oasis to the tombs. If others existed, they lay out of sight around the curve of the hill. Bak could see no sign of life, but the distance was great and segments of terrace were concealed behind mounds of debris excavated by ancient tunnelers.
Kasaya, eyeing the extensive golden slope, shook his head in wonder. 'Funny place for a woman to go.'
'A good place to be alone,' Psuro said.
Manning the rudder, Bak eased the skiff through a cluster of partially submerged boulders guarding the tip of the island. He wondered why Khawet had chosen the tombs as her destination. She must have realized after talking with Amethu that he and his Medjays would be hot on her trail. Yet rather than run away in search of freedom, she had sought refuge in-the dwellings of her ancestors, a place not easy to reach, but reachable.
'I hope that skiff is hers,' he said, 'and if so, I hope she didn't abandon it at the river's edge to lead us astray.' The words were like water thrown on a fire, quenching his companions' optimism. Psuro rowed grim-faced and with purpose. Kasaya stared at the distant craft as if willing it to keep its promise that Khawet was close by. Clearing the boulders, Bak swung their vessel diagonally across the current, his eyes on the steep, sandy incline and the terraces above. The deserted boat lay midway along the row of visible tombs, giving no clue as to which of the stairways she might have climbed.
The river whispered beneath their speeding hull. The oars sliced through the water with barely a splash. A fish leaped in front of them and landed with a smack. Gentle swells glistened in the sunlight, reflecting the clear blue sky and the golden slope above the far shore. The hill drew closer, its incline looked steeper, its height more impressive. A falcon soared high in the sky above. The lord Horus, watching, waiting.
As they neared the beached skiff, Kasaya shaded his eyes with a hand to take another, better look. 'The vessel is Ineni's,' he stated. 'See that broad scratch on the hull? It's his ahight.'
Their prow bumped earth under the water, throwing the young Medjay to his knees, and momentum carried them onto the muddy shore. They leaped out and drew the craft up beside Ineni's. Bak distributed the weapons, giving the bow and quiver to Psuro, a more skilled archer than he or Kasaya. A path invited them into the tamarisk grove. Beyond, a patchwork of garden plots arced around the base of the hill, each plot separated from the others by irrigation channels shaded by palms, tamarisks, and acacias. An ox lowed, drawing their eyes to a faroff field. The creature, led by a small boy, was pulling a plow guided by his father, while another child walked behind, sowing seeds. Nothing else stirred, neither man nor beast, not uncommon at this time of day.
Walking on narrow ridges alongside the ditches, they hurried to the base of an ancient staircase rising up the hill. The slope was smooth, the steps blanketed with untrampled sand. From the water, they had seen two other stairways ascending to the southern end of the burial place. They hastened in that direction, walking one moment on the sand and the next on the cultivated land, sometimes with one foot in each. Insects and reptiles, frightened by their passage, darted beneath boulders that had tumbled from above to lie along the edge of the fields. Fallen giants resting.
Kasaya loped on ahead to the closest of the two stairways. 'Someone's climbed up here,' he called.
Bak and Psuro hurried to join him. The footprints, shapeless indentations, rose up a long and steep flight of. steps covered much of the way with sand. Enough remained bare to see that the ancient staircase consisted of two parallel flights of steps separated by a low ramp up which heavy coffins had been drawn many generations earlier. A kneehigh wall set the stairway apart from the hillside.
The three men stared upward. Psuro whistled softly between his teeth. Kasaya muttered something in his own tongue, impossible to understand. Bak stood silent and still, awed by the determination that had driven Khawet to the top. If the prints were hers.
Psuro knelt to examine the indentations. 'The breeze hasn't worn away the sharp edges. I'd say they're fresh.' Bak studied the terraces above. He did not like the silence, the utter lack. of life. Was Khawet standing somewhere out of sight, determined to fend off any man who approached? Or was she on her knees in some ancestor's house of eternity, making a final offering before she gave herself up? Or had she brought along a vial of poison, meaning to take her own life? He turned around to scan the oasis and added another possibility. Was she even now making her way to the two skiffs drawn up at the water's edge?
