Bak stood on the northern quay, looking down into Inyotef's skiff. Nothing had changed since last he had seen the vessel. Sails, lines, oars, fishing gear were exactly as they had been the evening before. The pilot either meant to flee in another boat or intended to leave Men in a manner Bak could not begin to imagine. Surely not by way of the desert. If he chose a path close to the river, he would easily be caught. To leave the river and its life-giving water was suicide.
No, Bak thought, he's a sailor, a man of the river. He'll escape by boat. The wording was too pessimistic, so he amended the prediction: He'll try to escape by boat, and I'll be there to stop him.
Clinging to the notion, he studied the vessels moored along the quay. Other than a fishing boat with a broken rudder and a raft built of papyrus bundles so soggy it was near to foundering, Inyotef's skiff was the only small boat remaining. The rest had been claimed by their owners and moved across the harbor to the southern quay. The barge of Amon was tied close against the revetment, rocking on the gentle swells, its gilded hull glittering in the midafternoon sun. On the warship moored close by, pennants of every color fluttered from masts and lines; its wood-andbronze fittings gleamed. Sailors lounged on its deck and atop the cabin, awaiting the gods and the king, the priests and the local dignitaries. Their lively banter with the men on the decks of the two traveling ships, which would ferry the king and his party carried across the water.
Bak strode to the end of the quay and looked out over the river, its waters a reddish brown flecked with silver where the sun caressed the ripples. His abused muscles had loosened up, but he was tired and uneasy, his mood in need of continual bolstering. He had rushed from Inyotef's house to the mansion of Hathor, where he found Imsiba and the Medjays standing outside, awaiting their royal charge. Huy and the other garrison officers had been with them. He had exchanged his knowledge for theirs: Inyotef had not been seen since the previous evening.
Leaving the pageantry behind, he and six borrowed spearmen had hastened to the lower city. Kasaya, who had returned from the island to help, joined them there. The small party had swept through the homes and warehouses along the official route of march, warning the residents to invite only people they knew onto their rooftops and clearing away or blocking potential hiding places both near and as far away as an arrow could fly, praying all the while they would find Inyotef. The gods had failed to smile on them. The spearmen had gradually lost their spark and even lighthearted Kasaya had to work at a smile.
Bak eyed the southern quay, crowded with vessels of all sizes, their decks jammed with spectators. Nothing could hold the smaller boats back, he knew, after the official party sailed out of the harbor.
He hurried back to shore, passed through the line of sentries posted on the slope to keep the spectators off the quay, and stood at the lower end of the thoroughfare down which Amon-Psaro would march. The route was lined with men, women, and children, the buzz of their combined voices rising and ebbing, shattered now and again by a childish laugh, a yell, a hawker touting his wares. Soldiers dressed in ceremonial finery, their weapons polished to a fine sheen, held back the crowd. People from faraway Kemet wearing white linen and bright jewelry rubbed shoulders with poor, half-naked farmers who lived off the sparse lands along the Belly of Stones and ragged nomads who roamed the desert. Wealthy tribesmen and villagers clad in white kilts overlaid with colorful cloaks and jewelry stood among people from far to the south dressed in skins and feathers and fabrics, bejeweled and beribboned, their faces and bodies scarified or painted. Bak imagined the desert tracks and the river during the past few days dotted with people coming from afar to see the greatest of the gods and the Kushite king who had come to seek his help.
Shouldering his way through the spectators, he located a hawker selling beer and sweet bread. He negotiated a trade and, loaf and jar in hand, walked to a crumbling warehouse ten or so paces behind the people massed along the street. The spearman standing atop a ruined wall, watching the throng, jumped down to report that he had seen nothing of note. As he melted into the crowd, Bak climbed the wall and sat down, letting his feet dangle. From there, both the lower portion of the street and the harbor spread out below him. He spotted Kasaya and the other spearmen moving among the spectators, chatting, asking questions, studying faces.
