by Lauren Haney
“I’ll talk to Troop Captain Nebwa. He takes soldiering seriously, and he won’t stand still for any shortages to the men under his command.” The officer turned on his heel and stalked out the door.
“You do that!” Userhet muttered to himself. His eyes darted toward Bak. “How can I help you, Lieutenant?”
Bak would ordinarily have offered to intercede, but the chill in the overseer’s voice nettled. “Have I caught you at a busy time?”
Userhet barked out a laugh. “Other than handing out the month’s rations and collecting a few baskets of produce from local farmers, we’ve nothing to do. If Thuty doesn’t soon allow traffic to cross the frontier, we may as well pack our belongings and go home to Kemet.”
“I doubt the ban will last long.”
Userhet gave him a scathing look. “You’re responsible, I’ve heard, you and that accursed elephant tusk you found on Mahu’s ship.”
“You were a neighbor to Mahu and a friend.” Bak kept his voice level, matter of fact, giving no hint of the irritation he felt. “Did he ever confide in you?”
“Did he ever confess to smuggling, you mean? No, he did not.” Userhet walked to the leftmost of a series of niches built into the wall, read the labels scrawled on the shoulders of several sealed wide-mouthed jars, and pulled one out. “Nor did he admit to any other small or large offense. Probably because he committed none. He was a kind and decent man, an honest man.”
“The night before he sailed to Kor,” Bak went on doggedly,
“he went to Nofery’s house of pleasure, where he played knucklebones with you and others.” As with Kay, he watched the overseer closely. “Sometime during the game, a man approached him, hoping to convince him to carry contraband on his ship.”
Userhet raised an eyebrow. “Someone?”
“I have no name,” Bak admitted. “I thought perhaps you noticed a man whispering in his ear, or Mahu’s indignant response, or some other odd occurrence.”
“I wish I could help you, Lieutenant.” Userhet looked and sounded truly regretful. Picking up a stone, he gave the seal a single hard tap. Chunks of dried mud fell from the jar’s mouth. “Ordinarily I miss little that happens around me, but when I play games of chance, rain could fall in this rainless land and I doubt I’d notice.”
Bak eyed the man before him. He looked more a soldier than a clerk, with broad shoulders and well-defined muscles.
His golden torso and limbs reflected time spent outdoors.
“Have you ever before known of an uncut tusk being smuggled downriver?”
Userhet pulled a scroll out of the jar, read the contents noted on the side, shoved it back into the container. “Two years ago, before you came to Buhen, an inspector found on a caravan a tusk broken into pieces for ease of carrying.” He pulled out another scroll, read the label, shoved it back.
“Whole tusks are too difficult to transport, too easily discovered-as you saw for yourself.” He withdrew another scroll, glanced at the notation. “Do you think Mahu was slain by the man who spoke to him of smuggling?”
“How well did you know Captain Roy?” Bak asked, ignoring the overseer’s question.
Userhet replaced the scroll a bit too hard, crushing its edges. “Now there’s a man who surprised me, not because I thought him a pillar of honesty-I could see he was no better than most-but because he risked ship, crew, and cargo in a storm. He always gave an impression of indifference, but in truth he was a careful man.”
“A careful man doesn’t haul contraband.”
Userhet took out another scroll, scanned the label, slipped his finger beneath the seal and broke it. “I’ve seen the objects Ramose brought back from the wreck. For the life of 116 / Lauren Haney me, I can’t imagine where Roy picked up so much illicit cargo.” He unrolled a section of scroll and looked at Bak across the top edge. “How did it escape the notice of our inspectors at Kor and Buhen? How did he hope to smuggle it past the inspectors at Abu? You need documents for that.
Approvals.”
His manner appeared offhand, but a deep curiosity peeked from beneath the surface. Bak smiled within himself. The overseer, it seemed, had at least one human frailty. “Did you know the hunter Intef?”
“My scribes deal with the local people.” Userhet looked up from the scroll, frowned. “You aren’t suggesting his death is in any way related to Mahu’s, are you?”
“I know too little about the man to suggest anything.”
