by Lauren Haney
Snapping out an oath, Bak crossed the room in three quick strides, scooped up the lamp and, shielding the flame with a hand, carried it back to the door for a closer look. The dagger was bronze, a plain, unmarked weapon common to the army. The rat's neck had been cut before it had been pinned to the mat. The creature, he knew without doubt, symbolized the slain sergeant Senmut, from all reports a rat in his own right.
The message could not have been more clear, yet Bak was confused. He had been so sure the slayer would leave no more unwanted gifts. Why this now? Why this kind of message when the bow was more direct?
He backed off and stared. The rodent so recently slain, the fresh blood on the stool, sent a chill up his spine. This gift was disgusting, sinister, its delivery demonstrating contempt for himself and his men. The intruder could not have been gone more than a few moments. He had taken the rat's life and left his ugly message, with Psuro and Kasaya on the rooftop only a few paces away.
And Bak himself had missed him by a hair.
Chapter Nine
"Why would a man use a bow and arrow at midday and go back to a more insidious threat that same evening?" Bak, his forearms resting on either side of the prow, scanned the unfamiliar waters ahead of the skiff, searching for rocks lying beneath the surface, awaiting a lapse of attention. "I don't understand."
Psuro sat farther back, manning the sail. "Are you sure he meant to slay you, sir? His arrows never once came close, you said."
"I'm not certain of anything," Bak grumbled. He was firmly convinced someone had set out to slay him, but to argue the matter with Psuro was futile. The stocky Medjay was a good man, but he was not Imsiba. Bak needed the sergeant's ear, his common sense arguments that sent Bak's thoughts down untraveled paths.
"There's the island where we're to meet User," Psuro said, pointing. "The place of inscriptions."
Bak eyed the patch of land rising from the river some distance ahead, an outcrop of granite larger than Abu and as stubbornly resistant to erosion. Acacias and tamarisks lined the water's edge, while mounded boulders, their surfaces blackened by time, rose above a blanket of yellow sand too sterile to support much life. He was not impressed.
Rising to his feet, he turned around to study the river behind them, as he often had since their departure from Abu. Among the many islands through which they had threaded their way, bits and pieces of ships darted into and out of sight, as if playing the child's game of hide-and-seek. He glimpsed mastheads, portions of sails, sometimes a fully rigged craft that vanished in the blink of an eye behind islands crowned with vegetation or massive clumps of boulders devoid of foliage. Distance shrunk the vessels, light and heat waves distorted them, preventing him from identifying any one boat that might have remained behind them all along. He did not think anyone was following, but he could not be sure.
"According to Pahared," Psuro said, "we'll find a multitude of writings left on the rocks from ancient times." "Rapids to the right," Bak warned, spotting a stretch of foaming water.
A minute adjustment of the braces eased the vessel left. The stiff breeze sped them southward, making light of the northbound current. With their sail fully ballooned, the water whispering beneath the hull, they sped past the eddy and through an irregular row of islets guarding their approach to the island: a channel separating the rocky barrier from the east bank of the river. Patches of froth warned of hidden hazards. The chill of night had passed, and the warm breath of the lord Khepre, the morning sun, had lifted the mist from the water. Birds wheeled overhead, riding the air currents in lazy circles, ready to dive at any fish foolhardy enough to rise to the surface.
"The patterns I spotted the day we arrived in Abu point to a solitary slayer having a single reason for his actions," Bak said, thinking aloud. "If I weren't so sure of that, I'd suspect a second man fired those arrows yesterday."
"Anything's possible, I suppose," Psuro said doubtfully. Bak scowled at the channel ahead. Imsiba, too, would have doubts, he thought, but he would have alternate suggestions as well.
They raced up the channel, following a small, stout cargo vessel riding low beneath a heavy load of plump sacks he assumed were filled with grain. To their right, a tall, steep ridge strewn with boulders rose from the island. On the east bank, a mudbrick village nestled beside a small bay edged with sycamores, palms, and acacias. Spindly lean-tos shaded a thriving market along the shore. The vessel ahead swung into the bay to merge with a fleet of skiffs whose masters had brought produce for trade. Psuro adjusted the sail, veering in the opposite direction toward the island.
