goats of the highest quality bound for Waset and a royal estate?
He’d carried tribute many times, he told me, and often living creatures, yet he never failed to worry. What would he do if they all took sick and died? The ship was his, but would Maatkare Hatshepsut be content with that as repayment?”
“Our sovereign isn’t known for her forgiving nature,” Imsiba said.
Sitamon flashed a smile his way, thanking him for understanding. She was a small woman, delicate of build, with shoulder-length dark hair turned under at the ends. Her face was pale with shock and grief; dark smudges beneath her eyes spoke of a sleepless night. Imsiba, Bak noticed, could not take his eyes off her.
“Did Mahu ever mention contraband?” Bak asked doggedly. “Or smuggling?”
“Tiya told me of the elephant tusk you found.” Noticing the wrinkles in her hem, she clasped her hands firmly together in her lap. “I can’t explain it away, for you saw it with your own eyes. One thing I know for a fact: my brother would never have allowed it on his ship. He was an honest man.”
“He swore he knew nothing of it,” Bak admitted, “neither could he account for its presence.”
“Was he slain because of that tusk, do you think?”
“Probably, but if he had no knowledge of it, why did he have to die?” Bak walked to the chair, stood behind it, and rested his hands on its back. He thought it best to be frank.
“So far we know nothing. We’ve no trail to follow, no direction to take. We hoped you could set us on the right path.”
Imsiba stood up, as if to better emphasize his words. “Can you remember anything, mistress Sitamon? Anything at all that might help?”
84 / Lauren Haney
The child, his eyes wide open, stared at the big Medjay with unconcealed awe.
“Maybe…” She paused, shook her head. “He did say something, but…” Her voice tailed off; she frowned.
Bak slipped around the chair and sat down. A speck of hope took form in his breast, yearning to grow. Imsiba stood rock-still, his face equally intent.
“I couldn’t sleep last night,” Sitamon said. “My thoughts went round and round, touching on all we talked about since I came to Buhen. Seven days ago, that was. Not long enough to know if a man laughs because a joke is truly funny, or if he makes a joke because he doesn’t want to see the truth.”
Bak leaned toward her, willing her to come up with at least one grain of gold in an otherwise sterile desert. “What did he say, mistress? We need to know.”
Her eyes strayed toward Imsiba, whose smile seemed to reassure her. “It happened the day before he sailed to Kor.
I’d been here only a day and we hadn’t yet grown accustomed to each other’s company. Mahu had lived alone for many years, and I suppose three people in this house seemed a crowd to him. To make matters worse, Tety, my son, was tired and cranky. Whiny, if the truth be told. So, soon after our evening meal, Mahu went out for a while. To meet with friends, he said, and play a game or two of chance.” She smiled wanly. “To surround himself with men, I was sure, and escape for a while the domestic bliss he’d unwittingly let himself in for.” Her smile was strained; tears clung to her lashes.
“Early the next morning, before he set sail, he said a man he knew had whispered in his ear the night before, suggesting he haul illicit cargo, making promises of great wealth. He laughed then, saying the approach had been a joke, not a serious attempt to lead him down a wrong path. I accepted his easy dismissal as fact, but now…” Her voice broke. She cleared her throat and went on, “Now I think he erred.”
Bak agreed. The man who approached Mahu must have hidden the tusk in the sail. As long as the captain lived, he could and no doubt would point a finger and lay blame.
What better reason for murder? As if reading his thoughts, Imsiba caught his eye and nodded.
“What was the man’s name?” Bak asked, keeping his voice kind, sympathetic, unexcited. “Did he say?”
She shook her head. “No.”
“Did he say where he met his friends and who they were?”
“He mentioned no one by name; I wouldn’t have known them anyway.” She wiped her eyes with the back of her hand.
“I do know he went to a house of pleasure. A place run by a woman. She has a lion cub, he told me, and a young male slave to care for the creature.”
“Nofery!” Bak said. “The gods at last have smiled on us!”
And indeed they had. Nofery was his informer, his spy, an old woman who knew everyone in Buhen and missed nothing. One man whispering in another’s ear would have attracted her attention like an unplugged jar of honey would draw ants.
Bak and Imsiba hurried down the narrow lane, scarcely able to believe their good luck. They edged past two soldiers walking at a more moderate speed, and a man they took to be a trader. Ahead they saw the open portal to Nofery’s house of pleasure and the young lion seated on its haunches on the threshold. A thin, roiling cloud of dust rushed up the lane, pushed before a stiffening breeze. The lion sneezed and ducked out of sight.
“Sir!” A large-boned young Medjay, assigned to the day watch at the guardhouse, came running up behind them.
“Sir, you must come right away! There’s been another murder!”
Chapter Six
“You’re certain he was murdered.” Doubt registered in Bak’s voice, not because he disbelieved the soldier who had brought the news, but because he could not comprehend another slaying so soon after Mahu’s death. Two murders plus Rennefer’s attempt at murder in five days. Buhen was a garrison usually without serious crime.
Amonmose, a lean, muscular man of about twenty years, took no offense at Bak’s unwillingness to believe. “He had three arrows in his back, sir. Any of the three would’ve felled him.”
Bak and the spearman, member of the six-man desert patrol that had come upon the body, stood just inside the door of the guardhouse. The men on duty, both as staggered by the news as their lieutenant was, had temporarily abandoned the knucklebones to watch and listen.
“We found him…” Amonmose glanced at the shadow outside, a narrowing band made by a sun well on its way to midday. “More than an hour ago, but less than two. Before midmorning, it was. He was slain at the hands of another, of that we had no doubt. So I left then and there to report the news.”
“The other men stayed with him, I hope.”
“He’ll be no meal for jackals or vultures.” Amonmose transferred his shield to the hand holding his spear and wiped his face. His skin was ruddy from sun and wind, and he was coated from head to toe in a fine layer of dust, much of it smudged by sweat. “If we hadn’t come by when we did…Well, it was a jackal that drew our dog to him.”
Though the soldier’s breathing had eased, Bak could see that the long, hurried trek across the desert had sapped his strength. Ushering him into the office, he hauled a stool forward and motioned him to sit. Hori’s belongings no longer littered the floor, he was glad to see, but their presence could still be felt to a much greater extent than he liked. The scribe had thrown everything into baskets, which he had left on the mudbrick bench amid the scroll-filled jars.
Nested on a bed of raw papyrus, Bak spotted the beer jar he had left unopened the previous evening. He broke the plug and handed it over. “My scribe should soon return with food, and Imsiba with men and a litter. As soon as you’ve eaten, we’ll go.”
“Yes, sir.” Amonmose laid his weapon and shield on the floor, sprawled out with his back against the wall, tipped the jar to his lips, and drank deeply. A long contented sigh, a belch, and a broad smile relayed his gratitude and thanks.
“When did he die, do you think?”
“Not long before daylight, I’d guess.” Amonmose wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. “There were plenty of flies, let me tell you.”
“He lay lifeless for five or six hours?” Bak’s surprise turned to skepticism. “Other than the one jackal, the
