Lauren Haney - The Right Hand of Amon

A second shout from Nebwa. The water carriers tipped their jars, soaking the silt in front of the barge, making it as slick as the grease taken from a fat roasted goose. A foreman counted off the rhythm in a singsong voice, and the tow-men began to pull. Muscles bulged. A few men grunted, others cursed. Sweat poured forth beneath the heartless sun. The lower hull, gently rounded, bare of paint and gilding, slid forward on the bed of logs, its wood creaking and moaning with the strain.

A great golden barge traveling across the barren desert. Amazing! Bak thought.

Nebwa walked alongside, watching with a wary eye, alert for snarled ropes, a fallen man. Ten paces and he shouted again, bringing the barge to a halt, giving the men a chance to rest.

Bak let muscles that he had not realized were tensed relax and looked farther afield, searching out his men. A mixed guard of Medjay police and the spearmen Nebwa had selected formed a rough oval thirty or so paces around the barge. Others stood on higher ground off to the west, widely spaced yet not so far apart they could not communicate with a whistle or a shout. Their task was to watch the desert for marauding tribesmen.

"You've done well, Imsiba. I wish I could say the same."

"I've had no opportunity to speak with Commander Woser." Imsiba stared toward the officers with Kenamon. "Have you learned yet why he raised so high a wall around the news of Puemre's death?"

Bak laughed ruefully. "If he were the only obstruction I've found in Iken, I'd think myself lucky."

The big Medjay gave him a curious glance.

"I'll explain tonight. After the lord Amon is safe within the mansion of Hathor. Now I must talk to Woser." Bak grinned. "I've been summoned."

While Imsiba struck off to the west and the line of guards watching from afar, Bak circled around the weary tow-men. The officers and priests were too intent on their conversation to notice his approach.

Woser was saying, "You surely don't believe Chancellor Nihisy will come all the way to the Belly of Stones!" The commander looked worried, Bak noticed with some satisfaction Nebwa raised his hands palm forward, staving off the words. "You misunderstand. All I said was that I wouldn't want to walk in Thuty's sandals, or yours, if the man who slew Puemre isn't brought to justice in a timely manner." "The chancellor won't come," Inyotef said. "He's too new to his task, too busy slipping into the palace bureaucracy. He'll send someone else in his place."

"Worse yet," Nebwa snorted. "A lesser man who represents a great one is always harsher than his master. Especially when the master is too far away to learn the true facts and soften his agent's decisions."

"Do you always look on the dark side, Nebwa?" Huy kept his voice light, teasing almost, but he looked as worried as Woser.

"I call the score the way I see it." Nebwa spotted Bak and a broad grin erased the gloom. "Now here's the man who can save you from Nihisy's wrath!" He clasped Bak's shoulders in greeting. "No man yet- has escaped his justice."

"You exaggerate." Bak spoke automatically, his eyes darting around the group, noting their reactions.

Woser's face was taut; tired eyes betrayed nights made restless by anxiety. Nebseny's mouth was a thin, tight line. The wrinkles etching Huy's forehead had deepened. Senu's eyes searched Bak's face and Nebwa's, as if he suspected a plot to spread fear among him and his fellow officers. Inyotef smiled, a trait Bak remembered from the past, the pilot's way of hiding tension, worry, fear, or any sign of weakness.

Nebwa eyed the barge and the men around it, some drinking beer from a goatskin, others oiling themselves to prevent their skin from drying, the rest sitting and talking or lying on the sand with their eyes closed. He gave no hint of whether or not he noticed the officers' reactions. "You're too clever by far," he told Bak. "A man impossible to deceive."

"You make me sound like one who walks with the gods," Bak joked.

"You walk with the lady Maat, that I know." Nebwa clapped him on the shoulder, grinned at Woser. "You'll see. When he's in search of justice, he's like a dog with a bone. Once he sinks his teeth in, he never lets go. I wouldn't tread in the slayer's footsteps for all the gold in Wawat and Kush."

Bak was delighted with Nebwa and the reactions he had brought forth, but he wondered if his friend had not gone too far. A cornered criminal, like a trapped animal, was apt to strike out with uncontrolled fury. If he knew from which direction to expect an attack, he could guard against it, but here, where one man seemed as guilty as another, he had no defense.

Kenamon gave the pair a disapproving scowl, patently unhappy with Nebwa's game and suspicious of Bak's part in it. "Have you heard the news, my son?"

Bak caught the censure in the elderly priest's voice, and a deeper worry. "What's wrong? Has something happened to Amon-Psaro?" The moment the words popped out, he knew he had made a mistake. If, as he believed, one of the officers standing with him was determined to slay the king, he had revealed what he knew in one short, ill-conceived question.

Woser gave him an odd look. "Not the king. It's the prince."

"A courier came to Commander Woser not an hour ago," Kenamon explained. "He carried a message from Amon-Psaro, who's gravely worried about the life of his son. He no longer has the patience to wait in Semna while the lord Amon makes his slow progress up the river. He's bringing the child to Iken."

"May the gods save us all." Bak's voice was flat and lifeless, his thoughts stalled.

"As the river is still too low to sail all the way uninterrupted by rapids, Amon-Psaro will come by the desert route. His entourage is large, more than a hundred men including servants, so they'll not be able to travel fast, but they should arrive in two days' time."

Bak did not bother to hide the dismay he felt. No one, with the exception of the would-be assassin, could possibly guess its true source: the Kushite king on his way to Iken, walking onto the home ground of a man who wanted him dead. Like a honeybee buzzing toward a gossamer web, with a spider poised to strike.

He looked toward the golden shrine and offered a fervent prayer to the god dwelling inside. Let us soon find the mute child, he implored, for we've no other trail to follow.

"We searched the market- from end to end." Kasaya towered over Bak, sitting on the roof of a warehouse facing the river. "No one is harboring the boy, nor did we miss any hiding places."

"Then tomorrow you must search farther afield," Bak said doggedly. "We have to find him before Amon-Psaro marches into Iken."

They spoke loudly so each could hear the other over the excited babble of voices, the crowds lining the riverbank, jostling for a better view of the approaching flotilla: the golden barge of the lord Amon and the vessels escorting it during the short voyage from the slipway to the harbor.

"I see no problem, sir." The young Medjay's eyes and thoughts were on the procession of rivercraft sailing slowly upstream, fittings polished, banners flying from masts and stays, crews decked out in their spotless best. "With Sergeant Imsiba here and half our men, we should be able to search all of Iken between dawn and dusk."

Bak snorted. "How blessed you are, Kasaya, to be able to sleep with your eyes open and dream while you go about your daily tasks."

A puzzled look flitted across Kasaya's face, to disappear with a flush. "They must stay with the lord Amon?" "That's where their duty lies."

"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."