Curse of Silence lb-4

by Lauren Haney

  Still mulling over Minkheper’s words, Bak walked along the long train of donkeys, which followed a well-trod path across a stretch of barren, windblown sand. Sensing night fall, fodder, and rest, the animals had quickened their pace.

  The drovers joked and laughed, secure within the fortress walls. He, too, was glad to be there, no longer menaced by the silent men and women along the water’s edge or the unseen enemy in the desert.

  The path narrowed to pass between blocks of ruined houses. The stone and mudbrick dwellings, many partially collapsed, some showing signs of burning, all buried in sand to varying depths, were reminders of a time when the land of Kemet had abandoned Wawat to Kushite kings and, many years later, of a war waged to retake the fortresses along the Belly of Stones. Flimsy lean-tos and mud-daubed reed mats had been tacked onto broken walls and collapsing roofs to shelter the many people who came from far upriver or out of the desert to do business. Iken was an important trading and manufacturing center, a place Bak assumed

  Amonked would view with favor.

  The drovers’ good spirits were quickly quenched. The bright-garbed men and women who dwelt among the ruins abandoned their smoky hearths and evening meals to stand along the lane, their voices mute, their backs turned as the inspection party passed by. An action that spoke more truly than words of their feeling about Amonked’s mission. Bak allowed himself a secret smile. Even these people, residents of faraway lands, preferred that the army remain.

  He found Thaneny and Pawah near Pashenuro’s string of donkeys. The scribe was utterly devoted to Nefret and would do anything for her. He was equally devoted to

  Amonked, the man to whom he owed his life. Would he have slain Baket-Amon to eliminate the prince from both their lives?

  “Why are you not riding in comfort?” Bak asked.

  “Amonked’s carrying chair is empty.”

  “After several hours,” Thaneny said, “I feel a need to walk, to give new life to my backside.”

  Bak laughed. Although they were valued by the nobility, he, too, found the chairs uncomfortable.

  “Sometimes I fear he’ll think me ungrateful,” Thaneny went on, “but thus far he’s offered no comment.”

  “Amonked’s a most understanding man,” Pawah assured him.

  “I doubt those people would agree with you,” Bak said sweeping his arm wide.

  The scribe looked with regret at the many backs turned their way. “They don’t know him as we do. The decision he’ll make will be fair, taking their needs into consideration as well as those of the army and all others concerned.”

  “Will it?” Bak prodded. “From what I hear, he’s a tool of our sovereign, quick to do her bidding no matter how imprudent her command.”

  “He’s not!” Pawah glared. “He does what he thinks best, not what she or anyone else urges him to do.”

  Thaneny stepped to the side of the lane. A dark gray donkey brayed as if thanking him for clearing its path.

  “Why have you searched us out, Lieutenant? Have you con cluded that your purpose would best be served if you point a finger at Amonked as the one who slew Baket-Amon?

  Do you think by baiting us we’ll blurt out some truth that’ll ease your path?”

  Bak was irritated, as the scribe meant him to be. “I’ve no desire to accuse the wrong man, but I must lay hands on the prince’s slayer.” He pointed toward the people stand ing alongside the lane. “You can see for yourself the im portance of my quest.”

  Pawah directed an impish grin, barely visible in the rap idly fading light, toward Thaneny. “Lieutenant Horhotep claims Commandant Thuty set those apprentices against our sailors, and he says the people who’ve been watching us along the way are curious, not threatening.”

  The scribe scowled at his young friend. “The man’s every thought is addled. To quote him is to turn the truth upside down.”

  “Can you not prove Horhotep the slayer?” Pawah asked

  Bak, not altogether in jest.

  “Would that I could,” Bak said ruefully, “but so far I’ve found nothing that speaks against him except his envy of the prince.” Noticing Thaneny shifting his weight, he sig naled that they move on. The scribe had to be exhausted after so long a day. “What can you tell me of him?”

