Abruptly, a skiff shot out from among the trees. It was long and slender, similar to those used for sport by the officers at Buhen. Bak's heart sank. User knew his vessel and he knew the river, but could he cut off a boat so easy to maneuver and so fast?
'We have the advantage,' the farmer said, his teeth clenched tight with determination and effort. 'We're in the current; he's too close to shore.'
'Can you keep him there?' 'I can try.'
Bak glimpsed Psuro racing across the sand toward their own skiff. Doubting the Medjay would catch up in time to help, he focused on the vessel they chased, at least seventy paces to their left but not far ahead. The man inside, too indistinct to identify, had abandoned his weapon to take up the oars, propelling his boat toward deeper water. User altered course to intercept him. They swept down the channel, not quite side-by-side, toward the end of the island and the turbulent waters guarding the northern approach.
Sweat poured down User's face and his soaked tunic stuck to his back. Bak longed to raise the sail, but knew it would do no good as long as they remained in the channel. Forcing himself to be patient, he pulled in the fishing lines, dangling useless in the water, and laid the poles in the hull where he had found them. Spear and shield close to hand, he knelt on the centerboard, ready to leap into action the instant they caught up with their quarry. He refused to admit the wider channel and more generous breeze would give a distinct advantage to the sleeker vessel, speeding the archer on his way, leaving them far behind lolling in his wake.
The channel ahead began to broaden, revealing a wide swath of rippling silver, water washing over boulders not far beneath the surface after flowing around both sides of the island. The archer, whose view was obstructed by proximity, failed to spot the hazard until he was almost upon it. He swung his skiff hard around, trying to keep out of harm's way. User pressed his vessel closer.
The archer hesitated, then turned back toward the turbulence. The skiff sliced through the ripples, flinging water to right and left. The river ahead turned violent, white with roiling foam. Suddenly the prow rose into the air, the man inside was flung out, and the lovely little boat fell on its side and burst apart on the rocks.
'I can't believe it's over. It happened so fast and now…' Bak, standing on the quay at Swenet, spread his hands wide and shook his head. 'No slayer. No answers. Nothing.'
'I thank the lord Amon he's gone! Now we can go home to Buhen.' Psuro, delighted by the abrupt turn of events, tossed the mooring rope to Bak. 'When will you tell Governor Djehuty?'
Bak snugged the skiff tight against the stonework and glanced at the sky, where a deep golden sun hovered above the western horizon. They had thought the archer drownedfew men could survive those raging waters-but they could not be sure. Bak had been swept through a worse maelstrom in the not too distant past. So they had spent several hours in a fruitless search of the many islands below the point where the man had vanished. Their failure to find him was not conclusive, but pointed strongly to his death.
'Tomorrow will be soon enough. Another anxious night won't hurt him.',,'He deserves far worse, if you ask me. If he'd let his troops settle down among the donkeys, he mightn't have lost a single man or beast. Why was he never called to account, I wonder?'
I 'I'm convinced he coerced the survivors into remaining mute.' Bak scowled his disgust. 'And he has friends in high places. We wouldn't be here if the vizier hadn't interceded.'
Psuro joined him on the quay and they climbed the short slope to the village of Swenet. Huge old trees towered over the water's edge, and birdsong filled the air. Women chatted in a small square, awaiting their turn at the public well or sitting in the shade on mudbrick benches, enjoying the breeze and an end-of-day chat. A yellow dog lapped water from a puddle, while her three puppies chased grasshoppers across a patch of newly sprouted clover.
'Someone didn't keep his mouth locked tight,' Psuro said. 'That's why those who survived are now being slain. But why wait five years? And why Djehuty? He wasn't in that cave.'
Bak turned down the lane leading to Pahared's wife's house of pleasure. A bowl or two of beer would be in order, maybe more. Enough to chase away the feeling of a task unfinished. 'We'll never know now, will we?'
'I guess you no longer care about Hatnofer.' Kasaya, seated on the floor on a pillow stuffed with straw, gave Bak a bleary-eyed look. 'After all, our task is done and we'll soon sail south, this ugly place forgotten.'
