“The man is abhorrent to the gods!” Imsiba growled. “For a single grain of emmer, I’d slice out his tongue and throw it to the crocodiles.”
“I’d help if I thought it would do any good,” Bak said grimly, “but it wouldn’t. Nebwa’s father soldiered in Wawat and so did his father’s father. As victors, they planted contempt in his heart, and the seed has grown far out of proportion to his own experience.”
He stepped out of his kilt and untied his loincloth, threw both on a black granite boulder protruding from the river’s edge, and waded into the water until it lapped around his thighs. It cooled his tired legs, soothed his knotted calves.
Several hundred paces downstream, the walls of Buhen, stark white in the hot, brilliant sunlight, rose high above the river. The closest of the three stone quays jutting into the smooth brownish water was lined with small boats, the fishing fleet from nearby villages. A half dozen soldiers were carrying most of the morning’s catch to the garrison cook; a few officers’ wives and servants stood among the fishermen, haggling over the price of their evening meal.
“Will Nebwa go to Tetynefer with his vile accusation?” Imsiba asked.
“I think not. At least not yet.” Bak splashed water over his shoulders. “He knows he must have something more solid than words to accuse our men of murder. But he’s a rash man, so we must be prepared in case he does.”
“What can I do, my friend?”
Bak glanced at the tall Medjay who knelt in the shade of a row of acacias lining the riverbank. “You must learn the location of every man in our company at the time Nakht lost his life. Where possible, you must find witnesses who saw them, preferably men of Kemet.”
Imsiba nodded his approval. “If we can prove they were elsewhere, they’ll be above reproach.” He hesitated, asked, “Shouldn’t you approach the witnesses? They may not speak freely to me.”
A broad-beamed military transport, sail lowered, oarsmen paddling to the cadence of a drummer, swung across the current to dock. This, Bak guessed, was the vessel on which he and Azzia would travel to Ma’am.
“Take Hori with you. His youth and innocence can be most disarming-and persuasive.”
Imsiba smiled. “The boy could charm water from a stone.”
“He’ll not like having his sleep disturbed, but when you explain what we need, his complaints will fade like mist in the breeze.”
“Yes, he yearns to be a policeman, and he thinks of our men as brothers.”
Bak eyed a reed skiff tacking across the transport’s wake, its white sail blossoming in the morning breeze. “He must record every word he hears, Imsiba. I want to end this matter once and for all.”
“What if one or more of our men were alone, with no one to vouch for them?”
“If I must,” Bak said with a faint, humorless smile, “I’ll seek Nofery’s help. She pledged her cooperation before I left her last night, and her women will say whatever she desires.”
Imsiba chuckled. “You’re a scoundrel, my friend.”
Bak’s laugh was hollow. “When you’ve learned all you can, come to my quarters. I’ll not tarry here for long, for I must study the scroll mistress Azzia gave me.”
Imsiba trotted away along the line of trees, heading for the fortress. Bak prayed Nofery’s lies would not be needed. His decision to keep the gold weighed heavy on his shoulders; the transport’s arrival and imminent departure added to his burden. Counting on the sly and no doubt greedy old woman to protect his men would add a load almost too heavy to bear.
Bak shoved his sleeping pallet back to its normal position and, scroll in hand, headed for the stairway to the roof. At the top he ran a few paces across the flat, hard surface, so hot it burned his bare feet. He ducked into the shade of a small rough pavilion, its frame made of wrist-thick bundles of reeds, its roof covered by loosely woven rush mats. A gentle breeze wafted across the rooftop to cool his naked torso. The yapping of a dog and the laughter of children drifted from the next building block. Voices of soldiers rose from nearby lanes.
Sitting beside a cold brazier, he lifted a square of linen from the top of a round pottery bowl and peeked inside. As he had hoped, Hori had left his morning meal, a thick vegetable stew with a small loaf of bread lying on top, wrapped in leaves to keep it dry. His stomach ached from hunger; the aroma of onions and beans seemed finer than incense or myrrh. He eyed the scroll and the food with equal longing, decided to compromise. Waving off a fly, he unwrapped the bread, replaced the linen on the bowl, and broke out the plug from a beer jar. He took a long drink, praying fervently the document would name the man who stole the gold or at the very least, provide a clue to Azzia’s guilt or innocence.
