floor beside him, and returned to the document on which he had been writing. Standing close by, Bak untied the string binding Dedi's record and unrolled it. The information provided was as brief as the young man's life had been. About midway through, he found what he was looking for, or at least he hoped so. Dedi's father had been an officer, a lieutenant seriously injured in the line of duty, one whose meritorious career had opened the door to his son when he, too, wished to enter the army as an officer. The location and specifics of the injury were not given.
'Do you recall if a Lieutenant Ptahmose was assigned to this garrison a few years ago?' Bak asked.
Simut gavela long-suffering sigh. 'Ptahmose? We had an infantry officer by that name. Why do you ask?'
The chief scribe was irascible, not easy to get along with, the kind of man who brought out the worst in Bak, making him stubbornly resistant to revealing any information demanded. But Simut had been the first to hint at the secret Djehuty harbored, a secret he had implied Bak should learn.
Bak lowered his voice so the other men in the room would not hear. 'I know of the sandstorm, Simut, of the many deaths and the few survivors, and I believe I've found the link among those who've been slain during the past few weeks.' He went on to explain, then asked, 'Could the Ptahmose you remember have been Dedi's father?'
Without a word, Simut laid his scroll aside and stood up. Lines, of worry etched his brow. He lit the wick in a reddish pottery lamp and carried it into the records room. Bak longed to follow, but knew an offer of help would be spurned. He remained outside, watching the play of light and shadow fall across the tall wooden frames, the scroll- filled jars, and the short, plump scribe reading labels scratched on the mud plugs.
Ptahmose's file, older and harder to find than that of Dedi, was located out of the way at the far end of the room, but in no time at all Simut returned with a buff-colored jar long ago plugged and sealed. Dropping to his knees, he struck the plug with a stone, shattering the hard, dry mud, and sorted hastily through the contents. Finding the scroll he wanted, he broke the seal with a thumbnail, untied the string, and unrolled the papyrus. Bak knelt beside him; too impatient to wait for an answer, and together they began to read.
'Ptahmose came from the provincial capital of Imet,' Simut said, 'and there he planned to return when he left the army and Abu.'
'… after recovering from severe wind- and sunburn received during a sandstorm,' Bak said, reading on ahead. Simut ran a finger down the next column of symbols, stopped near the bottom. 'Five years ago, that was, as you thought.'
Bak unrolled the much thinner cylinder of the younger officer and glanced through its contents. 'Dedi, too, came from Imet, and there his father no doubt remains.' Imet was a town north of Mennufer, many days' travel downriver from Abu. Ptahmose lived much too far away for the slayer to touch. His son's arrival in Abu must have seemed a gift of the gods.
Simut noticed how slowly the pens were scratching across the scrolls, the curious looks of his minions. He stuffed the two documents into their respective containers, handed the lamp to Bak, and, carrying a jar in each hand, led the way into the file room. He did not speak until they reached the back wall, well out of hearing distance of the men outside.
'You obviously believe someone-a close relative or friend of one who died in that storm-is slaying the survivors.'
'I think so, yes.' The idea, which had seemed so right in the privacy of his own thoughts, sounded fantastic when aired.
'Why now, after so long a time?'
Bak waved away a wisp of smoke. 'Perhaps some incident, maybe only a word or two, ignited a fire in the slayer's heart.'
Simut set the gray vessel on the floor and lifted the buff jar high, meaning to slip it into the space from which he had taken it. Noticing its gaping mouth, he made an impatient sound with his tongue and set it down beside the other.
'My nephew vanished in that storm, you know, a youth as close to me as a son.'
'I didn't know.' Bak eyed him with interest. 'Do you resent those who returned, Djehuty among them?'
'No longer, but at the time I did. To lose so fine a young man, one beloved by all who knew him. So brave, so…' Simut's voice faltered and he gave a cheerless little laugh. 'Djehuty was always one who knew better than anyone else, even when we played together as children, but in this case? No, no man can be blamed for the fury of the gods.'
