The Right Hand of Amon (11 page)

Woser flushed. "An oversight, I admit."

Bak, forced to stand until bidden to sit, glanced around the room. A stack of scrolls lay on a table at Woser's elbow. Several low tables, wooden chests, three-legged stools, and camp stools competed for space with weapons and armor piled against the wall and a variety of products from Kush, confiscated perhaps or merely obtained in trade:

a basket of ostrich eggs and feathers, a pile of bright skins, and an open chest filled with gaudy bead jewelry. "Commandant Thuty was not even aware you, and therefore he, had a man of lofty birth within your command."

"I shoulder no blame for that," Woser said stiffly. "I assumed Lieutenant Puemre registered in Buhen, as he was supposed to do. I had no knowledge of his failure in that regard."

Bak knew if he pushed too hard, he would be treading on shaky earth, but Thuty had given him authority over Woser in the matter of Puemre's death, so he pressed on. "Would it not have been politically expedient to make special note of a manlike Puemre when you made your reports to your commandant?"

Woser leaned forward in his chair, his eyes as dark and intense as his voice. "Puemre was a good officer, a talented man of arms, but so are my other officers. I didn't wish to raise him above them simply because his father happened to be a nobleman."

Bak felt stirrings of approval for the commander. "I sympathize with your purpose, but one must be realistic." "Is it realistic to hold one man who has no greater experience than practice warfare above others who've fought for the lives of themselves and their men, proving themselves valiant on the field of battle?"

"Not many ranking officers would act upon such strong convictions."

Woser waved off the compliment. "In a little over a year I'll return to Kemet, leaving soldiering behind to live out my days on the small plot of land I was given long ago for service to my country. I no longer stand in awe of men of lofty birth."

"Puemre's father is now chancellor of Kemet," Bak pointed out, "a man who has the ear of our sovereign. To call him lofty would seem an understatement."

"A misfortune," Woser admitted with a faint, but definitely cynical smile. "A development I never anticipated." Bak concealed his own smile. It was time he moderated his attack, but not so much as to give Woser the offensive. "Commandant Thuty didn't send me here because he mistrusts you," he said, skidding along the edge of the truth, "but because he feels I might more quickly be able to lay hands on Puemre's slayer. After all, you've many other tasks, and I'll have only the one. He doesn't want this death to lay a shadow over the lord Amon's journey through the Belly of Stones."

Though Woser's expression remained guarded, he pointed to a convenient stool. "Take a seat, young man. I missed my midday meal. Late it may be, but would you care to join me in a light repast?"

A short time later, with a jar of beer, a flattish loaf of bread, and a bowl of thick, savory vegetable stew on a low table beside him, Bak felt more comfortable with Woser but no less wary.

"I've heard of you," Woser said, dunking a chunk of bread in his bowl, "and I know of the high regard in which Thuty holds you. It's said you not only laid hands on the man who slew Commandant Nakht, but at the same time you stopped the theft of gold from one of the desert mines and led a skirmish that saved a caravan."

Maatkare Hatshepsut herself had ordered the stolen gold to be kept a secret, but it had been inevitable that rumors would leak out.

"I know of no gold leaving Buhen in anything other than an official shipment," Bak said truthfully, for the thief had had no time to carry away his hoard.

"You did lay hands on Nakht's slayer," Woser insisted. "That's common knowledge all along the Belly of Stones. As is the success of your, battle with the tribesmen."

Bak fished a slice of celery from the stew, uncertain what to say, unsure of Woser's purpose. "I was lucky. The lord Amon stood by my side, guiding my thoughts and my actions."

"No need to be so modest, lieutenant. You're an exemplary soldier, a fine and..."

"Enough!" Bak smiled to take the sting from his words. "Too much flattery will make me suspicious of your motives."

Woser chuckled. "I'm just trying to point out that this task Thuty gave you is unworthy of your talents. If, as I believe, Puemre's death was an accident, you've nothing to investigate."

Bak's eyes narrowed. "An accident?"

Woser wiped the inside of his bowl with a crust of bread, finishing his stew. "According to Thuty's message, Puemre was found in the river with his throat cut in such a way he suffocated on his own blood. My guess is that he slipped and fell into the water, which carried him downriver to the rapids where his throat was torn by a sharp rock. To assume his death a murder seems an overcomplication of a simple situation."

