"Haven't seen either man this morning." Sennufer lifted a crumpled cloth from the top of a game table and wiped away the sweat rolling down his face, neck, and wiry torso. "If they show up, I'll tell them you're looking for them."
"They'll come," Bak assured him from the doorway. "We were to meet here sometime after midday."
The house of pleasure reeked of sweat and fermenting bread. The heat hung thick and cloying in the air. A half dozen men, sailors from the look of their sun-toughened skin, sat on the hard-packed earthen floor, playing a game of chance. Each time one threw the gaming sticks, they yelled or cursed according to their luck.
"Have you seen the craftsman who dreamed of murder?" Bak asked. "Or remembered anything more about him?"
Sennufer, his mouth screwed up in thought, threw the cloth over his shoulder. "I keep seeing his hands, a grayish dirt under his nails, but I told you that before." He removed a beer jar from the stack against the wall and, donning a genial smile, held it out. "Come on in, Lieutenant. May as well enjoy a Rew while you wait."
Bak smiled his thanks, but edged backwards, beating a tactful retreat from the heat, the stench, and the noise. "I've a man to see at the harbor. Tell my men to come to me there."
Grayish dirt. Sennufer had initially described the besotted man's hands as dirty, but had given no color. Now he claimed the dirt was gray. Bak could think of no specific craft where a gray material was regularly used. Maybe Sennufer erred, with time adding color to his imagination.
He swallowed the last few bites of fish and threw the broad leaves in which it had been wrapped into the river. For an instant they remained cupped together, floating like a miniature green boat, but the current soon caught them and swept them downstream, tearing them asunder. He left the shade of a tamarisk, its roots teased by the rising waters of the river, and climbed the bank. Upstream lay the harbor, where he was to meet the last of the four officers who had attended Woser's meeting, the river pilot Lieutenant Inyotef.
He strode along a sandy lane poorly populated in the midday heat by a few sailors, a trader or two, and a housewife with her young female servant. Three men walked past in the opposite direction, leading a donkey caravan. The heavy scent of hay piled high on the animals' backs made Bak sneeze. A dozen or more warehouses faced the harbor, along with a few small places of business and homes. The tumbled walls of several abandoned warehouses stood among them, reminders of a more industrious time long ago when more grain was needed to feed a large and hungry garrison. Two squat cargo ships and a narrow-hulled trading vessel nestled against the quays. Several small skiffs were tied among them.
Bak sat in the shade of a stand of acacias near the harbor, his knees drawn up beneath his chin, his eyes on the ships and the men toiling in and around them.
"Lieutenant Bak?" A male voice behind him.
Bak hastened to stand, then turned around and gaped. "Inyotef?"
The man standing before him, a man of medium height, slender yet broad-shouldered with curly graying hair, broke into a smile. "By the beard of the lord Amon! Never would I have dreamed the police officer I was told to meet would be you!"
Bak clasped Inyotef's shoulders. "Nor would it ever have occurred to me that the river pilot Inyotef was in actual fact Captain Inyotef of the royal fleet."
"No longer, my boy." The older man stepped back to look at the younger. The movement was awkward, one of his legs less nimble than the other.
Bak sucked in his breath, his eyes darted toward the weaker limb and away. The puckered brownish scar and misshapen bone below the knee struck him like a blow to the stomach. He was responsible for the injury that had crippled this man.
"I now see ships safely through the Belly of Stones." Inyotef smiled, either unaware of Bak's dismay or ignoring it. "The task may not be as glamorous as captaining a warship, but it requires more thought and skill."
"How long have you been in Iken?" Bak managed. "Three years this time."
He must have come soon after his leg healed, Bak thought. Had he been sent south because a man so deformed was believed unworthy to sail one of the great royal ships of the line? "This time?" he echoed.
