Medjay. “He has the patience of a jackal sniffing out a grave.
He’d sit there for an hour, bent over a charred scroll, un rolling it a bit at a time. You’d think the whole document a total loss, but sooner or later he’d find something inside I could read.”
Bak smiled his appreciation at the hulking young Medjay, whose hands looked too large to manage any kind of deli cate effort. “You’ve done very well, both of you. I couldn’t have asked for more.”
Hori and Kasaya exchanged a pleased smile. “We decided that if the slayer took Woserhet’s life to hide the fact that he’s been stealing from the lord Amon, he’d probably have thrown any documents that might point a finger at him into the fire. If that was the case, the worst burned would be the most useful.”
“I guess you know what you must do next,” Bak said, his eyes sliding over the display.
“See if we can learn what the culprit was stealing.”
“Should we concentrate on items Meryamon would’ve handled?” Kasaya asked.
Bak thought over the idea and shook his head. “No. Let the throwsticks fall where they will. If he’s been stealing, signs of his activity should appear naturally, without making an effort to find them.”
“But, sir,” Hori said, clearly puzzled, “you told us the red haired man ran when he saw you. Wouldn’t that indicate guilt?”
“Guilt, yes, but for what reason we don’t know. Also, I chased him, not Meryamon. One man’s guilt is not necessar ily that of another, and Meryamon’s lie about knowing him doesn’t make either man a thief.”
“Can we help in any way, sir?” Sergeant Pashenuro reached into the pot of lamb stew and withdrew a chunk containing several ribs. “None of us can read, and it sounds to me as if that’s what you need, but we’d like to be of some use.”
“Never fear, Sergeant. When I require help, I’ll summon you.” Bak tore a piece of bread from a round, pointed loaf so recently taken from the heated pot in which it had been baked that it stung his fingers. “Until I do, let the men play.
The festival won’t last forever, and when it ends we’ll set off for Mennufer. The lord Amon only knows when next they’ll have time to relax.”
Sergeant Psuro, a thickset Medjay whose face had been scarred by a childhood disease, swallowed a bite of green onion. “You don’t seem too worried about laying hands on
Woserhet’s slayer.”
“The more I learn, the more straightforward his death ap pears. He was probably slain because of a problem he un earthed in the lord Amon’s storehouses. The trick is to learn exactly what that problem is-theft, no doubt-and to search out the man responsible.”
Pashenuro looked across the courtyard, illuminated by a single torch mounted on the wall. The two men assigned to remain on watch were playing knucklebones with a marked lack of enthusiasm, both having returned after a long, hard day of revelry. Deep shadows fell around them, and around
Bak and the sergeants, accenting the sporadic reddish glow beneath the cooking pot, dying embers stirred to life by the light breeze. Hori’s dog lay with his back against a row of tall porous water jars, snoring and twitching.
A small boy came through the portal from the street.
“Lieutenant Bak?”
“I’m Bak.”
“I’ve come with a message, sir.” The child spoke rapidly, running his sentences together in his eagerness to pass on what he had to say. “A man named Amonked wishes to see you, sir. He asks you to meet him at a grain warehouse near the harbor. Right away, he said. I’m to take you there.”
The three men looked at one another, their curiosity aroused.
“Shall we go with you, sir?” Psuro asked.
“What did this man look like?” Bak asked the boy.
The child shrugged. “Like a scribe, sir.”
“You could be describing any one of a thousand men,”
Pashenuro said, disgusted.
“Wouldn’t Amonked send a note, sir?” Psuro asked.
“He may not have had the time or the means.” Bak scooped up his baton and rose to his feet. “I suspect we’re making too much of a simple summons. Lest I err, I’ll send the boy back after we reach the warehouse. If I don’t return by moonrise, he can lead you to me.”
The building they approached looked like all the other warehouses strung along the river, especially in the dark, and the slightly ajar door before which they stopped opened into one of countless similar storage magazines in the area.
A strong smell of grain greeted them, making Bak sneeze.
He shoved the door wider and peered inside, expecting a light, finding nothing but darkness and an empty silence.
Amonked was not there. Disappointed, Bak turned to speak to the boy. The child was halfway down the lane, run ning as fast as his legs could carry him. Something was wrong!
Bak sensed movement behind him, started to turn. A hard object struck him on the head, his legs buckled, and his world turned black.
Chapter Seven
A pounding head brought Bak to his senses. He lay still and quiet, reluctant to move. Time passed, how much he did not know. He opened his eyes. At least he thought he did. But he could see nothing. What had happened? Where was he? He tried to rise, but pain shot through his head, intense and ago nizing, centered somewhere over his right ear.
He had no choice but to lay motionless, allowing the pain to lessen to a fierce, persistent throbbing. He felt himself ly ing on… On what? He tried to think, to remember. He had been summoned by Amonked. A boy had led him to a ware house near the river. He recalled standing outside, watching the child run away, and then… Yes, he had heard a move ment behind him. After that… Nothing.
He could see no stars overhead, nor could he hear the creaking and groaning of ships moored along the river’s edge or feel the light breeze. His assailant must have moved him.
The air was hot, heavy, and dead silent. It carried the musty smell of grain and another odor he could not quite identify. A food smell. He was inside a building. A warehouse. Probably the one to which Amonked had summoned him.
No. Not Amonked. Someone else. Someone who wished to slay him? Or get him out of the way for a while?
He slid a foot back, raising his knee, and crooked an arm, thinking to prop himself up. The realization struck: his as sailant had left him untied. Offering a heartfelt prayer of thanks to the lord Amon, he explored with his fingers the rough bed beneath him. He felt fabric, the heavy weave of storage bags, and a layer of dust. Touching a finger to his tongue, he tasted ashes, used to protect grain from insects and worms.
The sacks were full, plump with grain. A few kernels had escaped to lay among the ashes. As he had guessed, he was in a warehouse, most likely the same one he had approached without a qualm, thinking to meet Amonked. A block of buildings near the river, the lanes around it untraveled at night. In the unlikely event that his cries for help would carry through the thick mudbrick walls, no one would be outside to hear.
Why, in a warehouse, could he smell food? He frowned, trying to think. Not food, but what? Something scorched, burning. A thought, the sudden certain knowledge, sent a chill down his spine. The grain was on fire.
He sat up abruptly. The world spun around him and his head felt ready to burst. He thought he might be sick. He swallowed hard, reached up and gently probed the painful spot. A lump beneath his hair came alive to his touch and he felt a small patch of something wet. Blood.
Not enough to fret about, he told himself.
Twisting his upper body, taking care how he moved his head so as not to arouse the evil genie inside, he
