A Vile Justice (7 page)

"I've been told you and your Medjays have moved into a house outside the walls of this villa." Antef's tone turned derisive. "Do you feel safer there, Lieutenant?"

"A suggestion has been made that I summon a unit of Medjays from the capital to patrol this compound. What do you think, sir?" Bak kept his voice level, pleasant, as if unaware of the lack of trust the proposal implied.

Antef's expression hardened. "If it's men you need, come to me. I've more than enough. Good, trustworthy men who long to be soldiers, not beasts of burden in the quarry. I can have them armed and on duty within the hour. A man in every room and every hallway, if need be."

Bak was tempted to accept the offer, at least in part, but before he could begin to negotiate terms, Ineni's voice whipped across the room.

"I won't have my home overrun by soldiers!" The young nobleman, who had been standing unseen in a doorway at the back of the anteroom, listening, strode toward the two officers. "We've plenty of guards, men who've been in our service for years. I'd trust them with my life."

As Hatnofer must have relied on them, Bak thought, and the other four who were slain. He resolved to speak with Amonhotep, under whose command they served, to make

sure the guards stayed alert, their vigilance never faltering. "They're nothing but farm boys," Antef sneered, "trained to use a plow, not a spear."

Ineni's mouth tightened. "Set ten of our men against ten of yours, and we'll see who's most apt to win a battle." "Why put our men to the test? Why don't you face me man-to-man? Weapon of your choice."

"Silence!" Bak stepped between the two. "Haven't you seen enough death over the past few weeks?"

"The man's a fool," Antef muttered. Ineni glared.

Bak had sensed animosity between the two when first he had met them. He could not begin to guess its source, but he had a feeling their mutual dislike was long-standing. "I suggest you each go your separate way, staying well clear of the other. How can I lay hands on a slayer if I'm forever distracted by you?"

"I have to report to Djehuty," Antef grumbled, swinging away and hastening to the portal through which Ineni had come. Khawet shoved the door fully open. He took a quick step back, barely saving his nose.

"Oh, Troop Captain Antef, I'm so sorry." She reached out to touch his arm, then quickly withdrew her hand. "Are you alright?"

"Of course." His voice was gruff; a flush spread across his face. A blind man could have seen the admiration he held for her. He seemed not to know what more to say, so he gave her a quick nod. "I must go."

After he disappeared, she glanced across the room. Her gaze settled on Bak and Ineni, and she hurried between the columns to stand before her husband. "Father's been looking for you." Her* voice had turned chilly, the warmth it had held for Antef lost. "He's seeking an explanation as to why you haven't brought another young steer to Abu for slaughter."

"I told him..." Ineni glanced at Bak, grimaced. "My father knows nothing of farming."

Khawet gave her husband a too-sweet smile. "You know something of plowing and planting, I grant you, but my father has ten times ten more worldly experience and knowledge."

Flushed with anger, Ineni pivoted on his heel and stalked to the rear door, aping Antef in every way though he probably had no idea he did so. Khawet watched him go, her expression almost wistful. Did she in fact love him? Bak wondered, or was she merely wishing she had someone else, the troop captain, maybe?

The smile she turned on Bak was soft, gentle, friendly rather than flirtatious. "Yesterday I was too upset to thank you properly for coming, Lieutenant, but today ... Well, I can't tell you how relieved I am that you're here. My father has told me of the pattern you saw in the slayings. That you, a stranger to Abu, should notice what no one else could see gives me a confidence I thought never to feel. I'm certain you'll lay hands on the slayer before he can. . ." She hesitated, added, ". . . before he can go on with whatever he plans."

Bak liked her smile, her pleasant manner, but cautioned himself to be wary. Whether she had noticed her husband in the room initially he had no idea, but she had certainly shown Antef more warmth and consideration. If her behavior had been intentional, if she made a habit of using one man to anger the other, no wonder the pair could not get along.

Bak remained in the anteroom, waiting for Djehuty to finish with the daily reports of the men on his staff and to hear the last of the petitioners. If he was to pry the truth from the governor, he could not do it with an audience hall full of onlookers.