"I've a skiff tied up at the northern quay. Come, we can talk there." Ushering Bak along the waterfront, his pace rapid in spite of his pronounced limp, Inyotef explained. "My first command, long ago, was in Wawat. I learned then to bring the ships through the rapids at Abu and twice I brought vessels through the Belly of Stones. So when I heard a pilot was needed here, I asked to come."
Bak tried not to — see the limp, tried not to remember, but the nightmare would not go away. The regiment of Amon had been sent to Mennufer to practice maneuvers on the great sweep of sands west of the pyramid-tombs of the early kings. They had sailed from Waset by boat and were to return the same way. Bak's chariot horses, among others, had been assigned stalls on the deck of Inyotef's ship. He and the captain had become friends of sorts, talking as men do about anything and everything during the long, idle hours of the voyage.
On the morning of departure for the return trip, he had led his team, two fine bay geldings, to the gangplank. Four men stood two or three paces away watching the loading, among them Captain Inyotef. One of the horses was highly strung at the best of times. The gangplank terrified him. Bak calmed him with words and caresses and led him to the narrow bridge. As his front hooves touched the wood, someone laughed, a hearty guffaw that boomed across the wharf. The horse flung its head back, jerking the halter from Bak's grip, and swung around, striking Inyotef, knocking him to the pavement and stepping on his leg.
Bak had gone with his company back to Waset but, thanks to a physician friend of his father, had kept track of Inyotef's progress. The break had been bad; for many days the doctors held little hope he would survive the pain and infection. Willpower alone had pulled him through the crisis. After the worst was over, he had improved daily until he was once again on his feet. Bak had heard no more. He had assumed, or wanted to believe at any rate, that Inyotef had fully recovered.
"You've no need to ache with guilt, Bak," Inyotef said, reading his thoughts. "During those days while once again I learned to walk, I realized I'd never command another warship. It wasn't in me, and I'm speaking of my heart as well as my body." He stopped before a sleek white skiff bobbing on tiny swells washing against the quay. "I'd wanted to return to Wawat from the day I left, but the power and thrill of command held me in Kemet. My injury gave me the excuse I needed."
"I'd like to believe that." The words sprang forth from deep within Bak's soul.
"I swear by all the gods in the ennead, it's the truth." Inyotef clapped him on the shoulder. "Now let me show you my pride and joy, and then we'll talk of murder." Bak searched Inyotef's face, looking for blame. He found none. He wished he could so easily forgive himself.
The skiff was much like any other rivercraft, as far as Bak was concerned, except better cared for than most. Inyotef talked of the mast and fittings, the halyards, the sail like a man speaking of his love. The pilot caressed the prow, held the rudder with a tender grip, admired the curved lines of the hull with his eyes. Of greater importance to Bak, who cared more for living creatures than inanimate objects, Inyotef moved about the vessel with the agility of a monkey, his infirmity diminished by familiarity.
"I spend much of my free time here." Inyotef raised a reed awning over the open hull and motioned Bak to sit in the prow. "My wife could never accept the frontier life of Iken, so she went back to Kemet some months ago. I've no one now to go home to."
Bak squashed another tug of conscience. Through his fault, Inyotef's life had been torn asunder, but that was no excuse to turn his back on the task he had been given. "You were one of the last to see Puemre alive, I've been told."
The pilot pulled a torn sail from a basket near the stern. "As you surely know by now, I and the others who attended Woser's meeting parted outside the commander's residence." He draped the sail over his lap, covering his legs, and threaded a large bronze needle. "I went to the bathhouse, but at the door I decided to go home instead. As I walked along the street to the main gate, I fell in behind Puemrg4 I thought of catching up, but as he was no particular friend, it wasn't worth the effort of rushing after him."
Bak realized he was being handed two distinct paths to follow. He chose the most obvious. "How long were you behind him?"
"All the way to the lower city." Inyotef poked the needle through the heavy cloth and pulled the thread through.
"At the base of the escarpment, he turned north, taking a lane to his house. I went my own way, going first to the river for a walk before making my way home."