Bak tore chunks from the bread, sweetened with chopped dates, and sipped the beer. He longed to forget Inyotef and enjoy the pageantry. The day remained temperate, the breeze as soft and gentle as the kiss of a goddess. The air smelled of the river and fish, of sweat and perfume. Fine dust stirred up by many feet settled on moist bodies and greased hair. Dogs tall and sleek or short and round, black, brindle, white, or dun-colored, trotted among the onlookers, sniffing heels, probing leaf packets emptied of food, exploring. A few donkeys tied well out of the way munched hay, stamped impatient feet, swished their tails to rid themselves of flies. A trio of crows called from the rooftops, their cawing raucous and persistent.
As much as he wished to forget his mission, thoughts of Inyotef intruded. And fear for Amon-Psaro.
"If he means to attack, he'll do it now," Captain Mery said, raising his voice to be heard above the roaring crowd, "before Amon-Psaro steps onto the quay."
The officer, a hard jawed, muscular man closing on forty years, stood tall and straight on the prow of his warship, watching the priests at the head of the procession march to the quay. He was garbed much as Senu and the other garrison officers: short white kilt, broad multicolored bead collar, bracelets, armlets, and anklets. He wore a short, tightly curled wig, several rings, and carried a baton of office. Bak, standing beside him, felt like a common sparrow sharing a perch with some bright bird of passage.
For perhaps the hundredth time, he checked that all was secure. His eyes traveled from the priests-distinguished by their ankle-length white kilts, wide beaded collars, shaven heads, standards held high-down the sloping street and along the quay to the traveling ships moored at the far end. He scanned the harbor and studied the vessels tied against the southern quay, large boats and small crammed together in reluctant assembly.
"A man who can run with ease might escape in the confusion of the moment," he admitted, "but remember: Inyotef's hampered by a weak leg. And he's long been a man of the water, more skilled than most with a boat."
Mery's quick glance conveyed a grudging respect. "He's so agile on a ship that I forget his limp."
Bak looked back at the procession, the chanting priests, marching downd' the street while the enthralled masses pressed in from either side, shouting their adoration, jostling for a closer look. The priests passed through the line of soldiers posted along the revetment and stepped onto the quay. The rapture on their faces never wavered, but Bak could well imagine how relieved they must be to reach the open harbor.
While the lead priests marched past the warship, Kenamon walked onto the quay, waving his censor before him. As befitted his illustrious position, he was decked out in full regalia: long white kilt, short-sleeved tunic, fine linen robe, gold pectoral hanging from his breast. His face was calm and untroubled, free of such mundane worldly cares as the possibility of an assassination. Beside him walked the priest of the lady Hathor, a chubby young man, not as imposing but equally tranquil. A cloud of sweet-scented incense drifted around them.
The sailors pressed against the rail of the warship, their eyes wide with awe, their shouts lost in the overall clamor. Bak nodded at Kasaya, standing at the head of the gangplank, clutching a long spear, his eyes darting back and forth along the quay, his face tight with tension. The spearmen were on board the traveling ships, watching, waiting, but no less enthralled than the adoring spectators.
Four lesser priests walked behind Kenamon, purifying the deities' path with incense and libation. The lord Amon followed, his gilded barque carried high on the shoulders of four white-garbed bearers, his golden shrine open so all could view the elegant golden statue of a man wearing a twin-feathered crown. Four additional priests walked alongside, cooling the god with ostrich-feather fans. A second barque followed, not as magnificent but just as lovely, on which rode the gilded image of the lady Hathor in her human form, carried in her open shrine. She was accompanied by two fan-bearers and followed by seven women wearing long white sheaths and broad collars, each shaking a sistrum, a ceremonial rattle bearing the effigy of the goddess.
Bak scanned the shoreline, the harbor, the river, and found nothing out of order. But the evidence of his eyes could not drive away his anxiety. Inyotef was lurking somewhere nearby; he felt it deep inside.
