Cruel Deceit lb-6

by Lauren Haney

Also, assuming Bak’s assailant had been eager to get away, he would not have taken the time to drag him deep within the tunnellike chamber.

  Satisfied with his reasoning, Bak faced the slope and rose to his feet like a sick, old man, holding his head straight and stiff. He took off a sandal and eased his foot forward, feeling the roundness of the bags and the slight hollows where they touched. The last thing he wanted was to fall-or to step into the fire he could not see. If the man had left him near the door, the odds were good that he had started the fire close by.

  A second short, careful step. A third and a fourth. Without warning, his forehead struck the ceiling. The pain in his head exploded. He stood motionless, letting the pounding dwindle to a painful but tolerable throb. He reached into the darkness ahead, found he had struck the downward curve of the vaulted arch. Ducking low, he stepped forward to the wall. A side wall, not the one at the end of the building that held the door.

  Again he used the slope of the filled bags as a guide. Those to his right were piled lower than those to the left. He turned in that direction. After two cautious steps, he found himself half stumbling downward on the none-too-stable slope formed by the bags. He stepped onto the hard-packed earthen floor with a jolt. Congratulating himself for having guessed right thus far, he walked along the wall a half-dozen paces to the intersecting wall. Less than three paces away, if his as sumptions were correct, he would find the door, the sole exit.

  He laughed aloud, coughed, felt sure his head would split.

  Trying not to breathe, trying to ease the tickle in his throat, he realized that the smell of smoke was more notice able than before. He must waste no more time.

  Using the wall as a guide, he walked forward and quickly found the door. Well aware of how futile the effort was, he gave it a good hard shove. In this case, his assailant had taken due care. The door had been barred shut. He slipped his dagger from its sheath and, squashing all thought, set to work. He started at a crack between boards and at a point slightly above waist height, where the bars were usually placed on doors. His dagger was sharp, the bronze well hardened. The wood of the door was softer than he expected but with knots as hard as granite.

  He put all his strength behind the effort, shaving away the wood along the edges of the adjoining boards, cutting ever deeper and widening the hollow. The sweat poured from him and thirst plagued him. His aching arms and wrists felt heavy and wooden. The smoke thickened and he coughed hard and often. The pain in his head seemed less intense, less nagging. Maybe because he was too distracted to give it attention. Maybe because he was getting used to it, or his senses were too numbed to feel.

  He stopped to wipe the sweat from his face. A fit of coughing reminded him again to hurry. Before the ware house filled with smoke. Before the fire burst into life.

  With grim determination, he gouged another chunk of wood loose, shoved the blade hard, and burst through the last fragile sliver between him and the outside world. He knelt, tried to see through the hole. It was too small, the night outside too dark. He bared his teeth in a sardonic smile. Now all he had to do was make the hole big enough to reach through to the bar and lift it. An endless task, that promised to be. Or to call for help in the unlikely event that anyone passed by.

  He blanked out so discouraging a thought and began to enlarge the hole. The smoke made his eyes sting and tears spilled from them. He had to stop often to wipe them. Sud den, violent attacks of coughing beset him. He needed air.

  Good, clean air. Like the air seeping in from outside, caress ing his hand while he enlarged the hole.

  Chiding himself for his failure to think of so obvious a re lief, he knelt before the opening, which had grown to roughly the size of a goose egg, and took several deep breaths. After an initial spate of coughing, his breathing be came less labored. How long he knelt there, his forehead resting on the door, taking in the sweet cool air, he had no idea. When he set to work again, he felt considerably bet ter-and more optimistic.

  The feeling was short-lived. The blade of his dagger be gan to lose its edge, and he struck a small knot so hard the pointed tip broke off. Spitting out a string of oaths, resentful of every moment it took, he cut the softer wood from around the harder. In the end, with just a small segment holding the knot in place, he turned his dagger around and, with the han dle, broke the stubborn thing away, leaving a greatly enlarged, odd shaped hole that he could almost get his hand through. Anger turned to exultation.

  He rewarded himself with another brief respite, wiping his streaming eyes and gulping in air. Somewhat restored, he poked his fingers through the hole and felt around for the bar holding the door closed. He could not reach far enough.

