wife grew to womanhood near here.” His expectations were small-the prince and his family had dwelt in Ma’am for at least ten years-but a minute step forward was better than no progress at all.
Woser nodded. “In the lower city, where her parents still live.”
Nebwa bade them good-bye and hastened away.
“She’s a child of Iken?” Bak asked, surprised. “I know the prince was a man of Kemet deep down in his heart, but
I’d’ve thought he’d wed a woman of Wawat, one who shared his noble blood.”
“So she does.” Woser slipped around his chair, removed the giraffe skin, and rolled it carefully. Sitting down, he laid it across his lap. “She was his cousin, the daughter of his father’s brother. Her father is headman of a local tribe that long ago moved into the lower city, during the time the Kushites ruled. When the Kushite army fled, they chose to remain, and our sovereign at the time saw no reason to throw them from homes safe within the fortress walls.”
Bak smiled, appreciative of the prince’s political acumen.
“She must’ve seemed an ideal match to Baket-Amon. A cousin and at the same time a woman who knew well the people of Kemet and our customs.”
“So he may have believed at the beginning, but her father is an old-fashioned man, one who retains the traditions of his people. For my part, I’ve come to appreciate his un bending honesty, his forthrightness. But Baket-Amon could scarcely go through the motions. His heart lay in the mod ern world, not the past.”
“I knew he kept his family in Ma’am. He preferred, I suppose, that they fall under the viceroy’s influence, not that of his wife’s father.”
“The instant they wed, he took her away. The old man wasn’t happy, but what could he do?”
What indeed? Bak sipped from his bowl, thinking of a woman torn from her family and her home, thinking of
Seshu’s talk of her irrationality. “What kind of woman is she?”
“On the surface, she’s shy and retiring. Underneath she’s as hard as granite and as unyielding.” The patter of sandals drew Woser’s eyes to the door, but whoever was outside walked on by. “I believe the people you’ve seen standing along the river, watching your caravan, are there to register disapproval of Amonked’s mission. But her thoughts may travel a different path, one meant to avenge her husband’s death. If so, she’ll take advantage of her people’s unsettling vigil, using their actions to serve her own purpose. And she’ll not relent until she gets her way.”
“Until Baket-Amon’s slayer is snared and punished.”
Feeling entangled by necessity, Bak stood up and paced the length of the room. “The local people need the army.
They’ve nothing to gain by totally alienating Amonked.
How far, do you think, are they willing to go to satisfy a woman’s quest for revenge?”
“I can’t say.” Woser lifted his drinking bowl, swirled the deep red liquid around inside. “I suggest you contact the old headman Rona, who lives in a village not far downriver from the fortress of Askut. He’s a man of great good sense, one who has much influence all along the river between here and Askut.”
“I’ll do so.” Bak returned to his stool but could not bear to sit. “Baket-Amon was known in Buhen, in Waset, and elsewhere as a man with a strong appetite for the delights of the flesh.”
“The tales of his behavior have not escaped my atten tion,” Woser said in a wry voice. “And no, he did not flaunt his desires here. His father-in-law demanded he show re spect, and he did. Each time he came, he displayed unpar alleled virtue. The reason he seldom blessed us with his presence, I suspect.”
The torch sputtered, barely drawing Bak’s glance. “Like you, others must’ve heard of his carousing. How were the stories received?” He could guess the answer and Woser proved him right.
“He was admired exceedingly.”
“Have you heard any guesses about the reason for his death?”
“All who dwell here lay the blame at Amonked’s feet.
Other reasons have long since been lost to the one they wish to believe.”
Bak strode through the south gate, bidding good night to the sentry posted there. As the heavy wooden doors thud ded shut behind him, he hurried along the sandy lane at the base of the outer wall. The air was still and cool. The moon was a sliver and the stars stingy with their light, making the night dark and uninviting. He wished he had thought to get a torch from the sentry. At least he had had the good sense to borrow a tunic and a long cloak that he had secured with a bronze pin and wrapped tightly around himself. With only his right arm bared below the elbow, he felt rather like a man wrapped for eternity.
The lane, well-traveled in the daytime, was deserted at so late an hour. Some creature of the night, a rat most likely, dashed across Bak’s path, and he heard the flapping wings and eerie hoot of an owl. A cough high above marked the location of a sentry on the battlements, but when he looked up the high, towered wall, turned an ashy gray by the feeble light, he saw no one.
He hastened on, thinking of his talk with Woser and of how little he had gleaned of Baket-Amon. His reunion with the commander and the other officers who had peeked in to greet him had in part made up for the paucity of infor mation.
Ahead, a patch of black marked the place where the cliff face fell away, forming the steep cut through the escarp ment that would take him down to the lower city. If only he could find a satisfactory reason for the prince’s death.
Look to the woman, he had been told when first he had been assigned to stand at the head of the Medjay police, and Nefret was a most desirable woman. Yet he was not entirely satisfied that she was sufficient cause for murder.
Perhaps, he admitted to himself, because accepting her as a reason made Amonked the most likely slayer.
He entered the cut and headed downward. Each step he took stole away more of the meager light, forcing him to slow his pace and concentrate on where he placed his feet.
As the walls closed around him, the darkness was nearly complete, leaving smudges of black in a world of lesser black.
A few paces ahead, something dislodged a rock. Bak’s senses sharpened, but his step did not falter. He had no reason to fear; Iken was as safe as Buhen. Few men knew him here, none who carried a grudge. And though he hated to admit it, no one in Amonked’s party had reason to wish him injury. He was much too far from learning the truth about Baket-Amon’s death. Nonetheless, he freed his right arm to the shoulder and patted his side, reassured by the feel of his dagger inside the cloak.
A stone clattered. A large, solid object, the body of a man, struck him hard from the side, tearing away his sense of well-being. He lost his balance. Struggling to loosen the cloak and free his left arm, fumbling for the pin that held the garment together, he went down, hitting the ground with a solid thump. The man fell on top of him, knocking the breath from him, and struck him hard in the side with a fist. Bak lay quite still, stunned by the blow and by the realization that he was under attack.
Collecting his wits, he flailed his legs and twisted his body, hoping to throw off his assailant. The man struck him again, the blow grazing his shoulder, and at the same time struggled to remain on top. The cloak, wrapped so close around him, hampered Bak’s attempts to free himself, confining him to a few ineffectual blows, but also hindered the other man’s efforts to hold on to him, to strike a telling blow.
They began to roll, the steep slope carrying them down ward, with one man on top and then the other. While his assailant tried with limited success to pummel him and to stop their downward plunge, Bak fought the cloak, franti cally trying to rid himself of the wretched thing. His dagger was within easy reach-he felt it each time he rolled over it-but he could not get to it.
They struck with a solid thud a boulder at the side of the path, knocking the air from Bak’s lungs and releasing the man’s grip on a fold of fabric. Bak tried to scramble up, but his ungainly wrap confined his legs. Frustrated, angry, he gave up on the cloak and swung his free fist at his assailant. Unable to see in the impenetrable darkness, the blow struck at an angle, losing its power. His attacker rose to his knees, indistinct, slightly less dark than the night.
Bak fleetingly glimpsed a shard of light-metal, he thought, or glass-and rolled. He felt across the top of his left shoulder the sudden warmth of his own blood.
