Thin ribbons of yellow reached across a pale blue sky, heralding the rising sun. The air was clear and still, pleasantly warm. Feeble trails of smoke spiraled up from dwellings in the outer city, carrying the tantalizing aroma of baking bread and the harsher odor of scorched oil. Men, women, and children jostled each other in the narrow lanes. A dozen black cows, their udders heavy with milk, forced their way through, indifferent to the curses they roused.
As Bak cleared the last of the houses, he studied the low rock shelf containing the old cemetery, searching for Mery and his friends. Other than three yellow dogs probing the ruined structures, not a creature stirred. Too early for the boys, he guessed. Turning left, he followed a sandy lane that ran along the unbroken outer face of the close-packed block of houses. At the far end, where the path struck off across the sand, he passed the building where Captain Roy’s crew was being held. He thought of stopping, but decided against it. The longer the men lingered, thinking themselves forgotten, the more eager they would be to open their hearts and wag their tongues.
Beyond the stretch of sand lay the animal paddocks.
Marking his destination by a thin yellowish cloud of dust rising from the far corner, Bak followed a path between thigh-high mudbrick walls enclosing more animals than he had ever before seen confined at Buhen. Cattle, goats, sheep, and donkeys, with men toiling among them, cleaning away manure, spreading fresh hay, and filling troughs with grain and water.
Most of the creatures were placid: eating, drinking, watching the world around them, ears twitching, tails swishing away the flies. A few younger animals cantered around the limited space, kicking up dust, squealing. Bak’s nose tickled, teased by the heavy smell of hay and grain, the rank odor of manure.
He found Hapuseneb standing outside a donkey paddock.
The wealthy trader, attired as usual in fine jewelry and linen, looked completely at ease in this place of dust, the stench of animals, and the sweat of lesser men. He was talking across the wall to a pot-bellied youth nursing a charcoal fire contained within a ring of stones. Both watched another man trying to catch a young and frisky gray donkey. Each time he drew close and threw his rope, the creature ducked its head and darted away. The other animals in the enclosure were fearful, trotting this way and that, heads up, eyes wild.
The man was red-faced and angry, too conscious of his master’s presence, Bak suspected.
Hapuseneb spotted the approaching officer and smiled.
“Lieutenant Bak! You’ve come at last!”
Bak paused, startled, then realized the inevitable had happened. “Someone warned you of my mission, I see.”
“Nebamon, yes. And Userhet. They said…”
Racing hooves pounded the earth, distracting the trader.
The man in the paddock threw his rope and the noose settled around the gray donkey’s neck. Trembling, tossing its head, blowing, it stood stiff-legged, refusing to budge. An older man ran up and the two together threw the creature onto its side and snugged a rope around its flailing limbs. The youth withdrew a branding iron from the glowing coals and raced to the fettered animal. A sizzle, the stench of burning hair and flesh, a terrified bray. The ropes were jerked free. The donkey struggled to its feet and shot into the herd, losing itself among its fellows.
Hapuseneb watched the man with the rope trudge back to the herd in search of another victim. “I dislike seeing my ships and caravans lay idle-it’s not good business-but this enforced rest does have one advantage: I’ve plenty of time to have the animals branded and doctored and to have repairs made to my sailing vessels.”
He operated three ships above Semna and two cargo vessels that plied the waters between Buhen and Abu. His caravans came and went much of the time, carrying trade goods around the Belly of Stones, bridging the troubled waters between Semna and Buhen. A man of wealth, one who toiled night and day to amass ever more.
A man easy to take as a friend, Bak thought, but one who would no doubt make a fearsome enemy. “Two nights ago, I stayed in Kor, and there I saw others taking a like advantage.”
Hapuseneb tore his attention from the paddock, frowned.
“You’re responsible for the delay, I’ve been told.”
“Two men have been slain,” Bak pointed out, “one caught with an elephant tusk on his ship. And you’ve surely heard of the contraband we found on Captain Roy’s vessel.”
Hapuseneb barked a laugh. “If that ship carried half what the rumors claim, it would’ve sunk from the weight of its cargo.”
