The larger ships remained, their masters unable to get mooring space at Buhen with the vizier’s fleet soon to arrive.
The five great warships plus the vessels already there would fill the harbor to bursting. To move a ship from Kor to Buhen and then have to move it back was not worth the effort.
“You’ll send soldiers upriver to look after Kefia’s farm and old Ahmose, as I promised?” Bak asked.
“How long must they stay?”
Bak gave a sharp, humorless laugh. “I’ve vowed to end this nightmare before the vizier arrives. That gives me one day, two at most.”
“I’ve bent my knees today before every shrine in Kor,”
Nebwa said with a resigned smile. “Something tells me I’d better go around again.”
Bak awoke the following morning long before daybreak.
He lay on his sleeping pallet, listening to Hori’s soft breathing in the next room and an occasional whimper from the large and good-natured dog the youth had brought into their lives as a puppy. Bak’s tangled sheets smelled of perfume, souvenir of the pretty young woman who had come to him in the night, sent by Nofery to put him in her debt. The old woman, whose curiosity knew no bounds, wanted to be sure he would tell her of his quest for the man who slew Mahu and Intef-and, no doubt of greater interest to her, the ancient tomb he sought and the riches it might contain.
He lay still and quiet, reviewing his list of suspects, trying to decide which of the five was the most likely to be the man he sought. Two, Ramose and Nebamon, he thought far less likely than Hapuseneb, Userhet, or Kay, but certainty continued to elude him. He did, however, have an idea how to give the headless man a face.
As soon as the high, narrow window admitted enough light to see by, he got up and dressed, roused Hori from his sleep, and issued orders. Leaving the boy reeling from the onslaught, he hurried outside and down the street to the Medjay barracks and Imsiba. He prayed the day would be long enough for all he hoped to achieve.
“Here you are, sir.” Hori laid four levers, a couple of mallets, an axe, several wedges and chisels, and a half dozen wooden rollers on the floor of Bak’s office. His dark eyes were alive with excitement, his voice tinged with self-importance. “As you suggested, I asked also to see the sledges, but came away empty-handed, saying your skiff is small and the low runners and crosspieces would make them difficult to stow. I told them I must first find out how great is the load you need to transport.”
“You talked with Userhet himself?” Bak asked.
“Not at first, but he was there throughout my stay, and he made no secret of his interest.”
Bak gave Imsiba, seated on a stool near the door, a quick smile of satisfaction. “How’d he react?”
“I paid special attention, as you asked me to.” Hori’s voice, his demeanor grew serious, the policeman he longed to be reporting to his superior. “If Userhet’s the headless man, he gave no sign. He had many questions, but so did the scribe who walked from basket to basket, collecting the tools I wanted. I, in turn, gave few answers, saying only that you sailed south yesterday and planned to go again today. Maybe you were taking the tools to Nebwa, or perhaps you intended to use them for some task unknown to me.”
“I can think of no more intriguing a response.” With a broad smile, Bak sat down on the coffin. “You’ve done well, Hori. You’ve planted a seed; now let’s see if it germinates.”
Basking in praise, the youth had trouble looking as serious as he thought he should. “I’ll go now to see Captain Ramose.”
“Don’t forget, we want a rope strong enough to support a man’s weight, yet not so thick we can’t easily work with it.”
Hori nodded and hurried away. The guardhouse was quiet, with the back rooms closed off and the men in the entry hall giving the knucklebones a rest while they ate their morning meal. Men strode past the street door, their sandals scuffing the pavement and their weapons clanking, hastening to their duty stations.
Bak scooted back on the coffin, rested his head and shoulders against the wall, and eyed Imsiba. “I pray we’re not playing this game for nothing.”
The Medjay’s expression held equal amounts of affection and skepticism. “We’re wasting much of the day, one better spent, I suspect, on the desert south of Kor.”
“Oh?” Bak’s eyes twinkled. “Did I not hear you say yesterday that to search the desert would be an endless and hopeless task?”
Imsiba scowled at the pile of objects the scribe had left behind. “I know you intended Hori to make his point with Userhet, but did he really need to bring so many tools from the warehouse?”
“If we find the tomb we seek, we may need them.”
“We’ll find an open entryway, a few steps down, and a room or two, that’s all.”
“I spent my youth in Waset,” Bak reminded him. “The tombs there are deep, the burial chambers not easy to reach.
What if the one Intef found is such a place, a house of eternity prepared by a man who longed for his home in faroff Kemet?”
“How many tombs have we seen over the past few days, my friend? Each and every one was shallow, dug within a hill or ridge, and none had secret chambers deep beneath them.”
“Have I come at a bad time?”
Sitamon stood at the door, wide-eyed and timid, looking as if she might at any instant turn around and flee. “Are you too busy to…?”
“Not at all!” Imsiba leaped to his feet, rushed to the portal to usher her inside, and offered her his stool.
Bak stood up, preparing to leave yet not sure he should go. He could not imagine what had brought her at such an early hour-or why she had come to the guardhouse, for that matter. Unless she had a purpose other than her friendship with Imsiba. Mahu’s death perhaps?
She raised a hand, palm forward, signaling they should remain where they were. “I can’t stay. I’ve left my son in the commandant’s palace, where he’s playing with Tiya’s children, and I must go next to the market.”
“Is something wrong?” Imsiba asked, his voice and manner solicitous.
“No, I…” She threw a glance at Bak that begged him to leave and gave Imsiba an uncertain smile. “I shouldn’t have come.”
Bak slipped around her and out the door, giving the pair a chance to talk. He joined the men on duty in the entry hall, took a crusty roll from a basket, and tore it apart. The dates inside were rich and succulent, the bread sweet and firm.
While he nibbled, he listened unashamed to Imsiba and Sitamon, his curiosity piqued by concern for his friend.
“You must tell me what’s wrong,” Imsiba said.
“Nothing. It’s just that…” She hesitated, wrung her hands.
“Well, I thought…”
“What?” Imsiba took her hands in his, stilling them, and smiled. “You thought what?”
“Userhet wishes to take me as his wife,” she blurted. “I…I haven’t given him an answer. I thought to wait a while until…Oh, I shouldn’t have come!” She jerked her hands free and swung around, racing out of Bak’s office and through the street door, so blinded by emotion she bumped into a soldier on his way in, sending him spinning.
“She loves you, I tell you. Do you think she’d have come so early in the day if she didn’t?”
Imsiba sat on the bench at the back of the room, arms crossed over his breast, his expression stony. “She’s a good, kind woman. She saw that I cared for her, and she wished to break the news herself, before I could hear it from someone else.”
Bak wanted to shake his friend. He hated seeing him so unhappy, so quick to give up. “She wants you to step in, to stand up and be counted as a suitor.”
“I’m a sergeant in the Medjay police, my friend, one who owns nothing but the clothing I wear and the weapons I carry. Now, because of Mahu’s death, she’s the mistress of a grand cargo ship, a woman of wealth and status.”
“Barely more than a week ago, she was a lonely widow with a child, a woman in need of a home with her brother.”
Imsiba closed his ears to reason. “Userhet has much to offer, while I have nothing. He can read and write and he knows the ways of ships and trading. He can see advantage when it arises and make opportunities for
