Lauren Haney - The Right Hand of Amon

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."

"An admirable trait, I'd say." Woser gave a disgusted snort. "I fear for today's army and the well-being of the land of Kemet. You younger men have no sense of duty, no loyalty to ideals."

Bak clamped his mouth shut, refusing to argue the point. The regiment of Amon was the best fighting force Kemet had ever known, and he suspected the other newly rebuilt regiments shared its excellence. Was Woser baiting him to sidetrack him? Or did he truly believe the past better than the present? He glanced at Nebwa. "What of Lieutenant Senu?"

Nebwa's eyes shifted toward the commander, then dropped to his beer jar. "Like Huy, he's spent much of his life in Wawat, but he's also been assigned to duty farther upriver. I've never lived at the same garrison, and, until today out at the slipway, I doubt I ever met him."

"He's an upright, decent man." Woser waved off Sennufer's offer of a brew. "A good, solid officer."

"No doubt," Bak said under his breath.

"I've heard of Lieutenant Senu," Imsiba broke in. "The tale may or may not be true but, considering the circumstances, it's worthy of telling." He spoke to Woser rather than Bak. "They say he once found a sergeant trading with a local chieftain, handing over weapons made in Kemet and getting in return young and untouched girls stolen from desert nomads. Senu killed both men and left them in the village for all the world to see."

Woser's eyes met Imsiba's and held. "It's a tale, no more. Senu's record is clean."

A minute smile flickered on the Medjay's face, and he bowed his head in acknowledgment. "As you say, Commander Woser."

Bak could almost read his friend's thoughts: Senu deserved a golden fly, not censure. He was inclined to agree. With reluctance, he turned his thoughts to his final suspect, Inyotef. Why, he wondered, must I feel so guilty each time I think of him? The injury to his leg resulted from an honest accident, not from any fault of mine. "Can you tell me of the pilot Inyotef?" he asked Nebwa.