Bak was puzzled. "Huy lives inside the fortress, yet you and Senu don't, nor did Puemre. Why is that?"
"I can't speak for Puemre, but most women prefer the lower city, where the houses are in better condition and the market closer to hand." Inyotef smiled. "Woser would like us inside the garrison, but he'd have a general uprising if he insisted. The strongest man is only as strong as the women in his household."
"Does mistress Aset complain?" Bak grinned. "Or is she content to hold court in the commander's residence?" Inyotef laughed. "Her complaints never end. Woser long ago grew deaf to those he can do nothing about."
Bak's smile broadened, but soon he sobered. "Your fellow officers called Puemre a swine and a snake. I take it you agree."
Inyotef's laugh turned wry. "Either name will do. As I said before, he was no friend of mine."
Bak studied the pilot, looking for a sign of deceit. He saw nothing but a bland innocence overlying contempt for the dead man. The contempt he could accept; the bland innocence was suspect, especially since Inyotef had gone out of his way to make sure Bak understood he did not like Puemre. "Each had an unhappy tale to tell. Do you also have one, Inyotef?"
"Puemre was arrogant, self-centered, and unprincipled. What more can I say?"
"You can be more specific."
The pilot snorted. "Why would he bother with one such as I? I had nothing he wanted."
Bak decided to call his bluff-if he was bluffing. "I thank you, my friend, for the information." He stood up, preparing to disembark. The vessel bobbed on a swell, forcing him to grab the mast. "I've many men still to interview, but I'll talk with you later when I have more time."
Inyotef's eyes flickered. "Oh, 1 suppose you'll hear sooner or later." He sounded and looked truly resigned. Bak had to smother a smile. The pilot, like his fellow officers, had a sound reason for slaying Puemre, and he was not about to be cheated out of admitting it.
Inyotef lowered his eyes to the torn sail, hiding his expression in his task. "Puemre thought me unworthy, a man who'd given up, and he looked upon me with scorn." His voice took on an edge of anger. "He told all who would listen that I was old and unfit, that instead of guiding vessels through the Belly of Stones, I should be sent back to Kemet. He said perhaps I could run a ferry across one of the smaller channels of the river where it flows through the marshlands of the north."
"And you a former warship captain."
"It hurt." Inyotef's mouth tightened. "If he'd lived long enough, I might've…" His eyes met Bak's and he gave a humorless smile. "Who knows what a man can do when driven too far?"
"So you see," Bak said with. a scowl, "any of the four, or Commander Woser himself, could've slain Puemre. Each man had a reason and each the opportunity."
Pashenuro stood at the edge of the water, peering into its shallow depths, his light harpoon poised to strike the first good-sized fish to swim by. "Would the innocent officers protect the guilty?"
Bak grimaced, disgusted with the lot. "It looks like it, doesn't it?"
After leaving Inyotef, he had found the stocky Medjay waiting for him beneath the stand of acacias, the harpoon beside him and a reed basket for the fish he meant to catch for their evening meal. Kasaya had not yet shown up. They had left a message for him with two boys playing on the quay and had walked downstream, following the irregular row of tamarisks and acacias growing along the river's edge, searching for a low spot already underwater.
"What of the plot to slay King Amon-Psaro?" Pashenuro asked.
Bak eyed what looked like a long, brownish chunk of driftwood beached in the sun on the rocky island across the channel. Or was it a crocodile? "If such a plot exists-and I'm not yet convinced one does-and if they're in it together, they'd have to protect each other, whether guilty or innocent of Puemre's murder."
"Try as I might, I can think of no good reason for officers in the army of Kemet to slay a Kushite king." "Nor can I." Bak waded out knee-deep into the water. The thick rich mud bubbled up between his toes and the current tugged on his legs. "I'd bet a month's allotment of grain that Puemre was slain for a personal reason."