The lead priests walked up the gangplank of the traveling ship on the downstream side of the quay. Kenamon, the younger priest, and the gods moved past the warship in slow and stately splendor. Behind them, ten men, shaven and purified for the occasion, carried the gilded, inlaid, and painted chests filled with ritual equipment and the god's clothing.
Next came a herald, his trumpet blaring above the shouts of the spectators, his cheeks puffed out, his face scarlet with the effort of blowing the instrument. The first contingent of Kushites marched onto the quay behind him: forty spearmen clad in leather kilts and wearing long feathers in hair dyed odd shades of red and yellow. Behind them, mounted on tall poles, waved twenty or so white-and-red pennants that Bak knew preceded Commander Woser and King Amon-Psaro.
The cheerful flags brought dread to his heart. He knew as well as he knew his own name that every vessel in the harbor had been searched, every man vouched for, yet he was equally certain Inyotef was somewhere nearby, waiting. Oblivious to the captain beside him and the seamen lining the rail, he climbed onto the forecastle for an overall view.
In the lower city, the spectators' shouts had increased in volume, losing awe in favor of enthusiasm, telling him the royal party had gone by and the garrison troops were parading past their families. The merchant ships moored at the southern quay showed no sign of activity, but the smaller boats were preparing to move out. The moment the first traveling ship set sail, they would scoot across the harbor like a flock of eager ducks.
Bak's eyes leaped to the end of the southern quay, and he muttered a curse. Two soldiers stood there, one pointing toward a small'skiff floating just out of reach. Barely more than a rowboat, its mast lowered with the masthead resting on the prow, it was drifting in the general direction of the stronger current outside the harbor, where it would be swept downstream into the path of the traveling ships. Bak cursed again, his thoughts locked on InyotePS But the vessel floated too high in the water to carry the weight of a man.
The soldiers stared at the craft, talking, probably deciding if it was worth the effort of swimming out after it. One of the men shook his head, and the pair turned around to walk back along the quay. The vessel must truly be empty and adrift, Bak told himself, but an image took form in his thoughts: the pilot clinging to the outside of the boat, guiding it through the water unseen.
Unsure of himself, worried, he glanced back at the procession. The block of Kushite spearmen had split apart, with the men now lining both sides of the quay. Three heralds marched between the two lines, trumpets raised high, faces looking about to burst, blasting the air with strident notes. Next came the men carrying the banners, a contingent of Kushites marching before their king.
Bak looked again at the skiff across the harbor, watched it drift, helpless to stop it, unable to make sure it held no threat. He had no way of reaching it himself, nor could he warn the soldiers guarding the quay. They were too far away to hear a shout, even without the clamor of the spectators, and by the time a messenger could reach them, the vessel would be closer to the northern quay than the southem-closer to BA than them. Patience was not one of his virtues, but he had no other choice.
He tore his gaze from the skiff to look at the man who had been uppermost in his thoughts for close to a week. King Amon-Psaro, a tall, well-formed man with graying hair and a careworn but handsome face, strode up the quay with the set expression of royalty, his chin high, his eyes on the distant horizon. He wore a simple white kilt, a broad collar and bracelets made of gold and lapis lazuli beads, and gold anklets and sandals, his garb a conspicuous reminder that he had spent his formative years in the land of Kemet. On his head he wore the twin-cobra diadem of his royal house. Commander Woser, his face pale and tense, dressed in his ceremonial best, walked beside and slightly behind the king.
Four bearers carried the prince, a small shadow of his father, sitting on a gilded palanquin. A fifth man walked alongside, fanning the child with ostrich feathers. The way the boy's chest heaved, Bak could see he was having trouble breathing. And no wonder, he thought. The odor of incense, close to overpowering, was nearly lost in the stronger, more exotic scents of perfumes and oils made from unknown flowers and trees grown in faraway lands.
Imsiba and the ten Medjay policemen marched close behind their illustrious charges, their faces glowing with pride yet alert to trouble.
The skiff drifted northward, unimpeded.
