A Vile Justice (21 page)

Shaking his head to clear it, he glanced up at the top of the stairs. He saw no one. He had not been pushed. He had been struck by ... What? A good-sized rock thrown from a sling, inflicting a stunning blow on his back. A soldier's weapon. A weapon used by most children in Kemet. A skill learned early in life to slay birds or small game. As long as he clung there, hanging in the open shaft high above the stairway, he was no safer than a duck or a hare caught in a hunter's net, awaiting execution.

He shifted his glance to the mass of vines above him, seeking a second secure handhold. Leaves, grape clusters, shadows cluttered his view. He could see wrist-thick stems and tendrils as thin as thread, but not the vine he clung to, or any other close enough to grasp and sturdy enough to support his weight.

Offering a tardy prayer of gratitude to the lord Amon, adding a quick plea for additional help, he shot his right hand upward. Tendrils snapped and the vine he clung to dropped further. His heart leaped upward, clogging his throat. Again the far end held and stopped him with a jolt. Pain flared in his left shoulder, taking his breath away. He gritted his teeth to keep from crying out, stretched his right arm high, and felt around among the leaves and tendrils. His fingertips touched rough bark. He stretched higher, sharpening the pain. A torn muscle, he suspected. He found a good-sized vine. His fingers curled around it, but he could not reach high enough to grasp it. Sweat popped out on his forehead, his upper lip. The agony was intense, his fear of falling worse.

Desperate to relieve the weight on his left arm, his back prickling with vulnerability, he shook off his sandals and probed for a foothold. The added movement kindled the fire in his shoulder, making it blaze. Just as he was certain he could hang on no longer, he located a crack between the rocks. Shifting much of his weight to the one foot, he managed to raise himself high enough to catch the vine with his free right hand.

He held on tight with both hands, swallowed hard, kept as much weight off his left arm and shoulder as possible. He looked up again at the mouth of the water gauge. As before, no one was there. His assailant must believe him dead-or was biding his time.

Aware of how exposed he was to attack, how shaky, how fast pain could further sap his strength, he knew he had to move. He had to shift his body toward the mouth of the water gauge, moving to his left a little at a time. He had to move now.

Praying the vine would continue to support his weight, praying that if it broke he would somehow survive, he loosened his grip, inched his left hand along the rough bark, caught hold. He found a new foothold with no trouble. Shifting the right hand was torture, the burning in his shoulder dreadful with much of his weight hanging from his left hand. When he once again settled into place, both hands firm around the vine, he figured he had moved at least two palm widths closer to safety. How much farther did he have to go? He estimated the distance, considered his height, judged where he had to be before he could drop onto the steps. Slightly more than three cubits, he concluded, twenty-one or -two palm widths. Not far at all, yet an alarming distance.

He forced himself to move on, inching across the rough wall, his shoulder aflame, skinned arm stinging, hands slippery with sweat. His concentration was total. Move one hand, find a fresh toehold, move the other hand. He forgot the man who had assaulted him, the stairs beneath him, the darkening wedge of sky above him. He ignored his weariness and thirst. He tolerated his aching muscles and scraped knuckles. He endured the fire in his shoulder.

After endless torment, his lead foot brushed something cold and hard He looked down, startled. A step. In his trance-like state, he had gone farther than he had to. With soaring spirits, he planted both feet on the stone and let go of the vine. His arms were so numb he could hardly feel them. Weak from effort and tension, wobbly from exhaustion, he dragged himself on hands and knees up the steep stairway.

At the top, he peered over the edge. The monkey sat on the wall, holding a bunch of grapes, eating the ripe fruit and flinging away the green. It skittered well out of his reach and scolded him, but showed no special terror. Nor did it show any interest in the surrounding landscape. Fairly certain they were alone, Bak hauled himself on up and sat, his back to the wall, inside the enclosure near the opening. He lowered his face into his dirty, scratched hands and offered a silent prayer of thanks to the lord Amon.