The Medjay thrust his harpoon, catching a perch midway along its body. The creature writhed in the water, stirring up the mud. Pashenuro jerked it off the long, narrow point and killed it with a quick blow.
Throwing his prize into the basket with two smaller fish, he said, "The men of the garrison think highly of Commander Woser. They'll listen to nothing bad about him. If his officers are equally devoted, they'd protect him, especially if they, too, hated Puemre."
"I've a feeling his daughter Aset tempted Puemre as she did me." Something cold touched Bak's leg. He jerked back, startled. A good-sized catfish darted away, perfect for the brazier if he'd had a harpoon. "I've no doubt she cared less for the man than for his nobility, but if in some way he threatened her well-being, Woser would've had good reason to slay him. As would the archer Nebseny. He harbors the jealousy of a spurned lover."
— There's a rumor going round the barracks…" Pashenuro's eyes darted across the channel toward the island. "The crocodile has had enough sun. He's on the move, heading for the water."
Bak followed his glance. The log had grown short, stubby legs and a long snout edged with teeth. He wasted no time wading back to the sandy shore. "A rumor, uh?" He grinned. "I knew your morning with the troops would be time well spent."
Pashenuro's smile vanished half-formed. He plunged into the water and thrust his weapon. His leading foot slid forward; he staggered and came close to falling. The fish flitted away unscathed. Muttering a curse, he waded back to dry land.
"They say mistress Aset is with child and the. father unknown."
Bak whistled softly, surprised yet not surprised. "She's too set on living a life of luxury and ease to have played with just any man. Who does the rumor call the most likely sire?"
"Lieutenants Nebseny and Puemre lead the race. A trader has been suggested, but no one remembers seeing her outside her father's house with any man other than a servant or an officer."
"Probably not a trader then." Bak knelt to splash water on his face, arms, and chest. "How's Woser supposed to've reacted?"
"They say he's filled with rage."
Bak had never seen the father and daughter together. He vowed, when finally the opportunity arose, to pay close attention to the way they behaved with one another. He also renewed his determination to stay far away from Aset. "What else did you hear?"
"I heard much talk of Puemre's talents as a soldier. Even the sergeants, the most critical of men, spoke highly of his abilities. He erred a single time, they say, losing a few of his men because his ideals were so high he couldn't bring himself to ambush the unwary enemy. There was some talk that Troop Captain Huy was at fault there, but in general he's regarded as a good and honest man and few I talked with hold the blame as true."
Bak rose to his feet. A faint breath of air touched his dripping shoulders, cooling them for an instant. "Are the men aware of how much Puemre was disliked by his fellow officers?"
Pashenuro studied the water intently, his eyes on a school of fingerlings. "They know, but they don't understand. Especially since they respect and admire them all." He clutched his harpoon tighter, but the larger fish he expected never appeared. "You may or may not know, but every man you suspect of murder-except Lieutenant Nebsenylong ago received at least one golden fly."
Bak stood dead still, startled by, the news and humbled. Golden flies were awarded only to men of proven valor and presented by the sovereign herself. Or, more likely in this case, her deceased husband or her father before him. "How long ago?"
"Twenty-seven years. They fought in the army of Akheperenre Tuthmose during our last war against the Kushites."
Maatkare Hatshepsut's husband and brother. Not as great a warrior as his father before him, but one who had vanquished the Kushites once and for all. Bak was glad he had not known about the gold of valor when he spoke with the officers. The knowledge might have weakened his resolve to think of them as suspects.
"The news is a blow," he admitted. "How can I accuse men so valiant of slaying a fellow officer?"
"There's worse," Pashenuro said grimly.
Bak closed his eyes for a moment, resigning himself. "Go on."
"According to several men I spoke with, Troop Captain Huy and Lieutenant Senu came upon Puemre in a house of pleasure one night. They left before he did and were seen later, waiting in the shadows of the lane outside. The next morning, Puemre showed up at his men's barracks, bruised and battered from head to toe. He'd been beaten, he claimed, by men he never saw."
