by Diana Wilder
Khonsu, staring at him in astonishment, suddenly realized that he was being needled by an expert. “I beg Your Grace's pardon,” he said. “And I thank Your Grace for your kind praise.' He gauged how far he dared to go and then added, “And I warn Your Grace that I won't be so blind in future to the fact that I am being teased!”
“Thank you for the warning,” Nebamun said with an undeniable grin. “I'll try not to...tease you...so shamelessly in future.”
Khonsu snorted and took a bite of bread.
Lord Nebamun watched him for a moment and then turned away to gaze west toward the river. “I suspect that sleep hasn't been in plentiful supply for you recently, Commander. You have had much to burden your mind in the past months. I wouldn't begrudge myself a much needed sleep, if I were you. And now that you're awake, there's a great deal that you can do to make yourself useful.”
** ** **
“I scouted the path this morning while you were sleeping,” Lord Nebamun said. “I think what you'll see-there-' he pointed, “-will interest you.”
Khonsu followed the line of Nebamun's arm and then walked over to the spot and knelt beside it. It was an irregularly shaped patch of black, covered with flies. His nose wrinkled.
“Blood,” he said. “A lot of it.' He looked up at Nebamun. “I remember he dropped the plaque and whipped up his horses. You commanded him to stop, and loosed your arrow when he did not. This is perhaps thirty yards from where he was when you spoke with him. You struck him while he was trying to escape.”
Nebamun made no comment.
Khonsu lifted his head and frowned at the rock above and behind them. “That was a difficult shot,” he said.
Nebamun shrugged.
“But I wonder why there's so much blood,” Khonsu said after a moment. “He would have fallen close by if it were a mortal wound. But you say you didn't find him.”
Nebamun drew an arrow from the quiver that hung aslant between his shoulder blades and handed it to Khonsu.
Khonsu turned the shaft of the arrow between his fingers. He glanced at the fletching, then looked thoughtfully at the groove that had been carved along the side. “A blood channel?” he asked. “This is a hunting arrow!”
“And this is a hunt,” Nebamun said. “I meant to track whatever I shot, and I decided to make matters easy for myself. That arrow left a clear trail of blood until it was pulled out.”
“The head remained in the wound,” Khonsu said. It was not a question.
“Of course,” Nebamun said. “But I loosed two arrows. If you look farther to the northwest, you'll see another blood trail.”
“The horse,” said Khonsu. “I'll harness your team and saddle Blackwing. We'll see what we see.”
XXIII
A horse lay stretched on its side where it had collapsed in its traces. The shaft of an arrow jutted backward from its left side, where the ribcage was deepest. The horse was harnessed to a light, sturdy chariot of leather stretched over a reinforced wooden frame. The chariot was a costly piece: the front panel of wood was carved and gilded, the harness was of heavy, gold-tooled leather that fed through gilded bronze guide rings.
“He ran until he collapsed,” Khonsu said. “And then the driver cut his harness-mate free, abandoned the chariot, and rode him away from here.' He touched the horse's flaxen mane, sifted and scattered in the fitful wind from the desert, before getting slowly to his feet and looking up at Lord Nebamun.
Nebamun paused to hobble his horses before going over to the chariot. “This is an older design,” he said. “Look at it: it is outdated. These four-spoked wheels tend to splinter when you try to make a quick turn. A six-spoked wheel is much more stable.' Nebamun's voice was calm and almost emotionless, but Khonsu saw the gentle, almost wistful motion of his hands as he smoothed a painted spoke.
“There's a king's name on the hub,” Khonsu said. “Neb-Khepru-Re Tutankhamun.”
“Then this chariot has been out of use for at least twenty years,” Nebamun said.
“The name would have been changed otherwise,” Khonsu agreed.
“And the wheels, too,” Nebamun said drily.
Khonsu was still examining the body of the chariot. “Look how richly this is made!” he said. “See here: the wood's cedar, from large logs. And see how the body is inlaid. There's gold everywhere!” He frowned and added, “Though the cap from the near hub is missing.”
Nebamun nodded. “It was an expensive piece,” he agreed.