To speed the passage of time, he reviewed the day thus far, ending with the confrontation between Antef and Ineni, two strong men who disliked each other enough to fight yet were very much alike. Both greatly resented Djehuty for disrupting the tasks to which they had devoted their lives. He had been thinking of them, as with all who stood close to

the governor, as potential victims, men who might have died if Hatnofer had not been selected by the slayer. Should he be thinking of them instead as men who might harbor so great a hatred in their hearts they would slay Djehuty?

Djehuty sat on the dais, hands resting on the arms of his chair, posture erect. He looked down at the man on his knees before him. "Speak up, Ipy. What favor do you want this time?"

The petitioner, a man of medium height with broad shoulders and muscular arms, shiny with sweat smudged by smoke or ashes, scuttled forward half a pace. He reeked of sweat, filling the audience hall with his sour odor.

"Oh, please, most kind sir, if you deem it right and proper to give me a favorable judgment, I'll honor you more than I honor our sovereign, that I swear to the lord Khnum."

"I'm sure you will," Djehuty murmured, more to Lieutenant Amonhotep, standing beside his chair, than to the craftsman.

Bak stood near the massive double doors through which supplicants entered the audience hall, amused yet sympathetic. Men like Ipy abounded along the Belly of Stones, and from long experience he knew that dealing with them required infinite patience as well as a firm hand.

Few people remained in the hall. Most of those who had come seeking judgment or wise counsel -had gone. The scribes who were no longer needed had returned to Simut's lair to document the day's proceedings. Antef had made a perfunctory report and left some time ago, as had several other members of the governor's staff. The guard standing nearby in front of the doors, impatient to be on his way, constantly patted his bare leg, as if keeping time to a tune he alone could hear.

Ipy inched forward. "I'll go each day to the shrine of the hearing ear behind the mansion of the lord Khnum, sir, and I'll pray on bended knee for your well-being for ever and ever. I'll make offerings of food and drink, of flowers and incense. Then I'll go to the other shrines of Abu, each and everyone, seeking for you and yours all the good things of life. Health, wealth, happiness. .."

"We know, Ipy." Amonhotep glanced toward Bak but made no sign of greeting. "You've vowed to pray for the governor each time you've approached this dais. You've no need to repeat the promise.',"

Scooting forward again, Ipy bowed his head. "I sometimes backslide, sir, forgetting to pray as I've said I would." His head shot up, his voice rang with sincerity. "But this time, I'll not break my word. I'll throw down my tools and leave my workshop, letting my customers wait for the pots I've promised. I'll let my wife wear rags and my little children suffer hunger. All so I can spend half of each day on my knees. So I can..."

Djehuty's eyes darted around the room, as if seeking relief. He noticed Bak, grimaced, looked back at the petitioner, and his voice turned testy. "What is it you want, man?"

"You're wise and noble beyond your years, sir. I trust you always to make a right and proper judgment, to aid all who need help, to . . ."

Amonhotep stepped forward. "That's enough, Ipy. Either make your petition or leave us."

"But, sir, I was just trying to. . ."

"Guard!" Djehuty stood up and pointed. "Take this man away," he commanded. "I've no time to listen to foolishness." He gave Ipy a venomous look. "A few days' imprisonment should teach him the value of short and concise speech."

A guard hurried up, grabbed Ipy by the arm, and jerked him to his feet. The craftsman's sly smile faded. His eyes darted from Djehuty to Amonhotep to the guard, registering confusion and fear.

"Sir," Amonhotep said, "Ipy's been here before, more than once. You know he meant no harm. If you let me speak with him, I'm certain he'll tell me the reason he's come again, and he'll do so with no further nonsense. Why lock him up if there's no need?"

Djehuty, his mouth tight and determined, waved his hand, signaling the guard to take the craftsman away. The guard stood where he was, looking from the governor to his aide as if unsure what he should do. Bak guessed from his failure to respond immediately that Djehuty's quick anger and Amonhotep's attempt to moderate were not new to those who stood in the audience hall day after day, watching the proceedings.

Djehuty glared at the officer, the guard, and finally the craftsman. Not until Ipy began to whimper did he drop back into his chair. "Alright, Lieutenant, if you want to waste your time with this spawn of a dog, you may do so."