Bak leaped to the obvious conclusion, as every man in the garrison must have.
"Another time," the Medjay went on, "Puemre mysteriously fell overboard when on a ship piloted by Lieutenant Inyotef. Thanks to the lord Amon and the fact that he could swim like a fish, he saved himself."
Men of valor, Bak thought cynically. "What of Nebseny?"
"He once threatened publicly to castrate Puemre, but I heard of no instance where he tried to follow through. One reason given for the threat was mistress Aset. Another was an accusation Puemre made, saying Nebseny's archers failed to support his infantry during a riverside skirmish a month or two ago."
"With the officers divided, were not the troops also divided in their loyalties?"
"Not yet, thanks to the good sense and strength of purpose of their sergeants, but I felt an undercurrent of unease. A breach would soon have come, I think."
"Puemre's death came at a most opportune time, it seems."
Bak picked up a handful of small stones and pieces of broken pottery. One by one he threw them at the river, skipping them across its surface, giving his body something to do while he put Pashenuro's gleanings into perspective. Two facts leaped out from the rest: First, the officers had told him nothing more than every man and woman in Iken already knew. Second: "Did Amon-Psaro lead the Kushites when our soldiers faced them in battle twenty-seven years ago?"
"I thought the same," Pashenuro smiled, "but no. He was a prince then, only ten years of age, too young to go to war."
With a sigh, Bak transferred the last bit of pottery from his left hand to his right-and stopped to stare at the squarish lump. The shard was a greenish gray. And gray ware was made in Iken for trade upriver. The besotted witness must be a potter.
"I didn't see a thing!" Antef sprinkled a small handful of fine chaff on the lump of wet grayish clay and kneaded it in with all the power in his thick, stubby fingers, taking out his distress on the material. "I didn't! It was too dark! I swear to the lord Khnum!"
Bak controlled his impatience with an effort.
The chief potter had explained that Antef had once been a skilled craftsman, but was no longer trusted to form the clay into the mediocre ware shipped south to the land of Kush. The reason was apparent. Antef's hands shook uncontrollably, not so much from fear as from too much beer over too many long years.
Bak knelt beside the short, grizzled man and laid a soothing hand on his shoulder. "I'm accusing you of nothing, Antef. I merely want to know what happened that night."'
"I saw the lady Hathor. She came to me, offering me the pleasure of her body."
Antef looked around as if to assure himself his fellow potters were not listening. From the studied way they concentrated on their respective tasks, Bak could tell they were. The potter talked on, his tension receding as the goddess filled his thoughts. He told the same story Meryre had repeated but with many and sundry details, most of which, Bak suspected, had crept into the tale not from memory but through frequent repetition.
While the potter spoke, Bak glanced around the workshop, which he had found among the broken walls of an ancient house in the lower city. It was a good-sized enterprise employing four potters, each with an assistant to turn his wheel. Spindly wooden frames covered with reed mats shaded them and their work through the heat of the day. Another man puddled the clay, treading it out with his bare feet, adding sand or chopped straw or dung as required, while Antef kneaded special batches by hand. A younger man, maybe sent by his father to learn the craft, carried the formed pots into a roofless room, lining them up to dry.
The chief potter stoked a cylindrical brick oven as tall as he was.
"Saying she wanted me alone, with no other man to see or hear, the lady took my hand and led me outside the walls of the city." Antef was deep into his story, his eyes locked on some distant place well out of reach of men with less imagination. "We stopped many times to kiss, and she fondled me and 1, her. When at last we found our nest among the rocks, we fell to the earth together, starved for satisfaction."
Bak hated to interrupt so vivid a tale. "Where was this place, Antef?"
The potter shook his head, dragging himself back to reality. "North of here it was, among the rocks overlooking the far end of the long island." He pointed vaguely toward the river. "The place is rough and lonely, but the sand has made a bed as soft as the fuzz on a newly hatched duckling."