He tore off a piece of bread, its crust already hard from the morning heat, and began to eat. As he untied the cord around the scroll, a chunk of dried clay dropped to the floor, a fragment of a broken seal. Just a few symbols remained, but he was fairly sure it had been impressed by Nakht. Laying the binding aside, he began to unroll the papyrus. He had revealed less than two columns when he found a second scroll rolled inside. His heart soared into his throat. Two documents doubled his chance of finding what he needed.
He separated them and glanced through the outer roll. It was a list of tribute, trade items, and other products passing north through Buhen during the past two years, including gold, copper, and stone received from the desert mines and quarries. Disappointed at finding so mundane a document, he set it aside and scanned the inner scroll. It too was a scribal record, but its subject matter was far more promising. It referred to three gold mines located in the wadis, dry watercourses, of the eastern desert.
Praying this scroll would be more enlightening, Bak read the columns with a critical eye. For the past two years, for each of the cooler months when men could toil without too much loss of life, it gave the number of miners at the three locations, the amount of rock crushed and washed, and the weight of the raw gold delivered to the smelters in Buhen. All three mines, he could see, were similar in size and were worked by nearly identical numbers of men. Their yields varied slightly from one month to the next, but he suspected that was a reflection of the irregular ore content in each vein. Like the outer document, it was nothing more than a list, naming no names, pointing no fingers.
He was baffled. He doubted Nakht would have hidden the scrolls with the gold if they had no significance, but their importance eluded him. Laying the documents on the rooftop beside him, he grabbed the bowl, nested it in his lap, tore another chunk from the loaf, and dipped it in the stew.
While he ate, he glanced often at the scrolls. What if Azzia had lied? What if Nakht had not hidden them in her bedchamber, as she claimed? Had she grabbed the first two documents she could lay her hands on and included them with the gold to confuse the issue?
Far from pleased with the thought, he quickly finished the stew, stretched out full-length in the shade, hands beneath his head, and stared at the mat above him. He recalled Azzia’s words and her face, pictured her lovely form as he had seen it in the torchlit courtyard, imagined her disrobed and lying naked in his arms. Feeling a growing need in his loins, he cursed aloud, told himself he had been too long without a woman, forced himself to think again of the scrolls.
The long night had exhausted him, the beer and stew had made him sleepy. His eyes closed of their own volition and he fell into a deep, dreamless sleep.
Something cool and wet touched his cheek. He jerked erect, his eyes snapped open. A lean white puppy sat on its haunches beside him, head cocked to the side, brown eyes pleading for attention. Laughing at his momentary fright, Bak pulled the dog onto his lap to scratch its broad muzzle and sagging ears. Hori had found the dirty, starving creature whining piteously on the riverbank a week or so before they had reached Buhen. The boy had washed the mud from its hair, fed it, and made it his own.
Bak eyed the shadows cast by the pavilion. He had slept the morning away. He allowed the puppy to curl up between his legs and took up the scrolls. Within moments, he knew the lady Maat, goddess of truth and order, had visited him while he slept and had removed the blindness from his eyes. They flew over the documents, picking up and registering the least discrepancy. And there was a serious discrepancy. The total amount of gold leaving Buhen had remained stable over the past twenty-four months. However, during the past twelve months, a considerably larger amount of rock had been crushed and washed at one of the three mines, called the Mountain of Re, than during the previous year. Where the yield should have increased, the weights of the shipments delivered to the smelters in Buhen had not changed. The quality of the vein could have deteriorated, but the golden slab hidden in the room beneath him convinced him otherwise.
Somehow, someone had been stealing a portion of the gold brought from the mine called the Mountain of Re. From what he could see, far more had been taken than the single thin ingot Azzia had given him. He was awed by the brazenness of the act-and intimidated at the thought of pitting his wits against a man clever enough to steal so much and remain undetected for so long.
“You must say nothing of what I’ve told you, Hori. If so much as a word leaks from your mouth, the thief will wipe away all signs of himself and will never be snared.” Bak gave the chubby fourteen-year-old scribe his sternest look.
“I’ll not utter a word, sir, that I promise.” Hori tried to look as serious as Bak, but his large black eyes glittered with excitement and his feet practically danced along the lane, almost deserted at this, the hottest time of day. “I prayed to the lord Thoth that our year in Buhen wouldn’t be dull, and he’s answered tenfold.” Thoth was the god of writing.
Bak thought of his own, similar prayer to the lord Amon, greatest of the gods. He wished with all his heart that he’d been more specific and asked for action on the field of battle.
“What do you think we’ll find in the commandant’s office?” Hori asked. “The name of the one who stole the gold?”