Bak sensed beneath the sarcasm the irritation of a man with a grain of sand under his kilt. “You sound bitter, Hapuseneb. That’s not like you.”
“I don’t like smugglers.” The trader’s mouth tightened. “I have to pay tolls, oft times more in one year than the entire worth of goods some men ship to Kemet throughout that same year. Much of my merchandise is hard won, with men losing their lives carrying it through lands wild and dangerous and down a river that’s equally treacherous. If I must pay passage through this land of Wawat, giving up to our sovereign far more than I think fair, I expect everyone else to do the same.”
Bak eyed the trader with interest. He was reputed to be a careful man with his wealth, and so he sounded. How far would he go to acquire more? “Has anyone ever approached you, asking you to transport illicit cargo?”
“Those who toil for me are often approached.” Hapuse-136 / Lauren Haney neb’s eyes darted toward Bak and he laughed. “Don’t worry. I punish all who bow to temptation, the number of lashes in direct proportion to the value of the smuggled items.”
Bak whistled. “A strong reaction.”
“A strong deterrent.”
Bak did not trust the use of the cudgel to get the truth from men being questioned. Would the whip be equally unreliable in eliminating temptation? “Did you know Roy?”
“Not well. He kept to himself usually, and his friends weren’t mine.” Hapuseneb pulled a square of cloth from his belt and wiped the dust from his face and neck. “Other than his crew and now and again another ship’s master, I seldom saw him with other men.”
Bak pressed up against the wall, getting out of the way of a dozen long-horned cattle driven by a dark-skinned boy of eight or so years. “Did you ever see Roy with Intef, the hunter?”
“The man found slain in the desert?” Hapuseneb shrugged.
“I don’t know. I’d not have recognized him without game-laden donkeys trotting along behind him.”
“I know you were acquainted with Mahu,” Bak said in a wry voice.
“We weren’t the best of friends, but I’ve known him for years, yes.” Tucking the cloth into his belt, Hapuseneb gave Bak a long, speculative look. “You claim, Nebamon told me-or was it Userhet? — that someone approached Mahu, asking him to smuggle contraband, the night we played knucklebones at Nofery’s place of business.”
“So I’ve been told.” Bak kept his voice level, unrufflea, though the knowledge that his suspects were comparing notes set his teeth on edge.
“He also said you suspect one of us, one of the five who played that night. I’m convinced you err. Neither place nor people nor circumstances support the charge.”
Bak chose not to debate the issue. “Do you remember any talk of smuggling that night? Any secretive behavior?”
Hapuseneb turned to face the paddock, where a black donkey had spread its legs wide and bared its teeth, defying every attempt to throw it. “Since I spoke with Userhet-or maybe Nebamon-I’ve had plenty of time to think on that evening. I recall nothing of note, I assure you.” He gave Bak a sharp glance. “Perhaps because nothing happened. What kind of man would approach another in a crowded place of business like Nofery’s? Why appproach a man as honest as Mahu? The frontier is overrun by men far more willing than he to defy our sovereign’s demands.”
“Why hide an elephant tusk aboard Mahu’s ship at a time when all vessels in Buhen and Kor are being searched?”
Hapuseneb threw back his head and laughed. “I see you’re ahead of me, Lieutenant.”
Am I? Bak wondered. “Mahu’s life was taken while he was in my care. I’ll not rest until I lay hands on the man who slew him.”
The words had come unbidden, and once uttered could not be taken back. Bak was torn between satisfaction and regret. With his suspects comparing notes, the threat, empty as it was, would soon reach the ears of the slayer. If he believed Bak proficient as a tracker of men, he might feel himself forced to act. A dangerous prospect since he knew the name of his adversary, while Bak knew nothing of the man he sought.
“I’ve always thought Hapuseneb likable-and clever.” The midday sun beat down on the quay, heating the stones beneath Bak’s sandaled feet. A light breeze dried the thin film of sweat on his brow. “He certainly proved me right. I felt the whole time we talked that he’d already guessed my next question, had the answer ready, and was thinking of the one beyond.”
