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.
Chapter Nine
'Find that boy.' Bak hurried up the gully to the fortress, through the main gate, and along the street to the armory, repeating the words over and over in his thoughts, the orders he had given Kasaya and Pashenuro. 'If he still lives, we must make sure he stays alive. If he's been slain, we must learn how and when and by whom.'
The Medjays had left their quarters with the same sense of urgency he felt. The mute boy Ramose had to be located and, if_ still living, Bak had to find a way to communicate with him. He had to know for a fact the significance of the sketch on the pottery shard. The fortress of Semna, and therefore Amon-Psaro, was too close to Iken for comfort. Even worse, all Bak's suspects would be traveling upstream to Semna with the lord Amon. The god's entourage would provide an ideal refuge for a potential assassin, allowing him to make his play and slip back among the others camouflaged as one among many.
Bak strode into the armory, a building too spacious for the number of men toiling there, its once whitewashed walls now worn and dirtied to the dark brown of river silt. Long ago when the fortress had been fully manned, the structure had bustled with craftsmen striving to arm a large and active force. Now, with the garrison small and the battles reduced to skirmishes, with most weapons brought in by ship from the north, the need was limited to minor manufacture and repairs.
Pausing on the threshold, he nodded a greeting to the chief armorer, a swarthy, muscular man of thirty or so years, and glanced around in search of the scarred man. The hot, stuffy room rang with the sound of two men hammering bronze points to harden the edges. The acrid smell of molten metal filled the air around a thick pottery furnace nested on a bed of charcoal. Quick, sharp clicks and the sound of broken stone skittering across the hard- packed earthen floor betrayed the presence of someone in the next room flaking flint for an arrowhead or some other implement of war. The stench of wet leather drifted through an open door, beyond which several men were stretching reddish hides onto wooden frames, making or repairing shields.
A barrel-chested man of medium height, his cheek deformed by a long scar, strode through the rear door. He spotted Bak, his eyes widened with recognition, and he swung around as if to run. He had nowhere to go; the armory had only a single exit.
'Senmut!' Bak snapped, silencing the pounding and chipping, drawing a dozen gawkers from the surrounding rooms.
A look of craven fear washed across the scarred face. 'I didn't slay Lieutenant Puemre! I swear it!'
Bak had expected a denial, but one of lesser consequence. 'If you're as innocent as you claim, why did you knock me out? Why search the house?'
The chief armorer scowled at the watching men, sending them scurrying back to their tasks, then hunkered down near the outer door, listening to every word, every shade of meaning. He would no doubt report what he heard to his family and probably to half of Iken as well.
'I've done nothing!' Senmut said. 'I swear!'
'Why did you run two days ago, when you found me in Puemre's house?'
'Wouldn't you? Would you want to be blamed for something you didn't do?'
'You're open to blame until you explain yourself.' Losing patience, Bak caught Senmut's arms above the elbows and shook him. 'Now talk! I want no more denials.'
Senmut backed up, his steps clumsy, his eyes fearful. 'I went looking for the boy, that's all. I swear it! Then I saw you on the floor, Puemre's belongings strewn around you, and I ran.'
'The boy…' Bak's ears took in the silence of the tools, the idleness of craftsmen too busy listening to work. 'You need a jar of beer, Senmut.' To the chief armorer he added, 'I'll not keep him long.'
Senmut, startled into obediencg, led the way to a house of pleasure in the next block, where the proprietor sold beer so thick it clogged the strainer. The establishment was neat and clean, with walls freshly whitewashed and a floor sprinkled with water to keep down the dust. Beer jars and drinking bowls stood in tidy stacks, and a few low three-legged stools were scattered among straw-stuffed pillows for seating. The brew was strong and tasty, ideal for breaking down a wall of defense and loosening a tongue. A large helping of patience might also be in order, Bak reminded himself.
'You went looking for the boy,' he said, keeping his voice kind, conversational. 'The mute child Ramose, you Senmut eyed his interrogator with suspicion. 'He needs a new home. I thought to take him to mine, to make him part of my household.' He drank from his bowl, taking several healthy swallows. 'I've no wife to mother him. She died two years ago. But my children like him, and my oldest daughter is a mother to all.'