"You were truly blessed by the lord Amon, sir." Psuro, standing at the top of the water gauge, eyed the thick vine draped over the wall and the steep flight of stairs below. "If you'd fallen to the bottom..." His voice tailed off and he shook his head in consternation.

Bak turned his back on a place he preferred to forget and walked outside the enclosure. He moved with care, trying not to ignite the dull ache in his shoulder. The bandage the physician in Swenet had wrapped tight around his upper torso helped some, but any wrong move seemed to tear the muscle more. Compared to the shoulder, he barely felt his skinned arm, which was covered from wrist to elbow with a second bandage stained brown by a salve whose odor was overwhelmed by the strong smell of the poultice the physician had daubed on his shoulder.

"I wish we were as close to laying hands on the slayer as he evidently thinks we are," he said. "Another exercise like this, and I might not survive."

"Don't talk like that, sir!" Kasaya, standing at the base of the sycamore tree, trying to lure the black monkey with a chunk of bread, threw him a worried look.- "Some malevolent genie might hear and turn your words around, bringing upon you the very misfortune you speak of."

"Oh?" Bak asked, eyebrow raised.

The young Medjay flushed. "I know you wish us to seek common everyday reasons for things that happen before we look to malign spirits as the cause. But here in Abu, with so many people slain ... Well. . ."

"The man who took those lives has a reason, one that may never make sense to us but is most compelling to him." "Who do you think used the sling, sir?" Psuro asked. "The archer? Did he survive the rapids after all?"

"I don't know." Bak leaned back against a boulder. "Its use puzzles me. It's not subtle, like those unwanted gifts, nor is it as direct as a bow and arrows."

Psuro gave him a wry grin. "I'd not call a bowl of scorpions subtle, sir."

Bak's laugh was quick, humorless. "Ingenious, then. I wasn't sure the insects were meant to kill, but I'm certain I was supposed to die in the water gauge." He stared at nothing, brows drawn together in thought. "If we leave out the archer's attempt to slay me with the bow, what do we have? A steady escalation from a small, harmless message to a serious attempt at murder."

"Another pattern," Psuro said. "What kind of man toys with his victims this way?"

Kasaya, lost by so complicated a thought, tore the soft white center out of the bread and began to press it into a ball. "Maybe the archer broke an arm when his skiff overturned. One arm's enough to use a sling."

"A possibility, I suppose. Or maybe my death in the water gauge was meant to resemble that of Sergeant Min-if the rumor Kames heard is based on fact." Bak watched the monkey working its way along a limb above the-young Medjay. "Psuro, you must go again to the garrison. See if you can find anyone who remembers Min. Look to those who would've remained behind, supplying the troops or serving their needs. Qhartermaster, armorers, and so on."

"Yes, sir."

"In the meantime, I want another look at the garrison daybooks. I glanced through them when first we came to Abu, and nothing struck me as being of importance. Perhaps today, with a more educated eye, I'll have better luck. And it occurred to me that the governor might also keep daybooks.

Djehuty was garrison commander, as was his father before him. As such, both were obliged to make daily entries. A habit once learned is not easy to set aside."

Kasaya, munching on the bread ball, patted his flat stomach and smiled. "A few more days in the governor's villa and..."

The monkey dropped out of the tree. It landed on his arm and grabbed for the hollow crust. The Medjay yelped, startled, and caught the creature by the neck. It squealed, terrified. Its little hands reached out for the bread, greed taking precedence over freedom. Laughing, Kasaya broke off a bit of crust and offered it. The monkey snatched it away and stuffed it into its mouth.

Psuro gave man and beast a disgusted look, then leaned back against the wall to study the landscape from which the rock must have been slung: the small walled mansion of the lady Satet, the much larger enclosed precinct of the lord Khnum, and houses crammed together in the space between, their walls pierced by a few windows too high and narrow for a sling to be used. Near the mansion of the lord Khnum, a lane opened onto the terrace, offering the women of Abu easy access to the public well.

Bak guessed what the Medjay was thinking.' "The whole time I was hanging from that vine, I expected my assailant to appear and finish what he'd started. If I'd given any thought to this area, I'd've known better. Standing at the lane, where he could see anyone coming and going, he could risk using the sling a time .or two, but he dared not approach the water gauge, where he'd draw attention to himself as well as to me."

