"We searched the market- from end to end." Kasaya towered over Bak, sitting on the roof of a warehouse facing the river. "No one is harboring the boy, nor did we miss any hiding places."
"Then tomorrow you must search farther afield," Bak said doggedly. "We have to find him before Amon-Psaro marches into Iken."
They spoke loudly so each could hear the other over the excited babble of voices, the crowds lining the riverbank, jostling for a better view of the approaching flotilla: the golden barge of the lord Amon and the vessels escorting it during the short voyage from the slipway to the harbor.
"I see no problem, sir." The young Medjay's eyes and thoughts were on the procession of rivercraft sailing slowly upstream, fittings polished, banners flying from masts and stays, crews decked out in their spotless best. "With Sergeant Imsiba here and half our men, we should be able to search all of Iken between dawn and dusk."
Bak snorted. "How blessed you are, Kasaya, to be able to sleep with your eyes open and dream while you go about your daily tasks."
A puzzled look flitted across Kasaya's face, to disappear with a flush. "They must stay with the lord Amon?" "That's where their duty lies."
"Yes, sir." Kasaya's eyes darted back to the glittering barge, the longing to stay and watch the spectacle written clearly on his face. "I must go to the market. I'm taking the first watch and Pashenuro the second, so he'll want time to find a hidden place to sleep."
"Sit!" Bak commanded. "If I know Pashenuro, he long ago found a bed and now he's searching out the fattest and plumpest fowl and fruits for his evening meal." And maybe a tasty morsel to share his bed, he thought.
With a delighted smile, Kasaya sat next to him on the roof. Elevated above the trees scattered along the riverbank and the many people standing at the water's edge, their view of the flotilla was unobstructed.
The people, though deprived of much of the customary pomp, were as thrilled by the god's arrival as the residents of Buhen had been-and they were far more colorful. Standing among the unadorned soldiers of Kemet were men and women bedecked with feathers and tattoos and exotic jewelry, symbols of tribes upriver to the south and from the deserts to the east and west. They wore costumes of every color and shape and size, from the skimpiest of loincloths to elaborate multicolored robes. As the barge drew near, they pressed forward as one, their voices louder, more excited.
Once the lord Amon was safely housed in the mansion of the lady Hathor, where he would remain throughout his stay in Iken, the spectators would disperse, Bak knew. The market would be far more crowded than normal and the child Ramose almost impossible to find. A wearisome thought, not one designed to lift the spirits.
The men standing on the quay-Commander Woser, his officers, the priests who ministered to the lady Hathor, five local princes, and two desert chieftains-shuffled their feet, adjusted kilts and tunics and weapons, brushed dust from sandals. Bak could guess their thoughts. Instead of the overnight stay initially planned, the lord Amon was soon to become a semipermanent guest for an unspecified length of time. Each had to put on his best face — and keep it on for the duration. A mixed blessing at best.
Inyotef stood at the prow of the lead vessel, a warship gaily decorated with long, fluttering pennants of red and white. He stood tall and erect with no sign of infirmity, Bak noted. His face was expressionless, his baton of office clenched in his hand. Next came the lord Amon's gilded barge, the long, slender bull attached to the warship by towropes thicker than a man's wrist. The golden vessel glided over the water, turned to molten copper by the last rays of the sun. The white-robed figure of Kenamon stood before the dais on which the golden barque rested; the lesser priests stood with him. The shrine, mounted atop the barque, was open on all sides, allowing the people to see and adore the slender gold image standing within. The murmurs rose to thundering shouts of adoration.
Two sleek trading ships, one on either side of the glittering barge, served as escort vessels. Imsiba and the Medjay police stood in the near ship, Nebwa and his contingent of guards in the craft on the far side. At the sight of his men, so tall and straight and noble, Bak's heart swelled with pride. And, he had to admit, his head swelled, too. They were the best police force in the world, he was convinced, worthy guards for the lord Amon, the greatest of all the gods.
"You've a rare talent, Bak." Nebwa, glancing around Sennufer's house of pleasure, wrinkled his nose at the stench of beer, sweat, and a faint odor of dead mouse. "You can walk into any city and, at the speed of a swallow, nose out the worst establishment there and make it your own special place."
Bak laughed. "Nofery wishes to turn her house of pleasure into a palace. Will you enjoy it more when you must dress like a kingfisher and smell like a lotus so she'll admit you through her door?"
