valuable gleaning information from the residents of Abu and Swenet or the soldiers assigned to the garrison. But what _choice did he have?
'Can you not respect my wishes, Lieutenant, simple as they are?'
Giving him no time to answer, she stepped beneath the lean-to and focused her attention on two men seated on the ground in the shade. Both were making round reddish clay pots on horizontal wheels, deftly building up the walls of the swiftly turning vessels. Twenty or more similar pots stood drying in a corner, waiting to be fired.
'Your father's life is in jeopardy, mistress Khawet. I want someone near when the slayer makes his appearance.' 'Three days from now,' she pointed out.
'He could strike at any time. Wouldn't you alter your plans if all the world knew you'd established a pattern?' She gave him a tight smile. 'My father refuses to leave his rooms, and he insists that Lieutenant Amonhotep remain by his side at all times. Only Amonhotep. No other man. Under the circumstances, your Medjay would be close to useless.'
'I'm as concerned for you as I am for your father.' He raised a hand, cutting off her objection. 'The slayer enjoys this game he's playing. I'd not be surprised if he decided to draw out Djehuty's agony by slaying the one closest to him.'
A boy of twelve or so years entered the open courtyard, carrying a basket of dried dung and an armload of dead twigs and branches. Ide knelt before an open hole at the base of a round baked clay furnace half again as tall as a man and began to build a fire.
Her mouth tightened. 'I'll have no Medjays here, and that's final!'
Bak wanted to shake her. She was as stubborn as her father, and almost as irrational. 'Mistress Khawet…'
'No,' she said, her eyes on the boy. 'I'm in no danger.' Bak watched a potter dip a hand into a bowl of water and smooth the surface of the vessel he had just finished. He could override her decision and force her to accept Psuro, but he had no wish to place, the Medjay in such a difficult situation. Treated as a pariah, his worth would be halvedor worse. He needed an alternate, but who? He thought of the men he had met since arriving in Abu, the few he felt he could trust. The best he could come up with was by no means equal in competence to Psuro or Kasaya.
'If I were to find someone else, a man of Abu and not a Medjay, would you allow him to stay close by your side?' She gave him a sardonic smile. 'Not so close he shares my bedchamber, I hope.' Noting how serious he was, she sobered. 'Who're you thinking of?'
'A guard who's been here for several years and knows both house and grounds. Kames, he's called.'
'I don't know him.'
Bak was not surprised. Kames was not one to attract notice. 'I don't know what other tasks he's had, but now he keeps watch over Nebmose's villa.'
'Oh, yes, the husky young man with a rather surly look on his face. The one recently thrown into the river and battered by the rapids.'
He pictured Nenu as he had last seen him, recalled the guard's tale of a fight, and opened his mouth to reject her version of the story. Then the truth struck him. A half-formed smile vanished from his lips and he let the statement pass. First things first. 'Not him. A smaller, older man. They patrolled the villa together until a few days ago.'
Her expression was singularly lacking in enthusiasm. 'If I must be watched, he sounds no worse than anyone else. At least he'll respect the rules of this household. Unlike your Medjays.'
Bak resented the barb, but let it pass. She was like a fruit tree so heavily burdened its limbs were bowed beneath the weight. He must have a serious talk with Kames. The guard must stick to her like plaster to a wall, and he must not close his eyes for an instant.
'They didn't find the patrol until midafternoon.' Psuro shouldered the basket of clean laundry and lifted the jar of fish stew by the rope handle attached to its neck. 'Troop Captain Antef insisted they go on with their task, keeping to their schedule, and he and his men stayed with them for close on two hours.'
'They were far out on the burning sands?' Bak asked. 'Almost three hours' march west of the river, searching for intruding tribesmen.'
The old woman handed Bak a basket covered with leaves, and he gave in exchange the token due her. The yeasty aroma of fresh bread wafted from the container, along with the sharp odor of cheese and the tangier, more subtle smell of boiled eggs.
'According to the sergeant,' Psuro said, 'he and Antef and their men didn't return to Abu until an hour or more after sunset. He had good reason to remember. They couldn't find their skiff in the dark-someone had taken it-and while they searched, a man fell into the river. They finally gave — up and spent the night on the west bank.'
Smiling her gratitude, the old woman entered her tiny house. Bak sidled past several homeward-bound archers and led the way down the narrow lane. A slick-haired black dog trotting at the soldiers' heels swung around to follow the food.
'When during the day was Senmut slain?' he asked. 'He was found early in the morning, so sometime the night before. The men who came for him from the house of death guessed he had lain there for several hours.' 'Good,' Bal said, well contented with the news. 'Now two men are freed of guilt: Antef and Simut.'
They reached an intersecting street wider than most running through Abu and turned north toward the governor's villa. A unit of twenty or so spearmen marching four abreast toward the garrison forced them into the open doorway of a sandalmaker's shop. The man glanced up from his work and gave them a quick smile, never missing a beat in the steady tap-tap-tap of his mallet. The rank smell of leather tanning in urine assailed their nostrils.
Bak reached down to scratch the dog's head. 'Earlier today, mistress Khawet said something in all innocence that — set me thinking. These are her words: `The one who was thrown into the river and battered by the rapids.' Who do you think she meant?'
'You were carried through the rapids, sir. And you were hurt. Upriver at Iken. How did she know about that?' Psuro, noting Bak's censorious expression, paused for further thought. His eyes widened. 'The archer? She was speaking of him?'
'She was talking about Nenu, a guard in the governor's compound. And, until a day or two ago, at Nebmose's villa.' 'I recall seeing him there when first we came to Abu. A young man who needed a comeuppance, I thought.' The Medjay's eyes dewed toward Bak, the look on his face skeptical. 'Why would he wish to slay you?'
The last of the spearmen marched by and they strode on down the street, the dog at their heels.
'I bumped into Nenu the day after the archer was thrown into the rapids,' Bak said. 'He was battered and bruised and, when I asked what happened, he spoke of a fight. He's an ill-natured sort, so I took him at his word.' He scowled at the memory. 'Never did I think of him as being the archer, but now…? We'd best learn the truth-and soon.'
'Was he not the one who helped you search Nebmose's villa when first the archer struck?'
'Don't remind me,' Bak groaned. 'The perfect defense is offense, and his performance that day proves it. I dropped over the gate in front of the villa and there he was, spear in hand, challenging my presence.'
'No wonder you never found the bow and quiver! Each time you came close, he steered you in another direction.' 'Laughing all the while, no doubt,' Bak said bitterly.
Psuro's expression again turned dubious. 'I'd never have taken him as so quick-witted a man.'
'I suspect he isn't under normal circumstances, but when his well-being is threatened, he's cunning like a jackal.' Bak's mouth tightened. 'Maybe we can outsmart him.'
'You asked for me, sir?' Nenu stood at attention, his eyes on Bak, his expression wary.
'There you are. Good.'
Bak, resting his uninjured shoulder against a column in the audience hall, eyed the guard long and hard, hoping to unsettle him. The young man's appearance had not improved, although his injuries were on the mend. His abrasions had scabbed over, and his bruises were a mottled purple and yellow. His lower lip was dry and swollen, the cut red with recently clotted blood. He stood stiff as a palm, breathing loud through his nose.
Bak had to admire his control. 'My Medjay and I…' He nodded toward Psuro, standing near the dais. '… were on our way to our evening meal when the chief scribe Simut summoned me. As you can see..' He nodded toward the baskets of food and laundry and the bowl of stew. Psuro had added a net bag containing a half dozen beer jars and another basket filled with clusters of deep purple grapes and a couple of striped green melons. 'We've too much
