Bak felt honored. Never before had a chief scribe trusted him to go through his precious records alone and unwatched. 'I'll return each document to its proper place, never fear.'
'I suggest you do,' Simut said, hurrying from the room. Bak did not know whether to take the words as a threat or a jest. Best assume both, he thought, lifting the lamp off the tripod. Holding the light close, he moved along, the ranks of jars, reading labels inked on their shoulders. He soon found the container he wanted, labeled year five of the reign of Maatkare Hatshepsut, harvest season. Returning the lamp to the tripod; he broke the plug on the jar, found the daybook whose entries should include the deadly storm and, holding it near the light, began to unroll the scroll and read.
The storm had arisen in the desert, missing Abu and Swenet altogether, so no mention was made until the survivors began straggling in, first Troop Captain Djehuty and Sergeant Min and then the rest, one or two at a time. No mention was made of Sergeant Min leaving Abu. Not surprising. A soldier's departure for a new post would be entered in the garrison daybooks, not necessarily this one.
He read on, day after day, paying particular attention to the governor's audiences. The entries were clean and neat, with no one porting a finger at Djehuty or anyone else for the loss of so many men. The governor was, of course, Djehuty's father.
Slightly more than a month after the storm, the old man's death was noted and Djehuty himself sat on the dais. A week or so later, a brief note referred to the death at some earlier date of a nobleman named Nebmose. No kin had laid claim to his property, so Djehuty had confiscated for the royal house the adjoining villa and a good-sized plot of farmland at the north end of the island of Abu. Property of considerable value, Bak realized. Another, later entry mentioned Ineni's adoption contract and the marriage contract between him and Khawet.
Replacing the document in the proper container, he carried the lamp to another shelf and more recent daybooks. The jars here had not yet been sealed, making the scrolls more accessible. 'Year ten of the reign of Maatkare Hatshepsut,' he murmured, glancing at the dates, seeking first the daybook in which the murder of the child Nakht would be noted. 'Here it is: fourth month of the inundation season.'
He found mention of the boy's death, which was dismissed as an accident. So was Montu's death the following week. Senmut was slain plain and simple, and so it had been noted, the blame laid at the feet of a wandering band of desert tribesmen out to steal what they could find. Four days later, a tax inspector and several scribes had arrived from the capital. Djehuty had greeted them with appropriate ceremony and had entertained them in his home that evening. Early the following morning, the chief scribe Simut had accompanied the inspector north. Their mission was to estimate the size of the coming year's crop based on the amount of land that could be placed under cultivation after the floodwaters receded.
Bak read on, alert for Simut's return. Lieutenant Dedi's death was noted, another accident, so the daybook said. Two days later, Simut came back alone, his assistance no longer needed as the inspector had moved on to the next province. Hiding a smile, Bak glanced over the edge of the scroll at the short, rotund man sitting before the scribes who toiled at his behest. Unless the slayer was two men instead of onewhich he firmly doubted-Simut had slain no one. He had been somewhbre north of Abu with the tax inspector when Dedi was slain. Delighted by the discovery, he thanked the lord Amon-not only for the chief scribe's sake, but for his own: he could finally strike one man from his list of suspects.
Bak had found in the past that seeking out people's whereabouts during a crime was time-consuming and as often as not unsatisfactory, but he had clearly been proven wrong in this case. With luck, the garrison daybooks would be equally enlightening. At the very least, they should tell him where Antef had been during the murders.
Bak walked out the rear door of the villa, deep in thought. 'Out!' The voice was Khawet's, loud and angry. 'Take that creature and go! And don't come back!'
Wondering what the fuss was, eager to help if he could, Bak ran along the line of granaries. He paused at the gate, seeing no one, and looked across the bare patch of sand toward the kitchen. The woven mat covering the door flew up and Kasaya burst out. He cradled the whimpering monkey close in his arms as if sheltering it from assault. A whitish powder was sprinkled down the Medjay's chest and legs. The animal's black fur was matted with some sticky substance clotted in places with white.