The guard released Ipy's arm and pivoted. As he did so, he winked at his colleague standing before the double doors, verifying Bak's guess that Amonhotep often tempered the governor's hasty decisions.

"They try my patience, Lieutenant." Djehuty closed his eyes and rubbed the lids, a man utterly exhausted by the pressure of duty. "If I could sit on this dais and judge matters of importance brought before me each day by men of substance, I'd feel my task of some use. But all too often, a week will go by-a month even-and no one comes before me with any petition more weighty than that of that dolt Ipy."

"Yes, sir." Does the man believe justice thrives solely for those of lofty birth and position? Bak wondered.

"My father sat in this chair, as did his father before him and his before him. I often wonder if they had some special way of maintaining patience."

Bak shifted his weight from one foot to the other, unable to think of an appropriate response. In fact, he was not sure the governor expected one.

As if roused by the silence, Djehuty's eyes popped open and he looked at the younger man as a schoolmaster would a pupil he suspected of whispering behind his back. "Are you aware that my family goes back all theway to Sarenput, who was governor of the south and hereditary prince during the reign of Kheperkare Senwosret many generations ago?" He stared at Bak as if daring him to doubt. "Yes, young man, I have royal blood coursing through my body. The blood of those brave and noble men whose houses of eternity look down upon Abu from the hillside on the west bank of the river."

"I've seen them from afar,' sir." Bak longed to get on with his pursuit of the slayer, but too abrupt a dismissal of Djehuty's heritage might seal the man's lips forever. He regretted Amonhotep's hasty departure with Ipy. The aide appeared quite adept at manipulating his master.

"Sarenput had his eternal resting place excavated among other, far older sepulchers, those of men who governed this province when the land of Kemet was young and Abu stood on its southern frontier." Djehuty clutched his long baton of office, leaning against the chair beside his leg, and his expression grew wishful. "Maybe they, too, were my ancestors. Would he have chosen to dwell forever among strangers?"

..Sir ... "

Djehuty sat back in his chair and smiled, cheered by the possibility, unlikely as it was, of so long a regal lineage. "Fortunately, my distinguished heritage has given me a strength of character few men can claim and the fortitude to do what I must, no matter how distasteful. Take that man Ipy, for example ..."

"That's why I've come to you now, sir," Bak said, leaping through the door the governor had unwittingly opened. Djehuty's eyes narrowed. "Oh?"

"If I'm to find the man who's slain five people, you must help me." Remembering Antef's admission that he had pushed Djehuty too hard, thereby sentencing his troops to unending duty at the quarries, he spoke with the honeyed tongue of a nobleman who has spent all his days in the royal house. "I realize you've a multitude of tasks, all far more weighty than you're willing to acknowledge, but if you could spare me some time and the benefit of your experience and knowledge, your insight, you might set me on a path I've up to now failed to find."

Djehuty stared at the man standing before him. Bak feared he had gone too far.

"When first I saw you at the back of the hall, Lieutenant, I looked also for a man in shackles, thinking an officer so fast to find a pattern in these crimes would be equally quick to lay hands on the slayer." Adopting a fatherly manner, Djehuty chuckled. "Now, with no prisoner in tow, your initial confidence seems to be wanting."

Biting back a sharp reply, nearly choking on it, Bak did his best to sound like a dutiful officer, not a humble servant. "I freely admit I know scarcely more now than I did at this time yesterday, when the servant Nefer came with word of mistress Hatnofer's death. Sir."

Djehuty's mouth tightened at Bak's near lapse in courtesy. "I told you all I knew when first we spoke. I've nothing more to add." He stood up, gripped his baton, and stepped down off the dais, forcing Bak backward. "Now, as you yourself have pointed out, I'm a busy man. My daughter Khawet must already have servants waiting to bathe me." He strode across the pillared hall with the same air of purpose he might have used to approach a formal dedication.

Bak kept up with him step for step. "Will you tell me, sir, anything you've done that could've set off this string of deaths? An incident that may not have seemed significant to you but was important to someone else? Possibly resulting in a threat?"

Djehuty's step faltered, but only for an instant. "I've done nothing wrong. Nothing."