"Nofery? Running a house fit for royalty?" Laughing, Nebwa pulled a lumpy, straw-filled pillow into the comer where Bak was ensconced on a stool, sat down, and signaled Sennufer for a jar of beer. "Imsiba's not yet come?"
"He should be here soon." Bak thought of telling him of Nofery's claim that once she had loved Amon-Psaro, and he had loved her, but dismissed the temptation as frivolous. Nebwa had to return to Buhen the following morning, and they had other, more pressing matters to discuss. "He had to stay until the lord Amon was safe and content in the mansion of the lady Hathor and Kenamon and the other priests settled in the house they've borrowed from the chief scribe."
"The old man's getting tired." Nebwa smiled. "In spite of his exhaustion and an uncertain future, I truly believe he's enjoying himself. He's seen nothing like this land of Wawat in all his life, and his curiosity knows no bounds."
"After the lord Khnum formed him on his potter's wheel, he threw away the pattern," Bak said with a fond smile.
Imsiba strode through the door. "My friends!"
His tall, muscular figure and the confidence in his voice drew the eye of every man there: a dozen hardened sailors, some from the south and the rest from Kemet, and four soldiers newly back from desert patrol, their faces and bodies ruddy from windburn and sun. The majority were playing games of chance and drinking a brew so new it smelled more of bread than beer.
Imsiba accepted a jar from Sennufer, toed a stool toward Bak and Nebwa, and sat down. They talked of nothing, waiting for the other patrons to lose interest. The lane outside turned dusky. Sennufer lit several oil lamps, scattering them, around the room.. The game soon grew exciting, the voices loud and raucous, sailors and soldiers alike forgetting the officers among them. Bak told his tale, omitting no details of his stay thus far in Iken. By the time he finished, the black of night enveloped the land and the air inside was thick with smoke.
"If Puemre was slain because he knew of a plan to slay Amon-Psaro, why would the other officers protect the one who slew him?" Nebwa shook his head vigorously. "It makes no sense."
"Do you have any idea how many times I've come to the same conclusion?" Bak glared at nothing, disgusted at his failure to come up with a better idea. "They all faced the Kushites in battle twenty-seven years ago. Would that not be enough to quench their thirst for blood?"
"Did you see that war firsthand?" Nebwa asked Imsiba. The tall Medjay shook his head. "My village was raided the year before. I was brought to Iken, I think, and here the soldiers took me away from the tribesmen who stole me. When the armies of Kemet marched on Kush, I was already in Waset, living as a child on a country estate belonging to the lord Amon."
"I, too, was a boy." Nebwa swirled a thick layer of dregs around the bottom of his drinking bowl. "My father was a soldier, a sergeant like you, and we lived in northern Wawat-in the fortress of Kubban. He marched south with the army of Kemet and came back a hero."
"I wasn't yet bom." Bak had seldom felt as youthful and innocent, protected by circumstances and birth from his friends' more exciting childhood. "Was the war so special, men would kill at the memory?"
Imsiba shrugged, queried Nebwa with a glance.
"My father spoke often of the war, of heroism and booty. My mother spoke only of the sadness in Kubban when the men sailed south. And the fear." Nebwa stared into his cup, recalling his father's tales of the distant past. "Akheperenre Tuthmose, our queen's father, had died in his sleep, leaving the throne in the hands of his son, Akheperenre Tuthmose. The wretched men of Kush, thinking our new king too weak and unsure of himself to defend his birthright, stored the pot of discontent among the chieftains of southern Wawat, urging them to rebel. Buhen stood at risk, as did the fortresses along the Belly of Stones, and even those of us living as far north as Kubban feared a siege.
"The king sent an army, and the rebels of Wawat dropped like grain falling before a scythe. Our soldiers marched on to the land of Kush, slaying the warriors, laying waste to the villages, and taking prisoners and booty. Many men died on both sides before the most powerful of the kings who had urged rebellion, a tribal chieftain of much courage but no common sense, was captured on the field of battle. His warriors threw down their arms. Our army marched into his capital and took all of value within. The king was put back on his throne, a broken man. His firstborn son was sent to Kemet as hostage, and peace has reigned to this day."