Khonsu frowned at the inlays and then looked up at Nebamun again. “This is outdated, twenty years and more outdated, Your Grace,” he said. “It's the sort of chariot that a ghost might drive-”
“It was pulled by at least one mortal horse,” Nebamun pointed out.
“But listen to me, Your Grace!” Khonsu exclaimed. “I think this was part of a tomb's provisions. They say that Neb-Aten patrols these reaches: could they have found and looted his tomb? And then set up a “ghost' patrol to frighten us?”
“It is possible,” Nebamun conceded. “But who do you mean by “they'?”
“I...don't know yet,” Khonsu said. “Though I have my suspicions. Nothing's making sense, but there's no ghost, as Your Grace has said. The only thing that puzzles me is the richness of this chariot.”
Nebamun smoothed the gilded reliefs on the body of the cab. “It makes sense if this did belong to Neb-Aten,” he said. “The fellow was Commander of One Thousand in the Royal Army.”
Khonsu stared. “Your Grace as much as said that he was a negligible fellow yesterday!” he exclaimed. “If he was a Commander of One Thousand-”
“We were discussing his disposition,” Nebamun said calmly. “Not his rank.' He eyed Khonsu's expression and said, “Tell me your thoughts, Commander.”
“I think a tomb was robbed and gear taken from it,” Khonsu said. “I think the ghost is a sham designed to scare us all away for reasons I can only guess. I think the quarry's collapse was engineered, and I think-' He faltered and fell silent, gathering his words.
“Yes, Commander?”
“I think we're in one of two situations,” Khonsu said. “I think either we're in over our heads, or I think whoever is promoting this haunting and these robberies is about to find out that he's bitten off more than he can chew.”
“I intend to make it the second choice,” Nebamun said. “And I think we'd best hitch that strong fellow you have been riding to this chariot and take it back to the city for everyone to see. We can plan what' i to be done over a decent meal and a cool cup of beer.”
** ** **
“I'm still amazed that you made both of those shots last night,” Khonsu said later. “I wouldn't have attempted them, myself.' They had driven southeast, following the trail back to Akhet-Aten. The day had turned brisk and windy, the horses were fresh, and the journey had been a merry one.
A tussock of grass had occasioned an impromptu contest of archery, and though Khonsu knew himself to be an excellent marksman, Lord Nebamun had bested him without any apparent effort. That victory had led to a tutoring session. Nebamun had given him several suggestions that he knew he would put to good use.
The conversation had turned naturally from teaching to archery in general.
“And now that I remember it,” Khonsu said, “your first shot against hyenas in that temple, the night before we arrived at Akhet-Aten, was one of the finest I've seen. A shot by moonlight, against a target moving in shadow, in strange territory, isn't one that I would have tried, myself.”
“You are too modest, Commander Khonsu,” Nebamun said as he wiped the grip of his bow. “I have seen your skill.”
The matter-of-fact way in which the praise was voiced made Khonsu duck his head. “I thank Your Grace,” he said.
“It is simple truth,” Nebamun said, folding the cloth and tucking it back in the pouch at his belt. He drew a deep breath and lifted his head into the wind. His eyes turned southwest, toward Akhet-Aten. He looked back toward Khonsu with a smile. “You're a fine shot,�
� Commander,” he said.
“And Your Grace,” Khonsu said. “You must have been taught from childhood. Marksmanship takes considerable practice.”
Nebamun smiled reminiscently. “My father gave me my first bow when I was four years old,” he said. “Looking back now, after nearly fifty years, I know it was a tiny little toy, but it was all I could do to draw it.' His fingers smoothed the powerful curve of his bow. “Every archer could tell a similar story, I know,” he said. “As could you, Commander.”
“Oh no, Your Grace,” said Khonsu. “I came late to the skill. My forefathers were mounted messengers for the Nome, and I was set upon the same path. But my father saw that I always lingered to watch the soldiers at practice, and when I turned fifteen he used what influence he had to arrange my enlistment.”
“Late,” Nebamun said thoughtfully. “No more than fifteen years, if I am right to guess your age at thirty. I salute you, Commander. You have risen far and fast, and it has been on the basis of merit, that I can see.”
