sandal.
“I’ve just talked with a drover, a former sailor who plied the waters in this area. He said, and I quote: ‘If our sov ereign thinks to build a canal through the Belly of Stones, she’s got more rocks in her head than the lord Hapi has deposited in the river between Semna and Buhen.’ ” He paused, letting a smile spread across his face. “Needless to say, she’ll hear nothing of the sort from me.”
Laughing, Bak fell in beside him. “I’ve heard she has a sense of humor, but I wouldn’t want to test the fact with a statement like that.”
Minkheper’s good spirits faded and he gave Bak a frus trated look. “I don’t doubt your drover, but I should be on the river, studying its flow firsthand.”
“Would that you could. I’d be by your side, enjoying a cool breeze and a swim. But until I lay hands on Baket Amon’s slayer, I can’t guarantee that any man in the in spection party, walking alone and unguarded, would be safe from some irate farmer.”
“Can you guarantee our safety here, on this dry and bar ren trail?” Minkheper asked, looking pointedly toward the distant figures of the desert tribesmen.
“There are few absolutes in life, sir.”
A hint of a smile touched the captain’s lips. “From what
I hear, Hor-pen-Deshret is more of a threat to the local farmers than Amonked is. I’d think they’d be grateful we’re here, deflecting his attention from them.”
“When we get closer to Askut and the river, I mean to speak with a man influential in this area. Perhaps I can convince him it would be to the people’s advantage to help us. Until then, we must wait. I dare not leave the caravan now lest the tribesmen attack out here in the open desert.
In that case, every man and weapon will be needed.”
“Can I help?”
“Speak with Nebwa. He can best tell you what needs to be done.” The captain nodded and swung around, but be fore he could get away, Bak said, “Someone suggested that
Baket-Amon patronized the houses of pleasure near the wa terfront in Waset. As you’re a seaman, I assume you visited the same establishments.”
Minkheper gave him an odd look, then chuckled. “I keep forgetting that I, along with everyone else in Amonked’s party, am suspected of murder. Each time you come to me with questions, you set me back on my heels.”
“If you’re innocent, you’ll take my queries in stride.”
Bak smiled, cutting the sting from the words.
“If?” Minkheper asked, raising an eyebrow. “You’ve surely no reason to believe I took his life.”
Bak ignored the implied question. He disliked having men fish for information while he was seining. “If you also frequent the harbor-side houses of pleasure, you must’ve bumped into him in one or another.”
“I’ve been happily wed for years, Lieutenant, and I have three concubines in various ports of call. I’ve no reason to look elsewhere for entertainment or pleasure.”
Bak recalled his recent conversation with Amonked and had trouble holding back a smile. The inspector would be appalled to learn of the captain’s many female attachments.
“You never stop for a beer or a game of chance?”
Minkheper laughed. “I must admit I’m sometimes tempted by a game of throwsticks or knucklebones, and at times I feel a need for masculine company. Not often, mind you. I get plenty of that aboard ship. But often enough that
I’ve heard tales of the prince’s exploits.”
“You never met up with him during one of those…”
Bak smiled. “… domestic lapses?”
The captain acknowledged the jest with a quick smile.
“If so, I didn’t know at the time who he was.” He paused, added, “I moor my ship more often in Mennufer than in
Waset. Its harbor is bigger, its facilities better, and its trad ing establishments more lucrative. My wife dwells there with my firstborn son and three daughters I adore.”
To a man who sailed the Great Green Sea, a preference for the more northerly port made sense. “Did you ever hear of anything Baket-Amon did in Waset that could’ve brought about his death?”
“Jokes were made that he might one day run up against an enraged husband. Otherwise, I don’t recall a thing.”
An irate husband, Bak thought glumly. Once again, the only man who came close was Amonked. Why did all signs have to point to Maatkare Hatshepsut’s cousin? Yet he seemed such an unlikely slayer, and Nefret as a reason for murder seemed more unlikely each time Bak saw them ar guing.
“Other than Lieutenant Bak and me, only Sergeant Dedu and his twenty archers are well-armed,” Nebwa reported,
“and they have a limited supply of arrows.”
His rigid stance and the edge to his voice betrayed his irritation. As the senior military officer in the caravan, he had begun to ready the men for a possible battle, giving no thought to Amonked. The inspector’s summons had caught him off guard, and nothing Bak said could convince him that he was not being called to account. As soon as the pavilion had been erected for the night, while still the don keys were being fed and watered and the men had begun to prepare their evening meal, an ill-humored Nebwa had accompanied Bak to the shelter.
“Lieutenant Merymose and his fifty guards have spears and shields,” Nebwa continued, “but they have no replace ments and no small arms, and not a man among them has had sufficient training. Of the twenty-eight drovers, sixteen are former army men, experienced with bow or spear, but only nine brought along a full complement of weapons.
One porter who brought a basket of herbs, potions, and salves has volunteered to tend any wounded we might have, and Thaneny has offered to help. The other porters have agreed to carry injured men to safety.”
Amonked, seated on his chair, his dog sprawled at his feet, gave Thaneny a look of surprised pleasure.
Bak stood with Nebwa, facing the inspector. Horhotep stood beside the chair, while the scribe, Sennefer, Min kheper, and Merymose stood off to the side. Nefret sat on a low stool in an opening in the hanging that divided the pavilion, with Pawah on the ground beside her, clasping his knees to his breast. Though the chill of night had not yet set in, a brazier burned fitfully, giving off the faint smell of dung not as thoroughly dry as it should be.
“You failed to mention Lieutenant Horhotep,” Amonked pointed out.
Nebwa’s eyes darted toward the adviser. His face re mained impassive. “I’ve yet to learn whether the lieutenant brought arms to Wawat, and I’ve no idea how skilled he is. Until proven otherwise, I must assume he’s no better trained in the arts of war than was Lieutenant Merymose.”
“Are you implying I’m unfit?” Horhotep, an angry flush spreading up his neck and face, glared at the troop captain.
“I’ll have no quarrel!” Amonked barely raised his voice, but his tone broached no argument.
Nebwa went on, unperturbed. “As I’m certain you’ve noticed, Lieutenant Bak, Sergeant Dedu, and I have begun to train Merymose and his men. Given time, they’ll become worthy soldiers.”
“I’d like to take part in that training, if I may,” Sennefer said. “I’m a fair shot with a bow, but my skills with the spear have declined. Other than the wrestling I learned as a youth, I know nothing of hand-to-hand combat.”
Amonked gave his brother-in-law a nod of approval. “I suggest you follow his example, Lieutenant Horhotep. No matter how skilled you are, the practice can do you no harm.”
“Yes, sir.” The vicious look the adviser shot Nebwa would have felled a lesser man.
Bak staved off an urge to applaud.
Nebwa blinked, betraying surprise, but kept his voice level, unemotional. “We can use our batons of office as clubs, as well as other lengths of wood too short to be used for spears, and we can make weapons from unlikely ob jects. For example, several drovers wear leather kilts, which can be cut up for use in slings and to make thongs needed for constructing maces and other small weapons. Spears can be made from poles such as the uprights that support the tents and this pavilion.”
Nefret gasped, drawing Amonked’s attention and a scowl that discouraged complaint. If the inspector himself