Bak remembered seeing the low rock outcrop some distance downriver from where he and Pashenuro had talked. It would have been a long walk for a man besotted by beer. "You've more to tell, I know."
Antef went on, describing in lurid detail every man's dream of a night with a goddess. His coworkers sneaked glances at each other and at Bak, their mouths twitching with silent laughter.
"When at last she wore me out," Antef said, "I closed my eyes and slept. When next I awoke, a sliver of moon was showing and she was gone."
"What woke you?" Bak asked.
"Nothing., Antef's eyes-darted to his inquisitor's face and fell away. "Nothing, I swear!"
"You heard two men talking, didn't you?" Bak kept his voice hard, his tone positive, as if he himself had been on the spot instead of hearing the tale thirdhand from Meryre. "You saw them arguing. One man turned away, preparing to leave. The other grabbed him from behind. I know what happened then-one man stabbed the other-but I must hear it in your words."
"No! I saw nothing!"
"I don't enjoy using the cudgel, but I will if I must." "It was dark, but…" Antef's voice broke; he dropped his chin to his breast. "Yes, he slew him. I could tell from the sounds I heard and what little I could see. He stabbed him in the face or maybe the neck, dragged him to the river, and pushed him in. It happened so fast… I could do nothing to help, I swear!"
Not that fast, Bak felt sure, but even if Antef had interceded, Puemre would have died. And the potter would probably have died with him. "What did the murderer look like?"
"I never saw his face. If I had, I'd have told." Antef began to sob. "I fear him greatly, and I'll not rest until he's caught. But I can't help you. I saw only his back." Bak believed him. He was too frightened to lie.
"I asked everyone I met to tell me of the boy," Kasaya said, "but no one has seen him. He was like a shadow to Lieutenant Puemre. Now it's as if the sun has gone and the shadow with it."
"Was he slain and thrown into the river like Puemre, I wonder?" Pashenuro asked.
"Antef saw no child." Bak's voice turned grim, reflecting the dread lurking in his thoughts. "We can only pray he wasn't slain somewhere else at another time."
The trio hurried along the row of trees hugging the river's edge. Kasaya, the best tracker of the three, scanned the earth to right and left, searching for tracks or objects that might have been left behind by a child or by a man intent on throwing aside the remnants of murder.
They slowed their pace as they approached their goal, a mound of tortured black granite, broken and cracked by oven-like heat and midnight cold, by blowing sands and raging waters. Rising from a blanket of dun-colored sand blown off the western desert, the mound reached out toward the northern end of the elongated island that lay in the water below the fortress. The channel between mound and island was confined to a passage no broader than ten paces, where the water raged down a series of shallow, foaming falls and swirled around jagged and torn boulders.
They climbed the mound, searching first for the sheltered spot where Antef had dreamed of the lady Hathor. The wind had blown with strength at least twice since Puemre's disappearance, so their chances of finding signs of murder were slim at best. Nevertheless, they had to try.
Bak stood on the tallest chunk of granite and, hands on hips, surveyed the tumbled stones and raging waters below. To the west, the lord Re was resting on the horizon. "The scarred man, you say, is an armorer?"
"If he's the man you saw, and he must be, his name is Senmut." Kasaya knelt on a low, snaggle-tooth boulder to study a likely pocket of sand. "The chief armorer told me he makes and repairs spears, sharpening points and setting them on the shafts."
Pashenuro stole Bak's next question. "What was his connection with Lieutenant Puemre?"
Kasaya moved on to another nook. "Senmut's oldest daughter, a girl of fifteen years, was the one who cleaned and washed and cooked for him and the boy."
Bak scowled. "If she did nothing more than housework, why would her father knock me senseless to search the building?" He stepped across a gap to another, lower boulder. Glancing at a small sandy pocket, he let out a grunt of satisfaction. "Here's Antef's nest, I think. Or someone else's secret drinking place."
