The Right Hand of Amon lb-1

by Lauren Haney

  "Lieutenant Bak. Are you asleep, sir?"

  Bak opened his eyes, shook himself awake, sat up. "Kasaya! What is it? What's wrong?"

  "Nothing. But I thought you'd want to know." The burly Medjay hunkered down beside him and spoke in a murmur so his voice would not carry to the occupied rooftops close by. "I've found a woman in the commander's residence who'll speak with you, a servant called Meret."

  "She wants to talk now?" Bak asked, his voice dubious. Kasaya shook his head. "At sunrise tomorrow. At a place not far from the river where the women gather to do their washing."

  "Isn't she afraid her master will hear of the meeting from the other women?"

  "Most feed their families before washing their linen, but she has more sheets and clothing than all the others combined so she must start early. The place she mentioned is sheltered by a row of trees. It's easy to see all who approach and impossible to be seen from the lower city or the fortress."

  "Why has she offered to help? Is she seeking vengeance for some real or imagined slight on Woser's part or on the part of Aset?"

  "No, sir." Kasaya stared at his knees, fidgeted with his hands. "She's… Well, she's a widow, sir, and lonely." Bak reined in the urge to grin. "And you're going back to her bed tonight."

  "Yes, sir."

  Clapping him on the shoulder, Bak sent him on his way. As the Medjay's soft footsteps faded away in the street below, he lay back down. He regretted the need to use the woman in so shallow a way, but he had no choice. All he could do was pray she would provide the breakthrough he so desperately needed.

  Amon-Psaro would march through the gates of the fortress before nightfall the next day, yet the identity of the man who wished to slay him was as elusive as it had been from the beginning. Many signs pointed to a conspiracy among the officers, yet he rejected the theory. The idea that four senior officers, all stationed at a single garrison, hated

  Amon-Psaro enough to wish him dead stretched credibility. The fact that they all were assigned to the garrison at Iken when Amon-Psaro decided to come to Iken was a joke played by whimsical gods, not an occurrence planned in an organized plot. The idea that they all would risk a war to settle a personal grudge was as totally implausible. If he could get the truth from Woser, maybe once and for all he could settle the matter.

  Chapter Fourteen

  Bak walked along the water's edge, staying close to the trees, blending as much as possible into the long shadows of first light. Should Woser learn of this meeting, he would not thank Meret for speaking of his private affairs, especially with the police officer whose efforts he had done all he could to obstruct. She would no doubt be beaten, and Bak did not want that on his conscience.

  The morning was soft and gentle, the land not yet heated by the lord Re. The air was sweet, the sky a clear, vibrant blue. The trees were alive with birdsong, too loud to hear the leaves rustling in the breeze or the murmur of the rapids, whose voice was softened by distance.

  Kasaya stepped out of the trees twenty or so paces ahead and waded into the river. He cavorted in the water as if born to the lord Hapi, diving, rolling, leaping, letting the current carry him downriver, battling the flow to return upstream. He was showing off to the woman, Bak guessed, flaunting his youthful vigor, his large well-formed body, his good spirits.

  As Bak approached the spot where the Medjay had entered the water, he paused. Ahead, the row of trees curved away from the river's edge and back again, forming a sandy half circle dotted with weathered boulders and bushes growing from patches of rich black soil. A backwater during the height of the flood, he guessed, but now an ideal place for the local women to do their laundry. Sheets so white they burned his eyes were already draped over several boulders and bushes, drying in the sun.

  A thin-faced woman of about seventeen years knelt at the edge of the water, looking often at Kasaya, laughing with delight at his performance, while she scrubbed a winestained dress with a whitish substance Bak assumed was natron. Her long white shift was hiked up to her thighs, revealing legs as slender and muscular as her bare arms. Her hair was pulled back and hidden inside a bag-like protective cloth. Sweat poured from her brow and stained the back and underarms of her dress.

  Bak scuffed his sandal, alerting her to his approach. She glanced his way and flushed, then scrambled to her feet, clutching the dress to her bosom, and attempted an awkward bow.

