A Vile Justice (30 page)

Bak noted the sign of weariness. He took a quick step forward, forcing her again to thrust out the torch. As she expected him to, he backed off, but less than half the distance he had shifted forward. "What if Djehuty had failed to see your purpose?"

"My father's not a stupid man, Lieutenant. He saw." She sneered. "He pretended he didn't, but he did."

"Why slay Hatnofer?" He inched forward, stopped. "Was she not your ally?"

"Was I to place myself in her hands as my father had put himself in Min's?" Her laugh was sharp, hard. "No. Nor did I initially intend to slay her. She'd served my family well, and I was rather fond of her. But she guessed what I was up to, and she had to die. Fortunately, the timing was good and her death fitted into the pattern."

He took a slow, careful step forward "If you hadn't slain

her, who would've died in her place? Lieutenant Amonhotep?"

"He did no wrong." She spoke as if she could hardly credit Bak with so ridiculous a question. "He, too, would've been turned away to die in the storm if he'd followed Nebmose's path." She formed a cruel smile. "No. I planned to slay my father next."

Bak gave her a surprised look. "You would've taken his life the day I arrived?"

"Why not? You were new to Abu, a frontier policeman. A man praised by the vizier for stumbling upon a smuggling operation. One of limited imagination and skill." She gave an ironic laugh. "Or so I thought."

"That's why you left those unwanted gifts on my doorstep?"

"By then, you'd spotted the patterns to the slayings and I no longer underestimated you." A smile flitted across her face. "I wasn't sure I could frighten you off, but I thought it worth a try. And I wished also to tease you."

He thought her arm trembled, but so slightly he could not be sure. He took another slow step forward. "You must've been disappointed when we moved to Swenet. Or had you delivered all your messages?"

"I thought one more after my father's death, his baton of office perhaps." Her voice turned cool, no longer playful. "Now you've forced my hand a day early, making me act out of necessity, not according to plan."

"With us so close behind, why did you take the time to come here?"

"I wanted to make one last offering to Sarenput, to seek his aid should I live or die."

"Why take so,great a risk? I see by the inscriptions that he's not the ancestor your father so greatly values, that he lived a generation or so later."

"During the reign of Nubkaure Amonemhet," she said with a nod. "This man and his wife were Nebmose's ancestors as well as mine. My betrothed and I were of the same blood, you see, destined to be together through eternity."

Bak realized she did not care if she lived or died. If she could get away free and clear, she would do so, but death was equally acceptable. "You surely don't expect to join your beloved in the Field of Reeds after all you've done to tilt the scales of justice."

Her eyes flashed anger. "I've punished where punishment was due, Lieutenant, balancing the scales, not tilting them." Seeing her distracted, he leaped forward, swinging his shield, thrusting aside the torch. Her hand struck the pillar to her right, the fiery staff sent sparks racing up the painted figure of Sarenput. Fire licked the cowhide shield, singeing the hair, giving off an odor sharper than the incense. Bak lunged at her, going in low, thinking to shove her into the niche at the back of the chamber, where she would have no space to move. As agile as a cat, she freed the torch, ducked away from the niche, and slipped behind the nearest column.

"Leave me in peace, Lieutenant. I've slain no one who didn't deserve to die. What purpose will it serve to stand me before. . ." She gave him an ironic smile. "Before who? My father metes out justice in this province, and he's a dead man.

Bak had had enough. Her conviction that she had done no wrong was an abomination. "Did the child Nakht deserve death? Or Lieutenant Dedi?" He snorted, making his contempt clear, hoping to goad her into a rash act. "Both were innocent of Nebmose's death, probably had no idea how he died. You slew the boy because he was easy prey, the officer because you didn't have to stand up to him. The horse took his life for you."

Incensed by his disparagement, she leaped out from behind the pillar, raised the torch high, and swung it at his head. Fire spewed. He parried the blow with the shield and lunged at her. She ducked around the next column and darted into the niche-lined corridor. Sparks flew behind her racing figure, tiny stars pricking the swathed images of Osiris. Bak chased after her, dagger in hand. He had never used a weapon to fell a woman and was not sure he could bring himself to do so. A weakness he had no intention of letting her know.

