himself to be distracted when he should have followed through to the end. This he vowed to do.
The tie that had bound the victims together had been the fateful storm five years earlier. Other than Amonhotep, who had wandered the burning sands alone, all the survivors had behaved in a despicable fashion. Bak thought a moment, revised the notion. The survivors who had sheltered in the cave with User had behaved abominably. Djehuty and Min had not been among them. They had been elsewhere, no one knowing where or what they had done to survive. This, Bak felt certain, was the key to the governor's secret.
Sergeant Min was gone, probably slain, his lips sealed forever. He may have confided in his friend Senmut or, more likely, in mistress Hatnofer, his lover. They, too, were dead. Djehuty alone could offer enlightenment, and he refused to speak.
Is that all I've learned in close on a week? Bak asked himself. Am I no nearer to the slayer today than I was yesterday or the day before or the day before that? How can I hope to save Djehuty in less than two days if 1 can uncover no new answers?
A thought reared its ugly head, one so unworthy he squashed it like ft insect: the southernmost province of Kemet would be a better place to live if its present governor were dead.
Frustrated, he stood up and strode to the stable. An orange cat lay stretched across the doorway in the sun, washing its face. He stepped over the creature and walked inside. The structure was as devoid of life as when last he had seen it, with a few bits of straw and the faint scent of manure to remind him of its proper function. He envied Nebmosewhoever he had been-and he well understood Ineni's resentment at not being allowed to keep horses here. Djehuty's decision to bar animals from the stable and reserve the house for illustrious guests seemed odd. Why had he not given the property to his married son and daughter?
Bak left the stable and, driven by curiosity more than purpose, entered the house. Passing the rooms used for storage, he walked through the high-ceilinged, bright-painted hall and down the corridor to the master's suite, his footsteps loud in the silence. He glanced around the private reception room with its elegant furnishings, decorative wall hangings, and senet game ready for play. He peered into the two small bedchambers, noting the neatly folded sleeping pallets, and ambled around the larger bedchamber that led to the bath where Hatnofer had been slain. Here, the bed was made and toilet articles laid out. A bowl of dried flowers sat on a wooden chest. Not a speck of dust marred any surface. If not for the silence, he might have thought these rooms inhabited. By rights, Khawet and Ineni should have occupied them, filling them with laughter and children, instead of a series of noted guests who passed through in haste.
He strode to the doorway, intending to leave, but his steps faltered at the threshold. Troubled, not sure why, he turned around to study the room. It looked much as it had when first he had seen it, a guest chamber ready for occupancy. But he, the intended guest, had spurned the room, and no other visitor was expected. Why were the linens still in place when normally they would be stowed away, protected from dust, insects, intruding birds, and small animals? — Khawet must have forgotten. She had proven herself a superb mistress of a demanding household. She surely could be forgiven this one lapse.
A new thought came to him, a fresh possibility. One he swept aside as nonsense. Another idea loomed larger, more promising. Vowing to return to the first notion if need be, he left the bedchamber and wandered throughout the house, seeing the building as the hollow shell it was, getting a sense of the comfortable home it once had been.
What had prompted Djehuty to take the life from this dwelling? Had he loved Nebmose like a brother, or had he hated him? Who, in fact, was Nebmose? Other than that he was a descendent of an old and noble family, Bak knew nothing of him. Nothing except the fact that he had left behind a desirable residence on a valuable piece of property and farmland on the north end of the island that was probably of even greater value than this dwelling.
Bak peered inside woven reed chests, pulled drawers out of wooden chests, looked through the few objects kept in a storeroom in the master's suite, mostly bedding and toilet articles. He found no documents anywhere, nothing that revealed in any way the former owner. A rapid search through the rest of the house proved equally fruitless. If any of the deceased nobleman's possessions remained, he could not distinguish them from those of the governor's household.
Unbarring the front door, he walked out onto the porch. Midway along the path to the gate, the family shrine stood among well-tended trees and flower beds offering a riot of color. Like the house, the building and surrounding garden looked a product of constant care and loving attention.
He plunged down the stairs, hurried along the path to the shrine, and climbed the four steps to the columned entryway. Inside stood the ancestor bust, sitting atop the limestone plinth. Like most such images, the inscription down the front contained no name. Before the bust, blue lilies floated in a low, wide-mouthed bronze bowl, their scent delicate, evasive in the light breeze.
Someone-Amonhotep, Bak thought-had told him that Nebmose had died leaving no living relatives and Djehuty had taken the villa in the name of their sovereign Maatkare Hatshepsut. If no one remained, who was tending this shrine with such devotion? A distant relative, one who should have inherited the property upon Nebmose's death? A forgotten concubine or lover? Or merely a faithful servant?
If a relative had surfaced, he would have had every right to resent Djehuty's grasping the property as his own. The land and the dwelling, located in crowded Abu, would have been a legacy well worth slaying for, as would the farmland north of the city. Amethu would know. As steward of Djehuty's household, he was responsible for all transactions conducted by the governor. As a long-time resident of Abu, he would have been acquainted with Nebmose and his family.
A sudden thought dampened Bak's enthusiasm for the theory. A long-forgotten relative of Nebmose might slay Djehuty to regain his property, but would he slay five innocent people? Also, what were the odds that those five people would all be bound together by a deadly sandstorm?
He muttered an oath. Nothing ever seemed to fit in a nice, neat package. As he had told Psuro and Kasaya that very morning, something was missing, a crucial fact he had yet to discover.
He eyed the bust, wishing it could speak. It stared back, enigmatic. He had to smile. Whatever secrets it held, it fully intended to keep them to itself.
Bak tracked Amethu down at the mansion of the lord Khnum. He found the steward in the outer, colonnade court, kneeling before the blocky stone image of a nobleman seated with his knees beneath his chin, a scroll spread across them, displaying through eternity his ability to read and write. A long-dead official of Abu, Bak assumed, one of many whose statues occupied the court, left in the expectation that the deceased would forever be remembered and honored. Food, drink, and other good things offered to the lord Khnurn were reoffered to these lesser images before the priests took possession for their own use.
Fairly certain the prayer would be brief, Bak backed away, allowing privacy, and left the temple to wait in the shade of the willow trees outside the pylon gate.
Amethu must have seen him in the court, for he soon bustled out, looking to his right and left. 'Ah, there you are.' Reaching the leafy shelter, he eyed the officer's bandaged upper body and arm, his bruised neck. 'I must say, Lieutenant, you don't look at all well.'
Bak gave him a wry smile. 'So I've been told.' 'The one you fought is dead, I hear.' 'Unfortunate but true.'
Amethu gestured toward a mudbrick bench under the drooping branches. 'Do you mind if we talk out here? I can't bear to return so soon to the governor's villa. We've done with the inventory-I thank the lord Khnum-but the atmosphere inside those walls is so oppressive it's hard to breathe.'
'The privacy suits me, and the quiet.'
The steward brushed leaves off the bench, hiked up his ankle-length kilt, and plopped down. 'Ahhhh. Good, clean air, with no stench of fear.'
Bak sat down beside him. 'I've much compassion for Lieutenant Amonhotep and mistress Khawet, but those in the household banned from the governor's private rooms appear to be functioning in a reasonably normal manner.'
'You've made it clear you believe Djehuty's the target of this madman, and it's obvious he agrees. The guards are jumpy-as they should be. The servants, while spending an excess of time whispering among themselves and peering over their shoulders, are carrying on quite well, all things considered. They'd feel better with you and your men in the house, but they know of Khawet's ban.'
Bak's voice turned flinty. 'Ban or not, we'll be there on the crucial tenth day. I'll not let Djehuty die to satisfy