  He toiled on, trying not to think or feel. Trying not to see how slowly the hole was expanding and how dull the blade was getting. Trying not to notice how light-headed he was beginning to feel. A long fit of coughing stopped him, forced him to put mouth and nose to the hole and breathe in the clean outside air. When the dizziness passed, he slipped his hand into the hole. It went all the way through and his wrist followed. Offering a quick prayer to the lord Amon, he felt for the bar, found it above the hole, forced it upward with the tips of his fingers. It tilted slightly to one side, but he could not raise it above the supports holding it in place.

  Snarling an oath, he shoved his arm painfully far into the opening and raised the bar as high as he could. It fell away, striking the ground outside with a thud. Feeling immeasur able relief, he shouldered the door open and staggered out.

  Falling to his knees, he took a deep breath, coughed, sucked in air, and coughed again. He offered a hasty but fervent prayer of thanks, struggled to his feet and ran on unsteady legs toward the harbor and help. The god’s warehouse and the grain within must be saved.

  “I thank the lord Amon the fire had no chance to flare.”

  Bak bit into a chunk of lamb left over from the previous eve ning. “If it had, the entire block would’ve burned and the god would’ve lost enough grain to feed a small city.”

  He sat with Pashenuro and Psuro in the courtyard of his

  Medjays’ temporary quarters, savoring the cold stew after an exhausting night and not enough sleep. The bump on his head was no smaller, but it hurt only when touched. The sound of snoring came from inside the building, where many of his men had collapsed on their sleeping pallets after a long night of revelry. A pigeon drank from a bowl of water left for Hori’s dog, and a mouse sneaked a bit of stale bread thrown out for birds.

  Pashenuro used a chunk of bread to spoon up the stew.

  “The gods truly smiled upon you, sir, placing nearby a cargo ship and its crew.”

  “I’m grateful they were on board. They might well have been away, celebrating the festival as our men were.” Bak took a sip of beer, thinking to wash the huskiness from his voice, the soreness from his throat. The brew was too bland to serve the purpose. “The captain sent a man off to get more help, and the fire was out in less than an hour.”

  Psuro toyed with his beer jar, his brow wrinkled with worry. “That was a deliberate attempt to slay you, sir.”

  “So it would seem.”

  “Who was responsible? The man who slew Woserhet?”

  “Fire was used in both cases.” Bak’s grim expression changed to one of puzzlement. “Yet if both vile deeds were the acts of a single man, why did he not slash my throat as he did the auditor’s? He had every opportunity.”

  “He felt certain you’d perish in the fire,” Pashenuro said.

  “He must soon be snared. To start a fire in such a place was an abomination, proving he has no regard for man or beast. There are housing blocks nearby, other warehouses, ships moored along the waterfront. The lord Amon only knows how many might’ve died if the fire had not been quenched.”

  “Are you sure you’re all right, sir?” Hori, seated on the rooftop in the shade of the pavilion, flung a worried look across a large round basket containing several rolled scrolls.

  Bak waved off the youth
’s concern. “Other than this cough, a raw throat, a headache, and the stench of smoke lin gering in my nostrils, I feel well enough.” Dropping onto the stool, he eyed the scrolls in the basket, most undamaged, a few singed, and a pile of five or six lying flat beside the con tainer and held down by stones. The latter documents’ edges were blackened and irregular; the writing tailed off at the burned ends. “Tell me what you’ve learned so far.”

  “The morning’s young, and I haven’t had much time.”

  “When a man tries to slay me, I wish to learn his name as quickly as possible.” Bak formed a smile, thinking to soften the sting of words all too true.

  Flushing, Hori wasted no time in prologue. “I wanted first to get a general impression of the scrolls’ contents, so I started by reading an undamaged document and writing down all the items it mentioned.” He gestured toward the basket-which held the scrolls he had read so far, Bak as sumed-and a white-plastered board on the rooftop beside him, containing several columns of the youth’s small, neat symbols. “I went on to a partly burned document and did the same.” He pointed to the pile of scrolls spread flat on the roof. “After that, I tried to read a badly burned one.” He nod ded toward the charred scraps laid out where Bak had last seen them. “Those were so fragile I thought it best not to move them.”

