men.”
“Go see old Meru,” Bak told them. “He’ll expect favors without number, but if he feels moved to do so, he can silence the younger men’s grumbling.”
As the pair walked away, Bak hastened up the gangplank to Ramose, who stood at the bow of his ship, watching a half dozen members of the crew wash down the empty deck.
Bak thanked the captain for taking the time and trouble to haul Roy’s crew and cargo back to Buhen, relayed an invitation from Commandant Thuty to dine that evening, and reminded him that he could not yet set sail.
“Why hold me?” Ramose demanded. “My ship was searched from stem to stern before we set sail for Abu. Your men saw my cargo unloaded three days ago, checking each and every object against the manifest, and tomorrow they’ll see it reloaded.”
“We’ll not hold you forever.” Let Thuty sooth his ruffled feathers with a good meal and plenty of beer, Bak thought.
“The bow of your ship’s been repaired, I see. What happened?”
“We ran aground, hit a projecting rock.”
Bak detected an edge to the captain’s voice, noted the angry bulge of his jaw. He had struck a tender spot.
Wounded pride perhaps. Or something else?
“You played knucklebones with Mahu…” He went on, repeating the tale Sitamon had told.
“I didn’t hear any talk of smuggling or anything else that might’ve led to Mahu’s murder.” Ramose scratched his substantial belly, scowled. “You know how it goes around here.
Rumors outnumber truths ten to one. We’ve nothing better to do, just the same dreary routine day after day, so we take what we hear and embellish it. And when a man dies as Mahu did, all who retell the tale adorn the truth even more.”
Considering the events of the last few days, dreary routine held a certain appeal for Bak. “You saw no one speak in confidence to Mahu?”
“Absolutely not.” Ramose snorted. “I drank more beer than was good for me, I must admit, but I’m not a man to miss what’s patently meant to be a secret. Two men whispering together will draw my attention like a lotus draws bees.”
Until a besotted blindness sets in, Bak thought. “Has anyone ever approached you, suggesting you carry contraband?”
Ramose’s mouth tightened; an angry fire burned in his eyes. He seemed about to speak, glanced at the men on hands and knees at the far end of the deck, and shook his head in the negative.
“Someone has, I see,” Bak prompted.
Ramose hesitated a long time. When at last he spoke, he spat out the words as if they fouled his tongue. “A month ago it was. A half-naked desert tribesman came to me on the quay at Kor. He slithered up like a snake, and his whisper was the hiss of a viper. He dangled before me a promise of great wealth and suggested I carry illicit cargo. Do you know what I did?”
Bak shook his head, reluctant to speak lest he dam the flow.
“I threw him in the river! That’s what!” Ramose took a deep breath, trying to calm himself, and snarled, “I’ve not seen him since.”
Bak pictured the repaired bow and guessed what must have happened. “After his swim, he came back in secret, didn’t he? He smashed a hole in your ship and destroyed its name, letting you know he’d sink it if you spoke out of turn.”
Ramose ground his teeth together and glared. “No! No one threatened me!”
The man would not speak up, Bak could see. He had too much to lose: vessel, crew, cargo. “Were you surprised to learn of the contraband we found on Captain Roy’s ship?”
Ramose visibly relaxed, on safer ground now. “I can’t, in all honesty, say I was. I’ve sailed these waters with Roy for years and I’ve never known him to offend the lady Maat. But men whisper. You know how it is. ‘Where was his ship moored during the night?’ ‘He left Buhen ahead of me, yet I reached Ma’am first.’ That kind of thing.”
Bak bent to brush an ant off his foot. “You noticed nothing wrong with his cargo from one mooring to the next?”
“How would I have known what he should or shouldn’t be carrying? It wasn’t up to me to walk the length of his deck, manifest in hand.”
Bak’s smile held not a shred of humor. He felt like a man casting a line in a dozen different pools, with no clue as to which might contain a fish-if any. “You must’ve heard by this time that we found another man dead while you were away.”
“Intef, the hunter.” Ramose scowled at the men scrubbing the deck. “A simple man, he was, but likable.”
“You knew him?” Bak asked, surprised.
“I sometimes brought him on board for the journey from Kor to Buhen. It’s not a long march, but when a man and his donkeys are weary, it seems so. He, in turn, would give me a hare or two.” Ramose gave a bleak smile. “I’ll miss him.”
The simplicity of the words jarred Bak, made him feel overly suspicious, more distrusting than he should be of his fellow man. “Did he ever speak of his travels in the desert?”
“He seldom spoke of anything, preferring instead to hear us talk of our voyages.” Ramose stared at his hands, his face clouded with sorrow. “He grew to manhood in that oasis across the river and he longed to see more, to live a seaman’s life. I offered him a berth more than once, but he had a family, he told me, a farm he couldn’t leave for long.” He turned away, his voice grew rough. “I wish I’d been more persistent, convinced him to sail with us to Abu. At least once.”
“Lieutenant Kay can use a bow,” Hori said, “but from what his sergeant told me, he has no special skill with the weapon.”
The youthful scribe lifted a heavy basket, which bristled with papyrus rolls projecting from the mouths of the jars he had stowed inside, and cradled it in his arms. A jar filled with the most recent dispatches remained on the bench, but he had carried the rest of the clutter to an alcove behind the entry hall.
“As for the others,” he went on, “so far I’ve found nothing in their personal records to single any of them out. To a man, they learned to protect themselves as youths, but if one grew especially proficient with the bow, no note was ever made.
And I’ve found no one who recalls ever seeing them use the weapon.”
142 / Lauren Haney
“Another dead end.” Bak’s voice was flat, disgusted.
“You learned nothing new from Captain Ramose, sir?”
“Someone approached him about a month ago, asking him to carry contraband, and he threw the man into the river. Now the bow of his ship is patched.” Bak gave a cynical snort. “He ran aground, he claims.”
A twinkle lit Hori’s eyes. “Would it help, do you think, if I stopped to chat now and again with the men in his crew?”
“They know who you are, and Ramose has no doubt warned them to be silent, but…” Bak thought of the youth’s easy manner and how persuasive he could be. “We’ve nothing to lose.”
“No, sir,” Hori grinned.
Bak crossed to a bow, quiver, and several arrows leaning in a corner, gathered them up, and laid them on top of the scribe’s burden. “Once you’ve relieved yourself of your load, take these weapons to the armory. See if they have any distinguishing features. I can see none, but I’m not an expert.”
Ushering the youth out the door, he added, “Also, find out how easy it is to lay hands on bow, quiver, and arrows. Too easy, I suspect.”
“Yes, sir.”
The absence of noise drew Bak’s eyes to the men on duty.
The knucklebones lay on the floor between them, forgotten, while one man unhooked a simple bronze chain from around his neck, removed a green faience amulet of the eye of Horus, and handed it to the other man. The recipient, Bak guessed, had won a bet, probably related to the length of time Hori would take to clear out the office. As the scribe walked past them and through a rear door, one man winked at the other, verifying the guess.