"What rank did User hold when his unit was besieged by the storm?" Bak asked, his eyes on the approaching shore. "Spearman." Psuro spilled air from the sail, cutting their speed "He was a raw recruit, a youth not long off the farm, having no experience in warfare."
"That looks a good place to land." Bak pointed toward a stretch of sandy beach near the southern end of the ridge. "We're to meet him at the shrine of the lady Anket." The goddess, along with the lord Khnum and the lady Satet, served as a guardian of the source of the great river on which they sailed. "He came close to walking with the gods, he told me. He was the last to come back from the desert, and if he hadn't been found by a boy searching for a stray goat, he'd have died less than an hour's walk from the river." They neared the shore and Psuro let the upper yard fall. Bak leaped overboard before the current could drag them backward and towed the vessel into shallow water. Psuro scrambled out, and together they pulled the boat onto the beach. The island looked peaceful enough, deserted even, and they both wore sheathed daggers at their waists, but with an intruder leaving threatening gifts in their quarters and an archer lurking about, they opted to arm themselves with the spears and shields they had brought from Abu.
They trudged up a short incline blanketed with sand and walked alongside the ridge, a steep jumble of boulders streaked with bird droppings. Bak's eyes strayed to the inscriptions, and his footsteps slowed. He glimpsed messages of kings returning victorious from battles fought far to the south, reminders of proud noblemen leading caravans laden with exotic and priceless trade goods, and records of accomplishments of a more practical nature, such as the digging of a well on a remote desert track.
"Did User say how he managed to survive the storm?" "He was in too great a hurry to leave Abu." Psuro. glanced around, searching for the man they had come to see. "He did say he was so happy to see the river he wanted forevermore to surround himself with water. Now he lives on an island where he can get a drink or go for a swim at any time, day or night."
"If his island is anything like this, he's made a bargain with the lord Set."
Set was a god representing evil and violence, patron of deserts and foreign lands. The sun was indeed ferocious, beating down unrelieved, making the sand so hot it burned their feet. The breeze did nothing to relieve the heat, merely set their teeth on edge as it passed among the boulders, whispering a soft and lonely refrain.
They plodded around the southern end of the ridge, between it and a second, smaller mound. Near the upstream tip of the island, drawn well out of the water and half hidden in a "clump of wispy tamarisks, they spotted an empty skiff. User's vessel, they assumed. Walking on, they found on the west side of the ridge a modest sandstone shrine surrounded by a decrepit mudbrick wall. The building looked across a swath of sand toward a fairly broad channel down which a canal had been cut through the rapids many generations earlier, a great feat for its time but now blocked with boulders and impossible to use.
Thinking to find User inside the shrine, they walked through the open gate and crossed the sand to the building. The door stood open, admitting light to a transverse chamber with three small, dark rooms at the back. Except for the one in the center, which contained a red granite pedestal which would support the wooden shrine of the lady Anket when she traveled upstream from Abu to greet. the rising floodwaters, the building was empty.
Leaving the sacred precinct, they looked around, seeking User, a priest, som
e sign of life in this lifeless place.
A short, sharp whistle broke the silence.
"Up there." Bak pointed toward the top of the ridge, where a man stood among the boulders, his head shaded by what looked from a distance like an overturned basket. "Is that User?"
"He's been watching us all along," the Medjay grumbled. "Why couldn't he show himself sooner?"
User remained where he was, well shielded by boulders, looking out at the water, examining the landscape on the far side of the ridge. A cautious man, Bak thought. A man either afraid of his own shadow or fearful for good reason. A reason not to be found in Abu, but here.
