donkeys stood in the sun, munching straw, swishing flies with their tails. One brayed for no apparent reason; another answered from a distant farm. Geese and ducks scratched in the wet earth where water had spilled from a red pottery bowl in which five downy yellow ducklings swam in erratic circles.
Sparrows fluttered around sheaves of grass drying on the lean-to roof, chirping, searching for seeds and insects. Two male servants hurried across a freshly cultivated garden plot that smelled of manure, heading toward a mixed herd of cattle, sheep, and goats competing with a flock of pigeons for the gleanings of a field soon to be plowed and planted.
The oasis spread out to the south, a long expanse of fresh-turned brown fields; plots of new, tender green crops; and yellowish stubble mottled with weeds. The open land was broken at intervals by the dusty green of palm groves or lower, leafier acacias and tamarisks lining the banks of irrigation channels. Dust-laden leaves clung to the branches of bushes; dry grasses rose in brittle clumps above thick mats of fresh young grass. An unseen dog barked, rousing his brethren, setting off a chorus. An arc of tawny sandhills enclosed the oasis to the east, their sharp edges dulled by haze.
“Penhet may not have been much of a farmer,” Imsiba said, looking around, “but someone knew how to get the most from this land.”
“Mistress Rennefer would be my guess.” Bak glanced at 10 / Lauren Haney a lesser building behind the house. “What did the servants say?”
Imsiba laughed. “They admire her greatly. They think highly of her husband. They’ve always been treated well and have never wanted for food or shelter. They consider themselves the most fortunate of men and women.”
“Sounds like the Field of Reeds,” Bak grinned, referring to the paradise aspired to by all who would one day enter the netherworld, “not an ordinary farm in this land of Wawat.”
He paused, letting a donkey have its say. When the braying stopped, he asked, “Do they speak from fear or do they wish to protect their mistress?”
“They saw Penhet covered in blood and too weak to speak.
They fear for his life.” Imsiba frowned, accenting the compassion in his voice. “To lose a master is always unsettling. Especially when his widow will be forced to farm alone-or to rid herself of the land and animals and most of the help as well.”
The two men, Bak saw, were driving the herd back toward the farm compound, bringing them to shelter before the wind rose. The orb of Re, he noted, had lost its clarity, its glow blurred by the thickening haze. “We’ve not much time. Let’s draw Netermose from his prison and take him to the spot where Penhet was assaulted. We must have his side of the tale in addition to that of the aggrieved wife.”
Imsiba’s head snapped around, his eyes wide with surprise.
“You think she’s lying?”
Bak shrugged. “She summoned me, I know, and I’ve found no reason to suspect her of trying to slay him. But I learned long ago that there’s no more fertile field for murder than the home.”
“I didn’t do it! I swear!” Netermose’s voice shook with fear. “He was lying on the ground when I found him, the dagger by his side, blood flowing from a dozen open wounds.” He moaned. “I can see him even now, his eyes wide open, surprised. He wanted to tell me who stabbed him. I know he did! But he hadn’t the strength.”
The farmer, a husky, gruff-looking man in his mid-forties, wiped his eyes as if to erase the memory. He was on his knees in the position Rennefer had described, bending over a scuffed spot of earth near the edge of a sizable palm grove.
A few brownish traces of dried blood were all that had survived the careless feet of the servants who had carried their master away. To make matters worse, the stubble was crushed and broken all around the area, the cracked and curling earth trod to dust, leaving no chance of sorting out the various footprints.
“If you didn’t use this dagger,” Imsiba said, displaying the weapon he had found, “how did you get so much blood on you?”
Netermose looked down at himself, at muscular arms and legs and a torso edging toward fat. Much of the blood Rennefer had seen had caked and fallen away, but red-brown smears colored the front of his kilt and dark flakes lodged in sweaty wrinkles. “I thought to carry him home, but…” He paused, cleared his throat. “…but Rennefer came as I took him into my arms.”
The farmer’s hands were shaking. Whether guilty or innocent, the stabbing had jolted him. So Bak drew him to his feet and led him into the dappled shade of the trees, releasing him from the reenactment of his actions. “Penhet was far from an ideal neighbor, I know, and you had occasion to quarrel more than once. What did he do this time to bring you onto his land?”
“Nothing.” Netermose’s eyes darted back to the spot where Penhet had lain. “I came on a matter of business. A simple trade.”
A breeze gusted through the palm grove and across the field, rattling the fronds, teasing the hems of their kilts, sweeping the dust from the land to fill eyes and ears and noses with grit. The pigeons rose from the stubble, wings whirring, and circled back to their mudbrick shelter near the house. The wind died away and the heat resettled, close and dirty, stifling.
Bak glanced at Imsiba and they shared a thought: they too 12 / Lauren Haney must soon seek refuge. “Tell us what happened, Netermose, from the beginning.” He would need details of the agreement, but that could come later-when time was not so pressing.
The farmer looked up at the sky, studied its color and texture. He knew better than they the vagaries of a storm along this stretch of the river. He spoke in hurried clumps of words, verifying their concern. “Penhet sent a servant bearing a message. Our agreement was ready, I was told, and he held it in his hands. If I’d come this morning, we could walk together to the village, where the scribe would meet us with witnesses. I came across my fields, waded the canal, and walked along the path through the date grove.”
He paused, took a ragged breath. “When I came out into the sunlight, there he was.”
“Did you hear or see anything out of the ordinary?” Imsiba asked.
Netermose gave the Medjay a puzzled look, not sure what he was getting at, then his brow cleared and he nodded. “The birds. As I neared the trees the air was filled with song, but suddenly they grew silent.”
Bak and Imsiba exchanged another glance. The sudden cry of a frightened man could have startled the birds-or a man accused of attempted murder could be lying.
“You saw him and…What then?” Bak asked.
“It was as I told you. I knelt beside him, thinking to help, to carry him home. As I took him in my arms, a woman screamed. Rennefer. Coming up behind me. She screamed on and on as if driven to madness. Her servants came running. She pointed a finger at me, insisting I stabbed her husband. They made me their prisoner and the rest you know.”
Another gust of wind, this stronger than the last, swept across the land, carrying dirt, chaff, and dead leaves, shaking the palms, bending low the bushes and grasses. The men turned their backs, hunched their shoulders, closed their eyes and mouths. After its force abated, Bak glanced toward the sun, a vague spot of yellow in a murky sky. Beyond the river, coming out of the west behind Buhen, he saw a dense, dark cloud advancing across the desert, cutting a swath so broad it filled the horizon. The wall of swirling dust and sand towered high into the air, dwarfing the massive fortress, enveloping everything in its path. Bak sucked in his breath.
He had expected strong winds, but so violent a storm was rare this late in the year.
Netermose followed his glance. “My early crops,” he groaned, forgetting his own plight. “None will survive this day.”
“Let’s go!” Imsiba yelled, already on the move.
Bak took a final, quick look at the place where Penhet had fallen and the lay of the land around the spot. What had truly happened here? The answer lay close at hand, he was sure, but how could he grasp it?
The narrow windows high in the wall were covered with tightly woven mats and the doorway was protected in a like manner, yet it was impossible to escape the grit. The wind, its roar fearsome, searched out cracks and crevices, driving the sand inside, depositing dust on every surface. Oil lamps flickered in the thick and restless air, making vague shadows dance and writhe in the dusk. Grit coated sweaty flesh and worked its way beneath clothing. Mouths and noses were dry, eyes stung. Bak knew the world outside the house was far less bearable, but the urge to flee hovered at the edge of his thoughts.
The room was sparsely furnished, yet crowded. Three large woven-reed storage chests and a small chest