Bak had heard the tale before, but it had never held such significance. "Was his son Amon-Psaro, do you think?" Nebwa shrugged. "Maybe." He thought a few moments, nodded. "Probably."
Bak leaped at the straw. "Except for Nebseny, all the officers who attended Woser's meeting the night Puemre died fought in that war: Woser, Huy, Senu, and Inyotef. If Amon-Psaro's father was their foe.. " He shook his head, rejecting his idea even before it was fully formed. "No. If that were the case, Amon-Psaro would be bent on revenge, not them."
"The answer must lie elsewhere," Imsiba said.
A sailor roared as if struck-by a scorpion, scrambled to his feet, and lurched out of the building. Laughing at his misfortune, the other gamblers spread a dozen small ivory carvings across the floor and began to haggle over who had won what. Bak, Nebwa, and Imsiba sat in silence, each working out a theory to present to the others.
Bak expelled a long frustrated sigh. Every path they ventured down took them further from a solution. "Nebwa, you've served in Wawat for years and you know most of the officers along the Belly of Stones, or at least their reputations. Tell me what you can of Woser and his officers." Nebwa frowned. "I go back to my original question: If one slew Puemre, why would the others protect him?" "If I knew the answer to that…" Bak shook off his irritation, grinned. "Alright, I admit it. I'm desperate. Now will you humor me and answer my question?"
Laughing at the admission, Nebwa waved to attract Sennufer's attention, pointed toward the stack of beer jars, and held up three fingers. "Woser's always outranked me, so my dealings with him have been limited. I know nothing of his personal life; I didn't even know he had a daughter until you mentioned her." He paused, waiting for Sennufer to hand around the jars and walk away., By reputation, he's an exceptional officer, one who should be promoted to commandant, but he's spent too much time on the frontier to attract the attention of those in the capital who make the decisions. I've heard he long ago was awarded a golden fly, but I don't know when or where he earned it."
"Speaking of Commander Woser…" Imsiba nodded toward the door.
Bak glanced around, muttered a virulent curse. The commander was standing on the threshold, his mouth tight and determined, his body stiff with suppressed tension. He stepped inside and the room went dead still, the sailors and soldiers startled by the arrival of so lofty an officer.
What is he doing here, Bak wondered, in this lowly place where one would never expect him to set foot? "Tell me of Nebseny," he said to Nebwa.
"Woser's coming this way."
"If you exert enough pressure on the strongest of metals, it'll break."
"Not always where you want it to."
"Tell me of Nebseny," Bak repeated, sensing Woser coming up behind him.
Nebwa wiped the skepticism from his face. "I've never met him and know nothing about him as a man." He toyed with his drinking bowl as if unaware of the silence in the room or the reason for it. "He's reputed to be a fine archery officer, cool under pressure, one not afraid to stand at the head of his men in the heat of battle."
"Lieutenant Bak." Woser's words came out hard and fast, betraying his leashed anger. "Troop Captain Nebwa and Sergeant Imsiba. Are you merely drinking together, or am I interrupting a meeting?"
Bak formed a genial smile. "We've little time for pleasure tonight, so we brought our business with us. Will you pull up a stool and join us, sir?"
Nebwa glanced pointedly around the room and chuckled. "Police officers, you'll notice, concern themselves less with their surroundings than those of us accustomed to the more formal life of a garrison."
Imsiba turned away, hiding a smile, and asked Sennufer to bring a stool. Woser eyed the place, its wiry proprietor, and the other patrons with a stony disdain. The sailors and soldiers sat tongue-tied and stiff beneath his cool gaze.
"I've asked Nebwa to tell me what he knows of some of your officers," Bak said, deliberately prodding the commander.
Woser dropped onto the proffered stool and leaned toward Bak. "My officers are worthy men." He spoke close to a whisper so his words would not carry, but his voice was hard and edged with anger. "You've no right to treat them as potential murderers, and you've no reason to consider them as such."
"Commandant Thuty gave me the authority to do as I see fit." Bak's voice was equally firm. "Do you wish to sit here and listen to what Nebwa has to tell me? Or would you rather remain in ignorance until at last I lay hands on the man who slew Puemre?"
Woser turned half-around and his eyes raked the other customers. "Get on with your business or get out."
A sailor scooped up the throwsticks, made a call, and flung them across the floor. A soldier called out to Sennufer and held up a finger for a jar of beer. Other men gulped from their bowls. They spoke to one another, their voices too loud, nervous. Woser swung back around to glare at Bak.
