officer's innocence at the time Senmut was slain.
'In the meantime,' he said with a grimace, 'I'll go again to the governor's villa.'
'I won't see him!' Djehuty's voice, surprisingly strong for a man so sick he had taken to his bed, carried down the narrow hallway. 'Why is he here in Abu? Didn't I order him to leave?'
'He came because the vizier wished it, sir.' Amonhotep's voice carried an edge of irritation. Obeying the slightest and most whimsical command of a man behaving like a spoiled, fearful child had begun to try even his patience.
'I don't care. Send him away!' 'I can't do that.'
'You can and you will!' Djehuty spat out the words like one tomcat spitting at another.
'Sir, if anything happens to you…'
'Nothing will happen!' Djehuty snapped. 'As long as you remain close, no one will dare approach me.' His voice took on a querulous note. 'You're the son I never had, the one individual I trust. With you by my side, I don't need that wretched Lieutenant Bak or his Medjays. Or Ineni. Or Antef. Or… or anyone!'
'You have mistress Khawet, sir.'
Djehuty dismissed his daughter with a snort.
Bak muttered a quick prayer to the lord Amon, seeking patience, and marched down the corridor to the bedchamber. The governor lay amid the usual tangle of sheets, his head and shoulders raised on folded sleeping pallets and pillows. The high windows allowed fresh air to circulate, but the cloying scent of an overly sweet perfume vied with the odor of the unwashed body it was meant to conceal. The brindle dog was gone, but its smell lingered. Poor Amonhotep, Bak thought.
'Governor Djehuty,' he said. 'I thank you for seeing me. I know you're unwell, so I feel greatly favored to be admitted to your presence.' The words came out unplanned, an inspiration of the lord Amon, no doubt.
The aide gave him a startled look.
Djehuty stared at the bandages around Bak's upper body and arm. He seemed about to comment, but changed his mind and glared. 'You… You
… What're you doing in my bedchamber?'
Bak regretted making life more difficult for Amonhotep, but his sole hope of breaking the governor's silence was to shock him. 'I've come to speak of the sandstorm in which so many men were lost…'
'That again. Must you continue to probe an incident all who live in Abu wish to forget?'
'… and to-speak of Sergeant Min, the man who saved your life.'
Djehuty drew his head back as if struck. 'Min? He… He's gone. He sailed away to Mennufer.' As he went on, his words came out with growing confidence, a tale wellpracticed, dredged up from memory. 'He asked for a transfer to the garrison there, thinking to better himself at a larger post closer to the heart of the army. Close to our northern capital, where he might catch the eye of Menkheperre Thutmose. I recommended him for the gold of honor, thinking to aide his cause.'
Menkheperre Thutmose, rightful heir to the throne and coruler in name only, was rebuilding the army to its former glory while, according to rumor, he bided his time, waiting for an opportunity to grasp the reins of power. With Maatkare Hatshepsut preferring to reside in the royal house in Waset close to her priestly power base, the young king had chosen the administrative capital of Mennufer as his home and as the seat of command for the army.
Bak did not believe Djehuty for a moment. Much of the tale made sense, but he had been too quick to explain. As for a golden fly, the official report of the storm proved that untrue.
'Sergeant Min was the tie that bound Hatnofer to the storm,' he said, his voice cool, crisp. 'They were lovers. So close he fought for her honor in the garrison. Did you know that?'
'No, I… ' Djehuty's eyes darted around the room, seeking a way out. 'Yes, she told me.'
'Min survived the storm, but a short time later he vanished. She was slain because she was close to him and because she was next in fine below you, managing your household.'
'Amonhotep fits into your so-called pattern as well if not better than Hatnofer.' Djehuty's voice challenged. 'He actually survived the storm; she never set foot in the desert.'
And he is, in every sense, your right hand, Bak thought, but you would never acknowledge how much you lean on him, how much you need him. 'He was on a ship returning to Abu from Buhen the morning she was slain.'
'The slayer could have awaited his arrival. Barring an unforeseen delay, the vessel was expected that day.'
In a way, Djehuty had a point. Had Hatnofer been slain merely because circumstances threw her in harm's way? Or had she guessed the slayer's identity and faced him with her knowledge?
Aware that the pause had stolen the momentum from his questions, Bak said, 'They say in the barracks that Min never sailed to Mennufer. He was slain before ever setting foot on a ship. Would such a rumor survive if it had no substance?'
The brief silence had bolstered Djehuty's defenses; his chin jutted and he glared. 'Go away, Lieutenant. I'm ill, too ill by far to respond to your vile insinuations.' He pulled the sheet up beneath his chin and rolled onto his side, his back to the two officers standing by the bed.
'Sir!' Amonhotep, his face set, reached out as if to shake his master. Within a finger's breadth of the governor's shoulder, he pulled his hand back. 'If you're to help yourself, you must help Lieutenant Bak.'
Djehuty tugged the sheet higher, covering his ears.
Bak walked to the door, thoroughly disgusted. 'If you wish to die, sir, you have my blessing.' He stopped on the threshold, waiting for a reaction. He got none.
Bak stood at the top of the stairway rising up the slope from the landingplace. Below, Ineni stood on the deck of a small cargo ship from which baskets piled high with fresh produce were being off-loaded. Fruits and vegetables raised on the estate at Nubt had been shipped upstream to fill the governor's belly and that of his household. Sailors and household servants carrying laden baskets on their shoulders trudged up the stairs and through the gate past the sentry.
He was far from alone, yet he felt uneasy. Was the archer yet alive, hidden somewhere behind him, even now seating an arrow in Ws bow? Swinging around, he studied the walls and rooftops of the governor's villa and that of Nebmose. He saw no one but the guard at the front gate.
Shrugging off his momentary anxiety, he turned away to walk along the terrace. The interview with Djehuty had disheartened him. How could he hope to protect a man who would do nothing to help himself? He strode past four small boys playing tag, their laughter and shouts filling the air with joy. He fervently wished he had as few cares as they. He circled around the water gauge, raised a hand in greeting to the women collected at the public well, and sat on a mudbrick bench shaded by willow trees in front of the mansion of the lord Khnum. Barely aware of the chatter of women drawing water, he tried to make sense of all he had learned thus far.
He had been so quick to see the patterns in the deaths that had occurred. Why could he not identify the slayer? He wanted above all things to succeed in his task, as he always had before. Here he was, however, unable to see the smallest glimmer of light. He had been utterly convinced the sandstorm was the key, and he continued to believe so, but each time he learned a new fact, it led nowhere. If only Djehuty would reveal his secret! But he would not. And if he-did, would it help point the way?
The governor was exactly as Nofery had painted him as a young man: spoiled, stubborn, heeding no one's advice, taking on authority too great for his abilities. The first three traits Bak had seen for himself. The disaster of the storm, the loss of so many innocent lives, had undoubtedly been the result of the last.
Three days until week's end, he thought. Three more days until the slayer strikes again. Khawet might be his next target but, assuming he meant to continue with the patterns he had established, he then would have to wait yet another week before striking Djehuty. Would he do so? Probably not. The risk of discovery was too great. Still, Bak had to take precautions for her safety as well as that of — her father.
Her father. He could think of no more worthy a target than Djehuty, yet he could not let him die.
'I want no more Medjays in my house.' Khawet's mouth was set, determined. 'Kasaya did nothing but make a nuisance of himself.'
'Psuro is older and more responsible,' Bak said. 'Unless he's needed to protect you or yours, you'll be unaware of his presence for much of the time.'
The last thing he wanted was to assign Psuro to the governor's villa day after day. The Medjay was far more