“For that kind of luck, we’d need the prayers of every priest in Kemet, from the lowliest to the chief priest of the lord Amon himself.”
His words did nothing to dampen Hori’s enthusiasm. The boy chattered on, lowering his voice to a conspiratorial whisper each time they met or passed another man. His happiness, usually so infectious, did little to lighten Bak’s spirits. He had decided that in all fairness he should tell Azzia of Tetynefer’s decision to send her to the viceroy for judgment.
As they walked into the commandant’s residence, Bak placed a forefinger to his lips to silence the boy. A vestibule and a long, rather dark hallway took them to the audience hall, a spacious room with a high ceiling supported by octagonal wooden pillars painted red, and white walls decorated with bright geometrical designs. Near the entrance, an archer was dictating a letter to a public scribe, a tired-looking man of middle years. Two younger scribes stood nearby, arguing with a rotund man about the amount of the toll levied on the trade goods he was shipping downriver. Near the portal to the stone stairwell leading to the second floor, a fat, older scribe was conferring with a slim gray-haired officer Bak had never seen before, a man he assumed had come from one of the fortresses located upstream on the long stretch of rapids called the Belly of Stones. Several scribes and officers could be glimpsed in the offices surrounding the hall.
Nodding to the few men he had met, Bak led Hori to a closed door off to the side. He broke the seal he had placed there the previous night, released the latch, and they entered. Scattered around the office, the largest in the building, were an armchair, several stools, and a pair of low tables on which sat a half-dozen oil lamps. At the rear, two wooden document chests shared a wall with the latched and sealed door that led to the base of the stairway to the battlements. Two more chests filled the wall to the right. All four contained row upon row of neatly stacked scrolls.
“For the love of Amon,” Hori muttered, his spirits flagging. “So much to read? It’ll take all day and far into the night.”
Bak had to smile. “Not so long, I think. Most refer to the day-to-day administration of the garrison: assignments of men and officers, weapons disbursed from the arsenal, food and clothing handed out, quarters occupied. Those reports will tell us nothing. We need only glance through them to be sure of what they are. We’ll read the rest more thoroughly, especially the entries in the garrison daybook and the reports of the caravan journeys.”
“Still, it seems an endless task.”
“If we’re not finished by sunset, when Imsiba awakens, I’ll do the rest myself. He has additional men to question, and he’ll need you with him.”
With an end in sight, the boy was content. He grabbed a stool, placed it in front of the nearest chest, and withdrew a scroll. Bak left him sitting there, reading, and hurried across the audience hall to the stone stairwell and the second story. Ruru, the Medjay assigned to stay with Azzia, a man so thin he looked all arms and legs, told him she and her servants were in the storeroom, gathering linen for the wrapping of Nakht’s body. Bak thought of her quiet grief the previous night and could not bear to disrupt her unhappy task. He spun around and hurried back to Hori.
They were almost finished with the initial chest when Ruru tapped on the door. He said he had left the courtyard to relieve himself, and when he returned, he found the archer Harmose with Azzia. Should he send him away or let them talk?
Harmose, Bak remembered, was the half-Medjay archer whom Nakht had made his translator. One of the four men who had been on the wall during the night. A man the commandant had trusted, so Imsiba believed. Why had he come now? He had to know Azzia’s usual activities had been restricted. Even her women friends had understood, sending servants with messages of sympathy rather than coming in person.
“I’ll speak with him,” Bak said.
Hori, unhappy at being left to toil alone, flung him an accusing glance. Paying no heed, Bak hastened upstairs. Midway across the courtyard, he had a clear view of Azzia’s sitting room. She and Harmose each occupied a low stool. They were leaning toward each other, speaking so softly their words did not carry beyond the door. Her hands were clasped in his. Bak quashed a vague feeling of envy and strode to the door. If Azzia had a lover, as Paser had so sarcastically hinted, could this be the man rather than Mery?
They saw him and drew apart. Harmose stood up with an annoyed frown. He was close to Bak in age, half a hand shorter; his shoulders were broader, his wrists thicker, his upper arms heavier. His terracotta skin and oval face had been passed to him in his father’s seed. His curly black hair, cropped short, had come from his mother, a woman of Wawat.
“Archer Harmose!” Bak said. “Have you not heard that mistress Azzia is to be left alone with her sorrow?”
Harmose’s expression was defiant. “She should be surrounded by her friends, not held apart like this and made to weep alone. How can you be so cruel?”
