is more wide-ranging and on a higher level of authority. He receives items shipped to Waset from throughout the land of Kemet and oversees their distribution.” Amonked stared hard at the redhead and the scribe. “Are they talking, or did our red haired friend just happen to stand beside him?”
Bak shrugged. “I can’t tell. Men who speak together usu ally make gestures, and I haven’t seen any.” Nor had he seen a message being passed from hand to hand.
The acrobats broke formation. A servant approached with a tall, wide-mouthed jar containing an efflorescence of lit torches. Each of the performers grabbed two. Holding them high, they began to dance, whirling round and round to the ever faster beat of the drum in a frenzy of flying braids and sparks.
Bak’s eyes drifted over the watching men and women, paused on a man standing slightly off to the right. “Speaking of Meryamon, there he is.”
The priest stood at the end of the semicircle, watching the acrobats, seemingly indifferent to any other person or activ ity. From where he stood, he might or might not have spot ted Bak and Amonked, but he could not have failed to see
Nebamon and the red-haired man. Yet his face revealed no hint of recognition.
Was this another furtive act? Or had the young priest seen the other men when first they had joined the spectators and dismissed them from his thoughts? Had following the red haired man been an exercise and no more? Or had some im portant act occurred that Bak had failed to recognize for what it was?
Fresh hordes of spectators flowed in among the onlookers and around the nearby booths and performers. The cere mony inside the sacred precinct had ended. Offering ritual
completed, the lord Amon and his mortal daughter and son would have entered Ipet-resyt, leaving the spectators free to eat and play through the remainder of the day and far into the night.
Amonked grabbed Bak’s arm to draw him close and shouted in his ear that his wife would soon be free to return home and he had promised to meet her there. Bak bade him good-bye. When he turned around, the flood of humanity had swept away the men he had been watching.
“I don’t like it.” Commandant Thuty scowled at the hot, red coals lying in the mudbrick hearth Bak’s Medjays had built in the courtyard.
“The dead auditor?” Nebwa asked. “Seems simple enough. He learned something to someone’s discredit and that someone slew him.”
No longer hungry, but tantalized by the rich smell of fowl and onions and herbs, Bak reached into the large pot setting on the coals and withdrew a piece of well-cooked goose, a feast bestowed upon them by the lord Amon to celebrate the opening day of the Beautiful Feast of Opet. This and other foods richer and more luxurious than their usual fare had been given them during the reversion of offerings, the task
Woserhet would have performed if he had been allowed to live.
“Someone must lay hands on his slayer,” he said, “and
Amonked trusts me to do the best I can.”
Thuty transferred his frown from the fire to Bak.
“Amonked knows, Lieutenant, that you never fail to accept the challenge when faced with a crime and an unknown criminal. And he likes you. He provides you with murdered men as a shepherd provides his flock with grass.”
“Bak’s probably the one man he knows who hasn’t be friended him because he’s cousin to our sovereign.” Nebwa spat on the hard-packed earthen floor, showing his contempt for men who hoped to gain through another man’s position.
Knucklebones rattled across the floor. The Medjay who had thrown snarled a curse and the three men playing with him burst into laughter. A man called out a bet. Another re sponded and another. Bak looked their way, smiled. The torch mounted on the wall flickered in the light breeze, mak ing their features appear ill-formed and indistinct, but he knew each as well as he would know a brother.
From the day his men had set foot in Buhen, until the day they left, throughout the voyage north he had been told, and here in their temporary quarters, the game had never ceased.
Their bets were small, their enjoyment large, so he refused to interfere. Two had been assigned to guard the dwelling and their belongings, but why the other two remained when they could be out making merry, he could not imagine.
Imsiba laid a hand on the thick neck of the large, floppy eared white dog curled up against his thigh, a cur Hori had long ago adopted. “Do you fear Amonked will steal Bak from us, sir?”
Growling an affirmative, Thuty picked up his beer jar, took a deep drink, set it down with a thud. “This is the sec ond murder he’s asked him to investigate since he arrived in the capital. Waset has plenty of police officers. Surely one of them would serve equally well.”
“Bak has a talent few men have.” Nebwa tore a chunk from a thin round loaf of bread, dipped it in the stew. “But that’s of no import. We can’t let him stay here when we jour ney on to Mennufer.”
“Would you two stop speaking of me as if I’m that dog…” Irritated, he glanced at Hori’s pet. “… unable to understand a word you’re saying. I will snare the man who slew Woserhet, and I will go with you to Mennufer.” To close the subject, he plucked another piece of goose from the pot and took a bite off the bone.
“Can I help you search for the slayer, my friend?” Imsiba asked.
“How can you? Your wife has yet to find a new ship.”
“You know very well that the captain of the vessel we left behind in Abu is here with us. As he expects to command her new one, he has much to gain by offering sound advice. I go with them to the harbor only because she wishes me to.”
“As much as I’d like your help, you must stand by her side until she finds a suitable vessel. Pashenuro and Psuro can take temporary charge of our men.”
“You must promise to summon me should you need me.”
“Never fear, Imsiba, but as of now I can see no purpose in dragging you along with me. Today the murder seems im possible to solve, but tomorrow, when I talk to men who knew of Woserhet’s mission, the reason for his death may be revealed and the name of the slayer as well.”
Chapter Five
“Hapuseneb has been told of Woserhet’s death.” Ptahmes, the chief priest’s aide, a young man as free of hair as a melon, wore across his chest the sash of a lector priest.
“He’s very upset, Lieutenant. I can’t tell you how strongly he feels that the man who slew him must be snared and pun ished as quickly as possible.”
The priest, with Bak at his side, walked slowly down the narrow lane toward the multitude of buildings that formed the house of life, the primary center of priestly learning in the land of Kemet. The lord Khepre reached into the lane, turning the plastered walls a blinding white and heating the earth upon which they trod. The second day of the festival promised to be as hot as the first. Soft voices could some times be heard beyond the doorways to either side, but in general, silence and peace reigned.
Bak tried not to show his annoyance. The last thing he needed was the chief priest adding to the burden Amonked had already placed on his shoulders. “To do so, I need to know more of his activities.”
“Ask what you will.” The young priest stepped over a yel low dog sunning itself in front of a door. “I can’t promise to give you the answers you need, for I’ve been told close to nothing. I’ll do the best I can.”
“Mistress Ashayet, Woserhet’s wife, had no idea what he’s been doing-evidently he seldom spoke of his task but she said he’d been troubled for several days. Can you tell me why?”
“All I know is what he told Hapuseneb: he’d found some discrepancies in the records of the storehouses of the lord
Amon. What they were, he didn’t say, evidently wishing to be more certain before he pointed a finger.”
Bak grimaced. He had hoped for more. “Were the store houses here in Waset or in some other city?”
“Here, I believe, but of that I’m not certain. You must speak to his scribe, a man named Tati.”
“Can you tell me where to find him?”
Bak made his slow way down the narrow, meandering lane, counting the open doorways as he stepped over
