would be found outside of Amonked’s party. “The succes sion has never been an issue. He had a young son, whose mother will serve as regent, and other, younger sons of the same woman.”
“He was very loyal to Kemet, I’ve been told. Would anyone have wished him dead in order to tear this part of
Wawat out of our sovereign’s grasp?”
“Certainly not the kings of Kush who dwell beyond our southern frontier. Many years ago, the powerful kingdom centered in Kerma was crushed by Ahkheperkare Thut mose, and it’s now fragmented into a number of smaller, weaker kingdoms. Each thrives on the trade passing be tween Kemet and the lands farther south. Who would jeop ardize that? As for the people who dwell here in Wawat, they need us just as we need them.”
Unable to offer another option, Thaneny fell silent. His expression was glum, as was Pawah’s, neither wanting to believe the prince had been slain by someone close to them.
“Have you been with Amonked for long?” Bak asked.
“Four years.” Thaneny, looking relieved at the change of subject, shifted position. He had trouble bending the dam aged knee. “Since I was hurt in an accident at our sover eign’s new memorial temple across the river from the capital. A weakened rope, a stone sliding out of control…”
His voice tailed off, leaving the rest to the imagination.
Bak nodded his understanding. He had grown to man hood near the southern capital of Waset, where men toiled year after year on the mansions of the gods and the tombs and memorial temples of royalty. Raised by his physician father, he had grown accustomed to seeing men crippled and maimed or hearing of men killed by heavy stones fall ing while being lifted into place or scaffolds collapsing or mounds of sand or rocks sliding out of control. “And the lord Amon chose to smile upon you.”
“The god, yes, and Amonked.” Thaneny flashed a grate ful look toward the pavilion. “He’d come to the temple that day to see how the work progressed. He saw the stone lifted off me and the way my leg was crushed, and he had me carried to a royal physician. Later, while I lay drugged and senseless, he took me to his home where his servants could care for me. I came close to death, they tell me, and I spent many days unable to get off my sleeping pallet.”
No wonder he’s so devoted to Amonked, Bak thought.
Few men with so serious an injury would have survived.
Only constant and dutiful care could have kept him alive and a bright, clean house instead of a hovel.
“My debt to Amonked grew each day.” The scribe glanced again toward the pavilion and the shadows flitting across the lighted walls. “I couldn’t walk, but I could read and write. As soon as I could sit erect, he allowed me to read to his children and to teach them. When I learned to walk on crutches, he took me into his office.”
“There you’ve been ever since?”
Thaneny’s voice pulsed with emotion. “I can never repay him. Never. He gave me my life.”
“Must you dwell on the past, Thaneny?” Amonked stood at the corner of the pavilion, baton of office in hand, mouth pursed in disapproval. “You’ve long since repaid me with your competence, your honesty, your loyalty. You offend me by thinking otherwise.”
The scribe bowed his head. “Yes, sir.”
A frustrated sigh burst from Amonked’s lips. He greeted
Bak with a nod and beckoned Pawah. “Come. I wish to speak with the caravan master.”
The boy’s eyes lit up and he leaped to his feet.
When they were well out of hearing distance, Bak re turned to the purpose for which he had come. “Did you see
Baket-Amon the morning he was slain?”
“No, sir.” The answer came fast and firm, with no hes itation betraying doubt.
Bak gave him a sharp look. “You knew him, I see.”
“I did, yes.” Thaneny noticed Bak’s heightened interest and his voice turned wry. “We were far from intimate, Lieutenant. I’m a servant and he was a man of substance.”
Bak doubted the scribe spent much time in the royal house. Other than errands, Amonked would have no need to send him there. He would be more useful in his master’s home in Waset or on his country estate-or estates. “How did you meet him? Where?”
The scribe hesitated, his reluctance to answer apparent.
“I’ll learn the truth, Thaneny, with or without your help.”
The scribe took a long time answering. “Two years ago, or was it three? He took a liking to mistress Nefret. He…
Well, I don’t know if you, who dwell here in his homeland, ever heard tales of his exploits in Waset. But he was a man who loved women. Many women.”
“Wawat was also his playground,” Bak assured him.
“Then you know he wasn’t one to give up easily.”
“I’ve heard no tales of Baket-Amon pursuing a woman who offered no encouragement.”
“Mistress Nefret gave him none. I swear she didn’t.” The protest was made with the intensity of a zealot. “Nonethe less, he came often to Amonked’s house, thinking to attract her attention.”
Nefret was lovely, Bak granted, but would beauty alone have been sufficient to draw the prince away from more fruitful pursuits? “Did he catch her eye?”
“She’s a good girl, honest and loyal, and she knows she owes Amonked everything. At times she isn’t happy, and now and again they quarrel, but her father-a minor no bleman with no wealth to speak of-committed her to him, and she vowed to live up to their agreement. Since she’s shared his bed, many young men have paraded before her.
She’s looked at none of them.”
A strong avowal of unwavering fidelity. Enough to make
Bak weary-and arouse suspicion. “Did she ever acknowl edge the prince’s pursuit?”
“I doubt she even noticed him.”
Bak bestowed upon the scribe a long, skeptical look.
Thaneny did not so much as flinch. His admiration for the woman, his adoration, was unshakable. “Did Amonked know of Baket-Amon’s interest in mistress Nefret and of his many visits?”
“No, sir!” Thaneny eyed Bak furtively, realized another answer had come too fast, and hastened to explain. “When we’re in residence in Waset, he goes each day to the royal house and continues on to the warehouses of the lord
Amon. He returns in the late afternoon, when he summons me to his private reception room to discuss the business of the day. The women are alone much of the time, left to their own resources.”
The lord Amon spare me, Bak thought. Amonked may have been away much of the time, but the servants were there. Men and women who would keep their master in formed. And a wife who might resent the lovely young concubine and wish her harm. Amonked most certainly knew the prince had come too often to the house, his intent not entirely honorable.
As Bak walked past the far side of the pavilion, retracing his earlier footsteps, he heard a woman’s quiet sobbing.
Nefret. Other than her servant, she was probably alone.
What better time to ask her of what Thaneny had unwit tingly hinted?
He walked to the entry portal, lifted the cloth, and peered inside. The maid Mesutu huddled close to a lighted brazier, hugging herself, staring at the burning fuel. She was a pic ture of abject misery. Listening to the sobbing woman be yond the flimsy wall would certainly not help to improve her outlook.
“I’ve come to see your mistress,” Bak said.
The girl looked up, startled. Recognition touched her face and she scrambled to her feet. She hurried to the hang ings dividing the space, patted the linen until she found a place where two edges of fabric came together, and slipped through. The sobbing stopped, replaced by soft murmurs.
Mesutu came back. “She’ll see you. Please seat your self.”
After sitting outside with Thaneny, he thought the pa vilion warm and cozy, the pillow on which he sat luxurious.
The girl brought him a jar of beer and a stemmed bowl from which to drink the brew. She set a shallow bowl
