The Right Hand of Amon (19 page)

"Yes, sir." Kasaya's eyes darted back to the glittering

barge, the longing to stay and watch the spectacle written clearly on his face. "I must go to the market. I'm taking the first watch and Pashenuro the second, so he'll want time to find a hidden place to sleep."

"Sit!" Bak commanded. "If I know Pashenuro, he long ago found a bed and now he's searching out the fattest and plumpest fowl and fruits for his evening meal." And maybe a tasty morsel to share his bed, he thought.

With a delighted smile, Kasaya sat next to him on the roof. Elevated above the trees scattered along the riverbank and the many people standing at the water's edge, their view of the flotilla was unobstructed.

The people, though deprived of much of the customary pomp, were as thrilled by the god's arrival as the residents of Buhen had been-and they were far more colorful. Standing among the unadorned soldiers of Kemet were men and women bedecked with feathers and tattoos and exotic jewelry, symbols of tribes upriver to the south and from the deserts to the east and west. They wore costumes of every color and shape and size, from the skimpiest of loincloths to elaborate multicolored robes. As the barge drew near, they pressed forward as one, their voices louder, more excited.

Once the lord Amon was safely housed in the mansion of the lady Hathor, where he would remain throughout his stay in Iken, the spectators would disperse, Bak knew. The market would be far more crowded than normal and the child Ramose almost impossible to find. A wearisome thought, not one designed to lift the spirits.

The men standing on the quay-Commander Woser, his officers, the priests who ministered to the lady Hathor, five local princes, and two desert chieftains-shuffled their feet, adjusted kilts and tunics and weapons, brushed dust from sandals. Bak could guess their thoughts. Instead of the overnight stay initially planned, the lord Amon was soon to become a semipermanent guest for an unspecified length of

time. Each had to put on his best face - - and keep it on for the duration. A mixed blessing at best.

Inyotef stood at the prow of the lead vessel, a warship gaily decorated with long, fluttering pennants of red and white. He stood tall and erect with no sign of infirmity, Bak noted. His face was expressionless, his baton of office clenched in his hand. Next came the lord Amon's gilded barge, the long, slender bull attached to the warship by towropes thicker than a man's wrist. The golden vessel glided over the water, turned to molten copper by the last rays of the sun. The white-robed figure of Kenamon stood before the dais on which the golden barque rested; the lesser priests stood with him. The shrine, mounted atop the barque, was open on all sides, allowing the people to see and adore the slender gold image standing within. The murmurs rose to thundering shouts of adoration.

Two sleek trading ships, one on either side of the glittering barge, served as escort vessels. Imsiba and the Medjay police stood in the near ship, Nebwa and his contingent of guards in the craft on the far side. At the sight of his men, so tall and straight and noble, Bak's heart swelled with pride. And, he had to admit, his head swelled, too. They were the best police force in the world, he was convinced, worthy guards for the lord Amon, the greatest of all the gods.

"You've a rare talent, Bak." Nebwa, glancing around Sennufer's house of pleasure, wrinkled his nose at the stench of beer, sweat, and a faint odor of dead mouse. "You can walk into any city and, at the speed of a swallow, nose out the worst establishment there and make it your own special place."

Bak laughed. "Nofery wishes to turn her house of pleasure into a palace. Will you enjoy it more when you must dress like a kingfisher and smell like a lotus so she'll admit you through her door?"

"Nofery? Running a house fit for royalty?" Laughing, Nebwa pulled a lumpy, straw-filled pillow into the comer where Bak was ensconced on a stool, sat down, and signaled Sennufer for a jar of beer. "Imsiba's not yet come?"

"He should be here soon." Bak thought of telling him of Nofery's claim that once she had loved Amon-Psaro, and he had loved her, but dismissed the temptation as frivolous. Nebwa had to return to Buhen the following morning, and they had other, more pressing matters to discuss. "He had to stay until the lord Amon was safe and content in the mansion of the lady Hathor and Kenamon and the other priests settled in the house they've borrowed from the chief scribe."

"The old man's getting tired." Nebwa smiled. "In spite of his exhaustion and an uncertain future, I truly believe he's enjoying himself. He's seen nothing like this land of Wawat in all his life, and his curiosity knows no bounds."

"After the lord Khnum formed him on his potter's wheel, he threw away the pattern," Bak said with a fond smile.

