A Vile Justice (23 page)

"Your father's life is in jeopardy, mistress Khawet. I want someone near when the slayer makes his appearance." "Three days from now," she pointed out.

"He could strike at any time. Wouldn't you alter your plans if all the world knew you'd established a pattern?" She gave him a tight smile. "My father refuses to leave his rooms, and he insists that Lieutenant Amonhotep remain by his side at all times. Only Amonhotep. No other man. Under the circumstances, your Medjay would be close to useless."

"I'm as concerned for you as I am for your father." He raised a hand, cutting off her objection. "The slayer enjoys this game he's playing. I'd not be surprised if he decided to draw out Djehuty's agony by slaying the one closest to him."

A boy of twelve or so years entered the open courtyard, carrying a basket of dried dung and an armload of dead twigs and branches. Ide knelt before an open hole at the base of a round baked clay furnace half again as tall as a man and began to build a fire.

Her mouth tightened. "I'll have no Medjays here, and that's final!"

Bak wanted to shake her. She was as stubborn as her father, and almost as irrational. "Mistress Khawet. . ."

"No," she said, her eyes on the boy. "I'm in no danger." Bak watched a potter dip a hand into a bowl of water and smooth the surface of the vessel he had just finished. He could override her decision and force her to accept Psuro, but he had no wish to place, the Medjay in such a difficult situation. Treated as a pariah, his worth would be halvedor worse. He needed an alternate, but who? He thought of the men he had met since arriving in Abu, the few he felt he could trust. The best he could come up with was by no means equal in competence to Psuro or Kasaya.

"If I were to find someone else, a man of Abu and not a Medjay, would you allow him to stay close by your side?" She gave him a sardonic smile. "Not so close he shares my bedchamber, I hope." Noting how serious he was, she sobered. "Who're you thinking of?"

"A guard who's been here for several years and knows both house and grounds. Kames, he's called."

"I don't know him."

Bak was not surprised. Kames was not one to attract notice. "I don't know what other tasks he's had, but now he keeps watch over Nebmose's villa."

"Oh, yes, the husky young man with a rather surly look on his face. The one recently thrown into the river and battered by the rapids."

He pictured Nenu as he had last seen him, recalled the guard's tale of a fight, and opened his mouth to reject her version of the story. Then the truth struck him. A half-formed smile vanished from his lips and he let the statement pass. First things first. "Not him. A smaller, older man. They patrolled the villa together until a few days ago."

Her expression was singularly lacking in enthusiasm. "If I must be watched, he sounds no worse than anyone else. At least he'll respect the rules of this household. Unlike your Medjays."

Bak resented the barb, but let it pass. She was like a fruit tree so heavily burdened its limbs were bowed beneath the weight. He must have a serious talk with Kames. The guard must stick to her like plaster to a wall, and he must not close his eyes for an instant.

"They didn't find the patrol until midafternoon." Psuro shouldered the basket of clean laundry and lifted the jar of fish stew by the rope handle attached to its neck. "Troop Captain Antef insisted they go on with their task, keeping to their schedule, and he and his men stayed with them for close on two hours."

"They were far out on the burning sands?" Bak asked. "Almost three hours' march west of the river, searching for intruding tribesmen."

The old woman handed Bak a basket covered with leaves, and he gave in exchange the token due her. The yeasty aroma of fresh bread wafted from the container, along with the sharp odor of cheese and the tangier, more subtle smell of boiled eggs.

"According to the sergeant," Psuro said, "he and Antef and their men didn't return to Abu until an hour or more after sunset. He had good reason to remember. They couldn't find their skiff in the dark-someone had taken it-and while they searched, a man fell into the river. They finally gave -up and spent the night on the west bank."

Smiling her gratitude, the old woman entered her tiny house. Bak sidled past several homeward-bound archers and led the way down the narrow lane. A slick-haired black dog trotting at the soldiers' heels swung around to follow the food.

