nothing?”
As he spoke, he shifted to his right and a pace forward. His intention was clear. He meant to press Bak close to the rising stairway, gradually herding him backward into the corner, deep in the shadows where the sentries could not see.
“Surely the cousin of a man as lofty and influential as Senenmut has no need for gold.” Bak spoke with a biting sarcasm. “Or does the chief steward think too little of you to raise you to the position of wealth and power you feel you deserve?”
“Senenmut cares for no one but himself.” Paser edged closer, narrowing the distance another half-pace.
Bak held his ground. “You took the gold in a fit of pique?”
Paser expelled a sharp, bark-like laugh. “You said one time that you had the ear of Menkheperre Thutmose. You know better than I that one day his regiments will march on the great cities of Kemet and he’ll take the throne for himself alone. You said as much the day of the archery contest.”
Bak had forgotten the long ago lie, his claim of knowing the young king who stood in the shadow of his powerful co-ruler. He thanked the lord Amon that Paser had believed the tale. It had made him more cautious, had forced him to contrive ways of slaying Bak that would be accepted as the will of the gods. At least until now.
“My dear cousin will fall with our sovereign, and all those close to him will fall as well.” Paser took another tentative step, bringing him dangerously close. “Senenmut has had no thoughts to spare for me. I see no reason why I should share his fate. The gold will give me a new life of ease and luxury in a place far to the north of Kemet. Perhaps in the land of Mitanni, or Keftiu, or far-off…”
He stopped, listened. Bak heard it, too. The soft whisper of sand falling on the roof from somewhere above. Paser’s eyes darted upward. His face turned ugly, mean. Bak dared not look up, but he was sure the officer had spotted Imsiba in the deep shadow cast by the wall, slipping down the stairs from the battlements. Paser lunged. Bak ducked into the shadow, felt the blade shave his left arm. Paser’s momentum drove him on and he slammed into Bak, shoving him against the stairway, pinning his right arm and dagger between his body and the mudbrick.
The quick kew-kew-kew of a falcon carried across the rooftops, Imsiba warning the Medjays who had encircled the building after Paser’s return that the fish they had caught might soon attempt to break out of the net.
Bak tried to twist away, to release his dagger. Paser caught him by the throat, shoved his head hard against the stairway, and dug his fingers into the vulnerable flesh, stealing the breath from Bak’s lungs. As the caravan officer pulled back his weapon to strike, Bak grabbed his wrist with his free hand to stave off the thrust and at the same time rammed a knee upward, aiming for Paser’s crotch. Clamping Bak’s neck with the strength of a madman, Paser jerked aside, saving his private parts but giving Bak the room he needed to extricate the hand holding his dagger. Paser twisted his own weapon and raked the point across Bak’s left wrist, forcing him to relax his grip. Bak, his vision blurring from lack of air, shoved his dagger at his captor’s middle. Paser slashed his weapon downward to parry the blow. The dagger spun from Bak’s numbing fingers and clattered across the roof.
Imsiba had to be close by on the stairs, but Bak doubted the Medjay could help. With him and Paser pressed so tight together, limbs entwined, one looking much like the other in the shadow, none but a creature of the night could tell them apart. He had to help himself-and soon-before he had no strength left.
He let himself go limp. His knees buckled. Paser clutched his neck tighter but, unable to support his weight, let him slide down the wall. Suddenly, before the caravan officer could drive his weapon home, Bak shot upward, smashing the top of his head into his captor’s chin. Paser grunted and staggered back. His fingers slid from Bak’s neck.
Gasping for air, Bak stumbled a couple of steps along the stairway, stretching the distance between them. He heard the rustle of sandals on the stairs and glimpsed through a blurred halo the point of Imsiba’s spear above him. Common sense told him Paser would accept his fate and give up. Instinct told him to breathe as deeply as he could, to stiffen his wobbly knees with air.
Paser shook his head to clear it. His eyes darted upward. He bared his teeth and uttered a sound somewhere between a moan and a growl. His arm shot up and back, ready to heave his weapon.
