Bak walked along the water's edge, staying close to the trees, blending as much as possible into the long shadows of first light. Should Woser learn of this meeting, he would not thank Meret for speaking of his private affairs, especially with the police officer whose efforts he had done all he could to obstruct. She would no doubt be beaten, and Bak did not want that on his conscience.
The morning was soft and gentle, the land not yet heated by the lord Re. The air was sweet, the sky a clear, vibrant blue. The trees were alive with birdsong, too loud to hear the leaves rustling in the breeze or the murmur of the rapids, whose voice was softened by distance.
Kasaya stepped out of the trees twenty or so paces ahead and waded into the river. He cavorted in the water as if born to the lord Hapi, diving, rolling, leaping, letting the current carry him downriver, battling the flow to return upstream. He was showing off to the woman, Bak guessed, flaunting his youthful vigor, his large well-formed body, his good spirits.
As Bak approached the spot where the Medjay had entered the water, he paused. Ahead, the row of trees curved away from the river's edge and back again, forming a sandy half circle dotted with weathered boulders and bushes growing from patches of rich black soil. A backwater during the height of the flood, he guessed, but now an ideal place for the local women to do their laundry. Sheets so white they burned his eyes were already draped over several boulders and bushes, drying in the sun.
A thin-faced woman of about seventeen years knelt at the edge of the water, looking often at Kasaya, laughing with delight at his performance, while she scrubbed a winestained dress with a whitish substance Bak assumed was natron. Her long white shift was hiked up to her thighs, revealing legs as slender and muscular as her bare arms. Her hair was pulled back and hidden inside a bag-like protective cloth. Sweat poured from her brow and stained the back and underarms of her dress.
Bak scuffed his sandal, alerting her to his approach. She glanced his way and flushed, then scrambled to her feet, clutching the dress to her bosom, and attempted an awkward bow.
Suspecting Kasaya had exaggerated his importance, Bak waved off the formality. "Go on with your task, mistress Meret." He knelt at the edge of the trees, letting her know he respected her wish for secrecy. "Kasaya has told me you're willing to speak of Commander Woser's household."
She nodded, tongue-tied by shyness-or maybe shame at what she was about to do.
To one will know you've talked to me, that I promise." "Kasaya says you're a man who keeps your word," she murmured, dropping to her knees, bending over the stained dress. "Ask what you will."
Since Meret had been given the lowly task of washing linen, he guessed she was one of the lesser servants, helping in the kitchen, making beds, and dusting and sweeping in addition to doing laundry. In a frontier fortress, however, where households were small and informal, she would also sometimes help Aset with her toilet. And she would certainly gossip with the other servants.
"How did mistress Aset behave with Lieutenant Puemre? Did she act as if she cared for him?"
"The mistress is a child." Meret's smile was tender, forgiving of Aset's faults. "Her mother died when she was very young, a babe. If her father had taken another wife, she'd have learned to be a woman. Instead, he's always given her all she desires and shelters her from care and worry. She plays with his affections, and because she knows no better way, she flirts with all men, hoping to bring them to their knees as she does her father. Lieutenant Puemre was no different than the rest."
She stopped abruptly, the color spreading across her face, evidently realizing her tongue had been running away from her.
A long speech for a shy woman, Bak thought, and a strange one. Two women close to each other in age, one a household drudge, the other her pampered mistress. An ideal nest for jealousy, yet the one with nothing plainly adored the one who had everything. Kasaya must have bewitched her to get her to speak.
"What of Lieutenant Nebseny?" Bak glimpsed the Medjay leaving the water to settle down at the base of a tree, where he could watch the path from the fortress and also eavesdrop. "From what I've seen of him, he appears to be her slave, though a reluctant one."
"They're betrothed."
Bak whistled his surprise. "I'd not heard a word. Why does no one speak of it?"
"She refuses to wed." Noting Bak's raised eyebrow, Meret hastened to her mistress's defense. "She has no desire to hurt the lieutenant; she looks upon him with fondness. But she wishes above all else to live in Kemet, while he likes serving on the frontier. She fears they'll not be happy.,
Bak snorted, incredulous. "Woser lets her play that game?"