"Whoever he is," Psuro said, impressed-in spite of himself, "he has the nerve of a god and the luck to go with it." Striding through the entry portal, Bak nodded to the neat and alert guard who manned the gatehouse. He was happy to see that the previous day's effort had made enough of an impression to last at least overnight. He walked on toward the governor's house, reluctant to go inside. The morning was pleasant, the intense heat of the inundation season dissipating as the season of planting began. He longed to go hunting in the desert or fowling in the marshes or sailing on the open river. Anything other than facing another day of this seemingly futile search. Seven days had passed since Hatnofer's death. He had to admit he had learned a great deal since then, yet he had no more idea now who the slayer was than he had had at the beginning. With only three days remaining, he needed divine intervention.

Smiling at the thought, at so unlikely an occurrence, he paused before the family shrine to look inside. No fresh flowers here, he noted, only an incense bowl long ago burned out, setting at the base of a red-painted statue similar to the one at Nebmose's villa. If no one bothered here, who was tending the shrine there?

Three men nearing their middle years came out of the governor's house, traders from the look of their sun-darkened skin, practical clothing, and mix of jewelry from Kemet and the lands to the south.

One, taller than his companions, raised a hand in greeting. "If you've come with a petition, sir, your luck's run out. Governor Djehuty's ailing today, unable to conduct an audience."

Not ailing, Bak thought, but malingering. Too fearful to show himself. "Did anyone say what the trouble was?" "He can't leave his bed, we were told. Other than that, nothing. I pray he feels better tomorrow. We've a contract dispute with a man from Swenet and need a decision before we set sail for the Belly of Stones."

"May the gods smile on you," Bak said, moving on. Twenty or so-men straggled out of the house, each displaying hope, patience, dismay, anger, or disappointment according to his temperament. By the time Bak entered the audience hall, the last of the petitioners had gone, as had the scribes who assisted the governor and his aide. Troop Captain Antef and Lieutenant Amonhotep stood at the foot of the empty dais. Their raised voices resonated through the high-ceilinged room. Bak stopped near the door, not wanting to intrude.

Antef glared at Amonhotep. "If he's not available to make decisions, what am I to do? Make them myself and face his wrath later?"

"You're assuming your decisions will differ from his," the aide said.

"They always do."

Amonhotep stood stiff and silent, his face troubled, strained. At last he gave the more senior officer a tight smile. "Ahight, I'll speak for him." He closed his eyes, drew in a breath, commanded, "Pull your troops out of the quarry. Give them a few days' rest. I'll .send a courier to Waset saying the next Osiris figure will arrive late. I'll give as the reason our shortage of professional stonecutters, and I'll ask for additional experienced men."

Bak guessed this was the first time the aide had made so important a decision without Djehuty's nod of agreement. In this case, a decision Djehuty would not condone.

Antef clapped the young officer on the shoulder. "Your talents are wasted, Lieutenant, on this thankless task you have."

Khawet came through the door near the dais. Smiling, she walked toward the two men. Bak, preferring not to be thought an eavesdropper, strode in among the columns, heading their way.

She spotted him. Her eyes widened and she gasped. "Lieutenant Bak!"

The two officers swung around, stared.

"By the lord Khnum!" Antef exclaimed. "What happened to you?"

Bak considered passing off his injuries as the result of an accident, but decided the time had come to be candid. "I was standing at the top of the water gauge when I was struck in the back by a hard-flung stone. Fortunately, the lord Amon smiled on me, and I managed not to fall down the stairway."

Amonhotep muttered an oath. "Who would do such a thing?"

"The slayer." Antef's eyes narrowed. "Are you so close on his heels?"

Khawet's eyes were wide, horrified. "You didn't see anyone?"

"I assume the slayer struck, yes." Bak's eyes darted from Antef to Khawet. "And I saw no one."

"So you're to be the next to die while Djehuty lives on." Though seeming to joke, Antef looked none too happy at the prospect.