Nebwa gave his friend a quick look of comprehension, as if for the first time he fully understood the obstacles Bak faced. "I've known Troop Captain Huy for years, though not well. He's been assigned to duty in Wawat off and on for as long as I can remember. Our paths have crossed often, but we've never lived in the' same garrison at the same time. My father always spoke of him with respect, and I've always liked him and believed him an honorable man and officer. He knows the whole of Wawat better than anyone else I know. If war should come to this part of our empire, his knowledge could make the difference between victory and defeat."
While Nebwa spoke, Bak watched Woser surreptitiously. The commander looked surprised and pleased at the words of praise. His jaw came unclenched, his fingers uncurled from tight fists, his shoulders relaxed.
"Huy's a stiff-necked old boy," Nebwa added, "and as stubborn as they come. Once he forms a thought, it turns to stone. He'd fight to his death, so they say, for whatever he believes."
"An admirable trait, I'd say." Woser gave a disgusted snort. "I fear for today's army and the well-being of the land of Kemet. You younger men have no sense of duty, no loyalty to ideals."
Bak clamped his mouth shut, refusing to argue the point. The regiment of Amon was the best fighting force Kemet had ever known, and he suspected the other newly rebuilt regiments shared its excellence. Was Woser baiting him to sidetrack him? Or did he truly believe the past better than the present? He glanced at Nebwa. "What of Lieutenant Senu?"
Nebwa's eyes shifted toward the commander, then dropped to his beer jar. "Like Huy, he's spent much of his life in Wawat, but he's also been assigned to duty farther upriver. I've never lived at the same garrison, and, until today out at the slipway, I doubt I ever met him."
"He's an upright, decent man." Woser waved off Sennufer's offer of a brew. "A good, solid officer."
"No doubt," Bak said under his breath.
"I've heard of Lieutenant Senu," Imsiba broke in. "The tale may or may not be true but, considering the circumstances, it's worthy of telling." He spoke to Woser rather than Bak. "They say he once found a sergeant trading with a local chieftain, handing over weapons made in Kemet and getting in return young and untouched girls stolen from desert nomads. Senu killed both men and left them in the village for all the world to see."
Woser's eyes met Imsiba's and held. "It's a tale, no more. Senu's record is clean."
A minute smile flickered on the Medjay's face, and he bowed his head in acknowledgment. "As you say, Commander Woser."
Bak could almost read his friend's thoughts: Senu deserved a golden fly, not censure. He was inclined to agree. With reluctance, he turned his thoughts to his final suspect, Inyotef. Why, he wondered, must I feel so guilty each time I think of him? The injury to his leg resulted from an honest accident, not from any fault of mine. "Can you tell me of the pilot Inyotef?" he asked Nebwa.
Nebwa gave him a sharp look, as if wondering how he could bring himself to ask the question. "I've met him four times, each time the men in my company helped tow a vessel along the slipway. I can't claim to know him any better than I know Senu, but I've often heard him praised. He's considered the best pilot on the river between Abu and Semna."
"He should be," Woser said irritably. "He's plied the waters of Wawat off and on for years. Long before he commanded a vessel, he served here as a seaman."
"I've heard he first came on one of the ships carrying the army of Akheperenre Tuthmose," Nebwa went on.
"He's gone home to Kemet many times, but has always. come south again, though rarely so far. This is his first assignment to a garrison on the Belly of Stones. He lived before in Abu."
"Does he have any reason for shame?" Bak asked, closing his heart to a second surge of guilt.
Nebwa gave him another quick glance. "They say when his feet touch dry land, his tongue grows sharp and he sometimes strikes out with his baton of office. His wife left a year or more ago, taking their children with her, and some believe he struck her once too often."
Bak could not remember Inyotef losing his temper. Had he grown bitter after the accident? Bitter and vindictive? Bak prayed the cause lay elsewhere-or, better yet, that the tale was untrue.
"She denied the charge," Woser said as if in answer to Bak's thoughts. "She told me she hated Iken and wanted to live again in a richer, gentler land. How could I fault her when my own daughter shared the wish to leave?"
"You seem never to find fault in anyone, sir." Bak eyed the commander thoughtfully. "An unexpected trait in a man who's reached the lofty rank of commander."