"Not willingly," Meret admitted, sprinkling more natron on the fabric and scrubbing the stain between her knuckles. "The betrothal was his wish. He and the lieutenant are as close as father and son." A thought struck her, and she smiled. "That's why Aset flirted so shamefully with Lieutenant Puemre. She thought it amusing to defy her father while at the same time she teased her betrothed."
Not tease, Bak thought, manipulate. Or, more likely, she cared not a grain of sand for what either man thought. She wanted only to wed a nobleman and live a life of wealth and ease on a great estate in Kemet. "How did Puemre respond to her?"
"He flirted, but at a distance." Her expression clouded. "Those of us who serve in the commander's residence knew of the woman he had, the armorer Senmut's daughter. We tried to warn Aset, but…" Again the tender, forgiving smile. "She's always been certain of her own charms." "Did your mistress win him at last?"
Meret lifted her eyes to Bak's. "I don't know."
The look she gave him was open and direct, free of guile or shyness. The false look of a liar, he felt sure. "I'm not asking if she won a vow of marriage, Meret. If she had, she'd have shouted her victory to all the world. I want to know…" He paused, giving his words greater emphasis. "I must know if she lay in his arms, letting him fill her belly with child."
"No!" Her eyes widened, dismay replacing the mock innocence.
"That's what the men are saying in the barracks." "Maybe that's why…" She clapped her hand to her mouth. "No, it's not true!"
He saw he had touched a raw spot. "The common soldiers, the traders, others as well, say she's with child, and Puemre wag'the father."
"He never touched her! She teased, that's all. I should know; I wash her sheets and clothing." Her face reddened at the oblique reference to her mistress's monthly cycle. She lowered her eyes and murmured, "Why must you men always believe the worst?"
Bak stared, his thoughts jolted by her words. True, he had been assuming the worst, but not the way she meant. He had been thinking of Woser's lack of cooperation, and Nebseny's, in terms of a plot against Amon-Psaro. Now this lowly servant had unwittingly reminded him that the obvious explanation was ofttimes the real one, something closer to home and more personal.
He stood up, strode to her, and caught her by the shoulders, lifting her to her feet. "Listen to me, Meret! You must be open and honest with me. If you aren't, many men may die, men innocent of wrongdoing."
She stared, her eyes huge, frightened.
He shook her none too gently, forcing a nod from her. "Tell me how Woser and Aset and Nebseny behave when they're all in one room." He could see she didn't understand. "Do they tread lightly around each other? Do they each seem to have a guilty secret, but look with suspicion at the other two?"
"How did you guess?" she whispered, overcome by awe.
He planted a big kiss on her sweat-salty forehead and released her. "Kasaya," he called, striding toward the treeS and the path that led back to Iken, "take good care of this woman. Unless I'm sadly mistaken, she's halved the number of questions I've been asking myself."
"I pray you've guessed right," Kenamon said. The elderly priest hurried along the street at Bak's side, walking in the shade of a row of white-plastered buildings. The deep shadow gave added depth to the lines of worry spanning his brow. "If each of the three is protecting the other two, perhaps none are guilty."
Bak drew the old priest into an open doorway, getting out of the way of a sweaty gnome of a man and his clattering train of five donkeys laden with burnished red pottery jugs. "If I can eliminate one man from my list of suspects, I'll think myself smiled on by the gods. If I can eliminate two, I'll feel as if the lord Amon himself has taken me by the hand."
"And if one of the two, either Woser or Nebseny slew Puemre?"
Bak smiled. "I doubt I'd survive the shock of so easy a solution."
"What of mistress Aset?"
"If my thoughts have led me down a true path, she's served as the idol around which her father and her betrothed have danced."
"The commander should long ago have handed her over to a sterner man."
The last of the donkeys trotted by, and they hurried on. The street was busy at this early and cooler hour, buzzing with the chatter of soldiers and traders, people with business inside the fortress. They strode past only two women, an officer's wife and her servant, the latter carrying an empty basket, on their way to the market.
Reaching an intersecting street, they edged past a contingent of new recruits, ten young men so raw they still smelled of the farmyard, and a grizzled spearman rushing them along at double pace. Beyond, the garrison officers and their sergeants were streaming out of the commander's residence, leaving a meeting Bak had heard had been called to discuss the presentation of arms when Amon-Psaro's entourage marched up to the gate of Iken. Bak greeted those he knew with a nod: Huy, Senu, Inyotef, and Nebseny. The archer looked through him as if he did not exist.