A shout and the rumble of a drum drew Bak's attention to the ships at the end of the quay. He eyed the vessel, more crowded than it should be, carrying the priestly party and the gods. He noted the captain at the prow, the sacred barques settled on the deck amid a flock of priests, the oarsmen in their places along the rail, the stout drummer beating out the tune that would set the rhythm of their strokes.
The captain of the second vessel stood at the foot of his gangplank, waiting to welcome the royal party.
Bak's eyes darted across the harbor, and he swore again under his breath. The smaller boats were pulling away from the southern quay, their owners paddling with all their skill to extricate their vessels from among the larger ships, each man determined to cross the harbor ahead of the rest and lead the flotilla to the island fortress. The empty skiff rocked on a gentle swell, barely moving, soon to be overtaken by the other craft. Overtaken and surrounded. Lost among them.
Amon-Psaio and the royal party marched alongside the warship. Mery saluted with his baton of office, and Bak made do with raising a hand. The king stared straight ahead with majestic disdain, but Woser glanced Bak's way, an unspoken question on his face. Bak gave a barely perceptible shake of his head. The prince came alongside, his great dark eyes huge and round, his face enlivened by a delighted smile. Sick he might be, Bak thought, but he was not too ill to enjoy himself or too regal to display pleasure. Imsiba and the Medjays came even with the warship. The big sergeant raised his spear in an open salute to his sweaty, unkempt officer; the other men followed suit. Unable to smother a proud smile, Bak gave them the same salute he had given the king.
The rhythmic beat of the drum grew stronger, faster, tugging his gaze toward the ships at the end of the quay. The first vessel was slipping away, swinging into the current for the journey to the island. Heralds and flag bearers stood at rigid attention on the end of the quay, well out of the way of the royal party marching to the second ship. The captain fell to his knees before Amon-Psaro, his forehead on the stone, demonstrating the greatest respect. The prince grinned with delight. Imsiba and the Medjays looked discomfited by the unexpected pause, worried.
Marching up behind the guard of honor came the Kushite noblemen, each man strutting at the fore of his own small contingent of followers. Gaily bedecked in multicolored clothing, jewelry, and headdresses, each group displayed a tribal or provincial standard.
Bak glanced across the harbor, saw twenty or more small boats, most well away from the southern quay and skimming across the water where he had last seen the empty. skiff, all speeding to catch the lead traveling ship. A flock of ducklings racing after a heron. As far as he could tell, every boat was manned and carried three or more passengers. Cursing himself for taking his eyes off the drifting vessel, he examined the river farther out and downstream. He saw no boats at all, only a few white birds riding the swells. His eyes darted toward the southern end of the long island and the rocky islets where the river split to enter the rapids, though he knew no boat could drift so far so fast: The only spot he could not see was the far side of the ship Amon-Psaro was preparing to board.
Bak's stomach knotted; he could not breathe.
The blast of the trumpets and the tattoo of the ship's drum rent the air. Amon-Psaro strode up the gangplank. Bak dropped off the forecastle, pounded along the deck and, yelling at Kasaya to follow, plunged down the gangplank. Bursting into the exotic band of Kushite nobles, he shouldered men aside, trod on sandaled feet, ruffled feathers and skins and dignity. Kasaya ran close behind, face grim, shield and spear poised to kill. Men scattered like birds before a jackal, too startled to strike back, yelling in their own tongue oaths Bak could guess if not understand.
He burst through the foremost group of noblemen and yelled at Imsiba, who had paused on the gangplank to check out the disturbance. The big Medjay, confused by the melee and unable to hear through the din, jumped off the gangplank to come to Bak's aid. Bak glimpsed Anion-Psaro standing beside the bright-painted deckhouse with his son, staring along the quay, trying to see what the trouble was. He saw sailors on their knees scattered around the deck and rowers sitting with their heads bowed over their oars. He saw the captain hovering and a womed Woser striding toward the gangplank. And he saw Inyotef, carrying a long pointed dagger, hauling himself over the rail close to the stern where he would not be noticed.
