endeavor. I can’t imagine anyone disliking him so.”
They parted at the caravan, Sennefer hurrying forward and Bak remaining behind to think. He had learned nothing new, but the information he had gained from the nobleman had reinforced his earlier thoughts. Baket- Amon’s major claims to fame were sexual prowess and hunting skills, both volatile pastimes that might lead to murder.
As for Sennefer, he had appeared at first to be aloof, distant, but time and the discomfort of the long, dusty trek had made him more approachable, more human. Bak rather liked him but he did not delude himself. The man could as easily have slain Baket-Amon as anyone else in the in spection party. Still, he had no apparent reason for murder.
Unless the friendship he claimed to have had with Baket Amon was a complete fabrication.
Bak found Nebwa with Lieutenant Merymose farther back along the caravan. They were walking far enough away from the column to avoid the worst of the dust, keep ing pace with a string of donkeys carrying sacks of grain.
“I admit I’m worried.” Merymose looked off toward the river, his face gloomy. “If I had any say in the matter, I’d recommend to Amonked that we remain at Iken. I’ve been told the outer wall surrounds a huge area, with plenty of open space to accommodate a caravan of this size.”
“We can’t stay there forever.” Nebwa pointed toward a small group of men standing outside a serpentine wall that held the sand back from a cluster of small houses near the river. “Those people won’t give up their vigil until Amon ked leaves Wawat.”
Merymose turned to Bak. “We need remain only until you snare the man who took Baket-Amon’s life.”
“I appreciate your faith in my ability, Lieutenant, but what would we do if I never identify the slayer?” Bak shook his head. “No. We must either go on to Semna or return to Buhen. Which Amonked will never do.”
“I suspect the guards under my command would be use less if they had to fight a battle.”
“The people here want justice, and I can’t say I blame them,” Bak said, “but they’d be decimated if they aroused the wrath of our sovereign. That knowledge alone should prevent an attack.”
He exchanged a glance with Nebwa. Both men knew that if the local people ever banded together with no true leader, forming a mob, they would be impossible to control.
Twenty men with bows would fall before them in an in stant.
“If I could just stand up to Lieutenant Horhotep!” Mery mose’s shoulders slumped. “I dare not. He’d destroy me, telling a tale of insubordination to the senior guard officer in the royal house.”
Nebwa eyed the young officer, his face thoughtful.
“Dedu and his archers are alert and ready for action, but should trouble arise, they’d need help. He taught your men to set up camp, now let him train them in the arts of war.”
“Would he do that?” Merymose asked, his gloom lifting.
“I can think of nothing I’d like better.” His voice turned rueful. “He’d have to train me, too.”
“Easily done.”
“Troop Captain Nebwa!” Horhotep, who had come up behind them as silent as a stalking cat, raked his eyes across
Bak and Merymose. Dismissing the lesser officers with a curled lip, he said, “Lieutenant Merymose is a promising officer, but he’s young and green. You must look to me for decisions, not him.”
Nebwa’s expression turned stormy-as the adviser had intended, Bak felt sure. Horhotep had early on taken the troop captain’s measure, he guessed, and decided he could prod and poke until the senior officer grew so angry he would perform some imprudent act. An act the adviser could use later to discredit Nebwa and use to his own ad vantage.
“Lieutenant Horhotep!” Bak said in the same brusque voice the adviser had used. “I’ve been told you knew Prince
Baket-Amon.” A falsehood, but a likely guess.
Horhotep gave him a caustic look. “You mean to ques tion me about the man’s death?”
“You were in the dwelling where and when he was slain.” Bak surreptitiously signaled Nebwa and Merymose to slip away. “Why would I think you any less a suspect than Amonked and the others who were there?”
“Amonked?” Horhotep looked incredulous. “He’s our sovereign’s cousin!”
“Did you ever go hunting with Baket-Amon?” Bak asked, careful not to look at the two officers hurrying away.
“I did.” Horhotep sniffed. “Why our sovereign thought he should be invited, I’ll never know. A minor prince of
Wawat, a tributary land of no worth.”
If the land is so worthless, Bak thought, why are you here? “They say he was skilled with weapons above all others.”
“Bah! A tale once told to make him seem special, and told again and again by men who never saw him with a spear in his hand or an arrow on the fly.”
“I see,” Bak said, and he did. The adviser reeked of envy.
Horhotep suddenly noticed that Nebwa and Merymose had gone. He glared at their backs, far up the line of don keys.
“Were you ever with the prince when he sought sexual comfort?” Bak asked.
The adviser tore his eyes from the fleeing pair and gave
Bak a scathing look. “Come now, Lieutenant. I’m far more selective than he was. I prefer refinement to the coarseness of a harbor-side house of pleasure.”
Bak had had about all he could take, but stubbornness and necessity kept him going. He walked slowly toward the caravan. “I’m not talking about the young women who toil in places of business in the capital. I’m speaking of the women made available on hunting trips organized on behalf of our sovereign.”
“I took no part in that,” Horhotep said stiffly.
“Then you must’ve been invited along as some lofty of ficial’s aide.”
Color flooded Horhotep’s face and he sputtered, “You…
You…” Taking hold of himself, he snarled, “You’re wast ing your time questioning me or anyone else in Amonked’s party. When you return to Buhen, you’ll find the slayer already caught, someone who came into our quarters to steal.”
Giving Bak no time to answer, he stepped through the line of donkeys, placing the animals between them, and hastened toward the front of the column.
“Neatly done, Lieutenant,” said Captain Minkheper, who had been walking behind them unseen. “He may never for give you for seeing through his facade of self-importance.”
“So be it.” Bak shrugged off his irritation and smiled.
“With luck, I’ll discover he’s the man who slew Baket Amon.”
Minkheper knelt beside a foal to scratch its muzzle. “I don’t see how anyone could slay a man with so many peo ple living in such close confines, whether he spent the night there or sneaked in from outside.”
“No one sneaked in,” Bak said with certainty. “The slayer was already in the house.”
“For a man to take such a risk, he’d have to’ve had a most compelling reason.”
“Agreed, but what it was I’ve no idea. Not yet, at any rate. Other than the lovely Nefret, none has shown itself, and looking at her is like looking at one grain of sand in a desert. From what I’ve heard, Baket-Amon took his plea sure at any time or any place, especially in the capital where a man of wealth can satisfy the most demanding of tastes.”
Nonetheless, he must look closer at Amonked. As reluc tant as he was to think of the inspector as a murderer-to face the consequences if Maatkare Hatshepsut’s cousin should prove to be guilty-he could not turn his back on the possibility. As slight as it seemed at present, no other likely suspects had presented themselves.
Distant barking drew Bak’s attention. An archer walking apart from the caravan stopped to look up a long, broad sandy valley that came out of the western desert between rugged clumps of craggy hills. A half-dozen feral dogs were racing down the valley, veering to left and right, nipping at the heels of a yellow cur. No, they were nipping at some thing dragging behind the cur.
He hurried to the archer’s side and they stood together, watching the pack draw close. The nearest drovers, plod ding with their donkeys past the wadi mouth, stopped to look. The yellow dog ran as if for its very life, either