  With his master no longer the focus of Bak’s questions, the scribe answered more readily. “Horhotep never crossed

  Amonked’s path, or ours, until two weeks before we left the capital. He’d served as an aide, one among many, with nothing to distinguish him from his fellows, to first one officer and then another in the royal house. The chancellor heard of our mission and recommended him to our sover eign.”

  “He’s the son of a provincial governor,” Pawah said, making a face.

  Bak offered a silent prayer to the lord Amon that the land of Kemet would survive in spite of the many decisions made based on a man’s birth rather than his competence.

  “Does Amonked realize he’s been given an adviser who has neither ability nor knowledge?”

  “He’s said nothing…” Thaneny glanced at Pawah, who shook his head. “… but he’s far more astute than most men believe.”

  They walked past a sentry holding aloft a flaming torch to light an intersecting street down which the caravan was turning. The buildings here were intact, blocks of intercon nected houses inhabited by families who looked down from their rooftops, grim-faced and silent. The smells of cooking oil and fish hung in the air, along with a resentment Bak could almost touch.

  He drew the pair into a side lane deeply shadowed in the twilight. “One thing I must know and I’ll trouble you no more.”

  Thaneny stiffened. “I’ll not point a finger at my master.”

  “You told me you doubted Nefret noticed Baket-Amon’s attentions, but she told me herself she was troubled enough to voice a protest to Amonked. You must’ve known of her complaint, yet you failed to tell me. Now how did he re act?”

  “I… I don’t know.”

  Bak hardened his voice. “Your lie seems a confirmation of your master’s guilt.”

  “No.”

  “Must I take you to the garrison and use the cudgel?”

  Bak had little faith in the use of a stick, but the promise to do so more often than not produced the truth.

  “Please, Thaneny!” Pawah cried.

  “No.”

  The boy wrung his hands, agonizing over his friend’s stubborn silence. At last, he blurted, “Before Amonked could act, Baket-Amon came to our house and…”

  “Silence, child!” Thaneny commanded.

  “Mesutu told me that he pushed his way into our mas ter’s private reception room,” the youth said, paying no heed. “They argued over Nefret, their exact words no one could hear. The prince stormed out and later Amonked merely laughed, making light of the quarrel.” He looked at

  Bak, his eyes large and worried. “So you see, it was noth ing. Of no importance. Not worthy of a second thought.”

  “How long ago was this?” Bak asked.

  “I don’t know exactly. Almost two years ago, I think.”

  “Did Baket-Amon ever come again?”

  “No, sir.”

  Bak ruffled the boy’s hair. “I value the truth, Pawah, and

  I’ll not use it to Amonked’s disadvantage.”

  He prayed, not for their sake alone but also for his own, that he could live up to the vow, that the inspector would prove to be the man they clearly thought he was.

  “Our storage magazines are full to overflowing with trade goods, items awaiting shipment when the river floods.”

  Commander Woser stood behind his armchair on the dais, his hands resting on one of the finest giraffe skins Bak had ever seen. The hide was draped over the back of the chair in a careful display designed to dazzle the eye. The light of the torch mounted by the door made the hairs glisten.

  “You’ll have noticed I said nothing to Amonked. He’ll see for himself tomorrow and no doubt be impressed. I fear so large a quantity
will convince him that Iken is already more a storehouse than a garrison, reinforcing the idea that only a token force remain here.”

  “Tell him you await the flood and also that you’ve had reports of tribesmen lurking near the desert trail.” Nebwa stood in the center of the room, resting a shoulder against the single red column that supported the deep blue ceiling.

  “Say you held back shipment until you could verify or dis prove their presence.”

  “There have, in fact, been rumors that that wretched ban dit Hor-pen-Deshret has returned, but our desert patrols have seen no sign of him, nor have they come upon any unexpected gatherings of men.”

  “The rumors may be true,” Nebwa said and went on to tell of the falcon at Kor and the stolen sandals. “We’ve not yet told Amonked lest we err. We don’t want Horhotep to turn an honest mistake against us.”

