by Lauren Haney
They struck with a solid thud a boulder at the side of the path, knocking the air from Bak’s lungs and releasing the man’s grip on a fold of fabric. Bak tried to scramble up, but his ungainly wrap confined his legs. Frustrated, angry, he gave up on the cloak and swung his free fist at his assailant. Unable to see in the impenetrable darkness, the blow struck at an angle, losing its power. His attacker rose to his knees, indistinct, slightly less dark than the night.
Bak fleetingly glimpsed a shard of light-metal, he thought, or glass-and rolled. He felt across the top of his left shoulder the sudden warmth of his own blood.
Startled, suddenly afraid, knowing he could not ade quately defend himself while wrapped in the accursed cloak, he rolled downhill, all the while desperately trying to find the pin that held together what he feared would be his shroud. Try as he might, he could not locate it. The garment had shifted in the struggle, hiding the pin within its folds.
He heard a noise. Footsteps on sand. Slow. Cautious. The man coming after him, prepared no doubt to finish the task he had begun.
Bak stopped his downhill roll and sat up. He grabbed hold of the fabric close to his neck, felt the warm stickiness of blood, gritted his teeth, and jerked as hard as he could.
The cloth ripped with a shriek that to him sounded loud enough to awaken the dead. The footsteps paused. He jerked the linen again, tearing a long slit that released his left arm. Patting himself frantically around the chest, the neck, he located the pin. Tearing it free and throwing it aside, he let the tunic fall, wrenched his dagger from its sheath, and scrambled to his feet. His assailant lunged to ward him. As dark as it was, Bak somehow managed to parry the blow. He heard the clank of metal against metal, his dagger against a similar weapon. With a muffled curse, the man swung around and ran. A vague figure in the dark, an image with no face, no identity.
Snapping out an oath, Bak raced down the slope after him. His shoulder was beginning to ache, to burn, and he guessed it was still bleeding. He ignored the wound as in significant.
The man ahead was fast, but Bak gradually closed the distance between them. He reached the bottom of the cut a dozen paces back. The man sped on, racing along the broad street that continued to the harbor, with lanes branching off on both sides. The light was better, but all Bak could see was the naked back of a man wearing a thigh-length kilt.
The figure darted left into an intersecting lane. Bak found himself following a dark, narrow path with many abrupt twists and turns, many adjoining lanes. This was a district of warehouses, places of business and workshops, dwell ings, some of the buildings occupied and in good repair, others empty and crumbling. An earlier visit to Iken made it vaguely familiar, but not familiar enough. Within mo ments, the man he chased had vanished.
As Bak hurried through the dark, empty streets on his way to the caravan encampment, he puzzled over the iden tity of his assailant, a man he had barely glimpsed. Had he come from Hor-pen-Deshret, or was he the man who had slain Baket-Amon? Or was he a simple thief, a transient unable to resist the temptation offered by a lone man in the dark?
He had worn a kilt made of some light-colored fabric.
White, Bak thought, probably linen. His arms and chest had been bare; he had worn no jewelry. White linen would most likely be worn by a man of Kemet-but not necessarily. A lack of jewelry could simply mean the man had feared los ing or breaking something of value or trinkets he especially liked. Or had he worn no jewelry because he feared it would betray his identity?
Chapter Eleven
“Troop Captain!” Sennefer called. “Lieutenant!”
The tall nobleman strode toward Bak and Nebwa through the flurry of activity around the donkeys. The lead animals were already on their way, as were Nefret and Mesutu,
Pawah, Merymose, and Thaneny, the last leading Amon ked’s dog. Pashenuro nodded a farewell to the two officers and urged his string toward the outer gate.
Sennefer stepped over an odoriferous pile of manure, slapped a donkey on the flank, making it squeal, and gave the pair an amused smile. “Amonked wishes the two of you to accompany him on this morning’s inspection.”
Bak had ceased to be surprised that they were allowed to go along, but he was amazed they were actually being invited.