  Suspecting Kasaya had exaggerated his importance, Bak waved off the formality. "Go on with your task, mistress Meret." He knelt at the edge of the trees, letting her know he respected her wish for secrecy. "Kasaya has told me you're willing to speak of Commander Woser's household."

  She nodded, tongue-tied by shyness-or maybe shame at what she was about to do.

  To one will know you've talked to me, that I promise." "Kasaya says you're a man who keeps your word," she murmured, dropping to her knees, bending over the stained dress. "Ask what you will."

  Since Meret had been given the lowly task of washing linen, he guessed she was one of the lesser servants, helping in the kitchen, making beds, and dusting and sweeping in addition to doing laundry. In a frontier fortress, however, where households were small and informal, she would also sometimes help Aset with her toilet. And she would certainly gossip with the other servants.

  "How did mistress Aset behave with Lieutenant Puemre? Did she act as if she cared for him?"

  "The mistress is a child." Meret's smile was tender, forgiving of Aset's faults. "Her mother died when she was very young, a babe. If her father had taken another wife, she'd have learned to be a woman. Instead, he's always given her all she desires and shelters her from care and worry. She plays with his affections, and because she knows no better way, she flirts with all men, hoping to bring them to their knees as she does her father. Lieutenant Puemre was no different than the rest."

  She stopped abruptly, the color spreading across her face, evidently realizing her tongue had been running away from her.

  A long speech for a shy woman, Bak thought, and a strange one. Two women close to each other in age, one a household drudge, the other her pampered mistress. An ideal nest for jealousy, yet the one with nothing plainly adored the one who had everything. Kasaya must have bewitched her to get her to speak.

  "What of Lieutenant Nebseny?" Bak glimpsed the Medjay leaving the water to settle down at the base of a tree, where he could watch the path from the fortress and also eavesdrop. "From what I've seen of him, he appears to be her slave, though a reluctant one."

  "They're betrothed."

  Bak whistled his surprise. "I'd not heard a word. Why does no one speak of it?"

  "She refuses to wed." Noting Bak's raised eyebrow, Meret hastened to her mistress's defense. "She has no desire to hurt the lieutenant; she looks upon him with fondness. But she wishes above all else to live in Kemet, while he likes serving on the frontier. She fears they'll not be happy.,

  Bak snorted, incredulous. "Woser lets her play that game?"

  "Not willingly," Meret admitted, sprinkling more natron on the fabric and scrubbing the stain between her knuckles. "The betrothal was his wish. He and the lieutenant are as close as father and son." A thought struck her, and she smiled. "That's why Aset flirted so shamefully with Lieutenant Puemre. She thought it amusing to defy her father while at the same time she teased her betrothed."

  Not tease, Bak thought, manipulate. Or, more likely, she cared not a grain of sand for what either man thought. She wanted only to wed a nobleman and live a life of wealth and ease on a great estate in Kemet. "How did Puemre respond to her?"

  "He flirted, but at a distance." Her expression clouded. "Those of us who serve in the commander's residence knew of the woman he had, the armorer Senmut's daughter. We tried to warn Aset, but…" Again the tender, forgiving smile. "She's always been certain of her own charms." "Did your mistress win him at last?"

  Meret lifted her eyes to Bak's. "I don't know."

  The look she gave him was open and direct, free of guile or shyness.
The false look of a liar, he felt sure. "I'm not asking if she won a vow of marriage, Meret. If she had, she'd have shouted her victory to all the world. I want to know…" He paused, giving his words greater emphasis. "I must know if she lay in his arms, letting him fill her belly with child."

  "No!" Her eyes widened, dismay replacing the mock innocence.

  "That's what the men are saying in the barracks." "Maybe that's why…" She clapped her hand to her mouth. "No, it's not true!"

  He saw he had touched a raw spot. "The common soldiers, the traders, others as well, say she's with child, and Puemre wag'the father."

  "He never touched her! She teased, that's all. I should know; I wash her sheets and clothing." Her face reddened at the oblique reference to her mistress's monthly cycle. She lowered her eyes and murmured, "Why must you men always believe the worst?"