  Woser’s mouth tightened. “Whatever we do, then, must not only convince the inspector that the army is necessary along the Belly of Stones, but we must truly protect our selves in case Hor-pen-Deshret chooses to attack.” The commander, a medium-sized man in his early forties with a slight paunch and thick, graying hair, eyed Bak. “Any suggestions, Lieutenant? I seem to recall you as a most creative man.”

  Bak, who had dragged a stool into the room as soon as

  Amonked departed, lifted his drinking bowl off the floor and sipped the wine, a heady red creation with a faint floral bouquet. He had come to know Woser several months ear lier, and liked him.

  “I’d post guards in conspicuous places and double the number of sentries on the outer wall. At some appropriate time, I’d say additional men have been added to discourage robbery from within and attacks from without.”

  Woser nodded. “Direct enough to make him think, not so forthright he’ll disbelieve.”

  “Take care that that swine he calls his adviser can’t ac cuse the army of stealing.” Nebwa tossed down the remains of his wine and set the bowl on the dais. “It’s getting late and I must go to the garrison. The desert trail to the south is long and empty, and I assured Seshu I’d talk to the pa trols, learning all I can of what we might face. Are you coming, Bak?”

  “I’ve a slayer to snare and…” Bak queried Woser with a glance. “… I’ve been told that Baket-Amon’s chief wife grew to womanhood near here.” His expectations were small-the prince and his family had dwelt in Ma’am for at least ten years-but a minute step forward was better than no progress at all.

  Woser nodded. “In the lower city, where her parents still live.”

  Nebwa bade them good-bye and hastened away.

  “She’s a child of Iken?” Bak asked, surprised. “I know the prince was a man of Kemet deep down in his heart, but

  I’d’ve thought he’d wed a woman of Wawat, one who shared his noble blood.”

  “So she does.” Woser slipped around his chair, removed the giraffe skin, and rolled it carefully. Sitting down, he laid it across his lap. “She was his cousin, the daughter of his father’s brother. Her father is headman of a local tribe that long ago moved into the lower city, during the time the Kushites ruled. When the Kushite army fled, they chose to remain, and our sovereign at the time saw no reason to throw them from homes safe within the fortress walls.”

  Bak smiled, appreciative of the prince’s political acumen.

  “She must’ve seemed an ideal match to Baket-Amon. A cousin and at the same time a woman who knew well the people of Kemet and our customs.”

  “So he may have believed at the beginning, but her father is an old-fashioned man, one who retains the traditions of his people. For my part, I’ve come to appreciate his un bending honesty, his forthrightness. But Baket-Amon could scarcely go through the motions. His heart lay in the mod ern world, not the past.”

  “I knew he kept his family in Ma’am. He preferred, I suppose, that they fall under the viceroy’s influence, not that of his wife’s father.”

  “The instant they wed, he took her away. The old man wasn’t happy, but what could he do?”

  What indeed? Bak sipped from his bowl, thinking of a woman torn from her family and her home, thinking of

  Seshu’s talk of her irrationality. “What kind of woman is she?”

  “On the surface, she’s shy and retiring. Underneath she’s as hard as granite and as unyielding.” The patter of sandals drew Woser’s eyes to the door, but whoever was outside walked on by. “I believe the people you’ve seen standing along the river, watching your caravan, are there to register disapproval of Amonked’s mission. But her thoughts may travel a different path, one meant to avenge her husband’s death. If so, she’ll take advantage of her people’s unsettling vigil, using their actions to serve her own purpose. And she’ll not relent until she gets her way.”

  “Until Baket-Amon’s slayer is snared and punished.”

  Feeling entangled by necessity, Bak stood up and paced the length of the room. “The local people need the army.

  They’ve nothing to gain by totally alienating Amonked.

  How far, do you think, are they willing to go to satisfy a woman’s quest for revenge?”

  “I can’t say.” Woser lifted his drinking bowl, swirled the deep red liquid around inside. “I suggest you contact the old headman Rona, who lives in a village not far downriver from the fortress of Askut. He’s a man of great good sense, one who has much influence all along the river between here and Askut.”