  Kasaya came bounding up the stairs with Hori’s dog at his heels. He ducked beneath the shelter, overturned a large pot, and sat down. The dog settled beside him and eyed his young master with sad brown eyes. He knew better than to disturb the scribe when he was surrounded by scrolls.

  “You’ve come back empty-handed,” Bak said to the Med jay. “Where’s Tati?”

  “I couldn’t find him.” Kasaya kicked off a sandal and bent to scratch a foot. “The one workman watching the house where they dwell didn’t know where he was, and when I asked if we could come and look at the records, he refused.

  Tati had told him they belong to the lord Amon, and no less a man than the chief priest can see them.” He noted Bak’s scowl and spread his hands wide, absolving himself of all responsibility.

  Bak closed his eyes and began to count, seeking patience.

  His inability to speak with Hapuseneb during the Beautiful

  Feast of Opet was becoming more burdensome each day.

  The records, he felt sure, would shorten his path to the audi tor’s slayer, and he needed Tati’s help. “Go on, Hori. Tell me what you did next.”

  “I continued as before, moving from one group to an other. I have a long way to go, but I think I’ve found a pat tern. Perhaps more than one.”

  “For example.” Bak’s words came out like the croak of a frog.

  “Each scroll lists many objects, all of a similar type,” Hori said. “More than half the undamaged documents I’ve read so far are for the various kinds of grain stored here in Waset.

  They give the date a shipment was received and the quantity placed in the warehouse and, later, the date and number of bags removed, either for use here at Ipet-isut or for shipment to one of the lord Amon’s estates.”

  “I assume the other items that turn up regularly are hides and metal ingots.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Like the grain, items too heavy and bulky to move with ease.” Bak cleared his throat, smothering a cough.

  Hori flung a concerned look his way, but had the good sense to make no comment. “Of the partly burned scrolls

  I’ve read so far, most list items manufactured in the god’s workshops and on the various estates and sent here for stor age and use. Lengths of linen, pottery, sandals, wine, and so on. As for the scraps Kasaya managed to save, they’re really hard to read and take a lot of guesswork, but I saw the sym bols for bronze and gold. Aromatic oils. Something that might’ve been ivory.”

  “Interesting,” Bak said thoughtfully. “The items listed are many and varied. The documents obviously came from more than one storage block.”

  “Yes, sir. I think Woserhet himself took them into that room, at least some of them. Or someone else did. There’s certainly no grain in that storehouse.

  “He couldn’t have carried very many without a basket.”

  Bak’s eyes darted toward the Medjay. “I saw no burned re mains. Did you, Kasaya?”

  “I didn’t notice, sir. Should I take a closer look?”

  “Yes.” Bak looked across the roof at the scraps of burned scrolls the young policeman had so painstakingly saved.

  “Do you think you could glue some of those broken storage pots back together? I’d like to know where they came from.”

  The Medjay thought over the idea, smiled like a child fac ing a new challenge, and stood up. “I must find a basket first, then I’ll bring the pieces back here.”

  “You were right about a pattern.” Bak stood up and arched his back, stretching muscles made stiff from hunching over the blackened scraps of papyrus Kasaya had saved. He walked to the pavilion, pleased with the morning’s effort.

  “With few exceptions, the documents not damaged by fire list grain or some other product valuable in itself but not easy to move.”

  Hori shoved aside the large basket, now filled with the in tact scrolls they had read. “You’d think the slayer would’ve thrown them into the fire, too. If for no other reason than to confuse.”

  “He was probably in a hurry, afraid of being seen.”

  The scribe pulled over a small basket containing, if the smell told true, fish wrapped in wilting leaves. A flat, round loaf of bread lay on top with a spray of green onions and a bundle of radishes. “As I guessed earlier, most of the partly burned scrolls list products made for the lord Amon and brought from afar.”

