man who had taken the life most dear to them. He had wanted to move them elsewhere, but their absence would have aroused Paser’s suspicions. In fact, Azzia, brave beyond all other women, had insisted he let her stay.
He surveyed the rooftops of the nearby blocks of buildings. He saw no movement, heard only the usual chorus of barking dogs. The bird, the puppy, the tomcat were silent. His hand inched toward his dagger. He jerked it away and wiped the sweat from his face, cool sweat in a chilly night. Will Paser never convince himself I’m here alone? he wondered.
A soft thud, the sound of baked clay bumping mudbrick. He started, almost laughed aloud. Paser was coming, climbing the stairs. He had caught his toe on the string Bak had stretched along a step, setting in motion a stemmed bowl.
Paser’s head and shoulders burst out of the black stairwell. With barely a glance at Bak, he pivoted, making a fast but thorough inspection of the rooftop. Satisfied they were alone, he ascended to the open trapdoor and stepped onto the roof. He carried a spear. A sheathed dagger hung from his waist. Bak rose to his feet to give himself greater mobility.
Paser looked up at his adversary, safely out of reach of a quick thrust. “You’re a careful man, Bak.”
“I’ve underestimated you before. I know better now.”
Paser eyed him with open curiosity. “Why did you have me march with you and Nebwa when the victorious troops entered these walls?” He tilted the spearpoint toward Bak, drawing attention to the sharp, deadly weapon. “Did you believe so generous an act would lower my defenses?”
“I doubt much of anything could weaken your instincts to survive, Paser.” Bak kept a cautious eye on the spear. “You didn’t hesitate to slay your accomplices Heby and Roy even though, without them, you no longer had any way of laying your hands on the precious ore from the mine. It’s clear you value your life above all things.”
Paser’s laugh was as brittle as poorly made glass. “You understand me better than I thought.”
“A man who hunts a dangerous beast must learn its habits.”
“Is that meant to be a compliment?”
It depends on the beast, Bak thought, but the glittering spear point warned him not to press his luck. “If I thought you like the lowly jackal, a creature that slinks among the tombs, waiting to tear the flesh from the un- resisting dead, would I have taken such care to protect myself?”
Paser opened his mouth to respond, but Bak hurried on, “The night is growing short. I think it time we discuss the scrolls mistress Azzia gave me.”
“I can make no bargains until I see them.” Paser held out his free hand. “Since you refuse to trust me, I suggest you throw them to me.”
“I didn’t bring them.”
Paser tensed; he hefted his spear as if making ready to throw it.
Bak’s hand flew to his dagger. “Think, Paser! Would I offer up the very objects that serve me as a shield?”
“You’re despicable!”
“Fine words from one who’s slain five men.”
Bak slid his weapon from its sheath and raised it slowly, letting his opponent know he would use it if he must. Both men knew who held the advantage. A man could throw a lightweight dagger faster and truer from a hilltop than hurl a heavy spear from the valley below with the force and accuracy necessary to take a life.
“Set your spear at ease, Paser.”
The caravan officer muttered an oath beneath his breath, swung the spear point high, and rammed the butt of the shaft on the rooftop with a solid thud. “What do you want from me?”
Bak let himself relax, but not too much. “Did Nakht let you read the scrolls when he called you into his office the day of his death?”
“Do you jest? He told me of their existence, but left no doubt as to their contents.”
“Good! We’ve no need to haggle over their worth.”
“What do you want?” Paser repeated through gritted teeth.
“I’m not a greedy man.” Bak’s voice was smooth, generous. “For each scroll, I wish to receive a single bar of gold. I’ll need a third bar for the document I prepared that relates in detail the path I took that led me to you.”
“You swine!”
Bak made a tut-tut sound with his tongue. “I suggest we meet again within the hour. Here on this roof. I’ll have the scrolls with me, that I promise, and I expect you to bring the gold. After the exchange is made, I’ll withdraw my Medjays from the gates. If you choose to remain in Buhen, your life and mine will go on as before and I’ll make no further demands. If you flee with the remainder of your prize, I’ll do no more than go through the motions of tracking you down.”
“If I fail to meet you here?”
“You’ll not survive the night.”
Paser glared, stretching the silence and the tension gripping Bak’s heart. “All right.” He swung away to plunge down the stairs.
“Leave your weapons behind,” Bak called to the back of his head. “I’ll make no trade with a man I can’t safely approach.”
Paser lost himself in the darkness. The baked clay bowl made no noise. He must have torn it from the step.
Bak stood quite still, alert to every sound no matter how ordinary: the hoot of an owl, barking dogs, the faint squeak of a rat. At last the tomcat yowled. Paser had left the building. Bak rammed his dagger into its sheath and slumped onto the step. He thanked the lord Amon for his help so far and prayed for additional favors. Only the god could allow the Medjays to blend into the dark and follow Paser unseen to the place where he had hidden the stolen gold. Only the god could lead Paser back to the rooftop and give him enough self-confidence to loosen his tongue.
Not until later did it occur to him that Paser had never once mentioned his powerful cousin, the high and mighty chief steward Senenmut.
Chapter Eighteen
The moon had passed over the battlements and the open stairway lay in shadow when next Bak heard the caterwauling tomcat. Relief flooded through him. He had told the Medjays who had been following Paser to give no signals after the caravan officer left the building, preferring to remain ignorant of his movements rather than risk raising his suspicions. The long silence had threatened to erode his confidence.
He had recovered the scrolls from their hiding place in the courtyard, grabbed a plugged jar filled with wheat he had found by the grindstone, and raced back to the roof. After mounding a portion of the grain near the stairwell opening, he had left the container on a lower step and climbed back up to his previous perch. Then he had waited, so still and silent that eight or nine rats had crept across the rooftop to devour the feast he had provided them.
Taking care not to frighten away the rodents, he shifted from one buttock to the other, touched for reassurance the scrolls on the step beside him, and fingered the handle of his dagger. Miniature rivers of sweat, cold and reeking of tension, trickled from beneath the bandage around his shoulder and upper chest. He imagined Paser hidden in the shadows of the courtyard, studying him, searching for a sign of danger-or an indication of weakness.
One of the feasting rats, the largest, lifted its head and stared toward the stairwell. Bak sucked in his breath, held it. The creature remained motionless, listening. Abruptly it let out a shrill squeak and shot across the roof, away from the opening. Its mates scampered in all directions, leaving nothing behind but a scattered pile of grain. Paser’s dark head rose to the level of the rooftop.
Bak scrambled to his feet, vowing to thank his unwitting allies with the wheat he had held in reserve.
If Paser noticed the grain, he gave no sign. As cautious as before, he climbed out of the stairwell and stepped onto the roof. He carried no spear and the sheath tied to his belt was empty. The absence of weapons surprised Bak, troubled him.