  “I’ll do so.” Bak returned to his stool but could not bear to sit. “Baket-Amon was known in Buhen, in Waset, and elsewhere as a man with a strong appetite for the delights of the flesh.”

  “The tales of his behavior have not escaped my atten tion,” Woser said in a wry voice. “And no, he did not flaunt his desires here. His father-in-law demanded he show re spect, and he did. Each time he came, he displayed unpar alleled virtue. The reason he seldom blessed us with his presence, I suspect.”

  The torch sputtered, barely drawing Bak’s glance. “Like you, others must’ve heard of his carousing. How were the stories received?” He could guess the answer and Woser proved him right.

  “He was admired exceedingly.”

  “Have you heard any guesses about the reason for his death?”

  “All who dwell here lay the blame at Amonked’s feet.

  Other reasons have long since been lost to the one they wish to believe.”

  Bak strode through the south gate, bidding good night to the sentry posted there. As the heavy wooden doors thud ded shut behind him, he hurried along the sandy lane at the base of the outer wall. The air was still and cool. The moon was a sliver and the stars stingy with their light, making the night dark and uninviting. He wished he had thought to get a torch from the sentry. At least he had had the good sense to borrow a tunic and a long cloak that he had secured with a bronze pin and wrapped tightly around himself. With only his right arm bared below the elbow, he felt rather like a man wrapped for eternity.

  The lane, well-traveled in the daytime, was deserted at so late an hour. Some creature of the night, a rat most likely, dashed across Bak’s path, and he heard the flapping wings and eerie hoot of an owl. A cough high above marked the location of a sentry on the battlements, but when he looked up the high, towered wall, turned an ashy gray by the feeble light, he saw no one.

  He hastened on, thinking of his talk with Woser and of how little he had gleaned of Baket-Amon. His reunion with the commander and the other officers who had peeked in to greet him had in part made up for the paucity of infor mation.

  Ahead, a patch of black marked the place where the cliff face fell away, forming the steep cut through the escarp ment that would take him down to the lower city. If only he could find a satisfactory reason for the prince’s death.

  Look to the woman, he had been told when first he had been assigned to stand at the head of the Medjay police, and Nefret was a most desirable woman. Yet he was not entirely satisfied that she was sufficient cause for murder.

  Perhaps, he admitted to himself,
because accepting her as a reason made Amonked the most likely slayer.

  He entered the cut and headed downward. Each step he took stole away more of the meager light, forcing him to slow his pace and concentrate on where he placed his feet.

  As the walls closed around him, the darkness was nearly complete, leaving smudges of black in a world of lesser black.

  A few paces ahead, something dislodged a rock. Bak’s senses sharpened, but his step did not falter. He had no reason to fear; Iken was as safe as Buhen. Few men knew him here, none who carried a grudge. And though he hated to admit it, no one in Amonked’s party had reason to wish him injury. He was much too far from learning the truth about Baket-Amon’s death. Nonetheless, he freed his right arm to the shoulder and patted his side, reassured by the feel of his dagger inside the cloak.

  A stone clattered. A large, solid object, the body of a man, struck him hard from the side, tearing away his sense of well-being. He lost his balance. Struggling to loosen the cloak and free his left arm, fumbling for the pin that held the garment together, he went down, hitting the ground with a solid thump. The man fell on top of him, knocking the breath from him, and struck him hard in the side with a fist. Bak lay quite still, stunned by the blow and by the realization that he was under attack.

  Collecting his wits, he flailed his legs and twisted his body, hoping to throw off his assailant. The man struck him again, the blow grazing his shoulder, and at the same time struggled to remain on top. The cloak, wrapped so close around him, hampered Bak’s attempts to free himself, confining him to a few ineffectual blows, but also hindered the other man’s efforts to hold on to him, to strike a telling blow.

  They began to roll, the steep slope carrying them down ward, with one man on top and then the other. While his assailant tried with limited success to pummel him and to stop their downward plunge, Bak fought the cloak, franti cally trying to rid himself of the wretched thing. His dagger was within easy reach-he felt it each time he rolled over it-but he could not get to it.