“How will you convince him?” Harmose asked irritably. “By naming the guilty man?”
“All I can do is tell the truth.”
Neither Mery nor Harmose looked happy with her answer. Bak did not know what to think. Her simple, straightforward statement could have been a subtle threat. On the other hand, if she knew nothing of the stolen gold, she might truly believe veracity would set her free. A faith that might well be misplaced.
With the thought goading him on, Bak decided to show himself-and the package and scroll. The time had come to bait his trap. At the same time, he could learn the whereabouts of Mery and Harmose during the storm. If either was in the company of others, he could be eliminated as a suspect.
He slipped out a side door and followed the servant girl along the passage connecting the kitchen to the courtyard. She carried a delicate long-necked wine jar. The octopus-and-vine design told him the vessel had been imported from the faraway island kingdom of Keftiu.
He paused at the exit and eyed the two men with Azzia. Neither Mery nor Harmose looked capable of offending the gods in any way. The watch officer appeared too ineffectual, the archer too open. Nebwa he would have thought a more likely man to steal and slay without hesitation-or Paser. Yet both men had failed to come. He doubted they would at so late an hour. Already the sky had turned from blue to pale gold, heralding the sun’s disappearance beyond the horizon.
“I know well the kind of justice meted out in the land of my birth,” Azzia said. “All my family was destroyed at the whim of a king. At least here, with the lady Maat balancing the scales of justice, I can be sure the viceroy will hear me out and judge me fairly.”
As the servant walked into the courtyard, Azzia spotted Bak at the door. Her eyes darted to the objects in his hand. Surprise, followed an instant later by bewilderment, registered on her face. She covered her reaction with a quick smile at the girl.
“Our sovereign, Maatkare Hatshepsut, can be as whimsical as the king of Hatti,” Harmose said. “As for the viceroy…” His expression darkened and he shook his head to show how hopeless he thought her situation. “He’ll hear none but Officer Bak, who’ll stand beside you, describing the blood he saw on your hands. At best, he’ll offer no word in your favor. At worst…”
Azzia flashed him a warning glance.
He swiveled on his stool, saw Bak, and went on, “…He’ll twist his words to hide his own ineptness.”
Glimpsing Azzia’s distraught face, Bak gave the archer his best smile and dropped onto the nearest stool. Harmose glowered. Mery nodded an unenthusiastic greeting. If either noticed the objects Bak carried, or cared about them, they gave no hint. He pulled the baked-clay table close, shifted the bowl of grapes, and laid the scroll and package beside it. Azzia watched his performance, looking more mystified than ever. She caught his eye, probing for an answer to her unspoken question.
Mery glanced at the scrolls, at Azzia, at Bak. His mouth tightened; the small scar at the corner of his lip turned fiery.
Harmose eyed the objects with contempt. “I heard you planned to search this house. Was this the second time? The third? Can you think of no better way to spend your days?”
The serving girl, pouring wine into drinking bowls for him and Bak, smirked her agreement.
“What would you suggest I do?” Bak asked.
“The rumors fly that one of your Medjays took the commandant’s life and that of the goldsmith. Are you so blind you can’t see the fear and hatred growing within this city?”
“I’m neither blind nor deaf. I know very well the situation.”
“You do nothing to stop it! While your men patrol the streets of this city, risking an attack around every corner, you waste your hours here, allowing the slayer to walk free while you treat mistress Azzia as a common criminal.”
Bak let a touch of insolence creep into his voice. “Do you, a man who shares my Medjays’ blood, believe one of them would slay for no good reason?”
Harmose’s expression was cool, disdainful. “I believe an officer should stand beside his men in the heat of battle, not run away to a safe haven like Ma’am when he sees the enemy approaching from all sides.”
Bak contained his resentment. The words echoed his own thoughts. “I’ve no choice in the matter, as you well know. The chief steward, Tetynefer, has given the order.”
“No man or woman can change his mind,” Mery said bitterly. “I’ve tried.”
The archer’s eyes flashed anger. “How can you, a man who looks at Azzia with sheep’s eyes, speak up for this…this cur who spits dirt on her good name?”
“Enough, Harmose!” Azzia raised her bowl, smiled. “This wine is the finest I have. Will you allow harsh words to turn it sour?”
Harmose was too angry to heed her plea. “Has Bak told you he believes you have a secret lover and you took your husband’s life to gain your freedom?”
Mery gasped. Azzia stared at Bak, appalled.
Bak wanted to throttle the archer. “You exaggerate. I merely asked the question.”
“Since all who know you believe you’d never look at another man…” Harmose’s eyes shifted from Azzia to Bak. “…His own men must shoulder the blame.”
A new, deeper voice said, “No man of Kemet would take the life of Commandant Nakht. Who does that leave but a Medjay?”
Bak recognized the voice and the accusation before he glanced toward the stairwell. Lieutenant Nebwa was leaning on the doorjamb, his coarse features leaving no doubt as to the strength of his conviction. A second figure, Lieutenant Paser, stood in the shadows behind him. Bak was so surprised at seeing them both that his exasperation at Nebwa’s unfounded charge fled. He had expected the man who had taken the gold to come late in the day, but to have all his suspects here at one time was incredible.
Harmose’s curse was long and vehement. Mery muttered beneath his breath. Azzia closed her eyes and rested her forehead on her fingertips. She took a deep breath, lowered her hand, and smiled at the newcomers. Bak noticed in the fading light how drawn her face was, how tired she looked.
Nebwa strolled to the pavilion, indifferent to the furor he had raised. His hair was rumpled, his kilt askew, his sandals worn and dusty. Of far more interest to Bak were his swollen blackening eye, and arms and torso dappled with livid scratches and grayish bruises. All looked fresh in the uncertain light. Nebwa had probably spent the day training his spearmen in the art of hand-to-hand combat, a necessary task for a man who led troops on skirmishes outside the fortress, but would an experienced officer allow his men to punish him so badly?
Bak shifted his attention to Paser, trailing a pace or two behind, eyeing with distaste his companion’s back. The caravan officer was as clean and tidy as Mery and Harmose-and displayed as many signs of bodily abuse. His legs and arms were rough and chapped. He wore a linen bandage on his right hand and wrist. The arm and shoulder were badly bruised.
Sipping the heady wine in his drinking bowl, Bak eyed the four men. He felt certain that each of them, especially the one he had fought in Heby’s dwelling, had a fine tale to tell about the way he had come by his injuries.
Nebwa, looking like an unkempt bull, knelt before Azzia and took her hands. She accepted his rather clumsy offer of sympathy with her customary grace and charm. Bak could detect no special feeling between them. Paser stood while greeting her and gave her the careful smile a palace courtier might give a woman in Maatkare Hatshepsut’s retinue when unsure of her status. His words were proper, correct. Her response was as gracious as before but a shade cooler, a touch more distant. Bak wondered if they had always disliked each other or if Nakht’s death had torn asunder a close alliance.
The stool beside Bak was unoccupied, so Nebwa sat there. Watching Paser’s greeting, he raised his chin to look down his nose and made a prissy face meant as a parody of a courtier in the royal house. Mery smiled, his irritation no match for such childish humor. Bak concealed his own smile with an effort. When Paser swung around to find a place to sit, Nebwa’s face wore the innocence of a child. Neither man appeared to notice the scroll and package.
Nebwa’s glance slid past the still-fuming Harmose and came to rest on the bandages around Bak’s arm and waist. “The storm found you outside, I see.”
“I was caught in the wind, yes, but these…” Bak touched the bandages. “Oil spilled from a lamp and I was burned.” He eyed the officer’s black eye. “I see you were injured, too.”
