The Right Hand of Amon (32 page)

"How old was Anion-Psaro when he went back to Kush?"

"Fifteen years? Sixteen? I'm not sure." Huy gripped the frame of the forecastle and stiffened his stance, ready for the jarring bump when the hull nudged the quay. "The very next day I said good-bye to him, I was sent on to the land of the Retenu and from there to the island of Keftiu. I was gone for close on ten years, and when I returned to Kemet, he was gone."

Bak spread his legs wide, waiting for the thud. Inyotef or Senn. Which of the two would want Anion-Psaro dead? Many signs pointed toward the pilot, especially the way Huy's skiff had been sabotaged. Only a man knowledgeable about boats could've removed the dowel and butterfly cramp with such expertise. On the other hand, Senu had been on the Wand when Bak's skiff was cut free of its mooring. And his wife was a Kushite, a woman of royal blood.

"He could be anywhere," Huy said. "Probably at his quarters, or more likely in the barracks. It's time for the evening meal."

Bak stood on the quay, looking down at Inyotef's skiff, as sleek and pretty as any craft in the harbor. It looked much as usual: sail furled around the yards, lines neatly coiled out of the way, oars lying in the hull with several bound lengths of extra rope. As far as he could tell, nothing had been removed since he had last seen the vessel. Several items had been added: a pair of inflated goatskins; harpoons and other fishing equipment including a rod, a basket for the catch, and a pottery bowl containing fishhooks, weights, and extra line; and a good-sized reed basket covered with a lid. He dropped into the boat to peek inside. The container was empty.

If Inyotef planned to slay Anion-Psaro, he surely would make his escape by water. He knew the river well, the Belly of Stones. In fact, he had walked the shore only a few hours ago, seeing how high the water had risen, perhaps planning his escape. No other man in Iken knew the rapids as well. If he sailed down them, no one would be able to follow, and his way north would be clear. Not even a courier could carry the word ahead fast enough to catch him.

"Gone!"

Muttering a fervent curse, Bak held the torch high so he and Imsiba could study the small room at the front of Senu's house. It was clean, but far from neat. The sleeping platform and stairway to the roof were cluttered with toys. A reed chest standing open against the wall was stacked high with dishes, two other chests overflowed with bedding and clothing, as if the objects had been hastily dropped inside. An unused loom had been pushed against the wall, sharing the space with a tawny shield, bow and full quiver, and four spears. Seven large water jars leaned against another wall.

"They left an hour before nightfall, two at most." Senu's neighbor, a woman of middle years with thin gray hair and no shape to speak of, shifted a chubby, bright-eyed baby from one solid hip to the other. "A man came, a farmer he looked to be, and the next thing I knew they were leaving. The whole family. Senu, his wife, and all the children from the oldest to the youngest."

Bak questioned the woman further, but she could tell them nothing more. She had come to live in Iken less than a week before and had had no time to get to know Senu's family. The other houses in the block, she told them, were either empty or housed traders, transients who neither knew nor cared about their neighbors.

"One thing we know for a fact, my friend," Imsiba said after she had gone. "A man who runs away has a guilty conscience."

Bak wandered around the room, walked through two other rooms as cluttered as the first, and stepped into the kitchen. Senu and his family, it appeared, had dropped everything, leaving all they owned behind in their haste to go. Vegetables, fresh bread, a vat of beer brewing in the kitchen; more than a month's rations of grain in an alcove beneath the floor, bronze and beaded jewelry in a chest in one of the rear rooms; Senu's weapons.

"To run away, leaving so much behind, makes no sense, Imsiba."

"I agree, but why else would they go with such haste?" Bak, dead tired and discouraged, shook his head. "He has a farm somewhere, I've heard, but wouldn't they take food with them if that's where they went?"

Imsiba took the torch from his hand. "We can do nothing more tonight, my friend. Come with me to Kenamon's house, where you'll find food and a safe and comfortable bed."

A safe bed. Bak had never thought of himself as needing a safe haven, but now the offer came as a relief.