Later, outside the warehouse, he sorted through his thoughts. Userhet looked to be a man of infinite strength and ability, but how talented was he with a bow? His task as overseer of warehouses restricted his movements to Buhen and Kor, but gave him the opportunity to meet many men, some of whom traveled unhampered far to the south where one could lay hands on a variety of exotic objects, including elephant tusks.
Bak swerved into the street that ran alongside the guardhouse. The first thing he must do, he decided, was speak with Hori. The scribe, with his frank and open countenance, would be the ideal person to go from one man to another, trying to learn how well the five who had played knucklebones with Mahu could shoot the bow and arrow.
Chapter Eight
Thinking over what he had learned-or, to be more precise, what he had not learned-from Kay and Userhet, Bak swerved toward the door of the old guardhouse. As he plunged across the threshold, he failed to see in the dark in-terior another man coming his way: Nebamon, who had also played knucklebones with Mahu. Bak’s foot came down hard on the trader’s instep, while Nebamon’s down-turned head thudded into Bak’s nose.
Bak sprang backward and snarled an oath. Identifying the startled trader, he tempered the words with the best smile he could manage through the pain. “Nebamon! Just the man I wanted to see!”
Grabbing the doorjamb, the white-haired trader lifted a sandaled foot and rubbed his injured toes. “I’ve heard your enthusiasm for the task at hand often knows no bounds, Lieutenant, but did you have to disable me to reach your goal?”
“You gave as good as you got,” Bak said, blinking back tears. “Whatever you came for, I doubt it worth a broken nose.”
Nebamon had the grace to flush. The trader was slightly taller than Bak and slimmer. His face was thin, his nose aquiline, his eyes pale blue, betraying an ancestor from some faraway land to the north of Kemet. He wore a simple white kilt and multicolored bead bracelets, anklets, and broad collar of good quality. His patrician appearance was decept-ive. He was a trader, plain and simple, a man who sailed a single ship above the Belly of Stones and hired other men to haul his merchandise around the rapids to Kor and north to Abu.
As he seldom traveled deep into Kush where the more exotic and valuable items could be found, his success was limited.
Five grumbling, cursing sailors burst through the fortress gate, sped on by a pair of black, broad-muzzled dogs nipping at their heels. Two Medjays followed, hurrying them up the street at spearpoint. The sailors were sweaty and dirty. One bled from the nose, another limped, a third had a swollen lip. As they drew near, Bak spotted bleeding knuckles and broken teeth. The sliver of shadow beside his feet told him midday had not long passed. Too early in the day for a brawl, he thought, but with shipping at a standstill and many men idled, fighting was inevitable.
Beckoning Nebamon to follow, he stepped well away from the door, giving his men plenty of room to shepherd their prisoners into the guardhouse. As the last of the five vanished through the portal, Bak raised a hand to the Medjays and smiled, signaling a job well done. Since the entry hall would be noisy and reeking of sweat, he thought it best not to follow them inside until the rabble was cleared away.
“What brought you to the guardhouse, Nebamon?”
“You found a dead man in the desert, I’ve heard.” The trader’s tone was curt, businesslike. “A hunter, they say. A man slain with his own weapon.”
“The desert patrol found a body, yes.” Bak was not surprised at the way the tale had become twisted. “The hunter Intef. Did you
know him?”
“No, but I’ve seen him often enough: a man walking before two or three donkeys loaded with game.” Nebamon scowled.
“He’s the second man slain at the hands of another in less than…What? Two days? Frankly, I’m concerned.”
“As am I.”
“According to whispers I’ve heard in the streets of this city, you’ve no idea who the slayer might be. No men to question, no path to follow, not a thing of substance to point the way.
To speak bluntly, you’ve reached a dead end.”
Bak bit back a sharp retort. The charge was unfair-he had barely begun his search-but it rankled nonetheless.
Perhaps that was Nebamon’s purpose: to poke and prod until anger loosened the tongue. Better that than to think the rumor widespread. “I’m not as close as I’d like to be,” he admitted, “but the tale you tell is too hopeless by far.”