  Bak stared, his thoughts jolted by her words. True, he had been assuming the worst, but not the way she meant. He had been thinking of Woser's lack of cooperation, and Nebseny's, in terms of a plot against Amon-Psaro. Now this lowly servant had unwittingly reminded him that the obvious explanation was ofttimes the real one, something closer to home and more personal.

  He stood up, strode to her, and caught her by the shoulders, lifting her to her feet. "Listen to me, Meret! You must be open and honest with me. If you aren't, many men may die, men innocent of wrongdoing."

  She stared, her eyes huge, frightened.

  He shook her none too gently, forcing a nod from her. "Tell me how Woser and Aset and Nebseny behave when they're all in one room." He could see she didn't understand. "Do they tread lightly around each other? Do they each seem to have a guilty secret, but look with suspicion at the other two?"

  "How did you guess?" she whispered, overcome by awe.

  He planted a big kiss on her sweat-salty forehead and released her. "Kasaya," he called, striding toward the treeS and the path that led back to Iken, "take good care of this woman. Unless I'm sadly mistaken, she's halved the number of questions I've been asking myself."

  "I pray you've guessed right," Kenamon said. The elderly priest hurried along the street at Bak's side, walking in the shade of a row of white-plastered buildings. The deep shadow gave added depth to the lines of worry spanning his brow. "If each of the three is protecting the other two, perhaps none are guilty."

  Bak drew the old priest into an open doorway, getting out of the way of a sweaty gnome of a man and his clattering train of five donkeys laden with burnished red pottery jugs. "If I can eliminate one man from my list of suspects, I'll think myself smiled on by the gods. If I can eliminate two, I'll feel as if the lord Amon himself has taken me by the hand."

  "And if one of the two, either Woser or Nebseny slew Puemre?"

  Bak smiled. "I doubt I'd survive the shock of so easy a solution."

  "What of mistress Aset?"

  "If my thoughts have led me down a true path, she's served as the idol around which her father and her betrothed have danced."

  "The commander should long ago have handed her over to a sterner man."

  The last of the donkeys trotted by, and they hurried on. The street was busy at this early and cooler hour, buzzing with the chatter of soldiers and traders, people with business inside the fortress. They strode past only two women, an officer's wife and her servant, the latter carrying an empty basket, on their way to the market.

  Reaching an intersecting street, they edged past a contingent of new recruits, ten young men so raw they still smelled of the farmyard, and a grizzled spearman rushing them along at double pace. Beyond, the garrison officers and their sergeants were streaming out of the commander's residence, leaving a meeting Bak had heard had been called to discuss the presentation of arms when Amon-Psaro's entourage marched up to the gate of Iken. Bak greeted those he knew with a nod: Huy, Senu, Inyotef, and Nebseny. The archer looked through him as if he did not exist.

  "I wish you better luck with Woser than you'll have with him," Kenamon murmured, nodding toward Nebseny. "He's a sttibbom young man, and protective of his own." "Aset is the key, my uncle, of that I'm convinced."

  Bak and Kenamon entered the building and hurried down a long hall to a stone-paved, pillared courtyard on the ground floor. A lanky guard stood near the doorway, yawning, eyeing all newcomers with the disinterested look of a man who had never faced trouble and never expected to do so. Several scribes could be seen through an open portal, scrolls spread across their laps, pens scratching on the smooth surfaces. Woser stood in the doorway of the room he used as his office, glaring at a trader who was plainly disgruntled, a lithe young man wearing a broad beaded collar, bronze bangles, and a glittering ring on every finger.

  "I'll listen to no more of your complaints," Woser said. "You must find another place for your animals, and that's final."

  The trader's face reddened, his eyes flashed anger. "I have forty-eight donkeys, Commander, weary from their long journey north. I'd hoped to rest them here. Now I'll have to push them further, all the way to Kor."

  "So be it." Woser was plainly in no mood to sympathize with man or beast. "King Amon-Psaro's entourage travels with a large number of pack animals. They'll need every paddock we can provide."