"When during the day was Senmut slain?" he asked. "He was found early in the morning, so sometime the night before. The men who came for him from the house of death guessed he had lain there for several hours." "Good," Bal said, well contented with the news. "Now two men are freed of guilt: Antef and Simut."

They reached an intersecting street wider than most running through Abu and turned north toward the governor's villa. A unit of twenty or so spearmen marching four abreast toward the garrison forced them into the open doorway of a

sandalmaker's shop. The man glanced up from his work and gave them a quick smile, never missing a beat in the steady tap-tap-tap of his mallet. The rank smell of leather tanning in urine assailed their nostrils.

Bak reached down to scratch the dog's head. "Earlier today, mistress Khawet said something in all innocence that - set me thinking. These are her words: `The one who was thrown into the river and battered by the rapids.' Who do you think she meant?"

"You were carried through the rapids, sir. And you were hurt. Upriver at Iken. How did she know about that?" Psuro, noting Bak's censorious expression, paused for further thought. His eyes widened. "The archer? She was speaking of him?"

"She was talking about Nenu, a guard in the governor's compound. And, until a day or two ago, at Nebmose's villa." "I recall seeing him there when first we came to Abu. A young man who needed a comeuppance, I thought." The Medjay's eyes dewed toward Bak, the look on his face skeptical. "Why would he wish to slay you?"

The last of the spearmen marched by and they strode on down the street, the dog at their heels.

"I bumped into Nenu the day after the archer was thrown into the rapids," Bak said. "He was battered and bruised and, when I asked what happened, he spoke of a fight. He's an ill-natured sort, so I took him at his word." He scowled at the memory. "Never did I think of him as being the archer, but now ... ? We'd best learn the truth-and soon."

"Was he not the one who helped you search Nebmose's villa when first the archer struck?"

"Don't remind me," Bak groaned. "The perfect defense is offense, and his performance that day proves it. I dropped over the gate in front of the villa and there he was, spear in hand, challenging my presence."

"No wonder you never found the bow and quiver! Each time you came close, he steered you in another direction." "Laughing all the while, no doubt," Bak said bitterly.

Psuro's expression again turned dubious. "I'd never have taken him as so quick-witted a man."

"I suspect he isn't under normal circumstances, but when his well-being is threatened, he's cunning like a jackal." Bak's mouth tightened. "Maybe we can outsmart him."

"You asked for me, sir?" Nenu stood at attention, his eyes on Bak, his expression wary.

"There you are. Good."

Bak, resting his uninjured shoulder against a column in the audience hall, eyed the guard long and hard, hoping to unsettle him. The young man's appearance had not improved, although his injuries were on the mend. His abrasions had scabbed over, and his bruises were a mottled purple and yellow. His lower lip was dry and swollen, the cut red with recently clotted blood. He stood stiff as a palm, breathing loud through his nose.

Bak had to admire his control. "My Medjay and I..." He nodded toward Psuro, standing near the dais. ". . . were on our way to our evening meal when the chief scribe Simut summoned me. As you can see . . ." He nodded toward the baskets of food and laundry and the bowl of stew. Psuro had added a net bag containing a half dozen beer jars and another basket filled with clusters of deep purple grapes and a couple of striped green melons. "We've too much here for one man to carry, so you must help him take them to our quarters in Swenet."

"Yes, sir." Nenu visibly relaxed. "Is that all, sir?"

Bak smiled, further easing his suspicions. "When you finish, you're free to go."

"Shall I reheat the stew?" Psuro asked. "I can borrow a brazier from Prahared's wife and set it on the roof outside our quarters, where the fire will be shielded from the breeze."

"I doubt I'll be long, but..." Bak smothered a smile. The Medjay was as artful as the most accomplished performer in an enactment of the sacred drama of the lord Osiris's victory over his rival Set. "Perhaps you'd better. Cold fish stew is an abomination."

"If Nenu is the archer," Psuro said, "he should come soon."

"Before nightfall," Bak said, nodding agreement. "He'll want sufficient light to see his target and at the same time enough darkness to hide his identity and allow him to steal away unseen."