Khonsu smiled and shook his head. “I'm fortunate and my commanders have been generous,” he said. “But I'm surprised that Your Grace is a priest. I'd sooner have thought you a soldier. In fact, that's what anyone would take you for. How did you come to enter the priesthood of Ptah?”
The easy smile vanished from Lord Nebamun's lips as Khonsu watched. He looked down at the bronze-clad tip of his bow and scraped a fingernail across it. “Forgive me, Commander,” he said. “You're asking a question that I can't answer.”
To Khonsu, who had begun to relax in the easy informality of the conversation, the words came like a shock of cold water. He sought refuge from the surprise in an excess of formality. “I beg Your Grace's pardon,” he said. “I assure Your Grace that I meant no impertinence.' He turned away to unstring his bow in a silence that had grown suddenly strained.
Nebamun fingered the fletching of one of his arrows and watched him silently for a moment. “But I am permitted to tell you how I came back to the skill after a break of five years,” he said at last.
The slightly wistful quality of his voice made Khonsu stop and turn to look at him.
The Second Prophet had lowered one end of his bow to the ground and was resting his folded hands on the other end. He was watching Khonsu with a calm resignation that eased a little as he saw Khonsu turn. “You weren't impertinent,” he said. “And the prohibition doesn't come from me.”
Khonsu frowned. The man's tone was hard to read. He seemed a little sad. “Five years?” he said.
Nebamun's expression eased. “I'd been at the temple of Ptah for five years. I was a priest there with a wife and a circumscribed life. I...saw no need for any skill at archery or driving or singlestick or anything else other than watching the days turn into years and wishing that they might move more swiftly. But then one evening, as I sat on the terrace of my home and swirled beer in my cup, my wife came and sat beside me and spoke to me.”
Nebamun's eyes crinkled a little at the corners as though he were smiling at a private memory. “If it were possible for a woman to combine in her person and her soul all that is gallant, kind, wise and gentle, and then couple it with a devastating wit, she'd be just like my Mayet. I am a fortunate man.”
“I have heard that your wife is a truly fine lady,” Khonsu said.
“Oh yes,” Nebamun said. He smiled and added, “Though as I recall it, I wasn't so sure on the day I'm describing. Mayet was carrying our first child and was near her time and growing clumsy. She started to sit beside me. To steady herself she set her hand first on my shoulder and then, by accident, on my stomach. She looked down at her own belly then, and she said, 'Husband, if anyone saw us side by side, and couldn't see our faces, he'd be hard put to judge which of us is the woman.'“
Nebamun's teeth flashed in a grin as he saw Khonsu eyeing his trim waist and well-muscled chest. “I sputtered something,” he said. “And then she said, 'My excuse is that I am nine months pregnant. It is your good fortune that that fact shows all that you aren't a eunuch. If it weren't for that, coupled with the general knowledge that I am a virtuous woman, certain people at this temple might be in some doubt. I am astonished that you should choose to allow yourself to look like one.'“
Khonsu stared.
“I told you she had a sharp wit,” Nebamun said, chuckling at the memory. “I wish I could have seen my face. And she wasn't finished with me. She said, 'While I don't hate eunuchs, I do dislike men who allow themselves to resemble them without being able to offer their excuse. It speaks strongly of laziness and no self-respect. And so I am telling you, husband, that you'll beget no more children with me until you look a little more like the man I agreed to marry when I was still a maiden.'“
Khonsu's grin was as wide as Nebamun's. “Devastating indeed!” he said. “You limbered your bow at once, I'd imagine!”
“Yes, I did,” Nebamun said. “She was right: I'd been lazy. Oddly enough, the exercise helped to bring me out of the slump of hopelessness that I had felt until then.' He smiled and added, “I am a fortunate man.”