He caught up in the larger columned court. As he was about to grab her, she swung around, the flame traveling with her in an arc. He ducked back, narrowly missed being scorched, the heat so close he felt it pass his face. She stood in the central aisle, her back to the exit, holding the torch toward him as before, keeping him at a distance. Her breathing was quick, harsh, her smile tight. He stood facing her, close enough to pose a threat, far enough to leap away, his body shielded, dagger poised for use. His weapon was the more deadly of the two, but hers allowed a longer reach. If only he had his spear! It would make all the difference.

They stood there for some time, catching their breath, each seeking an edge over the other, neither able to find a breach in the enemy's defense.

Determined to break the stalemate, Bak displayed the dagger, letting the light play on its blade, and took a step toward her. She thrust the flame his way. Teeth clenched tight with determination, he took another step forward. Feinting a thrust at his head, she lunged off to the side, slipped the torch past the shield, and brought it down hard on his hand. He ducked too late. Fire seared his fingers. The dagger flew into the shadows.

Driven by a sudden look of exultation on Khawet's face, Bak leaped at her, swinging the shield to shove the torch aside, and grabbed the arm holding the fiery brand. They struggled for possession. She clung as if her life depended on it-as it did. He squeezed her wrist, felt her fingers give, and jerked the torch away. He swung her around with her back to him, meaning to shove her arm high up between her shoulder blades. She twisted free and ran.

He raced after her, no more than two steps behind. She cleared the last pair of pillars and darted into the entrance passage. He grabbed for her, felt her linen shift beneath his fingers, but she was too far ahead to catch. She darted out onto the sunlit terrace. He followed her through the passage, raced into the light, lost much of his vision. Flinging the

shield to his left, the torch to his right, he leaped at her in a flying tackle. His arms went around her waist, his momentum carried them forward. He glimpsed something passing beneath them, the low wall along the terrace. Khawet screamed, and they fell forward.

He released her, giving them both the freedom to save themselves, and tumbled into the sand beyond the wall. He struck with a good solid thump that jarred his shoulder. The steep slope grabbed him; the loose, slippery sand carried him down. Face forward, chest in the sand, he slid out of control toward the base of the hill. Like a sledge, he thought, broken loose and hurtling unrestrained

He remembered the boulders below, pictured himself ending his flight against one, bones broken, body battered. Keeping mouth and eyes tightly shut, he flailed out with his arms and legs, trying to slow himself and turn over. The bandages peeled off his torso and arm, the sand dislodged the fresh scab from the wound on his side, his skin burned. Grit collected in his hair and burrowed beneath his kilt. With a mighty heave, he rolled over onto his back and swung his body around, feet formost. He half sat up, saw a boulder not far ahead, dug in his elbows and heels. His speed began to drop.

He smashed into the boulder feetfirst. One knee came up hard under his chin, making his head spin, his world turn dark.

"Lieutenant Bak! Sir! Are you ahight?"

He came to his senses flat on his back, his legs buckled up between him and the boulder. Opening scratchy eyes, he looked in the direction from which the voice had come. Kasaya was half running, half sliding diagonally down the slope. The tracks he left behind came from midway up the staircase Bak had climbed, betraying the Medjay's failure to obey orders.

Bak's thoughts flew to the terrace, the plunge over the parapet, the prisoner he had caught and released. Khawet! Where was she? Slowly, carefully, straightening his legs one at a time, checking for breaks and finding none, he pushed himself away from the boulder and hauled himself into a sitting position. She lay a few paces to his right, partly on her side, facing away, unmoving. She must have struck a boulder even harder than he.

"Sir!" With barely a glance at Khawet, Kasaya dropped shield and weapons in the sand and knelt beside Bak. He stared at the bedraggled bandage, the newly reopened and bleeding wound, the burned hand, the skin scraped red and raw. His face clouded over. "Do you think ... Can you stand up, sir? Can you walk?"

Bak formed a crooked smile. "It's not as bad as it looks, Kasaya. Help me up and let's see to mistress Khawet." The big Medjay offered an arm and, as gentle as if he held a new-hatched duckling, lifted his superior to his feet. Bak stood- quite still, letting a wave of dizziness pass, while Kasaya picked up the shield and two spears.

He offered one of the weapons to Bak. "Your spear, sir." Bak stared, taken aback. "This is the reason you climbed the stairs?"