"I find fault with you, young man." Woser sat stiff and straight, his eyes level and unflinching. "You're so anxious to lay hands on a murderer here and now that you refuse to look farther afield at far more likely suspects."
"An anonymous trader?" Bak's laugh held no humor. "Can't you see my intent? The sooner I eliminate the innocent, the faster I'll lay hands on the guilty."
Woser eyed him for several moments, his face bleak and closed. Abruptly, as if he had come to a sudden decision, he stood up. "I can waste no more time on Puemre's murder. I've a most important task to assign, one well suited to you."
Bak glanced at Nebwa and Imsiba. They looked as startled as he was, and as wary.
"As you've surely noticed, Lieutenant Bak…" Woser's sarcasm was designed to sting. "… habitable space in Iken is limited. I've therefore decided to house King AmonPsaro and his entourage-more than a hundred people, you've no doubt heard-in the old fortress located on the island across the channel from this city. It's not much more than a shell, and it's cluttered with bricks fallen from the walls and trash left by traders and herdsmen who've camped there through the years. I've no other officer to spare, so you must assume the responsibility for making the structure habitable and secure. I'll give you as many men as you need."
Bak was staggered by the assignment-and by the cleverness of Woser's move. The task could take much of his time, stealing the hours he would otherwise be spending on his investigation.
"I realize I'm taking you away from your other duties, but for a few days at most." Woser almost smiled. "After the fortress is clean and safe, you'll have nothing further to do except look to Amon-Psaro's safety while he's on the island. Troop Captain Huy will ensure his well-being each time he comes within the walls of the city.".
Bak yearned to refuse, but in all good conscience he could not. If Amon-Psaro's life rested in his hands, the only way he could feel confident in the security precautions was to set them up himself. "The lord Amon, I assume, will move to the island to be near the royal party?"
Woser looked at him as if he were addled. "The god must live in the mansion of the lady Hathor. We can't flaunt a long-established custom to satisfy the needs of a Kushite king."
"What of tTie prince?" Bak asked, his voice made grim by an answer he feared he already knew. "From what I've been told, he's too ill to be moved so great a distance day after day."
"He'll live in the house we've loaned Kenamon. There he can receive constant attention from the physician and he'll be only a few paces from the mansion of the goddess, an easy journey even if he must be carried."
Bak muttered a heartfelt curse. Each time Amon-Psaro wished to see his son, he would cross the channel by skiff and march through the lower city, up the gully to the plateau, and along the streets of the fortress. He would be vulnerable coming and going, twice a day if not more often. And Huy, the man in charge of security, might well be the one planning to slay him.
"The swine," Nebwa spat.
Imsiba shook his head in disgust. "Never would I have expected so shrewd a way of tying your hands from a man as hidebound as Woser."
Bak, seated on a stool in the front room of his temporary quarters, scowled at the pair in the flickering light of three palm-sized oil lamps he had scattered around. He refused to dwell on Woser's perversity. "Nebwa, when will your task be finished in Buhen?"
"Two days, three at most." Nebwa knelt to tidy Kasaya's sleeping mat. "I'll travel home tomorrow, the gold and tribute items will be transferred the following morning from the treasury to the ship, and it'll sail as soon as the loading is finished."
"You must tell Commandant Thuty all you've heard today and ask if he'll let you come back to Iken."
"That was my intent." Nebwa stripped down to his skin and sat on the pallet. "How many men should I bring? Will a half company be enough?"
Bak's spirits began to lift. If Woser thought to hobble him, he would be sadly disappointed. "Of those who towed the barge along the slipway, leave, twenty behind. They, with Pashenuro at their head, will give me a good solid core of trustworthy men on the island. I doubt I'll need more."
"And what of me?" Imsiba asked, gathering his spear and shield from the floor so he could return to the fortress for the night. "I must stay with the lord Amon, I know, but is there not some way I can help? Perhaps ask Kenamon to intercede with Woser?"
"Say nothing to Kenamon. I don't want to worry him further unless I have to." Bak waited for Imsiba's reluctant nod, then, "At first light tomorrow, I'll examine the island. As soon as I see what must be done, I'll come to you and tell you what I've found. Kasaya and I will go on with our search for Puemre's slayer, so you must be prepared to advise Pashenuro should I not be available when he needs help."