Imsiba’s eyes traveled the length of a line of men carrying bundled hides down the gangplank from Ramose’s ship and along the quay to the fortress. “With so many vessels plying the waters both above and below the Belly of Stones, he’d have more opportunity than most to smuggle contraband.”
“Would a man with a fleet of his own place a tusk on another man’s ship, where he’d have no control over its fate?”
“It would make no sense,” Imsiba agreed.
Bak eyed Ramose’s ship, noting its simple, sturdy lines; the rich, dark wood of its hull; the well-tended fittings and stays; the bright new paint of the forecastle and the faded deckhouse not yet repainted. His gaze settled on the prow, where fresh, pale wood scarred the darker, weathered wood between the waterline and the rail. Other than a few of the outermost lines and curves, little remained of the faded symbols that had announced the name of the vessel-as if the name itself had been targeted for destruction.
“Is that patch fresh? I don’t remember seeing it.”
“You must always have stood on the wrong side of the ship.” Imsiba stared at the scar, thinking back. “I noticed it several days ago, before Ramose first sailed from Buhen, bound for Abu.”
The burly Medjay Psuro followed the last of the men bearing the hides. “That’s about it, sir. Nothing left now but the ingots belowdecks. They’ll take much of the afternoon, and tomorrow we’ll reload Captain Ramose’s original cargo.”
“No need to push the men too hard,” Bak said. “The ship isn’t going anywhere.”
“Patience is running thin among the fishermen, sir.” Psuro gave his superiors a crooked grin. “I boarded a boat this morning and feared for a while I’d be thrown overboard.”
“I’m not surprised,” Imsiba said. “To be searched day in and day out would try the most patient of men.”
“Go see old Meru,” Bak told them. “He’ll expect favors without number, but if he feels moved to do so, he can silence the younger men’s grumbling.”
As the pair walked away, Bak hastened up the gangplank to Ramose, who stood at the bow of his ship, watching a half dozen members of the crew wash down the empty deck.
Bak thanked the captain for taking the time and trouble to haul Roy’s crew and cargo back to Buhen, relayed an invitation from Commandant Thuty to dine that evening, and reminded him that he could not yet set sail.
“Why hold me?” Ramose demanded. “My ship was searched from stem to stern before we set sail for Abu. Your men saw my cargo unloaded three days ago, checking each and every object against the manifest, and tomorrow they’ll see it reloaded.”
“We’ll not hold you forever.” Let Thuty sooth his ruffled feathers with a good meal and plenty of beer, Bak thought.
“The bow of your ship’s been repaired, I see. What happened?”
“We ran aground, hit a projecting rock.”
Bak detected an edge to the captain’s voice, noted the angry bulge of his jaw. He had struck a tender spot.
Wounded pride perhaps. Or something else?
“You played knucklebones with Mahu…” He went on, repeating the tale Sitamon had told.
“I didn’t hear any talk of smuggling or anything else that might’ve led to Mahu’s murder.” Ramose scratched his substantial belly, scowled. “You know how it goes around here.
Rumors outnumber truths ten to one. We’ve nothing better to do, just the same dreary routine day after day, so we take what we hear and embellish it. And when a man dies as Mahu did, all who retell the tale adorn the truth even more.”
Considering the events of the last few days, dreary routine held a certain appeal for Bak. “You saw no one speak in confidence to Mahu?”
“Absolutely not.” Ramose snorted. “I drank more beer than was good for me, I must admit, but I’m not a man to miss what’s patently meant to be a secret. Two men whispering together will draw my attention like a lotus draws bees.”
Until a besotted blindness sets in, Bak thought. “Has anyone ever approached you, suggesting you carry contraband?”
Ramose’s mouth tightened; an angry fire burned in his eyes. He seemed about to speak, glanced at the men on hands and knees at the far end of the deck, and shook his head in the negative.
“Someone has, I see,” Bak prompted.