Bak swore beneath his breath at this second charge in one day that he had no heart. Considering the circumstances of Nakht’s death, he had been more than generous with her. Harmose knew it, he was sure. He yearned to defend his actions, but he swallowed the words. As Maiherperi had said: a policeman must look to the gods for his reward, for the men he helps thank him with curses.
Azzia touched the archer’s hand. “It’s all right, Harmose. I’m in my own home instead of a cell, and my servants are here to comfort me. For that I’m grateful.”
“Grateful?” Harmose asked. “When you’ve done nothing wrong?”
She glanced at Bak and attempted a wry smile. “As you can see, my friends believe me innocent.” She must have realized her voice was too brittle, for she gave up the pretense. “Have you learned anything at all that will prove I am?”
“Nothing,” he admitted.
Harmose’s face darkened. “You haven’t tried.”
“If your concern for mistress Azzia is sincere, you’ll come away with me now,” Bak said, refusing to be baited.
“I’ll do no such thing!”
“If I’m to find the one who slew the commandant, I must learn all I can of his last hours. Would you have my questions open an unhealed wound?”
“Go with him, Harmose. Help him in every way you can.” Azzia’s voice grew hard, taut. “I want to know the guilty man, and I want to see him punished unto death.” Her control shattered at the final word and she ran from the room.
Harmose attempted to follow, but Bak stepped into the doorway, blocking his path.
The archer glared. “All right. I’ll answer your questions. But only because she asks it of me.”
Bak ushered him across the courtyard to Nakht’s reception room, where they would have more privacy. He motioned him onto a stool and took another for himself. The floor had been cleaned of all traces of blood. The chair had been set upright; the table beside it and the two lamps had been taken away. Bak could almost feel the murdered man’s presence, as if his ka was seated in the chair, listening. Harmose must have felt it, too, for his eyes strayed in that direction.
“Where were you when Nakht’s life was taken?” Bak asked.
“You suspect me?” Harmose asked, indignant.
Bak muttered a curse. He should not have begun with so tactless a question. “Other than mistress Azzia, I suspect no one.” He held up his hand to stave off another spate of denials. “If she’s innocent, as you say, someone else entered this room ahead of her. Someone who may’ve been seen coming or going, maybe by you since you spent some time on the battlements.”
Harmose’s expression remained wary. “I was on the wall, yes, but…” Bak saw the temptation to lie on the archer’s face, heard the regret when he answered. “I could see nothing from where I stood. I was on the far side of the citadel, in a tower overlooking the quay.”
Bak gave him a curious glance. “You remained there for some time, I’ve been told. What held your attention?”
“I was born in Kemet and I long for the black, fertile lands of my father’s people.” He flushed, as if ashamed of the admission. “The ships give me hope that one day soon I’ll return.”
Bak eyed him with a new interest, with the sympathy of a kindred soul. “I didn’t see your name among those inside this building after Nakht was slain. Did word of his death not spread among the sentries?”
“I think by then I was in the mansion of the lord Horus of Buhen,” Harmose said with some reluctance.
Bak’s eyes narrowed. “What took you there? Surely no one visits the god in the middle of the night.”
“I do. Often.” Harmose at first appeared unwilling to explain, but finally said, “When the forecourt is cool and quiet, with no others around, I feel closer to him than at any other time. Sometimes he comes to me there in the dark to let me know he watches over me always.” Harmose stared at Bak, daring him to doubt.
Bak eyed the archer with a mixture of awe and suspicion. No god had ever spoken to him, but he had heard tales of men who had been so honored. Could Harmose be one of them? “The god’s mansion lies little more than a hundred paces down the street. Before you went inside, did you see anyone entering this building or leaving it?”
Harmose appeared to breathe a little easier, but not much. “As I came out of the tower, I saw your men escorting the last of the brawlers inside. Not long after, I saw Lieutenant Mery go in. A short time later, I saw Lieutenant Nebwa come out of a side lane and walk along the street in front of the storehouse.”
Nothing, Bak thought. Nothing new, enlightening, or even interesting. Frustrated, he stood up and walked to the door. Across the courtyard, Ruru squatted in the shade of a potted sycamore, polishing his spear point. The old female servant bent over a loom shaded by potted trees. The peaceful domestic scene made Nakht’s violent death seem unreal. What am I doing? he wondered. Asking questions that lead nowhere, hiding gold I should report, seeking a murderer when the most likely suspect is within my grasp. What folly!