'Psuro, you must hurry to the river and set sail, towing mistress Khawel s vessel behind ours. Keep a wary eye on shore. Let no one else set out. I'd not like to be stranded here while she makes her escape.'
'But, sir!' The Medjay pointed at the terraces, clearly unhappy with what he considered a lesser assignment. 'You might need me up there.'
'Your task is as necessary as mine. Go!'
'Yes, sir.' Psuro swung around, too quick for Bak to catch his expression, and stalked away.
Bak turned to the younger Medjay, the hard look on his face brooking no argument. 'You, Kasaya, will remain here, while I climb up to the terraces and look for her there. If I find her and she attempts to flee, I want you here to snare her.'
Kasaya's mouth tightened in objection, but he nodded compliance.
Bak eyed his spear and shield, tempted to leave them behind and go armed with only his dagger. The heavy shield aggravated the ache in his shoulder, both it and the spear would be awkward during the climb, and the latter would be close to useless until he reached the terrace. But he had badly underestimated Khawet before, never once considering her a suspect, and he knew better than to do so again. Resigned to the discomfort, he nodded a curt good-bye to the young Medjay and headed up the stairs on the right side of the center ramp.
He was accustomed to long, steep, and arduous stairways, having climbed many in the fortresses of Wawat. Thinking the effort here no different, he started out fast and confident, treading in the footprints of the one who had gone before him and looking up at his ultimate goal more often than at his feet. A mistake, he learned at the sixth step, one that could have had grave consequences. He took a quick step up, but the stair was not there, the stone broken. His foot came down hard, jarring his teeth, pitching him forward onto a knee.
He growled a curse.
'Are you alright, sir?' Kasaya called.
'Fine.' Bak brushed the grit from his skinned flesh and climbed on, his pace slower, his eyes on his feet much of the time, paying more heed to where he placed them.
The staircase was old, treacherous, the steps uneven and broken, and at times inconsistent in height. Buried in sand as they were, hidden from view, he stubbed his toes, stumbled on shattered stones that rocked beneath his weight, and stepped into holes of varying depths. The windblown sand was slippery, flowing downhill at the slightest disturbance, threatening to carry him with it. No longer trusting the earlier footprints, he began to probe the steps with the spear, using the butt end to locate irregularities.
The higher he climbed, the more conscious he became of the long way down to the bottom. With the sand as slippery as wet river mud, the gradient steep, and the hill denuded of outcrops, offering nothing to grab hold of, he could imagine himself sliding, falling, tumbling head over heels like a ball, coming to rest at Kasaya's feet, looking the fool. Worse, he might break an arm, a leg, his back.
Shaking off the thought, he plodded on, dogged in his determination. His leg muscles tightened, prelude to a cramp. Pain nagged his shoulder. The sun beat down, heating the sand beneath his feet. Sweat beaded on his forehead and rivulets flowed down his chest. He passed the halfway point, neared the three-quarter mark. Why, he wondered, had he not had the good sense to send Kasaya on this infernal mission?
Without warning, a rumbling sounded above him. His eyes, which had been locked on the next step, snapped upward. A boulder, poised on the upper edge of the stairway, pitched forward. Kasaya yelled, his words meaningless in the instant of shock. The heavy stone landed on a lower step, bounced, struck another step, bounced a second time. Another bounce and it would be upon him.
With no time to think, barely time to react, Bak leaped to the side, hurdling the low stone wall, and landed in the sand beside the staircase. Immediately he began to slide downhill. His feet skidded-out from under him, the spear flew from his hand, and he fell on a hip. Khawet, he was sure. She had shoved the boulder off the terrace. She had meant him to die. Anger struck him and with it a rock-hard determination not to give her the satisfaction.
Aware he risked tearing his flesh to shreds, he shifted the shield from left hand to right, held it hard against his side, and flung himself toward the low wall. His sandal skidded along the stones, and the shield bumped the rough surface, making it hard to hold. Digging the heel of his other foot into the sand, using it as both brake and rudder, he brought his downhill plunge under control. Much sooner than he dared hope, he mercifully stopped.
Catching his breath and at the same time scrambling to his knees, he looked upward. Khawet stood at the
