Lauren Haney: The Right Hand of Amon

Regretting the need to tarnish his friend's glow, Bak stopped at the river's edge. The acacias clung to the rim of the steep, crumbling bank, their trunks leaning toward the broad expanse of water as if offering homage to Hapi, the god of the river. On the opposite shore and a short distance upstream, the great fortress of Buhen was barely visible in the haze, its stark white walls melting into the pale sandhills behind them.

A breath of air rustled through the dusty trees, winnowing the dying leaves from the living. Bits of yellow rained down on two sturdy wooden fishing skiffs beached on a strip of dark soil running along the water's edge. Nebwa's eyes lit up the moment he spotted the vessels.

"You owe me a race, Bak." He plunged down the bank, letting the loose dirt carry him to the prow of one of the boats. "Come, Ptahmose! Let's show these men from the north a thing or two about sailing, real sailing."

Bak muttered an oath. When voiced by a besotted Nebwa, the last two words sounded ominous indeed.

"I'll bet a month's ration of grain…" Nebwa leaned his weight against the skiff and, with a muffled grunt, shoved it hard toward the water. "… against a jar of good northern wine that Ptahmose and I will reach Buhen before you and Imsiba."

"The wager is too large for so simple a voyage," Bak said, nodding toward the haze-shrouded fortress. "The breeze will be dead astern all the way."

Nebwa, stifling a grin, shook his finger in mock disapproval. "No, no, my friend. You don't understand. We'll sail all the way south to the Belly of Stones before we cross the river. That's the way we did it last time, when you won, and that's the way we'll do it today."

Ptahmose laughed at what he took to be a joke. Imsiba spat out a few words in his own tongue.

Bak glared at the man below. "What of Commandant Thuty, Nebwa? Have you forgotten his summons?" Nebwa gave the skiff another hard shove and it slid into the water. "Make speed, Ptahmose! Do you want me to sail without you?"

With a heartfelt curse, Bak leaped onto the crumbling slope and half slid, half ran to the bottom, setting off a miniature landslide. The two sergeants plunged down the bank a moment later. Bak splashed into the water a step or two ahead of them.

Nebwa, knee-deep in the river, pushing the skiff before him, glanced around and saw the trio coming after him. Laughing like a mischievous child, he hauled himself on board, grabbed the oars, and shoved the vessel into deeper water, well out of reach.

"I'm sailing to the Belly of Stones," he said, making it sound like a royal proclamation. "If you want a race, you can come with me. If not, I'll go alone."

Bak expelled a long, disgusted breath. He hated to admit defeat, especially at the hands of a man too besotted to think straight.

"I'll come!" Ptahmose called. He waded to Bak's side and lowered his voice so Nebwa could not hear. "There's no arguing with him when he's like this, as you well know. I'll take care he doesn't fall overboard."

Bak knew from experience that Ptahmose was one of the best sailors along this stretch of the river, and Nebwa, when sober, was equally good. Only through luck had he and Imsiba won the last race they had run.

"All right, Nebwa, you've a bet!" Bak softened his voice, said to Ptahmose, "We'll stay as close as we can should you run into trouble."

The sergeant nodded, waded into deeper water, and swam toward Nebwa's boat. Bak splashed through the shallows to the skiff he and Imsiba had borrowed after leaving Kor. The big Medjay was already launching the vessel.

"What folly!" Imsiba gave a mighty shove that sent the craft into the water. "I'll consider myself a lucky man if I survive this day without a dunking-or worse."

Bak scrambled on board and, as the vessel rocked beneath him, hurried aft to the rudder. "You should thank the lord Amon you're not sailing with Nebwa. 1, at least, haven't addled my wits with wine."

"True. But he and Ptahmose know this river through all the seasons, know its whims as the floodwaters rise. We don't."

"Surely the path we'll take hasn't changed all that much since last we raced. It was less than a month ago." Imsiba, his expression grim, pulled himself aboard. "The rising waters, I've heard, are already coming with great force out of the Belly of Stones. The river is shifting the earth beneath it and along the banks, changing the currents to fit the new pattern of its bed. And already it's stealing trees and animals and people from the lower-lying parcels of land south of the Belly of Stones."

Bak glanced at the other skiff, saw it floating sideways downstream, Nebwa and Ptahmose fumbling with a snarled pair of ropes. "Without help, what will Ptahmose do if they capsize? Is he a strong enough swimmer to save himself and Nebwa as well?"

"Few men would be so strong, my friend."

Imsiba tugged the halyard, drawing the upper yard up the mast. The heavy white linen spread to a rectangle but continued to droop, even when stretched to its fullest height and the yard snug against the masthead. Bak tucked the rudder under his arm and grabbed the oars to send the craft scooting away from the riverbank in hopes of finding a breeze farther out.

"I hope your wife has been frugal, Nebwa," he called. "If she's saved no grain through the months, she'll not soon forgive you this bet."

Nebwa made a rude gesture with his hand.

Bak's laugh rang out as a faint breath of air kissed his cheek. "We must not sail too far ahead, Imsiba, but I think it safe to take advantage of our lead. I'd not like to lose this bet."

Imsiba gave him a wry smile, then adjusted the braces to haul the sail around. The fabric fluttered and sagged in a desultory breeze, billowed out in a gust that sent the boat skimming over the water. Bak waved at the two men they were leaving behind and set the vessel on a southerly course.

The broad, deep river stretched out before them, its waters flowing a reddish brown tinted with green. Far ahead, blanketed in haze, lay the mouth of the Belly of Stones and the first of the multitude of islands, large and small, that made the river impossible to navigate except at the highest flood stage. Bak's duties had never taken him beyond the first island, and, as always, he longed to see the land farther south, a land both praised and cursed by soldiers, traders, and envoys of the queen.

Taking a quick glance backward, he saw Nebwa at the oars, pulling his skiff around, and Ptahmose raising the patched red sail. Farther downstream, the sun-struck river looked like burnished gold, flowing past the oasis to fade away in a tawny wasteland of sandhills and ridges. He adjusted his rear on a beam and rested his back on the hull, confident he and Imsiba were far enough ahead to win yet not too far away should their help be needed.

Squinting into the sun, he eyed the massive fortress of Buhen across the water. High white mudbrick walls, relieved at regular intervals by projecting towers, rose from stone terraces along the river. Atop the battlements, he could see the tiny figures of patrolling sentries. Moored alongside three stone quays, a sleek trading vessel and two squat cargo ships dwarfed the twelve or fifteen smaller skiffs tied up among them. Except for a few hardy trees and shrubs growing along the riverbank, the land around the fortress was barren of life, a sand-swept, desiccated waste pulsating in the heat.

Bak eyed the scene with a fondness which always surprised him. When first he had come, sent as punishment at the order of an angry queen, he had hated the city and his duties as a police officer. How fast he had changed.

The wind held, and they skimmed the water, covering the distance with remarkable speed. The red sail crept closer, narrowing the lead until the vessels were no more than ten paces apart. Bak began to worry. Soon they would have to turn across the stronger midstream current and swing around. Could Ptahmose do it with only a drunken Nebwa to help?