Bak lay wide-awake, watching the stars and the moon, overhead, worrying. He had finally narrowed his suspects to only two men-and both had vanished. Senu and his family had abandoned their house. Inyotef's house, accord

ing-to Kasaya, had looked as empty and deserted as his skiff.

Which of the two was guilty? Who would reappear armed with sword or dagger or bow and arrow, prepared to slay Amon-Psaro? The time of the attack, Bak could narrow down to a few short hours, for the king would only be vulnerable from the time he marched up to the gates of Iken to his arrival at the island fortress. Tomorrow, Bak thought. Sometime tomorrow the assassin will strike.

"Wake up, my friend!" Imsiba, kneeling beside Bak, shook his shoulder. "Wake up!"

Bak woke with a jolt. "What is it?"

Kenamon's apprentice, a bony young man shaven bald, wearing a long white kilt and a broad multicolored bead collar, knelt next to Imsiba. "My master sent me, sir, with news you should hear."

Bak sat up, moaned. His muscles ached, his throat was sore, his knees were bruised and skinned. Souvenirs of his struggles in the river.

"A courier just came from King Amon-Psaro, carrying a message for Commander Woser. I waylaid him, saying my master needed word of the sick child. The Kushite caravan set off before first light and they'll arrive without fail by midday. The young prince's health appears improved this morning, but yesterday he suffered greatly. The king is convinced every hour's delay carries the boy closer to death."

Bak glanced to the east. The lord Re, too near the horizon to be seen front` inside the fortress, was thrusting yellowgold arms high into a cloudless blue sky. The air was surprisingly clear and cooler than during much of the previous week. If the day remained temperate, it looked a perfect time for Amon-Psaro to march into Iken. The thought was

oppressive, throwing a dark and gloomy shadow over what should have been a grand and glorious day.

"I pray Kenamon can save the child." Imsiba's face and voice were as grim as Bak's thoughts.

"My master looks to each fragment of news as a piece of a puzzle." The priest spoke with the serenity of one whose belief was total. "He's had many clues; now he must see the boy. If the lord Amon chooses to smile on the child, one of several remedies he's prepared will cure his malady."

Bak hoped Kenamon's skills would live up to the young man's faith. "We'll offer a fine goose to the god."

The priest, his face flushed with pleasure, murmured his thanks and hurried away.

Hauling himself to his feet, Bak eyed the Medjays scattered around the rooftop of Kenamon's borrowed house, sitting or lying on their sleeping mats, eavesdropping. At his glance, they busied themselves with getting up, dressing, rolling away their sleeping mats, gathering together razors, body oils, fresh kilts, weapons polished to the glow of mirrors. The men, accustomed to slipping in and out of their barracks at any hour of night and day, spoke softly to one another as they would in their own quarters at Burn. Not a voice among them carried beyond the rooftop.

A nervous tension filled the air, Bak-noticed, and a multitude of emotions showed on their faces: the excitement of serving as guard of honor to a powerful king from wretched Kush; the gravity of guarding that monarch from an unknown assassin; and the hope that their officer would lay hands on the criminal before he struck-and in time to take his rightful place at their head.

Tall and straight, strong and manly, an elite company that filled Bak's heart with pride. He longed to be with them when Woser presented them to Amon-Psaro, handing them over for the duration of the royal visit to Iken, but the possibility seemed remote.

"I have to find Inyotef and Senu." He clasped Imsiba's shoulders. "You know what you must do."

"I'll not take charge of the men until the last moment. You must stand at their head if you can."

"All who live in Iken will have heard by this time that the lord Amon is to move to the island fortress, making Amon-Psaro's daily trip through the city unnecessary." Bak picked up his kilt, scowled at the torn and dirty fabric, dropped it onto his sleeping mat. Although loath to do so, he donned the second of the two garments he had brought to Iken, the kilt he had intended to wear while leading the guard of honor. "Today will be the last time he'll be this exposed, this open to an attempt on his life."