Bak shouted again, but his words were lost in the blare of the trumpets and the beat of the drum. He dashed through the guard of honor, who were paralyzed by surprise, beckoned to Imsiba, and sprinted up the gangway. The sergeant slung in behind him, keeping pace with Kasaya. Bak hit the deck with a thud and raced toward AmonPsaro. The king recoiled, astounded by what he no doubt believed was a raving maniac. Fumbling for his dagger, he took one pace back, another, and another, glancing now and again at Imsiba, plainly expecting the big Medjay to fell the lunatic. His steps carried him to the corner of the deck house. Inyotef darted around the bright structure, dagger poised to kill.
Bak leaped toward the king, shoving him roughly against the deckhouse, and rammed Inyotef with his shoulder. The pilot stumbled back against the rail. Bak stood before him, knees flexed, arms wide and loose, ready to grapple if he had to.
"You!" Amon-Psaro cried, coming up behind Bak. "Inyotef!"
With an ugly grimace, the pilot lunged at Bak, who ducked backward. The tip of Inyotef's blade drew a thin red line across Bak's chest and cut a deeper swath across Amon-Psaro's arm and ribs. Bak saw the blood spill from the king's breast, felt the sting of his own wound, heard Imsiba yell and the onlookers gasp. He leaped forward, trying to get inside the arc of the blade, too close for Inyotef to strike again. The pilot wheeled around, hurdled the rail, and dropped over the side.
Though staggered by his quarry's sudden disappearance, Bak was quick to react. He threw his legs over the rail, glimpsed the skiff below and saw Inyotef scrambling for the oars. He let himself fall. The pilot shoved off from the larger craft. Bak hit the water in the space between the two vessels and sank like a stone. By the time he fought his way to the surface, the skiff was skimming over the water near the ship's rudder and closing on the end of the quay. Once it reached the swifter flow outside the harbor, he would never catch it.
Gritting his teeth, swimming with quick, powerful strokes, he sliced through the water. A half dozen Medjays leaned over the rail above him. Their spears were positioned to throw, yet they hesitated. The pilot had rowed in among the few small boats in the flotilla that had stayed behind to accompany the Kushite king to the island.
Imsiba, who had dropped off the ship, raced to the end of the quay, waited until Inyotef cleared the vessels, then heaved his spear. It missed the pilot by the width of a finger and slid into the water on the far side of the skiff. Inyotef glanced up at him and sneered. Bak swam alongside. Imsiba jerked a pole supporting a long red pennant out of the hands of a startled bearer and hurled it at the skiff. Inyotef ducked away from the ungainly missile, but the banner slapped him across the face. He flung it aside with an angry snarl and rowed rapidly away from the quay.
Taking advantage of the distraction, Bak heaved himself into the stern. The boat bucked beneath his weight, throwing Inyotef off-balance. The pilot scrambled into the prow, where the sail had been stowed, braced himself between the hull and the lowered mast, and swung an oar in a hard, mean are. Bak ducked, bumped the rudder stanchion, heard the sharp crack of splitting wood. He grabbed for the rudder, missed, glimpsed it sliding into the water. The boat rocked wildly, its stem swerving toward the half-rotted trunk of a palm tree carried along on the stronger current of the open channel. Bak half fell, half sat on a crossbeam. Inyotef lowered the second oar into the water to steady the boat. He was too far forward to row with any authority. An inflated goatskin lay midway along the keel, a hairy gray wall between the two men's feet.
Holding the- free oar aloft, Inyotef eyed Bak along its length. "You always were a stubborn swine. I should've ended your life and your prying the day you set foot in Iken."
"Why didn't you?" Bak spoke automatically, his thoughts on the oar and how best to take it away from the pilot. It would do as a makeshift rudder until he could beach them on a riverbank well away from the rapids.
Inyotef snorted. "A man can be stubborn, yet not have the wit to be dangerous."