  With an irate grimace, the trader pivoted on his heel and stomped away.

  Woser glared at Bak, noticed the elderly priest behind him, formed a tired smile. Beckoning them into the office, he slumped into his armchair. "I must admit, I'd like nothing better at this moment than to turn Amon-Psaro's entourage around and send them back where they came from. One would think the lord Amon would be more trouble to entertain, but no. He stands in the mansion of the lady Hathor, silent and regal in his shrine, while we turn this city upside down for a savage king from a savage land."

  "Amon-Psaro was raised to manhood in the royal house in Waset," Kenamon pointed out. "I doubt he's any less civilized than we are."

  "We'll soon see." Woser eyed Bak. "Huy tells me the island fortress is rapidly becoming habitable. You're to be commended."

  "I've a willing and hardworking crew." Without waiting for an invitation, Bak drew a stool from among a clutter of scroll-filled baskets and offered it to Kenamon, who sat down in front of the commander. He preferred to stand, so Woser would have to look up to him. "We've not come to speak of the fortress; we wish to talk of the night Puemre was slain."

  Woser's fingers tightened for an instant around the arm of his chair, then relaxed. "What can I tell you? I met with my officers to discuss the lord Amon's journey to Semna. After we made what plans we could, they left, and I went to my bed and slept."

  "What of your daughter? Was mistress Aset in her "Certainly." The answer came too quickly. The justification required more thought and an abashed smile. "She's long been a woman, but I still think of her as a child. I look in on her each night, just as I did when she was a babe. I pray you won't tell her. She'd not be pleased if she knew."

  Bak could imagine the scene Aset would create if she caught her father peering at her during the night, snooping she would probably say. He walked to the door and called out to the guard. "Go upstairs to the residence and bring mistress Aset to her father's office."

  Woser leaped to his feet, eyes smoldering. "You can't…!"

  "Sit down, Commander!" Kenamon's usually placid voice resounded with authority. "Lieutenant Bak must do his duty as he sees fit, and you must allow him to proceed."

  Woser dropped into his chair, his face pale and tight. Kenamon was a highly placed priest, one whose wishes could not lightly be denied. "You've no right to question my daughter, Lieutenant, no reason. She had nothing to do with Puemre's murder."

  Hearing the soft patter of sandals in the courtyard, Bak looked around. Aset was hurrying along the row of pillars, her eyes on him, her face as tense and worried as her father's. The guard followed close behind. Either he did not quite trust her to obey the summons or, more likely, he was consumed by curiosity.

  Bak turned on Woser, his voice barely more than a whisp
er, his tone rock-hard. "If you utter one word before I say you may, I'll charge you with murder and treason."

  "Murder and…" Woser, looking startled, glanced from Bak to Kenamon. "What?"

  "He has every right," Kenamon said grimly, "and sound reason."

  Aset edged past Bak, half-blocking the door. Spotting the strain on Woser's face, she barely looked at the priest. "What's wrong, Father? What's he…" She glanced toward Bak. "What's he been saying?"

  "Go find Lieutenant Nebseny," Bak told the guard. "Bring him here as quick as you can."

  "Yes, sir." The guard, whose face had come to life, his boredom displaced by curiosity, excitement, and purpose, pivoted and strode away.

  Aset looked at first one man and then another. The summons of Nebseny in addition to herself had clearly unsettled her, undermining her confidence. When her eyes landed on her father, searching for support, he shook his head, his meaning unclear. From the confused look on her face, the message was as lost on her as it was on Bak.

  "Mistress Aset, your father claims you were in your bed the night Lieutenant Puemre was slain." Bak raised his hand, cutting off a response, and guessed, "You weren't, I know, nor were you even in this building."

  "Who told you that? One of the servants?" She raised her chin in defiance, belying the tremor in her voice. "It's a lie. I was here through all the night, as was my father."

  Kenamon gave her a somber look and seemed about to speak but, like Bak, he heard the quick footsteps on the stone pavement outside. Whatever he meant to say, he reserved for later.