Sorely tempted to give up, he turned away from the door. As he did, he noticed, standing close by, the slim inlaid cedar chest, its lid askew. Without thinking, he raised the lid to set it in its proper place. Inside he saw two empty lamps and Nakht’s iron dagger lying beside a silver-inlaid leather sheath. The blade was covered with a dry brownish film, blood that had flowed through Nakht’s body. Bak stared at the weapon, his skin prickling. He was certain its presence there was an omen. Arranged perhaps by Nakht’s ka, urging him on.
He replaced the lid, crossed the room, and sat on a camp stool before the closed door behind which rose the stairway to the battlements. “What can you tell me of Nakht’s activities on the day of his death?”
“During the morning, nothing. I was outside the wall with the other archers, practicing with the bow. He didn’t summon me until early afternoon.”
“After he spoke with me.”
“So I believe.” Harmose shifted on the hard stool; he clutched his knees. “He called me into his office. He seemed troubled, said he wanted me to stay in the audience hall. He…he asked me to keep my bow within easy reach.”
Bak studied the archer closely, wary of his hesitant speech, his failure to make eye contact. Is he telling the truth? he wondered. Or has Azzia fed him the words to reinforce her story?
“Go on,” he said, hiding his suspicions.
“He summoned the lieutenants Nebwa, Paser, and Mery, one after the other, and spoke alone with each of them.” This time, Harmose’s eyes met his with no hesitation. The presence of the three officers in Nakht’s office had doubtless been noted by every man toiling in the building, so a lie would be foolhardy.
“Do you know what they talked about?”
“He didn’t say,” Harmose admitted, “but I think he spoke of your suggestions for outwitting tribesmen who raid the caravans.”
“Why talk to each man alone?”
“Men resist change, especially when it comes from the lips of an outsider.” His eyes held Bak’s and he went on smoothly, “Particularly an outsider who was banished from Waset at our sovereign’s command.”
The words pricked like a thorn, but Bak was careful to give no sign.
“When Commandant Nakht wanted a task done but knew it would meet with resistance, he separated those he needed to convince.” The archer’s gaze drifted toward the empty chair. “That was always his way. He spoke with one man and then another, persuaded each in turn, and in the end, the task was done as he wished.”
The tactic was good and Bak vowed to use it should the occasion arise. “Who did he speak with after the officers left?”
“No one. He read the garrison daybook and the dispatches he’d received from Ma’am and from the forts along the Belly of Stones. After filing them away, he bade me and others he met in the audience hall good evening and came upstairs to his quarters.”
“He never explained why he asked you to keep your weapon near to hand?”
“Never. At the time, I thought…well, he enjoyed using the bow and we sometimes went outside the walls late in the day to shoot at targets. Later, after he was slain, I was sure the lord Amon or another god had visited him in a dream, had warned him to take care lest someone…” Harmose bowed his head, stared at his clasped hands. “He should’ve warned me, should’ve allowed me to stay by his side.”
Bak stood up, paced to the door and back. Nebwa, Mery, Paser-and Harmose. All in or near the building when the commandant was slain, all summoned to his office at a time when he clearly expected trouble. If Nakht had suspected one of the four of stealing gold, he could have taken advantage of the solitary interviews to confront the guilty man.
“How did Nebwa, Paser, and Mery leave Nakht’s office?” he asked. “Angry? Content? Or something in between?”
“In their usual way.” Harmose rubbed his hand over his face as if to wipe away his sorrow. “Nebwa growled like a lion, Paser’s lips were sealed as tight as the planks in the hull of a ship, and Mery looked like a small boy who’d been spanked.”
A niggling thought surfaced in Bak’s heart. “Of all the officers in Buhen, why would Nakht speak of my suggestions with those three and no one else?”
“The tribesmen most often attack the gold caravans. Nebwa, Paser, and Mery have the most knowledge and experience and are the best men to judge your suggestions. Another officer, Ahmose, is equally capable, but he’s away, leading a caravan across the desert from a mine farther upriver.”
Bak stood quite still, his interest multiplying ten times ten. “I thought Mery had always served as watch officer and Nebwa just with the infantry.”
“Before Commandant Nakht came to Buhen, Mery, Paser, Nebwa, and Ahmose took turns leading the gold caravans. The same was true of the officers who led caravans to and from the copper mines and the quarries.” Harmose, noticing Bak’s surprise, explained, “Our previous commandant rotated the officers because he thought the trip too strenuous for one man to make every time.” His expression turned cynical. “Of course, he failed to think of the rest of us-archers, spearmen, and drovers who walked the same trail time after time with no complaint.”