Bak noted the backhanded compliment, or was it meant to be an insult? "You've tried hard enough to correct your error. Your use of the sling, I took as a warning. But the snake in my sleeping pallet was meant to kill. As was my skiff when you cut the mooring rope and jammed the hal yard, and Huy's skiff so cleverly sabotaged."
"You've Nebwa to thank for giving me purpose." Inyotef laughed, cynical, mocking. "If he hadn't sung your praises so loud and clear, I'd not have realized how formidable an opponent you might be."
"I understand why you wanted to be rid of me, but why slay Huy?" Bak asked, shifting his weight so he could lunge forward.
Inyotef looked at him with the wariness of a feral dog. "Of all the men who traveled north with the hostage prince Amon-Psaro, Huy was the only one who truly cared about his well-being, the only man to ask questions in Waset after he came back from afar. I feared what he might've learned."
Bak vowed again. to tell the king of Huy's presence in Iken-if ever he had the chance. "I'm surprised you didn't slay me long ago for what I did to your leg."
Inyotef lowered the oar as far as the edge of the hull, husbanding the strength in his arm. "You're no more responsible for my injury than that wretched horse," he scoffed. "It was I who stood too close to the gangplank that day, I who laughed so loud I frightened the beast."
Bak let the news sink in, tasted it, savored it. Yet he was not surprised by the deception. "I doubt your blade pierced Amon-Psaro deeper than his rib cage, Inyotef. You've failed to slay him."
"Perhaps." Inyotef glanced at the line of scratched and bleeding flesh across Bak's breast. "But he knows now I can reach him, and he knows I'll try again. I've nothing left to lose."
The man's single-minded determination made Bak's head swim. "Let's go back to Iken."
"You'll never take me prisoner."
Bak's voice hardened. "I'll not let you escape." "We've reached a stalemate, it seems." Inyotef's eyes glittered with cold amusement. "You're too close to throw your dagger with any force, and too far away to drive it into my breast. Nor can I use my dagger to good effect. If you come close, I'll brain you with an oar. Yet if you continue to sit there, holding me in the prow, I can't direct the course of the skiff."
Bak eyed the river ahead, flowing swift and smooth, safe-at least for the moment. The ship carrying the deities and priests, and the flotilla of smaller boats, had swung into the channel that would take them to the island fortress. A quick glance back showed him Amon-Psaro's ship still moored at the quay and the smaller boats fluttering around, their masters confused by its failure to sail. Imsiba would follow, he knew, but how long would it take him to commandeer a boat?
The skiff appeared to be floating toward the southern end of the long island, a deceiving image, he knew. Soon the current would split apart, carrying the vessel to the left, down the western channel where the shoreline touched the desert north of the city, or to the right into any of several narrow channels with swift and angry waters and fearsome rocks, or into the awesome rapids below the island fortress.
A frightful thought, one Bak refused to dwell on. "Can I trust you to come near? to row this vessel? I think not. I've met few men as deceptive as you, as clever with a falsehood. You came close to getting away with Puemre's murder."
A gloating smile formed on Inyotef's face. Bak lunged forward, grabbed the oar resting on the edge of the hull, and wrenched it out of the pilot's hand. Inyotef snarled a curse, tore the second oar out of the water, grabbed it with both hands like a bat, and swung. Bak ducked away and raised his oar,, The weapons collided with a loud crack, showering them with droplets of water, striking with a force so strong it shook Bak's teeth. The skiff rocked violently; water splashed inside.
Inyotef laughed. "Do you wish us both to die, my young friend?"
Bak wiped the water from his face, the nervous sweat.
"If by chance you get away, where will you go? With the desert on either side of the river, with word spreading to north and south, how can you hope ever again to place yourself in Amon-Psaro's path?"
"Go?" Inyotef snorted. "I'll slay him here and now." Bak swore a silent oath. The pilot had just wiped out any middle measures he might otherwise have taken. He had no choice but to capture or kill. "You hate him that much?"