"We'll stay close on his heels," Imsiba assured him. "If we all must die to save him, we'll do so."

Bak refused to dwell on so grim a possibility. "I think I know which of my suspects is guilty, but I must look to both to be sure. If all goes well, I'll reach a satisfactory conclusion long before he can strike Amon-Psaro." The words sounded good, but could he live up to the promise?

Bak hurried down the stairs to a house empty but for two servants. Kenamon and his fellows had gone to the mansion of Hathor to perform the morning ritual. A portly man was busy packing the priests' clothing and jewelry into woven reed chests, readying them for the move to the island fortress. He handled each object no matter how mundane as if it were worthy of the same regard as the priestly accoutrements of office. The woman, as plump as her husband and far more cheerful, was bustling around the open-roofed kitchen, baking bread and hovering over a thick beef stew meant to satiate the priests' hunger after their morning fast.

Bak slipped into the room Kenamon had used as his own. The chamber had been cleared of the elderly priest's personal effects. Only the furniture remained-a bed, two woven chests, and a table-and a statue of the household god Bes standing in a wall niche. Removing the ugly, bowleg

ged god, he revealed the four pieces of broken pottery he had found in the hideaway of the mute boy Ramose. He took the shards from the niche and sat cross-legged on the floor, studying the sketches in a patch of sunlight falling from a high window.

The sketches were no less confusing than they had been before, but looking at them with a fresh and more educated eye, they made a childish kind of sense. An army, men fighting on the field of battle, ships traveling downriverall images of the war twenty-seven years before, and the victorious journey back to Kemet. The embracing man and woman, Bak felt sure, depicted an incident closely related to the other images, an occurrence Ramose had believed worthy of documenting. He put the shards back where he had found them and replaced the statue, confident that if the portly servant had not found them, no one would.

Bak detoured through the kitchen, where the woman handed him a flattish loaf of bread filled with chunks of beef and onions, and then hastened outside to the street. Eating while he walked, he hurried through the fortress, out the gate, and down the path to the lower city. Thin spirals of smoke rose from a multitude of houses, spreading the odors of burning dung, cooking oil, fish, and onions. Cattle lowed, begging to be milked. A flock of pigeons took wing, whirring through the air low overhead.

Aware of how fast news could spread through a confined community such as Iken, he was not surprised at the hustle and bustle in the streets and houses along his route. Men, women, and children were rushing through their morning tasks, singing, joking, fussing, ridding themselves of duties so they. could enjoy a day of pageantry and celebration: the arrival of Amon-Psaro with his large and colorful entourage; the garrison troops presenting arms outside the gate; the procession through the streets of the lord Amon and lady Hathor, the priests, the military, and the Kushite caravan; the flotilla that would carry the gods and the king

and his party across the river to the island fortress. A day never to forget.

Especially if Amon-Psaro were to be assassinated. Offering a silent prayer to the lord Amon, pleading for the god's help in preventing the king's death, Bak hurried on. He left the main street and turned down a narrow lane that took him to another lane strangely wider but not as straight. He passed the ruined warehouse, now little more than a foundation, that Senu had suggested Minnakht's men mine for mudbricks. Three small boys, chattering like sparrows, were squatting around one of many holes in the earthen floor, poking sticks down its open mouth, teasing a rat, most likely.

He rushed past two older boys trudging up the lane, one of twelve or so years, the second a bit younger, both with yokes across their shoulders from which heavy water jars were suspended. A few paces beyond, he plunged through the door of Senu's house and bumped into a low stool, tipping it over with a clatter. Instead of being empty and uncluttered, as it had been before, the entry room was filled with baskets heaped with vegetables: beans, onions, peas, melons, radishes, cucumbers, lettuce. A tall, thin woman sat cross-legged on the floor with three girls ranging in age from six to perhaps fourteen, shelling peas and beans into large round pottery bowls. The woman was as dark as night, the girls lighter but thin like their mother. A dusky young man of fifteen or so years who looked much like Senu sat on the stairway above them, sorting through a handful of fishhooks.