"I know you told me not to go up there, sir, but..." Kasaya shifted his feet, flushed. "I thought you might need it."

Bak bit back a laugh. Of all the understatements he had heard, that was the best, or worst.

They walked to the woman crumpled on the sand and knelt beside her. Bak knew the instant he saw the pallor of her face that she was badly injured. He took her shoulder, damp from exertion and gritty from the tumble downhill, and rolled her onto her back, taking care not to hurt her further. Her body was limp, her head lying at an impossible angle. He felt for the pulse of life, found none. She was dead, her neck broken.

What a waste, Bak thought, his eyes on the prone form lying in the bottom of the skiff. The body was covered with a length of rough linen the farmer had given them in exchange for a spear. Who shoulders more blame? he wondered. Djehutyfor stealing away all she held dear? Or Khawet because she would not accept Ineni and leave her father's house for a new life, as was right and proper?

"Do you think the governor still lives?" Psuro asked Bak shrugged. "The physician said he stood on the brink of the netherworld." He glanced to the west, where the lord Re was clinging to the day, his golden orb hovering above the row of tawny, sand-draped hills that overlooked Abu, including the hill that had taken Khawet's life. "By now, the gods will surely have decided his fate."

Kasaya adjusted the braces, spilling much of the breeze from the sail, slowing the vessel's approach to the landingplace below the governor's villa "I'd not like to go home to Buhen thinking we failed in our mission and let him die, but would it not be easier than taking him to Waset to stand before the vizier and seeing him die anyway, accused as a slayer?"

"You echo my thoughts, Kasaya."

Bak's father resided on a small estate across the river from Waset, and he longed to see him again, but the thought of drawing attention to himself so close to the royal house did not appeal. Their sovereign, Maatkare Hatshepsut, had exiled him to the southern frontier and had hopefully forgotten him. He preferred not to revive her memory. Buhen was now his home, where he took pride in standing at the head of his Medjays and enjoyed nothing more than talking with his friends, sharing a jar of beer, a joke. Especially with Imsiba and Nebwa and Nofery and ...

"It's not unheard of for a man recovering from a serious illness to have a relapse." Psuro sneaked a look at Bak. "If we find him alive, I could stand guard tonight. Make sure he's root disturbed. Who knows? Perhaps when the sun rises, he'll have joined Khawet in the netherworld." He grinned. "A fate they both deserve through eternity."

Bak was sorely tempted, but could in no way justify the very crime he had come to prevent. "The thought appeals, Psuro, but no. And that's an order. No!"

"Yes, sir," the Medjay said, unabashed.

Kasaya whistled. "Look, sir." He pointed upstream toward an imposing warship maneuvering around the southern end of the island, passing with the utmost care among rocky islets and sunken boulders. The sail was lowered and over three dozen oarsmen were controlling the vessel in the treacherous waters. The pilot, a local man, stood at the prow beside the captain, calling out orders, while the helmsman tended the rudder. The drummer, silenced at so crucial a time, stood poised above his instrument, ready to respond the instant a need arose.

Bak recognized the symbol on the prow, the lord Montu, god of war, and the colorful pennants flying on the mast. The vessel was the fastest between Abu and Buhen, cutting two and sometimes three days off the nine- or ten-day voyage. His sense of accomplishment fled like a wary gazelle.

"It's the viceroy's flagship. What's he doing here?" Inebny, viceroy of Wawat and Kush, the most powerful man south of the land of Kemet, second only to the vizier in importance.

Psuro muttered an oath. "And us with the governor dead or dying and his daughter gone as well."

"They must've just come down through the rapids." Kasaya, who loved ships, was too excited to notice their distress. "I've never trod the deck of so grand a vessel. Do you suppose they'll let me aboard?"

"Did Djehuty summon him, I wonder?" Bak asked Psuro. "He threatened often enough to register a complaint, seeking our dismissal from the villa."

Psuro's expression was grim. "Let's hope he didn't paint too black a picture."

In spite of Khawet's many offenses against the lady Maat, Bak did not wish to move her body from the skiff to the governor's villa without due respect. He. sent Psuro off to the garrison to report her death to Troop Captain Antef, the highest ranking officer in Abu, and to get a litter on which they could carry her like the lady she once had been. Kasaya he ordered to remain at the skiff with the body. Knowing how fond Antef was of Khawet, Bak regretted not bearing the news himself, but the viceroy's arrival forced him to go first to learn Djehuty's fate.