“What prompted that?” Nebwa asked, grinning broadly.
“All those backs turned his way as we entered the city?
The silent greeting? Troubled him, did it?”
“Perhaps he wishes to surround himself today with men of good sense.” Laughing, Sennefer swung around and walked away.
The two officers looked at each other, not quite sure what to think. Had the nobleman passed along some kind of mes sage? Or had he been making a joke at their expense?
“I’d wager a month’s rations that you were meant to die.”
Nebwa kept his voice low so the inspection party, walking down the lane ahead of them, would not hear.
“The attempt to stab me was halfhearted.” Bak also spoke softly. “You saw the wound. The dagger barely sliced through the skin.”
Nebwa eyed his friend’s left shoulder with open skepti cism. He could see nothing, for Bak was wearing a tunic to cover the bandage. Unfortunately the salve the physician had applied smelled of a musty-scented herb, which anyone who came close might notice.
“You’ve been asking too many questions. One of them must’ve struck its target.”
“I wish I knew which it was. I lay awake last night trying to think of anything I might’ve said that would plant fear in a man’s heart. I came up with nothing.”
They turned into an intersecting lane, following Sennefer and Minkheper, who in turn were walking behind Horho tep. The military adviser was trying hard to interject himself between Amonked and Commander Woser, who led the way, but the lane was too narrow to allow for three abreast.
They were in the lower city not far from the harbor, in the area where Bak’s assailant had vanished in the night.
They had seen warehouses filled with grain for the garrison; with cowhides, good-quality stone, and rare woods bound for Kemet; and with locally made pottery, export-quality linen, and a wine of unexceptional vintage bound for the land of Kush. They had just left a well-guarded building filled with jars of aromatic oils and colorful stones that would, in a few months, enhance the prestige and appear ance of those who dwelt or toiled in the royal house.
“I might simply have been the chance victim of a sneak thief,” Bak said, “a local man who thought to steal my weapons and jewelry. If he’d known who I was, he’d’ve stayed well clear.”
His friend raised an eyebrow. “Are you trying to con vince me or yourself?”
“Nebwa! I haven’t the vaguest idea who slew Baket Amon. Why would anyone wish me dead?”
“All who live in Wawat know you’ve not once failed to snare any slayer you’ve sought. That alone would drive fear into the heart of the man you seek.”
Bak rolled his eyes skyward. “The slayer came from
Waset. He’s a member of Amonked’s party. I doubt he’s heard of my so-called prowess as a hunter of men.”
“Our illustrious inspector of fortresses mentioned while in Buhen your success in laying hands on those who were smuggling elephant tusks. And Commandant Thuty vowed to sing your praises in the letter he wrote Amonked before we left Buhen. You delivered that letter yourself.”
Nebwa did not have to spell out the obvious: if Amonked knew of Bak’s successes, so, no doubt, would everyone else in his party.
“You don’t rely on hunting to supply the garrison with fowl?” Amonked asked.
“We do, yes. The river offers an abundance of birds.
Especially when the seasons change and they fly north or south in vast numbers.” Commander Woser walked out from beneath the portico, in actuality four connected lean tos with palm-frond roofs, built around the high mudbrick walls of the poultry yard. “The ducks and geese you see here are held captive for their eggs and chicks.”
Amonk
ed eyed, in the shade of the portico, several dozen flattish, large-mouthed baked clay bowls filled with straw, many occupied by nesting ducks and geese. “I see.”
“Would it not be more worthwhile to raid nests in the wild?” Horhotep asked irritably. He stood at the edge of the shallow square pool in the center of the yard, scraping the bottom of a sandal on the rim, removing the smelly, gooey waste he had stepped in. “Look at the number of men you need here. They must clean the yard and carry away the manure. They must constantly fill the pool with water, clip the birds’ wings and feed them, and perform innumerable tasks I can but imagine.”
“Less than half the population of Iken carries spear and shield,” Woser said, speaking with forced patience, “and only half the remainder are fully occupied with trading.