The Medjays hurried to his side to look at four empty beer jars lodged in a crack between two weathered boulders. A yellowish stain on another rock reeked of urine. After Kasaya searched the area and found nothing further, they stood where Antef must have and looked down on the sandy waste below the mound. Somewhere there, Puemre had been slain.
The Medjays clambered down and set to work, examining the sweep of sand while Bak searched the rest of the mound. The shadows were long and deep when Kasaya found a small dark stain he thought was blood buried under the fine layer of sand deposited since the murder. Pashenuro hurried to the river and worked his way along the shore. He soon found a brownish spot on a rock poised an arm's length above the swirling waters. It might or might not have been blood, but the rock would have been an ideal place from which to jettison Puemre's body.
Darkness was falling when Bak found the footprint, located half under a rock in a niche so small only a child could have hidden there. From that point, the mute boy Ramose could have peered through a gap between boulders and watched the slayer take Puemre's life. They had to find that child, if still he lived. "I've found something!" he called, his voice pulsing with excitement.
A loud crack sounded beside him. He glanced around, uncertain what had made the noise. He noticed a faint smudge on the rock next to him, like a bruise.
"Get down, Lieutenant!" Pashenuro yelled, ducking into a crack too narrow for his bulk.
Bak glimpsed something fly past his head and heard another, louder crack. A rock! Someone using a sling. A deadly weapon in the hands of a trained warrior, a weapon often used by the soldiers of Wawat. He ducked, rolled between projecting stones, and peeked out to check on his men. Kasaya was hunkered down next to a boulder at the base of the mound, staring out toward the water. Pashenuro's refuge was closer to the river.
Another missile about the size of a goose egg flew over Bak's head, smashed against the boulder behind him, and burst.
"There he is!" Pashenuro called. "Behind the ridge on the island."
"I see himl" Kasaya yelled.
Bak squirmed around until he could see. As if on demand, a man popped up, swung his arm, and let fly another rock that smacked against a boulder within arm's length. He vanished as fast as he had appeared. The way the light was failing, Bak had seen nothing but a vague, colorless silhouette.
He felt no sense of danger-he and his men were safe as long as they remained, where they were-but he hated being pinned down, waiting to be saved by the dark. And he longed to catch the assailant. He studied the channel between the mound and the island, thinking he might swim across. The flow was fast and the low falls, if the foam gave any clue, were pounding on hidden rocks. The risk was too great.
"I might be able to swim across." Kasaya's voice was tentative, as if he too thought the risk unwarranted.
"Let the swine go." Bak glanced at the print of the small, bare foot, making sure he had not scuffed it in his rush for safety. "I've a footprint you must see before the light goes."
They walked back to their quarters in the dark, too intent on making their way through the unfamiliar city to talk of their experience. Bak was puzzled by the attack. Why had the assailant used a sling when a bow would have been a far more effective weapon? Only one reason made sense: a bow and full quiver would have been impossible to transport if the attacker swam to the long island.
A second question troubled him. He and his men had learned almost nothing about Puemre's death. Every tale they had heard since arriving at Iken had been common knowledge. So why would anyone try to slay them? Or had he alone been the intended victim? Most of the rocks had come his way. Had he learned something unique, something no one else knew? Or had one of Woser's officers simply been trying to frighten him off? He worried the problem like a dog frets over a tough piece of leather, but found no satisfactory explanation.
The answer came in the dead of night while he lay on his sleeping pallet on the roof, wide-awake, staring at the stars, letting his thoughts drift. Only he had seen the sketch on the broken piece of pottery. If someone thought it important enough to try to scare him off, the drawing must be factual. Which meant Amon-Psaro's life must be at risk after all. A chill flooded his body, making the hairs on his arms stand on end. If Amon-Psaro was slain by a man of Kemet, war would be inevitable.
He could be wrong. He prayed he was. But he had to assume the worst.