Imsiba strode through the door. "My friends!"

His tall, muscular figure and the confidence in his voice drew the eye of every man there: a dozen hardened sailors, some from the south and the rest from Kemet, and four soldiers newly back from desert patrol, their faces and bodies ruddy from windburn and sun. The majority were playing games of chance and drinking a brew so new it smelled more of bread than beer.

Imsiba accepted a jar from Sennufer, toed a stool toward Bak and Nebwa, and sat down. They talked of nothing, waiting for the other patrons to lose interest. The lane outside turned dusky. Sennufer lit several oil lamps, scattering them, around the room.. The game soon grew exciting, the voices loud and raucous, sailors and soldiers alike forgetting the officers among them. Bak told his tale, omitting no details of his stay thus far in Iken. By the time he finished, the black of night enveloped the land and the air inside was thick with smoke.

"If Puemre was slain because he knew of a plan to slay Amon-Psaro, why would the other officers protect the one who slew him?" Nebwa shook his head vigorously. "It makes no sense."

"Do you have any idea how many times I've come to the same conclusion?" Bak glared at nothing, disgusted at his failure to come up with a better idea. "They all faced the Kushites in battle twenty-seven years ago. Would that not be enough to quench their thirst for blood?"

"Did you see that war firsthand?" Nebwa asked Imsiba. The tall Medjay shook his head. "My village was raided the year before. I was brought to Iken, I think, and here the soldiers took me away from the tribesmen who stole me. When the armies of Kemet marched on Kush, I was already in Waset, living as a child on a country estate belonging to the lord Amon."

"I, too, was a boy." Nebwa swirled a thick layer of dregs around the bottom of his drinking bowl. "My father was a soldier, a sergeant like you, and we lived in northern Wawat-in the fortress of Kubban. He marched south with the army of Kemet and came back a hero."

"I wasn't yet bom." Bak had seldom felt as youthful and innocent, protected by circumstances and birth from his friends' more exciting childhood. "Was the war so special, men would kill at the memory?"

Imsiba shrugged, queried Nebwa with a glance.

"My father spoke often of the war, of heroism and booty. My mother spoke only of the sadness in Kubban when the men sailed south. And the fear." Nebwa stared into his cup, recalling his father's tales of the distant past. "Akheperenre Tuthmose, our queen's father, had died in his sleep, leaving the throne in the hands of his son, Akheperenre Tuthmose. The wretched men of Kush, thinking our new king too weak and unsure of himself to defend his birthright, stored the pot of discontent among the chieftains of southern Wawat, urging them to rebel. Buhen stood at risk, as did the fortresses along the Belly of Stones, and even those of us living as far north as Kubban feared a siege.

"The king sent an army, and the rebels of Wawat dropped like grain falling before a scythe. Our soldiers marched on to the land of Kush, slaying the warriors, laying waste to the villages, and taking prisoners and booty. Many men died on both sides before the most powerful of the kings who had urged rebellion, a tribal chieftain of much courage but no common sense, was captured on the field of battle. His warriors threw down their arms. Our army marched into his capital and took all of value within. The king was put back on his throne, a broken man. His firstborn son was sent to Kemet as hostage, and peace has reigned to this day."

Bak had heard the tale before, but it had never held such significance. "Was his son Amon-Psaro, do you think?" Nebwa shrugged. "Maybe." He thought a few moments, nodded. "Probably."

Bak leaped at the straw. "Except for Nebseny, all the officers who attended Woser's meeting the night Puemre died fought in that war: Woser, Huy, Senu, and Inyotef. If Amon-Psaro's father was their foe. . ." He shook his head, rejecting his idea even before it was fully formed. "No. If that were the case, Amon-Psaro would be bent on revenge, not them."

"The answer must lie elsewhere," Imsiba said.

A sailor roared as if struck-by a scorpion, scrambled to his feet, and lurched out of the building. Laughing at his misfortune, the other gamblers spread a dozen small ivory carvings across the floor and began to haggle over who had won what. Bak, Nebwa, and Imsiba sat in silence, each working out a theory to present to the others.

