tigation into the prince’s death, the inspection party might well be attacked and vanish forever.” He was exaggerating.
At least, he thought so. Nebwa must have agreed, for he looked straight ahead, carefully avoiding Bak’s glance.
Amonked, looking thoughtful, picked up Thuty’s letter and read through it a second time. Unconvinced, or only partially so, he said, “All right, you may stay. Both of you.
But I must warn you: the least interference in my inspection and you’ll return to Buhen.”
Bak breathed an imperceptible sigh of relief. “A decision you’ll not regret, sir. If the local people believe you’re sup porting our investigation, you’ll be far more apt to win their confidence.”
Nebwa stood up. “Now that that’s settled, I must go speak to Seshu. He’ll need to know of Baket-Amon’s death and of the twenty-two additional men who’ll be traveling south with the caravan.”
“I’ll be frank with you, sir,” Bak said, watching Nebwa hurry toward the animal enclosure.
Amonked knelt outside the pavilion entryway to scratch his dog’s head. “More forthright than before? I find that hard to believe.” His voice was as dry as dust.
Was the man teasing? Bak wondered. Could he possibly have a sense of humor? “Two days ago, I pleaded with
Baket-Amon to go see you, to explain how important the presence of the army is to the land of Wawat. He refused.
Then I saw him yesterday and asked him a second time.
Again, he refused. I believed that to be his final word, but when I found him lifeless in the dwelling you occupied, I couldn’t help but think he reversed his decision.”
“And you feel responsible for his death.” Amonked stood erect; a humorless smile flitted across his face. “I can assure you, you’ve no need. He didn’t come to see me.”
“How can you be sure?”
“I never left the house until we departed for the harbor.
I spent much of the time in the room next to the one where he was slain. Mistress Nefret, my concubine, was unhappy, begging to return to Waset. Anyone who entered the build ing would’ve heard her-and probably me.” Amonked grimaced his distaste. “Between her tantrum and a confu sion among the sailors as to the order in which to take the furnishings and to which ship they should be delivered, I found it impossible to remain calm and soft- spoken.”
Though Amonked seemed always to keep himself under tight control, the explanation made sense. The inspection party was not cared for as well as one would expect, with a minimum of servants and inefficiency and ineptitude on the part of sailors and guards. The latter, in fact, had not yet managed to set up camp and the lord Re was rapidly approaching the western horizon. Even now, Bak could hear them squabbling as to the best way to ward off snakes: incantation as opposed to laying a rope on the ground around each man’s sleeping mat in the belief that the rep tiles would not cross the low barrier.
“How well did you know Baket-Amon?” he asked.
A pack of feral dogs raced across the campsite, barking at a cat speeding just out of harm’s way. Amonked’s dog shot to its feet. The inspector grabbed its collar before it, too, could give chase. The animal whined and struggled to get away, but he held on tight. “He was an envoy to the royal house. I saw him when he came to pay his respects to our sovereign or when he reported to the vizier. We were by no means friendly.”
Bak thought he heard a faint harshness in the inspector’s voice, a tension, but his face revealed nothing. “He spoke of his past coming back to taunt him. Do you have any idea what he might’ve been talking about?”
“I’ve never been good at guessing what lies in another man’s heart, Lieutenant.” Amonked swept aside the cloth covering the entryway and stepped inside, half choking the struggling dog. “I must dictate the results of our inspection of this fortress while my impressions are fresh.”
Bak held his ground. “If I’m to lay hands on Baket Amon’s slayer, I’ll need the cooperation of every member of your party. Will you see that they help me, sir?”
“I’ll tell them of your mission, yes, and I’ll suggest they cooperate. How willing they’ll be, I have no idea. That, I suspect, will be up to you.” Amonked dropped the cloth behind him, leaving Bak standing by himself in the sun shine.
Quashing an urge to shake the inspector until his teeth rattled, Bak strode toward the commanding officer’s quar ters. He had to send a message to Thuty, reporting that he and Nebwa had Amonked’s reluctant permission to remain with the caravan and investigate the murder. As for the inspector himself, what could he report? The man was like a boulder, solid and difficult to move. That he and Baket Amon had crossed paths in the past, Bak was certain, and neither man had come away content. Could their differ ences have been so serious that Amonked- cousin to Maat kare Hatshepsut herself-had slain the prince? Bak shuddered at the possibility.
“I hate this place! This wild and unruly land of Wawat!”
Nefret, Amonked’s concubine, blinked back angry tears.
“Amonked is a good and gentle man. One who’d never knowingly hurt anyone. I can’t think why he wished me to come.”
Bak had trouble holding back a smile. He had a good idea why the inspector had brought the young woman along. About twenty years of age, she was one of the most sensuous creatures he had seen since coming to Wawat close on two years earlier. Her firm breasts, narrow waist, and rounded hips, covered but not concealed by a white linen sheath, vied in beauty with those of the lady Hathor.
Large black eyes, long thick lashes, and wide, seductive lips adorned an oval face framed by a mass of black hair that cascaded around her shoulders. He prayed she’d stay inside the pavilion. Should the troops assigned to Kor see her, he feared a riot. Aware Amonked was sharing his eve ning meal with the commander of Kor, he had decided he must meet the other members of the inspector’s traveling household, especially the woman. The sobbing he had heard earlier hinted at discontent, and discontent often led to a failure to guard one’s tongue.
“His traveling ship is a prison. A benevolent prison, to be sure, but, oh, so confining!” She drew her legs beneath her, fluffed up the mound of pillows at her back, and re clined against them. “He equipped the vessel with every comfort, but to sail up the river day after day, with no diversions except a few ugly fortresses and a multitude of villages too small and poor and filthy to visit was an abom ination. I thought, once we reached the viceroy’s residence in Ma’am, that I could at least talk to a few women and maybe visit a decent market.” Her laugh was bitter, close to a whimper. “How wrong I was.”
“Mistress, please…” The maid, a girl of twelve or so years whose youthful form had just begun to blossom, hov ered at Nefret’s side, a mirror in one hand, an ivory comb in the other. A small wooden chest containing cosmetics and hair ornaments stood open on the mat at her feet.
“Go away, Mesutu.” Nefret frowned at the girl. “Go fetch us some wine. Some honey cakes, too.”
The girl threw a helpless look at the scribe seated on the floor at the opposite end of the pavilion, laid mirror and comb beside the box, and hastened through the wall of fab ric that separated the sleeping quarters from the more public area.
“The viceroy’s wife was not there. She’d sailed north to the fortress of Kubban to assist her daughter in childbirth.”
Nefret picked up the mirror, glanced at her image, and screwed up her nose in distaste. “The women who were there talked of nothing but their dreary lives in that dreary fortress.” She laid the mirror on the floor mat, sniffed back tears. “As for Buhen… Well, it was no better. I had to remain in that dreadful house.” She flashed a bitter look at the scribe. “And now, I must stay here. Where it’s safe, they tell me.”
The scribe stared unhappily at the scroll spread across his lap.
“After his meeting with Commandant Thuty,” Nefret went on, “Amonked issued an order that we not socialize with the officers and their families while he inspects the fortresses along the Belly of Stones.” Her voice rang with frustration. “I can’t imagine what prompted him. Did they quarrel?”
“Mistress Nefret.” The scribe, whom Bak guessed at thirty or so years, laid aside the scroll, struggled to his feet, and crossed the room, his gait heavy and off-center. Unlike most men of his profession, he wore a shorter, thigh-length kilt, probably to ease the effort of walking. A monstrous scar ran from his right ankle up his lower leg and deformed knee, to vanish beneath the garment. “You must not speak out in anger. You’ll hurt no one but yourself.”
