be practicing the arts of war.'
'What will Djehuty do when he realizes you've usurped his authority?',
'He hates to be made to look the fool, especially before his lofty friends in Waset. He'll let the matter stand.' Antef grinned again. 'Of course, I dare not turn my back for a while. He's certain to retaliate.'
They both spoke, Bak noticed, as if Djehuty would live on into the future, as if no threat clouded his existence.
'Commandant Thuty isn't perfect,' he said, 'but I thank the lord Amon he's as good a man as he is.'
'You've been blessed by the gods.' Antef glanced around the room. 'What'd I do with my baton of office?' He pivoted on his stool to search through the clutter against the rear wall. Locating the baton among a sheaf of spears, he stood up. 'I must deliver the good news to the men at the quarry. Why have you come?'
'I'd like another look at the garrison daybooks.'
Antef grabbed a tunic off a small upended sledge that had a broken runner and slipped the garment over his head. 'Why?'
While Bak explained, the troop captain pulled his broad collar out from beneath the fabric. When it would not immediately lie flat, he fumbled with the clasp, undid the collar, and tossed it onto a stool. As soon as he had heard enough, he strode to the door without a word, shouted a name, and his scribe came running.
A short time later, Bak sat on the floor of a tiny courtyard shaded by palm fronds spread loosely across two sturdy reed beams. Lying along a mudbrick bench in order of their dates were the dozen or more scrolls the scribe had brought from the records office.
Once again he unrolled the copy of the official report of the sandstorm. This time he knew better what to look for, more specific information based on the additional knowledge he had gained over the past few days. As was to be expected, with Djehuty the author of the document, no mention was made of his irrational order to keep the men moving in the face of disaster, or of men who had found shelter but had turned away their fellows. To be fair, Djehuty might never have been told of the latter offense, but a good commander would have dug the truth from the survivors.
A third, unexpected omission proved far more interesting. The report included no recommendation that Min receive the Gold of Honor, contrary to the statement in the sergeant's personal file. Had Djehuty failed to make the request because he knew Min was no longer among the living?
With nothing further to be gleaned, Bak set the report aside. Picking up the daybook that included entries about the storm, he searched this time for mention of Min. Exactly a week after he and Djehuty returned from the desert, a brief entry indicated that a Sergeant Min had departed from the garrison. No further information was given. Bak glanced back through the daybook and forward. Entries were often slipshod, omitting a detail or two, but they never failed to provide the reason why a man left the garrison, his destination, and usually the name of the ship on which he sailed. Min had never left Abu, Bak felt sure.
He moved on to the more recent daybooks, looking specifically for information about Antef's comings and goings when the first four murders occurred. On the surface, the troop captain's fife appeared full to the brim with interesting and challenging tasks. In reality, his days were all much alike, his duties unremarkable. He spent a few hours each day at the quarry and the rest of his time in Abu, overseeing the routine activities of the garrison. Each night he slept in his residence, whether alone or not the daybook made no mention.
Only once in the past six weeks had he ventured away from Abu. A month ago, he had traveled into the desert to inspect patrols, the journey lasting four days. Sergeant Senmut had been slain on the last day of the trip, when Antef and a sergeant, accompanied by ten spearmen, had been far out on the desert, inspecting a six-man patrol. Whether they had returned before Senmut was slain or later in the day was a question the sergeant could answer.
Chapter Fourteen
'Where's Kasaya now?' Psuro asked.
'At the river, trying to wash the monkey.' Bak grinned. 'The creature hates water. It's all arms and legs, screaming as if caught in the jaws of a lion.'
Psuro gave him a sour look. 'You don't intend to let him keep it, do you?'
'He may as well. The damage has already been done.' 'Pahared's wife won't be happy if it gets into her stores.' Psuro looked pointedly toward the door, where the woman in question stood in a shaft of sunlight, haggling with a traveling metalsmith over the price of bronze rings, pendants, and bangles, finery for the young women who toiled in her house of pleasure.
Bak followed his glance. She was as sharp-tongued as she was sharp-eyed and she allowed no transgressions. It took a strong-willed man to live with such an exacting woman-or one who spent his days on his ship, as Pahared did.
'I told him he has to keep it leashed-and tied with a knot it can't undo. The first time it gets loose, it goes back to the sycamore tree.' Taking care not to stir up the sediment, he raised his beer jar to his lips. 'Now tell' — me what you learned of Min.'
'I went to the garrison offices, stores, armory, anyplace I could find someone who'd talk to me. Not a man in Min's unit survived the storm, and not many support personnel remain in the garrison.' Psuro eyed with appreciation a tall, slim young woman from the land of Kush, standing in a rear doorway in a suggestive pose. The girl's dusky cheeks, forehead, and shoulders had been scarified, her hair dyed a coppery orange. 'Worse yet, details have blurred after five long years. The truth isn't easy to come by.'
'Do those who remain remember him with a smile or a frown?'
'They say he was a hard man to please on the practice field. Experienced in the arts of war, skilled with weapons, proud of his battle scars.' Psuro winked at the young woman. 'All agreed he was a man to avoid in games of chance, dishonest to the core. But once befriended, a friend for life.'
Taking the wink as an invitation, the girl ambled across the room, swaying as if touched by a gentle breeze. The Medjay, enthralled, lost the power of speech.
Scowling his impatience, Bak waved her away. 'After we finish here, Psuro, I've another task for you. One you must do right away. Our time is running out.'
'Yes, sir.' Psuro watched her retreating backside with obvious regret. 'One man, an armorer some years past the prime of life, said he thought never to see Min care for a woman. The sergeant was too fond of himself to give freely and too much the man of action to be gentled. When first he expounded the virtues of mistress Hatnofer, all who toiled in the armory thought he was jesting. Until one day the chief armorer took her name too lightly. Min threw him against the wall, furious. He truly loved her, they realized, and never again did they cast aspersions.'
Bak nodded, satisfied. Min and Hatnofer had indeed been close. 'Why, then, did he leave her behind? Did anyone say?'
'No one could understand.' Psuro tore his eyes from the girl, standing again in the doorway. 'Rumors abounded that he never set sail, that he was thrown down the water gauge. He never sent word back to friends, saying how happy or discontented he was at his new post, nor was his body ever reported found in the river. Mistress Hatnofer gave nothing way, no angry words or any sign of sorrow. Just a growing bitterness through the years.'
'He's dead. I'm sure he is.' Bak set his beer jar on the floor and stood up. 'He knew Djehuty's secret, some shamefill and abhorrent act, and he had to be silenced.'
Rising to his feet, Psuro gave the young woman a final, lingering look. 'You think Djehuty slew him?'
'I'd bet a year's ration of grain that he did. Or he gave the task to someone else.'
They strode out the door and turned down the narrow lane, vrhich was heated by the midday sun, tempered by a soft breeze. A train of donkeys, their backs loaded high with fresh green fodder, clip-clopped across the intersection ahead. The heavy smell of new-cut clover made Bak sneeze.
While they waited for the animals to pass, he plucked a stalk bright with yellow flowers and nibbled the sweet blossoms. 'You must go to the garrison and seek out a sergeant.' He went on to explain what he had learned of Antef's whereabouts during the earlier murders and how the sergeant should be able to prove or disprove the
