Pashed rubbed his eyes, as if trying to wipe away whatever adversity had brought about such worry. “Each time I feel the gods have chosen at last to favor me, they once again turn their backs.”
“Not another accident, I pray!”
A bitter smile flitted across the architect’s face. “No accident, Lieutenant. Only an inspection by Senenmut himself. Our sovereign’s favorite and the man to whom I’m responsible.”
Bak could not understand why Pashed was so upset. True, Senenmut was the Overseer of Overseers of All the Works of the King (as Maatkare Hatshepsut had begun to call herself), and he claimed Djeser Djeseru as his creation, but. . “This can’t be the first time he’s come.”
“He comes monthly, and more often if a decision of import must be made.”
The cheeping of baby birds drew Bak’s eye to a nest built in a crack at the join of the roof and the retaining wall behind the colonnade. He glimpsed a swallow feeding its voracious young. He never ceased to be amazed at how fast the wild creatures took as their own the dwellings of man. “Why is this inspection different?”
“Montu is dead and I stand alone at the head of this building effort. You, who were brought specifically to put an end to the accidents, have been here six days, yet they continue as before. The malign spirit, or the man I’ll always think of as that vile specter, continues to walk this valley, wreaking havoc wherever he treads, and you seem unable to stop him.
Now tomb robbers have come.”
Bak was irritated by a charge he felt unfair, but he spoke with the patience a mother must show a whimpering babe.
“You’re not a man alone, Pashed. Except for designing the temple and seeing that the men do what they must to build and adorn it, Amonked shares your burden of responsibility.
You’ve also Lieutenant Menna and me. He’ll sooner or later lay hands on the tomb robbers, and I’ll snare the malign spirit and stop the accidents-and I’ll catch the man who slew Montu.” He thought it best not to reveal that he believed the deaths of Dedu and Huni to be murder.
“The men talk of laying down their tools and walking away from this valley,” Pashed said, as if he had not heard.
“They vow never to return, letting the temple remain as it is, allowing it to languish through eternity.”
Bak felt like shaking him. He had reason to be troubled, to be sure, but he had no need to exaggerate. “My scribe and my Medjay have spoken with many of the men in the past few days. True, the threat to flee hovers at the edge of their thoughts, and they cling to their belief in the malign spirit, but so far common sense has prevailed.”
“For how long?”
Bak knelt before the architect and laid a hand on his lower arm. The mother swallow hurtled past their heads on her endless quest for insects. “You must not allow yourself to fall in defeat, Pashed. Your problems will be resolved.”
The architect refused to meet his eyes. “You told me of the accident on the river and I saw for myself the rock slide.
I didn’t see you thrown into the old robbers’ shaft, but I heard of it. That’s three attempts to slay you in three days.
What’s to prevent the malign spirit-the man posing as that vile being-from slaying you while Senenmut is here?”
So that was the problem. Pashed feared another death, this one right before Senenmut’s eyes. The thought was discon-certing, chilling. Rising to his feet, Bak formed a reassuring smile. “I can assure you I’ll do everything in my power to see that nothing happens to me.”
“What’s to prevent some other catastrophe from occurring? What if an attempt is made on his life?”
Bak hesitated before answering. He hated to go again to Maiherperi, but was very much aware that thus far he had been unable to stop the incidents at Djeser Djeseru. On the contrary, the situation seemed to have escalated. If the goal was to stop construction, as he was beginning to suspect, what better way than to do harm to Senenmut? “I’ll speak with Commander Maiherperi and ask him to send an extra company of men with Senenmut. With luck and the favor of the gods, the malign spirit won’t dare strike.”
The architect was not consoled. “If a scandal rocks this project, he’ll send me far away to the desert wastes of Wawat, making me stand at the head of a gang of prisoners working a remote gold mine.”
One thing Bak knew for a fact: with Pashed so frightened for his future, he could not possibly be a party to any effort to disrupt construction at Djeser Djeseru. “When will Senenmut’s inspection take place?”
“Three days from now.”
Bak muttered an oath. Not much time, he thought. Not nearly enough time to lay hands on a man when he had not the vaguest idea who he was. “I’ll go see Maiherperi right away.”
“Where a king lies through eternity, his family and courtiers are nearby,” Bak said, airing the thought for what he feared was the hundredth time. He stood beside the white seated statue of Maatkare Hatshepsut, staring at the ruined temple beyond the sandy waste on which the workmen’s huts stood. “The men we came upon last night undoubtedly believe so, too.”
Hori, looking glum, eyed the temple whose pavement he had trod for so many long hours through the morning. “We found no sign of a tomb, sir, and not for lack of trying.”
“I know.” Bak eyed a gang of men on the terrace where he, the scribe, and Kasaya had revealed themselves to the workmen the night before. The crew was using a large wooden rocker to raise a heavy stone onto their sledge.
“Nonetheless, their presence and the fact that the malign spirit frequents that temple has convinced me a tomb is yet to be found somewhere within.”
“Maybe the men taking stone from the ruins will uncover it,” the scribe said. “We won’t. We searched the building so often and know it so well that we’d not recognize a tomb if the deceased leaped out and dragged us inside.”
Smiling, Bak laid an arm across the youth’s shoulders and ushered him toward the ramp. “I must go to Waset and you must go with me.”
“Waset?” Hori looked crestfallen at the sun, peering over the western peak, signaling that within an hour or so he could go home to his evening meal.
“We must seek out the priest Kaemwaset. I’ve a task for you, which you must begin tomorrow, but you’ll need help.”
“You wish the boy to search the archives.” Kaemwaset, seated on a low stool in the murky light of a storage room that smelled strongly of fish, let the scroll in his lap roll closed. He pursed his mouth, thinking it over. “I don’t see why he can’t, but he’ll need the approval of the chief archivist.”
“Amonked will see he has it,” Bak said.
“What does he look for, may I ask?”
Bak stepped inside the door and pulled Hori with him.
The room was dark enough without the two of them block-ing what little light came through. “Records of the old temples and tombs, specifically those of the reign of Nebhepetre Montuhotep and his immediate family.”
“Hmmm.” The priest’s eyes leaped toward the boy, but he spoke to Bak. “You’re asking a lot, sir. The task could take days without number and still he could come up empty-handed.”
Bak had often heard his father complain about the archives, thrown into disorder by years of neglect and wan-ton destruction when the rulers of Kemet had weakened and lost a portion of the country to the vile foreign princes from far to the east. It had been the worthy ancestors-or so she claimed-of Maatkare Hatshepsut who had waged war on the wretched intruders and consolidated the kingdom.
Surely after so many years had passed, the situation had improved. “Aren’t the records in some kind of order?”
Kaemwaset laid the scroll on the floor with his writing implements. They had found him taking inventory in a room stacked high with bundles of dried fish. Unless the priest had lost his sense of smell altogether, Bak felt sure he and Hori were doing him a favor by interrupting.
“Most are in excellent order, but have you any idea how many scrolls are stored there?”
“When I was a boy, my father spent many hours in the archives. I remember well my impatience to be gone, while he went from room to room and from jar to jar, seeking some obscure text about healing.”