The clip-clop of hooves sounded in a side lane. A portly man hastened around the corner, leading a train of donkeys, each laden with four huge beer jars. “Out of the way!” he bellowed.
Bak drew Nebamon off the pavement to let the donkeys pass. One of the few open spaces in Buhen, the sandy plot behind the old guardhouse was cluttered with partly worked stone slabs, lengths of wood, and several stacks of mudbricks.
The materials would one day be used to repair the unused end of the block, consisting of several large rooms not presently assigned a purpose.
“How can an honest man go about his business with death lurking in every direction?” Nebamon demanded. “Even if we could move our trade goods-which we can’t, thanks to Troop Captain Nebwa-we’d not dare consign them to a caravan. All who travel the desert trails fear for their lives.
Nor are we safe inside the walls of this garrison!”
Bak bit back an oath. He should have expected something like this: men of faint heart turning a whisper into a scream.
“Two deaths so close together seems ominous, I grant you, but the timing was merely a whim of the gods.” He hoped he sounded more certain than he felt.
“Nonetheless…”
“Intef was slain with a purpose,” he said more emphatically, “and Mahu for a different reason altogether.”
Nebamon gave him a sharp look. “The tusk, you mean?”
“So it would seem.” Bak watched the last of the donkeys pass by and a boy with a stick bringing up the rear. “I’ve been told a man approached Mahu the night before he sailed to Kor, asking him to take illicit cargo on board his ship.
The incident occurred in Nofery’s house of pleasure.”
“We played knucklebones that night! In the alcove. He and I and…” Nebamon’s eyes widened. “Are you saying 120 / Lauren Haney one of us slipped that tusk on board his ship? One of us took his life? You can’t be serious!”
Bak was surprised at Nebamon’s acumen. Of his five suspects, the trader was the last he would have expected to leap so fast to the logical conclusion. “Did you by chance hear any talk of smuggling that evening?”
“I may have.” Nebamon frowned, trying to remember, then shrugged. “This is the frontier, Lieutenant. One can’t take a breath without hearing tales of smuggling.”
“You saw no one whispering in Mahu’s ear?”
“Other than him, five of us played that game. Not a man among us is faint of heart-you’ve but to watch us bet to know that-but I can’t believe any of us would be brazen enough to make such an offer with so many men in so small a space.”
“Or to a man as upright and honest as Mahu.” Bak did not realize how cynical he sounded until Nebamon laughed. “I don’t mean to belittle him, but I’ve grown weary of hearing those words.”
“His virtue could grow tiresome,” the trader said, sobering.
“Each time I complained that he wanted too great a percent-age of the merchandise he hauled downriver for me, I was firmly reminded how safe the objects were in his hands and how careful he would be to turn each and every item over to my agent in Abu.”
Bak’s eyes narrowed. “He asked for more than was his due?”
“Never. He valued his reputation too highly.” Nebamon crossed to the pavement, walked a few paces up the street, paused and looked back. “He never once cheated me-and for that, he never failed to demand the maximum the market would bear.”
Bak watched the trader go, seeing him in a new light. He had heard him described as weak, a poor businessman, and he had accepted those tales as true. Now he questioned that picture. Nebamon was bright and quick to see beyond the obvious-not a man to underestimate.
Feeling as if he were getting nowhere with Mahu’s murder, Bak hoisted himself onto the terrace wall overlooking the waterfront. The harbor was quiet, with no produce to unload, no trade goods or tribute to inspect, no tolls to collect. Sailors stretched out on decks to snooze in the sun. Guards strolled the quays at a snail’s pace. Midway across the river, two fishing boats slowly closed the distance between them, drawing on board their nets. Slivers of silver flashed in the intervening space, fish leaping, writhing, frantic to escape.
Dozens of birds wheeled overhead, drawn by the promise of a feast.
The familiar sights, the fishy-musty smell of the river, the splash of water on the shore, lightened the load Bak carried.
Soon he turned his thoughts to Intef. The gods had conspired to erase all sign of the hunter’s passage across the barren desert, nor had they left any trail to his slayer. Unless the ancient jewelry could be made to speak.