"I wish you better luck with Woser than you'll have with him," Kenamon murmured, nodding toward Nebseny. "He's a sttibbom young man, and protective of his own." "Aset is the key, my uncle, of that I'm convinced."
Bak and Kenamon entered the building and hurried down a long hall to a stone-paved, pillared courtyard on the ground floor. A lanky guard stood near the doorway, yawning, eyeing all newcomers with the disinterested look of a man who had never faced trouble and never expected to do so. Several scribes could be seen through an open portal, scrolls spread across their laps, pens scratching on the smooth surfaces. Woser stood in the doorway of the room he used as his office, glaring at a trader who was plainly disgruntled, a lithe young man wearing a broad beaded collar, bronze bangles, and a glittering ring on every finger.
"I'll listen to no more of your complaints," Woser said. "You must find another place for your animals, and that's final."
The trader's face reddened, his eyes flashed anger. "I have forty-eight donkeys, Commander, weary from their long journey north. I'd hoped to rest them here. Now I'll have to push them further, all the way to Kor."
"So be it." Woser was plainly in no mood to sympathize with man or beast. "King Amon-Psaro's entourage travels with a large number of pack animals. They'll need every paddock we can provide."
With an irate grimace, the trader pivoted on his heel and stomped away.
Woser glared at Bak, noticed the elderly priest behind him, formed a tired smile. Beckoning them into the office, he slumped into his armchair. "I must admit, I'd like nothing better at this moment than to turn Amon-Psaro's entourage around and send them back where they came from. One would think the lord Amon would be more trouble to entertain, but no. He stands in the mansion of the lady Hathor, silent and regal in his shrine, while we turn this city upside down for a savage king from a savage land."
"Amon-Psaro was raised to manhood in the royal house in Waset," Kenamon pointed out. "I doubt he's any less civilized than we are."
"We'll soon see." Woser eyed Bak. "Huy tells me the island fortress is rapidly becoming habitable. You're to be commended."
"I've a willing and hardworking crew." Without waiting for an invitation, Bak drew a stool from among a clutter of scroll-filled baskets and offered it to Kenamon, who sat down in front of the commander. He preferred to stand, so Woser would have to look up to him. "We've not come to speak of the fortress; we wish to talk of the night Puemre was slain."
Woser's fingers tightened for an instant around the arm of his chair, then relaxed. "What can I tell you? I met with my officers to discuss the lord Amon's journey to Semna. After we made what plans we could, they left, and I went to my bed and slept."
"What of your daughter? Was mistress Aset in her "Certainly." The answer came too quickly. The justification required more thought and an abashed smile. "She's long been a woman, but I still think of her as a child. I look in on her each night, just as I did when she was a babe. I pray you won't tell her. She'd not be pleased if she knew."
Bak could imagine the scene Aset would create if she caught her father peering at her during the night, snooping she would probably say. He walked to the door and called out to the guard. "Go upstairs to the residence and bring mistress Aset to her father's office."
Woser leaped to his feet, eyes smoldering. "You can't…!"
"Sit down, Commander!" Kenamon's usually placid voice resounded with authority. "Lieutenant Bak must do his duty as he sees fit, and you must allow him to proceed."
Woser dropped into his chair, his face pale and tight. Kenamon was a highly placed priest, one whose wishes could not lightly be denied. "You've no right to question my daughter, Lieutenant, no reason. She had nothing to do with Puemre's murder."
Hearing the soft patter of sandals in the courtyard, Bak looked around. Aset was hurrying along the row of pillars, her eyes on him, her face as tense and worried as her father's. The guard followed close behind. Either he did not quite trust her to obey the summons or, more likely, he was consumed by curiosity.
Bak turned on Woser, his voice barely more than a whisper, his tone rock-hard. "If you utter one word before I say you may, I'll charge you with murder and treason."
"Murder and…" Woser, looking startled, glanced from Bak to Kenamon. "What?"
"He has every right," Kenamon said grimly, "and sound reason."
