end away, reached inside, and pulled out a papyrus scroll. Sitting on the warm sand, praying for enlightenment, he unrolled his prize, which was stained and dog-eared, yellowing from use and age. Almost afraid to breathe, he began to read.
'To my beloved brother Inyotef,' it said. 'He's gone, the one I loved above all others. His many sweet words, his pledge to love me forever, were like chaff in the wind. One night he lay with me, whispering endearments; the next day he was gone. A message came, I've heard, a letter announcing his father's death. He boarded a ship for vile Kush without so much as a good-bye. I told myself he would summon me as soon as his throne was secure, but now four months have passed, and I've heard nothing. I can no longer bear the pain, my brother. The river beckons. Remember me always, dearest Inyotef, and forgive me.'
It was signed 'Sonisonbe.'
Bak let out his breath long and slow. The words brother and sister were often used between lovers, but in this case he felt sure Sonisonbe was in fact Inyotef's birth sister. The elation he felt at finding the letter, the sense of accomplishment, vied in his heart with pity and sadness for the girl abandoned by Amon-Psaro and the dark legacy she had left Inyotef.
Chapter Eighteen
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,