Intef must have found the precious items-perhaps in a long-forgotten tomb-during his last hunting trip. If he had come upon them earlier, he would have hidden them away at his home, not carried them with him into the desert. Was he slain for the jewelry? Or for his knowledge of a tomb that might still contain a treasure? Ridiculous! As Nofery had said, all the old tombs had long ago been plundered.
Plundered did not necessarily mean empty.
Tombs littered the sands in and around Buhen. The closer the cemetery, the better known it was and the more likely to have been despoiled. Though he suspected Intef had found his small treasure in some isolated spot in the desert, probably somewhere in the area where his body was found, Bak decided first to eliminate the easiest potential source of the hunter’s unexplained wealth-and the most unlikely: an ancient cemetery that lay within the walls of Buhen.
Bak stood before a low shelf of rock that marked the site of a very old and ruined cemetery. Mudbrick walls and mounds, the tops of low structures built many generations ago, protruded from sand blown against the face of the shelf.
Gaping holes and sandswept stairways led to black cavities in the ground. The tall outer wall of Buhen loomed over the sandy waste, giving a bird’s eye view to a sentry looking down from the battlements. The outer city stood aloof and indifferent to the long-forgotten men and women who had been buried a few paces away.
He had found, playing in and among the tombs, six boys close in age to Nofery’s servant Amonaya. They were the sons of a growing number of soldiers and scribes who thought Wawat safe enough for their families. Unlike the thin, slightly built servant, who had scant opportunity to play outside, these were sturdy, muscular children, deeply tanned by the sun. Their bodies were dusted with fine sand, their short kilts stained with sweat and dirt.
“I’m in need of help.” Bak smiled, hoping to set the boys at ease. From the apprehensive look they gave each other, he failed to do so. He was not surprised at their mistrust.
His Medjays had rousted them out of the cemetery two or three times, and the garrison sentries often harried them.
He focused on the tallest of the six, forcing him to be their spokesman. “I’ve seen you out here time after time, and I could think of no one in Buhen with more knowledge of the tombs. Will you tell me what you know of them?”
“Well, sir, we…” The boy’s voice tailed off; he looked to his companions for help.
“I’m not here to punish you,” Bak assured him, “nor have I come to complain. It’s
information I seek, knowledge I suspect you alone possess.”
The boy shifted his weight, unconvinced.
Bak decided to try another tack, one that might make them look beyond themselves. “Did any of you know the hunter Intef?”
A sturdy boy close on ten years old piped up, “Long ago, when I was little, he let me lead his donkeys each time he came to Buhen.”
The smallest boy, plump with baby fat, stared at Bak wide-eyed. “They say a patrol found him far out in the desert, slain from behind. Is it true?”
The taller boy silenced them both with a scowl. “What does Intef’s death have to do with us?”
Bak ignored the challenge in the boy’s voice. Opting instead to take the question as an invitation, he sat down on a partially fallen wall and began to talk. The taller boy hesitated, but finally rested a hip on a waist-high chunk of broken stone and crossed his arms over his chest. One by one, his companions arranged themselves around his feet and Bak’s on overturned pots and mounds of tumbled bricks. Bak first gained their full attention, pledging them to secrecy, and then he earned their loyalty and respect by telling them all he knew of the hunter’s death, holding nothing back.
“Poor Intef.” The sturdy boy swallowed hard. “I liked him.
A lot.”
“Now you see why I’ve come to you,” Bak said. “I know nothing of the ancient tombs, while you spend much of your time among them.”
The taller boy looked to the others for guidance and they at each other, eyes probing, searching for an answer each could find only in his heart. A secret message passed among them, a decision reached and agreed upon without a word being uttered.
The taller boy rose to his feet, pulled his shoulders back, and added depth to his voice. “My name is Mery, sir. And this is…” He identified his friends. “We’ll be glad to help you.”
Five nods of agreement, a chorus of affirmatives.
Bak expelled a well hidden sigh of relief.
Mery looked along the rocky shelf, with its broken walls and collapsed vaults. “Intef found nothing here. The bigger tombs have long been open and empty, the smaller ones contain no wealth.”