"Something's wrong," he said, darting toward the mound. Still the man they had come to see hesitated. After a final long look at the channel beyond the ridge, where their skiff lay, he began to move. As agile as a cat, he worked his way down to meet them, sidling between boulders, climbing around broken chunks of granite, swinging across spaces separating one from another. Never did he show himself fully. "I'm Lieutenant Bak," Bak called. "What troubles you?" User stopped not far above and hunkered down in the shelter of an overhanging chunk of rock. He was a stocky man of medium height, wearing a white tunic with loose sleeves that covered his arms and a kilt that fell below his knees. The fabric was heavy and coarse, the garb unusual, restricting freedom of movement for working in the fields or sailing a skiff. What had looked like an upside-down basket from a distance was, in fact, an odd woven reed headdress with a wide brim that kept his face in shadow.
"Do you know you were followed to this place?" he demanded. "A man alone in a skiff, carrying a bow and a quiver full of arrows."
Bak snarled a curse. "Where is he now?"
"Not far upstream from where you beached your vessel. He's in his boat, waiting. I feared this would happen. With so many who survived the storm already dead…" User let out a harsh laugh, leaving the rest to the imagination.
"I doubt he's come for you. It's me he wants to slay." "You?" User asked, skeptical.
Psuro hefted his spear. "Shall I go after him, sir?"
"I wouldn't," User cut in before Bak could answer. "He's sheltered within a clump of trees and surrounded by open space. No man can get close without being seen."
"Did you get a good look at him?" Bak asked. "He's too far away."
Bak stood, hands on hips, thinking. He had taken every precaution he could and still he had been followed. Maybe the lord Amon had handed him a gift in spite of himself. "Show me where he is. We must decide how best to lay hands on him."
"I'm glad you agreed to help," Bak said.
User, who had had no choice in the matter, gave him a rueful grin. "As you pointed out, Lieutenant, it's my neck, too."
Bak poled the skiff into deeper water, then settled down in the stern. He wished they were sailing his own swift vessel instead of the blocky, work-a-day craft of the island farmer. And he wished for a weapon with a longer range than a spear. He shook off the thought. The beached skiff was unreachable, useful as bait and nothing more, the object that held the archer where he was, the sole reason he had not stalked Bak and Psuro across the island as soon as he arrived.
User dipped the oars deep, sending the vessel across a patch of bubbling water and down a cascade that took Bak's breath away. "The currents are in our favor, so it shouldn't take long to get to him. The problem, as I see it, will be that list stretch of open water."
"With luck and the help of the gods, Psuro will distract him." Bak prayed he was right. The Medjay had a strong arm, but could he hurl rocks far enough and fast e- fough to hold the archer's attention? "You met us on this island to speak of the sandstorm. I can think of no better time than now."
"I'll be frank with you, Lieutenant. I don't like to talk about it or even think about it. The storm. Those many days in the desert…" User raised a shoulder and wiped his sweaty face on his tunic. His voice dropped to a low croak. "I'll never know what kept me alive."
Bak felt compassion, sympathy, but he had to know what drove the slayer on. "I'd like nothing more than to walk away and leave you in peace, but I can't."
"The man you seek will be within our grasp in less than an hour. Let him speak for himself."
Bak eyed him long and hard. "How many men survived that storm, User?" Getting nothing in return but a stubborn scowl, he snapped, "Surely you can answer so simple a question!"
User veered closer to shore, avoiding the stronger current farther out. "Eleven," he muttered.
"Eleven men who've remained mute for five long years." Bak kept his voice hard, cold. "Why? Why hold a time of mutual suffering so close within the heart? Would it not be natural to talk, to share so horrible an experience with all who wish to listen? To lessen the load through repetition?" "You don't understand!"
"I suspect Djehuty ordered all who survived to remain quiet, but I, too, have lived in a garrison. I know a commander's orders won't silence whispers."
User stared at him, his face wracked with pain. Without warning, he leaned hard on an oar, turning the skiff, and rammed its prow into a stand of thick, spiky grass. Bak, taken unawares, slid off the wooden brace he occupied and landed hard on the centerboard amid a clutter of fishing poles and farm tools.
"We're ashamed!" User cried. "Some of us for one reason, I suspect, and some for another. But we all have reason for shame."