Ramose hesitated a long time. When at last he spoke, he spat out the words as if they fouled his tongue. “A month ago it was. A half-naked desert tribesman came to me on the quay at Kor. He slithered up like a snake, and his whisper was the hiss of a viper. He dangled before me a promise of great wealth and suggested I carry illicit cargo. Do you know what I did?”
Bak shook his head, reluctant to speak lest he dam the flow.
“I threw him in the river! That’s what!” Ramose took a deep breath, trying to calm himself, and snarled, “I’ve not seen him since.”
Bak pictured the repaired bow and guessed what must have happened. “After his swim, he came back in secret, didn’t he? He smashed a hole in your ship and destroyed its name, letting you know he’d sink it if you spoke out of turn.”
Ramose ground his teeth together and glared. “No! No one threatened me!”
The man would not speak up, Bak could see. He had too much to lose: vessel, crew, cargo. “Were you surprised to learn of the contraband we found on Captain Roy’s ship?”
Ramose visibly relaxed, on safer ground now. “I can’t, in all honesty, say I was. I’ve sailed these waters with Roy for years and I’ve never known him to offend the lady Maat. But men whisper. You know how it is. ‘Where was his ship moored during the night?’ ‘He left Buhen ahead of me, yet I reached Ma’am first.’ That kind of thing.”
Bak bent to brush an ant off his foot. “You noticed nothing wrong with his cargo from one mooring to the next?”
“How would I have known what he should or shouldn’t be carrying? It wasn’t up to me to walk the length of his deck, manifest in hand.”
Bak’s smile held not a shred of humor. He felt like a man casting a line in a dozen different pools, with no clue as to which might contain a fish-if any. “You must’ve heard by this time that we found another man dead while you were away.”
“Intef, the hunter.” Ramose scowled at the men scrubbing the deck. “A simple man, he was, but likable.”
“You knew him?” Bak asked, surprised.
“I sometimes brought him on board for the journey from Kor to Buhen. It’s not a long march, but when a man and his donkeys are weary, it seems so. He, in turn, would give me a hare or two.” Ramose gave a bleak smile. “I’ll miss him.”
The simplicity of the words jarred Bak, made him feel overly suspicious, more distrusting than he should be of his fellow man. “Did he ever speak of his travels in the desert?”
“He seldom spoke of anything, preferring instead to hear us talk of our voyages.” Ramose stared at his hands, his face clouded with sorrow. “He grew to manhood in that oasis across the river and he longed to see more, to live a seaman’s life. I offered him a berth more than once, but he had a family, he told me, a farm he couldn’t leave for long.” He turned away, his voice grew rough. “I wish I’d been more persistent, convinced him to sail with us to Abu. At least once.”
“Lieutenant Kay can use a bow,” Hori said, “but from what his sergeant told me, he has no special skill with the weapon.”
The youthful scribe lifted a heavy basket, which bristled with papyrus rolls projecting from the mouths of the jars he had stowed inside, and cradled it in his arms. A jar filled with the most recent dispatches remained on the bench, but he had carried the rest of the clutter to an alcove behind the entry hall.
“As for the others,” he went on, “so far I’ve found nothing in their personal records to single any of them out. To a man, they learned to protect themselves as youths, but if one grew especially proficient with the bow, no note was ever made.
And I’ve found no one who recalls ever seeing them use the weapon.”
142 / Lauren Haney
“Another dead end.” Bak’s voice was flat, disgusted.
“You learned nothing new from Captain Ramose, sir?”
“Someone approached him about a month ago, asking him to carry contraband, and he threw the man into the river. Now the bow of his ship is patched.” Bak gave a cynical snort. “He ran aground, he claims.”
A twinkle lit Hori’s eyes. “Would it help, do you think, if I stopped to chat now and again with the men in his crew?”
“They know who you are, and Ramose has no doubt warned them to be silent, but…” Bak thought of the youth’s easy manner and how persuasive he could be. “We’ve nothing to lose.”
“No, sir,” Hori grinned.
Bak crossed to a bow, quiver, and several arrows leaning in a corner, gathered them up, and laid them on top of the scribe’s burden. “Once you’ve relieved yourself of your load, take these weapons to the armory. See if they have any distinguishing features. I can see none, but I’m not an expert.”