Bak expelled a long frustrated sigh. Every path they ventured down took them further from a solution. "Nebwa, you've served in Wawat for years and you know most of the officers along the Belly of Stones, or at least their reputations. Tell me what you can of Woser and his officers." Nebwa frowned. "I go back to my original question: If one slew Puemre, why would the others protect him?" "If I knew the answer to that. .." Bak shook off his irritation, grinned. "Alright, I admit it. I'm desperate. Now will you humor me and answer my question?"

Laughing at the admission, Nebwa waved to attract Sennufer's attention, pointed toward the stack of beer jars, and held up three fingers. "Woser's always outranked me, so my dealings with him have been limited. I know nothing of his personal life; I didn't even know he had a daughter until you mentioned her." He paused, waiting for Sennufer to hand around the jars and walk away. ,,By reputation, he's an exceptional officer, one who should be promoted to commandant, but he's spent too much time on the frontier to attract the attention of those in the capital who make the decisions. I've heard he long ago was awarded a golden fly, but I don't know when or where he earned it."

"Speaking of Commander Woser. . ." Imsiba nodded toward the door.

Bak glanced around, muttered a virulent curse. The commander was standing on the threshold, his mouth tight and determined, his body stiff with suppressed tension. He stepped inside and the room went dead still, the sailors and soldiers startled by the arrival of so lofty an officer.

What is he doing here, Bak wondered, in this lowly place where one would never expect him to set foot? "Tell me of Nebseny," he said to Nebwa.

"Woser's coming this way."

"If you exert enough pressure on the strongest of metals, it'll break."

"Not always where you want it to."

"Tell me of Nebseny," Bak repeated, sensing Woser coming up behind him.

Nebwa wiped the skepticism from his face. "I've never met him and know nothing about him as a man." He toyed with his drinking bowl as if unaware of the silence in the room or the reason for it. "He's reputed to be a fine archery officer, cool under pressure, one not afraid to stand at the head of his men in the heat of battle."

"Lieutenant Bak." Woser's words came out hard and fast, betraying his leashed anger. "Troop Captain Nebwa and Sergeant Imsiba. Are you merely drinking together, or am I interrupting a meeting?"

Bak formed a genial smile. "We've little time for pleasure tonight, so we brought our business with us. Will you pull up a stool and join us, sir?"

Nebwa glanced pointedly around the room and chuckled. "Police officers, you'll notice, concern themselves less with their surroundings than those of us accustomed to the more formal life of a garrison."

Imsiba turned away, hiding a smile, and asked Sennufer to bring a stool. Woser eyed the place, its wiry proprietor, and the other patrons with a stony disdain. The sailors and soldiers sat tongue-tied and stiff beneath his cool gaze.

"I've asked Nebwa to tell me what he knows of some of your officers," Bak said, deliberately prodding the commander.

Woser dropped onto the proffered stool and leaned toward Bak. "My officers are worthy men." He spoke close to a whisper so his words would not carry, but his voice was hard and edged with anger. "You've no right to treat them as potential murderers, and you've no reason to consider them as such."

"Commandant Thuty gave me the authority to do as I see fit." Bak's voice was equally firm. "Do you wish to sit here and listen to what Nebwa has to tell me? Or would you rather remain in ignorance until at last I lay hands on the man who slew Puemre?"

Woser turned half-around and his eyes raked the other customers. "Get on with your business or get out."

A sailor scooped up the throwsticks, made a call, and flung them across the floor. A soldier called out to Sennufer and held up a finger for a jar of beer. Other men gulped from their bowls. They spoke to one another, their voices too loud, nervous. Woser swung back around to glare at Bak.

Nebwa gave his friend a quick look of comprehension, as if for the first time he fully understood the obstacles Bak faced. "I've known Troop Captain Huy for years, though not well. He's been assigned to duty in Wawat off and on for as long as I can remember. Our paths have crossed often, but we've never lived in the' same garrison at the same time. My father always spoke of him with respect, and I've always liked him and believed him an honorable man and officer. He knows the whole of Wawat better than anyone else I know. If war should come to this part of our empire, his knowledge could make the difference between victory and defeat."

While Nebwa spoke, Bak watched Woser surreptitiously. The commander looked surprised and pleased at the words of praise. His jaw came unclenched, his fingers uncurled from tight fists, his shoulders relaxed.

"Huy's a stiff-necked old boy," Nebwa added, "and as stubborn as they come. Once he forms a thought, it turns to stone. He'd fight to his death, so they say, for whatever he believes."