  Bak dragged the stool into the shade, sat down, and ac cepted a leaf-wrapped packet. “User told me the storage magazines in that block contain not only vessels and prod 110

  Lauren Haney ucts used during the rituals, but other objects made to adorn the god, his shrine and the sacred barque.”

  The scribe broke off a chunk of bread and handed it over.

  “The same items listed on the worst burned scrolls. Those few scraps we could read with certainty, at any rate.”

  Kasaya laid aside the third storage jar whose inscribed shoulder he had roughly pieced together and scooted closer to the food basket. “In other words, the man who slew him threw onto the fire the documents that might point a finger at himself, calling him a thief, and added a few others as fuel.”

  “We’ve not yet confirmed that Woserhet was searching for a thief,” Bak reminded him.

  “I can think of no more logical an assumption,” Hori said.

  “Nor can I,” Bak admitted. He opened the packet and sniffed the slab of fish laying inside, boiled so long the flesh was flaking apart. “Kasaya, how many storage pots do you think were broken?”

  “I’m not sure. More than a dozen, I’d guess.”

  “Meryamon said there were fifteen or twenty empty spaces on the shelves.”

  Kasaya eyed the three jars whose shoulders he had recon structed. “You’ve read the inscriptions I’ve pieced together so far. They say the jars belonged in the room where we found them.”

  “Both Nebamon and Meryamon have easy access to that storehouse.” Hori thought a moment, added, “But Merya mon lied about knowing the red-haired man.” He turned to

  Bak, his eyes glittering with a growing conviction. “You saw with your own eyes the one pass a message to the other.”

  “I admit he looks guilty, but…”

  “He has a secret he doesn’t want aired,” Kasaya said. “A secret of some import. What could be more loathsome than the theft of ritual equipment?”

  “Sir!” Psuro poked his head up through the opening at the top of the stairs. “A messenger has come from Amonked. He wishes you to meet him right away. A man has been found slain. A second death in the sacred precinct.”

  Chapter Eight

  Bak let out a long, stunned breath. “It’s Meryamon.”

  “Yes.” Amonke
d stared down at the body, his face bleak.

  “Another death much like that of Woserhet.”

  Taking care where he placed his feet, Bak stepped closer to the dead man through tall, thick weeds and grasses that had sprung up on the moist earth behind Ipet-isut. “No at tempt was made to burn him.”

  “No, but his throat…” Amonked’s voice tailed off and he looked away.

  Bak bent low to study the body, bringing to life the dull ache in his head. The young priest lay on his back, his shoulders raised slightly on a thick clump of grass, his head hanging back to reveal a long cut across his throat. Flies swarmed around the wound and over reddish smudges on his body. He had not been slain where he lay. The vegeta tion beneath and around him was smeared with dried blood, as was a trail of bruised foliage about four paces long lead ing out to a path that ran along the base of the god’s man sion. An attempt had been made to make the bloody trail look normal. The weeds had been pushed roughly back into place and dirt had been thrown over them, probably while the blood was wet, so no one would notice. Several whose stems had broken were wilting, an anomaly that had caught the attention of the young man who had found the body.

  Visibly upset, he stood on the path with Amonked, Psuro, and two Medjays from Bak’s company of policemen.

  Bak waded through the weeds beside the track along which Meryamon had been dragged. As was to be expected from such a long and deep incision, the priest had bled freely. The dirt and sand thrown over the foliage in no way covered the stains, but would have concealed them from ca sual passersby.

  As he neared the edge of the vegetation, he snapped from a bush a twig thickly covered with small leaves. Kneeling beside the path, he studied the dirt, which looked as if it had been disturbed by the passage of perhaps a half-dozen peo ple coming and going. Not nearly enough, to his way of thinking, for a path in constant use day in and day out, as this one was.

  The footprints ended not far away, at the center back of the mansion of the lord Amon, in a jumble of smudged tracks left by individuals who had come to offer prayers at the chapel of the hearing ear. A length of white linen, stained by age, dust, and burning sunlight, covered the opening to a shallow booth that sheltered what he knew to be a deep re lief of the deity carved into the wall directly behind the sanctuary. There, he reasoned, was the most likely place to slay a man, catching him unawares while he conversed with the god.