'I rememlVr the men returning from the storm,' Khawet said, pity clouding her face. 'I'd gone to Nubt for a few days, to my father's estate. Most who survived wandered out of the desert near there-or farther north. Close to death, they were. Burned by the sun, thirsty, starving, so worn they could barely put one foot in front of another.'
'Your father among them,' Bak said.
'He survived, yes, and each day that's since gone by, I've thanked the lord Khnum.'
She stood at the side of a small, square courtyard, watching four young women bent over limestone mortars sunk into the floor, pounding grain with stone pestles. Lengths of newly washed linen stretched across a dozen or so heavy rope lines shaded them from the merciless midafternoon sun but provided no relief from the heat. Sweat beaded on their foreheads and stained their dresses. The heavy odor of crushed grain failed to mask the smell of their bodies.
'Far more men died than lived,' Bak said. 'In a small, tight world like Abu, where most who manned the garrison at that time came from families who've lived in this province for generations, there must still exist many friends and relatives of those who were lost.'
'I was most impressed when I heard of the patterns you saw in the slayings, but in this case?' She touched him lightly on the arm, then quickly withdrew her hand. 'A man would have to be terribly bitter to seek revenge after so long a time.'
He no longer mistook the gesture as a sign of intimacy, as he had been inclined to do before. She must habitually touch others, he thought, or in this case was merely displaying regret that her opinion differed from his. 'I've found no other tie binding Nakht and the three men.'
The sound of male and female laughter drew her eyes toward a wooden gate standing ajar at the rear of the court. 'I must get on with my duties. The bakers and brewers toiling beyond that wall await direction.' She remained where she stood, letting him know she preferred he leave so she could carry out the remainder of her tasks alone. 'What of Hatnofer? How was she linked to those who survived the storm?'
'I'd hoped you could answer that question. I've been told you knew her better than anyone.'
'I knew her, yes, but she never confided in me.' 'Did you not tell me she was a mother to you?'
Her voice grew sharp, annoyed. 'She never ceased to treat me as a child, Lieutenant.'
He suspected her anger was directed at the dead woman, not him. Lest he err, he attempted a smile, hoping to disarm her, but a whiff of crushed grain made him sneeze. 'What of her family?' he managed, and a second sneeze overwhelmed him.
A fleeting smile acknowledged his discomfort. 'She was a foundling, a babe left on my father's doorstep in Nubt. If she had a family in Abu or Swenet-or anywhere else, for that matter-she never knew them.' Glancing at the gate, she ed~, ed away from him. 'I must go. With Hatnofer no longer here, I've no time to linger.'
'One more question,' he said, stopping her flight with an upraised hand. 'Of all those who have the freedom to walk through this compound, who had close friends or relatives that vanished in the desert?'
'Most of the servants lost men near and dear, as did the guards. I know Amethu, Simut, and Ineni lost someone close, and I believe Antef did. I, too, cared for men who never returned: lieutenants Amonemhab, Nebmose, Minnakht, and Neferhotep. I miss them even now, all in the prime of life, lost forever to the wind and the sand.'
Again she briefly touched his arm. Turning away, she hastened across the court and out the gate, which she swung closed behind her. Bak watched her go, sympathizing with her plight. No wonder she was irritable, he thought; she had every right to be. She had, only two days before, found the body of a woman as close to her as a mother, and she was now burdened with that woman's duties in addition to her own. She was mistress of a household ruled by a man who appeared to Bak impossible to please and was wed to a husband she seemed not to love.
'Kasaya's fallen in love?' Bak chuckled. 'Not again!' 'This time he'll be lucky to escape a free man,' Psuro said, grinning. 'The girl toils in the governor's kitchen, where she's student to the chief cook-her mother. The old woman's the best I've come upon in many a year, and she's stuffing Kasaya like a goose being force-fed for