“You’re one of the men who guards the gold caravans?”
“I am,” Harmose said, nodding. “Commandant Nakht was less impressed by a man’s status and rank, and more concerned with his skills. When first he came to Buhen, he watched the officers, learned each man’s good points and bad. Nine or ten months ago, he gave them the more permanent assignments they now have, based on what they do best.”
Bak’s thoughts tumbled. Paser, Mery, Nebwa, and Harmose had all traveled to the mines. None but Paser continued to do so. Did that mean he was the guilty man? Not necessarily. Any of them could have placed an ally there to steal the gold and pass it in secret back to Buhen. And all of them spent a considerable amount of time in this building, the heart of the garrison. Azzia’s home.
Irritated by the thought, he swung back to Harmose. “How long were Nakht and Azzia wed?”
“Eight years. She was fourteen when he took her as his wife, but he’d soldiered with her father for many years and watched her grow to a woman.”
“Was the marriage a happy one?”
“He worshipped her. She was as the stars and the moon and the sun to him, and he the same to her.”
“Yet they had no children.”
Harmose’s voice grew bitter, his expression filled with scorn. “In the land of Hatti, failure to please the king brings death not only to a man, but to all he holds dear. When the old king of Hatti died, the man who took the throne thought Azzia’s father loyal to another man. He judged him a traitor and sent soldiers to slay the family. None lived but Azzia, who was left for dead.” His glance strayed to the empty chair and his expression softened. “Nakht and his servant Lupaki found her, hid her, brought her back to life. They could do nothing to make her whole. She can have no children.”
Bak’s heart grew heavy with compassion. If the tale was true, Azzia had suffered more in her youth than most men or women in a lifetime. Would she, could she, have slain the man who pulled her from death? He wanted to think it impossible, but Maiherperi had said: Any man can slay another; all he needs is a weapon and the passion to strike the blow. As a child of that cruel and unforgiving court, she would have the passion.
“I’ve been told she has a lover,” he said.
“It’s not true!” Harmose sprang from his stool, his face dark with anger. “Who told you such a vile thing?”
“Do you know her so well you can say for a certainty she was never unfaithful to her husband?”
Harmose controlled his anger with a visible effort. “I’ve trusted her with my most secret thoughts, and she confides in me. I’d swear to the lord Horus himself that she’s never looked at any man but Nakht. She loved him too much.” He stared over Bak’s shoulder toward the door of Azzia’s empty sitting room. Worry clouded his face. “I fear for her. Without him, she has no one.”
His sincerity was disquieting. So was the envy Bak felt. He quashed the unwelcome emotion. The archer’s every word could be a lie, as was most certainly the case if he was the man who stole the gold and gave it to Azzia for safekeeping.
Bak hurried along the empty street, the rapid pat of his sandals loud and distinct on the stone pavement. Light filtered down from myriad stars spread thickly across a clear, cloudless sky. A faint glow beyond the battlements hinted of the rising moon. The aromas of fresh bread, onions and leeks, beans and lentils, fish and fowl, lingered in the air. Hushed voices drifted from the rooftops of the married officers’ quarters somewhere to his left. He pictured the men lounging atop their houses, finished with their evening meal, playing with their children, lying with their wives. The air would be cooler there, fresher, not so still and heavy. He seldom regretted his unmarried state, but for an instant, he paused, listened, wished.
He stopped at the door of the commandant’s residence, grasped the heavy wooden latch. His mission was simple, he told himself. All he had to do was question Azzia about her intimate life and tell her of Tetynefer’s decision to send her to Ma’am.
To invade a woman’s privacy was an abomination; to tell her she must stand before the viceroy, accused of slaying her husband, would take all the courage he possessed.
He raised the latch. A dog let out a long, mournful howl. He shoved the door wide and crossed the threshold. Another cur answered the first one’s call. A third and a fourth joined in, and a dozen more took up the dirge, each echoing the others all across the city. He closed the door, muting their voices, and leaned back against it. He stood there for several moments, steeling himself to face her.
The vestibule and hallway were vague gray spaces, seemingly alive, otherworldly, in the light of a flickering torch mounted somewhere in the audience hall, too far away to share much light, too close to allow total darkness. The stone stairway, walled off from the light, was a series of broad shadowy lines, black and blacker alternating, steps and risers. The sole sound was the soft rustle of mice.
A scream shattered the silence. He started, stiffened. A second cry reached down the stairwell and reverberated through the empty rooms on the ground floor. A woman’s voice. Azzia!