granite that had long ago fallen from above to form a room open at both ends. His hands were bound behind his back with a leather thong. Ten or so paces away, the mule stood in a similar deep, shaded passage, nibbling the leaves and a few stubby branches broken from a shrub Bak did not recognize. The an imal’s caretaker dozed nearby.
Bak felt weak and drowsy. The pain over his ear was mod est, no longer a thing to fear and avoid. He squirmed around until he could rise on shaky knees and made his way to the end of his shelter. They were, he saw, in a narrow wadi whose floor was covered with drifted sand and along whose walls the fallen chunks and slabs of rock formed rooms of various odd sizes and shapes. The leader and another man lay sleep ing in the shade twenty or so paces to his left. The fourth man was nowhere to be seen. Bak guessed he was sitting in some sheltered aerie, keeping watch.
Or maybe he, too, was asleep.
Even as he thought of sneaking away, Bak felt himself nodding off. How could he hope to escape when he could not keep his eyes open? Shaking his head to wake up, jarring the sore spot above his ear, he began to probe the sand, searching for a sharp bit of rock, thinking to cut himself free.
He glanced toward the leader of the nomads, who lay still and silent, watching him. With a grimace, the man sat up, fished through the ragged bundle beside him, and withdrew the container holding the sleeping potion.
Bak next awoke lying in a band of shade at the base of a cliff whose black face rose into a blue-white sky. A faint breeze wafted past, drying the film of sweat on his body, soothing him. The quiet was absolute.
He struggled to a sitting position. Licking his dry lips, longing for a drink of cool, pure water, he watched a grasshopper fly downstream in search of a tastier meal. He began to realize how hungry he was.
His head felt heavy and his body felt thick and sluggish, but he was more aware of his surroundings than he had been for… For how long? How long ago had the nomads cap tured him? At least one night and one day. Possibly longer.
Several days could have passed without his knowing.
Other than the insect, a pair of larks, and a lizard, he saw no sign of life. He was alone in the wadi, and if the creatures’ lack of fear told true, he had been for some time. Had his ab ductors decided to abandon him, to leave him here to die? He thought of the two men who had vanished, the one who had been slain. Would he be the next to disappear?
Commonsense said no. They had gone to too much trouble to abduct him and to carry him across a landscape that had to have been molded by the lord Set himself. Set was the god of the barren desert, of violence and chaos, and such was the land Bak vaguely recalled: deep and rugged wadis; high, bar ren plains; narrow trails up steep escarpments so rugged the nomads had trouble placing one foot in front of another, where the mule had dropped down on his haunches and had had to be dragged forward.
Yes, they had gone to considerable trouble to bring him to this place. Why, then, had they left him alone if not to aban don him to death? He must free himself.
He had just located a thin black stone he thought would slice through the leather thongs binding his wrists when he heard voices approaching up the wadi. A nomad rose from among a shaded pile of rocks a dozen paces away. He had been there all along.
A half-dozen nomads, men Bak had never seen before, hustled him over a low rise. From the greater height, he saw a huge orange sun drop behind a haze-shrouded horizon. They descended into a broad, open wadi, with a smattering of aca cias across its surface. As they strode out across the rocky streambed, swerving around the trees and clumps of silla, he saw in the lingering twilight fifteen or so seated nomads scat tered loosely around a small fire. Not far away, the failing sunlight glinted on the mirror-like surface of water that filled a depression in the center of the dry watercourse. The mule and a half-dozen donkeys stood at the edge, nibbling shoots of greenery someone had gathered for them.
A man left the camp and walked out to meet them. Bak’s heart sank as he recognized the leader of the quartet that had abducted him. The man withdrew a dagger from a sheath at his waist and, approaching the captive, snapped out an order.
Someone pivoted Bak around so his back was to the weapon.
His skin crawled and he could practically feel the dagger plunged deep into his flesh.
Another man grabbed his hands and jerked them back, away from his body. The blade struck the leather thong bind ing his wrists together and sliced it in two. Bak was so aston ished his mouth dropped open. Laughing, the leader, beckoned and stalked toward the camp.
A tall, thin nomad stood up as they approached. His arms and legs were as bony as those of an adolescent boy, but stringy muscles hinted at stamina and power. “Ah, here you are.” He eyed Bak curiously. “You seem to have fared well enough during your journey.”
“You speak the tongue of Kemet,” Bak said, surprised.
“While a young man, I spent three years with your army, serving as a scout and guide. I’ve a talent for languages, I discovered.”
The heavy scent of roasting meat drew Bak’s eyes to the fire, where the carcass of a young lamb had been tied to a stick raised above hot coals. He could not recall when last he had been so hungry. “What did you do to my men? What’s happened to the caravan I traveled with?”
The man spoke a few words in his own tongue. A tiny, grizzled old man who was sitting close to the fire, tending the meat, handed Bak a beaten metal bowl filled with water.
He took a careful sip. The taste was good, undefiled by the bitterness of the sleeping potion. He took another sip and another, taking care not to drink too much at any one time.
Relaxing enough to look around, he counted twenty-two men and a youth. They were, he felt sure, the same men who had left the many footprints Kaha and Minmose had found.
“Did you take the other men as your prisoners after you abducted me?” He refused to believe the worst: that not a man or animal in the caravan had survived except for these few donkeys.
The tall, thin nomad, who looked to be about thirty years of age, sat on the sand near the fire and folded his legs in front of him. He signaled his captive to sit beside him. “Who are you?”
Bak could see that he would get no answer until he sup plied a few of his own. “I’m Lieutenant Bak. And you are?”
“My name would mean nothing to you. The explorer Min nakht called me Nefertem.”
Nefertem, a primeval god associated with the sun, a name most appropriate for a man who dwelt in this sun-baked land.
“You knew Minnakht?”
The nomad’s eyes narrowed. “You speak of him as if he’s no longer among the living.”
Bak could see he had stumbled into a sensitive area. “You spoke of him as if in the past. I followed your example.”
Evidently not sure of his use of a tongue he seldom spoke, Nefertem thought over what had been said. A curt nod acknowledged his acceptance of the charge. “Do you know him?”
“I’ve heard much of him, but I’ve never met him.”
The nomad’s voice hardened. “You’ve heard of the gold he’s been seeking, I’ll wager.”
Wary of the sudden flash of anger, of the bitter cynicism,
Bak said, “I’ve been told he’s looking for gold, yes. Precious stones and minerals have also been mentioned. No man has said for a fact that he’s found them.”
The old man dipped a shallow cup into a bowl of oil and poured it slowly over the meat. Drops fell onto the fire, mak ing it crackle and smoke. Bak breathed in the aroma and his stomach cramped from hunger.
Nefertem leaned toward him, his eyes glittering, his expres sion hard. “Why have you come into this desert, Lieutenant?”
Bak did not know what to say. If this man had been a friend of Minnakht, the truth would serve better than a false hood. If these men were ruffians who had attacked the cara van out of malice and greed, if they were responsible for the disappearance or death of Minnakht and the other two men-and the lord Amon alone knew how many others-a lie might serve him better.
“How well do you know Minnakht?” he countered, prob ing for a clue as to what best to say.
“You claim to be an officer. You and your men act and fight like soldiers. I repeat: Why have you come into
