concerned.”
“Will it?” Bak prodded. “From what I hear, he’s a tool of our sovereign, quick to do her bidding no matter how imprudent her command.”
“He’s not!” Pawah glared. “He does what he thinks best, not what she or anyone else urges him to do.”
Thaneny stepped to the side of the lane. A dark gray donkey brayed as if thanking him for clearing its path.
“Why have you searched us out, Lieutenant? Have you con cluded that your purpose would best be served if you point a finger at Amonked as the one who slew Baket-Amon?
Do you think by baiting us we’ll blurt out some truth that’ll ease your path?”
Bak was irritated, as the scribe meant him to be. “I’ve no desire to accuse the wrong man, but I must lay hands on the prince’s slayer.” He pointed toward the people stand ing alongside the lane. “You can see for yourself the im portance of my quest.”
Pawah directed an impish grin, barely visible in the rap idly fading light, toward Thaneny. “Lieutenant Horhotep claims Commandant Thuty set those apprentices against our sailors, and he says the people who’ve been watching us along the way are curious, not threatening.”
The scribe scowled at his young friend. “The man’s every thought is addled. To quote him is to turn the truth upside down.”
“Can you not prove Horhotep the slayer?” Pawah asked
Bak, not altogether in jest.
“Would that I could,” Bak said ruefully, “but so far I’ve found nothing that speaks against him except his envy of the prince.” Noticing Thaneny shifting his weight, he sig naled that they move on. The scribe had to be exhausted after so long a day. “What can you tell me of him?”
With his master no longer the focus of Bak’s questions, the scribe answered more readily. “Horhotep never crossed
Amonked’s path, or ours, until two weeks before we left the capital. He’d served as an aide, one among many, with nothing to distinguish him from his fellows, to first one officer and then another in the royal house. The chancellor heard of our mission and recommended him to our sover eign.”
“He’s the son of a provincial governor,” Pawah said, making a face.
Bak offered a silent prayer to the lord Amon that the land of Kemet would survive in spite of the many decisions made based on a man’s birth rather than his competence.
“Does Amonked realize he’s been given an adviser who has neither ability nor knowledge?”
“He’s said nothing…” Thaneny glanced at Pawah, who shook his head. “… but he’s far more astute than most men believe.”
They walked past a sentry holding aloft a flaming torch to light an intersecting street down which the caravan was turning. The buildings here were intact, blocks of intercon nected houses inhabited by families who looked down from their rooftops, grim-faced and silent. The smells of cooking oil and fish hung in the air, along with a resentment Bak could almost touch.
He drew the pair into a side lane deeply shadowed in the twilight. “One thing I must know and I’ll trouble you no more.”
Thaneny stiffened. “I’ll not point a finger at my master.”
“You told me you doubted Nefret noticed Baket-Amon’s attentions, but she told me herself she was troubled enough to voice a protest to Amonked. You must’ve known of her complaint, yet you failed to tell me. Now how did he re act?”
“I… I don’t know.”
Bak hardened his voice. “Your lie seems a confirmation of your master’s guilt.”
“No.”
“Must I take you to the garrison and use the cudgel?”
Bak had little faith in the use of a stick, but the promise to do so more often than not produced the truth.
“Please, Thaneny!” Pawah cried.
“No.”
The boy wrung his hands, agonizing over his friend’s stubborn silence. At last, he blurted, “Before Amonked could act, Baket-Amon came to our house and…”
“Silence, child!” Thaneny commanded.
“Mesutu told me that he pushed his way into our mas ter’s private reception room,” the youth said, paying no heed. “They argued over Nefret, their exact words no one could hear. The prince stormed out and later Amonked merely laughed, making light of the quarrel.” He looked at
Bak, his eyes large and worried. “So you see, it was noth ing. Of no importance. Not worthy of a second thought.”
“How long ago was this?” Bak asked.
“I don’t know exactly. Almost two years ago, I think.”
“Did Baket-Amon ever come again?”
“No, sir.”
Bak ruffled the boy’s hair. “I value the truth, Pawah, and
I’ll not use it to Amonked’s disadvantage.”
He prayed, not for their sake alone but also for his own, that he could live up to the vow, that the inspector would prove to be the man they clearly thought he was.
“Our storage magazines are full to overflowing with trade goods, items awaiting shipment when the river floods.”
Commander Woser stood behind his armchair on the dais, his hands resting on one of the finest giraffe skins Bak had ever seen. The hide was draped over the back of the chair in a careful display designed to dazzle the eye. The light of the torch mounted by the door made the hairs glisten.
“You’ll have noticed I said nothing to Amonked. He’ll see for himself tomorrow and no doubt be impressed. I fear so large a quantity will convince him that Iken is already more a storehouse than a garrison, reinforcing the idea that only a token force remain here.”
“Tell him you await the flood and also that you’ve had reports of tribesmen lurking near the desert trail.” Nebwa stood in the center of the room, resting a shoulder against the single red column that supported the deep blue ceiling.
“Say you held back shipment until you could verify or dis prove their presence.”
“There have, in fact, been rumors that that wretched ban dit Hor-pen-Deshret has returned, but our desert patrols have seen no sign of him, nor have they come upon any unexpected gatherings of men.”
“The rumors may be true,” Nebwa said and went on to tell of the falcon at Kor and the stolen sandals. “We’ve not yet told Amonked lest we err. We don’t want Horhotep to turn an honest mistake against us.”
Woser’s mouth tightened. “Whatever we do, then, must not only convince the inspector that the army is necessary along the Belly of Stones, but we must truly protect our selves in case Hor-pen-Deshret chooses to attack.” The commander, a medium-sized man in his early forties with a slight paunch and thick, graying hair, eyed Bak. “Any suggestions, Lieutenant? I seem to recall you as a most creative man.”
Bak, who had dragged a stool into the room as soon as
Amonked departed, lifted his drinking bowl off the floor and sipped the wine, a heady red creation with a faint floral bouquet. He had come to know Woser several months ear lier, and liked him.
“I’d post guards in conspicuous places and double the number of sentries on the outer wall. At some appropriate time, I’d say additional men have been added to discourage robbery from within and attacks from without.”
Woser nodded. “Direct enough to make him think, not so forthright he’ll disbelieve.”
“Take care that that swine he calls his adviser can’t ac cuse the army of stealing.” Nebwa tossed down the remains of his wine and set the bowl on the dais. “It’s getting late and I must go to the garrison. The desert trail to the south is long and empty, and I assured Seshu I’d talk to the pa trols, learning all I can of what we might face. Are you coming, Bak?”
“I’ve a slayer to snare and…” Bak queried Woser with a glance. “… I’ve been told that Baket-Amon’s chief