What would you have us do with the balance? Let them idle away each day, with nothing better to do than foment trouble?”
“You’ve only to send them on their way, back to their homeland.”
“No man comes to Iken without good reason,” Nebwa stated in a flat, hard voice, “and none remain unless they must. They’d not retain their traveling passes otherwise.”
A brownish goose waddled toward Horhotep, wings flap ping, hissing. He wasted no time rejoining the men under the portico. “How long can it possibly take to conduct the kind of business available to the impoverished wretches
I’ve seen so far?”
Nebwa raked the adviser with cold eyes. “The most pow erful of kings need not wear fine linen and jewelry, Lieu tenant.”
“Some people await a ship, and many ships are delayed,”
Woser hastened to explain. “Others place orders for objects that have yet to be produced. And others await caravans that come across the desert from distant oases, their day of arrival impossible to predict-if indeed they arrive at all.
They oft times bring too few trade items to provide suste nance over an extended period of time. Especially when they bring along large families.”
“Nonetheless, they must eat and sleep while they’re here,” Amonked said, nodding his understanding. “I ap plaud your good sense, Commander, in seeing that they earn what they consume.”
Horhotep’s mouth tightened in resentment, but he had the wit to hold his tongue. Bak was pleasantly surprised by the inspector’s open approval, and he could see that Nebwa and Woser shared the feeling.
As in each warehouse they had visited, Woser began to rattle off exact numbers-in this case, of birds consumed within the garrison and the lower city, of eggs laid and distributed, of sheaves of straw spread out and cleared away each week, and so on.
Half listening, taking care where he trod, Bak walked to the edge of the pool, where steps descended into the water, easing the path of the large flock that dwelt in the yard. Six or eight ducks swam toward him and gathered around his feet, quacking loudly, clearly expecting to be fed.
Bak turned his back to the pool and studied the men of the inspection party, wondering which-if any-had leaped upon him in the night, dagger in hand. If one of them had, it would not be the first time the man he sought had as sumed he knew more than he actually did.
Amonked, the individual with the most promising reason for slaying Baket-Amon, seemed a most unlikely assailant.
Of medium height, a bit stout, an indoor man through and through. But he had once been a youth, and all healthy sons of the nobility were schooled in wrestling and in the use of weapons.
Horhotep had envied Baket-Amon, but envy alone seemed a small reason for murder. A trained officer, as he was purported to be, would know how to steal up behind a man and stab him. The most skilled of soldiers would have had trouble striking a death blow on so dark a night, especially with the victim bundled up and shapeless the way Bak had been.
Sennefer, who claimed to have liked and admired Baket Amon, posed a puzzle. Would a man of wealth and position come to Wawat out of simple curiosity about the land and its people? He was a hunter and fisherman, presumably skilled in the use of weapons, but, if he was as fond of the prince as he said, he had had no reason for slaying him.
Another man with no clear reason for murder was Cap tain Minkheper-for the simple reason that he had not known Baket-Amon well. Or such was his claim. Bak had no doubt he could slay a man. Men who sailed merchant ships on the Great Green Sea had to be strong and tough, prepared to do battle with pirates and competitors alike.
What of the others who had come with Amonked from
Waset? Like Sennefer, Lieutenant Merymose claimed to have admired the prince. He was moderately skilled in the use of weapons, thanks to Sergeant Dedu, and he was young and strong. But he was another who had no evident reason for murder.
Thaneny was crippled, but his upper torso was more muscular than most, better developed. Bak was convinced the scribe would never have slain Baket-Amon-or any other man-for himself, but if he firmly believed an indi vidual’s death would help Amonked or Nefret, he would not hesitate.
What of Nefret? Bak did not think all women frail and helpless. Far from it. Given the prince’s weakness for women, the concubine could easily have drawn him close and stabbed him. Stuffing the large, heavy body into the closet would have been no mean feat, but not impossible.
Especially if she had help. The same was true of the boy
Pawah. He might have been able to stab the prince but would have had trouble hiding the body-without help.
