led directly to the police compound. He could have saved himself much time and effort if he had but known.
The man he sought sat cross-legged on the ground beneath a portico that shaded three sides of a small, open courtyard. Ten boys of eight or so years sat in two rows before him, limestone shards on their laps, writing time-honored maxims their instructor read aloud. Spotting Bak, he assigned a boy to take his place and ushered his visitor across the court to a mudbrick bench shaded by a half-dozen date palms. The breeze had strengthened further, making the fronds rattle and sending dust and dried grasses scurrying across the ground.
The priest, whom Bak guessed was in his late forties, explained that he had just returned from Djeser Djeseru. He had spent an hour or so praying for the dead and injured at the scene of the accident and had gone on to make offerings in the chapel of the lady Hathor, one of the few old structures still intact at Djeser Djeseru. The small but venerable mudbrick building would in a few years be abandoned, its goddess moved to the new and far more elegant chapel that would be an integral part of Maatkare Hatshepsut’s memorial temple.
“So the workmen decided after all not to lay down their tools.” Bak was pleased. Common sense had won out.
“Thanks to the urging of Pashed and Ramose. .”
Kaemwaset’s lips twitched, hinting at a smile. “. . and a rumor going round-spread it seems by that scribe of yours and Ramose’s son.”
Bak nodded his satisfaction, but made no comment.
The priest’s smile-if smile it had been-vanished, and worry creased his brow. “Word has traveled throughout Djeser Djeseru that you found on the cliff face signs that a man set the rocks to falling. Is it true?”
“Without doubt.”
Kaemwaset released a long, unhappy sigh. “How could any man cause so much injury and death in so heartless a fashion?”
“I don’t yet know, but I mean to find out.”
No man could mistake his determination, and the priest’s quick nod, his grim expression, signaled approval. “When we spoke yesterday I aired the official rationalization for the many accidents, the reason most often uttered among our sovereign’s allies in the mansion of the lord Amon. I could see you weren’t convinced.”
Bak eyed the priest with interest. “You use the word
“Politics are politics, Lieutenant. In order to satisfy those who must be made content, the tales and actions produced out of necessity or zeal seldom conform to reality.”
The priest was a realist, a trait Bak liked. “The theory could be true to some extent-I’ll not discount it altogether-but it’s no better than any other I’ve thought of and set aside.”
Kaemwaset shook his head as if unable to cope with the reality. “What’s becoming of this world of ours? Are the gods turning their backs to us?”
The question was unanswerable, as they both knew.
Childish laughter drew the priest’s eyes toward the boys.
“Why have you come to me, Lieutenant?”
“You often spend time at Djeser Djeseru. I’d value your thoughts, your impressions, any conclusions you may’ve reached that might help me lay hands on the man who pretends to be the malign spirit, the man who may’ve slain Montu.”
“I fear I can’t help you,” Kaemwaset said regretfully. “My task there necessarily means I stand apart from the others.”
Bak’s expression turned skeptical. “How long have you been priest to Djeser Djeseru?”
“Since construction began.”
“Five years. That’s a long time to close your eyes and ears to your surroundings.”
The priest glanced again at his charges and scowled. The boys were rocking from side to side, bumping shoulders and giggling as if the game were the funniest in the world. The youth sitting in front had his hand over his mouth, trying to smother laughter. “I’ve noticed bad feelings at Djeser Djeseru, and I’ve suspected Montu of being the culprit. If he was the troublemaker I believed him to be, would his slayer not stand among the many men he alienated?”
“A possibility I’ve not cast aside,” Bak acknowledged.
Merry laughter erupted, and Kaemwaset clapped his hands, reminding the boys he was not so far away he could not discipline them. “I’ve also noticed an uneasiness at times, and that I attributed-rightly, I suspect-to the malign spirit. I know how the poor and uneducated are, superstitious to the core, and I thought their tales the creation of their imagination. Now, it seems, I erred.”
“To a degree. The malign spirit is real, but without doubt a man.”
“I don’t disbelieve you, Lieutenant, but what do you hope to gain by airing the belief?”
“The workmen must see the truth. I want none of them so angered by the deception that they’ll go out and invite injury or death, but should I need their help, I don’t want them par-alyzed by fear.”
“I applaud your intent, but I’m not entirely convinced you’re doing the right thing. Would it not be wiser to let the man you seek believe you know nothing of him? Wiser and safer?”
“You sound like my father,” Bak said, not bothering to hide his irritation.
Kaemwaset bowed his head, acknowledging the mild re-buke. “Forgive me, sir. I’ve taught for many years and can’t resist speaking to other young people as I do to my students.”
A boy yelled. Bak’s eyes followed those of the priest. A small redheaded child had risen to his feet and gone down the row to strike a larger boy on the head with his scribal pallet. The youth Kaemwaset had left in charge grabbed the pallet, caught the boy by the ear, and forced him to return to his seat.
Bak could see he was about to lose the priest to his responsibilities. “Did you know Montu well or merely in passing?”
Kaemwaset tore his eyes from his students. “Our paths crossed at Djeser Djeseru, nowhere else. I found him a small man who believed himself large in all respects.”
“Would he take what by rights belonged to another?”
“Would he steal?” Kaemwaset appeared surprised by the thought. “Hmmm. An interesting question.” When Bak failed to explain further, he shook his head. “I can’t answer with certainty; I didn’t know him that well. If I had to make a guess, I’d say he would-if he believed he could get away free and clear. As I said before, he was a small man.”
Bak left the priest, thinking of the shard he had found in Montu’s office and the new path he had been following since. Sitre had accused the architect of having a convenient honesty. Menna thought him likely enough to be a tomb robber that he had vowed to dig deeper in search of the truth.
Kaemwaset thought him a likely thief given the proper circumstances. But had he been a thief? The shard was suggestive, but it was far from proof. True, the sketch had not been made with the same skill as the others in the basket, but that indicated only that the artist was inexperienced, not necessarily that it had been drawn by Montu.
Even if Menna did discover that Montu had been robbing the old tombs, he might not learn the names of those who had helped him or the location of the disturbed sepulchers.
Maybe later, when Hori had the time. . Well, it wouldn’t hurt to plan ahead, he decided.
A quick glance at the lord Re told him he had at least another hour before his father would sail back across the river.
He hurried around a corner, where a burst of wind caught him full force. He snapped his eyes closed and shut his mouth tight to keep out the dust blowing down the narrow lane. A few people passed him by, all rushing as he was toward a quiet and dust-free haven. Not a cat nor dog was anywhere in sight; the few donkeys allowed to stray were standing in sheltered corners, their rumps to the wind.
Another turn and a wider street took him to a square complex of buildings that served as the house of records, where the archives were located. Stepping through the wide entry portal, he found himself in a pleasant courtyard shaded by sycamores and palms and fragrant with bright blossoms. More than a dozen scribes had brought their tasks outside so they could enjoy the breeze beneath the surrounding portico. They had, however, misjudged the growing strength of the wind. Those without the foresight to weigh their scrolls down with stones were scurrying about, collecting documents rolling before each gust. The rest were grabbing up their scribal implements, preparing to retreat inside.