"He destroyed my sister."
Without warning, Inyotef swung his oar. Bak parried the blow, rocking 'the skiff, skewing its path. The vessel swerved sideways to the current and drifted to the right, choosing the channel that could carry them to the island fortress. A likely source of help, Bak thought, trying not to hear the roar of the rapids blocking the first side channel, a siren song to a boat without a rudder.
"You'd cause a war merely to satisfy a misguided sense of family honor?"
"Misguided?" Inyotef's laugh grated. "He made her love him. While she dreamed of a lifetime in his arms, he walked away as if she didn't exist. He took her life as surely as I'll take his."
There was no stopping him. He had lived too long with his hate, spent too much time dwelling on revenge.
The fortress appeared beyond the long-island. The traveling ship was moored against the landing, the priests passing through the gate and the gods making their precarious way up the path. Sailors and soldiers were unloading offerings and priestly accoutrements. Most of the flotilla had landed across the channel on the long island, where the passengers would have a good view of the king and his followers. The wait would be long and tedious; the vessel carrying the royal party had not yet set sail.
"Amon-Psaro will soon be safe in the island fortress," Bak said, raising his voice so he could be heard over the rapids in the side channel. "You'll never lay hands on him then."
"I'll die trying," Inyotef said doggedly.
The skiff swept past the two small islands at the mouth of the channel, sailing faster than before, drawn downstream by the maelstrom at the far end of the island fortress. Bak could no longer wait in the illusory hope the pilot would let down his guard. He stood up, setting the vessel to rocking, and waved to the men on the shore, yelling, hoping they could hear him over the thundering waters.
Inyotef scrambled to his feet, caught his oar in both hands, and swung. Bak, expecting the attack, practically inviting it, ducked away. The edge of the oar slid across his belly, taking a layer of skin, leaving splinters in its place. Bak caught his own oar in both hands, swung it. Inyotef blocked the blow. The skiff bucked like an untrained horse. They stood facing each other, legs spread wide for balance, weapons locked together, waiting for the craft to settle down.
Bak jerked his oar back, tried to step away to give himself room, stumbled over the inflated goatskin. As he fell, he swung the oar. It glanced off Inyotef's oar and smashed into the pilot's good leg, dropping him to his knees. With Bak on one knee, his other knee bent and the foot flat on the hull, with Inyotef on both knees, they lunged and parried time after time, swinging with all their strength, wearing themselves down. The skiff danced and bobbed and bucked, swerving to left and right as the weight inside shifted, but never leaving for long its course down the channel. A palm trunk, maybe the one they had seen earlier, floated ahead of them, its passage straight and true like a pilot fish leading them along the path of destruction.
Bak's arms grew heavy from swinging the ungainly weapon, his legs grew weary from holding himself upright, his belly burned, his teeth and skin felt loosened by the jolts of oar against oar. Out of the corner of his eye, he glimpsed men on the traveling ship, leaning over the rail, gaping at the passing skiff, and soldiers running down the path. Yelling, he thought. The silent voices alerted him to the heightened roar ahead, the cold sweat on his face, like mist blowing off the roiling waters, warned of the vicious torrent.
His body went cold, chilled by fear. He had to stop this insane voyage toward certain death.
Inyotef swung his oar. Instead of parrying the blow, Bak followed its arc with his own oar, letting momentum carry both paddles beyond the hull of the skiff. He mustered his strength and pressed Inyotef's oar downward, holding it against the hull. The skiff tilted beneath their combined weight, threatening to slide out from under them. Inyotef's face grew red with strain, the tendons corded on his neck. Bak felt his own face flush and his muscles scream for relief. He saw a wall of white ahead, water boiling and tumbling over and around the rocky barrier, black granite boulders glistening in the wet, the palm trunk smashing against a boulder, bits of wood flying through the foam.
Inyotef saw the look on his face and took a quick glance over his shoulder. "Give me your oar," he yelled, "I can save us."