Bak eyed the ragged bandages Psuro had rewrapped around his torso and arm, the scratches and scrapes on body and arms and legs, his burned hand. He had bathed in the river and cleansed the injuries as best he could before leaving the west bank, but still he looked like a refugee from a battlefield, one whose army had lost the war. The last thing he wanted was to stand before the viceroy-or anyone else, for that matter-in such a disreputable state, but what choice did he have? The official would come to the governor's villa, whether or not Djehuty had summoned him. And he would demand an accounting.

Thinking he might at least have time to change the bandages, Bak hurried up the steps from the landingplace. As he strode past the gatehouse, the sentry on duty shot to attention and gaped. Bak ignored him and walked on, passing the family shrine on his way to the front door. If he had paid more attention to this small structure and to Nebmose's shrine, the tale he had to tell the viceroy would be ending in a different way. Or would it? Had the gods ordained Khawet's demise, with him as their instrument of death, long before either had ever heard of the other?

Hurrying on to the house, he went inside and hastened across the entry hall. He raised his hands to shove open the double doors to the audience hall. They flew back before he could touch them, opened from the other side. Imsiba stood there facing him, as amazed to see him as he was to see the big Medjay. Beyond the sergeant's shoulder, Bak saw Commandant Thuty standing in front of the empty dais, eyes on the doorway, a smile spreading across his face.

"Imsiba! What are you doing here?"

"My friend!" The Medjay clutched his upper arms in greeting. "We've come to help you snare the slayer you seek."

"How long have you been in Abu?" Bak wiped tears of laughter from his eyes and stifled a new wave that threatened to overwhelm him. Imsiba and Thuty must think him demented.

"We've just arrived." Thuty scanned the empty room and his brows drew together in irritation. "Where is everyone?" he demanded. "I know the day's drawing to a close, but doesn't the governor post guards? Doesn't he have scribes documenting the results of the day's audience? Doesn't he have an aide to see each task done properly?" His eyes settled on Bak. "And what, for the lord Amon's sake, happened to you?"

Bak suddenly remembered the warship. "Is the viceroy here?"

"Not yet. He stayed with his vessel while they brought it down the rapids, as any worthy official would. We came by skiff, thinking a`smaller craft faster." Thuty flashed him a sharp look. "Why? What's wrong?"

"The last I saw of Djehuty, he'd been poisoned. A physician was with him, trying to save him."

"So the slayer struck again! Made a victim of the goverror himself!" Thuty struck a column with his fist. "I feared we'd get here too late."

"Governor Djehuty lives." Lieutenant Amonhotep stood at the door by the dais. His face was wan and drawn, with dark circles beneath red-rimmed eyes, emphasizing his exhaustion and the strain he had suffered. "He's asleep now, resting. The physician thinks he'll recover."

Bak offered a silent prayer of gratitude to the lord Amon. If nothing else, he had accomplished his goal.

"What of Khawet, Bak?" The aide, who must have learned the truth from Amethu or Simut, hesitated, then his voice dropped to a near whisper. "He was asking for her."

Bak laid a hand on the young man's shoulder and urged him to sit on the edge of the dais. He dropped down beside him, lowered his face into his hands, and rubbed his forehead. He felt as worn out as Amonhotep looked, as weighted down by circumstances. Aware the telling would get no easier with the passage of time, he looked up at Thuty and Imsiba. "You'd best sit, both of you. I've a tale to tell."

The sun had vanished behind the western hills, leaving the sky bright with afterglow. Bak, finished with his recital, sat on a stool outside the rear door of Nebmose's villa, where the light was better than indoors. The physician, a stern man in his late thirties, who wore a linen headcloth to cover his baldness, occupied a second stool, facing the reopened cut on Bak's side. A jar of oil, a bowl containing a greenish salve that smelled strongly of fleabane, and a roll of linen lay within arm's reach, sharing the bench with Commandant Thuty and Imsiba.