Ushering the youth out the door, he added, “Also, find out how easy it is to lay hands on bow, quiver, and arrows. Too easy, I suspect.”
“Yes, sir.”
The absence of noise drew Bak’s eyes to the men on duty.
The knucklebones lay on the floor between them, forgotten, while one man unhooked a simple bronze chain from around his neck, removed a green faience amulet of the eye of Horus, and handed it to the other man. The recipient, Bak guessed, had won a bet, probably related to the length of time Hori would take to clear out the office. As the scribe walked past them and through a rear door, one man winked at the other, verifying the guess.
Smiling to himself, wondering what they would find next to wager on, Bak slipped back into his office. He sat down on the white coffin to think over his interview with Ramose.
The burly captain had never sailed upstream beyond Kor, but he had spent many years in Wawat and could have a trusted ally in the south. He could easily have approached Mahu to
carry contraband, and his ship had been moored in Buhen at the time of the murder.
As for Intef, it was impossible to know exactly when the hunter’s ka fled his body. He had died sometime in the early morning, over an hour’s walk south of Buhen, and Ramose had sailed north that same morning from the harbor of Buhen. For him to commit the murder and return to his ship to sail away was close to impossible, a feat of the gods, not ordinary man. If Mahu’s death could be linked to Intef’s, Ramose was surely free of guilt on both counts. The hole in his ship, the fear in his eyes, seemed to bear out his innocence.
“We don’t often play here,” Mery said. “This cemetery is too new.”
“We run errands for the men,” his sturdy friend volun-teered. “Their wives send food and drink, or they need new tools, or someone gets hurt and we go find help.”
Bak eyed the gaping mouth of a nearby tomb, which was contained within a natural sandstone mound, weathered to the shape of a cone. The formation rose in isolated splendor some distance behind Buhen. Farther away lay the low ridge they had followed when traveling south to Intef’s body.
Beyond the tomb entrance, a fluttering light diminished the black inside and voices relieved the silence. Men toiled within, excavating the stone so a local dignitary could be buried in the fashion of Kemet. Mudbricks stacked nearby awaited the day when the digging would be finished and the dead man interred, when the door could be sealed, a vault built over the entryway, and a walled forecourt constructed.
Other newly made tombs dotted the hillside, their roofs and courts whole and undamaged, their offering stones bright and clear, unmarred by sun or wind or hard-driven sand.
He glanced at Imsiba, whose barely perceptible shudder told him what the Medjay thought of toiling in the depths of the earth.
“Four or five of the tombs were built long ago when Buhen was new. You can tell by the bricks they used then; 144 / Lauren Haney they’re bigger than ours.” Mery’s expression was serious, his voice a trifle pompous, much like Commandant Thuty when he showed the viceroy around Buhen. “But they’ve all been reused and sealed. No one could possibly break into them without all the world knowing.”
“Do you know of any other old cemeteries or tombs farther out in the desert?”
“We’ve heard tales, and we’ve searched the sands all around Buhen. But the one time we went so far we lost sight of the fortress, my father was so angry I couldn’t sit down for a week.”
“Neither could I,” the smallest boy said.
The other four boys echoed the plaint.
Smothering a smile, Bak turned away from the tomb. Imsiba, he saw, had already backed off, impatient to be gone.
And in truth they had seen more than enough burial places for the day.
Walking through heavy, loose sand, they descended broad shelves of rock containing scattered tombs, which they had explored on their outbound trek. The boys trailed behind, playing tag with their shadows cast by the midafternoon sun.
Like the mound, this cemetery and another farther to the east was of recent origin. No other burial places lay near the fortress. Bak was satisfied Intef had found the ancient jewelry farther afield.
The thought jarred his memory and he snapped his fingers.
“Nehi. We must go back to her farm.” He glanced up at the sky, nodded. “We’ve time yet before nightfall. With luck, she’ll have heard from Penhet.”
“Maybe we can get from her now what before she wouldn’t tell us,” Imsiba added.
