was too bland to serve the purpose. “The captain sent a man off to get more help, and the fire was out in less than an hour.”
Psuro toyed with his beer jar, his brow wrinkled with worry. “That was a deliberate attempt to slay you, sir.”
“So it would seem.”
“Who was responsible? The man who slew Woserhet?”
“Fire was used in both cases.” Bak’s grim expression changed to one of puzzlement. “Yet if both vile deeds were the acts of a single man, why did he not slash my throat as he did the auditor’s? He had every opportunity.”
“He felt certain you’d perish in the fire,” Pashenuro said.
“He must soon be snared. To start a fire in such a place was an abomination, proving he has no regard for man or beast. There are housing blocks nearby, other warehouses, ships moored along the waterfront. The lord Amon only knows how many might’ve died if the fire had not been quenched.”
“Are you sure you’re all right, sir?” Hori, seated on the rooftop in the shade of the pavilion, flung a worried look across a large round basket containing several rolled scrolls.
Bak waved off the youth’s concern. “Other than this cough, a raw throat, a headache, and the stench of smoke lin gering in my nostrils, I feel well enough.” Dropping onto the stool, he eyed the scrolls in the basket, most undamaged, a few singed, and a pile of five or six lying flat beside the con tainer and held down by stones. The latter documents’ edges were blackened and irregular; the writing tailed off at the burned ends. “Tell me what you’ve learned so far.”
“The morning’s young, and I haven’t had much time.”
“When a man tries to slay me, I wish to learn his name as quickly as possible.” Bak formed a smile, thinking to soften the sting of words all too true.
Flushing, Hori wasted no time in prologue. “I wanted first to get a general impression of the scrolls’ contents, so I started by reading an undamaged document and writing down all the items it mentioned.” He gestured toward the basket-which held the scrolls he had read so far, Bak as sumed-and a white-plastered board on the rooftop beside him, containing several columns of the youth’s small, neat symbols. “I went on to a partly burned document and did the same.” He pointed to the pile of scrolls spread flat on the roof. “After that, I tried to read a badly burned one.” He nod ded toward the charred scraps laid out where Bak had last seen them. “Those were so fragile I thought it best not to move them.”
Kasaya came bounding up the stairs with Hori’s dog at his heels. He ducked beneath the shelter, overturned a large pot, and sat down. The dog settled beside him and eyed his young master with sad brown eyes. He knew better than to disturb the scribe when he was surrounded by scrolls.
“You’ve come back empty-handed,” Bak said to the Med jay. “Where’s Tati?”
“I couldn’t find him.” Kasaya kicked off a sandal and bent to scratch a foot. “The one workman watching the house where they dwell didn’t know where he was, and when I asked if we could come and look at the records, he refused.
Tati had told him they belong to the lord Amon, and no less a man than the chief priest can see them.” He noted Bak’s scowl and spread his hands wide, absolving himself of all responsibility.
Bak closed his eyes and began to count, seeking patience.
His inability to speak with Hapuseneb during the Beautiful
Feast of Opet was becoming more burdensome each day.
The records, he felt sure, would shorten his path to the audi tor’s slayer, and he needed Tati’s help. “Go on, Hori. Tell me what you did next.”
“I continued as before, moving from one group to an other. I have a long way to go, but I think I’ve found a pat tern. Perhaps more than one.”
“For example.” Bak’s words came out like the croak of a frog.
“Each scroll lists many objects, all of a similar type,” Hori said. “More than half the undamaged documents I’ve read so far are for the various kinds of grain stored here in Waset.
They give the date a shipment was received and the quantity placed in the warehouse and, later, the date and number of bags removed, either for use here at Ipet-isut or for shipment to one of the lord Amon’s estates.”
“I assume the other items that turn up regularly are hides and metal ingots.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Like the grain, items too heavy and bulky to move with ease.” Bak cleared his throat, smothering a cough.
Hori flung a concerned look his way, but had the good sense to make no comment. “Of the partly burned scrolls
I’ve read so far, most list items manufactured in the god’s workshops and on the various estates and sent here for stor age and use. Lengths of linen, pottery, sandals, wine, and so on. As for the scraps Kasaya managed to save, they’re really hard to read and take a lot of guesswork, but I saw the sym bols for bronze and gold. Aromatic oils. Something that might’ve been ivory.”
“Interesting,” Bak said thoughtfully. “The items listed are many and varied. The documents obviously came from more than one storage block.”
“Yes, sir. I think Woserhet himself took them into that room, at least some of them. Or someone else did. There’s certainly no grain in that storehouse.
“He couldn’t have carried very many without a basket.”
Bak’s eyes darted toward the Medjay. “I saw no burned re mains. Did you, Kasaya?”
“I didn’t notice, sir. Should I take a closer look?”
“Yes.” Bak looked across the roof at the scraps of burned scrolls the young policeman had so painstakingly saved.
“Do you think you could glue some of those broken storage pots back together? I’d like to know where they came from.”
The Medjay thought over the idea, smiled like a child fac ing a new challenge, and stood up. “I must find a basket first, then I’ll bring the pieces back here.”
“You were right about a pattern.” Bak stood up and arched his back, stretching muscles made stiff from hunching over the blackened scraps of papyrus Kasaya had saved. He walked to the pavilion, pleased with the morning’s effort.
“With few exceptions, the documents not damaged by fire list grain or some other product valuable in itself but not easy to move.”
Hori shoved aside the large basket, now filled with the in tact scrolls they had read. “You’d think the slayer would’ve thrown them into the fire, too. If for no other reason than to confuse.”
“He was probably in a hurry, afraid of being seen.”
The scribe pulled over a small basket containing, if the smell told true, fish wrapped in wilting leaves. A flat, round loaf of bread lay on top with a spray of green onions and a bundle of radishes. “As I guessed earlier, most of the partly burned scrolls list products made for the lord Amon and brought from afar.”
Bak dragged the stool into the shade, sat down, and ac cepted a leaf-wrapped packet. “User told me the storage magazines in that block contain not only vessels and prod 110
Lauren Haney ucts used during the rituals, but other objects made to adorn the god, his shrine and the sacred barque.”
The scribe broke off a chunk of bread and handed it over.
“The same items listed on the worst burned scrolls. Those few scraps we could read with certainty, at any rate.”
Kasaya laid aside the third storage jar whose inscribed shoulder he had roughly pieced together and scooted closer to the food basket. “In other words, the man who slew him threw onto the fire the documents that might point a finger at himself, calling him a thief, and added a few others as fuel.”
“We’ve not yet confirmed that Woserhet was searching for a thief,” Bak reminded him.
“I can think of no more logical an assumption,” Hori said.
“Nor can I,” Bak admitted. He opened the packet and sniffed the slab of fish laying inside, boiled so long the