Psuro, not half as unsteady as the man beside him, broke the plug from a fresh jar of beer, flung the pieces into a basket used for the purpose, and splashed the pungent golden liquid into their bowls. 'This town is alright. It's the govenor who's ugly.'
Kasaya bumped his elbow, spilling beer on the floor. 'And the man who died in the rapids today.'
Bak, not at all drunk, beckoned a skinny, scraggly-haired female servant to clean up the mess. He had come to this house of pleasure to celebrate, yet had found himself in no mood to do so. Too many questions remained; questions Djehuty would never answer, and he had no one else to query. User had rattled off the names of the survivors, which matched the list Simut had provided. Other than him, Amonhotep, and the governor, all were dead or had gone far away from Abu.
A scuffle broke out in the corner, a disagreement over a game of knucklebones. One man cursed another. Stools skidded across the floor. Pottery crashed. Pahared's wife strode across the room, carrying a baton Bak suspected she had taken from some visiting official-perhaps by force. She held it firmly, her expression making clear that she was prepared to smash a head or two. The men slunk back, thoroughly cowed.
Bak had to give credit where credit was due: Pahared had wed quite a woman. 'Tell me of Hatnofer,' he said to Kasaya. 'Did you discover her connection to the sandstorm?'
The young Medjay scooted sideways, making room for the servant to pour dry sand on the wet floor. Beer sloshed from his bowl, spilling down her leg. The girl's mouth tightened; her eyes flashed anger. He turned to Bak, unaware. 'When she was a babe, a guard found her on the doorstep, and Djehuty's father took her in. She grew to womanhood as a servant. Arguments abound among the household staff as to whether or not Djehuty took her to bed. Half say her jealousy knew no bounds, so he must've. The others swear no man would touch a woman so sour.'
Psuro snorted. 'What kind of woman would crawl in with a man so small in his every thought and deed?'
'They wete close to each other in age,' Kasaya said, as if that explained everything. 'A couple of the servants, both men, hinted that Djehuty wasn't a youth to overlook any tender young morsel, especially one who earned her daily bread in his own household.'
'Admirable,' Psuro said, looking scornful.
Kasaya's eyes drifted to a slim young dancer who had red ribbons woven into the long black braid hanging down her naked back. The servant, finished with her task, dribbled sand onto his pillow, across his leg, and down his spine. He yelped, swung around, glared. She turned away, triumph lighting her face.
Bak bit back a smile. 'Get on with your tale, Kasaya!' The young Medjay threw a pained look at Psuro; whose face was stiff with smothered laughter. 'When Hatnofer reached an age to wed, another servant, one who toiled in the gardens, took her as his wife. She had two stillborn children, the second near the time mistress Khawet was born, thus she became her wet nurse. Her husband died, and she conceived no more.'
'A convenient marriage,' Bak said.
'Djehuty's father arranged the match, so I was told.' Kasaya grinned. 'About the time Djehuty wed Khawet's mother, I suspect.'
'He may've set her aside for a noblewoman,' Psuro said grudgingly, 'but he did well enough by her in the end. Not many foundlings rise to the lofty position of housekeeper in a governor's villa.'
'So she must've thought.' Kasaya drank from his bowl, licked the foam from his lips. 'They seldom quarreled, though from what I've been told, he often gave her reason to burn with anger.'
Bak raised an eyebrow. 'Someone, I don't recall who, mentioned an argument not long ago.'
'Oh, they sometimes argued. Not often; she wouldn't let him bait her. But you're right: a couple of months ago, they had a good one.'
'Tell me,' Bak said.
Psuro gave him a surprised look. 'You don't think Djehuty slew her, do you, sir?'
Bak waved off the suggestion as unlikely. 'Well, Kasaya?'
'Let's see. Around two months ago, it was. In Nebmose's villa.' The young Medjay gave his drinking bowl an exaggerated frown, as if forcing himself to think. 'The door was closed and no one could hear what they said, but their voices were heated and Djehuty came away with the red mark of Hatnofer's hand on his cheek.'
'Good for her!' Psuro chuckled. 'Can't think of a man more deserving.'