Bak prayed she would speak. He had no desire to force his way into her home and tear it apart in search of the objects he was sure her husband had hidden there.
They left the untrammeled sand to walk along the desert trail leading to the massive, towerlike west gate that pierced the outer wall. A causeway carried them over the dry ditch that protected the base of the fortification. Swallows swooped down from their nests in the battlements, laying waste to a swarm of flies buzzing around a greenish pile of manure deposited not far from the gate, while sparrows twittered, awaiting their turn.
Bak eyed the birds, the unmanned gate, and the empty walkway between the ditch and the base of the fortified tower. “Where’s the sentry, I wonder?”
Imsiba followed his glance, frowned. “He dare not go far.
The watch officer would have his head.”
They swerved around the manure, setting the birds to flight, and strode to the passageway through the tower.
Beyond the shaft of light cast inside by the sun, the corridor was black-dark. Bak hesitated, thinking of Mahu and the way his slayer had used the much smaller, eastern gate to his advantage, the light and shadow, the temporary blindness.
He glanced at Imsiba, read a like thought on the big Medjay’s face.
“I wish I thought more often to carry my spear and shield.”
Imsiba’s voice was light, conversational, playing down his foreboding.
“The sentry’s gone off to relieve himself, that’s all.” Bak glanced at the boys, giggling, scuffling, shouldering each other along the walkway toward the corner of the tower.
“Shall we go on? While they’re distracted with their game?”
The two men strode forward, following the stream of light into the passage, each close to his own wall. Stepping into the dark, they stopped, their eyes on the rectangle of light at the far end. There lay the first of two baffles, courtyards designed to entrap the enemy and protect the defenders of the fortress.
Bak had served as a soldier for more than eight years, most of that time as a chariotry officer, protected from close con-tact with the enemy by the speed of his horses and the height of his chariot. For the first time, he had an idea of how it might feel to assault a fortress, to walk into a baffled gate where men could be waiting overhead, armed with bows and arrows and slings and boiling oil. The worm of fear crawled up his spine.
They strode on, cloaked by the gloom. Four paces, five, six. At the end of the passage and still hidden in shadow, they stopped to examine the baffle ahead. It was open to the sky, with a projecting tower on either side and walls rising to the battlements high above. A low moan drew their eyes to the right, to the sentry crumpled on the brick paving just outside the passage. Bak and Imsiba stood dead still, looking, listening. Seeing nothing, hearing no sound, Bak stepped out of the passage, ducked aside, and at the same time dropped onto a knee beside the senseless man. Something thudded into the brick close to the spot where Bak had just been, an arrow buried to the shaft, its feathers quivering from the force of impact. Across the court, he glimpsed a vague movement in the shadowed passage leading to the second baffle. A hand reached into the sunlight, a bow clutched hard, an arrow seated for flight.
He grabbed the sentry’s tawny shield, swung it upright, and fumbled for the downed man’s spear. The arrow sped through the air, the shield jerked out of his hand. Imsiba made an odd, surprised little sound. Bak pivoted, saw the Medjay clutching his upper arm and blood flowing through his fingers from a long ugly slice through his flesh.
Suddenly the passage was filled with merry laughter and the boys burst into the courtyard.
“Go back!” Bak yelled.
The boys milled around, not understanding.
“Get back in the passage!” Bak snarled.
Mery spotted Imsiba’s bloody arm and the downed sentry.
His eyes opened wide, he gaped. “What happened, sir?”
The shadowy image vanished from the passage ahead.
The archer had opted to flee. Too many boys looking on, too many mouths to silence should he be seen. Bak, his expression stormy, tugged the spear from beneath the sentry and scooped up the shield, its tawny hide scarred by the arrow that had glanced off the edge to strike Imsiba. He looked at the Medjay, at a wound ugly and no doubt hurtful but not life-threatening.
Imsiba urged him on with a forced smile. “Go, my friend, bring him to his knees.”
Bak squeezed the Medjay’s uninjured shoulder and turned to the boys. “Stay here,” he ordered. “I’ll summon help as soon as I can.”