Khonsu coughed delicately. “As I recall, Your Grace has three children,”
Nebamun threw his head back and laughed, for all the world like one of Khonsu's fellow-soldiers. “Yes,” he agreed. “Daughters, and badly spoiled. Merit'taui-named for my mother-Tetisheri and Sitra, who is my youngest. All as lovely as their mother. But without her sharp tongue.' He settled the quiver between his shoulders and then looked up at Khonsu. “But you have a pretty little girl, yourself,” he said. “I saw her on the docks. Count Tothotep said she had been terribly sick and wasn't out of danger. I hadn't known... But the letters say that she's recovering, for which I am glad. It must have been a terrible time for you and your wife if she's your only child.”
“I'm alone now,” Khonsu said flatly. “My-sister has helped to care for Sherit.”
Nebamun stretched out his hand in ready sympathy. “Oh, I am sorry!” he said. “Did your wife die during the illness, then? How terrible for you! It must have been doubly hard.”
“My wife left me,” Khonsu said. The words came out harsh and slow. “We divorced. She's now in some delta prince's harem. She only sent word once. Send her jewels on to her. Some had been in my family for generations. Poor things, I suppose...”
“I am sorry,” Nebamun said again. “I didn't mean to rip open old wounds.”
“I suppose it's common knowledge,” Khonsu said. “I suppose everyone knew but me. I thought I made her happy. I tried. Maybe I-maybe I didn't try enough. We had been happy, once, the three of us... But she never even sent word to Sherit-our little girl-when she was so ill. And all I could think was that I lost my wife and I was about to lose my daughter-I remember I was frantic with the thought that they would both be gone, leaving me all alone and wondering if they had ever really existed.”
Nebamun had been listening quietly. “But you have said that your daughter is recovering,” he said. “The messengers bring you word every day, and every day you learn that she's growing stronger and stronger.”
“Yes,” Khonsu said. His voice shook. “I received another yesterday evening. I bless whoever arranged for them. If only he could know how happy it has made me.”
“He probably does,” Nebamun said. “Come on, get in that chariot and let's go back to the city.”
XXIV
“I am old enough to be your father, Commander,” Lord Nebamun said as they drove back toward Akhet-Aten along the broad, smooth path beaten by royal command when the city was opened. “And I am going to speak to you for a moment as though you are my son in fact.”
“Your Grace?” Khonsu asked. He had told Nebamun the entire sorry tale of Sithathor's flight, their divorce, and Sherit's illness. Now he was caught in the sense of ending a long sojourn through a land of grief and loss.
Nebamun pulled his horses to a halt and smoothed the reins through his hands He was frowning slightly. The frown lightened as he looked up from the chariot rail. “I mea
n this,” he said. “It is no use fretting over the past: it is gone beyond retrieving. You will just bruise yourself bloody going back again and again to the way things were, and how you might have been happy and your life unchanged if only you had done or said something differently. That is the way to bitterness and madness, and you must leave it behind you.”
“But Your Grace,” Khonsu began. He paused and then fell silent.
Nebamun waited, but when Khonsu did not speak he smiled and shook his head. “Just consider this,” he said. “You have seen what your wife was like. If you could turn time back, but know what you know now: would you want her back just as all was before? Do you think you would be happy?”
Khonsu looked down.
“I agree,” Nebamun said. “You were not suited to each other, and she left. You have told me that you have truly found no reason to blame yourself.”
“But I could have been a better husband,” Khonsu said, looking down at his knobbed, whitened knuckles where his hands gripped the reins.
“We all can think of things we might have done better or more thoroughly if we had known that they would go wrong,” Nebamun said. “We can all blame ourselves for mistakes we made. I don't mean the deliberate, bad actions. I mean the actions we took, meaning well, that turned out to be the absolutely worst things we could have done under the circumstances. In your case the point is to remember that you did the best that you could according to what you knew at the time. It is time to accept the fact that your marriage is over and be grateful for all that was good in it, and accept as well that the two of you will never meet again as husband and wife, and perhaps this is the best thing that could have happened for both of you.”
“It's hard, Your Grace.”
“Yes,” Nebamun agreed. His eyes were shadowed. “And yet I have found, myself, that when something is dead, the best thing to do is to bury it, mourn it for its proper season, and then go on with your life. And your marriage did, after all, leave you with a lovely little daughter, so all was not in vain.”