gravity of his imprisonment.
Even Psuro, who took Bak’s capture very seriously in deed, had to smile. “After you left the vessel, you must’ve been in the water for hours.”
“I set foot on dry ground at dusk and there I collapsed, too weary to stand. Dogs came running and their barking sum moned the villagers. They cleaned my wounds and fed me, and the headman led me to a sleeping pallet. I awakened at sunrise, and thanks to the fisherman who brought me to
Waset, here I am.”
A nearly empty bowl of cold duck stew smelling strongly of onions was nestled among the dormant coals. Hori’s dog was crouched before a hole in the wall into which he had chased a mouse. Each time the tiny whiskered face peeked out, he growled softly in his throat. The quiet courtyard, the food, the dog, and especially the concern on his men’s faces warmed Bak’s heart.
Psuro’s expression turned remorseful. “I’ll never live down the shame, sir. We didn’t even miss you.”
Bak laid a reassuring hand on his shoulder. “I told Hori I meant to spend the night with my father, and he told you.
How could you know I never reached western Waset?”
“You didn’t once contact us. Yesterday or last night. We should’ve guessed something was wrong.”
“If you had, you wouldn’t have been able to find me.”
Hori took both Bak’s hands in his and turned them one way and the other, squeezing the fingers gently. “Your hands are swollen, sir, but nothing like they must’ve been yesterday.”
“They’re stiff, but at least I can use them.” To demon strate, he tore a triangle of bread from a flattish loaf, dipped it into the bowl, and lifted out small chunks of duck, onions, and beans. He took a bite, savoring the flavor.
“If you couldn’t hold the harpoon, sir, how did you cut through the rope around your ankles?” Kasaya asked.
Bak glanced at the weapon on the ground beside him. “I laid the pole on the hatch cover and sat on it to hold it steady.
Then I propped the point on a broken cleat and pulled my feet back and forth, rubbing the rope across the barbs. I thank the lord Amon that they were sharp.”
“What of the men who snared you?” Pashenuro asked.
“You recognized one of them, you said.”
“A swarthy man with a gravelly voice. I’m fairly certain he’s Zuwapi. The others may well be crewmen on Antef’s ship, but they could as easily be ne’er-do-wells who linger at the harbor.”
The sergeant, his expression forbidding, looked around the circle of Medjays. “Captain Antef has much to answer for, and Zuwapi far more.”
A murmur of agreement swept across the courtyard.
“We must all be patient a bit longer.” Bak tore another chunk from the bread and dipped it into the stew. “While wading across all those flooded fields, I had plenty of time to think. I have an idea Zuwapi can be found somewhere along the waterfront. We’ve no authority there. The harbor patrol must seek him out.”
“Lieutenant Karoya seems a reasonable man,” Psuro said.
“Will he not let us help?”
Bak picked up the remaining piece of bread and wiped the last of the stew from the bowl. Swallowing a bite, he glanced toward the sun, midway up the morning sky. The tenth morning of the Beautiful Feast of Opet, with just one day remaining.
“Come with me and we’ll ask,” he said, rising to his feet.
He had proof of the thefts within the storehouses of Amon and would soon lay hands not only on the thieves, but on the men who had been smuggling the objects out of Kemet. He thought he knew who within Pentu’s household had at tempted to stir up trouble in the land of Hatti, but the con clusion was based on logical thinking rather than proof, and the reason behind the act eluded him. With luck and the help of the lord Amon, he would find a way to bring about a speedy resolution.
In spite of all he had learned, the many conclusions he had reached, he was still unsure who had slain Maruwa,
Woserhet and Meryamon. He might well be able to resolve the two other crimes, yet fail to satisfy Amonked’s wish that the slayer be snared by the end of the festival.
“Captain Antef.” Mai, who had been staring out at the wa terfront through the large opening in the wall of his office, turned to face his visitors. “I’ve never been fond of him, but
I thought him no less honest than any other man who plies the waters of the Great Green Sea. It takes a certain amount of guile to remain untrammeled in the ports along its shores.”
“My scribe has taken an auditor from the royal house to the customs archive to examine old records of Antef’s voy ages.” Bak, standing before the harbormaster with Psuro and
Lieutenant Karoya, wished he could look down upon An tef’s ship, but it was too far north to be seen from this central location. “Thanuny’s eyes are as sharp as those of a falcon, and he thinks like the thieves he seeks out. I’m confident he’ll find proof of wrongdoing over and above the objects stowed on Antef’s deck.”
Looking grave, Mai asked, “The trader you suspect is called Zuwapi? A Hittite?”
“Yes, sir.”
Mai’s eyes darted toward Karoya. “How long will it take you to find him, Lieutenant?”
“If he’s staying somewhere along the waterfront, as Lieu tenant Bak believes, an hour, no more.” The young Medjay officer noticed Bak’s raised eyebrow, smiled. “I’ve plenty of informers in the area, sir, a few who’ve been victimized by besotted Hittite sailors. They’ll have noticed Zuwapi, that I promise you.”
Bak acknowledged the pledge with a smile. Karoya and his men toiled at the harbor day after day. They knew its denizens far better than he. “Antef and his crew must also be taken. Is your station large enough for so many men?”
“We’ll take them to a building we sometimes use to detain men who’ve committed no heinous crime but must not be al lowed to go free unpunished. Few people know of it and none use it but us.”
“Will you allow my Medjays to participate?”
Karoya glanced at Mai for approval. The harbormaster eyed the two officers, undecided.
“Sir.” Psuro stepped forward. “Lieutenant Bak has asked nothing of me or of the other men in our company since the festival began. He’s given us leave to make merry for the past ten days. In return, we let those men snare him…”
“You had no way of knowing I’d walk into a trap,” Bak insisted.
“Nonetheless, while you were made to suffer, we played.”
To Mai, Psuro said, “Now we’d like to help, to see with our own eyes that they pay for their foul deeds.”
Mai tried without much success to hide a smile. “I’d hate to think territory is more important than justice. Your men may participate with those of Lieutenant Karoya.”
The building used by the harbor patrol had once been the residence of a prosperous craftsman, taken over by the royal house for some unexplained reason. Inside the high walls were an uninhabited house of modest proportions with quar ters for lesser help tacked onto the back. Auxiliary structures included a well encircled by a thigh-high mudbrick wall, an empty stable and poultry yard, and a lean-to built against the outer wall. Other than the latter shelter, nothing relieved the harsh midday heat. Not a blade of grass or a weed grew in the yard; no trees or brush shaded the bare earth. Not a breath of air stirred.
That the craftsman had been a potter was apparent. A shallow pit in which the moist clay could be trampled had been dug near the edge of the lean-to, where space had been provided for at least four men to toil over potter’s wheels.
Nearby stood a neatly stacked mound of grayish pots of various sizes, many cracked and broken, left to dry after be ing formed but never fired. Several kilns stood out in the open, placed to benefit from the prevailing north breeze.
Their lower ends where fires had once roared were partially underground, while the chimneylike section in which the pots had been fired rose upward at a right angle. A small pile of kindling and scavenged wood lay against the house, awaiting a potter who would never return. A pile of failures lay where they had been thrown against the wall near the main gate: bowls and pots of all sizes and shapes, their walls cracked or broken, their fabric bubbled,