Mery, he saw, was not among them. Quick footsteps drew his eyes to the far end of the baffle, where the youth, running along the pathway as fleet as the wind, vanished in the next dark passage. Snapping out an oath, Bak raced after him.
He doubted the archer remained inside, awaiting his chance to take another shot, but the risk remained. The boy could be taken captive, killed even.
He raced into the next passage. Though half-blinded by the dark, he spotted Mery’s silhouette in the rectangle of light at the far end. He saw no sign of a man armed with a bow.
He sped on through, grabbed the boy by the upper arm, and gave him a hurried, whispered reprimand. They went on then, Mery close on his heels, working their way up the second, larger baffle, darting from one projecting tower to another. They slipped into the shadow of the third and final passageway and crept through the darkness to the last door.
In the sunlight beyond, the usually well-traveled thorough-fare from the gate to the citadel lay empty and deserted. A flock of pigeons perched on the broken walls and ruined vaults of the ancient cemetery, preening themselves in the sun. Thin coils of smoke rose from the outer city. Behind the blank walls facing the cemetery, children laughed, a man cursed, women chattered. A sweet childish voice sang an old love song accompanied by a lute played with surprising ability. They saw no man carrying a bow and arrows.
“He’s gone,” Mery groaned.
Bak muttered another oath. The outer city was not large, but he could think of no easier place for a man to disappear than in its rabbit warren of lanes. “We must report to the sentry at the citadel gate and have him summon help for Imsiba and the injured man. Then, my young friend, we’ll go from house to house, asking questions of one and all.”
With the day so close to completion, the streets teemed with life. Men set aside the tools of their trade to walk home, filling the lanes with laughter and camaraderie. Women and children moved from inside to outside, from dark, still rooms to bright and breezy rooftops. That, Bak told Mery, would ease their quest if not make it more successful.
Moving quickly but systematically from one roof to another, probing stairways, airshafts, and courtyards, querying everyone they saw, they explored one block of buildings after another. By the time they had searched half the outer city, Bak was sure their quarry had long ago eluded them. He persisted nonetheless, thinking someone might have seen a man in a hurry armed with bow and quiver.
Spotting yet another open trapdoor, he plunged down the stairway, the boy close behind, to a shabbily furnished room.
The hippopotamus-headed, pregnant goddess Taurt looked out from a dusty prayer niche.
A scraggly headed woman of indeterminate years burst through a rear door. She gave him a long, hard stare, her mouth tight, angry. “Get out of my house you…You…”
Words failed her.
“I’m Lieutenant Bak, head of the Medjay police. I’m looking for a man…”
“You then!” she snarled. “Lieutenant…Whatever your name. You’re the one I want to talk to!”
Mery opened his mouth to object. Bak, controlling his own tongue with an effort, silenced the boy with a cautionary look. He was worried about Imsiba and discouraged by a quest he was certain was futile, but he knew also that help sometimes came when least expected.
As he took a step toward the woman, she ducked backward through the door. Not sure why, whether she feared him or wanted to show him something, he followed her into her kitchen, which reeked of burned onions and fish.
She grabbed an object he couldn’t see from beside the oven. Swinging around to stand before him, flat chest thrust forward, eyes blazing, she held out a long bow. “Here!” she snarled, shaking it in his face. “Take this thing before I wrap it around somebody’s neck.” In her other hand, she held a quiver containing a dozen or so arrows.
Bak caught the bow, fearing she would blind him in her rage, and took it from her. She gave up the quiver reluctantly, as if afraid she would have no further grounds to complain.
The objects were standard army issue, he saw, no different than those he had found after Mahu’s death and Intef’s.
“Where did you get these?”
Her mouth tightened to a thin, angry line. She pointed to a roof of smoke-darkened palm fronds loosely spread across a framework of spindly poles. “There! Somebody dropped them into my kitchen while I prepared our evening meal.”
Her voice grew shrill. “It fell on the brazier, breaking my bowl and spilling our stew. We’ve nothing left to eat but bread and beer!”