Bak rocked forward, brushed off the back of his kilt, and sat again on tha, brace. He eyed the former spearman with a mix of sympathy, tolerance, and blame. User read the look and a flush spread across his face. He clutched the oars and, pushing hard against the grass, freed the skiff.
Back on course, he said, "With so many of us so recently slain.. " He paused, rubbed his forehead as if to ease the pain. "The tale must be told, I know."
"The wind came up and the skies blackened," Bak said, thinking to lead him into his story.
User's expression lightened; he grabbed at the words like a drowning man grabbing at a lifeline. "You know the tale already?"
"I've seen an approaching storm, that's all."
Deflated, User eased the skiff between two boulders. The task seemed to calm him, to resign him. "With the storm upon us, blinding us, the men did what any sensible men would do. They started to bunch up and huddle down with the donkeys. Commander Djehuty ordered us to stay in line and march on." He gave a harsh, cynical snort. "As if any man could keep going in such a tempest!"
Bak recalled Lieutenant Amonhotep saying he had heard contradictory orders. Had the young aide told the truth as he remembered it? Or had he thought it best to show Djehuty in a better light?
"Even I, as green as I was, knew the order was foolish," User said. "With no one able to see his hand in front of his face, the line broke apart and most men lost their way, I among them. By chance, I stumbled upon my sergeant, Senmut, a lieutenant named Ptahmose, and a few other men and donkeys, all crowded together, trying to save themselves."
"Was Montu among them? Or the child Nakht's father?" "I don't know. I was new to the garrison. Most of the men were strangers to me."
Staying close to the island, User let the current carry the skiff over a stepped series of falls that jarred the spine each time it dropped.
"The storm was fierce," the farmer went on. "The lieutenant ordered us to hold hands, saying all who let go would die, and he told us to hang onto our donkeys' lead ropes. It wasn't easy, let me tell you. The wind blew with such force, we stumbled along before it, all of us together. My donkey soon jerked free, and I guess others did, too."
User shipped his oars, letting the skiff drift around the bend. Bak saw in the distance the small bay on the east bank and the village beside it. He prayed the archer was a patient man, still awaiting them in his skiff. He had no fear for Psuro; the Medjay had the patience of a log.
"How long we staggered on, I don't know." User, well into his tale, needed no further prompting. "Made senseless by the battering we were getting, we fell into a long-dry watercourse. There we lost several men and al
l that remained of our donkeys except one. Lieutenant Ptahmose, wiser than the rest, had tied its lead rope to his arm. The wind pinned us against the wadi wall, and I was sure we would die there. We didn't. The donkey turned his back on the gale and let it blow him along the wall, taking us with him. And then, thanks to all the gods in the ennead, the creature found shelter-a small cave."
Raising his arm, he wiped his troubled face on his sleeve. "We crowded inside and-may the gods forgive us all-we pushed the poor dumb beast back out into the storm. To keep him out, we shoved a boulder, long ago fallen from the ceiling, in front of the opening. It broke the wind and we had more room. The donkey stood there for a long time, head down, tail between its legs. At last, it drifted off, taking a half full jar of water with it. We were too afraid for ourselves to notice-until too late."
User rowed the skiff close under the trees lining the water's edge, where he and Bak had to duck the lower limbs. "The rest is a dream I try nightly to forget. The wind, the heat, the air filled with sand and dust. The thirst, the stench of fear."
Bak gave him a thoughtful look. "Other than the donkey, I see no reason for shame thus far."
"You don't understand." User's mouth twisted into a parody of a smile. "We not only pushed the donkey out to diethe creature, lhat saved our lives-but men came to our cave, men who begged us to let them inside. Men who shared our quarters in the garrison, our good times and bad. We turned them all away."
"But didn't you say…?" Bak stared, jolted by what he was thinking. "You said you pushed the donkey out to make more room."
User bowed his head, letting the skiff drift. "We had space for four or five more men, yet we turned away all who begged for refuge."