Neither had attacked Bak, of that he was certain. Nor had his assailant been a man with a leg too deformed to run.
The inspection party walked from the poultry yard to the animal paddocks, which were much like those in Buhen, and thence to the huge outdoor market, a place Bak re membered well from his earlier journey to Iken. It was much larger than that of Buhen and far more colorful.
With Amonked and Woser in the lead and Horhotep pressing close, they walked aisles that separated a multitude of lean-to-like stalls, the products on display shaded by swaths of linen or palm fronds or woven reed mats. People crowded the aisles, some who lived along the Belly of Stones, many who came from afar. Long wraps in bright colors and patterns vied with the stark white kilts of the land of Kemet. Ordinary seed beads competed with the most opulent of inlaid jewelry. Languages that clicked and hissed and purred kept translators running from stall to stall to aid in transactions simple or complicated. Transitory smells, tantalizing or repugnant, drifted through the air: per fume and sweat, incense and rotting vegetables, flowers and animal waste.
They stopped often, sampling fruits and vegetables, tast ing herbs and spices, peeking into wide-mouthed jars of dried beans and peas and grain. They examined lengths of cloth, laughed at performing monkeys, delighted in toys with movable parts, ate braised beef and fresh bread, tested for sharpness the edges of spearpoints and daggers. Amon ked let down his guard, openly delighted with all he saw.
Horhotep, so full of himself he failed to notice, abandoned all pretense of restraint and sneered at the thriving market, the exotic people, the wondrous products.
As they walked away from the market, Horhotep stopped to study the massive fortified wall that protected the lower city, then his eyes darted toward the busy stalls and colorful crowd. A scowl of extreme distaste marred his features.
“Tell me, Commander Woser, why have you expended so much time and effort renovating the peripheral wall when you allow inside that wall every wretched two-legged crea ture from upriver and off the desert?”
“This is the largest market on the frontier, Lieutenant.”
Woser, who had evidently had enough of the man’s inso lence, accented the rank, making it sound not quite respect able. “It draws more people than any other along the river, from the border of Kemet at Abu to the unknown reaches of the south. Products of every type are exchanged, each of value in its own way. Should we ask those who come to display their wares in a place unprotected from those who take what they want, giving nothing in return?”
“If the market is worth protecting-and I
have my doubts-why have you not repaired the spur walls on the citadel? Do you wish the heart of the fortress to collapse while you struggle to preserve its skin?”
Bak leaned toward Nebwa and muttered, “Does he never listen to anyone other than himself?”
“Repairs are made when and where necessary.” Woser’s voice was taut, betraying the effort he made to give a civil answer. Swinging away, he led them down a lane between two warehouses. “Come, we’ve a skiff awaiting us at the harbor. If you’re to rejoin your caravan before nightfall, we must hurry on to the island fortress.”
“How can you say the market isn’t worthy of protec tion?” Bak demanded of Horhotep.
Amonked gave his adviser a curious look. “Yes, Lieu tenant, explain yourself. I, too, am puzzled.”
Horhotep flung a self-important smile Bak’s way. “From what I’ve seen, products exchange hands here with no toll ever being paid. If the same objects were carried across the frontier by respectable merchants, each ship or caravan would hand over a substantial amount, giving our sovereign her rightful share of the merchandise.”
“Tolls are collected at the outer gate,” Woser said. “True, our demands are modest. Their purpose is not to increase the wealth of the royal house but to remind all who enter of the debt of gratitude they owe our sovereign for allowing them to trade here.”
“Why settle for a pittance when we could have far more?”
“Increasing the toll would reduce the number of people who bring goods here to trade,” Bak said, “allowing no gain to our sovereign and a loss to this city and this land. They would move their business elsewhere, probably to an island south of Semna. What they’d lose in safety, they’d gain in profit, for they’d pay no tolls at all.”
“Must I give you a history lesson, Lieutenant?” Nebwa, the son of a soldier, had grown to manhood in the fortress