Imsiba's eyes glinted with mischief. "Woser won't be happy when he hears you've divided the task he gave you, laying it on the shoulders of other men."
Bak grinned. To circumvent the commander's orders was a joy. "I doubt he'd have thought up this task if Nebwa hadn't struck fear in his heart, speaking so highly of my powers as a policeman that the gods themselves couldn't live up to the praise."
Nebwa stretched out on the pallet, his wrists crossed beneath his head, untroubled by the charge. "I know, my tongue runs away with itself at times."
"I must go," Imsiba said. "Our men will fear I've had too much beer and have lost my way." He bade them goodbye and left.
Bak pinched the wicks of two lamps, leaving the third burning while he undressed. Each time a breeze tickled the flame, shadows danced around the near-dark room. "Tell me of your newborn son, Nebwa. How was he when you left?"
"He's a perfect child. Handsome, smart…"
Bak half listened, his thoughts far away, his hands and body going through the motions of undressing, laying his clothing across a stool, lying down on the sleeping platform. The night was too hot for a sheet, so he threw it aside. By the time he reached across to quench the third lamp, leaving the room in velvety darkness, Nebwa was snoring.
Bak closed his eyes and let himself drift off. Something moved, something in his bed, some other creature perhaps. His eyes popped open. He lay still, saying nothing, feeling his heart thud in his breast. Except for Nebwa's soft snores, the room was silent. He must have been dreaming.
He started to turn onto his side, felt another movement, the pressure of something round and cold and damp against his arm. Like a snake. A snake? He shot out of bed with a yell.
"Wha…?" Nebwa mumbled. "What? What is it?" "Get outside! Quick!" Bak leaped toward the door, a vague rectangle slightly lighter than the room. With eyes accustomed to the dark and the sky bright with stars, the lane was like a long, straight, dry riverbed, empty and barren.
"What happened?" Nebwa demanded, a pace or two behind.
"I felt something in my bed," Bak said grimly. "A snake, I think."
"You don't — suppose…" Nebwa let the sentence hang in the air between them, the unspeakable thought.
"The house was empty when we moved in," Bak said, thinking aloud. "No, Nebwa. It's probably been inside all along, hiding from us." He clapped his friend on the shoulder. "I'll go get a light so we can see. We can't go back to bed with that thing crawling around, looking for a warm body to cuddle up against."
He trotted down the lane, as naked as the day he was born. As far as he could tell, his yell had not awakened any of the neighbors sleeping inside the nearby houses or on the cooler rooftops. He stopped at the first intersection he came to. In the distance, he spotted a spearman assigned to night patrol, torch in hand. The watchman, a chubby young man barely old enough to shave, was not unduly surprised at the tale he told; snakes often invaded the old houses.
They loped back to Bak's quarters side by side. The soldier held the torch just inside the door and they all peeked in. As far as they could see, the snake was not on the floor. Grabbing a spear leaning against the wall, Bak sucked in air as if it were courage and crept toward the sleeping platform. Nothing moved; the bed looked empty. He nudged the wrinkles with the spearpoint. The creature caught in the folds of the sheet came to life, writhing to free itself, hissing. The whole bed seemed to move and then the sheet and snake, tangled together, fell off the platform. Bak leaped backwards, his heart locked in his throat.
A small flat head slid out of a fold of linen and a brownish body followed. The head rose off the floor, its upper body swelled to form a hood. It hissed at Bak and the men in the doorway. A cobra. One of the deadliest of all reptiles. Bak took the torch from the watchman and stepped closer to the snake. Holding the flame toward the creature, distracting it with fire, he muttered a quick prayer of forgiveness to the lady Wadjet, the goddess whom the cobra represented, and struck out with the spear. He drove the point through the hood, pinning the snake against the sleeping platform. The watchman killed the flailing creature with his spear.
"I've lived in Wawat more than thirty years," Nebwa said, staring at the broken body, "and I've never before seen a cobra this far south."
The watchman prodded it as if checking to make sure it was truly dead. "I saw one a month or two ago. It came south in a shipment of grain. I thought someone killed it, but maybe it got away."
"More likely someone kept it for himself," Nebwa muttered.
Bak felt chilled to the bone. So dangerous a pet would have made a good weapon if one wished to slay a king like Amon-Psaro. Or a nosy police officer.