Aset edged past Bak, half-blocking the door. Spotting the strain on Woser's face, she barely looked at the priest. "What's wrong, Father? What's he…" She glanced toward Bak. "What's he been saying?"
"Go find Lieutenant Nebseny," Bak told the guard. "Bring him here as quick as you can."
"Yes, sir." The guard, whose face had come to life, his boredom displaced by curiosity, excitement, and purpose, pivoted and strode away.
Aset looked at first one man and then another. The summons of Nebseny in addition to herself had clearly unsettled her, undermining her confidence. When her eyes landed on her father, searching for support, he shook his head, his meaning unclear. From the confused look on her face, the message was as lost on her as it was on Bak.
"Mistress Aset, your father claims you were in your bed the night Lieutenant Puemre was slain." Bak raised his hand, cutting off a response, and guessed, "You weren't, I know, nor were you even in this building."
"Who told you that? One of the servants?" She raised her chin in defiance, belying the tremor in her voice. "It's a lie. I was here through all the night, as was my father."
Kenamon gave her a somber look and seemed about to speak but, like Bak, he heard the quick footsteps on the stone pavement outside. Whatever he meant to say, he reserved for later.
Bak, watching Aset, saw out of the corner of his eye a grim-faced Nebseny veering around three scribes standing in the middle of the court, arguing about the meaning of an obscure glyph. The temptation to trample on the young officer's feelings was too great to resist.
"I suppose Lieutenant Nebseny slept here that night as well," he sneered. "Did he share your bed, I wonder? Or did Puemre come back to keep you company?"
Nebseny burst through the door, grabbed Bak's shoulder, and swung him around. "You swine!" He drew back his fist, murder in his eyes, and swung.
Bak, only a little surprised by so foolhardy a reaction, blocked the fist with an arm. Moving with a speed born of many long hours of practice, he grabbed Nebseny's wrist, jerked him off-balance, and twisted him around, shoving his hand high between his shoulder blades, forcing a moan from his lips.
Kenamon sucked in his breath, shaken by the sudden violence. Woser slid to the edge of his chair, poised to aid his young friend. The scribes in the courtyard, chattering like jays, scurried across the pavement to peer through the door. The guard stood paralyzed and confused, not quite sure who was in charge.
"Don't hurt him!" Aset cried. "Please!"
Bak recalled the way she had hovered over Nebseny when he and the archer had crashed into each other several days earlier. He was fairly sure that if he hurt the young man badly enough, she would tell the truth. But that was not his way. He pushed the hand higher, eliciting another moan, and shoved Nebseny hard. The archer stumbled across the room and fell to his knees at Woser's feet.
Bak noticed the scribes at the door and the guard. "Leave us. There's nothing here to see."
"Go back to your duties," Woser said, standing, giving them a strained smile. "This is a misunderstanding, nothing more."
The scribes drifted away, whispering among themselves. The guard relaxed, choosing to take his commander's words at face value. Bak stood grim and silent, waiting until they could no longer be overheard.
"You've been lying from the outset," he said at last, his eyes darting from one stunned face to another. "Not just to me, but to each other. Now I demand the truth."
"I beg you to speak up," Kenamon said. "If you don't soon talk with honesty and candor, I fear for all of Wawat and the land of Kemet itself."
Woser, his face clouding with worry and puzzlement, dropped into his chair and eyed the old priest. Nebseny, scrambling to his feet, glanced at Bak, his commander, and Aset, confusion vying with the anger and shame of his precipitous defeat.
"We were all three here in this house," Aset said, the challenge clear in her voice. "You can't prove otherwise." Bak wanted to shake her good and hard. She was forcing his hand, making him go further than he had meant to go. "Commander Woser, Lieutenant Nebseny, I'm charging you both with the murder of Lieutenant Puemre, with the intent to commit treason against the royal house." He kept his voice hard and cold, grating almost. "Mistress Aset, you'll stand with them before the viceroy, charged with assisting them in their crimes."
Nebseny snorted. "You must be mad."
"Don't scoff, young man," Kenamon said quietly. "We know Puemre had knowledge of a plot which could wrongly be laid at the door of the royal house-and cause all manner of mischief in this barren land of Wawat."