Bak set his bowl down, rocked back on his stool, and gave Woser a long and hard look. "It was I who found the body and I who pulled the murder weapon from his throat. That weapon was a chisel jammed hard and fast into place, too deep to be easily removed. Lieutenant Puemre's death was not an accident."

Woser did not actually squirm, but he looked decidedly uncomfortable. "If not, a trader must've slain him, as I believed initially. One of the many Puemre alienated during the month he served as inspecting officer."

"I doubt Chancellor Nihisy will be satisfied with so simple an explanation and no evidence to back it up." Bak noted the flush spreading across Woser's face. "Now tell me, sir, who, as far as you know, was the last to see Puemre alive?"

"I was. I and my senior officers." Woser's voice was as stiff as his spine. "We met here the night he disappeared, here in this very room. We spoke of the lord Amon, discussing the duties each man would perform when they accompany the god upriver to Semna. They left long after nightfall."

Bak stared at the older man. Woser looked drained, which in itself gave him away. He believed, Bak felt sureor perhaps he knew for a fact-that one of the officers who had attended that meeting had committed murder. No wonder he preferred to sweep Puemre's death under a floor mat!

"I blame myself," Woser said as if he guessed Bak's thoughts. "I should've called them together earlier in the day, made sure they left before dark. At so late an hour, only men up to no good prowl the streets."

Bak nodded, letting him think he agreed. But he had read the monthly reports of crime in Iken, and they did not bear out the charge. "I must talk to all who were here that night, learn what they saw, if anything."

"I understand." With an obvious effort, Woser met Bak's eyes. "I'd prefer you to wait until tomorrow. I can summon them then, when they're not so busy with their garrison duties."

Bak could see the commander wished to keep him at arm's length until ... What? Until he and his officers had time to think up a collective tale designed to deceive? Bak thought it best he go along with the game, let them assume he was easily led. "I'd prefer today, but tomorrow will do as well. In the meantime, I need quarters for myself and my men, somewhere apart from the barracks." He stood up, preparing to leave. "And I wish to see Puemre's quarters. Can you tell me where he lived?"

Puemre's house was in the lower city not far from the small house the chief scribe had allocated to Bak and his men. This residential sector, close to the base of the escarpment, was slowly being enveloped by the shadow of the fortress towering above it. The sole occupant of the narrow lane was a slick-haired yellow cur sprawled in an open doorway, its tongue hanging out, its thin chest heaving to catch a breath of air.

"We'll not find much here," Kasaya said, wading through a drift of sand the serpentine wall outside the sector had failed to keep out of the lane. "If Commander Woser is protecting one of his officers, he'd have long ago sent men to clean out anything that would point a finger."

Bak stopped before the last house in the lane and a wooden door latched to discourage entry. "We must begin somewhere. Besides, I want Woser to know I'll sweep up every grain of sand, if I must, to look at the dark, clean earth beneath."

"I thought you wished him to believe you can be deceived."

"If he knows I'm serious about this investigation, he'll fret. If he thinks I'm stupid, he may be careless."

The young Medjay's expression lingered somewhere between confusion and skepticism.

Bak lifted the wooden latch and shoved open the door. The house was small, a single room five paces by ten, whitewashed for cleanliness, and a small kitchen at the rear lightly roofed with branches and palm fronds. Beyond a low platform covered with a sleeping pallet, a ladder led to an opening in the roof, closed now with a palm-leaf mat. A second pallet, much smaller than the other, lay on the floor in the opposite corner. A stool and three reed chests completed the furnishings. Several dried mud animals, a toy crocodile carved of wood, and a broken doll, lay clumped together on the smaller bed.

"He must've kept the boy with him!" Bak was surprised, though not sure why. "The mute child Nofery talked about."

Kasaya, little more than an overgrown child himself, had been intrigued by Nofery's tale. "Maybe Puemre kept him as his servant. A boy of six or seven years can do many small tasks to ease life's path."

"How did they manage to talk to each other?" Bak wondered. "More important, where's the boy now?"

