into the water and the speed of the strokes doubled. The helmsman swung the rudder oars. Wings of Horus veered around a cumbersome barge loaded with limestone blocks, then cut around a sandbar and directly into the path of the yacht. Behind them Meren's supply boats glided into place, blocking their quarry completely.
In a short time a plank dropped between the Wings of Horus and the yacht. Meren and several of his men boarded the smaller craft, only to find a confused and frightened ship's master and crew. Another, smaller boat belonging to Ahiram had sailed earlier with servants and slaves. Ahiram had disembarked not long ago on the east bank. The ship's master had been ordered to sail north, to the delta, to a small estate owned by a friend of Ahiram.
Leaving those on the supply ship behind to deal with the yacht, Meren went ashore with Abu, sending forth his men to scour the quay. A short time later one came back, saying Ahiram had set out on the desert road with a band of men, all in chariots. Meren waited with impatience as his own chariot and horses were unloaded. He gazed across the river to the west. The sun was dying, its glare turning from almost white to a deep gold as it sank. They would never catch Ahiram before nightfall.
The moment his groom finished harnessing his thoroughbreds, Meren stepped into his chariot. Abu shoved an arrow case into the side compartment and handed Meren his dagger. While Abu gathered the reins, Meren checked his lances and scimitar. Then he glanced over his shoulder at the fourteen chariots ranged in a double column behind him and shouted the order to move out.
They launched into a trot followed by a full gallop. The docks vanished behind them; one after the other, groups of travelers dashed out of their path. A scout on horseback guided the company around great caravans slowly moving east toward remote mines and quarries and those headed west with foreign cargo.
Meren gripped the side of the chariot and braced his legs as the vehicle jounced over ruts and stones. Dust and grit flew in his face, but his gaze swept back and forth across the horizon as they scaled barren hills and raced across the rocky surface of the desert. Soon all evidence of travelers vanished.
There was still no sign of Ahiram, and the sun was quickly disappearing behind them. If it hadn't been for the speed of Wings of Horus, he would never have closed the distance between them as much as he had. Now he had to trust in the superiority of his horses. His constant training with them would show in their stamina and speed. The question was, did Ahiram have better animals?
The outrider slowed. He suddenly pointed, cried out, and swerved off the road to the north. Jumping off his horse, he bent over something in the desert floor. Light was growing dim as Meren's chariot pulled alongside the outrider.
'Lord, a group of chariots left the road here.'
Meren examined the shallow marks made in the creamy dust. A group of at least seven chariots, not a caravan of pack animals and drivers on foot-Ahiram. The tracks had to be fresh, or the wind would have obliterated them. No one left the road and headed into the desert at night unless forced. Had Ahiram lost his wits, or had his courage failed? He might have seen bandits coming at him. Or was he meeting someone?
'Follow the tracks,' Meren ordered.
He jumped into his chariot again, and Abu slapped the reins on the backs of their team. To either side of them, his men spread out. Whips cracking, they headed away from the Red Sea road.
If they didn't find Ahiram soon, they would have to stop for fear of losing his trail in darkness. They were going at a trot now. Meren was about to call a halt when a sound floated to him on the night breeze. He knew that sound, that high-pitched, wordless blare- part scream, part ching of metal against metal-the sound of distant battle.
He glanced at Abu, then turned and shouted an order, sweeping his arm out, over his head and in the direction of the sound. A war cry went up from the charioteers, and the company burst into a gallop that took them over the crest of a hill. Halfway between the hill and the horizon he spotted the skirmish.
A group of men crouched behind overturned chariots and dead horses fought off what appeared to be bandits. As Meren and his company sped toward them, the attackers broke off. Some clambered into abandoned chariots, while a few vaulted onto the backs of horses that had escaped harness and fought the animals until they launched into a gallop. Others waited long enough to release a volley of arrows.
Meren reached over the side of the chariot for his shield, shouting a warning. He heard the angry buzz of arrows. Hefting his shield so that it covered Abu and himself, he gripped the chariot with his free arm.