"Now tell me how you happen to be here," Bak said. Thuty, disgruntled at learning how tardy his arrival had been, gave a cynical snort. "The day after you left, Inebny sailed into Buhen. He'd been summoned to Waset to report to our sovereign, Maatkare Hatshepsut, on trade and tribute passing north through Wawat. As I'm responsible for all traffic through the Belly of Stones, he wanted my thoughts before he left. When we finished with that, we discussed your mission. I told him what Lieutenant Amonhotep had said, and Nebwa repeated all Nofery had recalled about the governor as a youth."

"She didn't say much." Bak wove his fingers together on top of his head, keeping his arms high so the physician could place a fresh poultice on his side. "Only that he was headstrong and foolish, as are many youths born into noble families."

The physician tut-tutted. Whether he disapproved of so irreverent an attitude toward the nobility or Bak's failure to sit still was impossible to know.

"Troubled by what we told him, he asked to see Nofery. We summoned her, and they talked. One recollection led to another, and together they remembered Djehuty losing a company of men in a desert tempest."

"Nofery said nothing to me of the storm." Bak scowled. "If she had, my task would've been easier."

Imsiba hastened to her defense. "She'd heard the tale, as you yourself had, but, like you, was never told the name of the man responsible."

"I didn't like anything they had to say about Djehuty. He sounded a first-class swine." Thuty glared at the physician, daring him to register an objection. "Inebny agreed. As he had to go to Waset anyway, I thought to sail as far as Abu with him-and bring Imsiba along." His voice turned wry. "I thought you might need the weight of my authority."

"Where's Lieutenant Amonhotep?" Thuty asked, glancing into the governor's private reception room.

"The physician ordered him to sleep." Bak walked on down the poorly lit hall toward Djehuty's bedchamber. "I suspect he gave him a potion, thinking only a drug could keep him away4rom`what he considers his duty."

The viceroy Inebny, a slender man of medium height with a prominent nose and large ears, smiled. "The aide sounds a man conscientious to a fault."

Ineni burst through the door ahead. Looking neither right or left, he strode swiftly past, giving no indication he saw them. He reached the stairs and raced down, vanishing from sight. Bak could not imagine what Djehuty had said to his adopted son, but whatever it was, it had to have been unpleasant.

Leading the way through the door, mouth tight, chin jutting, Bak was prepared for anything-or so he believed. The bedchamber seemed a different place since last he had seen it. The soiled bedding had been taken away and replaced with a fresh sleeping pallet and sheets that smelled of sunlight and fresh air. The wilting lilies were gone, along with their heavy, sweet scent. In their place, a bowl of dried flowers gave off a more subtle and pleasing odor. The morning light was soft and delicate, filtered through thin linen hangings a servant had placed over the high windows.

"Khawet, my Khawet." Djehuty's voice was feeble, querulous. "Such a nice, agreeable child. Where is she?"

The viceroy exchanged a glance with Thuty and stepped forward. After hearing Bak's tale, he had decided that he should face the governor, presenting the news of Khawet's death and the accusation of murder.

The physician reached out a hand to halt his approach and shook his head, signaling for silence.

"Where has she gone?" Djehuty, his shoulders propped high on spotless white pillows, patted the sleeping pallet next to his thigh. "I want her here beside me."

Bak stared at the governor, startled by the change in him. He had been thin before but now was skeletal, and his pallor had a grayish cast. His eyes, black and glittering, looked as if they had sunk into his skull. He had aged twenty years. No wonder Ineni had rushed from the room, giving no word of greeting. Whether or not he loved his father, the shock must have been great.

"Where is she?" Djehuty peered around the room. His eyes seemed unable to stay in one place for long, as if he had trouble focusing. "Why is she always somewhere else when I need her at my side?"

Tut-tutting in place of words, the physician took the governor's hand in his and patted the long, bony fingers. Djehuty jerked his hand away and glared at the man, like a child offended by a touch. "Did she go out to play?" he asked, his eyes darting around, alighting on nothing. "Or did Hatnofer take her to the market? I hope she's holding her hand. Little girls should never wander around alone. It's unseemly."

Inebny sucked in his breath,, startled. Thuty muttered a few words Bak could barely hear, possibly a spell to ward off the demon that had invaded the governor's heart.

Recognizing a second, more dire reason for Ineni's distress, Bak moved up behind the physician. "Is he always like this?" he whispered

"What was that?" Djehuty demanded, turning waspish. "What'd you say? Don't whisper in front of me, young man. I don't like it."