The two men studied the room, looking for signs of recent occupation. The brazier was cold, the pottery dishes clean and neatly stacked against the wall. Both sleeping pallets were smooth and tidy. One chest contained men's clothing: tunics and kilts of fine linen, all clean and folded. Another was filled with sandals and armor and hand weapons: dagger, mace, and sling. A smaller chest held Puemre's razors, eye paint, and other toilet articles. An examination of the contents of several pottery jars large and small disclosed a bare minimum of foodstuffs.

"I fear the child's run away," Bak said. "With so little food remaining, I doubt he'll return." He was not unduly concerned. The boy was probably close by, living in the home of some soft-hearted, motherly woman with a brood of her own.

Kasaya hurried to the door to study the sandy lane. "He hasn't come this way since the last strong wind. How long ago was that, I wonder?"

"Go find a neighbor."

Within minutes Kasaya came back, bringing with him a dusky young woman of fifteen or so years holding a tiny baby to her breast. Her eyes were heavy with sleep, as if the Medjay had disturbed her afternoon nap.

"The wind blew hard three nights ago," Kasaya said. He nodded to the woman. "Speak up, mistress. Tell the lieutenant what you told me."

She lowered her eyes, too shy to speak in more than a murmur. "I've not seen the boy since the night before the sergeant came, looking for Lieutenant Puemre."

Bak's interest quickened. "The child was already gone before Puemre was found to be missing?"

Her eyes flickered to his face and away; she nodded. Bak's thoughts tumbled over each other, searching through the possibilities. Somehow the boy must have learned of his master's death. Was it possible that he saw Puemre die? Would it be stretching credibility to assume the murder had been witnessed by two people? One a drunk who might not remember and one a mute who could not repeat the tale? Both of whom had disappeared. "Tell me of that night," he urged.

"My man was on guard duty, so I lay alone on the roof. The air was hot and my baby restless. I couldn't sleep. I saw the boy climb up from this house and stand for an instant in the starlight. He carried a bundle on his back. A sheet, I thought, filled with I know not what, a burden so heavy it bent him double. He looked around like a puppy lost from its mother, searching for the terrors of the night. Finding no threat-he didn't know I watched him-he walked from roof to roof until he reached the far end of the block, where he disappeared from sight."

"And he's not been back since."

She hugged her baby close, gaining courage from its warmth. "No, sir."

Kasaya nodded in agreement. "I found sand on the mat above the ladder, so he didn't sneak in from the roof." Bak eyed the room, noting how neat it was, how abandoned it appeared. If the boy had seen Puemre slain, he would never come back. Nor would he be easy to find, as Bak had initially assumed. He let out a long, frustrated sigh. "Who's come to this house since Puemre's death?"

The girl nuzzled the dark fuzz on her baby's head. "The sergeant returned again and again, looking more worried each time. The woman came, the one heavy with child who cared for the house and cooked. Other men came, soldiers they were, but I know not how many for they all looked much alike to me."

Bak had expected no less, but his spirits sagged even further. With so many people coming and going, any clues Puemre might'6ve left had long ago vanished. The search he must make would be fruitless.

He asked a few more questions that led nowhere and dismissed the woman. "You may as well go, too, Kasaya. This house has been swept clean. I see no point in wasting your time as well as mine."

The lord Re hung low in the western sky, stretching the shadow of the escarpment across the lower city. The harbor was still and quiet, its waters a sheet of molten gold reflecting a cloudless sky. A soft breeze stirred the air, rousing the city's inhabitants to their evening endeavors, giving voice to animals and fowl and men.

Bak descended the ladder from the rooftop and glanced around the room. He had yet to search the sleeping pallets, then he could leave. As he knelt beside the child's bed, he wondered what Pashenuro had managed to glean from the garrison stores. A plump duck would be pleasant, he thought, and ajar of beer, treats to counterbalance his failure to find a single clue to Puemre's death. Or life, for that matter. Puemre had lived well enough, but austere, as if trying to prove to his fellow officers-or maybe himselfthat he could turn his back on his noble heritage.

Lifting the sheet, shaking it out, he thanked the lord Amon that he would soon be finished and on his way. He had barely peeked inside the house Woser had assigned to him and his men, but it seemed ideal: two rooms, located like Puemre's house at the end of a quiet lane. He eyed the pallet on which the mute boy had slept. The pad had been doubled, making it thicker and softer, more like a nest. He raised it, looking without hope for a hiding place in the hard-packed earthen floor.