Looking down from the rooftop outside their quarters, he studied the dark and empty doorways in the block of buildings across the lane. The narrow thoroughfare lay deep in shadow as the sun dropped beyond the western horizon. The black dog, which had crossed the river in the skiff with Psuro and Nenu, lay on the threshold of an empty dwelling, looking upward, patiently awaiting a handout. Kasaya was on a roof near the northern end of the lane, hidden from view. Loud and raucous voices issued from an open expanse of sand to the south, where a half dozen or so of Pahared's sailors and a growing crowd of onlookers were betting on a wrestling match soon to begin.

Bak's eyes leveled on the still-lit rooftops across the lane, where several families sat, enjoying the gentle northerly breeze while they consumed their evening meal. With no other buildings close by, the archer would have to strike from there. Bak had thought of sending the people away, but their absence would have proclaimed a trap. With luck, they were not so close they would be endangered

"I don't like this," Psuro grumbled. "We need more men."

"We have plenty. It's their quality I'm worried about, not their numbers."

When Bak had asked for help, Pahared had volunteered crewmen from his ship. They were the best brawlers along the river, the trader had bragged, but did they have the patience to await the signal to act and, once set in motion, would they do as they were told? Or, preoccupied by the match, caught up in the excitement of the noisy crowd, would they respond at all?

Psuro nested the bowl of stew on the unfired charcoal in the brazier, perfecting a picture of two men readying their evening meal. "We should've waited until tomorrow, after you'd had a chance to talk to Troop Captain Antef. He'd've been glad to lend all the men we need. Good, trustworthy men."

"Must I remind you, Psuro, that our time is running out? I doubt the archer-Nenu, I'm convinced-had anything to do with the five deaths in the governor's household. If we can eliminate him and whatever vile acts he's committed, we're that much closer to the truth. If he used the bow at the orders of another, which 'I think he did, our path should grow shorter still."

A man yelled a wager, his voice raised above the general clamor. Another bested him and a third went higher yet. Excited laughter rippled through the crowd at stakes higher than expected.

"Who would have him slay you? One who wants the governor dead?"

Bak gave the Medjay a wry smile. "You speak of almost everyone in the province. I hope to shorten our list of suspects, not lengthen it."

A spot of light darted across his chest and the outer wall of their quarters, grabbing his attention. Bak looked toward Kasaya's hidingplace. The Medjay, crouched behind a rooftop parapet, repeated the signal, catching the sun on a bright square of polished bronze. Bak scratched his head, letting him know he had seen. Another signal, a series of short, bright flashes, and Kasaya ducked out of sight.

"Nenu's at the quay and he's armed." Bak walked away from the wall and knelt beside the brazier, facing the lane at an angle. If he made too easy a target, he would rouse Nenu's suspicions. Or be slain. He would never forget the first ambush he had set up soon after his arrival in Buhen. Thanks to his lack of foresight, one of his Medjays had lost his life. "So now we wait," Psuro said.

"Not for long, I suspect."

They pretended to converse, pretended an offhand interest in the loud exchanges of the bettors, grinned at each other when the voices heated up with excitement. The time dragged. The sun vanished below the horizon, leaving a sky bright in its afterglow. The lord Re, clinging to the world of the living, was reluctant to submit to twelve hours in the netherworld. The glow faded rapidly, leaving behind a darkening sky speckled with stars. Torches were lit at the southern end of the lane, illuminating the sandy arena and the men awaiting the bout. Bats shot through the air, hunting insects drawn to the light. The shrill call of a nightbird-Kasaya's signal-rose above the rumble of the expectant crowd. "Nenu's come," Bak said.

In the lane below, the dog began to bark. It broke off abruptly in a sharp cry of pain. Muttering a curse, Psuro reached for his spear. Bak slipped his hand through the grip of a shield lying close on the rooftop, and offered a silent prayer to the lord Amon that Nenu's first arrow would fly far from its mark. The guard's skill was modest, he knew, but bad luck could kill as quickly as a well-aimed missile. "There!" he hissed.