“Do you want to die?” Imsiba spoke in so ordinary a manner he could have been asking about the weather.
Paser hesitated, neither lowering his arm nor throwing the dagger.
“I suggest you look behind you.” Imsiba nodded toward the stairwell opening.
The caravan officer glanced over his shoulder and spat out a curse.
Nebwa, armed with a heavy spear, emerged from the stairwell and stepped onto the roof. “A dozen Medjays are scattered around this building. If you use that dagger on any one of us, their dogs will tear you to pieces.”
Releasing a hard, bitter laugh, Paser slowly lowered his weapon. “When first I laid eyes on you, Bak, I thought you a simple soldier. Never would I have guessed you’d make a fool of me.”
“Drop your dagger, Paser.” Bak’s voice was hoarse, lacking the authority he intended. “We want you living, but we’ll take your life if we must.”
Paser charged at Nebwa. Swinging his spear to impale the approaching man, Nebwa stepped sideways so the impact would not drive him through the opening behind him. His sandal skidded on the grain, and the spear point leaped upward. Before he could regain his balance, Paser rammed into him, knocking him off his feet, and grabbed the weapon. The burly officer fell with a solid thud, but had the presence of mind to seize Paser’s leg.
A light flickered in the stairwell and brightened to cast a golden glow over the pair. Paser shoved his dagger into the sheath he pulled around to his hip and raised the spear to plunge it into the man who held him. Bak grabbed the only object close by, the jar of grain. Not much of a weapon, but all he had.
A torch followed by a head and shoulders appeared in the opening. Bak stared, appalled, at Kames, the highly placed civilian he had recruited to hear Paser’s admission of guilt. The chief scribe had been told to stay in the courtyard until all danger was past, yet here he was.
“You’ve got him!” Kames said. “I heard every…” The torch wavered and the reedy old man gaped at the spear suspended over Nebwa’s chest.
Bak threw the jar. Imsiba hurled his spear an instant later. The jar hit the butt of Paser’s weapon and burst apart, spraying shards and grain over his head and shoulders. The weapon was torn from his hand and its deadly point slid past Nebwa. Imsiba’s spear, its path deflected by a shard, sliced through the flesh of Paser’s right shoulder and struck the edge of the opening where Kames stood. The old man cringed, wrapped his arms around his head. Nebwa released Paser’s leg and tried to grab the weapon, but it slid down Kames’s back and clattered to the steps below. The old man ducked out of sight.
Bak, running toward them, saw Paser glance at the lighted stairwell which promised a way out. “Stop!” he croaked. “My men surround this building. You’ve nowhere to go.”
Paser leaped past Nebwa’s grasping hands, through the opening, and down the stairs. Cursing the villain’s obstinacy, Bak raced into the swath of light. He heard Kames cry out, the thud of a fallen body, and Azzia shrieking angry words in her own tongue. Bak turned his curses on himself. She had vowed to remain in her bedchamber with her servants. He should have realized she would do no such thing with her husband’s slayer close by.
Dreading what he would find, he plunged down the stairs. The old man lay crumpled in the doorway of Nakht’s reception room, his long white kilt bunched around his knees, the torch lying on the floor, sputtering. As Bak leaped over him, he saw Paser just outside the courtyard door, struggling with Azzia for possession of Imsiba’s spear. The caravan officer spotted Bak. He jerked the spear, and her with it, out of sight. Her screams ended abruptly.
A frigid hand clutched Bak’s heart. “Azzia!”
No answer.
He ran to the door and peered around the jamb. Azzia stood chalky-faced midway across the courtyard. Paser stood behind her, his left arm holding her close, the dagger in his bloody right hand much too near her white throat. The blood dripping from his wound was smeared across her bare shoulder. Smoke drifted over them from a torch mounted beside the door leading to the stairway and the audience hall below. Imsiba’s spear was nowhere to be seen.
A soft moan drew Bak back away from the door. Kames had regained his senses. Bak thanked the gods that at least his witness was all right. Imsiba mounted the torch in a bracket by the door, preventing a dreaded fire, and was raising the old man to a sitting position.
