but with Hori reporting regularly, this was more convenient.
Reaching a point well above the spur wall, he rolled onto his back and let himself drift downstream. He wished with all his heart that he could help Imsiba, but other than urge him to swallow his pride and pursue Sitamon with a will, he could do nothing.
He turned his thoughts to Hori and the game he had created during those long, sleepless hours before dawn. Was he wasting time, as Imsiba thought? Or would one of his suspects break and run, hastening to the tomb Intef had found in hopes of salvaging what he could before Bak located it? Would the tomb contain an uncut elephant tusk? Or were the tusks being smuggled by some other person, one who had nothing to do with Wensu, Roy, and the headless man?
He thought not-if Wensu had indeed planted the tusk on Mahu’s ship, as he believed.
Water splashed into his mouth, rousing him. He glanced toward the fortress, where he saw Hori trotting along the lower terrace. Rolling over, he swam to the trees and pulled himself up on the stone revetment which held the bank in place. With the river still running high, much of the protective facing was under water. Imsiba abandoned his makeshift anchor and swam to him. The leaves whispered in a desultory breeze. A sparrow hopped from branch to branch, scolding a black and white cur sniffing the riverbank in search of rats.
“I saw both Hapuseneb and Nebamon.” Hori halted at the end of the terrace where it butted against the spur wall and gave himself a moment to catch his breath. “I’m sorry, sir, but they were together. I saw no way to draw one aside and then the other, so I told my tale to both at the same time.”
Bak stood up and began to dress. “It can’t be helped. What happened?”
“They both said they’d be glad to loan their donkeys, should you need them. Nebamon asked questions without number, most of them vague and devious. At first I couldn’t understand his aim.” The boy wrinkled his nose, showing his distaste for awkward or unnecessary guile. “I finally decided he was trying to learn if you were following the track of the headless man, but he didn’t want Hapuseneb to know he believed so unlikely a man existed.”
“Nebamon set us onto the headless man,” Imsiba said to Bak. “Would he have done so if he were laden with guilt?”
“He’s never been high on my list. He’s not a man who takes risks, and he hasn’t the wealth to obtain smuggled goods in the quantity we saw on Captain Roy’s ship. He’s even now treading close to the edge of failure.” Bak bent over and ruffled his wet hair, splattering water. “Desperate men ofttimes summon courage uncommon to their nature, but I can’t see Nebamon doing so.”
“What did you get from Hapuseneb?” Imsiba asked Hori.
“He was quick to realize Nebamon was holding something back. After that, he said almost nothing, merely watched and listened.” The boy grinned. “I can see Nebamon even now, pinned beneath Hapuseneb’s sharp eyes, wiggling like a serpent, swearing he doesn’t believe in a headless man.”
“I’ve always thought Hapuseneb a most likable man,” Imsiba said, scowling. “Determined, yes, but not ruthless.”
Bak spoke aloud his reasoning of the early morning hours.
“His ships both north and south of the Belly of Stones carry many precious items, as do the large caravans he uses to transport goods past the rapids. He complains about the tolls, but his profits are high. He has the nerve to smuggle and the means. A question remains, one I’ve asked before.”
He looked at Imsiba and at Hori. “Would he use another man’s ship to carry contraband when he could keep tighter control by using a vessel of his own?”
Imsiba shook his head. “I think it unlikely.”
“I’d better see Lieutenant Kay.” Hori said.
From the grim look on Imsiba’s face, Bak could see that their thoughts traveled a like path. Kay was skilled with the bow and arrow, while Userhet’s knowledge of the weapon was unknown, unlikely even. Userhet could read and write and so could Kay, but did the officer have sufficient compet-ence to create a false but convincing manifest?
“Go first to the scribal office building, Hori. Talk with the men who’ve seen Kay’s reports and learn how skilled he is at writing.”
“Yes, sir.” The youthful scribe pivoted on his heel, and hurried away.
Hori trotted along the terrace, carrying a basket that bumped his left leg with each step. Imsiba and Bak hastened toward him, meeting him halfway between the spur wall and the southern gate.
The youth held out the basket, which contained a half dozen maces, battle axes, and slings. “Lieutenant Kay was happy to loan these weapons, sir, but when I told him you were going off into the desert, he said you’d fare better borrowing a few skilled archers.”
Bak turned the boy around and aimed him back the way he had come. “How accomplished is Kay with brush and ink?”
“His writing is terrible, sir.” The boy grinned, but when he saw how serious Bak was, he quickly sobered. “As you directed, I went first to the scribal office building. There I looked at reports he’s submitted to Commandant Thuty. He turned in two I could barely read. According to the chief scribe, the commandant threw up his hands in disgust and now the lieutenant goes to a scribe each morning to dictate his reports.”
“So the headless man is Userhet,” Imsiba said, his voice grim.
Hori frowned, unconvinced. “I know he’s overseer of warehouses, but even that lofty position wouldn’t give him access to bows and quivers. The scribe responsible for archery equipment is too strict a guardian.”
Bak thought back, trying to recall actions once taken for granted, now suspicious. “I’ve seen him often at the quay, 228 / Lauren Haney meeting cargo ships laden with garrison supplies, including weapons. As the first man on board, he probably took what he wanted from among the bundles destined for the armory and altered the list of contents. Then he must’ve slipped the weapons in among the objects to be stored in a warehouse, where no one would’ve been the wiser. My question is: How skilled is he with a bow?”
“I’ve yet to find a man who’s seen him use one,” Hori said.
Imsiba stiffened; he snapped off a curse in his own tongue.
“I must go to Sitamon at once.”
“No!” Bak grabbed his arm. “She could speak out of turn, and that we can’t risk.”
“If he harms her…” The Medjay’s anger was palpable.
Psuro burst through the fortress gate. The stocky Medjay spotted them and raced along the terrace to meet them. “Sir!
Userhet has vanished. He entered the sacred precincts of the lord Horus of Buhen and a short time later, he walked out the pylon gate. He’s not been seen since.”
“He’s bolted!” Bak was elated. His plan had borne fruit.
“Hori, go summon the boy Mery. And you, Psuro, must load onto our skiff food, water, and weapons and the rope and tools you’ll find in my office. Then stay with the vessel. You’ll travel south with us.”
“Can I now go to Sitamon?” Imsiba demanded.
“No. You must go instead to the physician. Your wound needs cleaning, a fresh poultice, a new bandage.” Bak laid a hand on the Medjay’s shoulder, smiled. “Don’t fret, Imsiba.
I must report to Thuty, and while I’m there I’ll speak with mistress Tiya. She’ll be happy, I’m sure, to invite Sitamon and the boy into her household, keeping them there until Userhet is safely within our grasp.”