Kasaya spotted Bak, gave him a look of naked relief. Khawet plunged through the door behind him, holding her skirt high for greater freedom of movement and clutching a long, slim pot as a man would brandish a club. Her cheeks were pink, her hair disheveled, her voice shaking with anger. 'You're nothing but trouble, Kasaya, flirting shamelessly, causing dissension among the women of my household. Now you bring that monkey into our kitchen! How could you?' The Medjay looked wildly over his shoulder at his pursuer. 'Sir! I didn't mean any harm! I didn't!'
'Lieutenant!' Khawet slowed, let her skirt fall, and lowered the jar. 'For close on a week I've let this… This imbecile!.. spend his days in my household, prying into our affairs, getting underfoot when my servants are busy, stuffing himself with our food. Even using my female servants as a sexual diversion. Now he's gone too far. I want him out. I want him out now!'
'What did he do?' Bak demanded, trying not to look at Kasaya, trying not to laugh.
Kasaya threw him a pleading look. 'I was just…'
'He brought that creature into my kitchen!' Khawet shook her finger at the monkey and glared. 'While he dallied with the women who toil there, he let it gorge itself on honey and melon and swcetcakes. If that wasn't bad enough, he let it play in our fresh-ground flour and our dried beans and peas. We'll never get the mess cleaned up!'
'I tied him to a stool.' Kasaya looked at Bak, and his voice turned from defensive to pleading. 'How did I know he could untie knots?'
Swallowing laughter, hoping he looked suitably stem, Bak swung the gate open and beckoned him through. 'Go to the river and wash yourself.' The furry delinquent, he saw, was clinging to Kasaya's thumb like a baby to its mother's finger. He had not the heart to order it back into the sycamore tree. 'Clean up the monkey, too. I'll see you both in our quarters later today.'
With a look of pure gratitude, Kasaya hurried away.
Bak passed through the gate in the opposite direction, clinging to his serious mien. Khawet clearly could see no humor in the situation. 'I'm truly sorry, mistress. After you've both calmed down, I'll send him back to clean up the mess they made.'
'You'll do no such thing!' She must have realized how harsh she sounded, for her voice softened to a more reasonable level. 'You sent him here for a purpose, that I understand. But I've had enough of him, of his endless prying and continual flirting. More than enough. I won't have him back.'
'His greatest value is not to pry, but to protect you and yours.'
'No.' Her mouth was set in a thin, determined line, the resemblance to her father uncanny. 'I know you mean well. Lieutenant, but I've neither the time nor the inclination to look after that overgrown babe and his hairy friend.'
He could see she would not reverse her decision. He was certain she would be more reasonable if she had less to think about, but worry for her father, whether really ill or pretending, and the responsibility for managing so large a household was enough to distress anyone.
Bali had assumed Antef would have gone directly to the quarry to relieve his men of their onerous task. Instead, he found the troop captain at garrison headquarters, seated on a stool in the room he used as an office, dictating to a scribe who sat cross-legged on the floor, writing faster than any man Bak had ever seen. The room was small and sparsely furnished, with a woven reed chest filled with scrolls shoved against one wall, weapons and quarry tools stacked against the rear wall, and two stools near the door. Antef waved him toward a stool and continued without pause. The document, Bak realized, was a list of craftsmen and laborers needed in the quarries to replace the soldiers.
'That should be sufficient,' Antef said at the end. 'If we ask for too many men, we might get none.'
'Yes, sir.' Smiling, the scribe collected his writing implements and left the room.
Bak eyed the officer with interest. 'The last I heard, Amonhotep intended to write that letter.'
Antef grinned. 'If you want a task done right, do it yourself-and this I wanted done right. Amonhotep has vowed to send off whatever I give him.' Sobering, he added, 'I've no objection to having my men move rough- sculpted works from the quarry to the river. Soldiers have always helped out in that way, and the time it takes is slight. I do object to their doing the work of craftsmen, spending all their days toiling on the stone when they should