"The charge is a sham." Woser glared at Bak. "You're so fearful of Puemre's father, so desperate to lay hands on his slayer, that you're striking out in all directions."
The old priest shook his head sadly. "My heart bleeds for you, Commander. You'd willingly give your life for your daughter, yet you blind yourself to the truth."
"How can I know what's in fact the truth? This so-called policeman has given me no specifics."
"Have you earned my confidence?" Bak demanded. "You failed to report Puemre's death, and you've blocked my path to his slayer from the instant I stepped through the gate of this city." He took a turn across the room, swung around, strode back to stand in front of the commander, towering over him. "I'd like to think you're merely protecting your daughter, a foolish young thing who always gets her way by bending your affections to her will, a silly child who would lie to the lady Maat herself to protect both you and her betrothed." He swung toward Aset and snapped, "Can you deny my charge, Mistress?"
She flung her head high, refusing to answer. Nebseny eyed her, a flush spreading across his face, as if for the first time he realized she might actually care for him. Woser squirmed in his chair, ashamed of so great a weakness in his own heart and household.
"The penalty for treason is death, Commander." Bak made his voice ominous, and at the same time prayed Woser would not call his bluff.
"I've not betrayed my gods or my land, and I see no way you can prove I have." Woser closed his eyes and spoke with resignation. "But to be charged with so heinous an offense would ruin what's left of my life, and that of my daughter and the man as close to me as a son. I'll tell you what you wish to know."
"Father!"
Woser silenced the girl with a wave of his hand. "As you've guessed, Lieutenant, on the night Puemre was slain, I left this residence soon after my officers departed. I went to a woman I know in the lower city, one who'll tell you I stayed with*er through the night. Her servants know of my coming and going. They, too, will vouch for me. As will the watchman assigned to that sector of the city."
Aset stared openmouthed. If Bak had not expended so much effort in getting Woser to talk, he would have laughed, but he smothered the urge, fearing he would risk his hard-won advantage.
Woser gave the girl a wry smile. "Even I must have a life of my own, my daughter."
She managed a limp smile. "Oh, Father, I was so afraid! I knew you didn't sleep in your bed that night, and I thought…" She lowered her eyes, flushed. "I thought you'd heard those awful rumors about.. " Her voice tailed off, she swallowed hard.
His expression turned grave. "When I came through the southern gate at dawn, I saw you hurrying through the streets, with no other woman to see you home safe and well." His voice roughened, betraying his unwillingness to ask a question whose answer he feared. "Where had you been?"
"I went to the barracks, looking for Nebseny." It was Nebseny's turn to gape.
"I waited for more than an hour, talking with the men on watch." She shot the young officer a guilty look. "I'd heard you argued again with Puemre and came close to blows. I learned later he accused you of backing away from a skirmish when his men needed help, but at the time I thought… Well, you surely can guess what I thought. That's why, in the end, I made them promise not to tell you I was there."
Nebseny gave her a bitter smile. "You thought me so low I'd creep up behind him to take his life instead of facing him like a man."
"I didn't!" she cried. "I only knew you weren't where you were supposed to be: in the barracks, asleep."
"I was on the fortress wall, pacing back and forth the length of the city. I'd heard those rumors flying through the barracks. I was trying to build the courage to tell your father I didn't want to spend the rest of my life with soiled linen."
Aset bowed her head, covering her face with her hands. "The sentries must've seen you there," Bak said. Nebseny nodded, his eyes on his betrothed, distracted by what to him was far more important than an alibi. Hesitantly, he went to the girl and took her in his arms. "Don't cry, my beloved. Your servant Meret has since come to me. She's assured me the tales were untrue."
Aset turned her face into his breast and clung to him. Woser, watching the pair with open relief and a weary satisfaction, must have felt Bak's scrutiny. He looked up at the man who had so recently bedeviled him and offered a tentative smile. "I owe you more than answers, Lieutenant. How best can I help?"
"The prince's health seemed better while they camped through the night, but soon after the caravan set off this morning, he had another attack." The courier, a short, wiry young man, stood at rigid attention, repeating the message he had been given. Sweat trickled down his face, making runnels in the dust clinging to his cheeks. "King AmonPsaro looked forward to reaching Iken by nightfall. He was most disappointed at the need to break the journey so close and yet so far away."