Three missiles hit the shield before he risked a look. The attackers had broken off and were retreating. Around him he saw charioteers releasing a return volley at those still within range, while their drivers aimed their chariots at the enemy. With the ease of years, he grabbed his own bow, strung it, and let off an arrow. Like all charioteers, he'd been trained to fire while being rattled by a charging chariot. He released quickly, hearing the flat, thwacking sound of the bow. The arrow shot up in a low arc and stabbed into the chest of a bandit who had lingered too long. Meren put the bow back in its case and grabbed his scimitar, but by the time they arrived at the scene, the last of the robbers had vanished.
Meren bolted from his chariot before it stopped. No one was left standing, so he signaled to his men to pursue the bandits. Two chariots remained behind. With Abu at his side, Meren walked from body to body. Most of the victims seemed to be Ahiram's guards.
There was one unarmed man, a servant by the roughness of his dress, no doubt one of those Ahiram's porter had mentioned. Meren walked by the servant's body. He pointed to a wounded horse. One of the charioteers drew a short sword.
Meren turned away from the sight, only to come upon the cloaked body of a bandit. He was about to pass it by when his thoroughness made him stoop and pull the cloak. The body rolled over; the edges of the cloak fell back.
The bandit had died of an arrow in his neck. He wore his hair in plaits bound by leather thongs, and, unlike an Egyptian, he had a beard that had been twisted into complex, curling ringlets. But what disturbed Meren was his body armor, a shift of bronze scales. He knelt and studied the short sword that had fallen beside the man's hip. Then he lifted the bandit's right arm. The right wrist was thicker than the left, the right forearm heavier of muscle and crisscrossed with scars.
Rising, Meren rubbed his chin. He heard a moan and whirled to face what he'd thought was another dead man. As he drew close he recognized the familiar short figure lying facedown next to an overturned chariot. He knelt beside Ahiram and turned him on his back. Face, curly hair, and pointed beard coated with dust and blood, Ahiram gasped and clenched his stomach. His other arm was supported in a sling. Meren tried to pry the man's hand from a bleeding wound in his gut, but Ahiram's eyes flew open, the whites standing out against his dark skin.
'Mer-en.' Ahiram struggled to breathe, and his bloodied hand clutched Meren's arm. 'Be wary. He'll betray you too.'
'Who will? Did you kill Qenamun?'
Ahiram was staring up at him, his breath coming after long pauses.
Meren put his hand over Ahiram's. 'Did you kill him? Why did you flee?'
He heard a long, gurgling intake of breath. Meren swore; he'd heard that sound too many times. He wasn't surprised when the life vanished from Ahiram's eyes and his body relaxed.
Meren stood and moved away, his gaze raking over the dead man, taking in the loose, torn robe of dark brown. Ahiram had changed from an Egyptian kilt to the wool clothing of an Asiatic, as had his companions. The attackers had robbed their quarry of jewels and weapons. Little was left to inspect. Ahiram was barefoot; had they even taken the sandals of the dead?
Meren was contemplating the strange chance that the man he'd been chasing had come upon bandits, when the sun dipped below the horizon. A last burst of fiery light glinted off the gold foil on a sandal lying upside down a few paces from Ahiram's body. Meren stared at it, still intent on who the attackers could have been. Then he blinked and strode toward the sandal. Holding a torch in one hand, Abu joined him.
'The bodies have been looted,' Abu said as Meren slowly picked up the sandal. 'But I think most are officers who served under Ahiram. Shall we make camp for the night, lord?'
Meren didn't answer. He turned the sandal over and ran his fingers across its surface-wood overlaid with a marquetry veneer of bark, leather, and gold foil. Expensive. Prince's sandals.
He was about to toss it away, but hesitated. Something about it seemed too familiar. Holding it nearer the torchlight, he examined the design on the sole. Two captives, an Asiatic and a Nubian, were bound with stems of
