Kasaya groaned. “You ask the impossible of me, sir.”
“You know how country people are, Kasaya. They tend to each other’s business. Someone will have seen a jar with that symbol around its neck.”
“Hori would be much better at this.”
Bak agreed, but did not wish to hurt the young man’s feelings. The scribe would be far more subtle in his questions, far less likely to attract undue attention. “Can you search the archives in his place?”
The Medjay hung his head in defeat. “You know I can’t read, sir.”
“Do you have any idea who slew that guard?” Amonked, seated on a stool beneath a portico in front of a storehouse that reeked of newly tanned hides, looked as frustrated as Bak felt.
No thick pillows on this stool to soothe the noble backside, Bak noticed. “I feel confident the malign spirit took his life.”
“The malign spirit.” Amonked snorted. “Could not Imen have been your so-called malign spirit?”
Bak, leaning a shoulder against a wooden column, eyed the long line of sweating men carrying the large, unwieldy bundles of hides from the cargo ship moored at the quay. Beneath the portico, they dropped the hides, which exuded a strong odor of the urine in which they had been cured, and went back for more. Scribes counted the individual hides within each bundle and called out the total to the chief scribe, seated on a stool near the storehouse door. Other men carried the counted bundles into the building. He marveled at Amonked’s ability to move so easily between his luxuri-ous household and the everyday world of a senior scribe.
“The malign spirit, I feel certain, is several men. Imen may’ve been one of them, but more likely he served as their lookout.”
“So he was but a tool of the man who slew him.”
“I believe so, yes.”
“And he was slain because he could name that man.”
“Yes, sir.” Bak rubbed his nose, trying to banish a tickle brought on by the stench of the hides. “I’ve sent Kasaya out in search of the source of the honeybee symbol. We must lay hands on any other men who may be involved before they, too, are found dead.”
“Leaving behind who? Their leader?”
Bak nodded. “A man who walks among those who toil at Djeser Djeseru. A face so familiar no one would ever suspect him of the vile deeds he’s committed.”
“Can you name him?”
“No, sir,” Bak said, unwilling to acknowledge the tiny suspicion that had begun to lurk in his heart.
Chapter Fifteen
Bak hurried back across the river, reaching his father’s house shortly after midday. He found Sergeant Huy there, but not Ptahhotep. The physician and a new guard assigned by Maiherperi had gone to a nearby village to tend to the aged headman, who suffered from a painful stiffening of the joints in his hands and upper limbs. They also planned to visit several other patients in the general area. Huy, though he swore he was fully recovered, had been left behind to stay quiet and see that no harm came to the house and animals.
Assured Ptahhotep would not be needing his new skiff, the one Lieutenant Menna had found for him, Bak hurried to the river and borrowed the small vessel. He shoved it into the current, raised the sail, and began a quest he suspected was no less challenging than that on which he had sent Kasaya.
He had not gotten a good look at the fishing boat that had run down his father’s skiff, and had paid no attention to the one moored at Waset, so was not even sure they were one and the same. But if he was right, if the head of the tomb robbers was slaying all who could name him as a thief, the fishermen who had manned that boat must be found before they met a fate similar to that of Imen. With uncommon luck and a benevolent smile from the lord Amon he might locate the vessel and therefore the men.
Filling the sail with the northerly breeze, he sped upriver to a point some distance south of where the fishing boat had vanished from sight. He let the current carry him back downstream, using the oars only to ease the skiff to the shore so he could examine a vessel pulled out of the water for the night. The day was glorious, the heat tempered by a breeze ideal for sailing. If he had not been so intent on his mission, he would very much have enjoyed his journey.
He rarely spotted a lone fishing boat. Most lay on the beach in groups, the nets spread out to dry. The day’s fishing had been good, and the vast majority of the fishermen had come ashore by midday to sell the day’s catch if they earned their bread on the water or to take the fish to a country estate if they toiled for a man of property. Inevitably, one or two had remained behind to mend a net or repair a wooden fitting or clean a few fish to take home. These, like most men who toiled day after day for small gain, were a convivial lot and were as aware of each other’s business as men who toiled on the land. And that was what he counted on.
He must have stopped six or seven times before he entered a side channel that separated a narrow beach from a low island, a sandbar that had survived the yearly floods long enough for tall grasses and brush to take hold. More than a dozen boats of modest size had been drawn up on the beach, which ran along the base of a nearly vertical mudbank. Two men wearing skimpy loincloths sat in the shade of an acacia atop the bank, mending nets. He rowed his skiff close, jumped out, and pulled it half out of the water below them.
“I’m Lieutenant Bak of the Medjay police.” He saw no need to explain that his Medjays were far away in the land of Wawat. “I seek a boat. .”
“A boat!” Laughing merrily, the older man slapped his thigh. Like the nets they were repairing, he and his companion reeked of fish and the musty smell of the river. “That’s a good one. Best I’ve heard all day.”
The younger one sputtered. “There you are, sir.” He pointed at the row of vessels lined up on shore. “Or how about out there?” Guffawing, he swung his arm wide, indicating the many boats out on the river.
“A fishing boat,” Bak said, half smiling to let them know he held no rancor. Sobering, making his voice stern, he added, “Men’s lives may well depend upon whether I find it.
Can you help?”
Their laughter faded away and they exchanged a look easily read: they would help, but would not go out of their way, nor would they answer questions he failed to ask. This was not the first time he had faced a similar attitude, nor would it be the last.
Laying aside the nets, the fishermen rose to their feet.
“Anything we can do, sir,” the younger man said, winking at his companion.
Ignoring the mockery, Bak walked with them along the shore, studying the wooden hulls of the vessels, looking for signs of collision. More than half were skiffs used for ferry-ing people, produce, and animals across the river and were of no concern to him. The remaining five were fishing boats.
None looked any different than the twenty or so he had already examined farther upstream. All were scarred from striking small hazards floating on the water and from careless mooring. In most cases the wounded wood had darkened with time, proving the damage old. Where the scar was bright and new, it was too high or low on the hull or too far astern or its shape was wrong. He walked back along the line for a second look, scowling at his failure.
“None among them is the one you hoped to find?” the younger man asked, exchanging grins with his companion.
“I can’t be sure, but I don’t think so.”
“You’re not a man of the river, I see,” the older one said.
Bak caught the inference that he did not know boats; therefore, did not know what he was looking for. He gave the man a cool look. “Don’t underestimate me, old man. I grew up near here. Boats have always been a part of my life.”
The younger fisherman stepped forward, formed a smile.
“If you tell us what you hope to find, sir, we’d be better able to help.”
“Yes, sir,” the older one said, making a too elaborate show of eagerness. “Exactly what did the vessel look like?”
“All I know for a fact was that its hull was dark and weathered,” Bak admitted. From the way the pair looked