Bak scowled, trying to look disappointed, hiding the relief he felt at his own reprieve and that of the men toiling on the island fortress. Kenamon, he feared, would worry himself sick at the delay in seeing his patient, but almost everyone else in Iken would welcome the respite.
Woser, his face solemn, looked south across the desert, as if far in the hazy distance he could see the Kushite encampment. A puff of wind drove a dust devil up the narrow walkway along the battlements and whipped a dry and torn leaf over the parapet.
They stood atop the massive outer wall of the fortress. As Bak had preferred to discuss the threat on Amon-Psaro's life in more privacy than the commander's residence provided, Woser had suggested the younger officer accompany him on one of his periodic surprise inspections of the sentries. Bak had readily agreed, but if he had known how hot and thick the air had become, he would have suggested a walk along the river instead.
"You must tell King Amon-Psaro that my heart is filled with disappointment," Woser said to the courier. "I'd hoped to see him in Iken today. However, as the prince's health is all-important, I understand the need to postpone his arrival. I'll make haste to the lord Amon and offer my heartfelt prayer that the child will feel more like traveling tomorrow."
"Spoken like a true diplomat." Bak grinned after the courier had hurried away.
Woser gave him a quick smile. "Too many years on the frontier, greeting the envoys of kings and queens, have made my tongue as oily as that of a palace hanger-on."
His eyes darted toward an approaching sentry, the last he had to inspect, a tough-looking man of close to forty years burned a crisp brown from many years in the sun. The man halted before his commander and stood at attention, his eyes fixed on some far-off point. Looking stern and competent, Woser examined clothing, weapons, and physical well-being.
While Bak waited, he rested his elbows on the thick mudbrick wall and looked out across the desert. The tawny plain stretched as far as the eye could see, its sandy blanket torn here and there by dark ridges and knolls of protruding granite. The stiff westerly breeze stirred the desert surface, filling the air with fine sand, coloring the sky a pale yellow and cloaking the sun with haze. The distinction between earth and sky was lost in the distance, where individual features blended and blurred. A sweaty slick of fine dust coated Bak's body and he could taste the desert on his tongue, minute bits of parched and stale rock carried on the wind from far-off lands. His wrists itched beneath the wide bead bracelets he wore. He yearned for a swim, and mercifully he might now have the time.
The sentry strode on, and Woser joined Bak at the wall. "I like to believe nothing can pass by me unseen in this garrison." His face was shadowed with worry and self-reproach. "How did I fail to see a plot against AmonPsaro?"
Bak eyed him with something less than sympathy. "Did you actually tell Huy and your other officers to stand in my way?"
Woser had the grace to flush. "I made it clear I thought the slayer had done us all a favor. I went no further." "In other words, you made it easy for them to justify their failure to help, their unwillingness." Bak heard the accusation in his voice, knew he must drop the matter or risk alienating once again an officer whose cooperation he badly needed.
"How many men do you believe are involved?" Woser asked.
"One, if the mute child's sketches are to be believed. And I'm more inclined than ever to think them true." Bak could not prevent himself from adding, "Especially now that I've verified your alibi and Nebseny's and know for a fact you're both innocent. The idea of a conspiracy has always troubled me."
Woser turned away, his shoulders hunched, his hands locked behind his buttocks, and strode the few paces up the walkway to the corner tower. Bak stared at the commander's back, suddenly doubting himself, wondering how one man alone could hope to slay a king, a man always surrounded by guards and lackeys. Could I be mistaken? he wondered. Did I sort out one conspiracy of silence, leaving another yet to be found?
Woser strode back, his expression unhappy yet resolute. "I've known my staff officers for many years, Lieutenant, and I call each and every man my friend. But if you wish, I'll give you a private place and send them to you one by one. I give you leave to ask them what you will. Use the cudgel if you must."
Any doubts Bak might have had about the commander vanished altogether. "With Amon-Psaro's caravan stalled in the desert, I've a day's reprieve. Perhaps the gods. will smile on me and I can narrow my suspects to one before he marches into Iken. If not, I fear I'll have to accept your offer."