Startled, suddenly afraid, knowing he could not ade quately defend himself while wrapped in the accursed cloak, he rolled downhill, all the while desperately trying to find the pin that held together what he feared would be his shroud. Try as he might, he could not locate it. The garment had shifted in the struggle, hiding the pin within its folds.
He heard a noise. Footsteps on sand. Slow. Cautious. The man coming after him, prepared no doubt to finish the task he had begun.
Bak stopped his downhill roll and sat up. He grabbed hold of the fabric close to his neck, felt the warm stickiness of blood, gritted his teeth, and jerked as hard as he could.
The cloth ripped with a shriek that to him sounded loud enough to awaken the dead. The footsteps paused. He jerked the linen again, tearing a long slit that released his left arm. Patting himself frantically around the chest, the neck, he located the pin. Tearing it free and throwing it aside, he let the tunic fall, wrenched his dagger from its sheath, and scrambled to his feet. His assailant lunged to ward him. As dark as it was, Bak somehow managed to parry the blow. He heard the clank of metal against metal, his dagger against a similar weapon. With a muffled curse, the man swung around and ran. A vague figure in the dark, an image with no face, no identity.
Snapping out an oath, Bak raced down the slope after him. His shoulder was beginning to ache, to burn, and he guessed it was still bleeding. He ignored the wound as in significant.
The man ahead was fast, but Bak gradually closed the distance between them. He reached the bottom of the cut a dozen paces back. The man sped on, racing along the broad street that continued to the harbor, with lanes branching off on both sides. The light was better, but all Bak could see was the naked back of a man wearing a thigh-length kilt.
The figure darted left into an intersecting lane. Bak found himself following a dark, narrow path with many abrupt twists and turns, many adjoining lanes. This was a district of warehouses, places of business and workshops, dwell ings, some of the buildings occupied and in good repair, others empty and crumbling. An earlier visit to Iken made it vaguely familiar, but not familiar enough. Within mo ments, the man he chased had vanished.
As Bak hurried through the dark, empty streets on his way to the caravan encampment, he puzzled over the iden tity of his assailant, a man he had barely glimpsed. Had he come from Hor-pen-Deshret, or was he the man who had slain Baket-Amon? Or was he a simple thief, a transient unable to resist the temptation offered by a lone man in the dark?
He had worn a kilt made of some light-colored fabric.
White, Bak thought, probably linen. His arms and chest had been bare; he had worn no jewelry. White linen would most likely be worn by a man of Kemet-but not necessarily. A lack of jewelry could simply mean the man had feared los ing or breaking something of value or trinkets he especially liked. Or had he worn no jewelry because he feared it would betray his identity?
Chapter Eleven
“Troop Captain!” Sennefer called. “Lieutenant!”
The tall nobleman strode toward Bak and Nebwa through the flurry of activity around the donkeys. The lead animals were already on their way, as were Nefret and Mesutu,
Pawah, Merymose, and Thaneny, the last leading Amon ked’s dog. Pashenuro nodded a farewell to the two officers and urged his string toward the outer gate.
Sennefer stepped over an odoriferous pile of manure, slapped a donkey on the flank, making it squeal, and gave the pair an amused smile. “Amonked wishes the two of you to accompany him on this morning’s inspection.”
Bak had ceased to be surprised that they were allowed to go along, but he was amazed they were actually being invited.
“What prompted that?” Nebwa asked, grinning broadly.
“All those backs turned his way as we entered the city?
The silent greeting? Troubled him, did it?”
“Perhaps he wishes to surround himself today with men of good sense.” Laughing, Sennefer swung around and walked away.
The two officers looked at each other, not quite sure what to think. Had the nobleman passed along some kind of mes sage? Or had he been making a joke at their expense?
“I’d wager a month’s rations that you were meant to die.”
Nebwa kept his voice low so the inspection party, walking down the lane ahead of them, would not hear.
“The attempt to stab me was halfhearted.” Bak also spoke softly. “You saw the wound. The dagger barely sliced through the skin.”
Nebwa eyed his friend’s left shoulder with open skepti cism. He could see nothing, for Bak was wearing a tunic to cover the bandage. Unfortunately the salve the physician had applied smelled of a musty-scented herb, which anyone who came close might notice.
“You’ve been asking too many questions. One of them must’ve struck its target.”
“I wish I knew which it was. I lay awake last night trying to think of anything I might’ve said that would plant fear in a man’s heart. I came up with nothing.”
They turned into an intersecting lane, following Sennefer and Minkheper, who in turn were walking behind Horho tep. The military adviser was trying hard to interject himself between Amonked and Commander Woser, who led the way, but the lane was too narrow to allow for three abreast.
They were in the lower city not far from the harbor, in the area where Bak’s assailant had vanished in the night.
They had seen warehouses filled with grain for the garrison; with cowhides, good-quality stone, and rare woods bound for Kemet; and with locally made pottery, export-quality linen, and a wine of unexceptional vintage bound for the land of Kush. They had just left a well-guarded building filled with jars of aromatic oils and colorful stones that would, in a few months, enhance the prestige and appear ance of those who dwelt or toiled in the royal house.
“I might simply have been the chance victim of a sneak thief,” Bak said, “a local man who thought to steal my weapons and jewelry. If he’d known who I was, he’d’ve stayed well clear.”
His friend raised an eyebrow. “Are you trying to con vince me or yourself?”
“Nebwa! I haven’t the vaguest idea who slew Baket Amon. Why would anyone wish me dead?”
“All who live in Wawat know you’ve not once failed to snare any slayer you’ve sought. That alone would drive fear into the heart of the man you seek.”
Bak rolled his eyes skyward. “The slayer came from
Waset. He’s a member of Amonked’s party. I doubt he’s heard of my so-called prowess as a hunter of men.”
“Our illustrious inspector of fortresses mentioned while in Buhen your success in laying hands on those who were smuggling elephant tusks. And Commandant Thuty vowed to sing your praises in the letter he wrote Amonked before we left Buhen. You delivered that letter yourself.”
Nebwa did not have to spell out the obvious: if Amonked knew of Bak’s successes, so, no doubt, would everyone else in his party.
“You don’t rely on hunting to supply the garrison with fowl?” Amonked asked.
“We do, yes. The river offers an abundance of birds.
Especially when the seasons change and they fly north or south in vast numbers.” Commander Woser walked out from beneath the portico, in actuality four connected lean tos with palm-frond roofs, built around the high mudbrick walls of the poultry yard. “The ducks and geese you see here are held captive for their eggs and chicks.”
Amonked eyed, in the shade of the portico, several dozen flattish, large-mouthed baked clay bowls filled with