"Would the man you seek disrupt the pattern you found in the other slayings?" Looking chagrined at himself, Amonhotep answered his own question. "Of course he would, if threatened."

Antef gave Bak a cynical smile. "I'd better lend you a few spearmen as personal guards. Think of the impression you'll make. Lieutenant Bak and his retinue, marching through the streets of Abu and Swenet." The door near the dais opened, drawing the officer's eyes to Ineni, who stood on the threshold. For the newcomer's benefit, Antef added, "A dozen or more men marching down the halls of this villa and across the fields of Djehuty's estate in Nubt."

Ineni's eyes flashed anger, but instead of taking the bait, he backed up and let the door close between them. Bak hurried around the dais and followed him through the door. Ineni was some distance ahead, his hands balled into fists, walking rapidly toward the rear of the house.

Bak caught up with him outside, at the gate leading to the kitchen area. "Ineni, we must talk."

The farmer swung around, prepared to lash out in anger, but the bandages subdued him. "What happened to you?" His tone was grudging, like that of a man obliged to be civil.

Bak told him, then blurted, "Are your horses safe and well?"

The question was unexpected-to Bak as well as Ineni. Their eyes met in mutual understanding. They exchanged a conspiratorial smile.

"They are." Ineni glanced toward the house. The windows of the upper story were too high for a man inside to look through, but he grimaced, as if he thought Djehuty was watching. "Let's leave this place. Nebmose's villa should offer privacy."

Bak closed the gate behind them and they walked side-by-side across the barren sand in front of the kitchen. "When I saw you'd returned from Nubt, I thought maybe you and your father had reconciled your differences."

Ineni's voice grew caustic. "I went up to his rooms, but he wouldn't let me near him."

"He's banned everyone: the servants and guards, his staff, all except Amonhotep and Khawet. I saw him yesterday, but would he allow me close today?" Bak shrugged, instantly regretting the sudden movement. "Who knows?"

"He's never behaved well in a crisis, but this time. . ." Ineni snorted. "I ofttimes think we'd all have been better off if you'd never come to Abu, if you'd never pointed out that wretched pattern in the earlier slayings and the obvious goal at the end."

"The slayer's intent was to frighten him before striking in earnest. If I hadn't noticed the pattern, he'd have found another way to make your father see it." Not an easy task, Bak thought, considering Djehuty's proficiency in closing his heart to any truth he would rather not see.

They passed through the gateway to Nebmose's villa and sat on a mudbrick bench shaded by the stable. A flock of pigeons had settled on the sunny roof. The throaty cooing of mating birds softened the silence of the empty building.

Bak leaned back against the wall and stretched out his legs. "I've heard Djehuty plans to disinherit you-or has he already?"

"He'll let no one near him. Remember?" Ineni's smile dripped irony. "Before they were banned from his rooms, Amethu and Simut repeatedly told him he dared not drive me from the --state in Nubt, for it needs my guiding hand. Amonhotep has denied all knowledge of procedures he knows as well or better than anyone in the province. As for Khawet ... Well, she's too busy playing mistress of the villa to concern herself with mundane matters like her husband's loss of his life's work."

"The daybooks." Simut pointed to several rows of shelves on which lay dozens of storage jars, most of them plugged and sealed. "You've been here before and know your way around, so I'll leave you to seek out what you want. I must finish that wretched inventory. My scribes are needed elsewhere."

Bak felt honored. Never before had a chief scribe trusted him to go through his precious records alone and unwatched. "I'll return each document to its proper place, never fear."

"I suggest you do," Simut said, hurrying from the room. Bak did not know whether to take the words as a threat or a jest. Best assume both, he thought, lifting the lamp off the tripod. Holding the light close, he moved along, the ranks of jars, reading labels inked on their shoulders. He soon found the container he wanted, labeled year five of the reign of Maatkare Hatshepsut, harvest season. Returning the lamp to the tripod; he broke the plug on the jar, found the daybook whose entries should include the deadly storm and, holding it near the light, began to unroll the scroll and read.