an old tomb, long ago robbed but a gold mine nonetheless. We also know that illicit objects are usually smuggled across the frontier in small quantities, primarily because they’re difficult to hide on the donkey caravans that bypass the Belly of Stones, and they’re easily found by our inspectors. Yet Captain Roy’s deck was piled from stem to stern with contraband.”
Imsiba frowned. “His cargo was off-loaded from a ship, not a caravan. The crew saw the vessel sailing away in the dark.”
“I’d wager a month’s rations that that ship came down the Belly of Stones during high water. And I’d bet my newest kilt that it carried contraband belowdecks as ballast.”
Imsiba eyed his friend thoughtfully. “A ship of modest size, with its hull filled from one end to the other, would hold a lot of illegal cargo.”
“If filled with care,” Bak added, “it would look and feel natural to those who earn their bread standing on dry land, ropes in hand, hauling vessels up and down the rapids.”
“But once below the Belly of Stones, he must face our inspectors. How…?” Imsiba’s puzzled expression vanished; he snapped his fingers. “Of course! He’d unload his cargo upstream from Kor and stow it away in some secret place. An old, long-forgotten tomb perhaps.”
Bak nodded. “Intef’s gold mine.”
“Lieutenant Bak?” Sitamon stood in the entry hall just inside the street door. Her little boy, half hidden by her leg, clung to her long white sheath. She carried in both hands a large reddish pot with a long, slim loaf of bread laying across the top. The escaping steam carried the odor of pigeon smothered in herbs.
“I’m looking for…” She stepped hesitantly toward the office, spotted Imsiba at the back, smiled. “Oh, there you are, Sergeant! I heard you were wounded and I thought…” She glanced at Bak and Hori, blushed. “Well, I thought you might like a thick and soothing broth, but I see you’re busy.”
Imsiba shot to his feet, smiled. “No. No, I’m not busy.
We’ve been talking, that’s all.”
Bak noted how flustered his friend was, how pleased to see the woman. Smothering a smile, he dropped off the coffin and brushed the dust from the back of his kilt. The young scribe, he noticed, was staring at the bowl in her hand with open longing.
“Hori and I have not yet had our midday meal, and it awaits us in the barracks. We were just getting ready to leave.” He gave the youth a pointed look. “Weren’t we, Hori?”
Chapter Eleven
Nebwa spent the rest of the day in Buhen, talking with the garrison officers and their sergeants, planning ways in which to dazzle the eye of the vizier. Bak talked to his Medjays, who dropped in on various scribes and craftsmen they had come to know during their months in the fortress, and he visited Nofery’s house of pleasure. Thuty spoke to his wife, whose servants’ hasty visits to one dwelling and another, inviting, borrowing, seeking help, spread word of her party throughout the city. By the time the barque of Re sank beneath the western horizon, leaving behind a slab of moon amid a thick sprinkling of stars, the vizier’s surprise inspection was the most widespread secret in Buhen.
“I’ll not spend another day in this room. I’ve grown accustomed to our friend here…” Imsiba tapped the coffin with his knuckles. “…but I’m not about to keep him company through eternity.”
“We’ll soon be rid of him,” Bak said, glancing up from the scroll spread across his lap. “Ramose promised to haul him north when next he sets sail.”
Imsiba walked to the bench and, with a clatter of metal and wood, bundled together more than a dozen spears, forming what looked like an immense, rigid sheaf of hay.
Their sharp bronze points glittered like gold, bringing a smile to Bak’s face. These were not the first the big sergeant had polished. For a man who had spent the previous day resting-and in truth he no longer appeared wan and drawn-he had accomplished a lot.
With the spears cradled on his uninjured arm, Imsiba strode into the entry hall, where he stopped briefly to chat with the Medjays on duty. One of the pair was rolling up their sleeping pallets, while the second tossed empty beer jars and bowls into a basket. Imsiba walked on, passing through a rear door. Beyond lay the police arsenal, where the spears he held and others equally splendid would be set aside until the vizier’s official inspection.
Bak went back to the scroll, a report from the commander of Semna on desert tribesmen crossing the frontier at that southern outpost. Usually he enjoyed the earliest hours of the morning, when the guardhouse was quiet and he could catch up on the mundane clerical duties required of his office, but now his thoughts wandered. He wanted nothing more than to solve the murders and stop the smuggling before the vizier set foot in Buhen, but how could he do so in so short a time? If he was right, if the same man slew Mahu and Intef and injured Imsiba, if that man was covering his tracks as a smuggler, he had one vile criminal to look for instead of several. But was he right? He had tied the various crimes together in a nice neat package, but how much of his theory was hope and how much reality?
Hori burst into the room with Psuro in tow. Both men carried cowhide shields, curved rectangles slightly wider at the arched top than at the bottom, reaching from knee to shoulder. The youth carried two, one a creamy white and the other light brown, while those the stocky Medjay brought were reddish, red and white spotted, black, and black and white spotted. They were so new they still gave off the slightly acrid smell of recently tanned hides.
Grateful for the distraction, Bak rolled up the report, tossed it into a basket with several others, and scrambled to his feet.
“Let’s see them,” he said, taking the shields from Hori and leaning them against the coffin.
Psuro added his four, forming a bright cowhide wall in front of the man-shaped chest. The stocky Medjay modeled 168 / Lauren Haney them one by one, holding shield and spear at rigid attention as he would during the vizier’s inspection. Bak stood before him, trying to decide which would make the most dramatic appearance.
“You look a dutiful man, Lieutenant.”
Bak glanced toward the door. “Userhet! What brings you to my humble place of business?” He smiled, softening the words lest they be taken as flippant.
“I thought to find you at the quay, but I see you’ve found a more peaceful occupation than searching a few fishing vessels.”
Bak kept his smile in place, ignoring the sarcasm. “Peaceful, yes, and less offensive to the nose.”
Crossing the threshold, the handsome overseer glanced pointedly at Hori and Psuro. “I’ve come on a matter of some importance, Lieutenant.”
The vizier’s visit, Bak guessed. “My men can be trusted to hold their tongues.”
“Nevertheless…”
Bak lifted the brown shield, baring the foot of the coffin, and handed it to Psuro. “You must either tell me of your errand now, or go on about your business and come back another time. As you may’ve heard, a man of note is journeying upriver, and I wish my Medjays to make a good impression.”
Userhet’s mouth tightened at the rebuff, but he held his ground. “The commandant’s wife sent a servant to my quarters, inviting me to her party.” He gave Hori and Psuro a quick look, as if Bak’s oblique reference to the vizier had left him confused as to whether or not they had been told the identity of the man soon to arrive. “To have so lofty an individual in Buhen will be a memorable experience, but it could easily turn disastrous.”
“In what way?” Bak took the brown shield from Psuro’s hand and replaced it with the black one, exposing the coffin at knee level.
“You’re an intelligent man, Lieutenant. You know as well as I that the garrisons of Wawat owe their existence to trade, yet neither cargo vessels nor caravans have been allowed to move for the past five days.”
“This is by far the best,” Bak said to Psuro. “Take the others back to the garrison arsenal and draw new black shields for the inspection.”
“Yes, sir.”
Bak stepped aside, giving Psuro and Hori room to obey.
From his new position, he saw that Imsiba had returned to the entry hall and had stopped again to speak