Seeing no alternative, Bak warily released the pressure. Inyotef jerked his oar free and at the same time drew the long dagger from its sheath and lunged. Bak raised his oar, deflecting the blade, and swung hard and fast, slamming the pilot on the side of the head. Inyotef gave him a surprised look, the dagger fell from his fingers, and he crumpled over the side of the skiff. Bak reached out to grab him, saw froth on the water, felt the skiff strike something solid. Horrified, he saw the vessel's seams tear apart and frothing water rush inside. He grabbed the inflated goatskin, more from instinct than conscious thought, and felt himself slide into a river gone mad.
He was seized by the angry white waters, swirling, leaping, falling. His body was thrown and twisted with such, force he was powerless to control himself, unable to tell upstream from downstream or even up from down. He was swept along like a pebble, tossed from torrent to eddy to cascade, scraping rocks and the jagged riverbottom and things he could feel but not see. What little air he held in his lungs was quickly knocked out of him. He was certain he was going to die.
The swirling waters buffeted him, lifted him and slammed him down, and lifted him again. Realizing he still held the goatskin, he clutched it tight against his breast and prayed with the fierceness of desperation to the lord Amon. His head broke the surface. He gulped in air.
Holding the goatskin close, he tried to swim, but he was flung against a boulder and dragged into a vortex that whirled him around and around, giving him a taste of what death must feel like. The eddy spat him out and flung him along the riverbottom, flipping him over and over. He hit another rock, smashed his left arm against a boulder so hard he tried to scream, but he sucked in water instead.
Gasping for air, coughing, he let the current sweep him along a fast but blessedly quiet stretch. When he surfaced, when he could breathe again and think rationally, he looked to right and left, searching for the river's edge. He saw nothing to either side but rocky islets, great craggy boulders, and now and then a pocket of sand supporting a few clumps of grass, or a stunted tree.
A growing rumble downstream and a fine mist rising from the channel alerted him to more rough water. His throat tightened and his mouth turned dry. Too exhausted to fight anotherapid, his left arm afire with pain and close to useless, he set out diagonally across the current, swimming toward the closest bit of land, a tiny pockmarked boulder. The flow strengthened, sweeping him past the safe haven. Ahead the river vanished.
He sucked in a breath, clung to the swollen goatskin, and let the current sweep him over a foaming cascade. The plummeting water drove him down, swirled him around, and flung him out at the head of a stretch of fast but uncluttered water. Gathering all that remained of his strength and willpower, he swam toward what he assumed was an island but prayed was the western shore of the river.
Then he saw Inyotef, limp and pale, beached on a rocky crag, lying across a shallow pool. Wishing he could leave him there to live or die at the whim of the gods, yet knowing he could not, he swam closer. He approached slowly, cautiously, aware of his own weakness, his exhaustion. If he had to fight, he knew he would lose.
He neared the boulder and, from a safe distance, studied the still, pale form. Inyotef was bruised and battered, his breathing labored. His pallor, Bak recognized, was the color of death.
He stumbled onto the rock and dropped down next to the injured man. How could the proud warship captain he once knew bring upon himself so awful a death? "Inyotef?"
The pilot's eyes fluttered open. He formed a weak smile. "I guess I didn't…" He paused, took the shallow breath of a man with broken ribs. "… didn't know the rapids as well…" Another pause.".. as well as I thought."
"Don't talk," Bak said, his voice rough and uneven. "You'll hurt yourself more."
Inyotef took a slow careful breath. "Better this way." Another breath. "I couldn't face…" A pause, a careful swallow. "… a judgment of death." His eyes closed, his head fell sideways.
Bak dropped his forehead onto his knees, saddened by the death of a man he had thought his friend yet glad the awful journey down the river had ended as it had. Inyotef had offended. the lady Maat, upsetting the balance of order and justice. He had to die one way or another. To lose his life in the river on which he had thrived seemed fitting.