"Men have hinted that you've a secret, one all who know you are either afraid or ashamed to repeat."

"All lesser men wish to tear down the stronger, Lieutenant, hinting at weaknesses that burden them alone. Surely a man as experienced as you can sort the grain from the chaff."

Bak stopped, demanded, "Do you want to die, sir?" Djehuty, his face flaming, pivoted and raised his baton, ready to strike. Realization came to him, the knowledge that Bak was another man's man, and he whipped the baton down, making it whistle through the air. "You want to know what secret I harbor in my heart, Lieutenant?" His lips twisted in a sneer. "I don't like you. Nor do I like the insinuations you're making. If I hadn't sent a message to the vizier, telling him of your arrival, I'd send you back to Buhen before nightfall."

Bak's eyes met Djehuty's. The governor tried to hold the stare, but could not. He looked away, seeking escape, and strode rapidly to the door.

No, Bak thought, you're not worried about the message you sent to the capital. You're afraid to die. And you know of no one but me who has the slightest chance of laying hands on the slayer before he comes for you. The slightest chance? Perhaps no chance at all unless 1 can soon break down this wall of silence.

Bak followed Djehuty out the door, but turned left at the first short passage. At the end, he came upon a large room, its ceiling supported by two tall brightly painted lotus-shaped columns, with high windows admitting light. Ten scribes sat cross-legged on the floor, each surrounded by the tools of his trade. The reed pens darting across the regular columns on their scrolls sounded like birds scratching in a pile of spilled grain.

Simut, seated,on a thick linen pad in front of the lesser scribes, frowned at Bak. "May I help you, Lieutenant?" The soft scraping sound dwindled and ten pairs of eyes turned Bak's way. "I'm searching for Lieutenant Amonhotep. I've been told he came here after he finished with the craftsman Ipy."

A look of relief, quickly hidden, flickered across the chief

scribe's face. "He's come and gone. There was a problem at the harbor above Swenet, where ships unload their cargo for overland transport around the rapids. A fight between caravan masters, I understand."

Bak longed to ask again what secret Djehuty held in his heart, but knew he would get nothing with so many men listening. "Have you told him of my questions?"

"What the two of you discuss is between him and his master and the gods. It's none of my affair."

The answer was oblique, but Bak gathered Simut had said nothing. In the unlikely event that no one else had warned the young officer, he would be unprepared for the difficult questions Bak meant to ask and the even harder choices he would have to make. However, unprepared did not mean compliant. Bak had learned during the voyage from Buhen to Abu that if Amonhotep deemed he should say nothing, he would remain mute.

"Your Medjay Psuro is at the landingplace, sir." The servant, a boy of about eight years, tried hard to look solemn and trustworthy, but his eyes danced with excitement at being entrusted with a message of such great import. "He has news he says you'll want to hear."

Bak thanked the boy with a smile and hurried outside. He found the Medjay a hundred or more paces downstream of the landingplace, talking to a gap-toothed old woman with spotted hands and the protruding stomach of one who has borne many children. While they spoke, she lifted sheets and clothing from the bushes and boulders across which she had draped them to dry, folded them, and laid them in a basket. Psuro might not have had the gift Kasay`a had of attracting women who yearned to mother him, but he had a way with those who eked out a living selling foodstuffs and providing minor but necessary services.

Bak stood off to the side, saying nothing, until she had gone on her way. "She'll wash our linen?"

"She has a taste for pigeon," Psuro grinned. "Though she has far too many customers, so she says, she'll squeeze

our meager laundry in among the rest, and she'll mend torn articles as well. Each time, I'll give her a bird."

Bak thought the price too steep, but held his tongue. Every time he had tracked a slayer, he had come away bruised and battered, his kilts torn and filthy. If the slayer in the governor's villa proved equally difficult to lay hands on, he feared the old woman would earn a flock of pigeons.

They headed back upstream, walking close to the river's edge, stepping over rocks and around brush, slipping in patches of mud. The western sky was pale, a sheet of gold diluted with silver. To the east, tiny pinpoints barely visible so early in the evening promised a night brilliant with stars. "You've news," Bak prompted.